#does not matter if person in question is not a good person

[lawofangie]

the law is always working

i get so many questions about why the law isn't working for people, and i've come to the conclusion that there is something you all aren't understanding.

the law of assumption is a law. a law that states that whatever you assume to be true will be true. the law of assumption, like i've said many times before, requires you to assume.

to many of you, an assumption is hoping something happens or constantly checking to see if something is true. what you fail to understand is that by definition, an assumption is something you believe to be true without proof.

a law that states "whatever you assume to be true will be true" clealy requires you to assume first, otherwise, you're not even using it. you have to wholeheartedly believe that whatever you decided to believe is the truth.

this is not a foreign concept, it's something we do all the time. we believe in things and decide things are a certain way without seeing them all the time. you just don't realize it.

when you say "the law isn't working for me", what you're actually saying is "i haven't been assuming good for myself" or "i'm waiting for something to happen but nothing is" because again, all the law simply does is require you to assume. you can assume something good, bad or indifferent. the law doesn't care. WE care, which is why we're telling you, regardless of what your eyes are currently being shown, to assume in your favor.

and you have to believe it first before you get the proof. that's the way the law works. that's literally the only rule, the only requirement, the only way to even say you've been using the law and you're allowed to bend it however you want. just believe something, i promise you it's not as hard as you make it seem. you just like being told what to do instead of deciding things for yourself.

your assumption has to be true, has to materialize, no matter what. it's a law. it has to happen. there are no what-if's, no exceptions, no delays, because they're all decisions you're making anyway. if you decide "this won't happen", it is no different from deciding "this already did happen", the only difference is your personal choice on what you choose to assume. the law isn't going to congratulate you for making a good or bad choice.. it never has (again, the law is simply making assumptions, just used in a different way.), nobody is going to reward you for it, you're simply just making a good decision for yourself.

there is absolutely nothing stopping you from turning your life into a hell or a heaven. our words are just mere suggestions. it's always your decision in the end.

and i know circumstances can be scary, but nobody can coddle you or help you but you. you are valid, but no amount of dwelling on the present/ current circumstances can help you. dwelling on these things keeps them alive in your mind, thus keeping them alive in your external reality.

you have to stop putting your external reality above you and stop accepting it as absolute, again, accepting it as absolute is your decision. it is not the truth, you only feel it is the truth. there is nothing physically stopping you from doing the opposite.

so, if you want the change, you have to be the change.

[doberbutts]

So I'm going to ask an honest question here and ask you please explain in layman's terms. Every trans person I know irl has no concept of the transandrophobia discourse but every time I see more of it online I'm...unsettled, and it takes a lot to power through all the terminology.

I initially was really receptive to transandrophobia because the rationale behind being against it sounded stupid and akin to label discourse in the queer community. I saw "being a man is not an axis of oppression therefore you don't get your Own Word" and thought that was pedantic nonsense, that language doesn't need to adhere to that rule, and that it's helpful to have a term designated towards transmasculine experiences so people can find those experiences easier. Not that trans women's experiences aren't also beneficial! But that, well, obviously no matter how similar the experience birds of a feather and that sense of comfort of sharing identity still matters. This is true for other issues of identity too, I find, weather that's a good thing or a bad thing idk, but it is human.

The thing is I follow a lot of transwomen and have been seeing some alarms being raised about the community being formed around this word. You blocked one of the most egregious offenders so I trust you (which is why I'm asking sorry) I've seen a lot of misogyny and essentialism from people using the term "transandrophobia" and more egregiously "transmisandry." Idk your opinion on the latter term (I haven't scrolled down far enough on your blog, sorry if you talked about this before) but to me it's unconscionable. I was taught that transandrophobia existed as a term specifically NOT to use that term, that elevating misandry to a legitimate issue was dangerous for obvious reasons and it was one of the reasons why I was so supportive of transandrophobia. To me, it seemed like an awareness that misogyny was the prevailing issue behind all issues of gender oppression, but when I actually look at the tag I...get uncomfortable.

Blogs I follow have repeatedly been upset at misogyny from this community, and have been using the term "transandrobro" to describe behavior they find akin to cis MRAs. I've truly seen horrible things with hundreds, sometimes thousands of notes to it that do, unfortunately, feel like women are being blamed for the plight of trans men. I've seen cis people say they were originally on MRA reddits and then came to tumblr to "confront the misandry directly" only to wholeheartedly adopt transandrophobia into their worldview. It's hard because I KNOW I shouldn't judge a community based on a few crazies but it truly does feel sometimes like "transandrophobia" gives misogynists a venue to air their woman-hating to an eager audience, kinda like how "Karen" has been co-opted beyond the og meaning of being for racist white woman to any woman being mildly rude.

So like, here it is: can transandrophobia exist without being co-opted by misogynists? Is there a threshold of proliferation for misogynists destroying this word until a new one needs to be made? Or will every word trying to identify the transmasculine experience be inevitably co-opted by misogynists because misogynists are just that powerful, so people should double down harder on the word and work to push misogynists out?

(Also am I going crazy, or did this word a year ago used to have a WAY better community than the one I see nowadays. Back then I could find your blog and really compassionate people easily, and now it's just...bad.)

It is a little hard to understand some of this post but I will do my best to answer what I think is being asked.

To put simply, I think the reason why it was better a year or two ago is because the majority of the people who were actually trying to further the conversation and not just circle jerk in the echo chamber got chased off. Transandrophobia, anti-transmasculinity, transandromisia, transmascphobia... the guys who coined these are largely either not posting at all anymore or post far far less than they used to. They were harassed and the constant exposure to transphobia made them shut down their blogs for their own mental health. Not all of them, but a lot of the so-called "big names" had this happen.

Even I stopped posting for a while and shuttered the doors for a bit outside of a long queue of dog photos because of how much it was affecting my mental health.

In their place remain people who are not committed to the same conversation. Perhaps they are younger, or less familiar with the building blocks of theory that really should be required reading, or are still stuck in their "everything sucks and it's YOUR fault" phase. Maybe they do come from different places, like 4chan or reddit, which are less prone to this sort of discussion. A lot of the original crowd had been on tumblr long enough to remember when we could still edit posts, and I keep seeing people who would have been in elementary school at that time posting to the tag nowadays.

I was discussing this problem on discord with a small group of friends and one of them- a trans fem- called it second wave transandrophobia discourse as a bitter joke. I think she is more right than wrong, regardless.

I'm not sure who you believe I've blocked- in general I don't air out who I block on this blog because at nearly 12k followers there are too many people who would love to dogpile someone for the sin of disagreeing with me and I do my best to prevent that. I don't want anyone to be harassed, after all. There's a lot of assumptions that have been made about my block and follow behavior that vary from "hilarious but untrue" to "outright offensive slander".

People are people, and some people are shitheads. Trans mascs and people who want to support trans mascs are not exempt from that. I say this all the time- Kayne West is objectively a shitty person but his existence doesn't prove the concept of antiblackness to be a myth. Caitlyn Jenner is objectively a shitty person but her existence doesn't prove the concept of transmisogyny to be a myth. So why do shitty trans mascs prove our own theory to be dangerous or nonexistent? Why hold us to a higher standard than any other marginalized group?

I could ask you the same question- there are posts on here with hundreds, sometimes thousands, of notes made by trans fems and cis women who blame their problems with transmisogyny on trans mascs. There are people coming from reddit, Twitter, 4chan who are being actively transphobic and misogynistic and claiming they're doing it for the good of transfeminism. There are posts filled with misogyny and bioessentialism and gender essentialism and even interphobia and racism and transphobia being left completely unchecked. Do you think it would be acceptable for me to ask if that means transmisogyny theory should be abandoned or if we should just accept that it will draw people with bad intentions?

Or do you think the better answer is to focus instead on finding those with a good head on their shoulders, and making sure it's them who has their voice heard? Do you think we should maybe not judge entire demographics because there exists some shitty people who claim the same identity?

[yappaccinocookie]

the strongest version of you.

yn cookie who awakens theirs fullest potential (like golden cheese and dark cacao)... ancients and beasts react to? (maybe gingerbrave and co too if u want!!)

of course you can! i did the same layout as the last request i made, since doing full oneshots for each cookie might actually kill me. I LEFT FOR A WHOLE 1 MONTH, IM SO SORRY. listen, this did not specify anything romantic, thus it's not romantic. the beasts are cruel, and it's obvious in their lore no this is not yandere is plain truth. sorry if some are short, I haven't gotten back into crk, and yk that's not rlly good!

LOWERCASE INTENDED!

ANCIENTS —

— White Lily

"Amazing... You found the strongest version of yourself!"

white lily cookie is overjoyed, she's always sensed that you're not to your fullest the first time she's seen you. she's very supportive and tries her best to help you get used to all of your new powers! don't expect any fights though, she's quite cautious. she trusts you that you can fight, but white lily doesn't trust herself.

her friends had an awakening like yours before, it all still feels unreal to her. you will definitely have those buddy–buddy sleep over conversations where there is no sleep, just psychology questions that make you wonder if she really is sane or if dark enchantress took all the sanity with her too.

— Golden Cheese

"Really? Does this mean we can battle!"

the shine in her eyes when you said that was absolutely priceless, tell her everything about it! power always amazes no matter no matter who its form, foe or ally! golden cheese has also awakened her fullest potential like you, and she's proud you were able to do it! saying how you guys are the coolest duo ever.

and of course, she's battle hungry! since she's unlocked her fullest potential and you've unlocked yours, it's only logical you guys battle right? it's to see the difference your strength. imagine how longer battles would last (and how many natural disasters it could cause in earth bread) don't worry you can entertain her shenanigans, but you shouldn't let her go overboard.

— Dark Cacao

"Well done."

dark cacao cookie doesn’t openly gush about your newfound power, but his respect for you deepens tenfold. he acknowledges your growth with a firm nod and a simple, “well done.” behind the scenes, he ensures you have everything you need to master your abilities, from intense training regimens to personal advice on staying disciplined.

he might test you in combat, not to belittle you, but to see how far you’ve come. don't worry, he won't mock you if you won't land a hit! he's got the patience of a snail. dark cacao will keep training and training with you until you're able to do more than your simple basic attacks.

he sees you as a vital pillar for the future of earthbread, he's seen you grow into this strong cookie with their own life ahead of them! more heroic duties to come, he's more than proud of you.

— Hollyberry

"Never hold back now! Cookies need more of us!"

hollyberry cookie is your biggest cheerleader. the moment your powers manifested, she was already planning a celebration in your honor. dialing everybody to come to your party, dialing fine arts to paint you 500 paintings to post as relics for guild museums. hollyberry throws a massive feast, complete with stories, music, and enough food to feed an army.

she insists on sparring with you, but it’s less about testing your strength and more about having fun. she laughs heartily every time you manage to surprise her.

she brags about you to anyone who will listen. “did you see them? that’s MY friend! stronger than ten hundred cookies combined!" she makes sure everyone knows how proud she is of you.

