#solid state physics long question

[vaishu1126]

Top 100 Important Solid State Physics IIT JAM Questions for Preparation - L 4

[ghost-proofbaby]

IT WILL COME BACK (E.M.)

"honey, don't feed me - i will come back."

summary: when eddie came back from the upside down, he was different. and you finally come to realize just how different the man you saved truly is one night, when push comes to shove.

pairings: kas!eddie munson x reader

warnings: mentions of BLOOD (in sexual manner), mentions of BITING (in sexual manner), allusions to possible coercion (consent is still explicitly stated - trust me), mentions of death and trauma, mentions of eddie's canon death, taking a lot of creative liberty with expansive vampire lore across all media, mentions of murderous dreams? (eddie dreamt about killing reader idk), oral (f receiving), smut. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT - 18+ ONLY.

wc: 7.7k+

a/n: i told y'all i'd write a serious biting/blood kink fic one day - today is the day. very lazily edited so beware.

When Eddie came back from the Upside Down, he was different.

There were subtle changes at first. Small, minute details that were easy to ignore. Everyone could turn a blind eye to them — everyone figured they would fade once the boy healed. His healing was first priority, and whatever lingered after could be dealt with.

Get Eddie better. Then question all that lingers.

A simple plan. A genius plan. A torturous plan.

The two of you had been friends, if you could even call it that, prior to it all. Teasing in the hallways, working on school projects here and there when in shared classes, he was your favorite (and only) dealer when you craved something to make sleep come just a little bit easier. He had been familiar — an old ghost you'd grown comfortable with, long before you’d seen those large and wet eyes looking back up at you in the boathouse. 

Long before he’d pieced together the puzzle pieces as to why you’d needed the weed to cancel out the nightmares. Long before he’d processed exactly what those nightmares entailed.

But then, you’d fought for him. You’d fought with him. And most importantly, you’d bled with him.

God, you had bled for him. 

Something admirable had blossomed in that short time. Eddie’s entire life had fallen apart, thread by frayed thread, and that new planted emotion had been the only solid thing to emerge for him to absolutely cling to. You were more than a fellow classmate to pass by in the hallways. You were more than his favorite customer, always weaponizing fluttering lashes and puckered lips for a discount he’d have given you regardless. 

You were a force to be reckoned with, and had ignited a hunger in him like no other.

That’s all he had thought it was when he’d awoken in his living room — not the distorted version but the real one — to you screaming for the others to help you as you’d sealed his wounds. That’s all he had thought it was when you’d come to visit him as wounds turned to scars, and stabbing pains turned to hungering pangs. So he had tried to bury it, listen to Harrington and Wheeler and Buckley when they told him to take time to readjust. He’d locked away that hunger and focused on his healing, just as everyone else had, and told himself it was just residual feelings. 

Residual feelings had been bound to happen after seeing someone bloody their hands, with your own blood, for your survival. 

And in his burial, he’d never considered a similar hunger igniting somewhere deep within you.

You visited far more often than you should have. Returning time and time again to change his bandages, taking on one too many shifts at the hospital during his unconscious spells and baring your teeth for anyone who got too close. The sweet blood on your hands hadn’t washed away in that first shower; you swore, if you looked closer, you could still see the stain of nearly losing him across your knuckles. 

Physical wounds were easier to heal than the internal ones. It was easier to lather on antibiotic lotion than it was to sleep soundly at night. Both of you came to realize that quickly in the weeks that followed Eddie’s return from the dead.

His nights were plagued with bad dreams, with thirst and cravings he couldn’t quite name. He’d wake up, burning up from the inside out with a fever that never existed. Tearing skin. Puncture wounds. Blood spilling across floors and his lips alike. He could never tell if the shivers that traced his spine had been from the cruel visions that had become his nightly visitors or if it was due to his perpetual drop in temperature that had worried Nancy since the very first night home from the hospital, that had concerned the nurses who piled blankets atop him during his week long sleep of recovery. 

Your nights were even less kind. Horrific memories were the demons that haunted you — remembering the way you had watched Eddie cut that sheet rope, remembering finding him bloodied on the ground, remembering the warmth of his blood seeping across your palms and how when your ear had turned just as heated with it as you pressed it to his chest. Only to hear nothing. Emptiness.

His heart had stopped for minutes. Plural.

It had been your steady rhythm, your desperate hands and your gasping breaths breathing into his lungs. You’d sunk your claws into him, caught them right between his ribs and had decided he couldn’t leave you.

Some nights, when you wake up screaming, you can still taste his blood on your lips. You sometimes still swore that when you’d checked for a pulse after that, you hadn’t heard anything. Still worried that Eddie Munson’s heart never really restarted and resumed beating. 

The worst was when you’d stare through the faded grey of  mornings plastering across your room’s walls, and could still remember that initial look in his blown out pupils, once honey brown swallowed in pure black as he’d taken his first breath on his own. 

Hunger.

You’d felt it, too. Shame riddled you on the nights you’d come down from the nightmares and remember it; it was as though the Universe had snapped back into place the moment you’d watched his chest first rise. A need so ardent to remain at his side. A chain clicking into place, binding both yourself and Eddie to one another, unaware of just what price had been paid to keep the boy that had laid under you in this world. Unaware of the hunger you had struck the match too that would become both your downfalls.

And so it had been buried. Something alive, even with your doubts of Eddie’s liveliness, and choking on dirt while six feet under. You and Eddie, two sides of the same coin, had decided to not speak of it. He never told you how he had come to be able to pinpoint your heartbeat in every shared room he entered, throat burning as his gaze always settled on you, and you never told him of the matching aches that had shamefully sparked within your chest and between your hips for him. 

A hunger to be near one another. A hunger to devour. Neither of you really understood the heaviness.

“How are you feeling today, Eddie?” Steve asks as he sits on the edge of the new bed in the new apartment in the new part of town the Munson men now occupy. 

Government money could go a Hell of a long way. Especially after your home had been devastated by the aftermath of alternate dimensions and unheard of evil being defeated.

“Fine,” is the only response Eddie can muster.

In reality, every time anyone came near him now, he burned. His throat tightened till it was surely raw, he swore his teeth sharpened until a mere slip of his tongue against his canines could bring the taste of metallic blood to his mouth. His entire body would tense with every person that walked through his door.

Control. Whatever was happening to him, Eddie needed to exercise control.

“Just fine?” Steve continues on, not catching the drift as he puts down the bag of things he’d bought at Eddie’s request. Basic things — painkillers, packs of cigarettes, a 6-pack. Some habits die harder and can’t be controlled, “You look like shit, Munson.” 

“Gee, thanks, Stevie.” 

Everyone had assumed the dark shadows beneath Eddie’s eyes would fade. They assumed his cheeks would eventually fill back out. They assumed he could wash away the ashen shade his hair now flatly flowed in. It was as if the life had been drained from Eddie since that day, and they had all assumed it would eventually flow back into him. 

It never did. Just as his new hunger lingered, so did the look of Death.

“Sorry, man,” Steve throws his hands up, shrugging a bit before he stands, “Just being honest. It’s the best policy.”

“Is it? Is it really?” 

If honesty was the best policy, Eddie could have filled the room with it. He could admit about the nightmarish wants, needs, he’d been keeping at bay. He could admit the way his irritation had been growing this last week every time another body, another friend, walked through his doorway and it wasn’t you. You, who had begun to plague the night terrors. You, who Eddie was beginning to crave far more than he had before he’d stared the afterlife down the barrel of the gun. 

Steve just looks at Hawkins’ newest zombie boy, sighing, “Look, I don’t know what’s got you pissed off-“

“The whole dying thing, for starters.”

“-or why you’ve insisted on being an asshole to all of us these last few weeks-“

“Again, I died.” 

“-but you’ve got everyone but me scared to visit you. We’re all scared of you biting our heads off, dude,” Steve finally finishes with a scowl. 

Everyone. It’s unspoken that you’re included in the generalization. 

It occurs to Eddie that maybe, just maybe, he should be kinder if he ever wants the ache of yearning to see you again to fade. If that’s what he could call this ache.

By the time Steve has left, Eddie’s still thinking about his warning. About the way he had been unusually cruel since coming back to life, since waking up handcuffed to a hospital bed. It made sense initially. But he wasn’t handcuffed to a hospital bed anymore — he was home, or as close to home as he could get, and he was technically safe.

The issue was that he’d accepted his safety. Everyone who had wanted Eddie Munson dead was now six feet under themselves. No, the bigger issue at hand was everyone else’s safety.

Your safety.

Once he’d realized you were the staring lead in his violent fantasies, he had stopped calling. Half of your absence last week had been his fault. 

No one really bothered to look deeper into it. Steve didn’t press as to why Eddie’s fridge had remained empty, Nancy didn’t take second glances at the odd books on vampire tales that were now littering all the free real estate of Eddie’s room, and you hadn’t questioned the coldness of his tone whenever he spoke to you. The chill of his words had grown icier than his own palms, desperate to keep you at arm’s length until he figured out what had changed in him that day he came back to life. 

He wanted you near. He wanted to rip your throat out. He wanted your blood to stain his mouth and neck just as his had stained your hands. That was an issue. That wasn’t normal. 

Something had changed in Eddie Munson, and it had terrified him to his twisted core, and no one had cared enough to notice. Not yet.

–

It took you two weeks to be fed up with the radio silence. 

Eddie stopped calling even Jonathan (the only one of the group he found he didn’t want to devour whole, as it turns out). When everyone had mentioned it in passing, it had only reminded you of the sleepless nights you’d be enduring. That small voice in the back of your head that had called out to you in the dead of night, the whisper of come to me that echoed all the way across a broken town. 

Come to me. 

Sometimes you swore it was Eddie’s voice calling to you. Sometimes, you nearly left your own new apartment in the dead of night, and let your legs guide you to the undead boy you had single-handedly revived.

Tonight was one of those nights. Your stomach was twisting, your head was pounding, your bones were aching. Every single inch of you hurt as it listened to that soft calling, and at some point, you gave in.

Hunger. You were insatiable with the need and drive to be at Eddie’s side. Warnings from the others be damned.

One thing leads to another. You find your coat, you find your car keys. You find yourself driving the deserted streets of Hawkins in the middle of the night. You find yourself on the Munson doorstep, knuckles shaking and aching with the knowledge that just beyond the wood of the door, he was there. You don’t have to see him to feel him; his thrumming presence, his anchoring existence. 

Come to me. 

The door swings open before you get the chance to knock. This string tying your two souls together is not a one-way channel, it seems. 

“Why are you here?” 

You watch him wince as the harsh words leave him. Immediately, you know that the abrasiveness is on instinct. Just as something claws inside of you to be near him, there is something within him howling to keep you far from him. 

The polarity of two magnets. Some nights, surely, his twists in a way that would draw him to you, just as yours will twirl with the sensibility that whatever has changed within him should give you cause to run as far away from him as possible. 

But tonight, your magnetism only yanks you closer to him. He doesn’t even invite you in, and yet, you find yourself stepping over the threshold of the new apartment. 

“You’ve gone quiet,” you whisper as an answer. It’s not what he wants to hear, grimace deepening, nearly a scowl now, “I just… It’s been weeks. I…” 

I missed you. I needed you. I heard you in my dreams and I’ve never had much self-control when it comes to you. 

Magnets are a useless metaphor for whatever is happening here between you. A better comparison would be the cliche image of a moth to a flame; he’s dangerous, threatening to burn you alive, and you still find your heart fluttering after him hopelessly. You’re going to get scorned, and you’ll still never learn. You’ve fallen victim to a tired narrative that you’d rolled your eyes at in a plethora of books. How many times had you sworn that wouldn’t be you? Just how many eye rolls had you exhausted at the mere idea?

And now, here you were, on his doorstep. Grasping for something you’re not sure either of you can give. 

“I’ve been dealing with a few things,” he mutters as he shuts the door behind you, shielding you both from the chill of the night. The room is still cold, especially in his radius, “Didn’t think it would make much of a difference.” 

“You didn’t think I’d care if you just stopped calling?” you turn slowly, taking in the state of the living room. Wayne was clearly gone for the night, work most probably, and several books littered the coffee table. Eddie had been the one reading them, lounging on the couch. 

The last time you had seen him, he couldn’t even sit up in bed on his own. 

He’s keeping an unusual distance, nearly leaning back out of your vicinity, “Figured you were busy.”

He’s never been this short with you. His words are choked up, his body tense with pain. You assume it’s just his injuries bothering him.

You couldn’t be more wrong, but you’re completely unaware.

“I brought you back from the dead, and you think I’d still be too busy for you,” you laugh humorlessly, fully in disbelief at his pitiful excuse, “Eddie, we could find out Vecna didn’t really die, those damn cracks in the Earth could open right back up, and the first person I’d care about finding is you.”

The animal inside that had been yearning for his presence is satiated for now, but you can still feel it lurking in the darkest depths of your mind, ready to call out a new request at any moment. It’s the distraction that has you spilling pathetic truths. 

The only response he offers you is a dead stare. With eyes wide, pupils nearly swallowed up by darkness. 

“You could have called,” your voice cracks, body shaking with the effort not to take a step closer to him, “You could have just let me know you were still alive.”

“I-” 

He cuts himself off when he’s the one taking a step closer. His entire face twists with pain, and you give up keeping your distance. In an instant, you’re at his side as your hand reaches out for his bicep. 

He flinches away. Something inside of you burns. 

Your hand is hovering in the air between the two of you, and in this lighting, you swear the skin is still stained with the blood that won’t wash away. 

“Please don’t,” he begs, “I’m fine, but… please.”

You don’t know what he’s begging for. Distance, for you to pull your hand away, time – you don’t know what he needs. 

“We should sit down,” you insist, finally pulling your hand as far from him as possible but making no move to put the space back between you two, “Has anyone helped you with your bandages? If your wounds got infected-”

“They didn’t.”

“If you didn’t change the bandages, they definitely could have-”

“They’re not infected,” he grits out, but he’s still walking over to the couch regardless, “They’re healed.” 

Healed.

Mere weeks ago, those wounds were still deep enough to keep you from ever achieving a full night's rest. Deep enough to worry you to the core that you would wake up to them finally having consumed him. Deep enough that you all assumed it would take him months, not weeks, to recover.

“What do you mean they healed, Eddie?” you whisper, almost reaching out for him as he sits down. 

Your hand twitches, but the echoes of his begging and his flinching keep it at bay as you stand before him. 

“I mean, they healed,” he huffs, nostrils flaring as he takes deep breaths. He’s looking anywhere in the room but at you, his gaze subverting you with purpose. As though the mere sight of you, the mere proximity, is painful to him, “Don’t know how, don’t know why – they just did.” 

“So why are you still in pain?” 

A sharper intake of breath. A hush of silence falling over the apartment. Even the buzz of the building’s AC unit has faded from all your senses. It’s just you and him, and a heavy quietude like no other. 

Until he finally breaks the surface tension, breathing out, “You.” 

Your heart drops. That tug inside your chest, the one taut as you look at him right within your reach yet still so far away, almost snaps. 

“Me?”

He nods with a harsh swallow, “I- Look, I can’t explain it, but when I came back, I came back…” 

“Different?” 

He doesn’t have to explain it. You’d felt it.

The moment his eyes had opened, just moments after what should have been blissful victory. The taste of his blood heavy on your tongue, a terrible sweetness that had choked you rather than its initial metallic twang. The whispers of his voice in your mind. 

He wasn’t the only one changed from whatever had occurred that night. 

“Different is a good way of putting it,” he nods, looking up with apologetic eyes, “It’s not you. It’s cliche as fuck, but it really isn’t – it’s me. I died, and you brought me back, but I don’t think either of us knew the cost.” 

The yearning. The nightmares. The unmanageable needs. The hunger. 

“What was the cost?” 

He almost doesn’t hear you. Your voice is a whisper, tone weighed down with the curse of knowing. 

You might not have known the cost when you were pressing your palms into his chest through your wretched sobs, functioning as his heart and lungs for nearly a minute, but you think you might have a clue now. 

All that had been tethering you to him since he’d come back to you, all those webs and strings that had formed their knots around both of your necks. He’d changed, and you had plummeted right into the chasm of the unknown with him.

His blood on your tongue, sweet as honey. 

Blood shouldn’t be sweet. 

He grabs one of the books off the coffee table, motioning for you to join him on the couch. Under the weight of your realization, you’re nearly under a trance. All he has to do is wave a hand, and you follow. 

You’re at his beck and call. Just like you had been when he’d been calling out for you, yearning for you. 

“Don’t make me say it,” he mutters under his breath, tossing the book into your lap the moment you’ve sat down. This time, you’re mindful to keep your distance. 

This time, you’re painfully aware of the compromising situation the two of you have found yourselves in. 

The book is older, leather-bound and worn from years of readers’ careless hands breaking the spine. The corners of every page are weather, close to disintegration. The entire thing could easily pass for a Halloween decoration. 

It’s not. You flip open to the title page, and if Eddie didn’t appear so deathly serious at your side, you would have scoffed. 

“Dracula?” you question carefully, running a finger over the delicate script of the title, “Eddie, I don’t-”

“I’m not insane,” he interrupts you, “I’m not fucking- I swear to you. I’ve gathered up every goddamn book about it that I can. Fictional, nonfictional. Just- there’s obviously a Hell of a lot more fictional material to work with, okay?” 

A vampire. He’s convinced he’s a vampire.

And even worse – you’re convinced right along with him. 

You turn your head to look at him, trying to find the right words, but all you find is Eddie burying his face in his hands, head nearly hung between his knees. 

“I can’t eat normal food anymore,” his voice is muffled, “That was the first sign. Couldn’t stomach it, made me throw up for hours when I tried. And then all those nurses kept talking about how I was healing faster than they expected. Most of my smaller cuts – those healed in under a day,” he finally lifts his face just enough to turn and peer at you through all the stray curls that fall into his vision, “My vision and hearing were the next things I noticed. Remember how I had a nonstop migraine those first few days?” 

He doesn’t need to convince you, but the argument is compelling, “It… wasn’t a migraine.” 

He shakes his head. “Not even close. Just turns out that it’s a killer to get used to fucking superhuman night vision and impeccable hearing. I still can’t handle being out in the sun very long. I don’t… burn up or any of that shit, but… it just…” he trails off, shoulders falling in defeat before he throws himself back against the couch. When he continues, his tone is flat, devoid of all emotion, “I keep having these dreams about you, too. Bad dreams. Terrible dreams.” 

You shut the book, toss it back onto the coffee table, and decide to Hell with keeping your distance. 

You need it. Even if he’ll only allow you to get an inch closer to him, you need it. 

“What do you mean by terrible dreams?” you ask, breath catching at the end of your question as you scoot yourself closer on the couch. Even with such a small movement, Eddie is quick to notice, eyes flicking to you quickly with a sense of urgency flashing behind them. 

“Don’t,” he lowly warns. 

“What’s happening in your dreams, Eddie?” 

Another inch closer. His jaw clenches. 

“Sweetheart, do not-”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Your knee bumps into his thigh, and you watch him go rigid. Hands turning to fists, eyes pinching shut and face twisting with the same pain he’d worn the ghost of when you first arrived at the apartment. 

The moment you touch him, you see it. The flashes of his nightmares, all those terrible actions haunting him every time he closed his eyes. You. Your blood. That hunger. 

Like a blackhole in the center of your stomach, it burns viciously as it sucks the air out of your lungs. It threatens to cave your entire being into itself until there’s nothing left. Not even a crumb of who you once were. 

But it's not yours. It’s Eddie’s. 

That pain on his face is only exhibiting a fraction of what he was feeling. That dizzying craving that he’d miraculously been keeping at bay since you’d simply entered the building, not even yet knocking on his door. You hadn’t even been in the same room as him yet, and he had still known. Had smelt you, had felt you. 

He could almost taste you. 

“You…” you have to shift your knee away from him, break the touch, break the connection, “You haven’t fed since you woke up.”

“I haven’t fed, period.” 

With the connection severed, he somehow finds it in himself to open his eyes once more. You don’t know how – if he’s feeling what you’d just been privy to, you’d be an incoherent mess on the floor. Something feral and unrecognizable. 

Although, maybe he was nearly there. You couldn’t see his pupils. That same look when he’d first woken up – a man swallowed whole by hunger. 

“You’ve been dreaming about ripping my throat out,” you say it as a matter of fact, not a lick of judgment in your tone. 

It wasn’t you scrutinizing him. It was what you had seen, with one simple touch. 

His voice is hoarse as he echoes in confirmation, “I’ve been dreaming about ripping your throat out.” 

You should probably be afraid. All your survival instincts should be kicking in, your feet should be carrying you towards the door, you shouldn’t be leaning in closer. 

“You know what really sealed the whole vampire ordeal though, sweetheart?” he breathes out, your eyes fluttering shut at the lull in his hushed tone. 

Just as you’ve been leaning in, he’s been slowly turning his body to face yours, hands twitching at his sides. He’s no longer retreating from your presence, sucking down breaths in harsh gulps the closer you grow to him. 

He’s losing control. You’re losing control. 

That thread, vibrant red as it draws you near him, is clear as day now. A noose around your neck. A road to your damnation. 

A road to your hunger. 

You hardly hum in response, completely entranced now. Had he ever been capable of this before? Of holding you beneath such an inescapable spell with such ease? 

Probably. 

He doesn’t use his words to answer. Instead, he finally takes the plunge. 

His head ducks down towards your neck just as his hands lose the war, grabbing onto your hips, dragging you dangerously close to him until his lips hovered just over your pulse point. And by some strength that you certainly don’t possess, he stops there. Letting his lips barely brush against your soft skin, breath coming out in pants for you to feel, to relish, to get lost in. And just as soon as those pants, those waves, become a comfortable pattern to succumb to, you feel them.

His fangs. 

Grazing over your sensitive skin. Sharp tips nipping at a surface they could so easily break, pierce with one wrong move. Your pulse is thrumming beneath the surface, heart racing painfully as Eddie’s grip turns bruising. 

Come to me. 

“Please.” 

You’re the one begging now. It goes against every rule you’ve ever seen applied in fiction. If a vampire is baring their fangs against your neck, you should be reaching for a stake. The only noise escaping you should be a scream for help, not the pathetic whimpers beginning to slip out. 

“I can’t,” you feel his gasp more than you can hear it. Your blood is too loud, roaring in your ears as you feel the fangs slip with his words, “I can’t.” 

That hunger you felt, the one that had called out to you through the night and led you right to his doorstep, is unavoidable now. You need him closer, you need him to do this. For the first time since you had saved his life and tasted his blood after the Upside Down, everything seems to click into place. All he needs to do is let them sink into you, take that final leap of faith and reprieve that ache you’ve battled for weeks now. 

You’re so close. So close. 

“Eddie, please,” you’re nearly sobbing, hands gripping onto his shoulders, trying to pull him in closer. 

