#was meant to be a short one

[i-love-river-song]

i love the idea of this but i thunk maybe its slightly more in character for the master to achieve immortality by doing something Intrinsically Evil. bet they stole someones lifespan by building a completely unethical machine that is banned across literally everywhere, punishable by death kind of illegal machine. but obviously the master uses it before they can punish him with death so he lives on and laughs a lot and loves being evil and hes like at some point, 'hey doc :3 look what i did' kills himself and then just gets up and the doctor is like 'noooooooo, jealousy driven maniac D: he cannot die :(((( lifelong murder attemps at each other😔'

obviously this wouldnt take away his power to regenerate, but he totally makes a massive scheme where he commits the horrors to annoy the doctor and puts the doctor in a situation where their moral decision is something like kill all humanity or kill the master, and obviously the doc is like 'my worstie has to die so that they dont kill an entire race :( and i know for sure this is their last regeneration :( bye bye worstie. luv ya'(in tears) and the master just regens and the doctors like 'have i miscounted' and the masters like 'hehe i have to make us equal :3 so i can tortur u forever :3' doctor has a breakdown the end.

I simply think the fact that the Timeless Child made it so that the Doctor is functionally immortal but that the Master presumably is still stuck with the 12 set regenerations should lead to a scene where the Master dies for the 13th time and the Doctor pours regeneration energy into them filled with uncontrollable grief, desperate loneliness, burning hatred, burning love, and an unnameable emotion at sharing this with someone else by choice for the first time so complicated and powerful that it rends them asunder

[stil-lindigo]

the fox god.

a comic about a trickster.

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creative notes:

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all my other comics

store

[clouvu]

Nothing in the world belongs to me But my love, mine, all mine

[sharkenedfangs]

— ☆ “PRETTY BOY.”

— expect the worst when whitney has a stupidly, dumb puppy love crush on his upperclassman that happens to be you and even more so, when you predictably take notice of it. but, remember— he asked for it first, didn’t he? 3.5k w.

— warnings? yeah, mildly dub-con, handjob in broad fucking daylight, somewhat exhibitionism although no one gets to see the stupid, pretty boy squirm and upperclassman male reader who’s sort of.. a bitch. y’know the drill by now, plus a younger whitney (still an adult, no worries. I’m not into that sorta shit.)

Like a clueless moth instinctually drawn towards a burning flame, he’s no goddamn different than the clingy idiots who can’t seem to automatically take a hint when given so in their direction— y’know, the ones he’d audibly snicker and scoff at due to the sheer embarrassment, disgustingly obvious puppy love streaked along their flushed faces as they mindlessly follow the other’s every move. Innocently peer up in search of their crush’s approval like some sort of brain dead dog whose sole purpose is to joyfully please their master. Hell, it’s gross, and the blonde doesn’t make it any more difficult to showcase his wrongly placed dislike for it— yeah, by the repeated gagging noises spilling forth from his open maw.

“It’s nauseating to watch, stinks up the whole room with those big, puppy, doe eyes”— he’d openly say with an absent shrug of his broad shoulders, glinting, barely visible glimpse of the metallic barbell freshly pierced upon his curved tongue proving his judgemental statements to be otherwise.. fuckin’ hypocritical, no? ‘Cuz, isn’t that same piercing found in his mouth done due to one, single, stray comment you aimlessly made by chance?

Not like your liking of things plays a grand role in whatever he does, trouble he’s immediately roped into, fuck— no, definitely not! It’s a stupid, damn coincidence is what it is, nothing more and nothing less either. No need to uselessly pry any further in the meaning of his baseless actions. Just.. happened to have it done on the same consequential day you confidently expressed your idea that he’d get one because— y’a said it’d look good on him, didn’t you? And, look here, he fuckin’ did it like some cheap mutt. Obediently parted his rosy lips for your viewing pleasure to willingly prove to your pretty eyes that he truly went along with your absently made suggestion, for real. Gleefully hung upon your every important word like his life depended on it— god, it isn’t like that, okay?

An upperclassman he’s briefly looked up to is all you are, all you’ve ever been for that matter, and he’ll punch the shitty, fuckin’ lights out of any big mouthed idiot who dares to say so otherwise. Right in the guts for spouting out complete, nonsensical bullshit, alright?

Or is it time to reluctantly admit it with a bashful blush apparent upon his contorted features— accompanied by gritting teeth stubbornly grinding together in a futile refusal of his shoddy, unwanted sentiments burrowed deep within his stuttering heart? As if he’d ever would in your presence, which he possibly can’t help himself, to childishly imitate your gestures in the withering hopes that’d you scarcely notice his thinly veiled efforts, acts filled with meaning.

Well, well.. Whitney, the supposedly cold and untouchable bully here isn’t so unique nor different from those idiotic dumbasses he’d routinely poke fun at, huh? Time to face the embarrassingly evident reality set before him, whether his gaze dares to instinctively stray away or not from the unsettling truth— ah, good thing you’re here to seamlessly guide him on the right path, ain’t that right?

As for the so-called, morally ethical path he’s hopelessly talking about.. Perhaps, that’s a plain, ol’ lie he’ll repeatedly tell himself of so considering your shared reputations at hand. More likely than not, often referred to — as much as the nickname itself has the tip of his ears prickling scarlet, noisily yelling at the fuckers who cheekily name him that — your little, dumb puppy. Fuck, he’s not! The day he, himself, Whitney of all people, wordlessly bows down to the height of someone’s heel frustratingly grinding atop of his head, is the day one can loudly claim with unbridled conviction, that he’s officially lost his goddammit mind, that’s what.

Listen, you’re the one who faithfully promised and guaranteed your unwavering protection if he stuck to your sides like some fuzzy pet, so he did the obvious choice. Specially when met with the shitty conditions this rundown town, definitely shady for that matter, is. Rather be silently stamped as the ‘sly follower’ who went along with the smartest choice presented to ‘em— your offer, by the way — than some nobody seamlessly forgotten on the dirtied streets. Least, that’s what likely replays on and on in his mind like some cheap, broken record to dumbly convince his unmoving mind of what this annoyingly persistent feeling is deep within the pit of his quivering tummy. Annoying, ain’t it?

