#exactly 100 words!

[drarrypotterrenaissance]

Something Just Like This

Harry's happy right where he is. A 100-word drabble on friendship and turning down destiny in a coffeeshop AU For @harryjamespotterweek 2023, Day 4 (Friendship, Coffeeshop AU) Rated G, 100 words. Read on ao3 here

“Do you ever think what it would be like to be a famous superhero?” Ron asks. He’s been on a comic book kick lately.

It sounds pretty lonely to Harry, like too much sacrifice and pain, obligation you can’t escape from and a moral duty you never asked for.

“No,” Harry replies without hesitation. “It sounds exhausting. And superheroes only get sidekicks, not friends. I wouldn’t want to give you lot up.”

“Sap,” Ron says, but he bumps his shoulder into Harry’s anyway, and Hermione leans across their regular corner table to squeeze his hand.

“We love you too, Harry.”

[thevioletcaptain]

today dean fucked up 😪

[aceredshirt13]

the double-edged sword of old British literature is that there’s a solid chance it’ll feel gay but there’s an equally solid chance it’ll also feel racist

[maxinemaxmayfield]

For the STWG daily drabble prompt: alarm ⏰ (gen, 100 words, implied steddie)

“Eddie! Eds – wake up!” 

Steve’s voice rouses him from a deep sleep. His eyelids are too heavy for this shit. It’s gotta be the middle of the night. He rolls over begrudgingly. 

“Wha’?” he mumbles, eyes still closed. 

“It’s almost noon.” 

His eyes fly open, heaviness be damned. “But the alarm–”

“–Didn’t go off,” Steve finishes for him.

“But we were supposed to pick the kids up–”

“–An hour ago.”

“We’re dead.”

“So dead.” 

Then he hears it, getting louder, more than just the usual midday trailer park sounds he’s used to. Bicycles on gravel. Voices shouting. Bells ringing. 

Fuck.

[hitlikehammers]

PART 2/2: in which lock-picking⛓️‍💥 is 100% a valid love language, and waking up with ✨Steve Harrington✨ was NOT the future (exactly. maybe. ish.)

...but waking up in a hospital bed just might be ♥️

<<< last time: And Eddie thinks that’s highly fucking debatable—he’s not sure where it comes from, because it’s a little out of place, Eddie didn’t say anything but maybe he’s just that transparent, the heart of him so quickly, so completely, and if that’s the case then it’s entirely fucking debatable because Eddie thinks he’s going to burst, splinter like a starburst, glorious in the unmaking for how big this thing that’s building in him feels, how certain he is that it’s about to break his ribs and he fucking looks forward to it, so no: Steve doesn’t love most because he can’t, because Eddie is overcome with this feeling and he, he— He’s drifting, because Steve’s heat is a heady fucking drug, and his heartbeat’s a metronome, a lullaby against Eddie’s back and it’s instinct, it’s unquestionable when he shimmies tighter into Steve’s hold and sighs the weight of the world out between his lips because… Because goddamnit, this feels right.

OR: y'know. Eddie thought he was dying in the Upside Down but then he's waking up in the future, in bed with Steve Harrington like what the fuck

Eddie comes to—again: un-fucking-expected—with the same sensation of his ribs snapping, the pain of it a dull thing he thinks he can just float through because his heart’s so gone on the impossible possibility of some future imaginary day where he, where Steve, where they—

“Eddie?”

Wait.

Wait, that’s…okay.

Back up.

He tries to take in what his senses are willing to offer him: something starchy, itchy against his skin, both sides—definitely not the sheets from the bed he’d just felt visceral underneath him. Pressure and aching at his chest: but less sweet the longer he focuses on it. Stinging and the pull of maybe-bandages, maybe-sutures, maybe both and something deeper, like…oh, wow, fuck, it’s entirely possible his ribs are already broken. His heart still feels full, but also scared, unsure, wrong-footed as more and more little clues seep into his consciousness, before maybe the clearest of them all: a shrill little beep that’s fast, like embarrassingly fast—

A monitor.

He draws a shaky breath—iodine, like, burning levels as he inhales and holy fucking shit, he’s in a goddamn hospital.

He’s, did he…

Is this what Steve meant, when he said ‘wake up’? Did Eddie…

Did Eddie fucking survive?

