#cw: cruelty to tinies?????????

[elirium]

what i think people mean when they say they "want to squish my art"

how i keep reading it

[moonstruckme]

hi maeee!!!! i loveeee your new theme and i saw you have requests open!!! i have a halloween idea hope its all right!!

i dont know if it fits remus more (personally i see him more fitting for this) or poly!marauders but i was thinking… u know how people target black cats during halloween season??? (makes me sooo sad its so heartbreaking) my request is basically them walking back from a date or somewhere and seeing a tiny black kitten in a little trap or stuck and its all stressed and they rescue it and reader keeps fussing over the tiny little thing and taking care of it while they wait for someone to come and claim it and she gets the cat little costumes and treats so they decide to keep it??? hope its okay!!!

Hey lovely! I had never heard of this (how horrifying though!) so I looked it up and I wanted to direct you to this article in case it calms your anxieties. If you do ever witness anyone doing this though, please call the police and SCPA (or whatever animal welfare service is near you)!! And thanks for requesting <3

cw: attempted animal cruelty (it's foiled, don't worry)

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 608 words

You shush Remus mid-sentence. 

He’s not so much offended as surprised. Curious, too. Your brow is wrinkled as if you’ve forgotten something and you’re trying to recall what it is. “Did you—”

“Wait, wait, shh.” 

Remus pauses for a few seconds while you cock your head, looking seemingly at nothing. 

“Dove,” he says quietly, “if you don’t want to hear about the book, it’s—”

“No, sorry.” You set a hand on his shoulder, still looking away from him. “Do you hear that?” 

“Hear what?” 

“It’s…” Your brows bunch even closer together, and then you’re moving, off the sidewalk and onto someone’s grass. 

Remus follows, because that’s what he does with you, apparently. You go around the side of the house, and then he hears it. A faint, desperate mewling.

“Oh, oh my god,” you breathe, your footsteps hastening. Remus has to lengthen his strides to catch up to you. When he gets closer, he sees you’ve found a cat stuck in a tree. 

Or, hardly. More like a kitten stuck in a sapling. It's small and black and trembling on a branch about the same height as Remus’ chest, which it’s bound to by a thin rope around its neck. The rope looks frayed and loosely tied, like it might just unravel if the kitten were to try and jump down, but he and the kitten seem in agreement that it’s hardly worth the risk. The poor thing’s cries worsen when it sees you coming towards it. 

“Oh, poor baby.” You reach out to touch it. It hisses at you but doesn’t snap its teeth, all bark and no bite. “Did somebody tie it here? Who would do this?” 

“I don’t know,” Remus answers honestly. 

The kitten’s trepidation of you wears off quickly, cautious dark eyes watching as you use a knuckle to rub gently underneath its chin. When it starts purring, Remus coos. 

“Hello, darling,” he murmurs, trying his hand at scratching between its ears. The kitten’s eyes close blissfully, the rest of its fear seemingly evaporating. A trusting nature coaxed out by less than a minute of gentleness. Remus hates to think of what prior treatment caused it to tremble and hiss. “Would you like to get out of here?” 

The rope is tied just loosely enough that Remus can get his fingers in between it and the kitten’s neck, the knot coming undone with a few tugs. You lift the kitten out of the tree as soon as it’s freed, cradling it close to your chest. 

“Hi, sweet baby,” you coo in a voice like spun sugar, light and sweet. “Oh, you’re such a love, aren’t you? It’s okay.” 

Your new friend seems content to be coddled. It curls up in your hands and purrs loud enough that even Remus can hear it rumbling like a heart-aching little motor. 

“It’s so little.” You sound awed, looking down at the kitten with pure adoration. Remus can’t help smiling at you with much the same sentiment. “Can we take it home? Just until we find it a good family.”

“Sure, dovey.” His own voice matches your soft tone. “I think we should. It certainly can’t stay here.” 

“No.” You frown. It’s more than justified, but Remus finds he can’t abide it anyway. He kisses your downturnt lips. 

“We’ll pick up some food and treats on the way home,” he says. 

“Oh!” Your face lights up. “I saw some little bat wings in the store last week, wouldn’t that be cute? It could be a tiny bat for Halloween.” 

Remus smiles and agrees. He knows already that this kitten isn’t going to any family other than your own.

[sharkorok]

ooo u want me so bad

or…grumpy!enha being in luv w u

requested: nope

cw/genre: cursing, grumpy enhypen, fluff, humor, crack-ish, fem!reader, non-idol au, I wrote this during a zoom class, not proofread fuck it we ball, one joke about reader getting jumped?? anyways lmk if anything else should be tagged hehe

a/n: this was inspired by @macahoons grumpy enhypen texts that I just adored!!! Such a cute trope <3

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

heeseung

-he’s the basketball team captain, always idly boasting about his talents and loves being first place

-the only exception is you.

-he will never admit it but he absolutely lets you win every time you find him at the basketball court and u challenge him to some dumb scoring game where u see how many baskets u each can get

-“OMG HI HEESEUNG!! :3” when u find him at the basketball court and he sighs but he’s trying not to scream at how cute u r lowkey

-ur all giggly when u keep beating him “hee r u even trying?” “I’m just having a bad day don’t even” like he isn’t completely distracted by the way you look when ur grinning at him

-“I think I can take ur place as basketball team captain!” “In ur dreams??” but he’d gladly give it up if you would keep smiling like that

-insists on walking you home from the court because “I’m not gonna be held responsible for you getting jumped”

-and the next time you catch him on the basketball court it happens all over again! <3

jay

-you can’t even finish saying “I’m cold” before his jacket is over your shoulders and he’s scolding you for not being prepared

-sitting down and your skirt is riding up? his uniform blazer is over your lap and he’s shaking his head

-“what would you do without me??” “do you want your jacket back then , jay?” “…no”

-while it’s also because he cares about ur wellbeing, he also just really likes the sight of you wearing his clothes and you smelling like his cologne

-you literally walk into the room and he’s immediately “y/n you need to buy a thicker jacket you’re gonna get sick” not even a good morning or anything…

-“don’t tell people ur wearing my jacket I don’t want them to get the wrong idea 🙄” but lowkey he wouldn’t mind at all

-gets so (internally) giggly when u sink into his jacket because it’s chilly

-finds excuses u give u his clothes at this point …the tiniest piece of lint on ur shirt and he’s handing you his blazer

-“u can keep it ig”

jake

-gets you tiny gifts and acts like he just randomly found them

-he totally went out of his way to find you two matching keychains but he doesn’t wanna admit that

-“y/n I just randomly found your favorite seasonal pastry. no big deal. don’t thank me.”

-BUT HE ALSO KEEPS EVERY GIFT U GET HIM OMGEEE, he has a whole area on his desk dedicated to notes, trinkets, stickers, if you drew on his paper he’ll tear the section off so he can keep it LOL

-will never admit that. to anyone. but gets pressed if you give gifts to anyone else because that’s his y/nnie!! giving HIS gifts to some rando!! D: the cruelty!!

-gets sooo dramatic if he doesn’t get at least a little doodle he’s texting you like you killed a man

-one time his friend asked if he could borrow a pencil and he was like yea man sure and then realizing it was a pencil YOU!! gave him he snatched it back so fast trust

-he’s so cutie patootie but internally…4 now…

-wishes he could get over himself and kiss you all over when you shyly present a little plush toy you won at a claw game he’s RAHHHHH !!!

-for now he’ll stick to “thanks 😒”

sunghoon

-he’s really protective over you me thinks

-but he’ll be really quiet about it, maybe a girl makes you upset and he sees and he’ll “accidentally” knock over her bottled water on her notes, a guy is talking shit about you and sunghoon is squaring up in the courtyard no questions asked

-“sunghoon u dont have to protect me” “it’s not about you” even though it’s totally about you and he will die defending your honor

-one time on your walk out of school a tree branch poked you and u were all like “oh owie : o” and he was following behind before GLARING the shit out of that tree branch…

-another time this guy made a degrading comment about you and sunghoon managed to find receipts on him cheating on his gf and posted it on the school newsletter…cuz he’s silly like that <3

-honestly it’s a little scary the lengths he’ll go for you and still refusing to admit he’s doing it for you

-he’s not really good at comforting you when you cry, so he’ll make sure to protect you from anything that could make you cry

sunoo

-he’ll always listen to you

-if someone said “sunoo can u go grab me a drink from the vending machine” he looks at them like they’re insane but if YOU’RE asking??? he’s sprinting down the hallways

-“it’s literally just because ur lips get all chapped when your dehydrated don’t get an ego,” while he’s handing you like…water purified in Antarctica sourced from glaciers with a little paper umbrella

-even smaller things, he prioritizes your advice

-“guys should I have hot pot or panera for lunch?” and a rando will go, “panera!” and hes dead silent but you go “oh you should totally get hot pot!!” and he’s basically booking a reservation

-probably “accidentally” books a reservation for two and forces you to come since “it’s a waste of table space” if no one else does lol

-also if you don’t like someone he doesn’t like them either

-“sunoo are u friends with Ria?” “shes okay” “she said my makeup looked bad today :(“ and sunoo will act like he dgaf

-but next time you bring her up he scoffs and is all, “why even bother crying about her? she’s not worth your time and she’s annoying anyways” even though he’s never talked to this girl

-tldr ur word > anyone else

jungwon

-always speaks highly of you

-never to your face but he’ll always defend you when necessary, or speak up for you, or just praise you LOL

-“y/n actually scored higher than you, so idk why you’re bragging so loud” to some rando kid talking about test scores lmao

-or “y/n doesn’t like that snack get her another” when your friends are debating how to surprise you

-ur name is always in his mouth but positively LMAO

-brushes it off if you take note of this and says “people are just exaggerating, I barely talk about you, don’t get it twisted >:T” but everyone knows he’ll take any chance he can get to praise you

-“y/n is better tho” and everyone’s like?? who asked??

-it’s endearing but he doesn’t even notice it, he just is proud of you in every shape and form and since he can’t really express it around you he has to project it anywhere else he can hehe

-“jungwon do you think my hair looks okay?” says hee, looking for an actual answer. “y/n’s hair is nicer” responds jungwon, not missing a beat.

-“did you guys know y/n got a 100? isn’t she smart? don’t tell her I said that.”

niki

-does things for you without you asking and then acts like it’s a habit

-it is definitely not a habit for him to run out of his seat to pull out your chair for you, but he insists he literally does it for everyone (he doesnt)

-opens your capped drinks before handing them to you, stops you suddenly to tie your shoelaces, sends you photos of notes if you missed a day..

-“y/n you’d literally be hopeless without me” but he’d be hopeless if anyone else helped you because it’s his job!!

-it makes him feel special when he gets to do so many acts of service for you, for some reason he doesn’t mind running errands or whatnot, he’d much rather he be the one who does it than anyone else

-“y/n u forgot a hair tie today?? ur lucky I brought one” knowing damn well he brought it specifically for you ☹️☹️ cutie

-if the train is full you don’t even have to ask and he’ll let you take his seat “y/n you have weak legs, you need to sit”

-he secretly loves being someone you can rely on, no matter how much he denies it <3

[iiseult]

Hello, I was wondering what the life of the female reader would be like when King Baldwin was not a leper. I mean, what would their life be like together as a married couple?

𝐵𝒶𝓁𝒹𝓌𝒾𝓃 𝐼𝒱 𝐻𝑒𝒶𝒹𝒸𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓃𝓈: 𝒩𝑜𝓃-𝓁𝑒𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝐸𝒹𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃

CWs → fluff, smut, probable historical inaccuracies, she/her pronouns, afab reader, mentions of religion, childbirth

Note: I know this took like over a month to get to, but in my defense I was working on completing the first arc of my multichapter Baldwin x reader fic. Also, if anyone’s interested, I started posting an alternate version of that on ao3 that’s in third person and from the perspective of a girl named Semele. As far as actual writing goes I think it’s much better quality simply because I don’t have to do all that corny second person bullshit or use the words “Y/N.” That’s a real pain in my ass. Anyway! 

Wordcount: 852

King Baldwin’s standards are high. He is a gorgeous young man with the world at his fingertips and he wants a woman, not a girl, to explore it with him. 

She must be good. She does not need to be rich or noble, but she needs to be selfless and kind and bold. And he needs someone who can match him in intellect so he doesn’t get bored. 

His hair frames his face in charming golden waves that fall to about his chin. His eyes are a deep cerulean, lined by long lashes, and his lips are pink and shapely, if a bit on the thin side. The nose is strong and straight, the jaw is square and sharp, the cheekbones are high and structured, and the skin covering it all is smooth and healthy. A light smattering of tiny freckles paint his nose and cheeks. His body is strong, with substantial broad shoulders, and what muscle he has is subtle but genuine. 

Sometimes his movements are awkward, a little different from other well-bred boys his age, and perhaps that’s what makes him so appealing. So mysterious. And, by the way, he certainly is appealing. 

Every woman that lays eyes on him, and even some that have never had that honor and know of him only from word of mouth, want him. Every woman thinks she can somehow be good enough for him. Of course, maybe one in one thousand of them actually is. 

When a lady finally catches his eye, it would be for her wit or her bravery. Perhaps she would beat him in a game of chess, or speak out against what she thinks is wrong. The more cruelty in her smile, the more attractive she becomes. 

When he proposes, it’s very romantic, very personal, and above all, very private. Though he surely makes the experience memorable for his future wife, he doesn’t do anything over-the-top. It does not involve other people, and perhaps it doesn’t even take place at a particular spot. The most important part of the proposal, after all, is the words he is speaking, the vow he is making. He puts his silver tongue to good use, so that saying no isn’t even an option anymore. How could she possibly turn him down? 

 He can’t wait to get his hands on her. The wedding night is something he has long been looking forward to, knowing that it would be worth it to wait for the right woman, and of course, it exceeds his expectations. How could he have guessed how soft, how supple her flesh would feel beneath him? How sweet and yielding? There was nothing that could have prepared him for the feeling of warmth that wholly enveloped him the first time they made love. It was something that could never be recreated by his own hand. It could only ever occur by the soft hand, or the cruel, relentless lips of his young wife. 

His body is young and robust, as is hers, and they are both brimming with passion and want. The first month of the marriage is spent mostly alone together, trapped in an endless cycle of tiring each other out, sleeping, waking, and doing the whole damned thing all over again. It would take no time at all for the seed to be planted in her fertile womb and a baby to begin to grow. 

Seeing his wife pregnant would only make him fall in love with her more, if such a thing were even possible. Now she is carrying a little miracle inside her, and to him, the world around her positively glows. He is, in a word, infatuated. So proud. He takes her into town and practically parades her around, the curve of her swollen belly growing more and more obvious under the fabric of her gown. Isn’t she beautiful, he would say to Raymond, and to Sybilla, and to anyone else who was unlucky enough to engage him in conversation. 

During the birth, he stayed by her side. He was the one to wipe the sweat from her forehead with damp towels, to hold her hand and cry softly from seeing her in such pain. He loves her so much, and he was going to love that baby, too. He was going to positively spoil it. That is, if it didn’t kill her! He cries more than she does during the birth, and though he does everything he can to ease her pain and help the midwife speed along the process, mostly he can do nothing but stand around and wring his hands and look helplessly at his love, his eyes swimming with wild fear and affection and awe. She’s so strong, how is she doing it? 

Once the baby is born, though the sheets of her bed are soiled with various fluids, he lays down next to his wife and holds her in his arms and she holds their baby in her arms, and they all sleep, a perfect family. The baby is going to look just like her, he thinks, and he will love it. 