Speakin’ of tummy, you sure are touchy-feeling with him, aren’t ya? Not that he necessarily minds nor will outwardly admit the slightest shivers that comes to grace the entirety of his figure when met with the briefest grazes of your fingertips flush against his bare skin. Likes the physical contact intimately shared between you two? Fuck no— just keeping himself on your good side in case you were to suddenly discard him like you habitually do with your other.. nameless toys, which he doesn’t possess enough fucks to bother learning their names. As long as your flickering gaze doesn’t happen to stray too far from his, he’s actually, pretty content.

‘Course, it did progressively start off with the sorta things you’d absentmindedly do with your numerous friends. Brush of his golden strands glimmering against the gleaming sunlight— shit, even acted out like some cheesy rom-com at the way his face instantly heated up, glimpse of vulnerability you seem to so easily catch on with him and fuck, does he detests it— truly does like no other. Still, lets y’a carelessly stroke your fingers throughout the mess of a hairstyle the delinquent wears, even fucking.. tenderly pushed a single, stray strand of hair behind his burning ear. Shoulders instinctively drawn up in sheer defence at the tension residing within him because, really, how do y’a expect him to relax and ease up when it’s with you?

“What? What is it? Do I have shit in my hair or somethin’?” Oh yeah, nice goin’ on that fuckin’ stupid question of his, huh? Flush adorning the length of his face— god, even down towards his neck too— immediately deepening at the crude choice of words. Might casually speak so with anyone, but when it comes to you, he’s got this instinctual urge to not come off as some try-hard desperately trying to butter you up in hopes of your returned approval of him.

“Hm? It’s nothing, I just think you’d look cute if you grew out your hair a little bit. Don’t you think?” Ah, and there you go— with your surprising compliments spoken out of the blue like that.

“Cute?? Are you seriously tryna fuck with me right now?” Defensive mechanism or whatever to draw up that blank conclusion since this is just about the first time any sort of adjective resembling that of ‘adorable’ by the way, could’ve been made to plainly describe a rowdy, unrelenting boy such as Whitney.

“What? You don’t think so? I think you’re cute as shit, Ney-ney.” That fuckin’ nickname again, god. Quit it, will ya? And, don’t try to tentatively lean closer in his personal space when calmly making that stupid remark too! Your goddamn— ah, hot breath effortlessly heating up the shell of his ear, curled lips almost, insistently pressed against his cheek. “Real fucking cute, actually. Definitely cuter than the average boy that’s for sure— prettier too, but you’ve got too much of a stick up your ass to admit that, don’t you?”

At this point, you’re practically taunting him, and he would’ve unabashedly swung his fist if it weren’t for that said person being you. Grin cracking upon your lips at the doe, wide-eyed look he’s greeting you with, seemingly unable to utter so much as a word to that uncharacteristically depraved statement, or is that your idea of a damn compliment to another guy? Shit, that’s right! Both guys is what you two are— so, his cock hidden underneath the fabric of his ripped jeans, languish legs lazily stretched out along the creaking, wooden bench, shouldn’t be stirring up with peeked interest at the mind numbing prospect of endlessly being called ‘pretty’ by you. Nor profusely encouraging the alarming amount of translucent pre-cum dizzyingly forming at the swollen tip of his cock head, crudely staining the material sheer. Give the blonde a supportive head pat while you’re at it, too. Ah.. should be saying somethin’ right about now lest he wants to appear as some bashful fool.

“I don’t—“

“Yeah, yeah. You don’t swing that way, I know. I’m not hitting on you, I’m just telling the truth as it is. Got any idea how many guys would line up just to fuck your dirty mouth? Maybe your tits too, if they’re into that sorta stuff— shit, I think they’d go for the ass too, definitely. I could make a goddamn fortune just whoring out your pretty, slutty body to the old fucks at the pub, y’know that, Whit?” Endless chattering on and on, explicit details of how some grubby old men could be here, disgustingly groping his flesh instead. Yet, that lingering glimmer within your gaze, noticeably darkening in return at the mere idea of it as your thumb comes forth to idly tap at his blazing cheek.

“But, you know.. I don’t. I won’t. Not cuz’ I’m a nice guy or anything— hah, truthfully, I’m no better than them for wanting to ruin a pretty face like yours.” You’re.. god, he can’t keep up with whatever shit you’re nonchalantly spouting, gracing solely his ears to be the one to silently listen to this.. crap, can’t really say it— fluttering in his tensed stomach from your bold admission, depraved wants just as much as he does late at nights— wanting to fuck him too.

“Honestly, do you know why I don’t use your sorry fuckin’ ass, Whitney?”

If he’s meant to attentively keep up with your words by now, then his brain has happily shut off due to the dizzying amount of semi-insults, degration and somewhat praise shot in his way. Like he’d fucking know, shit!

“See, it’s cuz’ it’s real funny to watch you trotting ‘round my side like some dumb, fucking puppy begging for its owner’s attention. I give you just a bit of praise, and your doggy tail would start wagging if you even had one. You look so goddamn stupid that it’d hurt my conscience to sell you out like this. And, I don’t like it when other fucks touch what’s mine either. I’m not running some gracious charity, am I?” To be truthful, if you tirelessly keep up with that incessant spouting, he’s bound to boil over like some screeching, burning kettle considering.. the obscene amount of scorching heat riddled across his features currently, adorning his cheeks so stupidly — and prettily too, huh— crimson red for your unwavering gaze solely. Seems like you’re liking the rare show in front of you quite a bit, aren’t you?

Stunned would’ve been one of the few lacking words remaining in the thick, daunting dictionary to scarcely describe the absolutely idiotic expression he’s nicely sporting right about now.

“Shut up.. I’m not—“ Fuck, fuck, fuck!! And, how the simple concept of verbal speech dutifully fails the bully at a time like this. Great going there, fuckin’ dumbass! Visibly seething would’ve been the most reasonable reaction in face of this, but— but— fuck! Entirety of this crap is all too quick for his sluggish mind to steadily keep up with your unpredictable actions, pathetically keening with a drawled out curse— no, more like a high-pitched whine is what it truly sounds like, once your calloused palm gingerly strips him free from his relatively loose jeans in one fell swoop.

