#they’re scary because their sharp and rough

[iminmywritersdungeon]

As someone who lives on a scrapyard and encounters old rusted rock crushing equipment and vehicles all the time, congratulations you’ve figured it out these things are fucking terrifying. but also comforting, in a way. I don’t know how to explain it

what are robots and cars and great grinding industrial equipment but horrifying armored insects?

[ceilidho]

prompt: ghost and you are the only survivors of a military plane crash. you spend weeks alone in the wild together. (ns/fw)

-

In the years you’ve worked as a flight attendant, you’ve never experienced a plane crash before. It’s exactly like what you would’ve expected.

Clear skies rapidly turn grey outside the tiny windows to your left and right; you notice it almost instantly because it casts a pall over the interior of the aircraft. It makes the small group of men that you’ve been travelling with sit up a bit straighter in their seats, only a few of them looking genuinely concerned. Military men often do; it’s in their nature to worry and fret. You feel it like a twinge in your gut, like something telling you that you don’t usually fly through dark clouds. 

The soft ding of the seatbelt sign comes on a handful of seconds later. The turbulence only a few moments after that.

Pilots are trained to avoid cumulonimbus clouds like they’re a harbinger of death (and they are). Even large airliners avoid crossing the path of a cumulonimbus. Your pilot should’ve known to divert and fly around the cloud, avoiding the possibility of flying through a thunderstorm altogether. The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom for everyone to fasten their seatbelts and you notice distantly that his voice seems frazzled. 

Your hands grip the seat as you strap in. This is exactly the kind of scenario you’ve prepared extensively for, but in the face of it, your stomach tosses and turns. Practice can only hope to ape reality; it often falls short. 

From across the aisle, you lock eyes with the lieutenant in the skull mask that politely refused a beverage ten minutes ago. The plane jostles you violently in your seat as it passes through a rough patch of turbulence. Even the lieutenant, twice your size and rooted into his seat, his hands clamped around the arm rests, grunts when he’s rocked side to side. 

There’s a loud pop outside the aircraft and the plane teeters dangerously to one side. The bags in the overheads bash against the doors, the plastic squeaking under their weight. 

Someone screams. The other attendant sitting across from you is already shouting, “Brace! Brace! Brace!” The mantra bursts from his chest along with spittle and the singular, quivering note of fear. There’s not much more you can do but follow his lead, dropping your head to your knees and wrapping your arms around your legs.

Your stomach drops when the plane descends far too suddenly. You would’ve been pulled back against the wall if your arms weren’t wrapped around your legs. You have enough time to peek up briefly to see all of the other men assuming the same position, some with their heads pressed against the seat in front of them before the aircraft nosedives and there’s a sharp whistle in your ear and the lights flicker ominously in the cabin and something tears and tears and tears and—

Then it’s dark.

Your grip must have loosened because the world disintegrates after you hit your head. There’s only a faint buzz and something ice cold, something that grips you from the inside and slithers over your skin. The aftermath of a crash is so quiet for the devastation it brings.

The big one in the scary mask is the one who drags you from the wreckage, lifting you into his arms when you’re still too dazed to do more than whimper pathetically. Fear and pain and adrenaline have crumpled you up into a little ball. 

“Keep your eyes open,” he says, and maybe it’s a shout. His voice is so loud. When you open them, you nearly close your eyes instinctively when you see the gaping hole in the plane where it’s been torn apart. 

“Where are—” it hurts to speak, but you have no choice, “—the others…”

He doesn’t respond. That makes it worse. You slip your arms around his neck so he can hike you closer up his chest. Slung over his shoulder is a black duffle bag that he must have pulled from the overhead, or what’s left of them. When your head turns on a swivel, you startle at the sight of the other attendant still strapped in his seat, his neck snapped back at an odd angle. 

You turn your head away. 

“My leg hurts really bad,” you sob, fingers clutched in the sweat-matted fabric of your saviour’s shirt. 

He palms the back of your head and tips you just enough for you to meet his eyes. Something dark shutters over his face for a split second. If your eyes weren’t filled with tears, you might’ve noticed it. It passes fast though, too quick for you to register it in these conditions.

“‘Gonna be okay, sweetheart,” he says, gentler this time, rough-sounding like he’s not used to using that tone. “Gonna get us out of here and then I’ll check your leg. Just hang on to me.”

It’s hard to catalogue every moment because you drift in and out of consciousness. You feel the man shift you in his arms whenever he clambers down the side of the mountain your plane must have flown into. There’s debris from the wreckage scattered around the rocks, the other half of the plane not too far away. When your eyes blink open briefly, you see how decimated the other half is. 

There aren’t any other survivors. Only bodies. He doesn’t stop for them.

Far off from the wreckage, he sets you down onto the soft earth and rifles around in the bag he took. There’s a first aid kit with supplies that he uses to wrap your ankle, which is swollen and tender. The adrenaline crash is nearly more violent than the plane crash you just survived. It wracks through your body as the lieutenant strips your shoes and socks, gently manipulating your foot in his big hands. You notice he’s also lost the mask.

Ochre yellow and green plains spread outward from the mountains. You remember from the flight maps on board that you were somewhere over Mongolia, but the exact mountain range eludes you. This could be the Khangai or the Sayan or the Altai, but you have no way of knowing. 

“Is there a…a phone in the bag? How’s anyone gonna know we’re out here?” You sound helpless, smaller than you’ve ever sounded. 

He shakes his head. The tight ball of tension in the middle of your chest grows tighter. The thought that you’re stranded in the mountains in Mongolia, thousands of miles away from home and no way to get help is almost enough to send you into a panic attack. 

A hand cups under your chin to tilt your head up. His face up close is exquisite and haunting—weathered in the way that career military men often are, burn marks and old scars littered across the delicate skin, lips perpetually chapped, and a nose that looks like it’s been broken way more than once. You can’t look away. 

“Someone’ll be looking for us,” he says. It’s reassuring only because he says it like it’s a certain thing. “Don’t know if you saw who was on that flight roster. A lot of important men were supposed to arrive in Germany at twenty-one-hundred hours.”

You nod, tears still dribbling down your cheeks even when he swipes his thumb across to rub them away. He’s not wrong. There was a colonel on your flight after all. Dead now, hot corpse still steaming in the wreckage half a kilometre away, but he would’ve been important enough to warrant an immediate rescue. 

You go still under his touch. “You weren’t on the flight list.”

He shakes his head. “Never am.”

“But you were with them?” You remember someone on the flight addressing him by his rank. It was early on in the service, when you were still strapping down bags and doing cross-check, making sure everything was in place. But you remember, even then, seeing that there were more bodies on the plane than names on the list; you’d brought it up to the captain, but he’d brushed off your concerns. Maybe he knew the reason behind the lieutenant’s name being held off the passenger list. 

It’s all moot now anyway. 

“Can’t bring a ghost on a flight,” he says darkly, like it’s a joke. Like you’re in on it together. “Can’t put it on the roster at least. S’bad luck after all.”

It’s a monstrous joke at a time like this. Your life feels cracked in half and the scarred brute of a man that pulled you from the wreckage makes jokes like it happens to him every other day. When the sky splits later that night and pours out a lake’s worth of rain, it feels appropriate. You huddle with the lieutenant at the base of a densely branched tree and shake.

Five weeks in the mountains go by slowly. 

The shelter he builds is haphazard but meticulous, composed of various materials that Ghost scavenges from the plane wreck. A door becomes a makeshift roof. He makes you sit and wait as he collects dozens and dozens of branches, chopped down from the surrounding trees and fashioned into a lean-to. Padded with moss and leaves. 

“I can help with getting the leaves,” you protest when he catches you hobbling around and carries you back to the nest of blankets and tarps that he’d pulled from the plane. He goes back every so often to see what remains and what can be used. It’s the only time other than when he hunts that Ghost leaves you alone for even a second, preferring to be within arm’s length of you the rest of the time.

“You can help by sitting your ass down,” Ghost grunts without even looking up at you. 

You frown, fingers digging in the dirt by your feet. It’s a silly complaint but there’s never anything to do but wait. 

In the early morning hours, Ghost goes off and hunts for you, when the world is still quiet and the animals are still asleep. They’re sluggish when dawn still hasn’t peeled its pink belly off the surface of the world. Ghost comes back with a deer slung over his shoulders one week, his knife still protruding from its neck, and your stomach only twists a little bit. Not used to seeing where your meat comes from. 

There’s not much choice when you’re on your own in the elements. Every day, you expect to see a helo appear over the horizon, and you end each night crestfallen when it doesn’t. 

It’s not like you haven’t completed basic training, a prerequisite to applying as a military flight attendant, but admittedly it’s been several years and basic never taught you to hunt for your food. You did other things that seemed, at the time, inconsequential to your career path, like learning to rappel and how to wait an hour for your NCO to show up for PT in the morning. 

Even if your ankle hadn’t been badly sprained, you wouldn’t be much help. Ghost’s remarkably self-sufficient. It makes you question whether he’s done this before—whether he’s gotten stranded in the woods for weeks on end and had to learn to live hand-to-mouth. 

“Have you…where’d you learn all of this?” you ask him in the dead of night, when the wind is a shrill hiss through the trees and you cower close to him in your sleeping bag (also salvaged from the wreck, though his has a tear down the side of it).

Ghost is quiet for a moment. “All over the place. Been doing this for years, love; had to learn.”

“Anything ever like this?”

Even with the absence of his mask, it gets so dark at night that you can’t see his face. You can hear the wry smile that plays on his lips in his voice though. “I’ve had worse days.”

There’s a story there that you see like a fish darting under the water. Too quick for you to catch with your bare hands. 

You wake up with your cheek pressed against his pillowy chest most days. It’s embarrassing at first, but you learn to let it melt off you when you meet Ghost’s eyes and there’s nothing there but piercing blue. They root you in place most of the time but they never tell you to move. 

It takes a while before your ankle starts noticeably healing. In the intervening weeks, Ghost almost dotes on you, in a rough, untested sort of way. Like he doesn’t have much experiencing tending to another person besides himself for weeks on end. As the weeks drag on, it morphs into something unrecognizable, like a wounded animal healing wrong. 

It starts when Ghost insists on sharing sleeping bags. It’ll be easier for him to pull you close if something tries to drag you off in the night (and doesn’t that thought put you on the brink of a panic attack until he shushes and soothes you). It escalates when you make the mistake of tending to the meat hanging over the fire while he fiddles with the little radio he’d dragged back from the plane, and the look he gives you when you tell him that supper is ready borders on reverent. 

It gets even worse when he has you both strip your clothes off on a particularly cold and rainy night, wrapped around each other for warmth. 

“Sweetheart, you’re shaking,” you hear him rumble, big hand drawing a line down your back. You do tremble at that. “C’mon, get closer. Gonna warm you up.”

You wake up in the middle of the night when your ankle is starting to feel solid enough that you think you can manage to go off on your own to relieve yourself instead of waking Ghost up again. That’s the plan anyway. Before you’ve even managed to crawl all of six feet away from your sleeping bag, a rough hand pins you by your shoulder to the ground and the heavy, over two-hundred pound body of your companion drapes itself over you.

“Where the fuck do you think yer going?” Ghost snarls. 

For the first time in a week, there’s a moment of genuine fear. It’s like realizing for a split second that the animal you’ve let creep up behind you is a lot more dangerous than you thought it was. 

“I have to pee,” you whisper-hiss, heart still skittering in your chest.

He’s silent behind you while he mulls that thought over; you think maybe he’s still half-asleep, his body acting on instinct before his brain’s ready to take over. The tension only releases you when he finally picks himself up off you, but it’s immediately made worse when he insists on accompanying you into the woods. 

He doesn’t even turn around while you pull your underwear down and squat. Ghost’s eyes are bright in the dark, trained on you like it’s the thing that gives him purpose. 

Things change in the woods. There are people who are only one bad thing away from reverting to their neolithic mind; as the weeks go on, you see the way his eyes change when they fall on you, no longer detached but gluttonous. 

There’s a brown bear that slouches past your camp one day, sniffing around only because it’s curious, and Ghost all but completely obstructs your vision with how he shoves you behind him. He puffs up big when the bear gets too close, keeping you hidden until it snorts and ambles off, not interested in the pair of you. 

Do animals act like this? He curls you around him in sleep, legs tangled together. When you soak in the lake under the glare of the sun, he slips into the water and comes up behind you until his hands close around your waist and he tugs you closer to the edge, away from the deeper parts. It’s testament to how long you’ve been out on your own that you’re no longer unaccustomed to the feel of his hands on your bare flesh. 

His lips on your bare shoulder are a little less commonplace, but you only shiver and stare out at the mountains. 

Then one day, you look up into the sky away from the sun and there it is, a black dot on the horizon at first. You scream for Ghost, who’s skinning a fish on a damp log near you and start waving your arms wildly in the air, unbridled joy streaming out of you. He’s quick to pull his mask on when the chopper lands a few hundred yards away and two similarly dressed soldiers spill out. 

You ignore the stiffness in his body as he sits beside you in the chopper, pinning you against the side. Ignore the way he answers for you when the men start asking questions. 

What does it mean to come back worse?

“Wha’s that, love?”

“Trauma bonding,” you repeat, swallowing nervously. It’s months later, but the weeks on the mountain and the forest still haunt you. The real world seems flimsier now that you’re back in it, less real somehow. Here, no one hunts for their food. “The therapist said that we trauma bonded. And—and that’s why you won’t—”

Here’s where the words can’t seem to come out on their own. 

He sleeps in your bed these days—can’t stand to be more than a room away from you at any given time. Follows you into the bathroom when you need to clean up at the end of the day, crowding you into your too-small shower. The you from a month ago wouldn’t have been able to imagine inviting a six-foot-four soldier into your apartment, but—and here’s where your brain scrambles a bit to catch up—you didn’t invite him in. 

He lifts a brow. The mask comes off in your apartment, so you’re able to see the way his lips slip into something unimpressed. “Why I won’t what?”

You swallow. “You know. Leave.”

“Do you want me to leave, love?” 

That’s the crux of it. The heart of it. You really don’t. In the dark sometimes, if the wind rustles outside your window just right, shrill like those weeks in the forest and out on the open plains, your heart pounds in your chest until it grows so tight that you think it’ll just stop. 

“No,” you whisper in response to his question.

Most nights, you wake up drenched in sweat, still half in a dream where you turn your head and the other flight attendant is staring back at you with wide, empty eyes. Blood dribbling down from his head. Where a plane is ripped in half, grey metal strewn across a mountain and the valley below is a dark pit where you go to die. 

Then you roll over in your bed and Ghost is there, already awake and cupping a wide hand over your cheek, laying kiss after kiss across your face. Murmuring that it’ll be alright, that you’re safe. That he’s got you. 

His breath is hot on your skin.

You let him roll you over and spread your legs when he says those things. Let him be a bit filthy after being so kind to you in the woods. 

He spits on your pussy and rubs it in with a coarse thumb, chuckling when you yelp all breathlessly and squirm away. Sometimes when you fuck, he gets rough with you and slaps it, but he’s always tender with you after a nightmare, content to sooth you with his mouth on your pussy until you’re close to hyperventilating. 

“S’alright, sweetheart,” Ghost breathes, spearing you on his turgid length, barrel chest heaving when he finally crams it all in. Always a bit too big for you to take without crying. “I got you, I’ve got you. Not gonna let anything happen to you.”

It’s a new development, but it feels older than time. You could’ve let it happen in the woods and you might have, if no one had ever come. 

“Look at me, sweet girl,” he tuts when you turn your head to the side, holding your face in one hand until you have no choice but to stare at the bulk of him straining over you. He has shoulders like mountains that roll when he pushes into you. “Didn’t I say I’d take care of you?”

You don’t want to acknowledge what this is: that you found something in the woods and it followed you home.

[atrologynuances]

astrology observations pt1

(some are brutally honest and some are very very general)

all signs included!!

- cancer mars actually hate everyone in their head but will never show it.

- unevolved cancer suns are one of the worst friends along with leo suns, maybe is their need to shine brighter than everyone else

- libra mars, especially men, are scared to look weak in society so they’ll do anything in their power not to be in such position-it usually involves lying.

-people with saturn in the 4th house have had a rough childhood filled with limitations and oftentimes had to be displaced from their home at a young age.

-people with saturn in their 1st house do not really know how they look or their impact in society, some just exist if that makes sense.

-capricorn risings will go through hell and back before they find a lover, this is because their 7th house of relationships with other and open enemies is ruled by the moon which rules over emotions, and the moon is in detriment in capricorn.

-same concept with pisces risings, I find that they date people or might surround themselves with people that have a lower educational level than them (mercury is in detriment in their sign)

-pisces risings have the most beautiful captivating eyes yes, but they’re also pretty intimidating, an energy one cannot quite put their finger on, which is what makes it intimidating and scary.

-I know libra rules beauty, but all the libra risings i’ve met always had something off with their face (i’m so sorry). with them is more about the beautiful vibe they exude once evolved, as opposed to their looks alone.

-most scorpio sun men do look like rats, they’re small, talk fast, and have sharp teeth, or noticeable teeth.

-sagittarius seem to not like school that much or they really do, no in between.

-sagittarius sun men are the dirtiest men i’ve met, they’re also chronic liars and cheaters, and have the biggest victim complex. they will drop you if they think you bring them “bad luck.”

-most taurus sun women are opportunistic and liars, they have the face card for it though, which is why they always get away with it.

-taurus sun men are the creepiest people i’ve met, there is always something sketchy with them. the type that will love bomb you two weeks into the relationship and then drop you the week after if they don’t think you’ll be useful to them.

-leo venus, specifically the men, will never be satisfied with their partner long term. they tend to “settle down” with partners they’re not that physically attracted to.

-i’ve noticed that aquariuses, regardless of gender always have pretty long hair (please confirm if this is you or if you’ve noticed this as well). if they don’t have long hair they have an eccentric hair colors like fuchsia pink or neon green.

-aries sun men look musty, or at least the ones i’ve encountered.

-on the other hand, aries women are the most gorgeous people i’ve met, they have a tall pose that exudes confidence; they do tend to be two faced though, still very beautiful. also, they always work hard for what they got! “mama i’m the rich man” vibe.

-people with north node in the 1st yearn for relationships, even if they don’t admit it.

it never seem to happen for them romantically, or at least not until the second part of their life.

-people with venus in the 7th are either loved of hated by people, they are mostly loved depending on the conditions of their venus but there’s something about them people can’t seem to shake off (something positive).

-a gemini anything will scam you and you won’t know until two years later lol.

-seriously though, am I the only one that has noticed gemini suns (only) being favored by the universe when it comes to them seeing the consequences of their actions. they could do half of the world wrong, and will still come out winning in the end. this is why most of them go about life like there’s no tomorrow.

-virgo risings struggle with their health from a very young age.

-virgo venuses are quite captivating, I know venus is at fall here but their elegance will have you second guessing why.

-since we’re talking about virgos let me add that virgo suns are very consistent with how inconsistent their personality is. they’re also picky eaters.

-if the ruler of your 5th house falls into your 6th house you might be a controlling and manipulative mother.

Guide

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 4[*]

Azriel x Third-oldest-Archeron-sibling!reader

a/n: a truly beautiful friendship is always founded in chaos (it’s funny because of who Eris is in mythology)

Also, I would like to emphasise the bickering at the end is entirely whispered—enjoy

Warnings: Just general angst, sexual undertones, unjustly jealous!Azriel, swans (don’t even get me started on how scary they are, and don’t try to tell me otherwise if you haven’t been cornered by at least one)

Word Count: 6,618

-Part 3- -Part 5-

A voice is calling your name from somewhere: somewhere foggy, and distant.

A voice that really has no business interfering with the hot, male body that’s pressing you into the wall.

Large, playfully rough hands grip your hips, using his own to keep you pinned against the brickwork, groping your ass appreciatively.

You arch up into him, mouth opening over his own, tongue stroking and flicking. Fingers rake through his hair, turning it messy as you haul him closer. The lovely press of his cock against your abdomen, the ego-boosting sign of his appetite. He groans into your mouth, bucking his hips, and you drag the soft swell of your breasts over his chest. The cool night air scrambles beneath your skirts, making them flutter and billow, urging him closer.

The voice sounds again. Clearer; closer.

It’s strange how it sounds like—

The male body is forcibly torn off you, cold flushing your front, leaving the uncomfortable dig of brick into your backside. You blink away your haze, real world events crushing back down, slamming home when your eyes lock with sharp hazel. He’s clearly pissed. It’s probably the most emotion he’s ever shown to you.

How miserable.

“Did you forget we’re have dinner tonight?” He asks gruffly, hand still resting firmly over the male’s shoulder who’s looking warily between the two of you. It dawns on you what he’s just seen you doing, the position he’s caught you in; heat swallows your body whole. The shameful, humiliated type, and you force yourself to keep his gaze. Beg yourself not to hang your head.

“I’m not going,” you manage, eyes flicking away from his. “I already told Fey, and she said it was fine, so…” His brow narrows, attention piercing into you, judging. “They’re not compulsory, anyway,” you mumble, “so really I— there’s no reason for me to be at one.”

“It’s a family dinner. There’re plenty of reasons for you to be there.” His eyes flick to the male who just had you pressed between him and a wall, “unless something more important comes up.”

There’s no obvious sign, but he’s agitated. Irritated. Maybe a foul mood.

Azriel releases the male, eyes flicking over his shoulder—a sure dismissal. When the male refuses to leave, Azriel’s shadows thicken. Definitely a foul mood. “Is there something I can help you with?” He mutters sharply, piercing attention zeroing in on the male—Bas.

His golden eyes turn on you, peering warily, “who is this? You said you were on your own.” Heat washes down your spine, gaze flicking between them, wishing for the floor to open up under your feet. “He’s—nobody. Just a—…” You fumble, unsure what to say. “Acquaintance,” Azriel finishes for you, hairs rising at the back of your neck as he stares at you. “A friend of a friend.”

Bas’ lips lift into a smirk, and you pray he’s going to keep his mouth shut for once. But he turns to Azriel, standing less than an inch shorter than the shadowsinger, “I don’t see what business you have with a friend of a friend,” he drawls, making both of you stiffen.

The dim faelights gleam in his intelligent golden eyes, bringing out the rich darkness of his skin, the outcropping of his sharp jaw, the thickness of his hair that hangs in lovely, rough locks.

Azriel’s eyes narrow, shadows coiling at his back, peeking over menacingly large wings, “and what business do you have with her? She has plans for tonight.” One of Bas’ brows quirks in subtle challenge, and you brace yourself. “Considering she sought me out, I think her plans have changed,” he says, that provocative smirk still tipping his lips.

“Bas…” you murmur, stress tensing your muscles.

Both of their attention switches to you, and your mouth seals itself shut.

Azriel shakes his head, “she’s coming with me. Don’t bother her again, Bas.” The words are final, and you can tell the conversation is over. Bas doesn’t back down, though. Always ready for a bit of rough and tumble. Practically lives off the edge. “Now I didn’t realise she was your property, Az,” he drawls challengingly, his attention then settling over you. “And you should have told me who this other person was, sweetheart.”

They know one another?

“She’s not your anything,” Azriel says, a rough sharpness to his voice. “Back off, Bas.”

The male doesn’t budge. Instead his gleaming eyes fall on you.

Oh no…

“Sweetheart?”

Heat warms your skin, gaze darting anywhere but the two males before you. You really don’t want to go to the dinner. To see all of them so soon after the mess that happened precisely one week ago… And it would be weird to show up after having said you weren’t going. What if you went and there wasn’t enough food? She has enough on her plate, she doesn’t need to worry about extra dinner guests.

You’re staying with Bas.

Hazel meets your gaze, and words stumble. “I…” I’m not going to the dinner.

“You…?” Azriel repeats, jaw tightening.

You flush, eyes lowering, heat warming your cheeks against the cool night air.

You turn to Bas, and he frowns. “Sorry,” you say gently, “I should see my sister.”

The wings at Azriel’s back loose a slight bit of their tension—still pulled taut. “Right, let’s go,” he says, cutting off any communication, “we’re already late.” You shoot Bas an apologetic look as you move to follow behind Azriel—keeping his gaze ahead. He merely shakes his head, giving you an easy smile, “find me after, okay?” A wave of gratefulness washes over you, and you push every drop of it into the thankful look you send him. Then you turn, hurrying down the uneven cobbles after the Shadowsinger.

