#like this is literally the only physical space i have that's mine. and i pay rent for it.

[hale-of-stiles-heart]

so mom and her lil bf found out about my mini fridge and microwave bc while I was at work he went into my room so now I've got mom sending me her stupid fucking text rants

[linddzz]

32 with Dreamling? 👀

Smut Prompts:

#32: A suffers from pent-up stress and frustration. B offers their body for them to use to get rid of negative emotions.

Edit: Full fic on AO3

Wordcount: 6977 (nice)

Warnings: Canon typical descriptions of violence. Dream being an unhinged little nightmare, but Hob is so down for it. Also, it's a smut prompt. So there is smut. Dicks abound. In typical fashion it took me a while to get to said dicks though. No beta and only the barest editing.

Summary: Service Dom Hob is here to give his bizarre Eldritch boyfriend the tenderest, gentlest domming of his Endles existence. Dream is still going to be a hissing little brat about it. Tbh I waffled a bit on which way to go with this one, but realized that what I really want sometimes is to have Hob scruff Dream like the pissy wet cat that he is and tell him to SHUSH while Dream goes all ragdoll. I also fully embraced a horny headcanon of mine where Dream is more sensitive to physical touch in the Waking.

Shout out to @amahhi, because I picked little bits from our RP here and there for this. What can I say, we got a good Dream and Hob.

Edit 2.0: trying to get the blog unflagged, so the read more has the fic up to the spicy bits. Full fic is in the AO3 link 🙃

-----

It's been a very normal, mundane, and drab sort of day when Hob comes home at the end of it. There's the standard London drizzle tapping away at his window, transforming the world outside into a melting blur of darkening gray shot through with bright smears from electric street lights coming on one by one.

Electric lights. Brilliant. Literally brilliant. They're all going to pay for it in the long run of course, but fuck is it nice to just come home and flick a switch - like so - to light a room up. 

There's a corpse on his sofa. 

The corpse is on its back, arms rigid at its side. Its skin has a drained, cold paleness with veins as gray as the current sky. The face is perfectly still and perfectly expressionless, with flat blue eyes open and unseeing towards the ceiling. The startling ghastliness of the corpse is offset by the soft black t-shirt, along with black pajama bottoms decorated with alarmingly cheerful blue stars.

This is also, increasingly, a normal part of his day.

"All right, love?" He asks, shutting the door behind him. The first time he came home to Dream lying out stiff and apparently lifeless in his flat there had been a bit more yelling and panicking, followed by careful explanations about what the unexpected sight of a pale and unmoving body with open, unseeing eyes showing up in a safe and comfortable space can do to someone who has been through a few wars.

It kept happening, which meant Dream did not actually understand. But now Dream always makes an effort to put his form into pajamas first, possibly with the logic that if he were dressed comfortably for sleep, then he couldn’t possibly look like a corpse. Which meant he was trying, even if severely misguided. It's more touching than it should be.

The corpse on the sofa routine all started when they became...whatever they are now. The best explanation Hob ever got was that a chunk of Dream’s duties involve delving into the vast unconsciousness of himself, sinking into the wild depths that were made of every dreaming mind that created him to make sure everything was flowing smoothly. 

It was all very metaphysical in all the ways that Hob tries not to think about too much. When he compared it to a computer shutting down for maintenance, he got himself a curdled look of such offended disgust that he knew he was on the money. He compared it to sleep instead, which mollified Dream at the time.

In the past this deeper delving into himself was done from the throne room. Then Dream started showing up in Hob's flat every now and again, refusing to explain why. Hob isn't stupid, so he doesn't ask why after the first few times. Whatever the metaphysics of it, Dream wants to come here and lie on Hob's furniture being vulnerable in the Waking world, despite all his grumblings about said world. Dream may not be able to explain the want for a space outside of work to go to, but Hob gets the difference between grading papers at his office and doing it in his living room. The fact that Dream seeks this space out makes Hob's chest go all fluttery and hot, and he will never question it ever.

It's why he doesn't make a fuss about the fact that Dream hasn't figured out that he looks like a fucking horror movie prop when he does it.

“Obviously.” Dream rumbles in answer. His voice has a deep, slow resonance that's being dragged up from the darkest fathoms. It's a growling sneer, the sharp warning crack of a cliff face about to give. It says that asking things like “all right?” is the most low, simple mindedly human thing Hob could ask, because there is no reason Dream would be otherwise.

“That sort of day then? Budge up.” Hob tosses his coat to the chair, which earns him an annoyed huff of a sound, and shoves a space for himself by Dream's hip, which earns him a growl. 

“What. Sort of. Day?” Dream asks darkly. He turns his head, slowly. His movements are always slow when he's coming up from his not-sleep, and Hob is always fascinated by the process. He imagines Dream reeling himself back from wherever he has gone to, a long thread of his consciousness spooling up to refill the shape of his body. The waxy deadness in his skin doesn't exactly liven up, but it becomes more luminous. The stiffness melts from carved stone to…well not relaxed but something with a bit more give to it than stone anyway. The eyes change the most. The empty flatness of them turns into a clear, bright blue. They're flashing with liquid fire when Dream looks up at Hob, even if the rest of him is still an angrily stiff bunch of sharp edges.

“Not a great one, I think.” Hob leans, propping his shoulders on the back of the couch with Dreams waist and arm against the small of his back. Dream turns his head with his jaw clenched, and Hob reaches out, brushing the backs of his curled fingers in the barest caress over the plane of Dreams cheek.

There's a nearly imperceptible tremor in the core of the body he's leaned himself against. The corners of Dreams mouth tightens, and his eyes flare, like that lightest touch has opened a raw nerve. 

“Maybe the sort of day I could help you forget?” Hob murmurs. He hasn't decided exactly what he's offering when he offers it. They could just stay here, watching some meaningless picture while Dream stays pressed between Hob and the sofa, and Hob combs his fingers through that downy soft black hair until all the tension melts from him. Hob could make that milky, sugary lavender infusion Dream is fond of and kiss him slow and sweet for hours. They could have a wild shag or the easiest love making. Whatever will help ease the coiled tension that’s churning just beneath Dream’s carefully still surface. Anything.

The caress continues. Hob traces his fingertips up the edge of Dreams cheekbone and sinks them back into the wild black hair to cradle around that impossible skull. There's a suspicious scraping sound down by his hip.

“That better not be you clawing up my upholstery.” He hums, rubbing his thumb over the hairline at Dreams temple. “Come on love, what do you want?”

“What. I. Want?” 

The stillness breaks. A hand snaps up and clamps around Hob's wrist. Dream surges up, sitting awkwardly with Hob nearly in his lap, his eyes flashing dark and his teeth bared close to Hob's mouth.

“You would offer yourself then? A sacrifice to what you would call a bad day?” Dream asks, his voice dropping into a hard scrape. There's a sharp prick against the skin of Hob's wrist as claws grow from Dreams fingers. “You ask for what I want?”

“Obviously.” Hob repeats Dream’s earlier answer back at him. This is always the most uncertain part, when Dream is in one of these moods. This night could go a million different ways, but Hob finds himself keen for any of them. Any that keep Dream right here with all of his attention, snarling or otherwise, right on Hob that is.

There's a hiss of sound, sharp and explosive. The sharp pricks against Hob's skin turn into bright bursts of hot pain, and he feels the wet slide of blood down the inside of his arm. There's a shudder, and Dream suddenly curls down against him with his forehead ground into the curve of Hob's shoulder at the base of his throat. It's an awkward reach, but Hob brings his far arm around to run his palm up the knobbed curve of Dreams spine.

“It's alright, love.” He whispers. The slump is not a loosening at all. Hob can feel the jerky tension in every line of Dream’s body, and his love feels like a spring winding tighter and tighter.

“No.” Dream spits. “You ask what I want. The things I want. You are foolhardy. Brash. You understand nothing. Ignorant.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere, my Dream.” Hob keeps running his hand up and down Dream’s spine, thinking that he really is wound up if those are the best insults he can come up with.

There's a bizarre, inhuman sound. A sharp, jagged, snarling grind. Dream's other hand splays against his ribs, vibrating and sharp. The Endless goes quiet again, and Hob keeps stroking his back, happy to wait for whatever comes next.

“The way you say my name.” Dream whispers. “I want to open your ribs and make you say it. I want to pull each apart, one by one, like the petals of the rarest flower. I want to splay them, pin them. Expose the secret parts of you. I want to see how your lungs fill and shrink when you say my name, when you scream it. I want to see how your heart beats when you dream of me. I want to put my hand around it and feel the precious fluttering of it when I punch my fingers through the chambers. I want to feel it burst like the most wondrous fruit plucked out and crushed in my grasp. I want to feel the pockets of your lungs crackle against my palms when they fill with air. I want you to be screaming my name when I do it.”

His hand moves as he talks. Long fingers drag along the valleys between Hob's ribs, slow and methodical. They're also shaking, a sharp electric buzzing of claws through Hob's button down shirt. 

That sort of night then?

“If you're trying to scare me off, you’ve already done that sort of thing in a few of my more exciting dreams.” Hob points out.

“I want to do it here.” It isn't even a whisper now. It's just an exhale shaped into words. Hob notices that it isn't a threatening snarl, or the low purr of Dream enjoying the build up to a grand old violently nightmarish time. There's a shivery dread. A horror deeper than the obvious goriness of it all.

“You fantasize about killing me?” Hob asks, curious. Ok fine, it wouldn't actually kill him, but it would feel like it.

“You can't die.”

It's an immediate response. Breathless. Rapturous. Terrified. Hob is starting to get the idea of what's going on here.

“Scariest thing you've said to me, that was.” He observes with some interest. It's true, after all. He's just learned that his immortality fuels his love's apparent wish to vivisect him in the plane where they both know it would hurt the worst, where the violence of it would be all of the bloody screaming reality without the cushioned fantasy of the Dreaming. Dream admitted that in a way that was clear that he thinks about it regularly. It is, objectively, a scary thing to learn. There it is. Horrifying and alarming. Huh! How about that.

He doesn’t pretend to be surprised at himself when his cock twitches against his jeans. The only thing he isn’t sure of is if it’s the violent idea itself, or the fact that Dream is very obviously holding himself back from affectionately mauling him right this instant.

He's still petting his hand up and down Dream's spine, and he can feel the way his love bunches in on himself with a cracked whining sound that makes Hob's chest ache like his heart’s already been torn and exposed for the soft tender thing it is. There are talons still scraping anxiously at Hob's ribcage. There are still claws dug into his arm, but with less force than before. Dream is tense, already in a state, and in the fine process of working himself up into what could possibly be a legendary tantrum of self loathing.

“Right.” Hob declares, coming to a decision. “First thing: put a pin in that idea. I have to sit on it a bit and work up to it, but I did just get a little hard there, so it's not entirely off the table. I don't think that's what you want right now though.”

Dream froze with shock halfway through that, and Hob knows the best course of action is to keep moving before that impossible head has enough time to tangle itself up in a new way. The hand on Dream's spine sweeps up and grabs Dream by the nape, hard. 

There is an explosive hiss of incredulous shock when Hob yanks him back. The face that Hob pulls off of his shoulder has wide obsidian eyes and a snarl with a wicked set of fangs. He holds the nightmare scruffed, meeting glittering dark eyes while his heart pounds with what isn't nearly enough actual fear.

“You want me to stop you.” 

Dream’s eyes widen further, the hand on Hob's wrist drops lifeless to the sofa. Hob watches a burst of pink bloom across the unnatural white of his cheeks before the response is wrestled back down. Dream’s eyes narrow, but he's watching Hob closely.

“You are. Incapable. Of stopping me.” He growls. It's not a threat, just reality. Which is how most of Dream’s threats go.

“You're going to let me though, I think.” Hob says. He digs his fingers a little into the hard muscle of the back of Dream's neck, and takes several mental notes on the way the nightmare’s head lolls back and the hand on his ribs goes still. Hob turns where he's sitting to bring one leg up on the sofa, to bring himself closer to the odd monster he loves so dearly. He pulls Dream further, already feeling dizzy at the way the jagged, black eyed nightmare with his luminous white skin and razor teeth goes pliantly until he's leant back, practically being dipped with Hob over him.

“I think you need to let go, love. But you don't like what you might do if you let go.” He says with a smile. “How about we try things my way hm? You let go, but you hand the reins to me. Let me take charge.”

Dreams face goes through some fascinating shifts. He gazes up at Hob with such a raw, wounded want that it looks painful before the expression flinches when Hob's other hand comes up to stroke his cheek again. There's a jerk though Dream's limbs, and Hob is sure the joints are doing things that would make him feel queasy if he looked.

“You…here?” Dream asks, and his voice is thin and sharp and shivery. Hob knows why Dream’s clarifying that, and why here is making Dream writhe and flush with his mouth stretched a little too far on teeth that weren't meant for a human jawline. Hob knows that things feel different for Dream, when he's in the Waking. He's a creature of thought and idea, and touches in the more physical Waking world come across stronger than he's used to, more overwhelming. It’s not that Dream never bottoms, or even that he never submits. But it’s always in Dream’s own realm, where his submission isn’t really submission at all, but a coy play where he acts up the part of a sweet wilting fae lover or a wanton hedonist. He has a harder time staying in control of the situation, when they’re in Hob’s world, where there are less heated fantasies for him to sink himself into.

And the Dreamlord would never admit it, but Hob has noticed the way he keeps showing up in the Waking world to initiate things, even if it's just to cuddle up against Hob and find ways to get petted until he turns into a shivering puddle of nerves. But cuddling here is one thing, this is something else, something new.

“Here.” Hob nods, stroking his thumb slow and firm over Dream's nape, feeling the little vibration that goes down Dream's spine from that point. “I need you to say you want me to though, ok?”

That gets a furious, low hiss of a growl. Dream’s eyes flash and he snaps his mouth full of razor teeth with the sound like a bear trap. Hob lets him squirm and hiss and shudder. He's always such a trembling little thing, like there is too much going on inside for his outer shell to hold in. One day, Hob is going to properly catalog all of the ways his cosmic power of a lover shivers like a leaf when he thinks he's keeping himself all grim and stoic. 

“You. Wish me …complicit.” Dream hisses, the words grinding out from his chest, as there's no way the wide maw of needle teeth is currently capable of speaking that clearly. “You would have me voice it. Admit to it. To be brought low and ragged.”