— Pure Vanilla

"My dear friend... I am so proud of you."

if you thought the others were so sweet, then you haven't seen the purest cookie of them all speak. they aren't even close to what our kings got! pure vanilla is absolutely overjoyed and emotional about your transformation. he probably tears up when he sees the extent of your growth.

he becomes even more protective of you, not because he doubts your strength, but because he knows the burden that comes with such power. he spends a lot of time talking to you about balance, reminding you to care for yourself as much as you care for others. pure vanilla is your go-to for advice on controlling your powers. he offers patient guidance and reassures you during moments of self-doubt.

he's not one to give you an extravagant celebration, because it's not his right to do such things. he'll buy you celebratory gifts on his own though, but considering this cookie is absolutely rich idk how many small gifts becomes one too many. purevanilla won't even talk about the awakening to anyone if you tell him not to!

BEASTS —

— Shadow Milk

"Oh, so you've decided to stop pretending you're ordinary?"

sure you've gotten your strongest potential, but for beasts it isn't really a problem considering they are much stronger than normal cookies. hes not impressed at all. he thrives on making others doubt themselves, and your newfound strength is no exception. (do not bring up golden cheese vs burning spice he could've won she got plot armor and although I'm happy she's alive him winning made more sense)

despite his dismissive attitude, he’s intrigued. he watches you closely, studying your every move, though he’d never admit it. “you’re an interesting little puzzle,” he mutters, half to himself. being all supernatural and ultra powerful doesn't protect you from this beasts horrifying teases, he'll ask you if you're a princess now or if you can talk to animals, that's like 2 from the several nonsense he's asked you daily.

he's actually quite hittable, hit him he won't hit back honestly, but if you ever call him unfunny? he's weeping and rolling on the floor (as a joke) saying "YOU MAY HAVE GOTTEN A LITTLE BIT STRONGER, BUT UR SENSE OF HUMOR WILL ALWAYS BE WEAK"

— Burning Spice

"That's it? I expected more!"

he actually gets intrigued fast, just like his counterpart he is also interested in strength. considering how he got wrecked by his counterpart because of her awakening, he might actually use his time to train with you.

burning spice is all about fighting everything until there is nothing left to fight, he'll push his limits. even yours! just say when u need a break, he'll say something corny like "I expected more!" and then run off and wait until ur done doing weak cookie stuff. hes not inhumane, hes just like you. it may feel unreal be he was once just a bunch of dough until the soul jam was created.

— Mystic Flour

"the world remains unchanged."

wins the idgaf war, she lost from that guy, but does not wish to prove herself again. mystic flour does not want to pressure herself with more nonsense, and probably doesn't want to for you either.

she recognizes your strength with a simple "impressive" or "fascinating" without putting much emotion into her words, then never look into it ever again.

Silent Salt and Eternal Sugar do not seem to be here, try again later?

[thekaratcake-blog]

Okay lets start immediately with, I'm not using race as a tool, crying hate doesn't absolve you of wrong doing and spreading misinformation, I don't need to be black to tell you it's shitty to justify the shit used to ensalve your ancestors, that's just obviously fucked up

Once again you immediately go to the rules for hebrew slaves, the year of jubilee only applies to hebrew slaves, the death penalty is only for kidnapping, whereas selling and buying slaves is explicitly allowed, but they are generally instead the children of the slave traders or of course, prisoners of war or slaughter, that of course does not make it better and is where a lot of the african slaves in america came from

You clearly missed my point about the shellfish, it's that god can prohibit shellfish but not slavery, you are seriously arguing that god will tell people not to eat a certain food but not bother to say you can't own slaves, I do not lack maturiy but I guess your opinion is noted, if of course you are using personal views of me as a person to try to dismiss my points however, that is what we call and "ad hominem attack" the slavery commanded in the bible for non hebrew slaves is of course, directly equivelent to american chattel slavery, stop using hebrew slave laws, you're seriously arguing that because they treated people in their group better it's fine and ignoring the ones outside of the group that were treat exactly like your ancestors

Job was literally punished and tortured by god to prove a point, that's fucked up no matter what you believe and it's also god directly killng children

My grammar and spelling is perfectly fine, and you have still failed to give a reason why we should take exodus 20 as direct command of god, but exodus 21 directly following it as anything other than that, you have just decided that arbitrarily because it fits your worldview, whereas it's context and place in the bible would dictate that it is, infact, divine instruction

Also if your god is that sort that even allows slavery to happen, that's fucked up, but you still haven't given me any good reason why it was allowed and not commanded, because again, everything else would say otherwise

You did a great job of dodging the questions about the slave's bible or god just murdering children

Kinda funny how you only address the points you think you have an excuse for, and what exactly implies I "desire so badly for my question to be answered" I honestly couldn't care less because I know the answer will avoid the real bad stuff and just use someone else's bad apologetics, however, of course, it'll reflect quite poorly on you and your religion if you can't answer these questions, so I'll lay it out again

Tell me the difference between the rules for specifically non hebrew slaves and american chattel slavery, as none of the rules you've mentioned up to this point apply to non hebrew slaves

Explain the existence of the slave's bible if you don't think it played a large role in american slavery

"Well we can't understand god so whatever he does is fine" is just a terrrible cop out, but I get it, you can't actually justify his horrible action so the best you can do with "well we just can't understand it"

And if you want, lil bonus question if you of course, are even able to respond or give a shit to, what's up with god killing children? The first born sons of the egyptians? And demanding a sacrifice of a lamb and the smearing of it's blood on the doorway to mark the children he is not to kill

And bonus 2, just the entire slaughter of the caananites

[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.”

---

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Add yourself

[mylovesstuffs]

After Hours - Jeon Wonwoo

Synopsis: What begins as a quiet evening of work escalates once again into a heated encounter that blurs the lines with your coworker. Too used to this but will it ever be something more than a casual play?

Genre: Romance, erotica, office au, dominant/submissive, power dynamics, coworkers with benefits. little bit of angst if you squint and mutual pining

Pairing: Wonwoo × fem!reader

WC: 3.5k+

Warnings: Contains smut MDNI!, no protection mentioned (please be safe y'all), explicit sexual content, BDSM themes (power play, dominance/submissiveness), explicit language, non-consensual themes (light) not proofread

The office was empty, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the soft glow of desk lamps scattered around the open floor. You sat at your desk, hunched over your MacBook, fingers flying across the keyboard as you tried to meet a looming deadline.

"Still here?" The low voice startled you. You looked up to find Wonwoo standing near the doorway, his tie slightly loosened, and the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up to his elbows. He looked impossibly good, his dark brown eyes met yours, and you felt that familiar twist in your stomach.

"Deadline," you muttered, gesturing vaguely at your screen, "What about you? Thought you'd left hours ago."

He shrugged, stepping closer until he leaned against the edge of your desk. "Couldn't leave knowing you were still here. Thought you might need company."

The way he looked at your face, you couldn’t help but think about it again—the thing you tried not to dwell on too much. Why him? Or rather, why you? Wonwoo was the kind of guy who could walk into a room and have people eating out of the palm of his hand without even trying. Women drooled; men envied. He could have anyone exclusively, probably someone more polished, more glamorous. Someone who didn’t forget their lunch at home three days a week or spend weekends rewatching the same Netflix shows.

So why this? Why you? Why do your occasional late-night encounters blurred the lines between colleagues and something...more? It didn’t make sense to you.

And yet, here you were.

At first, you’d kept it casual—just two adults scratching an itch. You didn’t ask too many questions, didn’t expect anything beyond the arrangement you had going on. But you weren’t stupid. You knew you’d fallen for him somewhere along the way. Maybe it was the way he kissed you, like he wasn’t just after the moment but after you. Or the way he remembered the smallest details—how you liked your coffee, the way you bit your lip when you were stressed. It wasn’t just sex, though that certainly didn’t hurt.

It was how he made you feel, like every inch of you was worth his time and attention. How he touched you like your body was something to be cherished, not just used. He was warm, attentive, and so damn caring in a way that was completely unexpected for someone who usually kept people at arm’s length.

And then there were the moments that caught you off guard—the way he’d adjust your blanket when you dozed off on the couch, or the time he brought you soup when you were too sick to function. Those were the moments that stayed with you, no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself this was just a casual thing.

But of course, you still had your doubts. You’d think, Why the hell does someone like him want anything to do with someone like me? Then he’d show up at your door with, kiss you like you were the only person in the world, and you’d think, Maybe I’m overthinking this.

You snorted softly to his response. "And what if I don't?"

His lips curved into a small smile. "Then I'll stay anyway."

There it was again—that warmth, that care. Whatever these coworkers with benefits thing was, whatever it meant, you weren’t sure you’d ever figure it out. But for now, you’d let yourself get lost in him just a little longer. The room felt smaller with him this close, his subtle cologne blending with the faint scent of coffee lingering from earlier. His gaze flicked to the papers scattered across your desk.

"You work too hard," he murmured, his voice dipping.

"I could say the same about you," you shot back, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened when his fingers brushed yours as he picked up a pen.

Silence stretched between you, heavy and charged. Wonwoo tilted his head, his dark eyes scanning your face as though searching for something. "You should take a break," he said, he is quieter now.

"And do what?"

His answer came not in words but in action. His hand cupped your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle. Before you could react, his lips were on yours, soft and unhurried. The kiss deepened, his hand sliding to your waist, pulling you to your feet. The edge of the desk pressed against your thighs as he nudged you closer, his other hand tangling in your hair.

"Wonwoo," you breathed against his lips, your hands clutching at his shoulders.

"Let me take care of you," he whispered, his voice rough with need.

His lips trailed down your jaw, to the sensitive spot just below your ear. You tilted your head, giving him access, a soft moan escaping your lips as his teeth grazed your skin.

"Here?" you asked, a mix of nerves and excitement in your voice.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his smirk laced with mischief. "Here."

His hands found the hem of your blouse, slipping beneath to caress the bare skin of your waist and then your breasts over your bra. The fabric pooled at your feet, followed quickly by your skirt. His lips never left yours, his touch exploring, claiming.

Wonwoo lifted you onto the desk effortlessly, his own shirt discarded in the process. The cool surface contrasted sharply with the heat of his body as he settled between your thighs, his kisses growing more urgent.

When his fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, you couldn't stop the gasp that escaped you. His touch was firm yet teasing, drawing sounds from you that you didn't think you were capable of making.

"Wonwoo, please," you whimpered, your hands gripping his forearms as he worked you over with a precision that left you trembling.

You inhaled sharply as his fingers tugged at the lace, pausing to look into his eyes. He held your gaze, his eyes filled with an intent. As the lace slid down your thighs, he whispered, "Lift your legs." You wrapped your legs around his waist and lifted as he asked, his voice low and commanding. "Arms up." You complied, arching your back slightly as he slowly removed the flimsy barrier between you. He tossed it aside, his eyes locked onto yours as he spread your legs wider.

Now that you're fully naked, he pulled you more closer, his eyes blazing that made you feel utterly exposed yet adored. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice low and dripping with reverence. His hands traced the curve of your nude waist and breasts, his gaze following every inch of your body as though committing it to memory. "So perfect... you don't even realize, do you?"

The room was filled with the sound of your shallow breaths as he hovered above you this time laying you down on the desk, his touch sending shivers down your spine. His lips trailed over your breasts to collarbone, hot and deliberate, as he whispered into your ear, "You're going to be good for me, aren't you?"

