#thwart those tropes

[marlynnofmany]

Are there any stories out there with a male immortal giving up his long life for a woman? It sure seems like that trope only happens with female sacrifice, Arwen-and-Aragorn style. I’ve got nothing against that story in particular, but the trend sure smells of sexism.

Why’s it gotta be the girl who gives up everything, huh? Where are my reverse Little Mermaid stories?

[sunniskyies]

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐞 || 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: Here !! 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: More than a year after your unexplained disappearance, Percy finds you again on a rainy Christmas night. 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: book!Percy Jackson  x Calliope!fem!reader 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Mentions of grief? 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Fluff, Reunion trope, kind of established relationship 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.2k 𝐀/𝐍: IT’S BEEN OVER THREE MONTHS SINCE I GOT THIS REQUEST I'M SORRY— SCHOOL. I’ve ended up changing this rec quite a bit, but I hope those reading still enjoy it <3

It’s not that Percy didn’t like the rain, it’s just there was so much of it. Fat droplets hung from his skin and hair, Manhattan lighting him up like a disco ball. His jacket and shirt were saturated, and his fingers were so frigid they struggled to remain clutched around his skateboard and the brown paper bag. Percy Jackson, Son of the Sea God, thwarted by winter weather.

He should have been back at home half an hour ago, well before the Christmas rain had come. But his route home from the skate shop passed by a bakery, and the smell of fresh madeleines had stopped him in his tracks. A ripple of emotion sank through his body at the familiar scent, one he hadn’t smelt in well over a year. His neighbourhood didn’t have any proper pâtisseries, so he’d never had to smell the baked good, as they were never made. This batch must be some kind of Christmas special.

He slowly turned to look in the window, the warm light cutting through the twilight and sinking into his tan skin. He took a deep breath and pushed inside to the toasty interior.

The bakery was contentedly full; a mother grinning as her two young children excitedly pointed at items in the cabinet, a businessman buying holiday treats for his family, two teenage girls hip-to-hip sipping hot cocoas and kissing chocolate mustaches off eachother. Percy’s green gaze drifted behind the counter where a young baker held a tray of sugar-encrusted madeleines.

The picture of a girl his age slipped uninvited into his mind, as the memories always did. She was curled up in a nest of duvet and quilt, nibbling a madeleine with a book propped up on her knees. Percy’s nose was buried in the hair around her neck, reading lazily over her shoulder with sleep-heavy eyes.

“They’re the best! They’re hand-sized and not messy, so you can eat them while reading!” The sweet-toothed girl had told him once. Ever since then, Percy had made the effort to ask for the little cakes from the camp kitchen and sneak the contraband back to her. He was rewarded with kisses that tasted like brown sugar and lemon, and gooey eyes that left the pages for a moment.

The haze of remembrance cleared, and Percy Jackson was standing in a hole-in-the-wall Manhattan bakery once more. The room was oven-warmed, but he now was cold from the inside out, a hunger that couldn’t be satiated even if he ate every baked treat in the shop. 

The mother and her sons passed by him, their laughs disappearing back into the evening, the open door cooling the space a fraction. Percy took another steadying breath and approached the counter.

“Four madeleines, please.” For old-time’s sake.

The detour had cost him his dry clothes. The rain had started coming down pretty much as soon as he left the bakery, and here he was, soaked and clutching a brown paper bag of sponge cakes he wasn’t even sure he would be able to choke down.

He held the parcel beneath his damp jacket, not wanting to lose the precious smell. Most shops in this neighbourhood had shut for Christmas, so he was surprised when he turned a corner to find the dark street bearing a pool of warm light.

The light belonged to an old, second-hand bookstore. He’d never seen it here before. Similarly to the bakery, its glow was enticing. Percy’s jaw clenched, and he looked up to the sky, thinking. The raindrops seemed fatter still. He was almost home, but this weather was miserable. Surely he could step inside for a moment, dry off and then walk the rest of the way? Something about the shop was drawing him in inexplicably.

He really hoped this shop wasn’t a trap, and that he’d just simply never noticed it before. He didn’t feel like fending of monsters tonight, but his fingers still danced over his pocket where Riptide was nestled as he jogged up the door and walked through the door with a cheery ‘ting’ of the bell.

It smelled like old paper and that scent you find when you press your face into a woollen garment and inhale. Like home and libraries and textbooks. The air was chilly, only a rattling little heater sat in the corner trying to warm the space. A space that seemed… bigger on the inside than it had from the street. Percy drifted over to one of the towering shelves, lined with old tomes. His dark eyebrows furrowed as he ran a calloused finger along a bevelled spine. It read:

𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬; 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡; 𝐀 𝐉𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐈𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Except the title was written in Ancient Greek.

Percy could read it fine, the question was what was it doing here? As he looked at the rest of the shelf, he realised every single one was written in Greek. They had classics like Homer, but also creative pieces and essays and thesis’ and novels. It was identical to a normal indie bookstore, just in Ancient Greek.

Percy was so absorbed in examining the spines that he didn’t notice someone coming up beside him.

“How can I help you?” A girl's voice spoke. “Oo! Are those madeleines? I adore madeleines!” Percy jumped and whipped around to see a young girl with a sparkly smile and warm, sugary eyes. When their eyes met, however, both faces slackened. Who recognised who first one couldn’t say, but both felt that familiar ache erupt alongside a chariot-full of unidentifiable feelings.

Her hair was different, and she wasn’t wearing that too-big orange shirt, but he’d recognise that girl anywhere. In a heartbeat. For the rest of time. Undoubtably, wholly, you.

You.

A squeak slipped from your lips, your e/c eyes as wide as the moon. Distantly, Percy heard the thud as the skateboard and paper bag slipped from his hand, but all he could comprehend was the sight of you standing in front of him. For the first time in his life, it felt like his ADHD brain shut off, everything around him dimming into a blurry vignette, your face in stark clarity. You were saying something, he knew that. Your lips were moving fast, eyes flickering. An explanation, maybe. An apology for running away without a word. But Percy couldn’t care less at that moment, only thinking about how you’re alive, you’re alive, you're alive.

He could feel his feet taking him closer to you, and yours carrying you backwards.

“Please, Percy! Say something!” He heard you plead, your fingers twisted together painfully. “I’m sorry I did it, but you understand right? You have to un—”

Rain-cooled fingers slipped amongst your hair, flushed lips crashing into yours. One arm cradled the small of your back, battle-strong and intent on holding you close to him.

Explanations can wait. Apologies can wait, the arguments can wait. All that mattered was that the ache was over, Percy thought giddily. That grief that had stained every inch of him was washed off with one glance of you. 

Even without the madeleines, you still taste sweet. Like citrus and sugar. Your skin smelt like parchment and enchanted Greek ink, a scent lingering from hours pouring over a typewriter. His face pressed so close into yours, he could almost smell every word you had written.

What were you thinking? Is this okay? His heart was pounding so loudly he was sure you could feel it, but your arms were around his neck and your breath was pooling together, damp clothes pressed against dry. Twin flames flickering together.

© sunniskyies 2024, do not repost or translate my work

[another-lost-mc]

Hellooooo first time requesting on your blog!

So for a long time I've wondered what it would be like if NB Satan & OG Satan were to meet & converse with each other. How would they react to each other? What questions would they ask? How would they respond? Etc. I was wondering how you would imagine this interaction would work?

Also, is it okay if I claim 🦄 anon?

A/N: Ooh that's such a neat idea. You know those “talk to your past/future self" tropes? I almost see OG Satan leading NB Satan through the present timeline version of House of Lamentation. It gives him a glimpse of what life will be like later, how things will change and what will still be the same. I kept this mostly wholesome because NB has enough angst potential without me adding to it. lol

SATAN x gn!Reader, 0.5k words, SFW.

Content: implied established relationship with gn!Reader.

The house itself is obviously a bit different. It’s older but also newer in some ways—updates and renovations over time, that sort of thing. It’s endured years of the siblings living there and all that entails. Their home is obviously loved and well-cared for, despite the little dents in the wall from their squabbles and the occasional scorched marks from some accidental fires. Those lingering remnants of the past each tell a story, and OG Satan offers to share them all.

I think NB Satan is just confused by everything he sees. There are portraits of himself on the walls, and there's lots of family photos where OG Satan looks so happy. OG Satan talks about his brothers while they walk slowly through the halls together. His voice is laced with fondness, especially even when he talks about Lucifer. He reminisces about pranks he attempted with Belphie that Lucifer managed to thwart somehow, but there’s no real bite in his tone. He can look back fondly on those memories and cherish them all, the good and the bad.

By the time they get to his bedroom, NB Satan has no idea what to think. He explores the familiar space but notices all the subtle differences: there are a lot of human world literature and movies strewn about, and he notices a jar of cat treats near the door so it's easy to grab a handful before going out to feed the strays. This bedroom feels less like a prison of his own making because it's comfortable and uniquely him and surprisingly warm.

OG Satan just kind of watches his other self with something like amusement, and NB Satan gets fed up feeling like the punchline to someone's idea of a joke.

"I don't get it. We're the same, aren't we? So why aren't you—how are you not—?"

"How am I not what?"

"How are you not angry all the time? Why are you so happy? Especially talking about him."

"Oh, I'm angry," OG Satan says, picking up a framed photo from his bedside table. He runs his fingers over the glass as he looks at the picture in his hands. "You know what it feels like, how it festers deep inside us. We're always looking for reasons to let our rage loose on the world so everyone else hurts as much as we do. But we both had to learn that there's more to life than that, didn't we?"

OG Satan hands him the photo, and NB Satan takes the frame carefully. It's a a photo of him and his family at a beach somewhere, and right there in the middle with their arms wrapped around his waist is—

"Our attendant?" he asks, eyes lingering on a familiar smile before reluctantly handing the photo back.

OG Satan nods. "If anything, you're the lucky one," he says, returning the picture to its proper place beside his bed. "I had to wait a lot longer to meet them than you did. I was lost just as you were, but then they came here and—well, I have a feeling you know how the rest of that story goes," he says, clearing his throat as a pink blush dusts his cheeks.

For the first time since they met, it feels like they finally understand each other. "...Yeah, I think I do."

[cubeapples]

a funny but slightly angsty trope i want to write for those tomarry time travel to the 40s aus is: when tom just… doesn’t gaf about the new transfer student. like imagine how funny that would be. harry thinking tom is just evil all the time, and trying to catch him in the act, but really, Tom is just studying super hard, and doesn’t have time to come up with any schemes.

Tom helping the first year students and Harry’s suddenly reminded that he was a good student and a role model, so if Harry accuses him of something he’d look insane.

Harry trying to join the K.O.W but pureblood supremacy being so much worse and Harry’s not allowed to join and is told hes worthless by fuckin’ walburga black or something. Since he’s not great at dueling in a formal setting, tom doesn’t take notice of him at all. He gets so frustrated, he can’t even punch tom, because tom would curse him so badly and harry would look crazy.

harry trying to confront Tom and telling him that he’s a time traveler and the prophecy and that lord voldemort becomes a joke in the future and Tom is like: woahhh, that’s crazyyyy, anyway, ten points from slytherin for being up after curfew. Tom doesn’t take him seriously at all!!! dude doesn’t CAREE. He has more important things to do like gossip with abraxas malfoy and smoke with alphard black.

harry finally thwarting tom from killing myrtle and tom’s just like: ‘phew, atleast dumbledore wouldn’t have a legitimate reason to expel me’ and moves on.

and Harry’s just relieved, but SO SO irritated that tom doesn’t gaf about him, so he kinda starts to not care about him at all and talks to hagrid or something, and then when he least expects it,

the basilisk ends up fucking killing him.

[waywardrose]

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY 28

stranger things

eddie munson x reader

rated e

9k

spotify playlist

for @punk-in-docs​​​

fem/witch/goth!reader, sweetheart!eddie, magic, slow burn (for me), friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending, no y/n only pet names, series-typical horror, period-typical sexism and homophobia, historical inaccuracies and anachronisms, drug dealing and use, smoking, alcohol use, masturbation, mutual masturbation, fantasizing, one-bed trope, making out, fingering, dirty talk, chasing, oral sex, handjobs, condoms, piv sex, reader’s father is a dirtbag, mild spanking, magical violation, mental torture, body horror, blood, aftercare, nightmares, strict parenting, panic attack, past child abuse and abandonment, semi-public sex, break-ups, running away, guns, fist fighting, everyone survives, suicide ideation, fighting and making up

Eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. He wondered which flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird? Weird weird? He shrugged. He liked weird. In other words, you’re the new girl in town, and Eddie is intrigued.

note: This is it, my dudes! The final chapter. No epilogue, because I don't think this story needs it. Thank you for all your comments, likes, and reblogs! Your support has kept me going. I'll post a masterlist directly.

