#maybe they were at some point maybe they were always different. who knows with all those time shenanigans

[writingwithgeoffrey]

You stared down at the crisp twenty-dollar bill. It was the nicest one you’d ever seen, and you’d seen plenty of them in your time on this earth. Why, just looking at this one, you could remember them all.

The old lady who gave you twenty dollars to save her cat. You recalled fondly how it gave you the power of flight—even if temporary.

The young man who gave you twenty dollars to hang a proposal sign off the side of a building. Learning how to stick to walls and climb them was exhilarating.

Then there was that time the government gave you twenty bucks just to fix a water treatment plant. Swimming around in waste was disgusting, but the money had given you the ability to breathe underwater and resist the horrid stench.

You didn’t know how your power worked, but you didn’t really care. Twenty bucks was twenty bucks, and you honestly liked helping people out. The smiles on their faces, the joyful reunions between owners and pets, the ability to bring fun … That was why you were a hero. Sure, you could’ve been doing multiple smaller odd jobs for the money, but why bother?

This job, however, was the literal definition of getting the most bang for your buck.

“I’m sorry, what?” You’d been so distracted by the newness of the bill that you hadn’t been paying attention. The government guy across from you seemed on edge. As he should’ve been, you thought. They’re always desperate when they come to me.

��There’s an asteroid coming right for us. We’ve tried everything in our power to stop it.”

“Nukes?”

The guy nodded.

“How about a team of drillers trained to fly in space so they can plant a bomb?”

The guy scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, we tried that.”

“What about taking the problem and pushing it somewhere else?”

“Tried that, too.” The guy got upset. “Look, are you gonna take the money and do your job, or do I have to take that back?”

If there was one thing you were defensive about, it was someone taking away your twenties. You’d grown quite a varied collection over the years, and this one would’ve made a great centerpiece.

“No,” you said as you pocketed the bill. “So, what? You just need me to stop the asteroid?” Already, you were excited to find out what powers you’d get. What would possibly help you stop an asteroid?

“Preferably destroy it so that it doesn’t return on a destructive arc.”

“Right. Destroy it. You looked up toward the night sky, where a faint glow was visible far off in the distance. You pointed at it. “That it?”

“Do your thing, sir.”

You took in a deep breath, moved a few steps away on the off chance your powers developed poorly, and leaped into the sky. Your vertical jump had always been horrible without powers, and this time was no different. You hardly made it a foot off the ground!

“Okay. No flight. How about …”

You stared intently in the direction of the asteroid, remembering that one time you’d gotten laser eyes to help someone slice up a watermelon. You just ended up looking like a fool with constipation.

“Okay.” You began to grow nervous. This was the longest it’d taken for your powers to develop. “Maybe this?”

You held your fist out front, hoping you’d gotten some kind of light-projection powers, like that one time when you’d used them as an umbrella and someone had called you Green Lantern. Nothing came out.

“Uh-oh.”

“What’s wrong?”

You glanced at the government guy, trying to hide your lack-of-powers. “N-nothing! Just, you know, building up suspense.” You let out a nervous laugh, then hunched over your balled up fists. “Come on,” you hissed at them. “Work.”

You clenched, focused all the energy in your body, felt it build up, and then you farted.

“Oh, come on!”

By this point, the asteroid was close enough that it was beginning to illuminate the world like the moon would.

“Anytime now, sir!” the government guy said.

You whirled on him. “It’s not my fault! You gave me twenty dollars! It should be easy for me! I should be able to solve this problem with a snap of my fingers!”

You snapped your fingers for effect. The sound of a bell tolling rang out across the world. It echoed in your skull, reverberated through your entire body, treated you like an amplifier for the universe’s will.

Then, the light cut out. You glanced over your shoulder, but there was no asteroid to see. The world was normal, too. There was nothing wrong with the city or the people who lived in it.

“Did … did you do it?”

You gawked as you stared up at the empty night sky. Well, not empty, there were still stars and the moon, but the threat was gone.

“Um … I guess.”

The government guy stood beside you, similarly shocked by the revelation, then pulled an envelope from his pocket. “Well.” He gulped and turned to face you. “On behalf of the world’s governments, this is for you.”

You took the envelope, broke the seal, and looked inside. “Aw, sick. Twenty bucks!”

You're a hero with a weird name: "Anything for $20." You gain the ability to do anything, as long as you're offered $20. Everyone takes it as a joke, until one day there's a cataclysm, and someone offers you $20 to end it.

[lexiputellas]

Broken Vows

part2 - mdni

June 12th. Laundry day.

The monstrous, all-consuming, never-ending laundry day.

You remember when laundry was as simple as dropping off a bag of clothes at the dry cleaner and picking it up a few days later, crisp and fresh. That was before. Before life became an endless cycle of dirty socks, misplaced jerseys, and sheets that always seemed to need changing.

You start in Nora’s room. Nora, who is what some might call "spirited" but what you would call an absolute tornado. She plays football, like Alexia, but in terms of clothes, she is nothing like her mother. Alexia is meticulous. Methodical. Everything folded in perfect squares, socks matched like puzzle pieces. Nora? Chaos incarnate. At one point, you even wondered if she had ADHD, but then again, navigating a six-year-old’s mind is harder than you ever anticipated.

You strip the bed, replace the sheets, and move to Iris’s room.

The moment you step inside, a memory crashes over you. You and Alexia painting the walls, carefully placing the crib, folding tiny baby clothes. You were so pregnant with Iris that you joked about rolling around instead of walking. So big, so round, so full of expectation. But the reality was different. Harder.

You cried while feeding her, your nipples raw and bleeding. Your body didn’t feel like your own, you were right on the edge—so close to falling into postpartum depression that you still wonder if you actually did. Just a breath away from giving up.

But that was then. And today, you refuse to dwell on it.

You move to your bedroom, stripping the sheets, gathering Alexia’s clothes from the bathroom floor. You wash them the way she likes—because, of course, Alexia has a very specific way she likes things done. You are halfway through making the bed when her phone slips off the mattress, landing right on your foot.

Pain explodes up your feet.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you hiss, grabbing your foot before bending down to retrieve the damn thing.

You think about texting one of the girls, letting them know Alexia left her phone at home. But as you glance at the screen, a name catches your eye.

Eva.

There are several messages. You shouldn't look. You know that. You know it’s wrong. But the urge is overwhelming.

Who the fuck is Eva?

Your heart pounds as your fingers hover over the screen. You know Alexia’s passcode. It used to be your birthday, then hers, then Nora’s. You try and it works, the messages open.

It’s not a long conversation. Not pages and pages, just a few days’ worth. But it’s enough.

*Where are you? I’m worried.*

*Did your wife give you a hard time for getting home late?*

You didn’t. You pretended to be asleep when Alexia climbed into bed last night.

*When will I see you again?*

Your stomach twists. Maybe Eva is just a friend. A close one, maybe even a best friend. But deep down, you know. You fucking know. Before you can stop yourself, your fingers move.

You type back, pretending to be Alexia.

*Last night was good.*

You hit send. Your heart is pounding.

It takes barely a moment for Eva to reply.

*Oh, just fine, yeah?* she asks, her words dripping with a quiet, simmering edge of something darker.

*Was it just good when you fucked me against the balcony?* she adds, that sharp edge now unmistakable, laced with a daring smirk you can almost hear.

You freeze. Your pulse spikes, the room spinning around you. The words blur. The world tilts.

Alexia fucked someone else.

Eva.

Eva, who?

Eva, the reason she stopped coming home for dinner?

Eva, the reason she stopped tucking the girls into bed?

Eva, the reason she started giving up on you?

The name pounds inside your skull like a drum, like a fucking rock concert reverberating through your entire being. You can’t breathe. You can’t fucking breathe.

You drop to the floor, staring up at the ceiling, hot tears pricking at your eyes.

Is Eva prettier than you? Does she fuck better than you? Is she hotter? Funnier? Nicer?

You don’t know what to do. You don’t even know how to exist in this moment.

A cry pulls you back.

Iris.

You forgot you left her in her playpen.

You wipe your tears, stand up, and go to her. She snuggles into your arms, warm and safe. You hold her close, pressing your lips against her tiny forehead, and think—What the fuck am I going to do?

———————————————

7 PM. Dinner is ready.

You always wait until 7:30 to see if Alexia is coming home. You text Jana, telling her Alexia left her phone behind. Jana just says, Okay.

Alexia arrives on time. Kit still on, hair in a messy bun, looking every bit like the woman you fell in love with. She comes straight to you, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before heading to the girls, lifting them onto the kitchen counter as they sing along to something on the iPad.

She asks where her phone is.

"Upstairs," you say.

She kisses the girls again before heading up.

You had deleted the messages. Every single one. You’re not stupid.

When she comes back, phone in hand, she helps you set the table. You sit next to Iris, feeding her small bites, while Alexia chats with Nora. It feels normal. Eerily normal. Almost like the past.

You eat Dinner. Do the dishes. Put Nora to bed and Alexia tucks in Iris.

After being done you go to your bedroom, with an idea in mind.

Alexia is already there, sitting against the headboard, scrolling through her phone.

"You know what I was thinking?" you say.

She hums without looking up. "Hmm?"

"I got something for you. Want to see it?"

Her head tilts. She looks intrigued.

You haven’t bought or worn lingerie in years. Not since you stopped feeling like the woman who used to leave Alexia breathless. But you still have some—tucked away in the back of your closet, hidden like a past life.

"What it is? Show me," she says.

You step into the bathroom, slipping into the black lace. It hugs every curve, pushes up your breasts, makes you look almost unfamiliar to yourself. You barely recognize yourself.

But when you step out, Alexia does.

She stares.

Not just a glance—she looks at you like she used to, like she’s seeing something she forgot she could have. Like you’ve just stolen the air from her lungs.

Her phone slips from her fingers, forgotten.

You crawl onto her lap, slow, deliberate, feeling the heat radiating from her body the moment your thighs settle over hers.

Her hands move without hesitation—roaming, squeezing, claiming. Her breath is heavier, her fingers digging into your hips, trailing up your sides, gripping your waist like she’s trying to memorize you all over again.

"Fuck, baby," she murmurs, her lips dragging over your throat, her voice thick, ruined. "You look so fucking hot."

Her fingers move lower, tracing the lace, teasing the edge of the fabric. You roll your hips against her, slow and smooth, watching the way her jaw tenses, the way her fingers twitch against your skin.

She groans, low and guttural, her hands sliding up your back, over your shoulders, down your arms—like she needs to touch every inch of you. Her lips trail lower, hot and open-mouthed, sucking bruises into your collarbone, your breast, dragging her teeth over lace-covered skin.

Her hands are on your thighs, spreading you, guiding you against her. You grind down, chasing something desperate, moving against her fingers the second they find you—slick, eager, drowning in want. Her breath hitches as she pushes inside, stretching you, filling you.

Your forehead drops against hers, your breathing uneven, your body trembling. It’s messy. It’s hungry. It’s not enough.

And then—

You lean in, your lips ghosting over the shell of her ear, and whisper—

"Does Eva fuck like I do?"

Everything stops.

Alexia’s hands freeze inside you, her breath catching in her throat.

She pulls back just enough to see your face, her brows furrowing, her eyes flashing with something dark, something uncertain, something dangerously close to breaking.

She looks at you like she doesn’t understand.

Like she doesn’t want to understand.

You smile.

"Yeah, Alexia," you whisper, voice sharp, taunting, twisting the knife. "I’m not fucking blind."

