#somebody let them out unsupervised

[dragengyrr]

Girls’ Night Out (Ignore the fire)

[pretend-theres-a-name-here]

Everybody at the party seems to know somebody (who’s not me)

Short steddie idea I had about what if they’d met somewhere around end of s1-s2 | kinda angsty | R: G | 2580 words | could be canon if the writers weren’t cowards (nowhere does it say this doesn’t happen)

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Steve was tired. It was a Saturday night and there were people at his house. People he didn’t know, some who knew him. Somebody brought beer, it was Saturday night and there were people drinking beer at his house and Steve was tired. Exhausted.

 He thought he would be done with house parties when he had his fall from popularity, when he was no longer King Steve but he had a big house and crowds liked space. He didn’t want them here, only recently recovered from the nightmare fuel that went down at the Byer’s house. He wanted to spend his night alone, in his bed, maybe watching a movie. He didn’t want to spend it cleaning up after high schoolers and playing messenger between a fighting Tommy and Carol who had stopped talking to him three months ago. 

“Steeeeeve!” There was a girl calling his name, tripping over her feet on her way to reach him. He fell back further into the crowd.

Somebody was pulling him onto the designated dance floor. He didn’t want to dance, he didn’t want people calling his name from across the house. Get out, please just get out.

He just wanted these people out of his house but the music was too loud and he couldn’t find it in him to send a gaggle of drunk kids out into the public unsupervised.

So he was going to block it out and let them have their fun until people started passing out on his floor and then he was going to go to bed. This was the last, last, party that would ever be held at his house so he could rub his temples and toughen up for one night. Always were too whiny, Steven. Never could toughen up, don’t bother now. His father’s voice, always his father’s voice.

Steve was trying to keep it together but he was getting a headache and the music was too loud. He distracted himself by picking up crushed solo cups and taking cans from people who were a little too drunk already, dodging Tommy when he tried to clap a hand on his shoulder. The music got louder. He was done, done with Tommy Hagan and his romantic troubles, done being Carol's personal coat rack and gossip boy.

“Steeeve,” he heard Carol shout over the music—was somebody turning it up?—from his left, “Tell Tommy-!”

“Don’t listen to that bitch, Harrington. No good cheater!” Tommy spat, coming up on his right.

Steve was so focused on getting away from the nagging voices that he didn’t notice he was marching into a denim clad shoulder. 

“Hey, man, watch where you’re going-” the guy said, he stopped when he turned around, coming face to face with Steve. If Steve were a girl he’d say the guy was gorgeous—but he wasn’t a girl so the guy wasn’t gorgeous. Steve thought he’d seen him around school, they might’ve been in the same grade.

Steve barely heard him—who was turning up the goddam music—“Watch where you’re going.” He snapped.

The guy scoffed, mumbling a quick asshole under his breath before turning back around. Steve was faced with tangled, curly hair instead of big, brown eyes.

“No, wait. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.” Steve was trying to be a better person these days, he didn’t much like who he was before Byers beat him around the head. Step one was apologizing.

“Yeah well I didn’t mean to be here tonight. Guess neither of us are happy.”

Okay rude, here Steve was trying to apologize and the guy was complaining about his party—a party he hadn’t even thrown!

“Why don’t you leave if you hate it so much?” Steve questioned, again trying to sound open and nice and like a good host instead of taking the guy by the shoulders and shaking him around, you think I want to be here either?

“My friends need a ride. I came here to deal. I’m actually really enjoying myself but I didn’t want to say that to your face. Take your pick, King Steve.” God, Steve hated that name. Even when he was popular it made his skin crawl.

“I hate it here too.” It was too quiet, he wasn’t sure Brown Eyes heard him. Steve didn’t know why he said it, didn’t know why it came across as more than being done with a shitty party, why it came across as if he meant—

He didn’t know the guy, “They keep turning the music up.” There definitely wasn’t any reason to say that, Brown Eyes didn’t care that he was a baby who couldn’t handle loud music anymore.

The boy stared at him for a second and Steve wondered if this was his way of politely telling him to fuck off, but then he was being dragged through the crowd by a hand on his wrist. Carol tried to latch on to his other arm but he shook her off, he supposed he could shake off Brown Eyes too but he didn’t want to. He didn’t know where Brown Eyes was dragging him to, it could be a quiet corner to kill him for all he knew about the guy. Maybe—maybe Steve would let him, maybe he would show him where the knives were tucked away in the kitchen and tell him which ones were too dull to get the job done. But Brown Eyes didn’t look like the type to kill on first meeting.

