#especially when it's a million degrees outside and i look like fucking shit

[officialkendallroy]

i fucking hate what tiktok has done to people's brains so much why do you need to film yourself at a concert STOP

[thissacrificeisnecxesary]

Okay I know a lot of people explain away Roman’s weird bullshit with like he has molested face and he certainly does but also I think, I don’t know what feels more real to me is he’s like visibly sexually unfulfilled and I think it has a lot to do with the way logan and the environment he was raised in as a whole introduced themes of like unhealthy power dynamics especially in a sexual light like we see the way logan is about women and the cruises situation and whatever. I’m not totally denying the molested face allegations because once again. So true. But I don’t think that’s the solitary reason I think it’s more that he internalized a lot of these weird sexual dynamics he witnessed and then, felt ashamed - which then turned into his weird outspoken nonsense it’s kind of like how. When you’re a kid and you’re lying to your parents about taking drugs instead of saying no I did not take drugs you kind of sarcastically are like oh yeah mom we were just smoking some crack. Like over exaggerating to the degree that if the people hearing you don’t think you’re joking then they’re the crazy ones. And we see the repression of his weird sex shit with Gerri very clearly like logan can fuck his assistants as much as he wants but the second it’s an older woman it’s disgusting and she’s a million years old. Not to mention the gay stuff. I think he’s just as sexually repressed as you can possibly be for a multitude of reasons one of which may be getting touched in a bathroom I mean fuck he’s so so so sosososo weird about the bathroom like I swear to god he has a fucking bathroom motif. Everytime this man enters a bathroom something awful happens. The fucking space launch, Gerri bathroom, Mattson piss phone. I don’t know. It’s weird that that is a significant location for Roman what could that possibly mean outside of, bathroom molested like sorry?? And I mean obviously the bathroom molestation plays a substantial role in his sexual repression like his development being disturbed like that obviously does some fuck shit to your brain I just think there’s more going on here. Like the incest I don’t think he’s the only one pulling the incest okay. Like I know logan grabbing shivs hand was mostly cause he was fucked up on drugs but also they put it in there so you’ll see it you know what I mean? Like it has to mean something and I think he’s more than a little casual with his kids about I dunno his general grossness. Roman is not the only one to comment on it and the way they spectate on their dad’s sex life is weird!! They’re way too involved. But also I mean I think part of the all of the incest is just to show the viewer that they’re like way too sickly close to eachother. Like the reason logan works well with the older staff is because they’re not related so they kind of can stay out of Logans personal business in a sense and just do their jobs but the kids are just wayyyy too involved. So maybe they’re just trying to generate a feeling of like. Unease in the viewer like get these fucking freaks away from eachother. I dunno!! And I can’t talk about Roman without talking about the dog cage holy shit what!! I know a lot of people take that as Ken being gross with him but I dunno I guess I take it more literally, like it’s an obvious display of the dominant sibling which is another thing like if we’re meant to implore that shit like this happened all the time then it’s really no surprise Roman internalized some of that shit in a sexual manner like feelings of that nature regardless of wether or not something actually happened to him have a tendency to materialize into something sexual -> mommy stuff. I think more than looking into Roman’s childhood contrasted with his adulthood and wondering where the exact moment it is someone turned him into a pervert we ought to look at it and just see the way his freak brain has taken instances of child abuse or affection or something traumatic or normal happenstance whatever and turned those feelings into sexual ones. Maybe cause he got molested or otherwise! Cause who really knows that shit anyway

[nimbus-tatze]

Ok so lab grown meat

I hate (with a passion) the idea that stuff like lab grown meat or vertical farming (the indoor uv lights stuff) would be a good long term option of massive food production. The concepts themselves are amazing, bc maybe it'll be used in healthcare and it's generally nice to know what options you have and to expand them and just drive science forward, you know?

But when people talk about lab grown meat as a serious alternative in the food market I just have to log tf off bc that's the typical 'man-conquers-nature' bullshit that my indigenous self can't deal with.

People are seriously taking mars colonies or lab grown meat into consideration bc they are just unwilling to get dirty for once in their lifetime by turning around and cleaning up their own shit. Instead there is this idea of just leaving it all behind to rot by itself and venture to new horizons bc they think it's cleaner and more efficient.

Like if you would bother to turn around you'd see the millions of piss poor farmers that have done it clean and relatively efficiently regarding their circumstances, for centuries. Imagine how much more efficient they could be if they received a shred of the funding and support they actually need and deserve. But of course it's a lot more tempting, more shiny (and racist to a degree), to invest into another adventure with the belief that we'll make it better. How tf are you going to make it better if these technologies CONTINUE to leave behind rural communities? It's like a spoiled child that gets tired of their toy a week later.

This is getting long but shit it's a rant bc I'm frustrated like many others in our field

How on earth do you support these weird ass billionaire wet dreams and then make cyberpunk pity parties about being stacked on top of each other in the cities?? Like, I don't understand it at this point.

You feel bad about animals dying for food and that's why you feel great about lab grown meat, ok. But at this point, in my field at least, we're standing in front of a huge, like globally huge, problem in terms of food production and the current popular trends just...fucking tire me out man. I don't even know what to say. We have a big fuck up to take care of and rural communities need to be backed up to deal with it. And essentially many smaller communities still survive off of animal agriculture, not the industrial kind, so it boggles my mind that there is this unintentional attempt by some at getting rid of these forms of agriculture (at least unintentional by society, personally I very much belive this couldn't be any better for corporate entities). Like pls, I beg you, look outside the western world. Travel if you can, visit villages, talk to the people (and not to impose your own beliefs like some missionairy but to learn!!!).

And before I get ARAs on this post as it sometimes happens, I honestly can't take people seriously that want to treat animal agriculture as though it is the same everywhere and I just plain don't see the point in having a conversation with folks that to get rid of animal ag, no matter the form.

This isn't about eating or not eating meat or how it tastes, in case I didn't make that clear. This is about entire communities, it's about landscapes maintained by nomadic lifestyles that very much include livestock and hunting. It's about how we leave them behind and make feel-good-alternatives instead of looking at the issues case by case and let the locals speak.

If you think the solution is to let everything rewild and get meat exclusively from labs I can't with you. This is borderline neo-colonialist bc you are pushing shit on people that don't need that solution. Globally we need rural communities (especially indigenous ones!!!) and their adapted and respectful forms of agriculture (and this includes animal agriculture, can't believe this is seen as smth so seperate), and that's a hill I'm not just willing to die on but be buried in.

Don't interact with me if you want to preach against animal agriculture and get rid of it. I KNOW what's going on in the industry, I know it's not perfect and god we work our asses off to improve shit. But some of you really need to reavaluate your positions bc I do see enough of you (sometimes the exact same person!) argue with dairy farmers about dairy farming, with conservationists about conservation, with vets about animal care, (with me about indigenous matters and ag engineering) and so on and that's not ringing a bell??? Like you don't realize that you are arguing with people about their own fields?

Anyways new technologies aren't always good and lab grown meat is one of those new technologies people should be careful about.

[lady-literature]

Accidental Crime Boss Marinette

Okay so,, I have this AU in my head, right? (not surprised) and I’m lacking any real direction for it (still not surprised) but it basically goes like this:

Marinette moves to Gotham.

She’s drawn there for whatever reason and the kwami are saying something about balance and being a Guardian and her sacred duty and something but Marinette isn’t really listening. She’s too busy trying to find a shop front where she can open a bakery without having to worry about getting mugged every time she steps outside.

Chloé comes with her, obviously, because they’re friends and Chloé has a business degree she puts to good use actually running Mari’s bakery and online boutique while Mari gets to bake and fuck around basically. Adrien, Luka and Kagami are not there, but that’s mostly because they travel too much to settle down and keeping an empty apartment in Gotham is just asking for trouble.

Kagami is a world-renowned fencer and Luka travels the world for his music company. Not touring, but soaking up cultures and ways of life so he can make soundtracks to movies and tv shows. Providing the background and life to a film is more his style than touring the world ala his father, Jagged Stone.

Adrien is having the time of his life being Kagami’s trophy husband. He has no pressing responsibilities he doesn’t take on for himself and he gets to fuck with the world’s elite with little to no consequences. He spends most of his days donating far too much money to charities and orphanages and then causing minor scandals that land him on the cover of magazines.

He has much the same kind of ‘dumbass with a heart of gold’ persona to the media as Bruce Wayne does, only without the playboy bits.

(There is a wall in the back of the bakery, where Chloé and Mari carefully cut out and frame every headline and ridiculous picture Adrien has. He is very much delighted when he learns about his ‘wall of fame’.)

Anyway, Marinette finds herself with a bakery not overly far from crime alley, much to Chloé’s chagrin.

(“What do you mean it ‘just felt right’?! I swear to kwami, DC, you’re going to get us robbed and sold into slavery.”)

They do not get sold into salvery.

In fact, despite their less than stellar choice of locale, they do pretty well for themselves. The only problems they have (according to Chloé) is the army of children Marinette accidentally attracted.

When asked, Marinette tells everyone that it was an accident. Meanwhile, Chloé, standing behind her, will shake her head and insist there was literally never any other option for them the moment that first kid came in looking to nab some cash and a few pastries.

Mari lives by the phrases, ‘kindness breeds more kindness’ and ‘do unto others’ and all that other nice person shit. Chloé just lets Mari pseudo-adopt her strays and makes sure that they don’t steal anything too important in the time it takes her to gain their loyalty.

The kwami stay staunchly out of any arguments involving the kids (and eventually the homeless all along their street and every working girl in a five-block radius). They do so with a special brand of amusement that never means good things for either of them. (After all, the last time the kwami looked that amused, they moved to Gotham.)

The first kid is named Serrure, as Marinette comes to learn over the next month after he returns again and again, getting closer and closer like a feral cat. Other kids come during that time, all of them too small and too thin and too guarded for Mari's tastes. She wants to wrap them all up and tuck them into bed but she can’t. She has to be patient, has to be gentle. These kids are just as likely to bite her hand as they are to accept help.

Serrure becomes an almost permanent fixture at the bakery after that first month. Mari’s not quite sure what she did to get through to him, but she did, she supposes. He can’t be much older than eleven and looks nine, but after getting settled, she and Chloé discover this little slip of a boy is just as mischievous as Trixx and has all the dramatics of their favorite black cat.

The kwami, when talking about him, only refer to Serrure as Loki, even after Marinette scolds them for it. She eventually gives up trying to correct them, it’s not like Serrure talks to them anyway(yet)((that she knows of)).

There’s an apartment above the bakery, which is where Chloé and Mari and all her strays that grow to trust her enough live. It’s three bedrooms, and at first, Mari just buys as many bunk beds as she can fit into the spare room and calls it a day. The kids feel safe in her home, which isn’t too surprising. Everyone thinks the bakery feels safe, feels like home or comfort or whatever else eases their minds.

And Marinette should hopes so. She certainly put enough time and effort and magic and energy into the wards around this place for that to happen. To protect her and the children and all her strays that no one else will help.

But, she eventually amasses too many kids to fit into the one room. Chloé throws a fit about having to share with Mari again—“I had enough of that in university thank you very much”—but she relinquishes easily enough.

Mari buys more bunk beds, and Serrure has taken to sneaking into her room to curl up in her bed anyway, and sometimes the smaller kids who have nightmares will come in and pile on as well.

(There are only a few that Chloé will allow to do the same with her. It is considered a high honor and breeds a playful kind of jealousy that Chloé finds amusing. Mari scolds her for pitting the kids against each other.)

That only lasts them another two months.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Chloé tells her one day before the kids wake up. Mari is at the stove, cooking and baking for a small army while Chloé balances the books. “There’s not enough room for us all, DC, and the only reason someone hasn’t come barrelling down on us about the abundance of children is by the grace of your absurd amount of luck.”

“Well I can’t just kick them out, Queenie! What do you want from me?”

“Either we need to buy more real estate in this city—which I’d rather not do—or you open up the grimoire and start building pocket dimensions. I know you can. I’ve read the chapter.”

Marinette looks at her. “That is such a bad idea.”

They do the idea.

And then Mari adds about a thousand more wards to the bakery, carved into the wood and counter and anything that’s a permanent fixture. Doorways become particularly ward heavy, what with them being the entrances and exits to the hidden realms and children’s’ rooms.

The apartment above the bakery isn’t quite infinite but it gets pretty damn close some days.

This also means, of course, that all the kids definitely know about magic now. Some of them��Serrure—have known about it for a while she knows, but it’s different now. The kwami followed her around most of the time and she doesn’t keep them trapped in the Miracle Box like Fu did, but now that the kids know, they don’t bother staying hidden.

The children, at least, love them and the kwami adore them with all the ferocity a god can give. After Chloé gets over her ‘ew children’ phase, she throws herself into their education (on top of actually running the businesses Mari keeps, mind you). She has the help of the kwami, who act as personal tutors to the children, and it’s not long before the kids start to joke about her being the Principal.

(Some tried to call her Warden, but that joke didn’t last long.)

Marinette has also been telling the kids bedtime stories ever since this started. Old stories of the Guardian and Chosens who fought back the darkness, she shares all she knows of the Orders history with these kids and it’s not until Wayzz points it out to her does she realize what she’s doing.

“Ladybugs are known for renewal. It is no surprise that you are rebuilding what was lost.”

Rebuilding the Order using children was certainly not her intention but, well. She supposes there’s no place safer for her kids than what is shaping up to be the new Miracle Temple. It’s the only haven where they can learn to harness their Gifts and powers, it’s the only place where they can be surrounded by others like them without being thrust into superhero-dom.

Context: about a month into this whole circus, Marinette had realized there was a significant—almost all of them really—amount of metas and Gifted in her little hoard of strays. Which is… odd. Especially with how few metas there are in Gotham.

She had asked the kwami about it, and they have that amused look again. “You are their guardian.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re their guardian. True, you are the Guardian of us, of the ancient ways, but you are a guardian at your soul too. You protect what is yours, and they are yours whether you realise it or not. The children can sense that, so they flock to you.”

And, huh. She supposes that makes sense but that’s also really kind of strange and weird and she doesn't want to think about that anymore actually.

So things are… fine, Marinette supposes. The bakery is doing well, and she has about two dozen-plus helpers running around underfoot to help tend to the customers or run to the store or help in the back with the baking. And every kid of hers has new clothes, their street things thrown out for being too ragged and replaced with something fresh made by Marinette’s own hands.

She embroiders little fairy wings into the clothes normally, because that’s what her cloaked wards look like most times and the kids like it and its technically the logo for the bakery and there’s a million reasons she does it.

It is, perhaps, her first mistake.

(“It was certainly not your first,” Chloé will snark one dayin the future.)

Because now Marinette has an army of magical children learning to wield their powers and not fear them and they’re all wearing what can be considered her insignia and uh oh, it looks a lot like Mari is some sort of up and coming mob boss who uses kids and prostitutes and the homeless as runners. People on the street start calling her the Pixie, start referring to Chloé—her second in all things just as Chat had been her equal—as Wasp, as Yellowjacket, as the Unseelie.

(They cannot seem to pick a name for her, but Pixie is all but engraved in stone. Mari is not sure who coined it, and she doesn't think she wants to know.)

The first time the whole situation is brought to her attention, she punches the idiot who dared even imply such a thing so hard she knocks him out.

Because look. The kids are hers right? And she watches out for the people near her, makes sure the working girls are treated as well as they can be and offers the homeless extra food and a dry place to wait out the storm. She offers her hand and gives them all a place to rest, to eat, to exist without expectations or consequences.

She does that because she’s kind, because it hurts her to see people in need, to see them suffer, not because she’s hoping to gain something from it.

The fact that most of them repay her in gossip or information or bend her ear about the newest goings on in the corrupt elite or filthy underworld is strange, yes, but it’s nice to know what’s going on in the city, she supposes. And one time, Kathy, who works on the corner of Brookes and Gilmore, warned her of a drug raid that saved her an unnecessary trip to the police station so it’s not like it doesn't have it’s uses.

But mostly, Mari doesn't really think about all the information that’s unintentionally or otherwise passed onto her. She remembers it all, because it’s rude not to listen when people talk to her, but nothing comes of normally.

Not until Serrure—now twelve and well versed in the magic of illusions and glamors and knows almost as much about this city as her or the Bats—bursts into the bakery one day and grabs Mari away from the front counter right in the middle of a customer ordering. She should, perhaps, be a little angry at that but Tony, one of the older boys and just shy of sixteen, steps into her place almost immediately, so.

And then Serrure speaks and everything is pushed aside in favour of the next words to fall from his lips.

“Someone took Sophie,” he says and she nearly sees red.

After Serrure, Sophie has been here the longest. She is the youngest of them all, only seven, but oh so clever and kind and while she looks nothing like her, everyone calls her Mini-Mari. If Serrure is her beloved first son, Sophie is her treasured daughter.

She’s out the door in the next moment, storming her way to their base. She has Sophie and a handful of extra kids back by sunset, a little frightened, but no worse for wear. She doesn’t make a big deal out of it, besides making sure that the idiots who dared cross her never do so again, but word gets out.

Soon, her kids and teens and adults begin giving her more than just information, they begin giving her problems. Ones she’s meant to fix because she’s Pixie. She’s safety, she’s protection, she’s the one the people start to turn to for help.

And enter stage left, one Jason Todd who’s all snark and charm and smiles wrapped up in a nice leather bow and tall enough that Mari likely could climb him like a tree. If that was something she wanted, she guesses.

(She wants. She just won’t admit.)

He becomes a regular at the bakery and befriends most of her kids.

Mari’s wary when he first takes an interest in them. They’ve been hurt and a lot of them are still adjusting to being safe and it doesn't matter that this man is hot enough to burn, if he steps even a toe out of line with her kids she’ll make him wish he was never even born.

But, she stops worrying eventually. The kwami like him well enough, but seem to think something’s odd about him—but its Gotham, who isn’t strange?—and both Serrure and Sophie take to him like ducks to water and they’re both good judges of character.

There’s a certain intuition they both have that reminds Marinette just a bit too much about herself and pure magic. Not for the first time does she wonder if they got such strong magic from their parents or if it cropped up in them randomly, fostered by fortune and chance and the magic that’s so deeply seeped into the bones of her bakery it’ll be here long after she’s gone.

And, okay, so she was a little right to be wary because Jason was mostly there to investigate her. Far too many people respect her and are loyal to her and she has a veritable orphanage in her pocket and also Harley and Ivy like her and it just- it doesn’t look good right?

