#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

[icallhimjoey]

eddie?! 👀 did you say EDDIE?!?! 👀👀👀👀

i DID say eddie! i had a tiny idea that fit the version of eddie ive written before (and the only version of eddie ive written before) and so... here we are. i am: so sorry. Wordcount: 6.6K

---

Let’s Go Home

(find all other parts of this story here)

“Let’s go get him.”

You sound very determined for someone completely unsure of how to handle the situation. It’s difficult to watch someone so deeply unhappy struggle with parts of their past they can’t seem to get a grip on.

“I… what?” two wet, red-rimmed eyes stare back at you. Confused. A little annoyed.

“Yea. Come on. Let’s go. We’re packing our bags and we’re going to go pick him up and bring him back here.”

Eddie doesn’t get it. Frowns, entirely unsure of who you’re talking about.

“Steve’s already here… and Wayne is coming here for Christmas, we don’t need to–…” he looks so tired.

“I know we don’t need to.”

It always happened when the days got a little shorter. When the nights got colder and Christmas loomed. When happy, wholesome family moments would be advertised all over the world, and it all became glaringly obvious – once again – how that was something Eddie never got to be a part of when he was little. Not until Wayne took him in and tried his best to make the holidays special in his own way.

No matter how hard Wayne tried, though, the bitter aftertaste of abandonment and loneliness was impossible to get rid of.

Eddie would never admit this to Wayne, but celebrating Christmas just the two of them felt just as pathetic and lonely as it had done when he lived with his parents still.

Different.

Definitely not as traumatizing, which was good.

But still dreary, and sad, with a lot of playing pretend that he was okay and happy and fine.

He was never okay and happy and fine.

Still isn’t okay and happy and fine.

That’s not Wayne’s fault, Eddie knows, and he feels like a shitty person because Wayne always tried his best. Did what he could. It just never quite worked.

Christmas would roll around, and Eddie would get depressed.

That’s just what happened.

Eddie would slip into sadness, scary thoughts intruding happy places they weren’t allowed to settle into, but he’d not yet learnt how to tell them to fuck off. To leave him alone. Didn’t know how to get the uninvited guests out of his house, and felt powerless as he watched them settle into his living room. Nothing he could do about it.

Somber, pensive moments would slowly stretch until they covered most of the day. Mornings were the happiest, still. He’d wake up after falling asleep eventually, never managing to slip into dreams before 3 AM, and for a moment, he’d forget. The short amount of sleep would have him tired enough to not remember the reality of his life for a second, and in those moments, it would just be you in bed with him and that would be the only thing in existence.

It’s awful to feel reality set into someone’s body mid-hug.

You wish you knew how to keep it out.

Over the years Eddie had learnt he had to vocalize his feelings. His thoughts. Knew that a burden shared was a burden halved, but knowing things in theory didn’t make them easier in practice.

“What can I do? Let me help.” You’d whisper, and Eddie was lucky you’d known each other for so long. There were no worried questions of are you okay, or a concerned soft hey what’s wrong.

You know he’s not okay, and you know what’s wrong.

“You, here. That’s all you need to do.” Eddie would murmur and he’d pull you in to hold you for a short while. And sometimes, that would temporarily fix him.

There is part of Eddie that honestly thinks if he doesn’t think about it, that it’ll be okay.

If he ignores it for long enough, it might go away by itself.

He’s lucky that sometimes, it does.

He pretends that the foundation of shit that he’d been given for his life hasn’t got all the cracks in. The house he has tried to build on top might shake a bit in the wind, but he can convince himself that the strong support beams that have been put in place will make sure the whole thing doesn’t collapse.

But it’s getting closer and closer to Christmas, and he’s sinking deeper and deeper into everything that’s dark, and cold, and uncomfortable, and painful, and scary.

Everything is designed to make people feel happy around this time of year, and he’s in LA where the sun shines all year long and it doesn’t even really get cold at all. Not like it gets cold in Hawkins. The days don’t really get that much shorter, and he can go outside in a T-shirt and be fine. But maybe that’s precisely the problem right now; there’s no quick get inside the house, and no let me warm your hands up for you.

The comfort of a frozen nose that get nuzzled back to life is unattainable in LA.

“Can you go to another meeting? Would that help, do you think?” you silently ask him one evening, hidden under the covers and too tired to stay awake for much longer, even though you know Eddie’s wide awake next to you. He’ll toss and turn for a couple more hours after you’ve drifted off.

“Yea, of course. I should.” Eddie is quick to reply, but you know he doesn’t want to.

Talking about his addiction with strangers when he’s trying his best to pretend it’s not there will just make things worse, he thinks. Logically, he knows it probably won’t, but there’s always that fear.

“Can I join you?”

You feel how Eddie shifts in bed, probably to take a look at you, but your eyes are closed and you’re about to fall asleep. This isn’t the time to fall into a conversation in which he asks you why on earth you would want to hear a lot of people you don’t know talk about a lot of drastic measures you don’t need to know people let themselves be pushed to sometimes.

So instead, you feel a kiss press to your temple, and he whispers, “Sure you can.”

At first, Eddie doesn’t say much in the meeting you join him for. You mostly listen to issues other people bring forward, and try to think of things you’d do if Eddie was the person speaking. If he was the one with all of those problems. How would you help?

How would you fix it?

