#i kin both of them and its an issue

[adharastarlight]

The black brothers kinnie problem of not knowing whether I want a sarcastic smartass or a sunshiney dork

[just-an-anxious-mess]

I'm glad there is apparently no more conflict between us but I can't help but be bitter. Why couldn't you be there for me, be supportive and listen to me when I was still a kid desperate for attention and praise and approval. I appreciate your support now but I am furious on behalf of that poor child who would do anything to have this kind of parent. As an adult I'm thankful for your help but my inner child will never forgive your absence.

I mourn the person I could have been if this support had been present from the start instead of after I'd been kicked out.

[larrythefloridaman]

maybe J0hn for the character bingo? owo

love this man ive been attached to him since he first showed up <3 dont have too much new i can think of to say about him though

[jvzebel-x]

"only other Hawaiians ever make me feel not Hawaiian enough--"

"Hawaiians from the islands are racist--"

"Hawaiians from the mainland have REAL aloha spirit everyone up here is just Hawaiian, no matter how much blood you got--"

okay but you understand that every single portion of what you just said is rooted in colonialism&the attempted murder of our people+culture, right. like you GET why kānaka from the islands have to be so protective of things as they are on the frontlines watching both our culture&our land get chunked for the proft of those who have no right to any of it, right. like you KNOW that hawaiian homelands requires a 50% blood quota to even get on the list&a 25% quota from anyone you leave that land to post mortem, &that the list is STILL decades long because the vast majority of the homeless kānaka back home MEET that requirement, right-- that the homeless demographic in the islands has the largest percentage of us left in one grouping in the world&it isn't surprising the families who maintained a higher blood percentage are also too poor to leave the islands even while dying on the streets, right. like you are CAPABLE of conceptualizing what all of that would do when confronted with someone from the diaspora who "doesn't understand why the aloha spirit is dead in the islands". right. like you can SEE&HEAR how it sounds when you say the nonhawaiian people&legacy of the colonizers that tried to obliterate your ancestors are the only ones who make you feel hawaiian now that they as a group have successfully taken up the primary position on what makes a good hawaiian. right. like you KNOW why there's even a push to properly exemplify kānaka maoli after literally hundreds of years of our people having to save us from cultural obliteration, &that the push to be a "real hawaiian" definitely didn't start with us, the people who you are trying to reconnect to&identify with. right.

like, i get feeling like the expectations are too high-- there isn't any right way to be kānaka, &there are most definitely kānaka who are shitty about that-- but coming back with, "BUT THE HAOLES VALIDATE MY HAWAIIAN-NESS" is just fucking WILD, like i don't know how to explain to you the haoles thinking they have a right to validate fucking anything in relation to us&our struggle&our people is just...

blood doesn't matter, but obviously not in the way you seem to think, lmao.

[blueywrites]

turtle dove and the crow, part three

A 1940s Farm AU, featuring bsf!neighbor!eddie x fem!reader

story tags: 18+ (minors dni). smut; true love; unexpected pregnancy; angst, angst, angst; parental issues; corporal punishment; scheming, plotting, and betrayal; hurt/comfort; period-typical stigma regarding unwed pregnancy; angst with a happy ending.

chapter tags: 18+. p in v, unprotected sex, oral sex, angst, hurt/comfort.

masterlist | part one | part two | part three | interlude | part four | part five | epilogue | playlist

(I have not edited this yet, so please excuse any editing mistakes!)

PART THREE: WOLF LIKE ME (12.7K)

Feel me, completer

Down to my core

Open my heart

And let it bleed onto yours

Feedin' on fever

Down on all fours

Show you what all that howlin's for

Wolf Like Me - Lera Lynn ft. Shovels & Rope

Deep in the field, two roosts sit side by side. One is built of sturdy, weathered wood painted the color of bright red berries, with deep-set windows and a dark sloping roof that protects it from the elements. The other is made of wide symmetrical clapboards painted blue like the sky on a cloudless day, with knotted-oak shutters slightly worn from the sun and wind and bright white trim that shines in the eager summer light. They are separated only by a tall fence and a stump rotted through to the other side, through which the grasses of their yards mingle to become one. 

These roosts house different birds. One is a trio of turtle doves, a mated pair with a young hen still soft and brown-gray, though her iridescence is maturing now, subduing into adulthood. The other is a pair of long-bonded crows, though the younger spent its fledgling years in the care of another, who pecked and prodded and stole his sustenance until the young one fluttered finally away, seeking to shelter under the safe wing of his older kin. 

They may bear different feathers— one downy gray, one glossy black— but if one were to peep through the windows, one would see these young birds and note how similar they appear right now as they preen. Both turtle dove and crow are drawing their beaks along each feather to clear away the dust, fluttering out their wings in great stretches, and hopping about the expanse of their rooms, caught in restless preparation as the grandfather clock ticks its hand toward seven. 

The turtle dove adorns herself for the crow. She dresses in her Independence Day best, twisting to watch the ankle-length skirt swirl around her legs in swaths of dainty yellow gingham. She dances her fingertips along the hand-sewn embroidery that decorates the square neckline, feeling along the tiny white flowers and vines for the perfect spot. There, she pins two sprigs— one lavender, one jasmine— to nestle amongst the white threads she’d sewn with careful fingers, her first attempt at embellishing her clothing, ventured to celebrate the holiday in mid-July. With a careful hand, she ties a bow of white silk to the side of her head. Now smelling of flowers and gilded in homespun sunshine, she has finished her preparations.

The crow, meanwhile, focuses less on his adornments. He doesn’t possess his own Independence Day best; instead, he dresses in a collared, button-up shirt oft worn, paired with navy blue woolen slacks and a leather belt with a simple buckle. But he made sure to scrub his skin with soap 'til it shone pink over every inch of him— between his toes, behind his ears, on the backs of his knees and the nape of his neck. He has brushed out his hair and tamed the flyaways with pomade, twining the curls around his rough fingers to let them drop into careful coils, working with a delicacy that he feels near-embarrassed about despite not having been observed. Carefully, he picks the dirt from beneath his fingernails and trims them short and neat, though he’d been waylaid momentarily by regretful ruminations on the roughness of his palms. He swipes his thumbs impatiently along the callouses that cannot be softened with warm bathwater as if he might rub them away before giving up and brushing his teeth for the second time instead.

With one last ruffle of feathers and a careful appraisal in the mirror, crow and turtle dove descend their staircases in tandem at five to seven, filled with the flutterings of nervous, jittery excitement that precede such an occasion as this.

When you reach the bottom of the stairs, Mama and Pa are already loitering there; you hurry down the last few steps, swinging around with a hand on the banister to fling yourself toward the kitchen and avoid keeping them waiting too much longer. The pie you’d baked with apples from the tree out back is still wafting steam from its golden, flaky crust, but when you test the glass dish with a little pat of your fingertips, you find it’s cool enough to snatch up with a handtowel plucked from the towelbar beneath the sink. Carefully, you carry it back to your parents, stealing a quick glance at their faces as you group together with them. They’ve dressed nicely— though not quite as fussily as you— and their faces hold the same impassive pleasantness that had been there yesterday when the occasion had been proposed to them by the wild-haired boy next door. 

He’d stood in his muddy boots on the bristly mat, so adamant in his refusal to tell you what the matter was until your parents joined you that you’d had half a mind to think that something terribly grave had occurred. Your worry gave way to confusion once they arrived and Eddie, with uncharacteristic formality, extended an invitation to dinner at the Munson house for seven o’clock the following day. 

Though his delivery was strange, the whole thing was no cause for alarm because you and your family had dined with Wayne at least once each season since before you could remember. But when your parents accepted politely, and Eddie looked then to you, his eyes held a promise unspoken in their umber depths. They were lightened to honey in the sunshine, glossy yet still deep and dark like a pool of rippling water. You had an inkling of what might set this occasion apart from others previous, but you barely dared to think it lest you be disappointed. Still, even without that certainty, you’d taken the time to dress your best, to rouge your cheeks and lips, and set your hair more carefully than usual, just in case that inkling came to pass. And you’d insisted on baking an apple pie to bring over for dessert, prepared to fight had your mother put up any protest, which she had not.

The walk across the grass to the house side by side with yours has never felt so long as it does today. The August air is heavy but dry from the day's heat, wafting with woodsmoke and ablaze with the rhythmic chirping of crickets that are emerging, drawn by the deepening light. And it feels laden with something else, too, as you crunch along the gravel path that connects the front of your property with the Munsons’. Perhaps it’s the promise you think you saw in Eddie’s eyes that wisps along the breeze, ruffling the leaves of the oak trees that stand tall and proud behind that red house. Or perhaps it’s your own unspoken revelation, the one that bloomed in the goat pen those days ago, filling your lungs to swell anew behind your ribs. The heaviness of that unknowable quality makes the walk to Eddie’s house feel long, but it is, in fact, over with quite quickly.

He does live just next door, after all.

You carry your sweet offering up to his porch with eyes fixed on the sturdy, weather-beaten door. There you pause to wait for your parents, and when they join you, your mother raps the doorframe smartly with unhesitant knuckles. They flank you like sentinels as you wait, lips pursing at the faint ruckus you hear behind that thick wood. It’s Ed thumpin’ down the stairs, no doubt, you figure, and your supposition is proven correct when just a moment later the door flies open, quick at first before being slowed with a jerk to a more respectable speed.

You can’t pretend to have chosen the dress you’re wearing for any other reason than the fact he’d mentioned it that day at the creek, but the way Eddie’s face goes slack— the way his dark brows melt into softness and his plush lips part just slightly as he marvels at the sight of you— makes it difficult to keep your composure in front of your parents. As does the sight of Eddie himself. Mama and Pa fade at the sight of him, and you can’t help but pause a moment to take him in, your eyes fluttering over his features like a gentle brush of wings. 

Eddie’s curls, dark and rich like wood stain, look as soft and shiny as liquid silk where they spill over his shoulders, and your fingers twitch with longing as you imagine drawing them through those coils. His skin is radiant, scrubbed noticeably clean, and its paleness makes his freckles stand out stark in contrast, like a dusting of spicy cinnamon across the bridge of his nose. He’s rolled his buttoned shirt up to the elbow, revealing strong forearms and broad, rough-hewn hands that are scrambling now to unburden you from the dessert you’d prepared. 

You allow him to take it, offering a grateful smile. He returns it before ducking to the side to peer around you. “Evenin’, sir. Ma’am.” Eddie greets your Mama and your Pa almost reservedly, and the absence of his typical manic edge or teasing rasp feels odd but also makes a strange thrill thrum in your belly. He explains, “My uncle’s occupied there in the kitchen; dinner’s about finished. Just gotta set the table,” he adds, almost to himself, and you hasten to offer your assistance.

With just a hint of too much sweetness for comfort, you tell Eddie, “I can help you if you like.”

“Thank you.” Eddie’s cheek dimples in a soft, crooked smile. “And for the pie.”

You wave off his regard to keep your cheeks from pinking. “S’nothin.”

You’ve been inside Wayne Munson’s house on occasion since you were small, as have your parents, but Eddie still leads you along the wide worn floorboards and through the archway into the sitting room. This room is as it always is: green paint faded from the westward setting sun on the far wall, Wayne’s sagging armchair nestled in the corner, a hand-hewn coffee table and the striped couch with the crochet blanket draped over its back in a cascade of the merry yellows and oranges you know Wayne is partial to on account of the sunflowers. There’s a pair of eyeglasses on the side table near the armchair atop a magazine that is clearly Wayne’s, but the boot poking from half-beneath it, strewn carelessly as if it had been kicked off in a hurry, is clearly not. A faint smile crosses your face as you spot it, though your father’s loud clomping footsteps draw your attention soon enough. The sizzling of the stove is overtaken by your father’s friendly shout as forges ahead to the kitchen; the gruff warmth of two men greeting one another accompanies you as you cross the living room to join Eddie in the dining room. 

You become mindful of what you’d offered when you see him clearing the runner and the simple centerpiece from the dining table, which dominates the middle of the room despite the tall hutch standing broad against the far wall. You hasten to help him, hovering nearby as he pulls open the hutch drawer. You catch your mother eying the dust on the ridge lining the hutch and prepare yourself for some remark on the matter, but in the end, she doesn’t comment. Instead, she merely watches you and Eddie futz with the silverware for a moment before leaving you to your work to survey the goings-on in the kitchen. You hear the conversation between the two men stall when she enters before continuing, making room for the new addition.

