#i wrote it during class

[bluegekk0]

There's been a lot of thought given towards what FPK dreams about that I suddenly considered: what about the others? Holly doesn't really dream, and neither does Grimm, but what about Hornet?

My personal thought is that she is one of those people who have the most vivid, yet bizarre and disturbing dreams that have little to do with her life, because her life flipped around so often and so heavily that the only way her brain can make sense of it all is by dreaming of Herrah building a gazebo with Zote out of bricks that scream in her father's voice

ooooh i like that idea very much. yeah i could absolutely see that, she struggles to process things properly, and seeing that reflected in her dreams would be very interesting. and the anger, she has so much built-up anger - at the world for being so cruel, at the radiance for bringing destruction to everything, at her father for disappearing without a word, and at herself for not doing enough to help. her dreams would often be quite violent, and i imagine some of them she would rather keep to herself. which, naturally, doesn't help if you're trying to process your trauma

grimm would certainly try to help her with her nightmares. i mentioned it in the summary that's still under works, but i imagine his original role in the dream realm, prior to his banishment, was to watch over the mortals' nightmares and help them overcome their fears, before his power weakened and he decided to feed on the nightmare essence to sustain himself instead. it's much more selfish, he's almost like a parasite, entering nightmares and feeding on the fear that fuels them. but it's hard to blame him, with his weakened power he's only able to enter individual nightmares, so he wouldn't be able to fulfill his purpose even if he tried. what he can do, however, is hell his loved ones deal with their nightmares. of course fpk comes to mind first, but he would try his hardest to help the others too. i do believe he still feels some connection to his original purpose, he's not completely selfish, and so he's more than happy to fulfill it with those closest to him

would hornet want him to help her, though? she always bottles up her feelings, and reacts with annoyance to his attempts at help. but deep down, she really doesn't know what to do, and while she rarely makes it clear, she does appreciate that he's trying to offer her some guidance. i believe that, as the time goes, she becomes a lot more open about her problems whenever she talks to him. it's difficult for her to do that with her father, as a lot of her worries and fears concern him, and she realizes how much he already deals with by himself. but grimm has a much better hold of his own struggles, so he's able to give her advice that isn't as emotionally driven as what she would hear from fpk. so if there's anyone she could talk to, it's him

i love thinking about their relationship, there's a lot of comedic potential with their "friends who joke around and mess with each other, who are also dad and daughter but she would rather dive into the abyss than admit it" dynamic, yes. but at the same time, it offers many chances for a lot of personal growth for both of them. in hornet's case, it would directly connect to her anger issues. it's something grimm has also struggled with in the past, he's no stranger to violent outburtsts of anger. but unlike hornet, he's much better at controlling it, so it's difficult to even tell how much rage there is in his heart. and it's thanks to him that horne learns to have better hold of her anger. it's still there, and it's likely never going to go away, but she can still learn to find outlets that don't harm others

i'm realizing now that i drifted quite far away from the original topic, but it does still connect to her dreams. like i said, a lot of them are fueled by her inner anger, and with all the other complicated emotions she experiences, it's not a surprise that her dreams would end up quite surreal and disturbing. she would have no idea how to process them, i mean, how do you even begin? and i think it's by helping her decipher those dreams that grimm teaches her more about her anger and how to control it

i don't know, i just really like the mental image of hornet experiencing a really bizarre or disturbing dream, and then approaching grimm to talk about it and hopefully make some sense of it. i love him being a father to her, even if she struggles to accept that she sees him as such

[bixels]

The idea that uni protesters are "elitist ivy-league rich kids larping as revolutionaries" on Twitter and Reddit and even here is so fucking funny to me if you actually know anything about the student bodies at these unis. Take it from someone who's going to one of the biggest private unis in the US, 80% of the peers I know are either from the suburbs or an apartment somewhere in America, children of immigrants, or here on a student visa. I've heard about one-percenter students, but I've never met one in person. Like, don't get me wrong, the institution as a whole is still very privileged and white. I've talked with friends and classmates about feeling weird or dissonant being here and coming from such a different background. But in my art program, I see BIPOC, disabled, queer, lower-income students and faculty trying to deconstruct and tear that down and make space every day. So to take a cursory glance at a crowd of student protesters in coalitions that are led by BIPOC & 1st/2nd-gen immigrant students and HQ'd in ethnic housings and student organizations and say, "ah. children of the elite." Get real.

[jettorii]

“humans truly are fascinating..” you grumble, a choked laugh escaping your lips as you tried your best to hold in your laughter while tendrils slowly roamed around your torso. they stretched your arms above your head, pulling your arms down even the slightest becoming impossible. all you could do was tremble, as you were completely exposed to the curious yet gentle tickling from your symbiote.

it didnt help that his face was directly in front of yours, staring intently at you, observing every reaction you gave to each move he made. a toothy grin greeting you everytime you peeked your eyes open while shaking your head to distract yourself from the sensation.

“does this tickle?” venom rumbled, making you gasp as his tendrils moved their way to your ribs, poking sporadically, each one making you squeak and jerk at every single touch. he chuckled at your reaction, a low laugh thundering through your head.

you desperately try to keep your thoughts organized, as since hes already found out your deepest secret, whats stopping him now from finding what works best on you?

pretty much nothing, as his tendrils were getting horribly close to a spot you did not want him finding out about. but nevertheless, it was impossible. he knew everything, and was reading you like a book at which poke made you react the best.

then the tendrils travelled to your collarbone. you tensed up unknowingly in preparation for where he almost got to, until finally realizing he stopped. you opened your eyes breathing heavily, only to see his usual shit eating grin, even wider than usual.

“each and every thought you have, you cant hide.” he sneers, his tongue flicking at your neck, a screech near threatening to come out. “we share the same thoughts, there's nowhere to escape.”

he pauses, tendrils sneaking up.

“not where, exactly?”

…shit.

[heckarum]

Day 16: something you’ve been bullied for

[isabel3710]

I've dived headfirst back into my old Trolls hyper fixation with the release of the third movie. So I decided to write a little something for the idea of Branch being adopted by the Country Trolls.