It’s in the spiral of that thought that Eddie clocks the same voice that jarred him out of his own head…in his own head, before. With the fancy sheets and the warmth and the home and—

What…what if it wasn’t in his head at all—

But his body, his pulse recognizes that voice as safety. As…rightness incarnate.

“Oh fuck,” and that’s the Steve Eddie knows best, right there, a little breathy and a little pitchy for frayed nerves and constant worry and the weight of the fucking world to make sure everyone—everyone else—makes it out as okay as possible.

And it’s in thinking that, that Eddie recognizes what Steve-in-his-headin-the-future-in-his-dream-in-his-maybe-not-quite-death-hallucination meant, when he’d said Eddie’s eyes softened. Because Steve’s heart on his sleeve, in his eyes, had looked peaceful, then. Content, even.

Not so frantic. Not so��scrambling.

Still just as blinding, though.

“Thank fuck, you’re awake,” Steve half gasps, a tiny clattering against the tile floor vying to draw Eddie’s gaze away but there was genuinely nothing in the whole goddamn universe that could take Eddie’s eyes off of Steve just now, those lips parted ever so slightly, cheeks that tiny bit rosy, pulse maybe-maybe-not visible just below the bandages on his neck.

He’s beautiful.

“What do you need?” Steve’s leaning closer, hands reaching but then kinda fluttering, kinda hovering, not sure where to touch and even if they knew the answer, kinda like they’re not sure if they can touch in the first place, yet all Eddie can do when he sees them, when he feels the shift in the air for how close they are; all Eddie can do is remember what it’s like to be pressed close to Steve’s body, to feel Steve’s arms around his chest, like they’re keeping him.

“What can I do,” Steve asks, so earnest and Eddie’s pulse does a little skip for it, how good it feels; “I—”

And Steve’s eyes are already big, just short of pleading, darting to the corners of the room maybe for water, maybe for a button to call someone to help more than he can—as if anyone can help more than Steve can, just now, because Eddie’s waking up from what it feels like to have Steve, and the most pressing possible thing in the world just now is SteveSteveSteve, near enough to feel, to breathe in—

Steve’s eyes are already big, though, is the thing, even before the full-on fucking crash of something to the floor makes him freeze. Eddie tries to peer down, winces as it pulls to much at…everything, kind of, Jesus H., but he hurts everywhere, and…

“The hell were you doing?” he asks in the absence of being able to see because…metal. Metal had hit the floor, from the height of probably-the-bed, after Steve had pressed into the mattress, shifted the weight, and then he’d blinked all owlish and adorable: culpability for whatever he’d been up to written all over his gorgeous fucking face.

“Umm,” Steve chews at his lip a little, eyes peeking up through his lashes, that look that makes Eddie weak and wobbly at basically every juncture it’s possible to tremble at like that, but he doesn’t duck away; he doesn’t even blush. He’s not…whatever he was doing—and Eddie’s range of motion is fucked, he’s already super well aware of that shit when he even tries to move to see the floor, to follow the sound—but whatever Steve was doing, he’s unrepentant. But in a way where he maybe recognizes that other people would have been less brazen.

Eddie’s wrist tingles out of nowhere—weird, when all of him is already kinda in a sort of dull, narcotic-shrouded pain—and he frowns, glances down at least that far and notices the slightest ring of red that’s less angry, not attached to bite marks and broken skin, and he has the wildest thought cross his mind just then, and he steels himself to crane his neck as far as he can, to limit the strain he’ll put on his middle because now he needs to see, because he kinda knew before he cut the sheets and ran into the fray that coming out on the other side meant life behind bars if there was any life at all, yet here he is, increasingly seeming like this is real, and this is his ‘other side’, and…

He’s just in a fucking hospital. He’s…he’s here, and he’s, he’s not…he’s not in fucking chains.

And it stings like a bitch, and Steve’s a second away from stopping him, reaching for him and pressing him safely back onto the the bed, but Eddie gets the glimpse he needs. Recognizes the shape on the floor, shiny steel against the scratched-up linoleum.

“Were you,” Eddie traces the ridges of his teeth with his tongue, because there are layers to what he’s about to ask; “were, umm, were you picking the,” and the first little clatter from before makes more sense if he’s right, and if he’s right, well, fuck.

It’ll be hot as hell, if he’s right.

