#but scar makes my brain blank out

[hybbat]

I wanna draw the bamboozlers with team costumes but scar just provides me zero inspiration... sir, please

[fionnaskyborn]

I wonder if there is like a quota for how many fuckups a man can make in life. I don't know where I was going with this. I guess I just wish every step I made wasn't one in the wrong direction, or that I could at least backpedal out of bad decisions without any fatal consequences like damaging someone else. Life sucks.

[morsels-and-monstrosities]

"You poor thing..you're freezing." The predator slowly bent down, the leaves in the trees rustling as they shifted. They were the biggest giant you'd ever seen..their features shadowed by their hood. The moonlight behind them illuminated their outline and you could see a faint glow of purple from somewhere in the void that was their face. A ginormous clawed hand suddenly pressed against your back, jolting you from your terrified daze.

"Humans like you shouldn't be out here this late..you're far too fragile. If any other giant had found you, you'd be dead by now. Luckily I found you." There was an air of smugness in their tone as they wrapped their fingers around your torso, lifting you to their face. You could see them a bit better now that you were closer. They were pale, face covered in scars, and eyes glowing a gentle purple color. "Don't worry, I'll help you out of the woods." Their voice was quiet, but still confident. You could see a glimpse of sharp white teeth from behind their lips as they spoke, teeth easily big enough to cut you in half with one swift bite.

They gently tucked you against their chest, a claw rubbing against your back in an almost comforting way as they began to walk. "Humans like you aren't built to survive the snow like this..how did you get lost out here?" They looked down at you. Your mouth felt dry, you wanted to speak but no words could come out. You heard a quiet unintelligible grumble from the giant. "Can you speak? I need you to tell me where you live.." They shifted you so that you were pressed a bit lower towards their stomach. A loud growl thundered from the predator's core, making you sweat.

"Ah..sorry, small one. I didn't eat today." They said quietly, stopping their walk to look down at you. "I really do need to know how to get you back, I doubt you'd want to spend the night in my cave." They reasoned. You opened your mouth but you found yourself still unable. This was the scariest situation you'd ever been in, your brain completely blank as you tried to scramble for something to say. They didn't seem annoyed..but they didn't seem too pleased with your silence either. You'd hardly noticed that your trembling was worsening, but they sure did.

"Are you really still that cold? Poor thing..it's been so long since I've handled humans, I forgot how weak your bodies are to nature. I can't have you freezing! That wouldn't be very fun, now would it?" They shook their head and lifted you once again up to their face. "I have a way to keep you warm until you can tell me where you live, but I doubt you'd like it much." They gently brushed the hair from your face with a claw. You felt a pit form deep in your stomach..what did they mean? You figured that whatever it was couldn't be worse than being out like this.

"I'll be gentle, I promise. Just try not to struggle too much.." You felt a claw gently prod at your shoes. You looked down just in time to see them fall off and onto the forest floor below. The giant didn't seem to care, and you'd been so distracted staring at the ground you didn't realize you were now directly in front of their mouth. The moment you looked back up, you were greated with a flourish of warm air, their mouth opening up wide. It was dark..you could only see their first few teeth and a faint purple glow from down their throat. Your shaking worsened but they didn't hesitate, setting your shivering form down onto their tongue. You immediately tried to turn and jump from their mouth bit their teeth snapped shut with a near-deafening click.

You were pressed against the roof of their mouth without a moments hesitation, their tongue soaking you in saliva. Their mouth was overwhelmingly warm, a complete contrast to the world outside. They kept you pinned, gently licking you a few times, before allowing you to gather yourself, laying flat against their tongue. You felt something metallic against your leg, turning to try and see what it was. Your eyes had somewhat adjusted, and with the help of the glowing from their throat, you saw that it was a tongue piercing. You hadn't seen that before in your sheer panic.

The world around you began to shift and pull you backwards, causing you to panic. They were tilting their head back, you could only assume they were going to swallow you. You quickly twisted your body as fast as you could, tiny hands reaching to grab onto the ball of the piercing. You missed by just a hair, slipping backwards and closer to their throat. In just one gulp, you were completely swallowed, sliding down their throat on your way to what you assumed to be your final destination. Their throat squeezed around you- you could hear a powerful thud from deep inside of them. You assumed it was their heart beating, drowning out the sound of your own thumping in your ears.

You slid into their stomach, rather shocked to find the source of the glowing had been from here. It was the same color as their eyes, but a bit more dim. There was no liquid filling the space around you, and you breathed a sigh of relief knowing you weren't about to be digested. They began to walk once again, their stomach gently swaying with their pace. "Sorry about not warning you beforehand, your kind are so skittish, I knew you wouldn't have agreed if I gave you a heads up." Their voice was a bit muffled, but you could still hear them clearly enough.

You began to move, shifting so that you were leaning up against the stomach lining. Well..it was definitely a change compared to the cold outside. It was almost comforting, knowing that you were this safe, even if that safety was coming from a total stranger. "You tasted pleasant enough..the fear made you a bit bitter, but I'm not complaining." They told you, making you almost roll your eyes. They'd just scared the life out of you and they were complimenting you on your taste now? They were right though- they definitely weren't the worst giant that could've found you.

The more you sat there the more tired you found yourself. The gentle swaying combined with the warmth and the way you practically sunk into their stomach was too good to resist. You allowed yourself to close your eyes..you weren't going to sleep, no, you just needed to allow yourself to rest. That was the last thought you had before drifting off into the deepest sleep you'd had in awhile, surrounded by the warmth of the stranger.

[sfznyxio]

-ˋˏ REMEDY ˎˊ

SYNOPSIS. you help patch up your significant other’s injuries.

CHARACTERS. gorou, kaedehara kazuha, kujou sara

CONTENT. gn!reader. canon-compliant. established relationship. fluff. 0.5k wc. rewrite of remedy at my old main blog @/verxsyon. reader is a medic. injuries. war between the watatsumi army and the shogunate (gorou and kujou sara).

VERA. happy new year, everyone! first fic of 2025! tbh I wish inazuma gets rewritten (i would personally do that if i had enough brain cells but sadly i have none), but i’m glad the story stepped up on how it's been told since sumeru.

𝄞༉‧₊˚. GOROU

“i’m fine.” general gorou is too prideful to admit that he got shot on the shoulder by a shogunate archer. with the presence of medical staff in his tent, you know too well that he won’t tell the truth. so you instruct them to leave to tend to the other soldiers.

“you can fool the medics, but not your partner.” he growls when you roll out a bundle of bandages. “dear obarashi. gorou, it’s just me.”

gorou remains cautious of your movements. then he hesitantly reveals where the arrow had struck, and you proceed to treat that spot. “i don’t want my men to worry too much about me.”

“but i do if you don’t tell me,” you enunciate every word with a poke on his skin. “from now on, can you please be more honest? i want you to be okay.”

“sorry, i didn’t mean to,” he murmurs, burying his face into your neck when you embrace him as your forgiveness. “i’ll try, for you.”

𝄞༉‧₊˚. KAEDEHARA KAZUHA

“seems like you had them on for a while,”  you remark, noticing a strip of his bandages hanging out from his hand. “here, i’ll put on fresh ones for you.”

despite being in a relationship for quite some time now, there are things kazuha isn’t comfortable sharing just yet, such as the burnt scars on his hand. he follows you into your shared cabin at the crux, anxious of your thoughts about his injuries.

“wow.” your thumb traces the trail of ridges from his palm to his wrist, making him wince. he doesn’t sense disgust from you, which is a relief. “give me a moment; i need to fetch ointment from my drawer. tell me if it hurts, okay?”

the process is mostly painless. his palm stings a little bit, but watching you tend to his wounds with care makes him forget the pain. after you finish patching up, you kiss the area where his scars are. “better?”

humming in affirmation, kazuha leans forward to kiss your forehead as thanks for taking care of him. “much better.”

𝄞༉‧₊˚. KUJOU SARA

“let me guess. that oni again?” you know what caused her injuries, but having a good laugh or two is something that may lighten up the mood. general sara is not amused, so you drop the cheerful act immediately.

“sorry, i was trying to make you feel better.” she doesn’t respond, rather staring at you with blank eyes. “i’ll just shut up and get my first-aid kit.”

treating someone of high authority like her feels awkward, acting as if she’s judging you. on the contrary, she tries to formulate an explanation of her injuries. “i apologize for the inconvenience. the resistance bested us again.”

of course, the divine priestess and her army. troublesome and a force to be reckoned with. you tap her shoulder, signaling her that you finished. “don’t apologize. just be careful.”

with a squeeze on your forearm, sara leaves without looking back. you keep praying that the war will be over soon, and that she will come back to you safe and sound.

[fallenclan]

Bargaining

by Dice Anon

The first thing he notices about the place he wakes up in, is that it’s bright. Blinding, from the sharp darkness of the caverns that held his home, his people, his clan. His clan. The thought makes him sick. Oh no. He closes his eyes again, tight. The light is just– too much.

  It’d been so dark in that cavern. He hadn’t thought to look behind him, hadn’t thought to attack Honeysong, hadn’t thought to—

  He’d not thought anything through. The stars are making his head spin, the clear air starting to choke his brain tight with emotion. It feels like it’s sharpening his mind into shards, shattering them alongside his clarity. He doesn’t know if…

  Gentledawn. Rookfeather. It was meant to be a simple ceremony, to invigorate the clan and aid in their battles, war looming above them. It didn’t. His mouth turns dry, remembering their faces. Their trembling, shaking snarls. Those five demons— no, ruffians. Shadowed birds drowning in honey while flames lick at their heels, of course. That anger, that anguish. That sting in his heart.

  His brother’s face comes to mind. Pale fur, parted by scars that were caused by—

  He forces his eyes open, blinking the dark spots from his vision. He realizes that he’s laying on grass, chest freckled with stains of slight green. It smells of a foggy day, and that fills his throat with nostalgia, clogging his reason for a brief moment. He rises to his paws, lifting his head up into…

  Cherrystar stares him down. Fuck.

  He glares at her, not moving. She doesn’t move either. Those sunshine eyes stare deep into his own heather gaze. He lets his fur bristle, tail beginning to lash. He doesn’t care anymore. All ideas of respect and illusions of grandeur have gone out the window. He doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t care.

  He doesn’t.

  He…

  “Did you really think I’d let you go and take my clan?” Her voice fills the air, and he really looks at her for the first time. She looks exhausted. Ravenstar— no, he lost his leadership. Ravenshade doesn’t have an answer for her. He doesn’t.

  “You better prepare for Wolfbite’s ceremony, she’ll want the clan stable before the next Gathering.” Ravenshade knows he’s avoiding the question. He doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t have the energy to be angry. He doesn’t have anything anymore.

  Cherrystar is looking at him with a level gaze, and he knows that she understands. It’s infuriating, that look. It was so blank and unrevealing, and always made his head spin with annoyance. He can’t take anything from that expression. He can’t. He can’t, he just needs time and rest and— 

  He was so excited, damnit. Finchbeak, oh Finchbeak. He looks away sharply, turning his gaze to the ground as his chest constricts. He can see the roots of that damned forest beginning to cling to his paws, ready to drag him down. He takes a shaking breath and looks—

  —up into the eyes of his mother. Her brilliant gray eyes, almost silver among the speckles that dot her pelt. Brilliance gleaming off her pelt in thick starlight, bouncing off his eyes in a way that makes him speechless. Tears form in his mind, unbidden.

  “My little corvid, you’ve done wrong,” Her voice was a leveled calm, and Ravenshade wanted to leap into her embrace and purr all his troubles away in her arms. Just like he was a kitten. He doesn’t. “I asked for empathy and you gave me tyranny.”

  Ravenshade doesn’t respond, looking back down at his paws. The dark roots begin to intertwine around each other, brushing his carpal whiskers. He wants to flinch at the sensation. His chest tightens at the idea of talking to his mother, a pumping through his veins that makes his nerves dull with comfort and his chest tighten with a need.

  “All I ask for now—” He tries. 

  “You are in no position to make demands, Raven.” Gyoza’s voice cuts in, heavy accent filling his ears with–

  With—

  “Father, I ask for protection for my kittens.” He needs to see this through. He needs to see this through. He needs Finchbeak to be okay. He needs them to be okay. He’ll never see them again; he needs them to be okay. He’ll never see them again. He’ll never—

  “Raven, no tears. I ask for no tears.” Gyoza’s voice is slow and comforting, and Ravenshade realizes that he’s started to cry. He doesn’t care. He snaps his head up, and looks into his father’s eyes.

