#jesus christ what a shitshow

[tokagrem]

Might actually kill myself if that guy wins and i get hrt taken away and/or it becomes harder/impossible to get top surgery

[gummydummy19]

So basically every single person is heartbroken, including the audience.

[slavhew]

im doing a drawtober of characters i think of through the day and will post in batches. day 3 solo because its already been derailed and todays blorbo is immunochemistry.

[thecorporatetower]

johnny . johnny silverhands voice. we are hearing it in our head right now. what do you do if you start hearing johnny silverhands voice .

[snaggletoothedbastard]

The Invisible Child

There’s a bell I wear round my neck and when it rings silver I taste copper because no-one else can hear it.  I follow my brothers through the streets,  a walking stick and a pair of ear-defenders with a ghostly body, a forgotten face,  a translucent throat full of screams I keep behind my teeth because

I don’t want to kill your vibe, man.  I don’t want to ruin your night. 

I’m watching everyone and everyone’s laughing and their voices stab me through the ears and stir my brain like a soup. I don’t think the mushrooms are part of the soup, I think it’s going mouldy in there.  If I bang my head against a wall enough times, will the overgrowth fall out of my eyes? It’s worth a try. 

The pain in the back of my head is cold and the eyes that follow me as this scream finally escapes are even colder.  Now they see me, for a split second.  And now they don’t.  They walk away and leave me to play hopscotch by myself;  I’ve been flung back to square one. 

I don’t even know how to play hopscotch. 

I bite at the hand that feeds me, the hand that holds me, the hand that guides me,  the hand that disappears and becomes invisible and I taste copper again because I’m tearing up my throat shouting for help and no-one wants to hear me.

[coldhands-sunkeneyes]

ITS JOEVER?????????

[rhiannonsknife]

could i maybe request a blurb where everyone finds out what shauna was doing with jackie in the meatshed, and you’re the only one that sides with/ doesn’t turn against her? like sure she’s a little freak but look at her! she’s so sad! who could possibly be mean to her???

- 🦔

shaunaaaaaa!! :( why do you guys love to see her suffer on this blog? (also, mind you, i just wrote this on my phone while watching a movie and i didn’t beta read…)

the freezing cold bites at your cheeks as you stand outside the cabin. the tension hangs heavier than it ever did before, a new low you didn’t think was possible. shauna stands before you in the snow, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her face pale and blanker than you’ve seen it so far.

“she’s been in there talking to jackie!” tai’s voice is sharp, almost disgusted but mostly confused. “holding her hand, doing her make up! do you realize how insane that is?” she gestures wildly toward the meat shed. “she’s been braid-“ tai chokes on the word. “braiding her hair. jesus, shauna”

shauna flinches, just barely, but you catch it. her lip trembles for half a second before she tightens her jaw, locking down any vulnerability.

“she’s gone, shauna,” tai presses, stepping closer, the anger in her voice rising. “jackie’s dead. and whatever you’re doing in that shed? it’s it’s not normal!”

the others linger nearby, silent but visibly uneasy: nat leans against the side of the cabin with her arms crossed over her chest, lottie stands a little further back, watching the scene unfold, whereas van fidgets awkwardly, her gaze darting between tai and shauna as if she’s unsure whether to intervene or stay out of it.

in the end, it’s you who steps up. “that’s enough!”

tai turns on you instantly, her eyes narrowing. “what?”

“i said, that’s enough,” you repeat firmly, stepping closer to shauna. you purposefully place yourself between her and tai, shielding shauna from her angry glare.

“oh, so you’re fine with this?” tai snaps, her arms flying up in disbelief. “with her acting like jackie’s still alive? do you even get how screwed up that is?”

“she’s grieving” you reason, refusing to back down. “i get that this…whatever she’s doing, probably isn’t healthy, but yelling at her isn’t going to help!”

tai lets out a sharp laugh, though it lacks any humor. “unbelievable. you’re actually defending this? her?”

“yes, tai. i am” thankfully, your voice doesn’t waver. you glance back at shauna, who’s staring at you with wide, tear-filled eyes. “she’s sad. she lost her best friend. yeah, maybe she’s handling it in a way we don’t understand, but that doesn’t mean we get to tear her down for it!”

tai’s mouth opens like she’s about to argue, but for the first time, she seems at a loss for words.

“jesus fucking christ,” nat mutters, breaking the silence. she rubs her temples, breath puffing in the cold air. “this is such a shitshow”

you ignore her, focusing on shauna instead, whose shoulders are beginning to shake. gently, you reach out and take her arm, tugging her away from the center of the group. “come on,” you tell her softly. “you don’t need to deal with this right now”

shauna lets you guide her back towards the warmth of the cabin, her steps slow and hesitant at first.

behind you, tai lets out an exasperated noise, but she doesn’t follow yet. you hear van mutter something under her breath, but it’s muffled by the wind, and you don’t care enough to turn back and ask.

you lead shauna back and inside, the noise of the others fading into the background. “i-” she starts, her voice barely above a whisper. then she shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut.

“you don’t have to explain, not to me”

her lip trembles again, and this time, the tears finally come. they roll silently down her cheeks as she stands there, shoulders hunched, her entire body shaking with the effort to hold herself together. you step closer, pulling her into a hug without hesitation. for a moment, shauna stiffens, but then she crumples against you, burying her face in your shoulder as the sobs finally break free.

“i’ve got you,” you murmur, your hand gently running up and down her back. “It’s okay, shauna. i’ve got you”

[makeyoumine69]

A Shared Mind

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Patrick Bateman x Male!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: There are times when you need to find the courage to make decisions that can change your life.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Angst&romance, hurt/comfort (kinda), depressive thoughts, melancholy, pet names, flirting, kissing, Patrick being a drama queen.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 1.9k

𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒: [MASTERLIST];

𝐀/𝐍: This is dedicated to my dear @utt3rly-1nsan3! Hope it cheers you up a bit!💕

Those days when you thought no one cared about you, when you felt like you were on the edge, literally falling apart because you didn't believe you could keep going. The days when you were almost certain that finding any comfort in that word was irrelevant. But even in the darkest times, help could come from places you didn't really expect, because even though you might think that you meant nothing to another human being—in reality, that wasn't true. 

The sharp, crisp air wafted around you as soon as you stepped out of the opulent interior of the restaurant—the name of which you couldn't remember and didn't give a damn about—and you felt relieved almost immediately because this society was choking you like a snake around your neck. All those false facades, polite remarks, and friendly smiles—they meant nothing. These people were too worried about their social reputation instead of showing their true feelings. And for once, you really would feel better if they told you outright that they might despise you, rather than sugar-coating their true opinions.

Your steps were firm, deliberate, the winter was not as cold as usual in New York, but you could feel the tingling on your cheeks. The fucking Christmas party was coming and you didn't even want to think about it—another shitshow with P&P folks who could tear each other's throats out for a business card. What kind of nonsense is that? Why did you even decide to work on Wall Street? Maybe you thought it would be different, less shallow and corrupt?

Suddenly, your train of thought was disrupted by a familiar voice, and when you turned around to see who it was, you couldn't believe your eyes.

Bateman?

The man was walking outside without a coat, and that made you uneasy. Jesus Christ, you were worried about him the moment you met him, because there was something sweet about him, sweet but sad. At one point, you even thought you were similar—two lost men consumed by this cursed yuppie culture, seeking the ways of approval and some twisted recognition. The idea of being the best at everything might be motivating at first, but when you realized that there was nothing else behind this achievement—nothing real and genuine—you started to feel the emptiness inside of you because all the time you were chasing a ghost. An obsessive idea that led you nowhere.

"Where are you going?" Patrick asked you, holding something in his hand and coming closer. "Don't you need your wallet?"

