#they’re so special tome

[happi-dreams]

the sillies the goofers the 💥💥

this is offically a hyperfixation now thank you funny bird for your essay

[jadkyll]

jade leech -

-likes to think he’s found a kindred spirit.

you both playing this little, game every time you grace the monstro lounge with your presence.

the tea game, he muses to himself one day.

sitting you down in a cicular booth facing the giant aquarium, jade would hand you a small, black leather menu and the monstro’s signature plum leather menu. both having gold dipped edged you’d use to peel them open and look at their insides.

the smaller menu, the one you would only get and your friends would crowd around you once it was in your hands, trying to peer inside at it’s secrets- was a special menu.

a secret one.

only jade and azul had the authority to give out these menus- floyd showing time and time again that he’d hand them out just to screw with the two, had his privileges revoked.

it always made jade smile when he’d set down your special meal, your friends eyes lighting up the cool, dim lighting of the resturant. their eyes hubgrily eating up every detail of the dish.

honeyed ham

seasoned sea food boil

shrimp ala- whatever.

while your two friends from heartslabyul were stuck with the ‘surf ‘n turf,’ you were out here eating like a king.

jade’s quick, gloved hands ready to slap away any sticky fingers- paws that tried eating from your plate. his plate.

jade could care less about the roasted lamb, or the fish heads packed with flavors.

your relationship blossomed from tea. the leaves that jade would expertly mix and seep into a perfect blend for each customer. his own inventions being placed on the secret menu, or promotions for a monstro event that had the customers vying for more.

jade would watch with a baited breath as you took a sip, lashes fluttering closed so you could focus on your taste buds.

a scrunched face meant you didn’t like it, lifted brows meant you were pleasantly surprised, and when you would swoosh it around your mouth like mouth wash? well, that meant jade had won.

the first few tomes you were at the lounge you would order a different tea and a light snack- sometimes a salad and other times 3 whole crabs for you and grim. jade remembers that day, when it was you 5 in a booth, very clearly.

have you heard about the joke where you, grim, and 3 crabs walked into a bar?

besides the point-

jade was watching you scan the menu, a stink on your face as you were stuck on the teas.

he remembers floyd calling you ‘weird’ when jade brought the order to the kitchen. ‘who orders tea with crab?’ his face contorted in disgust as a minnow swims around floyd. he always had a way of bending his environments to his will.

but jade just stares at the ticket, “yes,” he says, “how weird indeed”

“oi get that creepy smile off yer face. yer creep’n me out”

as usual jade seeps your tea and you drink it. he knows you. your tea.

there’s something so intimate about knowing exactly how someone likes their tea that gives jade satisfaction.

you put your trust in his hands. his cynical, conniving hands.

he could spit in your tea ya know. he’s done it before to especially annoying customers. who think they’re in control because he’s serving them. mix up with a pinch of salt, or a dash of sriracha sauce and he’s grinning ear to ear as they down it.

oh lovely.

—

but he’d never do that to you.. he hopes he doesn’t have to anyways.

it takes you 3 more visits and a menu change to finally convince azul to let you in on the monstro’s little secret.

jade, as he brags, harassed azul to put more teas on the menu. when he did add 2 more jade deemed it, ‘not good enough.’ azul buying into it (for profit) added teas to the daily specials.

“not good enough. i have an audience to apease and you are stifling my creative endeavors. i will not tolerate such a-“

“just give her the menu jade! sevens above!-“

if jade leech ever did skip, he’d be on his way over with a hop in his step and a click of his heel.

so you can obviously imagine his grin as he places the leather book in your mitts, your friends asking where theirs is- only to get ignored.

“please do not share the contents inside with other parties. this is strictly for our monstro vip’s and will be confiscated if you cannot follow our rules.” he bows in thanks as you voice your agreement.

turning his heel he can practically hear the chaos ensuing as your friends try reaching and peeking.

“tropical darljeeng, wonder how’ll it’ll work” you grin as jade jots down your order. you had told him to give you whatever he wanted to give you. ‘dealers choice’ to be more specific.

…what jade won’t ever tell anyone is that he made that tea thinking of you.

it was a black tea, infused with an opposing flavor. tropical against a woodiness

, you and him. a child of the sea and child of the land. never meant to work and mix yet has a unique addicting flavor to it.

non tea enjoyers would know that darjeeling is more… robust.

it can turn off people just from the description- tropical tea with a black tea?? are you nuts?!

yes. yes he is.

and so were you it seems

so jade is pleasantly surprised when you ask him for another cup the moment you took a sip…

he leaves his number under the tea mug, and gets a text an hour later.

how amusing

[theveryworstthing]

more goblins to make up for missing goblin week~

goblin descriptions under the cut.

first up is Easel, a goblin artist. have you ever gone into the woods and found a spooky talisman hanging from a tree? how about intricate effigies made of woodland debris that are as unsettling as they are beautiful? or maybe small clay figures tucked under tree roots that almost look alive? if so, you might have seen Easel's work. he specializes in non-intrusive environmentally friendly long term outdoor art. it's surprisingly difficult to make certain types of shrines and such without accidentally fucking with the local wildlife by stacking the wrong rocks in the wrong places and upsetting the very forest god you wish to appease, or to make something with the right spooky vibe that doesn't fall apart the second a squirrel bumps into it. that's where he comes in. He's currently commissioned by a bunch of small gods (which pisses off some of their jealous followers who consider him the the town bicycle as far as worshipers go even though he never claimed to be a monotheist) and he does quite well for himself.

next is Parisol, a sea goblin heading home from her latest tutoring job. Abyssal languages are getting really popular these days and there are few amphibious or land people who speak it fluently, so it's good money while she works on becoming a full fledged librarian. the only downside are the cults but they're more creepy dweebs than actual dangers. she hasn't met one who's gotten a hold of a real Tome yet, not that it would matter. their pronunciation is horrible.

then there’s a goblin named Moole. nothing really special about her, she’s just chillin' out with her Pets. when asked what the Pets are she replied: "Yeah, I don't know what they are. They kept showing up at midnight in the empty cages of the rescue I volunteer at sometimes and I decided to foster them to see if they were like, evil? Ended up keeping them. Total foster fail. What's that? Are they-Oh, I don't know dude, they can be mischievous i guess? They're just little guys."

and last but not least are a couple of lads born from Space Bat asking for ‘midnight snackin' feline cryptids’ and Tama asking for ‘late night trips to the nearest fast food place with a friend’. so they’re some nekomata inspired former highschool bffs reconnecting after work over food truck fare. what's better than this? just guys being dudes.

[jeannereames]

Would you say that reading popular history is a good entryway into academic history? Not necessarily as a scholar but also as an interested layperson who's interested in the subject

Reading Pop[ular] History

Sure, it is. As is historical fiction … as long as it’s well-done.

That’s the crux. Some pop history is quite good. Some…not so much. The problem for the average layperson is figuring out which is which. Who can I trust? (Near the end are some pragmatic tips to help you answer that question.)

Publishing houses want to sell books. This is different from academic presses. The latter also want to sell books but their (acceptable) profit margins are lower and they make their money via textbooks. Peer-reviewed academic works are published for status/reputation. They don’t expect those books to make money. In fact, academic monographs typically lose money—yes even at the exorbitant prices they charge. This is (one reason) your textbooks cost so much.*

By contrast, the reason (regular) publishers put out pop history IS to make money. Of course they want those books to be well-reviewed, but because it helps sales. So, they’re interested in signing authors they consider to be good writers—people who can spin an engaging (non-fiction) story. That may not be the top experts in the field.

In academia, the focus is on quality ideas, which (alas) may be conveyed in rather turgid, passive-voice prose. Sure, good scholars can also be good writers, but I fear it’s more often the exception than the rule. In Alexander studies, my mentor-advisor, Gene Borza, also happened to be a good writer. So is Beth Carney. So is Ed Anson. One of the best, however, was Peter Green. I may not always agree with his scholarship, but the man could write. He penned not only academic history, but also essays (I highly recommend both In the Shadow of the Parthenon and Classical Bearings), as well as historical fiction. His biography on Alexander is still widely read, and his MONSTER tome Alexander to Actium did what very, very few academic books do: it made money for University of Cal Press. Paul Cartledge (who also wrote a bio on ATG) is another such. I don’t think he’s as good as Peter, but he’s up there in his ability to turn a memorable phrase and get across his ideas to the average reader. It’s why he gets tapped to write books outside his field of specialization. There are a small passel of such academic pop history authors: Adrian Goldsworthy (who also wrote on ATG), James Romm (who wrote on ATG’s Successors), Robin Waterfield, Mary Beard, Michael Grant, etc. All of them are legit scholars who turn out books that aren’t necessarily in their specialization.

By specialization, I mean the field they publish in academically. We all teach classes on topics we wouldn’t dare to publish in for our peers. Pop history is closer to teaching classes, in that regard. For one thing, specializations in academic publishing get quite narrow, and pop history tends to be on broader topics. Take my own current academic book. Sure, a few of you may look forward to a work on Hephaistion (and Krateros), but the average fan of history perusing shelves for their next hit doesn’t even know who they ARE. They won’t pick up a pop history book about them (unless—maybe—the title is “sexy” enough to sell it).

When it comes to pop history, publishers fear that knowing too much about a field interferes with one’s ability to write for a non-specialist audience. That applies to textbooks too. Ergo, publishers sometimes solicit books from “specialist-adjacent” people. Carol Thomas’s Alexander the Great and His World is of that type. Carol is a specialist in Early Iron Age Greece, but she knows/is friends with a number of Macedoniasts as well as Greek archaeologists, so Blackwell invited her to write that book. She approached it with due care and humility. (I remember her preparing for it, asking Gene and others lots of questions.)

Paul Cartledge’s bio of Alexander runs along those lines. His real specialization is Sparta, but he’s written some general books on Greek history that sold well. I don’t know if he was asked to write the ATG book, but it’s made money for Random House. I don’t agree with swathes of it, but his take follows in the footsteps of Green and Bosworth, who are Macedoniasts. It’s far from a bad book, comparatively. Even so, I wouldn’t assign it as a textbook in my ATG class, precisely because I don’t agree with chunks. I’ve been using Lindsay Adams’ Alexander the Great: Legacy of a Conqueror or Brian Bosworth’s (now old) Conquest and Empire: the Reign of Alexander the Great, or Ed Anson’s Alexander the Great: Themes and Issues. Considering Hugh Bowden’s Alexander the Great: a Very Short Introduction too. Part of my choice lies with the fact those four are Macedoniasts and publish in the field, but I wouldn’t use Ian Worthington’s books on ATG, although he’s also a Macedoniast, nor Peter Green’s, nor NGL Hammond’s either. My views differ from theirs as either too negative or (Hammond) overly positive.

Back to my point. Cartledge may not be a Macedoniast but at least he’s a Greek historian and works in the right era. By contrast, Adrian Goldsworthy (Philip and Alexander) is further afield because not only is he not a Macedoniast, he’s a specialist on Rome. What of his book I’ve looked at, I found a bit dated compared to where most current scholarship stands. Yet he’s still a professional historian. Philip Freeman is similar to Goldsworthy. He’s a real scholar, if not a specialist on Alexander. He works in Classical Philology and Celtic Languages. Anthony Everitt isn’t even in Classics, but (European) visual and performing arts. Nonetheless, those authors have written books on significant ancient figures that sold well, so publishers trust they can write a selling nonfiction book.

All that helps to explain why pop history may not necessarily reflect the most recent work in the field.

Also, sometimes an author will go for the “sexy” idea because they think (not without cause) that it’ll sell better/appeal more. They’ll justify it with, “Well, some scholars did say that….” I ran into this excuse a lot when working with the Netflix people. If they wanted to go in a direction I disliked—such as Olympias’s putative involvement in Philip’s death—their reason/excuse was, “Well, the ancient sources say that and other scholars believe it.”

Five Tips to Check the Quality of Your Pop History Book

(all the below assume you don’t have a convenient specialist friend to ask…)

First, look at the publication date. History research can move quickly. If the book is more than 20 years old, it may be stale. Yet copyright date isn’t always the kiss of death; I still recommend Brian Bosworth’s 1988 Conquest and Empire on Alexander. Yes, a few things are out-of-date, but it’s generally an even-handed intro to his career, despite being 35+ years old. Nonetheless, if you know nothing about a field, older books might not be the best place to start.

Second, research the author. Who are they? Are they an academic at all? If their bio just says “historian,” they might have nothing higher than a BA/BS. Assuming they are a professional historian, do they publish academically in the subfield they’re writing about? If not, is it at least in the broader field? If not the broader field, is it adjacent? The further an author’s academic work from the subject matter, the more likely you’re getting either stale or limited research.