28

Today’s volunteers had been abuzz with the news of Chief Jim Hopper’s miraculous return from the dead. The story was he’d uncovered a terrorist plot and worked with the government to thwart the radicals. Starcourt Mall had been the unfortunate backdrop of the confrontation.

It was also unfortunate a surviving radical had recognized Hopper. Since Hopper had been in danger, he’d been put in a protection program until the threat had been eliminated.

Rumor had it he’d been involved in defeating the rest of these radicals, who had something to do with Hawkins National Laboratory.

You didn’t bother to point out the specific government agency had been conveniently omitted. Same with the terrorist organization. Over sandwiches in the courtyard, Steve said Hawkins Lab had been closed for over a year when Starcourt’s fire occurred.

Nevertheless, while there had been casualties at Starcourt, they’d been few. Everyone considered Hopper a local hero.

A few volunteers discussed Eddie, too. They felt sorry for him and insisted they’d never believed those ugly rumors. Eddie was an orphan who’d been taken in by his uncle Wayne. Wasn’t that sad? Why, they’d known Wayne Munson for years! Wayne was an upright person. A veteran, too. There was no way he would’ve tolerated Devil-worship under his roof.

Those horrible classmates — bullies, really — must’ve targeted Eddie because he was different. Being different wasn’t a crime! Besides, Eddie had never hurt anyone. He performed at The Hideout with his little band all the time. One volunteer knew The Hideout’s owner, Cliff, who said Eddie was a good, if weird, kid.

You’d nodded and hummed in agreement while sorting donated home goods. There was no point in calling them hypocrites. Perhaps some of them weren’t. You wished you’d gone to that town hall meeting with your parents. Then you’d be able to pick out the liars.

On the way home in Steve’s car, Robin turned in the front seat to face you.

“You know, people want to be on the winning side. They like to think of themselves as smart enough to know who’s telling the truth.”

“But they were blinded by fear,” you said in agreement. “And looking for someone to blame.”

Steve said, “Like the pilgrims burning all the witches in Salem.”

You and Robin shared a look. He was close enough.

“Yup,” she said.

He appeared proud to have contributed to the conversation.

Robin rested her chin on her forearm.

“Eddie’s lucky you found him before anyone else.”

“Outside of the military, yeah, I guess.” You offered a bitter grin. “Who knows what they would’ve done to him if he’d survived Vecna.”

Though you don’t think he would have. Most likely, he would’ve dropped dead with the rest of the hivemind. If you hadn’t died from taking part of Vecna’s curse earlier, you might’ve shared that fate.

Steve said, “God, I’m so glad that fuckface’s dead.”

“Me too.”

“Me three,” Robin said with a grin.

Once at Steve’s, you three talked about dinner. Steve had pulled everything this morning to make a pan of baked ziti with roasted broccoli on the side. Robin made a disgusted face at the mention of a vegetable. You laughed at her scrunched nose and tongue poking out. Robin exclaimed eating broccoli was like eating green farts while Steve opened the front door.

Classical music played from the sunroom’s stereo system.

“Hey, Munson,” Steve said, projecting his voice as he tossed his keys into the bowl on the foyer table.

The music cut off, leaving a silence that felt as if you needed to pop your ears.

Robin kicked off her shoes and hung her jacket on an empty hanger in the closet. She reached for yours as Eddie jogged across the living room.

“Hey, good day?” He didn’t wait for a reply as he said to Steve, “I know this is a pain in the ass, but would you take me to my van? I want to do it before it gets dark. It’s on Coal Mill.”

“Dude, I gotta start dinner.”

Robin held up her hands when Eddie looked at her.

“No license. And the last time I tried to cook in that kitchen, I almost set everything on fire.”

Steve smirked.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Yeah? Tell that to your smoke detector that wouldn’t shut up for fifteen minutes.”

You snorted to hide the pang at being Eddie’s last choice and shrugged your jacket back onto your shoulders.

“I guess that leaves me.”

With a pat to your pockets, confirming you had your wallet and keys, you left the house. Eddie bumbled out the front door a minute later, swinging on a navy sport coat that was a size too big. It clashed with his green track pants and untied blue sneakers.

You kept your comments to yourself as you unlocked your car and got behind the wheel. Eddie sat in the passenger seat as you started the engine. The stereo came to life. The Sisters of Mercy simmered through the speakers. You hit the power button, cutting them off.

Sounding amused, Eddie said, “I haven’t heard that in a while.”

“I was in the mood for them the other day.”

“You can turn it back on, if you want.”

“No, it’s fine.” You shifted the car into Drive. “How do I get to Coal Mill?”

“Uh, take a left. We’ll go the back way.”

You nodded and pulled onto the street. He tied his sneakers. At the first intersection, he directed you to go left. The evening sun’s golden light flickered between the trees. This far from the nexus, the woods appeared unaffected by the poisonous ash. You mentioned it. Eddie asked how downtown was faring.

You lifted a shoulder.

“It’s like a war zone and a natural disaster had a horrible, mangled baby.”

He laughed. “Vivid.”

“There’re construction crews all over, and the school gets dusty overnight. We have to cover everything with sheets before we leave. People sleep with masks on.”

“What a nightmare.”

You nodded as you passed the turnoff to Sattler’s Quarry.

After that, the road narrowed and twisted. Eddie navigated you through more intersections and over train tracks. You passed farmhouses with fields of growing corn and pastures for cattle. He had you take a road into the woods where squat houses sat close together.

The road dead-ended with Coal Mill Road T-ing into it. Behind the houses, sunlight reflected off rippling water. He advised you to park in the gravel at the side of the road; his van wasn’t far. You found a wide, flat section and stopped the car. The peaceful neighborhood didn’t seem the place to stash a van.

You then recognized the house reflected in the rearview mirror as the one from the broadcast identifying Eddie as a suspect. That had been a shitty day. Even for you.

Eddie opened the passenger door. You blinked out of the memory, unlatched your seatbelt, and got out of the car. He was quiet as you came to his side. His grim face had you reaching for his hand.

He stiffened at the touch.

You recoiled and looked away. Rather than the quiet hurt you expected, though you were hurt, this white-hot feeling spread through you. Your jaw locked and vision narrowed. Each inhale became deliberate. You wanted to claw at his pretty face.

“Okay, what the hell is your problem?”

That pretty face became dismissive, and he stepped onto the road towards the woods.

Over his shoulder, he asked, “What do you mean, what’s my problem?”

“You’re…” You struggled to find a word as you followed, but the only one came. “Skittish. I don’t know.”

“I’m not skittish.”

A few yards down from your car, he separated two shrubs to reveal parallel tire ruts in the grass.

“You are!” You waved a hand at his back. “You are. You won’t sit next to me. You won’t touch me. Not that I expect you to be all over me, but you don’t reach for me.”

He stepped between the shrubs and held one back for you.

“I—”

“I take your hand, you flinch.” You tramped into the underbrush and onto a rut. “I sit next to you, you make sure there’s plenty of space between us. I make a move, and it’s always wrong.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” he said, letting the shrub go.

“Really?”

He went to the other rut. You stopped to glare at him.

Did he not see the irony of maintaining four feet of distance?

“Really?”

“I…” He frowned, though he continued walking. “I don’t want to crowd you.”

“Eddie, you’ve had your dick in me.” You resumed walking. “And I’ve never pushed you away.”

In fact, you had only pushed him away when he’d been under Vecna’s control. When it was just the two of you, the thought never crossed your mind.

He sighed.

“I’ve needed space.”

“Then tell me that. I don’t want you to feel pressured.” That heat inside you vanished. “You’re not obligated to… to do anything.”

“No, it’s not that.” He stopped and glanced at you. “I haven’t felt like myself since…”

“Yeah.”

“No, not like— It’s like…” He sighed again, his face twisting up. “There’s this emptiness.”

What could you say to that? You wouldn’t diminish his experience by saying plenty of people felt that. His was different. It wasn’t anything one could ignore or fill. You remembered dissolving into silence, and how it had swallowed everything.

You said softly, “Like a hunger.”

He met your gaze. In the sepia light and dusty shade, his brown eyes appeared darker and more vulnerable than you’d ever seen them.

“I don’t want it to touch you.”

You shook your head.

“It’s not a stranger.”

He looked away, into the trees, chin quivering. The tip of his nose turned pink. You wanted to kiss it, kiss him, make it better somehow. You took a hesitant half-step to take his hand, at least, but he walked farther into the woods.

With a deep breath, you followed a couple paces behind. The ruts curved around a dead pine and disappeared behind a thicket. Eddie knelt at the far side of the pine to dig into the rust-colored needles. An old camouflage net covered his boxy van from roof to tires.

You pushed up your sleeves while circling the van.

As you came around, he said, “Look, I know you’re too smart to believe the shit Vecna said.” He pulled something from the needles. “But I want… I want you to hear it from me—”

“Eddie.” You shook your head again. “That’s—”

“No, let me get this out. Every shitty thing he said — I said — was a lie.” The metallic jingle of keys punctuated his statement. “I don’t believe any of it. I never thought it.”

While you didn’t doubt Eddie, there was a part of you that wondered if Vecna was right. You were privileged. Your parents could afford to send you to any college. They’d even set up a savings account for you. You didn’t have to worry about a part-time job. You had a car. You’d been protected from the banal cruelty in the world. You’d taken so much for granted over the years. On top of that, you were a witch.

He straightened and looked at you.

“I don’t know how to prove it. All I got is my word.”

“No, no, I believe you,” you said, holding up your hands.

“I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

“What?”

“You saved me, sweetheart.” A corner of his mouth quirked. “Kinda feels like a blood debt.”

You grinned.

“Is that a real thing?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I don’t know, but, Eddie…” You drew closer to him. “You owe me nothing. You’ll never owe me.”

The keys rattled in his hand. His gaze darted away.

You continued, “I know what I did spooked you, but I did it because I love you. And it’s okay if you don’t…”

You couldn’t finish the sentence. It was hard to breathe or think or control the swelling sob in your chest. A tear rolled down your cheek, and you swiped it away.

Eddie’s head tilted in sympathy, lips thinning. He stepped near and offered his empty hand. It was the first time he’d done that in days.

Your vision prismed with fresh tears as you grasped his hand. The callused pads of his fingers scuffed against your skin. Your sob transformed into a long exhale.

“Vecna took you from me,” you said, and sniffed back the wet clog in your nose and wiped at your eyes. “I did it because you’re mine. Because he hurt us — hurt me.” You barked a laugh. “Now that I say it out loud, I hear how fucking selfish I am.”

You met his red-rimmed eyes. He shook his head like he couldn’t accept you were selfish. Regardless of his belief, you were, but you’d try not to be with him.

You whispered, “Even if we don’t stay together, you’ll never owe me. You’ll always be special to me.”

He tugged you near and put your palm on his sternum with his hand covering yours. His chest rose and fell because he’d pushed Vecna out, because you’d brought him back. That was something you’d never regret.

His voice was a hoarse whisper as he said, “I love you too, and you didn’t spook me. Don’t… don’t hide from me.”

As gently as you could, you said, “I’m not the one who’s been hiding.”

He stared at your stacked hands.

“Jesus Christ, I’ve been fucking up so goddamn bad.” He shook his head, his hair obscuring part of his face. “I hadn’t protected you. God, I actually hurt you. I can’t give you what you deserve. I can’t even fucking graduate.”

If his last statement was an obstacle, you would’ve tripped over it.

He couldn’t graduate? That made no sense. Nothing was official yet, of course, but Dr. Owens hadn’t balked at the party’s insistence of all the seniors graduating. Had no one told him? Hadn’t it been mentioned in conversation?

“Wait,” you said, trying to remember if anyone had brought it up.

He watched you from under his bangs, eyes so fawn-like, a little furrow between his brows.

You said, “I thought Steve told you about the party’s demands.”

He angled his head.

“No…?”

“One was all the seniors graduating, regardless of standing.” You took hold of his coat’s lapel. “What did you have in O’Donnell’s?”

“A low D.”