[enhani-ki]

idk if you're open to it but i feel like you'd give a good representation of writing ni-ki anyway! can you make a story of him falling in love with a male reader? like its just hits him out of the blue and baam ... he likes *a* guy .. crazy stuff!

love all your works to the fullest!! 💕

double take - male!reader x ni-ki

warnings: a little suggestive, cursing, etc.

the sun was just starting to set. it casted long shadows over your small town as you made your way towards the gathering at ni-ki's house.

his dad had invited your family over, just like old times. the whole neighborhood was going wild because after all, it wasn't every day that nishimura riki, the kid who used to play hide and seek with you, racing you to the vending machine, and played video games with you until your thumbs ached, just came back after years of living in Korea.

you had heard bits and pieces about his life through your parents, but you never really reached out.

what would you even say? "bro, remember when we used to dance together?" you doubted he had time for nostalgia, not when he had debuted as an idol, traveling the world, and living the dream he always wanted.

still, his dad's invitation left you no choice. and part of you was a little bit… curious.

he was taller, way waaay taller. you knew you had grown too, but next to him? you weren't sure if it was enough to count.

his once soft cute features had sharpened. he's got more defined jawline now and his nose got even more pointy, and despite everything, he still looked easygoing, laughing shyly as family friends and neighbors showered him with compliments.

does he even recognize you?

his eyes met yours and you looked away, not really sure why.

"hey, y/n!" he called out with his now deep voice, lifting his hand to dap you up just like old times.

ni-ki clasped your hand and pulled you into a firm hug. and he's so strong now too.

"hey," laughed awkwardly. "i guess you're ni-ki now?"

"you know i'm just riki." he smiled, scratching the back of his neck again.

you felt a little relieved, maybe he hadn't changed too much.

the two of you stepped aside and started catching up. a little strange at first but the conversation picked up quickly as you both tried to bring up old memories and filling all the years you had missed.

and at some point, he sighed resting his head on your shoulder without warning.

"i'm so tired from the flight," he murmured.

your body tensed.

you felt relieved again knowing he's still comfortable with you but you also felt nervous

because he probably didn't notice… but you like guys now.

i mean, you always did.

and to ni-ki's defense, he was just always like this too, he became comfortable with physical touch especially with guys after years of being surrounded by his group members.

the next day, you were walking through the neighborhood talking about some dumb story from middle school when, out of nowhere, his arm draped over your shoulders.

ni-ki was smiling, listening to you while looking ahead. "man, i miss this place," he said, completely oblivious to how stiff you had just gone.

"y-yeah," you replied, forcing yourself to act normal.

and it made sense that he wouldn't think twice about casually leaning on you or wrapping his arms around your shoulders,

or pulling you close during a game.

"let's see how good you are." ni-ki said, dribbling the ball between his legs, smirking smugly before passing you the ball, like he know he's about to win.

he was on you again, guarding so close. his body pressed against yours, chest to back, arms spreading wide as he tried to block your movements that you could feel the heat radiating off of him, the way his breath came fast and uneven... just like yours.

and your heart was already racing from running around, now it feels like it's going to burst out for a completely different reason.

it's okay, focus. just play.

you tried to step back but ni-ki was right there and he was just so fucking big. his hands kept trying to swipe at the ball.

you moved fast because you were too distracted, and-

foul.

you had practically shoved into him, and he stumbled slightly, blinking at you in surprise.

"whew," ni-ki said and laughed, still panting. "you play dirty like that?"

"sh-shut up," you muttered, reaching for the ball again to distract yourself.

and then in a desperate attempt to shake off whatever this was, you threw it at the hoop with way too much force that the ball smacked against backboard so hard it ricocheted off and bounced into the grass.

"…bro."

"i'm sorry! you're just... too close."

he walked towards you and patted your head. "my bad, sorry."

later, you had just stepped out of the shower. the steam were still clinging to your skin as you ran a towel through your damp hair. the only thing covering you was the towel wrapped loosely around your waist, while water droplets sliding down your chest.

you weren't expecting company.

which is why you froze the moment you saw ni-ki in on your bed, strumming nonsense on your guitar.

both of you just stared at each other with wide eyes. the silence was probably thick enough to choke on.

and ni-ki? he should've been used to this, right? because after all he lives with six guys, sharing dorms, and seeing shirtless bodies all the time.

this shouldn't feel different.

his eyes flicked down just a quick second before he turning his head to the side.

you gripped your towel tighter, "what the hell are you doing in my room?"

"i-" he swallowed, still refusing to look at you. "i was waiting for you."

"In my bed?"

ni-ki groaned, rolling onto his stomach, wishing he could just disappear into the mattress. "we were supposed to go spy on the date, remember?"

his sister's going on a date tonight and he convinced you to go with him because he needs "something" he could find so he can use it against her later.

such a little brother.

but yeah, you did agree to that.

you sighed, running a hand through your damp hair. "you could've knocked."

"i thought you were done..."

your fingers curled around the edge of your towel with your heart still beating a little too fast.

and ni-ki, while still half-buried in your bed, exhaled a breath and peeked at you from the corner of his eye then quickly, he shut his eyes and groaned into your pillow.

"put some clothes on."

"yea- yeah," you muttered, already turning away. "good idea."

"…you're killing me here."

it was late, way past midnight, and he was lying on your bedroom floor, staring at the ceiling.

you were on your bed, already half-asleep, but still mumbling about how he could've just gone home instead of insisting on staying over.

he said it was easier this way, he said he didn't feel like walking.

but he just doesn't want to leave.

you rolled onto your side, your arm dangled off the bed, and your hand peeked over the edge, right in front of his eyes.

he swallowed before reaching out. he let his fingertips ghost over the back of your hand, touching and tracing the lines of your skin.

then your hand twitched.

and ni-ki can't help but intertwine his fingers with yours.

you stirred awake, mumbling groggily. "that's not a ghost, right?"

ni-ki let out a breathy chuckle. "it's me, dumbass."

your heart ached at his touch, biting your lip as you curled your fingers tighter around his.

"...come up here."

next day, you stood next to him. ni-ki didn't know but he was staring, reaally staring because he was.

your head barely reached his shoulder as you walk together, he also had to slow his steps just so you wouldn't fall behind. and when you stretched to reach something high, it was instinct for him to reach over and grab it for you.

it made him smile.

he didn't even realize he was smiling until you turned to him, brow raised.

"what?" you asked, giving him a weird look.

"no- nothing."

and you weren't convinced. "no, seriously, why are you looking at me like that?"

he shrugged, tilting his head slightly. "just… you're kinda small, huh?"

you blinked at him. "no, i'm not?"

ni-ki chuckled before leaning close to your face, "yeah, i bet you are."

he said it like he was challenging you or something.

your jaw dropped, stopping in your tracks as he continued walking. "what the hell?"

you glared at his back before quickly catching up, grabbing his arm and pulling it over your shoulders, forcing him closer.

ni-ki stiffened for a second. his heart were stuttering, but he gave in easily too, pressing a quick kiss to your head, before resting his head on top of yours.

"don't react."

a/n: thank you so much for showing love! it keeps me going.

also this is my first time writing ni-ki and male!reader pairing, so glad this was requested! ><

i know i should've leaned more towards him falling for the reader but i also feel like it wouldn't really be a big surprise to him because it's you/him, the reader.

i actually wanted to make them strangers instead of already knowing each other then i also saw a video (the video attached below) where ni-ki was singing the song double take by dhruv during live and omg i just got so inspired by it lol!

hope you like it! <3

マスターリストm.list

taglist 𖤘: @dolliewon @ziiao

[vaugely10]

AGHEUAGHAO9HGO9 PIRATE AU!

Maybe I missed something, idk, but you mentioned the divorce quartet in another ask (not by me btw) and I was wondering why each of them are up for bounty? Are they all pirates, or did they each commit different crimes? Like, Cleo as an arsonist or Scott organizing large scale heists or something?

Love this concept and very excited for if/when you make this a fic if you haven't already

the divorce quartet were all apart of a pirate crew together, although each had a history of crime before meeting each other.

cleo and scott were always a pair, committing petty crimes at first, simply to get by in life, which eventually escalated to major raids of navy bases and burning down ships and hideouts of rival pirate crews. they are the ones to invite martyn and pearl to the crew, who each had quite the infamy as well.

martyn definitely has the least bounty compared to the others, but that doesn't mean it's not high. the only reason it's lower than his fellow crewmates is because he's just very good at not getting caught, so the navy can only pin him on so many crimes.

pearl's crimes are...complicated. yes, she does commit them, she would tell you that herself. however!! she didn't commit all of them. she, at first, only did what she had to. steal some bread here..take a sword there..which, nobody caught her doing, and if they did catch her, shes fast enough at running, so it's all fine..fast forward a few years of "borrowing" food, it seems that someone in her town has robbed the community bank, but not like she had any gold in that bank in the first place, so it's all good..

except when the townsfolk start pointing fingers at her. people calling her evil, telling her "how could she," how she had her whole life ahead of her, telling the navy they saw her there..which, she wasn't there!! she doesn't know how to pick locks!! or how to rob a bank!!! but it doesn't matter, because people know she's been taking, and borrowing, and all the other things people like her need to do to survive. and people like her don't get a say in these things. so, from then on, shes decided if people are going to make her out to be this bad person, shes going to give them a real reason to think she's a bad person. so, during the dead of night, as the moon is at its peak, she sets the whole town ablaze. she steals a ship, and sails as far as the wind will take her, hoping the sea can drown out her sins.

and, on the topic of a fic, i don't actually plan on writing one. i enjoy writing dialogue, however im not very good at all the other things that come with writing a story, so ill be exploring the au through comics and illustrations :-)

[katerinaaqu]

Lol where did I say anyone's opinions is less than another's for that matter? Actually that is literally what you said to me. That my opinion doesn't matter because someone else had that opinion. And I also love the "I am not afraid to" like I feel honored you think someone would be "afraid of me" but that was never part of my profile to begin with lol. No one said you cannot say your opinions. Ironically you came and say to me that my opinion is off. I mention my ethnicity because of your comment about how Greeks look like and I said that I believe I qualify very much to say how Greeks look like. That is not an opinion that is a fact.

I am pretty sure you are being confused. Greeks are europeans. If akin color is not race (which I agre you can find variants to each race group if one can use that) but my comment just in case it escaped you was to show exactly that when you show different ethnicities that also belong to different races or ethnic groups it should be commendable from all sides. And I as a Greek person know that Greeks come in all different shades within the European spectrum. Not in every shade as to every continent in the world. Of we talk about ethnically Greeks that is. If we talk about people with greek nationality that belong to different ethnic groups of course they are as greek as I am nationally but ethnically speaking Greeks are europeans. People in Africa come in many different shades as well. That doesn't mean that I will hire a Scottish looking person to play an African deity nor will I make a historical film about South Africa or Zimbabwe by hiring people from nowadays predominantly white communities just because they are born and raised in Africa for hundreds of years. The same with Greeks. Greeks were moving around in Africa AND Asia. That doesn't give me the right to cast ethnically Greeks to play ethnically African or Asian people just because "different shades" it just looks wrong. And I would absolutely agree to anyone opposing such a bizarre notion.

Like I said the people that I talked with didn't enjoy it. They mocked it. And again I love it how literally double standards is the reason why you attack me in the first place. That for some reason out of the entire bunch voting here it was MY COMMENT about MY CHOICE that erupted this reaction from you or the other commenter but lol

Okay there were a bunch of people who enjoyed racist movies of the past about Africa as well. Does that make whitewashing of Africa right? Of course not. People disrespected the Egyptian history for ages and yet people enjoyed it. Does that mean we shouldn't make it right? Of course not also Greeks laughed at the inaccuracies for a long time and there is always a breaking point for everything or when someone says "maybe it is starting to get too much" the same way that Greeks also complaint about how North European actors are being constantly hired to play greek figures as well. They liked it once they liked it twice but after decades and decades it became annoying and disrespectful.