You nodded, your words failing as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot below your ear. "That's right," he said, smirking against your skin. "I don't want a sound unless I ask for it. Understand?"

His hands slid lower to your vagina, teasing the edge of your patience, deliberately brushing but not giving you what you craved. Your whimper earned a dark chuckle. "Already desperate, are we?" His fingers grazed the most delicate part of the entrance, his touch featherlight feeling you're already being wet for him. "I don't think you've earned it yet"

His fingers trailed through your folds, gathering your wetness before circling your entrance again. You bit your lip, trying to hold back a whimper as he teased you. Suddenly, he thrust two fingers inside you, his palm pressing against your clit. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice strained with desire. You complied again.

His fingers moved skillfully, hitting just your clit back and forth. Your breath hitched, eyes hazy with pleasure. "Wonwoo..." you gasped trying to not make a sound, fingers digging into his shoulders for support.

He pressed closer, his lips tracing your neck while maintaining that steady rhythm. "What do you need?" as he cups one of your breasts. You could feel his hardness pressing against your thigh, his breathing becoming more ragged "Tell me what you want," he groaned softly against your neck, teeth grazing your skin "Do you want me to..." his fingers curved deeper, hitting just the G-spot "Should I keep going?"

"Yes, please," you managed to respond.

"You want me to actually fuck you now?" He asked, voice low and husky, his breath hot against your ear. His fingers continued their relentless pace, driving you closer to the edge. He nipped at your earlobe, pinched your nipple, his other hand gripping your ass. You nodded.

But he didn't give you what you wanted yet. He edged you mercilessly, his movements calculated to pull you to the brink, only to deny you the release you desperately sought.

"That's it, take it," he murmured, his tone shifting. "Pathetic how you fall apart so easily under my hands. You love this, don't you?" Your body trembled beneath him as he leaned closer, "Say it," he growled, his voice rough and commanding. "Tell me who you belong to."

"Y-you," you stammered, barely able to form coherent thoughts.

The office faded away-the desk, the papers, the deadlines. There was only Wonwoo, his breath hot against your skin, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

"That's right," he said, his touch finally intensifying, sending shockwaves through your body. "And you'll come when I let you, not a second before." Just as he said that, his name left your lips in a broken moan as he finally pushed you over the edge, your release shattering you as he held you firmly in place.

He glared down at you, his fingers still buried inside, trembling your pussy. "You fucking disobedient little cunt," he spat, his voice cold with anger. "I told you not to come until I said so, and you just couldn't fucking wait, could you?" Wonwoo's hand tightened on your thigh, keeping you pinned on the desk as he leaned in closer. "You think you can just take what you want without earning it?" he growled, his fingers curling inside you, making your legs tremble anew.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, deliberately, leaving you feeling empty as a punishment. His hand moved to grip your chin, tilting your face up so your eyes met his. "If you want to be treated like a good girl, you better start acting like one," he hissed, his gaze cold but laced with the faintest hint of hunger.

With a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, he leaned back, undoing his belt with maddening slowness. "I should leave you like this," he mused, dragging the leather through the loops. "Desperate, dripping, and begging for me. But I'm not that cruel."

He kicked a nearby chair back and sat down, gesturing with two fingers for you to kneel in front of him. "Now, get down here and make it up to me," he commanded, his voice calm but brooking no argument. "If you're good enough, maybe I'll consider giving you what you so clearly can't stop thinking about."

You swallowed hard, your body trembling as you slid off to the floor and sank to your knees in front of him. His eyes followed your every movement, dominating you.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice low and smooth as he leaned back, spreading his legs wider. "Show me just how sorry you are."

Your hands moved to his pant, and with a shaky exhale, you pulled them down along with his boxers, revealing his hard cock. No matter how many more times you've seen his hard cock before, the sight made your cheeks flush, but you were too far gone to feel embarrassment.

Wrapping your fingers around his cock, you glanced up through your lashes for approval. He nodded, his hand resting lazily on the arm of the chair. "Don't tease," he warned.

You leaned forward, your lips parting as you took his dick into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip. A low groan escaped him, his hips shifting slightly as he buried a hand in your hair, guiding your movements.

"Good girl," he muttered, his grip tightening just enough to remind you who was still in control. "Now, don't stop until I say so."

You obeyed, your pace steady and deliberate, taking him deeper with each motion. His groans grew louder, his control slipping as you worked him over with desperation. Suddenly, he tugged on your hair, pulling you off of him. You gasped, your lips swollen and glistening as you looked up at him, confused and needy.

"Not so fast," he said with lust. "You don't get to decide when this ends. Get back on the desk."

You scrambled to obey, your body trembling as you climbed back onto the desk and laid back, spreading your legs for him. His smirk returned as he stood, positioning himself between your thighs.

"Now, you'll learn to follow my rules," he growled, gripping your hips as he thrust into you without warning, his movements rough and demanding.

The desk creaked beneath you, your cries filling the room as he took you with relentless precision. He leaned over you, groping your breasts hard, "Shut the fuck up," he growled, his hand tangling in your hair as he drove you closer to the edge.

Your fingernails dragged down his back as you arched into him, whimpering, "You feel so... good," you managed to gasp out, legs wrapping tighter around him, urging him deeper.

"You're just a fucking tight little cunt, aren't you?" He spat, his voice dripping with contempt as he pulled out and slammed back in, making her scream. "You love being stuffed full of my dick, don't you? You love being used like a cheap fucktoy."

When he finally let you come, his name tore from your lips like a prayer, your body trembling beneath him. He followed moments later, his grip on you tightening as he buried himself deep inside, groaning your name. "Stay with me," he whispered, his voice breaking as he reached his own release, his forehead pressed against yours.

And for the first time that night, you forgot about work.

You'd always known Wonwoo was reserved, composed. But just like tonight, every other night— he'd always show you a side of him others would've never seen before, a side that made you wonder what other surprises he was hiding.

Afterward, he pulled you into his arms, his lips brushing softly against your temple. "That's my good girl," he murmured, his voice gentle now. "But don't think I'll let you off so easily next time."

He held you close, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back as your breathing slowed, the tension between you was replaced by a comfortable warmth.

As the haze of passion began to fade, a soft silence settled between you. Wonwoo cradled you against his chest, one hand brushing through your hair in a soothing rhythm. The warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart against your ear lulled you into a nice sense of peace.

"You okay?" he asked softly, his voice a gentle rumble that reverberated through you.

You nodded, nuzzling into him. "Yeah. Just... tired.

His lips pressed against the crown of your head in an affectionate kiss. "I figured. I didn't even go that hard on you"

You just rolled your eyes, too happy to shot bak. He shifted, lifting you effortlessly into his arms despite your half-hearted protests. "Wonwoo, I can walk!"

"Shh,his tone leaving no room for argument. "You've done enough for today. Let me take care of you."

He carried you to the small couch in the corner of the office, sitting you down carefully before draping his discarded shirt over your shoulders. His fingers worked deftly to smooth your hair, his touch tender in a way that made your chest ache. "You rest for a bit," he said, crouching in front of you. His dark eyes softened as they met yours. "I'll clean up."

Before you could protest again, he stood and began gathering your scattered clothes, folding them neatly on the desk. He retrieved a bottle of water from a nearby mini-fridge, twisting the cap off before handing it to you.

"Drink," he commanded gently.

You complied, the cool liquid soothing your parched throat. Watching him move around the room with such quiet efficiency sent a wave of warmth through you. It was a side of him you always saw-nurturing, attentive, and deeply considerate.

Once everything was tidied up, Wonwoo returned to your side, his hands sliding beneath your knees and shoulders. You squeaked in surprise as he lifted you again.

"Wonwoo!"

"You need to clean up properly," he said simply, carrying you to the small restroom attached to the office.

He set you down carefully on the counter, his hands lingering at your waist as if to steady you. Grabbing a clean towel from the cabinet, he wet it under the tap and began gently wiping your face, neck and thighs. His touch was uncharacteristically soft, his movements precise as he took care to ensure your comfort.

"Thank you," you whispered, your cheeks warming under his gaze.

He smiled faintly, something unspoken passing between you. "You don't have to thank me. Just...stop overworking yourself, okay?"

You nodded, the vulnerability in his voice tugging at your heartstrings.

Once you were clean and dressed again, Wonwoo slipped his blazer around your shoulders. "Let's get you home," he said.

The drive was quiet, the soft hum of the engine and the occasional sound of tires gliding over the wet pavement filling the silence between you and Wonwoo. His blazer felt warm and comforting around your shoulders, carrying a faint scent of his cologne-woodsy, with a hint of spice. You found yourself fiddling with the edge of the sleeve absentmindedly, stealing occasional glances at him.

Wonwoo's hands rested firmly on the steering wheel, his gaze focused on the road ahead. The streetlights cast fleeting shadows across his face, highlighting his sharp jawline and the faint crease of concentration on his brow. You wanted to say everything you guys have done so far, but the words seemed to catch in your throat.

"You okay?" he asked softly, breaking the silence without taking his eyes off the road.

You nodded, then realized he couldn't see you. "Yeah. I'm okay. Just the fact that you care even though we're not...exclusive."

He glanced at you briefly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a subtle smile. "I just did what anyone would do."

"No," you said firmly, shifting slightly in your seat to face him. "Not everyone would've. And definitely not the way you did" You stopped for a brief second and then continued, "Nobody would check up on me after meetings, dump all their deadlines on me, and leave me alone after having sex."

He didn't respond immediately but his grip on the steering wheel tightened just a fraction, as if your words had unsettled something within him. After a moment, he sighed quietly. "I couldn't just leave you there."

The weight in his voice surprised you. It made you wonder what he was thinking, what he wasn't saying. You wanted to press further, to ask why he cared so much, but the vulnerability in his tone held you back.

"Thank you, Wonwoo," you said again, more softly this time.

He glanced at you, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than before, as if searching for something in your expression. "You don't need to thank me."

The rest of the drive passed in a companionable silence. When he finally pulled up in front of your building, he turned off the engine and stepped out before you could object. Rounding the car, he opened your door and offered you a hand.

"Can you make it upstairs on your own?" he asked. You hesitated, then nodded.

Wonwoo studied you for a moment, then let out a small sigh. "Alright. But call me if you need anything. I mean it."

You nodded again, clutching his blazer tightly around you. "I will."

As you turned to go, he called out softly, "Wait."

You paused, glancing back at him. He took a hesitant step forward, his hand reaching out as if to stop you, but he quickly pulled it back. "Don't forget the blazer," he said instead, his voice lighter, almost teasing.

You smiled faintly, slipping it off your shoulders and holding it out to him. "Thanks again, Wonwoo."

He accepted it with a small nod, his fingers brushing yours briefly. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," you echoed, stepping inside the building. As the elevator doors closed, you found a text.

Let's stop playing around—just us?

[my-castles-crumbling]

determine - December 20 - jegulus - trans!regulus - @stag-microfic - word count: 471 - request from @anotheronebites-the-dust

When James Potter falls in love, it is with more than the person. Sure, he cares about prank ideas, intelligence, appearance, sense of humor, Quidditch ability. But really, he cares most about something deeper. Perhaps, if he's being sentimental, he could say it is the person's soul. Because he knows that so many things about people can change, but it is the essence of a person that he connects to.