Eddie squats to retrieve the plates as you set out the placemats, lining them with spoons and knives side-by-side and forks placed carefully across from them, with space to nestle the plates in-between. You circle the table methodically, dropping piece after piece on your path as Eddie rotates in the other direction, crossing your path almost as seamlessly as if this is a practiced dance. It’s not something you’ve ever done together— meals typically don’t stand on such ceremony as this, and Eddie certainly doesn’t usually fold the linen napkins into careful squares before dropping them onto the white ceramic. But as you watch him nudge the fabric with the tip of his finger to straighten its crooked lines, his tongue tip peeking pink between his lips as he does, the chore feels distinctly domestic to you, like something that has happened dozens of times before and will continue again for countless more. That sudden uncanny inkling mixes with the feeling that swells up sometimes behind your ribs, which resurges when Eddie sidles up next to you and bumps you lightly out of the way with his hip. 

“Watch it, you,” he pretends to grouse, lips quirking as he drops the napkin square onto the final plate with a flourish. “M’tryn’a set the table here.”

“Oh, and I’m not?” you retort hotly, but when he pinches your waist quick and playful, you can’t help the giggle that squeals its way from your throat. He dances back from your jabbing finger aimed at his side, curls bouncing as his face lights with a smile. Not to be deterred, you snatch up the napkin he’d just put down, and as it unravels from its square to prepare to strike him across the ribs, the familiar gravel of a throat being cleared— aged and croaky with years of tobacco use— has you spinning on your heel and hiding the evidence of your childishness behind your back.

The sight of Eddie’s uncle is wholly more welcome than your own Pa at the moment, though you still want to squirm as he regards you with a squint and a quirked brow. “Hello, Wayne!” you say brightly. You’re fooling no one; it’s an obvious attempt to distract him as you plop the napkin back onto the plate, letting it drop behind your back. 

“Hello, y/n. It’s nice to see you.” Wayne doesn’t react as Eddie reaches slowly around you to fiddle the napkin back into a semblance of orderliness, though you swear his blue eyes— so different from Eddie’s in color but so alike in their expressiveness— are twinkling now as he carries the plate of fried pork chops to the table, setting them carefully down.

“Thanks for having us over for dinner,” you say, clasping your hands demurely in front of your lap. “It’s very kind of you.”

Wayne rasps a chuckle as he straightens, clapping a heavy hand on Eddie’s shoulder briefly before moving with characteristic creakiness toward the kitchen. “No need to thank me; it was all Ed,” he offers offhandedly before disappearing, unaware of how the comment stirs the hope within you to sweet and tender life.

The meal shared with your neighbors is pleasant. More than pleasant, in fact. The pork chops are crispy but tender, yielding easily to your knife; the sweet juice of the fresh corn snaps between your teeth as you bite into the cob, and the sliced tomatoes are buttery smooth and perfectly ripe. Wayne is seated to your right at the head of the table with your father beside you on the left, and you spend the majority of the meal eating and listening rather than speaking, more than content to let them bookend you with their familiar voices made more fervent in the company of friendly company not often seen. Eddie is seated across from you, and when you aren’t listening to the patriarchs reminisce about the drought of ‘36 and lament the inconvenience they’re suffering as a bridge repair forces them to travel in some roundabout way, you’re watching Eddie eat. You’re staring at him with a level of fascination that is almost unnerving, made clear as his brow furrows slightly when he catches your eyes fixed so firmly on him.

But you’re staring because it’s strange, the way he’s eating. You’ve seen Eddie eat many times, and he always does it with a certain disregard for common manners: borderline too-ambitious bites, mouth open more than it’s closed, fingers sucked of grease, crumbs everywhere. Yet, not so tonight. Tonight, every slice is cut to a reasonable size; every bite is measured and chewed thoughtfully; every swallow occurs before he speaks again. And Eddie is even using his napkin. It’s laid across his lap and, miraculously, lifted to his mouth every once in a while to neaten the corners of those plush pink lips before being replaced just as carefully 

The empty space where that napkin is usually balled to the side of his empty plate is not the most uncanny thing, though. What is the most uncanny thing is the way your mother is actively engaging him in conversation about the 4H fair next month. Eddie tells her he plans to enter Merlin as a showhorse, and she nods across to you, donning a soft smile as she says, “Y/n’s really been makin’ strides with her embroidery ahead of the showin’. I think she’ll be ready.”

“She’s gettin’ real good, from what I’ve seen,” Eddie agrees eagerly, bobbing his head maybe a little too wildly. “Did she show you the hoop she’s makin’ for my uncle? The one with our family name in the middle?”

“I think so…” Mama’s head tips as she considers it. “That the one that has sunflowers on it?”

“And chicory flowers, too,” you pipe up, meeting Eddie’s umber eyes across the broad table, watching them soften to honey. Your Mama makes a sound of recognition and keeps talking, and while Eddie nods, replying politely, his gaze doesn’t stray from yours.

When bellies have been filled, and plates have been cleaned of all but the tiniest crumbs, you decide as a group to retire to the living room before indulging in dessert. Your hosts lead the way, and Wayne takes his customary place in his well-worn armchair, sinking down with a bone-weary sigh borne partly of creaking joints and partly of a belly swollen by overindulgence. 

Your mother hovers near the archway, surveying the seating options demurely until Wayne notices and waves her easily toward the couch. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Ed’ll park his seat on the floor, won’t you, son?”

“Oh,” she protests politely, “I’m sure we don’t mind—”

But Eddie has already flopped himself down in front of the hearth, leaning back on the heels of his palms and stretching his lanky legs toward the coffee table, perfectly content. As his foot bobs back in an easy rhythm, Mama’s eyes dart to the hole in the bottom of his sock near the toes, the way the white thread is worn gray and threadbare on the balls and the heel. Quick as a flash, they dart away again as Pa encourages her forward with a hand at the small of her back. Together they take the couch, your mother perching on the edge with her ankles crossed and your father sinking back into the cushions, leaning one elbow comfortably against the arm and letting out his own sigh to match Wayne’s.

You’re about to join Eddie on the floor when you notice, peeking from the corner of the long hall leading toward the back of the house, curves of spruce that beckon your excitement. 

“Oh!” You make a sound not unlike your mother’s, though yours is borne of exuberance as you pick your way around Eddie’s legs. He grunts a light protest as you plant a palm atop his head to steady yourself while stepping over him, but you ignore it in favor of plucking the instrument from its hiding place, brandishing it in the air with wide eyes and a broad grin. “Look, Ed, it’s your guitar!” 

“Yes,” he says, half wry as you toddle towards him, awkward and unwieldy in your inexperience carrying it. “That’d be my guitar, all right. Why, aren’t you the clever one.” 

Your reply is quick and entirely cheerful. “You shush y’r mouth, Eddie Munson,” you say easily, depositing the guitar in his lap and taking a seat cross-legged beside him. In your peripheral, you can see Wayne leaning back in his chair, surveying you as his fingers stroke his grizzled beard, but your eyes are all for the man with wild curls and a teasing grin that stretches his plush pink lips as he glances over at you. “I was thinkin’ y’could play us some songs to pass the time before dessert.”

Eddie sighs beleagueredly, tipping his head back even while already lifting the guitar strap over his shoulders. “What next? Y’gonna ask me to sing too?” He slants another glance at you, chuckling as your eyes light up even further. You clutch his wrist, shaking lightly, only faltering slightly when you notice how hot and smooth his skin is underneath your fingers. The awareness tingles within you, and you snatch your hand back.

You play it off with characteristic banter. “D’you want some o’my apple pie?” you question him, quirking your eyebrows in challenge.

Eddie purses his lips, not quite pouting but close to it. “...Yes,” he replies, and you jerk your chin toward the guitar.

“Then get to singin’, mister,” you say hotly, though you can’t help but smile when Eddie pretends to clutch his heart and sway back as if wounded by your demands. A disapproving tut draws your eyes, and they widen when you see Mama’s narrow. She’s clucking her tongue in a way that means she is dissatisfied with your attitude and wants you to know it. 

Your spine straightens under her silent gaze, and a prickle of shame needles across your shoulders as you clasp your hands in your lap. You look back at her contritely until she finally glances away; if anyone else notices the nonverbal exchange, they don’t let on, and the shame fades as Eddie begins to pluck the first few notes of the song he’s chosen to begin with.

Your mother’s reproach is quickly forgotten as Eddie’s warm rasp fills the room to accompany the twang of the guitar’s strings. The sound is untrained, yet melodic and pleasant nonetheless as he sings, “Well, they tell me, my dear, that you’re going; I will miss your bright eyes and your smile. For with you, you are taking the sunshine that has brightened my life for a while.”

Red River Valley wouldn’t have been your first choice of song for the occasion, though you must admit that Eddie sounds quite nice singing it. And it’s pleasant to watch him play, too: his long lashes dust the pale of his cheeks as he looks down at his fingerwork, and your gaze slides down the slope of his nose to the soft end, then down to the valley between nose and lip, then finally to the pink of his full lips as they form the words. “I have waited a long time my darling for those words that you never would say” A lock of curls behind his ear slips to drape over his cheek, and though your fingers itch to tuck it back for him again, you force them still in your lap. “And alas now my poor heart is breaking for they tell me you’re going away.”

Eddie repeats the chorus one last time and ends with a flourish of strumming, a smile stretching his cheeks wide as your Mama claps politely and her eyes wrinkle pleasedly. Your father is less enthusiastic, though he does nod absently when he sees you looking at him imploringly. “S’pretty good,” he offers, and Eddie accepts it graciously, resetting his fingers on the frets to regale you with some improvised playing. 

He is quiet for a while as he plays, brow furrowed in concentration as he weaves chords and notes into a tapestry of story, not unlike the tales he’s long invented for you since you were merely children playing in the mud. You marvel for a moment at the fact that those broad hands, so rough and worn from labor, are able to create such sweet and delicate sound; you watch his long fingers dance along the frets, the way their strong calluses catch the strings and make them cry out in joyful feeling. His playing is unhurried and peaceful, but watching Eddie fills you with a thrumming sort of happiness that makes you want to join in— something you’ve never done before despite the many times you’ve heard him play. 

That feeling bubbles over as his song eases into a brief silence, and you take the opportunity to ask if you can make a request. Eddie’s brows jerk in surprise for only a moment before he’s nodding quickly, perhaps a little too wild in his effort to encourage you. And though he rolls his eyes lightly when you tell him what you want, a smile still tugs at the corner of his lips as he begins a tune more jaunty and sentimental than the one he’d been playing.

You watch as he plays the introduction, waiting for his eyes to flash to yours promptingly before you begin to sing. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray.” Your voice is not as practiced as Eddie’s— though his is barely so— but it is clear of tone and gains steadiness as you continue, “You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you; please don’t take my sunshine away.”

It becomes clear as you begin to sing this song why people sing songs. Which may seem an odd revelation in and of itself, but it’s something that you’ve just… never really done before. You may hum a tune to yourself as you complete your chores, or warble along with the record player, but that’s not the same as letting your own voice be the one to take the place of silence, to fill a room so full that you cannot be ignored. There is something vulnerable about that choice, and you feel that vulnerability in the itch at the base of your throat, where your skin is heating with the awareness that everyone can hear every crack or falter in your pitch. But as you sing the words out, emboldened by Eddie’s confident playing, you realize there’s a kind of wild disregard for perfection in the act, an impulsive freedom that feels very much like joy. And you see that joy echoed on Eddie’s face when he accompanies you for the final verse, his warm brashness husking up the clearness of yours in a way that sounds, not just good, but right. 

Another smattering of applause follows your performance, and you bask in it; your knee seeks the side of Eddie’s thigh, resting there lightly, and though you don’t glance down at it for fear of drawing too much attention, just knowing that he is warm, and solid, and connected to a small part of you makes happiness perch high in your heart.

“If I could make a request.” 

All eyes turn to Mama, who has now sunk back against the couch, not quite leaning against your father’s side but close to it. “How about ‘John the Rabbit?’ Used to sing that t’you when you were little. D’you remember that?”

Mama’s voice is just the same as it always is— even when it’s calm, the urgency of ‘get this done, knock it off, do this, not that’ is never quite gone. But her expression is buttery soft now as she gazes at you, and as you relax under its comforting weight, your body sags subtly toward the man sitting at your side. “Sure I do,” you tell her, “used to sing it to me in the mornin’, and that’s how I knew we were gonna tend the garden that day.”

Mama hums, beckoning you gently with her chin. “Why don’t you lead us in a round, hm?” She casts glances around at the men, adding, “All you gotta do is say, ‘Yes, ma’am.’”

“‘Til the last line,” you pipe up, “then y’say, ‘No, ma’am.’”

Wayne chuckles, rubbing his palms along his worn blue jeans. “I reckon we can handle it,” he assures her in his slow way, and with that, Eddie strums a simple tune fitting of a nursery school rhyme. 

