#implied/mentioned homophobia

[captain-bo-bob-bobby]

It's been a long time since I had gone on Tumblr. Wanted to share something but I'm kinda nervous to, please be kind with me and don't read if this is triggering or squicky to you. 🖤

One of the whumpee versions of my Bob oc is a black guy in an all white family, who are religious and ignorant of the struggles he's gone through.

The last conversation he has with one of them is his sister, who tries to argue with him about the issues women have- which he dutifully listens to, knowing that there are several complex issues within society- only speaking up when she says he can't possibly understand the issues she goes through. "There's another difference we have, a priviledge that you have that I don't: one that people can see plainly when they take just one look at us."

Then his Whumper kidnaps him (whom has blatant racist/homophobic views and makes it known from day 1) and the family is left in pieces.

While Bob is busy getting himself physically tortured, the sister is lamenting the death of her brother... until the youngest sibling gets sent his chopped up fingers in a package and their family is torn up again.

There's also a supernatural element to this Bob's story, but I'm a bit too lazy to type that all out right now-

[fluffypostsforangstyships]

After Arthur recovers from his sickness, he and Charles leave everything behind.

They find their new home in the form of a small, but comfortable, cabin in the woods.

Out in the wild there is no one to ask questions or make cruel judgements.

Together they spend the rest of their lives here caring for many of horses and dogs.

Except for their occasional visit to town where they offer horse riding lessons for kids from the local orphanage.

[6okuto]

one day people will stop looking at misogynistic men and saying they're secretly gay, and finally realize implicitly associating non-queer men's hatred with queerness as well as disregarding the patriarchy's pervasiveness helps (checks notes) literally nobody

[lmanburgseulogy]

Finally happy with the fact im genderqueer but i would also die if i had to explain that to my pastor

[dc-said-bi-robin-rights]

The first floor window of the Ranger HQ explodes outwards as Steel crashes through it, plummeting several feet in the air before hitting the ground, rolling, his armored fingers carving a line into the tarmac as he digs them into the ground to halt his momentum and rises to his feet. Above him, Blindspot walks forward calmly, his cape billowing behind him in the cold December wind as he looks down on his fallen enemy from the window ledge. He can feel the power rushing through the neon yellow veins of his armored suit as he clenches his fists, the simple action diverting all the excess power that isn’t being channeled into his telepathic boosters straight into his diamond-tipped knuckles. It was Mortum’s latest masterstroke: a strength upgrade that didn’t require any additional power storage. Just the action of curling his fingers into a fist would fill his gauntlets with excess power, power that would then be diverted elsewhere as soon as he uncurled them. He felt a chuckle coming on—he was gonna have to send the good doctor another check. It really was a brilliant workaround.

The roar of rushing air fills his ears, and he looks up to see a helicopter with the LDNW logo hovering overhead. He smirks beneath his helmet, raising a hand up to his eyes as their spotlight switches on, illuminating him in all his glory for their millions of viewers to see.

That was more than fine by him. Let them watch. Let the world watch their heroes be embarrassingly brought low, again and again, until they woke up to the truth that they didn’t protect anybody, least of all them.

He walks off the ledge and drops down onto the parking lot, shockwaves emanating from the fist he’d smashed against the ground, breaking the windows of all the cars around him and splashing him with glass shards as he rose to his feet. Another gift from Dr. Mortum, one that was as much for the drama and intimidation factor as it was for the usefulness that clearing a room of goons just with his landing represented. Armored as he was, Steel barely felt the shockwaves, of course… but the little trick was a godsend in front of the cameras, and there were few messages that weren’t enhanced by a visible display of power from the one who spoke it. Even now, he could imagine the viewers at home oooing and gasping at his little display. The thought amused him, and he wondered what the Breaking News! headline was saying at this very moment. He hoped it was something scary: an intimidating reputation was as valuable as a dozen fiery speeches, if not more so.

“I don’t want to fight you, Cyrus.” Chen’s voice was serious and stern, and as irritating to his little fantasies as the stubbornly conscious state of the man himself. Even with half his visor torn off and his breastplate dented almost beyond repair, the Marshal of Los Diablos refused to bend or break, even to a man he privately wasn’t sure could even be considered a villain. “You won’t enjoy what happens if you make me.”

“Cyrus Brown died in an ambulance, alone and abandoned.” Blindspot’s voice is a garbled mix of his real voice and the intimidating growls produced by his failing voice moderator. The effect is disturbing, and more than a little offsetting. “Or at least, that’s what you told the others, isn’t it? But you knew better.”

A flash of something indescribable passes over the half of Chen’s face not covered by the ripped visor. “I would take it back if I could.”

“But you can’t,” Blindspot hisses as he walks forward, fists clenching, power filling his hands, his armor’s pulsing veins glowing in the dark between the black plates. His own featureless faceplate was still intact, but visibly glitching, showing more of his snarling face than he was comfortable with. That hadn’t been part of the plan. He was meant to be the coldly gloating one, hiding his emotions behind the stark neon wall that was his faceplate and the echoing nothingness of his voice moderator as he threw out vicious taunts and condemnations. Steel wasn’t supposed to be able to see the savage hatred on his face, and he was especially not supposed to be able to hear the broken fury in his voice. That had always been his problem. He succumbed to anger too easily. “You can’t, can you? You can’t undo what they did to me!”

“I can make it right,” he growls, as close to pleading as he’ll ever get. “I can help you. I can keep you safe from them.”

“No one can keep me safe from them,” he says, taking a steadying breath pulling himself back into neutrality with great difficulty. Not for the first time, he’s glad news’ helicopters don’t typically come with long-range microphones. “Only I can do that.”

“And Ortega?” They’re circling now, watching each other for the slightest sign of weakness. “I know she cares for you. I know she’d believe you can put this behind you, like I do.”

“And let them get away with it?” Blindspot demands, disbelieving. “Let them do it again?! To me!? To others?!” He gave a harsh laugh. “I chose this path for a reason, marshal . Not that I’d expect you to know what that is.”

“A path?”

“A choice,” he corrects, mocking. “The military man, through and through. ‘Yes, sir’, ‘no sir’, ‘how high, sir’? ‘How deep, sir?’ ‘The whole thing or just the tip, sir?’”

Steel meets his eyes for a long moment. “From what I’ve heard, that sounds more like you.”

The next thing he knew, Blindspot was pummeling Steel, frothing with rage. If it had been Steel’s goal to provoke him into a hasty attack, it’d worked too well: his fist crashes into Steel’s broken visor, cracking what remained of his helmet and smashing aside his jaw. Steel stumbles back, but Blindspot gives him no quarter, raising his fists above his head and bringing them crashing down on his shoulders. Steel is forced to his knees, but he still manages to catch Blindspot’s next kick and launch him backwards a few feet into the air.

He lands in a crouched position, teeth gritted behind his glitching faceplate. Okay, lesson learnt. There’s still a pretty sizable strength difference between him and Steel, and he needs to remember that. Fine. Let’s see how he likes a fight on Blindspot’s terms, then.

