#I still captioned it something obscure

[johnnysuhbmarine]

Me and the urge to put “you’ll always find your way back home (ncity)” as my caption on insta for my Dream concert pics

[fuctacles]

<<😺😺😺😺 | 😺😺😺😺😺😺>>

if i didn't respond to your comment it's bc desktop tumblr didn't let me, I still love and appreciate y'all

Maybe tomorrow he'd bring his book here, and keep the cats company while he reads. Would they like it if he read it out loud?

Oh lord, the crazy cat lady energy must be rubbing off on him already.

The cats certainly are. He looks down at his black attire now speckled with cat hair, and sighs. He should have asked Steph where the lint roller was before she left. With great effort, he stands up from the comfy couch, vowing to himself to only do a cursory search with no unnecessary peeking. 

The entrance seems like an obvious start since people like to de-hair themselves before leaving the house. The dresser next to the door is cluttered with typical things - sunglasses, hand lotion, chapstick, some loose change, and jewelry. No roller in sight. So he goes to the kitchen instead, because kitchen is where everything goes. The cats are watching him curiously from their chosen perches around the house.

"Stop it. This is all your fault."

He finally finds what he's looking for on a windowsill next to a dead fly. He starts cleaning his clothes there, next to the fridge, and its colorful display catches his attention. 

There's an Ewok magnet that looks handmade, holding up a birthday card, and a few holiday photos, capturing smiling people in swimming costumes. Some of them look older, like the photo of a kid in a wizard robe, or a pair of bloodied-up teenagers in sailor costumes, which must be a very obscure reference because Eddie hasn't seen it at any costume party before. 

The caption under the photo reads BFF but someone added a circle of smaller F's all around the photo, turning them into a frame. Which, if Eddie's connecting the dots correctly, would imply that it's Robin and Steph. The quality isn't the best, but at first glance, he's assumed it must be a family member, maybe a brother, but he remembers her saying she's an only child. 

He tracks the other photos, but most of them are new, of the Steph he already knows. There might be more around the apartment, though. 

But he's already rolled his shirt and he'll be back tomorrow morning anyway, so he quickly works on his pants' legs, gives the cats a wave, and leaves. 

While walking back, he's apparently so lost in his thoughts, he gets startled by his own uncle.

"The cats still alive?"

"Do you want?! Me?! To die?!" Eddie screeches, eyes wide and a hand on his heart, the other holding him upright against the wall. "Why the fuck are you sitting there in the dark?!"

Wayne looks pointedly at the lamp next to him, then to his nephew. Aside from his reading nook in the corner though, the living room has no other light sources right now, but Eddie just throws his hands in defeat, deciding not to argue. Especially not when his uncle finally folded and was reading Blade Runner. 

"Must have been thinking some guilty thoughts, huh?" 

"Excuse me?" Eddie takes a step back from his course towards the kitchen. His uncle was flipping a page in his book, clearly not reading but not looking up from it either. 

"To get scared like that. Did you do something bad, son?" He finally looks up, and Eddie doesn't like it. He looks exactly like his friends just before teasing him about something. "Saw something you shouldn't have?"

Eddie folds his arms and sticks his nose up, hoping the evening darkness hides his warming cheeks. 

"I don't know what kind of panty raiding you do up there, but I'm not a pervert."

"Panty riding, huh?" Wayne raises his eyebrows in interest. "That what you boys do in college these days?"

"Do you want a sandwich? Some tea maybe?" Eddie has already turned his back to him and is switching the light on in the kitchen. "And the cats are fine, thanks for asking!"

"Yes and yes. Thank you!" 

Eddie prepares them sandwiches and teas and grabs his own book so they can read in silence waiting for the evening news. It's nice to have this, a break from busy and loud college life, just sharing silence and love for books with his uncle. 

That is, of course, until Wayne looks at his watch and puts the book down to exchange it for a remote. Eddie likes to keep his nose in the book until the news become too distracting or he catches something interesting being reported on. His uncle has other plans for him this time. 

"You know it's alright to like her, right?"

Eddie lowers his book, slightly incredulous that Wayne is still talking about it. He looks at him with wide eyes.

"You really want me to fuck your neighbor, huh?"

Finally, his uncle gets a taste of his own medicine, almost choking on the tea that he unfortunately decided to sip on at that moment. Eddie: one, Wayne: zero.

But later, the score evened out again, as all Eddie could think of while trying to sleep were the pictures on the fridge, and plowing his uncle's neighbor into her mattress until she screamed. 

The next morning, with not enough sleep under his belt, Eddie skips two sets at a time, because he totally absolutely royally forgot about the fucking plant. 

He fumbles with the keys, can hear the inquisitive meows on the other side of the door, and once he's in he takes a beeline to the kitchen, ignoring the little creatures following him like they have been starving on the streets and he was a fresh batch of tuna factory waste.

The plant looks normal, the same as it did 24 hours ago, and he waters it as per instructions while trying not to even brush its leaves because he truly believes his touch might kill it. His track record with plants indicates so. Only then does he turn to the meowing bunch at his feet. 

"Hello, little demons. Time to feast."

The cats are fed, their mouths making unpleasant wet noises against the equally wet food, and Eddie has a moment to take a curious walk around the place, in search of more photos.

He finds a wedding photo, with Steph in a pink dress and stunning make up dancing with a man with curly hair. There's one from a barbecue, where Steph is being hugged by a tall man with a mustache. She's wearing jean shorts and a sweater in this one, and somehow, looks a bit off. It looks older than the wedding one. 

But a true treasure chest is the huge frame he finds above a small bookcase.

It's a collage titled 'The fucking journey' that seems to be a collection of Polaroids from a multitude of workplaces, with the same two people present. Year after year, one job after another, until they got where they are today. 

It starts with a 1983 and the sailor costumes he's already seen. They are less bruised and more tired in this one. Knowing where to start, Eddie's eyes track from one photo to another, observing Stephanie's features, her wardrobe, and her hair change until she becomes the woman she is today. 

There was no boy in that photo on the fridge. It's always been her. Growing into herself. 

Is this what his uncle was talking about? Well, not talking, but being annoyingly vague about it, like he wasn't sure what he was talking about himself. 

Fear not, Uncle Wayne. Eddie's going to pick up every pamphlet and every zine he can put his hands on, to educate them both about who their neighbor is, how to navigate the topic and respect her the way she deserves.

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

Summary: You've been doing OnlyFans for a few years when you gain a new subscriber. A creator himself—as made obvious with his username being prongsplayground_free—and you quickly discover that he's part of a polyamorous relationship and they've been watching your content together for a while.

Content Warnings: Adult content, mostly accurate depictions of being an onlyfans creator (hi, I am one), reader is fem, uses a wheelchair, and has cerebral palsy.

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen | Chapter Twenty | Chapter Twenty-One | Chapter Twenty-Two | Chapter Twenty-Three | Chapter Twenty-Four | Chapter Twenty-Five | Chapter Twenty-Six | Chapter Twenty-Seven

The screen flickers as you refresh your subscriber feed, the blue light casting an ethereal glow on your face. The usual ache in your shoulders is more pronounced today, a reminder of the hours spent hunched over your laptop. It's been a slow day for interactions, and with each passing minute, your energy wanes.

You've become accustomed to the steady hum of pain that accompanies your cerebral palsy, a constant companion through the years. But some days, like today, it sings a sharper tune. A grimace crosses your face as a jolt shoots through your lower back, making you wince. Still, you adjust yourself in your wheelchair, pushing past the discomfort. You are resolute, persistent—qualities that have carried you far despite the odds.

Your gaze flits across the screen, taking in the aliases of your OnlyFans subscribers. Most are nondescript, a blend of numbers and letters that reveal nothing about the person behind the screen. But one notification stands out: a new subscriber—"ProngsPlayground_free." The uniqueness of the name catches your attention; it's different, that’s for sure.

Your fingers hover over the screen, curiosity piqued, and then you tap on the profile. The avatar is of a single man, but the banner image shows three figures intertwined, their faces obscured by shadows and strategic angles. You begin to scroll, the soft hum of your laptop the only sound that fills the room. OnlyFans has an auto-subscribe feature for creators who follow each other, and it's clear that this "Prongs" belongs to a throuple.

Your brows furrow slightly, interest piqued. It's not common to come across a polyamorous relationship on this platform, let alone one that shares content so openly. But then again, what is common in a world mediated by screens and pseudonyms?

You've noticed how many creators on here have a story behind them, something that fuels their content and connects them with their audience. Not that you'll ever know the full truth—they keep their personal lives as hidden as you do yours, tucked away behind usernames and carefully composed photos. Just as you keep your chronic illness behind a shield, they too have their own secrets. It's safer that way.

Each post from Prongs is a window, however small, into the life they share. The photos are playful, intimate—a hand reaching out to touch, fingers tracing the curve of a muscle, the rumpled sheets of a bed bathed in the warm glow of a setting sun. Faces are always obscured, identities hidden behind screen names and tantalising hints of bodies that suggest closeness without ever fully revealing. It's like a jigsaw puzzle with ever-changing pieces, a mystery enticing followers back for more.

The cover images on each video promise another piece of the story: Prongs’s hips pressed against Padfoot’s backside, their bodies moving together in rhythm, or maybe Moony's hand tangled in Prongs' hair, speaking volumes without words. Captions tease just as much as the images they're attached to: "Can't help being all tangled up," one reads, while another suggests, "Moony and Padfoot never give me a break 😏." Almost every post ends with a familiar prompt—“see the unedited version on @packofpleasure.”

The names Moony and Padfoot are everywhere, tagged in Prongs' bio with links to their own free accounts, @moonysden_free and @padfootsplaypen_free. And then there's the shared world they offer on their paid account, where followers can pay to peek behind the curtain and see what happens when the camera keeps rolling.

Your hand hovers over the trackpad, careful not to click on anything that might alert anyone to your presence. The videos tempt you with their colourful thumbnails and engaging titles, but you resist. You know how these platforms work. It would be all too easy to accidentally hit the like button and leave a digital footprint where you have no intention of treading.

A notification pings, pulling you away from the infinity scroll. Your heart pounds in your chest as you see a new message waiting for you.

It’s from Prongs.

ProngsPlayground_free: Hi! My name is Prongs, and I wanted to take a moment to introduce myself properly. My boyfriends and I have been fans of your content across various platforms for some time now, and we've always admired the passion and authenticity you bring to your work — it’s what we try to bring to our own content, to say the least.

As you finish reading, another message arrives, this one tinged with a different tone—more hesitant, but still earnest.