But Jason’s a good detective and it doesn't take him long at all to see that Mari is just as sweet and kind and loving as she appears to be. Not long after that, Red Hood declares Pixie and all of hers, under his protection. She, of course, is more than capable of taking care of her and hers, and the underworld knows this, has seen it, but he does it anyway.

The news, of course, gets back to Mari and she is… confused. Why would the Red Hood do something like that? She’s heard talk of him being sweet on kids, but to claim her? They’ve never even met.

Bonus points for Jason being there when she’s told about it. He kind of raises his eyebrow at her because, huh, that was fast, and then spends the next few minutes talking up the Red Hood to her much to her utter bafflement.

He actually keeps doing that too, talking up the Red Hood. Mari thinks he has a crush on the man for the longest time because of it. Until he reveals he is Red Hood, then she just wants to punch his stupidly handsome face for being such an idiot.

Shit happens from there and things go down and the two spend a couple of months dancing around each other and intentionally and unintentionally ruling the criminal underworld and at one point Marinette definitely punches Bruce and Batman in the face—separately, much to Jason’s unending joy—and she also definitely adopts Duke/Signal as well because that poor boy needs to know he’s not alone.

And it’s just them being domestic and badass and lowkey raising an army of children and falling in love while the kwami and the kids and Chloé are all in the background just yelling at them to get together already!

Which, they do. Eventually. After all the secrets come out and Jason knows about the magic and Order and meets Mari’s other friends, ie Kagami, Luka and Adrien who are all intimidating for wildly different reasons. And Mari finds out that Jason died and came back (which earns him the nickname firebird btw) and that he was a Robin once upon a time but is now Red Hood and oh my kwami it all makes sense now.

Jason confesses like three times via classic Victorian romance novel quotes because he’s a fucking literature nerd but it’s not until he basically spells it out for Mari does she really understand. it’s all very sweet and heartwarming and then the pair duck into one of the empty pocket dimensions they have lying around and aren’t seen for three days.

(No one really goes to look for them tbh)

Chloé definitely teases them about early honeymoons and things but besides the two being even more ridiculously lovey-dovey than usual, life goes back to normal. Or as normal as it gets for them. 

And they all live happily ever after the end.

[hookingminor]

ilyana! congrats on 2k!!!! 48 from list 2 with our favorite man to scream about, mr. tyson jost :-)

48. “We’ve known each other for years and I don’t think we’ve ever had a proper conversation.”

two / three

-

Your brother’s friends could be described as one thing: annoying.

For years you had to deal with obnoxious boys overcrowding your home and eating all the food in your pantry and teasing the shit out of you. You were just the irritating little sister they had to put up with, and one older brother had actually turned into five with how often they were at your house.

Thankfully, when your brother went off to college, the chaos calmed down and you could finally eat through an entire bag of chips by yourself without worrying one of them would snatch it from your hands. Then, you went off to college and the guys became nonexistent. Now, your parent’s home served more as a vacation spot rather than home, but that also meant you had to go back to sharing spaces when your brother brought his old buddies over.

You knew the only reason they spent so much time at your house was due to the large pool in your backyard, but the summer time was almost unbearable with how much they were in it. Every turn around the corner you were met with one of your brother’s friends.

They whispered about you behind your back, and especially your brother’s back, among themselves. Mostly, they were brief comments about how your figure had really filled out since you were sixteen. It was a complete one-eighty from when they saw you last, but they’d rather be dead than caught trying to flirt with you. It was simple bro code, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t look and appreciate your body.

You weren’t oblivious to their stares. They probably thought they were inconspicuous or not noticeable, but you weren’t dumb. The extra attention was flattering even if you weren’t going to do anything about it. If you were to get with any of your brother’s friends, it was going to be Tyson Jost, but he hadn’t spared you a second glance since seeing you again.

Tyson had been the only one of your brother’s friends to ever catch your eye. He was always handsome, but beyond that, he was so fucking nice. He didn’t partake in the teasing the rest of your brother’s friends gave you, and he didn’t think you were a burden every time you needed to catch a ride somewhere. He never went out of his way to speak to you, but he never treated you badly.

And you wanted him so bad.

He was just as respectful now as he was back then. Even after years of playing in the NHL and making millions of dollars, the fame hadn’t changed him. His arms had gotten bigger and his thighs more muscular, and his scruff was doing nothing to cool your sinful thoughts, but he was still just as kind.

Out of all your brother’s friends, he was the only one that didn’t irk the shit out of you. If anything, you kind of wished he would say something stupid so you could kill your stupid crush.

It was another hot day, the summer sun beating down on you at what felt like a thousand degrees, and you were taking advantage of the nice weather by lounging by the pool when a chorus of deep voices sounded from the sliding door.

You peeked one eye open under your sunglasses to see five idiots in swim trunks try their hardest not to let their gazes linger on you as they filed outside with a case of beer in hand. Your brother wasn’t with them, presumably still in the house, but Tyson pushed past all the guys and pulled out the lounge next to you.

“Beer?” Tyson asked, holding out a Coors can, and you thanked him as he slid the cold metal into your hand.

The other guys were still looking at you from afar, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from rolling behind your sunglasses.

“Tell your friends they’re gonna catch flies if they don’t close their mouths,” you said, flipping over to your stomach.

You weren’t expecting Tyson to respond, but you were happily surprised when a hearty laugh sounded from his throat. Your head rested on your arms, face turned towards Tyson, and you let a smile quirk at the ends of your lips.

“I’m sorry they’re idiots,” he apologized half-heartedly.

“Not your fault,” you said. “I hope the company in Colorado isn’t as idiotic as the one you keep here.”

“Hate to break it to you, but guys of all ages are stupid,” Tyson explained, glancing over to you. His hair was curly and looked so soft you were half tempted to reach over and run your fingers through it. It was much longer than the cut he used to keep in high school, and you were a fan of this current length.

“I hope they don’t play beer darts at least,” you commented, referring to the night before when the guys sat out back for two hours playing that dumb house party game and progressively getting more drunk throughout it. Nick had taken one straight to the shin, and you could see the bandaid over his leg from your view across the pool.

“Not that stupid at least,” Tyson chuckles. “College boy stupidity is a different kind of stupid.”

“Don’t I fucking know it,” you groaned.

You watched the guys, now joined with your brother, shotgun a beer and jump in the pool in quick succession.

“You know, we’ve known each other for years and I don’t think we’ve ever had a proper conversation,” Tyson says after a minute of silence, and you peer at him over the rim of your sunglasses. He leaned back against the chair, sunglasses on and beer in hand.

“I don’t think I’ve had a conversation with any of you that didn’t consist of whining about how you had to drive me to school or to the mall,” you teased.

“Hey! I never said anything,” Tyson said in defense.

“True,” you conceded. “You were the only one that didn’t piss me off back in the day.”

“I tried my hardest not to,” Tyson laughs.

I wish you would’ve tried harder to talk to me.

“Tyson! Get your ass in the pool!” Your brother interrupts, causing both of your attention to snap back to the crowd in the water.

“I think we’re good out here,” Tyson called back, and a few of the guys took the time to splash water at you.

There were loud boos shouted your way, but they left you alone after that.

“How’s school going?” He asked.

“It’s fine,” you answered cautiously. “Stressed about what to do after graduation this year, but other than that it’s all good. How is Colorado? What are the mountains like?”

“Believe it or not, I don’t do a lot of hiking,” he grins. “You should visit some time though if you’re into that. I’m sure I could scout out a few trails to take you on.”

“Really? I’d love that. I’ve barely traveled,” you admitted with a sigh. Being broke and in college with loans to pay off didn’t leave you much opportunity to do much sight-seeing.

“Of course, you can always crash at my place too if you need a place to stay,” he offered, and the gesture warmed your heart.

“Maybe I’ll make a trip later this summer then,” you thought out loud.

“Yeah?” Tyson smiled. “I think you’d love Colorado.”

“If it’s good enough for you then I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” you mused.

“Tyson!” Your brother shouted once again. “Stop flirting with my sister and get in here.”

You knew he was joking, but that didn’t stop the heat from flooding your cheeks in embarrassment. No one would be able to tell since the sun had your face feeling hot all day, but Tyson only laughed and set his empty beer can on the ground beside him.

“Why don’t you text me later if you’re still serious about Colorado?” Tyson suggested as he sat up to his full height. “Oh, and maybe we can just keep this between us?” He looked a little sheepish then, asking you to keep quiet about a possible trip where you’d see him, but it sent tingles throughout your body.

“Of course,” you replied. “I’ll text you later.”

Hope filled your stomach at the thought and tucked your face further into your arms as you tried not to ogle Tyson’s tanned, and very fit body, climb off the chair and jump into the pool.

[hermannsthumb]

you should totally do something with ksci janitor’s vamp newt it’s so just so good

i sure will! in a vampire mood this weekend. @k-sci-janitor's vampire newt found here. warnings for quick mention of drinking, allusions to sexy stuff, and also the different kind of drinking you'd expect from a vampire fic (tho on the vague side)

-------------------

The circumstances that led Newt down the unwitting path of immortality and general un-dead-ness are, in hindsight, honestly kind of embarrassing. It'd be one thing if he could say it happened in the pursuit of, like, knowledge, like the fierce jellyfish sting scar on his wrist leftover from a research expedition when he was twenty-two or the equally fierce one on his knee received in response to his question (at the age of five) of what would happen if I jumped out of this very tall tree?, or even something unrelated to his extensive biology career, something impressive, y'know, Van Helsing style, something like tracking down some vampire king and barely escaping with his life (un-life?)—not what really happened, which was little more than a bad date. And not even the worst date that Newt's been on, if you can believe it.

Newt was young and stupid then. He still is young and stupid, technically, though the former by appearance only. (Eternally pushing thirty. If he could've picked, he would've done twenty-eight, just before his handful of grey hairs started cropping up. Newt's had almost forty-five years of staring in the mirror at those four fucking grey hairs. He gave up dyeing them around the nineties. Not worth it. Still annoying.) He liked to do what young and stupid people did, like get stupid tattoos, and have a stupid haircut, and get drunk at stupid punk shows and not stumble home until he'd had at least one regrettable hook-up with a stranger and maybe lost his wallet. (The two were often related.) That particular thing was what did him in that night. It was a different time back then, man—if a dude showed even the slightest inkling that he ran in Newt's sort of circle, if you caught his drift, Newt fucking jumped at the chance.

(The band was on their second set of the evening and Newt had already screamed himself hoarse with singing along. He'd ducked outside in a back alleyway for only a second to get some fresh air, the club suddenly too hot and smokey for him to handle, and was just about to go back inside and close out his tab for the night when he realized he wasn't alone. There was someone—he was sure—lurking in the shadows a few feet away. He could hear breathing. He could see—eyes, maybe, in the dim neon light of the bar sign overhead. "Hello?" he'd called.

"Have a light?" the person called back.

They emerged from the shadows, and Newt felt himself relax at once. It was some spooky-looking guy he remembered seeing in the club, leather jacket, boots heavier than Newt's, dark hair and eyeliner. Tall. Newt remembered him, firstly, because he thought he was hot, and secondly, because he swore he caught the guy staring at him at least three times, and to Newt, that was as good as any pick-up line. He was wagging an unlit cigarette at Newt now. He was taller than Newt thought he was back in the bar—much taller, at least a full head on Newt. His eyes were a golden-brown, almost yellow, like a cat's, and Newt found himself unable to tear his own away from them. "L—light?" Newt echoed.

The guy stuck the cigarette in his mouth and arched a perfect eyebrow. Newt didn't smoke, but he did keep a lighter on him for occasions like this. He fumbled through his pockets for it while the guy stepped closer. "I was watching you," he told Newt, while Newt raised the lighter to the cigarette, "in there."

The flame danced and glinted against his eyes. Newt swallowed. "Uh-huh?" he said.

He flicked the lighter shut, leaving them both bathed in nothing but pink neon. A hand slid up against the wall next to Newt's right shoulder. Another plucked at the left lapel of his jacket. Newt was still staring at those eyes. "What's your name?" the guy said, in a puff of cigarette smoke.

"Um." Newt's leather jacket was being pushed off his shoulders. He felt his long hair being tucked to the side of his neck. All at once something seemed in snap in Newt—some reminder of where he was, and what he came here hoping for in the first place. Some hot dude was eyeing Newt up all night long, and now he was actually coming onto Newt, and Newt was about to get laid. He grinned. "Newt," he said. "Just call me that. You were watching me, huh?"

"All night," the guy said.

Newt's jacket hit the ground with a soft thump. A knee was being pushed between his. Newt felt his cheeks heat up a little—he wasn't used to people being this forward with him, and especially not in a semi-public place like this. Usually they at least made a show of offering up their apartment first. "What, um, what for?" he said.

They were kissing. Newt was clinging to the back of his jacket. And then he was kissing Newt's neck, and then he was—

"That kinda hurts," Newt mumbled. "Um, dude, I think your—your fuckin', tongue piercing cut me, or something. It's—"

It was hard to keep his eyes open. His neck felt weird. The guy was into biting, apparently, biting really hard, and yikes, that was going to leave a super embarrassing hickey that Newt would have to explain to his students somehow on Monday, but it also felt really good, like, Newt was maybe getting off kinda good, and Newt thought, dizzily, that he should at least return the favor before he finished up and collapsed in a happy heap on the ground. So he did.

The guy pulled back with a hiss. "Ow. What—?"

Newt tasted something coppery in his mouth, and he panicked and swallowed on instinct. "Oh, shit, dude, I'm sorry," he slurred. His voice sounded like it was a million miles away. "I was trying to be—sexy. Um." There was blood on the guy's chin. He was staring at Newt in something akin to horror. Dark circles were spotting Newt's vision. "I think you cut your lip," he said, and then he passed out.

Newt was alone when he woke up. It was still dark, too. He walked the two miles home, collapsing in bed, fully-clothed, just before dawn, and he didn't wake up again until sunset. He forgot his jacket, but at least he remembered his wallet this time.)

So, anyway, Newt thinks he can be forgiven if he...embellishes stuff a little when, for the first time in his whole long life, he finally spills the details to someone. Also, no way is he admitting the truth to Hermann of all people.

"There were a bunch of murders in the area at the time," he says, while Hermann, angled on his side next to him in bed, watches him raptly. It's kind of weird pillow talk, but their pillow talk rarely isn't weird. Usually Hermann will launch into a critique of Newt's latest pet theory before Newt's even caught his breath. At least he very courteously waited for Newt get a glass of water from the bathroom first this time. "Really brutal ones. Like, throats torn out, blood drained. Really nasty shit. Everyone was saying they were some kinda bizarre wolf pack attacks, but I knew better."

"Of course you did," Hermann says, running his hand down Newt's chest, and Newt can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not. (He has a feeling he is.)

"You bet," Newt says. "It took me months of, um, super hard research. Finally I hunted him down to this—" Newt debates the coolest lair possible of a vampire, and then remembers Lost Boys, which, even though he resents it slightly for totally stealing the vampire vibes he was going for, is still a kick-ass movie. "—this weird cave, where he lived. The king of the vampires. I won, obviously, but he fought back, and he managed to infect me just before I hammered the, um, the wooden stake into his heart."

"So courageous," Hermann says. He reaches up and tucks a piece of Newt's long hair back. Hermann being totally cool with the whole vampire thing, and maybe even possibly into the whole vampire thing, is probably the last thing in the world Newt expected from him. They're no strangers to hooking up during long late nights of science, but Newt swears it's gotten more frequent. "You must've been terrified."

"Nah," Newt says, though he remembers the glint of the flame off those yellow eyes, and he shivers. Hermann notices; his eyes, not yellow, but a warm shade of brown that makes Newt feel like he's being wrapped in a blanket, soften. If Newt could still blush, he would. "I'm—um—I'm pretty brave."

Newt hadn't exactly been planning on telling Hermann about the whole thing, but (last week) he had the very unfortunate timing of beginning a late-night dinner just as an oblivious Hermann strolled back into the lab to pick up his forgotten pair of glasses. To his credit, he only freaked out a little when he saw Newt draining a blood bag like a fucking Capri-Sun, and even then (after what felt like ten years of horrible, horrible silence) all he said was "You're the one who's been stealing those from medical?"

Look. Newt hasn't drank from a human being the entirety of his un-life, and he doesn't plan on it any time soon. He's...a vegetarian. Effectively. It's sort of the reason he picked up a medical degree along the way once he got tired of breaking into blood banks. Even if it's still a little ethically dubious to steal blood like that, at least he's not swooping around on unsuspecting people like that—goth asshole who swooped in on him did. (Newt's never managed to find out who he was—he suspects he was some sort of vampire drifter in town that night just to find a victim. And Newt just had to think with his dick at the worst possible time.)

Hermann tucks another strand of Newt's hair back. Newt also did not expect how fast Hermann became cool with the whole thing, but on the other hand, giant aliens are clawing their way out of the ocean on a bi-monthly basis these days. It's hard to be skeptical about most things. ("Well, it does make logical sense," Hermann had said with an eyeroll. "When you consider some of your rather more bizarre quirks, I mean. I ought to have guessed it ages ago. I suppose that's why you have that awful haircut," and that stung, because yeah, Newt hasn't felt like changing it up since the seventies, and why should he, it kinda rules? but he just laughed it off and said, "You're one to fucking talk, dude!") "Newton," Hermann says now, gently, "what actually happened?"

Newt sighs. Hermann always knows when he's lying about shit. "I was making out with a vampire in an alleyway and then he bit me. And—um—I kinda didn't notice at first, 'cause it felt... good."

"Mm," Hermann says. The corner of his mouth twitches up. "That's more along the lines of what I expected. That, or you were hounding him for details like a proper biologist and he got tired of answering your inane questions."

"Very funny," Newt says. "Ha."

Hermann rolls away from him and stretches his arms above his head. Newt watches his throat work as he yawns, swallowing down a sudden lump in his own, and he feels a surge of something hot and—alien—in the pit of his stomach. "Over forty years," Hermann says. He picks up Newt's discarded sweatshirt from the floor and tugs it down over his head. "You must get terrifically lonely."

Newt half-shrugs. "I guess. I'm kinda used to it by now." His dad (who never brought up how Newt's aging seemed to be at a standstill when they saw each other, not once) is long-gone. Newt's tried dating, but no one's ever seemed to be into it as much as he is—and besides, it's not like he could ever do the actual til death do us part thing unless he went against every ethical bone in his body and made someone like him. When the internet became a thing, he considered making a forum or something to find more of his kind, but the thought everyone just being like the guy who accidentally turned him in the first place terrified him and he killed the page before it even left infancy. So, without any better ideas, Newt forged some paperwork and leaned pretty hard into the world of academia to fill up his sad little hole of a heart, resigned himself to casual flings with anyone who seemed interested, and it mostly worked. Mostly. And then the kaiju came along, and then so did... "You make it a little bit better," he confesses.