“What the fuck’re you doin’—?? Mmph, fuck.. don’t—“ Dumb question to be asking when the self-evident answer is plainly in front of him.

Weeping cock, flushed in the cooling, outside air, naturally springing forth out of its constricting confines to audibly slap against his bare rigid tummy. Aw, now ain’t that real pretty to witness? Timid, twitching cock profusely leaking out sticky pre to messily smear along the curve of the blonde’s stomach, which you promptly do the honours for him, unabashedly too.

Always been pretty confident in your audacity to joyfully serve people, haven’t you? By god, he’s half-hated ya for meddling with others private businesses to begin with, although his throbbing cock being so smoothly tended to can say otherwise, idly disagree with his withering logic. Shakily sighing, puffing out heated huffs of air as your so— fuck.. annoyingly warm and soft hand loosely tucks ‘round his fat cock, teasingly squeezes him down at the base. Meanly drawing out more pearly globs of his dribbling pre-cum with a resounding, wet squelch!, undeniable proof of his shared arousal at the newfound situation he’s unfortunately finding himself in.

‘Unfortunately’— one says, funny that you see right through that by the mocking nature of your barking laughter, sharply ringing within his ears.

“My, who’s the exact fucking pervert here, Whit? Y’seem pretty hard to me. Actually, you’re dripping wet down there, y’know that?” No fucking shit. Ready to single-handily cum from a single, measly stroke of your fist snugly wrapped around the veiny girth of his quivering length— fucking hell. Head instinctively thrown back to which you soon wistfully take advantage of, ‘course you would, wouldn’t you? Lazily pressing hot, heated kisses along the sharp edges of his jawline that soon has the same bully, known to be so very resistant, stifling wanton moans, firmly clasping a palm over his gaping mouth in a heedless effort to remain discreet as possible. Slithering, pink tongue laving and tracing over the heated shell of his ear, ushered snickering coupled by bouts of utter filth being so brazenly whispered towards him. And your canines— ah, are not helping at all either. Grazing the bobbing curve of his throat, delicately sucking a bruising mark upon the tanned skin to pridefully admire over later. “Nnh— no, fu— ah, uuckk! N-Not there, you bastard!!”

“Not here? What’s the matter, Ney-Ney? Can’t fucking speak properly when your pretty, pink cock is being stroked off like this?” Would’ve scornfully refuted you, barked out the meanest curses that would’ve had an elderly woman shockingly clutch her pearls if given the chance, but stealing a discreet glance down to humiliatingly witness how sticky and wet his tip has gotten, messily stained your palm in a string of creamy, white pre is not.. Possessing way too much pride to do so. “Y’see, you like this— hah, fuck— you like it when I actually take what I fucking want from you and ruin you down to this cute, little, slutty mess, yeah?”

“I-It’s not like that—“ Uncharacteristically meek protest on his part. Cat got his tongue, ‘s that it?

“No? Pretty boy. Use your words, will you?” Oh, fuuuuckkin’ god. Seeing sheer darkness as his eyes reflexively roll backwards to his skull from casually being called ‘pretty’ by your lulling voice.

Have any idea the way your hushed words dizzyingly affects his fuzzy brain? Renders him alarmingly stiff like a stoned statue, wobbling knees surely bound to buckle beneath the weight of your relentless taunting, all the while being boldly jerked off in broad, fucking daylight — hidden amongst the rustling bushes of the park, mind you — still, very much in an open space where one can be so easily seen by oncoming passerbys. And even then, the absolute control you possess over him, sneakily snaking your arm ‘round his middle, relishing in the little, heated gasps hurriedly rushed out of this dirty, fucking perverted bitch of a blonde’s mouth is too way goddamn much for him to precariously withstand another tortuously long second of this shit.

Yeah, one more minute? He’s fucking busting by then.

“What’s the matter? Can’t keep up? Gon’ shoot your filthy load soon, ‘s that it?” Mild disinterest lacing your very tone with a slight hint of, what’s that..? Actual anticipation? Hah, as if he can barely discern between the mind buzzing layer of reality set upon him when coupled by your soft— so fucking warm, shit.. hand relentlessly fisting him dry, milking every thick droplet steadily trickling forth. Uncaring for the accumulated mess below you both as his hips instinctually roll forward against the rewarding palm of your curled fist, sickeningly jolts at a noticeably harsh press of your padded thumb atop his oozing tip. “Well, then.. Go ahead, I’m not stopping you, am I?”

“Cmon, pretty. Paint my hand all sticky and nice for me, yeah?”

Predictably so, as the uttered rumours had notably confirmed— how downright desperate Whitney’s always apparently been for you to the damn point that he’s automatically cumming on command like a dog patiently withholding for its owner’s words and oh, was it fucking worth the extensive wait. Stifled whimper weakly slipping out, fingers immediately latching onto the comforting feel of your forearm lazily slung around his quivering figure for proper support. No use in making a fool out of himself by clumsily buckling down to his slacked knees— not that he hasn’t already, though too late to be thinking about it twice, huh? Thick, sticky strings of his hot seed directly shot out of his pulsing cock and into the air to, as expected, pervertedly dirty your open hand in a mess of his load which is kinda.. hot, no? Fuckin’ get ahold of yourself, shit! Minus the rest having uncontrollably splattered downwards onto the ground, pitifully traced in a puddled mess of droplets.

And somehow, the barely discernible hint of a relieved breath tumbling from between his parted lips. The natural conclusion that this is it, oncoming closure bound to take its place yet still— still, damn it; Always managed to keep the dirtied blonde on the edge of his toes, haven’t you?