“That?” Eddie tilts his head toward the floor because: cuffs. What he’d seen, what had fallen: handcuffs. On the floor. And they’d have had to have been not on the floor, and probably on him before, and so, he—

“Possibly,” Steve answers with a straight face, as unapologetic as ever, maybe more; maybe even defiant, and oh, wow. Steve Harrington picking his fucking handcuffs, setting his stupidly-quickly-lovesick ass free.

Hot as fuck; seriously.

“How positively criminal of you, Harrington,” Eddie grins half-maniacal, feels the stretch of it burn against a cut that’s gotta run half the span of his cheek but fuck it, the warmth flooding him is undeniable, is incredible—he’s giddy all of a sudden, straight to his bones.

“S’nothing on hot-wiring,” Steve shrugs, like it’s not fucking everything; “but I wasn’t,” and Steve takes a deep breath before he squares his shoulders, looks at Eddie straight-on and shit, if he thought the warmth in him up to now was something?

It’s kinda got nothing on what consumes him under those eyes.

“I wasn’t going to let you wake up fucking…shackled.”

And goddamn if the fire in that voice, those words, doesn’t light Eddie up like burning, doesn’t shake him to the core and then blanket him in sureness and the kind of protection he didn’t think really existed.

Save that he does kinda think it’s exactly what this man’s made of; made for.

And Eddie can’t escape the certainty rising in his veins and pumping, fierce and unshakable, that he wants—more than maybe anything—to be the one to give that same safety, that same promise of something unwavering and permanent and beyond question, right back to Steve.

“You’re an innocent man,” Steve leans in then, emphatic with it; “you’re a goddamn hero,” and he means it, holy shit, he believes that:

“Like hell I was just gonna,” and he shakes his head, like the idea is just that preposterous; like he cannot even consider anything but Eddie being free, and okay, and here, and…

Eddie’s struck with the sudden slap of realization across the fucking face that he couldn’t have gotten topside by himself. That someone had to get him from the hellscape to here. And of the able bodies in the Upside Down, no matter how strong the girls were, only one could have wrestled him through that gate. Only one could have…whatever he maybe needed, between this bed and that bat-strewn ground, it was, Steve would have been, he’d have—

The force his heart trips, then leaps with, is fucking cataclysmic. Eddie’s honestly surprised it doesn’t just tear out from his throat then and there.

“Plus they’re in the process of finishing the paperwork to make it all official, dropping the charges and all that, clearing your name,” Steve gestures vaguely in the air, like it’s all routine, the feds and the cops sweeping shit under the rug but then he remembers all the side comments he’d collected in the back of his mind these last few days about the ‘last time’ and then ‘the time before that’ and fuck all also the first time—

Maybe it is, just…sick and twisted and harrowing and heartbreaking routine.

“They’re just really fucking slow,” Steve smiles at him, all small and devastating and…

And okay, so that overwhelming urge to be a constant in Steve Harrington’s life, safe next to his heart kinda for always, zero to forever in half-a-blink?

Eddie knew he wanted, when he threw his vest at Steve’s bare chest more for Eddie’s own fucking sanity than anyone’s modesty, but it was all washed in the hopeless-helpless colors of desperation, of why not when I won’t see tomorrow; and now.

Now, all Eddie wants is tomorrow. Every tomorrow. No tomorrows without this man. Without what he saw, how it felt: what he knows in his marrow loving him would be.

It’s probably that conviction etching into his cells that makes makes him softer, a little weepy around the edges; drives him to need through the next words that escape:

“Steve,” Eddie breathes, wishes Steve were just that little bit closer so that the distance he can reach could reach him:

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” Steve waves him off almost, like he doesn’t think everything he is, everything he’s done is monumental. Not just the cuffs but with the cuffs like the cherry on top of how Eddie would—will, if he’s given the chance—devote all that he has and all that he is to making Steve happy. To making him as calm and warm and loved as Eddie could feel in that bedroom, in his head or in the future or on death’s fucking door.

“I mean,” Steve starts, and Eddie can already feel how he’s angling to downplay the thing that’s only swelling, building, growing under Eddie’s own ribs and, well: no.

No, Eddie won’t be standing for that.

“Stevie,” and Steve’s gravitated wordless just close enough for Eddie to be able to brush his fingertips against Steve’s wrist, to curl and pull his hand into Eddie’s grasp, palm splayed above Steve’s knuckles, holding. Keeping.

“Thank you.”

