#ransome note

[affairesasuivre]

Lauren Duffus’ music is a lesson in exploding gracefully

Lauren attributes her musical inspiration to two principal sources: American trio Salem, and her old Yamaha keyboard’s classical build-ins.

Listening to her productions, it’s clear that the uncanniness of these inspirations is right on brand. Tangible are the bad-dream atmospherics, chopped ‘n’ screwed beats and irreverent tone which paint the witch house genre (grey); as well as the cinematic drill instrumentals typified by Chicago rapper, Chief Keef. But far from the codeine’d quality of Salem’s quasi-noise productions, the antagonism in Duffus’ music is often appeased with blithe glimmers, sometimes even choral singing. Her music’s equal proclivity for both caustic indignation and moments of tenderness justify previous comparisons to the likes of aya and Loraine James, both of which extend to her fusion of prismatic club beats and soft melodics.

‘From a very young age I was always drawn to sad or scary music’, Lauren reflects. ‘I remember loving the soundtrack for the fairytale, Peter and the Wolf. I love all genres though from black metal to pop but I will almost always only enjoy the songs that have a moving element. That’s why I love Chief Keef, his instrumentals almost always feel really sad to me’.

For Lauren, making music is a form of therapy, and satisfaction only comes with a production process informed by hardship. Her self-proclaimed inflexibility when it comes to making music solely informed by her own selfish inclinations doesn’t stop her hoping that people will share in the emotion she pours into its creation. Nonetheless, she finds less comfort in doing so herself. ‘After making something and putting it out I very rarely listen to it. Either I really don’t enjoy it and it tends to upset me’.

Pain is palpable in Duffus’ music. After boredom led her to download a free trial of Logic in the height of 2020’s lockdown, tracks quietly began to surface on her Soundcloud page, such as ‘Stir Fry’ which would later resemble one third of her debut EP ‘SULK’. The snideness of SULK’s title matches its tone. Unequivocal though it may be – this is an expression of pain – it is resolutely not an attempt at self-indulgence. Despite its melancholy (‘Soho Road’ is subtitled ‘Crying Song’ and is mainly composed of gut-wrenching sobs), Lauren’s music almost seems to laugh at itself, deftly conveying the coexistence of both devastation and self deprecation in depressive episodes.

Whilst Stir Fry’s choral singing, chipmunk vocals and dancehall-indebted rhythms bare stark resemblance to Sinjin Hawke’s symphonic ‘First Opus’ LP, the self-released ‘Anxiety‘ is distinctly cold, with brittle percussion and a playtime 173 seconds, as if not meriting anything more.

‘I’m still on the journey of learning how to deal with my emotions in a way that’s not destructive’, she responds when I ask about the description written underneath her AD 93 release ‘Dubplate 07’. ‘Exploding gracefully just means pouring that energy outwards as opposed to bottling it up and destroying myself’.

She admits the difficulty she’s found in compromising her own release schedules in favour of working with labels. ‘I want to share as soon as I finish a skeleton of a song because there’s so much pent up energy Ive just put into it and I feel like it’s squirming in my laptop needing to be let out’.

Lauren also struggles with attempts to categorise her music, admitting she sometimes gives into labelling tracks such as ‘Permanence‘ as ‘ambient’ given their pulselessness, despite the term not resonating fully. Her dual inspiration of both drill and classical music reaches its most prominent form on her third most listened-to SoundCloud upload: a monasterial remix of ‘Inner City Pressure’ – the experimental grime track by London producer, Cold.

When I asked whether she detected a sense of place in her own music – whether she considered London to be its natural home – she reflected that, despite the dancehall sounds she grew up surrounded by, that actually ‘the fact that I exclusively create in my childhood home which holds a lot of painful memories is more of a factor than the city I’m in. I can be a bit crap socially so I really don’t feel like any immediate community influences my sound’.