“I want your consent,” Hob huffs a small laugh, which might not be the best response but God does he love this proud twit, “you pretty, deranged little thing. I'm not doing anything if you don't actually want me to, and we can stop at any point. It's important to me that you get that.”

“My consent,” Dream spits, and this time there's a tearing sound when he does start clawing up Hob's upholstery, “is that I am allowing it.”

On paper, true enough. Dream is thrashing and snarling and gnashing his monstrous teeth with eyes like flaming pits. He's also kept in place by the weak, flesh and blood human hand holding him by the back of the neck. The only reason Hob is able to scruff him and have his head tilted pliantly back to expose the long white throat, is because Dream is letting it happen.

“I think you would allow me to do a lot of things you don't want me to.” Hob says gently. The thrashing stills, the snarling quiets, Dream's teeth finally shrink down into more standard shapes.

“There we are.” Hob breathes, smiling. His chest feels like it may burst, like Dream may end up getting his dark little fantasy after all. It's more than any man could deserve, seeing the way Dream goes quiet and panting, eyes fixed wide and blue again as they stare up at Hob. He keeps the hold on Dreams neck, and smoothes the other hand back through Dreams hair. 

Dream makes a thin, fragile sound, eyes flashing black before returning to their clear blue.

“I need to know you actually want this, darling.” Hob explains again. “Not just that you're allowing it. I can't go thinking that you might just be going along with what you think I want from you.”

There's a shift of movement, more of a little squirm than the furious thrashing from a few seconds ago. Dream clenches his jaw together and stares, eyes glittering with new wetness. Christ. Hob is going to get a complex. It can't be good for his ego, having Dream like this.

“Yes.” Dream finally whispers, swallowing thickly. He even nods with little jerky movements against Hob's grip. “I want…what it is, you are planning. Here. In the Waking. I want you to have me. Your way.”

Hob rewards him with a hard kiss, mostly because if he doesn't get his mouth on those quivering pink lips he might explode. Dream goes lax with a whining sound that is absolutely going to give Hob a complex. Plush lips part immediately under his, as sweet as anything. Then teeth flash against his mouth, still sharp and wild but followed fast by Dream’s tongue lapping hungrily at the bite. There are hands clawing at him again, pawing at his back, twisting in his hair, digging into his hips. Dream is doing some impossible wiggling and Hob realizes that there is more than one pair of legs hitching around his hips and tangling between his own legs. It must look like he's snogging an enthusiastic spider.

“Enough of that.” He chides, pushing a hand on Dream's chest. Teeth sink into his lip again, and there's a low growl when Hob pulls his head back so Dream can't start trying to get his tongue down Hob's throat. Or trying to affectionately bite his lips off. “Shush. Lie back, and settle down dearest. Christ, you're all wound up.”

Another small push does the trick. Dream goes down with a little huff when his back hits the sofa. He’s suddenly as meek as a kitten, if that kitten had blood on its lips and a sharp intrigued glint to its eyes. Rather like a kitten then, actually.

Not that Hob is thinking much about kittens. He's far more focused on the way Dream’s skin has gained a more human flush to it, on the curious little chirrup noise that comes from him. He's looking up at Hob with swollen pink lips and his eyes still blue, but the dark blue of a deep ocean. The shirt he's wearing is stretched at the collar, revealing the tantalizing dip of his clavicles, and his ruffled hair is the most adorable thing Hob could imagine. It's such a flip from the snarling monstrous thing Hob had scruffed less than a minute ago, and all of it is so wonderfully Dream. Objectively terrifying in his violence, objectively sexier than sin.

“You're horrible for my ego.” Hob declares, sitting up kneeling between long legs that are still clad in the damn cartoon star pajamas. Dream answers this with a velvety pleased sound, and Hob feels legs bent around his hips and hitched up his waist and one bends a knee up on his shoulder-

“Ah-ah, stick with two.” Hob taps at one of Dream’s thighs before getting to work unbuttoning his shirt enough to tug it up over his head. “We're in my world right now, so we’re doing things my way. With a human shape. And stop eyeballing my ribcage, thanks. I told you we're putting a pin in that.”

He can hear the displeased hissing sound, and decides to give Dream a pass on that. There are times where words seem to lack the correct expressions for the Prince of Stories, and he has an astounding repertoire of inhuman, and even inorganic, sounds to fall back on. Despite his orders to stop with the rib stuff, there are long hands on his sides as soon as his shirt is tossed away. When he looks down, Dream’s eyes are half lidded and dark, fully fixed with stark hunger on Hob’s exposed torso. 

There's a scrape of claw, smoother than before, and the bright line over his side goes right to his prick. It is…so tempting…to change his mind and tell Dream to have at it. Just to see what would happen, to see how it would feel to get torn apart by something that loves him so much. Except there's a little tense pinching at Dreams mouth, even as his eyes darken further and his hands spread over Hob's ribs to feel them expand with each breath.

“Hands to yourself.” Hob decides for both their sakes. He taps a finger between Dream’s eyes in chastisement, and nearly loses that finger when teeth snap up towards it. Dream is fast, but he's used to getting away with things, so there's only a surprised hitch of sound when Hob grabs under his jaw and shoves his head back.

“My way.” Hob reminds him, surprised at how low and rough his own voice comes out.

FULL FIC ON AO3

[therapeutic-dose]

wip technically thursday I guess?

from chapter 6 of theory 101

“You really love me, huh,” Macau interrupts, and that is. What? “You’re literally obsessed with me, oh my god.”

Chay has to be dreaming. 

Macau’s chest is happily vibrating with laughter as he starts rocking side to side with Chay’s taller, dead-weight body crushed into him, and Chay has to be dreaming.

“Yeah, you love me a lot,” Macau murmurs, somehow squeezing Chay even tighter. “Fuck, I love you too. I love you so much, P’Chay.”

He wants to be wanted. And he wants you. Us.

Fucking Kim. He’s always right.

“And you’ve loved me for that long, too…”

Oh, god. Chay can’t breathe.

Like, literally can’t breathe.

He slaps Macau gently on the back and wheezes out as much with the little air he can pull in, but Macau just nuzzles his cheek and loosens his hold just enough that Chay can gasp for breath.

And desperately try to grasp for something to justify the fact that he’s been holding in all this anguish for ages for… for no actual reason. 

Because Macau is happy.

“That’s not the worst of it!” Chay says, because he’s a stupid idiot of a fool with a dumb point to prove.

“Then tell me,” Macau says, and proceeds to sniff Chay’s cheek again.

“I– I, um, I…” oh, god, Chay is about to go there. “I’m so possessive and jealous that I have a whole plan for how to keep you like… literally, like…”

“Hmm?”

Chay finally gets control of his body enough to try and shrug Macau away.

But Macau doesn’t budge a single freaking centimeter, and on a regular day Chay appreciates the attention Macau pays to his physical fitness, but right now it’s just frustrating as hell because Chay can’t shake him off at all.

Well fine then. Fine! If Macau wants to know so bad, fine!

“Fine! Okay, Macau, you freaking win! So are you ready, are you sure you wanna know?! Cause you better be sure!”

Macau’s hand comes up to gently pet the back of Chay’s head, and the touch has Chay settling into the only space that will let him say this.

His body steadies, relaxes, and his hands stroke up Macau’s back, fingertips pressing into his spine.

“You’re mine, Macau,” Chay says, and Macau’s breath hitches as he stills. “And when I say that you’re mine, I mean that you belong to me. Only to me. And belonging to me means that everything you are? You give over to me.” Macau’s breathing has stopped almost entirely, but he’s still listening, still present, even as his grip on Chay loosens just a little. “Because you’re mine, I want to keep you close and safe; the only other person you should ever even see is P’Kim. No one gets to see you, touch you, and I’ll make sure of that. You won’t have a choice, because I own you. All of your choices are mine.”

Macau is trembling, and Chay smoothes his palms over the contours of his back to soothe him, and wishes he could be a better person.

“And I’m not saying any of that lightly,” Chay continues, because if Macau wants to know? Then he needs to know it all. “I have it all mapped out, how to take you and keep you, keep you comfortable and happy in a collar around your throat, chained up so you can’t leave us, leave me, ever, because you belong–”

“P’Chay…” Macau whimpers, but he’s pulling Chay in, fingers tightly gripping his hair as he buries his face into Chay’s neck.

He’s crying.

“I told you–” Chay whispers, choked, hands slipping from Macau’s body as cracks form between the pores of his skin, all of him shattering.

Macau lets out a strangled sound, squeezing Chay against him yet again, and oh.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Fuck, because Macau’s dick is hard against Chay’s hip, and Chay is so disoriented by that fact that all he can do is stand frozen like a useless moron.

[drbased]

Everything I write about kink is within the context of having been in the community and done it myself. I don’t bring it up because doing so would massively dilute my words and take up unnecessary space; and the great thing about good theory is that is resonates regardless - explaining my background would only make me seem insecure in my words, which is ironic because my background actually makes me feel more confident in them. My lived experience means that I can go into specificity that others can’t - and I’ve also written about what women ‘get out of kink’ elsewhere. But of course, to this person I’m a hairy feminine tradwife lesbian scarecrow who never leaves the house I guess 🤷‍♀️

People like this don’t seek out feminist theory (not even one other post of mine) simply because they don’t respect the words of women; so when first exposed to feminist analysis their pea-brains, with highly-exercised misogyny neurons and nothing else, can’t even comprehend the possibility that I might just, yanno, know what I’m talking about. Nevertheless, a woman is communicating something powerful to them and their lingering sense of conscience, begging for death, starts to panic so they quickly blurt out the equivalent of ‘takes one to know one!’ like Homer Simpson when he’s not been listening but wants to sound smart.

I hate how feminism is so disrespected that these interchangeable clones can keep using the same words and never get tired because when one is done they can swap over like an eternal tag team posturing to a slobbering crowd as desperate for the verbal beat-down of a woman as a physical one. But unlike feminism, which is persisting across generations against all odds, their words are built off nothing but the latest fad - when I was in bdsm I was never encouraged to read any literature to back up the justifications of the encouraged behaviour that were sorely needed. Literally everything bdsm is built off of ‘trust me bro’ and porn. The more enlightened kink came from people who saw the evils in kink and thought they could divorce from misogyny, racism etc. and whilst their intentions were good they were never willing to admit that oppression and abuse are the blueprint for kink itself (many kinksters happily admit that what they do is ‘problematic, but done in safe, sane and consensual manner’)

When 50 Shades came out, the kink community rightfully panned it as abuse and therefore not true bdsm, and recommended ‘Secretary’ as a better film. I never did watch it until years later, and now I’m older and wiser I can say that ‘Secretary’ is a hilarious film to label as a ‘good depiction of bdsm’. For said film I have a looong review of in the works; I’m obsessed with the film in spite of myself and I wanted to analyse how it works in terms of propaganda, and how it says the exact same thing as the kind of things the person above vomits out in a much longer period of time than they could pay attention to.

It would be nice if my feminist writing didn’t exist in some sort of parody of a horror movie where I’m subjected to jump-scares of these zombies crawling out of the woodwork trying to eat my brains so they can feel less insecure in having never considered anything in their entire lives. But I have to take it as a compliment; in their reality, I’m the horror move villain, whose expertly communicated ideas are too terrifying to ignore, and what’s more there are many of me, and just like all deeply resonant ideas we can pop up at any time from anywhere. Suddenly and without warning being expected to think about ideas more complicated than where your next orgasm is coming from must make for a pretty scary existence. I don’t want to pity it, but very much like certain kinks I feel forced to.

[cerastes]

IS3 question: how do you deal with emergency Out of Control on higher Waves numbers with any sort of consistency? Or like, even at all, outside a run with perfect collectibles?

The bonethrowers start strutting toward the exit with around 35% of their big ass HP bars left, and they just about onehit even my strongest units, so it’s extremely difficult to get any damage on them before they decide it’s time to head out and take your whole squad with them.

I can’t even begin to imagine how I’d build my squad to accommodate this stage given all the other killers you have to deal with and the strain on your resources. Any advice?

On higher Waves, like 12 and above, the best strategy is really to avoid Out of Control as best as you can. Dealing with it with no losses on higher Waves is pretty difficult, it is in fact one of the hardest maps, period, due to the way the stat multipliers just send the very high stats of the berserkers into space, and it's a pretty demanding map in terms of roles. It's not impossible but when doing Out of Control at highers Waves, always be prepared to lose a few Lives if it means clearing, as opposed to trying to not lose any and crumbling entirely. Taxes Omertosa and Kirin Yato S3s are good due to their ability to deal good damage safely, Fortresses (Horn, Firewhistle, Ashlock) are very good since they can be more freely deployed than ranged units (who initially only have the right tile and the mid upper tile) and have great range and damage, making them good at killing Bonethrowers. Paired with other damage dealers, Muelsyse Melee S3 and Eunectes S2 are great since they Stun blocked enemies for the duration of the Skill, making the rushers way more manageable. Pozy S3 is extremely good here due to the Typewritter. Trapmasters like Dorothy and Robin kick their asses with CC mines due to their high Physical damage and ability to keep them in place, as well as Out of Control having great Trapmaster tiles. Global attackers like Goldenglow and Ambriel work well on lower Waves, but not too well later unfortunately, due to their ballooning RES and HP being too much for them, respectively. Shifters have a bit of a hard time since the rushers' only real big lane to push them far into is the upper row which is well covered by Bonethrowers, so they only really pay dividends if you have ways to kill the Bonethrowers relatively quickly.

In terms of gameplan, you usually want the center and upper right Bonethrowers eliminated ASAP, while throwing excess means of damage at the left ones. Secure the right side to cover for fodder, take the right ranged tile and aim left or up to kill the Bonethrowers with a Marksman or anything that can reach (Fortresses can do this from Melee tiles), and use the mid upper ranged tile to the left to target whichever Bonethrower you aren't attacking first (I recommend aiming the top ranged unit to the right so that way they have better coverage of the rushers once the times comes). From here on, it really depends on what you're packing, but you ideally clear the map from right to left, and save skills as best you can for rushers. If you don't think you can avoid losing Lives, just pop skills to kill the earliest rushers and deal with the situation as it evolves.

