#This year is all about giving myself grace and forgiveness.

[bylightofdawn]

Man, I hope people don’t mind random-ass perspective shifts in a chapter because this one has like swapping back and forth between Jaster and Myles pretty shamelessly. I tend to TRY and stick with one POV per chapter but if I can’t, I’ll generally try and swap it at like a major chapter break.

This chapter though it starts out very much from a Myles POV for like….a short bit and then I was like ‘whelp swapping to Jaster. -has him wander out of the room to make a phonecall to Plo- then have him wander back in, speak with Myles and now it’s swapping over to Myles POV for this next part for very important plot reasons.

I myself as a reader, I don’t really care. I DO notice when it’s like a co-written fic where I think people were pretty much just RP’ing and then they just altered it to be a fanfic after the fact. When you can see those major POV shifts from where one author hands off to another. And they don’t quite make the transition as smooth as it could be then I’ll notice cause it stands out sorta like a sore thumb. Again, it’s not anything I’m going to put down a fic for but I do notice those kinds of things.

And typically just for coherency’s sake, I’ll try and stick with one POV for a scene or even an entire chapter.

Then I get outlier chapters like this and get randomly paranoid people are going to notice and or care. And realistically? Who is REALLY going to care about that but me? The neurotic, chronic over-thinking self-catastrophizer that I am?

No one cares, Karen.

And sometimes, you just gotta tell yourself that over and over again until you either believe it or bully yourself into getting out of your own head. Or at times, make it worse and you get stymied cause that 1,000% can happen as well. Ask me how I know?

Seriously, the amount of needless self-doubting and overthinking I will do, ya’ll don’t even see a sliver of that shit show. I will grind to a FUCKING DEAD STOP mid-scene and spend an hour needlessly researching one little point that literally no one but I will notice or care. But can I stop myself from having that almost compulsive need to research and make sure I’m using the right medical term or describing something correctly in hopes one person who might work in that field will notice and appreciate my obsessive need for correctness? Or worse, they are in said field, I fucked it up and then it stands out to THEM as much as a sore thumb?

I cannot be the only person who does this, right?

EDIT: Also? Fanfic writing is not going great this morning, mainly because I am not a morning person so it's hard to fucking FOCUS especially when I'm going on life five hours of sleep to boot.

My brain is an ADHD dragonfly that flits from one topic to another seemingly on a whim. As anyone who looks at my blog and the random amount of reblogs and random bullshit I've been posting the past hour or two can attest.

I'm debating giving up and just taking a shower to try and fully wake up for work because I can barely keep my eyes open and I keep yawning like crazy.

Bleh, sometimes you just can't write and I am trying to get better about being kind to myself when ADHD brain kicks in and I cannot simply sit down and focus on my fic long enough to get more than a few words at a time written.

And that's perfectly okay. It does not make me bad a author or a failure as a writer. I just need to put the fic away and go do something else instead. The words will come eventually.

[transexualpirate]

some of the best janus quotes from his grwm imo:

- "the only opinion that matters is yours"

- "everyone else is less than you"

- "i have to make a point to buy more glue sticks remus keeps eating mine"

- "i basically just yk. shed my skin two or three times a year."

- "i also dont have any pores, have you considered not having pores?"

- "ew. get away from me. i dont like you,,,, roman-"

- "the swedes... they're up to something."

- "whatever. we all have our flaws- not me of course"

- "i love to gossip. that's something i know about myself. and i accept it. and i forgive myself for it. and because of that i no longer have to work on it"

- "guilty pleasures? why would a pleasure be guilty?"

- "me me memememe man im gorgeous look at me did i get handsomer overnight"

- "unlike a lot of people you meet, the block button is your friend. don't be afraid to block a bitch."

- "steal chapstick. who cares. it's chapstick."

- "i give you janus: she is beauty she is grace she will lie right to your face"

[powderblueblood]

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER THREE — EDDIE MUNSON COMMITS TREASON (BREAKS UP a CAT FIGHT)

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summary: you deal with the fallout of your fight at steve harrington's party... in the passenger seat of eddie munson's van. so much for pretending you didn't exist to one another, huh? content warnings: as always, MINORS FUCK OFF, because we have *deep breath* implied fantasy smut, lots of swearing, confused yearning, themes of threat, heavy snark, another mention of the drink tab which i feel like is/was gross word count: 7.2k

Dear Dio, Tommy Iommi, Gary Gygax, Pee-wee Herman, Ronnie Ecker — forgive me for what I’m about to do. 

I know I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life. Like the time I lit all my hair on fire and spent middle school with a buzz cut. Or the time I almost trapped myself in a spread eagle with my own handcuffs. Or the time I got my arm stuck in a wall for an entire afternoon when I was trying to rescue a feral cat. 

I’ve done a lot of stupid shit. But the stupidest among it all has got to be saving this girl from the bare knuckle wrath of Carol Whatsername. You know the one. 

Tonight, for whatever reason, this insane ex-rich chick has decided to teeter on the edge of a pool of boiling hot lava and for whatever reason, I feel like it’s my responsibility to yank her back.

Which sucks, because she’s a total bitch to me. 

Even if she just told everybody Tommy Hagan had crabs and has been cheating on his girlfriend in such a deranged way that it almost made me pop a semi. 

Anyway. Tell my guitar I love her. 

The world around Eddie slows to the tick of a football game replay as you let the last incendiary word you speak to Carol bounce around the goddamn Roman amphitheater Harrington’s back yard has become. 

This is insane. What he’s watching is insane. Like, he knew you and your dumb little court of Hawkinsites bickered back and forth, but you’re the last person he’d ever expect to air their dirty laundry like this. 

It’s incredible to watch the fascist leadership that he and the rest of the social nobodies have suffered under for so long rupture in real time. 

What’s even more incredible is how little hesitation there is on his part, shoving through the crowd when he sees Carol leaping for you. Eddie’s nearly jostled backwards by some slobbering roid heads— they’ve already called CAT FIGHT! and a crowd is clamoring. But Eddie’s got years of thankless equipment lugging behind him, giving him deceptively strong arms.

And thank god, because you are not an easy girl to hold onto. 

Carol lands a decent punch to your face, slamming with a dull knuckle-on-cheekbone crunch that makes all the onlookers, including him, go ooof! You stagger back in a state of shock (though, c’mon, you heard what you said just now, right?) and Eddie takes his shot just as you dive forward to retaliate.

He grabs you under the arms so you can’t like, elbow him in the fucking nose, a pale imitation of an illegal wresting move that Al Munson had forced him to learn at the tender age of seven. His dad had fancied himself a wrestling manager at the time— you can imagine how that worked out. 

But Jesus, can you ever squirm! Your body writhes against him—stop—hips bucking—don’t go there—as you try to get free. He doesn’t even think you realize who’s dragging you away from the screaming harpy, otherwise you’d probably turn your fury on him. 

He takes full advantage of the rage blackout and manhandles you through the party, earning a baffled look from Steve Harrington, who’s finally graced his own party with his presence. A pinch-faced Nancy Wheeler lingers behind him, but then again, Wheeler’s always all pinch-faced.

“What the fuck?!” Harrington breathes, exasperated. 

Eddie struggles against you struggling, just about dragging you over the front doorstep. Trust this guy to be upstairs in a domestic dispute, missing all the action while getting no action. 

Even in the chaos, Eddie will never pass up an opportunity to fuck with Harrington.

“You gotta start hidin’ your bath salts, man! Chicks are going crazy in there–Evil Dead type shit!” 

—

“You’re dead, Lacy! Monday morning, you are fucking dead!” Carol screams down the hallway. 

“It’s a date, bitch!” you screech, Munson’s nelson hold on you stronger than your thrashing. With a lot of work, he manages to haul you as far as Harrington’s front yard before you wriggle out of his grasp. You shove him, hard, all white hot and punch drunk and regular drunk on top of that. 

He yelps, high and frightened. You weren’t expecting a noise like that to come out of a surly-looking dude like him. 

So you do it again. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” you spit, and Munson flinches.

“Cutting you off!” he exclaims, this half-yell, half-laugh. It stings, the way he’s looking at you– like your anger isn’t anger, like it’s just amusing to him. 

“Well, who gave you the right? Who died and made you my parole officer, Munson?!” 

“Oh, I’m not– but I also didn’t feel like being woken up at home when the cops come looking for you after you go all Raging Bull on Carol. You haven’t been around the park long enough to hear ‘em, but those sirens really perforate the eardrums!”

Your jaw sets itself stiffly and you bind your arms over your chest. Unfuckingbelievable. “I would’ve, you know,” you breathe, seething, “Beat her up.” 

Munson’s dark eyes glide over you, like he’s checking you for concealed weapons or signs of a zombie bite— you avoid his gaze entirely, staring square into the middle distance. 

You promised that he didn’t exist to you, yet here he is. Driving you off the road. Breaking up your fights. Existing.

“Yeah, I know you woulda. You’re scary,” he says. You shrug, and he reaches to massage his shoulder. “And strong. Shit.” 

Your eyes flick over to him, but you don’t feel bad. You don’t feel bad because he’s grinning at you now and despite yourself, despite everything that’s transpired and the everything about him, you’re trying your hardest not to grin back. Adrenaline and vodka are still burning a hole in your chest. 

“Stay out of my way, then.”  

“Noted, but,” a couple of steps from Munson’s end closes some space between you. He’s peering at your face, right where Carol clocked you. A hand reaches out, angling your chin closer to the Harrington’s glaring porch light with his fingertips. You stiffen and squint, performatively wary, but you don’t stop him. You just let his eyes pan over you, looking anywhere but into them. “You might need a little first aid first. And a ride home.” 

“I was actually planning on carjacking Hagan,” you say coolly, the smile you were trying to beat away edging its way across your face. Munson releases your chin and the spot where his fingers were buzzes. It’s just the cold. It’s just your slutty librarian outfit, you tell yourself. You have to swallow in order to speak again. “Seems like fitting payback.”

“Jesus, sweetheart, what did I just say about cops?”

—

Eddie tolerates your eyes rolling back in your head when he props the passenger door open for you, helping you into the cluttered van with an outstretched had. 

See, I’m not the kind of asshole who doesn’t open doors for girls wearing stilts for shoes.

Those things were not made for clambering into a vehicle like this, sure, but they’re– nice. For what he knows about shoes, which is nothing. They make your legs look more… leggy, and for whatever reason this is making his brain soft. 

In your other hand is a cold can of High Life, which is the closest thing to an ice pack he could nab. That bruise blooming under your eye is going to be nasty, and he’s a little curious how you’re gonna look with it. You, with nary a hair out of place on a bad day, with a big ol’ purple shiner in a place that’s hard to hide.  

Gunning out of Harrington’s hood, a silence settles between Eddie and you. The radio hums in the background– a mainstream station for once. He thoughtfully figured that an aural assault by Sabbath would kinda rub salt in your wound. 

He’s thoughtful, but he’s not not nosy. So, of course he’s gonna ask– 

“That whole… verbal smackdown back there,” Munson starts after clearing his throat. “With Tommy H and everybody.”

On your end, the adrenaline has worn off and the numbing effects of the booze have amped up. You feel loose and warm, apart from the beer can cooling your bruise. There are twice as many streetlights streaming past you as usual. This is going to blow later– if you don’t blow chunks first. 

“All that about your dad pimping me out?” God, I mean, Hagan couldn’t compose a written sentence to save his life but maybe he had a future in speculative fiction. Did he just come up with that on the fly? “Take a wild guess, Munson.” 