Oh, God damn it!

Shocked, you didn't answer at first. "Shit, I didn't even notice," you finally managed to look at him, his tall figure towering over you a bit, the power suit Bateman always wore added to his absolute masculinity, but you never really understood this passion to look as masculine as possible. "Thanks, Patrick...I mean, Bateman."

After he handed you your wallet, the man didn't leave, and that made you nervous. "You okay?" Patrick's voice was calm, confident, but there was a hint of mischief that made you tense inside. "You left so abruptly-"

"I'm fine," you replied curtly, shoving your wallet into the secret pocket of your coat. "Just some urgent business, you know."

You watched as he arched his perfect eyebrows in obvious doubt—there was no way he believed you, of course not. But why did he ask you that at all? 

A sudden grin on his face and then his confession made your heart skip a beat. "To be honest, I'm glad you forgot your wallet." Bateman muttered, hiding his hands in the pockets of his pants—Valentino or Armani, it didn't matter. "Gave me a chance to take a fucking break from these idiots."

"Idiots, huh?" You repeated his words and moved a little closer. "Why do you even hang out with them?"

"I have the same question for you," he parried and stepped closer too, the steam coming out of his mouth looking like smoke. "Why?"

Did you really want to talk about it? Right now? When you feel so down, so broken, when you lose all motivation to carry on. But what if you just let yourself do what you wanted to do? Just one fucking time in your life you would do what you were so afraid of doing because of the accusations and what people might think of you. And Patrick, he seemed the same. Maybe he pretended to be nice and polite all the time you spent together? 

"Well," you finally spoke, time seemed to slow down. "You were the reason I always went to these stupid dinners and parties and," your voice wavered for a second as you watched his reaction. "I wanted to tell you this a long time ago, but... I was afraid."

Bateman froze, but not from the cold outside. "Scared?" He frowned and you thought he was going to burst out laughing, but instead he just barked. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

After taking a deep breath, you decided that now was the last moment, if you didn't find the courage to admit that there would be no more such chances in the future, because you simply didn't know if you would make it to tomorrow.

"Listen, Patrick," you tried to touch him, but at the very last moment your hand stopped in mid-air. "I'm so fucking wrecked right now and I don't know what's going to happen to me...tomorrow or even today...so I don't fucking care if you spit in my face for what I'm about to say," you gasped, clenching your fists until it hurt. "I like you! I really do," no way was that really happening, no way. "I don't expect anything from you. I'm just... tired of this weight on my heart."

The silence between the two of you was mocking, suffocating, and terrifying. Being in an affected state, you didn't even realize what you had just said, but a strange relief washed over you the moment you said your last word. Now you could finally be free from the constant suffering of being afraid to speak the truth. Even if you were rejected, you would know that you had done everything you could. Just when you thought it would be better to run away and hide somewhere, or maybe even disappear forever, you felt his strong, warm hand around your wrist. How could his touch be so hot after being outside without a coat? You couldn't answer that question because your mouth was locked with his in a lingering, longing kiss that made you feel like a living bomb about to explode.

Was it even real? How did you even know he was into men? Especially you?

Patrick's arms didn't waste any time, they rested on your shoulders, then went down to your shoulder blades, his lips were soft, the way he kissed was absolutely stunning—everything was much better than you could even imagine. And when you finally pulled away, your shocked eyes met his dark ones and somehow there was no fear or doubt in them, as if everything was going according to his plan.

"And I thought you would never tell me this," he chuckled, straightening your slightly rumpled coat. "Today is my lucky day."

Fuck...fuck...FUCK!

Overwhelmed, you thought he was kidding. "Are you serious?" You asked him faster than you could think. "How did I know you could like me...a guy like me?"

Thank God you were alone outside due to the late hours, but the thought of being caught like that, damn. Once again, people's opinions were bothering you and you were sure that Patrick was worried about that too, but the kiss? Holy shit. It was so reckless and dangerous. And you loved it, every second of it. It made you fucking hard and weak in your knees. The absolute craziness of this situation was intoxicating like a drug.

"I'm probably not very good at giving signs," Bateman crooned, stepping aside to give you some privacy. "But here we are, and I hope you understand that," he paused and looked around, his face now as tense as yours. "People would talk."

With a loud sigh, you almost shouted. "So let them talk! Who the hell cares? Don't you think we both spent too much time thinking about other people and what shit they would think about us?"

The rush of audacity you never expected to come, but it was so timely that you felt you could tear down mountains, turn that fucking word upside down—you could do anything now that you had him—the man you never thought you could be with.

"I can't say that I agree with this petty outburst of yours," Patrick explained after a short pause. "Appearances matter and you know that, but... I think we can handle this," his hand rested on your shoulder again, giving it a light squeeze before he leaned closer to peck at your cheek and then at that little bit of exposed nape of your neck. "Am I right, dear?"

Dear Lord, not him using this nickname, not him nipping at your neck like that, oh shit.

"You can say that." You barely pronounced the words, feeling the tension in your pants, but you were glad that Bateman couldn't see it under the lawyers of your clothes. 

"I think we should go to some private place without any praying eyes." The man said suddenly, nodding to the restaurant behind him. "What about my place?"

Such a direct intention made you pause for a moment, but then you started laughing, confusing Patrick and you could swear you saw a blush appear on his perfectly shaved cheeks.

"Hey, hey, wait a minute," you sneered. "I'm not going to your place. Not without a proper dinner."

"Jeez," Bateman scowled in disbelief. "Are you one of those shy types? A good boy type?"

These questions only spurred you on to keep teasing him, and why did you find that so damn tantalizing? As the two of you started to walk towards the building, some people came out of it and luckily they were not the guys you were having dinner with. 

"I don't like to rush things," and that was an absolute truth. "I want to enjoy a slow burn."

"Are you afraid that if we go to my place that we would fuck or something?" Bateman asked you in a seductive tone, his eyes never leaving yours.

With a foxy grin, you chuckled to yourself at first, but then stopped and turned to look directly at him. "I'm not afraid of it happening because I know we'd fuck and I'd let it happen...that's why I want to take it slow and enjoy every moment."

Patrick let out something between a laugh and a groan. "So you really are a good boy type," the way he said it sent a chill down your spine. "Can't say I don't like it. On the contrary, I'm so fucking down for it."

Satisfied with your slightly embarrassed reaction, Bateman gave you his mischievous grin before disappearing behind the glass door of the restaurant, leaving you alone to finally breathe. And this was the end of your previous life and the beginning of something you could never have dreamed of.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my writing community to know when I update!💞

[ganondoodle]

can you imagine mentioning liking zelda and having to add -the GAMES!!- to it everytime bc the avergae person is gonna think of whatever shitshow this is gonna be first

totk was already a heavy blow to my enjoyment of the series and now THIS??

i just KNOW they are gonna pick some british or shit ass american hollywood celebrity for it too

so

ninetdy just announced that they are, and have been, working on a live action zelda.

i am not joking.

like i needed to lose my only source of sanity right now too, fkying hell

there goes my hyperfixation i guess.

[limeade-l3sbian]

Regarding the "stop treating your non radfem female friends like they’re idiots and stop being an asshole to them" post

Do you have any tips on how to deal with this mentality?? Because I hear my sister going "I dress to look pretty and sexy, not to be comfortable" and then I hear the music my cousin listens to and how it's all about men calling women whores and just wanting to fuck them, and then I see my friend just COVERING her face with makeup to the point she doesn't go swimming or to ride bikes with me because "she will be sweaty and her makeup will fade" and on and on and on and jesus christ do they not hear themselves??? Am I crazy for pointing out just how much self harm they're doing? How sad that is? I can't stop feeling pity for them, that they're so lost and I can't help and I just can't deal with their ideas and since I know I won't be able to change their minds I just want to cut ties with all of them because I can't keep seeing that shitshow

It's important to remember how differently people are raised. My best example is religion. I grew up Christian, but my mom was in no way forceful about this. And when I started to question/doubt, I was given the space to explore these ideas before coming to terms with my agnostic beliefs. There was no real consequence to my drastic change in beliefs. Some of my family was irked by this, but it didn't matter at that point.