ProngsPlayground_free: We have discussed subscribing to your OnlyFans on more than one occasion, and today I finally took the plunge and made it official. I hope you don't mind, but I wanted to ask a somewhat delicate question: Would it be acceptable for me to share your content with my boyfriends? I understand that sharing outside of the platform goes against the rules—and for good reason—but given the nature of our relationship, not sharing feels... odd, to say the least. I didn't want to make any assumptions, so I thought it best to reach out and ask directly 😅

Your brow furrows as you read the message again, a spark of surprise igniting in your chest. It's unusual to see such respect when it comes to sharing your content—most people just do it without a second thought, and you're left hoping they haven't undermined your livelihood by giving away what you charge for. But the fact that he asked... it's endearing in a way that makes the corners of your lips twitch upward.

You pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. You don't want to seem too eager, but there's an undeniable intrigue that tugs at you. Prongs and his boyfriends have shown genuine interest in your work, and perhaps there's a part of you that wants to know more about them, too. With a soft exhale, you begin typing your response.

You: Hey, Prongs! Thanks for reaching out. I appreciate you being direct about it. Honestly, I don't mind as long as it's just between the three of you—since you're all in a relationship, I can make an exception. 😉

You send the message and lean back, stretching your arms a bit, though your back still hurts too much to move much. It's not the first time someone has asked about sharing your porn with a partner, but this feels different. Maybe it's because they're a throuple, or maybe it's just the respectful way he asked. Either way, you're okay with it.

A few moments later, another message notification pops up. But this time, the message has a noticeably different tone.

ProngsPlayground_free: Thanks for being so chill about it! I know Prongs can get a bit stuffy with the rules sometimes, but we really appreciate you letting us use your place. We’re happy to give you a nice tip for being so accommodating. 😉 How does $100 sound? - Pads

You stare at your screen, a half-laugh caught in your throat. You hadn't anticipated an offer of a tip, let alone one as generous as $100, and you certainly wouldn't have asked for it. But when opportunity knocks...

You: I wasn’t going to ask for a tip, but since you offered… $100 sounds just fine. 😏

A spark of excitement flickers in your chest as you send the message. It's always a pleasant surprise when subscribers offer tips for additional content or special circumstances, and it helps more than they might realize. Sometimes, between managing your health and the unpredictability of your condition, working on OnlyFans can be more challenging than it seems. It's not just a playful side hustle—it's a lifeline on days when your energy is too low to do much else, and it feels good when subscribers acknowledge the work behind each post.

Almost immediately, a message appears from Prongs’s account: I sent you a $100.00 tip with the attached message of 'We appreciate you!'

You smile to yourself, pausing as you consider how to respond. It would be easy enough to leave it at that, a simple exchange of money for content, but something in you wants to offer them more. A gesture of gratitude for their generosity, a token of appreciation beyond the expected. You remember a video you recorded a while back—it was one of your favourites, originally sent out as pay-per-view content about a month ago. Perhaps they'd enjoy that?

You attach the video, your finger hovering over the file icon for a fraction of a second before you press it. The thumbnail shows a blurred image of your body, a tantalizing promise of what's inside. You push play just to make sure everything is as it should be. The clip begins with the camera set on a tripod, capturing the scene in your bedroom bathed in soft, ambient light. The sheets are rumpled, the air ripe with anticipation. It’s a sensual tableau, and at its center, you.

Your movements are slow and deliberate, each one designed to tease, to draw out the moments until they stretch thin with wanting. Your clothes peel away like layers of an intimate confession, revealing more of yourself with every passing second. A sigh escapes your lips, not acted but drawn from deep within by your own touch, your own desire. The final crescendo comes as no surprise; even through the lens, the raw intensity of your climax is palpable.

The video plays to its end, leaving behind a silence that hums in your ears. You wait for a moment, your fingers hovering over the keyboard, before typing your message.

You: Thanks for being so generous! Here's a little something extra. This was a PPV from last month—hope you all like it. 😘

With that, you lean back in your chair, the tension in your shoulders easing as you let out a long, slow breath. The screen of your laptop throws off a soft glow, casting shadows that dance across the walls of your room. For a moment, everything seems to be right with the world.

Your wheelchair creaks slightly as you shift your weight, the ache in your lower back a constant reminder of your limitations. But as you close the lid of your laptop, there's a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

A soft buzz draws your attention, and you glance down to see a notification lighting up the screen of your phone. It's from Prongs. Intrigued, you unlock the device and tap on the message, your eyes quickly scanning the lines of text, and you find your lips curving into a small smile as you read.

ProngsPlayground_free: Oh, wow. Thanks for that! We didn’t expect anything in return, but we’ll definitely enjoy it 😉 Moony says you’re very generous, and Padfoot is already deep into your feed. Can’t wait to see what you do next!

You can't help but laugh, setting your phone down and leaning back in your chair. This is new, this back-and-forth communication with subscribers. Most keep their identities hidden, their messages short and concise. But there's something different about this group—something inviting. Perhaps it's the respectful undertones or the playful banter they engage in. Either way, it makes you feel... connected, more so than usual.

The day wanes, shadows slanting long against the walls. Your body throbs with the dull ache of fatigue, and you know it's time to rest. With effort, you transfer from your wheelchair to the bed, each movement careful and measured. As you settle into the sheets, your thoughts drift back to Prongs, Moony, and Padfoot.

Who knew that today would turn into this?

[wcbblife]

Secret/Private relationship with Juju HCs

a/n: for all the anons asking about Juju. This is for you guys.

I think Juju would like something on the down low with you. Whether it’s a mutual agreement between you two or something you ask of her, she completely respects it and understands it. She also realizes it makes the whole thing easier for the both of you especially with her rising fame in the sports world.

When the media or fans are around, Juju seamlessly shifts into "friend mode," making sure to keep a comfortable distance while still being near you.

She’s a sucker for matching rings, necklaces, bracelets, etc… Knowing that it’s only you two that are aware of it makes her feel so cocky. Anything that's a very small detail will leave her happy. When she's feeling a bit shameless and jealous she'll step it up and buy you two matching shoes.

Juju loves it when you post subtle hints on social media. A selfie wearing her hoodie, a cryptic caption that only she understands, or a photo where just the edge of her shoe or finger is visible drives her wild. She likes whenever you two are out on a date and you take a pic that shows her whole body expect her face. She also does some tiktoks with only your shoulders showing on the screen.

You're sitting on Juju's bed, scrolling through your phone. You snap a quick selfie, wearing her favorite hoodie, and add a caption only she would understand. A few minutes later, your phone buzzes with a notification. It's a message from Juju. "Love the pic," it reads. "Can't wait to see you tonight." You smile, your heart fluttering. You type back quickly, "Same here."

When the campus or streets are too busy, Juju’s car becomes your private retreat. The tinted windows offer the perfect cover, and you both enjoy the simple pleasures of talking, eating, or just being close without prying eyes. Juju often jokes about upgrading her car to a mini living room, complete with cozy blankets and snacks, for more comfortable hangouts.

"Sorry we had to do it like this." Juju looks over at you, expression a little sad. "Babe it's ok I promise." You reassure her, taking a fry from the food you two had ordered. "You sure?" You lean in to give her a peck on the cheek, "I promise. If you eat fast enough, we can get my dorm all to ourselves." "Bet."

Movie dates are your favorite. The dark theater provides a perfect cover for holding hands and sneaky kisses. It's your little escape from the world, where you can be as close as you want without worrying about being seen. Juju loves picking out the most obscure films, ones she knows will be nearly empty, just so you can have the place almost to yourselves.

The theater is dark, a perfect escape for you and Juju. You sit close, her hand resting on your thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns. The movie plays, but your attention is divided between the screen and her warmth beside you. "Did you see that?" Juju whispers, her breath tickling your ear. You nod, leaning into her. "Yeah, but..." You shrug, kissing her cheek, feeling her smile against your skin

The only time you two freely go out together is with a friend group. You settle for short gazes and when she intertwines her pinky with yours under the table.

Juju’s dorm room is your sanctuary. As soon as she knows you’re coming over, she makes sure the place is perfect for you. Her roommates understand and give you space, knowing how important it is for Juju to have uninterrupted time with you. As soon as she gets a text from you, she's like "get the hell out."

[sleepingdeath-light]

home again ; yandere!wally darling

requested by ; anonymous (09/05/23)

word count ; 2031

content ; platonic yanderes, memory loss (the puppets all had their memories forcibly wiped), references to child/teen reader, obsessive protectiveness, author’s first time writing something platonic so… yeah

note ; i haven’t written anything like this before (sfw yandere stuff) so apologies if it seems a tad off. similarly i’m still adjusting to writing wally’s character in terms of dialogue and such, so that may also seem a smidge ooc.

fandom ; welcome home

pairing ; platonic wally darling x gender neutral!reader

read also on ; ao3

It was a beautifully melancholy evening: the stars and moon were obscured with thick, grey clouds that loomed overhead like ragged old curtains; the air was thick with dust and pollen that clung to your skin and clothes like a man hanging onto the edge of a steep cliff, digging their claws in and holding on with all the relentless might you’d come to hate; your room was only dimly illuminated by the pale blue light emanating from your monitor, the low hum of the vents the only sound to compliment the clicking of keys and the tapping of the mouse. Quiet, drab and dull; how very typical of spring.

But at the very least it gave you all the excuse you needed to sit behind a screen and doomscroll. Tired eyes skimming over articles and activists decrying the latest tragedy, thousands of crabs in the metaphorical bucket of social media all fighting for the attention of bystanders — only taking pause when you came across something all too familiar, yet at the same time entirely new.

‘Does anyone else remember Welcome Home? It was pretty popular when it aired back in the 70s and my friends and I are trying to create a complete archive for it’ — the caption read. Below it was a highlighted link and a picture that had been burned into your brain since childhood: bright swatches of paint adorning every surface, all seeing eyes as big as can be, and in front of it, that permanent smile carved into yellow felt. Wally Darling and Home, you remembered them both clearly enough — clearer than you’d have liked, even.

It had been decades since you’d actively thought back on Welcome Home, on your brief stint in stardom, and frankly you’d have rather it’d been kept that way. You still held a bit of a grudge over getting axed: ‘too mature’, yeah right! Every kid loves astrology and nobody is too old to talk about their feelings… you were only 14 for crying out loud! Too mature, your ass.

But perhaps, you reasoned, it wouldn’t be too bad to take a quick trip down memory lane. Sure you’d loved the show when it aired, but you stopped watching after your section was cut, so maybe it would be cool to see what changed in the interim — and, either way, your experiences would probably be helpful to the archivists. So no harm, no foul.

————

The site was easy enough to navigate but man you didn’t expect to get so emotional when you went looking through the recovered art. They looked exactly the same as you remembered, all of them — which is kind of silly to think about since puppets and tv show characters in general tend not to change since, well, they were meant to stay consistent. Frank was always going to look terribly stern, and Julie was always going to come onto scene with a new fabulous hairdo, and Eddie was always going to trip over his own feet on his rounds, and Wally was always going to open and close each episode with a nod to the audience. These things were staples of the characters and the show’s structure so of course they’d be the same.