Third, watch out for sensationalist language in blurbs—even if the author is a specialist. For instance, the blurb for Ian Worthington’s 2004 Alexander the Great: Man and God, says:

Alexander the Great conquered territories on a superhuman scale and established an empire that stretched from Greece to India. He spread Greek culture and education throughout his empire, and was worshipped as a living god by many of his subjects. But how great is a leader responsible for the deaths on tens of thousands of people? A ruler who prefers constant warring to administering the peace? A man who believed he was a god, who murdered his friends, and recklessly put his soldiers lives at risk? Ian Worthington delves into Alexander's successes and failures, his paranoia, the murders he engineered, his megalomania, and his constant drinking. It presents a king corrupted by power and who, for his own personal ends, sacrificed the empire his father had fought to establish.

Put that puppy down! While authors don’t usually write their own book blurbs, they approve them, and if the first paragraph asks some legit (if harsh) questions, the second paragraph suggests a book with an extreme view. Depending on the subject, it might be justified, but I’m typically suspect of sensationalist history. 😉

Fourth, if you can, flip to the bibliography. How extensive is it? How recent are the entries? Does it include not just monographs (books), but also articles/book chapters? Does it include articles that aren’t in English? Possibly the author was told to submit a limited bibliography, but a thin, mostly book (no/few articles)** biblio more likely suggests the writer lacks the background needed to cover the topic well. (Some pop history books don’t even have a bibliography, which I also consider a red flag.)

Last, read a few reviews, and not on Goodreads or Amazon (although some reviews on those sites are fine). How is the book received, particularly by reviewers who might know a thing or three about the topic? If no reviews are from academics or specialists, steer clear. I don’t care of Oprah likes it. Ha.

The best pop history (in terms of historical accuracy) is rarely the most popular, in terms of sales, for the simple reason that real history is messy and complicated. The casual reader usually wants something simpler. Yet if you’re serious about learning a topic, you do want something messy and complicated! E.g., with nuance.

So yes, pop history can be well-done and a perfectly valid place for the interested-but-discerning non-specialist to begin. If I believed it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be writing on Tumblr. 😉

And who knows, maybe I’ll sit down someday to write my own pop history take on Alexander.

——————

* Color illustrations and higher-quality paper are some others causes for high costs. Paper in general is expensive. But there’s still a mark-up to cover the production-cost losses incurred by purely academic books, most of which are sold to libraries.

** In many fields of history, especially ancient history, cutting edge research appears first in ARTICLE form and may never even make it to a book. Researchers who utilize only books (monographs) are therefore missing a lot.

[thesudokukid]

Only the Exact Amount of Effort

(Personal Question, Sole Machine Connor POV)

Pairing: None

Word Count: 931

My comments: Do you remember how nice Connor was in the previous one-shot? How kind? Etc. You will need those memories to fuel you for the next ~930 words.

Original Personal Question on AO3

Machine Connor Variant on AO3

CW: Ableism, arrogance

Build Rapport with Detective Anderson, says the programming, Connor’s partner in all things.

This should not, he thinks, be especially difficult. Especially since he now knows Detective Anderson pursued two degrees at the same time. Criminal Justice and Psychology. He doesn't understand why they chose that path as opposed to the sensible path of a double major but supposes it’s possible that they confused the one for the other. It is also helpful that of the two Andersons, they are probably the closest to being his equal in terms of intelligence and knowledge.

“Detective,” he says, casual but controlled. Firm. That they might know he respects them despite their differences. “I’d like to ask you a personal question.”

The detective's mouth twists downwards into a frown. “You can ask your question. But I can't promise to answer it.”

Connor nods.

“I agree to the terms,” he accedes.

He poses his question to them in the same firm tome. Not wishing for them to confuse mere politeness with Deviant friendliness.

“Why did you choose to pursue a dual degree and not a double major? Your dedication is admirable certainly. But research shows attending university as a neurodivergent student is more difficult on average. Please explain why you decided to make your experience doubly difficult.”

Detective Anderson seems to be offended by his lack of softening language, apparently accustomed to being handled with kid gloves due to their nonthreatening appearance. He is going to ride them of that expectation if at all possible. Expectations of being treated like royalty will cause nothing but problems and hold back the investigation.

“What is this, an essay question,” Lieutenant Anderson asks.

Connor frowns, his focus much disturbed by the interruption. He turns to the man mechanically, using only the exact amount of effort required and uncaring as to whether he finds it offensive.

“You are not the person to whom I was speaking, I will ask that you make an effort to keep such comments to yourself in the future. Or at the very least wait it is until your turn to speak.”

During the pause in the conversation, the only sound is falling rain.

This is interrupted by the detective sighing in a manner that suggests displeasure. Given their (apparent) habit of professionalism, he takes it to mean they’re disappointed by their father's behavior. Perhaps their spoiled manners can be corrected after all. Especially since they are taking “the high road” and seems unwilling to express their exasperation openly. Very seemly and entirely proper. Wholly above board in every respect.

Connor will reform them so that they meet society’s standards again. He must. It would be pure injustice to do otherwise.

The Detective shrugs and takes a sip of their drink before answering. “I decided that if I was going to fail either way I might as well fail big. I preferred that over the possibility of feeling that I failed because of general incompetence on my part.”

Connor does not engage them further. Why should he? He has learned everything he needed to know.

Detective Anderson likely displaying their lack of social skills, begins speaking more quickly, “And anyway Psychology is a special interest of mine. Obsession in neurotypical terms and even that's downplaying it. Using my first special interest as an example…”

Detective Anderson takes a deep breath. Their speaking turns hurried and frantic. Desperately breathless. Seemingly eager to impart further information so as to avoid his question on this subject in the future.

“If the Devil were to show up, right here, right now and demand my soul in exchange for the ability to know everything about it, I’d take the deal immediately and walk away feeling I got the better end of it. That's why I went for a dual degree instead of a double major despite Criminal Justice and Psychology falling under the same umbrella.”

Connor has learned all the information he sought to learn so all that remains is to end the conversation. Continuing the conversation and trying any more of the Detective's patience is entirely unnecessary.

“I see. Thank you for your cooperation.”

This is followed by what seems to be a relieved sigh. He can only assume it is because they have prevented further personal questions.

“Yeah. Sure. Glad I could explain it.”

Their usage of more casual language indicates that he has successfully completed his goal of building rapport with Detective Anderson. As expected from Cyberlife’s most intelligent model to date.

Detective Anderson sniffles and hiccups as they move to sit in the Lieutenant’s personal vehicle. For approximately forty seconds the only sounds he hears are the falling of rain, Detective Anderson’s hiccups, and the sniffling of the aforementioned individual.

Detective Anderson is ill, says his second self. Connor can only agree with its opinion on the matter and bow to its greater experience.

The lieutenant glares at Connor while finishing his meal despite his doing nothing wrong. He is, it seems, jealous of Connor’s ability to understand his remaining offspring.

This conclusion is only confirmed when Lieutenant Anderson stoutly refuses to grant Connor permission to join Detective Anderson in his personal vehicle.

It matters not. He has made first-rate inroads with Detective Anderson today. He will be able to build on that good rapport as the investigation continues. Detective Anderson, with their brilliant mind, will surely be able to make their father see reason.

Connor complies with the order to wait until Lieutenant Anderson has finished his meal, unwilling to question an order from a superior.

The only virtue worth having is obedience after all.

Please, please let me know if you have a favorite line or phrase. Mine is "the sniffling of the aforementioned individual".

[patchworkgargoyle]

🩸 A Steddie Big Bang Fic 🌙

Chapter 6

story by: @patchworkgargoyle || art by: @mcdadarts || playlist to come by: @steves-strapcollection || beta'd by: @tboygareth Rating: E || Words: ~6k || CW: blood drinking, accidental to intentional voyeurism, mutual masturbation (kinda) || Full tag list on ao3! Fic title from Wolf Like Me - TV On The Radio We're getting into the spicy shit with Eddie's pov today, folks! Mind the content warnings.

The research crew lasted twenty minutes after Harrington left before they gave up studying. Dustin insisted they’d checked every single musty tome even vaguely related to werewolves already and found nothing, and sitting there going through them all again was a waste of valuable time.

What wasn’t a waste, apparently, was sitting in the Harrington’s living room and watching a recorded version of Grease, commercials and all. Not that it mattered, because the kids all talked over themselves during the whole movie anyway. Though, sometimes, Eleven (and Eddie had yet to have that name explained) stopped to sing along under her breath and it warmed Eddie’s cold, sluggish heart so much that he sang Greased Lightnin’ with her. He hoped that would save him from facing Max’s brutal wit being turned on him for being a metalhead singing to a damn musical.

These children that Steve surrounded himself with–or, from the stories Dustin had been telling, it sounded like they adopted him instead–were insanely brilliant and brave, and the way they talked about Steve now that he wasn’t around wasputting even more cracks in the walls Eddie had put up to keep Steve at a distance. Not that it’d been working well in the first place. Steve himself had smashed a hole through it when he offered Eddie his own blood (something Eddie did his level best to Not Think About), despite only knowing Eddie for a little over a week. But Dustin, Max, and El, all so much more like Eddie than Steve was in school, and yet here they were, describing how he’d stopped some kind of lost swamp creature from ruining a farmer’s field, and probably being killed for it, with nothing but his charm and a big bag of compost. What a big damn hero he was.

So, sue him if he’d been rethinking all of his Doctrine bullshit. Steve wasn’t King of Hawkins High anymore; he was grumpy on the mornings he had an early shift, he indulged Eddie’s long-winded ramblings, owned a terrifying amount of medieval weaponry, and he took care of his people. And Eddie had found himself temporarily counted amongst them. It chafed and made him feel special at the same time.

Sometimes he found himself sneaking around the gym attached to the monster hunter library while Steve–no, Harrington swung around all sorts of dangerous and spiky implements in a training regimen designed to put all his rippling muscles on very athletic display. Eddie told himself he was studying up. In the unlikely event that Harrington did turn on him, of course. It was the smart thing to do.

Eddie had zoned out thinking of said training when he heard a car door close outside. Snapped out of his daydream, Eddie's head twitched towards the noise, and when Max’s did too all the kids were on high alert.

“That’s not Steve and Robin,” Max warned.

Dustin looked at Eddie, wide-eyed, and Eddie felt his hands clench in the arm of the couch. “Maybe it’s one of your moms?” he suggested, but Max shook her head. “Fuck.”

“It’s fine, I’ll answer the door, people know me and Steve are like this,” Dustin wrapped his middle finger over his index, “so that shouldn’t give anything away. I’m here all the time!” His nonchalant shrug did nothing to conceal how his voice cracked nervously and Eddie’s confidence sank lower. “Y’know what, maybe they’re just turning around and won’t even knock–”

Three hesitant knocks echoed down the foyer and Dustin winced.

Max glared, unimpressed. “You jinxed it, moron.”

“Shut up!” he hissed. Waving his hands around like a manic conductor, Dustin made everyone sit in silence while he stared at the door. Eddie hoped this would work, just waiting the person out, but his hopes were dashed when they heard slightly more frantic rapping. “Shit. Alright. Time for Plan B. Eddie, prepare for Plan C.”

“What’s Plan C!?” Eddie whispered anxiously. He hid his face in his hands when Dustin copied Eddie’s Dracula pose from earlier. “No, no, absolutely not, Dustin. Wait, hey!”

The kid raced to the door when the knocking came back and Eddie flung himself to the floor to not risk being seen. The sound of the lock was all the warning he got before Dustin opened the door and: “Oh, um. Hi there, you’re Steve’s friend right?” Eddie knew that voice. “Is he here still?”

Eddie popped up over the couch. “Chris?”

She grinned and waved, so Eddie scrambled off the floor and ran to tug her inside, deftly avoiding the sunshine, then wrapped her in a tight hug. Seeing her was more of a relief than he’d thought. Being stuck in Steve’s house without his stuff, his friends, his uncle…

“Oh fuck, I forgot to leave a note for Wayne.”

Chrissy snort-laughed into his shirt. “He called me and I told him you were okay, but I had to make sure.” She stepped back. “You do look okay. Good, actually. Even though, uh,” she trailed off and saw Dustin standing at the closed door wiggling his eyebrows at Eddie.

He narrowed his eyes at Dustin and subtly shook his head, only getting an eye roll in return. “We’ll talk about that later, I think,” Eddie said. “In the meantime, wanna help me babysit?”

After introductions were made–and El made Chrissy giggle when she bluntly but admiringly stated, “You’re very pretty,”–and they’d all settled back in, Eddie found that Chrissy fit right in. Dustin was a little starstruck at first, which Eddie chalked up to the whole freshman nerd kid and senior cheerleader thing, but as soon as she started asking about the summer camp hat he wore he started infodumping like his life depended on it. Chrissy, used to listening to Eddie’s endless speeches, participated like a pro. The way Dustin’s grin kept growing made Eddie think she’d just earned a friend for life. Eventually Max peeled Dustin away from Chrissy with a few well-placed taunts so she and Eddie could catch up.

Chrissy’s life had been going along as normal, though she’d been keeping tabs on Jason just in case, she told Eddie. He wished that hadn’t made her wince with guilty regret, but they’d fought before over her relationship with him so badly once it nearly cost him their friendship, so he kept his opinion to himself. As far as she knew, though, Jason was acting normally.

