#just offer to give them a metaphorical dick

[myinconnelly1]

Hey 👋you hot 🔥⭐️ piece of American 🇺🇸 ass 🍑! Today 🌞 is the fourth 4️⃣ of July ⭐️ also known as 💭 Independence Day! 1776 🙈 years ago, America 💙❤️💙 was ruled 👸🏼 by King George Washington 🍆👴🏼 from the country 🇹🇷 Europe 😱😖. Thank goodness 🙏 Daddy Sam 🍆👨🏻🇺🇸 and Barrack Obama 🍆👦🏾 won our freedom 🙌 from them. Today 🏆 is a day to celebrate 🍾🎊🎉 our religious 🙏 and sexual🍆 😳 liberties. So get down ⬇️ on your knees 👖and worship your daddy 🍆👴🏼 and thank him 👌 for your liberal 😻 labia 🌷! Send this to 🔟 of your favorite Stars ⭐️ and stripes sluts 👸🏼👧🏻👶🏻! If you get 0️⃣ to 5️⃣ back, freedom rings 🎊 throughout your pussy 🎀 because it is so empty 🗑 and large 👀. If you get 6️⃣ to 8️⃣ back, your daddy 🍆👴🏼 is sure to give 👉 your sweet land of Liberty 👅👄 a taste 👏😫! And if you get 9️⃣ to 🔟 back, your patriotic 🇺🇸🎊💙❤️ pussy will be filled with nationalism 🇺🇸💙❤️💯 and dick 🍆!

[clowdersandclaws]

you do not understand how much I love Feder the Hawk Killer. You do not

[slamminslamminmcgill]

I need to be high off my ass while deadpool fucks me. That’s it. that’s the post. Wade wilson the man that you are. Hurfgghdhhhh. yeah. weed makes me horny so definitely that…… Deadpool….. save me………….. headlock….. his arms…. ehhshhhshhhhh

deadpool headlock on drugs inspired by my last dick appointment coming right up!!

warning: intox (weed), choking, oral, daddy kink, humiliation, transphobic slurs

anatomical terms: cunt/pussy

suggested listening: Gorillaz - Superfast Jellyfish (trying something new w/ poolposting!! i love the deadpool soundtrack and the vibes the music creates for each scene so im trying to emulate that. also discovered recently that this is a perfect song to smoke and get your pussy ate to 😌)

“What was that? Didn’t quite catch that, sugarcunt. Speak up for me, will ya?”

“F-Feels so… feels so fucking gooooood…”

“Mm, but does it? If you’re still speaking in complete sentences, then my work’s not done. Go ahead and take another hit. Or two. Y’know what? Just finish the bowl. I’ll pack you another if you’re still too smart for my liking.”

Wade punctuated his order with a sharp smack to your cunt, sloppy with his spit and your need. His mask was pulled up just over his mouth so he could service you.

This motherfucker was trying to kill you. Or at the very least, give you some form of brain damage. Every consecutive orgasm reduced your cognitive functioning. To his credit, though, it sounded like a generous offer when he first proposed it.

“You need to relax, honey-boo. How’s about you smoke up while I go down, if you catch my drift?"

He was lying on his stomach, his chin resting in his hands, his legs in the air kicking back and forth, watching as you took rapid fire bong hits. You tried your best to burn through the bowl as quickly as you could, and you got about three solid clouds out before you started coughing. Hard.

“That’s it. You got it,” Wade cooed, stroking your inner thigh, “Just cough out all those neurons for me, good boy. Daddypool’s stupid little boy, I’m so proud of you!” He used your coughing fit as an opportunity to sneak two fingers inside you, and gawked at how you hard you clenched them. “Ooh, yeah, you got some good grip strength in you, cupcake. Squeezing those fingers like a hug from a church-going grandma. 'Am I gonna see you next week at the bake sale, honey?' Oh, yes, you will, Miss Nancy!"

What? What in the actual fuck is he yapping about? Was that supposed to be a joke? You had no mental bandwidth left to even speak, let alone dissect Wade's meandering, confusing, drawn-out metaphors for your pussy. "Wh… Wha-a-a?"

"Oh, that’s sounding much dumber, baby! Good boy!" He said cheerily, sliding his fingers out and wiping them on his suit. "Seems like you’re just about ready for Daddy."

--

"Oh my god, look at you! You look so cute pinned down like this! Aw, you can’t move, can you, dummy? Nowhere for you to go, huh? Except back onto Daddy’s cock where you belong."

Wade had you on your back, your ankles on his shoulders, his hands gripping your thighs as he pounded into you, over and over, deeper and deeper. So deep, in fact, it was as if he was shoving your womb up into your throat. Choking on that and a mouthful of drool, you cried out for him, pawing at his arms just to feel him close to you.

“Daddy—Da-! Daddy, Daddyyy-y-y~!”

Wade could see the desperation on your face, that yearning for closeness, and dangled it over your head. “Aw, poor baby, you need a hug? But you’re already hugging me so tight, with that—f-fucking wet honey-pot cunt you’ve got there—ah! Fuck! Ah… shit, I got’cha, come here.”

Wade withdrew his hips, leaving you gaping and empty without his cock stretching you out. He leaned down to wrap his arms tightly around you, though before you could hug him back, he flipped you onto your stomach. He pressed a firm hand onto your back to keep you lying prone on the mattress. With you trapped beneath him once again, he pushed back in.

“Ooooh, that’s it, babyboy, that’s the ticket.”

You sobbed into the pillows, keeping your sounds timid and muffled, and your dignity somewhat intact. But Wade wouldn’t let you off that easy. He hooked his arms around your neck and yanked you up into him. The pressure on your windpipe turned your moans into weak gasps and sputters. The lack of oxygen set your nerves alight, burning with hypersensitivity. And to make matters worse, he wouldn’t stop growling filth right into your ear.

“God, I can feel my balls smacking your tiny little tranny dick like this… Can feel you twitching… So fuck—so fucking wet… Mmmm, I’m gonna shoot the biggest fuckin’ load into you... Not… not yet though… No, I’m not done with you, yet, slutter-butter. I can just… mmm, edge myself inside you… keep you nice and full… All. Fucking. Night.”

[melodyatlas]

rotate vampire/human dicktim in your mind plsssss

on it boss O7

so we're going off the idea that dick is the vampire in this scenario, because i just love love looooove the angst that causes for tim- thats his hero, his big brother, hes not a monster, he could never be a monster, and tim needs to stick by him while hes struggling with this and his urges

so tim lets dick feed from him, willingly offers himself up to keep dick from going hungry or feeding off of a civilian. and it starts out with that being all it is between them. tim is there to keep dick fed and to anchor him to his humanity.

but tim finds that dick feeding off of him... it actually feels /good/. like /really/ good. he has his theories about it, probably some sort of venom or toxin that's released by dick's fangs when he pierces tim's skin- it makes sense from a predator/prey standpoint, where most vampires would need a way to keep their meal calm through the process.

so tim likes it when dick feeds from him, likes the heady feeling he gets from dick's venom, likes how it's solidified the bond between them bc dick's first instinct when he's feeling overwhelmed by being a vampire drives him to tim, likes the physical closeness of dick pressed up against him while he drinks.

it gets to a point where tim likes the closeness a little too much, somewhat surprised to find himself getting wet during one of the feedings. he's happy, at least, that theres no bulge in his pants to give him away to dick, but dick's grip turns a little more possessive anyway and tim doesn't get it but he's not complaining when the movement has dick shifting the slightest bit closer.

it's not until later that tim remembers dick has heightened senses now that he's a vampire, and spends three days avoiding his big brother while he deals with the embarrassed knowledge that dick /knew/

but he can't avoid him forever, because soon enough dick will need to drink again, and while tim is pretty sure some of the other bats have offered to draw some of their own blood for dick, the thought makes tim's stomach roll with jealousy.

so he metaphorically crawls back to dick, and just tries to pretend like they both didn't know that he got aroused the last time dick bit him. it lasts until it happens again- but this time dick doesn't just hold tim a little tighter, a little closer, no- this time dick presses one of his thighs between tim's legs, uses his grip on tim to drag him along the big, muscled limb.

tim can't help but let out a noise- halfway between a cry and a moan- and he falls apart in dick's hold, dick's still lapping at his neck, but he's murmuring about what a good boy tim is, how he's so lucky to have tim looking out for him, how tim looks so pretty when he's pale and submissive, giving up his own blood just for dick.

tim comes embarrassingly quick, more from the words and the attention than from the actual stimulation- there's just something about being under dick's hands, about being given his full attention. he'll do anything for it, do anything to keep it. he'd let dick drain him dry if it made him happy. good thing dick wants to keep tim around.

[ohbo-ohno]

You know those stories of people being raised by animals?

Imagine Soap getting thrown out of the house at a young age and abandoned to the family's multiple dogs living in the giant backyard. Who, instead of tearing him apart, adopt him into the family. It takes years for cps to get involved. By then, Soap is more dog than man. Reintegration is a bitch, but he manages, exceeds all expectations honestly.

When he enters the army, he continues that streak of surprising people with his adaptability. When asked about his seemingly innate talent, he doesn't tell them that he spent years surviving without humans outside. He doesn't tell them that he learnt to be so so quiet to not startle his food. Doesn't tell them that he eats anything without complaint because he is used to eating raw meat. Doesn't tell them he is good at crawling in the dirt because he had to relearn how to walk because at some point he forgot that he walking on all fours was not natural for him. Doesn't tell them that he talks so much is because he is afraid of forgetting how to speak again.

And then there comes Ghost. Ghost he would do anything for. Ghost, who he trusts enough to tell anything to. Ghost who he shares his past with in a whisper, in an attempt to make Ghost feel less vulnerable after he told Soap about Roba.