“D’s passing.” You grinned. “You’re graduating, anyway, but you passed her class. That’s all you needed, right?”

His eyes went wide and lips parted as he nodded. You glanced at his full bottom lip while scraping your own between your teeth. You hadn’t kissed him in ages.

You stepped closer and slid your hand from his lapel.

“Congratulations,” you said before rising and pressing your lips to his.

He gasped. His lips dragged against yours. Then he jolted, pulling away.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Why would you hurt me?”

His gaze slithered from your lips to your neck to the neckline of your shirt in an invisible touch.

“What if I lose control?”

You studied his worried face in the dimming light.

“Is it the emptiness?” you asked.

He nodded, casting his gaze to the side.

You remembered how predatory Eddie had looked with the MP’s blood on his chin. That hadn’t been Eddie. Not entirely. That had been the hivemind of bloodthirsty carnivores.

“Is it…” You didn’t know how to be tactful with this. “Do you want my blood?”

His tongue worked in his mouth, licking his canine, before he said, “I don’t know.”

You cradled his jaw over the scar and eased his head forward. His focus remained to the side.

“Please, look at me.”

His irises swung to meet yours. A flicker of sunlight illuminated them cinnamon sweet. His dark lashes fluttered as he blinked.

“I know you don’t want to hurt me,” you said. “But if you want to try—”

His posture went rigid as he shook his head. His hand pressed yours tighter to his chest.

“No.”

You pressed on.

“If you want to try my blood, I’ll let you.” You grazed the corner of his mouth with your thumb. “I’m not scared.”

He closed his eyes, mouth pinching and brows furrowing.

“Honey, don’t be scared.” You stroked his cheek to his clenched jaw. “It’s just me and you here.”

“Yeah, it’s just me and you.”

You sighed.

“What, you think you can kill me? You think I’d let you? You think I don’t know my limits?”

He opened his eyes, which blazed with anger and frustration and panic.

“What if I don’t know mine anymore, huh?”

Gritting your teeth, you said, “Then we’ll discover them together.”

With your hand on his chest, you pushed him towards the van. He bumbled backwards, dropping the keys. His back collided with a dull clunk. You slid your hand from his chest to the van, boxing him in, and pressed your front along his.

“Fucking trust me.”

“I do.”

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

He nodded, throat bobbing with a swallow.

“Are you sure?”

Again, he nodded.

You closed the distance with a hand on his nape. He angled his head, lips moving counter to yours. The kiss stole your breath and thought. You ravaged, biting his bottom lip. His hands cupped your ass and drew you against him. He plundered, groaning as your tongues slid over each other.

Teeth scraped your lip, yet it didn’t frighten you. Let them break skin. You didn’t care.

Trembling hands snuck under your shirt. He pulled at your waist, making your back arch. You mewled into the kiss and plunged your fingers into his messy hair. His tentative palms skimmed up your back.

You shivered as your nipples pebbled.

You broke the kiss to whisper, “Touch me. It’s okay. I trust you.”

His eyes gleamed as he drew his swollen bottom lip between his teeth. He spread his feet and maneuvered you between his knees. The firm mound of his erection pressed into your belly. He trailed his hands down to your ass. His fingers met at the central seam of your jeans.

“You’re so hot here.”

“Because of you.”

He caught your lips in another kiss. You gripped his hair as the woods went fuzzy. His hands, more confident, skated up your ass, under your shirt, and up your sides. Cool air swept over your skin. You inhaled as he found the band of your unsexy bra. The earlier work at the school hardly warranted anything fancy.

Eddie didn’t seem to mind. A hungry noise came from his chest as he fondled the underside of your breasts through the bra. He sucked on your bottom lip, and the sensation flowed through you like water. Your nipples tightened further. Your cunt clenched.

“God, you’re so soft.”

You caressed the warm skin at his nape, saying, “I’ve missed you.”

Without waiting for a response, you kissed him. His fingers dragged across your breasts until he pinched your nipples between his thumbs and sides of his palms.

You gasped at the wicked frisson, angled your face up to catch your breath, and writhed. You pressed your hips to his, the thick seam of your jeans rasped between your legs. He rocked his erection against you. New heat zinged down to your toes.

Voice husky, he said, “Fuck, I missed you, too.”

He kissed the side of your neck. Each kiss became more open-mouthed. His tongue moved as if he tasted more than your skin. He pulled his sharp teeth across the big tendon in your neck, like he was teasing you both. The threat of a bite had your heart beating double-time and eyes rolling back.

He pinched your nipples harder, making your lower body squirm from the ache. You kept your chest and neck still as you waited to feel what he’d do. He groaned and mouthed his way to the artery under your jaw. He sucked hard at the skin there, mouth scalding. You gasped at the delicious pain.

“Jesus,” he said between pants against the sore spot.

As his saliva cooled on your skin, you swooped down to kiss him once more. His tongue slid over yours as his hands left your breasts. You held his head in place by the hair, losing yourself to the decadent back and forth.

He folded his arms around you when you held his smooth cheek. There was no panic here. There were no monsters. It was only you and him, sharing breath and touch.

“How do you feel?” you asked.

“Good.”

You stroked his cheekbone.

“That’s all that matters.”

“I didn’t… freak you out there?”

“By giving me a hickey?” You smiled with a chuckle. “No.” You brushed your lips against his. “I like wearing your mark.”

His cheeks pinked further. He made a happy sound and buried his face in your neck once more.

“Gonna give me another one, baby?”

Muffled against your skin, he said, “I might.”

Tightening your hold in his hair, you pulled his head back. He looked at you with hazy eyes. His red lips parted, breaths shallow.

“Gorgeous,” you said.

His gaze drifted to the side. He wanted to shy away, but you wouldn’t have it.

“You act like I haven’t seen you, but I have.” You traced the scar on his jaw. “And nothing’s changed for me.”

He met your eyes, his own bright with conviction.

“Me neither, I swear, milady.”

You smiled at the endearment you hadn’t heard in too long.

“Then no more hot-and-cold, good sir.”

He nodded as much as he could.

“I’m with you.”

“No half-assed crap, either. I mean it, Eddie,” you said, relinquishing your grip on his hair and lacing your fingers behind his neck.

His spine straightened as if coming to attention.

“Whole-ass-ing it from here on out.”

“Good, I like your ass.”

“I like yours, too.”

His eyes lit with mischief, reminding you of the Eddie you’d first met. The one who quoted the Scorpions during roll call, who always answered the phone, who howled during concerts.

A hand gripped the underside of your ass-cheek and gave it a squeeze. It put to mind him holding you against the cold wall behind The Hideout and fucking you with hungry desperation. You wanted that with him.

“Wanna go home and prove it?” you asked with a quirk of an eyebrow.

He gave you a toothy grin.

“Absolutely.”

He didn’t release you, nor you him, despite the blue of the sky having faded to ginger and blushing violet. Rose-gold sunlight graced the tree tops. Once gentle shadows were now hard-edged and inky.

You liked the heat radiating from under his thin t-shirt and all the evidence he was alive. He’d survived. You had as well. He must’ve had a similar idea, because he surveyed you with loving eyes.

You swayed.

“Let’s go, Muffin Man.”

He groaned and let his head flop back.

“I swear to God, that’s adorable when we were high, but you cannot say that in front of our friends.”

“Not even—”

His head shot up.

“No.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” you said with an exaggerated pout.

“Oh, well, please continue, sweet lady.”

“I was going to say, not even—” You imitated his dramatics as you said, “The Muffin of Demonic Charm!?”

He laughed. “I only like the ‘muff’ part of that.”

You backed away with a giggle, sticking out your tongue. His hands went to the sides of his head, pointer fingers out, and stuck his tongue out at you.

You said, “You won’t get any part of that out here.”

He fluttered the tip of his tongue.

“Tempting, but no.”

He spread the sport coat and posed like a centerfold to entice, hip canting to the side and his chest arched.

“Oh, if only I had a camera, baby.” You found the forgotten keys amongst the pine needles and dead leaves. “You’d make Goodwill a lot of money in their annual calendar,” you said and tossed the keys at him.

He straightened to catch them, juggling them to his chest.

“I’ll have you know—” He swept his empty hand down his body. “—all of this is House of Harrington.”

“How chic.”

“Very exclusive.” He pointed to the corner of the van for you to help gather the netting. “Not just anyone can say they’ve worn Steve Harrington’s tighty whities.”

You laughed and lifted the corner of the netting.

Together, you uncovered the van. Eddie gathered the netting and kicked it under the thicket before going to the passenger door to open it for you.

“I’ll drop you off at your car.”

You thanked him and climbed into the stuffy van. The scent of old smoke, warmed plastic, and upholstery seasoned with boy invaded your nose. You rolled the window down halfway after he closed the door.

With a glance at the vacant back, you thought of Corroded Coffin’s equipment there. You’d seen little of Jeff, Gareth, or Dougie at school. You hadn’t asked Eddie if they still played at The Hideout. You hadn’t asked him about a lot of things. There was so much you’d missed since New Year’s.

Eddie opened the driver-side door and hopped in. He made a face, then rolled down his window.

He turned all the air-system controls off, saying, “Cross your fingers she’ll cooperate.”

He shoved the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine sputtered and whined and chugged until something aligned, and it roared to life. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, throwing you a laugh.

You smiled back and fastened your seatbelt.

He shifted into Reverse and maneuvered away from the thicket. The tires spun in the layer of pine needles and budding grass before finding traction. The van lurched forward. You hung onto the seatbelt and prayed the van wouldn’t get stuck. It was too old for off-roading. He steered onto the ruts, tires kicking up dirt as they bit into the earth.

Your prayers were unnecessary or maybe something out there listened to you, because a minute later the van was on the pavement and next to your car.

“Your noble steed, milady.”

With a smirk, you said, “I thought that was you, stud.”

He leaned in, eyes sparking.

“I’m at your beck and call.”

You bent close enough to feel his breath on your lips.

“Get me home, sir, and I’ll show my appreciation for your fealty.”

His eyes darted to your lips.

“I can do that.”

Tilting your head as if to kiss him, you said, “I know you can,” and moved away to unfasten your seatbelt.

His head drooped.

He looked at you when you opened the door, expression amused.

You said, “Don’t go too fast, honey, wouldn’t want to get pulled over.”

“Depends on who’s doing the pulling over, sweetheart.”

You smiled, shaking your head at the cheesy line, and left the van. His attention stayed on you as you crossed to your car, like fingers trailing down your spine.

Once in the car, you made a U-turn and followed him to Steve’s. Eddie was something of a lead-foot, but you could keep up easily. He parked in front of the garage at Steve’s. You stopped next to him and locked up.

He met you at your trunk and offered his elbow.

“Not too fast for you?”

You snaked your arm around his bicep.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

He hummed in agreement as he walked with you to the front door.

“Um, I know this is out of left field,” you said, “but I thought about the rest of the band. I hadn’t seen them at school, except in the hallways sometimes. Like, I don’t share any classes with Jeff or Dougie.”

“Last time I saw them was during the last Hellfire meeting.”

“Maybe you should call them? Now that your name’s cleared, it’s safe for all of you.”

“I don’t know…”

“They’re probably worried about you.” You squeezed his arm. “And unlike me, they can’t use magic to track down your ass.”

He bobbed his head once.

“I’ll call them tomorrow.”

“Good.”

You stopped him before he could make his way to the front door. He turned to you, gaze searching.

The blue hour painted him in shades of purple. Warm light from the porch sconces and nearby kitchen window caught in the waves of his hair. He was a fallen angel, halo stripped yet seraphic nature undeniable.

That felt like a line from someone more imaginative. You were no poet, though you wished you were.

Softly, he asked, “What is it?”

You shook off the thought and grinned.

“Nothing, I just… I just like you like this.”

He glanced at himself before giving you a wry look.

“In borrowed clothes with dirty hands?”

“No, butthead.” You jostled him by the arm. “I like you here — with me.”

That wry look disappeared. His eyes rounded, earnest and affectionate. He drew you in with a gentle hand on your nape and kissed you. His lips were tender on yours in silent relief, as though you’d surprised him. While he’d withdrawn after Vecna’s defeat, and you’d been uncertain about a future with him, you still loved him. That had never changed.

You threw yourself into the kiss, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Blood rushed through your veins. Your cheeks burned as the kiss deepened. His other hand clutched your hip to guide you against him.

It was easy to lose yourself with him. It was easy to love him, and he made it easy to let yourself be loved.