He’s silent when you catch up, walking at his side, a pace behind. He doesn’t look at you once, continuing down the road that will lead to the River House. Fighting down the humiliation, you clear your throat. “Can you—” You nearly trip, righting yourself a second before your tipping point. Stumbling, you scoop the fabric of your long dress into your hands, raising it out of the way of your feet.

He continues walking, though slows a little as you scramble after him.

“Azriel,” you say, a little breathless. “Azriel, wait.”

He halts suddenly, making you flinch with the abrupt stop. Sharp hazel eyes press down on you, and you falter. “Yes?” He asks. Fumbling for words, your eyes flick out from under his, skipping over the shops in the darkening streets. “I—…” you begin, unsure what to say. “Can you…can you not mention any of that?” You request softly, embarrassing heat warming your cheeks.

“Who would tell?” He replies coldly.

Humiliation settles in the pit of your stomach. You lower your head a little. Nod. “I didn’t want you to think…”

“I don’t make a habit of interfering with other people’s business,” he says pointedly, watching you. Why does it feel like he’s scolding you?

Your lips press together, shoulders curving inward almost imperceptibly.

His eyes flick to your hair, and his hand raises, as if to shift a strand—tuck it away. But he stops, noting your gaze. “You need to fix your hair,” he says, a touch softer than before. “It’s obvious what you were doing.” Shame is like a deadweight in your gut, hands feeling dumb as they attempt to neaten out a mess you can’t see. His eyes narrow when you lower them, and you both know it would be easier if he was the one to right whatever’s wrong with you. He doesn’t, though.

“I’m not like Nesta,” you say softly, a little shakily.

His brow narrows slightly, “nobody said you were. There’s nothing wrong about being similar to her.” Heat warms your skin, and you stumble under the look.

“I mean, that—what you…saw—that’s not normal. It’s not a… I’m doing doing any of that…”

“Drinking and fucking?” You flinch at the crude wording, and a gleam of apology flashes in his hazel irises. He watches you quietly for a moment, and you shift under his gaze, hands moving to rest on your elbows, dress swishing close to the ground.

“You know it’s fine if you are,” he says, gently. “As long as you’re being sensible about it,” he adds, “there’s nothing wrong with doing that if it works.” Your lower lip wobbles at the implication—that he knows you’re doing this to try and get over him. How desperate you’ve become.

“But find someone other than Bas,” he says, making you furrow your brow.

“What’s wrong with Bas?” You ask. He’s been great. Azriel watches you silently again, hazel eyes piercing into you blankly. Has your lip-tint smudged?

“He’s not…” Azriel begins, as if debating how to frame what he wants to say. Make sure you’ll understand. “You shouldn’t spend your time with someone like him,” he settles on.

“‘Someone like him’?” You echo, looking back up the street to where the two of you had been. Heat crawls up your spine, and you hastily look away.

“He’s different from you,” Azriel says, bluntly.

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” you argue softly, peering at the cobbles. You hear him sigh, as if he doesn’t know what to do with you. “He can’t give you what you’re looking for. He’s the type to string you along until he’s bored, then never visit again. Stay away from him.”

“He hasn’t done anything bad…” you say quietly, shifting lightly from foot to foot. “He’s been…he’s been very nice.”

Azriel sighs again, and that funny feeling settles in your stomach. Disappointment tickling your insides. “That’s to draw you in. As soon as you try to bring him to a dinner, or to meet one of your sisters, he’ll bolt.”

“Why would I bring him to meet any of you?” You ask bitterly at the lack of confidence. “Do you plan to keep your partner a secret?” He counters with, tersely. “Maybe.” You reply defensively, still looking at the ground.

He’s quiet again, and you can almost feel the air shift. “Need I remind you of last week’s events,” he asks, quietly. “You’re not known for keeping your mouth shut.” You bite your lip to keep it from trembling, nails digging into your elbows. “And I thought you didn’t make a habit of interfering with other people’s relationships,” you murmur.

“I know they’ll make good decisions,” he counters. “You don’t have enough experience. To know what you’re doing.”

“Stop treating me like a child,” you whisper, head dipping. “I know what I’m—” you cut yourself off as a sob tries to work its way from your throat. Take a deep breath. Swallow. “I know what I’m doing,” you manage quietly.

“You’re going to get yourself hurt,” he argues. “You don’t want to damage yourself like that.”

Your body stiffens at the words, then a breath eases from your chest. You nod. “Okay.” You begin walking again, one foot in front of the other. He sighs again. “I didn’t mean it like that.” You keep walking.

“I’m trying to help you,” he says flatly, falling into pace.

“Okay.”

“So you’ll stay away from him?” Azriel asks, eyes falling on your smaller frame.

“Okay.”

His brow narrows on you, watching intently. Then, “look at me.”

Look at me.

The feeling of his fingers inside of you, close enough to share breaths, yet you were the only vulnerable one. Not an ounce of intimacy to be exchanged. You keep walking toward the River House.

Azriel doesn’t say another word.

————

In the end, you’re somewhat glad you went to the dinner.

If you hadn’t, you would be back here, in the mortal lands.

Well, with no wall, you’re not sure what to call your previous homeland. But you’re here, nonetheless, and all thanks to Elain. She’d wished to see Lucien, who had near permanent residence in the mostly intact house, and had invited you along with her. Whether she knew you needed some time away, or simply offered, you don’t know.

You’d arrived most likely around an hour ago, Fey and Cassian departing soon after, leaving you and Elain to spend the day as you pleased. You’d opted to take a stroll around the gardens, walking alongside the river that was just beginning to refill after an apparently hot and dry summer.

That was your first encounter with Eris.

You nearly jump out of your skin when he winnows to the river bank mere feet to your left, stumbling backward a few steps in surprise. Cutting caramel eyes pierce into you with razor-sharp scrutiny, noting your pointed ears. His brow narrows as he takes you in; he doesn’t look pleased with what he finds.

Blinking, you mark the blazing colour of his hair, the beautifully tailored finery, the flicker of flame in his eyes—remarkably similar to Lucien. “What…who are you?” You manage, calming your heartbeat. It’s a nonsense question, you realise—it’s obvious who he is. Anyone could figure it out through simple deduction. So you shake your head, “why are you here?”

Eris’ eyes narrow on you, then he’s striding forward, moving up the river bank until he’s come to stop before you. You take a single step back—if you have to crane your neck to look at someone, you’re too close. He’s remarkably imposing with his height and muscle, despite the inherent beauty of the fae.

“Who are you?” The words are short and efficient in a sharp, brazen way, and you find yourself wondering if you should have just continued on your way. “I’m—” you open your mouth to give your name, then realise it would be rude to assume he knew who you were. There’s no reason for him to. “Feyre’s my younger sister,” you supply instead.

His brow narrows. “I didn’t know there were four of you.”

Heat flushes your skin, and you look away. It’s not an insult, yet you feel embarrassed.

“So, why are you here?” You repeat, a little quieter, trying to change the subject.

“I’m expected,” he replies shortly, turning to face the way you had come. “Why have you been kept a secret?” He asks. You mentally scramble for an excuse to continue on your walk. You don’t want to go back yet, and he’ll probably expect you to winnow, and you aren’t really in a talking mood at the moment. No excuse comes to mind.

“I haven’t been kept a secret,” you respond finally, falling into step a little behind him. “Not intentionally, anyway,” you add as an afterthought, frowning. He's walking fast, and you’d like more time to take in the scenery. At least he’s not winnowing.

“You haven’t been present at any meetings,” he counters, “I find it hard to believe that’s a coincidence.”

Your frown deepens, “why would I be at any of them? Elain hasn’t been to any, either. The only time you would have seen her is in the Hewn City.”

“Which you were kept away from, too.”

You come to a stop, watching him. His brow narrows as he’s forced to slow his pace, looking vaguely irritated. “I was there when you danced with Nesta,” you correct, “all of us were.”

Eris stares at you blankly and it’s an effort not to squirm. “I was there,” you insist, “behind Elain?”

He doesn’t remember you.

Well.

“So you’re good at remaining unseen,” he says, turning to set you into motion again. You hurry after him, a little taken aback at the compliment. It’s a nice way to think about it, a faint smile tipping your lips, “thank you.”

“It was a question.”

“Oh…” you say, smile vanishing. It hadn’t sounded like one. “I guess… I prefer it…”

“You and the Shadowsinger must get along swimmingly,” he mutters, continuing along the path, neatly avoiding muddied parts. Something you fail spectacularly at.

The comment registers in your mind and you stiffen, muscles contracting as you force yourself to continue moving. “Not particularly…” you hedge, uncertain what’s appropriate to tell him. You aren’t familiar with Court politics. “No more than anyone else, anyway,” you correct, soothing out the slight rumple.

“No? Not settling in well?” He asks. You could swear there’s some sort of mocking undertone to the question, but you can’t figure out what the taunt is for.

“I…I guess not?” You answer, slowly. “It’s not bad,” you add hastily, not wanting to talk negatively behind their backs. He might bring it up later. You repeat the thought in your head, then shake it, smiling faintly. He hadn’t even know you existed until a few minutes ago, yet you think he could be trying exploit you. How silly.

The result of an over-inflated ego. Maybe you really should stop fooling around with Bas—he’s giving you all sorts of ideas about the value of your person, and it probably isn’t healthy.

“I mean, it’s fine. Just…normal, I guess. Compared with the initial chaos,” you add, satisfied with the end result of your rambling. The house is in sight now. All you need to do is pass between the river and the pond, and—

You stumble.

Not literally—it’s more of a mental scramble. Because right there, where they weren’t mere minutes ago, are a pair of large, powerfully built swans.

Eris continues walking like the two beasts aren’t eyeing you up with those sharp, beady eyes. You can practically see the light catching on the small teeth hidden beneath the beak. Glittering with menace.

“Let’s go this way,” you say abruptly, pointing to the path that winds around the pond. He comes to stop, clearly irritated by the unnecessary hinderances you’re causing. “This way is perfectly usable. We go this way,” he turns, continuing forward, fear rising in y our throat.

You scramble forward, clutching the skirts of your dress, “Eris!”

His caramel eyes slice into you, piercing in their intensity, but you don’t buckle. “I understand that maybe they don’t seem as vicious as the creatures of Prythian,” you murmur, as if they can hear you, “but swans are still very dangerous. We should go around.” Again you point to the pathway, ears perked up for any signs the massive birds are approaching. “And I get that you have magic, but you can’t just go around butchering local animals if they get in your way. That’s not how things are done here.”

He stares at you, as if asking if you’re serious. You hold his gaze because yes, you’re completely serious.

“You know they won’t attack you,” he counters, “and you’re correct, they aren’t dangerous compared to the beasts in Prythian. So move aside.”

You shake your head, “they could break your arm,” you insist, refusing to budge. His brow narrows in a scathing scowl, “they could break a human’s arm. I am not human.” He walks around you.

“They’re still dangerous, Eris. We should really go around,” you urge, watching as he walks along the path, remaining rooted to the spot. “Just winnow,” he snaps, then looks over his shoulder. “Unless you aren’t strong enough.”

“I can winnow fine, but…” Even that’s too close to them. You firmly believe animals have a sixth sense humans do not—you wouldn’t put it past them to know they’ve been cheated. “Please, let’s just go around.”

He watches you with narrowed eyes, weighing; judging. You freeze beneath his gaze, refusing to even breathe in case it’s the wrong thing to do. He turns fully to you then, and you think he might listen to you. Relief washes over you, but—

“You’re scared of these creature?” He asks, amusement underlying his tone. You flush. “Like I said, they’re dangerous,” you defend, lowering your gaze a little.

“You know, you’re fae. They won’t attack you.”

Your eyes flick up, doubting. “Why would they act any differently?”

“We are creatures of magic. Greater than they are. They know it would be unwise to attempt anything.” You blink, having not thought of it like that. The fae had felt different when you were human, more intense, more concentrated in a way humans weren’t. You hadn’t considered maybe other animals would understand that primal difference, too.

Eris’ lips twitch, and he holds out his arm—you’re completely certain it’s a mocking gesture this time. But also a challenge.

It’s also a prompt to face your fears. It’s been long enough.

You can do this.

You can prove to yourself there’s no need to be afraid of them any longer.

You take some small steps forward. Then a few more. And a few more after that. And then your arm is overlapping with Eris’, feeling the hot strength of muscle cording his forearm. An odd feeling of security settles over you, as the two of you begin to move forward.

You’re unable to help tensing as you pass them, even if Eris is on the side closest to them. Then to your dismay, he stops. “You can pet them, if you want,” he says, lips still quirked in the corners. He’s enjoying watching you shake and tremble at something half your size. “Are you insane?” You mutter under your breath, staring at the white beasts that seem to be waiting for an opportunity to strike.

Eyes widen and you stare at him, “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean that.”

He watches you steadily, eyes gleaming as he turns toward the swans, forcibly dragging you with him, despite your protests. “Eris…” you mutter, digging your feet into the mud, but you nearly slip. “Eris, seriously, stop it.”

He stops; you sigh in relief, but the tension doesn’t leave your body—still much too close to the great birds.

“Go up to one,” he says, a smirk on his rosey lips. “Touch one, then you can go.” He’s enjoying this far too much for your liking.

“No way,” you hiss, trying to pull out of his hold. The swans shift at the jerky movement, and you still. You stare at him, but he doesn’t seem inclined to move. “They’ll definitely do something if I try to go up to one!” You argue, as softly as possible. He just hums, and you wish you had continued walking instead of addressing him. Then you could be looking for blackberries, enjoying the natural sounds of the outside.

But here you are.

“You’re fae,” he reminds, eyes gleaming as he watches you intently.

Muscles tremble, thoughts flash in and out of existence within your mind as you look at the swans, sat neatly on the river bank, just at the water’s edge. A few long steps there, then back, and it’ll be over.

He’s right—you’re fae. They won’t attack you.

Still.

His arm unlinks from your own, hand pressing gently against the base of your spine. Egging you on.

You exhale a heavy breath, then move forward. Silently cursing him—unkind as it is. One step at a time as you descend the bank. The wind seems to have picked up, and you’re grateful for your preternatural sense of balance as you move down the muddy slant, feet settling on the pebble-filled shore.

Just three more steps, and you can turn back.

Two more.

One more, and then you’ll be in reaching distance.

The beady eyes pierce into you, wings stiffening, and you force yourself to breathe deeply.

“Just tap one on the head, and it’ll be over,” he reminds from your back, a little too loudly for your liking. Like he’s trying to get them to startle.

You steady yourself, blocking him out.

Come on, you can do this. You’re twice it’s size, and have immortality on your side. You can do this.

Slowly, shakily, you take the last step forward, reaching out your hand.

Black eyes meet your own, and you falter.

The swan shrieks, the second one hissing viciously, wings flaring to strike. You jump away, feet landing on the slippery rocks of the river. The massive birds surge forward, beak opening to snap at you, and you stumble, yelping as you fall backward. Icy water soaks up to your waist, and the breath whooshes out of you, your arms covering your face as wings flap.

When you open your eyes, the swans have taken off, and you’re up to your ribs in freezing river water. Trembling and shaking, you ease yourself out, soaked from the waist down, clothes wet and icy against your skin as you shiver.

Up on the bank, Eris is grinning, eyes gleaming with mirth as he watches your soaked state shuffle from the river, barely keeping his laughter to himself.

“You said—” Your heart is still pounding, vision blurring a little as you fumble for words. “You said they— That they wouldn’t…” Your teeth are already chattering, and you have to get warm quickly. You know how deadly the cold can be. Even with a reinforced body, the cold is as vicious as you remember, softly sinking into your arms, numbing your lips.

“Every animal has a fight or flight response,” he replies, voice lilting with amusement at your terror. “It was foolish of you to think you were above that.”

“But you said—”

“If I told you to dip beneath the river for five minutes without coming up for air because fae lungs are larger, would you do it?” He counters.

“…I wouldn’t disbelieve you,” you stammer, lips numb from the cold, lumbering back toward the bank.

The water in your shoes makes it hard to climb the muddy slope, and you end up having to use your hands to keep yourself steady, gritty dirt sliding beneath your nails. “Why did you lie?” You manage, heart pounding from fear, blinking away tears. His lips are still quirked into a rueful smile, enjoying your terror.

Hateful, hateful, hateful male.

“Don’t blame your idiocy on me,” he says smoothly, offering you a viper’s smile as he turns to continue along the path, leaving you freezing and shivering, soaked in river water. “Anyone with half a brain would have been able to see through that,” he calls over his shoulder. Tears spill down your cheeks, and for once, you don’t think, or fret over the consequences.

You winnow, and land a smack square across his cheek. As hard as you can.

He blinks, startled.

Then flame ignites in his eyes, glittering ire blazing hot as a forge.

“Don’t you ever,” you snarl, “do something like that again.” Fury heats your body, and you feel like a physical warmth is wrapping around you, fingertips tingling as if glowing, skin itching just below the surface. “Do you hear me, Eris?” You repeat, rage sharpening your words as your lip pulls back from your teeth.

The flame banks in his caramel eyes, and he yields a step. It’s satisfying, until you realise why.

You are glowing. But it’s not the bright, warm golden of Feyre’s happiness.

It’s green, and vivid.

Hands the colour of radiant starfall.

————

The Mother seems to enjoy putting you through various trials.

You come to this conclusion as you resist the urge to press deeper into the firm heat of Azriel’s chest as he carries you through the air.

For reasons you can only guess at, Cassian was otherwise preoccupied, leaving the Shadowsinger to fill in. Now Elain understands your relationship with the male, Feyre can guess at the complexities, and Azriel is part of the mess, so it should be obvious you’ll fly with your younger sister, right?

Unfortunately, Lucien had to be accounted for.

He’s well aware of the history between the Spymaster and his mate, and while he would never ask Elain to avoid him, she can guess well enough it would make him unhappy. That’s how you end up in his arms, split between wishing to be anywhere else, and wishing to be able to bask in his touch without anyone questioning how close you would lean. As it is, you’re stuck between keeping your distance, and not leaning so far it looks like you’re attempting to plummet to the ground far below.

The group is moving in silence, passing over the final stretch, and you can make out the twinkle of lights in the distance—Velaris. They’d gotten caught up in—what sounded like—a rather heated conversation with the Autumn Court heir, while you had opted to wait outside. The hallway had seemed too cramped, and you weren’t sure if you could manage being pressed so close to him without making your discomfort obvious.

Azriel breaks the silence. “Was everything okay with Eris suddenly turning up?”

The question startles you from your inner thoughts, and you replay it to catch the beginning. “Yeah,” you reply, trying to keep your eyes off him. “He’s just a bit…” You fumble for words, but he’s already nodding, knowing what you’re getting at. “He’s a little intense,” you settle on, “but everything was fine. For the most part, anyway.” You’re rambling.

“For the most part,” he echoes, a soft question in his voice.

“Well, I ended up falling into the river, but you know how it is…” you mumble, suddenly finding the sky very interesting. More interesting than Azriel.

(Liar.)

“I don’t think I do,” he replies. “What does soaking yourself to the bone have to do with him?” He asks, grip tightening ever so slightly as you begin the descent. You really don’t want to tell him—it’s not going to win you any adult points. At best it’ll just show how emotional your are, and that means baggage.

“It’s a long story,” you hedge, trying not to cling too tight to him as your stomach lifts in your belly. “We’ve got a while left,” he replies, gazing ahead. He could definitely be going at a steeper angle.

You sigh softly, trying to figure out how to make it as quick and concise as possible. “Well…he kind of…appeared out of nowhere, and we ended walking back together.” Azriel’s fingers press into your skin lightly, slowly spiralling in wide circles, “and there was a river involved.”

You nod gently, “yeah.”

“How?”

Teeth worry your lower lip, mouth pursing.

He exhales quietly. “We’re in an alliance, but that doesn’t mean you should trust him. I need to know everything that happened so precautions can be made,” he explains firmly.

“Okay…”

“So tell me what happened when you were walking alone with him,” he prompts.

“There’s not much to say…” you try, but he gives you a look that tells you to quit lying. “I don’t know…we were walking past the river, and there were some swans, and he convinced me to touch one, and…well, I slipped and fell in.” You leave out the glowing hands part. If you mention it, you know they’ll pounce. You don’t want to go through what Nesta did. The things she had to endure just to activate her powers…

Granted, there’s no looming threat of the queen anymore, but still. You’d rather not.

“He convinced you,” Azriel mutters under his breath, “and how did he do that?” You flush with heat, and pray he can’t tell. “I didn’t want to walk past them, and he…encouraged me to tackle my fear.”

“Stop forcing a good narrative on that prick,” he says sharply. “He didn’t encourage you, he manipulated you.”

“Maybe,” you murmur, “but I’m a little less afraid of swans now.”

Azriel sucks in a steadying breath. “And what did you talk about?”

You cast your mind back to the conversation. “He said he hadn’t known there were four sisters,” you admit, quietly, “he thought there were only three, and that Rhys was hiding me, for some reason.” He hums, and your hairs stand on end, able to feel the resonance thrumming through you. You hurriedly shift your mind elsewhere before your scent changes. “What else?”

You put your teeth into the inside of your lower lip, “I…” said we weren’t on the best of terms. “He asked…how…I was settling in,” you manage to string the words together, selecting each one with great care. “And?” He prompts. Oh dear.

“I said it was fine,” you reply, purposely vaguely. His eyes flick to you, and your own snap away in response. “Just fine?” He questions, softly. You make to nod, but he mutters your name under his breath, a quiet reprimand on his tongue. Heat coils in the pit of your belly, making you shift uncomfortably in his arms, leaning away.

A muscle feathers in his jaw, and he tightens his grip on you. “Stop doing that. You’ll fall.” You’re squeezed closer to him, and you squirm, the heat doubling. He mutters your name again, rougher.

“Stop doing that,” you hiss, sharply. You don’t have time to feel bad—it’s better to be rude than for him to realise the immense effect he has on you. “Stop leaning away from me,” he counters, “you’re being difficult.”

“I’m sorry my responses are an inconvenience for you,” you snap, quietly. No louder than a whisper.

“Don’t weaponise your emotions like that,” he murmurs back.

“I don’t see how I’d be able to when I don’t even know what that means,” you return, quietly. You feel his eyes press into you, and you look further away, inspecting the ground. “Don’t feign ignorance either,” he says sharply, “it’s immature.”

“Immature is making a problem out of something I can’t help,” you whisper back, snappily. His eyes narrow on you, and you shift again.

His hold tightens abruptly, fingers digging into you as he roughly readjusts his grip on your thighs and around your back. You squeak at the harsh treatment, heat bursting in your lower belly, and you squeeze your lips together, praying no sounds slip out. “It’s like you’re trying to get me to drop you,” he mutters beside your ear, “just keep still. We’re almost there.”

“Keep still?” You repeat incredulously, staring at him. “I don’t know if you’ve somehow forgotten, Azriel,” you hiss, emphasising his name. Hazel eyes flick down to you, and you gently push away the heat for a moment. “But I struggle to even think straight when you’re around. I can barely keep my head as it is, so forgive me if I’m a little shifty in a position like this,” you snap quietly. Probably the most aggressive you’ve ever been for a consistent time period.

“And I don’t know if you’ve forgotten,” he snipes back, eyes piercing into you, “but you managed to pull away on the brink of an orgasm.” Wild heat swallows you whole, and there’s no way your scent is remaining undetected now. “So you’re clearly more in control than you say you are.”

You stare at him, lips parted, skin flushed with heat.

“We are done with this conversation,” you hiss, breaking your gaze away. He doesn’t appreciate the verbal dismissal. “We’re done when I say we’re done,” he hisses in return. “Now what did you mean when you told Eris you were fine?”

You purse your lips, pointedly averting your eyes.

He mutters your name, grip tightening on you. You ignore him.

He repeats it, rougher this time, shadows twining around you.

“Cut it out,” you whisper, sharply.

“Expand on the fine comment,” he pushes, and you can physically feel the weight of his gaze upon your cheek. “Why are you so hung up on that one, tiny part?” You return, a sliver of irritation peeking through. “Because you’ve been acting strangely for a while now,” he hisses, “and if you’re starting to spiral like Nesta—”

“Do not threaten me, Azriel,” you snarl softly, skin heating—tingling. His eyes flicker, and his hold lessens on you a little, “it’s not a threat,” he soothes, “just an observation.” You narrow your brow as you watch him warily. “Like I said: you’ve been acting strange recently, and if you even gave the slightest hint that something’s off, Eris will exploit it.”

