#(does this count as fenders?)

[witsserviceablesubstitute]

Loving Anders and Fenris means I'm trying to enjoy two similarly flawed characters whose trauma shouldn't have been used as a weapon against each other, nor as a weapon against the entirety of DA2's plot. At least, not the way it was. Their respective stories needed a lot more empathy and nuance. Some of that was DA2 being a rushed rough draft, but there are still certain choices that the player makes with both of them that exist as pointlessly cruel, racist, and abelist and therefore shouldn't have been options at all.

Ultimately DA2 is a story that handled both Fenris and Anders contextual oppression and meta creation poorly enough that sometimes all I see is a reproduction of their reductive feud, but in real life. I understand why someone would dislike one but not the other (and people should feel free to), I even agree with an interpretation of Anders as this particular type of biased white leftist. However, years of their constant reduction has only led to a dismissal of what they represent. The exploration of which being DA2's whole plot, the execution of which being fundamentally flawed, and the divisive reaction of which being inevitable. They needed care, basically.

The story was damagingly irresponsible in how it went about pitting their two biggest in-game marginalized identities against each other, one an allegory for queer oppression and mental health issues, the other for colonialism and slavery. It has gotten to the point where I believe fenders (or rather the hopeful romanticization of Fenris and Anders) has the better idea in how to manage their mishandling than discussion that reduces them to their worst selves, dehumanizes them altogether, or dismisses their textual metaphors. Because they are flawed but sometimes all I see is a recitation of their flaws used to dismiss all they represent rather than discussion on how DA2 could've handled their themes respectfully.

This, again, is me navel-gazing. Not on the attack. Please be free to disagree, just not abusively so. Different interpretations of a text and characters are unavoidable, especially for these two (who people feel a strong personal affinity for) and in a game like DA2 (a story within a story). This is just how I feel.

[flashhwing]

my main problem with fenders is that it doesn't follow the same scheme as every other anders ship. you got handers, nanders, kanders. they all rhyme. it's the single letter -> anders. and yes i know hawke, nathaniel, and karl all have 'a' as the second letter but still! it's the principle of the matter!! it should be fanders!!

[ravenousarts]

Got to paint my new fender today and I'm super happy with how it came out :)

[burnt-tortellini]

the english urge to get the fuck away

[arbezcra]

playing my guitar like the harp

[dreamwatch]

Ramblin' Gamblin' Man

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest

Day #20 - Prompt: Under The Covers | Word Count: 979 | Rating: M | CW: period typical homophobia (alluded to) | POV: Steve | Pairing: Steddie | Tags: secret relationship, sharp suits, Steve Harrington is stupid for Eddie Munson, Fluff but make it lustful

Steve’s at the Grammys. Holy Shit.

It’s not the first time Eddie’s been here, but it’s the first time he’s brought Steve. He walked the red carpet alone last time, the rest of the band ahead of him with their wives and girlfriends, Eddie playing up the bachelor angle. Steve watched from their home. 

Tonight they’re ’best friends if anyone asks’, which Eddie thinks is unlikely because there are some big names here and like, who the fuck are they in the scheme of things?

They’re not nominated for anything; Eddie said they’d been asked to play a cover of Ramblin’ Gamblin Man and both Wayne and Steve’s dad are big Bob Seger fans so the band said yes. See, its little things like that that make him want to climb inside Eddie and never come out. Any other act is thinking about the prestige, Eddie’s thinking about whether his family would like it.

He loves this man so fucking much.

The band are sitting about ten rows back; he’s got a clear view of Sheryl Crow from his seat, and he’s pretty sure that’s the back of Whitney Houston’s head over to his left.

His new phone is buzzing in his pocket. Robin is obsessed with sending him messages. Tonight so far:

‘Is Stevie Nicks there?’

‘If she is please tell me she’s hot.’

‘Shit I think I just saw you!’

‘Is that Sheryl Crow in front of you?’

He deletes them to make space for new messages, hopefully something about how their friends are at the goddamn Grammys and not whether Shania Twain has a nice ass. (She does, he looked.)

Eddie taps his arm. “Okay, we have to go get changed.”

“Huh? Why?”

They’re wearing their ‘Corroded Coffin smart attire’, essentially their usual clothes minus the rips. They’re not exactly scruffy, per se, but… Steve’s in a suit here, you know? (The suit is borrowed, but it’s all about the effort.)

Eddie grins at him. “You didn’t think I was performing at the Grammys in this, did you?” He pulls at the long sleeve tee he’s wearing under his new leather jacket. 

“I mean, yeah, I kind of did.”

Eddie tsks. “For shame, Steve.” He leans in, achingly close, his breath tickling Steve’s neck. “Wish me luck.”

Just for a second Steve thinks about kissing him. Fuck everyone else, fuck the fans, the industry, he just wants to kiss his man publicly. But he doesn’t. Instead he shifts so his lips are practically touching the shell of Eddie’s ear.

“Good luck,” he whispers. 

Eddie shivers. Steve laughs.

The boys all leave, and now it’s Steve and The Wives.

Thirty minutes later the sound of a trashy high-hat fills the auditorium, lights flashing in time to the thu-thu thump bass drum pattern. Despite Jeff being their lead vocalist it’s Eddie, with his raspier, bluesier voice, that’s taking the lead tonight, and doesn’t that just make Steve’s heart fucking cry out with pride? And you know, Eddie, his Eddie, singing at a nationally televised event should be the thing he’s concentrating on, and it is! It is. But when the lights go up the first thing he actually notices is—

“Holy shit, they’re wearing suits!” 

Bonnie says it before anyone else gets a chance. He imagines the four of them are a picture right now, side by side, eyes on stalks because their men are all on stage at the Grammy’s wearing blacks suits, crisp white shirts and… fucking sunglasses. 

Look, he’s seen Eddie in a suit. It was a nice suit, but he looked about as comfortable as a priest in a lingerie store. This is not that.

These are sharp tailored suits, fitted to perfection. Eddie has too many buttons undone on the shirt, some of his chest exposed, that old Fender guitar pick necklace replaced with a solid silver copy (the original with Wayne). The stage lights hit his mirrored Ray Bans, the chain, the rings. But Steve can’t take his eyes off that fucking suit.

He’s going to devour him.

Eddie’s not a frontman, says he loves being able to just do his thing and let Jeff take care of the crowd. But he has a feeling things might change after tonight. 

The audience are on their feet, and Steve grabs the girls so they can head down to the backstage area. They have passes but even then he has to pull the ‘pregnant ladies coming through’ card to get them back to the green room. And when they get in there--

They’re still dressed in those fucking suits.

Eddie spins toward him. “Hey! What did you—“

Steve doesn’t give him a chance to finish the sentence, he has his hands on Eddie’s face and he’s dragging him in for a long, deep kiss, Eddie’s eyes wide and cross eyed.

When he finally comes up for air he realises Jeff, Gareth and Matt are all getting much the same treatment from their wives.

“You’re never taking this off, understand?” Steve says breathlessly. “Never.”

“What… the suit?”

“Duh, the suit, yes the suit. You’re never taking it off. I don’t care what you’re doing, mowing the lawn, taking the trash out, washing the car, don’t care. This,” he says gently pulling at a very expensive lapel, “is never leaving your body.” He goes in for another kiss. “God the things I’m going to do to you tonight.”

“In the suit?”

“Fuck yes, in the suit! Told you, you’re never taking this off.”

Eddie’s grin is slow and mischievous. “This is really doing it for you, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

It’s doing it for everyone. There are three respectable married ladies here, mothers no less, acting like groupies at an Aerosmith gig. 

Steve squeezes his hips. “Let’s go.”

“Sunglasses: on or off?”

Steve wants to sink his teeth into him right here.

“On. Definitely on.”

The song:

The inspiration:

[superprofesh]

The Five Times Colt Seavers Almost Kisses You (and the One Time He Does) — Part 2

Pairing: Colt Seavers x reader

Description: The second time Colt Seavers almost kisses you — in which he thinks he might be losing his sanity.

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.2k

Tag List: @strangedeerconnoisseur, @icantwaittoliveandlearn, @moonlightandstarshimmer

Author’s Note: As the Colt obsession rages on, I hope y'all enjoy part 2, because it certainly was sizzling when I wrote it :D This one is more from Colt's POV, and it includes some of his inner monologue (which I loved in the film). I appreciate everyone's kind words so far and would love to hear your thoughts about this chapter! Thank you all! <3

Part 1

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Ever since the little paint-smudging incident, Colt has been, well… off.

This never happens to him. He’s a professional, he’s been working on movie sets for years, he’s known hundreds and hundreds of coworkers. But something is different. You’re different.

As he leans against the hood of his truck after filming, one leg propped on the fender as he takes a deep breath of the midnight air, Colt can’t stop replaying the events of the day before. You painting a prop sign, you laughing at his dumb jokes, you smearing red paint across his face. The steadiness of your hands, the smile crinkling the corners of your eyes. The sunbeams luminescent in your hair. The way your hand felt for the few seconds it lingered on his cheek.

Get it together, man, his inner monologue scolds him.

Colt can’t deny that he has feelings for you. You’ve been on set together for about two months now, and he sees you practically every day. Every time he performs a stunt, you’re always there adjusting the furniture, dabbing color onto the walls, rearranging props with that magnificent touch that brings every setpiece to life. Colt is amazed by your talent in your job as a set decorator, and your skill pushes him to try harder stunts each time, to try to impress you with his own skills.

But there’s one major problem that he can’t get past — he’s just not good enough for you. Sure, Colt has all the confidence in the world when it comes to throwing himself from a moving car or flashing a dazzling smile at you across the set, but he’s destined to be an unknown stuntman for the rest of his career. Your talent and dedication promises great things for your future, and Colt has already made up his mind that he’s not going to stand in your way by coming on too strong.