Now say I have a friend who grew up in a family or surroundings that are deeply tied to Christianity. I mean, the most patriarchal form of it where she's talking about wanting to have babies (plural) at 18 and is only interested in talking about finding a husband and being a mother. Mind you, her religious community has given her warnings about nonbelievers and how they will try to corrupt or bring her away from the thing she has invested her self worth into. Without this God, her family and friends will turn on her.

What change am I really making by harassing her when we are alone? How do I know she isn't already having doubts? Does me rolling my eyes and coming down on her going to make her want to look into these potential thoughts of doubt more, or will she tie these thoughts of doubt in with the shame I make her feel? Will I be surprised when she starts to resent me for not considering her situation? Even if I am annoyed by these things, how I helping her by attacking her?

And maybe she isn't having doubts at all! Maybe she is 100% on board with this life that has been sold to her. Well, now she cuts me off because I have become the person her community has warned her about.

I don't attack her. Because she is my friend and a person who has life than me. So what do I do? This is someone I deeply care about and I want to "save" her. First and foremost, I cannot "save" her. I am not her savior just because I have a broader perspective. She's heard arguments against her religion and it only brings her closer. But how can I get her to at least consider a different way of thinking?

It's the same shit I did with my grandmother that made her angry with me: I just ask questions. I question even the most basic things that she has believed without ever having questioned it. And after a while, I start suggesting things for her to question. Those who want control of individuals will always discourage questioning. I am not needlessly rude about it. I just ask simple things. That's how I left the church. I had the environment that would not punish me for asking questions. So I kept asking, and for frustrated when no one would give me an answer.

This might not even change a damn thing. But no amount of personal ideology will ever be as strong as just getting someone to ask questions. And even if she starts to ask questions, she may not be in a situation where she can just up and leave.

Empathy is the name of the game, anon. You can't "save" everyone. But you can question everything.

[artdcnaldson]

GODDDDD corrupting art au!!! its so perfect you just get it!!

after that she’ll just keep taunting him, maybe she’ll go out and fuck some random guy and the next day just talk art’s ear off about alllll the details. he says he doesn’t mind listening to it but in reality he’s fighting the horny voices in his head :(( and while she’s talking she can see the outline of his cock start to grow in his shorts and she’s just like wow this is my personal project now. maybe she’ll even reenact some of the positions just to “give him the full picture” (she just lovesss seeing him stutter and cover himself with something to hide the boner)

and yeah she doesn’t bring it up then, the fact that she heard him in the shower, but ohhhh what happens when she purposefully jerks off while he’s home and he “accidentally” walks in on her??? he apologizes and pretends to cover his eyes but he can’t bring himself to get out of the room :( he’s just curious, he tells himself, that’s all. what happens when he thinks she’ll stop but she just keeps going and just tells him between moans “it’s okay art, you can look. a little something for your spank bank while you wait for your bride to be”

- 🐚

GODDDDDDD this has me like biting thru drywall crying sobbing leaking etc etc

Poor Art just has to sit there and take it. He’s awake playing video games when you get back from a date. Patrick’s asleep, crashed after a long day of providing tennis lessons to bratty kids. Art gives a nervous, friendly smile and asks how it went.

And that’s how he’s stuck on the sofa listening to you talk about your latest conquest. “Anyways, I was straddling him, y’know, like—“ you pause, meet his gaze. “— sorry, you don’t know. I’ll just show you.”

He holds his breath as you shift into his lap. You don’t even settle your weight down on him, you’re not that mean. You just kind of hold yourself above him, so, so close. “I was moving kind of like this—“ you roll your hips, make him blush just at the sight. “Kind of slow, so he could savor it, y’know? It’s not like I’m going to fuck him again after that shitshow of a date.”

“If you— if the date was so bad why did you…”

“Fuck him?” You ask, raising a brow. Art nods wordlessly. “Because he was pretty.” You trail your hand along his face, tuck a blond curl behind his ear. He took a shaky breath, swallowed hard. “And because my friend Tiff said he was hung. She wasn’t wrong. But it doesn’t even matter, because he didn’t even last two minutes after I got on top. Waste of my fucking time.”

“That’s—“ he squeezes his eyes shut, like he can’t even think when he’s looking at you.

“It’s what, Art?” You ask, a tiny grin spreading across your lips. You drop your voice to a whisper. “Is it slutty? Do you wish I was a good girl and didn’t talk about this kind of stuff?”

He doesn’t respond, might not even be capable of trying to, honestly. You climb off his lap and settle back on the sofa beside him. You clock his boner immediately— tenting his thin pajama pants.

Jesus fucking Christ. He notices that you’re looking and grabs a random throw pillow to pull into his lap. Poor guy. If he just said the word, you’d take care of it for him.

“I’m gonna go read,” you tell him, which is a bullshit excuse. Really, your date Sean hadn’t made you cum despite the fucking monster he was packing, and seeing Art all riled up doesn’t really help.

The second you’ve shut the door, you shimmy off the dress you picked for the night and collapse onto the bed with a huff. The cute date night panties you picked were soaked, no thanks to Sean. No, it was all because of Art Donaldson. Sweet, repressed, horny-as-hell Art.

You sigh softly as your fingers tease your entrance— all wet and sensitive. Your hips cant pathetically as you trail your wet fingers to your clit, rub gently, just to get started.

You think of Art’s pathetic cries in the shower, of him waking up hard and rutting against his mattress until his boxers are sticky and soaked with cum. Patrick had told you about that— he’d laughed over the phone, talked about how adorable it was. Art insisted it wasn’t the same as jerking off the normal way since he didn’t use his hands. He probably does that a lot with how repressed he is. Your cunt throbs, aching with want.

You plunge one finger into your pussy, then a second. Any other night you might have pulled out a toy, but you wanted to make it quick. It’s nice, easy to lose yourself in the slick, warmth inside.

Your efforts on your clit speeds up. Your back arches as you grind your pussy down against your fingers. Your toes curl, head falls back.

Before you can react, the door flies open. “Hey, I just wanted to say—“ he freezes, eyes going wide. “Oh.”

But he doesn’t leave. Very obviously doesn’t leave. And you don’t stop, it’s too sweet, the way he’s looking at you. His eyes are glued to where your fingers disappear inside of your cunt, his mouth agape.

“Art,” you whine. He tears his eyes from your pussy, makes himself look into your eyes. “Shut the door.”

He swallows, closes the door behind him. You try to hide your shock that he shut the door and stayed inside of the room— that he didn’t flee and go cry in his bed because he caught a glimpse of your pussy.

But no, his back presses against the wood and he stays stuck in place as his eyes trail back down to your cunt. Soft, wet, and, god, so tempting. You can tell he wants to crawl to you on his knees, bury his face between your thighs and wait for your instructions.

“It doesn’t count if you just watch, hm?” You tease, but your voice is strangled with want— all breathy and affected. “It you come closer, you can hear how wet I am.”

It’s like he takes the steps outside of his own volition, kneels at the side of the bed like he’s going to pray. His eyes flutter shut, lashes splashed against his cheeks. God, you really are so wet— the near pornographic squelch of your fingers as they fuck into your pussy should make your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“You’re so sweet, aren’t you?” You bite down on your lip to muffle a moan, conscious that Patrick is asleep across the guest house.