Your eyes flick away, slightly embarrassed by your tiny outburst. That wasn’t appropriate.

“So tell me, what happened when you said you were fine?” He repeats, gritting out the question.

“I…” You bite your lip, then give up. “He asked if I was settling in well, and I said I wasn’t.”

“Why did you tell him that?” He asks, gaze returning to pick out Velaris, much closer now. “Because it’s the truth,” you reply, a little weakly.

“I don’t care if it’s the truth, you shouldn’t have told him,” Azriel hisses. “He’ll give you the comfort you want, offer the reassurance, until you’re wrapped so tightly you choke on it.”

Hurt flickers in your eyes, vision blurring. “Maybe if I was better than fine I wouldn’t need the comforting,” you snap, turning your head and blinking away tears. His jaw tightens, “that’s not the point.” You stare at him. He stares back, features set in a stony line. “What is the point, then?” You ask weakly, the small spark of fight banking, beginning to flicker out beneath his oppressive gaze. “The point is,” he says, dragging out the words like he’s talking to a child. “You’re too naive.”

It’s like a smack to the face, your head reeling.

“You don’t know the dynamics between the courts. You don’t know about the feuds, or the history of Prythian. You don’t know enough to be trusted to act on your own,” he continues, oblivious to the number of scars he’s striking. “You’re a loose cannon, that I now have to compensate for.”

You stare up at him, hazel eyes glittering beneath the starlight.

“What’s worse—”

You put your hands over your ears. You can’t take anymore. If it was coming from someone else—fine. From anyone else it would be fine; understandable.

But not Azriel. That’s too much.

His brow furrows, lips moving, and you can guess he’s telling you to remove your hands.

You shake your head softly, unable to stand another word.

But his shadows contract around your wrists, tugging them away, and you hate the heat the bubbles in your lower belly at the roughness.

“You need to grow up,” he mutters, lowly. “You can’t just run away from something if you don’t want to hear it. You’re going to have to face it.”

A sob breaks from your chest, and your hands cover your face as the tears finally break, spilling down your cheeks. “Just leave me alone,” you cry, shoulders shaking as the tears continue streaming. “You find me irritating? fine. You find me annoying? Fine. You think I’m the worst, ugliest, most useless female in the world, fine,” you sob, unable to look at him. “But keep it to yourself, because every single word from your mouth holds more weight that you can probably even understand. And it is crushing me.”

You tremble in his arms, wishing they were there to offer comfort instead of being purely obligatory.

“You think Eris is the viper? You think he’s the one who’s bad for me? The one who’s trying to choke me?” You ask through your tears. “But you’re the one succeeding.”

Azriel’s eyes harden, and you feel the fractures growing larger. “I’m trying to keep you in line,” he replies, coldly. “For the sake of my Court, my High Lord and Lady, I am doing my best to keep people safe,” he emphasises. “And you are a proving to be a burden.”

You don’t know if he intentionally selected that word, burden.

You don’t know if he even realises which wound he’s targeted—so many have been picked open.

But you go quiet in his arms.

Docile.

The fight finally winking out.

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[haikyu-mp4]

A light in the dark

Fluffy workplace romance working at a funeral home with your crush Matsukawa, for my workplace romance event <3

requested by @haikyuuadict. word count; 706 – gn!reader

How did you end up as Mattsun’s regular work partner, you say? It’s because none of the other workers can stand your superior humour. Or everyone else found both of you annoying and decided to group you for every shift you had. From making inappropriate jokes in meetings to asking for second rounds of wine at church, you two were certified menaces to work with.

Jokes on them, you two love working together. To the extent that you developed an unspoken crush.

When the whole team was invited to a work party in October, hosted in the less morbid parts of the funeral home, you both looked at each other with wicked grins.

It’s October, surely this is a costume party.

So the two of you showed up with sheets over your heads and sunglasses on top to mark your faces, making spooky sounds with your arms raised when you entered.

The majority of your coworkers frowned in near disgust, shaking their heads and looking away. You couldn’t see that well, so you lifted your sheet discreetly and took a sharp breath at the sight.

“Matsukawa,” you whispered, slapping your hand on his arm. “No one else is wearing costumes.”

“What?” he whisper-yelled, copying your move of lifting the sheet, but a little less discreetly. Your eyes travelled down from his face to his formal shirt, unbuttoned at the top for a breather, probably thinking he would wear the costume all night.

“Couldn’t even throw on a tie?” you teased, ears red when his eyes travelled down your pretty blouse and suit pants in return.

“Well, not all ghosts got invited to fancy parties. Didn’t you literally wear that to work last week?” he teased back, and the two of you eventually just let the sheets rest on your shoulders like informal capes.

“Hey, our job requires formal attire. Didn’t know you took such great notice of my outfits, anyway.” You walked over to the buffet table, pulling Matsukawa along by the wrist.

The two of you ended up sitting across from each other on a table in an adjacent room, each with a paper plate filled with food and trying to stifle your laughter.

“You? I can’t imagine you were that terrifying on the court, Matsukawa,” you commented after he told you more about his volleyball career.

“I didn’t need to look scary. They all fell in love with me and refused to hit the ball past me.” Your laugh sounded more like a snort, a sound that made Mattsun smile. The kind of smile that suggested you were the brightest light source in the room.

“Understandable.”

“Hey, why do you still call me Matsukawa?” he questioned as your laughter died down.

“We’re coworkers,” you said, but it didn’t sound as confident as you wanted it to. “You call me by my last name, too.”

“What if we stopped doing that? It’s mostly just the two of us at work, I don’t think our other coworkers could dislike us any more than they already do.”

You pulled the sheet back over your head, trying not to laugh at the joke that brewed in your mind before you even got to say it. “They’re such boomers,” you said, putting a spooky voice effect around the word boo.

Mattsun wishes he had a plan for what he did next, but it surprised him just as much as it surprised you. He leaned forward, tilting his head and pressing his lips against yours over the ghost sheet.

Neither of you moved much, taking in the rough feeling of the cheap sheet before leaning away, only for you to throw the costume off to stare at him.

“Issei,” you whispered. And the smile you gave him next was one he swore could have woken the dead. You leaned forward with one hand between you on the table, the other taking hold of his shirt to pull him closer for another kiss.

This time you got to enjoy it, even letting your tongue have a taste of the poorly brewed coffee that lingered on his lips.

With such a depressing profession, he felt lucky you ended up in the same place, a light to hold his hand through the darkness.

masterlist

[ghosttotheparty]

some kind of creature

part 3/3 of fate part 1 // part 2

cw: some gore & blood; nsfw

Hell is cold.

When Eddie wakes up, he wakes up shivering.

He can’t breathe. It’s dark, his whole body hurts like he’s on fire even though he can see his breath in front of him. His skin feels like there are chemicals spilled on it, and his muscles ache like he hasn’t moved in ages, like they’re stiff and his blood cells are growing in size inside of him. Each breath wheezes, his throat tight as his eyes burn, and he’s crying before he even notices the clouds in the sky. They’re dark, almost like smoke, and as he gasps for breath, drops of water fall from the sky and land on his face.

It hurts. It burns.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, his body convulsing in pain, letting out a scream that rips out of his throat, and his voice is rough and raw, and it’s not his own. It seems to echo around him, a violent roar, and it cuts off when he forces his body to roll over, hiding his face in his arms. His hands are exposed to the rain, and he can hear it hitting the ground around him, pattering in a way that used to be soothing, but his screaming drowns it out as his hands burn.

And then it’s not just burning, but it’s inside him, in his bones and his muscles, in his veins and arteries. Every cell in his body is twisting, on fire, and he’s screaming in a way he’s never screamed before. Not when his Ma died, not the first time his dad beat him. Not the day he accidentally sliced his skin open with a broken bottle that was left on the floor in the living room. (He hadn’t seen it in the dark. After that, he started cleaning up after his father.) Not when Chrissy broke. Not as the bats ate his skin.

He can’t even cry. It hurts too much.

His whole body aches like he has growing pains in every joint, like his bones are breaking, like his blood is boiling, and he tastes blood, but he can’t tell if it’s from the pain in his gums or if it’s from his screaming, if he’s screamed his throat raw.

He grips the earth under him, his fingertips pressing into the wet ground and holding on like he’s going to float away, and it’s only then that he realizes his nails are practically claws, long and black and glistening as they dig into the dirt, his hand clenching as he screams again. He closes his eyes again.

When the pain subsides, it’s still raining, and he cries. It hurts to do that too. He scratches his skin when he tries to wipe his tears away, and he hisses in pain as he slowly sits up, wincing. His muscles still ache, sore and stiff. He wipes the scratch with the back of his hand, which looks almost white against his dark nails. His blood looks black. He can’t tell if it’s because the sky is dark or not.

He spits onto the ground, groaning in pain as he moves to kneel, and there’s a jacket next to him. His vision is blurry as he inhales shakily, and he reaches for it, pulling it closer as he trembles. His nails dig into the fabric, ripping it in one spot, and he fumbles with it, dropping it as he looks at his hands. Turning them over. His skin is pale, deathly white, but his fingers extend farther than they should, the ends dark and sharp and scary. He parts his lips to say something, something like what the fuck, but he stops short.

There’s something in his mouth, and he tries to spit, but it doesn’t move. He gasps when it hits his tongue, sharp and cutting, and he tentatively opens his mouth, feeling for it while trying not to stab himself.

It’s a tooth. Two teeth. Long and sharp.

He whimpers. Tries to pull them out, like they’re hoaky plastic, like this is all a stupid fucking joke. But they don’t budge, and he gives up, his eyes squeezing shut as tears burn them. He’s shaking, and he’s cold, and there’s a pit in his chest, empty and aching and starving. But as he looks back at his hands, at the claws and his black blood smeared across his skin, he throws up.

It hurts. It burns. His body heaves when there’s nothing left, and he retches, tears falling and stinging the cut under his eye. He gasps for breath when he sits up again, coughing and gagging, wiping his face as he lets out a sob. He’s never been this confused. This lost.

He reaches for the jacket again, shivering, but he pauses before he can pull it on.

It’s familiar. He knows he knows it.

He holds it close as he catches his breath, watching raindrops stain the fabric darker, watching his hands shake. There are patches on the sleeves, one of an American flag, one of something with wings. It’s a military jacket, greenish-brown and rough, and as he pulls it closer, it shifts the air around him, and he smells it. It smells dirty, like the ground he’s kneeling on, like it’s been outside for too long, but it also smells…

Like Steve.

And Eddie gasps, fresh tears stinging his eyes, his sides aching. He reaches down to pull up the hem of his shirt, and the wounds are covered in dry blood. Dark. They don’t hurt. He looks around desperately, falling to the side, but there isn’t anyone around. Except the dead, unmoving bodies of bats, scattered like gruesome confetti. Eddie’s hands tighten on the jacket, pulling it to his chest as he sobs, remembering.

Remembering the way Steve’s hands cradled his head, tender and soft in a way Eddie doesn’t think he’ll ever know again. The way Steve’s eyes shined as he looked down at him, as he tried to breathe.

He remembers it all.

He remembers I like you too, and he remembers their promise of next time.

He remembers the Tennessee Waltz.

He remembers

You think God’ll let me in?

and

If he doesn’t, you better come right the fuck back, you understand me?

Eddie holds the jacket to his chest, balled up, and he looks up, blinking tears out of his eyes.

The sky is red. It’s not a sunset. He wishes it was a sunset.

It’s beautiful in a way, as he stares at it. Beautiful like the deep sea is, mesmerizing but unknown. Beautiful like a poisonous plant.

The rain hits Eddie’s face, and it doesn’t burn anymore.

He doesn’t think God can see him here.

—————————

He hides from the rain in the trailer. The gate is closed, and he doesn’t know how he would get through it anyway. The sheets they’d tied as a rope are still on the ground under it, next to a blood stain from when Chrissy died.

He pulls Steve’s jacket on before he finds another in Wayne’s closet. It’s too big, one of his old work jackets, heavy and thick, and Eddie pulls them both tight around himself as he curls up on his bed, looking across the room. It’s dark, and thunder rumbles outside, and his eyes trace the vines that crawl up his walls and across his ceiling. He stepped over them when he came inside, but it occurs to him that he doesn’t know anything. If Max is okay. If Vecna is dead. If it’s all over. If the kids are fine. What day it is.

He shivers, wiping his cheek with his wrist, avoiding cutting his face again.

—————————

The sun doesn’t set in the Upside Down. Or rise. There doesn’t seem to be a sun at all, really. Eddie barely notices the time pass until he realizes that part of the empty feeling in his chest is hunger.

He searches the kitchen in the trailer for something, and he finds cans of beans and ravioli, but the microwave doesn’t work, so he eats them cold. He sits on the roof, on the speakers and looking at the sky as he eats quietly. He feels like he’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t know what. He’s watching the clouds shift, grey and black and blood red, swirling like smoke, looking for any sign of anything alive. But it’s silent.

Except the scraping of his spoon in the cans, the scraping of his teeth, his fangs on the spoon.

Except his own breathing, ragged and loud and labored. Painful. He sips from a bottle of water he found in the kitchen, suddenly grateful that Wayne always insisted on having packages of the stuff.

He falls asleep in his bed.

When he closes his eyes he can pretend he’s back home. Even just for a little while. He holds the hem of Steve’s jacket to his face.

In what he assumes to be the morning, he goes outside. Tries to find someone, anyone. But all he finds are dead creatures. Bats and dogs with faces that are closed up and unmoving. He nudges them after watching for a while, kicking them, and they just roll to the side, limp and pliant and dead. The dogs’ faces look kind of like tulips.

His mouth hurts as he looks at them. His gums sting and his teeth ache, and his fingers twitch as he watches blood seep from one of the dog’s bodies. His vision darkens, like the sun is going down, but he can’t move to look at the sky, to check. He can’t take his eyes off the blood. It looks dark, thick, dripping slowly, slowly, slowly, and Eddie’s mouth waters.

And then he’s lowering, his body taking over even his stomach churns, as his throat tightens, falling to his knees next to the dog’s body and pulling it close. He kind of wishes it would wake up. Fight back.

It doesn’t.

The blood tastes like shit. Like burned meat, charred black and chalky, like smoke. It's worse than cigarettes. But he can’t stop, licking and sucking the blood into his mouth, his teeth ripping and tearing the skin of the demodog with a sickening sound, and he’s disgusting. He’s some kind of animal, acting on pure instinct, on pure hunger that’s more than an ache in his stomach. His body hurts, like every inch of his skin is bruised purple and blue, and he’s groaning and sobbing and whimpering as he drinks.

He drains the demodog dry. And then he tosses the body away, throwing it like it’s a pillow, so easily he would find it odd if he weren’t already reaching for another.

When he finishes, he falls to sit on the ground with a heavy breath. There’s blood on his face, on his hands, on his chest and his legs. On the ground around him, staining the dark dirt even darker. His claws are dripping. He’s out of breath, panting like he’s been running, and he inhales shakily, looking up, away from his hands. The sky is red. Redder than the blood. He’s starting to hate the color red.

His mouth tastes like metal, and dirt, and smoke.

He looks at the demodogs’ bodies. He’d just thrown them all in the same direction when he couldn’t get any more blood out of them, and this is how they ended up: in a messy pile, a hill of limbs and claws and unbloomed tulip faces. It looks like a massacre, like an execution, and he looks at his hands again. The blood on his palms, in the creases of his skin, coating his nails.

They’re monsters. He knows. But they’re no more monster than he is.

He throws up again.

—————————

He tries not to think about it. He doesn’t really need the blood now. He’d been overwhelmed by it, by the raw need, the hunger, in the moment, but he feels… better, now. More alive. He can climb up onto the roof easier now.

He explores after a day or so. He figures he’ll run out of canned beans eventually, and water, so he goes across the street. Rummages through his neighbors’ pantries, finds more of the same. Old man Cooper down the road must have been preparing for the apocalypse given the state of his trailer, boxes of cans and bottles stacked dangerously high. Eddie appreciates it.

He wanders. Hoping to find someone. But there’s no one around. It’s eerily silent, no matter where he goes. And dark.

It’s so fucking dark.

There’s no sun, no stars, and no lights are working. He tries every light switch until he gives up. Accepting it. He can still see fine, even though he feels like he shouldn’t be able to.

He goes to the road where Fred died. The pavement of the street is cracked, open like a wound in the earth, but it’s just that. A weird pothole. There’s no glowing light, no entrance to the real world. He sits next to it for a while, staring. Waiting. But nothing happens.

When he goes to the lake, he hesitates for a long while before sticking his head under the water, looking. But it’s just dark.

He goes to the Wheelers’ house. He listens closely, aching to hear anyone’s voice. Nancy or Mike or even little Holly, who Eddie never met but heard lots about. But there’s nothing. Even when he sits on the floor, head tilted, listening and straining for hours.

He reaches for the fancy lights above the dining table, hesitating for a moment before he brushes his fingers over the grimy brass, flutters them in the air above it, hoping, praying to see the glitter, the sparkles, the fucking light trail after his fingertips, but there’s nothing.

Nothing.

His eyes well with tears as he drops his hand, staring. The gates are closed. The connection is lost. It’s all over. And he’s all alone.

He falls to the floor, his knees hitting it with a heavy thud that sends jolts of pain through his legs, but he doesn’t care that it hurts. He closes his eyes, leaning over until his forehead is almost touching the ground as his lungs empty with a heavy exhale, and his fingers dig into the wood of the floor, cracking and splintering it as he sobs, as he wails, screaming even though he knows no one can hear him.

Thunder rumbles outside. It’s raining again. He hates the rain here.

He eats a can of corn from their pantry as he sits in Nancy’s room. There are stuffed animals on her bed, lined up across her frilly pillows. He holds one, a rabbit, to his chest when he tries to sleep, curled up into a ball with the lapel of Steve’s jacket over his face. And he closes his eyes, hoping to wake up to the sun shining through the window, warm on his face.

—————————

He finds the Harrington house. It’s in the woods, and Eddie isn’t scared as he looks for it. He still avoids the vines, even though he’s fairly certain nothing would happen if he stepped on them. He’d been to the Harrington house before, a few years ago. Steve had had a party while his parents were away, and Eddie hadn’t been invited, but he’d gotten the address through some other kids, and he’d shown up with his tun lunch box. He made a lot of money that night. He also found that he isn’t a party person.

It was noisy, and not in a good way like his music. But in a bad way, with loud music and singing and laughing and talking. Eddie had ended up in a corner, nursing a bottle of beer while he waited for people to approach him. He’s observed.

He remembers it all as he explores Steve’s house slowly. That was the corner where two girls had been fighting, arguing loudly and indistinctly about something that Eddie couldn’t hear, their hands flying in the air as they talked, their nails and jewellery flashing in the lights. A couple had made out at the kitchen counter, the girl sitting up on it with her legs wrapped around her boyfriend as he combed his fingers through her hair tenderly. Eddie had watched jealously. (He’s still jealous now. He didn’t even get to kiss Steve before he died. What bullshit. Unfair.) He’d sold a boy some coke by the sliding glass door. He’d thanked Eddie politely. It was unexpected.

Steve’s room is sad. The walls are plaid, the floor bare, and there aren’t any decorations except a framed photo of a car above his desk. Eddie sits on his bed, looking around, trying to see if he can get even the slightest suggestion that Steve is here too. To see if he can smell him, if the air shifts a certain way. But it’s just quiet, still and achingly empty.

He falls asleep holding Steve’s pillow to his chest. He’s laying on top of some vines that have grown over the bed, but he doesn’t care. Nothing happens.

He wakes up to a creaking downstairs. A door opening.

He sits up abruptly, the pillow falling off the bed, gasping and then holding his breath as he listens closely, trying to tell if it’s really happening, if it’s downstairs in the dark or on the other side. If Steve is home. If Steve can hear him too.

But he feels the ground shake a little bit, just the slightest tremor as someone, as multiple someones, crosses the house, comes up the stairs. Their shoes are heavy, and Eddie’s stomach twists as he stands there, staring at the back of Steve’s door, at the towel hanging off the hook, somewhere between fight and flight.

He doesn’t get to make the decision before the door is flying open, and his knees collapse under him. His eyes catch as people flood into the room, all wearing hazmat suits that seem to glow in the dimness of the room, all carrying heavy guns.

Eddie ducks his head, hands raised as he cowers, as he tries to hide.

“Don’t shoot!” he bursts, his voice rough and breaking with disuse, cracking as his eyes flood with tears, because there are people here. “Please, I’m not— Don’t— Don’t shoot—”

He vaguely hears a man’s voice say, “What the fuck?” and he hears them lower their guns, as Eddie takes sharp, hiccuping, gasping breaths, hyperventilating, his hands shaking violently. His whole body is trembling, and his eyes are squeezed shut so tightly it hurts. He hears the crackle of a walkie-talkie, and a rough voice.

“It’s the Munson kid.”

A voice responds, stacky and indistinct.

“...What?”

“The Munson kid,” the first voice says, gruff and adamant. “He’s the disturbance we picked up, he’s alive.”

It’s quiet, and a sob escapes Eddie, and he feels small again. Like the night he hid in his closet from his father, eyes shut tight, body trembling as he waited for something to happen. Time stretches, and he can’t move, can’t open his eyes, tears streaming down his face, his knees aching from the hard floor, until,

“Hey, Eddie?”

The voice is gentler now, softer, and Eddie’s eyes fly open. The man, wearing the hazmat suit, face covered by what looks like some kind of gas mask, is kneeling in front of him, head tilted to look at his face. Eddie cowers, moving back on the floor until he’s against the wall, hands in front of himself.

“Hey, what are you doing down here?” the man asks, setting his gun aside on the ground. Eddie watches, eyes wide, vision blurry as the man pushes the gun away and holds his hands up similarly to how Eddie is holding his. Surrendering.

“I died,” Eddie chokes, gasping, hyperventilating. “The bats, they— they got me, and I— I didn’t—” The others are all watching, guns lowered, faces hidden. “Please,” Eddie sobs. His teeth cut into his lip. His blood tastes like smoke too. “Please, I don’t— I don’t know what’s happening to me, I…”

He closes his eyes as he sobs again, head falling, hair falling in his face.

“Hey,” the man says gently, and Eddie looks up at him blearily. He’s holding a gloved hand out, and Eddie looks at it. The glove is rubber, duct taped around his wrist, and it occurs to Eddie that he’s been exposed to everything these men are protecting themselves from. Eddie reaches a trembling hand out, and the man takes it carefully, gently. The rubber is warm from his hand, and Eddie’s hand tightens, careful not to rip the glove with his nails. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Eddie wants to believe him. He wants desperately to believe him.

“Really?” he chokes. The man’s head nods, and he squeezes Eddie’s hand.

“Really.”

—————————

It’s September.

He was gone for months. He doesn’t know how many of those months were spent dead, and how many were spent wandering and wondering. He supposes it doesn’t really matter.

When they lead him through a gate, they appear in a lab. Surrounded by more people in hazmat suits, and others in scrubs, others in white coats, in suits, and Eddie feels horrifically underdressed, and he feels filthy and disgusting, covered in blood and dirt and whatever else covers every surface in the Upside Down. They strip him of his jackets and his shoes, and he lets them, desperately telling them he needs them back as he watches them carry Steve’s jacket away. And then he’s put in a room and doused in water.

It’s pouring from the ceiling, soaking him from head to foot. He blinks it out of his eyes and he looks down, watching the water run across the ground, dark with everything he’s covered in. He feels his hair stick to his skin, watches the water until it runs clear, and he knows he’s being watched, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’d missed water that doesn’t burn him.

He lifts a hand as the water rushes over him, watches the dirt and blood and gore run across his skin until he’s pale white again. His veins are blue and purple under his skin. His fingertips are still black and sharp. That doesn’t go away, even under the water. He drops his hand, looking up across the room and blinking water out of his eyes again as he finds them. Scientists, doctors, he doesn’t know. Watching him. Staring. Wide-eyed with wonder and confusion and worry and…

And fear.

He closes his eyes, tipping his head back, letting the water run across his face. He opens his mouth, lets the water in, and he spits it out without lowering his chin. He never thought he’d miss showers so much.

They give him new clothes. He asks if they washed the jackets. He’s told that they’re being cleaned right now. He kind of wishes they didn’t wash Steve’s, scared the smell will disappear from it, the smell that kept him alive.