When a kind, soft-spoken voice asks if there’s anyone new who wants to share, a lot of eyes fall on you, and you shift in your seat. Sit up a little. Feel Eddie squeeze your hand in his which could have meant, it’s okay, you can tell people why you’re here, but instead it means, I got this.

Eddie talks.

Tells everyone about how he feels like he’s deep in a depression and that he doesn’t really know how to get out of the dark pit he’s fallen into.

How it feels like he’s five years old and stuck in a small dark room, and he’s feeling all over the walls but can’t locate the light switch, and the longer he’s looking, the more he starts feeling claustrophobic in there.

You make the mistake of asking him if he can call out for help.

“Have you tried asking? Maybe someone else can turn the light on for you…”

Eddie breaks down, elbows on his knees, face hidden from the group as he looks at the wooden floor boards through his tears.

It’s not your fault.

Eddie doesn’t expect you to understand the feeling of being so utterly helpless and alone that he knows there’s no use in even trying to call for help.

No one would’ve answered.

You scoot your seat closer to his, and lean into his side as you wrap an arm around his back, fingers curling around his shoulder. It’s nice. He needs it. He also knows there’s thirteen pairs of eyes on him and he doesn’t know how to tell you that no matter how hard you’ll try, you won’t be able to actually fix anything.

“Let me turn the light on. Let Steve, or let Wayne– Robin… we can all help turn the light on. We’ll fly Wayne out, Robin too, and anyone else that you want. They can all move in, we have the space for it. Just… please, let us turn the light on, Eddie…”

It’s the fucking sweetest thing he’s ever heard, but he can reach for the light himself now. He can find it in the dark, and he can turn it on. The problem is that it doesn’t make a fucking difference.

Turning a light on now doesn’t change anything about his past.

Eddie gets asked if he has anything more to share. He sniffs and wipes his face with both his hands before he sits up and leans back and says, “Thank you, but um, no. I don’t. It’s this time of year, I guess. I know it’ll pass.”

You hold hands, fingers intertwined, as you listen to everyone else share more of their own personal issues, and when you leave Eddie puts his arm around you and pulls you close to kiss the side of your face. He tells you that he loves you, that he’s glad that he came, and he thanks you for coming with him.

You can see in his eyes that none of it helped.

Eddie lets himself sink deeper and all you can really do is be there for him. Be there when he wakes up and be there when he goes to sleep. You give him the gift of routine. Of healthy meals. Of pleasant walks outside. Long showers after.

It helps.

But it doesn’t fix anything.

You try your best at damage control. Talk to Steve. Call Wayne a lot.

And it helps.

But about two weeks later, Eddie starts isolating.

He had never isolated before.

Not like this.

He’s in his home studio, hyperfocussing on four seconds of a song he’s working on, and when you interrupt to tell him you’re going to go to bed, he says he’ll come up in a minute. He just needs to figure this bit out. “I’m so close, I can taste it.” Eddie smiles a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and for a moment you think Eddie’s going to let you listen to his work in progress. He always asks for your opinion, but this time he doesn’t. He just looks at you with a smile that’s just there for reassurance until you leave him alone.

At 5 AM you get woken up by Steve, who softly says, “You need to come downstairs…” and leads the way for you.

“I got up to pee, and the bathroom is right above the studio…”

You find Eddie in the exact same spot, going over the exact same four seconds of music.

He looks like he’s being tortured, barely able to keep his eyes open. When you gently pry the guitar from his hands, his breathing changes, and you think if he would have had the energy to sob, he would have cried like a child.

“Let’s go to bed, Eddie.”

Eddie lets you take him upstairs, but then locks himself in the bathroom and when you ask if he can let you in, all you can hear are soft sniffles whilst the shower runs.

It’s then that you decide.

Something is different this time around.

Something deeper has bubbled up, and you know whatever you are doing here, in LA, to help him simply will not be enough.

You establish a plan and pull out two suitcases that you place onto your bed. You’re going to pack your bags and you’re going to go get him.

It’s clearly necessary.

Eddie is no longer letting you comfort him and you’re scared that the next step is going to be a relapse.

“What are you doing?”

“Let’s go get him.”

“I–… what?”

Eddie hasn’t slept, and his unwashed hair is wet from the shower he’s sat in for a while, and you’re very calmly and methodically folding clothes into a suitcase. You might as well be speaking in a different language right now.

“Yea. Come on. Let’s go. We’re packing our bags and we’re going to go pick him up and bring him back here.”

Eddie slowly moves to sit down on the bed, and he looks at what you’re doing for a moment before he sighs and softly says, “Steve’s already here… and Wayne is coming here for Christmas, we don’t need to–…”

He stops speaking when he sees your slight smile.

“I know we don’t need to.” You say and Eddie doesn’t like how you look at him with so much care in your eyes. He doesn’t think he deserves it.

Doesn’t deserve you.

“Do you want to bring both of your black hoodies?” you then ask, not giving him a chance to question what’s happening, and so he just goes, “Yea… yea, sure.” before he lets himself fall backwards onto the mattress where he shuts his eyes.

You let Eddie sleep for as long as sleep will hold him. Pack up both suitcases and let Steve help you book travel back home.

“Do you want to come?” you ask when Steve is on the phone to a travel agent. He is listening to the woman who’s reading him back information he’s just given her, so he can’t answer you, but he reaches out and holds your hand whilst you listen to him book two tickets to Indiana.