He cradled the back of your head like you were priceless. He held you like he couldn’t get close enough. The mark on your neck was a brand of sweet possession.

At an inevitable pause, you said, “Let’s go inside.”

“I can’t sit through dinner.” With a small shake of his head, he said, “I can’t wait.”

“Then we won’t. We’ll go straight to your room.”

“What about…?” He gave you a meaningful look. “Condoms?”

“I got it covered.”

“Sounds like I’ll be saying that later.”

You laughed, playfully shoving at his shoulder. He looked pleased with himself and trotted to the front door. Hand on the doorknob, he glanced back to make sure you were behind him.

You whispered, “Wait,” and drew energy up your body. It had been so long since you’d obfuscated your presence to sneak around, you’d nearly forgotten it as an option. You laced your fingers with Eddie’s, including him in the silent bubble you created.

“Keep close and avoid making too much noise.”

He nodded before easing the door open.

A top-40s station played on the radio in the sunroom. Robin and Steve’s voices floated from the kitchen. They remained out of sight even after you gently shut the door.

You directed Eddie to the stairs and remained a tread behind him as you both climbed. Once on the second floor, you ushered him to his room. He left the door ajar and lights off. You padded to your room, pocketed the couple of condom packets you’d stolen days ago from Steve’s nightstand, and slunk to Eddie’s room.

He sat at the head of the bed, blanket hiding his lower half with his t-shirt covering the upper. You closed the door and locked it. By the meager light coming through the window, you found the nearest lamp and clicked it on.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Yeah, sure, fine, why?”

The sport coat and track pants draped across the armchair. The sneakers and socks lay jumbled by the bathroom door.

“Just asking.”

You crossed the room and set the condom packets on the nightstand at Eddie’s side. He remained motionless, hands hidden in the rumpled sheets. You perched at the edge of the bed while he stared at the condoms.

Something was off. He should be flirting or reaching for you. What had happened between kissing you, saying he couldn’t wait to be with you, and now? Most guys would be naked and panting like a dog for sex.

With a minute shrug, you said, “If you don’t want to…”

“No! No, I do. Trust me, I do.”

“But…?”

He exhaled.

“I don’t… You should know, I don’t look the same.”

“I’ve seen you in only a towel. I’m aware of what you look like.”

“That’s not up close and personal.”

“You think I’m going to run screaming from some scars?”

He said, “Look, baby, I’m a horror show under this,” and plucked at the t-shirt.

You let out an exasperated sound. “Are you trying to push me away? Again?”

“No—”

“Do you not want me?”

“Oh my god, I want you.” He scooted to you and cupped your face. “I’ve wanted you for weeks. Months!”

“Well, me too!” You held one of his wrists. “Anything you got under there is gonna work for me, okay?”

He scanned your face, gaze roaming from your eyes to your lips and back.

The protective blessing you’d placed in his handkerchief had failed you — and him. Your magic had been nothing compared to Vecna’s power. Eddie had pushed out the hivemind on his own. He was so much stronger than he gave himself credit for.

Through a constricted throat, you said, “Your blood soaked through your clothes.” Your eyes pricked with tears. “You di-died in front of me.”

Eddie leaned in, crushing your lips together. You forgot about tears and the feel of his blood thick between your fingers. He tilted your head. His lips, puffy and slick, glided across yours.

“I’m here,” he said, and kissed you again. “I’m right here.”

You kissed him in reply, letting your greed and relief guide you.

You shimmied your jacket off your shoulders. His hands went to your arms to help tug it off. You grinned into the kiss when the fabric caught on your forearms. He huffed, amused, before yanking at the sleeves. You shook your arms free and flung the jacket.

Planting a knee on the bed, you crowded him back onto the pillows. He put his hands at your waist and pulled you onto him. You straddled his hips, the linens bunching between you.

He hauled you up his body to tuck his face against your throat. He mouthed and bit at your neck, all hesitation thrown to the side. You encouraged him with a whimper and fingers gripping his hair. His soft lips left a fiery line as his hands grabbed your ass.

You arched your back. Your ribs pumped with every rapid breath.

“Wanna eat you alive,” he said. “Fuck, you taste so good.”

“Want you, too.”

Teeth scraped under your jaw, catching on the sore hickey there. You gasped, yet refused to shy away. Let him bite and draw blood. Let it hurt. You could heal yourself.

With a groan, he dug his teeth midway down your neck. The sting made your spine melt. His palms slid up your back, taking your shirt with them. Then he sucked, and you felt it between your legs.

You ground against him — as much as you could through the layers of fabric. You needed to feel his heat, taste his skin and scars. Because he was alive, and you were in his bed.

When he released your skin, sensation beyond pain, beyond heat, bloomed through your neck. It rang in your ears, fisted a groan from your lungs, stole your strength. He folded his rangy arms around you and grazed his lips over the spit-wet spot.

You closed your eyes with a hum.

He kissed you from jaw to cheek. He even kissed your chin. You curled to catch his lips in a languid kiss. It went aggressive in a handful of seconds. You couldn’t tell who set it in motion, but you’d follow it through with sucking on the tip of his tongue and biting his lip. He shivered and squirmed and held onto your waist.

You broke the kiss to leave him reeling.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?”

He nodded, eyes half-closed.

“Then let me take care of what’s mine.”

Again, he nodded.

You directed Eddie’s hands to the pillow, letting your fingertips linger on the silky insides of his forearms. His t-shirt sleeves slipped up to expose scarring on his upper arms. You pressed your lips to the delicate scar tissue.

He inhaled sharply.

You whispered, “It’s okay.”

He closed his eyes with a brief nod.

You kissed the scar on his jaw and the faint one at the side of his neck. He angled his chin to expose himself. In reward, you kissed his lips. His muscles unspooled. You brushed your thumbs over his cheekbones.

“I got you.”

“I know.”

You wiggled down his torso and sat up. Oh-so slowly, you skimmed your hands under his t-shirt to his sides. The jagged edge of a bigger patch on his torso peeked from under the t-shirt’s hem. The uneven texture of the scars didn’t feel ugly or rough. They were interesting, and you wanted to see them.

He clapped his hands over yours.

You met his uneasy gaze and waited, keeping your expression open. While you could offer platitudes or compliments, they’d ring hollow. He knew how you felt and how you viewed him. It was only a matter of time for him to gain confidence — or at least trust you.

His hold relaxed, then gradually drifted away.

You followed the taper of his torso until you held his undulating ribs. With the t-shirt bunched at his pecs, you could assess the havoc the bats had wrought. Beyond the patch on his lower torso was a line of bites and healed sutures on his left. A wedge of pink scar tissue defaced the right side of his ribs. Between the larger patches were claw and teeth marks.

You traced them with a light touch before looking at his face. His teeth dug into his lip as his gaze jumped from between your bodies to the side to your face and back again.

“So, this is the horror show you promised?” you asked with a playful look.

He frowned, mouth opening.

Before he spoke, you asked, “Can you feel my touch?”

He wet his lips and nodded.

“Yeah?”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

“You don’t—”

“No, I don’t whatever. I’m not grossed out.”

To prove your point, you bent to kiss the bite mark on his sternum. The satiny, pitted skin wasn’t disgusting. It was just skin — that smelled like him. You nudged the t-shirt higher to get at his left nipple. You teased it with your tongue, and he stilled. You pinched it between your teeth, and he arched against your lips. You soothed the tiny hurt with a kiss, and he gasped.

You inched the t-shirt higher until you propelled his arms up. He took over and snatched the t-shirt over his head. He dropped it beside the bed as you caressed his chest.

Only fragments of his demon-head and black-widow tattoos were visible around a darker scar. You followed the scar’s border with your fingers and pouted at the loss of the tattoos. Not because they were the most beautiful you’d ever seen, but because they’d been Eddie’s.

“You can have these redone.”

“Nah, I’d rather get a cover-up.”

You smiled before bending to pepper kisses on the scar.

“That’s going to be a big cover-up, honey.” You kissed your way from the scar to the dip of his throat. “Maybe I can hold your hand through it.”

He tilted his head back with a soft groan. You angled his chin to the side and sucked at the hot skin of his neck, giving him a faint hickey. You kissed your way up to his ear and sucked on the lobe.

With a near growl, he said, “God, I can’t—” and pulled you into a burning kiss.

You opened for him as he teased your tongue with his own. He kissed your hot cheeks and your forehead. His hands surged down your sides, then under your shirt. You straightened onto your knees and stripped off your shirt and bra. Your nipples puckered in the cooler air.

His hips jerked as his hands gripped your hips. He stared at your chest and licked his lips.

Instead of asking if he wanted to touch, because that seemed obvious, you bent and guided his hands to your breasts. You encouraged him to support them, squeeze them, while you watched his flushed face.

He circled your nipples with his thumbs, his touch graceful yet electrifying. A feeling like goosebumps trickled through your gut and had your thighs tensing. You curved into his caress in encouragement. Your underwear’s saturated cotton grazed your pussy, and you wished it was his cock.

Eddie held your ribs and rose to bury his face between your breasts. He mouthed at the valley between them and kissed the beginning swells. You held the back of his head. He sucked at one nipple, then the other. That goosebump feeling intensified until you were a quivering mess.

He undid your jeans, and your eyes popped open. He looked at you through his pretty lashes. There was a voracity in his dark gaze that said only you could slake his need — and you wanted to be the only one to do it, too.

“This okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Y-yeah.”

With no hesitation, his hand slithered between your stomach and underwear. It burned a line down the curve of your belly through your pubic hair. His middle and ring fingers glided between your wet folds. You gripped his shoulders, hard muscle moved under his skin.

The first long stroke to your clit had your nails digging into his skin and sucking air between your teeth. You couldn’t stop the tiny sound you made. He nibbled at your collarbone, teeth scraped your skin. You leaned your weight against him as your watery legs trembled. His free arm held you upright by the waist.

Rather than circle your clit, he kept stroking. The first wash of pleasure fueled you to move your hips counter to his fingers. His calluses pulled at the hood of your clit, then drove it down. He pressed harder, sparking a sensation deeper than your clit.

Your focus narrowed to your rising orgasm and the thought of his cock pumping deep inside your juicy cunt. You wanted to feel his strong hands restraining you, his sweat-slick skin on yours, and his lush mouth between your legs.

An animalistic keen left your throat at the jumble of images. Your heart hammered in your ears. You rode that knife-edge of climax. It was right there.

“C’mon, baby, fuck those fingers.”

You moaned, doing as he ordered, until ecstasy forced its way through you — so hard, so deep. The internal throb of it stole your strength as it went on and on. You crumbled, putting more of your weight on him. He held you without protest.

“Can feel it,” he said, petting your oversensitive clit.

You writhed in his arms and begged for something you couldn’t put words to. He kissed your throat as he lay still pressure on your clit. Your cunt pulsed strong enough that your hips moved of their own volition.

After a moment, he pulled his hand from your underwear and brought his fingers to his mouth. You sat on his thighs to watch him suck at his wet fingers. He hummed in satisfaction. Your cunt pulsed one last time, as though it hadn’t had enough.

Maybe it hadn’t.

He met your gaze and offered his flushed lips for a kiss. You cradled the back of his head and kissed him with unexpected fervor. You tasted the tang of your own come on his tongue. He held your face, sticky fingers on your cheek, and pushed into the kiss. You sucked your flavor off his bottom lip, pulling a moan from his chest.

“Take the rest off,” he said, falling onto his back.

“You too.”

He smirked.

“Not much more to go.”

You let your eyes track from his chest to the wrinkled lump of blanket covering his groin. Despite knowing, intimately, what was underneath, getting him naked continued to be a thrill.

“Good.”

He blushed, and his smirk softened.

You climbed off him to sit at the edge of the bed. You untied your Docs and wrenched them off. Your socks followed. Eddie kicked the blanket away. While he wiggled out of his briefs, you hooked your thumbs in your underwear and jeans, rising enough from the bed to slide them down your hips and off your legs.

You pivoted on a hip to find him reaching for a condom. His eyes went wide with a question. Or like you’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t. You bent a leg on the bed and plucked a condom from the pile before he could.

“You know,” you said, holding the condom like a cigarette between your fingers. “I think I need to get on the pill.” You got on all fours. “Or get an IUD, or something.”

Sounding on tenterhooks, he asked, “Why’s that?”

You crawled between his legs. He spread his thighs to make room for you.

“So I can have you raw.”

