#just feels like the kind of guy that just pops up

[thankskenpenders]

Today we got some news regarding a big change for the Ian Flynn's Q&A podcast, the BumbleKast. As outlined in a blog post by Ian, starting in 2025, all Sonic-related questions submitted to the show will first need to be screened by Sega. (I have to assume this is also why Ian announced they'll no longer be doing live Q&As starting next year.)

Frankly, I can't say this is particularly surprising.

While the BumbleKast is ostensibly a podcast about Ian's work as a freelance writer for all sorts of things, and also just a place for him to shoot the shit about stuff he likes, he's still predominantly seen as The Sonic Guy. Sure, he also does a bunch of other freelance work for other series, and original comics like Drogune, and he's also the narrative mastermind for the whole Rivals of Aether franchise these days, but it's his insights into what goes on behind the scenes with Sonic that people really care about. Your average Sonic fan can't just go up to Iizuka or whoever and ask him a question about the current state of the lore, but Ian's inbox is always open.

Because of this, I've thought a lot about the BumbleKast's place in the fandom and The Discourse in recent years. Ian wants to be as open and honest as he can about his work, and I think that's admirable. To me, hearing about creators' struggles and the shit they go through just to get a story out the door tends to make me sympathize with them more. Sometimes a story just doesn't turn out as well as you'd hoped, but you're on a tight deadline and all you can do is move on to the next project. I've even softened a bit on Penders over the years as he's shared more about the absurd situations and odd creative demands made behind the scenes at Archie. Unfortunately, not everyone has that mindset.

Ian's basically always had obsessive haters who were eager to take everything he says out of context to try and stir up shit, but that used to be contained by the niche nature of the Archie comics. Most of the fandom didn't give a shit about what Ian was doing with Sonic and Sally's love life or whatever. Most of the fandom wasn't even reading those comics. But Ian's gone from being a writer for a non-canon spinoff comic, to being the initial lead writer for the first ever canon Sonic comic series, to being the new main writer for the games themselves as part of the official Sonic Lore Team. Way more Sonic fans care about his work now, and when he's so open about his work that makes him an easy scapegoat.

It feels like damn near every week on Twitter Ian's personal trolls have posted yet another BumbleKast clip out of context to rile up the fandom and make it look like he has no idea what he's talking about or like he has some kind of agenda. And, unfortunately, people often fall for this. Of course, it also goes the other way, with people more sympathetic towards Ian taking things he says about Sega and framing them as proof that Sega has no idea what they're doing with the brand. Which, well, let's be real, isn't always the most unreasonable thing to think, given Sonic's rocky history. But I'm surprised it took this long for Sega to start paying more attention to what gets said on the BumbleKast when fans use it so regularly as a source of drama.

I've also often felt that they just need to be WAY more selective about what messages they respond to on the show. Questions Ian can't actually answer due to NDAs, questions that are borderline incomprehensible, "questions" that are really just fan ideas. And the haters, oh, the haters. Ian does not need to put up with angry rants about how he should make SonAmy canon or what the fuck ever. Even if Ian's willing to put up with it, as a listener it can make the show just super unpleasant at times when someone aggressive pops up with an inflammatory question. There have been entire BumbleKast Mini episodes I had to skip because they were just obsessive critics of Ian's paying to grill him on a dozen different things and treat him like an idiot.

But at the same time, I get why the show got to be this way. It's become a part-time job for Ian with multiple new episode a week. Given how piss poor the pay tends to be for freelance writers, I can't really blame him for wanting to keep this secondary stream of income open, and to not have to refund people left and right for rejecting their questions. The man's got bills to pay. (And so does Kyle, for whom managing the BumbleKast seems to have become a full-time job.)

I dunno. The man's got the patience of a fucking saint. I would've quit the franchise if I was in his shoes, with people wishing he would die for shit like minor disagreements over Sonic's characterization or him misremembering an obscure old lore thing. While I do hope that Sega doesn't keep too tight of a leash on him moving forward, and I hope that he's still able to speak his mind about his work, part of me also hopes that having to be much more selective about Sonic questions results in less bullshit like this.

[capquinn]

cant stop thinking putting quinn in the dog house for something he did and him being super clingy and yeah😔😔(im down bad for this man)

STOP he’d be a freaking nightmare to deal with in the dog house and you’d get no satisfaction out of it 😭😭😭

So the thing about Quinn is that he doesn’t mess up often — not in the big ways, at least. So when he does, it hits him like a freight train. He’s not the kind of guy to brush it off or pretend it didn’t happen; he feels it. Deeply. Which is probably why, after whatever dumb thing he’d done, he’d been moping around the house like a kicked puppy for days.

And it wasn’t like you’d slammed a door or screamed at him when it happened. You’d just went quiet. Pulled away. You didn’t even mean to — it was just instinct. But he noticed, of course he did, because Quinn notices everything when it comes to you. And the worst part? You didn’t yell. You didn’t even seem angry. You just looked… hurt.

And that gutted him.

He’d tried giving you space at first, thinking maybe that’s what you wanted. But Quinn’s not a man built for distance. Not from you, atleast. So by day two, he was trailing after you like a lost child, his big, stupid, guilty eyes following you around the house, looking for any sign of forgiveness.

“Need any help with dinner?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“I can chop the onions? Or, uh, wash the dishes after?”

“I’ve got it, Quinn.”

It was killing him. Every clipped sentence, every soft sigh chipped away at him bit by bit. And yeah, maybe you weren’t outright ignoring him, but your responses were just polite enough to make him feel the weight of the distance between you. The worst kind of punishment, because it wasn’t really punishment at all — it was just the consequence of hurting someone you love.

By day three, he was in full-on grovel mode. Apologies spilling out of him whenever you so much as glanced his way. Little touches — on your shoulder, your hand, your waist — tentative and quick, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed anymore. And the kicker? He started leaving you notes. Notes. Like he was a middle schooler trying to get his crush back.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re right. I was a jerk.”

“I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

They’d pop up everywhere — on the fridge, on your pillow, even in your bag when you were heading out the door. And it wasn’t even annoying; it was just… Quinn. Pathetic in the most endearing way, his guilt so genuine it practically radiated off him.

When he finally couldn’t take it anymore, he cornered you in the kitchen, his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for impact.

“I hate this,” he muttered, his voice quiet but steady. “I hate that I hurt you. I hate that you can’t even look at me without…” He trailed off, his brow furrowing. “I’ll fix it. Whatever it takes. Just tell me how.”

And how could you stay mad at that? At the man who looked at you like you hung the stars, who was so bad at being in trouble because the thought of being out of your good graces was unbearable to him?

You didn’t say anything right away, just stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his middle, pressing your forehead against his chest. His arms came around you instantly, like he’d been waiting for it, and you felt the tension in his body melt away as he buried his face in your hair.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured again, his voice breaking slightly, and this time, you didn’t just hear the words — you felt them.

“I know,” you said softly, and the weight of it all seemed to lift in that moment.

Quinn would hold you there for as long as you let him, his grip firm but careful, like he was still afraid you might slip away. And when you finally pulled back, his eyes would search yours, full of hope and relief and that quiet, unshakable love that made forgiving him the easiest thing in the world.

[oaksgrove]

No Surprises.

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x female!Reader

synopsis: What starts as Simon’s small act of kindness—leaving flowers on an abandoned grave—takes an unexpected turn when he learns the dark truth about the man buried there. A chance meeting at another grave, however, leads to a connection he never saw coming.

warnings: mentions of death, grief, murder (briefly described, not graphic), guilt, emotional vulnerability. Mostly fluff with humor and a touch of angst.

word count: 1367

a/n: Inspired by a hilarious, and slightly dark, Twitter thread that I stumbled across (this one) and written while listening to Radiohead—so, yeah, heavily inspired. This spiraled into something bigger than I planned, but I loved how it turned out!

Simon visits his mom pretty often. At least once a week when he isn’t on deployment.

He would buy her bouquets and her grave was the most well-taken care of all Southern Cemetery, it frequently resembled a solid third place at Chelsea Flower Show.

But the guy next to her didn’t have much luck. His grave was abandoned and never received flowers, the only readable information about the man was his name and that he died on christmas day at age 33.

