#just one more wip never hurt anybody

[dawnthefluffyduck]

Request from @bleakoutlo to draw Ralsei weaving a scarf; I had to watch a few videos to understand how weaving worked in order to draw him doing this, which ended up being a really nice way to pass the time during the inclement weather today :D drawing the loom was a ton of fun too once I started to understand how it worked, so I really liked working on this one. Thank you for the request!

[takethelx3]

It's for the best

That I leave you with your heart intact

Before I make a deep impact

[railingsofsorrow]

Recharging. . .

[spencer reid x reader]

summary: spencer's best remedy is his little family.

pairing: s.reid x f!reader (+ eden reid!)

w.c: 3.8K

warnings/content: fluff; cuteness overload; children; spencer is a girl's dad; discussion of a case; mentions of death and traumatic events; this is basically a hurt/comfort blurb; mentions of pregnancy; mentions of marriage; crying.

A/N: is anybody in need of some fluff? this was supposed to be a short drabble.... enjoy this old WIP as I finish some of my requests.

loosely inspired by ocie elliott's take me home

want to read more works about this au?

→ day-off

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You stopped the low humming to the song as you eyed the rearview mirror to check on your kid. The familiar scratching against your seat warning you she was awake.

“Hey bub,” you take advantage of the red traffic light to dive your hand back and tickle her bare feet. She'd always kick off her shoes the first chance she got. Your favorite sound echoes through the car: her giggle. “You were just napping, where'd that energy come from?” you refer again to the tip of her feet bumping against your car seat. Another reminder that she was getting bigger every day.

Eden raised her arms, wriggling her little fingers like she did when she was excited for something. You were pretty sure she got that from Penelope, you always saw they do this whenever she came over to your place.

“We're visiting daddy!”

A laugh bubbles out of you. Eden left you amazed by her perception of things. Although the route from your apartment to the BAU wasn't that strange for her anymore, given that you and Spencer drove a lot to drop each other off with her in the car.

“Are we?” You turn on an avenue, humming. “I didn't notice.”

Eden looks at you through the rearview mirror, “but you're driving, mommy. You need the GPS. It's in your head.”

“Is it?” You're amused at your toddler's choice of words. “Okay. Yes, we're visiting daddy at work. We've come to pick him up because he's very tired from a case and it's not good to drive while you're tired, right?”

“Right!” She nods vehemently, craning her neck to check on the view through the window. “And he needs me to recharge his bats.”

You finish parking your car and a smile curls up the edges of your mouth. Eden can't say the word batteries so she shortened it to an easier version which is bats. You still have to teach her what the word actually means.

“That's right,” you say, taking off your seatbelt and opening the door. By the time you reach the backseat, Eden is grinning like the Cheshire cat. Her excitement never ceases to rub off on you, even though you enter this building most of the days in a week. “Hi, baby.” You cooed, welcoming your child in your arms after unbuckling her seatbelt. Her light brown curls that you have no idea who she got it from tickle the side of your face as she snuggles to your chest to stare at the tall FBI building.

“Shoes on. Coat on. All warmed up. Shall we go up?”

An eager Eden exclaims a loud YES and that's enough for you to start walking.

From “Spencer”:

[6:34 p.m] No need to pick me up, angel, I can drive. I am not that tired.

[6:35 p.m] Is Eden still at your mom's? I can pick her up on the way.

This is the mutual feeling you have on workdays. Not in a million years you'd understand how hard it was to be away from your daughter for more than one day. Until it happened.

It makes your heart break when you're not able to tuck her into bed or pick her up at school to see her excited little legs run towards you. In spite of the fact that Spencer and you manage well to alternate days at work so she always has one of you close by, it's difficult to not see her every day when a case takes either one of you out of the city.

You can only image how much he misses her after being away for four days.

You left the messages unanswered and click on another chat instead. Light of my life with a bunch of hearts is the one you're looking for. Penelope somehow stole your phone someday and changed her contact name to this; you never changed it back, just left as it was, it suits her anyway.

“Smile.” You request Eden as you lift your phone to take a selfie of the two of you. Her grin exposes her two missing front teeth. “Done.” You kiss her cheek and adjust her in your hold to type another text, waiting for the elevator to reach your desired floor.

To “Light of my life 💗❤️💕”

[6:38 p.m] incoming at five... four... three...

You hit send right as the elevator doors spread open.

Just as you step into the bullpen, it's as if a switch has flipped because your daughter promptly tucks her face into the croak of your neck, her cold nose making your shiver slightly. Her hands clinging onto your blouse.

Eden gets shy under watchful eyes, no matter how many times she visits the BAU.

Penelope is walking briskly out of her office, her hands wriggling into your direction as she catches sight of you and the bundle in your arms. Every eye in the bullpen turns to you because of the commotion.

You haven't seen your husband yet.

“There is pumpkin!” That's the reason that pulls Eden out of her shell. She practically throws herself out of your arms and into her favourite aunt's arms. “Oh, hello, hello, my beautiful niece, whom I have missed so much!”

Eden is giggling and you can't help but smile softly at the scene. Soon, your friends start approaching one by one. It doesn't take long for Eden to have at least two new toys in her hands. Emily and Derek are competing which one she likes best.

“She's so big.” JJ entwines her arm with yours.

You sigh, leaning closer to her, “Yes, she is.” You say, observing Eden play with Emily. “Henry as well! How is he by the way? We haven't had a playdate in so long.”

JJ nods, “He's great, my sweet boy.” Her eyes hold a fondness that you relate. “And that's true. We have to set up a date, catch up on things that aren't murders and blood.”

“Preach, Jayge.”

Your laughter dies down when the two people missing from the group appear. Your eyes met Spencer's and his whole body seems to relax as if it physically pained him to stand and seeing you just helped him take a breath of fresh air. Luke greeted you with a side hug and was immediately captured by Eden's endearing spell, as expected. Although, once Spencer entered her line of sight, no one else mattered.

Spencer let his satchel drop to the ground without a care so he could scoop Eden up as she jumped into his arms. His sullen demeanor converting into a cheerful one in a blink of an eye. This is what Eden means by “recharging”.

You watch the reunion with a growing smile, deciding to approach them a little later.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Spencer says while peppering kisses at her cheek, her little nose and her forehead. Eden could only reply with giggles as her whole face became red at the overwhelming love she's receiving. “Daddy missed you so much, did you know that?” And the crack in his voice goes unnoticed by her, but not by you, so you take advantage of everyone's distraction to step towards your little family.

Eden is giving her dad a butterfly kiss when you get to them. That's her way of saying I missed you to any of you when you come back home.

“Hey,” you squeeze his arm in a gentle touch, grabbing his attention. “Tough one?” your question is discreet, only meant for him. Eden is fortunately too busy with her new stuffed toy that Derek is showing her to notice anything else.

The dimmed spark in Spencer's eyes along with the red outline of his eyelids are everything you need to know. You don't need words — you never needed words to understand Spencer — but he provides you a meek yeah and swallows hard. The only thing that seems to be holding him back from crumbling down is the fact that he's holding his daughter.

In an attempt of comfort, you pull his free hand to yours, intertwining your fingers and giving it a tight squeeze. Just for him to know that you were there and it's okay now.

He repeats the action, the corner of his lips pulling slightly. His attention is quickly stolen back to Eden, who starts listing possible names to the new friends that uncle Derek and auntie Emily had gifted her.

They discuss the matter until you bid everyone goodbye, a playdate, a babysitting afternoon and a girls night out scheduled. Trying to take Eden from Spencer was foolish, he didn't want to let her go. No matter how tired he was. Better yet, she didn't want to let him go either.

“I think grapes would be a great name, E.” Spencer praises her daughter's naming skills as he buckled her up in the safety seat. “What about this one?” He grabs the green bunny and places it in front of his face, his voice in a high-pitched tone to imitate an animal's voice. “What will you name me after, miss Eden Reid? I am green and I like carrots!”

Eden's bright caramel eyes glint with joy and she pulls the bunny to her chest, holding it tightly. “I know what I'm going to call them.”

“You do?” You were starting to be curious as well.

“Mr. Greenie.”

“You're so clever.” Spencer and Eden shared accomplice smiles and you see everything of him in her at that single action. It was in the nose scrunch whenever she found something particularly funny, in the spark of mischief in her eyes and even the outline of her mouth which you never stopped noticing from the moment she was born. Eden carried a lot of mannerisms and features from you but those things? They definitely came from him.

He's not even halfway to the driver's side when you steal the keys that he had stolen from you when you were in the building. You've known each other for ten years, for three out of those ten you have been married and Spencer still thinks he can be slick with you.

“You're riding shotgun today, pretty boy.”

His eyes are filled with amusement as you walk by and give his butt a soft squeeze.

“Really?” He says, leaning on your window. You had already turned the engine on when you give him a serious look. “It's a long drive. You already drove all the way here.”

Giving him an eyeroll, you muse, “It's not that long, Spence. And you're tired. Just get in.”

Quantico wasn't far from your home, but ten minutes in the road was enough to send Eden to dreamland. You were certain she had fallen asleep when her humming to Angeleyes, that was playing on the car radio, stopped.

You suppose Spencer has fallen asleep as well, until you stole a glimpse at him during a red light to see he was just staring out the window. A far away gaze.

His mind was far. You could feel that. You two enjoy the silence but it's not like that. This is not the kind of silence you want to bask in after a tiring day of work. No, this is different. It comes with the type of things you face at work, the voices in your head that claim they know what's best.

You know that silence. You've drowned in it once.

A gentle breeze caused a few strands to slip out behind his ear. He was letting his hair grow longer again. You liked it, it suited him.

“Hey.”

Your knuckles grazed his cheek softly, tucking a piece of his hair behind his ear. Your hand lingered at the nape of his neck and he let out a sigh, leaning back in a way that you knew he needed that kind of touch.

Good thing your love language is physical touch.

“You want to talk to me about it?” A whisper.

Spencer refrained from a verbal answer, but he reached up for your hand, lifting it to his lips to place a prolonged kiss which translated to I'm glad to have you.

“Not now,” he said, caressing your palm. Definitely later then. Your communication can be non-verbal sometimes and that's one of the great parts of your relationship. You knew that some days words were hard, so the touch and the eyes fulfilled the void of a voice.

He gave it a delicate squeeze and that's when you realized the light had turned green, so your attention was back to driving.

At some point, you could feel a comforting weight at your right thigh. It was the familiar warmth of Spencer's hand, something that he liked to do whenever you drove. Good thing his love language is physical touch.

“I got her.” He practically leaped out of the vehicle once you parked, walking around the other side to get Eden.

Your asleep child didn't so much as flinch while being picked up. You caught her little arms embracing his neck as you locked the doors of your car, her shoes on your hand and Spencer's satchel on another. He tried to fight you on that but you just ignored him.

“Sleepy head,” you mouth to him as the elevator went up. Eden's big eyelashes fluttered lightly when you kissed the top of her head.

The corner of your husband's lips quirked up, “Just like her mother. Sleeps anywhere.” He said, not breaking eye contact, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Rolling your eyes, you hummed, “Don't know what you're talking about.”