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. Even when he’s trying to be noble and keep himself from getting you distracted from your career, he’s replaying the way your eyes fluttered shut for a moment when his thumb brushed your jaw.

I’m so screwed.

Colt has just agreed with his inner monologue that he will keep his distance from you and turn all his unfulfilled feelings into protein powder when you step out of a nearby trailer, one arm over your eyes as if you’ve been crying.

All thoughts of noble detachments shatter instantly, and Colt pushes off his truck to make his way toward you. He’s relieved when you lower your arm from your face and he can tell that you weren’t crying — just so dead tired that you can barely keep your eyes open.

“Hey, Van Gogh,” he calls to you, keeping a distance of about six feet as he reverts to his usual habit of artist-nicknames. Too familiar, too familiar, abort, abort. “Too much moonshine?”

Your eyes pop open in surprise to see him standing there, but a wearied smile crosses your face nonetheless. “Too much moonlighting,” you correct him, leaning back against the art trailer with a sigh. “Gordon has been on my back all day about the props for the train station scene. I got wooden benches for a rustic vibe, but he wants metal for a grittier vibe. I painted the graffiti mural in multi-colors, but he wants it red for a sharper contrast. I spent the last week distressing the station floor so it would look lived-in, but now he wants it clean. Clean, cold, and clinical.” You bury your face in your hands, rubbing your red-rimmed eyes. “I just finished making twenty neon signs for the depot, but I don’t know if he’ll even still want them by tomorrow.”

Colt’s heart tugs seeing you so exhausted and discouraged, and he elects to ignore his previous inner monologue and take a few steps in your direction. “Sounds like Gordon is trying to direct a hospital soap opera instead of an action thriller.”

“Exactly!” You throw your hands up in frustration, letting your head loll to the side as you look at him through half-opened eyes. “I never want to see another paint roller again. Or at least not until tomorrow.”

Colt chuckles at that, taking another step closer. “It is tomorrow. It’s past midnight.” His brow furrows in concern as he watches your eyelids drift closed again. You look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet.

“Right. I knew that,” you mumble. “I need some sleep.”

“I’d say you need a hibernation,” Colt says gently, cursing himself for the way he feels the urge to reach out and touch you. “When’s the last time you got any winks?”

Your eyes roll back in your head as you try to recall. “Uhhh… Tuesday?”

Colt shakes his head. “Come on, I’ll drive you back.”

Your eyes open at that, and you automatically shake your head, swaying a little as you do so. “No, you don’t need to do that! I’ll be fine. My hotel is just a few blocks from here.”

“Good,” Colt agrees, reaching out to put his arm around your shoulders. “Then you won’t have to pay me back for gas money.”

You sigh in mock frustration but give in when he starts leading you to his truck. He can feel you leaning on him, drawing from his strength when he knows yours is depleted. Colt has to force himself to focus on the task at hand and not get distracted by the intoxicating smell of oil paints and charcoal and wood chips emanating off your skin. He especially tries not to notice the way your head naturally falls against his shoulder while he leads you to the passenger door.

Once you’ve climbed into the seat, you immediately droop forward and rest your forehead on your knees. On an impulse, Colt pulls off his jacket — his most comfortable one: the brown one with the drawstrings — and drapes it across your shoulders. He suppresses a grin when you mumble something that sounds like “hmmk hmum” but probably was supposed to be “thank you.”

The drive to your hotel lasts all of three minutes, and he parks his truck under the portico so you’ll be closer to the door. Against the pitch black of the midnight sky, the hotel looks cozy and welcoming, street lamps bathing the sidewalk in a halo of golden light.

Colt opens the door to the passenger side, a smile crossing his lips when you turn your head from where it’s resting on your knees to peek up at him.

“Are we there yet?” you mumble, eyes fluttering between open and closed.

“Just a rest stop,” he informs you jokingly, holding out a hand to help you out of the truck. You gladly accept it, so exhausted that you can barely stand up straight. Colt feels another shimmer of worry at seeing you so worn out.

With his arm around your shoulder again, Colt walks you to the hotel door, which opens automatically to let you in. His thoughts are a jumble of worry, consternation, and elation at this situation, but he breaks out of his reverie halfway to the elevator, when you start giggling uncontrollably.

“What?” he asks, basking in the way your musical laugh wraps around him like a melody. Colt, get it together. Stop romanticizing this.

You snicker again, pressing the elevator button to your floor. “I bet the desk clerk thought I was drunk and bringing you home with me.”

Colt goes stock-still at that comment, only moving again when the elevator door opens and you enter the compartment together. Your sleep-deprived brain is so addled that you barely even register the implications of your remark, but Colt’s mind instantly starts racing with his own thoughts. Be professional, don’t make a saucy joke, just play it cool, play it cool, change the subject, change the SUBJECT—

“You should call Gordon,” he suggests, so enthralled with the feel of your head resting on his shoulder that he can barely get the sentence out. “Tell him you can’t make it tomorrow. You seriously need to get some sleep.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, one that flutters across his collarbone like an autumn breeze. He swallows and turns his head the other way, using all his willpower not to completely come undone right in front of you. You have no idea the effect you’re having on him, so sleep-deprived that you’re missing any cues that would clue you in normally.

“I have to be there tomorrow,” you insist drowsily. The elevator door dings open, and Colt leads you through the opening, his arm still tight around your shoulders as you point him in the right direction. “We’re filming the train station scene, and it has to be perfect.”

“What, at the cost of your health and sanity?” Colt quips, though he can’t deny that there’s a note of seriousness in his tone.

You shake your head stubbornly. “I’m fine. This is my job. I just have to do it.” You yawn widely, stumbling a little as you get closer to your hotel door. “I just need a few hours and I’ll be good as new.”

Colt lifts his eyebrows skeptically but doesn’t argue with you. You’re pulling your room key out of your pocket, and he’s suddenly torn between the desire to run before he violates his vow of noble detachment, and the need to confess every passionate feeling coursing through his veins right now. He knows this isn’t the right time, though, and that there may never be a right time at all.

You unlock your door with a swipe but pause before going inside, leaning your back against the doorframe so you can look at Colt squarely. “Thank you for bringing me back.” Your smile steals his breath, makes him imagine a halo of stars around your face. “I couldn’t have made it without you.”

Every muscle in his body is urging him to lean forward, to close the distance between you, to capture your lips against his so he can whisper every unconfessed feeling, every gentle passion, every overwhelming longing in this silent, dimly-lit hallway. His heart is pounding so loudly in his ears that he thinks you must be able to hear it.

“Anytime,” Colt manages, his throat so tight that can barely rasp out the word. He has to clench his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to you.

You reach up to shed his brown jacket and hand it back to him, but Colt stops you by holding up his hand. “Keep it,” he tells you. Shut up, shut up, shut UP— “It looks better on you anyway.”

The golden light from the street lamps outside must be playing tricks on his eyes, because he could swear that your eyes brighten at his words. Your fingers tighten around his jacket, and all he can imagine is your fingers entwined with his, your head on his shoulder again. The way it should be.

Your eyes flicker closed for a moment, and you sway against the doorway. Colt instinctively reaches out to steady you, his hand landing on your arm and holding you up for the moment it takes you to regain your balance. His skin feels like it’s on fire from this close proximity. He releases your arm so he doesn’t lose his sanity, but the touch lingers on his palm, making his heart race and his mouth go dry. His eyes flit down to glance at your lips again before he can stop them. Another moment, and he won’t have any self-control left.

You seem to feel the tension, too, lingering in the doorway when you should have said goodnight by now. He knows you’re struggling with it, and he knows it’s his responsibility as the clear-headed one to end this before it starts. His breath is rattling in his throat as he says, “Get some rest. Let me know if you need a ride over tomorrow morning.”

His voice seems to break the spell over you, and you give him a sleepy smile as you nod. “Thanks, Colt.” Your eyes linger on him for a moment more, and then you disappear behind the heavy hotel door.

Once you’re gone, Colt turns and leans heavily against the hallway wall, suddenly feeling breathless and exhausted from the intensity of what he just felt. He can’t believe he even let himself think about kissing you when you’re so dazed, but surely he wasn’t misreading those signals? Surely he felt the heat of your own gaze meeting his?

Colt sighs, trying to clear his head while he catches his breath. He can’t even entertain the idea of starting a fling with you, because his feelings have gone way too deep for a fling. He just needs to keep his distance and stop overanalyzing every moment he shares with you. He needs to get a grip on reality so he doesn’t completely ruin your friendship and burden you with any guilt. This has to stop. I’m going to stop right now, and I’m not going to think about it anymore, and I’m going to get hold of myself before it’s too late.

He hopes his inner monologue is right this time, because he knows he’s only falling harder for you.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Part 3

[magniloquent-raven]

I'm getting distracted from my current projects by someone else's post again someone tell me to stop going on tumblr while I have WIPs lmfao

@rosetterer this isn't EXACTLY what you posted about but it does get there in the end

**

Twenty-four hours has never seemed like such an insurmountably long time.

Buck's had long shifts before, the boring ones when he'd stare at the alarms on the wall, willing them to go off—he can picture Maddie's disappointed scowl if she ever found out about that, but he swears he was only hoping for something small and harmless to break up the monotony—and the busy ones. Ones that leave his ears ringing with phantom sirens by the end. Those days only ever seem long in retrospect, when he's bone-tired and trying to remember all the names he asked for.

But now every shift seems to find new and shittier ways to be gruelling. Eddie's miserable and trying to act like he isn't. There's this weird, uncomfortable tension brewing between Hen and Chim. Ravi got himself transferred to B shift—probably to get away from Gerrard, and Buck can't exactly blame him, but he sort of does anyway and their new probie is terrible, and... then there's Gerrard.