Ghost, who gets offered this piece of information, who Johnny bares his metaphorical belly to, who can only think "oh" as his dick gets harder than it has ever been before. Ghost, who swears to make Johnny bark again, who makes it his personal mission in life to "return Soap to his roots"

wait im kinda obsessed with this

i love the image of soap both being great at stalking his prey, but also just... an odd walker. like he can move silently, but when he's just walking around base he's always, like, slightly lopsided. just a little odd, and something you'd only notice if you were looking really closely - which ghost is, of course.

i love the reverse tarzan where the jane character is more dominant than the tarzan character

thinking about ghost treating soap like a dog, and he gives in with relief because tbh? he misses it. like he spent so long being an animal, it can be nice to be treated like that again (even if he wasn't owned by someone, that same power structure is nice. and lets be real, ghost is kinda dog-like himself)

shockingly, i don't have anything sexual to add to this lmao. but it's a really neat idea

[l4long-winded]

👀 i’ll give you a carmy headcanon but currently my lil pea brain has been obsessed over the idea that like…. you working at the restaurant as a hostess and richie constantly annoys you for a lighter. his always go missing. which ends up with carmy now always “somehow” missing his lighter because you tend to stand around during smoke breaks. refusing to trust either of them with the lighter you keep at the hostess stand

but really carmen just likes when you offer him a light. holding out the extended lighter and he’s cupping his hand to protect the flame from the wind. leaning in with a cigarette between his lips and his eyes flickering between you and the flame when he’s close enough. he can smell your perfume, see where your makeup has gotten a little smudged from the stressful shift. carmen hasn’t figured out a way to warn that your mascara has run without sound like a dick so he just keeps quiet about it. he still thinks you’re pretty anyway.

the closest he gets to outwardly flirting is putting his jacket around your shoulders one cold fall night. giving you a sheepish little smile as he shrugs it off and you love it because it smells like him and he loves it because it comes back smelling like you. you toy with the edge of it “kinda wish i has a jacket this cool. all mine are boring” he considers offering to let you keep it but he knows that’s insane.

so instead you come in a few shifts later to a jacket hanging off your hostess chair with a post it note that has your name scrawled on it stuck to the shoulder. he checked your size from the jacket in your locker that night and spent way too much time on too many tabs contemplating until he found just the right one.

you leave a pack of cigarettes on the desk for him as a thank you. a ‘no lighter so you can’t replace me’ note stuck to the small box. he laughs and walks out into the kitchen, holding it in the air and waving it around when he makes eye contact with you. making a show of putting it in his apron so you know to plan for a smoke break soon.

you wear the jacket out back that night while you offer him a light and he forgets to breathe when he sees you in something he picked out.

anyway…. that’s where i’m at!

okay, sooo, i am super high and i had to read this a few times. but like, my jaw just continued to drop thinking about this with every paragraph.

carmen is a yearner. he's got it in his eyes. he's got it in his blood. he is attentive to details because he is observant, especially to someone like you.

lemme share a headcanon back that i'm about to expand on a bit in this thing i'm writing. but, carmen has a talent for knowing what ingredients go together. the scents of the kitchen, through his expansive knowledge, he can tell the various elements involved with something as simple as a hazelnut. that's the scent he places when his jacket returns to him.

he approaches your perfume with the same mentality as a meal. seeking out the aromas working together with what he is familiar with in food. ingredients. carmen knows ingredients. so, he starts to be reminded of you in the kitchen. your perfume that lingers in the air, certain food becomes associated with you. the best factors of your fragrance, sparking memories of those almost too close for comfort moments, conversations that should've been awkward for him but never were. he's associated people with meals in the past.

but what is he supposed to do if he associates you with ingredients? you're... everywhere. and that's some kind of metaphorical fuck explaining to him that he's in too deep.

he can't help but inhale near your pulse point where you deposited that scent. and he knows he's fucked when he catches vanilla the next time he does it. hazelnut. vanilla. you're bound to creep into his head at all times now, in or out of the room.

[bendeddicksssss]

The Ghost of Family Video

The first chapter of one of my fanfics on ao3 just to give a little sneak peak.

Summary in the shortest amount of words: Steve died after the events of Starcourt, and Eddie is a psychic who can see ghosts. I think you can guess what the fic is about ;)

Chapter 1: Steve Harrington is Dead

Robin Buckley started working at Scoops Ahoy for the same reason every other teen gets a job; she wanted money. Her parents were never the type to ask her to help with the bills, nor did they ever ask her to get a job, but she enjoyed having money stored up for college and emergencies. It was cushioning for both her and her parents if they ever needed it, and, with her brother at college, they needed all the help they could get. She had a job before–started working the ticket stand at Hawkins old theater when she was 15. She was 17, however, when she started working at Scoops Ahoy—working with Steve Harrington.

Robin never had a job that didn’t include a coworker, but Steve was an entirely different concept. He didn’t feel like a coworker, even if they did work together. He felt like an entity more elusive than Bigfoot. She hated Steve, but she didn’t hate him in a normal sense. She hated him because he made her heart grow heavy with comfort, despite the fact that he was a homophobic, dick-bag of a jock. At least, that’s what Robin assumed when they started working together. Steve proved her assumptions wrong within the first week of working together. He brought back coffee whenever he went on his break. He offered his extra breaks to Robin if she looked tired. He insisted on taking in all the heavy stock, and he never let Robin pay for her own dinner or lunch if she forgot to pack one. Even then, she hated him.

She hated him like the ocean hates the beach. They were stuck in a constant battle of one metaphorically crashing into the other, but, in a strange way, it worked. Each crash of a wave chipped at the other person’s sandy shore, letting out pieces of shells and hidden creatures in the tide pools. Each wave was a new discovery about who the other person really was. They were the ocean against the beach. Waves in the sand. Forever connected. Steve and Robin. 

That feeling within their “friendship” was even before all hell broke loose and before Robin knew Russian spies hid beneath the mall and monsters worse than the ones under her bed were real. Even with their mutual teasing and stormy beaches, no one could deny that Steve and Robin were connected. No one could deny that they were, at least, friends. Robin tried to deny it. If anyone asked, she’d tell them that Steve was just another schmuck she was stuck slinging ice cream with. A rich kid who was forced into a job by his snooty parents. He was nothing to her, but she was only lying when she said that. Steve wasn’t nothing. He wasn’t nothing at all.

Steve was a walking puzzle missing half the pieces and the guiding picture, yet Robin tried her hardest to figure him out. It was impossible. He was a mystery confusing enough to stump Sherlock. He flinched at flickering lights and dissociated in the cold freezer where they stored ice cream. He kept a baseball bat in the trunk of his car that Robin had only ever seen the handle of, which had a small brown stain on it—one that looked suspiciously like blood. In an expected fashion, he teased Robin about still being in high school, calling her “Freshman” with every other sentence despite the fact that she was on her way to her senior year. Strangest of all, he refused to let Robin ride her bike home after the closing shift; she rode with him nearly every day with her bike in the backseat of his car. Eventually, he started picking her up to be taken to work too. It wasn’t even a conversation between them; he just showed up while Robin was dragging her bike down her driveway. She didn’t try to argue, seeing the dark bags under his eyes and the silent begging within them—a look built more of fear than desperation. She couldn’t have said no even if she tried. Besides, who was she to turn down a free ride?

Steve also had a pack of kids who followed him like ducklings to their imprinted mother. “I babysit them.” He always used it as an excuse, but that never made sense to Robin. To start off, she knew for a fact that Scoops was Steve’s first job. He never mentioned being a babysitter until they started showing up. She also knew that most of the kids have older siblings. Growing up with an older brother, Robin knew that older siblings are usually stuck with the babysitting job. Max Mayfield, Will Byers, Mike Wheeler–they all had older siblings. Why would their parents waste the money in hiring Steve? Moreso, why, out of all the high school students in Hawkins, would they choose Steve to babysit? He was a jock known for getting drunk at parties and flirting with everything with boobs. He didn’t exactly scream babysitting material.

Outside of his role as “Mama Duck”, Steve was also friends with Jonathan Byers, even though the man was known around school for stealing ‘King Steve’s’ girlfriend. In fact, Steve’s face lit up like a Christmas tree the few times Jon came into shop, even when the boy was there without his younger brother or any of the other children. 

Despite her initial shock, Robin could handle these discoveries and odd traits. She could handle Steve being friends with a few kids and with Jonathan Byers, but there was a fact about Steve Harrington that stood out above the rest. The most surprising thing about Steve was that he wasn’t, at all, what Robin thought he’d be. He wasn’t a douchebag. He wasn’t a ‘womanizer’, like her friend, Kate, would always call him. Sure, Steve flirted with everything and anyone that breathed, but he was always respectful. He made eye contact and complemented their hair or their smile. He was even nicer with the customers without boobs, complimenting them even if he wasn’t trying to get laid. Steve Harrington wasn’t Steve Harrington. He was just… Steve. Her coworker. Her friend. Her puzzle that she spent the first half of that summer trying to figure out. 

It wasn’t until she saw a monster bigger than her house that she discovered all the missing pieces of Steve. Why he flinched at flickering lights and why the cold always bothered him. She figured why he prefers cats and smaller dogs to bigger ones. She figured out he was smarter than he let on, having intelligence in things besides books and school. She figured out he was selfless. He threw himself headfirst into danger to try and save a couple of kids, one of whom she was pretty sure he hated because Erica Sinclair was an asshole of a child, but he saved them. He tried to save Robin too, but Scoop's captains stick together, right? She wasn’t gonna leave him alone, and that idea scared her more than anything. Just one traumatic experience together and she was already codependent of a man whose head was more hairspray than brains. 

She doesn’t know how long they were in the bunker for. All she knew was that Steve was nice to talk to. He listened, and he asked questions. She would try and urge him to talk, and he would, but she could tell he was holding back. Sure, she had all the pieces to the puzzle of Steve, but she still needed the bigger picture. 

“You think they’d buy it if I pretended I could only speak French?” Robin asked when they were left alone. The guard's voices were muffled just outside the door, so she talked to drown out the few Russian words she understood– “The boy… blue… spies… bleed.”

“What?” Steve asked a few seconds after her statement. 

Robin shrugged, her shoulders brushing against Steve’s, “I don’t know; it could work. I am fluent in French!” she sighed dejectedly, “I’m sorry. I’m just talking to not freak myself out. I’ll shut up.” she cleared her throat and looked to the ground, deciding that it probably wasn’t the best time to make jokes.

“Talk.” Steve suddenly urged. She looked at him. This was before they were tied back-to-back, so she could still look at him. “You don’t have to talk about them. Talk about anything��� you’re gonna be a senior, right?” Robin nodded. “You want to go to college?” 

Robin tilted her head. This wasn’t the first time they had talked about college, but it was the first time the focus was on Robin. In past conversations, talks about school was usually Steve making fun of Robin being in high school and Robin making fun about Steve for not going to college. “I want to go to Chicago.” Robin answered. 

“The university?” Robin nodded. 

“I always wanted to live in a big city; Chicago is at the top of my list.” In all honesty, ever since Robin was young, she dreamed about living in a city, but she dreamed about going west to California–Hollywood. She wanted to be a director or a writer, but Chicago seemed like an easier option. A steppingstone to get to her dream. “Honestly, I don’t want to go to college, but I think a degree would be nice to fall back on.”

“What do you want to do?” 

Robin smiled, “I want to write.”

“Books? Articles?”

“Movies.” she corrected. Steve went on to ask about what kind of movies, and she talked about a few ideas she had for a romantic period piece (leaving out the sapphic details) until the door burst open. Robin had almost forgotten she was in a nightmare. She was grateful for his distraction. 

