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secularprolifeconspectus · 29 days

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Quick Pro-Life Responses

Keep in mind: the fundamental disagreement between pro-life and pro-choice is on whether a fetus is being formed into a person, or if the fetus is already a person and is simply developing.

Confidently assert, “you say that because you think a fetus is not a person yet.”

They may concede fetuses are people in word, but still not conceptualize them as full people worthy of equal consideration.

“I have the right to bodily autonomy.”

Abortion is literally suffocation, poisoning, or dismemberment of a living human organism.

Abortion induces fetal demise by depriving a human of oxygen, blood, or vital function.

Bodily autonomy does not justify abuse of power and excessive force over a helpless person.

Abortion, a disproportionately brutal response to a passive threat, is aggressive violence.

“No one has the right to use my body.”

Correct. But, a prenatal person does not use a pregnant person’s body. They have no agency.

A pregnant person’s body takes care of the prenate. This care is ordinary and healthy.

Abortion is not like refusing care to a dying person, it is like murdering a healthy captive.

No one has the right to murder someone who they caused to be dependent on them.

“I have the right to revoke my consent.”

When you give consent, you agree to accept the foreseeable outcomes and risks of an action.

The creation of a bodily dependent is a foreseeable outcome of consensual intercourse.

You cannot revoke consent to outcomes. You can revoke consent to actions.

You may not violently sacrifice a helpless person to “mitigate” a risk of a consensual action.

“Anything dependent on my body is a parasite.”

If you make parasites, then you’re a parasite; it’s misogynist to suggest women are parasites.

The female body would not actively try to make pregnancy happen if it were parasitic.

Prenates never directly cause pregnant people harm; they are not aggressors or parasites.

Using developmental dependency to justify murder is simultaneously ageist and ableist.

“An embryo is just a clump of cells.”

Human embryos meet NASA’s criteria for the characteristics of distinct living organisms.

Human embryos are self-directed and their development follows a body plan.

Human embryos are organized and individual. They already have inherited capacities.

Tumors and gametes do not follow an organized body plan.

“Early humans have no cognitive capacities.”

By week 3, the embryo has a spine and is developing a nervous system.

By week 5, the embryo has a rudimentary brain that controls their pulse.

By week 8, the embryo has pain reflexes and can move their limbs.

It’s incredibly ableist to use the cognitive inabilities of a human being to justify their murder.

“If a fetus is a person, so is a brain-dead human.”

A brain-dead human is, obviously, dead. It’s an oxygenated corpse, the remains of a person.

Death occurs when human organisms stop resisting entropy and lose organic integration.

Preborn people actively resist entropy (decay) and have organic integration (unity).

An early human organism isn’t dependent on a mature brain to organize her vital functioning.

“Later abortions only happen for medical reasons.”

According to two studies by pro-abortion researcher at UCSF Katrina Kimport, this is untrue.

Kimport’s studies found that the reasons for later abortions are similar to early abortions.

Later abortions aren’t euthanasia; infants are stabbed with lethal injections and dismembered.

Perinatal hospice and palliative care relieve suffering. Dying babies deserve love, not murder.

“What about rape and incest?”

Abortion is not evidence-based treatment for sexual trauma. Abortion is traumatic as well.

A preborn child should not be condemned to the death penalty for their father’s crime.

It is safe for most menstruating children to carry pregnancies to viability with sufficient prenatal care.

Children conceived in incest are likely to have disabilities; that’s not reason to murder them.

“What about health of the mother?”

Every abortion ban in the US has exceptions for if the mother’s life or body is in grave danger.

We are not against tragic cases of triage. We are against elective induced abortion.

Some procedures coded medically as abortions aren’t legally or ethically defined as abortions.

Pro-life doctors report that the bans have not impeded their ability to treat their patients.

Your Core Arguments

There is no sound evidence or consistent logic that proves the preborn are the only class of human beings exceptional to the rule that humans are people with equal rights.

If a being is in the dynamic process of bonding with us as kin, then that being is a whole actual person by the manner of actively and inherently relating to our collective humanity.

Embryonic humans are full and equal people like us because they latently embody our same capacities and are manifesting them as we are, on account of sharing our nature.

#pro life #anti abortion #prenatal justice #hide #abbreviation

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sentient-stove · 8 months

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“I keep thinking that I could’ve been a meta when my parents first opened that portal. I was standing almost right on in it, got a full blast of ectomatter straight to the face.”

It shouldn’t be cold, it’s September and there was a warm front. But his hands feel like chips of ice, warm cider doing little to establish feeling there. Danny probably shouldn’t be sitting on the fire escape with how rampant meta trafficking is in Gotham but since, since his accident small spaces no longer brought the comfort they once had.

“I know.” Of course he did, Tim knew everything about Danny, and vice versa. They bore their souls out and were connected for it. This information doesn’t stop Danny from continuing to talk though, because some days, it feels like the fact that he can keep talking is why he hasn’t been stuck six feet under yet.

“I- me and Sam and Tuck, we were fightin ghosts as kids with nothing special to show for it. Just junky tech we scrapped together. Maybe we would’ve gotten less hurt for it.”

“I know.”

“I’m dead. I think. I don’t know if I’m actually alive.” Danny held the mug closer to his chest and Tim sighed, leaning his weight on Danny’s side, stealing some of the blanket he had wrapped around his shoulders so they could share.

“By all medical definitions, you’re alive. There’s brain activity, a heartbeat, your cells are decaying and replacing themselves whereas a dead person would have none of that. Your heart would not pump blood, your brain would be devoid of electrical impulses, the cells would only die and rot. Polaris, my star, my love, you are alive.”

#fanfic #wip hell #Danny becomes a halfa later and life and mistakes himself as a meta whoops #danny fenton #tim drake #dead tired #danny phantom #dc comics #dc x dp #dpxdc #also also tim calling danny polaris because he’s the North Star that Tim looks too #ur honor that’s his husband

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anidealistatbestburntoutatworst · 2 years

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fyodor: “okay let’s go over the plan… i’m making dinner.”

sigma: “and i’m making dessert!”

nikolai *dramatically*: “and i’m makingA SCENE!!”

fyodor and sigma: “please…. don’t”

#the unholy trinity #the trifecta of dumbassery #they’re all i think about #i post too much of them (i’m not going to stop)#bsd sigma #bsd fyodor #nikolai bsd #pick your ship cuz they’re all sailing #bungo gay dogs #they’re all gay and they’re all awful at feelings #just normal decay of angel foolery #the decay of angels #decay of brain cells #the silly the goofy and the concerningly spooky #bungo stray dogs #bsd season 4 #this happened at some point yup #hello little gay people in my phone

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florvaine · 1 year

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lost comfort and found familiarity.

Escaping the prison was a mess, and Carl is devastated when he can only find his girlfriends red jacket, but not her. (afab! reader)

genre: heavy angst to fluff

warnings: death, blood, gore, panic/anxiety attack, !carls’ SA scene!, kissing.

-— DREAD BEGAN TO FILL THE PIT OF CARL’S STOMACH WHEN THE HEAVY REALISATION SET IN. That realisation was that the prison was overrun, the Governor and his goons having broken down the wired fencing with a tank and brought in dozens upon dozens of brain-deteriorated, famished walkers into the previously safe confines of the prison.

They had killed Hershel in cold blood using Michonne's katana, leaving his severed head to pool a red sheen on the grass. Somewhere in the time of his beheading bullets began to ring out around the borders of the prison.