You sing sweetly, “Oh, John the rabbit—”

“Yes, ma’am,” the rest call, and you smile through the next line:

“Got a mighty habit—”

“Yes’ ma’am.” 

“Jumpin’ in my garden—” you pause for the others, who oblige you readily, before continuing, “Cuttin’ down my cabbage…” and yielding them the floor.

The leader is meant to draw out the next line, to twang the words at the end, and you sway in your seat as you faithfully follow. “My sweet potatoes,” you croon at Eddie, and he leans toward you as he answers louder than the rest,

“Yes ma’am!”

With each successive line, the delight inside you grows, and it echoes through the room, repeated on every face— man and woman, young and old.

“And if I live… to see next fall… I ain’t gonna have… no garden at all—” You heave a great breath, grinning as you throw your head back and chorus with the others,

“No… ma’am!” 

Eddie strums hard and quick to end the song, and your giggle is joined by Wayne’s thick chuckle, and your mother’s polite humming, and your father’s hoarse bark of amusement. And when Eddie throaty, husky chuckles swallow up them all beside you, you think if you could bottle up this sound and keep it forever, you would. You certainly would.

When you return to the dining room, taking your seat beside your father, the air that fills the red roost is thick with the sweetness of shared company, almost enough to rival the flaky pie you’re all indulging in. It’s not the finest you’ve ever tasted, but it’s with a sense of pride that you watch the others enjoy it. Pa is gesturing widely with his fork as he discusses autumn arrangements with Wayne, how they might coordinate their harvests of hay and corn for mutual benefit. Mama is scooping up each bite slowly and chewing thoroughly, which you know means she is stalling to keep herself from devouring the whole thing in one fell swoop. Wayne is already on his second slice despite protesting, when he’d initially been served, that he couldn’t eat another bite. And Eddie…

Well, Eddie has eaten half his pie already, but in the last handful of minutes he’s been pushing the remainder around on his fork— not disinterestedly, as if he doesn’t enjoy it, but with a sort of jerkiness to the motions that belys some tension within him. You have half a mind to ask him what’s bothering him, but you don’t want to embarrass him in front of company. You bury down the tinge of worry, which is what must be kicking up your heart, what must account for the sudden tightness in your own chest, though it feels more akin to anticipation. 

So you eat your pie, and listen to your father, and glance back and forth between Mama and Eddie until the latter finally sets his fork down with a clink that somehow, despite the lack of force, cuts straight through the conversation between Wayne and Pa. It lapses into silence, and your heart pounds harder as you watch a pink tongue swipe at plush lips and an adam’s apple bob in a pale throat before the brash voice of your best friend fills the void.

“Sir,” Eddie says, looking at your father, and a lump grows in your throat as the word wavers just slightly before recovering. “I hope it’s all right, me speaking out of turn, but… there’s something I need to say to you.”

There is a brief pause as all eyes turn to your Pa. He draws his napkin over his lips, and its drag smooths the severe lines around his mouth for just a moment before they spring back up again into place. “S’your house,” your father replies, not unkindly.

Eddie’s eyes dart to Wayne for just a second, and you follow them to see the older man gazing back calmly. When they return to your Pa, Eddie lifts his chin, keeping his gaze and voice steady. “We’ve lived next door to each other for just about ten years now. And in that time, I’ve gotten to know your family well, and you’ve gotten to know mine.” His throat bobs as he pauses. “Y/n and I grown up alongside each other, and maybe my opinion don’t matter all that much in the scheme of things, but I tell you humbly that, well, I think you both done a mighty fine job raisin’ her.”

Eddie looks at your mother beside him, who offers him a slight nod, but he doesn’t look at you. And good thing, too, because that feeling is swelling up to fill your throat so hot and thick, it’s all you can do to keep your chin from trembling. “I know y’don’t need me to tell you this,” Eddie huffs a breathless chuckle, “y’already know how good she is. But I think it warrants bein’ said that there’s somethin’ about y/n that’s special.” His chest expands with a bracing breath, and in that pause, you see it all in Eddie’s umber eyes. In the line of his brow, the gentle slope of his nose, the light flush of his cheeks, the strength of his jaw— all that he could ever say is there, written plain as day across his beloved face.

“Special to me, s’what I’m saying,” he clarifies, and the way his brow furrows just slightly in the middle— tugged up into an expression of sweet earnestness— has your heart beating so wild and fast you think it might leap out of your chest and into the cradle of his arms. 

“Sir,” Eddie says, “I really care about your daughter, and I would like to ask your permission to court her.”

It’s what you hadn’t allowed yourself to hope for when you’d taken out the Fourth of July dress and adorned yourself in sprigs of lavender and rosemary. It’s what shone through Eddie’s eager smile when he opened the door to his home with his face scrubbed clean, waiting there for you. It’s the promise of forever stretched out over the expanse of a wooden dining table, where napkins were carefully folded into squares and pies were baked with fresh apples from the tree outside. Small acts of service committed by two sets of hands, each trailing love like fairy dust in their wake.

Pa clears his throat— not a sharp sound, more of a rumble of consideration as he leans back in his chair, gazing at Mama across from him. He nods his head slowly, thoughtfully, a gradual bobbing that continues as his tongue runs over his teeth behind his lips. It ends with a jerking of his brows and the smack of his lips opening as he replies,

“I appreciate your words, Edward, they’re very kind. But, no.” His eyes hold Eddie’s steadily. “I do not give you permission to court my daughter.”

Your father doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even sound particularly bothered. And yet the pall that settles over the Munson’s dinner table is so oppressive that you feel your shoulders sink under the palpable weight of the silence following his denial. That heaviness drags like a rotten hand down the back of your neck; it melts to viscous ooze, seeping over your clavicle, sinking through your gingham dress and coating the swelling behind your ribs in suffocating shock. 

Distantly, you hear Wayne stiffly ask your parents to accompany him into the living room. You feel your father’s chair scrape out beside you; you want to glance at your Mama’s face, but your eyes are stuck to the flakes of crust and the crystals of sugar dotting the linen napkin laid beside your plate. 

It isn’t until you’re alone with Eddie that the heaviness sloughs off of you to slap like dead meat to the floor. Then you can raise your head and meet the umber eyes of the man who sits across from you, motionless and hollow.

As soon as you see the expression on his face, the feeling shifts in you; with an impatient jerk of your chair, you stand to crane over the table and take up his cheeks in your hands. His head is heavy, his neck loose and pliant, and you hold him steady as you speak quietly and intently. 

“Okay, look, Ed—” You take a shuddering breath, letting it out through your nose, and it ruffles the soft curls that frame his jaw as he looks back at you blankly. You continue in an urgent whisper, “Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’ll put up a bit of a fuss, of course, but if I fight ‘em too hard, they’ll look at me cross, and we won’t get nowhere. By all appearances, we should look like we accept their decision, all right? That’ll buy us time to figure out what to do.” 

Eddie doesn’t react, really; nothing much on his face changes. But you know him too well, so you can see the subtle shifting there, how the dullness in his umber eyes edges into mournfulness. Defeat.

Your heart cracks.

His name whispers through your quivering lips. “Eddie…” Your eyes prick for him, for all the effort he put into making this night so perfect, and how it now had gone all sideways on him. On you both. 

You don’t think much about what you do next. It’s instinct when you surge forward to kiss him hard, pressing your lips to his with all the fervency and yearning and love that swells within your body. Your heart thumps when you feel him respond, when his lips pucker and seek yours, when his trembling fingertips draw lightly down your cheek. 

There is urgency and danger here in the dining room, but you hold the kiss as long as you can before your lungs begin to burn. When you pull away, gasping for breath, Eddie now looks more dazed than sad, and it both reassures you and feeds your fire. 

“I don’t give a hoot what they say,” you whisper fiercely. “I wanna be with you, Ed. We been good at sneakin’ around before, and we can do it now, too.” You search his eyes, panging with hesitation for the first time as you scrape your teeth across your teeth before blurting, “I don’t wanna stop seein’ you. Do… do you wanna stop seein’ me, now that this’s happened?” 

Eddie huffs— a small warm puff of breath that ghosts across your lips— and it’s wry and unbelieving but so incredibly soft. “‘Y/n.” His voice is a gentle rumble in his chest, earnest and hoarse. “Now that I had a chance to know you the way we know each other, I think it’d kill me dead to go back to how it was before. I could barely keep it together then. Can’t imagine doin’ it now that I’ve had you underneath me.” You shiver at the hot promise in his eyes. “‘Sides,” he adds, “I—”

The merciful floorboards warn you of the imminent return of your parents, and you fall back into your chair just in time to appear innocent as they reenter the dining room.

“Well!” Your father sighs the word in that tone people only use when closing something out— a conversation, a get-together, an engagement. You think he will continue, that he will turn to Eddie and perhaps offer an explanation, but that single word just lingers in the pause until your mother jumps in.

“Thank you for dinner, Wayne. Eddie,” Mama says politely, and Eddie manages to bob his head in a single nod to acknowledge her. Wayne has far more composure, accepting her thanks and exchanging a polite word about the next dinner.

Your father shakes Wayne’s hand firmly and then beckons you with a jerk of his head. “C’mon, missy, let’s leave ‘em to their evenin’.” 

It would be odd if it weren’t that you understood what must have happened in the living room— that your father had explained his decision to Wayne, and that they’d managed to come out the other side maintaining, at the very least, a level of friendliness befitting neighbors. 

So you follow suit; with as much decorum as you can muster, you rise primly and thank Wayne, casting one last glance at Eddie before you depart the red roost of the crows.

You wait until you’re back inside your own roost and your front door has closed behind you to turn on them, brow knit tight with righteous indignation. “Why did you deny Eddie, Pa?” you demand. “What’s wrong with him courtin’ me?” You can’t quite keep the heat from your voice; the outrage bubbling beneath the surface is too fresh, too hot as you remember Eddie’s beloved umber eyes, how the light in them dimmed.

Your father does not quail at your display; if anything, he grows taller, raising his chin and regarding you down the bridge of his nose. “Y/n, I’ve been acquainted with Edward for damn near ten years now, and in that time, he has proved himself time after time to be frivolous and uncouth. That boy is entirely lacking in discipline.” In a rare display of restraint, your father does not raise his voice at you in the privacy of your home. Yet he is no less hardened for it; his words fall like heavy stones before your feet. “Edward is downright wild. Your mother and I have let you indulge in this little friendship with him, above all, on account of our respect for Wayne. But he is not the kind of young man I want courtin' my only unwed daughter.”

You could tell them that Eddie’s wildness is what fuels his heart, what makes him so passionate and imaginative and enchanting. You could tell them that he bought you a ribbon and scrubbed his nails clean, that he takes you to wildflower fields because he knows you like them and invents stories to make you happy. You could tell them that you love him, that you always have, that when you envision what your life will be like with your own house and garden, you can’t see anyone but Eddie Munson by your side. 

Yet you fear to voice these things, to breathe life into them and then have them butchered just as quickly at your father’s hand. You glance at your mother, but her face is an impassive mask; you know appealing to her will get you nowhere, so you latch to the only thing you can think of. Despite telling Eddie that you will not fight hard for him since that will only make things more difficult, you find yourself unable to resist.

“But Pa,” you try for earnestness, “Ed is disciplined, don’t you see? Think of all he’s done for us ‘round the house, and with the fence and the kid. I think he’s been tryin’ so hard this past week to show you how serious he is about m—”

A curled lip is all the warning you get before being interrupted. “Never trust a man who acts just because he wants somethin’.” Your father finally snaps; his voice booms in the space between you. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what he done or how he acted this week. It don’t erase a lifetime of evidence to the contrary.”

And you know by the way your Pa’s severe face has petrified into the hardest stone, echoed though less harshly in the wrinkles that line your mother’s eyes, that their decision cannot be budged.

Edward Munson cannot court you, and that is that.

But the fact is, you don’t need Eddie Munson to court you. You’re already his, and you give yourself to him as such.

When you wake the next morning, it appears to your parents as if your ire from the night before was nothing but a feverish dream. You slink around the house with your tail held high, coy as a barnyard cat as you dine with them at the breakfast table, making amiable conversation with your Pa and complimenting your Mama’s cooking without a hint of sourness. You complete your chores without complaining— well, without any more complaining than is typical of you. You sew the buttons on your Mama’s dress with the utmost considerateness and drop kisses on your father’s cheek each night before retiring to bed. This awards you certain freedoms, freedoms that you certainly wouldn’t be gifted had you carried on about their rejection of Eddie the way you truly wanted to deep in your heart.