And Steve stills a little, stares at him like he can see what’s tucked up tight and dear in Eddie’s chest and maybe he can, because his voice is feather-light and a little bowled-over. A little…a little awed.

“You’re welcome.”

So yeah, maybe he can see what’s in Eddie’s chest, less tucked in this moment now than fucking, like…

Blooming.

“Do you believe there’s anything waiting when we die?”

Eddie’s gonna blame the frantic blossoming warmth coursing through him for the way he blurts that shit out with no preamble, like maybe the flowering wonder of it all pushes it out without permission, sweet on the back of his tongue but heavy because it matters so much; because it’s all just nostalgia.

For now.

“What?” Steve gapes a little, sounds dumbfounded; maybe a little wary. Fearful.

His hand’s still held under Eddie’s, though, so it’s only natural the way Eddie lifts his fingers and presses them palm-to-palm like it means something.

“Do you?”

“I…don’t know,” Steve swallows hard enough the follow down the taut line of his throat, fucking mesmerizing.

So maybe the way Eddie licks his lips before he says anything more isn’t…isn’t just for the sake of the topic and its weight, is all he’s saying.

“I,” and Eddie doesn’t really know where he’s going, here, or else: he knows exactly where he’s going.

He’s just not totally sure the path he’s planning to chart along the way for getting there.

“When we were down there, and I was telling you to go after Wheeler,” which yeah, okay, surprise direction there, weird little detour, but…it doesn’t feel wrong.

Which means, if it’s right instead: then that’s everything that is Steve in Eddie’s lungs for breathing, in the chambers of his heart. So he leans into it.

Squeezes Steve’s fingers laced together with his.

“Eddie,” Steve starts, sounds tired, spent, and Eddie was never going to let that happen; no matter where he’s going, or leading them down the path of his revelations, the truth etched new but also deep in his bones like it was only waiting to be found and known.

“It was because that’s what I wanted. For me. I wanted to,” and his breath catches on a little chuckle, so light and choked and a little hysterical as he adds, giddy and a little bashful all together at once:

“Unambiguously, umm,” and he trails a little, wants to hide behind his hair just a touch but to do that would require a broader capacity to move in the first place and more, so much more: it would mean letting go of Steve’s hand.

So: absolutely not.

Especially not when Steve’s gone full dropped-jaw gaping at him, his fingers in Eddie’s grasp twitching like he’s confused, like maybe there’s part of him short-circuiting, and Eddie feels his exhales tremble when he finally blinks, finally tilts his head and takes Eddie in at a new angle before he asks, genuine and not just a little lost:

“Seriously?”

And Eddie…Eddie’s actually never been more serious in his life, so.

“Like,” and he circles Steve’s knuckles delicate-like with his thumb: “I wanted the chance, to try, I guess, yeah.”

And he doesn’t know if he’s risking everything to own it, even if he’s owning just a sliver of the breadth and depth that he feels, but he does know unequivocally that he wouldn’t hold it back if given the choice, the opportunity to do it over and not show his bloody-beating heart on display.

A bloody-beating heart that’s moving quicker, slamming harder against his chest but…that actually feels like the only correct thing it could do. Because this merits it.

This kinda is his whole fucking heart.

“Do you still?”

It takes Eddie a longer string of seconds than he’d prefer to own to, to process the words as having meaning, no matter that he doesn’t fucking understand what they’re aiming at.

“What?”

“Want,” and Steve’s the one squeezing Eddie’s hand now, turning a little to graze at the line of his veins at the wrist; “the chance.”

And he says it deceptively casual, despite how he’s staring at their hands, determinedly not meeting Eddie gaze as Eddie gets his chance at the gaping.

“Fuck yes,” Eddie finally huffs on something not unlike unabashed fucking joy, save that this thing he’s feeling is so much bigger, and when Steve looks up, meets his eyes and his own glimmer, shine so bright and brim with such disbelief, but so much stronger and with such hope, Jesus.

Eddie can’t help the giggle that bubbles out of him. Like his whole fucking soul gets shaped into a single breath of exultant delight.

And they both hold to one another, trace across skin and map the lines and dots and scars, and Eddie’s not stupid, he knows this isn’t how it works but…

But he’d still bet money on the fact that the way he’s touching Steve, so innocent and so quietly intimate, is healing his wounds, shoring up his weaknesses and stitching him up fuller, better, breath by shared-sacred breath.

It’s heady as fuck. It’s exquisite.