“Where are we going?” Steve managed to ask, only after Brown Eyes opened the patio door.

“Outside.” Brown Eyes grinned.

“No shit, you don’t say.” Steve grumbled.

“You said you hated it in there so I brought us out here. It’s not like you can leave your own house party so this is the next best thing.”

 The boy plopped down at the edge of the pool. Steve hadn’t sat so close to it since Barb died, he hadn’t even opened it since Barb died but some asshole found their way out here and tripped into the switch. It screamed when it opened, a horrible sound Steve had been trying to forget since being dragged into the mess that was the Upside Down, and he’d nearly stopped breathing when the guy who opened it almost fell in. 

He sat down, keeping his legs far from the water, unlike Brown Eyes who’d already gotten his shoes off and dunked his feet. Steve had to sit on his hands to stop from grabbing him by the back of his collar and dragging them both back inside, away from the pool. He had bite the inside of his lip until he tasted blood to stop from saying something stupid, something like please don’t sit so close to the water don’t get in don’t let it touch you because the last person who sat like this never made it past graduation. 

In his search for a distraction, anything to keep words sure to get him a look from tumbling out, Steve noticed that the guy had a metal lunch box with him when he lifted the lid, bringing out weed. Oh. They were here to smoke. Something Steve hadn’t done since, well a long time.

“It’s not mine.” Steve mumbled in the silence. 

Brown Eyes raised an eyebrow from where he was bent over a lighter.

“The party. It’s not—I didn’t throw it.” Steve felt silly saying that, it was his house after all so he was responsible.

Brown Eyes just hummed, didn’t question it, only asking, “Who did?”

Steve took the joint when Brown Eyes handed it to him—out of habit, he’d say later. He’d say a lot of things later.

“Tommy. Or Carol. They’re the only ones who know where the spare key is and I sure as hell didn’t unlock my door for a dozen people.” Steve sighed, blowing out the smoke.

“Shit.” Brown Eyes took the joint, exhaling his own drag before he spoke—Steve would say, later, that it didn’t make his stomach swirl like the smoke between them— “You know you could get them arrested, right? That’s technically breaking in. Think I even saw some kid break a fancy little vase. Breaking and entering right there.”

Steve winced, his mom loved those vases more than him—not exactly a difficult thing to do but he was sure to be skinned alive if she found out, “Like Hopper would believe I wasn’t just saying that to get rid of the blame. He’s busted my parties one too many times and he’s not exactly up to date on the high school drama that is my fall from grace.”

“Well you have one eye witness if you decide to go to the cops. Though I can’t say how reliable they’ll find me.” Brown Eyes turned to him with a grin. 

They passed the weed back and forth for a while. Steve didn’t like being high much, this felt different, every other time he'd had to keep up the image. Sitting and talking high with Brown Eyes was easier than talking to Carol and Tommy sober. Steve would decide that was the weed talking when he got his brain back. Easy conversation about nothing, probably classes they had together, led to Brown Eyes asking what had caused Steve’s downfall.

If Steve hadn’t stopped breathing that moment he might’ve spilled his guts about the Upside Down. If his heart hadn’t stopped and he didn’t need to get away from the pool immediately, he would’ve just kept talking. The real answer to Brown Eyes’ question was Barb’s death. The real reason he lost his popularity was the night Nancy’s best friend died in his pool and everything had gone to shit.

Brown Eyes noticed his panic, “Woah there, okay that’s enough weed for tonight. You okay, dude? You’re, like, super spooked.”

“I-yeah, I’m fine. Just, there’s more to the story than high school drama. Stuff I’d really rather not relive.” Steve scooted away from the pool a little further and hoped, pleaded with every bone in his body, that Brown Eyes wouldn’t press.

He didn’t, thankfully, just sat back with Steve—out of the water Steve realized, “We’ve all got ghosts in our closets.” He said.

Steve huffed out a laugh, “Isn’t it skeletons?”

“That would mean somebody sees them, Stevie. Ghosts are much more invisible.”

“You have ghosts?” Steve asked, quiet.

“Oh, loads.” Brown Eyes shrugged, “I’m basically a haunted house, man.” That made Steve laugh, “What about you? The ones you can talk about anyway.”

“You mean other than the fact that my house is a ghost town in and of itself? Try parents that are never around to watch you at sports you joined for their attention or friends who only like you when you’re rich.” Steve sighed, “God that’s so fucked up, I should be grateful for the money. Not complaining like an asshole.”