It's probably this that causes him to take so long to realize. He's not stupid or unobservant. It's just that...the parts of Reggie he fell in love with never change.

He recognizes that Reggie has become a bit more anxious. A bit more skittish, and is looking at him with eyes that reflect a bit of hesitation. He sees that now, long hair has slowly been cut shorter and shorter, and outfits have changed a bit. But what does he care? He holds the same person in his arms as night, and that is what matters to him.

He isn't concerned until large, gray eyes look at him with genuine fear, and a wobbling voice says, "I need to tell you something."

And his first reaction is that Reggie is leaving him. Because that's the only explanation. He's never felt good enough for the relationship he's in, so of course, this is it. And he'll be thankful for every moment he was given, surely, but-

"I'm a boy. I'm so sorry, I tried not to be, I tried to stop it, but I am."

He balks a bit at the announcement, not because he's mad or upset, but because it's so...sad. To see his boyfriend so terrified to share this with him.

He choses his next words carefully. "Okay, baby. That's...I'm so glad you decided to tell me. You have no reason to be sorry. How can I support you?"

And he watches as the boy in front of him stares disbelievingly. "You...you're not...I mean...James, you're not gay, are you?"

He wants to laugh, but he knows that's not the best idea. So instead, he tilts Reggie's chin up, so their eyes meet, determined to make the boy in front of him understand. "I love you. I love you whether you're a girl or a boy, or both, or neither, or something completely different. I don't care what label that makes me. I love you, and I want you. So, I'll repeat: How can I support you, love?"

Reggie's chin wobbles, and he looks like he wants to sob. But instead, a watery smile appears on his face. "You can...call me Regulus?" He phrases it like a question.

"Regulus," James repeats, tasting the name in his mouth, grinning. "James and Regulus sounds nice."

It's only then that Regulus throws his arms around James and softly cries there for a long time.

[armitagehuxsleepschedule]

okay so like i'm not sure how coherent this is but i think general hux functions as a really good microcosm on why fascism does not and cannot work.

so you've got this guy who is a "well-intentioned" fascist. he wants to conquer the galaxy so that he can make it a better place. make the wealth distribution more equitable. make sure everybody has a place and a purpose. noble goals, on paper.

but then his operation gets hijacked by snoke, then kylo ren, then palpatine, all of whom only want power for its own sake and couldn't care less about improving the galaxy.

on the surface, it might seem like hux could have succeeded if only he didn't get ousted, except... fascism encourages obedience, conformity. enforces a very strict hierarchy. outright discourages critical thinking and questioning those who outrank you. and fascism is a system, not one person. no matter how "well-intentioned" any individual fascist may be, no matter how genuinely that one person may believe they're only wielding authoritarianism for noble purposes, a system with such a strong focus on obedience encourages corrupt authority figures to take control.

on top of that, maintaining control even for a "benevolent" dictator requires them to commit human rights violations, and most people do not appreciate having their rights violated. telling them "trust me, it's actually for the greater good!" isn't gonna accomplish much if you're also war-criming them.

hux is driven and incredibly smart, but he's also naive and idealistic. the best-case scenario for him without kylo and palpatine? supreme leader hux would spend the rest of his life battling resistance to his rule both within the first order and from the people they conquered, then die young from overwork. or maybe get assassinated.

fascism digs its own grave. it is not possible to use fascist methods for good.

anyway idk why i'm writing a seriouspost about the futility of fascism and "benevolent dictators" through the framing device of a star wars villain, especially considering there is no way he was intentionally written to be a demonstration of that particular topic, but eh. it is what it is

[cannibalisticskittles]

wingmanning - pt. 1

also on ao3 here :)

Lucanis has become accustomed to waking in odd positions in the months since Spite was forced into him, so finding himself half-crouched on the floor, thighs tensed like he’d been in the process of rising, isn’t much of a shock. 

What he is less accustomed to is regaining consciousness with another person present. 

Ward Ingellvar, called Rook by everyone around her and holder of his current contract, is currently peering down at him, worry etched between her brows.

“...Lucanis? Are you… back?”

Is he in control, or is Spite?

But Spite does not press at his mind, clamoring to wrest control away. Instead, he skulks about the edges of Lucanis’ consciousness, faintly grumbling – and yet, relatively quiet. 

“...yes.” For now. Which means he should get up and figure out what damage has been done while he was out.

Rook’s fingers twitch at her side, but she has the good grace not to offer him a hand up and worsen his embarrassment as he stands. She does, however, stare at him with that same look of worry. Intently. Lucanis takes a moment to assess his surroundings more thoroughly.

The last he recalls, he was writing notes, and now… well, at least Spite has not brought them far. He is still in the Lighthouse, not far from the pantry he has recently taken residence in; Spite’s escape attempt only brought them as far as the dining room.

The fire is out. The scent of wet woodsmoke hangs heavy in the air. There are potatoes scattered across the floor – as well as a few of the place settings that were formerly at home on the table. 

What exactly was Spite doing?

“What… happened?” he asks carefully. The words are spoken with great reluctance. It is… less than pleasant to have to rely on others to get answers for these missing moments.

“Spite… got into a few things,” Rook says. “Well. A lot of things. Tried to talk him out of the more, ah, dangerous ventures, but that wasn’t hugely effective, so then I tried to… distract him.”

“With – the potatoes?” 

Rook laughs, suddenly, then claps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. You just sounded so – …sorry.” She clears her throat. “No, the potatoes are my fault, but it wasn’t intentional. I came in to take stock of how many we had; Harding wants to make stew. But when I went to check, it… drew his attention, I suppose? He came out of the pantry, startled me, I dropped them, they scattered everywhere… then he started to poke around the room.”

“Just in the room?”

“Mmhmm. He said something about leaving, or wanting to leave, but he didn’t seem to be actively trying to go anywhere. More… seeking new sensations?” She shrugs. “I imagine there’s a lot here that was not present… before.”

In the Ossuary, she means. 

It’s been mere days since stepping foot on solid ground, and in that time alone, the demon has witnessed far more than he ever did when they were trapped down in that accursed place. It should be more than enough to keep Spite occupied – but it is not. 

Spite has been incessant with his questions since getting out, pestering him about new sights, new concepts – and yet, between all this, Spite makes demands to leave no matter where Lucanis goes, and complaints of being trapped when he declines. It makes no sense. The demon has always been insistent when he wants something, and he does seem to struggle to understand much about this world that is different from his own, but how could walking free of their prison have made Spite more restless? 

Now, it’s like he rankles whenever Lucanis isn’t in motion. Even in the Ossuary, the grousing was less frequent. It’s enough to drive a man mad. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to it, nor does there seem to be any rhyme or reason to what Spite has been doing here.

But… he considers Rook’s words. Is that what it is? Curiosity? The desire for these new sensations? Mierda. If that’s true, he’s not sure the demon is ever going to be satisfied.

Lucanis spots a bent spoon amidst the fallen tubers, and a fork with its prongs bent back by the fireplace. “Spite’s handiwork, I assume?”

Rook nods. “Mmhmm. He did get ahold of a few more than that, though I’m not sure where they ended up.” She peers around the room as Lucanis sighs, then  adds, “it’s not so bad – there weren’t enough place settings when we got here, but the Fade spit more out, so I’m sure replacements will show up eventually. And while he was preoccupied with that, I was able to move the knives out of the way.”

“The knives?” 

Lucanis glances at the far corner of the kitchen, where he can detect a flicker of violet – a telltale sign that Spite is lurking nearby. The demon does not deign to chime in, though. His silence feels purposeful. 

…or perhaps he is simply bored and wandered off. Maker knows he did it often enough in the Ossuary, even if the wards in place kept him confined to their erstwhile cell. 

“Half the kitchen knives were laying on the countertop,” Rook says. “Felt like the sort of thing he should probably know his way around, but not without some… supervision. So. I moved ‘em. Set ‘em outside the doors, on the little balcony.”

Spite does pipe up now. “No fun,” he grumbles, then disappears from view, in the direction of the door.

“It’s not supposed to be fun,” Lucanis fires back.

He realizes too late that he has spoken aloud, when Rook stops in her tracks and shoots him a puzzled look. That’s a habit in need of breaking. 

“That… was for Spite,” he explains with a sigh. 

“Ah!” Understanding dawns in her eyes immediately. “Is he – still here?”

“He’s never far,” Lucanis says, “but I believe he has left us for the moment.”

Rook nods, but her eyes still drift in the general direction Lucanis was facing when he spoke to Spite. “I wonder how far he’s able to wander from you,” she murmurs. “And… does actual, physical distance have any bearing on how well you can communicate with each other? Are there sound waves moving through the air and it’s a matter of attuning to it, or is it entirely magical and facilitated by, or through, the Fade? Is there a way to become attuned to it?”

As she muses, Lucanis surveys the damage once more. It could be worse, all considered. Though the fact that Spite was able to take charge so soon – so easily – is… worrying. But there is little to be done about that now besides fixing the disorder the demon caused. He bends to pick up one of the wayward potatoes at his feet. 

This, at last, breaks Rook from her reverie. “Oh! Sorry, here, let me help.” And she begins to do just that. She takes to the task with fervor, scrabbling on her knees to scoop up nearby tubers and coax them out from the nooks and crannies they have rolled into. 

“Rook,” Lucanis says, “you don’t have to do that. It isn’t your mess to mend. It’s Spite’s fault – which means it’s mine to handle.”

But Rook is not to be deterred. 

“Oh, no,” she says. “There wouldn’t be a mess if not for me. Not this one, anyway; I suppose he might have still gotten to the silverware later on. Even so, this?” She waves a potato in the air demonstratively before, for some reason, tucking it into one of the many pockets adorning her coat. “This one’s my fault.”

“You were only preparing for dinner. There’s no fault there.”

But she grimaces. “Weeeell, if it was that simple, I might agree with you. However…” Another potato, another pocket to stash it in. “I… may have come to, ah, hide them.”

“To hide them,” he repeats. “Is that why you're keeping them in your coat?”

Rook pauses, shoots him a glance, then… tucks yet another potato into her coat. “Yes. Better here than within reach.”

“And why exactly is that?”

“Harding wanted to make stew.”

“Yes,” he says, “you’ve mentioned that.”

“Ah. Right. You weren’t here the last time this happened. Harding made potato stew once before, soon after we came to the Lighthouse, and it was… well…” 

She pauses for a moment, staring off into the middle distance as though beset by a terrible memory.

“The taste was… passable.” Yet the wrinkle around her nose and the way her lip curls slightly as she says that suggests otherwise. “But the texture… I don’t understand it. It’s like every mouthful, there was something different wrong with it. Crunchy, then mushy, then gritty, and sometimes even rubbery.”

“In a stew?”

Rook nods. 

Suddenly, a comment Bellara made the previous night about acquired tastes makes sense. 

