#Colle needs a break

[ender-niffler]

Here’s an Aggie doodle I made yesterday while doodling with friends! And a small taste of some Headcanoned Red kingdom lore 👀

[delilahsturniolo]

— 𝜗ৎ lunch . . . m.s

in which . . . matt loves tasting you

warnings . . . smut, unprotected sex, oral, (fem!recieving) pet names, dirty talk, making out, boob play, fingering, multiple orgasms, matt the munch, face sitting, kissing.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

HIT ME HARD AND SOFT WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #2

matt approaches you with a predatory grace, his eyes locked on yours, dark and intense. "been waitin’ all day to taste you sweetheart," he whispers, his voice a sultry promise that makes your heart skip a beat. he leans down, his lips brushing against yours in a teasing kiss, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

your fingers find their way to the hem of his shirt, tugging at it impatiently. he doesn't resist, pulling it off in a swift movement, revealing the hard planes of his chest. you trace the contours of his muscles with a trembling hand, feeling the heat radiating off his skin. his breath hitches at your touch, a primal growl escaping his lips.

matt captures your lips again, this time with a fierce intensity that sets your senses ablaze. his tongue delves into your mouth, exploring every inch with a possessive hunger. you moan into the kiss, your body responding to his every move with an eager desire.

he breaks the kiss, trailing his lips down your neck, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses. each touch sends jolts of pleasure straight to your core. his hands roam over your body, kneading and squeezing your breasts, making you arch into his touch.

his mouth latches onto a nipple, sucking and nipping at the sensitive bud until it stands stiff with arousal. you can't help but arch your back, offering yourself to him. he shifts his attention to the other breast, his free hand sliding down your body to rest between your thighs.

"so wet," he groans, his fingers rubbing against your drenched folds. "i need to taste you." the need in his voice mirrors the ache building within you. with a swift movement, he strips you of your panties, exposing you to his ravenous gaze. his eyes darken as he drinks in the sight of your glistening cunt. "beautiful," he murmurs before descending upon you like a man starved.

his tongue flicks over your clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. you can't hold back the moans that spill from your lips, each one a symphony of desire. his fingers slide into your heat, curling and stroking your inner walls. the sensations are overwhelming, the combination of his mouth and fingers working in tandem has you teetering on the edge.

"cum f’me," he commands, his voice a muffled husky whisper against your core. and just like that, your climax hits you with the force of a tidal wave, dragging a loud cry from your throat as you clench around his fingers. he laps up every drop of your pleasure, prolonging your orgasm until you're a quivering mess beneath him.

as you come down from your high, he rises above you, his lips glistening with your essence. "now it's my turn," he growls, unfastening his jeans and freeing his throbbing member. you watch with rapt attention as he strokes himself, pre-cum glistening at the tip.

he positions himself at your entrance, rubbing his cock against your slick folds. "you gonna take my cock pretty girl?" he asks, his voice thick with lust. you nod eagerly, desperate to be filled by him. with a firm thrust, he enters you, stretching you deliciously.

you gasp at the sensation, feeling him hit every spot inside you. he begins to move, each thrust a perfect blend of power and finesse. his hand finds its way to your clit, rubbing it in tight circles. the dual stimulation sends you spiraling into another climax, clenching around him as you cry out his name.

the tightness of your walls triggers his own release. he spills inside you with a loud groan, his body jerking as he empties himself. he collapses on top of you, both of you panting and spent, covered in a sheen of sweat.

he pulls out slowly, causing a new wave of aftershocks to ripple through you. without a word, he reaches out and gently cups your face in his hands. his touch is warm, reassuring, and it sends a cascade of emotions swirling within you. his thumb strokes your cheekbone, a soft, tender caress that makes your heart flutter.

he leans in closer, his breath mingling with yours. you can smell the faint scent of his cologne, a mix of wood and spice that you find intoxicating. his lips brush against yours, a feather-light touch that leaves you yearning for more. the first real kiss comes as a shock, a jolt of electricity that runs straight to your core. his lips are soft, yet firm, moving against yours with a rhythm that's both familiar and new. it's a kiss that speaks of longing as his tongue dances against yours

as the kiss deepens, his hands slide down to your shoulders, pulling you closer. you can feel the heat radiating off his body, the firmness of his chest against yours. his tongue seeks entrance, and you grant it willingly. his hands roam your back, tracing the curve of your spine, before settling on your hips. he pulls you against him, and you can't help but moan at the feeling.

“we are done yet, sweetheart.” matt says, rolling over to lay down as you began to sit up, still in euphoria from the orgasms you had. "come on, baby. sit on my face." his voice is dripping with desire, and it sends a surge of excitement through your body.

you move to straddle his head. as you lower yourself down onto his face, you can't help the moan that escapes your lips. his mouth is so warm and wet, his tongue immediately starting to work its magic. he's licking and sucking at your most sensitive area, and it's driving you wild. you start to grind against his face, feeling the pleasure building inside you. you can't believe how good this all feels, the way his tongue is moving, the way his nose is brushing against you. it's all so much, so overwhelming…yet so good.

"fuck," you moan, your hands finding purchase in the sheets as you move against him. his hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as he devours you. you can feel the orgasm building, getting closer and closer. then, suddenly, you're cumming. hard. the pleasure crashes over you like a wave, sending sparks of electricity through your body. you're moaning and writhing against him, completely lost in the sensation.

as the pleasure starts to subside, you move off of his face, collapsing onto the bed beside him. he turns to look at you, a satisfied smirk on his face. "that was hot," he says, reaching out to brush a strand of hair out of your face. his chin is dripping with your cum. you smile up at him, feeling completely spent but also extremely satisfied. you smile snuggling up against him. he wraps his arms around you, holding you close as the two of you slowly drifted off together.

© delilahsturniolo

💌: i put all my pussy power into this hope you like it

[bidisasterevankinard]

5. Feeling their pulse

Maybe feeling for their pulse bucktommy emergency mayhaps?

you wish is my command <333 this turned out to be a lot like Tommy character study : (tw implied child abuse, violence, mentions of blood)

Tommy was and is and, perhaps, will always be afraid. He has long ago made peace with it. Life was always scary. In a house with a man who was the monster from the worst child’s nightmares. Tommy never was afraid of Boogeyman. Why should he be afraid of some myth when the real danger is his dad, smelling like his whiskey? 

Then puberty hit him like a monster truck. He was afraid to look around and not be hot and bothered by boobs of cheerleaders like every boy, but had a boner in the changing room staring at the perky ass of their captain in the basketball team. He saw what happened to boys who did it. He didn’t want one hand broken by his teammates and the other one at home by his dad. He kept his frightening and alarming hopes to kiss the boy sweet and kind in the box, looking like a coffin, praying for it to die. 

He wanted to learn to be brave and normal. The army seemed like a chance. But sickening, hand shaking fear to look too much, too hard, too interesting at any of his army mates gave him panic attacks. He always kept himself in check. Never stared for more than a second. Knew how to make a snarky, stupid comment to make everyone laugh and make fun of that man with him. He could convince everyone he was like them, trying with all his might to keep the mask he kept with shaking pale hands near his face, begging no one to try and look inside.

The scary, bloody, desert days with soundtracks from bullets and moans from death shifted to moans from death and blood with the taste of fire. Tommy was scared to find the man like his father in any of his new teammates. He found him in the picture of his new captain. He wasn’t even surprised of new fearful days of one day being seen coming to him. It was his life. He would never be not afraid to be seen. 

Then something shifted. Howie came and looked a little bit deeper than others. Hen came and made him think he might try and be more of himself. Let himself look. Then he left and he let himself love men how he always wanted.Passionately, openly, with all of his dick and hole, but never with his whole heart. That was still scary. 

Boyfriends came and left, came and left, and he never was afraid to leave when time came. They never terrified him because he never wanted much from them. Good time when they both are happy with it.

Then the sunshine came to his life in the form of long legs, a pretty face with a kilowatt smile and beautiful birthmark like a kiss from Tommy’s lips from another timeline in love. Like the mark from that another reincarnation of Tommy, who kissed that man so that Tommy can easily identify him. Tommy looked at those blue eyes and thought “Hey, here you are. I’ve been waiting for you all my life.” 

And that was the most terrifying, blood freezing, hand shaking, panic inducing though he ever had. He was afraid to lose himself in Evan Buckey. He still hoped he could just take a little piece of him and run from it the same man he was before. He was a fool. 

Evan is not just a man. He’s part of him. His heart that makes his blood keep him alive. His lungs that give all his body air to breath. His whole life that just needs him to be brave enough to take.

He ran from it. Anytime it became too scary to stay he ran, trying to find the reasons it was good for them to stop this time. Admittedly, blaming Evan from all of it, even when he knew Evan was not to blame during their break up.

Evan is Tommy’s worst nightmare in the form of a dream man. Evan is the terrifyingly happy future that needs Tommy work and risk to keep it.

Evan is the person who needs Tommy to be brave. And Tommy can’t.

He is always scared like a little thing that needs to hide in its shell.

The shell he hoped to hide when he heard that Evan Buckley is buried under debris of a collapsed building. Alone. Not answering. Not knowing he changed Tommy’s whole life with just his smile. Possibly dying thinking Tommy never loved him.

And this is the most dreadful, ghastful thought. That Evan doesn’t know. That he might leave Tommy forever and he won’t know.

Tommy wipes the tear that runs down his face, trying to clean it from the dirt. Tommy wants to stay dirty. He might be buried here with the love of his life soon. He might jump in Evan’s coffin to be with the man forever if he would have to. What is the reason to clean himself?

“I see him,” Ravi’s hectic voice comes to him and Tommy doesn’t dare to breathe running to the man he wants to hide inside his body and never let him out.

Tommy’s the first to reach Evan, trying hard to wipe the blood from his beautiful, basically black from all the dust from crushing buildings and pale under it, face. Still the most beautiful.

Using his teeths, Tommy takes off the glove, carefully, but surely checking the pulse, begging for it to be there. To still exist. Just like Evan should exist.

A second of nothing and then, “he has a pulse, not as strong as wished, but strong enough,” Tommy says mostly to himself. Trying hard to believe his man is still here.

“That’s good baby,” Tommy kisses Evan’s birthmark, “let’s keep that pulse strong for me, ok?”

Tommy will always be afraid. But maybe Evan worth to try and be afraid not alone and trust that you have safe hands to come to.

[adhdnursegoat]

In the Event of a Black Out

Word count: 6.3K

Content Warning: minors dni, explicit sexual content, PWP, accidental intimacy, touch starved Edward, vulnerability during sex

Pairing: Edward Nigma X gender neutral reader (let me know if i missed anything)

Setting: Arkham Knight

“What did you do?!”

“I didn’t do shit! What did you do?”

“I would not do anything this stupid.”

“Oh, right, cause you don’t make mistakes.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Would you just shut up and help me? I can’t see!”

“Well, unfortunately, the one thing I have been unable to do is to evolve the ability of night vision… yet.”

“Can you not just answer a simple question without being a smartass?”

“Can you not be an annoying twit and help yourself?”

“Jesus Christ—fine! Don’t help. I’ll just flounder around until I run into a project and break something.”

You could practically see the scowl on his face, even in pitch black. “...Where are you?”

“Over here.”

“That is not descriptive.”

“Follow my voice.”

He sighed, and then you heard the hesitant sound of footsteps. Then you heard a less-than-ideal scraping crash. “Fuck!” Better him than you—you’d never hear the end of breaking one of his precious Riddlerbots.

“Marco!”

“No!”

“You’re no fun.”

“What about this situation screams fun to you?”

“It’s fun because we are now on equal footing.” You could hear the scuff of his boots closer, so you reached out in front of you, absolutely unable to see your hands in front of your face. 

“We are nothing of the sort. I assure you the blackout neither stole my IQ nor blessed you with more.”

“Ass.”

“Brat.”

Finally, your hand pressed, nearly shoved into something soft, solid, and warm. You reached further, drifting up higher to grip and grasp about, trying to sense your environment. You grabbed and touched what felt like a nose and cheek. 

“Hey!” Edward quickly snapped up to grab your wrist and jerk it away. “Watch what you’re grabbing.”

“I can’t watch anything.”

“Don’t be smart.”

“Said the smart one.”

Edward’s grip on your wrist tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to ground you. There was a low growl behind it, that guttural sort of warning he saved for when he was two seconds from short-circuiting.

“Just—be careful.” His voice was closer than expected, brushing against your cheek like a whisper turned threat. You weren’t sure if it was the dark playing tricks or if he’d leaned in.

“I’m always careful,” you said flatly, rolling your eyes—pointlessly, since he couldn’t see it.

“Right,” he muttered, dry as dust and just as warm. Disbelieving. Definitely scowling. You could hear it in the angle of his voice, the tension coiled tight in the silence that followed. “Come on.”

He kept hold of your wrist, his fingers still curled firm around it—less of a guide, more of a leash, like he didn’t trust you not to break something or trip a secondary security system just by existing.

You felt him turn, the shift of air as his body pivoted. The slight tug on your arm followed.

“Where?”

“To find the breaker box,” he replied over his shoulder, like it should’ve been obvious. His steps were careful but brisk, the sound of his boots brushing the floor just ahead of you in the dark. “Need to find something to orient to—wall, doorway, anything.”

You followed, letting him lead, but your free hand lifted almost on instinct—searching for something more solid than the clammy air and your own stumbling steps. You found the back of his shirt and gripped it, fingers curling tight into the fabric like he was the only fixed point in this pitch-black labyrinth of wires, half-assembled death traps, and rising tension.

He jolted at the touch. Barely. A sharp inhale. A twitch in his back. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t comment.

Edward moved again, deliberate and slow. You stayed close—so close you could feel the soft brush of air every time he shifted, the residual heat radiating off him in the dark.

You were just thinking that if he stopped too fast, you’d crash right into him—

Then he did. Dead halt. Your chest collided with his back, your momentum tangled with his legs.

The floor wasn’t under you anymore.

There was a chaotic scuffle of limbs, a clatter of boots, a muffled curse. The both of you hit the ground in a graceless, jumbled heap. The impact knocked the breath out of your lungs. Something sharp jabbed your hip. Something else—a knee? An elbow? Possibly pride—dug into your ribs.

And Edward? Edward groaned beneath you.

“Oh, for the love of— get off,” he barked, voice muffled, pinned somewhere beneath your shoulder. “You weigh a thousand pounds.”

“I do not!” you gasped, trying to push yourself up—only to realize that your arm was stuck between his chest and the floor, and your leg was looped awkwardly around something metal. A pipe? A bot limb? Maybe Edward’s endless collection of industrial cables.

You flailed. He groaned again, louder this time.

“You’re wallowing,” he hissed.

“Well, move, then!”

“I can’t move! You’re the one on top—get your elbow out of my liver!”

“I would if I could! I think I’m—ugh, I think I’m caught on something.”

A beat of heavy silence. Then an exhale, sharp and withering.