Like, Buck already knew he was a piece of work, but. Knowing and experiencing are two very different things. He could barely stand keeping his mouth shut at the medal ceremony when he met the man for five seconds, and now he has to put up with him making smug, belittling comments towards all his friends, all the time. Constantly needing to remind himself he doesn't want to get fired is actually killing him.

It doesn't help that every so often he'll remember Tommy's offhand Captain Gerrard was like having the dad I already had, with a pang as he wonders what exactly Tommy grew up with. What parts of Gerrard's condescending tyranny were familiar to him. Phillip Buckley may not have been father of the year, but maybe never being looked directly at was better than being raised neck deep in toxic waste.

Every time he remembers he gets the urge to pull out his phone and call Tommy up just to... he doesn't even know. Just to hear his voice, maybe. Know if he's doing okay.

Another reason work days seem so long now, if he's being honest. He's always counting down the hours until he can see Tommy again. Like a kid on the last day of school, watching the clock tick closer and closer to summer vacation.

So, of course, right near the end of a particularly busy shift, Gerrard gets them all lined up for a lecture about how sloppy that last save was. Everyone did something wrong, and everyone needs to hear about all the ways they could have gotten someone killed, like they don't all know how risky the job is already.

By the time he's finished telling Chim it's a miracle he managed to convince anyone to let him out on calls, Buck is clenching his jaw hard enough to make his teeth ache.

"I'm sure Captain Soft-Touch loved telling you all it was okay to be mediocre, and that you were trying your best," Gerrard sneers at them all, waving a dismissive hand at very idea of Bobby's captaincy. "But the coddling ended when he retired. Sparing your feelings is going to get people killed. Diaz!" He shouts, abrupt, turning on his heel towards Eddie. Eddie doesn't flinch, but Buck does.

"Yes, sir?" He's coolly polite, and his face is carefully blank, but his posture is tense.

"If I ever catch you checking your phone at a scene again, I'll make sure you're mopping floors for the rest of your life."

Eddie's expression hardens. It was a fender-bender and Eddie didn't even touch his phone until everyone was accounted for and packed into the ambulance. "It was a text from my son. Sir." His tone veers a little to the left of polite.

"I don't care if it was from the goddamn Pope, when you're in the field your focus stays on scene. Next time your brat needs something tell him to go cry to his mother about it."

This time when Buck flinches, everyone else in line does too. Hen bites down on a grimace. Chim hisses quietly through his teeth.

"I can't do that," Eddie says flatly. "What with her being dead and all."

The firehouse is silent for a long, horrible moment. That might've taken the wind out of any decent person's sails, Buck thinks. At the very least most people would've retreated into awkwardness and ended the lecture entirely.

Gerrard's brow pinches angrily. "Don't get smart with me, Diaz."

Buck's not sure it's possible to hate someone more than he hates their new captain right now.

"I don't care about your little sob story excuses, I care that you're sloppy and distracted. If you can't handle the job and the kid, drop one of them."

Oh, he was wrong.

He hates this man so much he's choking on it, it's clogging his throat like bile and he's running out of strength to care that he shouldn't spit it out, spew it everywhere and ruin everything just for the chance of hurting this man in the process. He feels like his skin is bursting at the seams.

Eddie's biting the inside of his cheek, rage and sorrow warring silently on his face.

And Buck breaks. Bursts. "Hey, Captain, that's—"

"Can it, Buckley," Gerrard cuts him off before he can even start. It's not angry, it's not anything, he brushes Buck off like he's an annoying fly buzzing in his ear, barely worth glancing at for the two seconds it takes to tell him he doesn't care. "You're all dismissed. Get out of my sight."

Some of them flee, scurrying to their lockers, the kitchen, anywhere but here. A couple of people throw backwards glances before they walk away. Hen and Chim exchange grim looks. Eddie disappears out the back door in an angry haze. And Buck...

Buck feels. Empty. Small. Like he cut himself open trying to relieve the pressure and now there's just nothing left. No one to patch up the wound, and no reason for any of it, he didn't make an impact, he didn't help anyone, he stood there listening to his friends get degraded, and now—now he's feeling sorry for himself?

It's stupid. He's stupid. He feels like shit because, what, because he didn't get yelled at? Because his piece of shit captain took a break from implying he's a disgusting pervert?

He thinks himself in circles about it his whole way home, the pit in his stomach getting a little deeper every time he tries to will it away.

He's wallowed himself halfway through a six-pack, staring sightlessly at his TV, by the time his front door opens.

"Evan?"

One of the knots in his chest loosens. "Yeah," he calls out, not bothering to sound less pathetic than he is. "In here."

"Hey." Tommy's stopped next to the stairs, eyeing him. His gaze is assessing, but his tone is soft. He's always so careful with Buck. "Bad day?"

Buck takes another sip of his beer. Shrugs.

"Ah, one of those."

The couch cushions dip as Tommy takes a seat next to him. He's close enough that Buck doesn't have to look at him to know he's there. There's warmth radiating off him. The woodsy scent of his aftershave. Buck presses their knees together, and exhales properly for the first time in hours.

He knows he could talk about whatever he wants and Tommy would let him. He's waiting for Buck to take the lead here. Buck could avoid the issue entirely and decide to talk about anything. The fact that he can't really tell the difference between the fancy beer Tommy insists is better than the crap Buck's drinking right now. The documentary about bees he's pretending to watch. The goddamn weather.

What comes out of his mouth is a quiet, "I feel like an idiot."

Tommy pulls the beer bottle out of Buck's loose grip, puts it down next to the couch, and then takes Buck's hand in both of his. "Why?"

Buck scrubs at his eyes. "I..." He catalogues the tiny scars on Tommy's knuckles. Two, three, little dots on his index finger. A lopsided vee on his thumb. "Something happened at work."

"Did Gerrard say something to you?" There's an edge to Tommy's question, something sharp and flinty. It makes Buck's heart do dumb little somersaults.

"No." He stops, shame burning his cheeks. "Not. Not to me. That's... He was lecturing everybody, and I..."

"Evan." Tommy grips his chin, firmly, gently, guiding Buck's face until he looks him in the eye. There's a sympathetic twist to his mouth. "Tell me."

He does. As best he can when it feels like what's didn't happen is more important, and he can barely put into words why that is. But trying helps, a little. Trying to whittle it down into an explanation forces him to look at the whole of it, and realize it's not looming over him anymore.

Maybe it's just Tommy's hands on him, soothing the hurt away.

"I dunno. Feels like I could have done something differently, maybe"

Tommy hums, tilting his head in acknowledgement. "You could've."

Buck winces.

"But it wouldn't have turned out any better."

Oh.

A flower blooms on the TV, purple and white petals reaching for the sun. Buck toys with Tommy's fingers, and shifts his leg closer, hooking their ankles together.

"It felt so shitty," he mutters.

"I know."

He would, wouldn't he. Buck gets that pang in his chest again, and he pushes the rest of the way into Tommy's space. Tommy wraps his arms around him, and drops a kiss into his curls, seemingly content to let Buck situate himself however he wants.

He kind of wishes Tommy wasn't still wearing jeans, but asking him to take his pants off might send the wrong message.

"You don't think I'm, like...a bad friend, right?" He cringes his way through the question.

"No." Tommy responds matter-of-factly and without hesitation. Then the corner of his mouth twitches. "I think you're a very good boy."

Buck's entire head feels like it's on fire. A grin starts to creep across his face. It might be the first time he's smiled all day. "Oh, yeah?"

"Mhm."

Maybe he should ask Tommy to take his jeans off after all.

[lillyspeakz]

Wilbur denying your orgasm? Tehe…

ok I won’t do a full fledge fic rn but I do have thoughts 🤭 if you want a full fic, request are open!

Warnings: mean!wilbur, degradation, kissing, soft!wil, denying orgasms, a little bit of sadistic wil, mentions of female anatomy.

-

- This man loves to deny you whenever you ask to cum. He loves the pained look in your eyes when he says ‘no.’ Call him a sadist but it turns him on when you writhe beneath him from overstimulation and need as you clench around him, your body practically begging for him to let you cum.

- You can beg and whine all you want but it won’t work.

“Wil- please please! Let me cum. I’ve been so- so fucking good!” You practically moan out as your body aches with need as he continues his work on you.

Wil chuckles a bit, loving how pathetic you sound begging and whining to him. He keeps his antics up for a big longer, pushing you to the very edge then-

“Fuck- no! No no! Wil please! Please let me cum, I was so close!”

“Too bad darling, you didn’t beg hard enough.” Wil smiles at you as he placed his fingers back on your clit.

- Loves to deny you when he’s eating you out or fingering you, gives him more time to devour you.

“Fuck, taste so good sweetheart.”

“Wil please- I’m gonna cum-“

“Aww you think you’re allowed to cum? Not until I say baby, and that won’t be I’m satisfied with my work.”

- laughs at you when you cuss him out after denying you.

“Fuck you, I fucking hate you.” You whine pathetically as your chest rises and falls.

Wil quickly scoffed at you as he took your face in his hands. “Say that again and you won’t cum once tonight. I’ll just use you for my pleasure. And you know you fucking love me and you love when I make you writhe like a bitch in heat, so don’t say shit you don’t mean.”

- you guys discuss safe words and check in’s before every time, it’s a routine with you two.

“You know the safeword?”

“Fender.”

“And the check in’s?”

“Green good, yellow break or slow down and red stop.”

“Good job baby.”

- Wilbur loves to deny your orgasms, but he also loves to deny you pleasure when your being a brat.

“Wilbur move! I don’t have all day-“ you said moving your hips the best you can in his hold. Your time snarky and annoyed. You had been deprived for too long and you weren’t having this slow and sweet treatment.

Wilbur pinned your hips down on the bed, pulled out of you all the way, and slammed back into you, leaving you gasping for air. “This good enough for you or do you want me to stop all together so you can take care of it yourself?” Wil asked as he continued to plunge in and out of you at a fast pace.