“I don’t know if it’s a Ferelden thing, or if it’s because we’re in the Fade, or what,” she says. “When it was just her and Varric and me, we almost never had access to a kitchen, so I can’t say I really had a reference point for her cooking skills outside of the sort of things you could throw together on the go. But I know she could make a killer sandwich. I had so many of the Lace Specialty when we were tracking down Solas, and her yam and jam slam was perfect for traveling, too.”

“...yam and jam slam?” The words sound bafflingly foreign together. 

Rook nods. “Y’know, just… buttered toast, slices of roasted yam, and some butter in between. Keeps for a surprisingly long time.”

That… sounds heinous, but he lets it pass. He won’t bother asking about the Lace Specialty – it might be best to keep that one a mystery. 

“Whatever it is, though, when Harding said she wanted to make it again tonight, it seemed like it might be for the best if the main ingredient was to be… conveniently lost. But they were heavier than I expected, and I dropped the bag the first time I tried moving them, and then Spite came out, and I dropped it again and spilled them… so really, if I hadn’t been so uncharitable, maybe Spite wouldn’t have come to investigate in the first place. No noise, no mess.”

“Or,” Lucanis says, “perhaps Spite would have done more than bend a few spoons – he may have wandered off without any eyes on him.”

He is loath to admit the limitations of his ability to control the demon, but it does no good to ignore the potential threats it poses. 

“Mmm.” She considers this. “You may be right. Still, I say I’m at least half responsible for the mess,” she says, and resumes her efforts to tidy. 

Lucanis does the same. 

A few minutes pass in silence this way, filled only by the sound of quiet shuffling and tiny clang of silverware being scooped up.

Lucanis is the first to speak. He has done much for the sake of a contract in his life – much that was miserable, or injurious, or torturous, even – but the thought of rubbery stew will not leave his mind. That… cannot come to pass. 

“What did you plan to tell her?” he asks. 

“Hmm?”

“Harding,” he says. “When you went back to her empty-handed. Surely she would find that odd, knowing that there had been plenty here, before.”

“Honestly, I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Rook says. “Maybe that we misremembered what we had? Or the Fade did something to them? Or… I tripped and fell and lost them all in the abyss.”

“And… what did you plan to eat, then?”

“Had not thought that far either,” she admits. 

He makes a contemplative noise and picks up what seems to be the last of the ruined silverware. Unless, of course, Spite has stashed more elsewhere in the room. Lucanis wouldn’t put it past him. 

“You know,” he says, “I do know how to cook.”

“You do?”

Perhaps he ought to be offended by her tone, but amusement wins out. “I do,” he confirms. 

“The master assassin has kitchen skills?”

“The master assassin has to eat.” 

“I suppose so.” She cocks her head to the side and blinks owlishly at him. “Wait – are you saying you’d be willing to make dinner tonight instead? Really?”

“Seems a waste of perfectly good potatoes to hide them away,” he says. “That is, of course, if you do not mind a master assassin handling your food.”

Rook scoops up the last handful of potatoes at her feet and rises. “If you poison me with something edible, I’ll die happier than I’d live if I ate that stew again.” And then her expression reflects a sudden panic. “–not that I really think you’d do that!”

“It’s natural to worry about,” he says. They ought to consider the possibility, at least. He won’t be poisoning anyone today – but a little more caution on their part wouldn’t go amiss.

“But I really don’t think–” She cuts herself off before finishing. Instead, she worries her lower lip between her teeth, then asks, “are you sure you’re alright doing this for us?”

There is apprehension in her voice, in her expression, but he is unsure of the reason for it. “I would not offer if I did not mean it,” he assures her. 

“I only mean – we’re asking a lot of you, as it is. Killing… gods, or ancient mages, if that distinction means anything. That’s your contract, not… playing scullery maid or chef. We really should be providing for you, not the other way around.”

Ah. The fear of overstepping. That, he can do something about. 

“If I allow myself to be sickened by tainted food and am too weak to hold a dagger straight, my odds of fulfilling my contract become… low,” he says. “And I do not fail contracts.”

Rook nods slowly at that. “Point made. …you don’t think it would do any harm to tell Harding a little white lie, do you? Say that you were already making food when I came in – something with potatoes, so, alas, we’re fresh out, and dinner is taken care of for the night. You know a recipe that involves potatoes, right?”

A recipe?

“I'm sure I can think of something,” he says mildly.

“Excellent. And… maybe Harding will just forget about stew by the time we get more.” She rolls her shoulders. “…I suppose there’s no need to hold on to these, then.”

Rook crosses to the kitchen area and begins to set tuber after tuber on the countertops, first arranging the ones from her arms, and then pulling them from her coat pockets. Lucanis brings his armful over as well, placing them beside her pile until there is a nice, tidy row. 

“We’ve got sort of a hodgepodge of various ingredients,” she says, “and they’re a little… scattered.”

“I’ve noticed.” The pantry has plenty of root vegetables, but not nearly as many essentials beyond that, and while he may not have had much time to examine the areas of the Lighthouse besides his erstwhile living space, even a quick perusal of the cabinets did not turn up much more.

“Honestly,” she says, “it’s been difficult to keep track of what was here before we got here, what we brought in, and what’s just… appeared. Still! There ought to be enough to make… something other than that stew. Would you like some help?”

But as she asks this, another voice steals away his attention. 

“Smells. Like earth.”

Lucanis has the composure not to jolt or visibly startle when the demon speaks into his ear – but it does delay his response by a moment. What was it she said? She asked if he needed help? 

“There’s no need,” Lucanis says, “you’ve already done more than enough, straightening out Spite’s chaos. I shouldn’t require any further help.”

“I’m sure you’re quite capable in the kitchen and you don’t need help,” she says, “but would you accept some anyway? To speed it up, or to give you less to do? I can’t say I’m particularly practiced – I never spent all that long on a cooking rotation – but I also never had my rotation ended early after giving the whole hall food poisoning like some of the other Watchers did, so…”

Spite chooses now to hover around her, craning to peer over her shoulder, and then looks back at Lucanis. “Lucanis. Why?”

Lucanis does his best to ignore the demon and process her words.

Does she ask out of that fear of overstepping again? Not wanting to give him too many duties outside of his contract? Lingering distrust, despite her insistence on the contrary? Wanting to be sure he isn’t going to slip something in the food and poison them after all? Or is it simply a genuine desire to be helpful?

He’d like to think he would have a better read on that, normally – when there isn’t a demon speaking incessantly into his ear. 

“Different. From potatoes. Different. From the others. Lucanis.”

“...Lucanis?”

Rook, this time. Her brow is once again knit with something akin to worry. She has said something else, he realizes, that he did not catch, preoccupied with Spite as he was. 

“It’s… Spite,” he admits. “He is… curious again.” 

Rook tilts her head and narrows her eyes as though doing so will allow her to hear the demon. As though this is something to desire instead of something to endure. “What is he asking?”

But Lucanis shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Best not to indulge him, it will only encourage him to try this again.”

She frowns and opens her mouth as if to protest, then shuts it again. Which is just as well, because Spite continues to pester him, needling him with increasing agitation. 

“Are you okay? Do you need anything?” she asks, just as Spite growls, “Lucanis!” 

He needs —

A moment to himself. Some quiet. Rare though that may be.

Lucanis runs a hand through his hair as he gathers his thoughts. “…didn’t you say you were going to tell Harding her efforts were no longer needed?”

“Yes!” Rook clasps her hands together. “Right. I should let her know. Then she can rest of it longer, after all that rock magic she did today. Why don’t I do that and then I can come back and… peel? Stir? Scrub? Any of those tedious little tasks you don’t feel like doing, foist them onto me, yes?”

“Yes,” he agrees, though really, he has only ever been able to tolerate the presence of others in the kitchen with him in small doses, aside from those who had the kindness to teach him the basics in the first place – and Illario, though his cousin usually tested his patience before too long.

He shouldn’t refuse, though. What grounds does he have to turn her down?

Rook nods, and then she is off. 

When she is gone and Lucanis is as alone as he can be, these days, Spite redoubles his questioning. 

“Like dirt,” says the demon, “earth. But not like. Harding.”

“No,” Lucanis sighs. “Not like Harding.”

Harding smells like… loam. Fresh, healthy soil, flecked with green and growing things. Rook smells more like… old earth. Drier, dustier. 

“Why?”

“Why does it matter?” He cannot keep the exasperation from his voice any longer. 

“You notice. But won’t. Say why.”

He does notice. It’s an old habit, and one he intends to keep sharp. Things left unnoticed are things he cannot account for, and even a scent can be a warning sign of some danger lying in wait. 

“It isn’t important enough to interrupt,” he says. “Spite, I cannot focus when you’re speaking over someone. Others… notice.”

“But why? Why not. The same?” 

“It’s just different. There doesn’t have to be a reason.” Even if there is, it’s not one that the demon is likely to understand. What does he know of gardening, or catacombs? And he does not have the time required to give Spite an answer that would satisfy him.

“Is,” Spite grumbles. “But Lucanis. Never wants. To say. Why.”

Spite continues to voice his discontentment, but Lucanis turns his focus away from the demon and towards the task at hand, taking the opportunity to take stock of what’s in the cabinets.

It isn’t much. The shelves are in dire need of restocking. But… there’s olive oil. And several glass jars with the names of various spices written on them in what looks to be Bellara’s handwriting. 

Below, pots and pans of… sufficient size and quality, at least for now. Right. He can make something of this. 

He diverts, briefly, to the pantry, and returns with root vegetables, as well as a few onions. It won’t be the stew Harding envisioned, but there is enough for soup. 

As he sets these on the counter, besides the row of potatoes, he says, “Spite.”

Spite is entirely uninterested in his attempt at conversation, preferring instead to stare intently at the vegetables. He bends until his face is almost flush with the countertop, then reaches out and pokes at the pile, watching one of them wobble.

Lucanis isn’t sure if that actually does push it forward or if it’s simply unbalanced. Truly, he’s not certain how much influence Spite can exert on the world when he isn’t considering Lucanis’ body. There wasn’t much to test this on in the Ossuary; the venatori did have enough sense not to provide a practiced assassin with anything that could be used as a weapon. Which was, well, anything, when you’re a Crow. So the only thing Spite could consistently attempt to influence was… him.

If Spite is able to influence physical objects even when incorporeal... well. It’s something to watch out for. Another layer of danger to this whole situation. Even if Spite is only using this influence to poke around at root vegetables. 

“Spite,” he says again, firmer. 

The demon glances his way, which might be the most acknowledgment he’s going to get.

“You cannot – we cannot – be walking around whenever you want. And you cannot just… take over like that. My body isn’t yours to do as you wish with it, and – besides that, a demon in the midst of everyone, outside of the Fade, it scares people.” As it should. 

“Wasn’t. Outside it! And she. Already knows! About us!” Spite protests.

“Yes,” he says, “but losing control like that – not knowing where I am? – it’s… unprofessional.” 

Spite grumbles but makes no other reply. Lucanis opens the cabinets again and begins sorting through the jars of spices. 

“We – I – seem less… competent. Less trustworthy when this happens.”

Spite doesn’t even bother to grumble in response this time, only presses his face closer to the counter, watching how light filters through the glass jars. 