So, truly, it shouldn’t have came off as an unexpected shock then, how you so brazenly mumble a stuttered curse beneath your puffed sighs at the melting sight. “Ah, fuck.” Swiftly freeing your fat— well, admittedly hefty cock for his following eyes to shamelessly gawk at in turn because, y’know.. fuck, he won’t outright voice it, but the sinful glimmer in his wide gaze says it all. Innate itch, unadulterated need— god, to merely sling down to his knees, sloppily drool all over your tasty-looking cock and coat it all shiny and wet with his spit. Although, too busy admiring the rare glimpse of your contorted features strained with pure, unrestrained concentration to bother paying much attention to the repeated, distinct fapping! noises of your cock being so hurriedly stroked raw, as if in a hurry, almost.

Furrowed brows deepening, lashes fluttering in their wake as your rosy lips that he’s known time and time again to be nonchalantly formed into a grin— now, so prettily stained crimson by the harsh press of your teeth against your puffy, bottom lip. “Don’t— ugh, fucking look at me like that.” You audibly groan out in the mix of a huffed chuckle. Slightest flush delicately dusting your cheeks a pink hue, so damn pretty too. “Hah, it makes things kinda awkward, y’know?” Ah, takes less than a stretched minute for his brain to acutely process what’s hit him before given the proper chance.

Something hot— and sticky too, actually it’s pretty evident what it should’ve been if he wasn’t so goddamn brain dead within this bleary moment. Splattering amongst the already present mess you’ve both collectively made of yourself, thick ropes of sweet cum landing right upon his rumpled uniform you’ve taken a gleeful joy of permanently ruining. Judging by the cackling laughter soon drawing forth outta ya thanks to the sheer, dizzying sight of the cum-stained mess he’s forced to pitifully endure for the time being.

Look what you’ve done, god— even if you manage to be one step ahead of him, as always, in such a predicament as the delinquent merely receives a thrown jacket straight in the face. “Sorry for ruining your nice shirt of yours, I couldn’t really help myself when you looked so dumb like that. Take it as an apology, alright?” Exhaling out shakily in the chilling air suddenly alarmingly cold without your warm weight shifted against his own, too deliriously fucked out of his mind to muster up a rightful remark to your cheaply made one. Dumb, little ol’ puppy is what he is to you, no?

And perhaps then, it’s the idiotic absurdity of your actions, swiftly turning away like the encounter itself hadn’t even taken place right at this very spot. Footsteps progressively fading amongst the rhythmic crunches of fallen leaves fluttering down from the withering trees, gaze tentatively flicking downwards to where your stupidly soft, discarded jacket rests within his arms. Meaningless gesture is what it should’ve been notably perceived as, though that doesn’t really help the gradual thump! of his swaying heart noisily beating against his chest nonetheless.

That’s not— oh.

Oh.

“..Fuck.”

Yeah, being wholly swallowed by the ground beneath his feet doesn’t sound so bad now, does it?

[sakuraspoke]

SPILLWAYS // AUSTIN 2022

[cubbihue]

Did Peri tell Timmy that he was planning to become a Fairy Godparent/that he was assigned a godkid? When we first see the fam reunite in the series, Cosmo and Wanda didn't seem to know.

Timmy had known Peri might pursue becoming a godparent, because Peri had consulted with him about career tracks!! And like. Being the only one invited to Peri's college graduation tends to give Timmy more insight than his parents. Special older brother privileges.

As for being assigned a Godkid, Timmy sorta... Stumbled into it. He found out long before Peri was told he had been given an assignment!

Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]

Peri's Assignment: [Next]

[ruporas]

i’ll find you again in every universe. let us be a little more honest, let us have a little more time.

[sleepy-steve]

@steddieangstyaugust 06/08 // “Who did this?” 

wc: 2.5k // rating: T // cw: homophobic slur, hate crime, blood/wounds // tags: post-s4 but vecna dies, eddie lives, hate crime, satanic panic, wound care

divider credits @steddiecameraroll-graphics

When Eddie woke up in the hospital after days in a medically induced coma, Steve felt a relief so deep it caught him off guard.

He wasn’t sure why the feeling was so intense. Maybe because it was the closest they’d gotten to actually losing someone. Maybe it was because Steve was the one to bring him back from the edge of death. The speeding drive to the hospital spent in cold fear that Eddie might bleed out in the backseat after Steve had given CPR, pushing hard enough to hear Eddie’s ribs crack before he took in a faint wheeze of a breath and his pulse fluttered weakly beneath his skin. 

Either way, when Eddie finally blinked awake—groggy and fearful—relief washed warm and heavy over Steve, eyes filling with tears as he gripped Eddie’s hand tightly and whispered to him quiet words of welcoming, soft praises of having done so well, gentle reassurances that he was safe now. The fear in Eddie’s eyes slowly faded. He gave a small nod—his movement limited—and with it, placed his trust in Steve.

The trust between them maintained, lingered, grew into something strong with each day spent recovering, each whispered fear and secret shared between them, each lingering hand hold. Whatever it was, it was growing, and alongside it, a fear that it was turning into something Steve wouldn’t be able to stop.

Weeks after his release from the hospital, Eddie greeted him with a story of being chased off by friends of Jason Carver—uninjured, thankfully, but still shaken—and Steve felt the rush of overprotection fill his veins like adrenaline, and realised it might be something a little more than that. But no, Steve felt protective over all of his friends. This was no different. He assured himself that the hot spike of fury and need to protect his friend was normal. His reaction was equal to the danger in which his friend was currently in. The perception of Eddie Munson in Hawkins was still… in poor favour. Despite him being cleared of all charges formally, the town had difficulty letting go of this idea that Eddie was a dangerous individual. These were people that tried to kill Eddie, it only made sense that Steve would feel this way. This was just a normal, close friendship. Until it wasn’t.

Steve’s driving toward the trailer park, warm afternoon air flowing through the open windows, a new mixtape from Eddie blasting from his speakers. Tapping the wheel along with the music, Steve takes the turn down towards the Munson trailer, slowing as he sees something that doesn’t quite fit with the landscape. Bright red. Steve’s heart drops. He turns down the music, slowing his car to a crawl. Once close enough, he parks and throws himself out of the beemer, taking in the awful sight before him.

FREAK. DEVIL WORSHIPPER. FAG. SATANIST. REPENT. All scrawled in blood red paint across the front of the trailer. Alongside the repeated words, symbols—upside down crucifixes, pentagrams, crudely drawn demon-like figures—filling up any available space. Steve feels his throat close up, immediately rushing to the door and trying not to knock too aggressively.