He plunges his hands into the tarmac, sending his nanovores towards Steel. The ground cracks as they approach him, and though he jumps back, deploying jets all along his lower body to guide his ascent, they follow him up, forming a long ramp that reaches out as if to catch him. Blindspot can see the controlled panic in his eyes as his jump-jets start running out of steam, but he pulls the nanovores back before they can swam over Steel and bring his career as a Ranger to a grisly end by devouring him and his half-cybernetic body alive, letting Steel crash to the ground. The fallen marshal’s heavy armor leaves a small crater in the tarmac, but it’s one he quickly picks himself out of, leveling an unguided wrist-mounted rocket and firing it at Blindspot. The Rat-King chitters out a warning, though it’s unneeded—the pressure on Blindspot’s mind has lessened somewhat, meaning some of Steel’s dampeners had to have been damaged by the fall. His will surges forward, wrapping around Steel’s mind like a set of hands and squeezing. The rocket goes wildly off-course, hitting a nearby car and sending it vaulting into the air in a fireball, the impact doing nothing but kicking up his cape as he advances. The part of Cyrus that was Sidestep registers Steel’s unwillingness to use the more dangerous class of missiles he has mounted on his shoulder somewhere in the back of his mind, but the rest of him is just focused on how sweet it’ll be to make the bastard pay.

“Tell me something, Chen,” Blindspot starts, his voice distorting strangely. “I’m curious. How many mes would it take to make up one Ortega? Ten? Twenty? By what exact percentage is my life less than hers?”

“You’re making this something it wasn’t,” Steel growls, leveling another rocket at him.

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t try it. We know how that goes.”

A pause. “I guess that’s true.” Steel slowly lowers his arm. “What happens now?”

“Now?” He gives a harsh laugh. “Now, we beat the crap out of each other for the cameras. And we don’t stop until one of is dead.”

“I don’t want to do that.”

“Liar,” he says calmly. “You’ve wanted that since the beginning.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’re my enemy.”

“Do you?” Steel gives Blindspot a meaningful look. “What have I done to make you think that?”

“Left me in the Farm, for one thing.”

“I was trying to protect Ortega.” Another pause. Chen liked his pauses. “I thought you would understand that.”

“Didn’t tell me that you knew, for another.” Now who’s the one with the lists?

“You were dead. Then you were back. What did you want me to say?”

“You could’ve pulled me aside at any moment.” It was hard, to muster the anger from earlier into his voice. Even though he was angry. Even though he was furious. “Explained. Let me know what you had done before I started to get close to you.”

And there it is. The ugly truth.

They’d almost been friends. Now, they never will be.

“I fail to see what that would have accomplished.”

“I…” He let out a long groan of frustration. “It’s useless, with you. Guilty feelings aside, it’s like you don’t even realize you did something wrong.”

“I made a choice. I stand by it.”

“A choice to pick Ortega over me.”

“A choice to pick a living Ortega over a probably dead you.” Steel looks guilty, but not guilty enough to shy away from the truth. That’s something you can give him credit for, at least. “You weren’t a Ranger. There was no other choice I could make.”

“I was part of the team, damn you.” He feels so tired. “You know that. You’ve said that.”

“I do. I have.”

“So why…?” He chokes on his next words. “Forget it. Would you have made a different choice? If I wasn’t a Re-Gene?”

“I… don’t know.” Steel looked troubled by the admission.

“You don’t know,” Blindspot echoes, shaking his head. “I think you do.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You can say it. Either answer will make me hate you.” He wondered what the news chopper made of this conversation, being unable to hear it and yet still seeing him and Steel standing there, talking when they should be fighting. “Either you decided I wasn’t worth the risk because I was a Re-Gene, or you did it because I was inherently worth less than Ortega in your eyes.”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“I could rip the answers out of your head,” he threatens without any real heat. “Your dampeners are down. You’d have no way of stopping me.”

“Do it, then.” Steel looks about as tired as Blindspot does. “I’m as curious to hear them as you are.”

He almost does.

Almost.

His will surges towards the chopper like a spike, piercing their minds with urgent thoughts of heading home. He waits until they’re out of sight to remove his helmet, exposing his face to the empty parking lot. To Chen.

“I had plans for how today was gonna go, you know.” A slight chuckle. “I was going to walk in, all righteous fury, and take my revenge.”

Chen holds his gaze. “What changed?”

Cyrus laughs, the sound free and pure away from the voice moderator. “What makes you think anything has?”

“You’re not killing me.”

“No.” He leans back, taking a seat on the hood of the nearest car, which groans under the pressure of his heavy armor. It’s a very casual act of criminality, but he doubt Chen is going to lambast him for it under the circumstances. “I guess I’m not.”

There’s a long silence. Chen breaks it first.

“I saw your interview. The one on the bridge.” A slight pause, shorter this time. “I never knew you were into politics.”

“Any system that puts people through what I want is rotten.” He puts the helmet down and lays back, staring up at the stars. “We talked about it, you know.”

“It?”

“The sky,” he clarifies, like it’s not a total non sequitur. “What it looked like. Someone… I can’t remember who… thought it’d be green.”

“Oh.” A hesitant breath. Cyrus can sense Chen’s confusion… but also his interest. “Were you disappointed?”

“With the sky? A bit,” he admits, his eyes still skyward. “Then it got dark. And I saw the stars.” The last word is uttered with an almost dreamlike longing, with the tone of breath one might reserve for speaking about a goddess.

The Farm had taken a lot from Cyrus the second time around. But it could never take away the stars.

“They’re even more beautiful in the country.” Cyrus can sense Chen has no idea why he volunteered that information, but he continues anyway. “Especially overseas.”

“I know. Ortega took me to her ranch. More than once.”

Chen nods, but he doesn’t move from where he is standing. “You know I have to take you in.”

Cyrus sighs. “You don’t. You really don’t.”

“I’m sorry.” Cyrus could hear the stunner being primed, but he didn’t bother sitting up. “But I do.”

“Using my own tech against me?” He chuckled. He’d been wondering where that old toy ended up. “That’s a new low.”

“You were dead. It was a way to honor you. And it did it’s job,” he admits.

“Not well enough,” Cyrus says, before grabbing ahold of Chen’s mind and drowning it as violently as he could. Every thought he’d had in the last four hours, every memory, every possible impression is found and ripped out, violently brutally, viciously, without the slightest hint of mercy or consideration being given for the sanctity of his mind. By the time he is done, Chen is a drooling puddle on the floor, unconscious thrice over. Blindspot barely gives him a second glance as he walks away into the night.

[locklylemybeloved]

this pride i think its especially important to remember to be safe. if you are in a space where it is unsafe to be out, DO NOT FEEL PRESSURED TO COME OUT OR DO ANYTHING THAT MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE OR IS DANGEROUS.

im not saying everyone should be closeted, im saying you shouldnt feel pressured to come out or celebrate or anything. pride is an amazing beautiful thing, but for a lot of people it is not safe to express pride, and you need to make sure to take care of yourselves and make those decisions for yourself.

unfortunately we live in a time where it is still dangerous to be out, especially in certain places. unfortunately we live in a time where there are people out there who think the right response to being queer is violence.

im not trying to scare or influence people into being out or not, im simply saying:

respect every person’s decision on how they choose to celebrate pride as long as it isnt harming anyone else, and take care of yourself by spending pride however you feel comfortable/able/safe.

i love you all sm remember im always a safe space to talk abt anything, no matter how close or not we are <3

[pomellon]

Thinking about Sam taking his role as Punz’s substitute life-partner so seriously. Like he knew nothing about centaurs before Punz and according to most human resources they classed as a “beastal” species. This classification is given to humanoid species with strong animal features, like avians and taurens, and is often also used to signify that the species have a more animal-like intelligence too.

Sam knows that most of the time this is false information, he’s known Dream for years now and he’s fairly sure avians ascend human intelligence. So when he tries to read up on centaurs and “beastal” is one of the first things he finds he instantly takes it with a lot of scepticism.