You see his arm moving, know he’s stroking himself over the fabric of his pajamas. It’s like he can’t even help it, can’t resist the urge to get himself off. It’s a rush, having that power over him.

“It’s okay that you’re watching, Art. I hope you remember every second. You deserve to imagine a pretty, wet pussy while you fuck your fist.”

He whines, honest to god whines. The sound makes you cum suddenly with soft, breathy moans— drenching your fingers in your release. Your thighs tremble as you come down, and Art just looks at you with big blue eyes, like he thinks he did something wrong. You doubt he’s ever seen a girl cum before. It’s exciting, to be his first like that.

You wipe your slick fingers on your thigh and cover yourself with a throw blanket. Art’s gaze flicks back up to your eyes. “What did you come in here for, Art?”

“Huh?” He blinks a few times, shakes his head. “I, uh. I came here to tell you, uh—“

You smile, lean closer. He takes a deep breath, his jaw clenched tight. It’s like he’s angry that you dare tempt him, that you question his resolve. You think he might actually hate you for it. “Tell me…?”

“You don’t have to use your body to make people want you,” he says. “It’s like you have no self respect.”

“And what does the stain on the front of your pants say about your self respect, Art?” You say, voice dropping into a whisper. His cheeks flame, and he stands suddenly. “You had your fun, now get out before I tell Patrick you were perving on me.”

He glares at you, fixes you in place with one fiery look. It’s intoxicating— the places where his restraint runs thin. You can’t help but grin after he’s gone and you’re all alone, wondering just how easy it would be to tear those threadbare spots and reveal the needy, desperate thing beneath.

[unclewaynemunson]

Tadaaaa here is the sequel to this post, which came from an ask that got me in a chokehold for days now so kudos to the lovely anon who sent that prompt to me! You can also read the whole thing on ao3 :)

As soon as Eddie got into the passenger seat of his Wayne's truck, he saw the whole world go blurry. He tried to blink away his tears, but it was no use – nothing ever escaped his uncle's notice anyway.

'Wanna tell me what's wrong, boy?' he asked while he started the car.

Eddie grimaced. 'You know how they say you should never meet your heroes?'

'Hm?'

'Well, I met mine. On the fucking train. Just yet.'

Wayne shot him an incredulous glance.

'What was the Black Sabbath guy doin' on a train?'

'What? No, it wasn't... No.'

'The Hobbits guy?'

'Jesus Christ, Wayne, Tolkien died like fifteen years ago, keep up.'

'You want me to keep guessin' or you gonna tell me?'

Eddie rolled his eyes.

'Yeah, no, you wouldn't guess it right anyway. It's this poet.'

'Don't think I ever heard you talk 'bout poetry before,' Wayne remarked.

And that was exactly the thing. Ronan Right had been something... private. Something between Eddie and the faceless blob in his mind that embodied Right – and maybe Jeff. Okay, and Jeff's mom. But it wasn't someone he'd talk people's ears off about on any occasion he got, like he did with plenty of other musicians or writers that he'd get all obsessive about.

Until Steve, that was. Steve, who had been casually listening to his music. Steve, who had recognized the book in his hands and effortlessly opened the floodgates of his obsession. Steve, who had said the most beautiful things about Corroded Coffin without even knowing who Eddie was. Steve, who had talked with him about their shared passions for hours. Steve, who he now somehow had to merge with Right in his mind.

Steve, who seemed so perfect that it made all of Eddie's alarm bells go off at the loudest possible volume. Because this couldn't be real. This was something straight from a disgustingly sweet romcom scenario, and if there was anything Eddie could be certain about, it was that his life was no romcom.

So during the short walk from the station to Wayne's car, Eddie's head had already come up with a dozen scenarios that were completely spiraling out of control – even though they'd all make for great songs, no doubt about that. Steve would die some kind of tragic death on his way to their first date. Steve was secretly addicted to crack. Steve was a stalkerish fan who had lied to him about being Ronan Right to get close to him. Steve would cheat on him on their wedding day.

The list of possibilities was endless and terrifying – while the list of possibilities for this having a happy ending, on the other hand, was exceptionally short.

'Was it that bad?' asked Wayne while they headed out of the city.

Usually, Eddie enjoyed amping up his dramatics to a maximum around Wayne, providing the much-needed balance to his uncle's calm and steady demeanor. But right now, Eddie felt himself deflate in his seat. He couldn't bring himself to make a show out of it.

'No,' he said, quietly. 'He was perfect.'

And Wayne must've heard it in his voice, must've picked up right away that this wasn't Eddie being dramatic, that something serious was going on here, because he gave him this look that was cutting way too deep into his heart.

'Nobody can be that perfect, you know,' Eddie continued. 'It's impossible. And he – he gave me his number. And I just know that if I call it, and we get to know each other better, I'll get crushingly disappointed sooner rather than later. Because something has to be, like, disturbingly wrong with this guy.'

Anyone else than Wayne would probably tell Eddie that he was being ridiculous, that he should get over himself and call Steve; that he should allow himself to let good things happen to him or some shit. But Wayne wasn't just anyone. Wayne was the one person who knew exactly what Eddie meant. The one person who had seen from up-close the shitshow that Eddie's life had been, who had retained a front row seat through all of it. And he had had his own fair share of misery himself, Eddie knew that much. He was too old and had gotten punched down too many times to still hold naive illusions of the possibility of good things.

So he didn't give him some bullshit advice. He merely patted Eddie's knee and turned up the radio.

---

Ever since Eddie had left Hawkins, it had become a habit of him to stay with Wayne for a couple of weeks every now and then. For all his desires to get the hell out of that town when he was younger, he still spent way too much time at his uncle's trailer. But it wasn't Hawkins that he came back for, it was uncle Wayne.

It was home. And it helped him breathe whenever the city got too intense. Helped him get detached from everything that distracted him from the shit that actually mattered. Helped him get his head right when Chicago was threatening to make him lose it.

Time seemed to move differently in Hawkins than in the city. Slower. More naturally, too, somehow. Maybe it was because of the lack of nightlife and flashing neon signs when the world was supposed to be wrapped in darkness. The fact that he could still see the stars when he stepped out of the trailer at nighttime. Maybe it was the quiet, which allowed him to actually hear himself think. Or maybe it was the predictability of it all: Wayne waking him up with a cup of coffee in the morning, the two of them sharing cigarettes on the porch, Eddie helping Wayne with some chores and then trying to write new songs until well into the night, when the world was his and his alone.

He kept reading Right almost religiously, but it was different, now. Now that he could hear Steve's voice say those words, now that he could envision the way in which the sun shone on his hair through the dirty train window and the shape of his hands clutching a walkman that had Eddie's music in it. It was all different.

After a week, Eddie had a whole album worth of songs about the deception of things that seemed perfect. He hadn't been able to write even one song about things ending well, about things working out. That wasn't his life. Things never worked out. Why would they, for a boy born in a household where the trifecta of poverty, addiction and violence was all he had ever known? In the five albums he had produced so far, he'd never experienced a lack of demons to write about.

So no, he wouldn't be calling Steve, even though he had read the number that was written down on the sleeve of his own album so often that it'd probably be impossible to ever erase it from his mind again. He'd protect himself, this time. He'd cherish the hours he got to spend with Ronan Right, the memories that were already starting to feel like a fever dream, and not let his heart break any further. Not this time. Not again.

---

'Got mail for ya.'

An envelope landed in Eddie's lap.

'What's this?'

'I dunno, 's your mail,' Wayne answered.

Eddie didn't recognize the handwriting and the Indianapolis post stamp didn't give him much of a clue either. It didn't make sense that someone would send him a letter at his uncle's place.