When they got separated, it was like time stood still. It could’ve been hours–days–weeks–minutes–seconds, and all Robin experienced was an empty mind and a racing heart. There were no clocks and no windows. Just her tied to a chair, and Steve… Steve being tortured. Robin heard Steve’s screams from all the way down the hall. She tried humming Blondie or Queen to drown them out but each one was louder than the last. Robin liked horror movies, sure. She watched thrillers with friends and would challenge herself to not chicken out, but the actors in those films never even came close to the screams Steve was making. They were blood curdling and garbling, as he begged for his life. For a break from the pain. Robin wished she could rip her ears off. Worst of all, she felt useless! Robin heard punches and Russian voices shouting at her friend, and all she could do was listen and hope that he was still breathing. Her parents never really forced any specific religion growing up. She wasn’t sure how prayers were supposed to work, but she tried her best: Please, God, let Steve be alive. I know I don’t believe in you. You probably hate me right now, but please let this scream not be his last. Please bring him back. 

Steve came back bruised and bloodied and unconscious, and Robin tried to feel for a pulse, screaming at the guards for answers. What happened? Fuck… She couldn’t find his heartbeat. Robin always sucked in anatomy class—got too grossed out by the dissections, but she knew it was somewhere on his neck… maybe the wrist? She just had to loosen her binds enough to feel for his heartbeat. She tried to reassure herself that she just had to keep looking, but she couldn’t find it! She couldn’t find his pulse and the guards were watching them, and she knew that she would be next in their sadistic crusade. They tied them back-to-back all while Robin was still panicking. When Steve took a gasp of air, she nearly added her own punch into the mix for scaring her, but the Russian guards were already moving on to the next form of torture. But, hey, Steve was alive. She wasn’t alone. 

Later, they sat beside a once-empty toilet. The stench and taste of vomit lingered in Robin’s nose and throat. The Starcourt bathroom tiles were sticky and covered in a thin layer of dirt and dust. The custodians must’ve not cleaned yet, as the theater was still open and, thus, the mall was open. Her heart stopped when she heard silence coming from Steve’s stall, but he was only thinking and resting. They’d been awake for nearly 48 hours now, and Robin was just waiting for the right moment to pass out.

Coming out to Steve was almost as terrifying as the entirety of the Russian base. He had just told her he found someone for himself (implied it was her), and she told him she liked girls. It was the truth, but you can’t just tell people that! Sure, Steve was miraculously not a douchebag, but straight guys don’t always take rejection well, and people, in general, don’t always take queer people well. But she was high and scared, and she wanted someone to know before she died. Robin should’ve learned by that point to not underestimate Steve Harrington. She should’ve figured out that Steve was as far from a bad person as someone could be. Steve Harrington wasn’t a bad person at all, though his Kermit impression was kind of shit.

“I’m like you.” He told her when they had another chance alone. It was when they were driving back to the mall to help their friends, leaving Dustin and Erica on the hill.

“What?” she asked.

“When I said I found someone better for me—better than Nancy; I was talking about…” he swallowed down the lump in his throat. “I was talking about a guy. His name’s Eddie.”

Robin smiled, “Oh…”

Steve’s face regained its color, and he laughed. “Yeah,” he snorted, “oh…”

Yeah, Steve wasn’t a bad person in the slightest…

He held her hand when they were hiding from the guards. He reached his arm out to hold her when he crashed into Billy Hargrove, so she wouldn’t hit the dashboard. He gave her his last firework to throw at the Flayer. He gave her a stick of gum he found hiding in his pocket when she complained about still tasting vomit. He gave her his shock blanket when she was still shaking beneath hers. He denied medical treatment and insisted they check on Robin and Dustin first. He snuck a few Band-Aids and an ice pack from the ambulance to take care of himself; Robin saw him do it, but she just assumed he had already been checked and was just grabbing extra supplies. Afterall, he told everyone that he was already checked on, “Go help someone else; I’m fine.” he insisted anytime a paramedic asked him. Ever the selfless hero… Steve.

After they were all debriefed and lightly threatened by the US government to keep their mouths shut and sign NDAs, Steve asked Jonathan if he’d be willing to drive them. “My head just hurts.” and Jonathan said sure. On the drive home, Steve was fighting off sleep in the backseat, leaning his head against Robin’s. No one could even fathom resting. Their bodies were still in fight or flight mode, ready to fight a monster that was already dead or guards that were buried beneath tons of dirt, ash, and debris. No one really questioned Steve’s exhaustion, though. They didn’t know the full story, but they knew Steve, Robin, Dustin, and Erica were trapped in that bunker for nearly days. No food. No water. No rest. Dustin and Erica passed out, afterall. Steve wasn’t the odd one out. If anything, Robin was, but she didn’t want to sleep. She just let Steve use her as a pillow.

Perhaps, she should’ve known something was wrong by him fighting off sleep so much. Robin’s not an idiot; she knows the signs of head trauma, but she was so tired. Perhaps, if she had been stronger and fought harder against the guards, she wouldn’t have gotten drugged. She would have had the mental clarity to notice one of Steve’s pupils was bigger than the other. She would’ve noticed him squinting and flinching at every light, flickering or not, and limping. Would’ve noticed he had to lean against the wall at every other step. Granted, she didn’t know if any of those things happened, but there must have been something she could’ve noticed! Something Robin could’ve seen, so she would know Steve needed help, but the man’s stubbornness was bigger than his hair, so, of course, she didn’t know.

Steve died not long after they left the mall. They had all gone to his house afterwards. No one wanted to be alone, and he had the most available space for everyone in the party. He also had a stockpile of extra clothes, blankets, pillows, and sleeping bags. Apparently, Steve really was a babysitter, or, at the very least, the kids’ honorary mother. After helping everyone find some supplies to go to sleep and some PJ’s, he went to bed early, saying he had a headache and was just going to take some Tylenol. Robin tried to go with him, but he insisted she stay and hang out with everyone. They were watching The Fox and the Hound because it was the only animated ("comforting") movie Steve had. “I know it’s for kids, but it’s one of my favorites.” He explained with a shrug, leaning against the railing for support. 

“Are you sure you’re, okay?” Robin asked. “Did the paramedics give you all clear?” 

Steve only laughed, “Yeah, Rob. I’ll be fine. Go watch the movie. I’ll see you in the morning.” He insisted, waving a dismissive hand. 

Steve’s voice broke when he said that sentence and, after watching him hopelessly lie to impress girls, Robin knew Steve’s voice broke when he lied. Yet, she didn’t say anything. She just assumed it was because he was tired. Surely, Steve wouldn’t turn down medical help. Surely, he wasn’t that careless about himself. Robin wished she knew this would be their last conversation, so she could think of something better to say.

“Okay. Love you, dingus.” She would’ve said, if she knew he wouldn’t actually see her in the morning.

Steve would’ve rolled his eyes. “Love you too, freshman.” She would punch his arm, making him wince and call her an ass. That’s how she likes to imagine their last conversation, but that’s not at all what they said. He still dismissed her and lied about his own health, but she didn’t tell him she loved him like she wishes she did. No, instead she said, “I’m surprised they could hurt your head so much beneath all that hairspray.” She stuck her tongue out between her teeth teasingly, “It’s like your own helmet, Harrington.” 

“Ha, ha.” Steve blanched while rolling his eyes. “You’re just jealous that I came prepared with protection.” he ran a hand through his hair for emphasis, making the sweat coated streaks fall around his forehead. Robin laughed and sent him off to bed with a promise that they’d spend all of tomorrow together, just to talk and heal. 

Nobody knows the exact time of death, as everyone was asleep, but the doctors believe it was shortly after their conversation—a bit past midnight. As it turns out, Steve went to sleep with one of those head injuries you’re not supposed to sleep with. Something got hit too hard beneath all that hair, and Steve simply stopped breathing. “It can happen in patients who have suffered from concussions or untreated head traumas. It’s common in those who have experienced a hemorrhage or aneurysm of some kind.” Nancy had explained, but, truly, there were a number of other variables that could’ve caused that. A bad reaction to that Russian drug, his concussion, a hole in his lung, internal bleeding, or even a really bad fever. In any case, Robin should’ve never let him go to bed alone. 

Another thing she wishes she could change is something she’ll forever be guilty for. Robin wishes more than anything that it was her who found the body. She wishes she wasn’t dealing with a hangover from that weird drug Steve and her were given and that coffee wasn’t the most important thing in the world. Coffee wasn’t the most important thing, but, at that moment, Robin would’ve traded her soul for a mug. Ms. Byers had made breakfast for everyone, and Steve was thought to be sleeping in, even though he was the first one to go to sleep. “I’ll get him.” Dustin volunteered, rolling his eyes and groaning like it was a chore.

The boy walked up the stairs and went to Steve’s bedroom. The door was open a bit, so Dustin didn’t feel the need to knock before he walked in. The first thing he noticed was that Steve’s bed sheets were messy, like he had moved around a lot in his sleep. The next thing he noticed was a Tylenol bottle on the floor; the cap was off, and the contents were spilled across the carpet. Dustin figured Steve had a nightmare and knocked the bottle and his sheets over, knowing nightmares were common for everyone in the party. Hell, there were quite a few nightmares during that night. Dustin had one. It was about Steve not making it back from the bunker. It was about Steve dead on a concrete floor.

At least, a bed is more comfortable than concrete.

“Hey, Steve, wake up.” Dustin nudged Steve’s foot, which was covered by his blanket. He was still wearing his Scoops uniform, being too tired to take it off, Robin supposed, or he passed out. “Steve, come on.” Dustin spoke louder and nudged him harder. 

Dustin moved forward and clapped his hands above Steve’s body. “Steve!” He nearly shouted. He reached forward to grab Steve’s arm with a roll of his eyes, and gasped when he felt how cold it was. His heart jumped to his throat and choked him like a noose. “S-Steve…?” his voice was shaking. Steve’s house always had great air conditioning. He was just cold from the AC; that was what Dustin told himself. It was cold in the house, and all of Steve's blankets fell off of him in the night, so he was cold. “Steve, this isn’t funny!” Dustin grabbed Steve’s arm and shook it. Steve felt stiff, like he was a mannequin and not a person. “Steve!” Dustin screamed this time. His voice echoed out into the hallway and downstairs, alerting the others. “Steve! Please, you gotta wake up!” He grabbed both shoulders, shaking him vigorously. “Steve!” 

Robin was the first person up the stairs despite her headache and poor coordination. The blinds were closed, and the room was gray, so she flicked on the overheads to find a man just as gray as before the lights were turned on. He was pale and his eyes were shut. His lips looked blue, and his veins were prominent beneath ghostly skin. “Steve…?” Robin didn’t scream like Dustin, but her voice cracked. She didn’t run to his side or shake him. She merely stepped out of the way as Joyce and Jonathan ran into the room. “Steve…” she couldn’t tell if she was breathing. Dreaming or having a nightmare. Awake or asleep. Dead or alive. In that moment, there was no difference. 