The apartment was quiet, an unusual occurrence at this time of the day. Normally, Eden would be rambling about her day when one of you arrived from work — I learnt about seagulls today and we made a drawing; grandma made cookies!; Teacher Susan read a story about a princess saving her kingdom, I want to be like her someday. Isn't it like what you do, mama? I want to be like you — a range of subjects mixed with her occasional endless energy of a child. Some nights, she wouldn't stop running around until she tired herself — and both of you — off.

Today was different. She was asleep before you even arrived home, it was way before 8 p.m and the apartment was quiet, no toys scattered around, no ink stain on the floor. She was into painting nowadays which is a rather messy hobby for a kid, but you'd indulge your daughter's wishes anytime. She is a kid, she should be messy.

“I love you, bub.” Your ears pick up Spencer's faint voice from the entrance of Eden's bedroom. You perched up at the wall, careful enough to make yourself unknown. Not wanting to disturb the little father-daughter moment. “I'll always be here.”

That was something that didn't need to be said out loud because Spencer showed that every day. He didn't spare love demonstrations regarding you or Eden, he never had. Although you know part of the reason beneath that promise. Some people haunt us forever, even when they are no longer present in our lives. His father still walks somewhere in the corner of his mind, no matter how many times you tell him that he is not him.

“Is the whole bathroom drenched or...?”

Spencer chuckled, seeking for your hand to pull you closer as you stride to your bedroom.

“It wouldn't be Eden if she didn't make an entire spectacle during bath time.” He said. “But I cleaned it up, so don't worry.”

“That's true.” You eye his soaked shirt attempting to contain a smile. “Guess you already took your shower?”

“You're so funny,” Spencer murmurs dryly.

“Yeah, well,” you shrug nonchalantly, slowly encircling your arms around his neck. “Wasn't that why you married me? Or was it for my good looks? Nah, it was definitely my terrific sense of humour, wasn't it?” A peck on his lips. “You can admit it. I won't be mad.”

“Ego the size of a lake, that one.” He mumbles, burying his face in the croak of your neck and practically locked you in his hold.

You started to message on his shoulders to ease whatever felt heavy in his chest. At least, until he let you in.

It wasn't until after you both showered separately to finally call it a day and laid down to rest that he broke his silence.

“A little girl died. We couldn't get to her in time.”

Oh, kids.

Now it all made sense.

A shiver went down your spine at the thought.

“Oh, Spencer...” if the tone of your voice translated anything, it was that you understood. His body was entangled to yours when you tried to diminish a bit of his pain by showing that you were there. “I'm sorry, sweetheart,” you said into his curls. The moist sensation in your pajamas top let you know he was crying, but you didn't give it a second thought. It was what he needed.

“I could only think of her and I—” he said shakily, suddenly leaning away to cover his face. “Any rational thinking went down the drain.” His croaked out, drying his tears in the harshest way possible. You pulled his hands away from his face, replacing it with your softer touch.

“Spencer.”

“I can't even— even grasp my head around—”

You cut him off, “good. Don't do that. Because it's not real. Spencer,” you cup his cheeks, forcing him to look at you so he could focus on something that wasn't the disruptives thoughts in his head. “Eden is here, in the room next to ours, safe and sound.” That seemed to calm him down lightly, but you could see the conflict in his gaze.

“I wasn't fast enough.”

“It was not your fault.”

“You weren't there.”

You sigh, “I don't need to physically be there to know that you, as well as the team, did your best to crack the case, Spencer. As you do in every other case we have.” The hardest part of this job was still the loss that you had to live with. The guilt. The shame that, despite doing your best, you wouldn't be able to save everyone. “As we always do.” Sometimes, you needed some convincing too.

“I know it's hard to believe what I'm saying,” you forehead was touching his and your eyes were shut. “but it's the truth. You have every reason to feel that way, it never gets easy to face what we face every day. But, Spencer. It was not your fault. You did what you could, please trust me on this, okay?” Please, don't blame yourself. You don't deserve it.

“Our little girl is right next door, sleeping with her favourite plushie. Safe. Because we make sure of that every single day.” You know it's not that simple, to not doubt the dangers that run in the world, probably in your street, but you can't live in fear and you don't want your daughter to live in fear either. “And I'm right here. we're not going anywhere.” You won't lose us.

“Yeah,” he croaks out, releasing a batted breath. “Yeah, I know.”

Slipping an arm around your middle to bring you closer was the indication you needed to understand that he was hearing your words. Your husband settled for accepting your warmth for the time being, you were playing with his curls, gently brushing them away from his face.

That's all he needed, really. You. The home and family you have build together. Nothing else.

“You know,” you say, thumb traveling across his jawline until it reached the tip of his nose. “People keep saying she has your nose and I think I'm starting to see it.”

His body shook with laughter, causing his eyes to crinkle slightly.

“Oh, really? You're starting to see it now?”

Your lips curled up at the edges, “Yes.” You lied, poking his ribs, earning a glare. Your smile only widened. “No. The nose is clearly yours.” He raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

Spencer leaned close enough so he could press his lips to yours.

“She has the outline of your mouth, though.” He tucked a strand behind your ear. “And your eyes.”

Soft padding against the floor pulled you out of your trance and you knew who was at the door before looking through the open space of the door that's been left ajar.

“Is that a ghost that I'm seeing, angel?”

You decided to enter Spencer's playful undertone.

“Mhm. Good question, I think that's definitely a squirrel or something. Look at the red and yellow paws.”

Eden's mismatched socks flashed your eyes in the dim light of your side table lamp. Her soft giggling made you smile instantly.

“What are you doing up, sweetheart?” She curled up to his bare chest as soon as he scooped her up to hold her on his hip. “Mhm?”

She grabbed both of his cheeks, forcing him to lean down so she could say something to him. You observed them with a curious gaze. “It's not a squirrel,” Eden whispered. Spencer's face broke out into a grin, “tell mama it's me.” Spencer nodded and dutifully did as asked.

“Oh!” You exclaimed, acting surprised. “It's you, bub? With these tiny socked feet, I almost didn't recognize.” Eden's shrieks as you pepper her whole face with kisses. “You want to sleep with mommy and daddy tonight?” It's your turn to whisper as if it's a secret, but it's loud enough for Spencer to hear it as well.

Eden nods shyly, resting her head on her dad's shoulder. Her feet wriggling lightly. Who could ever resist those sweet doe eyes?

The three of you then lay down in your bed, Eden engulfed between Spencer and you. Hopefully, she wouldn't kick and turn all night like she commonly did. She was sleeping through the entire night alone in her bedroom, though some nights — like today — she would sneak in to yours.

Just like you expected, the toddler fell into dreamland with your soft chatter about random things you did during the day and what you needed to do during the upcoming week. You cracked a smile at her slight parted lips and wild curls dispersed on your arm which her head was laid on.

“Thank you.”

Your attention drifts from a sleeping Eden to Spencer. His eyes carried their usual light again. They now glinted with a familiar pride rather than the heavy darkness it was drowning in earlier in the evening.

“What for?” Your whole demeanor softened at the way he was looking at you, heart swelling with love.

“This,” he says, eyes falling on Eden. “For this. Her. You.”

You blink, the sudden urge to cry is being hold back by a thread. You don't know how to react.

“You're the best thing that's ever happened to me.” And he's said that before. When you first confessed and he said he felt the same. In your wedding day. When Eden was born.

“And you are the best thing that's ever happened to me, Spencer.” You manage to whisper beneath the crack in your voice. He lifts his torso to kiss both of the single tears that slipped out of your eyelids, caressing your cheek lovingly. “I love you.”

“I love you too, angel.” His mouth stretches into a soft grin. “And I love the life we have built.”

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taglist: @lilyviolets

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A/N: will never forgive the show for not making this man a dad.

[suzukiblu]

New WIP start behind the cut, based off a request from @itty-bitty-fun: “I'd definitely love to see your take on micro/macro”.  . . . you know that thing when a kink is not really your kink and you’re like neutral on its existence, but then, like . . . someone asks you to actually consider it, and then you get way too invested in the process? no reason. asking for a friend.

“This is mortifying,” Kon mutters into his hands, trying not to die of said mortification. 

“Kinda reminds me of my Barbie phase, honestly,” Cassie says with a smirk, offering him the set of doll clothes she just got back from digging up. He glowers disgruntledly up at her, but it’s technically an improvement on the spare ace bandages from Tim’s utility belt that he’s currently wrapped up in. Kon is not actually a self-conscious guy and wouldn’t normally care about anyone seeing him naked, but normally he is two hundred and fifty pounds of half-Kryptonian muscle and not the size of a goddamn Barbie doll, as Cassie has so helpfully and mercilessly seen fit to point out. 

Actually, probably a Barbie doll would be bigger. Like, Kon did not have a “playing with dolls” phase for several very obvious reasons, but he’s pretty sure they’re bigger than he is right now. He’s more, like, action figure-sized. Which, obviously he’d rather be an action figure than a fucking Barbie, given the option, but also Barbies are bigger than action figures, and–and–

Stupid magic.

“You’re really small, wow,” Bart observes as Kon snatches the doll clothes and eyes them sourly. “I bet we could fit you in Tim’s coffee cup. Or maybe even his utility belt. Or maybe–” 

“Shut up, Bart!” Kon snaps, because he really doesn’t like how this feels, actually, and it’s actually kind of freaking him out, and he probably is small enough to fit in Tim’s stupid coffee cup and that’s just not something he really wants to be a thing right now! At all! Or ever! 

Also, the doll clothes are big and shapeless and awkward and came off a stupid cheesy “legally distinct” knockoff Troia doll, which means they’re also sparkly and kind of itch, it turns out, while also being stupidly flimsy and so paper-thin they're practically see-through. He feels like an idiot in them, and doesn’t even wanna think about how stupid he must look. 

Fuck his stupid fucking life. 

Look, Kon’s a big guy, okay? He’s used to being a big guy. Used to being the meat shield and the tank and the one who gets between everybody and the problem. Like this . . . 

What the fuck use is he, like this? 

The spell’s temporary. It’s not permanent or dangerous or anything like that. It’ll be gone by this time tomorrow, if not sooner. 

But it’s not gone yet, and Kon’s no use to anybody like this. 

“Could put you in a dollhouse for the night,” Cassie hums, giving him an amused smile. “Tuck you into bed like a baby doll.” 

“I actually hate you,” he informs her, and she laughs, because she’s the worst. 

“Actually I really like that idea,” Bart says musingly, tapping his mouth. “You grifin’ never let us take care of you.” 

“I still have TTK,” Kon reminds him threateningly, and Bart just cocks his head, looking him over speculatively. 

“So you’re not as strong, but you're still pretty invulnerable?” he asks. 

“Who fucking cares?!” Kon snaps in frustration. He’s still no use right now either way. 

“I just wanna know if we could fuck you like this and not have to worry about hurting you,” Bart replies reasonably, reaching out to stroke a fingertip down his chest. Kon–sputters, kind of, and reflexively recoils from it. 

And also, like. Burns alive, kind of. 

“I–like this?” he sputters. “I'm like, fucking doll-sized, Bart!” 