The clothes they give him are standard hospital clothes, the fabric papery and thin and cold, pale blue and clean. They run tests on him in a desolate room, talking the whole while, checking his oxygen, making him spit in a vial, sticking his arm with a needle and taking his blood. It is black, even in the fluorescent, buzzing hospital (laboratory?) lights. His hair dries frizzy, too big and in the way as they work, and after a while, a woman offers to tie it out of the way for him. He nods wordlessly. He can’t talk at all. He feels empty, exhausted and drained and fatigued, his limbs heavy and dense like they’re made of stone.

The woman steps behind him, pulling a hair tie from her wrist. Her white coat crinkles as she moves to pull his hair out of his face gently, and he closes his eyes, wanting to fall back against her the way he used to when his mother played with his hair. He doesn’t.

Her fingers comb through the hair at his temples, her wrists close, and he can smell her blood. It smells so much sweeter than the demodogs. His mouth waters, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“I need blood,” he mumbles, his voice slurring, and her hands pause in his hair. The man in front of him looks up from his clipboard, eyebrows raised.

“I’m sorry?” the woman says gently, continuing. She tugs it a little bit as she twists the tie around his curls.

“I need blood,” he says again, trying to speak clearly. He opens his eyes blearily, looking at the man in front of him, meeting his eyes. “To drink,” he clarifies. “I need… just blood. Please.”

The man blinks behind his wire-framed glasses.

“Please,” Eddie says weakly, closing his eyes again. “I don’t wanna hurt you,” he breathes, closing his hands in his lap as best he can without stabbing his own palms. The man’s eyes follow the movement.

“Did you… need blood before we found you?”

Eddie nods, exhaling.

“Ms Hammond, could you…”

“Of course.”

Eddie squeezes his hands in his lap as the door opens and shuts. His hair is out of his face, almost completely dry now. The ponytail she tied it in isn’t too tight. It’s nice.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says softly. The room is too quiet, the air in the vent blowing and the man’s pen scratching on the paper.

“What for?”

Eddie pauses, swaying. He feels like he’s about to fall over.

“I don't know.” “You don’t have anything to apologize for,” the man says, leaning over to look at Eddie. He’d forgotten how human other people look. It’s like he’s glowing. “You’re a survivor, Eddie.”

“I’m not, though,” Eddie argues weakly. “I died.”

The man blinks at him, speechless, and at another time Eddie would laugh. He doesn’t laugh now.

“And then you came back,” the man says calmly. “And you tripped up our equipment so we knew something was alive down there.”

“You had equipment there?” Eddie asks, his voice quiet. The man smiles a little bit. It’s an odd smile, sympathetic and a little sad.

“You did everything right,” he says after a moment, kindly. “And now you’re here. And you’re going to be fine.”

Eddie looks at the ground. They gave him new socks. He kicks his feet while he waits.

“Is Max Mayfield okay?” he asks after a few quiet moments.

The man is quiet for a moment, and Eddie knows he’s looking at him, but he doesn’t look up, watching his feet swing in the air.

“Paraplegic,” he says finally. “And blind. But okay. She started her sophomore year last month.”

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before he looks at his lap, nodding.

“And the Sinclairs? And— And Dustin Henderson and the Wheelers—”

“Everyone is okay,” the man says kindly. “All your friends are safe and alive and healthy.”

Eddie nods, wiping his cheek quickly. A tissue box appears under his face, and he takes one, muttering a quiet, “Thank you.”

“The world thinks I’m dead.”

He doesn’t ask it. He knows. He doesn’t really know why he needs confirmation, but he does.

“It does,” the man confirms gently.

“My uncle…”

“Is grieving,” he says softly. “But you’ll see him. As soon as we know you’re healthy.”

“I can see him?” Eddie chokes, looking up desperately, and the man nods, smiling that smile again.

“You can see him, and your friends.”

“Steve Harrington?” Eddie whispers. It’s too obvious, he knows it is. He knows the man sees the way Eddie’s tears fill his eyes, knows he can see the raw desperation and hope on his face, but the man just nods.

“You can see Steve.”

Eddie covers his face with the tissue, nodding and suppressing a sob. There’s a bandage on his face, on the cut from his nails, and it’s getting wet from his tears. They’ll give him a new one.

Ms Hammond comes back with a pouch of blood in her hands. It’s red instead of black. Eddie still doesn’t like the color red, but he reaches for it, turning to face her. He punctures the plastic bag with one of his teeth before he drinks from it, trying not to spill it, to make a mess as they both watch him.

“Dr Owens,” Hammond says lightly. “A word?”

They go outside while Eddie drinks.

He waits, wiping his chin when he finally lowers the pouch. The red of the blood is stark against his skin. He licks it off.

He sets the empty pouch down next to himself, and a drop of blood stains the paper he’s sitting on. He kicks his feet again, looking around the room. There aren’t any windows. He startles when the door opens again, turning to find Owens coming back in, followed by Hammond, who’s holding Steve’s jacket, neatly folded in her hands. Eddie stifles a gasp, reaching for it, and she smiles, giving it to him easily and watching as he holds it to his face. It doesn’t smell like Steve anymore.

He cries again, hiding in the jacket.

They run more tests. He lets them. He isn’t as tired anymore, not after the blood, but he’s still… tired. He doesn’t want to fight anymore. They bring him food, actual food, food that’s been cooked in a kitchen, food that steaming and warm, and he has to force himself to not eat it so fast he gets sick. Then they run more tests.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he doesn’t ask anyone.

“Eddie?” Owens says after a while, a hand on Eddie’s back. “How would you like to go outside?”

“Outside?”

“We want to see how you do with exposure to sunlight,” Owens explains, and Eddie blinks before he nods.

He follows him down the hall, still clutching Steve’s jacket to himself. No one tries to take it from him.

The sun is bright outside. Eddie squints his eyes shut to follow Owens away from the building, his feet crunching some dead leaves under him. He doesn’t have shoes, but he doesn’t mind. He likes how it feels. Owens watches him as Eddie stops walking, eyes opening enough to trace the tops of the trees around the lab. They’re green. Alive. The sky is blue and scattered with clouds that look fluffy. Eddie wants to eat them.

Wind blows his bangs out of his face, and he takes a deep breath, smelling the pine trees, the faint smell of dirt. Good dirt. Clean dirt. He closes his eyes as the sun shines on him, warm on his skin, and a tear slips down his cheek.

“Eddie?” Owens says softly. “How do you feel?”

“...I missed the sun,” he whispers.

He can hear Owens’ smile in his voice when he speaks again.

“The sun missed you, too.”

—————————

The sun shines through the window in his room. It’s like a hospital room, but he knows he isn’t in an actual hospital, which oddly helps him dispel some of his anxiety. He’s never liked hospitals.

He sits with his legs crossed, hands holding a mug of decaf coffee. It’s milky brown, pale enough that he knows Wayne would make fun of him for it, sweet and yummy, and he sips it slowly. Steve’s jacket is on his shoulders even though his room is warm.

His nails tap the cup when he shifts it in his hands. He’s starting to get used to them. He still hates them. He asked Owens if it would be possible to do something about them, but Owens just smiled sadly and shook his head.

Eddie started wondering if the universe has it out for him when he was a little kid, but now he knows for sure that it does. So he appreciates whatever he gets, like overly sweet coffee and sunlight shining through his window.

He wonders where the others are. The clock across the room says it’s almost one. The kids would be at school. Nancy must be at college. Eddie’s pretty sure she was going to Boston or something. He wonders if she’s gone already. He wonders if Steve is going to college, too. Or if he’s at Family Video right now.

Eddie sways back and forth, watching the second hand of the clock tick, sipping the coffee slowly, and he’s startled out of his thoughts when there’s a soft knock on his door.

He looks up, blinking back into his body as the door opens and Owens steps in, smiling.

“How are you feeling, Eddie?”

He always calls Eddie by his name. It’s nice to be called that after everything, instead of Mr Munson like Eddie used to sometimes be called by the teachers at his school. That always felt condescending in the worst way. But Owens is nice.

“Alright,” Eddie says quietly. “Thank you for the coffee.”

“Of course,” Owens says, lingering in the doorway. “Everyone deserves a good cup of joe.”

Eddie smiles a little, looking at him.

“...Have my test results come in, or whatever?”

“Uh, yes, but we can talk about that later,” Owens says, still smiling. “Someone’s here to see you.”

Eddie falters with his mug, setting it on the bedside table as Owens opens the door wider.

“Wayne?” Eddie says, and he’s already crying, shifting up onto his knees and reaching his arms up like a child as his eyes burn and tears fall down his cheeks, and Wayne is smiling, coming closer and wrapping his arms around Eddie. And he smells like cigarette smoke and leather, and his arms are strong around Eddie as Eddie sobs. He can feel Wayne shaking, can feel his chest rise and fall as he cries too.

“I thought you were gone, boy,” Wayne says softly, his voice right by Eddie’s ear, and Eddie pulls him closer, climbing on top of him and burying his face in Wayne’s neck, wailing. “Jesus, scared the shit out of me.”

Eddie sobs, and he’s small again. Wayne rocks him back and forth, shushing him softly and running his hand over his head, brushing through his hair.

“You’re alright now,” Wayne says quietly. Eddie grips his shirt, holding on tight like he’s going to float away. “I got you, son, you’re okay.”

When Eddie stops crying, he suddenly wants to hide. Because Wayne can see his teeth, and his claws, and because Wayne knows what Eddie is now. But Wayne just touches his face, wiping his tears with his callused fingers, his eyes misty and shining, his lips smiling a little bit as he murmurs, “There’s my boy.”

Eddie closes his eyes and lets him, sniffling as Wayne pulls him close and kisses his forehead in a way he hasn’t since Eddie was little.

Owens leaves them alone. He’d told Wayne everything before bringing him to Eddie.

“Everything?” Eddie questions as he settles back, still holding Wayne’s hand because he can’t stand to let go yet. Wayne nods, eyes wide.

“There’s a lot goin’ on in this town, isn’t there? ‘Course you managed to get all wrapped up in it all.”

Eddie nods, looking down at their hands. Wayne’s hand is tanner than his, rough and spotted with age and wrinkles and tobacco stains. Wayne doesn’t say anything about Eddie’s claws, running his thumb over his knuckles gently.

“Owens told me everything about you,” he says after a moment. “‘Bout the blood and everything.”

Eddie nods again, quiet before he scoffs.

“‘S ridiculous,” he says. “Like I’m a fuckin’ vampire.”

Wayne hums quietly.

“Good thing I can hunt.”

Eddie’s lips quirk into a small smile, and Wayne squeezes his hand.

“Pretty metal,” he quips, knowing it’ll get a reaction out of Eddie. Eddie snorts, rolling his eyes.

“I guess.”

He’s quiet for a moment, playing with Wayne’s fingers.

“How’d… How’d you find out that I died?”

“That Harrington boy.”

Eddie looks up at him, his lip between his teeth.

“Steve?” he says, as though there’s another Harrington boy in Hawkins.

“That’s the one.” Wayne looks at him knowingly. “Nice kid.”

Eddie nods, cheeks flushing with warmth, and this isn’t how he wanted to find out that he can still blush. Wayne pokes his face teasingly, and Eddie swats his hand away.

“Gave me this,” Wayne says, reaching to his neck, and he pulls Eddie’s guitar pick necklace out of his shirt. Eddie hadn’t even realised it was missing. Eddie reaches out and touches it. There’s blood on the chain. “Told me real gentle. That you’re a hero, you saved that Dustin kid. That you didn’t hurt anyone the way everyone thinks you did.”

Eddie nods, reaching back to Wayne’s hand and holding it tightly. He hates that everyone thinks he killed Chrissy and Fred and Patrick. That they think he was even capable of doing something like that to them. He just wanted to help Chrissy. Eddie swallows as his throat tightens.

“How is he?” he asks, his voice a little rough. “Steve?”

Wayne is quiet, looking at him, rubbing the guitar pick absentmindedly.

“He’s grieving, Eds,” he says finally. “He misses you.”

Eddie looks at him, swallowing, his eyes stinging.

“I haven’t talked to him,” Wayne says. “Not since… he told me. But I ran into his friend, what’s her name… The bird.”

“Robin?” Eddie whispers.

“Her. Ran into her a while back at the grocery store. Asked how she and Steve are.”

“And?”

Wayne sighs, holding Eddie’s hand between his. He’s so warm.

“They moved in together,” he says softly. “Steve’s been having a hard time. She wanted to make sure he’s okay, not just… managing by himself.”

Eddie’s chest aches, and he nods.

“Hard time… how?”

“He’s depressed, Eddie,” Wayne says gently. Like he knows it sends shards of glass through Eddie’s skin. “He doesn’t take care of himself.”

Eddie looks down, his lip quivering. Wayne squeezes his hand and reaches to touch his face.

“Robin said he’s working on it,” he says quietly. “Getting out of bed, takin’ the kids to school. Eating.”

Eddie nods again, taking a breath that stutters in his throat.

“When can I see him?”

“You have to ask Owens,” Wayne says. “I don’t know anything.”

“Shocker.”

“Hey.”

Eddie smiles.

And then Wayne pulls at his hands, tugging him into another hug. Eddie sighs, crawling into his lap and curling into a ball, tugging Steve’s jacket tighter around himself. Wayne doesn’t say anything about the jacket, letting him adjust it until it’s comfortable, and then Eddie closes his eyes, drifting off to the sound of Wayne’s heartbeat.

—————————

Eddie is okay.

It was the bats that did it to him. He wasn’t affected at all by everything in the Upside Down like the doctors and scientists were worried, and they think the bats did something that caused his body to adapt naturally, like he’s supposed to be down there, like it’s his natural habitat. They can’t take the teeth out, or take away his claws, or cure the whole blood thing. He can’t go out in public, given that the whole world thinks he’s dead from the earthquakes, and even if they didn’t, they still think he’s a bloodthirsty (Ha.) serial killer.

He can’t live with Wayne. Wayne lives in the center of town, in an apartment above a cafe. He says it’s a nice apartment, nice and small, but with the perfect amount of space for all his stuff. That the wall in the living room is the perfect size to display all his mugs and trucker hats, and it makes Eddie laugh. He tells Eddie that he has his guitar, his sweetheart on display in the living room too, carefully mounted to the wall. Eddie’s eyes tear up again.

He isn’t sure if he wants to play the guitar again. The idea of it makes him feel sick to his stomach, and that makes him want to cry. Music has always been his thing, has always been the escape he needed, the solace and comfort and safety, but now it feels like that’s been taken away from him. It’s not fair.

Wayne brings him his Walkman one day, and a few tapes. It sits on the bedside table for two days before, during a particularly restless night, Eddie finally puts the headphones on and presses play. Burn in Hell by Twisted Sister. Eddie almost laughs out loud.

He falls onto his back, looking up at the ceiling and tapping his stomach in time with the song. The feeling of his hands is muffled over his scars, like they’re covered in duct tape. The scar tissue is thick, darker than the rest of his skin but still pale, a little reddish and metallic. They cover his sides, his chest, his legs. They cover the zombie that used to be on his chest. He’s upset about that. He saved a lot for that tattoo.

There’s also a scar on his face, the same color as the ones on his sides. It stretches when he smiles.

There are also scars around his neck from the serrated tails of the demobats, almost like a dotted line across his skin. Cut here.

Wayne looked at it after Eddie woke up the first day they reunited. Thoughtfully said that Steve has the same scars. And Eddie remembers the way Steve choked a weak they can be like fucked up friendship bracelets, and Eddie laughs.

He finds himself touching his scars when he’s anxious, while talking to the doctors, while they run more tests to make sure the results are consistent. While he waits for the results. When he’s laying in bed at night, wondering is Steve had a good day.

He thinks about Steve a lot. He can still see his eyes in his head, pretty and wide and framed by princess eyelashes. He can still see the pattern of his moles, and he imagines them like they’re stars above his head, constellations that only he knows.

He asks Owens every day when he’ll be able to see his friends again. He wants to hug Dustin. And Mike and Lucas and Erica. He wants to see Robin and Nancy and he wants to meet Will and El because the others would never shut up about them. (Especially Mike during D&D. Always going on and on about Will the Wise, and he’d know exactly what to do in every situation. It got old, but Eddie would love to mee the legendary Zombie Boy.) And he wants to finally kiss Steve. Maybe take him up on that date even if they can’t actually go out.

He stares at the ceiling while he thinks about Steve. He wishes he could dream about him, but his dreams are haunted by the Upside Down. By red skies and thunderclouds and burning rain, by the taste of metal and smoke. When he wakes up, he rolls onto his side and pulls Steve’s jacket against himself, closing his eyes as he rubs his cheek against the fabric.

He closes his eyes, sighing, turning to bury his face in the jacket, and he thinks about Steve again. About his face, his eyes, his hands. The way he caressed Eddie’s cheek as he lay dying. Eddie wants him to do that again. To touch his face, to hold him so tenderly Eddie felt safe even as his heart stopped beating. He wants Steve’s fingers in his hair, in his mouth, on his mangled and scarred skin.

As he drifts off, he bites absentmindedly at the sleeve of the jacket, nibbling on the fabric.

—————————

“You nervous?” Wayne asks.

Eddie blinks, turning to look at him across the car. He almost asks why he asks, but he knows why. He’s rocking back and forth, fiddling with the rings on his fingers, lip between his teeth as he watches the world go by outside the tinted window.

“‘Course not,” he says, looking back at the window and hearing Wayne snort. “…How do you…” He hesitates, twisting one of his rings. “How do you think they’ll react?”

“I don’t know, Eds,” Wayne says. “It’s been a while. They’re still mourning.”

Eddie nods. The car is warm. He still pulls the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over his hands. Wayne brought him some clothes from home, clothes he’d collected after Eddie died just to keep them.

He takes a deep breath, his stomach flopping, and he feels kind of sick. He runs his tongue over one of his fangs.

“I’m nervous,” he says finally.

“I know,” Wayne says lightly. “It’s gonna be alright.”

Eddie recognizes the drive to Steve’s. (And Robin’s now.) He walked all the way up here in the Upside Down, in the dark. It’s bright now, and the trees are alive, the leaves just barely beginning to pale and turn yellow.

His breath catches in his throat when Steve comes out of the house as the cats are pulling into the driveway. Wayne reaches over and squeezes his knee. Eddie bites his lip.

Robin appears behind Steve as Owens gets out of the car, greeting them with an awkward smile, and Eddie is frozen watching as Steve’s eyes widen when Wayne gets out next. Eddie can’t tell if they’re all silent or if he just can’t hear.

Steve is wearing a red sweater. And grey sweatpants. He’s wearing glasses, gold wire-rimmed, and his hair is longer, falling over his shoulders, and he’s so beautiful it makes Eddie move, opening the car door and standing.

Steve is still staring at Wayne, wondering and curious and confused, and Eddie’s whole body hurts. His body moves closer without him telling it to, moving toward where Steve is standing on the front steps. Robin gasps, but Eddie can’t take his eyes off Steve.

He’s glowing in the sunlight. Golden.

He looks different. Paler. Thinner. Tired. But his eyes are the same, brown and shining when they finally find Eddie. They widen, and Steve’s lips part, and by the time Eddie’s in front of him, Steve’s eyes are glistening, and a tear falls down his cheek.

Eddie reaches up and brushes it away. He doesn’t scratch him.

He’d tried to decide what to say. He’d gone through choices and choices, trying to figure out how in the hell he’s supposed to greet Steve after all this time, after all of this. But his mind is blank except for

SteveSteveSteveSteveSteveSteve—

Steve’s lip quivers. The sunlight glares in his glasses, and his eyes sparkle with tears, and Eddie’s chest is tight.

“He didn’t let me in.”

Steve keeps staring, and he exhales sharply, his lip quivering. And then he inhales, and exhales, and he’s breathing too fast, too hard, almost hyperventilating within seconds.

“Hey,” Eddie says softly, pressing a hand to his chest firmly, just over his heart, and he’s so fucking warm, fuck. “Stevie, breathe. ‘S okay.”

Tears fall down Steve’s face, and he’s looking back and forth between Eddie’s eyes, frantic and desperate as he breathes quickly. His knees buckle, and Eddie catches him, a hand on his hip, before he pulls, murmuring a soft, “C’mere.”

He lowers them both to the ground, glancing up as Wayne passes by Steve to Robin, taking her in his arms as she cries into her hands.

Eddie reaches for Steve’s face, cradling it in his hands, wiping his tears carefully.

Steve’s voice breaks when he finally speaks.

“Eddie?”

“I’m right here,” Eddie whispers, leaning close, eyes stinging as Steve’s hands find his arms, holding him tightly. He’s shaking. His whole body is shaking. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”

A sob escapes Steve, and he’s gasping for breath, and he’s clutching at Eddie, stammering and hiccuping and weakly choking out, “But— But you— You—“

“We’ll explain everything,” Eddie whispers. “Okay? But I’m right here, Stevie, I’m okay.”

Steve reaches to hold Eddie’s face, trembling almost violently.

“You stopped singing,” he chokes. “I heard you— I heard you stop breathing, Eddie, you— you were gone.”

“I know, baby,” Eddie whimpers. “I’m sorry, I’m right here, I’m okay.”

Steve’s eyes squeeze shut, and his glasses slip down his nose, and he lets out a sob that tears through Eddie’s skin like teeth, rough and tired and weak. He falls against Eddie, gripping his sweatshirt in tight fists, and Eddie pulls him close, lets him put his head against his chest as he sobs. Eddie closes his eyes, hugging Steve’s head, pushing his fingers through his hair, carefully avoiding scratching him.

“‘S okay, honey,” he murmurs weakly, listening to Steve sob. “I got you.”

Steve wails, his voice rough, body trembling.

Eddie vaguely hears cars pull out of the driveway, but he doesn’t care, listening to Steve cry, rocking him back and forth. His chest aches as he holds him, as they cry together.

Wayne holds Robin as they watch, and Eddie looks up over Steve’s head at her. She’s crying, holding onto Wayne’s arm as he runs a hand over her head, and Eddie smiles weakly.

“Hey, Robin.”

“Hi, Eddie,” she chokes, giggling weakly.

Steve’s arms wrap around Eddie’s waist tightly. He’s still shaking. He groans, whining loudly as he pulls Eddie closer, and Eddie holds him tighter.

Steve doesn’t let go. Even when he stops crying.

He just climbs onto Eddie, and Eddie falls backwards, the gravel painful on his ass but he doesn’t care, because Steve is burying his face in Eddie’s neck, breathing hard as his legs wrap around him.

“I got you, honey,” Eddie murmurs. “It’s all okay.”

He holds Steve’s head, touches his long hair. It’s so soft.

Slowly, he pulls at Steve’s head, tilting his own head down to look at him as Steve looks at him, his eyes shining, lashes clumped with tears, skin wet. His glasses are spotted with tears, and even though his skin is flushed red and his nose is running and his hair is messy, Eddie thinks he’s the loveliest thing he’s ever seen.

He pushes his sleeve out over his hand, and he wipes his face tenderly, under his cheeks and his nose as Steve stares back at him, lips parted as if in awe.

“You’re alive,” Steve breathes.

“Yeah,” Eddie whispers. “I’m alive, sweetheart.”

Steve reaches toward Eddie's face again, his hands warm on his skin, and Eddie closes his eyes, revelling in it like Steve’s touch is sunlight.

“Where’ve you been?” Steve asks brokenly.

Eddie smiled weakly, looking at him. His eyelashes are fluttering.

“Well, I was dead for a while,” Eddie says softly, loud enough for Robin to hear. “Then I… wandered the Upside Down,” he says, remembering the darkness, the loneliness, and his hands tighten on Steve. “Looked for a way to get back, but…”

“The gates are closed,” Steve says, whines, and Eddie nods.

“Yeah,” he says lightly. “‘S good, Stevie.”

“But you…” Steve takes a gasping breath, and Eddie leans close, pressing their foreheads together.

“‘S okay, baby,” he says gently. “I tripped up some equipment they left down there, and they… they knew I was alive.”

Steve breathes heavily, clutching at Eddie, and Eddie doesn’t even care that Wayne and Robin are watching anymore. He leans in and kisses Steve carefully, pressing his lips firmly to Steve’s, lingering as Steve sighs, fingers pressing into Eddie’s hair. Steve gasps when they part, and he sobs quietly as he pulls Eddie closer.

Eddie hugs him tightly, burying his face in his neck. He closes his eyes, running his hands over Steve’s hair as he cries, he kisses Steve's neck gently before he sighs. He can smell Steve's blood. It smells sweet. Sugary sweet. Like iced tea, or orange creamsicles.