I was inspired by some fan art by crunchy_coookies_ on insta and @rocksibblingsau's AU and a post they've made on this idea.

I would love to turn this into a full fledged fic one day but I'm already working on another trolls fanfic plus I got some (very loose) plans for another for when I'm done. But if I every have the time to write more I'll be sure to let you all know!

-----------

A little gray trolling sat on the edge of a dusty road, a worn looking bag sitting beside him. Branch held his ankle with both hands, it throbbed with pain and he was struggling not to cry. 

A few weeks ago Branch had decided to leave his tribe once and for all, he was tired of being bounced around from foster home to foster home. Full of people who either hated him or tried to turn him into something he wasn’t. So he packed a bag full of his prized possessions and any supplies he might need and snuck out in the middle of the night. 

At first things were great! And then he left the forest and made it to this desert of a wasteland, Branch did okay at first. He was careful to ration his food and slept with a knife in his hand.

Then today Branch had gotten his foot caught in some kind of hole and now his ankle really hurt. He had tried to stand up and power through but couldn’t without pain getting to an overwhelming degree.

He sniffed and whipped at his eyes, Branch didn’t know what he was going to do. He was stuck here with a hurt leg and he had run out of food last night. 

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by some strange clip-clop sound. Branch reached into his bag and pulled out his little knife. He was alone out here and who knew how many things out in this strange land liked to eat trolls. 

Dust had suddenly risen up into the air and got into Branch’s eyes, he tried to blink it away as the strange sound got closer and closer. When his vision had cleared he saw the figure that matched the clopping sound.

And….

It was a troll?

The troll looked like one he had never seen before, she had orange skin and red hair which did remind him of the trolls back home. But that was where the similarities ended, for she had four legs with hooves and a fluffy looking teal tail. Her clothes weren't neon or pastel colored or covered in glitter, but fairly plain looking; with a few dirt stains and patches.

The woman seemed to notice him too for she started to walk over to him, the clopping sound following her. “Hey sugar” she said, her voice sounded strange. Nothing like Branch had ever heard before. “Why’re you out here all alone?”

Branch sniffled and tried to scoot away on his bottom, dragging his injured leg along the ground. The hand holding his knife shook a bit. 

“Hey, hey” the woman said, her voice gentle. “I’m not going ta’ hurt you.” She knelt in front of him “what happened ta’ your leg?”

Something about this woman felt calming, Branch hadn’t met anyone who made him feel this way since his Grandma died. “I tripped,” he said, tears running down his cheeks. “It hurts really bad.”

“I’m sure it does” the woman said “mind if I take a look?”

Branch hesitated before nodding, the woman carefully took his ankle in her hands. He winced a bit in pain but stayed still. The woman tutted softly “looks like you sprained it honey.” 

“Oh…”

She pulled out a piece of dark green cloth and tied it around his ankle. “We'll have to put some ice on it.”

“I don’t have any ice,” Branch said.

“Not to worry,” she smiled at him, “town’s not too far from here.” 

There was a town out here… “how?” He asked, “it hurts to walk.”

“Climb on my back” she said “and I’ll carry ya.” 

“Won’t that hurt you?”

She chuckled “you’re sweet, sugar, but not to worry. I’ll be fine.” The women helped Branch sit on her back before slowly standing “hold on darlin’.” 

Branch held his bag in one hand and to the women’s shirt with the other. And she began to walk, the clopping sound following them. It was then Branch realized he had no idea what this lady’s name was.

“Ms” he said “I’m sorry but… What’s your name?”

She chuckled “no need to apologize hon. I’m Ms Delta Dawn. What’s your name?”

“Branch.” He said “my name is Branch."

[arthur-lesters-uvula]

Pisscourse drabble inspired by this

Not beta or proofread, btw. it's a shitpost EDIT: AO3 LINK

Arthur was simply trying to take his natural human function and pee. He was staring off into space, letting the fluid flow out of him and into the bowl when he felt something touching his leg. Instinctively, he jolts, moving his body away.

He stops peeing and looks down. He spots a hand, a fair skinned scard hand reaching out to him. It was John, what in the hell does he want. Arthur bats the hand away and asks.

"What, John?"

"...Can you hold my hand." It sounded like more of a demand than a question.

Arthur blinks, looking at the stall wall that separates him and John.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"Why."

"It's...scary and feels werid, I don't know how you humans dealt with having this fluid come out of you every day." John says and flexes his hand in a grabbing motion, like a baby wanting to get picked up.

John was like a needy cat, but he never liked doing things alone, including when it came to using the bathroom.

Arthur sighs and places his hand in John's, holding it snug.

"Better?"

"Much."

John says before Arthur hears a concerningly loud stream of piss hit the bowl.

He furrows his brows, "Just how long have you been holding that?"

John's pointer finger twitches, curling itself inward and scratches at the others palm.

"Since I got this body -" a lie.

John sheepishly admits, and Arthur aggressively squeezes his hand.

"What?! How the hell did you not piss on yourself—christ John it's been over a week."

John lets out a full-body shudder and tucks his feet under the toilet seat. His boots dig into the dirty tile floor.

"Okay - not really. The first time was a few days ago when it hurt too much to hold. I washed the clothes and succeeded." John spits out. It was more of a half truth when Oscar found him using fabric softener instead of actual detergent. Oscar actually helped clean and showed him how to wash the clothes properly.

John made(threatened)Oscar swear that he'd never speak a word of this.

"Am I going to have to fucking potty train you? Bloody hell John."

John lets out a werid, sad sound. Something between a dog like whimper and a sigh.

Arthur squeezes his hand once more, gently this time. "Well, it was probably bound to happen eventually. Just do your business and make sure you wipe yourself after." Just like his touch, the tone of Arthur's voice was soft. It reminded John of how he'd talk about Faroe.

John hums and stays silent, the sound of his piss hitting the water echo throughout the bathroom.

Arthur inturn also continues. Thankfully, there's not much left, so he finishes up quickly.

Awkwardly reaching across the stall with his opposite hand, he grabs a thing of toilet paper and rips a small peice off. He dabs the head of his dick with the paper before throwing it into the bowl and flushing.

He hears Johns flow turn into a tirckle before it stops completely. He stays on the toilet seat as he's still holding onto John's hand.