You keep it buried— the indignance, the sorrow, the swelling you feel when you catch glimpses of him through the cracks in the fence. You cover it in pleasantness and obeisance so that they won’t suspect, and when you visit the stump rotted through to the middle and find the papers wedged inside, you exercise the privileges you’ve won through subterfuge. 

“Nancy asked me to walk with her into town. She wants me to come with her to the dressmakers, so it might take a little while if that’s all right?” You ask your Pa as he’s repairing the sagging barn door, and his hammering pauses only long enough to tell you not to spend any frivolous money there. 

It’s quite easy to agree when you have no real intention of setting foot in the dressmaker’s shop.

Instead, you dip off the road and trail across the far edge of the Wheelers’ field, picking through a copse of trees to access the adjacent clearing that grows wild and unkempt. There, you find a patch of clear earth, and now, you are dropping to your knees to gather your skirt up around your hips. You arch your back shamelessly to expose yourself, presenting your pussy like a cat in heat to the man behind you. When you feel his broad hands ruck your skirt up higher, you press your palms to the earth and dip your cheek to the ground, just waiting to be mounted. When Eddie notches his fat head against your entrance, you teethe the plush of your bottom lip. He presses steadily forward until he pops inside, stretching you tight around his girth, and when you mewl, he hisses in response. In one long stroke— a motion quick and trembling like the tautness of a bowstring, as if he can no longer hold himself back now that he has notched inside you— Eddie presses his hips up tight against your ass and groans out his relief at your joining. His relief echoes your own, manifest in the way your body goes lax: chin dipping to take its rest, shoulders sagging as your breasts mold to the unyielding ground, fingers drawing through strands of green as if yearning for dark coils of ink but settling for second best. Eddie sleeves himself within the wet warmth that welcomes him, and your muscles yawn a sigh of relief even as you flutter and squeeze around that which splits you open.

There, in the dirt and grass, you give yourself to Eddie on your hands and knees. Your face grazes the earth as you let him pound into you from behind, let him grip your hips and claim you with the little imprints of his fingers that he squeezes into your skin. You and Eddie have done gentle; you know what it is to lie with him on the creekbed or in the wildflowers, where time seemed to stretch and bend, and every moment could be savored. But not so now, when the only occasions you can see one another are in moments stolen through lies and trickery. Now, your need for Eddie is dirty and ravenous. You take what he gives you, and you give freely for him to take in return. Each whimper and grunt, each harsh slap of skin against skin, each wet shlick of his cock sheathing in your eager heat sounds to you like a triumphant cry of defiance.

A wicked seed within you relishes in the fantasy of your parents seeing what you are allowing frivolous, uncouth Eddie Munson to do to you. You know your Mama would be scandalized— her eyes would pop out of her head. You know your Pa would be furious— his face would go purple with rage. They refused to allow Eddie to court you, and yet here he is, fucking into you with abandon as you whimper and tremble for him. And you like it; you like the way he spears you roughly with his cock, the way your ass bounces lewdly against his hips, the way your belly tightens with sinful pleasure as he plunges deep and holds himself there, pressing hard to grind himself inside you. Your walls flutter and squeeze around him as you circle your hips, seeking for something more. You angle and work yourself on his length until you jolt, having suddenly found what you sought. That feeling sparks like wicked fire, burning low inside you each time he grazes against that elusive spot inside, and oh, how you like it.

"Please, harder, Eddie," you beg him, whimpering into the earth. "Please— you feel so good." 

“Fuuuck,” Eddie groans, and the hoarse husk makes you shiver with pleasure. "Your pussy’s so sweet. So fuckin' tight and sweet for me, turtle dove. Fuckin’ love being inside your little pussy." 

You moan, long and low, rocking back to meet him as he starts to thrust again, hard and fast. You've learned that Eddie has a filthy mouth, and each dirty word that drips from his sinful lips is both so mortifying and so arousing at the same time. As his fingers tighten on your hips, and his breath harshens into desperate pants, urgency fills you— an urgency to feel him reach the pinnacle he is approaching. You want Eddie to spill inside you, or on your flank, or into the grass, anywhere so long as you can hear the way he whines and moans from the pleasure you’re giving him. “That’s it, Ed,” you encourage him breathlessly, “just like that, just— oh— j-just like that, mmm—” 

You pinch off a whine, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as his rhythm becomes stilted, uneven, desperate— 

And then Eddie gasps raggedly, pulling out and spilling onto the earth between your spread legs. His hands leave you, and you scramble up to your knees, hole mournfully empty but heart so full. You turn as Eddie squeezes the last few drops of his seed from his flushed head onto the ground before catching you in one strong arm as you fall against him, cradling your cheek and kissing you deeply. 

But like the kiss you shared in his dining room those few days ago, floorboards creak in the back of your mind, cutting this one short. They’re reminding you that you will soon need to return home and pretend not to know the taste of Eddie’s lips and the feeling of his arms around you.

And frankly, by the end of the first week, you are already growing tired of having to pretend.

It’s not that you give yourselves away because you don’t. Eddie waves at your Pa over the fence and skirts his eyes from you— never cruelly, only in the way you both had planned— and your father doesn’t suspect a thing. When Eddie brings over a pail of milk so you can churn it to make butter, Mama’s face is carefree when you pass it to her. But your desire is no longer contained to fields and creekbeds; it rises up in the night as your yearnings bid you dip your fingers beneath your nightgown. You draw them through sticky folds and dip them inside the well of your arousal, seeking the smoldering fire that burns within. But you can never make yourself feel the way Eddie does, no matter how hard you try. 

So when you wake again in the middle of the night, this time, you light a candle, scratching a hasty message onto a scrap of paper. And the next morning, you fold your message carefully, tuck it beneath the waistband of your apron, and reach your arm up to the elbow into that rotted stump, leaving it there for Eddie to find.

The night air is heavy with humidity and the chirping of crickets and cicadas, but you leave the window open. You’re laying in your bed, breathing slow and even, staring at a thin crack in your plaster ceiling to keep your nervousness from overwhelming you. Your parents had retired to bed some time ago; you heard the creaking of the floorboards then, and now, if you concentrate, you can hear the chainsaw snoring of your Pa through both closed doors. 

He is sleeping, and Ma is sleeping, and so should you be. But you are waiting— waiting for your best friend to climb through your open window and join you in your bed.

You are waiting for it, but your heart leaps nonetheless when you hear scuffling at the bedroom window. You sit up, and all at once, he’s there, dark eyes gleaming in the faint moonlight. Eddie’s form is near shapeless as he creeps toward your bed, but you would recognize him anywhere; his weight has never dipped the mattress beside you, but it feels exactly as you would expect when one knee sinks beside your calf, only to be joined by the other in the next second. Slowly, feeling around in the dark, Eddie settles his weight on top of you. He is heavy and hot as he presses you into the mattress with his belly and chest; his curls tickle across your clavicle, smelling overwhelmingly like his natural musk in the stagnant air of your bedroom. When he kisses you hello, his mouth tastes slightly sour, as if the heat of the long day and the exertion of scaling the side of your house has dehydrated him. 

Eddie is heavy, hot, musky, sour, and here, here in your bedroom with you. 

It’s everything you could want.

When he breaks your kiss, it’s all you can do to keep from pouncing on him. “Eddie—” you whine, nuzzling the firm bridge of your nose against the side of his as your hands seek the bottom of his thin shirt blindly, tugging insistently though ineffectually. 

He shushes you gently, dropping a peck on your pouting lips before dipping to your neck to murmur against the soft skin there. “Shh—” his breath hushes warm and damp against your skin, and your head tips back of its own accord, begging for more. “You gotta be real quiet, turtle dove,” he whispers. “Don’t want anyone to hear us.”

Your breath deepens as his lips trail down to your collarbone, grazing kisses as he mosies his way down to your chest. In the humid dark, you feel his callused fingers pull down the loose neckline of your nightgown. Eddie says something, and you feel the vibrations of his words against the swell of your breast, but your heart which thumps wildly in your chest and the wooshing of your breath in your ears have rendered you effectively deaf.

 “E—” You manage only the first soft sound of his name before his lips close over your nipple for the first time, sucking firmly. Your hand flies to his head as your body goes rigid; your mouth falls open in a ragged gasp as pleasure jolts straight down to throb between your legs. You squirm against him until he presses your hip down with one broad hand to keep you from rocking the bed, working the nub with his tongue and teeth until your gasping breaks into a faint but audible whimper.

You are dazed when he releases you with a wet pop, murmuring against your breast a little more loudly now, “I guess Harrington was right about that, after all. That bodes well.”

You wrinkle your nose as Eddie crawls back up your body to settle over you. Your legs open automatically to accommodate him, but you’re too preoccupied to fully appreciate the feeling of his hardness pressing against your inner thigh. Frowning lightly, you hiss in a whisper, “What’re you doin’ talkin’ to Steven Harrington, of all people?”

“Never you mind that,” Eddie whispers back, and he heads off your protest with a warm palm cupping the side of your neck, his fingers cradling your jaw. “The conversation is too delicate to discuss with a lady, so I’ll just tell you that… well, he told me to do what I just did, and you liked it, right?”

Though embarrassed heat rushes to your cheeks, you nod your head jerkily, enough so he can feel it even if he doesn’t see it in the dark. “Okay, so… he also said there’s a spot.” His hand leaves your cheek to graze down between your bodies, ghosting lightly against the loose fabric pooled between your legs. “Somewhere I can touch you, down here, that’ll make you have a fit if I do it good enough.”

Your bewilderment rushes up in a tangle of sputtered and furious whispers. “Have a fit?! Ed, what on God’s green Earth makes you think I wanna have a fit?” 

Eddie huffs. “It’s a good thing, y/n. He said girls really like it.” 

Your skepticism is plain as you retort, “Oh, did he now?” 

“Yes.” Eddie is uncharacteristically earnest and solemn, and that’s what finally gives you pause. When you’re quiet, he whispers, “I wanna make you feel so good, my sweet girl. If you let me. Will you let me?” 

In the humid dark of your bedroom, with only the moon to glaze the side of Eddie’s pale face in cool, subtle light, you look into the darkness of his eyes and feel so many stirrings inside… anticipation, nervousness, desire. But in the end, it’s the deepest stirring of all that convinces you, the one that’s been growing slow and steady over the last ten years.

Trust. 

You trust Eddie, more deeply than you’ve trusted any other person in your life, and that trust is what draws you forward into a tentative kiss. 

Your lips part briefly from his before meeting again more firmly. Eddie rumbles low in his throat, and when his lips open to deepen the kiss, yours follow. You allow him to lick into your mouth, to draw his tongue across your teeth, to press closer until the way he’s kissing you is hot, deep, wet, and urgent. 

When Eddie breaks away, his eagerness is plain in the panting of his breath, the quivering of his arms when you draw your fingertips down his biceps, feeling the hot skin there. “That’s my turtle dove,” he hushes against your mouth, and he sounds so proud and pleased with you that you can’t help but whimper. 

Despite his eagerness, Eddie is careful when he climbs off of you to settle at your side, pulling you against him and turning you in his grasp so your back is to his front. Your head falls to the soft down pillow as you feel him work your nightgown up your body, pulling the fabric from where it’s wedged between you. There is the slightest relief from the humidity as your legs, then your hip, then your intimate places are exposed to the air, but you rush even hotter when Eddie’s lips find the shell of your ear so he can murmur, “Spread your legs for me, y/n.” 

Trembling, you lift your knee, and his fingers catch against the plush of your thigh, pulling it back over his hip. He presses a tender kiss to the corner of your eye. “That’s it; good girl.” 

Your breath shudders in your chest as Eddie’s fingers leave your thigh; you throb with anticipation as they ghost over your hip and tummy before dragging through the soft curls covering your mound. “Tell me when it feels the best,” Eddie whispers, resting the side of his temple on top of yours. The weight of his head is grounding as he begins to explore you slowly with one finger, dragging up and down with no apparent pattern to his movements. 

As the moments pass, you relax in his grip, settling into the feeling of his finger dragging through your folds. He doesn’t seem to intend to put them inside you, and what he’s doing feels quite nice, pleasant, almost soothing. The crook of Eddie’s elbow rests against the curve of your ribs, and as your eyes slip closed, you seek his arm with your palm, stroking softly down to his wrist as it moves slowly between your legs—

You jolt as he grazes against something that makes pleasure fizz in a sudden burst, leaving your belly feeling hotter, tighter. As your hips jump, Eddie pauses, his breath catching as he tries to replicate what he’d just done. When it happens again— when pleasure sparks suddenly so might brighter than anywhere else— Eddie’s arm tightens excitedly around your side. 

“S’that it?” his voice is a little too loud in his excitement, and you tightly clutch his wrist. “Sorry, sorry,” he whispers, though the urgency hasn’t left his voice. “That’s it, though, isn’t it? Feels better when I touch you there?”