When we discuss her fusion of hard-hitting, industrial electronics with ornate choral arrangements, she meditates on classical music’s liberating tendencies. ‘It inspires me to not be rigid and have no rules – that probably sounds stupid because its seen as such a rigid, traditional genre filled with rules – but I like the constant tempo changes, the expression, and the movement within the songs that tell a story. It’s so fluid. I enjoy challenging myself to turn off the metronome and just play stuff expressively’.

Lauren’s penchant for story-telling translates into a desire to take up film scoring, so much so that she recently partook in an online course. ‘I just love the freedom it gives you in terms of structure and the challenge of not sticking to a tempo or traditional structure’, she tells me. ‘It was so much fun writing music with a visual prompt and hit points etc it was the most creative I’ve felt’.

Having only been producing for a matter of months when she created ‘Stir Fry’ – now her most notable release – it’s clear that world-building is something innate in Lauren’s musical inclination. It’s rare to find an artist whose music engulfs you in such a way as hers, and warrants comparisons to the enchanting immersion of Björk or the cinematic allure of Enya. At once appearing to bare all yet be fiercely guarded, it’s a deeply complex treatise on life’s hard times.

[martyrbat]

hate when a batman artist isn't committed to bruce's lame bat schtick... give that man a bat insignia on the bottom of his boots rn

[toughbunnyforever]

maybe try writing him a note next time idk

[vexwerewolf]

It's been too long since I made one of these. Have another!

[abermetta]

a crime of passion, you could say

[mikeybutnotway]

This is a letter, my word is the Beretta, the sound of my vendetta against the ones that planned it!

[aswarmofmoths]

[goatsghost]

i love how, in every universe, no matter how much jason hates bruce or wants to distance himself from the family, he still loves alfred just as much as he always has

[badly-drawn-doflamingo]

SURPRIZE, SHIT HEADS!!1

Redraw for a comic con panel [ for a friend. ]

Also have some fun color options

Aaaand Doffy wanted to be included

[avvail]

ransom note? With whoever u want I'm just a sucker for that setup

The hero’s droopy eyes were always such a fascinating sight. The villain could very well keep them drugged up like this for the rest of their life, if they so pleased, and it would never get old to them.

They would always be able to admire their slurred moans behind the gag, their watery eyes looking at them so delicately, hardly able to grasp onto a single thought in that empty little head of theirs.

The villain smiled softly, their fingers tapping under the chin.

“Hero,” they called, gently stroking their thumb along their chin. The hero’s eyelids sluggishly blinked, looking so out of it. They couldn’t even lift that heavy head of theirs without the villain’s help. It was so pitiful.

“It’s been six days and three hours since I sent out your ransom note,” they sighed, feigning a look of pity as they tilted their limp head to the side, admiring the glint of the dim light in those blank eyes. “They finally got back to us. Want me to read it?”

They fished into their pocket, bringing out the pristine note in the envelope, something the Agency had sent in response to the ransom note the villain had sent out when they first got their hands on the hero.

They let go of the hero’s chin, letting it drop unceremoniously, not missing the disgruntled whine that bubbled against their gag. The villain briefly smiled at that.

They motioned for one of the henchmen to untie the gag from around the hero’s mouth, simultaneously using a small knife to slice open the top of the envelope. The villain gave a languid sigh, their uninterested eyes scanning over the words.

“Absurd amount of money, don’t hurt you, negotiable terms,” the villain listed off under their breath, a small chuckle escaping their lips as they turned to the hero, taking in clipped breaths with the absence of the gag. “You hear that?”

They gripped their jaw, fingers digging into their cheeks as they jerked them forward, the ropes scraping against their already sore flesh. The hero gave a pained whimper.

“No money,” they told them, showing them the note, even though the hero wouldn’t be able to read anything in this state. “They want to negotiate instead. Isn’t that funny? They’re begging me not to hurt you, and yet they’re willing to risk not meeting my demands when I asked them to.”

The villain scrunched the note up in their hand, until it was squashed down tight in the ball of their fist. They stepped directly in front of the hero, digging their thumb into their mouth and prying their jaw open. Watery, pitiful doe eyes could barely stare up at them.