“Yeah, I know,” Bart agrees. “Like the perfect size to pick up and play with.” 

“Burning alive” is actually not a strong enough phrase for what Kon is doing right now. 

“You already let us dress you up,” Bart points out, poking at the strap of his borrowed clothes. Kon metaphorically vaporizes into atoms and literally dodges away from the poking. 

“I dressed myself,” he says defensively, mortified by the idea of–what exactly does Bart even have in mind? He's not big enough to do anything for any of them. His dick is definitely not big enough to do anything for any of them. Like–how would that even–how would they even–? 

“Hmmm,” Cassie says, and then just puts both her hands around him and picks him up, because she is again the worst, and–well, and then she flips him around, unzips the front of her shirt, and sits him down to recline right on top of her bare cleavage, his head resting back against her breastbone, which is . . . fine, alright. Like–he’ll live with that. Getting snuggled up to a pair of tits big enough to sleep on is not the worst imposition of his life, especially when said tits belong to the most Wonder-ful member of their whole weird nebulously-defined team situationship thing. 

But also, it’s embarrassing, because what the fuck is he supposed to do for her like this? 

[yvqip]

in honor of ch 261

The passing of the torch. The inability to grieve. A duty to kill protect. Is this what it means to be a sorcerer?

CW: angst, mentions of gore and death, just about what you’d expect, wip(?) bc i couldn’t bring myself to write anymore,

A collection of Yuta’s thoughts during the possession (+a bit of Suguru’s as he watches in the afterlife.)

The moment you died, something in the air changed. It was as if all that tension keeping everybody upright suddenly released into this all consuming dread. Lying there on the ground, split in two, was more than enough proof you really were closer to mortal than the god jujutsu society claimed you to be.

I’m sorry it took losing your humanity to make people realize you had any.

I’m sorry I have to do this to you.

If I could do it any other way, I would. I’m sure you understand that though, better than anyone else. You died on his anniversary too. I was only able to take a peak at who you were under the guise of ‘the strongest’, I don’t understand you nearly enough as he did but I’ve seen enough to know the burdens you carry. I know you missed him, I saw it in your face a year ago and I saw it again before your fight with Sukuna. I’m sorry you two didn’t get the peace you deserved even after death. I’m sorry you had to lose the only one who saw you as Satoru.

Standing there, facing that monstrosity, instilled a carnal fear into my bones, one that I couldn’t show in front of the audience you taught and guided. The audience I have to lead in your place as the new ‘strongest’.

Is this how you felt? A sacrificial lamb pushed to the forefront of battle for the reason of powers you had no role in choosing?

I do my best to hide the tremble in my hands as Shoko slices me open. I’m doing this for the others, to give them a better fighting chance, to honor the sacrifice you made for us- stealing away the fire from the heavens and granting us the opportunity to grow even more- offering yourself on a silver platter in exchange of our youth. You were chained to humanity, reduced to a weapon intended for us.

Were you able to see yourself as anything else after he died?

Although the fire is dwindling despite your efforts to maintain it, I understand you now, giving yourself as tinder to spark the next generation. I’ll become it in your stead. After all, I’m the strongest now too, and I’ll take care of the 1st and 2nd years just like you said.

Shoko finishes the last of the stitching.

I wonder how she feels witnessing her two best friends turned into husks, bodies desecrated by both sides of jujutsu society.

I’m back on the battlefield.

5 minutes to make this count.

I’ll make sure you and your best friend rest together soon. It’s the least I could do for you.

~

The scene before me is sickening. I can feel the bile build in the back of my throat despite my lack of a physical body.

How could they do this to you?

I had spent this time waiting patiently for you to arrive, only to be taken from me the moment you do. I never held any hatred for those in Jujutsu High, this was what they needed to do, and yet it disgusted me all the same.

Are you Satoru Gojo because you’re the strongest or are you the strongest because you’re Satoru Gojo?

I recall saying those very words that shook the foundation of your identity. I said it because I knew it would hurt you. I said it because I knew I was the only one who had ever held your heart in the palm of my hands. I said it knowing my existence was the only proof you were anything other than ‘the strongest’. I said it not believing it was true. Yet, as I witness your body be used as a puppet, I question if anybody else ever felt the same.

Did you die with me, Satoru?

Does any body else see you as just that? Did you exist to the world of jujutsu outside of your power? You’re still far ahead in terms of that, but you chose well with your students, especially that boy, Yuta Okkotsu. He’s like you, more so now than ever since he’s taken your place. They’ll eventually catch up to you.

We’ve failed to protect the youth again.

Seeing your corpse on the table as Shoko performed the operation brought me back to the day I lost part of you. You stood there, Riko’s body in your arms, your eyes devoid of the usual light within it just like now.

‘Suguru.. should we kill these guys?’

Thinking back on it, perhaps I should’ve said yes. We would’ve been on the run together- but we’d be together all the same. You would’ve never had to be Jujutsu society’s scapegoat, you would’ve never had to fight Sukuna.

It wouldn’t have had to end this way

Maybe I shouldn’t have left. My lofty goals were of near impossible height, one that only you could reach. But I had to try, damn it. If it took rebelling against the gods to do it, I’d have gladly held the weight of the world as punishment if it earned you freedom from being chained to the mountain of Jujutsu, forced to protect non-sorcerer scum. Those damned creatures don’t deserve our sacrifices- the effort we put in just to keep them safe while they unknowingly go through life not even knowing about the hell we went through for their sake.

But in the end, you were still my undoing. The reason my body is being used by that thing, the same reason it fought back against him. It was always you, wasn't it? I don't blame you, though. If it were the other way around, I wouldn't have been able to burn you either.

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

chronic pain buck not telling anybody (tommy!)

This ask has been sitting in my inbox for a while, because I already had this WIP and initially wanted it to become a multi-chapter-thing. But, you know, life (and ideas)... so here's, finally, my humble offering of chronic pain Buck.

A Little Bit Off

Buck wakes up two hours before the alarm clock goes off, and he immediately knows what kind of day it's going to be. 

The world is still dim, a black veil of silence covering the loft. Buck squints at the ceiling until his eyes have adjusted to the darkness. There was a dream, what was it? It’s already slipping away from him, becoming transparent like a faded piece of fabric. It was at night, in a forest, I was running away from something, constantly looking back. Tripping over a root, I fell, I fell so hard – it was just a dream, but when I hit the ground my leg exploded. It wasn't the dream that had woken him, just a nightmare like many. It was the pain. In the past, Buck would have never believed that you can feel pain in a dream, so fresh and strong as if it wasn't just a memory, but had just happened. 

Now it's just a dull, throbbing pain, nothing like the tons of weight that crushed his leg back then. He has lost the actual memory of the fire truck on his leg, even though he knows exactly what happened, even though he was conscious. But those few minutes are missing from his memory, which is probably why he keeps hurting his leg in different, creative ways in his dreams. The pain, however, is real, both in his dreams and now. Not as bad as back then, no, but constant. This throbbing deep in his bones, it will stay with him all day. 

Buck has consulted three different doctors, he has googled his fingers to the bone, but there is no simple solution. This pain is chronic, and it doesn't really matter whether it's a nerve malfunction or a change in the weather. It comes and goes, flares up like a bush fire: quickly, without warning. And it’s just as difficult to extinguish. Buck debates with himself whether he should get up and take a pill, but painkillers often don't help, and he still has a shift. If he's going to gamble on his luck, he'd better do it later. 

All three physicians he visited are not LAFD contract doctors, for one simple reason: nobody must know about his problem. The days when he has no pain, when he can forget that he ever had it, it's easy to convince himself that it's not really a problem. It comes and goes, maybe at some point it will go forever. That’s a deceptive hope, and he knows it. But there’s a fear in Buck, deep down in his guts, that a permanent condition will destroy his career. 

He sighs into the darkness only to quickly turn his head. Did he wake Tommy? No. The sight next to him fills his heart, much more than the pain fills his thoughts, at least for a moment. A few tousled curls poke out of the blanket; they'll be gone in at dawn. Tommy is lying on the very edge of the bed – it's not necessarily too small, but for two such tall men, it kind of is. He has wrapped himself completely in the duvet. It would be nice if that was the real reason Buck woke up so early, wouldn't it? The guy keeps pulling the covers off him at night. He sighs again, quieter this time. 

Swinging his long legs out of bed, the treacherous mattress squeaks, and now Tommy is stirring, after all. 

"Evan?" 

He turns, squinting, but he can't keep his eyes open yet.

"S’it time yet?"

Tommy's sleepy voice causes a warmth to spread inside Buck, flowing through his whole body, lifting the corners of his mouth to a soft smile. 

"No, babe. Go back to sleep."

Was there something in his voice? Tommy blinks again, obviously not quite convinced. He pushes a strand of hair out of his face, opening his eyes. 

"Something wrong?" he asks.

How well he already knows him. Half a year of bliss, and this man notices nuances in Buck’s voice even when he’s not quite conscious. 

"I'm just going for a pee," he claims.

In the bathroom, Buck leans on the sink and looks at his reflection in the mirror. It’s strange that he looks so normal. A little disheveled, a little tired, but certainly not like a man whose leg feels like it's slowly being hollowed out from the inside. Thump, thump, thump, maybe there are little miners inside him, digging for gold. Buck grins at his reflection, but a smile that doesn't reach his eyes is just creepy. 

Thoughtfully, he runs his forefinger over the edge of the medicine cabinet. Should he take one now? Should he take it later? He feels like a drug addict, and that's an amazingly cold thought. Almost analytical. Because even if he only needs the pills sometimes, what if it gets worse? What if he needs them so regularly that he becomes really dependent on them? 

There is a whole spiral of thoughts that have just been waiting for Buck to let them surface. What if the pain gets so bad that he starts to limp? What if he deliberately doesn't put any weight on that leg and people start questioning his movement? What if he can no longer think straight because of the pain, ending up making a mistake?

Knuckles white, he clutches the sink again, gritting his teeth until his cheeks ache. Tommy, he thinks. If it has to start somewhere with nobody noticing, then it has to start with Tommy. The thought feels right and wrong at the same time. Buck lets the toilet flush, then runs cold water over his wrists. 

He returns with the vague hope that Tommy has simply fallen asleep again. Instead, the man sits upright in bed and says, "I've been thinking."

"It's like... 4:30 in the morning," Buck replies with a glance on the clock. "And you've got the whole blanket again." 

Snuggling up next to him, he tugs at the comforter until Tommy finally gives up a piece of it. 

"Yes, but I'm awake now," says Tommy. 

"Shit, I'm sorry."

"Never mind," Tommy returns good-naturedly, "your shift starts much earlier than mine, I'm sure I can sleep a little longer."

Well, I won’t, thinks Buck, but he’s careful to not let his thoughts show. He buries his face in Tommys side, breathing in his scent. It's something he would much rather become addicted to, that peculiarly stimulating smell of sleep and masculinity. 

"And what were you thinking about?" he mumbles. 

"That we should move in together."

Now Buck is also wide awake, even more so than before, and for a brief moment, the pain is actually irrelevant. He sits up, looking inquisitively into Tommy's face. It's still dark in the apartment, the sunrise can only be glimpsed behind the blinds. So whatever he sees now, it may be easy to misinterpret. 