He let out a breath, cheeks reddening further, and wrapped a hand around the base of his cock. A thick bead of precome pearled at its slit.

“Would you like that, honey?”

“Shit, you know I would.”

You gave him a playful wink before hunching to lick the tip of his cock. He groaned through a smile, squeezing his cock. You savored the salty taste of him.

You tapped at the back of his hand.

“Let go.”

“I swear, I’m gonna blow in, like, ten seconds flat.”

You sat on your calves with a self-satisfied shrug. He needed to feel as good as he’d made you feel. If that happened quickly, that was fine with you because—

“We got all night,” you said, and tore open the condom packet.

He still hadn’t released his hold.

“Eddie, honey, let go.”

“Just—” He swallowed. “Get it halfway down first.”

You pulled out the lubed condom and discarded the wrapper. He bit his lip, looking as though you were about to perform surgery on him. Keeping your touch light and at the minimum, you pinched the tip of the condom and rolled it over his shaft until it met his fingers.

He shuddered with eyes closed and a crease between his brows.

You said, “Let go.”

He exhaled and thumped his fists to the bed. You wasted no time in rolling the condom the rest of the way down. He panted and keened. His cock twitched in your hand, but you wiped your palms on the sheets before he could embarrass himself.

With a gentle shush, you caressed his hips and ran your thumbs in the shallow groove of muscle on either side. You kept at it until his breathing slowed and tense thighs relaxed.

You maneuvered your knees on either side of him and balanced yourself with a hand on his chest.

“Ready?”

When he nodded, you reached between your bodies to brace his erection. You were so ready, so wet, for this. Even the feeling of the condom didn’t turn you off. You found your hole and eased onto his thick cock, inch by slick inch.

Once you settled, you had to give yourself a moment. You sat with hands on your thighs while you adjusted to the fullness. He felt perfect and delicious. You looked at Eddie to see him watching you, bottom lip between his teeth and fingers digging into the mattress. Emotion filled his bright eyes.

You wanted to soothe him, but if you moved, it would set off a chain reaction he’d been trying to suppress.

“Don’t think.”

Through gritted teeth, he said, “Trying not to.”

If you didn’t take the initiative, he would torture himself for the rest of the evening. You rotated your pelvis. The simple movement made you gasp. It had been so long, and you were so eager for this with him. Under you, he choked on a desperate sound.

“I can’t wait to feel you without any barriers,” you said, rotating your pelvis again. “Feel you come deep inside me.”

He grabbed your hips to propel your movements.

“I’ll fill you up,” he said.

You planted your hands on his chest with a groan and rode him like he wanted you to. You rose only to sink down a second later, never letting him slip out. His hands glided up your sides. With a hum, you encouraged him to touch you — touch you anywhere, everywhere. You couldn’t get enough of his cock, of his nimble hands, of his body tight against yours.

Your need ramped to a boiling fever, some thrilling sickness. You bent to kiss him, sucking on his lip and tongue, as you rolled your hips in a frantic rhythm. Your skin slapped against his, but it wasn’t enough. You hid your face in his shoulder and whimpered when you found no relief.

His arms looped across your back, as if you’d try to escape. Like you could get away from this desire.

You stilled in time for him to roll to the side and on top of you. He pushed his cock deep. You mewled, your thighs stretched around his hips.

His gaze roved over your features.

“I’m gonna fill your sweet pussy.”

You nodded.

He said, “I’ll make you come.”

You closed your eyes as you imagined it. Hands all over you, gripping you, going between your legs, holding you steady as he worked your body. Your cunt clenched at the image.

“Because you’re mine, too.”

You nodded once more.

He adjusted his stance, knees dipping into the mattress. He grasped one of your shoulders as you held onto his arms with shaking hands.

“Look at me and tell me you love me.”

You stared into his eyes. It was all written out there for you to see: no denial, no hiding, and no more doubt.

“I love you.”

He caught your lips and kissed you so thoroughly you forgot anything beyond him. His hold tightened. His hips minutely rocked. His heavy cock kindled that heat hidden inside.

You moaned against his lips and pulled at him. He needed to move. You’d been wanting him for what felt like years. You’d both gone through hell, seen oblivion, and returned to each other’s side. You needed him to move — now.

He buried his face in your neck, lips against the marks he’d left. The rocking of his hips descended into grinding, then full-out thrusting. He fucked you hard. His cock dragged at the underside of your aching clit. The bed springs whined every time he bottomed out.

You couldn’t catch your breath as his thrusts became desperate. He yanked at your hair to bare your throat. His long hair — that smelled of your shampoo — veiled your humid face.

He kissed his marks and murmured something you couldn’t make out. You agreed anyway. He groaned in reply, driving you down while he thrust up. The sheets stuck to the sweat on your back. His hips snapped forward over and over, his cock ramming deep. You tried your best to move with him, but he was too fast.

Then you couldn’t move at all. Your belly quivered and your thighs tensed. His cock was too much. You strained against him, with him, until that fever broke. You shook in his arms. Your jaw clenched. Orgasm burned through you like a geyser. It sizzled up your spine. You couldn’t catch your breath. Hot tears trickled over your temples in rapturous agony.

Eddie fucked you through it, holding you tight. Your cunt throbbed and clamped around his pistoning length. He cursed in needy growls until he seized, breathless. His voice cracked. His thrusts slowed, yet remained fierce, as his cock pulsed with each thrust.

He stuttered a jumble of cut-off thoughts, all of them flattering and loving. You grinned and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, hugging his sides with your thighs. He mouthed at your neck lazily.

After a tranquil moment, he kissed you, gentle yet demanding. You felt him — every bit of him. His lips tasted of salt. His hands sheltered and cradled. His gaze warmed you. You could only respond in kind. He melted as you smoothed his hair away from his flushed, glowing face.

He kissed you one more time before steadying the condom and slipping out of you.

You relaxed, allowing your tired limbs to sink to the bed. He rolled to the side and dropped the condom on the heap of his dirty clothes. You wrinkled your nose, but didn’t comment. He flopped beside you and pillowed his head on a bent arm. The heating system kicked on. Your sweat cooled as you contemplated getting out of bed. Instead, you tucked your feet between the folds of the blanket.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie said.

You hummed in acknowledgement and glanced at him.

“I was thinking, and you might not be into this, but you want to go to LA? With me?”

You stared at the ceiling.

Los Angeles: broken glass glittering in gutters, live music every night, fluttering neon, cars with their tops down, a bland apartment with a mattress on the floor, your feet warmed by sunshine as you read the newspaper’s entertainment section, Eddie writing songs at the kitchen table.

A smile spread across your face.

“Hell yeah.”

[omg-whathaveidone]

*I'm re-sharing this in the wake of another horrific tragedy. We must learn from past pain...we must never forget.

"The jury’s verdict will never blind the world to what we saw on the videotape" April 29, 1992

I recently had a bit of a reality check when I was asked who Rodney King was by a grown adult, who was literally a year old when Los Angeles rose up. I don't want to describe what happened in 1992 as "rioting" because to me it was an awakening. I wasn't much older than an infant at the time...I was a tween. And I grew up in Ohio...so far removed from life in a huge California city. But the impact of being a child and witness to the chaos and racism will live with me forever.

As a tween, I was still sensitive enough to understand the pain I saw on television and the fear mixed with absolute righteous anger. The violent assault of Rodney King by police footage is so ingrained in my mind that I can still almost hear the ABC news reporters dissecting each awful baton swing caught on a grainy video. It still gives me chills and that's probably why I am still having difficulty understanding the experience of someone who would never have an emotional connection to that horrible day or the days following the verdict in Los Angeles.

During our discussion, my acquaintance asked a seemingly innocent question after I reviewed what happened in April 1992.

"And what was the jury's reason for acquittal?"

His question rang in my head because I had to explain that we had no internet. No one could question the jurors or the media to push for more information. The decision was just....done.

I've been thinking about that moment when he asked this question for days. Our society had absolutely no way to push for accountability in 1992. Voices were ignored by entire systems. People were dehumanized as props. Rodney King's despair and heartbreaking plea for us all to just "get along" was mocked for years. There was no "calling out", there was no organizing of young voices nationwide for mass protest, there was only an infinite void of injustice. And that is why Los Angeles was at a breaking point.

The context of this crucial learning point has been so misconstrued since the nineties. It makes me wonder if folks, specifically well meaning activists, who are the same age and younger than my acquaintance really see the political connections. Those who have mostly lived outside of systemic racism or who have benefitted from it may not see the similarities. The racist mantras of "inner-city violence" that are used against the current movements to protect black and brown lives were the same ones back in the nineties. Unfortunately, the rising of LA was used as "proof" in support of more racist stereotypes and are currently used in rhetoric by the right wing. There is no legitimacy to any such mantras yet I see social justice movements still being thwarted by these old tropes.

So...I guess the reason this whole conversation sticks with me is because of how quickly the real lessons of history are lost. And this is by design. Critical race theory isn't taught in a book. It is learned by sharing experiences and remembering the lessons of our pain and triumph. And I say this as a woman of color with a Master's degree in Humanities. I could never teach someone straight facts of something like April 1992. It had to be felt. And I hope that we all remember to share those feelings so we never really forget.

[foundry-fabrications]

System Spotlight: Monster of the Week

Hello everyone, and welcome to another System Spotlight! Today I've got a pulpy game full of mysteries and monsters, so let's split up, gang, and Investigate a Mystery on Monster of the Week by Evil Hat Productions!

MotW is a mystery solving and monster hunting RPG inspired by shows like Scooby-Doo, Supernatural, The X-Files, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. You play as a team of investigators out to solve mysteries and fight evil, usually in short, self-contained or “episodic” adventures strung together into a larger campaign, each surrounding a new mystery or monster, hence the name.

Character Creation

You start by picking one of several “playbooks”, each based on a popular archetype or trope from the genre, such as The Chosen, The Spell-Slinger, The Mundane, The Wronged, or The Monstrous. Think of them like classes in other RPGs. Each playbook has everything you need to make and play that character until their inevitable death or retirement, including character advancement.

Then you pick one from five attribute arrays. There are five attributes (Charm, Cool, Sharp, Tough, and Weird) and each array has some strong attributes and some weaker attributes, with the others being in between.

From there, we can start getting into the real meat of the playbooks by picking moves and other details specific to each playbook. Every playbook has their own set of moves in addition to all the basic moves, which we’ll talk about those later. For example, the Expert has things like “I’ve Read About This Sort Of Thing”, which lets you roll using Sharp instead of Cool when you act under pressure, or the Spell-Slinger has “Shield Spell”, which lets you reduce the damage of an attack when you protect someone. Each playbook has a lot of options so you have a lot to play with.

In addition to the moves, many of the playbook have other special features that are unique to them. For example, the Professional works for an agency that gives you resources in missions, but you have to deal with some kind of restrictions on what you can do, while the Wronged has a background that gives them benefits as well as a connection to the supernatural underworld. Again, there are a lot of fun options.

Finally, you pick from a list of special gear that you can use on missions such as weapons or equipment, then you establish your history with the other characters in your group. This is a fun little activity that really helps to get the group dynamic going. Each playbook has a list of prompts for what each other character could be to you. For example, they could a blood relation, saved you from a monster, act as your moral compass, or maybe you’re really attracted to them. Lots of fun options.

Resolution Mechanic & Moves

MotW is a Powered by the Apocalypse game (huh, two in a row) that uses 3d6 and a few basic moves for pretty much everything. There are 8 moves, each pretty self-explanatory: Act Under Pressure, Help Out, Investigate a Mystery, Kick Some Ass, Manipulate Someone, Protect Someone, Read a Bad Situation, and Use Magic. Whenever you want to do one of those things, roll 3d6 and add any relevant rating bonus or situational modifiers. On a 10+ you do exactly what you set out to do. 7-9 whatever you’re doing is less effective and usually has some kind of downside. But anything under a 7 is a failure and nothing happens. Each move tells you exactly what happens at each threshold, but that's the gist of it.

Each move also has an Advanced effect that can trigger if you roll 12+, but you have to have taken one of the Advanced Move options as part of character advancement, which we’ll talk about in a bit.

Harm & Luck

Running around fighting monsters and thwarting evil is dangerous, so sooner or later you’re bound to get hurt. Whenever you take damage, you subtract it from any armor you have and mark the remainder as points of Harm. Once you mark 4 harm, you’re Unstable, and at 7 Harm, you’re Dying! If you take any more Harm, that’s the end for you and your character is dead. Thankfully, there are plenty of ways to heal in MotW through downtime and certain moves across various playbooks.