Certain items make this map MUCH easier, like Civilight Eterna (their innate health loss is in fact True Damage, and it is amplified by Civilight), reduce enemy HP items in general (their innate health loss is a flat value, Bonethrowers lose 350 HP per sec, Leaders (aka rushers) lose 500 HP per sec, and their big HP pools makes the % based reduction good), Glory Pack if you have plenty of Fast Redeploy units like Executioners and Merchants (essentially lets you stunlock them!), Fincatcher's Shawl literally wins you the map instantly and is the best Out of Control item unless you have no ranged units at all, End of Times is, well, for obvious reasons, really good for this map lmao, and anything that extends CC duration especially if you combo with items that inflict damage while CC'd assuming you have consistent sources of CC. There's more utilities but those are the ones I rely upon personally.

Higher Waves Out of Control, not even the Emergency version, is an infamous run-ender. I personally handle it by sacrificing a few lives early if I can afford it to the first couple of rushers so I can bring out a strong latemap composition into the field, take out the second pair of mid and upper Bonethrowers, and then open the map up with units fresh and ready to cover the killer upper lane. I wish I could give you Magic Killer Strat but it's a difficult map that you never know really well what you'll have going into it. Hell, I try to make my Operator examples in these of varying rarities, but you can see how I mostly used 6* Operators as examples.

[missanthropicprinciple]

One of the worst things about CPTSD is that you feel like you're lazy. I get up around 7:30-7:45am to get to work by 9am because it takes me a half hour to drive in and then a five minute walk from where I park. I work 9-5 and my days are really full 8 hours days, even in the summer. A friend and coworker of mine was kinda low-key teasing me for getting in at 9 because she gets in at like 7:30. She has a slightly shorter commute than I do and leaves at 3:30 or 4 every day and works remote one day a week. I'm at my desk every day, rarely work from home, and I do not have an office space with a door so I have pretty much zero privacy. Granted, she also shares an office with three people but my space is totally different. I'm in not only one of the most high traffic places in the entire building but arguably the busiest place on campus. While I love people, this environment is incredibly draining and I often come home completely spent.

Because of CPTSD it takes me almost as long to decompress as the number of hours I work. This means that when I leave work at 5 I use up 30 minutes of my decompression time on commuting so by the time I've washed up and made dinner I'm done with all that by 6pm if I'm lucky. This leaves me about 4-5 hours to decompress from a shift that is almost double that. Granted, I'm a night owl, but part of the reason I am a night owl is being a wage earner because I don't want to be cheated out of my personal time. Obviously, that cuts into my sleep. So if I have about 17 hours of waking time I only get about 7 hours of sleep. Because of my psychological injury I really need 8 hours of sleep a night to be healthy physically and mentally.

It's difficult for me to get to a point where I'm decompressed enough to sleep. My soul is hungry. I'm not the kind of person who can just shut down at 8 or 9pm and just go to sleep. Plus, being alone at midnight with no one around to disturb me is some of the only time in a 24 period where I get anything done for writing or emotional self care. And of course I pay for this big time. Even if I don't got to sleep at say, 2am, I'm still exhausted.

To be perfectly honest, waking up at 7:30 is tough, and waking up before 7 literally gives me s*icidal ideation. How do you tell people that? How do you say this is what you deal with on a daily basis? How do you tell people about the night terrors where you wake yourself up shouting? How do you tell people that it takes up all your strength to get out of bed in the morning even when you're in a good mood? I can't.

[drunkenskunk]

So there's a fanfic I've been trying to write for the last several years, and I haven't been making much progress. On average, I've been writing 5000 words in it every 6 months or so. I keep trying to make progress, but it's difficult to find the motivation to continue, since it seems like nobody gives a shit. And it's just a feedback loop of the longer it takes me to write, the less interest there is, and the harder it is for me to motivate myself, which takes me longer to write...

But there's also another project I've been working on: creating a whole bunch of redacted documents about an OC of mine, and then putting them all together in a physical file folder, as if some fictional agency of multiverse space cops has been building an intelligence dossier. The latest document is a 10-page-long transcript of an operation where they tried to capture her, but it went very wrong.

But also, I've been trying to work on a short story about the character I've been playing in the weekly Lancer game. It's called "Scarlet's Last Normal Day on Hell's Gate," and it is exactly what it sounds like from the title: following her life on the station, the literal day before the Class 2 Printer breaks, and the campaign of In Golden Flame kicks off.

But also, I've been stressed about my computer so much that I haven't streamed in over a week. This in itself has caused a slight crisis, because see it's making me question if this whole streaming habit hobby is even worth it. I've been doing it for 2 years, and haven't seen any tangible results. It's just made me more stressed and tired and it takes up valuable time I don't have that I could've been spent trying to write or draw and oh god the streaming is why my hands haven't been working in years, isn't it?

But the computer situation is also stressful. See, I'm just knowledgeable enough about my computer to get me into trouble, but I'm not knowledgeable enough to get me out. I think there's some kind of overheating issue: sometimes, when I play or stream some games, my computer will unexpectedly stop. The fans spin like a jet engine, everything freezes, the monitors go black and display the words "DVI NO SIGNAL" and the only input it will accept is me holding down the power button to force shut down. And it's like, I don't know what the problem is. Is it the case fans that need replacing? Is it a problem with the fans and/or heat sink on the graphics card? Is there a fault in the liquid cooling system? Has the thermal paste on the CPU worn out because the computer is just over 5 years old? Or is it something else entirely that I'm just not knowledgeable enough to even be aware of?

So that means there's the issue of what to do about this computer. Because even getting it to a shop to figure out what's wrong is going to be tricky, as I don't own (can't afford) a car, so how would I get it there? And even if I somehow found a way to get it there and back, is getting it fixed to keep this old bitch limping along for a few more years even worth it? Even before (what I assume are) the overheating issues, it was still showing its age. The computer might be 5 years old, but the graphics card was low-mid range, even when I got it. And it's becoming increasingly clear that 4 tb of space split between 2 hard drives might have been fine in 2019, it absolutely isn't enough now.

But if I decide to get a new computer, the only way I'd be able to pay for it is by pulling money from what used to be the "Emergency Bug Out Fund," an amount of money I had squirreled away in case of "emergency." Problem is, that moment of "emergency" where that money could've been useful already came and went. It's not enough for me to escape the United States. And even if it was enough, I never made a proper plan, because I was too busy surviving. And even if I had enough and put together a proper plan... where the fuck could I even escape? Setting aside how hostile to trans people most of the world seems to be now anyway, the reach of the Imperial American Hegemony is global, and they've proven time and again that they do not give a shit about sovereignty or international law. And it's only going to get worse after the election...

Pulling from that fund feels like me admitting defeat. I'm going to be stuck here in this hostile police state of a country, working until I die, desperately trying to make just enough money to pay off my increasingly absurd ransom rent each month, as it feels like all the things that used to bring me joy are just causing me stress.

I'm so tired.

[ask-e123-omega]

(//OOC: The friend of mine that inspired me to run this ask blog recently filled out a character questionnaire for the character she plays, and it was such a damn good questionnaire that I just had to fill it out for Omega. Long post beneath the cut of me dumping my headcanons for this robot:)

How aware is your character of their thought processes? Do they think about why they do what they do (however accurately)? Do they care about self-analysis?

Ooh, complicated question, since Omega can look into his own memory banks and literally review his own thought processes on a whim. But does this mean he's good at it? Not really. Upon reviewing an impulsive decision, he's more likely to remark "RAGE PROTOCOLS WERE RUNNING AS NORMAL" instead of sitting down and puzzling out why he was so enraged and how it affected the outcome of his decision.

That being said, he's all about self-analysis. He's constantly reviewing old data to try and gain an edge over his enemies. He's just terrible at admitting when he's made a mistake, so he doesn't really learn from it.

Is your character more likely to think they can overcome something even when they can't or to feel helpless even when they aren't?

This overconfident motherfucker thinks he can solo the entire Eggman empire on an average day, so take a guess.

But when everything's on the last straw, it isn't always ego that convinces him he can overcome the impossible. It's also a steely determination, a sort of "I have to do it or I die. There is no other option," if you will. When failure is not an option, he simply erases it from his processor. He's similar to Sonic in this regard.

What's one thing they're overconfident about? What's one thing they're under-confident about?

Overconfident about? It would be intuitive to say "his abilities", but that's actually not the case. He is a scarily competent killing machine. What he's actually most overconfident about is his strategic planning. He's the Ultimate Robot: Of Course He Can Succeed In Any Tactical Situation, so he clearly doesn't need to think about setting himself up for success before engaging. You don't need to reposition if there's no more enemies left to force you out of position. You don't need to hide if there's no one left to see you. Right?

Underconfident about? His social skills. He considers his skill with people to be barely passable enough to get him where he needs to be, but he can be more charismatic than he realizes. He's got a higher understanding of cognitive empathy than he thinks he does due to his observational tendencies.

How aware of and in control of their physical presence are they? Could they ever be caught with their clothes inside-out or spinach in their teeth? Do they ever stop paying attention to where they're walking or hit things when gesturing?

Omega used to be terrible- constantly crashing into things, crushing furniture, etc. Spending the first year or so of his life locked in a cramped basement left him unpracticed with movement. Not only that, but the world outside is so much more fragile than he is. It took him time to learn the strengths of common household materials and the height/width tolerances of things like doors. Nowadays, he's pretty good with spaces he's familiar with. Put him in an environment he's never been in before, like a grandmother's house or something, and he might start running into and breaking things again.

As for hygiene stuff, he's pretty on top of it. He's got sensors all over his body, including his blind spots. Shadow tried to stick a note on his back once. It didn't work- he detected it immediately.

How good are they at accurately assigning blame? Do they think everything is their fault? That nothing is?

Nothing is Omega's fault, ever.

With exactly one exception: if avoiding blame would make Eggman look more competent. If Eggman got away because he missed his shot, he'll begrudgingly admit he missed his shot rather than make up anything outrageous to justify how Eggman avoided it.

(He'll be pissed at himself for weeks afterwards, of course.)

Name something from your character's past that affects their behavior now in a way they don't realize and something that affects them in a way they do realize.

Omega can't stand being alone, especially in rooms with the door closed. He can do it if he's got a distraction, such as a videogame, but even then he'll still leave the window open to hear the sounds of people from outside. This is directly because he spent the first year of his life trapped in the same room alone. He has no idea that he's this sensitive about it and will deny it if someone pointed it out.

The part of his trauma that he does choose to acknowledge and externalize is the obvious one: he hates his creator and goes out of his way to disrespect him every chance he gets.

Does your character overcompensate for anything?

His whole "Ultimate Robot" schtick is to overcompensate for the fact that he was discarded by his creator. If he's the best at what he does, then no one will ever throw him away ever again.

Does your character believe they're chronically lucky/unlucky? Why?

Chronically unlucky. Eggman always seems to get away. His inferior robots keep coming. Could this be because Omega isn't strong enough to take them on alone? No, Never! It's because of the mistakes of others or just plain bad chance, that's all!

Does your character have an inner monologue? Are their thoughts about themselves more frequently positive or critical?

Nope, no inner monologue, but you bet that his post-action reviews are nothing but complimentary about himself unless he physically malfunctions.

Are there any values or beliefs your character espouses but doesn't live up to?

Omega has stated since day one that he's superior to organic beings due to being a robot. . . but he doesn't exactly believe it anymore. His respect for certain organics has debunked that line of logic, though he's too prideful to admit it now.

How good at reading people is your character, usually? Do they think they're better or worse at it than they are?

He's actually pretty damn decent at it, especially when it comes to his teammates. He's one of the few people on the planet who could have a good guess at what's going on in Shadow's head at any given time, for one. While organic social/emotional cues weren't intuitive for him, he learned them by doing "post-action" reviews for any social interactions he had. Combine this with a flawless memory and a willingness to research anything he gets stuck on, and he's got more capacity for that sort of thing than you might expect from a killer robot.

Of course, he doesn't value this skill nor advertise that he has it, so he thinks he's worse at it than he actually is.

(So why'd he bother learning? Initially, it was to understand Eggman to be better at killing him. Then it morphed into a desire to understand and eventually take care of his organic teammates, though he'd never admit that straight.)

What sorts of things does your character use to evaluate someone they've just met—clothes, looks, attitude? Is there anything (besides bad behavior) that will give them a kneejerk dislike of a stranger? A kneejerk affection?

Physical aptitude. Omega is quick to categorize organics into "pathetic civilians" or "potential assets" based on muscle mass, how many weapons they have, etc. (Other robots don't get the privilege of categorization- they're labeled "inferior", regardless of traits.)

Kneejerk dislike is, of course, if the person makes any sort of respectful/complimentary statement about Eggman, even if unintentional. Other kneejerk dislikes include people who suggest diplomacy as a solution to any problem.

Kneejerk affection is if the person is capable of mass destruction. With weapons or superpowers, doesn't matter.

Would you say your character is too trusting, not trusting enough, or juuuust right?

Not trusting enough. He assumes that everyone other than himself or a tiny handful of his friends are incompetent idiots who can't be trusted with anything. He's very guarded with strangers even after they prove their worth.

How susceptible is your character to perceiving or treating others like surrogate parents or children (or some other specific familial role)? Why?

Not at all! The only concept of "family" he has is from Rouge and Shadow, and he only know of that term because those two use it sometimes. He doesn't understand why such a designation would matter, what difference being a "family" might make versus just being close to someone.

Can they easily tell when someone is hitting on them?

Nope! He'd conflate any flirting attempts with Rouge's typical "flirty" banter, which she does platonically. Not that he's ever been hit on before. It'd be funny as hell to see someone try.

How sensitive are they to passive aggression or backhanded compliments? Do they ever read too much into things?

It's a 50/50 shot if he notices the passive aggressiveness from someone (higher if it's Shadow or Rouge), but if he does, he gets irritated about it. He'll tell the offending person that they're a coward for not stating their problem with him directly. (He will never employ passive aggressiveness himself unless being directly aggressive to someone will severely hinder him from achieving his goals- the GUN director has been on the receiving end of many half-assed tasks and disinterested "AFFIRMATIVES".)

He takes backhanded compliments completely straight- "thank you" and all. He loves frustrating people by giving off the impression that he doesn't recognize the back-handedness.

Does your character project anything in particular onto other people—thinking everyone is scheming because they're always scheming themselves, for example?

If you squint, Omega projects his own sense of individuality onto people. He believes that he is more different and unique from everyone else than he actually is. . . and that other people find each other similarly unknowable.