Eddie recoils in his seat– gross. Gross. “Not the– the shit with Tina and Carol and–”

“Oh, the crabs? Yeaaaah, that’s true,” you slur, “But I rejected Tommy waaay before I knew that. Call it my brilliant instinct. And then he has the nerve to call me frigid, which– trust me, I’m anything… anything but.”

Munson seems a little surprised at this. You can see it in the way his eyebrows dart under his curly bangs. 

But you’ve had your share of disappointing experiences with the blandly acceptable boys in your circle– it’s par for the course, it’s part of advancing in the field. You can’t throw your cat into the street completely, but god forbid you be choosy about the boys you want to copulate with. The ones you’ve hooked up with, all unremarkable and perfunctory, always seemed so smug afterwards. Like they’d conquered something. 

But from Eddie’s purview, you always held yourself like you were above everyone else; not just the underclassmen and the social rejects, but even your own friends. He’d watch you sometimes, because it’s hard not to watch you. He’d wait for the few flickering moments you let your guard down, when you thought no one was paying attention as you sat at the lunch table or walked the hallways. So achingly unamused by the guffawing, the backslapping, the forced camaraderie of your forced high school persona and your forced high school friends. Then, one of them would say something like, Right, Lacy? and your brow would unarch and you’d be right back in the groove with the rest of them, giggling dumbly and glossing your lips. 

He always wondered how you did it, tolerated it. And why.

“Now, far be it from me to agree with a shithead like Hagan–and I don’t, before you get scary–but I kinda get where he’s picking that up,” Eddie winces, throwing a glance to you, glassy-eyed with your head against the window. You’re looking at him with narrowed eyes, eyeliner smudged. Even that look could cut down a man with twice his ego. “You’re a little bit frosty. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day– which, y’know, could be–”

You absolutely do not let him finish the thought.   

“It’s caaaalled being aloof, Munson,” you drawl, shuffling your shoulders against the passenger door and pulling a stray thread from your skirt with a sharp snap. “Playing hard to get, duh? Leave them wanting more? You wouldn’t get it because you’re so goddamn big and obvious all the time…”

“Obvious!” he brays, letting his jaw hang open with theatrical flair, “Obvious! Lacy, you wound me, I–”

“Obvious,” you bark back, “Obvious like a neon sign, obvious like a circus tent, obvious like– like– look at me, look at me, I’m a weirdo!” Your Munson impression, complete with devil horns, is a little dorkified but it shuts him right up. That loose little tongue of yours has trasmuted your mood from wrath to barbed silliness. “So obvious you wouldn’t know that kind of subtlety. Not if it hit you in the face.” 

A familiar tune whistles from the radio, distracting you. “… or cause you’re a virgin.”

“Okay—!“ Eddie starts, immediately assuming the position of point guard. His hackles are raised, but to be honest, he’s so willing to let you ramble on. It’s the first time he’s heard you talk this much, ever, save your little tête-à-tête by the lockers the other day. 

Eddie doesn’t want to stem the flow just yet. He’s not thinking about it too hard.

“Oh shit, do you hear that?” Like a Virgin pumps from the tinny speakers and you reach to turn it up, your head drunkenly bobbling on your neck. Eddie winces; it’s so weird, watching you like this. It’s like dream logic. It’s like opposite day. “Munson’s a virgin! I’m gonna touch him for the very first tiii-iime! Munson’s a vii-iir-gin—“

“First off, no I am not and no,” he audibly swallows, positive you didn’t realize what you just sang, “no, you are not, ‘cause— well.” He clears his throat. A flare of heat burns around his collar. “I’m not the type to bone and tell.”

“Bone and tell.” You guffaw, a sound so unbecoming yet so endearing coming from you, and slump back in your seat. That tight little skirt you’re wearing rides up about an inch and a half. “Sounds like something a virgin would say.”

Eddie huffs; no way around this. You’re fucking with him, and it’s the indefatiguable male ego that’s not going to let him let you win. 

He fucks, okay? Or has fucked, prior to this. 

Not that there’s anything wrong with not fucking. 

But he’s done it.  

Eddie’s eyes dart between you and the road, and you’ve got him like a stuck pig with that expectant glare. His eyes linger on your exposed upper legs for a half a second. 

Christ, you’re annoying. It occurs to him that wants to bite the soft flesh of your thigh and hear you squeal about it, but you are annoying as hell. 

“Fine. Fine. You wanna know?”

Your head lolls against the rough upholstery of the seat and you bat your lashes at him. “I really wanna know.” 

And Munson will tell you, you know, because you’re the kind of person people tell things to. 

“Nicole Summers.”

“Bullshit. Nicole Nicole? My Nicole?”

“Nicole Nicole. Nicole, formerly yours. The only-girl-meaner-than-you Nicole. It was tenth grade,” he snorts bitterly. “Most unforgettable thirty seconds of my life.”

“Nicole told us she got her v-card stamped by a board waxer in Maui.”

“I’ve got a lot of side gigs. You don’t know about me.”

You snort too, despite yourself. That’s a lot of despite-ing tonight, Lacy. You sit up in the seat a little, interest catching. Flame to a candle wick. 

“How was it?” you press. 

Munson furrows his brow, like duh. “Most unforgettable thirty seconds of my life, I just told you.” A beat. “Until— …Cass Finnigan.”

Now, an encounter like that is less surprising, but still you holler, “Bullshit!”

“I’d say the same shit if it hadn’t, y’know, happened to me,” he stage whispers, “In this van.”  

Your eyes widen, a flicker of a grimace sailing across your face. You wonder how he pulled that off, but all that comes to mind is the start of a bad porno– Cass meets him at that dingy little bench out back of the school to pick up and he’s, I don’t know, test driving some of his new supply and offers her a toke. She’s all, why the free samples, Munson? and he’s all, I only let the prettiest girls test the product. And because Cass is notoriously insecure–who among us, girl–she’s all, who, me? and he’s all, come back to my van, and she’s all, but I’m going steady with Mikey B, and he’s all, I won’t tell if you won’t and then he fucks her in the ass. 

Because Cass is saving the first hole for marriage and you know that. You’re the kind of person people tell things to. 

What you don’t expect is a weird pull of… envy. Why, in this imaginary scenario, had he never invited you back to his van? Well. You know why. But you’re drunk, so logic begone. “When did all this go down?”

“Uh, right before school got back,” Munson answers, kind of apprehensively. He could be lying, you figure.

“Well, Cass has been having a weird year,” you mumble, meaning to think that rather than say it. You know, because you’re the kind of person people tell things to.

“What’s that supposed to imply exactly?” Eddie says, an edge in his voice. He can’t help the way something in his chest flares; like he forgot to wait for the other shoe to drop with you, and now it’s dropping. 

“It stands to reason that she’d wanna, like, do something stupid,” you explain, and you know how it sounds. It’s mean. But honestly, you’re so drunk, and so past the point of attempting to spare people’s feelings.

“Like hook up with the local freak,” Eddie finishes for you, tone flat. You couldn’t not put him in his place, could you? Not that he thought Cass liked him or anything, he could feel her (literally feel her) going through the motions like a social experiment but– God, a little delusion doesn’t hurt now and again. 

“Exactly!” and even in your inebriated state, you can feel the tension in the air, hanging between you like a balloon full of noxious gas. Rather than cut it, you want to poke at it, unfeeling as to whether that’ll make it worse or better between you and the boy in the driver’s seat. You hike yourself up further, leaning toward him, pulling the can of High Life from your face. 

Munson’s profile is this beguiling mix of hurt and irritation, lit by the scuzzy orange hue of the passing streetlights. 

“What, did you want me to act impressed? Did you want me to lie to you?” 

“What? No– look, I know what girls like that– think of me, but,” Eddie’s voice shrinks in his throat, making him sound completely pre-pubescent. He notices you lean forward in his peripheral vision, like you have to strain to hear it, “that doesn’t make it any less shitty.” 

Oof. He did not need to unleash that little piss-shake of earnestness right now. He mentally steels himself for a ribbing from you, a cackling, piercing laugh like you let out before Carol punched you. 

“Of course it doesn’t!” you froth, “Just like it doesn’t make it any less shitty when guys act like they’re settling a bet with their buddies when they hook up with me.” You cross your arms to your chest with a quickness, slamming back into the seat. “Bet you couldn’t make it with Lacy, she’s got a combination lock on her pussy. Fuck you, dude.”

That coaxes a bark of a laugh from Munson, which makes you giggle a little in turn. It’s a weird feeling. It’s not quite relief; more like satisfaction. One point to Lacy, you made him laugh. 

“Combination lock, huh?”

“Allegedly.”

“Bet none of those losers even know how to crack a lock.” 

Your head tilts in his direction, forward this time. “And you do?”

Munson’s eyes flash at you, a dangerous orange glint sparkling in the darkness of his irises. “My criminal skillset is pretty diverse.”

He pins you down with this look from the driver’s seat and for a heartbeat or two, and you let him. Just long enough that a stab of sobriety sneaks in– and you can’t deny it, but you wish it didn’t. 

You’re drunk. 

If you can stay drunk, all bets are off. 

If you can stay drunk, whatever you do doesn’t matter, because you were drunk. 

You could reach over and press your fingers into the soft denim between his legs, make something hard there. You could squeeze the thickness of him over his zipper and kiss the shock of alabaster skin on his neck, where his pulse goes all jackrabbity under your touch. You could make him forget he ever heard the name Cass Finnigan. 

And it would mean nothing. 

And you wouldn’t have to justify it, because you were drunk. That’s what you’ve always been taught.

But you uncross your arms and you pull at the hem of your skirt and look to the road, just as the van swerves into the trailer park. Munson doesn’t take such a hard turn at the corner this time, probably wary of your risk of ralphing all over the van if he does. He pulls into that negative space between your trailer and his and instructs you to wait in your seat. 

“Trust me, the descent out of this baby is much trickier than it looks,” he assures you, jogging to the passenger door, a jingle of keys and pocket chains and belts on leather, “and you’re way too gone to make it in one piece, princess.”

So he holds his hand out again (“M’shitfacedlady,”) and gingerly you take it, and it becomes very apparent very quickly that your legs have turned to rubber on the drive home. 

“Oh, shit!” 

Your attempt at gracefully exiting the van is ruined by an unsteady ankle, sending your weight right into Eddie Munson’s chest. Luckily, he was braced for it– just about. “Told you you couldn’t make it without me,” he breathes as you clutch a handful of his Metallica shirt, vision quadrupling. He’s warm, and you suddenly realize that you’re freezing.

Trembling.

“Stop flirting with me,” you hiss to one out of the four Munsons in front of you. “I need to go to bed.”

Eddie forces himself to bite back another double entendre, which is a shame, because they’re doing an awesome job of covering up how goddamn nervous he suddenly is. He moves his arm to your waist, helping you haul ass to your front door. He’s got to keep one arm outstretched behind you in case you lose your balance again– which you almost do, a couple of times, wavering around like a dashboard Jesus. 

He watches you like he’s trying to commit this to memory, the rare case of you being so beyond your usual composure. He’s even got to intervene after the first five minutes, making unlocking your front door a two idiot job.

Eddie’s about to wave you off and disappear to scream and something else into his pillow when he sees you take a dangerous lunge into the darkness of the trailer. “Woah, girl–” 

But you recover, in a kind of brainless way, taking a measured Bambi-like step forward. One after the other. 