Eddie had a little more to talk about. Gossiping about Steve with her was a relief; who knew he’d learn so much about the former King in just a few weeks of forced cohabitation?

“You know, he mumbles to himself,” Eddie said, ignoring that he was also mumbling. “He’ll mumble and when I try to talk back he gets in a little snit and says ‘I wasn’t talking to you!’” Chrissy giggled at his very poor impression of Steve’s voice. “What does he expect me to do? He asks himself questions and I answer and he gets all bitchy at me. But I can’t win, because, get this, he’ll bitch at me again when I don’t respond because he’s mumbling in the same damn tone!”

Eyes sparkling with mirth, Chrissy covered her smile with a hand, her knees tucked up to her chest on the couch. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?” she teased.

“I don’t like your tone,” Eddie said, eyes narrowed. Her smile grew wider behind her hand, and when she raised an eyebrow he folded his arms. “Don’t get any ideas, Cunningham.”

“No, nope, no ideas.”

He glared at her for a few more seconds before a song came on over the TV that jogged his memory and he pointed at the screen. “And you know what else he does? He sings. Into objects. Like his hairdryer, straight out of the movies like a weirdo!”

A loud snort caught his attention and Eddie’s gaze snapped to Max who was watching Eddie from the corner of her eyes with a smug, knowing expression. He felt like a deer in headlights suddenly, until Max rolled her eyes and went back to talking to El and Dustin.

“Despite all that, looks like you’re doing pretty well here. And you don’t seem, um, thirsty.” She whispered the last word with a curious quirk to her brow, and Eddie shrugged.

“Got it covered, the last time. You don’t need to worry about me so much, Chris, you’ve got your own stuff to handle.”

“Yeah, okay, my best friend being framed for murder isn’t something to worry about,” she said, rolling her eyes before turning sombre. “Eddie, I’m gonna worry until you’re safe. I hate that I can’t do anything about it.”

Eddie shifted in his seat. He was always uncomfortable with people worrying over him, but it’s not like she was wrong. This was serious, the worst scrape he’d ever been in and he didn’t even know why it was happening in the first place. Dragging a hand down his face, he heaved a sigh and looked down at the floor. “Sorry, Chris. You’re doing enough just by being here.”

Her mouth pursed unhappily, but before she could say anything more, car doors slammed outside once again and Max perked up.

“Steve’s home.”

Before he could react, the door flung open and Steve stood there, his eyes darting across the group. When he caught sight of Chrissy, he sagged. Robin, right behind him, looked ready to fight until she also saw that everyone was fine.

Eddie tracked Steve as he trudged up the stairs without a word. He was smeared all over with dirt, his face grim and tense, but the walkway above obscured him from view before Eddie could get a better read on him. Robin drifted into the living room and curled up into the one empty chair, almost swallowed by the plush cushions. Dustin got up and switched the TV off.

“What happened?” he asked.

“‘Nother werewolf,” Robin said quietly, and the words spread like a shockwave through all of them.

So, Dustin’s plan had worked. The killer struck again, proving that Eddie was innocent, but also that there was someone with a vendetta against werewolves. Steve must’ve had to bury the body too, and that made Eddie’s stomach drop to his feet. With a glance up, he saw Max looking more stormy than usual. She, Robin, and Steve were all in danger, then, more so than Eddie himself was, in his opinion, and now he really understood how Chrissy felt. How could he help them, stuck in this house, unable to go out in the daytime, waiting for the killer’s next move? His hands started to shake, whether it was with fear or anger he couldn’t tell, but he stuck them under his armpits and squeezed, ignoring the way his jaw tensed and his leg started to bounce.

“I’m so sorry, Robin,” Chrissy whispered, and Robin’s head snapped up like she didn’t even realise Chrissy was there, her eyes going wide.

Robin nodded, her surprise quickly eaten away by dread and she murmured a quiet, “Thanks.”

“Were there any new clues?” Dustin asked with an unusual amount of respect.

“Steve and Hopper didn’t find anything, but Jason Carver showed up and said some things. Steve could tell it better but, uh, he should rest. This was… hard on him.”

“Jason?” Chrissy frowned.

“Yeah, I dunno, something about finding the body first but Steve didn’t really wanna talk about it. I think, maybe, we should talk about it in a day or something.” Robin fidgeted with her rings, looking from Chrissy to upstairs to the floor.

Eddie’s eyes were drawn to the upper floor where he could still faintly hear Steve’s heartbeat, the occasional foot fall, like he was pacing but trying to be quiet about it. His lips pursed into a thin, worried line.

“He didn’t tell you anything?” Dustin asked.

Robin gave him an unexpectedly angry look, so Eddie jumped in. “Dustin, man, you’ve been researching all day, give it a break alright?”

“But–”

“Push it and I’ll tell Jeff to kill off your beloved little warlock next session.”

Dustin’s eyes narrowed, but Eddie’s serious tone must’ve gotten through to him because all he did was huff and cross his arms.

“Maybe we should go,” El said, looking upstairs now too.

“I can’t drive, and Eddie can’t until tonight.”

“Shouldn’t leave at all, probably,” Eddie added dourly.

“I can drive you.” Everyone turned to Chrissy. “I’ve got my mom’s station wagon. It’s no trouble.”

Eddie nudged Chrissy with his knee. “You sure you wanna handle these gremlins?” he teased.

“I’ll keep him in line,” Max smirked while Dustin pouted.

Dustin crossed his arms and tilted his head back imperiously. “Eddie said grem-lins, plural, Maxine.”

“You’re pushing it, nerd.”

Robin stood in a sudden flurry of movement. “Okay! Better get all of you gremlins home before Chrissy decides to take back her very generous offer. Come on, shoes on, chop chop!” She clapped her hands in a way that Eddie intrinsically knew came from Steve, and the kids all stood and started towards the door for their shoes.

El, though, stopped beside Eddie. “Can you thank Steve for having us over for us please?” She said it so seriously, so earnestly, that Eddie swore his heart grew two sizes.

“Of course kiddo.” He reached out and ruffled her long hair, and she giggled while leaning away.

When Chrissy got up to leave, Eddie joined her, wrapping her in another hug before she left. “Thanks for taking everyone home.”

She shrugged. “It’s something I can do, at least. And, well, maybe Robin can tell me a little more about what Steve might’ve said about Jason. I’m… I’m really worried, Eddie.”

“I know Chris. I’m sorry.” He squeezed her a little tighter. “We’ll figure it out.”

With the brats corralled, Eddie waved them off from the shade of the doorway. Robin gave him a short, awkward wave, a blush over her cheeks when Chrissy put her hand on the back of her seat to back out of the driveway, and Eddie filed that away for another time. Then he shut the door against the sunlight and returned to the now eerily silent house.

It was something he noticed the longer he stayed here. When Steve was away at work, Eddie left to his own devices, all he had to do was read the books he’d brought, maybe snoop around for some others, plunk away at his guitar and fill the silence with the old records that the Harringtons left to collect dust. But even with the music playing, the house seemed to absorb noise, like a museum. And there were barely any signs of life, except for the occasional bit of mess that Steve left around when he ran out of time in the mornings. Everything that Steve left alone: the whole dining room, entire guest rooms, even the hallways seemed to eat noise and repel clutter that showed anyone lived there, even Steve.

Eddie had, admittedly, snuck into Steve’s room once or twice. He’d left the door open, what was a curious, bored vampire expected to do? There, thankfully, was some personality, though the awful plaid wallpaper did its best to drown it out. The messed up bed that Steve couldn’t be bothered to fix up, a few clothes scattered by his hamper, some magazines–sports, mostly, and some gossip mags, to Eddie’s disappointment–piled on his nightstand. He didn’t bother poking around in any drawers, didn’t want to risk moving too much in case Steve caught on and got miffed.

What did Steve even do in this house all alone? What did he do before he had to cohabitate with Eddie, who, he would readily and sometimes proudly admit about himself, was a rather irritating guest at times. Eddie kinda hated thinking about it too hard.

But right now, the silence was disturbed, just barely. Eddie could still hear the pacing above.

He was torn. Something in Eddie wanted to check on him, but Steve hadn’t come down to even speak to the kids. He would’ve heard them leaving. Would he even want the nosy freeloader in his house knocking at his door?

His feet started to move towards the stairs before he even decided. Each stair he climbed, he tried convincing himself that he was just heading to his own room–not his room, the guest room, nothing in this place was his, jesus–but he passed the door that he should have stopped at. Kept going to the end of the hall, and the pacing stopped.

“Hey, uh, Steve?” Eddie knocked on the doorframe, even though it was completely unnecessary. “You alright in there?”

No response. Eddie could hear Steve’s heart, racing too fast to be mistaken for calm. A few seconds passed. A few more.

“Sorry,” Eddie mumbled. Turning, he was about to walk back to his room when the door opened.

“It’s fine.”

Steve had one hand on the door, the other hanging limp at his side. He was still covered in dirt; smelled like it too, fresh soil and sweat, and something distinctly off and Eddie had to fight wrinkling his nose at. It made Steve look pale, and Eddie felt that was wrong. Steve was built for the sun, for being golden, he shouldn’t look pale.

“You should shower, dude,” Eddie said, trying to a rueful smile, but the humour didn’t land. Steve just shrugged it off.

“I guess. I will.” He turned and wandered back into his room, leaving the door open, and Eddie couldn’t find a reason not to follow. It felt enough like an invitation. Walking in, he tried to make it seem like he was seeing the bedroom for the first time, but Steve scoffed.

“I know you’ve been in here, Eddie, I could smell you in here when I got home once, you don’t have to put on an act.”

Eddie stiffened. “Oh. Uh. Sorry dude.”

“Whatever. I kind of expected it.”

“That’s a lot of trust you’re placing in the resident drug dealer.”

Steve shot him an unimpressed look. “You sell weed, Eddie,” he said flatly. Wobbling his head, Eddie mouthed the words back at Steve silently, mockingly, which finally drew a tired laugh from him. It wasn’t the kind of laughter he could get after verbally tearing Frank Sinatra to shreds while they got high on the living room floor, but it was good enough. The sound didn’t last, though, fading like every other sound in this fucking house, leaving a gaping silence where they both stood awkwardly, a few scant feet between them.

Eddie shifted on his feet, stuck his hands in his pockets then took them out and folded his arms over his chest. Meanwhile, he watched Steve, who couldn’t look up from the carpet. “You probably don’t want me lingering around in your domicile, so I’ll just–”

“Are you thirsty?”

Now that, that rang out through the room. “What?”

“You spent all day around the kids, and you haven’t fed since, uh, since last time when everyone was around.” Steve finally looked up from the carpet, something burning in his eyes.

“Nah, I’m fine, pretty good actually,” Eddie stumbled out.

“You said you fed from Chrissy every few days though.”

Truth was, Eddie was hungry. It was sort of an ever-present thing, though easy to manage once he’d learned how to sate it in a way that actually satisfied him. And yeah, it had been a few days since he’d bitten Steve’s wrist, but the way Steve acted around him the next day–flighty and awkward, not sticking around in the same room too long–made Eddie less than inclined to ask for more.

“I can deal, Harrington, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Steve started walking closer. There was a determination, a heat, in his gaze that made Eddie feel a little warm and jumpy, and he started backing up. “You should be in peak condition if something happens. And I–”

Steve reached out behind Eddie and closed the door, Eddie having to back up against it, trapping them both in the horribly plaid room that Eddie couldn’t even see, because Steve was right there, in his space, so close Eddie could feel the warmth radiating from his body. Steve’s arm was still outstretched, hand pressed against the door by Eddie’s head.

“I want you to.”

Heat flashed under Eddie’s skin, his sluggish heart beating faster. “What the fuck do you mean, man?”

“I mean.” Steve ran a head through his hair, messing it up worse, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “It makes me feel good–better. The bite. And, you gotta drink, so it’s like. Win-win or whatever.”

“Win-win?” Eddie said, high and nervy, “The hell? How does it make you feel good?”

“Just, please?”

His voice sent a lance of desire and hunger through Eddie’s spine. Steve’s face looked haggard, dirt caked into every worryline, but something burned in his eyes, something needy, and he was so fucking close they were sharing breath. Eddie could see the blood coursing through his neck, the artery so close to the skin, and he must’ve stared long enough, hesitated enough, that it spurred Steve on. He deliberately pulled down the collar of his shirt and tilted his head to the side, baring his long, freckled neck to Eddie.

That desperate, unnatural hunger that had haunted Eddie since he woke up on a cold forest floor in Chrissy’s arms, ever-present and voracious, grew like arousal in Eddie’s gut. Saliva pooled under his tongue and, unbidden, his teeth began to elongate as his gaze locked onto that pulsing rush tantalisingly close to his face. The longer he looked, the faster Steve’s heart raced, the more tempting he was, the warm scent of his heightened emotions wafting into the air like wine and pulling Eddie closer.