Are the standards your character holds other people to higher, lower, or equal to the standards they hold themselves to? Do they notice that?

Omega holds others to an equal standard as he does himself. . . the problem being that he's holding organic people up to robot standards. He expects everyone to have superhuman pain tolerance, catastrophic destructive capabilities, and utter determination to accomplish the mission, because he'd expect no less of himself.

Is this still incredibly self-centered and a dick move? YES. Is this toxic and harmful to both himself and everyone around him? Absolutely. Does he realize that he's doing this? Not really! He's not reflective enough to realize that he bases his standard of competency on his own expectations for himself.

How noticeable is your character? Do they stand out or fade into the background? Is that intentional or innate?

Omega's an absolute standout. Being a sentient war machine tends to do that, but it's also very intentional. He speaks loudly and often. He interjects himself into conversations, providing opinions that were unasked for. He moves with vigor and gusto. The last thing he wants to be is ignored.

What's the first thing they want other people to notice about them? Is that what most people actually usually notice?

He wants other people to see that he's a large, dangerous, competent killing machine, and he will viciously defend this image. This is indeed the first thing people notice due to both his frame and his efforts.

Besides just being more formal in formal settings, do they ever change how they behave around specific people? Is it on purpose? What happens if they're in the room with two of those people at the same time?

When he's around organics that he's used to seeing often, such as the regular GUN grunts, or especially his teammates, he tends to relax the effort of keeping up his reputation. He gets a bit softer, a bit more understanding, though it takes a trained eye to spot the change. It also means that his mischievous streak comes out, and there's nothing he loves more than subverting the expectation that he can't be funny. This is on purpose. In his mind, he's already proved that he's the "Ultimate Robot" to these specific meatbags, and therefore doesn't need to expend as much effort to keep them convinced.

If anyone else is in the room, though, he's back to trying to dominate every social interaction to prove that he's superior.

Does your character wish people perceived them differently than they do? Do they have any qualities they wish got more recognition? Is there anything about your character's background or personality that they try to hide but can't?

He HATES being perceived as nonsentient. However, even that's preferable to being perceived as an "Eggman Robot", a title he can't seem to outrun no matter how hard he tries. The decision to keep his paint job the same red-and-yellow as most other Badniks was not a decision he made lightly; he figures that instead of changing it, he'll simply eliminate all other Eggman robots with the color scheme until he's the only one left, making it so that the colors will be associated with only him.

As for what he'd like to get recognition more often, he'd appreciate being seen as competent for once. He's not blind to the way everyone assumes him to be a liability on missions just because he doesn't do stealth or subtlety.

Does your character come across the way they intend to come across—cool when they're trying to be cool, intimidating when they're trying to be intimidating—or is there a mismatch?

There's a pretty clear match, if only because his goal is to seem brusque and intimidating at all times, even when he's being more caring. The only time there's a mismatch is when he's doing so deliberately for the purpose of humor, and that mismatch will always be "coming off way more intense than he actually means to be".

If someone hated your character for no apparent reason, how would they take it? Would they try to change their minds? Could they live without knowing why?

Omega would wear it as a badge of honor and brag to everyone about it. . . but he'd be absolutely unable to live without knowing why. He wants to make sure you're hating him for the right reason (his personality) and not for the wrong reason (being built by Eggman).

What if someone openly adored your character for no apparent reason? Flattering or uncomfortable?

Finally, someone who appreciates the Ultimate Robot! That person would get 'favorite meatbag' status.

[phoenix-angel-suyari]

Y'all, I can't

I know we've all heard me say this before, but I literally cannot handle this anymore. My medical team have flat out told me I need to seriously destress. It's too much for my body.

I'm bleeding internally and have been for months now. They know this because my blood tests keep coming up more anemic than the last, my white blood cell levels are high, and other fluid checks keep turning up the presence of blood. I have had every fucking test over the last three months and they can't find the bleed. Waiting on camera results from like two weeks ago. Which is fun. I want them to find something to fix. I explained to my therapist and my psychiatrist that not having something to fight makes this whole process worse.

Not that I need something else to fight. But, it'd fucking help to know what's happening.

I've lost all interest in food. Literally, want nothing to do with it. I eat because I have to eat so I can maintain my blood sugar levels and for meds. But, even that takes so much energy. I just end up eating whatever feels less likely to make me sick just thinking about it, then adapt to account for what is and is not available in the house. Why has food become my enemy? Who the fuck knows. My medical team sure as hell doesn't.

I'm losing weight, but I have weight to spare, so that's not the worst. No, it's the fact that I've had DEPRESSION hair healthier than whatever the fuck's going on rn. I'm EXHAUSTED all the time. Literally every major organ is pulling some bullshit. I am on meds for all the things. But, meds alone can't fix what's going on. As every medical professional on my roster has gone on and on about. Repeatedly. Like I don't get it. Like I'm not trying. Like it's in any way achievable in the place I'm currently mired in.

My family, of course, remains stubbornly, willfully, intractably ignorant of my situation and my pleas despite me literally, explicitly stating that I cannot keep on like this.

I can't work because of organ complications. No work means no money. No money means having to negotiate and sacrifice and just go without for stretches sometimes. I have exactly .5 in my bank account and that's going to end up negative sometime this week. Yet, I'm still expected to care for young children, attend to older children, clean a house that is not mine and care for an ailing aunt with rapid onset aggressive alzheimer's/dementia. All for no pay, no compensation, no thanks and nothing but grief and harassment when I literally cannot scrape enough energy together to completely push through all my own shit and attend to everyone else and their needs/wants/desires. Everything I do is not the right thing, naturally. And everyone has SOMETHING to say about the state of my health and/or life (especially the lack thereof) while offering zero actual assistance or support - even emotionally, even just by being available. I keep getting bullshit like, "Well, what're you gonna do?" And, "What do you want me to tell you?" And, "You just have to take it and move on."

Three years of straight therapy working to not do that. Three years of therapy growing strong enough to not just give in and to tell people no and a whole host of other things, and now more of this shit. My new therapist is worthless for this kind of stuff. Have a new psychiatrist because my last one left. I am so fucking touch starved I feel sick over any physical contact that isn't with someone too young to care for themselves or an animal. And despite me constantly asking for something, anything all I get is ignored or gaslit or attacked.

There's nothing left for me to attempt for stress relief. I spend most of my time doom scrolling on tik tok because it's the only space that feels in any way engaging or relaxing any more. And I have all this drive to change things, but no way to actually see any, let alone all of it to fruition.

All this to say, my stress levels are incredibly high. I am not okay by any stretch of imagination or definition of the word. And at the rate I'm going, I will probably die from it before anything else happens. Which, btw, is not me being dramatic. That's straight out of several medical professionals mouths. Provided, of course, I do not do a hard reset, which, yeah.

Anyway. Just needed to rant for a bit. Thanks anyone who made it this far. I appreciate you.

[finerandbonnier]

The Adjustive Writer

Chapter Six of Lucian, just before the fall

[AO3]

A totally unrelated series of recollections, half remember truths, and outright fabrications regarding London shortly before the event that would come to be known as the Fall and that hold no greater meaning or significance.

The writer picked up her pen, held it to the page long enough to leave an ugly black spot then put it down again. She was no stranger to writer’s block. What writer is? But this was different, she wasn’t stumbling over characterisation or motive or what new disaster to subject the newly wedded Mrs Overhardt to. For once in her life, she knew exactly what to write. She just didn’t know why.

This was an unheard-of problem for the writer, who had previously always had a reason for what she penned. Money and catharsis were her two main staples. Neither applied here. The characters were, for once, not based off a relative or society acquaintance who had irritated her; they had sprung fully formed into her mind. And certainly no magazine in London would pay her for a story about a romantic relationship between two men. Still the call to write was irresistible and her hand unconsciously reached for the pen again.

A writing exercise then, she thought, and nothing more.

He glanced at the door knowing his lover should have been back far earlier. How typical of him, he thought. This was sadly not an uncommon situation for the man; many a previous evening had been spent like this. His partner off galivanting about the city. Him left behind waiting at home.

Earlier in the evening he had tried to distract his racing mind by throwing himself into cleaning the small living space the pair rented. Now he sat in wait for the tell-tale sound of a key turning in the lock that would announce his love’s return. Without the diversion of physical activity his mind shifted to thoughts of home. He’d travelled so far based only on the strength of his affection. What if it had been misplaced?

There was not much to like about his current lodgings beyond the man he shared them with. The rooms were cramped and frequently damp. The landlady short tempered. The city paled, often literally, in comparison with his homeland. He missed it terribly. Perhaps he would have been happier had he stayed there.

The sound of movement at the door roused the man from his reverie with a start. He leapt toward it just in time to catch the handle and prevent it from slamming into the wall as the door swung open. There stood in the threshold was the one he’d been waiting for, a little worse for wear perhaps and stinking of alcohol but safe and unharmed. The smile that stretched across that bewhiskered face was drunken but no less loving for it. His partner stepped through the door from the darkened hallway and into the candlelight of the room. Without a word he embraced his patient lover and swept him into a kiss. Hands gripped tight onto clothing as they lingered far longer in each other’s arms than they should have, neither willing to part.

The pair stepped further into the room; the door nudged shut with an idle flick of a foot. All worry and homesickness had fled the instant they were reunited.

Parting from the kiss but remaining so close he could feel the other’s breath heavy on his lips the man finally broke the silence. “What time do you call this?” he asked.

His love’s grin widened even further. “Did I worry you? You’ve got that look on your face that says you’ve been moping. Good god, you even tidied up! It must have been dire.”

“I’m fine, I just – I do worry about you. It’s hard not to the way you charge about sticking your nose into things that don’t concern you.”

“Occupational hazard with a nose as large as mine. Now where have you put my cards? Don’t tell me you’ve packed them away.” He began rummaging through drawers and cupboards, pulling the freshly tidied items out haphazardly and returning the room to its natural state of chaos. Turning from his enterprise to look over his shoulder at his lover he added, “I’ll always return to you, you know that right? I didn’t drag you halfway across the world just to abandon you.”

“You can’t possibly promise that.”

“Yes, I can.” He spoke with a finality that would brook no argument no matter how much one might want to point out the cold rational impossibility of what he was saying. “Now, how about a nightcap before bed, I think we’ve both had a long evening?”

The man nodded his assent and the other pulled a bottle of whiskey from the back of the drawer and collected two glasses from the sideboard. He poured a generous measure into each glass and handed one of them to his partner who knocked most of the measure back with barely a grimace before speaking.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Hmm, no. Total dead end, nothing interesting at the palace at all and after I took such a risk getting in. It’s strange, I was so sure I was onto something.”

“Well, perhaps that’s for the best.”

The two stood in silence for the minute or so it took to finish their drinks. There was no need for words. Then, with the alcohol gently warming their stomachs, they retired to bed together where they would remain until the sun rose and the demands of the new day stirred them from their slumber.

Satisfied she had gotten whatever compulsion had possessed her out of her system the writer picked up the paper and carried it over to the fireplace. There she consigned it to the dim flames. For a few seconds it seemed the paper would not light and it lay there instead, suspended in time; the flames licking around it and over it but not consuming it. Then the spell broke and all at once the paper took and burst into brilliant flame, burned to ashes in an instance as though it were flash paper. No, the writer realised as she peered into the grate, not burned to ashes. For there were no ashes. The flames had completely devoured her writing leaving no trace.

[orchidyoonkook]

“Leave with me. Let’s get the fuck outta here, and never look back, the both of us. Together.”

Uhhhhhh

It destroyed my soul in the best way, the communication and vulnerability and the beautiful writing, the hurt and the comfort, I just finished it after sending you the ask (yes I sent in the previous one before I even finished reading 😭)

I agree 10000% with what was said, I would also happily pay you for a little physical copy of this fic, or overall for you stories, food costs money 💖 (for the soul too dhdhdhdh)

PLEASE I LOVE YOU 😭😭😭 BUT STOP making this about me or my writing, I'mma withdraw all my kisses 😤💀 LET ME LOVE YOU WOMAN AND ACCEPT ALL MY FACTS COMPLIMENTS

ARIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII <<<<<<<<<<<33333333333333

You read her!! you really did???? ohmyGOSH thank you!!! ♥️♥️♥️

more under the cut! (also ilysm)

“Leave with me. Let’s get the fuck outta here, and never look back, the both of us. Together.” Uhhhhhh

:D

It destroyed my soul in the best way, the communication and vulnerability and the beautiful writing, the hurt and the comfort,

*sobbing hystarically under a desk*

the fact that you?? YOU??? with your amazing talents are over here being so nice to me???😭😭

I'm so so so happy you liked it!! I'm finding I'm a hurt/comfort/angsty bitch when it comes to writing which is hilarious because I'm nothing like that irl.

I love their communication so much. That was one of the things I knew from the get go. They were the only people they could be honest with in the whole town. No lying, no hiding, no need too. They just got one another, why bother lying when they'll know you are anyway?

The vulnerability gets me every. damn. time. It's so beautiful to find a safe space in a person, and the fact that they are each others???? I'm gone.

..thank you for saying my writing is beautiful <3 that literally means the world to me 🥰🥰🥰

I just finished it after sending you the ask (yes I sent in the previous one before I even finished reading 😭)

HAHA NO WAY. I thought you'd already read it when you sent that in ngl. This just makes my day, week, everything even better!!

I agree 10000% with what was said, I would also happily pay you for a little physical copy of this fic, or overall for you stories, food costs money 💖 (for the soul too dhdhdhdh)

NUH UHHH. NUH UHH SAY YOUR LYING *sobs uncontrollably* I'm actually attempting to see if it's possible right now for Violet, I'm thinking I'll print them out and hand bind them with soft covers. A nice little project that isn't nearly as difficult as it sounds. You just have to know they right stitching and formats/ materials!! (which I do!! artist perks!)

PLEASE I LOVE YOU 😭😭😭 BUT STOP making this about me or my writing, I'mma withdraw all my kisses 😤💀 LET ME LOVE YOU WOMAN AND ACCEPT ALL MY FACTS COMPLIMENTS

DON'T YOU DARE TAKE THEM BACK. THEY'RE MINE!!😤😤😤 I just like making sure you know you're equally loved and appreciated!!!! (and I will compliment and praise your writing all I want cuz you deserve it!! Suffer my love!)