Fuck. He can’t leave you like this. 

You’re gonna trip and brain yourself on a Fabergé egg or whatever the fuck it is you and your mom have in there. 

“Uh– Lacy?” 

The trailer is eerily quiet. You feel like you’re trespassing in your own place. Boxes of out-of-place, too-expensive ephemera are still strewn everywhere, but you navigate the maze of them like it’s nothing. Sense memory. You don’t even entirely register that Munson is following you inside, that he’s frantically whispering after you, until you reach your bedroom door. 

A coldness shoots up your spine as you turn on him. You didn’t invite him in here, did you? 

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask for the second time tonight. This time, it comes out a little fearful. 

Eddie picks this up, right where you’ve erroneously dropped it. His chest gets a little tight. You didn’t think he was trying to–? 

“Making sure you lie down in the recovery position, that’s all,” he throws his hands up in total surrender, Scout’s honor, all that shit. “I’m not tryin’ to pick any locks tonight. I swear.” 

“I don’t need your help, Munson,” but just as you twist the doorknob, you keel over through the door, hitting the floor like a lead balloon. 

“Yeah, you keep telling me that,” he blearily smirks down at you, “And yet.”

But Munson’s not such an asshole about it that he just leaves you there. He hauls you up, again, and you stagger towards your bed, flopping face down on top of the comforter. He says some variation of okay, well, that’s how you choke to death on your own vomit, Jimi Hendrix and bullies you into the recovery position. 

“Don’t freak out, I’m just–” and Munson sits gingerly on the edge of your bed, taking one of your high heeled feet in his hands. 

What the fuck, you mumble, either aloud or in your head. But he’s fiddling with the tiny buckle at your ankle, gently undoing it. Another chill runs through your body but you don’t move, not an iota. You just… let him do it. His hands on your aching feet aren’t a totally unwelcome touch. He’s being featherlight about it, almost afraid to touch you even though he had no problem sheepdogging you into bed. 

“You could do anything to me right now,” you hear yourself saying. “No one would even know. No one would even care, I bet.” 

It’s meant to sound like you’re goading him, or even flirting with him, but it comes out sounding pitiful. You cringe, your hands creeping up to cover your face. 

“I’d care.” Munson’s voice is a tiny mumble– you know he’s just defending himself, but it kind of sounds like something else. He slips your right shoe off and sets it on the floor next to your left one. He hesitates for a moment before getting off your bed. 

“Alright, well– we can forget this ever happened. Resume being assholes to each other on Monday. Don’t, like, die in the meantime.”

“You say resume like we ever stopped being assholes to each other.”

“Have a fun hangover, Lacy.” 

–

You do not have a fun hangover. You wake up late Saturday afternoon after Friday’s bacchanal and don’t emerge from your room save from the occasional bathroom trip to puke up what little dignity you’ve got left. Sunday morning is when your mom hammers on the door and drags you to the kitchenette after confirming that you’re still, y’know, alive. 

“This is your game face, hm?” she says, pulling at your chin to examine your violet bruise that seems to have developed its own heartbeat. She doesn’t hold your face the way Munson did, gentle and searching, just tugs into the sparse light streaming into the dingy kitchenette.

You attempt to steel your jaw, but your bottom lip is starting to waver. 

“What happened?” your mother asks, and beneath all the jagged broken glass, there’s a tiny sliver of tenderness. 

Call it your pride, but you don’t reach for it. 

“I went out,” you say tightly, “and I made a fool of us.”

She hacks up a scoff through her smoker’s cough and disappears into her bedroom, leaving you alone to pick at a cold waffle. The few moments of consciousness you’ve had since Friday night have been spent trying to piece the party together– you remember clearing the better part of a bottle of cheap, cheap, shitty vodka with Robin Buckley’s help (weird), you remember getting into it with Hagan and Carol and getting wailed on. You remember getting a ride home with Munson, but the finer details of that are fuzzy. 

You think, and this is a thought that turns your already 180’d stomach, you let him into your bedroom, but you can’t be one hundred percent sure. All you know for an absolute is that your shoes came off that night, and you would never bother to take your shoes off after a night like that. 

So somebody must have. 

Meanwhile, Eddie’s been having a hell of a meanwhile. 

Fact of the matter is that you managed to detonate a nuclear bomb at Harrington’s party just under an hour after your arrival, which has got to be some kind of world record. It was also a world record for how little product he’d managed to sell during one of those parties, because he was preventing the manslaughter of a teenage girl– could’ve been you, could’ve been Carol. He nearly wishes he let that fight play out, as he stares into his empty wallet. 

Eddie’s gotta busy himself somehow, gotta do something– weirdly, he’s not in the mood to make a whole lot of noise. It’s not such a terrible day for working on his van, so he slams his toolbox on the ground and gives a couple dozen casual glances toward your bedroom window.

Your blinds still aren’t fixed. That’s got to have been shitty when you woke up with a splitting vodka headache and a shiner the size of Canada. 

Eddie keeps finding excuses to pace back and forth in perfect view of your window. Not in a peeping Tom sort of way, but in a way where he’d kind of like to see any sign of life from you. Even if you just rose from your bed like Nosferatu and gave him the finger. Then, he could relax. 

“Ed,” a gruff voice comes from the makeshift trailer porch, “fuck’re you doin’.” 

Those dulcet tones would belong to his beloved Uncle Wayne, who, ever since his hours got cut at the plant, has become unbearably observant of Eddie’s every movement. Wayne’s not a neglectful kind of father figure, not like his blinders-wearing real dad is, so he actually gets concerned when Eddie’s acting out of sorts. 

“Engine,” Eddie mumbles, pivoting fast like a kid caught doing something he shouldn’t, “Engine’s making hinky noises.”

“Sounded alright last night,” Wayne levels him instantly, “when you came home.” 

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he twists an oily rag in his hands, avoiding Wayne’s stony stare. 

“I was up.” He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. God, whenever Wayne susses him out, it’s like drip torture. He’s slow as molasses with the confrontation on purpose, making Eddie sweat and out himself on every little fuck up he’s ever made. “You go in there?”

Chin jerks towards your trailer. Eddie’s shoulders shrug towards his ears, head tilting back. “Wayne, it’s not– she was real drunk, like blotto, I just–”

“You steer clear of that one.” It’s the definite nature with which Wayne says it that makes Eddie’s stomach drop. No prelude to it, no I know, kid, you were just tryin’ to do right by her. Nothing. 

“Wayne–”

“She ain’t what you think she is. Not if she’s anything like her bloodline.” 

He says this like the realization hasn’t hit Eddie like Carol hit you on Friday fight night. 

He says this like people haven’t been saying the same thing about Eddie for years.

–

Monday morning comes and you’re still somewhat suffering. A headache nags at your temple, but you pin that down to anxiety rather than an extended play of your hangover. 

It occurs to you that you should dress as down as possible today– realistically, of course, as you’d never be caught dead in sweatpants. You need comfort, you need something that feels like a well-worn blanket so you opt for a deep burgundy sweater dress that actually belonged to your mom in the 60s. 

You’d found it in the back of her closet when searching for a belt you knew she’d stolen from you and pulled it out. Mom! you chirped, How cute! How come you never wear this?

Oh, God, she’d cringed, batting the garment out of her way as she passed you in a cloud of Shalimar, Just throw that ratty thing out for me, would you?

But you didn’t. You kept it tucked away in the back of your closet and took it out when you needed it. When you needed to bury your face in it. Substitute it for a comfort she refused to give you. Which you realize is terrifically sad, but so’s life. 

The warm red is a distant cousin in the color family to the bruise under your eye. That bruise, it’s a glaring reminder of what a fucking loser you’ve become. The old you, the real you would never have stooped to that level– never had let them drag her down like that. But now you’re the kind of girl that screams and starts fights at parties, you guess. 

Your rage feels ugly in the cold light of day. 

You’re locking the door of the trailer behind you just as Munson emerges from his humble abode and it’s nothing short of awkward. Like you’d both seen each other naked or something.

You both stand there, in your relative doorways. His mouth gapes like he’s about to say hi, say something, and a memory comes back to you. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day. No one likes that. No one wants that. 

Regret stabs at you.

“Can you see it from there?” It’s the only thing you can think of to say, because you’re sure as fuck not saying hi. 

“What?”

“The bruise. Can– can you see it from over there?” 

Munson sort of half-snorts. “Not from here–”

“Ugh, thank god.”

“--but this is like, over fifteen feet away.” 

You roll your eyes, which hurts a lot, thanks guy, and walk toward his van. 

“Now?” you say, waving a hand under your eye, right where you’ve applied and blended and applied and blended a criminal amount of concealer. Munson leaves about a foot of space between you, on purpose, and you crane your neck back, on purpose. Reinstating the forcefield between you. 

“Oh yeah, you can barely even see that you got your ass kicked.”

“It’s not even eight in the morning, Munson. Do you really want to start your day with a knee to the balls?”

“You’re right. That’s usually an after-dinner activity,” he grins and jerks his head toward the van. “Need a ride?”

Need a ride? Like it’s the most ordinary, everyday thing in the world, Eddie Munson offering you a ride to school in his deathtrap of a van. Your stomach pulls at the sense memory of being in there on Friday night, and what you’ll look like getting out of it in the parking lot of Hawkins High. 

“No,” you say, shaking your head, definite and resolute. “I’m walking.” 

He scoffs. “C’mon. It’s too late to start walking now. You’ll be late for first period.” 

You scoff back, imitating him. “So what?”

“You’re never late for first period.” 

“I can be late– how the hell do you know I’m never late for first period?” 

“Because, dummy, I’m always late for first period,” he tells you, yanking open the passenger door, “And I sit behind you in History, and you’re always there when I come in, leaning back with your nose in some dumb book and your stupid hair all over my desk.” 

It’s true– you are always reading in history, because Kaminsky can’t teach for shit and you’ve already read ahead on the coursework anyway. You liked to rub that in his face by pulling out some unprescribed literature during class. Plus, no one you really care about is in your class, so you don’t have to worry about getting made fun of for having your nose in some dumb book. Illiterate jocks would never try that shit with you– nobody there would. 

Until now. 

And it’s true that Eddie Munson sits behind you, and barrels in like an idiotic excuse for a hurricane with some idiotic excuse for being late that you always scoff at, because does he ever get tired of his own bullshit. But after that brief cameo appearance in your day, you really do forget about him. 

Until now. 

“So?” he says, all expectant. 

And you consider it for a second, you really do– but you don’t think you can handle the blowback of leaving a party with Eddie Munson on Friday then turning up with him on Monday. Going to the same class. Where he sits behind you. It’s just… overexposure. 

The same realization must hit him, because all of a sudden he’s slamming the door shut with a roll of his eyes. “Whatever. Your tardy slip, babe.” You can’t help but think he sounds a little wounded. 

But fuck it. Fuck it! Since when do you stand around feeling sorry for Eddie Munson? 

Before you know it, the van roars out and leaves you in the dust. 

You don’t make it to school until after second period, because that so-called bus route a fifteen minute walk from the trailer park must not even exist, so you forge a note from your mom in the parking lot. 

As your fountain pen hovers over the paper, brainstorming an excuse, you consider pulling out the big guns– say you had to attend visitation day at the penitentiary. Use this disaster to your advantage for once; but you pull back. Scribble something about a doctor’s appointment and dot your mother’s ‘i’s with eerie precision.  