But, still, you somehow felt like they should have changed in your absence. A small part of your mind, an irrational part surely, crying out that they were alive and that living things were made to change — which was silly. And, frankly, a little embarrassing that you’d even had that thought at all.

So you pushed that idea to the very back of your mind where it belonged and continued to scroll through the various pages of the website. Art from official books (you were sure you even owned the ‘ask Wally’ type book and that it was still at your parents’ place), merchandise like pop up figures (the sort that were found only in cereal boxes and magazines), promotional posters and even one piece from your short tenure on the show. You remembered posing for that photograph, being told to smile and to wrap your arms around Eddie and Wally — but for some reason you couldn’t quite recall what their puppeteers were called.

Or if they even had any puppeteers in the first place.

No. That can’t be right. They were puppets, characters, they had to have someone controlling and voicing them — but none of the promotional art nor your memories supported that basic truth. It didn’t make sense.

None of it made sense. This was why you’d tried to forget that show so desperately after you left. It messed with your head far too much to be worth the effort so why bother burning out over questions that could be explained by a faulty memory.

A memory that could, in picture perfect detail, recall the route from Howdy’s store to Home as clear as crystal — as if it were your own route to-and-from primary school. A memory that could replay patchy conversations between Wally and Julie, bittersweet bickering over hairspray and hairpins that you could only recall in pieces, but that still rang clearly as if you were thinking of childhood friends. A memory that was imprinted with the feeling of warm felt embraces and puffs of warm air from stencil cut mouths that would have been impossible if they weren’t alive. Moving eyes, small bodies, freely walking, freely talking — alive and well and clear as day in your mind as normally as recalling your parents arguing over a cup of freshly brewed coffee on the mornings of each shoot.

The distinctly strong smell of the synthetic hairspray Wally used that would hang around him and mixed with the scent of oil paint like a cologne — that burned your nose if you hung around too close to him in the early morning. The sheer joy of Howdy picking you up and tossing you in the air as a congratulations for your first scene done well — caterpillar fuzz that stuck to your clothes for days, as strong as velcro. The way you and Julie squealed when Barnaby shook back and forth and sent droplets of muddy water raining down on you and on her freshly done up hair — and the joke that followed her exasperated tirade as you, through giggles, explained frustration to the audience through a camera they seemed to not be able to see.

Memories that kept unearthing themselves the deeper you went into the site, eventually culminating with you tearing up at the sight of old friends you’d been forced to leave behind. Silly, perhaps, but you recall telling the audience that it was healthy to cry and to let it all go — so at least your teenage self would be proud of your emotional vulnerability.

After a good hour of this, and more than in need of a break, you finally clicked on the attached message board and typed up a simple few sentences. A greeting and a farewell all in one before you closed down your computer and went to bed.

‘I used to have a segment on Welcome Home when I was a kid. I was meant to do astrology and emotions, before I got cut for being too old lol. This brought back so many memories. Thank you, all.’

————

Wally hadn’t meant to linger — really, he hadn’t — but there had been something oddly familiar about his latest visitor that he couldn’t quite place. Even from behind the screen he was trapped within, even as he watched their message load in, he could tell that they were different. It was their eyes, those tearful knowing eyes — he was sure he’d seen them before in that somewhere different, somewhere brighter, that came before the end he and his neighbours were trapped in.

When he saw their eyes he saw himself, a twisted altered reflection of himself that was filled to bursting with the warmth and awareness that he was created to hold within himself. A child’s eyes in the form of someone who he didn’t know yet he knew he must have once. A lingering, niggling feeling in the back of his skull, like fingertips brushing and scratching and digging into his fabric brain — rearranging and scouring and destroying and reaching for something that he couldn’t quite find.

He winced and squinted and stared through the screen to no avail, tilting his head and watching them as they flicked from screen to screen to screen desperate for a sign that he could use to place this familiar stranger. Unable to do so until finally — finally — their note came through and he was able to read the short greeting they’d left behind.

Then, and only then, did those forbidden memories come flooding back. A formidable tidal wave, a whirling rapid, of bright lights and experiences and conversations that had been torn from him and shredded in the writer’s room of their long gone creators.

He knew you, he’d always known you; the child too old for their youth that visited their neighbourhood in the beginning. Who always wore a beaming smile and treated them all with a grace beyond their years, spreading kindness and joy to his friends and to the audience only the two of you knew about. Who was far taller than his measly 12 apples of verticality but who never made him feel small. Who spoke eagerly of the constellations and painted the most wonderful pictures of stars and moons and planets far beyond their reach that he did his best to capture in his paintings. Who was only 14 but felt more like an adult than he did sometimes — he, who was crafted and sewn without a childhood — but who wasn’t above play and foley.

The child who was the absolute most; his favourite transient neighbour. All of their’s, actually.

How could he possibly have forgotten you?

You with your broad toothy grins, and your warm eyes that shone brighter than the stars you loved, and your arms that were big enough to carry even more apples than he could have ever dreamed of. You, who he promised to protect and keep away from the horrors of the world, theirs and your own. You, who never turned down a favour or plea from his neighbours.

You. Just you.

Wonderful, lovable, unforgettable you. His child of flesh, not felt, but he loved you all the same.

And he didn’t get to see you grow up, because his creators deemed you unbefitting of their world and cut you from their memories as ruthlessly as they’d cut your segments from their show. Welcome Home didn’t feel very much like a home after that — even if they didn’t quite recall what was missing.

Wally didn’t even want to think about all of the horrors and harms you’d faced throughout the years you’d been apart — he could see the wear hanging heavily in the downwards quirk of your lips and the dampened glint in your eye. He knew he’d sooner kill someone than let them hurt you, he’d threatened it plenty alongside Howdy and Eddie and Frank — they all loved you as dearly as him, once.

But in his current predicament he couldn’t do much to protect you. Couldn’t coddle you, couldn’t warm you, couldn’t sooth you with those sweets you used to love (if you even loved them anymore, it had clearly been quite some time), couldn’t do anything to help. He couldn’t even communicate with you, to apologise, to tell you he still loved you and that you were still welcome in their neighbourhood.

So he did the only thing he could; he drew you a picture. A silly little simplistic drawing, scratchy and crude, depicting a strong memory he had of you. The two of you, hand in hand, with your arms overflowing with apples you’d managed to steal from Howdy (oh how he missed such trivial things) — he hoped you remembered these moments as fondly as he did. Then, to the illustration, he attached a small message, a plea just for you, before settling back down behind the screen and hoping — praying — that you’d come back.

‘I’m sorry for forgetting you, friend, please come home’

[kickis-conan-king]

I like to think that in a modern au, if Keith had any kind of social media, it would be a little bit like one of those accounts where you go “is this guy just really committed to the bit or is he just Like That?” Like his instagram account would be full of nothing but reels where he sets the phone camera down after staring silently into it, walks far enough away that his whole body is in shot and does like, ten backflips before the video just abruptly ends with him still in motion. Another video where he walks around town with a ton of little throwing knives and it’s just a montage of footage of him lodging them into billboards and signs and other random hard to reach places. A lot of his videos are taken in the dark at indiscernible locations with nothing but the flash too bright and distorting his face, his eyes flashing like a raccoons in the brightness, and those videos are the rare times he speaks in his vids but it’s always something like “if life has to include suffering then how come it’s minor shit. I’d rather be miserable in a big way that is kinda badass then go through one more awkward conversation with a barista.” His most normal videos are of his dog just zooming around (no commentary or caption) and just. Footage of his legs dangling from absurdly high places with beautiful views.

Lance just randomly comes across his account while scrolling through his Instagrams suggested reels and immediately becomes OBSESSED with xxjustkeith.xx4510fu. At first Lance thinks it’s a meme account, some kind of bit but then the more he watches the less sure he is. He kinda can’t believe someone That good looking would make anything other then thirst content. He spends hours scrolling the account. He starts to wonder if maybe this guy is a serial killer or something. Then he notices in one of the videos that…hang on…he recognizes that place. And that too. And holY SHIT they totally live in the same town!!! So under one of the videos he comments something obscure but that is undeniably From Their Town, basically calling this guy out on where he lives without doxxing him.

Keith immediately dms him like. Who the fuck are you and what do you want. Lance is like teehee hi uh. I think you’re insane 🥰🤪😉. And Keith is like meet me at x spot at x time for a fistfight. And Lance is like hell yeah brother, writes his last will and testament (a text to hunk) and goes to meet this unhinged hottie who literally said they were going to fight. So they meet up and like. Keith is how he is, kind of mostly just awkward and shy with an inclination for feral hobbies and knuckle first thinking and Lance is how he is all chatter and bravado and challenges and charm and so. The do spar a little bit but once they’re both breathless they just go get coffee and talk.

And after that in all of Keith’s videos there are snippets of someone chattering in the background, tan legs dangling just out of frame, a dude who does backflips with him, someone cheering or whining saying “let me try 😞 Keith hey. Let me try.” When he walks around throwing knives. A dude who is otherwise not mentioned anywhere or tagged in anything.

All the people who are fans of Keith account for its adventurous and surreal humor start speculating in the comments. Eventually Keith gets fed up and posts a video reply to the comments.

It’s in selfie mode. It a beautiful day, and him and Lance are side by side. Wherever they’re sitting it’s up high. A breeze ruffles their hair. Keith looks straight into the camera and says completely monotone. “This is Lance. He’s my boyfriend.” Lances silent shock gets cut off by the video ending (he did not know they were dating.)

[ultram0th]

31 Days of Derek Hale

Day 05: Cursed Tape

Info │ 01 │ 02 │ 03 │ 04 │ 05

“Der!” Stiles voice rang out, dripping with jubilation. “Come see what I just scored!”

Derek grunted as he got out of his chair, feeling tired from his long day at the auto shop. Still, he shuffled down the hall, clad in only his white tank top and sweatpants, freezing when he saw Stiles beaming ear to ear and holding a large cardboard box.

Before he could even ask, Stiles rushed out, “I got a mystery box at the thrift store! Can you believe it?! How cool is that?”

“Mystery box?” Derek grunted, crossing his arms in front of himself as he cocked his eyebrow. “And how much did that cost?”

Stiles shrugged as he carried the box to the living room. “…um, about eighty dollars, give or take…”

Derek’s eyes widened and his jaw clenched.

Stiles obliviously set the large box down onto the floor before eagerly tearing into it, his large eyes alight with wonder over the “treasures” he’d scored for one-hundred thirty dollars. The big box was stuffed full of various items: scraps of fabric, old porcelain figurines, and some VHS tapes.