- but when you guys do take it slow and make every second count, he does deny you only once but for your own pleasure.

“Baby, please let me cum, feel so good!” You moan out to him, holding onto him as he slowly works you out. He pulls out of you, letting your orgasm die down a bit before slowly rubbing your clit.

“I know baby, but trust me. I’ll let you cum next time and it’ll be so much then, you trust me yeah?” He asked you, ticking a piece of hair behind your ear as you nodded. “Good my love.”

taglist: @horny-p0et @ivvees-blog (wanna be added? Send an ask or comment)

[whatisamildopinion]

10 people I would like to get to know better! thank you for the tag @alfalfairy!! I am finally actually remembering to do one of these games! thank you my love this was very fun! 💜

last song- Gasoline by HAIM

favorite color- purple and green but please know that I am notorious among my friends for constantly wearing purple

last book- Day of the Dead in the USA, an academic text which I am reading for my undergrad research

last movie- probably Nightmare Before Christmas which I watched with my family around fall break. I do not watch movies very often tbh

last TV show- 911: lone star!! I am so behind on my weewoo show right now but I do love it

sweet/savory/spicy- I am a sweet treat girly but it has to be as a treat and not a main meal or else I feel sick

relationship status- single and literally never planning to mingle

last thing I searched- "camera not working android". my phone camera stopped working and I was confused. I fixed it though!

current obsession- to no one's surprise, Aasimar Riz just bounces around in my head all day long

looking forward to- being done with this Spanish presentation that I'm working on, my god. I can feel myself dying. not because the play is bad but because it's so sad

favorite drink- a good chai latte

song playing in head on loop- Getting Started by Sam Fender

current favorite character- Riz Gukgak my beloved

fun activity I'd like to get into- I feel like it would be really funny to learn to play the harmonica so I can whip it out at any given point and start playing melodramatic harmonica music. I just think it would be funny and my friends would scream at me

last video game- uhhhhhhh I genuinely cannot remember the last time I played a video game but I recently watched a Minecraft video with my friend because she was sad. does that count???? that's gonna have to count

tagging: @rrat-king @thatrandofangirl @boxonthenile @youngcreativenerdgoddess @jroseley @paperstorm @hozierswift @harpers-tartarus @honeyfluentt @sodium-bitch. if we have never spoken on here before please consider this me sitting on your porch like a dog with a furiously wagging tail. I think you're cool <3

[drivinmeinsane]

Would you do Kisses & 47 & Driver x Ken?

※ Prompt: Kisses // 47. tummy kisses // Driver x Ken ※ Word count: 396 ※ Author's Note: I've missed writing for these two so much.

Warm breath ghosts over Driver’s throat. Still half asleep, he shifts and wraps his arm more securely around the man laying in bed with him.

Last night had been a long one. He can still feel the ache in his fingers from how tightly he’d been gripping the wheel of the white Ford Focus he’d borrowed off Shannon for a getaway job. It had been a close one. When he gets to the garage for his shift, he’s going to have to fill in a bullet hole in the fender. He’s just relived the police miraculously hadn’t gotten involved.

Ken sighs and nuzzles into his collarbone, throws a leg over his hip. Sometimes it’s almost impossible to slide free of his grasp. The other man is always draped over him like an enthusiastic dog, not that the wheelman minds. He can lose himself in running his hand over Ken—petting him. Affection is still novel to them both, probably always will be.

“You awake?”

The man tucked against him like a second skin responds with a sleepy grumble and a shake of his head.

“I need to go to work. Got a stunt.”

“No, please stay. Please,” he protests, clinging to him tighter when he moves to extract himself.

It kills him when Ken does this. Driver hates to deny him anything but he has to make sure he works to support them both. It’s what he’s good for. It’s a way he can be of use.

Instead of fighting the other man’s persistent hold, he rolls towards him. Ken immediately grabs at his shoulders and goes limp and pliant underneath him, expectant. Driver wishes he could linger in bed working the tanned man over until he’s sobbing into the bed sheets. He’s learned how to coax noises out of him like a well-maintained engine.

Ken never sleeps wearing a shirt. He won’t run the risk of not feeling Driver’s arm or hand against his bare skin. Driver finds himself grateful for it as he presses his mouth against the other man’s sternum. He leaves a trail of apologetic kisses down Ken’s body, stopping just above his waistband.

The tanned stomach trembles underneath his lips.

“Be back later,” he says, pressing a final kiss just to the right of Ken’s bellybutton before sliding off the bed to pull on his jeans and find his car keys.

[leslie057]

17a and 3b?

hii, thank you for the prompt!

prompt game posted here

17a + 3b = the semantics are totally outdated + but they can’t talk

word count: 3.4k | pairing: jonathan x nancy

but i can't live by those stakes, the semantics are totally outdated -sam fender, last to make it home

Her summer, china shop. Lowe and Holloway…two biggest, most aggressive bulls a matador could wish for.

And even that is such an undeserved accreditation, that semblance of animal majesty and dominance and punch, since her china’s literally in mint condition. She’s doing just fine, the guys don’t scare her. They’re not capable.

Her issue isn’t fear, it’s rage. More rage than Jonathan knows what to do with at times. The flush of red on her face, the urge to choke in her hands, the hair-pulling (his hair, not hers) and the pacing, all too wayward in his pen, burning up each of the four corners at once. Not that he’s much of a firefighter—pretty clear that he likes for a girl to take everything out on him, as long as her methods are nonverbal. He’s not gonna smother a flame when he could just let the flame smother him. He loves a good path of least resistance.

Things are different between them, inside the Hawkins Post. She can see him struggling with that, with meanings lost and rules rewritten, her amendments unfairly implicit as she switches up on him, forcing her sweet mariner into the Atlantic with his map of the Pacific. No, his map of the Wabash River. She doesn’t mean to respond differently to him, it’s just that she has to be careful with the way she carries herself here because no one wants to take her seriously. There aren’t many wins to be had by a teenage girl in this building, and there really aren’t many wins to be had by a teenage girl who lets her boyfriend dote on her in this building. The pep talk thing, the passive pity, the hey come here you’re okay after any negative reaction she has…he’s making it worse without realizing.

She’s making it worse, too, though. In her own way.

Keeps getting them in trouble, for example.

Today they're in trouble because of what she convinced him to do yesterday. Apparently, leaving work ten minutes early is really a no-no. Her bad. (She needed out, Lover’s Lake was calling to her. They don’t go much, but when it’s raining? When it’s raining that lake belongs to them. No other couple in town is weird enough to go in thunder and lightning, it is their thing, they own it. Privacy is a guarantee. Never mind that inducing the feeling of drowning has been a secret placation of her survivor's guilt lately, a quiet way to exhaust herself and surrender to nature's embrace for a while, to let it take her over, knocking her down a peg as it comes down in heavy sheets. It should have been her on that diving board two years ago, it really should have.) She never said their date habits were healthy. Oh, except the splashing, the splishing. That’s a normal couple thing. Very healthy.

They’ve been given different punishments for slipping out; he’s meant to be folding all the newspapers, she’s supposed to be stapling reports. It’s 4:45, and they just started. They usually use this time to clean up, but whatever doesn’t get done before five is unpaid work.

So that’s fun.

In the main room they serve their silent sentence, each stationed at opposite ends, less than consumed by their tasks. There’s an early golden hour effect outside; she can tell with the warm glow that’s seeping in between the window blinds, teasing her, testing her, tempting her to just walk out again. Despite her best efforts to focus on work and keep her distance from Jonathan, she does think about him a lot under this roof. And other roofs. And every roof. Like now, she’s thinking about how he’s staring at her and how strange it is that she knows he’s staring at her even with her eyes cast down.

I can feel that.

She combats the softness of the sentiment with a hard press on the stapler. Loud click is overly loud. Obnoxious. Swiping the heavy thing across the desk, she lets it clunk against the lamp’s square base. If he wants to daydream about her, he’ll have to romanticize her inclination towards inanimate object abuse. (Imagine the emotional release in banging that ashtray on this typewriter. Personally, she’s imagining it.)

She tips her head up to check on him. Okay, he is romanticizing how pissed off she is. Blinks at her like she’s some unusual celestial something at the end of a telescope, pretty and rare. He brightens up over there as he realizes that he got her attention, making a small posture adjustment, leaning her way. Still slouchy, of course. She wants to glare, she does, but the edges of her gaze are being anonymously softened and all that’s left behind is a tender, conflicted expression. What do you want from me, it says. This is intern detention after all. Not social hour.

With a gentle glance he offers her some support, devoid of any pressure or demands. Nothing, Nancy.

She ducks her head and goes back to her report stack. But as quickly as she dives back into the task, she comes out again. He has something to tell her—she can feel it. When she looks up, he's tapping his thumb at the base of his throat, which is kind of weird even for him. His hand hovers near his collar before he motions to her, a silent prompt. She takes the signal and touches the same spot on her neck, brows knit together. Your necklace, he’s trying to say, miming the action of spinning it around, repositioning the clasp and extender so that they’re at the back and hidden away. Your necklace is backwards. She fixes it accordingly, embarrassed by nothing in particular it’s just…yeah, Bruce Lowe definitely doesn’t need to be provided with any joke bait below her neckline.

Bonus points for the ever attentive boyfriend. Just this once, his tendency to space out and stare at her has gotten them somewhere. Good boy.

She busies herself with the stapler, determined to get them out of this place sooner rather than later. Count, separate, slide, straighten. Staple, stack, repeat. Repeat repeat repeat. She wishes she had someone to compete with, to race against. Her brother, maybe, because Jonathan isn’t competitive. Then this would go faster. In the warm office, heat sprawls on top of her, slowing her movements. Sweat has already pooled at the small of her back, gathered behind her ears, formed a light sheen along her jaw. So much for box fans.