But what if you REALLY need to avoid taking a hit, or you just fumbled an important roll, that's where Luck comes in. Each character begins with 7 points of Luck. You can spend luck to reduce the harm taken from an attack to 0 or retroactively change the result of a roll to a 12. Here’s the kicker. Your luck is finite and does NOT come back (except in EXTREMELY specific circumstances that shouldn’t be relied on), and once it runs out, you’re Doomed! A Doomed character is at the end of the line and Fate isn’t happy with your existence. The GM, or Keeper, is allowed to make more and more bad stuff happen to you. Results of failure will be worse, monsters will target you more often, any bad, fate-related things in your playbook will begin to happen, and past decision will come back to bite you at the worst time. Doomed characters don’t last long, so don’t let it get to that point if you can help it.

Character Advancement

Ok, so character creation and actual play are pretty straightforward, and that trend continues with your advancement. You gain experience whenever you fail a roll, and once you have 5 experience, you can pick an Improvement from a list in your playbook. These are things like increasing a rating by one, gaining a new move, or taking a move from another playbook entirely. Once you have 5 Improvements, you qualify to take Advanced Improvements. These are even stronger things like gaining 2 Advanced Moves, changing your entire playbook, retiring your character while they still live, or even regaining one of your spent Luck!

Other Stuff

That’s pretty much everything as far as player-facing content goes, but there’s a good bit more for the GM to dig in to. There is advice for creating your own mysteries, stringing mysteries together in arcs, and running downtime and one-shots, an introductory mystery, suggestions for how to customize your game, and a big ol’ list of inspirational material.

Tome of Mysteries and Codex of Worlds

But if you’re looking for more MotW content (official, anyway), Evil Hat published the Tome of Mysteries and, just this last year, the Codex of Worlds. The Tome of Mysteries is just that, a collection of new pre-made mysteries you can run, while the Codex of Worlds is a full-blown expansion with all kinds of fun additions to spice up your game. There are new rules, special team playbooks that the whole group can use, and entire settings to shake up the game, each with their own rules and mysteries! It’s like a 400-page book and a delight to read.

My Thoughts

So, it took me a while to get into playing MotW. It was my first encounter with an RPG that was more narrative focused in its mechanics than D&D and I struggled to wrap my head around it. My friend was running a long-term campaign in it, so I heard a lot of what went on and the kinds of shenanigans the group got up to, and I was curious. Over the years, he ran a couple one-shots, and frankly I didn’t get much out of either. Something about it just didn’t click with me. But this last Halloween, he ran an SCP-themed game using some of the stuff from Codex of Worlds, and that one finally got me. I don’t know if it's because of my love for the SCP universe or that our one-shot quickly became a four-shot, giving us more time together and less pressure to finish in a timely manner, but that game really made me understand it and appreciate it for what it is. And I like what it is.

So, what do I like? Well for starters it's dummy simple, something that has become increasingly important for me over the years. The basic resolution mechanic is clean, the moves are clearly defined, but open-ended enough for creative uses, and because you’re mostly going to be rolling 7-9s it keeps the game interesting. And I could just gush about the playbooks! I think they’re my favorite part of the games, easy. They’re stupid simple to use, are completely self-contained, and have enough options to make a wide variety of characters but not so many options as to be overwhelming. You can hand a brand-new player a playbook, and they can be ready to play in 5 minutes, maybe 10. I wish more RPGs had their classes laid out like this (if you know any, let me know!).

Another great thing about the playbooks is that because they’re so well-structured, it makes it easy for people to make their own custom playbooks. There are quite a few custom playbooks made by fans online, and several of them are actually available on the Evil Hat website!

So yeah, I love this game and if you’re into things like Scooby-Doo, Supernatural, Buffy, The X-Files, or The Dresden Files, I think you’ll have a good time too. Anyway, that's all for now. As always, stay safe, don't forget to love each other, and I'll see you again soon.

[merrivia]

I'm feeling self-indulgent today so...this particular part in Prince’s Gambit, when Laurent plays at being Damen’s pet in the inn is such a juicy scene:

On the surface, it’s a standard narrative trope. Take a situation, temporarily flip it, and explore all the thrilling power dynamics that ensue. There are endless stories that do this, so much so that there are literary theories such as Bakhtin's carnivalesque which explore it. As Damen has been made a bed-slave, and Laurent the master; so now, it reverses as far as it can. Laurent does it, of course, for his own ends, and is typical of the kind of insouciant arrogance he has, that helps him carry off such audacious plans.

But- we also can see that Laurent is taking deliberate pleasure in toying with Damen’s sexual attraction to him. I feel like unpicking that today.

[I won’t count the flirtation with Torveld in quite the same way as this. Laurent was charming, and understood his beauty was part of it, but he wasn’t sexual. This is the first time we see Laurent actually wield the power of his potential sexuality.]

The problem of the inn was an interesting one. Sorry for this tangent, but bear with me, I just want to work it out in my head.

While at Arles, Laurent sent a letter to Nikandros, promising him proof of Kastor's betrayal in exchange for military aid. The conversation between the two obviously required messengers to go back and forth, in secret. It seems that Torveld has lent him a Patran to act as an intermediary/contact as Damen assumes that is his identity at the inn, and we assume he would recognise the identity of an Akielon or a Veretian.

At Chastillon, Laurent changes his path through Vere, making his own route instead of following his uncle's. We are told this journey will take two weeks. Within that span of time, Laurent had already pre-arranged his meeting with the Patran contact. However, Laurent takes an extra two weeks out at Damen's suggestion to train the troops, and sent a messenger out from Bailleux to inform the intermediary of the delay. This messenger did not get through, due to the Regent.

Therefore, Laurent has to hope against hope that his contact is still waiting for him, for the final stage of his plan- to send Nikandros his signet ring, and finalise him coming to Ravenel to lend Laurent his support. The Regent, reasonably secure in Laurent's psychology, knows that by sending the riderless horse (which showed the messenger from Bailleux didn't get through), he will immediately try to go to see his contact on his own (he didn't plan for Damen).

The Regent sends mercenaries to track Laurent through Nesson-Eloy, as the letters to the Patran contact were in cipher. He gleaned enough to know where they would meet broadly, but not the specific place. That's my guess, but however it was communicated, Laurent was confident they did not know the inn was the location. The mercenaries were to attack him with the intention of wounding or killing him, and the Regent even sets up the three prong attack (the uprising in his camp and the mercenary ambush) to fully ensure that Laurent will not survive.

Because of the action and excitement of all of these plans being thwarted, and because we only actually fully know what happened in King's Rising, it's possible to overlook some details.

Like when did Laurent come up with the plan to disguise himself as a pet and Damen as the master?

Well, Laurent was planning to go on his own to Nesson-Eloy, but knowing Damen was coming with him gives him the idea. Laurent packed clothing in the style of a Veretian aristocrat in Damen's size, maybe because these were the clothes he was going to give him when he released him from slavery? Nicaise gave him the earring as they leave, which will be Laurent's 'pet' disguise. Something coalesced for him in those hours before they left, and the idea was born. I do think though, that there is literally not one other person that Laurent would have done this with, and it's just delicious. It's going to tick off so many boxes. Practically, gets Laurent want he wants (military aid). Emotionally, gives him a chance to screw with Damen's head (he killed Auguste). Psychologically, lets Laurent play out a few sexual fantasies he's not ready to admit to (first step on the healing journey!).

[Sidebar- this is also one of those interesting, ObliviousDamen moments. Laurent literally spelt out for you that he knows you could pass a Veretian nobleman. You know, like a prince might and a normal Akielon soldier definitely wouldn't. It's the only way the plan would work because you're a magnificent manly warrior and actually in your bearing and demeanour miles from a 'barbarian'. Sigh. Though part of me thinks every time Damen thought, okay, does Laurent know?? it ran up against the wall of nah, no way he would have pretended to this extent. Because Damen couldn't pull that off, and honestly, could most people tolerate their brother's killer to that extent?].

I just think it's interesting, the line Laurent treads in the scene. I've tried to figure out what way could Laurent walk into the inn, I assume noticeably as himself to alert his contact (he can't be too much in disguise), but without raising suspicion, especially as Laurent's hair is like a beacon (the contact needs to visibly see him in the communal area, to be able to sneak into his room to meet him privately). There's not that many options. Laurent obviously would think of a way, but I can't. So it might seem absurd, but within the parameters of what Pacat set up narratively, disguising himself as a pet does work!

So let's get into what Laurent says and does... Firstly, he's right that he does need to go for 'verisimilitude', like he can't pretend to be a pet and sit ten feet away from Damen. But he's also 100% conveniently indulging himself in the thrill of his physical attraction to Damen too. Laurent is also being quite mean and horrible (as per usual) but perhaps isn’t quite pulling it off completely. Giving backhanded compliments about Damen's strength but we can see what’s tugging him towards saying it (we all know Laurent was flustered by Damen’s removal of the grille from the wall. So he brings it up, teasing at the attractive spectacle of Damen’s strength). His tone is very arch here, and it definitely undercuts the content of his words. Coming up that close? Veering perilously close to being wickedly playful? I think it's clear that Laurent really wants Damen's full attention on him, in this scene.

As part of that, Laurent delights in trying to make Damen feel uncomfortable, to provoke him. Particularly in terms of Damen's sex life. Laurent hates him, but he can't seem to stop needling at this sexual side of things with Damen.

I mean just preceding this again, Laurent tried to do something sexual with Damen in the brothel, this time with the prostitute. Laurent's awfully keen at sexually dominating (by proxy) a man he apparently wouldn’t lower himself to lie with 🌚 And with a blonde too... He's poking too at Damen's sexual history. It's interesting that Laurent won't verbally say out loud that Damen has had consensual sex with an equal (it's brothels, or camp followers, or slaves), as that's a smidge too close to the truth of something I think Laurent has started to subconsciously want. Also the wording of 'garden of delights'...I mean, that is a very sexual phrasing (think of Bosch's painting). Laurent, 'frigid' cold Laurent, is maybe thinking prurient thoughts....

Don't get me wrong, at this point Laurent isn't ready to admit any of this. It's just the first crack in the wall of his sexual inhibitions. Laurent actually doesn't understand what sex with someone as an equal is like. He's used to being abused and dominated. So he's turning it around onto Damen here. Plus his feelings are all tangled up with his hatred still.

It's just a fascinating scene as within it, Laurent's being allowed to enact a little 'what if' fantasy, a game, while still remaining perfectly safe. It works really well, as it's all part of Laurent's psychological journey to being able to eventually have sex with Damen.

Turning to Damen, his response is just ‘No.’ And he remains silent. He’s offended (he can seduce men and women very well thank you 😤) and uncomfortable (yes it’s dawning on him that slavery is wrong) and also he understands that this is a game to Laurent. In fact, Damen plays it back with his psychological observation. Laurent’s mildly bitchy ‘Don't strain yourself' still feels a little flirty 😆 Thinking about Damen's muscles are we Laurent? Delighting in thinking of him being all body and no mind, hmm? Trying to annoy him? I think Damen thinks Laurent's uncomfortable because he's playing a pet. And actually, it's maybe more that he's playing at being Damen's pet. We know later that later in Ch 19, when they have sex Laurent is turned on by the idea of Damen "[flipping]" him over and "[mounting]" him.

Listen, what turns people on is complicated. Laurent knows by now that Damen is definitively not a rapist and wouldn't hurt him like that. So it's a fantasy of Damen acting in a way that would feel simple and maybe like being overpowered, as that does away with the complexities of what Laurent is giving up by having sex with him. He wants (and doesn't want at the same time) for Damen to take him. Part of that fantasy is provocation. What does/could/should he do, in the deepest recess of the fantasy of his imagination, to provoke Damen to take his pleasure like that?

So Laurent plays his little game of safe, teasing provocation, and deals his winning hand thusly:

This is so unserious. HornyDamen why are you like this?? Laurent is not going to have sex with you! He must have loved every moment of this, honestly. And Damen is like 'oh' as he sits down...

Damianos of Akielos, what are we going to do with you.