[diejager]

Hi i love all your stepdad konig and dbf horangi stories🩷 I wanted to ask if you could do a follow up on the pregnancy story where the reader gives births to twins(boy nd girl) and she ends up moving out to this big penthouse with horangi that he and konig paid for,,,,i dont know if thats too much this is my first time requesting,,again you're really amazing and talented🩷💕

Cw: forced pregnancy, DUB-CON/NON-CON, DARKFIC, STEPCEST, child birth, kidnapping, isolation, threat of taking custody, forced marriage, mention of divorce, tell me if I missed any,

Pregnancy was a stressful thing, weighing on your conscience and body, it was a difficult affair for any mother, but yours especially, with your underlying living condition and situation. You provided your baby - babies, you learned after your first ultrasound, seeing two small embryos curled inside your womb - with nourishment, time and energy, your time wasting away to keep them safe and alive, supporting two lives in your womb rather than one. That put a bigger strain on your health, adding to your stress and terror —a bigger risk to your life and theirs.

You doubted your life could get any harder than it was, the constant touching, the fussing, the looming and the shadowing would eventually get to you, but what you hadn’t expected was for König to hold them against you. You should have, honestly, looking back to their streak of cruelty and selfishness, expected that one of them would hold your sweet babies’s custody over you to have you bend to their will.

Who would side with a young and broken mother when she had a strong and more mature father to nurture the kids, retired and respected by his old coworkers and bosses. They would win this battle over their custody, taking away your little rays of sunshine in your dark times, the ones who held your fingers in their soft and tiny hands when you cried at night and their coos making you smile. They were products of rape, a physical proof of your mistreatment, you knew that, but you loved them so, so much.

Your little girl and little boy were everything you would’ve asked for, quiet and easy to manage, they were good kids, even at six months old. You would take care of them on your own if you could, you knew you could be a good mother if you had the chance, but König and Horangi didn’t give you much time. They would take your angels away if you didn’t agree to marry one of them. It was a cruel act of power and sheer dominance, showing you what they could do to have you submit without actually acting on it.

You lost contact with your mom, your last memory of her was her frantic and tearful ramble, locking all doors and trying to do her best to separate the men from you, trying her best to build a shield between you three. She tried her best to protect you and your babies from them, but they had connection, power and a name for themselves, there was little she or you could do against determined men.

That was the last time you saw her, your contacts with the outside world controlled by your two wardens, anything had to go through them in case of dangers towards you and the twin. You lived in a gilded cage, a pretty penthouse and a cabin in the Austrian Alps, a comfortable bed, and a relaxed lifestyle. It was all any person would give to have - a life you dreamed to live - if you weren’t forcefully married to two men, uprooted from your home and taken away to be locked up at the top of a building.

The light in this dark situation was that the twins would have a comfortable life, living a life of luxury without getting spoiled if you taught them right, if you watched them grow up with a strict but fair way. You wouldn’t want them growing up as selfish and cruel as their fathers, your adorable Yoon-Suh with her blue eyes and black mop of hair, and your excitable Leon with his auburn hair and warm, brown eyes. They were your sole priority.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @lucienbarkbark @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @223princess

[littlest-w01f]

Loving

Rhysand x Evelyn (See Evelyn here)

For @officialrhysandweek

Rhysand week 2024 Masterlist

Day 4: Lord of Night

Summary: Evelyn's learnt there is more to the High Lord of Night than she knew.

Cw: Fluff, cuddles, horny, pregnancy

Rhysand was the male her father had wanted her to marry. Rhysand was a cruel High Lord. Rhysand was the most horrible male. That's what Evelyn knew all her life.

Evelyn sighed, turning in her bed, well, Rhysand's bed she had slept in, her eyes opening to the sight of Rhysand asleep. Blood red roses grew on their headboard, flowers she'd created out of nothing in her peaceful sleep.

But, Rhysand was her mate. Rhysand was one of the most kindest High Lords. Rhysand was one of the gentlest males she had ever met. Rhysand was caring. Rhysand was loving.

She watched his features, and he didn't look a bit like the cruel image of him everyone else would see.

The High Lord's broad chest rose and fell with steady breaths, his lean muscles relaxed through the exposed torso. A hint of stubble dusted his strong jawline, adding to the allure of his masculine beauty. Even in sleep, there was an undeniable aura of power about him, yet it seemed tempered by an underlying gentleness that Evelyn had come to appreciate during their time together.

Evelyn gazed at Rhysand's peaceful face, illuminated only by the soft moonlight filtering through the ornate windows of their opulent bedchamber. His chiselled jawline was relaxed, his full lips parted slightly as he breathed deeply in slumber. A lock of onxy blue-black hair fell across his forehead, adding to his rugged yet endearing appearance, being mated had done him so well if Evelyn were to boast about herself.

As she studied Rhysand, Evelyn felt a pang of guilt for having believed the vile rumours about him for so long. Her father's words echoed in her mind, that Rhysand was cruel just like his father, and heartless, and that she deserved a male like him for being a bad daughter. But now, seeing the tender lines around Rhysand's closed eyes, the way his fingers curled gently beneath the coverlet, reaching for her even in sleep, she realized how wrong those assumptions were.

Evelyn reached out tentatively, her fingertips hovering just above Rhysand's cheek before lightly brushing against the warm skin. He stirred softly at her touch, eyelids fluttering open to reveal those striking violet irises that seemed to pierce straight into her soul. For a moment they simply gazed at each other, a thousand unspoken words passing between them in the charged silence.

Rhysand lifted a hand to cover hers, pressing it more firmly against his face as he turned to place a gentle kiss upon her palm. "Good morning, elskan," he murmured, voice low and gravelly from sleep. The endearment sent a shiver down Evelyn's spine, the intimacy of it both thrilling and terrifying.

The High Lord's gaze held a warmth that contradicted everything Evelyn had been led to believe about him. There was no cruelty, no heartlessness, only genuine affection for her reflected back in those mesmerizing violet depths.

"You're awake early today," Rhysand noted, his voice still thick with sleep but filled with a contentment that mirrored hers. He shifted slightly, pulling her closer until their bodies touched intimately along the length of their joined forms. "Did something disturb your rest?" he asked, concern lacing his tone.

"Oh just this baby that keeps kicking," Evelyn mentioned nonchalently.

Evelyn's casual remark made Rhysand smile, a slow curve of his sensual lips that held no small amount of pride. He placed a large, warm hand over the swell of her belly, feeling the tiny flutters of movement within. "Ah, so our little one is eager to greet the day," he observed, stroking gently over the taut skin. "No doubt she takes after her mother, always ready for adventure."

Evelyn hadn't been pregnant long, nearly three weeks and the babe seemed to have figured out she could move and hadn't stopped for even a second.

Evelyn remembered the first time she slept in the same space as him, she'd truly rather be anywhere but there back then. And now, nothing could be close enough.

Elation swirled within Evelyn as memories flooded her mind, the initial night they shared a bed, when she had been terrified by Rhysand's proximity, convinced that his cruelty would manifest itself physically. Now, the very thought of being apart from him filled her with a profound sense of loss.

Rhysand's gaze softened, violet eyes shimmering with affection as he brought her hand to his lips once more, kissing each knuckle reverently.

His thumb traced idle patterns over the delicate knuckles of her hand, the other giving soothing stroks her slightly swollen belly, an innocent act filled with deep affection and unspoken promises. "You have nothing to fear from me. You've never had."

Evelyn began to speak but she couldn't find the right words, so she simply nestled into his warmth.

"You're never allowed to doubt who I am again," he declared sternly, though there was unmistakable warmth behind his words. "I know I may not have been easy to understand… but remember always…" He leaned closer until his breath whispered against her earlobe "… I am yours."

His whispered declaration hung heavy in the air between them, thick with promise and raw emotion. Rhysand's eyes held an intensity that seemed to burn right through to her very core, making her feel both seen and cherished.

Slowly, deliberately, one strong arm slid around her waist pulling her flush against him while the other tangled itself within her loose curls. His head dipped lower until their noses brushed and his mouth hovered mere inches away from hers.

"And I am hungry," Evelyn whispered cheekily, giving him a gentle peck.

Rhysand chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that vibrated through Evelyn's entire body. "Hungry, darling?" He sat up, pulling Evelyn with him so that she straddled his lap, facing him. "Well, I suppose it's the perfect opportunity for breakfast."

His hands slid under her loose nightgown, palms grazing the smooth expanse of her thighs before finding purchase on her hips. With a firm grip, he guided her down onto his hardness, letting out a low groan at the sensation of her wet heat surrounding him.

"I'll feed you, my greedy little flower," Rhysand promised huskily, his lips seeking hers in a searing kiss that left no doubt about his intentions. "And afterwards, perhaps you can return the favor…"

With a possessive claim, Rhysand's lips crashed against hers in a fiery display of dominance and desire. His tongue swept past her lips, demanding entrance and tasting every inch of her mouth with hungry need. His free hand roamed up along the curve of her back, gripping tightly at the fabric of her nightgown as if trying to pull her even closer than physically possible.

Evelyn gasped into the kiss, feeling overwhelmed by both the strength of Rhysand's arousal and the tenderness that radiated off him in waves. She returned his passionate embrace eagerly, wrapping herself around him like ivy clinging to a tree trunk - secure and unwavering despite any attempts at separation.

Their bodies melded together seamlessly, every contour fitting perfectly against another creating an intoxicating blend of pleasure and comfort unlike anything either had experienced before.

Evelyn then pulled away, "Alright, food first. Sex later, ok?"

A mischievous glint lit up Rhysand's violet eyes as he heard Evelyn's conditions, but he didn't argue. Instead, he gave her a playful wink before easing her off of himself completely.

"Your wish is my command," he murmured, releasing her only momentarily before standing gracefully from their entwined state. He offered his hand towards the large dining table, where with a wave of his hand, breakfast awaited.

As they moved towards the decadence laid out before them, Rhysand stole glances at Evelyn’s form, her curves outlined by the thin fabric of her nightgown, the way her tender breasts rose and fell with each breath she took, her body was changing little by little every day, and he loved each development, the flare of her hips leading down to the roundness of her pregnant belly which bore silent testament to their love.

Before Evelyn could take her seat, Rhysand pulled her on his lap, "Stay right here, my flower," he purred in her ear, kissing around it, a hand over her stomach "Let me feed my darlings. What would you like? Something sweet? Spicy? Sour?"

"The skewers… Sweet." Evelyn smiled softly, pointing to the fruit skewers, mixed with all kinds of fruits.

With a pleased hum, Rhysand obliged, selecting two skewers of fresh fruits from the spread and handing one to Evelyn. Their fingers brushed against each other in the exchange, sending sparks of electricity coursing through their connected bodies.

"Eat up, my love," he urged softly, guiding the fruit to her lips with his own. As she accepted the morsel, he watched her intently, his violet eyes sparkling with admiration and lustful promise.

Feeling bold, Rhysand dipped his head lower, nipping gently at the exposed column of her throat before trailing kisses upwards towards her jawline. "You taste sweeter than any fruit I've ever known," he growled against her skin, his voice thickened by desire.

Rhysand was many things, but the one certain thing was that the Lord of Night was hers. Their gazes locked, violet meeting hers in a piercing stare that spoke volumes without needing words.

Evelyn's hair tumbled wildly around her face, framing her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Rhysand's chiselled features were etched with desire, his lips parted and eyes glazed with lust. The room around them faded into insignificance. They only had eyes for each other.

{General Taglist - @nox-ceur @lilah-asteria @paleidiot @dee-writes-smut @adalia-jaycee @anarchiii @alwayshave-faith}

{Rhysand Taglist - @yeonalie}

{RhysandWeek Taglist - @andreperez11}

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

🪓 Hewn and Sewn 🪡

I’ve been thinking a lot about Háma’s death again lately and started this fic for Tolkien Horror Week. And then I both failed miserably on the timetable for that and realized that what I needed for myself was to find a way for his horrifying end (it’s there in the books, and it’s not pretty) to not be totally devoid of consolation. And so it maybe wasn’t right for a Horror Week event anyway. Your mileage may vary on whether you find anything remotely consoling in it. I just love my guy, my #1, and want him to be happy. I don’t know if this accomplishes what I want, but I tried.

CW: canonical character death. He met a brutal end, per Tolkien, and that’s here, along with a fair amount of battle/war reality, incl. some blood and guts and general violence/death.

Art by @ rinthecap

**********

A body is surprisingly hard to kill. 

The first thrust of a spear may bring a man to his knees, the second fills his mouth with blood, the third can barely be extracted again from the depths of his chest, but only the fourth brings mercy at last. Until then, the body clings to its life like a sailor adrift in an ocean storm, scrabbling after any tiny scrap of floating debris and clutching with bloodied nails and broken fingers to the last vestiges of a smashed and splintered ship that somehow hasn’t yet totally disappeared beneath the roiling waves. The body finds its greatest strength at the moment of its greatest vulnerability, stubbornly refusing to relinquish its desperate hold on survival and rallying to endure unimaginable suffering for just a little longer — one more boot to the skull, one more arrow through the gut, one more blade in the back, one more, and one more, and one more — to see whether the body’s will to live can outlast the enemy’s will to kill. 

Háma knows all of this now.

He knows that the great tales of history have left out much of the truth, that the epic songs of invincible riders who slice through enemies like a scythe through wheat are more fantasy than fact. They have left out the hard work of dealing death, the sweaty, gruesome, arduous labor of cleaving into skin and muscle, hacking through sinew and bone, splitting open hearts and stomachs and lungs. They have left out the vomit and the blood and the entrails, the slippery gore that loosens grips and unsteadies footings, sending blows wide of their marks and into places that deliver pain rather than ending it. They have left out the soul-deadening horror of looking another man in the eye and realizing the only way to end his misery is to first give him more.  

These realities are seldom spoken of, threatening as they are to the necessary project of war. New soldiers each discover them on their own, and Háma was no different. He came to the army while still hardly more than a boy, an idealist raised on stories of grand, heroic campaigns and aspiring to the honor of being one of the king’s own guards. None but his mother had tried to warn him of the cruelties he was sure to encounter, for she knew well the gentle heart that beat in her son’s chest. Always the first to smile, to extend a hand of welcome, to offer quiet encouragement, to assume the best even of those who had done him harm, she knew how such a heart would rebel against those inevitable cruelties. But he had so little experience of all that was vicious and foul in the world that he couldn’t truly comprehend the warning, no matter how carefully he listened, and in the end her bleak, abstract prudence was no match for the vivid potency of his dreams. He kissed her farewell and went off in trusting pursuit of all that was noble and righteous, blissfully innocent of the ugly truth behind the fantasy.

It took only one battle for him to realize that the valiant and glorious contests of poetry were neither valiant nor glorious but rather panicked, messy slogs where nothing was simple, nothing was clear and nothing was as he expected it to be. The shock of it nearly got him killed, frozen fast in horror amidst a raging squall of bristling spears and glinting blades and hearing nothing but the echo of his mother’s words, suddenly so palpable and so obvious. Only the panic and the mess and the general disorder saved him from meeting his fate before he was able to rouse himself at last to the grim necessity of action and do what was expected of him. He waded into the carnage, he added to it, he turned aside from suffering that he couldn’t relieve, he tried not to look at suffering that he had caused. And somehow, by the grace of Béma, he survived to see the victory, though the word itself now caught in his throat, devoid of meaning.

He cried after that battle, hiding alone in a darkened corner of a stable and wracked by huge, shaking sobs that both embarrassed and reassured him, proof that the day’s bloody brutality had exposed his naive ignorance but not taken his humanity. He wondered whether that humanity could endure even one more such pitiless trial or if it would break him, changing the very core of who he was. He wondered if he was already broken in ways that he couldn’t yet understand, ways that would be revealed to him only later in the long dark of a sleepless night or the cold grip of a relived memory. He wept for the man he had been and for the man he had wanted to be, someone who might now be a stranger to him forever. 