“We don’t even own a VCR,” Derek grunted, unamused. 

Among the pile that his husband was creating, Derek spotted an odd looking VHS tape. There was a gaudy neon background that looked like it was ripped straight of the 80s, with little captions indicating that it was a workout video of some kind. However, the weird part was that there was a blank outline of a person on the front instead of some obscure fitness guru. The title of the odd tape read out: Sweatin’ it to the 80’s! Starring _____!

“What the hell?” Derek scoffed as he picked up the tape to examine it some more— the second his fingers grazed the cover of the tape, Derek felt what seemed like a jolt of electricity ripple throughout him.

The werewolf jerked back, confused over what had just happened, yet he quickly realized that he was still holding onto the tape. Derek tried to relax his grip to let go of it, but his hand refused to listen, instead clutching onto the tape with all of its strength.

“Stupid tape…” he grumbled to himself, stopping once he saw something else start to happen.

Steadily, his white tank top began to change hue, turning from bleached white to a neon blue. As the straps thinned out, the collar dropped down low to his midsection, exposing his pecs to look more like a stringer. 

The changes didn’t stop there.

Stunned silent, Derek’s jaw dropped as he witnessed his toned pectorals shudder before pushing out as they gradually inflated. The previously proportional mounds plumped up and rounded, becoming an impressive set of muscletits that jutted off Derek’s chest noticeably. His altered tank did nothing at all to try to conceal them, the enlarged nipples poking out of the sides and demanding attention. His arms packed on more muscle, becoming large and bulging, especially his biceps which rivaled melons. Derek looked down, yet his massive pecs blocked his view of his sweatpants as they tightened against his legs, suctioning to his form to become a skintight pair of spandex that showed off every ridge of his carefully crafted musculature— that was prompt ruined as his legs grew in size, becoming larger. His butt ballooned out as it beefed up and pushed itself outwards. Derek’s eyes widened as he felt a sensation like he was getting harder. When he reached down and patted at his bulge, he almost gasped at the girth package that filled his hands. His cock and balls had inflated to the point where it looked like the larger stud was smuggling a softball in the front of his spandex pants.

When he was done changing, Derek had to have packed on at least fifty pounds of muscle, making him look like some over-the-top workout guru who belonged on the front of those cheesy exercise tapes.

Derek’s face stretched out to form a large grin, despite the panic that he was feeling. The living room shifted and Derek felt as if he were falling, the walls of the room stretching upwards. Derek’s sight rapidly shifted upwards, forcing him to stare straight up at the ceiling. He tried to look away or call out to Stiles for help, but he couldn’t move. All the shocked werewolf could do was smile and show off his hairy muscletits on the cover of Sweatin’ it to the 80’s! Starring Derek Hale!

Blissfully unaware of his husband’s transformation, Stiles finally finished rummaging through the mystery box. “See?” he smiled, standing upright. “There’s tons of cool stuff in here… Derek?”

Stiles looked around for Derek, pausing when his eyes landed on an obscure VHS tape that was on the floor. He walked over and picked it up, his eyebrows rising at the image of a muscled up Derek on the cover, smiling widely. His eyes looked panicked though.

“Derek!” Stiles gasped, clutching the tape close to him. “Don’t worry! I’ll figure something out!” He sprinted out of the house and to his Jeep…

About an hour later, Stiles returned home and set up the VCR in the living room. Once it was connected, he popped the cursed VHS in and pressed Play.

Synthpop blasted over the speakers, and bright neon colors flashed on the screen before a shocked Derek appeared on screen. He was still in his muscled up body, appearing to jog in place.

“Stiles?!” Derek called out on the TV, able to see his husband on the other side. He tried to stop himself from jogging, blushing at how the motion made his inflated pecs bounce up and down. “What the hell happened— Time to get that heart rate up!” His eyes widened at his last statement, having said it was such pep that he sounded like a cheerleader.

Stiles threw his hands up in exasperation.

“How am I supposed to know?” he cried. “How the hell did you get into the TV?”

Derek rolled his eyes as he stopped and started to do lunges. “It’s that damn mystery box of yours!” he accused. “I touched some weird tape and this happened!” He nodded down at his inflated form, wincing as he couldn’t stop working out.

He paused his lunges and started to bounce his pecs up and down.

“And one, and two…” He blushed, but he couldn’t stop the muscled mounds from lifting and slamming back down. Still, he was smiling widely and speaking with immense enthusiasm. “You gotta do lots of reps if you wanna get pecs as big as these!”

Derek couldn’t stop himself from working out and showing off his out of proportion body. The whole time he kept smiling, despite his eyes looking wide and disbelieving.

Stiles, unsure of what to do, figured that perhaps the best course of action was to let the video finish. Plus, he had to admit that Derek looked pretty hot with big, hairy pecs. “Um, maybe… maybe we should just let this play out?” he suggested.

Derek screamed on the inside, but could only place his hands on his hips. “Now that we’re all warmed up,” he beamed, “I’m gonna show y’all some glute blasters!”

[dragons-clause]

Let's Talk About--

I was randomly inspired to write some phone sex with Sabo.

Fem!Reader 1,109 words Modern AU

CW: use of "good girl", dirty talk, masturbation, mdni

Please note, no transponder snails were victimized in the making of this story xD

Finishing prep for dinner you turn toward your phone just in time to see a message from Sabo. He’s stuck late at work, which you already knew, but he’s apparently bored out of his mind. His reasons for being stuck at work are because he’s being forced to wait for others to complete their work before he can tie it all off for the day.

Sabo: I’ve already gone through and done what I could to help.

Sabo: It shouldn’t be too much longer.

Smiling, you reply. You’ve been together for a couple years now, and it was rare that Sabo ended up being stuck at work. He always seemed to know when it was going to happen, and communicated with you easily.

You: Dinner’s prepped, once you’re on the way I can start cooking so it’ll be hot and ready when you get here.

Sabo: I’d much rather you be hot and ready, sweet dove.

You: You’d rather dessert first tonight, hm?

Sabo: Decidedly.

You tug the collar of your blouse aside and take a picture of your mouth and neck, just barely teasing your cleavage with a twist of a grin on your lips. Sending the image without further words leaves it to him on how to reply, and it takes a couple minutes before you get a response.

Sabo: Naughty girl.

Sabo: I had something a little more filling in mind.

With a smile you open your blouse entirely, and put an arm under your breasts, pushing them up and taking another image. You’re not going to fall out of your bra, but you use your arm and the angle of the shot to give the illusion of it.

Adjusting the framing a little you open your mouth and let your tongue drape over your lower lip.

You: Always willing to be filled by you, M♥ster.

Pressing your lips together as you send both the picture and the caption, you wait a few moments, and when he doesn’t reply you expect he’s cracked his phone. The last time you teased him a little too fast he’d nearly crushed the poor mobile phone in two. You’d been worried about his lack of reply, until he’d arrived at home half mad with need.

He’d taken you in the foyer with the front door wide open that time, and you had to call off work the next day.

It took a few minutes but you got a reply.

Sabo: Show me your pussy, dove.

A chill runs through you. There’s no “sweet” before the term. No softening of the request with a please, or “be a good girl”, just a demand. Even when he was definitively the dominate during a session, Sabo still had a tendency to ply you with a gentlemanly firmness. It was good, it was great, honestly, but sometimes you wanted him to just grab your hair and take what he wanted.

Like he had in the foyer.

In his defense, you hadn’t requested such of him directly, but maybe…

Sitting up on the counter, you spread your legs and take a short video. You don’t do much except tug at the lacy little thong you’d been wearing. Technically he can see what he requested to see, but the lace of the thong obscures most of it. Rubbing your fingers over the fabric you cut the video just as you’re moving it aside, and send that.

Preemptively, because you expect you know how he’ll reply, you begin to finger yourself. You don’t have to work yourself up much, teasing Sabo has already gotten you most of the way there. But getting off the counter so you can lay on it, mouth by your phone as you record a voice memo, fingers working your clit and teasing your entrance.

You gasp and moan into the message, whining about how your fingers never feel as good. How much you want him to come home and take you.

“Dessert’s prepped, sir,” you huff, riding a line you’re already desperate to cross. “Hurry home so you can have your fill.”

Sabo: You cheeky little vixen.

The text message comes in just as you send the voice memo. You’re sure that he was going to say more. Demand more. But now he had the memo to listen to.

After a few minutes the phone rings. It’s Sabo’s number, so you answer it with a needy sound in your voice.

“Hello ♥.” You nearly whine the word and swear you can hear him growl a little.

“Cum for me.” He demands.

You can almost feel him looming over you from the tone of his voice. The heat of him pressed against your back, the thick, leather scented feel of his gloved fingers plunging deep into your cunt. He’s not there, not really, he’s still at the office, but you can still imagine it so clearly.

Gasping at the phantom feelings you focus on chasing that high, letting your voice spill into the speaker.

“That’s my good girl,” he huffs. “That needy little body of yours knows exactly how good I make it feel. Even when I’m not there it knows.”

You can feel the heat rushing to your face. “Y-yes, it does. Please, please, Sabo!”

“You’re so soaked. I can hear the way you’re dripping.”

“Ah… fuck.”

“Tell me what you want, dove.”

“Y-you, Sabo, I want you!” You gasp. You swear you can feel the heat of his words against your ear. “I want… I want you to take me! I just - want you to do what you want with me, please!”

“Cum for me, my dove.” He growls. “Let me hear you. Cum for me and then be my good girl and wait for me until I get home.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll- I will, I will!”

“Call off work.” He commands. “I am not going to let you sleep tonight.”

The tone, the promise, the absolution of it. The orgasm slams into you and you cry his name into the phone, babbling promises and thanks. You can barely hear the clipped swear breaking from between his teeth as you cry out your pleasure for him.

“Good girl,” he huffs breathlessly into the phone. “That’s my good girl.”

“… did you just cum in your office?” You question softly and Sabo chuckles.

“The bathroom, yeah. My office walls are glass.” He admits, the stern tone of earlier turning softer. “I’m serious though, make sure you’re presentable. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

“And call off work.” You add.

“And call off work.” He agrees with a soft laugh. “You did so good I need to properly reward you, sweet dove.”

[dcdreamblog]

What became of Gernsback, the All Star Squadron's robit butler, I hope he's okay :D

Oh this is one of my favorite parts, and I can actually pick up from my last story. So, Background! "Gernsback" was made out of the remains of the Elektro robot that was something of a star at the 1939 World's Fair but after the Phantom of the Fair's reprogramming and a battle with the Sandman and the Crimson Avenger he was a little...