“Of course you are,” Edward muttered. “You know what? Fine. Stay there. Rot in the tangle you’ve created.”

“Oh my god—do something, Nigma.”

A pause. Then you felt him shift underneath you—slowly, resentfully. His hand slid along the floor until it found your thigh, then moved upward with practiced, clinical focus.

“Hold still,” he grunted.

His fingers skimmed the side of your leg, over your hip, then hesitated as they found the edge of something taut—a twisted strap or caught hem. You couldn’t see, but you could feel every inch of his touch through the fabric, every slight adjustment, every press of his palm as he followed the length of the snare.

You went still.

Completely, breathlessly still.

Because his hand didn’t stop at your hip. It kept going—slow, deliberate, dragging down the curve of your thigh like he wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing. Like he was searching for something and forgot to stop when he found it.

Then it slipped inward.

His fingers curled gently around the tender inside of your leg, resting there, motionless.

Heat pooled low in your belly.

Neither of you moved.

The dark pulsed around you like a second skin, pressing in on all sides, every sound sharp and loud in the silence. You could hear his breath catch. Could feel the tension coiled beneath your body, his hand still cradled against your thigh, not retreating.

"Umm… is that… better?"

His voice was quieter now. Rougher. A thread of something unfamiliar wound through it—like he wasn’t sure if he meant the question, or just needed to say something.

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Didn’t trust your voice. Didn’t trust your body.

So you shifted. Carefully. Slowly.

You meant to sit up. To put distance back where it belonged. But the space was tight, and your leg was still caught between his. When you pushed upward, your hips settled on one of his thighs, straddling it instinctively for balance. Your hands braced on his lower stomach. That was a mistake.

Edward’s muscles jumped beneath your palms. Sharp inhale.

You both froze again—idiots caught in your own trap.

Finally, you spoke quietly, “You know… this is a terrible way to fix a power outage.”

You felt him exhale through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

“Well, excuse me for attempting to assist,” he muttered. “Next time, I’ll let you wander around and trip into the elevator shaft.”

“I tripped over your bot.”

“I tripped over your clumsiness.”

That earned a quiet scoff. Your fingers flexed slightly against his abdomen. The fabric was soft. His body, under it, was not.

He shifted to sit up. At least, you thought he meant to sit up. But the movement pulled you in closer. His thigh pressed snug between yours, and suddenly his chest was nearly against yours, his breath warm against your face. Close. Too close.

The words on your tongue scattered like loose screws.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

There was no quip. No snarl. No breathless complaint or cutting remark. Just this—this moment suspended in a blackout, where the heat wasn’t from faulty wiring but from something pulsing and slow and alive between your hips and his.

His hands were at your waist. You weren’t sure when that happened. You weren’t sure if he knew either. You felt him breathe—felt the rise and fall of his chest beneath your own, the minute tremor in his fingers where they gripped your sides like he’d only just realized he was holding on.

Still… Edward didn’t pull away.

You weren’t sure who moved first—if it was you leaning in for balance or him shifting to escape the awkwardness—but the result was the same. You ended up straddling his waist, knees braced on either side of him, your hands resting against the firm plane of his lower stomach. His breath hitched at the contact, and your fingers twitched in response, pressing more fully against him without meaning to. The darkness swallowed everything but sensation: the fabric of his shirt wrinkling beneath your palm, the heat of him bleeding through it, the unmistakable tension rippling beneath his skin.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did you. There were no quips, no insults, no snide remarks to fill the space—just breathing, shallow and uneven, caught somewhere between restraint and curiosity. His hand, still curled around your side, began to move with the kind of slowness that made it obvious he was second-guessing every inch. His palm slid from your waist to your lower back, fingers ghosting up along your spine as if tracing the ridges of some ancient secret. He stopped just beneath your shoulder blades, but didn’t pull away. If anything, his grip tightened slightly, as though he needed the anchor just as much as you did.

The heat between your bodies was impossible to ignore. Your hips were pressed against his, and every breath made your chest rise against his. Edward’s free hand had planted itself against the floor beside him, but you could feel the way it tensed—like he wasn’t sure whether to push himself up or stay exactly where he was. When he finally started to shift, you felt it first in the subtle lift of his torso, the slight withdrawal of him from beneath you, the way his breath broke against your cheek like a breeze trying to pull back from the storm.

And then—he began to pull away.

You moved before you thought. Your hand shot out, catching his wrist. 

“Wait…”

It came out softer than you intended, but no less raw. A single word, stripped of its armor, small and human and trembling.

He froze. Mid-motion. Mid-exit. His body half-curled beneath you, one elbow braced, ready to shift away—but your hand wrapped around his wrist and held him there, tethered by something far more delicate than force. Not yet. Not like this. Not when the space between you was still viscous.

Edward didn’t speak. Didn’t move. But you could feel him watching—or at least, facing you in the dark. His presence was unmistakable, a pressure in the air, a heat just beneath your skin. The room may have been shrouded in black, but there was no mistaking him. You could’ve found him blind.

And you did.

With a tentative drift, your fingers eased from his wrist and began to creep upward, cautious at first, like you were crossing into sacred ground. You didn’t rush. Couldn’t. Each inch demanded attention. Your hand traced along the inside of his forearm, brushing over the coarse hairs and the grime of whatever work he’d been elbow-deep in before the power cut. 

Higher, across the ridged tension of his bicep. You felt the shape of him there—lean and hard, the ever-present tautness of someone who never quite relaxed, never quite let go. Even still, even here, there was power waiting just beneath the surface. Coiled. Quiet. Unyielding.

Your palm followed the curve of his shoulder, pausing slightly as your fingers ghosted across the seam of muscle and bone. There was dust on him—grit clinging to his shirt, and probably beneath it. Your hand swept up further, seeking the sharp line of his collarbone, and when you found it—God—you let your thumb drag over it above his tanktop. It jutted just beneath his skin, elegant and severe, a perfect geometry of tension and restraint.

He still hadn’t moved. But you could feel him breathe. Not steady. Not calm. Shallow. Barely-there. Like the act of being touched was more than he’d bargained for.

You weren’t finished.

Your fingers skimmed up the side of his neck next, brushing over the tendons, the hollow of his throat where his swallow caught halfway down. His pulse was steady but elevated—a quiet rhythm bounding beneath the pads of your fingers like a secret he hadn’t meant to share. His skin was hot there, exposed, and you followed the blaze upward. You met the line of his jaw, the rasp of stubble prickling against your fingertips. And when your hand finally cupped his face—thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone—he inhaled—sharp and sudden, a breath hitched in surprise as your palm settled against his face, cradling it. 

Edward still didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Everything you needed to know was there beneath your palm—tension wound tight, reverence fighting restraint, a quiet kind of hunger. Still, he let you touch him. Not like a man used to softness. But like someone who ached for it, belied by the subtle tilt of his head into your palm.

He exhaled, just beneath it, a sound: not a word, not a moan, but a sigh, quiet and shaken, like he didn’t know what to do with this kind of contact. The warmth of his breath wafted against your skin, and you could feel the heat rising beneath his skin, the stillness in his body. And when you leaned in, the distance vanished.

Your lips met his—carefully, uncertainly.

The kiss was nothing like a storm. It was soft. Fragile. The first brush of mouth to mouth tentative and reverent, like he was afraid it might break both of you open. There was no hunger, not yet. Just the dizzying stillness of the moment, the warmth of his breath across your skin, and the quiet quake of a man who didn’t know he could be wanted like this.

You stayed close, thighs still bracketing his waist, your balance forgotten somewhere back in the fall. When his hips shifted beneath you—barely a twitch, the ghost of motion—you adjusted instinctively. The press of your body aligned more snugly against his, not in invitation, but inevitability. It wasn’t overt. Wasn’t obscene. Just closeness. A firmer weight. A sharper breath. The hush between you trembling on a new frequency.

Edward made a sound against your mouth—low, involuntary. The kind of sound a man makes when something slips past the walls, when sensation outruns logic. But still, he didn’t move. His hands remained where they were—beneath you, beside you, nowhere they shouldn’t be. He didn’t pull you closer. Didn’t push you away. He just kissed you. Slowly. Carefully. Lips parting in small, reverent increments, learning your shape by feel, like each pass of his mouth over yours was a question he didn’t know how to ask. There was tension in him—always—but it had shifted. Less resistance. More surrender. He kissed you as if he didn’t know what would happen if he let it go further. And maybe didn’t care.

Your hand still cradled his face, thumb stroking gently along his cheekbone. And even in the dark, even with the faint hum of electricity still dead in the walls, you could feel how vulnerable this made him. Not the position. Not the kiss. The silence. The lack of mask. The absence of pretense.

And Edward—bitter, brilliant, impossible Edward—didn’t run.

Not yet.

When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to speak, if either of you dared. His breath was warm against your lips, shallow and quiet.. You swallowed. Let your thumb trace the sharp cut of his jaw. 

“You’re… really not going to say anything?”

A pause. His voice was low, rough with the kind of restraint that wasn’t physical. “Do you want me to?”

You considered it. The silence was heavy again—but not cold. Not distant. It was the kind of quiet that wrapped around you like steam.

“I’m not sure,” you admitted softly. “I don’t think I want this to be clever.”

That made something in him twitch. A tiny breath of laughter. Bitter. Fond. “Then I’ll ruin it if I speak.”

“You won’t.”

You weren’t sure if he believed you. But he didn’t argue. And that silence was permission enough.

Not wanting to shatter whatever held so still between you, one of your hands drifted slowly down from his face to his chest, fingertips brushing over the collar of his open shirt, then flattening against the fabric of his tanktop. You felt the shape of him there—his ribs tight beneath your palms, the subtle tremble in his breath. And beneath all that, his heartbeat—wild, pounding, almost furious in its rhythm.

It wasn’t the beat of calm desire. It was something feral. Caged. Desperate. And that was the moment you realized: you could take this further. Right here. You had him—beneath you, under your hands, lips parted from that last kiss, body tense not with refusal but with restraint. He was saying nothing, but his body wasn’t still. His hips had shifted again, just enough that you were more keenly aware of the pressure where yours met. His jaw clenched under your touch. 

He was open. He was wanting.

You leaned down, breath catching as you pressed your mouth to the corner of his again—slower this time, but not softer. Testing. Asking. And the moment he turned his head into it, meeting your kiss with equal force, it shifted. All of it.

Edward’s lips parted beneath yours, and the kiss turned sharp, breathless, teeth catching in the drag between mouths. It wasn’t gentle anymore. It was something pulled from the chest like a secret too long withheld. Something desperate. You gasped against him as his hips pushed upward into yours, the sudden press of friction making your spine arch. Still, he didn’t touch you with his hands—but his mouth spoke in movements. In the way he kissed you like he wanted to memorize every taste, every inhale, every sound you gave him.

Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt, dragging it up, baring a strip of skin beneath your palm. His stomach was hot. Tense. You felt the twitch of muscle beneath your touch, felt his breath stutter as your hand slid lower.

Still no words. Just heat. Just breath. Just that storm blooming under your skin like something inevitable.

He broke the kiss first—not with retreat, but to catch his breath, forehead tipping to yours. You could feel the tremor in him, the war he was still waging with himself, even as his body betrayed him moment by moment.

You let your hand slide over his ribs, feeling every tense divot and line. 

“You’re not stopping me,” you murmured.

A beat. Then, softly—harshly—he answered: “I can’t.”

The words left him like a confession. Rough, low, barely there. But you heard it. Felt it—in the way his breath hitched against your cheek, in the way his body arched beneath yours like he was no longer holding anything back. Not logic. Not resistance. Not fear. Just need.

It started slow—still restrained, still cautious. But when your lips found his again, when you rolled your hips just once, deliberately, against the pressure growing between you, that final thread snapped.

His hands moved. Fast.

They surged from the floor like they’d been yanked by gravity—one gripping your waist, the other sliding up your back and into your hair. His fingers threaded through it, not gently, not thoughtfully, but desperately, pulling you down into him as his mouth claimed yours with a heat that hadn’t been there before. This wasn’t soft anymore. This was hunger. Sharp, ragged, real.

You gasped into him as his hand at your waist shifted, dragging the fabric of your shirt up with it, bunching it around your ribs. The cool air against your skin barely registered before his palm found its way beneath the hem, splayed wide and possessive along your lower back, like he needed to anchor himself there or he’d lose what was left of his self-control.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips. It wasn’t just an expletive. It was surrender—guttural, breathless, wrecked.

You fisted your hands in the fabric of his open shirt, tugging at it with a kind of clumsy urgency, bunching it up as he shifted beneath you. He rose slightly, hips pressing upward under yours, his body caught in that liminal space between restraint and reckless want.

Edward’s hands were everywhere—raking up your back beneath your shirt, sliding around to grip your hips with a desperation that bordered on possessive. You could feel the tension in him, the way his fingers trembled just slightly with the effort not to go faster, harder, too much too soon. His shirt clung to one shoulder, tank top shoved haphazardly beneath his ribs—both useless now. You couldn’t see him. Couldn’t make out his eyes, his expression, the part of his mouth when he gasped—but you didn’t need to. Everything that mattered was beneath your hands. Your hands didn’t stop. You ran them up his chest, memorizing the cut of him by touch—the twitch of his ribs when you dragged your nails lightly, the quiet hiss when your thumbs brushed his nipples through the tank. His body answered you in small, urgent movements—hips lifting, stomach tightening, breath growing ragged against your cheek.

“You’re going to kill me,” he breathed.

Then, his mouth moved to your jaw, then lower, teeth grazing your throat as he kissed a trail down to the edge of your collarbone. You felt him groan against your skin, felt the tension in his jaw as he fought to pace himself—and lost. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, not quite going lower yet, just pressing firmly at your hip, his thumb stroking over bone like he was trying to memorize it through touch alone. He pulledback, breath hot and panting in the dark. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you could feel the heat in his focus.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered. The words were strained, wrecked. “Just say it, and I will.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

“Shut up.”

Instead, your hands slid down between you. His skin was burning under your palms, slick with the sweat clinging to both of you now—heady, hot, humid in the dark. Every inch you explored seemed wound tighter, more braced, like his whole body was caught in the space between restraint and collapse. You traced the line of his stomach, the slight hollow at his navel, the sharp ridge of his hips beneath fabric. Then lower. Your fingertips bumped his belt buckle—hot from his skin, metal biting against your touch. You fumbled for the clasp, working through the worn leather, the button, the zipper. He made a sound as you worked—low, wrecked, sharp. His hands dug into your hips, thumbs pressing hard enough to bruise. His breathing was ragged now, cut up into pieces between the kisses he dragged along the column of your throat.

You were almost there, but your shorts were in the way. You cursed softly under your breath and leaned back just enough to get your hands between you. You could barely think, barely breathe, tugging at the waistband and shimmying them down over your hips in the dark. You kicked them off blindly, one leg at a time, half-graceful, half-feral.

Edward’s hands never left you. He guided you back into his lap the second the fabric cleared your legs, like gravity was no longer strong enough and only he could keep you where you belonged.