And I understand and appreciate your opinion but again if it is not so important then why won’t you let people who DO care speak their mind on them and again I wasn't even speaking on the artist whom as I said I deeply appreciate their style and the way they offer effort to the art and all. If it is not important then why did you step in? Again I insulted no one. In fact people came for me with the will to attack me and they have attacked me before for having an opinion for my own culture and its representation and never have I implied that my opinion is the universal truth or truth for all Greeks etc.

I disagree. Like I said Greek gods to me are better depicted as Greeks wanted them to get depicted. The same that Egyptian gods should be as Egyptian wanted them depicted Indian gods should be as Indians wanted them depicted and so on and so forth so the idea that there is no such thing as accuracy to me is wrong. But as I said before that is my opinion.

Redesigned my Athena.

[tanadrin]

I see the points people are making that “addiction” is maybe not the ideal model to discuss this, but I also am very sympathetic to the idea that some people have problems with compulsive porn/masturbation to the point that it’s detrimental for them. I’d never claim there’s a chemical dependency as in, eg, smoking or cocaine use or something.

We need a simple word for “habit that has negative effects on my life, but which I don’t seem to have the self-control to eliminate”. Calling it addiction was/is supposed to encourage efforts to help people stop, but all it’s seemed to do is spawn the growth of weird evangelical 12-step programs for being horny.

I want to be horny, if anything, I’d like to be much *more* horny, that’s why I’m trying to quit watching porn.

for reference (and why this is on anon) I’ve probably jerked off 1-3 times a day, every day, for like 10 years, this isn’t a case of catholic guilt over mild sexual behavior. I have a very hard time staying aroused, I have a hard time even getting aroused, and I have a hard time finishing without fairly intense stimulation. If I take 1-2 weeks off of porn (challenge level, nearly impossible) I see improvements in these areas.

Several years ago, I made it almost 6 weeks, and by the end of it, I was firing on all cylinders like I was 19 again. Sadly, it apparently wasn’t the sole issue. I went to the club, picked up a woman, I got hard when we were dancing, I got hard when we were making out outside the bar, but when we were in my car and she put her hand on me, my guy was nowhere to be found. She went home by herself, I went home and was so horny I was able to get 110% hard and jerk off purely from my mind. Idk where that energy was when it counted, sadly.

Weirdly, taking a break from orgasming but continuing to watch porn often actually makes it worse. I tried edging for 8-10 days once, and by the end of it, I could barely get hard for my favorite types of video.

I’m in my late 20s now, and I know some things slow down, but I thought I was still a bit young for this type of thing. The problem is that I just can’t stop scrolling porn on twitreddit. When I’m bored, porn, when I’m lonely, porn, when I’m anxious, porn (and I’m anxious a lot).

A few months ago, I made it a week, and I was buzzing and confident, but then I backslid and went back to my old habits. It was nice while it lasted, I’d deeply missed feeling that little twitch of arousal from a random thought or from flirting with a pretty stranger. I feel neutered these days, there’s no hunger anymore.

I don’t think I’m anti-sex, really. I’ve only felt guilt from casual or relationship sex a couple of times, and my guilt from masturbation has more to do with frustration that I know it’s bad for me than with some idea of moral inferiority.

sorry if this is insane.

I really just want to stop watching porn so I can try to start dating or sleeping with people again, not much point when I’m 97% afraid my cock won’t work. It might not medically be an addiction, but for me it’s definitely a self-destructive habit.

sounds like a bunch of different things going on here. for one habituating yourself to a very specific kind of stimulus can make it hard to get off in other ways--one approach that seems to work for some people who are in a similar boat (especially men who are used to jerking off with a firm grip) is to vary how you masturbate, use different kinds of stimulus, and learn to come in other ways. masturbation provides a very close feedback loop between stimulus and response, in a way that is always going to be very different from partnered sex--most people who masturbate regularly can make them come much more quickly that way, even if they find, in absolute terms, sex with a partner to be much more pleasurable.

(an important component in re-habituating yourself like that is not to fall back on the technique that works when you get frustrated and can't come, which is why it can be difficult for some people to manage)

separately from this, having trouble maintaining an erection with a new partner is also a thing lots of men report, regardless of how much porn they look at--sometimes you get nervous! it's easy to get nervous with a new partner! this is why god invented oral sex and fingering. that kind of picking-up-a-stranger-at-a-club casual sex works well for some people, but it sure doesn't work for everybody. and because arousal and erections are heavily dependent on state of mind, being nervous about being able to get an erection can, unfortunately, make it harder to get and maintain an erection. so there's a feedback loop there that can be pretty hard to break.

thirdly, if the only filler in your life is porn--if you spend a lot of time bored or anxious with nothing to fill those gaps other than porn--it sounds like a big problem here might just be boredom or anxiety, fundamentally. i don't know you, so i'm speculating, but maybe you need hobbies, or more of a social life, or are having issues with low-grade depression that getting out of the house more would help with. and if you're fixated on porn as the cause of these issues rather than just a symptom, you're also going to be struggling with the self-esteem hit of falling back into the habit of looking at porn, which is happening because, well, you're bored and anxious and you have nothing else that helps you deal with that feeling.

[shychick-52]

One of the things that's most intriguing about my favorite episode 'Day of the Sorcerers' to me is that Cedric had been gradually changing throughout the first three seasons, the closer he found himself getting to Sofia. But Cedric never really admitted to himself how much Sofia changed his life and came to mean to him, or maybe he never actually saw it on a conscious level... until 'Day of the Sorcerers' when he was suddenly offered the ultimate chance to make his lifelong dreams come true, once-and-for-all forced to choose between his friendship with Sofia and his misguided, trauma-stemmed desires for greatness.

He even admitted as such to Wormwood right before My Evil Dreams: "All these years, I've yearned to take over Enchancia. But something's... different now!" And ofc also through the song itself, brilliantly illustrated by the lyrics and Cedric's thoughts emphasizing them (and the imagery/animation was packed with such amazing emotion and symbolism).

In fact, if you pay close attention to that bit of dialogue and the lyrics to the song, Cedric never actually directly mentions Sofia (but you see her clearly in his thoughts as he remembers how her kindness and friendship always got in his way of chasing after her amulet and plotting to take over the kingdom, the way she'd wriggle her way into his heart). Cedric couldn't bring himself to admit aloud that Sofia was the reason he'd changed, because a huge part of him was terrified to admit it, almost as much as the thought of betraying his only friend who cared about him in so long terrified him and broke his heart ("So why am I so gloomy/ When I should be feeling fine?").

For years, Cedric had built so much of his identity on being an evil, cold-hearted, power-hungry sorcerer, on his evil dreams (even though deep down, all he ever really wanted was somebody to see him, hear him, to be cared about and understood). And now that he was forced to realize how much he'd changed and come to care about Sofia maybe more than taking over the kingdom- in other words, what really made him happy- he was scared and confused, because everything he knew was thrown into chaos. He didn't know who he was anymore, but he knew the thought of hurting the dear girl broke his own heart, but he'd spent so long convincing himself that seizing the throne by force was the only way.

And Cedric's biggest tragedy is that as much as Sofia's kindness, support, and friendship- which had always existed from the day they met- floored him and always meant to him, Cedric had always forced himself to deny to himself that it wasn't enough. That it would never be enough until everyone- especially all those who unfairly wronged him- were forced to see how wrong they were about him. And that also went for the ones throughout the series who also came to see what a great sorcerer he was (often with Sofia's help, like Goodwyn to use just one of many examples); it meant a lot to him, but it would never be enough until the ones who didn't see him for the great sorcerer he was were humbled at his feet. And during My Evil Dreams, Wormwood reminded Cedric of that: "The princess may be nice to you/ But what about the rest?/ All those who point and laugh at you/ Must see that you're the best", which is what made him finally make up his mind that he still "had so much to prove" and "cannot hesitate"... although he still had some reservations, as I pointed out in this post.

@tookishcombeferre @fantadym @bettathanyou @sweetmariihs2 @ushsblog @39seasofnevermore

[steviewashere]

Back in My Head Again

Rating: Mature CW: Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Steve Harrington, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use (In Various Points), Mental Health Issues, Past Referenced Parent Death Pairings: Tommy Hagan & Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington & Steve Harrington's Father, Steddie Tags: Post-Canon, Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington's Father Being an Asshole, Steve Harrington Making Some Bad Decisions, Impulsive Steve Harrington, Good Friend Tommy Hagan, Protective Tommy Hagan, Tommy Hagan Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Tommy Hagan Cares About Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is Loved, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Eddie & Tommy Bonding About Steve, Childhood Friends, Hopeful Ending This one's a very personal piece to me. So please be kind, but also take care of yourselves. This one gets dark really fucking fast. Read all content warnings and tags, take care! <3 Also on ao3 (because this is long)

☎️—————☎️ Tommy’s the only one who knows what happened to his mom. It’s not that he’s keeping her death a secret, but it’s easier to just not say anything. Sometimes, when he’s quiet in a room, all the eyes around him are a bit more attentive than they’d be if he were just being stupid. He only found out because Steve needed an ear to listen and a brain that remembers when she had been sweet.

Not that his mom hadn’t been nice or sweet or motherly. She was just…different near the end. Combative. Argumentative. Angry. He could breathe the wrong way and receive an earful for the way his nostrils whistle. Had he known the inevitable, maybe he would’ve been a little bit more receptive to her comments, accepted them like soft punches to an even softer pillow, but as it was, he was just as angry—if not more.

With her gone, his dad became worse.

They weren’t, like, buddies before she died. But if they were in the same room? Well, it would take a whole lot of tongue biting, but Steve could manage it. With his nose cradled in the crook of his elbow, all his words muffled by warm skin, and hands curled into tight white fists. At least in the before, there were only a handful of times where he felt the need to be scared of his dad. The one afternoon where he came home from a basketball practice—pent up and exhausted, hungry as hell, sweating where the sun didn’t shine—and his dad had been furious about something probably ridiculous, and charged at him from the other side of the room. Steve had acted on a weakened instinct, one he thought he trained to be obediently dormant, but when his fists went up in front of his face and his eyebrows furrowed into the soft hoods of his eyelids, he knew he’d always had to be ready just in case.

Maybe he was just a spoilt brat. Maybe he was just an angsty teenager with too many misplaced emotions. Maybe he was just naive.

But he had been ready, always, to pack his shit, dodge some punches, and get the hell back. Though, when his mom was alive, he survived on her affection like a sick bee needing sugar. Now, without her? It was a matter of time before his dad starved him. Or worse.

Tommy knew, though, about his parents. That his mom died suddenly and too young. That his dad was an asshole. He knew about the always packed backpack in his closet, the overstocked first aid kit he hid under his bed, and that secret he let spill from his lips too late one evening, beer soaked on his tongue, a hunger for Tommy’s freckles in the deep pit of his stomach—I want to kiss you, is that weird?

Was it maybe too weird that he went to Tommy still? Even after everything? Even after telling him off in that parking lot? Maybe, but Steve’s never been one to make good decisions. But there was a certain sort of security blanket when it came to talking to Tommy. 

After a bad hookup? He went to Tommy. Drank a little too much and needed somebody to not judge him for it? He called Tommy. Wet the bed from a nightmare like he did as a kid? To his childhood friend, Tommy, he ran to.

They’ve seen each other at their worsts. Well, the non-NDA, government cover-up worsts. He’d been there for Tommy when his parents divorced. Been there the first time Tommy had been rejected. Been there when Tommy was sick with the flu, threw up a little too hard, and gave himself a nose bleed. And in turn…

Steve trusted Tommy still, despite it all.