“Why’d you ask me about when we die?”

Steve’s the one to break the still, and even that’s not breaking anything, really; he speaks so soft. He’s stroking down from Eddie’s thumb back and forth.

It’s not breaking anything.

“I saw something,” Eddie whispers, not sure what reaction that’ll get, and Steve’s staring at their hands again, marveling really, so Eddie can’t read any hint save for the crinkled furrow in his brow.

“But you didn’t die.”

Which isn’t the reaction he thinks he expected, even if Eddie couldn’t name what he did expect. And it’s also not a revelation he thought he’d receive.

“Not at all?”

Because he’s genuinely surprised. He at least figured he’d flatlined like…long enough to have visions of absolute and total domestic bliss and shit.

But Steve’s shaking his head decisively, holding on to Eddie just a little bit tighter.

“You had a pulse, whole way to he hospital,” he tells Eddie, voice gone a little hoarse; “it wasn’t strong but,” and Steve looks up at him, and fuck, those eyes are too shiny now and Eddie doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want his Steve to hurt, he—

“I fucking held you,” Steve croaks and oh, oh he’s shaking, Jesus—

“I kinda,” and he swallows with a click Eddie can hear, around a throbbing pulse Eddie can see, wants nothing more than to soothe with his lips against that tender skin; “I kinda had to make sure, so,” and the hand that’s not holding Eddie’s comes up, trembling as he reaches toward Eddie’s chest:

“Kept my hand pressed, just,” and his voice gives, and he looks up at Eddie with something like devastation, begging something like permission because he doesn’t know that everything that Eddie is, is his.

But he will.

He will know.

“Yeah?” Eddie breathes out, holds Steve gaze as he nods, as he tries to make it clear that anything Steve needs is his, and then some.

It takes a second, but the shine in those eyes finally shifts, finally brightens and then Steve’s breathing’s made of tremors, but his hand finds Eddie’s chest and sends something sparking like lighting through him just as the whole of Eddie feels immediately like he’s home.

And Steve’s hand on his chest feels exactly like it did in their future bed, in their future room, in their future life.

Their always love.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, then takes a moment, palm splayed wide just above Eddie’s bandages, before he’s gripping Eddie’s wrist with the other hand a little harder:

“It’s so fast,” he exhales like it holds the whole world and then some; he wonders at just Eddie’s heartbeat under his touch and god.

God, but Eddie…Eddie couldn’t have imagined he’d ever feel like this. Let alone feel like maybe it’s mutual, maybe it’s real, maybe he can keep it and stay in this feeling for forever.

“Fuck yeah it is,” Eddie murmurs, then he chuckles, inhales deep maybe just to better feel the weight of Steve’s hand; “making up for the lost opportunity, y’know,” and fuck, all he wants is to be able to lean, to kiss the pout of those lips, to taste what it means to love somebody like he’s never done before.

“Making up for what it missed the last time your hand was there to feel it.”

And Steve’s hand above his thrumming heart twitches just a little, but never flags or makes to move, to leave, and Eddie thinks that he’d be fine if he lived the rest on his days with Steve like that, near enough that he could press a hand to Eddie’s heart at all times and just…just know that it’s his.

Because maybe it’s sudden—it’s definitely quick—but Eddie’s never known anything like he knows this.

“Eddie,” Steve finally whispers, a question and a claim and a means of cradling Eddie to his heart, somehow, for how swathed in light and affection Eddie feels in that moment, in just the shape of his name like it’s never been spoken before.

“I saw the future,” Eddie blurts out in a rush, breath coming a little quicker and heart-under-Steve’s-hand pounding harder. “Maybe. I don’t know, I mean, it sounds so stupid when I say it out loud but it felt so,” but then he looks into Steve’s eyes again and Steve is listening, Steve’s maybe doesn’t think he’s crazy, so he feels safe enough to say with his whole fucking chest:

“It felt real, Stevie.”

“What was it?” Steve asks, so quiet, so gentle like he doesn’t want to disturb this thing either, like he doesn’t need to hear it spelled out yet to know it’s delicate, the most important thing in the world, which fuck yeah it is, even as it cracks and chokes for the flood of feeling around it when it presses up from Eddie’s chest:

“Us,” Eddie breathes it out like the precious truth it genuinely fucking is:

“It was us.”