“Maybe it’s for the best, you know,” they cooed, stuffing the ball of paper in their mouth, making the hero moan against it. They tapped their cheek harshly. “They won’t pay the amount I asked for, so I’m going to keep you.”

The villain wiped away a stray tear charging down their bruised cheek, and let go of them. Their head dropped.

“You’re too pretty like this to pass up anyway,” they smiled.

@badthingshappenbingo

[hitlikehammers]

Post S4 Steddie featuring Russian-Hostage!Steve (again) and Ransom Notes Sent to His Family (!)—hilarious

...but is it?

Steve doesn’t remember getting drunk as fuck. In fact, he…

This doesn’t even feel like a hangover, not exactly. There’s the headache, the stomach-lurching, but there’s a, a weight almost. Something in his limbs that feels off and too stiff but also like noodles, if you could make noodles out of lead. This, this kinda feels like—

His hand goes automatically to his neck, near his jaw, tries to see if he can feel—

Ah. Okay. Yep. Already scabbed over the injection site. Must’ve been something else this time, like probably a bigger needle. Sedative to start, maybe. Like the appetizer course.

Steve starts chuckling to himself—no off-the-books truth serum needed to get hysterical, not this time—as he tosses himself to lying back down, only then really clocking the cuffs on his wrists and, well.

At least he’s not in a fucking sailor suit.

——

When he calms down, and no one’s come for him into his very unexciting grey-stone cell for enough minutes to trust in a lull, at least, where he can just…just try and think?

He does in fact think he’s got something of an outline for maybe, like, the first leg of the story: they had to have gotten him after work.

Probably right after work, between locking up and getting to his car. He closed alone last nigh—

Well. The last time he remembers being at Family Video, he was closing alone. If he’s waking up drugged, it’s probably not super smart to just assume it was ‘last night’ by default.

Not that he’s sure it even matters, but.

Everyone knew he was closing. And everyone, except his boyfriend and sometimes Robs, knows to leave him be for a good twelve-to-twenty-four hours to recover when he’s soloing for the late shift on a weekend. Fucking brutal, honestly. Plus there’s a stormfront on the way and he’s had a migraine brewing at the back of his skull for days that was due to explode the minute he clocked out. Rob’s in Chicago scoping colleges, wasn’t gonna be back until midday after his shift anyway. Eddie was doing the same, but in Indy, looking to book gigs—he’d get back around sunup, probably, and he might come by as his first stop home, in fact he usually does and...

If anyone’s noticed Steve’s missing? Or will, maybe soon?

Might…might actually be Eddie, first.

Steve feels…more than a little tight in the chest, in his throat, having to think about it; imagining if the tables were turned.

So he shifts tacks, moves quick to trying and figure out what the fuck he’s been abducted for in the first place—yeah they’re gearing up for the eventual final showdown with Vecna, but once the ash stopped raining, and the sky went back to generally regular colors, and the government paid to fill in enough of the ‘earthquake’ damage for the roads that were still drivable to be noticeably better than they were pre-apocalypse? People generally calmed down, so. He really doesn’t know who the fuck’s got it out for him. He actually hasn’t broken his NDA, particularly considering he doesn’t even socialize with anyone anymore who hasn’t signed one themselves, and therefore doesn’t count on the subject of keeping to the terms of service, and honestly? Even peak-Vecna with his clock bullshit didn’t have a real-world army to do his bidding because, like: shit. That’s still the thing he’s pissy about, right? So.

It’s not like whoever’s-got-him-chained-up-because-if-anything-they’re-more-serious-about-imprisonment-than-he’s-encountered-before—but whoever they are, Steve cannot for the life of him figure out a good reason for them to be after him on Upside Down business.

So, like: the fuck, you know?

He’s trying to figure out property damage, like did he ruin someone’s prize roses when he was driving that RV, or else; was the couple who owned that RV, like, retired assassins and they’d been gearing up for revenge this whole time? That was plausibl—

The door—thicker, heavier than Steve actually was guessing—swings open with a godawful screech before he can weigh the likelihoods of the wife, or husband, or both having been secretly cold-blooded-killers, and in walks…

Oh. Oh, so…it is actually that predictable. Same script, different scenery.