Hermann lays back down next to him. "I do?" he says.

Newt thinks he sees something like that hot, hungry feeling he felt in his stomach flash behind Hermann's eyes. He nods.

Hermann suddenly kisses Newt, pulling him down on top of him, and then tugs the collar of Newt's stolen sweatshirt down below his collarbone. He drags Newt's hand up to press against his throat. Newt feels the erratic beat of Hermann's pulse beneath his fingertips, his heart pounding against his ribcage (pressed up against Newt's silent one), and he almost moans. "Have you ever...?" Hermann murmurs, gazing up at Newt through his dark eyelashes.

"N—never," Newt stammers. "I told you."

"Do you want to?" Hermann says. Newt tries not to gape. "Just a bit at a time, whenever you need. You wouldn't have to steal those silly blood bags anymore. And—" He hesitates. "I admit I am curious. About the sensation."

"Um," Newt says. "I—"

He feels something sharp poking his lower lip. Fangs. His fangs. Oh, shit, he's never had that happen before. He forces himself off of Hermann before he does something stupid.

"Maybe, um, maybe later?" he squeaks, while Hermann just smiles at him.

[joyandthephantoms]

just mistakes with different names

5k, T, Gen

Warnings: possession, panic attacks, elements of depersonalization, swearing, general caleb covington bullshit

on ao3

Taglist: @chickwiththepurpleguitar, @sunsetcurvecuddles

Luke hangs around at Julie’s high school after rehearsal, a rare practice that takes place outside of the garage because Flynn wants access to better light and sound systems. Alex and Reggie have already gone home, but Julie is still talking to Flynn and the other light tech, so Luke wanders the halls and waits.

He poofs into the music room and almost jumps when he finds that Nick is already there, only a few inches away from where Luke’s just landed. He scowls. "What are you doing here?"

Nick gives a smile that's sweet but wrong, a condescending impression of the boy he's supposed to be. "Carrie has rehearsal too. I'm just waiting for her to be finished."

"Cut the shit, Caleb. I know it's you. And leave Carrie alone." It's weird to find himself feeling, on top of everything, blindingly defensive of a girl he doesn't like at all. Maybe it's because Alex dancing with her makes him smile, or because he's seen her start sincerely congratulating Julie after performances, or because she reminds him of—

"I really thought we'd moved past the needless aggression. It's a bit immature, don't you think?"

Or maybe it's just because Luke despises Caleb Covington with every piece of his soul.

Nick moves past Luke to reach for his guitar, jostling his shoulder as he does. It’s infuriating, a cruel twist of fate that this is the one living person he can touch besides Julie.

Well. Living-ish. What are you when you’re possessed by a ghost?

Luke glares and says nothing. Caleb turns his attention from him to the instrument in his hands, idly plucking out notes to a tune Luke doesn’t recognize. After a moment, he speaks again. “You know, I really did want us to be friends. I understand it’s hard for you to trust me, especially what with the whole business with your parents, and with Bobby—”

Every defensive feeling in Luke cranks up by about a million degrees, and he finds himself stepping towards Caleb and drawing himself up as he says, “You don’t get to talk about that.”

Caleb raises his eyebrows. The smug amusement written all over his face looks all wrong on Nick—Luke isn’t his number one fan, but Nick is just a bland dork and apparently enough of an idiot to get himself tangled up with Caleb Covington, not an asshole. He should be sweet and awkward and a little desperate, not commanding and contemptuous and Caleb.

“You’re welcome to leave if I’m bothering you. I can’t make you stay here.”

“Fuck you,” Luke says. He’s not about to say it out loud, but there’s no chance in hell he’s leaving Caleb alone when Julie and Flynn and Carrie are all only a couple hallways away.

“Hmm,” Caleb hums, and Luke wants to punch him for the look of disapproval on his face alone—as if Caleb has any room to judge him, as if he has any right to play-act a disappointed authority. As if Luke didn’t collect enough of those on his own. “You aren’t the only one who’s upset, Luke,” he says. “I don’t think you understand how frustrated I am at the measures you forced me to take. There’s so much we could have avoided if you boys had just taken my offer from the start.” Luke doesn’t want to admit that Caleb can get under his skin, but the fake pity, the mockery of hurt feelings after everything Caleb has done, makes Luke feel like—well, like there’s something under his skin, making him itchy and uncomfortable and mad.

“But I have to admit,” Caleb continues in that same infuriating tone that sounds so, so wrong coming from Nick, “This is growing on me. Being back among the living, this close to the action . . . I can see why you want to stay.

“Your Julie is very talented”—Luke flinches, a half-breath away from raising a hand to hit him, and Caleb laughs—“and your loyalty is admirable, really, but you know this isn’t sustainable, don’t you?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I? Exactly how long do you think this hologram excuse is going to hold up? How long do you have before someone remembers Sunset Curve and starts asking questions? How long are you willing to let Julie carry the burden of this secret and bet her future on a band that could vanish at any second?”Caleb’s face settles back into false sympathy, and he drops his voice and leans forward towards Luke as he says, “I know how tempting it can be to stay here with the living, believe me, I’ve been there, but we don’t belong here, Luke, you know that. With me, you can embrace all that ghosthood has to offer instead of chasing a life that you know has ended; doesn’t that sound nice?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Luke repeats. “We aren’t—I’m not like you.”

“Of course not.” He says it like he’s being magnanimous, like he’s humoring him.

Luke refuses to meet Caleb’s eyes, glaring instead at where his fingers move along the frets of the guitar. He can’t help getting stuck on wondering how it all works—if Nick just has enough practice that it’s no sweat continuing to play as they talk, or if Caleb would need all that practice in order for that to work, or if it’s some kind of weird joint-custody multitasking where Nick gets to control the guitar playing while Caleb hold him in place and carries on a conversation, or—

Caleb follows his gaze and smirks. “He’s good, isn’t he?”

Caleb pretending to be Nick was awful, but talking about him in the third person through his own mouth is even worse. It’s like he’s bragging about how he can make him do anything he wants, showing off his total control like a party trick, and Luke wants him gone, away from Nick and far, far away from him and his band.

He’s furious at how wrong everything about this is, and he’ll do anything to set things right somehow. There’s a familiar tug in his chest, and his guitar appears in his hands. Because sure, Nick is good, but Luke is better, and he can prove it.

And yeah, it’s obvious bait that Luke should be smart enough not to take, but he’s been looking for a fight since he saw Nick—since he learned how Caleb’s club works, actually—and if this is how Caleb wants to do it, fine. Caleb can provoke him, can push him to be angry or guilty or even scared as much as he wants, just as long as he can’t trick him into feeling safe again.

Though having his guitar in his hands does make him feel, if not safer, then a little more in control, because when Caleb raises an eyebrow at him and straightens up and plays the same tune again with more intention and force, Luke is ready to counter it with a riff of his own, to take the basic melody and twist it into something new, something better, because he is, he’s better than this stupid kid and he’s defintely better than this dead charlatan with his creepy-ass club.

When Caleb picks up where Luke left off and throws the notes right back in his face, it strikes Luke how odd it is to be doing this here, alone in a high school classroom on a random Thursday. It’s the kind of showing off that belongs in front of a crowd, in front of people you have something to prove to. Then again, Luke thinks it might be better that there’s no one here to cheer and clap and pretend this is any less ugly than it is.

Luke’s not a stranger to making music in anger—practically every fight with his mom sent him running straight for his studio and his guitar—but the only other time he’s been this mad while playing was on Caleb’s stage. This isn’t the same, though; Luke chose this, and he’s held in place only by the intensity of the moment, not by another one of Caleb’s fucked up magic tricks.

His anger feels different when it’s not cut through with helplessness. It’s warmer somehow, or wider. Not as sharp but just as forceful, something charging forward instead of thrashing around to be free.

Even if this weird, impromptu, closed-door battle means nothing at all, it’s everything to be able to finally fight back against Caleb, and to do it through music and by choice and with every intention to destroy him. It means everything to be able to scream, even if it’s with his hands and not his voice, like he’s honestly needed to since he died or maybe for a long time before that.

Luke can’t pin down the exact moment it happens, but it stops being a proper battle at some point and becomes just two angry people competing to make the most noise (and fuck if that’s not familiar territory for Luke), and he’s so wrapped up in it that it takes him a second to notice when Caleb stops playing. Luke slams out one final chord and he almost laughs because motherfucker, I won, and—and—

And something’s wrong. Luke can’t describe it, but he can feel it creeping up his spine, and when he looks from Nick’s eyes—not nearly as full of rage as they seemed a second ago—to where his hands have fallen still against his guitar, all he can see is that he’s not okay. If this was an exorcism, it was a pretty fucking anticlimactic one—no guttural screams, no flash of light, no mass of purple smoke—but Luke is certain that the person standing in front of him now isn’t Caleb Covington.

For a split second, he wonders if it’s a trick somehow, but he doesn’t have time to care. Nick sways slightly and Luke pitches forward to catch him by the elbows—

And his hands pass straight through.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Nick falls to the ground (did he faint? Is that what fainting looks like?) and Luke tosses his guitar aside and kneels down beside him, desperate to support his head or hold his hand or check his temperature with a hand against his cheek or something, to do anything at all that might help.

Come on, Luke, focus. It’s just like what Willie taught Alex, if he just tries hard enough, he’ll be able to actually do something. If he cares enough, he can make his hand on Nick’s turn solid. Even if he doesn’t, he should be able to move Nick’s guitar somewhere that isn’t directly on top of the guy. He’s done that before, he can touch objects, he should be able to at least do this.

His stupid fucking fingers keep passing through everything.

“Julie! JULIE!” She’s on the other side of the building; she’s not going to hear him unless he goes to find her. But he can’t just leave Nick here alone. He’s frozen, caught between the need to stay and the need to get someone who can actually help.

The door swings open. “Is everything okay? I heard—oh, shit.”

“Bobby,” Luke breathes, panic temporarily overshadowed by a mixture of relief and confusion. Bobby shouldn’t have been able to hear him yelling, but he said he heard something, and Luke has stumbled into altering the rules of ghosthood before, maybe—

Bobby passes right through him without a second glance, crouching beside Nick. “What were you trying to do, strangle your guitar?” he mutters dryly.

Right. Of course.

Bobby undoes the strap of Nick’s guitar and gently sets the instrument on the floor beside him. Pushes his hair back on his forehead to check his temperature, curses under his breath. “Carrie!” Luke startles; he hadn’t noticed her standing just inside the doorway. “Do you have water?”

“I can get some.” She disappears down the hallway; Bobby’s attention is already back on Nick.

“Hey. Nick. Kid. Are you with me?” Nick groans. “Yep, okay. Think you can sit up? Here, come on, I’ve got you—” He hooks an arm under Nick’s to help him sit upright and lean his back against the wall, voicing a steady string of reassurances as he does.

It’s so Bobby that it makes Luke’s stomach hurt. A half dozen memories bubble up all at once—Bobby bringing Alex down from an anxiety attack; Bobby with Reggie the time he almost got heat stroke, or when he got so worked up he started coming to rehearsals with 101 degree fevers; Bobby forcing blankets and tea and proper meals on Luke so he wouldn’t fall to pieces hiding out in the studio all alone.

His face even looks the same. Not quite blank, but . . . not scared. Not desperate or pleading. Just focused. That’s Bobby—always scary-calm in a crisis, always good at the practical part of caring.

Carrie walks back in, a water bottle in her outstretched hand. “Here.”

Bobby takes it, barely looking up. “Thanks, baby.” He screws the cap off and holds the bottle out to Nick, who just stares vacantly. “Nick?” Bobby prompts. Nick blinks a few times, carefully flexes his hand, and takes the water bottle. “Sorry,” he says.

“All good,” Bobby says. “You’re doing good, just keep drinking that for me, okay?”

Nick nods, gives a shaky thumbs-up. “Yeah. Okay.”

Carrie hovers in front of them—right beside Luke, not that she’d know it—anxiously snapping a hair tie against her wrist.

“Hey.” Bobby finally takes his eyes off Nick for a minute to look at her. “It’s going to be okay. Go find Mr. Molina, yeah? He should be with Julie in the gym; he can give you a ride home.”

“But—”

“I’ve got it handled. He’ll be okay, I promise.” Luke could probably count on his fingers the number of times he’s seen this kind of softness in Bobby’s eyes.

Carrie bites her lip and looks down and finally nods. “I’ll text you when I’m home.”

“Good.” He offers a hand, she squeezes it briefly and lets go. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” And she’s gone.

Bobby turns back to Nick, and he doesn’t look the way he did with Carrie a second ago, but he doesn’t look like he did before, either. It’s like talking to his kid flipped something on that he can’t turn off, like it’s rendered him incapable of accessing the careful mask Luke always knew him to rely on in high-stress situations. His concern is a little clearer and a little less guarded when he asks: “How are you feeling?”

Nick scrunches up his face. “Not good.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Bobby reaches over to push Nick’s hair out of his eyes again. “Tell me what hurts.”

“Head. Everything. Um . . .” Nick looks for a second like he’s trying to say something else, but he doesn’t. He takes another sip of water and his expression shifts to confusion—the way you look when you walk into a room and forget why you’re there, when you realize you knew something just a moment ago that you don’t know now. “Where’s Luke?”

Luke might have missed it if he wasn’t watching so closely—Bobby’s quick inhale, the way his eyes go wide for a second. He recovers quickly. “Luke’s not here. It’s just me.”

His voice sounds so soothing. It makes Luke want to throw something.

“Oh,” Nick says. He still looks lost, but like he’s trying to convince himself not to be. “Okay.”

Or, no, really what Luke wants is to be where Bobby is now, to be the person to give Nick water and reassurances and a shoulder to lean against, to bring him a little closer to being okay. Luke’s been frozen in place since Bobby walked in the door, but in two words Nick brought the restless desperation to do something back full-force, tugging at his chest so hard it might break him open.

He wants to cut in to correct Bobby somehow, to tell Nick that no, he’s here, he’s right here, he didn’t go anywhere, he’s here . . . but he can’t, because no one would hear him, and if he can’t even do that then is he here? If no one can see him or hear him or even feel that he’s there in any way that matters, does it mean anything at all that he’s still standing next to them?

“You know,” Bobby says, “I should probably check and make sure you didn’t get a concussion or something, shouldn’t I?” He pauses. “How do I do that? I used to know this. Are you supposed to count something? Recite the alphabet?”

Nick straightens up a bit, starts ticking things off on his fingers as he lists them. “Okay, I’m supposed to tell you my name—Nick Danforth-Evans—and the date. It’s . . . February 18th. And uh . . . there’s a thing where I’m supposed to follow your finger with my eyes, and recite a list of iems back to you, and—”

“Actually, you know what, if you can still remember all of that then I think you’re good.”

Nick laughs. Luke is right on the edge of screaming.

It’s so, so stupid to stand here and make this about himself, but he can’t help getting stuck on the fact that he couldn’t make Nick laugh, that really the only thing he accomplished was sending him to the floor in the first place.

He can’t look at the fond half-smile on Bobby’s face that looks just like it did 25 years ago and not think about how they did this same thing, over and over and over again. Sure, Luke not being able to do anything to help wasn’t usually quite this literal, but it’s the same as it’s always been, isn’t it? It’s still Bobby stepping in to fix the mess Luke made.

Luke is the one who brought Sunset Curve together in the first place, and he led all their practices and pep talks and band circles, and he always introduced himself first when they met people as a group, but as much as he liked to think of himself as the leader of the band, he was never good at stepping up and taking charge when they actually needed it. He’s never been any good at doing that calm, in command, “okay, here’s what we’re going to do” thing that puts people at ease; he’s never been good at managing crises or really even minor mishaps.

He can’t push away the other half of the memories he summoned—the parts where Luke tried to help and got too loud for Reggie and too touchy for Alex and too pushy for Bobby and he just made everything worse, and it was always Bobby telling him to back off and let someone else take care of it.

At least when he was hovering around uselessly when he was alive, his friends knew that he was there and he wanted to help.

When Reggie had an allergic reaction at a county fair, Luke’s frantic stammering only freaked him out more, and Bobby was the one who took care of using the epi pen and calling 911 and Reggie’s parents and quietly explaining everything that was going to happen, step by step, but then Luke sat and held Reggie’s hand while they waited for the paramedics, and again as they waited for Reggie’s parents to come pick him up.

And the one and only time Alex got into a real physical fight, with some asshole who wouldn’t leave him alone after a gig, it was Bobby who patched him up with his sure hands and steady voice, Bobby who had ice for his bruises and bandages for his knuckles and measured answers for every one of his questions and snarky comments. Luke, on the other hand, nearly started another fight right then in that club, but he also walked home with Alex after school every day after that, right up until he dropped out.

More times than he could possibly count, Luke has fumbled his attempts to look after Alex and Reggie and especially Bobby, but he’s pretty sure that they were always able to see that he was trying with his whole heart; he’s pretty sure he didn’t fail his friends like he failed his mom on that front. He’s pretty sure he did a decent job letting them know he cares about them, even if he can’t care for them like he wants to.

He can’t do any of that for Nick. All of these feelings are giving him whiplash; an hour ago Luke would have been thrilled to never have to interact with Nick ever again, and now that idea makes him feel sick and dead and like he’s crumbling and melting and burning all at once.

He’s not even asking for much anymore, not even to help, just to be able to reach out and touch Nick, just for a second, just to fuck things up in a way that doesn’t make him invisible. If he was getting in the way then at least Nick would know he cares. At least Bobby would have to look at him.

Nick tries to stand up, but only gets halfway there before he shudders and slides back down to the floor. Bobby is right there at his side, leaning in to support him and ask if he’s okay.

Nick shakes his head, and then nods, and then says, “Sorry, yeah, I’m fine. Just . . . really really anxious.”

“Moving made it worse?” Bobby confirms. Nick nods again. “Let’s just stay here a minute, then.”

“I have to go home, though,” Nick says. “My dads—”

“How about this,” Bobby says, pulling out his phone, “I’m gonna set us a timer for ten minutes, and we can just sit on this floor and breathe, and once it’s up we can worry about getting up and getting you home, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Do you want to be able to see the clock counting down or no?”