He has to throw a lot of books out when Punz grows healthier and more lucid (having been weak and delirious with a fever when Sam and Dream got him), proving their information wrong with his natural behaviours, everything from being flustered of his state of undress to his ability to pick up words and learning new languages. It takes tracking down reputable explorers and writers, and sending letters to libraries of neighbouring towns, until Sam finally gets a hold of accurate research. Which is when he learns about centaur life-partners.

He feels really sad for Punz, realising the centaur must feel incredibly lonely if he was used to constantly having someone around, and he becomes determined to find a way to make him feel better. One of the first things he does is to sketch out some sets of centaur clothes, based on the sketches in one of his books, and ropes Sylvee and Hannah into helping to make a few variants so Punz can feel more comfortable. 

While he waits for those to be made he notices a slight decline in Punz’s healing, the centaur looking more and more exhausted and Sam eventually realises he isn’t sleeping. He can’t really pinpoint why at first, but after some more researching learns that centaurs often sleep leaning against each other and that Punz might be struggling to sleep alone now that his health isn’t keeping him knocked out.

So he starts working on a second project, a weighted blanket. It’s going to take a while to get the materials to finish though, and he worries about the centaur's health declining even more, so he tries another temporary solution. He starts spending the night in the same stable stall as Punz, at first unsure what to do and worries he will make the centaur uncomfortable since he’s still very closed off and stand off-ish, but hoping his presence will eventually calm Punz enough to doze off. 

It works eventually, especially after Sam starts bringing books to read out loud just to fill the silence. He gradually moves closer to the centaur, ready to back off should he try to shuffle away, still too injured to properly walk, but Punz lets him come close and eventually starts to drift off to the sounds of Sam’s voice. He will however flinch awake every time Sam goes quiet, which isn’t really fixing the problem, because if Sam stays awake to read he will end up just as exhausted and unable to properly care for the centaur. He’s determined to make Punz better tho, so he pushes himself to stay awake and read to him, taking naps between his tasks at the farm during the day to keep up. 

This of course eventually comes to a tipping point, Sam tiredly reading to Punz while sitting next to the centaur, finally having gained his trust enough to be so close. Punz is dosing peacefully to Sam’s slurred words, looking so calm and relaxed that eventually Sam can’t help to close his eyes too, just for a second, only to get just a little of that same peaceful bliss.

Next thing he knows it’s morning, and he wakes up draped across the centaur’s flank. He almost flinches away at first, concerned he’s accidentally crossed Punz’s boundaries, but then notices the centaur is still fast asleep, for the first time sleeping through a full night at the farm.

Sam makes it a habit to sleep against Punz after that, overjoyed at the progress in centaurs growing health and his trust in him. Shortly thereafter Sam finishes up the weighted blanket, and the girls complete Punz’s new clothes, just in time for Punz to start gaining strength and start walking again.

Sam honestly thought Punz would leave the farm at that point. They never left the stable stall he was in locked, or even fully closed, so the centaur would know he was free to go where he pleased and Punz does just that when he’s able to. Tentatively at first, as if he’s worried he’s going to be hunted down if he tries to run, but gain more confidence when no one stops him. He starts wandering further away from the farm and most nights, even sleeping outside. Hannah keeps track of him through her connection of rose bushes, just so they know if he ever actually leaves, but to Sam’s relief Punz always comes back and even seeks Sam out specifically every couple of days.

When he does he will let Sam take care of him, letting the were-cat check over some of his still healing injuries, clean his fur, and change through his dirty set of clothes for new ones. He also starts helping Sam with his daily tasks at the farm, trailing after him to help care for the farm animals and assist with whatever Sam is building. Even when Sam settles down to do some tinkering Punz will join him, at first in silence, but as he picks up more of the language he starts to ask questions that Sam is all too happy to answer.

It takes Sam a while to realise Punz has pretty much chosen him as his new life-partner, because Punz will regularly seek out Sapnap too, but not in the same way. Sapnap helps Punz with his hooves when needed, and will help the centaur wash off after a sparring session, but Punz dosen’t go to the demon when he needs help with his clothes, or when he’s hurt or feeling sick, or when he needs to vent or is looking for advice. Those moments he goes to Sam specifically, and those are things life-partners do for each other.

Sam grows so incredibly fond of Punz when he realises this, and tentatively starts to let Punz take care of him back. He will let Punz brush his hair and fur, diligently eating any forged plants Punz brings him to snack on, and if it gets too hot or cold he will make a big show of asking Punz to help him put on or remove his jacket for him. The centaur clearly thinks that last one is too much, often scoffing and rolling his eyes while smiling, because Sam is very much capable of dressing himself, but he still appreciates the gesture and will do as the were-cat asks.

They grow very close, Sam’s fondness for Punz growing alongside their friendship, but he blatantly ignores that it couldn’t possibly be jealous he feels when Punz and Sapnap get together. He ignores the same feeling when Dream connects with Punz and starts taking the centaur away on his adventures, picking up the role as Punz’s caretaker when they’re away from the farm together. He keeps ignoring it when one day they come back home with Foolish, Tina, and Karl, Foolish sliding back into the role as Punz life-partner as if Sam had never been there.

Sam is happy for them, he is. Punz still comes to him for help and advice, still lets him help him get dressed and brushed at times because Foolish likes to let Tina help him with that stuff too. He’s happy for Punz, he really is, all he wanted to do from the start was to give the centaur a second chance at life and to make sure he was happy, and Punz is very clearly doing great. So he keeps ignoring that feeling that can’t possibly be jealous, that can’t possibly be longing and regret.

Everyone’s happy, so Sam is happy too.

[exvangelical]

so i do online tutoring for some extra income and occasionally i'll get personal essays or papers from devout christians and sometimes they're infuriating (like the lady who sent in a paper just asserting women can't be leaders because "god said so." in the most professional way possible i said that was not an argument and she needed to cite more than personal experience and personal beliefs for an essay) but the one i just read from this poor 17 year old who thought she was evil and sinful for struggling with an eating disorder at 13.... heartbreaking. the concept of sin being normal human struggles kills me and it's awful that she felt that way.

[minusgangtime]

A few days passed and temp hadn’t moved,hadn’t spoke and hadn’t eaten or drank anything..the words the homophobic crowd said to him..it made him realize..maybe he wasn’t needed or wanted here..here..maybe he just didn’t matter..why should he even bother continuing to live..if the world didn’t want him to exist..

So,one night,when pico and MB were presumedly asleep,he walked into picos room. Took one of his Uzis,then walked outside..the gun shook violently in temps shaking hand..the voices telling him to end it getting louder and louder..he set his finger on the trigger,pointing it to his heart,letting out a screech out of pure heartache and pain..and when he was about to do it..)

Pico heard the click and woke up..

"H-Huh?"

[distinctlywhumpthing]

In League — Dead Ringer, part III

Masterlist

Summary: (Continued from part II) The foreshadowed and promised caning. August is punished by Keats and loses any progress he might have made in making a friend. Takes place two years before August meets Wyatt. Beta-read by @alittlewhump!

CW: Late-19th century, explicit language, indentured servitude, classism, degradation, manhandling, implied past noncon, burn mention, implied starvation, punishment (caning). Whumper pitting whumpees against each other and being a bully.

“It’s been a spell since I’ve seen you, Fionn,” Keats said, his back to August as he fingered Fionn’s bowtie. “I truly wondered if I’d gotten it right with this new one.” He circled Fionn, keeping an open hand pressed to his throat as he moved to stand behind him. A python holding its prey. “Isn’t he just perfect?” He leaned down, just shy of putting his chin on Fionn’s shoulder so their faces lined up as they regarded August. 

Or, rather, as Keats did. Fionn started ahead unblinking, unseeing. 

