#and sometimes it's so glaringly obvious that it's impossible to ignore

[bandzboy]

i've seen a lot of people say that the talk about companies being shitty makes them feel uncomfortable and i just want you to ask yourselves why that is. why do you feel that way? is it because you don't wanna face the reality of this industry? is it because you wanna enjoy the music while ignoring the fact that idols are suffering because of these companies?

i am not exactly saying it's the best feeling in the world to know this as a fan but there are people online that just wanna avoid this altogether and i feel that this is extremely disrespectful to the artists that you support. especially when so many of them have been open about the things they go through in this industry this year alone i just feel like trying to ignore this and saying it's "uncomfortable" is not gonna cut it and it just looks like you are dismissing the problem.

acknowledging and discussing these problems is how we can truly support these artists because they incredibly need it right now. as a kpop listener, you have to acknowledge how harsh this industry is. there's no other way around it. this is a pivotal time to talk about these things openly. if we want actual change to happen, we need to keep pushing it and make idols more comfortable to speak up about the mistreatment they go through

[swampgh0stt]

This was originally my piece for the Freak Show zine, which I was supposed to be a guest writer for. However, there were personal reasons for me dropping, as well as some discomfort for the way certain topics were being treated in the server. I haven't posted anything MHA related for a while, but I'm slowly coming back around to it. So, I might as well share this. cw: ableism, trauma episode, heat stroke, vomiting Geten is not a Himura in this; I've always written him as an Inuk from Alaska, & it's going to stay that way.

Geten had his suspicions for a while now. 

His co-captain would often miss meetings, which was usually chalked up to his careless nature. The Ice User could agree with such, if not for the other odd behaviors: Delayed responses to one-on-one conversations, which Geten originally mused as nothing more than Dabi’s idiocy showing itself. Sometimes, Dabi would just respond to things that weren’t even said, as if the words had muddied up in his mind. Was it just an act when he was withdrawn from group conversations, or something more? To remove himself from group settings when his fellow dogs from the League were quick to indulge themselves? 

He was in the company of allies, but always alert. Dabi would study whatever room he found himself in, reading the space like prey awaiting a stalking predator. 

Yes, there was the possible explanation that Dabi just didn’t trust anyone. That was glaringly obvious with the way he carried himself, detached from the rest of them. Even his own pack of mongrels would make attempts to include him, but often to no avail (from Geten’s observations). In his opinion though, there was a clear distinction between his obvious distrust and his hypervigilance -- which lead Geten to his hypothesis: 

“Dabi’s deaf.” 

Re-Destro paused in his own long-winded ramblings, most of which had gone unnoticed by the Ice Man. Ignoring his Grand Commander’s words in favor of musing over a mutt like Dabi? That was even more shameful than he cared to admit. If pressed on why he bothered to waste the time, there was a perfectly good excuse: Liability. A co-captain who struggled to hear? Was that really who they wanted in a position of power? 

The Grand Commander stared expectantly, prompting Geten to continue once he realized. “Not fully… Obviously,” he mumbled. “But partially, I’m sure.” 

Re-Destro hummed in thought. He knew better than to question his most loyal’s keen eye. Unlike most of the Liberation Army, Geten was not born and raised in an urban environment. Hell, Geten wasn’t even from Japan. He had grown up on the untamed Alaskan coast, keeping alive a culture that had been pushed to the brink of extinction. His use of foreign practices and (what Re-Destro assumed was) a dead language made the Ice User invaluable. He saw things that often went missed by others. And then there was his combat abilities… 

“Leave him alone.”

The immediate shutdown was ill-received. Geten balked at his Grand Commander (because he didn’t care about the loss to the mutts, Re-Destro was his leader till the day he died). “Why?” it was unlike him to question any decision Rikiya made, but recently… 

“Because it doesn’t matter.” Rikiya waved off the faux concern with a scoff. “Shigaraki knows what he has.” It was impossible for him to not realize, right? “It’s none of your concern.”

That was not the answer he wanted to hear, but Geten chose to bite his tongue for the rest of the meeting. He could go vent out his frustrations after.

-----

Fire was his strength. There wasn’t much in this world that could stand against the destructive, incredible power of fire. Razing down entire rotting ecosystems, just to breathe life back and make way for something better. It was supposed to be a gift, in this world, until it was wielded by the wrong hand. In regards to the gift his dear father bestowed upon him, Touya was in no shortage of drawbacks. The snide remarks of his patchwork skin meant nothing to him now, having made peace with that necessary sacrifice so long ago. He felt accomplished when he pushed himself beyond his own limits, triumphantly rejoicing in his mind to a man that would not hear him, over a younger sibling that was not around. 

His Conquests, as he so happily claimed: Overcoming a previous version of himself that was cast aside. The rest of the world had ripped away any validation to his own existence, but Touya carved out his own. 

He just had to entertain the whims of Shigaraki and the League, until the time was right. Most of his days were boring recently, leaving him time to plan (when he wasn’t keeping an eye on Hawks). He ran through his scheme multiple times a day, envisioning the execution right down to every fine detail. Touya nestled back into his pillows, languishing in a soft mattress while he ignored whatever bullshit assigned duties were given for the day. He couldn’t care less about the PLF, or the cult-like followers within it. 

And then there was his co-captain. 

There was a pounding at the door, pulling a grimace back on Touya’s face as he sat upright and stared. He didn’t bother getting up to open the door, nor did he need to. The Ice User slammed it open for him. “Anigit!” Get out. And his tone was as icy cold as his Quirk. 

Touya’s blue eyes rolled before he fell back on his bed again. 

Geten was in no mood for it. “Are you stupid?” He snapped back, resting his hands on his hips. “Too dumb to execute simple tasks properly? That’s why you hide away in here all the time--” 

“No,” Touya interrupted. “Just not dumb enough to play your goofy cult games--”

“You think you’re so much better than everyone else,” Geten ran right over his snide remarks with venom dripping from his words. “But you’re useless. And even worse, you’re useless with a bad attitude.”

Finally, Touya stood, stomping down on the ground. He sulked out of his room, his heart pounding as the Ice User’s words nestled in, reverberating through his mind. They bounced around, his words morphing and deepening, taking on the same tone as Endeavor. 

Endeavor. 

His blue eyes glared ahead as he stomped down the hallway, ignoring whatever barking Geten was doing behind him. Hands were shoved into his pockets as his shoulders slumped forward. He wasn’t sure when his Quirk began responding to his emotions (Touya was sure he had them in check!), but it was hard to miss the bright blue glow illuminating off him in the hallway. ‘No, not again.’ He had grown beyond this. 

And yet, there he stood again-- brought to a pause by the sudden pain of heat dancing across his skin. The small space was filled with the crackle of flames springing to life, overwhelming him as abruptly as the rage he felt. 

He needed to get control. He couldn’t get control.

“Dabi..!” Geten’s voice was nothing more than a muffled plea, drowned in the roar of blue fire. “Dabi, that’s enough!” 

The heat was unbearable as he inched closer, causing sweat to bead down his sides. He was so used to the antagonistic relationship they shared, he didn’t think twice of it until now-- now, when Dabi’s fire was raging out of control. Now, when there was a legitimate threat to the Paranormal Liberation Front, to their cause, to Re-Destro himself! Geten frosted his hands over in a thin layer of ice and pulled the hood of his parka just a bit tighter. He dared take another step forward as frustration twisted his stomach in knots. “You damn crybaby!” He raised his voice, his throat protesting against the smoke he inhaled. 

Touya dropped to his knees, his fingers threaded in black hair. Icy blue eyes were as wide as saucers, staring at nothing in particular. His thoughts were racing, taking him away from the training arena, away from Deika all together. He was back in his childhood home, pleading for validation all over again. He could clearly see his mother’s panicked gray eyes staring him down, could hear his father tearing Shoto away with declarations of his own importance and separation from the rest of his siblings. 

Never good enough, just as Enji had proven time and time again-- Geten reaffirmed with his snarls. He caught Touya at the wrong time, and now he couldn’t bring his own flames to heel. 

With a violent heave, Touya nearly face planted against the floor. He barely managed to catch himself as he lurched forward, unsteady hands supporting his trembling body. Saliva dripped from his lips, threatening to spill whatever contents were in his stomach. Too much heat. He couldn’t stop. He would surely burn up--

All at once, his fire was snuffed out. Ice water washed over him, dousing out the fire where he had failed to do so himself. A white boot came up and violently kicked his shaking form to the floor.

Geten slammed his heel down to pin his co-captain, and ripped the hood of his parka back. “You bastard!” He shouted, his throat scratchy and voice strained. “Taima!” That’s enough. “You could have burned the whole complex down! Didn’t you hear me!?” 

Dabi was silent for the first few moments, staring out in utter confusion. Didn’t you hear me? The words barely registered in his mind, but he dared not look up at the one who started it all: “No…” His own voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke. 

“Qanuikkavit!?” What’s wrong!? Geten seethed, his eyes wild as he stared down at his pathetic co-captain. “What the Hell happened!?” 

Touya’s trembling form curled further in on itself, the nausea and pain from nearly roasting alive (again) rooted deep in his gut. Geten finally stepped away and knelt down beside the Flame User; was that guilt he felt? He let out a shaky breath, trying to calm his nerves so he could focus more on Dabi. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, his voice still scratchy from smoke inhalation. 

For once, he would concede that he had gone too far.

[wutlaikalikes]

Happy 4th Anniversary HOLOSTARS!!

fit all of HOLOSTARS in one meme challenge!! JK seriously though, i geniunely enjoy watching them!! template from Twitter

a bit of story:

I discovered Holostars through curiousity. I obviously know who Kizuna Ai, its impossible to miss her presence as an anime fan and gamer. But I wasn’t that curious to try and find other vtubers like her. It was during the pandemic that I came across Sakura Miko’s GTA clip. It was fittingly funny, aiming at pedestrians while shouting “go home”.

2022, rolled in and majority of us are still stuck at home and I finally asked my brother what is the deal with Sakura Miko. He explained and suggested to check out Korone and HoloMyth. I watched them for a while then I thought, why are all Hololive just girls?

So I searched on YT for male vtubers and pleasantly introduced Kanae and Kuzuha from Nijisanji. I love listening to music so I dipped into their content a bit more specially on the music side, the ChroNoir side. I was then introduced to Kaida Haru. He got a good voice, so I kept clicking on his singing clips. Among the mix of recommended clips, is a weirdly designed male vtuber and I kept ignoring it. But everytime a video ends, there he is. I folded and finally clicked on his video.

Believe me, I was taken a back by his voice. I was instantly hooked and I looked him up. I was kinda surprised that he is part of Hololive or more specifically Hololive Production’s male division, Holostars.

Before you ask, didn’t Calli collaborated with Rikka? Yes, I came across that but I wasn’t into Myth as much as you would think. It was kinda hard for me to get into her fandom cause of how bad I felt towards them. If you are gonna argue, then why don’t you stay away from her ‘fandom’ and just enjoy her content. Sure I can do that, but sometimes you naturally wanted to know how others perceive her and her awesomeness. And although I know the loudest voice isn’t always the majority, it felt like poison to always come across them all the time.

Eventually, I got curious enough to check out the other boys for Holostars. Initially, I was just watching clips of them every now and then. At the time, I was still trying to catch up with Hololive EN.

Then one day in July, I decided to just subscribe to all 10 of them. (yea, I subscribed to Kira not knowing he already graduated). And during that night, Arurandeisu was streaming Minecraft. I love Minecraft, although at the time I wasn’t playing it. I was curious as to what he was doing.

He was trying to get a rare blue axolotl. At the time, I already noticed his view count. Compared to Belmond Banderas, the only Nijisanji member I subscribed to (you’d think I subscribed to Kanae, Kuzuha and Kaida Haru but I never did). I kinda felt bad but I stayed cause I wanted to know how long he’ll take to get one. After 70+ collective hours of Minecraft streams (a bit less for me), he finally got one. I was happy for him but I’m even happier to stay!

I will be honest, I studied basic Japanese and I still have more to learn but despite the glaringly obvious language barrier (not just for me but the rest of the international fans of Holostars) and my reliance on translated clips, Holostars were enjoyable to watch! They are all talented whether its singing, talking/hosting, gaming, and even a bit of fanservice. They are comedians and idols much like the rest of Hololive.

But what made me stay even more are the huge love and support ホロスタ民 (horosutamin / people of Holostars or Holostars nation) / Starlights show. Despite the presence of ‘doubters’, Starlights would counter with how much they support Holostars. Seriously, everytime a doubter say something, Holostars would trend. Sure, it can’t be helped, ホロスタ民 / Starlight also have vocal ones but majority would shout with love and support instead.

I’m seriously happy to find Holostars and its community. I wasn’t keen on joining fandoms before but here, I’m content.

HAPPY 4TH ANNIVERSARY HOLOSTARS!! I wish for more years to come and I will be there every step of the way!

[alertfacts]

The History of the Cricket Testicular Guard: When Was It Invented?

Cricket, often dubbed the gentleman's game, is full of rich traditions, intense rivalries, and the sound of leather on willow. But, let’s be real—there’s nothing gentlemanly about a cricket ball hurtling towards your, uh, family jewels at lightning speed! That's where the humble testicular guard, also affectionately known as the box, comes in. But have you ever wondered, when was cricket testicular guard invented? How did this essential piece of equipment come to be, and what led to its development?

In this article, we'll dive deep into the history of the cricket testicular guard, exploring its origins, the evolution of its design, and why it's as crucial to the game as a good pair of batting gloves. Buckle up (or should I say, strap in?), because we're about to take a fascinating journey through the world of cricket, where protection is just as important as precision.

A Painful Beginning: Why the Testicular Guard Was Needed

Cricket has been around for centuries, but the early days of the game were a bit rougher—literally. Imagine playing without helmets, pads, or gloves, let alone a testicular guard. Players had to rely on their reflexes and, well, hope for the best. But as the sport grew more competitive and the balls started flying faster, the need for protection became glaringly obvious. And when it comes to protection, there's no area more delicate than the male anatomy.

Early Cricket (16th-18th Century): The game of cricket started gaining popularity in England during the 16th century. However, protective gear was virtually nonexistent. Batsmen stood exposed to the risks of being hit by the cricket ball, which was becoming harder and faster with time.

The First Recorded Injury: It wasn’t long before the first documented incidents of painful, and sometimes tragic, injuries made headlines. There’s a famous story from the early 19th century where a cricketer took a direct hit to the groin, resulting in a rather unfortunate end to his cricketing days. This incident, among others, sparked the realization that something needed to be done.

As cricket evolved, so did the understanding that safety measures were necessary to protect players from serious injuries. But the question remained: when was cricket testicular guard invented?

The Birth of the Testicular Guard: A Revolutionary Idea

The invention of the cricket testicular guard can be traced back to the late 19th century. As cricket became more organized and the matches more intense, the need for protective gear became impossible to ignore.

The First Testicular Guard: 1874

Believe it or not, the first recorded use of a cricket testicular guard dates back to 1874. It was crafted from a simple, yet sturdy, material—leather. The idea was to create a protective barrier that could absorb the impact of a cricket ball and prevent severe injuries. Although it was rudimentary by today’s standards, it was a game-changer for cricketers at the time.

Material: The original guards were made from padded leather, designed to be worn inside the trousers. It wasn't particularly comfortable, but it got the job done.

Design: The design was basic—just a cup-shaped piece of leather stitched onto a fabric belt. The concept was revolutionary, though, as it provided the first real protection for cricketers’ most vulnerable area.

This early version of the cricket testicular guard quickly gained popularity among players who had previously been playing without any protection. While some cricketers were initially reluctant to wear this new contraption, it didn't take long for them to see the benefits.

The Evolution of the Guard: Improvements and Innovations

As the years went by, the design of the cricket testicular guard continued to evolve. Manufacturers experimented with different materials, trying to strike the perfect balance between protection and comfort. Here’s a quick timeline of how the cricket testicular guard developed over the decades:

1890s – The Rubber Guard: The leather guard eventually gave way to rubber, which offered better shock absorption and a more comfortable fit. This innovation was welcomed by players who were tired of the stiff, heavy leather guards.

1920s – The Introduction of Plastic: The 1920s saw the introduction of plastic into the design of the testicular guard. Plastic was lighter and more durable, making it a popular choice. This was also the era when the guard began to be worn outside the trousers, held in place by a jockstrap.

1970s – The Ergonomic Design: Fast forward to the 1970s, and the testicular guard underwent another major transformation. Ergonomic designs were introduced, ensuring a better fit and greater comfort. The guards became more streamlined, reducing chafing and allowing for greater mobility on the field.

1990s – Advanced Materials: The 1990s brought advancements in materials science, and the testicular guard benefited immensely. High-impact plastics, along with foam padding, made the guards even more effective at absorbing the force of a cricket ball. Ventilation features were also added to prevent excessive sweating—a much-appreciated improvement!

21st Century – Modern-Day Guards: Today’s testicular guards are the result of over a century of innovation. Modern guards are lightweight, yet incredibly strong, thanks to the use of advanced composite materials. They are designed to fit snugly and comfortably, with features like anti-microbial linings and moisture-wicking fabrics.

Why the Testicular Guard Remains Essential

While the technology and design of the cricket testicular guard have come a long way, the fundamental reason for its existence remains the same: protection. No cricketer would dare step onto the field without one, especially given the sheer speed and force of modern-day bowling.

Key Reasons the Guard is Indispensable

Speed of the Game: With bowlers regularly clocking speeds of over 90 mph, the risk of serious injury is high. The testicular guard acts as the last line of defense, ensuring that a well-aimed ball doesn’t lead to a career-ending injury.

Psychological Confidence: Knowing you’re protected allows players to focus on their game without the fear of injury. This psychological edge can be the difference between playing confidently and hesitating in the face of fast bowling.

Tradition and Culture: The testicular guard has become an integral part of cricket’s culture. It's one of those pieces of equipment that every cricketer learns to appreciate from a young age. It’s a rite of passage, almost like earning your first set of whites.

The Future of Testicular Guards: What's Next?

As with all sports equipment, the testicular guard continues to evolve. Manufacturers are constantly looking for ways to improve comfort, durability, and protection. With advancements in technology, who knows what the future holds? We might see testicular guards with built-in sensors that alert players to potential damage or even guards that are custom-fitted using 3D printing technology.

One thing is certain: as long as cricket remains a fast-paced, high-impact sport, the testicular guard will continue to be an essential part of every player’s kit.

Conclusion

So, when was cricket testicular guard invented? The answer takes us back to 1874, a time when cricketers realized that protecting their most delicate assets was just as important as honing their batting skills. Since then, the testicular guard has come a long way, evolving from simple leather cups to high-tech, ergonomic shields that offer maximum protection with minimal discomfort.

