#steaming fucking pile of dog shit

[scribe-of-monsters]

Someday I'll make a hate post for dark descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein but not today

[tiredmetalenthusiast]

Monsters walk at night (Monster!Price x f!reader)

Another one for @glitterypirateduck Price writing challenge!

Scenarios used, 16. ‘A Pursuit takes place’ and 44. 'A world where mates exist':

Warnings: monster fucking, NSFW, unprotected p in v, partial smut, literally getting chased down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It started off as an innocent walk through the woods by the large cabin Price had rented, (seemed more like a house when you saw it), stating you all needed a break. He had distributed the rooms when you all had arrived, securing the perimeter and making sure the security cameras and alarm system worked. You remember the day clearly.

The fridge was fully stocked as were the bathrooms, all the amenities needed for a few days stay away from civilization. You walked into the kitchen getting ready to make some food, the drive there was long and you were absolutely starving. “What are ye plannin ta make and can I have some because I am famished.” You turned to find Johnny strolling into the kitchen. “Well I wasn’t offering to make dinner just looking for a snack, but it’d be a shame to have the cabin burn down.” Johnny groans from the table, “It was one time bonnie! Was nae like I was plannin on burnin the place up!” “Johnny you set the place ablaze tryin to make CUP OF SOUP!” “I was tired!”

Price walked in shaking his head as Ghost and Gaz came in behind him chuckling. Simon piped up, “So you makin food or not?” You roll your eyes, “I’ll make a steaming pile of dog shit just for you Ghost.” “Make sure it has garlic and potatoes, yeah?” After dinner was decided on, (not dog shit), everyone settled in for the night with the exception of you and John. “Fancy a walk luv? There are lights on the trails.” You think about it for a minute and nod, “Sure. Seems like a nice night, gotta walk off that meal too.” You both chuckle and walk outside, the night warm so there was no need for jackets.

You both had been walking for about 20 minutes, the scenery beautiful and calming, making small talk as the scent of Price’s cigar smoke wafts around in the night air. The light from the cigars burning tip gave Price’s already attractive features a boost, almost making him look scary in the dark of the woods. “You know, I could use a bit more exercise. Up for a chase?” You look at him confused as he takes a hit from his cigar and blows the smoke upwards, the red embers showing in his eyes.

He leans closer as you take a step back, his eyes gleaming, his teeth seeming sharper. “Run.” That was all you needed as you took off into the trees. You don’t know how long you ran before you finally heard his boots hitting the ground behind you. He was far but not by much, the sound of his boots thudding loudly, almost like he was heavier now. You had briefly stopped behind a large rock but continued when you heard his voice ring through the forest, loud and strange. “Run all you want sweetheart. I can smell you from a mile away.”

You had barely made it to a clearing when you were tackled from behind. You managed to turn over, finding Price but he looked different. Horns protruded from his head, a spiked tail swaying behind him, teeth razor sharp and eyes glowing like the flames of hell. “Caught you darling. Smelled you the second you started running. Getting chased down turn you on?” You blushed, turning your head away. Sure you had always found Price attractive, you knew he wasn’t totally human, and maybe you had some disrespectfully spicy dreams about him, so who could blame you for being turned on.

He nudged your cheek before moving to your neck, inhaling your scent. “My mate.” “What?” “You’re my mate luv. Smelled it the second you walked onto base.” “ O-oh, um I-“ “Do you accept? I may be a monster but I’m not an asshole. I’ve seen your dreams, heard your whispers.” “This isn’t a joke right? Because…I love you, have for a while and if this is some weird or cruel joke just so you can get laid it’s not funny.”

His eyes widened, stunned. “You think so low of me? That I would make a joke of something so serious?” You shake your head no and he sighs in relief. Nuzzling into your neck, he licks and groans as he tastes your flesh mixed with sweat. “Do you accept?” You nod, “Words, dearest.” “I accept.” A rumble forms in his chest as you kiss him and you both begin to undress. You had felt the bulge of him rubbing against your thigh through the talk and it had you needy.

To say he was large was an understatement as you openly stared at the size of him. “It’ll fit fine luv, no worries.” You nodded hesitantly, “Please be gentle.” He kisses you to smooth your nerves as he slowly pushes in, catching all your pretty noises in his mouth. “That’s it darling. You were made to take me.” He was only half way in but you already felt so full of him but he continued to slip inside unhindered. When his hips finally connected with your’s he left out a drawn out moan into the night air and pulled back slowly. “I hope you’re ready sweetheart, because it’s about to be a long night.” Running a hand over the obvious bulge in your skin, you clench and that’s enough to get him started.

The night is spent surrounded by the sound of his hips meeting your’s, breathy moans, the name of your captain loud on your lips and hands firmly gripping his horns for the ride. He didn’t let up until the sun had almost broken the horizon, both of you spent and newly mated.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

as someone obsessed with pussy steve, it drives me insane because i was doing my final exam today and all i was thinking about is "am i going to read the same pussy steve blog of S? yeah tf i am" and im here requesting from u some more pussy steve bc goddamn thats my obsessionnnnn. plus it's my first time asking u to write anything (i dont do shit but read things here and trying not fail school at the same time)

related to this pussy Steve ask

also... we're channeling this vibe shamelessly as we continue on from that last post, still set during WWII

Good job with your finals!! Let's dive in 👀

Steve can't fucking take it anymore, groaning as he flops back onto the squeaky, lumpy mattress that's supposed to be his bed. They've been holed up in this goddamn remote rubble city for what feels like years after clearing the town of HYDRA and Nazi agents with no action to burn off his excessive energy. The once standing city has long since been evacuated because of the air raids. The bombs have flattened almost half of it, shaking the other half immensely, but without orders to go elsewhere, the Howling Commandos are lying low, trying to plan their next move on their own. It feels like a waste just to march all the way back to camp but they don't have any other leads. Not yet.

And the Howlies have scavenged the area already, gathering any remaining, surviving food that isn't their shit MREs, plus having made sure no civilians were left behind before sitting down to talk and plan.

And talk and plan and talk and plan.

Steve can only strategize for so long, he can only play card games for so long, he can only draw on scraps of paper for so long; the serum has left him even more hot blooded than he was with all this vivacity he couldn't've dreamed of before, as thin and sickly as he was. So it's a fucking problem. Sitting still.

Waiting.

They should be doing something. Seeing action. Doing good. This is war. It feels so bizarre to sit between what they have just seen and what they're going to see. Bad things.

So, yeah, Steve is having a hard time unhelped by the fact that they're stuck in the one reliable structure that happens to be a small inn with thin walls. It's a blessing to have their own rooms and real beds, just enough rooms that they only have to pair up rather than sleeping in a dog pile together, but they might as well be together with these paper walls. Thus, Steve is being extra careful as he attempts to burn off some steam, alone while the others do... whatever... out in the main room (maybe a game of poker?) by stuffing the undershirt he's been wearing beneath his red white and blue uniform into his mouth.

The shirt tastes of salt and musk, balled up and packed between his teeth, filling his mouth, keeping his jaw open. Keeping the sounds he wants to make down. Most of the sounds. He can't help the sounds his body makes that don't come out of his mouth... wet, slick squelching sounds from between his legs, his fingers plunging deep into himself as if he's trying to get to his heart. In the scenario where he wanted to get off and be done with it, he'd be making tight, hard circles around his clit, pressing down against it hard, impatient and rough with himself, making himself a little raw with it but a lot sensitive--but that's not what he wants right now. He wants to burn through energy now. So, he has two fingers crooked inside his pussy, plunging them in and drawing them out slow enough that it makes him crazy. It's enough to feel good, so, so good, but not enough to get him off.

Steve's not wearing his uniform without the undershirt while he fingers himself. Well, he's not wearing it in full. He's kept his pants and boots on in case they need to get up and go, but... his pants are gaping open.

He's undone the long zip and aaall the latching buttons, ripping the taps as wide apart as he can get them without just taking his pants off. His hand shoved beneath both layers--pants and underwear.

His boxers are ruined. Wet. Soaked.

Registering just how sticky and wet he is, pulling his fingers out of his cunt to trace his puffy, swollen slit, he plays with his own wetness. He's dripping. He doesn't touch his aching clit directly, but he does put pressure on the legs of it, tracing the v down his vulva, spreading his legs wider, just a tiny bit, so his lips are out of the way as much as they can be, exposing himself, touching himself, and--

Choking on a whimper as electric pleasure shoots through him.

That's the closest he's let himself get to touching his clit in, in... however long it's been? An hour? Two? Ten minutes?

Steve doesn't let it last. Instead, blearily, he presses his middle and ring fingers back into himself. Back into the scorching, melted heat of his body. His foot kicks out, restless, needing something to do with the thick lust building inside him. Groaning softly through his shirt, Steve arches his neck, lifting his head off the bed just enough to let it come crashing back down heavily, giving his sweat-soaked blonde hair an impressively ruffled style.

As thoughts as he feels--his coherency consumed by pleasure--Steve suddenly flushes, wondering if Bucky will be able to smell it on him when he's done (if he doesn't already know what he's locked himself into their room to do). Once he's worn himself out, cumming on his own fingers after too much build up to be comfortable, leaving himself hurting with too much tension and desire, will Bucky know? Steve will button and zip up his pants and put his shirt back on and waltz back out there, but will it all be only for Bucky to corner him away from the other guys and maybe tip his chin up, fingers on his jaw, eye-to-eye, give him those dark eyes that say, I know what you did, maybe Bucky will kiss his neck and murmur to him hotly, or maybe he'll bend him over, their clothes still on, his cock a hot, thick line in his trousers, pressed against his slit, sweet talking him with his players voice, saying filthy things about how he can smell it on him like he's a bitch in heat with the most syrupy tone, crooning so Steve will get stickier, wetter, and gooey-er. Melted in the center like some kind of oozing, chocolate dessert. Hot and ready to be devoured.

Bitten.

Licked.

Swallowed.

Steve is thinking about his best guy's cock and he's thinking about his mouth, too, now. He's thinking about those sweet talking, wicked lips. He's thinking about his immaculately styled head of hair between his thighs, going to town. Not an ounce of reservation in the way he dives into him, in how he licks, how he slurps, how he fucks.

Jesus Christ.