Their master must have been wise to his absence but rather than turn angry, he smirked and winked at August conspiratorially. “I think—” He pulled Fionn closer, forcing him to stand taller by the hand at his throat, and placed the end of the cane between Fionn’s feet. “He’s even better than the last.” 

Fionn’s expression crumpled, something of a whimper escaping his lips. His hands at his sides were trembling fists. 

Keats laughed, the movement shaking both of them for how close together they stood. His hand at the top of the cane between Fionn’s hips pulling him nearer still. 

August averted his eyes, all too aware of Keats watching his every move, feasting on his reactions as encouragement. 

“My, my, you have been missing me, haven’t you?” Keats continued, too loudly for it to be an honest exchange. All of this was just another game. “Poor wretched thing…”  

How long had Fionn been up here alone? How long for him to be melting into the embrace as if it were salvation and not something wicked?

Some years ago, August had stumbled upon a tangle of limbs at Elmwood. A footman who’d always given him sour glances with one of the stablehands whom he wouldn’t have been able to pick out of the lot of them. He’d turned and run, abandoning whatever errand he’d been sent on and later refusing to return to complete it when he was discovered skulking in the servant’s hall. The footman had taken it on to make August’s life miserable, a display of influence and power, to dissuade him from becoming loose-lipped. 

He didn’t realize that August was afraid to even admit to seeing the depravity, fearing any association with it. They’d all been warned about perversions at the workhouse. Had once watched a pair of boys whipped bloody on the racks before being dragged to prison for the crime.

With little to look forward to after the workhouse, the boys often occupied themselves ranking the various types of labour they might find themselves indentured to. Among the worst were mining for the stories of being buried alive; factory work that would cost fingers at a time; being shipped to America only to drown on the voyage; and digging sewers whilst knee-deep in shit. 

It was a taunting game to assign these wretched fortunes, same as it was an indulgent fantasy to allow themselves to wonder at being chosen by a tradesman; a farmer who’d never had a son; or a shopkeeper in the city in need of an assistant. But after that day, they had been armed with the ultimate derision, born of their shock and fear: Handsomer boys could be bought by twisted men and damned to suffer Hell twofold. 

So, August was more than relieved when Keats said, “None of that today, Fionn.” Though the promise in his admonishing tone made August’s stomach flip. Fionn shivered as he was released but remained standing at sharp attention. “I’m not sure if August has informed you, Fionn, but he made a mistake earlier today and we agreed that the natural course of punishment would be the cane—”

“Sir, I thought—” The slap surprised August, a flash of pain on his cheek that brought tears to his eyes. 

“You will learn to hold your tongue and speak only when invited.”

He clenched his fists at his side. 

“Where was I? We agreed the transgression was deserving of the cane. I’m sure you’ll agree, Fionn.”

“Yessir,” came his well-trained reply, face betraying no emotion.

August swallowed. He hadn’t imagined they’d formed any sort of understanding in such a short time, let alone some sort of alliance, but it still felt like something of a betrayal for Fionn to simply accept this course of events. Perhaps it was purely self-preservation, which August ought to imitate rather than resent. 

Their master tapped the end of his cane on the floor. “On your knees now like a good boy.” 

There was less shame in simply sinking to the floor. At the very least, he’d be able to hide his reddened face from—

Keats snapped his fingers and August found himself hanging by his bowtie and collar, the oaf holding him from behind. He scrambled to put his feet back under him and straighten, reflexively gasping in a breath as he did, though he wasn’t released. 

“You are slow,” Keats observed, grabbing August’s chin in a bruising grip. He turned his head left and right, inspecting him with those beady eyes. “I hope you’ll wind up being worth all of this trouble.” He released August and stepped aside. “I didn’t tell you to move.”

Fionn was on his knees. 

“What?” August should have expected the slap this time. Tears spilled down his cheeks but he did his best to ignore them. “He didn’t do anything. Sir, the…mistake was mine, the punishment should be as well.” Keats raised his hand and August cowered as much as he could with the lackey still gripping his collar.

Keats let his hand fall. He paced back and forth like he was having a constitutional through garden instead of threatening his kept boys, cane tapping along with his heels on the hardwood. “You were agreeable downstairs. You thanked me so graciously for sparing you from the cane.” 

“Sir, please.” His voice notched higher, made thinner by the pressure on his throat. “I didn’t understand this to be what it meant. I never meant for—”

“You are astonishingly dull-witted.” 

“Please, sir. I’ll gladly take the cane myself. He shouldn’t have to pay for my error.” Fionn hadn’t even spared him a momentary glance and August couldn’t blame him. There was little chance they’d find camaraderie after this. 

“An admirable sentiment and certainly meaningful as we are learning that your shortcomings far outnumber your strengths.” August felt his cheeks burn, his blood boiling with hatred for this man who was so visibly sated by the suffering he could cause. “Perhaps next time you will employ more of your limited discernment to make a better choice.”

He seethed, holding tightly to his anger rather than dissolve into hot tears of defeat. He wanted to scream, to lunge at Keats and beat him with his own cane, but he couldn’t take a step – let alone hope to best two bigger men. 

Keats was smirking. “Yes, best not to fight and make things worse for poor, old Fionn.” At that, Fionn let his face fall, just for a moment. Keats turned to see what August was observing but Fionn had already fixed his expression, returning to emptiness. “I was planning to be merciful. Rather than strikes to equal the worth of the item you lost me, just one for each hour that you’ve been here, succeeding only to disappoint.” 

August couldn’t help but be relieved. It had to be less than ten, maybe fewer than six. Things really had gone downhill rapidly. Fionn had told him it was fixed, which explained how it all turned on him. He felt even guiltier. Fionn had tried to help him. Perhaps if August apologized enough, when this was over, explained that he truly had never intended to pass off the punishment and—

“Unfortunately, I have no way of telling the time…” Keats raised his hands in a theatrical shrug, cane swinging, hooked over one of his open palms. “We’ll simply have to take the whole day. Twenty-four hours.” August struggled against the hand restraining him, struggled to stop himself from swinging and kicking out. Keats grinned. “Perfectly reasonable, don’t you think, Fionn?”

“Yessir,” he whispered, no different than before but now he looked so small and frail kneeling there, Keats looming over him. August squeezed his fist tighter, fingernails biting into the burn on his palm, pain radiating up his wrist.

Keats raised the cane. August wondered how Fionn managed to stop himself cowering or flinching. His obedience was frightening. Their master swung the cane up. August held his breath—

And Keats let the cane fall. “Can you count as high as twenty-four? Or shall poor Fionn have to take responsibility for that as well?”

August gaped at him. Fucking—

“Well?”

“Yes, sir,” August grit out. “I can count to twenty-four.”

Keats raised his eyebrows. “I hope for Fionn’s sake this isn’t more of your unfounded arrogance.” He turned his attention back to Fionn. “Jacket and waistcoat.”

Fionn removed the layers until he wore only his white shirt, buttoned up to the same fucking bowtie that was being used as a collar on August. He painstakingly folded each item before placing it beside him. Keats didn’t wait for any further sign once he had straightened again. 

The cane whistled through the air and came down with a crack on the center of Fionn’s back. 

“One.” August had almost forgotten to say anything. “Two—”

Keats wound up for every blow, putting his whole weight behind it. By the fourth, Fionn seemed unable to kneel upright and had sunk onto his heels, starting to bow forward. He was breathing through his teeth, tears streaming down his face, but he hadn’t made a sound. 

Halfway, Fionn was doubled over, an even easier target with his back horizontal. His spine and shoulder blades caught the worst for how much they protruded. Keats delivered the blows even faster now that he didn’t have to pay so much attention to the angle. 