It’s smart. Luke never would have thought of it. Bobby sets his phone down on the floor, and he looks like the safest person in the world.

It’s good that Nick is in Bobby’s hands and not Luke’s shaking ones. It’s good that Luke isn’t the one responsible for fixing this; it’s good that Nick can’t hear him say all the wrong things or feel how fast his imaginary heart is beating or see the useless tears chasing each other down his face.

And because Luke is a selfish asshole who can’t stand having someone’s attention off him for a single second, he wishes he could change it all anyway. He wants Nick to see him so badly it’s burning a hole in his chest. He can’t stop watching Bobby watch Nick and watching Nick look up at Bobby with so much trust and gratitude and being completely knocked over by every feeling it draws up in him.

He’s feeling everything so hard that it seems impossible that he’s even still standing here in one piece, that it hasn’t actually, physically made his skin fall off or his heart burst or his ribs crack like a sheet of ice too thin to hold his weight, but of course it hasn’t, because Luke doesn’t have skin or a heart or a ribcage; he left them all back in 1995 with his best friend’s probing eyes and carefully guarded displays of affection and stupid fucking suspenders.

It’s too much. He can’t be here anymore, and it’s not like there’s a point of staying, right? Bobby’s got it handled.

...

“You ready to go?”

Julie poses the question from below Luke, looking up to where he sits in the loft. She’s got the whole story now, about Luke and Caleb and their faceoff and the end of Nick’s possession and Bobby coming to pick up the pieces. Luke still feels terrible that he didn’t find her the second he left that classroom, that he left her with half an explanation from Carrie and a million terrifying ways to fill in the blanks.

He wasn’t thinking. He couldn’t think, not with all that panic and guilt and gut-wrenching grief swirling around.

As soon as he remembered how to be a person, though, he went straight to Julie and told her everything.

Or, almost everything. He didn’t tell her that—great news!—he’s officially, definitively proven that ghosts can have panic attacks, because he came back to the studio gasping and sobbing for the guys to tell him they could hear him, and it took Alex promising to not let go of his hand and Reggie practically climbing into his lap to prove that with them, he’s solid, he exists and he was really there and they were right here with you, Luke, okay? We’re not going anywhere, we’ve got you.

And he didn’t tell her about the ache that’s been growing in his chest since he saw Bobby that night, because how would he possibly explain?

In the moment, all Luke could see were the things about Bobby that were the same as they always were when Luke was alive, but now that he’s had a few days to process it all, now that he has space for thoughts besides oh god oh fuck is Nick gonna be okay, he keeps running it around in his head and tripping over the things that are different now, and it doesn’t hurt any less.

As hard as he tries, Luke can’t fight off the grief, not just at the fact that Bobby isn’t really the same person he knew anymore, but also that Luke lost 25 years of chances to be there for those changes and watch him grow into this person he is now, this adult with real responsibility and respect and experience, undeniably removed from the teenager Luke knew but with enough pieces of his old self remaining that there’s no way for Luke to forget that it’s Bobby that he lost.

He’s stuck on Bobby reaching out a hand, on him telling Carrie he loves her. Bobby was never good with physical affection or with saying it out loud. He would have had to practice. He’s had years to practice, and Luke is just as useless as he always was.

There’s a little part of Luke that’s outraged at Bobby for growing up without him. It’s not like it’s Bobby’s fault Luke got the rest of them killed, not like it’s fair to think that all of that tragedy and trauma and whatever else two and a half decades of life did to him wouldn’t change him, but the anger is there anyway, a dark scribbled line on the list of reasons Luke is mad at him.

Because that’s the other thing the past few days have done: they’ve given Luke time to remember that he’s furious at Bobby for stealing from them. It didn’t matter when they were in that music room, when Nick was on the floor and everything was a wreck and Luke was making it worse and Bobby was making it better, but it matters again now, the way Luke’s whole world felt violently shaken when Julie listed off Trevor Wilson’s biggest hits for him, the way that broken trust managed to throw Luke off worse than dying did.

Bobby betrayed his band, took all of the best things Luke created and used them to build his whole career and life and future on a lie . . . and he’s still a better person than Luke could ever be.

“Luke? Are you coming?”

Julie’s a better person than Luke, too, but he’s known that from the start. Still, he keeps running into reminders: the way Julie yelled at him for scaring her and then held him tight when he cried again trying to explain, the way she sat through hours of Luke trying to pretend he wasn’t tearing his hair out wondering if Nick was okay now, the way she called Nick’s dads a day later to see if she could come check on him, and invited Luke along with her because he needs it as much as she does, even if he doesn’t deserve it.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready, sorry,” Luke says, and poofs down to join Julie.

He doesn’t deserve her. She offers him her hand anyway.

He takes it.

Julie’s aunt drives them to Nick’s house, and once Julie gets through introducing herself and awkwardly presenting the loaf of zucchini bread that Tia Victoria insisted she bring, she leaves the adults to chat and makes her way to Nick’s room. Luke trails behind her, feeling self-conscious despite the fact that no one else can see him.

Nick is in bed but awake, and he looks better than he did the last time Luke saw him, which isn’t saying much. Mostly, he looks tired.

He smiles when he sees Julie, though, and it makes Luke feel squirmy and achy at the same time. If Reggie was here, he’d tease Luke about having a crush, but it’s not like that, not really. Luke couldn’t help falling for a girl he couldn’t touch, but he’s not about to also catch feelings for someone who can’t even see him.

A big part of Luke wants to pretend he’s not feeling anything for or about Nick at all, besides a little bit of responsibility because Luke happened to be there when he got hurt, and that’s totally normal; anyone would want to check on him after that.

And Luke is aware that it’s so on-the-nose that he’s practically a parody of himself, but the main thing that stops him from simplifying his emotions like that is the knowledge that it wouldn’t make for a very good song.

He’s not trying to make music out of this, but he can’t help that that’s the way he sees the world and the filter he runs his feelings through, and if he was trying to write about this Nick thing, then a song about how he just wants to check on him out of a regular sense of duty wouldn’t be worth playing. It wouldn’t be meaningful or nuanced art; it wouldn’t get across any of what Luke actually needs to express; it wouldn’t connect to the heart of an experience and say something.

A better song would talk about how on top of finding new ways to lose Bobby every five seconds, Luke feels like he’s lost Nick now, too, and the knowledge that he never had Nick in the first place, that he didn’t even want him, does absolutely nothing to dull the pain.

It would talk about how all of Luke’s stupid jealousy and disdain for Nick is gone, knocked right out of him when Caleb was knocked out of Nick, and in its place there’s all this almost overwhelming fondness, and this urge to keep him safe, and this longing that doesn’t seem likely to dissipate any time soon. It’s . . . kind of like what Luke feels for his boys, actually. His feelings for Reggie and Alex, but slightly to the left and with a side of hopelessness.

Awesome.

Luke’s attention drifts in and out as Julie and Nick talk; he’s too far buried in the feelings that come with being near Nick again to catch more than a few fragments, and before he even really thinks to try to pull himself out of his thoughts and actually pay attention to what they’re saying, Julie is saying goodbye, shrugging her cardigan back on and reminding Nick to text her if he needs to talk.

Luke wants to stay. Desperately. He just wants to sit here in Nick’s room and never let him out of his sight again. He knows it won’t do any good—he’s already very thoroughly proven he can’t protect Nick from a single thing, and he can’t even talk to him unless he starts writing notes or something, and the last thing Nick needs is a ghost moving his stuff around and leaving him messages; Luke isn’t going to do that to him.

He needs to go home.

And as soon as he gets there—well, the first thing he needs to do is get a goddamn hug before he falls apart again. But the next thing is to apologize to Alex for not understanding his post-death freakout at first, because Luke is getting kicked in the gut over and over by all the things they’ve lost and he gets it now. He can’t believe he let Alex deal with that alone.

But he won’t have to anymore, because Luke has twenty-five years of self-improvement to catch up on, and he’s not going to waste any more time.

[comedicreliefonlyworkswhenfunny]

I am against the "Americanization" of fandoms.

What this applies to

Holding non American characters (and sometimes even fans) to an American moral standard. This includes

Refusing to take into account that, first things first, America is NOT the target audience, so certain tropes that would or would not pass in the west are different in Japan.

Like seriously, quite a few of the jokes are just not going to pass or hit, because they require background information that is not universal.

Assuming all American experience is standard. (This could mean watering down just how much pressure is placed on Japanese youth irl by saying that sort of thing is universal (while it is, to a degree, Japanese suicide rates are pretty fucking high because of how fast paced and work heavy some of their loads tend to be), and it's really annoying and rude when someone is trying to speak out about how heavy and harsh the standards are placed on them to succeed just for some American whose mom occasionally yells at them to do their homework dropping by to say "it's like that everywhere")

Demonizing (or wubbifying) a character using American morals, including and up to harassing fans over their interpretations or gatekeeping whether or not a character "should" get development (while you shouldn't do that fucking period, it's rude and annoying- this is specifically for the people who use American standards without acknowledging the cultural gap between them and, you know, the fucking target audience) ((Like seriously, saying "It's different in Japan" is not the end all be all excusing someone's actions, but sometimes the author didn't immediately think that maybe (insert vaguely universal thing) was that bad or that heavy of a topic before they put it into their media. If you don't want to see things like that? Pick a different series and stop harassing the fans))

Getting mad at or making fun of Japan's attempts to satirize their own culture. (A good example is Ace Attorney! To most of us, it's just a funny laugh can you imagine if courts were actually like that- guess what? Japan's are! (Not that America's are actually that much better, they just look good on paper))

Making America/American issues the center of your fan spaces

(Usually without sharing or bringing light to the issues that other countries are going through)

Your

Experiences

Are

Not

Univseral!

Seriously, very few things across America, even, are universal. Texas things the hundreds are nothing while Minnesota's like "oh it's only thirty degrees below zero"- so for fucks sake, stop assuming that all other countries work in ways similar to America.

It's good and important to share Ameican issues with your American followers, but guess what? America isn't the only country out there, and it's certainly not the only one going through bullshit. Don't pull shit like "why's no one reblogging this?" or "why should I care about what's happening in (X country)?"

Don't assume everyone lives in America.

Stop assuming everyone lives in America.

America is not and has never been the target audience for anime, and it's certainly not the only country outside of Japan that enjoys it.

Like I said above, sometimes Japan attempts to satirize its own culture. We can't tell what is and isn't meant as satire, because it's not our culture.

Social media activism can be tiring and maybe you don't have the energy to focus on things that are out of your control, but, if someone tells you about the shit they're going through, don't bring American politics up.

For the neurodivergent crowd out there thinking, "But why?" it's because a lot of social media, especially, is very heavily Americanized- sometimes to the point where people assume that everyone is American. Not to mention, it's disheartening. I'm sorry to say, but you're not actually relating to the conversation, you're often diverting the focus away from the topic at hand. Even if you mean well, America is heavily pedestaled and talked about frequently, and people from other countries are tired of America taking precedent over their own issues.

Don't divert non-American issues into American ones. Seriously. It's not your place. Please just support the original issue or move on.

Racist Bullshit

This especially goes for islanders and South Asian characters, as well as poc characters (because, yes, Japan DOES have black people)

Making "funny" racist headcanons. Not fucking cool.

Changing the canon interpretation of an explicit character of color in order to fit racist stereotypes.

Whitewashing or color draining characters. Different artistic skill sets can be hard, yes, but are you seriously going to look at someone and say "I don't feel like accurately portraying you or people that look like you, because it's difficult for me." If someone tries to correct you on your cultural depiction of a character and/or their life style, don't be an ass. (If possible, it would be nice for those that do the corrections to be polite as well, but it does get really frustrating).

Seriously, no offense guys, but, if you want to persue art, you're going to need to learn to depict different body types, skin colors, and/or ethnic features.

On that note, purposefully, willingly, or consistently inaccurately portraying people or characters of color (especially if someone in the fandom has "called you out" or specifically told you that what you're doing comes across as racist and you continue to do it). If you need help or suck at looking things up, there are references for you! Ask your followers if they have tutorials on poc (issue that you're having), whether it be bodily portrayal, facial proportions, or coloring and shading. Art is so much more fun when you can depict a wider variety, and guess what? Before you drew the same skinny, basic, white character over and over, you couldn't even draw that!

Attempting or claiming to DEPECT CULTURAL ACCURACY within a work or meta, while being completely fucking wrong. ESPECIALLY and specifically if someone calls you out, and you refuse to fix, correct, or change anything.

*little side note that the discussion revolving art is a very multilayered conversation, and it has quite a few technical potholes, which I'll bring up again farther into this post.

Fucking history

Stop demonizing or for absolute fucks sake wubbifying Japanese history because UwU Japan ♡0♡ or bringing up shit like "you know they sided with Nazis, right?" It's good to recognize poor past decisions, but literally it's not your country keep your nose out of it. And? A lot of decisions made by countries were not made by their general peoples. Even those that were, often involved heavy propaganda that made them think what they were doing was right.

Seriously, it's not your country, not your history. Unless you have some sort of higher education (but honestly even then a lot of those contain heavy bias), just don't butt in.

^^^ this also goes to all countries that are NOT Japan (specifically when people from non American countries talk about their history while in fandoms and someone wants to Amerisplain to them why "well, actually-"). When we said, "question your sources," we didn't mean "question the people who know better than you, while blindly accepting the (more than likely biased) education you were given in the past."

What this does NOT include:

Fanfiction

FANfiction

FanFICTION

FANFICTION.

Seriously, fanfiction is literally UNPAID WORK from RANDOM FANS- a lot of which who are or have started as kids. ((No, I'm not trying to excuse racist depictions of people just because they're free, please see above where I talk about learning to grow a skill and how it's possible tone bad and get good, on top of the fact that some inaccuracies are not just willful ignorance))

"Looking it up" doesn't work

"Looking it up" almost never works

Please, for fucks sake, you know that most all online search engines are heavily biased, right? Not to mention, not everything is universal across the entirety of Japan. You want to look up how the school system works in Hokkaido? Well it's different from the ones in Osaka!

Most fanfiction is meant to be an idealized version of the world. Homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, ableism, and racism are very prevalent and heavy topics that some fan authors would prefer to avoid. (Keep in mind, this is also used by some people in those minorities often because thinking about how relevant those kinds of things are is to them every day).

A lot of shit that happens in writing is purely because it's an ideal setting. I've seen a few arguments recently about how fan authors portray Japanese schools wrong- listen, I can't tell you how many random school systems I have pulled from my ass purely because (I need them to interact at these points, in these ways). Sometimes the only compliment I can think of is 'I like your shirt' or sometimes I need character A to realize that character B likes the same thing as they do, so I might ignore the fact that most all Japanese schools require uniforms, so that I can put my character in a shirt that will get someone else's attention.

Sometimes it's difficult to find information on different types of systems, and sometimes when you DO know those things, they directly rule out a plot point that needs to happen (like back on the topic of schools (from what I've seen/heard/read- which guess what? Despite being from multiple sources, might still be inaccurate!) Japanese schools don't have mandatory elective classes (outside of like gym and most of them usually learn English or another language- I've seen stuff about art classes? But the information across the board varies.), but, if I need my character to walk in and see someone completely in their element, I'm probably not going to try and gun for accuracy or make up a million and two reasons as to why this (non elective) person would possibly need something from (elective teacher) after school of all things.)

Some experiences ARE universal- or at least overlap American and Japanese norms! Like friends going to fast food places after school doesn't /sound Japanese/ or whatever, but it's not like a horrible inaccuracy to say that your characters ate at McDonald's because they were hungry. Especially when you consider that the Japanese idolization of American "culture" is also a thing.

Also I saw someone complaining about how, in December, a lot of (usually westerners) write Christmas fics! Well, not only are quite a few of those often gift fics, with it being the season if giving and all, but Japanese people do celebrate Christmas! Not as "the birth of Christ," but rather as a popularized holiday about gift giving (also pst: America isn't the only place that celebrates Christmas)

But, on that note, sometimes things like Holidays are "willfully ignorant" of what actually happens (I've made this point several times, but (also this does by no means excuse actual racism)), because, again: plot convenience! Hey what IF they celebrated Halloween by Trick or Treating? What if Easter was a thing and they got to watch their kids or younger siblings crawl around on the ground looking for tiny plastic eggs?

Fanfiction authors can put in hours of work for one or two thousand words- let alone ten thousand words, fifty thousand words, a hundred thousand words. And all of these are free. There is absolutely no (legal) way to make money off of their fanworks, but they spent hours, days, weeks, months- sometimes even years- writing. It is so unnecessary to EXPECT or REQUIRE them to spend even more hours looking up shit that, no offense, almost no one is going to notice. No one is going go care that all of my combini prices are accurate or that I wrote a fic with a Japanese map of a train station that I had to backwards search three times to find an English version that I could read.

Not everyone has the attention span or ability to spend hours of research before writing a single word. Neurodivergent people are literally a thing yall. Instead of producing the perfectly pretty accurate version of Japan that people want to happen, what ACTUALLY happens is that the writer reads and reads and reads and either never finds the information they need or they lose the motivation to write.

^^^ (This does NOT apply to indigenous or native peoples, like Pacific Islanders or tribes that exist in real life. Please make sure that you portray tribal minorities accurately. If you can't find the information you need (assuming that the content of the series is not specifically about a tribe), please just make one up (and for fucks sake, recognize that a lot of what you've been taught about tribal practices, such as shit like human sacrifices or godly worship, is actually just propaganda.)

Not to mention, it often puts a wall in front of readers who would then need to pull up their OWN information (that may or may not be biased) just in order to interact with the fic ((okay, this one has a little bit of arguability when it comes to things like measurements and currency, because Americans don't know what a meter is and no one else knows what a foot is- either way, one of yall is going to have to look up measurements if they want to get a better understanding of the fic)). However, a lot of Americans who do write using 'feet, Fahrenheit, dollars,' also write for their American followers or friends (which really could go both ways).

On a less easily arguable side, most fic readers aren't going to open up a new tab just to search everything that the author has written (re the whole deep topics, not everyone wants to read about those sorts of things, either). Not only are you making it more difficult on the writer, but you're also making it more difficult for the reader who's now wondering why you decided to add in Grandma's Katsudon recipe, and whether or not the details you have added are accurate.