Steve's jaw works around his balled up shirt, clenching. His throat contracts as he swallows thickly, praying that he doesn't wail like he wants to. The sound is in his chest, rattling around, building into this aching pressure. He can't fit anymore arousal inside himself. He's gonna burst.

Then, when he's weak and he just can't fucking stop himself, Bucky on his mind like always, Steve curls his fingers just enough to catch the raised spot inside him, spongy and sensitive. So fucking sensitive. His sweet spot that causes his hips to involuntarily buck up, searching for more, needing more. If he weren't gagged, he'd be moaning for it.

Moaning Bucky's name.

Bucky's on his mind already, so, of course, he wants Bucky on his tongue, too. Worse, he wants Bucky inside him. He wants him so bad that he's fucking aching, clenching around his fingers, hips squirming, toes curling, panting. He wants Bucky's cock in him so bad, slamming home so he's leaking around it, wetting his balls and smearing all over both of their thighs. He's a slippery mess.

He wants Bucky so bad that he has to stop thrusting his fingers in and out of his tight cunt to work a third finger into himself, chasing the girth of his dick. He can't get as deep as Bucky does, and it's just not the same to the point that, that--

Steve garbles out something of a sob. His eyes sting with tears. His head is so hot with frustration. Hazy and smoking. He can't think. He can't keep his rhythm. He's shaking.

Fuck.

When he pulls out to add another fingertip--stretching before he eases the entire length of his own finger in--he realizes he can smell himself. Already, he could smell himself wafting up from his unwashed shirt, sweaty, but now he can smell the hot, briny musk of his own arousal, carried on the sex-thick air of the quaint inn room. Humid and heavy.

He can smell himself. Sweat, musk, and leaking slick. It's an unmistable scent that turns Steve on more than it should, considering it's his own smell, twisting up in his gut and making him feel tighter, tenser, hotter. He can taste himself. Sweat, musk, and dirty, unwashed cotton coating his tongue, dripping down his throat, joining the lust already pooled low in his belly. He can hear himself. Slick, squelching, and lewd with his fingers curling inside himself. Muffled and drowning with sounds dying in the back of his throat before they have the chance to come out of his mouth. The soft snuffling, shuffling sounds of his pants folding and brushing against the bed sheets, fabric rustling and creaking as his thighs spread instinctively until the the seams groan. Every sound is another piece of wood added to the fire, burning hotter until it crackles and pops with the explosions of hot sap. Steve is feasting on these sensations as much as he's feasting on the slick, velvet feeling of the inside of his own pussy. He can touch himself. Smooth, wet inner walls that cling so tightly to his own fingers. If he could lift his head, the weight of his empty skull, so weakened, he could see himself, too--his hand moving in his pants, the veins running over his muscled forearms bulging with the effort of working his fingers so much.

God, he wants more in him.

His fingers work faster, curling a little harder, plunging deeper until he's erupting with another garbled cry.

He wants Bucky's cock in his pussy, throbbing with the pound of his best guy's heart, at the same time that he wants Bucky's thumb to sneak down between where their sweaty bodies collide with every frantic thrust, slicking the digit up with Steve's overpouring wetness until he reaches back, traces the sensitive, pink flesh between his legs to get to his asshole and pops it inside him, too, giving him something extra. Extra stuffing, his thumb in his ass, pressing back against his pussy. The thin wall between his holes. Giving him something more to clench down on while he wails, crashing over the edge as Bucky grinds so deep he can taste it, choke on it, so deep that his pelvis rubs on Steve's swollen clit and makes it impossible not to cum.

Guh.

Steve is drooling, soaking into his own shirt, thinking about Bucky.

Drowning in pleasure from his own hand.

Steve is rocking up into his hand, his hips with a mind of their own, or, rather, mindless in the pursuit of pleasure, instinctively rutting, humping, rolling, and just going. He's trying to swallow moans and gasps to varying degrees of success. He knows not all of them stay down in his tight, heaving chest, but he doesn't know how loud his noises are, his heartbeat is too loud in his ears.

Regardless of his noises, he keeps chasing his pleasure, his clit swollen and peaking out as much as it can from it's hood--leaving it vulnerable and draaagging just lightly against the heel of his hand. It's agonizing. With every feathered drag of his sensitive clit against his hand, it's making his sounds grow worse. He will be wailing soon no matter what he does. No matter how much he tries to keep it down.

It aches.

It hurts.

It feels sofuckinggood.

His jaw is working so hard that it feels like his teeth will rip into his shirt soon. Gah. Oh, ah, yeahh--

The temperature keeps going up and up in and all around Steve, fever hot, when the door swings open.

Steve is so tightly wound that he can't freeze. There is no way to stop the forest fire within him. It's going to have to come to its own conclusion when it has burned through everything he has, only ash left. Nothing can put him out.

So it's a damn good thing that it's Bucky that walks through the open door, hurriedly slamming it behind him when his eyes land on Steve's debauched, twitching form on the bed they've been sharing. A cold rush of air comes in with him, leaving all the hair on Steve's body to stand on end in salute. He quivers harder.

Bucky wastes no time. He is deadly, vicious in his pursuit--the sound of the door slamming hits Steve's ears, delayed with his mushy brain, and then Bucky is immediately on him like a predator pouncing.

His body is heavy on top of him, pinning him with the drag of his uniform against Steve's sensitive, sweat-glistening skin.

Real.

He's so real that it's visceral. It's not just Steve's heated, out-of-control fantasies as he approaches his orgasm without breaks.

Bucky cages him in with his body, one of his hands planted by Steve's head, steadying himself, while his other hand grabs ahold of Steve's forearm to rip his hand out of his pants.

Steve does wail then, through his makeshift gag.

The look on Bucky's face is evil, mocking him playfully, asking, oh, really, is that how it is?

After all these years, they read each other like open books. Steve knows he knows how turned on he is, and it's devastating. Bucky probably knows just based on how much he's blushing and how he can't keep his eyes open, how long he's been going at it for. He knows how much it aches to be untouched when he gets like this. Especially now. Post-serum. It's all he can think about. He can feel his heartbeat pounding in his pussy. He's hot and swollen and so wet that it brings stinging tears to his eyes. God.

He's so fucking needy.

He needs Bucky. He needs--

Bucky sticks both of Steve's hands above his head, crossed at the wrist, and uses one of his own to pin them there. Steve could easily break away any time, but now. He's so worn down. He's weak. His brain has gone out of his head, and all of his super-strength has drained from his body out of his weeping cunt. He's depleted. He can do nothing by lay there, helpless and vulnerable, as Bucky shoves and pushes and shimmies his pants and underwear down. He barely gets them halfway down his thighs before he stops, and because of it, Steve sucks in a sharp breath through his balled up shirt. The air of the room is shocking against his soaked, sticky center.

Guh.

GUH!

Steve makes a fucking stupid sound when Bucky quits messing with his tangled up pants to instead mess with his pussy. He slips one, then two, then three inside him. Fast. A predator tearing through prey, no time to think, just do. His shit eating grin tells Steve that he's impressed with how sloppy he's gotten himself, and he wants to cry in embarrassment but also pride.

With three fingers inside him, Bucky curls them and grinds them deeper, deeper, curls, deep, curl, deep--

Steve's head is spinning. He doesn't even know what Bucky is doing to him. It just, it, it, ohgod, his eyes roll back so far, so hard it hurts, it feels so good. It's wrecking him. Whatever he's doing to him. Maybe it's Bucky's reckless thirst for him. Maybe it's the serum burning like venom in his veins. Maybe it's both of them mixing together into one harsh cocktail, so intoxicating it immediately makes him drunk.

The things Bucky is doing to his body make Steve want to shriek in pleasure. He's letting go of his wrists but it's not like Steve can move anyway and it's for good reason that he's not pinning him anymore because instead he's pressing down on his belly with that hand as he curls his fingers more, more, more, curling them towards himself hard, pressing so hard on that spot inside him that Steve doesn't even, he's not even sure he can comprehend the pleasure cutting through him, it's so much pressure building up inside him, taking more space than he realized he had even inside this bigger, stronger body, he can't, he's not strong enough, he--

Steve gasps and squirms, not understanding, wanting to babble, oh, oh, Bucky, what-I, I'm-! Wait! What is that feeling? Why does it feel like that? Wh--he can't, though, he can't say anything, his mouth stuffed.

He screams behind his teeth and--

Steve fucking whites out.

He's there one minute and then he's gone in a flash. Too much pleasure. Too much pressure. Too good. He's half convinced, totally out of his mind, that he's exploded or, or...

Oh.

As Steve returns to himself in bits and pieces, still shattered in the aftermath, he's almost sure he's lost so much control of himself that he's pissed himself. He's so fucking wet. Soaked down his thighs and down Bucky's wrist. If he has pissed himself, then he's given everything up to Bucky, his body entirely his lover's, every part of it, but then.

JesusfuckingChrist.

Then, Bucky's voice breaks through the ringing in his ears, and he's softly, quietly purring to him, mindful of their thin walls in a way Steve has not been while being stripped down to the bone in exhausting, overwhelming pleasure. Bucky's voice is all low and hot, too turned on as he works Steve through it, touching him much softer, nicer, lighter while he tells him how fucking hot that was, watching him, feeling him squirt around his fingers. And, holy shit, he's gonna make him do that on his dick. He will.

It's a promise.

Now that he knows he can make Steve squirt, he's gonna do it all. the. fucking. time.

Steve whines through his gag, his body trembling hard with his fading fever. Oh. It hits like a sledgehammer to the back of his head. He's going to die. Bucky is gonna kill him, making him squirt, making him writhe, making him want to crawl out of his own body, giving him too much gutteral, visceral pleasure.

Bonus:

I've had a draft sitting here on Tumblr for a while that simply says:

Lil pussy Steve domming big, beefy Bucky. Steve's wearing a pair of panties to a party, getting them messy in a closet or bathroom or... both... where Bucky fingers him until he cums, then, once they've finished and Steve is desperately wet, he makes Bucky put swap underwear with him. Bucky obeys because of course he's done--he's big and he falls hard. Steve's wet, dirty panties, though, they're much too tight and remind him for the next few hours (hours that Steve, the introvert, suspiciously makes them stick around the party for) exactly of what they did. How he made his dom squirt and make these panties wet and smell musky and hot like his pussy does. Ruin them. Ruining the panties, ruining Bucky.