“Eddie? Are you in there?” He calls softly. “It’s Steve. C’mon, man, open up.”

Steve listens intently, until he hears shuffling behind the door, the sound of what could be something shifting across the carpet. Finally, the door cracks open.

“Eddie…” Steve says with relief, but the door doesn’t open further. “Are you okay? Jesus, what happened?”

Steve can only see a sliver of Eddie’s face, one eye wide and shining with fear. “Are—are you alone?” Eddie croaks. Hearing the way Eddie spoke makes his throat tighten.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s just me, man.” Steve keeps his tone as gentle as possible. “Can I come in?”

Eddie only looks at him, seemingly thinking hard, before turning quickly but leaving the door open. Steve steps inside quickly, and the door snaps shut behind him, bolts locking and chain pulled across immediately. Eddie stays facing the door, and Steve sees that his hair is half tied up, and one hand is gripping tightly at his side, fingers digging into his ribs. Despite wanting to ask more questions, Steve keeps quiet, feeling like Eddie might freak out or bolt if he speaks. 

After a minute that feels like an hour, Eddie finally turns.

Steve can’t help the sharp intake of breath, the way his blood turns to ice, the flare of his nostrils in fury at what he sees. Eddie’s left eye—the one hidden by the door before—is black and swollen almost shut. The purpling extends down his cheekbone. A gash at the top of his head is open, blood seemingly hastily wiped away, but still sticky at Eddie’s hairline and down the side of his face. His lower lip is busted near the corner, bright red and swollen, still dripping blood that Eddie unconsciously licks away. With his hair partially pulled back, Steve spots purple and red on Eddie’s throat. He looks to where Eddie still holds tight at his side, and sees how his knuckles too are red and bloodied. 

When he finally looks back up to Eddie’s face, he sees a look of shame. Steve feels a storm brew in his chest. He reaches out, leaving distance just in case. Eddie flinches, instinctively, before stepping forward into Steve’s space. He lets Steve trail his fingers, softer than he would have expected, along his jaw, gently shifting his head around to look at his injuries. Allows Steve to move a lock of hair that didn’t make it into the hairband, carefully avoiding the open wounds. His warm palm settles on the side of Eddie’s face that was—for the most part—uninjured. The gesture so soft, so kind, a tear spills from Eddie’s good eye.

Steve holds steady, keeps his voice low. “Who did this?”

“Steve…” Eddie whispers. “I… I tried—tried to—” He can’t finish the sentence, words catching in his throat, breath speeding up as more tears run down his face, pooling against Steve’s hand.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, soft and reassuring. “I’m here, it’s okay. I got you.”

Eddie shuffles forward, close enough that Steve can feel his short panicked breaths. Steve slowly opens his arms, hesitating, before Eddie lets himself lean against his chest. Lowering his arms with care, Steve places his hands on Eddie’s back like he’s handling glass, feeling the sharp gasp and the tremble in the other man’s body. Eddie sags against him, curled so his face is against Steve’s shoulder. He feels his heart pound with rage at whoever did this. He feels something else as well, a shame in himself for not having been there, for not protecting Eddie. If he’d gotten there earlier, could this have been avoided?

Steve pulls away, despite wanting to do the opposite—wanting to hold Eddie so tight, envelop him in care, to let him know that he’s safe—and looks over him again, taking stock of the wounds. “Can I help?”

Eddie nods, breath still shaky but much calmer, and allows Steve to guide him back to his own kitchen. Steve grabs a chair, motioning for Eddie to sit, and turns to where a first-aid kit is already opened on the counter. Alongside it, a towel with blood on it and a bottle of saline.

“Did you try to clean yourself up?”

“Wouldn’t—” Eddie hisses as he sits. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Steve looks back at him with concern.

“C’mon, man,” Eddie says with a wince. “You know what it was like for me.”

Guilt sits in Steve’s gut. He did know. Watched, more than once, when Eddie would end up surrounded by jocks—outnumbered—and one would deliver resounding punches to his face and stomach. Eddie would only ever spur them on. “Come on! That all you got? Give me another. You know how much I like it.” Words wet with blood, teeth shining with it. Eyes lit up despite the bruises forming around them. He’d get under their skin, letting them leave with disgust.

Steve doesn’t respond, instead turns back to the counter, grabbing a roll of paper towels and the saline. Holding the damp square up, Steve waits, and Eddie gives him another nod. Steve gets to work, wiping away the sticky blood around the head wound. Eddie hisses between his teeth when Steve moves over it, trying his best to be gentle. “Sorry,” Steve whispers.

“S’okay,” Eddie rasps.

The silence settles between them for a while, Eddie’s breathing finally slows to a normal, if slightly shallow, rate. Steve wants to ask again, to know who did this, but waits. Focuses on the job at hand, cleaning the remaining blood away from Eddie’s lip.

With all the blood cleaned up, Steve turns to the freezer and pulls out a bag of peas, wrapping them in a kitchen towel. He hands it to Eddie, who gingerly holds it up to his black eye, sucking in a sharp breath at the contact. The bruising on Eddie’s hands looks bad too, but they’ll have to come back to that. Looking over the first-aid kit, Steve pulls out some antiseptic wipes and adhesive bandages.

“These are gonna sting a bit,” Steve says, ripping open the wipes.

Eddie huffs a laugh. “Least of my concerns.”

Steve gives him a half smile. At least he was joking around a bit. He starts to clean around the head wound, noticing how Eddie’s good eye squeezes shut when the alcohol makes contact, and tries to move quickly. “It’s not too deep, shouldn’t need stitches.”

“How d’you know?” Eddie mutters, still wincing at the sting.

“Had my fair share of head wounds,” Steve says, still focused on the wipe in his hand.

Eddie doesn’t respond, just looks up at him with his uncovered eye. Steve moves down to Eddie’s lower lip, softly swiping at the cut, noticing the blood still in his mouth, the purple bruising that extends down to his jaw.

“Are you gonna tell me?” Steve turns to the counter, grabbing the butterfly stitch bandages. “Who did this to you?”