“You know I might’ve agreed with you a few months ago. I don’t think it’s actually the money you’re talking about, though. It’s the life, right?”

Steve felt himself nodding.

“You’re not an asshole for being lonely, Harrington.”

Steve almost remembered he never asked Brown Eyes’ name. Almost remembered to ask it now, but he didn’t, just let them lapse into silence. Steve didn’t look up for a few minutes, but when he did Brown Eyes was looking at him. Steve felt his breath hitch for a second time, not out of a panic like before. When had they gotten so close? Were their pinkies always just barely brushing?

Steve would make a dozen excuses later. Maybe he was just too high, maybe his hand slipped and he accidentally fell forward. He was lonely, Brown Eyes had said it himself. Maybe he was imagining a girl in Brown Eyes’ place. But when Brown Eyes leaned closer, a question in his eyes, Steve didn’t want to pull away. He didn’t want to be the one to break this, he wanted to see how far Brown Eyes would go. 

He told himself he only closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see when it happened, only pushed forward that last inch because—maybe he didn’t have an excuse for that but it didn’t matter because Brown Eyes didn’t pull away and he didn’t pull away. He felt the foreign feather light brush against his own lips distantly, an out of body sensation that left him tipping forward when Brown Eyes scrambled back.

“Oh shit.” Brown Eyes muttered, pushing a finger to his lips, “Oh fuck this is-this isn’t—”

“We’re just high, right?” Steve pushed off the concrete, standing probably a little closer to Brown Eyes than necessary. 

Brown Eyes was avoiding Steve’s gaze. He knew Steve was grasping at excuses he didn’t even believe himself. Brown Eyes seemed to deflate, hunching in on himself and Steve would think it looked almost disappointed if he could think anything at all right now.

“Yeah. Yeah, one joint split between us and we’re both high enough to kiss, right King Steve?” Sarcasm dripping through his words but it didn’t feel mean, it felt desperate.

It was then Steve realized he never asked the guy’s name. He needed-he wanted to know now. Before he could ask, though, Brown Eyes was backing away.

“I-I’ve got to go. I… I’ll see you around, Harrington.” 

“Wait-I never—” never got to finish his sentence. Never got to ask Brown Eyes for his name. Because Brown Eyes was through the door and disappearing in the crowd inside before Steve could get a word out and he was alone. 

Steve stayed by the pool for a long time, the longest he’d been out there even before Barb’s death. The air turned cold, leaving him littered with goosebumps, but Steve just stood there. He wanted to scream, wanted to kick and cry and throw a tantrum. That’s not how Harrington’s act, Steven, don’t be such a big baby, Steven. He could practically hear his fathers voice digging its way into his ears. God, he was a dead man if his dad found out about this, he was a dead man and there wasn’t a thing his mom could do—if she would even still stick up for him now. 

He wanted to believe she would, wanted to think she would tell him it was going to be okay but she’d just stand back and start planning for his funeral. Maybe she’d remember the time they sat in the garden years and years ago and Steve told her his favorite flowers were the daisies she would tuck into her hair on summer afternoons, maybe she would remember sliding them into his hair and then picking them out before they went inside as she told him it would be their secret and maybe she would lay them over his coffin.

In his panicked state, he noticed the guy left his shoes behind, black converse coming apart at the seams. There were little drawings scattered around the bottoms, Steve saw, smudged and dirty. He should return them. He doesn’t know who they belong to but he should return them. He couldn’t just leave them outside, at least that’s what he told himself as he trudged through his now empty house, hours later. It was the weekend anyway so he couldn’t even return them, that’s why he found a place for them in his closet. He didn’t know who they belonged to, that’s why he kept them there until summer bled into fall bled into winter. 

———————————————————————— Part 2

Fun fact: I was listening to acolyte by slaughter beach, dog when I finished writing this

[gouraminnow]

May I request something with platonic yandere whitebeard and a toddler reader? Like I’m envisioning the crew somehow pick up a young child that recently lost her parents. And she’s traumatized and shy just holding onto dear life a stuffed bunny that is almost as big as her because she’s just so tiny. And poor baby can’t sleep is injured and hides from the crew. She is just so used to sleeping with said stuffed animal and in the same bed as her deceased parents. So she wonders into whitebeards quarters after she was supposed to be “asleep” somehow climbs up onto that giant bed and goes ah yes this feels right and familiar (probably didn’t help that the crew calls him pops and she is like pops? Like papa? I sleep with papa and mama. Mama and papa gone. I no like. New papa? New papa. My papa. Sleep now.) and just melts and cuddles up to him holding her bunny tight falling fast asleep.