“Yeah,” you reply, voice small and needy. Eddie dips his hand to draw a sloppy circle briefly around your entrance before returning to the apex of your heat— that place that had tingled when he licked you on the creekbed, you now realize, though the thought hadn’t crossed your mind until you felt that pleasure again. When he presses against it again, his fingertip glides much more smoothly now; it felt good before, but now it feels even better. 

Eddie continues moving his finger slowly and lightly at first as he waits for your reaction, but when you don’t tense or pull away, his actions become more confident. Your pleasure builds under his careful ministrations; he works you slowly but steadily up into a frenzy of heaving breasts, muffled whines, and writhing hips. You begin to arch your ass back against him, grinding slowly, your tender skin dragging against the soft cotton of his pants until you find that stiffness like a brand against your cheek. You press hard against it, rolling your hips only a few times before Eddie grunts and pulls his hand from between your legs, shifting back away from you. 

You know what comes next as you hear the rustling of his clothing; you take the opportunity to catch your breath as he works himself out of his pants, but the wind leaves you just as quickly when he presses back up against you, hard and silky smooth as he guides himself blindly, bumping against your wet, puffy lips. Suddenly overwhelmed with need, you lift your leg higher, whimpering breathily as you reach down between your legs in an attempt to help him. “Fuck’n… c’mon,” Eddie hisses, nudging first too high, then too low, and then— 

Then he sinks right in.

It’s the easiest glide, the sweetest stretch, and simultaneously you and Eddie moan as he slides all the way home. “Oh, baby, baby,” he pants desperately against your cheek, “fuck, that’s… oh, my God—”

You reach up over your shoulder to bury your fingers in his curls, and when he pulses inside you, your breath hitches with the force of your desire, your overwhelming need to have him move. “Eddie, please…” you whine, nearly beside yourself, and his hand clamps to your hip like a vice, holding you still as he pulls out and pushes right back in.

You sag with relief as he wastes no time in beginning to fuck you, splitting you open so deliciously on his cock. Eddie pounds you over and over again like he had those times before, but what you don’t anticipate is how that hand on your hip slinks down between your legs again. 

You strangle your cry in your throat as he finds that spot so easily as if he’d been drawn to it. You whimper through clamped lips as quietly as you can as Eddie presses tight little circles to your bud, pumping into you from behind. Your fingers wrench from his curls to clamp instead around his forearm; the tendons roll under your fingers rhythmically, and your pleasure begins to build so rapidly it’s nearly frightening. 

"That's it, baby,” Eddie encourages you, “You feelin’ good?" 

You nod frantically; something is tightening inside you, growing more than it ever has. "Gonna keep goin' til I get you there," Eddie promises breathlessly, panting out the words between his thrusts. "Don't care how long it takes. I got you, sweetheart. Want you to have a fit." 

"Eddie," you whine quietly, dumbly; only his name can spill from your lips now. "Ed, E-Eddie, Eddie—" 

Your pathetic sounds drive him to fuck you faster, and as he does, your pleasure tightens further, burning hotter, throbbing more and more until the urge to cry out overwhelms you. 

Abruptly, you curl your shoulders forward away from him, snatching up the pillow and burying your face in the soft down to muffle the sound of your moans. 

 You’re still connected where it matters, though Eddie pauses in his movements when you draw away before he realizes what you’re doing. Your sweaty back is exposed to the air for only a moment before he’s following you, unwilling to tolerate any distance— his chin hooks around your shoulder as his hips rut against your ass and his fingers press circles into your clit. 

  "Bein' so good for me,” Eddie rasps in your ear, “using your pillow to keep yourself quiet so your parents don't hear the way I'm fuckin' you in your bed." 

Your moans turn to quiet cries now, rhythmic and constant as your legs squeeze closed around his wrist. And he doesn’t falter; through the plush of your thighs, Eddie fucks you determinedly, thrusting into your fluttering pussy as you gasp and cry raggedly into your pillow. "My girl,” he moans. “They can't take you from me. No one can." 

As that feeling builds and grows, instinct in your body takes over, guiding you where it wants to go. Mindlessly, you begin to grind back on Eddie’s cock, rolling your hips; he pulls his wrist from between your legs, holding onto your hip as he matches the rhythm of your movements. Almost desperately, Eddie drags his open mouth across your cheek, panting out his earnest desire for you. "Come on, turtle dove. That's it—" 

With a soft, hoarse cry, you finally spasm around him. 

The pleasure gapes like a yawn inside you before tightening and bursting outward in a tingling rush, flooding you with mindless euphoria. The intensity of the feeling would be truly frightening had Eddie not been right there behind you, holding you against the solid comfort of his body, whining into your hair. He pumps into you only a few more times before pulling out, and then you feel him spill against your flank. The warm spread of his spend paints your skin, the graze of his cockhead like a hot brand as he squeezes out every drop.

In the aftermath, there is a moment of dazed silence. The only sound that fills your humid bedroom is the chirp of the crickets and the rush of your breaths puffing in unison. When you’ve recovered enough, you break that silence to whisper emphatically, "Oh, Christ on a cracker, Ed, what in the hell was that?!" 

Eddie snorts before burying his face hastily into your neck, muffling his chuckles against your skin as your cheeks rush with embarrassment. “Well, don’t laugh at me,” you insist, heating more when he lifts his head and snatches you up by the chin, smacking a firm, playful kiss to your cheek. 

“You’re cute,” he murmurs, following up his kiss with two shorter ones before letting you go to wipe your hip off with the bottom of the shirt he’s still wearing. 

Your body thrums with contentment, but when the mattress shifts as Eddie climbs carefully down to pull his pants back on, the moment becomes tinged with melancholy. Your eyes track the vague shape of his body for a moment before you whisper, “I wish you could stay, Ed.”

For a moment, all you hear is a heavy sigh, one that leaks with the sadness you’re both beginning to feel. “Me too, sweetheart,” Eddie whispers back. “Can I lay with you, just for a little while?”

The question transforms your sadness into a sharp and poignant swelling— pleasant but painful all at once. “Of course.” You reach blind fingers in the direction of his neck, and Eddie ducks closer so you can draw them through his curls— no longer silky like they were the night of the dinner, yet beloved even more for their frizziness. “I’d really like you to.”

As you laze with Eddie above your bedcovers, tucking your cheek against the side of his chest, sleep begins to swallow the pain of knowing Eddie cannot stay. Only vaguely do you notice when the bed shifts and the warmth pressed to your side unsticks from your sweaty skin, both a relief and a loss; you feel the brush of lips against your forehead and your closed lids, featherlight and delicate; you hear the scuffle of Eddie climbing back out the window to scale the side of your blue roost and return to his red one next door.

Sleep swallows the pain of knowing Eddie cannot stay. But, though Eddie cannot stay, a part of him is always with you, and it has been for some time now. The evidence of your love is nestled safe inside your body; it is an inevitability ten years in the making, now ten days conceived.

You wake the following morning with an overwhelming desire to have Eddie in your mouth. 

Maybe it’s an odd urge to have so suddenly, but you suppose after your adventurousness last night, your curiosity to try new things must be piqued. You glance around your room, and the only evidence of Eddie’s visit is that your bedsheets more rumpled than usual, so you straighten them out before tying your housecoat around your body and wandering downstairs.

There you find Mama in the kitchen, who is busying herself with the stove until she notices you’re awake. “Morning!” Your greeting is chipper, and she returns your greeting with a smile. As you breakfast together, all feels usual aside from the absence of Pa at the table; she explains that he’s been speaking with a rancher some towns over about possibly purchasing a new horse. You flash with worry, but she soothes it with a pat of her hand atop yours. “Don’t fret. We’re not replacin’ Guinnie, silly girl,” she huffs with some amusement. “We all know that Pa might’ve bought her, but that’s your horse. I told him it’s high time to get one of his own.”

You sag with visible relief, and Mama’s huff turns to a chuckle. “I’m goin’ into town this morning to pick up some things,” she tells you. “You wanna tag along?”

You open your mouth to say yes, but falter as your belly burns with the sudden realization of this opportunity— Pa gone, Mama in town, Eddie just beyond the fence with the stump in between.

“I was actually thinkin’ I could work on my embroidery this morning,” you reply instead. “Finish the hoop for Mr. Munson, maybe.” You smile innocently. “Then I can start on my 4H hoop!”

There’s no reason for Mama to doubt your sincerity, so she doesn’t. And when, an hour later, you wave your embroidery hoop high in the air from your rocking chair as she sets off down the road, she doesn’t question the call of the turtle dove, nor the cackle of the crow that answers.

The hay in the barn loft is soft under your knees, providing a pleasant cushion while you satisfy your desire with kitten licks along the fat head of Eddie’s cock, kneeling between his spread legs. He tastes as you would expect, though you’d only been thinking about the taste for half a morning. It’s salty, a little musky from the heat, the same way his dark curls smell. Occasionally, beads of liquid shine at the tiny slit at the tip, and when you lick them up, they’re more bitter than the rest. Not pleasant, but not unpleasant either, and the sounds Eddie’s making for you right now more than compensate for it.

When you flick your tongue against that dribbling slit, his breath hitches; when you lick a fat stripe up the underside of his cock, he moans. And when you swallow him down, engulfing him in the wet heat of your eager mouth, he gasps some strangled sound that makes you giggle around him.

Eddie’s hips jolt and squirm when you do, and your eyes pop open to find him looking nearly pained. “F— oh, f— shit,” Eddie finally settles on, and you would smile if you weren’t so full of him right now. 

You’ve been exploring him in this new way for a little while, so your curiosity has nearly been sated. Nearly, because you have one thing yet to taste— his seed. And you really want to know what it will feel like to have him spill onto your tongue, to have that hot flesh jerk and pulse within you, to have him feeling just as good as he made you feel yesterday.

So you begin to bob your head, sloppily at first, uneven until you figure out the right angle that keeps your teeth from grazing him and making him hiss. You hum apologetically around him, and his plush lips fall open as you take him a little further while making that sound. Eddie’s cheeks are flushed prettily, his hair like dark ink spilled across the hay as he moans for you. “Shit, baby, that feels so fuckin’ good.”

You rush with satisfaction, growing more enthusiastic as you bob faster, grasping the base to hold him upright so he doesn’t flop around so much. “That’s it,” Eddie pants, “That’s— oh—”

His hand finds the side of your head— not moving you, just resting there as you work him with your mouth and tongue, like he wants to feel the way you’re doting on him. You ignore the soreness in your jaw when his panting gets heavier, and your gaze flashes up to lock on his face— eyes hazy, brow pinched, skin flushed down his neck as he gasps, “Don’t stop, I’m… I’m gonna—”

You moan when he moans, and as you do, Eddie’s cock kicks within the wet heat of your mouth, spilling his seed. It’s thick and tangy, warm but not hot as it spurts to coat your tongue, and you wait motionlessly until the jerking subsides and his fingers relax against your hair. 

Pulling off is a little sloppier than you anticipate, and you chuckle as some of his release leaks before you can fully close your mouth. You catch it with a hasty palm, meeting Eddie’s fond, dazed smile with one of your own, albeit closed-lipped on account of your mouth being occupied. 

As you swallow him down, using your other hand to wipe your bottom lip, you hear the subtle creak of wood below you.

Your only thought is that you don’t want to look. But whether you look or not, it does not change who waits for you beyond the ledge of the hayloft. It was with a perverse sense of satisfaction that you’d imagined Pa’s face would turn purple at the sight of you with Eddie, but you knew, were it to actually occur, that the horror you would feel would leave you reeling.

Instead, you’re greeted with the sight of Mama’s features. They are pallid, so contorted with the force of her seething rage as to be near unrecognizable, and somehow, that is worse.

[leportraitducadavre]

“Sarada is the first Uchiha that awoke her MS out of a sense of pure love, unlike the rest of them that were rooted in hatred –she’s the first one to break the “Hatred Cycle” of the clan.”

*sighs* Listen, there’s nothing I’d like more than to leave Boruto and all of its byproducts behind for good, yet over and over again the rabid anti-Sasuke fandom comes back to trash on the original characters of the show for the sole purpose of chanting “old Uchiha bad, new Uchiha good” around a barely lit pit fire.

Allow me to quickly break this notion, as it doesn’t need much more inspection than a faint passing of our eyes through the original series to debunk it.

After hearing Naruto is sealed away alongside Hinata and everyone blames Boruto, Sarada starts crying and, in desperation, asks her dad to “help Boruto”, awakening her Mangekyou Sharingan.