Ari I adore you so much. I can't even begin to express my thanks for all of your wonderful words. But I'll start with the basics: Thank You ♥️

I'm so glad you liked their story. Thank you for being so kind to me.

[the-sappho-of-lesbos]

Like my Mum definitely has depression but it’s denial about it. But the way she talks about her sadness in comparison to other people is just hard to listen to sometimes.

I’m not saying he’s an amazing person but she has no empathy for my dads depression, she’s a bit weird about mine and yet she expects ample sympathy and accomodations for hers.

I think she should have that sympathy and accommodation. I can’t imagine how she must be feeling. I just wish she would extend the same grace to other people.

I know because of her MS she has massive trouble paying attention and retaining information when talking to people. I don’t hold it against her that literally whenever I’m talking about my emotions she just continues eating, watches TV, walks away or doesn’t even look at me. Like genuinely I get it. It’s not her fault. But when she is talking about her own pain she is able to hold that attention and she requires that attention back from other people and the validation of her emotions and struggles. But she can’t even provide that for other people half the time.

And it’s just a little frustrating.

Like I don’t know if that’s a symptom of living in this house where pretty much everyone has some physical or mental struggle. So maybe it’s a level of being desensitised and fighting for space. I don’t know.

But she was like this when I was little too. Dad would come to me with this emotional problems and Mum would come to be with her physical and emotional problems. And at like 13 I don’t think I was equipped to deal with the emotional trauma that comes from their marriage or the trauma she has being disabled in this world. Having to help to try and unpack that internalised ableism while emotional supporting a suicidal dad who was also making her internalised ableism worse is just hard. And now to have her be the type of person that can’t fully and solely give compassion to other people without implying she is the only one who has it bad and other people need to work harder at their struggles but she should be given sympathy is just frustrating. Because there is literally nothing I can say to that.

[lscore]

Fuck you, Sudowrite

I know it's been crickets on my stuff for a while, so you may not notice, but I've locked all my fics to be viewable to registered AO3 users only. I'm sorry to do this, because I love all my guest readers and commentors and kudoers, but you can blame the so-called company in the title.

In short, some shit for brains AI thingy decided to scrap AO3 to develop a "writing assistant". And I'm furious about it. I'm actually incandescent about this. Like literally probably powering a small country angry. And it may seem ironic, because like fanfiction - really? We "steal" from copyright holders all the damn time; characters, settings, tropes, plot devices, blahblah - that's the nature of fanfiction

And you'd be absolutely right. The only thing I "own" in all these hours of work, pages of plotting, six years, and 277,921 words (that I'll own up to on this account) are just that. The specific order of letters and spaces and punctuation that have somehow come out of my fingers and become a coherent story. That's it. That's all I have.

I can't sell that. Because, you know, I "stole" everything else. And I'm okay with that; I don't write fanfiction to get paid, I write fanfiction for myself, to spread the joy, and to entertain and connect with fellow fans around the world. That's the beauty of fandom and the internet.

But the words are mine.

It makes me physically sick to see someone take the words I have put together, word by painstaking word, and steal it to try to sell it as some sick fuck "helping writers get past their writers block" noble bullshit. Bullshit. Fuck off.

And no, it's not the same damn thing as someone reading my fic, learning from it, and then going off to write their own book to sell. That's not what's happening here. Someone is writing their own book by keeping one of my own fics on file and copying and pasting little bits of whatever they want.

And they're charging for that.

So if you're paying for that plagiarism that to get past your writer's block... uh, again, fuck you. Go read a book or touch grass or something.

I'm sure the @OTW will hash out the legalities of the issue; that's not what we're talking about here. Something can be legal and still be abhorred. Because this is a gross violation of the gift economy fic writers and readers have participated in since the first trekkie conventions. I feel used, and like I said before, angry. Incandescently so.

So as a closing statement, I got none, except, uh Fuck you Sudowrite and James Yu the CEO in particular. I hope Marvel and BTS decide you're selling child porn of their IPs for 6c per 4000 words or whatever in a court of law.

[goodtoseeyouhen]

Tommy has been hearing about Eddie all night. It’s not the first time, it won’t be the last time - he knew exactly what he was signing up for when he kissed Evan - but it’s not usually this stressful.

“I don’t know what to say, Evan. I can’t help you strategize if I don’t know the full story.”

“It’s not mine to tell,” Evan says, again. “And I - I don’t think even I know the whole story.”

Tommy sighs, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “And I respect that, I do. I just - I don’t know how to help.” Tommy’s like most firefighters he knows - give him something actionable, like say flying into a hurricane, and he’s on it. Something more abstract, like Chris is gone and Eddie is sad please help, and he has no idea what to do. There is nothing to do, not when Eddie all but kicked Evan out of his house because he apparently needed space (bullshit) and Evan insists Chris needs time to settle before anyone tries to get in touch.

“I know,” Evan says. “It’s killing me that I can’t just fix it. I don’t like Chris being out in Texas with his grandparents. They tried to make Eddie give him up after Shannon died and now they’re just gonna be right in his ear twenty-four seven.”

“That might solve itself. Sounds to me like a great way to annoy a teenager into wanting to cut his visit short.”

“Maybe,” Evan says, visibly unconvinced. Which probably has something to do with the reason why Christopher is in Texas, which is the key piece of information Evan won’t share, and Tommy really does respect his protecting the kid’s privacy like that, but Evan got here an hour ago and they’re still standing in the kitchen with the beers Tommy got for them just going in circles. Tommy is exhausted.

“Okay,” he says briskly, because he needs to be done circling, “we can’t fix anything right now, but we can order dinner and watch a movie.” He takes out his phone, opens up DoorDash, and tosses it to Evan. “You order us something. I personally could use some fucking whimsy and I’ve got Mary Poppins somewhere around here, so I’m gonna go dig that up.”

‘Someday,” Evan says, already flipping through the app, “you’re going to join the rest of us in 2024 and subscribe to a few streaming services.” He still looks unhappy, but he’s relaxing a little around the edges. Accepting the blatant attempt at distraction. Tommy’ll take it.

“And someday you’ll realize you only have to pay for a physical copy once, Evan.” They do this routine every now and then, a little different every time.

“You’re just mad about your old man collection going obsolete.”

“Mm, I seem to remember somebody being pretty happy I had that Dogma DVD.”

“What was that? Extra pineapple on your pizza?”

“For that, we’re watching it on VHS.”

*

Evan doesn’t order extra pineapple, or even order pizza at all, and they do not watch the movie on tape, because it would look like dogshit on Tommy’s TV. They settle in with something from a little Brit-Indi place that’s pretty good, and Tommy cues up the Blu-Ray.

He had hoped that a Disney film, especially one with literal decades of lore, would serve as further distraction by unlocking the extensive store of Disney trivia he knows for a fact Evan carries around in that bewildering brain of his, but that plan is DOA. Evan’s watching the movie, but his mind is clearly somewhere in Texas. When Mary Poppins describes herself as “practically perfect in every way,” Evan points his fork at the screen and says, “She’d have fixed it by now,” and that’s about all Tommy gets.

Honestly, he’s relieved when his phone starts buzzing frantically in his pocket.

are you working tomorrow

this is an important question

no one else can do this for me

HELP ME TOMMY-WAN KINARDI YOU ARE MY ONLY HOPE

“What - ? Oh, absolutely not.”

“What’s up, is everything okay?” Evan, who slid in closer the moment they were done eating, leans further into his space to look at the screen. Tommy turns it away, because if Evan gets hold of Tommy-Wan Kinardi it will spread like wildfire and his life as he knows it will be over. Chimney, at the very least, will never call him anything else ever again.

“Marisol,” he explains. Evan freezes.

“Marisol,” he repeats. “I forgot about Marisol!” His stricken tone makes Tommy himself forget what he’s typing, looking up to see Evan’s equally distraught expression.

“What - ?” he starts, but Evan just shakes his head.

“Why is she - ? What does she want?”

Tommy reads through the next rapid succession of texts. “Someone to vent to, about something only I seem to qualify for.” He lets Evan watch him reply, pausing only to drop a kiss near the corner of his eye when he grumbles I haven’t said it that many times.

Marisol asserts that yes, it is hers to tell, and Tommy lowers his phone and turns to look at Evan directly.

“Is it?”

“I - oh, man.” Evan frowns, taking a moment to think. “I don’t know if that’s my call to make? But,” he adds quickly, perhaps because Tommy’s exasperation with that is visible from fucking space, “I do know that - she deserves to have someone to talk to about it. And if you’re the one she’s comfortable talking to, then, uh. Yeah, I don’t really get a say in that.”

“So I’m good to go?” Tommy confirms.

“If you want to.”

“I wanna help her out.” He checks the screen again. “At brunch tomorrow.” A brunch date is an easy ask, it’s something he can do, and he does actually like Marisol. It’s too damn bad she got the short end of whatever the hell stick this is. “And then of course, conveniently, I’ll know what’s going on without you having to tell me.”

Evan flushes guiltily, which is adorable enough to wipe out the last of that burst of exasperation. “I meant all of that! It’s like the least we can do. But, okay. Yeah. Maybe a little that too.”

Tommy kisses him for that, and as he finishes making plans with Marisol, Evan is smiling his first real smile of the night.

*

After brunch, Tommy just sits in his car for a while, resisting the urge to beat the shit out of his steering wheel or whatever other stupid macho bullshit might occur to him. Say what you like about the kinds of person he’s been in the past - letting his anger get the best of him has never really been his thing.

Though it was probably just as well that he put his knife down long before Marisol said he thought she was Shannon.

Jesus.

Yeah, he gets exactly why Evan was so fucking neurotic last night, even if ninety percent of what came out of his mouth was about Eddie. Tommy’s gonna go ahead and let him do that heavy lifting. He’s not feeling very charitable toward Eddie fucking Diaz right now.

Christopher, though . . .

Well, he and Marisol are in similar boats, aren’t they? Obviously Chris knows plenty of people who know Eddie, but, judging by how he’d reacted to Marisol, he probably doesn’t want to talk to most of them right now. The association with Eddie will be too tight and run too deep.

But Tommy hasn’t been around all that long, and his visits to the Diaz household - first solo, then mostly with Evan - have revolved just as much around Chris as Eddie, if not sometimes more.

(He remembers that first visit with Chris home, the look in Eddie’s eyes as he’d introduced them promising that if Tommy failed this test, their burgeoning friendship would be over. He’d actually been a little nervous.

But it turned out that he and Chris have the same sense of humor, and that thirteen is still young enough to be a little overawed by the whole firefighter pilot thing, so it had gone just fine.)

Yeah. He pulls his phone out to send a text. There are a few messages in their text chain, mostly Chris asking him to pick up something Eddie had told him not to ask Tommy to pick up or just outright said no to, and Tommy (after surreptitiously checking in with either Eddie or Evan, he’s not an idiot) nonchalantly agreeing.

. . . there are more of those than he’d realized, actually. It became kind of a running joke at some point, at around the time Tommy had stopped bothering to check with any relevant parental figures. Stopped bothering, because it had become clear that Chris knew exactly how far he could push.

There are also exchanges resuming movie discussions they’d had with Eddie fondly looking on, several of which, Tommy remembers now, had resulted in a spontaneous FaceTime when Chris was feeling too passionate about a topic for his hands to keep up with his thoughts.

And memes, memes too, examples of Gen Z/Gen Alpha humor Tommy had found borderline incomprehensible more often than not and had retaliated against with classics like all your base and dragostea din tei.

Christopher Diaz has taken up space in his life, and he’d hardly noticed.

“I’m friends with a thirteen-year-old,” he says to his phone, baffled. “What the hell?”

Okay, then. He probably is the adult in Christopher’s life that he’s most likely to talk to.

Heard what happened. If you need someone back home who’s not your dad or Buck to talk to, I’m around.

That will at least get Chris’s attention - it’s the first time Tommy has ever used that stupid nickname without Chris scolding him into it. He’d call it another running joke, but it’s also about twenty percent stubbornness on both their parts. Tommy gives in long before anyone can get genuinely frustrated, of course, but.

If Evan had a problem with Tommy not using that nickname, he’d have said something by now. He’s a big boy. Tommy thinks he can be trusted to use his words.

He figures it’ll be a while before he hears back. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet, so Chris is probably busy settling in and resting after the flight. But even as he’s moving to start the car so he can quit wasting battery on A/C and get on the road, his phone plays the little video game fanfare he let Chris program into it for his contact notifications.

who told u

He’s tempted for a second to claim it was Evan, but the many ways that could backfire come to him before the thought has finished forming. For this? He’s going to have to be completely, scrupulously honest with Chris for this.

Marisol. She needed someone to talk to.

The screen lights up to inform him that Chris is FaceTiming him. I accept the charges, he thinks.

“Hey, kid.”

Christopher looks exhausted and miserable in a way that makes Tommy’s stomach twist.

“Why her? I would have thought it would be Buck.”

“Well, Buck was trying to respect yours and your dad’s privacy, and Marisol doesn’t have anyone else to talk to about it.” Tommy briefly imagines trying to explain the situation to someone well outside the 118 sphere of chaos. Yeah, not a chance. He wouldn’t even try it with Lucy and he knows she knows how they are.

Chris sighs. “I knew you two would make good friends,” he says, then, “How pissed at me is she?”

Any other time, Tommy would feel a bit of fond amusement at that - experimenting with off-color language outside of Eddie’s hearing - but as it is, he’s taken aback.

“How p - Chris, nobody’s mad at you.”

He can feel the flatly unimpressed look Chris gives him right through the screen.

“I mean it. She understands that you were upset. We all do.” He winces at the alarm that immediately threads through Chris’s expression. “By which I mean, Marisol, me, Ev - Buck, and your dad.” He knows Evan’s not telling, and he’d bet twenty bucks that Eddie isn’t exactly screaming his idiocy from the rooftops either. “It’s nobody else’s business.”

Smooth, Kinard. Great work there. The alarm has passed in favor of a more general no shit, Sherlock kind of look, though, so. It’s probably fine.

“None of us is angry with you,” he reiterates, because it can’t possibly hurt to say it again, and because it happens to be true. Okay, he hasn’t talked to Eddie yet, but the guy’s an idiot, not a monster; Tommy can’t imagine him being angry with anyone but himself.

And hopefully not-Shannon, because what the fuck even was that.

“Not even -“ Chris cuts himself off as Tommy hears a door open. He doesn’t think he heard a knock.