He frowned, roughly tore open the envelope and pulled a single sheet of paper out of it. It was neither directed at nor signed by anyone, but that wasn't necessary for Eddie to know who sent it.

'What is it, boy?' Wayne asked, a worried edge to his voice upon hearing the choked sob that freed itself from Eddie's throat.

Eddie knew that the words were only meant for him. But he and Wayne were a unit, always had been, ever since Eddie moved into Forest Hills. So he wordlessly handed the paper to his uncle, roughly wiping the tears from his eyes.

Wayne assessed the text with a wrinkled forehead, holding the paper at an arm's-length in order to read it.

'That from the boy you met on the train?'

Eddie nodded.

When his uncle looked up from the letter, Eddie caught an almost unfamiliar look in his eyes. It was soft, hopeful. Optimistic.

'You know I ain't any good with words, like you, or this – this poet,' Wayne said. 'But this...' He pressed the letter back into Eddie's hand. 'This looks like he knows you, Ed. Like he sees you. For all that you are.'

He didn't tell Eddie what to do; that wasn't his style, never had been. But what he did say kept bouncing through Eddie's head unceasingly, making him unable to sleep, unable to write, unable to think about anything else.

---

Eddie desperately wanted to say something meaningful when Steve picked up the phone. He wanted to thank him for reaching out, to apologize for being too much of a coward to call earlier – but what came out of his mouth instead was, 'How did you know where to find me?'

'Eddie, is that you?' It sounded like Steve didn't quite believe it.

'Yeah – yeah, it's me,' was the only thing he managed to get out of his mouth.

'Look, I'm sorry if I overstepped,' Steve told him. 'I just – I couldn't get you out of my head and it all felt so right, you know, like fate or some shit, so I just had to... I needed to try. And I knew your name, and that you were staying with your uncle, so I got help from some friends and they managed to find your uncle's address.'

And as if Eddie hadn't been enough of an emotional wreck over the past week, his vision got blurry with tears yet again.

'Sorry, was it – did I go too far?' Steve sounded nervous.

Eddie could perfectly envision the way he would be frowning and anxiously running a hand through his hair; as if they had already shared a whole lifetime of getting to know all about each other's mannerisms instead of a few stolen hours on a train.

He hated the idea of Steve thinking he had done something wrong when all he ever did was so fucking right, so he determinedly shook his head, then realized Steve wouldn't be able to see that, and started scraping for words.

'No, Steve, you... You're perfect. And that scared the shit out of me, because so far, my life hasn't really done perfect. Most of our songs, they're – well – creative retellings of my own shit.' Now that he started talking, the words actually came a lot easier. 'They're all real, at the core, when you peel away the layers of, like, monster slaying and fantasy imagery. Like, everything underneath all that, it's all... me. Damage, betrayal, fear, violence – all that shit is true. Life hasn't been kind to me, Steve. And I was convinced that you'd only become an addition to that long list of crap, because you seemed way too perfect. I never thought I could have something good. And you're good, Steve, you're so fucking good. So I couldn't believe it.'

A long silence ensued at the other side of the line. Then, a sigh.

Then, 'Eddie,' in the softest voice possible, like his name was something breakable. Eddie didn't remember ever having heard his name said like that.

'I think that was exactly what I heard in your songs. Why I kept listening to them. Why they inspired me so much.'

Eddie tried to swallow away the lump in his throat, suffocated by the emotions bubbling up inside of him.

'I wish I could hold you, right now.'

Eddie's breath caught. He knew exactly what he needed to do: he needed to stop running. He needed to trust that Steve could be right, for him. That Steve could be something good.

'I mean, you could come over to Hawkins and do just that, you know,' he suggested.

'D'you want me to?'

He nodded, again forgetting that Steve couldn't see him.

'Yeah, I'd like that. Probably still got half that cookie somewhere in my pocket, y'know. Maybe we could share it.'

Credit where credit is due: the line “He sees you, for all that you are” isn't mine, it's one of my favorite quotes from Schitt's Creek and I really wanted Wayne to say that to Eddie about Steve, so here we have it <3

@ My beloved 🥐 anon: I hope you like this ending, and that I came close enough to your suggestion to have Steve make Eddie a character in his next poem <3

Taglist: @kathorakiryu @goodolefashionedloverboi @undreaming-rambles @fangirlycupcake @ghouligans-central @henderdads @dolphincliffs @anglhrts @ajamlessbaby @yearningagain @vampireinthesun @xxbottlecapx @kissaphobic-kas @mad-h-w @booksandsience @obsessivlyme @ppunkpuppyy @barnes-bestgirl @capital-p-platonic​ @eddiemunsonmeltdowns @callme-keys​​

[swearwolf-does-stuff]

TUA S4 REWRITE

bcs what the sweet fucking jesus christ was that shitshow

tw: death, end of the world/apocalypse

PREV

Ray left bcs he found out about what Allison did to get her ‘perfect’ timeline (aka working w evil dad to the point where they almost killed her entire family and only switching up, not after finding out he killed Luther but, at the very end; uprooting him from his original timeline, inserting him into Claire’s life by taking away her actual father, etc etc)

E1

Five isn’t CIA

He joins the Keepers bcs he’s him and can sniff out an impending apocalypse like no one else

Lila is the secret CIA agent, hired solely for local cases bcs she’s good enough that she gets to have conditions and she’s keeping the job away from the family, partly for their sake but mostly bcs she needs something that’s just hers beyond the mundanity of normal life

Diego is a PI instead of a mailman bcs he’s still highly skilled and that’s still a normal people job

Luther finds Sloane, only for her to be very different

She’s still sweet and kind but she’s different too, having been raised in a brilliant household in a shitty neighbourhood, harder, in a way

He’d been trying to find her forever and had almost given up when he bumped into her on the street

When he tries to help her, instead of blaming her for the whole thing or swearing, they have their little meet-cute

They get to know each other better, the normal way, and Luther’s just glad that she’s Sloane - he doesn’t expect her to be the exact same bcs he still likes her for who she is, now and then

He’s still living in the same shithole but it’s their shithole (legally speaking, Reginald gave it to him to get the place off his hands) and they’re making it a home

He’s still a dancer bcs there’s nothing wrong with it if he enjoys it and she’s a bartender

When Ben gets out of prison, he knows Sloane will be there (hell, it’s the whole reason he chose Luther as his parole home, bcs that way he gets a version of his sister back bcs the Sparrows, as disjointed as they were, were still a family) but he’s still taken aback

When they find out Viktor’s been taken, Sloane comes with and finds out the Umbrella family secret and Luther has to explain the whole thing to her in Diego’s van (with the other’s (Five’s) input) and it’s batshit but she believes it when she gets her powers bcs yea Ben’s that much of a shit (she’s still confused about being Ben’s alternate sister even tho Ben’s Luther’s alternate brother but wtv yk)

E2 - same

They find Jennifer only for Jean & Gene to take her

E3 

Reginald unlocks their memories of og!Ben’s death

Upon finding out about marigold and durango, Five reminds them of other!Reginald’s marigold removal device from the end of existence

If that Reginald could remove marigold with that timeline’s tech, then this Reginald, with Abigail and the whole companies help, should be able to make something to remove the durango from Jennifer’s body

In the meantime, they’d track down Ben to use Viktor to remove the marigold from him to keep Jennifer inert for the time being

Bcs Sloane joined Luther w visiting Reginald, she joins Viktor as backup

E4

As a backup plan, Lila and Five try to see if they can travel back in time to stop og!Ben from dying in order to stop the whole situation from ever happening but get lost (and also realise it’d cause a grandfather paradox bcs if they go back in time to stop the Reginald from killing that Ben and Jennifer, then Jennifer would have never respawned into their world the way she did in order to cause the series of events that led them to go back in the first place)

E5

Five and Lila get stuck for 7 years and stay themselves bcs jesus fucking christ he’s bodily way too young for her but at the same time actually way too old for her, oh yea and he’s her brother-in-law

They don’t stay in strawberryville bcs Lila’s whole thing is that she wasn’t cut out for normal domesticity??