Was it unhealthy? To rely on Tommy in certain dire moments and then to recede as if it never happened? Oh yeah, Steve can recognize that. But would he go to Robin with information about his dad? No, unfortunately, he wouldn’t. There’s not enough time and comfort and days spread between them.

He’s known Tommy since he was seven years old.

If they weren’t such big piles of shit, to each other, to themselves, maybe they’d still be orbiting. But. They are, that’s the problem. They are.

Now, though, he needs Tommy.

Hugging a payphone by the nearby park, wrapped up in loose, thin layers, seventeen degrees and lips turning purple, he needs him.

“C’mon, Tommy…c’mon,” he mutters, breath puffing in front of him in a large white cloud. This is his last quarter. His cheeks are searing with tears. There aren’t gloves on his hands, his fingers are fucking numb and bluish. He’d go home, but his dad is there. Drunk and stubborn and angry, his dad is always there.

Finally, on the last ring, it’s picked up. “Hello?” Tommy answers gruffly.

Steve sobs, hard and sour and ugly, “T-Tommy.”

“Holy shit,” he hears, that voice now alert, “Steve, is that you? Oh my god, are you okay?”

His eyes dart around. The street is empty. There’s ice under his stupid sneakers, one wrong move and he’ll give himself another concussion. Words bubble in his throat, but all that leaves him is an awkward, dry retch.

“Hey,” Tommy whispers, “take…take a deep breath for me, okay? I’m—Take a moment, I’m right here.”

The breath stutters in his chest, hiccuping and sharp and painful. He heaves a sigh, is praised for it, and sniffles. “My d-dad f-fucking sucks. I hate him, Tommy. I fucking hate him.”

Over the line, Tommy shuffles—probably in his bed, this late at night; 3:23am, when Steve hazily glances at his watch. “I know,” he says softly, “what’d he do, Stevie? Or is he just…”

“He—fuck—I came downstairs to get some water, y’know, and…and I don’t know, he was just in the kitchen. I could…I could see the alcohol on the counter, so he was drinking, and he’s always drinking, Tommy…he’s always, always—but he saw me and h-he called me an asshole, I know I am, but I just—I was just trying to get some water and he just said it and he—he said it was my fault that my mom, that she…”

The moment ‘mom’ leaves his tongue, the sobs boil again in his throat. Gurgling and wet, he allows it to happen. Bile-laden sobs rip wild through his chest, staining the back of his mouth, heaving out of him because the breath burns through him too fast to mean anything. He blubbers, words incoherent through his teeth, slurred in a way only his dad knows how. And it’s within the blink of an eye, sorry on himself that he’s so close to being just like him, that he’s wrenching something deep from within his pocket.

On his sixteenth birthday, only a few short years ago, his grandpa had still been alive. Happy and well. There was one thing he gave him. A pocket knife. Heavy silver handle, sharpened silver blade, his name engraved in pointed letters. It was for self-defense, a good tool just in case of an emergency.

Is it self-defense if it was himself that he was protecting from?

Is it self-defense if it pierces between his ribs?

Is it self-defense if it was an emergency escape?

“Where are you?” Tommy asks. It’s urgent in the air, as if he’d already been asking it in Steve’s daze, looking down at the pocket knife shiny in his grip. “I’m going to come get you. Where are you?”

He could bite his tongue, he’s good at it. 

But one thing about Tommy that nobody else knows is that he’s perceptive as hell.

Steve could swallow his own tongue, but even then, Tommy would pick up that something is going seriously wrong.

“That park near my house,” he mumbles in response, “you know where it is?”

“You see a bench nearby?”

He nods stupidly, humming without words.

“Can you sit on it for me, Steve?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, “I can do that.”

“Okay,” Tommy sighs, but it doesn’t sound put-out. It’s relief. “Stay on that bench and wait for me, okay? I want to be able to see you.”

Steve hums again. Bobbles his heavy, eyes-burning head. “Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“Hurry?”

His hand fists tighter around the folded pocket knife. Thumbnail etching into his own name, eggshell white paint chipping at the pressure. One wrong move, one wrong thought, one wrong second—he takes a deep breath, the air burning inside him, and can pinpoint the exact spot where the blade would rest. It’d be just one quick push. One last scream. One last bout of terror. The metal is cold in the center of his palm, yet his fingers haven’t quite picked up on the temperature.

“‘Course,” Tommy murmurs, “I’ll find you soon.”

The phone buzzes dead in his ear. There are tears crisp and hot to the gentle wobble of his chin. He darts his eyes to the nearby park bench, lonely and dark with a gentle spattering of snow along its back, and he begins the gentle path forward. Tiptoeing around sheets of slick, thin ice. Fog in the air hanging, clouding the dark sky to be a semi-permanent pale grey. He settles himself on the bench, the cold seat against his pants.

In his hand, the knife rests uneasily. It’s a light thing, but tonight it’s especially heavy. Especially daunting. He blinks, still looking at it with his tired, seeping eyes, and curls his fingers around it. It doesn’t go back to his pocket, though.

He doesn’t know, really, why he took the little knife with him. As if, possibly, there’d be a demodog out there searching for him—that’s the only truth he can bring to the forefront of his mind. That he’d be hunted down by something he could only control with the folds of his own flesh, but even that’s a sorry excuse; the demo-creatures have long since been rid of, they were connected to Vecna, and Vecna’s as good as dirt. If he had to think of a reason, Steve could conjure up reality with a simple blink. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the need had always been there.

To kill himself.

That’s as bluntly as he could put it.

Even that brings a fresh churn to his ever-churning stomach.

The need had been there, though. An etch to the sketch of his whole person. A fleeting thing. Maybe since the first time he’d been left home alone—eight years old and confused. Maybe when he called the police after his dad had hit him the first time—ten years old and told that that’s how bad kids are punished, a spanking. Maybe when he drank himself into near hysteria—thirteen years old and puking up his lungs in his mom’s nice peonies outside the kitchen window. Or maybe it was after the demogorgon—seventeen.

Could’ve been in part because of Nancy or even Jonathan. Possibly Carol. Even Barb. At one point, definitely, Tommy.

But even he knows pointing fingers at friends is pointless.

This need, this feeling, the weight of the knife in his hand—

He’d always held the handle. It was just a matter of sensitivities that controlled the blade.

Why this time?

Why now?

Because he was an asshole? Whatever. He’s been an asshole. Because his dad was home? Whatever. Steve’s always wanted him home. Because his mom was dead? Whatever. She’s been dead for over a year now. No Vecna to get her, no demogorgon to savor her—he had been eighteen, she had been sick, like really fucking sick…it was nobody’s fault.

So why now? Steve couldn’t even pinpoint the reason.

It was a build probably. Unresolved shit from the Upside Down, hand in hand with his failing minimum wage job, with his spiral of never-ending college rejection letters, on and on. He never went through with flicking open the blade. Had to protect and whatnot. Is it because there’s no reason to protect? Is it because he doesn’t have to now?

Sure, he was staying because of Dustin, Max, the lot of them, Robin, and Eddie.

He wasn’t staying for himself, though.

Why would he? Who could?

He’s always had this need to never truly pocket the knife. Despite its name.

It belonged to him. Name on it and everything. And as fate should see it, maybe it was a sign.

Read: Steve Harrington is fucked in the head and is going to do something about it.

Read: Steve Harrington brandishes a weapon and he knows how to use it.

Read: Steve Harrington wants to die and has wanted to for a really long time.

Longer than he cares to admit.

He flicks the handle, blade unsheathing with a quick schtick! It’s shiny and clean. Never used. There’d been a back up pocket knife, one he was given from his dad; it was only ever used for shotgunning beers. Couldn’t bring himself to use it for anything else outside of that. And he couldn’t ever hurt himself, not when he was swimming and playing basketball. Everybody would see. Everybody would know. He was known, sure, but not known, and the prospect of that brings a fresh wave of goosebumps to his arms. Unless that’s the cold. But the point still stands.

The knife he currently has, shiny and clean, it could use a little grit to it. Some roughage.

Why hadn’t he killed himself, though? Was it the blood that made him squeamish? The fact he’d hurt anyway? He could drown, but then there was the problem of his bloated corpse. And there was the possibility of overdosing, but then somebody would go all detective on his stupid body, trace back the ketamine in his system to Eddie…Eddie doesn’t deserve that.

He’s had plans. They were kind of…intrusive, though. Made in a split second decision. The ketamine one, he almost went through with that. Bought as much as he was allowed to purchase in one sitting, whatever Eddie was willing to part with—years ago, he has half a mind to squander, he doesn’t sell like that anymore—and then he’d return a few days later, stock up some more…he was just gonna go for it. All in one sitting. Lock the bathroom door behind him. He had even brought in a dining chair the night he was going to, set it up underneath the doorknob and everything, yet when it came to the actual drugs…

The toilet had a very open mouth and very willing stomach that night.

There was the quarry. He’d only been there a few times. Not since Will’s “body” had been discovered, but he’d been there before. It was always during a morning jog. Crisp autumn air, low hanging fog, nobody on the roads. Steve would make a detour, in his short sleeve t-shirt and even shorter shorts, and he’d jog right up to the edge.

It was farther and farther and farther down the more he went. The more he grew. Even when he sat, he was taller than the time before. Sometimes he’d throw a rock, watch it skitter down the sharp edges of other rocks, listen until the sound disappeared, until the only thing that gave proof it was there were the ripples in the water far below. There was always a passing thought, though, that he’d leave a lot more evidence behind. Every sharp edge stained with proof of him. He wanted nothing left in his wake. Wanted it to look like somebody had just snatched him while he was out, dumped him in the water, had very little care for his body. Because who would care? No, if he went through with his plan, there’d be evidence. The news would break: Steve Harrington, age 15, Death By Suicide. Or would they publish it? Beat around the bush, probably. Save face and all.

Point is, there had been plans steadily over the years. Each one getting smaller and smaller and lesser and lesser. It was always the clean up that startled him. The fear that little bits and pieces of him would be left behind. Vomited foam from his mouth, blood from his head, the wet shadow of his body pulled from the pool. He’d be everywhere. And everyone would know.

Steve Harrington was suicidal.

King Steve Harrington had problems.

Steve Harrington was a scared little boy, hardly a man, and oh how fun that is to laugh at.

Who would miss him? Well and truly miss him?

At eighteen? Dustin. Maybe Nancy. Maybe even Jonathan. They’d would’ve gotten over it, wouldn’t they have? Poor Steve Harrington, the ex and the babysitter. At fifteen? Just Tommy and Carol. He always imagined it, people like Barb and Nancy and Robin and Eddie, all of them adrift by the news, but later getting over it. Just a ‘who cares’ thrown over their shoulder, a ‘good riddance’ in the back of their mind they’d never admit to. At twelve? Bobby in the A/V club, who always welcomed Steve with a gap-toothed grin and his wide bright eyes, making sure there was always space for his confused questions. The kid that some time later, Steve watched get his head swirled in a toilet, laughing at how he sputtered. At eight? His mom. She would’ve been inconsolable. Though, she would be young enough, maybe she could’ve tried again.

Now, though?

There’s…there’s too many people to even name.

God, way too many people.

He was staying for them, never himself. Got a best friend and a few pseudo siblings, his adopted dads in Hopper and Wayne…and he’s got a boyfriend that nobody knows about. He’s got everything.

Why is he still here? With the knife in his hand? In the cold? Frostbitten and scared?

Underneath all the scars, the anger, the hair, he’ll always be that scared little boy. The little boy afraid of his dad—the monster he lives with. Of drunk hands and slurred words, cigar smoke and stale dinners, wooden paddles and leather belts. He’ll always be the little boy that cried in his knees, hidden in the depth of his closet, under tens of old clothes, hanging on for dear life. Always be the kid that called his best friend, Tommy, when things went to shit. Phone cradled to his ringing ear, a slap still stern across his cheek, and needing instructions from Tommy’s parents on how to use a first aid kit.