“Does it matter?” Eddie asks. “What’re you gonna do? Go beat them up, defend my honour?” His voice is heavy with sarcasm.

Steve gives him a quick look, before peeling the bandages off the wrapping. “I might.” 

Letting Steve turn his head slightly, careful not to touch any of the wounds, Eddie keeps his good eye locked on him. Seemingly assessing him. “Just the same bullshit…” His voice is thick, his eye glassy with fresh tears. “They still think I did it. That I killed Chrissy. Nothing is ever gonna change that for them.” Eddie inhales shakily. “If not that, they’ll find some other reason to hate me. Easy target.”

“We’ll find a way,” Steve says. “Even if it means. I dunno. Even if we have to leave.”

Steve holds the cut closed, and begins applying the strips, tongue between his teeth as he concentrates, ensuring they don’t get stuck in Eddie’s hair. Eddie is watching him carefully again. “You’d do that?” Eddie asks, voice soft. “Leave—with me?”

Lowering himself to Eddie’s eyeline, he places a hand on his shoulder. “Isn’t much I wouldn’t do for you, Eddie.”

It’s far more earnest, far more vulnerable, than either of them have been with each other before. Eddie doesn’t say anything, just frowns slightly, like he’s trying to figure something out. They sit in silence as Steve works, only the sounds of their breathing and the unpeeling of more bandages in the room. All of it feels so… intimate, Eddie allowing Steve to take care of him, to clean his wounds and patch him up. They’d been close since Eddie woke up in the hospital, but not like this.

“Alright, that should do it,” Steve says, scrunching the bandage wrapping. He then looks to Eddie’s hands. “Lemme see.”

Eddie holds out his free hand, and Steve takes it in his, turning it as he assesses the damage. He flattens Eddie’s fingers, then softly curls them, handling him like something precious and breakable. “Any pain?” 

Eddie shakes his head in response. Reaching over for a new antiseptic wipe, Steve keeps Eddie’s hand in his, reluctant to let it go. He cleans the small cuts—splits from punching, if Steve’s own experience told him anything. He applies a small band-aid, before motioning for Eddie to swap, taking his other hand away from the bag of peas. Repeating the process, stretching and curling Eddie’s fingers and cleaning the wounds, Steve tries to ignore the intrusive thought that tells him they’re holding hands. Now wasn’t the time for that.

Feeling Eddie’s eyes on him, Steve finally releases his hand. Clears his throat. “Can’t do much about this.” Steve gestures to Eddie’s lip, wishing instead he could let his thumb trail along the side of it. “Any others? You were holding your side before.”

Setting the bag of peas aside, Eddie moves with effort to pull up his shirt. Steve kneels down immediately. Where Eddie’s barely healed scars are still red around his ribs, deep purple bruises paint his chest and waist. Extending a shaking hand, Steve stops himself from touching, instead hovering over the skin. His breath shakes as he tries to remain calm. Whatever was keeping his emotions held back is broken at the sight.

“Eddie…” Steve looks up at him, pain in his eyes.

Dropping his shirt back down, Eddie looks away. “It’s fine. Nothing’s broken.”

“Nothing about this is fine, Eddie,” Steve tries to catch his eye again. “We already almost lost you once. I don’t think I could handle it if…” Still kneeling, Steve cautiously takes both of Eddie’s hands in his. “I can’t lose you,” he says, voice breaking.

Eddie frowns again, this time with something like pain in his expression. “I’m here, Steve. I’m okay. Thanks to you.”

Steve nods, tears welling and ready to spill over. “I just… I wish I could protect you better.”

Eddie leans closer, pain momentarily forgotten. “You’ve done more than enough,” he breathes, and their faces are so close together. 

Glancing down at Eddie’s lips, and back up to his eye, he feels himself leaning in. He stops, lips parted, waiting. Eddie closes the gap, pressing his lips tenderly to Steve’s. A shudder runs through his body, and Steve kisses back as gently as he possibly can, feeling heat where Eddie’s lip is split and bruised. One hand trails up to cup Eddie’s jaw, barely brushing against the stubble growing there. Eddie rests a hand on Steve’s chest, feeling the way his heart races. 

They part, Steve still kneeling on the ground and looking up at Eddie. He leans in for another gentle kiss, twice more, hopefully conveying all he wishes he had the words for. As Eddie looks at him, smile pulling at the cut on his lip, Steve makes himself a promise.

For the rest of his life, he’ll do anything to keep Eddie safe.

[mxtxfanatic]

The return of Wei Wuxian after his 3-month disappearance is meant to evoke this terror and sense that something is wrong, and it definitely does, but like…

Do you not see the playfulness in which Wei Wuxian handles the ghoul child mirrored in how he later handles A-Yuan in the Burial Mounds?

A white child squatted by his feet. Like a young, carnivorous beast, it was gnawing on something that Wei WuXian fed it. Wei WuXian took his hand away after patting on the white ghoul child’s sparse-haired head.

—Chapt. 62: Evil, exr

Lan Sizhui replied, "I'm not sure either, just that when I saw Chenqing, I thought that it was extremely familiar......" It was unsurprising that it was Chenqing that made him remember. Wei Wuxian said, "Oh, of course you'd find it familiar, back then eating Chenqing was your favourite habit and you would drool all over it and make me unable to play it."

—Chapt. 111: Wangxian - Everyday Means Everyday, chiaki_himura

Do you not see the gentleness in which Wei Wuxian handles the blue-faced woman mirrored in how he handles Wen Qing when he takes her to the Qiongqi Path labor camp?

When she had been fighting, her face was almost hideous, but now, with her dark face against Wei WuXian’s lap, she somehow seemed to be a charming concubine, obediently pleasing her master. Giggling laughter came from her mouth as well. Wei WuXian sat leaning to one side, his right hand stroking her soft, long hair over and over again.

—Chapt. 62: Evil, exr

The shock that Wen Qing received was too strong. Finally, she couldn’t hang on any longer and passed out. Standing behind her, Wei WuXian caught her without saying anything, letting her lean onto his chest.