Instead when they drop something off the ledge by accident, they find the book (left by one of the other FIves which they use to figure their way around)

Upon finding the book, flatulence ensues bcs here’s another Five

He leads them to the diner (no one stays long to help mitigate the paradox psychosis) where they find out the timeline’s broken

Bcs the common denominator isn’t the Umbrellas but in fact the powered people (og timeline without Ben, Sparrow timeline w all them, new timeline w Ben and Sloane), the powers themselves had to be problem

He realises the only way to stop the eternal apocalypses is to destroy the marigold and durango

Viktor leans into his powers

Also yea they have landlines but they have mobile phones bcs I say so so he just called them on the way to their location instead of calling and then going

Borrowing Abigail’s violin, he brings the White Violin back and knocks out Ben and Jennifer for long enough to separate them

Viktor siphons the marigold from Ben’s body but they think it didn’t work bcs he’s still obsessive about being with her

Turns out he’s still whipped, that’s just him atp tho lol

E6

Device made, they set it up to remove the durango from Jennifer when Abigail (disguised as Sy (bcs Gene and Jean deserve to see the bullshit through)) leads the Keepers to Hargreaves HQ

Big fight scene as they remove the durango but it’s still volatile bcs of all the people w marigold in them around it but it’s in a secure jar thingy like the marigold originally was

Knowing that the reaction causes the end of the world, Five blinks to the subway with it and leaves it in a dead timeline while the rest of the squad handle the Keepers

Five tells Reginald about the marigold-timeline situation and he takes the marigold from them sans Five and Lila bcs they need to discuss a way to get rid of the marigold bcs in order to remove it from their timeline some needs to blink down and send it away then, once it was away for long enough, the other timelines should break down and everything should go back to normal

Abigail volunteers bcs Reginald’s finally changing but they don’t know how to send her except she took Gene and Jean’s briefcase artifact and fixed it in case he hadn’t learnt his lesson and she needed a redo

It’s bittersweet bcs yea he’s a prick but he really did love her

L: “How do we know if it’s worked?” F: “We don’t.” A: “What, so we live the rest of our lives looking over our shoulder?” F: “Don’t look, then.” L: “How the hell are we supposed to do that?” F: “It's pretty easy, Luther. You just look forward instead.” D: “Seriously, dude?” F: “Seriously. Look, none of us can cause the apocalypse anymore so now we get to live. And I actually get to actually retire, properly this time.”

They use Reginald’s machine to show Sloane Ben’s timeline and Ben the Umbrella’s timeline (especially Klaus’ memories)

They don’t immediately bring in the rest of the Sparrow’s to their insanity bcs that’s just them at this point but they keep an eye out to watch out for them

When they find out the Sparrow’s had memories leaking through of their timeline, they brought them in and shared their memories to get a better picture of their family bcs goddamn it the Sparrows deserves better so yea this time they get parents and families and each other

Klaus is still immortal bcs God and the Devil both don’t want him in their realms bcs he deserves a life where he’s not so afraid of dying that he becomes afraid of living

MISC

No fat-shaming Diego

No bodyshaming Luthor

The chimp serum og!Reggie used to save Luthor only worked bcs it interacted with the marigold in his system

When they got to the new timeline sans their powers, bodily, Luthor went back to normal bcs there was no marigold

Two pathways: either the chimp stuff works its way out of system after those idk 6 years or wtv or it remains and gets reactivated by the marigold

If the latter then Sloane helps him love his body again bcs there’s nothing wrong with being different and she loves him with either body

Personally, I’m sticking w the first one bcs it was never his choice in the first place and I don’t like that it got forced on him again against his will

Jennifer ended up in the giant squid bcs of og!Reg

Basically, in the original timeline, he fed her body to a giant squid bcs that way the durango would never be able to reach the marigold in the kids’ bodies

When the timeline rebooted to the Sparrows, bcs Reggie was doing things differently to the Umbrella timeline on purpose, he handled Jennifer himself, which is why the Jennifer incident never happened in that universe and Ben was still alive

When the timeline rebooted again, the durango basically respawned in the same place, in tiny Jennifer stuck in a giant squid - it was just sheer luck that she got fished out that time but that’s why she never got claimed as a child (bcs she was like the Umbrellas, born in a different timeline but brought into the new one bcs the new universe was made by the marigold in the Umbrellas’ bodies that matched her durango in hers which dragged her through)

When Ben shares Klaus’ memories of og!Ben (bcs og!Ben didn’t get mind wiped, he still remembered og!Jennifer), he learns more about og!her bcs she deserves some closure on her past

og!Ben convinced Klaus to help him by claiming he had a crush on a girl who died but he didn’t know much about so he and Klaus did some research into missing asian girls about their age until they found what they were looking for

Bcs durango is the byproduct of marigold, she was born the day after the Umbrellas, also via immaculate conception - her parents literally referred to her as their little miracle

She really was called Jennifer Grossman (her parents were both Filipino but her dad was adopted, named Simon ‘Sy’ Grossman, and raised in the US - he met her mother when he went back to the Philippines to learn more about his culture, later he brought her over to the US and then Jennifer was born)

She was funny, smart, sarcastic so it wasn’t long till young og!Ben really did have a crush on her but Klaus couldn’t summon her (bcs it’s hard to summon someone from the depths of the ocean and his powers weren’t as strong then either)

She was taken from her home a week before the incident and her parents never stopped looking for her

Sparrow!Ben might have got a closer look into Umbrella!Ben’s mind but he was still himself, if less dickish over time

[eurotastic]

hmmmm. the situation is still ongoing and we dont have all the facts yet, but with that said im pretty sure joost has gotten himself disqualified from the competition.

if the reports about him being physically violent are true, he needs to be disqualified, no matter how much we all looked forward to seeing him in the final. the whole eurovision production is a workplace like any other, and if you get physically violent at your workplace, you are going to get fired, thats just how basic workplace safety is supposed to function. again, the situation is ongoing and nothing like this has ever happened before, but I would definitely let the whole thing play out before defending joost as if hes a victim in this specific situation. jesus fucking christ what a shitshow this year is

[dreamwatch]

Spoilin' for a Fight

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest

Day #8 - Prompt: Band Politics | Word Count: 920 | Rating: T | CW: language, lot's of language! | POV: None | Pairing: None | Tags: Transcript, band fight, arguments, petty bullshit, our babies are divas now! | AO3

****

Transcript of recording made backstage at Corroded Coffin concert - Starplex Ampitheatre, Dallas, TX, Aug 5th, 1996

Eddie Munson (Lead guitar & vocals): You were off.

Jeff Williams (Lead vocals and rhythm guitar): Where are the black towels?

Gareth Jones (Drums): Excuse me?

EM: Your timing was off!

GJ: Yeah, time for the old man to get his ears checked.

JW: Don’t we have a dozen black towels on our rider?

EM: My ears are fine, your timing however—

GJ: You’re going senile, you can set your watch by me.

EM: Yeah well that’s not much use to me if you’re playing in a different time zone, is it?

Matt Morrison (Bass): There’s no Cherry Gatorade either. And your timing was definitely off, you were throwing me all over the place.

GJ: Well maybe it wouldn’t be if he wasn’t out there playing like Yngwie fucking Malmsteen! See that? That’s a grey hair I didn’t have when you started that solo. I was worried I’d never see my kids graduate.