When he gets off the phone he reaches for your other hand as well and says, “I’ll watch the house.”

You give him a slight frown. “You know he’d love you to come with us… Wayne says Hawkins is covered in snow. We could watch Christmas films in the trailer… get Robin and run across Lover’s Lake again… or, call Dustin and, I don’t know, Eddie could challenge him to a snow ball fight and they could play–”

“Dustin’s 26 years old.”

“Yea...” you frown at Steve. “So?” you sound desperate.

Steve huffs a laugh as he rubs his thumbs over your hands. He grimaces a little before he says, “No offense, but… he doesn’t need us out there. Of course you’ve got to go with him, but every other person is going to be one too many.”

And Steve’s right.

The next day, Steve joins you outside as you’re about to leave. He hugs Eddie for a long time by the trunk of the car, and you know they’re softly talking to each other. You can only see Eddie’s back, and Steve’s face is hidden by all of Eddie’s curls, but suddenly you can hear Eddie laugh before he pokes Steve in the side.

You get hugged next.

Eddie doesn’t sleep on the flight. Just stares out the window and gets lost in thought. You know he’s not entirely sure of why you’re taking him back to Hawkins, but he’s also not asked about it again.

When your rental car stops in front of Wayne’s trailer, you turn the engine off and sit in silence for a moment as you both just… look at it. It’s four in the afternoon, but it’s getting dark outside already.

Forest Hills.

A surprisingly large lot of land that holds about twenty-four sporadically placed trailers; some of them neatly lined up, others facing whichever way. Wayne’s trailer was one of those ones, placed diagonally to the road, surrounded by dry grass for most of the year which was now hidden by a thick layer of snow.

Momentarily, everything about the image that you’re looking at looks like it’s 1987. Maybe 1988. You can easily envision a younger version of yourself running up to that same front door, it swinging open before you could even get up the steps, Eddie bursting through just to throw you over his shoulder and haul you inside.

“We’re here...” you break the silence, stating the obvious, and find Eddie’s hand to squeeze.

It’s a little silly, but it looks like he’s scared.

“Did you tell him we were coming?”

“Wayne?”

Eddie turns to look at you, slightly confused because, yea who the fuck else?

“Yea. I called Wayne.”

You watch how Eddie takes a breath. Watch that information settle within him.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

And Eddie does. Doesn’t want to do anything without you, ever.

But he takes a shaky breath and says, “I’ll come get you in a second.” before he opens the door and gets out of the car.

Footsteps crunch in the snow, and you watch Eddie, hands in pockets, rush up the steps to what used to be the trailer that he lived in with his uncle. The trailer that he found home in when he was about seven years old and Wayne had decided that his bedroom could actually be Eddie’s bedroom instead for a while.

A while turned into fifteen years in the blink of an eye.

You watch Eddie hug Wayne through the window. It’s another long embrace, but this one doesn’t part with boyish grins and jabbing fingers. Instead, you can see how Eddie goes limp in Wayne’s arms a little, and when he goes to pull back, Wayne just… holds on.

Just a little longer.

It feels a little wrong to be watching them like this, chin perched on the steering wheel, fingers hidden in your sleeves. It feels especially invasive when you see how when they eventually part, the first thing both men do is bring their sleeves to their faces to dry what has become wet.

Then, Eddie steps away. Slowly walks towards the room that used to be his bedroom, and he goes alone.

Good, you think.

That’s good.

Wayne didn’t understand at first, when you told him over the phone. That you were coming over for a strange, but important visit. But this was good.

It takes a while.

Your fingers start to lose their feeling a little as you wait in the car, but it’s fine. You are not the priority right now.

When Eddie eventually emerges from the trailer, you get out of the car, and wait for him to call for you. A, come on. Come inside. It’s fucking freezing out here.

Instead, you get silence. Eddie doesn’t stop walking to wave you over.

He makes his way all the way over to where you’re stood next to the car, and then, he hesitates for a moment.

Eddie can’t look you in the eye.

“Everything okay?”

You know it’s not.

“He um…” Eddie starts, voice trembling. “He’s not here.”

“What?”

Eddie moves closer to place a kiss to your temple, eyes looking away, over the top of the car, across the trailer park. “He’s not here. I didn’t find him.”

Eddie steps around you and gets into the passenger seat, and for a moment, you stand with both shoes in slush whilst you try to think of what to do next. When you look back at the trailer, you catch Wayne through he window. Gives you a smile and a wave.

For a moment you contemplate running over, up those same steps, to ask what happened inside. Maybe Wayne has answers to questions you keep asking yourself.

Before you can, Eddie roars the engine back to life.

You give Wayne a wave back from where you’re stood and round the car to get into the passenger’s seat. You can talk to Wayne later.

Back inside the car, you put your seatbelt on and look at Eddie for a moment. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift, and he’s biting his lip as he stares into space.

“If he’s not here…” you start pensively.

“It’s quite the drive.” Eddie answers, unmoving.

“We have the time.”

“I don’t think we’d make it back here before midnight.”

“Hey,”

Eddie turns his head to look at you.

“We have time.” You repeat yourself and place your hand on the back of his head where you softly scratch your fingers into his hair. “You good to drive?”