But you’re no match for his strength. You don’t know if it’s a new addition with his vampire business or if there was always more to him than met the eye, but he easily stays stoic against your attempts, not moving a centimeter. Still hovering, still just barely making contact with your heartbeat. 

“I-” his head drops slightly, tip of his nose beginning to trail down the side of your neck, mouth no longer dangerously close, “You saw my dreams-”

“I trust you.” 

You do. You trust him even more now than you had when you first stumbled upon him in the boathouse. More than when he had pleaded his case, promised he hadn’t been the one to kill Chrissy Cunningham. The trust comes easier than breathing as his nose nuzzles into the junction of your neck and shoulder. 

“You shouldn’t,” he mutters, fangs now brushing your collar bone, “You really, really shouldn’t.” 

He doesn’t stop you when you move to straddle his hips. Your weight settles onto his lap, and he only fights to keep his face burrowed there in your shoulder, arms now moving around your waist to hold you tightly to him. 

His self-control is impeccable. You’d admire him and all this impressiveness another time, when something inside of you wasn’t lamenting his resistance. 

All at once, it occurs to you how to give him the final push. 

“Did I ever tell you how sweet your blood was on my tongue after I brought you back?” you start, sighing, rolling your shoulders to expose more of your neck, grip on his shoulders tightening, “All that blood, all those tears, and I still can’t forget how welcome that warmth of you was in my mouth. How I needed more. How I pictured it every night, after every nightmare-” 

He breaks. 

One moment, his nose is buried in your skin. And the next, his fangs are. 

You weren’t sure what to expect, but relief would have been low on your list. You gasp out in initial shock, but as you feel his teeth dig in, it’s as though something has snapped. The ache has been satiated, preening as you feel the warmth of your blood contrast the chill of his chin pressing into you. 

If there’s any pain, you don’t feel it through the haze of pleasure. 

Ice shards spread through your bloodstream, but the point in which Eddie’s mouth is connected to you radiates heat. He’s pulling you into him, letting go completely and relinquishing all that control as he nearly purrs against your skin in satisfaction. That connection is back, two minds linking with a heavy click, and you can feel all his pleasure mingling with your own. Satiation, desperation, adoration – the plethora of emotions all swarm your head and block out any better judgment. 

You’d let him drain you dry, if that’s what he needed. If nothing more than to hear those soft moans as his fangs sink even deeper. 

He pulls back too soon, though, suddenly and unexpectedly. Just as quickly as he had given in to both your desires, he’s putting an end to them. He hadn’t taken much blood, but your head is swimming from the loss all the same. Your grip has gone slack on him, hands slipping down to just barely cradle his biceps while his own touch stays unyielding around you. 

You can hear his thoughts. Or rather, maybe more aptly put, you can feel them. 

He wants to devour you. Wholly, ruthlessly. 

He looks up at you with pupils still blown wide, chest heaving and a small scarlet drip trailing from the corner of his mouth. For the first time since he’d come back to you, he looks alive. Hair fluffed in a halo around his head, skin tinted with a healthy glow and unmistakable blush, bags beneath his eyes faded for the time being. 

You were never quite sure if Eddie Munson’s heart had ever restarted, knew for certain that it hadn’t now, but you swear you can feel its pulse finally thrumming for you. 

I need more. 

It’s his voice in your head, echoing in the empty space as you look down with wild eyes to match his. 

But it’s your voice in his head when you respond instantaneously. 

Then take it. 

Something unspoken lies there in the need. He doesn’t move back to your neck, doesn’t bite down and drink his fill of your blood. He only stares for a few seconds, watching the welt of blood that pools from each puncture wound of his making. His eyes follow when it runs down your skin, as though he might lose it should he so much as blink. Down, down, down. Following the trail that his nose had followed minutes before, across your collarbone until it stains the neck of your loose shirt. 

My pleasure. 

His hold proves helpful when he quickly changes positions, roughly throwing you down onto the couch before he’s settled between your thighs, crawling his way up your body. He pays close attention to the maroon trail on your throat, his tongue cleaning up after his mess, savoring the taste of you on his tongue. 

Sweet as honey. 

His tongue only pauses for a moment over the bite wound, pressing into it, making your back arch as you press yourself fully into him. Your head digs painfully into the cushion behind you as you expose your neck, wanting and begging and pleading all without words. 

“I think we should take this off,” he plucks at the hem of your shirt, tugging hard before he begins to carefully lift. His freezing knuckles brush against your burning skin, eliciting a whimper from you, “Before we make an ever bigger mess. Don’t you agree, sweetheart?” 

A sultry tone you’ve never heard from him before. Honeyed words, familiar to how he once spoke, but entirely new in the way they curl around you. There’s a confidence there, a baiting that he’s luring you with. 

“Yes, please.” 

He could ask anything of you in this moment, and you’d be eager to comply. Fueled by your desire for him before the events of spring break, worsened by his new condition. A bright, red, vibrating thread. You couldn’t severe the tie if you wanted to. 

And you most certainly did not want to. 

Your shirt is removed, his hands careful despite the way they shake. His words may be smooth, but each move is jagged, the only sign you had that he’s still exercising control. 

“And these?” he whispers, lowering his lips to your sternum as he toys with the band of your pants. His fangs scratch down the center of your stomach as it quivers with each breath, careful to not break skin as they make their presence known. You nearly lose all capability to speak until he says, “Use your words, baby. Tell me I can take them off.” 

Yes. 

His eyes flare, looking up to you, “Use your words. Not your mind. I want to hear how badly you need me – I want everyone to hear you beg.” 

The words strike straight to your core. Lashing out in your lower stomach, burning deliciously. 

It’s more than putting on a show. He needs to know you want this. 

“Take them off,” you gasp out, hands wandering to tangle in his hair, “Take- Take it all off. I’m yours, Eddie.” 

Shaking hands perform a dance you had long since fantasized about. In easier days, when Eddie had been uninvolved in the episode down, heart still beating along as he would bounce his knees in front of you and his fingers would idly fiddle with his pencils and pens. A yearning, a wanting, you’d always held for the boy. 

He used to be an escape from it all. A pretty thing to daydream about when you weren’t worried about monsters. And now – he was one of the monsters. 

Your monster. Tied to you inexplicably, brought back by your hands and your stubborn efforts. 

His lips and fangs are one in the same, trailing along your body as he finds a home at the apex between your thighs. Even in undeath, he’s the most beautiful thing your mind could conjure. 

You’d forgotten how he was privy to your every thought until he reacts.

“You’re too sweet,” he murmurs, smirking salaciously as he mouths innocently at that sensitive skin of your inner thigh, tongue darting out to lick a cool stride before he breathes out against it. It has you writhing beneath his hold, “You’ve wanted this all this time, sweetheart? Wanted to see me, between these pretty thighs, making you scream my name?” His mouth falls open a bit wider, the sharp canines pressing but not sinking against where he had just licked. He holds there, eyes locking with yours, until he pulls back to cockily say, “Could’ve just said something, y’know. Didn’t have to bring me back from the dead to have me devoted to you.” 

Finally, finally, he lets his fangs sink back into you. The soft meat of your thigh is more pliant in his mouth, and he doesn’t linger as long as he had on your neck. One nick, just enough to start the blood flow, before he’s pulling back and licking hungrily at the scarlet liquid. Less for feeding, more for marking.

Marking you as his, just as you have with him. His methods just appeared a bit more physical. 

He’s quick to avert his focus on your cunt, no warning before the tongue still covered in your blood is taking long strides over your entrance and clit. Devotion. That was the only word to describe the way he was unraveling you, alternating between indulging in your sweet cunt and returning back to that bite, going as far to even sink his teeth in a second time to take a proper drink of you. His chin and lips grow slick with it all – with the blood, with your wetness, with his own saliva. A starved man with a feast before him. 

The way he’s rutting his hips into the couch as he slings your legs over his shoulders doesn’t go unnoticed. 

It’s a mess. A wonderful, satisfying, enchanting mess.

Beautiful. So beautiful, all mine. 

His voice has you teetering on an edge of new carnal pleasure. Completely consumed by him, your hands tugging viciously at his curls. His face is round once more, eyes and cheeks no longer sunken in, vitality being breathed into him with each taste of your blood. 

Let me touch you. Please.

You beg over that connection, trying your best to not buck your hips mercilessly against his tongue. You feel his wicked grin. 

“You’re already touching me, sweetheart,” he reaches up, untangling your fingers from his hair for emphasis before he’s pinning them to your sides, “And what did I say about using our words? Hm?” 

“Need more,” your voice is wrecked as you tilt your head back, wrists straining against his hold, “I need more.” 

You’re fully light-headed now, the blood loss finally catching up. Maybe you were about to let him drain you dry. 

And what a beautiful way to die. At the hand, at the fangs, of the one you had fought so urgently to bring back to you. 

One last timid lick to the wound on your thigh, and he’s crawling his way back up to you. The mess doesn't phase you as he kisses you hungrily – the blood remains sweet rather than metallic, the remnants of your juices still on his tongue – and you meet him with an unbridled fervent. Nipping at his lips with your own dull canines as if you were the one looking for a bite of vivacity. 

You don’t know when he lets go of your wrists, or when your hands find their way up beneath his shirt. The specifics don’t matter once he’s naked before you, clothes discarded messily to the ground with your own. The only thing that matters is the weight of him, the reminder that he was still here as his hips roll into yours and the head of him catches on your entrance. 

He had been dead. For minutes. And you had brought him back to you. 

The process had taken longer than the mere CPR administered, had taken weeks of whatever waiting game you two had tortured yourselves with, but you had him now. He was yours. You were his. There wasn’t a deity, a monster, an omniscient being in this world that could take that away from you. Not even Death herself. 

“Last chance, baby,” he whispers against your lips, holding himself up so that not a single inch of his skin pressed to yours. You nearly cried out, missing that connection, missing him. Your hunger, the hunger for him entirely, rattles your bones once more, “Say the word, and I’ll-”

“No,” your hands pause their exploration of skin jagged with scars. Reminders of those few dreadful moments in which the world existed without Eddie Munson in it, that would fade in time but never fully disappear. Always there, just like the stain of his blood on your palms. Always there, just like your desperation to have him at your side. “I meant it when I said I’m yours. I’m not changing my mind. I want this.” 

His skin is back on yours, body laid fully along your own road map, and it all comes flooding back. The pain of seeing his lifeless body, the nights spent in an eerie hospital room, baring your own teeth at any one who came too close to the man you had pulled back from the ledge of Death. The anxiety, the fear, the relief, the yearning – it all accumulates as he’s pressing into you, brimming you so full that there’s no room for memories of nightmares. 

He’s here. He’s yours. You’re his. 

His heart didn’t need to beat for you to accept that truth. 

You can’t decipher which chants of your name fall from his lips for others to hear, and which ones whisper in the depths of your mind for only you to bear witness to. Each curse, each grunt, each moan – there for you and only you anyways. You’re entirely unsure if your lips even separate once as he thrusts, cock brushing somewhere deep in you that has you clenching around him. 

And if his fangs wander, it only adds to the pleasure. 

Blood, sweat, and tears all mingle between your bodies. He’s holding you tighter than water, as though you’re at risk of disappearing from him at any given moment. But that link between your two minds, your two souls, is unwavering. It’s the only thing grounding you to the moment as your half curls around his waist and your heel digs into his lower back. Urging him, pressing him, taking him. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he says it out loud, this time. You feel his lips brushing against your ear as he does, “Gripping me so tightly. This pussy was fucking made for me.” 

Every movement only unlocks something more feral inside the two of you. Your nails rake down his back, leaving angry red lines to trace over once it’s all said and done. There’s enough shallow bite marks across your neck that you’ll be wearing scarves for weeks, months. The others might question it, strangers might stare, but the pride you feel as he marks you is unmatched for any anxiety about it. 

That black hole of hunger is no longer swallowing either of you whole. That debilitating pain, that animal inside, has been tamed. 

When his hips begin to stutter, mouth no longer capable of the strength to properly bite you as his lips only smear the soft spattering of blood pooling at the base of your throat, you’re already there. Squeezing him tightly, sucking him in, voice raw as you let everyone know who’s ravishing you. 

Eddie. 

Hawkins’ newest zombie boy – Hawkins’ newest vampire. 

The climax is just as pleasurable as the lead up. The haze lingers long after his spent has dripped out of you, long after he’s collapsed into your body with exhaustion and contentment. The blood dries, the wounds clot – but that haze doesn’t falter. 

As long as his skin presses to yours, you feel that caress of his mind against yours. 

“Did…” you’re breathless as his face nuzzles into your nude chest, a few mindless hums of gratification still slipping from him as you bring a hand to toy with the curls at the crown of his head, “Did any of your vampire books say anything about… that?”

The connection. The bloodlust. The spell you swear he still has you under, even as it’s all said and done. 

He snorts against your skin, “Not that I, uh, recall.” 

“What? You mean to tell me in all your research, you never dived into any vampire smut?” you tsk jokingly, a calm smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. He lifts his head, and you swear, those honey-brown irises have threads of a deep maroon now, “You’re slacking, Munson.” 

“Why read about it when I can just experience it?” he coos, letting his nose and lips drag across your still hot skin before he rests his chin on your sternum, “Besides, I mean – we’ll need to do this again, won’t we, baby? For research.” 

Your head still spins. Your body aches in a welcome manner. There will be a need for explanations to others, for actually researching his condition, later on. But for now, it’s enough. 

The pounding behind your ribcage, the one you know Eddie feels for the both of you when his ear presses to your chest, is enough. 

Of course, lover. 

That thought stays between the two of you. The world doesn’t need to know what can’t hurt them. 

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[grlcarcass]

Hii im not sure if you’re taking requests rn, but Im going to just in case bc i absolutely love your writing!!

You feel like the kind of author that needs smut to have a backstory or at least a solid dynamic to be established between the characters, which I can absolutely relate to, so I was thinking maybe Izzy and the childhood best friend trope? I’m not sure if that’s your cup of tea but I love it when there’s a certain tenderness to two people having known each other for song long and then discovering this new side to their relationship.

Maybe they knew each other back in Indiana, but then he moved and they didn’t see each other for a couple years, and then they bump into each other in LA? Idk it’s all up to you, you’re fantastic at writing real chemistry and unique tropes so I don’t want to ruin this by babbling too much.

missing stradlin - izzy stradlin fic

taglist: @brokenglassb1tch @californiaahunny @tranquilitybasegrunge @slashes-strings @dazecrea

content: smut (18+), slight angst, mostly romantic

a/n: babe, after all that love for my writing in that ask? HOW COULD I NOT WRITE FOR YOU ASAP?! I’m extremely flattered that you love my chemistry writing, I try so hard T_T I tried extra hard for you here, I can tell we're very alike! Hope you love it anon!

tag an izzy lover <3

It was the kind of night in Los Angeles that felt like it would come undone before you if you just breathed too hard. The air was warm, dizzy air thick with gasoline and jasmine, the infectious air that poured out the nearby incense shop overwhelming her senses each time she passed. 

“You’re in LA, and close to the bar.” it’d tell her, apparently yuppy-filled enough to have a running essential oil/crystal shop on damn near every corner. It was a humbling feeling, the jump from Indiana, where the fanciest joint was the restaurant of the local Inn. At least that was true back then, her little friends used to agree with that exact sentiment. Here she was, where we have enough money to spend on pretty rocks that don’t do jack, that’s what Momma told her about LA at least.

The bar was buried somewhere off Melrose, a place that didn’t advertise, didn’t care to. Its name was half-burned out in neon lights. The lighting was low, the music was loud, and the scent of sweat and old beer didn’t change no matter what state she chased her high. It lived in bars, and that made her feel right at home no matter how far she was from Indiana. At least for a moment. 

She hadn’t expected anything from the night, maybe a cheap whiskey. Maybe a guy who’d nod too hard at anything she played on her acoustic. Physically egging her to finish the song until he’d take off her pants. What did sex mean anymore? What did anything?

She felt like she had missed the Get-Big-And-Out-Of-Indiana bus, ever since high school. Her two best friends weren’t Bill or Jeffrey anymore. With their new shiny titles, she questioned if that part of her– no, their past had existed. Knowing every damn thing about them, knowing them long enough to remember how bad they were at singing or guitar back then? Had that even existed in comparison to what those two became now?

She traveled endlessly, searching for nothing and something all at once. Bars. Sex. Smoke. She wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but to chase a familiar feeling. The comfort of both her Momma’s garage with their ruckus, but aged, grown up to a loud bar. It just wasn’t her guys though, no matter how talented the performing acts were. 

Never admitting that she yearned to find them, outright. Cause she knew the possible rejection of forgetting her would ache like their absence tenfold. Finding the adjacent was fine, she’d convinced herself. 

Karaoke nights at the bar, she’d sing whatever she felt like. Just to feel how she felt when her only friends did, who felt like more of a crowd on their own than a bar full of twits. A few people clapped. A guy in the back whistled. But she wasn’t really singing for them. 

She was trying to shake the feeling that someone was listening.

Watching, even.

When she stepped off the stage, disappointed yet again in the lack of high, her hand around her chipping Yamaha, she saw him.

At first she thought her mind was playing a cruel trick. Reminding her of what she failed to find bar to bar, a flicker of a memory projected onto the crowd by the hum of the audience and stage lights. No. He was real.

Leaning against the far wall in a denim jacket that looked like it’d seen a stage or ten, one foot across the other, a cigarette between his fingers and an unmistakable bore in his eyes. 

Jeffrey. 

Izzy.

He didn’t move. Just looked at her like he was trying to decide if she was a dream or a ghost.

She swallowed. Her body moved before her brain could catch up.

“Jeffrey?” she said quietly, approaching him like he might vanish if she was too loud. “Izzy?” she squinted up at him, the title unfamiliar in her mouth.

His big eyes blinked slowly. “Shit.”

It wasn’t much. But there was something tender behind it, like the wind had been knocked out of him.

“It’s you,” he said after a moment. Voice low. Familiar. 

She half smiled, unsure if she wanted to laugh or cry. “Yeah… whatever though. It’s you, though.” 

“You look…” he trailed off, eyes scanning her like he didn’t know where to start. “Different. But sure as hell not.” That was him alright, he couldn’t muster up something outright sweet to save his life.

Senior prom, he gawked at her all night but all he could choke up was that her hair looked “Bigger than usual.”

“Well, it’s been what? Five years? Six?” 

“Closer to seven,” he murmured confidently, like he’d counted every one. 

They both ended up in a booth in the back. A tiny red candle flickered between them in a cloudy glass holder. She had her guitar case at her feet. Izzy’s beer stood untouched.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she admitted after a while.

“I looked for you,” he said, almost too quickly. Then he cleared his throat. “Both me and Axl, or… Bill? When we first got out here, you were still back at home. I figured you stayed put.”

“I did. For a while.” She toyed with the condensation on her glass. “Then I left. I left state after state actually. Just… needed out.” 

He nodded, like he understood. Like they were still tuned at the same frequency 7 years later.

His eyes were softer than she remembered. Not in a fragile way, just quieter. Like he didn’t have anything to prove, or the world hadn’t gotten to him yet. 

“You’re really doing it,” he said. “Your music thing, that’s cool.”

She looked down bashful. Knowing that he was millions bigger than her. “You’re just being nice.”

“I’m never nice,” he said. “Even back then, you knew that.” he smiled his quiet smile.

She looked up to meet his ever round eyes, there was a nostalgic warmth and familiarity that was better than any adrenaline rush she got from going bar to bar. Something old. Unfinished.

“What about you? Mister Guns N Roses.” she chuckled, swatting at his hand like she was scolding him for not addressing the elephant in the room. What had taken her friends up and out of Indiana in the first place.

“It’s a mess. But yeah. We’re making noise.” He rolled his eyes. 

“For as calm and collected as you are, you’ve always attracted messes haven’t you.” She smiled.

“Maybe you mean Bill.” he chuckled softly. 

They left the bar together. Not because they planned to, just because it didn’t make any sense not to. 

Outside, the air was thick with that night time buzz, full of potential and unfinished business. His car was parked a block down. She hesitated. 

“Wanna drive for a bit?” he asked. “Like before?”

Her heart tripped. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

The city flew past them in a blur of red brake lights and yellow street lamps. Neither of them said much at first. It was the kind of silence that existed back then, feedback whining in Momma’s garage. Herself, Axl, and him laid out on the cheetah printed couch by the minifridge. Filled with jello, cause Momma would be damned if she had a beer. 

“I missed this,” he said eventually, one hand on the wheel, the other on his leg. “You.”

It hit her. She shouldn’t be humbled, it was still her highschool friend. Of course he’d miss her, she couldn’t believe she let his status get to her. Like she was lucky to have him miss her. She was new to experiencing their history, if that made any more sense than this sensation of longing. 

She turned her head slowly. “You both left without saying goodbye.”

“I know.” His voice went quiet. “I was scared if I did, I’d change my mind.”

A beat went by. “We drink to it to this day. I know that when this moment slips by? I’ll drink even harder to this one.” he said. 

She nodded. She understood now. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

They had pulled into a motel off Sunset. One of those old places with buzzing signs and doors that opened to the outside. 

“I can get my own place if this is weird,” he offered.

She looked deeply into him.

And for the first time she saw Izzy Stradlin before her, not grown up Jeffrey. The man he became, faded denim, cigarette roughed voice. Gentle eyes. The same crooked smirk he used to pull when they were caught stealing cassettes. 

“Izzy,” she said softly, “you can stay.”

The room was small. A double bed, floral sheets, a lamp with a crooked shade. Her guitar leaned against the wall in the corner like it was the third of whatever this reunion was to become. 

She kicked off her shoes. He stood near the window.

She didn’t want to say the wrong thing. She didn’t even know what the right thing would be. So she just told the truth.

“I used to think about you. Each time I moved.”

He turned slowly. Like he wasn’t sure he heard her right. His eyes met hers, and something had shifted in them, like the air had changed pressure.

“Yeah?”

She nodded, the words crept somewhere behind her ribs. “Not in some big dramatic way. Just… like a constant in everything I did. You were two… well, you were the first person who just didn’t laugh at me. No matter how bad I was at guitar, no matter what silly guy I cried over, no matter how lame my poetry was? That kinda thing stays with a girl.”

He moved toward her carefully, like she was something sacred. His steps were slow, quiet. But there was something determined and in them too. Like maybe he spent years walking toward.

Izzy knelt in front of her. One knee to the motel carpet. He looked up at her like he didn’t know how to begin.

For a second, that was all. The silence curled around them again, but this time it pulsed. It buzzed into something bigger, something breaking.

Then he leaned in, slow and reverent. He kissed her like it wasn’t new, like it was something they’d been doing in dreams for years. His mouth slowly moved over hers with a softness that stunned her, lips just barely parting until she opened for him and let him in.