He may have quit that very day had an older soldier not stumbled upon him and his tears, pulling him to his feet and tossing him a scrap of cloth to dry his face. We have all felt what you’re feeling, the soldier said. Anyone who is untroubled by taking lives should never be trusted with a sword. The soldier walked him over to a nearby field where neat rows of villagers were laid out to await burial — old men holding canes, young mothers in bright dresses, a few girls and boys with skinned knees or milk stains on their upper lips — all caught unaware by the enemy before the forces of Rohan had arrived to drive them back. Remember that you have killed so that people like this might live, the soldier said, and he left Háma to keep watch among the corpses, to contemplate death anew.

It seemed a simple reminder, a basic truth so obvious that it need not be spoken, and yet he had needed to hear it all the same. To be a guardian, using his strength and abilities to protect others, had been his earliest aspiration, and now perhaps that dream could protect his own heart as well, offering him the sense of purpose that would help to make the suffering feel worthwhile. He walked slowly from the silent field and back into the center of the village, where water was being drawn, animals fed, children minded, lives lived despite the tragedy to befall them. He rejoined his éored with a brief nod to the older soldier, and when they rode out again, he did so with the rent in his heart not healed but at least knit loosely together again, mended with stitches of duty and honor.

*****

Since that day he has killed many times, never unprovoked or with wanton disregard and never with the overpowering horror of that first battle, but also never with the clean, simple ease that he had once been led to expect. Each time he is forced to inflict pain on another, he feels it in his own limbs, and though he hates no man, he comes closest in his despair over those who fight him the hardest, who persist through blow after weary blow and refuse to yield or retreat. Do not force me to do this to you, his mind pleads silently, and sometimes, though it means the same thing, do not force me to do this to myself. In direst conditions, compelled to keep defending himself from an opponent with the white glimmer of bone shining out from mangled red flesh or with a dark, empty space where an eye had just been, he cannot keep these thoughts contained to his own head. Barely audible amidst the clash of metal and the thunder of hoofbeats and the groaning of the injured and maimed, he speaks the words aloud. I am sorry.

Many of these men linger in his memories, images of them emerging suddenly and unbidden from the depths of his mind while in the middle of doing other, more benign things. The man who stared up at him from a puddle of gore, tears streaming from eyes that were the same pale green as those of Háma’s youngest sister. The grievously wounded man who had spit in Háma’s face when offered mercy before plunging a knife into his own throat. The man who whimpered one word over and over as they grappled for control, a word Háma later learned meant ‘please’ in the tongue of the Easterlings. These memories tear at the stitches in his heart, testing their strength and threatening to sunder him anew.

One man in particular haunts his thoughts, lurking always in the shadows of his waking mind or the hazy, fragmented mirages of his dreams. Part of a company of Dunlendings who crossed the Adorn without leave, this man was a talented warrior, and had he only been taller or slightly larger of frame things might have ended differently. As it was, it took three heavy strokes of Háma’s sword to bring him down, and the battle-notched edge of Háma’s blade caught on something as he sought to pull back the final stroke. Forced to lean in close, to brace his foot by the dying man’s chest as he struggled to free his weapon from whatever barbed hook of metal or bone had trapped it, he found something he did not expect on the haggard, shivering face that was now only inches from his own — a smile, small but clear, and growing only wider as the man pulled in his last rasping breaths and the light slowly dimmed from his eyes.

The memory of that smile never truly leaves Háma. It follows him everywhere, as attached to his mind as his shadow is to his feet. He sees it when he stands long, lonely hours on watch in the cold and when he sits in a crowded tavern that swelters with the heat of a hundred bodies pressed side by side. It creeps up on him in the quiet wandering of his thoughts while his hands perform some common, repetitive task, or it appears with startling suddenness in the middle of pressing matters, insisting on claiming a share of his focus with the urgency of its unknowable mystery.

He dreams up a thousand different reasons why a man would smile through such agony, somehow finding happiness in the moment of ultimate despair. Perhaps the man hated his life and was glad to be rid of it at last, or he felt honor and pride in the idea of dying for his cause, though that cause was repugnant to Háma himself. Perhaps the smile was brought on by a delusion or hallucination, a vision of pleasure or comfort that shimmered with false loveliness for that Dunlending’s eyes alone. Perhaps it wasn’t even a smile but rather a spasm or tic, an arbitrary contortion of muscles masquerading as a familiar emotion and torturing Háma now with a futile search for meaning in the utterly meaningless. The only man to know the answer has taken it to his hastily dug grave. 

Háma lives these years balanced on the knife’s edge between revulsion and understanding, doubt and certainty, heart and gut. But with each battle, he learns better how to fight in a way that feels true to himself, anchored to his decency, and he learns better how to strengthen the parts of him that quail at the task, reinforcing those weak spots so that they prove all the harder to wound a second time. He patches himself with reminders of all that he fights for, and, in time, life gives him more and more to add to that armor. A beautiful wife who brings warmth and light into all of his days. A daughter who owns him, body and soul, from her first breath. Hard won respect and admiration, first from his commanders, then from the men entrusted to him, and finally from his king. He will never be a battle-hardened veteran, numb to the business of death, but he finds his way forward, refusing to let the sharp edges of those old memories and doubts carve and pare his spirit until it is shorn of all that is hopeful and joyous. Instead, he embraces the business of life, of being a husband, a father, a son, a brother, a friend, a King’s Guard, a captain, a doorward, all of his selves linked together like the rings of his mail and bringing him just as much strength. He is happy, and he is whole.

*****

And so it is that he finds himself strangely at peace on the ride to what will prove his last battle. He has spent a lifetime preparing himself for this moment, this challenge, and he will meet it with honor. The hand of fate has landed on Helm’s Deep, an unexpected turn but one that he welcomes. He knows this place, its gate, walls and keep, unbreached by any outsider in all the long years of history. A fortress and a refuge at once, it is everything that he holds himself to be: strength and shelter, protection and not aggression. If the Rohirrim are forced to this step, with the point of a sword at their backs, there is nowhere else he’d rather make their stand, defending the inviolable.

They have been warned that this fight will be unlike any other in the lifetimes of this army. This is no skirmish over the placement of a border, no periodic flare-up of ancient, simmering tensions. This is existential, a contest that will decide whether Rohan endures a little longer or falls entirely, and among their old enemies of Dunland there will be new enemies as well, orcs of Isengard that are taller, stronger, unafraid of the sun, more desirous of blood. They drink in the joy of death like a cat laps up cream, he is told. Show them no mercy, for none will be shown to you. He sees the logic of this advice even as he has no plans to follow it. He has worked too hard to keep the cruelty of the world from making him cruel in turn. He will do what must be done, but he will do it as himself, from goodness, and not in imitation of those he deems wicked.

Final commands are given. Théoden sends him to hold the gate, and though he feels ill at ease to leave the king, his one and only charge, he knows it is the greater need and he goes willingly. The ragtag assortment of defenders at the gate are his charge now — cavalry riders preparing to fight from foot, farmers of the Westfold, teenage boys whose beardless faces catch the moonlight — and he assures them that it is alright to be afraid. They will face the fear together. He feels some of that fear himself, more aware than ever of his captain’s uniform that will distinguish him among the masses, drawing attention in the one place where such attention is least welcome. But he would sooner die in this symbol of all he believes in and all he has worked for than to hide in common disguise. His uniform clothes him in courage.

The fighting itself, once it begins, passes quickly, as do most things that overwhelm. There is scarcely a second to take in what is happening before it’s happened, and things grow only more chaotic as the late night stretches into earliest morning. Fear keeps him moving, because to give in to the exhaustion, to stop for even half a second of stolen rest, is to expose yourself to the heavy stroke of an axe or a sword or a pike or any of the other tools Isengard has devised to sever the loose connections that hold a man’s body together. Fear keeps him on his feet, and courage keeps him pressing forward, unwilling to give ground toward that precious gate.

He fights this battle his way. He leaves those enemies who are injured beyond the point of threat to be collected by their countrymen. He dispatches mercy to those whose injuries have already guaranteed death, bringing an early end to their suffering. He takes no action from anger, only necessity. He kills, many times over, but always as a last resort and each time with a heavy heart, for even the orcs are living creatures, once descended from elves if old tales are true.

He is not unscathed in the struggle. Bloody weals, red and shining, cut across his cheek and throat, and his left arm hangs dead now at his side, the muscles needed to raise it severed by the point of a spear. But he is undaunted and rallies, again and again, as men and boys, soldiers and herders, guards and merchants, fathers and sons, fall all around him to the seemingly endless waves of new opponents. His luck holds, until suddenly it doesn’t.

The first sharp blow slides neatly into the narrow band of exposed leather near his shoulder, where a piece of his armor has been forcibly pried from his body. It slices cleanly through the layers of hide and cloth, cleanly between ribs, cleanly into the center of him. It stops him in his tracks, not from the pain, which is strangely delayed, but from the abrupt sensation that all the air has gone from his lungs, which leak uselessly now into the hollow of his chest. He is still standing, struggling to pull in delicate half breaths that each slice like a blade of their own, when the second blow lands, a sword at the knee that sends him to the ground. The third, a heavy, percussive jolt from a bludgeon, shivers the bones that don’t shatter outright and leaves him sunk helplessly in the muddy grass, surrounded by a pool of blood that started out as someone else’s but is soon more his than not.

A burst of flame to his left draws attention away as both sides rush toward the noise and light, and he is left for a moment on his own. Above him hangs the black, blank sky, the stars now blocked by clouds and haze and smoke. Beside him are an elderly man with no helmet and a split skull, eyes fixed open in unseeing horror, and a teenage boy, face gone grey and breathing shallow as the contents of his veins empty steadily from a gaping hole in his side. Háma would comfort him, take his hand and bid him a swift journey to the halls of his forebears, if he could only lift an arm or force a word from his lips. But there is no strength in that arm and no air to carry the sound. He manages only to inch his hand next to the fading warmth of the boy’s fingers, and he hopes the boy will feel it and know that he is there, that they are not alone. It isn’t enough, but it will have to be. 

A burning pressure builds in his chest, pushing out against his broken ribs and mangled muscles with a force that could tear apart whatever is left of him that is still intact, and somehow, above the screaming and the thunder and the clang of weaponry, he can hear a wet, bubbling sound each time he tries to inhale, as though he is drawing breath through a sopping cloth. He wonders if he might drown, miles from any river or lake or tide except his own blood that is rising in his lungs, and he uses his last gasp of energy to weakly raise his head, eyes searching desperately for a friendly face that might be able to drag him to help. But the eyes that meet his are instead cold and cutting, and they sparkle with sharp malice when they recognize the fine armor and burnished insignia of the captain of the King’s Guard. 

A voice calls in a tongue that Háma cannot understand, but he needs no translator to know its meaning or that of the answering calls. Fingers are pointed in his direction. Grips are tightened around axes and knives and clubs. Lips curl into wicked smirks as many feet advance toward him, the defenseless prey whose brutal end will send a message to no less than the king of Rohan himself. No mercy will be shown to you.

The crushing realization hits him in an instant, though perhaps he should have known it all along. This is the end. There aren’t enough allies left standing to save him, even if his wounds could be healed. The gate, the one object of his focus, is being torn now from its hinges, riven with deep fractures and fissures, and these men and orcs will pour through the gaping rupture just as soon as they are done with him. It will matter to none of them that he is as good as gone already, slowly choking to death on his own bile and blood, because they mean not just to kill but to destroy. They mean not to leave him in one piece, not to keep him recognizable even to those who love him best. They will take his life, but they will also take his identity, his dignity, his grace, his chance to be mourned over by those who would hold him, stroke his hair, kiss his brow, touch his cheek. 

He turns his head again to the young man at his side, to see one last Rohirrim face, but it has gone stony and lifeless, an unmoving mask of arrested youth. Háma studies this face, the soft down of a first beard, the skin unmarred by old scars or new wrinkles, and his heart trembles at the thought of all that this boy never got to do or have. A whole lifetime that was yet to be lived, with loves to be found, achievements to be celebrated, misfortunes to be endured, contentment to be earned. His death is a tragedy of lost hopes, of all that might have been had the boy been given even the twenty extra years that Háma himself has had. And that is the thought that brings a sudden and utter calm to Háma’s spirit, quietly reassuring despite the looming specter of gruesome execution treading closer and closer each second.

He cannot see his own imminent death as a tragedy like this boy’s, for Háma has lived — not as long as many men, but fully and well. He has loved and been loved. He has made himself and others proud. He has laughed and cried and grinned and gasped. He has seen great beauty, heard words of great kindness, tasted much that was sweet, felt hands of true tenderness. He has served a land he reveres, one that he knows in his heart will prevail and find a way off its knees to stand tall once again. He has joined himself to people worth dying for, people that he would weep to leave if not for the knowledge that he was more fortunate than most to have ever had such people in his life, no matter how briefly. A wife who was the love that made all the others irrelevant. A daughter who was every bit as perfect as she adoringly believed him to be. Another baby that would arrive in four months’ time and bring consolation and joy to its mother when she’d need it most. They will be pained to lose him, but he trusts their strength, the kind that isn’t sharp and brittle like iron but binds and flexes like thread.

Amid all the suffering of the world, he has been blessed, his fate woven together so tightly with filaments of gladness and fulfillment and favor that those things can never be sundered from him, even now at the very end. When the first axemen crowd around him at last, he doesn’t feel fear or hatred or regret. He feels only gratitude for all that he’s been given. When an enemy first takes his leg at mid-thigh and then his arm at the elbow, he isn’t thinking of the pain. He is thinking only of how one man could be so lucky, how he had somehow managed to claim not only his share of good in the world but many times that much. When a blade takes his ear and iron-toed boots prod where his ribs no longer provide resistance, he hears Brytta’s sweet voice calling his name and feels Hálwinë’s soft cheek rested against his chest. And when the last rattling breath leaves his battered lungs, sighing softly from his bloodied lips, he looks right at the man above him and smiles. 

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♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ It Will Come Back

Prologue: Don't Feed Me

~ bucky barnes x fem!reader ~tags/cw: angst, childhood memories, bucky as the winter soldier, eastern european/slavic heritage reader, does not follow the canonical timeline after bucky is arrested in romania, deviates from canon, childhood memories, child reader meets the winter soldier ~ wc: 2.5k ~ not proofread ~ a/n: this one is for all my fellow slavic girlies (I see yoouuu) basically just a self indulgent bucky self insert because who cares, right. ily thanks for reading (everything in a foreign language is immediately translated by another character)

Prologue: Don't Feed Me

There is a man, a monster who lives in the shadows. An abomination of science and human cruelty, an embodiment of the evil of humanity's desire for power. He waits in the dark, feeding off rats and mice as he sits and waits, waiting for his target to come home. He has no rules, no laws of man; there are no survivors. No women, no children, all those who enter his gaze do not leave, for they are trapped, frozen beneath the glare of the winter soldier. 

1993 Nizepole, FYROM

Kolku pati trebam da ti kažam da ne ta ostavaviš hranata za kučinjata?

Sakaš volcite da dojdat?

Your father's voice reverberates through your brain as a sharp slap collides with the back of your skull. The pain thrums through your bones as you yelp and run towards the house, hands covering the back of your head to suppress the thump of the smack. Of all the places he hit you, it had to be in the same spot you had bumped earlier in the day.

"Don't leave food out! They're animals! They can find their own!"

 Your mother's voice echoes from the kitchen. 

"People have started seeing wolf prints in the snow. Soon enough, we'll have a whole pack on our door."