There was something unsettling about the headstone that Simon couldn’t shake. Maybe it was the way the chiseled name seemed to fade quicker than the others around it, or the date etched so starkly—Christmas Day. It felt like the grave itself bore a story too heavy for time to carry.

Every week, as Simon walked past that abandoned grave, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. Not for the man, but for what the man represented—a life wasted, forgotten, abandoned by time and loved ones. It was as if Simon could almost hear the echoes of the man’s lonely final days, a voice in the silence that reminded him of his own lost moments, his own griefs that had never been healed. He was doing it for both of them, in a way—he was making up for something he couldn’t even name.

No one ever left him flowers and each time he passed the grave, his eyes lingered on the wilted weeds and worn stone, an ache settling in his chest.

The feeling was eating Si alive.

He thought of his mother, resting just a few rows down, her grave adorned with flowers he could no longer place there himself. Maybe, just maybe, this stranger’s memory deserved a similar kindness… when he looked outside the iron gate and saw the pop-up florist and had an idea.

That's how Simon started buying flowers for a deceased man he had never met. And after some time Simon even started adding little touches—fresh soil to the base of the tombstone, cleaning the headstone when the rain left stains, sometimes even rearranging the flowers into a new arrangement.

Simon didn’t know why he cared—it wasn’t like the man would notice. Still, an odd sense of duty settled on him, as though he’d become the custodian of a memory long forsaken.

It was like he was making the world better, one bunch of flowers at a time. He did this for quite some time, but never told it to a soul. He knew it sounded weird, kinda lonely but he came to think about him as a friend. The loneliness of it all gnawed at him. He wondered, was he doing this for the stranger—or for himself, to fill some silent void he couldn’t quite name?

As Simon approached the grave that week, the familiar pang returned, sharper than before. He stood still, the wind teasing the edge of his jacket. The flowers in his hand felt weightier than usual, as though the guilt he carried seeped into their petals.

“What am I doing here?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rustling leaves. But no one answered—not the man beneath the stone nor the ghost of his own regrets.

He wondered if there was a hidden connection between them, something that drew Simon to him. Maybe they went to the same school, or maybe both supported Manchester United football club or whatever. So he decided to google his name.

Finger hovering over the enter button, he hesitated. It was silly, he knew, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was about to unearth something better left buried.

When Simon first Googled the man’s name, he found nothing.

But, just like Price says, “Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.”

The days had passed, and curiosity gnawed at him until, one night, he gave in. With a few beers in a pub with the 141 clouding his judgment and hours of searching through online records, he finally found a Newspaper article.

His pulse quickened. When the article loaded, Simon froze. The words blurred together at first, the screen swimming in his vision.

‘Family Tragedy Ends in Suicide on Christmas Day.’

“Murdered her…” he whispered aloud, his mouth going dry.

The words clawed their way up his throat, and the details stood out like jagged shards—murdered his wife and in-laws on a Christmas night. His hands shook as he scrolled, the bedroom suddenly feeling too small. The man he’d been honoring wasn’t a victim but a villain.

His wife didn’t leave him flowers because he murdered her on christmas day. After murdering his wife he also killed her parents and then jumped in front of the only train passing in Piccadilly Train Station that christmas night.

His stomach churned as he read on, his hand trembling against the mouse. By the end, he wasn’t sure if the nausea came from the man’s actions or the realization that Simon had spent years tending to the grave of a killer.

Simon’s heart sank while reading all the news, he felt like a terrible person and felt so sorry for his wife and parents. He felt he needed to do something to soothe the guilty and that's the situation he found himself in, he wouldn’t buy them flowers for almost two years but he was going to apologise.

After searching where they were buried he bought them flowers and drove to the Blackley Cemetery.

The smell of damp earth and fresh-cut flowers hung in the air, mingling with the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional distant crow. It was quiet, reverent, a sanctuary—and yet, under it all, a gnawing sadness.

Standing in front of their graves, Simon’s hands trembled. The flowers he’d brought felt heavy, like a physical manifestation of the guilt he hadn’t even known he was carrying.

What right did he have to apologize for a crime he never committed?

The flowers became more than just a gift; they were a ritual. With every petal he placed, Simon felt as though he were piecing together something broken—not the strangers’ lives, but perhaps his own. And when he laid that last bouquet at the foot of the victims’ graves, it was less an offering and more an apology whispered through the blooms.

Kneeling before the graves, Simon fumbled with the bouquet, his fingers clumsy and unsure. He cleared his throat, but his voice cracked anyway. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, the words escaping like a confession.

The headstones didn’t respond, their silence deafening, but Simon kept going. ‘I didn’t know. I should’ve…’ His words trailed off, swallowed by the damp air, leaving only the faint rustle of trees to answer him and a nudge on his shoulder.

‘Hi,’ she said, her voice calm but mildly woolly. ‘Why are you leaving flowers for my aunt and grandparents?’

Simon was startled. He turned, finding a woman standing a few feet away, arms crossed but her expression more puzzled than angry. His throat tightened. ‘I, uh… it’s complicated,’ he stammered, his face flushing under her steady gaze

Her eyes were full of something he couldn’t place—curiosity, disbelief, maybe even a little amusement. The words he’d rehearsed in his mind felt silly now, but he said them anyway, rambling about flowers and apologies.

Simon shifted, glancing from her face to the graves. “It’s… a long story, one I’m not even sure makes sense.”

She tilted her head, lips quirking into a half-smile. “You know, weird as it is, those are usually the best stories. So, how about you tell me over coffee?” Her face softened, the tension easing as he listens, there was no judgment, only a quiet understanding that unsettled Simon more than anything.

He blinked, surprised. ‘I, uh… yeah. I’d like that.’

As they walked away from the cemetery, the weight in Simon’s chest lightened. Maybe it was the fresh air, or maybe it was the odd sense of peace that seemed to hang between them now. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something had shifted. The ache in his chest had faded, replaced by a soft, unfamiliar warmth. It was as if, in trying to make the world a little better for a stranger, he’d found a piece of something he’d been missing too.

[sleepyparalysisdmon]

Seungcheol with a fidgety partner

Requested? Yes! Request: ‘hmm cheol or anyone in svt and how they would handle a jittery partner (i say as i am bouncing my leg and fidgeting) lol!’

Seungcheol, who is always offering his hand for you to fidget with He normally thinks nothing of your fidgeting. You pick up a straw wrapper at the restaurant to twist and play with or you play with the handle of your bag as it sits in your lap. He kind of thinks of it as a cute habit, but recognizes that sometimes it stems from anxiety. So if you guys are out somewhere and you don’t have anything specific to fidget with, he won’t watch you bounce from one side to the other for long. He’ll hold out his hand for you and give a little squeeze when you grab on. He’s totally unfazed by you squeezing, or changing the way you grip his hand, or twisting the rings he might have on. He actually finds that it comforts him too. They’re gentle reminders that you’re still right there, even when he might be too busy to give you the attention that he wishes he could.

Seungcheol, who buys you fidget toys for when he can’t be around to hold your hand You have a plethora of fidget toys, all purchased by Seungcheol over the years. Some are stress balls, some are silent spinners, some are rather loud spinners. Some slide, some pop, some snap. You had no idea there were so many different kinds or where he even finds them. And he has them stashed away everywhere. There are some on your desk at home and at work. There’s a couple hidden under the coffee table. There are even a few hidden in the kitchen for you when you come talk to him while he cooks. He knows you don’t always need it, but notices how you seem to be able to relax and focus with something to fiddle with, so when he notices that you’re extra jittery that day, he’s sliding one to you without a word.

Seungcheol, who will gently put his hand over your leg When you’re in a setting that that sort of fidgeting won’t really be suitable, he knows your go-to is to bounce your leg. You two will be out to dinner with others and he’ll feel the rhythmic vibration against his chair. It doesn’t bother him, but he knows it might bother others, thus bothering you. So sometimes, even when he’s eating, he’ll put a hand under the table and lay it across your thigh. There’s absolutely nothing inappropriate about it - just a gentle reminder that it’s okay and you can relax. He’d prefer for you to take a deep breath and eat after this, but sometimes he’ll let it slide when your hands grip on to his under the table.