In fact, Tommy's sharp features are soft in these pale surroundings. He almost appears… insecure. Buck doesn’t even know why he’s suddenly kind of shaken, after all he’s moved in with some of his partners before, and earlier, even. They've just never talked about it, maybe because it wasn't necessary, maybe because Tommy still thinks they should be taking it slow. Every time Tommy's supposed confidence crumbles when they're together, in such small, very tender moments, Buck feels like his heart is about to jump out of his chest. 

"Your place or mine?" he asks, and the smile he causes on Tommy’s lips is worth it. 

"Actually," Tommy returns, stroking Buck's hair, lost in thought,  "I thought we'd look for something new. Together."

"It's a big deal," Buck opines.

"Right, it's probably too soon."

There’s not even a hint of disappointment in Tommy's voice, he’s far too composed for that. Buck recognizes himself so much in this answer that it hurts, in a completely different way to his leg. It's easier to withdraw than to live with the disappointment of having your wishes ignored over and over again. Tommy knows this as well as himself, but it only seems to have made him stronger, while it made Buck sadder. At least until he met Tommy. And he doesn't want him to feel like that. 

"It's not," he says, leaning forward to brush Tommy's lips with his. "I'd like that."

"Really?"

"Really."

The sun rises, less outside the blinds but in Tommy's face. His kiss is unexpected and impetuous, regardless of the fact that they should both brush their teeth first. A second later, Tommy's lips graze Buck's earlobe, breathing a "This is going to be great" that sets his skin on fire. Tommy seems to sense this, he starts nibbling on the sensitive spot on Buck's neck.

"I thought you wanted to go back to sleep," Buck mumbles, but his hands are already kneading Tommy's muscular back.

"Hmm," returns Tommy, shifting to manhandle Buck on his back. "If you’re not sleeping, I’m not sleeping."

Tommy’s beautiful face above him, his hands all over his body, Buck knows that this will successfully ease his pain. For a few minutes, at least, he will no longer be able to distinguish between pain and passion. He will forget that he hurts, and it will be easy not to show.

Maybe, one day, he’ll be ready to tell Tommy about it. 

[sundrop-writes]

Current WIPS July 2024*

*IMPORTANT NOTE - these fics won't be posted until mid to late August at least (maybe later - the later my moving date is pushed back, the later the post date of these fics is pushed back). I am delaying editing and posting them because editing is the most difficult part for me, but I will be working on writing new fics up until my moving day. And then after moving day, I will take an official two week break to do nothing, after which I will then start editing and posting these fics.

I just finished the Virgin!Stiles fic that I was working on, so I figured I would post this list again if anybody needs a refresher or if people seeing this in tags see this and wanna follow me. I am heavily considering working on an Isaac/Reader/Erica fic next because they are two characters from the show that I feel heavily inspired by. If you want to see a preview of any of these fics that don't already have one, please let me know!!

Also, my requests for Teen Wolf and The Maze Runner are currently open, (please read my rules before requesting), so if you wanna send me requests for reactions or MLTs for those fandoms, I would really fucking love to work on those (and requests for reactions and MLTs will be posted during the hiatus because I don't have to edit them).

Heaven’s Gate - Daryl Dixon x GN!Reader. Strangers to Lovers/Lovers Reunited. Emotional Angst, Hurt and Comfort, Fluff. Set during Seasons 1-5. You and Daryl get seperated when the Prison falls, and both believe the other person to be dead. But you can't let go of the things your relationship taught you. Eventually, when you're reunited - it's like you never missed a moment apart. (17,100 words est.) - PREVIEW HERE

Untitled Daryl PWP - Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader. Established Relationship. Set during Season 4. Daryl gets jealous, and takes it out on you. (2,300 words est.)

Some Kind Of Disaster - Gally (TMR) x Fem!Reader. Best Friends to Lovers/Lovers Reunited. Emotional Angst, Hurt and Comfort, Smut. Set during The Death Cure. You had every reason to believe Gally was dead, so when a mysterious stranger pulls off his mask and reveals himself to be the one person you had been missing so badly - you are shocked. And then you show him just how badly you had been missing him. (6,800 words est.) - PREVIEW HERE

English Blood // American Heartache - Gally (TMR) x Fem!Reader x Newt (TMR). Established Monogamous Relationship to Polyamory. (Very slight) Emotional Angst and Smut. Set post Death Cure/Safe Haven Era. Newt Lives AU. (Sequel to the above fic.) When you get to the Safe Haven, you believe that you have everything you ever wanted, everything you ever needed. So why do you have a nagging feeling that something is missing? Turns out, that 'missing' thing was the addition of your best friend Newt to your bed, which your boyfriend Gally is more than happy to provide. (20,300 words est.)

Trouble Is - Thomas (TMR) x Fem!Reader. (Pining) Friends to Lovers. Smut/PWP. Sex Pollen. Set during The Scorch Trials. Just as the group finds safety outside of the Maze, you are separated off from everyone as the only girl, and not being able to see you slowly drives Thomas insane. Until one day, he's locked in a room with you - but there's nothing suspicious about that, right? (6,900 words est.)

BRAINWASHED - Stiles Stilinski x Fem!Reader. Pining Best Friends/One-Sided Fantasies. Smut/PWP. Panty Stealing. Stiles has been in love with you for as long as he can remember, and since you both hit high school, that love has become perverted by hormones. But he can't help it. He also can't seem to help it when he steals a pair of your underwear that were seemingly laid out for him - but he can't get too caught up in the logistics when he has a hand around his cock. (6,900 words est.) - PREVIEW HERE

Stupid For You - Stiles Stilinski x Fem!Reader. Pining Best Friends to Lovers. Smut/PWP. Sequel to the above fic. Stiles still has your underwear that he stole, and he accidentally drops them in the locker room - in front of the entire lacrosse team. He lies and says that he got them from a hook-up with you, and surprisingly - you cover for him? But only on the condition that you can turn his lie into the truth. (10,200 words est.)

Blood In The Water - Void!Stiles x Fem!Reader. (Pining) Best Friends to 'Lovers'. Pure Angst. Set during Season 3 (with flashbacks to Season 1). When Void takes control, you worry about the damage that he's inevitably doing to Stiles's body. So you make a deal with him - if he lets Stiles eat, then you'll feed Void with some of your pain. But it's not cuts or broken bones that he wants from you - it's your tears.

[riewritten]

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐎𝐊𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. fem!reader x erwin smith

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. referenced sexual assault, explicit sexual content

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬. emotional hurt/comfort, drable, mirror sex, porn without plot (but with feelings)

i am sad, then i came across this WIP i've written months ago. got even more sad. sigh.

You refuse to be touched when you're about to sleep, or too tired to open your eyes.

As you go further into intimacy, you just keep one thing sure: that you will never, ever let your eyes shut for more than five seconds because an intrusive image would appear to ruin it all up.

After the intimate exchange, just when you were about to request a five-minute rest before dipping yourselves in a hot bath, something snapped inside your head—a jolt, an utterly, disturbing, uninvited jolt. Seems like you have closed your eyes for six seconds this time around.

"Erwin," you murmured, reaching at the other side of the bed where he sits, "please let me look at you for a while."

"Mhm," he hummed, sensing the shake in your voice, but he knew better than appear alarmed. You need to calm down, that's what your request is for, after all, "Why, lovely?"

"I need to register that i did it with you and not anybody else."

He just cupped your cheeks in response, neither smiling nor confused. What would be deemed a strange remark for anybody was something he just nodded on. How strange, you thought.

But it gave you the courage to continue.

"I think I need to register that it's you who touched me, t-that my mind is not supposed to flash an unwanted image of someone whom I will never let this far," you got the almost unstoppable urge to linger your eyes everywhere in the room because of how vulnerable your statements were, but Erwin didn't give you the chance to—breaking eye contact would defeat the purpose of your request, too. "And, uh—"

"And what, honey?"

"That I will not ever have to think of that person touching me again."

A moment of silence came; Erwin gave you nothing but an understanding nod and a smile. As both of you maintained eye contact, you felt him caressing the crown of your head. When you started hugging your knees, he cupped your face next and peppered you kisses.

Erwin understood, and you could wish for nothing more.

The next time you did it, Erwin made sure there was a mirror right in front of you as he took you from behind. It was awkward at first, you were not used seeing yourself all worked up as he pistons his hips inside, but whenever you stray your eyes away, Erwin would hold your head to have you face your reflection again.

And then he repeats his question, "Am I hurting you, darling?"

"No,"

"Mhm, come on then, look at that pretty face." He punctuated the sweet whisper with a thrust. "See how well you're taking me?"

"H-hah, love, I—"

He closed his eyes and pulled you closer so he could nuzzle his lips on your back, "You're clenching harder on me now, baby. Are you close?" The spasm and contracting of your walls don't feel intentional anymore.

And with your body slightly lifted up, you could see both of your features well—from how your breast bounces with every thrust and how Erwin's hands lurk around your waist to support himself. You savored the feeling—intense and rattling to your very core. His fingers flicked your nib, then he instructed you to wet your fingers with your spit so you could rub the other one.

Oh, you want to close your eyes. You think you can finally do it now. Erwin convinces you ever so silently to finally close it—five seconds, ten seconds, until you hear his pants escalate to moans, 'til his thrusts went rapid and unrestrained, 'til he's blabbering how how all of this affects him the way you do.

You reached your peak with eyes shut tight, and Erwin followed suit not long after, albeit loudly because he was pleasured to see both of you on the mirror, too. You plopped down the bed, but Erwin's hold didn't falter. You felt his weight against your back, then whispered sweet nothings while kissing your ear. "'s okay, it's okay. Open your eyes and see me."

You would never know how delightful Erwin was when you didn't flutter it open again; he felt your breathing slow down instead, and not long after, you drifted to sleep with a smile.

Indeed, it's okay for you to close your eyes now.

🔖@watyousayin @frenchdyer @collinnmckinley @aeanya | SUBSCRIBE TO STORIES

MORE OF SWEET SUBTLETIES SERIES HERE

[nutamused]

Well,If Are we talking about rareships,I HAVE A LOT but i will chose 3.

Flippy X The Mole,Russell X Cuddles and Disco Bear X Lammy.Just because i see them more interesting to talk.