You make quick work of dropping the note off in reception– the uptick of being the kid of the town’s gossip beacon is some people still feel sorry for you. Some people weirdly include Janice, Principal Higgins’ secretary, who snatches the note from you before you can even reach the actual receptionist’s desk. 

“I’ll file that for you, dear,” she says, all coo-cooey with an unwelcome hand on your shoulder, “How are you and your poor mother doing these days? And your,” her croaky voice drops to a whisper, “dad? How is… he being treated?”

You blink at her, gripping the fountain pen in your hand. “Do you know what a shiv is, Janice?”

Just then, the bell trills and you take your leave, stepping out into the linoleum. 

Someone calls your name from down the hall. You crane your neck to see Ronnie Ecker jogging toward you, paper in hand. 

Now look, you’ve never had a problem with Ronnie Ecker. You can’t say you’re particularly fond of her but she’s smart; she keeps to herself and she was a decent lab partner during your junior year of dissecting frogs together. Squeamish, but that’s why you were there, to handle the scalpel. As much of a social outcast as she is, she’s not nearly as odious as the rest of them. That’s pretty goddamn remarkable amongst the Hawkins student body. 

She is also, you’ve come to notice, a resident of Forest Hills trailer park. 

“Hey!” she says, “Um, I noticed you missed first period and Kaminsky was handing our papers back so I figured you’d want yours…” 

“Why is everyone so obsessed with me missing first period?”

“Huh?”

“No– nothing,” you huff, taking the paper from her. A solid B on A+ material– told you Kaminsky couldn’t teach for shit. He’d be hearing from you about this. “Thanks for this, Ronnie.”

You start down the hall but notice Ronnie’s keeping in step with you. “I also just wanted to say– I heard about what happened Friday. And I think it’s sick, you standing up to Hagan like that. Asshole needed to be put in his place.” 

Well, there’s only one person she could have heard the nitty gritty of that news from. You know she’s trying to flatter you, but all you feel is a flame of embarrassment, plus a touch of anger– even though the news has easily circulated the school hallways by now. 

Along with the rumors of you taking Hargrove, Buckley and Munson, and not in a fight. 

“Well. Y’know. I was pretty wasted,” you attempt to brush it off and you see Ronnie deflate a little. 

Like you’re not the blazing hero someone made you out to be. 

“Okay, but is it true you had a threesome with Billy Hargrove and Robin Buckley and Robin was wearing the Tigers mascot suit?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

–

Classes pass in a monotonous blur, like most Mondays, but worse. That would be thanks to the extra shot of dread that’s served with your cafeteria meal of a wilted salad and soda. Last week at lunchtime, you at least had a tenuous standing with your former circle– you could still sit between Tina and Nancy Wheeler and suffer Tina’s thinly veiled jabs at you with a semi-placid look on your face. Nancy would look at you with eyes full of pity, and you’d want to punch her face in, but you’d be fine. 

But now, as you stand in the cafeteria swirling with people and catch the death glares from your old table (save for Nancy and Steve Harrington, who just straight up refuse to make eye contact with you), you’re just about ready to snap. 

Your flight instinct tells you to toss the tray out of your clammy hands and run, and keep running, until you disappear into the woods behind the school, never to be found. Your body becomes mulch before anyone remembers to look for you. Maybe you make really good fertilizer and a couple of pretty weeds sprout up from where you die. 

Your bruise, under its flaking layers of concealer, throbs twice– as if to say, don’t you fucking dare.

You make a confident beeline for the table, chin tilted and eyes set in a stare that could be categorized as withering, if only it was trained on anybody in particular. You grab a chair that some dumb underclassman is about to sit in and drag it with you, legs screeeeeching across the waxed floor. 

Who gives a shit who you were on Friday night. 

“I can sit here, right?” you say, and place your tray on the table next to Ronnie Ecker. 

She just stares at you for a hot second. That’s too long to stay standing in uncertainty, so you settle your stolen chair at the table and sit next to her. 

Ronnie isn’t the only one staring, however– the rest of these dorks, all in their matching t-shirts with Satan’s fiery head emblazoned across them, are watching you with their mouths agape. 

“Is this a prank or something?” one of them, a curly-haired freshman, says. 

This question is directed toward their fearless leader, decked out in denim and leather at the head of the table. That is to say, the direct opposite end of the table that you’re sitting at. 

“That’s no way to greet a lady, Gareth,” Munson says, feigning coolness but you can tell he’s a little flustered. The dead giveaway is in the way he misses his mac and cheese with his fork, the way his solid gaze double-blinks. You’ve thrown him off game– and because he’s impossible not to overhear sometimes, you know that game is all he’s got going on at this table. 

There’s that feeling again– point to Lacy. 

“To what do we owe the pleasure?”

This is Munson’s version of what the hell do you think you’re doing, but you choose to ignore him. It’ll drive him insane, and you know that, glaring red warning sign that he is. Instead, you flash a smile at the freshman that almost makes him pass out, Cupid’s arrow struck straight through the heart. 

You cross your legs and angle your body toward Ronnie– and by extension, in the direction of your old table. You can see Carol burying her face in Tommy’s shoulder, the both of them on the verge of losing bowel control with laughter. Laughter at you. 

Who gives a shit who you were before Friday night.

“So, Ronnie,” you say, taking a sip of your Tab, “You get up to anything fun this weekend?”

author's notes: let me get ahead of everything and say yes, i am absolutely fucking with the timeline. suspend your disbelief, my beautiful babies, and enjoy steve, carol, tommy and ronnie ecker still being in high school because I SURE WILL. but on an absolutely serious note, thank you so much for all the support and each and every note you’ve put on the chapters so far. i seriously, seriously appreciate it. now, the notes: - you think eddie munson doesn’t fuck with pee-wee herman heavy? you think he didn’t watch this movie in reefer rick’s, high out of his gourd, and think oh yeah i love this freak? get REAL! RIP paul reubens, this one’s for you. specially every time i mention a handjob - eddie munson also has charlie kelly disease - speaking of iterations of always sunny characters, much like frank reynolds, there’s not a get rich quick scheme al munson hasn’t tried. we’ll get into that a little more… later - admittedly, the whole ‘face eating on bath salts’ thing didn’t gain traction until the 00s, but if hawkins is going to be ahead of its time in anything, it’s fucked up shit happening to people! - did you notice how i blended eddie and lacy’s povs in the van? i’m going to continue doing that in moments where they’re on a similar ~wavelength~ - jimi hendrix did unfortunately die of asphixiation, but instead of thinking about that, watch this sick video of him playing guitar that eddie definitely has committed to memory - RONNIE ECKER KLAXON. i know that in flight of icarus she’s described as tall, but that hasn’t stopped me fancasting her as ayo edebiri in an eddie munson wig - at this point, you might be thinking damn, everyone sure seems to hate each other in this story. like, why is nancy wheeler catching strays? i’m here to remind you it’s the 1980s and teenagers kind of suck. play the track - thanks again for all the love! you can keep this crazy train going by liking, commenting, reblogging and generally showing me the same kindness you’ve shown me so far. love u my little hellcats

[kingofpopmj]

Happy Birthday My King.

Today, like every other day, I think of you.

I love you more than words can express.

Forever in awe that a person as selfless as you exists in this world.

It’s been an emotional few days, but as always Michael has inspired me. Specifically, to share a little more about myself.

Michael is my hero for many reasons.

I’ll never be able to explain each one— I don’t think I’ll ever have enough time to list all the reasons he means so much to me. This incredible man is threaded into the depths of who I am.

My childhood was nonexistent to put it simply. I experienced many forms of abuse. It took me so many years to understand it and even longer to find my voice. I put in the work to find my strength. It wasn’t easy and there were numerous times I wanted to give up. Thankfully, something or should I say someone, helped me fight my way through the darkness instead of continuing to be consumed by it. And, for the first time, I realized I was worthy of peace and carried power within my soul to move forward. Most importantly, I wasn’t alone. Eventually, I was able to face the evil that stole so much from me with my head held high.

Michael’s voice guided me every step of the way. He taught me how to handle every obstacle with grace and love no matter how difficult it might be.

I admire his talent, but who he is as a person led me through the worst moments of my life.

He is truly the only worth while role model I’ve ever had and I’m so grateful for him.

He taught me how to fight for myself. He taught me how to lead with love. He taught me how to forgive. He taught me how to live.

He saved me in every possible way one person can save another. For that, no amount of appreciation will ever be enough. I will forever hold him close to my heart. I’ll protect him, the same way he did for me. Endlessly.

Thank you Michael.

[sanaexus]

please please please- "this better be a fucking joke"

keeping your phone back in your pocket, you try to think of an solution which isn't the easiest thing to do when your ex is breathing down on your neck. but hey! positive thoughts only right? he didn't recognize you yet, which made sense considering the last time he saw you, you probably looked like an oompa loompa with a haircut that could rival michael kaisers's, but that was in the past (right?)

suddenly something clicked, if he didn't recognize you, you could just leave without being noticed and feeling bad. so that's exactly you tried, until a voice called out to you.

"leaving so soon?" the heterochromatic called out.

"just like you did every time?" oh. OH. you weren't supposed to say that, you didn't even realise you said that.

he let out a chuckle, "credit where credits due, i was a pretty stupid kid."

"pretty is bit of an understatement no?"

"debatable, i guess i own an explanation huh?"

"you kinda sorta definately do."

"well should we head out? not anywhere far away of course, just not with much people around"

"yeah alright" is all you said before you follow him to some corner of the arcade, looking around you spot a certain blue-headed man, an unconscious smile graced your lips, which didn't go unnoticed by the man beside you.

"who's got you smiling like that?"

"can you shut up and get to the point?"

"yeah yeah, but before i do, just hear my side out i know it doesn't excuse what-"

"nothing's ever gonna excuse cheating ok no sorry continue"

"like i was saying before i was VERY rudely interrupted, i know no matter what i say, it won't justify what i did but that aside-"

suddenly you see a mop of light blue hair infront of you, T-posing for 'asserting dominance' "DON'T FEAR WHEN I AM HEAR-oh fuck wait am i interrupting something important?"

"hiori OH MY FUCKING GOD WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

"gaslighting gatekeeping girlbossing of course" the man flipped his almost non existent hair and shaking some of that gyatt

"get out please get out oh my god why are you like this"

hiori before glaring at the purple headed-man, "this creature is staying?"

"yes now go, i'll call you when i need you okay?" you do a shoo-ing motion as hiori skips away.

"right uhm are they always like that..?"

"no, not really, now please for heavens sake stop stalling and explain yourself already"

"right so uh i'd like i was a very dumb high-schooler, and no doesn't excuse me cheating but i was a horny fuck, and you were always so busy i just couldn't do it anymore.."

"first of all you're still a horny fuck, and second why didn't you just end it then why did you have to resort to cheating..?" you were trying really hard not to cry but the voice crack probably gave you away, even just the thought of you not moving on from him nearly 2 years later, disgusted you.

"i don't know, i liked you i really did and i didn't wanna lose it but i didn't want to stay either, and i couldn't exactly explain myself, so i resorted to cheating." he explained, it was confusing if he really was feeling guilty and regretful.

"oh, uh i forgive you, ok no i don't but i've moved on from that, we were just kids and shit happens and i can't always hold it against you relationship goes both ways and so does the break up."

"i'm glad we got that cleared out wait you forgive me, so does that mean i can take you out on a date maybe?" he asked a bit hopeful

"oh my god aik-oliver you haven't changed at all, have you?"