Seungcheol, who carefully tries to find out what makes you jittery He never wants to pry, but the nervous energy you carry a lot of the time makes him wonder. He’s so gentle about it and doesn’t assume anything bad right away. Maybe you’re just drinking too much caffeine, in which case he might urge you to cut back. Maybe it’s that you just have too much energy even without caffeine, in which case he offers to help you work out some of that energy by going for a walk or run, or going to the gym. Maybe it’s that you’re just kind of stressed lately, in which case he wants to help reduce your stress in anyway he can. But if there’s something that you’re actually nervous about, he wants to know about that too so he can help more. He’ll help you avoid some of those things on occasion, but ultimately he wants you to feel comfortable going about life and will encourage you to face those things (with him by your side, of course).

Seungcheol, who is really relieved that you can relax around him It’s something he’s actually really proud of. Not just that you reach out to him when you’re feeling that way. But sometimes, you’ll come home and collapse into his arms and just finally be… still. He likes that the nervous energy totally dissipates when it’s just the two of you at home. You’re totally at ease curled up next to him on the couch during a movie night. You’re totally still as you both lay in bed, with you on his chest. It’s something that makes him misty-eyed if he thinks about it for too long.

[steddieas-shegoes]

sold out, one night only

for @corrodedcoffinfest popup event for Black Friday using 'one day night only'

rated m | 2980 words | cw: implied and referenced sexual content | tags: modern era, pop star steve, rock star eddie, semi-famous corroded coffin, exes to lovers, getting back together

🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤

The poster is huge, takes up most of the board in the club announcing new events. It’s surprisingly simple for something so large.

‘One Night Only’ accompanied by a picture of Steve Harrington, recently out queer pop icon, and a date and time.

Tonight is the one night only.

Eddie stares at it, kind of wishes he didn’t feel like sobbing, and then books it out of the club.

If he’s gonna make it across town before Steve’s show is done, he’s gotta hope for the least amount of traffic he’s ever seen and a lot of luck. Maybe, if he’s really lucky, the show was delayed enough that he’s still on stage singing.

He manages to find an Uber only a block away, offers them a 50% tip if they can get him to the arena in less than five minutes, and leans his head back against the seat.

~~~~

Four years ago, when Steve followed Eddie and his band to Chicago, neither of them expected much to happen. Corroded Coffin was small town good, but they quickly found that they weren’t quite what record labels were looking for.

A small indie label from San Francisco was interested, though.

So they packed up and moved to California, and to celebrate the first recording session, they went to a karaoke bar and all took turns singing songs that you’d never expect them to.

Steve took a turn singing a Harry Styles song and it was game over.

The whole bar went silent until he was done, and then it was pandemonium as people rushed him as he got off the stage, telling him he should be famous, and that he had the voice of an angel, and that he should try to sign a record deal.

And Eddie knew he could sing; he’d heard him in the shower and the car plenty.

There was just something about seeing him on stage and knowing that Steve was meant for more that really cut into his heart and made him bleed out on that bar floor.

It was the beginning of the end for them that night.

Eddie pushed him away. Steve stopped fighting it.

Steve signed with a huge company out of New York and moved before Eddie even realized he ruined everything.

He hasn’t spoken to him since, not even the one time Dustin had to have surgery and requested everyone be back in Hawkins in case something went wrong. He was being dramatic about leg splints, but they did it anyway.

Eddie caught one glimpse of Steve walking out of the Henderson home the night that Dustin got to leave the hospital, but he didn’t stop him.

Corroded Coffin is big enough to do festival circuits, even playing on the main stage for some of them.

Steve Harrington is big enough to go to Grammy parties and duet with Sabrina Carpenter.

And Eddie is stupid enough to think he can get backstage to apologize to him for being dumb enough to let him walk away.

~~~~

When he arrives at the arena, he’s told he needs a ticket to enter. This is a fact he knew before getting here, but one he chose to ignore in hopes that he might be able to bribe someone with his romantic story.

Unfortunately, the middle aged man who reminds him a lot of Wayne couldn’t care less about his need to tell Steve he loves him.

“You and the 20,000 others in the audience, bud,” the man says. “No ticket, no entrance.”

“Okay, I know you probably hear this often, but I swear he knows me. He’d let me in,” Eddie explains, but the guy is somehow even less impressed. “Oh! Wait. I have proof.”

Eddie pulls out his phone and opens his photos. The album named ‘Stevie ♥️’ is still in his favorites, even though Robin made him promise he’d delete it after the last time she visited. He may have promised he would, but he never said when.

It’s hundreds of photos of them together, mostly selfies, personal pictures they took on dates or in bed or on their road trip or-

“I told you to delete those.”

Eddie spins around at Robin’s voice. She’s standing near the set of doors at the end of the long line of doors, two security guards flanking her.

“And I will. Eventually.” Eddie walks towards her, ignoring the man telling him he needs to leave.

“What are you doing here?” She asks even though she has to know.

She’s his friend even though she’s Steve’s platonic soulmate. She isn’t being mean on purpose. She’s just being protective of both of them.

“Robin…” he starts.

She holds up a hand. “If I take you backstage, will this be a one night only thing or a start to forever thing? Because honestly, I don’t think he can take seeing you if it’s only for you to leave right after. He’s barely-” She cuts herself off, eyes widening.

“He’s what?” Eddie pushes, needing to know what she was gonna say.

She sighs. He knew he’d get her to give in easily.

“He’s barely holding it together as it is,” she admits. “I had to bribe him to get on stage tonight.”

“Bribe him? For this show?”

“And the last dozen or so. He’s tired. He-” She sighs again, heavier. “He misses you.”

“If he misses me, then he should call. Or text. Send a carrier pigeon.” Eddie doesn’t mean for the words to bite, but he can’t help the way he feels and he knows he’s safe with Robin. She won’t take it personally or let him stew in it for too long. “It’s not like he doesn’t have access to me if he really wants it.”

“Eddie. You made it very clear you didn’t want to hear from him ever again.”

“I made it very clear that I loved him too much to hold him back. He was the one who pushed it to this,” Eddie tries.

He doesn’t succeed. Robin is shaking her head, laughing with disbelief.

“You two are made for each other. I’ll bring you backstage, but if I see a single tear shed in anything other than happiness, I’m calling Jeff and telling on you.”

Eddie can’t help but laugh. Calling Jeff isn’t quite the threat it used to be, not since Jeff got himself a very serious girlfriend who keeps him busy. Even if it was, Robin knows Jeff’s just gonna nod along, give Eddie a sad look, and move on.

He follows Robin through the door she came through, waving at the guard who was giving him a hard time– “he’s just doing his job, Eddie” – and feels his throat catch on his next breath when he can hear the beat of the music.

Steve’s pop rock sound isn’t necessarily Eddie’s favorite type of music, but he did stay up until midnight for the release of his debut album. It’s Steve. What’s he gonna do? Not listen to it?

His voice is just this side of raspy, like there’s a scratch of his throat when he hits the lower register his voice will allow. He almost sounds like when Eddie would-

“Alright. He’s got two songs left and an encore. Encore is usually just one song, but this is a special night so he may do a bonus from his new album. Don’t touch anything,” Robin sends him into the green room, waving off the security person who is standing at the door. “Don’t make me regret letting you in here. And don’t hurt yourself.”

“Jesus, Robbie, I’m not a child. I’m not gonna hurt myself-”

“I didn’t mean physically.” She gives him a sad look. “I care about you, too.”

Eddie’s shoulders fall as he breathes out. He didn’t realize how tense he’d been. Robin hugs him and moves to the door.

“I’ll make sure you guys have some privacy for a bit, but we do have a tight schedule. Security’s only here while the crew packs up,” she explains. Eddie nods. He knows the drill. He may not be an international pop star, but he deals with the ins and outs of venues often enough.

Robin leaves and the only sound is the bass thumping of Steve’s last song. Eddie looks around at how bare the room is. Usually, Corroded Coffin has to share a green room with a few other bands unless they pull off headlining the main stage. Those rooms are usually cluttered, crews and musicians constantly coming and going, leaving trash and guitar picks behind. The only thing in this room that would hint at Steve using it is a bag of half-eaten white cheddar popcorn on the table next to an empty water bottle and a mug of what looks like green tea.

