#only hurt

[gildedphoenix]

Unwilling Rogue

Part 1

Danny was tired of this. He had senior finals tomorrow and he needed sleep. He’d given up on additional studying in favor of a few hours of sleep. Skulker clearly had other plans. Armed with a new laser and a deep disrespect for Danny’s academic career, he’d dragged Danny out of bed and into the zone. It was amazing that all of his parents' tech would constantly target Danny but Skulker could just fly around like he’d been invited in as an honored guest. Once safely through the portal, (and wasn’t that a discussion for therapy) Danny was able to transform and kicked Skulker in the back of his head. Repeatedly. Eventually Danny was able to hit the shoulder joint just right, detaching the arm that held him. 

Dropping free, Danny roundhoused Skulker in the face again, effectively punching Skulker with his own arm, which was still fisted around Danny’s ankle. Disarmed and dishonored, Skulker tackled Danny right through a surprise natural portal. It closed up again after they went through, leaving them in a nondescript dark alley. 

Great! Now Danny would have to figure out where he was and get back to Amity before 8:30 when his first final started. Energy renewed by his anger, Danny poured all his frustration into his fighting. He was tired. He was tired of having to put fighting before school. He was tired of making excuses to his parents and friends. He was tired of never getting enough sleep! Punches punctuated his thoughts. Skulker seemed surprised by the ferocity. Reaching into a hatch in his armor, he threw a familiar cube at Danny while firing his ecto-lasers into any escape routes. Danny uncapped his thermos and souped Skulker in retaliation. He flew straight up as soon as the lasers cleared, trying to escape the containment cube that he knew Vlad had provided. He wasn’t fast enough. The suction pulled him in, leaving just his head sticking out the top and his body locked away, along with his powers. 

His scream of frustration echoed off the alley walls. Besides being wholly trapped, he now didn’t even have access to his phone. No way to let his friends know he needed a rescue. No way to let anyone know where he was. Or even figure out where he was. 

After several minutes of futile struggle, Danny became aware of eyes watching him. 

[velarisdusk]

Shadows at Twilight

Nesta & Azriel

word count: 2.3k content: [ platonic nesta & azriel, modern au, mention of substance abuse (cocaine), physical altercation, strong language, emotional conflict, family tension, mental health issues, mention of abandonment, mention of smoking (marijuana) ] summary: Azriel and Nesta's Thursday night smoke sessions become a lifeline. As tensions rise, the fragile balance they've been trying to maintain begins to falter. author's note: stoner nesta came to me in a dream but of course i had to make it depressing ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

The soft resonance of guitar strings filled Azriel's small apartment as the evening sun cast long shadows through the blinds. He sat on the edge of his worn couch, fingers absently plucking at the instrument while his eyes focused on the glowing screen of his laptop. With a heavy sigh, he closed the email—another rejection from a local venue.

“Thanks for your submission, but we're not looking for new acts at this time," Az muttered under his breath, mimicking the polite dismissal he'd read too many times before. He set the guitar aside and ran a hand through his dark hair, glancing at the clock on the wall. Nesta would be here soon.

He stood, stretching out the kinks in his back from hunching over his guitar for too long. As he moved to open a window, letting in the cool evening air, Azriel found himself thinking about how these Thursday nights had started — in the aftermath of Feyre, Rhysand, and Nyx's sudden disappearance. He recalled Nesta's frantic call that day, her voice strained with panic as she described the overflowing mailbox and the unanswered calls. She had demanded answers from him, but Azriel had been just as much in the dark.

The memory of that wellness check still felt surreal: entering the eerily quiet house with the police, only to find that impersonal note on the kitchen island. "We're leaving. Please don't look for us." Those words, so final and unexplained, had left a void in their lives that these smoke sessions had somehow started to fill. Az shook his head, pushing away the lingering questions. No use dwelling on it now. He was determined to keep the evening light.

The coffee table became a feast of their favorite munchies: salt and vinegar chips for Nesta, a mix of sweet and spicy nuts for himself, a couple of king-size Reese's cups they'd inevitably fight over, and some sour gummy worms for good measure. Az placed two cans of Cherry Coke next to Nesta's spot and a ginger ale by his. He knew they'd probably end up DoorDashing Taco Bell at some point—their crunchwrap cravings were pretty predictable—but it never hurt to be prepared. As Azriel pulled open the drawer beneath the table, revealing their well-used smoking paraphernalia, a knock sounded at the door.