Her mind strays away from the chatter around her, a few abrupt fantasies now steering her thoughts. Hormonal thoughts. She’d ignore the love rush if she could, but it’s on her, on her like a sticky lotion in June weather, soaking slowly into her skin. Being seventeen is—yeah. Difficult.

Crazy difficult, once you factor in the need to be a professional mini-adult and not associate with the person you take to bed.

There’s just…it’s her, and Jonathan, and the necklace, and she’s taken off the necklace, held it taut against his neck, not choking him per se, no, but softly sawing at him with the chain until there are faint red lines impressed in sensitive flesh. Who knows where this came from; she’s never done anything like it. Doesn’t typically play so rough with him that there’s physical evidence more severe than your average hickeys or scratch marks. This job is turning her into a hazard.

She indulges for a couple seconds longer in the dumb image that had momentarily eclipsed her reality. He’s not looking at her when she looks up at him, but somehow it feels like their telepathic dialogue is still going, born from shared frustrations.

I want to be done here.

I know, we’ll be done soon. We’re fine, keep stapling.

And maybe she wouldn’t have to take off the necklace. Because he has his tie, his not-so-nice tie. Okay, without sugarcoating, it’s ugly. The one that’s currently loose, gray with diagonal brown stripes, pencil-thin stripes; it would be way more fun to pull across his throat compared to her necklace. Of course, she wouldn’t lead with that, she’d be counteracting with the super soft services of a needy mouth, settling on the kindest way to release her anger and affection in one fell swoop. (Why is it that the uglier the tie design, the bigger her heart? She’s wanting him bad this afternoon.)

In a moment of distracted clumsiness, she knocks over her box of staples, several of the refill strips breaking apart on the ground, their clatter piercing through whatever awful discussion was being had by these overpaid husbands and fathers.

“Wuh-oh,” Bruce interjects before carrying his conversation on. Not as big of a deal as when she fumbles a lunch order, but bad nonetheless; she’s on her knees in a dress, catching everyone’s double takes. A sideshow act to glance at intermittently between unrelated one-offs and cigarette drags.

Jonathan’s soon kneeling by her, ready to lend his assistance. Yeah, absolutely not.

The more he helps her, the more of a girl she is. Her eyes plead with him, begging him to remember that any perceived dependence on him will undermine the tiny shred of social authority she has here.

I love you, but get away from me.

Pouting, he backs off, an achy longing lingering between them. He chooses instead to go tend to the coffee grounds she’d yet to throw out.

Despite the distance enforced by circumstance, and her annoyance, she remains fixated on him, finding some solace in that mental landscape. When they leave this place within the hour, everything will go back to the way it was, and she can go back to speaking in a language they both understand.

She scoops up the staples and tidies the desk. Resumes her work without a second thought, waiting for the embarrassment to bleed out of her.

--

By five after five, they’ve almost finished up their punishment tasks. The office is more peaceful than before, hushed and dreamy, as their older colleagues file out, letting paper cups and gum wrappers fall into trash cans whose bags she and her boyfriend replaced an hour ago.

Tom switches off a couple lamps, touches his watch (with that bizarre air of supremacy and boredom). On his way out, he claps her chair on the back. “Keep up the good work,” he says. “No more sneaking out early.”

At least she’s getting credit for something. For leading the rebellion.

She watches Fallon, the receptionist, push in her desk chair and begin to pull at the hem of her skirt. As she passes by Jonathan, she carelessly drops a keyring into his lap, instructing him to lock up when they go. She also calls him Jordan. Not a thought in her head.

“Yes ma’am,” he mumbles, “have a good night.”

They’re left all alone when the last footsteps fade away, and she shifts in her spinny chair. For possibly the first time today, she takes a deep breath in, a deep breath out. This is good. This is better.

It’s sort of warm and sweet and spongy—cakelike, she’d say—the growing sense of comfort she has in the privacy that’s been laid upon them. That, or she’s hungry. They should pick up a cupcake from the bakery downtown. Key lime, lemon, one of their seasonal flavors. No, wait, the bakery closed a few minutes ago. Not that they get much business anymore. (If they shut down and the mall ruins her and Jonathan’s cupcake sharing thing, she might choke someone. She might kill.)

Though her gaze is locked on him, he keeps his head slanted down, not acknowledging her or their privacy.

She taps the desk, slides her tongue behind her teeth, resentment creeping in amid neglect. This is the part where their tension falls away, right? The part where he apologizes for overdoing the boyfriend thing, and then gives her his undivided attention until one or two in the morning, thus overdoing the boyfriend thing, but in the right place at the right time. Trying to make up for the shittiness of their internship, trying to help her bubble wrap all the china in her china shop before morning comes around again.

He’s slumped down over there, sleeves cuffed, collar half-popped, movements slow as he calmly creases his final papers. The box fan’s soft currents delicately ruffle through his hair, and at first glance, he doesn’t have a care in the world. At second, though, he’s wearing a bit of a frown, moodily refusing to acknowledge anything but himself and his newspapers.

And yet. She can’t deny the magnetic pull drawing her that way. With a defiant flip of her hair, she sets out to close the big gap between them and put an end to the ridiculousness. They shouldn’t be ignoring each other upon being given total privacy, not even for a second. Reaching his space, she stops in front of his chair, leaning back on the edge of the desk. She’s the wall between him and his paper stack.

He sighs, eyes cast up to her. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she parrots.

“You’re done?”

“Pretty much.”

“Me too.”

He’s still in that place of self-minimization, that corrective headspace following the staple incident. He’s stuck on being quiet and invisible and adult and the absolute opposite of lovey and dovey. It’s no longer necessary.

She fidgets with her ring blindly, an anticipatory energy working itself up inside her, right under her ribcage. He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it quickly. Guarded, he averts his gaze.

“You’re allowed to correct her, you know.”

“Huh?”

“Fallon. You don’t have to let your name be whatever she decides.”

The silence stretches between them, a tight wire, trembling faintly, a few touches away from snapping. She’s unsure if he’s playing a game here or if he simply doesn’t feel like talking. You never know with him (but she does).

“We’re allowed to talk now, you know,” she adds.

A beat.

“Your dress is messed up,” he says, to himself more than her.

“What?”

“The hooks on your dress. You accidentally skipped the first one.”

“I—” she starts. Her jaw hangs. Curious, she feels for the mismatched hook and eye clasps below the frilly collar of her dress, and she finds that the bottom one did get skipped over. This is what happens when you don’t get enough sleep, wake up late, and have to dress yourself in sixty seconds. She huffs. “Well come fix it?"

Because he has to want to. He likes this dress a lot, he’s never said anything, but he does. It’s white and yellow, not any yellow, but like a buttercup yellow, semi-sheer with an open ruffly collar and wide sleeves. He would want the excuse to touch it. He would want that sense of purpose, that delegation of mess-fixing. She’s so rarely a mess when there are no monsters to slaughter. He’s usually the one with the inside out shirt, the smudge of lipstick on his face. This is his one chance.

His bottom lip curls, and his shoulders shrug. “Thought you wanted to pretend like we don’t know each other.”

“Jonathan…please come fix it.”

She reaches out, and without a word he holds her hand, standing up. He bites down on his tongue, presses it against the side of his mouth, looking like he knows how cliché this is but is too sad to complain. He moves closer, his hands gentle as he begins unfastening those top four hooks so he can fasten that fifth one, the one she’d skipped before she also skipped breakfast. Her eyelids sink, wispy bangs brushing the tops of her eyes as the fan’s whisper of a breeze plays over her.

He’s still working with the clasps when her hands find his neck, tickling their way to the ends of his hair, curled by humidity.

To her surprise, he doesn’t flinch when she sneak attacks him, stealing a kiss off his mouth. Just makes a huffy sound afterward, all judgy eyes and short breaths and pinked skin. “Does that mean you like me again—”

She guides the slipping of their lips, a soft sensation of stickiness lingering in the inbetween. “Shut up,” she murmurs, “I never stopped.”

“Yes, you did.”

Plush lip tissue gives way between her careful teeth as she nibbles, trying to draw out a whimper or a groan or some other noise of desperate compliance. She thinks she hears an ow, and if she did, that’s good. His ow isn’t code for hey that hurts, his ow is like a regular boy’s don’t stop, I need more.

“I did not,” she argues.

“You did, you said so.”

“When?”

“With your face.”

She tightens her grip on the back of his collar and pulls. Seeking a diversion, she peppers his mouth, the tip of her tongue relaxed, impressively subtle. A muffled squeak leaves him as the collar tightens around his throat, and she lets go, releasing him. Maybe she does feel a little bad. “Don’t be so sensitive,” she says, but her words lack conviction, and her heart’s not in the dig. “I know I’ve been acting weird. It’s not about you.”

He rests his forehead on hers. “It’s only about them?”

“Duh, it’s about them.”

They put the conversation on hold among their shared prioritization of making this into more of a makeout than just a way to argue. Kissing mainly because it feels good to kiss, and bad to not. Their age demands this, pushes them. (They’ll grow out of the phase someday…she assumes. If she ever learns how to control herself. Perhaps.) She noses her way to his jaw while getting wrapped up in a hug, the gleam of sweat under her lips pleasantly salty. “So sweaty,” she teases (though she’s burning up, too). His breath hitches, and he doesn’t start the banter back up, doesn’t say what’s on his mind which is probably: I didn’t ask you to come over here and lick me like a cat.

Eventually they do separate a few inches, significantly more satisfied than before, significantly more pink in the face. Her head tips, and her tired eyes follow the path of daylight pouring in through the window, casting long shadows across the office floor as he distractedly massages her shoulder.

“Not that I’m complaining…” he begins, and her lashes flutter, her ears tune in, “but you are sending me mixed signals here.”