  He sees himself reflected in them.

  “All I ask is that they are safe,” The roots are climbing up his arms now, thirsty for those tears. It thrives off of the suffering of its inhabitants, and it feels the anguish it could have, sliding between the thick pelt of a dead tyrant into desecration itself. He tries to speak through the terror that fills his whole being. 

  “I ask this as your son and not as a leader. I come to you, bleeding, and ask that you gift some mercy—” The roots dig into his flesh. “—not to me, but to my children. Finchbeak’s litter is—” Blood leaks from old wounds, healed long ago. It’s almost time. “—my own and I just want their safety–!” 

  A root slides its way in between his jaw and teeth, and he crunches down hard on it as he attempts to speak, hissing in pain. It comes out garbled, sliding between each bone harshly, stinging his gums. The taste of iron fills his mouth, and he stares into his father’s eyes, pleading and begging.

  The world fades away as soon as he sees his father nod.

 -🎲

small under 1k snippet because i need to WRITE and WRITE!!!

dice anon getting back into it. straight up 'writin it'. and by 'it', haha, well. let's justr say. My raevnstar. love this freak and everyone associated with him and would die for him. and cranekit too. and sleepycloud and sleepydawn but dont think too hard on that second one okayt. okt. next fic will be about them (collective)

(beetle notes: FICS THAT MAKE ME INSANE? "he has nothing anymore." "Ravenshade wanted to leap into her embrace and purr all his troubles away in her arms. Just like he was a kitten. He doesn’t." "He needs to see this through. He needs to see this through. He needs Finchbeak to be okay. He needs them to be okay. He’ll never see them again; he needs them to be okay. He’ll never see them again. He’ll never—" AUGHH)

[pampushky]

Teaser: My Name Is Brutus (And My Name Means Heavy)

Alpha! Lando Norris/Omega! Lauda! Reader

oooo what's this?? me dropping a juicy little teaser of probably one of my favorite things I've written??

so. this is basically an ABO au with a race engineer & lauda mc, with the wonderful trope of enemies to lovers thrown in, as you will soon see from the scene I'm releasing a bit early.

other things about the fic: slow, and i mean fucking slow, burn. exploration of what disabilities would look like in the ABO world (especially centered around the sense of smell and how that could be considered a disability if someone doesn't have one in a world where most things are communicated by smell), societal pressures about what the ideal alpha/omega/beta should look like to the rest of the world which leads to Lando making assumptions about MC's secondary gender/sex, mentions of past emotional & mental abuse, PTSD, scarring, and worries about self-worth. Oh. and obvious hurt/comfort. But again, and I cannot emphasize this enough. Slow. Fucking. Burn.

uhhh i guess i'll do a tag list too for this so. tell me if you wanna be on that.

“I do have… issues, with the way you run things here,” you scratch your claw into the wood of the table, a low rumble in your throat. The scent blockers you have on are distracting to Lando. He wonders, briefly, what your scent is like, when it’s not so medicinal. “You need more discipline. Less media. It makes you seem… soft.”

“Soft?” Lando leans forward, tilting his head. You look back at him with your constantly blank stare, a slight frown on your lips, icy eyes that challenge even the Lauda death stare. “What do you mean?” You hesitate, looking to Zak and Andrea, who both gesture for you to continue. You then look at Oscar, who bites his lip and makes eye contact with you, and shrugs softly, as if permitting you to say whatever you were about to say.

“....you will take offense to what I’m about to say, I’m warning you.”

“Please, I’ll be fine,” Lando waves it off, grinning lazily. His nose twitches. The heavily medicinal smell of your scent blockers is getting to him. Do you truly need to cover your scent that much? Are you worried that he’ll act aggressively because you’re also an Alpha?

“.... no. You won’t. I’ve seen your interviews.” You say dryly, and fold your arms. Lando balks. 

“I beg you pardon?”

“You don’t take criticism well.”

“I take it just fine!” Lando shoots back, feeling himself starting to get frustrated. Why did you have to wear them? Even if you are an Alpha, the medication provided by the FIA should be more than enough to keep anyone’s tempers from flaring.

“Then you won’t throw a hissy fit when I list out all my problems with the way you work?” 

Your tone is icy. Even. Perfectly calculated. 

“Oh, you know I want to hear about your issues with me,” Lando slams his hands down onto the table, and you just raise an eyebrow at him. He’s down to his undershirt, his fireproofs hanging at his waist as you stare at him. “So say it! Don’t hold back!”

Andrea just massages his temples as Zak looks like he wants to be anywhere else. 

“Only if you don’t throw a tantrum when I’m right.” You state, examining your nails from where you sit, as though this is boring for you. Monotonous and icy-calm. 

Lando hates your voice. Specifically how robotic and monotone it sounds. What little he knows about you— which is as much as the rest of the world, with how private the Lauda family is— is that you apparently have some vocal chord and brain damage. Nothing substantial enough to impede your thought process or the way you speak to make you mute, but enough to have caused the monotonous way you talk. A small enough problem that Lando doesn’t feel like a total dick for what he’s about to say.

“Oh, just fucking say it, you robotic bitch!”

That gets your attention. You pause, slowly bring your hand down, and look at him. With the classic, terrifying Lauda glare. Your eyes pierce his soul, and for a second, just a second, Lando considers apologizing. Tucking his tail between his legs, his ears folded back. But then, he remembers who he is, and he meets your glare with his own, lips drawn back to bare his teeth....

[robiinurheart33]

Okay ACTUAL post about Ghost being obsessed with Soap

Ghost was already apprehensive about showing his face to Los vaqueros and the rest of the 141.

But Price was going on and on about “team trust” and “all in the same boat” or whatever bullshit he was spouting, so he just decided to get it over and done with. It’s not like anyone would take a picture and go “oh my god, see how ugly he actually is?”

So he does it. He takes off the mask in front of everyone for a couple seconds, just as much as the burning of his skin allows him to. The whole time, he was staring at Soap. Soap, who scared him shitless all alone with shadows sporting a fucking GSW and still joking. Soap, who’s explosive and loud and happy. Soap, whose face is just blank when Ghost takes off his mask.

what the fuck?

Not to toot his own horn, but he was kinda expecting a reaction here. He knows his worth, he knows his reputation, how much his head would cost bleeding out in a sack. Sue him if he was expecting more of a reaction. His Glasgow smile isn’t anything to smile over, and he isn’t exactly considered handsome either, by any standards. He’s sweaty, the black face paint no doubt smudged now, his crooked nose broken one too many times, hairline wildly disrupted by the scar running into the crown of his skull. He’s a whole fuckin mess, if Gaz’s reaction is anything to mull over. The hot glare of the white lightbulb is pressing into his skin, and the crawling feeling like a thousand ants all move under his skin, into his eye sockets and it’s all wrong. It’s all not right, and he needs to get away immediately.

“Welcome back, Simon.”

Jesus, he wants to die. The worst part about all this is that Soap still isn’t making a face. Ghost can read him like a book and this is the time that he can’t decipher a single emotion from that face? Sweat runs down his neck and is extremely aware of the rest of the people in the room with him at that moment. He decides it’s enough and with a glance at Price, he pulls the skull back over his face. He needs to get away. Right now. His face feels way too hot, too uncomfortable and awkward and suddenly he’s 15 years old again, limbs too lanky and a height that he’s not accustomed to. He can feel the teenage insecurity bubble beneath the surface, angry and hurt.

Ghost pretty much blanks out after the meeting, slipping out and away from everyone else. His boots thump against the ground, and he can’t tell if it’s too loud or all in his head. He’s overstimulated, he can tell. He just needs to stay away, be alone, breathe. Compartmentalise it and deal with the rest later. Right now, he just needs to calm down.

Why didn’t he react? Why didn’t he react? Why didn’t he react? Do I not mean as much to him as he does to me?

He’s losing it. This is so irritatingly immature, and stupid, and dumb. It’s completely fine that Soap didn’t react. It’s fine. Ghost slips into a random room, which just so happens to be a pretty cozy broom closet and rests his head against one of the shelves. The disinfectant smell is overpowering and honestly making his head swim but being in here is better than out here. He feels like his limbs are locked up, eyes locked up in one spot but his brain isn’t seeing anything. He needs to keep it together. His fingers scratch under the rim of the mask where it hugs his skin tight, too tight. The gloves make it even harder to scratch, fuck. He can’t spare any time for a dumb anxiety attack over revealing his face in front of 30 strangers. If he can’t predict Soap’s reaction, does he even know him at all? Fuck-

The door clicks open slowly. Ghost swerves his head to snap at the poor soldier about to have the fright of their life. Instead, he sees pale blue eyes filled with mirth and worry and all the fight leaves him.

“Help me out?” Johnny’s stupid little smile makes Ghost want to throw himself against the wall. he’s holding a small tin with eye grease inside, the smooth untouched surface evident of how much soap uses it.

Help me.

“Yeah, of course.”

Soap steps into the already small space and closes the door behind him with an audible click. Ghost can’t tell if the air really is that awkward or it’s all in his head, if Soap’s casual smile is anything to follow up upon. Soap holds up the tin as Ghost tugs his gloves off, shoving them inside his pants and grimacing slightly as the gloves feel like his pants are bulging, pressing against his skin.

Ghost doesn’t say anything as he places the tin on a nearby shelf and grips Soap’s chin with his thumb and forefinger, tilting it up. He dips two fingers into the tin, facing back towards him as he concentrates. His fingers are buzzing with the promise of contact, head fussing and screaming with the affection and sensation of the oily paste on his bare fingers, no doubt getting under his nails.

His hearts beats in tandem with the low panic and anxiety through his veins, threatening lowly to not mess this up. His finger shakes as he makes the first swipe right below Soap’s eye, half lidded and fixed onto Ghost. He wanted to cry all of a sudden- because why would Soap come to Ghost with this? Why would he be the first one he thought of; the first one to trust enough to bare his face, close his eyes and with blind faith let him touch his skin? He blinks, and blinks again, nose feeling funny. Why would Soap trust him?

Ghost’s finger traces across the bridge of his nose, over his eyelids where he can feel his pupils move. Over his warm skin with the bumps and ridges, over the temples and cheekbones. His heart aches with confusion. Why, why, why? How was he even given the privilege to do this? To touch something as precious as Johnny? He doesnt understand. He might never understand. He might not ever get over this.

Over the other temple, again smoothening on the slope of his nose bridge, over the eyes. His palms are sweaty. Ghost wipes the residue of the paste on his pants, hands coming up to cup Soap’s cheeks to make sure he didn’t miss a spot. (There was no way he could’ve, it’s a relatively simple process.) Squishing his cheeks softly, Johnny opens his eyes. His eyelashes are clumped together by the paint, lips smushed slightly as his eyes turn a bit hazy before focusing on Ghost again. His eyes are even bluer in contrast to the black surrounding his eyes. Softness and patience, heartache and love.

Ghost sucks in a long breath and exhales through his nose. It’s funny, his heart is still beating so fast, but his breathing is calm and collected. Johnny’s pupils flicker and widen for a second, then all of a sudden his hand is now under his eyes, wiping away a stray tear. Ghost flinches back, surprised. His elbow hits the shelf and he hisses, all the progress gone in a second.

“Hey- hey.”

He can’t look.

“Ghost.”

He doesn’t want to.

A shift, and then it’s safe again. It smells like sweat, face paint and pinewood. A hand on the back of his neck, guided to the crook of a neck. It isn’t comfortable at all, bulky gear in the way, Ghost’s arms folded in front of him, his shoulders tense and his mask no doubt digging into Soap’s shoulder. But it- it’s perfect. It’s warm, and every possible part of his body screams that he belongs there. So Ghost unfurls his arms, hangs them limply by his side and steps closer. Johnny’s arms wrap around his neck, trapping him in a sort of awkward, one-sided hug that’s definitely going to make Ghost’s neck have a crick in it. But it’s perfect. It’s safe. He’s safe.