HI SORRY FOR TAKING FOREVER WITH THESE BUT IM HERE NOW

Anyways ima list these out ig

Flippy x Mole- tbh i've never thought abt this, but they seem very cute!! Canonically Flippy has never hurt Mole (if you ignore that one deleted scene in the flippin burgers episode) and so I think already flippy respects Mole and wouldn't ever hurt him. PLUS they are very old man yaoi coded. A blind ex-spy and a war veteran? They would probably settle down together after their very dramatic past, and would live happily married in the tree town

Russell x Cuddles- IVE BEEN MEANING TO POST ART OF THEM BUT ITS MOSTLY WIPS SRY! Anyways, i think they would initially hate each other cause theyre both exes of Giggles, so they would compete to "win giggles back" or some dumb hetero shit. I think Cuddles would think Russell is some "big dumb tough guy that's just some dumb pirate", and Russell would think Cuddles is an annoying shit head. HOWEVER, they would probably argue and fight a lot until they decide to actually talk stuff out, then either:

A) they forgive each other and become friends, then lovers or

B) They hate-make out. Either way a win-win

DB x Lammy- also never thought abt them! Personally I think Lammy is very weird girl-coded, so she would have a creepy demeanor to her cause shes been to jail and others can't tell if shes a murderer or if Mr. Pickels is killing anyone. ANYWAYS, I think because of that she doesnt have a lot of people shes close to. DB is a HUGE loser so he would flirt with anybody, and tbh I think Lammy would dig a boy failure like DB

[thebluestbluewords]

Anything You Like (the Jaylos-but-also-polyamory part)

More of my Soulmate AU! This section got wildly out of hand. Like, almost a third of my WIP-document out of hand. Loosely based on the Isle of the Lost book canon, so warning for bullying and terrible parenting.

+

"Get back here!" Jay shouts desperately at the kid disappearing as fast as his skinny legs can carry him, around the corner of the market street and deep into the maze of stalls. "I'm not--" 

Not what, his rational, thinking brain offers. Not going to hurt him? 

That's a stupid thought. Life on the island is all about hurting people. 

Jay hurts people for fun, and for class, and just because there are people in his way and he's finally starting to be one of the bigger, stronger kids who can get away with hurting other people instead of being the one who's hurt all the time. He's done his time as a little kid, and it feels... better to be the one in control, instead of the one who's always running and hiding and trying to avoid the people who want to hurt him. It's not like Jay can really run from his problems, not when they're all stuck on the same shitty island together with adults who want to leave him bleeding or dead or worse, but now that he's bigger, he can start fighting them instead of trying to run all the time. 

His soulmate isn't very big yet. Probably not big enough or strong enough to fight off an adult. 

Jay is not nice, and he is not kind, and he lives on the Isle of the Lost, so he doesn't, can't, care about other people like he cares about himself. He's not anybody else's top priority, so he's got to be his own number one. 

He's already got two soulmates to deal with, and a third one, especially a fast little third one who bites and squirms and has a knife and no sense of when he should use it shouldn't be something Jay is thinking about. He should make the smart choice, and swipe a new pair of gloves to cover the mark, and never think about it again. 

Yeah. That would be the smart thing to do. 

Conceal it, don't feel it, don't let it show. That's what they do on the mainland when they've got inconvenient feelings, and that's what Jay should do about this new soulmark and the inconvenient, annoying soulmate who comes with it. He should put it somewhere under his gloves, in the back of his mind, and never think about it again. 

He’s not going to, but it’s what he should do. Objectively speaking. It’s probably what Mal would tell him to do too, if she knew about this new soulmate. 

Jay should tell her. They’re each other’s first real marks. It’s not supposed to mean something on the isle of the lost, but it sometimes does anyway. They’re a villain-and-sidekick duo. Or, on their bad days, sidekick and sidekick. Sometimes everything goes wrong, and neither of them is feeling up to claiming responsibility for a scheme gone sideways, so they call themselves both sidekicks, trying to prop each other up without a proper villain to work around. Two useless lackeys with only each other to command. 

A pebble bounces off Jay’s head. 

Shit. If he were less lucky, the rock could have been a bottle, or a knife, or—

“Dude!” His soulmate shouts from the rooftop of the shitty cauldron store. The very easily accessible roof of the shitty cauldron store.  “Are you coming up or not?”

Right. 

One jump over the stack of third-rate cauldrons, and it’s an easy grab for the crumbling ladder on the side of the building. The momentum makes the ladder creak, but Jay’s been doing this for ages, and he’s not heavy enough to pull it out of the brick yet. He can’t quite get the leverage to do something cool, like backflip up onto the roof, but he can pull with his arms instead of his core, which is stupid and going to hurt later, but it makes his biceps pop. 

His soulmate probably doesn’t care what his arms look like. He’s probably some sad nerd who’s never looked at a guy in his life, and it’s just a coincidence that they’re marked for each other. Probably. Anything else would be almost good, and if there’s one kind of thing that never happens on the isle, it’s goodness. 

So, coincidence it is. 

+

Jay's new soulmate glares at him.  "You wanted to talk?" 

It’s probably not the best choice, seeing as the only reason they’re here is because Jay’s soulmate let him catch up, but it’s too fun to mess with him. “You don't?" Jay asks, keeping his face neutral. No point in giving anything away yet. He’s not above having fun with this. “Thought you’d want to get to know each other a bit. Seeing as we’re soulmates and all.” 

The kid glares back at him. Jay knows everyone at school, and he knows perfectly well who Carlos DeVil is, but they’ve never actually talked outside of school before. 

Actually, they’ve never really talked in school either. Sure, they’ve traded insults in the hall, and done their fair share of shouting at each other in class when Jay gets bored and starts throwing things into their weird science beaker, but they’ve never just…. talked. 

It’s weird, actually. 

Carlos folds his arms, defensive-like.  "Nothing to talk about. We're soulmarked, yay.” he rolls his eyes, somehow turning the ‘yay’ into the most sarcastic noise the isle’s seen in the last eighteen years. “You're still going to beat me up at school. I'm still gonna--" 

He stops, abruptly. 

"Gonna what?" Jay asks, fascinated despite himself. "Don't just stop there, man. What're you going to do now?" 

Carlos glares harder. "Nothing. Shut up." 

Jay is absolutely not going to do that. He's got another soulmate, and he's a fucking nerd, and he was definitely going to say something interesting. "Nope," Jay says cheerfully. His soulmate might be grumpy and nervous right now, but Jay's having a great time now that they're actually talking. "We're soulmarked now, so you've got to tell me. That's the rules." 

"We're on the isle. We don't have rules." 

"The cosmic rules of the universe. Soulmarks are like the one kind of magic we have over here, dude. Don't ruin the magic for me by saying you don't know the rules." 

Carlos looks pissed. "There aren't rules!" 

"Nu-uh,” Jay says, letting his voice fall into something light and almost singsong. “There totally are. The rules are that you have to tell me what you're thinking." 

"I'm thinking that you're a jerk." Carlos snaps. “And this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, and you should’ve just bought better gloves and never fucking touched me in the first place.”

"Cool.” Jay says brightly. He’s never had someone tell him when they’re thinking honestly before, and it’s sort of intoxicating. He could get used to his kind of thing. “I'm thinking that we should stick together. I'll introduce you to Mal tomorrow, if that's cool?" 

"I know who Mal is. Everyone at school knows Mal." 

“Nah,” Jay says, not even bothering to hide his smile. He’s definitely going to introduce Carlos to Mal tomorrow, and they’re going to get along like a house on fire, because they’re both assholes.  “You know about Mal. You don't know her. Nobody else really knows her, not like me. And you, cause I'm going to introduce you." 

"What if I don't want that?" 

He obviously does want it. Nobody at school except for an idiot would turn down an invite to get out of Mal’s bad graces, and Carlos isn’t an idiot. Jay wouldn’t have spent the last sixteen years taking stuff out of his locker if he were dumb, and it’s gonna be great. 

"Too bad. I'm introducing you two anyway.” Jay says cheerfully. Having a new soulmate is fun. Having two soulmates has been great for him so far, and it’s going to be even better once they get to know each other too. “Hey, maybe cause we share a mark, you’ll share one with Mal too!” 

Carlos mumbles something mostly-inaudible. Jay can’t be sure, but it sounded suspiciously unlike the words “I’m so excited to meet your other soulmate” and a lot more like “if there’s two of them I’m going to fucking kill myself.”  

So. That’s a little worrying. 

Honesty seems to be the way to go. At least when he’s with Mal, honest questions about the gaps in their plan usually lead to less stabbing of their essential body parts, and more of them stabbing the other guys. So there’s that, and also the refreshingly honest answer he got out of his new soulmate last time, soo….

"What?” Jay asks. He’s still trying to keep his expression normal, but it’s hard to focus on that when there’s so many other things to worry about. Like how he’s going to explain to Mal that they’ve got a new gang member, and how he’s going to drag the two of them into the same space long enough to like each other. Maybe he should treat them both like the feral cats that he caught for his cousin, and lock them in rooms next to each other for a while so they can both shout at him until they get tired and decide it’s better to ally together.

Carlos sighs. It’s almost like Jay’s starting to wear down some of his prickly edges already.  "I said, I don't want to get to know Mal. You two have been tormenting me since kindergarten. Nothing is going to change just because you have a mark on your hand." 

Jay taps the new mark with his fingertips before he even realizes he’s doing it. It’s technically on his wrist, not his hand, but it’s going to be hard to hide either way. "You've got one too."

"Yeah, and my mother is going to try and cut it out of me as soon as she finds out,” Carlos says. He’s not glaring anymore, which would be cool if his face hadn’t gone totally blank instead. Like a mask, or like the thing that Evie, the pretty new girl that Mal’s been obsessed with since she showed up to school does with her face when she’s not thinking about it. “It'd be cool if you would stop fucking up all my shit at school, but I don't actually expect you to like, change or anything. We don't have to be anything because of this." 

Ouch.  "We don't fuck with that much of your shit."

"You soulmarked me by accident because you were trying to shove my head in a toilet," Carlos says, patiently. He's standing just out of arm's reach, with his back to the open rooftop. They're within easy sprinting distance to three other houses with low roofs, and Jay can count a handful of small, open windows that Carlos could probably dive through without issue, but are small enough that Jay, with his wider shoulders, would have to slow down and slip through more carefully. "I don't think you'd be able to stop fucking up my shit if you tried." 

"Hey!" 

"Just being honest. And hey, if you want to try, be my guest. I'd love to actually keep some of the shit I make for myself."

There’s a weight in Jay’s pocket that feels a lot like a handmade crossbow pen. And another one in his boot that might be a handful of tiny button batteries, and okay, maybe a third weight shoved in the secret pocket in the back of his vest that’s stuffed full of the wire contraption that he snagged without thinking right after his hand slipped and the soulmark showed up. 

It’s not something he’s gonna keep doing now, obviously. 

"We do take a lot of your shit, huh.” Jay admits. “I uh, I have some of your stuff. If you want it back.” 

Carlos’s face is still blank. "Yeah. I know. And I also know that Auradon psychology textbooks say it's because nobody loves you at home, but it'd be really cool if you could stop taking it out on me."

Ouch. That one lands, and Jay has to work to keep his face blank over the instinctive spike of hurt that wells up in the dark depths of his chest. He's not exactly his dad's favorite person, but there's the other two girls who work in the shop sometimes, and they're friendly enough. Someone to help clean the dust off the junk and swap jokes with while they're handing over their weekly cut of the earnings is almost like having a friend, and Delphine even sticks around to flirt sometimes after her shift ends.

Delphine is nearly thirty, and keeps more knives on her person than Jay's ever managed to slip out of her pockets. She's also sort of scary if he tries to slip out before she's done talking with him, but she pays attention to his new bruises, and she once brought him a cup of stew from the spicier stall two streets down, and didn't even spit in it first. So she's basically the closest thing he's got to a friend at home. 