Your footsteps slow as you reach the small white-painted cottage. The terracotta tiles are stark against the blackness of the storm clouds gathering in the distance.

Thunder begins to rumble as you cross the threshold, your fingers trailing along the chipping red paint of the doorway. The house seems smaller than usual; the once great space had been taken up by your pullout bed by the window, the door to your parent's room left ajar, closing in the space further. Your skull throbs again, a lump undoubtedly forming from the double assault. A warm shower might help; the heat would soothe the ache spreading to your neck.

You kick off your shoes, tucking them neatly under the rack just behind the door, and follow the smell of freshly baked bread that begins to wrap around you like a hug. Your mother is in the kitchen, once white apron flecked with orange fleck from the ajvar you had made earlier, your hands a similar shade of apricot. She stirs the familiar-smelling stew, never taking her eyes off the copper pot as dinner boils and roils over the flames. You eye the burnt ends of bread on the counter, and while your mother is distracted, you reach up and snatch the ends, pocketing them before she can turn around. On tiptoes, you turn, praying that the floorboards don't creak beneath and begin stalking to the door, each step meticulous.

"What are you doing?" your mother asks without turning an inch towards her. 

How did she do that?! 

You quickly stuff your hands into the pockets of the skirt. "Nothing." 

"What have you got in your pockets?" Mama's stern as she continues to stir, but there is no doubt that she has eyes in the back of her head. You frown and clench tiny fists, bread crumbling between them.

"It's just bread; wolves don't eat bread." your voice small, dejected. "It's just for the cats down the road, Mama, please." 

Mama sighs and stops cooking, turning to face you with a sour expression that suggests either disappointment or deliberation. You hope it's the latter. 

"They're so little, please." Tears begin to well in your eyes, hot and prickly, as they threaten to spill over your round cheeks. 

The bread in your pockets feels heavy, as though it has turned into rocks, as her mother stares. It is just the end bits, burnt to a crisp that no human would eat, so why let it go to waste when it can feed a few cats and dogs? 

Your mother sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.

You're going to lose this battle.

You know it.

Why would she let you waste precious food on strays? Another sigh, tsking at both you and her decision as she nods towards the door. 

"Put it somewhere your father will never find it," she says, heavy with resignation. "This is the last time you hear me?" But you don't. You're too busy running out to the shed, skirt pockets full of bread. 

"You better be listening to me! I said no more!" her voice is nothing but a whisper in the wind. 

---

"I think the cats are leaving me presents." you marvel at the bottle cap between your fingers, the way it glints in the afternoon light. The words inscribed are not ones you have seen before, a brand you know is not in your home. "I keep finding little presents wherever I leave the food. Do cats do that?" 

Your mother turns to you, brows furrowed as she examines the trinket in your palm. Her eyes flit over the company logo, noting the way scratch marks across the faded gold and shrugs. 

"Cats don't do that, but crows do. Maybe you're feeding crows." She turns back to the TV, invested in the program as it broadcasts the nightly news. The words are too fast and jumbled for you to keep up, so you tune it out, focusing on the gift left for you. 

You've heard that crows are smart, like shiny things, and can be friendly to humans, but you've never seen one. If you haven't seen something with your eyes, it can't exist, right? 

A heavy sigh leaves your mother as the TV cuts to a commercial. She shakes her head and mutters something just too quiet for your ears to hear, but from how she scowls, you can tell it is not good. She only wears that look when you've done something wrong or your father comes home too late. 

"I'm going to start dinner. Start washing up; we need to leave hot water for your father." She jerks her chin towards the bathroom door. "And throw that away; I don't want rubbish in my house." 

You clench your fingers around the gift. The ridges dig cold spikes into your warm skin. 

---

More and more offerings began to appear. 

Ranging from smooth, shiny rocks to dried and crumbled-up flowers arranged neatly on the chipped plate reserved for the animal scraps. All laid upon the small stool in wait for your arrival. It was not an everyday occurrence, for all the times you left food out within the past five months, there had been three rounds of gifts. Each morning, you scrambled out of bed, eager to see if your bird friends had left you anything behind, adding it to the collection on your window sill. So far, you have two bottle caps, three small river stones rounded into perfect pearls of tiger eyes and cornflower blue. A crushed daisy that had not been so bent out of shape when you found it; only after almost being caught by your mother did you clamp your small fist around it, smooshing the petals into broken lines. The last gift had been a shell. A swirl of cream-coloured wonder you had not seen in person, only on television and in books. There is no beach near you, your landlocked country only offers lakes, and there were no shells like this the last time you visited. It was gorgeous and perfect, and you really could hear the ocean if you held it up to your ear.

---

"If you keep feeding them, they'll just keep coming back." your mother's words echo in your mind as you arrange your latest offering. A handful of roasted peppers, a piece of bread and tiny morsels of meat you had managed to sneak into your napkin at dinner. You shouldn't be pretending to eat food, especially meat, as the winter rages around you, but you were full, and crows eat meat more than grains and vegetables, so why shouldn't you share the protein? You sit back on your haunches, skirt pockets damp with extra sauce that had leaked from the napkin and smile at the design. Hopefully, they will like the latest offering of a well-rounded meal.

---

It is well past your bedtime. 

The clock on the wall chimes past two am with a soft ping, but you can't sleep. Not knowing if the crows had accepted your small gift or if they had sated their hungry bellies for just one more night. You turn towards the window, curtains pulled tight to avoid any light from the street flooding in, but you have to look. Want to look? So you do.

With a quick glance at your parent's bedroom door, you wait with bated breath for any sound to indicate they are awake. The seconds tick by with heavy strokes, and you count the seconds between snores before deciding they are both firmly asleep. You can indeed open the blind and check. 

Peeling back the heavy cotton drapes, your heart hammers as you peer into the night, expecting to see nothing but darkness engulfing your front yard. But as you peek out from behind the material, a warm glow from the barn catches your attention. 

The oven! 

A shaky breath fills your lungs as you push back the drapes; birds and meat are long forgotten as you squint into the night at the ember of flames emanating from within the shed. You swear you put it out. Poked at the embers until they dulled and cooled, yet it still glows well into the night. Despite the freezing temperature, the fire risk is high, and too many flammable items are tucked away to risk letting the fire burn itself out. You scramble out of bed, slipping into thick winter boots and haul on the heavy coat draped over the end of your bed to keep your feet warm. It will not be pleasant stepping out into the building snowstorm, but this is your mistake; you must fix it before the barn burns down or your father finds out; each outcome is just as terrifying. 

With tentative steps, you sneak into the hallway, avoiding the creaking floorboards with expert precision, but the floor will not be the challenge. The lock on the front door is old and heavy, often having to be tugged roughly to even unlatch, and your small arms do not have the strength of either of your parents. Freezing metal warms quickly beneath your fingers as you twist the bolt, your heart pounding so loudly that you almost don't hear the deafening click that echoes through the hall. 

You wait, eyes trained on your parent's door for any sign of movement. One. Two. Three. Not a sound. No sigh, no creak of mattress springs, not even a snore in reaction to the metal ping. Perfect. 

The door swings open quickly. 

Wind whips around you in a flurry of snowflakes, frigid air biting at your exposed skin as you hastily reach back for your hood. The thick fur does little to soften the assault on your face, but it'll have to do so as you step into the night. On quick feet, you scurry out into the yard. You must look like a thief had you been seen by someone, head darting around to the house as you sprint to the barn. The boots are thick and heavy, catching on rock and pocks in the earth, but you don't fall; they only slow down a fraction. 

With two hands, you slam on the door. The old hinges creak as they swing open, the wood biting into your soft, frozen palms. A warm glow catches your attention, the fire in the oven still burning, brighter than you had initially had it. Your stomach sinks, terrified that you had almost been the reason for a house fire, that you could have been the culprit to the end of your life, but as you step in, the dirt crunching beneath your padded feet, your stomach sinks for an entirely different reason. Crouch before the fire in a man. 

Shadows wrap his body like a cloak of night, shielding him from possible identifiers. You step back, scream caught in your throat, chest aching to make a noise, but there is no air left in your lungs. 

The creature rises, his height taller than anyone, anything you had met before, and takes a step towards you. Ice-cold heat rushes through your veins, pumping through your heart, and it begins to thump harder than it ever had. Paralysed with fear, you watch as he moves closer, each step sluggish as though he were wading through mud. He stops a few feet from you, crouching back down to your level and holds out a hand. In the low light, you see the glint of a bottle cap. 

“Is it you leaving the food?” His voice is muffled, and what you thought were shadows is a mask. 

You nod. Too afraid to speak. 

"Do you know who I am?" another question.

This time, you shake your head. The man nods and stands to his full height again. 

"Go back home, I'll put out the fire." he instructs, turning away from you and stalking back to the oven. "Go!" the instruction is firmer, and hostility fills his words as he crouches again and pulls open the small door. 

Silver flashes in the dim light like he was made of metal, and you're sent running. You want to scream for your mother as you run, but your lungs are too busy gulping down air to push your frozen legs faster. You smack against the front door, bursting through the entry and slam it closed. Frigid fingers work quickly with the lock before you turn and book it for your parent's bedroom. The screams escape you then. Shrieking about the man in the night, the creature who sat before the fire cloaked in darkness. Your parents try to calm you down, your mother's hands stroking soothing circles down your face as you bawl, trying to convince you that you had had a nightmare and it was nothing but a dream within sleepwalking. Even after your father goes out to the barn and finds nothing, not a single ember in the oven warm, does your heart stop beating out of your chest? Despite their protests to your stories and their adamant refusal of what you had seen, they let you sleep between them for the night, promising to recheck the barn in the morning despite finding nothing upon first inspection. This does something to soothe you. That your parents were not scared of the possibility of a man living in your barn that if they were not horrified, it could possibly have been a genuine, horrifying night terror.  It was nothing more than a dream. Nothing more.

---

The morning reveals the truth. 

Left behind on the empty plate is a bottle cap. The very same one the man had held out to you earlier that night. You scream and run out of the barn, confusing your parents further as you demand to move away, to leave the house in fear he might return. 

But he never did. 

There was never another gift left waiting for you. 

---

~ a/n: this one is for all my fellow Slavic girlies (I see you). It's basically just a self-indulgent bucky self-insert because who cares, right. ily thanks for reading

find me on ao3!

[atimeofyourlife]

She's Overdue For a Breakdown

Transfem Steve (Evie) has a breakdown surrounding everything after coming out post s4 (title from Silence is a Scary Sound by McFly) cw: gender dysphoria, implied cheating, implied neglectful parenting

It's a lot of little things that bring it on. Well, and a few big things too. But it's the little things that seemed worse.

Evie was just going to use the bathroom when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and her eyes were instantly drawn to a tiny patch of stubble on her jawline that she had missed when shaving that morning. And it was what tipped her over the edge.

She grasped the sink as harsh sobs wracked through her body. She couldn't place what she was crying over, when it was everything. Having to shave her face every morning to avoid stubble when most girls, normal girls, didn't have to. Losing her adolescence to fighting interdimensional horrors. The clothing she wanted to wear never fitting right, because of too broad shoulders and firm muscle in place of soft curves. Never leaving the house unarmed in fear of what was lurking around the corner. Still having to live most of her life as Steve. The loss of who she once was. Her parents' indifference and knowing they'd never accept her true self.

She cried for a life of having to perform. As the perfect son, as the boy whose main interest was sport, as the popular 'King' of the school, as the desirable heartthrob who was kind and respectful to girls but also really good in bed, as the strong guy capable of taking the hits, as the decent young man from a good family that would make a good father and husband one day. Having to perform as Steve.

She cried for every time that she couldn't. For every time her father had told her 'Boys don't cry, Steven.' For every time she had to hold back tears to avoid being teased. For every time she had been told not to be so sensitive. For every time she had pushed away her own emotions to focus on someone else's. For every time she had to be strong for her found family while everything fell apart around them.

She cried for her insecurity surrounding relationships. For her father's infidelity causing so many issues at home. For the way her relationship with Nancy had torn itself apart, and Nancy's cruel words at the end. For all the girls that had only dated her for what they could get out of it, her status, her money, her reputation of being so good in bed. For her fear for future relationships. For the flirting she'd shared with Eddie, and how it hadn't changed when she came out. The fear that came with it, that Eddie still saw her as Steve, as a man, because he'd never spoken about liking girls.

She cried for the body that never fit right and felt more broken as time went on. Her vision and hearing deteriorating with every concussion. Her too-flat chest and too-narrow hips. The scars that increased in number with every round of the Upside Down. The fact that down there would never reflect her being a girl without surgery.

She cried for every time she felt alone, both when she was by herself or with other people. When sitting at the dinner table with her parents felt like there was more distance between them than when they were on a different continent. When time spent with Tommy and Carol turned her into a third wheel, or an accomplice in their cruelty. When she tried to fill her empty house with parties. When she was with girlfriends, Nancy and others, that were there physically but she knew that their mind was somewhere else. Finishing out her senior year without any friends her own age, at least none that understood.

A knock on the bathroom startled her from her spiraling thoughts, reminding her that she wasn't alone in the house.

"Evie?" Robin's voice sounded concerned. "Are you okay? You've been in there for ages."

Evie took a few deep breaths in an attempt to compose herself. "I'm fine, Rob." She winced at how thick her voice sounded, almost cracking on the word 'fine'.

"You don't sound fine," Robin spoke softly. "Can we come in?"

Evie hesitated. If she said no, they would leave her alone. But only until she was ready to leave the bathroom. If she let them in or not, she would still have to talk about it. She moved to the door, just enough to unlock it. She moved away again, before calling "It's open."

Robin was the first in, sweeping Evie into a hug. Eddie hung back in the doorway.

"What's going on?" Robin asked, pulling Evie down so they could sit on the floor together.

"I. It's nothing." Evie sniffed, trying to hold back the fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over. "I'm just being stupid."

"Evelyn Sue Harrington. What have we said about the 's' word?" Robin admonished her choice of words.

"Evie, you're not stupid for getting upset about something. You're the one that tells the rest of us that it's okay to feel things and be open when we need help." Eddie added, sitting down on Evie's other side. "But does this have to be done on the bathroom floor, or can we move somewhere more comfortable?"

"Get used to it, Munson. All of our big, important moments happen on bathroom floors." Robin replied, managing to drag a small smile out of Evie.

"Muppet." Evie agreed, getting a punch in the arm from Robin.

"C'mon Evie. You can talk to us. What's going on up there?" Robin tapped the side of Evie's head.

"It's just...Everything? I guess. It all feels too much." Evie stopped for a moment, before it all came spilling out. Everything that she'd been holding in, that she'd never told anyone about. Everything she'd kept from the ones she loved so she would be the one people could turn to for support instead of being the one who needed support. The tears returned as she spoke, varying from silently running down her face to accompanied by harsh sobs that punctuated her words. "And I just feel so lost. I don't know what to do with it. I just want to scream, and cry, and break things."

"It's okay to feel like that, Evie." Robin murmured, holding Evie closer to her.

"It. It's not though? I looked in the mirror and saw a few hairs I missed while shaving. And instead of having a normal reaction, I started crying about it. I wanted to punch the mirror and smash it into pieces as if it was to blame for how I look." She rubbed her face harshly. "God, I'm being too much."

"Evie, it's not too much. You're never too much. You've been holding this shit in for so long, you never talk about what you've been through, you never ask for help, but you're always there for us and let everyone unload on you. You're basically overdue a breakdown at this point." Eddie replied, pulling Evie's hands away from her face.