Eddie pulls his face away when his gums itch, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“I’m okay, baby,” he murmurs.

“How—” Robin hiccups, and Eddie opens his eyes to look up at her. Wayne is standing behind her, his arms around her, and she’s holding onto him, tears streaming down her cheeks. “How did you…”

“The, uhm….” Eddie clears his throat, stroking over Steve’s head as Steve hiccups, face buried in Eddie’s neck. He’s so warm, but his glasses are cold. Eddie doesn’t mind. “The bats… They think they had, like, a venom. That made my body, uhm, like. Adapt.”

She stares. Nods. Wayne rubs her arm.

Eddie smiles at her, and he runs his hand over Steve’s head again. Steve lifts his head after a few quiet moments, touching Eddie’s face. Running his fingers over his cheeks, over his eyebrows and nose and his lips. Over his jaw and his scar. Steve is still crying.

“You’re okay,” he breathes.

“Yeah,” Eddie whispers, smiling at him. “I’m okay. We got some… some stuff to talk about later. But I’m okay.”

There’s stuff to talk about. The fangs. The claws. The blood.

They’ve learned that Eddie can get sick, that it’s possible, but that they aren’t sure if he’ll age. He came back from the dead after adapting or whatever, but they aren’t sure if he’s… stuck like this. It’s scary to Eddie. But he’s trying not to think about it. Especially right now. With Steve in front of him.

Steve’s eyes drift to Eddie’s mouth, and part of Eddie thinkswisheshopes that he’s going to kiss him, but he just touches his lips with his thumb, brushing over his lips lightly before he pushes his upper lip up, tilting his head. Eddie lets him.

His chest is aching. Steve is touching him. Holding him. His hands are soft and warm and gentle, and Eddie never wants him to let go.

“You have fangs,” Steve says, his voice hushed, slurring a little. A light laugh escapes Eddie, who nods.

“That’s part of what we’re gonna talk about,” he says. “But we don’t have to right now, we can talk about it later, okay?”

“Okay,” Steve breathes. His thumb brushes Eddie's bottom lip. Eddie kisses it.

Steve stares. And stares. And stares.

Eddie waits.

Robin and Wayne go inside after a minute, after Wayne murmurs something about privacy.

Steve keeps staring.

They’re sitting on the ground, on the step, their legs around each other, and Eddie can feel his body heat radiating from him. He’s so warm. Eddie’s got the sun sitting in front of him.

“The kids,” Steve says after a little while as Eddie is caressing his cheek carefully. “They don’t— They don’t know you’re back, they—”

“‘S okay,” Eddie says calmly, holding his face. “We’ll tell them. They get out of school at three, right?”

Steve nods, frantic again, breathing hard, and Eddie pets his cheek.

“You can bring ‘em here,” he says softly. “We’ll give ‘em the surprise of their lives.”

Steve nods weakly, his hands tight on Eddie’s sweatshirt.

Eddie tilts his head at him, fond. He traces a line between two of his moles, connecting them like stars.

“Missed you so much,” Eddie murmurs.

“I dream about you,” Steve says, a little abrupt, still quiet. “When I— When I sleep.”

Eddie swallows, his throat tight.

“Yeah?”

Steve nods, breathless.

“I…” His eyes are full of tears again, and Eddie’s wipes one away when it falls. “It’s just… Every day, I— I dream about it, about— about what I could have done, about…”

He gasps for breath, and Eddie holds his face, pulling him closer.

“Steve, listen to me.”

Steve blinks tears out of his eyes.

Eddie looks into his eyes, looking at the way the sunlight makes shards of his irises glow gold, and he takes a breath, trying to speak in an even voice.

“You did everything right,” he says slowly, intentionally. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You understand me?”

Steve blinks at him, his lip quivering.

“You understand me?” Eddie asks again, voice gentle, hands firm. Steve nods.

Eddie kisses his forehead softly, and he whispers against his skin.

“Thank you, Stevie.”

“For what?” Steve mumbles, tugging at Eddie’s sweatshirt.

Eddie pauses, kissing his forehead again, thinking about how to say it.

“Making it so easy,” he settles on, voice soft. “Felt so safe with you, Stevie. ‘Nd you… you left your jacket with me. Kept me warm.”

Steve pulls back, looking at him with wide eyes.

“You used it?”

“Mhmm.” Eddie caresses his cheeks. “Wore it the whole time. Fuckin’ cuddled it when I was in the hospital.”

Steve exhales sharply, and he finally smiles. It’s a tiny, weak smile, almost absentminded, but it’s there.

“I have your vest,” he says. “In— In my room. I sleep with it.”

Eddie's stomach flutters. His heart aches.

“Really?” he asks weakly. Steve nods. Eddie laughs, almost delirious, and Steve reaches for his face, tracing the lines around his smile.

“God, you’re so…”

Eddie’s smile softens, and his chest fucking hurts.

“You too,” he whispers. Steve smiles at him.

He traces his smile lines again, watching his own fingertips trail over Eddie’s skin.

“Can you kiss me again?” he asks softly, whispering. “Please. I— I need…”

Eddie leans in and brushes their lips together, rebelling in the way Steve’s breath stutters and he slips his hands down to Eddie’s neck. He’s so warm. God, he’s so warm.

Eddie kisses him softly. Chastely. He feels Steve’s lips part.

“Careful,” Eddie breathes without pulling away, a gentle warning of his teeth. Steve nods, pulling at his neck, and Eddie kisses him.

It’s still so soft. Steve tugs at Eddie’s lower lip, and Eddie exhales, combing through Steve’s hair.

When they part, Steve is crying again.

His glasses are filthy, smeared with tears and cloudy from being pressed to Eddie’s skin, and Eddie smiles fondly, taking them carefully from Steve’s face. Steve watches silently as Eddie cleans them with the hem of his sweatshirt, holding them up to the sky to check before he puts them back, tilting his head to check that they’re over his ears properly. He pauses when he spots a hearing aid on Steve’s left ear, tan and white.

“I like your glasses,” Eddie says quietly. Steve blinks at him, seeing clearly now that they’re clean.

“Also got this,” he says, turning and tucking his hair to show Eddie the hearing aid.

“I like it,” Eddie murmurs. “Didn’t know you couldn’t hear good.”

“Concussions,” Steve whispers softly.

Their faces are still close. Eddie’s ass hurts from the gravel, but he doesn’t care.

Steve cries again.

Eddie wipes his tears.

—————————

Robin gives good hugs. Eddie didn’t know before, because she doesn’t seem like a very huggy person, but her arms are tight around Eddie’s neck, and she’s warm, and they sway together as Wayne and Steve watch.

“Missed you, Buckley,” Eddie murmurs.

She groans into his neck quietly. He holds her a little tighter.

She wipes her tears when they part, and he swats her hands out of the way, reaching for her cheeks. He sees her eye the claws, and he just murmurs softly, “I won’t scratch you.”

She trusts him, staring as he cleans her face tenderly, and then he tugs her closer and kisses her forehead.

Eddie explains everything. Tells them about waking up, about the acid rain, about how it stopped hurting after he adapted. About wandering through Upside Down Hawkins, finding food and water that, now that he thinks about it, would probably not be safe for anyone other than him to eat, about the demodogs and their blood. They listen intently, their brows furrowed like they’re taking mental notes, and Eddie kind of wants to hide. The same way he did when he first saw Wayne again, like he’s some kind of creature, like he’s some kind of monster. But they don��t flinch at anything, don’t wince or grimace or make any faces. They just listen.

So he keeps telling them. About looking at each gate, trying to find a way home, about going to the Wheelers’ and touching the lights, trying to tap SOS, about the darkness.

“They found me at– at Steve’s.”

“At mine?”

“Your house. I was… I don’t know. Lonely.”

Steve pulls Eddie close again.

He smells good. His clothes smell like laundry detergent, like they’re freshly washed, and his hair smells like some shampoo, clean and masculine and a little spicy, and his blood smells sweet, and Eddie closes his eyes as his arms tighten around him. He might even melt a little against his chest. He doesn’t mind Wayne and Robin seeing.

He waits with Robin while Wayne and Steve go to get the kids. They sit on the sofa, sipping coffee, holding hands.

He’s nervous. She can tell that he is. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t question him or try to make him feel better, and he appreciates it.

Steve will probably tell them Eddie’s back before they get back to the house. Just to prepare them, so they don’t walk into the house to find… this. Almost-Eddie sitting on the sofa with a blue ceramic mug in his claws, focusing on breathing and not hurting Robin’s hand.

He takes a deep breath when he hears their cars pull into the driveway, and Robin squeezes as he takes a deep breath, setting his mug on the coffee table before the front door bursts open just seconds later.

And then Dustin is standing in the doorway of the living room, breathless and panting and crying, a red cane in his hand, Eddie’s black bandana tied to the handle of it. Eddie’s chest tightens.

“Hey, Dusty.”

He stands up as Dustin stares at him, as Mike and Lucas and Erica appear behind him, each of their eyes filled with tears. He smiles, his own eyes burning.

He can’t say anything else before Dustin is practically catapulting himself into him, throwing the cane aside as he tackles Eddie, and Eddie catches him, wrapping his arms around him tightly. Dustin is mumbling something and it takes a moment for Eddie to understand him, but he laughs when he does.

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy—”

“‘S alright, dude,” Eddie says lightly.

Dustin cries. Eddie cries too.

Then Erica is joining them, jumping up onto Eddie and trusting him to catch her, which he does, her arms around Eddie’s neck tightly. And then he’s really crying, because how the fuck did she grow this much in just a few months? And maybe she didn’t actually grow much, but she just seems so much older now, and Eddie can’t help but think that it might be a little his fault.

“Christ,” he mutters into her neck, one arm around her as her legs wrap around him, the other around Dustin, who wraps an arm around Erica, too. “You miss me this much?”

“Shut the hell up,” they mumble simultaneously, and he laughs wetly, holding them tighter. When he finally lowers Erica to the ground, she’s sniffling and wiping her face, and Robin reaches for her, pulling her into a hug, and she looks like a little girl again. Lucas takes her place, arms firm around Eddie as Dustin steps back, still staring. And then Mike is there, and his hair is almost long as Eddie’s.

“I like the new look,” Eddie says, and Mike scoffs.

“‘Course you do,” he says sassily before he joins Lucas in the hug.

Eddie had missed touching people. He hadn’t known how great it is until he didn’t have it anymore, until the closest thing he had was pulling Steve’s and Wayne’s jackets tighter around himself. He never wants to let go of them now, arms lingering around Lucas and Mike even as their arms loosen, and they just hug him all over again.

As Dustin is hugging him again, so tightly it’s a little hard to breathe, Eddie squeezes his eyes shut.

He only opens them when he hears Max’s voice, and he almost gasps as his eyes fly open to find her entering the room, sitting in a wheelchair that she’s pushing herself. Her eyes are wide but pale, clouded over and unseeing as she tilts her head, saying his name again.

“I’m here, Red,” he says, patting Dustin’s back, and Dustin lets go of him begrudgingly, sniffling. Mike pulls him close as Max beams, turning her head in his direction.

“If you don’t hug me, I’ll kill you,” she says, and he laughs loudly.

“I believe you,” he says as he comes close, kneeling in front of her and touching her leg to let her know he’s there. She reaches for his hand quickly, but she pulls her hand back with a hiss when one of his claws scratches her. “Fuck, sorry. Can’t get rid of those.”

“Don’t care,” she says, holding her arms out. “Come here.”

He hugs her. His eyes burn. She’s shaking as they embrace, her face buried in his neck, and he runs his hands over her head gently.

“God,” she says into his neck. “Missed you and your stupid hair.”

He laughs again.

“Thanks.” He pulls away, looking at her. “I like yours, by the way.” It’s shorter now, trimmed under her chin, light and feathery and a little wavier. He touches it, tucking it behind her ears. “Looks nice.”

“You think?” she says, her cheeks pink. “El said it’s cute.”

“El,” Eddie repeats.

“That’s me,” a girl’s voice says from the hall behind Max, and Eddie startles with a sharp, “Jesus—”

There’s a chorus of teary laughter around the room, and Eddie looks at the girl. She has short, curly hair and wide, almost expressionless eyes even as she gives him an awkward smile. A boy appears behind her, a little taller, his eyes also wide, but apprehensive.

“She does that a lot,” he says.

Eddie blinks at him as Max holds his hand, squeezing.

“Will the Wise,” he guesses aloud, and the boy’s cheeks flush pink as he nods, smiling nervously.

“Hi.”

“Mike would not shut up about you during campaigns,” Eddie says, and Will’s cheeks flush darker as Mike’s wavering voice says, “Shut up, Eddie.”

Wayne and Steve join a moment later. Steve’s eyes are a little red.

Eddie recounts everything he told Steve and Robin after they all find their places in the living room. Erica climbs onto Eddie’s lap as they’re all settling, hiding her face in his neck, and he holds her, his chest aching. He runs his hands over her back as he speaks, as he looks at the ground because there are too many eyes on him.

Max moves onto an armchair, reaching for Lucas, who sits on the armrest, holding her hand with one hand and playing with her hair with the other. Eddie will need to know if they’ve finally gotten (back) together. He thinks they have, at least based on the way Max relaxes when Lucas’s fingers run through her hair.

Erica falls asleep on his lap, heavy on his chest, breaths soft and warm on his neck. He just holds her protectively.

Robin leaves after a while to call Nancy. She’s gone for a while, explaining everything over the phone, and when she comes back, she’s smiling. Nancy shows up a little while after, coming inside without knocking, running to the living room, where everyone looks up at her, but she just looks at Eddie, wide eyes full of tears, hands shaking so hard she drops her keys.

“Hey, Nance,” Eddie says softly, and he would get up to hug her if Erica wasn’t asleep on his lap. Nancy exhales, blinking tears out of her eyes, and she silently goes to the sofa, sitting next to him, and he lifts an arm up, wrapping it around her as she lays against him. Erica sleepily shifts to lay her face in the other side of his neck, and Nancy moves to hug him tighter, gasping for breath.

“Hey,” Eddie murmurs. “It’s okay.”

“Jesus, Eddie,” she mumbles into his neck, her shoulders shaking. He runs a hand over her head, his claws getting caught in her curls, and he murmurs to her.

“I’m alright, Nancy, it’s okay.”

“I know,” she chokes. “You’re okay, I know, I just…”

He holds her.

—————————

They stay past their bedtimes. Steve has to call the parents, let them all know that they’ll be coming home soon, and please, they’re not in trouble, it’s my fault. They all hug Eddie before they go, tight and tearful again with promises of returning tomorrow to see him. To catch him up on everything he’s missed. He can’t wait.

Robin pulls Steve aside and mutters something to him, something that confuses him, and Eddie watches as Steve whispers back to her, eyebrows furrowed, before she speaks again, raising an eyebrow at him and grinning as his face flushes a lovely shade of pink. She hugs Eddie tightly, kisses his cheek, ruffles his hair, and then she follows Nancy out.

Wayne takes the Sinclairs and Dustin home. Steve takes El, Will, and Max. Eddie waits in the living room.

It’s weirdly quiet when they’re all gone. Almost echoing, like their voices and their laughter and their sobs are still lingering in the air. Eddie sits on the sofa, legs crossed, cushion in his lap, looking around. It looks different than it did in the Upside Down, not just because of the lack of vines and dust and darkness that was almost corporeal, but because there are photos on the walls, mostly just pinned, some framed nicely. There’s also artwork, paintings that are put up carefully, lovingly. There’s one above the mantle that Eddie gets stuck gazing at, his head tilted. It’s sort of abstract, a patchy swirl of colors, redblueorangegreenpurpleyellowpink, and it almost looks like a landscape, like some kind of fantasy land that Eddie wants to visit. At the center of the painting, floating above the ground, are two figures, long-limbed and genderless, holding hands. It looks like they’re spinning, like they’re flying and holding onto each other so they don’t get lost, and Eddie knows it’s Robin and Steve. He wonders who painted it.

He remembers that the Upside Down is behind. Was it three years that Nancy said? He can’t remember.

It doesn’t really matter. But he knows that all of this, all the photos and all the art, is fairly new in this house.

He lifts the pillow and buries his face in it. It smells like Robin and Steve. He closes his eyes. And he cries.

He’s still sitting there when Steve comes home.

“Where’s Robin?” Eddie asks, watching Steve take his jacket off and leave it on the armchair Max had been sitting on.

“Uh, Nancy’s,” he says. His cheeks flush pink again. “She’s spending the night there.”

Eddie nods, smiling up at him, and Steve pauses, staring at him. He looks like he’s in pain, and Eddie reaches a hand up, beckoning. Steve comes close, taking his hand and collapsing onto the sofa next to him. He looks at Eddie’s hand, gazes at his claws, traces his blue veins.

“Are you cold?” he asks, whispering.

“I’m always kind of cold now,” Eddie says quietly. “I’m used to it.”

Steve looks at his hand some more. He holds it between his own, cradles it, and his skin is so warm it almost feels hot on Eddie’s. He likes it.

“Pretty,” Steve murmurs, tracing one of Eddie’s claws.

“I’m scared I’m gonna hurt you,” Eddie confesses, and Steve looks up into his eyes.

“With these?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, even though it’s a general fear. That he’ll scrape Steve’s lip with his teeth, that he’ll scratch his skin with his claws. That Steve will bleed and Eddie will lose control the way he did the first time he fed on the bodies of the demodogs. (He hasn’t lost control since then. When he fed in the hospital, on donated blood and animal blood, he managed to stay calm, to drink steadily. He’s still scared.)

Steve looks back down, and then he’s lifting Eddie’s hand up to his lips and he’s kissing his claws slowly, one by one, so tender that it makes Eddie’s chest ache and his eyes burn.

“I trust you,” Steve breathes when he finishes, running his thumb over Eddie’s knuckles.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut.

“God, I missed you so much,” he chokes, throat tight.

“I missed you, too,” Steve whispers, moving closer, taking the cushion from Eddie’s lap and setting it aside as he pulls at Eddie’s legs. Eddie opens his eyes to see, shifting so he’s straddling Steve, their legs around each other, and he moves closer, closer, closer, until their chests press and Eddie can press his face into Steve’s neck. Steve wraps his arms around him tightly, running a hand over his spine. “I found— I found that song.”

Eddie pauses, tucking his arms between them so Steve is wrapped around him, warm.

“Tennessee Waltz?” he says, his voice muffled by Steve’s skin.

“Yeah. Went to a music store in Indy and asked about it.”

Eddie lifts his head. Looks at him.

“Really?”

Steve nods, suddenly bashful, looking away.

“Got some, uhm. Ozzy and… Megadeth.”

A slow grin crawls across Eddie’s face, and his eyes light up, and he leans closer.

“Really?” he whispers, like it’s scandalous, and Steve nods. “What’s your favorite?”

Steve shrugs weakly, hands petting Eddie’s back before they slide down to his waist.

“I like Judas Priest,” he says quietly. Eddie exhales.

“You’re making me feel things, Stevie.”

Steve’s lips twitch into a smile.

“That’s why Robin left.”

A loud laugh bursts out of Eddie, and he throws his head back as Steve stares at him, grinning now. His fingers are warm when he tucks them under Eddie’s sweatshirt, touching his skin, his scars, pressing into the softness above the waistband of his pants.

Eddie giggles when he looks at Steve again, because Steve looks fucking lovesick, and how in the hell did Eddie wind up here? In Steve Harrington’s arm, with him looking at him like that? All shiny eyes and smiling lips and gentle touches. Eddie never thought he’d like that, the gentle touches. He’s always wanted it all rougher, meaner, harder. But as Steve’s fingertips dance over his sides under his sweatshirt, as he touches him carefully like he doesn’t want to hurt him, as he gazes at him, Eddie feels kind of beautiful. It’s a nice feeling.

He doesn’t feel monstrous here, with Steve touching him. With Steve smiling at him.

“You’re so warm,” Eddie says softly. His hands are against Steve’s stomach, and he tugs at the hem of his sweater. Steve nods, and Eddie slips his hands under it, pressing to his skin. He’s so warm, and soft. There’s hair on his belly, and Eddie loves it. He presses his hands against him more firmly, careful not to scratch him, but Steve doesn’t straighten up or stiffen or flinch.

“I run hot,” he says softly. “Always have.”

“Yeah, you do,” Eddie quips, and Steve snorts, leaning to press their foreheads together.

They’re quiet for a moment before Steve pulls his hands from under Eddie’s sweatshirt and reaches up to hold his face.

“Fuck,” Eddie says heavily, closing his eyes, letting Steve’s hands envelop his face.

“What?”

“Just…” His chest feels tight, and a chill runs down his spine, and he feels suddenly claustrophobic, but he can’t get away. He runs his hands over Steve’s waist, holding him tightly. “Don’t let go. Please.”

“I won’t let go,” Steve murmurs.

“Your hands…” Eddie mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut, taking a breath.

“You okay?”

“Feels so good, Stevie,” Eddie says weakly, exhaling sharply. Steve kisses his forehead, brushing his thumb over Eddie’s cheek. He stays there for him, waiting patiently as Eddie catches his breath.

Until Eddie lifts his head, blinking his eyes open and reaching to touch Steve’s hands, holding them to himself. His skin is warm and soft, and Eddie turns his head to kiss his palm. He feels almost overwhelmed, closing his eyes.

“You okay?” Steve asks again after another while, whispering. Eddie nods, but he doesn’t let go.

“You…” He hesitates, unsure of how to say it, how to articulate the storm that’s swirling in his chest, but Steve just looks at him, eyes soft and gentle and wondering, and Eddie wants to cry. “You make me feel so good.”

“Yeah?” Steve whispers, smiling, brushing his thumbs over his cheeks. Eddie nods.

“Missed your hands,” he mumbles, smiling when Steve scoffs lightly.

“Just my hands?”

Eddie’s smile widens, his cheek squishing against Steve’s palm, and he sighs, turning his head to press his face into it, taking a deep breath. He can feel Steve watching him, gazing again.

Eddie groans softly, hands tightening on Steve’s wrists.

“‘S okay,” Steve whispers. “What do you need?”

Eddie doesn’t know what he needs. He needs more, but he doesn’t know what more means. More touch, more contact, but they’ve got their legs wrapped around each other and Steve’s hands are pressed to his face, warm and firm.

“You,” Eddie chokes.

“You have me,” Steve breathes. “Take me.”

Eddie exhales shakily, nuzzling into his palm, and his lips part.

“‘S okay,” Steve murmurs again.

Eddie opens his mouth wider, and then he’s slipping his tongue over Steve’s palm, and Steve is letting him, still brushing his thumbs over his skin lightly, softly, letting Eddie take what he needs. Eddie licks his palm again, pulling at his wrist so he can trail his tongue up Steve’s fingers. Over the band of Eddie’s ring around Steve’s finger. (Wayne had told Eddie that Steve was wearing it when they spoke, that he took it. Eddie had wondered where it was, and then he was glad Steve took it.) Their eyes are locked, and Eddie’s stomach is flipping and flutterings, and a small, mean part of his mind expects Steve to make a face, to pull away and call him a freak. But Steve’s eyes are gentle on him, and he must see the fear in Eddie’s eyes, because he nods, smiling.

Steve hushes him softly when he whimpers, and Eddie is crying, tears falling down his cheeks as Steve tenderly pushes two fingers into his mouth, careful to keep them away from Eddie’s fangs. Eddie melts, his shoulders slumping, and his eyes close, and he reaches for Steve’s belly again, pressing under his shirt and moving closer.

He sucks, whining weakly as he cries, and Steve wipes his tears away, moving his fingers farther into Eddie’s mouth, pressing down on his tongue, sliding over it. Eddie hums, his head tilting when Steve leans in close, his other hands slipping over Eddie’s waist as he presses into his neck, sighing.

“Missed you so fucking much,” he murmurs, kissing Eddie’s skin before he sits back up, and Eddie looks at him blearily. He doesn’t take his hand from Eddie’s mouth as he takes off his glasses, haphazardly tossing them to the coffee table, and Eddie closes his eyes again. Steve leans toward his neck again, pressing his face into it, kissing him softly, carefully. “So fucking much, Jesus. Can’t fucking believe you’re here.”

Eddie whines around his fingers, sucking again, pulling a hand out of Steve’s shirt to hold the back of his head, his hair tangling in his claws, as Steve kisses his neck again. He’s so… tender. In a way Eddie never thought he’d ever get, a way he never imagined himself being treated. Tender in a way he never thought he’d deserve, but Steve just does it, kisses his skin softly, chastely, peppering the side of his neck in kisses like it’s the way it should be, like there’s no other way Steve could possibly treat him.