“Christopher, I thought we agreed you were resting,” says a voice that must belong to Grandma Diaz.

“I am resting.” There’s a defiant edge to Chris’s tone. “But Tommy texted and I wanted to talk to him.”

“I told you you could keep your phone as long as it wasn’t a distraction. Clearly, it is.”

“Abuela,” Chris protests, “he’s still -“

“I’m sure your friend will understand. Phone.”

Chris lowered the phone when he started talking to his grandmother, which gives Tommy a clear look at the way his jaw tightens for a long moment before the blurred rush of handing the phone over.

Then he hears, in sugary tones, “Sweetheart, could y - oh,” and he finds himself looking at the confounded face of a woman who did not expect “Tommy” to be a grown man.

Well, it’s not the first time. It’s just usually funnier. Lower stakes.

“I could go get my mom,” he says, “but that would involve a little light graverobbing.”

She doesn’t smile, or really even acknowledge him except in the way she keeps her eyes on him as she says,

“Christopher, who is this?”

“Tommy,” is the unhelpful, sulky reply. She does look at Chris then, with an expression that makes Tommy’s spine straighten and results in, “Buck’s boyfriend.”

Right, great, there’s gonna need to be a conversation about when and how to deploy strategic information and when you maybe don’t out someone to someone else, even if they’re not in the closet, especially when you’re in fucking Texas, because Mrs Diaz looks back at him and he knows exactly what math she’s doing in her head.

He tries a friendly smile.

“Tommy Kinard, ma’am. It’s nice to more or less meet you. I’m glad Chris had somewhere he could go to get some breathing room.”

She considers this, then nods once, decisive. “Helena Diaz. You and I should talk.”

*

“I expected someone who wasn’t Eddie to reach out to Christopher sooner rather than later,” Helena says once she’s settled into what appears to be a tidy living room, “but I thought it would be Buck, not his - ?“

“Partner,” Tommy supplies, because he is fucking forty-five years old and the window on going around saying he had a boyfriend closed twenty years ago. “I was friends with Eddie first, actually.”

She doesn’t need to know it was only by two weeks.

“And I assume you’re aware of the” - she pauses delicately - “situation?”

“With the doppelganger? Yeah. Just found out, wanted to let Chris know I was around if he wanted to talk.”

She also does not need to know that he found out from Eddie’s ex.

“We were hoping to minimize Christopher’s contact with anyone in LA until we feel he’s ready.”

Until they feel. Okay. Tommy can work with this. He keeps his expression relaxed and sincere.

“He is thirteen. Seems old enough for him to have a say.” Being as how he had clearly, in fact, wanted to talk.

“Oh, of course. But there is a reason thirteen-year-olds aren’t left to raise themselves, even the ones without his particular limitations.”

Tommy knows he himself isn’t exactly on the cutting edge of progression when it comes to disability, even if he is miles better than he used to be. But it’s been so easy to fall in line with Eddie’s approach to Christopher’s condition - treating it as an incidental fact of life in the Diaz household, as just one part of who Christopher is and far from the most important part at that. It’s easy to forget in that house that many, if not most, people will look at Chris and see his CP first.

It’s a shock to hear Chris’s own fucking grandmother do it.

He wants to say as much, so badly, but he cannot start an argument with this woman if he wants any kind of contact with Chris while he’s out there.

Later, he tells himself. Once Chris is home. Then he’ll give Helena Diaz a call and tell her exactly what he thinks of her shit.

Instead, for now, he says,

“I understand your concerns. Protecting him from anything to do with Eddie right now - I’m not exactly thrilled with your son myself.”

He’s going to owe Eddie an apology by the end of this conversation, he just knows it.

“Then you realize that, as much as it breaks my heart to consider Christopher’s own father someone he needs protecting from, it’s still necessary. He is in no fit state to act as a parent and I won’t have any attempts at contact facilitated behind my back.”

“I have no intention of trying that. Like I said, Chris needs the space you’re giving him, and he’s the only one who can really know how much for how long. I just want to - to be someone he can talk to, about whatever he wants, who doesn’t have anything to do with this whole mess.”

“And what, Mr Kinard, do you even talk about with a thirteen-year-old boy?”

There it is. For all he knew it was coming, for all he knows that it is in fact her responsibility to make sure he isn’t some random guy preying on Chris’s vulnerability, it still stings like hell, because that’s not the only reason she’s asking.

Fine. He still remembers how to eat shit with a smile.

“Anything. Star Wars. Girls he likes, because he says I’m the only adult he knows who doesn’t get all mushy about how fast he’s growing up. 9/11, once, from our respective generational standpoints. That was an interesting one.”

“. . . I see,” Helena says, clearly not having expected any kind of comprehensive response. Tommy smirks inwardly.

“Treat kids like people you like being around and they can be pretty cool,” he says, and nevermind that he learned that himself with Chris. “I like Chris, Mrs Diaz. Not just as my friend’s son, but as a person. Look, when it comes down to it, you and I both just want what’s best for him. And right now, what’s best for him is having support while he deals with this” - storm of bullshit probably won’t go down well - “. . . Hitchcockian nonsense.”

Well, that’s not better.

Helena blinks, then, to Tommy’s considerable surprise, a flicker of humor crosses her face. “This is all giving you vertigo too, hm?”

Tommy laughs, as much from relief as anything else, and wonders exactly when he passed her test. “It was not how I was expecting my morning to start.”

She’s looking at him more thoughtfully now, more like he’s a person and not just a potential threat. “All right,” she says. “You can keep in touch with Christopher. But if I get even the slightest hint that it’s affecting him negatively . . .”

“Understood,” Tommy says quickly. “Thank you, Mrs Diaz.”

“Helena is fine. Christopher won’t be needing his phone today, but he’ll have it back tomorrow, along with an understanding that it’s a privilege in this home, not a right.”

*

Tommy had intended to at least text Evan right after brunch, but after those conversations - he needs a minute.

He gets almost a whole hour before Evan takes matters into his own hands.

u will not fucking believe what’s happening here

i don’t wanna text about this

ur probably still driving anyway

call me when u can

please

Tommy glances briefly at the screen with each message. He’s seen the aftermath of texting and driving too many times to do it himself, but with Evan’s tendency to send half a dozen short texts at a time in a sort of stream of consciousness style of communication, he’d compromised by purchasing a bracket to post his phone on his dashboard so he can keep up without being distracted by text notifications every three to five seconds. This particular stream is capped off by a string of emojis that he doesn’t even try to parse individually, but which give off a general sense of fury.

Oh, good.

Tommy doesn’t talk and drive either, when he can avoid it, but if he remembers correctly, that new little wine shop he’s been wanting to check out is more or less in the area, and this feels like a conversation he’d rather have sooner than later. Maybe he’ll find a good pairing for whatever new bullshit Evan is about to drop on him.

He calls about half an hour later, half-heartedly perusing the Malbecs, and is greeted with,

“Bobby retired, except he says he never filed the paperwork and it was really just something he talked about with Chief Simpson. At the ceremony.” Contrary to the emoji storm, there’s more hurt in those last few words than anything else.

“Retired?” Tommy repeats, giving himself a second to catch up. “No warning?”

As if he would have been hearing about anything else, even Eddie, if there had been.

“No.” Definitely hurt. Tommy eyes an especially cheap-looking bottle, wondering if dumping it over Bobby’s head would count as breaking the man’s sobriety. “He said he’d get it taken care of but it might take some time, and . . . Tommy, guess who the new captain is?”

In retrospect, Tommy will realize that he should have paid more attention to the mix of anxiety and indignation creeping into Evan’s tone.

“They got the new guy in already? We used to have to wait weeks between captains sometimes.”

“They - yeah, they . . . it’s Gerrard.”

If Tommy had been holding the bottle he was glaring at, he’d have dropped it. He almost feels a phantom bottle slip through his fingers.

“. . . Tommy?”

“Does he know?”

“Know what?”

“About you, Evan, does he know that you’re not straight?” Maybe -

“He does now,” Evan says scornfully. “I told him.”

Told him. Of course he did.

Because Evan isn’t a coward.

“He called me into his office,” Evan is saying, “and tried to . . .” he trails off, audibly searching for words, because yeah, when Gerrard isn’t being blatantly racist he can be surprisingly subtle.

“To draw you into a white boys’ alliance against the big scary minorities without actually using any of those words?”

“Yeah. That. I didn’t even know what he was doing at first, just that he was being friendly and it was kind of giving me the creeps.”

“I’m assuming you didn’t tell him to go fuck himself -“

“- not that I wasn’t tempted -“

“- so what did you do?”

“Uh. I asked him who his favorite Mary Poppins character is.”

The laughter this surprises out of Tommy is loud, loud enough to turn the heads of the few other browsers and the annoyed-looking woman at the counter. Okay, now he has to buy something. Worth it. “You what? No, wait, of course you did, god, Evan.”

“It was the first thing I thought of!” Evan protests, also laughing. “He stared at me like I’d lost my mind, so I told him my boyfriend and I watched it last night for date night.” The cheer fades out of his voice as he continues, “He, uh. Suddenly didn’t want much to do with me after that.”

Tommy sighs, the warmth that had been spreading in his chest vanishing.

“What did he say.” It isn’t a question, not really.

Evan hesitates, clearing his throat awkwardly. “He, um. Uh, something, something about you getting to me. How you can’t trust anyone’s influence these days.”

Tommy wonders if Evan, too young to remember the AIDS crisis, hears the hidden word there.

Got to Evan. Infected him.

It doesn’t seen to have tripped anything for Evan, or if it did then he is, like Tommy, choosing not to say it, because he keeps going. “Yeah, the Mary Poppins thing was kind of the highlight. It’s been - kind of awful. No one’s really talking, I can’t tell if Hen and Chim are in shock or just still taking it in, and he’s making them do a bunch of cleaning anyway. Like the stuff we save for the new probies kind of cleaning. I wasn’t allowed to help earlier but I don’t think he’d care now.”

“I wouldn’t try it,” Tommy advises, hating how easy it is to slip into Gerrard’s mindset. “They’re being punished. You’d just make it worse. Trust me, you and Eddie and Ravi will all get your turns.”

“Eddie,” Evan repeats, voice distant like he doesn’t realize he’s saying anything, then, “Brunch! How did - I, I mean I really shouldn’t be talking about it here, but how did - ?”

“Marisol filled me in. You’re just doing a twelve today, right? Come over after you’re done, we can talk then.”

*

Evan’s twelve turns into more of a fourteen with a last-minute building fire call, so when he arrives, exhausted, Tommy just kisses him and points him to the shower.

“I ordered pizza already, and we’ve each got a bottle of rosé with our name on it.”

Evan brightens a bit. “When you say you ordered pizza . . .”

“Yes, I got you your warm tropical fruit.”

Evan grins and gives him a quick kiss before heading for the bathroom, calling back over his shoulder,

“I keep telling you, the acidity cuts the fat and carbs!”

“And I keep telling you, that’s what the tomato in the sauce is for!” Tommy calls back, grinning. Evan closes the bathroom door on a laugh.

The pizza arrives while he’s in there, and by the time he’s out, Tommy has everything set up. Two pizza boxes, which he opens when he hears the door, with accompanying plates even though Evan won’t use his, and two open bottles of wine with glasses that they will both be using because they are not animals.

Evan, of course, shoots him a wicked look as he immediately grabs his bottle and swigs directly from it.

“What?” he asks off the look Tommy gives him, which he suspects is not nearly as annoyed as it should be. “Why dirty a glass if I don’t have to?” He taps his temple. “One less dish to wash.”

“Is that why you never use your plate with pizza?”

“I use my plate with pizza,” Evan lies, in that way he does when he is convinced he is telling the truth despite the evidence of reality. It shouldn’t charm Tommy, but it does a little. Maybe because Tommy’s pretty sure that’s what was happening when Evan said so abruptly that he’d been trying to get Tommy’s attention.

“Okay,” he says, because file that under arguments not worth having, and picks up his own wine bottle.

He slides a glance at Evan, then takes a long swallow. He feels a bit ridiculous doing it, but Evan’s triumphant laughter erases that almost instantly.

“See?” he says. “No one even died.”

“You” - Tommy tilts the neck of the bottle at him, carefully - “are very lucky I like you.”

Evan’s smile softens. “Yeah, I am.” He sweeps an arm toward the set-up on Tommy’s living room table. “I come home - well, here - after a really bad day and I don’t have to do anything because you’ve got it all taken care of.” He looks at Tommy, blue eyes dangerously earnest. “You’ve got me taken care of. You even ordered me pineapple.”

“And I might not even make you brush your teeth before you kiss me after,” Tommy says lightly, leaning forward to set down his wine and grab a slice of his normal human pepperoni pizza. There’s a brief beat of silence, then Evan snorts.

“Thinks he can say that and still get kissed.”

“Yeah.” Tommy smirks at him. “I do.”

The movie he picked for the evening is some inconsequential nothing, a supernatural cop drama made for about five bucks that they can talk over as necessary without missing much, and, aside from a brief interlude with Evan protesting that polygraph tests don’t work like that Tommy what are they even doing, it serves its purpose.

Not that they need the full runtime for that - the conversation about Chris and Eddie, now that they can finally have it, is simple, brief, and brings Evan’s mood down considerably.

“At least you got to talk to Chris a little,” he says. He’s put aside his half-full wine bottle for his phone and is somehow managing to compose a text to Chris as he talks. “And you’ll get to talk to him again. I don’t know if he’ll be ready to talk to me right away, so at least with you he’s got some kind of lifeline.”

“Hey.” Tommy shifts a little on the couch, wraps his arm tight around Evan’s shoulders. “That kid loves you, plus you’re not the one who brought not-his-mom home. I’m gonna be old news in no time.”

“I dunno, I think I’m on the shit list. I did try to talk to him for Eddie, and, okay, yeah, he is starting to do that teenager thing where he’s too old and too cool to hug us, but.” Evan shrugs the shoulder Tommy’s hand is wrapped around. “He just walked right past me when he left. A-a-and look, I’m not trying to make it about me, I know he didn’t mean anything by it and it wasn’t personal -“

“Like you said, teenager,” Tommy says. “He might have meant something by it.” Something about his conversation with Chris drops into place even as he winces a little at the half-hurt, half-indignant look he’s put on Evan’s face. “You know, before Helena cut him off, I think he was trying to ask if you were mad at him.”