He tasted like smoke and beer. Her hand curled into his hair, tugging gently at the strands. He kissed her like he’d never kissed anyone like this before, tentative and tethered, full of feelings he was sure the English language didn’t have words for yet.

He pulled back, her heart was in her throat.

He pressed his forehead into hers. “We don’t have to. If this is too fast–”

She shook her head, breath catching.

“I want to.”

Not because it was overdue, or convenient. But because she had never felt more certain about anything in her life. This wasn’t lust, this wasn’t some hot guy from the bar. This wasn’t even about filling in for lost time.

It was about what was there between them now.

She leaned back against the bed, and he followed her gently, his hand finding her waist, and then the hem of her shirt. Everything he did was slow, like he wanted her to feel every decision he made. He kissed her again as he undressed her, his fingers brushing reverently over skin like he wasn’t just touching her, but remembering it, relearning it, letting it etch into him.

When he peeled off her top and she laid back in her bra, he stared for a moment. Not with hunger, but awe.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “You’re…”

Aging after this long, he didn’t care if she ended up a bit rough and less pretty around the edges, becoming gorgeous wasn’t a grace everyone had. He would’ve been in this position as long as her soul was in her body. But she was absolutely stunning, she was clearly more fortunate in his mind than any Hollywood babe had ever come unto him with. It made her all the more powerful to him, it made her terrifying. 

He never got to finish, he just kissed down her throat with gratitude, like an apology. And she arched into him, fingertips slipping under his T-Shirt, wanting more. Wanting him. 

They undressed each other in pieces. His jeans came off slowly. Her bra, even slower. He kissed her chest like he was memorizing it, like he didn’t want to take anything for granted. When she was finally bare beneath him, she felt more seen than exposed.

“You do this to me.” he shakily whispered. He was never shaken, not Izzy Stradlin, always had a plan. This time around he felt the most careful he’d ever been.

When he slid into her, it wasn’t rushed or ragged like the bastards she agreed to sleep with for a feeling. It was deep, deliberate. His forehead pressed into hers, and he gasped like he hadn’t breathed right without her for years. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him in fully, feeling that soft stretch that burned in the best way.

Every thrust was careful, like he didn’t want to hurt her. Like he needed her to feel just how much he meant it.

He kissed her shoulder, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Whispering her name like a vow.

Their rhythm built slowly, sweet and steady. He felt like he had been the most undeserving man in the world as she closed around him, like pleasing her was proof he had done anything right in his life. Fuck Guns N’ Roses, Fuck millions of dollars, Fuck guitar. Pleasing this woman was the only thing he’d live to get right, just right enough to make her cum. 

His breath that’d hitch in the slams against her ass became slightly whiny and desperate, like he’d cry in pleasure. She was already there, tears streaming down her cheeks as she caressed his cheeks, sharing a tender stare, both of them sniffling of pleasure and longing.

She hung her arms around his neck, pulling him into her mouth, both groaning and gasping like something was changing spiritually around them. 

Electricity climbed up and under her belly button, shot up into her mouth in a moan. 

“Izzy…I’m-” she whined, still crying, as was he. 

“Do it. Please.” he whimpered, a trait the world would’ve never expected from the stone cold Izzy Stradlin, a sight for her to see only. 

Both of their moans wound up louder and louder the closer she got, everytime she whined he would. What was happening between them would be more than an orgasm, or two.

When she came they both let out strangled moans, which turned to tears sooner. Their naked bodies holding each other like they needed each other to live. They were both just as raw and exposed, having finally melt past everything in their way.

Distance, time, estranged familiarity.

This was what she searched for, she’ll finally say it.

They hiccuped and wiped each other’s tears, kissing each other’s cheeks.

“You’re gonna make me cry if you keep crying.” she chuckled through her own sniffles. Wiping his cheeks, the slight pout on his lips killing her.

“You gotta stop too then.” He said using his wrists to wipe his own. 

♡

They laid there, naked in the cold air of the AC that stirred in the motel room. Her cheek against his chest.

“You’re not going anywhere, I think I’ll get alcohol poisoning if I let you go after this. I’d want to black out each second.” he demanded.

“So be it.” she smiled warmly, half laughing. “Take me to see Bill one of these days.”

[replacementcodeau]

Es un concepto

esto es parte de un "especial" del au que se me ocurrio mientras iba a comprar pan hace 1 año XD

la llame Hologram pomni

pomni holograma: su cuerpo esta en trance y suspensión en la zona mas alta de todo ese desastre ella es pomni o específicamente su conciencia, sin las restricciones por su condición como ringmaster no es corpórea, es como lo dice su nombre un holograma o proyección, ella es físicamente inestable, pues aunque hay veces pueden tocarla en otras no será posible (aunque eso no parece ser un problema para ella)

conserva una pequeña fracción de sus poderes, y esta bastante aliviada, es como dar finalmente un respiro segun ella aunque el mundo este en trizas a su alrededor, no le importaria vivir asi, mientras que no tenga que volver a como estaba antes

contexto:

el estado emocional y mental de pomni afectan al circo y su entorno, podria ser un desastre si llegara a descontrolarse, ella a aprendido a reprimir sus emociones con tal de evitar el caos, pero este "especial" respondería la pregunta de que pasaría si ella tuviera un colapso mental (la forma en la que esto se podría presentar es bastante impredecible) en este caso ella no pudo con la presión y todo se rompio literalmente, podria llamarse realidad rota, puesto que seria todo rodeado por un vacio/abismo negro con escombros, pasillos y cuartos flotando y al fondo estaría el sotano

es un ambiente no muy habitable especialmente si quieres pasar de una "isla" a otra pomni puede pasar sin problemas, ella solo salta y su caida seria como estar en el espacio hasta llegar a suelo firme

pero con los otros, la gravedad es normal hasta que intentan ir a otro escombro, en el abismo serán jalados a lo mas profundo hasta llegar al sótano (es una idea que tengo aunque dudo que lo vean pronto xd, aun asi espero que les gustara <3)

English

This is part of a "special" of my AU that occurred to me while I was going to buy bread a year ago XD

I called her Hologram Pomni

Pomni Hologram: Her body is in a trance and suspended in the highest zone of all that disaster She is Pomni or specifically her consciousness, without the restrictions of her status as ringmaster She is not corporeal, she is, as her name suggests, a hologram or projection. She is physically unstable, because although there are times when they can touch her, at other times it will not be possible (although that doesn't seem to be a problem for her)

She retains a small fraction of her powers, and she is quite relieved, it is like finally taking a break according to her Even if the world is in tatters around her, she wouldn't mind living like this, as long as she doesn't have to go back to how she was before

Context:

Pomni's emotional and mental state affects the circus and its surroundings. It could be a disaster if it were to get out of control. She has learned to repress her emotions in order to avoid the Chaos, but this "special" would answer the question of what would happen if she had a mental breakdown (how this could present itself is quite unpredictable). In this case, she couldn't handle the pressure and everything literally shattered. It could be called a broken reality, since everything would be surrounded by a black void/abyss with debris, floating hallways and rooms, and at the bottom would be the basement.

It's not a very habitable environment, especially if you want to go from one "island" to another. Pomni can cross without problems; she just jumps, and her fall would be like being in space until she reaches solid ground.

But with the others, gravity is normal until they try to go to another piece of debris. In the abyss, they will be pulled deeper until they reach the basement.

(It's an idea I have, although I doubt you'll see it soon, lol. I still hope you like it <3)

[multiheadcanons]

HOW I, PERSONALLY, WOULD MURDER THE MERCS. DON’T WORRY, THEY RESPAWN!

scout: scout would be one of the easier mercs to kill, i think. i’d poison his food. maybe start with a small dosage in something large, wait to see how he reacts, then put a full dose in one of his bonks. i’d catch him in the kitchen, alone, and offer it to him. and wait patiently for the poison to take effect. anytime he would begin to express concern about how he was feeling, i would assure him he’s okay. he’s just being a baby. maybe he should eat more vegetables. i’d bring him water with another dosage and get him to his room. by the time i actually got him to the room and in his own bed, he would be seizing. then i would close the door and walk away.

soldier: i’d have to catch soldier in a state of extreme paranoia. if i followed soldier around enough, randomly and sporadically, and never made any attempt to actually communicate with him, and managed to stay out of the sight of the rest of the team (so that they assume he’s just crazy), eventually he would get to such a state of stress and delusion that he would probably approach me with murderous intent if he managed to get his eyes on me again. this next step requires so much lying and manipulation. i’d have to convince him i wasn’t real before he got close enough to get his hands on me. if he’s paranoid enough, and i was vigilant in staying out of sight unless i absolutely wanted to be in sight, this may be easier than imagined. i’d tell him im god, and i have a holy mission for him, and that’s to eradicate himself. i would use the term eradicate. he may not do it immediately, but i would just grind this strat until he finally blows himself up in the desperate attempt to be rid of me.

pyro: i don’t think pyro would realize what i was doing until it was too late. i’d invite them with me to smoke. they won’t smoke themselves, but they are normally eager to be company with anyone! i would park my car in a small garage and keep it running with the garage door closed. i’d smoke. and quickly tell them that i needed to grab something. i would sweetly ask them to stay right there and not move a muscle. not even to turn off the car. and they would. i would close the door. i would then promptly need to find engineer and find a way to stall him long enough to not question where pyro is. i also need to take the time to grab pyro’s axe from their room without the other offense classes noticing me slipping in or out. the goal isn’t to kill pyro in the car, the goal is to kill off enough braincells past the gas mask that, as they finally refuse to continue to oblige by the request, they’re disoriented enough that it takes one clean swing of the axe to take them out as they walk through the door.

demo: demo, i feel, would also be a fairly easy mercenary to kill. it’s just about when id have the time to do it. i couldn’t use poison, his body would process it and he might wake up more hungover than he intended to be and Not Dead. which is What I Want. but getting him drunk, then hungover and catching him before he can get another drink might be my most viable option. depending on how his sleep is going, i could always smother him. he might move around too much for me to get a solid hold over his nose and mouth, but if i catch him right after he falls asleep, or right before he wakes up, he shouldn’t struggle too much. if that doesn’t work, or i find myself more nervous about the plan, ill put a bullet through the back of his head while he can’t see straight and call it a day.

heavy: killing the mercenaries only gets harder from here, and heavy is, physically, my most formidable opponent. there is no feasible way for me to get the jump on heavy or overpower him in any way that would garner me favorable results. so i’d lie through my teeth. somewhat. tell him i have an itch to die. i want him to do it. or that i want him dead and we’re going to have a duel at a time and a place. he’s a man of honor, he will most likely oblige this request. it’s an embarrassingly easy win for him. except i get there a solid 24 hours before he does. i find a place to hide with a decent shot. he will arrive about five minutes early. as long as heavy doesn’t get the feeling that he’s being set up, and frankly even if he does, if i’m on the ball, i should be able to get at least a single incapacitating shot in before he’s any wiser as to what’s occurring. and i’ll apologize for being a coward. he was a daunting foe. i would’ve never won an honest battle against him. hopefully he’ll be dead before he hears it. i’d just either have to leave the body or bring a saw to handle the remains.

engineer: heavy is an easier target than engineer because heavy is trusting. engineer would not offer me that same opportunity. he’d pretend to, at least. but between me and engie, one of us has mastered and perfected the social game and one of us wrote this. i wouldn’t be able, logistically, to get the texan to lower his guard for me to get close. my best bet is to wreck the electrical system and put a timed tear gas bomb in the room. the beauty of this is i have Terrible Technological Luck. if i look at the wires wrong each and every one will fry. i will steal a gas mask and wait in the darkness. any weapon would work, really, it just depends on how quickly i would want to do the deed. he will feel safe in the electrical room either way. nobody goes in there except him. nobody knows what’s even going on in there. and nobody would question why smoke is leaking from the crack in the door. he’ll be a little confused how all of the damage was done to the panel, and he won’t be alive to figure it out.

medic: engineer is an easier target than medic because engineer actually slows down. there is no such thing as waiting the doctor out, and frankly there’s no such thing as a traditional “safe space” with the doctor. his safe space includes him killing over his safe space. and i can’t stress him into a moment of weakness. the more paranoid he is the more people get shut out. so the best bet is to always keep the doctor calm and confident. it’s when he starts slipping. the closest thing i could get to actually getting a successful melee attack on him is catching him in the shower, and hoping the first attack is enough to keep him down so i can finish the job. but i doubt it. and if he gets up i’m a goner. best bet with highest rates of success is to pay sniper off (either one, really) to take him out for me. and that’s a pretty penny. i’d be better off buying a rifle and doing it myself at that price point. eventually i’ll get a headshot, if he doesn’t become a permanent recluse from the constant stress of being moving target practice for me.

sniper: medic is an easier target than sniper because medic doesn’t pay attention. sniper’s eyes are too quick, and his hearing hasn’t gone yet from the rifle. sniper will always get the jump on me. killing sniper is a long term goal, because i simply lack the skills to catch the man in a moment of weakness. so the ultimate goal is to get the keys to the van and wreck it. probably with us both in it. this is a suicide mission, and i will have to be okay with that. and if i can at least get the camper moving… maybe on a hill? in a downward direction with a sharp turn at the bottom? if i can do that, and maybe bring a brick, i might have the balls to play chicken until i can tuck and roll out of the car. and frankly, depending on whether sniper has put a bullet or a blade through my orbital socket by that point, he might still survive it. and i’m gonna have to be ready for the aftermath. it may be smarter, and less painful, if i just get the keys and burn rubber until we hit a wall or fly off a cliff in the vehicle. and that’s not to say sniper doesn’t chicken out first and tuck and roll. then all i did was commit grand theft auto. and he’s gonna have my hands for that. realistically, getting the jump on sniper single handedly is a herculean feat. and to get on his good side would take years. so i would either have to be… very invested in seeing him die and willing to wait it out or well past the point of madness.

spy: spy is just the worst. he has no trust to give, at least not to me, and i would never know his schedule well enough to track him down. he’s always alert if he is visible, and i am not an ultra genius, nor do i have that “spy sense” that the other mercenaries seem to have. so i will never be in an advantageous position to even attempt an attack. he has no interest in making friends. to get a moment of spy’s time i better be a member of administration and it better be important. and he gets so many solo contracts he knows every white collar worker of mann co. he’s stolen a couple of their identities. now, if i get a job at mann co, and i play it cool but also obsessively handle spy’s caseload, i might have an opportunity the second he lands back in town to rush him and put a bullet in him. his only weakness is he is not a very strong man. he’s not weak, but a well placed bullet can and will stop him. so if i invest the time to get that far up the mann co ranks, preferably before they dissolve, i will have a crumb of a chance. a whisper of a shot. otherwise, it is just not happening.

[theesirenteller]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐑

Chapter Eight : 𝕬𝖎𝖓'𝖙 𝕹𝖔 𝕱𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖞𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖊 | ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

Epiphany felt an uneasiness in the pit of her stomach as she arrived at the strip club. She hadn’t been there in what felt like forever. She found it almost humorous that Rio would ask her to meet him here. In the parking lot of all places. She felt as though she was nothing more than an expendable street-walker the moment she laid eyes on his black truck. Draping her arms around her waist, Epiphany stepped forward. Her baby-blue stilettos clicked against the gravel as the car slowed down. Despite the windows being tinted black, she could see him looking at her. Feel him looking at her.

Mick was the first person she physically laid eyes on. He gave her a simple head nod as he held the passenger side door open for her. Gulping drly, she walked to the car and got into the passenger seat. For a few minutes, she looked forward. Epiphany and Rio both kept quiet.

Perhaps they were mourning the fresh death of their relationship or maybe they both were in a state of shock.

“Is there someone else?”

Rio scoffed at her question. A dry cackle escaped his lips shortly after.

"I've been thinkin' a lot about this little thing between us, and, uh... I'm gonna have to cut you loose, sweetheart."

The words landed like a hammer on Epiphany's chest. Her eyes widened, The glow that usually colored her cheeks faded, and her once-bright smile crumbled. Her mouth opened, but for a beat, no words came out. She was too shocked to speak. It would have hurt less if he had slapped her and walked away—at least then, she would’ve felt something concrete, something she could hold onto.

"W-what? Why?" she stammered, searching his face for answers, for some sign that he didn’t really mean it. She thought she knew him, thought she had something solid with him, but his steely gaze only deepened her confusion. "Wait... don't even bother lying," she continued, her voice cracking, raw with disbelief and pain. "It's Beth, isn't it? She's your girl again, isn’t she?"

Her heart raced, each pulse pounding in her ears, amplifying the desperation spilling from her lips. "She's got the club-making bank now, and all of a sudden, she's your shiny new toy again? Or, you both have just been using me to play some sick game," Her voice broke, and as the words left her, hot tears slipped down her cheeks, tracing lines across her flushed skin. She couldn't stop them, couldn't hold back the ache that had lodged itself in her throat, choking her as the tears turned into full sobs. She felt as though her world had been flipped upside down in an instant. All the promises, the late-night confessions, the fierce passion between them—gone, like smoke in the wind.

It had all happened too fast. Too intense. Like a match struck and left to burn out in seconds. Rio was a wildfire—unpredictable, consuming everything in his path. He had swept her into his life with a force she couldn't resist, and now he was pulling away, taking everything with him. He had been the one who made her feel alive, like no one ever had. She was drawn to him like a moth to flame, captivated by the danger and excitement he brought into her life. She was no different to him. Epiphany had cut through his darkness with her light, entering his life like a bolt of lightning on a stormy night. In her, he saw a glimmer of hope, a reminder of something good in a world that had long since gone cold.

And maybe, somewhere deep down, he was terrified he’d ruin her too.

But watching her crumble hurt in a way he wasn’t used to. Rio clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep his expression cold, detached, a stone wall against her heartbreak. He couldn't afford to show any weakness—not now, not with so many loose ends still untied. He hated seeing her in this kind of pain, but it was necessary. It was survival.

"Look..." he murmured, leaning in close, close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath, his presence consuming her once again. He reached out, brushing his thumb across her tear-streaked cheek, catching the drops that clung to her skin. For a moment, his hand lingered there, strong and unyielding, as if he could erase the hurt with a simple touch.

"I gotta tie up all my loose ends. It's nothin' personal, darlin'," he said, his voice low and even, each word carefully measured.

"And I'm just a loose end, huh? That's all I am to you?" Epiphany’s voice was a strained whisper, choked with tears that blurred her vision. Her whole body felt like it was unraveling, like each word he spoke tore another piece from her heart.

His face softened, but his gaze remained steady, unreadable. "I don’t want you hurt."

She let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "You can’t hurt a girl that’s already been hurt," she murmured, her voice breaking. She felt hollow, a familiar ache resurfacing. This wasn’t the first time she’d been abandoned, but somehow, this time felt like it would shatter her entirely.

Rio's hand lifted slowly, almost hesitantly, before his fingers brushed her cheek, rough yet achingly gentle. His long fingers, calloused and warm, traced the side of her face, as if trying to memorize the curve of her jaw, the softness of her skin. He lingered, his thumb grazing her cheek, his eyes sweeping over her face like he was engraving each detail into his memory. Those bright brown eyes, so full of hurt yet so full of light, looked up at him, her plump lips quivering as she held back another sob. Three months. That was all it had been. Three months that felt like a lifetime, each moment with her somehow etched deeper than he’d thought possible.

"Christopher," she whispered, her voice a wounded plea. Hearing his real name slip from her lips was almost too much. "Please… don’t do this. I lo—"

Before she could finish, his mouth found hers, cutting off the confession he knew he wasn’t ready to hear. His lips pressed firmly against hers, claiming them with a desperate intensity. His fingers threaded through her hair, pulling her closer, tasting her sweetness for what he told himself would be the last time. He kissed her like he was starving, like he needed every second to feel her warmth, to commit her taste to memory. Her lips trembled against his, returning the kiss with a passion that spoke of both heartbreak and yearning, as if somehow this could change everything.

Then, with a sudden, deafening click, the passenger-side door unlocked, echoing through the silence like a final blow.

He pulled back, leaving only a whisper of space between them, his breath warm against her lips as he gazed at her with a bittersweet intensity. "See, that’s where I know you’re lying," he murmured, his tone laced with a dangerous edge. His eyes gleamed as he held her gaze, the words slipping out like a confession wrapped in venom. "I’m incapable of being loved."

The words twisted like a knife between them, cutting through the closeness they’d shared. He wanted her to believe them, to make her hate him just enough to let her walk away. What he couldn’t say, what he didn’t dare admit, was that he was doing this to protect her. He knew the game he’d been playing with Beth was nothing more than a twisted mess of power, control, and survival. Epiphany had simply gotten caught up in it, an innocent bystander who’d made him feel things he couldn’t afford to feel. She was never supposed to get involved, never meant to become a casualty of his dangerous world.

But looking at her now, he hated himself for dragging her in, for letting her believe in something he knew could never last. He couldn’t let her get any closer, couldn’t bear the thought of her being hurt even worse because of him. He had to make her believe he was as cold, as unfeeling, as he pretended to be.

As his thumb wiped away one last tear, he spoke, his voice low and laced with bitterness, even though every word was a lie. "Beth… she’s got something I need. It was always about that, from the start. I never meant to… well, you got caught up in it, Epiphany." He paused, feeling the weight of his words settle between them, his chest tightening as he fought against the urge to pull her close again. "You were never part of the plan. But now… this is where it ends."

Her face crumbled, the realization dawning on her as her tears continued to flow, her heart breaking piece by piece. He saw the betrayal flash in her eyes, the pain he’d caused her sinking in, and for a moment, he nearly faltered, nearly reached out to tell her the truth. That she was the one real thing in his life, the one piece of light in his dark world. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. This was for her own good.

With one last, lingering look, he turned away, forcing himself to step back, to let her go. The ache in his chest was a heavy reminder of the choice he was making, the sacrifice he was forcing himself to endure.

"Goodbye, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice barely audible, as he willed himself to ignore the look of heartbreak on her face. And as he walked away, leaving her alone with the shattered remains of their relationship, he told himself it was the only way to keep her safe—even if it meant destroying them both in the process.

Epiphany’s eyes widened, stunned, as she looked at him. Before she could respond, Mick had already opened her door. She tore her gaze from Rio to glance at Mick, hesitating for a moment before grabbing her purse and stepping out of the car. "Why are you shutting me out?" she asked, a frown creasing her face.

He met her question with his own, his voice laced with bitter sarcasm. "How can you say you love me when you don’t even love yourself, Epiphany?" The words stung, and he topped it off with a grim, mocking smile that cut deeper than anything he’d said.

The words hit her like a punch to the gut, sharp and twisting. She felt sick; the nausea bubbled up from her stomach, threatening to overwhelm her. Unable to hold back, she swung her purse toward his face, then turned and bolted across the parking lot. Her heart pounded, each beat echoing the painful realization of her mistake—thinking they could make it work, that two shattered souls could somehow complete each other. But nothing stung worse than watching someone take the secrets you'd entrusted to them and hurl them back at you, using your own vulnerabilities as ammunition. Her emotions swirled, a storm of anger, betrayal, and heartbreak so intense it was suffocating.