You don’t get an answer. Instead, Eddie puts the car in reverse and starts backing out. Just before he’s about to fully leave Forest Hills Trailer Park, he stops the car, even though there’s no traffic to wait for.

“I can drive if you want me to–”

“N-no, that’s not it. I can drive, but I…”

Eddie stares. Looks at his hands and just sits in silence, going through it. Then suddenly, he takes his seatbelt off, opens his door and quickly says, “I’ll be right back.” and he runs.

Left in a car with a running engine and a wide open door, you turn in your seat to watch Eddie’s breath leave him in white clouds as he runs back to the trailer, back up the steps, back inside. You’re too far away to see in the windows now.

It only takes a minute.

When he comes back, jogs down those steps in the snow, he looks a little lighter somehow. Like running back towards the car is a little easier.

Eddie gets back in the car, and he’s all loud inhales and rough exhales, hands rubbing together because it’s cold and he just ran through the snow, but then he looks at you as he puts on his seatbelt and he smiles.

There’s tears in his eyes, but he’s smiling.

“Had to tell him it’s okay. That I’m okay.”

Somehow, Eddie is beaming and solemn at the same time, but you’re happy that something has changed a little. That he seems to get it. You sink into your seat a bit more when Eddie pulls onto the road and starts heading south.

Eddie told you once, years ago, that he used to live in a motel before he came to Hawkins. How that’s all his parents could afford, and even then, they were always fighting with the front desk about money. Always late on payments.

It was just one big room, and even though it was just him, his mother and sometimes his dad, there were always people in their room. Strangers. Friends, his mother would tell him. Sometimes she’d even tell him, this is your Uncle Frank, and Eddie would be forced to shake the hand of a man he had never seen before and would never see again.

Eddie spent a lot of his early childhood confused.

He spent a lot of his childhood hiding.

Afraid.

Alone.

He wouldn’t ever trust anyone. People told him one thing and then they would laugh together and they would do something else.

Adults were evil, and yet the world was made so that adults were the ones that had to look after him. That made the decisions. That told him, go play outside, even if rain was coming down hard, and Eddie would have no other choice but to listen. To do as he was told.

He was only a little kid.

When Eddie was seven years old, he got kicked out of the room at eight in the morning and got told to not come back until they were ‘ready for him’.

Like he knew what that meant.

No one had told him how to tell time.

Eddie didn’t go to school.

But he knew that being sent outside meant that he had to go find his own entertainment for a while, and so he did.

Eddie was seven years old when he came back around lunch time with skinned knees and grass stains in his shorts, and there was commotion.

Lots of people.

People in uniforms.

A cop car.

A kind woman who asked him if he had lost his way. If she could help him get home. Eddie had just smiled and said, no thanks, and had tried to hide in the spot where he always hid. Adults were not to be trusted, Eddie knew. No matter how kind they looked.

Eddie was seven years old when he got pulled from his safe space, his little hiding spot, kicking and screaming, and got brought over to Wayne’s trailer. He’d never been back to that motel room again. Had never even gotten close.

The sun has fully set by the time you pull up outside of an old, run down motel that looks like it should’ve been torn down ages ago. Most windows are boarded up, paint on the walls is chipping and what used to be a light-up sign has been torn down.

It’s a dump.

Just trying to imagine someone growing up here has you choking up.

Little four-year-old Eddie running around these grounds? In dirty clothes too big for his body because nobody was feeding him right? Being exposed to things no child should ever be exposed to, simply because his bedroom was also the only room they had?

Before you can let it make you cry, you hear a faint chuckle beside you.

It’s small and weak, but it’s a chuckle none the less.

“I remember this place much bigger,” he says, like it’s funny. “There’s only like… seven rooms.” Eddie counts.

You’re momentarily unsure if coming here was a good idea. If facing this reality of his past is going to be doing him any good. If it won’t just break him down even more. But then Eddie turns to look at you and says, “Come, let me show you.”

Eddie visiting the place where he spent the first few years of his life turns into him giving you a surprisingly pleasant tour of the grounds. He recounts the other people that lived there, the rooms he wasn’t allowed into. How there used to be a soda machine here, and how sometimes the older kids would ask him to get them some cans for free, because his arms were small and skinny enough to just sneak them out the bottom.

It’s easy to skim the surface of this place like this.

To make it about showing you around instead of sinking down past the layers of self-protection that would have him walking around here with wobbly legs.

Yea.

This is easier. Better.

All of the doors are locked, but it doesn’t take much more than a good shove of a shoulder for the locks to give way. For the wood of the doorframes to splinter.

“Entering the Forest Hills way.” Eddie grins, and you suppress a smile. It’s a lie. Forest Hills is full of all honest, all hard-working people. But, it’s still a trailer park, and thus, the joke is funny.

Without much care, Eddie easily manages to open every door he comes across. It’s dark everywhere you go, none of the lights work, but the streetlights out front provide you with plenty of it, and your eyes quickly adjust.

Eddie shows you the laundry. Breaks into a little back office. A supply closet. Some other motel rooms - some that had semi-permanent guests staying there too, just like he used to be one. And some that would have overnight guests that didn’t know about the draft that would make the door slam so hard, you’d lose your fingers if they got caught in between.