—Chapt. 72: Recklessness, exr

And then they both go on to reciprocate that care via over-protectiveness, even when Wei Wuxian isn't actively controlling them:

The curvature of Wei WuXian’s lips dropped slightly as he glanced at him. Jiang Cheng had also heard the dissonant tone, “Second Young Master Lan, what do you mean by this?” Lan WangJi’s eyes were glued to Wei WuXian, “Answer me.” The ghoul child and the blue-faced woman began to stir. Wei WuXian turned around and looked at them. They backed off slowly, reluctant, and sunk into the darkness.

—Chapt. 62: Evil, exr

After reading the entire novel and seeing how he maintains this same level of care towards everyone he has no antagonistic relationship with, alive and dead, how could I not be moved when circling back to reread this moment?

[cherubchoirs]

descent from the cross

[andorerso]

REBELCAPTAIN APPRECIATION WEEK 2024 | @therebelcaptainnetwork

↳ Day 2: Media Adaptation/Missing Scene: My Lady Jane AU

Lady Jyn Erso wanted nothing at all to do with Lord Cassian Andor, the man she was set to marry. If anyone bothered to ask why, she would give them three simple reasons.

One, anything her villainous Uncle Krennic wanted was usually a dreadful idea, and the opposite of what Jyn wanted.

Two, she hadn’t met her husband-to-be, but she’d heard his reputation. Ice prince, they called him. Unflappable and unconscionable. Jyn was fire and fury, not at all a good match to someone who was rumored to be the most impersonal man in all of England.

Three, she didn’t desire the burden of marriage. Jyn Erso wasn’t built to sit around silently, obeying her husband like a dutiful housewife.

But nobody cared how she felt. Krennic wanted the Andors’ wealth, and the Andors, from what she gathered, wanted the title and prestige that came with her familial ties to the crown. The matter was decided; she would be marrying Cassian Andor, even if they had to drag her down the aisle kicking and screaming…

[sevenines]

i saw this tweet and found it interesting for two reasons. one is that some people base how good cartoon network would be to toh by how it treated su, and despite the fact that su’s treatment by the network was considered poor at the time, now its thought to be exceptionally good in comparison to modern shows.

two is how exactly su got impacted by a limited budget. a common criticism is how characters like connie, peridot, and lapis are left out of missions. but balancing a lot of characters is not only hard but also costly (extra animation, extra voices—it’s been revealed that the show is limited to a set number of characters per episode otherwise they’re over budget). animation mistakes are not uncommon since retakes cost extra. the entire reason the original show got cut short was due to loss of funding!

[beanghostprincess]

I will forever love seeing Luffy and Nami holding Zoro's swords. He's so protective of those three but it's not even because he fears something might happen to them, but because he's scared something might happen to the crew and himself if he doesn't have them with him. They're like extra limbs. The ones he uses to fight and protect and breathe. He feels uneasy whenever his swords aren't around him, and that is just a fact. You can't deny that he feels comfort in having them by his side at all times, knowing that he'll be able to protect the crew from any dangers. They're tied to his heart and soul in a way that if he loses sight of them he might actually lose himself too. So he does not enjoy seeing his swords in somebody else's hands. They can disappear, he will find them. They can run away, he will follow. They can break, he trusts them not to but if they do, he will keep going carrying their bond with him still. But he doesn't like seeing them in somebody else's hands because those are his swords. His limbs. His heart. His soul. It's just not right. It never feels right. But.

But.

But sometimes Luffy acts like he knows what he's doing and actually asks for permission instead of just taking what he wants. As if crossing Zoro's boundaries would be unforgivable, when he knows Zoro would give him anything he wanted to take from him. But he asks. He asks, with a careful, polite, deep voice Zoro isn't used to hearing. But it always ends with the softest of smiles and the petition reaches a place inside of Zoro's heart that he just knows has also touched his swords. So he lets him, because how could he not, and he runs his fingers through all of them. Amazed. Astonished. Respectfully talking to them as if they could hear him. And they can. Zoro knows they hear and feel and love and crave and long for his captain's touch. He knows, because he does too. Because who wouldn't? Luffy holds them in a way he never holds anything else- Carefully. Like they aren't his. Like befriending somebody he fears might reject him. Like taking hold of Zoro's heart and holding him so gently in case he might break him. He worships them as if he weren't the god in this relationship. He looks handsome, too. Not pretty. Not cute. Handsome. Mature. His hat covers his adventurous gaze but leaves his mischievous grin for the whole world to see. And yet, the swordsman trusts him enough. Without any look or any word. He knows Luffy's face by heart, he realizes, now that he can picture his eyes quite too perfectly under his hat. His skin glistens under the sun and his tender fingers hold the sword with so much clumsiness it looks dumb. He doesn't know how to hold them, yet they don't want to move away from him. It's clumsy but it takes over them. Maybe it's his haki. Maybe it's the effect the future king of the pirates has. Zoro thinks it's just him. Luffy. And his heart stops the second Luffy smiles, as if he had just heard the sword respond to him. He wants to kiss him. Bite him. Let him bite back and draw blood and eat him. Let him hold him the way he holds the swords but tighter. Closer. Maybe he's in love. Zoro. With Luffy. It's not a maybe. Who is he trying to trick? He knows he is in love. With the way he smiles and the way he holds and the way he wants but respects and loves. It's funny like that, the fact that Luffy keeps being so careful when Zoro would let him tear his heart apart and eat it if he so desired. It's funny that the swords love him with such gentleness when they often demand power. Perhaps kindness is the most powerful weapon of all or, at least, Luffy's most powerful skill. Zoro hates it when somebody else holds them because they don't own them. They don't own him. He doesn't even own his swords, anyway. Nobody can. They're his the same way he's theirs, just with a bit more dominance and respect. But Luffy isn't owning them. He's praying to them. Talking to them. Befriending them. Loving them. And they would bow to him if he so desired. Zoro knows they would, as fierce as they are and violent as they seem and as sharp as they cut. They'd bow to him because Zoro would too. The uneasiness does not exist when Luffy is the one to hold them because, if Zoro had to give out his soul for somebody to take care of, that would be Luffy. And if he has to be unprotected. Naked. Bare in front of a thousand soldiers. He will if it's Luffy the one fighting instead.