Epiphany’s heels clicked against the pavement as she hurried away from the parking lot, her breath ragged and uneven. The sting of his words echoed in her mind, each step a painful reminder of how deeply he’d cut her. She slowed down, finally stopping under the dim glow of a streetlamp. Her reflection stared back at her from a nearby shop window—a face flushed with hurt, eyes rimmed red, her lips trembling as she fought to keep herself together. She wanted to scream, to claw the pain out of her chest, but all she could do was stand there, fighting against the wave of grief that crashed over her.

Taking a shaky breath, she glanced around and noticed a bar down the block. She hesitated, debating whether to numb herself for just a few hours, to silence the noise in her mind. But instead, she turned away, unwilling to let him have the satisfaction of driving her to that low.

Instead, she walked in a daze, aimlessly wandering until she reached the university campus. She drifted through the hallways like a ghost, barely aware of the students who glanced her way as they passed, murmuring quietly.

Finally, she found herself in the lecture hall, sinking into one of the back rows, away from everyone else. She buried her head in her hands, trying to steady her breathing, her body exhausted from the turmoil within her. Here, in the sterile silence of the lecture hall, there was no one to witness her pain. No one to ask questions or tell her to pull herself together. The walls around her felt strangely comforting in their emptiness, holding her pain without judgment, without expectations.

Epiphany glanced up as the last few students filed out, their laughter and chatter feeling like it belonged to another world. And then, once again, she was alone.

A classmate, noticing her somber expression, lingered, taking a seat nearby. After a few moments, Epiphany spoke, her voice quiet but carrying the weight of someone searching for release.

“I underestimated just how life-altering being in love could be," she confessed, eyes fixed on her hands as they twisted nervously in her lap. "Even setting the love part aside, just the companionship changes everything. Talking all day, every day. Sharing jokes, laughter...having someone to just pick up the phone and rant to about the smallest, ugliest details of your day." She paused, forcing a shaky breath. “Then there’s the physical part,” she continued, her voice cracking as she tried to hold back the pain that tightened her chest. “Going without it… it’s like I’m an addict gone cold turkey.”

Her words lingered in the silence, her eyes glistening with unshed tears that ached at the corners, threatening to spill. Her classmate reached over to offer a comforting squeeze, but Epiphany barely registered the gesture. The ache within her was too deep, consuming her thoughts and hollowing her out with every reminder of what she’d lost.

With a small nod, she gathered her things, brushing away the stray tears that finally fell. The world outside felt colder as she stepped into the night, the darkness wrapping around her like a suffocating weight. She walked in silence, feeling the emptiness settling deeper into her heart, her steps heavy and aimless.

Reaching her apartment, she slipped inside and shut the door behind her, locking the world out. The quiet seemed to pulse around her, thick with memories of laughter and warmth that now felt so distant, almost like a dream. She sank down onto her bed, curling up in the emptiness that surrounded her, surrendering to the weight of her loneliness.

The tears she had been holding back finally broke free, her body shaking as she let herself feel the ache fully. In the silence of her room, with only the faint glow of city lights through her window, she realized just how deeply she missed the life she’d built with him, even as pieces of it were still slipping away.

And as the night wore on, she lay there in the darkness, feeling as if the love that once filled her had left a hollowed, aching space in its place—one she wasn’t sure would ever heal.

TAGLIST.

@ravennaortiz @hausofmamadas @fvckthisbxtchup @ravennaortiz

[goddessxeffect]

《 MASTERPOST: Let go and let God 》

Quotes from blog post and answers from other bloggers regarding certain topics based in the teachings of law of consciousness and non duality. This is a summary of everything I think is incredibly useful and has been for me in understanding and applying this lifestyle. Long post ahead.

Basics & Teaching

"I contain all, nothing contains me." - Nisargadatta Maharaj

This subject cannot be learned intellectually, it cannot be learned through the mind [ego] because it's perceived just behind the mind. We can use the mind to gradually undo the limitations enough so that we can get behind the mind by getting it quieter. @4dbarbie-backup

What you can point out as 'this' or 'that' cannot be yourself. Surely, you can not be 'something' else. You are nothing perceivable, or imaginable. Yet, without you there can be neither perception nor imagination. Identity or Ego is merely a pattern of events in time and space, which are also just concepts belonging to the world of ego.@4dbarbie-backup YOU are life. you are life itself. you are all. you are how this all works. "me? this body? this mind?" not the body, mind, ego or thoughts. not even the feeling, beliefs & emotions. i'm talking about Self. Infinity. God. I AM. the awareness. the one that observes all. the life force is you. you animate all of what you see. @lains-reality

Realize you are never not IT. We are actually fully realized all the time. We are fully realized Beings saying that we are not. @4dbarbie-backup There is no becoming "aware". You can't become something you already are! You keep forgetting you are not the body-mind (ego). The body-mind lacks things, the body-mind takes it's surroundings to be real. The body-mind has a very limited viewpoint, it knows what it knows, it only sees what it sees. @iamthat-iam The [body-]mind cannot intimidate the Pure Self, it can only intimidate the idea you have of who you are, your self image. what the mistake is, is that we are taking the idea of who we are as the fact of who we are.@lains-reality

Everything you see and experience is only a mental condition, a dream-like state, easy to dispel by questioning its reality. Both sleep and waking are imagined.@4dbarbie-backup Dreams are just "materializations" of whatever our consciousness is aware of while the body rests. You can touch it, you can interact with it, your senses become active when you're dreaming at times. there's even a phenomenon where people actually thought their dreams were memories or something they legitimately experienced.@piercedblunt "But I am not conscious of myself when sleeping?!" You are aware of something though, being unconscious, which manifests instantly, you are sleeping. Being unconscious is an experience, and you're doing the same thing in the waking state.@4dbarbie-backup

Let's now take a look at this so-called physical world. The apparent solid outer world is just an illusory world. We created it mentally, which is also backed up by human science. But, and that's the catch, it is not external and so the only way to control the outside world is to step out of the world. The ego IS IN the world, and not you. Both the ego and the world are IN YOU.@4dbarbie-backup

When 'you' desire something, you [Consciousness] already have it. How do you already have it? Your true self is everything, it can't desire anything if it's already being anything. Everything that your ego desires already exists within consciousness. Remember that whenever your ego tries to bring up a desire. @iamthat-iam After all, when 'you' desired in your mind, wasn't there a moment where you had it? Where you imagined what it'd be like to have it, what it'd look like or how it'd make you feel? @cheryawa It is not instantly visible to you because you identify with the body and not your pure being. No matter how much you use your mind/imagination, you are who you are regardless of the imagines playing in the head. I could think of a panda a million times, imagine what it's like being a panda a thousand more, that doesn't make me into a panda when I still know myself to be a person.@4dbarbie-backup

Here's a scale of emotions you'll go through in your journey, from bottom to top: apathy, grief, fear, hostility, anger, indifference, acceptance, freedom finally - and then unlimited, independent joy. @4dbarbie-backup It’s not an euphoric feeling either but a real feeling of knowing and with that - indifference and power. It is very calm and serene, as if nothing can disturb you. @adadisciple

I've been looking at the things I want as existing for me to experience them. When I have a desire, I experience it as something that already belongs to me because everything is coming from (within) me. @4dbarbie-backup

NON-DUALISM

"It is the Self that believes there is a person and is conscious of being IT." - Ada B.

Let's break the word down first. “Non” of course means “no” or “not.” And “dual” means “two.” So, non-dual means not two. It says there is only one. This is referring to you, awareness [or consciousness], that there is only you, [...] the only thing that exists. You are the true reality. The only purpose for awareness is to observe, to oversee, to be. Nothing more, nothing less. For example, awareness is human, it can take on a human form, but human is not awareness or defines awareness as a whole. A human is simply a temporary form, but awareness is always free to be aware of any other form @itzalizeyyy

Whatever you imagine is the same as seeing it in the physical world, because both are still being an observed experience by the awareness, and therefore both are the same, as one (imagination). @itzalizeyyy

Helpful metaphors: When you watch a movie, you know it is a movie bc you are outside of it. you are observing it. now what about the characters in the movie? they dont know its a movie bc they are not outside of it. they think they are just regular ppl and they dont see the truth, their true selfs: which is just characters in a movie. @msperfect777 The ego is like your character in the game (of life), it's already a "manifestation" so it can't manifest (just like a book can't write itself or another book). You are aware of a character you go through life with. @consciousnessbaddie

Ego Death is then the disappearance of the egoistic sense of Self. You feel that your are no longer that.You don't disappear; you don't lose anything. There's no reason to fear losing your body, or losing anything. Yet, most of us are fearful that we're going to lose our body and be nothing. That's a serious error. You could be a hundred bodies! When the idea 'I am this body' dies, the witness does not. Death is merely the idea 'I have lost my body'. What you think yourself to be before death continues to be after death. Your sense of Self survives. @4dbarbie-backup

In Non Dualism, the goal is to stop identifying with ego and realize who you are.You see there's no seperation between you and anything so that means everything you once "desired" is already who you are. You never feel the sense of desire again because of this. Any "physical materialization" that happens after will not seem like such a big deal, since it was already who they were to begin with. @iamthat-iam

"I am that, I have always been that. All is well. There are no mistakes. I am in my right place." All you have to do is realize/ know your are not the mind (= identitiy, character, ego). Robert Adams

Self-Inquiry

" To know the source as source and appearance as appearance, and oneself as the source only is self-realization " - Ada B.

The mind is doing a good job actually, because it bites you and kicks you and teases you, because if it doesnt do that, then you'll want to make this limited feel your home.@lains-reality

Every thought is a thing of limitation. Therefore when we quiet the mind, we still these limiting thoughts and this infinite Being that we are becomes self obvious to us. We have convinced ourselves over the millenniums that we are these limited bodies, and we think it takes time to let go of these concepts of limitation. But time is a thing of the ego, it's a thought. @4dbarbie-backup

Learn the art of being aware of you (awareness). [...] You must not become what you already are, as the detached witness of every thought or sensation that comes and goes. [...] The practice of self-inquiry is returning to the fact of who and what you are. @anon-i-mus

It's a kind of surrendering but to me, truthfully and honestly, it felt more like a giving up. Even if it makes you miserable, accept the person you're identified with until you no more fear it or care if you stay the same. @4dbarbie-backup

-> Questions to ask yourself

Detachment

"Transcend your desires and your fears and you will have everything." - Ada B.

As Buddha taught, the root of suffering is attachment. It is not having the emotions and thoughts [...] but resisting or supressing them, and resisting the transitory nature of life and all things. Emotions and thoughts pass. No big deal. It is holding on to them when they are just coming up to leave or pass through that causes suffering. @lains-reality You need not stop thinking. Just cease being interested. It is disinterestedness that liberates. If you say, “There's no problem,” they won't vanish because you're saying, “There's no problem.” You're mentally holding onto the problem and therefore sustaining it. Erase the problem from your mind means to know (be aware) that everything is perfect and then the problem is necessarily non-existent. Basically, let go of it, because the problem is just an illusion. @4dbarbie-backup

You then ask how to stop being "Vanessa" ? - the reason you can't stop is because it's ALL YOU THINK YOU ARE. For example: You're driving a car. "I AM" is the car. You know how to drive it because you're already driving it by being Vanessa. Vanessa is something you add to the "I AM" and not you. You can't stop being Vanessa while being Vanessa! I think that's what everyone keeps asking: Vanessa wants to be Lara, not awareness [first]. @4dbarbie-backup

To talk of re-uniting the person with the self is also not right, because there is no person, only a mental picture given a false reality by conviction. Nothing was divided and there is nothing to unite. You are That. @4dbarbie-backup Nothing can remove your being. Nothing has ever stained your being.@lains-reality You think you have to do this and that because you think you're it, and you should act from it. That is not the case. There's nothing to do except disbelieve. But disbelieving and denial are not the same thing. Denial is when you deny reality to something you're already giving reality to. @4dbarbie-backup

Detachment is not lonely. It's freedom and it's real love. Needing is selfish, it's self-centered. The self has no preference and it's because of that that it can be everything. @4dbarbie-backup

Some of you are on this path for a while but to some extent still are identified with ego and that's OK. Don't get caught up in "your" expectations of what self-realization is supposed to be like. The expectations are making you turn this into a task, when it is supposed to be effortless. Yes, we have talked about feeling peaceful once you've realized yourself, but you're going to need to drop the expectations. It's okay if ego isn't completely grasping it, ego isn't real and it isn't who you are. @iamthat-iam

Fear is an invitation to remember who you truly are. Acknowledging fear doesn't make you any less worthy of or further away from what you truly desire. Similarly, acknowledging your shadows does not dim the Light that you are. The shadows you battle against are simply the seeming absence of you. Becoming entangled in the world of shadows is simply the forgetting of your Self; and Light casts shadows that come and go only to remember itself. The truth is that Light knows no opposition or enemy. Shadows have no separate existence from Light. Your fears are made of you. @lains-reality

The more I detached from ego, the freer I was to imagine what ego wanted without interference from conflicting thoughts/thoughts that "oppose" the desire. @iamthat-iam In fact, abandon all imaginings and know yourself as you are. Self-knowledge is detachment. All craving is due to a sense of insufficiency. @4dbarbie

To anyone who also wonders "how am I still picking this ego?": how many times have you thought about tomorrow? next week? future plans? there's your answer. and the worries about "life" come from them too. "if I don't prepare for/worry about this event that'll happen, I'll have to deal with the consequences of this action" you're telling yourself you will keep waking up as this exact same ego over and over. @glitterdoll888

If you come straight from Law of Assumption or Law of Attraction please keep on reading this last section!

“The simplest answer is usually the right one!.” - Occam’s razor

I think, that what we call 'manifestation' is life itself. i do not mean life in the way that you live A life, like its happening outside of you. i mean it as: it is natural & normal to manifest, its existance itself. it is not something you have, it just is. 'manifestation' is just life itself. it's how all works & is.@lains-reality

The similarity between ND and LOA is in the fact that What you’re aware of, is. LOA’s inner self is still ego. To talk about fulfilling self means fulfilling ego. There is nothing to fulfill if you are the Self and the only one that needs to be fulfilled is an ego, you’re still catering to an ego. @adadisciple

Please, please, understand that you don't have to DO anything! You are always awareness,you will never lack anything. Please stop worrying about the "physical" world and stop trying to materialize things within it! Non Dualism isn't a "new manifestation method" to "get what you want," you are realizing you never lacked anything this whole time. @iamthat-iam

The way the sun rises up in the morning, in the same way Vanessa happens to awareness. It is natural. Do you try to make it happen? It comes by itself (because you choose it as you).@adadisciple For example "I am a body" is a thought that runs automatically ("subconscious), because we do not look at it/know it, we have just accepted we are bodies and that's why we "see" a body. @4dbarbie-backup

You just need to allow something else to happen, not try to make it so!! You cannot help being what you are: Vanessa is the absolute to you now. But if she can be TO YOU, if she happens TO YOU, who is YOU? Your Vanessa "I" runs on autopilot, she is a symbol. She has no free will. To the Self, she is only an idea. She has been conditioned and programmed to think the way she does, it’s the only way she knows how to function. And that’s fine, let her be. Just don’t pick her as you.If she were a random stranger on the street, you would have no concern about her life. If you were Lara now, where would Vanessa be in your thoughts? That is the behavior you should strive for in your thinking, dispassion, disinterest, detachment. Let the thought of being her go. Just let them BE. The way you let Vanessa be. And you let Vanessa be by thinking that’s all you are, that’s what is true. @adadisciple

If you want a "method", then the very best method of all methods is to quiet the mind to see the Being that you are. Pose the question: “Who am I?” and if other thoughts come in, ask, “To whom are these thoughts?” The answer is “To me.” “Well, who am I?” and you're back on the track, seeking to see your Self. @4dbarbie-backup I sit in the feeling while focusing on something else in the present moment, and it usually goes away. @iamthat-iam

Non Dualism does not believe in “affirming” or “persisting” because if awareness is already everything, then it does not need to affirm or persist for its desire if it already has [or IS] its own desire. @itzalizeyyy Like repetition, it keeps you in lack. Do you need to remind yourself that you are a man or a woman? That experience, that form, is already being observed, is already being aware of. You know 'your' gender. @4dbarbie-backup

The truth is, there was no "3D" or "4D" in the first place. there is no imagination VS reality. nothing is real, it has always been illusion VS illusion. If anytime you get thoughts like "why is it not here" "why don't i see it" "why hasn't it manifested yet" you are immediately identifying with your human self. [...] Relying on the human senses will always be our downfall. @iamthat-iam

If you don't have the discipline to at least cut off all this excess of knowledge of information, you'll only be making it tougher on yourself. After you do that, stick to it until you're ready to let go and rely on yourself. Until you start behaving like the teacher and one is needed no more. You create the teacher because you think someone is more knowledgeable than you. That's fine for now, but trust the teacher, listen and apply.@4dbarbie-backup

I have Psychiatrist & doctors appointments, work, still need to eat, want to commit suicide? Psychiatrist appointment. What is that for? To correct your thinking, isn't that right? Reconditioning, changing, or even eliminating patterns of the mind. Now, I'm not telling you to stop going/stop working and or eating. That would be irresponsible of me. Leave your mind alone, that is all. @4dbarbie-backup

DO NOT ACTIVELY INTERFERE in ego's life or try to stop living that life while still being very attached to it, i.e. still identifying with that ego. Let the person continue to live it's life and fulfill it's obligations like studying, but maintain the knowing that it's not who you are. @iamthat-iam

But what about random things that I wasn't even aware of before they came? It's very simple, really. You are aware of being Vanessa and with Vanessa come specific beliefs. Characters have their own beliefs like certain weather can give you a cold, certain environments have insects etc. Thoughts dominate you only because you are interested in them. By resisting evil, you merely strengthen it. If you are "I AM", it means you are not the person experiencing the 3D world/thoughts/circumstances, you never were. The problem is excessive interest, leading to self-identification. Whatever you are engrossed in you take to be real. @4dbarbie-backup

[esotericarchivist]

hello so, I just wanted to ask something I've been seeing in every post of shifting

How can we use awareness to shift? What exactly is awareness? I've been 'trying' to shift for five years and I only managed "almosts" three times, I'm kind of tired of it I just want to understand what you guys say about awareness, I feel like that's the answer for everything

🪻 ₊ ⊹ what is awareness (for shifting)?

(there's a direct exercise for it at the end of this post. it'll be a long read but i made it worth your while. be mindful when reading, and do not force any of my words to be true for you.)

you are awareness. wow, shocker.

that’s how you can shift, how you manifest.

you may be mistaken and think you're not awareness when you identify with your physical body, or your emotions, or your misconceived ego-mind, an identity solely based in this reality. awareness, sometimes known as consciousness, is behind the scenes, all the time—not your body, not your emotions, but the one that does the “manifesting,” the one that shifts, the one that chooses. always neutrally observing, it's what you really are. when in the void state, you're pure awareness.

let me explain more:

🪻 ₊ ⊹your reality:

preface:

your reality is created by awareness and assumptions, both together.

how do some people seem like life is set on easy mode for them, while for others, like they just can't catch a break? assumptions.

your assumptions create reality. everyone's assumptions are different: ergo, people experience completely different realities, even if they're metaphorically given the exact same physical tools.

quick little tangent on assumption: it's what is actually true for you. assumption is a misleading word: it’s law. that's how you manifest, in fact, that's how everything exists. assumptions are not beliefs or hopes, no, they are absolute law. they are how things have to work, like how when you drop a spoon you naturally assume it will hit the ground. there's no question about it.

to assume differently, you become aware of the new assumption's reality, in the present moment. shifting happens in the present moment, too: it's as simple or complex as you assume it to be. everything in your physical reality is made manifest by an assumption, which isn't a belief or wish. an assumption is how things are.

part one:

many of you have the idea that the physical world creates you, when instead, you are the one that constantly influences and creates the physical world. all of it. but not the you that you think. that's awareness' job, and not your ego. because awareness is infinite, and ego is just one of many creations.

you don't think of identifying with one part of your body and ignoring all the others, and yet you do the same when you imagine you are your egominded self, your personality, or your body.* right now, you're aware of the assumptions that make up your entire reality. you are always navigating awareness.  (*excerpt from seth.)

and as awareness, not your body or physical identity, you can change your reality without clinging to it. but sometimes that takes a change in identity, for you to understand who you are. if you're stuck believing that you are impermanent, that you're your ego, your fearful thoughts, not a lot can change because you're fighting this fake identity for change it can't give you.

but really, you are aware. you simply are. your true self is the act of being.

like an actor in a play. you can take on any role, but to lose yourself in one of your characters and think you are them is to deny your true self.

chances are, a thought comes up and you think it is you. you are used to gauging knowledge, and your reactions, from what you feel, from what thought tells you, and reacting to that.

i ask you now, where do your thoughts come from? can you observe and find the entrance, the beginning, the end of your thoughts?

now, look within yourself. where is your identity? where is a solid, observable "you"? where is your self? instead, you'll find you're constantly observing your own inner workings, observing and having reactions to thought. it's so instinctual that you might even truly believe you are your thoughts, that you exist as ego behind your eyes. but that isn't you.

        “The most crucial mistake we make is turning to thought to know who we are. Unfortunately, philosopher René Descartes’s famous statement “I  think, therefore I am” is often misunderstood to mean “I am my thinking,”  or “I am a thinker.” When we identify ourselves as our thoughts, we become anxious, isolated, and obsessively caught in our own self-images and stories. To grow beyond afflictive consciousness, we need to experience awake awareness, the feeling of “am” that is not thought based.”

excerpt from "shift into freedom" by loch kelly

🪻 ₊ ⊹why you aren't your physical body:

first of all, the fact you can shift to have a totally different body says enough.

you're not your body here, and you're not your body there. not to mention the fact you can manifest different physical features. but if your body and your reality are moldable like clay, what's the thing doing the sculpting? what's the constant, what's always there no matter what? what's the thing that shifts? awareness.

to use an example, awareness is the phrase "i am." fully neutral, attached to no identity or thing, awareness simply is. it's not really something that can be explained with logic, because it’s simple in its complexity. it truly just is. i had to accept it, experience it, instead of trying to understand it, and then i understood. it's infinite: that's how you can shift. if you put anything after that phrase, you assume and create that reality.