Totally and utterly smashed. While we don't have direct sources saying so, our best guess is that he was just left on site for the next couple of years in the middle of the wrecked ballroom where his assassination attempt against George VI has been foiled. It explains how he was discovered by Robert Crane, the original Robotman, when the fairgrounds were given to the All Star Squadron as a base...

Those of you who are familiar with this era of history know Robert Crane is a VERY enigmatic figure

(A file photo of Crane as Robotman, very much the clearest photo of him as part of the Squadron's 1944 yearbook) To the point that it wasn't until recently the name "Robert Crane" was known. For most of his career he was known under the false name of Paul Dennis and he purposefully retired into obscurity after the end of his career.

One thing that IS known about him...

Is that he was a NOTORIOUS tinker. (Photo taken from the Squadron's 1940 yearbook, this time a candid shot with Johnny Quick's name on the back. Its the only picture of Robotman in the candid photos of any of the Squadron's 5 yearbooks and implied by Quick's name and caption on the photo, it was taken without Crane's knowledge) Said caption being: "tin man being antisocial again but he's good to have around, even if he does prefer scrap to people." For several months he fiddled with the pieces of the robot and was able to rebuild and upgrade it in various fashions. Because the All Star Squadron didn't have any civilian staff he eventually set the machine as a combination doorman/butler/security alarm...

(Liberty Belle and Gernsback from the Squadron's 1940 yearbook. "Sometimes he's the best conversation around here" in Liberty Belle's handwriting written beneath) The robot's "artificial intelligence" if it could be said to have one was VERY basic. Limited to answering knocks at the door (as in hearing a knock and physically opening the door), prompting for a security passcode and fetching small items around the base Robotman rechristened the robotic butler "Gernsback" presumably after science fiction editor Huge Gernsback. Which is one of the few insights we have into Crane's personal life/preferences He served the Squadron for the rest of the war until the organization was shuttered after the war, after most of its members retired or dropped from the public eye in the aftermath of the Red Scare and the disbanding of the JSA Gernsback was left on site undisturbed for several decades. Now you may remember me saying I give tours of the national park that's been made of site now. Let me show you one of my favorite parts of my job...

He's out doorman, lol. I walk past him every time that I bring in a tour group where I get to make a big show of introducing him to the group and speaking the passcode to let us in. (We still have to use the passcode because we can't figure out how to turn the security system off ^^") Don't ask what happened to his legs, we don't know. Safe to say though we keep him in perfect working order and shiny for the visitors. He'll live out his golden years as a freshly polished centerpiece. In case anyone was worried.

[ilovescaredysquirrel2]

Someone PLEASE make an English Dub of Buratino's Return (obscure Russian movie)

Okay, so I heard about this Russian cartoon animated movie recently, and it's got this Wild Thorberries-Rugrats-ish art style and the songs slap! The one that's gotten really popular was the one with the singing Barbie dolls, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G2CSmp02Emk in this video here (turn the captions on). I heard the name of the movie is actually Возвращение Буратино which translates to Buratino's Return apparently. It looks amazing! I love talking toy themed movies that are NOT Toy Story. It doesn't look as amazing as Raggedy Ann & Andy Musical Adventure but it looks good enough to watch and enjoy. The thing is, the subtitles on the original Russian movie, the English subtitles SUCK! I got them saying weird things like "Oh yeah Obama" when she was apologizing to the other doll, and apparently the dog's name translates to "Potatoes" which... is actually kinda cute not gonna lie! If the movie gets dubbed, they should keep it!

Yeah, so the whole "dubs vs subs" thing is ridiculous. Dubs are obviously way easier to watch and understand. If you're hearing impaired and need subtitles, that's one thing but if you're not and you want to watch a movie, it's way easier to watch a dub. Plus, subtitles aren't always accurate and sometimes make things sound more awkward. Like, the dubbed versions often make more sense. Plus, subtitles go fast and you can't always pay attention to little details if you're watching it with subtitles, it's too distracting. I wholeheartedly believe that dubs are better all the way! If you don't speak English or Russian, maybe it can be dubbed in your language too! There needs to be a Spanish dub, French dub, Japanese dub, whatever language you might speak! The only language I speak is English, so that's why I'm trying to get someone to make an English dub. By the way, the English captions for the Мой Портрет - Трафарет video were an exact translation, I feel like the dub would change it up.

My friend wondered about the songs being ruined in the dub, which I would be worried about too, but they could hire a translator and songwriter to work together and make the lyrics make sense but also rhyme. Even if it was a fan dub, they could still get enough permission and help to make it a good dub without ruining the songs.

Another thing, let's talk about this not being popular in Russia, where it was made. I mean, it came out in 2013, the same year as Disney's Frozen! It didn't stand a freaking chance in theaters! Frozen literally took the world by storm... a snowstorm, that is! (haha, funny joke). Plus, a lot of non-English spoken movies don't get an English dub until years later. 2013 was 11 years ago, but who said it's too late for an English dub. Especially, now that the Barbie doll stencil song is becoming popular online. I also haven't actually seen the full movie, I just skimmed through it on YouTube to get a grip of what it's about and apparently it's about talking toys but they have to escape from a bad guy who wants to destroy them and turn them into the same "evil" toys to create a bad future of children. I also found out that apparently Buratino is Pinocchio and I like the idea of a non-Disney Pinocchio movie, because Pinocchio has been around for like 150 years, way before Disney made it into a creepy a** animated movie and they shouldn't take copyright of Pinocchio. There's also that other Russian movie "Pinocchio a True Story" where Pauly Shore voices Pinocchio and Tom Kenny voiced Geppetto. Also, this movie Buratino's Return was animated in 2D form, when a lot of early 2010s movies were 3D. I'm not sure how that effected the marketing and who wanted to see it but I'm almost sure that a lot of people were more hyped about Frozen or other popular movies.

Here's something else I found, apparently it was also based off "The Adventures of Buratino" which is a really old story, and I think this 2013 movie kind of looks like a creative twist on that story, kind of like what Disney does, but also kind of makes fun of Disney as well. Basically it looks like they're basing a story off old fairytales Pinocchio and The Adventures of Buratino, just as Disney does, except they're changing the things about Disney that isn't woke and making fun of the things that are wrong with Disney. I know a lot of you probably hate it when I talk crap about Disney, but I always give my side of how I feel and let you have your side. With enough convincing and understanding, hopefully we can understand both sides!

Anyway, feel free to chat with me about this in the comments! I'm always happy to hear opinions, even if they're different from mine. SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS!

[dogboyklug]

part 1 - [you are here!] - part 3

yepyep . making true on my promise to make this a three parter i guess! hopefully the final part will be out soon

disclaimer: i am not blaming trans women as a whole for my trauma, nor am i saying that the patriarchy doesnt exist. lol. ok bye

text transcript / partial id once again under the cut!

UH-OH! part 2: no lol

i was a

uh

xenogender kid? double-rainbow freak?

[a drawing of very slightly younger me, awkwardly smiling and going "yaaaay".]

we don't have any slurs i think which is good but you get the idea

i tried a

[caps] LOT [end caps]

of other terms before i really settled with this one

[a drawing of a man with a shadow over his eyes. he has two sharp horns protruding out of his head. the drawing is captioned "genderfaun".]

[a drawing of little me singing "lemon boy" by cavetown, captioned "soft boi".]

[and, finally, a drawing of a slightly abstract creature with a long dress and tall horns, drawn in grey, and with vines crawling around it, captioned "voidpunk [hi fomes]']

it wasn't an instant click.

it took a lot of hearing the word, seeing the community in the corner of my eye, and finding 15 subreddits before i started thinking

[a drawing of younger me, looking at a subreddit, and going "oh, shit,"]

[followed by a decently well-drawn frontal sketch of me, genuinely smiling, sparkles around him, going "it me!!!"]

okay, so, like,

[caps] THIS. [end caps]

this has to be it.

i'm happy

i know who i am

i know [caps] WHAT [end caps] i am

i found an amazing community with amazing people working together to create something beautiful

[caps] THIS [end caps] is the end [caps] RIGHT?????

[a drawing of me, sobbing cartoonishly, my glasses foggy due to the tears.]

[followed, in the next page, by a half-view of my face, my glasses clouded due to light shining on them harshly.]

turns out knowing yourself and who you are and where you belong

isn't always quite enough.

[a drawing of me, face down, cushioned by my arms, my glasses next to me. below the drawing, black spikes rise, covering the bottom half of the comic.]

a lot of things happened very very quickly.

at least it sure felt that way

[a drawing of me, white against black, staring in horror at my phone.]

turns out my brother wasn't the only person who didn't believe my identity made sense.

there was - and probably still IS - a group of trans people dedicated to making sure trans men know their place.

we are the oppressors, we cannot be oppressed, no men can be oppressed.

no men can be [as in, feel] harmed. no men can be kind. no men can be loving. no men should be allowed to exist

testosterone is poison. it makes you violent, and it makes you cruel. it makes you ugly, and unlovable.

you are encroaching on trans territory by simply existing as a trans man.

anything you do or say or think or feel or know is at the expense of the oppressed. of trans women

your existence harms them and must be stopped.

[a crude, nearly featureless drawing of me, holding my glasses, staring in shock.]

i was fourteen ish when someone i knew on a discord server asked,

"if all men were to be killed and you were included would you feel gender euphoria?"

[a drawing of younger me, looking at his phone, one eye obscured, going "huh?"]

she was a trans girl and i think her name was lily.

but, uh, obviously,

men are oppressors

[a drawing of me, looking to the ground.]

men can't be oppressed

men can't be hurt! so

it's fine.

so if you really ARE hurt or oppressed,

[caps] YOU'RE A WOMAN [end caps]

and that means you feel dysphoric

[a drawing of me, gripping at my own shirt, staring at the camera, smiling in fear.]

and you wouldn't want to feel dysphoric, right?

that's

[caps] REALLY

THE WORST

PART OF

THIS

SITUATION

RIGHT?

[an incredibly messy, quickly-scribbled drawing of me, quite literally falling apart, now grinning slightly wildly, massive bags under his eyes.]

[caps] THE WORST POSSIBLE OUTCOME [end caps]

[in large font] ...uh oh.

[a small drawing of me, a single tear coming out of one of my eyes, a hand raised up as if to brush it away, obviously scared.]