And Steve doesn’t say anything, but his eyes glimmer all the more, swimming with a riot of emotion to a degree than Eddie feels drowned in awe just to see it, and his hands on Eddie hold tighter, more fervent, devoted like a pledge for the way it runs through Eddie’s blood and sings in his veins:

“Even if it wasn’t real,” but Eddie’s doesn’t believe that, not really, not in his heart of hearts where it all pounds into the crevices that map Steve’s touch; “even if I wasn’t seeing the actual future,” and maybe he wasn’t, maybe that wasn’t their future, and maybe he’ll never know, but what he does know, is—

“It felt right, Steve.”

He knows that clearer than he knows the sky is blue.

“It was just a few minutes,” Eddie flounders a little, mostly because he remembers how good it was, written indelible into how much he wants, here and now:

“But I have never felt anything so right.”

He breathes, shaky and shallow and too fucking fast, but then Steve starts stroking his palm along the unmarked spaces of his chest, back and forth over the gallop of his heart like he means to stay there. Like he could ever want to keep.

“Well,” Steve whispers, his eyes on the path of his hand to make sure he doesn’t draw any pain—as if he ever could—until he knows the safe route over and back, again and again, and then he looks up, catches Eddie’s eyes and locks there, doesn’t pin so much as holds, holds, holds.

And good fucking god, Eddie feels it glisten through him like starlight; Eddie feels remade before Steve’s leaning in, lower than to meet Eddie’s mouth but then he’s pressing his lips to the dip between Eddie’s collarbones, holding there, breathing like he means to savor, like he means to cherish, like he means to, to…

To stay.

And Eddie’s heart’s under that hand and those lips all at once, wholly Steve’s while it quivers like a riot, while it leaps as Steve changes the world, writes their fucking future where his mouth drags wet and warm and ardent and there’s nothing in it at all that can be anything other than at least on the way to love as he breathes, fucking vows:

“We gotta try, then, don’t we?”

♥️

>>>also on ao3✨

for @penny00dreadful 🖤 still very fucking sorry it's this late

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

divider credit here and here

[odetojupiter]

so, we know that abuse and victim responses to abuse are very central to aftg, but what i find interesting is how other characters respond to the victim’s reactions, especially when it comes to mourning their abuser. there’s something about kevin mourning riko, aaron mourning tilda, neil mourning mary, andrew mourning cass, thats so important to me because it really truly highlights how even when people are united through similar traumas, the differences in their situations makes it impossible to fully understand the relationship a person has to their abuser. neil, aaron, and andrew are united through the abuse, neglect, or - what the fuck is the word i’m thinking of? permit? condone? i mean, knowingly allowing it to happen and not intervening - stemming from a maternal figure. but neil can’t understand why andrew would hold on to cass for so long - he refused to let her go until aaron came into the picture. and andrew can’t understand why aaron would mourn for tilda, potentially viewing aaron’s grief as a betrayal of their promise. and they all ridicule kevin for his reactions to riko. of course, neil and andrew are also abused by riko, but they still can’t understand the complicated relationship between kevin and riko because, at the end of the day, they just weren’t there.

i mean this is primarily an observation but i really love how trauma and trauma response is depicted as nuanced, complex and overall just difficult to understand from an outsider perspective in the books. it reads as really real, and though it can be frustrating when a character doesn’t understand a different character’s response, you have to understand that their perception of said character’s response is warped by their own experience of abuse.

andrew bounced from home to home, never had stability, so obviously he held tight on to the first mother-figure that didn’t outright hurt him. his self-worth was probably low enough that he thought living with drake was a fine price to pay to keep cass.

neil only ever had his mother, and he’d willingly accept her harsh hands because he believed she was just keeping him safe from the very real dangers that were closing in on them.

aaron was dealing with an addiction, and so was his mother; he was equally dependent on her to avoid withdrawal as he was scared of her anger.

i don’t really have a point anymore but you get what i’m saying

[ellesthots]

“dream state”

battinson!bruce wayne x corensupes!clark kent

vaguely nsfw • drabble

Clark thought it had been a hallucination; a wonderful, intimate mirage of his mind.

Bruce turned over on the other side of the bed, forcing Clark to bite his lip as he caught sight of red streaks across his bare back.

Like in his dream.

It couldn’t have been real. Bruce, bashful on the edge of the mattress. Bruce, grabbing Clark’s tie and pulling him in. Whispering a plea so quietly he almost hadn’t said it at all. Bruce undoing Clark’s fly and sinking to his knees before…

“Clark.” Bruce rubbed at his eyes. “How long have you been awake?”