The cricket testicular guard is more than just a piece of equipment—it’s a symbol of the sport’s evolution and a reminder that safety should never be an afterthought. Whether you’re a weekend warrior or a professional cricketer, strapping on your testicular guard is a must before facing down a fast bowler. It’s one small piece of gear that makes a big difference! materials like rubber and plastic, improving both comfort and protection. Today’s testicular guards are crafted from advanced composites and ergonomic designs, ensuring that cricketers can focus on their game without worrying about injury. This evolution underscores the ongoing commitment to player safety in the sport of cricket

[namisweatheria]

I think those who have skeptical reactions when people attribute character design and casting choices to colorism do so because they think it's like, an extreme thing to accuse. They don't realize how incredibly, totally pervasive it is. I'm only someone who has been paying attention for awhile, not someone who is an expert, but I can't think of a more glaringly omnipresent prejudice. You really only have to have an inkling of how much of the world is just totally open about it without shame to start realizing it's truly everywhere.

I'm not going into detailed examples because I don't feel justified in casually reminding people of things that hurt them directly and not me, and this post isn't really for convincing people who aren't interested in being convinced anyways. It's just to get out what I've been thinking about lately which is how there's a barrier to productive discussions about problems in media from people who view basic analysis as uncomfortable, extreme, threatening, and unreasonably serious. When for a lot of us it's really just cathartic, obvious, reasonable, and interesting.

Of course the online culture of moral posturing and dogpiling creates this view as well, rejecting discourse wholesale isn't an unreasonable defense mechanism when you don't feel capable of navigating these conversations. I definitely did that when I was younger and I was better off for it. There's not a lot of forgiveness for youthful idiocy or inevitable mistakes in general in online spaces.

Unfortunately the offline culture has a very different but sometimes indistinguishable problem of prioritizing privileged comfort over truthful productive address of harm. I think people often assume online that all reluctance to discuss manifestations of structural issues is coming from that place. And often it is! But online is a dangerous space to get things wrong and I think ignoring that and assuming the worst of everyone isn't productive. When there's a preponderance of genuinely out-of-proportion and incredibly hostile posts it can make people jaded and reluctant to take anything on here seriously. Which frankly is their right, since it's not like online posting is any kind of obligation or activism and we have no idea what people may or may not be doing in real life.

I'm DEFINITELY not trying to tell anyone what to think or feel about people being resistant to recognizing colorism in media, that's absolutely not my place or my interest, that's just the specific topic I've been thinking about and seeing the most lately, due to what they've done to Usopp and others in the latest One Piece arc. I just keep thinking of reactions I've seen to the discussion that basically amount to thinking There's No Reason. It's because they see the obvious, only real explanation, and posts pointing it out, as Extreme. Which is very frustrating but also is a behavior that makes sense (not meaning it's right) when you think about it.

It's one of those things that's obvious, inescapable, deeply harmful but factually mundane; that has the difference of a light switch in terms of whether it can be seen or not. Once the light is on it's just impossible to miss. But a lot of people are simply living in the dark. For reasons that reflect badly on our culture, or for reasons that reflect badly on them as people, or both.

It'd be easier to turn the light on if it was less of a big deal to people I think. Like before getting people to accept specific instances of it, first you have to get them to understand how normal it is. It's so, so normal. However that comes with the understanding that a lot of the worst things in the world are normal, and that's why they're the worst. Not just because they're terrible in and of themselves, but because they wield the overwhelming, invisible, sinister power of normalcy.

And that's a level of de-familiarization that tends to make people step back as if from something extreme. It's too perspective-altering to seem reasonable anymore to a certain kind of, normal person.

[stennnn06]

supercorp 83

83- another sleepless night, huh? writing prompts

and here is the post reveal version of this prompt. i guess we could say it’s somewhere toward the finale, where instead of hand shakes and agreeing to take on lex, they actually ya know... make up. bonus (helpful?) andrea rojas because i do what i want.

Kara slams the backspace key of her laptop in frustration. She watches the letters of the few words she's written get swallowed whole, returning her to the beginning. It's almost midnight, and she's no closer to finishing this stupid article for Andrea than when she started. She sighs loudly, staring at the screen. She doesn't want to write about millennial fashion, or any fashion for that matter, but she has no choice. Andrea made it clear that she's on a limited beat, and an even tighter leash, and all of it is just impossible.

"Burning the midnight oil, Ms. Danvers?" Andrea's voice drifts over the quiet din. There's no one else in the office, which means no one to run interference from Andrea's prying eyes. Kara doesn't want to talk to her boss, and she definitely doesn't want to give an update. She wants to stew over her blank document in peace, and let her mind drift over more important things. She doesn't want to face Andrea's smiling scrutiny, or her sarcastic tone, or think about the way she reminds her so much of Lena that she wants to rip her own hair out.

Kara grits her teeth in frustration, nodding silently. "Yep," she mutters, keeping her face trained on her laptop. Andrea appears at her door in seconds.

"Well, you're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

Kara huffs. It's condescending, and she knows it. Andrea thinks she's lazy, and argumentative, and honestly, maybe she's right. Kara is tired of caring. She isn't here to please Andrea. She thought journalism was about something more -- about relentlessly pursuing a story no matter what, in order to expose the truth. Instead, she's writing about "athleisure" and answering reader questions about high waisted jeans. She ignores Andrea and glances at her phone. She hasn't had a text message in hours, not even from Alex. It's a quiet night in National City and she should be thankful, but really she's just anxious. There's a familiar name in her phone that hasn't reached out in so long, it's beginning to feel infinite. She doesn't know if she and Lena will ever get back to where they were, even if they aren't truly at odds anymore. Maybe there has been too much said, maybe there has been too much damage done. The lack of closure is enough to drive her to distraction. But her phone remains silent, with only the clock to keep her company.

11:45 and silent.

"I'm glad to see you working hard on this," Andrea says again, blithely unaware of Kara's attempts to deflect her conversation.

"Yep, just focused on this deadline," Kara says through gritted teeth, not even trying to hide her annoyance. Andrea only comes around when she wants something, so Kara braces for a bizarre request. She's not in the mood to play nice or get into an extended conversation, but she also can't afford to get fired.

Andrea pauses at the threshold, pursing her lips. Kara feels the way she lingers, but she chooses to ignore it.

"Can I give you some advice?" Andrea eventually asks, approaching slowly. It's rhetorical, Kara knows. She's going to say whatever she wants anyway. Kara's cheeks go hot. She wants to tell her to mind her business. That no, she's fine in the advice department, thanks. But instead, she simply looks up and offers a blank stare.

"Go see her," Andrea says directly. "Don't let time pass you by."

"What do you--"

"I've known Lena for longer than most--" Andrea interrupts. The way she says Lena's name stops Kara from arguing. "And I've hurt her more than anyone."

"I'm not sure about that," Kara mumbles, rolling her eyes.

"Trust me," Andrea insists. She takes a step in toward Kara's desk, which forces Kara's attention to float to her face. Andrea's eyes are cast down, and she chews on her lip the way she does when she's particularly displeased. "It pains me to say this, but I know how she feels about you."

"What do you mean?" Something shifts in Kara's chest at the suggestion.

Andrea's eyebrow raises sharply. "Don't make me spell it out, Kara. You're not as naive as everyone thinks."

"Okay," Kara gulps.

"She's already forgiven you," Andrea says matter-of-factly. "She just needs help admitting it."

"I don't know," Kara says, her heart rate picking up considerably. Can she really trust Andrea to be acting in her best interest? "Why are you helping me?"

"It's not for you," Andrea says sharply. She glances at her watch, clicking her tongue. She looks back at Kara, her mouth slightly open in exasperation. "What are you waiting for?"

Kara slaps her laptop closed. "Thanks, Andrea," she says, shouldering past her in an effort to get to the elevator before Andrea reconsiders.

"Thank me by finishing that article."

It's been ages since Kara has gone to Lena's apartment as herself. As Kara. She toys with the idea of landing on the balcony with her cape billowing slightly behind her, but it doesn't feel right. She doesn't want the crest. Not tonight.

She lands softly and discards the suit, opting for the front entrance. A new beginning, as herself. 

It's past midnight by the time she approaches, but Lena’s light is on, as always. Kara knocks softly.

There's a quiet rustling, and a muffled "Who is it?" behind the door. Kara clears her throat.

"It's me," she says, her voice cracking. "It's--"

The door opens before she can finish.

"Kara," Lena breathes, her eyes wide with surprise. "Is everything okay?"

"Hi," Kara says quickly. Her mouth is terribly dry. Sometimes she forgets just how stunning Lena is. Especially when she hasn't seen her for awhile. It's always unnerving, no matter how many times it happens. "Yes! Yes, everything is fine. I just noticed your light was on. Another sleepless night, huh?" Kara chuckles nervously, unsure what to do. She didn't actually plan before coming over here, which is glaringly obvious now that she's nervous and tongue tied.

"You seem surprised," Lena says softly, a teasing smile on her lips.  "Do you want to come in?"

"Thanks," Kara says, relieved. She follows Lena into her apartment, over to her couch. They haven't sat on it together since Kara thought they were still friends, when she tried to make up for her transgressions by bringing her all her favorite foods. The memory aches in her chest.

They sit in awkward silence, fidgeting amongst themselves until they both start speaking.

"I--"

"Kara--"

Lena's cheeks flush an attractive crimson, and Kara's entire body feels molten. They both bring their eyes sheepishly to the ground, careful to avoid disrupting each other again.

"You can go," Kara insists after a pause.

Lena studies her hands, working her fingers delicately. Her wrist flexes, and Kara is mesmerized. She always had the loveliest, most capable hands. Lena catches her eye finally.

"You aren't wearing your glasses," Lena muses, and it’s so unexpected that Kara unconsciously brings her hand to her eyes. It's a journey of emotions -- first, fear that she's forgotten something crucial, that she's showed up completely unprepared and wrong. But then the cold realization that there are no more walls between them, and what it means, settles in her gut. She lets her hand hang down slowly. "I'm still getting used to it," Lena explains softly.

"I'm sorry--"

"No," Lena shakes her head, smiling. "It's nice. I'm just-- I'm glad you came."

"Me too."

There's an awkward silence, and all Kara can hear is the humming of the dishwasher, an indicator that Lena's out of scotch tumblers. Which means she isn't doing so great, either.

"I wasn't ready to forgive you, before," Kara says, trying to square her shoulders and find the strength to confront this. "After everything, and all the lies, I just kept expecting you to let me down with another con. And you didn't. You just kept showing up, over and over, and I-- I wanted so badly to go back to how we were. But I didn't know if I could get hurt like that again."

"You didn't deserve that," Lena says, hanging her head.

"Neither did you."

"I got lost in the madness of it all. I've always been susceptible," Lena smiles wickedly, her self-deprecation on display. She sighs, her eyes softening. "Part of me kept waiting for you to rescue me."

Kara frowns, her pulse racing. "But I tried -- I did everything I knew how--"

Lena's mouth twitches, her chin quivering. "Not Supergirl." She swallows hard. "You."

Kara's mouth hangs open... She thinks of all the times after - how almost every single time she saw Lena after confessing her identity, she was National City's hero. She was Supergirl, and she was free of pretending -- but in the process, she was someone unknown. It was always heavy, their interactions always pleading and begging on behalf of greater interests, never just them.

"Lena," Kara's voice quivers. "But it was always me."

"Was it?"

Kara hesitates. She isn't sure how to answer that.

"What did you say when you told me why you kept it from me for so long?" Lena asks, her eyes welling with tears. "I was so angry at Supergirl-- but I loved Kara." Lena hesitates, taking a watery breath. "I've always loved Kara."

It hits like a hurricane, and Kara has to remember how to breathe. She inhales sharply. Lena doesn't say anything more.

"And now?" Kara whispers.

"And now," Lena says, smiling through her emotions. "Nothing about that has changed."

Kara's eyes fill with tears. She stands, opening her arms. She doesn't want to talk anymore. She just wants them to fall back into place, fitting together the way they did before. Lena melts into her arms and lets out a sob as she clutches Kara's back.

"I love you, too," Kara whispers into the space between her ear and her neck, holding her as close as possible. "Always."

[insert-cleverurl]

solaine copies her dsmp meta twitter part one

preface: i wrote this on february 13th and am now archiving it over here on tumblr before i get around posting it to the actual archive (of our own). i'd like to clean it up before i go there, becuase i wrote this at like one am lying in bed and typing on my laptop that was sitting on my stomach. it's a lot of rambling. i go on a lot of tangents. it is not the cleanest nor likely most accurate meta you will ever read.

how characters (children) on the smp learn from history rather than repeat it: a thread

aka: stop liking the other one you fucks i opened the wikia so i actually know what happened now /lh

context here is that i had earlier made a much less coherent thread (not that this one is very coherent) with the caveat that i was going entirely off memory

this thread is mainly going over how tommy + tubbo both emulate and turned away from wilbur + schlatt respectively, and how i think that's going to reflect in ranboo's arc

"as long as i can't be the next jschlatt, you can't be the next wilbur." okay we all know this. it's obvious from this point on that both tubbo and tommy saw or had fears of how they were each developing into scarily familiar people - schlatt, a dictator, and wilbur, a madman.

starting with tommy, the parallels between his exile arc and wilbur's pogtopia arc are immediately, and glaringly, obvious. paranoia, trust issues, "maybe i'm actually the bad guy here", and most notably, intense loneliness. wilbur made it obvious he believed pogtopis's allies would all abandon them in the end (them being he and tommy, though how much he trusted tommy by the end is also up in the air), and he was completely prepared to kill anyone he had to in order to secure pogtopia's victory, despite also preparing himself to be the one to end it. wilbur gave up on l'manberg, at the very end. he believed tyranny was all that would ever reign, so he blew it up.

tommy, in his exile arc, was also despairingly lonely. he hallucinated tubbo, grew attached to dream, etc etc. tommy was very very close to "becoming" wilbur here (god i'm sorry this is so long already and just me summing things up we already know it's to keep my thoughts in order + satisfy my inability to shut up and use too many words)

where wilbur and tommy go their separate ways is when they were given an out. dream gave wilbur tnt + for tommy, he was. you know. gestures vaguely at logstedshire. wilbur took the out - he gave up. he gave in. we know he had moments of clarity (when niki was in danger) and Maybe this was one he could've had too, but he didn't. he took the tnt.

tommy decided enough was enough. so at a crucial moment in time, tommy turned away from being wilbur. he did not repeat history.

onto tubbo; admittedly i know much less about his arc as president so this will be less outlined. tubbo,,,, acted very similarly to schlatt. probably moreso than tommy and wilbur! strange new laws, ignoring his cabinet, execution, generally appearing to lose his care for the world and the opinions of others. i'd argue the thing that separates him from schlatt is the most important part of this thread, because it proves my point: he remembered.

i just want to clarify here: by "proves my point" i mean this is the clsoest we get to an agreement of the ideas i'm putting out here in canon?? ig?? as in like. this is the most on the nose way to say it. similarly in recent days to quackity consistently referring to his treatment of dream as torture, which seems to be a very "I Am Not In Character" move but is definitely meant for us, the viewers, rather than character dream or character quackity themselves. tubbo's is a little less like that but still it's kind of like pointing at the X on a map for us the viewers. ok tangent over

tubbo lived under schlatt's rule as one of those people he treated extremely shittily. he lived under schlatt's rule as that person he executed. and tubbo remembers all that! tubbo remembers how schlatt's rule played out, and he looks at his own uh, less than stellar time in office, and he admits this out loud (to ranboo, according to the wikia. i am getting all of this off the wikia. i did not watch any streams during this arc.) that he can See himself becoming schlatt.

and when quackity tries to execute ranboo for being a traitor, tubbo stops him.

onto dream and ranboo! dream is a special case in that we never get to see his perspective of things and are rather left to play fill in the blank, and this whole arc is special (in terms of this thread) in that it isn't over. so i will be doing a lot of extrapolating here.

dream starts out as a generally ambivalent character who has very few rules that he pretty much never bothers to enforce anyways (i think? i don't remember).

by this i mean, this is all stuff i heard secondhand in recent months and can no longer remember what it actually was because i never went back to check. i'm pretty sure, but just a disclaimer. i don't wanna get hit with an "um, actually

his villain arc starts very very early - two whole seasons before he really became one. in the war, he is the antagonist and he plays up to it! most of the war is from l'manberg's pov (or that's how we look at it now, at least) so obviously he is the Bad Guy here.

ranboo griefed a house like two days into the server. 'nuff said /lh

ranboo + dream are both heavily vilified characters from the get-go - dream's part should be fairly obvious (uh, the everything leading up the exile arc where he actually did villainous things), whereas ranboo's is most notably during the second festival's aftermath. taking the blame for blowing up the community house, wanting to "pick people not sides" (he wants all his friends to be happy - sounds familiar, right?), etc etc, and now he's with techno and phil, the former of which is Definitely considered a villain for working with dream

now many many parallels are being drawn between he and dream, especially with the whole enderwalking thing. in the aftermath of everything happening, he chooses to stay out of all conflict, until Something Happens and forces his hand. (the egg!) he wants peace for everyone, which again, sounds very familiar, right?

(slight tangent: yes, the griefing was forcing dream's hand. it's nigh impossible to construe it as anything other than a political attack - the vice president of l'manberg griefing the home of the greater dream smp's king? dream looks weak + open to attack if he lets it slide)

this was a bad way to put it but the spirit of it gets across i think. fuck character limit on twitter

that catches us up on all current lore. where do i think dream and ranboo are going to split? dream has been alone in his decision-making basically since the very first war. not once has he (successfully, we don't know if he tried) gone to fall back on his friends' support and ask for their help in making these hard decisions (of which there are many). he severs his final connections ("i don't care about anything on this server") and cements his place in history as a monster.

i think it is very likely that we are getting a ranboo "friendship and relying on other people" arc here. there are other ways they could go with it, obviously, but given his current arctic anarchist ties and what appears to be other friendships developing. hmm! i'm interested. this part is entirely speculation/extrapolation. point being. the kids on the smp do, in fact, learn from history. they still make mistakes sometimes, but past a certain point, they're always different mistakes. they learn, and they almost always get happier endings for it

i don't know if it's a coincidence that it's the three lore-relevant kids who are the ones doing this. i don't think it is, because this is a very well-written and clever story. the younger generation is the one learning and fixing past mistakes and leaving the world better off for it. that's very neat! i like it a lot. also now that purpled's becoming lore-relevant, goddamnit if i don't want to see next season being his "learning from history" arc. punz vs purpled, maybe? that'd be neat. who knows. ok i think im finally done lol ty for reading :)

caveat I forgot to add last night: obviously ranboo and dream start out in very different positions, moreso than both tommy and tubbo. but at the end of the day, all three of them are their own people who just happen to take after other people in some ways :)

again, ty for reading! here's the original thread. i'd like to add that this is probably out of date and i may come back to it some day but who knows. maybe this will just be a relic of before Now (may 25)

[naivesilver]

Is there any of the shitty Pinocchio adaptations that you think are bad but you still enjoy in how stupid and/or weird they are?

WELL. Well. Yes and no?