Some series, themselves, ignore Japanese norms! Piercings, hair dye, and incorrectly wearing ones uniform are frowns upon in Japanese schools- sometimes up to inflicting punishment on those students because of it. However, some anime characters still have naturally or dyed blond hair some of them still have piercings or wear their uniforms wrong. Some series aren't set specifically in Japan, but rather in a vague based-off-real-life Japan that's just slightly different (like Haikyuu and all of its different prefectures). Sometimes they're based on real places, but real places that have gone through major changes (like the Hero Academia series with its quirks and shit).

Fandom is not a full time job. Please stop treating it like it is one. Most people in fandoms have to engage in other things like school or work that most definitely take precident over frantically Googling the cultural implications of dying your hair pink in Japan.

Art is also meant to be a creative freedom and is almost always a hobby, so there are a few cracks that tend to spark debate. Like I said, it is still a hobby, something that's meant to be fun (on this note!)

If trying new things and expanding your portfolio is genuinely making you upset, it's okay to take a break from it. You're not going to get it right on the first try and please, please to everyone out there critiquing artists' works, please take this into account before you post things.

I'm sorry to say, but, while it gets frustrating to see the same things done wrong over and over again, some people are genuinely trying. If it matters enough for you to point out, please offer solutions or resources that would possibly help the artist do better (honestly this could be said about a lot of online activism). I get that they should "want" to do better (and maybe they don't and your annoyance towards them is completely justified- again, as I said, if this becomes a repeated offense and they don't listen to or care about the people trying to help them, yeah you can be a bitch if it helps you feel better- just please don't assume that everyone is willfully ignorant of how hurtful/upsetting/annoying a certain way of portraying things is), but also WANTING to do better and ACTUALLY doing better are two different things.

Maybe they didn't realize what they were doing was inaccurate. Maybe they didn't have the right tutorials. Maybe they tried to look it up, but that failed them. Either way, to some- especially neurodivergent artists- just being told that their work is bad or racist or awful isn't going to make them want to search for better resources in order to be more accurate, it's just going to make them give up.

Also! In fic and in writing, no one is going to get it right on the first try. Especially at the stage where we creators ARE merely in fan spaces is a great time to "fuck around and find out", before we bring our willfully or accidentally racist shit into monetized media. Absolutely hold your fan creators to higher standards, but literally fan work has so little actual impact on popular media (and this goes for just about every debate about fan spaces), and constructive criticism as well as routine practice can mean worlds for representation in future media. NOT allowing for mistakes in micro spaces like fandoms is how you get genuinely harmful or just... bad... portrayals of minorities in popularized media that DOES have an impact on the greater public. OR you get a bunch of creators who are too afraid to walk out of their own little bubbles, because what if they get it wrong and everyone turns against them. It's better to just "stick with what they know" (hobbies are something that you are meant to get better at, even if that is a slow road- for all of my writers and artists out there, it does take time, but you will get it. To everyone else, please do speak up about things that are wrong, but don't make it all about what's wrong and please don't be rude. It's frustrating on both ends, so, if you can, please try not to escalate the situation more.)

Anyways, I'm tired of everyone holding fictional characters to American Puritanical standards, but I'm also tired of seeing every "stop Americanizing fandom" somehow loop into fanfiction and how all authors who don't make their fics as accurate as possible are actually just racist and perpetuating or enabling America's take over of the world or some shit.

Fan interpretation of published media is different than fan creation of mon monetized media. Americans dominating or monopolizing spaces meant for all fans (especially in a fandom that was never meant for them to begin with) is annoying and can be harmful sometimes. Americans writing out their own personal experience using random fictional characters (more often than not) isn't.

[dystopiandilfs]

Thoughts on Ranboo in that Lie-detector test vlog? Some parts of smiletwt think he asked way too many Dream questions that to some degree sets Dream up. While I do agree the fun part of the vlog is to make Tommy look like he lied about something, the Dream questions just ended up putting a lot of pressure on him which probably is the reason why most of his answers were 'lies.' I'd like to be fair and think Ranboo just wanted to get a reaction from Tommy (since I don't want to appear too biased on Dream) but sometimes I think he's getting a lil bit too comfy—

P.S. I'd like to compare his questions to Wilbur's serious ones. Wilbur asked it in general format, not necessarily pointing at a specific drama. Whereas Ranboo asked things that are controversial about Dream which can be taken out of context by people outside the community.

I want to start this off by saying that this is obviously my opinion and nobody is forced to agree or disagree. If you want to disagree at least give me good reasoning other than "they're friends". This isn't me attacking Ranboo or Tommy so no need to attempt to defend them from me because I don't care and they don't care.

I didn't like some of the questions however I do think it's important to remember how lie detector tests work. They react to emotional trigger movement mainly stress and anxiety. They're not that reliable and aren't useable as evidence in court. A lot of known serial killers and murderers weren't caught earlier because they passed lie detector tests. So for that purpose I'm not going to really mention Tommy's answers purely because of how easily you can manipulate a lie detector test and how often the answers are faked for content.

I do think it was a bit weird for Ranboo to "target" Dream and only Dream. Like I personally expected a lot of George based questions and maybe one Dream/DreamSMP based question.

Like I understand that they're friends and it was content however it's so weird that those were the Dream based questions, it's even weirder that they were said by Ranboo.

So first off I want to talk about the questions directly about Dream.

Ranboo first asked "Do you really enjoy Dream's music?" Which I personally think is such a weird question and just awkward in general. Like I'm normally quite neutral with Ranboo but that is annoying as fuck. That's like asking a parent which child is their favourite. Why are you asking Tommy to A) Compare his friends with one in the room and one not and B) Asking in a way that ends up with someone getting "insulted"

Jack then asked "Are you jealous of Dream?" To which Tommy answered no which was apparently a lie. That to me is a fine question. It gave me Philza Minecraft flashbacks to when Tommy and Dream were having a fun back and forth on twitter and Peepaws old ass ruined the fun but overall it's a good question. Nobody is getting upset and nobody is getting insulted.

Then Ranboo asked "Do you think that Dream intentionally cheated in his speedrun?" I've said it before I hate any of Dream's friends bringing up the speedrunning situation unless it's Sapnap and Illumina so you already know my thoughts on that. I don't care that Dream, Tommy and Ranboo are friends, bringing up shit that fucked someone's mental health isn't going to ever sit right with me especially when it's resurfacing something that is practically buried.

The targeted questions were all about Dream which is super weird to me. Like normally the only time Dream is bought up on Tommy's vlogs is by George seeing the colour green and connecting it to Dream.

Like Wilbur's questions were aimed more towards "Who's your favourite out of the group" "Do you think that I was better before the DreamSMP" "Have you ever apologised on stream and not meant it" like his were mostly general and not about one specific person.

Tubbo's were aiming to make Tommy uncomfortable but not through shit talking someone outside the room. Like he asked "Do you talk about me negatively behind my back" "Would you be my friend if I hadn't become a streamer" Like Tubbo aimed to make Tommy uncomfortable by admitting things to people's faces.

Jack's were a wild mix of chaos but they never were directed towards something incredibly specific other than himself minus the Dream question but that was aimed more towards seeing if Tommy had a big ego.

I think using Dream's past dramas to get a reaction out of Tommy for content is stupid. Especially since Dream's been relatively drama free for the past 80 days and you know full well that if Dream's own friends are bringing up drama then people are going to take it and run. I just think is the result of that video really worth keeping it in.

I said on here before and on Reddit earlier that surely by now Tommy and his editors should have learned that you can't keep certain things in videos. Like the girl from the 10 million video, Logan Paul Catcalling, Bringing up Niki and Wilbur or Shelby and Wilbur even if it's for content because all that does is either give people the go ahead to do the same (ship Niki and Wilbur or Shelby and Wilbur which in turn ends up with the girls getting harassed) start drama and causes more fights and more death threats and doxxes to happen.

The video was good minus Ranboo's questions and if they weren't included it might have been one of my favourite vlogs.

There's a difference between how to ask targeted questions for example if the music based question was "Do you prefer Dream's music over Wilbur's?" That would have been way better than how Ranboo worded it. I don't think there was a better way to being up the speedrunning situation because it was the worst thing to have bought up and shouldn't have been mentioned.

[ignitification]

Normally I would be inclined to agree with you bur

Hawks didn't kill twice in cold blood.your memory must be messed up.Hawks offered twice many choices to come quietly and he promised to help him turn over a new leaf.he made it clear he was trying not to fight him but twice was too stubborn and kept on trying to fight him.then when Hawks knocked him unconscious,he tried to save him but Dabi came in and made things worse.Killing twice was the last thing he wanted to do but keep in mind how dangerous his quirk is.he could've cloned many more Togas,Dabis, Shigarakis and Machias.the war would've been so much more worse if twice lived.and keep in mind,Hawks had no longer choice.he had to make a drastic Choice in order to save and protect people.you're acting like he killed him with no remorse.get your facts straight.

Like keep in mind how bad the war was but imagine if twice made it.it would've been 1000X worse.

And seriously Gran Torino is right but you're all too stuck up the villian's asses to agree.killing someone is usually a form of salvation.like here's a example.if my dog is sick and suffering with no cure, I'm not gonna leave him alive so he can suffer more.i'm gonna put him down peacefully so he can be Happy and healthy in heaven.

(before you throw a hissy fit, I'm using this as a example.i'm not calling your precious shigaraki a dog)

Like Gran Torino is right.sometimes ending one life can save millions.would you hate a Cop for shooting and killing a terriost to save millions?

Sorry dude but shigaraki has to die

And the rest of the villians have to be given life sentences in Prison

GOOD DAY,SIR(OR MA'AM)

And you saw the Villain's Fanclub is bad? Do you even hear yourself? The villains don't have to die or go to prison to be redeemed. Also your dog example makes fucking zero sense because they are not sick, and as I said before theor murder would still be an arbitrary deprivation of life, which is not only murder as the act, but justified and glorified violence as it would be seen as an escape, which, at the end it isn't, but just an excuse people tell themselves to throw free hate on villains while condoning the same exact thing, just sugarcoated.

Now, let's talk about the absolute shite you wrote about Twice and Dabi.

Does this look to you the situation you just described? Imagine the situation from Twice's point of view. He had just been betrayed by someone who he believed was his friend. He is telling him a load of bullshit, and Hawks is even mocking Twice for him being too trustful and not being attentive enough to distinguish who is a real friend or a real foe. He is taking the entirety of his feelings and basically throwing them in his face, at what value? To make his feel bad? To make him surrender like you said? Did Hawks really need to put into such a situation where Twice had to be restrained so hard for him to surrender? Or was it intentional because Hawks knew he had no other choice to kill him, because he knew Twice would never betray his friends? I am a bit too attached to this to even think that Twice would have come unscathed from this. Look at how Hawks is drawn: only his eyes are visible and he is in a clear dark aura, which is totally different from Twice defenceless state. There is a literal war raging outside, and Twice is instead stuck without the possibility to help them.

And furthermore, when Twice, most clearly does not accept the 'help' offered, Hawks decides to shut up Twice. This happens before Dabi even shows up. He just stop Hawks for a second, but he accomplishes his mission a few moments after, so please fucking learn how to read.

I am making this up, and Hawks had the clear to restrain Twice for that time, but instead he decides to kill him so he could never be a threat anymore. It's not even a question in Hawks' mind. Look at the feathers he is holding in each hand.

This still happens before Dabi shows up. And then, in chapter 266, Hawks gives him the final wound - but it is not because of Dabi, let's not stray form the topic. His killing intention was there before, and what was Dabi supposed to do? Let Hawks kill Twice? Let him go? Laugh with him and call Jin 'Unlucky' and call it a day?

And please refrain from talking shit about Twice with me. I might tolerate it for everyone else (in different degrees), but you should really not touch Twice's topic, especially in these words with me. Thanks.

P. S. I don't know how much you know about Terrorism and Anti Terrorism countermeasures, but as someone who probably has more knowledge on it than a normal citizen, let me tell you that's not how it works. You are putting a scenario which is extremely unrealistic and very one-sided. And the fact that lately nations have implemented an agenda of laws which try to deter rather than 'eliminate', but control and marginalise the problem - is proof of that. Here the same applies. I am basically telling you that what you are comparing are totally different situation, and dear Jared, this is fucking fiction so stop being upset at someone who can read better than you. It just makes you seem petty.

With all my love,

A member of the Villain's Fanclub.

P. S. S. My memory is doing perfectly fine, thanks for worrying!

[gayenerd]

I just realized I didn’t post that 2007 Rolling Stone article I posted about here. 

Billie Joe Armstrong

The Green Day leader talks Bush, Britney and being a middle-aged punk for our 40th anniversary.

DAVID FRICKE

Posted Nov 01, 2007 8:19 AM

You have two young sons. What kind of America will they inherit?

This war has to finish before something new blossoms. There's no draft — that's why none of the kids give a shit. They'd rather watch videos on YouTube. It's hard to tell what's next — there is so much information out there with no power to it. Everything is in transition, including our government. Next year, it's someone else in the White House. There's no way to define anything. It's Generation Zero. But you gotta start at zero to get to something.

Is there anyone now running for president who gives you hope for the future?

Barack Obama, but it's a bit early to tell if this is the guy I like. I get sick of the religious-figure thing. People don't question their rulers, these political figures, just as they don't question their ministers and priests. They're not going to question George Bush, especially if he goes around talking about God — "I'm going to let God decide this for me. He's going to give me the answer." The fear of God keeps people silent.

When did you first vote in a presidential election?

In 1992. I was twenty. I voted for Clinton.

Did you feel like you made a difference?

Yeah. The Eighties sucked. There was so much bullshit that went along with that decade. I felt like Clinton was a fresh face with fresh ideas. There were times when he was dropping bombs, and I'm thinking, "What the fuck are you doing?" But he became a target. We have this puritanical vision of what a leader is supposed to be, and that's what makes us the biggest hypocrites in the world. We got so inside this guy's sexual habits. Now we have a president going around, killing in the name of what? In the name of nothing.

What did you accomplish with your 2004 anti-Bush album, "American Idiot"? He was re-elected anyway, and the war in Iraq is still going on.

I found a voice. There may have been people disenfranchised by it. People have a hard time with that kind of writing: "Why are you preaching to me?" It does sound preachy, a bit. I'm a musician, and I want to say positive things. If it's about self-indulgent depression or overthrowing the government, it's gotta come from my heart. And when you say "Fuck George W. Bush" in a packed arena in Texas, that's an accomplishment, because you're saying it to the unconverted.

Do you think selling nearly 6 million copies of that album might have an effect on the 2008 election? A kid who bought it at fifteen will be voting age next year.

I hope so. I made it to give people a reason to think for themselves. It was supposed to be a catalyst. Maybe that's one reason why it's difficult for me to write about politics now. A lot of things on that record are still relevant. It's like we have this monarchy in politics — the passing of the baton between the Clintons and the Bushes. That's frightening. What needs to happen is a complete change, a person coming from the outside with a new perspective on all the fucked-up problems we have.

How would you describe the state of pop culture?

People want blood. They want to see other people thrown to the lions. Do audiences want rock stars? I can't tell. You have information coming at you from so many areas — YouTube, the Internet, tabloids. Watching Britney Spears the other night [on the MTV Video Music Awards] was like watching a public execution. How could the people at MTV, the people around her, not know this girl was fucked up? People came in expecting a train wreck, and they got more than they bargained for.

She was a willing conspirator. She didn't say no.

She is a manufactured child. She has come up through this Disney perspective, thinking that all life is about is to be the most ridiculous star you could be. But it's also about what we look at as entertainment — watching somebody go through that.

How do you decide what your children can see on TV or the Internet? As a dad, even a punk-rock dad, that can make you conservative in your choices.

I want to protect them from garbage. It's not necessarily the sex and drugs. It's bad drugs and bad sex, the violence you see on television and in the news. I want to protect them from being desensitized. I want them to realize this is real life, not a video game.

The main thing I want them to have is a good education, because that's something I never had. Get smart. Educate yourself as much as you can, and get as much out of it, even if the teacher is an asshole.

Do you regret dropping out of high school?

Life in high school sucks. I bucked the system. I also got lucky. My wife has a degree in sociology, and there are conversations she has — I don't have a fucking clue what they're talking about. College — I could have learned from that.

But I was the last of six kids. At that point, my mother was fifty-eight, and she threw up her hands — "I'm through with this parenting thing." Also, I could not handle authority figures. But I wouldn't say I'm an authority figure for my kids. I provide guidelines, not rules.

What is it like being a middle-aged punk? Isn't that a contradiction in terms?

It's about the energy you bring with you, the pulse inside your head. I want to get older. I don't want to be twenty-one again. Screw that. My twenties were a difficult time — where my band was at, getting married, having a child. I remember walking out of a gig in Chicago, past these screaming kids. There were these punks, real ones, sitting outside our tour bus. One girl had a forty-ouncer, and she goes, "Billie Joe, come drink with us." I said, "I can't, I've got my family on the bus." She goes, "Well, fuck you then." I get on the bus, and my wife says, "Did that bitch just tell you to fuck off? I'm gonna kick her ass right now." I'm holding her back, while my child is naked, jumping on the couch: "Hi, Daddy!" That was my whole life right there — screaming kids, punks telling me to fuck off, my wife getting pissed, my naked son waiting to get into his pajamas.

There's nothing wrong with being twenty-one. It's the lessons you learn. At thirty, you think, "Why did I worry so much about this shit?" When I hit forty, I'll say the same thing: "Why did I worry about this shit in my thirties?"

What have you learned about yourself?

There is more to life than trying to find your way through self-destruction or throwing yourself into the fire all the time. Nihilism in punk rock can be a cliché. I need to give myself more room to breathe, to allow my thoughts to catch up with the rest of me.

Before Dookie, I wasn't married and I didn't have kids. I had a guitar, a bag of clothes and a four-track recorder. There are ways you don't want to change. You don't want to lose your spark. But I need silence more than I did before. I need to get away from the static and noise, whereas before, I thrived on it.

Are you ready for the end of the music business? The technology and its effect on sales have changed dramatically since Green Days' debut EP — on vinyl — in 1989.

Technology now and the way people put out records — everything comes at you so fast, you don't know what you're investigating. You can't identify with it — at least I can't. With American Idiot, we made a conscious effort to give people an experience they could remember for the rest of their lives. It wasn't just the content. It was the artwork, the three acts — the way you could read it all like someone's story.

Is music simply not important to young people now the way it was to you as a kid?

People get addicted to garbage they don't need. At shows, they gotta talk on their phones to their friend who's in the next aisle. I was watching this documentary on Jeff Tweedy of Wilco [Sunken Treasure]. He was playing acoustic, and he ends up screaming at the audience: "Your fucking conversation can wait. I'm up here singing a song — get involved." He wasn't being an asshole. He was like, "Leave your bullshit behind. Let's celebrate what's happening now."