Ghost closes his eyes and lets instinct take over him, hands coming up to grab onto the back of Johnny’s tac vest; the closest he’ll ever get to a hug. Johnny’s warm, the pressure on his eyes comforting and the skin on skin contact full-on relieving. He’s warm, warm, warm. And Ghost is cold. He’s always been cold. Safe. He’s safe.

Johnny’s head shifts, and Ghost’s hands grasp tighter onto his vest like a lifeline. Don’t go. His mind cries. Don’t leave me alone.

“It’s okay.” Johnny coos softly. Ghost can feel his lips on the side of his temple.

“It’s just you and me, yeah?” He murmurs, and the words feel like they’re vibrating, echoing through the side of his head, engraving it into his skull. It’s just you and me.

All of a sudden Ghost really curses the fuckin’ sack he wears that’s preventing from his skin being in touch with Johnny’s.

Ghost hums, turning his head so that the skull mask isn’t digging into Johnny’s shoulder anymore. The polyester where it covers his lips is touching the side of his neck and he can feel it when Johnny’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

It’s a real shame he can’t see Johnny’s expression as he whispers against his neck, “Just you and me.” Although, he can feel the skin beneath his lips heat up rapidly.

Johnny swallows. “Mhm.”

They stay like that for a few moments, Ghost preening from the intimacy of the moment, and Johnny just holding him close. After Ghost deems it to be enough, he clears his throat and stands up tall again, at the same time swiping the ghost team mask stuffed into Soap’s pocket. He pulls it over his head, not before taking a peek to see the blush that had completely taken over Johnny’s face. (He’s selfish in ways like that.) Ghost adjusts the mask to fit snugly over his face, big blue eyes staring right back at him. Ghost’s heartbeat quickens.

“All good, Sargent.” Ghost isn’t completely sure if he’s referring to himself or the other, seeing as if either one of them might be having a heart attack right now, Johnny hasn’t blinked in quite a while. He lifts soap’s chin one last time (selfish, what’d he tell you), and places and well-loved peck right in between his eyes.

“Lookin’ good, Soap.”

Ghost lets the door click behind him, too much of a coward to see Johnny’s reaction to that. He isn’t quite sure what’s gotten into him, but if a rumour spread that the Lieutenant of the 141 walked out of that storage room with a skip in his step, he’d tell everyone that they’re dumbasses for believing in that. He’d be guilty, of course, but no one else has to know that. It’ll just be for Ghost and Johnny to know. Love does funny things to us, after all.

[sorrowfulrosebud]

Oh boy jokes on you, saying "give me Shoji asks" summons me from the void! How about werewolf or puppy boy head canons? Like he's had a hard life, and reader is just good and gentle to him? Calls him a handsome boy?

I AM FIFHTING THE URGE TO CONVULSE TWITCH AND DIE AHHHHHHHH ANON I LOBE UIUE BIG BRAIN SO MUCH

🜸 First and foremost, Shoji is definitely a big dog breed. I’m thinking like Tibetan Mastiff. Big, beefy boy with the fluffiest ears and MASSIVE tail.

🜸 I think reader would most likely have adopted Shoji in a hybrid adoption shelter. He had a very neglectful past; his mother passing not long after birthing him, being thrown from house to house. Some people were really mean and beat him, giving the poor puppyboynasty scars on his mouth 🥺🥺

🜸 He handed himself in to the shelter. He couldn’t afford to live on the streets since he needed a bed and food. Poor puppy just wanted a proper chance at a family 🥺

🜸 Many families pulled faces at the thought of keeping Shoji. He was so so big, and given his background they all thought he’d be too rough with the kids.

🜸 SOBBING THATS WHEN HE WEARS A MUZZLE TO MAKE PEOPLE FEEL COMFORTABLE BUT DOESNT REALISE IT CAUSES THE OPPOSITE ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️

���� You end up wandering into the adoption agency, looking for a more mature hybrid to take home. You were brought in front of the MASSIVE hybrid who looked far too cramped for his pen :(

🜸 His eyes shone a little at the idea of being seen. You knelt in front of him, offering him a smile before seeing the muzzle.

The attendant at the agency led you through the heavy metal door amidst all of the noisy yapping of other hybrids. He knocked on Shoji’s door to get his attention.

Shoji’s fluffy ears pricked up. A meeting? Someone wanted to see him?! Quiet hope flooded his system. He hoped that this person would be lovely, and love him like he deserved.

You step back a little to give Shoji his space as he opens the door. The hybrid’s head bumped noisily against the door as you winced in sympathy. A small whine left his lips as he rubbed his sore ears, before shutting up and looking at you.

Your eyes widened a little bit at the sight of the bulky muzzle. You couldn’t recall a history of biting or aggression. Putting that aside, you smiled softly at the tall puppyboy. Shoji’s tail wagged slowly, bending down so he was sat on his knees in front of you. Again, your eyes widened at his practised submission.

You got to your knees too, leaving a respectful amount of space between the two of you.

“Hello, sweet boy. My, aren’t you so pretty,” you cooed softly, offering a hand for Shoji to sniff if he should so want. Onyx eyes widened.

He was…pretty?!

His head found itself slowly dropping, until it made contact with your hand. Your fingers worked a gentle rhythm near the base of his ears, hearing the womp of his tail behind him. You giggle softly, much to Shoji’s delight. Your head turns to the attendant.

“Can we get the paperwork started, please? I’d love to take Shoji home today if possible.”

🜸 You’d asked about the muzzle, your heart melting when the attendant said that he only took it off to eat. He said that Mezo was frightened of people seeing his face and being scared of him.

🜸 He also gave you his history. Mezo did NOT do well with abandonment. He was a very anxious hybrid, often bending over backwards for other hybrids so they would like him, much to no avail.

🜸 You took Mezo home that day.

The thick door of your home opened slowly, allowing Mezo to sniff around. His tail hadn’t stopped wagging since you clipped the generic brand collar around his neck. The leash hung loosely in your hand, making Mezo a little anxious but didn’t dampen his new mood.

You undid your shoes, placing them neatly on the rack. A hearty sigh left your lips as you faced your new puppyboy.

“Well my sweet boy, I’m super hungry. Would you like some lunch?” You offered him gently.

Mezo’s mind blanked out at the nickname.

He was…sweet?

“Mezo?” You asked him softly. Black eyes snapped back to you as he stood awkwardly in the hall. Is it too soon to ask for cuddles? You smiled at him softly.

“Here, come in the living room. You’re free to explore anywhere you like,” you explained happily, leaving to go to the kitchen. A quiet whine makes you turn your head around to the shaky puppyboy. Your heart melted at the sight of his teary eyes.

“Oh no, sweet pup don’t cry! I know new places can be scary,” you walk to him, slowly placing your hands in his snow white locks.

His tail wagged as his hands struggled to stay by his sides. You caught on immediately.

“Would you like to cuddle, my good boy?” You ask him softly. Mezo nodded wildly, following you to the couch. He kneels in front of you, wrapping his arms around you as he rests his face against your tummy. The muzzle rides uncomfortably into your tummy as you wince.

“Mezo? You know you can take the muzzle off. I know you don’t have a problem with biting or aggression.”

Mezo physically tenses beneath you.

“I know of your background. I know your poor face has been scarred. But please know,” you lift his teary face with your hands.

“I’m never going to give you up. You don’t need to keep the muzzle on whenever we’re in the same room. I understand if you want to keep your face covered until you feel comfortable, but I have some bandanas and masks. They’d be so much better for your poor skin,” you offered, kissing Mezo’s forehead gently.

Poor Mezo’s brain was melting. So much praise and choice was too much.

“M-mask please,” he mumbled shyly. You smiled at the sound of his gruff voice.

“Of course, sweet boy.”

[flowerandblood]

Rip my heart, heal my soul Inside Alphabet

[ Jack the Ripper • modern!Aemond x female ]

Inside Alphabet for Aemond from my series Rip my heart, heal my soul after he met his girl, made for my one year celebration. Very dark content below.

A = Anger (do they get mad and how they react to it)

Before he met his sweet girl, rage, a sense of injustice and aggression accompanied him all the time. In fact, he took it out on his victims, feeling momentary peace, satisfaction and fatigue only when he killed them. However, the euphoric stage was too short-lived for his liking, so he had to quickly find new objects of interest to repeat the whole process.

When a woman was aggressive or rude to him, she could count on him to end her life even if she was not to his taste and he originally had no plan to do anything to her.

After he met her, his frustration and aggression subsided to practically zero. He replaced the adrenaline and endorphin that was secreted in his brain when he was killing with her constant closeness, both physical and spiritual. If he needed to get off, rough, violent sex would suffice, but the kind that wouldn't cause her any real harm. He would never want to hurt her.

B = Behavior (tics, reflexes, things specific to them)

His hands often tremble, usually from excitement or nerves, so he plays with, for example, a glass in his hand, a cloth slung over his shoulder, a cigarette, his jacket, anything to keep his fingers busy. He even feels a tickle in his fingertips when he thinks about killing. Apart from that, he talks to himself a lot under his breath when he thinks about something intensely.

C = Crying (whether they cry & do what when someone else cries)

He actually cries a lot, especially when he lets his consciousness take over for a while and he realises again what he has done to all these women. This knowledge crushes him and he becomes hysterical until she calms him down with her closeness, tenderness and warm words, even though he knows that he does not deserve to be comforted.

D = Despair (who they seek help from first)

When he panics, he calls her first before he does something stupid. He tries not to make any rash decisions before he talks to her. Often her voice alone and her soothing words calm him down and make him realise that the situation is not as bad as he feared.

E = Enemy (who they hate or argue with most often)

He hated women who reminded him of the girls who teased and mocked him in high school. There were several, but the worst was one of them, a dark-haired, petite, sweet girl who only pretended to be nice.

She flirted with a lot of boys, cheating on them, and made fun of him, saying that if he was desperate, she could take his virginity because he might never get the chance to make love to a woman with that appearance.

These words left a mark on him, completely killing his already low self-esteem. He began to exercise, changed his style of dress and conversation, and when he returned to school after the summer holidays, he found that she didn't recognise him until she saw his scar up close.

He felt a sense of power over her and satisfaction at the thought that she was now the one who followed him around and begged for his attention, the more he was secretive and withdrawn, the more he teased her, the more she was in love with him.

She was very insistent that they go to bed together, and when they finally did, she was not happy with how inexperienced he was. Her remarks and the look on her face full of disappointment enraged him so much that he strangled her with the string she used to tie her dress around her waist.

When she stopped moving he was terrified and tried to wake her up, however, in addition to the fear he also felt an immense satisfaction that this dumb bitch was no longer laughing.

She had mocked him and was now lying there with a blank stare, a fucking slut who deserved everything that had happened to her.

He decided afterwards that he wished he'd caused her more pain before he killed her, that he had said all those things to her that had been pressing to his lips.

His girlfriend reminded him a lot of her in some ways, so he had originally considered her the perfect target for his next victim, believing that she was simply faking it.

He tried to catch her in a lie, gossip or words she would normally be ashamed of if she didn't trust him, but his plan backfired a tad because he fell in love with her instead.

F = Friends (do they have and who they consider friends)

She is his only real friend.

G = Gifts (whether they like gifts and give them themselves)

He loves to make his sweet girl little presents, he knows what kind of buns she likes to eat so he always buys her fresh ones after work so she can eat them for dinner and in the morning before class, he buys her books, notebooks and anything he thinks she will find useful and enjoy, always excitedly waiting for her reaction.

When he gets gifts from her, when she turns out to have remembered his birthday or anniversary, he feels happy, ashamed and remorseful at the same time, thinking that after all he has done he does not deserve any presents, much less from her.

H = Hobby (what they do for pleasure in their free time)

Reading.

I = Idol (their role model)

In fact, she is his role model. Every day he watches her and learns from her how to deal with everyday problems and adversities in a calm and composed manner, at the same time filled with hope and reason. She is the one he counsels when he doesn't know how to solve his problem, not wanting to use violence any more, and he usually gets an answer from her that satisfies him and, in his mind, makes sense.

J = Jokes (how they react to jokes and if they laugh)

No joking. He doesn't even know how to do it. He laughs sometimes when she does something silly.

K = Kids (do they want to have them)

Some part of him would like to have a family, but he would be afraid that his children would be like him. He would also be afraid that he would then have to share his beloved, that a child would take her away from him to some extent. He knows that he is perhaps too possessive for that and would rather not risk it.