EM: So you admit you were off?

GJ: You know, sometimes you’re a real (inaudible)

JW: Jesus Christ. Calm down, dude.

GJ: I’m calm! 

MM: And there’s no Sprinkle Spangles. 

EM: You have one job - keep the fucking time. That’s it. Not that hard, man. 

GJ: Oh, not that hard? What are you, Neil Peart now?

EM: I couldn’t be any worse than you. 

GJ: Go fuck yourself, Eddie.

JW: Gareth! Come on.

(Sound of door slamming)

MM: Let him go, he was pissing me off as well.

JW: You weren’t exactly on top of things yourself, man.

MM: I beg your pardon?

EM: I could hear your bass.

MM: You’re supposed to hear it!

EM: I don’t need to hear that much of it!

(Sound of door opening)

GJ: And if we’re critiquing one another, you were flat and Jeff was pitchy as hell. And Matty, there are four strings on a bass, try using the other three.

EM: Yeah, sure, whatever.

JW: Nothing wrong with my vocals, dude. Stick to your own lane. And Eddie’s right, your timing was all over the place tonight.

MM: You know something, I’m going to make sure my amps are right up tomorrow night, drown you assholes out completely.

GJ: I wasn’t off!

MM: The Bud is warm. What the fuck is up with this venue, man?

EM: We give you a solo slot to show off your chops, when it’s my solo just do your fucking job. 

GJ: You give me a solo spot so you can all take a piss! Let’s not pretend it’s some gift from the band to me, you want a bathroom break.

MM: To be fair, the audience needs a bathroom break, too.

JW: Not helping. And Eddie, he’s right, that solo was longer than we planned.

GJ: Thank you. There’s only so many hours a man can listen to that shit before he loses concentration. 

EM: It was the same solo I played in Houston.

MM: It was definitely longer.

EM: Well even if it was, and it wasn’t, your supposedly professional musicians. If I’m improvising, and I wasn’t—

JW: You absolutely were—

EM: I wasn’t! But even if I were, you should all be able to adapt and keep up with me. All you have to do is stay in the groove. You were like fucking… he was doing some weird fucking jazz thing out there, for God’s sake. 

GJ: I was trying to keep us all awake! You should be kissing my feet, I was bringing much-needed energy to that shitshow. Did you see the audience? They looked like they were all on fucking Ambien!

EM: Fact remains, you are a drummer. You have one job - keep time. 

GJ: Oh that’s my job? I just keep time?

EM: Yes?

GJ: I bring nothing else to the table?

(Long pause in recording)

MM: You make great lasagne.

(Laughter can be heard)

EM: You do make great lasagne.

JW: I’m pretty sure he buys that in.

GJ: Oh fuck you, I do not!

MM: Did anyone find the black towels?

EM: Just use a white one for Christ’s sake.

JW: We have them on the rider—

EM: It literally doesn’t matter!

MM: It’s the principle, dude! Today it’s black towels and Cherry Gatorade, Tomorrow it’s your Paul Mitchell Tea Tree Oil shampoo.

EM: If that ever happens, the venue is blacklisted. That’s no joke.

JW: I need to talk to Phil (Jackson - Band Manager), I’m fucking done. I need my black towels.

(Sound of door opening)

MM: Ask him about the Gatorade! A man could die of thirst here.

GJ: There’s water right there, dude.

EM: And Bud.

MM: But I want Cherry Gatorade. Why is that so hard to understand? It’s on the rider for a reason. I need hydration after—

EM: Then drink the fucking water!

GJ: How much hydration can you need? You stand in one spot all night!

MM: I beg your pardon?

GJ: Am I wrong?

MM: Yes! You are!

EM: I’m staying out of this one.

(Sound of door opening)

JW: Okay, towels are coming, they were in another dressing room.

GJ: Fucking amateurs, man.

MM: What about the Gatorade?

JW: Shit. Forgot, sorry.

MM: Son of a bitch. 

EM: Can someone explain to me what the fuck is wrong with the water?

GJ: Wait a second… some fucker’s recording this!

(Sound of tape clicking off)

End Transcript

****

If you're an Iron Maiden fan... you know what this is from!

Also - I might retcon Matty's last name at some stage so if you see it change... no you didn't!

[katyawriteswhump]

the freak in the penthouse part 8

E-rated (for sexual content), accidental (and depressed) millionaire eddie/sex-worker steve.

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2 Part 5.1 Part 5.2 Part 6.1 Part 6.2 Part 7 or search #thefreakinthepenthouse :)

On AO3

trigger warning for unwanted touching

chapter 8: royally screwed

Steve furiously swatted Eddie’s hand from his shoulder. “Don’t poke the grizzly. Your rule, remember?” He really wanted another puff of his inhaler. He wanted to punch somebody almost as much. “I agreed to it, and you chose to break it. I didn’t… Never d-did have any choice in…” He’d have screamed if he’d been able. Instead, he whispered, “Get lost.”

 “No, Steve.” Eddie’s eyes grew stupid huge. “I’m not gonna run away from this.”

“Jesus, you’re full of shit! Go back to bed, okay? Go!” Steve flipped his hand, drew a shaky breath. “What’s gonna get you out of this new funk? You wanna fuck me? Knock yourself out! Rough as you like, Dungeon Master… I… I…”

“Say whut? All I want is… Shit, I dunno. Can’t you quit your job?”  

“To be your kept boy? Stop bullshitting me.” Steve gripped the edge of the bath and levered himself up. Naturally, Eddie tried to help him. Steve wrenched free. “Gimme space. Fuck! I’m not gonna break.”

Finally, Eddie backed off. “Okay. Message received, loud and clear, dude. Maybe we need a break.”

Steve clung to the bath. His chest burned, his knees shook, and the humiliation of it all… It sucked, sucked, SUCKED. Eddie turned and walked away, and his cold shoulder broke Steve.

Steve gathered up his scattered stuff, slunk toward the door. Eddie scuttled after, touched Steve’s hip then snatched away. “Listen to me, Steve—”

“It’s okay.” Steve conjured a thin smile. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I appreciate that you wanna help. It’s just… I can’t…” Christ, I can’t even start to explain. I guess pity is my hard limit, after… after… He stared at his bare toes. His stomach remained clenched like a fist, and he was still worried he was gonna hurl. “I’ll see you around,” he whispered.

Steve spent the rest of the night curled in the linen closet, wheezing on the dust and detergent. Of course, it stuck in his throat way worse than usual. He was so fucking angry. Not particularly with Eddie, but with life, and sure as heck with himself. 

Way to go, Harrington. The best thing that’s happened to you in years, and YOU SCREW THE DAMN THING UP.

Eddie had gotten an eyeful of the real Steve Harrington. The brat who sulked when his parents headed off on that vacation, because they’d given him a BMW for his birthday and not a Camaro.

Okay, he wasn’t always such a jerk… and even his mom and dad had lied to him. How come they’d splashed cash on hot wheels and jetted off skiing, when there was no money left?

Yeah. They’d lied.

A week after the accident, his parents’ son-of-a-bitch lawyer had sat him down and broke the news that his family owed millions. Worse, at eighteen, Steve was apparently liable for the thousands of dollars deficit in his trust fund and could wind up in jail. 

“Don’t worry, Steve,” that… that… man had said, cupping a ‘fatherly’ hand around the back of Steve’s neck. “I’ll take care of everything. Good-looking boy like you—I can find you a job being your charming self. If you’d care to accompany me this evening, I’m meeting some important clients at the Carlton Ritz.”

Back then, Steve hadn’t a clue about anything. He’d said thank you for the offer, breezily enough, then bit his wobbly lower lip so damn hard. Now, in the linen closet, wretched gasps had him scrambling for his inhaler again.