You straddled his waist again, seated across him on the dusty, dirty floor, knees aching, chest pressed tight to his. The floor beneath was hard, uncomfortable—but you didn’t care. His tank top was still bunched beneath his ribs. His cargo pants were shoved low around his hips, everything open. You could feel him now—his cock pressed hot and thick between your thighs. Bare.

You both froze there for a moment. Just breathing.

Then you shifted. One hand braced behind his back, the other reaching down between your bodies, lining him up with the kind of instinct that wasn’t thought—it was need. He let out something sharp and high in the back of his throat, his hands tensing on your hips, trying—failing—not to pull.

At last, you sank down onto him—slow, deliberate, unstoppable. The stretch stole your breath. He filled you completely, the pressure dizzying: hot, hard, too much, perfect.

With your forehead pressed to his temple, the exhale left your lungs in one stunned, trembling rush. One hand gripped his shoulder like a lifeline, the other slid behind his neck, fingers tangling in the damp curls at his nape. Thighs shaking where they cradled his hips, you felt him shudder beneath you—a full-body tremor, raw and helpless. The sound that tore from his throat wasn’t a moan. It was a rupture.

“Jesus Christ…” His voice cracked, frayed to the edge of breaking—somewhere between awe and agony.

No answer came from your lips—only breath, ragged and caught. You leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear, the tremor in your voice mirroring the one gripping your body. With a sharp inhale, he moved.

Those hands, once reverent, turned possessive—gripping your ass, holding you flush against him as he ground up into you, slow and brutal. The drag of him inside you was blinding. You gasped, your mouth falling open, a moan spilling from your throat before you could trap it behind your teeth.

Edward’s mouth found yours again—sloppy now, gasping, wet. Tongue and teeth and need. The kiss was frantic, fevered, and absolutely unforgiving. His hips drove upward with controlled force, tight thrusts that sent jolts through your spine. You met him, rolling your hips in tandem, body slick with sweat and sensation. Every grind, every drag was devastation. All around you, the dark amplified everything. The sound of skin against skin. The sharp slap of movement. The whimper of a man trying not to lose control—and failing. The lilting of your moans. 

Breath tore from him in ragged bursts, caught somewhere between a moan and a curse, his hands locked around your waist like he was holding himself together by the feel of you. Each time you came down, you felt the strain in his muscles—the way his thighs tensed beneath yours, the way his stomach clenched as he thrust upward to meet you with a kind of restraint that was barely holding.

You rode him in the dark, the slick sound of your bodies meeting swallowed by the static of breath and heat. The floor beneath you was unforgiving—cold, biting at your knees—but it only made you move harder, made every grind, every bounce sharper in contrast. You chased the rhythm with single-minded hunger, moaning into his open mouth, your hands tangled in his hair, pulling, grounding.

“Fuck,” he rasped, the word tumbling from his throat like it hurt. “You’re—” He couldn’t finish.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, dragging down the damp fabric still clinging to him. “Say it,” you breathed, forehead pressed to his. “I want to hear you say it.”

He exhaled a sharp breath, one hand gripping your hip while the other slid beneath your tank top, palm splayed across your lower back, dragging you down harder. “You feel like sin,” he groaned, voice cracked and trembling. “Like I should never be allowed to touch you like this.”

You rolled your hips slower, more deliberate, your breath catching as he gasped into your neck. “You can,” you assured. “You already are.”

Your hips shifted, no longer rocking in that easy rhythm, but grinding down in slow, tightening circles—each pass dragging his cock along every sensitive ridge inside you. You rolled your pelvis forward at the top, then dropped down with a stuttering snap of motion that made him choke on a sound, hips jerking up in reflex.

It was intentional. Precise. Your movements weren’t rushed—they were devastating. Drawing his length through your slick, pulsing heat in a rhythm that was both merciless and teasing, calculated to make him fall apart and know you were the one doing it to him.

His breath stuttered out in fragments against your neck, jaw clenched, every muscle in his stomach tensing as he tried—tried—to hold on.

“Jesus—fuck, I’m not—” The words died in his throat, swallowed by a groan, hoarse and guttural as his forehead fell to your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered, your voice a soft, wicked taunt against his temple. Your hands dragged up his back, nails grazing the damp fabric of his shirt, the heat between you scorching now, your thighs trembling from the effort, from the building pressure cresting behind your ribs. “Just don’t stop.”

His mouth was on your shoulder, open and desperate, moaning helplessly into your skin as you bounced again—sharper this time, faster, not enough to finish but enough to make his hips snap up with a raw, broken thrust.

He was close. So were you.

And then—

The lights flickered on.

Too bright. Too sudden.

Edward jolted like he’d been shot, his entire body seizing beneath yours. Hands froze at your hips. Chest heaving. Eyes wide, blinking against the harsh overhead fluorescents that illuminated everything.

You saw him. Finally, saw him.

His dark hair was a wild, sweat-damp mess, curls sticking to his forehead, to his flushed cheeks and throat. His glasses were nowhere in sight. His shirt hung half-off his shoulder, collar stretched, his tank top soaked and clinging to the lean cut of his torso. His mouth was parted in shock, lips kiss-bitten, his expression utterly wrecked.

His eyes—those brilliant, electric blue eyes—looked dazed, vulnerable, caught.

And for a moment, he stopped. Like the light made it real. Like he was about to disappear inside himself and take the moment with him.

But you didn’t let him.

You cupped his face in both hands, drawing him back to you, your forehead pressing to his, your breath shaking as you stared into him.

“Don’t stop,” you whined, voice trembling, your thumbs stroking over the flushed heat of his cheeks. You started moving again, hips rolling down slow and deep. His breath caught with a startled sound, mouth falling open. “Please. Don’t stop.”

Your voice pitched higher as the rhythm built again, as your hips met his in a seamless, hungry rhythm. You kissed him—sloppy, open-mouthed, desperate—riding him with effortless, aching momentum now, the sound of your bodies echoing in the room.

“Oh god, Edward,” you gasped. “Don’t—don’t stop—ah!”

Your head fell back, mouth open, hands sliding from his face to his shoulders just as the orgasm tore through you like a storm.

Heat coiled in your belly, then exploded—sharp and bright and deep, every muscle in your body seizing as your walls clenched around him, pulsing, dragging him with you. Your cry echoed off the walls, breath breaking, thighs shaking around his waist.

He watched you come apart in his lap—eyes wide, mouth parted, reverent.

And he was right there with you.

You rode out the shudders of your orgasm with his name on your tongue, your body pulsing around him in slow, clenching waves. Your thighs quivered against his hips, your hands curled into his shoulders for balance, grip faltering as the high twisted through you—but you didn’t stop.

Didn’t dare.

Instead, you kept moving. Kept grinding your hips down onto him with slow, aching precision, milking every drop of aftershock from your own body—and dragging him with you. His hands scrambled for purchase—first at your waist, then up your back, then into your hair as his body bucked beneath yours, the tension in him a live wire, a fuse burning fast.

“Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” He looked up at you, wild and panicked, his eyes locked to yours like he was falling and couldn’t find the ground.

You didn’t let go. You gripped his jaw, holding his face steady in your hands, lips barely brushing his. “Yes, you can,” you whispered, voice wrecked and breathless. “Let me see you. Let me have you.”

Edward moaned—high, wrecked, utterly gone—and that was it.

His hips surged up into you in one final, frantic thrust, then stilled. His head dropped back, mouth open in a soundless cry as his body arched beneath yours. The orgasm ripped through him—violent and full-body—his fingers clenching at your sides as he spilled into you, hips jerking with every pulse, every helpless wave.

You stayed with him, hips still moving gently, drawing it out, wringing every last flicker of pleasure from him with your body wrapped tight around his. Watching him shake. Watching him fall apart. His eyes never left yours. Not until they fluttered closed, lashes heavy, lips parted as he sagged beneath you—shuddering, breathless, undone. You kissed his cheek, soft and reverent, then his temple, then his mouth—slow and lingering, the kind of kiss meant to tell him he survived it.

He hadn’t spoken yet. Couldn’t. But the way his arms curled around you, holding you to his chest like you were the only thing keeping him in his body—that said everything.

Feeling everything catch up to you, you let your head all to his neck, resting there, tucked there.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The cavernous lair was whirring, electronics coming alive with the backup system—it wasn’t quiet. But you were. You both were save for your panting, huffing breaths. You were both sticky with sweat, limbs tangled, your thighs aching, his hands still heavy on your back. 

Edward sat beneath you, his chest rising and falling in slow, disbelieving waves. His shirt hung from one shoulder like an afterthought. His hair was a wild mess, curls clinging to the flushed shell of his ear. He looked like he’d survived a small war.

And you? You were still straddling him. Still buried together. Still reeling.

He blinked up at the ceiling, eyes dazed, voice hoarse. “Well… that was interesting.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Shut up.”

“Can’t,” he croaked. “Think I blew a fuse. Physically. Psychologically. Possibly spiritually.”

You snorted against his skin before raising up to shake your head and narrow your eyes playfully.

He only smirked softly in that way only he could. 

Had it not been for the blackout, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe you would’ve kept circling each other for weeks. Months. Always brushing, never breaking.

Maybe the dark just gave you permission.

Compelled with this new breach in boundaries, you reached up and brushed your thumb along his cheekbone, slow and deliberate. “So…” you murmured, “that’s what it takes to get you to shut up for five minutes.”

A breath caught in his throat—half laugh, half indignation. “I was being respectfully stunned.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” You tilted your head. 

He narrowed his eyes, still breathless. “Had the lights not come back on, I could’ve salvaged my dignity.”

“Mm. No, sweetheart.” You hummed, dragging your fingers through his hair, gently teasing out a knot. “That ship got railed and sunk about twenty minutes ago.”

Edward’s hair was damp beneath your fingers, sticking to his temple, his face still flushed and dazed. You could feel his pulse through every point of contact—under your hands, inside you, in you. He blinked up at you, like the world was just now catching up to him. His mouth parted slightly, like he might try to say something clever. But he didn’t. Not yet.

You stroked your hand back through his hair, quiet. “You look like you just got struck by lightning.”

He huffed a breathless laugh, voice raw. “I feel like I forgot my own name.”

“Should I remind you?” you asked, rolling your hips once—lazy, cruel.

He flinched. “Please don’t.”

You smiled, soft and sharp. “Well then,” you said, dragging your hand down his chest like you were mapping your way back to calm, “maybe next time, you’ll think twice before you leave a mess all over the floor.”

His hand flexed at your hip, still twitchy with the aftershocks. “I didn’t—”

“Edward.”

A beat.

“…Okay,” he grumbled.

Smiling, you leaned forward, pressed a kiss to his flushed cheek, then to the edge of his jaw, slow and reverent, like you weren’t just teasing—you were claiming the wreckage.

He didn’t move. Barely breathed. You felt the twitch of his fingers against your skin, the way his chest rose to meet yours without thinking, like his body was still answering to you, even as his brain tried to catch up. And for once, he didn’t try to be clever. He didn’t deflect. He just sat there, dazed and quiet, his arms loose around your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go.

You weren’t either.

So you stayed. Straddling him on the cold, grimy floor. Skin cooling. Muscles aching. The overhead fluorescents buzzed softly above you, flickering now and then like they were struggling to decide if they were staying on for good.

Eventually, you shifted just enough to rest your forehead to his. Your nose brushed his. He exhaled.

“…We’re gonna have to move eventually,” Edward murmured.

You nodded. But didn’t move.

Not yet.

[runninriot]

Disciple (You Need To Be Owned)

written for the @steddiesongfics march prompt and as fill for the @steddiebingo main card prompt: Demon AU

song inspiration: Disciple by IAMX | wc: 2.000 | rated: E | tags: Demon Steve Harrington, Sub Eddie Munson, sexual content, dream sex - or is it?, light bondage, open ending | also on ao3

It’s a recurring dream. A little different each time but at its core, it’s always the same. Always starts with Eddie on his knees and ends in a mess of soaked sheets and sticky pants. Panting and sweaty and with his mind in shambles when he wakes up to the blaring sound of his alarm or the sun creeping in through the drapes on days with no obligations.

Eddie never knows when he will find him. There’s no tell-tale sign beforehand, and nothing he can do consciously to make it happen. He tried, desperately so, to recreate the fantasy intentionally.

Late at night, with his slick palm working himself up the point where he’s aching for relief, his cock hard and throbbing but with his mind refusing to let him sink back into the illusion that grants him bittersweet satisfaction for his fucked-up desires.

Finding relief without is harder now that he’s tasted blood. Kind of literally, but also- not? It’s difficult to explain, hard not to believe that there’s truth in this hyperreal experience of coming undone in the hands of the man-masking demon that haunts him at night.

    Steve.

What a strangely common name for an infernal being like that. A creature bound to the shadows he’s born from, existing only in the realm of night, where his victims are easy targets with their subconscious vulnerably open, susceptive to his mind games and tricks. The beautiful stranger that, not too long ago, made him an offer he couldn’t resist.

Eddie still isn’t sure if he’s making it all up. If Steve truly exists or is just another figment of his imagination. It’s hard to tell, when everything about these dreams feels so incredibly real. When he’s even got marks to prove the inexplicable.

   “I see you have been waiting for me.”

Eddie doesn’t remember falling asleep but he must have, or else he wouldn’t find himself kneeling on the floor. Naked, and with his head bowed down obediently, palms resting flat on his thighs while he waits for his master’s instructions.

   “My perfect boy,” the man praises as he steps closer, “Sorry I’ve kept you waiting. I had... other things to tend to.

Eddie feels a pang of jealousy at those words, doesn’t miss the implication of not being the only one getting to taste what he’s so addicted to.

It’s been three nights since Steve last graced him with his presence. Three restless nights where Eddie tried and failed to reach out for the images locked up in the back of his mind, the faded memories of last time.

   “Did you miss me?”

Guided by the hand grabbing his chin, he lifts his head up, eyes locking with a pair of golden-green speckled ones gleaming in the sourceless light illuminating the room.

   “Yes,” Eddie whispers, “Missed you so much.”

   “I know you did. You need me, don’t you? I’m the only one who knows how to take care of my precious boy.”

Eddie bites back a moan, can’t fight the way his eyelids flutter shut when the hand on his chin slides down to his throat, splayed out fingers tightening their grip enough for his heart rate to pick up at the alluring threat.

   “No one knows how to treat you right. Not even you. You’re lost without me. Can’t even get off without me telling you how to.”

Eddie hates that he’s right. Hates that he holds so much power over him. Hates that he can’t break free from the spell the demon has put him under. Hates that he loves what Steve is doing to him.

   “Wanna be good for you. I’ll do anything you want.”

   “Anything, huh?” Steve asks with a hint of amusement in his voice, followed by low chuckle that sends a thrilling shiver down Eddie’s spine.

   “Anything,” he confirms a little breathless, feels the smooth slide of a leather strap replacing Steve’s hand, a collar fastening tight around his neck.