“S’open!” he called out, quickly arranging the grinder, lighter, papers, and a small jar of pungent bud around the centerpiece.

"Hey," she said, making a beeline for the couch. "Sorry I'm late. Work was absolute chaos today. You wouldn't believe the client I had to deal with." Her hands fluttered as she spoke, the words tumbling out faster than usual. Azriel watched as she sat down, noticing the slight tension in her shoulders and her perfectly manicured nails tapping a relentless rhythm on her knee.

“No worries,” he said, tone neutral as he rolled them a joint each. “Rough day?”

Nesta shrugged, reaching for the TV remote. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. Smiling Friends?”

Azriel leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he angled his body to catch her eye. "Hey, are you sure you're alright? You seem... off."

Nesta's shoulders stiffened slightly. "I said I'm fine, Az. Can we just watch the show?"

As she turned to face him, irritation flickering across her features, Azriel's eyes widened. Even in the dim light of the apartment, he could see her pupils were blown. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

"Nes," he said, his voice low and careful, setting the joint down. "What did you take?”

Her defensiveness flared instantly. "What's it to you?"

Azriel's brow furrowed, a mix of concern and dry humor in his tone. "Well, I’d like to know if I should be ordering pizza or calling poison control. Seriously, what’s going on?” His eyes narrowed as he took in Nesta’s jittery movements, the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead. With her dilated pupils, the pieces clicked into place.

"Cocaine, Nesta? Really?" He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his voice. “What were you thinking?”

Nesta's posture stiffened, her eyes flashing with defiance. "Oh, that's rich coming from you. Don't act all high and mighty."

He blinked, caught off guard. "What are you talking about?"

"Please," Nesta scoffed. "You think I don't know about your little pick-me-ups before gigs? You're such a hypocrite."

Azriel's jaw tightened, his voice low. "That's... that's different. I'm not spiraling like you are."

Nesta leaned forward, her eyes blazing. "Different how? Because you're a 'tortured artist'? Give me a break." She made air quotes, her movements sharp and exaggerated.

He stood abruptly, pacing a few steps before whirling back to face her. "I'm not the one making a walk of shame to work every other day, or calling my estranged sister from borrowed phones."

Nesta shot to her feet, matching his stance. "No, you're just wasting your life playing dive bars. At least I have a real job." Her fingers drummed rapidly against her thigh.

"At least I'm not throwing away a law career I worked so hard for," he retorted, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Nesta's laugh was brittle as she threw herself back onto the couch. "You don't know anything about my work."

Azriel leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "I know you've been calling in sick more often. You told me yourself last week."

"So what? Everyone needs a mental health day now and then."

He remained against the wall for a moment, studying her with concern and frustration. Then, slowly, he pushed off and took a few steps toward her, closing some distance between them. His voice was low but firm as he continued. "A day, sure. But you're—"

"I'm what, Az?" Nesta interrupted, her voice rising as she crossed her arms tightly across her chest. "Enlighten me."

Azriel's eyes darkened, his voice steady but laced with frustration. "You're running from your problems. You're burying yourself in your work instead of actually facing them."

Nesta's jaw clenched. "You think I don't know that? At least I'm trying to keep it together. Unlike you, hiding behind your music and your so-called 'artistic struggles.'"

Azriel's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Don't turn this around on me. Yeah, I’ve got shit going on, but I’m not self-destructing. I’m not jeopardizing my career and my relationships."

Nesta scoffed, her eyes flashing with defiance. "You’re one to talk about relationships. When was the last time you let anyone in? You’re just as closed off as I am."

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "This isn’t about me. It’s about you needing help. Real help. You can’t keep running, Nes."

Her expression crumbled for a split second before she masked it with anger. "And what do you suggest I do, huh? Therapy? Rehab? You think I haven’t considered those? It’s not that simple."

His voice softened slightly. "I know it’s not simple. But I care about you, and it hurts to see you like this. You don’t have to keep punishing yourself like this.”

Tears welled up in Nesta’s eyes, but she quickly blinked them away. "I don’t need your pity."

"It’s not pity," he said, his tone earnest. "It’s concern. It's love, Nesta. You’re family, and I can’t just stand by and watch you destroy yourself."