"Mal takes her temper out on everyone," Jay points out, instead of defending his home life. It's the Isle of the Lost. They're all stuck here together with the same shitty parents, and explaining that he's got one person who usually doesn't throw anything at him on the way out the door isn't exactly a resounding defense. "I don't think I could stop her if I tried." 

Carlos rolls his eyes. Now that Jay's looking, there's a ring of old bruises around his left eye. "I know. The whole school knows. It wasn't this bad last year, but ever since you two got dumped by Uma's pirate crew, or whatever–" 

"We broke it off with them." 

"Or whatever,” Carlos repeats, rolling his eyes again. “It's not like it makes a difference what actually happened. She's been kind of a raging bitch since then."

Jay lifts an eyebrow, partially at the language choice, and partially because he’s sort of being thrown for a loop here. Everyone wants to meet Mal, and he’s not really sure if he’s got anything to offer outside of his connection with her. 

“Yeah, well,” he tries. “I bet if she had another soulmate, she’d probably be a lot less…” 

“Bitchy?” 

“I was gonna say irritable. Look, we lost half our crew when we dumped Uma’s gang–” 

“When they dumped you,” Carlos whispers. 

Jay shoots him a look. “Whatever. When we broke up, we lost a lot of our crew. And it’s not like we’re having trouble keeping things under control on our own, but we wouldn’t turn down company, if you’re interested. We have a hideout and everything. You could come and stay the night, if you want. Just to try it out.” 

There’s a flicker of interest in his soulmate’s face. 

“I guess,” Carlos says slowly. “If you’re offering, it would be not the worst thing to get out of my mom’s house for a night.” 

Bingo. 

“We’re offering.” Jay says, before he can think twice about the offer. He’ll lock Mal in their storage room, keep her out of the way until he’s got his new soulmate acclimated to the place. “Come on, if we go now we can make it home before Mal gets there, and you can give her the scare of her fuckin’ life.” 

There’s a tiny hint of what might be a smile on Carlos’s face. “Sounds fun.” 

It’s a risk, but they’re doing so well now that he can’t resist. 

Jay holds out a hand. “Come on. Let me show you the way.” 

Carlos takes it. “Lead on, I guess.”

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Your inbox was named "do your worst" so well

I couldn't resist.

I had this idea a time ago, actually

Whumpee is a living weapon. I love this trope. They are brutally trained to be ruthless and perfect

But whumpee is a kind soul. It hurts them everytime they have to hurt/kill someone. They can't manage to erase their emotions, as much as they want it

One day, whumper(s) needs an information. They send whumpee to a small city and tell them: kill them all, but this person

Whumpee has no choice, so they go with some more people who work for whumper and do the damned work

They manage to capture the person, and then whumper tells them: "YOU are the one torturing them for the information"

At first, whumpee hesits. They never did it before. They don't want to. They end up following the order but is more than they can handle.

The second whumpee keeps asking to be killed, asking them to stop, to just die, and whumpee gives up one day

They don't complain about killing people anymore. Certainly taking lifes, even as heartcrushing as it is, is better than inflicting that much pain.

As long no one's being tortured.

Whumpee can't forget Second Whumpee's screams.

AND!

Whumper manage to pick the information they want another way. But whumpee disobeyed them. They won't go without punishment

Whumper captures another person and tells to whumpee to torture this one too, "but without killing"! They'll only die when whumper says they had enough. Whumper knows whumpee is a very empathetic person. They'll use their feelings as a punishment.

"If you kill Third Whumpee too soon, next time I'm bringing two more to be tortured, did you understood?"

Whumpee has no choice. Their heart breaks at every scream, every needle, every muzzle, every blade

But they continue. They don't want it to get worse.

Sorry if it's too long or too specific, I was actually doing this to a character of mine, but I kinda gave up because it was too whumpy, it was before I joined the community. Didn't want to let this idea die. Feel free to use, or maybe tell this idea to someone. As long as you're tagging me.

Also, hope you're having a good week!

I love this so much!!! the whump, the angst, the shame, the guilt and the pain? perfect. I would love to do something with this, but I’m afraid my to-write list is an endless one right now and I might drive myself insane if I adopted another WIP. so I’m answering this in case it sparks some idea to anybody seeing this. if you write something based on this awesome trope, please make sure to tag @cepheusgalaxy

and I hope you have a great week too xx

[clonerightsagenda]

Sick

We're most of the way through disability pride month and I'm not sure if I'll ever finish this WIP because I'm stuck over how literal to make some of the elements. So, I am posting it because I am curious if any of the weirdness resonates with other people. Enjoy my magical disability cure codependent haunting thing, and also I am going to post a rambling author's note about it.

The morning after the surgery, your Sick is sitting at the kitchen table. It looks good, for a corpse. It’s wearing the ‘I love dying and being dead’ t-shirt you joked about buying two diagnoses ago, pulled over a laced-shut hospital gown.

“What?” it asks. “You had more of a sense of humor when you were sick.”

The doctors warned you that your neurochemistry might be out of balance. You’re adjusting to the sudden lifting of brain fog after moving through the world in a protective cocoon of pharmaceuticals. They didn’t mention hallucinations.

“Think of me like a phantom limb.” Your Sick sips one of those awful plant-based protein drinks that still lurk in the back of your pantry. “Why did you do it?”

Talking to hallucinations probably makes them worse. You do it anyway. “You were killing me.”

“This world is killing you. But you finished yourself off first.”

You sit down across from it in one effortless motion. “That’s not what happened.”

“Right. I’m the enemy. So it doesn’t matter if I’m rotting at the bottom of a biohazard bin.” It considers you. “What’s it like not to hurt?”

What is it like? You’d woken up and lain there for a while, waiting. “Like holding my breath.”

“You’re in charge of all that now.” It nods, the motion referencing the length of your body. “Need to stay on top of it.”

“Like I need advice from you,” you say, but you blink, and the phantom’s gone.

60,000 pieces of microplastic. 7.2 micrograms per liter of per- and polyfluoroalkyl substances. 1:640 antinuclear antibody titer.

That's what they peel you out of. A second nervous system of petroleum products and misfiring T cells, the stuff that's been running your life via mob rule for a decade. They tell you that you weigh five grams less now.

They tell you, don't be surprised if at first it feels like something is missing.

I thought that was just for rich people, your friend says. She messaged you to remind you to take your meds, and you told her that you would never have to take your meds again. Celebrities and politicians.

Work decided it was cheaper to fix me than replace me, you message back. Score one for being essential.

Perks of your top-secret job.

I promise it's boring. Critical infrastructure usually is.

Did you look?

Some people share post-op pictures. They’re usually underwhelming if you don’t know what to look for - the subtle swelling over an aggravated nerve, hints of boniness in the knuckles. Shadows of bruises that never go away. No. I should’ve, though. I asked for hospital socks when they were prepping me but then obviously after I didn’t have them anymore. Who knows if I’ll get another chance.

You might be finished with surgeries forever and you’re disappointed because you can’t get any more grippy socks.

I'll miss the warm blankets too.

Your Sick crawled inside you when you were nineteen years old. It wouldn’t let you get out of bed.

“Help,” it croaked.

Your roommate (only your roommate then) came the second time it called. She was in her pajamas, her hair a dark tangle. You never asked for her help, even when your hands got so sore you couldn’t open jars without five minutes of struggle. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t feel right,” it said.

Her face softened. “I thought you looked rough yesterday. I don’t have class this morning; do you want me to make something? Call anybody?”

No, you tried to say. I can handle it.

“I think I need to go to the doctor,” your Sick said instead.

You had been putting it off. The doctor meant admitting something was wrong, meant – most importantly – a $30 copay. But healthy people never understand when you try to tell them. At a certain point, your body stops being yours.

Your Sick turned up its nose at greasy slices of campus pizza. It politely but firmly refused invitations for a night out. It sanded the branching tree of your life into a wooden sphere it could cup in the palm of its hand.

“You’re ruining my life,” you told the mirror.

It tilted your head. You read your own confusion. “I’m protecting you.”

“Mask,” your Sick says from behind you. It looks worse today – skin gone gray and patchy, with a shimmer of microplastic shards risen to the surface like body glitter. The shine complements the sequined mask secured over its own face.

You scowl, bag swung over one shoulder. You haven’t gone out since the surgery – you can work from home, you haven’t canceled grocery delivery yet – and now that you’re venturing through your front door, the phantom is back. You had reached for one of the masks on the table by the door before dropping it back into the bowl. “I don’t need it now.”

“So respiratory diseases don’t exist anymore? Dumbass.”

The objection reminds you of your own aggrieved complaints: why don’t people plan events with us in mind, don’t they know how many people there are with immune systems one shove away from collapsing, the world’s not getting any safer.

That was your Sick talking. You don’t have to worry anymore.

“You weren’t doing a good job taking care of me before, and you’re not doing a good job of it now.”

Its eyebrows rise. Black liquid has seeped through the cloth of its mask. “And fuck everyone else like you?”

“Like you,” you say, and slam the door in its face.

Outside, the breeze brushes your cheeks. You don’t have to sit down because you miscalculated the balance of meds and breakfast. You start to scan your surroundings for bathrooms, just in case, and then dismiss the impulse because you’re fine.

You’re better than that.

Three hours in, you realize you’ve been curling your fingers into a fist and then opening them again. You only notice because the joints start to ache. It feels familiar.

Nothing else does.

A notification flashes in the corner of your screen. There’s new activity in one of the forum conversations you’ve been following.

It’s rich people doing what they always do. Wreck the planet? It’s fine, we can get a new one! Wreck your body? It’s fine, we can get a new one of that too. There’s no incentive to improve the situation if you can buy your way out of the problem.

I’d buy my way out too, but there’s no way I could afford it

Then you’d eat your first plastic salad and get sick again. See what I mean?

The new ones are supposed to be more resilient

But it’s not yours

Remember any theological debates go in the quarantine thread

I don’t mean it like that. I just think you’re interfering with your relationship with your body, and that’s a fundamental part of who you are, right? Whether or not a s*ul exists

There’s not a bot monitoring this thread. You don’t have to censor it.

Sorry, habit

Mod is human, asterisks don’t stop me. But they are a screenreader issue, so please edit your post.

You used to frequent disability forums. They had useful resources. Jokes, too, like the t-shirt your Sick wears over its hospital gown. But you can’t understand the people who embrace their disfunction. You took a time-honored approach to your medical misfortune. Cancer. Pregnancy. Demonic possession. Petrochemicals. There is something inside me, and I want it out.

These people helped you, but you don’t need them anymore. So instead of saying anything, you log off the forum for the last time.

You do tell your coworkers, who are excited for you. They pester you with questions over Slack: How long did it take? Did you look? Does it hurt?

Your boss messages you, When can you come back to the office?

You frown at the screen. The work you’ve been doing from home is good – better than what you’ve produced for years now that your head is clear. But your boss has always been old fashioned. Remote work was a concession that there’s no justification for now.

Monday, if you want, you type back.

That gets you an immediate thumbs up reaction, followed by, We’re all so glad you’re ok.

That chafes you in a spot rubbed raw. Everyone assumes once the problem they know about has been addressed, everything else must be resolved too. You must be ok.

Which you are, this time.