Because Steve knows that fucking uniform, and it’s actually involuntary, swear to god, the way he sighs.

He gets slapped for it, which would hurt less than the first go around—those gut shots had been brutal—if the asshole hadn’t been wearing rings.

Not nice ones like Eddie’s, either. Ones meant to fucking tear skin and peel at the layers beneath it, too. Bear down to the bone, if given the time.

Steve feels the blood drip down toward his mouth, but there’s enough that he tastes it on the air before it even rolls past his lips. He’s panting a little, more for the sake of the impact, like the shock of it, but even then he hears it. The…weird whirring through the open door and he tries to catch his breath so he can focus, because there’s something…familiar about it, something he should know—

“Who do you work for?”

He snaps back to what’s in front of him and fuck, god, so: same script.

But, but: literally.

He instinctively curls his fingernails against his palms; knee jerk reaction. And fucking justified, too.

“Video store,” Steve answers because, what else, and good thing he’s still wearing his vest, was taking it home to wash because it smelled too much like…store. He nods down at the logo on his chest, pulled awkward and lying askew but pretty goddamn clear. “Like VHS tapes. Movies.”

He gets another slap. He’s grateful for even more reasons that Robin’s not with him this time. They’re not even proper Russian cinephiles, she’d be so offended on principle.

“I mean,” Steve decides in a split second to play along, to roll the dice with his chances on his lonesome and be grateful—and maybe because the thought of Robin, following the thought of Eddie and his rings, all weaves together to make him bold, but also make him desperate: he doesn’t want them in danger. Doesn’t want anyone goaded by these bastards into coming for him, wherever he is, and getting themselves hurt. Or worse.

So: maybe goading this captors into thinking he’s not worth the time anymore and making this quick?

Maybe that’s the card he’s gotta play.

“I’m guessing you think I know shit because of Starcourt,” and yep. Eyes get big for that being slid across the metaphorical table so casual. But Steve’s more impressed at himself because the minute he says it? The humming sound, the whirring? It clicks.

It’s what he heard in that underground lab. With that machine. With them trying to, to tear open—

“I don’t, for the record, know anything, Steve clarifies; “but if I’m like, missing for too long? My friends are gonna flip, and last time my friends were with me, y’know, so this time,” Steve sucks at his front teeth and shakes his head, and it fools them while it grounds him: two-for-one.

“They’ll freak, basically. Especially after last time,” his boldness lasts him through tossing his captors—maybe torturers—a judgmental quirk of his brow.

“Probably gonna tell Hopper like, y’know, chief of police,” he adds, blames Eddie for the theatricality buried in it as he purses his lips and nods like he’s considering; tries not to dwell on a deeper reason for why these bastards are letting him talk—nope. Nope, shove those thoughts down, just keep talking yourself, ignore the steady trickle of blood down to his tongue as he yaps.

“And Hopper, hell, it’s not his first rodeo, so he’ll probably call the suits,” Steve presses on Because what else does he have, what else can he do, he can barely fucking move; “you know, like you,” he nods at the medals on the very Soviet-style uniform; “but the American version. He’s got friends. So.”

And Steve manages to stare the fucker down, just eye-to-eye as the man scowls, glances at his associate standing closer to the door and—

Yep: yep. Another slap with those rings. Steve can’t pretend the blood’s not spilling from the line where the impact dug out his skin. He’s glad there’s no mirror; can only imagine what it looks like.

Sure as fuck knows what it feels like.

“I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know,” Steve doesn’t even think he’s trying to reason with them, wonders idly if he’s like, some Russian-identified spokesman now for all things spy-y and otherworldly, like if his picture’s on a cork board with strings going around it as the number-one suspect-slash-target-to-pump-for-nonexistent-info.

Fucking fantastic.

“I work for a video store, dude,” he finishes with, and it doesn’t even come out desperate, or pleading—it’s way closer to resigned.

“We will see.”