She turned away, hugging herself tightly. The silence stretched between them, tense and heavy. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, "I called Feyre today..."

Az's expression hardened, a mix of concern and disappointment crossing his features. He didn't need to ask how she’d done it; he knew her pattern all too well. "Nesta," he said, his voice low and controlled, "you can't keep doing this. They clearly want space." Nesta's head snapped towards him, her eyes blazing.

"You don't know what they want! None of us do!" Her voice cracked with emotion.

Azriel's jaw clenched. "Maybe not, but I know they left for a reason. Have you considered that your constant attempts to reach her might be pushing her further away?"

Nesta's eyes flashed dangerously. "Don't you dare put this on me. You're just as lost without them as I am."

"At least I'm respecting their decision," Azriel countered, his voice low but intense. "Unlike you, I'm not harassing my coworkers for their phones or showing up to work high."

"Oh, please," Nesta scoffed. "You're not some paragon of virtue, Azriel. You're just better at hiding your mess."

Azriel took a step closer, his patience wearing thin. "My 'mess' isn't a nightly habit that’s consuming my life. Wake up, Nesta.”

Nesta's face contorted with rage and pain as she shot up off the couch and turned on him. "You think I don't realize that? You think I want to be like this?" Her voice rose to a near-shout. She paced like a caged animal, her fingers raking through her hair as she glared at Azriel. "I'm doing the best I can!"

His eyes flashed with frustration. "You want to know what I think? I think Elain was right."

Nesta met his gaze, her words low and tense. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I spoke to her last week," Azriel shot back, his voice hard. "She thinks you're the reason Feyre left. And you know what? I'm starting to agree with her."

"You don't know anything," Nesta snarled, her body coiled with tension.

Azriel stepped closer, his voice rising. "I know she was always cleaning up your messes. Always worrying about you. Elain thinks she finally got sick of it, and I can't blame her." His jaw clenched, hands curling into fists at his sides as he towered over her.

"Shut up," Nesta hissed, her hands clenching into fists. Though she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze, the fury blazing in her eyes was no less intimidating. 

"Face it, Nesta. Your sister couldn't take it anymore.” His volume rose, each word more forceful than the last. “Your emotional walls, your recklessness, your unwillingness to change—it drove her away! And now you're doing the same thing to Elain!"

Nesta's face contorted with rage. "I said shut up!"

"Why? Because you can't handle the truth?" Azriel's words were cutting. "She told me she wishes you’d left instead; that we’d all be better off if—"

With a wordless cry of fury, Nesta lunged at him, her hands clawing towards his face.

Azriel's eyes widened in shock as he instinctively raised his arms to block her attack.

"Nesta, stop!" Azriel growled, catching her wrists. She twisted violently in his grip, her teeth bared in a snarl.

"Let go of me!" Nesta spat, trying to wrench free. Her eyes were wild, pupils still dilated from the cocaine. She kicked out, aiming for his shins.

Azriel grunted as her foot connected, but he held firm. "I'm not fighting you," he said, his voice strained but controlled. "You need to calm down."

"Calm down?" she shouted hysterically. "After the shit you just said? Fuck you!"

She threw her weight forward, attempting to headbutt him. Azriel barely dodged, releasing one of her wrists to push her back. She immediately swung at him with her free hand. "You piece of shit!" Nesta screamed, lashing out again. Azriel deflected another blow as she continued, "You don't know anything about me!"

Her attacks came in bursts, punctuated by her rage-filled words. "Fucking lowlife!" she spat, narrowly missing his jaw with a wild swing, her nails grazing his cheek.

"Damn it, Nesta!" Azriel hissed, feeling the sting. He used his greater strength to push her back against the wall, pinning her arms. "Is this what you want? To hurt me? To hurt yourself?"

Nesta writhed against his hold, her chest heaving. "You don't understand anything!" she shouted, her voice raw with emotion. "You think you're so much better than me, but you're just as fucked up!"

Azriel leaned in, his face inches from hers. His voice was low, intense. "I never said I wasn't. I’m not your enemy here, Nesta, I’m just trying to stop you from being your own.”

For a moment, they stood there, both breathing hard. Nesta's eyes darted around, like a cornered animal looking for escape. Then, abruptly, she went limp in his grasp.

"Let go," she said, her voice suddenly quiet and dull. "Just... let me go, Azriel."

Azriel hesitated, studying her face. Slowly, cautiously, he released her arms and took a step back.