"not aiku this time? you wound me, but is that a yes?"

"nope i still need some time to think uh how about you give me your number and i text you within this week if we can go out?"

"yeah that sounds nice." you take out your phone handing it to him as he types his number and saving it as "baby daddy"

"oh ew oliver ew!" you make fake gagging noises.

"hey! i'm not that disgusting...right?"

"i never said that, you're putting words in my mouth, but it was nice meeting again i'll see you around yeah?" and before you could reply you run off to find hiori and when you don't (big shocker) you figured you'd let the gc know (big mistake btw)

please please please ¡! - an isagi yoichi social media fic

synopsis modeling was fun, especially when you go to make friends and what happens when that exact friend goes to the same high school? the friendship of course continues into college. where you get your heart broken and the internet gets to know but then you meet a certain someone that makes you fall for them. so what happens then? chaos.

taglist is open¡! : @fairlyfuji , @semisutopia, @someprettyname , @csbnova , @ashlovelys , @chateaaa , @yeurisstuff , @starchivves , @m3gitsune ,@muffin-0 , @gojosexpiredcum , @bbmsxlene , @profesionalglazer

divider by @/xxbimbobunnyxx. all credits to her!

sorry guys no funfacts today 🙁 GUYS TRUST ISAGI WILL COME JS LET ME COOK PLS 🗣🗣💯💯🤬🤬😎😎💣💣🔥🔥‼‼💯💯🔛🔝

also I AM SO SORRY WHY IS THIS SO BAD WHY CAN'T I WRITE SHIT OMG I'M GONNA CRY also maybe double update bc i dont wanna fall off and seeing 99+ notifs makes me happy

[ssparksflyy]

my tears ricochet but its jason grace and his 'lover' that he cant be bothered to give attention to

"even on my worst day, did i deserve, babe all the hell you gave me? 'cause i loved you, i swear i loved you 'til my dying day" but its his lover knowing she wasnt perfect, but also knew she didnt deserve the way he treated her.

"i didn't have it in myself to go with grace and you're the hero flying around, saving face" but its his lover watching him be everybody else's hero and prioritizing people he hardly knew.

"and if i'm dead to you, why are you at the wake? cursing my name, wishing i stayed" but its his lover watching him at her funeral from elysium and seeing how pathetic he's acting, saying he misses her, as if he didnt once tell her in an argument she was the last thing on his mind at the time.

"you know i didn't want to have to haunt you but what a ghostly scene, you wear the same jewels that i gave you as you bury me" but it's the way he can't think of anything else but her, no matter how hard he tries, after she's gone. but it's the way that he had the audacity to wear the necklace he gave her when they started dating to the funeral.

"'cause when i'd fight, you used to tell me i was brave" but its their 'honeymoon phase' where he used to treat her as if she was the only person he'd ever care for.

"and i can go anywhere i want, anywhere i want, just not home" but it's the way he infiltrated her home that once adored her and made it all about him. the way camp half blood was once the only real home she ever knew, but now it wasn't. the way that jason once served as a home to her, only for a very short amount of time, but she was incapable of reaching that home as well.

"and you can aim for my heart, go for blood, but you would still miss me in your bones" but it's the way that he now realizes and regrets how much and badly he hurt her. the way she'll forever haunt him. the way he refuses to ever forgive himself and knows that apart of him died in shame that day.

"and i still talk to you (when i'm screaming at the sky)" but it's the way that when she was alive, his lover would beg all the gods for a way out. the way she wouldn't allow herself to leave but begged for the strength to continue fighting for his love that simply was no longer there.

"and when you can't sleep at night (you hear my stolen lullabies)" but its the way that jason can't stop replaying the one video he has of her singing by the campfire and the way he can't fall asleep without listening to it.

"you had to kill me, but it killed you just the same" but it's the way that jason could've saved her from dying, but chose to help another camper in need, thinking you'd just get hurt and would heal eventually. the way that decision is the reason why he can't get out of bed in the morning, the way that decision is what causes him to lose himself.

"you turned into your worst fears" but its the way that jason realizes that he's no better than his father, the man he hates most, for being so careless and heartless when it came to somebody who loved and adored him in a way nobody else could.

"look at how my tears ricochet" but it's jason grace and his lover who both lost themselves for each other, but at different times. one of those times, being far too late.

his lover died in battle against an invasion of monsters in the woods of camp half blood. jason saw her just minutes before she passed, knowing he couldve helped her, but instead decided to help the camper who was only a year younger than her and who's name he didnt know. he figured she'd be fine and accepted the fact she'd get hurt, but knew she would heal later. years later, he's still killing himself from within for being unable to answer the question, if he knew it all then, would he do it again?

[1whore1gang]

Ghost Drabble

“I thought you were dead.”

Hey friends!! Ghost won the pill so here’s a short and shitty little drabble for y’all.

It’s not super inappropriate, lots of grief, mentions of losing a child, lots of foul language.

Love you guys!!! Enjoy and PLEASE lmk what you wanna see! You guys are the readers after all so i wanna cater to YOUR ideas!! 🫶🏻

“No. I-“ She took a deep breath as she focused on her word choice. “Why, no- how are you here? I don’t get it.”

“Please, just let me explain.” Simon tried to reason with her as his heart beat out of his chest. “Please you have got to hear me out.”

“I’m listening but you better talk fast.” Her tone was a mixture of fear and command.

“It’s not what you think. When I joined this team, I wanted a new identity. I didn’t want to be who I used to be, the one who was tortured, the one who went through all that loss and pain. It’s not like I had anything left in my life anyways-“ Before he could finish with ‘but you’, she cut him off.

“You didn’t have anything?! Simon-“

“It’s Ghost here, they don’t want anyone leaking my identity.” He quickly corrected her and she looked at him offended, tears turning her eyes glossy. She paused for a moment her mouth agape.

“First of all, it’s not ‘ghost’.” Her words were mocking the name. “It’s Simon, because that’s who you were to me. You were Simon Riley, my Simon.” She accentuated her words. “Do you not understand what you meant to me? What weight you held in my life?” She paused, almost waiting for an answer, but he didn’t even open his mouth. “Second of all, you had me. You had our life. You had our daughter.”

Her statement bit him. It felt like a knife had went through him. “And when I was grieving her death you know what else I was doing?!” Her tone escalated to one of anger. “I was mourning you!!!”

Her face was now etched into his mind forever, sure to haunt his dreams from now on. Tears were streaming in rivers down her face, staining the collar of her shirt. Her eyebrows were furrowed in sorrow, her lip quivering. “I’m so sorry.”

That’s all he could muster. He knew no excuse would suffice for what he left her to endure alone. “Where were you?” She asked in a pleading voice, needing answers.

“They wouldn’t let me see you. Said it was for my privacy and identity security.” Simons voice began to crack, and she began to soften, it was something she’d never seen. “I wanted to run to you, hold you in my arms, apologize for leaving you the way I did. It tore me to shreds knowing you were battling it alone, and it haunted me knowing what I did.”

Simon took in a shaky breath as tears of his own formed. “I dreamed of coming home to you, comforting you. They wouldn’t fucking let me.” His voice went quiet as he cursed his superiors. “If I wouldn’t have been faced with serious consequences, I would’ve broke every rule, but the consequences would’ve set us further apart.”

She stood speechless. She was so lost in this moment, not knowing how to go about Simon this way. From childhood to now, this is the first time she’d ever seen him cry. “Simon…”

“It was my plan to eventually have you find me, I just didn’t think it’d take this long.”

Again, she stood evaluating every movement of his face, the expressions, the way his eyebrows twitched when she met his eyes. She couldn’t deny the pang in her chest, the one of pain. “I know I don’t deserve it, but would you ever grace me with your forgiveness?”

He waited in silence, his nerves tingling with each passing moment. Simon carefully watched as she opened her mouth before hesitating and closing it again. “Simon, it’s been almost 10 years since you faked your death and I got that dreaded phone call. I was only 20 years old with a 2 year old all alone. You should’ve known at the age of 25, that I was too young. I was still a kid myself in ways. You left me to raise a kid when I was barely an adult, the pain I went through at such a young age because I let my childhood best friend give me his last name.”

Simon nodded, agreeing what he did was wrong. “But, when she passed, I felt like I had aged 10 years because I had to mature fast to be a mom raising her child by herself. She was only 4 Si, and she never even got to see her dad, let alone know him. But, in the end, I know what this job can do.”

Her chest raises as she takes in a deep breath. “I know what they can ask of you and how easily it is for the wrong person to know your face, your name. I don’t forgive you right now, but I’m willing to work on it on one condition.”

Simon answered almost too quickly, “Anything.”

[shadowdaddies]

can i request dorian flirting with reader and talking her v card??

I found a masquerade mask while looking for a last minute Halloween costume, and the idea for this prompt came to me. So this is sort of Halloween themed💜

A/N: angst, fluff, smut... I really love how this turned out. I hope you do too!

Masquerade

Dorian x Reader

Warnings: smut below the cut, use of shadow hands, oral f!receiving, p in v sex, minors dni

You stepped into the ballroom, taking in the extensive decorations that Adarlan had been adorned with for the Harvest celebration. Each year, the King of Adarlan - who you knew as your close friend, Dorian - held a masquerade ball to celebrate the harvest season. 

It was tradition to masquerade in costume on this night, and at the end of the evening there was a great bonfire to ward off evil spirits. It was a night of mischief, and therefore one of the few royal celebrations that you and Dorian genuinely enjoyed. 

You smiled at the dripping candles that floated above the room alongside carved pumpkins and other harvest decorations, creating a warm and comfortable feeling despite the crowded space. Taking a flute of champagne from a serving tray, you scanned the room in an effort to recognize a familiar face under one of the many masks. There were costumes with inspiration ranging from wyverns to ogres to elves, but your eyes stopped on a striking man donning a mask of feathers, apparently the personification of a raven. 

You looked down at your own costume and laughed. You donned a white shimmering gown that matched your mask, including an olive branch crown that tied together your costume as a dove. When you glanced back up, the raven was already crossing the room towards you, a mischievous grin you knew all too well peeking from beneath his mask.

“Hello, dove,” Dorian purred, winking at you as he brought your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. Your heart fluttered at his teasing - while Dorian viewed you as nothing beyond a friend, you held feelings for him for years, his casual flirting your favorite form of torture. He made you feel special, but that was Dorian. He made everyone feel special, and it broke your heart to know you were just one of many. Kings were known for their dalliances, after all.

You smiled politely, giving your best effort to appear unaffected by Dorian’s behavior as you greeted him. “It’s lovely to see you, Dorian. I admire your costume.” A flash of hurt crossed Dorian’s eyes, so quickly that if you didn’t know him so well, you would have missed it. Recovering with a dazzling smile, Dorian teased you. “Lovely to see me? Since when did we become so formal, dove?” he asked as his eyes raked over your own costume. 

You hummed, maintaining your facade of nonchalance as you searched for a way out of the conversation, needing a break from the complicated emotions that were threatening to surface. You scanned the crowd, taking notice of the orchestra preparing to play. Perfect. “Forgive me if I seem too formal, but it appears that the dancing is about to begin for this evening, so I must be off to find myself a dance partner.” You began to turn away from Dorian as you spoke that last part, hoping to make a quick getaway. 

Just as you turned, Dorian gently took hold of your elbow, spinning you back towards him. He took the empty glass from your hand, setting it on a table as he slid his hand down to hold yours. “Perfect. Allow me to be your first dance of the evening?” Dorian asked, in a tone with a  politeness that betrayed the way he had already pulled you to the dance floor. 