Cars, trucks and military-grade vehicles began to fill the courtyard, Rick and the Governor are beating each other bloody with their bare hands by the overturned bus.

“Holy shit.” He hears you say, and once he looks to his left to find you, his heart hurts a little more.

You’re typically comforting smile has vanished like the peace had just a few hours ago, instead pulled in an open-mouthed look of pure shock and horror. Your eyes are blown wide, brimming with a small collection of tears. There’s dust and debris flying everywhere, staining your cheeks. A shotgun is tight in your grip, ammo stacked in your pockets and an army knife clinging on your belt.

He’s only ever seen you this devastated when the farm got set up in flames, and when you had been told that your brother had been bit.

Carl gulps, pulling you closer to him via the strong grip he has on your hand. Both of your palms are sweaty, but it was barely even registered as the tank that the Governor had hijacked shot another bomb into the crumbling, brick walls of the prison.

“We gotta go!” He says, running in the opposite direction of the explosion. You follow behind him, still holding his hand as an anchor to keep you aware of reality.

Your eyes drift around the series of events around you. The obliteration of your home, the snapping jaws of the decaying walkers that drooled and reached to take a chunk of flesh from either of your bodies. Bullets rain hell on everything that moves, sparks of orange and yellow shining from all directions, the scent of blood, gunpowder and dust is heavy as it clings to your clothes and hair.

You stumble, tugging on Carl's hand, "We have to get your Dad!" You point to where Michonne is helping him up, and the blue-eyed boy falters.

A loud bang followed by the sound of debris hitting the floor, a flash of heat passed over each of your skins. Between the flash, he sees his dad covered in splatters of blood, bruises and cuts stumbling towards a break in the metal fence.

Every sense in his body is muddled, an annoying, high-pitched ring in his ears makes his clammy hands raise upwards to press against them, sounds muffled as dust coats his tongue like thick, chalky medicine. His eyes flutter as the light passes, debris clinging to his lashes and dirtying his freckled face. Carl sniffs, his head turning around rapidly to see you again.

Except you were gone.

Just like the flash of orange light and thermal blast, you had seemingly dissipated into thin air. His first reaction is panic, in a form that roots his body into the concrete floor at the thought of you being hit by the bomb, therefore disintegrating instantly.

Carl feels sick to his stomach and he removes his hands from his ears, picking up his gun that clattered to the ground and spinning in circles to catch even a glimpse of you.

"Y/n?" He shouts even if his throat was aching from the particles in the muggy air.

There's no response, "Y/n!" He calls out with more urgency, his feet moving quick against the ground as another round of bullets pass beside him.

The shaggy, brown-haired teen dashes through a gap between the cell blocks, keeping as low as he could whilst running, pressing the sheriff's hat his father gave him just a few days prior against him skull.

Then everything stops. It's practically silent if you ignore the echoes of the snarling walkers that invaded the space. His eyes brim with salty tears, scrambling to pick up a too familiar red cloth discarded on the floor.

His heart is put on pause for a few seconds as he kneels down to claw at the jacket. Your favourite jacket. Bright red stained with black smudges and bloody hand smears, an open hole passes cleanly through both sides of the left sleeve, encircled in a deeper scarlet that dripped in a sickening curve of an open wound.

Time passes slowly, as if God himself was providing him time to grieve. You had slipped through the cracks of his callousing hands, the blood trapped under his fingernails suddenly more obvious as he scratched at the drying liquid on the jacket. His heart hurts. So does his head, a throbbing pulse that matched the pants and trembling breaths that exited his chapped lips. His body washes out any adrenaline or happy emotion an refills it with dread and mourning.

He feels like crying. Sobbing, screaming your name until his lungs collapsed and his throat was raw. Vocal cords torn, shattered like his heart that would no longer beat with the same life he had with you. His thoughts turned from joyous hope of a future with you and Judith outside the crackling prison to disbelieving hurt at the realisation you were not near him anymore.

With no body, their could be no funeral. Nobody in the limited black attire they collected throughout their time in the apocalypse. With no grave to bury you under, you could not rest.

But without a funeral or a tattered corpse of your being, Carl refused to believe you were dead.

The sound of bullets restart his heart again like a defibrillator, and he's back in the moment. There's shots in the courtyard, the boy scrambles up, clinging onto your jacket with harsh breathing.

There's two walkers further along the cell block. Carl ties the jacket around his waist. Rage slowly drips into the building acceptance in his mind, and the shotgun that he held previously was snagged up off the floor.

The gun is raised, aimed perfectly for the decaying heads of what used to be morally guided people. His breathing picks up slightly.

One shot rings out, bullet shells hitting the ground. Chunks of skin, bone and rotting organs spills over the floor and the walker hits the ground with a dull thud. He steps over the remains with what could only be described as a bitter mixture of anger and sadness on his face.

The second shot is fired, and the first victim is joined by the other. A mess of liquid ruby changes the grey hue of the floor, the sound of blood spilling like tossed water would usually sicken him.

His gaze drifts towards the bodies, and he is repulsed at the image of you, your hair splayed against the concrete and your eyes wide open yet unseeing, glossed over in grey as your plump lips turn blue, skin cold. Your chest does not rise. You are still, graceful and dead.

He blinks, and yet again you were gone. Carl looks up from the meaningless corpses.

His own dad looks back at him.

"Carl," It doesn't sound like him, there's a hint of liquid that gurgled in his throat as he spoke, and Rick gulps it down. He's breathing heavily. A collection of red patches adorn his beaten face, curls from his hair and stubbly beard pressed against the sweat gathered on his skin.

The two of them limp away from the remains of the prison, trauma and sorrow tossing and churning in their minds and stomachs. They had lost not only you, but Judith as well.

One of the only memories of his mother that he had. And the only hope that Rick had of raising one of his children without any fear even in the apocalypse.

That night the two of them exchanged no words.

-—-

1 month, 27 days and 17 hours.

That's how long it had been since Carl had last heard your voice. Him, Rick and now Michonne occupy a two story house in a leafy road surrounded by woods. They visit the neighbouring homes further down, once he even found a 112 ounces worth of chocolate pudding, and ate it in one sitting. Alone.

The words 'alone' has never been in the forefront of his mind this much before. He wonders if you would've enjoyed the pudding with him, or comforted him on his worst nights as his dad slept on the sofa barricading the front door. Maybe you would've stopped him shouting at his unconscious body.

He was terrified, that night. Because the sleeping body of his dad would sometimes look like you - except there's a bite on your shoulder and a bullet wound punctured between your closed eyes.

Now there was no resting body on the sofa as his dad was awake, alive and moving whilst Michonne helps the two of them work with their slightly tense familial relationship.

Sometimes he'd get bombarded with questions about you. He'd still answer with one phrase.

"She's alive."

The same tone, the same memory starting to form before his ocean eyes whenever he blinked. After a while it went from being a quivering statement of hope to an exclamation of law.

Every time you were brought up negativily, it ended in him storming out of the house and sleeping in a different one for the night, and coming back in the morning to his anxious dad who was very close to vomiting and a worried Michonne.

Carl knew you wouldn't just leave or give in that easily. It wasn't in your blood that stained the jacket he kept folded upstairs in one of the rooms.

He had washed it, any trace of what happened at the prison left in a stream of water; the hole from your bullet wound was sewn together as best as he could. No more smudges of soot and crumbling brick smeared down the hood and arms, no more scarlet hand prints that grabbed and tainted your clothing.

Carl had one mission that he would complete - he had to complete it before anything else.