Wow this is really specific. I mean this completely genuinely, have some of you anons considered making ocs/dipping your toes into writing yourselves? You've pretty much written your own scenario right here. I got back into writing by chatting with someone I sent long asks to, so I recommend giving it a shot if you're on the fence a all :)

Anyway!

The WBP are the most likely to actually adopt. Everybody else is kind of a deadbeat. Even still, I don't think they'd bring such a young kid along unless there was nowhere safe to drop her off nearby + somebody gets attached. Which is far from impossible.

This kid is either some sole survivor of something horrible, living with adopters deemed unfit for parenting(in which case they likely aren't long for this world), or the dead parents were already connected to the WBP in some way so WB feels some form of connection/responsibility already. Whatever the case, this tiny kid is brought on board.

Real shy like you said, tries to run and hide but won't let go of the massive bunny either so she doesn't get very far... probably does the little kid thing where she sits behind a box or a curtain and thinks she's hidden just because she can't see any of them. They'll humor it, it's better than such a young kid actually finding a proper hiding place and going unsupervised for lord knows how long. Plus it's pretty cute.

Regarding Whitebeard and the sleeping arrangements specifically... I really don't see things working out. First, the kid has to be able to stand the old man's snoring. But hey, I slept through blenders and fire alarms as a kid, so it's possible! But on the other hand...

If Whitebeard rolls over or hell, just moves an arm wrong, he could crush the poor kid. Luckily, he wakes up as soon as she curls up with him. Maybe even sooner, the pitter-patter of her little feet against the floor enough to get his attention. This is the guy who woke up to fend off Ace's knife attack at the last moment, after all. He stays still, making his mind up to scold his adult children for their lapse in care in the morning- she shouldn't be able to sneak by them. That's ridiculous.

But he's not a monster. He's not gonna kick the poor thing out, especially not if she hasn't done much else to get closer to anyone. She clambers her way up onto the bed, dragging the rabbit up with her as she curls up in the strip of space between his arm and his body. And the little whispered murmur of "Papa" once she settles gets him good. So he sighs, resigning himself to a sleepless night, slowly moving his massive hand closer to cradle the poor thing. It's enough to cover her and the rabbit both. He'll be scolded by Marco and the nurses for not getting his rest, and he'll scold his other children for letting the kid sneak into his room in the first place.

It's fine, though. If she insists on sleeping in Papa's room after that night, he has them move a smaller bed in next to his to minimize the risk of squishing. Kind of like a motorcycle side-car but. It's a bed.

[evilminji]

Back on my: Holotuber Jedi Youngling - OC Thoughts >.>

Prev <-

You think folks debate at first? Shtick or Real Thing? Like? No... no WAY could that be one of those Mysterious Mystic Space Cult Kids. No WAY. They would NEVER let their kid be unsupervised on the Net.

But like... (and since I'm a She, gonna use She, but realistically could be any pronouns here) she LOOKS like she's recording from a...? Is that a closet? This one looks like a vent. THIS video is definitely some sort of maintenance area. So she's definitely sneaking...

Ooooh! Thaaaat's a Jedi! REAL FUCKING JEDI. Just dropped down silently behind her. Arms crossed. Mouse droids be snitching. BUSTED.

:T

"Uuuuuuh, h-heeey, Master Uvalii. Fancy seeing YOU here!"

"Yes. Quite interesting isn't it? Since you should not be able to access this area at all, much less to achieve holonet access. Of which we are both aware you are expressly Forbidden To DO unsupervised."

".........I can explain?"

"Please. Do."

*feed ends, chat goes fucking NUTS*

Like? Oh SHIT. Baby Jedi in troooouble. But also? Oh no! What's gonna happen?! Are they gonna be okay?! S-should they TELL somebody? What do Jedi do to kids who disobey them? Does anyone actually KNOW? What DO any of us know about them!? Someone find their Com Code! MA! MA, I need you to yell at space monks! An adorable CHILD MIGHT BE AT STAKE!!! D:>

Even coming BACK on? For a supervised feed? Going "no, I'm just in trouble. Have to right paragraphs and meditate on 'why I felt the need to do this' (even though I KNOW why, not that they'll LISTEN. They just hope I'll meditate until I come to an answer they LIKE)" under the offscreen supervision of a teacher or Creche master?