It feels so good. Eddie can’t open his eyes, and his head feels like it’s full of clouds and cotton and dust, and all he can do is hum softly, sucking on Steve’s fingers and breathing heavily. When Steve’s tongue runs across his skin, just a soft kitten lick, a quiet, strangled noise escapes Eddie’s throat, and his mouth falls open, and Steve’s fingers slip out. Eddie forgets to close his mouth, whimpering as Steve licks his neck again, reaching to hold Eddie’s neck, warm on his skin. He feels kind of high, unstable and woozy as Steve kisses his neck, as he presses a thumb under Eddie’s chin to tilt his head back, kissing across his throat.

“Stevie,” Eddie whimpers, a tear slipping down his cheek. Steve sucks on his skin softly, fingertips stroking his jaw.

“You okay?” Steve whispers, lifting his head, leaning close enough that their lips brush. Eddie shivers, exhaling.

“You feel so good,” he says weakly, shaking. “It was so cold down there, Stevie, I was… everything hurt so fucking bad, I—”

Steve kisses him. His hand holds Eddie’s throat, and Eddie keens, deflating. Steve’s fingers span across his whole neck, holding him in place, and Eddie feels so vulnerable, vulnerable in a way he gets to be, in a way he’s allowed to be, because it’s Steve. He groans softly when Steve squeezes and kisses him again, tilting his head so their noses aren’t smushed together.

“Fuck, Eddie,” Steve breathes when they part, breathing hard. Their lips are still brushing. “You can feel good now.”

“Okay,” Eddie breathes, exhaling as if in relief, like Steve’s granted him permission. “Thank you.”

Steve kisses him again, so hard that he rocks backwards, clutching at his back. His nails press into Steve’s back, and he hears him let out a hiss.

“Fuck,” Eddie gasps, pulling his hands away. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m— I’m still getting used to them, I’m sorry—”

“‘S okay,” Steve breathes, kissing him again, sucking on his lip. “It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

He kisses him again before he can respond, hand sliding to hold his face, his chin, squishing his cheeks. Eddie slides his hands over his back, soothing the spots that he’d stabbed him like a startled cat. Steve hums, sucking on his lip again, and Eddie reaches a hand to his wrist, holding it tightly, pushing his sleeve up to hold his skin, to feel his pulse, and then he pulls back as a thought occurs to him.

“Off,” he gasps. “Can you— Can you take this off?”

“You too?” Steve breathes. Eddie nods, and they part, leaning away to avoid hitting each other as they pull their sweaters over their heads, tossing them aside.

Their scars match. They’re different colors, Steve’s soft pink and metallic, healed, and Eddie’s darker, redder, rougher. Their eyes trail over each other’s bodies, and Eddie kind of wants to hide, to be self-conscious, to hide his scars and stretchmarks and hair and the soft rolls of his belly, but Steve leans in, sliding a hand over his waist and pressing a kiss to his shoulder. Eddie closes his eyes. Slides his hands over Steve’s back, over his chest. Steve kisses his neck again, slowly and softly, and Eddie squeezes, careful with his nails even though his head is cloudy again. He shivers as Steve kisses him, tilting his head back as he kisses across his throat to the other side. He’s so gentle, so slow and soft, and the room is silent except for the sounds of it, wet and sweet and overlapping with their heavy breaths and the weak noises Eddie is making.

“Love you, Stevie,” Eddie breathes, feeling Steve’s lips curve into a smile against his throat.

Steve kisses him again, pushing a hand into Eddie’s hair, his fingers twisting with the curls, and Eddie whines.

“I love you too,” Steve whispers into his ear, and Eddie wants to smack him, because he knows Steve can tell exactly how it’s affecting him, that the quiet sounds are making him shiver, making chills spread over his skull and down his spine. Eddie whimpers. Steve kisses just under his ear, at the hinge of his jaw, and then he’s kissing his earlobe, his tongue teasing his skin, and Eddie could die. (And what a better way to die this would be, with Steve’s lips and hands on him. Peaceful.)

“Eddie,” Steve exhales, his breath hitting Eddie’s ear. Eddie shivers again, biting his lip. He hums. “Can I bite you?”

“Jesus,” Eddie says, his voice too loud, and Steve giggles, kissing his neck. “Fucking yes, baby, please, fuck.”

“Like it when you call me that,” Steve murmurs, lips brushing Eddie’s neck, and Eddie tilts his head to the side to give him room, groaning softly. “Tell me if I do it too hard.”

He kisses his neck, softly and lovingly, and then he bites down, tugging at Eddie’s skin with his teeth, and it hurts, but Eddie just moans softly, reaching to hold Steve’s head.

“Is that okay?” Steve asks softly when he releases it, pulling away enough for Eddie to hear. Eddie groans, pushing his head back down.

“More,” he whines. “Mark me up, baby, please.”

Steve lets out a soft noise, and he does it again, and again, and again, until Eddie knows his neck is littered with bite marks, until Eddie feels like he’s going to fall over, holding onto Steve’s head and leaning against his chest, his skin warm against Eddie’s.

Steve pulls back after a while, eyeing Eddie’s neck, breathing hard, his lips red, and Eddie looks at him, his vision almost blurry, but he can’t tell if its just SteveSteveSteve or if he’s crying. Steve smiles, tracing one of the marks.

“You’re all red,” he breathes. Eddie makes a noise. “Beautiful.”

Maybe Eddie doesn’t mind the color red anymore.

“Kiss me,” he whispers. Steve kisses him.

It’s still so soft, so tender, and a little awkward as they avoid Eddie’s fangs, but Eddie can only think about how they’ll get better at this, how it will get easier with practice, how he gets to look forward to it. He could cry as Steve’s fingertips run over his face, over the scar on his cheek, over his jaw and neck. His back arches when their tongues slide together, and he whines. Steve pushes a hand into his hair again, fingers gripping Eddie’s curls tightly as Eddie tilts his head to lick into his mouth deeper, hands clutching at Steve’s waist.

His legs tighten around Steve’s waist, and he wraps his arms around his neck as Steve pulls him closer, a hand on the small of his back. Eddie sucks on his lip, scraping the inside of his with his teeth, and Steve hums softly, letting Eddie push him back to lean on the armrest of the sofa as Eddie climbs onto his lap. They part to gasp for breath before Eddie leans down, kissing across his cheek and his jaw and down his neck, moaning softly as Steve tugs on the arch in his back.

“Fuck,” Eddie says after taking a deep breath, letting his forehead rest on the side of Steve’s neck for a moment.

“What is it?” Steve asks.

“Nothing, sorry.” He kisses his neck, holding Steve’s shoulder lightly.

“Eddie, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I just…” He sighs, resigning, hiding his face again. “Your… Your blood. Smells good.”

“Oh.” Steve exhales shakily, pressing a hand into Eddie’s hair as Eddie kisses him again. “What… What does it smell like?”

Eddie licks a line up his neck.

“Sweet.”

Steve smiles at the ceiling, eyes closed.

“Will you…” He pauses, his cheeks flushing red, and Eddie looks at him curiously, kissing next to his mouth before he speaks again. “Will you drink some?”

His eyes open as Eddie looks at him, and Eddie stares for a moment before he kisses him hard, crushing their mouths together because he can’t articulate how fucking badly he wants that, how fucking badly he wants to sink his teeth into Steve’s neck, his chest, his arms, his fucking thighs, to drink his blood until he feels warm with it, until Steve’s blood heats him up from the inside out. He can’t put into words how badly he wants Steve inside him, in his veins, how badly he wants Steve to be part of him, so they never have to be apart again.

“Fuck,” Eddi gasps when they part, his lungs burning. “I want that, I do, but…”

Steve tugs him into another kiss, tilting his head as he licks into his mouth.

“But not tonight,” Eddie says when they part again. “I don’t… I don’t know if it’s safe to, I’ve only— I’ve only fed from— from dead demodogs and from bloodbags, I don’t know if it’ll hurt you or not.”

“Okay,” Steve says, breathing hard. Their foreheads press. “‘S okay.”

“I can… talk to Owens.” They both smile at the same time and Steve giggles, closing his eyes. “It’ll be awkward, but… if we can.” He pulls back to look into his eyes, to gaze down his neck. “Worth it.”

Steve giggles again, pulling him into another kiss.

Eddie holds his face, hands cradling his jaw, and he furrows his brows, nibbling Steve’s lip.

“Careful,” he says weakly when he pulls away for a breath. Steve nods, pulling him down again. Eddie settles on his lap, letting his weight rest against him, and Steve hums, nodding when Eddie pulls away to check, and he groans softly into Steve’s mouth when Steve’s hands find his legs, sliding over his hips to hold his thighs tightly, squeezing and releasing and squeezing again.

“Stevie,” Eddie says softly after a while, when his lips are sore and wet with Steve’s spit. “Baby.”

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, squeezing his legs again.

“...Want your fingers again.”

Steve kisses his cheek, lifting a hand to trace his lips lightly, and Eddie sits up straight, taking his hand and looking at it. At the ring around his fingers.

Steve watches, combing Eddie’s hair back with his free hand, as Eddie brings his fingers to his lips, opening his mouth and holding out his tongue to lick across his fingertips, brushing them back and forth, before he shifts Steve’s hand, moving it so kiss across his knuckles, his nails, the freckles dotting the back of it. He closes his eyes when he finally takes one into his mouth, sucking on the tip for a moment before Steve presses it farther in, sliding over his tongue. Eddie whimpers.

Steve hushes him gently, scratching his nails over his scalp.

“That feel good?” he whispers. Eddie nods, opening his mouth wider and taking his finger deeper, holding his wrist. He opens his eyes just enough to move one hand to Steve’s chest, pressing his palm over where his heart is, sliding his fingers into his chest hair.

Steve slides his finger out, but Eddie whines, catching his wrist, and Steve smiles at him, sliding his finger back over his tongue.

“‘M not going anywhere, baby,” he whispers.

Eddie relaxes, hand sliding down to Steve’s forearm, holding him lightly, sucking on his finger, and Steve tugs his hair, hand gripping his curls right at the roots, and it aches, the feeling spreading over his scalp like water soaking through his hair. Eddie hums.

He shivers, but he isn’t cold. Steve is so warm under him, radiating heat like he’s the fucking sun, and Eddie groans, reaching for Steve’s hand that’s in his hair, pulling it out and toward his face before he presses the inside of Steve’s wrist to his nose, inhaling the scent of his blood as Steve smiles at him. Eddie winds their fingers together, sucking again as he smells his blood, and Steve squeezes.

“Love you so much.”

Eddie moans softly, finally letting Steve’s finger fall from his mouth before he licks the inside of his wrist like he’s trying to get a taste of his blood through his skin. Steve squeezes his hand again.

“Fuck, Eddie,” he gasps, his other hand falling to grip his hips. “Baby. Baby. Don’t stop.”

Eddie whimpers, and he realizes he’s grinding his hips down on Steve’s. It feels good. So, so fucking good. He lets out a strangled noise, grinning as he slides his tongue over Steve’s wrist again.

“So fucking hard,” Eddie groans, falling forward. Steve exhales sharply, pressing a hand into Eddie’s back again, pulling. “Stevie, baby, fuck, please.”

“God, I missed you,” Steve chokes, holding Eddie’s face. “Missed you so much, I thought you were— I thought you were gone forever, baby, fuck—”

“I’m right here,” Eddie says breathlessly, rolling his hips harder, faster, leaning to wrap his arms around Steve’s neck, pressing their foreheads together. “I’m here, sweetheart, I’m— I’m right here.”

“I know,” Steve pants, and his hips press up to Eddie’s, his back arching, and they both moan, breathing hard. “I know, you’re here, you’re alive, I…”

“You get to keep me,” Eddie breathes. “‘M not going anywhere.”

Steve lets out a sob, and Eddie wants to wipe his tears away, but he can’t stop moving, and he doesn’t want to scratch his face, so he leans closer, kissing across his cheeks, Steve’s tears salty on his lips, on his tongue.

“Mine,” Steve chokes. “You’re mine, baby, please—”

“I am,” Eddie whispers, kissing his mouth, whining when one of Steve’s hands reaches to squeeze his thigh and then his ass. “Fuck, yeah, I’m all yours, honey, you got me.”

Steve whines, shifting to sit up a little more, pulling Eddie against himself.

“Fuck me,” he chokes. “Fuck, come on, Eddie, I’m—”

Eddie moves faster, burying his face in Steve’s neck and breathing deeply, groaning when Steve’s hand pulls his hair, and he lets out a noise he’s never made before, a noise that’s quite frankly kind of embarrassing, high-pitched and squeaky as heat floods through his body. He doesn’t stop moving until Steve’s hands tighten, and Steve gasps loudly, his hips lifting to press to Eddie’s.

Eddie pants into his neck, tongue darting out to lick him, tasting the salt of his sweat, and Steve falls limp, breathing hard, still holding Eddie to himself.

“Baby,” he says weakly after a moment.

“Mm.”

“Kiss.”

Eddie lifts his head, eyes half-shut, limbs heavy, and he kisses him, but he isn’t really kissing him as much as he is letting their faces press together, lips parted lazily. Steve smiles, biting at his lip.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

“Mhm?”

“Thought I was never gonna come again.”

Eddie laughs against his mouth, grinning, pulling back after Steve kisses him again.

“Yeah?” he says sleepily. “You never whipped it out while I was gone?”

Steve snorts, reaching up to touch Eddie’s face, stroking his cheek.

“Could only think of you,” he says softly, still smiling. “Then I’d just start crying.”

Eddie frowns, poking his lower lip out, and Steve’s smile widens as he brushes his thumb over it, and he’s looking at Eddie in that way again, like he’s stargazing instead of looking at Eddie Munson, who, no doubt, looks like a mess, messy haired and red-faced, neck covered in hickeys.

“What?” he asks, lifting a curl to pull across his face, suddenly shy even though there’s a wet spot on Steve’s sweatpants and it’s Eddie’s fault. Steve’s smile falls.

“You’re really back,” he says quietly. “Right? I’m not gonna… wake up in a second?”

Eddie smiles and drops his hair to reach down and pinch Steve’s upper arm hard, grinning when he recoils and gasps, swatting his hand away.

“Ow.”

“You’re awake right now.”

Steve snorts, shaking his head before he reaches up to pull at Eddie’s neck, lifting his chin to kiss him. And then he hugs him tightly, arms wrapped around his waist, face pressed into his chest, over his scars.

Eddie closes his eyes, running a hand over the top of his head.

—————————

Steve’s room looks different than it did in the Upside Down.

It’s messier, clothes discarded on the floor, which their sweaters join, the bed unmade. There’s a painting on the wall, a colorful one of the sky, a pale sunset above the treeline, and Eddie gazes at it while Steve gets him a toothbrush and toothpaste.

He spots the vest on the bed when he comes back from the bathroom down the hall. It’s folded neatly despite the rest of the room being a mess, set carefully on the pillows. Steve is changing when Eddie comes back, and he doesn’t see Eddie’s eyes linger on it as he pulls a shirt over his head, tousling his hair. Eddie comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around his midsection and resting his forehead on the back of his neck.

“Love you,” he whispers after moving to set his chin on Steve's shoulder. Steve sighs, letting his head rest on Eddie’s, lifting his hands to hold his forearms.

“I’m scared to go to sleep,” he says quietly after a moment. Eddie tightens his arms. “Scared I’m gonna wake up and you’re not gonna be here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Eddie murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. “I promise.”

Steve takes a deep breath. He turns around slowly, lifting his hands to touch Eddie’s face before he kisses him slowly. It tastes like mint mouthwash. Eddie smiles.

Steve moves the vest aside carefully when they go to lie down, setting it on the bedside table that’s bare except for a sheet of paper covered in handwriting that Eddie doesn’t read. Steve climbs in first, sorting the duvet so it’s straight, and Eddie follows, laying next to him. Steve reaches to shut off the lamp, and it’s dark except for the soft moonlight coming through the window.

Eddie exhales shakily, his eyes finding Steve in the dark. Steve is looking back at him, unblinking like he’s scared Eddie is going to disappear.

“I have a heartbeat,” Eddie says quietly, whispering even though there’s no one else in the house. “You wanna feel it?”

“Yes, please.”

Eddie takes his hand, shifting onto his back and pulling Steve’s hand closer with one hand as he pulls the hem of the sweatshirt he borrowed up with the other. He slides Steve’s hand under it, pushing it up to his chest, and Steve sighs, moving closer, pressing his hand more firmly. It takes a moment, and then his lips curve into a small smile.

“Got it?” Eddie whispers. Steve nods. “You can go to sleep, Stevie. I’ll be here when I wake up.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Unless I get up to piss or something, but I’ll still be in the house.”

Steve snorts, closing his eyes and moving closer, pulling his hand away from Eddie’s chest in favor of laying his head on it, his hair tickling Eddie’s face. Eddie combs it down, smiling at the ceiling as he hugs Steve closer, arms around him the way he hugged the jacket to his chest last night.

“Gotta take Max to school tomorrow,” Steve says quietly, mumbling a little bit, sleepy. “I’ll be back ‘round eight.”

“Okay.”

“‘Nd the kids are gonna wanna come over after school,” he says. “Gonna give us hell.”

“Why?”

“You seen your neck recently?”

“Oh. Oh no.”

Steve giggles childishly into Eddie’s chest, arms tightening around him, face smushing against him.

“‘M gonna take you on a date,” he says after a second, voice muffled. “Just like I said.”

“A stay-in date, I assume,” Eddie says, eyes closed.

“Mm. Make you dinner. Treat you good.”

“You gonna make love to me, Stevie?”

“Mm. Fuck yeah.”

Eddie laughs, beaming at the ceiling, running his hands over Steve’s back, and his throat tightens, because he remembers everything Steve told him while he was dying, bleeding and coughing, but now Steve can keep his promises.

“Go t’ sleep,” Steve mumbles, turning his face to press a kiss to his chest. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” Eddie whispers.

He can feel each of Steve’s breaths, can feel his back rise and fall steadily, and he can smell him on his pillowcase, on the duvet, in the air. And he falls asleep, safe, and warm.

here's the spotify playlist for this series if you like my work maybe consider supporting me on ko-fi or looking into my commissions <;3 

[froggibus]

Can I request Kiriko, Roadhog, Dva, and Pharah's reactions to meeting their S/O's dog who's LITERALLY 200+ pounds of sheer muscle? The dog can be Chill and Cuddly but if he needs to get violent he won't hesitate. Say a Talon assassin tried to pull up? The assassin's entire front portion of their neck might fuck around and go missing, let's just leave it at that.

Also I'm sorry, I don't know you character limit, if 4 is too much then just do the first three I requested please.

hope you having a good day

Meeting your dog - DVA, Roadhog, Kiriko, Pharah

Genre: fluff, kinda crack? i think

Summary: how they react + how they treat your ginormous dog that they didn't expect you to have

CW: some crack, mostly just wholesome doggo stuff

DVA:

she is so taken aback when she first meets your dog 

from the way you’re always talking about your sweet precious baby, she somehow assumed it was a golden retriever or something 

she did NOT expect the giant bully breed that weighs more than she does, complete with sharp teeth and bulging muscles 

she recovers from her shock quickly though, and before you know it, she’s kneeling down in front of your dog and giving it pats on the nose 

your dog ADORES her

as your sort of guard dog, it knows when someone has bad intentions and it will hate them right from the get go

But Hana and it become best friends immediately 

Even when it bares it’s teeth and growls at a rowdy dog that gets too close, she’s unwavering in her affection for it 

honestly watching her walk it is hilarious too. she’s just…so little and your dog is so big

one time, the two of you are almost mugged while out on a walk with it but the second the mugger saw your sweet little baby’s sharp teeth and jowls, they took off running 

she’s only known your dog for five minutes, but if anything happened to it, she would kill everyone in the room and then herself. 

Roadhog:

He LOVES your dog

like they are instantly best friends

he was not expecting the dog to be so big but he does not care

it just makes it easier for him to play with

“This is not what I pictured when you talked about your ‘precious little pumpkin’.”

it’s hard for your dog to get properly played with considering it’s size and how scary it looks

but Hog fears nothing

they play wrestle all the time

like full on wrestling

Mako is probably the only person in the world who can keep up with your dog’s rambunctious energy

whenever you’re too tired, all you have to do is say the word and Mako will be there to walk, feed and play with your dog

sometimes you think he loves the dog more than you

he’s honestly happy that you have a big dog because then he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally hurting it

Kiriko:

she is FLABBERGASTED

from the way you talk about your dog, she was expecting a small breed

NOT the ginormous dog who looks buffer than the Shimadas combined

she’s a little hesitant on the inside but she knows how much your dog means to you so she forces herself to interact with your dog

and of course your dog LOVES her

Kiriko warms up to your dog really quick too

she’s always inviting it up on the furniture with her or to cuddle her in your bed

she always jokes that she only comes over to see your dog now

or at least you think she’s joking

definitely brings homes all sorts of bones and treats for it whenever she comes over

she’s like the grandma sneaking treats to her grandchildren

you don’t really mind though cause you were worried she wouldn’t like your dog

Pharah:

honestly nothing phases her

but when she sees your GIANT dog, she’s phased

of course she doesn’t let you know

she just smiles politely and goes to pat your dog on the head

imagine her surprise when your murder machine is cuddly and sweet and absolutely loves her

spends the rest of the night playing and cuddling your dog

similar to Roadhog, she LOVES to wrestle and play rough with your dog

they’re pretty evenly matched too lmao

she will always feed your dog scraps from whatever she’s cooking

also loves to treat your dog and make tiny versions of whatever she’s cooking

honestly turns your dog into a spoiled brat but it's okay because she looks so damn cute cuddling it

trying to sleep in the same bed as your dog and Pharah is challenging to say the least

[dionysianmirth]

i love this recipe and have been making it for about a year with some thoughts

i only add 2 ingredients so it’s 3 things total but they do wonders and it looks deceptively simple/plain despite the flavor punch it packs.

i don’t fry the potatoes or add any oil (don’t worry, the last ingredient will take care of it) but i do peel the potatoes because i found the fry is too much work to flavor ratio (it’s a lot more active to monitor the potatoes for browning than to peel and throw them in a big pot and set a timer, but it does give it a very savory french fry flavor if you do decide to fry them first), and potato skins can cause stomach discomfort if you eat too much of it (something about enzymes?). it’s quite fast and low effort to remove the skin with a good peeler (i use the cheap $15 for 3 y-shaped peeler recommended by everyone from professional chefs to reviewers by kuhn rikon that is scary sharp and cheap enough to replace often despite it staying sharper than most of my peelers for longer) then:

i boil the potatoes in chicken broth (i use the knorr professional flavor base because it comes in a huge tub that you can use with rice and stuff, you just gotta chip off a little piece of the thing and it lasts forever without being $$$) and

throw a few blocks of a savory cheese instead of adding butter or cream. i found that this recipe is especially good at incorporating cheese because it mixes beautifully without getting the chewy or stringy texture when you make cheese too hot but it still add the butterfat flavor + the characteristics of the cheese without needing to use actual butter which i never seem to have on hand (i use the $14, four pound block of cheddar that i get from walmart and cut into rough chunks based on my intended usage before freezing. the cheese is cheap asf but tends to get moldy quickly if not used quick enough or if the fridge isn’t cold enough.) i’ve only tried a few standard blocks of cheese like the colby jack and cheddar you get in the refrigerated section, im not sure if soft cheeses would work as well with the flavor of the mashed potatoes or if hard aged cheeses would melt as easily, you might have to grate it first instead of just. throwing a 1.5 inch cube into the saucepan like i did when i made this but it still tastes great and you can’t even tell that there isn’t “butter” in it and it has more flavor depth than butter or cream alone

the broth will take care of the saltiness and the cheese will add the butterfat flavor missing from the butter so it doesn’t taste bland or inedible. you can add spices during the boiling period like garlic and onion powder or even like dried herbs for maximum flavor, but it’s honestly good enough to eat on its own.

the mashed potatoes are to die for and freeze beautifully so i’ll usually make this is bulk and freeze a bunch. it’ll be a bit grainy when reheating because the water will have separated from the cells of the potatoes but recooking it over the stove and mixing it a bit will bring it back to the original flavor and texture, maybe a little less wet and more deluxe or dense tasting if anything.

it’s savory, hearty, and comforting as fuck honestly. looks beautiful with a slight yellow tinge and would do numbers at a potluck since it scales well without a lot of additional work. i honestly ate more of this than i’m comfortable sharing when i was in the throes of depression esp. since i didn’t feel too bad since potatoes are the somewhat nutritionally complete (not entirely, you’ll need to supplement a few things but good enough when you’re tight on cash and have no energy)

the only upgrade i can think of would be to pass the mash through a sieve instead of mashing inside the pot (or a drum sieve if you’re fancy) as that helps with texture allegedly but i just used a fork. they’re soft enough usually after boiling. or like better ingredients but we’re here to ball on a budget

My perfect mashed potatoes

The secret is in the water; literally, it’s IN the water.