Plus, the whole rest of the party, Bucky has to live with the fact that Steve doesn't have any underwear on because rather than put Bucky's boxers on, he shoved them into his pocket where he could take them out at any time. Fuck, they could fall out at any moment! Bucky can't focus on a single fucking conversation.

And it's not until they get home that Bucky gets to cum.

When they're finally, finally home, Steve pushes Bucky down onto the floor, mounts his lap, and grinds into his hard, hard cock bursting out of his teeny-tiny, too-tight panties. The underwear is so little and delicate, all wet lace, that Bucky nearly ripped them putting on his bigger body. Demanding him to cum and ruin them further, one of Steve's thin, bony hands constricts around his throat.

Oh, yeah, he owns this big, subby mess of a man.

So... do with that what you will 😏

[sergeantwoods]

imprinting my asexual struggles onto the one character that would most likely be ace ✨✨ (i wrote this in like 30 minutes and it’s currently 2 in the morning so ignore any grammar mistakes LMAO)

it didn’t always start off like this.

he wasn’t a dog in heat like friends or the kids in his school. it hadn’t come naturally, like everyone told him. hormones, girls, blah blah blah. it was all static in his head, now, knowing that it wasn’t true.

i mean, fair, hormones did happen. shot up like a tree during the 9th year, but besides that, none of the whole “you’ll feel the need to… get some stuff out of your system,” shit happened.

he thought that it was normal, at first, because the people he had talked to didn’t feel the overwhelming need to go “romantically attack” their significant other too. and then that changed.

a friend invited him to a party, and he met a bloke. thought he was nice at first. funny, not poking or prodding. until he started approaching simon more, hand being placed on his shoulder or his hip. that’s when the disgust started.

then the bloke had jumped, smashing their lips together in an uncomfortable manner that simon had jumped away from almost immediately, eyes blurring from tears. the flashing lights of the tv, people’s phones, the lights on the ceiling above them blending together.

hollowness, for some odd reason, was the first thing he had felt afterwards. the kid had asked him if he was alright, and that he was sorry. simon dismissed it. later he came to the conclusion that it just wasn’t the time for him yet.

another occurrence was when he went over to his friends for a hangout, and his friends all beckoned him over after he went to get snacks, snickering. tilting his head in confusion, he went to see what they were looking at on their phone.

porn, was what they were watching.

they all forced him to sit there, watch it with them. and as the good friend he was, he wouldn’t deny them that.

he sat there uncomfortably for thirty minutes as his friends giggled to each other, inappropriate jokes being shared. and simon just sat. shock wasn’t the word, more of a disconnected experience from his body. bile rested heavily on his tongue, eyes pricking uncomfortably against the dry air of the house.

when they had stopped, he had said that he had to go to the bathroom really quick. he heard as he exited the room his friends laughing and making a joke. 

“probably going to bathroom to jack off,” they had chortled.

he had, in fact, not gone to the bathroom to jack off. he cried, threw up several times, sat on the floor breathing heavily and irregularly for the next ten minutes until one of his friends knocked on the door to tell him to get out because they needed to shit.

then the stuff with the prostitute happened, and he came to a conclusion that he genuinely couldn’t do it anymore. he wanted free from his house.

he left his mum and tommy behind. he’d be back anyways.

though, in the back of his head, he wishes he wouldn’t. maybe the military would be the way to kill him off.

later in his career, after a hard mission, his captain had told him to blow off some steam by going out to a bar. go get laid. it’ll feel better afterwards.

thats what he said.

he decided to try. he’s more mature now, anyways, and he’s had the time to observe relationships and sex as a thing in general.

found a man, and did as his captain said. got laid.

abso-fucking-lutely disgusting. he didn’t cum. did everything half-heartedly, nausea brewing in the back of his head, vomit steadily piling in the back of his throat. tears in the corner of his eyes, yet not from pleasure. more from disgust, letting some random stranger he didn’t know see his most intimate parts.

disgusting.

he thought that maybe, men weren’t for him, then. maybe he was straight?

but that didn’t make sense. he felt no attraction to woman in the first place. nothing about them had him feeling something. where as for men, he could get hot under the collar thinking about some.

so he tried to have sex with a woman.

even worse than when he tried with a man.

there, he had come to the conclusion that he couldn’t. repulsion, disgust, and hollowness were the main feelings he had when doing such activities. why feeling hollow was such a reoccurring feeling, simon had no idea.

then the roba stuff happened, and he was sure that he was fucking weird. he was fucked up in every way possible. beyond repair. a shell of what the expectations of a human should be. a glass, a glass that’s too fragile for its own good.

sure, the feeling of hollowness returned ten fold after roba. though it made more sense, at this point. you’ve been betrayed, and your family has been murdered. whats left to feel, after that? anger? what’s worth being angry at, after walking into that? it was expected.

he couldn’t leave the military, though. why would he leave? the military was all he had. suicide was an option. nobody would care, anyways. he didn’t have anybody who would care.

a while later he had been recruited to task force 141, by captain john price. he agreed to join, though it was followed by hesitance.

there he had met kyle “gaz” garrick, the person who helped him learn what caring was. to make jokes. to have conversations. and, most importantly, awkwardness. there had been multiple occasions between the two that were filled with an awkward silence.

and there, he had met john “soap” mactavish. he learned how to love, for the first time in his life.

love with confidence, love with his heart. no words could be used to describe the man he had fallen for, nothing in his vocabulary could contain what this man really was. maybe a few, but they seem almost childlike.

perfect? god-like?

why this man was in the military, simon had no idea. what is a literal ray of sunshine doing here, in a place where the most fucked up people were found? like simon? did he also have some strange, ominous past?

it didn’t matter, really. simon was terrified of him, though.

it showed by the way he hid behind the skull mask.

soaps random touches — shoulder pats, knee bumps, random holding of his upper arm — were unrecognized but welcomed. it was strange, the way any type of touch was repulsive until soap. a balm on his screwed up mind.

and then, turns out soap likes him too. confusion and happiness. soap leans in for a kiss, and he panics. pushes the man away, memories of that night in high school flash through him, and he doesn’t — no, can’t feel that hollowness again. it’s disappeared since he joined the task force, he doesn’t want it to come back.

the look soap gave him made him breakdown. gates opened, and they can’t be closed.

and soap had held him as he told him, years of it all just… unraveling. free, is the distant feeling floating around him. and surprisingly, johnny says he understands. that it’s okay. then the motherfucker pulls out his phone, and shows him something.

asexuality.

he hadn’t been aware that it was a thing. he was surprised it was. there were people like him? sex repulsed — and touch, as well? it was funny, almost. he has thought he was all alone his entire life. turns out he wasn’t, and he was blind to see to that his people were along side him the entire time.

[steviewashere]

Let Me Make You Soup, Let Me Show You That I Care

(also on ao3)

wc: 4,149, Steddie Tags: Post Vecna, Post Canon, Post Season 4, Sick Steve Harrington, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Vomiting (Though Not Extreme, For I am Emetophobic), Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Steve's Sucky ass Parents

(Also, I hope y'all don't mind me cross-posting some of my favorite one shots that I've put up on ao3. Figured I could push them to a bigger audience, especially those who don't use ao3).

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Steve gets sick often. Small colds, allergies, the dreaded flu. Maybe it doesn't help him that he's had so many concussions and injuries on top of that too. Left with debilitating migraines and aching sides and muscles that become overexerted too fast.

Safe to say, his immune system is now a pile of steaming dog shit.

He's become good at attempting to "take care" of himself. With his parents being absent nearly all the time, much of the recovery process and gentle care was left to Steve. His hands don't have the same soft and slim quality as his mother's did, though. Even if she doesn't make the effort to shove his hair from his sweaty forehead or massage vapor-rub onto his chest or squeeze his shoulders as he dry-heaves into the toilet. He can miss that.

It's also safe to say that Steve Harrington, best babysitter and lesbian protector, is absolutely terrible at asking for help. His idea is, Got myself into this mess, I can get myself out. His other idea is, I don't want to burden anybody; I've been that too many times.

He suspects that's why his parents aren't there now to tuck him into bed and check his temperature and read him a bedtime story. Even though, now, he's a nineteen year old "man." More like a bruised child trapped inside the buff body of an even more injured adult, left to his own devices and decisions.

Steve is miserable today. Woke up with a knocking headache, an itch at the bottom of his throat, tingly fingers, shivering limbs, and the need to massage his abdomen to elicit the vomit to come up sooner.

It's barely nine in the morning. Just cracked his eyes open. Which, are heavy with crust and too much sleep, yet not enough.

It's barely nine in the morning and all Steve wants to do is lay stiff on his mattress, a trusty tried and true trashcan on the floor, curtains closed, a heavy duvet draped over his legs, and the A/C set to sixty-eight degrees. That's what he does. Doesn't have the appetite for breakfast or water or Tylenol. He doesn't have the energy to lay on a towel on the bathroom floor, body curled around the base of the toilet bowl. And, he doesn't have the confidence to plead with somebody over the phone to "Take care of me, just this once and I'll repay you."

He's done that before to Tommy. The bastard never showed and Steve sobbed so hard at the thought of being left alone, that he hurled right onto the beige carpet of his bedroom. That's why the desk is stuffed into the corner. To cover what he couldn't even take care of.

Steve has decided to lay in bed today. Has already used the trashcan. Kicked off the duvet then whined then brought it back to his sweat drenched t-shirt hem, then said fuck this and ripped the shirt off his body.

The silk sheets against his rapidly heating body feels nice. Like laying on the kitchen floor, Steve surmises. And that makes him think of soup.

A hot bowl of chicken noodle soup. Something he's made himself countless times before. A recipe that his mom never perfected. It's just Campbell's, the instructions are on the label, yet it was never made correctly.

She'd do that. When her motherly instincts were at an all-time high. That had to be when he was probably five? Six? His mom would make a bowl of soup so warm and soothing that she would have to warn him about touching the ceramic. She would bring him a glass of orange juice and say, ever soft and comforting, "It'll help you. Mommy promises."

The juice would sting his throat and he would cough so hard she would start to worry about doing the Heimlich maneuver.

That's what his mother's "sick care" turned into. A glass of orange juice that only hurt, never helped, just made him think about swallowing glass.

Soup turned into a heat-until-lukewarm situation. Juice wasn't bought for him. His parents elected to buy "fancy juice" instead. Another descriptor for Mommy's self-healing alcohol problem, Steve began to substitute. He remembers the last time she ever made him anything or gave a shit about his weakened body.