Sometimes Nami wants to hold them just to feel what it's like to be in Zoro's shoes. It's a stupid reason. He refuses to let her do it as an instinctive reaction at first. She doesn't seem as interested in following the protocol as Luffy is, but she knows where to stop and she knows what to say to get on Zoro's nerves, anyway. She's equally as fierce. Equally as sharp. He won't let her hold any cursed sword, but it's not like she wants to. She's smarter than that. Careful and respectful but not that interested in the swords and what they mean, more in how they feel. Zoro gets it. Kind of. Somehow. She says something about always letting them eat her precious tangerines, so he should humor her by letting her hold Wado at least. She isn't pushing him. He knows she wouldn't. She's just teasing because she knows. She always knows. She knows he will say yes. Because he always does what she says, although he keeps demanding a bit of respect to not be treated like a dog. But Nami never forces him to do anything. He could refuse. She would give up at some point. But there's just something about her- Stubbornness. Strength. Love. So much love and care and worry and anger. And Zoro likes her. She's selfish, too, like a pirate should be. Stronger than Zoro in the ways that matter. Smarter, too, even if he wouldn't admit it out loud. But she leads the way and he follows, not because that's a dog's job, but because he wants to. He trusts her. Something he never thought he would. But he does. She's smart. She leads the way. She knows where they're going. They somehow are the same and totally different at the same time. Zoro grounds Luffy when he gets lost. Nami leads them both so they won't. So there's something about her curiosity that makes him soften. He never knows exactly why he does what she says. Why he indulges her like that. But it's satisfying, for some reason he refuses to read within himself, the satisfactory and pleased grin on her face when he hands her Wado. She's careful with her. Awful at holding her. Bad posture. Great smile. Horrible movements. Beautiful eyes. It's okay, though, he thinks. Wado likes her because Zoro likes her. Nami loses interest within a minute, complaining about the weight and the sudden realization of "you always have this thing in your mouth" which makes her want to give her back. But she stares at her for a whole minute. It isn't her thing, but her eyes spark when the sword is returned to Zoro. Trust. A smile. Thankfulness. Her bangs are getting a bit longer and one strand of hair gets in the middle of her teasing smirk. She says she prefers her clima-tact, but swords are fine, "I guess". "She's pretty" she says. Zoro thinks she is pretty. Nami. In a way he can't quite describe because he has never really been good at that. But she is. Like a blade. Sharp. But in the right hands this time for her not to cut the ones she loves anymore. She hands him a tangerine next, every time he lets her hold his sword. An exchange. "I give you something that matters. You give me something that matters". Zoro wants to say it's not the same, but the tangerine is sweet. Juicy. His fingers then smell strongly of citrus. Almost as similar as steel. If he can feel Nami's heartbeat in every bite, he wonders if she has been able to hear his in the hilt of his sword. Calm. Peaceful. Safe.

Zoro doesn't like seeing his swords in somebody else's hands because those are his swords. His limbs. His heart. His soul. It's just not right. It never feels right. But.

But sometimes it does.

[avelera]

Man, I just put back on OFMD 1.05 (the fancy party episode), and I think one really worthwhile itemization of Stede and Ed interactions would be around how many times Stede appears horrified by Ed's actions, but actually, he might really be horrified for Ed.

And I only bring this up because one common, I think, misinterpretation of Stede was that he's horrified or put off by violence. Understandable, given the face he pulls when, for example, Ed tells Fang to skin the French captain with a snail fork.

But now that we've Season 2, albeit eps. 1-3, including that gorgeous moment where Stede immediately clocked that Ed's trying to burn down the world or die trying, thus signaling that he knows Ed better than anyone, especially Izzy, ever expected... I think we can firmly put the, "Stede doesn't really get Ed," interpretation firmly to rest. It's totally fair that it existed! His facial expressions of horror were often ambiguous and could be read either way.

But I think we can very firmly say: All those times Stede seems horrified at Ed? He's horrified for Ed.

Even in the moment where he sort of gulps when Ed wants the French captain skinned was sort of re-written in my mind as I watched it, in light of Stede getting Ed so well in S2. Suddenly it's not Stede taken aback by extreme violence, no.

Stede is realizing just how deeply hurtful the French captain's words were to Ed. He's not taken aback by the violence of Ed's orders, he's horrified to realize that the French captain's words hurt Ed so badly that this is a proportional response.

Stede doesn't give a fuck about the French captain, by the way. He doesn't lift a finger to prevent it, not because he's afraid, I'd argue, but because he legitimately does not care. The dude is more than a little bit of a sociopath himself, alright, he's adjusting to pirate life but he has also fully embraced pirate life.

And by the way, you don't have to take my word for it that Stede's reaction of horror is for Ed not at Ed, y'know why?

'Cuz of what Stede says in the very next scene, "Edward, are you alright? I could tell that captain got a bit under your skin."

(Haha, get it? Because you skinned that man alive. But I digress.)

No but seriously, Stede does not care about skinning that man alive, whether or not we believe Fang really did it. His priority #1 here, as it will be in Season 2, writ large, is to first make sure Ed is ok and then to help arm him against pain like that in the future.

And all I'm saying is, I bet if we went through each and every other instance of Stede "reacting badly" to Ed's "violence" in light of S2 and Stede getting Ed and only really caring about Ed unless reminded to do otherwise, that all of those reactions are actually Stede reacting with horror to learning what kind of pain Ed has been laboring under, or what kind of pain he's in that he would react with violence to verbal attacks like that.

Because that is something Stede can understand very well.

[happypeachsludgeflower]

Different first meeting au where Xie Lian became a shrine priest for the ghost king Hua Cheng in hopes that if Wu Ming somehow survived, he doesn’t think he did but he has hope okay??, he would be protected and cared for in ghost city. And Hua Cheng, who doesn’t take care of his own prayers and instead foists them off on Yin Yu because that would cut into his time to search for Xie Lian, doesn’t find out for centuries.

[blanze]

It feels good to be back.

(A more risque version under the cut)