Steve’s a big enough star to make absurd requests for backstage, but it’s clear he doesn’t. Eddie isn’t surprised. Steve’s never really been one to ask for things that would benefit him.

He hears the screaming, knows Steve’s just left the stage. He’s probably standing nearby, hiding behind curtains or stacks of speakers, maybe even in plain sight.

“Wait!” Robin’s voice is right outside the door.

The door opens.

Steve’s there, breathless, sweaty, hot as hell.

“Steve, you still have a song,” another woman in khakis and a polo shirt is rushing up to him, waving a clipboard in his face.

“Eddie.” Steve’s voice is rough when he speaks. Eddie can tell it’s more from emotion than the nearly two hour set list he just performed.

“Steve.” Eddie is waiting for Steve to move, for anyone to move. He can’t.

“Steve, you need to go back onstage.”

Eddie has his arms full of Steve before anyone can respond to the woman just trying to do her job. She looks like she’s a tech manager, but usually they wear all black, and Eddie doesn’t know all there is to know about an international superstar performing a concert even though he does know all there is to know about Steve.

He knows that he prefers earl gray tea with real sugar, not the green tea with honey that’s sitting on the coffee table. He knows that his favorite treats are the mini Kit Kats– “not the regular ones, they taste different, I swear!”-- not popcorn that gets stuck in his teeth for hours. He knows that he likes making places feel like home no matter how temporary he’s there, and there’s not a single item in this room that makes it feel lived in.

The woman seems to give up on getting Steve back on stage, and he’s pretty sure he has Robin to thank for it.

He has Steve in his arms for the first time in way too long. He isn’t wasting a second of it thinking about anyone else.

Steve’s sweat is soaking through Eddie’s shirt already, but he doesn’t really care. He used to love having Steve’s sweat on him; It meant he was doing something right.

He knows a reunion isn’t this easy, and any second now, Steve’s gonna pull away and yell at him, and they’ll fight and Eddie will let it happen because he deserves it and-

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Steve sobs against his neck, breath tickling his skin as his lips brush against him in an almost-kiss.

Suddenly, Eddie knows that Steve planned this. This whole sold out, one night only show was only so Eddie would come see him.

Eddie should be pissed.

Steve could have just fucking called him. Texted him. Sent a carrier pigeon!

But he’s got Steve in his arms and it’s always been pretty hard to be pissed at him when he’s pressed perfectly against his chest.

Robin is clearing the room and cursing Steve for making her clean up his messes, but Eddie can hear the fondness in her voice. She wouldn’t bother giving them time alone together if she didn’t want them to have it.

“Robin said I shouldn’t do it. She said you wouldn’t show.” Tears are falling from Steve’s eyes on Eddie's shirt. “I swore you would. She thought I was crazy.”

“You are crazy,” Eddie laughs, squeezing his arms to pull him in tighter. “Planning something this big in the hopes that I’d come to a pop concert is fucking insane, Stevie.”

“But you did.” Steve leans back and looks at him, watery smile enough to make Eddie feel like he could melt into the floor. “I knew you would.”

Eddie wants to kiss him, wants to ignore everything that went wrong and everything they need to talk about, wants to take Steve apart in this room and make it feel like home because Steve didn’t do that on his own. He doesn’t think he’s made any place feel like home in a long time.

“You put a lot of faith in a guy who let you go,” Eddie whispers.

“You showed up for a guy who left,” Steve says back.

“You only left because I pushed you away,” Eddie argues.

“You only pushed me away because you thought it was best for me,” Steve raises a brow, challenging him to keep going.

Eddie knows Steve has a response for everything, though. He’ll keep putting blame on himself the same way Eddie keeps putting it on himself, and they’ll go round and round and waste precious time that they could be doing other things. Instead of pushing, Eddie sighs and lets his shoulders drop.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead of arguing.

“I’m sorry, too,” Steve relaxes in his arms.

“We still have to talk, Stevie,” Eddie reminds him as he leans in, feels Steve’s breath against his lips.

“We will,” Steve barely gets out before their lips crash together, bruising and needy.

There’s a lot that Eddie missed about Steve. He’s spent countless hours harping over everything he messed up to himself, to Robin, to Wayne, to the band. Steve was forever going to be the one that got away.

“Can we…” Steve gasps against his mouth, hands grasping at every inch of Eddie that they can.

“What do you need?” Eddie wraps his fingers around Steve’s wrists to still him, to make him focus on what he wants.

“Just need you.”

It’s a cop out and they both know it, but Eddie’s fine with it tonight. If he has to be the one to take charge and assume what Steve wants, then he will. For tonight, he can give Steve what he wants to, and Steve will take it.

It’s a little anticlimactic when they come barely five minutes later. They don’t even get a chance to properly remove any clothing before they’re making a mess between them, moaning as if they can’t be heard.

As they come down, and Eddie manages to find a rag that may or may not have been used for other things already, Eddie sees Steve wipe his eyes.

He stops what he’s doing and drops the rag on the floor, pulling Steve close again.

“What’s wrong?” He asks because he can’t let Steve leave him again. Not this time.

“I just don’t want this to be one night only,” Steve cries.

“It won’t be, sweetheart,” Eddie assures him, brushing the fresh tears away as they fall. “We’re gonna figure out how to make it work. The band doesn’t have anything for the next few weeks, so we’ve got time, okay?”

“But I have to leave tomorrow. I have a GQ interview in London,” Steve pouts.

Eddie tries not to be distracted by his bitten-red lips, but they’re just so…biteable.

“I could go to London,” Eddie offers, only slightly joking.

Steve’s eyes light up. “You can?”

“I mean, I can definitely blow some of my savings to follow you around for a bit,” Eddie shrugs.

“As if I’d let you pay.” Steve’s beaming at him. “You really wanna come with me? Even though people will start spreading rumors and it’ll ruin your metal band image?”

“Baby, I’ll stand on that stage right now and scream to everyone who will listen that I’m yours.”

There’s still time to do that, too. Even though it can’t have been more than 20 minutes since Steve left the stage, he has no doubt that there are plenty of stragglers in the arena hoping for Steve to still come out and perform his encore.

“Some fans are kind of-”

“Crazy?” Steve nods. “That’s because you’re perfect. But they can’t have you, right? Not like I can.”

“No. Nobody gets to have me like you do.”

If Robin wasn’t banging on the door to warn them they only had five minutes, Eddie would be trying for another round. Maybe this time, he’d get his mouth on Steve instead of just his hand.

“I guess we should get to the car before fans figure out I’m still here,” Steve suggests. “And before Robin kills us both.”

“Imagine that news story,” Eddie laughs. “Best friend and manager of pop icon Steve Harrington charged with double homicide after seeing more dicks than she’s ever seen in her life.”

“Bold of you to assume she hasn’t seen mine,” Steve laughs as he pulls away. When he sees Eddie’s shocked face, he pats his cheek. “I sleep naked, babe. You knew that.”

Eddie’s face goes back to normal quickly. “Still? I thought that was just so I would-”

“I’m coming in!” Robin shouts as she opens the door. Steve turns away to finish buttoning his pants, but Eddie’s soft dick is right out in the open.

“Seriously?” Robin groans.

Eddie finishes making himself presentable and smirks. “You’ve seen what he’s got. You can’t blame me.”

“I can and I will. Car’s already surrounded, so. Hope you’re good with a hard launch.”

Eddie looks at Steve to check in. Steve gives him a nod.

“Blast off, I guess.”