"I'm leaving," she muttered, pushing past him towards the door.

"Your keys," he said firmly, extending his hand towards her. "Give them to me. You're not driving like this. Get a Lyft or something."

“What are you, my keeper?” Nesta scoffed. “Drove myself here, didn’t I…” she muttered under her breath. Her hand went to her pocket, then paused. For a second, Azriel thought she might make a run for it or lunge at him again. But then her shoulders slumped, and she pulled out her keyring, took her apartment key, turned towards him and dropped them into his palm without meeting his eyes.

She made for the door again. Azriel didn't try to stop her, but his voice followed her. "This isn't over, Nes. We need to talk about this when you're sober."

Nesta paused at the door, her hand on the knob. Without turning back, she said, "Don't count on it," and slammed the door behind her.

Azriel stood in the sudden silence of his apartment, the echo of the slamming door fading away. He ran a hand over his face, wincing as he touched the scratch on his cheek. Nesta’s keys felt heavy in his hand.

[kayfabebabe]

i was thinkin for the knight reader/lord regal stuff, some angst where the reader takes a heavy hit to protect his lordship, and is left bleeding out in regal's arms

Mango and my Dear Anon, thank you both so much for your Asks! I have truly fallen in love with this AU and I have some fun future plans for it. If you’ve not read the first part then you can find it RIGHT HERE.

This is a heavier part of this AU so please read the warnings. 

Nobel Lord Regal X Male Knight Reader WARNINGS - Major character death. Description of injuries and blood. HEAVY Angst. Descriptions of violence.

(Ps. Major thanks to @regalityandcoffee for helping me get this thing finished after MONTHS of staring at it and not writing anything.)

~ ~ ~

There are a handful of moments in our lives that can be described as truly 'perfect.' For some, it's a childhood memory of joyfully splashing in puddles after heavy rainfall. Screeching at the top of their lungs with laughter until they grew too tired to continue. For others, it's lazily basking in the first Summer sun of the year. Thankful for the warmth chasing the lingering chill of Winter from the air. If you’re lucky, you’ll get to experience moments like these, over and over again. 

The beginning of that night was one of those perfect moments. You had crept through the darkened halls of the manor to William’s bedchambers and he welcomed you with an enthused kiss. It had been a great number of days since you could afford to steal time for yourselves. In that relatively short period, you grew desperate to hear William softly sigh your name or to feel his fingers clutch at your hips. How could one person cast such a spell over another? 

Falling into his Lordship's embrace, you allowed him to begin to strip you bare. Soon, soft pleasured sounds were being muffled between your mouths and your hands roamed under William’s shirt. Both of you were too preoccupied with each other to notice heavy footsteps approaching the door. 

~ ~ ~ 

A kid. It was only a kid.

His eyes were wide and brimmed with tears, face ashen as he stumbled away from you. The deep scarlet of your blood stained his fingertips. You stared in disbelief at the younger man before your gaze dropped to the dagger’s ornate handle protruding awkwardly from your chest. Oh. Strangely, in that singular moment of time, the only thing that you could focus on was the initials engraved into the silver. You recognised them. Then, all at once, hot and cold flames burned through your torso and a broken cry was ripped from your throat. 

“Anthony! Someone, help!”

Everything felt out of step with reality. One second, your lover was whispering words of affection into your skin and, in the next, you had been attacked. This couldn’t be happening. More loud voices instantly filled the room whilst you were guided backwards onto the bed and William appeared beside you. His hands desperately tried to press the loose bed linens around the blade to stop the bleeding, but to no avail. The white material soon became dark and damp.

"You fool. You stupid, stupid fool." 

“I-I’m… Sorry.” 

There was no real anger behind William’s words. It took all of your strength to lift your hand and weakly wipe the tears from his cheek, trembling as you struggled to draw a full breath. This was it. If this was truly to be your final moments, all you wished was to spend it without fear in William’s arms. No more pretending that you weren’t in love with The Lord. Your fingers curled into the collar of William’s shirt as you attempted to pull him closer.

“I love… y-you… I Iov-v-ve… I…”

~ ~ ~

The service was simple. 

Every member of the household attended, including the student knights, dressed in full regalia, as they carried the coffin upon their shoulders. Colourful arrangements of Hydrangeas and Lillies sat in tall vases beside the headstone. Their vibrant hues did little to lighten the sombre mood. Master Schiavone had handled the business arranging the funeral as His Lordship was too overwhelmed by his grief to leave his study for any length of time.