And you were going to get your jacket back - alive.

-—-

Terminus was a horrible idea. It had been advertised as a safe haven for anyone in need of it, offering sickingly sweet luxuries that no other place had before.

Who knew it was run by cannibals that captured, disarmed and intended to eventually eat them? Not Carl, that's for sure.

They had barely escaped with their lives, and Carl could only wonder how many more times he could dodge death until it inevitably caught up with him.

But in the back of his mind, he knew he would avoid it for as long as he possibly could, because if he kicked the bucket then he wouldn’t see you again.

At least they found everyone else - including Judith. That was one miracle that Carl dreamed of, and it was accepted, so the last one was you.

Many nights and days he had spent wondering where you were, if you were thinking about him too, some other days passed with tears and muffled screams of your name; those days he’d be comforted by the tight arms of his dad or Michonne wrapped around him.

Carl would sometimes have nightmares of that grimey, old man that pinned him against the floor, Michonne and Rick having to see him at his most vulnerable in that moment. That was the one time he was grateful you weren’t there. Not because he didn’t want you to see him so shattered and broken, no.

He knew that whatever was going to happen to him, would happen to you too. And with the predator pinning him down, the company of his equally as vile creatures that held Michonne and Rick as captives. Nobody would be able to save you in time.

Part of his innocence was picked up and snapped that night. He fell asleep with your jacket over his torso, and he let his quivering frame curl into yours.

He wanted to see you again, in real life. Not a part of the fractured, twisted part of his imagination. He wished to hold you close against him, kiss you under the stars like you had done too many days ago. Everything Carl found that he thought you’d like was in a small pouch at the bottom on his bag.

A thin-chained necklace, a gossip magazine, a comic book. A small heart shaped rock that he had found. Most importantly, your jacket.

Carl was intelligent, observant. He could tell everyone had already grieved for you, mentioned your name in speeches of motivation saying ‘do it for her’. He hated it.

Another argument happened whilst they were all moving down the abandoned road, towards a new hope of life.

-—-

His father brought you up again when he saw Carl wearing your jacket. They had stopped for a break, sitting in the middle of the road whilst Daryl went hunting for anything they could eat.

“Carl,” He spoke, voice slow and gentle as if he was a ticking time bomb, “I think it’s time you let go of her jacket.”

Everyone’s eyes moved from his father to his son, eyes slightly widened and mouths clamped shut. The air becomes tense as the blue-eyed teen looks up at his father through the corner of his eyes.

Carl swipes his tongue over his lips, “Why’s that?” He spoke, Judith coo’s in his arms, pulling at the strings that tightened the hood.

Rick adjusts his stance, placing his hands on his hips and thinking of what to say to his son. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he speaks.

“I just think, well we just think that,” The curly-haired dad gestures to everyone with one hand, “It’s time to let go, son.”

Carl lifts his head fully, eyebrows knitted together in scrutising disbelief, “You all think she’s dead?” His tone is harsh, accusing and targeted to pierce their racing hearts.

Everyone knew that the mention of you being dead was something that the boy didn’t agree with. Stubborn as ever, Carl points his gaze towards his dad. His gaze as sharp as daggers and Rick knows hes in for the long run.

“She disappeared, Carl. We can only guess what happened to her.”

Carl hands Judith to Carol next to him and she takes her without looking at the boy, “You can guess, but I’m not guessing. I know she’s alive.”

“She’s got lost, nobody saw where she went. She’s alone.” Rick argued, his voice louder.

“She has a gun and a knife!” Carl replies, shouting over his father. Michonne stands up and removes her gun from her holster, as did Abraham and Tara when a branch snaps behind the wooded trees.

Daryl shows himself, empty handed. Everyone internally groans, but they give him a look to tell him to be quiet and point at the arguing boys.

Rick places his hands on his sons shoulder, looking down on him, “People have still died with a gun, kid.”

Carl pushes his dad away from him, face contorting into pure anger and vemon lacing his features, “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m just tellin’ you the truth, Carl.” Rick points at him, eyebrows raised and his voice returning to the soft, almost patronising tone from before.

“But it’s not the truth!” Carl argues, his anger put into lashing out against his own blood, “She’s alive, I know it! I see her, Dad!”

Michonne places a hand on Rick’s shoulder when she hears him sigh and prepare himself, “Don’t-”

“She’s dead! Trust me. She. Is. Dead. If you’re seeing her like I see your mother, then she is not alive anymore!”

It goes silent, a few birds fly overhead with calls of their scratchy language. Even in the open surrounded by trees it has never felt more claustrophobic than ever for the Grimes family.

Carl stiffens at the mention of his mother, the woman that birthed and nutured him through his pre-teen years. The woman he eventually ended up killing.

Rick takes his silence as an opportunity, “Let her go, Carl. That’s my only advice.”

Tears form in his lashline as he stares back at him dad, and the sheriff’s hat against his head has never felt more heavy than in this moment.

“But everyone saw Mum’s body.”

Rick has never turned around quicker than in that moment. The mention of his lovers lifeless body, deep cut in her lower stomach flashes under the glaze in his eyes and Rick swears he can see a white dress move through the treeline.

Carl continues, “We saw Mum’s body,” His voice trembles and he sniffs, “I knew she was dead more than anyone else here.”

It’s deathly silent. Everyone knows what he’s referring to, and everyone is scared shitless to say anything to either of them. Rick takes a deep breath, but doesn’t speak.

A droplet rolls down Carl’s pale cheek, and he looks down to ensure no one saw him wipe it away, “We haven’t seen hers. Until we see her body, I’m keeping her jacket. But when we find her, she’s gonna have it back.”

Rick only nods lightly, picking up the supplies he agreed to carry.

Nobody makes any objections to continuing to move further up the road - towards Alexandria.

-—-

You have never felt so close before. Yes, they were extremely suspicious and afraid of Aaron and his husband, Eric. Having been tricked into a cannibal house just a week ago does that to a group of people.

But walking up yet another road, littered with lifeless corpses of walkers with bullets making their brains paint the pavement. Carl knows only one thing.

He has never been this sure that he was going to find you.

Aaron is rattling on about what facilities they had. Running water, heating, electricity. Promises of necessaries they haven’t heard of for years now.

His dad is on edge, not particularly fond of the idea, but he knew that everyone was so tired and burnt out that they needed just the idea of a safe place to be just to bring more motivation to themselves.

So far, Aaron’s words of a 15 foot, metal wall that bordered Alexandria and protected the insiders was true, and Carl begins to feel more energetic and hopeful than before.

Carol notices this, and questions the boy, “What’s up, Carl?” She looks at him, and he looks back.

“She’s here, I know it.” He replies and then looks forward again, walking ahead of her.

Carol furrows her brows and decides to take harder and longer looks at the walkers on the floor.

The group arrive at the large, metal gate. The journey felt like hours for each of them, but extra long for Carl. He was antsy, and fully compliant to anything any of them told them to do. If Aaron or Eric told them to stop, he would. If they told him to go find a bird, kill it and bring it back, he would.

The gates finally screech open, Carl feels as if his heart is going to burst open. An alarm sounds in the back of his head but not one of worry, but one of intuition that told him she was here.

He looked into the gated community as the gate opened fully, and felt alienated as soon as he entered with his group. They were dirty, hair knotty and unclean against the pristine and organised residents of Alexandria.

People poke their heads out of houses and stare, smiling or looking upon them with apathy. Every face Carl doesn’t recognise.