"You done?"

John nods, for a second forgetting thst Arthur can, in fact, not see him before he speaks up.

"I think so? I still feel weird, though..." He trails off. There's something pressing up against his asshole.

Arthur quirks a brow, "Werid how?"

"It feels like something is trying to escape me. There's pressure at my asshole."

Arthur stutters for a second, unable to form sentences in response. There is no way in fucking hell is he going to hold an eldritch entities hand as he shits.

"You're...going number two, taking shit."

"Oh.. Oh. Like that disgusting thing you did?"

"Yup. Now, I unfortunately am not generous enough to sit through this one with you. Just keep pushing until everything is out, John."

Arthur prys his hand away from John's, pulling his boxers and trousers up. Arthur buttons his trousers and fastens his belt.

"But Orthur... I can't do this alone." John whines, attempting to grab Arthur's trouser leg.

"You can, and you will. I'll be outside when you're done, John." Arthur moves away before John could grab him, opening the stall door he makes his way to the sink. He secretly prays that there's no one else coming in.

"Orthur! That's not fair. I need emotional support."

John kicks his feet out and leans back uncomfortably. The pressure is growing stronger.

Arthur begins to wash his hands, ignoring John's pleas and hums a tune.

"How about I send Noel in, hm? I'm sure he'd be more than willing." Arthur offers, John and Noel are close just like them, so it shouldn't be a problem. Hopefully.

John stops his movements, sharp canines bitting at his lips.

"Okay. That's fine. Please tell him to hurry."

Arthur huffs out a muffled laugh and steps out of the bathroom.

thank you to my platonic soulmates @arthur-lesters-tits & @arthur-lesters-slutty-waist for fuelling this. I appreciate you both greatly

[fatuismooches]

Okay. Imagining.

When Fragile!Reader went into a coma, Dottore hadn't thought to preserve anything about them. He didn't have recordings of their voice. He didn't have pictures of their eyes. He figured that kind of data was useless because he'd always have his assistant by his side at all times. When would he need pictures if he could just look at you? Why would he need recordings when you never seemed to shut up (not that he'd ever ask you to)?

But when you fell asleep, he hadn't realized just how long he'd be deprived of that wonderful sight and that beautiful sound. He thought it would be fine, he'd help them wake up and it would be back to normal... but nothing worked. Before he knew it, years had gone by with seemingly no progress. What color were your eyes again? He was starting to forget. What range did your voice have when you sang? He found it hard to recall.

This is why, when you finally woke up, he had such a reaction to seemingly nothing at all. When you first opened your eyes, he was starstruck by that hauntingly beautiful hue. When you finally spoke, even with your voice hoarse and quiet from misuse, his heart skipped a beat. He couldn't help but gasp for air as his lungs squeezed in his chest. How could he have forgotten? And more importantly, how did he survive so long without this?

As he finally held your hand after what felt like a millennia, he silently vowed to not only find you a cure but a way to make you immortal like him. There was no way he'd allow himself to be deprived of his lover ever again.

MY HEART IS HURTING SO MUCH I ABSOLUTELY ADORE THIS... this is literally canon bye. Also the sad thing about this is that it could totally happen considering the existence of erosion in Teyvat 🥺. Now I have even more brainrot of this happening to reader too and them slowly losing their sense of self and forgetting him 😭

Sniff... Dottore not bothering to keep any hard data of you because he has the real thing in front of him :( You were always glued to his hip, even if he wanted to get away (he doesn't) he couldn't, always faced with your lovely smile and pleasant voice. Beautiful body and soft touches. And he thinks, the best way to collect data is from the subject itself rather than anything else. Even if he were to preserve you somehow, would it ever compare to your being in real life? No, it wouldn't, and you'd always be here, so if he longed to hear your voice, he would simply go to you and hear it. If he wanted to see your eyes, he would go to you and kiss you to see them flutter and melt. If he wanted you, he would go to you. No need for anything else.

But now, now that this has happened, Zandik curses himself for being stupid. After all, what kind of scientist doesn't keep backups of their data? Yes, the real thing will always be the best, but what happens if the original is lost? Is hurt? Is no more? Zandik didn't think the absence of another person could affect him so much, but it does. You have such an... effect on him that drives him completely mad. His head hurts from the ringing silence instead of your voice that fills it. His eyes burn from the sleepless nights that you are not by his side. After you fall asleep, he writes stuff down, he truly does, filling up pages and pages so everything about you could be recorded, but reading all the detailed words in the world doesn't help him remember the exact hue of your eyes, or the exact tone of voice you used in different situations, or the once-familiar curve of your lips that he can't seem to remember the exact position of. A part of him despises himself for allowing himself to forget, he's the only one in Teyvat who remembers you, but at the same time he doesn't... but that doesn't make him love you any less. He may not remember that stuff... but he sure does remember how much time he spent with you.

Dottore's always wondered how he'd react on the day you finally wake up, he'll be delighted, of course, that goes without saying but would anything else happen? And oh, even he could not have predicted this possibility would occur. Those eyes, that voice, your smile, even while being sickly, you were truly the epitome of human beauty. The way everything about you acts as if he is the only person that matters. When he holds your hand, he feels you squeeze back ever so slightly, and he resolves himself once again. He really can't live without you... never again.

You're really confused as to why he's so attentive, yes there's your illness but that doesn't explain how much he studies you. How he always goes silent and watches you whenever you speak, even about dumb things, when years ago he would roll his eyes at your idiocy. How he likes to stare deep into your eyes without getting embarrassed, which was funny because he always broke away from eye contact in the Akademiya. You may never know, as he's never going to tell you about what he went through without your presence, but right now, he's never going to let that happen to either of you ever again.

I have another hc that sort of relates to this: I imagine Dottore felt indescribable emotions when you finally woke up and uttered his real name - "Zandik." Because really, no one has spoken it in over four hundred years. Perhaps he almost forgot what it sounded like, as he discarded that part of his identity long ago. Maybe he buried it so far back in his mind that he lost it, especially since it carried unpleasant memories. But you, when you spoke that forsaken name again... he truly felt like Zandik again.