Nobody spoke of the anguished sobs that could be heard through the door. Or how, in the rare moments that His Lordship emerged from his solitude, his face was gaunt and thin. It was understood that Lord Regal had lost an incredibly close companion and that was not questioned. 

Long after the proceedings had ended and the other mourners had disappeared, William remained standing at the grave. He wished he could crumble to the ground in a heap and scream until his throat was raw. When will this pain stop? It was torturous from the second that he wakes up in the morning to falling asleep at night. Master Schiavone made several attempts to ease some of the grief resting heavily on William’s shoulders. ‘Time is the healer of all necessary evils, Sir.’ Staring at the raised ground and the polished marble headstone, William couldn’t believe that time was the answer to this heartache.

Nothing was going to stop this hurt.

~

[stil-lindigo]

lead balloon (the tumblr post that saved me)

if this comic resonated with you, it would mean the world to me if you donated to this palestinian family's escape fund.

--

no creative notes because this isn't that kind of comic.

I know I don’t owe any of you anything but I still felt compelled to write about my long term absence. And I feel far enough away from the dangerous spot I was in to be able to make this comic. I have a therapist now, and she agreed that making this could be a very cathartic gesture, and the start of properly leaving these thoughts behind me. I am still, at seemingly random times, blindsided by fleeting desires to kill myself. They’re always passing urges, but it’s disarming, and uncomfortable. I worry sometimes that my brain’s spent so long thinking only about suicide that it’s forgotten how to think about anything else. Like, now that I've opened that door for myself, I'll never be able to fully shut it again. But I’m trying my best to encourage my mind in other directions. We'll see how that goes.

I am still donating all proceeds from my store to Palestinian causes. So far, I've donated over $15K, not including donations coming from my own pocket or the fundraising streams which jointly raised around $10K. In the time since I made my initial post about where this money would be going, the focus has shifted from aid organisations to directly donating to escape funds.

If you'd like to do the same, you can look at Operation Olive Branch, which hosts hundreds of Palestinian escape funds or donate to Safebow, which has helped facilitate the safe crossing and securing of important medical procedures for over 150 at-risk palestinians since the beginning of the genocide.

[greykolla-art]

My blog has become infested with angst goblins, and they must be fed with some hypothetical scenarios!🙏💚

[scramratz]

Link!

[valtsv]

writhing in agony but i'm getting a little hot with it like arching my back and moaning and baring the smooth, vulnerable curve of my throat and white knuckle gripping the sheets beneath me

[i-am-emmet-real]

//you get one good one

Musharna mail

Emmet is in the battle subway and standing by his side is ingo in a fierce battle. He can’t tell who they’re battling. It doesn’t matter, his brother is here and they’re battling. Everything is alright for once

...

...

...

[He wakes up]

[caffstrink]

Comic about something that happened in 2019

[giantkillerjack]

Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".

[plain-text version of this post can be found under the cut]

Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"

And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".

Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.

At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.

So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!

Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!

Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!

Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.

Plain-text version:

Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".

Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"

And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".

Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.

At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.

So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!

P.S. Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!

Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!

Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.

[xinnamonbun]

Stupid.

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Happy Thistle Debut Day!

[fanaticalthings]

Jason:

Also Jason:

when you're worried about your dad but you also have a reputation

Masterlist

[sp0o0kylights]

“Dustin isn’t coming.”

“What?” Eddie says, all frantic and jovial movements freezing instantly.

His eyes narrow on Lucas--the bearer of bad news. “Why?” 

“Family emergency.” 

Mike makes a face. “I saw his mom yesterday and she was fine, so is this a…?” 

He makes a gesture that is entirely incomprehensible to anyone who isn’t Sinclair and his terrifying girlfriend.

(At least, Eddie thinks Max is Lucas’s girlfriend this week. It got a little hard to keep up after the third break-up-make-up marathon, and he frankly, stopped bothering to try.

It helped that she barely spoke--The only time notable being when Eddie had mockingly asked Sinclair if he needed a cheerleader when she’d first sat in, upon which she’d asked Eddie if he needed new kneecaps with a look in her eye that said she was serious.)

Wheeler Jr.’s gesture however, made her put her book down.