Your best friend comes to visit. She brings beers you couldn’t drink with your meds and a greasy pizza that settles in your stomach like a snake planning to strike later. It tastes amazing – you run your tongue over your teeth to capture the last traces of salty richness and tell yourself next time your body will recognize good food.

She’s spent the whole visit on your sofa. You have an air mattress from when she used to sleep on your floor while you were recovering from surgeries. She hasn’t asked you to bring it out, and you’re not sure how to ask if she’s staying. Instead you keep stealing glances at her, the curve of her cheek that’s the first thing you’d see when you looked over the side of your bed in the middle of the night, the hands that have held your hair back from the toilet bowl and now rest on her lap.

She keeps looking at you too. You wonder if she sees a difference.

After the silence and sidelong glances build into an itchy layer on your skin, you lean over, clutch the front of her shirt, and kiss her. She freezes and then kisses you back, gingerly, the way you'd investigate an unexpected bruise. There’s pizza grease on both your lips. Rich and unfamiliar.

You’re the one who pulls away. "I'm sorry," you say. "That's not what I want."

She’s stiff under her softness, like an examination table. "I didn’t think so. I didn't think you did that kind of thing."

You don’t. It’s the silence. Your empty floor. Her hands, resting on her lap. "I just thought…” you try. “That kind of closeness is enough for everyone else."

Your fingers are still clenched in her shirt. She looks at them until you untangle them, one by one. The knuckles don’t ache.

She shakes her head. "It's like you don't want to be better."

“That went well,” your Sick says after the door swings shut.

“It’s your fault.”

It tilts its head on a neck that’s looser than it should be. “I didn’t do anything.”

It’s right. When you were sick you could request a shoulder rub to loosen tight muscles or hike up your shirt, no seduction, no bullshit, to ask if that rash looked bad. You could open your mouth and let the truth of your predicament outweigh prudishness or shame.

You don’t know how to ask people to touch you anymore.

It leans in close. “You need me,” it says. Oil bubbles over its lips and slicks its chin. “I was always your excuse.”

That weekend you watch your phone sit silent on the table, no pings from forum posts or medication reminders. Your Sick drifts over. It’s no longer a rotting corpse leaking garbage. It looks dead in the way you used to whenever you looked in the mirror.

Wherever it is in the real world, it doesn’t look like that anymore. From what you remember from the booklets they gave you, it’s already gone.

“Not going to explain yourself, huh?” asks your hallucination. Your haunting.

You shrug. What would you say to her? I took away the foundation of my life and don’t know what’s underneath. You only started being my friend when I needed help, so what’s left for us? There was always another medication or appointment or symptom but now everything’s fine and I’m still holding my breath.

You’ve gotten used to letting someone else talk for you.

“I was killing you,” it says.

That’s what you said. You look at the lines around its eyes and imagine a billion tiny swords raised against invaders that poured in every time you took a breath to light your joints up with friendly fire. “You were protecting me.”

“I was the worst part of you.”

“You were.” You flex your perfect, painless fingers. “Do I miss it?”

It grins and leans against the back of your chair, wrapping chilly arms around your waist. “I just wanted to make you say it.”

The grip around your belly aches in a way you recognize. Dull pain that makes its home in you. Cozy as curling up in bed with a headache. You look back at your silent phone. “Which one of us did she come here for?”

“Only one way to find out.”

You could reach out, but you don’t move. You have never known how to ask for help.

Your Sick sighs. It loosens its grip and reaches over your shoulder to lace corpse-cool fingers between yours. Then it lifts your combined hands in a swoop like the first dose of anesthesia, when the orderlies wheel you away and everything is out of your control. “Come on,” she says. Her breath is a puff of disinfectant on your cheek. “Let’s do it like we used to.”

After you came out of the anesthesia, the surgeons asked if you wanted to see your old body. You said no. You’d spent long enough inside it – it was something you wanted to leave behind. Besides, even after all the pamphlets and counseling sessions, you worried seeing your vacant face would jar something loose. Convince you like those cranks on the disability forums that you’d severed a connection that was irrevocable.  

If you could do it again, you’d say yes. Step inside the morgue – no, they wouldn’t have moved it to the morgue yet, they’d want you to have a better venue to say goodbye – and catalogue the subtle changes only you could see. The swollen knuckles, flushed cheeks. All the other differences locked inside.

You imagine bending down and lifting the body the way it lifted you once, cradling its head in the crook of your arm. Imagine kissing your Sick and feeling poisonous tendrils creep down your throat to coat your insides with grime.

You imagine saying, welcome home.

(Author's note)

[hunter-sylvester]

Do you think Eddie Munson and Hunter would be friends? I’ve seen some people say yes, and some say no. I feel like Hunter would lowkey hate Eddie at first, then (very) slowly warm up to him.

I mean, yeah. I think they would, and I agree that it would take Hunter a while to warm up to Eddie. That’s basically how I wrote the progression of their friendship in Does it get better?

In DIGB it's a situation that's created by a few unfortunate social mishaps. (Eddie asking about something Hunter feels embarrassed about & making a slightly mean joke that just hits Hunter like a truck because of factors Eddie doesn't know about.)

Aside: There might be a fair bit of referencing to DIGB in this. I wrote a 27k word crossover fic of Metal Lords and Stranger Things, so a lot of my thoughts about their possible dynamic have ended up in that.

I do think that regardless of circumstance, Hunter just needs a bit of time to warm up to people in general. We kind of see that with Emily in the film. It's also something I've discussed when I was asked if I thought Hunter would get along with Ema & Spoon from Harlan Coben's Shelter.

I said he might see Ema as a threat in that previous answer. And I do think Hunter is someone that just easily feels threatened. He never feels safe. He's just like me fr And I could definitely see Hunter initially perceiving Eddie as a threat too. He's loud, he's cool, he's older.

We know Eddie's a nice guy but he's somewhat intimidating by design. For the same reason Hunter wants to be but I think there's more truth behind it with Eddie. Partially because of the time-period his canon takes place in, Eddie has just lived a much harsher life than Hunter. At the very least harsh in a different way.

And I do think that comes across in his general energy. I mean we see it in the show too, like he's a scaredy cat but when pushed into a corner he will defend himself. I think with more success than Hunter. Where Eddie flees or fights, Hunter freezes. Think of the way Hunter just 'lets' Skip drag him around at Clay's party. Not trying to victim blame, I think it's a panic response. But he has the survival instincts of a spoiled housecat. Eddie is more of an alley cat in this analogy.

I think Hunter would also just find Eddie a bit overwhelming initially. But because of how little introspection he has, he would somehow make that an "Eddie sucks" thing. And he'd lash out and/or hedgehog* in response.

*hedgehog moments or 'hedgehogging' is basically when someone feels threatened so they metaphorically curl up and stick their spines out in a reflexive attack to keep themselves safe. (I don't know if it's a term anybody but me and my friends use but it makes sense in my head)

As for Eddie's side of things I feel like he might initially think Hunter is just a bit of a brat (in the spoiled kid way not the other way this time). I mean one of the reasons Eddie thought Steve would be a douche was his parents being rich. It makes sense that might contribute to the same perception being applied to Hunter.

It's also arguably more true for Hunter. He IS a financially spoiled little fucker. The only way his dad knows how to try to make him happy is to buy him things. Broken his leg on stage? New guitar.

He doesn't know how to "comfort" him any other way. (and it's a piss-poor way of "comforting" your child btw) Aside: I also think Alan might have felt guilty for dropping Hunter in rehab just cause he didn't know what to do with him. So then having him get hurt right after would've only exacerbated that hence the $3.3k guitar as a "sorry, promise I probably love you, son"

But I do think that once the two come to more of an understanding and actually get to know each other properly they could be a chaos factory and a half. (I have a few WIP fics on the backburner that delve into that actually.) I mean Eddie does like Mike, who is a bit of a dick so he might also not have too much of a problem with Hunter being a dick. In any case, I think most of the "needing time" would be from Hunter's side.

Aside: I think especially a bit of maturing will help Hunter go a long way. Being seventeen ain't easy. I just think Hunter will start to become a lot more comfortable within himself in his twenties.

But in any case, I do think Hunter & Eddie would like each other after overcoming those hurdles. Which I also ultimately think they would overcome.

And I'm actually very attached to the idea that Hunter & Eddie would develop a sort of pseudo mentor/older brother dynamic. Which I think Hunter would actually really benefit from. As extensively established, his parents suck. (so do Eddie's tbf)

So I think having someone there to kind of fill a role adjacent to guidance would really help him. And having that be another metalhead is kind of important. Since Hunter's special interest is obviously metal and it's the framework he uses to make sense of the world. It really needs to be someone that speaks his language.

Aside: I'm always working within the concept that Eddie and Hunter are roughly as far apart in age as they are in their respective canon. As in: Eddie is 19/20 in canon, Hunter is 17 in canon. So if Hunter is aged up to 20, then Eddie is in his mid twenties. I'm not talking about this in a "Eddie was alive in the 80's and is now 50-something" kind of way.

Also a D&D game ran by Eddie with Hunter as a player would be fucking wild. If he can keep the friendly fire to a minimum I think they might enjoy playing D&D together a lot. Then again, Eddie's campaign was referred to as "sadistic" by Dustin, so maybe he wouldn't even mind the friendly fire lmao

I feel like this one is a little disjointed, I'm kind of all over the place mentally but I hope you still got something out of it, Blue Anon ^-^🤘

And as always, thank you for asking 🖤

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for lottie behind the cut; a pocketful of Kons. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

But also . . . maybe it’s not him, or maybe he’s just hiding his Pockets somehow, or maybe he’s really hurt. Is there something that can hurt someone bad enough to affect their Pockets? Cas seems fine, at least, so . . . well, if Superman is hurt, Cas would be the one who got hurt, wouldn’t he? Cassie’s fine, and as far as she knows so is Superman’s other soulmate, whoever she is. 

Unless she died in Doomsday’s attack. Did that happen? Is that why Cassie woke up to a Pocket of him? Because he lost his other soulmate? 

Is that why his face looked so empty on the feed earlier? That might explain some things, if . . . 

So–he does need her, if his other soulmate is dead. If he lost her. 

So she was right. She can’t reject Cas. Can’t neglect or ignore him into fading. Can’t . . . 

Superman needs her, if that’s true. If he lost one soulmate and died himself, and then immediately woke up alive again to a new one? What else could that even mean, if that’s what happened? 

It has to mean something, she thinks. 

She wouldn’t abandon anyone like that, much less another superhero. Much less anybody like Superman. He has enough power to do, like, anything, and all he ever wants to do is help people. 

How could she reject him after that, especially if he just lost another soulmate? 

No way. Just–no way. Never.

“Cassie will neither be meeting Kal nor be left alone with him,” Diana says. “The Watchtower is currently locked down and will not accept his access codes, until the League can be certain as to whether or not he has returned, and if he has been in any way compromised or injured by the methods of said return.” 

“There could be a supervillain puppeting his dead body around,” Mom says. “Or it’s just a shapeshifter, or an android, or who knows what!” 