The man grabs Steve’s chin rough, too rough and for a second? Steve’s a little afraid he’s gonna try to snap his neck but he just shoved him back, straight into the wall—cracks his spine a little, but. Actually, given his limited range of motion, it kinda gets out at least a couple kinks. Huh.

Silver linings, or whatever.

But then they’re leaving, and something leaps in Steve chest uncomfortably, just as something sinks in his stomach and the whirring, the hum from beyond the door sinking with it, too—ominous—and he’s lunging against his restraints without thinking, cringing for the bite of the metal but there’s…something in him wants more time with these people. To figure them out. Maybe just to stall for time or find the one last straw to break and get himself beaten to death, no longer a threat to his friends by proxy.

“We have Sour Patch Kids, now!” Steve calls out on a freak instinct, a stupid desperate whim as they walk out, maybe more to drown out the whirring, the pit that’s opening in his stomach for all the memories its familiarity dredges up; “can totally hook you guys up!”

The door shakes the air somehow, but not the walls, or Steve’s chains, when it slams closed and Steve can’t hear the machine anymore, it’s all cut off and—

Holy shit, Steve is so fucked.

——

They keep sliding sandwiches and water through a hole they literally lock and unlock in the thick-as-fuck-special-soundproof door. Steve is reminded weirdly—or not, it all looks perfectly normal—but given the circumstances, he thinks he’s justified to be thrown back to that lime-green battery acid they’d considered drinking in the elevator: and that, probably more than anything, is why he refuses to touch a single bit of what’s shoved into his cell.

Well: that and then also the fact that no one actually comes in for a long stretch of time, and there’s no noise, save for…the hum. Only when they open the little hatch for food, at first but…then it increases. Then it somehow overrides what Steve imagines to be a pretty fucking effective insulation job to make everything thus far so soundproofed; so deadened. The fact that it even bleeds through a little sinks sicker in his stomach than hunger ever could.

Because definitely, one-hundred-percent, in case there’s been any doubts hanging on: it’s the machine, the thing they were using before to rip holes in…the world. As if Hawkins needed any more but—

The Russians want to know who he works for, and they’re trying to unleash the Upside Down. Again.

Jesus Christ.

It might be comical, the repetition after everything, with even less reason—the gates have been shut and sealed now almost a full year and shit, the whole party had been banging on about a cookout to celebrate, to sneak in one good thing before it was time to strike against Vecna for the last time, and Steve really hopes they don’t abandon the well-earned party for the sake of his imminent demise but, point is: it would be comical, almost definitely, if it weren’t so fucking horrifying.

They thought this was over. This part at least, the peripherals. Steve was the last real holdout to be on high alert, everyone was trusting in the alert system that was El and Will and even him and Eddie a little bit from the bats, all connected to some degree with activity in the Upside Down and everyone else was counting on that and trying to live in the middle while they could and…shit.

Look where it got Steve, giving in to the hope for an end in sight, and maybe even a happy one at that.

It runs sick through his veins, now that he’s thinking about it, about any of the possible outcomes and ramifications beyond this cell and…basically Steve’s glad he hasn’t trusted a bite or a sip of anything they’ve left him, lest he have to endure anything worse than dry heaving in captivity.

——

Eveually, Steve goes back to counting out the positives. It’s a fairly safe subject. Morbid, maybe, but what else has he got?

His friends aren’t here. He’s lonely, but honestly, even if that’s a part of his life that’s seen major improvement the past couple years? It’s not something he isn’t used to, can’t work with. But if his friends aren’t here? They’re safe. El or Will can tell there’s something weird with the Upside Down if the machine gets powerful enough, they’ll all be able to come up with a plan and strike when the time’s right, and Steve…

Steve can survive a little longer, at least as a distraction, even if he’s apparently a shitty one since people aren’t coming in to ask about the latest new releases, or smack his other cheek and give him a matching set of bloody gouges.