"We're here for you. Through everything. And screw your parents and anyone who thinks there's something wrong with you. There are so many people that love and adore you, that would be happy to listen and help you. Hell, if you wanted new parents, you'd just have to say the word and there's a bunch of parents that would fight over who gets to adopt you. You named yourself after two of them."

"You're exaggerating." Evie rolled her eyes.

"She's not. It's obvious that Hopper basically sees you as his daughter. He's referred to you and El together as his girls." Eddie added. "I'm pretty sure you could kill someone and he'd cover for you and help hide the body."

"Yeah, and you've got Mrs Henderson. She's already passing on her family recipes to you that she won't tell anyone else. And the Sinclairs. Ever since you defended Lucas from Billy, they've adored you and thought you could do no wrong. Even my parents, which is kinda weird because less than a year ago they were basically planning our wedding and thought that you'd be their perfect son-in-law and I'd have your babies, which I mean, gross. But now they talk about us as if we're sisters."

"And Uncle Wayne. He's always asking when I'm going to bring the Harrington girl around again. I think he just likes having someone to talk sports with. And he would do anything for your cooking." Eddie insisted.

"I-thanks." Evie was a little lost for words as she rubbed the last of her tears from her eyes. "I'm okay. I'll be okay."

"You don't have to always be okay, Evie. It's what we're here for. We're always here for you." Robin assured her.

"Whenever you're not okay, my shoulder's always open for a pretty girl to cry on." Eddie said, his tone light and joking.

Evie choked on a laugh as she relaxed into the group hug. "I love you guys."

I am planning on writing a short second part about how Evie chose her names, but I do not know when it will get posted! I have started it, though! Now with a companion piece on how Evie chose her name

[strawhatsoraya]

Hiii! So, we've been talking about Shuuhei… what about a little scenario with a female soul reaper who's from another division but has had her eyes on him for a while because, well, he's HOT. Maybe she even already realized that his bad boy look isn't really true because in some small interaction he was super nice and polite? Or perhaps she's still convinced he's a total womanizer/bad boy based of his looks and kept her distance? Either way, one evening, she gets nice and tipsy (with Rangiku?? Or somebody else?) and goes all "You know what? Look at him. LOOK AT HIM. He's so underappreciated! Fuck it, I'll go for it." So she tries her very best to seduce Shuuhei and is a) surprised he's so gentle and soft-spoken and b) flusters him completely? :D Or something along those lines.

Random scenario-thought, in case it strikes a cord, I'd love to read your version of it :D Have a great day!

how long has it been??? don't answer, this question is rhetorical I don't even wanna know. i wrote some shuhei uh fluff? yes...fluff with some suggestive content but nothing explicit. you get drunk y/n making a fool of herself and shuhei being cute.

SHUHEI HISAGI X FEM READER / SFW WC: 2.7k CW: alcohol consumption, horrible attempts at humor and seduction, second hand embarrassment, badly timed boners, and equally badly timed confessions

You didn't know what it was about him that made you so crazy. 

Rather, the truth was, you couldn't decide on a single thing. Maybe it was that dark bold stripe across his face. The same that made you stare at his profile, that squinted intense gaze that rooted you to your spot wherever you were. Maybe it was the numbered tattoo on the angular bone of his cheek. Maybe it was the mystery of not knowing what any of it meant.

Or maybe, just maybe, you liked that you couldn't figure him out. You liked the danger that came with the unknown, the quiet variables that leave your formula incomplete day after day.

Although you had yet to see him entangled in somebody else's arms you were convinced he was as emotionally unavailable as the rest of the men clad in black. Tomorrow was a flimsy promise that nobody dared to even touch but you tacked it on the front of your shinigami robes, like a stupid participation ribbon.

Tomorrow you'd take the first step. Tomorrow you'd confess. Tomorrow, always tomorrow.

Those days came and went, and you were nowhere closer to unraveling the secrets Shuhei Hisagi kept. Tired of your cowardice, and tired from that day's training, you find yourself commiserating over drinks with Rangiku. Her tolerance for alcohol was beyond measure. It was a terrible idea to pair up with her, but she was always willing to lend an ear or two.

Right now, you didn’t want logic or common sense. Right now, you need someone to make you feel a tiny bit better about your cowardice. 

Rangiku does it well. She makes sympathetic noises, as she fills your sake cup repeatedly. It is quite a skill,  you think to yourself amongst the clouds, the way she never lets your cup be dry. Not even for a minute. You’re gathered with members of different squads for one of Rangiku’s badly coordinated mixers. The numbers between female and male guests was never even–assuming people even showed up in the first place.

“Is it really my fault?” you start feeling indignant. In the back of your mind you know you have no right. You were not the victim of the cruelty of the Fates, or unchangeable circumstances. The truth was, you were merely scared of rejection. “Is IT my fault?” You ask again, as Rangiku sways slightly next to you, a tiny smile on her lips.

She looks content with her lot in life at the moment, and your indignation is slowly replaced by green envy.

“You just don’t understand do you?” you ask her as your head bobs. The movement is mostly involuntary but you find yourself too tired to control it. The alcohol has steeped itself in your veins, and you know now would be the time to cut yourself off. Instead, you bring the cup of sake that Rangiku just refilled to your lips once more.

“I do understand, actually,” Rangiku insists, gathering your shoulders in an one armed embrace. “I do. Men are so DENSE. In fact, like that one,” she slurs as she points her chin towards the familiar pallid appearance of one Izuru Kira. “Look at him!”

Her voice is loud, and the scent of sake is sweet coming from her moistened lips. You look away to watch Kira perk up in his seat. His cheeks are pink, a bright contrast against his pallid skin. The stupefied expression on his face is slightly endearing. Perhaps you had too much sake after all.

“You see him?!” Rangiku prattles on, steamrolling over the din of stranger’s conversations. You sway in tandem with her, still trapped in her arm. Her strength was not completely unknown to you but there was something about drunk Rangiku that made her at least three times stronger. “Look at him! So dense. So stupid. So cute.”

You smile apologetically at Kira. It almost feels like the sudden verbal attack was incited by your poor inability to be honest with your feelings. There’s an attempt to free yourself from Rangiku as you press a hand on her chest and push. Rangiku squeals in your ear and lets you go, only to bring her hands to her chest. Her smile is crooked, and she flutters her eyelashes at you.

You swallow a groan.

“Have you moved on to me already?” she asks you in a shouted whisper. You glance sideways at Kira waiting to be saved but he avoids your gaze and instead greets the new arrival to the table.

The last person you expected  joins your table. At the sight of the stripe across one of his cheeks you feel your blood turn to ice. A  chill passes over you, making you shiver where you sat. You almost wished Rangiku would twist herself around you once more. Anything to return the heat back to your body and away from your sweltering face. You can’t see it, but you feel it–the flush that ridicules you; burning your shame on your cheeks until you fear it’ll become a permanent tattoo. 

Shuhei Hisagi, as usual, seems ignorant to your struggle. Aside from a casual glance and nod of acknowledgement he gives no indication of knowing your discomfort. The sake threatens to come back up, and you swallow. The acid burns your throat on the way back down.

“Well,” Rangiku’s voice comes in like artificial sweetener–it overcompensates and leaves a terrible aftertaste in the back of your mouth. “Look at what the dog dragged in.”

“It’s cat,” you interject with a quick sideways glance. Rangiku places her arm on your shoulder.

“Whatever.” The blond woman is unfazed. She smiles at Shuhei. “The point is, the man of the hour is here.”

You feel your heart drop to the bottom of your stomach. If possible, you could have feared it slipping right out of your body. You wouldn’t doubt for a second that if it could preserve itself by abandoning the vessel of your pathetic body that it would. Instead, you feel it speed up again, at an alarming rate. It pounds frantically against your ribcage as Shuhei turns his slanted gaze at you. 

“You were waiting for me?” he asks. He is looking at you. You know this because you’re staring right back at him, slack-jawed and in a daze. Yet, it feels as if his question was aimed at Rangiku instead.

“Of course!” she chirps, leaning forward. You glance down and see her breasts threatening to spill out of her uniform. Clumsily, and quickly, you try to gather the fabric and bring it to a close across her cleavage. Rangiku glances down at you, perturbed, at your clenched hands keeping the opening together. Gently, she pats your whitening knuckles. “Now, now…” You don’t let go so she pries your fingers off before continuing the conversation. “I was waiting for you because I need you to take Y/N to her room for me.”

You blink, and sway on the spot, suddenly lightheaded. You have no idea what Rangiku is planning and you consider losing yourself in a temporary moment of dread. That is, until you realize the wonderful opportunity that is being presented to you. Here was Shuhei Hisagi in all his hardened edges, cool demeanor glory. If you could have a moment alone, with your cowardice drowned in alcohol, perhaps you’d find the courage to make a move.

You stand up suddenly, slamming your hands on the table. Kira jumps startled but Shuhei remains calm. He follows suit, and you watch him stand up, taking in his height, his broad shoulders, his imposing gaze. He nods his head at you and gestures quickly.

“Come on then,” he mumbles as he turns his head quickly. You try to find the strength in your jelly legs to walk around the table. So focused in your efforts to remain upright, you almost miss the pink on the top of his ears. His hand is covering half his face when you reach him. The way he chose to wear his uniform was unique. Some might say he barely had it on. As you walk besides him, you notice a rosy flush on the top of his cheeks.

“Are you cold?” you ask him, placing light fingers on his bicep. Before you can register the difference in your body temperatures he’s jerking away, startling you. You never thought you could be criticized for lack of coordination, but inebriated you became a person you didn’t quite know. 

“No, I’m fine,” he mumbles as he turns his face away from you.

The sake must be really doing its toll on you, because if you didn’t know any better, you’d start to believe that Shuhei was being shy. It didn’t suit him. There was such a large gap in his appearance that it just couldn’t possibly make sense but still his ears grew redder and redder, especially when you decide to tuck your hand in the crook of his arm.

You feel him jump even as he tries to keep walking, your fingertips gently brushing the inside of his elbow. He starts to say something, stuttering over his words.

“C-c-careful,” he says, his eyes on the ground. There’s a furious flush on his face, threatening to obfuscate the tattoos on his face. “The ground is lumpy.”

You can’t help it. Even as you bite down on your lower lip, there’s a giggle that bubbles out of you–free and weightless. 

“I’m holding on to you,” you tell him, leaning into him playfully. He sways as you bump him. “I think I’ll be fine.”

It becomes quickly apparent to you that your miracle opportunity could very well lead to nowhere if you don’t take it further. You’ve managed to press your breasts against his arm, in hopes of stirring something wild and untamed inside of him. Instead, he starts to walk stiffly as if he had a metal rod placed in his back. Although you begin to feel more sober, you decide to amp up the theatrics a little, stumbling here and there in your walk.

“Shuhei~” you chirp coyly, syrupy and addictive. “Why don’t you come inside?” you tug him along, struggling with his big frame. If Shuhei is surprised at your strength he doesn’t show it much, except for a careful raise of his eyebrows.

“I really shouldn’t be going into a woman’s room like this,” he mumbles as you finally shove the rest of his big body inside. Shuhei looks around the small room quietly. There’s a futon on the floor in a corner, books littered here and there and wrappers of snacks you promised you’d get rid of weeks ago. 

“Nonsense. That’s way too old fashioned thinking,” you tell him, lowering yourself to the futon. You wave a hand at him repeatedly. Shuhei stares at it apprehensively—like the fluttering wings of a death butterfly, but still heeds its call. He lowers himself awkwardly onto the futon and sits cross legged next to you. His skin feels as if it was tinling, your presence making it worse every time you pressed yourself against him.

You slither one hand over his knee, and Shuhei feels the back of his neck heat up. Your breath tickles his ear when you speak next: “Shall I help you relax? You seem tense. I’m very good at massages.”

He stiffens at your touch. Shuhei knows your touch means more than it implies. He knows that your soft smile is promising him more than just a massage. He also knows that the rouge on your cheeks and the glassy look in your eyes is due to alcohol; that which you consumed a little too much. He knows that to let you keep skimming your hand upwards his leg, as you are doing now, is very ungentlemanly of him.

He presses his shaky hand over yours.

“I’m fine,” he says sternly, lips drawn thinly on his face. “I don’t need a massage right now.” What he needed, perhaps, was to swan dive into a cold lake. His nether regions weren’t getting the picture. He felt himself stiffen, and Shuhei adjusted his legs as discreetly as possible. He didn’t count on your keen observational skills, and your lack of decorum all at once.

“Then what’s that!” you whisper shout, pointing at the sudden rise of cloth between his legs. Shuhei stutters as he feels heat swallow his head whole.

“Never mind that,” he shakes his head, feeling embarrassed and angry to be in this situation with you. “Just go to sleep. That’s what you should do.” He holds you by the shoulders, as you try to peek around his arms. He pushes you back on the bed, as you hold on to his wrists, dragging him down with you. Shuhei, holds his weight up by slamming his hands on either side of your head against the bed. You look up at him, startled, heart racing in your chest.

“Are you going to sleep with me?” you ask him, your fingers still curled around his wrist. “Is this what this is?”

“No!” he shouts, turning bright red. He pushes off of you. “That was an accident because you pulled me down with you.”

“I was hoping to seduce you,” you tell him plainly. Now that you were on your back, you rethink your entire plan. You thought you had sobered up but as the room started to spin slowly, you realized quickly that it had been some kind of delusion. 

“I’m not someone that will just sleep with a drunk woman,” he mumbles, gathering the blankets and pulling them over your body. He tucks you into them, pushing the blankets deep under your body with his fingers, until you become a human burrito. “So please stop.”

“So, you’d sleep with any woman if she wasn’t drunk?”

“No,” he pats your hands which he trapped under the blanket. “I didn’t say that either.”

“I like you,” you confess. You meant to look and feel braver than you did, but being wrapped in blankets unable to move as the room spun slightly, seemed to have stolen all your earlier bravado. Shuhei stares at you silently, before he looks away abruptly. You can see his ears reddened again as he loosens up the blankets slightly.

“I tucked you in too tight,” he mumbles, ignoring your confession.

“I said I like you!” you state a little louder, and bite your lower lip. “Shouldn’t you say something back? Anything?”

Shuhei sighs, and finds your hand under the blankets. He lightly traces the shapes of your fingers, sending goosebumps up your arm. 

“You should say that when you’re sober,” he mumbles softly, finally looking back at you. “Do that, and I’ll give you a proper answer.”

There’s a pout that sticks your bottom lip out. Shuhei stares at it for a bit too long, and feels the back of his neck catch fire. He sighs heavily as he pushes himself up.

“Go to sleep,” he says gently, even as your eyes start to flutter closer. 

He looked shy and awkward as he stood there undecided. His feet shuffled, as he wanted to leave but was torn. You stifle a giggle. He was nothing like you had imagined. Not very cool, and not very smooth. You’d be lying; however, if you didn’t like this gentle part of him.

“What if I don’t remember?” You ask him quietly.

“I’m sorry?”

“What if I don’t remember,” you repeat yourself. “What if I forget I’m supposed to tell you I like you?”

Shuhei rubs the back of his neck, and you see his cheeks color. Your fingers twitch under the blankets. You want to trace the splotches on his cheeks, feel their heat under your fingertips. 

“Then I’ll remind you,” he mumbles shyly, eyes downcast and fluttering from corner to corner of the room; anywhere and everywhere but on your face. “I’ll just have to remind you until you do.”

There’s a heavy silence that falls between you; thick and flammable. A simple spark could cause it to ignite. You hold your breath in anticipation 

“Now, seriously, go to sleep!” he nags, stomping towards the exit. “And drink water when you wake up. Goodnight, Y/N.”