Lucanis sighs. His professional reputation has surely been marred enough by his absence; that he has been made an abomination and cannot seem to keep a tight enough leash on Spite for this fact to stay secret forever… well. It will not help that. The whispers back home may not have started yet, but it is only a matter of time, and all his past deeds, all the respect and good regard he once had earned, may crumble in the face of his new, permanent guest.

And he can’t even say this isn’t exactly what ought to happen. Who would trust a man – an abomination – who could lose himself at any moment to the capricious whims of a demon? Even here, now, amidst all their kind words, these excursions cannot foster encouragement about his ability to fulfill his contract. 

“What must they think…”

Spite pokes at a potato now.

“Rook thinks. You have. Nice hands.”

Lucanis pauses. He closes the cabinet to get a clearer look at Spite.

“…Spite,” he says quietly, voice carefully restrained, “how do you know that?”

Spite barely spares him a glance between examining root vegetables. “She said so!”

“Yes, but – why did she say so?”

A thousand different scenarios flash through his head. Rook said Spite bent silverware, chased potatoes, was interested in knives, but… what part of that could have inspired a comment like that? What else could Spite have done while Lucanis wasn’t in control?

Spite spares another glance at Lucanis, but seems faintly baffled by the question. “No. Fun.” 

That’s hardly an answer. 

“Spite.” Lucanis is terse, now. “What. Exactly. Did she say?”

“Careful, Spite. Don’t want to ruin. His nice. Hands.” Spite makes a face – with his face, which should feel stranger, but doesn’t, after so many months with only reflection of his own face gazing back at him as his only company. “And then!” the demon says, no longer mimicking, “she put. It. Out!”

“The knives?” Lucanis asks. 

“The fire!”

Spite’s expression – his expression – suggests this is an offense of the highest order. He practically pouts, jerking his chin towards the fireplace, which he now gazes balefully at. “Wouldn’t. Let me touch,” he complains. 

“…ah.” That… makes sense. The smell of wet wood, the decidedly damp logs in the fireplace… “Spite, fire is not to be touched.”

“Why. Not? Rook makes fire.”

“And Rook still doesn’t go sticking her hands in fireplaces. You shouldn’t, either.” He sets another jar on the counter, then adds, “or ovens. Or candles.”

Spite’s lips twist down. “Lucanis is no. Fun. Rook. Is no. Fun. Only want. To see! Not fair!”

“Touching is not seeing, Spite.” Lucanis can hear the sound of footsteps, faint but growing nearer. Rook is returning. “You’re welcome to watch and see all you like, now, but keep quiet. …I’ll see about relighting the fireplace if you can manage it.”

This, at least, elicits a positive response from the demon, and Spite is grinning as he says, “deal!”

It is a deal Spite is likely to break before long, but Lucanis will cherish the brief moments of silence he gets all the same. 

[dianagj-art]

Am over here biting each art you post, each info you post about One or onion as if it's 5★ dish BECAUSE IT IS THAT TASTY 🩷🩷🩷

Few questions (remember if you don't feel comfortable about or don't want because of spoilers feel free to ignore):

- What causes you to have the genius idea of putting an animation in few panels of the comic? Like did you thought of it? Did somebody/friend suggested it?

- name one friend/ROTTMNT AU you don't mind to have their character/OC in your comic even as a background character?

- What causes One to change his mind about the mad dogs and decided to join their family?

- If you have a plot about making a new episode of ROTTMNT that involves One (and maybe somebody else; could be one of the brothers or splinter or anybody you want) what the plot's gonna be about?

- if onion (i keep calling F!One that, the disrespect is unimaginable am sorry 🥲) followed the movie plot would he end up ashes like canon F!Leo or will he make it back alive with casey JR?

- how's One's bond with Cassandra?

- how does One feel about Draxum demoting from an alchemist to a lunch lady? (LBH this's funny job for him).

- do you plan on putting an episode about One & Draxum AFTER their redemption? Like will they forgive and (probably not) forget?

- Name or draw one outfit you would love for One or draxum to wear as their casual clothes.

- any cute, funny or wholesome HCs about One after his redemption arc?

That's all for now! Again thank you if you answered my questions but if not then it's all good👍

Have a great week and take care of yourself 🩷

1)Oh, I just answered something about this here, but the short version is: I've wanted to do a mix of animation and comics for a long time (a zelda comic was my first inspiration for this) When I started this au it was gonna be an animatic so when I changed that to comic form, I still had a few things that I really wanted to have animated

2 )I'm not gonna @ them to not bother them, but I think I'm gonna end up having the sep council on the bg at some point lmao, this ask is from october and the reason I have been holding it back from answering is cause I kind of already did with the wall of champions on the last update!

3) for spoilers reasons I wont get too deep into this one, but while there IS a defining moment of him taking a choice, is not that what matters, what matters the most is the journey, after all, is the time he has spend with his brothers up to that point is what makes him flip sides

4)I do have a few episodes planned like that! right now I'm following the episodes that already exist cause is fun to see them change with the au, but I also have some that are things I made up! One I'm excited about is with Raph and One having some solo time on the Hidden City

5) "the disrespect" LMAO my brain refused to call him Oneion too at first, but is just easier with all the leos of the crossovers. He's not gonna go back with Casey Jr, sorry, his fate is not set in stone yet but I do know he's not gonna end up in ashes. I'm not gonna explain more than that lol

6) this has been asked a lot so I'm just gonna throw these here too @damonagel04-blog

One and Cass end up having a weird little friendship, based on mutual respect. After teaming up with the Foot Clan for canon plot reasons, One fights all the foot recruits as a training/demostration kid of thing and the only one who can stand their ground against him is her, and of course he finds her fun to fight, cause he can actually have a fight with her. After that they go on missions together, cause they force One to be with a team and he doesn't do teams but agrees if she goes, because she is actually a good fighter and competent enough to carry out the mission

Also, I have the headcanon that they can't use their real names on the Foot Clan, that's why they call her Recruit. you just give out your name if you actually trust the other person, but given the fact that everyone serious on the foot clan is a shady ninja and the other part of the foot are random people, she had never actually given her name to anyone. After a few missions together, Cass decides she can actually trust One with her name

They do end up being friends, tho One would never call it that, at least not pre-redemption

7) One doesn't really think much of it, he knows Draxum likes to cook, he has cooked for him his whole life, so he ending up with a cooking job on the surface is not so weird, and he knows Draxum has to lay low so it makes sence for him to be on such a crappy place. Plus One's gonna have another things in mind to worry about, he wouldn't have brains to judge that.

8) Oh I have so many things planned for their journey post redemption, but those are spoilers, they will eventually end up in a better place

9) I do have some doodles of one on casual clothes (1) (2), Draxum I honeslty have no idea

10) I'm gonna give you one thing with each of the hamatos:

Mikey teaches One to cook, he learn the hard way that you have to give One very specific instructions on what to do or he'll fuck up

One likes spending time on Donnie's lab, just lounging while Donnie works (is familiar to him), Donnie has a beanbag where he goes to nap sometimes while pulling consecutive allnighters, One ends up claiming that spot for himself

Raph helps One work through his anger issues, having experience working on his own, he's also the one One opens up the most

Splinter overhears One saying he used to wear a robe when being at his home and gets him a few. One ends up getting suck into watching telenovelas with Splinter

One likes putting on face masks with April, they end up having full "spa days" at April's at least once a month

and that's it! thanks for the ask!

[myalgicpierrot]

Plain text: They run away from moose like girls. they think a sheet of glass is adequate protection from being shot in the face by gang bangers and their recipes include fresh urine. What the hell is up with New Jersey's finest punk metallers? roars: Cardinal Doran. Snapping fingers: Brother Naki. "The Spanish Inquisition: You ask, they squirm" My Chemical Romance.

Why are you guys soooooo cool?? - Thomas, via email

Gerard: "We can answer this question. (Massive pause.) Er, shit. Let me answer this with a question, "Why is Brody Dalle from The Distillers so hot?" (Another massive pause.) I guess we're cool because we're just like Thomas. Unless he's a serial killer or something. We're just the kids who didn't fit in at school and that's how we found each other. We were always on the outside looking in and it depends on whether you think that's cool or not." Hammer: Off stage though and outside of music, who is the coolest, the most goddamn suave when chatting to the ladies? All bar Mikey in unison: "Mikey." Hammer: Is it your uncanny Jarvis Cocker impersonation? Mikey: "Yeah dude, it gets them every time. No it's Bob; the ladies are suckers for his beard." Hammer: They suck his beard? He must have some good lines.

Gerard, have you any plans to do any more artwork for future albums and how much would it cost to get you to play in my front room? - Name taken, via Hammer message board

Gerard: "Yes and 20 bucks." Hammer: I suppose there may be people who don't know that you do all the artwork. Gerard: "I did the art for both of the records. The first one - '1 Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love' - because I didn't want photographic artwork, so we got the picture, photocopied it, put some Ajax on it and put some cellophane on that. It's not actually a digital image like most people think. Then the second album - 'Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge was all done in watercolours and paint. And, yes, I want to do all of our album covers. I don't get chance to do half as much artwork as I'd like." Hammer: Talking of front rooms, what's the smallest gig you've ever played since you've been releasing records? Ray: "We played a basement in Philly in front of five people, a major record label rep and a homeless person." Frank: "The homeless guy had a tape recorder tied on a string round his neck; he bootlegged the gig and then tried to sell it back to us afterwards. It was very enterprising of him."

Have you ever thought of doing a cover? - The Drifter, via Hammer message board

Gerard: "Well we did. We played 'Jack The Ripper', a Morrissey b-side, at the same time the first record was out because we just didn't have enough songs. We did that for years cos we only had five songs and our sets would have been over too quickly." Hammer: We tend to hate it when bands do either exact copies of songs or when they do really obvious songs; what rules do you think apply to cover versions? Ray: "The band you cover have got to be over and done with or at least on their 10th album or whatever." Frank: "Yeah, so like it doesn't matter if it's Aerosmith - not that you should try to do an Aerosmith cover anyway - but how are you going to improve that?" Mikey: "Johnny And Mary' by Placebo (originally by now deceased suave ladies man, Robert Palmer - OAP Ed) is an interesting cover." Ray: "Just don't do anything obvious. Not covering a hit should be another rule. Placebo also covered 'Where Is My Mind' by The Pixies (American rock heroes that influenced Nirvana) and you can't do that. How many bands do that song? Too many."

Gerard, how do you feel about the comment that you look like Drew Barrymore in ET? - Ant, Birmingham

Gerard: "Where does this come from?" Hammer: I think it was originally from a Hammer live review ages ago. Gerard: "I always get compared to some Hollywood starlet or other. Especially Christina Ricci." Hammer: I'm never going to be able to watch the bit where she does that really sexy tap dance, wearing that amazingly short skirt in Buffalo 66 ever again.

What do you feel about the claim that you are goths? - Ali, from Reading

Gerard (who is dressed entirely in black, has long black hair and loads of make up on to appear like he has the three day dead eyes of a ghoul): "It doesn't really bother us. I think it comes from our song 'Vampires Will Never Hurt You'. I mean, I always dress in black; the whole of the band always dress in black but that isn't really goth to me. Bauhaus were goth; the Sisters of Mercy are goth. I think it has more to do with the sound of the music and our sound is more punk rock. All that goth music is good stuff though; I just don't think we sound like that."