He spun you around with a practiced, courtly grace that was as alluring as it was irritating. Mind racing as you thought of ways to distract yourself - focusing on anything you could think of that was unattractive about Dorian, of which nothing came to mind - you huffed out a frustrated breath. Dorian abruptly stopped dancing, pausing to look at you briefly before taking your hand as he led you away from the dance floor. 

He took you outside to a secluded balcony, where he stared at you as he chewed his lip, suddenly looking uncharacteristically nervous. Finally he threw his arms up and asked in an exasperated tone, “would you take off that damn mask so I can see your face? I can tell something is bothering you, and it’s killing me to not be able to read your expression.” 

You nearly stumbled back in shock, completely taken aback by Dorian’s exclamation. “What explanation do I owe you for how I feel, Dorian? Don’t pretend that you actually care - I know there are hundreds of women who would kill for your attention in there. Go dance with one of them and leave me be.” At this point, you couldn’t hold back the tears that spilled, emotions clear even through your mask as Dorian pulled you close to him. 

He removed his mask, gently removing yours and brought his other hand to wipe a tear that had fallen to your cheek. “Oh, dove. There is no other woman with whom I want to dance, tonight or any other. Can’t you see that?” You sniffled, looking up at Dorian as you struggled to understand what he was saying. He could sense your disbelief, brushing your hair behind your ear as he leaned forward so that your noses were nearly touching. “I am aware of my rumored...romances - but I have not been with another woman since I met you. You’ve brought a light to this kingdom that I didn’t realize was missing.” He took a shaky breath, frantically studying your face. “Please tell me you feel the same.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh in relief as you smiled brightly up at Dorian. “You described how I feel perfectly. I’ve had more fun since I met you than I ever have before in my life. I love you, Dorian.” He grabbed the back of your neck, pulling you in for a heated kiss that had your knees buckling. Dorian pulled away as he breathed, “I love you too, dove.” 

You bit your lip, running your hand along Dorian’s strong jawline as you found the courage to say what you wanted. “Dorian, I’ve never been with a man before, but will you be my first?” Taking your wrist and kissing the inside of it, Dorian locked eyes with you. “If that is what you want, that is what you shall have, my love.” 

He led you up to his bedroom, closing the door behind you as he pushed you up against it, bunching up your skirts as he kissed down your neck to the exposed area on your chest. You fumbled with his clothes, throwing his jacket somewhere in the room as you hastily unbuttoned his shirt. Dorian spun you around, leaving love bites along your neck and shoulders as he untied the laces of your dress, the silky material dropping to the floor. 

You turned around to see Dorian’s eyes blown wide, sucking in a breath as he took in your naked form. “Beautiful,” he breathed softly. You smiled, gaining confidence as you walked back towards the bed, laying on the mattress and shifted up against the pillows, curling a finger as you beckoned Dorian towards you. He followed eagerly, but instead of climbing on top of you as you’d expected, he stopped to hover above your pussy. 

You mewled as he blew a cool breath against your center, spreading your legs wide. He looked up at you, those sapphire eyes taking your breath away as he asked, “has a man ever worshipped you with his mouth, dove?” You shook your head no, swallowing in a tangle of nerves and excitement as you watched him with awe. Dorian wasted no time, licking a broad stripe up your core, eliciting a loud moan as your back arched off the bed, hips raising in an effort to be touched by him more. 

Dorian didn’t let up on his efforts, licking and sucking your clit as you felt a hand that you could not see pushing down on your stomach, pinning you in place as you tried to writhe against his overwhelming touch. You felt a coil in your stomach tighten as Dorian inserted a finger inside of you, curling against you in a way you hadn’t felt before, and you screamed as your walls fluttered around his finger. 

Dorian pulled back, a cocky grin on his face as he sucked his finger clean. His expression turned serious for a moment as he reached for the ties of his pants. “Are you sure that you want to do this tonight, dove?” You nodded, pulling Dorian up towards you as you began untying his pants for him. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” you said, kissing him softly as you tasted yourself on his lips. 

He shuffled his pants off the rest of the way, lining himself up at your entrance as you took his face in your hands, smiling up at him with clear eyes full of adoration. With a slight nod from you, Dorian pushed himself into you slowly, savoring the sound of your moan as he stretched your walls. He moved softly and slowly, making love to you as you gasped and moaned at the new sensations.

Dorian continued his thrusts, finding a spot that felt incredible as you chanted his name, that coil in your stomach tightening once more as you felt yourself clench around him. Dorian felt it too, an invisible hand surprising you by rubbing soft circles on your clit. The startling sensation sent you over the edge again, Dorian following closely behind as the two of your reached your highs. 

You stayed there, laying next to each other as you registered everything that had happened that night. Dorian turned to lay facing you, tracing his hand along your face and body as he admired you. 

You suddenly laughed, a look of confusion crossing Dorian’s face as he asked, “what is it, dove?” You giggled once more, “well, if the bonfire didn’t scare away the spirits, I’m sure my screams did.”

He laughed with you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as the two of you fell asleep in each other’s arms, assured that this was truly the most magical night of the year.

[colormepurplex2]

Did It Hurt? | Prologue: The Fall

↳ FallenAngel!Taehyung x LostSoul!f.Reader ⤜ Fallen Angel AU, Strangers to Lovers ⤜ Rating: MA 🔞 ⤜ WC: 880 ⚠️ Violence, injury, judgement and punishment

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Taehyung, Sometime around the end of the 20th century, in the Divine Chamber of Justice, Heaven

“Why are we even bothering with this trial?” Phanuel asks, crossing his arms and giving his Brother a pitying look. “Is it fair to hold ourselves to a higher standard than the ones we protect?”

Amitiel harrumphs softly. “Of course we are to hold ourselves to a higher standard. We are Divine Protectors of the Heavens, pointedly above those we protect.”

“I think what Phanuel is trying to say,” comments Mitzrael, “is that there is nothing in the Doctrine about what Brother Taehyung did being unforgivable. If those we protect can be forgiven through Grace, shouldn’t we afford our Brother that same Grace?”

“I say we hand him over to our Fallen Brothers in Hell,” mutters Kushiel, ever the rigid purveyor of punishment.

Gabriel shifts where he sits at the pinnacle of the Judgement dias. “The spilling of one’s Holy Seed is different from that of a mortal’s seed. We all are aware of this. The creation of Nephilim has been strictly forbidden since the fall of Lucifer. Therefore, the act that can potentially create such a monstrosity should be punished to the fullest extent. After all, Taehyung may not have created a Nephilim, but to even act in pleasures of the flesh where that is a possibility is worthy enough of our ire. Imagine the destruction he would have wrought, untold devastation.”

There is a quiet murmur around the chamber, soft echoes of fear and agreement, Sarathiel loudest of them all.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Brother Taehyung?” Zadkiel asks, speaking over the hushed clamor.

Taehyung prostrates himself before his gathered Brothers, pressing his forehead to the smooth surface of the floor, wings splayed out behind him. Holding the position for a few precious moments, he gathers his thoughts before looking up and meeting all their gazes one by one until he’s focused on Gabriel. His Brother might not be the Angel of Judgement, but he’s the Leader of all Angels, which Taehyung knows holds far more sway over all the others than anyone else; he’s a leader for a reason.

“Brothers,” he begins, “I would not ask for forgiveness for such an unforgivable act. As Brother Gabriel has stated, what I did was careless, not just to myself but to all others. I endangered all that we hold Divine and Holy here. I endangered our home. But I would ask for your leniency, your guidance and deliverance. Treat me as one of the flock. Let me seek righteousness and serve a penance for my disgrace. Do not cast me into oblivion. Let me prove myself worthy.”

“We shall take that into consideration.” Sarathiel eyes Taehyung with a cold appraisal. Fear and pain burn hot in Taehyung’s chest. The few stolen moments he sought with–he can’t even think of their name without wanting to wail in mourning–have proven to be what might be his downfall; literally.

The Counsel gathers, cloistering themselves behind a hazy wall of silence. All Taehyung can do is watch them, trying to discern what words lips are forming and what the emotions flashing across his Brothers’ faces mean. Gabriel and Sarathiel seem to be leading the conversation. He can only hope they both remember their love for him in their hearts.

It could be hours, or just minutes, before the shield falls and noise eases back into the chamber, sounding far too loud after the silence. Taehyung thinks he might sickup on the floor if that’s even something Angels can do; he’s seemingly forgotten how to function at all.

The Angel of Justice, his Brother, Raquel, steps forward and gives Taehyung a sad, soft smile before beginning, “It is with heavy hearts that we, the Council of Grace and Purity, hereby sentence you, Brother Taehyung, to one hundred years of exile for breaking your Oath of Holy Divinity by seeking pleasures of the flesh and spilling Holy Seed. At the end of your one hundred years, if and only if you have found a soul seeking absolution and deliver them unto a path of justice and redemption, will you be granted back within the sanctity of this Kingdom and your wings restored. If you fail in your penance, you will feel the wrath of Divine Smite. May the Lord have mercy on your everlasting soul.”

Always so regal and poised, Michael steps forward, the tip of his great sword trailing just a breath above the floor. Taehyung couldn’t bear to look his brother in the eye for fear of seeing the disappointment there.

“Let it be known,” Michael whispers over Taehyung’s bowed head, “I take no pleasure in this, Brother.” With one felling sweep of Michael’s blade, Taehyung is rendered incomplete, severed from his proper form. White feathers fill the air, softening the cry that rips itself from Taehyung’s throat.

His Brothers watch as he plummets from the Heavens, entering a fiery free fall into an existence none of them envy. If only he had the Grace to keep his hands to himself. Though not all Angels are meant for the Heavens, that much is clear. They can only hope Taehyung finds his way once again, or Lucifer damn him, they’ll lose another to the darkness.

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[nebulablakemurphy]

Twenty Questions (Part 4)

Summary: For Y/N’s 20th birthday Haymitch gifts her 20 questions, that he has to answer honestly, no matter what. Mentions of sex/forced pregnancy. Moves & Countermoves companion piece.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

“How many…do you think?”

“Hmm?” Haymitch hums, eyeing his wife.

“Kids.” Y/N clears her throat, “how many kids do you think Snow will make us have?”

“I’d say one of each. A boy and a girl will keep the people entertained. If the next one is a boy, I think we’ll have to try again for a girl. Assuming we stay in his good graces, we’ll probably be done after that.” Haymitch shrugs a shoulder.

“I don’t know what else we can do.” Y/N rubs her hands together anxiously.

“There’s nothing else, Angel.” Haymitch sighs, “we just have to ride this out.”

Y/N nods, rubbing the swell of her belly. She’s five months along, over half way.

“Did you want,” Haymitch stumbles over the words. “How many do you want?”

Y/N lifts a shoulder. “I think being an only child might be lonely for him.” Him. Their baby. Because it isn’t about them anymore, it never will be again. “Two would be good.”

“Two would be good,” Haymitch agrees.

————————————————————————

Haymitch drinks more than he ever has.

Y/N’s belly grows. She’s tired all the time. She snaps at Haymitch and then chases after him with tears in her eyes, begging for forgiveness. “I’m sorry, I’m… I know I’m awful. I’m trying to do better.”

“You’re not awful,” Haymitch grumbles. “I’m trying too.”