"i am y/n" is your current concept of self, which you are assuming. "I am" is awareness, and everything after "i am" is the creation of awareness. you are experiencing a body and identifying with it, identifying with your thoughts, your emotions, but those aren't you---you're just aware of them. the reason high-stress situations are so stressful is because we bank our identity into them.

when you watch someone in a drama tv show, you might laugh and cry with them, enjoy that experience, but you aren't threatened by their emotional distress because you know you aren't them. you're just watching, and you're solid in your identity as the observer of the tv show, not an active participator.

however, some people may look at the tv and feel personally threatened: those are the ones who yell at the tv and get heated when their favorite team loses a game. their identity is placed inside the tv, with the game, whatever: they're failing to recognize that they aren't the events of the tv, or even the tv itself. that is what causes most problems.

they're personally threatened by the "fake" events on the tv, even though it seems obvious that they can just change the channel, or calm down by realizing that their sense of self isn't tied to, or threatened, by that loss. do you understand?

as a shifter, as the observer, you understand you're experiencing, and you can flip the channel when you want. you don't identify or feel threatened by your physical reality or your emotions, because you know you aren't them, you know you created this, and you have the power to change. you're experiencing, you're aware of them.

i can't really give you a black & white example of how to further understand, because it's deeply personal for everyone, depending on their assumptions of how it works. assumptions are law. that's why everyone has different methods to shift.

🪻 ₊ ⊹ quote on realizing your own power:

"You make your own reality, or you do not. And if you do not, then you are everywhere a victim, and the universe must be an accidental mechanism appearing with no reason. So that the miraculous picture you have seen of your body came accidentally into creation, and out of some cosmic accident attained its miraculous complexity. And that body was formed so beautifully for no reason except to be a victim. That is the only other alternative to forming your own reality. You cannot have a universe in between. You have a universe formed WITH a reason, or a universe formed WITHOUT a reason. And in a universe of reason, there are no victims. Everything has a reason or nothing has a reason. So, choose your side!" -seth

🪻 ₊ ⊹ final note:

when you feel consumed by your thoughts, or doubts, observe them, observe the bodily reactions that come up. don't do anything: just watch. then ask yourself, what is observing the thought, what is aware of it? let yourself spread into awareness of that.

a thought may come up, “i am angry,” but what is “i” and how can you BE that emotion?

moreover, intrusive thoughts are my favorite example — how can thinking be a part of our identity if we experience unpleasant, unwanted, unprompted thoughts? how can our own identity be so out of our control at times? linking identity, self, to said thoughts is exactly why intrusive thinking is so unpleasant, because we think it says something about us. we think it is us. but what does the linking? what is choosing to identify with the ego-mind?

awareness.

🪻 ₊ ⊹ exercise one for awake awareness: if this post gets enough traction/if enough people are interested, i'll post the other exercises in the book ^^ this one's fully unedited, a complete excerpt from the book on awareness "shift into freedom" by loch kelly

"GLIMPSE 1: No Problem"

        "This exercise is a direct pointer for shifting out of ego-identification and into awake awareness as your ground of Being. Most people feel a sense of underlying dissatisfaction that leads to craving and aversion, which is created by ego-identification. From ego-identification, we then try to solve the problem of mistaken identity by changing things in our personality or our environment. This creation of a problem-solver identity is what binds us and blinds us to the freedom that’s already here.  It creates a frantic continual search, like looking for your glasses when they’re on your head.

        In this practice, you’ll discover that you can shift out of your mistaken identity in a moment. The goal is not to escape the normal issues and choices in your daily life, but to shift out of the mistaken problem-solver identity. When you make that shift and discover awake awareness as the ground of Being, you’ll have fewer troubles and can more easily solve daily challenges.

        1. When you’re ready, put the book down and, with open or closed eyes, say this question to yourself internally: What is here now if there is no problem to solve?

        2. Rest and remain alert to who or what is experiencing.

        3. Who is here? What is aware? What is here when there is nowhere to go and nothing to do? Nothing to know or create or become? What is here, just now, when you are not the problem solver?

        4. Feel into whatever shows up here and now. Who or what is aware? What is here when there is no referencing the past, no going one moment into the future, when you’re not settling into sleep and not going up to thought? What’s here now? What’s it like when there’s no problem to solve just now? What do you notice? What is absent? What essential qualities are revealed?

        5. Again, put your reading down. Take a breath and pause. Then ask with a beginner’s mind and curiosity: What is here now if there is no problem to solve?" i hope this helps!! <3, kat

full credits and my most genuine thanks to jester for his word, his help, for his advice: i wouldn't be without him. 🃏

[oceansssblue]

Perhaps, tech and cross being twins ,,,, chaos vibes.

Perhaps tbb twins and the domino twins getting into trouble together

Mmm... Fun little idea sparkling! ✨😈

Xx, Blue.

PS. Still acepting xmas clone reqs!

"CHAOS COMES IN PAIRS"

– NO ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP.

– FEATURING: TECH, CROSSHAIR, FIVES, ECHO. 💖

WARNINGS: CROSSHAIR CURSES A LOT. TINY PHYSICAL (PLAYFULL) FIGHT.

"I've found another set" Fives proudly proclaims, stepping into the empty office his brother had chosen to hide in in order to study his eleventh manual of the month without anyone interrupting him.

Too bad; Fives is a man on a quest.

"A set of what?" Echo asks, glancing up at him over his datapad with a suspicious look on his face.

He knows his brother well enough by now to guess Fives is planning something; and he's looking for a partner in crime. No matter how ridiculous his ideas are, Echo has the strange tendency to tag along. Fives has mastered the art of convincing him.

"Another set of twins, brother of mine" Fives almost sings, an excited grin on his lips. "And right in time for Life Day".

Echo chuckles; eyes shinning in recognition. They have a little tradition, him and Fives; each year, on Life Day, they try to prank another set of clone twins. It had started as a silly joke when they were children; with Echo mumbling twins weren't even a rarity in Kamino anymore and a mischiveous Fives trying to cheer him up and stating that at least they should try to make sure they were the coolest and best known ones. It had moved towards a small plan to mess with other twins from time to time –just innocent playfull games, nothing major– and spiraled from there. Nowadays, Fives and Echo's almost eternal twin rivalry was a known funny story in the GAR.

"What company are they in?" Echo asks with interest, for once abandoning his reading and paying undivided atention to Fives.

The clone grins as if he had been waiting for this specific question all the time.

"They're not even on one" he corrects. "Have you ever heard of the bad batch?"

Echo frowns in confusion; trying to figure out where had he heard that before, why it sounded so familiar. Then an image pops in his head; and Echo's eyes widen in surprise.

"They are twins?" He asks in disbelief. "But they're so different!"

Fives laughs.

"Well, it's not obviously "long hair" and the big guy, but the other two... It's just haircut, tattoos and googles, really".

Echo snorts. Fives continues with his monologue.

"Personality and attitude changes one's physique so much, vod'ika. That's why I'm the handsome twin".

Echo rolls his eyes. He turns on his datapad and slumps down on the chair again.

"Alright, Fives. The smart, realistic twin will come get you when he comes up with a plan of action" he deadpans, sarcasm heavy in his tongue.

Fives has to have the last word. After all, he is the annoying one...

"Ah, Echo, you're gonna' make me blush".

"This is fucking discusting" Crosshair hisses, an angry, irritated expresion perked on his face, dragging his feet inside the Batch's barraks.

"For once I find your words completely accurate" Tech agrees, following him.

They're both covered in some sort of red slime. They had been attempting to give a fresh layer of paint to their armours; but someone had replaced the red paint for a stickier substance, and it had been impossible to get rid of it. It somehow stuck to the skin; a viscous, unpleasant feeling they couldn't wait to take off.

Crosshair was the first to jump on the shower.

"What karking material is even this? And who the fuck waisted their time to pull this on us?"

Tech hums while methodically folding his clothes into a pile.

"I suspect this substance is a mix of Naboo's Faera's flower pollen and the usual starch and glue they often use in children's toys" he explains, hopping in his own shower as well. "As for the later... I have two solid main suspects, but I shall slice into Kamino's security system to confirm it".

Crosshair asks him to elaborate and then just listens. Tech jumps into a long argument based on his proofs, knowledge and deductions; and when he finishes, there's a weird smile perched on his face. Crosshair doesn't think he's ever seen that expresion on him; wasn't even aware his face could do that.

"The fuck are you smiling for?" the gray-haired clone snaps.

Tech ignores his sharp tone and suggests "we could always prank them back".

Cross is shocked into silence, not expecting this need for childish revenge to come from his mature, level-headed brother; but he can see a dangerous glint in Tech's eyes through his yellow googles, and the idea sparks excitement in the snipers heart.

"I think it's time for you to show off your brain game, Tech" Crosshair smirks. "This Echo and Fives won't even know what hit them".

Tech dries his body with a towel and quickly slip into his nightglove.

"I'll have a plan by tomorrow".

Crosshair rests in his bunk that night with a satisfied smile on his face. "Fuck those regs" he thinks, right before falling asleep.

Tech hacks into the 501st barraks and unlocks the door for Crosshair; and the sniper uses his quiet stealth to move through the bunks and cuddle piles without being discovered –and in a room full of soldiers, that's saying something–. He carefully places the small stickers on each of the regs' foreheads with a similar haircut to Fives and Echo; replicating the first's only distintive tattoo on everyone else.

When the troopers wake up the next day and start to interact with each other, inmediately mistaking others for Fives a million times –a confused, lost expresion on their faces– Tech and Crosshair are laughing their asses off watching the scene from the safety of their barraks.

"Oh, that was great".

In the screen of their datapad, the real Fives bursts into laughter. The trooper turns to the other Domino; and grins happily.

"Seems like we've got competition this year, vod'ika. We've got work to do".

As always happens with this kind of things, the pranks escalate. In the few days prior to Life Day, the two set of twins find dozens of ways to mess with each other; from hair dye –Fives thinks Crosshair looks fabulous in pink– , to stealing armour –Echo almost suffers a heart attack at that–, and fashionably decorating each others barraks. A bet starts going around; of which pair would pull the last prank before kaminoans force them to stop the circus.

On Life Day, the bad batch twins arrive to the mess hall covered in multicolor glitter –a half irritated, half resigned expresion on their face–; and the Dominos are estatic to see them. Echo is the one who planned this, and Fives executioned it perfectly. Glitter is one of the most annoying things to try to get rid off; and it quickly spreads everywhere.

"Looks like we've got two new shinies joining us for breakfeast today!" Fives shouts, grinning wildly, further teasing them.

Echo has a smug smile on his face as well. Troopers around them snort and laugh in amusement.

"I'm going to kill him" Crosshair hisses, and to be honest, not even Tech feels the need to stop him.

Crosshair tackles Fives to the floor; the reg making a surprised sound before laughing and blocking his puch, twisting the two of them around. Tech inmediately jumps to help his twin, trying to inmovilize the clone from his back; though Echo is quick to intercept him and join the fight.

A small circle forms inmediately around them; new bets being made while everyone cheer for their favorites. They aim for the other twins to get inmovilized and forced to surrender more than to make each other bleed. This is nothing but common clone traditions; playfull fighting.

It's only when the trainers separate them that they're able to properly see the state the four troopers are in; covered in glitter from head to toes, panting slightly. Upon identifying the Dominos, the trainers roll their eyes, walking away; all but one of them, who shoot the four clones a disaproving, annoyed glance.

"Get rid of this new fashion choice" he snaps, glancing at the glitter on Crosshair's hair. "And make sure this is all cleaned up for when I come back. You're all on cleaning duty for a month".

The silver haired clone shoots him an irritated side eye; but they all take the punishment in stride.

When the trainer leaves, Fives turns towards the Batch twins.

"Good prank war, vods" he offers with a satisfied smile.

Crosshair looks them up and down.

"Not to bad for some regs" he condeeds.

Fives draps an arm over Echo's shoulders. They're both sporting matching grins.

"We're the best of 'em. We'll be ARC's in no time".

For the present being, they would enjoy Life Day.

THE END.

[sadistic-kitty5601]

I HAVEN'T SEEN ANY SUB SOLDIER BOY (Ben from The Boys) SO I'LL DO IT MYSELF.

Warning!!! Sub Solider boy, smut with plot, DETAILED AND LONG NSFW PART, handjob, edging, overstimulating, anal fingering (Him receiving), 2 orgasms at the same time (Him also receiving)

Summary: You finally managed to make Soldier boy 'open minded', and it definitely pays off...

Soldier Boy had some...unfair opinions when it came to women, and he didn't hide it, nor felt much shame in it, it was just how he was raised, and with his stubbornness, that was how he was and how he will think. It's as simple as that. It didn't mean he couldn't love women, he just couldn't love them in the...’correct' way. If it wasn't for his amazing looks, he'd be pretty lonely. Throughout the years of being a 'man' and a superhero, no woman really stood up to him when it came to his misogynistic beliefs, and when they did, they were too 'emotional' or 'offended' for his liking or understanding.

Well, that was until he met you. You were a mature, intelligent, and beautiful woman, who was also a supe. A real dame. However, that wasn't what gained his respect for you, what really gained his respect for you was how you didn't take any shit. Any of his shit. Every time he made a snarky, misogynistic, or sexist statement, you didn't 'over react', go along with it, or scoff at him, you simply told him he was wrong, staying calm, resilient, and firm. Of course, this resulted in you two fighting a lot, but that's what caught his attention, you challenged him. That's what he really needed, a woman who challenged him, even if he'd never admit it.

But, this was back in the day, before he was frozen...So what about now?...

Due to your power, which was physically warping reality (Sorry, it's the only other cool power that doesn't make you age physically), you didn't physically age, you kept yourself alive, but did lose your position as a superhero, later, parting with The Boys. Then, Soldier Boy was found—blah, blah, blah, you already know.

After getting everything settled, Billy Butcher made you babysit Soldier Boy, and obviously, you two had a lot to catch up on. At first, it wasn't too smooth, you began educating him on the norms, new technology, words he couldn't use, everything. It was a lot to process for him, and naturally, he made a comment about how 'men used to be real men back in his day' and 'women need to step down. You began to speak on it, expressing your opinion, something Soldier Boy secretly missed, loving the boldness and firmness in your tone, which he immediately blocked out. What was he thinking? Instead, he pushed back with his own opinion. This started a debate...except, something was..different? Why wasn't he interrupting you? Why was enjoying this? Why was he...understanding?

After this argument, which surprisingly ended on a good note, you two began to make good progress. Soldier Boy often went to you when he had a question about today's society, Y'all's conversations became more playful, less aggressive, you two became more flirty, even. You two always had some sort of lingering tension back in the day, but now? It was at a peak! Something was bound to happen...

You two were at the place, sitting on the couch as you looked at some papers, records, basically studying to get the upper hand on Homelander. Soldier Boy sat there in his robe, making conversation with you. "Y'know, you were always such a dame." Soldier Boy bluntly stated, smirking ever so slightly at you. "Really? You were never too bad yourself." You returned the playfulness, looking back at him. There was a pause. You sat up, getting closer to him. What was this? No, you both knew damn well what it was. Suddenly, both of you threw yourselves onto each other, lips crashing together, wasting no time getting your tongues into each other's mouths. Your hand cupped his cheek, the other wrapping around his neck as his hands wrapped around your back and waist. It quickly got hot and steamy with your heavy breaths, his rock hard cock standing up in his robe, and intense kissing, tongues swirling around, battling for dominance as your hands explored each other's body's. Deep, deep down, you both ached for this moment so badly, now and even back then.

Maybe all of your conversations on making him woke really did work because somehow, he ended up on bottom. His robe already open, exposing his chest area, fingers intertwined with your hair, his legs wrapped around your waist, letting out groans every now and then. I mean, this was some of the most intense action he's gotten in a long time. Sure, he's had sex with 1 or 2 girls by now, but it wasn't really close, nor intimate, just penetration, then cumming. But this, this was different. You two were close and had so much pent up tension, it was truly a lot. You finally broke the kiss, both of you catching your breath, panting. He mischievously smirked up at you, letting out a gruff chuckle. "Damn.." You chuckled in response, returning his smirk with a teasing grin. "Need a break?" "Psh, hell no." He responded as his grip on your hair got slightly tighter. He wanted more. "Just surprised you're on top—" He said as he immediately pulled you back into a passionate and almost desperate kiss. You reciprocated the kiss with the same energy, one of your hands sliding up his leg, tugging at his robe.

He let out a soft groan as he felt your hands begin to strip him. "Someone's impatient.." He mumbled against her lips with a teasing smirk as he helped you out with his silk robe. Now, he was just in his boxers, his cock twitching with impatience against its confines. Then, you two quickly began to work at taking off your shirt, throwing it to the ground, next to his robe. He bit his lip as he slid his hands up your waist, seeing your bra cup your breasts perfectly. "Fuck, you ladies are always like fine wine." His hips twitched up slightly, seeking any sort of friction, way too horny right now. You grinned deviously as you sat right on his bulge, earning a guttural groan from him. "Someone's desperate." You gently ran your fingers down his chest, teasing his nipples. His breath quickened as he looked up at you. "You're such a tease-c'mon, be that bold woman like you usually are." He gripped your hips as he grinded up into you.

You nodded. "Of course, handsome." You immediately leaned down and began ravishing him, leaving a trail of hickeys and sloppy kisses starting on his neck, passing by on his collarbone, down to his chest, as your tongue glided across his skin in all the right ways, causing him to grind up into you harder, seeking more friction as he groaned deeply and moaned softly, biting his lip and closing his eyes, enjoying the sensations. You came back from eating him up, admiring all the hickeys you left on him. He opened his eyes and looked up at you. "Don't stop now." He muttered out in a hoarse voice, his bulge desperately twitching against the fabric of your clothing. "Oh, I won't, baby." You said as you hopped off his crotch, crawling down and grabbing ahold of his underwear, pulling down. His hard cock sprung out immediately, which caused you to chuckle. "Wow, Ben, you're already so hard for me." He grinned smugly. "What can I say? With a pretty face and a sexy body like that grinding up against me-oh shit—" He was quickly cut off by your tongue swirling around his dick, lubing it up essentially.

After his cock was all wet, your hand wrapped around it. "Ready?" You asked with a smirk. "Work your hands already, woman." He said impatiently, trying his best to keep his hips from twitching, ultimately failing. You raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" You began to stroke his frenulum with some decent pressure, your other hand getting to work on his tip. His breath hitched as both of his most sensitive spots were targeted. He put his hand up. "Wha-H-Hold on a minute! Let me..adjust.." He said, his voice being laced with embarrassment. "Speak to me with respect then." You said in a more authoritative tone. He grumbled, rolling his eyes with a nod. You began to slowly stroke the shaft part of his hard cock, being a bit more gentle...Though, you had way more planned for him. He leaned his head back with a content sight. "Oh come on, you can go faster than that." He said in a snarky tone. You obliged, stroking his cock faster, making sure to focus on the tip more. His groaned and nodded. "Yeah, that's good." He bit his lip, looking down at you, his cock twitched from the sight of you.

I wanna save you time, so I'll just say, this went on for..a while. Why? Because you edged him at least 5 times. At first he was annoyed and confused, which then subsided into desperation.

"If you really wanted to cum...well...you'd ask." You smirked, slowly and painfully stroking his sensitive frenulum, squeezing his cock, watching him twitch and squirm as pre-cum leaked from his red tip. "Fuck...I should've fuckin' known-mmmgh." He thrusted his hips up in your hand, his breathing being ragged. "C'mon already, make me cum.please." He breathed out, his eyebrows furrowing as he gripped the pillow next to him. "Well, there is another option, it'll double the pleasure even." You offered with a devious grin, your other hand giving his balls a slight squeeze, causing him to moan. "What's-What's that, huh?" He swallowed down the moans that so badly wanted to be let out. He needed to cum so badly. "Fingering you." You bluntly stated. "What?" He almost looked offended.

A thousand years after teasing and convincing.

"Alright, alright. Fine. As long as you promise to let me cum." He said, closing his eyes..it felt so demasculating and humiliating. "I will, I will, I know how this is for you." You licked your two fingers, (Yes, I know that's not enough lube, just pretend it is) sliding one in. He grunted, it felt a little painful for the first few seconds.. that was until you immediately targeted his prostate. It was definitely a new feeling, but it felt real good. He let out a quivering moan. "What the fuck was that?" His breath began to become heavier again. You smirked. "You like that, huh?" Your fingers began to slowly pump into him, rubbing against his prostate each time as your other hands began to work at his tip and frenulum, stroking them. Right now, you were hitting three sensitive spots all at once, and he was writhing in pleasure. He panted, his abs flexing as he let out strained moans and practically wheezed breathes as he tried not to seem like he was enjoying himself.

You leaned back up to kiss him, he immediately accepted, taking this as an opportunity to hide some moans of his. His legs twitched and quivered as you slid your knuckle against his prostate, your hand slicking against his aching cock. He almost whined when you squeezed his tip. You then broke the kiss. "More? 'Cause I've got more tricks." He managed to focus his eyes onto you. "Y-Yeah-sure, why no-" He was suddenly cut off by the sensation of..vibrating? Right up against his sensitive spots. "Oh fuck—..oh fuck, oh-fffffuck!— How the hell are you doing that?-Hauh." Now he was really shaking, squirming around, his hands frantically feeling around to find something to grip on, which ended up being your arm and the couch, holding onto it for dear life as he let moans and groans slip out, one after another. "A magician never reveals her secrets.." You replied cheekily, beginning to kiss down his neck. He gulped, trying to catch some air as you sped up your pace, now being less gentle with him, which caused his eyes to roll back. Your fingers went in and out of him faster, your hands stroked his cock in all the right places, all while vibrating at the same time...it was almost too much...

Was this overstimulation? It was almost painful, but in a good kind of way, it was like you wanted it to stop but needed it to keep going. "I'm gonna cum—I'm gonna blow my load right now—" He strained out, panting as his legs squirmed around. He looked up at you with desperate eyes, his hand now gripping your shoulder tightly. "Don't stop-don't you dare fucking stop-ah-y-you promised..ttto not..stop!" He was almost growling now, he truly did need to cum, otherwise he'd lose his mind. "You're right, I promised, so cum, bust all over everything." You nodded as you stroked his tip faster, your hands now pumping straight into him, stroking against his prostate with each thrust. "Yes, yes, yesyesyesyes— c'mon!-" He moaned out, reaching the peak of ecstasy. "Ohhh, fuuuck, Y/N!" He moaned out as he threw his head back, tensing up, twitching and shaking violently as a load of semen squirted out of his cock, even having a prostate orgasm. This was the most intense orgasm he's ever had, probably because it was two big O's. He shook and moaned for a solid 30 seconds before he managed to calm down a little from the intense high.

There was a big mess to say the least. His cum was all over his abdomen, your hand, the couch. "Shit, you were seriously pent up. You alright now?" Now, he was able to make coherent thoughts instead of just, 'Oh fuck’ "Probably because you edged me five damn times-" He quickly shut up when he saw you lick his cum off your fingers, feeling a little tingle. "Damn, you know how to play my cards." He grumbled, lazily smirking, causing you to chuckle, grinning along with him.