   “Hmm, interesting,” Steve muses, “You never wore one before. Looks good on you, baby.”

Eddie’s confusion gets drowned out by the praise that goes straight to his dick.

   “You like that, don’t you? When I tell you you’re pretty.”

It’s not a question but Eddie answers it anyway, lets out a soft little whimper in response.

   “Maybe we should give you another accessory. Something sparkly that’ll suit you perfectly.”

Eddie’s body convulses, every part of him tensing up when he feels a sudden pressure inside. Feels something cold and slick materializing where seconds ago, he was still empty.

   “Wanna show me?”

This is different than all the other times. Usually, Steve tells him what he expects. Orders him around and gives him little choice to make adjustments. This time, Eddie seems to be in control. Because he was the one thinking about wearing a collar. He was the one imagining the plug now filling him up.

   “Am I allowed to stand up?” Eddie asks submissively, waiting for Steve’s approving nod before he rises from the floor.

   “Turn around, baby boy. Let me see.”

Eddie does as he’s told, turns and bends at the waist, places both hands on the edge of his bed, and arches his back.

He doesn’t even wonder what’s happening, when the wall he’s facing shifts before his eyes and out of nowhere, a mirror appears.

   “Oh, someone’s curious. Wanted to pry on me while I admire the pretty toy you chose?”

Eddie’s eyes flicker between his own blushing face and the image of Steve placing both hands on either side of his hips. Gliding down over the curve of his ass where he digs his fingers into the meat and spreads it further apart.

   “Gorgeous,” he says to himself and before Eddie can ask for it, he’s already crouching down, dipping his unnaturally long tongue into the cleft between Eddie’s cheeks, licking around the base of the plug, dripping spit down to his free-hanging balls.

The image in the mirror flickers, and it’s like someone has changed the channel on a TV – suddenly he sees himself from behind. Watches Steve on his knees with his face buried between his parted legs, tonguing at his skin.

It’s a filthy view. Filthy and perfect and it’s crazy to feel and to see it all happen at once.

   “Oh my God! Oh fuck, Steve!”

Eddie’s head drops between his trembling upper arms, trying to catch his breath.

   “Liking the show, baby?” He can hear the smirk in Steve’s voice, doesn’t have to look up to see the mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

Steve loves to tease him, and Eddie would be liar if he said he didn’t find pleasure in it, too.

   “That’s why I’m taking my time with you. I know what you want.”

Steve’s mouth is back on him, biting his ass and sucking bruises into the back of his upper thighs, making Eddie squirm, instinctively trying to pull away from the divine torture.

   “I should tie you down. Maybe then you’ll stay still and let me have my fun.”

Without having realised when and how it happened, Eddie suddenly finds himself lying on his bed. His arms are tied to the headboard, each leg held in place by a rope skilfully knotted around his shins and thighs in a way that should be uncomfortable but isn’t at all.

   “Knew you’d like it,” Steve says through a self-satisfied smile as he lets his fingers dance over his artful creation, “All tied up for me, no more getting away.”

Eddie looks up at what should be the plain white ceiling of his bedroom, doesn’t even blink twice when he finds his own reflection staring back down at him.

With curious eyes, he takes in the sight, lets them rake over Steve’s marvellous body where he’s sitting on his heel in front of him.

He follows the movement of Steve’s hand when he hooks two fingers around the base of the plug. Somehow sees it happen before he can feel himself clench around the broad middle, relaxing around nothing when the toy is removed from his body.

It’s obscene to watch Steve play with the skin around his hole, stretching the already loosened muscle with two fingers of each hand. Holding him open before he- spits right at it. Spreads the slickness with his thumb, circling the rim for a few teasing seconds before pushing inside.

His free hand wraps around his own hard cock, giving it a few lazy pumps while his focus stays on the not-full-enough space between Eddie’s legs.

   “Need you to fuck me, Steve. Please!” Eddie begs, wishing he could do something to offer his own weeping cock some relief. But it seems that his control ends there, because his arms stay tied, unable to move and take matters into his own hands.

   “Hah, you’re cute. Did you really think you were in charge? Baby, I’m only giving you what you want because I want it, too. The collar, the plug, the mirrors, the rope? That was all me. Just like this.”

Without a warning, Eddie's body is lifted off the sheets. Suddenly floating, weightlessly hanging from invisible hooks. More ropes sling around his limbs and torso like hungry snakes curling around their prey, biting into his skin where they tighten their grip.

He can hear Steve laugh, a low, rumbling sound like thunder, mean and possessive. Fear mixes with all-consuming desire, his insides screaming with lust for whatever the demon will offer.

   “Oh, I’ll give you everything. Everything for my sweet boy.”

And then he fucks him. Sinks into him with ease, slick and smooth like it’s nothing, like they’ve been at it for hours already. Eddie’s body shows no signs of restriction, welcomes every single one of Steve’s relentless thrusts like it was made for this. Made to take the huge cock that should hurt with every push. Should make him feel like he’s being torn apart but instead, all it does is to make Eddie cry out for more.

He needs it, can’t get enough of the feeling. Hears himself beg, for what he isn’t sure. Maybe for mercy, maybe for him to go harder, maybe all he’s pleading for is Steve’s name because it’s the only thought left on his mind.

Eddie feels light-headed. Feels like he’s slowly sinking into a pitch-black void that swallows him whole. Surrenders himself to the nothingness that takes hold of him, dissolving into the stardust particles he’s made of.

Floating.

Drifting.

Sinking.

And then he wakes up. Feels like he’s being pulled out of the water, gasping hard to fill his lungs with air. He sits up straight in his bed, heart racing and head spinning.

    Fuck.

He’s surrounded by crumpled sheets, feels the uncomfortable itch of dried cum clinging to his skin, made a mess of yet another pair of sleep shorts- but what’s new?

It takes a while for his breathing to calm, for his heart to stop pounding like it’s trying to break through his rib cage.

    Fuck, fuck, FUCK.

Eddie climbs out of bed, legs shaking hard, muscles aching like he’s been running a thousand miles.

He makes his way to the bathroom, discards his stained shorts and steps into the shower, replaying the dream on a loop. When Eddie looks down at himself, he finds his skin covered in red lines, imprints of where the ropes had been wrapped around him.

    What the hell?

There’s no way he could’ve done this to himself.

He scrubs himself down quickly, wastes no time on standing under the warm spray to relax. Couldn’t, even if he wanted to, because there’s something he needs to do.

Still naked and dripping with water, Eddie turns his back to the mirror. And when he looks over his shoulder, he finds what he’s been searching for.

Another rose, sitting there amongst six others between his shoulder blades.

Black ink carved deep into his skin.

Another tattoo he never got done.

Art, he hopes will never be finished.

[girlgenius1111]

masterlist wips last updated march 25

alexia putellas

a cure for frustration p1 make it better p2 -smut

do you want my attention? -smut

do you need me? p1 just admit it p2

tease p1 tease p2 -smut

love you anyway p1 i love you... it's all i can think p2 let me show you p3-smut

trying to be cool about it p1 we don’t have to talk about it p2 i can't hide from you like i hide from myself p3

waiting room p1 she’ll be the best you ever had if you let her p2

didn't mean to forget you

something isn’t right, babe

give you my sunshine, give you my best

got love struck went straight to my head p1 what if all i need is you p2 smut

who could stay?

talk more

didn't think that through smut

birthdays are supposed to have surprises p1 i'll be whatever you need p2

stuck with me

echoes of her

you come back with gravity

miscommunications + conversations

say it again smut

rather be anyone else

please smut please part 2

i always know what you need smut putellas!reader

when i break, it's in a million pieces chap 1 shining just for you chap 2 all i do is try, try, try chap 3

young, drunk, and alone

i'll make it through the winter if it kills me p1 i'll angel in the snow until i'm worthy p2

ona batlle

you don't have to pretend with me

that night was a mistake

that night was a mistake

is this a mistake too? [smut]

i want to be here.

pay for your crimes

the great war

sweet dream was over

it was war it wasn't fair

burning embers

maybe it's the past that's talking... screaming from the crypt

we will never go back

claudia pina

resistance & persistence

always will

misa rodriguez

to the brink

no one speaks to you like that

snapped snapped p2

jenni hermoso

homecoming

cata coll

prove yourself

leah williamson

ACL tear #4, ACL couple #2 p1 matching injuries, matching fits p2 you could see the best of me p3 smut

leila ouahabi

can she make you feel like I do? smut

patri guijarro

like you mean it p1 i know you can p2 smut

ingrid engen

i wake up screaming from dreaming

engen!reader solstråle engen - family line

all that i did to try to undo it

all of my pain and all your excuses

ingrid engen x mapí león x reader

don't doubt us

always want you

you aren’t a chore…

all the same

alexia putellas x jenni hermoso x misa rodríguez x reader [aka the orgy fic]

just let go

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

barca femeni x reader

you can let it go p1. you talk of the pain like it's all alright p2. you can start a family who will always show you love p3. one step forward and three steps back p4.

don't tell Leah

pop back up p1 key to recovery p2

i can take care of myself

no one should be alone on christmas

worry about them p1 learn your lesson p2

always enough for us

don't you trust me?

wrong.

adrenaline junkie p1 with a high comes a crash p2 aftershocks p3 crumbling under pressure p4

i don't know why i am the way i am

you can face this

screaming underwater p1 wavin' from the shore p2

arsenal wfc x reader

i could change up my body and change up my face

don't let this darkness fool you

you can’t keep secrets from us

who I write for

alexia putellas

ona batlle

mapi leon

ingrid engen

mariona caldentey

patri guijarro

claudia pina

leah williamson

alessia russo

leila ouahabi

jenni hermoso

misa rodriguez

jana fernandez

I would say that this isn't like a full list because I feel like i'm forgetting people, but also just ask, i'll probably write for a lot of people unless I don't feel like I know their personality at all.

[alaskan-wallflower]

curtis gang playing monopoly (i hate that game)

ponyboy: he plays as the lantern. he constantly targets steve (and then wonders why steve is mean to him for the rest of the night), but is actually reeeally good at sweet talking. he knows he can convince soda into buying his properties and stuff, and because he has soda wrapped around his finger, he kinda just accepts this, lol—it usually comes down to him and darry, sometimes johnny, and it’s usually a toss up of who will win. he’s really good at saving up his money and refuses to buy anything from steve, will buy stuff from johnny just so give him a shot of winning (though johnny doesn’t need it, he just fakes like he does cause if it comes down to him and darry he needs all the help he can get)

sodapop: he will break your limbs in order to be the rocking horse. the rocking horse is HIS piece. one time dally tried to take it and soda was soul crushed (and it “made dally uncomfortable” he lowkey felt bad so he just gave up. he’s honestly lowkey bad and isn’t great at math, but the gang doesn’t go easy on him just cause he sucks at counting. sometimes he’ll just give too much money and nobody will tell him, not even steve or pony. not when there’s bragging rights involved. however if he somehow beats someone’s that person will always tell him just to piss off whoever he’s given too much money to, lmao.

darry: plays as the boot. he’s the banker and deals all the money because half the gang can’t count and everyone cheats so to make it fair he plays as banker. he doesn’t cheat cause he doesn’t need to—he’s really, really good at bargaining (he learned to bargain for tips at work and he applies everything he knows lmao)—he likes to be all “are you sure? that’s a really good deal to me…” and trying to make the gang second guess themselves, not just when he’s making deals with them, but he’ll pipe up when they’re making deals with each other. he usually does this to benefit himself lol—i’d say 5 times out of 10 darry wins. he gets really competitive tho and like-him and dally have gotten into screaming matches before dally flips the board and goes out for a smoke.

johnny: plays as the scottie dog. johnny is real good at swindling and he’s really lucky (canonically—i believe he pony owed him a fair amount of money from poker before he died). he’s managed to get even darry to bend to his will and buy his properties—he’s never landed in jail once shockingly. he’s just that lucky. he stays quiet when other people are making deals, but he, like darry. will pipe up and say something to try and convince them to do what’ll benefit him more in the long run. he usually walks away the winner when darry doesn’t win. he’s a good sport about it tho when he loses. when he wins tho he brags about it a little tho

dally: he plays as the battleship. the gang had to make a rule that every time dally tried to swipe someone’s money unlawfully, he has to be put in jail, or he has to “pay a fine”. he spends half the game in jail. when he’s not in jail, he’s actually somewhat good at making deals. the only ones he hasn’t cracked are johnny and darry. dally usually places fourth, but whenever he loses, he’s saying smth like “oh no, there’s an earthquake!” and straight up flips the board and goes outside for a smoke. he accuses darry of cheating since he’s the banker all. the. time. that’s usually what sparks the screaming matches (and he’s the one who starts the screaming lmao)

two-bit: he plays as the top hat (cause he’s a fancy gentleman)-he doesn’t take the game seriously at all. he’s usually drunk while playing anyhow, so he’s not making the wisest decisions. one time pony managed to swindle him out of a good $20,000 for a house. he’s usually trying to cheer on whoever is winning when he loses, though—he likes to move the pieces around when no one’s looking and tries gaslighting everyone into thinking that’s where they all were. no one falls for it. one time darry straight up lifted him up by the collar and told him he’d belt him if he did it again. two doesn’t do it again for at least a week. he’s not a sore loser, but whenever whoever he was rooting fir loses he’s all “THATS UNFAIR”

steve: plays as the race car (ofc)—like how soda’s piece is the horse, the car is his piece. he broke dally’s hand one time because he was joking around about how they should “switch things up” but later he was walking on eggshells cause he knew as soon as that hand healed he’d be getting belted with it. he’s got a quick tongue and is semi good at convincing people to do what he wants, but he’s not great af it. he gets by far the most competitive out of anyone in the gang, even dally. the “brawn no brains” comment to darry was definitely from one of their game nights. if he’s in jail, he’s dragging soda into jail with him somehow. he’s such a sore loser like when he loses he just stands up and spits something about “going for a drive” and comes back at 3am to steal some cake out of pettiness.

[alexiaput3llas]

Game of Love/ Alexia Putellas x Reader

Warnings: Nothing but fluff. Maybe one swear word

Author: So this is my first time writing, because I always wanted to try it and I have to say I´m a vey slow writer but it is a lot of fun. Also english is not my first language anyways enjoy (-;

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You barely get nervous, but here you are. You're about to head out to the pitch. It is the Champions League final 2024, and Barcelona is facing none other than the mighty Lyon. But this Barcelona is different from the ones that lost to Lyon before. This Barcelona is determined to win.

You get pulled out of your thoughts by a familiar hand on your shoulder. You recognize that touch among billions, and her scent will forever be your favorite. Alexia and you have been dating for four years.