Why not play a show in Iceland? It's not a bad idea. - Icelandic name, Iceland

Gerard: "I would love to." Frank: "I've heard it's fucking beautiful." Gerard: "We're always up for doing stuff like that in different countries and what I always say is 'If you can find a promoter who is willing to bring us over then we'll do it."

Hey guys, sorry to ask the obvious but what happened to Matt (the band's dour and slightly older ex-drummer)? - Alexandra Rose, via Hammer message board

Gerard: "We'd rather not talk about this because we're not a shit-talking band." Frank: "It's just not anyone's business. We don't feel we need to talk about stuff like this." Hammer: Well, I'll turn the question around: Can you tell us about the background of your new member Bob, who's replaced him? (The entire band turn round to Bob, who is dozing in the corner with his hoody pulled up, and laugh.) All: "Bob, what's your background!" Bob (groggily): "I started playing drums when I was three and then after school, I worked my way into the music business, working in music stores and record shops. I started doing drum tech stuff and I always ended up hanging around with My Chemical Romance whenever I worked with them.”

(splash quote) "I just rolled the window up. I couldn't think of anything else to do. 'Phew. I'm safe from the .375 gun now that I've rolled the fucking window up.’”

What are MCR's favourite sandwich fillings? - Your biggest fan, Northern Ireland

Rae: "Turkey and Gruyere." Frank: "Eggplant (Aubergine – American Ed) and parmesan." Mikey: "Grilled cheese and tomato." Hammer: Ah, poor man's pizza. Bob: "Tuna mayonnaise." Hammer: While we're on the subject, who is the best cook in the band? Ray: "Well, I know that Bob can actually cook. Bob, how do you cook them steaks?" Bob: "I get some steak and some vinegar and some other shit. I could tell you but I'd have to kill you. Shit, I don't know, I can cook really good if I've got a book in front of me." Gerard: "Next time I'm over I'm going to cook all of Metal Hammer's readers a chick pea curry, It tastes really good." Frank: "If you are making a chicken Caesar salad you should put powdered onions into the dressing and it tastes really nice. Hammer: Onions? In powder form? Really? What kind of insanity is that? Frank: "You guys don't have powdered onions? You are so BC. Hammer: Goddamnit. You can't speak to a member of Her Majesty's Metal Press like that. But let me know where we can get this shit, we're thinking of launching a sister title Metal And Modern Cookery Hammer All: "Awesome!

To the guy with the big hair (Ray), do you actually Iron Maiden or are you just being cool? - Insane Angel, via Hammer message board Ray:… Gerard: "Woah!" Bob: "Ha! Ha! Ha! Ray:… (starts shaking) Frank: "Oh my God!" Ray:… (smoke starts pouring from his ears) Mikey: "What a fucking question" Ray (with barely controlled anger, through gritted teeth): "No. I hate them. They're fucking shit. That's a fucked up question you shit head!" Gerard: "To be fair it's a valid question. You do see a lot of young chicks wearing Maiden t-shirts who are just doing it because it is a fashion thing to do." Hammer: So we can safely assume you are all Maiden fans? All: "Dude! Of course!" Hammer: In that case can you all give me a surprising Bruce Dickinson fact? Mikey: "He was an Olympic fencer." Ray: "He wrote books on how to get on in the music biz." Gerard: "He is a trained pilot dude!" Frank: "Do you know how in the 70s Bowie started thinking he was Ziggy Stardust? Well, I think Bruce Dickinson is the same with Lord Iffy Boot Race (Main character from Dicko's comedy novels)."

How do you feel about the criticism you receive from the metal community? - Chris, via email

Gerard: "I'm not sure what he's talking about. If he means about the people who remember us from being in a hardcore band who call us faggots on the internet then we're not really bothered. We get called faggots a lot but, you know, so what? Generally we tend not to read about ourselves. Live reviews are handy because you can learn stuff from them but generally not."

(splash quote) "There were five people and a homeless guy at the gig. The homeless guy bootlegged the gig and tried to sell it to us afterwards." (close-up photo captioned "Gerard knows the Way. To wear makeup.")

Do you consider yourselves a metal band? - Grace, London Gerard: "Metal is a big influence. If you think about the power, the screaming, the guitars etc then it is quite metal but it sounds like punk to me." Mikey: "We're also metal in the sense that we've a lot of metal on our instruments and I have quite a lot on my belt buckle as well." Gerard: "If we're metal then we're very traditionally metal. Iron Maiden are an influence as are Helloween, don't ever forget Helloween!" Hammer: In that case, is your song 'Thank You For The Venom' an ABBA style tribute to the large haired black metal poodle rockers from Newcastle, England? Gerard: "Eh?" Hammer: It doesn't matter. Gerard: "That song is a sarcastic statement, a bit like saying 'Thanks for ruining my life'. It was something I had written on my t-shirt the first ever gig we played."

What would you do if you ever encountered a moose? Would you run like a girl or stand and face it like a man? - Goldfinger, via Hammer message board Frank: "Has Goldfinger ever seen any mooses?" Mikey: "That isn't the plural of moose. It's moosi." Gerard: "Fuck off, it's meese." Frank: "Has Goldfinger ever seen a flock of meese advancing on him? It's a terrifying sight. They aren't small creatures. You would just run off like a girl or a boy. What does running like a girl mean anyway?" Mikey: "I've seen one. I'd run like a girl for sure. They're massive. If you run over one you're fucked. They come in through your windscreen kicking." Bob: "People think that moose are really gentle and goofy but they aren't; they're fucking animals." Hammer: What is the most exotic piece of wildlife you've ever encountered on tour? Gerard: "I saw some grizzly bears in Canada." Ray: "I saw a coyote." Bob: "Ray saw this girl in Chicago. She was fucking exotic." Ray: "Oh shit. She pelted me with chicken-flavoured crackers. Do you remember the homeless lady as well? She was this really old lady with this faint voice that I found when I was getting on the tour bus one night. She said, 'Can I sleep here tonight?' and I was like, 'No way lady, get the hell off the bus.' And then I realised that she had wrenched the window off the side of the bus to get in." Hammer: You have more stories about homeless people than any other band that we've met. Gerard: "That's because they are our core audience." Mikey: "We're very attractive to them because we dress like homeless people." Hammer: I saw a moose once. It was bearing down on me with a semi-on and a heart full of hatred. Gerard: "You're making this up aren't you?" Hammer: Er, yes.

Do you like the French? - Paul, Kingston Upon Thames Gerard: "Oh. That is such a loaded question." Frank: "Well, I'm going to say no because when we've toured there they've never been anything but mean to us." Hammer: Well, you're in good company. I know Andrew Eldritch, from the Sisters Of Mercy, said if he had one wish he would make France sink into the sea except for all of the pretty girls aged between 18 and 26, who he would levitate to safety." All, cracking up: "Awesome!" Hammer: Yeah, they are an easy target. Wasn't it Donald Rumsfeld who said that going to war in Iraq without the French was like going hunting without an accordion? Frank: "Brilliant."

Can you clear this up for us once and for all; which one of the Village People was actually gay? - Iron Monkey, via Hammer message board Gerard (without pause): "The Construction Worker."

You guys rule live. What British band would you like to play with in the future? - Hollow Man, via Hammer message board Frank: "Muse." Mikey: "Muse." Ray: "Funeral For A Friend." Gerard: "Yeah, Funeral For A Friend again."

Have any of you ever been shot and/or stabbed? - Andy, Bristol Ray: "We nearly got shot recently. We were stuck in a traffic jam and our manager got into this argument with these Puerto Rican guys and told them to go fuck themselves. They pulled up next to us and got a gun out. Our manager was trying to grab the gun. I thought we were fucked for sure." Bob: "I just rolled the window up. I couldn't think of anything else to do. 'Phew. I'm safe from the .375 gun now that I've rolled the fucking window up.'" Hammer: Were you scared? Bob: "Nah, I'm full of piss and vinegar." Hammer: Ah ha! So that's what's in your secret steak marinade! Bob: "Shit yeah! I piss on my steak. Now I'm gonna have to kill you."

Rock journalists suck big dogs' cocks. And they smell. Really bad. Like burning ammonia. Take over by asking the questions that matter to you. See www.metalhammer.co.uk/spanish for who the Inquisition are gonna be quizzing in the coming months and how to ask your questions. Arriverderch.

MCR for Metal Hammer, Issue 133, December 2004 🩸 #Revenge20

📸 via Naki

[nikalaeva]

And yet Feyre is the High Lady?

I already wrote - I don't hate Feyre. In ACOTAR she was a little bit silly and smug, but good character.

If you are reading this, you know Prythian's rules. Not me or you or anyone else, but the author wrote it. Wives/mates of the High Lords have a title Lady of the Court.

Now the question is - if Rhysand is a true feminist, why didn't he change laws for his darling Feyre? Then he could have said to Helion: "It is now the LAW of the Night Court that High Lord's wife is his equal." "Because I love her" is not something to reason your political decisions with. And one more question - why should the other High Lords call Feyre High Lady? Rhysand's decision has no legal force even in the Night Court, much less outside of it.

Why does Feyre need to be a High Lady, for SJM Rhysand's pride? What exactly does Feyre want to do that can't be done without "High Lady" title? Does Feyre want to change some laws or introduce new ones? Does she want to change the social hierarchy, democratize society or, maybe, prepare it for an absolute monarchy? She is not interested (and does not understand anything) in politics at all, but the title is important for politics. I doubt very much people would want a ruler who is only interested in art - not finances, not diplomacy, not domestic and foreign trade.

Charity work is not main duty of ruler.

Being able to read and write is not enough to control the Court's tax system and fight poverty. Feyre's fans would probably agree that people with same level of education would plan the country's budget or, idk, calculate their salaries and pays.

Banning service for fairies of the CoN 'cause you don't like them personally is illegal - they are also citizens of the NC.

Refusing to communicate with one of the High Lords 'cause he is your toxic ex is blatant political illiteracy.

Feyre's feelings don't matter on political arena. And the meeting of the High Lords is such a scandal, which proved - Feyre's title is a "mask" of feminism, just a check mark for "girl boss" trope. There is nothing but incompetence under it.

Update: oh yeah, all of Feyre's achievements after getting title are belong to fighting/war. And while we see the High Lords fighting on the front lines, their main job is to govern and support society, the citizens in peacetime, not only fight villains.

[gracemain919]

how do the leaders handle an overstimulated y/n like if the reader is autistic

Thanks for the ask:), also Friendly reminder that a few of my OCs are jerks.

(The Fungus universe)

Tw: Yandere, neglect,

The Liar:

Oh, please. He will ignore your clear signs of distress since he prefers to not deal with them, and if you vocalize your issues he will make you someone else's problem. Maybe on a good day, he may give your needs a bit more attention, but that is once on a full moon.

Poison:

Makes sense, the lab is full of smells and irritable sounds that sometimes drive her own workers mad, so she won't question your needs. Instead, she will quickly find a solution which is usually handing you your favorite drink(straight from the faucet that is her throat), and taking a walk outside the lab with you by her side. In hopes of calming down your nerves.