Steve was eleven years old.

He eventually learned where to buy the Campbell's stuff. From Mevald's. Now he keeps a hefty supply in the back of his family's pantry. Ready for a day like this.

A day where at eleven, before noon, Steve has a sudden mouth watering appetite for measly chicken noodle soup.

He hefts his body into an upright position, feet planted onto the carpet, fingers white-knuckling the edge of the mattress, a quick glance thrown at the trashcan, and a heavy breath burrowed into the stale air. Right before he scoots to stand, he hears the telltale sound of Eddie knocking on his front door. A simple three pattern.

The rapping startles Steve slightly. He forgot that Eddie was supposed to come over. I'll have to send him away, he thinks solemnly.

"Coming!" Steve croaks to the bathroom floor. With whatever strength the knocking has given him, he tucks the trashcan under his right arm, creeps to the top of the stairs, and ever so carefully floats down them.

The can is set off to the side before he opens the door.

In the glow of the daylight, energized and cheery, is Eddie Munson. Wrapped in a leather jacket, hair tied up into a bun, jeans replaced with jorts, and a grin the size of the moon.

"Hey Stevie," he drawls as his lithe frame leans against the doorjamb.

"Hey man, listen..." Steve begins before being interrupted.

"Whoa, what's going on with you?" Eddie shoves into the house. His grin is set into a small frown and his eyes are glazed with concern instead of the excited energy equal to a golden retriever. "Did you get enough sleep last night? You could've called me if you had a nightmare."

That's something him and Eddie do. When one has a god awful nightmare about floating bodies and squelching flesh and sterile hospital walls, they call each other. Sometimes to just hear that the other is alive. Other times for a trip to one another's house. The phone calls could be Eddie recapping a campaign storyline or Steve bemoaning over a wretched, hag of an old woman that demanded a refund on an R rated movie her grandson finagled her into renting. Or just breathing. Steve's fond of the soft puffs of air that signal Eddie finally relaxed enough to go back to sleep.

"No, weirdly enough I slept way longer than I was supposed to. I'm just sick today. But, I'm fine. Or at least I will be, got a good grasp on this. Y'know, trashcan, soft bed, canned soup. Was actually coming down here to send you back home," Steve rushes out. He's out of breath and feels lightheaded. The headache has turned into a pulsating mess and his stomach churns violently. Before he can warn Eddie again to go out the front door and leave him be, Steve finds himself hunched over his trashcan at the bottom of the stairs, trembling with the force of his grip. One hand on the edge of said bin. The other, wrapping tendrils of hair around his fingers and pulling with enough force to surely rip out some of his luxurious hair. Which, really, is a sweaty disgusting mop today.

He feels the hand in his hair loosen. A smaller, slightly cold hand replacing it. But this time, the fingers work carefully to sweep back any loose strands. Another hand joins the mix. This one squeezes at his right shoulder.

Eddie is behind him, whispering and shushing, "You're alright. I got you, let it out." His cold skin feels amazing over Steve's damp forehead. And equally, his touches are soothing.

Steve coughs once, twice, spits the same amount, and then leans against Eddie with a heavy sigh. "Thanks," he mutters. He shutters at being oddly exposed. Now that he's realized his torso is bare and he probably looks as awful as he feels and now all of his guts are in a bin in front of him.

The bin gets shoved over to the left and Steve starts to get up from the hardwood floor. Eddie lifts him up and leans him against his side. "How about this? I'll make you something mild, get some water into you, and divvy up a couple Tylenol tablets. Your skin is hot and not in the sexy way," he chuckles.

They make their way to the living room. Steve is deposited onto the couch with a cushion shoved behind his back and the can placed appropriately at his feet, within arm's reach. Eddie adjusts his hair again, this time with the tie from his own hair, and leaves to the kitchen.

Steve is dazed. Hot all over. Itchy in some places. Runny nose, aching stomach, watering eyes, and throat so itchy he wants to dig his fingernails into the skin on his neck. This predicament almost makes him embarrassed, more ashamed than anything. He gets his ass handed to him annually and has to have people take care of him during the concussions, until he's given the okay to go home and grovel in silence. And he puts himself in situations he can't get himself out of. He's tired of it, he realizes. Feels the need to apologize to Eddie, make him cookies or something, promise to never make him do anything like this ever again.

When said man comes back into the room with three extra-strength Tylenol in his palm and a cold glass of tap water, Steve wants to cry. It's not until Eddie is setting everything down to pet at his hair and shush him again doe he notice, he is crying.

"Sorry," Steve's voice rasps. He takes a gasping breath before choking out another nasty, wet sob.

"Nothing to be sorry for. It's what your body has to do," Eddie coos.

"No, I'm sorry you have to take care of me," he breathes. That's tally number two for decisions Steve is making today. Some miserable, lonely, somewhat pathetic decisions.

Then, Eddie pulls back. His eyes are the size of saucers. And that small frown from earlier has turned into a deep-set, terribly worrying downturn. "You don't have to apologize for that. Not at all. You need help, I'm here for you. It's what we do, okay?" he murmurs. Steve cries some more at that. Choking on his tears, practically. Enough for Eddie to say, "Hey, breathe with me. I don't want you to make yourself sick again."

So they sit for a few minutes. Breathing. Steve keeps his eyes on Eddie's mouth, watching him count. And Eddie stares at his eyes. Trying to piece together all the little details about this version of Steve. The one not picking fights and towering over unlucky underclassmen and spitting venom instead of backing away when he's supposed to. This Steve that looks like a small, terrified, lonely little boy. Who feels the need to apologize for being a human being. Somebody that makes sure everybody is better off and happy and swooned over before taking an assessment of his own body, the injuries stitched into his side, and the possibility that someone also wants to make sure he's doing alright.

God, who is Steve Harrington, Eddie questions to himself.

Once the tears have subsided and breathing has been placed under control, Steve feels exhausted. Eddie seems to notice because he suggests, "Why don't you lay down for a while? Maybe snooze some while I make soup?"

Steve nods with slight hesitancy. "Can I—" he stutters, "Can I lay down in my room?" To Eddie, this is the quietest he's ever heard his friend. And that doesn't sit right with him. A man—bulky and toned, loud and sassy, bark with no bite—now sitting with his shoulders slumped, skin blotched in various shades of pink and red, breathing ragged, and looking at Eddie with terribly timid eyes. He's just a little boy, some part of Eddie whispers.

"Yeah man. 'Course you can. How 'bout you get yourself to bed, I'll follow behind with your can, give you your medicine, and leave the door open just in case you need something?" The nod Eddie gets back is so energetic, it's as if Steve wasn't sick to begin with. That part of him that's been whispering and wondering is now aching. All he wanted was to be looked after.

Where are your parents, Eddie wants to ask aloud. Who was here to take care of you, Eddie wants to dig.

In mere moments, Steve is tucked back into bed. The curtains are drawn to be almost completely closed. His door is left unlocked and gaping. There are soft snuffles drifting through the house. And Eddie finds himself in front of the Harrington's fancy electric stove.

Before he came back downstairs to cook, Steve whispered something about there being Campbell's in the pantry. "If you want to heat it up on the stove, that's what my mama did when I was really little. It's what I do now."

Eddie glances at the cans and makes a decision for Steve, He deserves better than a piss poor attempt. Homemade it is.

When he was little, Wayne used to make soup on sick days. Still does. During the recovery time when Eddie's sides were still sore with stitches and itchy with stretch, Wayne would bring him a bowl of soup and a tall glass of orange juice on a little tray. He makes a mean bowl of tomato. "Something my mamaw taught me and now I can show you," he had told Eddie.

As much of a bare wasteland as Steve's kitchen is—What does he eat, Eddie wonders—he manages to find all the ingredients necessary. After a couple cupboards are ripped open and some miscellaneous drawers sifted through, he finds himself stirring a simmering metal pot of something he hopes Steve can keep down.

Eddie wants to chastise Steve for even thinking about being sick alone. What a misery sentence. Was probably going to call Robin and say something about, "You don't need to worry. It's not bad. I'll just be out of work for a couple days." Then he would've trekked back upstairs, slow like molasses, and locked the door behind him. Would've laid in bed shivering and crying and barfing. Probably would have passed out by the time he was finally hungry.

Steve even apologized earlier for being taken care of. As if he was a burden. Made himself smaller and tighter and quieter, that's for sure. So Eddie won't do any form of chastising. That'd only make him disappear on himself more.

As the soup is being dished up with plain toast and a cup is being filled with pulpy orange juice, Eddie hears Steve startle awake upstairs. Goes from snoring almost as loud as Wayne in the winter to dry heaving, hard.

Eddie sets the made tray down onto the counter. He makes his way back to the front door and chucks his shoes to the side and hangs up his jacket. Then, tumbles upstairs just as Steve is breathing raspy again.

One. Two. Three knocks on the open bedroom door. And in the blink of an eye, Eddie is over at Steve's side. He's crying again. Nothing like the nauseous sobs from earlier, but sniffles and silent watery blinks.

Steve's hair is pushed back again. "What's goin' on Stevie? What happened?"

"N-nothing," he spits frantically into the air. Like a kid trying to hide a lollipop behind their back. A teenager caught with a lit cigarette in hand. The family dog with a sneaker in it's mouth being told to drop it.

"Okay. Okay, I won't push. But I brought you some soup and orange juice. It's not the best because there's so much pulp in it, but it'll do for now. Oh, and—" Eddie sings. He digs around in his jorts pockets for a small container. As he brandishes it just in Steve's line of sight, he says, "Found some vapor-rub in the medicine cabinet downstairs. Now it is a few months out of date, but that just means more will need to be appl—honey, what's goin' on?" he questions softly.

Steve's sniffles have turned into thin-lipped, eyes glazed and bloodshot, muffled sobs. He has a streak of snot dripping down on his upper lip and his chest keeps stuttering. Eventually, he chokes out, "You brought the soup to me."

And what a statement.

The sentence slaps Eddie across the face, causing his head to rear back. It confuses him, that's what it does. Obviously I brought him soup, what the fuck, he asks himself incredulously.

"Wha—of course. That's what you do when somebody is sick. You help 'em out, bring soup or crackers or whatever and make sure they're better," Eddie supplies as he wipes away the sweat and snot with his banana. There's a brief moment where the only sound is Steve crying. The room is dim and he seems more comfortable than when the door was initially answered.