He’s right. Her professionalism has come at the price of his trust and certainty. She’s still adjusting to the job, getting used to the fact that she’s not particularly needed, wanted, or respected here. Jonathan doesn’t get it, and a Jordan wouldn’t get it, or a Josh, or anyone else who has never been on the receiving end of that coffee maker too tricky for you, sweetheart?

His concern is being obedient, being good, getting paid, keeping to himself, not making a fuss. It makes sense that he’d want to pep talk her out of her anguish, but it’s not healthy for her reputation. She thinks he owes it to her to roll with the punches for a little while.

“I know. I’m still figuring all this out. You’re gonna have to buckle up and settle in for now.”

“Do you think I could have a…handbook, or something?”

“A handbook?”

“I want the dos and don’ts. I want to know what you think makes you look bad and what doesn’t.”

She laughs softly. “That could be arranged. I’ve always wanted to write a book.”

--

After they’ve hesitantly split up and attended to closing tasks, she takes pride in the fact that they’ve only had to do twenty minutes of unpaid work this evening.

The remaining lights get switched off, and they gather their things, ambling to a door whose glass promises the return to a nicer world, a return to wide prospects—night drives and music, dinner and shared showers, lakeside commitments and homemade cupcakes.

“Hey,” she murmurs, hand curling around a few of his fingers, “just so you know, about that handbook: I haven’t forgotten about the darkroom.”

“What about it?”

“Nothing, I just mean that I don’t think any of the rules would have to apply to the darkroom. It’s private, it’s safe, it’s…rule-free, isn’t it?”

“Umm…”

"You can pick up as many staples for me as you want in there."

--

creds to @musicalchaos07 for helping me come up with this idea, and creds to @wanderleave for picking his tie color for me

[kkaisarion]

dew's black leather pants

look. we've seen the list of things that dew requested in the phantomime video game. we all want to see him wearing those slutty black leather pants. so here's 1400 words of clergy-approved smut about them.

@forlorn-crows does this count as "helping during band practice" for mushy may

rating: explicit pairing: swiss/dew includes: leather kink, puppy kink, humiliation word count: 1452

read on AO3 or below

-----------------------------

Swiss whistled to himself as he walked down the hallway toward the band’s rehearsal room. He was going to be early to practice for once, since he ended up not having any other plans for the afternoon. (In completely unrelated news, his weed stash had run out.)

He got to the door and pushed it open, expecting the room to be empty. Instead, he was met with a sight that made him stop in his tracks.

Dew sat near the back of the room, hunched over a shiny new Fender Stratocaster. Swiss would usually be drawn to the way that Dew’s long, elegant fingers were flying over the fretboard. But not this time—not when Dew was wearing the tightest black leather pants that Swiss had ever seen in his entire life.

The smooth leather hugged Dew’s lean muscles, showing them off perfectly. It didn’t help that he was bouncing his leg to the rhythm, making it impossible for Swiss to ignore the long line of his thigh. As Swiss’ eyes slid up further, he wondered what the pants looked like behind the guitar, how the leather looked stretched over Dew’s—

Dew chose that moment to stop playing and look up. Swiss blushed at being caught staring, but that didn’t stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth.

“What is that.” Swiss gestured toward Dew.

Dew gave him a knowing smirk, suggestively stroking his hand up and down the neck of the guitar. “My new Strat? It’s nice, right?”

“Yeah, it fits your tiny body so much better,” Swiss chuckled, and Dew stuck up his middle finger in response. “You know what I’m talking about. I can’t believe the Clergy actually got you those pants.”

“They approved everything on my request list,” Dew said, sounding somewhat surprised himself. “Copia convinced them, since I promised that I’d share the juice boxes with him.”

“That’s good,” Swiss said distractedly. He had stopped listening halfway through what Dew was saying, his eyes still roaming over his leather-clad legs.

“Like what you see?” Dew set his guitar to the side and spread his legs open in blatant invitation.

“Yeah,” Swiss breathed, his legs walking forward of their own accord. He fell to his knees easily, settling in between Dew’s thighs.

Dew leaned back and casually swung his arms across the back of the chair. “Go ahead, then,” he told Swiss. “Show me how much you like them.”

Swiss immediately brought up his hands and placed them on top of Dew’s thighs, stroking and squeezing them slightly. Then he slid one of his hands up to where Dew’s legs met in the middle, and cupped his rapidly growing bulge. It was so very warm, and the more Swiss rubbed over it, the more the leather stretched to show the obscene outline of Dew’s cock.

Dew’s breathing was getting heavier by the second, and he groaned low in his throat when Swiss lowered his hand and shamelessly shoved his face into Dew’s erection. Swiss took his time mouthing at Dew’s clothed cock, his hot breath ghosting over the fabric.

Swiss didn’t move back when Dew started to unbutton his pants and pull down the zipper. “Hold on, I’m gonna pull it out for that hungry mouth of yours,” Dew hissed, and Swiss whined softly as his head was nudged back. But then Dew’s cock finally sprung free, and Swiss’ mouth watered at the sight. It jutted straight up, the head flushed a deep red and already shiny with pre-cum.

Swiss took Dew’s cock into his mouth and slowly sank down all the way, choking slightly when the head hit the back of his throat. It made Dew moan and grip Swiss’ hair painfully, pushing Swiss’ head down to keep him there. Swiss gasped for air when Dew finally let him up, but he barely paused before swallowing him back down. Swiss set a quick pace right from the start, unable to control himself—the scent of Dew combined with the leather was driving him insane.

“You’re drooling everywhere,” Dew tsked. “So weak over just a pair of pants.” The judgment in his voice made Swiss’ cock throb in his pants, and he suddenly realized just how hard he was.

As if Dew could read his mind, he shifted his leg slightly, and Swiss yelped in surprise when Dew’s boot pressed directly against his cock. Swiss hurried to undo his jeans and pull his cock out, and was about to wrap his hand around his aching erection when Dew stopped him.

“Is that really what you want? Your own hand?” he questioned, knowing Swiss all too well.

Swiss sat back on his heels and bit his lip, reluctant to answer. Still, he flicked his eyes down to Dew’s leg, and brought his hand up to stroke at the leather covering his calf muscle.

“I’ll let you have it,” Dew offered with a glint in his eye. “If you ask nicely.”

There was a moment’s pause as Swiss struggled to form the words. “Can I have it?” he asked, and swallowed hard when Dew raised his eyebrows. “...Can I use your leg? Please?” Swiss tried again.

“That’s more like it.” Dew gave his permission in a patronizing tone, but Swiss barely registered it as he straddled Dew’s leg and pushed his hips forward. He moaned loudly when his cock made contact with the leather, finally getting friction after neglecting it for so long.

Dew growled and shoved Swiss’ mouth back on his cock. It was just as well that Dew took over controlling Swiss’ movements, because he couldn’t focus on anything except the slide of his cock against the smooth fabric as he thrust back and forth. He was leaking precum almost continuously, making everything slicker and slicker.

“Look at you, humping my leg like a desperate little puppy,” Dew groaned. Swiss shook his head in protest, even as his hips sped up. “Tell me, how does it feel?” Dew demanded, and Swiss responded with a long moan.

That made Dew laugh. “You can’t even think right now,” he taunted. “Puppy is too dumb to speak.”

Swiss screwed his eyes closed and whined miserably. He suddenly realized that he was going to cum like this, rutting mindlessly against Dew’s leg, and that thought alone pushed him closer to the edge.

Dew’s thighs started trembling, and Swiss knew that meant he was going to cum soon, too. Dew kept running his mouth, seemingly just as affected by his words as Swiss was.

“Rehearsal is gonna start soon,” Dew panted. “What will the others think when they walk in and see you all pathetic like this?”

Swiss’ body went hot all over in shame, horrified at the thought of being seen like this.

“The ghouls probably won’t be surprised—they all know—fuck—how much of a slut you are,” Dew continued. “But Copia? He’ll be so disappointed in you.”

Those last words tipped Swiss over the edge, and his body seized up as his cock started spurting cum all over Dew’s leg, ruining the brand new leather for good.

Dew cursed loudly and pulled Swiss’ head off his cock. “Open up,” he commanded, jerking his hand roughly over his cock. Swiss obeyed just in time for Dew to shoot his load all over his tongue and lips, and he swallowed it all down without complaint. Dew smiled down at him condescendingly as he wiped off his cock on his cheek.

Feeling dazed, Swiss rested his forehead against Dew’s knee. He breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that they finished before anyone else arrived. But when Dew pulled his head up, it was clear from his expression that he had other plans.

“Don’t think we’re done yet,” Dew told him, pointedly looking down at his leg. “You still have to clean up your mess.”

Both of them watched where Swiss’ cum was dripping down, the white in stark contrast to the black leather.

“No, don’t make me—” Swiss started, but trailed off at the look on Dew’s face. Resigned, Swiss dipped his head down and gingerly stuck out his tongue. But then the sharp taste of his cum mixed with the leather exploded in his mouth, and Swiss knew he was done for.

Swiss moaned as he eagerly lapped at his own cum, feeling the burn of arousal rise again inside him. When Dew reached down and petted his head in approval, Swiss sank further into what he was doing, no longer paying attention to anything else happening around him.

He didn’t notice the sound of voices in the hallway. Nor did he hear the click of the doorknob, followed by the door opening—not until it was far, far too late.

[super-unpredictable98]

Girl of Another Hour | Garota do Momento AU

Chapter 1: One-Way Trip

Word count: 2k

Warning: Strong language

A/n: Hello everyone! As promised, I'm taking my girl Lydia to yet another timeline. This time, instead of landing in 2009 England, she'll end up... somewhere else. This fic is based on the Brazilian novela Garota do Momento which is one of my current obsessions. I wrote this fic in Portuguese given the source material (here's the Portuguese version), but I wanted my English speaking followers to be able to read it too, so here's a translation. If this goes well, I might just keep posting it in both languages. I hope you all love this story and all these characters as much as I do XOXO (Oh and just please ignore any language barrier for narrative purposes lol)

[Masterlist]

"So what are you saying, Nathan? We'll never see each other again? You don't like me anymore?"