For one, almost all of the adaptations I despise have at least a tiny little something that I would save - that makes me mourn the fact we didn't get a better story built around it, even. Emperor of the Night, arguably the worst Pinocchio movie of all time, had this very peculiar theme of Pinocchio as a tool in the fight between good and evil that I would have KILLED for in any other instance; the Disney movie, for all its flaws, at least made the franchise known and gave us a very endearing Pinocchio/Lampwick combo; even the shittiest, cheapest cartoons were extremely entertaining for their intended audience.

Aside from that, though, I have a hard time enjoying the adaptations I complain about the most as a whole, because their mistakes are too glaringly obvious for me to ignore. (That's an issue on my part, bear in mind, not in theirs.) However, there are other, weirdly niche things I've seen that I know would be terrible if I were to put aside my personal taste. Blame childhood nostalgia, drunk rewatches, you name it. Life is already so goddamn weird, there's no point in pretending I only like good stuff and have never cried laughing in front of awful media.

Among them are, in no particular order:

Fairy Tale Police Department

Think Once Upon A Time, but it's an early 2000s low budget cartoon that most people have (rightfully) forgotten. The core cast is a team of detectives tasked with making sure fairy tales get their happy endings - they save Pinocchio from being turned into firewood on the very first episode, and after that he becomes their sort of...little helper? Funny sidekick? No one really knows.

Guys, he's so fucking annoying. He's literally the stupidest character on screen, second only to the male deuteragonist whose main personality trait is to flirt with anything that breathes. He doesn't do anything of use - they don't even take him on investigations except by accident (literally, I still remember that one episode where he was being so bothersome they sent him to clean the patrol car and then took the fucking car because they'd forgotten he was there. Child labor laws WHEN). I physically cringe every time he steps on the scene...

...but I grew up with that cartoon, so tragically, I got attached. 5yo had two crushes on that show - one was the vaguely butch female detective who took names and kicked ass, and the other was Pinocchio, because even then I had my priorities straightened out. I'll go to my grave knowing that among an endless flood of amazing characters (the Three Little Piglets were part of a MOB, for God's sake), I looked at a fastidious child and went "I want that one". Sigh.

Pinocchio (2002)

THE BANE OF MY EXISTENCE...This movie has ruined my every chance to be perceived as a proper film enthusiast forever again - I love it and I hate in equal measures, and I will NEVER recover from its influence.

Can you believe that this was the most expensive Italian movie ever made???? I can't wrap my head around it. Roberto Benigni went and asked for an outrageous budget, and those people GAVE IT TO HIM, knowing that in this movie no one playing a child would be under the age of 30, that Nicoletta Braschi would have the role of her balding husband's mother, and that all the additional Lampwick-and-Pinocchio screentime would be used to add weird homosexual vibes to the entire plot. Tangerine lollipops have been ruined forever, from my perspective.

Unfortunately, it's book accurate to a fault, down to the actors' accents, and it's clear it was a passion project, so I can't write it down in my personal Pinocchio Death Note. I wish I could, sometimes, though. Benigni in flowery ledehosen is a picture that's seared forever into my brain.

Huey, Dewey and Louie in "The Adventures of Pinocchio"

Allow me to be Italian on main for five minutes more. This one was published in multiple parts on Topolino comic books during the 90s, as part of the endless list of Disney parodies of famous movies/shows/books, and to call it weird would be an euphemism.

Basically, it's the book Pinocchio, but with a futuristic twist: Huey, Dewey and Louie play the titular character, except they're...robots? That want to become human?? And again, it follows Collodi's story, but the Disney characters play their book counterparts for some reason, and Gladstone plays Lampwick??? And the Cricket is a sentient traffic light with arms and legs????

Honestly, I wish I was exaggerating. But then again, it's almost impossible not to appreciate an adaptation that goes apeshit to this level. It's so ballsy it does a 360° and becomes great. What the fuck.

[sleepyxcoffee]

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Soulmate Title (optional): Three Wolves Relationships (romantic/platonic/etc): Geralt/Eskel/Lambert Rating: T Content Warnings: None Summary: It doesn’t take long for Geralt and Eskel to realise they’re soulmates, but it takes many more years for Lambert to accept all three of them are bonded.

Read on AO3

Leah and Alana, this is your fault.

It doesn’t take long for Geralt and Eskel to realise they’re soulmates.

They share a dorm from the moment Eskel arrives at Kaer Morhen, after all, and as roommates, they quickly become familiar with the sight of each others’ naked bodies. They are ten when Eskel notices a mark appear on Geralt’s left shoulder blade. It’s one of the few marks Eskel has ever seen; the older boys guard theirs jealously, and witchers lose their marks during their Grasses.

“Geralt!” Eskel gasps, amazed. Still sluggish with sleep, Geralt twists around from where he is putting on a tunic, bright green eyes peeking out under a curly mop of auburn hair.

“Huh?”

“Your mark!” Eskel bounds off the bed, running towards his friend. He traces the three howling wolves’ heads with reverence. Soulmarks have no colour, but Eskel can tell from the shades of grey that the three wolves are three different colours. The largest is plain grey, with the second largest so pale it is barely shaded. The third, smallest wolf is dark, nearly black. The three wolves are arranged close together, with their noses touching as their heads are thrown back in a howl.

Geralt tries to look at his own shoulder blade and fails. “I can’t see it!” he complains. Eskel puts down his hand, feeling rather strange. Out there, somewhere, is Geralt’s soulmate. He won’t have the same spot in Geralt’s life anymore if he ever meets them, but Eskel pushes the thought away. He wants his friend to be happy.

“Hang on, I think I have a looking glass.” Eskel kneels by his trunk and digs through his meagre belongings. He pulls out a tunic for the day and takes his sleep shirt off as Geralt potters behind him. Suddenly, Geralt freezes, all sounds of movement ceasing.

“Eskel,” Geralt says slowly, “what does my mark look like?”

“Three howling wolves,” Eskel replies instantly. It has been mere minutes since Eskel first saw Geralt’s mark, and yet it is already imprinted in his mind.

“In different shades of grey?” Geralt asks.

“Yes - wait, how do you know this?”

Slowly, as though afraid he is about to startle, Geralt approaches Eskel. He places his hand against Eskel’s right shoulder blade. “Because it’s the same as yours,” Geralt says simply, and suddenly, Eskel’s world feels bright.

***

Lambert knows from the moment he arrives in Kaer Morhen that Eskel and Geralt are soulbonded. It is rare, after all, for witchers to know their mates, and even rarer for their mates to be each other. So even though their marks have been wiped clean by the Trials, Lambert knows that the older witchers are soulmates.

It makes him jealous. What must it be like to have someone always at your back, to put you above all others? It’s a bond that Lambert can only dream of. Even at the young age of ten, Lambert has no illusions. He’s going to become a witcher, and witchers rarely lead happy lives. Whoever his soulmate is is better off dead than to be bound by Destiny herself to a witcher.

Besides, even a soulbond isn’t enough to guarantee happiness. His parents were soulmates, after all, and it didn’t stop his pa from beating his ma. It didn’t stop his pa from beating him.

So when Lambert’s mark emerges one morning, he thinks nothing of it. He stares at his chest bitterly; leave it to Destiny to put his mark somewhere as glaringly obvious and cheesy over his Melitele damned heart. Three howling wolves. What kind of soulmark is that, anyway?

Lambert ignores it and puts on his shirt, and goes to training. It doesn’t take him long to forget what it ever looked like once he loses his mark to his Trials.

***

Geralt is the first one to see Lambert’s mark.

Lambert is careful; he keeps his shirt on around others, and bathes facing the wall, almost as if he is ashamed of his mark. But one day in the hot springs Lambert is facing the entrance at the same time Geralt comes in, and he spots the three wolves on Lambert’s chest.

Geralt almost trips over his own feet. A thirteen year old Lambert catches his eye, scowls, and scampers away. Bath forgotten, Geralt immediately goes to find Eskel.

Eskel is sitting in their room, sharpening his swords. They had made a half-hearted attempt at maintaining an air of distance while they trained, but once they became full witchers, they had given up altogether and started sharing a room. As Geralt enters, Eskel wrinkles his nose.

“Geralt, you smell vile. Go take a bath,” Eskel grumps. Geralt ignores him in favour of swooping forwards and kissing Eskel excitedly. Eskel makes a surprised noise and puts away his sword.

“Eskel,” Geralt says excitedly, “we have a soulmate.”

“Well, yes. Each other.”

“No. A third.”

Eskel immediately perks up. “Really? Who? In Kaer Morhen?”

Geralt nods, grinning excitedly. “That angry little trainee. Lambert.”

“Lambert? He’s tiny!”

“I know,” Geralt says. He sits down, suddenly serious. “We should wait to tell him. He’s too young.”

“After his first year as a witcher,” Eskel suggests. “He’ll be old enough to choose then.” Their doubt lies unspoken in the air. There is every chance Lambert will reject him; his cynicism is known to all. And while Eskel has always been more than enough for Geralt - well. There is enough love in him for another.

“After,” Geralt agrees. There is risk to that, of course; by then, Lambert’s mark will have been taken by the Trials, but Geralt has faith. He will always have faith.

***

After doesn’t look very pretty.

Lambert is one of the last witchers to ever be created. Mere days after his Trials, Kaer Morhen is sacked.

Geralt and Eskel walk through the keep in a daze, their hands joined. They come across their brothers’ bodies, piling them into a mass pyre. Neither dare speaks. Lambert stands by them with what few witchers remain in silence.

There is enough left to Kaer Morhen that Lambert can finish the last vestiges of his training and set out on the Path. Their mages may be dead, but Lambert is done with his Trials; he need only hone his skills, which Geralt and Eskel gladly help him with. Geralt sends a thousand grateful prayers to Melitele. He doesn’t know how he would cope if either of his soulmates had died.

When Lambert is ready to leave the broken keep, they take him aside. “Lambert,” Eskel says, “we need to talk to you.”

Lambert eyes them suspiciously. “Yeah?”

Geralt hesitates for a moment. “Your soulmark,” he finally says. “It was three wolves.” Lambert stiffened.

“I don’t have a soulmark,” Lambert snaps. “I lost it with the Trials.”

“Before,” Geralt says. “I saw it. Once.”

“Three howling wolves, of three different sizes, in three different shades,” Eskel adds quietly. Lambert scoffs.

“Do you gossip about everybody’s soulmarks? Those things are private, you know.” Geralt ignores the quip. He knows Lambert; he knows (knew) all of his brothers, but he has kept an eye on Lambert especially.

“Not everyone’s,” Eskel says quietly. “Just yours.”

Lambert eyes him warily. “What, were you placing bets or something?”

“I told Eskel about your soulmark because it’s the same as ours.”

For a moment, there is silence. Lambert stares at Geralt in disbelief. “That’s not possible,” he stammers. “You can’t have two soulmates.”

“You can.” Eskel speaks slowly, hesitantly. Geralt trades a worried look with him. One wrong word, and this could all fall apart. “It’s happened, in the past. I know it seems impossible, but it happens, and we can make it work.”

Lambert stays quiet, staring at Geralt and Eskel with an unreadable expression.

“We didn’t want to rush you,” Geralt says. “You were young when I saw it, and we didn’t want to pressure you.”

“But you’re older now,” Eskel adds. “You can make those decisions - if you want us or not, if you want to take us to bed -”

Something in Lambert’s expression breaks, and he throws down the sword he had been holding. “Fuck you,” he snarls. Eskel reels back in shock. “Fuck both of you - how could you - I trusted you!”

“Lambert, I’m sorry we didn’t tell you -” Geralt begins, but Lambert cuts him off furiously.

“How dare you.” Lambert starts pacing anxiously. “Is it because you feel sorry for me? It’s pity, isn’t it? Little Lambert, all alone, nobody could ever love him, not even his soulmate, so you pretend we can be a happy little menage-a-trois.”

“Lambert,” Eskel tries, “Lambert, we’re not lying -”

“Fuck you,” Lambert growls. He picks his sword off the ground and stomps out of the keep, leaving Eskel and Geralt behind in the dust.

The two older witchers stand in silence, shocked. Then Eskel moves to go after Lambert, but Geralt shoots out and catches his arm. “No,” Geralt says quietly. “He doesn’t want us. Leave him be.”

“Geralt -”

“I’m sorry.” Eskel tilts his head.

“Huh?” Geralt refuses to meet his soulmate’s eyes.

“I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”

“No it isn’t. I was the one who said we should wait -”

“No.” Geralt strides to a window and, stepping around a pile of rubble, leans out. Eskel comes up behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Geralt?”

Suddenly, Geralt hits the wall, shouting angrily. Eskel blinks, but stands his ground. Geralt leans back against the wall and slides down into a seated position, burying his head between his knees. One hand has bleeding knuckles, and the other grips tightly onto a piece of debris.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt repeats, muffled. “I - this is all my fault.”

“Geralt, wait,” Eskel says. Geralt ignores him and gets back on his feet, striding out of the room. Alone, Eskel groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

***

The next winter is awkward.

Lambert plays Avoid-Geralt-and-Eskel, instead spending all his time with Aubry and Gweld and Remus, and sometimes even Vesemir and Rennes, which Eskel thinks shows how truly desperate to avoid his soulmates Lambert is. Vesemir pulls Eskel aside one day to ask what happened, and when Eskel explains, Vesemir only sighs. “I’m sorry,” is all he says, before walking away.

Eskel tries to talk to Lambert a few more times. Geralt ignores Lambert and steers clear of his path. It is, quite possibly, the worst winter Eskel has ever had.

Come spring, all the witchers go their separate ways. With their numbers decimated by the pogroms, they can’t afford to stick together anymore - they have to spread out if they want any chance at keeping the Continent safe.

The next winter is slightly better. Lambert (reluctantly) speaks to Eskel when he is spoken to, and Geralt stops avoiding Lambert like the plague. For Eskel, it is enough; he can live without one soulmate’s love, so long as he knows both are safe and alive.

(It’s a lie, and Geralt knows it too. Destiny has decreed it so.)

In a few winters, the memory of their fateful conversation has been buried. Then Eskel gets his scars, and he wonders if Lambert would have grown to love him without them.

***

Lambert pines from a safe distance.

Geralt and Eskel are perfect together. Even if they were soulmates - well. It’s not Lambert’s place to intrude on a love that beautiful. Lambert is harsh edges and cruel words and a sour heart; he deserves no love. Besides, with how quickly they dropped the topic, it really does make Lambert think that it was all a ploy to pity fuck Lambert, which, although Lambert won’t admit it, hurts.

***

“I hate Destiny,” Geralt says to Eskel one day over a game of Gwent. Eskel’s hand hovers over a card.

“Why?” Eskel asks, although he knows the answer. Geralt doesn’t reply, and motions for Eskel to play his turn. Geralt completely trounces Eskel, which is no surprise, and although Eskel wins the next round, Geralt ultimately wins the game.

As they shuffle their cards, Geralt speaks again. “She,” he says slowly, “has given me a lover who will never love me back.” Eskel frowns.

“There’s still a chance,” Eskel replies.

Geralt shakes his head. “Lambert hates us.”

“Lambert hates himself,” Eskel corrects. “He thinks we’ll never love him.”

“But I do,” Geralt hisses.

“As do I.”

Geralt plays a spy. Eskel responds with a decoy. They continue their game in silence. At the end of the first round, Eskel finally speaks again.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt tilts his head.

“For what?”

Eskel sets down his cards, scarred brow furrowed. “I think he’s disgusted by me. By -” Eskel makes an aborted wave at his scars.

Geralt immediately stands, and strides around the table to seat himself on Eskel’s lap. Wrapping his arms around Eskel’s neck, he places a gentle kiss on his lips. “It’s not your fault” Geralt says softly. “You’re worthy of love.”

“And so is Lambert,” Eskel says, muffling his words in Geralt’s neck.

Outside the door, unbeknownst to either of them, Lambert sinks to his knees.

***

Lambert doesn’t bring it up again until next winter, and even then, only under the influence of his specially brewed White Gull.

“Did you really mean it?” he slurs as he throws a dice.

“Mean what?” Eskel asks from the floor. Geralt makes a happy humming sound as he tries to build a structure out of spoons, dice forgotten. Lambert can’t find it in him to remind Geralt it’s his turn to roll.

“What you said.”

“We say a lot of things. Well,” Eskel adds after a moment of thought, “not Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

“Something like… thirty years ago,” Lambert says. “After the pogroms.”

Eskel slowly sits up. Geralt abandons his spoons.

“Yes,” Eskel whispers. His voice is barely perceptible; only a witcher could hear it.

“Huh.” Lambert stands. Geralt follows him with wary eyes.

“Where are you going?” he asks as Lambert strides out of the room. Lambert scoffs and throws a look over his shoulder.

“To your bed,” he says as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. He tries to calm his pounding heart. Eskel and Geralt’s expressions are hilariously startled. Then they scramble up and run after Lambert.

That night, Lamber finds himself safely embraced by two warm bodies. In the morning, he awakens still in the middle, and has a brief moment of panic before he is comforted by two familiar scents and two steadily beating hearts.

Then Lambert remembers how he got there, and he panics anyway. He tries to worm out of their hold, but Geralt tightens his grip and grumbles in his sleep. Eskel stirs lazily, blinking awake.

“Lambert?” he asks, and Lambert panics just a bit more. He braces himself, and Eskel says, “Where are you going?”, catching him completely off guard.

“I -” Lambert blinks. “Are you… okay with me here?”

A strange expression crosses Eskel’s expression, and Lambert remembers the conversation he overheard last winter. “It’s okay if you don’t want to be here,” Eskel says, voice tight.

“No - I do. But I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding on anything,” Geralt rumbles. Lambert starts - he hadn’t realised Geralt is even awake.

“We want you here,” Eskel agrees, and Geralt presses a gentle kiss to his collarbone.

***

“What made you say yes?” Eskel asks one day in bed, later that winter. They are both wound around Geralt, trading kisses as Geralt contents in their warmth.

“I -” Lambert stops and shakes his head. “It’s stupid.” Geralt shoots up to catch a kiss from both of them before returning to resting his forehead against Eskel’s chest, hand intertwined with Lambert’s.

“You can tell us,” Eskel prods, and Geralt hums in agreement. He turns around to face Lambert, resting a hand gently on his cheek. Lambert nestles into it. He has learned that while Eskel speaks his love in words, Geralt shows his through touch, and he sees Geralt’s silent display of support for what it is.

“I overheard you last winter,” Lambert admits.

Eskel frowns. “You overheard us? What did you - oh.” Geralt’s eyes widen.

“When you first told me, I thought you just wanted sex,” he continues.

“Never,” Geralt promises.

“We want you here because we love you,” Eskel says, and even though Lambert has heard Eskel say it before, it doesn’t fail to make his heart skip a beat, knowing those words are meant for him.

Lambert can almost feel his missing soulmark burn.