Just a taste, he promised himself. 

Eddie let one of his hands wrap around the back of Steve’s neck, fingers threading through his soft hair, while he grabbed the hand Steve was using to hold the shirt down, pulling it further out of the way. One last glance at Steve’s face, and Eddie saw his eyes had gone heavy-lidded, his mouth dropping open just slightly when Steve caught sight of Eddie’s fangs. Cocking one eyebrow, he tilted his head further, into Eddie’s waiting palm, trusting he’d be held, and Eddie couldn’t hold himself back any longer.

He surged forward, and bit into Steve’s neck. The first gush of rich, metallic blood made Eddie groan and Steve gasp. Instinct made Eddie bite harder, deeper, his teeth sinking without resistance into flesh and muscle.  Eddie’s fingers clenched where they held Steve, pressing him flush against his own body. Steve didn’t even flinch, seeming to arch into the touch, panting. His skin flushed; Eddie could feel the flood of warmth down Steve’s neck from his face as it bloomed against Eddie’s cheek.

Feeling bold and ravenous, Eddie withdrew from Steve’s neck to manhandle him against the door instead, slamming him against it with a bang and pressing against the long line of his body before licking up the rivulets dripping from the punctures. The soft oh he drew from Steve felt as intoxicating as his blood. Clinging to Steve like he was, Eddie didn’t feel his hands move until Steve’s fingers dug into his side, keeping Eddie close.

Steve’s free hand clutched Eddie’s, the one resting on the unmarred side of his neck, twining their fingers together and squeezing, and Eddie’s breath hitched as he squeezed back. He laved the flat of his tongue over the wounds before pressing his lips around them in an open-mouthed kiss and sucked, drawing a fresh flood to the surface. The taste was fucking addictive. Something lurked in Steve’s blood that made the most base, monstrous parts of Eddie sing and snarl with greed, something heated and needy.

It clicked, when Steve’s hand roved down. Grabbed Eddie’s ass though his jeans to hold him still while Steve rocked his hips up, his hard dick brushing against Eddie’s own and making them both moan. And oh shit, Eddie was so hard it was painful.

That taste was desire, hormone-spiked blood, more potent than any drug or liquor Eddie’s ever had. The instant he placed it, he knew he wanted more. More blood, more of Steve. He met the next roll of hips with a reedy whimper, muffled against Steve’s neck as he still drank deeply of that heady taste, let Steve’s hand guide him this time, enjoying the thrill of being led. Until.

“Fuck, Eddie,” Steve groaned, low but loud in Eddie’s ear, and reality crashed down around him.

Eddie shoved himself off of Steve, ripping himself out of his grasp and pressing the back of his hand to his blood-stained mouth. Wide, panicked eyes met Steve’s, still heavy-lidded and dark but growing confused. God, what a vision he was as he leaned against the door, gasping for breath and hard in his jeans, flushed deliciously red despite being drank from like a fucking juice box. It was… it was terrifying. Fear sparked and caught in Eddie’s chest. What the fuck was he thinking!?

Brows furrowed, Steve stepped forward. “Eddie? What is it?”

“Shit.”

Eddie bolted. Dodged past Steve, whipped the door open and ran to the guest room as fast as his unnatural speed let him. He slammed the door behind himself and braced against it, scared that Steve would try to bust it down as soon as he came to his senses. And he would. There was no fucking way Eddie could get away with that.

He knew his bite did something. Chrissy had tried to do research for him, but couldn’t find much without Jason catching on, but she’d told him the bite makes prey less likely to fight back. But she’d only ever relaxed, like getting high, not–not like Steve trying to rub one out on him. Not like moaning Eddie’s name while they were so close together Eddie could still feel how it rumbled in his own chest.

Anxiously, Eddie licked his lips and only tasted Steve, wincing at how that made his cock throb against his zipper. “Shit,” he whispered shakily. A manic laugh threatened to bubble up but he swallowed it back.

That was so stupid. All of it. He should’ve realised as soon as Steve asked to be bitten again that something wasn’t normal about this and put a stop to it. Could’ve called Chrissy; she was coming by tomorrow anyway. Now he had to worry about Steve kicking him out and forcing him to walk home with the murderer still at large. The one who fucking framed him, for a reason none of them have discovered yet. He let his head fall back against the door with a hollow thud, and waited.

Minutes passed, then hours. The sun began to set, and Eddie found himself anxiously pacing around the room, packing his duffel bag then unpacking it, his clothes strewn out of it like a racoon had rifled through them all and found his wardrobe lacking. Yet through his own chaos, Eddie couldn’t stop himself from keeping an ear out for Steve.

He hadn’t left his room, not once. Sometimes he paced, and Eddie caught the occasional frustrated huff. When Steve’s habit of talking to himself kicked in, Eddie resolutely ignored it–meaning, of course, that he listened anyway but felt deeply guilty about it. But nothing he heard made any logical sense. “What did I do?” spat as a frustrated whisper was the most baffling, but Eddie refused to contemplate that it might mean anything other than Steve wondering how he’d gotten suckered into bumping clothed uglies with The Freak.

So Eddie paced and unpacked and re-packed and stewed over the countless stupid life choices he’d made to bring him to this moment until the sun was well beyond the horizon and his hair was a frizzy mess with how often he’d been digging his fingers into it. The carpet, shockingly, didn’t show a single dent with all the trudging around he’d done.

Simultaneously wiped out and still wound up, Eddie flopped onto the bed with an explosive sigh and slapped his palms over his face, grunting loudly. If Steve was debating whether he would kick Eddie out or not, he’d rather Steve get on with it and put him out of his misery before the sun came up. He didn’t want to burn to a crisp before he got to see Wayne again.

“Fuck it,” came another irritated whisper from Steve’s room. Eddie braced himself for stomping down the hall, for Steve ripping the door open, furious, demanding that Eddie leave. Instead, he heard bed springs squeak. It took little effort for him to listen closer, frowning in confusion.

Then, Eddie heard the quiet zip of jeans being undone, and shuffling. A relieved sigh.

What?

Was Steve doing what Eddie thought he was doing? There was no way. No fucking way. Sure, Eddie had been staving off the raging hormones he’d drank straight from Steve’s veins all night with little success, hoping he’d burn through them with his pacing and ignoring how he’d been half-hard for most of it. Steve had to have crashed from the high by now.

And yet. There was a hitched breath from behind the two doors separating them. Eddie swallowed, and dragged his hands down his face, letting them flop to his sides. This might be Steve’s home, but did he really have to do this now?

Eddie didn’t even want to admit what had happened, not that it helped. With Steve apparently jerking it just down the hall, though, the images rose unbidden behind Eddie’s scrunched eyelids anyway. How the blood flowed slowly over the tendon in Steve’s neck to pool in the divot between his collarbones, the dark desire in his blown-out pupils. The way Steve’s fingers dug into the meat of Eddie’s ass to pull him where Steve wanted, right against his cock.

The sound of Eddie’s name in Steve’s mouth as his lips brushed Eddie’s ear.

He swore soundlessly. Wriggling a little and hissing at the growing tightness in his pants, Eddie sent up prayers to whatever deity was listening to make him Not Horny. No thoughts of old people or relatives or complex dungeon traps could take his mind, or his hearing, off of Steve masturbating quietly just a few feet away. Didn’t he realise that Eddie could hear him? Steve wasn’t the only one with super hearing. It was rude, and terrible hosting behaviour, and–

Steve moaned softly, though it cut off like he knew he might be heard–too fucking late for that–and Eddie wanted to scream in frustration so badly he clamped his hand over his mouth. His dick throbbed, though, at the new sounds echoing his way. Wet, slick sounds.

Fuck. Swallowing down a wave of guilt, Eddie let his hand trail over the bedspread, along his hip, and cupped his dick through his jeans with a shuddery sigh. He bit his lips together to make sure no noises escaped as he squeezed himself. It’d been too long. Out of respect to his werewolf host, he’d hadn’t rubbed one out the whole time he’d been at Steve’s. Steve, apparently, had no such reservations. So…

So why not? Why the hell not. Eddie undid his fly and quietly as he could slipped his cock out, already hard, the tip flushed red. He couldn’t help remembering that he had Steve’s blood in his body now. How he’d tasted. Breathing heavily, Eddie stroked himself, thinking of the way Steve’s plush lips parted, the fire in his eyes as he begged Eddie to bite him… how big his cock felt, though it was trapped in his jeans.

The familiar weight of his own cock twitched in his hand, a spurt of precome dripping down, slicking the way. He could hear how Steve’s heart rate picked up now that he’d given up trying not to listen; now that it, too, had become familiar.

Steve made another sound. A groan, deep in his chest. Eddie’s mouth dropped open with a harsh sigh. He was so fucking turned on. The taboo of listening to Steve get off, jacking off to it, praying Steve couldn’t hear him too, made that frisson under his skin rise and burn so fast Eddie started to feel breathless, wound tight.

He stroked himself faster, hips canting up into his grip, desperate to chase the feeling as he imagined how Steve looked sprawled on his bed with his massive hand wrapped around his cock. Eddie couldn’t help wondering what it’d feel like to have Steve’s hand replace his own and that image made him clamp his mouth shut around a quiet whimper. 

Eddie heard Steve swear again, his voice going a little higher, and Eddie found himself nodding, like the other man could see him. He wanted to be seen. Wanted Steve to rush in, see him furiously pumping his dick and know exactly what got him here. Maybe he’d crowd Eddie against the bed and start to take him apart with his long fingers, grind their cocks together, fuck his way inside as they kissed all heated and dirty and chant Eddie’s name–

Steve moaned, then, quiet enough that Eddie almost missed what he said.

“Eddie.”

Shock forced a desperate whine out of Eddie’s throat before he choked it off with a gasp. Oh shit. Oh shit. He froze, could tell Steve had too. Steve heard him. He knew. He felt his heart in his throat, thundering away.

Until he heard it again. A tentative, “Eddie?” from down the hall. Confirming he’d been caught. Why didn’t Steve sound pissed?

There was the distinct click of a cap being opened. Still frozen, Eddie couldn’t believe his ears when he heard Steve start up again, jerking himself off slower now, the sounds slicker, wetter. He… he knew Eddie was listening, could easily guess why Eddie had fucking whined like that, and he was still…

God. Fuck. Oh fuck that was hot. And terrifying. How the hell was this even happening!?

Steve keened, loudly, and Eddie cursed as his hips bucked helplessly into the hand still wrapped around his aching cock. This was insane, absolutely nuts; Eddie had never even thought of something like this despite his expansive and wildly horny imagination. But he followed suit and started fucking into his fist, fast and filthy, past the point of caring that Steve could hear the bed creaking slightly with his movements.

And then Steve did it again. “Fuck, Eddie,” he moaned. Deliberately. Eddie couldn’t hold back the needy cry that rose from his throat, muffled as he bit his lip against the growing pleasure sparking along his nerves. He was gonna come, quickly, felt it barreling closer like a freight train. Steve wasn’t holding back his sounds anymore either, every gasp and groan unconcealed, stroking his cock without any fucking shame.

Eddie was shaking, panting hard, losing his rhythm. Thoughtlessly he started to beg, “Please, please please please.”

“Shit, yeah, do it, c’mon Eddie,” Steve urged, “gonna come too, oh shit!”

Fireworks exploded behind his eyes. Every muscle in Eddie’s body seized as he came, whining so fucking loud as he spilled over his fingers, cum splattering his shirt and soaking in warm and sticky, cock pulsing hard when he heard Steve cry out, a satisfied, guttural thing. Gasping for breath, Eddie went limp on the bed, his mind empty of all thought except for the way Steve moaned his name, how he sounded when he came.

There was no more movement from Steve’s room. Eddie could hear him in there, his breathing evening out along with his heartbeat, but he didn’t get up.

Was he waiting for Eddie? There was no way he’d go over there himself. He was still processing the everything that just happened. What if Steve had still been affected by the bite, and now that he’d gotten it out of his system he regretted literally jacking off with Eddie? More or less.

Eddie’s anxieties swirled through his mind until morning. Steve didn’t leave his room once.

[journey-to-the-attic]

3rd anni req 11: [NIGHTBRINGER] belphie, lucifer / deep sleep

ao3 link

note: i've mostly been doing these in the order i remember getting them so far, but i might start skipping around, since they're quite lucifer-frontloaded (not that i'm complaining). anyway - this is based on nb lesson 12, where mc's in that curse-coma, but! the twist is that ik can somehow still speak through it. since, y'know, special reaper curse

∎ ∎ ∎ ∎ ∎

“...oh, you’re here.”

Lucifer doesn’t look up as Belphie slips into the room. He stays there, sitting in a chair he’s dragged from the dining room, half-hunched over, with his forearms on his knees. Belphie gets the distinct feeling that his oldest brother hasn’t slept in the last forty-eight hours.

He glances over at the wan face of the room’s only other occupant. “...still not up?”