Eddie thinks back to the apologizing. The making himself smaller and quieter. His hesitancy about wanting to sleep in his own bed. How his mom used to make soup. And the statement, "Got a good grasp on this." Pieces start to click, sirens sound off, door number three has opened and behind it is a shiny new car.

A horrifying realization. The easy solution to Eddie's childlike curiosity over where Steve's parents are. And that in itself makes him want to hurl into the trashcan or pull full force at his hair or sob.

His parents aren't here and haven't been in a long while, Eddie accuses.

"Oh, Stevie." He pets again at his drenched hair. "I'm not going anywhere, alright? You don't have to worry about that with me. Let me do what I need to do, but I'll be right here if you need anything."

"Okay," Steve whispers.

Within just a couple minutes, Eddie has Steve propped back up on a mountain of pillows. Some from the hall closet, the stale bedroom of his parents, and the ones from his own bed. He's changed the bag in the can with a call of, "It's alright, no big deal," after Steve's cry that Eddie didn't need to do that. A bedside lamp has been turned on. An ice cold wet rag has been situated over his neck. There's a thick layer of vapor-rub in his chest hair.

Then came the aforementioned lunch. It smells divine. As if God himself started a soup kitchen in the Harrington's desolate house. What's even better is that it's definitely not chicken noodle.

"I don't remember there being any cans of tomato in the pantry," Steve notes.

"Oh, well. I thought you deserved better than that crap. Made something Wayne usually serves up. Family recipe," he sings again.

"Oh," Steve breathes. His eyes feel wet again, but he fights every part of him that says to cry. He's done enough of that. "Y'know, you didn't have to," he says quietly.

Eddie makes the wounded sound of a shot dog. He finishes setting up the tray on the stiff mattress. Then, situates himself to sit on Steve's left, rubbing down his bare back. "I wanted to. That's all that matters. Now eat up before it gets cold."

And he does just that. The bowl is hot to the touch. Its contents still fresh from being boiled. Even the gulps of orange juice don't burn as bad as when he was little. Steve feels five years old again. He's anticipating the late afternoon lunch from his mom where she'll show him vapor-rub and a spoonful of Pepto-Bismol. In the living room, she's going to lay down, with him on top, and they'll watch reruns of his favorite cartoons. The curtains are closed and she hums lullabies as he drifts off to sleep.

Eddie rubs his back and hums songs and kisses his forehead gently. Which, Steve hasn't been given that amount of affection in a long while. And he honestly doesn't mind.

There's something that's been sitting between the two of them, a thing the size of a ten pound medicine ball. A word shaped like love and comfort. The space where Eddie shares stories about Uncle Wayne and his hibernation snoring when the temperatures drop and how he acquired every single mug on their wall. And in response, Steve listens and drips a couple droplets of how his mom would read Goodnight Moon and kiss him on his cheek or on summer days where they'd splash each other in the shallow depth of the pool. Before it became a graveyard. Or the loosely sketched outline of a mom and her child. His dad wasn't as close, but he'd play catch when Steve was still learning about baseball or share facts about his car that intrigued little eight year old Steve in a way no sport has ever done before. How he acquired the bowling pin from the one time his parents took him out for his birthday. The car painting being something his dad did in his spare time, not bought from some general store in the next town over.

Even in his sick state, Steve thinks about pecking Eddie on the lips. Wonders how smooth they are. If he uses chapstick. What flavor it could be. His mind supplies days in the future where they make soup for each other and shout about how excellent Hellfire was or Lucas' basketball game had been. Mornings shaped by soft snores and gentle touches and steaming cups of coffee. Nights wrapped around each other, cooing sweet nothings when the nightmares become bloody again, and sex that's slow and drawn out. Or the quiet moments where Steve needs a shoulder to cry on. And open arms so that Eddie is encased in comfort, even after everything.

At his final spoonful and dip of toasted crust, Steve whispers, "I love you." As treacherous as his mouth has been in the past, this final decision isn't as daunting as the rest from earlier today. Some part of Steve knew that it would come to a head and the words would spill from his lips like the soup on his chin.

Eddie hums beside him. He kisses Steve one. Two. Three times on the forehead. Then he sets the tray aside with all the empty dishes and the vapor-rub with three finger divots. He strips down to his boxers and a simple t-shirt. And he tucks Steve in as he scoots on top of the duvet to hold him.

"I love you, too," he responds. "And I'll be here when you get up. So get some rest and the next time you're awake, I'll go get some new orange juice and more ingredients for tomato soup and a container of unexpired Vick's."

Steve drifts off to sleep with his body curled around Eddie's side.

In the morning, the curtains are open and soft sunlight streaks in the bedroom. Eddie has left the house to do a quick grocery run, leaving behind a note of "Just lay back and relax. I brought the phone upstairs if you want to keep yourself entertained."

He calls Robin to muse aloud how excellent Eddie is. Their dance around each other now concluded over a simple bowl of soup. How nice it is to finally get the care he wish he had when his mom started to go away. Him kissing a guy before she could kiss a girl and her shriek off, "The next time I see you, I'm gonna give you the nastiest, biggest wet willy this world has ever seen. Trust in it, Steve Harrington."

The threat isn't an empty one, but it makes Steve chuckle anyway. Even though he still feels that encroaching violent twist of his stomach and a cough that could send him flat on his ass.

And when the phone call ends and Eddie is back inside with soup being made on the stove? Steve feels like maybe it's alright to rely on his true family when the time comes. He makes a promise to himself too that he'll learn how to make the best goddamned chicken noodle soup this world has ever tasted. All so that he can dote over Eddie the same. Make sure that he really knows just how much Steve loves him.

"I love you," Eddie breaths into his tussled hair later on the couch, where they're watching cartoons.

"Love you, too," Steve slurs as his body becomes heavier with sleep.

[homoerotic]

twitter liberals would literally see a fresh steaming pile of dog shit on the sidewalk and pick it up with their bare hands, snap a photo of it, and post it on twitter w the caption "this is so fucking disgusting" like why are you fucking SHOWING US? WE KNOW IT IS.

[thelindenpapers]

Mingling

"Despair, Teresa; Teresa, Despair.", Trent disclosed casually.

"Hm?", my eyes drift over the edge of my lifted drink as I turn in their direction.

"Despair.", he repeats and the guest steps forward...

My mouth tightens around the glass lip mid-sip.

Father's luck will be my death yet.

"Despair.", assures the guest. "Nice to meet you."

The voice is smooth and cultured. The offered hand, rubbery, dry, and extremely pale against my skin, leaves a strange feeling lingering on the palm.

"Ah! Nice to meet you."

Because I was taught not to be rude.

Perhaps a first mistake.

At this declaration Despair pauses, blinking once, thinking hard in his bewilderment.

It suddenly strikes me that he must not hear that a lot.

In the background: our host, run off far, far, away.

I engage emergency-automatic-small-talk mode.

"So, Despair. I've heard so much about you--"

"-- Such as?"

"That . . . . you are well-traveled. And successful."

"I do keep busy.", he affirms.

I could wipe my forehead, but suppress the urge. Try harder, to adopt a stance of unalarm and unhurry, "How did you come to know our host?"

"It was when Trent switched majors, back in College. Did you know that the good man had an interest in artistic cinema?"

"Wow! No, I had no idea he had a creative side…"

"Mmm. Had.

"Of course, Trent never talks about it anymore… doesn't attend the festivals abroad, as he once did.

"But, really, it is better for him this way. After all, no one wants to live like a pauper.", Despair smiles widely, the ghost of a laugh only just escaping the dungeonous, perfect teeth.

I've never fake-smiled so hard in my life.

“Well then. I hope--”, his face, at this one word, turns hard as stone and it makes me want to hide under Trent's fussy leather couch, “…that you. Erm. Enjoy the party. …I suppose I should continue mingling. Oh, there’s--”

“Angelica? Yes, I know her. She’s been doing quite well recently, but don’t ask anything about her adopted child...

"My gift to her was Kawasaki’s disease. They’re still not sure of the extent of the damage, to his heart. From what I’ve gathered, it doesn’t look well.”

Angelica, as if sensing her name spoken, looks towards me.

When she sees who I am with, her gaze darts away as if the very image of Despair were burning hot to her eyes.

I swallow.

“…They do all see me, Teresa. All the ones I’ve gifted.”

My jaw sets. Despite the feeling of crawling unease that Despair oozes, my inherited Scot’s temper flares at his bored recounting of Angelica’s recent pain.

I feel like I want to find someone that he did not yet know, just to spite him. “There’s always--”

“Oh, Isaiah, there. I gifted him years ago. Still wears the wedding ring, though.”

It was as if he could see through my eyes.

Wherever I turn my head to look, Despair has another story to tell: “Li. The doctors suspect that his cancer has returned from its remission. Such a shame. He won’t have long to live if it has come back…just landed his dream job as well. Aina. She’s in love with a woman she can never have. Deeply so. In a lot of pain right now, saw her crying in the kitchen earlier. Samantha. Her brother died this month whilst visiting a friend. Burglar was in the house. Shot him dead. Hasn’t started coming to terms with it, which is why she’s here in the first place. Hector was just disowned by his father…his only parent, it would seem. Mother died in childbirth--”

In that intensely disinterested voice, Despair rattles a descriptive swath through the room, laying bare agony and struggles unshared. Emotions I have no knowledge of nor right to.

My head spins.

I want to shut my eyes, so I do.

My stomach is churning.

…I do not know everyone here, but some of these people are my friends. The Scot in me is fairly easy to raise.

But the Brooklyn accent?

That takes some doing, and without even thinking I find myself mere inches from his ridiculous fucking face…

“Listen to me, you calloused, steaming pile of dog shit.”, I hiss. “At this point I don't care who I speak to next, so long as it isn't--!”

“--You. You’ll have your gift to come as well.”, he interrupts.

I freeze perfectly still.

“It should arrive fairly soon.

And then, thereafter, you should come to expect me at all of your functions and gatherings…

"There is, of course, no need to worry. I am an impeccably-mannered guest.”

I wish to run from this place, for all the good it will do me...

But from somewhere near the door, a murmur of distraction has started, to which people seem to gravitate.