They get told to hand over their weapons. Their refusal is argued, and eventually they give in. It’s hesitated and unsettling seeing all their guns and knifes piled onto a trolley.

Carl is the second to last person to place anything on the trolley, his handgun is held in his hands tightly as he walks over to the collection, placing it down and reaching for his knife-

“Carl?”

It’s a voice further along the pathway into Alexandria, and he looks up in slight confusion.

His blue eyes meet hers, they’re as recognisable as ever. Finally.

His body is practically overflowing with emotion - relief, joy, sadness and the most overpowering feeling of love.

The knife clatters to the floor, there are hands reaching for him, tugging on his clothes to hold him back and the leaders that he didn’t care to remember the names of tell him to stay put.

Instead he runs. It’s a run of desperation. He’s afraid that if he doesn’t run fast enough, you’ll disappear again in the aftermath of an explosion. You’re running too, a hand against your mouth to cover sobs.

The two of you meet halfway, arms wrapping around eachother as a form of physical touch to ensure that the other that this is real.

“You’re alive,” Carl whispers, breathing heavily and clutching the back of your head that was pressed against his chest, “I knew it.”

You’re both crying, holding eachother in a tight, cathartic embrace that released any inkling of doubt that the others heart wasn’t beating.

Carl’s hands clamber to hold you face in his hands again. You let him, raising your head to look into his eyes. He runs his thumbs against your soft skin, scanning your face.

His head lowers, yours lifts, and your lips meet in a greeting that was way past it’s due date. Eyes closed, experiencing something that has only been a dream for so long. You didn’t care that his lips were chapped, he didn’t care that yours were slightly cut up from you biting at the dead skin there.

It’s messy, teeth clashing and your noses bump one or two times, but all that you care about is that he’s here, and that he finally found you.

You pull apart, and your eyes fly open to witness his still closed like he was still in shock. His lashes flutter, and you make eye contact once again.

There’s a sense of melancholy realisation that slowly ebbs through him. The fact he hadn’t been there to witness you grow up alongside him during the time you were apart. He admires the change in your facial structure, features from before stronger and more prominent to show that you had grown up.

“You’re just as beautiful as I remembered,” His thumb wipes away a few of your tears and rolls over a small scar that streches up from your jawline to your cheekbone and his eyebrows furrowed in slight worry, “What happened?”

You press yourself further against his palms, relishing in the feeling of him again, “I survived, Carl.”

His name has never sounded so good before. His brain feels funny, his heart floating as he pulls you in for another kiss. It’s less messy this time, not that either of you care.

Carl pulls away again as he’s reminded of his mission, his forehead against yours, “Your jacket,” He gives you peck, and departs again, “I have your jacket.”

His hands leave your face to pull the rucksack of his back, and in panting breaths you gasp softly as he pulls the red fabric out of the bottom of the brown bag, holding it out to you.

“I cleaned it, sewed up the bullet hole,” He holds it up, showing the messy threading, “It’s not the best-”

He’s cut off by you taking it from him with a sniffle, pressing it against your heart and clutching it.

“I love you, Carl.” Your voice trembles, and he smiles, pressing a kiss against your forehead, brushing a few loose strands of your hair from your face.

“I love you too.”

You unzipped the red jacket, struggling to get it on; Carl moves forwards to help you slide it on over your arms again.

Where it rightfully belongs.

-—-

#*{ ‘. florawrites<3 #carl grimes x reader #the walking dead #carl grimes #twd #angst #the walking dead x reader #fluff #twd fluff #twd angst

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pinechild · 11 days

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I was watching Hazbin Hotel and I saw Alastor's design and I thought I've never seen a yandere story about a deer monster... So could you do that, please?

I’ve never watched Hazbin Hotel, but I do like what you’re thinking, anon. I’m rusty when it comes to writing full blown fics so go easy on me chat 🫡

Antlered, Stalking

◇ Gn! Reader

◇ Summary: You get lost in the woods after a heavy downpour washes away all of your markers to get back to your car, leaving you open for a yandere deer beast to ensnare you in his grasp. He thinks he’ll keep you - his newest mate.

◇ Warnings: horror themes, yandere themes, stalking (obvi), non consensual licking + touching, mentions of dead animals, entrapment, slightly suggestive, bugs (?)

Torrential rainfall would be perfect for you, especially in this time of year, under different circumstances. But now—as your hair sticks to your face, cold and damp, your heart clamored in your ears; It was anything but.

Fear injects itself into your gut—its frigid and decaying fingers piercing right through your stomach and making its presence known to your bloodstream as it spreads its digits. The makeshift chalk markers you made on multiple trees instantly washed away once the storm rolled in, leaving stupid little you, lost.

It’s almost as if you were frozen in time, not hearing the rain harshly slapping against the leaves, or the sound of your own breath leaving your lungs—not even the sound of wet underbrush being squished somewhere off in the distance. Anxiety has your mind clouded in a thick miasma, riddling itself with possible solutions to try to get you back to where you came from and into the safety of your beat up car, survival fully switching on in your brain and making your thoughts race.

In retrospect, you knew this wasn’t a good idea from the start, but human as you are, your own arrogance was your hubris—believing that since it’s never happened to you before, it’ll most likely not happen to you now. As if the stars were smiling upon you and bestowing upon you fortune for seemingly being on good behavior as of late.

Oh how you wish you could slap the fuck out of your past self right now and got proper markers.

Cell service was pretty much moot as an option—you knew that, even the most beginner of hikers (those with half a brain, anyway) knew this fact. The forest in this area was just so thick that it would be mere impossible for any radio waves to pass through. So, the next best thing is—

Your body in an instant—and almost unconsciously— fiddle inside your pockets, methodically searching for something like a well oiled machine before you hunch over, letting the rain drum against your back and bead off of your jacket in attempt to not let a single drop soak the inside your bag. The only sounds you can soak in are the rustling of cloth, zippers closing shut, and the rain that continues to beat on your back until your fingertips finally bump into the item you’re looking for: your compass.

You cant help but a little flicker of hope spark inside you as you pull it out.

With a slight tremble of your fingers, you lift up the compass, breath bating as the needles slightly jerk from its magnetic pull. The slight anticipation gnawing at your chest.

However what you don’t expect is for the needles to instantly spin precariously at a rapid pace, as if it was a dog chasing its own tail, going round and round and round. In your eyes (in the most irrational of case), It’s almost like it’s taunting your situation, and fears gnarled fingernails scrape against your gut, tugging it down as you spend more than one second thinking about it.

What the fuck? Is this thing broken? How?? Didn’t this work before?

Hot, acidic bile stings at the back of your throat, your mind screaming at you to move amongst the sea of questions ruminating.

Biologically, the human brain tends to react in a sequence of events when danger is present in its environment: Fight, flight, freeze, and fawn. And your brain, in this case, instantly makes your legs move—uprooting your feet from the muddy earth. Flight it is.

You know partly how you came to this spot in to where you were now, so in a snap decision you decide to retrace your steps to the best of your abilities—better than staying in one place with a broken fucking compass. And god forbid it gets dark, you don’t think you could follow the stars with all this cloud coverage in the first place (not like you could anyways but it that was neither here nor there)—

Along with the nonstop pour, mud squelches and plops under your shoes, the cold starting to nip at your fingertips. The only thing right now your mind can focus on is just getting out of here—your eyes scanning for any wildlife as you move through the dense forest floor, trying your best to avoid rocks or uneven earth. But, the more you try to retrace your steps….the more you feel an uneasiness prickle at the nape of your neck; hairs and goosepimples uncomfortably standing on end.