[dottores]

YOU GUYS MUST LOOK AT WHAT TEE GOT ME FOR MY BDAY!!!! SHE GAVE IT TO ME EARLY FOR CONGRATULATIONS ON FINISHING MY FIRST WEEK OF LAW SCHOOL

[anna-scribbles]

h-how do you ever finish any of your work? genuine question because you seem to be productive despite your agreste syndrome and I need to learn your ways. but also how do you ever finish any of your work

unclear. last night i stayed up and finished a report worth 25% of my grade at about 5am, arrived on time for my 9am lecture, and spent about half of it zoned out while thinking about seventeen year old emilie agreste. and i was one of the most active participants in the class discussion

[ghosttotheparty]

also on ao3

(cw: tics, bullying)

Eddie started shivering in seventh grade.

Even when it was hot, even when he was sweating and desperately wanted a non-rattly fan or a better air conditioner. They weren't normal shivers. He wasn't cold. But his shoulders would jerk or shake, or he would tremble for a second, and he didn't know what else it could have been. Others didn't question it for a while, because it started in October. Everyone was shivering. But by March, it hadn't stopped, and he had to explain himself when people gave him questioning looks or asked if he was okay. (Back when people cared.)

'S just a shiver, I'm fine.

He wasn't fine. It got worse over time. He got used to it, to the weird feeling that took over his body for a few seconds, got used to telling people he was cold, joking that he must be low on vitamins or iron, joking that in the future, someone is walking over his grave. But other people didn't get used to it. They thought he was weird. That was fine with him. Wayne realised something was wrong before Eddie started the tenth grade, because he wasn't just shivering anymore. His whole body was jerking sharply, suddenly, his shoulders drawing up, fists clenching. Eddie didn't question it. Wayne did.

It wasn't normal. But nothing about Eddie was normal. Wayne took him to see a doctor. The doctor make him do things, walk in a line, hold his arms out and push the doctor's hands away as hard as he could, follow a flashlight with his eyes without moving his head. It was all weird. It kind of scared Eddie. The doctor kept writing things in a notebook, and Eddie couldn't tell if he was doing well or not. But Wayne was there, watching and listening intently.

The doctor said he had tics. It sounded funny to Eddie, but then it wasn't funny, because the doctor didn't give him anything for it. He just said there wasn't anything really wrong with him. His brain just worked a little differently. (Which Eddie was already used to hearing.) That his tics could get better or go away as he got older, or they could get worse.

They got worse.

By the end of that summer, his arms were moving, flying over his head suddenly, randomly, and his head was jerking back so sharply it hurt. Wayne was worried about him getting whiplash. Eddie was worried about going to school.

That year, he became the freak.

At first, he tried to explain it to people. The movements were involuntary, he couldn't control them. Wayne contacted all his teachers, who mostly got it, but still preferred to make him sit in the hallway so he didn't distract the class. But the other students thought he was possessed, faking it for attention, and everything in between. They'd throw things at him, and complain to the teachers that he was distracting even when he wasn't moving, just to get him out of the room. They would mimic him, make fun of him, and by September, he learned that the tics get worse when he's upset. He could hear them all snickering and giggling as he shoved his hands under his legs and tucked his chin to his chest or held his shirt over his face, as he held his limbs tense so they wouldn't move, so tense he was exhausted and sore all the time, and then he'd go home and cry because he couldn't control his own body.

He'd have to sit on the sofa so when his head threw itself back, it would hit the back of the sofa instead of the wall, and Wayne would just wait, watching with that fucking sadness in his eyes that made Eddie ache even more. When it finally stopped, sometimes after a few minutes, sometimes after an hour or two, he was so exhausted he'd fall asleep right there on the sofa. He couldn't do his homework. His grades dropped even more, but he managed to keep himself afloat. He did the best he could, doing his homework early in the morning before school or in detention. (Some of his teachers thought he was faking. Mr Peterson was in charge of detention, and he was nice. Considerate. Eddie counted him as one of his few blessings.)

His tics got worse.

In December of his junior year, he started making noises. Short screams, grunts, quiet vocalizations. It scared him. He didn't want to go back to school, but he did. The laughter around him got louder, and he was sent out to the hallways more. He started skipping classes. He knew he'd be forced to leave anyway. So he'd sit in the boys' room, on top of a lidded toiler, his feet up on the stall door, and he'd leave cigarette burns on the walls.

Not everyone was awful. Some kids were just curious about him, asked why he acted the way he did, and he did his best to calmly explain it all. I can't help it, actually. It's just my brain works different. That turned into Eddie's brain's fucked. It's broken. He's a fucking--

So he used it. Eddie the Freak. Attention-seeking, desperate for people to notice him. So he started making devil horns, yelling from tabletops, making himself The Freak so no one could use it against him.

No one, not even Wayne, saw him cry at night, because the attention he got was never the attention he wanted. Because he was tired. So fucking tired. His limbs were sore and his voice was rough, and his neck hurt, and he was sick of being laughed at. But that was all he got.

He kept counting his blessings. Mr Peterson, who never minded Eddie's noises or the way his fists would bang against the table loudly in the silent room, who scolded the other detention-goers when they tried to tease. The Hellfire guys, who got used to his tics fairly quickly, and knew when to pause whatever they were doing if Eddie couldn't hear them over a scream or was distracted by his own body. That nice girl, Chrissy Cunningham, who would slip notes from the classes he missed or skipped into his locker or backpack with sweet smiles. (If Eddie wasn't gay, he would have fallen in love with her.) The other few students that ignored him when his tics acted up, just glancing and moving on. Wayne, bless his soul, who would come to the school to confront Eddie's teachers and complain to the principal about Eddie being mistreated by the staff.

And, oddly enough, Steve Harrington.

Eddie never saw it coming. It was a particularly bad day. He was at his locker, trying to line his books up, but a tic threw his hands up, and some books fell from his locker to the floor. He watched helplessly as papers scattered across the floor, as most students stepped around them, ignoring them, as some jocks trampled over them, over Chrissy's neat handwriting, his fists clenched at his sides. When they passed, he kneeled, picking up the books, and when he looked up, Steve Harrington was kneeling too, gathering the crumpled papers and carefully straightening them out.