He recovers himself somewhat though, and then says this:

Oh do you Laurent? So Nikandros's military support is your one victory (and it's not small). The other small victory is what you have just done to Damen. Leading him up those stairs, Laurent must have been gleeful. He imagined himself in a position of sexual dominance which he's never really properly had before, he gets to mess with Damen mentally and he's getting a real kick out of how much Damen wants to have sex with him...I mean, he's just really lucky that Damen is so sexual, honestly 🤦🏽‍♀️ Sexual AND doesn't hold grudges (and loves blond hotties). Cos that's literally the only person that would put up with this shit, that wasn't stupid (Damen is smart but...you know how he is when it comes to sex). I want to clarify, too, that Laurent's sexual allure means he has power over lots of men in a way, but it's not actually a power he wants or cares about because he has no interest in them and no need for validation for them. He cares about this though 🌚.

This post is getting too long, and I’m tired, so I'll leave it here, but the evening they spend at the inn deserves it's own analysis and I might do that one soon. Because this moment of sexual fantasy will lead to an evening of getting closer to one another and then to the rooftop scene and...well, off Damen goes, over the cliff of love and then it's all about Laurent getting to the same place as him.

[venigni]

Real question: did Venigni already have a daddy kink or P made him develop it?

Okay, so real talk...I don't think Venigni's ever had a serious relationship. Like, he was super busy and probably way too engrossed in his work--inventing new tools for stalkers, making and understanding puppets, running the Venigni family empire--to have time for it. Plus he hates high society charades, anyway, so I doubt he'd've had any real romantic interest in the circles he had to run in. I headcanon he spent most of his rare spare time with those he considered close friends and family. Which leaves even less time for intimacy. When you're under as much stress and pressure as he is, thirsting doesn't come easy to the body or mind.

And then P comes around, who is not just unique because he is a puppet with an awakened ego--Venigni is quite familiar with that phenomenon, actually--but is also this amazing, stoic protector that nothing seems to thwart. Who seems to actually, genuinely care.

P saves Venigni and comes to his rescue, both spiritually and literally. And in addition to all he does to save Krat, he talks to Venigni often and brings him many cryptic vessels to decode so that he doesn't go stir crazy. During these little moments, they get to talking. It isn't much, obviously, because P is pretty quiet, but Venigni seems to cherish these times. As they get closer and Venigni feels comfortable enough to open up about his past, I honestly can't imagine him not falling hard for P. Because P is unlike anyone he's ever met in the exact way folks falling in love always describe the indescribabe way that other person is "not like other guys."

All that being said, I think the daddy kink mostly stems from P. And I think Venigni likes it because P likes it. I think he would like anything that pleases P because he's shown time and time again throughout the game's story that he's very much a giver. He wants to serve, he wants to give, he wants to help in any way he can. It satisfies him to satisfy his partner. That's his true love language, all his rambling and excessive praise aside. This happens to also fall right into the tropes of Daddy kink: P might be the protector of the world, but Venigni is the protector of P.

TLDR: I think P unintentionally gave Venigni a daddy kink. 😂

[fluxedbuds]

apparently y'all Are desperate enough for my Lomadia Oc so uh. hope you're in the mood for [checks notes] ~13 paragraphs, half of which is just description!

allow me to introduce Villom!

She doesn't have an actual name or in-universe nickname, I just call her Villom. Because she was originally a Villain Version of Lomadia from a sci-fi world for some comic idea I totally scrapped bc it sucked. Except for Villom!

So basically what if we put Lomadia in space and gave her every problem and no normal coping mechanisms

The base universe is Completely Impossible sci-fi space stuff, involving solar systems being relatively close together and having tons of habitable planets, with star trek 'convergent evolution' making everybody a Weird Human Basically. Part of these choices is that I. Don't actually like sci-fi lol. I don't think its bad I just can't Get Into It, so I did the lazy version. HOWEVER I do also use the fact that its extremely artificial and story-focused as part of the plot so its FINE There IS also magic, but it’s generally less used, as tech is more accessible and less complicated from a user standpoint. That doesn’t mean it isn’t powerful, if you know what to look for. Thats foreshadowing!

Compared to base Lomadia, Villom is.. very immature. She has trouble identifying and controlling emotions, she's quick to anger and holds grudges. She's also more impulsive and tends towards insults and crude jokes. She's actually pretty fun to hang out with as a result, but responsibility is a role she's crushed into, and it never truly fits. She's trying her best ok

Villom starts out her story as a young adult, training to be a pilot. She does some hero shit, but breaks so many rules in the process and gets kicked out. She’s enraged by this betrayal of what was supposed to be her life, and steals a ship to go rogue and try to pursue her dreams anyways. She doesn’t exactly know what she’s doing, though, and eventually a chase causes her to crash on an unfamiliar planet, where she meets Rythian. He’s steampunk now, don’t question it

Anyways, they end up teaming up, and form the first of her crew. Later additions are Martyn, who is a mouse guy who has So Fucking Many People Who Want Him Dead, and Zoeya! Who ended up separated from Fionn following partially the plot of Mushbury, and works as the ship’s engineer. Their ship (that lasts long enough to get a name…) is called the Ask, and Villom occasionally (and jokingly) calls her crew the Answers. (Its called the Ask because originally I gave the characters nicknames based on Norse mythology for Pretentious Reasons, those might come back later)

So everything’s all fine and poggers for a while, with the Ask’s crew causing mischief and undercutting evil empires across the worlds- and then Villom’s home planet is destroyed. And she sees it happen.

See, one of the tropes of sci-fi that bugs me, is how understated the death of an entire planet tends to go. This is the first step of Villom realizing how truly fucked up the world they live in is- and the first step of her wondering why it has to be this way, and how to stop it.

It only gets worse from here.

No matter how many evil empires they topple, no matter how many massive threats they thwart, there’s always another one. And no matter how fast they are, they can’t stop every world-ending crisis. Villom starts learning magic, wondering if theres some kind of solution there. When she doesn’t find one, she just looks harder. Brushing so close with forces she’s alone in experiencing wears on her, compounding with their futile mission.

The breaking point is when Rythian dies. Raiding an enemy ship goes wrong, they’re outnumbered, they’re trying to retreat. Surrenders are not accepted, there.

It’s another thing she sees happen, another thing she was inches away from but unable to stop. And she can’t take it. She can’t take losing another part of her, another of the few things she could call home in this cold void.

She takes some of the things she learned looking where she shouldn’t- and kills the nearest member of the enemy team, trading a life for a life. And part of her soul as tax, of course. Just a small bit, this time. She never tells him. Pretends it was instead an incredibly close call. He probably knows she’s lying, on some level, but he never says it.

Villom is desperate, now. There’s more and more things she’s hiding from her crew, more and more boundaries of safety she’s pushing. She trades one of her eyes for the ability to see the functions of the world itself- maybe it’s a mistake, there’s some gear stuck, and if she fixes it this infinite loop of wars will stop.

There is no mistake. This is how the universe is intended to function.

She can’t give up. Because if she stops, she’s never going to get up again.

Maybe there’s other worlds where it’s better, where it’s safe. Maybe there’s a way to make this world like them.

Maybe there’s a way to leave.

She’s barely human anymore, even though she looks perfectly fine. Her hair is white, her eye replaced, but that’s all. She’s replaced the things she’s traded away. She’s barely even a part of the world, anymore. Unstuck from the threads of it, floating as a constant point, unchanging and undying, snapping back into place when moved.

A lot of universes are visited by a strange woman with white hair, who never stays. Sometimes she’s a savior, or a tyrant, or merely another passerby.

One of them, somewhere, has to have an answer. The way to break the cycle. And Villom will find it- even if she has to take every one of them apart.

[greenlikethesea]

deeply curious about King Eddie??? if this is eddie as a drag king, i will launch myself out of a rocket at the hare moon loool

omg no that's not what it's about but wouldn't that be an amazing idea, sparkly???

king eddie is this idea that @sparklyslug and i came up with to explore a world in which tropes were reversed. eddie is actually the popular jock who's dating the head cheerleader, chrissy cunningham -- but here's the trick: they're both gay and bearding for each other until they get to college. meanwhile, steve never really got popular on account of his mother divorcing his father and moving them to a much smaller house next door to the hendersons. steve's an a/v nerd who never dated nancy and discovered he was bisexual because he sent away for star trek zines and they had some, uh, enlightening material in them. steve and eddie meet at skull rock one day and a friendship -- and maybe a romance? -- develop.

here's a little snippet for you, Chrissy trying to thwart Steve's affections for Eddie:

“Do you like Eddie?” Chrissy asks. It’s an ambiguous enough question, designed to intrigue. She knows how to play this game.

Steve nods. “Yeah, he’s really cool. Uh, we’re into a lot of the same books and movies. I couldn’t believe it when he threw out that Star Trek reference –”

“Not that kind of like,” Chrissy says. Play coy, Christine. You’re good at this. You didn’t get your social standing by being so goddamn obvious like Harrington over here. “Of course you like him as a friend. I mean, like a crush.”

“No,” Steve says, too quickly, too definitely. Gotcha. 

Chrissy knows that Steve used to have a crush on her. Not in the way that every guy at Hawkins High has wanted a piece of her, no. In that puppy dog way, that innocent, sweet manner of liking someone that only happens when you’re still a virgin. She was “dating” Eddie by the time he came into her periphery, taking photos for the school newspaper with Jonathan Byers at every game. That was safe. She could coolly reject him then, because duh, she had a boyfriend, and she wouldn’t be seen with the head of the A/V club. Social suicide. But this is…different. She and Eddie have their Chicago trips, their flings, but Eddie’s never liked anyone long enough to jeopardize their relationship. And Steve never liked Chrissy as much as he definitely likes Eddie.

They’re so close, both going to the same college. She’s so close to leaving this town behind and being who she really wants to be. And she can’t let Steve ruin that for her, someone who probably hasn’t even had his first kiss. 

Fuck. This sucks. But it has to be done.   

“I won’t tell anyone if you do,” Chrissy says, widening her eyes, batting her eyelashes a little. “I promise. 

Steve looks away, then looks back at her, lips pursed in uncertainty. “Promise?”

Chrissy knows her smile looks serene, has spent hours perfecting it in bathroom mirrors. “You can trust me.”

--

and here's a little snippet that my dear sparkly wrote, because I love it so much:

“Can’t deduce for my own species my ass, Henderson,” Steve crows (quietly, since the hawk could be around anywhere). 

“Oh yeah?” A voice sounds from above him, and Steve whirls around, startled. “And what deductions are those, Holmes?”

For a second, Steve is pretty sure he’s flat-out seeing things. He’s a science guy, is all about facts and proofs, has found them engaging and soothing from the second he accidentally found his way into Mr. Clarks A/V Club the first day of sixth grade. But he’s automatically reaching for the fantastical right now, because what else could explain this figure, stretched out regal and comfortable on the top of Skull Rock like he’s lounging on a thrown, the setting sun throwing golden light through his dark curls and the depths of his famous brown eyes, draped in gold from his perfect skin to his letterman’s jacket? 

What else could explain Eddie Munson, King of Hawkins High, regarding Steve with open curiosity and humor? Right now, when Steve is fairly sure he hadn’t caught Eddie’s notice more than five times in the entire time they’ve been classmates?

“Holmes, or–” Eddie cocks his head to the side, hair sending off more golden sparks. “Harrington. Right?”

So much for not being noticed by the guy. Steve, to his horror, feels himself blush. 

[marlynnofmany]

I'm tired of stories about eeeeevil shapeshifters who infiltrate humanity. Gimme a story about humans being the sneaky spies instead.

Depending on what the aliens look like, we won't need any special abilities other than a good costume/prosthetics department.

[holmesxwatson]

The Lost Cases: The Private Diary of John Watson, new stories by Ruth Hanson

The Lost Cases: The Private Diary of John Watson is a set of new, ongoing short stories about Holmes and Watson solving cases in Victorian times with a romantic twist. As of this writing, there are 6 chapters published out of a planned 20.

Real talk, the whole idea about making this sideblog came to me while I was reading these stories and wishing that more people knew about them. You guys, they are so good and I love them a lot. It's exactly what I hoped to read while anticipating the public domain date. Holmes and Watson are still solving crimes, hailing cabs, drinking tea, and smoking in their sitting room, but they're also pining for one another, talking about their feelings, meeting and helping other queer characters, and struggling with the secrecy they have to maintain in order to stay together. Listen, it's got all those good, satisfying, and angsty romance tropes while still staying true to the storytelling and language of the canon.