When Keats landed a blow across the back of Fionn’s neck, the boy finally cried out. His scream cut off with the next and then he was breathlessly whimpering. Keats paused to wipe his brow with a handkerchief and spared August a grin that made him want to be sick. 

“—Twenty-four.”

The air rang without the sounds of the beating. Keats was breathing heavily, more so than Fionn who hadn’t made a sound for some minutes and remained, still as death, curled on the floor. 

Keats wiped his brow again, letting his handkerchief fall in a flutter to the ground when he finished with it. “You’ll still have plenty of time to think, to make sure this really sinks in.” He stepped closer to August, too close, so that he could feel his breath on his face as he spoke. “I’m sure you’re grateful for my merciful hand to guide you in bettering yourself.”

It was all he could do not to laugh out loud and spit in his face, but clearly a spoken answer was expected of him, judging by the oaf shaking him. “Thank you, sir.” There was nothing to be done about the bitterness that was evident in his tone.

His master chose to ignore it, straightening his jacket as he headed for the door. He paused in its frame, turning to look at August again, though he didn’t address him. “Fionn, be glad that you’ve no need for such corrections.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Fionn croaked obediently, using his hands to push himself up just enough to bow his head at Keats. 

August’s lip curled in distaste and Keats grinned, winking at him. He was glad Fionn couldn’t see the judgement he so poorly contained even knowing Keats had only elicited the response to get a rise out of him. 

He didn’t breathe any easier when he was shoved away from the lackey’s grip. Nor when he and Fionn were locked back in alone. Even as the seconds stretched into minutes since their footsteps had disappeared, he still stood there rigidly, fingers balled into fists, seeing red. He thought of all the freedoms he’d enjoyed at Elmwood. His own time to walk into the village or on the meandering paths through the wood. The small shelf of books in the servants’ hall they could borrow from. Even at the workhouse, there’d been scraps of newspapers, empty cupboards and deserted corridors to hide away in, and his best friend. August really had found himself in Hell on earth.  

It was Fionn that finally snapped him out of it. He whimpered, trying to unfold himself to replace the rest of his uniform. 

August rushed to help him.

“Please,” Fionn whispered, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Please, don’t.” 

Of course not. August was the last person he’d want to help him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, knowing it was no concession.

He retreated to the mattress Fionn had approved earlier, lying with his back turned to give the other boy what semblance of privacy he could. He stared ahead at the greying wood of the eaves and wondered how long it would take for him to match Fionn not only in looks but in spirit as well.

@whumpy-writings @writer-reader-24 @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @maracujatangerine @whumptakesthecake-deactivated20 @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash @peachy-panic @hold-him-down @poeticagony @annablogsposts @fleur-alise @melancholy-in-the-morning

[tosteur-gluteal]

Okay one little rant before going to sleep aaghhh

See, I don't like to talk about my family on Tumblr djkebdjd but I'm frustrated because I feel like the lack of freedom makes it very hard for me to write

I had to deal for years with my mom snooping into my sketchbooks, phone, notebooks ect. A week ago I've learnt that she had checked a notebook that I had thrown away! While I've told her not to several times! Yikes

And I really want to be feel like I'm free to write whatever I want, on paper. Writing on paper is so much fun for me and I want to be able to write about adventure, yes, but also love, really dark stuff, or dare I even say, suggestive stuff? Even just exploring the psychology of characters, I feel like I can't do that on a physical medium.

Because I can't even hide anything from my parents, I'm taking a massive risk by being openly bi and trans in the internet. I had to block several family members because they love to gossip and they're snitches. Heck I take ENORMOUS RISKS by drawing shippy stuff on my sketchbook. And I can't even like, explore my sexuality by drawing stuff on my sketchbook. It's just. Very frustrating. I mean I could do digital art but here's the thing, I'm also a traditional artist. Agh.

I want to be able to write shamelessly

[fairymint]

🌈 Does your muse fit into a stereotype? Is there a reason why?

Felix retains some '~feminine~' traits in a sort of 'don't fix what ain't broken' kind of way. Call it inherited from 'girlhood', call it aesthetic. But it's all preference of the thing itself. Color, flavor, associations with mostly a sugar/hypoglycemia relation. Besides his body; that's genetics and style-comfort. Short hair is cumbersome, so he doesn't sport it, not for long before complaining and growing it out again.

One thing he does occasionally play into; abusing vocal fry for gayness reasons. As either a signal, or an in-bed praise thing- He does associate the 'gay voice' with some positive, attractive things. And so pushes the tone, when it's called for.

On the flipside, give him time to truly switch up the gender roles; there's a bit of internalized homophobia and signaling, especially when it comes to dom/sub. Also, his body hair is for the most part staying, unless the issue is hygiene and access. Despite the anime icons, he is a fairly fluffy/hairy boy, mid-range. The beard and mustache stubble soothes him, even if he isn't exactly a lumberjack or werewolf.

[schrijverr]

Page 128-129

[There are two images on page 128, below them is text. The left one is a young Eddie, he can’t have been more than 13. All his hair has been shaven off and he is dressed in a too big plaid shirt, hanging over a too tiny white shirt and he’s wearing ripped open jeans in a manner that is not fashionable, but plain wear and tear. He is glaring into the camera, bruise on his cheek.]

A Little Runaway

Wayne Munson, 1979

.

[The right image is taken of a much older Eddie, who is resting his head in Wayne’s lap, arms up as he gestures excitedly and talks with sparkling eyes. His hair is now much longer and he is in a black shirt, the rest of his body not pictured. Wayne is softly smiling down at his nephew, raising one brow at him.]

An Uncle and his Nephew

Steve Munson, 1989

.

Wayne is only briefly mentioned in this book, but there is no denying how important he has been for all of us, but especially Eddie.

When Eddie was kicked out of his house at age 13, because he had been caught kissing a boy, he got onto the bus to Hawkins with what little he had to an uncle he knew next to nothing about, except that he was the black sheep of the family for the same reason Eddie was. Queerness forms a bond between people, it makes you trust a stranger, because a part of you knows the other intimately. And Wayne didn’t disappoint.

He took Eddie in and raised him as his own, supporting him and believing him when no one else did. He was Eddie’s rock. When the town of Hawkins turned against Eddie, Wayne didn’t believe it for a day and when Eddie was in the hospital, he was there every moment he could.

When Eddie came home with a boyfriend that was a cause for celebration, not shame or anger. The trailer they shared was a haven, a place of safety where they could be themselves. So when Steve’s parents kicked him out, Wayne adopted him too. Truly, Steve was a Munson long before he changed his name.

Eddie never felt like he could pay his uncle back for all he had done for him. He bought him a cabin in the woods when Corroded Coffin made it big and dedicated every award to him. When Wayne died in 2008, Eddie helped carry his coffin.

This page is for Uncle Wayne, who made sure Eddie grew up with the knowledge he could be older than 30. Who gave all of us a place to call home. Who was one of the best men, I have had the pleasure of knowing.

.

[Page 129 has four images on it. Upper left is of Wayne standing on the porch of a yet unseen cabin as he looks off into the woods and smokes a cigarette. He looks at ease with himself and happy, yet also a bit stoic and unreadable.]

Wayne Munson

Jonathan Byers, 1992

.

[The image next to it is of Eddie and Wayne with in the background the cabin shown in the other image. Eddie is practically bouncing on his toes as he holds his hands in front of Wayne’s eyes. He is dressed like the rock star he is, but the grin makes him look like a kid. Wayne looks amused with the small part of his face and he has his arms crossed as he waits patiently for Eddie. A little further off are Steve and Robin looking on fondly along with the other Corroded Coffin boys.]