…

Are you being followed?

No, that’s not possible. You were the only person here from the last two hours—matter of fact, you didn’t even see any wildlife skittering about during that time either, and that strikes you as odd. Rain or not, there was bound to be a couple chipmunks scampering in the undergrowth.

A dreadful feeling swirls inside you at that thought, blooming inside you along with your throat getting uncomfortably dry—something’s wrong here.

It’s then you hear a cry in the distance, echoing even through the thickest of bramble—an eerie, grating sound, one that mimics decrepit metal doors opening on rusted hinges. It’s a familiar sound, but foreign at the same time. What is it? Why does it itch at your brain so much?

Until it hits you: It’s an elk.

That chilling sound like it belongs in a horror movie, scraping at your ears like nails on a chalkboard every time you heard it. You recognize it now.

It’s odd though, you don’t remember any elk living in this forest before, but, maybe you were just lucky to have never heard its cry during mating season. Who knows. But, right now you can’t think about that right now—you need to move. An elks bugle shouldn’t shake you up this much as it did. You have to go. Now.

You continue your trek, trudging your legs along as your lungs shake with each exhale. That unnerving feeling of being watched sticks in the back of your mind, making you pick up the pace. You try to ignore the elk’s bugling getting louder and louder with each step. Even still, the sound unsettles you. Maybe, in the best case scenario, it was just your paranoia getting to you, playing tricks on you to think you’re in more danger than you already are—at least that’s what your anxiety riddled brain likes to think.

But the more you thoughts stew on it, the weirder it gets: You know you remember there’s no elk in this forest—you remember the first time you hiked here and the guide saying something about watching out for bears and the occasional wolf—but never about elk. Not that they were dangerous to humans anyways but still—they were never mentioned among the list of what you would see on the trails, that you remember.

And not hearing multiple elk during mating season is strange in itself, how come was there only one? Not to mention you’ve never even seen any on your hikes—ever. And to see there’s no other wildlife besides the elk? The compass spinning in all directions? The sickening feeling of being watched, possibly stalked?

It’s weird. It’s weird and it’s not just your imagination.

Something is deeply, deeply wrong here.

Bone scrapes against wood, and on instinct, you run into a full sprint.

Ignoring how the mud splotches onto your clothes, your throat clamps shut as adrenaline surges your veins heart thundering in your ears obstreperously, rattling your eardrums and breaking your skin into a cold sweat.

In the most logical minds, one would know that it was just the elk rubbing its antlers on a tree as its mating habits, that it’s nothing to worry about—but you knew it wasn’t the truth. The sound of anything other than the rain and your bones creaking under your skin wasn’t natural. It didn’t belong here.

And what’s even worse is the thrashing of underbrush quickly catching up behind you. Your vision almost becomes dizzy with how much adrenaline is pumped into your bloodstream and panic settling in to the marrow of your bones. The haunting, metallic bugle of the elk dwarfs your heartbeat, looming over you. The acid of the bile pools in your mouth, stinging at your tongue and almost making you wretch. You gotta hide! Need to—

Your chest harshly lands on the waterlogged ground, effectively knocking the wind out of you as mud cakes your face and chest. Unnaturally large hands wrap around your waist and that creaky, hollowed bugle rings right beside your ear. Choking on your breath, you dare to crane your neck to look over your shoulder, body trembling as you cough and wheeze your way to breathe again. The sight alone makes eyes go wide at the first glimpse on what towers above you.

What you see, is no ordinary elk, but a monster. One with antlers strong and pointed, reaching towards the heavens and branching out to the point where the two antlers almost touch—like tangled and twisted tree roots. Its head an elk skull, underneath the empty sockets lie human eyes, peering at you. You even dare say, undressing you.

Its upper body is like that of a human, save for the talon like nails that anchor your body down to the ground. As your eyes move down, however, you see the dirt caked fleshy skin transition into fur—one traditionally like an elk followed by hind legs and cloven hooves, chipped and worn with age. Natures twisted amalgamation of animal and human; a bastard of the unnatural.

It bugles again, softly this time, crooning. Almost as if asking if you like what you see.

And you want to fucking throw up at the implication.

The urge to scream and thrash away from its grip dies before it even begins like a snuffed out flame. An invisible force freezing your vocal cords, holding them captive as the creature leans closer, hinging its maw open to reveal a sleek, black tongue—licking you. Your muscles writhe beneath your skin.

“Mine.” Its voice is a rumble of thunder, rippling throughout your fragile bones as it—he—speaks. It’s a voice worn and booming; one that hasn’t been used in ages—at least that’s what you assume. Plumes of his breath appear in a smoke like cloud against the biting chill of the rain, tongue retracting back once its had his fill of licking all the salt and sweat from your cheeks.

Lifting your frozen body with a relative ease, he tucks you to his side, cradling your body in his hand as if he was holding a parcel.

In this moment, you can’t think. Everything’s happening so fast that your mind can’t even keep up, mentally grasping at straws at the how’s, when’s and why’s of it all. It’s like your mind is on a chairoplane—holding you just by the head as it spins at a nauseatingly rapid pace while you ragdoll through the air.

When the wind and rain whips at your face as he starts to move, do you notice how he weaves through the forest at a breakneck, inhuman speed. It dawns on you there was no chance of getting out of here to begin with.

The world, or rather, the reality you thought you knew, utterly shatters. Monsters are real—and you’re being kept by one, dangling in its grasp as it figures out what to do with you next.

Tears never seem to come from your glassy eyes, but you could feel them chewing at your optic nerve—a burning, sizzling tingle, something akin to a sparkler you used to play with as a kid on muggy summer nights.

Thinking about it, you’ll never be able to play with them again—or drive your car, or even complain to your friends about work. You never even got to tell your mom you love her after your fight.

You’ll never be able to do that again, you'll never able to do anything again, not while you’re in this beasts grasp. And the realization of that, makes the cavity in your chest clatter in a silent, violent scream. If your lips could move, you’re sure your throat would be rubbed raw by now, vocal chords utterly fried.

Too lost in your own despair, you don’t notice that the creature stopped running until you hear a light chuff above you. Raising your head at the noise, you see the mouth of a cave—a warm, amber flame casting ambient light along the jagged edges of the rocks. A deceptive illusion of comfort beckoning you in.

When getting closer, you see a string of dead rabbits formed into an almost perfect circle near the foot of the entrance, just mere feet away from the kindling fire. A gift? An offering of some sort? Well, you don’t care either way, it’s not like you’re going to take it.

The monster sets you down, whispering a soft hum in some sort of satisfaction, probably because of its successful attempt at catching you. His eyes, dark and lifeless, resembling the bottomless void, follows the way the flames mold to the planes and soft curves your face, drinking in every pore and detail of you.

You try not to focus on him or the stench of the rabbit corpses assaulting your nose, all you can do now to keep your sanity is to just stare into fire.

You hear shuffling, fur chafing on stone as he gets closer, jaw chittering as his tongue slides along your neck. It's oddly warm without the rain nulling your sense of touch, but it does nothing to help from the familiar taste of bile from swelling in your throat.

“Mate. Mine.” His large hands resting onto your stomach, fingers creeping under the layers of clothing to get a mere touch of your naked flesh. Feeling him touch you like this feels like bugs are wriggling underneath your skin, wiggling and writhing in disgust. You want to pluck them out, get rid of this nastiness tainting your body and scrub at your skin until you're red and bleeding.