[musette22]

Dancing Queens

Dancing Queens

Pairing: Chris Evans x Sebastian Stan (Evanstan)

Words: 3.3k

Rating: Teen and up

Warnings: Outsiders POV

A/N: So I was writing an Evanstan AU and then I got one of those pesky ideas and I wrote a different Evanstan fic in an afternoon. I don’t why my brain does what it does sometimes 🤷🏻‍♀️ Anyway, this is just something super self-indulgent and fun because I just LOVE to think of all the different ways in which Chris and Seb could’ve have gotten together (or could get together in the future), and also I love meddling friends and a tad of voyeurism. So yeah. Hope you enjoy this, and the Evanstan AU should be with you soon, too! ❤️❤️

Read on AO3

***********************************************

Twenty-two months.

It's been twenty-two months since Chris met Sebastian, and Sebastian met Chris, and the two of them fell arse over teakettle for each other. Since then, these absolute fools have been driving Hayley up the wall with their mooning, constantly making goo-goo eyes, laughing too loudly at each other’s jokes, desperately dating one pretty girl after another, only for things to fizzle out again and again because, obviously, their hearts aren’t in it. Their hearts, very clearly, belong to each other. Everyone with eyes can see that.

Well. Everyone with eyes, except for Chris and Sebastian themselves, it seems.

Tonight’s no different. The club where the wrap party for Captain America: The Winter Soldier is held is thrumming with life: people everywhere, some casually dressed, some in outfits that make Hayley, who’s not opposed to showing a bit of cleavage herself and who certainly isn’t religious, feel the urge to run to the nearest church to find a confessional booth. Lights are strobing, music is booming, liquor is flowing. Normally, Hayley would be dancing on a table at this point, or trying to get Sam Jackson to do an impromptu striptease, or doing belly shots off Hemsworth’s quite frankly spectacular abs.

Tonight, though, she’s on a mission. A mission seemingly impossible, but when Hayley sets her mind to something, she won’t rest until she succeeds. For a long time, she figured that Chris and Sebastian would simply sort themselves out at some point. No two people flirt that obviously and constantly with each other without it ever turning into either an awkward one night stand or a marriage. But clearly, neither of these things has occurred yet, or else these two pillocks would’ve stopped making such pathetic heart eyes at each other by now. It’s getting a little ridiculous.

Something needs to be done, and it seems Hayley is the one who needs to do it. Well, ultimately, it’s Chris and Sebastian who need to do it – do it lots and lots of times, preferably – but she’s accepted that she’s going to have to help them get there.

Right now, Chris – beer in hand – is telling Anthony some story that involves wildly waving his hands around and almost sloshing his beer all over himself, while Sebastian looks at him like he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread, laughing so hard he needs to hold on to Anthony for support. Truly, he couldn’t look any more smitten if he tried. Meanwhile, Anthony is looking between Chris and Sebastian with an expression of amused exasperation. Hayley feels for him. She’s been in his position plenty of times herself.

Right, then. To the rescue. Downing what’s left of her glass of red, Hayley puts the empty glass down on the nearest table and starts making her way through the throng towards where the guys are stationed.

“Hello, boys,” she greets them, doing a little twirl followed by a tah-dah gesture. “Missed me?”

She’s hailed enthusiastically, hugs all round and another twirl under Anthony’s raised right arm, before everyone starts clinking their drinks together again like inebriated people tend to do.

“Where’s your drink?” Chris shouts, louder than the volume of the music warrants, when he notices she’s not holding a glass for him to clink.

He’s clearly tipsy, if not a little drunk, all expansive gestures and slightly slurred words. Chris is always handsome and wonderful, but Hayley finds that he’s rarely as charming as when he’s had a bit to drink. The alcohol lowers his already low inhibitions further, rendering him even more affectionate and handsy than he usually is. Though he’d never be handsy in a pervy way. Mostly, Chris just wants to be close to people, preferably by enveloping them in a bear hug that will unfailingly last for longer than is strictly appropriate. The man loves to cuddle. That’s why it always pains Hayley to watch him struggle not to throw himself at Sebastian every time he gets a little tipsy. Somehow, despite the beer taking away almost all of his filter and sense of personal boundaries, he always retains a proper distance from Sebastian. At most, he lets their arms brush one too many times, or he reaches out to squeeze Sebastian’s shoulder when he laughs. But it’s not enough. It’s glaringly obvious how desperately Chris wants to be closer. He’s practically gagging for it, and it’s getting to the point where Hayley herself feels parched just from being around that much thirstiness.

Sebastian is only a little better. He’s more skilled at hiding his true emotions, better at pretending he likes Chris a normal amount, especially in professional settings. But more often than not, he does eventually slip up. He’ll giggle like a school boy with a crush at something Chris says, start to blush when Chris praises his acting skills, gaze at him adoringly when Chris is regaling everyone with some bonkers anecdote or other.

Quite frankly, it’s nothing short of a miracle that these boys haven’t figured out how they feel about each other yet, because Hayley’s sure pretty much everyone else has. It’s an open secret, if you will.

In response to his question, Hayley leans up to kiss Chris’s bearded cheek. “I don’t want a drink, I want to dance!”

Grabbing Chris’s free hand, she tugs him along behind her. “Come on, Christopher, show a girl what those hips can do.”

Mackie wolf whistles, taking the beer that Chris hastily hands him as he follows Hayley onto the dance floor.

Chris rises to the challenge as she knew he would. That boy has a competitive streak a mile wide – he reminds her of herself in that regard. It’s one reason why they would never work, even if they seem compatible at first glance. Way too similar.

Almost instantly, Chris’s hands drop to her waist, firmly settling on the curve of her hips while she starts to move them. They don’t go easy – that’s not the point of this, after all. Hayley winds her arms around Chris’s neck and presses herself up against him. Chris is a fantastic mover, even when he’s drunk, and dancing with him certainly isn’t a hardship. Still, Hayley can’t enjoy it the way she normally would, because her mind is elsewhere.

It’s a few meters to her right, in fact, where Sebastian, clad in dark skinny jeans and a white, v-neck shirt that’s almost see-through, is leaning against the wall. Watching them.

Oh god, the poor sod looks miserable already. He’s trying to hide it, of course, smiling through the pain, but the way he starts worrying his lower lip a few minutes in, averting his eyes only for them to dart back to their undulating hips, as if he’s compelled to make himself suffer… It’s clear as can be that Sebastian’s jealous to the point where he would probably quite like to strangle her, even if he also adores her.

Hayley dances with Chris a little while longer, just until the second song turns into the third, and then she figures she’s done enough. She pushes away from Chris, slapping him playfully on the chest.

“Good effort, my love,” she decides, before she cocks her head and adds, “But I think I’d like to dance with Sebastian, now. I’m keen to find out if I can tease out that pretty blush of his, what do you say?”

Chris’s eyes widen a fraction, but she doesn’t wait for a reply, instead turning on her heel and striding back towards Anthony and Sebastian.

“Alright, handsome,” she says, taking Sebastian by the hand. “You’re up.”

Sebastian splutters something about how he doesn’t really dance, but Hayley ignores him, pulling him along behind her. She knows Sebastian’s just sulking, because she’s seen him bust some serious (if not particularly graceful) moves over the years. He dances, alright. Granted, he isn’t as good of a dancer as Chris, but he’s light on his feet and he holds his booze better than Chris does.

Pressing in close immediately, she rests her hands on his biceps as his settle automatically on her waist. For a moment before she starts to move, she looks up at him, forcing him to look her in the eye.

“Hey, cheer up, grumpy cat.” She goes cross eyed. “Dance with me. Let’s show these Yanks how us European kids do it, eh?”

That gets Sebastian smiling again, that lovely, gorgeous smile of his that’s melting hearts all over the planet, if her friends who are more up to date on the latest celebrity gossip are to be believed. Hayley herself isn’t immune to it either, but while Sebastian certainly has his sassy side, deep down, he’s just too sweet for her. She’d bulldozer all over him, and they both know it. They’re much better as friends.

It’s fun, dancing with Sebastian, especially once he starts to really get into it. They make a striking pair, Hayley’s pretty sure. Two winsome brunettes, spinning and grinding on the dance floor, are sure to turn more than a few heads.

And sure enough, when Hayley darts a look over Sebastian’s shoulder towards the wall, Christopher Robert Evans is practically salivating. He’s staring at them so intently he’s nearly crushing his long-forgotten beer bottle between his hands, eyes so dark they almost seem black in the dim lighting. The seams of his too-tight, black t-shirt are straining with how tensely he's holding himself, and what’s more, Hayley is pretty sure things are beginning to stir inside those washed jeans of his.

She giggles, hiding her face in Sebastian’s neck.

“What’s so funny?” Sebastian sounds a bit bemused.

“Oh, just… men are stupid.”

“Hey,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it.

Hayley pulls back enough to look at him, placatingly patting his cheek. “It’s alright, love, at least you’re pretty.”

Predictably, Sebastian rolls his eyes in a poor attempt to hide the way the comment makes him blush. Good lord, the man has the biggest praise kink she’s ever seen in her life. Yet another reason why he and Chris are perfect for each other; Hayley’s pretty sure Chris would never shut up given the chance to praise Sebastian freely. Already, Chris can’t seem to help but call him sweet and talented and amazing every time he’s asked even the simplest question about his co-star.

Hayley deliberately steers them back towards the others a little, enough to make sure Chris can hear her when she calls out to him, “Oi, Christopher, do me a favour and come here for a second, will you?”

Chris starts, shaking himself out of his reverie. “What, me?”

“Yes, you.” Hayley clicks her fingers. “Come one, chop chop.”

Believing this to be his cue to leave, Sebastian lets go of her, trying to step back, but Hayley just grabs him tighter. “Oh no, I’m not done with you yet, pretty boy.”

“But-” Sebastian says, but Hayley shushes him with a finger to his lips.

“Sshhh. Trust me, okay?”

Sebastian’s eyes narrow slightly in confusion, but he doesn’t pull away. Hmm. Hayley always suspected he’d be good at following orders. She turns a bit, grabbing a handful of Chris’s shirt and pulling him closer, slotting him in behind her.

“Come on, boys,” she challenges, tilting her head up to look at each of them in turn. “Grant this old lady her dying wish of getting to dance with two handsome men at once, won’t you?”

“I’m a year older than you,” Chris protests – the big lug.

Hayley shrugs. “Yes, well, you know perfectly well a woman’s lifespan in Hollywood is significantly shorter than a man’s. Enough talking, now’s the time for dancing.”

She starts to move again, swaying her hips from side to side to the music and forcing them both to move with her. With her right hand, she feels behind her, finding Chris’s hand and placing it on her hip – where Sebastian’s hand is also resting. Their fingers touch, Sebastian’s left hand to Chris’s right, and Chris makes to pull away, but Hayley tightens her grip and doesn’t let him escape. Once it seems like Chris has stopped trying to resist, she switches to her left side to do the same thing, basically leaving the boys to hold hands on top of her hips.

“That’s it,” she nods approvingly. “Just follow my lead.”

Neither man says a word, both of them ostensibly focusing their attention on her, but in reality, Hayley is certain the only thing they’re aware of his how close to each other they’re dancing and where their hands are touching. She can feel the tension in both of them, feel their hearts beating fast where their chests are pressed to her back and front.  

They’re not exactly dancing now, more of a slow grind that Hayley is pretty sure some of the women in their vicinity are shooting her jealous looks for, but she doesn’t give a flying fuck. All Hayley cares about in that moment is her mission, of which the crucial stage is coming up right...

Now.

In a smooth, calculated move, Hayley twists out from between Chris and Sebastian, causing them to stumble and fall forward – right into each other.

“Oh,” Sebastian blurts, hands coming up to brace himself. On Chris’s chest.

They both freeze, eyes growing wide in surprise but unable to look away; the proverbial deer in the headlights.

Before they have a chance to snap out of their shock and do something undoubtedly stupid that will endanger her entire mission, Hayley quickly grabs their shoulders and gives them a firm squeeze, effectively pushing them closer together.

“Very good, just keep dancing now. Atta boy.” And with a final pat, she’s gone.

Of course, she doesn’t go far, just stepping back far enough so that she’s out of their space but still close enough to have a clear view of what happens next.

Sebastian’s hands are still on Chris’s chest, one on each defined pectoral, while Chris’s raised hands are hovering awkwardly at the level of Sebastian’s midriff. They’re not moving, but they’re not moving away either, which Hayley counts as a tentative win. Skittishly, Sebastian averts his eyes to stare at a point somewhere over Chris’s right shoulder, and it’s all very awkward, until eventually, Chris cautiously lowers his arms, resting his hands lightly on either side of Sebastian’s waist.

At the touch, Sebastian visible exhales, as if he’d been holding his breath this entire time. In turn, Chris’s shoulders relax infinitesimally once he realizes Sebastian isn’t shoving him off. One of them, she’s not sure who, slowly starts to move again; just the slightest movement from side to side, but it’s enough to make Hayley clap her hands together in glee.

Slowly but surely, Chris and Sebastian start to sway together, finding a rhythm and sticking to it, almost perfectly in sync. They don’t speak, clearly terrified to do something that will break the spell, and it’s so ridiculously cute that Hayley has to fight the urge to squee.

While Sebastian is still studying that elusive spot on the far wall, Chris is watching Sebastian, looking completely enraptured. God, he’s so in love, it’s almost painful to watch. Hayley prays this won’t fall apart at the last minute, because Chris would be absolutely devastated and go all kicked puppy on them and that would be too much even for her to handle. Finally, her prayers are answered. It takes a while for Sebastian to gather his courage, but then he turns his head a fraction, and meets Chris’s eyes.

Hayley could swear she can feel the electricity crackling between them, can almost hear the sound of those pieces finally clicking into place. It’s quite possibly the most satisfying thing she’s ever witnessed.

The air around them changes, slows down, becomes thick and charged as they look deeply into each other’s eyes. All the while, they’re still moving together, Chris’s hands now gripping Sebastian’s waist more firmly as Sebastian’s hands slowly slide around to clutch at Chris’s shoulders. Chris pulls Sebastian’s hips forwards, flush with his own, and Hayley sees how Sebastian’s fingers dig into the meat of Chris’s shoulders. When Chris leans in a hair’s breadth, Sebastian responds in kind until their foreheads are touching, their noses bumping together, breathing the same air.

Chris murmurs something Hayley can’t make out, probably some sort of endearment, and then he's moving in, eyes closing as their lips meet for the very first time.

Hayley doesn’t even try stop the sound of pure joy that escapes her. She punches the air, whirling on the spot and almost bumping into Anthony. Anthony, who is beaming, grinning from ear to ear.

“You did it!” he yells, holding up his hand for Hayley to high five, which she does with feeling.

“I fucking did it!” Elated, she throws her arms around Antony’s shoulders and lets him spin her around. “Wait, wait,” she says as she’s put back on her feet again. “I need to see the rest.”

She turns back to the dance floor, just in time to see Chris lift his right hand to the side of Sebastian’s face. His big palm cradles Sebastian’s jaw as his thumb swipes almost tenderly back and forth over his cheekbone. Both of them have closed their eyes and they’ve all but stopped moving, too caught up in the kiss to have any attention to spare for dancing. Hayley can’t blame them. They’re stunning, getting lost in each other after nearly two years of helpless pining. It’s a sight she doesn’t think she’ll forget any time soon.

As she’s watching, the kiss deepens. Someone opens their mouth, the other follows suit, and suddenly there’s tongues – tongues and slick lips, hungry mouths devouring each other as if they’ve been starving for years and are finally, finally being fed.

Chris has got a tight hold of Sebastian and doesn’t look like he’s planning on letting him go anytime soon, but fortunately, Sebastian doesn’t look like he minds. In fact, he’s slowly sliding his hands down Chris’s wide back, lower and lower until they find his ass and he squeezes. Hayley can almost hear the growl Chris lets out at that, the way his fingers tighten in Sebastian’s hair, making him gasp for air.  

“Whoa,” Anthony mutters next to her, “I feel like I’m seein’ some things I’m not supposed be seein’.”

Hayley’s never been a prude, far from it, but even she starts to feel a little voyeuristic. She hums. “Might be time for them to move it off the dance floor, at least.”

She wades into the crowd until she reaches the tangled mess of limbs formerly known as Chris and Sebastian, tapping them on the shoulder to try and get their attention.

“My darlings, I am ecstatic that you’ve finally come to your senses, but you might want to move this somewhere a little more private, eh?”

Neither Chris nor Sebastian really responds, which, kind of rude, but okay, she’ll let it slide just this once. Drawing the line at actually poking her nose into their business, Hayley starts to gently push at them until they finally get the hint.

“What’s – huh?” Chris finally lifts his head, giving her a dazed look.

“Just going to take you somewhere a little less public,” Hayley assures him. “See that corner over there? It has your names written all over it.”

“Fuck,” Sebastian mutters, blinking out of his trance. “Yeah, come on, quick.” He takes Chris’s hand, entwining their fingers, and starts to pull him towards the designated corner.

“Okay, then,” Hayley says brightly. “I guess my job here is done. Have fun, boys. Oh, and be safe, yeah?”

With that, she lets them go, fondly watching them stumble to their destination, where they immediately resume their lip locking. And hip locking. It takes approximately five seconds before Chris is sliding a hand down Sebastian’s thigh, lifting his leg so that he can slot their groins together more effectively and grind against him while enthusiastically continuing to suck face.

Reluctantly, Hayley turns around, smiling to herself.

Mission complete.

Now, where's Anthony? She rather thinks she owes him a dance.

Read on AO3

[sapphos-darlings]

Hi. I'm really sorry if these sorts of asks aren't allowed here. If they aren't, please just delete it. I just don't really have anyone to talk about this. So, I've realised I'm a lesbian maybe about two years ago. It was really difficult, as for some reason I chose to ignore all the signs that pointed towards it. Anyway, last September after a few sessions with my therapist, I decided to tell my best female friend I liked her romantically. There were and still are a few problems with it. [1]

The most glaring problem was the distance. I live in Russia, in the Ural area, and she in western Germany. Russian is still her native language tho, so it isn't a problem. On my sessions with my therapist we discussed all the possible outcomes of my confession, both positive and negative. And when she told me no because of the distance, I was fine with it, because I also wasn't really ready for it, as I was suicidal and depressed back then. 

I felt really good that I was able to tell her about my feelings. Surprisingly for me, even though she said no, we became even better friends after it. And here kinda lies my problem and my question? The weird thing is, I think she sometimes tries to flirt with me? At least, those messages are REALLY different from her compliments from before I confessed. They feel different. Maybe I'm just making it up tho... She even said I was "sexy" once on the valentines day??

I've also been having dreams where we are together, and last night she even asked me (in the dream!!) to have sex with her??? And like...I'm feeling so uncomfortable with it.. She told me no about the long-distance relationship, and I respect and understand that! But I feel so weird and  even dirty for having those thoughts?? I don't act on it, I never tell her anything of this sort. The most I do is say I love her, but she also does it all the time!