[Contrary to what I initially believed as I thought she might be asking for help as she couldn’t move, she’s not injured, she appears to be (at most) in shock due to everything that Boruto has to face, so, in case you’re one of those Naruto fans that are used to have pretty plot-relevant, emotional moments after the initial awakening of an Uchiha’s MS, let me tell you: That’s not happening, at all.]

Regardless of the minuscule and for real, for real, not sarcastic at all, very-well thought and constructed attempt to empower a character whose relevance to the main plot lies in the fact that she is the only daughter of Boruto's mentor, many stans of the child saw this opportunity to trash on Sasuke’s power as an Uchiha (you know, the reincarnation of Indra itself), and to justify such an awakening of one of the most powerful forms of the Sharingan under the premise that “it’s a different type of awakening because it’s linked to love, not hatred.”

So, in order to fact-check such affirmation, let’s see how other characters achieved the Mangekyou:

Sasuke:

Sasuke awakes his MS originally from learning the truth behind his family’s genocide; before this (and I mean, chapters before this, as his MS is dedicated a total of three chapters) Obito explained that the Uchiha were planning a coup and that Itachi, to protect Konoha and his brother, committed the annihilation of his entire kin following the government’s orders. We see him crying before a new resolution is reached: destroy Konoha. His MS awakes due to his pain which turns to complete anger.

However, you wouldn’t believe how Sasuke has conscious access to both Mangekyou:

That’s right folks, he has conscious access over his right MS by thinking of those he wants to protect, Team Taka and Team 7. So this “hatred” cycle that powers up his Sharingan is fuelled by one thing and one thing only: love.

Furthermore,

Sasuke got conscious access over his left MS technique when trying to save Karin, as she’s a very dear comrade of his. Something similar happened when he awakened his Sharingan versus when he got conscious access to it when trying to save Naruto.

[Sasuke awoke the Sharingan when he was eight years old, so the idea that “haha, Sarada awoke her MS when she was younger than him so she’s better!” is stupid as he awoke it when he was at least four years younger when facing the genocide of his people, unlike her that got it from daddy issues. In fact, awakening MS or the Sharingan before or after has nothing to do with the person's capacity as a ninja as it solely depends on the traumatic events that said person experiences. It's safer to say that her emotional threshold is significantly lower than her father's given the "peaceful" times in which she grew up than to claim a "superiority" based upon the age they both experienced traumatically enough events to influence their chakra and develop or evolve their doujutsu.]

Obito:

Obito, somewhat similar to Sasuke (and this is due to their feelings, as they’re heartbroken and such pain triggers their raw hate), awakes his MS when he sees the girl he loves get killed by the boy he started to consider a friend when he was twelve/thirteen years old. His feelings are so strongly connected to his Sharingan that they also evolve the doujutsu that Kakashi possesses.

However, there’s a striking difference between how Obito awakened his Sharingan (basic form) and how Sasuke or even Sarada did as he achieved such power when trying to save his comrades.

[Sasuke awoke the Sharingan due to the pain he felt when seeing his parents get killed by his brother, which turned into hatred when Itachi "explained" his reasons. Meanwhile, Sarada got her Sharingans due to the pain she felt when her father didn't recognize her, which turned into fear when he threatened to kill her.]

Obito’s Sharingan was completely awakened by a sense of protectiveness over those dear to him, in other words, love. 

Every single Sharingan or evolution of the same doujutsu is driven by the same emotion. From there, it either derivates to different states (pain, hate, grief, and so on), or it doesn’t, but no Uchiha can access either form without feeling a strong positive connection with someone or something they are trying to protect.

P.S: Unrelated, but look how pretty Kishimoto's art is compared to Ikemoto's (who also sexualizes minors constantly, as this is the cover of the newest volume), Sasuke looks so ugly and Sarada's MS is the most awful thing I've ever seen. No wonder the manga is flopping. Yikes.

Edit to add: It’s devastatingly hilarious how the whole point of Sarada’s Mangekyou wasn’t even about her; nor her power, nor the relevance of her bonds, it was about making a powerful enough moment for Sasuke to believe her and help Boruto! Everything becomes, yet again, about Sasuke.

[trancylovecraft]

Um hello, could you write some relationship headcanons for Lucifer from Blue Exorcist with a half human/ half angel s/o? If that’s alright with you, please and thank you. I liked your recent Blue Exorcist headcanons and I’m also excited for season 3!

(BLUE EXORCIST) YANDERE LUCIFER x HALF-ANGEL! READER: Headcannons

Thank you for ordering!

Come again soon!

• Thank you SO much for requesting aoex lucifer like OMG we need more yandere fics of him (and aoex) and I'm willing to provide

• Since angels don’t exist in Aoex as a reference I’m gonna use the stereotypical angel as a guide.

• This takes place following my other headcannons of him once he finally captures you.

• As soon as he does he notices something off about you. A lump in the back of your clothing that seemed to twitch or the way your wounds bled golden.

• Firstly he’d be absolutely stunned. Angels exist? Ridiculous! Yet as he sees your unconscious form, Wings splayed out and all there was no denying it.

• He’d totally be into it though. Lucifer views himself as perfection and you being such a holy and pure being just matches him perfectly.

• Even though you are only half, Though.

• He has a lot of questions about your heritage. Which one of your parents are an angel? Have you met them? Do archangels exist too? Are one of them your parent?

• He asks these questions in such a monotone voice yet he’s really intrigued by who sired you.

• Lucifer also asks about heaven, if you’ve been there and If there really is one and there is a god

• He asks about your wings too. Lucifer thinks they’re absolutely divine and asks (Near pleadingly) to touch them. To which you back away in aversion until his guards bring you forth, He doesn’t care whether you say yes or no. You’re his so he can caress your wings all he wants. 

• Unironically calls you “My Angel” with a straight face.

• When your forced to sleep in the same bed as him he constantly strokes the feathers of your wings, Finding comfort in them.

• Will be testing your blood for any healing properties for his elixr’s. If you do then there is absolutely no way you’re getting out of this place.

• You move to a bigger room so you have more space for your wings.

• The clothing he gets for you will be much more ‘Angelic’ with mostly whites and pastels. Its all for his delusion of divinity with you, Even if you are only half.

• Youll live longer because of your blood. Lucifer is glad about that because it gives him more time to find a way to make you immortal alongside him.

• Homare now goes to bird care classes on her time off.

• Lucifer, When he has a good body, Likes to take you around museums (Which he rents out so you two are alone) and gets you to explain what happened in the religious sections.

• Even if you have no clue since you’re half human and weren’t born around that time, He’ll believe any gibberish you make up and listen with interest.

• Even though he is a demon, He does view himself as more of an angel so he doesn’t see any issue when you say you cant be together due to your conflicting sides. (And that he kidnapped you and touches your wings without consent, But he wasn’t really listening to that part)

• If you ever try to escape him by flying off he will catch you. Both his siblings, Their kin and the Illuminati will have no problem tracking you down.

• The worst part is when you kneel before him after being recaptured, Surrounded by the entire Illuminati as he softly threatens to clip your wings if you do it again.

• Afterwards you now wear leg weights to make it more difficult. While he would definitely clip your wings he wants to keep them in perfect condition, So you’re safe another day.

• Good luck trying to cry for your angelic parent when you’re locked in a angelically warded room!

[myimaginedcorner]

SCALES OF JUSTICE - BETA-BOOK CLOSED, DEMO ESTABLISHED AND FINAL STAGE BEGUN

At last, we're here, my dear reader. After more than two years of sweat and tears, you and I are witnesses to this book's full release, the end that lays foundations to the fresh beginning of a bigger journey. I cannot express just how grateful I am to everyone who's been supporting me throughout this time, to each who wrote their lovely messages and useful advise that helped me keep improving with my every chapter. The road ahead doesn't look long, now - there's only some re-writing left, and then, I'm submitting this project to the judgement of Hosted Games. If we're lucky, this is but a step in a story that has not yet seen its rightful end.

FULL BETA-BOOK IS NOW UNAVAILABLE: A DEMO VERSION HAS BEEN ENABLED UP TO CHAPTER 5.

Now that the long weekend has ended, I'll begin with my thorough re-read of the book, a re-write of some sloppy scenes and a proper check of stats and their effect on your experience, to make sure this game is enjoyable and worthy to be officially released. I thank you all again for your patience, for your support and love - I'll do my best to bring you a good final product.

As usual, I welcome any feedback, for my beta-tester is becoming a woman of Science (I've also slightly broken her with a Baldur's Gate 3 obsession). If you have any issues, recommendations, or comments in general about my work, feel free to text me here or make a post in CoG forum, where I will be answering you to the best of my capabilities. I tried my best to bring this update quickly - I checked for bugs, but I'm always very grateful for any help!

KNOWN BUGS:

Sometimes, the image for Chapter 5's title doesn't appear at the beggining of the chapter. I'm unsure why, and thus the bug still persists.

DEMO DESCRIPTION:

Scales of Justice is a fantasy game situated in another world, far away from Earth. There are plenty of species living together in harmony, but the human race is currently split in two civilisations: the one known as Hero kingdom, which is ruled by ‘heroes’, and the one named Vannais kingdom, controled by ‘villains’. Both nations hate each other and the fight between ‘heroes’ and ‘villains’ here is something that happens on a national level. The game is focused on lore, on character development and your own perception of reality: perhaps, your MC just wants to live a peaceful life... or maybe wants to save the world.

Or even rule it, if you’re into such things.

THINGS TO DO IN THIS DEMO:

Set off on a new adventure towards Neutral Lands, to meet a mythic creature of all answers - The Visionary.

Gather up to 3 companions to help you in your quest - befriend, romance or rival them, the choice is yours.

Buy a horse - we know you want one.

Fight, conjure, support, speak or think - choose your way of handling a tricky situation.

Explore the kingdom of Hero up to Menai's shore, in search for someone - or something - to aid you in your journey.

The DEMO version of the book runs up to Chapter 5 and contains 276K words overall. I will be putting up updated versions of the first chapters as I work my way through them, so expect the DEMO version to become a polished reflection of what the final book will look like!

USEFUL LINKS:

If you want to know a little more about this project and read chapters 1-5, I'll leave the link to the game here -> https://dashingdon.com/play/myimaginedcorner/scales-of-justice/mygame/

If you want to discuss anything on CoG's forum, I'll leave the link for SoJ here -> https://forum.choiceofgames.com/t/wip-scales-of-justice-new-project-announcement-and-demo-release/101088/16

If you want to send me a more extensive feedback, here's my email -> feedbackscalesofjustice@gmail.com

Any mistakes, concerns or questions you have, feel free to contact me through Tumblr! I am very excited to share this story with all of you, and I want to make it as good as possible with your help!

RO DESCRIPTIONS:

Shoren/Seile -> Heir to the Hero kingdom's throne, right where your journey starts. Also, your old friend who's very attached to you. Likes to read and practices magic, enjoys adventure and heroic deeds. A recognised “hero”, with blonde curly hair, pale skin and a pair of beautiful blue eyes.

Robert/Reina -> Order's Paladin, defender of Hero and Knight of Fate. Brave and honourable, determined to protect the people of the kingdom. Very loyal to friends and very dangerous as an enemy. Has short brown hair, tanned skin and an athletic build.

Valerius/Venis -> An Outworlder, who was caught by cultists from the Wicked Woods. Gracious, elegant and charismatic. Has long dark brown hair with a silver streak, olive skin and golden eyes.

Arion/Aria -> Leader of Vannais, a recognised “villain” who escaped from Hero and now rules the enemy kingdom. Serious, reserved but temperamental. Prefers action over words and so is always present on battlefields and amidst negotiations, even though never in official manner. Has short blonde hair, pale skin and emerald eyes.

Be careful! These characters have their thoughts and opinions on the world and your actions: if you want them to support you, convince them or take their side… or neither. That is your choice after all!

[fictionkinfessions]

@ 744442324213530624/new-kin-agony-when-people-take-the-gs-off-words

Hey! Lets not pretend that people kinning from "problematic media" automatically means they support it or its creators! Thats actually really fucking mean! Especially when your wording goes as far as to imply they are invalid as kins!!! Let people have critical thinking skills. And How many times does it have to be said that people do not choose their kins (or fictives, which are also applicable here even though you did not mention them) before people stop acting like this! Its ridiculous! It's annoying!

Your "positivity" toward Eridan is meaningless when Homestuck is ALSO deemed problematic media by many people (and agreed, certainly didnt age well in many aspects) while you condem anyone who touches a different one.

You can choose not to interact with people who kin from things like Hazbin, but I refuse to let you put my fellow kinfolk down because you think Eridan holds exclusive authority over "not using g", or that Eridan's source ISNT full of issues as well.