“But you are! You are doing better and I’m…I feel like everyday I get worse. That’s the difference and I’m frustrated with myself. I’m frustrated at the situation and I don’t know what to do. You’re the only person here with me all the time, so you get the brunt of everything. And I know it’s not fair to you. I know you hate me for it.” How could you not?

“I need you to know that I do not hate you. I could never hate you. I see how hard this pregnancy and marriage has been for you. I’m sorry, from the bottom of my heart, if I could change it for you, I would. But I can’t.” Haymitch admits, “I can’t and it kills me.”

“It’s not hard being married to you,” she breaks off. “I’d never given a lot of thought to marriage. I didn’t necessarily want to be married. But doing it with you is easy, being with you is easy and I feel safe when I’m with you.”

“Tell me what’s wrong then, Angel. Tell me what I can do to help you. Anything you need. You just gotta give me some fucking direction here, because I am drowning in this.”

“I don’t know what I need. I feel restless all the time. I can’t sleep. I’m-”

“You’re afraid.” Haymitch gets it.

“Just…just tell me that everything’s gonna be ok.”

“It is gonna be ok. I promise.”

She closes the distance between them, relaxing into the feel of his arms around her. Holding her close, making everything ok.

————————————————————————

Things are better after that.

“Everything’s gonna be ok.”

He tells her every morning and again at night.

They decorate the nursery, they give him a name. Everest. Everest Abernathy.

By the time they mentor the games that year, Y/N is eight months along. They’ve agreed to stay in the Capitol, until the baby is born.

“You’ll have access to the best medicine known to man in our hospitals, Y/N. The same cannot be said for District Twelve.” President Snow makes her an offer that sounds more like a threat. In any event, she can’t refuse.

Their chances for a victor this year are slim to none. The female tribute is fifteen, but Y/N can spot every bone in her body. The boy isn’t much better, and only twelve.

Y/N weeps for them until she vomits. Only when she is alone, jotting notes in her tablet. She remains strong in their presence, focused. Knowing Haymitch won’t offer much help. He stopped trying and she doesn’t blame him.

She might give up too, if it didn’t mean leaving the poor tributes to fend for themselves.

It makes no difference though, both go down in the initial bloodbath. She mourns them alone, while Haymitch drowns his sorrows down at the bar.

And time passes, the same way it always has. Too fast or too slow.

Part 5

[mongeese]

I'm not involving myself in the arguments again, but ep 1 Carol snaps that she "always knew Darryl would do something like this one day" and had a larger reaction to the car crashing than (her phrasing) "losing the kid".

So that's why the initial impression of Carol is that she is mean, and Matt's later dad facts + Darryl referencing Carol calling him fat and Darryl hiding his hobbies from her give a certain impression to people.

I do not care about discourse that happened probably years ago because it simply doesn't matter but I AM a defender of fictional women so I'm gonna reply to this. Know that any bitchiness in this post is not directed toward you specifically anon but rather it is directed toward general misogynistic fandom culture (which is rampant).

First point, Carol snapping at Darryl: obviously that's an imperfect reaction, but she's also just had the bombshell dropped on her that her husband crashed their car and lost their son. I think I can forgive her some anger in this moment. There's also probably built up resentment toward Darryl being expressed in this conversation, because she's falling out of love with him and he is the exact opposite of emotionally intelligent and I'm sure communication has been deteriorating between them for a while. Not ideal, but I can't particularly fault her for it. Also, literally in the same conversation, Darryl asks Carol to ask Darnell about the plays he emailed him, while his son is missing, which suggests that he is not always the most responsible! Perhaps giving some credence to her statement!

Reading the transcript, she didn't have a larger reaction to denting the hood of the car. Darryl said it last and she processed it first, but immediately after she began berating him much more intensely about losing their son. Which, again, is cruel but also understandable, given that in her mind there's no explanation for how he could've lost track of Grant other than gross negligence.

Gonna be honest and say I remember nothing about the context of Carol calling Darryl fat. I'd assume it was either a bit of a mean joke that Darryl took very personally bc his self esteem is in the gutter, or her saying he should lose weight. Neither is good, and I won't defend them, but also, compared to all the other shit characters do in the podcast? So tame.

Darryl hides everything from everyone. That's like, the core of his character. It's entirely possible that any hobbies he hides from Carol is simply because he's ashamed of them for catholic guilt/toxic masculinity/general weird repression paranoia reasons, and not because of anything she said or did.

Ultimately this is a pointless exercise because even if all those things WERE as bad as people make them out to be, I'd still be a Carol defender, because all 4 of the dads canonically do things which are way worse. Glen in particular is undeniably a shitty person (at least until 2/3 through the podcast, where I'm at right now), and Ron isn't much better. Yet they're both fan favorites. Why are they given the grace to make mistakes and be mean and thoughtless and flawed and still be liked, but Carol is hated? Could it, mayhaps, have something to do with the fact that they are men? And thus their shitty behavior is fine, because they're oh-so deep, but clearly CAROL doesn't have that depth, because she's just a woman, and she should be more understanding, and motherly, and caring, etc etc.

Like. I'm just fucking begging people in fandom spaces to have an ounce of self awareness and think about why, maybe, you're so ready to hate the female characters who don't act nice all the time, but you love the flawed tragic backstory men? What dominant power structure and social conditioning could be at work here? You are not immune to internalized misogyny (yes, even if you're a woman)

[vergeltvng]

SPOILERS for The Boys Season 4

I'm still processing the final episode but here are some of my random thoughts, in no particular order. It was a wild ride and I enjoyed it for the most part. The season had its lows for sure and I'll never forgive the writers for how they treated Hughie. I'm still fucking mad about everything they did to him after episode 5. I also felt like they wasted a lot of potential with Annie's arc. She's been through a lot after season 3 and I loved the idea of her having an identity crisis but it was just so poorly executed. It all felt messy and as if the writers had no conclusion in mind for both her and Hughie's plotlines. Unfortunately I couldn't find myself caring a lot about Frenchie's and Kimiko's subplots which is sad because I love these two. I was hoping they get to kill that bitch Little Nina and Kimiko getting her revenge on the SLLA. Both could have happened this season before they got separated in the end. Instead we've been put on hold to wait if these plots get resolved at all. Firecracker and Sage were great additions, I loved to hate Firecracker and Sage gives off endboss vibes for me. I still feel like she's gonna betray Homelander in the end. Can't wait for "phase two". A-Train's arc was great, he truly redeemed himself and him showing up at the flat iron to save the others was proof enough for me how serious he was about doing the right thing. I liked all of his scenes with MM, too. I loved Ashley this season, I hope she gains some badass powers and kicks everyone's ass. I've seen some complaints about Homelander being nerfed - are we watching the same show? He is fucking unhinged and more terrifying than ever. He is basically god by the end of the season and can (and will) do whatever the fuck he wants with no one in his way. Someone telling me that's not scary?! He is and always will be one of the best villains in tv history. Poor kid Ryan, he deserved better. How is he ever supposed to feel safe around Homelander and Butcher phrasing it that way was downright evil and manipulative towards the boy because he knew it would make Ryan feel insecure and cornered. Him pushing and killing Grace was in self-defense. His reaction afterwards however is concerning and I guess ambiguous for interpretation on purpose. I still don't get how some people in the fandom could hate on a 12 year old child so much, leave the kid alone.

Where do I start when it comes to Butcher? I have many thoughts and this text is already long but I'll give it a shot anyway. Obviously I'm biased because I love this man and will defend him to the very end. I think his arc was one of the better aspects, he is still one of the best written characters on the show. What I always loved about him was him being truly morally grey and the ambiguity in his words and actions. He cannot be trusted. I don't know if it's me but Karl's performance makes him actually a lot more likeable than he deserves. He is a bad person and I don't think this is negotiable. I have thought about this so many times in made-up scenarios and I stick with my opinion that there's no fixing him and there never was. I have tried to stay away from fandom discourse as much as I could for my own well-being but I don't get how people act surprised and as a result hate over his behavior and decisions. I think most were true to his character and also him killing Neuman made perfect sense and was a well-deserved payoff narratively. Not that I'm not mad at him for doing so! I loved Vicky and she was such an interesting character. But his final words in season 3 were "that bitch has to go" and one of his main goals across the whole season was to get that virus to kill her. He was absolutely clear about it and worked towards this goal on his own terms, not even under the influence of Kessler. Certainly Kessler pushed him to commit some of his atrocities but it matched with what he wanted himself. He drew the line when it came to supe genocide and was conflicted about it initially but one of his core themes is doing whatever it takes and losing his humanity on his chosen path. Since he is highly intelligent he knows very well what's wrong with him what emphasises even more that he actively chooses to do bad things rather than being impulsive and regretful afterwards. I personally loved his turn at the end and I am eager to see his villain arc. What's not to love about evil daddy?! I could go on about some of the dynamics between him and Kessler but I'll do that in another post maybe.

[swanimagines]

Hi :)

I just want to say that I love your work and am so sorry about your mental health (I can sympathise❤️). I know it is much, much easier said than done, but please try and give yourself as much grace as you can - with both writing and life.

With writing, it is ok to fail with it, and I know you want to beat yourself up with it - but experimentation is where you can find things about your style you'd never know.

I'm sorry if I come across as preachy at all, but I wish you well and, once again, adore your work ❤️❤️

I'm so sorry it took this long to reply, I was at my mum's and didn't really check Tumblr during staying there.

But thank you for your comforting words, I'm trying not to beat myself up over not being able to write right now. I have a lot going on irl*, so I guess that also affects my mood and why I feel so stressed about this. Usually, writing is my outlet for these situations, when I'm stressed and have my head full of thoughts, writing makes me calm down. But now I just can't get anything out, no matter what or how I try. I got a suggestion to clear out my inbox a while ago when I last made a post about this, but the problem isn't my requests, I have LOADS of ideas for my requests, and I'm excited to write them, but I just can't get it written the way I wanna get it written. I'm advised to write my own ideas. They have the same problem as my requests. I'm advised to write whatever I can think of. The moment I try, my head just empties itself.

"Hmm what to write, can't think of anything, well if I force myself to write: Horses are green and they eat marshmallows. Uh. I don't know, I just can't think of anything sensible. Even writing this is kinda a struggle because I just? Can't write the way I'd want to, these aren't the thoughts I'd want to write but I already forgot what I was going to write, I thought of that like 10 seconds ago and already forgot. And not to mention that writing this is boring af. I'd much rather to clean a bathroom, bleh."

And it goes on and on and on like that.

*Looooong story and I don't have patience to write it all especially when most of it irritates me a lot anyway, let's just say I was promised something a year ago to happen soon after London but I've had to wait til now because of stuff not dependant on me (the person who would grant me a permission was on a sick leave til July and insists on seeing me on 5th of November before giving the permission and I want to strangle her for that, because I've been forced to wait for 6 extra months because of her sick leave), now it's finally happening next week but I'm still kinda furious about it because a lot of things have been ruined/delayed/cancelled because of it being so late, and I'm terrified this will negatively affect next March. It wouldn't affect it if it happened when I was promised it will happen, but unless some stuff will happen instead attached to this thing that's happening, I'm forced to change my plans for March a quite a bit (mainly meaning I wouldn't be able to get many photo OPs and would have to choose the most important people I want to get a photo OP with, and whose autographs I want) and it would crush me because it's my last convention ever with Shadow and Bone cast and I'll be mopey after that anyway, so a possibility that I may not be able to gather as many memories as I intended at first, and it's because THINGS DON'T WORK like they should and I'm forced to pay for shit service like this... yeah. I'm sure you understand why it's extremely annoying and unfair.