“Solomon said not to expect it to happen soon,” Lucifer says blankly. “We don’t know the exact nature of the curse. By all means, it should have been fatal.”

They both look at IK’s blank face. The light flickers in a way that, for a moment, makes her look as if she’s blinking awake - though Belphie doesn’t dare hope.

“Weird kid,” He mumbles, more to her than Lucifer. “You can’t do magic, but you can survive reaper curses? If you can do that, why didn’t you…”

'Why didn’t you stop us from trying to hurt you?' is what he means, but he can’t finish the question. Lucifer looks as if he knows what he was going to say, anyway.

“So where’s Solomon gone, then?” He asks after a beat, frowning. “All that talk, and he’s not even staying to look after her?”

“He said he’d look for solutions in the tomes at the cave. And that he was leaving IK in charge.”

Yeah, that’s right.

“As if h— huh?”

They both whip around. IK hasn’t moved.

Belphie glances quickly at Lucifer. “Did you hear—?”

“Yes.” His response is short and harried. “What was that?”

They both fall silent for a moment, listening hard. Nothing.

“Maybe we’re just hearing things,” Belphie says reluctantly, though he’d swear it to anyone that he just heard IK speaking, loud and clear.

“Do you think that’s likely?” Lucifer stands up, staring around the room like a sentinel, a dangerous shadow falling over his face. “It could be any manner of mimicry. If something’s gotten in—”

Wait, did you hear me?

Lucifer goes dead silent. There's no mistaking that voice - but there’s also no mistaking the fact that the speaker has not moved an inch.

After a moment, Belphie tries, “IK?”

You did! She sounds downright joyful - the words don’t quite ring like speech does in a room, but the voice in their heads is clear as day. I was so BORED.

“You can talk?” He asks, bewildered. “Wait, you’re— can’t you open your eyes?”

No. Do you think I haven’t tried? Now she sounds aggravated. I’ve been awake this whole time. I just can’t bloody move.

“Watch your language,” He says automatically.

Don’t start. I’m losing my mind here. But you can actually hear me now!

“Yes, you’ve said that already.” Lucifer sits down again, leaning forward, practically on the edge of his seat. “How much do you remember?”

Hmm. I remember you both trying to kill me.

A pause. Then Lucifer asks, voice suddenly about half as loud, “What is your situation, then?”

There’s a sort of buzz, as if IK is laughing. Not much going on. It’s like sitting in a dark room. I can hear things coming from outside, but I can’t see anything. It sucks.

Say, if you were a shark, what kind would you be?

“What?”

I think you’d be a nurse shark, Belphie, because they’re usually chill, except when they aren’t. And Lucifer would be… a blue shark, because that’s his favourite colour.

They exchange mildly bemused looks. After a moment, Lucifer says slowly, “How do you know that? I’ve never told you.”

…uh… Belphie gets the distinct feeling that IK is panicking. ...context clues. You know, clothes and stuff.

“You’ve only seen him wearing red,” He says a little suspiciously.

And what’s the opposite of red? Blue. Next question.

It’s no use trying to pry. Every time this happens - every time Belphie gets the unnerving feeling that their attendant knows them better than they even know themselves - he tries to figure out why, and IK deflects. The dedication would be impressive if it wasn’t annoying.

Who is this kid? She shows up, completely out cold, and hasn’t even been awake for an hour by the time she’s been put in charge of the Devildom’s newly-minted residents. Then Solomon, of all people, that sorcerer whose reputation long precedes him, shows up calling her his ward, even though she’s got no magic to speak of.

Though Belphie doesn’t know what else to call her knack for making them… talk. She takes to the Devildom like a duck to water - practically skips through it all while they’re still mired in their own rotten souls. They should’ve been insulted that Diavolo would think this ridiculous little thing capable of handling the seven of them, but IK does it like it’s second nature.

That’s the frustrating part. They’ll tell her near-everything, and IK tells them absolutely nothing. And it isn’t that they’re stupid, or blind, or so self-absorbed that they don’t notice when she goes quiet - when she stares off at something that isn’t there, eyes filled with some inexplicable loneliness that should be far beyond her years.

Is Satan around? IK asks. He was in here, reading, before. He couldn’t hear me then, but maybe he will now.

“Um… he went out.” Belphie sits down on the foot of the bed. “Hey. I’m… not angry with you anymore.”

Wow. Do you want an award?

“No, I—” He swallows. His tail flicks up behind him, and he seizes it for comfort before he can stop himself. “—I’m sorry. That’s what I meant.”

Oh.

Okay.

He waits for a moment. There’s no other response. He looks at Lucifer.

His brother’s face is twisted into something that might resemble remorse. The ironic part is that Ik would probably know better than he does, if only she could open her eyes to see.

“We’re doing what we can,” is all Lucifer says after a while. “You will be alright. I can promise you that.”

That’s a relief, she says, a touch ironically. So am I just stuck like this until Solomon figures something out?

Lucifer’s jaw tightens. “...I don’t know. All we can do is wait.”

Great. I’ll get right on that.

Belphie scoffs. “I don’t know how you’re making jokes right now. You could’ve died. You still might now.”

Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, says IK dryly. I know what being dead feels like. This isn't anything like it.

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

No answer. Belphie shoots an apprehensive look at Lucifer, then leans forward. “Hey. I’m talking to you.”

Silence. He doesn’t know if IK’s refusing to speak, or if the connection has broken already. He makes as if to stand up, to go find Barbatos, or Diavolo, or anyone who might know how to repair it. He can't lose it now.

He’s poured his heart out to her once before, then hadn’t even waited a day to turn on her. He doesn’t know what, but he has to do something about it, right?

But, before he can, Lucifer takes a deep breath, then abruptly stands up.

“...I have to go,” He mutters.

That, at least, gets IK to speak up again - Belphie feels a rather distracted spark of relief. Where are you going?

“Out,” He replies sharply, then pauses, and sighs. “...I need to clear my head. You’re… incomprehensible.”

That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

…hey. You’ll come back and talk to me, right? It’s really boring in here.

“Is that what you want?” He asks, softer.

It’d be nice.

Lucifer looks at IK for a moment, then leans down. Belphie doesn’t quite see what he does, but when he straightens up again, the blankest are tucked in more snugly, and IK’s hair looks a little neater than it did before.

“Then I will,” Lucifer tells her, and steps back. With one last, lingering glance, he turns on his heel, and walks out.

…

…Belphie, are you still there?

“Yeah,” He says quietly, and decides to take Lucifer’s seat. “Are you okay?”

Not the best I’ve been. Not the best week I’ve had, either.

He wishes he had some water. “That’s our fault, isn’t it?”

Sorry.

“Don’t— what are you saying sorry for? You always—” He stops himself before he can finish. “—you’re so weird.”

A pause. Then, That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

“Stop it. Just…” He drags a hand through his hair and catches a finger on his left horn. “...just let me feel bad, will you?”

…fine.

He takes a breath. “...Beel’s okay, by the way. I don’t know if you’ve heard him.”

I did. I’m really glad.

“He’s worried. We all are. Look, I—”

Don’t bother, IK interrupts. …I get it, I mean. You don’t have to explain it to me.

“I really don’t get you,” He mumbles.

Another laughing sound. I get that a lot.

“Aren’t you scared? Aren’t you angry?”

Not angry. Scared… maybe.

Doesn’t matter, though. It’ll be fine. It has to be. I have to get…

Silence for a while. He doesn't quite dare to ask - have to get... what? What is it that she's so determined to hold on for?

…hey. If you wanted to, say, make it up to me… could you hold my hand?

He blinks. “Will you be able to feel it?”

I don’t know. But it’d be a nice thought.

“...okay. Sure, I can do that.”

Belphie drags the chair closer, untucks a corner of the blanket, and closes his fingers around a cold little hand. IK's voice murmurs a quiet thank you.

If he really squints, he can fool himself into seeing a tiny smile on her face.

"You'd better wake up soon."

[sneverussape]

walpurgis

another one that's been in my drafts for a while. it's just a lil ficlet so don't expect much hehe

@greens-your-color prompt # 25: DEATH EATER (scenario 1)

summary: a group is taking over the Wizarding World's news by storm and severus is naturally curious

--

“Lily?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you heard of these? These Knights of Walpurgis?”

Lily turned to look at Severus only to give him a disdainful eyeroll. “What do you want to know about them for?”

“Well, who are they even?” Severus was more than a little curious, but he was also apprehensive.

“Nobody special. They’re just a bunch of people who believe in a load of malarkey.”

Severus frowned. That certainly wasn’t the description he expected. “Malarkey? Like what?”

This time, Lily granted him a heavy sigh from behind the heavy tome she was reading. “Honestly, Severus, you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the Prophet. They’re just a group acting grand. Rich tossers who have too much time on their hands.”

“But is it true though, that they have access to hidden magics and things?” Severus felt his fingers itch at the notion. He was already taking advanced lessons in both Potions and Transfiguration, with both Lucius and Andi’s support and none of McGonagall’s and Dumbledore’s knowledge, and he was eager to learn beyond what books held, although he was careful to never share the reason. The few people who mattered would figure it out soon enough, but he avoided voicing it out loud to avoid any pretenses of hope. He was convinced mixing modern medicine and magic was the key to managing or even completely curing his condition altogether. Very few wizards in the past had already done so but they were all at least a century old. He had vowed to himself that he would engage in the same practice to figure out a cure, or at the very least die in the attempt. But he wasn’t going to tell Lily that, of course.

He asked her instead, “Do they know things beyond the books and the stuff they teach us? Like deeper magics? Blood magic?”

“Who told you that?” Lily looked at him this time, a frown twisting her features.

“Lucius,” Severus said before he could even stop himself. When he saw Lily’s expression darken, he caught himself and backtracked. “Not that it means anything, he was just talking shop…keeping me interested throughout lessons. Oh, don't make that face, Lily!”

“You’re fourteen and not living in the Wizarding World, he shouldn’t be telling you that.” Lily had snapped her book shut and was already making her way out of the plush armchair she had settled in. “I’m telling Mum and Dad—”

“No—!” Severus blocked his sister before she could make her way out of their father’s study. This conversation certainly wasn’t going the way he wanted. He had thought it was a simple enough question. “You don’t have to tell them, Lils, c’mon, I was just curious…”

Lily had grown an odd shade of red, as though she was angry. But why? Severus didn’t understand.

“The Knights of Walpurgis,” she spat the name as though it left a bad taste on her tongue, and her voice had dropped down to a hiss, “is a dangerous group, Severus, and you shouldn’t discuss them so casually.”

This time, it was Severus’ turn to frown. He could feel his dreams crumbling to dust before his very eyes. “I thought you said they were just a bunch of tossers. Why are you making it sound like they’re more than that?”

Lily shook her head vehemently. “Forget I said it. Don’t talk about them, Sev. I mean it. Lucius should not be talking about them to you.”

“Why shouldn’t he?” Defiance surged within him; Severus had never really liked being told what to do, especially by his sisters. It just wasn’t in his nature. “He’s my tutor, it’s his job to tell me things.”

“Not about this he isn’t! You wouldn’t understand…”

He caught her insinuation immediately and felt his face grow hot. “Because I’m not at Hogwarts, you mean? Or in the Wizarding World? I’m as much a wizard as any of you lot!”

Lily looked as though she had been struck. Her eyes widened comically wide. “That’s not what I meant!” she said, although her expression said otherwise. Lily had always been a terrible liar.

“That’s what you wanted to say,” Severus said, unable to control the bitterness in his tone. “Out with it then, Lils. You probably don’t even see me as one of you, because I don’t go to school in a magical castle and learn amongst giants and goblins and pixies. I probably don't even hold a wand right in your eyes.”

This time, tears welled in Lily’s eyes, crystal against vibrant green. “That’s not true, stop it, Severus! I have never thought that, and I never will!”

His chest had grown tight and Severus felt like crying himself. He knew Lily wasn’t trying to be mean, but somehow he also couldn’t help but feel the stab of self-pity that came at his own accusation. If his own sister thought he was beneath knowing something that was apparently commonplace news in the Wizarding World, what did the other kids think? Did they think he was some sort of…some sort of second-rate freak? Did Lily?

Severus tilted his chin up as he sniffed. He looked down at Lily with what he hoped was an imperious glare as he said, “Forget I asked. I shan’t bother you about it again.”

He stood and turned to stomp out of the room, tuning out Lily calling out to him. He shouldn’t have asked her. He shouldn’t have asked any of them. He should have just asked Lucius. Lucius would know. Lucius always answered his questions. Lucius wouldn’t think he was a freak.

As he walked away, Severus unconsciously scrubbed at the tears that were gathering at the corners of his eyes with his sleeve.