[goodfish-bowl]

Tossed Aside

Ectoberhaunt 2024 Day 2: Robot

Danny supposed he could understand. His parents (or were they creators now?) had barely paid any sort of attention to him in life, why should it be any different now? He had never really lived up to their legacy as the genius innovators of Amity Park. To them, he was average at best and lackluster on average. So, it didn’t matter to him if he was really Danny Fenton or not, not really, because they had thrown him away all the same. It hadn’t been permissible to do that to a child but to an android? It was just fine.

Ectoberhaunt 2024 Masterpost

DP Astro-Boy AU 1

Oh boy, this AU idea popped into my head seeing the prompt for this day, and 'prompt'ly (ha) took me by the throat. Now, I don't really know much about the whole Astroboy saga, but I remember really loving the 2009 movie. I have so much already written down for this and it has me foaming at the mouth bot from the headcanons and the angst I've built in here. I'd like to do more drabbles and art for this rather than write it out, so this should be interesting.

[incorrectskyrimquotes]

one of the only times eryn says the fuck word at someone is when arngeir tells her she sounds like ulfric (in response to her insisting she should be allowed to use the voice however she sees fit) and BOY is that not something she liked to hear

[lazylittledragon]

do all of their songs sound the same?? yes. is that exactly why i like them??? YES.

[emlovessid]

november 29, together, 100 words unofficial jegulus microfics with @onehundredflamingos

“Regulus and I…” James says, fumbling over his words. “We’re…”

Together?

Together doesn’t feel like enough to describe them. He’s the first thing James thinks about when he wakes up, the last thing he thinks about before he goes to sleep, and every moment in between. He’s not sure that he believes soulmates are real, like in the books where they only see in black and white until they meet them. But if they did exist? Life with Regulus is technicolour.

He meets Sirius’ eyes then, knowing exactly how to explain what he’s been trying to say, “He’s my Remus.”

[greghatecrimes]

Okay. This has been in my drafts for months, and I’m finally sitting down to write it out. It’s so important (to me) that House is the one to call Chase “the prodigal son”, while Thirteen calls herself “the prodigal daughter”.

Chase would never refer to himself as House’s ‘prodigal son’. He was House’s first fellow; the relationship he’s had with House has always leaned more towards mentor/student. He looks up to House as a father figure/pseudo-god-figure by some arguments ("and by god, I of course mean you”) and oftentimes is the one ‘doing anything to prove House right’ (as pointed out by Cuddy in 4x01). At times he sees House as infallible. He lets House get under his skin; he gets sucked into House’s “vortex”, as Wilson says, along with Cameron and Foreman.

He would never be so presumptuous as to refer to himself as House’s ‘son’. that’d be kind of like calling himself Jesus. But House knows he isn’t a god ("god doesn't limp.") And House calling Chase his ‘prodigal son’, to me, is his way of saying, ‘despite all the crap I put you through, I really care about you and I’m glad you’re here. Thanks for deciding to come back.’ He’s acknowledging that no matter what happens between them, Chase will always be someone he respects and sees as one of his ducklings.

On the other hand, Thirteen has spoken to House like much more of an equal from the very beginning. She was never afraid to contradict him or argue with him. When he meddles in her personal life in You Don’t Want To Know (swabbing her water bottle and submitting her DNA for a Huntington’s test) she rightfully yells at him and enforces her boundary. She calls him an idiot over and over again in The Fix (and breaks into his apartment!) despite the fact that he’s her boss again. She even calls him a friend in Charity Case. No matter how much he tries to mess with her, she is the one person who never gets caught in his mess or blindly enables him the same way the others do, as Wilson points out when she leaves in s6. House knows that. He knows their relationship is unique. So of course he wouldn’t refer to her the same way he refers to Chase (prodigal son/prodigal daughter). He also wouldn’t go out of his way to refer to her as a ‘daughter’ because he doesn’t want her to think that he looks down on her, or sees her as lesser/on a lower level (“Yes, I think that little of you and that much of me.”)