He leaves you there, tucked warmly under the blankets. The room spins slowly, so you shut your eyes to stave off the dizziness. A groan floods your mouth, and you swallow saliva that pools on your tongue. When you’d wake in the morning, you know you’d be full of regrets. You’d regret drinking so much, and regret making a fool of yourself. 

That is, if you even remembered that last part.

[forwhump]

Beware Of Dog

a/n; thank you !!!!!!!! thank you thank you thank you so so much to everybody who was so so nice to me about my last blurb I don’t deserve it at all but I’m in love w you <3

I obviously have an immediate follow up to that blurb but because I refuse to post these chronologically or with any actual rhyme or reason at all here’s something completely different & unrelated 🤩 completely random pov in fact ! not even an actual chunk of the overall story but a random blurb I wrote to feel for a vibe ! gotta love it :’)

tw/cw: rape, noncon, attempted rape, attempted rapist pov, implied animal cruelty, implied animal death, misgendering, transphobia, dehumanization, graphic depictions of violence, beating

living weapon whumpee, creepy whumper, captivity, military, revenge, outside pov

Initiation, they’d called it.

It was really a punishment, but Vitriol was too green to know that.

He’d been expecting some kind of hazing, at any rate, so an initiation hadn’t surprised him. It’s no easy feat, getting a job in the district, and it’s next to impossible to make it through the next steps, the orientation. The soldiers in the district are the best in the country and Vitriol figured he was in for kind of a hard time, for a bit of hazing. He figured he’d have to prove himself.

But he fucked up, his first day, and he didn’t even know it. He’s punished all the same.

He was introduced to his faction and shown to the barracks. His platoon leader, Point, a decorated soldier, had looked up at him with a grin that wasn’t quite human and Vitriol should’ve known then that something was really wrong with him.

He’d been distracted, though. Truthfully, he’d barely looked at Point. Hadn’t thought much of his weird smile at all, really.

Point had a toy. A girl. A girl from the unit, if Vitriol had to guess — my favourite plaything, Point had cooed at her, holding her naked and facedown on the mattress of his bunk, forcing her thighs apart. Daddy’s favourite whore.

Vitriol didn’t need to ask to understand exactly why. She was magic; pretty hair and prettier skin, the mouth and the waist of a whore. Vitriol wanted to play with her, too — he tried. He wasn’t allowed. That was his mistake.

That nerve of you, greenhorn, Point had told him, lazy. He was still inside the girl, and he’d coiled a length of her hair around his fist to wrench her face up from his pillow. I don’t like to share. You’ll have to work for her.

Vitriol wasn’t entirely sure which one of them he was mocking but he found himself not caring too much either way. He’d barely heard Point, actually.

The girl was fucking enchanting. Her flush was splotchy and her mouth was swollen and her huge eyes were blown even wider with tears. She was magical. She sobbed, and it echoed through the barracks like ringing bells.

I’ll do whatever you need me to do, he said.

Initiation.

In the district, well below the chaos of the barracks and the unit, are arenas, made up to look like urban settings for the practical training of the super soldiers.

Hunt the girl down, Vitriol was told, and she’s fair game. Do whatever you want to her.

It had kinda seemed like he was being set up. It seemed too easy.

Nobody had warned him about Point’s vicious protective streak.

He’d grinned at Vitriol as he’d said, just look out for her dog.

Still, Vitriol hadn’t been concerned. He wasn’t really all too worried with the girl getting to have a dog — he had three to track her.

It took the better part of a day and a half, but the dogs chased the scent of her through an empty cityscape and cornered her villainously in an alley like a scene from a scary movie.

Vitrol’s heart beats a little quicker in turn and he can’t keep himself from grinning. They’d let him pick her dress, tiny and flimsy. She’s gonna have to wring it out when he’s done with her. She looks very pretty and very scared and it isn’t hard to see why Point likes her so much.

And y’know what? She doesn’t even have a dog.

He whistles, and his dogs hurry quickly back to his side. The girl tips her head back against the wall, chest heaving, and Vitriol is gonna have a lot of fun with her, he thinks. He grins a little wider. “Hey, baby.”

“Fuck you,” she spits, but her voice breaks. She’s crying.

God, he’s hard. He might also be in love with her.

“You and me are gonna have ourselves a lot of fun, I think,” he says, and he imitates her accent but he doesn’t really mean to. “Gonna put you to work, girl.”

“Get the fuck away from me,” the girl says, and she probably means to spit it at him but her voice breaks again and it sounds like a plea.

She’s magic.

And she has nowhere to run.

He presses her up against the wall. She fights, she’s more of a fighter than Vitriol had been expecting, but she’s a tiny thing and it isn’t hard to hold her there with his weight as he gets his hands beneath her dress. She screams bloody murder and it’s music to his ears.

“Well, I’ll be,” he says, and he’s still mocking her. It makes her flush, dark across the bridge of her nose. “You’re really something special, ain’t ya?”

“Fuck you,” she spits, and struggles like hell in his grip as he forces a leg between her thighs. “Get the fuck off me. Get off me!”

“I don’t think I will,” he tells her. He takes his time as he slides his hands up, over her hips, across her skin, delighting in the way she writhes against him, grinding against her as she tries to get away. He falters only for a moment, startled only when a roar echoes down the alley towards him from somewhere much closer than Vitriol would’ve expected. Her dog, apparently lying in wait, but Vitriol already knew she had a dog. Vitriol was prepared to deal with it.

He clicks his tongue at his own, angles his chin out of the alley, and the dogs take off obediently, snarling between them as they follow the roar. “I’m not afraid of your dog,” he tells the girl.

She breathes out a sound, so much more like a laugh than Vitriol would’ve expected that he looks back at her quickly. “You should be,” she says.

Another sound, this one just as thunderous but uncomfortably wet, chased closely by a pained howl that ends too suddenly. Vitriol looks quickly towards the opening of the alley but his dogs don’t come running back. He doesn’t hear them anymore. He looks back at her. “What the fuck is —“

He cuts himself off. The girl doesn’t interrupt him, and her dog doesn’t speak. Whatever the fuck she’s got, it’s no regular dog. Vitriol doesn’t need to turn to know when it materializes behind him; it’s so massive Vitriol can feel the force of it behind him, so massive it blocks out the fluorescent daylight.

It doesn’t say anything. Vitriol doesn’t, either. He stays frozen, his hands on the girl’s skin. She doesn’t urge her dog to attack, and for a moment, for a moment much too long, silence stretches and tension builds.

He looks at her blankly. She looks up at him and she smiles, bright and mocking. There isn’t a trace of fear left in her face and she looks more like a predator than Vitriol would’ve thought her capable, especially in such a demeaning little dress.

Her dog lingers behind him, and it isn’t even just that it’s big but that there’s a sort of violent rage radiating from it that Vitriol has only ever seen in videos of animal attacks.

Slowly, he places her back on her feet. “I’m fucked,” he drawls, “aren’t I?”

The girl’s smile widens. “Bless your heart.”

And then a truck barrels into the back of Vitriol’s head.

It’s the single hardest blow he’s ever taken. He knows his skull cracks because he can hear the sound it makes from the inside. White spots burst across his field of vision and his ears don’t start ringing, they squeal. He staggers into the nearest wall, dizzy, and his nose cracks as that truck crashes into him again and crushes his nose and both of his cheekbones against the brick.

A hand takes his hair, and his face is crushed against the brick again before he’s thrown to the ground. A handful of his hair is ripped out as he goes.

His already cracked skull ricochets off the concrete and the way the pain ripples all the way through him is an echo. It throbs not just in his head but every inch and ounce of him. The pain makes everything white, and Vitriol tries to blink through it as he peers up at the girl’s dog.

Except it isn’t a dog, and Vitriol had been set up; looming over him is a fucking monster. It isn’t a dog but it isn’t human either — it’s an abomination. It’s so massive it barely fits between the walls of the alley and it looms so far above Vitriol they aren’t sharing the same atmosphere. But it crouches down, sinks into Vitriol’s personal space, and it’s grotesque up close, patchwork flesh and thick, lifted scars. Its hair hangs in his face and it grins at Vitriol with all of its teeth.

“You have something that belongs to me,” it says, and it has the low, rumbling voice of a nightmare.

Vitriol is bleeding so much his head is floating on the concrete. “I,” he chokes out, and he’s surprised by how difficult it is to speak. His tongue feels weighted. “I’m sorry.”

“Not yet,” it tells him. It cracks its knuckles as it stands. “You will be.”

[finniestoncrane]

Christmas Gift Exchange

Scarecrow x Riddler x Batman, word count: 1.4k this is just a silly, flirty little thing for wonderful @constantron as part of the gift exchange for the arkham server!! request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: no sex, but plenty of suggestive stuff (also tiny cw for dubcon)

Edward knocked the end of his pristinely polished, golden cane against the door at the back entrance of the warehouse, signalling his arrival with a distinct rhythm before entering. Once inside, the door securely locked behind him, he reached a gloved hand into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled a silken handkerchief, monogrammed in a bright green with his initials. He ran it idly over the top of the cane where he had touched the door with it as he walked towards the centre of the dark space. 

“Crane…? Have you forgotten our meeting? Or are you perhaps hiding in the shadows, intent on trying to scare me?”

A voice replied to him from somewhere to his right, obscured by the darkness, but recognisable as his dear friend. 

“You know me all too well, Nygma.”

Appearing almost instantly, magically, as he stepped out from the pitch black and into the glow cast from the solitary, low-hanging ceiling lamp, Jonathan smiled as he devoured the sight of Edward. He was dressed as smart as usual, a distinct flare, however, in the exquisite patterned tie obviously a new purchase, as it wasn’t one he recognised. 

“Dressed for the occasion?”

“As always. And I see you aren’t… as always.”

Edward let his own eyes drift judgmentally up and down Jonathan’s slender frame, taking in the scruffy, hole-ridden clothes he refused to give up wearing. The sentimentality behind them pushed Edward’s lips up into a small smile, one not missed by Jonathan, who offered his in return.

“If I were to dress differently, you might think that there was something wrong. I know how your mind works. Always overthinking, trying so hard to use that big brain when there really isn’t much call for it.”

“Charming.”

Edward rolled his eyes, unable to refute the very astute observation. Sometimes, more often than he cared to admit, he could completely forget that Jonathan wasn’t just a slender, nightmarish vision in decades old garments, but that he was an accomplished academic. Nowhere near as smart as Edward, but enough for him to begrudgingly consider him a peer.

“Well, would you care to exchange gifts?”

“Seems apt.” 

Edward’s response was dripping with sarcasm, a playful cruelty that had Jonathan’s eyebrow raised. That was until he opened the wrapping paper and held up the overly stylish shirt, in Edward’s signature, emerald shade, against his torso. 

“I… see. A gift for yourself when I inevitably don’t wear it?”

“Tut tut, Crane. As if I would ever be so selfish. Now! My turn! Give it here!”

Edward put his hands out expectantly, grunting as Jonathan landed a small pile of three presents onto his palms. Eddie looked at the wrapped gifts, then back to Jonathan, and then back to the gifts.

“Well, open them.” 

Jonathan splayed his hand out, inviting Edward to partake in his side of the festive tradition of their gift exchange. When he had all three of the gifts in his hands, unwrapped and visible, he took another look around the warehouse, almost knowingly, as though he had found the answer to a question he had been pondering the entire time.

“These are hardly any different from the kind of gifts you usually get me, Crane.”

A bottle of flavoured lube, a pair of new, shiny handcuffs, and a Wartenburg wheel in the shape of a question mark. A nice touch, but nothing he wouldn’t have expected. 

“I suppose the location is what makes this different?”

Jonathan shook his head, a half-smile crossing his face. 

“In a way, yes. The location serves a… purpose. But don’t be so ungrateful Edward. These gifts here, these are just… appetisers, if you will. This… is your main course.”

With a flourish, Jonathan held out his hand, gesturing to his right. His left hand flicked a switch on the wall behind him. 

“Now, I know we agreed not to make a big deal out of all of this, but…”

The lights flickered, a gentle buzzing and a sharp, high-pitched clink sounding out as they came to life. They highlighted Edward’s gift, like a priceless artefact in a museum, like a jewel behind bulletproof glass. The light above his present perfectly illuminated it. All that was missing was the slow rotation of a lazy Susan to give that gameshow-esque prize treatment.

“Tah dah.”

Jonathan’s smile was smug, so self-satisfied. Not only had he made Edward feel guilty about his previous attitude towards his gift, but he had surprised him, something that was almost impossible to do when The Riddler was always four steps ahead. 

“Oh, Jonathan… you’ve outdone yourself! It’s - he’s - perfect.”

“I can’t offer any self-effacing modesty, I really have won this year’s exchange.”

Edward crouched down, looking into Batman’s eyes, as unimpressed as they were, and laughed incredulously as he rolled them. 

“So… how did you do it?”

“It wasn’t as difficult as you might think. We managed to come to an… amicable agreement.”

With eyebrows raised, Edward turned his head swiftly to Jonathan in disbelief.

“You got him to agree to this? Willingly?”

Jonathan tilted his head from side to side, as though measuring up the facts surrounding the capture of Batman and his hour-long monologue which had been delivered to his kidnappee before Edward had arrived.

“Perhaps not entirely willingly. But! He did agree, once we had our gentlemanly discussion. And certainly with more enthusiasm than I thought he would.”

Turning his attention once more towards the hulking mass of muscles that sat in the chair, tied up with copious amounts of rope, Edward smiled with an air of arrogance as he lifted up the strong chin of his new plaything, their eyes meeting.

“Is that so, Batman?”

The caped crusader narrowed his eyes below his mask, refusing to blink, not wanting to give Eddie the satisfaction. 

“At least if I know you two are distracted by whatever this is, then you’re not out there terrorising innocent people.”

“Oh, I dare say there’ll be hours of freedom for the good people of Gotham. I plan to get as much out of you as I can.”

Trying hard to keep his breath steady, remaining cool and collected as expected from him, Batman gritted his teeth, his spit frothing behind his words as he demanded an answer from them with the kind of aggression he felt they expected, or wanted, to see.

“So what kind of sick plan do you have for me? Am I here to witness the kind of acts you described to me in your lengthy monologue, Crane?” 

Jonathan stepped up to Edward, standing next to him before crouching slightly to get closer to Batman as his smile spread wide enough for his crooked teeth to show.

“Afraid not, dear Bat. You are the main attraction for this evening. Although, I’m sure you already knew that, given how quickly you gave in to my proposal. You practically tied those ropes yourself.”

As Jonathan taunted him, Edward had made his way around to the back of the chair and was draping himself over Batman’s wide, squared shoulders. His hands drifted lazily down the front of the kevlar coated suit, the curvature and ridges of the defined muscles speaking to him through his palms. With a quick grunt, Batman shifted his body ever so slightly, struggling briefly against the ropes as he played up the charade of trying to move himself away from Edward’s gentle, teasing touch. Tutting out loud, Edward let go and returned to Jonathan as he spoke.

“Pretend all you want, but you’re putting up very little fight for someone who has beaten me half to death for a lot less than kidnapping and the looming threat of sexual exploration.”

The two men stood side by side, eyes sparkling with lust and excitement as they waited with bated breath for the other to make the first move. Jonathan gave in, typically not one to deny himself any pleasure in the name of keeping face.

“Now, Eddie… shall we continue our conquest of the virginal vigilante?”

Edward took Jonathan’s hand in his own, beaming with excitement and joy at the events that were to unfold before him. 

“Oh, Jonathan. You make this terrible season almost tolerable."

[cherrypikkins]

FE3H OC Short Fics - Kitt Burgess

some short writings that feature my monster baby Kitt and their somewhat unsettling encounters with some of the students at Garreg Mach, namely Felix, Ashe, Bernadetta, Sylvain, and Claude.

uhhh cw for blood, injury, body horror(!), and death of a tiny animal

be warned and enjoy!