“You think he’s having migraines again?” She not so much asked as demanded, which had Mike shrugging. 

“Dunno." Lucas says. "Dustin didn’t say.” 

“Gotta be, if he called Dustin.” Mike mutters, Lucas shuffling his papers about as he begins to set up for Hellfire. He was the last in the room, practically late, which Eddie had planned on harassing him for had he not announced Henderson’s absence. 

(Fucking freshmen. They just weren’t terrified of Eddie like they used to be.) 

 “Robin must be sick or something, otherwise he’d call her.”  Lucas finishes as he finally sits down. 

“Didn’t the Marching Band go on some trip?” Mike turns to address the rest of the table, and gets nods from Jeff and Gareth both. 

“Yeah they’re marching in some parade in Indianapolis.” Jeff confirms. 

“So his last resort was Dustin?” Max is getting that tone in her voice, the one that makes everyone at Hellfire very uncomfortable. “Typical.” 

She pushes away from the table, making a show of gathering up her things before rising easily to her feet.

Eddie trades looks with the elder Hellfire members as she makes her exit--the kind that says they’re all going to be talking about this later. 

They knew their freshmen had some weird obsession with the former King, of course, but Mayfield too?

What the hell was up with that guy?

At least Eddie thinks, right before things are once again shot to shit, they can go back to playing the game.

He can make it work this early into things, and if Henderson isn't’ a fan of what he’s about to do to the kid’s character in his absence, well. 

Maybe he shouldn’t be fucking absent then. 

“So what, Max, you're gonna go over there and make it worse?” Mike snorts. 

Fatal mistake.

Eddie almost strangles him for it, if only because it prolongs this entire unnecessary conversation. 

Max performs a military perfect heel turn, coming straight back for Wheeler Jr., which makes him right about fall out of his seat in panic. 

“What was that, Wheeler?” 

“I’m just saying--!” 

“We don’t know Steve’s having migraines.” Lucas reiterates, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Maybe it’s something else.” 

“Does Steve get migraines a lot?” Grant asks, because despite all appearances he’s a terrible gossip and gets sucked in far too easily.

Eddie throws a pencil at him for it. 

“Hel-looo, we have a game!?” He thunders, but unfortunately for him, precious Stevie-Weavies headache now has everyone’s attention. 

“Yeah, though he’s really good at pretending he doesn’t.” Lucas answers with a put upon sigh. 

“There’s a whole pattern--he ignores it until it gets super bad, then he has to call Robin or Dustin to come get him when he inevitably gets stranded at work or the like, grocery store.” 

“Well who else do you think he’d call?” Mike scoffs again. He does a lot of that, when discussing Harrington. “It’s not like his parents are--Ow, Max!” 

“Close your mouth before I close it for you.” She hisses and Mike, shockingly, does just that. 

To Eddie, she says; 

“Your ass isn’t any better, or did you forget I live across from you?” 

Eddie--who had an insult primed and ready--promptly shuts his mouth.

(Fucking! Asshole! Freshmen!) 

“Maybe I should go too.” Lucas says, hedging a look between his girlfriend and his DM. 

“No.” She snaps, pointing a finger at him.

 “If you go, then this idiot,” she flicks her finger to  Mike, “will go and then we really will make it worse. Stay here before your bichon frise has a fit about all his sheep abandoning him.”

Then she’s turning on her heel again, storming out. 

“What the hell’s a bichon frisé?” Gareth asks in the aftermath, frowning. 

“It’s a type of ahhhh--” Jeff clearly thinks better of the explanation, eyes sliding to Eddie.

Who’s scowling.

“I know what a bichon frisé is, Jeff.” He snaps. 

“I don’t.” Grant loudly complains. 

Jeff attempts to both calm Eddie and explain while Mike and Lucas spend far too many minutes looking after Max. 

“Enough!” Eddie howls, temper finally getting the best of him. “Are we playing or do you also need to go sit by the King’s bedside?”  

“Thank you,” Mike says, like he wasn’t a third of the entire problem. “Let’s play!”

They make it about ten entire minutes before getting knocked off track again. 

In fairness, not that Eddie would ever admit it--the second meltdown is his own fault.

xXx

Hellfire is Eddie’s domain. 

It’s one of the few places where he could relax without getting harassed or hounded, and having his freshmen--his!--abandon him for King Fucking Steve had set him off. 