I can’t see who it is: the crowd knotting, nodding greetings, then, making way for the new guest as they approach us…yet, I note that everyone's gaze angles downwards.

Whoever they are, they must be on the short side.

Despair splutters -- all boredom gone.

Almost pouting.

...In front of us, steps a little girl.

Her skin is warm and very dark…it looks almost as if it glows.

She has the largest eyes I have ever seen on a child: deep and brown.

A lovely round dandelion-top of super-curly black hair is on her head: with sprigs of queen anne’s lace, honeysuckle, and baby’s breath placed carefully at either temple. Her short-sleeve, flutter-hemmed tunic is mellow butter-yellow, with a row of cartoonish daisies printed at mid-riff.

Her stone-washed capri jeans are scuffed, but intact.

Delicate, white, lace-topped socks sprout out of a pair of impossibly bright-red converse high-tops.

Random, sparkly barrettes are affixed to the disheveled, bright white shoelaces...

I’d never seen her anywhere before -- yet, at the sight of her, my eyebrow twitches up and I bark a short laugh of disbelief!

Her bold, bow lips curl into a smirk as she looks up, boring into me with her eyes.

“THERRRRRRE you are! Been lookin’ for you everywhere!!”

She grabs my hand and starts to draw me back through the crowd.

I kind of glaze over a bit.

Her hand feels like sunlight.

I am extremely glad to be taken away, but I worry about how Despair might react if I leave without saying farewell.

I tentatively look back, though my feet move forward just fine, “Uhhhm--”

“Hope!!!”, Despair drew himself up imperiously, addressing the child in a commanding voice. “I was just telling her about the gift she was to receive next week--!”

“Oh, she doesn’t need that anymore.

"Besides, you were with her almost all the time when she was my size.

"It’s my turn now. Otherwise, she’s gonna get too bored!”

No one dares laugh...

But the music, which had been lowered to nearly a whisper at the beginning of the party, turns up loud.

We steadily make our way out into the hallway with the sound of the gathering getting livelier: shuffling steps of people drawing closer together; hoots and hollers and cheerful ‘goodbye!’s.

I don’t think to ask where we’re going...

As we wait for the elevator, I turn towards Hope.

She leans near, gesturing for me to bend down so that she can whisper in my ear.

She cups a long hand, and in a conspiratorial tone, she says to me: “Hmph! I know most of those folk, too!”

We grin as the elevator bell sounds.

[planet-crait]

Genuinely feel bad for the people who bought the switch port for Coral Island right now. The fandom in particular has turned into a toxic mess overnight because switch players are unhappy with the situation and the fandom cannot stand people not being happy about being screwed over. A lot of us spent money on this game and we have no idea when we’ll get to play it. And no, not everyone has access to a computer that can handle the game so the offer to switch keys still sucks. And asking to understand why you can only switch to Steam gets you nothing but bullshit from people losing their shit oh you because you dared to ask a fucking question. No I don’t understand how backend updates affect being able to offer keys to different systems. What is so harmful about that?

This is ontop of the PS4 and PS5 nonsense where PS4 players where told it’s only coming to the 5 and once again they got screwed over and once again the fandom was super toxic about said players being frustrated. I get being frustrated with both situations, and the fans getting so pissy and dog piling people telling them to “get a therapist” is ridiculous.

[circledemptiness]

Requiem

Chapter 1: Introitus

Fandom: Batman (Arkham Knight) Pairing: Edward Nigma (The Riddler) x Reader ✦ Chapter index ✦ Read on AO3 – Older work (and it shows)

Clunking machinery noises, steam spitting engines, electronic whistles fill the maze-like sanctuary, and it almost sounds melodious, everything seemingly singing together in rhythm. It’s a cacophony that you’ve been used to now, along with the grime soaking the place, when it isn’t covered in various green marks. On the first days, the thick mist of filth and grease floating around made you sick, uncomfortable; now it almost feels like home . Safe, familiar.

For close to a year now, you’ve been working for the Riddler. It all started as a dirty whisper, something you weren’t supposed to hear, a conversation between intimidating goons at a shady bar while you were nursing your glass of cheap, guts-twisting wine in a dark corner. Something about the Riddler looking for new blood. Someone to replace a clumsy assistant that got himself killed for his “cruel lack of professionalism”. Whatever that meant.

You weren’t exactly familiar with troubled waters , let’s say that, and you’ve heard enough gruesome stories about Edward Nigma to be scared of him for a lifetime. But you also were broke as fuck, without a penny to your name, and that was no secret that the Riddler paid his people good money. In exchange, he expected nothing less than perfection . And whatever this enticed, you were sure you could deliver it. Didn’t have much of a choice anyway. Your landlord officially threatened to evict you for good this time, there was a terrifying pile of unpaid bills looking at you menacingly on your desk, and the overall economy and life in the shit hole that is Gotham City seemed like a disaster.

Getting into the Underworld was surprisingly difficult, all things considered. Most of the Riddler’s men never actually met him in the flesh, though it didn’t stop them from singing praises, glorifying his name. Helped build the myth of the oh so mysterious villain, the one who worked in the shadows, waiting for his glorious moment to shine. Listening to them was almost thrilling. But none of them were particularly willing to get you in touch with him.

Truth is, you didn’t exactly look like someone who would do that kind of job. Looked a bit weak, bit too innocent, and frankly, you most probably were, at the time. Frail little bird, flinching when a shady man slipped his fingers through your hair, asking you how far you’d go to meet him. Fragile little thing, biting your tongue and swallowing tears when another man shoved you against the wall, snarling insults, ordering you to leave the place and stop trying so hard to stick your nose where it didn’t belong.

This world is a world of dogs; only the ones who bite the hardest survive. That’s what you thought, stomach growling, frantically looking for one last can of soup, one last Cup Noodles somewhere in your desperately empty pantry. If no one would give you a chance, maybe it was time to lie, fabricate a new you, an entire resume. Naming fictional employers, all working for an obscure mob hiding underground, pretending you knew more than everyone about a recent attack, you gloated, chuckled, ego blinding, polishing an inexistant myth. Why did you want to work for the Riddler, then? Oh, you just knew you could give him exactly what he needed, and you only work with the best after all. A satisfied nod here. A pleased hum there.

Eventually, someone called you. How they got your number, you had no idea, and when you inquired about it, they simply answered, coldly: “he knows everything”. Bone-chilling feeling crawling up your spine, wondering what else exactly he knew about you. Shouldn’t have fucked with him, he’s got eyes all over Gotham, and now he knows that you are part of it . Now wasn’t the time for cold feet anyway, you went too far for it, for a chance to meet him. The voice on the phone gives you an address, a time, and hangs up. 

*

The place is awfully quiet, except for your pumping organ beating erratically in your chest. You’re sweating, palms drenched inside your gloves, and you try to steady your trembling body. Until the last moment, frozen in front of the seemingly abandoned orphanage, you doubt your plan. Perhaps it wasn’t too late still to go back home, pack your things, and–

“The fuck you’re doing standing here? Come inside before someone sees you! Fucking moron!” a big and intimidating man barks at you, jerking you by the arm so harshly you almost drop on your knees yelping, as you enter the deteriorated building.

Your blood turns ice cold in your veins, a veil of nervous sweat forming on the back of your neck, as you look around you, look around the place that seems to come straight out of a nightmare. A silent whimper dies on your lips, your eyes struggling to comprehend what was in front of you. Green marks everywhere; riddles, threats that sound like promises, equations. Filth, so much filth; it’s crawling at the walls, it’s dirtying the floors, feels sticky, looks terrible, and smells even worse. Traps and machineries are displayed at every corner, you quickly glance at them as you progress through the halls, painfully following the man in front of you who walks at a fast pace, and fuck it feels like a maze, and you swear you could hear your thoughts echoing in your skull, pleading with your mind, every single cell of your body screaming to get out of this place, that this was the biggest mistake of your life.

Eventually, you reach a room, and the air is cut from your lungs, feels like you’ve been punched in the gut, hurts like it too. A few men, armed and neatly positioned in a half circle, carefully listening to an angry man in a green shirt covered in painted question marks. His words are surgical, each syllable detached and distinct, voice clear and powerful, and even though his threats were not meant for you, your entire core trembles, absorbing his fury. There’s a knot in your stomach, painful and tense, as you drink his orders that you don’t even comprehend. You’re scared, terrified, terrorized of this man even though you only see him from behind. He violently bangs his fist on the table, the impact echoing in the room, and the surprise makes you yelp, louder than you thought. A brief silence. Then, the Riddler turns his head in your direction. 

There’s so much disdain and anger in his green eyes, looking up and down your frail form. He furrows his brow, the corner of his lips curl in disgust, his gaze turning darker, and you feel it right in your guts, piercing your core, spilling its content in your stomach. You stopped breathing, immediately looking at your feet, any particle of courage and strength leaving your body. The Riddler lifts a hand, gesturing in the air. “Leave, now. All of you” he orders his men coldly. From a distance, his voice is slightly louder. “You, come over here,” obviously talking to you. When your body doesn’t move, refuses to move, the man who accompanied you to this point puts his hand on your back, delicately, almost comforting, and for a second you embrace the warm touch, that is until he pushes you forward brutally, forcing your legs to walk towards the menacing Riddler.

You maintain a respectable distance between the two of you, as your eyes tentatively look at him. It’s not much him physically, it’s what he represents, what he’s done that makes your stomach turn and gag. What he could do to you . Now closer to him, you take a better look at his general form, witnessing the myth of Edward Nigma, the Riddler, Gotham’s one true genius. His skin is covered in a miasma of grease, oil, blood and sweat, glistening under the harsh light of the neon lights. His clothes are equally if not even more filthy, if this was possible. His torn wife-beater reveals a hairy, sweaty chest that lifts up and down in a surprising calm manner, considering the fury and violence in his stare. There’s a noticeable scent floating around him, reeks of oil, smoke and copper. You wonder for a moment in which state his mind is, while he nods at the man behind you, a silent order. You hear the door close behind you, and when you realize that it’s only the two of you now in the otherwise quiet room, you feel burning tears crawling in your eyes.

The Riddler doesn’t say a word, but keeps looking at you, quizzically. He circles around you, looks like a wild beast, and you’re a frail bunny, ready to jump and escape, or at least hide in a hole. His gaze is heavy on you, like someone’s pushing you on the floor, dominating you completely, so much that you look down, heart beating erratically, gut twisting, a soft whimper stuck in your throat. He scoffs, and you screw your eyes shut, as the noise of his footsteps echoes in the grim place.