We need music, and we need it good. I took it very seriously. There's a side of me where music will always send chills up my spine, make me cry, make me want to get up and do Pete Townshend windmills. In a lot of ways, I was in a minority when I was young. There are people who go, "Oh, that's a snappy tune." I listen to it and go, "That's the greatest fucking song ever. That is the song I want played at my funeral."

Now that you've brought it up, what song do you want played at your funeral?

It keeps changing. "Life on Mars?" by David Bowie. "In My Life," by the Beatles. "Love," by John Lennon.

Those are all reflective ballads, not punk.

I disagree. They are all honest in their reflection. The punk bands I liked were the ones who didn't fall into clichés — the Clash, the Ramones. The Ramones wrote beautiful love songs. They also invented punk rock. I'd have to add "Blitzkrieg Bop" to the list.

What is the future of punk rock? Will it still be a voice of rebellion in twenty years?

It's categorized in so many different ways. You've got the MySpace punks. But there is always the subculture of it — the rats in the walls, pounding the pavement and booking their own live shows. It comes down to the people who are willing to do something different from everybody else.

You are in a different, platinum-album world now. What makes you so sure that spirit survives?

I'm going on faith — because I was there. Gilman Street [the Berkeley, California, club where Green Day played early shows] is still around. And that's a hard task, because there is no bar — it's a nonprofit cooperative. It's like a commune — this feeling of bucking the system together, surviving and thriving on art. Punk, as an underground, pushes for the generation gap. As soon as you're twenty-five years old, there's a group of sixteen-year-olds coming to kick your ass. And you have to pass the torch on. It's a trip to have seen it happen so many times. It gives me goose bumps — punk is something that survives on its own.

[allandoflimbo]

Bad Guy

Summary: You experience another night out in your new hometown. One that has you reaching for a drink, and maybe ending with a certain someone between your legs.

Warnings: Drinking, cursing, and (mild, well for me) fucking.

A/N: This is a submisstion for @amanda-teaches​ 2k Writer + Reader Challenge. My prompt was “Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy.” This was really fun to write. Thank you for letting me participate in this! And I hope you really enjoy this one. :) It’s pretty light hearted. As most of you know, I will no longer post my writing on Tumblr, i’ll just be sticking to my other platforms now. If you wanna check me out i’ll be on AO3, mostly. This is my final closing. :)

The night was turning crisp, a heavy contrast to what it had been that afternoon. 

It had been humid and overbearingly hot; too scorching for a late August summer. 

It was around six o’clock when the temperature had dropped a sudden ten degrees. Now it was pleasant, and those that had hidden away all day in their air conditioned homes, finally decided to venture out into the cooling air. 

There was an intense misconception about New York City that not many understood, not until they experienced it first hand, at least.

Sure, it was beautiful in its bright lights and air that seemed to ooze hope for everyone’s future. It gave off a vibe that made you admit, that yeah, it kind of was like the movies. 

Except that it wasn’t.

From afar, it was quite the spectacular, but as you narrowed down and took a closer look, you’d see it for what it really was.

The brownstone buildings that housed the speakeasies and restaurants on the ground floor; they were beautiful, surly. 

So were the homes across the streets, with their lights still on.

 The streets, they were nice too. 

People stood all around, greeting new friends and old ones, talking about which place they would go to next or which bar.

You liked the village. It had its pros and cons, but at the end of the day, you were glad you settled for that fifteen hundred dollar studio on the first floor. 

It had a nice view of the deli and the prestigious restaurant across the street, and it was a brownstone.

Yeah, all of that was really nice.

Except when you took a closer look and realized that even the prettiest of things had its faults.

Those streets filled with smiles and laughter also had trash bags piled up every ten feet and on every corner. 

Those restaurants and speakeasies - the brownstones were older so the walls outside the building were washed out, aged. 

The air also had a strange, but yet addicting, smell. 

It was a mixture of all the restaurants around mixed with booze. 

The stairs that led down into the restaurant entrances were old and rusted. 

The ATMs that lounged outside each one - because that’s right, most of them only take fucking cash - six out of ten of them were always out of service and served as nothing but mediocre décor next to the window. 

Heavy graffiti lined their sides.

The doors to the restaurants were older, too. Some of them never even closed properly or were too damn heavy.

And your apartment...it was perfect. 

You’d have to settle into become a minimalist to even fit your bed inside. 

The flooring was also old and scratched and the walls needed a new paint job. But it wasn’t too bad. It could’ve been worst.

But you loved it. 

You loved the feeling of the city around you, and you loved how you had made your new friends so easily after moving in from your old home in little ole’ Ohio. 

You loved going to bed being able to hear the life outside, the laughters and sound of people making new memories and falling in love.

And those restaurants and speakeasies that looked flawed up close, they were anything but inside.

The owners  were always so imaginative. The lighting was always warm, there were always people inside enjoying life and the food- in every single one of them.

Because, that’s right, all their food were good food.

New York City was beautifully flawed. 

It was just what you were looking for.

You think this to yourself for the hundredth time since you moved here as you walk down the street towards a new bar you hadn’t been to yet.

You pass by locals as well as tourists and it’s nice. 

You’re about to cross the street when you see a couple getting out of their little apartment. 

Your heart warms as you see the man take the girl’s hand in his, both of them giggling as they prepare for a night out of making memories.

You feel your phone vibrate as you arrive to the other side of the intersection. 

You hear a car horn in the distant and a nice summer breeze blow in through your hair.

You open your lock screen.

Nat

You here yet?

You quickly type away a message while also trying to avoid walking into others coming in the opposite direction as you.

You hold tighter onto your bag as it bumps into a girl, your small heels clacking beneath your feet. 

You open your map to see the distance of the location and then reply back to her.

I’m a block away.

You see it from where you’re standing and it had it a decent sized line to get inside. 

Budapëis

It read in white letters on the blackout windows.

You sped up a bit as you got closer, your excitement growing in your belly.

It doesn’t take much longer after you’ve been in line to realize it was actually moving pretty quickly.

A larger and dark man greets you at the entrance and you hand him your ID which he quickly scans. He gives it back to you and you thank him.

Inside the bar was loud. The people chatted away happily and the music thrummed in your bones. It was also very dark, the only light being the orange glows of the candles on some of the tables and the dimmed warm lights hanging above.

You watched as the cute male bartenders worked proficiently and sync, but also making sense to make small talk with each client as much as they could over the loud noise. 

A girl says excuse me but still manages to nudge into you.

Spinning your head around, you realize there are no more seats left to sit and it makes sense why half of the people were all standing around and huddled like cattle.

Oh boy.

You feel a tug on your arm and you spin around to see Nat holding a Martini in her right hand, her left arm going in for an immediate hug.

“You made it!” She says.

“Of course!” You hope she can hear you.

She pulls away and tugs you towards her, “Come on, we’re all in the back.”

You let her lead you to the “back” which is really just a small space in the corner of the bar. 

You immediately recognize Steve, Sam, and Wanda from afar.

“Oh, hey, you made it!” Steve yells, grabbing you in a tight hug.

“Hey, Y/N” “Oh, hey.” Sam and Wanda greet you.

“Hi, sorry I took a bit long. I was doing laundry.”

“Ha.” Sam snorts out loud, “come on you need a drink.” He adds.

“I will, I will —“ you dart your eyes to his own cup and point, “what’s that?”

“New York sour. Tastes like shit. Wanna try?” He says way too excitedly.

“Sure.” He hands you his glass and you take a sip.

You barely have the tip of the glass all the way out of your mouth when a body hits you on your side, making you stumble. 

The drink doesn’t spill crazily, but it’s enough to get on your hand and to leave it sticky, leaving you annoyed. 

You’re also not too fond of the face full of hair you just got and the elbow that keeps nudging into the side of your rips.

You stumble a few centimeters to the left, because seriously, it’s not like you have an option right now.

You look over to the girl who is now laughing and talking exceptionally loud with Nat and all your friends.

Did they really not see that? 

But you wouldn’t blame them, there was barely any light in the place anyway. 

If it weren’t for Sam reaching over the girl’s head to grab your glass, you’d be certain he had forgotten all about you.

You hand it back, cringing as you try not to elbow the girl in the face. 

Sure, she was rude, but you weren’t going to return that sentiment. 

“What’d you think, Y/N?” Sam shouts to you.

It’s then, finally, when the girl looks over at you. 

She was drop dead gorgeous. At least 5’9. Her hair was a natural light brown and her eyes a piercing green.

Clearly a model trying to make it big in the city.

Her face is emotionless at first but then she attempts a smile. 

You feel awkward under her gaze, awaiting an apology when Sam pulls you around. 

“Come on, lets get ya something good.” He says, dragging you the bar.

You follow him until you’re at the side of the counter closest to when you first came in.

You sigh, already dreading this night, when you overhear Sam ordering two shots of tequila and two lemons.

“Me and you, y/l/n.” He says, taking the glass from the cute bartender.

Sam hands you the shot and you both countdown together before taking it simultaneously. 

You chase it with the lemon, and okay yeah, you feel a little bit better.

“Glad we finally got ya out to a real bar.” Sam smiles.

You shrug.

“It’s been a while. Been busy trying to work, book places.”

“Oh, yeah, what is it that you do again?”

“I’m a singer, Sam. Whole reason I came from Ohio. Hello?”

He shoots you an infectious grin.

“I know, I’m just messing with you.”

You sigh. 

Sometimes you did feel like people forgot though, especially in a city with 8 million other people trying to reach the same dream as you.

You hang around your friends for a bit longer, finally, finally getting the opportunity to wish Nat a happy birthday.

It must’ve been about an hour now later and you’re glad that one girl was gone. 

Whoever she was.

“Is Bucky still coming?” Sam asks randomly out loud.

“He said he would get here as soon as he was done with his shift.” Steve mumbles, looking down at his phone, a glass filled with amber alcohol in his other hand.

“Shocked he’s taking so long. Wonder if he knows Aubrey is here.” Sam says.

“He’s an ass. And a whore. He knows.” Nat screams over to the guys.

You look over at Nat and Wanda and you see them already out of it giggling while looking at some guys’ Instagram feed.

“I’m gonna get another drink.” You announce.

“Hell yeah you are, y/l/n!” Sam yells with a wink.

Steve elbows him in the side.

“Stop peer pressuring her.” He says.

“I’m not, she just needs to let loose—“ he voice fades as you walk away. 

You sigh, suddenly feeling exhausted. You contemplated ordering some fries or maybe mozzarella sticks.

You fold your arms onto the cold counter, waiting for the bartender to give you his full attention. 

It takes a bit with the amount of people he’s serving along with the other bartender.

Finally he looks over at you and he smiles bright. 

God, so cute.

You lean your head on your hand.

“Hi, can I have a gin and tonic?”

He taps the table top.

“Sure thing.” You watch his arms flexing as he makes your drink. 

Mmm.

He slides it to you with a wink.

“You on a tab?”

You tell him Nat’s name and everything necessary and he nods. 

You sip your drink, letting the music drown and numb you along with the alcohol. Your finger trails the condensation on the glass gingerly.

“Hey, man.”

A soothing voice comes up next to you, greeting the bartender.

The bartender’s face lights up.

“No, way. Finally out of his damn shell.” The bartender greets him with a over hand handshake.

You slide over to the side a bit, giving them some space. 

The man next to you orders a drink, giving the bartender his card and requesting a tab.

You feel the heat of his presence as he leans on his own arms  over the counter right next to you, and you can’t help smelling the delicious smell of cologne wafting off his body. 

You don’t know if it’s the alcohol but you feel yourself biting on your bottom lip, and sticking your ass in the air, still dragging your hand up and down the glass. 

But this time on purpose.

It doesn’t work.

You look over to take a look at the man in question and you swoon.

His dark brown hair was begging to be pulled and he had the softest of scruff on his face. 

He wore a black leather jacket and jeans and shoes that looked way too expensive. 

You drag your eyes back up his body to see a smirk, and fuck, he’s looking straight at you.

Those eyes. They were so blue.

You blush faintly, turning back to your glass and taking another sip.

You know he’s still there, eyes stilling lingering on you.

He takes his drink and then clears his throat.

You’re expecting him to say something when he leaves.

Your smile fades and you feel a weird emptiness. Rejection? 

No that couldn’t be it. 

You’re finishing your drink when your eyes drift back up to your friends.

Sam, Steve, Wanda, and Nat are all smiling. 

But then Steve is smiling more and the commotion is even bigger as they spin around.

You perk a brow as you watch the man that was just next to you a few moments ago greet your friends.

Was that Bucky? The infamous asshole?

He was beautiful. 

Of course he was. 

You try to compose yourself before walking back over to your friends.

Sam looks at you disappointed, eyes darting to your empty hands.

“I thought you were getting a drink.”

“I already drunk it, dumbass.”

“Why drink there, drink here.”

You chuckle, your eyes darting to Bucky briefly who eyes you for a moment making a connection.

His friends were your friends too.

There was something strange the entire time, about the connection in the air between you two. 

It must’ve been the alcohol. He was way out of your league. 

But you didn’t understand the asshole your friends were talking about. Well, not that you really knew him that much anyway.

As you pretend to be intrigued in your conversation with Nat and Wanda, yours was actually focused on Bucky.

It’s like you both are playing a playful game of who can catch the other looking first. 

You find yourself licking your lip...twirling your hair around your finger…

You swear he’s staring at your finger. 

God, what was happening to you?

“Hey, babe!”

You heart Plummets into your stomach as you see the same girl from before (the one who spilled the drink on you) wrapping her arms around Bucky’s neck and oh yeah, she’s definitely sticking her tongue down his throat.

You feel your heart in your stomach and the strong taste of the gin in your mouth.

He pulls away with a moan and a slight grimace.

“Hey, Aubrey. What are you doing here?” 

His hands go to her arms, prying her off of him.

“I came with a few friends and ran into yours. You haven’t been answering any of my messages.”

“Yeah, we broke up, remember?”

Everyone’s attention is now to Bucky and Aubrey as they watch their interaction.

“But come on, just one more night, one more good fuck for all times sake.”

A heavy snicker leaves your throat, but you quickly try to disguise it by pretending to wipe your mouth. 

The girl’s head spins towards you and she peaking a brow at you.

She quickly ignores you and turns back to Bucky.

“Come on, Bucky.”

Bucky looks over it.

“Aubrey, Aubrey stop.” He says seriously.

She pulls back from him and they stare at each other for a moment longer before she scoffs and spins on her heel.

You turn away from the scene, suddenly needing another drink or at least some fresh air.

You settle for the latter, telling your friends you’d be right back.

You settle to lean back against the brick wall of the bar, taking in the sweet smell of a summer night.

The contrast of the silence outside felt amazing your ears, and the small amount of alcohol in your system only made it better.

You cursed yourself for being a horny little freak. But you chuckle to yourself as you pull out your phone. You couldn’t help that you needed physical attention.

You’re skimming through your emails when you feel someone next to you. You look up to see Bucky, his left shoulder leaning on the wall right next to you.

You find yourself smiling at his little smirk and you bite your bottom lip, looking away.

“You were trying to get my attention so bad before, and now you don’t want to talk?” He asks playfully.

You shake your head, but you still have a smile on your face.

You feel your cheeks grow hot.

“Wow, seriously?” “Am I wrong?”

You think about your answer as you continue to look through your emails, except at this point you were just trying to look like you were.

“No, but that was before I realized who you were.”

His smiled slides off slowly.

“What do you mean?” 

You finally decide to put your phone away and you spin around to look at him, now face to face.

The look in his eyes are intense and you find yourself blushing. You knew all these things about him, but yet he had this aura about him, almost like everyone else was wrong.

Your eyes dart from his eyes and to his lips.

“Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy.” You say quietly.

When he doesn’t say anything, you look back up until your eyes meet.

“Are they wrong?” He asks.

Your perk a brow at his answer.

“I—I don’t know.” 

He chuckles.

“Exactly.”

You nod, pushing yourself off the wall. You take a deep breath, looking at the people on the street.

“It’s getting late, I should get going.”

Bucky nods, still not moving from his spot.

“Okay, yeah.”

You stay glued to where you are, your eyes darting back to his.

“Yeah.” You repeat back.

You watch as the tip of his tongue licks his lips. You feel the heat in your core and you feel the heavy beating in your chest.

“Do you live close by?” He asks huskily, looking over your shoulder.

____

You don’t know how it happened, but one minute he had you up against the public hallway wall of your apartment building - where literally anyone could see you - and the next he was pushing your jeans passed down your hips in your living room.

You groaned as your lips connected again, and as you pulled on his hair again.

He cursed into your lips as he cupped your center, feeling how wet you already were for him. 

You whimpered as he rubbed small circles over your clit, before finally inserting his finger deep inside of you.

He pushed you down onto your bed, his left hand still fucking you. You lifted your left leg onto the bed and he groaned into your mouth as he quickened the pace of his hand. 

You threw your head back, moaning.

You felt your desire quickly dissipate as he pulled away from you.

Bucky chuckled at your whine, but your disappointment was short lived as your watched him pull his shirt and jeans off.  

You did the same with your own top and then your bra.

He was on you in a hot second, capturing your lips in a long kiss that had your toes curling against your blanket.

When he pulled away you were captivated by how delicious he looked. You also couldn’t help but swoon at the look he had in his eyes. 

Endearment? You weren’t sure.

Your fingers trail over the side of his face as he continues to stare down at you.

“I’m not the bad guy,” he kisses you. He slides into you with a grunt, “I swear, I’m not him.” He kisses you again.

Your hook your left leg over his hip, pulling him in deeper into your hot core.

You pull away from his mouth, your left hand going down to his stomach.

“Fuck. Fuck.” You pant heavily. It felt too good too fast and you know he felt it too as he stretched his forearms on either side of your head.

A long whimper leaves his lips as he sets a faster pace, fucking you into your bed.

He almost looses it completely when he feels you reaching down to rub at your clit, your fingers hitting the base of his cock and his little hairs.

You feel your pussy tightening around him and you know you’re so damn close.

“Yeah, come on, baby. That’s it.” He coaxes you, panting desperately into the crook of your neck.

You feel the fire burning in the pit of your tummy and you know that with a few more thrusts and a few more rubs on your clit that you were done for.

The sounds in your little apartment were filthy. You could hear his hips snapping against yours and both of your groans.