Needless to say, he enjoyed himself quite a bit.

THE END.

[havecourage-darling]

Oh my gosh ok so I thought of something for Eddie and you don’t necessarily have to write it you totally can if you want but I was thinking about one of the kids like older siblings is at Lucas’s game supporting him and realizes that Dustin, Mike and Erica isn’t there. After she sees them all coming out of hellfire she gets a little disappointed with them (cause she’s kinda a mom friend) and like kinda gets a little snippy with Eddie (who has known about her but never met her) and is like you really couldn’t change the date for one meeting, this was important all the while Eddie is just standing there stunned with heart eyes

I don’t know why this just popped into my head but I had to tell somebody

A/N: First, I am so sorry for taking forever to get to this. Second, this might not have been what you had in mind but I hope you like it anyway anon! Third, this really didn't need to be this long but, yolo

wc: 3.5k

warnings: none

It was a bright and early afternoon when Steve Harrington’s bad luck streak had finally broken. You’d watched, hiding next to Robin in the documentary section, as Steve asked out the pretty blonde to the championship game. Robin inhaled sharply, expression twisting sympathetically, when blondie blinked at him for a beat but you knew. Steve was one of your oldest friends and despite abdicating the throne, you knew the effect Harrington had on a girl – as gross as he was.

“Holy shit, Harrington I can’t believe she actually showed,” you said out of the corner of your mouth.

It was a solid indication that Steve was actually more nervous than he looked because he hadn’t reacted to your teasing. Instead, he shot you a wide-eyed look and bobbed his head. “Right?” With an anxious swipe through his hair, he glanced at you.

Answering his non-verbal question, you nodded. “It looks perfect as always.” Steve’s hair barely obeyed the laws of physics. Blondie leaned across Steve and waved.

“It’s nice to meet you!” She beamed. “Are you a senior?”

“Oh no,” you said, “I’m a freshman at Indiana State. Go Lions!”

“That’s so cute!” She said and you furrowed your brows. Was it? You could tell she wasn’t being malicious but you weren’t sure where she was going with it.

“Yeah,” you said, laughing, “super cute!” Blondie laughed, hair shaking as she did and you glanced at Steve. Already knowing, he kicked your calf and you swallowed your own laughter.

Nancy pointed at the court, fingers splaying out and the photographer nodded, hanging onto her every word. Her head swiveled to the crowd and, somehow, she’d caught your gaze. Waving, smile broadening, she rolled her eyes when you waved back. You knew she missed Jonathan – he wouldn’t have needed her instructions and would’ve just known.

“Where’s Lucas?” You asked, trying to glance over the jumping cheerleader’s heads to get a good look at the line up.

Steve motioned to the end of the bench, where Lucas stood searching the bleachers in front of you for someone. You followed his lead and realized you couldn’t spot the familiar redhead he was undoubtedly looking for. Heart squeezing a bit, you knew the likelihood of Max showing up was close to slim. She’d retreated into herself after El had left and despite your weekly visits to her trailer – you didn’t want to push too hard.

“Wait,” you said, mostly to yourself, “where’s Dustin?”

Searching out the familiar set of curls, you felt panic start to climb up your spine. Where was Mike? Steve’s warm hand grabbed at your wrist and pulled you to the surface. “What’s wrong?” He asked, his own voice anxious.

“The guys, Dustin and Mike, they’re not here,” you whispered, “what if something happened to them?”

Steve’s furrowed brows smoothed and he exhaled. “Oh, don’t worry they’re fine. I think they had their little game finale or whatever tonight. Henderson tried to rope me in as a substitute for Lucas.”

“Substitute?” You echoed, forcing a wide smile onto your face when Lucas saw you and Steve. His entire expression shifted, excitement and relief at the sight of you two. You waved, lifting your small sign that Robin had helped you paint.

‘DUNK IT! GO #8!’

Lucas beamed at you, waving wildly up at you two. Steve shot him a thumbs up before he started some drills.

Dustin and Mike wouldn’t have ditched Lucas’ game for a campaign, would they? Especially knowing that he’d already be hurt at the fact that Max wasn’t going to show up. No…a flash of long curly hair scampered across your mind. The leader of their new club…the guy Steve was obviously jealous of. Eddie Munson, you snapped your fingers, remembering.

Dustin had shown you photos of the club that Nancy had taken, a proud beam across his face. You knew Dustin was just excited to have more friends but, to give Steve some credit, he did talk about Munson an awful lot. You still hadn’t met him, but you had a brief memory of seeing him in the hallways sometimes, hair much shorter.

But you knew, then, if Munson had refused to move the campaign – there was no way Dustin or Mike would stand up against him. Especially not out of fear that they’d be kicked out the club. It was all they talked about. Shit, you’d driven Dustin to the town over so he could find just the right color for his figurine.

Lucas glanced up again, gaze desperate, and your heart broke.

“Everyone now please rise for our national anthem. Singing for us tonight, we have a very special guest tonight. All the way from Nashville, our very own – Tammy Thompson!” Your jaw dropped, exchanging gazes with Steve before you both whipped around to find Robin.

Shocked, you watched dumbly as Tammy strutted up to the mic and started to sing off key. Robin’s eyes were wide and you heard Steve mutter, “Muppet.” You couldn’t hold back your laughter, Brenda turning to look at you both at the sound.

“Wow, she sounds amazing, doesn’t she?” She asked, tone awed.

Steve’s hand gripped your wrist tightly, both of you clearing your throats in a desperate attempt not to laugh.

You watched Lucas’ leg shake as he stood near the benches, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. He was nervous. Your chest tightened. Please let him play. You plead the universe, crossing your fingers. He needs a win.

/////

“I can’t believe it,” you said, getting choked up again. Lucas beamed under everyone’s attention, but you tucked him into your side, arm squeezing his shoulders. “Lucas, you were amazing!”

“Thanks,” he said, grinning when Jason Carver shoved him excitedly. ‘Party at Benny’s boys!’ The group of morons shuffled off towards a nearby car and you rolled your eyes. Lucas caught your half-scoff and winced. “I know you don’t like them…”

“Hey, whoever you hang out with is not my decision, just – be careful, yeah?” You glanced after Carver and remembered what it was like being in Lucas’ place. “That crowd tends to want to mold you after them and you’re already your own person. A person I really like. Don’t let them try to shove you into some cookie cutter box.”

Lucas smiled, pleased, and looked down at his sneakers. “Thanks. It…really means a lot to me that you guys showed. I know you go to everyone’s stuff, you and Steve, but-”

“Hey, you’ll always have me in your corner, all of you do,” you assured him, your mind drifting to the rest of the party. Will would’ve showed, you thought, smiling at the reminder of the weekly call you had coming up.

Before either of you could say anything else, a loud crash caught your attention.

You watched a group of people rush out the double doors, excited and laughing with each other. Easily picking out Dustin’s curly hair, you glanced back at Lucas’ frozen expression.

Emotions flashing, you opened your mouth to try and do damage control but one of his teammates smacked into his side. “Sinclair, come on! You’re riding with us.” Lucas’ expression pulled into a smile quickly, but it was too late. You’d seen underneath it. Anger building in your chest, it bubbled to the point of discomfort.

Placing your hands on his shoulders, you shook him. “Do not drink and drive, Lucas Sinclair I’ll rip your spine out – you hear me? And don’t take any pills,” you said, shooting him a withering glare. His shoulders were still slumped but he nodded, his smile half-hearted. “Alright, if you need me for a ride or for help, you call me.”

“I will, thanks…for coming,” he said slowly, jogging off without a second glance. Making sure he’d disappeared around the corner towards the other jocks, you whipped around on your heel and stomped over to the loitering group.

As you got within earshot you saw Mike’s eyes drift over to you. He smiled, hand coming up, but immediately froze when he saw your expression. “Oh fuck,” he muttered, and Dustin stopped his excited jumping just in time for you to punch him in the shoulder.

“Ouch, what the fuuu- oh, hey there Widow,” he smiled, a little confused, “what are you doing here?”

///

Eddie raised his brows, watching Dustin stumble as you punched him in the shoulder. Wincing, he knew that had to have hurt. He’d almost instinctually stepped in but Henderson’s expression brightened, smile widening, and he figured you were safe enough.

“Shit,” Eddie heard Mike mutter, watching him take a step behind Dustin at the sight of your furious expression.

“Hi Widow,” Erica said, expression lighting up when you paused your anger and shot her a smile.

Ah, so this was the infamous Widow. Henderson and Wheeler had nothing but praises for Harrington and you. Eddie knew Harrington, because who didn’t? He had his reservations but Eddie was nothing if not fair. He’d save them for the moment he actually met King Steve – not that he thought that would be any time soon. But you? He’d heard all about you.

“What am I doing here?” You echoed, one of your hands dropping, the other flying through the air. “What the hell are you doing?”

Eddie was a little surprised with how intrigued he was.

Dustin looked back at Mike, surprised to see him so far away. “Uh, we had a campaign. Oh, this is Eddie!” Dustin’s hand came out towards Eddie – who waited less than a millisecond to step forward.

“If I may,” Eddie started, wanting to make a good impression on Dustin’s hot friend. How the hell did Henderson even know you?

You, however, barely spared him a glance. “You may not,” you snapped, turning back to the boys. Eddie’s voice died in his throat, blinking at how easily you’d dismissed him. Interest flared to life in his chest, because of course it did. “What the hell guys? You missed the championship game?”

The newfound interest waned. Ah, you were jock. He probably didn’t recognize you because you’d run with the popular crowds. Especially if you knew Harrington.

Dustin and Mike, however, withered like plants who’d been kept in the shade for too long. “It was The Cult of Vecna!” Dustin said, voice going high. Eddie’s eyes darted over to you, where he watched – fascinated – as your eye twitched.

“I don’t care if it was the goddamn reckoning. We don’t abandon our friends! That’s the first rule of the party!” You shouted.

“Actually, the first rule is no girls,” Mike muttered and you turned your sole attention onto him and he winced. “Not that – we’re not…happy to have you. Of course we are! You’ve been there since the beginning almost. And Nancy. And Robin. Obviously. But this campaign has been going on for weeks and and and…we couldn’t postpone! We tried!”

Eddie watched you soften and his interest reared its head again. You had a soft spot for the freshmen. Why?

“You knew Max wasn’t going to show,” you said, quieter, “you knew how important this was for him.”

The guilt that shot across their faces was clear. “He was going to be on the bench!” Dustin said, hands coming up.

Anger flickered to life in your eyes again. “Yeah?” You asked, tone incredulous. “Well, he shot the winning basket. You should’ve seen his face when he looked up and saw you guys weren’t there.”

Dustin and Mike ducked their heads, expressions sheepish, and Eddie was impressed. You really were laying it on thick.

“I’m not mad,” you said, and Eddie could see you rearing back for the killing strike, “I’m just really disappointed in you two.”

Their shoulders slumped, eyes on the floor, and Eddie couldn’t help but whistle. You were playing them like a fiddle. Unfortunately, it seemed to catch your attention and your sharp eyes turned to him.

“And you!”

Eddie pointed at himself, taking a small step back now that your fury was turned to him. “Me?” Interest shot down his spine. Jesus, what was with him with the hot and scary ones?

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you? I know campaigns take time to plan out, I know that!” Eddie blinked, caught off guard at the respect he wasn’t expecting. “But he’s a kid, they���re all kids. You couldn’t have moved it twenty-four hours so that they could go watch his game? Out of what? Jealousy? Some sort of misguided pettiness because the popular kids were mean to you? They’re mean to everyone! That’s what they do! They almost broke my nose senior year. Instead of teaching them to rise above it, you stoop to their level? Ugh, grow up. God, this whole town is such a cliché!”

Dustin looked panicked, Mike had a hand over his eyes, and Gareth turned to him, eyes wide and jaw dropped. Eddie was also shocked, not sure where to start. “I think-”

“Seriously,” you snapped, talking over him again, eyes lighting up with an anger that was most appealing. The flash of your eyes reminded him of a harpy – in the most flattering of ways. In fact, Eddie’s knees went a little weak, his chest unfurling with something that was way too close to blatant interest.

Oh, who was he kidding? He’d give all his month’s tips to be able to sink his teeth into the tendon by your neck. It strained at him, taunting him, as you heaved a guilt trip onto him. Unfortunately for you, he was immune to them. So, it left him a few seconds to drag his gaze up and down your body.

“Can I speak now?” He asked, not wanting to interrupt another tirade, he was getting fond of those at this point.

You inhaled deeply, fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of your nose. “Yes.”

“Why do they call you Widow?” He asked. “Is it because you like spiders?”

If you did, he wouldn’t mind, Eddie decided. He wasn’t particularly fond of them himself but he was also an acquired taste so what did he know?

The withering glare you shot him went straight to his chest and curled around his ribcage. Eddie rubbed his sternum, like that could stop the ridiculous seed of interest from planting itself deep within his skin.

“No,” you said, offering no further explanation. “Why do they call you the Freak? Is it because you’re really Satan Worshippers?”

The way your entire face twisted with regret, and guilt swam into your eyes, Eddie knew you hadn’t meant it. In fact, he already felt a smile growing at his lips.

“I’m sorry,” you said immediately, “that was a low blow, I’m just – no, it’s no excuse. I know you get shit from other people. You don’t need it from me, especially not since I know it’s not – it’s not that.”

Instead of ducking down to look at the floor, you met his gaze straight on for the first time since stomping up to the group of them. Eddie sighed and you’d clearly taken it as a reaction to your barbed reply because you began to wring your hands together. In reality, Eddie wanted to slap his stupid chest. He always did this.

Barely five minutes had passed and the interest dug deeper and rooted around for its new home. The vines grew, twirling around his veins, and reaching towards his chest. Heart, already on his sleeve, skipped a beat as you offered up a sincere apology, Eddie nodded. “No harm done,” he said, seizing the chance to bow, “Eddie Munson at your service. Atheist by the way.”

You nodded, quickly skirting your gaze back to the two boys but Eddie was stunned into silence when he caught the flash of interest in them. Was he still high on the success of the campaign or were you actually glancing back at him?

“I hope you know how shitty this was, Steve had a date and he brought her here instead of missing it,” you said.

Dustin snorted. “Steve’s just cheap and wanted an easy date night.”

Eddie saw you bite your cheek and he winced, knowing it must’ve hurt. You made a valiant attempt to hide it, but the laughter had already made it to your eyes. It softened your face entirely and his heart stirred awake. Jesus, what magic did you wield that you had captured his attention so thoroughly? 

“Still,” you insisted, one last glare at them. Turning to Erica she glanced up at you, smile crooked and you softened. Lifting your arm, she scurried over to you and you draped it across her shoulders. “I won’t even waste my breath trying to straighten you out. You want a ride home?”

“Thanks Widow,” she said, lifting her nose up at the other two. You must be the real deal if you had little Sinclair’s approval. He’d met her a few hours ago even Eddie knew she was a tough nut to crack. Clearly, not for you.

Mike, proving he’d lost most of his brain power during the campaign, stepped forward to follow and you shot him a glare that had Eddie wincing “Uh, no. My offer extends to her only.” He frowned and Eddie heard a very Jeff sounding laugh.

You started to walk away, and Eddie’s eyes dipped – he couldn’t control it! - when you stopped and sighed a few feet away. Eddie startled, eyes raising quickly from your ass to your eyes and winced when realizing you had your gaze directed at him. Eyeing him, Eddie felt his neck flush as your eyes trailed up his body. What the fuck? Since when did he get shy?

“Can you give them a ride home?” You asked. “It’s dark and I don’t want them riding their bikes alone.”

They two started to protest, glancing at Eddie warily, but another glare from you shut them up. Eddie was about start a tirade, asking what it was in for him – a date he hoped – when you spoke up again.

“Please,” you said, barely audible. Eddie was helpless to do anything but nod, fingers itching to see if he could play you as well as his guitar. He just needed a chance.

Somehow, his brain spurred to life before he realized. “Yeah, Widow,” he said, barely containing the urge to fist pump at the sight of your small amused smile, “I can get the nerds home.”

“Hey!”

Eddie was wholly unprepared for the grin that you shot at him. If your fury had sparked interest in him, your smile almost made his knees give way. Bats fluttering around in his small intestine, wreaking havoc, he managed to smile back at you.

“Thanks Munson,” you said, disappearing into the crowded parking lot after one last look.

No one spoke for a moment, the air stilling as Eddie reeled from the way his entire world had shifted in two seconds.

“I’ve never seen Eddie blush,” Dustin whispered loudly.

At that, Eddie snapped. “I’m not blushing!”

“Are you really going to give us a ride?” Wheeler asked meekly, eyes going towards the bike stand.

Eddie nodded. “Yeah, I’ll give you a ride, hurry up.” He’d use this to his advantage. He knew his chances were slim to none but even he wasn’t that stupid to not even try. “So, what’s your hot friend’s deal?”

The two idiots groaned, face twisted into disgust, but Eddie ignored them. He wanted to know everything he could about you.

///

“Stop moving so much!” You hissed, anxiety practically spilling out of every pore in your body.

Eddie whined, his nose scrunching as he shut his eyes tightly. “I’m just so itchy,” he complained, the skin around his bandages bright red.

“They come off soon, just wait a little bit more,” you said, gesturing to the doctor’s office you were currently in. “We’re next I think.”

Grunting, Eddie threw his head back and winced when it collided too loudly with the wall. You rolled your eyes and brought your hand up to check for a bump. “You’re a child.”

Sticking out his tongue, he leaned into your touch like a puppy and you rolled your eyes. You’d known him less than a month but just like Robin – trauma bonded people faster than most things.

“I can see your fingers,” you said, smacking his hand away from the larger bandage by his clavicle. The demobats had really done some damage but you’d been there when the ER doctor had clearly said to keep the stitches dry, clean, and intact. “You’re gonna make it worse!”

“Distract me, please, I feel like I’m going to crawl out my skin,” he begged.

Without thinking twice, you pressed your lips to his for a second. You bit back your smile as he blinked at you, eyes glazed over. “Was that enough of a distraction?” You asked, smile threatening to break through.

“Uh, I might need a second try to make sure,” he said faintly and you only just managed to not smack his shoulder.

“Pervert.”

Eddie’s brows flew up into his overgrown bangs. “Who just kissed who?”

You hummed, ignoring him, and went back to flipping through your magazine.

“Can I ask you something?”

Pulse pounding, you kept your eyes on the article in front of you. “What?”

“Why do they call you Widow?” Eddie asked, surprising you.

Glancing at him from the corner of your eye, you shrugged. “Dustin started it,” you sighed.

“He always does,” Eddie said, smile growing wider.

“After Natalia Romanoff. The Black Widow?”

“The spy and assassin?”

“Yeah,” you smirked, memories flashing through your mind, “I was really good at killing demogorgons. Plus, once actual Russians joined the picture, even I couldn’t deny that it was kind of perfect.”

“Cool, my girlfriend’s nickname is after a Marvel superhero.”

The word girlfriend brought your brain to a sudden halt and you whipped around to look at him. He was grinning, eyes mischievous, and you sputtered.

“Edward Munson?” A nurse called out. “Follow me.”

“Come on,” Eddie said, threading your fingers together. “We’ll talk about where our first date will be on the ride home.”

First date? You blinked at him, letting him lead you towards the exam room.

[tacitoru]

Satoru had quickly gotten sick of being referred to by his given name. Satoru, Satoru, Satoru. It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to it - his childhood years in the States had desensitized the shock and indignation at such familiarity right out of him. It was times like after a game, when everybody wanted to chatshit and talk his ear off, or during a press stop, when interviewers led with questions that fueled their preexisting assumptions - it was times like those  when he yearned for the staunch politeness of the Japanese language. Longed for the way you could innately  keep people at arms length and save face at the same time. That was a luxury he hadn’t realized he had until recently.

Now though, he loves the way his name sounds out of your mouth. Obsessed with it, actually. That, and the punchy little gasp you make every time he slips his cock inside you, never gets old. Satoru cherishes it even more now that you’ve spent so much time apart. It’s been five long years since he’s seen you - you, corporeal, in the flesh and solid beneath his fingertips that itch for their rightful place on your skin each time you pop up in the occasional news article or an errant gossip column. 

There was a time, in what seems like a lifetime ago, when you would call out for him in soft, demure tones. Sometimes he misses that immiscible mixture of fear and awe in your voice. Sweet little college student you who trailed after him on hand and foot until he effectively destroyed the pedestal you put him on with both hands. Listening to you now though, the venom laced through each syllable of his name sounds just as sweet as the former - at the very least, you’re saying it.

“Satoru,” you implore, breathless, like using his first name for the first time in years physically takes the wind out of you. That, and you’re still trying to pry off the hand braced against your lower abdomen, only managing to bend his thumb and pinky back with both hands. He can feel the way your stomach expands and contracts beneath his palm with each deep breath you take. “I’m being serious, this isn’t fucking funny.”

“Neither are my feelings,” he pouts, pressing down, adding pressure. 

You lock up against the wall of the bathroom stall, silently praying you could morph through the material. The broad expanse of his shoulders and the wide stance of his legs trap you from wiggling too far out of his hold. You avoid eye contact in favor of glaring at the closed toilet lid even as he looms over you, leers down at you. Tell-tale bubbles roll through your stomach. “What happened to a truce?” you ask weakly.

“I got impatient,” he shrugs like he’s talking about a change in the weather and not a last-minute decision to hold you hostage in the bathroom at a friend’s wedding rehearsal. “Besides, isn’t that the best part of being a guest at a wedding? Fucking the other guests?”

You’ve got half a mind to roll your eyes until your captor’s hand on your stomach presses more insistently. “I am not fucking you at Utahime’s wedding.”

“So after the wedding?” he hums, scratching his chin with his free hand. “Technically this is the wedding rehearsal so we could consider this practice for the real thing if you want -,”

“- Satoru -! “

“What? I won’t even put it in all the way, I swear. I’m halfway there just being this close to you again if we’re being honest. Really, I thought I could hold it together at least for tonight, but then the way you were talking to me outside, just - wow, I chubbed up a little when you called me Gojo-san-,”

“Oh, no, fuck!” your groan is about as much as a warning as he gets when you suddenly lurch, keeling over his forearm to flip the toilet lid and wretch into the basin.

fic: pleaser

[lime-ether]

IVY AND FEY

CHARACTERS SHEETS

Ivy and Fey are original characters , My Oc's

BY @lime-ether (that me)

Ivy is a dangerous opponent in combat, does not belong to any fandom. She does not have a traditional home, instead she lives in the Void, where she keeps various things and souvenirs from other worlds. Hates being alone, is a chaotic personality, can be loving towards friends or aggressive towards others. She has symptoms of ADHD that manifest in her behavior.