A sharp burning pain as you feel his grip on your jaw makes you open wide eyes, a frank yell dying on your lips. His strong hand holds your jaw bruisingly hard, jerks your face, forces you to look at him, at his furious eyes, and you comply, instinctively putting your hand, much smaller, weaker, over his, submissively. He shakes his head, and licks his lips. His words are cold, terrifyingly calm.

“Tell me, dear… Do you think I’m stupid?”

You desperately blink, confused and terrified, and your lack of answer seems to upset him even more, as he huffs and rolls his eyes, impatient, annoyed.

“Those names you created? Lies you built? This vulgar character you manufactured? Who did you try to fool exactly ?” 

His eyes are daggers, and a painful squeeze against your jaw –a warning, really– makes you understand that he’s expecting an answer this time. Through his grip, you gather all your miserable courage to mutter a response.

“Didn’t– Didn’t want to offend you, I swear! Just, just tried to meet you– work for you !” Your voice breaks as your fingers find his wrist, a desperate attempt to plead with him. The Riddler huffs, cocks a brow and the corner of his lip curl. Amused.

“ You want to work for me ? Ah! Preposterous! You, my dear, are but a weak little puppy , and I have no use for you” when the Riddler spits his venom, it burns your skin, your soul, and you feel your bone marrow turn to mush. When he finally releases his grip on your face, you wobble on your legs, immediately soothing the assaulted flesh with your soft hand, while he remains still, looking at you with a defiant look on his face. 

A dizzying feeling of despair crawls under your skin, and you feel like you’ve already made it this far, you might as well strip yourself of all self-esteem. Looking up at him with teary eyes, you shakingly clear your throat.

“Please. Please! I know I can be of use for you. I– I’m discreet. Fast. Clever, when I want to (this made him chuckle mockingly). I– just need an opportunity. Give me a task. Anything. I’ll show you!” your voice breaks quite a few times. You don’t have much of a choice at this point. You need it, need this job, need a way to survive in the jungle that is Gotham City. 

You maintain eye contact with the Riddler, catching your breath, feeling your heart pound and ruin your ribcage, and for a brief instant, there is a sparkle in his eyes, something mischievous, and a grin flashes on his face, drawing more wrinkles on his tired face. He’s silent for a couple of seconds. Thinking of something, looking up and down at you. Considering you for an instant. A low chuckle escapes his mouth, one that makes something vibrate inside of your core, makes your legs tremble.

“Is that so… Alright, then! Let us see what exactly you have to offer, pup . Come back tomorrow, I’ll give you some errands to run. A task simple enough that even you should manage to complete it!” a low chuckle punctuates his last sentence, as you immediately join your hands together and press them in front of your face.

“Thank you, thank you so–”

“But let me be extremely clear, dear,” his voice turns low and dark, menacing even, “do not disrespect me ever again, because I don’t do second chances.”

You swallow loudly, and frantically nod your head, measuring the threat in his words.

“Of course, thank you for everything, I– I won’t disappoint you, I promise” you stutter one last time on your vow, your legs guiding you towards the exit. The Riddler looks at you walking away, an indecipherable look on his face, then his voice pierces the quiet room.

“It will be Mr. Nigma for you. Don’t you dare forget my name.”

His voice sends chills down your spine, hearing an unspoken threat behind his words. Navigating through the orphanage, your heart menacing to give up on you, you finally manage to find the exit and run, like you’ve never run before, run back home, like the Devil himself was following you after a successful pact you just made.

And in truth, it really might have been the case.

[deathswcrn]

@oathwilled asked: Morning After

There's a kind of friend Breina has learned come along rarely, but are always worth keeping around. By contrast, there's some people that she gets along with just but who she feels she has to perform for to keep close, because she's too brash, too loud, too rude and lewd. There's some that allow her to be herself, for who hiding is worthless because in the end, she doesn't offend them. But the rare friend is one who not only accepts and like who she is, but harmonises with her so her own personality turns up in response, who makes her more herself. Paerin, Breina is beginning to learn, is that last category.

Whenever she has stories to tell of her adventures around Dancing Peaks, Paerin has two more in kind. Her jokes are getting lewder around him, because he's got a tongue for double-entendre in his head that rivals her own. They grumble like old dogs together, all performative bark for the sake of bellyaching, and Gods, the two of them have bellyaching to vent steam to a fine art. And he's been generous about his paladin knowledge, guiding her through shit she should have figured out before now, but hasn't, and when they speak of oaths, she knows they're both talking about immutable touchstones they'd made part of themselves. Understanding a paladin's oath is to understand what makes them tick, and they've both shared plenty on that topic.

And her flirting around him is becoming downright dreadful. Some of the things she's said to him lately are positively eye-roll worthy.

It's how she's ended up tangled in a pile of limbs, aching a little in all the best ways, a little warm with all the body heat but comfortable with company. Last night had felt jubulent. She had been in a good mood, drink had been flowing freely (whether it was good drink is another matter entirely), and as things were winding down, she was reluctant to go back to her tent alone. But Paerin was there, handsome in his rough way in the firelight, their jokes had been getting bawdier as the night had ticked on.... so maybe she did, with a wink and a nudge, imply their night should end together. It hadn't been the first time the punchline to her jokes had been 'and seriously, if you want to be ridden until you see stars, I have thighs that can keep going for days.'

It's fine, she tells herself as she comes back to herself slowly, trying to figure out if there's a way to extract herself without waking him up. He looked peaceful, a little sleep-ruffled, but content to keep sleeping, and she's nothing if not a gentlewoman about letting a man get his sleep when he needs it. The problem is, it's given her chance to think. To reflect on why she keeps being pulled in his direction, and it's not a thought that she wants to give oxygen, because she realises with horror there's something to it. They enjoy rolling in the sheets. It's nothing.

Is it nothing? rises unbidden in her head, and she panics at even entertaining the idea. No. Absolutely not. Paerin is a friend she fucks sometimes and that's all she wants out of this. He's the first friend like this she's managed to make since the Dancing Peaks, and she's not ready to jepordise that on a wilful heart. Her elbow comes out, a little sharper than necessarily intended, to jab the half-elf awake, before she drives herself into a tizzy whilst trapped under him. "Let me up, y'great asshole. I need to piss."

No more casual sex, she decides. Not until her brain begins to behave around him again.

[ringo-langly]

Good--I cannot stress this enough--grief.

The last year has been...well, a steaming pile of dog shit, honestly. Between work stress and crap in my personal life, I've been so stressed out that I had to go on blood pressure medication and might end up having to go on some kind of anxiety meds.

A situation that should have been resolved Wednesday with the selling of my house is STILL ongoing because the thermostat stopped working when the buyer moved in. Like...I'm sorry and everything but the AC and everything in the house was working at closing. It was working during your final walk through. We closed, we signed the papers two days ago. It's unfortunate that something stopped working the day you move in, but that's a YOU problem now and I'm no longer responsible.

Not only that, but my realtor tried to get me to pay her an additional $2000 because she forgot our agreement said 2.5% to her and 2.5% to the seller's agent and she made a deal with the seller to give her 3%. 1.) Not in my contract, lady. 2.) I didn't agree to any addendum to raise your commission. 3.) How fucking dare you call me after you've been such a TERRIBLE realtor who has caused me nothing but headaches since May, starting with you showing up to our initial meeting 2 hours late because you "forgot" you were scheduled to meet with me. That should have been the first red flag, but I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. Now I fucking regret it.

I'm stressed to the max. And I'm just fucking done with all of it. I really just want to get back into writing, back into roleplaying, back into my hobbies.

Being an adult sucks. Don't grow up.

[roleplayhonestybox]

i’ve run into so many people who will create fun plots with me, but when it comes down to writing it’s like any sense of literacy they had during the plotting process goes straight out the fucking window. after the plot itself it established, they offer no contribution beyond this. and i’ll try to give them the benefit of the doubt, EVEN WHEN i get like three godawful sentences in response to a massive starter where i’ve taken time to establish backstory and setting.

if you’re someone who roleplays with someone, not realising that their level of literacy greatly exceeds yours to the point that writing together isn’t gonna work, JUST SAY AS MUCH!!!!!!! if i send you a longass intro, how hard is it to type smth like “oh hey i don’t think our styles will work together” because honestly that’s a thousand times less disrespectful than giving a goddamned one-liner after two hours crafting an intro for you. that shit is so fucking rude.

like some of y’all wonder why you’re being ghosted? check the quality of what you’re providing. the quantity TOO! and idgaf what people say, quantity is important. stop giving your roleplay partners steaming piles of dog shit when you can’t keep up. just admit it and move on. stop wasting peoples’ time.

.

[larsnicklas]

i do think one thing that is kind of funny about this season’s iteration of the canucks is that when the top guys are off their game they’re all off at the same time 😭 they are so in tune with each other that when one of them is fucking awful they all careen down together. and i’m not talking about having a meh game with little impact; that happens over the course of a season and the team can (and has) overcome this. i’m talking when one of the high end guys is a steaming pile of dog shit they’re a steaming pile of dog shit together. this is not conducive to winning games but luckily they also seem to feed off each other when one of them is feeling really fucking good. and even more luckily there have been way more of those days. what a team man. they’re probably going to shit kick my caps on sunday. christ.

[worrior-studios]

Phat Dog's comfort

Cws: Mention of sexual abuse

Alfred laid on his bed, twitching anxiously. He didn’t know what to do. His mother was out being a whore on the streets and his dad was out doing what he does. Although he knows that his dad will be here soon, once he arrives, Alfred is going to get hit and treated like a pile of shit.

He supposes that he could leave, run around, and do something. But at the same time, Alfred knows that the streets are just as bad as his house. He can get raped by them as well. Alfred just laid on his bed, wondering if he would ever get an escape.

But soon his phone dinged and he grabbed it. He soon realized that he had gotten a text from Phat Dog.

Phat Dog: Want to meet up and smoke?

Once Alfred read that text, he couldn’t help but happily stim and kick his feet. He was free! He was free from staying at his house and getting abused. He can also get high and avoid his problems.

Alfred: Yes. Where are we going?

Phat Dog: My place. Nobody’s home.