However, he would never force her to terminate the pregnancy if she decided that she wanted to keep the child. He would then try to deal with it somehow, but it would be very difficult for him because of what would be going on in his head.

L = Love (anything to do with falling in love)

Before he met her, he did not believe in love or that he was capable of it. He believed that he could not be loved and that women who bestow affection on him simply want to go to bed with him and fall in love with someone they have made up themselves, in some imagined version of him, rather than the monster he really was.

When he met her, however, it became apparent that something was beginning to happen inside him. He felt warmth at the sight of her as she crossed the door of the café, the rapid beating of his heart and the trembling of his hands as he handed her an order and exchanged a few words with her, the things he had learned about her and the articles she had written made some part of him want to get to know her instead of trying to drag her to bed, and once that happened he was unable to hurt her.

M = Manners (how they behave in formal situations)

He is cold and withdrawn. He hates talking to strangers and dies when he has to call the doctor or get anything done at the office. He begs her to do it for him, but she refuses, saying that he has to deal with such things on his own. He literally dies then, but he tries, for her. To make her proud of him.

N = Nightmare (their worst nightmare)

He often dreams that he wakes up next to her and she is lying beside him with empty eye sockets, covered in blood, dead. He doesn't remember anything, he can't believe that he did it, but he also sees traces of blood on his hands. He then wakes up, for real this time, and grabs her, begging her to say something, and she looks at him terrified, snapped out of a deep sleep, asking him if he's been having nightmares again.

Usually then he starts crying in relief, unable to even answer her question, sobbing hugged to her chest, and she embraces him and strokes his hair, whispering that everything is okay.

He dies of fear when she goes off somewhere alone and doesn't respond to his messages for too long. He's ready to quit mid-shift, get straight into the car and drive to wherever she is, just to make sure she's okay. He drives her crazy with his overprotectiveness.

He would be devastated if she broke up with him. He would be afraid he would do something to her in an act of desperation or go back to murdering again.

O = Origin (their childhood)

He grew up in a family where money was always in short supply. His father died when he was very young and his mother worked several shifts to support him and his siblings. When the terrible accident happened to him and he lost his eye, his mother could not afford the expensive treatment, so his scar did not heal as well as it could have.

For a long time he wore the cheapest glass eye, which looked awful and made other children afraid of him. It wasn't until he was in high school that he managed to get a refund from the country for a better one, one that is almost no different from a normal one.

P = Proximity (what they are like when they are intimate)

Before her, he associated proximity only with animalistic closeness and aggression, so he did not see it as anything pleasant or desirable.

Only when he met his girlfriend did he desire this closeness in a different way, wanting simply to touch her, feel her and experience fulfilment with her. It turned out that her touch, full of respect, warmth and care even calmed him down, and sex with her became his favourite way to relax.

Q = Quiz (whether they like to play and how)

He enjoys playing chess or other logic games.

R = Routine (do they have a daily routine and what is it)

He always sets himself a routine for the day, which he sticks to and which his girlfriend knows he hates when someone disorganises it for him. They have agreed that they will always set all changes in advance and try not to surprise each other with anything unless something happens that neither of them had control over.

He didn't resent her when she became unwell and he had to take her to the doctor even though he should have been at work, it is obvious that her and his wellbeing are of utmost importance to him.

S = Safety (whether and where they feel safe)

He only feels safe when he sleeps cuddled up against her breasts in their bed, making sure he has locked the door on both locks beforehand.

T = Touch (who they allow to touch and how)

Only she can touch him. He loves her hands, the way she touches his bare skin with them, his chest, his cheeks, his shoulders, when she kisses him, or when she comes close and embraces him from behind at the waist.

In the case of any other person, he tenses up all over and pulls away, furious, thinking that this is a right meant only for the woman he loves. When any strange woman touches him he bursts into a rage, he then snorts for air and counts to thirty, waiting for the wave of anger to pass away.

U = Unforgivable (things they would not forgive)

Lying.

He would never forgive her if she lied to him, even if it was some small thing. He would rather she say she doesn't know something or isn't sure than say something that would later turn out not to be true. He often checks what she says with the facts and is relieved every time her words are confirmed. He trusts her, but at the same time he is still afraid that she will start hiding something from him.

Betrayal.

I don't even have to write what he would do then. He would kill her first and then himself.

V = Vengeance (whether they are vengeful and how)

He is very vindictive and only her pleas and requests make him let strangers off the hook for certain things. He is very easily annoyed or offended and often winning his forgiveness is impossible.

W = Warderobe (what they wear, what style they have)

He dresses simply but elegantly. He loves fitted, dark jumpers and turtlenecks worn with black trousers.

Y = Yearning (whether they yearn and how they express it)

He dies of longing when she goes out somewhere alone with her friends. He lets her do it because he knows she needs it, but he wants to cry then. He is emotionally unstable and sees the very worst scenarios in his mind − above all that something will happen to her.

He constantly craves her, when she is tired several days in a row he starts to worry that she doesn't love him anymore, that he has done something wrong. Usually when she comes back to strength she shows him how wrong he was and then he feels that wonderful, overpowering relief again, which passes every time he has to separate from her again.

His dream would be to die lying in bed with her, cuddled up against her naked body, with his manhood deep inside her, his nose filled with her scent, listening to her calm breathing.

Z = Zone (their comfort zone)

He feels comfort when he is with her in their flat. This is where he's calm and composed and does not feel any frustration or anger.

When he goes outside and has contact with strangers he feels threatened, even more so when she is next to him and he has to worry about her too.

He then holds her hand in his to make sure he doesn't lose her somewhere among the crowds, watching the people around them like a guard, protecting her in his mind from other people like him.

[steviewashere]

Pacific Waters

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Depression, Minor Suicidal Thoughts, Self-Negativity Tags: Post-Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Steve Harrington Whump, Depressed Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Self-Worth Issues, Steve Harrington Feels Like a Burden (again), Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents (Sorta), Steve Harrington Talking About His Dreams, Steve Harrington Has a Special Interest With Marine Biology, Neurodivergent Steve Harrington (If You Squint), Eddie Munson Comforts Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, But There's No Love Confession, And They Very Much So Don't Get Together Here, Water Imagery, Ocean Imagery Well, this is the depressed Steve at the beach fic I've had in my drafts for a couple months. This is the original draft of "My Scars Are Hiding (My Branches Don't Show)", but obviously this draft was heavily modified in the final version. Sorry if the ending of this is overly sweet, I just didn't want it to be super depressing.

🌊————————🌊 The sand clumps between his toes as he digs them further underground. Wind slaps him across the face, one-two, one-two, one-two. They’ll be ruddy and well blotchy when he makes it back inside. Hair wild around him, catching tangles into his eyes. Ocean water rushing up to the very tips of his toes, kissing them with pecks, receding back.

He tightens his arms harder around his knees. Legs folded up to his chest, chin resting on his knobby joints. Fuzzy skin to his baby faced chin. Sunglasses squished up the bridge of his nose, nearly one with his brow bone. T-shirt billowing lightly at the hem, air tickling up his ribs, and smoothing the shirt back down with the same featherlight fingers.

Eddie wades in the shallow water. Ocean to below his knees. Holding up pant legs in his tight, naked fingers. Hair in thick wisps above and angled to the left. He’s looking out at the horizon, at the midday sun, at the crystal catch-alls of sunlight. There’s peace cascading down his body—evident in the relax of his shoulders, the loose straightness of his spine. It’s him rippled by a calm, a sense of wonder.

“I’ve been to the beach before,” Eddie had told him, “many, many years ago. Down in California on a Disney trip paid for by my grandpa. I haven’t seen it since. I’m going to take you.”

Steve thinks Eddie looks good like this.

Wishes he could figure out how to be like Eddie in this moment. Instead of some knot tethered in the sand, in the fine dust of eroded rocks and shattered beer bottles and crumbled crustacean shells.

He swallows around nothing, breathes through his nose. Tongue like tongue—a wet sponge in his mouth, a muscle that jumps when he unclenches his teeth, an organ. His whole mouth tastes like grief; of things he never did, things he should’ve done, things he can’t wait to do. It’s cardboard and salt and smoke. Staleness, too, that he figures is from forgetting to brush his teeth this morning, last night, the day before, and the day before that one, too.

No matter where he goes, his brain follows. It follows with tension. With unknown fear etched deep in the webbings of his fingers, splinter-riddled where he gripped that nail-bat. Bloodshed and blood soaks, where he laid his hands, where he squashed, where he protected when need be. Memories of knuckles to his cheeks, ribs under his palms, blank stares into sterile rooms; broken bones and white irises and floating half-corpses; anger, so much anger.

Confusion. Anger. Confusion. Anger.

Grief; so much grief.

It all sits deep within him in this very moment: a pulsating, shiny, inflated to burst ball in his stomach. Uneasy and nauseous. Nothing digested inside him.

Eddie looks over his shoulder at him. He can’t quite make out the expression on his face. But there’s that heavy weight of being stared at. Steve unfurls his right hand, where it had been tight on his opposite forearm, and sends a finger-wave. Makes his lips do something like a smile, but it’s tight, pinching his cheeks, makes the corners of his mouth ache.

“You good?” He thinks Eddie mouths.

Steve lifts the same hand and shifts it side to side. Sort of.

As soon as he splays his hand back on his own forearm, Eddie begins wading out of the water. He folds his pant legs to rest cinched on his knees. Stomps through the sand, arms out at his sides, fingers splayed as he keeps his balance. And then he plops down next to Steve, breath huffing and puffing as he catches it. He knocks their shoulders together.

“Why so-so? Should we head back to the cabin?”

He shrugs, no matter how little. “Just feel sorta…blank, I guess?”

“Blank,” Eddie echoes softly. He looks out at the horizon, then back to Steve. His mouth opens and closes like a floundering fish—something like Steve feels. And sighs through his nose. Then, soft still, “I’m worried about you, sweetheart.” A hand to the center of Steve’s back, fingers brushing the knobs of his spine.

Steve sighs into the touch. Reaches up to his sunglasses, dragging them into his hair once the sun dips lower and lower still. He blinks at the sudden change of lighting, but doesn’t look over at Eddie quite yet. Instead, he unfolds his legs so that he’s criss-cross and barely sinking, knee hitting Eddie’s thigh. He worms his right hand under the sand, combing fingers through it as if he’s petting the fluffy back of an animal. “How so?” he musters.

“It’s like…like…you’ve disappeared into yourself now that the world isn’t ending,” Eddie murmurs, “like something up and left.”

He sniffs, scratches the skin of his neck, looks over at the sand falling from his grip. That’s me, he notes, the sand. “Hm,” Steve grunts. But he leaves it at that.

“You can talk to me,” Eddie whispers, “if you need somebody to just listen.”

“I know,” Steve returns in the same volume, “I just…it’s just…”

“Just?”

He shrugs again. “It’s just stuff, y’know.” Steve drags a heavy breath through his lungs, heaving them as if lifting weights. The sand keeps passing through his fingers. Not slowly. Not within seconds either. Just…falling. Melting back into the rest of the sand, sitting right where it initially belonged. And yet…yet the imprints of his fingers has disturbed the original mound it had been in. It’ll never go back to that original mound, unless he were to reshape it. But even then, he’s not sure how to do that. Steve swallows around nothing again. “Like…have you ever felt like, no matter what you do, your life isn’t yours?”

Eddie inhales sharply. His whole torso seizes with it. “Sure, in some ways,” he answers, “before I moved in with Wayne. When everything I did was controlled by fear—of my dad, of bullies…my own hands, sometimes.” A gentle pet down Steve’s back, down and up, resting warmly between his shoulder blades. “Is that…is that how you’ve been feeling?”

The sand passes and passes, dust and dust—kuh-shhh, kuh-shhh. There’s the ocean, crashing hard and unrelenting, but the sea-foam kisses soft. He digs his thumb underground until he finds a large shard of shell. Picks it up between his index and middle finger, dangling just above the indentations in the sand. Eyeing it: where the stray sun rays glow the edges, the speckles of sand caught in the fine crevices, leftover chalky residue coating his fingertips.

When crustaceans no longer fit their shells, they find a new one. Molting. Once they can no longer justify fitting in the same shell, they molt; survival, a need.