"I do, I like you a lot, but I can't do this. It was a mistake what we just did."

"It was just a kiss… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do it, I just couldn't help myself, I'm too drunk for self-control."

"I know, I'm not proud of it, but… I liked it. We've been friends for so long and I tried to ignore it, cause last time with Kelly was just a disaster."

"I don't wanna lose you as my friend."

"I know, I don't want it either, but the problem is that I actually like you."

"Then be with me! It doesn't have to be like this…"

"I'm married, I have a family! I used to say I'd be a screw-up until my early thirties, but what would I tell Marnie? She can't be alone with Junior."

"Look, I'm not a homewrecker, but damn it, Nathan! I love you!"

"I think I might love you too, but I guess it's just a right person wrong time situation. We're in different moments of our lives, I know you're gonna find someone your age, I hope he's nicer and kinder than me. I would say funnier, but that's a tall order… We both know that's unrealistic. Weren't you going to Brazil for the summer? Who knows? Maybe you'll find your prince charming there."

"I don't want just any bloke who's kind and nice, I want you."

"I want you too, Lollipop… That's why I think it's better if we don't talk anymore."

"So that's it? This is goodbye?"

"I suppose it is. Maybe there's a life where we can be together, I'm sorry it didn't work out in this one."

"I'll find this life."

Lydia shook her head trying to ignore that pesky memory, it's been two weeks since everything happened, but she couldn't stop thinking about how hurtful that moment was. Her heart was broken, though she'd never say that out loud, she already hated herself enough for lowering her guard and falling in love with someone like Nathan Young. Why did it have to be her older brother's screw-up friend?

She hated herself for kissing a married man, for ruining her friendship with him, for hurting Marnie, who despite being very annoying, did not deserve it and did nothing wrong besides getting there first in the race for Nathan's heart. Lydia Bellamy isn't the type of person who does that.

She had nothing to lose, so she was organizing her stuff in a big suitcase. She was packing money, some clothes, medicine, her old MP3, laptop with photos, important notes, and other stuff she judged essential. She was going back to 2009.

After a huge ice storm a few years back, people who were struck by lightning in Wertham, a small London estate, were granted strange superpowers that seemed to relate to their biggest insecurities or unsolved issues. Nathan was one of them, he became immortal. Lydia's brother, Simon, was another, who gained the ability to become invisible.

A suspicious character ended up getting the power to transfer powers from one person to the other and made that his job, buying and selling abilities as if he were a human thrift store. That was the man Lydia looked for after selling her classic Fender guitar and getting enough money to buy something that would take her to the past.

"I have one-way time travel. You can use it for whenever you like, but only once. There's no way back," the man said and she accepted it, having no other choice or path to follow.

With her bags packed, Lydia closed her eyes and tried to focus on the exact date where she wanted to be transported. The only issue is that she didn't know the exact date, she couldn't remember those days too well, since she was only 12 in 2009, exactly ten years ago.

"Summer of 2009," she murmured to herself, but the more she tried to focus on the date, the dizzier she got. Her vision darkened and her eyelids became heavy until she felt a tug, as if someone dragged her from one corner of the room to the other.

Only… when she opened her eyes, she was no longer in her bedroom. It was warm, a heat that she had not experienced in a long time, and looking up, she saw a store sign: Perfumaria Carioca.

"Carioca? Rio de Janeiro?"

**

Beto is a journalist, he's covering the revelry on the street parties, making him the only one wearing tailored trousers, a button up shirt, and a tie. The heat was almost unbearable, but he wanted to be professional anyway. He only had to endure it until that night, when he was going to the Gente Fina club with his little girlfriend, Beatriz.

"Beto! Enough working!" Ulisses, his best friend, followed his mate through the carnaval.

"It's for the cover of the newspaper! And I still have to write the article, there's no partying for me today," Beto started taking pictures with his camera. He took several photos until his lenses focused on the disoriented lady on the street who wore the strangest costume he had ever seen. "Ulisses… check that out."

"Who's the dolly?"

Lydia has long wavy purple and blue hair, she wore a Panic! At The Disco tank top, a short pink skirt inspired by Avril Lavigne, belt full of dangling chains, a black tie in a loose knot around her neck, gigantic earrings shaped like lightning bolts besides several rings and bracelets in the same style, ripped tights, and black combat boots with silver spikes.

"Oh for fuck's sake…" she mumbled. "Not even the Doctor's TARDIS got his destination so wrong! What the fuck is this?"

"Look what a babe," a man came closer. "Showing the bra straps, how naughty!"

"Leave me alone," she tried to pull away.

"No sweetheart, you're so fly, come party with us," another man joined the first.

Beto noticed the commotion and the lady trying to get away from a group of men who surrounded her trying to get lucky, so he ran to help.

"Leave the lady alone!" He shouted, but before he could do anything, Lydia threw a punch and knocked one of the men down, sending the others running. Her rings made the impact even worse. "Jesus…"

"What? You want some?" She raised her hand and he backed off.

"I- I just wanted to help, please don't hit me!" Beto laughed. "You really served that scoundrel a knuckle sandwich. I think you broke his nose."

"I'm so sorry, I was all nervous and I thought you were gonna try something too."

In that brief moment, Lydia saw all the kindness in that man's brown eyes. Beto is tall, taller than her (which has always been hard to find), sharp jawline, freckles, and blonde hair. So handsome.

"No, not at all, I am here to work, my name is Roberto-"

"Sorry for the odd question, but… what year is this?"

"Year? Are you drunk? Do you need any help?"

"No, I'm fine. I just wanted to know."

"Well, it's 1958," he chuckled as if it was obvious.

"Bloody hell!" She screamed in terror and ran off. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

"Wait! What's your name?" Beto tried to follow, but the lady had already disappeared in the crowd.

Ulisses ran to meet his friend, dumbfounded by the scene that just unfolded in front of him.

"Did you see how amazing?" Beto smiled.

"The girl is the bee's knees. She was about to land you a punch too!"

"The most beautiful girl I've ever seen, more beautiful than Audrey Hepburn, than Marilyn Monroe, than Dorothy Dandridge. This dolly has something about her, Ulisses, did you hear the cute accent? If she wanted to, she could be a star."

"She doesn't go unnoticed, what was that costume? I've never seen a carnaval costume like that, let alone that wig."

"It wasn't a wig, that was her hair."

"Impossible, how come? Is she a mermaid or something?" Ulisses laughed.

"I'm starting to think so."

**

Lydia walked around the streets of Rio not knowing how she ended up there, and worse… the other shoe dropped. She would never see Nathan again, nor her friends, her parents weren't even born yet, and she had no way of going back ever. She was stranded and alone forever.

"Like I was touched by a Weeping Angel," she frowned and sat on the curb with her suitcase.

"An angel?" A woman stopped in front of her.

The woman was beautiful, her dark skin was almost shimmering in the sunlight and her hairdo was just spectacular.

"Nothing, I was thinking out loud."

"What pretty hair you have, doll! Can I have a closer look?" She asked.

"Of course."

"My name is Glória Regina, but you can call me Glorinha. I'm in beauty school and I've never seen hair like yours. Where did you find such colorful dye?"

"If I told you, you'd never believe me… so to make a long story short, it's from London. I've just arrived from there. I'm Lydia by the way, Lydia Bellamy."

"Pleasure to meet you, and welcome to Rio."

"Thanks," she laughed sarcastically. "I wasn't meant to be here, I got the destination wrong. And I had to punch some idiot already who tried to chat me up… the reception has been pretty warm."

"Oh poor thing! Look at your hand! Come with me, doll, I'll take you to the inn to get some ice. I live at a Copacabana inn for ladies, you'll like it there."

"Do you know if there's any vacancy? I don't have a place to stay and I only have pounds on me."

"Of course, Mrs. Iolanda always finds space."

At the inn, Mrs. Iolanda was yelling at her daughter, Ana Maria, as always because of the outfit she chose to wear to the carnaval party at the Gente Fina club, which would happen in a few hours.

"You are going like this over my dead body, girl! What are people gonna say? That you don't have a mother!" Iolanda chased her daughter around the living room. "Fix this skirt!"

"But mom! All the girls are wearing it like this!" Ana Maria whined and as soon as she saw Glorinha enter with Lydia, she pointed. "Look! Look at the skirt that girl is wearing, it's much shorter than mine!"

"This new generation is a lost cause…" Iolanda murmured seeing the state of the girl. "Young lady, what happened to you? Why are your tights all ripped like this? Was it an accident?"

"No, I bought them like this," Lydia chuckled.

"Then someone played you, sweetheart."

"Mrs. Iolanda, Lydia needs a place to stay and some ice for her hand. Some rogues tried to take advantage of her," Glorinha explained.

"Of course… no offense, my darling, but look at your clothes! Not even at the beach I see girls showing so much skin," she went to get the ice. "We do have a room, it's a little cheaper if you pay for the whole month. Breakfast is included in the price and the other meals are paid separately."

"Yes, of course, I think I'll pay for the whole month since I don't have a way back home," Lydia sighed, letting Iolanda place the ice on her hand. "Do you take pounds?"

"Pounds? British pounds?"

"Yes, I just arrived from England."

"Of course!" Her eyes lit up when she imagined how fancy she would seem going to exchange pounds for cruzeiros at the bank. "I just need to check the conversion rate so I don't end up at a loss… not to sound greedy, but nobody gives me anything!"

[magicxc]

Hills and Valleys

Synopsis: Legend has it that Halloween is strictly for the scares. With ghouls and goblins, vampires and werewolves, witches and broomsticks, who could disagree?