It's just, is there a way to stop these thoughts? Maybe I should talk to her about it? But how do I address it without it being weird? I feel like an idiot or an incel or whatever.  Or is just internal lesbophobia? I literally don't know. The worst thing is that we can't see each other soon, as I don't really have the money to go abroad.  Sorry it's so messy. I also wanted to add that I am NOT suicidal or depressed anymore, so don't be worried about that. And thanks for any advice.

Don’t worry, Anon, these kind of asks are absolutely allowed here. We’re here to help and support our sisters!

Sounds to me like you’ve had and are having some rough times. It sounds really hard, Anon, I hope you all the strength and resilience to keep pushing through.

Let me just say that I hear you. I relate to a lot of what you’ve said, and your troubles are absolutely real and worth consideration. Thank you for opening up, it must have taken a lot of thought and strength to write all that down. Now, I don’t know you or your full situation, so I can’t give you definitive answers or tell you what to do, but I can give you my two cents, share some of my own experiences, and speak to you as another lesbian who’s been there.

To me realizing that I am a lesbian took a while even with the glaringly obvious signs because gay people are never spoken as one of the group. It’s always “they”, and “those people”, and “that kind of people out there somewhere”. It honestly took be some time to realize that hey, there’s a gay person right here, among you, thinking my thoughts. It was always something “over there”, so making a connection that I could be one of them was honestly like realizing I’m a mythical creature.

I think that the feeling of being made invisible, impossible or an outsider follows us for a lot longer than just making that initial connection. The realization is just a turning point in the beginning of our journey, and we still have our whole lives ahead of us. It’s a long journey, and there’s going to be uphills and downhills and twists and turns.

You absolutely have internalized lesbophobia. To an extent, we all do. You have been taught to fear and marginalize homosexuality, and when thoughts and feelings coming from your own homosexuality emerge, you’re afraid of them. You think your love and desire are something dangerous that will insult this woman you like, or that they are somehow dirty. You’re handling your feelings like they are something obscene that you must shield others from, and you feel like your mere thoughts need permission to exist.

Take a deep breath and don’t try to stop or banish them. They are just thoughts. They don’t touch anything, they don’t hurt anyone, and they are not actions. They are just thoughts. Breathe. Let them come, inspect them, enjoy them, reflect upon them, and then let them go. Whatever they make you feel, you’re safe. Everything is contained inside your head, it’s totally private, and it’s only yours. Just breathe. Whatever the situation with this woman is, you’re always allowed to think and dream.

Now, as for your relationship, it sounds complicated and could really use an honest talking to where both of you express your true feelings and more importantly, what actions you wish and should take. To me it sounds like maybe this woman is toying with the idea of a relationship with you, but for her it’s very safe: You’re friends, you’re far apart, and she already knows that you like her.

What it is not is fair to you. You don’t know what she’s really feeling or thinking. You have a right to demand answers and honesty. You don’t have to linger in a limbo of a little bit of flirting where she toys with your feelings and sends mixed or unclear messages. Maybe you should confront her about this: if she’s interested, it’s okay to change her mind or feel reserved. If she’s not really interested, you can set boundaries to your friendship; say that you want just friendship without hints or flirting. If it’s the distance that’s stopping you, maybe you should try anyway if both of you really want it, even if it’s going to be hard, because this not-doing-it is clearly not great either. Be honest and kind; tell her what you’re feeling and what you want. Tell her how her actions make you feel.

But really only you can really know your life, and you’re obviously close friends, so you know her too. It’s up to you, what do you want and how you’ll go about it. Just remember firstly to respect yourself and demand others do the same, and secondly be open, kind and honest, because you can only really control yourself and how you do things. Be honest and open and accept the vulnerability that comes with it, because only then you have opened yourself up for the possibility of getting what you want in return.

Good luck, Anon! Keep fighting, keep growing, and stay proud.

- Lavender

[randomfandomfamily]

So, people apparently try to use Dewey as a sacrifice. A lot. I’m sure that turns out fine.

Most of the time.

Tagging @sophfandoms53, because darling you are my inspiration, and @3kkh0, because you asked me very nicely not to fuck up the adorable danger dumbass.

Being tied up wasn’t an ideal situation. By far Dewey’s least favorite part of adventuring with his family, and it happened more often than he’d like. If he was tied up, he couldn’t run around and search for booby traps or bust a move whenever the team was in need of a victory dance.

It’s not that being tied up made him feel helpless or anything. He just liked being able to move. If he was tied up then he couldn’t move, and moving was required for running. Escaping. He really needed to be escaping right about now.

This wasn’t getting him anywhere. He forced himself to take a breath and clear his head. Everyone else would be here soon and voila! Rescue for Dewford Duck!

… again.

He made another attempt at wriggling out of the ropes, but to no avail. Sometimes it worked, particularly newer religions who hadn’t had much experience, but this was an ancient tribe. Needless to say, they were pretty good at tying knots.

Giving up on trying to get out of the ropes, he stood up and started looking for a way out of the… pit… cage? It was a hole in the ground with a bunch of branches woven together to keep him in. He wasn’t sure why they bothered with the branch thing. After a few failed attempts it became pretty obvious that he wasn’t going to be able to climb out.

“Ugh,” Dewey groaned as he leaned against the dirt wall. “What do these guys even want?”

Huey and Uncle Scrooge weren’t there to answer his question, so he tried to remember what they had said in the plane on the way there. It was a tribe–a really old one–that believed in some all-powerful god. Classic ancient tribe stuff.

Whether or not the god was real was up for debate. Dewey had met a couple of gods before, so it wasn’t impossible. But the only reason this tribe believed in this stupid god was because they managed to get their hands on some magic spear a really long time ago.

According to Uncle Scrooge, this thing couldn’t miss. No matter how you threw the spear, it would nail the target every time. So now they were looking for the spear because… adventure. Also, super cool weapon.

Huey and Webby had talked the whole way there about rituals of the tribe and how their hierarchy worked, but Dewey hadn’t been paying attention. He heard god and spear and pretty much checked out of the conversation.

He was mostly just excited about the adventure part of the whole ordeal.

A rustling made him glance back up. A pair of painted masks removed the woven branches and stared down at him.

Considerably less excited at this point.

“So!” Dewey said nonchalantly. “Do I get to leave the hole, or-” He was interrupted by one of the tribe members grabbing him by the ropes secured around his torso. “Hey! Ow! Easy with the merchandise, guys.”

Well, at least he was out of the hole now. The sun was dangerously close to completely disappearing behind the horizon, and torches were being lit up around the tribe’s village.

He still wasn’t worried, though. Even if it was getting kinda dark. It would be harder to locate the tribe, sure, but come on. This was his family, all experienced adventurers. They’d still be able to find him, easy.

“You know you’re in big trouble as soon as my family shows up, right?” Dewey asked. He was ignored and led towards the middle of the tribe’s village. “My friend Webby could take you guys, no problem. And my Uncle Donald? Oh hoooo, buddy, he’ll tear this place apart.”

More tribe members started emerging from the primitive huts. There were a lot more of them than he thought. But it would be nothing for his family of adventurers. Plus! Launchpad had even joined them for this one, so they were even more prepared.

He glanced around for any sign of his family. Nothing so far, but that wasn’t so unusual. The point of rescue varied from adventure to adventure. Some days busting him out of the cage, other times a dramatic save from the altar.

Personally, he wasn’t a fan of that second option. Not that he didn’t trust his family to save him, it was just a little more nerve-wracking. Not scary, of course. He wasn’t scared of these people and their magic spear. He was Dewey Duck. He wasn’t afraid of anything.

Dewey spotted a small group of tribe members with drums.”Oh! You guys have music set up for the occasion? You really know how to have a good time.” One burly tribesman glared down at him. Dewey brushed off how uneasy he felt. “What kind of sacrifice is this, anyway? No, wait, let me guess. You’re going to… stab me with the magic spear?”

They didn’t answer, but a chant had started to rise, low voices muttering nonsense. Dewey hated the chanting. It was so unsettling.

Too unsettling. Time to distract himself. “You know, stabbing has got to be my favorite kind of sacrifice. Simple, yet effective. Less is more, know what I’m saying?”

He was bad at this. It was easy to talk to people that liked him, but it was hard to talk himself out of trouble. That’s what Louie was good at. Louie knew how people acted, what to say get people on his side, or at least get them to not kill him.

But Dewey didn’t understand people like that. He didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t have the skills to get himself out of the situation like Webby. And he certainly didn’t have Huey’s resourcefulness, either.

Maybe that’s why he was getting taken all the time. It was just so glaringly obvious that he’d be the easiest target.

Dewey clenched his fists at his sides. Not now. He could re-evaluate his worth later. After he was back at the mansion. And tomorrow he could pretend he got a full night’s sleep, when he actually just spent hours staring out his window and counting stars.

He spotted the spear. Some guy with a big leafy-looking crown was holding it. Definitely the leader, but not the sacrifice guy. Huey called them priests, Louie called them cultists, but Dewey didn’t really care what they were called, he just wished they’d stop trying to use him in sacrifices.

Though, he supposed it was better him than some other rando they found in the woods. He had people that would look for him. And find him. Hopefully soon.

“Okay, so the big guy over there has the spear,” Dewey said. He was trying to stall, but it wasn’t really working. “But he’s kinda standing all the way over there with the spear, so how’s this sacrifice going to…” He watched the guy in the crown pass the spear over to a guy in an ornate cape. Also made of leaves, somehow. “Never mind. I guess that’s how it’s going to work.”

There wasn’t a traditional altar, just a simple wooden post in the middle of the platform. It made sense, actually. Most sacrifices were done with a knife, but with a spear? That wouldn’t really work laying down.

Dewey shook his head to clear his thoughts. Now wasn’t the time to be complimenting the tribe on their practical methods of sacrifice, he needed to think. He’d run this course so many times, way more times than he should have, he should be able to think this through.

First thing, getting untied. The light from the torches caught something on the ground in front of him. Discarded spearhead. It was either from someone’s broken weapon or one that just never got attached to anything, but whatever the case, it was good news for him.

All he had to do was grab it. Feigning the trip was easy enough for an actor as brilliant as he was, but he nearly missed the narrow window of opportunity to snatch the spearhead off the ground before the two tribespeople leading him towards his doom quickly yanked him back to his feet.

“Sorry guys,” Dewey said easily, holding the sharp stone tightly in his hand. “Lost my balance for a sec there.” The stone was digging into his hand, but he couldn’t afford to loosen his grip in case someone saw it.

He scanned the trees while painted masks started securing him to there post. Where was everybody? They were usually here by now. It was starting to look like he was gonna have to get out of this one himself. Which was fine, obviously, he’d done that before.

There was a moment of panic when they were tying his hands behind him that he thought someone saw the stone. To his relief, they backed off the platform without giving him a second glance. As soon as they left to join the rest of the chanters, he set to work trying to get the ropes off.

It always looked easier in the movies. The movies didn’t show how bad the rope chafed your skin when you worked the stone back and forth. And they didn’t show how much the rock slipped because you can’t see what you’re doing, either.

The chanting was starting to get louder. This was bad. Not bad enough for him to start panicking, because he never ever panicked, but it was still kinda bad.

“You guys are seriously gonna regret this,” Dewey warned. “My family is out looking for me. They’re about to find me, I guarantee it.” His gaze darted to the treeline. Still no sign of anyone.

If it was just Uncle Scrooge, Webby, and his brothers like it used to be, he’d assume they were trying to ambush the tribe. But Uncle Donald, his mother, and Launchpad were on this mission. And no offense to any of them, he loved them dearly, but stealth wasn’t their strong suit.

So if he couldn’t hear Uncle Donald yelling or Launchpad crashing through the trees, that meant they weren’t here. And if they weren’t here…

Bad. This was actually bad. He tried to think of something to say, literally anything, but the words weren’t coming out any more. The only thing he could do was reassure himself that his family was going to be there soon. They always were.

Unless they weren’t.

The priest-cult-whatever-he-was held up the spear. Under normal circumstances, Dewey could count on the darkening sky and flickering firelight to obscure their vision enough to maybe miss. But this was a spear that couldn’t miss.

Baaaaaaaaad. Bad bad bad. Really bad.

The arm holding the spear pulled back to throw just as Dewey heard the ropes finally snap. He shook his hands free and ducked just as the spear flew over his head.

He couldn’t hear much over his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, but he was pretty sure the chanting was turning into angry shouting. And if they were gonna be angry anyway, then he might as well take their special spear while he made his escape, right?

The seconds it took to pull the magic spear out of the post cost him, but he was sure Uncle Scrooge would be happy he managed to grab it. The normal spear that grazed his left arm wasn’t a big deal. Angry people with spears were all part of adventuring and definitely manageable.

There wasn’t much left to do but run. “So long, crazy sacrifice people!” He called as he jumped off the platform. “I’m off to- whoa!” He realized his mistake the instant he hit the ground. The spear wasn’t going to let up until it hit the target, and it hadn’t hit him yet.

Why didn’t he leave it in the stupid post?

It was a struggle to run and stop the spear he was holding from impaling him. He wasn’t sure how to make it stop, but stumbling earned him another spear that he didn’t quite dodge in time. He was only vaguely aware that his right shoulder was hit, but he was sure he’d feel the sting as soon as the adrenaline wore off, which wouldn’t be any time soon considering he was getting chased.

“Stop. Stop it.” He hid behind a tree and pushed the spear away from himself. “Ah, if Webby were here, she’d know how to fix this.” Taking the spear with both hands, he forced the tip of the spear to face the ground. “Alright, think.

“You’re Dewey Duck, the world’s greatest eleven year old adventurer. You can figure this out.” The sound angry shouts grew closer at an alarming rate. “Okay, I can figure this out in a minute.” He took off running again, trying to make as little noise as possible.

Talking was usually how he coped with stress. He’d pretty much been talking since he got separated from his family. That probably wasn’t a good idea at the moment, but he couldn’t help muttering to himself anyway. It was hardly a whisper, really, but it kept his fear to reasonable levels.

“Fear?” He muttered as he shoved aside the underbrush in his way. “Since when do I deal with fear? I don’t do fear. I am not afraid.” The light from a torch barely registered before the painted face appeared. Dewey scrambled to back up and keep running. “Not that way!”

Still not afraid. Absolutely not afraid. Would his Uncle Scrooge be afraid? No way! So he just had to concentrate on not getting stabbed by this stupid magic spear.

Though, in hindsight, maybe he should’ve concentrated on running, too. It didn’t occur to him that running blindly through the woods in the dark wasn’t a good idea until he was already rolling down the hill.

Good news, he covered a lot of ground with how quickly he descended the slope. Bad news, there were a lot more things hurting now. He was pretty sure his back had hit a rock on the way down, which very effectively knocked the wind out of him. Not to mention he was about seventy-six percent sure his leg was gonna have a nasty bruise and-

He was forgetting something.

His blurry vision cleared up just in time to see the spear he dropped speeding towards him from above. He rolled to his left to dodge it. And, thanks to his incredible adventuring skills, he did dodge it. Mostly. He mostly dodged it. And mostly dodging it was totally fine. If you got mostly correct answers on a test, you still got a good grade.

Bright side. He needed a bright side to this.

“Come on, get up,” Dewey scolded himself. “Spear hit me in the side, and that’s not great. Bright side. It’s not stuck in my side, it’s stuck in the ground.” He used the spear to stand himself back up. “And bonus, if it hit me, then its job is done. Which means I can safely carry it back to… um…”

Where was he again? He was pretty sure he was headed back in the right direction when he first started running, but now…

“Great,” Dewey said bitterly. “Okay, wait, this is still fine. Everyone’s probably out looking for me still. I’m bound to run into someone eventually. I just have to keep walking.” Distant shouts made him shudder. “Never mind. I’m running.”

He took about two steps and nearly fell again. He had to plant the spear in the ground to keep himself from falling over. “Never mind again. Running is not happening.” Walking was still a pain, but considerably easier than full-on running.

If Huey were here he’d probably say something smart. Like how Dewey should probably take a piece of cloth to try and stop the bleeding in his side.

Fortunately, his shirt was already ripped from the spear. He paused to take off his short-sleeved overshirt and tore it up so that it could tie around his torso. It probably wasn’t the best patch job, but it’d work until he found the others.

Unfortunately, his family was a little harder to find than he thought they’d be. He considered shouting to see if anyone could hear him, but given the tribe of people he had robbed of a sacrifice and a magic spear, yelling seemed like a bad idea.

Not that they wouldn’t catch up to him eventually anyway. His progress was getting slower by the second. They’d figure out where he was sooner or later and-

That was a torch.

Dewey nearly tripped for what seemed like the hundredth time and stood behind the truck of a tree. He rubbed at his eyes furiously, trying to force back the tears that sprang into his eyes after he tripped. Much like everything else that was happening to him right now, crying would be bad.

The light swung in his direction. If Dewey were allowed to curse, he would have. Because really, how stupid did you have to be to trip while you were being chased? This was, like, the bajillionth time.

Probably the last time too.

A very irrational part of his brain forced him to close his eyes, like the light would disappear if he couldn’t see it. The logic was every bit as sound as hiding under his covers, convinced that the hoodie Louie left on the chair was a monster, but logic wasn’t exactly his area of expertise.

He could hear someone walking close by. If his mother and Uncle Donald were here, they would tell him to be brave or something. That was usually so easy for him. So why did it feel like his throat was starting to close up?

Dewey slid down the truck of the tree and sat on the ground. He was scared. It felt ridiculous and stupid, but his side hurt and it was dark and he couldn’t find his family and he was scared.

The sound of footsteps were closer now. Like, really close. Way too close. Dewey tightened his grip on the spear. Usually he would love an excuse to wield a magic weapon, but not tonight.

The tears he had been trying so desperately to hold back started to slip out. He couldn’t stop them even if he wanted to.

He could hear whoever was holding the torch just on the other side of the tree. Clamping a hand over his mouth to stop any noise from coming out, Dewey waited for the footsteps to pass.

By some miracle, they actually did pass. They walked right by him. Dewey was sure they’d hear his heartbeat, and he nearly collapsed in relief when the footsteps receded, but he forced himself to stand up.

And then he ran. He didn’t care if his side hurt or not, he wanted to find his family. He wanted to give Uncle Scrooge this stupid spear and never look at it ever again.

A low rumbling caught his attention. “The plane,” Dewey said breathlessly. He changed directions and ran towards the sound. Normally he’d try for a grand entrance, but he was way too relieved to care.

Now, Launchpad had been told to stay with the plane while the others looked for Dewey. He hadn’t expected to be the one that saw Dewey first. But the duck that stumbled into view was undoubtedly his best friend and boy was it good to see him.

“Dewey!” Launchpad jumped up and waved enthusiastically. “There you are! I haven’t seen you in forever!” He frowned as he noticed Dewey looked a little less-than-fantastic. “You don’t look so good.”

The younger duck laughed weakly. “Trust me, I’m doing much better now.” He was using a spear as a walking stick. When did Dewey get a spear? Launchpad didn’t remember him having a spear before. “Where is everyone else?”