He always wanted to be a marine biologist. Work out in the ocean. Saltwater cold against his diving gear. Gloved hands brushing sea rocks, the gentle sculptures of coral reefs. It had to be freeing, to work a job like that—to swim with the fish, zig-zag and snake-like. To be free.

Then, his dad thrusted him into sports—outside of his pick of swimming. Not that he didn’t enjoy playing, he did, but it hadn’t been his choice. It hadn’t been his choice to involve himself with the business clubs or the student council. Hadn’t been his decision to get popular. Hadn’t been his decision to cater. It was all just expected of him. That he’d graduate high school, go directly into college, graduate from there with honors, land a big shot career—business, like his dad—find a nice girl, settle down, have kids…big house, picket fence, and a little dog, too. Parts of that he liked the thought of. A lifelong partner. A dog. Good career. But everything else wasn’t him.

At least some of his decisions lead to the Party and to Robin and to Eddie. He chose to help Nancy and Jonathan. Everything else, though, it felt like people were relying on him to do the job, to be there, to take over. He did it, of course he did. He shouldn’t have to be responsible like that, though; he shouldn’t have had to take it all on.

He shouldn’t have to sit here with the remnants of himself, scattered and unfit like the sand below.

“I wanted to be a marine biologist,” he murmurs to Eddie after some thought.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Wanted to swim with the fish. Wanted to study their homes, their ecosystems. Wanted to know what they ate, how they travelled with each other, who their predators were.” Steve rests the shell in his flat palm and hovers it above his folded lap. There’s sand scattered across his bare shins, his knees right where the shorts don’t cover. “My mom used to take me out here to the west coast, used to stop by the beaches. She’d run around with me. Chase me up and down the sand dunes, help me pick up shells—like this one”—he displays it to Eddie—“this one’s a mollusk; think it’s a scallop, based on the rounded edge of it? She and I would identify them all because of this book I had.

“It was a thick book. Full of pictures and definitions and biological names for all the different mollusks and crustaceans. She’d ask me what shell I wanted to find, and I’d tell her, and we’d go. And we’d find it.” He shimmies the piece of shell so it rests between his fingers again. Holding it up the pale night sky. It’d probably be a pink or purple-pink in the daylight. Here, though, it’s dark and blue and muted. He sighs. Continues, “Now…now I’m afraid to swim in even my own fucking pool. And I just sit around my house, waiting for somebody to fill it. I’d call, but everybody’s busy. Everybody’s always so busy.

“Steve has the nail bat and Steve has the car and Steve is the babysitter. And I enjoy that gig, most of the time I do, but what about his company? I have company, how about that? Steve has another concussion and another concussion and man up, Steve, man up, stop crying, stop it with the nightmares, stop with your unrealistic dreams—be this, do that. That’s not okay, that’s not right; you need to apologize—oh, but I did nothing wrong—apologize anyway! Hey, wanna come watch a basketball game with me? No, Steve, that’s stupid. That’s jock shit—you’re bullshit, Steve, it’s all bullshit.”

In a last second decision, Steve closes his fingers tight around that shell shard. He clenches as hard as he can, knuckles turning white, nails starting to bite the skin of his palm. And when he opens his fist again, the shell is nothing but dust. Sand. It falls between his fingers, something he can no longer grasp onto. He watches it pour over his naked legs, into the well of sand below him, dissipating into just another small pool of erosion beneath him.

It becomes a fine nothingness.

He swallows around nothing once more. Words that should dry up just stuck in his throat, hard to digest.

“My life is bullshit,” Steve croaks, “it’s never mine. Just everybody else’s to have, to use. I’m a sex god, I’m a great kisser, I’m a lonely guy trying to get his fill. I’m King Steve and a jock and a nerd and a dingus and utter horseshit. I’m a wash-up, a smudge. A burden.

“I’m a burden to my own fucking brain, Eddie”—he smiles something sickly and small and humorless—“I’m just…just stuff. Just this with nothing else to it. Sitting here on a beach I used to know the feel and sound of, cowering at the rush of waves that used to meet me as I ran to it. Sitting in complete darkness, feeling awfully sorry for myself. And for what? Why am I here? Doing any of it?

“I…I…never mind. Never mind,” he mutters, shaking his head. His lips roll tight against his teeth, he drags his sunglasses to sit over his eyes again, and he keeps his face pointed at the ocean. At the calm waves. At the coral reefs he wanted to explore. At a dream he left behind in order to chase what everybody else expected of him. Expectations. Steve Harrington is full of other people’s expectations. “Sorry,” he whispers, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have laid that all on you like that. Guess I’m just stuck right now. Outside of my body, that kind of shit.”

Eddie’s hand is still. Marked flat in the center of Steve’s back. Silenced. “Steve,” he breathes.

He shakes his head once more. “I shouldn’t have said it all like that. Just…just…yeah. I’m stuck, that’s it. That’s all it is.”

“Steve,” Eddie whispers. Voice somehow cutting over the crashing waves, over the distant bustles of a city rising to nightlife, over boats sailing far away. He blinks behind the sunglasses, but makes no other movement. “Look at me,” he demands featherlight, “look at me, Steve.” The waves kiss his toes again, frothing frozen over his skin, receding. “Please,” he hears plead in a murmur, “please, Steve, look at me.”

Damn him. Damn you, Eds.

If there’s one thing he’s going to do since March, it’s listen to Eddie. Obey commands. Or…really, give himself over to the aching. To the incessancy. To a desire he’s been trying to chase away—melting into Eddie, no matter what.

Reluctantly, he pries the glasses off his face, twiddles them around in his grainy palms, and drops them into the sandpit between his legs. And then, one arduously slow second at a time, turns his head over to Eddie’s voice. His jaw twitching hard, locking right into place. Nostrils flaring, brine air coating and sticking to his nose hairs. Eyelashes heavy, clumped by the salt when he blinks once more—blinks to clear the image, to focus the surroundings, blur the background and soft-spot Eddie. Already, he fizzles, pops, and burns like the bonfire they prepared the other night. Where sticky s’mores melted over their fingertips, frothy beer stuck center to Eddie’s stubble, and their laughs rivaled seagulls making their way homebound. And he was flickering, brave and gentle and anew, for just a moment—the flame in the cold, at the center of it, alive.

The hand on his back travels. Fingers trailing and bumping over spine knobs. Nails shifting the thin fabric of his t-shirt. A palm finally landing, warm and soft and cautious on his neck. Some sort of peace offering; a pheromone; a slurry of words during a panic episode, nestled in the corner of the couch, eyes dropped to his knees so he won’t be startled when he comes to, and a hot drink waiting. Waiting for him to come back. To look.

To see.

“Thank you,” Eddie says softly, “for letting me know what’s going on. Okay?” He nods once at Steve, so he bobbles back—not really an understanding, doing it just to do. Eddie’s eyes flicker like those flames, back and forth and dancing over his face. Dark and searching. Effortlessly adventuring like owls on prowl. “And I’m sorry”—

“Ed, it’s not”—

“No,” he firmly interrupts. “No, Steve. Listen. I don’t…I don’t wanna tell you what to do, but just listen to me. I am sorry, okay? I’m sorry that I might’ve played a part in all this, even in the short amount of time I’ve been able to know you. Because I know, Steve. I know, in some way—whether you wanna approach that hill or not—that I’ve been a part of this.

“But I’m sorry that not only has the world been unkind, but your own fucking life. You deserve to have control and you deserve to have your own purpose and you deserve everything you could want. Even if…even if you feel like you don’t. I get that part, okay? I get it, sweetheart, I do.

“It’s unfair, though. It’s unfair you’ve been treated like some trophy on a shelf. High on a pedestal. And…and…Steve. Steve, I need you to know that your life isn’t over. You’re talking to me like it is and I can assure to you, in this moment, you aren’t done with it. I won’t let you be done with it—that’s one thing I’m gonna dictate over you. The only thing.” Eddie’s other hand comes up at that, too. Slow-like and gentle. Cupping the right side of Steve’s face, his remaining palm going to the left side. Holding him in place between his hands, as if Steve is an entire universe, a planet meant for observing.

Steve swallows, but this time around a lump. A sour lump, solid and immovable lodged deep inside him. It’s the pulsing sphere in his stomach, it’s the tears he has yet to give name to, it’s build-up. Calcium on a shower-head. “Ed,” he mutters, voice wavering, “you don’t…you don’t mean any of”—

“I do!” Eddie exclaims softly. “I do,” he then whispers. “You want a star? I’ll buy you one. You want a garden? I’ll bring you the seeds and the soil. You want to just sleep? I’ll tuck you in. Don’t you get it? Don’t you?

“I’m not asking you to believe me. I’m not asking you to just accept the words tumbling out of my fuckin’ mouth. I’m asking nothing of you. But I care. I care about you, Steve. I care so much about you—if something happened, I don’t know what, but if something were to happen to you, it’d be like Hell all over again. So, I’m gonna ask you a question. Just one question. Just…answer me. However you want, I want you to answer me. That’s the only other thing, okay?” His eyes are flickering again, harder this time, aggressively. The flames of the bonfire tore higher and higher, cascading to the sky; his fingertips had been melded together by marshmallow guts and chocolate tears; the beer sloshed inside him like he was a boat in the ocean; but Eddie held his hand and helped him put it out, helped him find the solution. This is that. The flames. A fire.

He nods once, not much movement, not much to give—head still held between hands, sure and firm and still—but he gives just this one thing.

Like he did in the Upside Down, Eddie does it back. “Okay,” he whispers, “Steve.”

And he blinks, eyelids heavy, stinging. Heat tears down his cheek, biting him all the way to his chin where it wobbles precociously. Doesn’t stop it. Doesn’t want to.

Tenderly, Eddie catches the droplet on his thumbs. Not even acknowledging it with a breath. Then, “What do you want? Out of anything in the world, what do you want?”

A lot of things, he doesn’t say.

My parents. A bedtime story. Hot dinner with a loud house.

To be wanted like a friend, not a fighter.

Maybe a dog or two? Small, though. To keep me company?

You. Your eyes. And your mouth. And your smile. The words you have for me. For your hands to keep holding me forever. A flicker to engulf. For us to be here, at the beach, under this sky with the stars and the birds sleeping on the water and the boats, shells under our legs and for me to identify them all for you while you tell me about Dungeons & Dragons and for us to be happy, stuck in time.

A few more tears trail down his cheeks. He darts over Eddie’s face this time. Not really looking, more just recognizing. Something, he’s not sure.

“To be a marine biologist, Ed,” he murmurs, “to not be afraid of getting in the ocean with you. And I can stand there, pointing out all the…the creatures and shit at our feet. Be taken seriously as I talk about what I love. The seashells. The wildlife.”—he swallows the lump, warm and sleepy, somehow content after it all—“To be free.”

There’s a soft, small smile on Eddie’s face. Just barely stretching. “Will you do something with me? You can say no, but I just wanna…wanna try something. That alright?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“You see the tide right now?” Eddie stretches out his left arm, finger pointed at the foaming edge of the water. His hands fall away from Steve’s face. Following where Eddie’s pointed, he hums his acknowledgement. “I think—if you hold onto me—we can kneel in that bit of water there. And maybe you can talk to me about any shells we can find?”

Looking closer at the tide, Steve blindly reaches out and wraps his hand on Eddie’s wrist. Squeezing hesitantly, yet tightly. “I…I don’t know if”—

“We don’t have to,” Eddie whispers, his voice close—it’s as if his head is turned, his mouth directly next to Steve’s ear, but he can’t bring himself to look. “I just thought that, well, if you want to be a marine biologist, then we gotta start with the basics. Right? So…this’ll be exposure or something. Again, though, we don’t have to”—

“And you’ll be there? You won’t…you won’t let go, right?”

“No,” he murmurs, shaking his head—a stray curl whips the side of Steve’s head. “I’ll keep holding on as long as you want me to.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Steve hums. He takes a slow, deep breath. Lets it out just as slowly. “Okay,” he says, “but not too far in.”

At that, Eddie gently rises from the sand, pulling Steve up with him. They tread over the sand, wobbly footing and knees shaking as they keep their balance. Far enough that the tide meets the soles of their feet, but doesn’t rise farther than the tops. However, Eddie doesn’t kneel down until Steve begins to. Going just as slow as Steve needs, one moment at a time.

“It’s cold,” Steve whispers, still kneeling down.