“Steve—get off of me!” Dustin elbowed at Jonathan, as the boy tried to pry Dustin away from his friend. “Steve! Wake up!” Robin felt tears streaming down her face, but she was confused why they were flowing. She wasn’t there. Her mind was still at Scoops. She was still watching Steve being a dingus and badly flirting with girls. She was in the backroom with him listening to a Russian code. She was tied to his back, and they were laying on the ground talking about where they would be if they became friends earlier. Steve would be in college, and Robin wouldn’t be in a Russian bunker. She was in the mall bathroom talking with him about Tammy Thompson’s bad singing voice. They were in the “Todd-father” discussing the possibilities of going to gay bars in Indianapolis. They were standing on the stairs wishing each other goodnight. They weren’t… he wasn’t… This couldn’t be happening! Steve… Steve was just here.

Dustin screamed and kicked when Murray entered the scene and picked the boy up from beneath his arms. “Let go of me! — Steve!” Dustin screamed. It was the kind of scream that vibrated the walls and shook Robin to her core. A kind of scream she’s only ever heard come out of movies. The boy was pushing at Murray’s arms, trying his best to escape and return to his friend’s side. Tears were streaming down Dustin’s face, and Robin glanced into the hallway at the sound of a thud. Max had reached the top of the stairs, having had to fight her way through a now sobbing Lucas. She was sitting on her knees with her hands covering her mouth. Robin could tell she was screaming, based on her stretched jaw and narrowed eyes, but she couldn’t hear it. Everything was suddenly muffled. Her headache from that hangover switched into a stabbing pain, and the ringing in her ears drowned everything out. “Steve!” Dustin shouted—barely heard. Murray set the boy down besides Max and blocked them both from the room. Max threw herself into Lucas’s arms. Robin looked on as Jonathan started doing chest compressions. She glanced over the balcony to see Mike with his hands cradling the back of his head, covering his ears. His hands were clenched so tightly, that Robin was sure his nails were digging into his scalp. Will was hugging Jane, who was sobbing and clinging to him, shaking her head in denial.

Joyce suddenly walked out of the room. She was gasping and choking on her own tears. “Ms. Byers…?” Robin didn’t know what she was going to say or ask. She just needed confirmation that this wasn’t real. That this was just a Russian drug-induced dream. That this was all some sick nightmare or cruel joke from the universe, and she was gonna wake up to Steve sitting at the kitchen counter with an ice pack to his swollen eye and a coffee mug in hand. “’Bout time you woke up, Buckley.” He’d say with a smile despite the split in his lip, because Steve had the best smile, and he loved to show it. He smiled in the Russian bunker and smiled through tears. He smiled in every picture no matter the context, and Robin used to say he was too happy. He’d just shrug and say, “Better than being miserable.”

“I’m so sorry, honey.” Joyce whispered instead of disproving reality. She wrapped her arms around Robin’s shoulders. It was then that the younger girl felt her knees buckle, like she was made of broken glass and poorly glued back together, and all it took was Ms. Byer’s touch to make her break once more. A scream wrenched its way from her throat, loud and painful. It vibrated the walls and left her vocal cords burning. Joyce caught her as she fell, but Robin collapsed to the ground anyway. Joyce came with her, never releasing Robin from her arms. 

Downstairs, Nancy had called 911. In Steve’s room, Jonathan was still desperately doing CPR, singing Bee Gees beneath his breath and looking at his friend through a teary, blurred vision. Jonathan didn’t tell anyone what happened until after the autopsy had shown that Steve had a broken sternum and broken ribs. Jonathan explained that he heard and felt the man’s chest crack and cave, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. He couldn’t let Steve die. “I can’t get Stayin’ Alive out of my head…” he joked with a wet laugh, but everyone knew it wasn’t a joke. Everyone knew he now hated that song more than anything else.

It was Joyce that had read them the autopsy report. She was friends with the doctor who ran them. It was her that read from the doctor’s note that it was strange Steve died. It was that doctor who predicted that Steve had lied and hadn’t seen any of the paramedics, because even a first-day trainee would’ve seen the obvious head trauma from a mile away.

“That’s ridiculous!” Mike had scoffed, “Why would anyone refuse help from paramedics?”

“Because he didn’t want any.” Max answered. The way they talked about Steve’s death changed after that. No longer was it talking of a friend who died. They were talking about a friend who committed suicide. At least, that’s how Robin interpreted it—the change in everyone’s tone and the anger shown at the funeral. If a friend dies, they get mourned. If a friend kills themselves, especially one as important and relied upon as Steve, they get yelled at.

They had Chief Hopper’s funeral on Tuesday, Billy Hargrove’s was on Thursday, and Steve’s was on Monday. They tried to postpone Steve’s funeral until August for when his parents would be back, but, when Joyce called the Harringtons, they forwarded money and told her to go on with the funeral without them. Joyce ended up breaking that phone after giving Steve’s mother a piece of her mind, which mostly contained curse words and heavy insults. The plastic shattered in her hands after she slammed the phone on the hook repeatedly, cursing Steve’s parents and sobbing about a son that wasn’t really hers.

At Hopper’s funeral, nearly the whole town showed up. There were a lot of funerals the following weeks for a lot of Hawkins citizens, but Hopper was the chief and considered the hero of the fire, so it made sense that he had the biggest crowd to show up. It was so crowded that Robin was forced to stay in the outskirts of the pack with Erica and Lucas beside her. She ended up leaving early. She didn’t know the man that well, anyway.

Billy’s funeral wasn’t as crowded, but a few people from school showed up, including some from the old basketball and swim team. Billy’s dad left early, muttering something about “a waste.” Mrs. Wheeler was there, and she was crying, which Robin found strange. Sure, the woman could’ve been there because Nancy and Mike were, but that didn’t excuse her crying. Max was standing by the lowering casket with her arms crossed, refusing to cry, but she did. Her jaw clenched and her hands turned to fists, as if she was angry at herself for tearing up. Robin was just observant enough to notice these things, and she placed a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder. Max leaned into her touch without a word. In fact, they didn’t speak at all that day. Robin wonders if she should’ve said something—anything—to comfort the girl more than a touch could, but Steve’s funeral was coming up. Robin couldn’t be bothered to comfort anyone past a touch. How could she when she, herself, was ripping at the seams?

Steve’s funeral had the least amount of people to show up. Tommy and Carol showed up to the ceremony, but they left before the burial. There was exactly 13 in attendance at the burial once the preacher and the graveyard men left. There was Robin, Dustin, his mom, Lucas and Erica, Mrs. Sinclair, Mike and Nancy, the Byers, Jane, and Max, who caught a ride from Lucas’s mom because her mom was working that day. 

Steve’s gravestone was tall but simple, with little flowers carved into the border and floral vases at the sides. Everyone pitched in to add to the stone what Steve’s parents weren’t willing to pay for.

Steve Harrington

April 12th, 1967 — July 5th, 1985

Beloved Friend, Hero, Babysitter

“Anyone want to say a few words?” Joyce asked once the dirt was place over their friend. The woman’s face was red, and tissues were clenched in her fists. Thinking back, Robin realized that Joyce hadn’t cried at a single funeral, not really. At Hopper’s, she teared up, but she was so busy comforting Jane that she didn’t allow herself the breakdown she probably needed. At Billy’s, she comforted Max, taking over for Robin when the older girl had to leave early. At Steve’s funeral, Joyce Byers didn’t cry, because she had to be there for the kids, but it proved difficult. The tissues in her hand had little splotches of blood from her nails digging into her palms. It took Robin a long time to figure out why Ms. Byers was torturing herself, but the answer hit her like a train. Joyce is a mom; moms can’t cry. Never in front of the kids. They keep themselves together and cry when the lights in the house are off and the work for the day is finally finished. They let their tears build up inside of them until they explode. Robin wonders if any dishes were broken in the Byers’ household that week. No one, not even Joyce Byers, could survive that long with that many bottled tears without breaking some glass.

Robin liked Joyce, but she was too busy staring down at the patch of dirt that was once her friend to really hear Ms. Byer’s question. The small crowd stayed silent when it was asked, save for a few sobs, sniffs, and gasps for air. Max stepped forward, staring down at Steve’s grave with a red face and swollen lips. “Fuck you.” She gasped through a sob. Robin was surprised she didn’t bite her bottom lip clean off when she used it as a method to stop her tears.

Max then leaned down to drop a bracelet on the grave. It’s one of those braided ones, made with string, beads, and yarn. “El and I made you this at our sleepover. We were gonna give it to you, but I didn’t have it with me at Starcourt. I-I guess it’s useless now. What kind of friend are you? Y-you fucking asshole.” She spoke only after her sobs were subsided into small cries. She wiped her eyes and looked at the rest of her friends before walking off. She went and sat at her brother’s grave, and everyone knew it wasn’t because she loved Billy more. It was because she hated people seeing her cry, so they looked away once her shoulders began to shake, and her hand flew to her mouth to deafen the sobs and gasps. Her hair was pulled over her as a curtain to hide her own disgust—her emotions. Robin leaned over to look at the bracelet. “#1 Babysitter” it read in those little lettered beads. The string was blue and yellow–Steve’s favorite colors. The colors were recently poisoned for Robin. 

Mike went up next. “I, uh, still think you’re a dumb jock, but you’re a good person. Y-you saved our lives more times than I can count. You saved my life more times than I can count. Thank you…” Mike stepped back and stared at the sky, anywhere but the ground. “I wish you were still here, so you could tell Dustin to stop being an asshole. You were always the one to keep his ego in check.” Mike laughed wetly, “He’s gonna be awful to deal with now that you’re… now that you’re gone…” Mike took another step back, like Steve’s grave was suddenly a demodog ready to pounce instead of a mound of dirt and stone. “Why’d you have to leave us, man? You were supposed to lead us—teach us about surviving high school and dealing with other dumb jocks. You—you’re a fucking jerk, you know that!?” Nancy grabbed his arm before he could storm forward. Mike leaned against his sister and turned his eyes away from Steve’s grave completely. Perhaps, he believed that, as long as he didn’t see the newly dug dirt, it wouldn’t be real. Nancy wrapped her arms around her brother, as he hid his crying face in her black dress. To Robin’s surprise, the girl owned three, and she wore a different one to each funeral. This dress was Robin’s personal favorite, as it was mostly tool with a tight waistline and a small shawl, like a 50’s prom dress. Steve would’ve liked it.

“He was supposed to teach me basketball.” Lucas spoke so quietly that Robin was sure only she heard it, as she was the only one to look his way. “We were supposed to practice all Summer, man. You still haven’t taught me how to properly do a lay-up.” He laughed until he cried, and then he laughed some more, “I promise you; I’ll get on the team. Hell, I’ll make it to varsity—the big leagues, the NBA. I don’t care if they don’t let freshmen on V; I’ll find a way. I’ll practice every day, and I’m getting your old jersey number, okay? You better come to my games. I’ll be looking out for you, got it?” he was smiling through his tears, and Robin had to look away. Lucas was always the type to put on a brave face, but Robin saw the way his smile cracked his façade. It was too forced; it was disturbing to watch. She could hear the slow transition of his laugh turning into painful sobs. She closed her eyes and waited until she heard a noise other than a sob.