~An Eridan kin, who also happens to kin Husk. What a funny coincidence. (/s)

p.s. its also just weird to act like not using g in "ing" words is exclusive to only these two characters. My Quirk isnt being basterdized. Many people who dont even kin dont type a g all the fucking time what the fuck.

Anonymous asked:

Hi Im the Eridan that just sent in an ask response and I realized I should include a very clear obvious example of Homestuck also having flaws. Mpc Please add this onto the other ask.

I AM CANOTICALLY A FACIST. ANON. ANON DO YOU NOT HEAR YOURSELF.

I know fandom widley ignores that because really what the fuck was that, but LETS NOT PRETEND THAT ERIDAN IS A PURE CHARACTER COMPARED TO SOME POOR GUY WITH ALCOHOL AND GAMBLING ADDICTIONS.

NEITHER OF THESE SOURCES ARE PERFECT. BOTH ARE FLAWED. ONE IS JUST HATED MORE RIGHT NOW THAN THE OTHER.

Anonymous asked:

maybe... DON'T bully people for who they kin? we don't kin for fun, dude. most people can't control it. i hate hazbin hotel, too, but that isn't an excuse to say this shit. ESPECIALLY sending it into a blog where a bunch of hazbin kinfolk have been kinfessing, so you're clearly aware at least one husk kin is going to see it.

#sid🪞

party note if anyone wants to continue this converastion plase like reply or reblog this post. no further ask responses will be posted for it. thank you.

[therainscene]

I’ve been rolling the Mike thinks Will is in love with El theory around in my head some more. I like it, but it’s not without its flaws.

One especially damning counter-argument a few folks have brought up is that Mike heard Will refer to himself as El’s brother at the police station:

Will’s line contrasts Jonathan’s earlier “I’m her brother... uh, step-brother...”, indicating that Will has fully embraced her as family where Jon doesn’t quite see her that way yet.

It’s a great point. The only justification I’ve seen for it is that Mike wasn’t put off from kissing El after he’d already implied he wanted to be her brother... but that doesn’t wash with me. Just because he had no idea how to reconcile his feelings with heteronormative expectations at 12 doesn’t mean he's still clueless at 15.

So let’s give him some credit and try a different angle: When we step outside of the Byers POV, Will’s line is actually quite ambiguous.

The unsympathetic receptionist refused to let them see El on the grounds they weren’t a parent or legal guardian, so Will jumped in with an argument he hoped would win her over: we’re her legal next of kin. He’s just saying whatever he thinks will grant them access to El -- there’s no reason it has to be reflective of his true feelings.

After all, it’s not as though Will “be gay do crime” Byers has any qualms about being dishonest with authorities when it suits him.

Mike was present for both of the above moments, so he definitely knows this about Will. And this is only one piece of evidence amongst many -- the rest of it is undeniably suggesting that Will’s in love with one half of Milevn:

Will’s been acting weird in a likes-someone way around El;

Will sulked at Rink-o-Mania over getting third-wheeled by Milevn and rarely took his eyes off El;

Will is always eager to talk about El and brings her up in conversations with Mike more than Mike does;

Will hinted that he was hiding an uncomfortable secret from Mike in the scrapyard heart-to-heart;

Will is the more trustworthy party in the “maybe it is for [someone he likes]”/“El commissioned it” painting lie conflict;

Will was on the verge of tears the whole time he was pushing Mike back into El’s arms in the van and the pizzeria.

It’s obvious to the audience what conclusion to draw here because we had the benefit of seeing it all through Will’s sad gay puppy eyes...

...But Mike is forced to assess the evidence through his own biased POV.

This kid has severe self-worth issues, which are tied up in his feelings for El, which are in turn tied up in heteronormativity. It’s also been hinted that he has depression -- messy room, slipping grades, parallels with Max -- an illness that’s notorious for twisting your thought processes into the most pessimistic directions possible.

So while Mike may very well suspect the truth, I’m not sure he’s in the right headspace to accept it. There’s a good chance he’s torn between the two interpretations:

Will likes El: Mike is forced to choose between making Will happy vs. holding on to the one thing that makes him feel like he has value. But he can tell that El doesn’t need him anymore, and he couldn’t live with himself if he hurt Will... after all, aren’t a straight boy’s feelings more important than some pathetic queer who’s lying to himself?

Will likes Mike: Mike gets to make Will happy and he gets to make himself happy. Letting go of El might be difficult, but he knows she’ll be fine without him, and Will has already proven that his unbridled love can help Mike see his inherent self-worth -- a much healthier approach than tying his self-worth up in being someone’s boyfriend.

The first interpretation reinforces Mike’s heteronormative beliefs and ensures he continues to feel worthless, whereas the second allows him to feel hope that things can get better.

Which interpretation would a depressed brain find more appealing? Or, more to the point, since Stranger Things tends to explore these struggles through metaphor--

--which interpretation would give Mr. Everyone-is-Just-Waiting-For-it-All-To-Be-Over an opportunity to break through Mike’s defenses?

[songoftrillium]

You seem uniquely qualified to answer this question, how do you feel about Fera?

I think they're dumb personally (I just don't like shape shifters being non-mammalian predators) but like the narrative purpose they serve of showing how pigheaded and misguided the garou are

How about you?

I'll open this up by noting that 'dumb' is a slur referring to people with a speech impediment, and I'd like to discourage its usage.

To answer regarding the fera however:

I love the changing breeds, with some caveats. When I began Storytelling, I had to set boundaries with players because there are some incredibly good fera out there, but also ones that can straight up break the game or are extremely incompatible with the Garou or chronicle. This isn't an issue when running an exclusively all-fera game, but it's not common that I or other STs typically run an all-fera game. The second point on compatibility is where one should audit a changing breed for use in their game:

Does this changing breed demographically make sense to be here?

Does their presence serve a narrative purpose?

Do their mechanics mesh well with Garou? Can they be made to mesh well?

Do they have the agency to cooperate with the Garou and vice versa?

If the answer to all four questions is 'yes,' then the fera can absolutely work, and work well in your setting (with caveats.) W:tE features many fera such as the Balam, which on the surface wouldn't fit in the Pacific Northwest. However, there are many large Latine populations that can be found here, both in terms of those living close to cities permanently and migrant workers. Where things concern those populations, then it makes total sense for there to be the occasional two-heart among them alongside their culture, Kin and Killi alike.

For reasons like the above, you're gonna find several Fera in Werewolf: the Essentials from the get-go, forming part of the Dawn Tribes representing all of the Indigenous shapeshifters that persisted in the Americas since the Impergium:

Balam

Corax

Gurahl

Mokolé

Nuwisha

Pumonca

Qualmi

There are some game elements I'm not fond of that are changing. For simplicity, cases of fera are gonna be represented as singular entities. There's just one kind of Gurahl, one kind of Mokolé, and the Bastet are represented singularly now. They are basically placed hierarchically as extensions of Dawn Tribe culture, in which they see each other as all spirit cousins under Gaia. Historical precedent has forced them to work with each other for the first time since the War of Rage and find themselves better protected by each other than on their own. This goes as far as to alter the game language, adopting the term 'Killi' from the Bastet book to refer to (all shapeshifters), rather than merely 'Fera', which speaks of the changing breeds as an entity separate from (or less than) the Garou.

I did away with the second War of Rage because it narratively makes very little sense (and the elements that can be considered critical can just be rolled into the first.) The handling of gifts is more generalized now through implementing spirit affinities, and grouping gifts under the spirits that teach them. This significantly reduces page count (no more than 9 different kinds of Hare's Leap.) Renown tracks are being made more fluid on the character sheet so you can play any changing breed on the same sheet, and other small world changes can be made that create a narratively compelling reason for multiple Killi to exist in the game.

In short, they can work, but it takes nuance to do well. And I encourage just that; write your chronicles with nuance. The Changing breeds, if used smartly, can add a ton of narrative color to a Chronicle and are worth exploring, particularly when representing cultural diversity in a setting.

[gancegancerevo]

Arknights Hortus de Escapismo Thoughts

An aspect about the story that I found interesting is how it shed light on the fact that Laterano and the Sankta have a stake in both the fate of the Sarkaz and the Church of the Deep. This can kinda be extended to the conflicts around the Seaborne and the Demons (but not as much for the Demons [haven't played that stupid Minecraft gamemode so I wouldn't know]). Laterano seems to be on the verge of a change and while we have an idea of who might be involved, what that change will bring remains to be seen.

I feel Stefano's ending captures the ideas they wanted to express with Andoain way better then he ever did.

Firstly, the age of Stefano gives his grievances a gravity that is lacking with Andoain. This applies both to the era of Stefano's life and how many years he's actually lived. Stefano has lived so long and that gives off the feeling that he knows what he's talking about when he speaks of his trials.

Secondly, Stefano's pain is much more palpable. Andoain advocates for outsiders but he doesn't give off the vibe of an outsider. He feels like a Laterano Sankta who just so happens to differ on this one issue. Stefano on the other hand, is a member of the abbey first. He is unsure of the Lateran Sankta even though they should have empathy to connect them. He fights for the Sarkaz because his principles built on experience cannot deny their humanity even when it's the best course to let them go.

Finally, Andoain just isn't rooted in this conflict. His inciting incident is wanting Lock and Key and breaking his team apart because of it. He leaves, starts a sort of cult, and just stops by because he can. Stefano on the other hand has to grapple with questions about Paradise because that is where both his faith and troubles lie. What is Paradise? Is it worth to enter a Paradise that runs counter to your principles? What does it mean to believe when your faith mandates some inhumanity? All these questions and more define the abbey's choice of going to Laterano but they plague Stefano most because he's their religious leader. And he used (and bent) religion as he saw fit because his principles, though rooted in faith, come first. Stefano (and Hortus de Escapismo as well) embodies this conflict is a much more depressing way than Guiding Ahead because they actually gave thought to what value Paradise holds when you have to watch it turn people away.

It's the difference between theory and practice in a sense. Andoain v. Yvangelista XI was a lot more talking and philosophizing. Stefano and all the rest of them have to actually grapple with the choice before them. Because they are actively being separated from family by seemingly nonsense rules. The higher-ups can wonder why the rules are unreasonable but they're not the one who have to slice their own heads off because their kin might be massacred based on their past crimes.

All this is to say that I am kinda disappointed that everything can be traced back to Arturia and her Arts. It makes an interesting series of events built on the divisive nature of Laterano seem hollower than it is. Like, oh if only Arturia's ride got here on time maybe Fortuna wouldn't be Fallen and Gerald wouldn't have killed himself (but Oren still had the troops so I dunno)

As much as the ideas explored were interesting, the Laterans themselves didn't see much development aside from Executor and even he went from brick to pondering brick. I don't know how good of a story this was overall; maybe a 6 out of ten because I do like it, just not as much as others of its type. Hopefully Viviana's event would give the Giallo siblings a better showing but whatever.

[littlecourse]

im gonna be real with yall theres no inherent difference between being a fictive and being fictionkin in a system. im not saying that there is no difference at all between fictionkin and fictive, because the subcultures (fictionkin spaces+ fictive-centered system spaces) have their own trends and folks without community overlap,

but the only reasons i see people separating them as concepts so strongly is to avoid the “trading card culture” common in kin-for-fun circles and to try and get people to understand that their identity is important to them or is static/their only source of identity (or vice versa, that they would be reduced if seen as only their source)

but you know. bookending is common in fictive spaces too. otherkin can also have important and/or static identities or a fictionkin identity that’s their only source of self, and fictives can have unimportant and/or fluid sources and identity outside of their source(s)

the overlap is fine imo, it’s the lack of respect for normal divergent evolution associated with no longer being in your source’s situations and the dehumanization of “you are nothing more than a fictional character to me” in bookending/“trading card culture”

…as well as the lack of acknowledgement that static and important connections to fictionhood exist and that it’s not necessarily good to force separation on someone who’s often like that for a reason and needs to grow/change at a healthy pace

like. to get “i am in a system with a dissociative disorder that has goals around healing from that” for a moment, i think people so often assume the identity-shared-with-a-fictional-character part of being a fictive is the dissociative part targeted by healthy source separation, and not the mental separation from your current life and body, and the pressure to stay static and “perform” your source’s identity

im a dave strider fictive/kin and i got into rap music because it was something i enjoyed in my source. when i tried it in my current life, i realized that i still love rap actually and half my playlist is rap based. i still use a lot of post-irony and apathy to get by in life. i still think vulture culture is cool as fuck. i still call myself dave despite (de)transitioning. i love and seek out homestuck related material/media

but shit man. im in a completely different situation from my source and ive changed as a result of it. i use a lot more punctuation now because im not “dave strider from homestuck” anymore and its hard sometimes but i gotta remind myself that i dont have to stay like that. i dont have to try and “out-dave” other daves like i did when i first formed because we’re just different people all (originally) named dave with similar issues and interests, instead of one “real dave” with a bunch of fakes

that and also i can see myself as both the white haired, red eyed girl i am in-system while also seeing my body (and it is my body now, not “the” body, and not even “our” body^), a brown haired, brown eyed white man as me. i would recognize myself in the mirror in either forms. im working on loving and connecting to my body as it is and not as it “should” be

^ (im not saying my body is mine and belongs to nobody else in my system, im saying that for us, everyone in my system (including me) using “my” for my body, my life, and my system, is the next step to getting closer to each other and the life we fought so hard to live)

[glorified-red]

How would you characterize Tim Drake, quirks and all?