A Gift to a Father

Jonathan Byers, 1992

.

[Below on the left is a photograph of the couch in the new Munson cabin, Wayne is sitting on it, smiling like an excited kid, like he can’t fully believe he’s there. He has one arm wrapped around Eddie, the other around Steve, who are also on the couch. Eddie is grinning, looking a little bashful and Steve is smiling softly at the two. All of them have a beer in their hands.]

Uncle Wayne and His Boys

Jonathan Byers, 1992

.

[On the lower right there is a photograph taken later in the day. Wayne is sitting at the edge of the couch, head leaning against the back of it, fast asleep. Leaning against Wayne is Eddie, his head is resting on Wayne’s chest, one leg is hanging of the couch, the other is stretched out. His face and Wayne’s are practically identical.]

Naps

Jonathan Byers, 1992

~~

<<Prev Next>> AO3

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 75: September 2012

There should be more people here.

Actually, there shouldn’t be any people here; this isn’t a place anyone should want to be, or really needs to be. But if they have to be here at all, Gerry thinks, there ought to be more than just six people in the room.

Well. Seven if you count the one in the box.

At least, Gerry assumes there’s a body in the box. Or what’s left of one, anyway. The casket is firmly closed and sealed, has been since they arrived. There wasn’t even a viewing this time around, although given the nature of…what happened, that’s not surprising. Melanie wanted to go for a cremation, for a couple of reasons—at least one of which, Gerry knows, is so he can be buried with both his wives—but Lily is his next of kin and isn’t yet considered unable to handle her own affairs, so the final decision for disposition of the remains lay with her. A normal person with half a heart would at least consider the wishes of his only living child. Lily, however, is neither normal nor in possession of any fraction of a heart.

And so, Roger Henry King is getting a full burial with honors.

There’s a man in a clerical collar with a tiny pair of round spectacles who looks more like he’s dressed up as a priest than that he actually is one standing behind the coffin, leading the service. Lily sits in the place of honor, front and center, wearing the same mourning outfit Gerry remembers from her father’s funeral fifteen years ago, this time with the veil covering her face. The only real difference is the absence of her cane, either the silver-tipped fancy one or the sturdy nickel-plated claw-footed piece of equipment she used to drag herself around the last time Gerry saw her—has it really been five years? Instead, she sits in a large, uncomfortable-looking hospital chair with PROPERTY OF ROSEWOOD FOREST HOSPITAL AND CARE HOME stenciled in flaking white on the back, the arms of which she is gripping very tightly indeed. Sitting behind her, one chair over, is a muscular middle-aged woman in black scrubs with a slightly bored look on her face—at least she had the decency to wear black, even if she didn’t dress up. Gerry gets it; she’s a nurse, and she needs to be able to keep herself clean and sanitary if she has to assist Lily, but still.

Melanie sits in the front row directly opposite Lily, dressed up for the first time in a while, the only splash of color the teal streak in her hair and the gigantic glittery bright pink butterfly clipped to it. Beside her sits Martin, it’s a miracle he was able to get the time off work for this, wearing the only black outfit he owns—a calf-length dress with half-sleeves and a high collar that fits him like it was made for him, which, well, it was. It looks good on him, but Gerry knows he’s internally panicking over what Lily might say. She’s not exactly the most accepting person in the world and she’s never been particularly thrilled about Martin’s “inclinations”, as she always puts it, and that’s just her knowing that he’s gay; seeing her only son in a skirt, especially a tailored one, is likely to send her into the stratosphere. Gerry’s just thankful what’s left of his mum isn’t able to get here.

Gerry’s suit doesn’t fit him quite so well, but then, it’s one he found in the back of one of the closets at the bookshop; from the fact that it’s forty years out of style, he guesses that it once belonged to his father. With his hair back in a neat braid and a touch of makeup pilfered from Melanie, he looks different enough that he won’t attract undue attention, even four years after his face got plastered across the papers. In the seat next to Gerry is the only really surprising one there. Evan only ever met Roger once, as far as Gerry knows. Still, the fact that he’s here means a lot. It either means that he cared about Roger, or that he’s there to support Melanie. Either one is fine with Gerry.

There isn’t another soul in the room.

It’s obvious the man leading it has never met Roger, and when he talks about how much Roger brightened the halls of Rosewood Forest before quickly correcting himself to Ivy Meadows, Gerry realizes he’s the chaplain for the nursing home where Lily lives. He’s probably used to running funerals, comforting the bereaved, all of that, but it does mean he never met Roger. And it means he’s doing this service completely on Lily’s memories, or Melanie’s, or possibly just making it up as he goes along. The latter seems more probable, since he’s droning on about things like great worker and brilliant mind and man of God. Gerry doesn’t know what religious beliefs Roger might have held, if any, but even his and Lily’s wedding hadn’t been in a real church, and he’s never known any of them to attend one. Maybe Lily’s found religion since moving into a home, which, honestly, good for her, Gerry hopes it might make her a bit nicer, but as far as he knows Roger never did. As for his being brilliant, or a great worker…maybe it’s just the poetic license of not speaking ill of the dead, but truthfully, even before he lost his job, Roger was never what anyone would call a genius. He’d had his A-levels but not a university degree, and while he’d been a diligent and steady worker, he hadn’t exactly been impressive. Sort of mediocre, really.

The important things about Roger are the things the chaplain doesn’t even know to discuss. Like how Roger taught himself to bake so Melanie—and later Martin—would get homemade cakes on their birthdays, and braved a phone call to his mother-in-law—his first mother-in-law, Adeline Yuen, to get her to walk him through making a traditional New Year’s Eve dish. Or how he took a spinning class one summer in the hopes of being able to give Martin some homespun yarn for his project and been genuinely upset when all his efforts failed. Or how he never, not once, no matter what else was going on, missed one of Melanie’s boxing matches or one of Martin’s concerts. Or how, even when his brain failed him completely, even when he couldn’t consistently remember his own name on a daily basis, he always remembered his “little moth”.

Their absence from the eulogy makes it fall a little flat.

At last, the chaplain comes to a merciful halt. He prays, gives a blessing, and dismisses the gathering. A pair of men Gerry assumes to be employees of the funeral home come in, lift the coffin onto a weird sort of cart-like contraption, and wheel it out of the room. As the rest of them get to their feet to follow, he notices Lily beckon to the nurse and say something. She listens, then nods, then crosses over to where Martin stands.

In a low, genteel murmur, she says, “Miss Liliana asked me to tell you that she is feeling unwell and needs to get back to her room. This is all a bit much for her. She will visit once he has been interred.”

Martin’s voice betrays none of the emotions he must be feeling as he murmurs back, “Of course.”

They wait for Lily and her nurse to leave before they follow. The funeral home has a memorial park attached, meaning there are no headstones rising from the grass—only flat plaques set into the ground, some of which are studded with flowers or flags—but somehow Gerry isn’t surprised to be directed along a paved path to a large stone mausoleum. Assuming Lily ever actually does come to see Roger, she wouldn’t be able to get her chair over the grass. At least with it being a stone vault, there won’t be the whole thing with throwing dirt into the grave, which Gerry is grateful for. Roger, of all people, doesn’t deserve to be covered in dirt.