The Cannibal:

He can’t tell or care much about your discomfort. You gotta set the record straight and he might take some responsibility. You sometimes don't recognize the things he does as ‘helpful’ but he thinks he is helping. Sending his guards out of your sight when you feel overwhelmed or letting you draw on his flesh. You may try and push him in the right direction with your necessities, but there is a high chance he might misunderstand your orders.

Doppelganger:

He could see, the way your gaze turns away from his acts. The way you hug yourself in ache when he practices. God, the showbiz is all about sparks and music, and you can't handle that? At first, he won't give it much mind in hopes you will toughen up, but your ignorance can only be tolerated for so long…

In an act of great need, he may change his acts… With great anger and stubbornness, but it will be done. Just for your sweet eyes to look upon him once more. He will dull down his performances to your liking. If that pleases you…

Yet again, he may backtrack all the progress in seconds if he feels like it, so it depends on his mood.

Illusionist:

Did they do something wrong? ;-;

They will almost instantly notice, millions of eyes on you can't miss a thing. Yet… should they leave?

They think their the problem to your pain, and no matter how much you tell them otherwise they will always leave you alone during those periods of overstimulation.

Or, stay in one piece, extra butterflies hidden away from your view since they think their large numbers may be overwhelming you too.

Eye In the Sky:

He sees it, in the corner of his vision, the way you fiddle with your hands or appear in obvious agitation with the other leaders.

Unlike the other leaders, he had done research on actual knowledgeable solutions for this sort of thing. Even getting you some noise-cancelling headphones if sound is the thing ticking you off. However, don't expect him to waste a single second more of his time actually helping you in person. Someone else will have to take that role since he’s busy.

The Priest:

Oh, dear… Poor thing. Your distance from the resident's card game was noticeable. The Priest himself watches over the cafeteria before quickly and discreetly pulling you aside.

He is more than willing to help you with anything and this is no exception. He may help by letting you stay in your room or his office, or quiet down the cacophony some residents may be causing. Anything… anything. He is more than willing to help.

(This is not very well proof read)

[velvetvexations]

the fact that i've seen multiple transmascs happily reblogging/supporting the "bomb that kills all transmascs" thing makes me so fucking sad. i feel like we've understood with other issues how "ironic" edgy humor can desensitize us to the bigotry within it- but now we're just happy to let people joke about wiping a group of trans people out of existence? we have no problem with this? we're gonna normalize hatred based solely on identity and not behavior (like how theyfab claims to only target transmigoynistic transmascs)? the bomb kills all transmascs honey that includes you, TMpickmEs i never want to hear people criticizing transandrophobia theory again if this is what passes for transfeminism

It's exactly that kinna person who I was talking about when I was posting about identifying when I was getting victim blame-y and too hostile towards someone being self-destructive, because they make me sad and it's easier to hate them than sympathize. I hope they get better.

Transmasc: acts transmisogynystic because they see individual transandrophobic transfems Everyone(correct): that's bad and reactionary, you can't blame an entire group for a small portion of traumatized individuals who lash out at your group who may have been hurt by individual members of your group Transfem: acts transandrophobic because they see individual transmisogynystic transmascs Everyone (double standard): that's valid, if you've been hurt by individual members of a fellow minority group that gives you free reign to act reactionary and generalize a whole group based on the worst of it's members (this is not a universal thing, but it does exist and I've seen the double standard. I encourage calling out transmisogynystic transmascs, I just don't like the double standard in certain trans spaces. Treat reactionary thought as what it is: reactionary. No matter who it's from or against)

they fundamentally do not care about other people

why is it called transradfeminism instead of radical transfeminism?

Ask Thalia Bhatt.

I love transmasc mabel (and also transmasc ophelia) headcannons cause it's very comforting to turn the characters I related to hard when I was a kid into transmascs.

Yeah! Love that for you anon.

I wanted to thank you for your level-headed support and the platform for respectful intra-community discussions you've provided. I hope you're taking as much rest and recovery from the stresses of the Disc Horse™ as you need <3 (also, idk if you bake, but I found a really good recipe for snickerdoodles that definitely chased away some of my lingering holiday stress www.ambitiouskitchen(.)com/brown-butter-snickerdoodle-cookies/ )

oooh thank you anon!

I like how jokes about killing all transmascs are fine but TRFs are still harping on about that one guy that said something about - (not that I thought the original post was in good taste but. I do feel like jokes about killing all transmascs are worse actually) Now that I type it out it's kinda horrifying that there's so many people that are theoretically supportive of trans people that think those joked are okay actually.. somehow internalized it as normal till just now

TRFs would say that post was code for something worse but idk if "we're open about wanting to murder an entire group of marginalized people" is a W

- was just stirring shit up with the gravity falls discourse to distract from her only answers to questions about 'tme/tma' language is to call people stupid and tell them they are lying about their experiences.

As usual.

The thing with “Dipper can’t be trans because then Mabel would be transphobic!!” Is that I’ve seen so many posts on this site that have had no problem intentionally interpreting a characters actions as transphobic for the purpose of transfem headcanons? That’s usually don’t get push back? Even though I’m usually against intentionally trying to portray a character who isn’t bigoted in the source material as bigoted for no reason other than headcanons or jokes I don’t understand what the difference is here?

the difference is that it's a transmasc headcanon

My hot take is that both Dipper and Mabel are transmasc, but Dipper has always known and socially transitioned very early, and Mabel will be hit with the "oh fuck I am also a man" realization in his 20s in the same way a Looney Tunes critter would be with an anvil or perhaps a piano.

such a funny image lmao and very in-character

[queenmuzz]

Emmrich stirs his tea, before taking a sip. It’s a bit stronger than he’s used to, but he doesn’t mind. He needs it for this conversation. He’s glad Neve has come to him while Rook and Manfred are on a little expedition to Treviso with Lucanis to pick up supplies.

“Has Rook asked you to look into this?”

Neve takes a sip, savouring its taste, before setting down. “No, but as they are my friend, it seemed to a fitting thing to do.”

Emmrich sighs. Neve has only the best of intentions, he is certain, but there’s a reason wisps and Manfred are attracted to her, she’s an inquisitive sort.

“If you respect that friendship, I beg you, please let it go.”

“But-“

He knows she won’t stop with a sudden refusal, in fact it will just push her harder. He must give her some information, even if it’s laced with poison, to deter her from seeking more.

“Let me tell you what I know, and by extension, what Rook knows”

She sits up, eyes sharp, nods as her crosses her prosthetic over her other leg

“I distinctly remember the day Rook was found by undead at the Ingellvar mausoleum.”

“That memorable, eh?”

“Not in living memory has a child been found in the necropolis.”

“So it wouldn’t be hard to cross reference where Room was found, and any visitors to the-“

He silences her with a hand.

“It’s not that we found an infant that makes it memorable, it’s the fact we found a living infant.”

The implication of that statement causes the usually unflappaple Neve to utter a gasp.

There’s nearly a minute of silence as she processes the new information.

“How often does something like this happen?”

He tries to keep his hands steady as he pours more tea into his cup. “Often enough that we must pause when a wail echoes through our halls. It’s often not the wind that causes us to send search parties into the depths. And for the most part, the best we can find is a tiny corpse.

“But why is Rook the only one to survive?”

“Who knows? With the way the necropolis halls shift and rearrange, it’s a miracle we were able to rescue Baby Rook at all. Perhaps it’s thanks to the Ingellvars, extinct since the storm age, being awoken by the first sign of life for over a century.” He usually gets along quite well with the extinct noble houses, on the account that they are all dead, but he now has a special affection for the Ingellvar family.

“That still doesn’t answer my question of where Rook comes from…”

“My dear Neve, it’s not just bodies that the noble houses bury the necropolis. Secrets, old shames, stains in virtue, and broken vows are often placed alongside the dead.” He regards at her look of horror. “Did you think Nevarra’s nobility had higher morals than Tevinter simply because we do not allow slavery? At least Tevinter has the practice of adoption being widely accepted in the upper echelons. No such thing here, I’m afraid. It’s your pedigree that matters, and it is carved in granite on the day of your birth.” He scoffs at the very concept that lineage determining a person’s future, but he knows he’s in the minority.

“So even if I was able to determine Rook’s parentage….”

“It would probably do more harm than good,” he warns, “Rook could be descended from King Markus himself for all we know, but without formal recognition, it means nothing but a giant target on their back. And I highly doubt the King would recognize them,” He neglects to explain WHY King Markus would be unable to. “So please… for Rook’s sake… Let. It. Be.”

Neve takes one more sip before asking one more question. “Do you think Rook suspects?”

“Oh undoubtedly! They may not have full access to Necropolis records, but they are clever enough to connect the joints together, so to speak. If they ever desire to know their parentage, I’ll gladly direct them to you, but considering how they talk about Myrna and Vorgoth, they consider the Mourn Watch their family. Being exiled because of some petty house rivalry has already left an emotional wound, and I would be loath to inflict more upon them.”

There’s the sound of skeletal footsteps, indicating that Manfred has returned along with Lucanis and Rook. Sure enough the door swings open revealing the two mourn watchers.

“Hello Professor! Oh, hi Neve!” Rook seems a bit surprised to see the latter.

“Rook! Glad to see you’re back!” He’s not putting on an act, Rook has that effect on people, brightening spirits by their very presence, and Emmrich intends to protect that. “How was the trip?”

“Great! Manfred was well behaved,” they pat his skull as the spirit hisses happily, “got some ingredients from the market, gonna teach Lucanis how to make a Mourn Watch speciality. It’ll be nice to taste a little bit of home…” there’s a moment of longing on their face, before Lucanis’s voice can be heard, cursing about why he has to lug the entire market haul to the pantry. “Sorry Lucanis! Coming!”

They vanish, leaving Emmrich, Neve, and Manfred, currently entranced by the tiny hourglass he’s purchased.

“A little bit of home, eh?”

“Indeed.”

Pretty sure we all agree that the moment Neve learns that MW Rook was found in the Necropolis as a baby she starts looking into their background and where they might have come from, right? (complete with cork board and red string)

After inquiring with senior members of the Mourn Watch and getting suspiciously stonewalled she finally just throws up her hands and confronts Emmrich directly. They all care for Rook, right? Who wouldn't want to know where they come from? She doesn't need sleep she needs answers, damnit!

And Emmrich sighs, puts down his tea, and very slowly explains to Neve, after extracting a promise of secrecy, that the most senior of the Mourn Watch do, in fact, know where Rook came from. They aren't the first to be discovered, after all, just one of the very few to be found still alive.

The Necropolis is vast. Lot's of uncovered corners and dark holes for a secret, unwanted child to be quietly removed to. Despite the protests of the Mortalitasi, the Nevarran nobles have unrestricted access the tombs and burial fields of their families, and it is not unheard of for the remains of unclaimed newborns to be found among those family graves.

Does Rook know? Perhaps. Rook is clever, and much like Emmrich, holds no love for the nobles of their birth land. Best to let the matter rest, hm?

[cogbreath]

man. very very somber feeling when i actively choose not to call out blatant ableism i see on a post because i just cant take the backlash i might get for it.