So he’d made a few comments about it.

Maybe introduced an NPC who sounded suspiciously similar to Harrington, only to instantly kill him off. 

Made another couple of nasty comments. 

Who cares? It worked him through his snit rather nicely, and his boys all knew to leave him be.

Except, apparently, for Lucas. 

“Dude, would you lay off?”  The kid finally snaps, pencil slamming down on the table. 

Which is the most backbone-like thing anyone has ever heard Sinclair say, and he gets far more whistles for it than he should.

Eddie pins him in place with a glare. 

“What was that Sinclair?” He snarls, voice as menacing as he can make it.

(It’s pretty terrifying, he’s practiced quite a bit with it.) 

Sinclair flinches, but doesn’t back down. 

“I said lay off. Steve has migraines because of--” He stops, before seeming to come to a decision. “Because of me. He took a hit for me, and I owe him a life debt for it.” 

To Eddie, he says; “You get what those are, right?” 

Mike rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t just for you--”

“That time with Billy was!” Lucas is quick to snarl. “But you know what Mike, you’re right. It wasn’t just for me. He T-boned a car for all of us!” 

Sinclaire is on his feet now, which is the unfortunate moment that Eddie realizes he has once again lost control of the room. 

A situation he firmly blames on Steve Harrington, because he’s petty. 

“Or did you forget that part? That’s you, me, Will, Nancy and Jonathan right there! Nevermind the tunnel. Or the junkyard! 

“We had the junkyard handled--”

Lucas scoffs. 

“We absolutely did not.” 

“I don’t get why you’re all making such a big deal out of this. He’s the fighter. That’s what he does. That’s why we brought him to the tunnel.”

“You recall what happened at Starcourt, right?” Lucas challenges, furious. “You did see him after, right?” 

This, finally, seems to shut Mike up. 

“Shouldn’t you be mad at him for that?” He says after a moment, and the rest of Hellfire has completely put aside all actual gaming to watch this play out with a morbid sort of fascination. 

Eddie allows it, only because he’s trying to breathe the way Wayne taught him to before he loses it entirely and throws both of the idiot kids out of the drama room. 

“He pulled your sister into it.”

“Have you met Erica!? You can’t pull her into shit!” Lucas spits furiously. “That wasn’t D&D, Mike. It was the Upsi--real life.” 

Lucas is quick to correct himself, even in the heat of the moment--as all the kids are, like the entire school hasn’t clocked that they have some weird ass secret they’re terrible at hiding.

“And if we’re playing those games, then who pulled him into the tunnels? Who made him come to the junkyard?”

“Dustin.” Mike says snidely. 

“You don’t get to blame Dustin when Steve was the only person around.” 

“There were people around! They just weren’t people who--weren’t--who couldn’t--”

“Finish that sentence.” Lucas demands 

“Be trusted.” Mike spits out, like it hurts him. 

“Exactly.” 

“El went through way more than Steve ever has! El--”

“El was using her po--doing mage things! And also, she shouldn’t have had to go through all this shit either! We can’t rely on her to save the day every single time, Mike--and look at how hurt she gets!”

“She--”

“She hides it from you, you know. How bad she hurts. Cause she wants to put your feelings first.” 

“I--”

“Will does too.”  Is Lucas’s parting shot. His backpack is in his hands in a blink, papers and character figure shoved wildly into it, before he’s storming out the door in a poor mimicry of Mayfield.

“Harrington T-Boned a car?” Grant says, in the resounding silence. 

“That BMW of his hasn’t had a scratch on it--” Jeff says, with an inquisitive tilt to his head. 

“He didn’t use the Beamer.” Mike interrupts, angry and sulking. “Are we playing or not?”

“I’m gonna say not, given we are down two players.’ Eddie tells him through clenched teeth. 

“I’m going to be so mad if Steve doesn’t have a migraine.” Mike grumbles, as he begins packing up his stuff. 

The rest of Hellfire follow his lead, after one look at Eddie’s face convince the lot of them that it’s best to flee now, before Eddie unleashes all his pent up rage. 

“Not as mad as I’ll be, Wheeler.” Eddie promises darkly.

And it is a promise--because now, he’s going to follow all his stupid (sans Mike, who isn’t in his good graces either but at least stayed) freshmen--and go visit one fallen King.

If Harrington doesn’t have a headache now, he will when Eddie’s done with him.