“She just said they were being careful, Mom!” Cassie snaps at her, clutching Cas to her neck defensively and trying not to bristle. “It’s not like they’re inviting him up for a pizza party and handing over all the security codes!” 

Cas chirps worriedly, and Cassie tries not to tighten her grip on him. Tries not to raise her voice any more or shout again or–

“I think it’s perfectly clear he can’t be trusted at this point, and the fact you’re even intending to hear him out is appalling, Diana,” Mom says sharply, and Cassie absolutely fails not to shout again. 

“You don’t even know what he’s thinking, Mom!” she yells at her, and Diana sets a steadying, soothing hand on her shoulder. 

“Cassie,” she says gently. “Helena is only concerned for your well-being. And Helena, Cassie is a capable warrior in her own right, and will not be left alone until we are certain as to whether or not Kal has returned, and as to his mental state and intentions if he has.” 

“I don’t give a damn about that man’s mental state,” Mom says, clenching her fists, and Cassie feels so frustrated she could actually just scream. Cas hugs her tighter with a worried little chitter, though, and that . . . that’s . . . 

She doesn’t want to upset him. Doesn’t want him hurt or worried or afraid. 

She doesn’t want to let him down. 

She–exhales, slowly, and pets down Cas’s back. 

Cas needs her. Superman might even need her, at this point, which is . . . a very weird thought, but still not something she’s going to ignore. She became a superhero to help people, and just because Superman’s her soulmate and a little on the old side doesn’t mean she’s gonna blow him off. Like–it is weird, yeah, it’s really weird and kind of uncomfortable and she doesn’t know what to think about it, but–but that’s not her mom’s business, and she can figure it out for herself. And–and Superman won’t be–

He’s Superman. He’s her soulmate. And more than that, he’s Cas, who she can’t even begin to imagine ever hurting her. If Cas is who he is at the center of himself, if Cas is his real soul–how could she ever imagine someone like that hurting her? At least–not on purpose, at least. Not deliberately. 

“I do,” she says tightly. “He’s my soulmate, Mom. I’m not gonna abandon him. But it doesn’t even matter right now anyway, because he’s not on the Watchtower. This is, like, Justice League stuff.” 

“And you expect me to just trust that?! Trust that no one will let him in or leave you unprotected?!” Mom demands, clenching her fists again, and Cassie bristles again, and she just–she doesn’t know why her mom will never just listen. Never just trust her, never just believe her, never just– 

“Helena, my friend. I give you my word that I will not,” Diana says gently, and Mom–grimaces, and then looks away, folding her arms. She still looks frustrated, but . . . 

“I’m holding you to that,” Mom says, her voice tight. 

Of course Mom would listen to anyone but her, Cassie thinks, her chest clenching painfully. Of course she wouldn’t trust her word. 

She grits her teeth for a moment, then just–fine. It’s fine. Whatever. If Mom lets her out of the house without being a jerk about it or upsetting Cas again, that’s all that matters right now anyway. The Justice League needs to know what’s going on so they can figure out how to help Superman, and that’s the important thing here. She’s not gonna let him down by getting stuck going around and around in a stupid argument for the next hour when he needs her up there. 

“I’ll keep you informed,” Diana says to Mom, and Cassie dodges it when Mom reaches out in an attempt to put a hand on her arm and touch her, and just–heads for the door, her own hands still wrapped tight around Cas as he peers back over her shoulder with a soft little chirp of concern. 

Superman’s not a bad person. She can’t believe someone who Cas came from could ever be bad. But even if he were, it’s not like Diana and the whole stupid Justice League won’t be up there to deal with him until they can help him with–whatever’s got his face looking the way it looks right now. Whatever brought him back, but might not’ve brought his original Pocket back with him. 

She just wishes her mom would trust her for once. 

She doesn’t understand why that’s so hard for her to do.

[torra-and-the-toons]

Welcome to my Cartoon Blog!

Torra | she/her | 1992 | Autistic | Fan Artist & Author 

Hello! If you’re reading this it means you’ve found my blog! Just a few things before we get started that you should know about me and what I do here. 

I post about whatever cartoon is tickling my brain at the moment, and I flit between hyperfixations like I’m playing duck-duck-goose. Ed Edd n Eddy is the only fandom I have major projects in, but I partake in a lot of other fandoms too. So just know, if you follow me for one fandom, it’s bound to change.

I ramble a lot. I tend to voice my thoughts out loud randomly into the void that is tumblr just because I like to talk to whoever may be listening. If that’s not your thing, you may want to block the #torra rambles tag! Don’t worry, it won’t hurt my feelings. I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea and I want to do my best to make this blog enjoyable for all kinds of people.

My askbox is open, but I no longer take requests or answer head-canon related questions, but I’m happy to say hi. No Anons anymore, sorry.

If you’re just here for my art, I suggest looking for #torrasart. For any art I posted before February of 2024, I used #my art, #my doodles just FYI, but mass post editor was too confusing to change it, so I left it as is.

I try to be generally sfw, but I might still post/reblog suggestive text posts occasionally, tagged #suggestive, so minors beware... 

I don’t want to have to block anybody but I will if I have to... 

Please keep in mind that I have a full-time job that takes up a majority of my time and energy, but in spite of that I’m working as hard as I can to bring these projects to life. I also have pretty bad ADHD, which effects my ability to stay focused, but I’m trying. All I ask is for your patience and understanding. 💖

Ed Edd n Eddy Stuff

At the moment I have a few serious projects that I’m working on: My fan-comic, “In the Ed,” my fanfiction, “In the Sky of a Million Stars” and my most recent venture is just my unnamed Torra AU where I unleash my weird furry self-insert/OC into the cul-de-sac like a lunatic because I can’t make normal human OC’s.

IN THE ED

Horror AU, Supernatural Themes, Trigger Warning for blood and possible gore, Content Warning for language and violence.

"Nobody knew it existed. In fact this was the first time anyone had set eyes upon this hilltop manor for quite some time..." Four years after the events of the Big Picture Show, the Eds and friends find themselves in a brand new, death-defying adventure that's sure to shift the genres.

tags: #in the ed comic, #wip shot, #in the ed refs

This fan-comic is also on Ao3 for slightly easier readability! 

Introduction Page! 

CHAPTER 1: Peach Creek Manor

[1-5] [6-10] [11-15] [16-20] [21-25 (coming soon)]

IN THE SKY OF A MILLION STARS

Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Trigger Warning for Suicide Attempts, Content Warning for language and blood

Eddy has always been a man of many fears, but above all else, his greatest fear has always been the inevitability of growing up. Now, with adulthood staring him in the face, he just can’t take it. Why couldn’t things have stayed the way they were? AU where the BPS never happened, and Eddy struggles with the changes happening around and within him. Loosely based on the song "One More Light," by Linkin Park.

tags: #a million stars fic, #a million stars art

Follow it on Ao3 to get the latest updates!

Torra AU [not official name, and no banner image yet]

Comedy, OC, Content warning for language but overall trigger-safe, I think. Unless you have a fear of tigers

tags: #torra oc, #torra au, #torra and the eds

The Isaac Saga [no banner yet]

Comedy with some hurt/comfort themes. 

A collection of comics and drawings about the cat I made for Double Dee named Isaac. 

tags: #isaac the cat, #small things with great ed

Small Things with Great Ed Part 1

[pages 1-5] [6-10] [11-15]

[airplanned]

WIP Wednesday

My motivation has been in the gutter for a long while now. So I have made the decision that for the rest of the year, I'm only going to work on what I want to work on, when I feel motivated to do so.

With that in mind, here's the start of a One Piece one shot!

1.

Luffy has taken jumping onto people. 

Nami and Usopp can't take his weight (which honestly isn't that much, and some push ups wouldn't hurt either of them), and they tend to squawk on impact, their knees nearly buckling as they stumble to right themselves. Nami will shove him off until he's just hugging around her neck, and then she leaves him to rub his head against hers like a cat while she continues with whatever she was doing. Usopp will laugh when he recovers from his surprise and hook his arms under Luffy's legs and try to shift the weight with several hopping hefts until it's more comfortable. It never gets comfortable, and it never lasts long before Usopp sets him down.

Luffy will shout Zoro's name and leap from the rigging and land on Zoro's back, and (unlike Usopp) Zoro won't shriek and crumple to his knees.  Instead, he'll carry his captain around like a backpack until Luffy finds something better to do.  Again, Luffy's not heavy, and Zoro can still go about his business without any problems unless one of the arms wrapped around his head slips down to cover his eyes.  

Zoro's strong.  He isn't gonna complain and make people think his injuries are bothering him.  Because they aren't. (Fuck off.)

He's not going to tell Luffy he can't do something that's not hurting anybody and not bothering him.

Also Zoro's kind of curious how long Luffy will stay there.  How long he can carry him.  He kinda makes a game of it, seeing if Luffy can beat his previous record.  One day he carries Luffy around the whole afternoon, then when it's dinner time, the waiter snipes them like he's somebody's mom that they can't sit down to a meal like that.

"We can do what we want," Zoro says, kicking his chair around to sit in it backwards at the table.

"Yeah, we're pirates!" Luffy says, stretching out an arm to grab his plate from the table and hold it over Zoro's shoulder.  "I bet we can do this all day!  A whole twenty-four hours!  Right, Zoro?"

Zoro raises that bet to "Thirty-six," and holds up a fist.  Luffy knocks his own fist against it in agreement.

The waiter's face does that thing.  That twitchy thing where it looks like behind his eyes, he's gotten so confused that something's short circuited and he's reset back to his base state of stupid bemusement.  "He's...going to get crumbs in your hair?"

Luffy's wet and noisy chewing very close to Zoro's ear goes suspiciously silent.  A hand brushes at the back of his head.

So, okay, yeah, that's a good point.  But it's a point the waiter has made.  So Zoro glares at him and snaps, "My hair's none of your business."

Before the waiter can reply, Nami lets out a disgusted, "Ugh."

That's the most he and Nami have spoken to each other today.  Zoro's aware enough to know that things between him and Nami have been strained ever since she'd left and then came back and everyone else was acting like it's all water under the bridge.  Zoro's not.  A mistrust has settled in.  Under his skin.  Something that he can see turning into a grudge if he lets it fester long enough, but also he doesn't see himself doing anything to stop it from festering.

It's annoying.  Because he...well, he doesn't miss her, because she's right there and also he's low level ticked at her.  It's annoying.  Because she left.

Across the table, Usopp leans forward and narrows his eyes down to slits.  Slowly, he asks.  "How will you take a piss?"

The rest of the table goes very still.

Except for Luffy who answers with his mouth full, "Don't worry about it."

Everyone remains very still.

Yeah.  No. 

Zoro stands up and shrugs his captain off his back. 

"Awww!"

Turning his chair back around, he reclaims his seat.

"Thank you, Usopp, for that bit of rationality," the waiter says, passing around drinks (which are water of all fucking things) and sitting down himself, flipping his napkin across his lap with a flair. 

Pointing a finger at Usopp, Luffy informs him, "You're a bad pirate."  Then he swivels in his seat to turn the accusation onto Zoro.  "You too."  He pokes Zoro twice in the cheek.

"Yeah, yeah," Zoro says, piling food onto his plate.