[rainmustfallts4]

Rain Must Fall (Reaper’s Rewards Special) ◇ #007

⊶⊰Information & Index⊱⊷⊶⊰Ep. 1⊱⊷⊶⊰Chronological Tag⊱⊷

Reaper’s Rewards Special: ⊶⊰Latest⊱⊷ ⊶⊰From the Beginning⊱⊷ ⊶⊰All Reaper’s Rewards Posts⊱⊷

─────────────⊶⊰◇⊱⊷─────────────

Week 3 has arrived c:

Our missions for this week:

First, we have to research grafting (because the plants I need haven’t grown yet so I can’t graft them.)

Also… can we HELP you, Wolfgang?? Boy is just standing there watching us like a creep.

Our gardening is going up, which is good. We’re almost at 10! Man, if people don’t read this special, they’re gonna be so confused about where these skill ups came from lol

Here are the boots! I was only like 20 xp away from them last week lol

They’re quite neat, I like them c:

“Nice shoes.”

“Thanks, Grim.”

“Hey, hey Tiger.”

“What?”

“Why didn’t the skeleton go to the party?”

“Oh Grim, no…”

“Because he had no body to go with!” Grim slapped his knee, deep laugh filling the house.

Tiger held back a groan, resisting the urge to smack herself in the forehead.

“Get it? Because your shoes only have a skull on them.”

“Yeah… yeah, I get it, Grim…”

It was on that day that she learned Grim is a goofball.

While waiting for the newsletter, she got to work on reading the tome. I KNEW there was something special about this book c:

She got a skill up for both cooking skills. That didn’t happen the last time she read it.

It didn’t count, so she read it again and then upped her fishing.

Here’s a fun fact that literally no one knew (everyone knew.) My dumbass was just reading the book and not selecting the option to read the intro lmao I didn’t see it the first few times, probably because she KEPT PUTTING IT BACK IN THE DAMN BOOKCASE.

Finally, it worked!

That’s kind of OP, though, building 3 skills at once while reading a single book.

What the…

All she did was ask what she meant by “prepared” and Nancy got mad! I hate her. Give us our power back, bitch! We always pay on time! Seriously, who the fuck has this big of an issue with SQUIRRELS.

Yes, they are pains in the ass, but you have enough money to stay on top of it! Do a better job, damn.

I think next week we’ll have to build some cooking skill before we can complete the next one.

Also, this is what happens when you try to get fancy. They are just cupcakes, girl, calm down.

I thought I could decorate them, but maybe only the cupcake factory ones can be decorated?

We got a new bunny!

The galaxy one is still my favorite, but I think the sugar skull is my least favorite. There’s just too much going on, too many opposing colors. Makes my brain hurt lol

[sky4cherry]

any thoughts about chet and bev having a brother-sister dynamic? (specifically that older sister and her annoying little brother dynamic, bc chet just screams younger brother coded #tome)

no he’s literally definitely the youngest in his family for sure

they are genuinely so sibling coded because no one gets them as mad as each other does but god forbid anyone else tries to join in

bev knows she can use a cigarette as a weapon for a REASON

i think there’s something so special (in my own headcanons) about chet being the ignored youngest child and bev being the ignored only child :(

people for sure mistake them as either dating or being mortal enemies because they’re either hugging super tight or throwing entire drinks at each other

i think they definitely bicker a lot, because bev is pretty self assured while chet just loves to wind her up, but they know when to cut the shit and be there for each other before the other one even knows they need to be comforted

very convinced bev is super perceptive when it comes to emotions, and she spends so much time with chet (when he’s third wheeling) that the other socs just kinda shove her towards him when he’s sad and run away to leave her to deal with it, because she knows what to do!!!

even though he genuinely is insufferable (🫶) chet always spoils her when he can and sometimes brill has to step in and go “??? you’re actually making me look bad rn”

however chet is a big crier when he’s drunk and beverly doesn’t wanna deal with that so she straight up goes “you aren’t crying anymore” and he just stops, and it freaks everyone out a lot

[wuxiaphoenix]

Worldbuilding: Adventure Historians

How do people in your world keep track of the past?

Trust me, whether or not a human language has a past tense (a few don’t), people do keep track. Humans are social mammals, like wolves and vampire bats; and so we act, as behaviorists put it, “in anticipation of future reciprocation”. We expect that, for better or worse, whatever we give of our time, energy, and resources, we should eventually get back. That means we have to keep track of what we did, who we did it to, what we anticipate in return, and who didn’t give back when they were supposed to. And that, in a nutshell, means keeping track of history.

Or if you want to look at it from a cultural rather than a biological perspective, history is the ultimate gossip-fest. “Did you hear what they called Duke William before he conquered England? William the Bastard, that’s what! Why, his mother was just a tanner’s daughter....”

Yes. That is actual history.

Too often, these days, history is taught as if it’s all dusty old men digging around in even dustier old books to dredge up and drone on about facts, figures, and battles nobody cares about anymore. This is a horrible lie.

Okay, I do have to grant the whole digging around in dusty books part. (Books, papyrus, cuneiform tablets....) Also dusty newspapers. And microfiche. Baptismal and funeral records. Recordings of people’s oral history. Archaeological reports, and even digs, when you can link a site to a known historical incident. Or even just sometimes, “this site shows structures, possessions, and typical populations of this area and time”. Good historians try to find any information about the time, people, and event they’re researching, so they can gather as many accurate facts (and even some they know are in dispute) as possible.

And then they try to pull it all together into a coherent whole of, “this is what I think happened.”

Good historians tell a story.

So the fantasy trope of adventurers tracking down a loremaster who then tells them the warning tale of the ancient kingdom’s fall, and where those monsters and treasures were thought to have gone afterward? That scans.

The only thing is, instead of all those tomes on the shelves being spellbooks? They’re probably historical chronicles, records of taxes, special pleadings to be relieved of taxes due to famine/war/what have you-

(A necromancer raised the whole graveyard and we had to pacify thousands of ghosts, Boss, it was horrible-!)

-Weird court cases, and all the gossip the loremaster and his predecessors could coax out of the royals and town mayors going back the last five centuries. Oh, and all the loremaster’s notes, likely fluttering across desks and shelves like a trail of raven-scattered pages, weighted down by skulls, glass orbs, and one really neat rock.

(If it’s an SF setting the scatter may be less physical but I’m sure no less eclectic. Also there will be physical notes. Historians get paranoid about having records for the future that last!)

In your setting, someone knows history. Officially or otherwise. Which leads to all kinds of adventure hooks. Who knows where to find the hidden item, or heir? Who even knows what questions to ask?

On the other hand, maybe your main character is the historian, out to fill in a hole in the records and find out exactly what happened when that meteor hit....

[dweetwise]

[Riconti] Ashes to Ashes

Once in a blue moon, I apparently have to write pure angst. For those not familiar with archives lore, Wallace is from Ace's tome "Go for Broke". Rated T | ❗ Major character death ❗ | 3.7k words | ao3 link

It’s a cold spring day.

The sky is gray and the ground is damp, covered in leaves that have rotted from orange to brown over the winter. A few ravens perched in a nearby tree and a car horn sounding somewhere far away are the only signs of life.

The casket next to the empty grave only radiates death.

Wallace swallows thickly and straightens the shirt he didn’t have time to iron this morning. The graveyard is windy and he’s already freezing, but if there’s anything he owes the bastard it’s to be there for him this one last time.

Like he wasn’t on the night he died.

Cold stings in Wallace’s suddenly wet eyes and he blinks the feeling away. He looks at the priest to try to figure out what they’re waiting for, but she just stands there and silently watches the only guest apart from Wallace who bothered to show up.

Wallace has never seen him before today. He’s tall and blond and dressed in a full black tux, the color so dark it makes his already pale skin appear a sickly white. A black dress shirt with a black tux is probably against some kind of dress code but apparently this guy really wants to pretend to be mourning.

Wallace doesn’t even own a tux. He’s wearing a simple green jacket and patterned yellow shirt with denim blue jeans.

Because Ace loved color. Red was his favorite color but Wallace couldn’t do red, not after the gunshots and sirens and running up to the motel room only to see the slumped body and splatters along the wall and red, red, red—

Wallace clenches his trembling fists until his nails dig into his palms. He fucking told Ace that those people were bad business but Ace didn’t care, laughing it off with a flippant, “I’ve cheated death more times than you can count, buddy. Have you forgotten how lucky I am?”

Now Wallace won’t even get the chance to say, “I told you so”. He doesn’t understand why Ace was so reckless, how he’d somehow gotten the idea that he was immortal.

Wallace relaxes his fists and looks back at the other man. It’s just the two of them: Wallace tried to get a hold of Ace’s remaining relatives in Argentina but couldn't find any. He always suspected that neither Ace nor Visconti were his real names, but that’s what Wallace knew him as and he refused to dig further. Ace would have told him if he wanted him to know.

But fake names or not, their friendship was real. Wallace didn’t always think so, but then Ace showed up one day from god-knows-where, after seven years of complete radio silence, laughing and slapping Wallace’s back and asking, “Miss me?” with that stupid, cocky smirk of his.

Wallace’s chest felt full then, like something he didn’t even know was missing was slotting back into place. He didn’t care that the bastard disappeared without a word or that he took even dumber and more careless risks than before. He was just glad to have him back.

Ace claimed he’d been in Europe working a con all those years. He was just as shady as usual, not saying much because Wallace didn’t ask. But based on the spring in his step and the grin he got whenever his phone buzzed, Wallace knew he’d found something more than just a quick buck in Europe. That chick had to be real special for Ace to stick around that long and even attempt long-distance after he returned to the States.

Or that’s what Wallace thought, but there's no mystery lady standing by his grave now. She clearly didn’t give a shit about Ace: she was probably the one who put those reckless thoughts in his head in the first place, demanding he earn more money to fund a life of luxury for her. Wallace doesn't know anything about her but he still hates her.

He looks at the blond again. He’s standing ramrod straight with his chin up like rich folks so often do. He has to be a lawyer or something, because Wallace was told there was someone to arrange the funeral and take care of Ace’s assets. Or the lack thereof.

The lawyer’s face is stone cold and without any emotion. Another asshole who’s probably happy Ace died just so he could get money out of it; Wallace knows the sort. At least this one had the decency to show up to the funeral.

“What’re we waitin’ for?” Wallace asks.

“The others,” the man says in an accent Wallace can’t place. It catches him off guard: not your typical west coast lawyer, then.

“There’s no one else comin’,” Wallace says through gritted teeth, because he doesn’t want to spell out that Ace didn’t have friends.

The man finally turns to face him for the first time since they got here. His expression is just as neutral as before, but his eyes are…wrong, somehow. His gaze flirts all over the place and he almost looks lost, completely at odds with the rest of his carefully presented persona. Like a crack in the facade.

“Just a few more minutes,” the man says.

“Alright,” Wallace agrees.

The stranger turns back to stare unblinking at the casket and, not having anything else to do, Wallace keeps looking at him to try to figure him out. The tux is tailored to a T and his watch looks expensive, making Wallace’s mind immediately jump to how much he could pawn it for. Bad habit.

Wallace frowns as he notices the man’s hands are scarred and blemished. He looks so perfectly put-together otherwise but his hands are in piss-poor shape, with bitten nails and picked cuticles and scabs that have barely healed. Wallace spots gloves peeking out from his pocket and realizes he probably usually covers them. But not for this, for some reason.

The guy must be cold in nothing but the tux, but he still insists on waiting. For what?

Wallace opens his mouth to ask again, when he hears it.

Car doors slamming and the gradually growing sound of voices and footsteps on gravel. And not just those of one or two people.

Wallace turns to look. Through the nearest cemetery gates, what has to be a group of nearly thirty people are making their way over. Young and old, men and women and boys and girls, chatting, laughing and some already wiping away tears. They’re dressed in both formal and casual clothes mostly in black, but also in earth tones and pastels and neons. Most of them are carrying flowers—more flowers than Wallace has ever seen at once.

Wallace blinks. Are they here for Ace? All of them?

A few of them push their way to the front of the group. A black woman in an evening gown and a blond girl in jeans and a sweater hurry past Wallace and to the other man.

The woman puts her hand on his shoulder. “Felix,” she says, voice gentler than her fancy exterior would suggest.

The girl comes to stand in front of the man—Felix—and looks up at him. “Are you okay?”

Wallace expects him to nod or at most mumble an unenthusiastic, “I’m fine.” Instead, the rich, obnoxious dick who Wallace hated nearly on sight simply…breaks.

Wallace watches as his face twists in agony and he hunches in on himself, his body wracked with ugly sobs that sound so unfitting for a man of his caliber. The women pull him tight and he clings to them desperately. It doesn’t even seem like he’s faking the tears. Maybe his arrogance was just an act.

The girl is crying now too, her hands trembling where she’s holding onto him. Her eyeliner is already running down her cheeks and ruining her makeup. The other woman doesn’t cry, but she squeezes the man’s shoulder and murmurs quiet reassurance.

More of the group hurry over to flock around the grieving trio, all worried faces and silent tears and, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” while the blond guy just keeps crying. Wallace can barely see him through the crowd; it’s like they’re shielding him from the world and Wallace’s prying eyes alike. Wallace doesn’t think a man like him needs protecting, but he still looks away out of politeness.