The machine, also—and why he figures he might not outlive the time it takes for the others to notice a disturbance in the Force—ha, they’re not even here to appreciate his wholly unprompted and almost definitely correct nerd reference, but that’s good: they’re not here, they’re safe—but the machine is humming, and turned on? But even at a distance it should be louder. It should be louder to destroy the world.

They’re not there yet. They’re not there yet; there’s still time, and Steve may not be there to help everyone fight, to protect them but—

There’s time.

And then like, of course, full circle: no Scoops uniform, check—those shorts bunched up his ass like nobody’s business. He cannot forget that as a massive plus, here, because come on, think about it: decked out like a shitty ice cream sailor on an ocean of flavor, Jesus.

Just a flat out shitty way to have to die.

——

“We have sent the ransom demands.”

Steve blinks; he was kinda spacing out. He probably shouldn’t be able to do that. The machine isn’t any louder—yet—but it’s…ambient, in a way.

Morbid, probably. Again.

The lack of eating or drinking might be getting to him. He really should have eaten before his shift.

“The what?” Steve blinks some more because…maybe if he can see clearer he can hear the words in a way that’ll make sense.

Jesus fuck, he should probably start being concerned about his…overall cognitive function or whatever, at this point.

Or something.

“You are a rich man,” the main bastard, with the rings, looms over Steve with a skeevy little grin, cracks his knuckles and how, he’s watched Eddie struggle because it’s so hard to get your fingers in the right position to do it with rings on—

“You’ve got the wrong guy, pal, look at these shoes,” Steve shakes his head while he kicks his feet out: “very last season.”

They’re still fucking excellent shoes, but. High-school-him wouldn’t have been caught dead in them.

Ha. Haha. Graduated-useless-townie-him is gonna get caught dead in them. Ha.

Add that to the positives list, because irony is sometimes funny. He listens when Robin tells him about her boring-ass art movies. Because Robin’s opinions matter, regardless of the topic.

“Property records,” the lackey who stands behind points out and it takes Steve a second to catch up…rich man. Property records.

Ransom note—

Oh fuck, but he cannot help himself. He snorts.

And then he laughs hard enough that both his captors actually look concerned which: fair. If he had information, it’s probably hard to wring anything useful out of somehow who’s totally lost their mind.

“Dude,” Steve wheezes, and then gets back to cackling because it’s too funny, just the picture in his head—

“Dude, no,” he shakes his head over and over and gets a little dizzy but who can even blame him. Richard and Amelia Harrington, paying their failure of a son’s ransom to the Russians?!

Fuck, they’d be better off putting up a shitty politician and soliciting their donations. Like the whole thing with mayor what’s-his-face.

Steve really doesn’t need any black market drugs to find it hilarious and, like, honestly.

Going out laughing isn’t the worst way to die, so. Seriously.

Mark that down for topping the list of goddamn positives.

——

He doesn’t actually know how long it’s been, but the time does come where he gives in, and is therefore eating the morning and the afternoon sandwiches he’s been left—they don’t take the uneaten stuff until he’s sleeping, given that he’s never seen them do it and the old food’s always gone. He’s only guessing that he gets three plates a day, and…well. He remembers something Erika said about three days without water being the limit for the human body and it sure as fuck felt like it, and poison seemed a better alternative than thirst as reasons for kicking the bucket, so.

Least it wasn’t the neon acid; little mercies. Gotta remember that.

But on an empty stomach it had gone down easy and quick for desperation, but fuck if now it didn’t hurt which: in for a penny, or whatever the saying was. He didn’t understand it. Just knew it fit the situation. Kinda.

Probably.

He’s curled up now, though, kinda moaning super pathetically, almost loud enough to drown out the machine’s hum even, for the way his stomach roils and he tries to distract himself; tries to think…

He is just clearheaded enough to recognize how morbid he’s being, again—but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. And also it’s relevant, so fuck you, morbid-police.

But: Max’s letters. They’re what comes to mind.

He doesn’t have paper. Or a pen. Or something to etch into the floor with. So it’s just a…thought exercise. That’s what they’re called, right?

Whatever. Distraction. He cannot die covered in his own puke, that’s one bridge too far, so he needs to focus. Not on the state of his intestines.