[sburb2official]

okay

fueled by a combination of vanilla jim beam and boredom:

in order of blood color:

1. Gravix Alocri, fuchsia: doesn't actually stink. usually. typical smell is beach + sugary ice pops + sunscreen because Juluno (his roommate/moirail/big brother figure/secret service guy) insists he wears it. when he does stink, he smells like raw fish because that's what he eats when he's down in the sea

2. Fenlin Lomeni, violet: Absolutely reeks of tequila and fruity spicy perfume. it'd be a fine scent if she didn't fucking douse herself in it to cover up the tequila smell

3. Lasven Vonova, purple: Cologne. Way too much cologne. Wears the cheap shit because he's trying to impress his lowblood friends and just ends up looking like a dweeb. That and the stale smell of a music recording studio that hasn't been cleaned in weeks

4. Zazilo Calune, purple: ... blood? something subtle but unpleasantly metallic. and leather. doesn't quite stink but doesn't smell nice to anyone but Tharni, his matesprit

5. Juluno Nemeno, indigo: Actually smells very nice. Like an appropriate amount of expensive cologne, good dark roast coffee, and fresh laundry. Quite particular about keeping himself clean to set a good example for his hyperactive trainwreck of a royal moirail

6. there is a cobalt but I don't know who she is yet. she has yet to appear in my brain, you feel

7. Klikai Possen, teal: Awful. Horrible. She's a hacking nerd who hides in her rats nest of a room researching aliens, making strange posts on strange forums, crafting the finest joke viruses, eating ramen, and farting. bonus points: unwashed socks

8. Maiyun Omaoka, jade: girl is a pastry chef so you would think she'd smell good. she doesn't. Smells like a messy kitchen and troll weed that she's definitely absolutely not putting in the pastries. Not the worst stink but she puts off showering to do her baking

9. Caiver (uhhh what's their caste name), olive: kind of stinks, kind of doesn't. Smells very strongly of incense, the "book glue" scent but musty and not nice, and unidentifiable herbal liquids. plus a tinge of unwashed hair. but it's usually pretty good sage or cinnamon incense

10. Vrexil Amiani/Isarva, lime, claims to be jade: basically no smell. it's weird. she smells like nothing other than a barely detectable whiff of wherever she's been hiding, which isn't always a pleasant smelling place

11. Jlarin Avarin, gold: 10/10 Worst Stench Award winner. Bro smells like a world of warcraft player. Doritos, sweaty headset, sour gaming chair, nasty socks, mountain dew, dirty clothes, and pure concentrated negativity . room frequently featured on r/neckbeardnests. Dude, take a shower. Please . I'm begging you.

12. Chacie Nalash, bronze: motor oil, paint thinner, electricity, gross work boots, mild bad breath, and beef jerky. she's a technician and mechanic. somehow Fenlin is her moirail. how the fuck

13. Reltha Lemarr, rust: vodka and infrequently washed clothes, but not as infrequently as Jlarin's clothes. has a permanent reek of cheese puffs floating around her. just very greasy, salty, sweaty. she would wash more if her sheer stink didn't piss off her rival Lasven so much. she stinks to spite him and his shitty pop punk 2005 hot topic SoundCloud rapper ahh music

14. Tharni Pravna, rust: REEKS of blood. All colors. insists they have different flavors and smells. The fuck does she do, bathe in everyone's blood? it's on her breath. why is it on her breath? (plus an undertone of ginger ale)

TW. YAPPING!!!!! and i think i say cum once or twice probablie

TGE TROLLS WOULD NOT SMELL GOOD !!!!!

i feel like at most they smell neutral??? or however tf bugs smell

but especially like while and before they play the game?? at the very least they dont smell traditionally nice.

they dont smell like flowrrs and nice things

ESPECIALLY NEPETA!!!! SHE SMELLS LIKE DEAD THINGS MOST OF THE TIME!! SHE STINKS OF ANIMAL AND BLOOD AND SWEAT AND SHE DOESNT SHOWER SHE LIVES IN A CAVE

like no hate to the person who said she would smell like sour candy but like….. why?

i feel like if the troll blood castes were scented, olive blood would have a more natural scent and they wouldn’t be sweet

AND EVEN THEM SHES STILL STINKY!!!!!

the meowrails stink. i love them. but they stink.

equius smells like BO and motor oil and nepeta probably smells like cat piss.

ALSOOOSODOSOSOSO i feel like it’s really weird when people imply or headcanon that the trolls have flavored cum?? like tht feels weird

i feel like even if they did it probably wouldnt be human flavors like chocolate

i dont even wanna think about what i think their cum would taste like tho so im not even gonna try to form an opinion. you do u mann(or do the homestuck trolls ig bc clearly thats ur thing)

UH

i mean clearly not all of their smells are unbearable because clearly the humans dont mind it too much(or at least dont say anything) but also a lot of the biggest offenders are dead so

gamzee smells like drugs. and. dead trolls.

he’s the only i can maybe see smelling sweet because of all the faygo

ik if they were humans they would stink too

like vriska would lie about taking showers i just know it. vriska would drench herself body spray and claim she showered.

trolls wouldn’t smell sweet at the very least

they come from murder land

they don’t smell like vanilla dream

[aplaceinme]

For @tommygiving

Tommy parks his truck and turns the engine off. He has been smiling since he woke up this morning, knowing that he is going to spend the entire day with Evan. 

Before getting out of the car, he looks in the rearview mirror and fixes his hair. Evan likes to pull on his curls so Tommy has gotten to wear it a bit longer than he normally would. Once he is satisfied with the way he looks, he turns and just as he is about to open the door, he sees Evan exiting his building and bouncing towards him.

As always, Evan looks amazing, he is wearing a blue sweater that makes his eyes pop, and some black jeans that accentuate his big and strong thighs perfectly. He also seems to be in a hurry, since in no time at all he is opening the passenger side door. 

“Good morning, gorgeous!” Evan greets him, leaning over and giving him a way too short for Tommy’s liking kiss.  

“Good morning, love!” Tommy replies. “I was about to go up… I always go up. Are you that excited to go to the supermarket?” 

“Yeah, I’m really excited! I even have my clipboard, see?” Evan says, waving the clipboard for emphasis. 

Tommy chuckles. “I can see that. Ok then, let’s go!” 

—

“Are you sure you are ok?” Tommy asks for the second time. 

“What? Yes, I’m ok… why? Don’t I look alright?” Evan asks in a slightly hysterical way. “I’m alright!”

Tommy raises one eyebrow in disbelief. “Evan, you have been all fidgety and acting all nervous since… since you got in the truck, actually. What’s going on?” 

“Nothing, I’m fine,” Evan says, not so convincingly. 

“Evan,” Tommy sighs. “Look, you do know that I don’t care about the food or the decorations or anything like that, right? You don’t need to put too much pressure on yourself to try to host the perfect Thanksgiving… it will be perfect no matter what because we are going to be spending it together. And that’s all I want.” 

Evan’s posture relaxes minimally, his eyes go as soft as the smile tugging at his lips. “You’re right, it will be perfect because we will be together.” 

They share a sweet but short kiss, both aware that they are in the middle of a supermarket with lots of people desperately buying all kinds of stuff for Thanksgiving. 

“Should we see if we are lucky enough to find a turkey?” Tommy asks as he intertwines their fingers and starts to move across the aisle. 

“Turkey?” Evan yelps. 

Tommy stops walking and turns to look at him in surprise and confusion. “Yes? I mean… Aren’t we having turkey?” 

Evan ducks his head, rubs at the back of his neck, and starts to drag the tip of his shoes along the ground. 

“Evan?” 

“Well… I was thinking that maybe… just maybe! We could go vegan this time?” Evan asks sheepishly.

“Oh! Uhhh, yeah, sure, ok. We can do that if that’s what you want.”

“Yeah? Awesome! Thank you,” Evan says, beaming. 

If Tommy hadn’t been blinded by Evan’s beautiful smile, and by the way it made his eyes sparkle, he would have noticed that in his enthusiasm Evan had started to walk backwards, right into a display of canned cranberry sauce. As it is, Tommy is too late to fully stop him. He grabs him by the arm and tries to pull him away but by then Evan has already lost his balance and he ends up falling over the cans and pulling Tommy along. 

“Oh my god!” Evan mumbles, on the floor and covered in cranberry sauce. “Ouch.”

In the same position as him, Tommy nods, agreeing, “Yeah… ouch.” 

“Are you guys ok?” One of the supermarket workers asks them, looking down at them. 

“Peachy,” Tommy mutters.

“I’m so, so sorry! I can’t believe I did this! It was a mistake… I’m so clumsy sometimes,” Evan says apologetically while sitting down slowly. 

“It’s ok. It happens, not that often, but it happens,” Susan, as her name tag reads, says. “Are any of you hurt?”

“No, just embarrassed,” Evan replies. 