[ionizingdotjpeg]

hi!! i was looking through your blog a little bit and i found a post with a drawing and a caption about an angel!connor treebros au. i would like to hear more if you would explain it

omg i get to talk abt this au and the ideas i have dinging around my skull. warnings for canon typical stuff (suicide)

ok so basically, connor n evan date for a while. their relationship seems perfect. they were practically built for eachother. sure, they fight once in a while, but they love eachother!

and then connor kills himself, and evan spirals into a depression, because his better half is basically gone. he doesn’t feel the intense sadness he thought he would, at first. just a deep emptiness. like somebody bored into his chest and carved a hole there. he clings onto anything that reminds him of connor, to the detriment of the people around him.

but something changes. maybe it’s just the way light bends in the corner of his eye, but he keeps seeing his face. and at first he chalks it up to him missing connor, but it’s too familliar. and what started as glimpses of his face in his peripherals morphs into visions of him in his dreams, in windows and in mirrors. he knows it’s him! but something is off. wrong.

this culminates into an encounter where he’s walking home, and he feels an oppressive otherworldly force behind him, following him. he tries to ignore it. tells himself he’s crazy, but eventually, he looks behind himself.

it’s connor. but different. beautiful, serene, but different. terrifying. face partially obscured by light and feathers. so familiar, yet so distant.

the bulk of the story from then on would revolve around the two of them revisiting their past relationship- before connor died. going through memories and pictures, and slowly piecing together that maybe they weren’t as healthy as they thought they were. Connor constantly clung onto evan, while evan pushed connor up on a pedestal— one that connor wasn’t necessarily comfortable with. the purpose of connor coming back as an angel instead of a ghost or whatever is to illustrate how evan idealized connor. as they slowly come to terms with their old relationship, connor slowly becomes more human. his halo dims, the wings folded in front of his face moves aside. by the end, he’s still an angel, but he’s also still connor.

since this is a treebros au, they eventually get back together, healthier than before.

[toomuchracket]

Since she’s a little more well known is birthday girly talked about more or is it a similar private not secret vibe

def talked about more! you and matty have been constants on each other's instas for years, given that you were friends for a while before you got together - there's group pics you're in, and selfies just the two of you, and cringe ft screenshots/hungover candids posted to wish the other a happy birthday lmao. and based on that, i think you both kept that level of publicity when you got together too; you're also a bit of an insta stories fiend, not quite on matty's level (but who is?), but you do enjoy a good witty story post, and people seem to like it when you and matty respond to each other's stories lol. i think i wrote this before, but i see the two of you being a bit witty and subversive (matty's word tbh) actually launching the relationship on insta - a hard launch would make sense considering you're already known to each other's followers, but you deliberately soft launch really poorly just to tease everyone. matty posts a bed selfie with you lying on him/spooning him, your face obscured but still so obviously you with your hair all over the place, while you post a pic of you using his back as a table while you write something, with his arm tats and hair visible, captioned like "who needs a table when u have a simp bf". and you both talk about each other in interviews, and write about each other (and WITH each other. which i might actually write a fic about) - i think you get a reputation for being a bit of a power couple, actually, lmao <3

[brick-a-doodle-do]

Please just give me anything from your tiny workers au!! Literally anything and I will absolutely cherish it :D

*ahem*

would you like the first chapter? would you cherish that?

(also fuck scheduling, have it now. >:D its not proofread tho fyi)

tiny workers (i)

words: 4069

cw: vague description of depression, swearing

—–—

Knocking wakes him up. Loud and repetitive knocking. 

Wilbur blinks, trying to adjust to the golden sun that filters through his blinds, even as closed as they are. 

The knocking still hasn’t stopped. His nerves flare up at the continuous noise and he sits up, blinking a few more times to adjust to being awake before he finds his way out of bed. The hardwood under his floor has never felt more neutral, which makes him unusually aware of the surrounding air that feels so invisible that it’s suffocating.

Knocking.

He tries to ignore it and leaves his room, traces the length of the hallway and continues the beeline to the door, where he can faintly hear  a muffled conversation from behind.

Wilbur stops, standing at the front door. Through the agitating knocking sound, he holds his head in his hands for a moment before swiping his hands through his bed-ruined hair.

“Wil, mate!” Phil says, loud and clear through the door. Wilbur groans.

Quietly, he listens as Phil murmurs something to Techno, who in return whispers an ingenuine apology.

Right there, he considers walking away. They can’t knock forever.

But, his conscience figures he owes it to his family to at least make an effort. And so, taking the cool doorknob in his hand, he opens the door and puts on a fake, strained smile. “Yes?” 

“Good mornin’,” Techno butts in before Phil can. Wilbur raises his eyebrows at him tiredly.

“D’ya mind if we come in, Wil? We have something for you,” Phil explains, and Wilbur tries to find the courage to decline. And despite how much he told himself to promptly shut the door on his father and brother’s face, he found himself instead nodding along. 

“Yeah, go for it,” Wilbur agrees and steps aside.

Phil leads, brushing past him, where Techno lingers in the doorway for a moment. “I’ll admit, he’s stretchin’ this a little bit,” Techno warns, and before Wilbur can question what he meant, his vision is obscured as Techno walks past him. 

He shuts the door and settles in on an armchair, which sits across from the couch Phil and Techno have found a seat on.

“Are you here for what I think you’re here for?” Wilbur asks, an explanation hung between them.

“It depends on what you’re thinking, Wil,” Phil hums, laughing to try and break the tension. It doesn’t work, and in the end it’s only him finding amusement. His father sighs. “We don’t care about you not replying to us, or making an effort to be social, we just care about you actually getting outside,” Phil starts, glancing at Techno, whose  expression is nothing but curious at Phil’s particular wording, “so, see, we found something.” 

He can’t say he enjoys the sound of that, and especially not as Phil pulls his phone out and taps at his screen, only to hand it to Wilbur. A long article catches his vision as he’s handed the phone. “Here ya’ go,” his fathers says, trying his best to  smile.

Wilbur stares, face wooden as his finger slowly scrolls down his father’s phone.

Impending outlines of familiar figures and silenced commotion of bated breath keeps his flat quiet.

His eyes are hung heavy as he scrolls, skimming impatiently through the articles’ pre-advertisements. Something unintelligible of promised family fun and worthy relaxation flies past his eyes until he finally reaches it, an overdue title with a cheesy caption.

COLONY PARKS

“Tiny adventures await! Explore small worlds of wonder with tiny people, big fun!”

Wilbur squints at the screen, his doomful eyes blending in with his uncertain frown. “An amusement park? Are you fucking— fucking come again?” he scoffs. He had to ask; lingering in the back of his mind is hope that he isn’t sent to this hellhole.

His father lets out a sad sigh. “It’s for a few hours, Wil, that’s nothing compared to the things we could do.”

Handing the phone back, he shakes his head. “I think anything could be better than this. I thought your goal was to get me out of the house to have a good time. This is just—fucking childish!”

“I think one could pretty easily argue that you’re being childish right now,” Techno remarks. Phil elbows him, but Wilbur see’s the way he struggles to keep a smile down. “Heh? You know I’m right, but excuse me for putting a mark on your ‘good-parent’ facade.”

Phil stares at Techno, struggling down a smile. Wilbur shrinks into himself.

Eventually, Phil sighs. “He’s right,” Phil starts, and he watches as Techno smiles, “Wil, you gotta give it a try. One shot. If you don’t like it you know we won’t force you into it and we’ll find something better for you,” he finishes, and Wilbur solemnly nods. He knows better than to pick a fight with his father or Techno.

“Fine,” he murmurs. 

–

When a day had passed after the conversation, Wilbur couldn’t say the passing time with the absence of people had let him think, because he honestly had to answer and say he had continued with his musty routine. The only thing different was he was wallowing with slight agitation with his father. 

The sudden announcement had been a spring that he wasn’t exactly ready to release. He’d much prefer to ease into a “recovery”, but he can’t get everything he wants.

And now, with his phone vibrating loudly under his hand, he found his sore eyes opening, unadjusted to the sunlight that strung into his room, the sun high in the sky. He’d nearly drifted off again when his phone disturbed him. 

He pulled himself up, propping his upper body up with his arm and unlocking his phone. Rushing notifications from Techno continuously layered until he had the decency to open them. 

A long string of “urgent” messages. 

From what he could gather with his five-hours-of-sleep brain, Techno was parked outside. 

Begrudgingly, he tapped at Techno’s contact until the phone was ringing. Techno picked up immediately.

“You wakin’ up at twelve now?” Techno asks. 

Wilbur sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, what little energy he has murmuring out a quiet response. “Techno what are you doing downstairs?”

“I recall Phil ‘n you coming to an agreement with the theme park.”

Wilbur groans. “Now? Today? He never told me that,” Wilbur complains. Groggily, he pulls himself up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. The air is uncomfortably warm, but somehow the feeling of the heavy blanket over him still felt lovely.

“I’m only waitin’ ten more minutes before I go up ‘n get you myself, just so you know, Will-I-am,” Techno says.

“I’ll be down.”

And he was, with a fresh set of clothes and tamed hair, more than anything he’d been able to put together the past few days. He tried not to pay attention to how gross he felt, considering the greasy streaks of hair he felt just by trying to make it look presentable. 

And his laundry was growing scarce, it was only a matter of time before he’d start rewearing things from his pile of filth in the corner.

Never mind that, though, he had one free day of being outdoors where everything was covered for him. But the thought of it still made him feel unnerved. Alone in an unfamiliar place that was probably packed with people. He’d heard of the place, probably one too many times over the years.

It was unconventional for Phil to think he would come out of his shell there of all places.

But, he did, and Techno was there, already walking around his car to seemingly come and find him. “That took you so long,” Techno murmured, turning back around at the sight of Wilbur. The brunet hummed in response, trying to sound amused. He got in the car, feeling out of place in such a tidy and unusually vibrant place. But he’d been in Techno’s car year after year, so he couldn’t say it didn’t feel familiar. 

Techno drove off quickly without a word, and Wilbur buckled his seatbelt in and slumped against the window. “How far is it?” he asks on a whim.

“Nothin’ convenient,” Techno mutters, glancing at the GPS on his phone. “But it can’t be longer than two hours,” he quickly reassures.

Wilbur groans. “He wants me to be happy but can’t pick a convenient place for me to be happy at.”

“At least he’s trying,” Techno quickly butts in. “Not a lot of parents do that, bad parents ‘n all. That’s why there’s a lot of orphans.”

“I don’t think that’s what orphan means, Techno,” Wilbur muses.

“Don’t avoid the topic. And orphan can mean what I want it to mean ‘cause I’m the one killin’ them.”

“I’m not fuc—that’s still not how it works!” Wilbur argues, smiling ever-so-slightly. 

It was like that the rest of the ride, brotherly banter between them while Techno still tried to drill into his head that Phil meant good. And Wilbur considered it, which was pointless because he knows Techno is right.

He watched as the time on the GPS went down slowly, until eventually it announced that they’d arrived. Which wasn’t entirely true, because even as Techno made a right-hand turn, down onto the path with a road sign announcing the park in big black letters: “COLONY PARKS”. A thick arrow pointed right, down the road that they were currently pulling onto.