Throughout the series, he repeatedly never puts a label on their relationship. So for Thirteen to refer to HERSELF as ‘the prodigal daughter’, she’s 1) reaffirming to House that she cares about him, the same way she did in Charity Case, and the same way House did for her when he promised to kill her in The Dig; and 2) finally acknowledging that she does see House as a father-figure/mentor, and not only a friend or an equal. Part of the shock in House’s expression after their conversation in Holding On is from her saying “and you don’t even like me that much”; but I think the rest of it is from her referring to herself as House’s prodigal daughter. She’s telling him, ‘I’ve never put up with your crap, and I won’t start now. But I care about you a lot, and you are important to me. You’re my friend, but you’re also like a father/mentor to me. Even though I’ve left to go my own way, for the rest of my life I’ll always be one of your ducklings/fellows, and I’m grateful for that.’

[bberetd]

56 with the Bros? 😎

coming right up 👩🏾‍🍳✨

the bros’ first adventure together!

56. Would you just hold still?

How could you call yourself a Mario brother?

Mario and Luigi were in hiding, preparing to time their strike against the enemy. Up until now, Luigi didn’t even know how he was still alive. He felt like he’d half-assed the entire adventure, just barely dodging attacks, getting hits, or Mario saving him at the last second. He wouldn’t even blame Mario if he was fed up by him.

This is why he leaves you at home. You’re too accident prone. You’re always endangering the both of you.

The only other adventure Luigi had been on was that unsettling mansion a while back. He tried using the same coping mechanism to calm his nerves throughout the journey — humming — but unfortunately, it only worked within the so-called comfort of a home. Instead, he was left with trembling beside Mario, clutching his head in a desperate attempt to ground himself while Mario, always so brave, looked on for danger or their target.

Stop shaking, stop whimpering, stop being a coward. Just hold still! Hold still, hold still, hold still, hold-

Luigi’s inner voice was interrupted when he felt familiar hands cover his own. Gently, those hands turned his head so their foreheads could press together. That was all it took for Luigi to settle — familiarity, warmth, solidity. After a few deep breaths, the brothers simultaneously opened their eyes, both mirroring the alertness for the current situation, but the overriding gentleness and love felt for each other.

We’ll be okay, as long as you’re with me.

They parted a few seconds later, sharing a firm nod before heading into battle.

(@silenzahra I did a Mario and Luigi!!!!!!!)

[roses-and-revolutions]

DP x DC Drabble

When I was younger, I used to make paper stars. I would make thousands of them. I can still remember the night my mother snuck into my room and showed me how to make them and the joy I felt when I realized I could finally touch the stars. 

Of course, Grandfather didn’t like them and burned them in front of me whenever he found them. But I didn’t stop. I made more and more. In the time between training, I was supposed to eat and sleep. I made them till my fingers were sore and it hurt to touch. I made them till I could make no more. 

I find it amazing how as a child, I longed to touch what I could not reach. But now, if I wanted to, I could hold all the stars in the universe in my grasp.

[0sbrain]

i think one of my least favorite troupes in tf2 fanfics has to be scout finds x and y are dating and freaks out/starts being openly homophobic towards them because "canon typical homophobia"

they are mercenaries. fucking contract killers. do you think anyone gives a flying fuck about homosexuality being illegal? you see, they are ok with murder and gruesome violence, HOWEVER they draw the line at two men holding hands because the words on the paper say it's a no no

he would probably tease them because, that's normal that's what friends and annoying coworkers do. and sometimes he might step on a line. but my dear friends. if scout was genuinely homophobic to any of the other mercs, im afraid he wouldn't survive the winter (irse a mimir). he would get snapped by a twig and it doesn't even have to be by the merc he was insulting. anyone in the vicinity would suplex his ass. son, we all suck dick here. get used to it

[babblingeccentric]

Kinktober 2: Threesome, Zoro x Reader x Law

Contains: threesome, exhibitionism, reader described as having a "cunt", fake reluctant law, fingering, exactly 100 words

“Well? Are you gonna?” Zoro hooks your knees over his thighs, showing off your dripping center as you moan.

Law stands still and silent on the other side of the mats. 

Zoro spreads your lower lips with his fat fingers, your slick glistening in the low emergency lighting of the submarine. You squirm and the tip of Zoro’s finger slips into you revealing a glimpse of the sweet pink inside of your cunt and Law can’t take it anymore. 

“If this has annoying consequences you’re dealing with it.” He grumbles as he kneels and slips two long tattooed fingers inside

Read about my kinktober prompts and rules for suggesting pairings here