A gargled sense of a moan creaks out of this throat.

“Love. Breed.”

Your stomach drops to your ass, knowing your fate was already sealed with just those two words.

On its own, your body shakes as he purrs, bone snout nuzzling into your hair. The nauseating reality of you never being found again or even being able to see the outside world weighs on your tongue like stones. It makes you sick—want to scream, curl up into a ball and wither away, letting the cave centipedes eat at you down to the bone.

And it’s all because of those fucking markers.

#monster x reader #terat0philliac #teratophillia #yandere x reader #horror #monster fucker #monster fudger #monster boyfriend #deer monster #x reader #yandere

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pauli-writes · 7 months

Text

warnings: chapter 113 spoilers, sigma gets thrown around, reader was thrown around in the past, there is no brain cell in this

pairing: dazai x reader (x chuuya)

authors note: no thoughts, writing this during my lecture therefore it’s not proof read.

“are you sure it’s a good idea to throw someone around that is unconscious and has a stab wound?”

“you survived it.” dazai replied candidly, his gaze drifting from chuuya to yourself. his tone of voice was chipper, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. he was still concerned about something, but fyodor died in front of all of them, the rest of the agency managed to stop the rest of the decay of angels, so there shouldn’t be anymore causes for concern.

you furrowed your eyebrows at the mention, thinking back to the time where you were actively running around with dazai and chuuya and doing errands for mori. “what? when-“

you were interrupted by a loud thud, you turned your head and saw chuuya standing over a still unconscious sigma. you sometimes forgot how small chuuya was, this sight reminded you if it.

“yeah, i don’t think he’s waking up.” the redhead said, looking at his two companions. dazai sauntered over it him, his eyes landing back on to sigma with a little bit of urgency, like he was almost awaiting him to wake up any second from now.

“no keep going,” he said with a wave of his hand, “it took reader 12 tries to wake up.”

“once again when have i ever-“ you were interrupted once again by the sound of sigma hitting the ground. you let out an exasperated sigh, “this is ridiculous.”

“it’s a true and tried method.” dazai replied, walking back over to you.

“he was stabbed,” you replied slowly, to emphasis your point to both of them, hoping that either one would see your reasoning. “he needs medical attention.”

“he’s fine. he’s not even bleeding anymore.” chuuya spoke up, dropping him once more, leading you to let out another frustrated sigh.

“chuuya-“

“reader trust me,” dazai cut you off, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and a his signature smile on his face. “when was i ever wrong?”

you sighed and dropped your head at the question. he always asked that question, because he knew how you’d reply to it every single time.

“never…” you mumbled, crossing your arms over your chest. you hated it when he was right. you let out an annoyed huff and moved away from dazai and chuuya and turning towards the exit of the room. “fine, i’ll be over there. looking at… i don’t know corpses or something. come get me when something interesting happens or you start making out.”

you started wandering off with a wave of your hand. dazai chuckled at your behaviour, while chuuya only pouted and continued lifting and dropping sigma with his ability.

“don’t wander too far!” dazai shouted after you playfully.

“i’m not a child!” you replied annoyed.

“debatable!” chuuya commented teasingly.

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x you #bsd x you #bsd x gender neutral reader #bsd x y/n #dazai x reader #chuuya x reader #soukoku x reader

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deathbecomesthem · 2 months

Note

No pressure, but is this prompt something you’d do??♥️

You both unknowingly book the same haunted Airbnb and find out you're stuck together for the night.

This has been a long time coming. Eddie Munson x gn!reader - +18 ONLY. I don't know what I can tell you about this fic without giving away the plot. 3.2K words.

This is prompt #14 on the Stranger Prompts list that @bettyfrommars @somnambulic-thing and @allthingsjoeq put together in February. I hope you enjoy this.

Prompt: You both unknowingly book the same haunted Airbnb and find out you're stuck together for the night.

---

The cabin is exactly what you need. It’s just what the doctor, your psychiatrist, ordered. A clean break from the city for 3 nights out in the mountains. There’s cell service, but it’s patchy. You found that out on the first night, having to walk all the way to the edge of the property to call in to the office and let them know you’d officially be unavailable for any emergencies while you were out of town. After that first night you find yourself checking that useless brick in your pocket less and less often.

You didn’t pick the cabin because of its reputation. The reviews are immaculate, and not just from the people that come out here hoping for a close encounter with the resident spirit. Your assumption is, especially now that you’ve spent one night here, that the haunting is a ploy to get more people to rent the property. It doesn’t matter to you if there truly is a ghost sharing the cabin with you, as long as it doesn’t leave the toilet seat up.

Right now, you’re lying in the bedroom at the back of the cabin under a heavy crocheted blanket. It smells like cedar and leaves. You left the window open last night, and the autumn air is carrying the scent of decaying leaves into your room. It’s cold on the tip of your nose, but the rest of your body is held in the comfortable warmth of the big bed. With the window open, you can see the night fading away as the sun begins to make its sleepy journey back to the daytime. You decide to follow its lead and start the day.

Coffee tastes better on the back porch; or maybe you’re able to take the time to actually enjoy it without the distraction of everyday life. Either way, you sit on the old wooden rocking chair that faces out into the woods and hold the hot brew up to your still cold nose. Richly scented steam warms your face. You let your mind wander back to the office for a moment to wonder what this Friday morning looks like without your presence looming over your employees. Like a mini vacation for them, having the boss away. Good for them, it’s the least they deserve for putting up with you every day.

The last dregs in the oversized coffee mug are as cold as the air out behind the cabin, and you decide it’s time to relocate. Throw on some warmer clothes and spend some time exploring the property. Last night you were delighted to stumble upon a barn that held a goat. You made friends with the beast for a while, stroking its rough fur and looking into its rectangular eyes. You think you might go see him again today, bring him one of the apples you hauled in with you. You’ll need to make the 20-minute trek to the small grocer in town to get more than just the cheese, fruit, wine, and coffee you brought in with you.

You’re thinking about making a nice pasta for dinner, assuming there’s anything at the tiny shop that could be ground together to make a pesto, so you don’t notice that anything has changed right away. You walk past the pair of boots sitting on the rug at the entrance of the cabin. You walk into the kitchen, not realizing the overhead light is turned on even though you never flipped the switch this morning. You set your coffee mug on the counter next to the jar of crushed tomatoes that wasn’t there half an hour ago. Your brain doesn’t even register the quiet sound of running water coming from the bathroom just down the hall. You’re too busy mapping the path you’ll take up the winding mountain road. You’re already planning the conversation you’ll have with the local that stands behind the counter of the store. Your fingers are practicing the movements of chopping basil and crushing pine nuts (or possibly cashews or walnuts depending on the inventory of the store).

Your lips move in preparatory conversation, “hi there” - “lovely weather” - “just in town for a couple of days up in one of the cabins on Bear Ridge” - “do you have any olive oil?” when a new sound, louder and harder than the tap, stops you in your tracks. A door closed. Not a car door outside, but a door in this cabin. A door just down the hallway from where you’re standing. That sound pulls you right back into the present, which allows your mind to finally see all the things that it missed.

Someone else is in this cabin.

—

Eddie booked the cabin, as he does every year, before the travel season really starts up. It’s necessary, his journey into the forested mountain. It’s different now than it was that first time, more about finding something that’s been lost than holding on to something. He is pulled to that place, the cedar of its walls hold the memories he lets himself forget the rest of the year.