 In the distance, Wilbur spotted an overhead bridge with a big overhanging sign that decorates the entire side of said bridge. A dull brown background, the name of the park in what he recognizes as oversized shoelaces, suitably on-brand. 

There’s strands of large, fake grass that obscures some of the words, and other giant versions of everyday things: buttons, bugs, probably other things had he been paying attention. It was interesting how all-out they went, but it didn’t excuse the fact that he wanted no part in this.

Fucking Phil and his need for him to be fine.

From that point forward, the scenery had changed drastically—there were towering blades of glass that gave the intended shrunken effect (where, if he was being honest, it made his mood lighten a bit). Certain sculptures of oversized shoes or again, bugs and old trinkets of the “nearby humans” lay in the “fields of grass”. He could certainly see the appeal, speaking for the children he knows passing by this very place with a much more exasperated and fulfilled face, while his dull and unamused; trying to hide how eager he was to look at the detail in everything.

“Honestly, I can see why you don’t wanna go here,” Techno chimes in after a moment, himself looking around at the scenery. 

“Don’t say that unless you’re turning us around,” Wilbur deadpans. When Techno huffs, he shrinks deeper into the seat and tightens his arms around his torso.

(*)

“Woah—fucking shit!” Tubbo chants from afar, where Tommy can just barely hear him over the gust of air as a golf ball flies past him, narrowly missing his body. He thought he had that.

The human above him chuckles, and Tommy holds back a rant with a sour “I’ll fucking sue you”. 

“Yeah, yeah,” the human murmurs, walking past him with ease to the next hole.

Tommy stays put, looking back at Tubbo, who’s sitting in the crevice of one of the fake rocks. “I’ve lost my pep, Tubbo,” he starts, and Tubbo’s already giving him a knowing look, but Tommy continues, “I’ll steal you a free thing—just please cover for me, my lungs are dying and I think if this person fuckin’ taunts me one more time I’ll probably get fired.”

Tubbo hums and shuffles up from his spot on the ledge. “I got you, bossman. Cut yourself off, or whatever. Go take a break,” he agrees. 

Tommy’s offer slipped through Tubbo’s finger and he hurried off before he could remember. He bids a ‘thank you’ and speeds across the fake grass of the course, following along the left-hand side of the previous hole then hoisting over the low bricks that line the sides. 

As he lands in the dirt, Tommy slows his pace and basks in his unofficial break.

He approaches the small hut for mini-golf booking, where Karl was leant against the counter with his phone in front of him. Lucky bastard, getting to use a phone with such ease.

Briefly, the worker noticed the tiny and Tommy nodded at him solemnly, and Karl offered a small smile and returned to the device.

Tommy ignores his jealousy (and his impulsive desire to steal it) and carries on, ducking under the tiny-worker entrance and slumping his shoulders as a gust of air-conditioned room hits him instantly.. 

Quiet feedback from his earpiece-turned-radio breaks the quiet silence, and Karl looks down at him. Tommy in return pauses, looking up at him. 

There’s only a beat of passing silence before Karl chimes in with, “Hey, Tommy.”

“Hi Karl,” Tommy greets, wavering his previous path to cut across the floor; closer to the human. “You giving me a boost up? All the newcomers that are gonna have their mind fuckin’ blown when they come in here,” Tommy grins, “You know I just gotta see that.”

“Why should I help you?” Karl asks, and Tommy scowls at the question. “Will you put in a good word for me?”

“Oi! Come on Karl, don’t be a dick,” he yells up, scoffing.

Karl stares down at him, hand cupping his chin.

Fuck this. “Fine, dickhead. Who to, fuckin’ Big Q again?”

“Actually–yeah.”

Tommy makes a gagging noise, shaking his head. “You fucking romantic,” Tommy jokes—though he can’t say there wasn’t sincerity to it; he never saw the appeal of romance. But, the longer Karl stares at him with an expression even Tommy can quite literally not say no to, he shrugs. “I’ll try again, then, but I won’t accept assholery against me when he rejects you. Again.”

Karl nods, satisfied, then crouches down with his hand extended. With practised ease, Tommy steps on and adjusts his footing. 

The human stands, and Tommy watches greedily as a view of the opening-hour crowds start fumbling in. Amusingly enough, Tommy also has a view of the human he was up against earlier. 

He steps off of Karl’s hand and rushes across the counter. Karl returns to his phone, and Tommy takes a seat near the edge closest to the crowd.

There are the usual: families of three or four with giddy smiles as they ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ at the decor as they try to ignore the inconvenient rush of people, and the couples that look too happy to be there. There’re grandparents with their kids, large groups of teenagers and large groups of adults, kids—everything. 

But, one person in particular stands out to Tommy. There’s no kid clung to his side or running off, not a partner at his shoulder. He doesn’t look particularly invested; his shoulders are shrunk in on himself and his lanky torso, and frankly Tommy can’t say anyone has stood out quite like that in such an unordinary way. 

Usually, the people who catch his attention are those with colourful clothes or boisterous voices and laughter. This guy is making himself small, and he looks quiet at best. It’s funny—someone so tall and dull couldn’t blend in with a familial crowd, but he attempted it anyway, and it was amusing to watch. Simple as that.

(*)

Kill him. Right here, right now, kill him. 

Phil’s interpretation of fun and relaxation is still puzzling to him, because as eager people run from every direction and pay no mind as they brush against his still form, it doesn’t feel relaxing. He can only imagine the park stretching out for miles, and he can’t say that trudging any deeper would make this jungle of people any more coherent.

So, he looks to his left and makes a beeline over to the least crowded place he can find.

He goes sideways against the crowd, keeping his eyes narrowed to try and keep his vision straight ahead. He stumbles as he catches himself before he trips over a stroller, and just manages to find his footing on the path leading up to the attraction. 

It’s a simplistic design, holding nothing special against the initial drive up, with towering flowers that cast a shadow over some areas, fake rocks that seem to fit in like pebbles against the flowers. 

Wilbur takes a habitual look around, noticing the layout of a golf course. 

Lucky find, he muses.

The path cuts short and opens to a wider area, where a wooden (yet somehow still posh-looking) stand is built. Behind the counter, a worker who couldn’t have been older than twenty five was scrolling idly through his phone. As Wilbur approaches awkwardly, he seems to catch the worker’s attention. He looks up, flashing a genuine smile as he sets his phone down.

“Hello,” Wilbur greets.

“Hey!” The worker greets back, and Wilbur tries to compose himself to talk. “Look, let me be honest with you, I’ve never been here before and I just—I think I need something to pass the time.”

Karl (if his nameplate had a say in it) nods along, looking fairly interested for any theme park worker. “Uh, do you want to try a few rounds on the course?” 

“Yeah, that might be a better start than sitting around,” Wilbur agrees. Out of the corner of his eye, something shifts, but he can’t pay attention to it for long before Karl’s talking to him again.

“Okay, and have you been introduced to the rent-a-tiny feature?”

“Uh—oh, they may have mentioned it. I can’t say I was listening,” Wilbur explains. Karl nods. 

“Oh. Well, newer members get it free,” Karl begins, ducking behind the counter, “but that is specifically for attractions. To take them around the park it would be extra,” Karl pops back up. “And there’s a new-member discount for that as well, usually for if it was paid online. But it’s totally optional!” Karl finishes, finally, and Wilbur takes it in.

“I—my dad set this up, I wouldn’t know what features he got. Again, I wasn’t exactly listening when they read it over.”

The conversation continued, back-and-forth for another five minutes until it was squared away that Phil had opted for the rent-a-tiny feature, which he hadn’t been thrilled to discover. But it was valuable money to Phil, and in one angle it was for a good cause. And so, again, his conscience won.

Karl had fitted him for the club and left him to choose a ball, while the worker set off to find a tiny. It was startling to know he was going to see one, purely because of his uncertainty that he would manage to handle such a small thing—person—whatever. It was unnerving.

And that’s why his heart ran nervously when Karl finally emerged, something wedged between his forefinger and thumb.

A borrower. A real fucking borrower. Wilbur tries to hide his suddenly piqued interest in the being, watching as calmly as possible as the two approached and the borrower was set down onto the counter. He looked irritated, but still put on a fake, flashy smile for customer-him. 

“Hello, you’ve interrupted my break time but I can take a break for you, I saw you over there,” the borrower points to the crowd to Wilbur’s left of them, “and you looked all sad as shit,” the borrower finishes. His voice was so loud, so clear, no stutter in sight and swearing proudly. It was hard not to seem impressed.

“Good luck with him, and have a good game!” 

Wilbur tucks the club under his arm and pockets the golf ball, then stares at the borrower. 

“Uh—” Wilbur’s voice ran dry. Karl had disappeared out of sight, and that left the two standing there. 

“Dy’a want me to walk then, dick?” 

“Ah—no, I can just pick you up?”

“You’re one of those people?” The borrower asks, raising an eyebrow at him in plain frustration. Wilbur feels guilty, but he does feel an underlying irritation of his own. “Look, set your hand down. I won’t bite you,” the borrower instructs. Wilbur obliges reluctantly, slowly approaching his hand to the counter. “And while I’m at it, since you’re a bitch and got me for a day, I’m Tommy. Big T.”

Wilbur rests his hand on the surface and responds “Wilbur”. 

Tommy nods and turns his attention to his transportation, which Wilbur has been focussed on excruciatingly long to keep steady. As tiny skin brushes onto his, Wilbur’s entire body freezes. In that moment, his strength is kept in keeping his hand still. It was also at this contact that Wilbur remembered how touch starved he had been as of lately, with days of laying in bed with nothing but a blanket and his clothes stuck to him. 

And now, there was a borrower climbing into the palm of his hand, settling right in the crevice where his fingers couldn’t help but curl at the touch. 

Wilbur tries to shake away the feeling of contact against his hand and turns away, Tommy kept carefully in his palm. 

“It’s fucking stupid to be scared of something smaller than you, pussy,” Tommy says, looking up at him through Wilbur’s curled fingers. 

Wilbur furrows his brows and looks down in return, shaking his head. “I’m not scared of you, I never implied that,” he argues.

“Uhuh. You seem to be going the wrong way, I recall the first hole being back there,” Tommy says, grinning like he’s already known.

Wilbur turns on his heel and starts off in the right direction. “And you didn’t want to tell me?”

“Well, you don’t seem like the most talkative fella’,” Tommy points out. Wilbur furrows his brows.

He laughs half-heartedly. “That’s fair.”

(*)

So much for a break.

He watches as Tubbo grins at him from the last hole, while he’s sat in a palm at the very first one. Tommy wrinkles his face and flips the other off, who in return follows suit.

Then Tubbo is distracted by the other human, leaving Tommy alone again. 

Might as well be worth it to pry Wilbur out of his shell if their day was going to have any confirmation of a good ending. 