He gave them to Eddie with a smile, and Eddie thought he might be dying, in some weird, upside-down dimension where Steve Harrington smiles at Eddie Munson. Eddie took them hesitantly, said thank you, and then he hit him.

He was mortified, almost dropping the papers again, jumping back as his whole body flushed with heat, staring at Steve's shoulder where his hand had just landed heavily, and he burst with a Fuck, I'm so sorry, oh my god--

But Steve had just laughed. Amazingly, it was a kind laugh, with sparkling eyes, and soft cheeks, and he said It's okay.

And then he was gone. Down the hall, after his friends, and Eddie realised his hands were trembling.

Steve kept smiling at him. Even when his friends were making fun of Eddie's Satanic cult, and of the way he couldn't keep still, and of his sad, broken brain. Even when Eddie's brain made him flip Steve off across the cafeteria, Steve saw how Eddie pulled his hand down sharply, and Steve just... laughed. Eddie fell in love with his laugh. It was kind, and it made Eddie feel better, even when he wanted to cry.

Steve graduated the next year. But he didn't leave Eddie alone. Eddie couldn't stop thinking about him, and his kind laugh, and his pretty eyes, and then the sheep Eddie adopted told him all about how cool and brave Steve was, and Eddie fell harder without even seeing him.

The world went to shit. But Eddie got to see Steve again.

Steve was still kind, even though the world was ending, and even during serious discussions, plan-making, how-to-save-the-world conversations, Eddie's tics kept going. His body jerked and shivered, and his head threw back, and his fists hit his own chest and shoulders, and he had to sit down. And Eddie found out that there are more kind people than he thought. When his tics slowed, Nancy wordlessly got him an ice pack to hold to his chest, and when he flung it across the room, Robin caught it with a casual oops, and brought it back to him. No one questioned him, or stared, or laughed, even though he knew how annoying he was.

When he woke up in the hospital, he hurt so badly he couldn't move. He just cried. Steve sat by his bed and held onto his hand. He was crying too. When Eddie stopped crying, Steve carefully slid his rings, clean of blood, onto his fingers.

This one goes here, right?

Yeah.

On the second day, his brain didn't care that he hurt. As Steve was telling him about what was going on with the others (Max was staying with the Sinclairs, Dustin's leg was almost healed), Eddie's hand smacked him across the face sharply, the sting of his rings bringing tears to his eyes before he even processed what happened. Steve wordlessly crawled onto the bed, carefully pulled Eddie against himself, and set a pillow over Eddie's lap for when his fists started hitting his legs. He'd just murmured those words, the first words he'd said to Eddie years ago.

It's okay. It's okay.

And he waited until Eddie's body fell lax against him before he carefully found Eddie's hand, laced their fingers, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Eddie was released from the hospital a few weeks later. He stayed in the Wheelers' basement for a few days until Steve's parents left town, for good this time, and then he moved into the Harrington house.

He likes it there. Steve is still kind. Always. He lets Eddie lay his head in his lap when his body hurts or won't stop moving, and he drags his fingers through his hair or holds a joint to his lips for him, and he smiles. (Eddie would go through the end of the world all over again for that smile.) When Eddie's head hits the wall while they're in the waiting room of the hospital for a checkup, Steve just shifts to face him and holds a hand up to the back of his head so his hand hits the wall instead, saying quietly that Eddie isn't allowed to beat his record number of concussions. He drives Eddie to Wayne's even though Eddie doesn't tic when he drives except for a few facial or vocal ones.

When Eddie whistles one night, Steve just smiles at him and says Was that a tic or are you hitting on me? and Eddie freezes, his face burning. Which would you prefer, pretty boy?

Steve kisses him.

And then Steve starts holding his hand even when he isn't having tics, even when they're with the Party. Eddie moves into Steve's room. (They always slept better when they accidentally fell asleep on the sofa together anyway.) Steve holds him when his tics are bad, and Eddie holds him during his migraines, pressing kisses as softly as he can to his forehead and his temples. Steve takes his hand when it moves to hit Eddie's face or chest. Eddie stands steady and holds Steve's hand to himself when he gets dizzy. Steve keeps ready-made ice packs in the freezer to hold to Eddie's chest and legs when they bruise from his fists. Eddie keeps his handwriting as neat as possible when he writes notes in case Steve forgets anything. When they wake up at night, breathless and sweaty and crying, the other is there, arms open, lips waiting.

One night Eddie says very softly, You know, they used to say my brain was broken.

Steve just says, Mine too.

[starstruckodysseys]

toya and mizuki’s step by step guide to romancing a shinonome

“Akiyama, I’m not sure that romancing is a word.”

“Yeah, well, we’re also not in the 16th century, either. Who the hell says wooing anymore?”

(a journey in love languages, making a fool of yourself, overthinking your every move, and friendship born out of solidarity.)

read here on ao3

[asurrogateblog]

David's Role in The Wall

as always my favorite hobby is Reading Into Things about the concert tour of the wall, and this week's topic is: "since roger is clearly supposed to be playing pink, then 'who' - if anyone - is david?" obviously david sings a good portion of the songs, and in the audio-only album its easy to say "they're both pink who cares" but in the live show, the audience isn't just listening, they're also essentially watching a play, so it matters if two different people have 'lines' for the same character***

...and one interesting thing I noticed is that david never sings lines in which pink is speaking directly to another character. whenever it's his turn, he's either speaking to no one in particular (young lust), as a voice pink has internalized (mother), is physically obstructed by the wall (hey you), or is singing at the same time as roger (run like hell). when its time for pink to actually speak out loud, roger takes over. "well what about comfortably numb?" nobody asks. well, if you watch the concert videos, when david begins his verses in comfortably numb, roger (playing the doctor) freezes still – indicating that pink is thinking that, not saying it.

my conclusion from all of this is that yes, they are both pink, but its not arbitrary. roger is the "real" pink***, and david is a storytelling device that represents pink's internal dialogue, as well as different facets of his psychology that were not outwardly expressed during the album's events.