He slowed down his pace as you felt yourself come undone.

“Shit, I’m cumming.” You tell him through gritted teeth, your face only millimeters from his.

He has a wicked smirk on his face and some of his sweaty strands of hair stick to his forehead.

“Me too, fuck, I’m cumming, too.” He says.

You scream as you pulse around his hard cock, not missing the way his own eyes squeeze together, a strong grunt leaving his mouth.

His hips slow down to a stop and when you open your eyes again, he’s already staring down at you.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.” You say, running your hand through his hair.

Bucky chuckles as he leans forward to leave a kiss on your collarbone.

[withoneheadlight]

| kegboys | billy & tommy speak a bit of spanish. translations at the end |

.

"Do you have to eat your ice cream like that?"

Steve looks up at Billy with a frown, licks at his thumb, his middle finger. Takes another mouthful.

"Lai-wah?"

They're sitting on the sidewalk in the back of the Starcourt, entrenched in a patch of shade, Tommy in between the two of them, the soles of their snickers slowly cooking over the boiling pavement. It’s the third day in a row that Hawkins has reached the thirty-five degrees mark, and Tommy can tell Billy is growing restless, wearing his skin thin, like he's burning from the inside out with the heat of the season.

"Less like you're blowing it, more like you’re eating it" his voice sounds hoarse, dangling on some kind of edge.

It sounds hungry.

Steve keeps on looking at him like he doesn't understand, eyes round and big. Manages to catch some syrup right before it slides down the edge of the cone, but gets a bit of cream on his nose. Wipes it with his palm.

He looks devious and adorable and Tommy wants to lick him whole. He hopes it  doesn't show  when he says,

"I think he means a little less–uhm—dirty?"

Because when it comes to Steve and Billy, shockingly enough, Tommy is the one mediating.

And no, the heat is not helping.

"Dirty" Steve repeats, lips pursing, and takes all of his force of will not to stare at how red they look, how much they stand out of his skin, out of the electric-blue of that fucking uniform "Billy thinks I'm dirty" he crosses his legs at the ankles. His socks are pulled up. Tommy has never wanted to kiss this bad someone that wears his goddamn socks pulled up.

Steve thinks he looks ridiculous in that uniform. He doesn't know shit.

"For the lack of a better word" Billy smirks, canines bare. Looks at Tommy like he's thinking it too, that there isn't really a lack of words, there are plenty.

(Like filthy. Like obscene. Like hot as fuckin' fuck. Like I want you to do to me what you're doing to that fucking ice cream)

Steve rolls his eyes. The ice cream keeps on melting, dripping all over his knuckles. He sticks out his tongue and licks them clean, a long stripe all the way up to the tip, his mouth full of syrup and whipped cream and cookie bits and when Billy breathes out a ragged holy shit, he looks fucking pleased.

"Well, maybe Billy," he says, looking intently at Billy "shouldn't get all that squeamish. Considering the amount of disgusting shit he makes me witness on a regular basis"

It's not like he's not right. Usual circumstances, Billy is gross, he's nasty, but right now, and for some whimsical reason he's eating his ice cream with careful, deliberate precision, making it turn against his tongue, not missing a drop. And Tommy doesn't want to wonder how would it be to have all that meticulous intent aimed onto a different place but he does. He does.  Even if it's not as if something like that could ever happen. Because Tommy knows about Billy and Billy knows about Tommy, but that only means they can torture each other about how much they lust and long and pine for Steve. That's all.

(They've only kissed once. Only to know what it feels like. Two days after getting so drunk together, so thoroughly high, that Billy ended up confessing the inconfessable "I would kiss him all day, Tommy, I swear. I would sit on his lap and do nothing fucking else. Just kiss him," two days after Tommy's ribcage pressed inwards, clutching at his heart "Sorry, Hargrove. But I saw him first", two days after Billy laughed at his face "Like that's gonna make any difference." They kissed because there's no one else, because when Billy asked, he did it straight into his ear, voice dripping down the hem of his shirt, sliding his sternum, and lower "If you want, I'll let you pretend I'm him". A single kiss that lasted for fifteen minutes straight and ended the moment Tommy began to feel his cock filling up in his jeans –the moment he began to realize that knowing that Billy Hargrove kisses as if he wants to drag you out of your own skin, that his mouth tastes sweet and warm, spicy with the aftertaste of nicotine, that it feels nothing like he imagines Steve’s would– is a little more risky than he had anticipated)

"I'd do that, but you're getting all filthy, King Steve" and the tone of his voice could pass for mean it wasn't because Tommy knows he always sounds meaner when he's horny (they've touched each other only once. No kisses. No closeness. Just hands. Cramped in the minuscule rectangle of Tommy's bed, because "What it is Tomas? Are you too scared try?" "I'm not scared" "Then pull your pants down" And Tommy shouldn't know he can't stop talking ––dirty, violent, like a fucking heart attack–– while he's coming but he knows, God he knows. "And we don't want those poor costumers getting the wrong impression about what was their lovely Scoops Sailor doing to stain that uniform, do we?"

Tommy sighs inwards. Takes a bite of his almost finished freeze pop. If it wasn't because the idea of his two best friends having a crush on him wouldn't occur to Steve in a million years they'd be totally screwed. It's not like they've been exactly subtle. Especially Billy.

"Mmhh. Guess who's not getting free ice cream next time?" says Steve, tone as bratty as it gets. Daring.

Billy bares his teeth.

"You're forgetting I have Robin, pretty boy"

"Oh. But you are forgetting whose side Robin is"

He’s smiling that angelic smile he always puts on whenever he is about to screw you. Opens up his mouth and sucks on the ice cream, lips pressed around the tip, lets out a groan of pure pleasure and swallows "It’s still too dirty for you like this, Hargrove?" he asks pointedly and Tommy shouldn't, really shouldn't be staring at him but––

(Tommy and Steve have never touched, never kissed, but Tommy knows that he snores softly when he falls asleep with his head buried in your neck and that you can tell how he feels by the way he’s saying your name. He knows how big he feels, how hot, when he gets hard against your thigh, even if it was just once and by pure accident, the two of them rubbing against each other while fighting for the remote, Steve red up to the roots of his hair, repeating "Sorry oh my god Tommy I'm so sorry" and Tommy feeling so thankful for the rough fabric of his jeans being tight enough to hide his own erection)

And there are a million other things that Tommy would like to know, a million times, but he can't.

He can’t)

"-mmy?"

"Uhm?"

"Can you help me clean this up?"

Steve manages to catch the drop of ice cream that's sliding down his neck, licks at the corner of his mouth, but he still has syrup just below his lower lip, on his cheek, and it's not the first time Tommy wets his thumb and wipes whatever he's gotten onto his face, there's been hundred before, but this time Steve looks at him with eyes blown into an impossible dark and Tommy is achingly aware that Billy is watching them too. His heart beats in his throat while he wipes Steve clean, ––his skin soft, sun-warmed–– while bringing his pad into his mouth to clean it up, tasting strawberry and vanilla. And it would also taste like caramel and cinnamon and that spicy aftertaste of the nicotine, if he turned right now and Billy let Tommy kiss him a second time.

(And Tommy will never know, but sometimes he wonders how the three of them would taste like together. Because sometimes Billy comes up from behind and leans all his weight against Steve's back, embraces him, when he's studying or eating at the cafeteria or sitting at the edge of the pool. Sometimes he sits beside him in the back of the car or at the movies, puts an arm around him and Steve lets him, always lets him. Allows Billy to insert himself point-blank into his personal space and Tommy should feel jealous, should feel weird, but what he feels is the blood rushing to the center of his body, pooling in there like an itch he shouldn't dare to even think about scratching)

Tommy hears the click of a lighter, catches the smell of the smoke. When Billy speaks, his voice doesn't reach Tommy's brain, it goes straight down to his cock.

"Cuidado, Tommy. Si lo sigues mirando así se va a dar cuenta de que es a él al que quieres comerte"

When Tommy turns to look at him, he merely raises an eyebrow, and it looks like he's trying not to grin but his teeth widen around the filter like he can’t stop them.

Because Tommy knows about Billy and Billy knows about Tommy, but this is all they do. Picking at each other. Playing games too close to the fire. And Tommy's skin feels burnt, aching, like this thing inside of him is about to peel it up, crawl outside of him.

"Vete a la mierda" he says, makes it a warning, but Billy blows the smoke to his face, blows a kiss after. Tommy pushes him "Gilipollas"

"Oh but of course" starts Steve as he gets up, brushing off any dust that might have got stuck to his pants, throwing the rests of his ice cream in the trash "You two are such a  good example of fucking good manners, aren’t you?" He smacks Tommy on the head, steals Billy’s cigarette and takes a long, deep drag “Maybe instead of sitting here doing nothing for the rest of the fucking afternoon you two would grow a pair and talk about making a move about that thing you keep bickering about so secretly all around me” he says in one sitting, looking them alternatively in the eye, and Tommy only realizes that his mouth is hanging open when Steve leans in and places the cigarette between his lips “I'm starting to get a bit tired of waiting."

“But you don't spe–” Tommy starts, but Steve cuts him off before he can finish.

“Oh. No I don’t. But Robin does. I guess it's a good thing that you two were dumb enough not to take it into account" cocky, a little wicked “I'm out at eight”

The door closes behind him. Billy reaches out to retrieve his cigarette. Inhales so deep that in his lungs mustn’t be any room left for the oxygen.

"Fuck"

They hold each other's gaze.

Fuck.

He’s feeling the heat in a lot more places now than only those reached by the burning sun.

At eight.

*

Translations:

“Be careful, Tommy. If you keep looking at him like that he’s gonna realize its him what you wanna be eating”

“Go fuck yourself”

“Asshole”

[popculturebuffet]

Jake Reviews Stuff: Star Vs: Friendenemies

Happy pride all. I’m getting ahead of this one for a number of reasons:  1) It’s pride month and this episode is one of the most shiptastic things i’ve seen with two male characters since Robochris from bravest warriors. I mean it dosen’t quite reach “Creating a skull robot of your best friend because he won’t touch you a lot to make him jealous enough to do that” levels of romantic tension but it tries. 

2) My good friend @jess-the-vampire​ is a tomco shipper, and with things being rough for her I figure she could use this sooner rather than later. 3) Shows are actually coming back with Amphibia emerging from it’s year long odinsleep the same week Close Enough finally escapes from it’s dumpster after 10,000 years to conquer earth before it gets put back in there then escapes again and marries lord zedd.. I lost the metaphor the point is I want to keep Tom train, and other star arcs I have planned, moving at a steady clip. 

So with all of that yeah, i’m ready to go. No real exposition to dump again, come on let’s go after the cut!

We open with Marco at his laptop nervous about something and Star coming into his room tangled in christmas lights... so normal day at Casa Diaz.  Anyways Marco can’t help star out of her latest self made prison because he’s preording tickets to a Mackie Hand Film Festival. Mackie Hand is Marco’s faviorite martial artist and movie star, who died performing a stunt on himself.. accidentally.. did he give himself a death punch? Is this the same universe as regular show.. please say yes.  Anyway as is natural for Marco in the first two seasons as god apparently hates him, the tickets sell out instantly and he dosen’t get them, banging his head against his laptop as Star TRIES to comfort him , saying he might still be able to get them. Marco also says “Good things don’t happen to me”

I mean just look at Season 3. Anyways tom comes in licking a rainbow snowcone for no explained reason other than they wanted to make it obvious this was the Tomco episode. Tom asks to hang out and after Star, understandably at this point given you know, the horrible date where he tried to murder her best friend and the gaslighting a few weeks back, tells him a million times no, Tom explains he’s not here for her.. he’s here for Marco. Marco, given tom’s threatned to kill him twice now and tried to at least once, isn’t biting. Tom naturally has tickets to the festival as a trump card, and assumes that time he kidnapped marco and played him in ping pong for his freedom counts as a friend hang out, and geuinely apologizes for his behavior promising not to get angry. Really while as you probalby know we DO get the reveal later he was partly doing this whole thing to finish his anger managment... I do get the sense this apology, and a lot of this is GENUINE. We’ll get more into the why in a bit, but he does seem to genuinely want to bury the hatchet.  Marco pulls star aside and, given the last two times he saw Tom, the boy had some horrible scheme up his ripped sleeves, he understandably, and as it turns out correctly, thinks Tom is once again up to some sort of scheme, star is fully on board. I have. mixed feelings about this. On the one hand STar did forgive tom for the previous episodes mess and Ponyhead for much worse and it does set up the tiny plot curnel of corn that would grow into an entire corn field of her still having some friendly feelings toward tom. But it just feels weird, even with how cahotic star can be to have her flip flop from “Stop calling me” To “You should totlaly go on a date with the guy who harassed me and tried to kill you twice now. “. Especially since next time she has an episode with Tom, She’s fully resentful of him and a bit snarky and spends and episode, in part thanks to aformentioned magical severed ponyhead, suspicious of him playing games with her head again. We’ll get there soon obviously, i’m just saying it feels mildly off. 

So Marco decides, much like bart simpson that getting where he’s going’s worth it even if he has to ride with the devil himself and reluctantly agrees. We see the inside of Tom’s carriage for the first time, and see my good personal friend dead horse again on the outside, and it’s really nice.. lit by torches because mood lighting, but similar to his room it’s plushly decorated and even has two serious speakers and according to Tom 6 flatscreens. Damn I wish I had one of those.. that and I wouldn’t have to drive since I can’t due to my anxiety. Plus who wouldn’t want a firey horse skelton sidekick? Anyways Tom offers Marco cold cereal and Marco is frank with tom, pointing out he’s suddenly being nice to Marco after never being nice to him before and understandably isn’t sure he’s even a mackie hand fan but a bit of banter and trivia shows Marco that no, Tom really seems to be telling the truth.  Tom then confides in marco that he gets why Marco didn’t belivie him: Most people dont’ get past their preconcived perceptions of him. And here the series does flesh tom out a bit: Tom admits to not having many friends.. which frames the previous two episodes in a diffrent light. Sure his actions to Star are still very much not okay... but you at least see WHY he was so obessive about her: She was probably the first real friend he had that wasn’t a casual aquantince, his own family member, or a pet. Most Mewman kids his age probably weren’t too keen to hang out with what to them was a monster, rich or not, little raicst shits. And in the underworld most people probably just did whatever he asked because they were afraid of his temper or his parents fury, even if his parents are the nicest people in the underworld. So when he lost her, Tom didn’t know how to properly react and while his first attempt to win star back was genuine, it was marred by his refusal to adress his anger or control issues that likely lead to Star dumping him in the first place. While Star’s forgivness HERE is a bit werid, her willingness to give him another shot wasn’t: Tom was SEEMINGLY genuinely trying. He was in therapy, he’d been anger free for several days and most glowingly, when a stranger karate chopped his hand off in a misguided attempt to protect star.. he got upset but instnatlly went into his coping mechanisms.  The problem was as I covered in that review.. Tom didn’t WANT to change. That’s the thing about changing: you need to both know there is a problem and WANT to fix it. And even then, as we’ll see sometimes i’ts hard. I know, i’ve had my own personal issues i’ve had to change up as years went on. It’s a slippery slope you have to constnatly climb up. And BMB era tom.. just didn’t WANT to change he just wanted to do what he thought star wanted that would get her to take him back, and couldn’t understnad why she wouldn’t just listen to him and obey, two things not in star’s vocabulary for anyone much less her ex. 

So , much like I did, rather than blame himself for screwing things up, he just saw it as Marco being in the way and tried to fix that. And so he sunk to rock bottom.. but it didn’t fix their relationship and it took Marco having an honest conversation, as someone who was also very close to her and knew her well, to get him to see that Star wasn’t going to take him back unless she wanted it.. what he was doing was selfish and self destructive.. and Tom probably realized in that moment he had to stop. He let her go, and thus as I put al ot of emphasis on last time, made his first step to being better.  And to me that’s why this makes sense as his next step: While it’s partly to fufill a checklist... you get the sense he really DOES like marco on some level. They hung out, which I do feel tom did genuinely feel was like friends hanging out instead of you know the second highest stakes game of ping pong i’ve ever seen. 

The first if your curious. So while part of this is Tom just wanting to get through anger managment for likely his parent’s sake, part of it is also him genuinely wanting to be somebody’s buddy, anybody but a bumbling butler. It’s just being Tom, he dosen’t know HOW to make friends or get them to see past who he is surface wise; a spoiled angry boy and see the inside, a nice kid who just has no idea how to talk to people beyond a surface level or understand them and we’ll see that more both in this episode and as we go. Speaking of going back in the episode proper, two bros drive up and insult Tom’s carriage also wondering if he’s going to his grandpa’s funeral. Fuck you both.. both on general principal and becaause his grandpapapapapapaaaaaaaaaaaa is alive and magnificent. 

Satan bless you Relicor. Anyways, Tom is naturally pissed at this and Marco challenges them to a race.. but eases tom off actually following them as, since this isn’t a fast and the furious movie, the police immidelty arest them and we get the blessed image above. Let’s see that again.

NOGODWHY

Not right but it’ll have to do I fear what may happen if I try again.  ONE BALLON DICK GIRAFFE LATER, our boys are on a high, as Tom finds there are things more fun than obletarating people. #tomhaskilledmultiplepeopleandisstillthebestboy. Marco is reminded of a song from his faviorite band Love Sentence, and Tom, suprisingy given his My Chemical Romance with a splash of metal astetic, is not only a huge fan but has a giant Helga Patiaki esque shrine to them complete with a cd player with shuffle. Fancy. 

We then get a wonderful, shiptastic montage of the two just hanging out, hanging out with a white tiger. Having themselves a party. And given the song itself, sung by 98 Degrees and horrible realtiy show Newleywed’s alumnus Nick Lachey, even says “we used to be enimies but now we have chemistry” yeah I think this is intentional and they are a good ship. Are they my prefered ships for the characters? No tha’ts kelly and flame princess... the last one was recent and I love a good crossover ship sue me. But I do headcanon both as still Bi and still find the ship great, it’s just not my main one. 