However, all this friend group wanted was a little trick or treat. Sprinkle in a few party favors, loud music, and a cabin in the woods, the myth was bound to come true. 

Lurking around the corner is danger like never before, eager to bring this night to a bloody finish. 

So join these friends as they fight to make it through a Halloween they’ll never forget, proving that "the scare" is more than just a fantasy.

Word Count: 1573

Warnings: drowning

Chapter 2 - Julianna’s POV

Series Masterlist

“Let’s fucking gooooooo,” I yell into the crowd. 

I don’t know what it is about LMFAO that gets me pumped, but they’re definitely a vibe. That group was inescapable in 2012 and then they just fell off the face of the earth, damn. 

But before I can contemplate it any further, a drink is being pushed into my hands by none other than the fender bender himself. Man, I haven’t seen that asshole on tv since adult swim was poppin. 

“Is this that Jekyll and Gin?” I shout over the music. 

“Nah, this that beetlejuice,” they answered. 

Eyeing the cup for potential bugs, I shrug my shoulders and take it to the head cause lets be real, the craziest names yield the best taste. 

Next thing I know is that I’m ass up face down in the middle of the dancefloor bussing the meanest of whines for Freddy Kruger. And if I hear another Megan Thee Stallion song, Imma show him why she really calls us hotties. 

But unfortunately for him, inebriated me has the tendency to fake an accent or two, though I usually don’t know which one will get the chance to shine until the drunk meter hits full. 

“Sacre bleu nigga, Im tryna throw this ass back on youuu. So open your arms wide, bend those knees, and catch it ohh ouiiii.”

“Girl you play too fucking much,” he retorted. 

So apparently the accent of the day is French.

We dance on each other for a few more songs, my ass firmly placed in his hands while his pelvis roughly grinds into me; our bodies cradled together as we move to the rhythm of the beat. Slick comments like “get a room” or “use a condom” get thrown at us and it’s then that I leave for a breather before I fuck him there and then.  

Unwrapping myself from his arms, I get ready to go, promising that I’ll be back while he smacks my ass in return. Deciding on a cup of water before I step outside for some fresh air, I make a beeline for the kitchen damn near knocking over Lynn in the process. 

“Woahhh where’s the fire,” she jokes. 

“In my vagina,” I yell. “Freddy Krugers big dick gave my ass two muthafucking heartbeats bitch.”

“You whore, you smashed on the first night?” 

“No, but I’m about to,” I smirked. 

“Shittt join the team, I smashed the first night and became a girlfriend.”

“Girl when haven't you?”

Shrugging her shoulders, she downs the last of her drink as her beefy military guy comes up and snakes his arms around her waist; an acknowledging nod thrown my way. 

“Jason, right?”

“All day.”

“I’d love to stay and talk, but I’m legit burning from the inside out,” I said, fanning myself. 

“I think Lorenzo left the backdoor open,” Jason pointed out. “I’ve seen people in and out that thing all night.”

“Mhmm, yeah take a breather and air that cat out before you buss it wide open.”

“Fuck you!” I laughed, middle finger high in the air. “Honestly I’m surprised I’ve made it this long at his party as is.”

“At the rate you’re going, we’ll probably have to haul you out of here,” Jason chirped. 

“Y’all aren't still ‘beefing’ are you?”

“You know how he goes Lynn, if Lenny does nothing else he’ll hold a grudge.”

“Just give it some time.” 

About two months ago Lenny threw a surprise party for himself, however the fuck that works, and invited the usual crew and then some. He rented out a party hall because quite frankly we were tired of helping him clean up after his usual weekend shenanigans; and it was his birthday so ideally he wanted to get fucked up without being responsible for any mess he made. 

As the night goes on we’re all chopping it up and getting lit and I spy this gorgeous girl, I’m talking ten out of ten baddie. Now I’m far from shy, especially when it comes to something that I want, so I slid over to her, hit her with some of my best lines and made that shit official like a referee with a whistle. We end up clicking instantly. She’s downing drinks back to back with me, fucking up the dance floor with me, and even tried her hands at skiing the slopes for the first time. 

All in all things are going better than expected, hell I'm starting to think it's my birthday. At some point, we start taking body shots and somehow her trying to wedge the lime from my teeth ends with us liplocking, that slice of citrus long forgotten as it hits the floor. Our makeout session ends abruptly, both of us yanked apart with a fuming Lenny in front of us. 

Apparently she was a coworker of his who he’d been eyeing for a minute and I swooped in and ruined the possibility of something more. But the thing is, he had no chances with this woman in the first place and had he paid close enough attention through those bullshit conversations that he forced on her in the break room, he would’ve realised that sis was gay. 

Truth be told, I bruised his ego more than anything. And the fact that he pulled such a stunt like that, in his drunken state, in front of friends, family and coworkers has him a little more embarrassed than he lets on. 

I think Lenny is the bees knees and I would’ve never approached his crush had I known, but it still stings that he’s essentially beating a dead horse. I feel like he tolerates me these days because of the crew and quite frankly I’m over the silly nonsense. He’s my absolute fave of the bunch, our personalities being so similar and all. But after tonight he’ll hear everything I have to say whether he likes it or not. 

“Anyway I’m off to, as you so eloquently put it, air this cat out,” I joke. “Later sugar.”

“Dammit, is nothing sacred?” She screams. 

Chuckling, I make it to the back door, walking over to one of the nearby trees to light a joint. Bringing it to my lips, I inhale the smoky goodness, eyelids heavy from fun. Swallowing it down, I rest my head against the branch as the crunching of leaves takes me out of my daze. 

Spinning around, a small smile dangles at the corner of my lips as I eye the familiar face. Exhaling, I hand over the joint, a question that doesn’t need to be asked. Hands swiping over mine, the blunt slides from my fingers and between their lips in response; a newfound sense of serenity as we enjoy the low thumping of the music. 

Halloween aside, autumn is my absolute favorite season for the beautiful, warm colors that it produces - from the red tinted leaves, to the orange pumpkins, and the golden sunsets. The air is crispier and the breeze blows a little cooler and the wind tastes a little fresher. I don’t know but it’s something about the way the earth turns on its axis around this time of year that brings a newfound joy to me. 

Eyes closed in blissful solace, I listen in as another crunching of the leaves ensues, only this time I’m the reason for the noise. A fist to my jaw has my face slamming against the tree trunk, body tumbling to the ground as I try my best to recover from the force of it all. 

Hands desperately grabbing at the earth, dirt and debris get painfully wedged underneath my fingernails, watching the droplets of blood seep into the soil. 

Trying my best to scramble up off the ground in my drunken state, a kick to my temple makes all my efforts futile, vision blurring as I lose my fight with consciousness. 

|~~

My body feels cold and heavy, lungs intensely burning while my head feels an insane amount of pressure. Eyes shooting open, I see what looks to be the moon, a full one at that. Can you imagine, a full moon on Halloween? I see the universe has a sense of humor. 

I feel my body sink further into the cold, wet depths, limbs thrashing against whatever has me restrained and it occurs to me that I may not be able to talk my way out of this one. The more I struggle, the more water pours into my lungs, filling my chest with a fiery ache; salty tears submerged as my nose splatters furious bubbles at my body's pitiful attempt to cough up the water and relieve my chest. 

They say it takes about 40 seconds to drown and though I’ve only been down here for about half that, it feels like twice that time. I’ve always wanted to go in my sleep, peacefully and without a clue. But as I stare up at the hazy moon, surrounded by a deep blue sky, stars sprinkled in between, I figure this isn’t the worst thing to see last. Relaxing into the water, I give up my struggle and take a big gulp, ready to accept my fate. Vision darkening, I look up for a final peek at the starry night in all its blurred glory, or as I’d like to call this one “the party night” and take comfort in the fact that I got to live it up one last time.

[aronarchy]

DO THE BASTARDS EVER HELP?

Reading the above, you may be tempted to ask whether cops ever do anything good. And the answer is, sure, sometimes. In fact, most officers I worked with thought they were usually helping the helpless and protecting the safety of innocent people.

During my tenure in law enforcement, I protected women from domestic abusers, arrested cold-blooded murderers and child molesters, and comforted families who lost children to car accidents and other tragedies. I helped connect struggling people in my community with local resources for food, shelter, and counseling. I deescalated situations that could have turned violent and talked a lot of people down from making the biggest mistake of their lives. I worked with plenty of officers who were individually kind, bought food for homeless residents, or otherwise showed care for their community.

The question is this: did I need a gun and sweeping police powers to help the average person on the average night? The answer is no. When I was doing my best work as a cop, I was doing mediocre work as a therapist or a social worker. My good deeds were listening to people failed by the system and trying to unite them with any crumbs of resources the structure was currently denying them.

It’s also important to note that well over 90% of the calls for service I handled were reactive, showing up well after a crime had taken place. We would arrive, take a statement, collect evidence (if any), file the report, and onto the next caper. Most “active” crimes we stopped were someone harmless possessing or selling a small amount of drugs. Very, very rarely would we stop something dangerous in progress or stop something from happening entirely. The closest we could usually get was seeing someone running away from the scene of a crime, but the damage was still done.

And consider this: my job as a police officer required me to be a marriage counselor, a mental health crisis professional, a conflict negotiator, a social worker, a child advocate, a traffic safety expert, a sexual assault specialist, and, every once in awhile, a public safety officer authorized to use force, all after only a 1000 hours of training at a police academy. Does the person we send to catch a robber also need to be the person we send to interview a rape victim or document a fender bender? Should one profession be expected to do all that important community care (with very little training) all at the same time?

To put this another way: I made double the salary most social workers made to do a fraction of what they could do to mitigate the causes of crimes and desperation. I can count very few times my monopoly on state violence actually made our citizens safer, and even then, it’s hard to say better-funded social safety nets and dozens of other community care specialists wouldn’t have prevented a problem before it started.

.