It’s almost joyful, how Eddie talks about his memories. He hasn’t got many, he was so young, but every time he comes across something he remembers, he seems pleasantly surprised at his brain’s ability to bring it all back to him.

But then, when you eventually stop outside room number five, he pauses.

Stops.

Stares at the doorknob.

You can feel how his entire demeanor changes, and even though it’s painful to witness, you know that this is why you came here. This is the whole reason you drove all the way out here.

Eddie takes a good, deep breath but doesn’t move otherwise. Just keeps his eyes locked on a rusty old doorknob to a locked door of a room that probably looks exactly like all the other ones Eddie had already shown you.

“Is this where you lived?” you ask, doing your best to make your voice sound as neutral as possible. You don’t want to scare him off. Don’t want to trigger something.

Eddie nods, a barely-there up and down movement of his head, and then he goes for the doorhandle, rattles it weakly.

Keeps staring at it.

“Door’s locked.” He croaks, like that had been a problem for any of the other doors.

But it does make sense.

You understand that the person who opened up all those other doors was Eddie in his thirties, showing you around.

The person staring at the doorknob now, was Eddie as a child.

Afraid to go inside, unsure of what he was going to find there.

Not strong enough.

Maybe only just tall enough to even reach.

But, you were strong.

You had witnessed how a little force had gone a long way with these locks, and after giving Eddie a second to maybe ask for help, because God, you really wanted him to realize he could just ask for help, he doesn’t ask for shit, and you decide to take matters into your own hands.

Before Eddie even registers you taking a few steps back to get a running start, the wood of the door has already split from the blow of your shoulder.

“Oh my G–” Eddie jumps, both arms reaching out to grab at you and to pull you close. He makes sure he holds you where you ran into the door, large palm cupping over the curve of your shoulder, and he rubs the skin there. Which helps, because, you’re not really hiding the fact that Jesus fuck that fucking hurt very well.  

Despite the sting, there’s a moment where you both see the humor in what just happened, and looking at each other, you both let huffs of laughter escape you.

“Are you crazy? What you do that for, huh?” Eddie pretend scolds.

You shrug, “Forest Hills way.”  

The comedic relief is so welcome, but it’s short-lived. You see from up close how Eddie’s expression drops. He goes from looking at his insane girlfriend with all the love he’s got for her spilling from his eyes, to looking over your head into the dark room where he used to live, and it all slips away.

You wait by the door.

Want Eddie to do this alone because you think it’ll be better that way.

You also truly don’t know what to do, so it feels a little safer to just… wait outside. You wouldn’t know how to help anyway.

Just like when you were outside of Wayne’s trailer, it feels a little invasive to look at Eddie as he silently takes slow steps inside and looks around. At the same time, you can’t really look away. If he’s going to break down and fall to his knees, you want to be there within a second to pick him back up.

Eddie trails slow fingers along a dresser.

Takes careful steps towards a nightstand of which he opens and then closes the drawer.

“Huh…” he comments. Looks around the full room again, sees it in different light as he stands in another corner, the lights from outside showing him different parts of the room.

He disappears into the bathroom for a moment before he steps back out, and he looks… confused.

Surprised, maybe. A little dumbfounded.

He gives the room another glance, and then turns to find you watching him in silence.

“This is really weird,” Eddie comments, both eyebrows raised.

“Yea? How so?”

“I don’t know… it’s different. It’s not like I remember. I think… I don’t know, I think my mind made this room the most terrible place ever in the world, but it’s just… it’s just a room. There’s nothing…” Eddie twirls on the spot, “Yea, it’s just a room. Nothing’s… nothing is scary.”

You swallow audibly, and hesitate before you speak.

“It’s not scary.” Eddie concludes again before you can say anything, and he raises both shoulders at you in a long shrug, like he’s trying to convince you that it’s all right.

You’re not the one who needs convincing though.

“Is, um…” you start, and you clear your throat, entirely unsure of how Eddie is going to react to your question.

After visiting Wayne, you think he gets it now.

He gets why you took him back to Indiana.

Eddie has let his eyes fall on a weird piece of wall art he doesn’t remember, something that maybe they added to the room after his parents had been kicked out, and he’d been taken away to go live somewhere safer.

“Is he here?”

“Huh?”

“Is he in here, somewhere?”

It takes a moment of Eddie looking at you before he fully registers what you’re talking about.

His gaze drifts towards the closet next to the bathroom door.

It’s shut. Both bifold doors closed.

Eddie stalls for a moment, and then he raises an arm to open one of the doors before he drops it by his side again.

The closet’s empty.

It seemingly comes from nowhere, the way your lips suddenly quiver. How your eyes well up with tears so quickly. You have to cover your mouth with your hand to remain silent; this isn’t about you.

Eddie is slowly taking it all in, looks around the inside of the closet. The stains in the carpet. The peeling wallpaper. The mismatched hangers, a couple plastic ones amongst a couple more wire ones. And then he looks up and finds the the little yellowed piece of string that hangs down from way up high.

He reaches up and pulls it.

An audible click is heard.

Nothing changes though.

No light springs on.

Eddie pulls it again. Softly smiles. Pulls it a couple more times.

Click, click.

Click, click.

Nothing happens.

You’re about to burst with a violent sob when you see how Eddie, entirely in his own thoughts, inside of his own memories, slowly steps into the closet and closes the door behind him.