It makes the most sense. He’d already asked about Marisol, Tommy himself has no reason to be angry, and Tommy doubts very much that Chris would be asking anything about Eddie so soon.

“Mad at him? Why would I - ? Oh.”

“Yeah. So if he did mean it, I don’t think he does anymore.”

Evan chews this over for all of a second before he picks up his phone, types i am NOT mad at you and decisively hits send.

“It’s weird,” he says, “this is usually the kind of thing I would talk about with Eddie. A-and listen, I know you said you were pissed at Eddie yourself and I get it, but maybe you could, you know, be cool about that?” Evan sits up straighter and turns to face Tommy, eyes serious this time. “I know what it looks like when he’s beating himself up. There’s nothing you can say to him that he’s not already telling himself. He just kept his head down all day today, didn’t say a word that wasn’t about work. He isolates himself when things are bad and this is the worst it’s been since Shannon. And that - really got out of hand. I can’t try to pull him back from the edge if you . . .” Evan trails off, uncomfortable.

“I can be civil.” He can, too, with his initial fury having settled into a manageable level of steady anger over the course of the day. “Not exactly going to be going out of my way to talk to him anyway.”

“Oh,” Evan says, air of melancholy fading in favor of realization, “I haven’t asked you yet. Ravi’s got us all coming in an hour before shift tomorrow for a Taylor Swift dance party.”

Tommy - pauses, for a moment, to absorb the conversational whiplash. “What.”

“Yeah, they’re really popular right now? And he says it would be good for morale to do something fun together before work, and serve as a clear message to a guy like Gerrard that we’re not gonna just lie down and take it. He said you should come. Hen’s gonna bring Karen, Maddie said she wouldn’t miss it, and he invited Bobby and Athena too. Uh, and Chim said to tell you he’s gonna give you exactly as much shit as you think he is, whatever that means.”

Probably shouldn’t have included that in your sales pitch, Tommy almost says. Almost, but doesn’t, because Evan looks so hopeful and there’s only one real answer to the implied question anyway.

“Yeah. Of course I’ll come. Wouldn’t miss the look on that asshole’s face for the world.”

Or the one on Evan’s face right now, almost as happy as he’d been about the damn pizza. Totally worth an hour of Taylor Swift and Howie rubbing it in Tommy’s face about how he’d been right about her unparalleled genius all along.

“Great! And, y’know, we’re using the employee parking lot and we’ll need all the space we can get, so if you could drive and we could pick up Eddie on the way, that’d be one less car to worry about. Your shift’s at noon, right, you’ll have plenty of time to get there after.” He pauses. “And, maybe you could take a minute to talk to Eddie, if you wanted.”

Tommy sighs. “I should, shouldn’t I.” Another question with only one answer.

Evan is nodding a little as he says, “Yeah. You should. Chris needs us, but Eddie does too, even if he thinks he doesn’t deserve to.”

“Okay. Yeah, I’ll talk to him. I’ll be nice. Hell, maybe I’ll even dance with him.”

“Oh, like I’m gonna let you go anywhere.” Evan kneels up on the couch, bracing himself on the back of it, and leans down for a kiss.

The movie finishes playing on its own.

*

Even with the detour to pick up Eddie, they’re a little early. Evan, who has been sharing Taylor Swift facts from Wikipedia for much of the drive, puts his phone away and catches Tommy’s eye to glance pointedly at Eddie and back to him, saying,

“I’m gonna go help Ravi finish setting up.”

Tommy gives him a slight nod. He smiles and all but bounces out of the car.

Other than a thanks for the ride, Eddie has been quiet in the back, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. The only sign that he didn’t just fall asleep is the way his head has been tilted toward Evan through his monologue, faint smile playing around his mouth.

Jesus.

Eddie takes his sunglasses off, meeting Tommy’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Thank you for reaching out to Chris.”

With the sunglasses on, he’d looked tired, a little pale. Without them, he looks exhausted. Breakable.

A substantial portion of Tommy’s anger just kind of - dissolves.

“Not exactly a hardship. Though I did have to talk a little shit about you to your mother to maintain access.”

“Hey, if it helps Chris, throw me under the bus as many times as you need to.” His tone isn’t quite as light as his words, but, well. Those words themselves aren’t very light in this context, are they?

‘Will do.” Tommy turns in his seat to face Eddie head-on. “So, how this is gonna go is, if Chris tells me anything that you should know about as his parent, I will tell you. But that’s it. You don’t get anything else unless he says it’s okay, and I’m gonna tell him the same.” He’d been thinking about it last night, awake long after Evan, and it’s the best thing he’s come up with to have Chris both feeling safe and actually safe.

Eddie is nodding. “I, yeah, that’s along the lines of what I was thinking. It might kill me a little, but he needs to know he can trust you. Thank you, Tommy.”

“I was fucking furious when Marisol told me what happened,” Tommy says abruptly. “I’ve had time to calm down and I’m still not happy with you, but.” He blows out a breath. “We’re all on the same side here and I’m not gonna lose sight of that - no, Diaz, thank me again and I’m gonna find a bridge to throw you off.”

Eddie shrugs, unapologetic. “I’m just grateful he has so many people who care about him.” He slides his sunglasses back on and pops the car door open, leaving Tommy feeling vaguely like an asshole.

*

Ravi’s put together a nice little set-up, with a pretty generous amount of dance space and even a table with pastries and some to-go boxes of coffee. Tommy has just enough time to make a mental note about finding out what he should chip in for expenses before:

“Tommy,” Chimney calls, gleeful. “Just in time for your favorite.”

Tommy knows what he’s going to hear before the first note even plays.

You're on the phone with your girlfriend, she's upset

The new vocals are an improvement, at least.

Obediently, he groans on cue. Evan looks up from where he’s fussing over Jee - for all that they were early, they seem to have been the last to arrive - and asks,

“Okay, what’s the deal, because if you’re one of those guys who hates Taylor Swift just for being Taylor Swift, then I’m gonna have to reevaluate some things. Right, Jee?”

“Right,” she agrees, nodding in that firm way that only little kids can really pull off.

“Oh, I come by it legitimately,” Tommy says.

“Eh,” Howie chimes in, having stationed himself right next to Tommy, rocking his hand in a so-so gesture.

“In 2008, 2009, I spent a year in this shi - this lousy cheap apartment so I could put a little extra away while I was house hunting. It was pretty close to Howie, so we started carpooling. Guess who he was obsessed with?”

“A shining new talent who, even as we were listening, was already singlehandedly rescuing the country music genre from the likes of Toby Keith and would go on to revolutionize the music industry as we know it.”

Hen clears her throat.

“Right alongside Beyoncé,” Howie concludes without missing a beat.

“Or, in other words,” Tommy says, just barely keeping his poker face, “a teenage girl who was sad her BFF didn’t love her back. Not once on his weeks to drive did he ever play anything else, Evan. Not once. I don’t hate Taylor Swift. I have a Howard Han-induced allergy to Taylor Swift!”

“That’s a real tragedy, Tommy,” Evan says, laughter in his voice and all over his face. “I’m gonna dance with my niece about it and then you’re next.” He’s been bouncing to the music with Jee in his arms this whole time; now he takes her out onto the dance floor, such as it is, sets her down, and they start dancing in earnest.

“Tommy.”

“Chimney.”

“I may have been tormenting you on purpose. Just a little bit.”

“I may have noticed,” Tommy says, and looks over at Chim to see his own repressed humor mirrored in Chimney’s eyes. They both break and start laughing, and Tommy feels the tension of the last couple of days ease off his shoulders.

Fuck it, he decides. “Hey Maddie, mind if I borrow your husband?”

“I told you,” Maddie says immediately, pointing at said husband. “That’s dishes for a week.”

“Why do you know this guy better than me,” Chimney complains half-heartedly, accepting the hand Tommy extends.

“Because I listen to my brother when he talks about his boyfriend. Now get out there while there’s still some song left.”

Their joining Evan and Jee on the dance floor seems to be an unspoken signal. Bobby and Athena follow close behind, striking up some kind of ballroom-style dance that has nothing to do with the tone of the song but works perfectly for them; Karen throws back the last of her coffee before she and Hen descend. Maddie and Eddie stay on the sidelines, gravitating toward the refreshments, and Ravi alternates between monitoring his phone and watching them all, looking quietly satisfied.

“I’m letting him handle the timing on the playlist,” Chim says. “He knows his cues.”

“Generous of you.”

(— driving to my house in the middle of the night)

Howie rests his free hand unself-consciously on Tommy’s shoulder, so Tommy places his lightly above Howie’s hip

(know your favorite songs and you tell me bout your dreams)

and imagines, fleetingly, going back in time, maybe in some other universe where he sacked up and got his shit together sooner -

“Red. The rerecording, not the original,” Chimney says, yanking Tommy back to the present, to this universe where everything played out better in the long run anyway.

“What?” he asks, blank.

“For when you decide you owe Taylor a second chance.”

He could point out that Taylor has half the planet under her thrall and will survive without his joining their numbers, but.

“Thanks,” he says instead. Chimney gives him a curious look.

“Any time.”

“Chimney?”

“Tommy?”

“It’s great to see you so happy, man. You deserve it.”

“. . . thanks.” Chim looks over to Jee, his entire face going soft with wonder. “I got really lucky.”

Tommy follows his gaze to watch Evan carefully “twirl” Jee, who’s giggling almost too hard to manage much more than a sort of stomping turn.

“Good job!” Evan exclaims, scooping her back up as the song winds to an end.

“Not doing too bad myself, I guess,” Tommy says, knowing that, if he cared to turn around, he’d see Eddie watching them too.

Chimney snorts and claps his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, then goes to claim his daughter as the next song starts.

“Papa song!” Jee shouts. Chimney laughs and says,

“That’s right, Papa song!”

Evan lingers for a moment to watch them before he turns toward Tommy. Before he can do much more than that, though, there is the distinct sound of a throat clearing behind Tommy. He himself turns to find Athena there, looking at him with an air of arch expectation.

Sorry, Evan. Tommy does not hesitate, holding out his hand in what he hopes is a debonair contrast to can’t stop won’t stop cruisin.

“May I have this dance?”

“Oh, since you asked.”

He hasn’t seen much of Athena since the cruise ship, where his one attempt at a Sergeant Grant had been met with people who help save my husband’s life call me Athena. So they’re on good terms in general, he knows, and Evan told him all about Bobby giving their relationship his blessing, so it’s not unreasonable to assume he���s in good with Athena there, too.

Still, somehow, he’s suddenly got the feeling he’s - if not on trial per se, then at least under investigation.

“I’m afraid my dancing isn’t quite on your level,” he confesses.

“I’ll take care of that,” Athena tells him. “You just keep up.”

She goes easy enough on him that he picks up her rhythm quickly. He may not be a dedicated dancer, but he is well in tune with his body and knows how to make it do what he wants. He has to, to do half the things he does.

“My first time meeting Bobby isn’t the only first meeting of mine you’ve been there for,” she says. “I met Hen the night of that mudslide.”

Getting right to the point, then. He maintains easy eye contact with her, much as part of him doesn’t want to. Sure, that was the call that got the ball rolling, that had Sal dragging him and O’Connell and a couple others out after shift to talk about how to deal with Gerrard for real, but. It shouldn’t have been. That should have happened sooner. Tommy should have - “I’m afraid I didn’t quite witness that historical moment.”

She studies him for a long moment, then:

“I don’t bring it up to have anything out with you. That’s Hen’s business, if she even decides there’s anything left to bring up.”

“You just wanted to see how I’d react,” Tommy says, because it’s obvious enough.

“Bobby trusts you, and I trust his judgment,” Athena answers. “But now it’s looking like you might be around awhile, I needed to see a little something for myself.”

Helena is fine flashes across his mind and he asks,

“Do I pass?”

“It’s not about passing. It’s about never stopping. And you don’t intend to. It’ll do for now.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” he admits.

“You’ll get there.”

She smiles, and that sense of being investigated evaporates. He realizes a new song has started just seconds before Evan is at their side. Athena steps away from Tommy and turns toward Evan immediately with that same expectation, though tempered now with amusement.

“Athena,” Evan complains, even as he also wastes no time accepting the unspoken request.

“You dragged your man out here, the least you can do is let him get a coffee,” she says.

“Next one,” Tommy tells him, then takes his cue and retreats to the refreshments.

Maddie and Eddie have gone off to dance, but Ravi is still there, now with a coffee cup in one hand and his phone in the other. Tommy sets about pouring and doctoring his own coffee, saying,

“I can probably handle that if you want to get out there for a minute.”

“Chimney specifically said not to let you anywhere near the playlist. I’m fine here, anyway. It’s not really about the dancing.”

“No,” Tommy says, “I suppose not. Evan said something about sending a message to Gerrard?”

“To Gerrard, but to them too.” Ravi nods toward his teammates. “Especially Hen and Chimney. It’s not the early 2000s, or even the ‘10s. It’s 2024. Even with someone backing him up, he can only get away with his crap for so long. He’s not gonna win.”

Tommy takes a swig of his coffee. It tastes like it’s pretty good when it’s fresh. “I’m not sure winning is the point for him.”

Ravi shrugs. “It’s not about him. He doesn’t matter. It’s about us. And we’re gonna leave him in the dust.”

Tommy smiles a little against the rim of his coffee cup. He’d already known, just from listening to Evan, that he’d like Ravi. He had failed to guess how much.

It occurs to him, for the first time since Evan dropped this little bomb, that Gerrard has no idea what he’s up against.

“Damn right,” he says.

They have a moment or two of companionable silence to what sounds to Tommy a lot like a more somber take on “Goodbye, Earl” and which he is absolutely fine with having left for Evan to dance with Athena to. For all his protests, Evan is smiling as he and Athena talk, looking happy and relaxed.

He also lets go of her the millisecond the song fades out, with an unapologetic grin that makes her laugh and swat him on the shoulder, saying, “Go on.”

Tommy sets his half-empty coffee on the table as Evan all but stalks toward him. He’s slightly flushed, eyes on Tommy like he’s the only thing Evan can see, and Tommy is all too glad to be dragged out onto the dance floor.

I never trust a narcissist but they love me So I play ‘em like a violin -

“Wait, this is Taylor Swift?” Tommy asks. “I haven’t heard this in years.”Evan blinks at him, thrown; Tommy smirks, drapes his arms over Evan’s shoulders. “It was playing in every club I went to for a while after I came out,” he says, and drops his voice just for Evan to hear. “I did a lot of grinding to this song.”