Eddie breathes out a tiny snort. “Yeah, I should’a mentioned that, sorry.”

“’S’okay,” he murmurs, “just watch out for jellyfish. We’ll have to go back inside if they sting you.”

“Duly noted.”

Finally, when Steve is fully sat back on his haunches, Eddie meets him in the sand. The water laps around their shins. Foamy and cold and biting. But the water doesn’t rise, doesn’t try to knock them down.

It’s odd, both distant and full, how Steve welcomes the water back to himself. Nothing like being under it, though, swimming his heart out—until it’s pounding and he’s heaving for breath and needing to get out because he’s pruning. But it’s still comfortable, for now, at least.

Eddie’s left hand digs into the sand at their knees. Rummaging and digging and burrowing until he makes a small, “a-ha!” and presents a shard of something up in Steve’s line of sight. “What kind of shell is this, Stevie?”

He snorts, taking in the object that’s held right in front of him. “Eds, that’s a shard of a beer bottle. That’s not a shell.” Before he lets Eddie get too downtrodden, Steve is searching in the sand, too. Holding up his own find. “This one’s a sand dollar,” he explains softly, “it’s not a shell. Not technically. In fact, it’s not even dead.”

“It’s not?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see Eddie tilt his head slightly. It’s cute, if only he could work the courage to say that. But venturing into the little bit of water is enough for tonight. He shakes his head. “No, it’s very alive. A very alive, flat sea urchin. See how this is super dark?” Lifting the sand dollar up higher, he lets the bit of light from the moon brighten it. “This one’s almost black. Kinda like a deep purple. And if I flip it over”—which he does—“you can see all these little things on the bottom.”

The underside glints and shifts, but shadows with how Eddie moves closer. “Whoa,” he lightly gasps. “What the hell are those things?”

“Bristles,” Steve answers, “they move kinda like worms or, and this is kinda gross, like maggots do. Squirming. See?” He tilts the sea urchin again, holding it closer for Eddie to see. Taking in the even tinier gasp that elicits out of Eddie, he knows he’s done his job. “They act as little legs or arms for the urchin. Dragging microorganisms—like plankton—to a small opening in the center of these bristles. Essentially bringing the plankton in for eating. It’s cool, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs, “shit, Steve, this is probably the coolest biology lesson I’ve had.”

“You’re only saying that because you used to fall asleep in biology, Eds.”

“But I’m being honest! Seriously, Stevie, this is genuinely super cool.” Eddie gets closer again, nearly stitched into Steve’s side. “Will you show me other stuff? How ‘bout…”—he digs in the sand again—“…how about this one?”

This time, Steve actually full bodily laughs. “Eddie,” he sighs. “Ed, that’s another glass bottle shard.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know?”

“I’ll find some more, Eds. Help me dig?”

Eddie gives him a sloppy salute on his forehead. “At your service, future marine biologist.” Steve rolls his eyes, but before he can get too far into his distracted digging, Eddie’s pulling on his arm. He looks over, curious—mainly to see if it’s yet another glass shard that he’s being shown—but he’s met with Eddie’s soft, beautiful face. “I’m serious, Stevie. I’m gonna help you get to that dream career again, no matter what it takes.”

He smiles. Soft and personal and just for Eddie. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, sweet”—

“No, Eds,” he murmurs, “thank you for listening. For…for trying to help me. It means a lot to me.”

“I’ll always listen, Steve. No matter what, sweetheart. Now, let’s get digging; I’ve got some learning to do.”

Tonight won’t fix it all, but it’s a start. And Eddie’s right. His life isn’t over yet. This is a new beginning.

🌊————————🌊

[spinnysocks]

mini kiburi x ushari fic :3

Every muscle in Kiburi's body ached. Scar just had to call a meeting after he, Janja and Reirei had their tails handed to them by the Lion Guard for the thousandth time.

The only positive thing about the sundown meeting was Ushari. While Scar berated them as usual, the snake gave the crocodiles the benefit of the doubt - they were being sent on nearly every mission lately and were likely overtired, of course they couldn't fight as well. The firey lion didn't like to hear that coming from his second-in-command, but it was better than having to hear his prolonged reprimanding.

“Tomorrow morning, you will attack Ukuni Woods, where there will be less backlash from the Pridelanders.” Scar announced. He set his gaze on Kiburi, then looked at Ushari who gave him a nod. “Kiburi, you and your float can rest, as long as you fight better.”

The crocodile leader stood tall. “We crocs can fight just fine. We won't lose next time.”

“You better. Now, all of you go and prepare for tomorrow… And I don't want to hear any excuses again.” The ghostly lion threatened before disappearing into smoke.

Kiburi sighed deeply and let his eyes close for a second. He hadn't been allowed to sleep properly in who knows how many days. The news, although extremely small and insignificant, was a relief for him and his float.

“Kiburi?”

He opened his eyes and glanced to see Ushari slithering towards him. They were the only two left in the volcano now. The atmosphere was strangely peaceful for once.

“I thought you might fall asleep there.” The cobra was joking, but there was something more in his voice that he couldn't quite pinpoint.

Kiburi turned to face him, feeling every sore muscle as he moved. He stared back at Ushari, for once in his life unable to think of a comeback due to his fatigue. “I should get back to my float before they start thinkin’ we’ll be on tomorrow's mission.”

He began walking down from the volcano’s ledge, each step slower than usual. Ushari caught up and matched his speed.

“I’ll accompany you.” The snake insisted in his ever-so-casual tone. Kiburi continued walking as he considered it. He supposed it wouldn't hurt to have company but he had to play it off.

“Don’t you need to return to your hollow for the night? It's getting dark.” As they exited the volcano, he looked up at the darkening sky where stars were beginning to show. At least it was a pretty night.

“I slept during the day. Scar usually has his best schemes in the middle of the night.”

Kiburi snickered. “Sure. What I meant was, why are you escorting me? I'm not some weak, pathetic animal who needs protection.” The words came out his mouth a little ruder than he intended.

“Of course not. You're the farthest from that… when you're not falling asleep on your feet.” Ushari responded, smirking as Kiburi snapped his weary head back up at the comment.

The crocodile leader stopped. “So you are here to protect me—”

“Relax. All I'm doing is making sure you don't walk into a rock on your way.”

The pair resumed walking. Kiburi smirked slightly. “Sounds like something my float would do. They’re a bunch of fish-for-brains.”

Ushari watched the expression on his face closely with curiosity. The crocodile barely ever smiled, but it was nice when he did. “But you like them?”

“Like them? Ha! They're my only friends.” The somewhat sad response sounded positive coming from the crocodile. Maybe it was just the fatigue.

The cobra raised an eyebrow at him, a smug smile on his face. “Am I not your friend?”

Kiburi looked back at him with a blank face. “...I like you enough. For you to be my friend, I mean.”

“I assumed we already were. Perhaps making friends with crocodiles is different from snakes. Although, a crocodile liking me is high praise to me.” Ushari hissed.

Kiburi glanced away, refusing to let the sudden redness on his face be seen. Even in his sleep-deprived state, he wouldn't let himself be uncharacteristically flustered. He could play it cool.

“Another reptile respecting me is high praise to me. I liked you from the moment we met.”

Ushari chuckled. “Not enough to be unspoken friends?” The hint in his voice was just like that of their first meeting — smooth and casual and yet producing so many feelings in the crocodile.

Kiburi dared to look at him again — if he was brave enough to fight, then he was brave enough to look at Ushari's face. “Oh, I don't think we're friends, Ushari…”

[maumausie]

Fem!Bell AU crumbs

Since I am apparently physically incapable of writing full length stories, here's a little scene from my forced fem!Bell AU. (but I am almost done with the first chapter, thanks to @thehornierdog's threats encouragement. this scene is also kinda out of date because ive been editing it lol

TW: forced feminization, allusions to brainwashing, s/a.

thank you to the lovely cold war truthers discord for feeding my brainworms (esp @fleshqounds for the idea about Adler essentially making Bell a do-over of his failed marriage it has not left my brain since).

“I set out some clothes for you,” Adler gestured to the bed, where a yellow dress was folded neatly. 

It seemed at least somewhat modern–no sleeves and with buttons all down the front. There were two pockets sewn to above both sides of the bodice. She couldn’t tell how long it was, but it didn’t seem terribly short. A thick brown leather belt sat atop it, coiled around the perimeter like a snake.

“Oh,” Bell replied after several minutes of silence. She didn’t move.

“What?”

“It’s just,” she shifted uncomfortably, “don’t you have any pants?”

“Why would you want pants? You’re a woman.”

Some muffled part of her psyche raged at the comment, but Bell just took a breath. “Park wears pants,” she pointed out.

Adler’s expression didn’t change. He explained as if he were talking to a child, “Park is a highly trained operative with years of experience.”

“And I’m not?”

Adler frowned, reaching forward with those warm, scarred hands of his to brush some hair out of her face. She wrangled away the illogical urge to flinch. He seemed to see it anyway. “Are you feeling okay?”

“What?”

“It’s just some fabric, you know. And you’ve never fought so hard about your clothes before.” If she didn’t know better, she’d say that Adler almost looked smug as he dangled the carrot of before in front of her face.

Bell squinted, tugging at haggard strands of memory, but they dissipated the moment she tried to focus on one of them.

 it seemed absurd that she’d not put up a fight about having to wear girl-clothes before. But their memory was blank, and Adler looked so genuine.

Her shoulders dropped, and Adler straightened up, smiling. They both knew he’d won.

“Come on then, I wanna see how it fits.”

“Um…”

“What now, Bell?” He looked annoyed in that fond sort of way. Like all of her protesting was nothing more than some childish tantrum. “Is it because the door’s open?”

Bell cleared her throat. “Isn’t it inappropriate for you to just… watch me change?”

“Oh, don’t be like that. We hardly had the privacy to shit in ‘Nam. Ain’t nothing I haven’t seen before.” Adler rolled his eyes, and made a show of turning around to stare at the wall. “There. Is that better, princess?”

“Yes,” Bell said as the stab of guilt choked up her throat.

“Good. Get to it then.”

She complied, and did not point out the mirror on the very wall that he was staring at as she slipped the dirty fatigues off of her hips and let them fall to the floor.

—

“There,” he straightened her collar, hands lingering on Bell’s neck. She suppressed a shiver. “I have pretty good fashion taste, hm?”

This, at least, was more familiar territory. “I don’t know about good. Passable, more like.”

He tutted, “You’re so mean to me. Not very ladylike of you.” 

A b̴̺̖̘̟̠͓̈́ȩ̷̨̹̻̤̻͓͔̱͆̔͛̕l̴͇̲̥̹͎̃͗͌͒͂̄̇͠ḷ̷̨̢̫̠͚̺̊̒͠ echoed in the distance, and a cold sweat began to cling to her hands. Adler dusted off her dress, and casually slipped a box of cigarettes into one of the breast pockets.

“So I have an excuse to talk to you,” he explained as he winked. 

She thought that she felt him squeeze her chest, too, but it was hard to feel properly through the padding, and he was already stepping away before she could call him on it.

“Let’s get you to work then, Sandy.”

“Bell,” she interrupted. “My name is Bell. You know that.”

Adler hummed absently and continued to guide her out into the main part of the safehouse as if she’d never even spoken. She deflated, but didn't bother to pick a fight about it. She'd come to expect it from him, at this point.

[thegoldenshi-shi]

Hey there! It's been a while, but I'm the same anon that asked for advice redesigning the Aerialbots (still haven't gotten around to that...)! But I'm here to ask for some more advice, if that's okay...

I wanted to make a fanfic including Sunstreaker, but there's barely any canon content (specifically animated, which I watch the most) on him... any advice on writing him? You're the Sunny expert, after all... 💛

Hello Aerialbot Anon, nice to have you back hehe. I don't know about being the Sunny expert, all this just started with the brain-rot from @shyspider fanfics and fell into Lambo hell… But! I'm happy you sent in an ask and will do my best to help!

I've been thinking hard about how to answer your ask. Since I'm an artist, I spent a lot of time designing how he looked and worked his personality into his finished design. Writers don't have the luxury of just adding visual cues though, so I scratched around in my head and made up a quick list of the main points I kept in mind that might help you figure out what kind of Sunstreaker you want.