It’s a pretty ride on roads that devolve from asphalt to gravel to dirt the closer he gets to his destination. Dust flies up from his truck tires and into his open windows. He wonders when the last time was these roads saw rain. Too long, from the look of the drooping pines that line the path he’s traveling on. That’s fine, it suits his mood to see nature thirst. He’s thirsty too, his own spirit is bent and dying. He can only hope his time spent alone out here will keep him going for a while longer.

He’s tired, though, and the sight of the cabin creeping up on him makes him feel like he’s being held. It’s what he needs, even if it’s not what he wants, to be called back to the memories. The mid-morning sun sits between the trees and the wooden structure. It welcomes him to the only home he knows how to return to. Eddie throws the truck into park just as he reaches the set of stairs that lead up to the wrap around porch. He sits in the cab for a minute, looking at the front door. He sighs, exhaling out the heaviness of life into the cab of his truck, and leaves it there.

He kicks off his boots and swings his bag off his shoulder just as he steps inside. It smells like cedar and coffee. Familiar scents that make the fine hair on his arms prickle. He begins his routine, putting away the food he brought with him - eggplant, pasta sauce, a block of parmesan and fresh mozzarella, eggs, breadcrumbs, tabasco, whole wheat bread, onion, pepper, garlic, crushed tomatoes, and Irish butter. Staples. These are the things he always brings with him. He makes his way down the hallway to the bedroom at the far end. It’s not the one he stayed in that first time, though he pauses outside of the door of that room to look into it. Dust particles hang in the air, and he’s not surprised to see the sheer curtain move in the breeze of the open window. He smiles to himself and moves down to the blue room where he’ll keep his things for the next three days.

—

“Hello?’ your jump at the sound of your own voice, and scold yourself internally. You clear your throat, “is someone here?”

You think maybe the owner of the cabin has maybe come by for some reason, the thought that someone would come all the out here to harm you in some way is too ludicrous to entertain. Of course, maybe it’s the ghost. Would a ghost wear black boots and buy Newman’s Own marinara? Unlikely. You take a few tentative steps down the hallway, listening hard for any sound that might clue you into who might be lurking in the shadows.

“Uh, hello?” a man’s voice calls back to you from one of the bedrooms. It sounds as unsure as your own. “Who’s there?”

He steps out of the room at the end of the hall across from your own. He’s tall, with a mound of gray curls at the top of his head. He’s dressed in black from head to toe. There’s a scar on his cheek that travels down his neck. This is the man your mother warned you about, the kind that kids in dark alleys with a knife. There should be alarm bells ringing in your head, but the lines at the corners of his eyes are soft.

“Yeah, hello. Can I help you with something?” You ask the man at the end of the hall. You watch his facial expression. His brows pinch in confusion, you think, and he shakes his head.

“I don’t know, Sweetheart. I wasn’t expecting any visitors on my secluded vacation. Not sure what you can help me with.” He’s walking towards you while he speaks. A kind of saunter, possibly to hide some sort of pain.

“Well, this is my secluded vacation, and I also wasn’t expecting any visitors. Are you telling me you booked this place?”

“I’m telling you I’ve booked this place for the same three days every year for the past 20 years. So, yeah. I booked this place. Are you telling me you booked this place?” He stops when he’s within arm’s length of you, close enough to smell the sweat and aftershave on his skin. Up close, you can see that he’s maybe even a little older than you initially thought. 60 at least.

“Well, shit,” you sigh. You tell him your name and extend your hand, “this is some bullshit, maybe I should try to get a hold of the property owner to see what he can do-” you trail off, remembering your lack of cell service, “-which would be a great idea if my cell phone worked out here.”

You look at the man in front of you for some kind of suggestion, anything. You should want him to say, oh no, what a stupid thing to have happened. I’ll go get my shit and get out of here, but you don’t. It’s something in his eyes that makes you hope he’ll choose to stay, even though the idea opposes all reason.

“Well, sweetheart, I don’t bring a cell phone with me out here. Sorry about that. How about we both stay -” he holds up a hand, as if to hold back the rejection you have no intention of offering, “- I’m a quiet guy. I’ll keep to myself. I bet we can get the guy that owns this place to refund us both when we get to a working phone.”

“Well, look at you. I only just met you, and you’re speaking my language.” You give him a big smile, “I’m always looking for a good deal.”

—

The old man, you can’t help but think of him as that, is named Eddie. Edward Francis Munson. He’s from Hawkins, Indiana, but he’s been living in Boston for a long time. Eddie is happy to keep the promise he made, to keep to himself and move around the cabin like a ghost, but not you. You keep finding yourself next to him. Sitting across from him in the small living room, looking over the top of your well-worn copy of The Poisonwood Bible and hoping to catch his eye. Your feet take you into the kitchen while he’s bent over the stove top, asking him what he’s working on. While he’s on the porch, you’re sitting on the stairs to watch the tree line and see what he sees.

“Do you have any kids?” The question, like all of your questions thus far, escapes your lips before you can consider that it may be a rude one.

“No kids, no. There was a time…” you crane your neck to look back at him from your spot on the wooden stairs that lead to the yard from the back porch, “yeah, no kids.”

A pitfall you didn’t see, that’s what that question is. Silence erupts in the space between you, loud enough to make you feel like you’re drowning. You can hear the peepers song through the open window, and are thankful for it. You’re ready to apologize, or crack a joke. You don’t do well when conversation ceases, it’s always been that way. You open your mouth and Eddie waves his hand. He waves away the tension and turns his lips up in a half smile. You can imagine it on the unwrinkled features of his youthful face.

“Well, no kids. Alright. What about a dog?”

Eddie’s laugh fills you with warmth. The question caught him off guard, and tickled him in that way that happens when you’re all bunched up over something sad. The sound of his laughter feels like home. Like a place you used to know. You can feel a smile on your own lips, you’ve caught onto his joy and made it your own.

“No, no dog. It wouldn’t be fair,” he’s wiping the moisture of the corner of his eyes, “I’m not home much. I do have a cat. Scout. He’s more like the neighbor’s cat at this point.”

Every answer he offers sits on the edge of a profound sadness. You can see now that this man is haunted. You begin to wonder if your intrusion on his alone time is wrong. Maybe you should leave him with his ghosts. Or not, you think he might end up following them off into the darkness.

“Well, cats are good. I’m glad you have one. I’m more of a dog person myself, I love that unconditional love and devotion. I accept nothing less from canines. And men.” You’re back to facing the tree line, and don’t see Eddie’s reaction to that. The way his smile fades even more, and the tear of laughter at the corner of his eye breaches his lash line and overflows with the added weight of his sadness.

—

Eddie gets to work on dinner while you’re perched on a high back stool at the counter that separates the cooking area from the main living room. He’s humming something familiar, but you can’t quite put your finger on what it is. The sound is too lovely for you to stop it and ask him what it is.

Eddie’s movements in the kitchen are reminiscent of a dance. You can almost imagine he once had a partner that knew how to do the moves alongside him. He’s dicing onions and peppers and you’re transfixed by the movement of the blade. You take a drink of wine and find yourself on your feet and moving around the counter without even having decided to do it. You open the fridge and get to work.

You find yourself humming along Eddie’s song until you’re singing the words quietly under your breath as you whisk eggs in a shallow bowl. Eggplant parmigiana. That’s your favorite meal, and you’re pleased to see that Eddie knows how to make sauce that doesn’t come from a jar. He even brought Cento tomatoes. A kindred spirit.