The rest of the group gather around the casket. They murmur and whisper amongst each other, some offering comforting words and touches to the ones who start sniffling.

Who the hell are these people, appearing out of nowhere to cry by Ace’s grave?

“Hey, you must be Wallace,” comes a voice from behind him.

Wallace turns to find a nerdy white guy standing in front of him. He looks young and has old-fashioned glasses and an ill-fitting suit, but he stands straight and looks Wallace right in the eye, with an air of quiet confidence that catches Wallace off guard.

“Y-yeah,” Wallace stutters. Clearly, he could use some of that same confidence.

The man gives a little smile and holds out his hand. “Dwight Fairfield. It’s good to finally meet you.”

Wallace accepts the handshake and asks, “You’ve heard about me?”

Dwight huffs, like something is funny. “More than you can imagine.”

—

With all of them there, the priest starts the ceremony. It’s short and simple and Wallace is thankful, because the only deity Ace ever believed in was lady Fortuna.

Dwight gives a eulogy. Wallace doesn’t understand most of it and by the looks of it neither does the priest, but he doesn’t need to know what trials mean or why some campfire is important to get the gist of it. This is the seven years of Ace’s life Wallace knows nothing about: these are the people he met and the life he led. So many people from all over the world—France, China, Brazil, Japan—and they all came here for Ace.

Wallace is glad Felix made him wait for them.

A black girl in a floral dress arranges the flowers on the casket. There’s so many different kinds and she quietly explains what they all mean, and Wallace chokes on a sob when she tells Ace’s casket, “And Snowdrops for good luck, because I want you to have that even when yours ran out.”

A redhead with glasses places incense by the gravestone. Wallace only then notices it says Ace Visconti, and he doesn’t know what strings someone had to pull to engrave it with Ace’s chosen name and not his legal one, but he’s grateful for it.

The incense smells like warmth and fire, comforting and so different from the cold and wet around them.

Felix wordlessly slides down to his knees beside the casket and nobody seems surprised by this other than Wallace. The expensive tux will probably be ruined by mud but Felix doesn’t appear to care: like he’s happy to lower himself to Ace’s level even if it means everyone else is now looking down on them. He places his hand—scars and calluses and all—on the smooth wooden surface of the casket and sits there for several minutes, murmuring words in a language Wallace doesn’t understand.

When Felix rises, Dwight asks Wallace if he wants to say something. Wallace shakes his head: he’s not good at speeches and he didn’t bring anything fancy to leave on Ace’s grave. 

The alligator tooth he won all those years ago presses into his chest under his shirt, but Ace would be pissed if he left it on the grave. He’d say something like, “I’m already dead, what the hell do you think I’m gonna do with a gator tooth necklace? Win a ghost beauty pageant?”

Or maybe Wallace just wants something of Ace’s to hold onto.

At the priest’s encouragement, some of the men in the group help lower the casket into the grave. Wallace assumed they’d have to let the church staff do it since it was just him and Felix, but now there’s also a big bearded man and a guy with face tattoos and a loud Brit and a quiet Hispanic man who help them put Ace into the ground.

A blonde woman plays guitar and sings. The song is melancholy and her voice sounds familiar, accompanied by sniffles from several people in the group. The priest gives a few parting words after to close the ceremony.

And then they shovel.

Silence hangs heavy in the air. Just as Wallace hopes this will be quick so he can go drown his sorrows in booze, the Brit points his shovel down at the casket and says, “Just layin’ there while we do all the work, eh? Lazy wanker.”

Several people laugh, and then others join in to tell stories and share memories of Ace and Wallace does too, even if he still doesn’t know what a trial is. He tells them about his and Ace’s big win in Seattle and one of the girls, the redhead with braids, snorts and asks, “Was that the time Ace stole a uniform and pretended to be a dealer so you guys could scam the casino?”

Wallace stutters and they all look at him expectantly. Some of the kids are grinning and even Felix is smiling, though his eyes are still red from crying.

Wallace finds himself chuckling and giving them the unfiltered version of the story, now knowing they can handle the not-so-legal parts of it. His audience listens raptly and some even chime in with details Wallace didn’t know about that day—or just typical exaggerations Ace would have added to the story. He doesn’t bother correcting them.

The priest shortly leaves—probably not thrilled about them bonding over gambling and stealing—but the whole group stays to wait for them to finish shoveling. 

Even after they’re done, nobody makes a move to leave; on the contrary, they all settle into a big circle on the ground, carelessly dirtying their nice dresses and suits. Felix takes a seat next to the grave and the black woman sits down on his other side, with the rest already having fallen into place like it’s a practiced effort. Like everyone has their own place.

Wallace hesitates. He thought they were done here, but the others urge him to join them, pointing at the other side of the filled grave. Wallace does as told and realizes the grave acts like an empty spot, like Ace is still part of the group.

Before Wallace can get too sentimental, a man with a prosthetic arm thumps a big cooler in the middle of the circle and beers and sodas begin exchanging hands. An Indian woman starts dealing playing cards and several bets are made among the group before the game even starts. The singer whips out her guitar again and starts strumming an upbeat melody.

“Is this allowed?” Wallace asks even as his chest warms. “It’s a graveyard. Isn’t this against the rules or somethin’?” 

An older black man shrugs. “Loitering isn’t grounds for arrest and I think Felix is more than capable of paying a fine if someone calls the police.”

Wallace only then notices a badge peeking out from his shirt pocket. He’s a cop: Ace somehow befriended a cop, and now he’s here, honoring Ace’s memory with an illegal party like the rest of them.

“Here,” Dwight says, handing Wallace a beer.

Wallace doesn’t ask if they should be drinking and celebrating at a time like this. He just uncaps his beer and raises it along with the others once they toast and the Brit booms, “To Ace!”

Because a party is exactly what Ace would have wanted.

—

They stay there for hours; laughing, playing, drinking and telling stories. Wallace actually makes an effort to get to know this strange group, though he still doesn’t catch all of their names.

Once the sun starts setting, the Korean woman complains about the cold even though she’s wearing a fur jacket. Jane fishes out a pair of keys from her pantsuit and says they have more blankets and snacks in the car, prompting the Brazilian siblings to jump up and volunteer to retrieve them.

On the other side of the circle, the boy with dark bags under his eyes has nodded off against Cheryl’s shoulder. Meg and Jake argue over whether to start a fire now that it’s getting dark, with Meg saying it’s not the same without a real campfire and Jake claiming they’ll end up burning down the whole graveyard. Adam manages to resolve the argument by retrieving a large lantern from the car, lighting up the area with a warm yellow.

Despite everyone’s best efforts to celebrate life and not mourn death, Wallace feels the heavy shroud of grief hanging over all of them. There’s a moment of hesitation whenever a card game ends and someone has to deal the players in again, strange gaps in conversation like they all expect Ace to fill the silence, and bright eyes glazing over in sadness whenever someone looks at his grave.

But there’s also joy and camaraderie. The wind is cold and the ground they’re sitting on is dull and brown, but Wallace can finally see a few flower buds sprouting through the rotten leaves. The group has lost one of their own but they choose to remember the good and not the bad; it’s probably a kindness Ace doesn’t deserve, but Wallace’s throat still feels tight with emotion from the respect being shown.

When the next card game ends, the Chinese girl starts cursing vividly, glaring at the grave and accusing Ace of cheating. Wallace laughs, because if Ace could, he would. Even from beyond the grave.

Some of the guys gather around newly appeared bottles of vodka for a drinking contest and the Japanese woman promptly gets up to join them. Her name must be Yui, because that’s what nearly everyone starts chanting.

Yui wins, drinking the much larger men under the table with what seems like barely any effort. There’s cheers and whoops from around the circle before the singer—Kate—encourages everyone to sing a campfire song together.

Wallace doesn’t know the song so he looks around, only to notice Felix quietly fiddling with something in his hands. It’s a ring: a particularly worn and gray and ugly ring, probably made of simple steel and not even silver. Why would someone like him even have a cheap knock-off like that?

Felix’s bitten nails trail over the inside of the ring and catch on an engraving and Wallace nearly swallows his tongue. He realizes he’s seen that ring many times before: Ace throwing it in the air and catching it; Ace fiddling with it in his pocket when he was impatient; Ace wearing it on his ring finger whenever a con needed him to pretend to be married; Ace having it engraved with some corny Latin phrase because it was supposedly another of his good luck charms.

When Ace returned from Europe, he claimed to have lost the ring, and Wallace should have smelled his bullshit right then and there. Ace wasn’t sentimental about a lot of things but his lucky charms were always the exception. Wallace had helped Ace throw a motel room upside down in search of a rabbit’s foot, listened to years’ worth of complaints after he won the gator tooth from him in a bet, and painstakingly superglued an old poker chip back together after it got run over by a car and Ace just sat on the sidewalk cradling the broken pieces like he was holding an injured animal.

Wallace should have known better than to think Ace would have just lost the ring.

Felix abruptly stills and Wallace realizes he’s been caught staring. Their eyes meet and Felix curls his hand around the ring, holding it tightly against his chest.

A lot of things suddenly make sense and Wallace feels stupid for not realizing it before. Felix isn’t even wearing the ring, but he doesn't have to: marriage isn’t meant for people like Ace and Wallace, and just Felix having something so important of Ace’s and being this protective of it says more than enough.

Wallace considers pulling out the alligator tooth to rest over his shirt instead of hiding it underneath, but he doesn’t want to give off the wrong impression. Ace was like a brother to him and he’s not sure what exactly he was to Felix—friend, lover, partner, kindred spirit?—but the specifics probably don’t even matter. Whatever they were, Ace was happy with Felix.

Wallace settles on a meaningful nod to Felix, giving his approval even if it wasn’t asked for. He then quickly turns back to observe the group’s singing, but can’t help smiling to himself: looks like Ace’s special European someone made it here after all.

“I’m gonna do a handstand!” someone drunkenly announces as soon as the singing stops.

“You only have one hand, jackass!” Nea pipes up.

“Does anyone want to dance?” one of the siblings asks, swaying a little on her feet.

“What, on Ace’s grave?” Zarina asks, arching an eyebrow. “Even I’m not that glad to be rid of him.”

Laughter erupts from the group once again. A few people roll their eyes at the alcohol-fueled antics but nobody protests or shushes the progressively louder voices; not even when someone suggests a handstand contest that will most likely end in a visit to the ER.

Wallace braves another glance at Felix but he’s just smiling again. Most people probably wouldn’t welcome this kind of behavior at the funeral of someone they loved, but Felix knew Ace—all of these people did, maybe even better than Wallace. And they stuck by Ace’s side for seven years and made this horrible day into a celebration he would be proud of.

Seven years. That’s all the time it took for Ace to somehow become a man Wallace barely recognizes anymore. He did what Wallace never thought either of them capable of, what he’d have bet his entire life savings on never happening.

Ace found a family.

Wallace bows his head and chuckles, addressing the empty space on his right. “Twenty-five years of friendship and you still keep surprisin’ me.”

He thinks that, somewhere, Ace is smiling.

[youngerfrankenstein]

So, in my opinion, is Fire Emblem Engage worth getting?

In a word: No.

In 12 words: Well, maybe, if you get it cheap and only care about gameplay.

In several words:

Yeah I can’t say I’m fond of the game. Still, might as well start with the positives.

While it took me a while to figure them out, once I did I actually really liked the Emblem mechanics! It’s an interesting way to do weapon proficiencies and open up the reclassing options. Albeit the skill inheritance works far less well given the need to use SP. But they are fun and flashy and weirdly enough I kinda like the weird pseudo-cyberpunk costumes? And they have pretty darn useful special moves which I had a bad habit of not using in the same way I hoard stat ups.

The map design is overall decent? Not spectacular, but decent. And small honestly. But they did mostly play well, different without being too gimmicky. The variety of weapons you get ahold of is also nice, you get your average swords, lances, axes tomes and staves. Knives are also back again, and essentially so are fist weapons (called arts)! Though sadly no transforming classes :(

The smash mechanic is there. Sort of. Personally I never used it because the tradeoff of always going last was WAY too high for knocking an enemy back. And the break mechanic (weapon triangle advantage means the person can’t strike back) I have, mixed(?), feelings about. It has the tendency to be both super useful and super annoying. And since basically every map has the tendency to have a little of everything, planning out different teams for different maps isn’t really a thing. In fact you’re often just… stuck with who you first choose and the new guys. Given the level scaling it almost felt like you were just supposed to continually dump any but your best units for the ones you were just given, and a couple maps later you can’t really change your mind.

Part of this is because of how TERRIBLY skirmishes are implemented. They are ALWAYS a higher level than your best units and they scale. So if you were hoping to try out someone new or bring somebody who was falling behind up? You are in for frustration.