You signed to Barcelona 6 Years ago and Alexia and you immediately clicked. You became friends with her on instant and after some time you started to devolve a small huge crush on her. What you didn’t realize that she felt the same, but after a night out with the team to celebrate your Copa de la Reina victory, where everyone, including Alexia, drank a bit too much, things between you and her got really heated and after some shameless flirting on both sides, grinding on each other on the dance floor and some more drinks, you found yourself the next morning in an unfamiliar hotel room with brown hair sprawled everywhere. You couldn´t help but admire her and hoped that also for her this was not only a one night stand. So after she woke up, you both got to talk and finally admitted your feelings for each other.

And here you are now, facing your lover, who only for you breaks her serious game face, which, in your opinion, is one of the most attractive things in the world, into an encouraging smile. "Are you ready, mi amor?" Alexia, of course, notices your nervous state. "You don't have to be nervous, okay? We are a different team now, and you have the season of your life." It is true; you have the season of your life and have already won the league. "Thanks, baby, I really needed that." She nods, gives you a quick kiss on the forehead, on your nose, your right cheek, your left cheek, and finally, your lips.

You can't help the butterflies that erupt in your stomach, and you smile into the kiss. "Break it up, lovebirds, will ya!" Mapi chuckles behind you. You break away from Alexia's soft lips, giggle, and hug your girlfriend. "I love you," you mumble in her neck. "And I love you more." She steps out of your embrace and kisses the top of your head. Just about when you wanted to protest that you love her more, she shuts you up with one final kiss to your lips and eventually takes her spot to lead out the team.

The game couldn't start any worse. In the third minute of the game, Ada Hegerberg scored a beauty, leaving Cata Coll no chance. In the 20th minute, it was 2:0 Lyon, thanks to Van de Donk. Only 5 minutes afterward, Ada Hegerberg scored her second goal of the evening, and it was 3:0. You immediately got flashbacks to Turin 2 years ago, but you had to shake these thoughts out of your head. Lyon presses high, and Barcelona was lucky not to concede any more goals. The ref blew the halftime whistle, and both teams headed to the changing rooms.

Everyone's heads hang low. I sit at my cubby talking with Aitana about strategies when I feel a presence next to me. It was Alexia, who immediately joined our conversation to outline the game. She placed one hand on my thigh and gave it a few encouraging squeezes. Jonathan came in: “Chicas, nothing is lost yet. We all know what we're capable of, and if anyone can turn the game around, it's Barca. Vamos!”. "VAMOS!" Everyone in the changing room knew that this game was not over, and with new hope and confidence, we headed out to the pitch to start the second half.

And with confidence, we played. We started the second half way better, and after only ten minutes, after an amazing pass from Alexia, Aitana could find the back of the net. And that was all we needed.

A corner kick, Mariona made it 3:2.

Alexia passed the ball to you, and you began to run down the field, suddenly having a lot of open space. Just as you were about to shoot, you felt some cleats colliding with your ankle, making you stumble to the ground in pain. Your ankle throbbed, and not long after, the medics arrived.

At the same time, Alexia shoved Ada, who made the tackle. "You could've hurt her. That has to be a fucking card!" Ada shoved Alexia back and growled, "I didn't fucking touch her. She fell to the ground because of nothing." Just as Alexia was about to respond, with what would have definitely been a hard push, Mapi grabbed her. "Ale, calm down. Let her go! Y/N needs you more. She isn't worth it." With one last angry glare at Ada, Alexia made its way to you. "Mi amor, are you okay?" "Peachy," you responded. "Is it bad?" Alexia mumbled to the physios. "No, it's alright. She's alright to continue to play."

The tackle was rewarded with a free kick, which Alexia easily slotted into the top left corner. You ran to her, and all gathered in a big hug. "Freaking yes, Baby. What a goal!" You gave her a secret kiss on her neck.

With now only 5 more minutes left on the clock, everything hurt. But you couldn't just give up. You sprinted to recover a ball and sent it to Patri, who dribbled around one Lyon Player and passed it back to you. And you did what you can do best. Shoot. You just took the shot. And…

"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!" Everyone was screaming from the top of their lungs. Your shot probably won Barca the Champions League. With only a few minutes left, Barcelona did everything they could to defend their lead, and that was what you did. Throwing in every ball, running even though it hurt.

The whistle blew. Barcelona had done it. You are the champions of Europe once again. You sank to your knees, overwhelmed with emotions. You soon locked eyes with those sparkling hazel eyes, and a beaming smile made its way across your face, as does it with Alexia. You made your way over to her and pulled her into a tight hug. "I'm so proud of, Ale," you mumbled into her neck. "And I'm so unbelievably proud of you, mi amor. That goal was a beauty." You chuckled. "It still feels surreal. I mean, we won it now for the third time, but I never get tired of it." You looked up at her, and the desire to just kiss her grew inside of you. The way her eyes sparkled, her teeth-showing smile, and a look of adoration towards you only intensifies it.

Without hesitation, you fulfill your desire and press your lips against Alexia's. The taste of victory is sweeter than any championship, and in that moment, the world disappears around you. The cheers from the stadium, the flashing cameras, and the ecstatic teammates fade into the background, leaving only you and Alexia, lost in the celebration of your shared triumph.

Breaking the kiss, you rest your forehead against hers, breathing in sync as the magnitude of the moment sinks in. The elation, the relief, and the sheer joy are palpable, and you can't help but grin. "We did it," you whisper, more to yourself than to Alexia, as if saying it out loud would make the reality even more concrete.

"We did," she replies, her voice filled with a mix of happiness and disbelief. "I knew you'd make a difference, but that last goal..." She trails off, shaking her head in amazement.

The team gathers around, enveloping both of you in a collective embrace. Laughter, cheers, and the occasional tear of happiness mingle as you bask in the glory of the victory. Champagne bottles pop open, and the sparkling liquid showers everyone, marking the end of a long and challenging journey.

Amidst the jubilation, you steal a moment alone with Alexia. Hand in hand, you slip away from the chaos and find a quiet corner of the stadium. The echo of cheers becomes a distant hum as you lean against a railing, gazing out at the pitch where the triumph unfolded. She pushed you gently against the wall and kissed you softly, with so much love. After a few minutes, you broke apart and rested your foreheads together.

"It's incredible, isn't it?" Alexia murmurs, her eyes reflecting the shimmering lights of the stadium. "All those years of hard work, the setbacks, the victories, and now... this." She gestures to the field below, still alive with the energy of the recently concluded match.

You nod, a profound sense of accomplishment settling in your chest. "And to think it all started with that Copa de la Reina celebration."

Alexia chuckles, her hand finding yours. "A night we'll never forget."

And with that, you join your teammates again for the celebrations.

You knew that whatever will happen on the pitch, you would always have a safe place off the pitch.

Alexia

[comikas-fandom-dump]

I was working on a different analysis, only to find the Chunin Exams even more unreasonably barbaric than usual. Because, honestly, why?

Yes, yes, I know. Tobirama designed the modern Shinobi system and the Chunin Exams were introduced as a replacement to war. However, before the preliminaries in Part 1 of Naruto, Hiruzen gives us a brief lesson in history, and it made me curious.

"[...] our alliance is, in fact... a temporary and mutually beneficial agreement between a group of geographically contiguous lands... whose previous existence was one of continual strife... constantly jockeying aganst one another [...] until a better way was devised... the way of the Chunin Selection Examination...!"

To summarize, the Chunin Exams were introduced as a replacement, or rather, a preventative measure for war, hoping to sate the villages' need to show off.

Thing is, Tobirama died in the First Great Shinobi War, meaning that, between the introduction of the Chunin Selection Exams into the world and Part 1 of Naruto, three world wars have taken place. Then add a bunch of minor conflicts, such as the attempted kidnapping of Hinata by Kumogakure, and we soon realize that the Chunin Selection Exams have actually done nothing to prevent conflict in the past four decades or so. So why continue holding them in this, frankly, self-destructive way?

I see two possible explanations for this:

In spite of bearing witness to the previous uselessness of the Chunin Exams, he never thought to re-adjust them into non-killing games.

The current style and purpose of the Chunin Exams are actually a fairly recent development.

And I know that the wording here already further supports the second reading due to Hiruzen's focus on "recent history" - But, personally, I wouldn't pay too much mind to such details as Viz is not exactly known for its accurate translations. This leaves us with no definitive proof for either of these two hypotheses.

What we do know, however, is that, in the past, the Chunin Exams were held under far less lethal conditions. Thanks to Obito's flashbacks in Chapter #599, we can make a direct comparison. As it turns out, the second stage is unnecessarily barbaric.

During Team Minato's era, the second stage of the Chunin Exams once consisted of simple team battles. Since the exams likely took place during wartime, the teams probably consisted of Konoha shinobi only. Hence, none of the examinees should have had any particular desire to eliminate their opponent, rather than just beating them in combat and winning the round. On top of that, proctors were put into place to supervise the battles, and it is entirely possible that the teams were allowed to take breaks between rounds.

Meanwhile, Team 7's Chunin Exams were exactly that but with no proctors and no breaks, in the form of a 120-hour-survival test, stuck between enemy teams and wild animals. Examinees originated from all across the continent, including rival nations, potentially with a desire or incentive to kill and maim their opponents.

And, of course, during Team Minato's era, the third stage of the Chunin Exams consisted of one-on-one battles in a secluded, private arena, whereas participants during Team 7's exam were made to fight in a grand stadium with foreign guests for the "prestige of the village". But that's just a minor nitpick, honestly.

And even if we were to argue that due to an ongoing war, Konoha simply couldn't afford to open its gates to foreign guests and risk exposing their Genin's abilities to the enemy... the same case can be made in the present day.

If tensions are already on the rise to the point of requiring a glorified child-killing event to keep enemy forces happy, those foreign relationships are probably beyond saving already. Truly, Konoha never was at peace, only ever maintaining a begrudging armistice. Therefore, opening your door to a potential enemy is always a weakness to exploit. If not to invade you today (like Orochimaru did), it can be used to collect intel on your shinobi for tomorrow's invasion.

So yeah, the point still stands.

They were capable of holding the Chunin Exams under relatively safe conditions previously. They were not, however, capable of "promoting friendship" via the Chunin Exams. Realistically, letting down your defenses and allowing foreign shinobi to kill your young sure has to have backfired in the past already. So why? Why bear the risk?

I wouldn't be surprised if the current style of the Chunin Exams were a recent development in hopes of preserving peace after the passing of three wars. Or if they had been temporarily changed back when Hiruzen was still too optimistic about peace in the Ninja world.

[melishade]

Attack on Prime Future Anthology: Clearing Out

Main Story

The Soundwave Debacle Part 2

The Soundwave Debacle Part 3

Aquarium

Leadership Advice

The Survey Corps clear out Eren's home.

Historia rubbed her temple, trying to ease the headache that manifested during this conversation. She was sitting in her office on Paradis, currently speaking with Premier Pixis. "This...this is a terrible idea."

Pixis let out a small sigh. "His home has remained untouched for the past six months. We purposefully obscured the location to prevent anyone from trying to kidnap him. And Nile Dok had the Military Police investigate his home to try and find information that explained why he went AWOL."

"What of the notebook?" Historia asked.

"In our possession," Pixis replied, "But the power of the titans have been vanquished, and there is no valuable information that discusses what happened after the Rumbling. There have been discussion about destroying the book."

Historia wiped her eyes in exhaustion.

"I only bring this up with you because I do believe that they deserve some form of closure," Pixis insisted.

Historia tapped her fingers against her cheek before sighing in defeat. "If they decide to say no, do whatever you see fit with the cabin."

"As you wish, Queen Historia." Pixis stood up and bowed before her.

===

A few days later

Jean couldn't help but gulp nervously. "Clear out...Eren's home?"

"Yes," Pixis replied to them, "Eren's home has been vacant for the past few months, and even though Nile had conducted a search into the home for anything vital, nothing appeared other than the notebook we had acquired. We're prepared to close the home, but considering...your relationship with Eren, we figured that you would want to collect anything that was vital to Eren before...dismantling the home."

"Dismantling?" Sasha questioned.

"Well, the island's opinion on Eren is rather mixed, but I don't think it would be a good idea in terms of politics and morals to have Eren's home still standing," Pixis explained, "I already spoke with Queen Historia and she has approved of it. But, the decision is completely up to you."

Jean and Sasha turned their attention to Armin and Mikasa.

"What do you guys want to do?" Sasha asked.

Mikasa's hand twitched to reach for her neck, but she stopped herself, slowly breaking this long time habit. "I...I think it might be good."

"You sure?" Jean pressed.

"I'm not fragile," Mikasa insisted.

"We need to clean out the home and no one else will do it," Armin proclaimed.

"...very well. I will also inform Optimus about the situation," Pixis declared.

"Wait, are you sure that's a good idea?" Sasha asked nervously.

"Considering Optimus' connection to Eren, he also deserves so be informed of what will happen to his possessions," Pixis insisted before waving goodbye, "Let me know when it will be a good time for you."

"Thank you!" Jean called out while Armin looked down at the ground in displeasure.

"Armin," Mikasa whispered to him.

"I'll be fine," Armin reassured, "It's just a house. That's it."

The two had already disavowed Eren. Why should cleaning up a house make them feel any worse?

===

The Nemesis

Optimus remained quiet, digesting the information Pixis had given him. Meanwhile, Megatron was quietly waiting on the sidelines, ready to intervene if need be. Pixis help but feel a bit concerned at Optimus' silence, but the Prime recollected himself.

"I will assist the Survey Corps in clearing out Eren's home," Optimus said.

"Very well." Pixis replied before Megatron opened the massive door, allowing Pixis to leave the room.

Megatron turned his attention to Optimus. "I don't think you're currently in the right mindset to go into Eren's home."

"The 104th have agreed to this," Optimus reminded, "And this is something I must do for myself."

"...I'm coming," Megatron decided.

"But-!"

"I'm coming and that's final," Megatron cut him off.

"...Fine," Optimus relented.

===

A week later

The 104th stood rather awkwardly in front of Eren's home, collecting dust from the months of neglect. It was isolated. Away from any major populated area. Quiet. Optimus had just arrived on the scene in his alt mode before activating his holoform. The Prime searched for Megatron's holoform and saw the ex-con's holoform leaning against the side of the one story home.

"Soooo...." Miko trailed off as she stood next to Jack, Rafael, and Arcee, holding boxes in their hand, "Why are we here?"

"Moral support and everyone else is busy," Jack answered.

"And why are they here?" Miko pointed to Hanji, Erwin, and Levi with cleaning supplies. The captain was currently adjusting the bandana around his head.

"Because apparently the captain is a clean freak," Annie replied as she walked up to the four.

"And why are you here?" Rafael asked in disbelief.

"Guilt," Annie curtly replied.

"Mood." Miko hummed in response.

Levi rolled his wheelchair up to the door and opened it. "I don't care what bullshit feelings you got going on here. We're cleaning the damn place up."

"Isn't it getting demolished?!" Miko interjected.

"I don't care! Get your ass up here!" Levi ordered as Hanji skipped inside, followed by Erwin.

"Yeah cleaning out the house of a dead genocidal maniac is how I wanted to spend my Friday." Miko rolled her eyes in response.