I’ve been having an IDENTITY CRISIS trying to figure this boy out because I think I kin him but then I’m like “but do I really know him though? Is my knowledge on him REALLY enough to Kin him?

I don’t want to bother you or anything! Im just curious to see if maybe from your response it can validate me LMAO.

Oh my dear lovely anon, you came to the right place. Tim Drake breathes and I kin it with all of my being.

Either way, I've been analyzing his character for the past two years through fanon and what comics I can get my hands on and this is kinda what I know so far.

Hope you enjoy.

To really understand Tim's character you have to look at his childhood. Now, in canon, his parents are neglectful at times but they aren't as bad as fanon likes to portray them. In both, Tim is usually left on his own in either a mental/emotional or physical state. He learned very early on that his parents are role models and authority figures, not caregivers or emotional support. So he grew up to value independence to an extreme extent.

Relying on people is a gamble but relying on himself is always secure. He's the kind of kid who will ask the teacher if he can do a group project alone because he knows he'll get an A that way and will avoid the drama of teammates. Tim flies solo extremely often half because its easier and half because the boy has trust issues.

One thing unpredictable parents gives you is paranoia, and this boy has it in loads. He's slow to trust because again, people are a gamble. He has a million backup plans but people are unpredictable and still stump him sometimes. Even within his own family, Tim feels out of place. He's caught in a constant state of "waiting for the second shoe to drop". It's a nasty habit but every time people make plans with him he'll never expect them to follow through.

Tim is incredibly secretive, enough that he has and will lie to his teammates and even Batman himself. He is often seen as the smart "perfect Robin" (think Ravenclaw) when really, Tim is the most cunning and tactical of any of them. Tim will do whatever is necessary for the sake of the mission and for the sake of lives. He will play dirty. Think Chaotic Neutral: he has a set of moral rules but no one can figure them out. He's a Slytherin through and through, he's resourceful and incredibly conniving.

That being said, the poor kid is traumatized, depressed, and starved for affection. It may take years to gain his trust but once that trust is given, Tim is the most loyal person on the planet. He will fight for the people he loves and will destroy the world making sure they stay safe. He never gives up when there's still a chance, even if its infinitesimal, Tim will fight like it's a certainty.

It may seem like Tim sucks at partnerships but his loyalty and cunningness makes him one of the best partners to have on a team. The Core Four is a true testament to how much Tim's habits change when it comes to the people he loves. He is adaptable and will be whatever you need him to be. Yet, that comes with a price as well.

See, Tim only ever receives love after being useful. His parents gave him praise after achieving something or being a good Drake model---something that was useful to them and not an actual Tim trait. Tim finds a loving home only after becoming a stand-in Robin. This typically manifests in Tim constantly needing to feel needed or useful in some way, shape, or form.

He's a team leader not only because he finds it hard to delegate tasks to people (trust issues) but because he finds security in people relying on him. Tim will stress himself out to the brink just so he can continue to be useful to the people around him. If you asked him to list his favorite traits about himself that didn't have to do with pleasing others, you'll stump him. The second he isn't useful all his insecurities and paranoia will fester until he pushes people who love him away.

With all these mental blocks, it comes as no surprise that Tim has terrible self-esteem. The Red Robin series makes it painfully obvious how little Tim cares for his life, he'll pawn it off if it'll advance a case. He's cautious and strategic about his attacks, yet reckless and self-sacrificing at the same time. He has little regard for himself because no ones ever proven otherwise.

At the end of the day he's prized for his intellect the most and that's what he's notorious for. He's the "smart" Robin. And while that is true, with earning Ra's respect and managing to pull off the entire Red Robin run, that does dismantle a lot of the other Robin's intelligence. Tim is smart, but so is literally every other Robin. Tim however, is calculating. Tim's intellect is precise and strategic. He is the dumbest idiot alive but he has a plan for everything, he can predict the smallest things and read people through and through. He's great at chess and monopoly because he can predict his opponents and plan far in advance, but the second you make him play something on the Wii like bowling or the airplane game, he's terribly stupid. Considering his lack of interest in school, he relies more heavily on street smarts and his heightened common sense.

Tim tries to know a little about everything but accidentally hyper fixates on one thing, so if you happen to bring it up, he'll talk your ear off. It makes him seem super smart but he's really just a bored nerd with too much unmonitored access to the internet.

He can be serious at times without meaning too because he doesn't like to waste too much of his time. He thinks time is precious and every second matters, that's why he spends so much time working rather than doing anything else. Robin gave him something to work towards, made him useful and his life worth living, he needs it. When it was taken from him it was crushing so he'll do anything to make sure he can stay in this line of work. Once again, feeling the need to prove himself to those around him instead of trusting that he is loved unconditionally.

But he really is a goofball. He's a nerd at the end of the day, a very tired, busy nerd, but a nerd nonetheless. He has passions and hobbies and will geek out over anything that's related to those things. He's funny and charming, incredibly witty, and knows how to be charismatic for show.

Tim was raised in the public eye so he has a lot of proper habits that will never get beaten out of him. His posture tends to be stiff and perfect until he's comfortable enough to change it or too out of it to care. He has impeccable manners and will be a proper gentlemen out of habit. He knows the differences between all the cutlery at expensive restaurants and knows when to use them without looking like an idiot.

Time passes by him easily so he will lose track of dates and the time of day. He stays busy a lot because he won't have to feel any other emotion other than stress and he's used to stress, stress is comfortable for him. He often forgets that too much stress isn't healthy.

Death is also a morbid comfortability for him. He witnessed each of his parents die in some way or the other, continuously watched his siblings perish (whether fake or not), and his high school best friend Darla, not to mention the countless lives he's failed to save. This gives him a pretty interesting take on life. Like I said, he thinks time is precious so he doesn't like to waste it. But at the same time, he has terrible time blindness. It's an paradoxical quirk of his.

Tim's entire personality is being a contradictory genius. Try to pin point a quirk of his and you'll end up spirally because it shouldn't make sense, yet it does. Tim is confusing because he's such a paradox of a person. His personality doesn't align with what his trauma tells, or what his thoughts project, or how he was raised, or even his morals, and yet, here he is. And it makes perfect sense all at the same time.

He's a puzzle, but man is he interesting to figure out.

[powderblueblood]

5 or 17 for Eddie and Lacy please

interrogate me about my characters

my divine pleasure to give you absolutely BOTH anon

5. GUILTY PLEASURES

full disclosure that I personally don’t believe in guilty pleasures conceptually but for the purpose of THIS: for all her tortured hipster reading (she and jess mariano share such a similar taste in literature it’s sometimes distressing), lacy loves a period romance novel—and I mean like, the drugstore paperback mills & boon bad for feminism shit. something about being too much of a control freak to allow herself to be intimately desired (this requires being seen) so she eats it up in its most melodramatic form, vicariously. same goes for kids fantasy novels (ahem, patchwork girl of oz should have been the first clue here), because she can relax into whimsy and the assurance that someone will save the day, the way they just don’t in her grounded-in-reality serious lit.

eddie’s guilty pleasures are harder to pin down, I feel, because he’s in part so detached from shame but so keenly aware of it in other places. but the boy loves to be pampered. I mean, head massage, hair treatments, bubble baths, the whole shebang. he loves to be coddled and taken care of and feels so weeeeeird about that because of the no duh abandonment issues, who’s gonna take care of him who’s gonna come into his kitchen and be hungry for him, and being perceived as a big tough metalhead MAN! he’s also a sucker for an off off off brand made for tv animated movie, like he does be tearing up at them. getting weepy about the last unicorn type ass.

17. REGRETS

lacy regrets not following phoebe to her homeroom on the first day of freshman year and chosing to chase the popular kids instead. lacy regrets divorcing herself from her emotions so harshly that she’s now terrified to feel them—good, bad, indifferent. lacy regrets letting herself go cold in an effort to get ahead. lacy would stand at her vanity in loch nora while a party she threw raged on outside and would think, ‘what the fuck is this all for?’ but everything she was brought up to believe told her that it’s better to be lonely and surrounded by bodies you can manipulate into company or kin than be lonely and alone. she regrets ever believing that.

eddie moves a little faster; he doesn’t spare much time for regretting stuff because he’s always had to simply survive, and to that end, improvise. finding a supplier in rick was improvising, begging bev to let him work at the hideout underage because it’s one of his dad’s preferred watering holes was improvising. but, if he had to pick, it’s letting improvising get in the way of how scholastically capable and clever eddie used to be when he was a kid. teachers remarked upon it in parent conferences that his mom would show up to alone, giving elizabeth that sidelong glance that told her her boy eddie was smart—and not just for a munson. he hates that he lost that somewhere between where he stands now and his mom’s hospital room.

[sol-consort]

omgg i just read your Earthborn Shep and Thane post and ykkkk who else can have that past criminal angst? Earthborn Shep and Jack. Like they both had to do whatever it takes to survive at the end of the day. Like Shel gets why she likes to stay under the engine room alone and needs the noise and the solitude to feel safer and all the trust issues they both have. My friend you opened up a can of worms in my brain sjjdjdkck. Your mind…so powerful 💥

YES EXACTLY! fuck I wish I could've brought it up to Jack ingame when she says we wouldn't understand her. I wish earthborn Shepard had to chance to say actually they're very familiar with the world she's currently living in.

Shepard used to be in gangs since the earliest memory they could recall! With no parents who ever claimed them and no support system, they had to go out there and put food at the table themselves before they knew what algebra was!

Earth, the human's homeworld and cradle, has treated Shepard so badly. he same planet you sacrifice everything to save in ME3 is the same one that let freeze without a home in some alley.

The only option was to pick up a gun and fight for survival, run with scummy people, and befriend the lowest of the low in order to avoid getting stabbed in the back. The government hid those suffering kids in the shadows of glamourise buildings and pristine gardens for alien tourists to gawk at.

And Shepard's saving grace was the fact the army was willing to give you food and shelter in exchange for being willing to die for them. It just makes being labelled a war hero all the more bittersweet. People didn't care about humanity's saviour when they were a kid rotting in the street.

Shepard would completely understand Jack and defend her against Cerberus. Have her back when it comes to confrontations with the crew. Old habits die hard, and even Shepard still sleeps with a gun hidden under the pillow, so who are you to judge Jack sleeping in the engine room.

Maybe Shepard goes there too when stress becomes too much, and they revert back to their teen self looking for any shelter from the rain. They go to the engine room and sit in the corner, reminding themselves they're stronger than anything thrown their way.

Maybe it was Anderson who first noticed Shepard doing that in the first Normandy and kept it their secret. Knowing their history and never putting them on the spot, which is why Shepard is so chill with Jack's requests and behaviour.

In the shadowbroker info, it shows that Jack activity searched online about Shepard's history, watched the spectre ceremony halfway through before closing it, and even looked into your achievements. She was clearly frustrated with you being another decorated ship captain who had every opportunity handed to them on a silverplate.

If only she would've dug more and found the articles about Shepard's hidden past, the interviews with the gang memebers who used to be in your close circle, the paparazzi shots where your clothes slipped to reveal a part of a tattoo, speculations about its meaning and if it's related to a gang symbol.

All those things the alliance pays triple the market price just to keep hidden from the first page results of search engines. Keeping the stained glass imagine of The Commander Shepard as clean as ever, polishing your history until nothing is left but a symbol of humanity's greatest achievements, not the stain that is your attempt at survival after your own kin abandoned you.

Earthborn Shepard is just so interesting! That sort of scandal would follow you for life. Old habits and bad reputations. Especially with a paragon, Shep, who's all kind and proper, that used to be an actual monster in the streets.

Even more sweet when you see Jack again in ME3 and know she followed in your steps and left that life behind. Finding a reason to live besides pure survival. I always let her punch me because nothing would phase earthborn Shepard, who knows how this is normal, friendly things in the criminal world. Who used to have their own friends to wrestle with for fun. Who did a lot of stupid things like play russian rullet in their youth.