So…start with, who should he start with?

Hmm. Hmmmmmm.

El. She’ll figure things out first so:

Dear El

Solid start. Good job, Steve.

You are fucking extraordinary, and it’s not for being able to move stuff with your mind. You’re so strong, and brave, and selfless. I look up to you. I like when they call you Supergirl, but, like, those are the reasons why. Keep finding reasons for laughing, remember you’re entitled to extra because of all the dark years you came back stronger from. Remember the way you are and the way you think and the things you do are awesome and you don’t have to relearn anything you don’t want to, or change anything you don’t want to, to fit in. People should be trying to be more like you.

Love you, Supergirl.

P.S. there’s a freezer in the basement fucking loaded with Eggos. All yours. 

Hey. That’s a solid letter. He’s not bad at this.

Then his stomach lurches and apparently he’s not even allowed to celebrate his wins, okay, fucking cool.

Who’s next, who’s next…

Dear Dustin, and maybe that’s the best way; this is gonna hurt like hell just thinking about so maybe, like, that’s the best way to distract himself.

Okay. Okay. All or nothing.

You die, I die was a general feeling, thing, not a real thing. So take care of yourself, for real, okay? Lean on people. If the other shitheads aren’t what you need, turn to Robin. Turn to Eddie. Promise me you’ll be everything you’re meant to be. I’m so proud to know you, man, always. All the things about you are things worth being proud of.

Talk to Eddie about tone, though. Like, when the time’s right.

Thanks for being the first person to show me what family’s really like, what it’s supposed to be. You’re mine, y’know. Like, you’re my brother, but then, you’re also my friend. Thanks for that, too. I love you, man.

P.S. They discontinued The Hairspray. Be on the lookout for a good replacement, and conserve what you have for special occasions. 

The cuts on his cheeks are apparently not yet healed over enough not to burn when the tears streak through. Awesome.

Definitely fucking distracting so…run with it, he guesses.

Dear Max,

Thanks for the idea. 

Cop out. Absolute cop out. He means it, this is helpful, he hasn’t barfed yet which is really the point but.

He’s being a coward, now. Seriously.

It needs to hurt. If he actually put himself into writing Max’s it’d be ugly, but…

Go big or go home. And he’s never going home again, is he, so:

Dear Robin

Fuck. Fuck, his breath catches with just those two words.

I’m really glad we never figured out how to meld into a single being, because I don’t want you here when…you know. When.

But I wish you were here in a safe way, if that makes sense, and somehow were possible. They don’t call them soulmates for no reason. And I never called you mine without meaning it.

If there’s anything after, I will miss you through all of it with everything I am and hope like hell when the time’s right—like at least 90 years from now and no less, you understand?—I get to see you again. Maybe then we can work on the melding thing and get it right.

I liked being your dingus. So much. And I will always be your capital-P soulmate.

I’m sorry. 

He doesn’t even remember his stomach hurting from the sandwiches, anymore, or drinking the water too fast. He’s sick for so much bigger reasons, now. Everything fucking hurts.

That’s the point, he reminds himself, that’s the point, so:

Dear Eddie—

He chokes on the air, just for the thought, because here’s the tipping point. Here’s where he breaks.

He can’t. He can’t.

He loves all of them. All of them.

But he’s only in love with one. Like he’s never loved before. Like he’s never been loved back before, not ever.

He doesn’t know if it’s possible to pass out from heartache, or if it’s more the not eating, or drinking, or if he’s feverish, maybe the cuts on his cheeks from the rings are infected and he’s on borrowed time in more ways than one.

Doesn’t matter. He can’t write a letter to Eddie, not even in his head. And he doesn’t want to think about what it means, such a nonexistent-mental-letter.

Someone told him once that if you were falling to your death, you’d pass out before impact. Like…like self-preservation in your last few seconds or something.

Steve thinks—with the way everything fades to black in seemingly seconds—he thinks this is…kinda like that.

So the big question now is:

DOES HE SURVIVE? SHOULD HE GET RESCUED?!?!