“Tomorrow… that’s when we will be feeling it,” Tommy groans, standing up and giving a hand to Evan. 

“Should we clean it up?” Evan asks hesitantly. 

“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” Susan reassures him. “The facilities are near the bakery section, by the way.” 

They thank Susan and go to the bathroom to wash a little bit of the sauce. 

“This is not going well,” Evan complains. 

“Don’t worry about it… think about it this way, it will be a funny story to tell everyone,” Tommy says, helping Evan with cleaning his lovely curls. 

“No one will know about this, Tommy. No one!” 

Tommy laughs and kisses him on the cheek. “Alright, my lips are sealed. Should we continue with the shopping?”

“Ugh, yes! We don’t really have any other choice,” Evan says, pouting. 

—

Evan starts to get fidgety again once they are back in the truck and driving to his loft. 

“Hey! We’ve got all the ingredients you need, right? It will be great, I know it,” Tommy tries to reassure him, his hand reaching over from the steering wheel and grabbing one of Evan's hands. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Evan gives him a barely there smile that is not fooling anybody. 

The nervousness and fidgeting get worse as they approach Evan’s door. He even takes his time opening it, doing it as slowly as possible. As soon as he opens it, though, he pulls Tommy inside and quickly closes and locks the door. 

Completely bewildered by the action, Tommy puts the groceries down. “Evan, what is go- what the hell is that?” 

There, by the loft window, is a cage. A cage with a turkey in it. A very much alive turkey. 

“It’s a turkey,” Evan replies too casually. 

“A tur- a turk… why do you have a turkey?” Tommy asks him, beyond confused. He even pinches his arm, trying to see if he is having a weird dream. Or maybe he got concussed when they fell in the supermarket. 

“So, funny story,” Evan starts. “You see, yesterday, we had a call to this place and this dude had an illegal turkey.” 

Tommy blinks once, twice, but he remains confused. “Ok? That doesn’t explain the turkey in your loft though.” 

“Right… the thing is that the dude was trying to get him to fight, sort of like cockfighting, you know? So, he is quite aggressive.”

“How aggressive?” Tommy asks, taking a step back.

He is suddenly having flashbacks of when they had responded to that call with Maurice… he shivers all over. 

“Quite a lot, unfortunately. That’s why I begged Bobby to let me take him to one of the farm sanctuaries or a center where they rehabilitate animals,” Evan tells him with a bright smile. 

Tommy doesn’t know where to start. “And Bobby just said yes?”

“Well, I had to be really convincing, say that I was afraid that Alex here would end up getting killed, and I might have also said that I was going to take him to a farm yesterday,” Evan says, blushing but shrugging his shoulders. “But I was too tired and today I already had plans with you… so I will take him tomorrow.”

“Ok, so you aren’t actually planning to keep him, then?” Tommy asks, extremely relieved, and ignoring the fact that of course already named the turkey. 

Evan opens his mouth but gets interrupted by Alex gobbling, startling them both.

“Jesus, that’s loud,” Tommy says, resisting the urge to cover his ears. 

“He is, which is why I was hoping that we could keep him in your house? I’m not allowed to have pets here,” Evan asks, looking adorable, peering at him through his eyelashes. 

Sighing in resignation, Tommy nods. One day he will be able to say no to Evan, but today is not that day. 

[jemilyvsjeid]

First fic ever doesn’t have a name yet I have ideas but ugh guys this is the first time I ever wrote something lowkey nervous let me know if you have any suggestions my anons are open my DMs are open comments…be kind tho like I said this is the first time I wrote something 😭🤚

Pics for reference 💀

Guys …

Ughhh here you go 😭🤚

Tw: language?

Quick Backstory

Sasha Simmons: 22, 6'3", model with a slender build. Naturally blonde but dyes her hair black. She has high cheekbones and icy blue eyes. Growing up in Brooklyn, NY, she's a true city girl, unbothered by the chaos around her. After her father abandoned the family when she was just 7, her mother never remarried. A selfish alcoholic, her mother uses Sasha to maintain her own precarious position in life. Sasha is an only child, with two close friends: Natalia, her childhood "sister," and Emily, who introduced her to modeling back in high school. Girly pop has a hard time recognizing her beauty.

Paige Bueckers:You all know what Paige looks like, so there’s no need for me to describe her appearance or go into a detailed backstory — unless you want me to.

— -

Sasha

Your alarm blares, no, actually it screams at you to wake up. You've hit the snooze button seven times already.

sasha’s mom hurries through the room and throws the phone towards the back of her head

“FUCK YOU!” Sasha bolts upright, searching for the nearest object to throw back, but her mother rushes out the door before she can retaliate. Scanning the mess around her bed, she finally finds her phone, just in time to see the glaring screen flash 8:05 AM.

“Oh no! Oh no! Fuck! Why didn’t you wake me up earlier, Mom? I have that casting call for Nike today!” She races to the bathroom, all the while her mother rolls her eyes, inhaling the smoke from her Winston Reds, which have completely taken over their apartment.The apartment where she spent the last 22 exhausting, painful yet memorable years. The place where she learned to walk, where she learned about disappointments, where she realized being skinny could open more doors than being happy ever would. She never felt fulfilled. Despite winning every pageant she entered, graduating from NYU with a full ride, and traveling to cities in Europe that most couldn’t even name, it was never enough. Deep down, what she always truly desired was a townhouse filled with both parents, a dog, and siblings close to her age—maybe to actually celebrate holidays.

Her mother’s cough, loud enough to be heard from blocks away, snaps her out of her thoughts. The time now reads 8:20 AM. Has she really sat on the toilet for fifteen minutes? She’s got to be at the shoot in forty minutes — twenty on the train! In a frenzy, she jumps into the shower. Within fifteen minutes, she’s out the door, her hair still wet and half-dried, rushing to make it to the train just in time.

---

Paige

As I watch the stylist sort through outfits for my potential partner for this shoot, I can’t help but wonder what this person will look like. It’s strange they waited until today to find someone, but given my schedule, I can’t complain. I know my energy effortlessly charms those around me, making it easy for them to work with me, even if it's an inconvenience. While it feels good to receive such attention, I must admit it’s also awkward to have everything done for me. Glancing in the mirror, I remind myself that I truly earned this moment. The countless hours I spent on the court led to my recruitment by the best program in the country, paving the way for my success and growth as a leader. I’ve faced adversity over the past couple of years, but each challenge has helped me learn more about myself, and for that, I’m eternally grateful.

Robbie, the casting director, enters, enthusiastically explaining that he's looking for someone who's my complete opposite. We've gone over this several times, but his vision of this “dream girl” seems to intensify with each discussion. He hands me a piece of paper.

1.Jet black hair

2.Icy blue eyes

3.Sharp features

4.Tall

5.Shalom Harlow with a twist

With an incredulous expression, I ask, “How is this the opposite of me?” He chuckles and surveys me with a quick up-and-down glance (classic sassy gay man), saying, “Well, love, this dream girl will be the black cat to your golden retriever vibe. Sure, you both have similar eyes and features, but you're kind and sweet; this girl will walk into the room with a cold energy that’s anything but sunshine”.

“Oh wowww, you really have quite an imagination,” I reply, slightly annoyed by his specificity, as if such a person even exists. “Shalom Harlow with a twist?” I murmur again, baffled. She’s one of the hottest models out there, yet I can’t fathom meeting anyone close to that in real life.Let alone at a Nike shoot.Dropping the paper on the table, I walk over to the window, where the breathtaking views of New York City never fail to captivate me. So many experiences, so many stories. I can’t help but wonder what our “dream girl” is doing right.

---

Sasha

Glancing at my phone, I realize I should be right on time. My hair has fully dried, but it's slightly puffy now. If only I had a few extra minutes to fix myself! The casting call requested no makeup and natural hair—just blow-dried, nothing styled. They asked for jeans and a tee, preferably with sneakers, as they wanted to see how we “carry ourselves.” Silly, but I guess there’s a reason behind everything. I press the button for the 18th floor and take a deep breath to calm my nerves. Despite never feeling confident, I've mastered the act well enough that anyone who sees me is impressed. As the elevator doors slide open, I’m greeted by what seems to be at least seventy girls, most already clustered in little groups. Casting a glance around, I note several familiar faces from previous shoots, some of whom are friends of Emily's. As I approach, the only thing I can hear is the name “Paige” around me. Who’s Paige ?