Melanie checks briefly at the threshold, but with Martin’s supportive hand at her back, she braves her way in for the rest of them to follow. There is a stone sarcophagus open off to one side; the priest stands next to it, the casket before it on the wheeled contraption. Gerry can’t see the two workers who must have brought it in, but after the chaplain says a few words of the ashes to ashes, dust to dust variety, they emerge out of the shadows, lift the casket, and drop it unceremoniously into the sarcophagus, like they’re delivering a package instead of interring a body. Melanie flinches and takes a half-step back to press against Martin and Gerry. Both of them, without saying a word, wrap an arm around her shoulders. She takes a handful of Gerry’s suit jacket on one side and a handful of Martin’s skirt in the other, but stays silent and stone-faced as the workers lift the gigantic slab for the top and, with surprisingly minimal effort for as heavy as it must be, slide it into place. With a final blessing, the chaplain dismisses them, and they re-emerge into what little sunlight there is today.

Melanie takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and turns to Evan. “There’s a café a few blocks away,” she says, her voice rough, like she’s been gargling glass. “If you like to join us.”

Evan nods, but doesn’t say anything. Gerry’s never been up here, not this part of Devon, so he just trusts Melanie and Martin to know where they’re going and follows them to a quaint little place, very white and clean and tidy, with both indoor and outdoor seating. It’s not exactly crowded, but all the same, Gerry isn’t surprised when they elect to sit outside. A waitress comes to take their orders, but after she leaves, they all sit in silence for a while, broken only by the chirping of late-summer birds and the light breeze rustling the leaves of the big, showy rosebushes planted around the edges of the patio.

Finally, Melanie speaks again. “Thanks for coming. You didn’t…have to.”

“Of course I did,” Evan says gently, because all of them know damn well she’s not talking to Martin or Gerry. “What else are friends for?”

“Yeah, but you’ve got…work or, or class or something, right?”

“Right. And I told them I was going up to Devon for my mate’s dad’s funeral and wouldn’t be in today.”

“And they didn’t give you grief?”

Evan shrugs, obviously unconcerned. “Couple of them did. All I had to say to the lab supervisor was Ivy Meadows and suddenly I had the whole week if I wanted it, and I just told my thesis advisor where he could shove it. There are more important things than a master’s degree, and there will be other jobs.” He hesitates, then adds, “I…kind of expected there to be more people, if I’m honest. I, I thought your dad was pretty well liked.”

“He’s been out of a job seven years now,” Melanie says. “And…it’s not like anyone from Ivy Meadows who knew him was left to come. Maybe Hannah, I think she’s…but we lost touch after she quit, and that was before…you know.”

Evan winces, but nods. Martin sighs heavily. “She might’ve been able to come, if this had been in London, but…well, Mum insisted.”

A delivery van trundles by, and for a second, Gerry wonders if it slows down to look at them, but it moves on quickly enough, so probably not. He refocuses on the conversation as Evan says, hesitantly, “Well, it makes sense she’d want to visit, right?”

Martin shrugs. “Maybe, but I doubt she will, honestly. It’s mostly because Melanie and I live in London, and because that’s where the Yuen family plot is.”

Evan blinks. “The who?”

“It was Mama’s maiden name.” Melanie stares at the tablecloth like it holds the secrets of the universe. “Before she married Dad. Amy Yuen Xinyi. What of her family didn’t make it back to Fatshan to die is buried in Kensal Green. But Lily’s not really one for tradition and this is closest to where she is, so it’s probably where she’ll end up buried when her time comes. And she doesn’t like us.”

“She likes you,” Martin mutters.

“Bullshit. She thinks I get you in trouble.”

“Neens, seriously, Mum doesn’t think I need any help to get in trouble. As far as she’s concerned, ‘bad kid’ is my default state and always has been. I can’t tell you how many lectures I got before they got married about why I wasn’t more like you and Gerry.” Martin winces and glances at Evan. “Sorry, you don’t…”

Evan just raises an eyebrow. “Martin, I’ve known you since we were sixteen. Do you really think I didn’t know by now that Melanie is the only person at this table who wasn’t a complete disappointment to her parents? If it weren’t for the fact that mine don’t socialize, and that I don’t talk to them, I’d have suggested they come up here and meet her.”

Martin gives a surprised-sounding laugh. “That would probably be a disaster waiting to happen.”

The delivery van rolls by again, or maybe it’s another one for the same company. Gerry watches it less because he’s concerned about it and more for somewhere to look as Melanie sighs. “Mama died when I was seven. I’m sure she’d have been plenty disappointed in me given time.”

“Hey, don’t say that.” Gerry’s head snaps back around to frown at her. “You’re a goddamn delight and any mother would be proud of a daughter like you.”

“Any mother should be proud of a son like you or Martin or Evan, too, and we all know how that worked out,” Melanie points out. “It’s immaterial. I’ll never know.”

Martin and Evan both blush. Gerry shakes his head at Melanie. “The difference is that our mothers never loved us in the first place, only what we represented for them, and that ended pretty quickly when they decided we weren’t going to be what they wanted. From what I’ve seen, yours liked you for being you.”

“You never met her.”

“No, but I’ve seen that picture of her taking you skating for your birthday,” Gerry reminds her. “You know, the woman who’s smiling and laughing with you, for you, knowing she’s so sick that in less than a week she’s going to have to go into a hospital and that she’s likely not coming out? That woman? That’s not someone who would ever have been disappointed in you.”

Gerry still, despite having known Melanie for sixteen years and loved her for fifteen of them, doesn’t speak Cantonese, but he recognizes every single one of the words that flow from her glossy lips as an obscenity. He also sees the suspicious brightness in her eyes and the slump of her shoulders and knows it’s only halfheartedly directed at him. He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles and murmurs softly, “Je t’aime, ma petite soeur.”[1]

Melanie’s French is about on par with Gerry’s Cantonese, but from the tiny smile she gives him, he knows she understands that much, at least. Evan smiles, too, then it morphs into a puzzled frown and he stands up. “Hang on. Those guys must be lost…I swear that van’s been by four times already, and now it’s slowing down.”

He starts towards the street, but the delivery van accelerates, quite naturally, as if the driver was just waiting for something to get out of the road and is continuing its journey. Martin frowns in its direction. “You’d think whoever runs the company would give them better directions to deliver.”

Gerry shrugs. “This is outside their normal route.”

“How do you know?”

“Mum used to use Breekon and Hope for deliveries all the time. They’ve got a pretty broad delivery range and branch offices in a couple different places, but Devon isn’t one of them, as far as I know.”

Martin shivers slightly. “That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.”

Gerry pats his arm as reassuringly as he can. “I promise, Martin, she just used them for delivering the…normal stuff. Not that she had a lot of that, but still.”

“Yeah, okay.” Martin sighs.

The waitress finally comes back with four cups of tea and the sandwiches they ordered. As she sets them down and gives them all a brilliant smile, she asks, “And what brings you four up here? I don’t think I’ve seen any of you before.”

Gerry frowns, because it looks like she’s flirting with either Martin or Melanie and he’s not about that—Martin won’t be interested, he’s gay, and Melanie is probably not in the mood—but Melanie doesn’t seem to notice. “We came up to bury my dad.”

That fast, the waitress’s smile vanishes, and she looks slightly horrified. “Oh. Oh, I’m—I’m so sorry to hear that.” She gathers her tray to her and scurries off awkwardly.

Evan snorts. “You seem to have broken her.”

“Eh.” Melanie shrugs. “She asked. I wasn’t going to sugarcoat it.” She picks up her tea and adds sugar to it.

Martin holds up his own. “To Roger.”