See, when you boil potatoes, a lot of special starches and sugars and stuff leeches out into the water. When you drain the water before mashing them, you throw away a lot of good stuff, which is a big part of what makes mashed potatoes “dry” and bland, even when you add large amounts of cream and butter and things.

So don’t throw out any water.

Here’s how you do that:

First, cut your potatoes into smaller cubes than you probably do. (I’ve left the skins on for flavor and also, that’s where a lot of a potato’s nutrients are, like protien and iron and vitamins B and C, just to name a few)

The reason for cutting them smaller (besides avoiding giant peices of skin) is so that there is less space in the pot between each peice for water to fill, so you use less water to cook them. That’s important because you won’t be draining any water, so you can’t afford to have too much water! For the same reason, just barely cover them with water when they go on the stove.

But! Before you do that, put the pot on the stove with some butter, garlic, and seasonings; let the butter start to sizxle just a little then put most of a single layer of potatoes in the pan and let the brown and sear. Turn them, brown them on all sides, get ‘em fairly dark (I forgot to get a pic here because I was worried I’d burn the butter).

Ready? now throw the rest of the potatoes in right on top, and add your water, give them a stir. This way, you’re boiling in some of that lovely fried potato/french fry flavor.

Okay, so, as they cook, you may need to add a little water, not too much! ideally the very highest piece of potato will be poking just above the surface. Now, when your potatoes are really really soft, mash them directly into the water. Just pull them off the stove, leave all the water in, and start mashing. Trust me. At first you’ll think there’s too much water. If you get them mashed and they ARE a little too liquidy, just put ‘em back on the stove. You’ll have to stir often or constantly, but they will steam off additional water without losing any good stuff.

Now add some salt, and taste. Right?! And you haven’t even put in any cream or cheese or anything yet.

Speaking of which, you can use like, a third of the amount of butter or cream or anything, and they will still taste better than usual. So they taste better AND they are higher in nutrients AND lower in fats and salts! That’s a lot of win — enjoy your potatoes!

Fuck Columbus! Indigenous Rights! And happy Thanksgiving!

[girlkisser13]

hades cabin headcanons

children of hades

• it takes them a bit longer to realize that they’re demigods.

• despite their best efforts, plants will wilt and die in their presence.

• the hecate, hades, and melinoe cabins are in charge of setting up the halloween decorations and like to bring a bit of festive scariness to the camp by raising ghosts and skeletons.

• they’re really close with the hermes cabin because they can shadow travel in and out of camp with contraband.

• many gravitate towards apartment living. their uncomfortable, deadly auras, demigod training and sharp features keep them safe in dodgy, dangerous areas.

• they’re some of the most sarcastic people you will ever meet. they are characterised by a dry, deadpan and dark sense of humour.

• despite popular belief, hades is accepting of persephone’s demigods. he doesn’t directly interfere with their lives as long as persephone doesn’t interfere with his demigods.

• because there are so few of them, they have monthly "family dinners" in the underworld.

• the sass levels are not only off the charts, but wholly encouraged.

• they have a talent for blending in the background, making them excellent scouts and spies. their presence is subtle, preferring to work from the shadows.

• when their nightmares are intense enough, some will unconsciously summon the dead.

• they have resting bitch faces so people often judge them to be unlikeable and mean. growing up, many become bitter of this preconception despite their efforts to dismantle it.

• they become the monsters others see, at least on the surface. as they mature, they soften the resentment they have towards others mislabelling and vilifying them.

• they’re all really good under pressure.

• like their father, they are fair and just (provided they don’t hold a grudge against you). their word is their bond.

cabin exterior

• the cabin is a gothic-style building, with sharp, angular lines and a towering structure. the walls are made of solid obsidian, giving it a sleek, almost reflective surface that absorbs light rather than reflecting it.

• the entrance is framed by two large, wrought-iron gates that creak ominously when opened. the door itself is made of heavy, dark wood with intricate carvings depicting scenes from the underworld.

• a faint mist surrounds the cabin, clinging to the ground and giving the impression of a thin veil between the living world and the underworld. the air around the cabin is noticeably cooler, even in the heat of summer, as if the chill of the underworld seeps through it.

• instead of traditional torches or lanterns, the cabin is illuminated by greekfire. the greenish, ethereal flames burn in sconces along the walls, providing an eerie, flickering light that never goes out, even in rain or wind. the greekfire adds a sense of ancient, powerful magic to the cabin, making it even more intimidating and otherworldly.

• the cabin has subtle decorations like skull motifs and symbols of death, but nothing overtly terrifying— more a nod to the power and respect for the dead rather than fearmongering.

• the ground around the cabin is sparse, with few plants growing near it. there a few dark, twisted trees and wilted flowers that can only survive in the shadows. there’s also a small patch of asphodel that grows near the entrance, as a symbol of the underworld.

cabin interior

• despite popular belief, their cabin is actually the warmest at camp half-blood. this is due to a ventilation shaft-like furnace duct that comes up from the underworld.

• the floors are made of polished black marble, cold to the touch. they reflect the green glow of the greekfire inside the cabin. the marble is inlaid with intricate silver patterns that resemble ancient greek symbols and constellations associated with death and the underworld.

• the walls are made of dark, rough stone, giving the cabin a cavernous feel. they are adorned with ancient greek tapestries depicting scenes from the underworld, like the river styx, the elysian fields, and hades on his throne.

• the furniture and decor feature accents of stygian iron. the metal is used in everything from the bed frames to the candleholders, giving the room a dark, powerful aesthetic.

• the corners of the cabin are always shrouded in shadows, no matter how much light there is. these shadows seem to move on their own, giving the impression that the cabin is alive and watching.

• the beds resemble ancient sarcophagi, with dark stone frames and plush black bedding. the pillows and comforters are surprisingly soft, lined with rich fabrics like velvet and silk, offering a stark contrast to the stone surroundings.

• the cabin is unnervingly quiet, with a silence that feels almost heavy. the only sounds are the faint crackling of the greekfire and the occasional whisper of wind from an unseen source.

• each child of the underworld has a small personal shrine to honor their ancestors or deceased loved ones. these shrines are made of obsidian and are decorated with mementos, flowers, and offerings like coins or food.

cabin traditions

• they have a tradition of crafting small obsidian tokens, like rings or pendants, which they give to friends or loved ones. these tokens are believed to offer protection against spirits and negative energy, serving as a charm from the god of the underworld.

• if a demigod at camp dies, it’s tradition for the hades and thanatos cabins to take part in the funeral rites. they help guide the soul to the underworld, using a special ritual passed down through the cabins. this ritual is seen as a great honor and responsibility.

• each child of the underworld creates a "memory jar" where they place small objects, notes, or symbols representing significant moments or people they’ve lost. the jars are kept in a special alcove in the cabin and are said to help them find solace and remember that the dead are never truly gone.

• they maintain a hidden underground garden filled with ghostly white flowers, black roses, and even a few pomegranate trees. these plants thrive in the dim light of the greekfire and are said to be gifts from persephone herself. during the fall, they harvest the fruits and hold a small festival in her honor, believing it helps to keep her favor and bring balance between life and death.

divider by @astrumaur

[delicrieux]

…TAKING WHAT’S NOT YOURS ! ⋆｡°✩

⋆⭒˚.⋆ chapter summary. ugh. suppose gojo has his moments, even if you: 1) didn't want, 2) didn't ask, 3) preferred that he didn't.

pairing. gojo satoru x f!sorcerer reader warnings for this chapter. gojo forgets to pick up megumi bruh and also swear wc. 3.6k author’s note. in this story we actually technically get custody of megumi much sooner than the original timeline. that's cuz i have.... plans nyahahaha

ੈ✩‧₊˚

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | twny masterlist | < back | next >

CHAPTER 3: 100 laps

“eh? megumi?” you tilt your head, “…did…you just get back?”

why is a seven year old trailing from jujutsu tech’s entrance at sundown? fushiguro megumi seems a bit frazzled, like the long trek up has left him winded. it likely has. you’re almost always grappling for air if you have to actually climb up the mountain just to reach your dorm.

you’re not, however, surprised that he keeps his composure very well, even for a kid. that zenin blood has a kick to it.

he doesn’t respond, simply peers up at you, as if assessing. he looks displeased, but fushiguro almost always is. at least from what you’ve seen – you don’t exactly spend enough time with him to find out.

while technically a property of the faculty, gojo is his legal guardian. somewhat. it’s complicated. you didn’t look into it, because it involves gojo, and you want nothing to do with him. you know about him too much already. the information is cluttering your brain, and it doesn’t matter how many temple massages you do.

still, it’s a bit concerning. he’s all alone. you make a point to look around, expecting gojo to jump out a bush or maybe be hovering in the air like some omnipotent kami. no such thing in sight, “…did no one come to pick you up?”

“hmph,” is the response you receive, all punctuated with a glare and a sharp turn of the head. fushiguro doesn’t want to talk, but he’s not plowing past you, either.

you are, by no means, good with kids. you think they’re quite stupid. but fushiguro seems to possess an intelligence absent from most (absent from some adults too, see gojo), so you crouch down to his level and try, “stupid was supposed to do it, wasn't he?”

ah, the insult softens him up a bit. it’s in the way his shoulders droop slightly and eyes waver down. the golden sunset has him glowing. what a cute kid, “…he forgot.”

“woooooow,” you can’t say you’re surprised, but now you really feel bad for fushiguro. did he wait all day alone? christ, now you might really wring gojo, and for no selfish reason, too. which cursed weapon could do the most damage? maybe if you told yaga-sensei, he’d let you use the ones from the vault, “that’s rough, buddy.”

“it’s whatever,” an eloquent one, surely, “i had detention anyway.”

“ah, get into another fight?” that’s been happening since kindergarten, but his grades are too good for him to be kicked out. he nods curtly. you smile, “did you win?”

“yes.”

“good job!”

*

after leading fushiguro back to his room, you make your way to the track field. he wasn’t very enthusiastic with your company, but he didn’t complain, which could mean he didn’t hate it. you have a feeling if he was displeased, he’d let you know. he always lets it be known with gojo.

finally, you’re better at something. that’s a win if you ever had one.

regrettably, you couldn’t locate yaga-sensei in the first 10 minutes, so you gave up. you’ll catch him eventually and tattle. fushiguro arrived safe, even if he could have been kidnapped, hit by a bus, lost in the city, collected by the police for loitering without a custodian. but he wasn’t, and that's what matters.

you drop your gym bag by a bench, breathe in the cooling air. you begin your warm-ups. yaga-sensei has updated the training regimen to include more cardio (and likely to make use of a gigantic track field), and your number of laps was bumped to a 100. a daunting number, but it only sounds scary. a 100 laps on even terrain is doable; a 100 laps up the steep mountain would be pure torture. even you, with your impressive stamina and unyielding will, would face trouble during the second lap.

shoko would die halfway up. you imagine getou would give up around 10. gojo is a freak of nature, so he’d likely be fine.

you could have invited shoko, but she’s down at the clinic, breathing in anesthetic and mixing the perfect ratio of potassium chloride into the bags of solution for use next week. you could have asked getou to join, but you don’t fancy him seeing you too sweaty, and lately, getou prefers to train and spend his evenings alone. maybe he just wants some space.

maybe.

still, the track is empty this time in the evening, so it's perfect. you can do your exercises in peace and enjoy the breeze and the pretty spill of rose-lilac in the sky.

then, he shows up.

"kami-chaaaaan~!" and has the audacity to yell your name in that saccharin-dripping sing-song.

you spring up from your stretches, aghast. briefly, you wonder what higher power had you insulted to be punished like this.

gojo waves at you like the biggest dork on planet, barreling from the other side of the field at alarming speeds. seems in a particular hurry to antagonize you. you should leave before he gets too close and decides verbal abuse isn’t enough. if his hands haunt your nightmares, you will never tell.

you are faced with another life or death scenario. stay and be vulnerable to gojo’s bullying, or skip your workout and be faced with yaga-sensei’s wrath? you can almost hear the latter cowing in your ear about responsibility and aspiration – you can be a 1st grade on paper all you want, but you have to act like one, too.

your deliberation has wasted your time. the answer becomes apparent when gojo beams at you, more blinding than midday sunlight. his eyes must crinkle underneath those dweeby sunglasses, but that’s none of your business.

you put your hands on your hips and give him a displeased once over. he has two huge sodas pressed underneath his armpit and too many candy bags in his hands. if he started juggling, he’d be a perfect clown.

“no hi?” he ticks a brow, smug.

if he’s here, you might as well let him have it, “you forgot to pick megumi up.”

he doesn’t even have the decency to seem apologetic. simply heaves with an annoyed, “uuuuuuuughhhhh,”

“what a pathetic person,” you point.

“for your information, i was on a mission,” he states, “and my battery died. didn’t you notice i wasn’t around? surely you should’ve noticed.”

you don’t like how his tone implies a certain familiarity. you did notice his absence, but you chalked it up to him growing a conscience. miracles do happen, and the fact that you haven’t gone crazy is a testament to that.

“besides, i already talked to megumi,” he shrugs, “said he’s fiiiine, mom. totally wasn't in any danger."

"i'm sure."

he gives you an ugly, goofy grin that means he's still plotting a way to get underneath your skin. not very difficult a task, not very difficult at all, but gojo has to do it anyway. and right on cue, he coos, "sweaty? that's cute."

"you wish. get out of my field," you snap back. he opens one of his 52 gallons of soda and makes a grandiose show of downing it. disgusting. how has the sugar not fried his brain beyond repair? maybe it has, and his actions are a direct result of that.

“well, don’t mind me,” he says after a moment, shuffling past you and making sure to bump your shoulder, because why not? he sprawls out on  the bench, all those snacks pooling in his lap like he’s about to have a feast, “hop to it.”

“excuse me?” you utter.

“what?” he has the audacity to look clueless, “i’m enjoying the weather.”

“enjoy it somewhere else.”

“’m good here, to be honest,”

you scoff, stomp the earth because it has all his stupid dust and the weight of his presence. he, again, gives you the most innocently confused look.

there is no chance in the nine hells that you're letting him be the obstacle to your regimens. if that were the case, you'd flunk out the same day of initiation, and would have sooner set yourself aflame. it doesn't help that it's gojo sitting there like a garish signpost, a perfect example of someone about to thoroughly enjoy himself watching you squirm underneath his gaze.

what happened to the simple pleasure of watching TV while you eat?

you resign yourself to your fate, as you always do. what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger or whatever. by now, you’ve collected a plethora of motivational quotes to inspire you during times of mental anguish. you say these affirmations before going to bed, like they’d help. speak to the universe, and it will speak back! that’s what your horoscope said today, and you’re desperate enough to believe just about anything by now.

you will not skip warm-ups just because he’s a creep. you do move a good distance away, though, plant your feet on the track. you will touch your toes and do your squats and ignore him. if he does have a great view of your (rumored flat) ass, that’s none of your concern.

except—

gojo whistles. a shrill noise that rises in pitch with each note, a keen you assume is intended to irritate you.

you want to murder him. strangle him with your own bare hands. maybe run his face over the bleachers and be done with it. you will beg yaga-sensei to allow you access to the vault.

"perverted freak," you seethe.

"what? nice view here; can see the mountains and stuff."

he drinks his 485763242 gallons of soda, slurping in all sorts of rude manners that have you wrinkle your nose. you should've taken your headphones from your bag. music would drown him out, but you're a bit wary of approaching him. you feel like he expects it.

after your last stretch, you pivot on your heels and start your runs. it takes exactly two laps to notice him digging around in your gym bag, because why should you have any privacy. everything within reach is his property, which extends to you, too.

he takes out your bottle of water, waves it like he’s calling you back. fuck that.

“kaaaaami-channnn! you need to drink your water unless you wanna topple over!” he announces common knowledge, and once again, it appears he’s trying to do you a favor. no way in hell you’re stopping. taking the hint, he unscrews the lid and takes a sip. that’s great too, now your water is contaminated.

fine. you’ll die of dehydration. maybe the lingering heat will get to you first. that’s okay too. it’s an honorable way to go.

as your feet smack the ground, you mutter the meanest, foulest insults about the man currently perched in your corner-eye view. his legs are spread wide and he leans back, unabashedly chewing, grinning, and being himself in your field of vision, in your life, like a bright light on full beam that makes you so angry sometimes you think you might pop a blood vessel.

somewhere around lap 80, you lose track of him. there’s relief that washes over, muscles aching and—

“kami-chaaaaan,” the fucking whine on him, christ. he trails right after you, too lazy to catch up, and god, please, please you have never wished for anything more in your life, please please please please—

he has for sure finished your water. maybe he jogged up just to show you. why are you still doing this song and dance. he has grown on you like an inoperable tumor. please please please—

you find your breaths a bit too loud in the quiet. the sun is gone and soon the grounds will flood with darkness. your muscles burn with exertion and you pant, leaning on your knees. this is, normally, where you’d drink water, but since gojo gulped it down for you, you will just rest for a moment to fight down the blooming headache and rising nausea before you continue.

you must have lost consciousness for a brief period of time, because the next thing you register is being thrown on top of gojo's bony shoulder and a mild grip just above the back of your knee.

"…what the?"

"did you know," his voice sounds annoyingly pleased, "that you started rolling when you laid down, and it was a miracle that you didn’t drown yourself in the pond?"

your body wanted to save you, bless it. even in your blackout, it attempted a good thing.

it’s not the first time you’re the recipient of gojo’s touch, but it feels strange in your haze. his hand is warm and obscene; how big really is his palm and how long are his fingers? why is he caressing you? you might be imagining it, but there’s definitely a pattern to his touch. it tickles.

but of course — of course, you make no sense of this. he is too hot and the world is dark, so your reality is nothing.

"you can't walk, let me take you back to your room," he sounds helpful, like he's performing a service for you, not harassing the hell out of a tired, miserable woman.

"i need to finish my laps. let go."

he ignores you and takes you away from the track field, "if i find out this was some sick plot to get me to touch you, i swear…"

he talks and you tune out, because listening makes your brain hurt worse than the hangover you could have. it takes a herculean effort just to keep your from crossing.

unfortunately, he opens his big fat trap again, but his tone has changed. gojo is speaking normally. you force yourself to listen and are vaguely aware of something terrible happening.

"are you gonna hurl or something?" he asks.

"maybe."

"gross. not on my shirt, it's expensive,"

it is expensive. and tailored perfectly to hug his torso. gojo carries his self-importance like law, and it is. he's the 2000 years of jujutsu sorcery distilled into human form.

your hands dig into the hard muscles of his back. he smells great. so do you. not at all sweaty and muddy from your apparent tumble and roll to escape this world.

"look alive, kami-chan," he chides, squeezing. "where's that tenacity?"

the only reason why you open your eyes is so you can properly scowl at him, which he can't see, but you know in your heart that he can feel, "in your future grave, which i have yet to dig."

he laughs at this, a loud and ringing sound. your headache intensifies. the lights outside blink on, dousing the world in a faint glow.

you make the mistake of breathing. the fresh scent of night is almost pungent, and you groan, letting your eyes fall closed again. gojo's steps don't falter. the smoothness of his walk makes it seem like you're in a car driving down a straight road. it would be soothing, if you didn't suspect that he had ulterior motives. which he does, because he's gojo, and he would never show you an ounce of mercy.

his silence is suspicious. it lingers between you two for the remaining trek. there's a tightness around your leg now, a certain warmth that should alarm you, but doesn't. a gentle warning.

"oi, did you pass out on me?" he prods your shin, jostles you back and forth to regain your attention.

"no," you sigh, opening your eyes. the corridor is much brighter and stings like crazy. "are we back?"

"yep, almost," he chirps, "want me to tuck you into bed?"

you scoff, "i'll castrate you if you lay your hands on me."

"i’m literally holding you."

"you'll have to let me go eventually."

"hmmmm," the hum he lets out is a tingle down your spine, "ha. no."

there are bitter words of defiance for you to spit out, but your thoughts are incoherent right now, so they scatter on the tip of your tongue. he gives up easily on teasing, focuses on his steps. you hear a door sliding open, a rush of cool air.

"okay, up you go," he sets you down, careful as can be.

hallway lights spill into the dark of your room.

gojo stands over you, but his posture is slouchy. you're at the foot of your bed. this isn't what you expected him to do.

"what? not gonna run me through a list of new curse words?" he chimes, dropping your gym bag down from his other shoulder. you didn't even notice. "paint a pretty picture of my demise and tell me in detail?"

"i'll pass," you drop onto the mattress with all the grace you can muster, so face first into the sheets. gojo's brows quirk upward, "but it is on my to do list," or something along those lines, your voice is pretty muffled.

you hear him shift. not stepping closer or away, just there. is he waiting for a thank you? he'll be waiting for a long time. you might be in debt to him for the rest of your miserable life, though you didn't ask for it. he could've left you and not given a shit, and you'd appreciate that more. you would've left him, no questions asked. snapped a few pictures to send to utahime too; she'd probably have them framed.

the longer his presence weighs over you, the less you want to move, to get him to leave. you really do appreciate the lack of kicks to the back, though.

"...are you dying on me?"

"’m trying," you garble.

he clicks his teeth, and suddenly, two massive hands scoop under your hips, lifting you like a sack of rice, "up."

you obey, sitting back and staring up at gojo in his towering form. you swallow around the dryness in your throat, breathe through the pounding in your temple.

he tips his head to the side.

"ugh, don't give me that look. just—" gojo removes his hands, dusting them over his pants, like he touched something gross. and maybe he thinks he did. "water."

a single bottle is presented to you like an olive branch, which you will not take. not to appease gojo satoru, and not to kill the headache, because the spiteful, nasty part of you has to win.

"you spit in it?"

this makes him crack up. you notice the dimple on his cheek, how his shoulders bounce in silent laughter, and how stupid his stupidly perfect hair is. you take the water, chug it without a second thought.

he sits down next to you. you pretend he isn't there. he stretches out his legs and crosses them at the ankle, makes himself at home in your space, and you will cuss at him as soon as you regain function of a single brain cell.

"where'd you get this, anyway?" you ask instead, motioning to the water.

"didn’t drink all of it, it was more of a palate cleanser," he shrugs.

"then why are you only giving it to me now?"

"what am i, an errand boy? besides, i did try, didn’t i?" he scoots back and a slow, pleased smile curls on his lips, "aren't i nice, making sure your needs are met?"

god, you might actually throw up. why can’t he, for once, be deterred by your perturbed silence?

a particular look shadows his features, one that will either mean the worst or something horrifyingly good and you don't think you are mentally present to handle whatever he might spew next, "you gonna call me satoru now?"

he isn't even remotely subtle. you feel him press his weight closer. a subtle motion, but you are painfully attuned to every inch of his body, the things his limbs are doing at any given moment, because you always expect them to strike.

"would rather eat sand," you swallow the rest of the water down, feeling your blood pump a bit easier. you exhale, closing your eyes and tipping back, "besides, isn't that for people who actually like you?"

he moves to rest on his forearms. it’s so strange to see him within these walls, filling the empty spaces with his vibrancy, "you can add the sama, too."

the plastic bottle aims straight for his forehead but tumbles down without touching him.

he grins, "there she is."

"get out of my room," you deadpan.

"aa, so cold," he does a bad impression of being offended. he's terrible. gojo will forever be terrible, "i see, i see. gotcha."

"before i grow old and crippled," you add. you're about a minute from collapsing and he hasn't moved his ass off your bed.

he gets up then, slowly, leisurely, because the man loves making everything difficult. you squeeze your eyes, furrow your brows together. he chuckles, a deep reverberation that plucks every string of nerves in your body.

gojo does not say a thing until his silhouette is barely visible in the bright doorway.