He’s gotten better at discerning what he needs from the kit. Not because of alternate dimension beings, though. No, due to the monster that sits at his dining table, sipping Jack with glazed eyes and sorrowed brows, angry veins and angrier words. Asshole.

Steve was scared. Vulnerable. Soft-bellied. And he was small, despite being so big, he was always smaller than he showed. Any sign of himself—this true self, squirmy and squeamish and small—that would be it. He didn’t want to be known. Didn’t want to be found out.

But then, here he was, holding the knife.

Distantly, he hears the slow jog of heavy steps. He has the wherewithal to recognize he should stow away the knife, deep in his pocket where nobody can see. Though, as it glistens and blinks—mesmerizing him—he leaves it wide open.

This isn’t the first time he’s been here.

It needs to be his last.

“Stevie!” Tommy shouts somewhere on his left. Steve’s head swivels to the sound of his own nickname. Jogging up one of the clearer snow paths, Tommy’s making quick work of getting to him. He’s in heavier clothes than Steve is: a beat-up Carhartt jacket, thick and long jeans, brown work boots, a tartan red scarf wrapped messily on his neck, mittens, and a beanie with a big pom-pom on the top. As he gets closer, Steve can hear his heavy breathing, see the puffs that emanate from the frigid air. Still got that boyish way to him. A million freckles, those soft brown eyes, his pearly white teeth. The first boy Steve ever thought to kiss; the first and last boy to break his heart. “Steve,” Tommy murmurs now that he’s close, “hey…hey, I found you.”

He can’t move from his spot on the bench. It’s cold. His bottom aches from the chill of the wood, but he can’t make himself get up. Legs like lead. That knife still heavy. And he might cry if he speaks right now.

Tommy can see him. Truly see him.

For the first time.

Steve can catch the exact moment Tommy spots the unsheathed, flipped open knife. His eyes widen a fraction, eyebrows shooting up to the edge of his hat, his light smile fading into the paleness of his cheeks. He stutters in his settling, standing frozen to the spot. Like he became one with the slick ice. He’d do something like laugh at the expression, but again, it may just catch like a sob.

“You…you have a knife,” Tommy dumbly points out. His eyes dart away from the blade, though. He’s forcing himself to not look. To ignore it. Setting his focus on Steve’s face instead. “Your lips,” he whispers, “what’re you doin’ out here without a scarf? And your gloves and coat and…you need to be warm.” With great speed, the same quickness Steve used to see on the high school’s track, Tommy is unwrapping the scarf from around his neck. Gently, he tucks it on Steve’s, forcing it to sit tight against his going blue lips. Then, he’s tugging off his jacket, slipping Steve’s left arm through one of the sleeves. But by the time he makes it to the right—“Stevie, can I…I need to take the knife from you, okay? I need to get you warm.”

He can’t move his hand.

But his eyes stay on Tommy’s. Big on his sunken face, burning hot with fresh tears, chin wobbling. He can’t even ask.

“I’m gonna take it,” Tommy gently says, “put it in my pocket, okay? Just for a little while.” Slow now, he reaches for the knife. When Steve doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even flinch, he takes it in his grip. It’s probably the only thing about him that’s warm, if the surprise on Tommy’s face says anything. But he ignores that, too. Simply folds it up—schtick!—and buries it deep in the front left pocket of his jeans. Just like that.

Like it was nothing.

The outline of its handle in Tommy’s pocket is something, though. Heavier than it seems.

Had it looked like that in Steve’s sweatpants? All weighted and obvious?

He pities himself—the fool.

Tommy continues to take care of him, though, one piece of clothing at a time. The jacket all zipped, mittens on Steve’s numb hands, beanie on his big head. And when he’s done, he steps back with a tight, light smile. “There,” he breathes, “all done.” He tucks the scarf tighter again, as if he can manifest it to be warmer. Then, softly, he takes Steve’s hands in his own, rubbing them with his palms. Forcing them to get warmer. “Can I get you to come with me to my car? Let me turn on the heater and warm you up?”

Steve blinks. The first thing he feels on his face since he finished sobbing on the phone—a single hottear. “Are you taking me home?” he asks, wobbly and so unusual, even for himself. It makes him sound like a little kid. A little, vulnerable, very afraid kid.

“No,” Tommy murmurs—simple—“I’m not. We are going to drive around for a few, so you get warmed up in the car, get you a gas station hot chocolate—which will taste and feel amazing right now—and then I’m going to take you wherever you want to go.” He pats Steve’s shoulders with both of his hands, almost like he’s reminding himself that Steve is still right there. To touch. Alive. “How’s that sound?”

He nods once. Then, he blinks and shakes his head. Nods. Shakes. “I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, muffled by the scarf, “I’m really sorry.”

“Hey, no, I don’t want an apology. No apologies allowed. I’m glad you called.” Tommy squeezes Steve’s shoulders, looking dead on. There’s something watery in his gaze now. He doesn’t let it fulfill. “I’m really glad you called, okay? Let’s go to the car to warm up. And if…if you want to talk about it, we’ll talk. My ears are yours and my lips are sealed, you know that.”

They make their way back one slow step at a time. Their arms are hooked like they’re on some winter wonderland walk date. It’s fucked sideways, completely fucked, but Steve smiles small behind his scarf anyway. Tommy’s trying to fill the silence, something about baseball and little league and coaching, but Steve’s too lost in the warmth seeping through his body. The heat that makes him feel truly like a dancing flame, alive.

He’s still bad enough to know that once tonight is through, wherever he ends up, he’ll be left bereft with the consequences of his own actions. Probably something about disappearing in the middle of the night from his dad, something worse if his mind’s eye isn’t playing tricks. A lot of people will have questions as to why they’re seeing Tommy Hagan around a lot more—wandering into the Family Video just to talk to Steve, swooping into their local diner just to grab some fries with a wave at Steve, hanging around the arcade just to catch Steve beating his own high score. Nobody has to know what happened tonight.

But if he doesn’t talk, eventually he’ll self-immolate. Implode.

Steve Harrington, 19, Found Dead in Ditch; does not sound appealing. It wouldn’t make sense, he’s a great driver. He’d make it look like an accident, though. He’s still too much of a live-wire for a million and one questions, let alone all the queues being dispersed among so many people.

He needs help, he knows that. How does he ask for it, though? Who’s going to be less judgmental when he finds the strength to ask? Or is it going to be just as he feared? Under a microscope, people poking and prodding, local town pariah for being so mentally unwell. It happened to Eddie’s mom.

Maybe he’d be the only one to truly grasp it.

The conversations that have to be had, though, are daunting. Less daunting, however, than the knife still stowed in Tommy’s pocket.

He’s just sat in the passenger seat, reclined the way he likes with the door shut behind him, when Tommy abruptly turns on the car and starts messing with the dials on his vents. Pointing every single one at Steve, cranking that heat up. His radio is on, too, playing a mixtape on low volume. It’s the one Steve made him in their freshman year—“Nowhere Man” by The Beatles is just starting.

“Rubber Soul?” Steve finds himself mumbling.

“Hm?” Tommy stops moving for a moment, seatbelt halfway to being buckled, darting his eyes to the radio. “Oh—yeah, yeah! Remember, you showed me this album? One of my favorites, man. Always liked this song the most…you put it on this tape twice just to make sure I heard it.” He smiles at Steve. Bright and happy, his eyes squinting and his freckles bunching. It’s always been a great smile.

It’s been a while since it was pointed at him.

He likes it.

Wishes these were better circumstances. That they had been better people. That they’d survived. Maybe if they both weren’t so conniving and embarrassing and crude. One day, he thinks he can forgive Tommy. Not now, not for a while.

Tonight, though, he can learn to thank him.

Maybe that in itself is forgiveness enough for Steve, but even then, it takes more than a few good years of near radio silence to pass them by.

“Let me just”—Tommy whispers, leaning in. He reaches for the seatbelt, stretching it across Steve’s rigid body, and safely clicks it into place. There’s a moment where he lingers, staring, darting his eyes over every minuscule part of Steve’s face. Up close, there are definitely unshed tears in Tommy’s stare, but he just smiles. Small and safe, just for them, he smiles again. He pulls back to his own seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other hovering over the gearstick.—“there we go, all tucked away. Sorry if the jacket is a little tight, it was the only winter coat I could find, guess it’s getting up there in years.”

Steve blinks and settles his head deeper into the headrest. Exhausted, he doesn’t say anything else.

Tommy seems to allow it, pulling away from the curb and back onto the empty street. He’s going at a snail’s pace, most likely because he doesn’t have chains on his tires. But he keeps his focus on the road ahead, unlike the him of previous years. Sitting passenger in Steve’s car, talking directly at him, not sparing a glance out the window. Instead, he looks forward, occasionally squeezing the leather of his steering wheel tighter. His eyes are darting, though. Nervous. Scared.

They pass by a few dark houses. Some small stores.

And then the gas station is pulling into view, Tommy slowing to turn into the parking lot, putting it in park. He turns to Steve, eyes big and dark in the dim light of his car. “I’m gonna go in there and fetch a large hot chocolate for you. D’you want me to grab anything else?”

He shrugs.

“Hey,” Tommy murmurs, “let me take care of you for a little bit, okay? Drive you around, get you some things you need.” He reaches out, gently squeezes Steve’s left forearm. His thumb is tracing the seam of the jacket’s sleeve. “You hungry?”

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, “…maybe just some peanut butter cups?”

Tommy nods. “‘Course. Want some Reeses Pieces, too? I remember you liked those.”

“No, it’s okay. Shouldn’t put you out like that anyway.”

The fingers still resting on his forearm tighten. Squeezing so hard, Steve can feel the bite of his fingernails. “You aren’t putting me out, Stevie. It’s no big deal.”

Up close, he can make out the eye bags and dark circles under Tommy’s eyes. The tired fold of his smile. Laziness creeping back onto his face. Probably tired as hell.

“Just those things. Don’t need anything else, promise.”

For a brief, brief moment, Tommy remains rooted to his seat. Something flickers through his face. A shuttering shimmer of daylight, darkening in the edges the way a vignette photograph does. It’s not confusion or disbelief or anger. A sadness, maybe. A fear.

But then Tommy is heaving himself out of the car, keys still in the ignition, radio volume low, heaters pulling their weight.

Steve glances out the passenger side window. At the chainlink fence on the edges of this gas station parking lot, curled into itself and overgrown with wild weeds. Some needles are littered at the base of the fence—he wonders where those people are now. Were they looking for a little relief? Partying with the hard stuff for the sake of it? The thrill of it?

How many of them were like him?

How many were there?

His reflection is blinking in the glass of his window, peering out softly at the needles. What if there was only one? Just as young. Just as scared. With nobody there to pick them up, take them out of their head, be patient. Nobody, not even an old friend, not even a neighbor. He wonders if this person—this figment—was running from something. Feelings, responsibilities, the very thing they feared. Seeking shelter, semblance of a normal in the dark parking lot of their local gas station chain.

Maybe they made it out. Got away from their head in that manner. Maybe they see the needles, too. Putting themself in those shoes, some of them new, some of them dirty, some of them laced, some velcro. He hopes they got their peanut butter cups and hot chocolate. Hopes they got a soft ending; wherever they may have ended up; whoever they ended up being.

Glancing out the windshield, he spots Tommy looking back at him, as if checking to see if he’s still there. His stomach turns over, clenching hard at the reason why. The fact he put that worry there. Shit.