Lucas dropped something on Steve’s grave, and she looked down to see his old jersey folded and placed neatly on the dirt. Lucas wiped at his eyes and glanced around at his friends. He clenched his jaw and tried to stop the tears from falling, but they wouldn’t stop. “I-I’m sorry.” he walked away to join Max, stopping at his mom to grab tissues from her purse. The mothers, besides Joyce, were sitting far away on a bench to give everyone space to say goodbye. Robin realized as she watched Lucas walk over to them, that, technically speaking, only 11 people attended Steve Harrington’s burial. They were just bystanders.

Lucas approached Max like a wild animal, but she merely patted the ground beside her. It made sense. They had matching wounds. Both lost a brother, and Robin is not including Billy in that statement.

“You saved us.” Erica spoke next. “I was so scared, and you protected us, like a knight. You’re an idiot for doing it, but you did it. And now you…” Erica furrowed her brow before reaching into her skirt’s pocket. She pulled out a My Little Pony figurine. Robin didn’t know which one it was, but it must’ve meant a lot to Erica. The girl sobbed as she placed it beside Max’s bracelet. “You better not lose this. It’s my favorite, okay?” she pointed to the grave like she was giving Steve a lecture. Robin couldn’t help but smile at the gesture.

“What pony is that?” It was Will who asked, talking for the first time since they lowered Steve's casket.

“Twilight Sparkle.” Erica answered quietly, embarrassingly. It wouldn’t be for another three months that Erica would explain why she chose Twilight Sparkle. It was when the girl had wandered into Family Video to rent The Last Unicorn. Robin asked why she chose that character, and she told the older teen that it was because Twilight was a leader who valued friendship and loyalty. Robin sobbed after Erica left the store. She sobbed so hard that she nearly threw up her lunch and had to go home early. She doesn’t know why she cried so hard. Steve talked about being forced to watch My Little Pony with Erica, so she knew that Steve knew who Twilight Sparkle is. She laughs at the thought, because he would surely insist, he was a different character, but Erica’s right. Steve was a leader. He loved his friends, and he was as loyal as a dog to its owner.

Erica and Lucas left after that, bringing Max along because she didn’t want to stay, even if she was supposed to ride home with Nancy. Nancy dropped a teddy bear and a rose off at Steve’s grave. “You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington.” She sobbed through a tight mouth. Steve used to say that Nancy would call him an idiot the same way Robin calls him a dingus. “It’s affectionate.” he said, but Nancy’s tone was dripping with venom. The girl walked away, shaking her head and clenching her fists. Mike and she left, and she peeled out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell. Anger fueled the vehicle more than gasoline, in that instance.

“When it rains, this will be destroyed, but you’re a real barbarian, Steve. Even if you don’t know what that is.” Will placed a drawing of Steve in a suit of leather armor that looked suspiciously like a Scoops Ahoy uniform. His weapon was a spiked bat, and he was smiling and looking at the sun. The next day, Robin stole that drawing to make a copy at the library’s printer. She returned the drawing the same day, but she had the copy hanging up in her room next to a polaroid Jonathan took of the ‘Scoops Troop’, as Dustin called them: Steve’s bloody yet smiling face, Erica’s tired eyes, Dustin’s bright smile, and Robin in her vomit and blood-stained uniform.

“I forgive you, Steve.” Jonathan said next. “I know I told you that a long time ago, but I don’t think you ever stopped blaming yourself for what you did. You’re not a bad person. You never were. I don’t hate you. I would never hate you. You’re… you’re my best friend.” His voice was shaking with his hands. He had nothing to give but a small photo of him, Steve, and Nancy on the Byers’ couch. Steve’s face was bloody and bruised (not from the Russians—apparently Jonathan throws a powerful punch), but he was smiling the brightest. Always the optimist, Robin supposed.

Joyce didn’t say anything. She was too busy comforting Jane, who kept trying to speak but came up short every time. The Byers and Jane left, leaving Dustin and Robin.

“I thought he was asleep…” Dustin whispered. He removed his ‘Camp Knowhere’ cap and placed it on the corner of Steve’s grave. “Sorry, it’s not Farrah Fawcett, but I don’t think they let hair spray into the afterlife.” Dustin joked. He laughed before he suddenly broke into sobs. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. “You…” his voice broke, and he bit his quivering lip. “I hate… I hate you so, so much, Steve.” He shook his head. “Our deal was you die, I die. Not you die, I keep on living without you. What made you think I could do this without you?! Why would you leave me like this?! All you had to do was let them look at you! They were going to get to all of us eventually! They were paramedics Steve. It was their job to help you, and you sent them away! You insisted you were fine, you, fucking asshole. Why was it so hard to let someone else take care of you for once?! Why are you such a “hero” that you couldn’t… you…” his voice cracked, “you may think that was selfless, but this is the worst thing you’ve ever done. You weren’t helping us; you fucking killed yourself, and now I’m alone, Steve! Who’s going to drive me around? Who’s going to teach me how to talk to girls and do my hair? Who–Who’s supposed to be my dad now? Did you hear that? You were my dad, Steve. You weren’t my brother. You weren’t my babysitter or mom, Steve; you were my dad, and now you’ve gone up and left me too. You should’ve—you should’ve let them look at you! How hard was it to get help, you, fucking asshole!” Robin rushed forward to stop Dustin from kicking the dirt, grabbing his arms and yanking him back. “Let go of me!” Dustin shouted, shoving Robin away.

“Dustin, this isn’t what Steve would’ve wanted— “

“Don’t tell me what he wanted!” Dustin snapped. “You knew him, for what? A few months?!” He pushed forward, gesturing to himself. “I’ve known him for years, Buckley. He saved my life more times than I can count. We have been through hell together; you don’t get to tell me what he would or wouldn’t want!” He pointed an accusing finger to Robin, who held her hands up in surrender. “You didn’t even know him.”

“Dustin, I— “

“Just forget it.” He spat. He left before Robin could say another word. She watched him storm past his mom, who offered a comforting hand, but he just ignored her and shoved his way past. He marched to her car and yanked at the door to get in. They drove off with nothing but a sparing, apologetic glance at Robin from Ms. Henderson. She smiled back and waved.  

Robin turned back to Steve’s grave and sighed. “Hey, Dingus…” she greeted with an awkward smile, “I hate wearing dresses, you know.” She looked down at the black dress her mom forced her into, as dad’s suit was just on the side of too big. She looked back up at Steve… Steve’s grave. “I tried to convince them to let me write Dingus on your grave, but they weren’t having it. They said something about insulting the dead, but they don’t understand what it means to us.” She licked her lips. “I’m surprised Tammy Thompson didn’t show up. I bet her singing would have woken you right up.” Robin snapped her fingers and began singing a “Kermit'' rendition of ‘Candle in the Wind’. She laughed and snorted, before she frowned and paused. “I should’ve woken you up. I shouldn't have let you sleep. Fuck, I—I shouldn’t have let you go alone.” She took a shuddering inhale. “I fucking hate The Fox and the Hound, Steve! You call that shit comforting? That movie’s your favorite? It’s depressing as shit, Dingus, and it makes me cry every time I watch it! A-A-And we were both scared. I should’ve forced you to sleep on the couch or-or gone with you. We should’ve been there for each other! I should’ve…” Robin interrupted herself with a gasp, like she was in pain. Then again, she was in pain. The kind of pain where there’s a stab in your chest from a knife that you can’t get out. No matter how much you claw at your skin and rip away your clothing, that knife stays. It’s not heartbreak. It’s not jealousy. It’s not rage. It’s guilt. It starts in your chest, and it spreads to the rest of your body like a slow building wildfire. And similar to a slow wildfire, you don’t notice it until the trees are all burning and there’s more smoke than clouds in the sky. “I should’ve saved you.” she glanced at the word ‘hero’ carved into his stone. “It should’ve been me.”

Robin went home after talking to Steve’s grave for another hour. She talked until the faucets in her eyes went dry and the numbness felt like a lump of burning coal in her throat. “I’m not hungry.” She muttered to her mom on the way to the bathroom. They had one bathroom in the house, but Robin didn’t give a shit. She spent nearly three hours there, staring at the mirror. Staring at her bruises. Staring at the dark circles and large, purple mark on her neck from where they pressed that needle into her skin. Staring at someone living. Someone who didn’t deserve to be.

In movies, it always rains at funerals. It didn’t rain. Of course, it didn’t. Steve hated the rain. “It ruins my hair, and it’s miserable and gray.” Instead, it was a cloudless day and hotter than the fireworks that burned the Mind Flayer. Robin was left sweating in her funeral outfit, so she got into the shower sometime during hour two of crying. She sat down in the tub instead of standing and cried with the water. Turns out, she hadn’t run dry, she just ran out of excuses to cry at Steve’s grave instead of going home where her parents would do nothing but pity her and care for her. She didn’t want pity; she wanted Steve. “I wish you were here, Steve.” She whimpered, calling out to her lost friend.

Her friend, who was sitting outside the bathroom door. Steve, who was still in his Scoops uniform and wishing he changed his clothes before he went to sleep. Steve, who had his elbows resting on either knee as he held his head in his hands. Steve, who was sobbing and crying along with Robin. “I’m right here…” he repeated. He lost how many times he had said the sentiment, but he was sure it was in the thousands by now.

“I’m right here.”