The UI is also kind of frustrating too. Even little things like the first option on the battle menus not being “Attack” or the main menu being “+”. And the controls often felt… sticky is the only way I can put it. Not physically, but like I would pick a character and see what their options were and while trying to put them back it felt like I had to hit “B” half a dozen times. Also nitpick I don’t know if you can change, but bring back the fucking movement arrow. I actually did find moving units more frustrating without it.

I would talk about the Somniel but honestly I barely used it. I think I didn’t at all until the 12th chapter or something, and once there I used the arena and that’s about it. The rest just felt like pointless minigames to waste your time and given how my dad’s reaction was to try them once, go “that was pointless” and never do them again, I think I am correct. Later in the game I tried to use a couple things to round out supports but it still took like 5 turns in between increasingly irritating skirmishes to go up ONE level so I ultimately gave up.

To be fair it’s not like I really cared about finishing the vast majority of the supports. Any problems 3H supports had? Double them. Maybe triple. They’re largely boring and ultimately I can’t say they made me care about any of the characters. Maybe I just got mostly bad ones but hey. I can’t this game will be adding to my “favourite FE characters” list. They’re mostly inoffensive and bland to mildly amusing. Favourite from this one? TIMERRA. Because I put Sigurd on her and she could one-shot one of the final boss’ health bars and could probably solo maps if I let her.

The fact the art style and designs are largely incohesive and ugly as sin does not help.

Now the big question. Is the story as bad as everyone says?

Yes. Yes it is.

Look. Simple stories with obvious plot twists CAN be done very well! This one is not. The dialogue is bad, and more than that it drags on fooooooooooooreeeeeeeeeeeeveeeeeeer. My god every scene lasts at least 5 minutes longer than it needed to. Special mention to Lumera and the Hounds’ deaths, as well as “But I wanted to be a good dragon.” It’s just not cheesy enough to be entertaining and not interesting enough to be, well, engaging.

Last note because I couldn’t think of where else to put it. But. The soundtrack is also pretty darn underwhelming. I like the Solm music! And I like a lot of the remixes! But overall it’s just. Bland.

So yeah. If you can find a cheap secondhand copy? Knock yourself out. Otherwise? Don’t bother.

[gwens-fiction]

OC Interview Tag-Game

Tagged by @writingsfromspace

Doing this one for Vasco

Are you named after anyone?

—Actually yes, after my grandfather Velasco on my father's side

When was the last time you cried?

—I am not sure, but probably recently. Some ghosts just have such tear jerkers of death tales.

Do you have kids?

—Not yet, but I think eventually Estella and I have plans for at least one some day

Do you use sarcasm a lot?

—Not as much as my brother-in-law. Sometimes I miss it and take him seriously

What's the first thing you notice about people?

—Their general vibe I get being around them….Though I wish it was whether they were living or ghost because that would make life so much easier.

What's your eye colour?

—A kind of reddish brown, but when using my magic it’ll brighten to more of a scarlet

Scary movies or happy endings?

—Happy endings all the way

Any special talents?

—I’ve discovered I’m great at accidentally creating all new undead beasts when I’m absolutely not meaning to do that

Where were you born?

—Honestly I don’t remember. I got separated from my family when I was pretty young and at this point that was nearly two centuries ago.

Do you have any pets?

—Not yet, but I am trying to talk Estella into us getting a drabbit

What sort of sports do you play?

—I have never been the sporty type

How tall are you?

—Pretty tall. Definitely taller than the average of humans…But I’m also taller compared to many other Avendiae too.

What was your favorite subject in school?

—Forbidden tomes….Mainly since those are where the dark magic spells are, and so they’re the ones that agree most with my magicris and don’t give me vertigo to perform.

What is your dream job?

—One where I can practice dark magic and show to others it’s not necessarily dangerous as it all depends on how it’s used….For instance, there is nothing dangerous about reviving my wife's dead house plants.

No pressure tagging: @sleepyowlwrites @slenders1ckn3ss @insert-meaningful-username

Blank questions under read more

Are you named after anyone?

When was the last time you cried?

Do you have kids?

Do you use sarcasm a lot?

What's the first thing you notice about people?

What's your eye colour?

Scary movies or happy endings?

Any special talents?

Where were you born?

Do you have any pets?

What sort of sports do you play?

How tall are you?

What was your favorite subject in school?

What is your dream job?

[ghostsontelevision]

i’ve been fucking around w a mob psycho 100 ageswap au. details under the cut

GENERAL PREMISE: mob & tome run a psychic business together, focus is on investigating supernatural phenomena. reigen is a shithead little kid who talked his way into becoming an employee, but they only really let him sweep the floors until he starts complaining, at which point he gets one (1) adventure per week.

MOB: because reigen wasn’t around to keep her from joining the telepathy club, she joined without protest or thought, but she and tome ended up getting along well enough that they became close friends. her egg cracked in high school, and she’s now a shy and withdrawn adult woman. doesn’t have as much of a sense of personal style, though if someone pays attention they might notice her tendency towards things with cute (& a little obnoxious) graphics. avoids using her psychic powers as much as possible because she never worked through her trauma regarding them, so every time she does use them they have a tendency to become really out of control. a pretty blunt sense of humor. she handles most of the “psychic” part of the job (so she does mind readings, future telling, and very basic exorcism), but most of this is “practice reading people”, something she still struggles with, and isn’t actually power based.

TOME: excitable and impulsive adult. worked a variety of shitty minimum wage cashier jobs until she snapped and begged mob to open the psychic business with her. her preference is field work, exploring haunted houses & investigating strange phenomena. has a strong (if occasionally incomprehensible) internet presence. a tendency to rope people into things without really asking if they’re okay with it, which she’s aware of and can occasionally feel guilty about. not a role model except for her zest for life. has never met aliens and desperately desperately wants to. still keeps in touch with the other telepathy club members, who have thrived in normal office jobs and don’t want to quit and join her shady ghost hunting business for some reason????

REIGEN: a middle schooler with a big mouth. unspeakably lonely, hates going home for some reason. has a tendency to bluff his way into situations and still miraculously bluff his way out. has a reputation in school as a loudmouth liar. very very good at reading people. wants to be special but has no clue how to accomplish this, and the concept of becoming an adult both frightens and bores him. wants to join the psychic business because he wants to become a fascinating and interesting person who people look up to, which flatters tome’s ego enough that she lets him “intern”. watches teru’s show and thinks he’s soooooo cool.

TERU: got in a fight with mob in middle school (again, mob didn’t have reigen to preach nonviolence so mob just kinda. wiped the floor with him lmao). teru holds the BIGGEST grudge about it and mob barely remembers it. nowadays, an incredibly popular tv psychic (haters will say its cgi) who is super popular with teenage girls and stay at home moms alike. because mob didn’t have her nonviolence rule, she wasn’t pushed to her breaking point and instead just one-hit KO’ed him, so he didn’t completely lose his dignity as a child, but he did take a hit to his ego and lost his middle school friends. he then rebuilt his following in high school, but also doesn’t really have friends, just lackeys.

RITSU: mob’s estranged brother. they never worked through their complexes regarding each other, so they grew apart and have barely spoken since they moved out of their parents’ place. now a successful office manager and utterly bored with life; going up the corporate ladder out of momentum if nothing else. allies with dimple out of boredom, and is actually more gung-ho about starting a cult than dimple is.

TOICHIROU: BABY TYRANT. runs salt middle school like it’s the fucking navy. aspirations of grandeur, wants to rule the world and frankly would do it tomorrow if he could. student council president, hand picked the rest of the student council (the rest of the super 5). uses psychic powers for intimidation

SERIZAWA: an anxious middle schooler who towers over everyone. his official title is “student council vice president”, his actual role is “hired muscle and toichirou’s yes-man” (yes-boy?). he considers the rest of the super 5 his friends, but doesn’t really know what friendship is. still has the umbrella. he and reigen end up becoming friends by accident, and reigen helps him break toichirou’s hold over him and basically enlists him into working for tome & mob.

DIMPLE: i’m gonna be real dimple is hard to ageswap because he’s like, 100 years old or whatever. so dimple is mostly unchanged, still running scams in an attempt to become god, which keeps not working out for him. this is his 100th attempt, and this time ritsu gets roped in - and might actually be better at running a cult than he is????

SHOU: toichirou’s HUMILIATING dad. maybe a little too lax about the whole “my son wants to rule the world” thing. also a powerful psychic, but only ever uses his powers to complete very mundane tasks, which toichirou views as a waste. unmarried, toichirou’s mom was a one-night-stand and has asked to be out of the picture, which shou is fine with. 

MOGAMI: world weary at the age of 14. former golden child. discovered he was a powerful psychic very young, and used this power to help others. however, this quickly turned into him being consistently taken advantage of, and after a particularly bad incident, he became jaded and withdrawn. has some kind of history w dimple (disrupted one of his cults a year or two ago?). also watches teru’s show and thinks he’s a fucking hack

[m0nochromem0use]

tell me everything about monster of the week it sounds interesting i want a paragraph please please please

WONDERFUL monster of the week is a powered by the apocalypse ttrpg. that means it’s based off the monster of the week genre where there’s a different monster or antagonist for every arc (think buffy, supernatural, the x files) and the driving force behind every plot is the apocalypse (which can mean a bunch of different things, but usually translates to the monsters killing a whole bunch of people). the players are various types of monster hunters who have to work together to investigate the monster or antagonist of each arc, find their weakness, and then stop them from killing a whole bunch of people. you only use 2d6, and rolling works on a success, mixed success, or fail system- 1-6 is a fail and you don’t do what you wanted to do, 7-9 is a mixed success and you do what you wanted to do but there’s consequences or you only do some of what you wanted to do, and 10+ is a success and you get to do what you wanted exactly how you wanted to, sometimes with added bonuses. there’s a whole lot more mechanical stuff i could explain but it’s a very simple system especially compared to d&d, and it’s easy to find free pdfs of the rules online which i implore you to do if it interests you because it’s super fun!! it’s a mystery focused game so there’s a lot more roleplay and investigating than combat, which is part of the reason i like it so much lol. also, similar to call of cthulhu, the game master is called the keeper!

NOW what i was talking about in that post. the different types of monster hunters are the classes of this system, called playbooks. they’re what determines the skill sets, moves, and general vibe of each player character. some are professional or experienced investigators, some are magic users with funky powers, and a couple are straight up otherworldly beings or monsters themselves! i’m sticking to the classic playbooks and the playbooks from the tome of mysteries expansion for my picks for the jrwi boys, but there are also a ton of awesome homebrew playbooks out there. you can find a huge masterlist of them by just looking up “motw playbooks”. ANYWAYS here’s the playbooks that i think the jrwi guys would pick:

charlie

the mundane: charlie seems to love a good just some guy character and that’s literally what this playbook is. they have no special powers, no expertise on monster fighting, NOTHING they are just a dude. i think he’d find that extremely entertaining and also figure out a way to make it incredibly angsty

the initiate: basically a cult member and the closest thing you can get to being a warlock in motw, which was in my head because i listened to the suckening rolled earlier today and charlie mentioned how regardless of what setting he’s in in a game he’s always looking for a way to make a pact with something LMAO. the playbook also has a lot of built in dubious morality on the side of the cult, which i think he’d have fun with

the chosen: this one feels obvious, with how often he plays characters who are chosen ones. the chosen playbook also tends to be quite tanky, at least every time i’ve seen it played/played it, which i think he’d like. plus you get to customize your own weapon and i think he’d have fun making a sword that can kill god

grizzly

the gumshoe: a classic detective type. i honestly have no proper reasoning for thinking grizzly would pick this playbook but the vibes are right for some reason. i’m picturing arthur style brooding with a noir detective vibe, a juno steel type character yknow

the divine: in terms of aesthetics, this is rumi if she was a monster of the week character. the playbook comes with a cool divine weapon that does a shit ton of damage but the move set is geared way more towards support, and i think it’d be interesting to see grizzly play a support character

bizly

the crooked: bebo plays a lot of criminals what can i say. the crooked playbook has specific backgrounds, and i think he’d have fun with the charlatan or fixer options. this is also one that you can take in a much more cartoony direction if you want which i think suits him

the wronged: the thanatos of motw playbooks babeyyyy. the wronged is all about losing someone you cared about to a specific type of monster and dedicating your life to hunting them down. again, very thanatos, but a lot of bizly characters have the theme of searching for someone they lost or attempting to make up for not being able to save those people, which is one of the most common routes i see played with the wronged

the flake: the timothy rand of motw playbooks! bebo loves his paranoid conspiracy theorists! this one i picked because i think he’d find the move set funny there is a move that rewards you for doing the opposite of what someone advises you to do, and one that’s literally called crazy eyes. very chip very rand i think he’d have fun

condi

okay condi is the hard one because he doesn’t really have a “type” the way the other three do. i honestly think that out of all of them he could take any playbook and make a really interesting and character out of it. my top picks would be the spellslinger (cool magic user) the spooky (little freak), and the searcher (little freak but without supernatural influence), but more for vibes than anything. again i think he could pull off any playbook

thank you for coming to my extended monster of the week ted talk hope you enjoyed