As soon as Phat Dog said that, he got up and snuck out of his house, running away from it as quickly as he could. He arrived at Phat Dog’s house in a matter of minutes, and he walked in through the backdoor, which was always unlocked.

“Hey Alfie. Ready to get fucked up?” Phat Dog asked, high-fiving Alfred once he saw him.

Alfred eagerly nodded his head. “S-Sure!”

For some reason, whenever Phat Dog calls him Alfie, it makes Alfred blush. He just never gets called any nicknames that aren’t slurs or cruel names so it makes Alfred feel nice when Phat Dog calls him that.

“Let’s go into my room then.”

Once the two dogs were inside Phat Dog’s room, Phat Dog wasted no time rolling some joints as Alfred sat down next to them. As he rolled them, he stared over at Alfred, his gaze on Alfred’s neck.

“What’s that?” he asked.

As soon as Phat Dog asked, Alfred gulped. He forgot to cover the wound that his father gave him. It was a bruise from his father throwing a shoe at him.

“E-Erm, it’s nothing.” Alfred said quickly, trying to hide the wound using his fur.

“It doesn’t look like anything. It looks like your parents hit you.” he commented.

Alfred’s heart rapidly began to race and he didn’t know how to respond. He felt like having a panic attack but he pushed those feelings away.

“W-Well, my dad did do it to me but he didn’t mean to! I-It was on purpose but I deserve it.”

Once Alfred spoke, Phat Dog finished making a blunt, and he turned to the pathetic mutt, tilting his head.

“So, your parents abuse you?” Phat dog asked, taking a hit out of his joint before handing it to Alfred.

Alfred tried his best to stop himself from crying as he took the blunt in his paw.

“W-Well, it’s not really abuse… B-But I guess…”

“I dunno, man, it seems like abuse.” Phat dog replied. “I mean, you always look paranoid as hell. They must be doing something to your ass.”

Alfred twitched nervously once Phat Dog said that. He knows that its abuse and he figures that everybody knows that. He’s sure they do. He hears the teasing people in the halls of his school whenever he walks by.

They call him a whore, a slut, and a faggot. Alfred gets called a faggot a lot and he hates it. Even if he’s gay, people have no reason to insult him… He has done nothing wrong! He never confronts people. He just ducks his head and goes along with what he needs too. Yet everybody treats him like a steaming pile of garbage. Well, everybody besides Phat Dog. Phat Dog is the only friend that poor Alfred has… The brown and white dog suddenly twisted the joint in his hand nervously as he forced himself to speak.

“W-Well, they do abuse me. M-My mom drugs me up all the time, a-and my d-dad he…” Alfred trailed off, shame overcoming him. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t tell Phat Dog that his father molests and hits him. That he treats him like his own personal toy.

“Come on, Alfie, spit it out.” Phat Dog urged.

“My dad molests me.” Alfred blurted out instantly. “H-He has been for a while, a-and I-I….”

Alfred couldn't control himself and he burst into tears. Tears rushed all down his face and onto his torn clothes. He couldn’t help but ugly cry as he imagined his father abusing him. He hates the fact that his father does it. He hates it so much. He wishes that he could die. He wishes that he could die so that he would never have to deal with his father and his horrible home life again.

Once Alfred started crying, Phat Dog didn’t know what to do. He froze and just stared at him. But he soon shook away his thoughts and leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Alfred, pulling the dog close and rubbing his hands up and down his back.

Even if Phat Dog wasn’t the best at comforting people, he wanted to try and make Alfred feel like he was safe. He gently whispered in the dog’s ear as he held him.

“You're okay now, man. I got you. Your fucked up parents aren’t here; they can’t hurt you. You're safe.”

As Phat dog hugged him and comforted him, Alfred couldn’t help but sink further into his friend’s arms. He knew Phat Dog for many years but he has never been that affectionate with him. His brain started to wander and Alfred wondered if maybe Phat Dog will be the person that he gets obsessed with now…

[razieltwelve]

Yun-Farron Solutions (Final Rose AU)

Fang took a moment to savour the scent of the cigar before she took one last puff and then tossed it onto the creature bound by the ring of salt and a handful of esoteric seals painted onto the ground in blood.

“You bitch!” the creature screamed, writhing as the flames spread over its twisted, malformed body. “I’ll kill you! I’ll your family! I’ll kill your fucking dog!”

Fang smirked. Being a werewolf had its benefits. Being able to smoke a cigar without worrying about cancer was one. Being able to use her own blood for seal work without worrying about dying of blood loss was another. But the best thing was being able to laugh at creatures like this for being stupid enough to pick a fight with a werewolf on a full fucking moon.

“You won’t be doing shit.” Fang tossed some more kerosene onto the screaming creature. “Those seals? I’m not sending you back to the Pit. You’re on a one-way trip to Oblivion.”

The creature renewed its struggles, but it wasn’t going anywhere. She’d tracked this damn thing for close to a month. She’d learned exactly what it was, so she could pick seals that would exploit its vulnerability to the max... and then she’d waited for a full moon, so those same seals could be empowered by her werewolf blood.

It was the difference between chugging around in a car with a cute, little V4 engine and roaring around the neighbourhood in a beast with a V8 under the hood. The seals might not be the most efficient things she’d ever thrown together, but they packed a fucking punch like a bazooka.

The creature stopped screaming after another ten minutes. Just to be sure, Fang waited another five minutes before sweeping the ashes into a pile and dousing them in acid. A spritz of holy water on the remains was the finishing touch.

Satisfied that the creature was not only dead but was actually going to stay dead, Fang pulled out another cigar.

“That is an awful habit to have.”

Fang didn’t bother to turn. “Finished up already, sunshine?”

Lightning’s scowl was a physical force. “Yes, actually. The cultists responsible for summoning that thing were surprisingly forthcoming with information.”

“Was that before or after you ate a few of them?”

“I am a vampire, Fang. I do not eat people. I drink their blood.” Lightning sighed. “Was the holy water really necessary?”

“You can never be too careful. Besides, it’s not like it can actually harm you.”

Lightning wasn’t some paltry fledgling in the same way that Fang wasn’t some newly turned pup. Holy water might annoy her, but that’s all it would do.

“Even so. It’s presence is... aggravating.”

Fang turned. As usual, Lightning was dressed like something out of a gothic novel. Ancestors... vampires really did take fashion seriously, especially the older ones. Gods forbid they dress like regular people. Hell, even the younger ones had their own styles, the most popular of which was a kind of steam-punk re-imagining of what they thought the classical era had looked like.

Lightning dressed sort of like that... but then again, she’d actually lived through those times.

“I can tell what you’re thinking,” Lightning drawled. “And I am not about to take fashion advice from someone who dresses like a hobo.” A century or two ago, the words might have been laced with genuine contempt. Now, however, there was only fond exasperation behind them.

“Yeah, well, there’s not much point in my wearing expensive clothes everywhere when transforming rips them to shreds.” Fang took a puff of her cigar. She should order another batch soon. She was starting to run low. “What did you find out?”

“They learned how to summon that thing from an acolyte of a very old friend of ours.” Lightning’s eyes narrowed and flashed scarlet for a split-second.

“Fuck.” Fang snarled. “Salem? Was it asking for too much for the bitch to actually stay dead?”

“Fang, we both knew she was unlikely to stay dead forever. That’s what happens when you bind your soul to a slumbering eldritch monstrosity who is most famous for eating a whole bunch of other eldritch monstrosities. At the very least, however, she can’t be at anything close to full strength if she’s sending her acolytes out to teach a gang of barely literate conjurors who have only just barely glimpsed the surface of the Twilight World.”

Fang sighed. Shit. She really should have brought some booze. As if reading her mind, Lightning tossed her a bottle of bourbon. “Where’d you get this?”

“Fang, if I’m going to murder a whole gang of cultists after tearing through their minds, a bit of theft is hardly going to matter. Besides, it’s not like they were in any condition to appreciate it.” Lightning waited for Fang to take a swig straight from the bottle before doing the same. “We’re going to have to get the band back together, so to speak.”

“Yeah. If Salem is back, we’ll need all of them.” Fang could already feel a headache forming despite her werewolf physiology. “You realise that nobody has even seen Raven for, what, three hundred years or something?”

“Three hundred and twenty-five to be precise.” Lightning’s brows furrowed. “But Summer might know where she is. Even if she hasn’t said anything so far, she’ll tell us once she knows Salem is back.”

“Yeah. That’s true.” Fang glanced up at the moon. “You can handle that, right?”

“Summer and I are still on speaking terms,” Lightning said with careful blandness. “Although she may be reluctant to leave her current... life.”

Fang chuckled and shook her head. “I almost admire her audacity, thinking she and Taiyang can just settle down and live regular lives. None of us can. Once you’ve walked in the Twilight, there’s no going back, not for people who’ve gone as deep as we have.”

"True. But I can’t blame her for trying.” Lightning turned. “We should go. We have calls to make and plans to devise.”

Fang laughed and followed her. “At least Vanille will be happy. Who knows what kind of shit she’s got prepped in case of emergency?”

[krunchymunchy]

Wanna know what really grinds my gears? pre ordering games. I think pre ordering games are a scam and probably the most smartest decision made by the gaming industry. Pre ordered games have taken over Steam, and probably other game libraries too, I don't know. But Steam is horrible with it. If I'm visiting the store, I don't want half the fucking shelves to be "Arriving soon!" If I'm shopping, I want the mother fucking things available to buy in my face. If I wanted to know what was arriving, I'd go to a special area called the fucking "coming soon" tag. Now onto the scam part. Game developers, specially triple A studios, keep releasing dog shit games with dog shit bugs and dog shit releases. These games are filled to the brim with bugs and if presented as a school project, would land them an F. But noo, gamers today eat this shit UP. They WANT to spend 60 dollars on a pile of bug ridden rubbish. And want to know why game studios love this? Free QA testers. No need to hire QA testers if your adoring audience does it for FREE, not even free, GIVES you money to QA test your game. Whats the fucking point in needed a tester if your loyal audience will eat whatever slop you put in front of their drooling mouths? Its why I think its probably the best scam in history, or at least the best scam regarding gaming. This is why I will never preorder a game, and will never buy a game at least a few months after release, so its not complete shit.

Or I could be wrong about this, this is just coming from some loser in his dark room who just wants to complain about something, if any developers want to bring insight then be my guest.