[disventure-rewrite-takes]

yk what. i’ll bite.

trevek is the most forced ship in the entire series. i despise the fact that they’re making them canon.

season 1 was so bad for them and season 3 even worse. they had almost no scenes where they seemed good friends. acquaintances in forced proximity, at most. i remember trying to ship them soooo bad because everyone was like “OmG oLd MeN yAoI!!!1!1!!1” but they’re SOOO BAAAD. there was this one scene in S1 when trevor was dancing and he (very nicely!) invited derek to ‘groove’ and derek was like ‘man leave me tf alone’. like wow yea derek sure seems to love trevor. he’s making heart eyes at him always! /sarc

I DON’T GET IT. IT CAME OUT OF NOWHERE. i can see it as a one-sided crush on trevor’s part, and then when he got mad at derek after the kiss (for some... reason......???????) i thought he would finally get over him. but then derek offers him that half-assed apology and all is fine in the world and THEY KISS.

when i tell you i was so. fucking. mad. i cannot wait for this show to be over so i will not have to think about these two ever AGAIN. i bet they’re gonna pull a “i’ve always loved you!!1!1!1!” with them like GETTT OUUUTTT. if they do that i will make it my mission to find every clip in which derek pushes trevor aside physically or metaphorically. derek is like those boys that taunt you in elementary because they ‘like you’. fuck you derek

i don’t even like. ship krysderek or tremily. but i want them to be canon over TREVEK. because truly unless you rewrite them from the GROUND there is NOTHING to be shipped and i mean NOTHING.

the potential is SO THERE. grumpy x sunshine. co-hosts. friends to lovers. i hate everyone but you. old men yaoi or whatever. IT IS SO THERE. BUT THEY JUST. CANNOT DO IT. ONC ARE IMMUNE TO MAKING THEIR CHARACTERS HAVE CHEMISTRY BECAUSE WHAT ISSS THISSSSS!!!!!!!

now in order to not have this ask just be an angry rant i’ll also submit a mini rewrite about them inspired by corn’s ask (linking said ask in the post): their S3 drama is entirely scripted. all of it.

so, krystal does get them out of jail. gets them to work for her. and trevor did like derek, but never states it on-screen. derek, on the other hand, is the most aromantic (and so so arrogant) man ever and does not like him back. he is still a dick to him, but eventually realizes his mistakes during the season and apologizes. trevor admits he used to like him, they laugh about it, they remain friends.

but god forbid there isn’t drama. so the network ends up scripting a plotline for them. apparently the tomjakeden love triangle wasn’t enough, there will be one between krystrevek too. great.

so to keep their jobs the three fabricate this love triangle. krystal and trevor laugh about how it’s DEREK of all people they’re fighting for and how it ‘should’ve been emily instead’, earning nods from the entire crew. trevor and derek have to redo their kiss scene a thousand times because “this dialogue is so fucking stupid” and “why does he just. kiss me. like that. what is going on” and other such things. they end the season being together on-screen and then publicly announce like a month later that they have broken up so they don’t have to force it for too long.

there. fixed it.

also if any of the 3 tremily shippers alive are seeing this. this can also include tremily. for fun. i love them a lot actually

🤔 i may... write this... when poolverine give me a sec to breathe and i cannot come up with more for them... maybe......... 🤔🤔🤔

disclaimer: i’m not trying to invalidate derek’s canon bisexuality by also making him aromantic, he can be both!

this is so real of me

corn’s post

[wc-confessions]

TPB is my favorite series like the basic ass mf I am but. BUT. It also contains one of my biggest personal pet peeves in all of Warrior Cats. Which is saying A Lot with how botched this series’s writing is is in places.

Nightpelt not getting his nine lives while Tigerstar does??? Make it make sense. Genuinely what the fuck Starclan. We know they knew exactly how Tiger would turn out but somehow decided that poor Nightpelt, who was just trying to guide his fractured and weak clan through Brokenstar’s wake, and through even more tragedy and misfortune afterwards, wasn’t worthy enough Apparently. What did Night even do for them to hold him in such contempt? Besides *checks notes* being middle-aged and having a chronic illness?

There’s the fact that Brokenstar was still alive and on his last life yeah, but so was Pinestar when he left Thunderclan and that didn’t seem to be an issue other than Sunstar only getting eight lives (which is still way better than no extra lives). Brokenstar also broke the Warrior Code seven ways to Sunday before being exiled so it feels weird for them to still have recognized his authority.

For a long time my headcanon was that Starclan didn’t *actually* give Tiger his nine lives, he lied about it when he became Shadowclan’s leader, and when Scourge killed him, it was his one single life ending in such a jarring and gory way that it just *looked like* he died nine times in a row. Even if it was kind of flimsy, it was still more acceptable than what canon said.

With what has been written since though, this headcanon falls apart pretty badly. First, Tiger’s destiny to be evil - even if there’s a strong argument to be made that it was a self-fulfilling prophecy by how adults like Pinestar, Goosefeather, Thistleclaw, etc acted around him or directly treated him as he came of age - has been known about from his birth to the point where they tried to get his own father to commit infanticide! Starclan has had plenty of time to communicate amongst themselves about it, let alone watch over what has been happening to all the living and recently-deceased cats.

Second, we see Tiger’s nine lives ceremony. While we only know the backstories and full motivations of a couple of these characters, there are at least nine named cats who support him being leader enough to grant him a life. Even though these lives are meant to symbolically help in areas he’s lacking, and could be read as just acting in the best interest of the living cats within the leadership decision already being made as opposed to meddling in it… why didn’t they offer Nightpelt the same chance? Why weren’t they like “here’s the areas you need to work on and the life lessons you need to learn, and we’ll respect the circumstances created by the living” to him, too?

The only answer that feels somewhat satisfactory to me is that Starclan isn’t a hivemind and that while many of the cats were cheering during Tiger’s ceremony, cats like Redtail and Goosefeather were in a corner somewhere bashing their heads against a metaphorical wall.

Content warning for US politics ahead.

This also relies on Starclan Tiger supporters to be the Warrior Cats equivalent of Trump voters. Maybe not all of them are bad people but they are at least very easily manipulated into the ideal image of making their nation “strong again,” and are emotionally pulled in by the idea of someone who isn’t going to take shit standing up for “normal people” who they perceive to be like themselves, and are willing to put a vocal bully with a history of opportunistic, shady, and malicious behavior in a seat of power to make that happen. I could see Badgerfang falling into this camp. We know he’s just a kid who was forced into combat too young and that he isn’t a dick but is a victim of circumstance and had his worldview colored by the adults around him. He could have a more optimistic view of Tiger as someone who isn’t going to take shit from another Brokenstar, while simultaneously having a blind patriotic streak because again he was just a child and doesn’t know better than to question the system even if it failed him (based on how he describes his own death as giving his life up for his clan). Someone like this could easily be sucked into wanting the “strong” leader over the one they perceive as “weak” even if the “weak” candidate is more qualified and responsible, or has a more appropriate personality for leadership. (Side tangent I wonder how much Starclan foresaw about how Tiger would die. “Beware small cats” is so… specific.)

Starclan isn’t just a handful of jingoistic Shadowclan cats (+ Pinestar), though. There still should have been enough vocal outcry to make it not seem so cut and dry with Nightstar/Tigerstar, with the information in canon that the reader does get.

I know I’m reading way too far into this silly series with its million plotholes and inconsistencies and retcons, but I just want some answers. Thank you if you endured my pet peeve Night/Tiger rant.

.

[libraryofneith]

Out of Mind - Chapter 3 (Joel x Reader)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 

Chapter 4

Summary: With no resources, no allies, and a seriously pissed off Robert after you, you're forced to make a choice that will change your life forever. 

Warnings/tags for this chapter: [18+, minors DNI] violence against reader, but I don’t go into too much detail, more of Joel being a dick but it’s kinda justified, more profanity.

"I may be a thief but I honour my word, and I think you will too."

You

Over the years on your own, bouncing from place to place, trying to scrape together a living for yourself, you'd learned how to go unseen. When needed, you could slip from shadow to shadow, watching and waiting, disappearing into dark corners and alleys and emerging the last place anyone would think to look for you. It was what made you such a good thief, it had gotten you out of more scrapes than you cared to remember, it had kept you alive when the odds were stacked against you, and it had completely deserted you tonight.

You stumbled clumsily through street, nook and alley, not paying attention to where you were going, only making sure that you weren't being followed. A stitch tore through your side and the sounds of you gasping for breath echoed through the night as you pressed on unheeding. It wasn't just exhaustion. You were shaken. Tess and Joel had scared you.

You'd really thought you’d had them for a minute, Joel pinned against you, Tess armed but unmoving, but then they'd had to fill your head with all that crap about people hunting you. You weren't an idiot. Most places you'd been, you had a target on your back, and you knew you'd get one here eventually. What you hadn't been expecting was the offer of a safe haven. You hated yourself but part of you believed - or had wanted to believe Tess; the desire to belong, to not have to be constantly looking over your shoulder, to have someone stand up for you winning out over your well-earned scepticism. But in this world anything that seems too good to be true is just that. The minute you'd even contemplated letting down your guard for a second Joel at literally and metaphorically knocked your feet out from under you. Spry for a man his age, can see why Tess likes him so much...

It was stupid. You'd been stupid. And now you were paying the price.

You allowed yourself a quick breather, leaning against some abandoned building that looked like a strong wind would blow it down. You looked again over your shoulder. Didn't look like Tess and Joel were following you.

That was when a hand clamped over your mouth. You flailed helplessly but a strong set of arms pinned your struggling limbs to your sides. Your eyes darted around looking for your attacker but the world went dark as your head was stuffed in a musty smelling sack. Then your hands and legs were tied and you were slung over your someone's shoulders like a bag of potatoes. Your hands squirmed trying to slip their way out of their ties but someone gave a sharp tug.

"Quit it" a harsh voice spat. No southern Texas drawl, so not Joel. This part of town, this time of night, could be anyone. Didn't Tess say you were attracting attention?

You were plunked down unceremoniously on what you were guessing was a chair, the bag ripped off your head, revealing only a dark unlived-in room, empty save for the other chair opposite you and the man whose ass occupied it. Oh shit.

"Robert..."

"You stood me up sweetheart."

"Not my fault, I got held up."

"Well you're here now, you got the stuff?"

"No, I..." you were cut off by a fist plunging into your stomach. Robert's bruiser got ready to land another punch but his boss stopped him.

"Now, we don't want her completely unconscious. What happened?"

"It was stolen." This time it was Robert's fist that connected to your jaw. Lights exploded behind your eyes and you could taste blood.

"Robert please, if you just give me a chance, I'll get it back." The back of a hand - whose hand you couldn't say - struck your cheek, the harsh metal of a ring splitting your skin.

"Even if you could get it back, and I'm not so sure you could - gotta be real with ya babe, this has really shaken my faith in your abilities - whoever stole it from you would probably come looking and it'd be traced back to me. And that's just not worth the trouble, better to cut my losses here."

Your face was on fire. You weren't sure what hurt more, your jaw or your cheek, but dammit if you were walking away empty handed.

"Look Robert, I appreciate you putting your trust in me and I let you down. Maybe I could make it up to you. I'll get you whatever else you want, do you a special discount rate?"

Robert grinned. Fuck what an ugly smile.

"You got a mouth on you. Really starting to get on my nerves. Time to shut you up. Boys..." the two huge men on either side of you stood to attention. "Smash her face in."

You braced yourself, waiting for the first blow when-

"Wait!"

"Tess? Joel?" And just like that, Robert's cool-guy-criminal persona was gone.

"Mind getting your hands off our associate?" Robert shot you and incredulous look.

"She works for you?"

"She's a new recruit, still a lil rough around the edges, breaking her in, you know how it is." You glared but Tess only smirked back. "Anyway, we're responsible for her and all her dealings now."

"So you got what's mine?"

"Jesus Christ yes, we have your stash." She tossed him the anti-depressants. 

"All this fuss over a little bag of pills, honestly. I believe seven ration cards was the agreed upon price."

"Make it five for all this unnecessary stress." Joel looked like he was ready to show Robert what he thought of his five but Tess held him back.

"Five it is, and an apology to the girl for being such a fucking baby."

Robert nodded to his men who delicately loosened your bonds, all their previous brutality gone.

"Sorry kid, should've told me who you worked for." You surveyed him in silence, took a deep breath, then spat a bloody gob at his feet. Robert wrinkled his nose in disgust but Tess was pushing you forwards before you could cause anymore trouble.