“Looking for you,” Launchpad answered. “And a magic spear that never misses. I’m here with the plane in case we have to make a quick… getaway.” He smiled brightly. “Oh hey! You’ve got the magic spear! Awesome! Mr. McD will- oh geez.” Launchpad reached out and steadied Dewey, who was right on the verge of falling over. “You really don’t look so good.”

Dewey clung to the sleeve of Launchpad’s jacket with his free hand. “I’m fine,” he whispered in a quivering voice, “I just wanna go home.”

Launchpad immediately scooped him up. It wasn’t very hard, Dewey was light and very small. It still made him uneasy to feel Dewey curl into him like he was scared to look anywhere. He relaxed a slight bit once they were in the plane, but not much.

Deciding the spear wasn’t important at the moment, Launchpad took it and tossed it somewhere. Mr. McD would probably take care of it whenever he got back. “Wait,” Dewey protested, “The spear-”

“I don’t think you need a spear,” Launchpad put Dewey down in the pilot’s seat, “I think you need to sit there for a minute.”

Launchpad could admit that he wasn’t very good at adventuring. Crashing? Yes. Piloting? Debatable. But one thing he did know how to do was use a first aid kit. When you ran into things as much as he did, you learned to patch yourself up.

Dewey cleared his throat when he saw Launchpad pull out the red box. “Launchpad, you really don’t have to-”

“I think I kinda do actually.” Launchpad sat in the co-pilot’s seat and opened the first aid kit. “What happened out there anyway? You look like you got hit by… something.”

“Oh, you know, just normal adventure stuff.” Dewey held out his left arm when Launchpad motioned for it. “Crazy people in the woods wanted a sacrifice and I was the easiest target.”

Launchpad hummed thoughtfully while he worked. “Did you escape on your own?”

“Yeah, nobody had found me yet.” Dewey shrugged. “Que the chase scene, blah blah blah, I feel down a hill and now I’m here.”

“How’d you get the spear if they were all chasing you?”

Dewey hesitated. “They may have… you know, thrown it. At me.”

Launchpad laughed as he finished bandaging Dewey’s arm. “Wow! And Mr. McD said that the spear never missed. Lucky you, huh?”

“It didn’t miss, Launchpad.” Dewey lifted the hem of his long-sleeved shirt. “Huey would probably have a heart attack if he saw this, but it was dark and I don’t really know how-” He winced as he untied the blue cloth around his torso. “Anyway, they threw the spear at me but I ducked and it ended up sticking in a wooden post.

“And I probably should’ve left it there,” Dewey said as he let the shredded remnants of his shirt fall to the floor. “But I wasn’t really thinking, so I pulled it out. I fell down a hill and uh… well, the spear never misses, right?”

Launchpad rummaged through the first aid kit. “I don’t think Huey’s the only one who’s going to have a heart attack.”

Dewey sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

“I mean, you should have seen your mom. She’s never seen one of you guys be used as a sacrifice before.” Launchpad shook his head. “I bet she’s still freaking out. And Donald too. And Mr. McD and Webby and your brothers and…” He noticed Dewey’s eyes starting to water. “This is… not helping, is it?”

“Reminding me that everyone was worried because I’m useless and can’t take care of myself?” Dewey snapped. “Yeah, no, not helping.” He groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “I-I’m sorry, Launchpad, I didn’t mean to get mad.”

“S’okay,” Launchpad said as he bandaged Dewey’s side. “And I don’t think y-” He was interrupted by a pained shout. “Are you-”

Dewey waved him off. “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m fine, it… it just hurts.”

“Almost done,” Launchpad promised. Nothing was deep enough to need stitches, thankfully. He wasn’t sure he could do that. Still, it was pretty bad. “As I was saying: I don’t think you’re useless.”

Dewey tentatively touched the bandages over his injured side. “You’re only saying that because you’re my best friend.”

“No, I’m saying it because it’s true.” Launchpad swatted Dewey’s hand away from the new bandage. “And nobody else thinks it either.”

“Launchpad, you can’t know what other people think.”

He shrugged and set to work on Dewey’s shoulder. “That may be true, but that doesn’t mean I’m not right.”

Dewey’s brow furrowed. “I don’t get it.”

“And now we’re even.” Launchpad closed up the first aid kit and stood to put it back.

“That isn’t how it works,” Dewey said.

“Why not?” Launchpad asked as he tucked the small box away. “You’re always doing the brave stuff. Bein’ all cool and dangerous. That’s important for adventuring.”

Dewey rolled his eyes. “Everyone does the dangerous stuff. Even Uncle Donald!” He leaned back in the pilot’s seat. “I’m just doing it dumber, and I get into more trouble than I should. I’m not as smart as Huey, Louie, and Webby.”

Launchpad sat back down. “That’s not-”

“Don’t say it’s not true,” Dewey interrupted. “Look at me!” He threw out his arms angrily. “Does this look like a smart adventurer to you?”

“What? Just because you got hurt?” Launchpad asked. “You think Mr. McD got out of every adventure without a scratch? That guy’s almost died more times than I can count, and I haven’t even been working with him for that long.”

Dewey let his arms fall. “I hear what you’re saying, but it… I just-” He sighed and buried his face in his hands. “I still feel like crap.”

“I think it’s okay to feel like crap sometimes,” Launchpad said. “If it makes you feel any better, you just brought back a spear that Mr. McD has been trying to track down for years. I’m only here because he thought he might need the extra muscle, but you did it all by yourself.”

“I mean…” Dewey peered between his hands at the spear Launchpad had tossed aside. “I… yeah. I did do that.” The barest trace of a smile appeared. “Guess that was pretty cool, huh?”

“Definitely cool,” Launchpad agreed. “And you can tell your brothers how cool you are when they get back.”

Dewey nodded slowly. “That is kind of my thing, isn’t it? Being all cool and dangerous and stuff.” He looked up at Launchpad. “Thanks.”

Launchpad reached over and ruffled Dewey’s hair. “That’s what friends are for. Friends are also for hugs. Do you want a hug?” Dewey nodded, and Launchpad scooped him up for the second time that day.

He wasn’t sure how long they sat there, but it was long enough for Dewey to finally–finally–stop trembling like a leaf in a storm. Even then, neither party seemed keen on letting go.

It wasn’t until after Dewey had fallen asleep that Launchpad remembered that the radio in the plane was connected to the walkie-talkies everyone else was carrying. He wished he had remembered it sooner, but better late than never.

“Launchpad to uh… everyone. Can you guys hear me?”

“Aye, we can hear ye. What’re you doin’ on th’ line?”

“Hi Launchpad!”

“Loud and clear on our end.”

“Dewey made it back to the plane,” he told them. “And he got the spear, too.”

“Wait, really?”

“Uncle Donald, Launchpad found Dewey!”

“Uuuugh, we did all this work for nothing.”

“We’re on our way back, lad. Don’t let that nephew of mine go runnin’ off again.”

Launchpad glanced down at Dewey. “Well, he’s actually asleep, so I don’t think that will be a problem.”

“Asleep? Why is he asleep?”

“Long day,” Launchpad said. “I’ll explain once everyone gets back.”

[prettywordsyouleft]

Hi there Chelle! I have a sort of rant. I really value your insightful thoughts so! Okay, I am a writer, and I haven’t been posting much (due to real life reasons), I’ve never gotten a lot of engagement in my blog, but I still got something and it always excited me. But now when I do try to interact with my readers, I get no engagement at all, and it’s just discouraging me even further. I feel like I’ve been forgotten... Do you have any advice for me? Ps love your writing!

I’m grateful you find me insightful, anon, and I’m sorry this is happening to you, but I don’t know how helpful I’m going to be >_>

A lot of writers I know are struggling with interaction over the last few months, so first off, I hope this gives you some hope to know it’s not something you’re doing wrong. It’s so easy to think it’s because you’re not doing x y and z, but the reality is, you’re not alone in this. Tumblr has been making “improvements” to their system and because of that, there was a huge debacle around stories even showing up in tags, if at all. I know for a fact, that I’ve missed several stories even with having these writers as mutuals, as they’re not showing up on my dash. 

However, this doesn’t help cure your discouragement a whole deal. Whilst I’m in no position to complain much about the changes with interaction this year as I’m grateful for the support I receive, I have been affected and I shouldn’t have to diminish that because at the end of the day, we’re all working hard here. And so what I did much earlier in the year to get through some of my discouragement when it first started was to sit down and clearly write out my goals for this blog. 

I started off with just writing out whatever came to mind. Things like “have a consistent schedule for the rest of the year”, “write x amount of series”, “produce at least 4 stories a week”, “have more variety in idols” etc. But I found as I was doing this, I had some glaringly obvious problems in this list. I was writing down about success and numbers and reaching milestones as well. The writing goals - those I had mostly full control over. So life through a spanner in my works, and right now I’m unable to write consistently and follow through with preplanned schedules, which sucks, but if that hadn’t happened, those goals were fully in my control, right? 

But milestones and basing success on notes and numbers and interaction are not something I can fully control because it involves other participants to reach those. Whilst we all would love to see the notes of our stories at a desired number, or more importantly, get those comments and reblogs we might have once been used to, we can’t control that. So we’re essentially getting upset with something that we can’t just fix by ourselves. And that’s where the disappointment and uncertainty lies. 

There is no fix all cure for this, aside from mindset, which is something that fluctuates for everyone. I’m an advocate for writing for yourself first and foremost, but I’m not ignorant, I know I’m motivated by commentary on my stories. Just one really nice comment can truly give me a buzz, and seeing something I worked hard on getting nothing is a bit of a let down. If I didn’t want an audience of some kind, I would write and not post online. But I do, so it’s appreciated whenever someone takes the time to read a story of mine. 

I think the most straight-forward advice I can give you is give yourself some grace. You’re doing great despite Tumblr making it impossible at times. As for readers, some are fantastic, and others only consume and don’t stop to comment/reblog. Which as heartbreaking as it can be when you’re searching for engagement, is how it is. I suggest you try perhaps finding at least a little bit of time to write a few stories and then stick to a consistent schedule with your posting if you want to keep a consistent flow of activity on your blog. Most readers like to have the knowledge there will be something to come in the near future. Let your readers know when you plan to post something so they can come back then to find it if they don’t have notifications on. If your blog is not active, it’s easy to slip into the land of unknown. If you can’t write anything at the moment but have content you can reblog, systematically set scheduled reblogs so there is something happening to gain attention. Join networks if you haven’t already, as they will reblog your work to get it out to a wider audience during this less than wonderful tagging dilemma some blogs are having. Check that you don’t have your blog marked with anything inappropriate and are being shadow-banned as I know this was a problem in the past for some people with exposure. Involve your followers in what they can expect from you or ask for tips on what they might like to see next. You don’t have to cater to everything said, but its nice to have feedback. If someone reblogs content with tags, don’t feel put off to send them a comment on the post to thank them for their efforts. It’s a lot of work at times, if you really want to have that exposure and sometimes it is hard to navigate. There will still be times where you find yourself asking why you’re bothering with the effort. Some things might not work. But if you want to make it work then it’s worth trying! 

And if you feel comfortable with letting me know who you are, feel free to privately message me. I’ll happily reblog some of your work with my followers <3

I’m sorry I’m not much help... but I really want to try and support fellow writers because if there’s anyone out there who knows what affects our motivation on this website the most, it’s fellow writers!

[brideofedoras]

Soulbound

Disclaimer: the usual

Word count: 3400+

Rating: 18+

Warnings: mentions of self harm, mentions of sex toys

Chapter 5

This chapter got away with me, and definitely went off on its own tangent.  I’m already partway through the next chapter!  

Emily pulled her jacket tighter around her as she climbed out of her car.  The wind had a bite to it, the promise of a cold front and rain later in the day.  She grabbed her kit from the back seat and locked the car before tipping her head up to the sky and breathing in deep.  

She subconsciously rubbed at her left arm, the newest scars bright pink but hidden under her sleeves.  She closed her eyes, shame flooding through her.  Two weeks may have passed since she’d sliced the crap out of the already-scarred flesh of her forearm, narrowly missing her artery but the pain remained.  The physical pain was long gone, but the emotional pain lingered.  Persisted.  Taunted.  The itch, the urge to self harm had not been soothed by the cutting.  It had only worsened with each remembered word of the rejection.

She hadn’t seen him in two weeks.  

She had taken every precaution to avoid being in the lab when John arrived to pick up Dorian or when he dropped him off.  She ducked into one of the back rooms if John unexpectedly dropped in to ask Rudy a tech question.  Her boss and friend was kind enough to not send her to the precinct when an MX needed routine maintenance or repairs.  But she knew she needed to face him sometime.  To accept that he did not want her.  To move on with her life and accept that she would never be loved by those who were supposed to love her.

But there was no avoiding him today.  

Emily adjusted her sunglasses and secured her grip on her kit before she walked toward the crime scene cordoned off with the holographic tape, where Rudy knelt beside a downed android.  A quick scan of the scene showed her Detective Kennex and Dorian were with her boss, with several MXes, officers, detectives and CSIs gathering evidence and interviewing witnesses.  

As she drew closer she shoved her free hand into her front pocket, curling her fingers around her inhaler when her lungs grew tight.  “I can do this,” she whispered to herself.  “I can do this.  Just another day on the job and what the hell is that?”     

Rudy looked up, excitement sparkling in his eyes.  “Emily, check this out!”  He waved her over.  “Look at this!”

Emily dropped down beside her boss, pointedly ignoring the detective across from her.  “What’ve we got, Rudy?”

“One of the first androids built,” he answered giddily.  “I’ve read about them, but never have I laid eyes on one before.”

“Looks like something from The Terminator,” she mused as she took in the dull red “eye” in the fiberglass skeleton exposed through charred synthetic skin.  

“The 1984 movie with Arnold Schwarzenegger?”  Dorian grinned at her.  “Or the 1992 sequel?”

Emily smiled at the DRN.  “The first one.  Nobody understands my references when I mention any classic movies or music.”

“Excuse me?”  Rudy scoffed next to her.

“Aside from you,” she knocked her shoulder against his.  

“Rudy, as you were saying,” John’s hard grumble interrupted.

“This is a Tertiary One android, better known as a T-1,” the technician nudged Emily back.  “The first T-1 was built in 2022 by Jacob Gibson, a brilliant Scotch-Norseman from New York.  These were the first home security bots, built with a fiberglass skeleton and could be operated wirelessly through the internet.  Interestingly enough, Gibson had attempted to build a prototype of a male sexbot, however he failed when it malfunctioned and electrocuted the person testing it.  She received second-degree burns inside her vagi--”

“That’s enough, Rudy,” John silenced the technician, his face twisting in mild irritation.  “Why is a twenty-six year-old bot in the middle of a bank heist crime scene?”

“Other than the damage to its left side the android is in near-pristine condition,” Rudy tilted his head as he leaned over the android.  “I’d say it was stored properly in a sterile, controlled environment until recently and brought out to be used for whatever purposes needed.”  He looked up at the detective, his brow furrowing.  “It may very well be part of the crime, John.  We will take it back to the lab and run diagnostics and hopefully access its memory.”

“Rudy,” Emily reached across the android to the hand in front of John’s knee.  “Look at his hand.”

She jumped when a pair of black gloves were suddenly thrust forward.

“Might wanna put these on before you touch the bot,” Kennex warned gently.  

She carefully took the gloves, offering the detective a shy smile.  “Thank you.”  She slipped them on before touching the hand.  “The skin is different.  Look at the right hand, and look at this one.”  She shifted onto her knees to lean over the bot.  “The difference is subtle, but they are different tones.”

“I see it,” Dorian moved around John to get a better look at the hands.  “Ms. Williams, the normal human eye would miss this.”

She shrugged.  “Yes, but an artist wouldn’t,” she looked up to meet the DRN’s brilliant blue eyes.  “My mom was an artist.  She taught me everything I know about colors and skin tones and everything in between.”

“Maybe they ran out of the synthetic skin and had to use a different one,” John muttered.

“No, Gibson was a perfectionist,” Rudy pointed out.  “He would not have tolerated something that would be glaringly obvious to him.  Check the wrists.”

Emily and Dorian carefully eased the sleeves of the T-1’s shirt up.

“Either the skin or the entire hand has been replaced,” the DRN frowned.  “Look at the imperfections in the forearm.”  His eyes flickered to the other hand.  “The size difference between the two hands confirms this one has been replaced.  The left hand is approximately 1.435 inches wider than the right.”

“Dorian,” Emily lifted the hand she was examining and set it on the bot’s abdomen, indicating for the DRN to do the same.  “We need to get this back to the lab…  Rudy?”

“I only have my car, you?”

“Same,” she shook her head.  

“I’ll see if the crime scene techs can transport it to your lab in their truck,” John offered, shifting onto his left knee to lean over the android for a closer look.  His brows lifted and fell as he shook his head.  “I never would’ve noticed the difference in skin tone, or the size.”

Emily grimaced as she pushed to her feet.  “I almost didn’t see it.  It was that freckle that caught my attention,” she motioned to the left hand.  “At the base of the thumb.”

“Androids built in 2022 did not have any form of blemishes in their synthetic skin,” Rudy frowned thoughtfully.  “Nor do most synthetics built since.  I’ve seen a rare few female androids with freckles or moles on their noses and faces,” he tapped the side of his mouth to indicate the Marilyn Monroe mole, “and one or two with freckles and beauty marks on their shoulders, never their extremities.  Yet they were manufactured within the past five years...”

Emily frowned at her boss.  “Female androids are…”

John cleared his throat.  “I’ll go make arrangements with Andrews regarding transport,” he pushed to his feet.  “Dorian.”

“I’ll be right there, John,” Dorian lifted the left hand of the T-1 to get a closer look at the skin.  “This is incredible,” he murmured to himself.  “The skin is porous, like human skin, but it’s synthetic.”

“Androids with human skin?”  Emily moved around the bot to kneel beside the DRN.  “Is that possible?”

“We haven’t heard of any,” Rudy shook his head.  

“Just because we haven’t heard of it doesn’t mean it’s impossible,” Dorian frowned.  “Rudy, have you encountered any synthetic skin like this before?”

“No,” the other man grinned.  “I’ll have to analyze it and search the databases.  Mimicking flawed skin is…  it’s unusual, a signature of sorts, perhaps.”

Dorian stood, extending his hand to Emily.  “Ms. Williams?”

She smiled as she slipped her hand into his and let him pull her to her feet.  “Thank you, Dorian.”

He nodded before heading off to join his partner.

“I’m proud of you, Emily,” Rudy spoke quietly beside her.  

She turned to frown at him.  “Why?”

He nodded toward Kennex and Dorian.  “If it weren’t for the fact I needed you here I would not have asked you to put yourself in the position of facing John when I know you’re still hurting.”

She shrugged.  “I can’t avoid him forever, Rudy,” she whispered.  “He doesn’t want me, I just need to accept that and move on.”

“I think he’s scared, if you ask me,” her boss pointed out.  “Give him time, give him the chance to recover his memories.  He will remember you.  In the meantime, let’s see if they have anything else for us to look at or take back to the lab.”