Hoping that you'll consider giving these stories a try and if you're in the US, I have a few Kindle redemption links for the first story, just send me a dm :)

I'm just a nerd standing in front of some other nerds hoping they'll read these soft, beautiful, romantic stories.

Links below ❤

And here's the pitch from the author's website:

Recently unearthed from the Watson estate, The Lost Cases is a collection of private journal entries that had gone unpublished by Dr. John Watson about the world's greatest detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. New mysteries, murders and mayhem await only the most devout Holmesian detective. But there are more than just clues to be followed in these far more intimate entries. Beyond the obvious excitement, The Lost Cases also brings to light the true nature of the relationship between Holmes and Watson. A relationship that, at the time, came with it an ever present threat of imprisonment, physical harm, and even death. Yet in the face of the enormous risk, both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes find happiness and contentment with each other as they work together to thwart the darkest players of London's criminal underworld. We invite you now to come along on this journey of love, murder, and afternoon tea. This is the private diary of Dr. John Watson.

Read a preview of each chapter (x)

Buy the stories on Kindle for $1.99 each (x)

Author links (x)

[greenhappyseed]

Sympathy for the Demon Lord: Why is AFO Crying?

AFO crying in Ch.369 has set off a fresh round of “AFO loves Yoichi and wants to be with him” commentary, so let’s look at the evidence! Is AFO a man or is he a monster? A monster of a man or very manly monster?

In Ch.193, AFO says outright that he loves Yoichi. But in context, AFO states his love while being a quirkist asshole. He’s saying he “still” loves his brother, despite his brother’s weakness. (Further, AFO calls this “meeting [Yoichi] halfway” and questions whether Yoichi is more egotistical than him for maintaining a strict ideology that denies the “helpfulness” of AFO’s order.) Of course, even though AFO explicitly acknowledges Yoichi’s weakness, AFO has no issue allowing his bodyguard to slam Yoichi to the ground and pin him, simply saying “Be gentle. He’s a fragile one” rather than “stop” or “let him go.” AFO is using his bodyguard to display his power over Yoichi while acting casual. (AFO subscribes to the same school of thought as Cersei in Game of Thrones that power is power.) AFO also has no problem imprisoning Yoichi and hiding him away as AFO unites people and gains new “friends.”

Similarly, at the end of 193, AFO tells an imprisoned Yoichi “you matter to me” and invites him to “walk this path with me,” but it’s all in the context of AFO’s “dream come true” and how “new reality” doesn’t “follow the old playbook” (specifically, a trope-y and cliched old comic book). We now know AFO’s dream is to “thwart the future of the whole world” and eliminate all individual variation so the world chooses to follow his order. Does AFO really want his flesh-and-blood brother — the (seemingly) quirkless, physically weak, idealistic, and obstinate man — by his side? Or does Yoichi represent a defiance AFO desperately wants to conquer? A pebble in his path, perhaps…

Upon stealing New Order in Ch.333 and believing he had obtained the power to easily steal OFA, AFO addresses Yoichi directly his monologue. Instead of expressing any caring about his brother, he gloats about how he won by disregarding the “old playbook”: “This is where it truly begins…Yoichi…the stories I read with you that day…those comics. You thought I didn’t realize there was more to the story? Wrong. I knew how it would go, so I chose to stop reading there!” In other words, AFO knows the villain “always loses in the end,” so he’s decided to never reach the ending. He has planned for a long (eternal) life because the winner is the one who stays standing the longest. In Ch.329, AFO even says obtaining OFA is only his “mid-game” goal, NOT the final one. If that’s true, then reuniting with his beloved brother clearly isn’t AFO’s motivation.

Jumping back to Ch. 287, we see this played out when the brothers reunite for a real-time interaction. AFO says “It’s such a shame that I could never make you mine!” and sounds affectionate towards Yoichi…until 2 pages later, when AFO tells Tomura that Yoichi and Nana “are but a couple departed people who fell to me!” In other words, AFO meant that he could never make Yoichi and OFA his, but TomurAFO can. AFO was never expressing lost love for his brother; he was just doing the thing he does so well: Gloating over his victory and rubbing it in other people’s faces as a power play. (There’s also the implication that AFO killed Yoichi by saying Yoichi “fell to me,” although I don’t think the manga has actually confirmed this yet. It could be that one of AFO’s “friends” exercised their own free will to kill Yoichi. Or maybe Yoichi died after trying to use OFA for the first time against his brother. Worst case scenario, Second killed Yoichi….)

It’s also notable how AFO lumps Yoichi with Nana. We know from Kamino that AFO thought Nana was a “fool of a woman” for putting “her stupid ideals first, without the power to back them up.” He also said Nana’s actions were “pretty embarrassing for me, as the father of One For All.” Does AFO feel the same way about Yoichi as he does with “foolish” Nana? Is Yoichi an embarrassment to the King of Quirks? Does AFO want a victory over his weak and idealistic brother to cement his own strength? Is Yoichi’s existence a threat to AFO as a powerless blood relative or as someone who, in hindsight, DID have the strength to back up his ideals?

Finally, there’s one line from the Star fight in Ch.322 that I think is relevant. When TomurAFO is close to swiping New Order, he says to Star, “Me and myself make better use of your resources.” AFO believed Star wasn’t using New Order to its fullest potential, and he could do better. AFO is insulted by someone underusing a powerful quirk and gladly substitutes his own judgment for the original quirk holder’s ideals. What we see with Yoichi is the opposite — AFO could decry Yoichi’s ideals all he wanted, but couldn’t make a “better use” of Yoichi, so into the vault he went. AFO then had to give Yoichi a quirk to even try to use him.

In short, it’s not clear at all why AFO is crying in Ch.369, but it’s not likely out of love for his dead brother (especially not until we get confirmation of how/why Yoichi died). I would, however, like to float a possibility that has nothing to do with Yoichi. What if AFO previously knew Second and maybe Third? What if Second & Third were originally some of AFO’s “friends” before splitting apart? (Or even real friends?) Second has emphasized a few times how his quirk is different than it was in his time. Did he get it from AFO? Or did they work together such that AFO is very familiar with the old version of Second’s quirk?

Maybe AFO is crying because he has to kill his former friend — who only has a quirk due to AFO’s own kindness — because said ex-friend stole his brother out from under his nose, created a new superquirk using his familial bloodline without asking him, and then used said superquirk to lead a rebellion army against him. The nerve of that guy.

[moviemunchies]

Ah, yes, the del Toro Hellboy movie; it’s much better than that other attempt at making a Hellboy movie that came out in 2019. It’s a very del Toro movie, which means it’s not that faithful an adaptation of the original comics. Still, it’s close enough, and it’s a pretty good movie in its own right.

In World War II, Professor Broom leads an American military in thwarting Rasputin’s Nazi experiment to open a portal to the Ogrdu Jahad, the seven gods of chaos (just roll with it). They defeat Rasputin and his forces, but something does come through the portal: an infant Hellboy. He’s adopted by the Professor and the newly-formed Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense (the BPRD). Aging much slower than an ordinary person, he of course becomes an agent of the BPRD and something of a cryptid to the general public. As he doesn’t really get along with his coworkers/handlers, Professor Broom hires FBI agent John Myers to work with him, and help introduce the audience to the world of the BPRD.

Except! Ohes noes! The Professor is dying! And Rasputin and his minions are back, raising up unkillable monsters and hoping to force Hellboy realize his destiny as Anung Un Rama, the Beast of Apocalypse.

There are several noticeable differences between Mike Mignola’s comic characters and del Toro’s versions of them. Hellboy being a grumpy young adult, rather than a serious investigator at this point comes to mind, as well as him being romantically interested in Liz. Abe is psychic now (a change which I actually kind of prefer?). Most of all though, the biggest change is that the BPRD is a secret organization, and Hellboy must hide from the public’s view, causing a lot of angst and conflict.

These are the hallmarks of a Guillermo del Toro picture: a monster who wants to be accepted by humanity, and can’t because humanity sucks sometimes. That’s not A Thing in the Hellboy comics, and it makes me understand why some comics fans don’t like these movies as much. That being said, apparently Mignola went into the the adaptation giving del Toro his blessing to do his own take on the world and characters. Also, this was my introduction to Hellboy (and I suspect that for many that’s the case as well), so I can’t really hold it against the movie too much.

Supposedly, according to TV Tropes at least, there is a Director’s Cut out there, and it develops the characters better than the theatrical cut. I have never seen anything about that, and I don’t know where I’d track that down, but let me know if you see that floating around!

There are some changes in the worldbuilding as well, like how the Ogdru Jahad are slightly different from how they appear in the comics. This is kind of excusable–the backstory and full explanation of their nature were things that Mignola knew, but hadn’t shared yet when the movie was in production. He actually decided to explain all of those in a comic story (“The Island”) when on set for this movie. So I can’t fault the movie for changing some of that.

Then again, there’s also the 2019 film, which tried to include a lot of the comics story and ended up being an overcrowded mess.

The special effects are… well, it’s a mixed bag. The practical effects, of which there are a lot, generally aged pretty well. You know you’re looking at something real when you’re looking at practical effects. The other effects are a little more hit-or-miss. It looks like del Toro realizes that the CGI wasn’t always as strong, as some of those weaker CGI images are in quick action shots, or in dark places, so that you don’t see it on screen for too long, or can’t make it out on screen, so it still works. Other things, like Liz’s flames, or when Hellboy electrocutes Samael–those are weaker effects and don’t hold up as well today.

Still, it’s overall a darn good movie. Even if it’s only a loose adaptation of the comics, it’s a solid, memorable story, with really good visuals and great scenes. Every action sequence is memorable and well-done. The characters are likable, the Plot is easy to follow, and the movie is loads of fun to watch.

Also it’s about a half-demon that’s been raised Catholic, which is a darn interesting premise by itself.

And Hellboy punches a robot ninja Nazi in the face. That’s pretty great.

So I suppose you should watch the movie.

[redd956]

Whump Ideas: Oversized Whumpees

Lmao! I just moved into my college dorms !!! Might start taking and finishing requests (No nsfw, I’m finicky on whether or not I’ll do pet whump, not a gore fan)

Another whumpee archetype is the oversized whumpee, generally tall and more muscular whumpees. (Perhaps monster whumpees that are just big bois and gorls) I surprisingly don’t see these as often in writing as I initially expected. Here are some I ideas I’ve conjured for this archetype.

The Big Scaredy

- An intimidating Whumpee at first glance

- A big anxious push over

- Perhaps once a terrifying force of nature, reduced to acting much smaller than themselves

- Greatest Hugger

There’s Always  A Bigger Fish

- These whumpees are viewed as the more massive and sturdy ones

- Caretaker is shocked to find how someone like them could be reduced to anything, and no one knows how to deal with them

- Their Whumper is somehow bigger than them

- Tends to be ashamed of their “lack” of strength, and blames themselves

- Caretaker is even more terrified at the image of who could be Whumpee’s Whumper

Ashamed of their Whumper

- Their whumper obviously wasn’t there size... Bonus: Whumper is smaller than the average person

- Sometimes stoic

- Whumpee entirely blames themselves, and cannot be convinced otherwise

- Though their Whumper is small, the scars/emotional baggage they bear are surprisingly big

- Shame determines their every action

Big and Strong

- Hiding their injuries and ailments type

-Stoicism

- Can also be the leader

- Refuse to show any sign of weakness, but is increasingly reaching their breaking point

- Likely still being Whumped

- Harsh towards other Whumpees (especially ones their size)

- Why won’t they fight Whumper? Did they already reduce Whumper to ashes?

Traits I love

- Intimidating Scars

- Smol Caretaker vs. Large Whumpee

- Absolute Gym Bro Personality

- Stoic and Big

- Whumpee carrying themselves as if they’re smaller; hunched in posture, enclosed body languages, bowing, crouching, kneeling

- Whumpee terrified that they’re going to hurt Caretaker with even the lightest touch

- Caretaker starting out hateful or frightened of Whumpee

- The big dog trope (laying their body weight on caretaker)

Bonus: Feral Force of Nature

- Usually non-human and/or monstrous

- Sometimes associated with pet whump

- A danger to all those around them

- Will attack caretaker/trying to actively thwart caretaker

- Sharp teeth & claws

- Requires a team to handle

- Caretaker is even more hateful and frightened of Whumpee; constantly trying to get themselves out of the situation

- Gear up and armed Caretaker

- Usually requires force, restraints, or triggers to contain