(***remember that "in the flesh?" takes place at the opening of one of pink's concerts, so during the shows for the actual tour of the wall, the concert itself is -part of- the storyworld. the live show is not roger telling the audience pink's life story, it's pink (played by roger) telling the audience his own life story. the narrative implications of this have done irreparable damage to my psyche)

[homoqueerjewhobbit]

I want to write a crossword puzzle just so I can have a clue "you just lost it" and the answer is T H E G A M E.

[affectionate-team]

Smitten Ace × reader drabble

I recently came back from a ve~ery long trip, and I've got a few ideas to share... to be honest, I used to be pretty annoyed by Ace when I first got into twst, but the more content I find of him, the more attractive this prick seems >:/ I swear, liking him as a character feels embarrassing... but who cares? Basically, this post is all about what I imagine travelling with a smitten Ace might be like.

So, almost half of my trip was spent riding the train to get to a camp with a hundred or two of other kids from my region, so you can guess it was eventful. Imagine going on such a trip with the first-years team, having to take a train for three days straight - it's basically like becoming roommates for a short while.

To get at least a sliver of privacy, you call dibs on a top bunk from the very start; that way you can hide away in a space of your own when social interactions start getting exhausting. Hearing that, Ace rushes to claim the bed opposite of yours. It takes him some effort to convince Deuce, who was actually supposed to take that place, to trade, without blowing his cover. When you enter the train car, Ace is already unpacking his things, jumping down his bunk (almost landing on Sebek) to throw your luggage onto a shelf.

Settling down isn't easy, with how many passengers are in the train car and how little space there is, but eventually everyone takes their seat.

The road promises to be long, and what better entertainment is there if not playing card games? Obviously, Ace has brought a whole pack of them, a laminated limited-edition deck with am intricate design that he snagged from his brother. Passing cards out for everyone and starting a game. As expected from someone who's been basically holding cards since crib, he wins every single time, pulling kings and aces seemingly out of nowhere (or, perhaps, right from his sleeves...). When he exits the game, Ace leans closer to you, watching the way you use your deck and giving subtle hints on how to turn the situation in your favor, smirking proudly when you start picking up and winning more frequently.

Whenever your little squad sits down for a meal, Trappola takes a seat as close as possible - either in front of you or at your side. You two often trade or share, swapping food you don't like for something you have a liking for. Ace would never be caught dead admitting to it, but I feel like he might sometimes lie about hating some snack or desert, just to have a reason to share with you.

I don't even doubt that he'd be the one to initiate playing something like truth or dare later into the evening, having prepared a full list of embarrassing questions and wild dares specifically for this occasion. Expect him to bluescreen if, when dared to kiss the most handsome guy around, you pick anyone except him.

And eventually night rolls around. Clad in a complect of comfortable night clothes, you fluff up a pillow and a blanket, wrapping yourself up cozily and turning on one side. You face Ace, barely making out his features in the dark. His two crimson eyes stare into your face, and if at that moment all lights were on, you would've noticed a hint of fondness in his expression. Propping his head up on a hand, Ace whispers,"

Asleep yet?"

You two talk quietly for a few more hours into the night. School, family, plans for future - it's so easy to share with him, conversation flowing naturally. Contrary to the confident and boisterous voice he usually equips around others, right now he sounds gentle. No persona to upkeep (assuming that all others have fallen asleep long ago), nothing to hide or prove; and as you feel your eyelids grow closing and head sinking into the pillow, you succumb to heavy sleep of exhaustion.

The last thing you hear before dozing off is a far-away:

"Good night... dream of me, yeah?"

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 24 - Radiation Posioning

title: all days come down to one clear pane

fandom: hermitcraft

cw: hospital setting, possibly terminal illness

~

“Well, hey there, Bdubs,” Beef greets cheerfully, tightening the ties on his apron. “Here for another round of TCG?”

Bdubs doesn’t respond right away. He stares at Beef for a long moment, standing several feet away, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Hey, Beef?” he says eventually.

There’s something . . . something not quite right about the look in Bdubs’s big eyes. A dull, unfocused quality, like he isn’t all there.

“Yeah?”

“Did we eat something funny, last night?” asks Bdubs. “Because I’ve been feeling . . . not good.”

The NHO had grabbed dinner together the night before, and while it had been fairly cheap, greasy food, Beef’s been feeling all right. Out of all of them, Bdubs has one of the strongest stomachs. It would be weird for him to have a reaction, out of all of them.

“How so?”

Bdubs’s dull eyes dart from right to left. “I threw up,” he says. “Twice.”

Beef hums. “Well, I’ve been feeling fine. Did you ask Etho and Doc?”

“No.”

“Are you feeling sick any other way?”

Bdubs considers that question, his head tilting slightly to the side. “I’m . . . my body hurts,” he says, after a moment of consideration. “Like, aches. Is that normal?”

“It sounds like it could be a flu,” Beef says, taking a subtle step back. “Maybe you should go lie down.”

“I just had the flu a couple weeks ago,” Bdubs argues. “I feel . . . I dunno. I haven’t been feeling great all day, I’ve been kind of sick, but I was okay last night—”

His words speed up, voice louder and louder as he speaks, and one hand snakes out of his pocket and up to his hair, where it starts pulling. Beef grimaces—they’ve been trying to break Bdubs of his hair-pulling habit for years, but it always creeps back. Before he can mention it, though, his hand comes away.

With a tuft of hair.

Bdubs—

He wasn’t pulling too hard, was he? He just kind of pulled a little bit. He shouldn’t have been able to pull out a whole tuft of his own hair, like a dog blowing out its coat.

Bdubs doesn’t seem to notice. He lets the hair fall to the ground, runs his hand over his head. There’s some other thin patches, Beef notices, and that worries him just as much as the bandage wrapped around Bdubs’s hand.

Why is it bandaged?

“—been weird,” Bdubs says, “and I don’t like it.”

“Why don’t you lie down,” Beef suggests again. He forces his voice to be as calm as possible. He doesn’t want to freak out Bdubs, as strangely as he’s acting. “You can use my bed. I’ll bring you something to drink, okay?”

Bdubs frowns, but nods his agreement. He heads off in the direction of Beef’s bed, his bandaged hand still buried in his hair.