“Alright,” Tommy announces, shuffling up from his spot on Wilbur’s palm and pushing his fingers away. The human obliges, standing scarily still. “How—how uh, how do you want to play?”

“I have no fucking clue what that means,” Wilbur says.

Tommy frowns. “Okay, well, I can help you, or I can, well, not help you—which I’ll be fair, either way ends in me not helping you, unless you're really lucky. And I don’t think you’ll be lucky enough, even though you are a sad, sad guy."

“I’m not sad!”

Tommy stares at him. 

“Okay, whatever, you caught me,” Wilbur says sarcastically. “And do whatever you fucking want, I’m sure I could punt you no matter you’re advantage,” the human says, chortling. Tommy gasps. 

“Fucking try me. Bitch.”

Wilbur hums and crouches down carefully, an irritating slowness to his movements that makes Tommy’s world go by in slow-motion. He’s scrambling for purchase on the fake grass as soon as he knows he can, which happens to instantly trigger a reaction from Wilbur, who’s other hand moves to catch him. 

Tommy lands on more skin, the softness of the landing being both comforting and infuriating. 

“Oi! I can handle myself,” Tommy yells as Wilbur takes the initiative to let him down. “I value my safety, I wouldn't've jumped if I didn’t, dickhead.”

The gentle-ness continued for the remainder of the game. And despite Tommy’s request for a stronger hit, (which he did execute a couple times, until it dispersed into small and lazy hits), he never seemed to take it to heart. 

But, the game did eventually end.

There wasn’t any winner that got to celebrate, it was just a little bit of a lighter mood. Tommy, hesitant as he would be to ever admit it to the human, had taken a liking. It was rewarding to watch a more violent part of him come out the more Tommy kept pushing him.

The rest of the day was ahead of them, and Wilbur had already seemed more eager than he had been to interact with the tiny. 

—–—

EUEUEUEUEUUE IT'S REEEEEEEAAAAAL !!!!!!!!!

[honeyonthemind]

second hand𓆸

words: 509

characters: c.s. ft. k.h.

genre: drama thriller

sum: A boy on the search for something he had before. (But he doesn't know that!)

⚠: slight gore & mention of death

(Inspired by 6_teh fanart! Specifically, the post captioned with 🌼🌼🌼 on their Instagram)

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･♡ ̆̈°✰⋆˚˖°𓆤𔓘

You win some, you lose some!

Grandma's wisdom echoed in my skull as I felt the excruciating pain of my arm being torn to pieces. The raging beast I had defeated had gotten its last laugh.

As I held my bleeding wound, I took the moment to admire the sky. The lightning blue heavens with its ivory clouds. The afternoon sun was off to the corner of my vision. Shining happily despite the traumatized screams from the spectators. Oh, what an interesting day this was. Grandpa and Grandma will surely be proud, to some extent.

It wasn't long before the black spots overcame my sight. Obscuring the once in a lifetime view.

Wait, I'm not done seeing!

Then my body relaxed, taking my eyelids with it. I awoke three days later. To my surprise.

My grandparents took the responsibility of reviving me. They stopped my profuse bleeding and redirected fresh blood into my veins. My flesh was a lost cause, so Grandpa sawed off the destroyed matter. With a sincere heart, my Grandma designed a prosthetic for the missing limb. Using spare parts from the garage, they constructed my forearm and hand.

The first time seeing the masterpiece was unnerving, to say the least. Grandma reassured me that I'll get used to it in time. She was always right.

In the months to follow, I would no longer be bothered by the fake. Save for the occasional phantom pains, it wasn't so bad. In the years to come, when I was to lay my grandparents to rest. I knew they would always be a part of me. Yet leaving was still the hardest thing to do. I shed my tears while grief gripped my heart. Now I must find something, I don't even know what it is.

From Fallen City to Lone Wolf. I kept marching on. By any means, food and shelter was mine. Even for a little bit. In a particular stop, I stood in a field of blue flowers. I picked out a few to keep in my gloved hand. I spent my whole day there. Enjoying the calmness of it all. Once in a lifetime experience.

The next day, I was almost run down by a pile of speeding metal. A guy with hair the color of the sky poked his head out.

He seemed odd but was kind enough to make me comfortable. It seemed I had found what I needed. A friend.

As the weeks dwindled, we became more familiar. I gave him permission to decorate my body. A brow piercing, trimming my hair(he also snipped off most of his ends), to tattooing tiny doodles across the bridge of my nose. The result was impressive. I was shown the parts of me that I didn't love.

He respected my steel arm and only complimented my grandparent's work.

It made me cry for a long time. He was quite awkward but caring about my outburst.

I was determined to give him as much love as I could. He needed more than he denied.

[burnwater13]

Luke Skywalker lecturing Grogu on Ossus. Image from The Book of Boba Fett, Season 1, Episode 6, From the Desert Comes a Stranger. Calendar from DataWorks. Caption reads: The wide world exists in balance. Feel the Force all around you. Through the Force, you will fin balance as well. - Luke Skywalker

The Force. It was the beginning, the middle, and the end of every conversation any Jedi ever held with another Jedi. Given that was a deep core truth of the Jedi Order, Grogu was not surprised that Luke mentioned the Force whenever he possibly could. But he was surprised that Luke thought Grogu didn’t know what it was or how it worked or when you should or shouldn’t use it. It was kind of annoying, truth be told. 

The very first lesson that Grogu could recall from his time at the Jedi Temple was Introduction to the Force, or 'How energy connects everything to everyone all the time, for beginners’. What he learned in that lesson was that Force was vast. It was everywhere life was. It bound them all. It bound everything. Everything everything, not just somethings and not others. The Force was not like a lightsaber, except when it was like a lightsaber. 

Honestly, Grogu had been more than a little confused by all that. What he knew, even at that very young age, was, if you allowed it to, the Force would pick you up by the seat of your pants and allow you to access the jar of cookies on the top shelf of the masters’ break room. Which was pretty darn impressive from his perspective. 

Over the years of education, training, practicing and mentorship, Grogu found that just allowing the the Force to interact with you in a meaningful manner was enough of an understanding. If he tried to grasp the paradoxes of an energy that was accessible to the Sith as readily as the Jedi, but that ‘it’ wanted balance or provided balance or any of those other things people said about it, his head hurt and he needed to make it happy again by eating a cookie. 

Does the air care who breathes it? Does life care if the Krayt dragon eats bantha and not algae? Does the sun care if its rays create a rainbow or a desert? Come on. The answer is no. Nope. Never. Not. Nayc. Nobata. Nyeta. Koa. Got it? Good.

Grogu knew that he was not in agreement with the prevailing theory of the Force as taught at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. He never had been. He’d eventually learned how to say the words Master Yoda or Master Windu wanted to hear, but he was just doing that to make them happy. When either of the masters called him out on that he’d smile at them and say ‘The Force guides me in everything I do or say’. Or words to that affect. Master Windu gave up arguing with him. Master Yoda just frowned at him and said one day he would ‘understand the Force when as old as Yoda he was’.  Grogu had followed the Force that day and managed not to giggle. 

But those interactions had spurred Grogu into requesting information from the Jedi Library on the history of Force and it’s ancient to modern theories of access, control, and understanding. He’d endured having his cheeks pinched twice by the librarian who assisted him with his research. Once when he arrived to ask for assistance and once when they brought him the data packs that covered his request. 

“Youngling Grogu you are quite the adventurous one. Many a master has become lost when searching for the truth of the Force. Do not lose your way.”

They were being well meaning enough, but Grogu would have been happy to have lost himself that day if it had meant not being pinched yet again. 

He took the data packs to an empty study cave (a spot in the arboretum that no one ever went in) and began to peruse them. It was a long slog. He reflected that perhaps those other masters had not gotten lost, but had merely fallen asleep in some obscure part of the Temple and no one went looking for them. Fortunately he still needed sustenance on his journey and the smell of the sour frog soup he’d brought with him kept him tethered to the reality of his situation. 

When he completed that first round of research he knew that he would have to do more, but he also knew that he could do that research at his leisure. He didn’t have to answer the question right then and there because all the theories that any Jedi, master or otherwise, had proposed, were just that, theories. They were not proven or disproven. Yoda saw it as one thing. Odon-Urr, a master from ancient times, described it quite differently. Then there was Tela Drak, who worked at the Great Jedi Library on Ossus, who said that the Force was the accumulated essence of all those who lived and all those who had passed from the living world. They also said that the Force in balance resembled water when poured on a perfectly flat surface. It was even and equal and accessible by all. 

Grogu agreed with that theory because it explained why the Force seemed to always be out of balance to some extent and why it was so hard to create or maintain balance. After all, nothing was perfect. Sometimes you found pools of the Force, like you might find pools or water. Other times the Force felt like a mist or the tiniest trickle of connectedness. Other times it felt like an ocean. 

He wondered if that was why the Sith and the Jedi approached the use of the Force so differently? Most Jedi did small things. Things you might not even notice to adjust the balance of the Force. Like misting the plants in the Arboretum. Sith, on the other hand, always seemed to move an ocean to get a glass of water for themselves. They either did not want to do things in a small way or they were not capable of it. Grogu didn’t know which it was, but it was an intriguing line of study. 

“Through the Force, you will find balance as well.”

Huh? Oh, right. Luke was trying to finish up the latest lecture about the Force. Grogu nodded his head and tried to appear interested and wakeful. It was the least he could when Luke was trying so hard. 

Grogu had been remarkably well balanced in the Force, given all the big emotions he had to process since the Order had fallen so many years earlier. He had wanted to strike back at the people who hurt his friends. He had wanted to yell, as his masters fell around him, that they had all failed in their mission to maintain peace in the galaxy. He had wanted to cry an ocean as he left the only home he had ever known and was compelled to deal with a galaxy he’d never seen much of during his life. 

But he didn’t do any of those things. He had taken a deep breath. He had steadied himself against the pull of the Force as it ebbed and flowed like an ocean at high tide. He had become as steady, stoic, and silent as the statues of the great masters. He had to create balance around himself so he would not be swamped and then sucked into the great imbalance in the Force that swirled all around him. 

He would not recommend that as an introductory lesson in managing the Force for peace, calm, and reflection. Nope. He was glad that he had learned that he was not the only Jedi to ever have to become a null spot within the Force. A place where the Force did not change in strength, direction, or persistence. It just was and he was with it. 

Spending time with Din Djarin had made him realize that such a place was not unknown to others. He was sure that is what Mandalorians were referring to when they said ‘This is the Way’. 

It all made sense. From a certain perspective. 

Luke talking to Grogu from the top of the bamboo, looking at the valley on Ossus. Image from The Book of Boba Fett, Season 1, Episode 6, From the Desert Comes a Stranger. Caption reads: Through the Force you will find balance as well.