When he manages to show up in canon, he's usually a narcissist and very difficult to get along with, so I made him very confident in his looks and very good at his job while being dismissive of people who don't outright impress him.

I wanted him to have more than one dimension, so I decided that he bases most of his worth around his appearance and competence. He's a little jaded and belittles those around him because he doesn't want attachments that can hurt him later. (Also, I made him sarcastic and difficult to get along with in contrast with Sideswipe as the "friendly" twin.)

He's used to, and dislikes, superficial relationships. Sunny is always getting surface-level compliments and so he's numb to them and actively avoids them. That scene in Guardians of the Galaxy where Drax said "beautiful people never know who to trust"? That's Sunny.

Looking at this list, my Sunstreaker is essentially a beautiful but aggressive shelter cat.

Of course, all of this is just for my interpretation of Sunstreaker. Yours might be a bright-eyed sparkling or a pretty-boy assassin, or a battle-hardened old coot with loads of scars. Who knows? With so little canon content for the mech, he's almost a blank slate, which can be a little daunting to work with.

If you can find a fanfiction with Sunny that you like, or even a similar character to get ideas from, that'll help too... I hope I went into enough detail and that this can help you out?

Feel free to drop by my inbox any time if you have any more questions or just want to chat~

[glitter-stained]

Character design ideas for Tim, you know the drill

-black fingerless gloves. His hands may be cold but by god is he gonna show that black nail polish

-on that note: black nail polish. Tbf I'd give like half of the batfam black nail polish, and Tim is one of them for sure.

-sleep apnea. Idc that making that fit with canon is impractical, I saw that image of Tim falling asleep on a rollercoaster on a date and my brain decided he has sleep apnea.

-active noise-reduction earphones so he can hear himself think.

-I already ranted about this but that man doesn't drink coffee: he drinks energy drinks and these yfood bottled meals that got a meal's worth of nutrients in them, and he takes vitamin pills and protein supplements when necessary. My man knows the importance of a balance alimentation, but he's on a schedule.

-intense fixed blank stare. Oh, he's looking you in the eyes alright; and then he's not looking away.

-sensory issues around food; another reason why my Tim likes liquid food is that he doesn't have to handle and process all the different and weird textures. This isn't developed enough or associated with an emotional state of mind enough to classify as ARFID, but it's still important. (I describe it a little in The Protector).

-he has an elbow scar from a really stupid skateboard accident where he fell and then the skateboard fell on top of him snapped in half. He lies and blames the injury on Ra's.

- We know that Tim plays off-brand dnd, but what are his favourite builds? Easy: he's tried to recreate his perception of all of his teammates and family members as dnd characters, even the ones he doesn't like, and circles through them depended on his state of mind. (one day I might make a "batfam dnd build but according to tim drake" post idk). One time, his Nightwing insert dropped to 0 (didn't even perma die and got healed immediately) and he screamed like someone was getting murdered irl. Sometimes when he's in a particularly petty mood and upset at someone he'll get into a game playing that person's character and try his best to perma-die. One time he was so pissed at Jason he joined the party as Jaybin, got himself killed (by jumping into the dragon's mouth to stab it from inside), pulled out a backup character that was Red Hood and got himself killed again. He has a mini for each and everyone of his close ones' vigilante personas, which he has hand-painted himself.

-his right eyebrow tilts upwards when he is stressed.

-Sometimes my Tim is half-vietnamese (from Janet's side). That's because one of my favourite Tim fanartist draws him as vietnamese and their art and headcanons have imprinted in my brain.) so, no reasoning here, just a big shout-out to @axiliern for being cool af

-somehow he always has a human bone available when you need it. This is unrelated to any question about the no-kill-rule, he will not explain whose bones they are or where they came from but you need a femur? If he's at the nest or any of his safehouses, he'll just hand it over to you no question asked. He's the embodiment of that meme.

[kriber]

stitches and stuffing

and the acquisition of wings by one (1) grian [1045 words]

-=-

"Scar?" Scar blinked at the sudden voice, then wheeled over to the edge of his train and looked down. Grian stood there, staring up at him with a face as blank as ever.

"Well hello there, Grian!" Scar chirped.

"I need your help," Grian said.

Scar hummed. "Of course! What do you need?"

Grian pulled out a pile of fabric. "Can't reach my back."

"Ohhhhh, sure thing!" Scar immediately knew what Grian needed from him. "Come on up!"

Grian didn't hesitate to climb up the ladder, throwing the fabric into Scar's lap. The zookeeper picked up the material - soft and fluffy, in orange and blue and gray hues. The fabric was sewn into wing shapes, already stuffed with cotton.

Scar dutifully dug out a needle and some thread from a small compartment by his bed. "Surprised it took you this long to come up," Scar mused. "You usually get me to sew your wings on as soon as you get an elytra, and I noticed you don't really have one yet!"

"Taking things slow this season," Grian hummed, tapping the floor with his foot. He was dressed in big brown overalls and boots, and there was an odd patch on his arm. He was really into the fishing thing this season. He even had a ratty old beanie on his head.

Not to mention… "What's with the… uh," Scar motioned at Grian's face.

Grian looked away and poked at his new facial hair. "Thought it'd fit the vibe. I was fishing for so long, I just took some hair from my head and glued it on my face.

"Wait, wait, wait," Scar laughed. "From your head?"

Grian groaned and pulled his beanie off. A bald spot appeared from under the hat.

Scar cackled. "Oh, Grian there had to have been a better way!"

"I was BORED!" Grian blushed, face digging deeper into his collar. "I can glue it back!"

"All the stitching I did for that waffle, gone?" Scar gasped in mock hurt, putting a hand to his chest. "How could you?"

Grian rolled his eyes. "Yea, yea, can you help me or not?"

Scar chuckled. "Yea, G, come here."

Grian chuckled too, and turned to go sit on Scar's bed. "This might work better."

"It might work better if I could actually work on you," Scar rolled his eyes and wheeled over to his bed.

Grian blinked, then realized. "Oh. Right. One sec."

Before Scar's eyes, Grian completely changed. It wasn't a gradual thing, it just happened all at once. What was previously a 5 foot something fisherman in a red sweater was now a 3 foot tall plush doll. Grian shrugged off the suspenders of his overalls, which were now big and slumpy. He flopped down on the bed, his back pointing up. "That good?" he said, his voice not even remotely muffled by the bed. It never is.

"Perfect," Scar said, and lined up the wings where they usually went. He also placed the tail in its appropriate spot, though he did have to pull the overalls down slightly. Grian's usual black pants were underneath. Not like he expected anything different.

"I'm surprised you still need to ask me to drop the illusion," Grian commented, not even flinching when the first needle broke his sweater-skin. "You've been doing this nearly every season for me."

"I work with glamours, not illusions!" Scar huffed, tightening a stitch. "They're completely different!"

"Aren't they the same, like, conceptually?" Grian asked.

"Not at all!" Scar smiled, always ready to go on a rant. "Illusions trick the brain into thinking something's there when it isn't. Glamours cover something, like a pretty face or sparkly sparkly wings!"

"Ohhh, so illusions add while glamours subtract?" Grian realized.

"Something like that, yea!" Scar said, finishing up his stitch. Grian's right wing was now sewn on, and the doll gave it a little test flutter. At his thumbs up, Scar moved onto the second wing. "What bird are you this time?"

"Kingfisher," Grian replied.

"Makes sense," Scar nodded. "Why not something like a seabird?"

"I like the colors of kingfishers," Grian chuckled.

"Fair enough!" Scar said.

They worked like that for a while, Scar filling the air with rambles about Star Wars or the train he was working on, while Grian relaxed and let the air be saturated with his friend's voice. Eventually, they finished, and Grian hopped off the bed.

"You look amayzing!" Scar clapped.

"Thanks to your sewing skills," Grian complimented, turning around in a circle. His soft footfalls barely made a sound. "I look great!"

"They aren't even elytra'd yet," Scar frowned slightly. "Are you not gonna fly?"

"Like I said, I'm taking things slow," Grian turned his beady little eyes to Scar and tilted his head. Scar knew how a smile looked like on his friend. He didn't have a mouth, after all. "Slow like a snail."

"Ohhhh are you the one who sent that snail to Gem's base?" Scar chuckled, looking over at the beautiful lighthouse nearby. A tiny teal speck was barely visible from here.

"I did no such thing," Grian said innocently, in that exact tone he had when he was definitely not innocent.

"Mmmmhm, sure, G," Scar laughed. Then, he snapped his fingers. "Oh, what if I give you little snail antenna?"

Grian gasped and his wings flapped in excitement. "YES!!! That would be so cute!"

Scar smiled at Grian's enthusiasm. "How about you go fishing, see if you can get that mending book-" he stifled a laugh at Grian's groan "-and I'll whip up little feelers for you?"

"Oh, that'd be great, Scar, thank you!" Grian said. Then, the air around him warped again, and he was back to looking at least somewhat real. Scar could still see the ethereal thread that held his limbs together. He stretched his wings, real and feathery, and flapped them once. They propelled him slighly forward, and he laughed. Scar's own wings, hidden under several layers of glamour, fluttered.

"I'll be back!" Grian said, jumping off the train and gliding back to his dock. Watching him run, it was hard to tell he wasn't really alive in the first place. Scar rolled his eyes and tooted his train's horn. Well, time to work on those antenna!

[fieldofdaisiies]

azriel x eris | 3,1k words | warnings: none | masterlist

The moon casts a gentle glow upon his bedroom, its light filtering through the frost-covered windows, bathing the room in a soft glow, shadows dancing upon the brown, velvety walls adorned with several golden ornaments. A lone wolf cries out somewhere in the distance of the Autumn Court, its howl reverberating within the walls of the Autumn Court heir’s room. 

Eris‘ head lolls to the side, eyelids fluttering, his breathing turning a little ragged. A cool breeze from the half open window brushes his exposed thigh, leaving goosebumps in its wake, the same moment a groan parts his lips. Cerberus stirs awake, worried about his owner, and shifts closer to the heir of the Autumn Court. He rests his head atop Eris leg, exhaling loudly.  

But Eris doesn’t notice. He doesn’t wake either. The Autumn Court prince only fists the sheets, knuckles turning white from how tightly he is holding onto them, his pale forehead lying in furrows, his expression pained. A sheen of cold sweat covers his skin and a yet unbeknownst emotion twists his gut, his leg jerking before relaxing again.

"You are still here." Not a question. A statement. An observation.

The shadowy male is still in the armchair he had been in for hours, hunched over papers - reports or similar. His broad shoulders are on display for Eris. So are the large wings, their membrane leathery and so inviting to touch. 

Azriel doesn’t deign the heir a glance, nor an answer, his shoulders merely rising with a barely-there shrug.

"Azriel." Eris doesn’t really recognise his own voice. It sounds softer, lighter, a little hushed. 

"Since when do you call me, Azriel?" Finally, he turns to the heir and Eris is once again struck by the ethereal beauty of the spymaster of the Night Court. He shouldn’t think like that.

"Don‘t you like it when I call you Azriel?"

Slowly, the Illyrian rises, nothing but grace in his walk as he nears Eris and bends at the waist, getting on eye level with the male formerly having been asleep on the plush sofa in the library of the Moonstone Palace.

"I like it a little too much." Azriel holds his gaze. Eris‘ brows crunch. 

"Is this real?" he asks and once again his voice is foreign. "Or is this a dream?"

"Can’t it be both?" Azriel crouches down in front of him, his wings tucked in, shadows dancing on his shoulders. Eris fights the urge to reach out and brush his fingers against them. Wanting to see if they are truly there. Or are they just his imagination?

"It feels unreal." Eris tries to hold the spymaster‘s gaze, his heart beating a fraction too fast for his liking. An emotion he can’t quite place passes across Azriel’s face, but it vanishes in an instant, the indifferent, unreadable mask once again falling in to place. The male tries to compose his demeanour, not letting Eris see beneath his indifferent exterior. 

"Why are you still here, Azriel?"

"To watch you." 

"To watch me?"

Nothing. Absolutely nothing shows on Azriel’s face. No hint of amusement. Of sincerity. Nothing. His face is almost like a blank canvas. Every emotion hidden behind his mask.

"To make sure you don’t plan anything."

"What should I plan?"