"Pleasure doing business with you, as always."

---

Joel

They walked home in silence.

It was taking them much longer than normal but they needed to hang back for the girl shuffling along beside them.

"You ok kid?" She gave Tess a silent stare. Either she didn't feel the need to answer the question or she couldn't. Her jaw was swelling up angrily while the cut on her cheek wept red blood.

"We'll get you sorted once we get home." Nothing else was said until they were safely inside.

"Joel help her, you're better at it than me."

Wordlessly, he found their leftover whisky and a clean rag.

"Sorry, this is gonna sting a little." She gave him a defiant look but when he started dabbing at the cut on her cheek she took in a sharp breath. "Told ya. You're lucky you won't need stitches.”  He remembered seeing Robert's ring stained red from where he'd hit her, the glint of metal underneath the scarlet of her blood and something twisted in his chest. He'd always hated Robert, it wasn't like he didn’t already know what a thug he was, but three guys wailing on a girl half their size... Joel had a sudden urge to go back and find them.

 “Tess, do we have any ice left?"

"Just a few cubes. Looks like we're gonna be drinking our liquor lukewarm for now."

He dropped the ice cubes in a plastic bag and held them up to her face.

"Put this on your jaw, it'll help the swelling." For a while she just sat there, keeping her sullen vigil, but as he turned away he heard a quiet thanks.

"She speaks" Tess quipped, hauling herself up from the couch, to sit across from their new resident.

"Can I get your name?" The girl gave what would've been a playful smile if her face wasn't blowing up.

"Ozymandias King of Kings. And you are?" He and Tess must have simultaneously rolled their eyes.

"Funny. Look, if you don't want to give us your real name that's fine, just so long as I have something to call you other than kid."

"I'm not a kid, I’m 27 fucking years old." she whined, giving them a petulant look.

"Then give us a name and we'll stop calling you that."

"Fine." She took a deep breath like she had to force the next words out. "It’s Ciara."

"Good. I'm sure we'll all get along swell." Tess gave a pointed look at Joel who'd been stood behind her, arms crossed and a glower set in his face the whole time. "Your rooms down the hall, bathroom at the end. Get some sleep, we're gonna want you fresh faced in the morning."

"Nice to meet you Ciara. Here's how things are gonna work from now on. You're gonna do what we say, when we say it. If you don't know something, you learn quick. If you need help, you ask for it, and you steal for us, not from us. In return you get a cut of whatever we make, you get a roof over your head, and anyone who lays a finger on you answers to us. Sound fair to you?" There was hesitation in her eyes, but she nodded.

She shuffled off carefully, cautiously, like if she made one wrong move this would all be snatched away, but the minute she was gone Joel turned on Tess.

"What the hell are you thinking?"

"Girl's got marketable skills."

"She's completely incapable of taking care of herself."

"Not completely, you saw how she was living."

"She'll learn."

"Exposed, taking stupid risks..."

"How long is that gonna take, huh? You got time to teach her how to survive the QZ? Cos I sure as hell don't! And until she learns, what's she gonna do if she gets jumped, when she comes across raiders, FEDRA, clickers? Cos if we're responsible for her and she dies..."

"Walls aren't soundproof guys." Both Tess and Joel jumped as she reappeared from what was now her room. "Look, I know you guys are taking a pretty big chance on me, and since you’re kinda my only option I'm gonna make it work. I may not know as much as you guys but I can take care of myself, as you should know," she said, staring deliberately at the bite mark still visible on Joel's hand. "I may be a thief but I honour my word, and I think you will too."

"We will."

"No." She cut Tess off. "I wanna hear it from him."

"Fine." She smiled slightly and held out her hand. He took it and she brushed her thumb over the indentations her teeth left in his skin.

They held each other's glare for what felt like hours but finally Joel let out yet another exasperated sigh.

"Got yourself a deal."

---

As ever, any feedback or support you’re willing to offer is appreciated. Feel Free to like, comment or reblog - or all three if you’re feeling particularly generous.

[mitochondriencocktail]

Hello! ❤️ For the FanFic Ask Game: F, I and O please 😊

Thank you for the ask!! :3

F: Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

This is from a bojeroost threesome I intend on finishing, but it was another time where I went outside my comfort zone with dialogue and attempted to create more conflict/tension between characters.

“I don’t like to be used,” he grinned. “You’re in the public eye too, you of all people should know that.” His geniality diffused outwards, an air of something more pointed underneath. Like warm sand crackling with sharp shells just below the surface.  Bojan had been called out. His handful of cards transparently seen through. But couldn’t Joost see that there was more to it? More for both of them to gain? “Isn’t there power though in being able to choose when people use us?” Joost cocked his head at that. Intrigued. Bojan continued: “It’s like what you were saying earlier, about how you craft your public image. The public only receives what we give them. So, if anything, I’m at your mercy. I’m the one who laid out the offer and the ball’s in your court to do as you see fit. If you give me anything, or maybe nothing,” Bojan shrugged, feigning nonchalance. His dick twitched inside his jeans. 

I: Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)?

Writing repression [face palm] ;o; I also do love tentacles as a metaphor for that... Lots of cum too... over-stimulation. Not really guilty pleasure, I guess, but just kinks I enjoy reading LOL

O: How do you begin a story–with the plot, or the characters?

It comes to me in a vision

Ouuuu good question... hm. I guess plot, in a way--which is funny because I write the same ship over and over, but plots definitely tend to wander into my brain first because the characters are born from that!

[freeuselandonorris]

I just feel Ovi Lando could be fixed with a bit of body worship. If Oscar actually felt secure enough to let that freak out? Lando wouldn't know what to do with himself. Oscar getting Lando to watch some Ovi porn while worshipping his dick? Showing him all the things landos body let's them do that a normal body can't offer? Love a weird dick as a metaphor for body dishmorphia

yeah!!! this is literally my happily ever after for ovi lando and monsterfucker oscar 💕 gradually getting more and more comfortable with each other and mutually figuring out what their bodies can do together, and especially how lando’s body gives them new opportunities to reconfigure fucking.

this is one of my favourite concepts — there’s a line in crash by JG ballard (the movie was directed by cronenberg) “these wounds formed the key to a new sexuality, born from a perverse technology” which obviously isn’t what’s going on in this fic but i love the idea of it, showing their desire for each other’s bodies by reinventing what sex “is” or “should be”.

[sab3rto0thed]

next time, instead of worshipping another cunt, i'm going to become a devout christian with a bible tucked underneath my arm and a cross on my thigh.

my boss jokes that if he ever sees me like that, he'll know it's really over for me, because i'd have started worshipping a straight boy with a cross on his arm and a folder of dick pics. i had to laugh with him, before i remembered we are both meant to look miserable. misery does love company, though, so i laugh anyway. he doesn't know that it's been over for me for a long time.

when i was in high school, i met the girl that would become my metaphorical virgin mary. the one in the background that somehow stuck to the front of the photo, whose name everyone said reverently. she was more of an anarchist than a catholic, but she had a smile that would kill and a way of balancing opposites. misery loved to keep her company, or maybe it was the fact that company loved to keep her miserable.

i can never be a christian because one very important feature of christianity is forgiveness. i know this as a fact―everyone close to me that goes to church has had to forgive me at least three times. this isn't the point, because i have a way of avoiding those. i can never be a christian because they're all about forgiveness, and i could never forgive this girl.

she was my god as soon as i laid eyes on her. she was only a year and a half older than me, an august baby, which meant she was a virgo. according to the internet, this means she was hardworking and reliable, lovely and modest. she wore doc martens like they were wings. she had eyeliner smudged on her thumb and a layered septum ring, like a miniature sun coming out of her nose.

she had everything that i didn't, and i tried so hard to fix that. i smudged eyeliner all over my thumb and bought knockoff docs from walmart. i made my hair choppy, gave myself a semi-decent bleach job with my aunt. what i didn't know was that none of this would matter. there was something fundamental about her that i simply did not possess.

maybe i was too loud. they would let her climb in the shed and they wouldn't let me, because i would get splinters in my palms and laugh about it. i cried too often―she never cried, and if she did, she always had company. no one ever wanted to see me cry. after she moved to los angeles and i was forced to let her go, i broke down on the ferris wheel the first time i went out with my new friends. that's the kind of fundamentality that i possessed―she would never do that. she reeled you in first. i was shit.

i just wish―oh, god, i don't know what i wish. i wish i hadn't told her about the suicide attempt. i wish she hadn't hugged me in the dead of winter. i wish i hadn't said a word about her to another soul. i wish i could be decent about something in my life. i wish i didn't shut the hell up whenever i was in the car with her. i always said―i always thought, oh, she's done with me. she never had me to begin with. you can't be done with something you never really cared about in the first place.

i was in love with her ex-boyfriend. he hated it when i interrupted them at school. i was a public nuisance. five years later and we are neighbors. i see him every six months and i wonder if she would ever be jealous. i would still give my life to protect him, even though he only gives a damn about me for one month out of six. she sucks his dick to get vape pods. i would suck his dick for free―that's why her other ex tried to rebound with me. i am the cheap knockoff version of that bitch. we call this the full-circle drama club whore―she is getting fucked in the backseats of cars and i start crying after i sleep with anyone, so we still can't figure out who the whore is.

she had everything i ever wanted. she never even offered me an edible. i cried so hard in my bedroom, the kind of sobbing that makes you gag. she didn't love me. none of them did. it's not a big surprise―the only person i have ever had sex with was my friend's ex-boyfriend, which is wrong on at least three counts. i may as well have committed murder. everyone knows, and that's fine―let them spew the narrative. i just have to remain unapologetic.

that was the thing about this girl. she never, ever flinched. i wish i could be that apathetic. i wish i didn't care about others the way she cut me out when i needed her the most. maybe i would be more successful. maybe i would be less hurt when i'm lied to about little things. maybe i would be better.

i can never forgive her, and that's why i can't find religion. i hold on to my spite like a second skin. i push too hard in groups even when i haven't spoken to her in three years. i make sure everyone knows i'm there, because i cannot be the ghost in the backseat of another girl's car. i just can't. it's better if i spew the narrative. i can't shut my mouth―she always stayed quiet. well, good, then.

i have not been raised with anyone. all of my friends ditched me for drugs and los angeles and new cars and decent parents. no one ever stays long enough to kiss me on the mouth―if they do, oh, god damn, they learn fast. i will get through another winter, survive another night of being hacked open in my nightmares. i will get out of this room. maybe i will not cry after sex, and maybe my partner won't leave. i held his hand. i knew it was wrong. i do all the things wrong.

i am always waiting for something to give. i push the ones i love away before they can examine my organs and find the nasty thing in my body―the thing that is fundamentally wrong with me, that scares people away. i'm afraid i will never be able to sit naked with a boy again because he will see the history of who i have let touch me. i can't bring friends home anymore. i try not to ask for other peoples' time.

i am a decent liar. sometimes, i feel like i should be better. more often than that, i feel like i should work on being worse. she was full of lies. i could never hate her. i think i have to forgive her eventually―she was only seventeen. seventeen is a very difficult age. i think, maybe, if i can start by being better to the shape of her―maybe i can be a little better to myself, too.