“To Roger,” the other three echo, clinking their cups against his, and they start telling Evan stories about Roger he hasn’t heard before. Melanie doesn’t exactly relax, and she certainly doesn’t look cheerful, but at least she looks less lost by the time they finish their meals and Evan solves the squabble between Martin and Gerry over which one of them will cover Melanie’s part by taking the check and paying the whole thing. He offers them a ride back to London, too, but they already have their tickets, so in the end he just gives them a lift to the train station and leaves them with a promise to see them the next time they’ll all be at the pub.

The trains don’t have compartments or three-across seating anymore, haven’t for years, but Melanie is skinny enough that doesn’t usually stop her from squeezing in between them if she needs it. Sure enough, when they find their seats, she sits on the hard plastic gap between them and curls against Martin’s side. Martin doesn’t let her do that for long, though. Instead, he just sweeps her onto his lap and holds her like a little kid.

“I’m not a baby,” she mutters, but makes no effort to get away from him.

“You just buried your dad,” Martin says in a gentle but firm voice. “You don’t have to be a baby to want to be held after that.”

Melanie sighs and flops her head against his chest. “I love you,” she says softly, reaching out a hand for Gerry. “Both of you.”

“We know,” Gerry assures her. He takes her hand and puts his free one on Martin’s shoulder, closing the circle, so that both of them know he’s there and that he cares about them. “We love you, too.”

[1] "I love you, little sister."

[marlsbys-dragons]

I’m so scared right now. 

I’m writing this not for any grand statement or call to action or anything, but because it’s safer for me to express my thoughts here than elsewhere right now.

If this goes like my other original posts, chances are no one will see this. That is ok. I might prefer it, actually. Though if you do happen to see this, please don’t take that to mean I don’t want interaction. This is a time to pull together, and that can most easily be done, in my opinion, by talking.

Like most of the people I figure are likely to see this, I am a queer American. If you are part of this group, chances are pretty good you know what I’m talking about. Earlier today, March 27th 2023 as of writing, there was a mass shooting at The Covenant School in Nashville Tennessee. Six were killed, three children, all age nine, and three adults, all aged between 60-61. The perpetrator was one Aiden Hale, 28, killed by police during a gunfight after their arrival on-scene approximately 14 minutes after 911 was called. 

If you are surprised by that name, so was I. Hale is being reported on mainly by the name Audrey Hale, his legal name, as according to a family member who asked to remain anonymous, he had only recently started identifying as transgender and using he/him pronouns. Despite this, almost all of the quotes featured in stories that I could find use she/her pronouns, and many stories refer to him as either a transgender woman or a female. The latter is inaccurate, the former strikes me as dangerously wrong.

Now, all of that is tragic backstory for the main point of this post. Some ungracious among you may attribute me lingering on the gender identity of the murder as opposed to his crimes as some sort of deflection, or worse, sign of respect. To any hypothetical people doing so, this is not for you. This person was clearly deeply mentally unwell, and if he had survived I would’ve been advocating life in prison.

However, while my heart goes out to the families of this senseless act, my mind turns to my own family. Not just my literal family who I live with, but my queer family, specifically my trans siblings across the US. We are already facing violence, oppression, and open criminalization to a degree not seen in my admittedly brief lifetime. Republicans and other right-wing actors are doing everything they can to instill baseless fear and hatred into our fellow Americans, forcing through bills that restrict our liberties and violate our human rights. 

The easiest targets for this hatred are trans women, aided by the overwhelmingly male statistics of sexual violence, and long-running and unfounded rumors seeded by transphobes and TERFs regarding alleged assaults and sexual motives for transition. After trans women come trans children, targeted for the same reasons children always are: dismissal by adults at large and a subsequent inability to speak to their own defense. And the bills are getting worse. To share a personal detail I don’t like to publicize, I am a parent of two, and there are bills in state legislatures across the country, Florida comes to mind, that could take my children away from me and throw me in jail for supporting them. A seemingly logical progression, which may have already been taken without my knowledge, is criminalizing trans people who live with children, something I have had nightmares about.

Why I am afraid is relatively simple, but to fully explain my reasons I want to share some further information: according to the Daily Mail, this shooting is is the 129th in the States this year. According to some very rough math I did on gunviolencearchive.org, a site whose list for 2023 has already reached 6 pages, this is in fact the 130th. Personally I would trust the Daily Mail’s number more. Also according to some quick finger counting on gunviolencearchive.org, we surpassed 100 mass shootings sometime on March 5th, a day with 4 separate incidents and a combined total of 3 dead, 13 injured. This is nearly two weeks earlier in the year than 2022 or 2021, and more than two months earlier than 2018-2020. I could not stomach looking farther. 

Some of you may have realized the awful truth about these numbers: in each of the last three years, we in the United States have had more than one mass shooting a day. Again per gunviolencearchive.org, that is a feat replicated by both 2020 and 2019, as well as 2016, the only other year to do so after their archival began in 2014.

As a trans person in America, who loves a trans person in America, who has trans friends across America, who has already had to start laying plans to flee the state I was raised in if it continues its present course, who sees nothing but fear in the future of so much of my family, I can only think that this will lead to bad things. 

The twisting and slanting has already begun. An article on Fox News refers to Hall as a transgender woman, despite his actual identity being a transgender man, and the usual bias of that company to call him a woman. Meanwhile, the New York post has an article focusing heavily on Covenant’s status as a Christian school.

Our enemies despise us with a visceral and blinding rage. They have proven time and time again that facts, logic, reason, human lives, mean nothing in their pursuit of a radicalized right-wing populist agenda and the power they think it promises. And now this? The all-too-real intersection of two of the biggest issues in US politics today: gun violence and transness. One which the right led to through inaction, and the other they manufactured out of hate.

I am no pundit, no scholar or insider. I cannot claim to forecast the future happenings of American politics with anything more than a layman’s weary eye. But I am a trans American, and despite everything I still want to be proud of this country, and I could see no resolution in sight to either gun violence or anti-trans legislating, only escalation, and now the two have merged. What will happen to us now? Sources:

https://www.thedailybeast.com/nashville-covenant-school-shooting-suspect-identified-as-audrey-hale

https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/nashville-christian-school-shooter-appears-former-student-police-chief-rcna76876

https://www.newschannel5.com/news/what-we-know-about-the-covenant-school-shooter-in-nashville

https://www.foxnews.com/us/nashville-shooter-audrey-hale-transgender-woman-opened-fire-covenant-school

https://nypost.com/2023/03/27/nashville-school-shooter-audrey-hale-identified-as-transgender-and-had-detailed-manifesto-to-attack-christian-academy/

https://www.cnn.com/us/live-news/nashville-shooting-covenant-school-03-27-23/index.html

https://www.gunviolencearchive.org/reports/mass-shooting

https://www.gunviolencearchive.org/past-tolls

https://www.cnn.com/2023/03/06/politics/america-mass-shootings-2023-gun-violence/index.html

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-11907933/Nashville-school-shooting-Americas-129th-mass-shooting-2023.html

https://www.them.us/story/florida-bill-trans-kids-supportive-parents

Note: I wrote this in a hurry, with no real plan, and no proof-reading. If there is anything erroneous, please let me know. I apologize if it’s a bit disjointed. 

[thatonesongyouretryingtoremember]

@aemiron-main I don't know if you've said this before already, but is it possible that Lonnie was contacting Brenner?

Henry said that he already knew Brenner before killing Virginia, specifically because Virginia wanted Brenner to 'fix' him,

But by the "sensitive boy" parallel, we know that Virginia and Lonnie had the same justification for hating their sons,

And I think it was you who at some point said Will already knew Brenner (not to mention El already knowing Will, though In not sure if that's related)

And Lonnie lived in Hawkins too before leaving, so maybe Will and Brenner knew eachother through him?