However the good times can’t last as it is film time... but Tom refuses to let marco leave befor eblowing his top off... dude that’s not how you build a suppportive relationship, you know this by now. Turns out the white tiger I haven’t mentioned to now is actually Brian, vocied my boy Stephen Root who apparently just.. lives at DIsney’s animation studios now as he has a tendency to show up in every other animated disney show. You may know him from Gravity Falls as Bud Gleeful, THe Mayor from Amphibia, or , in non disney voice work, Bill Dautrive. Turns out as I haven’t even tried to hide, Tom was in the final stage of his anger managment class and to get out of it had had to spend 3 hours with the person he hated most. As I said I do think part of it was GENUINE on tom’s part, that he was trying to be what he thought friends were... it’s just he didn’t get that Marco, if grumblinignly, probably STILL would’ve agreed if he were honest.  However.. it’s still a step up. While i’ts still a scheme, and his LAST on the show.. it’s more benign after the last two; Instead of being harmful his scheme this time is just “Bribe my worst enemy into hanging out with me and get out of anger managment” it’s still not quite right, but compared to the things he’s done with star, it’s an improvment and a sign he is changing despite himself. He could’ve just kidnapped marco again and forced him to spend the three hours.. granted this might’ve just been Brian saying, obviously no tha tdosen’t count, but still, instead he tried being nice and giving an apology. Even if it was for personal gain on some level, Marco’s words clearly got to him and he’s now trying genuinely unselfish tactics. It’s also notable since he spent the three hours with marco, and at least half an hour of awkarndess before it got all fun, WITHOUT getting angry or falling back on old stratgies and only beefing it at the end because, as i’ve established, he dosen’t get people.  So naturally tom gets mad.. while it is a sign he’s getting better he dosen’t do his trademark horrifying demonic EXPLOSION of rage... he’s still being petulant and sore over his failure is mad at marco for pritoritzing the tickets nad destroys them. Marco naturally calls him out, angry over him manipulating him to get some badge , as he puts it, calls him a jerk and a liar, accurate and the worst part to marco? “I WAS DUMB ENOUGH TO FALL FOR IT”

Credit where it’s due while I may not LIKE adam mcarthur as a person...as a voice actor he is excellent and his delivery here is perfect as you do get the pain in Marco’s voice as he genuinely ahd grown to care for tom. Wethere it was friendship or wanting to make out... probably wanting to make out, you get the pain in his voice. Tom admits the love sentence hting wasn’t a lie.. but too little too late.. whcih is marco’s second faviorite love sentence song and leads to another moment of shippy goodness. Seriously I see why this ship exploded in popularity after this. Also I will say both Adam and Rider have damn pretty voices.  So Tom does what any romantic lead faced with a third act breakup would do.. say a demonic chant and bring Mackie Hand back from the dead. This is also the first time we see just how fucking powerful tom is. Before we’ve seen him summon his carriage and immolate some stuff and easily reattach a hand.. but this is the first time that we see he’s every pit as powerful as star, who probably could raise the dead she just dosen’t want to. Granted I don’t know why this sort of undead stuff hasn’t been used on say, Moons assitnated mother, but presumibly anti-monster stigma combined with the fact that we don’t know HOW she died or how much was left, and are probably better off that way solve that. It goes a long way to explain why Tom’s family are allies instead of the conquered like most monsters: They have equal , if far diffrent and spookier, magic power and are the only kingdom with this trump card besides the butterfly kingdom. 

So as we close Marco tries to use Mackie to get in, the usher dosen’t buy it and a fight insues, but Marco and Tom patch things up, Tom becoming a fan of Mackie now he’s seen what the guy can do and Marco forgiving tom since, evne if his actions were still a bit greasy, he immidetly did his best to try and fix what he broke. The two are friends again despite them both saying they hate each other... but they clearly mean it playfully. The End.  Final Thoughts: After the Slog that was last episode this one is a fan faviorite for a reason... well okay 2 reasons. One...

And two.. it’s excellent. I feel bad it took me years to see this one, but it’s one of season 2′s finest. It’s funny, has great character stuff for both boys, introduces a new ship that’s fantastic and a great new dynamic between Tom and Marco that would carry for the rest of the show. It also beliviebly advances Tom’s character arc: He’s TRYING a bit but he’s still got a bit of the scheming and selfishness that defined his earlier outings, but it’s telling that after this episode, and hurting marco, he stops. This episode REALLY gets him to change that and for the better.  Sadly Tom would only make one more apperance this season in Naysaya, an episode I will cover when I cover Jackie and Marco at some point, but has him show up for a cameo when it turns out the episodes antagonist, a curse that takes the form of a sentient head that spills the target’s worst secrets and insecurities when they try to ask someone they like out, is Tom’s fault from back when he was a baddie, and Tom genuinely apologizes and tells him how to vanquish it, if ribs marco a bit since he cast that curse presumibly sometime between BMB and MCC and is delighed and suprised that Marco seriously hadn’t asked anyone out in that time. But it’s a nice bit that shows their not only still friends but Tom is genuinely sorry for some of his earlier behavior. We’ll see more of that as we go and more of tom trying to be better.. he’s made up with Marco, next time we come back to tomtrospective, we’ll see how it goes with Star. 

Coming up besides the obvious, as Pride Winds down I’ll have my first steven unvierse coverage, one of the first openly gay couples in western animation, and some asexula pride as we take our first look at Bojack Horseman..’s loveable rommate todd. Until we meet again, stay safe, black lives matter and later days. 

[finallybecomingemo]

Week of shit

It’s been about a week of feeling like shit. I can tell something is about to happen and I’m coming to something great. Just everything in me wants to give up. I’m about to graduate school, I’ve been at it for 7-8 years, jesus christ. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say I put my heart in soul into this degree. So glad it’s about to happen, too bad I’m feeling everything else at the same time. Feelings of “you’re not good enough to change your life”, “hurry, screw up and get off course so you don’t have to experience greatness”, “don’t get over this”, just no’s and not yet’s all around me. Why don’t I want to move on from my life? Why don’t I want to leave the past behind me and say “Good job.” It’s what I hate about myself. But at least I’m still going to the gym. Today it took 2 pre-workouts, but hey I did everything I wanted to at the gym, so that’s great. I just can’t shake this feeling of emptiness, and anxiousness to fuck up my entire life. Which is why I am in my room over at the place I rent from, instead of with my mom. I have candles lit here, and was even wanting to have my username be “candlesinthedarkworld”. I do think I’m finally becoming emo though, at least right now. I would love for this to be my personality all the time, but not care about anything. Not quite stoned, just not seeing a point to anything. I feel like life is calmer and slowed down now. Anyway, I wanted to write about how I wanted to kill my dad and his girlfriend. I hate them entirely and want them to both be dead. I was at the gym today thinking about it. Now I forsure can’t ever put my name on here lol. I’m actually just surrounded by a completely quite environment right now, with my crackling candle making the sound of a campfire. Except I’m in a controlled environment. Which is exactly what I need. I actually get depressed when I’m out in nature. The nothingness of the clear, quiet outside, mountains and trees, wind. Makes me feel so empty inside, and like I should do something- but I am so at a loss as to what. I hope I make friends on here. Anyway, yeah death to my dad and his gf, and I sent her a nice text today but the bitch blocked me. I apologized for throwing her shoes away and calling her rude names. I’m trying to do therapy with my dad, you have no idea how much I want to give up on that man. He cheated on my mom, didn’t want her to have me, he lied to us all our lives. I want nothing more than to be a millionaire so he can suck my dick. I just want to show him how it’s done. What someone with their shit together looks like. What someone of honor and respectful values looks like and does with their life. How they behave. What they agree to, what they take control with, what they take initiative with. But honestly, all that resentment and angry motivation, makes me just want to let go of it all. So I’m figuring out what I want to do. That was the plan for the last year, a little more if I’m being completely honest. I hated him for not holding his own and paying my school. You said you would, now that I’m in...you’re...just...not? I contemplated everything and then went to a depression hospital, I wanted to kill my boyfriend at the time too. Thank god I didn’t because I’m actually trying to get back with him now. We’ll see how that goes! I can’t imagine someone liking a psychopath like me. Anyway, as hard as it is to create a plan of action for me to get through this tough time, I think I made the best decision to come to my place, ignore my crazy roommate downstairs and play dark Kid Cudi loud, take a hot shower and write with candles lit. It smells really good, and I smell really good. I am making 2 appointments a week with my therapist now that I’m feeling this funk. I think that’s also a good decision I’m making. I post on social media- I know there are mixed feelings about that, but I like being as connected as I can, I just don’t know when I’m crossing a line and posting “not” normal stuff. Like I gotta show the people what I am right? A fuckin depressed person that overworks herself and cares about what she’s doing. That’s normal right? Except I’m not quite like everybody else... I’m pretty eccentric. We can thank my Dad for that. 

But I think that just continuing with my progressive therapy, working- though that’s the last thing I want to do- I need the money. I have no investing skills and I need to figure this life shit out if I’m going to be a millionaire just for the sake of my own needs, desires and comfort. There are actually people out there who don’t want a million dollars, but ask anyone who knows me- I’m amazing when it comes to my work ethic. I might act like I’m selfish, stuck up (I think I come off like I’m stuck up, cuz I don’t ask people how they’re doing very often- I feel like I’m always intruding so I’m getting better at it... but I just don’t ask really. but becoming a better person takes learning so I’m on my way anyway.) not taking anything seriously like people’s relationship issues- but idk, honestly you’re going to get so annoyed of me the second I do. BUT I work really hard and am always thinking about how I can be a better person. Just right now it’s especially hard, and I am taking part in risky behavior, like speeding, enjoying driving, not so much sex, cuz I wanna get my ex back, but geez I’ve had like 25 partners. So much dick inside me. Oh well. 

[suitofvibraniumarmor]

Boston Boys [Part One]

Summary: Dr. Aurelie Juneau treats someone in the emergency room she shouldn’t, and get a visit from her brother a few days later.  Pairing: Chris Evans x OFC, John Krasinski x OFC Word Count: 1700 Chapter Warnings: Hospital setting and treatment, mentions of guns, implied crime.  Square Filled: The entire series (bits and pieces of it) will fill my Crossover square for @marvelfluffbingo​.  A/N: This story contains a character who lost her hearing as she got older. I do work closely and regularly with the D/deaf community (I’m a sign language interpreter), but my own hearing problems do not involve significant hearing loss. It is not my intention to offend anyone, only to bring in a character with a quality I don’t see often in other fics. If you have questions about her, feel free to ask :)

A busy emergency room wasn’t an unusual thing, especially in Boston, but tonight the chaos was weighing down on Aurelie. She pulled the magnet piece of her cochlear implant away from her head in an effort to drown out the sound for a few peaceful seconds. She stretched her neck from side to side, then rested her head in her hands. The near-silence was a welcome reprieve from the things weighing on her mind.

A tap on her shoulder prompted her to replace the magnet against her head and turn to see who was beckoning her. A nurse handed Aurelie a chart.

“The guy in room five is refusing to let anyone examine him or anything until he sees you. Says he’s got a lac, I see blood on his shirt.”

Aurelie frowned. “He seem legit?”

The nurse shrugged. “Seems like any run of the mill guy, middle class, whatever. We called security down, they’re waiting by the room.”

“All right.” She flipped through a few pages of the chart. “I don’t recognize the name, but I’ll check him out.”

She stood from the desk where she had been charting and skimmed over the rest of the chart as she walked. The curtain to room five was pulled closed for privacy, but the sliding doors were still open. Normally such a room would have been reserved for a psych patient or a near-trauma. Aurelie suspected that the nature of this patient’s refusal to speak to anyone but her had something to do with his room placement.

The request for her services was another common occurrence in the emergency room. Though no one, including most of her patients, particularly knew why she did it, Aurelie treated any injury or sickness that came into the ER, and she did so with a discretion that, at times, was outside of the law. Her casual manner about the treatments often went unnoticed by her co-workers, or didn’t bother any of them enough for them to speak up. If you lived in Boston and got tangled up in some mess that got you hurt but you didn’t want the authorities involved, you went to MassGen and asked for Dr. Juneau. That’s just the way it was.

Pulling the curtain to the side, she kept her facial expression neutral, as she would with any patient. She surveyed the man laying on the bed; at least six-two, maybe a buck-eighty in weight. Brown hair, face pale -- from his injury, Aurelie figured. She set the chart on the metal tray and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I’m Dr. Juneau. You asked for me?”

The man nodded. “I’ve heard that you’ll take care of someone and not put anything sketchy on the books.”

Aurelie licked her lips, pulling her bottom lip between her front teeth. She flipped on all of the lights in the room and surveyed the man again; his face was only vaguely familiar. Regardless, she wasn’t going to put herself on radar by causing a scene. So, she stepped out through the curtain again and told security they could go.

“He’s an old family friend, scared of hospitals. I’ll talk to him about it.”

The two guards who had come down from their bubble shrugged and left. Aurelie asked the nurse to give her a few minutes before she came back into the room. She donned a pair of gloves and disappeared back behind the curtain. After hooking him up to a heart monitor and a blood pressure cuff, she checked his temperature and respirations. With all of vitals noted, she took a seat on the rolling stool and asked where his laceration was located.

The man pulled his shirt up to reveal a cut above his left hip bone, pulling around to his abdomen. Aurelie positioned herself on the side of the bed and took a closer look at the cut.

“How’d you get this?”

“Does it matter?”

“Fair enough.” She rolled to the door and asked the nurse to bring a laceration kit. While she waited, Aurelie got a clean washcloth and doused it with sterilized water. She cleaned the dried blood from the area, then sat and waited in silence. When the nurse came with the lac kit, Aurelie sent the chart with her, and got ready to stitch the man up.

“This is gonna sting, but it’s better than taking the stitches raw,” Aurelie assured, injecting lidocaine to several places in and around the cut. She waited a little longer, then poked him with the needle again. When he didn’t even flinch, she knew she could start the stitches. “Do you need a tetanus shot?”

“Don’t think so.”

Other than that, she went to work in silence, quickly and neatly stitching up the cut, making sure the scar would be straight and minimal. The cut was halfway stitched when he spoke again.

“What’s that above your ear?”

Aurelie pursed her lips, completing two more stitches before answering him. “It’s called a cochlear implant. It helps me hear, to a certain degree.”

“You’re deaf?”

“I wasn’t always. Slowly started to lose my hearing as I got older, sometime in high school, it dropped out completely from the left side. Right side is there, but not nearly a hundred percent. They still don’t know why.” She bit her bottom lip as she struggled to knot the stitch she had just completed on. “My turn?”

He frowned. “What?”

“You asked me two questions. Now I get to ask you two questions, right?”

“I guess.”

Aurelie nodded. “Are you from Boston?”

He laughed. “The accent didn’t give it away?”

She smiled. “You needed to lighten up. It was worth wasting a question. What’s your real name?”

“My real name?”

“I know it’s not Boris Schmidt, even if that’s what’s on your chart.”

The man said nothing, and Aurelie knew better than to push the issue. They fell into silence again while Aurelie finished the stitches and bandaged the area. She left for a few minutes to fill out his dismissal papers, then returned to educate him on the aftercare.

“What are you going to put in my chart?”

Aurelie shrugged. “That you came in with a lac to your lower left flank and quadrant, there was no sign of infection or organ disturbance, that I stitched you up and sent you on your way. Nothing more, nothing less.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

Aurelie snapped her gloves into the trash can and turned back to him. “You’re welcome. Good luck.”

At the curtain, Aurelie thought she caught him say something, but had to turn back around to ask him to repeat.

“John,” he smiled. “My name is John. Krasinski.”

Aurelie’s smile faded. “Krasinski?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, “it’s a weird one, I know.”

Aurelie nodded. “Do me a favor, John. Don’t tell anyone that I treated you.”

With that, she pulled the curtain closed behind her and went back to her desk to chart and catch up with her other patients.

GIF found via Pinterest search. 

Three days later, another hospital shift. Fortunately, this night was not nearly as busy as her last shift. When Aurelie’s pager went off and she saw the code 613, she finished the current orders she was working on, then made way for the parking lot just outside of the emergency room lobby.

Her brother, Chris, was leaned against his car, a classic American muscle number, smoking a cigarette.

“You know this is a hospital, they’ll fine you for smoking outside of the designated area, dumbass.”

Chris turned with a chuckle, tossing the cigarette to the ground and put it out with the toe of his boot. “Better? Here. Your ma packed lunch for you.”

“That was nice of her,” Aurelie replied, taking the brown bag from him. “What’d she pack for you?”

“A nine mil and a wish that I wasn’t so much like my father. The usual.” He opened the driver’s side door of the car and reached in for another bag. “This is from him, by the way.”

Aurelie checked that no one was watching them and shoved the bag back at Chris. “I don’t want that shit, and you know it. I didn’t earn it, neither did you, neither did he. I don’t need it.”

“Aur, listen, all right? Hey, don’t make that damn face. Yeah, we’ve been over this a million times, we’re gonna fuckin’ go over it again. You’re his kid, whether you ever wanted to be or not. Maybe he’s not the dad you were born to, but he’s the one you ended up with. He’s just trying to take care of you.”

“He’s not over what happened. He still thinks my deafness is his fault, and if he pays me off long enough, I’ll come back to the family. Can’t you see that?”

Chris pursed his lips. “Why can’t you stop putting me in the middle of this?”

Aurelie groaned and tucked the extra bag into her white coat. “Fine.”

“All right.” He pulled another cigarette from the pack and held it between his lips but didn’t light it. “You been holdin’ up all right?”

“Yeah, of course. I can hold my own. You made sure of that.” She decided to take a chance and mention her patient from the other night. “Hey, you remember that guy who went to the high school, he was a year ahead of you -- John Krasinski?”

“Fuck that guy,” was Chris’s immediate response. “He and his family could jump into the river and not come back up and I’d keep walking.”

“Tell me how you really feel,” Aurelie snorted. “So that thing with your family and his, that’s still a thing?”

Chris nodded, tossing his cigarette lighter up and down in the palm of his hand. “Hell yeah, it’s still a thing. They’ll learn one day that we run shit, though. What made you think of him?”

“I don’t know. Random thought, I guess.”

The expression on her brother’s face told Aurelie he was going to be watching her carefully over the coming weeks. She thanked him for the food and went back into the hospital, careful to put the bag of money into her backpack before anyone else suspected something was amiss.

AllOfTheThings: @captain-s-rogers​ @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​ @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked​ @hurricanerin​ @horsesandbandsforlife​ @im-not-an-armrest-im-short​ @captain-rogers-beard​ @shynara51​ @sea040561​ @anxiouskore​ @pinknerdpanda​ @xtina2191​ @jackryanplz​ @beakami​ @heartsaved​ @fullprunerebelstatesman​ @blackwidowismyhomegirl

Boston Boys: @atc74​ @the-murder-strut-murdered-me​ @becs-bunker​ @shield-agent78​ @patzammit​ @crazyandanonymous4u