[griefabyss69]

WIP - teach me how 2 kill a bad guy

Hey! This is my most recent WIP, I thought I'd share a piece of what I have so far : ) I plan on completing it and posting it to my ao3 when it's done.

I've tried a different kind of narration where it's more of an Eddie stream of consciousness than a third person telling a story, but I also haven't edited any of this yet so I'm not sure how much that comes through.

------

Stranger Things - Steddie - Rated: E (for sexual content, though this post actually doesn't have any in it)

Themes: D&D, roleplaying, LARPing, getting together

Summary: Steve gets Eddie to show him how to play D&D and takes Eddie's introductory campaign in a direction he's never gone before.

------

He goes and wrings his hands where he stands at the kitchen table, a big one now that they live somewhere with more space, his big D&D Manual and a few other books and a lot of paper neatly aligned across it in a way he never does.

He hates the waiting. Steve's not even late yet, he's just unable to go and do something else and focus on it while he knows he'll be showing up soon. So all he has is his mind, the one that's dutifully catching him up on all of the crazy shit his life has done lately, giving him the worst time to start actually freaking out that Steve's coming over and Eddie's sharing one of the biggest loves of his life with him.

If Steve's a dick about anything he knows he can just make him leave, but he knows it'd still hurt a lot. He can take the rejections he creates himself, the logical conclusion to acting and dressing in certain ways, but this is something Steve asked him to offer up on a platter, like offering up his neck to a vampire, and he said yes to Steve's vampire bit- he said yes to uh, Steve and D&D, not any sexy neck stuff-

Reign in your fucking metaphors, Christ.

This is more like a cat rolling over to show it's belly to someone it trusts, hoping that they don't get attacked for it, anyway. It suits better because Eddie knows exactly what it's like to have his guts gnawed on, but the bats never really seduced him into being a human juice box. Go figure.

And in the back of his mind, he knows he'd like it if Steve bit his ne-

The doorbell rings and he jumps, feeling more like a Halloween cat now, fur all pulled up and ready to hiss in his surprise. Maybe if he keeps the cat metaphors coming he can get through today without thinking about Steve's nice hair or whatever his greatest feature is supposed to be.

He tries to do that breathing thing Robin taught him that apparently works for her, but he just wheezes every time. It's probably not for smokers, or he's doing it wrong or something.

Get the fucking door, Eddie. You can do it.

So he practically rips the door off of it's hinges, except he's still got weirdness in his body from beating death and months of big injuries, so it bumps against the wall pathetically. He shakes out his hands and opens the screen door carefully, forcing a smile onto his face so he can greet the guy making his stomach regret it's existence.

"Welcome, welcome," he says, stepping out of the way and gesturing for Steve to come in. "Shoes off at the door, otherwise make yourself at home."

Steve shoots him an amused look and kicks his shoes off, using a foot to knock them together neatly.

Eddie closes the doors in a really normal way, which is a fucking relief.

"Hey," he says, always sounding so cool despite the fact that he stopped being cool like at least two years ago.

Eddie nods back at him, counting two seconds to take in how he looks before he forces himself to head back into the kitchen.

"I figured it'd be easier to set up at the table, even if the chairs were made by Satan himself," he says, looking up once he's standing by the seat he already chose.

Steve's fucking backlit by a window again, the sunset shining in on him beautifully like a blessing from an angel of hairspray or something. Bastard.

He laughs, another beautiful thing that beams out and washes over Eddie. He doesn't even need to roll over, he's already done for.

Ever since the anniversary party, it had been too hard to keep placing denial up around himself like a brick cabin, especially when Steve came around and turned it all into wet cardboard anyway, and so he's really just taking him in unfiltered, a horrible decision he didn't really get to make.

"It's not Satan's fault he only knows how to make chairs that torture people," Steve says, choosing to sit right next to Eddie. It's fine. Now he won't have to try to gaze into his beautiful eyes a totally normal amount. "I think it was nice of him to give you a housewarming gift."

Eddie chokes on a hysterical giggle, super happy to sit down and cough instead of let that come out of his mouth, shifting around to try to get comfortable on the hard wooden chair.

"You're right," he says, distributing some paper and a pencil and some dice to Steve. "I'm being ungrateful."

Steve's smile is even gorgeous when he's got his mouth closed, nice lips curving up in a complement to the rest of his nice face.

Eddie's like two seconds away from taking the largest book on this table and trying to knock himself out with it. Fucking focus!

"So, I'm sure you've picked up on some of this stuff by now," he says, pulling the manual closer and flipping it open to the first useful page. "But we're going to pretend you've only just heard of the game a minute ago and begged me to teach you. That way it'll all be linear and understandable, instead of whatever convoluted super-genuis way of describing it you've heard from the gremlins."

Steve looks at the book warily, panic briefly flashing over his face before he seems to collect himself. He's about to say something friendly and reassuring when he opens his outrageous mouth again and shoots Eddie in the dick.

"I don't remember having to beg for it," he says, smirking.

Horrible.

Maybe Steve's getting cold feet and now wants to distract him with one of the only things that possibly could draw his attention away. But Steve's not supposed to know that, so he drums his fingers on the book and desperately ignores the heat in his face.

"What can I say? I'm a generous guy," he replies, watching the edge of Steve's mouth twitch before he forces his eyes back down to the manual.

"So for learning purposes we're going to use characters I've already got, but if you like this then I'll teach you how to make one yourself. It's one of the best parts of the game, I think."

Eddie feels it when Steve stops looking at him, making him relax a little bit in relief. His stare isn't a burden but it's heavy, and makes him feel like Steve's reading his mind. Before, he would've thought that's impossible and it would've been reassuring even if the weighty stare of a hot guy was still enough to get him flustered, and Now, he knows that anything is possible if the government tortures enough people about it.

He hands Steve a character sheet and doesn't think about the ones in his room, hidden away from him because they're all a bit incriminating, both about gay shit and about Steve in particular.

"So you've played this one before?" Steve asks, looking down at it.

"Hmm?" Eddie looks up from where he was looking over the character he'd be playing, shaking his head. "No, I made that for today, just as an example."

Steve nods slowly, eyebrows furrowing as he looks over the numbers. Eddie has a bunch of photocopies of a template for this, but he's written all of the names for the abbreviated stats underneath them. Normally he wouldn't, and normally he certainly wouldn't have written other little notes on the page to give more context for what everything is for, but…

He really wants Steve to get it, and for him to like it, and maybe like Eddie. Sue him.

"Thanks for doing all of this," Steve says, putting the sheet down so he can do something cruel, like give Eddie his full attention again. "I do really appreciate it, and I know I'm going to probably be the worst you've ever seen at it."

"Nah, that's a high bar, honestly," Eddie lies, winking at him. "As long as you're patient, I'll be patient."

He's not about to fucking discourage him from this.

Steve's smile is like the sunbeams all over again, and in an act of self preservation, he gets to work, starting to explain things for real.

-----

Let me know if you enjoyed it!

[fleurmatisse]

Dick didn’t know a lot about dancing, but it seemed a fitting comparison for him and Nix. A constant back and forth, a give and take, leading and following. Nix would offer his flask and Dick would refuse; Nix asked, “Going my way?” and Dick played like it was only by coincidence, as if they didn’t orbit each other like moons. A box step, like Nix had taught him once, and they kept circling around this thing between them at a respectable distance from each other.

The dance changed over the war. Sometimes it was the simple waltz they’d been practicing for years now: Nix riding in on a tank, offering Dick a hand. Sometimes the tempo was upped so abruptly, Dick felt like he’d been spun one too many times: the sound of a bullet through Nix’s helmet, the terror of seeing him fall. 

But they always met back in the middle, falling into step, hand in metaphorical hand. Dick wondered if dancing—real dancing, not learning the beats in an empty army barracks—felt the way it did to work alongside Nix. Like they were one mind split between two bodies. 

When the war was over, and Dick was presented with his options (the Army; Nixon, New Jersey; Lancaster), he did his best to weigh them on their own merits. In the end, he knew he didn’t want their dance to be over just yet, and if Nix wanted to lead him to New Jersey, he was happy to follow.

[asymmetryestablished]

~Fic Introduction Post~ #5

today I'd like to introduce you all to my true OTP: bitchy platonic roommates Mihawk & Perona. this means I have not one, but three fics to talk about today, so buckle your seatbelts.

first: Some Sort of Poisonous Cupcake.

this is one of the fanfics I wrote in a fit of temporary insanity (read: hyperfixation). I had basically zero feelings about Mihawk & Perona, and then suddenly I had All Of The Feelings about Mihawk & Perona and needed to write them down with a level of urgency that should by all rights have been completely unwarranted. and then I surfaced nearly 3,000 words later and remembered I had a road trip to be preparing for. anyways

the fic is 2.8k words long, and rated M for the bit where Mihawk talks about Shanks' dick briefly (bc yeah, background Shanks/Mihawk). the focus is all on Mihawk & Perona's dynamic in this modern AU where they're just bitchy housemates. that's it. that's the fic.

I genuinely adore this fic, and not just because it slightly introduced me to my new OTP. I love the narrative voice, I love the way I worked in information about their dynamic & personalities, I love so many lines & bits of phrasing. I'm so goddamn proud of this fic. but it's a rarepair, and a platonic ship, and it's rated M, so it's not the kind of thing people tend to go looking for.

I have had to persuade people to give it a read. any time I succeed, they come out raving about it. that's about the best sales pitch I can offer, unless the promise of impending sequels intrigues you.

second: An Eye for an Eye (Kuraigana, One Year In).

this is the fic I was working on when I got interrupted by Cupcake (see above). the story itself is about how Zolo lost his eye during the timeskip, but the whiff of Mihawk&Perona dynamic I was including caught my attention and refused to let it go.

this one is only 580 words long, including the deleted scene I added later, and rated T for non-graphic depictions of eye injury & surgery. if you're intrigued by my Mihawk&Perona obsession but are mysteriously intimidated by anything longer than precisely 2500 words, you can try this first, or the next fic on my list:

A Particularly Sweet Red.

this is 540 words of pure G-rated Mihawk&Perona feels, framed as a Mihawk character study (lite). it takes place in current canon (as of chapter 1000-whatever of the manga) so if you're not up to date, you might be a little confused, but hey — it's short. there's not much there to be confused by. just a lot of using sangria as a metaphor for Mihawk & Perona's friendship, tbh.

if any of these fics intrigue you even a little, please give them a read! Mihawk & Perona's dynamic brings me so much joy, and I just want to spread the love and my ride-or-die platonic m/f pairing agenda as far as I possibly can.