About the "some stuff", I'm HIGHLY doubtful about it because basically it'd mean a bunch of extra money for me to spend every month and I just can't believe that's possible before the institute who's paying confirms it. Everyone around me says it's true and my calculations are 100% correct etc, but like? I just can't believe that before they themselves confirm it. If that's indeed true, then everything is fine and I'll forgive them all their sins because I'd be able to buy more than what my initial plans included. But again, I highly HIGHLY doubt that because that just can't be true unless I'm living in some kind of fever dream, not with this government ����

[annesoftheisland]

But grass was growing green in sheltered spots and Gilbert had found some pale, sweet arbutus in a hidden corner. He came up from the park, his hands full of it.

Anne was sitting on the big gray boulder in the orchard looking at the poem of a bare, birchen bough hanging against the pale red sunset with the very perfection of grace. She was building a castle in air—a wondrous mansion whose sunlit courts and stately halls were steeped in Araby’s perfume, and where she reigned queen and chatelaine. She frowned as she saw Gilbert coming through the orchard. Of late she had managed not to be left alone with Gilbert. But he had caught her fairly now; and even Rusty had deserted her.

Gilbert sat down beside her on the boulder and held out his Mayflowers.

“Don’t these remind you of home and our old schoolday picnics, Anne?”

Anne took them and buried her face in them.

“I’m in Mr. Silas Sloane’s barrens this very minute,” she said rapturously.

“I suppose you will be there in reality in a few days?”

“No, not for a fortnight. I’m going to visit with Phil in Bolingbroke before I go home. You’ll be in Avonlea before I will.”

“No, I shall not be in Avonlea at all this summer, Anne. I’ve been offered a job in the Daily News office and I’m going to take it.”

“Oh,” said Anne vaguely. She wondered what a whole Avonlea summer would be like without Gilbert. Somehow she did not like the prospect. “Well,” she concluded flatly, “it is a good thing for you, of course.”

“Yes, I’ve been hoping I would get it. It will help me out next year.”

“You mustn’t work too hard,” said Anne, without any very clear idea of what she was saying. She wished desperately that Phil would come out. “You’ve studied very constantly this winter. Isn’t this a delightful evening? Do you know, I found a cluster of white violets under that old twisted tree over there today? I felt as if I had discovered a gold mine.”

“You are always discovering gold mines,” said Gilbert—also absently.

“Let us go and see if we can find some more,” suggested Anne eagerly. “I’ll call Phil and—”

“Never mind Phil and the violets just now, Anne,” said Gilbert quietly, taking her hand in a clasp from which she could not free it. “There is something I want to say to you.”

“Oh, don’t say it,” cried Anne, pleadingly. “Don’t—please, Gilbert.”

“I must. Things can’t go on like this any longer. Anne, I love you. You know I do. I—I can’t tell you how much. Will you promise me that some day you’ll be my wife?”

“I—I can’t,” said Anne miserably. “Oh, Gilbert—you—you’ve spoiled everything.”

“Don’t you care for me at all?” Gilbert asked after a very dreadful pause, during which Anne had not dared to look up.

“Not—not in that way. I do care a great deal for you as a friend. But I don’t love you, Gilbert.”

“But can’t you give me some hope that you will—yet?”

“No, I can’t,” exclaimed Anne desperately. “I never, never can love you—in that way—Gilbert. You must never speak of this to me again.”

There was another pause—so long and so dreadful that Anne was driven at last to look up. Gilbert’s face was white to the lips. And his eyes—but Anne shuddered and looked away. There was nothing romantic about this. Must proposals be either grotesque or—horrible? Could she ever forget Gilbert’s face?

“Is there anybody else?” he asked at last in a low voice.

“No—no,” said Anne eagerly. “I don’t care for any one like that—and I like you better than anybody else in the world, Gilbert. And we must—we must go on being friends, Gilbert.”

Gilbert gave a bitter little laugh.

“Friends! Your friendship can’t satisfy me, Anne. I want your love—and you tell me I can never have that.”

“I’m sorry. Forgive me, Gilbert,” was all Anne could say. Where, oh, where were all the gracious and graceful speeches wherewith, in imagination, she had been wont to dismiss rejected suitors?

Gilbert released her hand gently.

“There isn’t anything to forgive. There have been times when I thought you did care. I’ve deceived myself, that’s all. Goodbye, Anne.”

Anne got herself to her room, sat down on her window seat behind the pines, and cried bitterly. She felt as if something incalculably precious had gone out of her life. It was Gilbert’s friendship, of course. Oh, why must she lose it after this fashion?

“What is the matter, honey?” asked Phil, coming in through the moonlit gloom.

Anne did not answer. At that moment she wished Phil were a thousand miles away.

“I suppose you’ve gone and refused Gilbert Blythe. You are an idiot, Anne Shirley!”

“Do you call it idiotic to refuse to marry a man I don’t love?” said Anne coldly, goaded to reply.

“You don’t know love when you see it. You’ve tricked something out with your imagination that you think love, and you expect the real thing to look like that. There, that’s the first sensible thing I’ve ever said in my life. I wonder how I managed it?”

“Phil,” pleaded Anne, “please go away and leave me alone for a little while. My world has tumbled into pieces. I want to reconstruct it.”

“Without any Gilbert in it?” said Phil, going.

A world without any Gilbert in it! Anne repeated the words drearily. Would it not be a very lonely, forlorn place? Well, it was all Gilbert’s fault. He had spoiled their beautiful comradeship. She must just learn to live without it.

Anne of the Island - Gilbert Speaks, Chapter 20

[hiroshotreplica]

im sorry you probably dont want this in your askbox but i dont really think it makes sense to talk about madness and leafi the same way for a lot of reasons. Idk maybe im just seeing a transgirl getting relentlessly dogpiled because of old screenshots and having an over-empathetic response but fuck man she was 13 when those screenshots were taken. Shes not even 18 right now shes crazy young for her level of play (like literally should be community banned for lying about being 13 for multiple years during splatoon 2 to get around discord community guidelines but thats a tangent). She said in her apology she was trying to fit in with a real shitty group of people she doesn't associate with anymore and fuck man im probably giving herself way too much grace cause i seeing a terrifying exaggeration of something i went through on a public scale but like people are editing HER face onto memes and talking shit about HER and constantly misgendering her when madness is not only an actual adult but has been ACTUALLY DOING THIS SHIT RECENTLY. im not saying the shit she was saying wasnt heinous but fuck man this isnt gonna help her and i dont want the dumass bullshit she said when she was a middle schooler to ruin the rest of her life. sorry for the white girl mental illness blast but there is important context in this ranty anxiety and projection goop

anon asked for a tldr for the situation w/ jackpot as a whole, which included leafi's part in the situation. as the post was about how jackpot as a team has made racist statements. i chose screenshots that put my point clearly, which just so happened to be screenshots with madness and leafi. i'll go more into it here, though

i did not mean to compare her to madness when including screenshots of her old statements. i was compiling the most blatant screenshots from the thread i had originally linked in a prior post. i was going to include other things, but didnt have the time to compile them and was beginning to get stressed about being the source of this info on tumblr.

i was also going to include this video of her saying racist statements in 2024, but i didnt want to include a twitter link for an anon that couldnt access twitter. im realizing i shouldve done so

i do feel bad for her getting involved with a group of people THAT bad if she was truly that ignorant when she was younger, but thats where my sympathy ends. she still acted racist and still associated with clearly racist people even when she was older and more mature. ive learned since making that post that she was born in 2007. 16 is still an age where you should be mature enough to understand that those comments are racist, even with america's shitty public education system glossing over racism.

i definitely see why this can look like people dogpiling on a trans woman though, and the people doing memes and editing her into them in general about this situation are disgusting. i had no idea she was trans and that people were misgendering her. anyone making this situation about her being trans are awful and not people i stand by.

but all of that, including her being skilled despite her age, still doesnt forgive or erase her actions. nothing like that does for the other members of jackpot that have also stated racist things. nothing like that does for any other comp splatoon player that has said anything similar. the apology she put out was needed, but from what ive heard from others, it wasnt the best. she is writing another apology, though, so it couldve just been rushed.

no one has to accept her apology, either. as a white person myself, im not one that should even be one to accept her apology. it wasnt an apology for me, and it isnt one for you, either (if you are white as you say but i might be misreading). people should not be painted in a negative light for not accepting her apology even if it were an amazing one.

the way some people are reacting to this situation is not okay, but she still did awful things that she should be held accountable for. the other guilty members of jackpot are not better than her, but theyve all still said fucked up things. none of them have done anything to prove they arent racist, and theres only more evidence coming out that proves that they have been, so its hard to process at the moment.

could things change? yes, of course, but as of right now, leafi has stated racist things as recent as 2024 and put out a poor apology trying to defend herself. people are handling it poorly and trying to make it about her identity and making memes on it when it is not the right thing to do. these racist claims are being put w/ other racist claims made by other jackpot team members so it was included in my tldr post about the entire situation.

i apologize for poor wording in this, im not the best w/ these kinds of posts

[krirebr]

Hello my friends!

As you may know, 2024 has been a rough mental health year for me. Depression and anxiety are an ongoing struggle. And unfortunately, that's bled into my life here.

I've realized recently that I put a lot of pressure on myself in how I interact with people. Everywhere, but here too. I really love it here, and I love all of you! I want to stay here as long as possible!! But that means I'm going to have to change some things in order to make that sustainable. Because right now, wanting to be able to do everything and not being able to has kind of made me just freeze and not be able to do anything. And then I feel awful. This is absolutely a me problem. You're all so great and what I'm going to outline below are probably obvious boundaries to all of you. But I'm saying it in writing to hopefully alleviate a little of the guilt I will inevitably feel when I start enacting them.

First and foremost, it's ok if I take breaks from writing every once in a while. If I don't produce anything new in a month, I need to trust that I won't lose all of my friends and followers. Because tumblr isn't a job and I need to stop treating it like it is. And not every idea needs to be expanded on, not every one-shot needs to become an au. Some ideas might just live in a series of little riffs or answers to asks and that's ok! That's great! It's ok to keep things short, sweet, and fun when that's what I need.

I'm also going to start forgiving myself when I can't read and comment on every single incredible work you all post. This refers to time limits, obviously, but content too. There are times, for example, when reading smut is just not what I want to do. And that's ok! I know that you know that, but I don't always know that. So I'm going to start giving myself a lot more grace when I get behind in my reading or skip something someone I love has written because the content just isn't for me. So if you start seeing me in your notes a little bit less, that's why. I still love you.

I think I'm going to clear out my ask box and start fresh. I'm sorry. I love you and I'm so happy whenever you want to interact with me. But trying to be perfect in how I answer these means that when I don't answer them right away, they just build up and start haunting me and that makes answering the new ones even harder, because I feel like I need to answer the old ones first. There are a couple that I'll probably try to get out before I purge, but not in a full drabble or what I feel like I should be doing. I need to understand that I can do quick, off the cuff, brief answers to these things. Nothing here needs to be perfect.

Ok, I think those are the major things right now. I hope this wasn't too weird and/or embarrassing. I just wanted to share where my head is at. I'll say it again and I'll keep saying it: I love you. You're great. I'm so so lucky to have made the friends here that I have. I appreciate each of you so much. And if, in the future, you see me getting super stressed out about what is supposed to be a fun hobby and community, please point me back here and make me read this again. 💜💜💜💜💜