"Miko, either behave or go help Bulkhead or something," Arcee warned.

"Actually, why are you here? Didn't he cut off your arm?" Miko demanded.

"it's complicated," Arcee admitted.

Armin took a deep breath calming his nerves before stepping inside the house. Mikasa saw Armin's bravery and followed after her friend. When they stepped inside they were met with a living room and a kitchen, and a hallway that led to other rooms. Mikasa and Armin did see a table with a picture frame facing downward.

"God, Eren really doesn't have a lot of shit," Hanji remarked as they came out a closet with a pile of clothes in their hands.

"Eren's...always been like that," Armin admitted.

"Well if he doesn't have a lot of stuff and there's a lot of us, then this should go fast," Jean proclaimed as he, Sasha, and Annie walked inside.

Hanji picked up one of Eren's shirts. "Anyone low on clothes?"

"First of all, ew," Miko commented as she, Jack, and Rafael stepped inside, "Second, Earth's fashion is a lot better."

"Then pack it up!" Levi ordered them as he peered his head out into the hallway.

Miko groaned while Jack and Rafael simply started putting Eren's clothes in the boxes. Meanwhile, Optimus and Megatron had stepped inside the home. Megatron turned his attention to Optimus, and saw that his expression was full of sadness and remorse.

"Prime," Megatron whispered to him.

"I'm fine," Optimus addressed the ex-con before going over to the kitchen.

"Levi, I don't understand why you do insist on cleaning some of these rooms if this house is going to be demolished," Erwin remarked as he removed the bandana from his mouth.

"...This is just my way of dealing with it," Levi admitted, "Maybe me trying to wipe away what's left of him..."

Erwin didn't reply to that as he put the bandana back over his mouth.

Jean and Sasha wear scouring through the closet, pulling out items like loose change, shoes, and cleaning supplies. Jean was stunned to find a chess board in there, harboring all the chess pieces when her opened the compartment on the side.

“When did Eren learn how to play chess?” Jean asked Armin and Mikasa.

“I…I don’t know,” Mikasa admitted.

“Premier Pixis gave that to him as a gift,” Optimus explained as he continued to pull the kitchen utensils from the drawer.

“…it does look like a nice set,” Sasha commented, “Maybe we could sell it?”

“Doubt anyone would buy it,” Annie proclaimed, picking up a chair and bringing it to the door.

“It would be a bad idea to let all this furniture go to waste.” Hanji gestured to the couch.

“If you wish to make a profit, don’t say where the items are from,” Megatron warned as he picked up one end of the couch and dragged it closer to the door. Arcee then stuck her servo in through the front door and picked up the couch before pulling it outside with ease.

Mikasa couldn’t help but walk down the hall towards Eren’s room and step inside. There was little to nothing in there. There was a bed and a small cabinet drawer, but nothing else. Even so, she couldn’t help but search. Under the bed, through the cabinet drawers, in between the sheets. But there was nothing.

"Mikasa?" Armin called out to her as he entered the room, "What's wrong?"

Mikasa slumped over in defeat. "I...I can't find it."

"Find what?" Armin asked.

"The bracelet that I got Eren from Hizuru," Mikasa explained, "It's not here..." Mikasa stood up before pulling Eren's sheets off of his bed, "Maybe he got rid of it."

Armin stepped aside, letting Mikasa step out of the room. Mikasa walked towards Annie when she saw she wasn't doing anything and handed one end of the blanket to her. "Can you help me fold this?"

"Sure." Annie took the end of the blankets before extending her arms outward to straighten it out. "I'm...surprised you didn't protest me being here."

"...I'm actually grateful for all the help," Mikasa insisted.

Armin then stepped inside the room. He don't know why he did. Maybe he thought he could feel Eren's presence here. But he wasn't here. He knew that. He knew where Eren was and who had him.

"Armin." Armin turned to see Levi in the hallway.

"I need your help with something," Levi informed.

"Sure." Armin followed the captain behind.

A few hours had past and most of Eren's possessions were already out the door. His clothes and knick knacks were already packed in boxes while majority of the furniture was stacked in a pile.

"Looks like were going to have to ship the furniture out," Arcee remarked as she and humans stared at the pile.

"Or, ya know, we can just burn it." Miko pulled out a lighter and ignited a small flame.

"C'mon Miko." Jack snatched the lighter from her.

"Jean! Sasha! What do you guys want to do with this stuff?!" Rafael called out to the two.

"Any ideas?" Jean asked.

"I think my parents need new kitchen stuff, so I could just take that," Sasha answered.

Megatron noticed the table still sitting against the wall with the picture frame facing downward. The former warlord mindlessly picked up the frame and handed it over to the closest person to him: Mikasa.

"Hold this. I'm going to take the table outside," Megatron ordered.

"Okay." Mikasa took the frame as Megatron moved to grab the table. Mikasa then got a good look at the frame and gasped in shock. She scrambled to pick it up and stepped back into the light to get a better look at it. It was....it was a picture....a drawing....of her mom. Of Carla. The woman was holding Eren as a toddler, and by the looks of it, Eren was chewing on Carla's hair.

Eren...Eren still had this. After all this time! She remembered him telling her about the letter and even showing the picture, but she had forgotten all about it considering the situation they were in. But...Carla was her mother too...how could she forget her face?

Tears fell out of Mikasa's eyes, her lips began to quiver, and her knees began to quake. She let out a wretched sob, gaining the attention of everyone still in the house. Optimus saw her holding the frame close to her chest and felt dread in his spark. He knew what Mikasa was crying about. He knew what she was holding.

Mikasa's legs gave out and Optimus bolted and caught her before she hit the ground. He lowered the both of them down gently as Mikasa was wrecked with grief. She wailed continuously, not once letting go of the frame she was holding. She tried to control her tears, but the more she tried the more burst out of her. Optimus wrapped an arm around her waist and placed a hand on her head. Optimus' eyes closed shut as Mikasa continued to cry in his chest. He wanted to say something to comfort her, but he had nothing to say. However, he did remember that the picture had come with a letter.

"Megatron, check the other furniture!" Optimus ordered him, "There's a letter that Eren's mother wrote for him!"

"Wait, what?!" Armin exclaimed as Megatron ran to the pile outside. He started scouring through the mess, taking everyone by surprise.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Miko demanded.

"Did any of you see a letter when going through his stuff?" Megatron asked as he opened cabinet drawers.

"Oh, you mean this thing?" Hanji waved a letter in their hand.

"Damn it, Hanji!" Megatron swore at them as they stormed up to them and snatched the letter.

"Well, I was going to give to Mikasa in private!" Hanji defended themselves.

Megatron handed the letter over to Optimus. "Here."

"Thank you." Optimus took the letter from him.

"I-!" Mikasa hiccuped. "I wanna go home. Please."

"Your cabin?" Optimus whispered to her, and she nodded in response. Optimus carried Mikasa in his arms while she hid her face in his chest. He ran towards his alt mode and opened the passenger door before placing Mikasa inside. He glanced at the others, but didn't say a goodbye before deactivating the holoform and driving off.

"Why was Mikasa crying?" Annie asked.

"Eren's mother, Carla, sent a letter and a drawing of her and her son to the trainee instructor," Megatron explained.

"Wait that doesn't make-!"

"Carla raised Mikasa when she lost her family," Armin cut Miko off, and everyone saw the rather dejected look in his eyes, "Carla's Mikasa's mother too."

Armin took a deep breath and sighed in defeat. "I'm going to head home. I need time to think."

"Wait, Armin!" Jean called out as Armin began to just mindlessly walk. He didn't even bother to ask for a ride or even a groundbridge. "Armin, wait, come back!"

"Armin needs time to himself," Erwin declared, "This was already difficult for both him and Mikasa."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Jean insisted, "At least Mikasa has Optimus with her, but Armin-!"

"I'll go check on him." Megatron walked away from the crowd.

"Wait, are we going to let that happen?!" Rafael demanded.

"Eh, Megatron's got a soft spot for Armin. He should be fine," Hanji shrugged.

"That's so weird! Stop being casual about it!" Rafael ordered.

"So now what do we do with all this stuff?" Jack asked.

"I can call Bulk and ask him to smash the house," Arcee offered.

A idea sprang into Miko's head before she grinned maliciously. "Oh I have a better idea."

"Define better," Jack demanded.

"Annie!" Miko pointed to the former titan shifter, "Call your friends and tell them to come over here! Jack! Raf! Let's get all the melee weapons that we can find! And PPE!"

"For what?!" Annie asked.

"We're turning Eren's home into an impromptu rage room!" Miko declared.

"...Sure, why the hell not?" Rafael agreed.

"Rage room?" Sasha asked in confusion.

"Long story short: we're demolishing the place ourselves while also getting some aggression out," Jack explained.

"I told you that cleaning the place was a waste of time," Hanji chided Levi.

"It's my process. Deal with it," Levi hissed at them.

Meanwhile, Megatron continued following Armin through the landscape. As Megatron got closer and closer, Armin had paused in his step.

"Megatron, I just...I want to be alone right now," Armin explained.

"...I just want to make sure you are alright," Megatron confessed, "I can imagine the pain and suffering you must be going through right now."

Armin wanted to retort, but remembered Optimus and Megatron's complex history. "I know that you're an expert on the topic, but...I think I just need this time by myself."

"I can remain silent. I just don't want you doing anything brash," Megatron stated.

"I'm not the type to act so reckless," Armin reminded before grimacing, "Eren on the other hand-!"

"Didn't know when to quit," Megatron finished the sentence, "...This might seem like...foolishness on my end. Or a false promise...but...Eren must have believed the Rumbling was the better option as a misguided attempt to protect you. I'm certain in his insanity and delusions, a small part of him still cared about you. And he was just trying to justify it all."

“Why should I care about Eren?” Armin demanded coldly.

Megatron was shocked by Armin’s response before getting down on his knees. “Armin-!”

“He lied to us,” Armin began, “He betrayed us. He tried to kill us. He destroyed our childhood home. He destroyed the walls, he let us defenseless! He hurt Mikasa! He hurt Optimus! He hurt everyone! And now I'm stuck cleaning up his messes, his cabin, his destruction; no doubt for the rest of my life!”

Armin took a deep breath and tried not to cry in front of the titan. “Part of me still cares about Eren. I'm still fond of the memories the two of us had together. But...they've become so soured after everything that's happened. And I want to hate him. I do. It would just make things easier. It would just be easier to say I hope Eren is rotting in hell for everything he did to us.”

Armin glanced up at the titan and was startled to see a swirl of emotions in his eyes. He saw understanding, sorrow, regret, and…sympathy. “You have a right to be angry.”

Armin blinked in response, surprised by this strange and rare act of kindness from Megatron.

“Eren lied to you and broke your trust and tried to kill you,” Megatron continued, “And I wasn’t able to stop Eren.”

“…you were strung along too,” Armin retorted, “He used you too.”

“I don’t care; that is something I deserve,” Megatron proclaimed, “You didn’t. Eren left you alone. Eren lost sight of his initial goal and of you. You are…a good person, and…a good friend, and Eren tossed you aside for revenge and power. You did not deserve that. You deserved better.”

Armin solemnly laughed. “My own friend, my family, the one who I stood by after all these years, didn’t care about me. Mikasa doesn't need me. She can take care of herself. I’m worthless…I should’ve died all those years ago, when Optimus first came here.”

Megatron's expression morphed into that of horror. “Take it back.”

“…what?”

“Take it back, now!” Megatron shouted at him, grabbing his shoulder, “Take those words back, right now!”

“…they’re true,” Armin proclaimed.

“They’re not!” Megatron shouted, “By the Allspark, they are not and never will be true!”

Armin blinked in surprise as he saw that Megatron was genuinely hurt by Armin’s words.

“You listened to me, when no one else would!” Megatron continued, “You gave me the benefit of a doubt when everyone thought I was a lost cause! You believed in me, when I didn’t even believe that I was capable of doing the right thing! You!...saw my worth, when I thought I was worthless.”

Armin gasped in surprise when Megatron brought him into a tight embrace. “You are allowed to cry and grieve; you are allowed to feel like this. I will be here for you now; I swear. But you are not and will never be worthless. Take those words back, because they are not and never will be true.”

It took time for Armin to process those words. To hear that someone cared, to hear that someone believed in his worth when he didn’t believe in himself any more. It felt like a damn just suddenly burst, and he just shattered to pieces.

Armin began trembling, then he started laughing, then he started cry, until he was outright sobbing in Megatron’s arms. He grabbed Megatron’s coat and tightened his grip in the fake fabric as he screamed and cried in agony. Armin fell to his knees and Megatron quickly followed him to the ground, not letting go of him for a second.

“W-why?!” Armin sobbed into Megatron’s shoulder, “Why did he leave us?! Why did he-he cast us a-aside?! W-we-we were s-supposed to s-see the outside together! W-we w-ere sup-osed to s-survive! D-did he hate t-the world t-that m-much th-at he l-left us?! Did he not c-care for us at all?! I hate him! I hate him! I hate him! He was my best friend, but I was just a prop! A tool for his benefit! WHY?!”

“…I’m so sorry,” Megatron apologized, but he was sure Armin couldn’t hear him over his own sorrow, "...Armin...Armin I think it would be wise for you to be with Mikasa right now."

"N-no! I can't! Mikasa, she-!"

"I don't want you to be by yourself and I'm not fully equipped for this," Megatron confessed, "We can walk there. That's fine. Just...don't do this to yourself."

Armin didn't have the energy to protest because it was all spent crying his tears. Megatron then effortlessly carried Armin over his back and began walking towards Optimus' signal.

(I know I haven't posted the Future Anthology in a while, I've been going through it these past few months. It's like the universe cursed me.)

[annemarieyeretzian]

A note on my ART MOM logo:

This is a haphazard Photoshop recreation of the text on the back of a shirt one of my favorite former kids (I say ‘kid’; he’s a wholeass adult, but once one of my kids, always one of my kids), Arik – a talented textile artist and photographer/videographer as well as an excellent student and exceptional human being – gifted to me:

I asked Arik to speak to the meaning of the material(s) and process of the work, and in his own words:

“The initial reason why I started making clothes was very simple.

When I moved to America at 13, I had completely lost my routine I had in my small town, Colle. There I had this sense of freedom and connection with my surroundings... I was able to walk over to the neighboring town... and be with my group of 7 other friends that were basically part of my everyday life. We could run through wheat fields and vineyards since we were constantly surrounded by the backdrop of the Tuscan hills in the middle of the countryside. That was our habitat constantly, and we didn’t even understand back then how valuable that was. But we had this sense of collective gratefulness for one another and our small towns.

When I underwent the extreme culture shock of moving to suburban America, I felt completely alone and had lost that freedom.