Evan, to his delight, smirks right back. “We should probably keep it PG,” he says lowly, “but.” He grabs Tommy’s hips, yanking him closer. “That doesn’t mean we have to leave room for Jesus.”

Fuck. Tommy doesn’t kiss him, because if he did then he might not stop, but he does let his gaze drop to Evan’s mouth, makes sure he knows exactly what Tommy’s thinking.

They say I did something bad Then why’s it feel so good?

It’s a long, breathless, suspended moment, heat rising in the little bit of space between them -

A wadded-up napkin bounces off the side of Evan’s head and Maddie shouts,

“Hey, you two! Nothing you wouldn’t do in front of Jee, because you are actually doing it in front of Jee!”

Evan tries to look huffily annoyed, but he can’t hold it, falling into giggles instead. He leans his forehead against Tommy’s, shifting his hold up and around to Tommy’s back, almost respectable. “Sorry, Maddie!”

“Sorry!” Tommy echoes, not in any way giggling a little himself. “Raincheck?” he asks Evan.

“Holding you to it. Also I’m keeping you to myself now.”

“Not going anywhere,” Tommy promises. He came to support Evan, to have that talk with Eddie, and with both of those taken care of, and his fair share of socializing done (complete with shit to unpack later, or maybe not), he just wants to stay with Evan, keep his mood up for the rest of the allotted hour, help him start his shift in a good mood.

The next few songs wash over them; they don’t bother keeping up with changes in tempo, instead swaying together, breathing each other in. He’s going to take Evan dancing, he thinks distantly. To a club at least once, for some of that grinding, but he’s also gonna ask Bobby and Athena where they go. They’ll know some nice places he won’t have heard of.

He and Evan get about three and a half songs together before another one abruptly cuts in. This is one Tommy knows from his clubbing days, too. He realizes belatedly that he heard a car pull up a few seconds ago.

I don’t like your twisted games Don’t like your tilted stage The role you made me play, of the fool No I don’t like you

Evan snorts, looking over Tommy’s shoulder. “Subtle.”

Tommy reluctantly lets go of him (Evan’s hand slides immediately into his), saying, “A little on the nose,” as he turns, knowing exactly who he’s going to see.

It helps, being braced for it this time instead of blindsided.

Gerrard is staring at their little group with distinct displeasure.

“What,” he says, “is this.”

The questions that aren’t questions and never have a right answer. God, Tommy hated those.

Eddie takes off his sunglasses and hooks them into the front of his shirt, looking at Gerrard like he’s the least interesting thing in the world. It is, somehow, mildly terrifying.

Under better circumstances, it would also be kind of hot, which is not a thought Tommy appreciates having right now.

“Taylor Swift dance party, sir,” Eddie says, with no inflection.

- look what you made me do Look what you made me do

Gerrard stares at him just long enough to make it clear that he will not be dignifying that, or Eddie, with a response.

“Anyone who is not with the 118,” he raises his voice to say, “is free to leave.”

“C’mon, Captain,” Evan says suddenly. Tommy grips his hand a little harder as Gerrard’s attention snaps right to them. “Bobby and Athena brought coffee and pastries. There’s still time if you want to grab yourself something, maybe join us?”

It sounds like he’s sucking up; the sarcastic way Gerrard’s mouth tilts says that’s what he’s hearing. But he doesn’t know Evan. He doesn’t know that what it really is is an olive branch, because of course it is, of course Evan is offering him a chance to change his mind even as he knows it’s just going to get smacked away, because who would Evan be if he didn’t try?

Tommy -

Tommy looks at him, his profile and his birthmark and his sincerity, and loves him.

Loves him, loves Evan, and what a moment to realize that.

He doesn’t hear whatever Gerrard has to say in response, just sees Evan’s expression fall, and eases his hold on Evan’s hand so he can give it a gentle squeeze.

Evan squeezes back, and Tommy can’t look away from him.

“- nard. Kinard.”

“Tommy!” Bobby’s voice from across the lot cuts through the pink static, allowing Tommy to wrench his gaze from Evan. He blinks. He’d forgotten, just for a second or two, that Gerrard was here.

Gerrard does not look pleased to have been forgotten.

“Besides,” he says, glancing briefly at their joined hands, “Pawed-over leftovers, when I have a pretty good idea of where some of your hands have been?”

I’m sorry, the old Taylor can’t come to the phone right now Why? Oh - ‘cause she’s dead

“Think about that much?” Tommy didn’t mean to say that, didn’t even know he was going to speak. He shouldn’t have, not when he’s not the one who’s going to pay for it.

He’s having a hard time caring right now (look what you made me do).

Gerrard’s glare narrows in on him.

“Unless you’re here to ask me to talk to your captain about a transfer, Kinard, you don’t belong here anymore.”

“Tommy.” Bobby again, behind him this time, hand delivering a warning squeeze to his shoulder. “Got time for breakfast before your shift? ‘Thena and I would love you to join us.”

Tommy gives himself a mental shake.

“Yeah. Thanks, Cap, that sounds great.” He turns to Evan. “Thanks for inviting me,” he says, sounding mostly normal. Probably. “I had a great time.”

Evan smiles. Tommy doesn’t want to go to breakfast or to Harbor. Tommy wants to bundle Evan back into his car and take him home.

“Me too.” Evan leans in and kisses his temple. It’s not enough, but fine; they don’t really need Gerrard expiring of a heart attack on the spot. “I’ll text you after my shift.”

“Okay,” Tommy says. Even closer to normal this time. Reluctantly letting go of Evan’s hand. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Evan looks a little like he did after Tommy kissed him that first time. Less poleaxed, but shining with -

God, Tommy’s screwed.

[sethredia]

got a minor yelling-at at work today, and my Logical brain is like "you did a lazy and your boss said dont do that again please, just dont do that again and you'll be fine, she likes you and the rest of the staff likes you too, and it was like a first offense and even if something were to happen your boss would talk to you about it first and you could make a case"

whereas my Anxiety brain is like "the next time i see my boss she is going to fire me and then im not going to be able to help pay bills because i cant drive so my available job application pool is super small and this was the only job in like three months that would call me back and it pays over minimum wage for really not a lot of work so me not doing the work today is SO BAD IM GOING TO LOSE MY JOB"

like yes my boss was a lil curt when she came in and was like "why arent you Doing Things" and sent me home a half hour early (le gasp (some things you see online as a youth stay with you forever even if they are as silly as le gasp)) but theres a difference between "im already sort of annoyed because i have to cover a shift tonight instead of being home with my family, and here i walk in to find an otherwise pretty-good-at-her-job employee doing nothing in the office" and "OH MY GOD IM SO ANGRY IM GOING TO FIRE HER" because hey. self. i love you. if she was that upset about it, it would have happened there in the moment.

anyway this has been popping up in my mind and hanging out like a physical weight on(in?) my chest since it happened and the internet says to journal about it if you think about the thing youre dwelling on for *checks article* more than three minutes??? which is an insanely short amount of time imho but like its been Several Hours so like. write it down i am doing. here. now. yay?

the other thing is i never do this on literally any other shift other than the ones i have with this one very specific coworker because she is. The Worst. like the vast majority of other people who work at this place are teenagers. its very much a high-school-first-job sort of work space that im stuck in because again it was the only place that would offer me a job that wasnt blatantly skirting what is and is not legal (i literally walked out, shaking, of a previous job interview after going "hey if youre not paying me to do this thing that is literally job training, this is illegal" and the manager laughed awkwardly like "no its an audition!" and i was like "you are literally showing me how to use the registers. this is an unpaid training, im Leaving"). anyway all this to say is that most of my coworkers are legal children. and this whole ass adult. like twenty-six and married adult woman. comes in and yells at my child coworker over not getting a call back about the application she put in. to the point where said child co-worker of mine comes back to the office where i was counting down my cash drawer before going home for the day, and calls her a cunt. and like i have never heard this girl say so much as crap before and we had a conversation when we first met if she was comfortable with me cursing around her because i would like to at least try to be conscientious about that sort of thing and she was like "you can say whatever, i just prefer not to while im at work" so i was like "oh my god"

AND THEN MY MANAGER HIRED HER??? FULLY AWARE THIS HAPPENED!!! so yeah already not a fan because someone who is willing to verbally berate a child is not what i would consider to be a good job candidate. but on top of all of that, she refuses to take any direction on how to do things. like we had to talk to her three different times about knife safety because its a kitchen, we have to cut things, therefore, sharp knives. sticking a knife in the sink and walking away is a Big Problem and she just wouldn't own up to the fact she was the one doing it (a recurring theme when someone is like "hey did you do x"). she also (theoretically. none of us except the store manager believes her) worked at a Much Smaller location in a different state that did things differently than we do because,,, thats sort of par for the course? there are similarities across franchises but things are going to be done differently in different places, that just Makes Sense. but because of this she just refuses to accept that things work differently here because 1. we do more business than that store (the place i work is the most visited store in our district) and 2. our store just does some stuff differently.

she also, before being hired, wanted 60??? SIXTY??? hours a week. in this economy????? bitch what are you ON about. sixty fucking hours a week. so because she had (again theoretically) past managerial experience at this tiny store in a different state, my manager who was desperate to have time to do more store overhead stuff and have time to see her husband and children, she hired this woman and is giving her as close to forty hours a week as she can. this has, in turn, shafted mine and everyone else's hours quite severely. like i went from like thirty hours a week to maybe fifteen if im lucky. its absurd and like i need this job to have money for things and for all the above listed reasons i cant just leave and tbh i dont really want to because it is fairly easy and its a rare food service job that is tips on top of wages, not tips as a part of wages, so thats like super nice but man. i dont like this new woman whos technically also my manager now but who i super duper dont respect at all.

hence. not. doing anything while she was on register at the front of house. and just. sitting. listening to a podcast. in the office. only for my manger to get in and go "hey. dont do this again. please go home now" which i feel bad about because i like her but i dont like the other lady and really dont want to have her have an easy time doing things. which is mean and petty and frankly childish but god damn it i dont think she should have been hired in the first place. also if we can get her to quit or be fired, one of my high school coworkers i like is turning eighteen and will be promoted into her job at the end of the school year and that would be better for literally all involved parties.

anyway. all of this to say. i cant imagine my manager will ever see this but like if you do. please know, i like you and i respect you and i know being in charge is hard and i do genuinely feel bad about today and i will try to stay engaged from now on but also You Know Who sucks so bad and i hate her genuinely and i do think you should fire her and promote said high school kid in her stead.

i think i do feel better now? like i know ill still think about this for like the next Several Days unless i talk to my manager about it the next time i see her but again. logically. it was a whoopsie that i will endeavor to not do again. however. my anxiety is a really big fan of catastrophizing and whoo boy is it putting in the work today gang. fun fact: i have problems falling asleep a lot because im haunted by the idea that my parents could die in the night and i would never get to speak/hang out/whatever with them ever again. i also worry about that to some level like 90% of the time when my dad is at work for. my anxiety and i are not friends and that coupled with my parents Aging and being in not-the-best health (like not Bad but not, y'know, Spectacular) means that sleepy-bye time is a Rough Time for yours truly. really just any time im forced to be alone with my thoughts for one reason or another

[madafact]

looking back to push on

i have always felt that i was the black sheep of the family.

a bunch of italian names, and then the irish one comes out. no we're not irish and have no roots there. it was just a thing....

furthermore showing me that intention was never assigned to my life, kind of just like a left overs baby. ehh, give em whatever is left over.

anthony got named after family, i got named after someone in the news.

wow

even when i bring up this example, it does not land, in fact its another one of those, 'you see the worst in everything' situations. i have always been the debbie downer. the david downer, the brendon bummer. on my birth certificate my name is spelled brendan. but i was told my name is brendon.

i pursued my discomfort around my absent mom early in my 20's. this led me to so many realizations about myself and the setting i was raised in. lots of blame, lots of shame, lots of suicide, lots of misery.

i was institutionalized at age 8 for suicidal thoughts and "actions'

can an 8 year old load a gun? not if we strap them down and isolate them. thanks terrie.

so i have always felt out of place, the accident child, the one who kind of just pushed his way in. gregg my father likes to bring up the fact i was a 'cocaine baby'

meaning i was born withdrawling from coke and still he thinks my mom wasnt an addict or even a source of difficulty for my life or how i function in it.

he literally brought it up during a commemorative speech for anthony at a local dinner with friends, you should have seen their reactions and what they said afterward? "why the fuck did he bring that up" thanks gregg.

so we are here, the chosen son is gone, i heard at dinner tonight that the masters family died with anthony as i am incapable of having kids i guess. again, dont trust the accident child.

this is all after i spent the last ten plus years trying to fix the situtation of the family mistrust and blah blah blah.

lynne passed away and i became the center for the rage, guilt and shame that had previously been reserved for her. i was told i was an arrogant prick trying to steal assets and take everything for myself.

this is after i offered 100k for paying down the mortgage.

"this is my asset, you got yours now leave mine alone' thanks gregg

but i am here, in a space that i planned for. i saw the writing on the wall, given my future and well being, these people would throw me under the bus for their own gain and satisfaction.

i bought a van, built it out, got a dog, and said goodbye. i had a disclaim of inheretence all set up and ready to be notarized that would have made anthony greggs only heir. but i waited, something told me it wasnt the right time.

now the accident child gets it all, and that is not okay, so it all must be destroyed. thats where we are.

gregg is convinced i am the problem and he uses a victim mentality to squash any ability to have insight into his role.

he sits there while being regaled of anthonys struggle and not an ounce of realization comes out that he was the example that anthony learned to follow. not him, never, it was lynne and terrie, and me. me, 3 years younger caused all the discomfort and deceit that lead anthony down this path of self destruction.

so this is where i am at. i am grabbing my dog, taking van and going to do what i planned. gregg and terrie can fight eachother to death, destroy the houe and all the 'family assets' and thats just what it is

i knew this was coming. my journals are proof. i have physical proof that my mind wasnt going crazy, but actually seeing things as they were.

why would i trust people who have never had my well being in mind?

its always been about them, what the could gain, how they could benefit, and anyone else be dammed. i was smart enough to read the writing on the wall. and here is comes.

thanks for the lesson anthony.