“Hey, you guys!!” I say with the most artificial smile I can muster. “I’ve missed seeing you! How is everyone?” To be honest, I could hardly care less about any of them, but networking is crucial in this industry. As we chat, I mention the mysterious Paige, “So who is this Paige girl? Is she a new model we should be watching out for?” Dolia giggles, giving me a pointed look before saying, “How do you not know who you might be shooting with? At this point just forget about even being here.” She bursts out laughing obnoxiously, solidifying my reasons to not befriend any of these people ever. Hannah, grinning from ear to ear, chimes in, “It’s Paige Bueckers! The basketball player from UConn! How do you not know this?” This is the second time I’m hearing about her; the first was when Emily’s roommate lost her mind over some “talent show” she joined last spring on her live. I still don’t know who this girl is, and frankly, I don’t care. I’m here to work with a major brand, and this could be my ticket to fashion week — possibly an invitation to the upcoming shows. After being ghosted by brands I’d previously collaborated with, last year’s New York Fashion Week made me a recluse.

Just then, the casting director bursts into the room, announcing his last-minute requirements. I dread these moments. “If you don’t have jet black hair, you can leave,” he shouts. As most girls exit, that dwindles to at least twenty of us. Then he states, “Anyone under 6 feet tall can leave,” and that knocks out even more girls. Now there are only fourteen of us left, mere minutes ago there were so many. My thoughts wander as I scan the room and catch sight of a tall blonde just a few feet away from the other room. She’s beautiful—really beautiful—and her laughter makes her glow like… sunshine? “If you don’t have blue eyes, you may exit, and thank you for coming,” the director retorts, pulling me back into reality. We’re now down to just five girls, all looking like identical versions of each other. We're ushered into a room where we're given instructions about what’s to come. I’m the last to go, thankful I can drift for a moment. Hunger and fatigue creep in, but I push it aside.I can’t help but drift back to the girl I saw by the door. I wonder who she is…

—

Paige

Robbie steps into the room, informing me that the number of girls has drastically decreased, and it’s almost time for the shoot. He gestures for me to follow him to another room where I’ll essentially rate the remaining girls. It feels somewhat wrong to assess others this way, but I suppose it's necessary. The first girl walks in—gorgeous, resembling Lauren Jauregui in build and hair type. She’s asked to walk, but struggles to keep up with the beat; she doesn’t stand out. The next girl has shoulder-length hair, giving major Kendall Jenner vibes. Another pretty face, but again, nothing memorable. As I zone out I can hear Robbie buzzing in my ear that we have one last person, and then we are done. Rubbing my temples in frustration, I suddenly hear footsteps approaching.A raspy but sweet voice breaks the tension: “Good morning, I’m Sasha Simmons.” My focus shifts back to the door, and time seems to freeze. The girl walking in ticks off every box. She exudes a captivating energy that pulls me in like a magnet. Our eyes lock, and it feels as if we can't look away from each other. This girl is it. She’s the “dream girl” for both Robbie and, I think, for me too.

As I shift my body and quickly adjust my top, pushing my hair back, I break eye contact with a nudge from Robbie. “I think we found the one,” he whispers excitedly. But like everyone else, he asks her to walk, which she does effortlessly. The silence in the room deepens as Robbie thanks her and tells her to step outside. Confusion knots my stomach as I jerk my head back at him, questioning why he asked her to step out. He brushes it off, mentioning it’s part of a procedure. Filling out a couple of papers, he then directs me to step into another room.

“I’d like to stay,” I insist, but he gives me a sharp look, stating it wouldn't be very professional for me to witness the one-on-one rejection talk. Reluctantly, I accept it and walk to the other room, still in awe. I finally know who the dream girl is… Sasha Simmons.

Sasha

As I’m asked to walk into the room, my eyes are immediately drawn to the blonde girl I spotted at the door earlier. Our gazes lock, and I notice her fidgeting with her top and running her fingers through her hair. A surge of curiosity hits me—did I make her nervous?.... Why would she feel that way around someone like me? She must be used to receiving attention from all the girls surrounding her.

I shift my focus back to the director, who gestures for me to walk for him. With a few swift notes taken, he thanks me and asks me to step out. The whole encounter was alarmingly brief, leaving me lowkey panicked; maybe I wasn't what they were looking for. I can practically count the minutes I spent in that room on my fingers.I make my way to a nearby seat, trying to steady my breath. One by one, the other girls are called back in for the results.

As I sit in my corner, I feel my mind dissociate from the chaos around me—at least now I know who Paige Bueckers is...

••• if you got all the way here thank you so so much for reading like I said it my first time ever writing anything. I’m open to suggestions and comments.I only read over it a couple of times so there might be mistakes. Let me know what you guys want for the next part I kinda have an idea on what I wanna go off of but you’re the reader lol let me know anons DMs everything’s open.

[mean-scarlet-deceiver]

@hazel-of-sodor People like to expect people to be better than the context they live in...but it's not something you can just do. Its a constant battle you won't always get right. Ohhh, I hear you, and I feel you. I'm white and was raised as quite a hardcore Catholic and there's all sorts of stuff I've had to unlearn and some of it I'll probably continue to be weeding out till I die. That's why I didn't want to judge Awdry himself re: women at all - If I did it at all I'd need much better evidence, and even then I wouldn't ever give a black or white verdict. That's why anon threw me off, lol. That's not a yes or no answer, that's a whole grad thesis.

When you said "Historical context is important" I may have had unthinking, reflexive flashbacks to how many times in this fandom I've seen "it was a different time" used to shut down any discussion of Awdry and race. You weren't saying that, clearly, I just couldn't handle anyone taking us down that path. Wanted to plant a flag before someone popped out of a trash can to say the gender equivalent of 'it was totes normal in the 1950s to print books for 5-year-olds with racial slurs in them, you can't Judge!' (It wasn't and you can.) Awdry never stumbled quite tha-a-at bad with gender, of course - however there were lots of children's authors of his time doing better! (Please God also spare me from anyone popping up to say "He was great with women characters! Annie and Clarabel are so sensible! Mrs Kyndly is so, erm... kind!") Just off the top of my head, I would contrast his stuff with The Railway Children (1905), Nancy Drew (1930), and (just to show that even in the reactionary 1950s, and even if you were a guy, you didn't have to be like this lmao) Edward Eager's Half Magic. Hell, even friggin' Narnia is rather better than RWS on this front, even while it's still notably more "muh traditional gender roles" than the other three.

@ob-kirkseyeliner-1 I like your analysis!

is awdry a misogynist?

*squints*

Okay, this just feels like bait.

[mikichko]

kyle doesn’t tell you when he’s back from deployment.

one day you’ll be waiting at a cross walk when you suddenly feel a tap on your left shoulder. you’ll turn but nothings there and then you feel it. a firm, warm hand grabbing your right one.

he’s on your right, interlacing your fingers and giving you a lopsided smile.

“miss me?”

[bacchuschucklefuck]

pygmalion and galatea for aroace people

you should tell your friends what I look like, riz gukgak.

[ricciardo133]

July 2018

maxiel, Daniel genderswap, pining, drunken hook-up alluded to

-

Max wakes up slowly, feeling a girl cling to his side in the hotel bed. He can't remember Daniel and him inviting girls over to their shared room to unwind after Silverstone, but they did drink an inadvisable amount. Daniel had drank some noxiously sweet wine that some fan had gifted him. Idiotic, Max had thought. Max stuck to gin, a drink that normally doesn't leave him feeling this discombobulated. He feels wrecked, sore, and achy. He doesn't even feel ready to open his eyes.

The woman beside him stretches and sighs. "Rough night, eh, Maxy?" she says in a familiar Australian lit.

They both freeze.

Max sits up, slapping around the hotel lamp until he finds the switch. He stares wide-eyed at the woman lying beside him, her mass of dark curls against tan skin. Her wide, familiar eyes with that distinctive nose set between. Her hands are flung over her mouth, but Max can still see the right tattoos in the right places, only against different curves.