Emily managed a smile.  “It’s false hope and wishful thinking, Rudy, to believe he will remember me.  I’ll survive, just like I always have.”

 Emily lightly drummed her fingertips over her computer keyboard as she read through the information she’d found on the Tertiary androids.  “Hey, Rudy?”  She hollered over her shoulder.

Rudy looked up from the T-1 on the table.  “Find something on our friend?”

“Yes,” she left her desk to join him.  “They have a data chip embedded in the motherboard, accessible behind the right ear.  The chip should tell us who owned Arnold.”

Rudy chuckled.  “You named him Arnold?”

“He reminds me of the Terminator, just not as intimidating,” she shrugged.  

“All right, Arnold, let’s roll you over,” the older technician nodded to Emily.  Together they shifted the bot onto his left side, Emily holding him steady so Rudy could cut into the synthetic skin and find the motherboard.  “The data will likely be outdated,” he warned.  “And the camera eye was too damaged for us to access any recent recordings.”

“For us, maybe, but not for Dorian,” she reminded him.  “Vogel’s MX, remember?”

“Ah, yes,” he nodded.  “Could you hand me the tweezers, please?”

She handed them over.  “I’ll contact Dorian before I tackle the chip,” she murmured.

“Might want to contact him now,” Rudy frowned.  “I cannot extract the motherboard.  I hope he can access the information from it as well.”

Emily leaned over to get a better look, grimacing when she saw crushed circuitry surrounding the piece they needed.  “Oh, no…”  

She eased the bot down before heading back to her desk and pulling up Dorian’s contact information on her phone.  “Dorian, it’s Emily.”

“Ms. Williams, do you have something for us?”

“Not yet,” she sighed.  “We need your assistance with accessing the video files and the data on the data chip.  The head received more damage than we originally thought.”

“What do you think is on the data chip?”

“It should have the android’s history.  Point of manufacture, serial number, list of owners, GPS tracking,” she replied.  “Have you gotten any hits off the fingerprints McGinnis’ team found on it?”

“No,”  Dorian told her.  

“Dorian, who’re you talking to?”

Emily stiffened when she heard John’s low voice.

“Ms. Williams, she and Rudy need my help with the T-1.”

“Tell her we’ll be on our way once I’m done here.”

“No rush, Dorian, if you’re working a lead,” Emily spoke up.  “Rudy and I have a million other things we need to do with Arnold.”

The DRN chuckled.  “The T-1 looks nothing like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

“I know,” she smiled.  “I can’t keep referring to him as the android, the bot, the T-1.”

“That’s how I got my name,” Dorian’s smile was apparent in his voice.  “They hated referring to me as DRN and thought of the closest name to it.”

“They could’ve called you Darlene, you know,” she struggled to keep her tone serious, dissolving into giggles when Dorian burst out laughing.

“I should… let you go,” Dorian sputtered out.  “John’s giving me a dirty look.”

Emily sobered immediately.  “Don’t need to give him another reason to hate me, do we?”  

“What makes you say that, Ms. Williams?”

She squeezed her eyes shut when she realized she’d said that out loud.  “Don’t pay any mind to me, Dorian,” she sighed.  

“I’m sorry, Ms. Williams.”

“It’s okay,” she lied softly.  “I’ll see you when you get here.”

She ended the call before Dorian could ask any questions she did not want to answer and pushed her phone away from her.  

“He say how long they’ll be?”  Rudy asked.

“No,” she swiveled around to face him and pasted on as cheerful a smile she could muster.  “Sometime today, I hope.”

“While we wait, would you do the honor of running tests on the skin?”

Emily pushed to her feet.  “Anything else?”

“Hair, too, it feels just as realistic.”

“I can do that,” she grabbed a pair of gloves and joined Rudy at the table.

 Emily’s jaw dropped when her search for the chemical makeup of the synthetic skin brought up several hits on realistic skin sex toys.  Synthesized material invented forty years prior and more widely used in the adult pleasure toy industry than the hard plastic and silicone from before.  Earlier she had been absolutely fascinated with how the material had felt, velvety, smooth, plush.

Now?

She was horrified.

Her baby blue eyes widened behind her glasses as she looked at the images from the search.  Fleshlight masturbators for men.  Vibrating penises modeled after famous porn stars, varying in length, girth, color, texture.  Sex dolls modeled after porn actresses.  

“Emily?”  

She jumped at Rudy’s concerned voice.  She looked over at her boss.  “Huh?”

“You made some sort of strangled sound,” he frowned worriedly at her.  “Are you all right?”

She shook her head.  “Yeah, no…  I’m horrified,” she admitted, pointing at her computer and pushing away from her desk.  “Just… Have a look.”  

“You look a little green,” Rudy rolled his chair over to her desk as she stood up.

“I feel squicked out right now,” she admitted.  “I need to scrub my hands.”

She barely heard Rudy’s exclamation of surprise when she ducked into the bathroom and turned on the faucet.  She adjusted the water to as hot a temperature as she could stand before scrubbing her hands raw.  She still could not get the sensation of that plush, velvety texture from her fingers.

“I should have realized this was the same as the material used on the sex bots’ nether regions,” Rudy commented when she returned.

“I don’t want to know how you know this, Rudy,” she whined.  “Please don’t say anything else!”

He shot her a look before rolling back to his station, muttering to himself about needing to go to a store to ask about manufacturers and product samples.

Emily groaned as she dropped back into her chair and turned to her computer.  Reluctantly she grabbed her notebook and pen to write down product names and run a search on toy stores in the city.  Unfortunately either she or Rudy would be the ones going to those stores.

She slipped her glasses off and pinched the bridge of her nose.  It’ll have to be me.  Rudy will quickly forget he’s there for the investigation.  I won’t.  But I haven’t set foot in one of those stores since my freshman year of college when Heather Martins dragged me along for her sorority’s scavenger hunt.  

“What’ve you got, Rudy?”

Kennex’s voice startled her out of her thoughts.  Emily fumbled to turn off the computer monitor, praying like crazy no one noticed the screen.

“Emily ran some tests on the synthetic skin of the left hand,” Rudy spoke up.  “Upon running a search of the chemical makeup she has learned it is the same material used for sex toys.”                

Never had she wished harder for the floor to open up and just swallow her whole.  She held still, hoping against hope that their eyesight was no better than a T-rex’s.  If she didn’t move, they couldn’t see her.  

She carefully tugged her sleeves over her hands to curl her fingers into the cuffs.

“Do you need any help with undercover work?”  Her boss continued in a hopeful tone.  

“Nope, we’re not discussing any possible undercover work for this case,” John cut him off quickly.  “What are your plans to identify the exact type of synthetic skin?”

“Emily is researching different brands that match the chemical makeup and I believe looking into any shops that sell those products,” Rudy sounded disappointed.  “Are you sure you do not need anyone to go undercover?”

“I’m sure, Rudy.”

“Rudy, what do you need me to do?”  Dorian spoke up.  “Ms. Williams said you could not extract the data chip.”

“Ah, yes, we’ve got Arnold over here.”

“Can’t believe you named the damn thing,” Kennex muttered.

“I wasn’t the one who named him, Emily did,” Rudy pointed out, his defensive tone catching the younger tech’s attention.  

Emily flinched when she wheezed, her lungs straining to draw in air.  

“Emily?”

“Ms. Williams?”

She squeezed her eyes shut when Rudy and Dorian called her name at the same time.  “I-I’m fine,” she wheezed again.  She leaned forward and fumbled for the inhaler she’d tossed onto her desk earlier.  Her hand shook as she quickly dosed herself with the albuterol.  When she pushed her chair back to stand a hand gently squeezed her shoulder.

“Give the medicine time to work, Ms. Williams, I will not relay the information I extract until you’re ready to join us,” Dorian murmured.  

She nodded, mustering up a smile for the DRN.  “Thanks, D.”

“Any time,” he nodded before pulling away.

She watched Dorian and John walke over to the table where Rudy was leaning over the T-1 before she turned back to her desk.  She reached up and absently rubbed at her breastbone as her mind unhelpfully replayed the concerned voices of her boss and the DRN.

He never called out your name.

She squeezed her eyes shut.  Don’t dwell on it, Em.  Don’t let it get to you.  You know where you stand.

He doesn’t want you.

She realized she was nearly clawing at her shirt when her nails raked hard through the cotton and scratched her flesh.  She dropped her hand to her lap before pushing away from her desk and reluctantly joined the three men gathered around Arnold.

“What’s the rest of the skin made out of?”  John asked when Emily moved to stand beside rudy.

“It’s…” she cleared her throat when her voice scratched, “made of the same synthetic skin as all the other Tertiary-1 androids.  I will forward my report to Dorian for your investigation.”

“Thanks.  And the hand itself?  Is it the original with the freaky skin or is it new?”

“It’s definitely a modified aftermarket hand,” Rudy motioned toward the covered appendage.  “We removed the skin and exposed the fiberglass skeletal hand.  The materials used for the new hand are far more advanced than the fiberglass of the original skeleton.  And…” he rounded the table to pull the cover from the hand.  “Arnold’s fingers double as a hypodermic needle, a knife, a screwdriver, and a dart gun.  I will remove the hand and send it to McGinnis for further testing, for blood and for the contents of the hypo.”

“He originally was not equipped with an evil Inspector Gadget hands,” Emily pointed out.

“Inspector Gadget?”  John shot her a hard look.

She shrank back.  “Never mind, just a stupid observation,” she started to turn away from the table but Dorian gently put his hand on her shoulder.

“An old cartoon, right?”  He asked, frowning when she kept her head down.  “Perhaps the person who modified Arnold drew inspiration from old cartoons and movies,” Dorian suggested.  “I can run a search on--”

“No, don’t,” Kennex groaned.  “Just access his memory so we can get back to the precinct or back out on the streets.  Quit wasting time.”

“Ignore him, he’s been crabby all day,” Dorian murmured as he scanned the T-1 for the access to his data.  “He’s threatened to shove me out onto the freeway once already.”

“Dorian, sometime today?”

The DRN glared at his partner as he pressed his hand to Arnold’s neck.  “Scanning his memory banks now,” his voice held an irritated edge.

He began projecting what he was retrieving.  “None of this is recent,” he commented after a moment.  “The time stamps for these recordings are three years old.”

“Whoa, hold up,” John frowned.  “I recognize that crime scene.  Dorian, can you pause this?”

Dorian stopped the playback, freezing the holographic image.  “One of your cases?”

“No,” Kennex shook his head, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.  “One of Sam’s.  It was…  I think it was his last big case.”

Emily’s eyes widened.  “The one he was working on when…”

John dropped his hand, meeting her eyes across the table.  “Yeah.  I don’t think it was ever solved.”

[vengeancedemons]

blood on my name || self para

summary: Months ago, Robbie Reyes raised Trish Walker from Hell. She wasn’t the only thing that got out. Now, Robbie faces the consequences of that rescue, and Eli Morrow gets a second shot at life. Also known as: Robbie has a really bad day. trigger warnings: hell, death, abuse mentions, abandonment mentions featuring: robbie reyes, eli morrow, mentions of daisy johnson ( @shakeandquake ), jessica jones ( @goddamnjessicajones ), and trish walker ( @akahellcatwalker ) word count: 3116, shut up

The gateway was open.

He sensed it the moment it happened. It was as if the world tilted on its axis, the balance shifting in a way most of the fools surrounding him were too dense to see. Stupidity had never been a trait Elias Morrow suffered from. It was a shame this was not a genetic occurrence. 

Unfortunately, his nephew had always been gifted with speed. Eli arrived at the gate just in time to catch the back of Robbie’s head moving through it, just in time to see him tugging a woman behind him. He recognized her, too, and surprise was difficult to hide in a world where everything was backlit by fire and brimstone. 

It was the same woman he’d been with years ago, when they were both alive and knew nothing of Hell. It was so unlike Robbie to keep anyone but family in his life for so long. The boy had inherited his father’s habit of loving women only until they awoke. Eli wondered if Quake was different, or if he was simply looking at a reflection of the relationship between Robbie’s parents. Perhaps his nephew would only love this woman until loving her became more of a responsibility than a pleasure, until a child with his eyes and her cheekbones babbled at him in words he lacked the depth to understand.

Perhaps he would never get the chance to find out.

The gateway closed behind them, but Eli saw the hesitance in the exit. He knew the boy he had raised, understood that pause that lasted only the length between one heartbeat and the next. Robbie had doubts. Doubts about leaving, doubts about getting out. Eli couldn’t begin to imagine why. Those who left Hell, after all, scarcely regretted the decision… but Robbie did. And Eli knew his nephew well enough to know what that meant.

He knew Robbie would be back.

The realization came to him in a gasp of breath the moment the portal closed, his eyes sparking with the knowledge. Whatever made Robbie hesitate would pull him back here in time, and while Robbie was a great many things, he had never been patient. That, too, was a thing he got from his father. There was so much of his father in Robbie, so many traits Eli had pretended not to see when the boy was a child that were glaringly obvious to him now. The stubborn pride, the anger, the violence. You let yourself miss those things when you loved someone, and Eli had loved Robbie. So long as it had been convenient to him, he had loved his nephew and ignored the fact that he was his father made over, all rage and irresponsibility. 

Instead, he’d focused on the parts of Robbie he got from his mother. 

Eli had loved his sister the same way he loved her children --- conditionally. She’d been a terrible parent to them, but he’d always believed her heart was in the right place. It was why she left them with Eli when she finally made off on her own, why she’d texted him six hours into what was meant to be a thirty minute afternoon of babysitting to tell him what he’d already known. She wasn’t built to love anything, but she had a good heart. And Robbie was the same.

He’d always had his mother’s eyes, and those eyes were what made Eli positive that he’d claw his way back into Hell to solve whatever issue made him hesitate at the gate. Robbie would be back… and Eli would be ready for him.

Preparation, for most people, would have been impossible. Hell was an entire world, a realm all its own. How were you meant to know where a portal would open up? To anyone else, it was a problem with no solution. To Eli, it was an equation. 

The Darkhold’s energy still existed within him, albeit not as strong as it had when the book had been in his hands. It had kept him alive in Hell for two years and now, it was going to break him free. He used it to trace the energy the portal emitted, to tap into the traces it left behind. After that, it was a waiting game. 

Eli didn’t know how long had passed. Time moved differently in Hell. Sometimes, hours went by in the blink of an eye. Others, seconds stretched into eternities. There was no consistency, no pattern to be found. Unpredictability, Eli supposed, was part of what made Hell what it was. If you didn’t know what was coming next, you had no hope of preparing for it. It might have taken days for Robbie to come back, or it might have taken minutes. Eli didn’t know. He didn’t think it mattered.

Eventually, that energy crackled again, and Robbie was there. He had two women in tow --- the same one as before and another with her. Eli wanted to dissect that, wanted to find out what it meant, but there would be time for that later. For now, he needed to get out, needed to reclaim a world that should have been his for the taking. He ran towards the portal, launching himself into it just before it closed… and finding himself thrown backwards as if he’d hit a wall. 

Eli stared at the dying light of the portal for a moment, rage building like a fire in his chest at the realization. He couldn’t go through. Not on his own, in any case. 

It must, he decided after some deliberation, have had something to do with the way he was brought here. There was no body for Elias Morrow’s soul to return to back on Earth. There was no vessel ripe for the taking on the other side of that portal.

But maybe there was one on this side.

Eli was in Hell because Robbie had put him here. What better way to escape than by returning the favor?

It would have been easy to track his nephew through Hell, even without the Darkhold’s assistance. Robbie wasn’t the quiet type. Everything he did was loud, and the women he’d brought with him seemed to be no different. By the time he caught up to them, slinking in the shadows, a third woman had joined the group. Eli recognized her from the fighting pits, knew that she belonged here more than he ever had. It solved one mystery, at least --- Robbie’s hesitance, his return, it had been tied to this woman.

(And that made the rage in Eli’s chest burn hotter. Robbie would come back for someone who earned her spot in Hell, but would do nothing to free the man he had unjustly trapped within its flames?)

When he saw they were leaving, Eli trailed behind. He stuck to the shadows, he remained hidden. And, when they walked through that door, he surged forward.

He wasn’t sure what he expected to happen. For all the theorizing he’d done, for all the time he’d spent in church buildings as a child, Eli knew very little about the inner workings of the soul. He didn’t know how it was meant to happen. 

What did happen was this:

Elias Morrow jolted as if hit with an electrical shock. His surroundings were different. He was different. The world looked a little stranger now, as if he was seeing it with new eyes. His hands weren’t wrinkled the way they’d been before, were instead marred with a thousand tiny scars that came with working on engines. His heart was beating a little too quickly in his chest. His head ached.

Robbie Reyes faltered in his step, the world tilting on its axis for a moment as his body adjusted. He assumed this was due to stepping out of Hell and into Jessica’s apartment, assumed it was a complication that came with pulling Trish Walker out of the underworld and placing her in a life she’d left behind. He waited for something more to happen. Nothing did. He assumed this meant safety. His head ached.

Ghost Rider screamed. He was loud, he was angry, he was aware. There was a new presence here, in a body belonging to him. He tried to push it out, but the genetic similarities between the two consciousnesses made this difficult. There was a struggle. His head ached.

For Robbie, the moment passed quickly. The world had other things to offer him, and he needed to move forward. He was a wanted man, and that was nothing new… but this time, things were different. People did stupid things for the amount of money the government put on his head, and he wasn’t the only one with a price. They were after Daisy, too.

Had he not decided to lay low in the months that followed, he might have noticed the war waging in the back of his mind. He might have reached out to the Rider, might have demanded they find someone to disembowel because as much as Robbie pretended not to, he yearned for bloodshed just as much as the devil in his head. Had he cared for violence more than he cared for the woman sleeping on his couch, he might have known something was wrong.

But that was not the case.

Instead, Robbie enjoyed the quiet. He clung to those months where the Rider was near silent, breathed a sigh of relief each time he spoke to someone new without hearing whispers about what it was they deserved. He didn’t question it, didn’t dig deeper.

And in the unobserved corner of his mind, two devils fought for control.

The Rider had no real fondness for Robbie. The man was a means to an end, a way to roam the Earth and do what it was that needed to be done, to settle his score, as Reyes put it. Fighting off the man’s uncle, keeping him at bay for months on end, it wasn’t an act of kindness for Robbie. It was selfishness. Robbie was irritating, but he understood vengeance. Elias Morrow did not. Elias Morrow was after respect, after power, and his soul stunk of the Darkhold. The Rider wanted him where he belonged, and that was not in the body of Robbie Reyes.

But the Darkhold made Morrow strong.

He fought back for months, held the Devil off, kept him busy, but Ghost Rider was not Eli’s target. No, he wanted the Rider here. If he was going to exist on Earth again, he would want certain assurances. The Darkhold’s energy surging in his veins certainly offered him power, but it didn’t make him immortal. 

The Rider would.

Eli remembered watching Robbie in that box, quantum energy bombarding him from every angle and carbon spikes sticking out of his chest. It should have killed him, and it didn’t. It barely even slowed him down. 