And then, finally, he gets a good catch of himself in his overhead mirror. There are barely any lights around that illuminate his face, just whatever shines outwards from within the little convenience store. His hair is tucked away in the beanie, not wild from the wind like he had been expecting. His cheeks are puffy, starting to redden with color, from the heat in the car. But his eyes.

Flat, pink, bloodshot, yet empty.

No wonder Tommy keeps looking at him. He put that worry there, in the absence of himself, he instilled that worry. The fear.

Tommy eventually comes back out, swinging into the car with a to-go carrier of hot chocolates, and a crinkling plastic bag in the crook of his left elbow. He settles in his seat, off loading the carrier to Steve, regaling him to divvying out the drinks. Once he’s in, buckled and warmed, he reaches for the ignition.

“Can we stay here for a minute?” Steve meekly asks.

All at once, Tommy stops in his tracks. Sitting back. “Y-yeah, dude, sure. Just figured you’d wanna see around first, give yourself some time to…to think, I guess.”

He hands off one of the hot chocolates when Tommy reaches out for it, saying in the process, “I feel like I’ve done enough thinking tonight. Enough for a lifetime.”

There’s a sharp inhale at that. “I get that,” Tommy murmurs, “seems like there’s a lot of empty time on my hands these days.”

Steve sniffs, takes a swig of his drink, hums unconsciously at the flavor. “What are you up to these days? ‘Sides saving my sorry, stupid ass.”

“You’re not stupid, Steve. Don’t say shit like that.” He’s momentarily frozen in his seat, as Tommy’s eyes ice over to him. “And I already told you, I’m glad you called me.”

“You were asleep. You could’ve told me that. I would’ve found somebody else.”

“I wanted to get you,” Tommy insists. “It doesn’t matter how much time or space or whatever other garbage is between us, if you call me, I’m gonna be there. Even if you need me to—fucking, I don’t know—tie your shoes or something.”

Steve traces the lid on his cup with the thick thumb of his mitten. Words caught splintered in his throat, dead.

At his silence, Tommy lets out a sad little sigh. And then he goes quiet for a moment, too.

The air isn’t exactly tense, but it isn’t pleasant either. Thick, heavy, and warm. Maybe it’s the heater vents, the million layers he was forced into, the hot chocolate in his hands. It’s not even a good hot chocolate—Wayne Munson is the king of that—but he can appreciate it for what it is. A chance to make sure that he isn’t going to collapse in on himself.

It’s an appeasement. In a way, he’s being convinced to stay.

“What would it take to show you that you’re worth caring for?” Tommy suddenly breaks through. “Because I…I know I was going to let you talk about it in your own time, but…Steve, I want to be there, but I can’t always be there. And I. I have to be honest, right?

“I’m always going to try and save you. I’ll always come to your side when you call me, even if it’s been months or, shit, even years. But what happens when the next time I’m out here in the cold, your toes are too far over the edge? What if I go to grab the back of your shirt and it rips in my grip? What if…what if you can’t be patient anymore?” He won’t look up from the lid of his cup. Won’t answer, not yet. Right, passes through his head, he’s right. You know he is. Tommy’s gaze is set on his face, shiny in his peripheral. “I love you with every piece of me, again, no matter what, I’m always gonna love you. Just…

“Steve, I’m worried one day I won’t reach you.

“Or that I’m gonna come across…that you won’t be there by the time I arrive,” he stresses, “and I don’t want any of that to happen. Seriously, whether you’re my best friend or fuckin’ best enemy or whatever, I still care about you. You were still my first friend, the first person outside of my family that I was hugging, my first camaraderie, and you were my first wake-up call.”

Finally, he drags his eyes up. Burning, heavy, aching, Steve blearily looks to Tommy. Caught up in the blur of his own vision, unable to see even two feet ahead of him. His whole everything aches. Every ember of his soul. The drip of his blood, rushing straight to his toes, up to his no longer numb fingers.

The world’s a fireplace around him, words sound like near deathbed confessions, and he can taste his stale breath cutting through the chocolate. He never did get his glass of water. Can’t believe he let his dad play into this. Into tonight.

“Tommy,” he chokes out. “I don’t…I don’t know what you want me”—

“Sorry,” Tommy whispers, “I’m sorry. That was a lot and all at once. I just care about you, man.” He reaches out, grabbing for Steve’s forearm once more. Fingers tense and tight in his jacket. “I’d hate to see you gone. You deserve to be here, to be cared for. Please, Steve, just let me care about you for tonight. Please.”

Bending forward, Steve places his hot chocolate in the cup holder closest to him. Having his ear closer to the speaker, he can hear “Nowhere Man” again—or what must be for the second time. Tommy was always trying to make Steve feel better, even if sometimes how he showed it seemed impossibly stupid; but maybe the song wasn’t purposefully put on the cassette twice, he has half a mind to realize, Tommy didn’t want him to feel dumb for what he did.

Slowly, he peels off his mittens, fingers sweating with anticipation to not be so damn hot. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Tommy begin to lurch forward, stop him, but Steve only works faster. Just so he can place the naked skin of his right palm over the back of Tommy’s. Their skin joins in a puddle of malleable warmth. And even further, the hand under his turns, palm now up, gripping tight to his fingers. He rests his head against the passenger window, looking out at the bottom of the fence again.

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmurs.

“Stop apologizing. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.”

“But I”—

He’s silenced with an even tighter pressure to the tips of his fingers. So hard that he can feel the way Tommy’s wrist shakes with the force. “You don’t need to be sorry. I’m not asking for it. It’s not necessary.”

Steve nods against the window. Beanie pushing up, hair falling free against his forehead. “Okay,” he crackles.

Again, Tommy’s moving, his shirt rustling against the leather seat. But he’s closer, if the warmth of his shoulder bleeding into Steve’s says anything. “Hey”—he tugs their joined hands, Steve glances over—“you think you can talk to me? Tell me what happened?”

Shrugging, Steve sighs. “Just…what I said earlier. Trying to get some water, Dad’s in the kitchen starting shit. Guess I just…just pussy-ed out. Went running out the door.”

Tommy swallows hard. “Did he…”

“He tried to get his hands on me,” Steve admits quietly, confessing what Tommy already knew. “But he was so drunk, he swung and stumbled. Made it out of there with my hair still intact.” His shoulder hurts in this angle. But he doesn’t want to pull his hand away, not when it gets another squeeze, not when he earns Tommy’s thumb rubbing into his knuckles. “I think he’s waiting up on me,” he whispers, “I can feel him, even here in the car, standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the front door. Like he did when I had weed that one time…couldn’t lay on my back after what he did that night.”

“I hate him,” Tommy darkly murmurs. “I’d kill him if I wasn’t so much shorter than that fuckwad.”

Dryly, Steve snorts. Rolls his eyes. “You’d give him a swirly and his face would get all red from how angry he’d be. From humiliating him. We’d call ‘im cherry cheeks for a week. ’Til he caught on.”

In the reflection of his window, he can see Tommy nod in agreement, smug little smirk on his face. “Until he caught on.” He shifts again, shoulder melting into Steve’s. “And then you decided to go on a midnight walk…did he take your car keys or something?”

“I didn’t really think about the car, Tommy. I just went. It was a dumb thing to do. But, well, I don’t make good decisions,” he states bitterly.

“Well, you called me and now you’re here.”

Steve doesn’t say anything to that.

There’s a squeeze to his hand that has him looking over. “So…did you…were you planning on…”

He shakes his head. “Guess I grabbed the knife without thinking. Self-defense or something, I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Tommy mutters. And there he goes, squeezing at Steve’s fingers again. It’s nice, though. The contact, warmth, the reminder. He twists his head so that they’re looking straight on each other, even as his neck contorts uncomfortably. “I’m glad I got to the park when I did,” he murmurs, “the world wouldn’t be the same without you, Steve. It really, really wouldn’t.”

“You’re just saying that,” Steve mumbles.

“Hey, I mean it. Who else would be there to call your dad cherry cheeks? Tell him he looks like a big, ugly oaf?” He snorts at that, a smile itching to make itself known. Tommy nudges him, shakes him, smirks. “Also, dude, the world needs a little bit more light, don’t you think? Who else is gonna call me on my bullshit? Knock me upside the head to tell me how much of a bigoted turd I’m being. You keep the balance, you bring the laughter, you bring the warmth, man. Nothing would be the same if you just…”—poof!—“left,” he whispers.

“Think someday I’ll believe you.”

Tommy shrugs. “Someday is better than never. But you better. Because I’m right.”

“When have you ever been right about something?”

“Well, I may be kinda thick in the head…but when have I lied to you?”

“I don’t know, think I can think of a few…”

“Those were well meaning lies! Like for your birthday that one year! You almost saw me wrapping up that new pack of baseballs—no way in hell was I going to let your snooping little ass ruin the surprise I had been sweating over for hours!”

There’s a big fat smile on both their faces, mirrored in each other’s all too expressive eyes. Tommy’s alight, Steve’s finally full. The laughter they share trickles out into shaky, steadying breaths. And for a moment, things are just like normal. Another late night with his old best friend, kicking rocks and talking shit. A time before.

Oh so before.

Tommy nudges him again. “You ready to blow this popsicle stand?”

Steve chuckles, shoulders jumping with it. “Sure, dude,” he sighs, “let’s get outta here.”

The hand in his lingers for a beat, then two, a third. It tenses, pressing deep into his knuckles. And retreats. Thrown into his lap is the crinkling plastic bag from the store. Inside are at least three packs of peanut butter cups—way more than he asked for.

He looks up at Tommy, ready to protest. Instead, he gets a wink. “Our secret, Stevie-boy, you peanut butter fiend.” And then they’re off, driving aimlessly on the empty streets of Hawkins.

As the sun begins to rise, coloring their cheeks with tangible warmth, snow beading on the sidewalk, brown wrappers tossed aside, Steve is somewhat content. Rustling with nerves, knowing full well that Tommy still has that knife. But he’s…relaxed, nerveless, almost free.

All without the pain. All without the task of planning. All without the fear of saying goodbye—Steve is free.

They wind down familiar roads. Until, eventually, Tommy cracks with a yawn.

“Getting tired?” Steve mumbles.

“Oh, I’ve been tired. It’s fine, though. I can be out a little bit longer.”

“Nah, you don’t gotta. Think I’m ready to hit they hay, dude.”

Tommy sniffs. Runs a hand over his mouth, lets it fall back down to his lap, hitting the handle of the knife with the hilt of his palm. “Where do you want me to take you, Stevie?”

“I…I have an idea. But, uh, you’ll promise to keep the secret to yourself?”

He shifts nervously, catching Tommy give him a confused little quirk. “As long as it’s not gonna hurt you, sure. What…this sounds big.”

Steve swallows, nods, squeezes his hands into fists until his nails just begin to bite. The passenger window is enticing. “Remember that one secret years and years ago? When, uh, when we were kinda tipsy and hanging out by the pool and it was just us and”—

“The kiss thing, right?”

He inhales sharply. “Yeah, the…the kiss thing.”

“You can talk to me, Steve. I’m an asshole, but I’m not Brutus, man. Not gonna betray you for spilling your guts.”

“You promise you’ll keep it to yourself?”

In the blink of an eye, Tommy is pulling over to the curb. Slow and careful like. Twisting in his seat to face Steve, he only swivels his head to follow suit. “My ears are yours and my lips are sealed, remember? Hell, you don’t even need to tell me if you think it’s not safe to do so.”

Steve nods, slowly, absorbing. “Um…I-I have a partner.”

“You have a boyfriend?” Tommy asks, voice dropped low like anybody within a 100 mile radius could hear them. It’s a startling question, but it’s a soft one nonetheless.