He glances down at perky, bare tits and soft, wide hips, and then back up in embarrassed shock.

"Daniel?"

"Yeah."

"You're a girl."

"So I've noticed."

Max gets up, starkly aware of his own nudity. He fumbles in the morning light for clothes, glancing at his reflection in the mirror as he pulls on a pair of sweatpants.

He's still quite himself, but the hickeys are new. He didn't know his face could feel this hot. He mentally feels memories from last night brush against his psyche in frustratingly fleeting snippets. Biting down on soft thighs. Warmth and tightness. Hard nipples in his mouth. God, he thinks, we finally did it and I can't fucking remember shit.

He looks back, seeing Daniel is gone. He panics and hustles to the bathroom where not-Daniel-but-still-Daniel stands and assess his body.

"Wow, kinda thought girl-me would have a bigger rack."

"You're taking this well."

"Well, obviously, we're dreaming."

"Hm."

Daniel twists in his spot, watching his reflection as he gives his ass a smack. Max is immediately hard.

"Daniel."

"Max," he echoes with faux shock. "Relax, this is, like, a seriously vivid dream. A horny one at that. I think we boned last night."

Max can't utter a word. He just watches as Daniel feels up his own body, smaller hands drifting over smooth skin. His nails skate along his thigh's tattoos, upwards to drift along fine hair between his legs. Max squirms and feels anything but asleep.

"So real," Daniel whispers.

"Can you maybe put something on?" Max begs. Daniel cocks an eyebrow and smirks. Max feels unnerved seeing his expressions in a feminine font. Daniel's refreshing confidence always made Max feel... too much. Like if he wasn't careful, he could spill over with it all. Watching Daniel now fondle his chest, pressing the small mounds together as he assessed himself in the mirror, Max felt ready to burst.

And they fucked. He turns and heads out to the hotel room.

Life is cruel and this dream sucks and he wishes he could remember.

"Hey, Max, hey," Daniel soothes, coming up behind him and blessedly covered in a hotel towel. "I seriously think this can't be real. Just like...what's that DiCaprio film?"

"Huh? Inception?"

"Yeah, that one. Just a really, really good...weird dream."

"Okay, then hit me." Max walks up to Daniel. He's not used to being this much taller. He feels dizzy again with need, wanting nothing more than to pin the older Aussie down on the bed. To hike his soft yet strong legs over his shoulders. Maybe it'd be fine if they did it again, since it maybe is an impossible dream and Daniel's not a boy right now. Not that it mattered normally. Max didn't care, he just wanted to feel him all over again.

"What?" Daniel smiles, eyebrows knit in confusion.

"In dreams, that's how you wake up. Like, a kick to jolt you awake, right?"

"Oh, right. Yeah, we should wake up."

Max leans closer and turns his cheek.

"I'm not smacking you, Max. Here," Daniel takes Max's hand in his. All Max wants was to knit their fingers together, to feel the way his palm is finally bigger than Daniel's. "We'll do it to ourselves, okay?"

Daniel places Max's hand against his own cheek. He watches the gorgeous woman in front of him mirrors him, hand raised gently, fingertips against the curls that fall so, so long down to the middle of Daniel's back. He'd look so good with hair like that even as a boy. Max thinks to tell him this and stops himself.

"On three, yeah?"

"Okay."

Daniel counts down, in that singsong voice that's his but not his pitch. Max tries to commit it to memory as he gives himself a just-too-painful slap.

And nothing changes. The only thing that changes is now Daniel panics.

"Holy fucking shit, Max."

"Daniel-"

"This is real."

"We'll fix this," Max tries as Daniel starts tearing apart the hotel room. Max glances at the clock on the nightstand while Daniel goes on a heated search for something. "We don't have to leave for the flight for two hours."

Christ. He pictures telling their team anything. Daniel can still race, of course, Max thinks. He'll just need a new suit that fits better. And some adjustments to the car's seat fit. And a good PR statement that, yes, something impossible happened overnight but no worries we'll be set for Hockenheim so don't worry about how this happened.

"This!" Daniel says, leaping up to Max and putting a small card in his hand. "This is why! Read it. It came with the wine that hot girl gave me."

Max rolls his eyes and reads it. He narrows his gaze. "A change, temporary, good for two? What's that mean?"

"Beats me, but read it again. Temporary." He sighs, letting his head knock back. Max stares at the line of hickeys down Daniel's thinner neck, too faint. "I do kinda miss my dick."

"How does it feel?" Max asks despite himself. "To be a girl?"

"Good, I guess." Does Daniel press his thighs together reflexively, Max wonders. He feels pent up and horny again. "Like, I don't mind it, but it'll be hell to buy a whole new wardrobe," he attempts to joke through shaky laughs.

"Maybe that note meant 'two' like in two times," Max says, voice quiet.

All he can hear for a moment is the whirl of the hotel aircon. He watches Daniel's feminine frame, his big eyes and wet lips.

"Can you remember any of it?" Daniel asks, voice barely registering above the whirl.

"Not much."

"And it kinda doesn't count, right? Because I'm not really me right now, so its okay? And you don't mind?"

It can count, Max wants to beg. It can. It can be okay after, too. It can be okay all the time.

"I don't mind. You're hot as a girl." The last three words feel too final. Daniel's shoulders fall as he nods.

"Yeah, a stunner, huh? So, well, we'll take her for one last ride."

Finally, Daniel walks up and pushes Max onto the hotel bed. Max's mind reels as Daniel lets the towel drop. Two breasts in Max's face as he feels thighs straddle his waist. His hands fly up to trace eager lines up Daniel's spine and rake gentle tracks back down with his nails. They both shudder.

"Last time, right?" Daniel says between kisses down Max's neck. Max feels his eyes water. It doesn't have to be. But he doesn't say anything. He flips Daniel over on the bed, body tenting over the smaller frame. And this time, he focuses. He wants to make Daniel feel good. He wants to come inside. He wants to etch every moment deep in his mind, so he'll remember every gasp, every touch, every sigh.

[mo-ok]

colour distribution for teams without colours in their names

look at me. look me in my eye. this is only FULL TEAMS that dont have colours in their titles. Time Fire/KuwagaRaiger/Signalman/LupinX etc etc are all on teams where most/all of their teammates DO have colours in their names. thats why they are not here.

[jrueships]

fanling I’m ngl I thought you were like 19 and you’re here to tell me you’re doing SURGERY

fanling wishes fanling can talk more abt this, but fanling would actually get killed,,, i can tell u that my age is older than that number but not by much.. but that's a good guestimate!!!!

[lookninjas]

One of the funnier things about getting older is watching people complain about how the new popular musicians are so much more juvenile than the old popular musicians and the fact that this music is so much worse than the stuff people used to listen to shows how society is decaying, blah blah blah...

but as an old folks, I remember the shit that was popular back in my day, and it was not inherently better than T. Swift, I promise you.

[wundrousarts]

Hi folks! It seems like people are discovering that there are people online who write some WEIRD! 👎 stuff for Nevermoor. Some tips and tricks for dealing with that:

Don't engage. Don't read the fics. Don't even comment to say how much you hate it.

Don't spread it around. It's gross as hell, I know! But being like "ew, guys, I found this gross fic" just means you're causing more people to seek out said gross fic, and that's just not great. If you don't want to see it, no one else wants to either.

If you can: block, mute, or filter. I don't really use any fanfic sites to know if these functionalities exist, but I'm sure people online have found ways. Edit: here's a way to do it on Ao3.

TL;DR: Ignore, Ignore, Ignore. 👍

(PS: Same thing goes for when people send weird inappropriate anon messages. Just delete them from your inbox and don't subject others to them.)

This is unfortunately something that's been present for years in the fandom, on both Ao3 and Wattpad. This is also why I essentially don't read Nevermoor fics unless they're for Mogtober, and even then I'm cautious. I have seen some weird stuff written about my favorite characters that I wish I could pluck from my brain and set on fire, or worse! But when I stumble across that stuff, I just quickly close the tab and pivot to something else to get my mind off of it.

We should not entertain these types of people in a fandom full of minors about a middle grade series, so: just don't engage with them, ignore them, filter them out, and maybe even drown them out with some fics of your own.