It’s over. You escaped. Focus on the shitshow you can mop up.

He’d go up to the penthouse later, and he’d apologise to Eddie, and… what would go down then? Would Eddie simply finish his ‘I’m outta here’ speech? Write a check?

Steve was too exhausted to want to punch anything anymore. His heart ached.

He arrived for his breakfast shift bleary-eyed and feeling like death.

“You’re late, Harrington,” said Kline. “Two rounds of brown toast and coffee, table seventeen. English breakfast tea and white toast, one round, table twenty-two. Snap, snap.”

Steve slotted the bread into the conveyor-belt toasting machine. He was yawning his head off, when the burning smell hit him.

“Shiiiiit!”

He fumbled for the tongs, dropped them, grabbed the burning slice. He pounded it out against the table, then coughed into his wrist. Fortunately, nobody had noticed, other than Robin. She deserted her egg pan and dashed over.

“Steve? Are you okay?���

“If you ask me that again, Robin, I swear, I’ll—”

“This is the first time I’ve spoken to you this morning, Dingus!” She gave him a swift once-over. “God, you look terrible.”

“You’re not exactly Jodie Foster yourself, Buckley.” He launched a fresh round of toast.

“It’s that penthouse bum, right? What did he do? What do I have to do to h—”

“He did squat, okay? I decided… Look, scram, will you? You got eggs boiling dry.”

“Oh, fuckety-fuck.”

Having repelled Robin, he piled up his tray and ventured out into the breakfast room. He kept his eyes fixed on the gaudy maroon carpet. He was not in the mood for either winsome conversations with guests or to have them to treat him like scum.

He'd deposited the white toast and tea on a table for one, when a hand landed with a slap on his butt. Steve whirled about, nearly dropping his tray.

“My, my, my,” drawled a plummy English accent. “If I’d realized what was on the menu here at the Yorkshire, I’d have switched from the Carlton Ritz long ago.”

No, no, no, no, no. This isn’t real. This is a nightmare.

Steve wriggled free, and then… He staggered, stared. Flinched away.

Lord Godchester. One of the first of that lawyer’s clients that Steve had been asked to ‘charm.’ One of the regulars and one the worst.

“Daddy is staying in the Garden Suite,” murmured Godchester. “Second best, dammit, but the penthouse is booked out. 8 o’clock, shall we say? A little light supper on room service.”

“I don’t do that anymore.” Steve stared at the carpet, which he now wished would swallow him. “I wait tables at breakfast, deliver luggage, and sometimes work the elevators.”

Why was he justifying himself to this creep?

“Daddy doesn’t want a quickie in the bloody elevator. Daddy wants to play games with his naughty boy.” Godchester’s nasty-ass moustache twitched, and he slithered out a paw to pat Steve’s thigh. “I’ll have a quiet word with your superiors, you cheap little hussy. I trust I’ll see you later.”

Steve walked away and he kept walking. He dumped his tray in the kitchen, dashed to the staff washroom. He barely made it into a cubicle, before he collapsed to his knees and spewed his guts.

…

After Steve had ditched him, Eddie smashed the vase of fake orchids. He was too revved up to go back to sleep. While dawn crept across the penthouse, he kneeled amid the broken china and scribbled furiously.

His self-loathing elevated to such fever-pitch that, crazily, creativity happened. He hurled Tolkein and ye olde worlde history out of the forty-first storey window. Then he shifted Steve’s idea about moving the game into the real world to the front line of battle. He sketched evil fucking monsters with faces that peeled open like evil fucking flowers, revealing fangs dripping with poison.

He scrunched up his hotpant-clad fae warlock and tossed him the garbage. Then he rescued the drawing, straightened it out on the rug.

It was a shitty likeness.

The hair wasn’t far off but the mouth was all wrong. The worst thing about that was, he wasn’t sure how to sketch Steve’s mouth right. Steve’s mouth was special, shapely in that pretty-yet-masculine way, and like some kinda bow. Not a cupid’s bow, but some sort of longbow, he figured. 

Eddie’s repeated attempts to capture Steve better only fucked him up further.

He chewed his pencil, snapped it in half, lit a cigarette, stubbed it out. Crushed his whole packet of Marlboro Lights beneath his slipper-clad foot.

He’d used Steve’s mouth, like he’d used Steve from the start. When he’d shoved his cock between Steve’s lips—heck, when he’d kissed Steve—had Steve been simply wishing it was over? Heck, had he been struggling not to choke?

“Why didn’t you tell me, Stevie?” he muttered. “Right here, right now, I quit smoking, okay? I quit for you.”

Eddie poured himself a shot of vodka, downed it, then poured the rest of the bottle down the sink.

Eventually, he mustered the courage to call Dustin: “Hey,” he croaked, and falteringly revealed the new ideas that Steve had inspired.

“It could work,” said Dustin, circumspect as ever. “Suzie’s gotten some real neat tricks going with the combat moves that’ll totally match up with your flesh-eating triffids. It’s gonna put game production back a bit, so I’ll have to talk to our investors about the cash flow and—”

“Yeeeeah, about that,” interjected Eddie. “Uh, my check bounced this week at the hotel. Can you talk to the bank for me? Pretty please with demon-fangs on? You know I suck at these things.”

A pregnant silence ensued. “All right,” said Dustin. “Seeing as you’re finally getting your ass into gear, and on one condition. You gotta introduce me to your date. It’s been what? Several weeks? Isn’t that a record for you?”

“He’s a hooker.”

Eddie couldn’t believe he’d blurted it out like that.

“Oh! Can I just get my head around this—you’ve fallen in love with a hooker?”

“I didn’t say that. He’s just some guy, okay?”

A hooker.

Just some guy.

By the time Eddie hung up, he detested himself more than ever. He cared about Steve. A lot. Too much, perhaps. He wanted to apologise, desperately, though he wasn’t even quite sure what he was apologising for. Telling Dustin that Steve was a hooker? That felt like a low blow, although Steve didn’t know what he’d said.

He IS a hooker. You’ve been paying him. Earlier, he was stripped bare, not turning tricks anymore… and he told you to get lost. What’s the point of quitting smoking, if you’re never gonna see him again?

Eddie refused that, too. Maybe because accepting how everything between them was phoney hurt most of all.

He stared at the phone again, chewed his nails. Crap, he didn’t even have a number to contact Steve. Maybe he should call reception and ask to be put through to wherever Steve was working?

Or you could pull off the unthinkable, Munson. Break free of this hellhole, mosey on out into the hotel, and find him.

Eddie got dressed. Proper dressed for the first time in weeks, in an overlarge Red Hot Chilli Peppers t-shirt and a pair of jeans baggy enough to be Hammer pants. Then he unlocked his doors. Opened them. Peeped out at the empty foyer. Closed the doors again.

The phone rang. He was so jittery that he squealed like a piggy before scrambling to answer.

“Eddieeeeee,” Dustin yelled down the line. “There’s more noughts at the end of your overdraft than in Suzie’s sexiest lines of code!”

“English, Henderson.” Eddie’s palms were so sweaty, he nearly dropped the handset.

“You’re broke, Eddie. You’ve spent every dime you ever earned and then some. I’ll bail you out this once but you’re checking out of the Getty’s vacation timeshare today. You can crash with Suzie and I.”

“I can’t!” Eddie’s hand not holding the phone flailed everywhere. “I got agoraphobia, man. You gotta cut me some slack.”

“No way,” said Dustin, the merciless little bastard that he was. “Suzie will go mad if I have to channel funds away from her charitable trusts. You know—the soup kitchens? The donkey sanctuary? So, you’re gonna tough it out like a man and haul ass NOW.”

...

Part 9 on AO3 Part 9 on tumblr

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