Beef watches him go for a moment, then pulls out his communicator.

There’s something very, very wrong about Bdubs. He’s going to need some help.

-

“When did this start?” Doc asks, examining Bdubs’s hand.

It looks bad. It looks really bad, from Beef’s point of view.

His left hand, now bereft of wrappings, doesn’t quite look like a hand. Well, it’s the right shape and everything, but his skin is just . . . wrong. Peeled-away and reddened, the fresh skin under the peeled back of his hand bubbly with blisters. The skin around the patch is discolored, several shades lighter than Bdubs’s usual pigment.

Bdubs shrugs. “I dunno. Um, it’s been kinda getting worse all week.”

“And you didn’t say something?” Doc says, shocked.

“I thought it would get better!”

“Goodness, Bdubs,” Xisuma says. “You can’t dig into a radiation site and expect to just get better.”

“When did you first enter the site, again?”

Bdubs’s face scrunches up; his eyes still hold that glassy look to them. “Um . . . two weeks ago? I haven’t been back since, promise.”

Two weeks ago.

Beef doesn’t know much about radiation poisoning, but if Bdubs made contact with it two weeks ago, how is it that only now he’s realized something’s wrong?

“We’ll have to take him off-world,” Xisuma’s murmuring. “Get him a proper doctor.”

Doc, usually quite defensive of his doctorate, doesn’t argue. He just drags a suitcase out from under Bdubs’s bed and cracks it open, dumping out whatever he finds within. Then he takes it over to Bdubs’s wardrobe, starts throwing random articles of clothing into it.

“I’ll come with,” Beef volunteers, and Xisuma nods gratefully toward him.

Then, because Beef is not just going to come with for the day, he leaves as well, donning a pair of elytra and flying back to his own base.

By the way Doc was packing, he thought that this was going to be a long stay.

Beef will stay with him. And then he’ll bring Bdubs home, and everything will be okay.

-

Bdubs gets sick on day two of his hospital stay.

The staff hadn’t quite known what to do with him—they’d never had a patient with ARS, and they’d had to call in a specialist from another world. That specialist had taken one look at the hospital room—Bdubs on the bed, Beef sitting beside him, Doc pressed against the window and Xisuma taking the forefront—and had immediately ushered them all out.

“His immune system is destroyed right now,” she’d scolded, sending them to the room next door to don protective gowns and masks and gloves. “We can’t risk him getting sick.”

Bdubs had watched them go, uncharacteristically quiet.

The doctor was right. His immune system was destroyed. He wakes up with a chest cough on the second day, and by that afternoon his temperature has climbed to feverish heights.

Beef doesn’t know what to do. He isn’t sick—he quarantined for twenty-four hours and tested negative for every illness in the book, just to be able to sit with Bdubs. He’d expected it to be pretty chill—maybe he could get some drawing done, talk with his friend about any remaining plans for what was left of the season.

Now he sits further away than he would have liked, over in the seat by the window, watching as Bdubs’s chest rises and falls weakly under his hospital gown.

They’re going to intubate him soon if he doesn’t start getting more oxygen. Whatever this bug is has ravaged his lungs in the brief time he’s been ill with it, making his body even weaker and more susceptible to the radiation devastating his cells from the inside.

He doesn’t even look like himself. Bdubs’s hair is more patchy than before, what remains limp and unbrushed. His face is scruffy, bags under his eyes oily, his closed eyes fluttering now and then. The hospital gown fits loosely around him, his entire collarbone showing in an unwelcome display of vulnerability. His right arm is hooked up to a pouch of fluids and pain medication, the occasional click from the IV stand breaking the silence.

He doesn’t look a thing like how Bdubs is supposed to look. It’s like the life has been drained out of him as steadily as the IV drips into his bloodstream.

“Zedaph’s going to be jealous,” Beef says after a long moment, trying anything to make the scene less wrong.

The only sign that Bdubs has heard him is a tiny cough.

“I think he was, like, looking for radiation. And you found it on accident. He’ll probably do a Zedvancement on you when you get back.”

That gets a huff of a laugh. Bdubs doesn’t open his eyes.

Beef bites his lip. “Doing any better than this morning?”

Bdubs’s throat works. “A bit,” he rasps, voice barely there. This triggers a couple more coughs, his frame shaking.

They’re probably going to intubate him. They don’t want to, afraid that he’ll struggle to get off oxygen if they put him on it, but this is only the first day of illness and they’re already discussing it. Unless he gets better overnight, Bdubs is going to end up with a tube down his throat.

He looks so weak.

They’ve determined that he came in contact with the radioactive material about twenty-five days ago. He’s moving out of what they called the ‘latent period’, and the loss of hair means that he’s had higher exposure than they would have liked.

They said that his chance of survival is around 50%.

That is way, way too low. Probably lower with the illness that he’s caught. Beef sat in the window seat for about an hour as Bdubs napped and calculated possible percentages—with a mean of 50, if one assumed that each illness was one standard deviation below the mean, and say the standard deviation was 12—maybe even bigger—

Well, with that model, Bdubs’s chance of survival is 38%.

And with each passing hour, Beef can’t help but think that Bdubs’s score gets lower and lower.

-

They do end up intubating him. It helps him get through the cold that’s ravaging his system, but he’s too weak to get off supplemental oxygen afterwards. Beef is the only Hermit allowed to visit, and only dressed to the nines in PPE.

“You’ll be back in business in no time,” Scar says over a video call. Scar in particular is banned from visiting, even just to drop something off. “You’ve been lotioning your nose? That cannula will give you nosebleeds like nothing before!”

“Yeah,” Bdubs manages. “And then they don’t stop bleeding.”

His blood isn’t clotting very well. He’s had three nosebleeds so far, and every one of them has been an emergency.

The specialist doesn’t say it, but if he keeps bleeding, Bdubs’s chances of survival will keep dropping.

“When are you coming back?” asks Scar. Bdubs shrugs. His arm is getting tired of holding up the communicator, Beef can tell.

“Dunno. When the radiation runs out. And then I have to do . . . more things.”

“Bone marrow transfusions, blood transfusions,” Beef calls. He hears Scar make a humming sound.