“Yeah…he…he’s really good at taking care of me, y’know. And we look out for each other. He tells me I can come to him any time, if I need anything…anything.”

“Is it okay if I know who it is? Or is that…”

“I mean, I figured you’ll need to know to take me there? But, uh, Eddie Munson? Forest Hills?”

Tommy’s eyebrows raise slightly. He blinks. Takes in a slow breath. Then, quietly, “At the far end of the park, right? Near those swings?”

“Um…y-yeah. Yeah, near the swings.” Without responding, Tommy turns towards the steering wheel, shifting gears, pulling away from the curb. He makes a U-turn, back the way towards Forest Hills. “Is that…you’re not gonna say anything, right? Please don’t say anything.”

“My lips are sealed,” Tommy repeats. “I’m just…little surprised, I guess. Not about—Not that you two are, like, gay and into each other or something. Just…you guys have things to talk about? Get along okay?”

“He’s crafty. So, sometimes, we’ll watch a game together—whatever’s on—and he’ll listen to me rant and cheer and stuff, ask me about the stats…usually, he sits next to me and paints or draws or whatever. We keep each other entertained.”

Tommy nods in his peripheral. “Good, that’s good. Does he know about your…your mom? Your dad?”

“You’re the only one who knows about my mom. Figured it didn’t matter to bring it up, I guess. I mean, Nancy might know, but…I don’t know. It’s not important.”

“‘Course it’s important, Steve. Her death kinda hit you sideways…in a lot of ways, actually. It’s good, y’know, to talk about that kinda stuff. Plus, well, I’m sure Eddie would understand, right?” Steve shrugs at that. Tommy must be able to see it. “You don’t know about his mom? That’s a conversation you guys should have, dude. That was pretty big, last I remember.”

“Why do you know that?”

“This kid was picking on Eddie back in high school. Picking on him about his mom. Think I gave that kid a black eye or two…what a shitty thing, shitting on somebody ‘cause their fucking parent died.” Tommy begins to slow on the road, blinker clicking as he signals turning into the Forest Hills drive. “But he’d understand, that’s all I’m saying. Plus, you need more people in your corner. More people to rely on. Not that—I mean, I love being there for you, dude. I just…it would be good.

“When my parents divorced, I relied on you, sure. But I had a few other people, too. Some teachers. Principal Higgins. Even Mrs. Byers…which kinda shocks me, considering how I treated her kid. Makes me feel sick thinking about that.”

Steve blinks, notices they’re outside Eddie’s trailer, parked next to his shit-box of a van. He gets a good look at Tommy’s side profile. Gently aged. “You grew up,” he states.

“Best fucking feeling in the world. Should’a followed in your footsteps, Stevie. Should’a quit being an asshole when it was time.”

“But you did eventually.”

Tommy gives a slow nod, unbuckling himself. “Yeah, well. There’s a time for everything.” He looks over to Steve. God, his big brown eyes look even bigger in the sunlight. Even gentler. Even sweeter. “Can I walk you up to the door?”

“I don’t know…Eddie might”—

“I kinda need to talk to him anyway. It’s important.”

“Yeah, okay…okay.”

By the time they make it up the steps, peanut butter cups stored deep in Steve’s pocket, Eddie’s already swinging the door open. There’s a look of apprehension on his face, darting his eyes between Steve and Tommy. A bite behind his lip that he’s very noticeably trying to hide away. “Stevie,” he greets softly, “what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Um…I…I had a bad night,” Steve quietly admits, “thought I’d come here, after Tommy helped me.”

The screen door opens wider. Eddie’s face goes soft, deeper. “Everything alright? Nobody’s hurt, are they?”

Steve swallows, shifts uneasily. “I don’t wanna talk about it right now, please. Just…can I hang out for a bit? Maybe nap?”

Eddie’s already placing a hand on the center of Steve’s back, ushering him in. “Of course, just go in and get comfortable, I’ll meet you inside in a second.”

As soon as he steps inside, the door shuts behind him. Muffled conversation is all he hears, retreating to Eddie’s room. In a matter of minutes, stuffy jacket taken off, he’s dozing.

——— “Alright, what’re you doing here?” Eddie asks, finally addressing Tommy.

In front of him, Tommy shifts uncomfortably. “Listen, I know you don’t trust me. I get it. But I…I just need to talk to you, okay? It’s about Steve.”

“If you’re here to talk shit on him after he was lookin’ like that, then you can take your sorry ass”—

“He called me, ‘bout a couple hours ago, sobbing on the phone. His dad’s being a real piece of work. Just a total shitbag, okay? And he called me from the park by his house, talking to me about his dad, and I couldn’t just leave him there. Kept zoning out on the phone, sobbing, I couldn’t just leave him there.” Tommy thrusts his hand into his pocket, producing a pocket knife from it.

Eddie startles back slightly, a half-step backwards. “Why do you”—

“I found him there, completely out of it on a bench, with this fucking knife in his hand. It was open. Like he was…and I took it from him, kept it from him. Took him around town for a bit, trying to get him not to spook, y’know?” The knife is warm, placed heavily in Eddie’s palm, fingers curling tight around it. “He was going to do it. If I hadn’t gotten there, if he had never called me…I don’t even want to think about it.

“But he told me that you guys take care of each other. And he told me that if he had something, he could go to you for it. I’m just. I’m worried, okay? I can’t always be there to save him, he needs more people in his corner—people who are not going to judge him—because I can’t fathom with”—Tommy’s voice wobbles, thickens—“with losing him. And I know you’d be absolutely wrecked, if what he told me ‘bout your relationship is true”—

“You know about us?”

“That’s not important,” Tommy emphasizes. “Just don’t let him get this, okay? Keep an eye on him. He needs it. I care about him, even if it doesn’t seem that way, I do. He was my whole world up until our junior year. If something happened to him—fuck—I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t know…I don’t…”

Eddie’s not used to people crying around him. The only people who have are, well, Wayne and Steve.

But Tommy’s shoulders shake, his whole back heaving. Each sob caught on a choked breath. His eyes squinting into themselves, skin going splotchy with the effort.

Without a care for image, Eddie is stepping forward again, wrapping Tommy in a tight hug.

He doesn’t get Steve and Tommy’s whole dynamic. Not at all. All he knows is that they had a falling out. But he gets it, calling on the past to try and ground the present, that’s something Eddie’s been doing his whole life. Nostalgia or something. Relying on the lucidity of memories to bring him back. But if Tommy says something’s bad, sobbing so bad he’s choking with it, then it’s something worth tucking away.

And with that knife heavy in Eddie’s hand, he sees what Tommy’s doing.

He understands it.

He fucking gets it.

“Sorry,” Tommy muffles into his shoulder, “shit, I’m sorry. The world wouldn’t be the fuckin’ same if he—god, shit—he’s too good to do shit like that.”

Eddie’s squeezing so tight his knuckles hurt. “I’ve got him,” he swears into Tommy’s hair, “I’m not letting him get away like this again. I promise, man, I fucking promise.”

“Be easy on him,” Tommy murmurs, “he’s easily spooked.”

“I know, fuck, I know.”

Tommy pats him on the back in that dude-bro way. And then he’s pulling away, wiping hastily at his eyes. “If you guys need anything, you can call me. I know I’m not the best person, but I can try. Fuck, for anybody in Steve’s life, I can try.”

Swallowing down his own wave of tears, Eddie nods. “You in the yellow pages?”

“Yup. Leonard Hagan’s residence. Think it’s somewhere in the 130s.”

“I’ll reach out. ‘Specially if I can’t get to him.”

“I got him some peanut butter cups. Works wonders with trying to get him to open up.”

There’s a small little smile on Tommy’s face, knowing and soft. Eddie chuckles airily. “Yeah, he’s a peanut butter goblin or something. Think he ate eighty percent of my last jar, honest to God.”

“He’ll do that to you. Think he still owes me at least three jars.” Tommy reaches out again, patting Eddie on the shoulder. “I’ll see you around, Eddie. Keep an eye on him for me, yeah?”

“Nothing else I’d rather do.”

☎️—————☎️

[pruneunfair]

When you have a shitty sibling. *TW: talk of abuse and rape*

This is a little different than what I usually post.

Not too long ago, I made a vent post that was mostly pretty vague but got the central point across, it's deleted now but not like it matters since it was just mindless ranting.

That vent post was dedicated mostly to my younger brother.

For all the people with siblings out there, we already know those corny depictions of brothers and sisters always getting along and calling each other "Big bro" was not the most accurate form of a sibling relationship. Naturally you fight a lot with this person considering they are a built in room mate, meaning you have to live with someone including their worst habits. Maybe they plop a plate into the sink right as you're done doing dishes, maybe they take your things without bothering to ask you, those are all normal things to expect out of a sibling. What doesn't feel normal is when they reach this level of behavior.

My brother who I'll refer to as B relatively liked to get on peoples nerves but other than that, he wasn't so bad to be around up until recently. It was little things at first, leaving his garbage behind in the living room, making a fuss if we asked him to do anything, and then it got progressively worse.

Skipping school for 3 months straight, running away from home to god knows what, bringing strange people home, vaping and taking substances, increasing levels of disrespect towards women, seemed to assume that if a person who happened to be female wasn't punished along side him meant that they were being bias toward her for being a girl, calling our own disabled mother lazy for being unable to work, expecting everyone to cater towards him and pick up his slack, actively call me and our mom a bitch/cunt, pretending that he's going to hit me to see me flinch, gaslighting us, severe lack of empathy, casually admitting to want to hit me and other people that make him mad, refusal to listen or admit when he's wrong.

B has changed this much in only the span of a year. The lack of empathy and over eagerness to have an excuse to threaten someone is honestly scaring me.

Lately I started to take on the role of tidying up around the house and cooking dinner. My mom as I mentioned is mentally disabled, she can still perform tasks herself and still is juggling around two households of the family, I don't wanna to get too into it but I'll just say that she needs to take a myriad of medication to help regulate her mind or else she could kill herself. Her mental health has declined in recent years to the point where she can't keep a job and she does need help more than ever.

Now I do not mind this at all, mom is still a very considerate woman who appreciates the help I do and still makes an effort to keep things easy, it's also a good way for me to learn independence and take care of myself. The problem is that I have to live with B for a brother and he likes to bring his gang of friends over for small house parties that I usually am in charge of when mom is away. The house is always left a mess as a result and I have to pick it up since B likes to weaponize his incompetence to escape responsibility, I have to pick up every piece of crap they leave behind and sweep up old crumbs off the floor only for those same kids to come back, destroy the house again, leave me to clean it up because B knows that if I don't, all he needs to do is continue weaponizing his incompetence until our mom snaps and has me clean it for him.

There is no compromising with him, B has made it clear that if he says "Nope" then we have to suck it up because he can always just run away to our dad or claim that we are just acting crazy. I can't even get some basic respect from him for being the maid for him and his friends bullshit.

Now this all wouldn't be so scary if I didn't know he had no empathy but he clearly doesn't. How do I know?

Well, I'll leave a pretty simple background: Mom kept telling dad to stop, Dad coerced mom that it would be fine and he lied about wearing a condom. 9 months later I was born.

This is very sensitive knowledge that we do not talk about at all, hell B and I weren't even supposed to know I was both a rape and a baby trap kid, I can't exactly remember why but mom mentioned it on a bad day that I now know was likely an episode.

And during an argument, B told our mother, the woman who was willing to stay with our father just so she can at least have a planned child in the name of B, that she should have taken some birth control before she "had sex" with our dad. That boy KNOWS that was one thing mom never wanted to remember, even when we reminded him WHY we don't talk about that, he didn't care, what mattered was that he got the point of him hating me across.

So yeah, I'm officially terrified of the same person who I used to know as an itty bitty baby sleeping in the crib next to my bed.