Fey, during his life, was engaged in legal affairs and was a good lawyer. After his death, he became a ghost who helps Ivy in her adventures. Fey has a calm and level-headed nature that balances Ivy chaotic nature. He often gives her advice and support, helping her cope with difficulties.

The relationship between Ivy and Fey complicated but deep. Fey acts as a mentor and friend to Ivy, helping her control her chaotic impulses and find her way through difficult situations. Their interactions show a balance between chaos and order, impulsiveness and judgment.

Some facts

Ivy collects souvenirs from the various worlds she visits, storing them in the Void.

Fey, being a ghost, has the ability to pass through walls and remain undetected, making him a valuable ally in Ivy adventures.

below i talk about the strengths and weaknesses of Ivy and Fey, about ivy's strength and just an old bonus related to the lore from which these two "from "

Ivy

Strengths

Ivy is a skilled fighter capable of defeating even the most formidable opponents.

Resourcefulness: She uses her magical thread for portals, protection, and healing, making her unpredictable in combat.

Ivy values her friends deeply and is willing to risk her life to protect them.

Fearless in the face of danger, she takes on even the toughest challenges.

Charisma: Her sarcasm, humor, and occasional flirting can distract enemies and attract allies.

Weaknesses

Impulsiveness: Ivy often acts without thinking, which can lead to serious consequences.

Emotional Instability: Her struggle with inner demons and her need for recognition can cloud her judgment.

In a state of hunger, Ivy can lose control and become dangerous to everyone around her.

She craves feeling needed and loved, which makes her emotionally vulnerable.

Her Past: Her connection to "creator" and the Void sometimes pulls her back into chaos, a part of her nature she fights to overcome.

Fey

Strengths

Intelligence: Fey’s sharp mind allows him to analyze situations and find solutions effectively.

Calm and composed, he helps others stay grounded during tough times.

As a spirit, Fey can shapeshift and remain undetected, making him perfect for gathering information or escaping danger.

Fey is unconditionally supportive of Ivy, even when he doesn’t agree with her actions.

His calm nature makes him adept at resolving conflicts.

Weaknesses

As a spirit, Fey lacks the ability to directly engage in physical combat with water enemys. Can't really touch any liquid, feel agony .

Perfectionism: His need for order can create tension with Ivy’s chaotic nature.

Fey rarely shows his feelings, which can create a barrier between him and others.

Tether to the Past: His life as a lawyer before death drives his need to protect everyone, even when unnecessary.

Dependency on Ivy: Fey’s strong bond with Ivy makes him lose objectivity if she’s in danger.

Ahem about Ivy's powers

THREADS

The sensation of the thread feels cold to the touch for an ordinary person, even if held for a long time. It is smooth but not slippery, slightly rough, like copper wire. It feels heavy, as if it were a small chain or a piece of dense metal; the thread seems heavier than it should be. Its weight resembles that of a chain made of solid gold. It shines in the light like liquid gold, but this shine dulls at certain angles; when magic is used, it glows. When Ivy moves or stretches it, a light metallic ringing can be heard, similar to the sound of a bell, but with a muffled undertone that creates a strange sensation.

The feeling during the stitching of a living body, as when Ivy stitched a gentleman's arm, does not create a sensation of pain. Instead, it feels like a cool, silky touch that causes a slight tingling, as if magic is penetrating the body. Once the thread is "sewn" into the body, the wound begins to pulse with a warm wave, and the pain gradually fades away. During the stitching of the wound, the thread does not melt or dissolve but gradually "disappears" into the body, integrating with it and healing the damage.

For Ivy, the thread always feels light, like air. While using it, she feels how the thread "lives" in her hands: it stretches as if pulsing with gentle waves of magic, ready to obey her command.

The thread is almost impossible to break with ordinary means. Its strength is akin to being unbreakable, but Ivy can tear it magically by concentrating. The thread remains cold even at the highest temperatures. It cannot be melted by fire or dissolved by acid. It has high magical conductivity (specifically for Ivy), but not for electricity. The magical energy within the thread pulses with a faint golden light.

When Ivy uses magic, she feels a thread begin to “rise” from deep within her eyes. It doesn't cause pain, but the sensation is like a light tingling, as if tiny streams of warmth pulse from the depths of her skull to the surface. Her vision momentarily dims with a golden hue as the thread emerges, like a living thing awaiting commands.

It’s like a pulling action, but without physical effort, as the thread itself “slips out,” smoothly and effortlessly, as if knowing where it needs to go. A gentle warmth spreads around her eyes, but there’s no fatigue or discomfort—rather, it’s a soothing feeling of control.

The moment the thread touches the air, it begins to glow with a golden light. This soft luminescence intensifies if the magic is amplified. Ivy can see in the dark thanks to this glow, which gently illuminates everything around her, like the light of a candle flame; she can regulate its intensity.

When Ivy chooses to use her fingers, it's a completely different sensation. She feels her fingertips fill with a pulsating pressure, similar to a light tingling, but with a sense of depth. It feels as if her fingers temporarily become conductors of something larger—magic that flows from her and transforms into a physical form.

The moment the thread begins to emerge, she feels the last joint on each finger grow warm, but this warmth doesn't burn; it simply reminds her of the living force within her body. The golden coating on her fingers helps her control this process, and each movement of her finger seems to “unravel” an invisible ball of thread inside her.

As the thread emerges, it unfurls in the air with a soft whisper, like a light fabric, and feels like silk wrapping around her fingers.

PORTALS

When Ivy decides to create a portal, she first concentrates, almost freezing. Her body tenses, and the air around her seems heavier, as if filled with magical energy. She takes a deep breath, and the space around her becomes noticeably denser.

Her hands begin to move in the air, as if she's trying to "feel" the invisible fabric of the world. At first, it's like swimming lightly in water, but with each sweep, her fingers encounter something invisible—a pressure that feels cold and resistant, like a strong wind hitting her palms.

When she "touches" this resistance, her nails, covered in a golden glow, seem to grow into the fabric of the world. She pauses for a moment, takes a deep breath, and sharply pulls her hands in opposite directions. At that moment, space seems to tear—with a loud crack and a flash of gold. Before her, a portal appears: shimmering, framed by threads of golden light that flutter like fabric in the wind.

The portal looks like a rip in reality, through which another place can be seen. Its edges flicker and shift, as if they are always in motion. It is both beautiful and frightening—like looking into the eyes of something otherworldly.

Ivy calmly walks through it, and the portal disappears behind her as suddenly as it appeared, leaving only a brief flash of gold.

Portals created by Ivy have a "lifespan" that depends on the amount of residual magic. If a portal is created for a quick passage, it closes automatically immediately after she or her companions have passed through. Ivy's magic "senses" when the task is complete and closes the tear. Sometimes, when the portal closes, Ivy subconsciously performs the sealing in mere seconds. Her movements are so fast that it looks like the portal simply vanishes. In this case, the sealing process is automatic for her, but she still performs it, without even realizing it.

Manually sealing a portal is only necessary when she wants to leave the portal open longer, or if the tear becomes unstable and begins to expand, threatening to distort reality.

When Ivy wants to close a portal, she uses her golden threads. First, she carefully approaches the tear, almost bowing before it, as if before a living being. She takes a deep breath, touches the edge of the tear with her fingers, from which threads flow, and begins to "sew" it up.

The process looks as if she's literally stitching the fabric of the world, pulling the edges of the portal together. The threads shine with gold, and each stitch emits a warm light. As the threads pass through the portal's fabric, they leave behind a barely noticeable scar in space, which gradually dissolves, leaving everything in its original state.

After the stitching is complete, the thread completely dissolves, and the space becomes smooth, as if the portal never existed. But if you look closely, you can see a faint golden shimmer, a reminder that magic was once there.

Bonus about the Thread-Clothing

The scarf Ivy wears around her waist looks like a delicate ornament, shimmering golden in the sunlight. But in reality, this scarf is so dense that it weighs more than many full sets of knightly armor. For Ivy, it's simply part of her attire, light and imperceptible, but if she removes the scarf and gives it to someone else, the consequences can be staggering.

A person who tries to hold the scarf will feel its unbearable weight literally crushing into their body. Their shoulders might start to crack from the strain, and their forearm bones will break under the pressure, seemingly impossible for such apparently delicate fabric. The person will fall to their knees, unable to even let go of the scarf—it seems to live its own life, pressing them to the ground. ( and this is a light 'cute' version of what will happen to that person tbh)

The scarf isn't just heavy; its texture changes under pressure, constricting limbs, leaving bruises, and, in extreme cases, even tearing the skin. Within seconds, the person is immobile, their body contorting in agony, their breathing becoming shallow due to pressure on their chest.

At the same time, the scarf has incredible strength. Even the sharpest swords cannot cut it, bullets bounce off its surface without leaving even the slightest trace. It also serves as protection for Ivy herself—in case of attack, she can use it as a kind of shield, or even as a weapon, enveloping her opponent and neutralizing them effortlessly (for example, breaking their spine or pulverizing their face).

Besides scarves or accessories, Ivy is capable of creating entire garments from her thread. For example, if she knits a sweater, it will be so strong that it can protect against the most powerful blow or explosion from some GOD. But only Ivy herself can wear this clothing. For others, it would be so heavy that even attempting to lift it would be nearly impossible.

Old version

[xx-emi-chan-xx]

::Biographical overview::

Name: Karui

Age: 17

Relative(s):

Unnamed parents (†)

Mohatu (uncle)

Nickname(s):

Pouchmaster

hopscotch

Lady Hops-a-lot

tough-roo

Species: Kangaroo

::Physical Description::

Gender: Female

Height: 120cm (4 ft.)

Weight: 31 kg (68 lbs)

Fur: Beige, brown, creamy white

Skin: Peach

Eyes: Gold

::Attire::

Short green/yellow Poncho

Dark brown sports tape on arms and legs

distressed gray crop top

traditional tribal skirt

green with yellow details hair scarf

::Alignment and character traits::

Alignment:    Neutral

Affiliation(s): Kangaroo clan

                          Resistance (formerly)

Favorite food: watermelon

Likes:

Protecting the nature stone

martial arts

fruit

meditation

rainy days

Nature

Exploring

Dislikes:

Strong sunshine

Big cities

Being tricked or betrayed

Dr. Eggman and his robots

Dr. Starline

Being thought of as weak

Being questioned

Being called ''long legs''

Being left alone

::Skills::

Geokinesis

Enhanced agility

Enhanced durability

Superhuman jump

Acrobatic skills and reflexes

Hand-to-hand combat skills

Kickboxing Mastery

Bōjutsu

Cause devastating earthquakes with a single thump of her tail

Ability type:

Power type

::Appearance::

Karui is a beige-furred, anthropomorphic kangaroo with gold eyes, a small brown nose, and a white-furred muzzle with black painted stripes under her eyes. She has triangular ears with creamy beige-colored canals on top of her head and brown markings at the tips of it, one short eyelash on each side of her eyes, and a long tail. She has back-length hair that resemble Knuckles' quills done up in a high ponytail with a tribal green scarf tied with yellow details and a few large bangs on her forehead.

For attire, Karui wears a distressed gray crop top stitched which revealed her midriff, a sash that wraps around her skirt made out of shredded Pandanas and layered Tapa. She also wears dark brown sports tape on arms and legs. Up that all she wears a green poncho with yellow details just like her scarf tied.

::Personality::

Karui is a tomboyish, tough-as-nails warrior. Initially, she was a bit of a loner and somewhat defensive with strangers; being quite combative, outspoken, stubborn, and impulsive.

However, she eventually warmed up to the concept of friendship and became more sociable and positive as a result of her new relationships. Showing that through her tough exterior lies a heart of gold, and underneath it all, she's a girl who would do anything for her family and friends.

::Powers and abilities::

Geokinesis/Terrakinesis: Karui has the exceptionally strong elemental ability to create, control and manipulate the earth and other earthly substances and materials; such as sand, stone, rock, dirt and mud. She can hurl and lift boulders, generate earthquakes, mudslides, avalanches, fissures, project spikes of stone from the ground and tunnel through the earth.

Karui often transports herself and others by riding on a large slab of earth. She can change earthen matter from one state to another (such as shifting mud into solid stone). When using her powers, her hands will emit a yellow aura. She generally uses the motions of her hands to navigate her powers, though she can move earth through sheer concentration alone.

Bōjutsu: Karui was trained by her uncle, Mohatu, in the use of the bō, in which she twirls, swings and stabs like a spear. Her Hardwood Bo fight style is more on defense than offense, she makes use of her bō's versatile nature to block as well as counterattack. Despite this, she also able to deliver powerful strikes.

::Weaknesses::

Suffering from mild hemophobia, Karui get uncomfortable when faced with blood. If the amount of blood is large, she may even faint.

She also suffers from Pagophobia, an extreme fear of ice, which is perhaps her greatest weakness after having a near-death experience with it.

Her behavior also proved to be a problem most of the time, causing her to make irrational decisions.

::Backstory::

Before being dominated by the Eggman empire, Karui had been born in Mystic Jungle, to the northern kangaroo tribe. There were legends about their species that said that many centuries ago, kangaroos were blessed with the physical presence of mother nature on earth; a deity of light who traveled across the globe and watched over the many different environments she would encounter.

Along with its inhabitants, she kept all of nature in balance and the natural cycle of life under her protection at all times. After traveling the world, she'd sleep inside a giant tree for a full thousand years, where she regains her power to spread energy across the planet and in turn, would regenerate that energy and release it to spread new plant life in the surrounding area while she was unconscious.

Inside this tree, this deity would transform into a small, vibrant green stone while in her sleep period. After a thousand years had passed, she would return to her original form and remain awake for seven days before settling on another planet and sleeping again. She would do this process with all the planets she had passed before aswell.

It was then that one day the kangaroo clan found this giant tree and decided to build their civilization around it, treating it as their guardian and deity for a long time. But there were others who tried to invade and take over the deity stone that rested inside the tree and the clan always got involved in wars and conflicts to prevent the power of mother nature from falling into the wrong hands, and this lasted for generations.

It was then that half of the clan got tired of all this and of so many conflicts over a ''plant'', but the other half of the clan disagreed with this thought and wanted to continue protecting the tree, which caused a great conflict between its members, and the kangaroos who disagreed with this way of life separated from the northern tribe, creating the southern tribe.

Years after this incident, when Karui was 7 years old, she had gone on a hunting trip with her uncle, Mohatu for three days, without imagining what would happen. When they returned, they found their village completely destroyed and the tree in pieces with several robot wreckages lying around, with no survivors in sight. Mohatu searched the rubble for any sign of survivors or the stone, but found nothing until Karui called him towards her home. There her parents were dead, but inside her mother's pouch glowed a green light that they immediately recognized as the nature's stone. Mohatu deduced that his sister, Kya, had found the stone amidst the chaos that had occurred and hid it in her pouch, a place no one would think to look. After that, Mohatu decided to leave with Karui, along with the stone to the southern tribe, hoping that their former companions would have mercy and let them live with them.

::Relationships::

Mohatu (her uncle): Karui's relationship with her uncle, Mohatu, is the cornerstone of her life, shaped by both tragedy and unwavering support. After Eggman's ruthless attack on their village, which left their entire tribe decimated, Mohatu became Karui's guardian, mentor, and sole family. The destruction of their home and the loss of their loved ones created a deep bond between them, one forged in the fires of adversity and strengthened by their shared determination to survive.

Mohatu, a seasoned warrior and master of Bōjutsu, dedicated himself to raising Karui with the skills and resilience needed to navigate their harsh world. He trained her in the art of combat, teaching her how to wield the bō staff with precision and agility. Through grueling training sessions, he instilled in her the values of discipline, strength, and perseverance. Yet, beyond the rigorous training, Mohatu provided Karui with a sense of stability and love, offering wisdom and comfort whenever she struggled with the weight of their past.

Karui, in turn, held immense respect and admiration for her uncle. His unwavering strength and commitment to her well-being became a source of inspiration. Despite his stoic exterior, Mohatu's deep care for Karui was evident in every lesson and every word of encouragement. She cherished the stories he shared about their tribe, learning about their rich history and traditions, which fueled her desire to honor their legacy.

Their bond was not without its challenges. Karui's impulsive nature and desire to prove herself often led to clashes with Mohatu's more measured approach. However, these moments of tension were always tempered by their deep mutual understanding and love. Mohatu saw in Karui the potential to become a great warrior and leader, while Karui found in her uncle a pillar of strength and a guiding light.

Together, they navigated the hardships of their world, always looking out for one another. Mohatu's guidance helped Karui embrace her powers and her role as a protector, while Karui's unwavering spirit reminded Mohatu of the resilience and hope that still remained within them. Their relationship, built on a foundation of shared pain and enduring love, became a testament to their tribe's unbreakable spirit and their commitment to each other.

Knuckles the Echidna: Karui and Knuckles share a dynamic and multifaceted relationship, characterized by both camaraderie and fierce competition. As kindred spirits with a shared tribal heritage and warrior mindset, they quickly became close friends. Their bond was built on mutual respect and an understanding of each other's strengths and weaknesses. Despite their friendship, Karui and Knuckles are highly competitive, often engaging in intense tests of skill and strength. These contests range from sparring matches to feats of endurance, each one more challenging than the last. Karui's geokinesis and mastery of the bō staff, combined with Knuckles' formidable strength and combat prowess, make for thrilling battles that push them both to their limits.

Unbeknownst to Karui, her feelings for Knuckles run deeper than friendship. She finds herself drawn to his unwavering determination and sense of duty, and she admires his dedication to protecting the Master Emerald. Their interactions are a blend of playful banter and serious rivalry, with each trying to outdo the other while secretly cherishing their moments together. This undercurrent of unspoken affection adds a layer of complexity to their relationship, making their journey together all the more compelling. As they continue to challenge and support each other, both Karui and Knuckles may eventually come to realize the deeper bond they share.

Sonic the Hedgehog: Karui's relationship with Sonic the Hedgehog is a complex blend of camaraderie and rivalry, earning them the label of "best frenemies." When they first met, Karui's guarded nature and distrust of strangers clashed with Sonic's easygoing and friendly demeanor. She found his carefree attitude and relentless optimism grating, while Sonic was intrigued by her tough exterior and fierce independence. Their initial interactions were marked by friction and misunderstandings, with Karui often questioning Sonic's motives and abilities.

Over time, however, their relationship evolved. Sonic's persistent kindness and genuine desire to help others slowly chipped away at Karui's defenses. She began to see the depth of his character, recognizing the determination and bravery that lay beneath his laid-back facade. Sonic, on the other hand, came to appreciate Karui's loyalty and unwavering commitment to her friends and family. Their shared experiences in battle and moments of mutual support forged a strong, if unconventional, bond between them.

:Friends/allies:

Amy Rose

Big the Cat

Blaze the Cat (friendly rival)

Chaotix

Charmy Bee

Espio the Chameleon

Vector the Crocodile

Miles "Tails" Prower

Cream the Rabbit (good friends)

Silver the Hedgehog

Vanilla the Rabbit

:Neutral:

Tangle the Lemur (fan)

Whisper the Wolf

Team Dark

E-123 Omega

Rouge the Bat

Shadow the Hedgehog

Babylon Rogues

Jet the Hawk

Storm the Albatross

Wave the Swallow

:Enemies:

Deadly Six

Master Zik

Zavok

Zazz

Zeena

Zomom

Zor

Dr. Starline

Eggman Empire

Badniks

Cubot

Dr. Eggman

Metal Sonic

Orbot

Metal Virus

Surge the Tenrec

Zombots

[trans-axolotl]

Hi! I'm currently researching prison abolition, both for the sake of becoming better educated about it and because I plan to write a paper on it for class. Two questions for you:

First— what books/articles/videos/any other resources on the topic would you recommend? I've been doing some research on my own, but I'd love to have some more sources.

Second— what solutions do abolitionists offer for people who pose immediate threats? I'm struggling to find a solid answer on this. I know it's going to vary based on who you ask! Just looking for some possible answers. Mostly, I've seen this question answered by redirecting focus towards prevention of the circumstances that lead to this kind of behavior, and obviously that is important and should be the main focus, but I'm not sure what possible methods there are for people who already exist who are a threat to others' safety.

(I especially have a hard time with this question because I'm coming at it from an anarchist lens and I don't believe there should be any sort of carceral system or any governing power, but I don't know how this sort of problem can be dealt with without there being some sort of power structure).

If you don't have an answer for that second one, or just don't feel like answering, that's alright! Thanks for your time :))

Hi!

I'm going to list out a bunch of random resources--this is a very incomplete list, just with a few things that came to mind first.

Articles:

Journalism from currently incarcerated writers:

Prison Journalism Project

Scalawag Abolition Week

Marshall Prison Project

Prison Writing on Prison Abolition by empty cages collective and incarcerated workers organizing committee

Other articles:

Truthout's Road to Abolition

Reports/infographics/organizations:

Advancing Transgender Justice: Illuminating Trans Lives Behind and Beyond Bars By Vera Institute of Justice and Black and Pink

Critical Resistance.

SWOP behind Bars

HEARD

Books:

Change Everything by Ruth Wilson Gilmore

Assata: An Autobiography by Assata Shakur

Disability Incarcerated by Liat Ben Moshe

We Do This 'Til We Free Us: Abolitionist Organizing and Transforming Justice by Mariame Kaba

Are Prisons Obsolete? By Angela Davis

The New Abolitionists edited by Joy James

Captive Genders: Trans Embodiment and the Prison Industrial Complex by Eric Stanley & Nat Smith

Golden Gulag by Ruth Wilson Gilmore

Beyond Survival: Strategies and Stories from the Transformative Justice Movement edited by Ejeris Dixon and Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

In terms of your second question:

short answer, it cannot be a one-size-fits-all solution--any abolitionist future needs to have a wide variety of options for addressing harm that are able to actual address the particular circumstances of harm and meet the needs of the people in that particular context. Harm is an incredibly broad category that can differ so much depending on context. It feels difficult to just give one broad answer for "this is what we do about harm"--it seems necessary to have a different response to someone breaking into your house versus sexual violence versus bigoted physical violence and on and on and on.

Long answer: You're right that a lot of abolitionist thinking focuses on preventing harm and fundamentally changing a lot of the circumstances that are currently causing harm in people's lives. A lot also focusing on rethinking our ideas of safety, violence, harm, and crime, and untangling all the ways a carceral state has shaped our views on those concepts. (this article titled Reclaiming Safety by Mariame Kaba & Andrea J. Ritchie is an important read for thinking about how the concept of safety is constructed in our society). But all that being said, you're right that part of building an abolitionist future requires us to have a way to respond to harm when it does occur, because change doesn't happen overnight and we need those skills now. And these abolitionist responses to harm are something that are already happening now in so many ways in so many different communities and neighborhoods--a lot of people aren't just talking about it using the terminology of prison abolition. For me, it feels really important to start by thinking about what we're already doing and look for ways we can increase our own capacity to respond to harm and to care for our community.