"I am sure you and Bryallin had a lot of time to talk." The barely-there rise of his eyebrow, tells Eris that Azriel might be curious, but he can’t tell him anything. Because he doesn’t know himself. He doesn’t remember. He has no idea what exactly they talked about - if they ever truly talked. The mask. The crown. But………

"I don’t remember anything. Nothing…" he admits honestly, voice too breathy, not strong enough.

Azriel is silent. He says nothing. Only looks at him. For a long moment. 

"Nothing, you say?" Azriel asks. 

Eris‘ gaze drops. Azriel’s hand, adorned with both scars and veins, is braced on the sofa, mere inches from his own. "Nothing." 

He can hear how Azriel sighs, but his eyes stay trained on the hand in front of him. "It is like the memory of those days, that time, is wiped from my brain."

"I came for you." This makes the heir lift his gaze. "To save you."

"You didn’t do it for my sake,” Eris bristles. 

"What if I did?"

"Why would you?"

The question renders Azriel speechless. He tries to hold Eris’ gaze, but eventually looks away. 

"No answer now?" A slight hint of taunting lace Eris‘ words, his brows arched in an almost arrogant way. "Did I—"

He had not expected that. Out of every possible option of what could -would- happen, this would have been the last one.

Azriel’s lips are soft. Like the brush of a feather when they meet his own. His kiss is gentle, not like he expected Azriel to kiss (not that he has thought about the way Azriel would kiss…) and suddenly he feels the rough calluses of Azriel’s palm scrape over his cheek. Eris‘ eyes close, wanting to revel in the moment. It feels surreal, and so does the sound of Azriel’s groan, purely male. It makes the heir’s hair stand on end and his skin feel taut all of a sudden. 

Would he really elicit such noises from the shadowsinger? He doesn’t allow himself to imagine other times where Azriel would make such noises - different circumstances that could lead to them. 

Their lips part, a faint, hardly visible smile, graces Azriel‘s face. But Eris can’t watch it for too long. His eyes dip anew. He looks at Azriel’s hand again, the one  braced on the sofa, the other one still on his cheek.

He looks at the marred skin of his fingers. Thumb, forefinger , middle finger. One…two…one…

"This is not real," Eris breathes and shakes his head.

"What do you mean?" Azriel demands, some bitterness having filled his voice all of a sudden. When Eris lifts his eyes to look into Azriel’s, the former softness and desire have faded, leaving behind nothing but empty pits of hatred and disdain. Azriel’s shadows have formed a fuzzy nest around their owner‘s shoulders, no longer gently gliding around his body.

"That I am dreaming." Eris grabs Azriel’s hand and shoves the male away. Into the sudden darkness of the room, the swirling pit of shadows. "That this is a fucking nightmare!"

His skin is clammy, his sleeping pants and the duvet are drenched in sweat when he stirs awake, abruptly sitting up in bed. His back aches, so does his neck, now stiff and he can barely turn his head. His throat feels dry, too damn dry, his eyes burning.

Eris folds his hands over his face, his heart hammering so fiercely within his chest that it almost hurts and he can feel it in his throat. He finds it hard to catch his breath, his head dizzy, a haze of confusion and irritation making blood rush in his ears. His vision is blurry, as if a fog rises in his room, hovering above the floor.  

Why did he dream about him? Again.

Why is he on his mind? Always.

Eris sucks in a sharp breath, the cold air burning when he glides down his throat, his hand of its own accord gliding into the soft fur of his hound curled up next to him, its head resting atop Eris‘ thigh. He finds comfort in the touch. His hound soothing his tension. 

"I didn’t mean to wake you." Eris whispers his silent apology. The hound remains calm.

The Vanserra male tips his head back, eyes trained upon the ceiling with the intricate carvings. Many nights, even when he was a youngling, he studied those carvings, never making sense of them. But by how many sleepless nights he has already had, he can almost memorise them by heart. 

Eris exhales a long breath, his chest feeling heavy, the temperature in his bedroom so low, he can see the tendrils of his breath curl in front of his face. 

"I'll be right back," he tells the hound in his bed and carefully removes the damp bedsheet, shoving it down his long legs until it pools at the bottom of the bed. 

The old mahogany bed creaks when Eris pushes himself up, the first steps he takes hollowing through the large expanse of his room. He walks a little unsteadily, not only his back but also his legs hurting, as if an external force is making them heavier. As if an external force is pressing down on him. 

He brings a hand up, brushes back a few loose strands of red hair and walks into the adjacent bathroom, not turning on any light. He likes to stick to the darkness, finds comfort in it. Because when he is in the dark, the scars upon his bare skin are visible. He can feel them, but he can’t see them. 

His mouth feels dry. So does his throat. Er turns on the water. It is ice cold, but nevertheless, he drinks it, then washes his face.

Droplets of cold water cascade down his pale cheeks when Eris meets his empty eyes in the mirror - nothing but endless pits of darkness, and loneliness looking back at him. The void that has been growing inside of him since the day he was born, is now also visible on the outside. Like a mirror of his soul. 

An icy shiver curls around his spine. He can barely feel his toes from the cold seeping into his feet from beneath. The luxurious stone floor is not warm. Is never warm. Has never been warm. Just like the feeling, the atmosphere, within the Forest House. There has never been warmth in this house. At least not since the day Lucien has left. 

But the cold of the Forest House mirrors the one inside of him, a perfect portrayal of it.

Just like him - the perfect portrayal of the Autumn Court prince. Heir to the Autumn Court. Cruel. Powerful. Merciless. Mean. Arrogant. Ruthless.

And Eris likes to wear this mask. Likes to put it on and become someone else. Outside the confines of his room. Let everyone see what they want to see. Let them all believe what they want to believe.

That he is cruel. That he left Morrigan to die. That he—

A howl from his bedroom makes him look over his shoulder, eyes narrowed, gaze focused on the dimly lit interior. 

An intruder? He doubts it. 

He knows it.

Trotting reaches his ears, and just a moment later Odin –good old Odin-- pokes his head through the door, head heavy, expression just as sad as his owners, but at least in the hound‘s eyes, there is light. Hope. Love. 

The corner of Eris‘ mouth tips upwards, which gives Odin the cue to come inside, rubbing his damp snout against his owner’s hand. Eris‘ heart starts to warm, only a fraction, but enough to make him feel better. Lighter. Calmer. 

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Hair tied at the nape of his neck, dressed finery, his hands in the pockets of his breeches, Eris struts down the corridor to Beron‘s office. His gaze is trained in the floor, his lids a little heavy from the restless night. 

Eris tugs on his tailored coat, the Autumn Court crest gleaming in the morning light. It makes him grimace. Beron‘s crest, his emblem, adorns every corner of the Forest House and Eris can‘t wait to get rid of each one of them. For good. 

With each step down the house‘s corridors, his strides grow more languid, more tentative. 

Approaching his father's office, he comes to a sudden halt. 

“Yes, Lucien.” Beron’s snarl reaches Eris’ ears although his father is trying his best to keep his voice low, hushed. 

Eris’ heart slams to a halt before picking up in pace and pounding against his rib cage. He holds his breath, as unease coils in his gut. 

Why would his father mention Lucien? Why is his little brother the topic of Beron‘s discussion with whoever is with him? Probably one of his lords. Or a spy.

The polished oak door stands ajar, a faint murmur of voices seeping through the opening. Eris draws closer, but only an inch, his steps treading lightly on the floor.

His heartbeat quickens.

And when words more agitating than he expected to be hearing that when getting up this morning reach his ears, cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck.

"That means the bastard must die." Beron’s voice is nothing more than a rasp, dripping with spite and venom.

A mix of worry and intrigue fuels him to linger, his shoulder pressed against the cold stone wall. 

His head starts to spin a little and Eris reaches out a hand. His fingers brush against the ornate handle, wanting to intervene, to ask about what is going on. Why are they discussing Lucien?

But he remains silent. Behind the door. He needs to listen. To gather information. 

Lucien’s name once again rolls over Beron‘s lips and Eris inches closer, his ear trying to catch the whispered discussions within. He needs to hear the rest of the conversation.

Spying on his own father. What a great son he is, Eris thinks. But Beron is far from being a good father, so what he is doing doesn’t seem too devious.

“He is his son. You know what that makes him.”

The next High Lord of Day, Eris thinks. Learning that Lucien is only his half-brother has been a slight shock, but not a real surprise. Lucien has always been…a little different and Eris has always somehow expected it. Not that he is Helion’s son, but someone else’s son. 

Eris doesn’t care about Helion, High Lord of Day. Not one bit actually, but the prosperity of ruling over a court while his little brother rules over another court seems – in all honesty– wonderful. It is a thought Eris likes, loves to fantasise about.

The distant echo of footsteps startles him. Panic flashes across his face, and in a swift motion, he steps away from the door, turning to face the corridor just as a sentry rounds the corner. Dimmed sunlight seeps in through the curtain-framed window and bathes the corridor in a soft yellow-ish light that almost makes the Forest House seem a little warm. 

But the sentry’s expression is everything but warm. It is cold. Scared. Apprehensive. 

“Good morning,” Eris greets, his voice a little raspy, but loud. 

The sentry curtsies and quickly rushes past the heir, not saying a word in answer. Eris turns back to the door.

Now, that his father knows of his presence in front of the office, there is no more need for hiding. Eris knocks. The sound bouncing off the stone walls and hollowing through the corridors. 

“Enter.” There is nothing warm, and much less fatherly in Beron’s snarl. But Eris ignores it.

He allows his father’s advisor, the male‘s head bowed, to leave the office before he steps inside. He lets his gaze run over the advisor. Lord Kargan. He has been his father’s advisor for ages. As long as Eris can remember. 

“Father.” Eris clears his throat. He saunters up to his father’s desk, halting mere inches from it. Beron tips his head back, disdain etched upon his features when his gaze runs over his oldest. 

“You are late, Eris,” he eventually says.

The Autumn Court heir keeps his voice level, his breathing steady. “You were having a meeting, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

It could be trepidation that flashes in the High Lord‘s eyes, his fingers curling so tightly around his pen, his knuckles turn white. 

“Were you eavesdropping? What did you hear?”

His brows bunch, and although he exactly knows he wasn’t supposed to witness the former conversation, Eris asks his father, “Are there things I am not supposed to know?”

“I‘ve told you before that you are not the one to be asking the questions, son. So spare me with them.”

Beron tilts his chin at him, in dismissal, but then lifts his hand. His expression reveals nothing, and still the room cools, a shudder coursing through it when his eyes focus on his son. It is suddenly quite, so quite, the deafening silence reaches every corner of the Forest House. Every nook.

“We are raising the tithe again.”

Eris bristles and shakes his head. “What? Why is that necessary?”

“I’ve just told you that you are not the one to ask the questions.” Disdain passes over the High Lord’s face. “But I am generous today. It is necessary indeed.”

The High Lord writes something down. “Because we can’t trust Summer any more. Tarquin is allying with Night, I know it. We need more border patrol to his court. We need more forces to be ready. More people who will be trained and who can fight. More weapons.”

Beron’s own son is allying with Night, Eris thinks. He veils his face in nonchalance, holding his father’s gaze.

Beron is slowly going insane with about the whole of Prythian wanting to get rid of him. He is not completely wrong though.

But Eris knows, he isn't in his right mind anymore and fear makes people do insane things.

“How do you know Tarquin—”

Beron stops him with his hand, a muscle in his jaw feathering, then he drags his tongue over his teeth and leans back in his old oak chair that groans beneath him. “So many questions today, son, when I explicitly told you to stop asking them!” He shouts the last part, and a cool shiver curls around Eris‘ spine. His breath catches and yet his face reveals nothing.

He knows what his father is capable of, has oftentimes become subject to his punishment. So, he takes a step back and bows his head.

“I won’t bother you again, father.”

“Good,” the High Lord snarls. His gaze moves to the window, slides down windows, obscuring the view but one can make out the leaves, slick with rain, twitching as drops land upon them.

“And suspicions. I have my suspicions.” Beron‘s head whips back into his son‘s direction, gaze sharp, cold. “Don‘t you have things to do?”

Eris does. Indeed, he has a lot of things to do and so with saying another word, he leaves his father’s office, only one target on his mind. He needs to inform the Night Court about discussions about Lucien. His little brother is most likely in danger and Eris won’t sit here and do nothing. He has failed Lucien once already. He won’t make the same mistake twice.

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