You hear the clicking of the light a couple more times, and need to step away.  

It’s too much.

The visuals of a tiny little malnourished Eddie hiding in a closet unable to reach the string of the light in there is going to make you hyperventilate if you’re not careful, so you have to take a walk.

It’s fucking freezing but hot tears trail down your cheeks as you hurry back to your rental car.

It doesn’t take much longer for Eddie to step outside, leaving the place where he spent the first few years of his life. His long legs carry him over to you quickly.

You can tell that he’s holding back sobs until he’s close enough to crash himself into you.

Arms wrap so tightly, they almost hurt. Bodies wrack with silent sobs until deep breaths calm the both of you down.

It takes a good while.

Eddie is first to pull back, and whilst cupping your face, both his thumbs wiping underneath your eyes in a bid to rid you of your tears, he manages to squeak, “Found him.”

“Yea?” you ask wetly. Hopeful.

This is why you came out here.

To find the small version of Eddie who, even as a toddler, knew that calling out for help was a waste of time because the calls would go unanswered.

To take him home.

“Turned on the–” Eddie throat closes up before he can even say it.

“Turned on the light for him?” you finish for him, and he just nods as he presses his lips together to keep them from wobbling.

Eddie goes in for another hug, hides his face in the side of your neck and grounds himself there.

You can feel how he’s actively trying to steady his own breathing.

It works, eventually.

“Did you…” you start, still holding him, but falter for a moment.

“Did I what?” Eddie asks, sniffing loudly, pulling back after you nudge your nose into his hair.

“Did you take him with you?”

It’s such a silly question. Eddie can’t help the smile that carefully plays at the corner of his mouth, and his eyebrows scrunch up as he looks down at you. He can dissect the question that pops up in the back of his brain for the fourth time today another time. How can he even begin to figure out why he deserves someone like you in his life?

“I did.” He confirms, and you let the breath you were holding escape you in a shudder.

He doesn’t think he deserves you.

“Good.” you smile, and maybe things are starting to look up, a little. Maybe the universe is slowly starting to make amends with Eddie. Is starting to apologize for all the shit it put little Eddie through in this godforsaken place no one should spend more than a single night at.

“Let’s take him home then.”

Eddie cries.

Thought he was done, but he’s not.

He lets you press kisses to the skin just underneath his eyes as he closes them.

He lets you open the car door and help him into the passenger’s seat.

Lets you drive all the way back to Wayne’s whilst he cries, because this is the second time little Eddie makes this trip, from the motel to Forest Hills. But this time he’s not scared.

He knows he’s going to go to a better place.

A safer place.

To a person who will try his very best hand at proper damage control. Who’s got a nice trailer, and a room that will get turned into his own bedroom three days into his stay.

To a person who will join Eddie in the closet for those first few nights. Who will just bring him food in there, have their dinner hidden away together, and who won’t force him out.

Who will play silly games with him in there, until the trips to the bathroom feel safe enough to do on his own.

There’s never other people in the trailer.

Just them.

Safe.

Eddie cries as he remembers more. Thought he had forgotten almost everything, but he remembers so much. He can’t talk about anything yet. Not now. His voice won’t let him. But that’s okay. You’ve got the radio on and need to focus on the road, and you’re taking him back to Wayne, and all he really wants to do is sleep.

And you just drive, and hold Eddie’s hand as he clings to you, and this is good.

It’s good.

Little Eddie deserves the fucking world.

You think so.

And you know of a handful of people who would wholeheartedly agree.

Slowly, you think Eddie might start to understand where you’re coming from.

He was never okay and happy and fine.

Still isn’t okay and happy and fine.

But the light has been switched on.

There’s light now.

He might one day be okay and happy and fine, and that’s something that before today was the most difficult thing to grasp.

“We’re taking you home, kiddo. I got you.” Eddie whispers, soft enough so only he can hear it over the engine and the music coming from the radio.

“Let’s go home.”

---

The Taglisted

@almightywdm, @alwayslindie, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @dailyobsession

@eddies-puppet, @elvendria, @emma-munson, @emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee

@ferfan14, @figmentofquinn, @gri959, @hazelenys, @joesquinns

@keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke, @kravitzwhore, @lovelyblueness, @loves0phelia

@mandyjo8719, @munsonluvrr, @munsonssweets, @nadixq, @niallersfreckles

@notverywise, @overthinking-raccoon, @pepperstories, @pinchofhoney, @readergf

@royale1803, @sherrylyn0628, @shizlac, @solzi1420, @songforeddiemunson

@sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73, @werepartnersnow

@witchwolflea, @xxladymjxx, @yunirgo

Add yourself

[db0xtae]

Winning the Breakup | Chapters 10 & 11

- Minho (Xo Kitty) X Reader

🦦ྀི Summary : Y/N, a talented and athletic after an intense breakup, Y/N reluctantly agrees to fake date Minho, to make their exes jealous. What begins as a mutual arrangement soon turns complicated when their fake relationship starts to feel all too real. With humor, bickering, and tender moments, Minho and Y/N's journey proves that sometimes the best way to heal from heartbreak is to allow yourself to fall in love.

🦦ྀི Warnings : None

🦦ྀི WC : 2,207

🦦ྀི Previous Chapter : 8 & 9

🦦ྀི A/N : Hope you enjoy!!!