Felix

Kitt had a habit of skipping training, and Felix was always getting on their case. Sometimes he even had his sword out, challenging Kitt to expose the strength he knew was concealed within. They suppressed it like a sordid secret, and Felix was determined to carve the truth out with his blade if he had to.

This time, Kitt made him regret it. Almost.

His knuckles were white on the hilt of his blade as his back pressed against the wall. A massive shadow fell upon him. He had been hoping for a simple sparring match when he cornered Kitt. Never did he expect to be cornered in turn by a fearsome beast of scale, shadow, fang and claw, forcing him to weigh his chances of making it out alive.

"Swordsman," it acknowledged in a voice that was unmistakably monstrous, yet unmistakably Kitt's.

Felix gritted his teeth. His lip curled in a fierce half-grin. "That's some trick," he said, attempting his usual scoff. He could convince himself he was unafraid, if he tried hard enough.

The thing that was Kitt laughed and laughed and laughed. Its throat dripped with ichor and cruelty. Despite his misgivings, Felix found something strangely poetic about this whole scene. It evoked the stories Glenn used to read to him - not of knights and chivalry, but of fearsome monsters… and those who hunted them.

"You asked me not to hold back, and thus I obliged." It appeared to pace calmly, until Felix realized it was moving into an attack position. "But are you sure you're ready for this? I've sunk my teeth into stronger, sturdier knights than you, Swordsman. With neither shield nor armor to protect you, your flesh will only rend quicker."

Those words made his temper flare, banishing all hesitation. "You'll find that I'm no knight, Beast," he growled with fury and anticipation. Oh, he was going to enjoy this.

Kitt laughed louder still as Felix kicked off the wall, lunging forward into glorious battle to test his blade. Not against knight or bandit, but against a creature he had seen only in storybooks and nightmares alike.

Ashe

Kitt strolled through the ancient halls of the monastery, humming a vague tune. Their footsteps paused.

Something scurried in the corner. Their instincts flared. With inhuman swiftness, Kitt was upon the mouse within seconds. Amber eyes gazed with listless curiosity as it wriggled helplessly in their palm. The mouse barely had a fighting chance before it was stuffed into the jaws of a beast that was beyond its comprehension.

Kitt wrestled the tiny critter with tongue and teeth before gulping it down, tail and all. There was a moment of uncomfortable wriggling. Then all was still.

Satisfied, they turned a heel - and came immediately face-to-face with Ashe.

The boy's face was white as a sheet. "Kitt… did you just…?"

Kitt's head tilted, eyes forming slits. They leaned in, just an hair's breadth nearer. That slight but sudden movement was enough to make Ashe flinch.

In that moment they both knew - it was too late for denials. The boy had seen everything.

A hair-splitting tension filled the darkening corridor.

Kitt mused, eyes flickering briefly to the side. Then they smiled, as if they didn't have a mouse trapped in their teeth just seconds ago.

"Let's keep this between you and me. Okay, Ashe?" Kitt suggested sweetly. They had probably meant to reassure him, never realizing just how threatening they sounded in that moment.

Ashe dared to meet Kitt's eyes just once, and for a brief second, he caught a glimpse of something horrifying. Something not unlike the ghosts that haunted his nightmares. And yet, he found himself unable to look away.

"R-r-right. Not a soul," he stammered with a weak grin. Not that anyone would believe him, anyways.

Pleased, Kitt gave him one last good-natured smile before pivoting and continuing their way along the corridor, making noises like they were cleaning their teeth with their tongue.

Ashe felt his knees finally give in as he sank to the floor, feeling faint.

Bernadetta

Bernadetta, as usual, was hiding. This time her refuge of choice was a sturdy shed where she huddled in the dark, sniffling and shaking. Right now, she wasn't hiding from anything in particular, but her chest was wracked with the familiar pangs of anxiety and terror such that being, no… breathing out in the open was unbearable…

The door to the shed swung open. Bernadetta shrieked as daylight flooded in. She stared up fearfully at the figure at the doorway, eyes widening.

"K-Kitt?" she gasped.

The figure cursed and - without warning - lunged. Bernadetta screamed as Kitt made desperate apologies that were all but incoherent to her. Something that sounded like 'there's no time to explain' and 'it's happening now', and other nonsense that Bernadetta was too panicked to comprehend while being manhandled out of the shed.

It took Bernadetta a moment to realize that she was effectively being shoved out of her own hiding place, and Kitt had claimed it for themselves. She stared in complete bewilderment as the door slammed shut in her face, with Kitt still inside. The last thing she saw was a look of pain, fear, and regret…

"Kitt? Wh-what's wrong? A-answer me! P-p-please!" Her anxiety was replaced by concern, much to her surprise.

Disturbing noises emanated from the shed as though something writhed in the dark, gouging the creaking wood. Kitt's voice was halfway between a growl and a groan. "Bernie… Whatever you do, don't let this door open… Promise me...."

"Wh-what? Why?! Kitt? Tell me what's going on…" Bernadetta stammered, reaching for the handle.

The entire shed suddenly rattled, as though something massive was trying to escape - violently. The wooden panels threatened to splinter and buckle as it slammed against the door.

"LET ME OUT! TRAITORS! MURDERERS! DEFILERS! HOW DARE YOU! LET ME OUT OF HERE, I BEG OF YOU! BEFORE THEY COME... BEFORE I TEAR YOU APART..."

Bernadetta flinched and dropped to the ground as an otherworldly howl, desperate and enraged, filled her ears.

"YOU CAN'T KEEP ME IN HERE FOREVER, COWARD! WHY DID YOU ABANDON ME? WHERE IS YOUR MERCY? WHERE IS MY JUSTICE? I WON'T FORGIVE YOU! SOMEONE SAVE ME! PLEASE! IT HURTS! I'LL KILL YOU!!"

The sheer hatred and agony in Kitt's distorted voice left her terrified, yet somehow filled with sorrow and pity. She remained rooted to the spot, not understanding anything or knowing what to do, as the monstrous seething finally ceased…

A puddle of black ichor had formed at the door of the shed, staining her shoes and hissing with vapor. All of her instincts told her to run away, fast as her legs could carry. And yet, something in her heart broke as she grappled to comprehend what Kitt must be going through right now.

Her hand grasped the handle of the door before she could stop herself.

Sylvain

Sylvain was the first and only one to see Kitt collapse out of nowhere. He lunged towards Kitt as they crumpled to the ground, seizing violently. Their bones creaked and cracked, and the veins on their arms darkened…

"H-hey! Kitt, you okay? Talk to me," Sylvain pleaded. His hand hovered, desperate to help but afraid to touch. To say that he had no idea what he was dealing with would be an understatement.

"Syl…vain…" Kitt hissed between clenched teeth, clutching and clawing at themselves in pain. "You need to…get away from here… AGH!!"

Alarmed, Sylvain placed a hand on their shoulder to hold them steady. His eyes widened as a black and inky substance pooled at his fingertips. To his horror, the veins on Kitt's arms began to split and crack, oozing black ichor that encased their limbs and form. He flinched as onyx black scales began to erupt, rippling and razor sharp. Then came the spikes, jutting out painfully as they burst from Kitt's very flesh…

Sylvain drew back, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. It was a scene that hit too close to home, for it was strikingly similar to the way Miklan had transformed…

By now, Kitt had curled up into a kneeling position, shuddering as they braced themselves against the waves of pain. Covered in black scales, they were nigh unrecognizable. Then came the fangs, and the claws. Amber eyes blackened with corruption and caved in until they were wide and hollow as the void. Black ichor gushed out, a horrifying mockery of weeping…

"Goddess…" Sylvain inhaled sharply, staring at the otherworldly being that Kitt had become. The desire to help overrode the instinct to run, and so he reached out tentatively with a hand. "Kitt… I'm so sorry. Does it…does it hurt?"

The creature screamed at him, its voice shrill and unearthly, no longer a human but a being of rage and agony and hatred and sorrow. The moment it lashed out, Sylvain refused to turn away. Instead, he braved the creature's claws and fangs to pull Kitt into a tight hug.

Kitt's eyes widened as Sylvain murmured into their ear. "It's okay… I'm here. I'm with you. I won't leave you alone. I'll help you get through this - I promise."

Sylvain tightened his grip as Kitt wept ichor and blood upon his shoulder.

Claude

Kitt sighed with weary relief as they sank into the water, submerged to the shoulders in its cool and calming embrace. The scales that covered their body glittered faintly under moonlight. There was something about the monastery pond that soothed the familiar pains of their transformation. Their limbs still ached and their veins still burned, but it was far more bearable this time. Most important of all, however, the peace and serenity of this moment. For now, the monster within was quiet. Resting. Basking.

Kitt's mind began to drift, reflecting on past events. It was but a second too late before they noticed the sudden footfalls approaching.

Claude arrived just in time to see something dip beneath the surface with the slightest splash. He smiled wryly.

"Not quick enough this time, I'm afraid," he reprimanded light-heartedly.

Hiding under the rickety dock, Kitt felt the wood above their head creak with Claude's weight.

"We both know that there's no use hiding, friend. So why don't you come out and say hello?" Claude's eyes flitted across the pond hopefully. "No? Well, it was worth a try…"

His voice was more playful than threatening. But Kitt knew how Claude's mind worked. Even if it was a game, he played to win. And he was just as determined to find out the secret of the monastery's pond as much as Kitt as desperate not to let him.

Claude heard a faint splash underneath his feet and smirked. "Aha. As I expected, looks like our little water bug is hiding under the pier. Let's have a look at you…" Kneeling down on the dock, he braced his hands on the edge of the planks and craned his head down to have a look underneath…

A pair of cold, scaly hands grabbed the back of his collar and pulled with startling strength.

"Woah, wha-"

He barely had time to react as his quarry turned the tables on him, hauling him head-first into the pond with a resounding and unceremonious splash.

Claude's head submerged briefly before breaching the surface with a gasp. His arms flailed in the water as he looked around wildly for the one that had pulled him in.

Aside from his splashing, the pond was tranquil and empty. He was alone. But not quite.

He turned his head to the sound of hurried footsteps, running away barefoot from the pond. A familiar figure fled in the distance, but escaped into the shroud of night before he could fully recognize them.

Soaked to the bone, Claude clicked his teeth in good-natured frustration. A clever play, he admitted with a quiet grin. He was zero-for-one now, but the game had just begun.

There is now a part 2 :)

[castor-tech-ghoul]

Ooc post!

Alright fuckers (affectionate) I'm gonna post some rambles about this little fucker's backstory, trauma, and overall context bc eventually I'm gonna write a ficlet based off @anotherbananasong world build >:]

So, the tea about Castor (my top favorite oc tbh)

Ah yes, cw for death, abuse, irresponsible use of ghouls and their abilities, ptsd, and violence

They were originally summoned by a young, reckless Nihil before he became Papa, and he was still a Cardinal. The Summoning was intense and it happened to go in the record book of strongest rituals and ghouls to be summoned (though those records were beaten by Copia later, but that's a different story.)

Castor had been the strongest air ghoul to be summoned in decades, tied by contract to this... immature little shit. Naturally, Nihil abused this power and made Castor an attack dog. Anyone who defied, displeased, or had beef with Nihil had to face off with a tall ass, feral, all-powerful Air Ghoul. More than once has Cas watched the light leave the eyes of ghouls and humans alike as they suffocated them, siphoning the oxygen from their lungs and brains with just a mere look. More than once has the ghoul done the opposite and filled someone's body with so much oxygen that they simply exploded like a meat balloon.

Nihil reveled in the power he had at his finger tips, the most powerful Papa of the time thanks to Castor, and Cas reveled in the fear and respect they evoked from anyone who dared to catch the golden eyes of the pale demon.

Decades passed of not just Nihil, but Seestor too, using the ghoul to their advantage. Attacking and maiming anyone who asked too many questions or stepped out of line too often. Eventually, Seestor attempted to "retire" the air ghoul, changing their contract once more to be a guardian of three children important to the Emeritus bloodline. Sister Imperator had since paid off the boys' real mother's and sent them to fancy places far, far from the ministry, so they would not threaten her place beside Nihil any further.

Castor, in their own way, was fond of the boys. They had protected them the way they were taught, with violence and threats. It was all they knew, blood on their claws and face was familiar and to do it in honor of keeping the bloodline alive was the greatest feeling, it even came with an alarming amount of scars to prove their worth.

It was a pleasant feeling until one day in particular. The ghoul was watching the three boys like a ghost, following and all seeing. They had requested an outing to the courtyard and Cas merely followed behind, glaring at everyone who greeted the children until they were amongst the gardens that were kept alive by earth magick from deep in the forest. Castor had gotten distracted watching Primo and Secondo play with a bunny they had found, they almost missed the sound of Terzo yelping in pain. Almost.

In an instant, the Air Ghoul was beside the youngest of the brothers, ready to kill whoever had dared to lay a hand on their responsibility. The thing about all those decades of murder, torture (both for fun and necessity), and over all cruelty, is that it eventually catches up on someone. Especially someone as old as Cas. They didn't even register that the "threat" was a Sibling of Sin's teenager, all they saw was the object and cause of Terzo's distress and they did what they knew best thanks to all those decades with Nihil and Imperator. They lunged for the teen, gold eyes blazing, a growl deep enough to vibrate the very ground under them, and claws outstretched to punish the boy...

They didn't even hear Terzo cry out, a tiny but determined voice, "Cas! No!"

The young Emeritus had dove between the teenager and the Air Ghoul's claws, which instead found their mark on Terzo's arm before they managed to pull back. The two of them stared at each other for a heartbeat, the teen running off and Terzo's brothers coming to the rescue far too late. More crying filled the air now, and it was the worst, most heart-wrenching sound Castor had heard in years.

The injury hadn't been too bad in all honesty. It was mainly just scary to the seven year old boy. Just a couple stitches was all it needed and he healed quickly thanks to the aid of quintessence from Sister Imperator's chamber ghoulette. But while Terzo's wound hadn't been severe, the threat of Castor upon the boy had been grand. Seestor no longer wanted the feral ghoul near the boys, not now that Copia had been born as well. Nihil had unfortunately agreed with her.

The air ghoul had been dragged before the council, which mainly consisted of Sister Imperator, her chamber ghoulettes, Nihil and his other ghouls, and of course Mr. Saltarian. Castor had feared the worst, that they would be hurtled head first back into the Pit. That they would feel this vessel and their very being get scorched and melted down to the bones and soul residing inside until they were nothing but air again. Oh, but fate had been much worse than that for them.

After a lot of consideration, Sister sat forward and sneered down at the ghoul. The ghoul who had never been anything but loyal and strong for them, a rock for their weak mortality and morals to lean on and abuse. She spoke calmly and sternly while Nihil almost looked... sorry. Not sorry enough apparently, as Sister Imperator ordered her quintessence ghoulette to pin Castor down, they were too strong and valuable to cast back into the Hearth and the Pit. Instead, the ghoulette forced her quintessence into their mind, ravaging and picking out every memory since being summoned by Nihil and locking it all away into a gold and ivory plated box in the back of their mind, only to be opened by a quintessence ghoul with immense power and complete control over their element. The Ministry couldn't have them being wild, feral, and bloodthirsty. But that power was too valuable to waste, so instead, they wiped the slate clean entirely.