“Sounds fun.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, if you need anything, let us know, okay? I’ve still got some cookies around somewhere—”

“Not Elven Surprise—”

“Oh, no, no, no, that probably wouldn’t be very nice at all! But I’ll see what I can do.”

Bdubs nods, clearly worn out, and Beef stands, taking the communicator from him and leaving the room.

He glances back into the room as he closes the door. Bdubs’s eyes are already closed, his head slumped on his shoulder.

Once he’s in the hall, Beef looks down at the screen. Scar’s face is staring up at him, naked concern painted all over it.

“He doesn’t look so good,” Scar says.

Beef shrugs. “He’s right on track for recovery.”

It’s what he’s told everybody who tried to come visit, or called. He told Ren that the doctor said it’ll be a long time, but he should be okay. He told Etho that they put him on oxygen as a caution, not a necesity. He told Doc that Bdubs spent all afternoon chattering about his next build.

He smiled and lied through his teeth to everyone, and he can and will do it again.

But Scar sighs. “I can take the truth, Beef.”

And Beef breaks down.

“He couldn’t afford to get sick,” he chokes out, his throat suddenly thick, tears already spilling from his eyes. “I—sorry, man, I don’t usually—but—before he got sick, he only had, like, a fifty percent chance—and now it’s worse—”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.”

“He might not make it,” Beef says, ugly and raw and heartbreaking. “I don’t know what—I don’t know what to tell everyone, it shouldn’t be me here, it should be Etho or Pungence or—”

“Nobody could do it better than you,” Scar tells him. “You’ve got this, dude. We’re all here for you.”

Logically, Beef knows that’s true.

But he’s the only one here. He only sees the others briefly, when they stop by to drop off food or clothes—and even then, he doesn’t talk to them. He sees them from the opposite end of the hallway (he sometimes helps Bdubs into a wheelchair and pushes him to the door of his room just to wave at their friends, at Ren and Pearl and Xisuma or whoever else stopped by) or waves to them from the window, and that’s it.

“What do I do?” he whispers after a long moment. He grabs a tissue from the nearby nurse’s station (and the nurse gives him a sympathetic half-smile), uses it to dab at his eyes.

“Just keep trying, man. I know Bdubs appreciates it. We all do.” Scar sighs, an edge of laughter to the sound. “If I could hug you right now, I would.”

Beef chuckles wetly. “Then I’d have to put on all new plastic. Thanks, but no thanks.”

Scar smiles. “Yeah. An imaginary one, then.”

Even imaginary, Beef supposes, Scar hugs are the best.

-

“You’ll pull through,” Beef whispers, Bdubs’s limp hand held in his own.

He doesn’t know if he’s talking to his friend or to himself.

Bdubs has barely been conscious for the past three days. Beef has ignored every buzz of his communicator since he first took a turn for the worse, ever since he came down with another fever.

“We’ve already done two months. We can’t just give up now.”

He’s been awake for going on forty-eight hours now, but he can’t sleep.

He can’t leave Bdubs.

He doesn’t get that choice, though, as just a half hour later, Bdubs’s heart monitor starts beeping incessantly, and then there’s people flooding the room and Beef is escorted out.

Then he sits on the tile floor of the hallway and sobs into his knees.

-

Intubation doesn’t look good on Bdubs a second time.

-

Every single day is a fight.

Beef starts being honest with Xisuma, trusting him to spread the word around Hermitcraft. Bdubs isn’t doing well, but the doctors are hopeful. He got sick again. They have to take treatment slower. He’s off oxygen during the day. He’s back on it. He can’t keep food down. He was able to take a short walk today. He loves the potted plant. His scans aren’t looking good. They’re adjusting the treatment plan. He wants pictures of everyone’s builds. He slept all day. He still can’t keep food down. They’re bringing in a therapist to talk to them both.

It’s after the last message that Xisuma again suggests they take turns staying with Bdubs. Beef is resistant to the idea at first, but Bdubs’s doctor says it would be fine with proper PPE, so he relents.

He doesn’t really sleep, the nights he spends away. It isn’t right to be on Hermitcraft, his bedroom devoid of the clicking of the IV and the clunking of the heart monitor.

“We’ve got it,” Xisuma reassures him. “Rest.”

But Beef can’t do anything without thinking of Bdubs and how he isn’t here, so he continues to assume the main responsibility of being there for him, through the ups and downs and fights that follow.

Right up to the end.

-

“That’s the last one?”

Those are the first words out of Bdubs’s mouth when he wakes up, mumbled and half-formed, his eyes not even quite open.

“The last round of conditioning,” Beef reassures him, squeezing his arm. “Then you have the transplant next week.”

“Then we go home.”

“Then we stay a couple more weeks to make sure it works.”

“And then.” “And then we go home, yep.”

A smile quirks Bdubs’s lips. “I miss it.”

“I know, bud.”

It’s been eight months.

Eight of the most touch-and-go, harrowing months that Beef has ever endured.

“You can keep sleeping,” Beef says, releasing his grip to just pat Bdubs’s arm. “Etho’s not taking my place for another couple hours.”

It’s almost over. Just the bone marrow transplant, then an observation period, then home. Six months of recovery from the radiation poisoning, then two months of conditioning to prepare his body to receive the bone marrow transplant.

Then now.

Then home.

The doctor had been nothing short of jubilant when it became clear that Bdubs was going to pull through. She had repeatedly told Bdubs how proud she was, how he withstood the odds and came out on the other side.

It was a 25% chance of survival, in the most dire moments. Despite a couple of scares early on, everything went as well as could be hoped for—the medication, the skin graft, the conditioning. It was terrifying, and still is (there are still far too many things that can go wrong), but Beef doesn’t shoulder the weight of it alone anymore. Over the past months, every other Hermit (bar Scar) has sat with Bdubs for at least a day. When no one could take his place, they brought him food and games and called to share stories.

Beef just sat with his friend whenever he could, as he had from day one.

Just as he is now, his hand still resting on Bdubs’s arm.

Beef smiles.

Bdubs, already asleep, snores.

Just a few more weeks. Then home.

[storywestistrash]

i am actually so tired of the way westerners treat eastern europeans