˚⊱🪷⊰˚

Chapter 10: Crossroads

The days following Y/N and Minho’s tense late-night conversation were a haze of awkward silences and unspoken words. They still played the part of the perfect couple in front of their friends, but behind closed doors, the cracks in their act were glaringly obvious.

For Y/N, everything felt harder now. She missed the playful banter, the easy laughs, and even the way Minho would always make sarcastic comments about her volleyball matches. Now, every interaction was strained, and it was her fault. She’d pushed him away, and she didn’t know how to pull him back.

It was the day of a big volleyball match, and the gym was packed with students cheering for the KISS team. Y/N stood with her teammates, stretching and trying to focus, but her mind was elsewhere.

“You good?” her teammate Hana asked, nudging her.

“Yeah, just… distracted,” Y/N replied with a forced smile.

“Well, undistract yourself,” Hana said with a grin. “We need you on top of your game today. No pressure, but Minho’s in the stands.”

Y/N’s head snapped up. “He’s here?”

Hana nodded toward the bleachers, where Minho sat with Kitty, Q, Jin, and Yuri. He looked effortlessly cool in a leather jacket, his expression unreadable as he talked to Yuri.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. She wasn’t sure if his presence was comforting or just another source of stress.

As the game began, Y/N forced herself to push all thoughts of Minho out of her head. She focused on the rhythm of the match, the sound of the ball hitting the court, the shouts of her teammates. This was her domain, her escape.

By the second set, KISS was dominating, and Y/N was in the zone. She spiked the ball with such force that the opposing team barely had time to react. The crowd erupted in cheers, and for a moment, she allowed herself to bask in the adrenaline rush.

In the stands, Minho clapped, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

After the game, Y/N was surrounded by teammates and fans congratulating her. She smiled and thanked them, but her eyes kept drifting to the stands, where Minho was waiting with the group.

“Go on,” Hana teased, nudging her. “Your boyfriend’s waiting.”

Y/N hesitated but made her way over, her heart pounding.

“You were amazing!” Kitty said, throwing her arms around Y/N. “That spike in the second set? Legendary.”

“Thanks,” Y/N said, her gaze flicking to Minho. He stood a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.

“Good game,” he said, his voice cool but not unkind.

“Thanks,” she replied, her stomach flipping.

Q, ever the peacemaker, stepped in. “So, celebratory dinner? Jin and I found this new barbecue place that looks amazing.”

“Yes!” Yuri said, already heading toward the exit. “I’m starving.”

As the group filed out, Y/N fell into step with Minho. The silence between them was heavy, but she didn’t know how to break it.

The barbecue restaurant was bustling, the scent of grilled meat filling the air. The group squeezed into a booth, with Y/N ending up next to Minho. She tried to focus on the conversation, but the tension between them was impossible to ignore.

“Pass the kimchi,” Q said, breaking into her thoughts.

Y/N handed it to him, trying to seem normal.

“So, Y/N,” Yuri said, leaning forward. “What’s the secret to spiking like that? I feel like you broke the sound barrier.”

Y/N laughed. “Years of practice and a lot of trial and error.”

“You make it look easy,” Jin said. “Meanwhile, I can barely hit a volleyball without it going sideways.”

“You’re amazing at track, though,” Q said, squeezing Jin’s hand. The gesture was subtle, but the affection between them was obvious.

Y/N glanced at Minho, wondering if anyone else noticed the way his jaw tightened whenever Jin and Q showed affection. Was he jealous? Or just annoyed by the PDA?

After dinner, the group lingered outside the restaurant, debating what to do next.

“Movie night at Yuri’s?” Kitty suggested.

“I’m in,” Yuri said.

“Same,” Q added, pulling Jin along.

As the group began to head toward Yuri’s car, Minho hung back. Y/N hesitated before turning to him.

“You’re not coming?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I’ve got some stuff to do.”

There it was again—that wall between them.

“Minho,” she said softly, “can we talk?”

He looked at her, his expression guarded. “What’s there to talk about?”

“Everything,” she said. “I know I’ve been… distant. And I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to figure things out, but I’m not good at this.”

“Good at what?” he asked, his tone tinged with frustration.

“At being honest,” she admitted. “With you. With myself. I’m scared, okay? I’m scared of ruining this, whatever this is. But I hate how things are between us right now.”

Minho’s gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something. But then he shook his head.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, his voice rising slightly.

“What?” Y/N asked, confused.

“You’re scared of ruining things,” he said, stepping closer, “but you’re already doing it by holding back. By acting like what we have isn’t real. And it’s driving me crazy.”

Y/N blinked, stunned. “Minho, I—”

“No, let me finish,” he snapped, his voice trembling with emotion. “You think this is just a game? That it’s just some act to fool everyone else? Well, it’s not. Not for me.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“I like you, Y/N,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ve liked you since the first time you made fun of me in class. And I’ve been pretending that this fake relationship doesn’t mean anything because I thought that’s what you wanted. But I can’t do it anymore.”

Y/N stared at him, her heart pounding. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Minho shook his head, his expression a mix of anger and vulnerability. “Figure out what you want, Y/N. Because I can’t keep doing this.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Y/N standing there, her mind racing and her heart aching.

Minho’s confession had shattered the fragile balance they’d been holding onto. And as much as Y/N wanted to chase after him, she knew she couldn’t. Not until she figured out what she truly felt.