When Castor awoke, Primo was Papa, and Secondo was Cardinal. They were standing in the summoning chamber, looking wild and confused as The Second laid claim to their soul and bound them to not only him, but all his brothers as well. As far as Castor is aware, they're just a lower level air ghoul. They don't question the scars littered across their body anymore, assuming all the memories of them are repressed from how terrible it must have been, and the brothers say nothing of it either. So what if Castor has night terrors now, waking up to the feeling of blood and flesh on their claws and fangs? So what if their scars throb after those night terrors of gnashing teeth and blazing heat or unmovable earth or unrelenting water? Who cares if they look in the mirror sometimes, not certain of who they are with this nagging feeling that something is wrong? What mattered is that they don't remember what happened before, they're just the tech ghoul now, the one who keeps the shows together and running smoothly. Cardinal Copia's favorite little air ghoul with such pretty pale blue, light grey, and white wings that have little gold flecks...

[noxexistant]

inspired by rachel @starlightandmusings's post

cw; abuse, animal (insect) cruelty

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It's easy to pilfer the magnifying glass from his father's study. Nigel Snyder, after all, is rarely home, and though he leaves his study locked — "I don't trust those immigrants one bit," he'd muttered, regarding the staff he hires to raise his children in his and his wife's stead — it had been just as easy to steal the key. The nannies pay him little mind, preferring to fuss over the comparable nightmares that are his elder sisters, so Alex is free to do as he pleases.

A luxury, he supposes, of being male. He's their golden child, their youngest and sole heir as the only boy, but even such status can't earn him the attention of his parents.

He tells himself he's glad for it. His mother is home, he presumes, but he puts no effort into finding her the way he might've when he was younger. Acting out just to seek her attention, brandish his father's ornate magnifying glass at her, just to be shouted at for a moment before she calls for a maid to have off with him.

No, today, he just sneaks out of one of the back doors. Through the empty keeping room and then the mud room, out onto the veranda and then down the brick steps to the grass. He's wary of the windows behind him, though he's sure nobody is looking for him — they could still catch a glimpse by chance, and he isn't in the mood to have his plans interrupted. The magnifying glass is heavy in his palm and there's an itch beneath his skin, one that's been festering since just after dinner last night. When his father had brought him to a sitting room and caned him bloody for his piano teacher's report that he still can't play that godforsaken scale.

As if tearing his back and the backs of his hands open would help.

The wounds sear now as he clenches his fist, tight around the carved wooden handle where he imagines his father's palm sitting. Holding the magnifying glass up to read the tiny print of his newspapers, nose buried in The World, muttering about how it's gone downhill since the new owner. Alex tries to read the papers once his father's done with them and discarded them, but he can rarely bring himself to care. The stories inside are never as interesting as the headlines — it's all boring. Boring, boring, boring, and trite, and stupid. The newspapers, and his brutish father, and his disinterested mother, and his stupid sisters, and the piano lessons, all his lessons.

He walks across the grass to the gardens. Immaculately tended, rows of fine flowers in every colour, benches where nobody ever sits, carved stone slabs and painted tile. And the insects that crawl all over, present no matter what methods the gardeners employ to try and banish them. He looks at the flowers closest — a bush of white roses — and catches a glimpse of red amongst them, watches as a ladybird crawls amongst the petals. Stark like a drop of blood. He's struck by the urge to rip the bloom from its stem, crush it in his palm, but that is a crime with evidence and one he would be beaten black for upon being found out.

His father doesn't even like the flowers.

Instead, Alex keeps to his plan. He lowers his gaze to the slabs beneath his feet, around his polished leather shoes, and walks, slowly, around the gardens, paying rapt attention until he sees the first signs of movement. Less stark than the red of the ladybird, though the black of their bodies seems to shine in the sunlight as they walk.

Ants.

Alex crouches and watches them. Close enough now to see the brown of their heads, the shape of their strange little bodies, the way their legs move. He wonders, absentmindedly, what the world is like for them, being so small. If they have the sense in their tiny heads to communicate. To tell each other to be afraid of him.

In any case, they don't run. Not even as he raises the magnifying glass. The sun is hanging high above them, bright and clear — he can feel the warmth of it against the nape of his neck, it seems to burn against the split and bruised backs of his hands. But still, he holds the magnifying glass steady, tilting it slowly until he finally catches the sunlight into a bright, burning ray.

The ants still don't run. What would be the point if they did? They're so small, and he's bigger. Stronger. Smarter. He's the one holding the fire that burns them. He wouldn't let them get away.

He thinks of his father. He thinks of being unable to get away, big hands always pulling him back, holding him helpless and immobile.

The ants burn.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

If you're not comfortable writing this that's completely okay

Can I request Eddie with an FTM Reader boyfriend who has really bad cramps and he's dysphoric because he's on his period, and Eddie tries his best to help?

This could go from cuddles to "sex helps with cramps right?" With a sprinkle of breeding kink?

Again if you're uncomfortable, I understand

Hi, thanks for the request and your patience. I feel really touched that you feel safe enough to come with me for this request! As a note, I am not a trans man and thus, my depiction of this event will not be fully accurate. If there is anything that I have portrayed inaccurately, please let me know and I’ll be happy to correct it and learn more. I am completing this request in the hopes to allow others to be seen and to create more space for trans people in the community. 

Disclaimer: Some of what has been portrayed in this blurb is based off the interviews and research conducted in the article, “Queering Menstruation: Trans and Non-Binary Identity and Body Politics” by Sarah Frank. I recognize one article is not enough to get a full picture of an entire community. But I hope there is something that this fic gets right for folks and that it expands this conversation even just a tiny bit. 

CW: This request does deal with periods and feelings of dysphoria. If that triggers you, please do not read. Seriously--don’t do it. There is a read more higher up than I usually do to accommodate. 

Eddie Munson x Trans!Male Reader. Reader is 20.

Send me a request here! Currently writing for Eddie Munson. I write for a variety of reader inserts (male, female, gender neutral, POC too).

Feel free to look through my masterlist here!

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There is a cruelty to it all--you’re sure of it. As you’re curled up under the sheets, back of your hands wiping at your cheeks, you are sure that this has to fall under the stark definition of cruel and unusual punishment. The worst part of it all is that it’s not unusual. One week out of every month--it’s supposed to be natural and yet, something about it hangs like an anvil ready to take your head. Maybe it’s the language--what you grew up around. Maybe it’s more than that, maybe it will always be more than that. But the inescapable fact of your reality is that you are here--curled up under sheets. 

To make matters worse, the cramps are horrible this time. So much so you puked at work and got sent up. It’s a reminder of a simple fact: this body isn’t really yours. Not yet anyway. This body is not doing everything you wish it wouldn’t. This body still doesn’t show who you really are. But you’re carrying it around, all 206 bones, all twenty feet of small intestines, fingers, toes, elbows, eyeballs. You’re carrying around a body that still mocks you for an entire week out of the month. Twelve weeks in a year. Much too long to suffer and too many times to feel like the butt of a cruel twisted joke. 

“Baby?”

You turn your head, pulling it up off the pillow just enough to see Eddie’s head peeking in through the door. His eyes are still big, wet, and bright even in streaks of daylight behind the partially open curtains. “Hi,” you whisper. Your voice is thick and rough--probably from the lack of water. 

“How-how can I help?”

It’s like Eddie knows. You rest your head back onto your pillows and let out a sigh. “I-” you start, and then stop hearing how your voice catches in your throat. When you blink, tears fall down your eyes, along the apple of your cheek down to your ears. “Don’t know,” you conclude.

Eddie’s careful and quiet as he approaches. The bed dips and you can hear him shucking off the layers. He doesn’t unravel you from your sheets. Instead, he curls one arm around your waist and rest his cheek against yours. There’s some scruff, no doubt from the couple of days that have lapsed since his last shave. 

The thought lights your chest on fire. It’s a soothing tactile sensation. You wish you could bury it pores of your skin. You want turn, face Eddie better and when you go to plant your feet, a sharp zing of pain runs from your spine to your stomach. The movements are paused and you bury your head in your pillow before the shaky shout climbs out of your chest. The frustration--sadness and fear intertwined as well--bubble up and out of your lips into the pillow. Eddie’s arm squeezes around your waist. “Hey,” his voice is soft against your cheek. “Hey, I got you, sweet boy. It’s okay.”

He means well. You know he does. You try to focus on the soft and steady pass of Eddie’s palm over your stomach. It’s reassuring just a little. It lets you know you’re not physically alone. 

“There’s gotta be something I can do. Tea? I think I can be trusted not to burn down a kitchen to fix some tea. Hot compress?” Eddie’s fingers find your chin, sliding up to your cheek. He wipes away some of the fresh tears that have fallen. “Please,” he whispers. 

You can’t tell if he’s pleading with you or some unfathomable force of the universe. You hope whoever is out there listens. 

“I don’t know if I can move right now,” you whisper out shakily. “I’m not even sure I’m thinking at all.”

“Greg said he had to send you home. Said you puked.”

You nod. “I did.”

“You take anything yet for the cramps?”

The words makes your skin crawl, and you try not to react physically to it. “I fell asleep once I got home. I think I got crackers and ginger ale down.”

The bed shifts again. Eddie’s warmth leaves your back and side with the shift. There’s a crinkle somewhere to the left of you. “If this is a fresh sleeve, you only got a couple down.”

“Sounds about right,” you hum. 

“Did you keep it down?”

“Yeah, I did.”

Eddie’s hair greets you before he does, some wisps of the ends falling around your nose. “You stay here. Don’t move a muscle and I’ll be back in a minute okay?”

“Okay.” That much you can do. 

You can only listen to the shuffle. The bathroom door cracks open, the medicine cabinet clicking open. There's a rattle and you're pretty positive that it’s Eddie grabbing some meds. There’s more clicking. The light from the hallway dims and then Eddie’s shadows pass along the walls. He’s further now from you, probably in the kitchen. You listen and listen and listen. 

“Can you do me a solid?” Eddie asks. 

You catch his body halfway hanging inside the room as he rests his weight against the wall and the door. “Depends.”

“Ah, there he is. But what’s your favorite mug?”

Your brows furrow at the question. “I-I don’t have a favorite mug.”

“Nonsense. You have to have that one mug or cup that if you drink something out of it it just tastes better. Now c’mon cough if up.”

You laugh--not that you really want to, but because the question is so ridiculously Eddie that you can’t help it. “Uh, there’s a mug from my trip to Arizona that I really like.”

“Got it, Arizona mug. Thank you, lovebug.” Eddie’s gone again, you watch him disappear this time. 

“Arizona mug does have a nice ring to it,” you mutter to yourself. You blink your gaze over to the alarm clock to check the time. It’s just before 4. You got sent home from work around 11 this morning. 

Eddie has a ritual--comes by your job after work and hang out until the end of your shift, usually around 4:30. You two usually head to someone’s place--his or yours. There’s some TV or a rental if you two didn’t get to it over the weekend. Usually you play a game with Eddie---he barters with you about helping with dinner and you tell him he has to complete at least two homework assignments. It always ends with you letting him do some of the prep if it’s more involved and then you taking over at the end. 

And it means today, Eddie went to your job, probably worried about the lack of your car being there and then came racing to your place once your boss let Eddie know you’d been sick at work. You hope it wasn’t too bad of a scare. There was no way for you to get the information to him while he was in school that wouldn’t cause him to skip. Maybe it’s selfish. But if you’re honest, you just couldn’t deal. You didn’t want to verbalize it. Thankfully, you hadn’t to fully. 

You’re sure after the first two waves of this, Eddie can put the pieces together. You’re grateful that he’s giving you the grace. But you know you have to push yourself up soon. It’s going to suck. You hope you don’t vomit again when you do. If only could have a body that didn’t hate you. 

You take a deep breathe--inhaling in through your nose and then pushing it all out through slightly parted lips. “Just to the bathroom. It’s okay.”

“Didn’t I tell you not to move a muscle?”

“I-it’s just I gotta go to the bathroom.”

Eddie nods, a hum leaving his throat. “Not before some meds.” You nod, taking the few pills from him and swallow it down without taking the cup of water. “Metal,” he snorts in return. 

“I try to when I can. Can you help me up please?”

“Of course, yeah.” Eddie sets the mug, denoting the stop in Phoenix, Arizona, and scoops you up from your seated position. 

“I am a full human being, you know, right? A grown man, thank you,” You huff, allowing Eddie to carry you to the bathroom. It’s a little shaky at first, but he gets you there. 

“Just because you have a tax paying job does not mean you get to boast about it.” 

“It’s not like I’m making the big bucks, or anything.”

“It’s something. A job someone has to do.”

“Riveting work it is to be a line cook,” you snort. The two of you cross the threshold into the bathroom then. Before Eddie sets you down, you bury your face in his shoulder. You want to tell yourself it’s okay. But it doesn’t feel okay. Nothing feels okay. “Just one more second.”

“Take all the seconds you need.”

You don’t need to tell Eddie that if you wait too long you’re probably bleed all over him. But you highly doubt he’d care. But it’s already awful enough dealing with the period by itself, you don’t think you’d have the mental capacity to handle ruining Eddie’s clothes and yours at the same time. 

You inhale--the musk of Eddie’s cigarettes, cheap cologne, the slight twinge of sweat from P.E. no doubt and try to still the racing thoughts. Just a few more days. But that’s just for now. Then there will be a next time. “Fuck this!” you huff.

“I’ve got something else you can fuck that’s for sure,” Eddie snorts. 

You huff a life, nothing serious, but it’s just enough. Eddie kisses your temple. You take another inhale and then nod. “I’m okay.”

It’s not without a grunt and the crack of a knee that Eddie sets you down. “Good God,” you tease. “You’re getting old.”

“Fuck off,” Eddie laughs. 

“Yeah, I’m sure you have something I can fuck.”

Eddie’s touch on your cheek is tender. “I do. I always do, but only if you want it.”

“Such a gentleman,” you coo. You mean it to come out with some bite, but it comes out gooey like melting chocolate from your throat. 

“Only when you deserve it,” Eddie snarks. “I save it for special occasions.”

“Like you don’t look at me like I’ve hung the stars when you have sex.”

“While that may be true!” Eddie huffs, cheeks turning red. “Fucking sue me for loving my boyfriend, okay? God. Now, I’m going to leave. And you only need to shout if you need me okay.”

You nod in response. “I love you too, Eds.”

Eddie’s grin lights up his whole face, like it always does. Watching him smile feels like you’re basking in a ray of the sun. It warms you top to bottom, and you’re never really able to stare him directly in the face, lest it blind you. He presses another kiss to your lips. “Now, all offers are still on the table once you’re done. I’ve read orgasms help with cramps.”

“Maybe once the meds dull some of this.”

“Sounds delicious. I await with bated breaths.” Eddie’s steps take him over the threshold, hands locked aroun the door handle. “But seriously, holler if you need me, okay?”

You nod, a soft affirmative falling from your lips. The door slips shut. You wait a beat, then two. You pop the doors to the under sink cabinet, grab what you need and then watch the door again. “Holler,” you state. Nothing louder than your usual volume and the door cracks open. 

Eddie’s face peers around the crack. “Yes, baby?”

“Just missed you,” you return. That and you’re trying to ground yourself again, remind yourself you’re on Earth. 

“Missing you too. You good?”

“Yeah, I’ll be done in a second.”

He nods, backs out of the crack and then shuts the door again. “I was thinking though, like, there’s a really cool mug in the cabinets you got. It’s a Scooby Doo mug. And I’m thinking there’s no way the Arizona mug is your favorite. I mean, Scooby Doo is right there.”

You’re still on Earth--and whatever that meant you weren’t sure. But you’re glad to be Earthside with Eddie. Poised with the pad in hand, you sigh. “Eddie, you cannot berate my mug choices while I’m sitting on the toilet. Didn’t Wayne tell you to never kick a man while he’s down?”

Eddie’s laughter floats in through the crack under the door.