Whole ass Net gonna be like "youngling! Blink Twice if they're holding you hostage! We can afford bounty hunters! We got a group pot thing going already!!! Aaaaaaaa-!"

Like? *waves at the camera and chat* she TOLD you. They don't believe you. This is part of WHY she wants to do what she's doing. Palpatine's and his Master's machinations have been building for a while. Eroding trust. The Jedi have become strange, dangerous, semi-mythical cryptids with magic powers we must HOPE are benevolent.

Not people.

Why would they expect some unfeeling, magical, sword-wielding space legend to be patient or kind to children? To even have the capacity? We are said to kidnap children and be unfeeling. Can not reach enough people to show otherwise. To reveal the mundanity of our lives. The traditions. The norms.

Food, children, laughter.

The Common Good.

And like? She obviously isn't gonna name Sith-ly NAMES. Not on CAMERA. But her lil "why I wanna play the tooka game and chat about lunch" speech? Convincing. Calms chat down. Still in trouble, mind you. But... provided it's SUPERVISED? And they work out some sort of effective moderation? Alright.

It's a matter of SAFETY, youngling. And no matter HOW much good you wish to do? They will NOT be sacrificing children to achieve it. That is NOT the Jedi way. There are plenty of old masters who would live nothing more then to ramble all day into cameras, if only to here themselves talk. (Oh? Good to know. Guest speakers pog?)

Like? Imagine making a game. Have a "mystical sage" character you TOTALLY BASED of Jedi in it. And your feed gets? Flooded with XD reactions in response to some smol bby streamer playing it? You go to check it out. Cause you're kinda a big deal on your planet. And?

Oh No™

That tiny streamer? Is a tiny JEDI streamer. Who is sitting there, in the stills, going O.o like "Wut." And the next still? Her lil friends are pulled in. The next? A teenager. The NEXT. An adult. The one after THAT. A few adults looking over her shoulder. Then a CROWD. All deeply, deeply confused looking.

The comments are DYING. Howling with laughter. The Jedi were so earnest. Trying to identify which Era you must be referencing. Which sect. But the head dress... cultural, maybe? It doesn't fit with the features though. Could be adopted. A hint at, I believe the term was, "lore"? No, no, those are DEFINITELY padawan beads! But so MANY? In THAT order?

They aren't even connected to a braid! And he's supposed to be a Master, right? But, wait. Perhaps it's meant to suggest he is a Padawan of the Force itself? A student of life? No, that wouldn't make sense! Stolen? It could suggest he has TAKEN the beads? Is regurgitating stolen texts without true understanding? Much like wearing bead he did not EARN?

They keep going and going. Ripping your character design to SHREDS. Picking it apart. Not even meanly! They are genuinely confused. AND IT ONLY MAKES THE CHAT LAUGH HARDER. Because it devolves into a MARATHON, after the game has been paused, of chat spamming different character names? For the Jedi to go "???" Over.

T...that's not? What? How does he even EAT in those robes? And those ones don't seem very non-humanoid friendly. Is he FLOATING HIS SWORD WITH THE FORCE? WHY!? Just keep it on your belt!!!

And? Now every game developer in the galaxy is PARANOID AF. Either make their mystics Very Obviously NOT Jedi rip offs... or shoot a "if I pay you $20 will you consult on something real quick" email. It's just... just easier man. Last guy got laughed into oblivion. Oof.

They can bill it as "Realism" or something. See guys? WE do or reasearch! Give us your credits!

Oh YEAH? Says the growing fan base of this Funky Lil Monk Child. Then put you game where your communication organs are. Send her the game, you cowards.

Do It.

Cut to "oh no, guys! The sorta-jedi died! What? Next objective? No. No we gotta give him a funeral! Oh good, we ca-BURY HIM?! What!? No!!! I could understand if he was from a race that held beliefs that bodies must be returned to the soil from whence they came, but this guy is a SORTA-JEDI! Absolutely NOT!"

"Let's cut down some trees. WE are building him a PYRE. Never ran one of these, but I can look it up. Gimme a moment. Okay. Draaaaag, him on to it. Where's his weapon. There! Thanks chat! On it goes too. Okay. Looking it up..... got it. Ahem...!"