˚⊱🪷⊰˚

Chapter 11: Cracks in the Armor

The night after Minho’s confession felt like a storm raging inside Y/N’s mind. She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying his words over and over again.

Her chest ached with guilt, confusion, and something else she wasn’t ready to name. Minho’s voice—usually full of teasing or sarcasm—had been raw, trembling with emotion. She hadn’t expected it. She hadn’t expected him to feel this deeply.

“Figure out what you want.”

That was easier said than done.

The next day, Y/N arrived early for volleyball practice, hoping the familiar rhythm of drills and spikes would help clear her head. The gym was quiet except for the squeak of her shoes against the polished floor.

She went through her warm-up routine alone, slamming ball after ball into the opposite court. Each hit was an attempt to push her emotions aside, to focus on something—anything—other than Minho.

“Wow, someone’s aggressive today,” Hana teased as she entered the gym with the rest of the team.

Y/N forced a laugh. “Just working out some stress.”

“Good, because we need that energy for next week’s game,” Hana said, tossing her a ball. “You and I are doing extra sets today.”

Y/N nodded, grateful for the distraction. But as the team practiced, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was only postponing the inevitable.

By lunchtime, Y/N’s anxiety had only grown. She hadn’t seen Minho all day, and she was starting to wonder if he was avoiding her. Normally, he’d pop up at her locker or make some snide remark about her choice of snacks. But today, nothing.

When she joined her friends at their usual table in the cafeteria, she immediately noticed the empty seat next to Kitty.

“Where’s Minho?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“Skipped lunch,” Q replied, biting into his sandwich. “Said he had something to do.”

Y/N’s heart sank.

“You two okay?” Kitty asked, her brow furrowed.

Y/N hesitated. “Yeah, why wouldn’t we be?”

Kitty gave her a knowing look but didn’t push further.

The rest of lunch passed in a blur of conversation and laughter, but Y/N felt like she was miles away.

After school, Y/N found herself wandering aimlessly around campus, hoping to run into Minho. Instead, she ran into Yuri, who was sitting on the steps outside the library with her headphones on.

“Hey,” Y/N said, sitting down next to her.

Yuri pulled off her headphones and smiled. “Hey, superstar. What’s up?”

Y/N hesitated, unsure how to start. Yuri had always been one of the more perceptive members of their friend group, and if anyone could give her advice, it was her.

“Can I ask you something?” Y/N said finally.

“Of course,” Yuri replied, turning to face her.

Y/N took a deep breath. “How do you know when you’re ready to admit your feelings for someone?”

Yuri raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh, this is about Minho, isn’t it?”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “What? No, it’s not—”

“Please,” Yuri interrupted. “You two have been dancing around each other for months. Everyone can see it.”

Y/N groaned, burying her face in her hands. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” Yuri asked. “He likes you. You like him. What’s the problem?”

“I’m scared,” Y/N admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Of what?”

“Of ruining everything,” Y/N said. “What if it doesn’t work out? What if we lose what we already have?”

Yuri was quiet for a moment before she said, “Look, I get it. Taking that step is scary. But you can’t keep holding back because you’re afraid of what might happen. Sometimes, you just have to take the risk.”

Y/N nodded slowly, her chest tightening. Yuri was right, but it didn’t make things any easier.

That evening, Y/N decided to stop avoiding the issue. She texted Minho, asking him to meet her at their usual spot by the soccer field.

When she arrived, the field was bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun. Minho was already there, leaning against the fence with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t look up as she approached.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Hey,” he replied, his tone distant.

Y/N hesitated before stepping closer. “Thanks for coming.”

Minho finally looked at her, his expression guarded. “What do you want, Y/N?”

She flinched at the coldness in his voice but pushed forward. “I wanted to talk. About what you said yesterday.”

“Which part?” he asked. “The part where I told you I liked you? Or the part where I told you to figure out what you want?”

“Both,” she said, her voice trembling.

Minho sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, if you’re just here to tell me that you don’t feel the same way, I get it. You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s not it,” Y/N said quickly. “I just… I don’t know how to do this, Minho. I don’t know how to let myself feel something without being terrified of losing it.”

“You think I’m not scared?” Minho said, his voice rising. “You think I haven’t thought about how this could go wrong? But I’m still here, Y/N. Because I’d rather take the risk than keep pretending I don’t care.”

Y/N looked at him, her heart pounding. Tears filled Y/N’s eyes as she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Minho shook his head, his expression softening. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I just want you to be honest. With me. With yourself.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic and the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Finally, Y/N took a deep breath and said, “I like you, too, Minho. I think I’ve liked you for a while. But I was scared. Scared of what it would mean, and scared of losing you if it didn’t work out.”

Minho stared at her, his eyes searching hers. “And now?”

“Now, I’m still scared,” she admitted. “But I don’t want to keep running away from this. From us.”

Minho’s expression softened, and for the first time in days, a small smile tugged at his lips.

“About time,” he said, his tone teasing but warm.

Y/N laughed, wiping her eyes. “Don’t push your luck.”

Minho stepped closer, his gaze steady. “No promises.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Y/N realized that, for the first time in a long time, she felt lighter. There were still uncertainties, still fears, but she wasn’t alone in facing them.

And that made all the difference.

[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.”