I don't have all the answers, but I'm going to list out some examples of ways that people are already responding to harm without prisons. i don't necessarily think that all of these approaches are applicable to every situation or that they would be the ideal response in a future when we have more options, but i do just want to emphasize that there are things that people are trying right now:

making sure that someone who caused harm isn't able to be in positions of power in organizations/work/community spaces, and making people aware of the harm that was caused.

meeting the material needs of survivors of harm--mutual aid, getting access to housing, resources, etc.

de-escalation training, having people in community equipped to step in to situations where harm is being caused. (i know a few places where this is more-or-less organized--some neighborhoods where people have sort of a neighborhood watch thing going on so people know they can call that group instead of the cops if they need emergency support. )

building up things like peer respite and many other alternatives for supporting people through madness--i have a post discussing the question of alternatives to psych wards for people labeled a "danger to others."

directly intervening in situations where harm is being caused: physically showing up to keep each other safe

financial reparations

community accountability processes focused on creating accountability for bigoted violence, gender based violence, etc.

and a bunch more ideas--I'm not going to list out every possible thing I could think of here.

I'd really recommend reading Beyond Survival, which is a trying to answer some of these questions through looking at examples of things that are already working, and challenges the idea that transformative justice is just community accountability processes where everyone has to sit down at a table together to talk and the survivor just ends up retraumatized. (some authors in the anthology talk in depth about times in which that kind of process would actually increase danger to survivors, in fact.) They also make a lot of room to talk about the experience of being a survivor who has all these complex emotions and feelings towards whoever has caused us harm, and makes a lot of room for messy, complicated feelings of anger or desires for retributive harm.

Some of the examples of transformative justices responses that they share include a public letter campaign to address an abuser who was popular in movement spaces, community created research databases tracking racist violence and murders, community led murder investigations through different tactics including documentary filmmaking, family members stepping in to confront abusers and remove children from unsafe spaces, building up community first aid and medical knowledge to reduce the amount cops get called, a toolkit for transformative justice plans within youth spaces, community defense groups, including groups prepared to do physical defense, and so many more examples of things that people are trying.

I'll also link the creative interventions workbook, which is a really extensive toolkit for thinking of ways to respond to interpersonal violence.

A frequent criticism of prison abolition is that it's not practical--that our suggested responses to harm are impossible and could never work. And I can understand why people respond that way. It can be really frustrating to see people list out a lot of things that wouldn't work yet where you live because your neighbors are bigoted, or you're currently incarcerated, or you live in an inaccessible city with no in person community, etc. That anger feels meaningful, because it highlights just how fucked up it is that those barriers exist and that we don't have more options for community care right now. And at the same time, if we only try ideas based on what is currently practical, we end up just using the same existing frameworks to try to build a new world, and accept the current limits placed on us through the violence of prisons and policing. I think that abolition must be a little impractical to be effective--we need to be able to move beyond what is currently practical within the carceral apparatuses of state violence, and instead work to build in a way that dismantles what the state defines as realistic.

Last thing I'll say is that for me, it is so vital to always remember that prison abolition is a political movement centered in dismantling a white supremacist system that enacts antiblack racist violence on a gigantic scale. It's not just a buzzword to throw around to refer to anything, it's important to stay connected to what this actually about, learn about the radical history and lineage of Black prison abolitionists in the US, instead of misusing and extracting political resources without having reciprocity and solidarity. And also to stay connected to prison resistance movements right now--recognizing that the most important works of abolition are happening in these carceral spaces as we speak.

if any followers have other resources about prison abolition that they want to add on, feel free!

[loopstagirl]

Fractured Reflection, Ch 4

TW: Prisoner of war, torture

With many thanks to @scribbles97 for keeping me inspired!

Scott's POV 1 | Jeff's POV 1 | Scott's POV 2 | Jeff's POV 2 | Scott's POV 3 | Jeff's POV 3

Chapter 4 - Scott's POV

It took several days after the debriefing for Scott to find any semblance of balance again. Saying it out loud, putting that room into words, made it real and tangible. It seemed so close, like it was just down the corridor and if they decided they didn’t like his answers, that’s where he was going until he changed his story.

The nightmares got worse. A low-grade fever left him sweating and shaking as he struggled to deal with the shock of what they’d suggested.

Him. A traitor.

Captain Scott Tracy of the United States Air Force, decorated pilot, son of Jeff Tracy, a legendary hero, a traitor.

The worst part was that for a second, he wondered if it was true.

During the darkest moments, he couldn’t remember what he’d told them. He had bargained with them, forcing their attention on him to protect the rest of his team. He didn’t think he was stronger than them, far from it. But they were his squad. It was his duty, his responsibility, to keep them from harm.

The water boarding. The room. The beatings. The humiliation. Scott always believed his family had stopped him from losing his mind: those precious memories giving him a fragile grip on reality. But what if his mouth had betrayed him, betrayed his country, even as his mind drifted away with thoughts of his mother’s smiling face; his brothers’ laughing; his father’s strong arms keeping him safe?

His dad wasn’t enough this time. But by the time the fever broke and they got him back on solid foods again, a therapist had been lined up. The first session left him more wrung out than any of his recovery so far, but it had helped.

Deep down, he knew he hadn’t betrayed anyone, other than maybe himself. It hadn’t taken long for someone to help him reassert his self-belief and shake off the thoughts those Generals had planted in his head.

Of course, it helped that the Generals didn’t come back with any other questions. Scott had a feeling Colonel Casey had something to do with that. She’d been almost as furious as his father at what they’d been insinuating, and Scott knew his ‘aunt’ would’ve have given some higher-ups hell over it, regardless of rank.

But now, things had started looking up again. He’d had another session with the therapist. Then he’d been introduced to a different sort of therapist. Scott had been both looking forward to, and dreading, the start of physical therapy. He wanted to get back on his feet, wanted full motion back again. But he didn’t want to face his own weakness. Never mind his mouth; his body had certainly betrayed him.

It was both better and worse than he had anticipated. But there was one side effect he hadn’t considered.

It exhausted him. More than anything. In fact, it exhausted him so much he managed to sleep without nightmares tearing him from his new reality to his old one.

A week after the debriefing, Scott slowly opened his eyes. It was bright in the room, a natural light rather than the glow of the lamp he insisted was left on. Purely to help anyone coming and going, of course.

But for the first time, he’d slept the night through.

He felt it, too. The blanket was a warm weight rather than the suffocating restraint it had been previously. He hurt, but it wasn’t the agonising stab of memory, more the slightly unpleasant ache of pushing himself too far.

(Apparently, no one told this therapist they’d have a harder job slowing their new patient down than motivating them to take the next step).

Scott rolled his head to the side, and the memory of a smile touched his lips. It no longer surprised him to see his father in the chair by his bed. The man had told him he was going to stay by his side, and he’d stayed true to that. Scott knew he should tell him to go, find a proper bed, get a decent night. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

Jeff was exhausted. Scott could tell by the way he didn’t immediately wake up as soon as his son moved. It gave him a moment to study the man, though. There was no doubt he’d aged in the time Scott had been missing, and dark circles ringed his eyes, making him look drawn and, well, old.

But as he looked, Scott’s gaze drifted to his dad’s hand. It was resting, palm up on his leg, his fingers loosely curled around something. It was obvious he’d been holding it tight, but sleep had made his grip soften. Scott caught a glimpse of something metal.

He shifted again, his whole body moving this time. It was enough to make his dad stir. He instantly sat up straighter, cracking his neck from side to side before smiling at his son.

“Good morning.”

Scott’s lips twitched. He wasn’t quite there yet; his muscles seemed to have forgotten how to form expressions other than fear and pain.

His dad stretched but Scott’s gaze was locked on his hand still. It had clenched as he moved.

“What’s that?” Scott gestured at his father’s hand.

His dad looked down at his closed fist. He went still, knuckles turning white as his grip tightened. For a moment, Scott didn’t think he was going to say anything. When he did, his voice was quiet but hoarse, as if his emotions were constricting him.

“It’s,” he stopped. Swallowed. Came forward and sat down on the edge of the bed. Scott shifted over to give him space, pleased when his body let him move with something that resembled ease.

“They’re yours,” his dad whispered. Slowly, his fist opened. Scott stared.

He remembered all too clearly the day he’d been presented with the tags. Five days in to his basic military training, queuing up with what would later become his squad: going through the process of registering his information and getting his fingerprints taken to give him an active record on the system. Being presented with the two small pieces of metal and the instructions to have them with him, always.

Scott hadn’t taken them off from that day onwards. Even when he was on leave, and his brothers had pestered to see them, he’d unhooked them from his shirt, let them hold the tags in their hands, warmed by the closed contact with his skin. But never once had he slipped the chain from around his neck.

He could remember all too well when he’d lost them as well.

It hadn’t been immediate. Their captors had let them keep them, let them cling on to their identities, for all the good it did them. As far as he could tell, the rest of the squad had been rescued with theirs still on. It was the only way their captors had let them keep any of their humanity.

But not Scott.

It had been that final time they’d dragged him to isolation. Once they’d got him away from the others, two men holding his arms even as they’d forced him to his knees, another soldier had stepped in front of him. With one sharp tug, he’d torn them from his neck. In that movement, he’d also torn away Scott’s sense of self, his hope, and his adamant belief he was going to see his family again.

He’d torn away what had made Scott Tracy the man he was.

“How-,” this time, it was his voice that was shaking. “How did you get them?”

He thought he knew, though. All along, there had been something missing. His father had refused to say how they’d provided proof of life, refused to comment on what had sparked off the rescue mission when everyone higher up the chain of command had written Scott off as lost.

“They sent them to me,” his dad murmured. “A small, unobtrusive package arrived at the office one day. They thought they were sending a ransom. While it was true that sending me your tags was enough to get my attention, they made a mistake. Sending me these was giving me my son back.”

Scott thought he understood. Until then, his dad hadn’t had a reason to believe he was alive. Sending the tags had given him hope, even as it had been taken away from Scott.

“Here.” His dad gently took his wrist, angling his hand until he could slip the tags onto Scott’s palm.

Scott froze. They were warm from the heat of his father’s skin. The engravings glinted in the warm light of the room, providing Scott with information he’d forgotten about himself in that place. All he could do was stare for a long moment.

A gentle hand covered his own, slowly folding his fingers around the tags. Scott let it happen, but he didn’t consciously move. When the hand disappeared, shifting to a soft grip on his shoulder, Scott made himself look up.

“Scotty?”

With a yell he didn’t know he had in him, Scott threw the tags across the room.

They stripped his identity from him when they’d taken those tags. But giving them back didn’t restore everything he’d lost.

“They’re not mine,” he said, breathing heavily.

“Scott, they are.”

“No.” Scott looked away. “That’s not me.”

The man those tags belonged to had been lost in that prison, trapped in the darkness begging for someone to come and save him. How could Scott take the tags back when he couldn’t go back to the man who’d worn them?

He kept his head turned as his father stood up. He heard him collect the tags from where they’d fallen. While Scott was grateful that his dad didn’t try and give them back, he also didn’t know what to do when the man placed them on the bedside table.

“No one is making you wear them,” he murmured in a soothing tone. “But don’t give up on them so easily.”

Don’t give up on yourself so easily is what Scott heard.

He was breathing heavily through his nose, trying to keep the tears at bay. He was so tired of feeling weak and vulnerable, his emotions getting the better of him after so long suppressing them. But there was something about those two small pieces of metal and the chain holding them together that was more of a painful reminder of what he’d lost than anything his dad could’ve said.

The bed dipped again under his father’s weight.

“You think that because of what you went through, you’re not the man you were? Well, you’re right. No one can undo what you experienced, although god knows I wish I could. No amount of therapy is going to get that man back, son. It’s changed you. But it’s up to you to figure out if that’s for better or worse.”

Scott couldn’t look at him, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the bedspread. It wasn’t a surprise when a hand cradled the back of his head and his father pressed a kiss to his forehead before he stood up. No doubt he was intending to give his son space to come to terms with his latest emotional rollercoaster.

“Dad?”

Scott found his voice just before his father walked out of the door. He stopped, looking back.

“Scott?”

Scott sat up straighter, forcing himself to meet his dad’s gaze.

“Help me shave?”

A grin split over Jeff’s face and he nodded.

“Of course. I’ll get what we need.”

He hurried out, as if Scott was going to change his mind in the few moments it took him to fetch everything. But all Scott did was force himself to sit up straighter, flexing his fingers. He wasn’t steady enough to hold the razor himself yet.

His father had made a good point. He couldn’t be the man he was before. But that didn’t mean he had to be the man that prison had made him, either.

Scott wasn’t naïve: it wasn’t as simple as a change in mindset. He was still haunted; still scarred, both physically and mentally.

But as he got ready to take back some control, he figured a change in his thoughts had to be a damn good starting point.

-x-

“Two more beads, then you’re done.”

Mal’s voice was warm and encouraging. Scott gritted his teeth, his hand, no, his entire arm, trembling, as he held the small bead between thumb and forefinger. With his other hand, he held the string as steady as he could, concentrating as he tried to thread the bead on.

It was his fifth physical therapy session, and if Mal was surprised by the strides his patient was taking, he was professional enough not to show it. He hadn’t needed any of his usual coaxing with Scott. Instead, he’d needed to remind the man what his body had gone through and pushing it wasn’t going to make him heal any faster, but the opposite.

Scott threaded one bead, then the second. He saw Mal shift out of the corner of his eye, no doubt prepared to take the equipment away. Before he could do so, Scott threaded a third bead.

“Alright, hot shot,” Mal laughed. “You proved your point.”

He took them away before Scott could do anymore. Scott sat back in the chair with a sharp exhale, surprised when he realised his forehead was damp with perspiration. It should’ve been such a simple task, but it took it out of him more than he cared to admit.

They’d set his fingers, straightening them out after they’d healed wrong from previous breaks. Improving his dexterity hadn’t been quite as straightforward, but Scott was adamant he would get it back. He might not be able to play the piano properly, but that had never been his forte anyway. As long as he would be able to fly, that was good enough for him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Mal said. “We’ll hit the gym.”

Scott nodded. He liked his physical therapist. Mal didn’t treat him like he was broken; didn’t let Scott wallow in self-pity. He treated him like a buddy, challenging him in a friendly way that Scott couldn’t refuse even if he found it hard. He wondered what that said about his pride, whether it was as gone as he believed…

“Mr Tracy.”

“Mal.”

Scott looked up at the voice. As Mal left with a cheerful wave, his father came in with two coffees in his hand. Scott gave a small smile, the action gradually coming back to him with each day that passed. The medical staff had tried to warn him off the caffeine, before realising it was a far greater motivator to make him do as he was told than anything else.

He took the offered cup, but had to put it down. His muscles were trembling from the activity he’d just been doing.

His dad sat on the bed. He didn’t say anything: he’d learnt not to ask how the session had been as Scott would only focus on what he should’ve been able to do rather than what he’d managed.

“I was thinking we could get some fresh-,” he trailed off, frowning.

Scott heard it, too. The sound of a commotion coming from further down the hallway. He glanced at his dad, who shook his head: he didn’t know what was going on, either.

Scott shrank back. He didn’t mean to. But the last time he’d heard raised voices down a corridor, they’d been coming for him.

Whether his father had seen the action or was just curious himself, Scott didn’t know. But he leapt from the bed and stuck his head out of the door.

“Stay here,” he called back. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

Scott didn’t point out he was exhausted after his therapy session: he couldn’t go anywhere even if he wanted to. But he did force himself to sit up straighter, refusing to be that scared little boy again.

But as the noise came closer, Scott straightened even more. He frowned. This wasn’t a threat. This was something familiar. He knew those voices. They’d got him through the worst moments of his life. Not his team, but people even closer to him than that…

Just as Scott intended to stand, the door opened. His dad appeared, a look Scott recognised from years gone by: half-exasperation, half-fondness.

Four very familiar figures crowded in the doorway. For a moment, there was a sharp intake of breath. Scott stared back just as intently as they were looking at him.

John: paling when he saw his big brother, but the smile uncurling making him look years younger.

Virgil: jaw set, head lifted as he refused to show what he thought about his brother’s appearance and instead trying to be strong.

Gordon: his jaw dropping when he saw Scott.

Alan: giving a small gasp, tears flooding his eyes and turning into John.

Scott didn’t know what to say. Even after weeks of the best care the military had to offer (plus a bit more, given Jeff’s refusal to leave and no one wanting to upset him), he knew he still looked like a mess.

He was wearing a zipped hoodie and tracksuit bottoms. But the exertion of the therapy had made him unzip the top, leaving his chest and torso exposed. Most of the wounds were well on their way to healing, but the scars were still puckered and raw. Scott jerked, quickly pulling the zipper back up.

“Well, fu-.”

“Gordon!” John’s hand shot out, cuffing him over the head.

“What?” Gordon protested, rubbing his head, and looking at John. “He’s not exactly Prince Charming right now.”

“He’s never been Prince Charming,” Virgil said in a distracted tone. His gaze was locked on Scott, his expression serious. Scott wondered if he even realised he’d spoken.

But Scott knew he’d seen what the others hadn’t. The slightest relaxation in his shoulders at Gordon’s words. It was better than pretending everything was fine and nothing amiss.

“That’s because Prince Charming is the boring one. I’d rather be Aladdin,” Gordon shot back.

“A thief?”

“At least he gets to have more adventures.”

“Doesn’t get to fight a dragon though,” John said.

Their dad was shaking his head at their antics. But Alan’s tears had dried up and colour had returned to John’s cheeks. Before Gordon could respond, there came another sound.

One that had been missing for a very long time. Longer than Scott had been gone. As even though he’d been in the hospital for several weeks now, he hadn’t realised he still had this in him. Listening to his brothers’ banter, their utterly ridiculous conversation given where they were standing and what they were faced with, there was only one thing Scott could do.

He laughed.

It didn’t last long but enough to see the startled look on his father’s face relaxing into a pleased smile. John and Gordon exchanged smug smirks and the four brothers made their way into the room.

Scott looked at his dad. “Help me?” he murmured softly.

The man helped him over to the bed, knowing what Scott wanted. Scott then pulled Alan up next to him, wrapping his arms around the boy’s waist. Virgil snagged the chair and dragged it over even as Gordon climbed on the bed, sitting cross-legged on the end. Virgil sat in the chair, also folding his legs up, while John leant against the wall.

Scott looked around at the four of them. Drank in the sight of them. The feeling of Alan in his arms, Gordon’s weight leaning against his foot, reaching out and touching Virgil’s arm, making sure they were all real, all truly here.

There was a lump in his throat, but this time, it was different to when emotions had previously overwhelmed him. This felt… Scott swallowed. This felt positive.

He thought he’d been starting to come to terms with what had happened to him and started to process the emotions that came with that. But this time, it felt like a leaden weight in his chest had moved from his heart to his throat, and was fighting to free itself. He didn’t currently know how to speak, what he was supposed to say, but he felt that maybe he could breathe properly for the first time since he’d woken up.

He couldn’t stop himself, looking from one to the other, mouth opening. He wanted to tell them what it meant to him that they were here, how hard he’d kept fighting to come back to them and how they’d kept him going. But his voice didn’t work and tears flooded his eyes instead.

They were here.

They were really here.

Apparently, his father thought the same thing.

“How did you get here?” There was a firm note in his voice, one that gave away he expected an answer. Virgil flushed, looking at John who was pointedly examining something on the far wall with far greater intensity than a blank white patch needed. Both Alan and Gordon looked at their big brothers. When no one spoke, Gordon did.

“Virgil flew,” he announced. Virgil gave him a betrayed look and Gordon pulled an apologetic face. “What? You did. John navigated and made all those calls about landing rights and flight paths or whatever he was talking about but Virgil was at the controls.”

“Thank you, Gordon,” their dad said in a clipped tone. “I just didn’t realise he owned a plane to bring the three of you over to the mainland.”

“We may have borrowed Tracy 2,” John confessed to the wall.

“And you knew our location how?”

They were in a military hospital, after all. It wasn’t widely known exactly whereabouts it was located. This time, it was John who flushed and nothing else needed to be said.

Their dad pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “So, you stole my plane and came to a classified military hospital whose location John dug out from somewhere he shouldn’t have access to. How did you get past the guards?”

This wasn’t the sort of place that anyone could just walk into. Not only because it was military, but because of the severity of both the physical and emotional injuries being treated here. Too many things were triggers for the men and women who’d been through hell.

“Oh, that was all Alan,” Virgil said, sounding proud.

“Please, sir,” Alan said in a high voice. His blue eyes went impossibly wide. “Both my daddy and big brother are in there. I have to see them; I just have to.”

“Then I told them I really needed the bathroom,” Gordon chimed in, sounding far too pleased with himself.

Scott couldn’t help it. He laughed again. In a way, he should’ve known. Only his brothers would take entering a restricted military hospital as a challenge and not let anything stop them.

“That’s not exactly how it went down,” a voice said from the door. All the Tracys looked up.

“Aunt Val!” Alan cried, excitedly.

“What do you mean?” John asked.

“You think I didn’t know as soon as you four cleared the flight path? I guessed you were coming here, although I’m impressed that you made it that far. I warned the guards four tearaway kids would be arriving and to let them in.”

“I’m not a child anymore, Aunt Val,” John said. It had been a long time since anyone had called him a child.

“Are to me, kiddo,” Val said. She reached over and ruffled his hair, making John scowl and Gordon laugh. “Now, Gordon, Alan, how about you boys come and help me find some snacks.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. Alan looked like he was going to protest but Gordon slipped off the bed, serious for once and knowing to do as he was told. She gestured them out in front of her, and Scott watched them leave.

“Alan’s grown,” he said quietly, “and Gordon’s got stronger.”

“He’s training hard,” his dad said. “Taking it seriously.”

“Good.”

Scott had been worried his brothers would give up their own dreams when he’d gone missing. He was glad to see that wasn’t the case, although he did wonder if Gordon had seen the pool as refuge rather than thinking about his career.

For a moment, there was silence. Scott looked up to see John and Virgil exchange glances heavy with unspoken meaning. He understood. For six months, the pair of them had been forced to deal with the idea that he was missing, captured behind enemy lines, and then presumed dead. They’d had to process a lot.

Now they were here and Scott knew he was hardly the brother who’d said goodbye to them last time he’d been home.

But with Alan and Gordon gone, he had some space. He shifted up on the bed, motioning for them to both come closer.

“I’m not going to break,” he told them.

Virgil had clearly been waiting for that. With a soft cry, he flung himself forward and wrapped his arms around his big brother. Scott returned the grip, and knew it was the strongest he’d held something in months.

“Don’t do that,” Virgil said against his shoulder. “Don’t ever do that again, you hear?”

“Yes, Sir,” Scott said with a small smile. As John came closer, Scott lent his cheek against the top of Virgil’s head and allowed himself to smile.