*chews nails, or hair, or—*

yeah, like that

For @devondespresso, who requested 'Nightmares' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST (sorry it's in the contexts of LIVING ONE OUT) and incidentally also for @steddie-week for the Day Two prompt 'Hands' (which okay if you DO NOT want a rescue it's only in mean violent ways but...he could be rescued)

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson @theheadlessphilosopher @lawrencebshoggoth @mensch-anthropos-human

divider credits here

ao3 link here ✨

[martyrbat]

i think duke thomas can look up at the eclipse and be fine actually

[usualgangofidiots]

June 1977 cover

Artist: Bob Clarke

[vexwerewolf]

[fanfic-writer-and-rambler]

Stephanie Brown sits tied to a chair in a trio of kidnappers apartment. She's slightly terrified, but mostly aggravated she took Tim's advice on just being kidnapped and not fighting back. The kidnappers start a recording on the leader's phone and he stands close to Stephanie. (I love the clip this was inspired by).

Kidnapper (Warren): All right, read this!

Warren holds up a note book with a script for Stephanie to read.

Stephanie, tied up: Father- wow that handwriting.

Stephanie squints her eyes.

Stephanie: Father, I have been abduct, I am fine-

Warren: Abducted.

Stephanie (dryly): It says abduct.

Warren: Just say abducted.

Stephanie (rolling her eyes): Father, I have been 'abducted'. I am fine right now, but I may not be for loring.

Stephanie (chuckling while continuing to read): If you do not pay the 'sun' of one million 'doolars'-

Warren (reading over the note): Wait a minute, wait a minute. Loring? The 'sun' of one million 'doolars'? What the-

Stephanie (mockingly): That's what it saaays.

Warren (pissed off): That's 'long' and the 'sum' of one million 'dollars'. You know what it means.

Stephanie (indignant): I don't know what it means. You told me to read this. That's what I'm doing.

Warren aims the gun at her, but Stephanie crosses her legs not caring anymore.

Warren: Just say what it means, okay?

He turns the notebook back to face her.

Stephanie (annoyed): I may not be for long if you do not pay the sum of one million dollars, you will never see me alive again these men mean 'businesses'.

Stephanie snort laughs.

Stephanie (jokingly): I'm so glad you got your child to write this.

Warren shakes with anger, reading the note again. He glares at the other kidnapper.

Warren: Kevin!

Joey talking to Kevin: I think he's pissed at the note.

Kevin takes a step back from the kidnapper, holding his head down.

Stephanie (snide): It says 'businesses' that's what it says, you told me to read the note you never said to improv it.

Warren (lowering his gun and glaring at the sneering girl): Oh, improv! What are you Meryl -Fuckin- Streep? Okay, improv the note!

Stephanie (recrossing her leg and clearing her throat): These sexually frustrated degenerate losers mean (softer tone) business.

Warren (stammering and pissed off again): Don't- Don't- Don't improv it. Don't get smart.

Stephanie (with attitude): I'm sorry me passing english class in freaking home school ruined the flow of your crappily written note!

Warren: Fuckin- Joey give me a fuckin pen!

Warren walks away, smacking Kevin on the back of his head. Joey hands him a pen. Stephanie keeps her legs cross while whistling.

Warren (angrily whispering): Oh I was home schooled, look at me. Fuckin' brat.

Stephanie: It's not whispering if I can hear you.

Warren walks back over to Stephanie and shows her the new ransom note.

Warren: Read it.

Stephanie: Dad been kidnapped, send one million or I'm... Dead.

Warren presses the stop button for recording on his phone.

Warren: Perfect.

Stephanie (fake sweet voice): Good for you, your chicken scratch writing was so much easier to read. You write like a monkey with a typewriter but good for you.

Warren (shaking with anger): You're lucky we need this money.

Stephanie: Much like every woman who has the misfortune of laying down with you, I know that statement isn't true.

Warren clenches his fists deciding it was better to walk away over unleashing his anger on the young woman.

[swagstar]

dispencer talk