The dance continues through dredging and frying. Through slicing thick pieces of bread and mincing garlic. No words spoken, apart from the lyrics of that song you can’t quite recall, yet you somehow know all the words. Just like the dance you never learned the steps to, and yet the movements feel like second nature. You know this, you think to yourself, not fully understanding what that means.

And when the pasta is drained and the garlic bread is toasty, Eddie pours you another glass of wine while you grab plates from the cabinet to the right of the sink. You think nothing of it when you wrap your arm around his waist and hold it there while you pull open the silverware drawer, and he doesn’t remark on it. You’re just moving around him as if you’ve done it a million times, a simple dance of dinner time with this man.

“Sit, I’ll bring over the dishes,” Eddie says to you, rooster potholders adorning his hands. So you sit, a satisfied smile resting on your lips. You look down at your foot, expecting to see your kitten, Scout, rubbing against your leg. His cat's way of begging for a scrap of something. Where is that little beast, you wonder, and the smile you’ve been wearing starts to slip along with your calm.

“That song is driving me crazy,” you say, hoping your voice sounds steadier than it feels. “I don’t know how I know all the words.”

Eddie sets the pan of still bubbling eggplant onto the center of the table. He sighs and looks into your eyes. Left to right, he’s not looking at you as much as searching you. You can see the younger man when you look into his eyes like this, and suddenly you know him.

“Why do you think that is?” Eddie asks you, still looking into your eyes.

“Because you wrote it for me,” you answer him.

He sighs, a sound of relief and acceptance, and dishes out the meal he made for you. Your favorite meal. It’s wonderful to be like this with him, it feels like you’ve been gone for an eternity. You’re so thankful for his presence, that he came here to find you.

“Eddie, I missed you,” you tell him.

“I missed you too. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere ever again,” he tells you, reaching across the table to hold your hand. You eat that way, hand in hand, running your fingers over the tattoo on his knuckles. Your initials, of course, faded with the passing of the years.

—

You didn’t bother to clean up after dinner. Eddie was too tired. You helped him down the hallway. You helped him undress and get under the covers. You climbed into the bed with him and found that spot at his side - your spot - and curled into him.

You hum your song to him until he’s finally asleep, and follow him into a dream. You’re at the beach with him, it’s the first truly hot summer day of 1995. It smells like coconut sunscreen and salt water. The sand under your feet is hot, and the sun is beating down on your skin. You can see Eddie standing at the water’s edge, his hand outstretched in an invitation.

You wake, not to the sound of bird call, but the sound of an engine revving outside the cabin. You leave the bed and the cold body resting beneath the covers. It’s not important, not when you know exactly what you’ll find when you open the front door.

Eddie’s sitting on the back of his old Goldwing, looking like she was just driven off the lot. His black hair is tied loosely at the nape of his neck in a ponytail, and his hand is out to you again. You run down the steps and climb onto the back of the bike, eagerly wrapping your arms around his center. You breathe in the smell of his leather.

“Eddie, where are we going?” You ask him.

“Sweetheart, I have no idea, but we’re going together this time.”

#stranger prompts #eddie munson x gn!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #anon ask

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cucumberteapot · 1 year

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Spider-man Villains and Hands

If you're paying attention you'll notice often times in Spiderverse that villains are far less expressive with their hands than the heroes. That is unless it's to attack.

Kingpin clicks his pen to relieve rage he's only barely controlling and in Peter Parker's death scene, the only time we see his hands is to kill him.

With Doc Ock, we see her doing a lot of excited gesturing with her hands (pushing up her glasses, studying Peter, etc.).

But after her reveal, it's her tentacles that does most of the talking.

Moving on to ATSV, when we first meet Spot, he's experimenting with his Spots with (you guesses it!) his hands and it's a lot of trial and error. It's also a lot of slap-stick comedy in his first fight with Miles managing to take him out briefly by making him punch himself in the face.

However as he becomes more confident with his powers, we see him use his hands less and less to the point he doesn't need to use a spot to teleport between dimensions. Instead of attacking them, Spot starts fighting by letting the heroes attack him.

And by the end of the film, his mere presence has become such a threat to Miles that all he has to do to invoke fear is stand still. This is why after his colour scheme has been completely inverted, he doesn't fight or do anything with his hands anymore and it's why our last focus on his hands is when he watches it completely turn from white to black.

When we first get a good look at Miguel, we get a close-up of his claws before panning up to his watch. Firstly this shows us how unlike the other Spider-people Miguel is. He has claws and wears a cape. Peter says in the first movie, "Spider-man doesn't wear capes." Then we see a better look at his watch which tells us this character isn't just scary and powerful, but is powerful in their access to other dimensions without having their cells decay - which by the end of the movie proves to be another problem for Miles. Immediately this shot warns us that Miguel is an unstoppable and dangerous person and the sirens in his leitmotif only emphasise that, even if the characters don't realise it yet.

Likewise with Fisk and Doc Ock in the previous Spiderverse installment, Miguel also doesn't have a lot of hand animations outside of fighting and we see this visual language in his meeting with Miles. Miles offers Miguel an empanadas and calls him 'Tio' ("uncle" in Spanish) as an offer of respect and solidarity, but Miguel's response is to grab the box and throws it aside before resuming his stance.

Here Miguel isn't just refusing Miles, he's also refusing the subliminal coding of a heroic character and I feel this has a lot to do with how our human brains work. The way we understand people and animals is by the way they mirror us. We like patterns and to draw parallels to ourselves. When someone is excited, we're excited. When someone's confused, we're confused. When someone's sad, we're sad. And so on. However when we're faced with something that doesn't react how we expect or reacts unpredictably, like Miguel throwing the empanadas back at Miles, it's sets off a warning in our brains. It's kind of like a predator hunting prey, which is the exact dynamic between Miles and Miguel by the end of the film.

However in Miles' mind, he has no idea why Miguel is being so antagonistic towards him. Even when Peter says, "He's always like this." Miguel remains stoic when Mayday is crawling around him and only moves to catch her and hand her back to Peter. Like with the empanadas, this is another example of Miguel's lack of ability to connect with the people in his environment other than through aggression and violence. It's why Miles calls out, "You have claws? Are you sure your Spider-man?" Because Spider-man is defined by his ability to connect with people - hero or villain.

Then we get to another clawed antagonist who hunts Miles for the duration of the first Spiderverse's runtime. Much like Miguel, Prowler's movement is mostly unstoppable aggression. That is until he learns Miles is Spider-man. Aside from presenting as Aaron Davis, Prowler is most identifiable by his giant claws and the camera makes sure of it.

It's only when Aaron learns who Miles is does he take off a claw to hold his hand in his final moments. Unlike Miguel, the claws are not exclusively attached to his suit - they are removable and thus Aaron is able to connect with the people in his environment outside of his identity as the Prowler.

Which finally leads us to our other Prowler, who likewise is able to put on and take off the claws. But where am I going with this?

I feel like in this scene the lighting and colour grading is doing the most work in making Prowler intimidating. Because unlike Aaron's Prowler, Miles' Prowler design is very casual for a villain. Which works for the character but without the claws and the mask, Miles looks just as scrawny as his Spider-man counter-part. It's almost too casual without those key identifiers. Which is why I think we're going to see a lot of Miles' Prowler without the claws and interacting with his family in the next film, as well as dealing with his own identity. Like Aaron in the first film and unlike Miguel in the second, we're going to see how Prowler connects with his environments beyond serving as a antagonistic foil to Miles.

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