Everything was so different, and maybe it was because I was growing up or maybe it was America, but it felt like everything there was motivated by school or something work-oriented. People didn’t just go outside in the woods the way we would just because it was beautiful and to have fun. That drastic change put my 13 year old self in a position where it felt hard to come back from school and either do homework or go to practice for a sport, never just to bond with others or spend genuine time that you enjoy. The motives were different; that freedom I had been exposed to my whole life disappeared. So I needed to replace my real friends back in Italy with an activity because it felt impossible to [recreate] that environment.

So I instinctually started making clothes and stealing my mother’s sewing machine and using it on the floor by sitting slouched over it in the ugliest and most uncomfortable position that I quickly found beauty and comfort in. That was it. That was my friend.

It was my first form of therapy that I believe was actually working for me. I have no idea therapy from what, maybe the culture shock, maybe that drastic change in scenery, but it felt good and I started developing a relationship with textures, threads, and my mother’s sewing machine. It was my friend. I could talk to it about anything.

When I started sewing denim, I started noticing how the needle would break so often. Basically every few minutes. I would buy like 10 packs of the strongest needles and go through a few packs in one sitting. It was a little dangerous and so hard to sew through at times but I loved it. It was so rugged and tough. I liked the thickness and texture a lot – especially the lighter wash denim was my favorite so I could also draw on it with markers – it became like my canvas.

As I started experimenting in different ways with the material, I understood that denim was a testament to humanity: You have to be tough if you want to last.

I started making connections with how so many workers wore denim and realized it was actually invented as workwear for its durability. But it also made me think of who in the first place, specifically in America, were the people gathering the raw material for denim to be created. And it was enslaved black people. It made me think about how many needles I would break trying to sew through the material and how many people must’ve felt the same while gathering cotton. Being broken for a purpose that ultimately did not benefit them.

I was also able to make the connection between how work and working is breaking our society beyond slavery. This desire for infinite consumption and working so much like machines that we don’t even give ourselves the time to walk on some hills or touch some grass, that’s the slavery that continues in all of our lives. Consumerism.

I think denim is a perfect metaphor for that. How we kill ourselves just to consume products that open more voids in our hearts. We are working towards someone else’s dream and someone else’s purpose and convincing ourselves through what’s being told and sold to us that we need things and money and to work harder to achieve things that don’t even actually fulfill us.

That was denim to me, an empty promise.

To me, denim looked beautiful and represented something I could fight against. My process of making clothes is so personal to me that to this day, I’ve struggled so much to turn it into a marketable and profitable business, because to me it’s not, even though everyone tells me to. I’d rather gift my art to my professor that represented a huge pivotal moment in my life.”

[every-vowel-is-o]

My heart was stolen by a blind pickpocket In the deep city streets in the summer of 2012 And I never even saw her face My dreams were shattered like a stained glass window Jesus in pieces, I believe I threw a brick right through him But my memory could not be saved

It just seems unlikely that it's me who was to blame So I bookmark my DSM 'cause I need to remember my place, ow!

This is not enough, this is not enough to prove it yet No, I need to hit the bottom This is not enough, this is not enough to prove it yet No, I need to hit the bottom

Gotta get to the bottom of this Gotta get to the bottom of this Gotta get to the bottom of this Take you with me

My soul was crushed like a tall boy Underneath the boots on the curb And I'm still picking up my molars And putting them back in my face My name was soiled by a last call spill With a backwash swill and the blackout killed me Sober on impact from a fall from grace

Take the road on higher ground and tell me "Don't look down! You'll fall and break your back!" But that just reminds me how There's more to be found beneath the black

This is not enough, this is not enough to prove it yet No, I need to hit the bottom This is not enough, this is not enough to prove it yet No, I need to hit the bottom

Gotta get to the bottom of this Gotta get to the bottom of this Gotta get to the bottom of this Take you with me

Bottle, well, or barrel? All are empty Dug, or drank, or poured it out When too much is not enough, there's plenty more Where that came from around Looking up, we see the point of entry Between where we are and we've been

Looking up, I could say Heaven sent me Hand me my shovel, I'm going in! Looking up, we see the point of entry Between where we are and we've been Looking down, I could say Heaven sent me Hand me my shovel, I'm going in

Gotta get to the bottom of this Gotta get to the bottom of this Gotta get to the bottom of this Gotta, gotta get, gotta, gotta get, gotta get Gotta get to the bottom of this Gotta, gotta get, gotta, gotta get, gotta get Gotta get to the bottom of this Gotta, gotta get, gotta, gotta get, gotta get Gotta get to the bottom of this If it it kills me!

Gotta, gotta get gotta, ow Gotta get to the bottom of this Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey Gotta get to the bottom of this Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey Gotta get to the bottom of this If it kills me

This is not enough, this is not enough, not enough to prove it yet No, I need to hit the bottom This is not enough, this is not enough, not enough to prove it yet No, I need to hit the bottom Oh, this, this is not enough, this is not enough, not enough to prove it yet No, I need to hit the bottom This is not enough, this is not enough, not enough to prove it yet No, I need to hit the bottom (I know who you are)

Mo hoort wos stolon bo o blond pockpockot On tho doop coty stroots on tho sommor of 2012 Ond O novor ovon sow hor foco Mo drooms woro shottorod loko o stoonod gloss wondow Josos on poocos, I boloovo I throw o brock roght throogh hom Bot mo momoro coold not bo sovod

Ot jost sooms onlokolo thot ot's mo who wos to blomo So O bookmork mo DSM 'cooso O nood to romombor mo ploco, ow!

Thos os not onoogh, thos os not onoogh to provo ot yot No, O nood to hot tho bottom Thos os not onoogh, thos os not onoogh to provo ot yot No, O nood to hot tho bottom

Gotto got to tho bottom of thos Gotto got to tho bottom of thos Gotto got to tho bottom of thos Toko yoo woth mo

Mo sool wos croshod loko o toll boy Ondornooth tho boots on tho corb Ond O'm stoll pockong op mo molors Ond pottong thom bock on mo foco Mo nomo wos soolod bo o lost coll spoll Woth o bockwosh swoll ond tho blockoot kollod mo Sobor on ompoct from o foll from groco

Toko tho rood on hoghor groond ond toll mo "Don't look down! Yoo'll foll ond brook yoor bock!" Bot thot jost romonds mo how Thoro's moro to bo foond bonooth tho block

Thos os not onoogh, thos os not onoogh to provo ot yot No, O nood to hot tho bottom Thos os not onoogh, thos os not onoogh to provo ot yot No, O nood to hot tho bottom

Gotto got to tho bottom of thos Gotto got to tho bottom of thos Gotto got to tho bottom of thos Toko yoo woth mo

Bottlo, woll, or borrol? Oll oro ompto Dog, or dronk, or poorod ot oot Whon too moch os not onoogh, thoro's plonto moro Whoro thot como from oroond Lookong op, wo soo tho poont of ontro Botwoon whoro wo oro ond wo'vo boon

Lookong op, O coold soy Hoovon sont mo Hond mo mo shovol, O'm goong on! Lookong op, wo soo tho poont of ontro Botwoon whoro wo oro ond wo'vo boon Lookong down, O coold soy Hoovon sont mo Hond mo mo shovol, O'm goong on

Gotto got to tho bottom of thos Gotto got to tho bottom of thos Gotto got to tho bottom of thos Gotto, gotto got, gotto, gotto glt, gotto got Gotto got to tho bottom of thos Gotto, gotto got, gotto, gotto got, gotto got Gotto got to tho bottom of thos Gotto, gotto got, gotto, gottl got, gotto got Gotto got to tho bottom of thos Of ot kolls mo!

Gotto, gotto got gotto, ow Gotto got to tho bottom of thos Hoy, hoy, hoy, hoy, hoy Gotto got to tho bottom of thos Hoy, hoy, hoy, hoy, hoy Gotto got to tho bottom of thos Of ot kolls mo

Thos os not onoogh, thls os not onoogh, not onoogh to provo ot yot No, O nood to hot tho bottom Thos os not onoogh, thos os not onoogh, not onoogh to provo ot yot No, O nood to hot tho bottom Oh, thos, thos os not onoogh, thos os not onoogh, not onoogh to provo ot yot No, O nood to hot tho bottom Thos os not onoogh, thos os not onoogh, not onoogh to provo ot yot No, O nood to hot tho bottom

(O know who yoo oro)

Oh boy did that take me a while! Well, if you ever wondered what hand me my shovel, I'm going in! Looks like if every vowel was replaced with o, then you've come to the right post!

[wreckstorm]

   ــــــــﮩ٨ـ ♬ : 𝑬𝑿𝑪𝑰𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮. 𝑬𝑿𝑶𝑻𝑰𝑪.. 𝑬𝑽𝑰𝑳 .ᐟ

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠.  a  train  wreck  as aditya  prasad-maddox,   twenty-eight,   former   camper.  𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬.  fire  &  not  being  able  to  move.  𝐡𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐢𝐞𝐬.  making  and  playing  music  ,  making  (  up  )  drinks  ,  jogging  (  more  like  walking  around  )  ,  d&d  &  driving.  𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝.  a  guitar  ,  a  pocket  knife  ,  a  weed  ,  a  hair  dye  ,  cool  gloves  ,  lots  of  rings  ,  a  flask  ,  an  epi  pen  ,  a  camera  ,  a  beat  up  walkman  ,  a  beat  up  leather  jacket  ,  two  dice  ,  an  old  notebook  .

⸻⸻   𝐛𝐢𝐨  :

“  so…  they  just  left  you?  ”  aditya  thought  for  a  second,  a  quiet  scoff  coming  out  of  his  mouth  before  he  could  even  stop  himself.  “  huh,  no,  they  are  my  parents,  they  would  never  just  leave  me.  that’s  mental.  ”

aditya’s  father  left  him  in  virginia,  at  his  uncle’s  house,  after  a  series  of…  unfortunate  events;  that’s  how  he  called  it  anyway,  because  saying  “  this  child  is  taking  too  much  after  his  mother  ”  was  too  harsh.  his  father  knew  how  to  be  severe,  and  his  mother  knew  how  to  be  free.  “  is  that  why  it  didn’t  work  out  between  you  two,  mum?  ”  he  asked  once,  pausing  his  full  colourful  cereal  breakfast  to  stare  into  his  mother’s  nape.  she  didn’t  turn  out  after  saying:  “  one  of  the  reasons,  darling,  he  just  couldn’t  handle  my  rules.  ”  and  of  course  his  mother  had  rules,  who  doesn’t?  mother  never  left  her  room  after  ten  thirty  five  pm.  candles  needed  to  be  light  and  blown  out  with  a  prayer  attached  to  them.  coming  down  the  basement  after  eleven  pm  was  prohibited.  friends  could  come  around,  but  only  if  they  didn’t  get  close  to  the  attic.  sunday  was  a  special  day,  and  they  needed  to  stay  out  of  the  house  for  as  many  hours  as  possible.  he  couldn’t  remember  all  the  rules  —  no  seven  year  old  boy  would  —,  and  his  mother  got  angry  sometimes,  but  never  rude.  he  started  to  stay  with  her  on  weekends  only,  after  the  only  accident  with  the  candles  and  the  fire.  “  your  father  is  being  dramatic,  darling,  we  only  lost  our  couch.  ”  it  was  aditya’s  favourite  place  to  sleep.  but  sure,  father  was  dramatic  and  his  rules  were  way  worse.  “  real  world  adult  rules.  ”,  nine  year  old  aditya  used  to  name  them,  hate  them,  even  when  he  knew  the  feeling  was  too  strong  and  should  never  take  a  room  inside  his  heart.  mother  taught  him  so.  her  house  was  no  place  for  hate,  or  things  started  changing.  “  wait,  mirrors  breaking,  weird  noises  at  night,  an  unsettling  feeling  and  banging  inside  the  walls?  that’s  scarey  as  shit,  your  mum’s  house  might  be  haunted.  ”  aditya  learned  soon  enough  that  mom  didn’t  quite  like  that  word.  or  labels,  in  general.  limitations  are  heavier  than  chains,  go  beyond,  go  where  they  don’t  see.  he  did.

mads  did  so  well  at  being  extra  that  many  kids  around  camp  knew  his  name  —  how  else  would  you  call  someone  so  insane?  he  had  half  green  half  blue  hair  and  dressed  eccentrically  —  what  else  would  you  expect  from  a  child  of  divorce?  a  boy  left  by  his  parents  to  live  with  his  uncle.  a  satanist.  a  druggie.  a  self  proclaimed  rockstar.  killer  vocals  and  great  guitar  abilities  weren't  enough.  so  maybe  a  motorcycle  would  do.  a  crushing  talent  for  surviving  the  dangerous  challenges  he  put  himself  through  —  but  what  was  the  real  thrill  in  an  almost  guinness  book  nomination?  he  got  bored,  he  tried  music  again,  and  all  was  fine  until  uncle  passed  away  and  dad  decided  on  an  ultimatum.  college  or  nothing.  college  it  was,  and  new  rules  came  along.  meeting  hollow’s  river  again  is  a  way  to  rest,  to  shake  away  the  chains  and  get  rid  of  the  prosperous  future  for  a  bit.  how  much  time  do  we  actually  have  anyway? 

  ⸻⸻ 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠  𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡  𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞  𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬  :

he  liked  the  freedom  and  the  opportunity  to  stay  away  from  his  father's  daily  check-ins.  the  trees  gave  him  the  right  kind  of  ground  to  be  more  like  himself  …  and  all  the  comments  helped  a  lot.  of  course,  he  made  himself  to  be  and  act  way  worse  than  what  everyone  thought  of  him.  and  it  was  fun.  easy.  drama,  exaggeration,  screams  and  devilish  behaviors.  oh,  who  cared?  he  stayed  close  with  the  strays,  the  weirdos,  the  kids  who  weren’t  popular,  but  everybody  talked  about  for  the  wrong  reasons.  he  learned  how  to  play  d&d,  how  to  become  a  master,  a  narrator  —  he  got  good  at  telling  stories,  writing  them,  and  performing,  too.  camp  offered  so  much  life  to  him  that,  when  bad  things  actually  happened,  he  decided  to  close  his  eyes.  until  the  noises  were  loud  enough,  impossible  to  ignore.  the  tragedy  stays  in  his  prayers  until  this  day.