"try not to overdo it next time, okay?"

it's probably the first considerate thing to come from him, or maybe you're exhausted and hallucinating the entire interaction. you exhale as the door slides shut behind him, leaving you to rot in a pit of your own misery. the hum of your air conditioner eases into the background.

everything he says and does is to mess with you. you don't doubt that this was just some ploy, too. tomorrow, it'll be nothing but an awkward, fleeting memory. but this evening's been taxing enough, and there's no energy left within to parse through another one of his possessed ideas.

you hate that your room smells like him now.

this is going to be a bitch in the morning, you already know it.

tags. @shokosbunny, @jotarohat, @alygator77

[atmymercy]

Hi! :)

To answer your question, my favourite flowers are stargazer lilies and cymbidium orchids! They’re so pretty imo🥹

My question is: what’s a message that my guides keep trying to tell me through my dreams? (Like dreams when I’m sleeping, not goals haha) (omg I hope this is a good question)

Thank you! <3

helllo goldy! which makes me think of the golden girls... so random! lol but those gals had guts! ooh a dream question! i don't get those often but i always love them!

ooh i love how specific you are! i'm going to look these up! i love the name on the first one already though! and omg! the second ones are so pretty! but also remind me of the flowers from alice in wonderland that were a little mean to her! lol so random again!

for you, i got

in your dreams, your spirit guides like to visit you and join in the games with you! don't be afraid just because some of them do look sharp or powerful! they just want to come and say hi! and you have nothing to fear! sometimes they are given scary appearances to help protect you. they want you to know you can fly high, honey! there is nothing to stop you! you have the power! you have the might! it just matters what you want to start seriously! because if you treat it like a joke, it will be one. if you take it seriously, it will always turn into something for you. also don't forget to ground more. you're having rough days when you don't "ground!!!" lol i just heard them all echo that to me like a choir! so ground, okay? lol

hope you enjoyed it! please give feedback or buy me a coffee/tip when you can! if you want to explore this further, please also consider a private read. also thank you for sharing with me!♡

love & light!

-tea

♡ message me for details/questions & to book a reading! ♡

[shadowbanki]

RWBY Crossover AU Characters (AU/work in progress)

Disclaimer: Some of these characters don’t have color names because they’re from other franchises and are my already-established OCs. Also I’m on VOLUME 2 lol. Also I don’t know exactly what a semblance is

Haku Yowane Theme color: Snow Haku is a sincere and gentle girl who wanted to be a huntress because she was insecure and bullied in the past. She wanted to become strong to prove her strength to herself. Haku’s weapon is named Wanderess.

Neru Akita Theme color: Ochre Neru is a misunderstood girl with a temper. She has a similar reason of becoming a huntress as Haku, but is less likely to admit it. Neru is very stubborn.

Taya Soune Theme color: Blue Taya became a huntsman because his father recommended the path to him. He found it scary and difficult, wanting to give up, but didn’t want to disappoint his father. Taya’s true passion is music. Taya’s weapon is named Harmonis.

Ruko Yokune Theme color: Indigo

Uta Utane Theme color: Purple Uta wanted to be a huntress because she’s a thrill seeker. She was always too scared to pursue music, (her other passion,) but not to fight monsters! Uta is a sentient robotic humanoid, and is capable of emitting an aura. But like faunuses, she is prejudiced against for it… Uta’s weapon is basically a magical machine gun that doubles as an axe. The name of her weapon is Glitch.

Amelie Suagr Theme color: Candy Ame was inspired to be a huntress after seeing a movie. This is why she started. She’s clumsy and too idealistic. But Ame didn’t want to give up… Ame’s weapon is giant lollipop-shaped hammer, that into a sharp elemental scepter that is also a jumping stick that can propel her. It’s usually a cane in the shape of a giant key, but she turns it into a weapon when needed. The name of her weapon is Whimsicalibur.

Momo Momone Theme color: Peach

Teto Kasane Theme color: Cerise

Ritsu Namine Theme color: Scarlet Ritsu Namine is a faunus with traits of a marten (red weasel.) He was part of the White Fang once but quit once he realized how corrupt the group had become. Ritsu may be seem rough, but feels deep inside he doesn’t deserve forgiveness, as his role in the White Fang was quite significant. He acts tough because he knows no other way to act, but being with his friends helped him grow and show his sincere side. Ritsu’s weapon is called Inferno. It’s part-flamethrower.

Koto Fuuga Theme color: Orange Koto is a wild daredevil who loves wildlife, and wanted to become a huntress to protect animals from Grimm. She isn’t the brightest with book-smarts, but has incredible street-smarts.

Ruby Rose Theme color: Red

Weiss Schnee Theme color: White

Blake Belladonna Theme color: Black

Yang Xiao Long Theme color: Yellow

Akaito Shion Theme color: Crimson

Rhona Hydra Theme color: Cobalt Rhona is a calm huntress with an intense love for the ocean and its creatures. She wants to protect the ocean. She is also a marine biologist. She cares deeply about her teammate Nagisa. Her weapon is a trident that can both stab and shoot projectiles. The name of her weapon is Aequor. Her semblance is controlling water.

Luana Kai Theme color: Teal She uses a sword which seems a bit old-fashioned, but is great with it. The name of her weapon is Sparring Wave.

Nagisa Onda Theme color: Magenta A girl who is not so confident, and insecure about her fighting skills. In the meanwhile, Rhona is trying to help her as much as she can, but Nagisa wants to become strong enough to do things on her own and stop being Rhona’s “burden.”

Joy Smiley Theme color: Carnation

Tsubomi Hanasaki Theme color: Pink

Erika Kurumi Theme color: Aqua

Renri Yamine Theme color: Lavender

Saga Theme color: Chartreuse 

Miku Hatsune Theme color: Teal

Dell Honne Theme color: Silver Dell is a wolf faunus and a member of the White Fang, although he quits within the story’s events. Dell feels he is very misunderstood by everyone.

Kaito Shion Theme color: Azure

Doremi Harukaze Theme color: Strawberry

Hazuki Fujiwara Theme color: Auburn

Aiko Senoo Theme color: Cerulean

Miles Edgeworth Theme color: Puce

Phoenix Wright Theme color: Navy

Maya Fey Theme color: Violet

Umiko Theme color: Cyan Umiko is a seal faunus.

Makoto Kino Theme color: Green

Roy Theme color: Royal

Ilia Amitola Theme color: Gray

Sowon Moon Theme color: Periwinkle

Luna Amane Theme color: Salmon

Rosa Theme color: Pastel

Gumi Theme color: Lime Gumi is a huntress with a fururisric weapon and motif.

Gakupo Theme color: Lilac Gakupo is a huntsman who fights like a samurai.

Azusa Nakano Theme color: Midnight Azusa is a cat faunus.

Aoi Asahina Theme color: Madder

Chai Theme color: Clover Chai is an iguana faunus.

Reisei Kiyone Theme color: Sky Reisei is a bunny faunus.

Scarlet David Theme color: Tomato

Reika Aoki Theme color: Blueberry

Minako Aino Theme color: Sunflower

Enzo Theme color: Denim

Yuri Tsukikage Theme color: Powder

Franziska von Karma Theme color: Aegean Franziska is a koala faunus.

Nagisa Misumi Theme color: Ink

Honoka Yukishiro Theme color: Moonlight

Akane Hino Theme color: Vermillion

Nao Midorikawa Theme color: Veridian

Merry Kohaku Theme color: Maroon

Itsuki Myoudouin Theme color: Flaxen

Miyuki Hoshizora Theme color: Magenta

Luka Megurine Theme color: Mauve

Usagi Tsukino Theme color: Coral

Bianca Luna Theme color: Cloud

Penny Polendena Theme color: Copper

Nora Valkyrie Theme color: Bubblegum

Lie Ren Theme color: Fuchsia

Ritsu Tainaka Theme color: Khaki

Sora Suiga Theme color: Honey

Yufu Theme color: Mint

Pop Harukaze Theme color: Rose Pop is one of the youngest students in the academy at the age of 14. She is precocious yet inside quite childish.

Ami Mizuno Theme color: Sapphire

Hana Makihatayama Theme color: Melon

Rei Hino Theme color: Ruby

Sakura Ogami Theme color: Pearl

Jaune Arc Theme color: Lemon

Pyrrha Nikos Theme color: Flame

Octavia Forte:  Theme color: Garnet

Reina Cantata Theme color: Jet

Zatsune Theme color: Abyss

Tsumugi Kotobuki Theme color: Platinum Tsumugi is a very rich and privileged girl who wanted to live the precarious life of a huntress on purpose.

Rie Hibine Theme color: Spring

Anna Nyui Theme color: Carmine

Sonata Coda Theme color: Wintergreen

Onpu Segawa Theme color: Plum

Sage Ayana Theme color: Sage

Yatsuhashi Daichi Theme color: Pine

Neptune Vasilias Theme color: Sea-foam

Fox Alistair Theme color: Cinnamon

Bow Asane Theme color: Jade

Sunhee Theme color: Emerald

Zhenyi Theme color: Nutmeg

Aster Theme color: Flamingo

Soraya Theme color: Olive

Mako Nagone Theme color: Smoke Mako is a skunk faunus with a big tail.

Shiina Theme color: Sienna

Yui Hirasawa Theme color: Brown

Meiko Theme color: Rosewood

Anya Theme color: Pewter

Sun Wukong Theme color: Beige

Velvet Scarlatina Theme color: Umber

Coco Adel Theme color: Tan

Mio Akiyama Theme color: Coal

Candela Theme color: Burgundy

Blanche Theme color: Ultramarine Blanche is stoic and seems mysterious. They are known to be strict and harsh, but deep inside, Blanche hates that this is how they are and wishes to be more charismatic. They use they/them pronouns.

Spark Theme color: Gold

Momoko Asuka Theme color: Canary

Yayoi Kise Theme color: Saffron

Rin Kagamine Theme color: Mango Rin is a mouse faunus along with her twin brother Len.

Len Kagamine Theme color: Banana Len is a mouse faunus along with his twin sister Rin.

Sayu Yurika Theme color: Ice

Carmella Theme color: Brick Carmella is a squirrel faunus with a big tail.

Miri Theme color: Hazel

Azalea Theme color: Cotton

Margot Theme color: Ivory

[beepbeepstop]

New Rider

Summary: When your date gets sick after one ride and decides to abandon you in an amusement park with no ride home. Sparks fly with a stranger. Pairing: Oscar x Black!Reader Warnings: swearing, vomit Visuals

I couldn’t stop laughing as i walked towards the exit of the roller coaster watching Jason stumble to the nearest trash can. 

“I didn’t know you could scream that high pitched” I jokingly mocked him.

“Shut up (y/n)” Jason said as he held onto the sides of the trash can trying to steady himself.

“It was funny and I could’ve sworn I heard you crying at one point” I continued to tease.

“You’re a fucking bi-”

Before Jason could finish his sentence all the contents of his stomach began to empty into the trash can. At this point I stopped laughing and walked closer to him attempting to comfort him, but he held up his hand abruptly to stop from coming closer. 

“Don’t step any fucking further” he said with a loss of breath.

“I just wanted to-” he cut me off

“I’m leaving and you can either come with me now or find your own way home”

“But we just got here why do you want to leave so early”

“I don't know (y/n)  maybe because i just fucking threw up” he says as he walks away.

“I know smartass i just watched you. There are other rides and they’re not as fast as this one” I say chasing after him.

“I don’t want to be here. I don’t even like roller coasters”

“Then why did you bring me here Jason”

“Because when I asked where you wanted to go you said here. Instead of like a restaurant or the movies like a normal person” he began to raise his voice

“You should’ve said something when I asked” i began to become defensive

“And seem like some bitch, no way”

“You would’ve looked like less of a bitch if you told me before hand. Instead of throwing up after riding the slowest fucking ride in the park”

“Fuck you (y/n) I should’ve never asked you out”

“Do me a favor Jason and lose my number, because I can’t be with a person who can't even handle the kid section of an amusement park” I stop walking behind him and turn around.

“Have fun getting home bitch”

“Thanks for the free ticket” I yell back at him.

This is the last time I let my cousin put me on with some guy she knew from work. “Oh he’s such a good guy” bullshit, but I’m not gonna let his scary ass ruin such a beautiful day like this. 

Before I could realize it I was walking towards my favorite water ride. The line was relatively short. I stood around for about three minutes before one of the workers started to shout that they were looking for a single rider. I quickly raised my hand and started to rush towards the front of line. The worker ushered me to one of the boats where a tall, buff, tan man was sitting. I sat down next to the stranger and let the worker push down the safety bar. As the ride started the boat roughly rocked down the path towards a dark tunnel. The boat lightly scraped against the edges of the tunnel and it became pitch black. We were coming up on my favorite part of the ride as we inched closer and closer to the edge of the drop

“Oh hell nah those mother fuckers lied to me” the man next to me said 

“i’m going to ki-” before he could finish his sentence the boat descended down the hill

All i could hear was the deep scream of the man next to me, and i couldn't hold back my laugh as the boat went around the sharp turns of the path. As the boat hit the conveyor to pull us up the next hill at a deathly slow rate. I felt a hand inch closer to mine. Our pinkies were slightly rubbing together as the anticipation of the drop built up the closer we got to the top. We had finally reached the top of the hill and the boat slid down the hill swiftly. I no longer felt the stranger’s pinky rubbing against mine. Instead I felt his large and rough hand wrap on top of mine, and he began his loud screaming again. It was an interesting sight to see when i turned my head to look at him as the ride came to its end. The more I looked at him the more I couldn’t hold back my laugh. This man was tatted from the face down and the thought of him screaming on a water roller coaster was extremely funny to me. I sat there soaked in water because of the drops laughing uncontrollably. I felt eyes on me and turned to meet the gaze of my seatmate. 

“What’s so funny” he asked 

“Nothing, I was just wondering if you were screaming that loud when you got your face tattoo”

“I actually screamed louder when i got my dick tatted” he said smirking

“Oh shit really, why would you get tattooed there”

“I mean if you wanna see it all you gotta do is ask nicely” he chuckled lightly

There was an awkward silence because the tension between us was so thick. All i could do was stare at him. This man was incredibly gorgeous with amazing bone structure. 

“I’m just joking I dont have a dick tattoo, but my face tat did hurt a lot probably because I was 12 when i first got it”

“Damn, I just got my first tattoo this year” i said showing him the small butterfly on my left wrist

The ride finally came to a stop and it was time to get off. 

“You know the scary part of the ride is over now you can let go of my hand”

“Who says i’m not still scared” he says picking our hands up off the safety bar and holding my hand a little tighter.

“Well if you wanna keep holding my hand I should at least know your name”

Before he could say anything one of the workers walk towards us and tells us to get off of the ride because we’re holding up the line. I struggled to get out the boat until I felt strong hands pick me up out of the boat and pull me close.

“My name is Oscar, whats yours moreanita”

“(y/n)”

[peachesandmilktea]

Dabi x reader in squid game where they’re both players 👀 ✨

Squid Game AU - Player!Dabi x Player!Reader

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.

Squid Game AU Masterlist

TW: Dabi is one of the scary players, Mentions of Violence and Murder, just a tiny bit of blackmail, implied dubcon.

30 minutes until lights out.

The clock hangs over the room, menacing streak of numbers that keep changing, leading you towards a nightmarish night, at best, and your painful death, at worst. Everyone knows what will happen; now that they're aware killing others in the dorms bears no consequence, the most violent of the players will wait until the lights are out to unleash their murderous fury in an atrocious blood bath.

And then there's you. Defenseless. Like a rabbit locked in with a pack of wolves. As much as you can rely on your wits during the game, you hadn't expected to be forced to fight for your life even at night, when there are no strict rules hanging over the participants and keeping them from hurting or killing others. There is no being smart when you're facing the sharp end of a knife or cowering under the fists of a merciless criminal, and as the numbers keep rolling above the beds, you know you have less than a 10% survival chance.

It feels unfair.

"Why do you keep looking at the clock? You scared or something?"

You raise your eyes to the man standing next to your bed, the knife hidden in the palm of his hand clicking against the metallic bars in annoying sounds. Still, your blood freezes in your veins at the sight of him; his black hair falling in front of cerulean blue eyes, the burn scars littering his face and body, the murderous fury alight in his gaze, waiting, expectant, ready to be unleashed as soon as the countdown strikes 0.

You don't know his name, and the number on his jacket is hidden under a blood stain, almost black now that it has dried, but you remember him, and more specifically the amused smirk that keeps pulling at his lips everytime he takes other players down in the games. He's among the worst ones, you know, among the criminals and murderers who are there because they need a bit of cash to escape from justice, far from the other poor souls forced to take part in such a game simply because they've been indebted after a few financial mistakes.

He's the last person you'd want to see near you when the lights go out.

Because of course, he's right. You're terrified.

"I'm not," you lie, and he barks a laugh. The sound makes you feel small, defenseless, weak, as if you were nothing but a prey cowering while the predator roars in triumph right before devouring them whole.

"Don't be so shy, princess. Want me to protect ya?"

You blink, surprised as he looks down at you, smug smirk pulling at his mismatched lips. You wonder what he did to earn these scars, if they're just the remains of yet another of his crimes, or if they're simply a red flag that you should take into account before accepting whatever it is he's offering.

It's not as if you have a choice, anyway.

And maybe he's just mocking you, playing with your feelings, giving you a sliver of hope before taking it away, but it's all you have, so you slowly nod, and whisper:

"Please."

His fingers are rough, calloussed when they gently stroke your cheek, as if you were a kitten that he'd been dying to pet. His digits slid under your chin before raising it, forcing you to look into his eyes. Blue, beautiful, and yet there's a sparkle of something scary burning in the cerulean irises.

"Alright princess, I'll be your bodyguard for the night. And, don't worry..."

His thumb rises along your chin, lingering a few seconds on your lower lip before slightly pushing until your mouth opens and he can feel the warmth of your tongue on his skin as it slips inside.

He smiles, and you don't think you've ever seen anything so terrifying.

"We'll talk about the price in the morning."

-------

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[megpricephotography]

A beautiful but cold walk with Barney & Flynn, one afternoon at the beginning of December. These days, taking the collies out together is hard work. They’re both good boys but they have different needs & are each quite demanding of my attention. 

Barney requires some physical help on rough ground, & once he’s feeling tired. Even when he’s pottering along unaided, I have to keep a sharp eye on the old boy, to make sure he’s not about to trip, get overambitious about he’s capable of physically - or just generally overdoing things. 

At the same time, Flynn needs engaging with. I trust him 100% not to run off, or deliberately seek out major trouble, but he has to be given regular reassurance, direction & something to focus on - even if it’s just herding his ball around. Otherwise, Flynn gets bored, starts noticing stuff around us, thinking about it too much & worrying! 

Anyway - there often seems to come a point where Flynn’s beloved ball has rolled into a ditch & he’s panicking because he’s convinced it’s now lost forever, due to it being in the terrifying brambles (Flynn won’t stick his nose into spiky plants). At the same time, Barney is feeling very confident that he CAN get down in the ditch, just fine (he cannot!). So, I have to physically hold Barney back, while also scrambling into the ditch myself, to retrieve Flynn’s ball... & just as I’m staggering back out, ball in hand - that’s when I’ll notice Flynn noticing a “scary” dog coming towards us. It’s all rather hectic!! 

I generally return home feeling frazzled & like I need a lie down! Happy though; it’s definitely worth the effort & I absolutely treasure any day we manage a group outing. The dogs truly love going for walks together, they get SO excited when we all head out the door. Barney walks so much better when Flynn’s with him & takes more interest in everything. They love pottering along, side by side - like old times, just... a little slower. 

The hill where I took these pics is one of their favourite places. For years, the dogs used to race up - & then back down - this hill, barking madly at one another as they ran. Bless him, Flynn STILL tries to persuade Barney to race him up the slope! Given Barney is 16, with some neurological issues & arthritic, it doesn’t seem like a fair contest - but hey, the old boy does still consistently beat ME up to the top, so he does alright!   

[sxftkxssxs]

After reading all of those MC I'd like to request M6 or m3 with an MC that has lion like traits.👀👀 Or having the ability to turn into a dragon

ooo yes ! <3 i’ll go with lion traits for this one! if you want the dragon one you can just ask again n ill do that too :)

Mc who has lion traits

Asra

thinks it’s cute

kinda scary if you’re angry but cute!

faust gets a little scared at first but loves you just as she would normally

they both fall in love with your lion traits though

if you have a tail asra probably goes off how it moves to see how you’re feeling

smack him with it to make them stop talking

i’m not gonna say your hair probably looks like a mane but it probably gets really fluffy or poofy at times

if you have really strong and sharp teeth hes practically staring at you if you eat something way too strong for human teeth

they’re like “did you just, bite into that” and you just look at them with this confused look

if you can growl/roar and do it randomly you’ll see asra jump and faust shiver

they’re a little disappointed when he finds out purring isn’t something lions do therefore you can’t </3

but if you make the habit of huffing when proud or happy they make note of that

Julian

thinks it’s fascinating and weird at the same time

doesn’t seriously treat you any different, just lots of teasing about it

growl at him and he’ll run to the furthest corner away from you

but if you proudly huff for him he melts on site-

terrified if you actually can roar, probably asked you to as a joke n busted an eardrum when you did it

if you have really fluffy or poofy hair he offers to take care of it since he helped portia when they were little

if you have a tail hes all over it, thinking it’s cute (hes secretly terrified when it sways too fast)

malak strays away from you for a bit, knowing you could probably eat him if you tried

but eventually you two get along- in a way

julian caught you playing with malak in the sense you snap your jaw shut and malak flies out the window

if your teeth are stronger/sharper hes incredibly interested

he forgets and sees you bite into something too hard for humans and freaks for a minute

Nadia

she’s very polite with it <3

asks questions in a way that isn’t rude (cough lucio cough)

if you roar at her she gives you a stare, the stand-off an owner gives their cat basically

huffing at her makes her happy- but if it’s in public she just blushes and moves on

growling is very effective with the courtiers

if you have a tail she’s probably gonna suggest something like jewelry to make you look even more gorgeous

would absolutely help you if your hair was poofy/fluffy

dear god don’t bite into anything too tough for a human without warning

she fears your tears got hurt and quite literally rips it out of your mouth

and your standing there like 🧍🏻‍♂️ “what”

she learns that yes, you know what your teeth can handle

the courtiers are a little scared when they see that happen </3

definitely subtly shows you off !

and she finds ways to put jewelry on your ears and tail if you’re not careful (only if you let her ofc)

Muriel

probably warms up to you a little quicker-

it’s not a big difference but it’s there, and you can tell he has questions he’s not gonna ask unless you say it’s okay

if you do, he asks about your traits quietly.

the one that expects you to be stronger than normal!

still flinches when you bite into stuff and he doesn’t know because all he can hear is the crunch

gets very amused if youre more cat than you let on

we all know if i fits i sits is among all cats, so if you sit in places muriel couldn’t even imagine he’ll be very confused, might chuckle at you

inanna plays rough with both of you! she’s probably played with muriel before but includes you even if he opposes <3

he’s not the best with hair but he’ll try if you want him too!

if you have ears he makes a habit of rubbing them when he’s nervous

proudly huff at him and he gets completely flustered he almost crashes

growling or roaring at him will offend/upset him unless it’s obviously playful

Portia

she’s so excited when she first sees you !

you’re just too cute, and the flirting probably increases :)

definitely likes hearing you huff, she thinks it’s adorable <3

probably braids your hair and tail to make it easier on you

pepi thinks you're amazing, and gives you lots of snuggles and purrs at you the most

using your growl at somebody or to act as intimidation really shows her you can be dangerous if need be, and reminds her not to underestimate you.

she probably feeds into your bad habit of biting into things normal people absolutely cannot and it makes everyone flinch

Probably gets caught off guard by you a few times as karma

Portia isn't one to back down so if you aim a roar/growl at her, she absolutely gives you a remark to not sass her or just tells you to calm it

Lucio

Immediately tries to show you off

he thinks you're so cool! he can't help but want to show other's how amazing you are.

the puppies are conflicted, you're like lucio but also like a big cat, so they love you but sometimes you get into arguments

you're probably with lucio as often as he can get you to be, he likes having you close !

huffing proudly at him is his weakness, immediately turns him to mush

don't do it unless he deserves it though, it'll spoil him again

if he hears you growl/roar he's terrified, especially if you've aimed it at him

he loves to spar with you, you're stronger than other's by default. You give him a run for his money!

Morga loves you, probably more than her own son but Lucio chooses to ignore it, taking it as a good sign rather than her probably adopting you