I know I am not the only one dealing with this shit, plenty of people do and it's shitty that you have to walk on egg shells around someone you knew when they were still innocent, a little baby turning into a monster with no interest in being better as a person, only in being right at all times. For anyone who has a shitty brother or sister reading this, I am so sorry that you have to live in fear of someone you called family but you are not alone, if you believe you might be in danger even, please tell someone, anyone at all, whenever it's a social worker at school, a cop, or even just a few people you trust. You don't deserve to believe you are worse then dirt just because you had to step up and pick up the slack around your household.

Thank you for listening.

[pouletaulait]

But the moment is brought up once then not again (from what I recall), and its effects are hard to see without reading far into the text, so I’ve always questioned why this instance was written as Doumeki’s first sexual experience. Why was this event discussed in only a single chapter? Why did it have to be rape and not some healthier arrangement? And if others want to add to that too, I’m curious of those thoughts

In a way, I think I saw it as evidence of Yashiro's "distorted" views on sexuality: He makes Doumeki describe the incident in detail and masturbates to the thought of Doumeki getting sexually assaulted as a young teen... which exemplifies how he trivializes sexual violence, not only in regard to what happened to himself but also to others.

Also, I think you're spot on about this:

We only have so much to work with, but I’m speculating that the blase portrayal and Doumeki’s (seemingly lack of) reaction to these moments could be interpreted as commentary in itself. These moments are so casual in society that even the survivors themselves don’t realize they have been subject to a crime.

Like you said: We never get to know how Doumeki felt or feels about what happened. Maybe he, himself, doesn't really know and never knew how to feel about it. I think Doumeki had no one he could talk to about this in order for him to make sense of what he experienced, it's just something that happened to him; no big deal; and that's how it's portrayed in the story: It's only mentioned in passing, it's trivialized and presented as "sexy". So, yes, it might be on purpose; a realistic portrayal of how this sort of incident has been down played and never really been taken seriously as actual sexual assault. However, to what extent this experience actually may have affected Doumeki and his sexuality subconsciously, is difficult to say imo (you pointed out some interesting possibilities) but what seems evident to me is that his father's actions seemed to have a much bigger impact on him than what the nurse did to Doumeki himself which might also be a reason as to why the incident with the nurse plays a much more negligible role in the story overall compared to what he witnessed his father do to Aoi and his fear of not being able to control himself/being like his father. It also fits nicely into Doumeki's characterisation: He's a protector who doesn't think twice about how something affects himself, in a way he's similar to Yashiro in that respect; he doesn't really care too much about himself: He doesn't appear to be bothered too much about what this nurse did to him as a child and he didn't worry about what would happen to him when he beat his father to a pulp, he also didn't tell anyone about what happened probably because he wanted to protect Aoi and maybe also his family's reputation (?) even though the judge probably would've been more lenient on him if he'd told them what had happened but he chose not to, to his own detriment. As to what's behind the creative decision about the nature of Doumeki's first sexual encounter, I'm guessing that it might be intended to draw attention to the prevalence of this sort of experience among minors in real life as well. There are minors who go through something as horrible as what Yashiro had to go through but there are also a lot of cases that people might deem "not that bad" or like you said even calling Doumeki "lucky" because of what this woman did to him. So, maybe it serves to show a different, less obvious kind of CSA. Or maybe it's intended to, in a way, give Yashiro and Doumeki a bit more of a "common ground", in the sense that they both have had sexual experiences as minors that they shouldn't have had to endure. Yashiro said to Doumeki in chapter 23: "I decided all on my own that you were broken in some way, like me." So, it matters to the story (to Yashiro) that Doumeki wasn't "normal/healthy", it made it easier for Yashiro to relate to Doumeki and to trust him. The focus is on Doumeki's impotence which appears to be mainly a consequence of his father's crime/Doumeki witnessing it but maybe Doumeki's experience with that nurse also played a part in how his father's actions affected him psychologically, it's difficult to tell, but it certainly adds another layer of complexity to his issues with sex.

Implications of Doumeki’s Trauma, mainly with the Nurse

I haven’t seen many discuss the significance of the nurse trauma or why they think it was written that way to begin with, so here’s some of my thoughts

TW: CSA, SA, parental neglect

I’m glad that the story treats the moment with the nurse as SA of a male by a female, rather than Doumeki “being lucky” to have done it with a woman (gross). It’s not often that this situation is represented without it being played as a joke or as something… desirable. (I wanted to puke just writing that).

But the moment is brought up once then not again (from what I recall), and its effects are hard to see without reading far into the text, so I’ve always questioned why this instance was written as Doumeki’s first sexual experience. Why was this event discussed in only a single chapter? Why did it have to be rape and not some healthier arrangement? And if others want to add to that too, I’m curious of those thoughts

We know that when Doumeki was younger, his parents stopped treating him like a child because of his inability to express emotions well and how much his body developed (ch.29). I think Yoneda-sensei wanted to point out the harm of treating a child like an adult when they are still growing. I drew a connection to the phenomenon of adultification, primarily affecting Black children but also applying to other ethnic minorities frequently. There are many negative effects, but among the worst is that some children who are deemed as “more mature” are more likely to be sexualized and potentially assaulted. I believe this is what happened to Doumeki.

Now that I think about it, has Doumeki ever himself thought of the experience with the nurse as rape, or those times in prison as SA*? He said in ch.5 that he has never told anyone else about his encounter with the nurse. Maybe he was ashamed of this sexual encounter, or maybe he was scared that others would judge or simply brush off his experience? Maybe he didn’t even realize he was a victim in that moment. We only have so much to work with, but I’m speculating that the blase portrayal and Doumeki’s (seemingly lack of) reaction to these moments could be interpreted as commentary in itself. These moments are so casual in society that even the survivors themselves don’t realize they have been subject to a crime. Normalization of these experiences is a foundation of rape culture.

The implications/effects of the nurse trauma are harder to see but I think it manifests in a few ways.

Doumeki was around 12-13 (first year of junior high in Japan) when he was exploited by an authority figure, so he may not have fully realized he was a victim. His inability to express emotions well when he was younger explains his general lack of expression, but that doesn’t explain his emotional numbness and feelings of emptiness that are very prevalent pre-timeskip. I believe these aspects are attributed to his trauma (concerning parental neglect, the nurse, and his feelings surrounding Aoi’s trauma). This numbness has actually improved seeing as how he’s expressing more emotion and starting to joke around more post-timeskip. His sense of purpose has also improved, and I don’t think it’s just about Yashiro anymore but also his dedication to the Sakura group.

The nurse incident may also show his early sexual curiosity (since he didn’t run away). It may have added to the huge sense of shame that he would develop for having those feelings later.

Actually I just realized that it was when Aoi entered junior high that she started developing feelings for Doumeki, and it’s when he started avoiding her. They are 5 years apart. Doumeki encountered the nurse when he was in junior high. This recontextualizes everything. The confusing and traumatic feelings Doumeki must have experienced from the nurse incident must have scarred him, making him deeply uncomfortable with Aoi’s new feelings. So it’s not just because she was his adopted sister that made him uncomfortable, but also because she may have reminded him of horrible feelings with the nurse. Now I think this is what makes him avoiding his sister for so long more tangible. He wanted to disconnect from that trauma, which unfortunately he affiliated with his sister. This disconnection from his trauma must have also contributed to his feelings of numbness and emptiness I mentioned earlier.

The nurse incident also highlighted his childhood loneliness. His parents didn’t treat him like a child for as long as they should have. He may have just wanted some attention from an adult…

It’s easy to see why Yashiro’s trauma is so heavily discussed (and it’s extremely important that it is): the effects of his trauma are so visceral to us. And it’s true that portrayals/explanations of how his trauma affects him are given significantly more “screentime” than Doumeki’s (Yashiro is the main character so it makes sense but; admittedly it’s still a bit of a critique). However, the effects of Doumeki’s trauma are also very complex and should be discussed as well. They are just harder to notice..

———————————————————————————

I think we will see more of Doumeki’s perspective this arc. And soon. Yoneda-sensei loves hiding stuff from us only to reveal that info at just the right moments, and I think this is what’s happening here. Lots of things about him have changed without any real explanation; so far we can only speculate. E.g. his feelings regarding his father, his situation with his family, his relationship with Izumi (which is being teased heavily), etc

Mysteries all around

*= edit for clarification

[gosteon]

TWO! OF! THEM!

[deoidesign]

Can you make a tutorial on how you world build and make ocs? I can't seem to make any people in my brain, but then when I try to come up with environments jobs, beliefs and little details to slowly come up with someone, I think: well I don't really know how people have influenced the world- it's a weird loop

To be honest, I don't think I can! Writing is an extremely personal process. The way I write is directly related to how I process things, what I find important in stories, years of my own analysis of my and other's writing, etc... The way you write will be unique to you, as well. But I can explain how I personally think of it.

The short answer:

Write. Write anything and everything, it's a tool to explore your ideas. Analyze your own writing, and write more. Then, as you discover which ideas you want to develop, write more to explore them more. You won't know what you want otherwise!

The long answer:

I think this kind of loop is common. It's easy to feel like everything needs to be done "at once," because our job as writers is to make elements logically fit with each other for our readers. But as you've discovered, developing multiple elements simultaneously isn't really possible, or at least is extremely difficult.

Personally, when I think of writing, I break it into three major elements; characters, world, and plot. As much as possible every scene explores one or more of these, and as much as possible these three things tie back into what I personally consider most important: theme.

Everything I do is in service of the themes I want to present. Without them my events feel aimless. It can take a while to discover them, but they're the core of my work. You will have to discover what you feel is the core of yours. Analyzing other media helps with this too.

Concepts in your brain exist in a state of infinite potential. But when you start writing you have to start making choices, which removes potential as you move forward... But you have to move forward anyways. If there's ideas you want to explore later, you can always explore them later.

What this ends up meaning, to answer your question, is that I don't think of my characters as "people in my brain" or my worlds as something people have influenced... Not at their core, at least. They are tools that I use to represent specific ideas. Obviously they're also my blorbos, but mostly they're serving a specific narrative purpose.

So above all else... Write. Write, and discover what you're writing about, and then start over and write with that in mind. Keep doing this. But you have to write!

[sunsetzer]

On one hand, I want a final fantasy 6 remake, because the game is criminally underrated and the amount of fan content (which is all absolutely fantastic btw) is Not Enough for my neurodivergent, hyperfixating brain.

On the other hand, that would inevitably encourage more people to join the fandom, which would be great, except it seems these days the bigger a fandom gets the more toxic it becomes, and I really like what we have going on over here in our little corner. We all just love the game and its characters and nobody fights about who should and shouldn't date who or who you shouldn't like because they're ~problematique~. Nobody's trying to make one ship morally better than another, nobody's calling anyone names or threatening to doxx people who don't agree with their opinions. It's so peaceful and I love that for us. We're just vibing. Moisturized. Unbothered. In our lane. Flourishing.

[bayofwolves]

how did abeke take care of her braids when the team was on a mission is what i want to know

[mainfaggot]

just watched challengers at the cinema w my little sister. it was so intense wtf

[frog-with-no-therapy]

That villain scientist peter parker au won't leave my head

Worst of all is that it's evolving to something more, much more, and there are some twists?? And character development?? Found family that may end up tragically??

Also somehow Felicia Hardy, Johnny Storm, and Miles Morales become something of a main characters themselves in this, and their interaction with peter is sweet, funny, a bit tragic, and found family vibes over all

And listen I love this a lot but I also know that if I let this be any deeper I may start taking things into my own hands, and I absolutely can't afford nor the time nor the effort for that so please for the love of god someone take this off my hand and write something for it please