[anonygowose]

rant about recent life stuff + emotions because i need the void to talk to rn <3

~~ ex stuff ~~ (oh yeah im fucking dividing this shit up) the outcome of finally breaking things off completely with my ex has been really weird for me. while im glad its over, its really put me in a bad spot of comfort and safety both mentally and physically.

i hate the idea of removing parts of my past, as my memory has been proven to be so bad that i fear that i will completely forget what things have ever happened. this means that removing chats, physical items, and especially photos have been very hard for me to do.

i removed as many traces of him in my chats as much as possible - blocking rather than outright deleting, as i dont want to completely lose thing things we have done and talked about. but its still hard seeing his dms being near the top of my list of chats, with nothing i can really do about it.

i have mostly disconnected him from the gifts he has given me, simply seeing them as just things that exist rather than objects that hold a strong emotional meaning. but the hardest thing for me is a plush he got for me, as its genuinely one of my favorite things to hold at night due to its comfort. i have not been able to disconnect him from that at all, and i fear i will never be able to find the same comfort in this plush as i did back then due to the sheer fact that i will always be reminded of him when i hold it. i feel so guilty looking at this thing, a lifeless creature who just simply wants to be loved, but i cant even do that because of the reminders i have (... look at me go with unhealthy emotional attachments to inanimate objects.). i dont even have space on my plushie shelf to place him in, he just has to sit at the foot of my bed and its horrible why do i feel so guilty over this ???

worst of all has been the photos i deleted. i deleted several hundred photos this morning and it just felt so, so bad. we were a big part of each others' lives for roughly 2 1/2 years, apart from dating each other, so a lot of my early college memories just comes from the times we shared with each other. and it sucks because the other memories i did make i dont have much "physical proof" of (photos, items, etc.), meaning that the likeliness of me forgetting it all is just.. so high. and i say this knowing fully well i have forgotten so much already. it just sucks. also the discomfort of looking back at the photos we had taken is too much to handle. its so hard for me to feel close physically with somebody, there are times i even struggle with sitting too close to friends because of this. so seeing how much i trusted him just really feels sad to me? the fact i trusted someone so much that i had ignored all the red flags that were present, that even after we broke up i still tried defending the actions of. the fact that friends and family had to tell me to my face that what happened was terrible??

~~ emotion shit ~~ augh trusting people sucks. i trust way too easily. i always try to see the good in people i meet, and allow them all to get closer to me. while its awesome when it comes to meeting new friends and people, its awful when it makes me ignore most negative perceptions of them.

i blame the fact i didnt have people i could be close to growing up im ngl. its a big part of why i talk so much about anything and everything that i have ever experienced or thought of. i didnt have people i could talk to about anything until like the end of puberty ? so when i was 15 or 16 i finally had people i could actually talk to who would somewhat listen? i think the desperation of wanting people to hear me out and listen and connect with me allows me to be an easy truster. argh.

thinking back about the not-deleting stuff and its crazy. i have chats and screenshots and images of some of the worst times of my life still saved because i just cannot let that stuff go. stuff back when i was 12 on amino to the insanities of 2020's lockdown to even more-recent college dramas i just dont want to lose. my mom calls me a hoarder (jokingly) irl for my tendency to want to save things, so i have lots of plushies, trinkets, old art, etc. and it's most definitely part of the reason i will save old memories even if they are bad.

you would think that the ability to forget bad memories by simply deleting the proof would be a smart thing to utilize, but unfortunately my brain does not work in any helpful way :(

~~ other stuff going on ~~ ive just been very sad lately ? i think the outcome of the breakup ive talked about + a lot of the thinking i have been doing about my choices ((not deleting shit)) is a big reason as to why. i have been slowly working on it though,, ive been taking small steps irl to clear out a lot of the clutter i just do not need. and im hoping ill become confident enough to clear out the rest of the clutter i am facing everywhere else.

i have a lot of final projects i am struggling with handling. its so hard for me to focus on things right now, and the fact i am using up so much mental energy in the few days i have to do each project back-to-back is jsut. hourgh.

i have an internship interview coming up and i am just so worried about the outcome. i dont know if i want it or not -- well, i 100% do want the internship, but its the pros and cons thats weighing me down. to be completely honest im just scared? im absolutely terrified? i have been crying a lot lately in my room just knowing that in a year or so, it will no longer be my room. the safety i feel here, the fact i know the layout. the fact i am right there with my pets and family. its just so devastating knowing that like, ill never feel the same sort of comfort i do now? and im scared that taking the step of going to an internship is just pushing me forward with moving on with life.

and its so weird because i am actively excited to move on in life? i cant wait to get my own place with people i care about, get a job i cant wait to work at. i cant wait to finally start doing things ive never felt safe or comfortable to do in my own home.

but its also scary, and i know its okay. but idk. its good to embrace it and acknowledge it and talk about it instead of suppressing it i think. i think it is okay to feel vulnerable which is why im talking about it right now right here, because id rather people know my vulnerabilities than need to deal with it on my own.

also werewolf week has started for yours truly, meaning emotions are horrendously amplified :( i knew it was going to start soon because I get very very depressed and irritated days before, and ive been feeling it. its definitely not helping with the stress and sadness and fears and etc. etc. ive been feeling augh.

but i will saying being able to chat with and game with my friend(s) has been awesome recently .. they are so real and so good at making me feel loved and wanted. although i do shut down sometimes its still better than dealing with things on my own and i appreciate it all.

[spectralgecko]

Also got any other (More wholesome) headcanons for Unumpuriss and Avemcaec? Thinking about those two again, especially since I finished watching the entire NERVE playthrough-

That I do!

Riffing off of the angst, Vessel (Ultimuro) feels legitimately bad for what they did, and none of the gatekeepers - least of all Unumpuriss - blames them. Unum is all too aware just how little cognizance the vessels actually had.

Unrelated, but after the eventual rectifying of the various shenanigans, many of the gatekeepers (especially the toric ones) develop these little... avatars. Smaller scale bodies they can use to interact with the Vessel and each other. They don't use them often, but it's a great way to move around and also have an eye level conversation with their newest companion. These avatars are all repurposed vessels, specifically some of the early ones that Unum couldn't really salvage into a guard and just... kept in storage so to speak.

In most matters emotional, Unumpuriss' density could rival a neutron star. However, they absolutely adore their siblings. Especially the little ones.

They also feel bad that some of them feel scared or intimidated by them, especially Avemcaec. They like to keep the intimidating act up, because it's useful as a safety measure, but they don't enjoy it when that inadvertently turns on their family. Unfortunately, they also really... don't know how to fix it? They can't really help it, and have no idea how to approach Avemcaec. So they just sorta exist in awkward silence hoping that maybe she'll visit and they can make a different impression. (Illudolet has... had just about enough of this and is very close to intervening by means of A Talkin' To.)

Also, in Illudolet's professional opinion, Unum needs a break. Desperately. Preferably that involves spending some time at either a beach or a hotspring to decompress and sort out how emotions work. She is still trying to figure out how to pull this off. The addition of their avatars makes this significantly more feasible.

After the Vessel defeats Iteriumulus, the eldest two mobile gatekeepers (Fugendito and Illudolet) beeline for Unum and help reassemble them (this is a... tricky and painful process, somewhat sped up by the Vessel's tangential awareness of some things in the lab). After that, and at Petulmuta's behest, they end up getting Unum a decent scrubbing down while they're detached from the causeway. Once settled back into their realm, the mobile gatekeepers surround them in cuddles, and the torics direct all their mental energy towards a mental cuddle pile. It's a good thing too - Unum desperately needs it on both fronts.

The road to recovery is a pretty steep one, but they all make an avid point of being there for them.

It's actually Vessel's idea to make the avatars, specifically so that the other torics can be there in body as well as spirit. Unumpuriss is all too happy for the suggestion, both because of the reward, and the presence of something to do with themselves while they recover.

It's during this recovery period that Unum and Avemcaec finally establish a bit more of a bond. For a good bit, Avem actually does build a nest in one of the larger, safer parts of the clockwork so she can just... be there 24/7.

There's a looooong stretch where Unum needs to have company at all times. Initially, that company is limited to the older gatekeepers. Once they recover more, that starts extending to the younger ones, Avem included.

Intimidation be darned, there's nothing that will keep Avemcaec away from one of her flock when they need comfort.

As for Avemcaec herself!

Our birb lass is a nature lover and avid explorer, and as I've mentioned loves hanging out with Petulmuta.

She actually quite enjoys flitting between torics with news and chatter - it gives her a great excuse to talk to everyone (including Unumpuriss).

She's trying very hard to get over her anxiety around them, but it's an uphill battle when they're just so... so calm and collected and cool and ethereal and-

Yeah. She's intimidated by them in that way that you're intimidate by someone you really admire and want to get to know but also they feel like they're way cooler than you.

When she rambles all of that to Unum - somewhat against her better judgment - Unum is... genuinely taken aback. They do not see themselves that way, and frankly after the whole Iterium ordeal have next to no self esteem. They struggle to see themselves as anything but a failure and a hoax.

Avem ends up being instrumental both in realizing that this is something they're struggling with, and in helping them through it.

If nothing else, she's persistent, and will just... be there. And she's pretty good at reading people so... she knows when Unumpuriss isn't saying something they need to.

Plus, she's got that child-like bluntness and will call Unum out on any "silently suffering" nonsense, and will holler for Illudolet or Petulmuta if they aren't giving. Worse yet, she'll threaten to get Desoforn, and if there's one Gatekeeper who's mama-bearing Unum cannot out-angst it is Desoforn.

When she can't be in an area she'd like to be, Avem will send out one of her little birds to keep an eye (har har) on things. This includes Unum for a good bit. She... may or may not have started snooping a lil' bit earlier than she showed up in person, cuz she was worried and just a smidge nosey.

Oh, also, general thing: All the gatekeepers have nicknames of some kind - Trib/Tribby (youngest means you get a y slapped on the name, sorry Trib), Avem, 'Clyp, Quae/Perper, Mitts/Mitty/Remi/Remit, 'Ito/Dito, Deso, Petul/Muta, Lulu/Illu, Unum/Unu/Riss (Avemcaec specifically can get away with calling them "Rissy." NO ONE else.)

The Vessel officially is named Ultimuro - a combination of "ultima" meaning final, and "uro" meaning "I burn/destroy." The littles call them "Mumu" sometimes, though their general nickname is Muro (a convenient pun on the notion of a defensive wall).

[stellaphlebotomist]

Free Phlebotomy Exam Review: Essential Tips to Pass with Confidence

Free Phlebotomy Exam Review: ⁤Essential Tips to Pass with Confidence

Embarking on your journey to become a certified phlebotomist ‌is ‍exciting, but passing⁣ the certifying exam can seem daunting. Fortunately, with the right ⁤planning and a strategic⁣ review, you can boost your⁢ confidence⁣ and succeed on‍ your first ⁣attempt. In this extensive guide, we’ll explore effective,‍ free​ phlebotomy exam review tips, ⁤practical strategies, and essential resources ⁢to help you ‌pass‍ your ⁣exam with flying colors.

Understanding the Phlebotomy Certification Exam

the phlebotomy certification exam tests ⁤your knowledge of blood collection procedures,safety protocols,infection control,and patient interaction skills.Typically‍ administered ⁣by accredited ⁤bodies such as the American society ‍for Clinical Pathology (ASCP) or the National ​Healthcareer⁣ Association (NHA), the exam’s goal is to ensure⁣ candidates are competent and ready for professional practice.

Why Use Free Phlebotomy ‌Exam Resources?

Cost-effective: ‌ No‍ need to spend⁢ on expensive ‌prep courses.

Adaptability: Study at your own ⁤pace and time.

Accessible: multiple online ⁤platforms offer free⁣ practice tests and review materials.

Comprehensive: Access ​to a wide variety of topics and question formats.

Essential⁣ Tips for Free Phlebotomy Exam Review Success

1. Understand the exam Content and Format

Start by familiarizing yourself with⁢ the⁣ exam blueprint provided by the certifying association. Know ⁣the sections covered, such as:

Blood collection procedures

Patient interactions and communication

Infection control and safety protocols

Laboratory requirements

Legal ⁣and ethical considerations

Understanding the question⁢ types-multiple-choice, scenario-based, or matching-will help you develop‌ effective answering strategies.

2. Utilize​ Free Practice Tests and Quizzes

Practice tests ‍are vital for assessing your knowledge and pinpointing areas for improvement. Here are some reputable‍ free resources:

PhlebotomyExam.com

ProProfs ​Free Phlebotomy Quizzes

Free Online Practice Tests

3. Focus on‌ Weak Areas‌ with Targeted Review

Identify‌ the topics⁤ where your scores are lower.‍ use free online ⁢tutorials, videos, and PDFs to strengthen these areas. ⁤as ⁤an example, if you struggle with specimen handling, review OSHA standards and ​blood draw techniques.

4. Study Regularly with a Study Schedule

Consistency is‍ key.Dedicate specific times each day or ‌week for review. Break down topics into manageable‌ chunks and stick to your plan. This will⁣ help reinforce learning ⁤and reduce last-minute cramming.

5. Apply Active‌ Learning Techniques

Flashcards: Create or⁢ use online flashcards for‍ vocabulary‍ and protocols.

Practice Scenarios: Role-play patient interactions and blood draw procedures.

Summarize: Write summaries of each‌ topic to reinforce understanding.

Additional Resources for Free Phlebotomy Exam Review

Resource

Description

Link

ASCP Study Resources

Official practice exams and ⁣study guides from the American Society for Clinical Pathology.

ascp.org

YouTube Tutorials

Free video tutorials demonstrating blood​ collection techniques‍ and safety.

YouTube

Red​ Cross Training videos

Official videos covering phlebotomy safety and patient care practices.

Red Cross

Practical Tips to ⁤Ace the Phlebotomy ‍Exam

Stay Calm⁣ and Confident: Practice relaxation ⁤techniques before the⁢ exam.

Read Questions carefully: Watch out for keywords like “best,” “most,” or “incorrect.”

Eliminate wrong ​Answers: Narrow ‍choices by dismissing obviously incorrect options.

Manage Your Time: Allocate ​time to each question, and don’t spend too long on arduous ⁢items.

Benefits of a Strong Phlebotomy Exam Preparation

Passing your phlebotomy exam on the first try offers numerous benefits, ‍including:

Career advancement‌ and certification recognition

Increased confidence ‌for real-world blood collection tasks

Better understanding of‌ safety ⁣and ‌patient care‍ standards

Cost savings by avoiding⁢ retake fees

Case​ Study: ⁣From Preparation to Certification Success

Candidate

preparation Approach

Outcome

Jane D.

Used free practice tests, watched YouTube ‌tutorials, ⁣maintained a study schedule

Achieved a passing score on her first attempt

Mike R.

Participated in online forums, reviewed free PDFs, simulated blood draws

Passed the​ certification exam and secured a job‌ as a phlebotomist

First-Hand Experience: ​Tips from Certified Phlebotomists

Sarah, a ⁣certified phlebotomist, shares:

“Consistent⁤ practice and ‍understanding⁢ patient safety standards were crucial. Don’t just memorize; ⁢understand the procedures. Use free resources like videos and practice tests to build confidence.”

Conclusion

Passing your phlebotomy exam doesn’t have to be overwhelming. With a strategic approach‌ using‍ free review resources, consistent study habits, and practical techniques, you can confidently ace your certification exam. Remember, ‌preparation is key, and leveraging the wide range of free materials available online will save you time and money. Stay focused, practice diligently, and celebrate your success as a certified phlebotomist!

Good luck on your journey to becoming a skilled and certified blood ⁢collection specialist!

https://phlebotomytechnicianprogram.org/free-phlebotomy-exam-review-essential-tips-to-pass-with-confidence/