Eli made himself a god but, in his hubris, he had overlooked the endings of all those stories they taught in church. Gods were powerful, mighty things, but they still struggled when faced with devils. They weren’t invincible. 

How do you kill a god? His sister had asked him once, staring at graffitied words on the wall outside their home. Dios está muerto, it said, the dripping letters bright red. Juliana had seemed puzzled when she read them. How do you kill a god? She’d asked again when he didn’t reply, and Eli remembered shaking his head.

You don’t, he’d said quietly, hurriedly. Their mother would be angry if she heard them say it. Religion ran deep in her bones, and if she could not teach it to them with kindness she would force it on them like blows. Juliana didn’t understand that just yet, but Eli had known it all along. You didn’t ask questions if you didn’t want to be prepared to have their answers beaten into you. It’s nothing, Julie. Ignore it. 

He’d been wrong.

Killing a god was not some impossible thing. You could do it with a snarl, with a chain wrapped around his body and fire building around you. You could do it with a text, crippling him with a responsibility he’d never once ask for. You could do it with a whisper, condemning him to a life behind bars for doing nothing more than making a grab at a thing that was rightfully his. 

How do you kill a god? There were a thousand different ways. Gods were not immortal, no matter how much they believed themselves to be so. They needed people to love them, to worship them, because without that, they became nothing. They faded to dust. Without a church, without a religion behind it, what was a god? It was nothing but an old name no one remembered, nothing but a prayer spoken quietly in a language that had been dead for centuries. 

How do you kill a god? You didn’t have to. They were all already dead.

In all of those stories his mother had beaten into him, who was it who needed the least in order to win? Who was it who came out on top simply because the efforts put on by those who were against them failed? It was the devil who won, in most stories. That was meant as a hindrance. It was meant to be a tragedy, meant to be a fable warning you of all the terrible things that you might suffer. 

Eli had never read it as such.

To him, it was more of a starting line. The only thing necessary for evil to succeed is for good men to do nothing, as the old saying went. A victory for the devil was the default setting. It was the natural order of things, the way the world was meant to end. Who had Eli been to believe himself worthy of challenging it? 

How do you kill the devil?

You can’t. 

There was no beating the devil, no banishing him, and Eli didn’t want to. It wasn’t the Rider he wanted out of this crowded head --- it was Robbie. He had to fight the devil to get to him, of course, had to fend off that foolish attempt at self preservation. There were no deals to be made with this devil, if only because Eli had nothing to offer him. His soul was already damned, his body nonexistent. In the end, all he had to do was hope the Rider would tire out before he did.

Hope won out.

The devil fell quiet all at once, and only two consciousnesses remained alert in the head. For months, the Rider kept Robbie unaware of that familiar presence in the back of his mind, but with the devil temporarily out of the picture, Robbie recognized something was wrong. He recognized that voice in the back of his head. 

Eli felt his anger. It burned just as hot as it had when he was a child, just as bright as that of the father who had left him long before Robbie learned the lines of the man’s face. But unlike that warehouse where Robbie had dragged him to Hell, there was no devil to turn that rage into flame. There was no body for Robbie to wrap in chains, no path to Hell to shove his uncle through. 

There was only this --- two men, coexisting without comfort in a body already passed its capacity for occupancy. There was an understanding between the two of them, a thing they had both known all along. There was room for one of them and the Rider in this body. 

There would not be space left for the other.

Were the fight a physical one, Eli had no doubt that he would have been bested. He was not a weak man, but Robbie was younger and faster and stronger even without the assistance of the Rider. Eli’s power had never been in his physical strength. That was why he was glad the fight was not one with fists and knives and bullets.

Mentally, Eli held the advantage. Robbie wasn’t as stupid as he let himself believe, even if the lack of formal education did work against him. There was, after all, some genetic component to intelligence, and Robbie was still Eli’s nephew. The capacity for intelligence existed within him in droves, but he’d never honed it the way Eli had. He’d never flexed the muscle, never worked it to the point of strain. Eli had. And, more than that, Eli had spent the last few months flexing that muscle. 

Fighting the Rider for dominance in that back corner of Robbie’s mind was like spending months in a proverbial gym, working out and strengthening himself in preparation for this very moment. Robbie might be the rightful owner of this body, but he never stood a chance in the fight to keep it. It had belonged to Eli the moment he sprung himself onto it in the depths of Hell. It had been his before then, perhaps. 

Maybe this end was inevitable. Maybe their fates were written in stone, maybe Robbie never had anything resembling a shot. He’d never believed in destiny, but fighting a losing battle with everything you had was certainly enough to make you wonder.

The fight wasn’t a long one, or maybe it was. Time moved differently in Hell, and while they weren’t there now, Robbie knew that was what was waiting for him if he lost. 

(And what was worse, he wondered --- the moment you realized you were in Hell, or the moment you realized you had only seconds left before it happened? Was it worse to have that hope ripped from you, or to never experience it at all?)

Only minutes after Ghost Rider lost his fight, Robbie Reyes did the same. Eli grabbed the boys soul in clenched fists, shoved him back in that deepest, darkest corner, barred the gate behind him. He didn’t know where it would go, but he had his guess. He’d just spent years there himself. It was hard to feel any sympathy for the man who’d put him there.

How did you kill the devil? 

You couldn’t. He was an ageless, immortal thing. He existed at the dawn of time, and he would exist at the end of it. The world was his. The world had always been his. There was no killing him, no defeating him. 

The closest thing you could manage was to become him.

The Rider returned to his spot with sulfur and smoke, and Eli twisted Robbie’s lips into a smile. It was his now. The devil, the body, the world. 

It had always been his.

[theirvitriol]

@bestdamnrto the explosion comes after baghdad    ,     after the missiles in the city     ,    after seeing smoke rise in the air in the middle of the night     ,     after all the vivid failure he’s seen paraded around by what they’ve been doing    ,    after sleepless nights and razor-sharp concentration and choices weighted against choices     ,    after thinking about what it would mean to lose your life .   the explosion comes after all the shit that makes it impossible for him to find sleep easily these days     ,     and it hits dead center in his chest and leaves a crater the size of three countries    ,   infinite depth of an ocean he learned to find admirable now sitting behind his rib-cage and stifling the air in his lungs .  maybe it is smoke after all    ,     maybe this is what he has been breathing in for the past weeks    ,    months     ,     fucking years       -     maybe it doesn’t matter jack shit if he feels like he is suffocating or drowning or about to fly off the handle .  because brad looks at him with glacier clear eyes and a military man’s clear and purposeful mind    ,     as if he didn’t just detonate a bomb in ray’s chest   (   and for once he was right in questioning brad’s abilities    ,    brad knows jack and shit about what it means to do that   ) .  because he somehow does not see the gravity of this situation as it hurls itself at ray to deal with it    ,    always the one with emotional bruises covering each one brad’s mouth or hands have left on him when he asked for them     ,       those uninvited remainders of what it means to always feel    ,    feel     ,    feel . when he sometimes wonders he’s the only feeling at all    ,   snake-veined doubts sitting in his mind when brad gets too quiet or when ray spends too much time in his own head picking apart every minuscule action and reaction he’s ever had around the other man      -     as if they haven’t been staking claim exclusively on the other and monopolizing their life together for the past two-odd years or so . ( then why did the missile land in his chest    ,   why can’t he breathe   ,   why does brad saying it now feel like swallowing gallons of smoke and salt water that choke him breathless .  why does his heart hammer against his chest like a jackhammer?  why    ,    why    ,     why? )

because he’s known .  why else would brad have kissed him back in the first place after their first mission together    ,    why else did he keep ray around for weeks    ,    for months     ,    them carving something resembling a life out of their shared space    ,    out of their shared time   ,   why else would he touch ray like no one else did before and why else would he say things to him very quietly and very carefully and very   -    something we both knew well enough without me saying it out loud    -     nicely phrased like the idiotically educated asshole he is? because ray’s know how brad feels about him    ,    felt about him    ,   semantics    ,    and he has felt it and tasted it and has given it back with every fibre of his being .  lacing every insult and remark with it    ,    registering its meaning like radio signals on the palms of his hands and the pads of his fingers whenever he reached out to touch brad    ,    sinking into it when they were so close all he knew was brad     ,     every fucking look in his direction marked by the overwhelming sensation of staring his obvious tenderness and lovelorn devotion into the face     ,    but never entirely sure it would be mirrored back .   somehow feeling it     ,    always feeling it actually   ,   but also raised in a world where shit like that didn’t have to mean anything concrete .  there is static filling his mind     ,    white noise like a balloon blowing up in his head when he stares at brad     ,     and it must be all his own love    ,   his own undeniable    ,    selfless     ,   unconditional    ,   exponentially climbing and most of all idiotic love taking him under like a tide takes anything in its path when the moon sits just right in the damn empty californian night sky . and he knows brad is smart enough to have known of this     ,    to have read it off ray like he reads system failures or road map data or whatever he pays his attention to    ,   which makes all of this so much worse .  so much fucking worse .  because it means he’d known about ray’s feelings for him for too long to not say it back    ,    to not say it on that street    ,    whatever one it was    ,   to not say it back the first time when ray said it     -    which was  ,   of course   ,    I love you .

loving brad is not a bad thing     ,     it might possibly be the only good choice he ever fucking made in his life      ,      but right now he can’t even look at him . there is no backstory to this    -     except for his own months of faintly adolescent pining that he wistfully ignores every change he gets    -    there is just    ,    just brad .  just brad and him and brad telling him he loves him    ,    loves him too     ,    finally saying it and finally admitting it and finally putting a name to the thing between them     ,    to the way his mouth puts burn marks on ray’s body in places no one ever has been to or looked at    ,    words spoken into skin and large hands mapping out his spine and having him accentuated in a way not even the sunlight in the middle of the desert could .  brad makes him feel good about himself     ,    brad makes him feel worth some damn something beyond the past three years of his life     ,   brad makes him feel alive     ,    brad makes him feel loved     ,   brad makes him feel    ,    period .  too much .  and he’s getting over a bullshit fit because he can’t deal with this .   “ fuck   ,  brad .  fuck .  just    -   fuck    ,    fuck    ,    fuck   ,”   he finally settles on    ,   the heel of his hand digging into one of his eyes as he turns away a little    ,   turns to the sight     -     shit    ,    he is not going to do some stupid shit like tear up     -    and the bedroom feels a little too claustrophobic with this life-altering admission between them    ,    with ray loving brad so much he can’t fucking think straight and brad returning whatever sentiment this is in his own way    ,    his carefully crafted nature     ,    and it is all just too fucking much for him to make his mind up about brad having known and brad wanting to say it before and him not doing it    -    and he is so in love he might about just fucking die for real here .  he didn’t even have sex yet     ,    isn’t that involved in such grand movie moments    ,   used to be the only thing he paid attention to in those scenes . he’d like that    ,   he’d like not to think for a second    ,   he’d like for his heart to stop killing him right now when he looks back at brad .  “maybe i did want to hear it     ,    brad     ,    ever fucking thought about that?  maybe    ,    you know     ,     because knowing it doesn’t mean jack shit when a person doesn’t say it .”

staggering breath pulled into his chest and pushed out of it     ,    finding room in the middle of the after shock going on there     ,     he somehow feels way too much like he did after the football game .  after everything     -    and isn’t this here the same thing    ,   just on a smaller scale ?  or a broader one    ,   even    ,   the one that matters more .   “was it before    -    tell me if it was before second deployment?”  voice hoarse    ,    but the question is burning through him    ,   trapped inside his mind like a stuck hinge coated in sand and heat     ,    the glaringly obvious implication of it so clear and yet he still needs to clarify why the matter is so pressing that he can only let himself be dragged down by it for the imminent aftermath .   “because if it was       -    you knew    ,   brad .  it’s not like i haven’t told you what dumb fucking feelings i have for you .  that i love you .  you knew that and    -   you didn’t say a thing .  i    -     i nearly saw you get shot in the fucking chest or worse and you   ,    you wanted to    -    you wouldn’t have     -    fuck    ,     brad     ,   i was about ten seconds away from punching the lights out off anybody in the platoon alone at the idea of you getting hurt or being pissed off and you knew that    ,   you watched that    ,   i am pretty fucking sure you would have let me .”   (   brad hurled rudy off ray first during the game    ,    brad trailed after him     ,    brad looked out for him    ,   it’s the same thing as those damn three words and yet it isn’t .   )   “and you couldn’t have told me when you wanted to? you    -    i get that this shit is not easier for you    ,    but     -     you .  fuck    ,   see    ,   now i’m running out of words .” finally   ,   he leans over    ,      close enough so he can take brad’s larger hand in a steel grip    ,    close enough to nudge his legs apart and stand between them as he cranes his neck and looks up at the other with a whirlwind of his sure-fire devotion and the flares of anger still trampling around the battleground in his chest .  “ i wanted you to tell me    ,     okay?  especially before    -    that .   because i really wasn’t sure    ,   you get that?  i’d just take about a bullet for you and all that shit    ,    but you need to let a guy know   ,   you emotionally stunted piece of work  .   i always want you to tell me    ,    brad    ,    even if i know .  especially if i know .  that clear   ,  colbert?”

WHICH IS - OF COURSE - I LOVE YOU.     If Ray Person somehow believes his to be the only chest a bomb’s gone off in, he’s wrong. Pieces of Brad will be scattered around the house for days, on the highway, in the grocery store, at the bank, all the little mundane places they walk in each others’ footsteps on a daily basis, living the words only one of them has dared to speak.     Well. As much as they can.     He can’t hold Ray’s hand or let a touch linger at the small of his back too long. He can’t rest his chin on the top of Ray’s dark head, and he can’t stoop to kiss him anywhere but the confines of Brad’s own four walls, a prison neither one of them can escape.     It holds memories like this, and it seems somehow smaller for it, that their moments are not scattered about the world as any happy couple’s might be. These walls hold everything, every first and every last, every confession and every bomb. It makes the place seem sacred, and Brad’s always known the weight of his own blasphemies. He is not a holy man. The walls are oppressive.     They reverberate with the impact of the explosion, shrapnel and debris embedded near the place where they sleep, side by side, Brad’s arms strong around Ray when terror creeps in and steals his rest. Stones and dust fall in the places where they eat, Brad rolling his eyes when Ray licks things off the counter or Brad’s face like the whiskey tango fuck they both know he isn’t. The walls shake, the explosion and Ray’s burst of righteous anger chasing away the sweet spirits of a life beginning to build and replace them instead with the fear that accompanies defusing ordnance he doesn’t know how to work with.     Because Brad’s a smart guy, a well-developed asset and one of the Corps greatest warriors, but there are still things he doesn’t know how to do. Like dispose of a bomb in the garden. Like say the words I love you without shattering on the inside. Like make promises to someone they both know he can’t keep.     Ray’s all ferocious energy, rage and pent up... something coming loose when the bomb goes off and destroys the floodgate. He isn’t still. He can’t be. He’s a whirlwind, black eyes flashing and unfathomable, black hair and black ink a stark contrast to the pale white of his skin under one of Brad’s old sweatshirts. That should tell them enough, but it doesn’t. The thing goes down past Ray’s thighs and swallows him whole, like Brad’s entire person wrapped around him and covering him, and still he’d never thought those words something Ray needed to hear.     Brad knows his gaze is shuttered. Ray’s angry, and rightly so, and instinct tells him to protect himself. There’s danger here. He might set off another bomb he can’t control, can’t predict. He may have been lucky the first time, but ignorance kills the best, and he’d like to be around to see what this place looks like when the dust settles around the reshaped environment. Because it has been reshaped. It’s been reworked and opened, and nothing is the same.     Brad takes a breath and forces himself to be vulnerable. He clenches his jaw, lets the corners of his eyes crease in worry, lets the blue of his eyes darken.     Ray turns away from him anyway.     He’s waited too long. He’s let it fester for years without the decency of balming it with something, trusting that easy connections forged in the crucible of combat would be just as easy in the real world where nothing makes any sense. Out there is simple. There is you. There is your weapon. There is the guy next to you. There is nothing else.     It turns out that I love you does not transfer from one person to another through osmosis. It has to be shared, it has to be spread. It’s a burden both must take up equally, and Brad Colbert hasn’t done that. He reads Ray’s hurt as easy now as he ever had the way Ray felt about him. It rolls of him in waves, radiating acidic anger that mingles with his own fear and morphs into something sick inside of him. It eats at his stomach, burrowing up into his chest, the beating of his heart.     Ray was right. He doesn’t know shit about ordnance disposal. He shouldn’t have messed with what he didn’t understand.     Curses fall from Ray’s lips like a waterfall, and Brad takes every one as gospel. They pile on his back, the weight of each a stone on his shoulders until he’s staring at his hands in his lap and wondering how he survives this.          ‘ I’m sorry. ‘     The voice is quiet. It wasn’t that he didn’t know. He always knew. But he never expected it to go this far. He expected Ray to tire of him, to walk away and never look back. And here they are, two years later, two tours together under their belts, and Brad’s mustered up the nerve to admit to what Ray’s been telling him both with words and without for all that time. There are no excuses. He couldn’t give one if he tried. He just wasn’t big enough to take it on, the responsibility, the weight.     It isn’t like when she loved him. Alyssa. Her burden was light and easy to bear. They knew each other since childhood. It was an extension of that ease and predictability, and they were always more family than they were anything else. When she left it hurt, but she had never set him on fire from the inside out, she had never challenged him. There were places that remained frozen and stiff until Ray Person burned through them in a blaze of glory and revealed all of him to the world.          ‘ It was before, ‘ he answers because Ray deserves those answers if Brad can give them. He’s waited this long. ‘ It was... we were at Rammstein on the way home from Afghanistan. I wouldn’t have taken you home if I didn’t know then. It was never like that for me with guys. ‘     Not that that’s the explanation Ray’s asking for. Deflect and evade, but he faces it head on regardless of the instinct. He does what causes fear. It floods him and fills him, adrenaline and energy, and he’s addicted to it. He dives in head first knowing it might drown him. Knowing it will drown him.          ‘ I know you told me. At first I didn’t want to believe you. This shit was always gonna be hard, because of me. I didn’t want you to get stuck with a secret like this, but I was too fucking selfish to turn you away.          ‘ I don’t have an excuse. I thought it would go away, I thought you would find someone else, I thought what we had was enough, but it wasn’t, and I’m sorry. ‘     He’s not gonna beg. He’s not gonna beg like a fucking dog not to be left here, the wreck that he’s made of their life together now.     But Ray comes closer, pushing in between his legs to invade his space like it belongs to him and him alone, and Brad supposes it does. It always has. Brad doesn’t dare allow himself to hope, even if Ray running out of things to say is a God-given miracle in itself.          ‘ If you think I wouldn’t take one for you too you haven’t been paying attention. Even if I didn’t fucking say it. ‘     His fingers curl around Ray’s hand, holding it tight in his lap.          ‘ I’m letting you know now. I’m sorry if it’s not enough. ‘