*hold funeral for the sage character by burning his body*

*mods are IMMEDIATELY created to change the "burial" scene to a "Funeral pyre" with somber music*

Just? I can not let go? Of how the subtle shift would spread? Not in shining senatorial halls, but in class rooms and living rooms, dingy pubs and long hyperdrive flights? Anywhere boredom might be found and "hey check this out" might spread? Where someone else, might overhear and get curious?

Lik?? Imagine being the bounty hunter, who fuckin HATES Jedi, thinks they're sanctimonious BASTARDS, hearing someone snort laugh. Just... just fucking CHOKE on their cheep beer. Oh? Now everyone's interested. What's funny?

It's a teeny, tiny, lil jedi youngling. Playing that new Bounty 5 game. Unrealistic as hell. But they are going "I am a MASTER of stealth. A LEGEND of the hunt. You will not see me. I am sneaky. So, so, sneeeeakyyyyy!" As they concentrate on sneaking through back alleys.

Only for their character to fall RIGHT of a ledge, bounce against three buildings, smash into a parked Speeder, and roll right into a cut scene. Where they are call the "greatest bounty hunter of all time".

They look so incredulous.

"Are you SURE? Cause I'm fairly certain that phrase alone is banned for the trouble it causes, near most Bounty outposts. Could be the concussion talking though!"

They are? A sarcastic lil SHIT. Roast EVERYTHING. Know a surprising number of them. Given that they gave the Duros support character a modded in hat. Named him Definitely-Not-Cad. The fake look mustache REALLY sells it. Yeah, Bane. Clearly not you. YOU don't have a mustaches. *watches as she unleashes the Not Cad Bane like a highly tactical meat thresher on legs* brutal lil shit. They like her.

Granted, it's only BECAUSE it's not real she does so.

But I just? Have so many ideas? Spam the Galaxy with "this is who we are. We are people. Develop bonds with us. Care about us. KNOW us." Because the Sith can not possibly kill us all. Can not stop truth, so widely spread. Light dies, when you smother it in closed hands, hidden away in dark and long forgotten places. When you let fear dictate your actions.

It thrives in the open. With people. With the chance to SPREAD. Grow. Bloom.

It's about talking and caring. Being heard. What better place? Then on the screen in their pocket?

@babbling-babull @hypewinter @hdgnj @legitimatesatanspawn @spidori @spidori

[hotheadedhero]

In Unrequited Love - Part 3

AN: Hey, can I be sappy with y'all a moment? When I first started this story, I was admittedly pretty proud of what I came up with but I never anticipated the amount of love it would receive, so thank you everyone! <3 I also thank you for your patience, you have all been great 😋 With that said, I now bestow the conclusion to this renegade of emotion

Part 1 - Part 2

Donatello x Reader

Pathetic. That’s the one word that keeps ringing in your ears like echoes of a bug-infested cavern, the erratic scuttling serving loudly as your reminder. In no respect towards yourself, you are. All you have done since Casey escorted you back home is wallow in bed, tossing around the agonising reprieve that you are a love-strung puppy awaiting its next pat on the head. That’s why you’ve kept texting Donnie to a minimum; cut yourself off from the source and deal with the withdrawal symptoms. Doing this has you riddled with guilt but what else are you meant to do? Everybody loves somebody, right? But you don’t want to love anybody if it isn’t him. Perceivably dramatic, yes. After all, he is still a valued friend. Currently, the way you see it, it’s best to let yourself get over this puppy-dog sickness before that friendship can continue. Again, dramatic but the only logical option with April so tantalisingly strung in the picture.

Living a life of solitude hasn’t been all bad. For starters, you’ve been able to rest your ankle. Walking on it is still a fair challenge but it’s much more manageable than it was before. These past couple of days have also given you amble opportunity to reflect, as it were. It’s kind of easy to understand why one would fall for the resident bad boy in High School but a mutant turtle living in the sewers? No disrespect to Donnie, of course, but you’re just surprised. You don’t even think about all of that when you think of him. All that comes to mind is the heavenly warmth of his eyes; the soft care in them when you would help him out in the lab or when he’d be tending to one of your bumps. Euphoria’s temptress beckons you in once more in its rose-tinted glaze as you fantasise about some superfluous daydream involving him. The sweet melodies enrapture you in this cosy bubble as you curl up in bed but the sharp force of reality is swift and knocks you down before a peak is seized.

Perhaps trying to get over this infatuation isn’t quite going as planned. Groaning out into the open air, you throw a pillow into your face and continue your muffled whining. This is so unfair. Why can’t he be the one that you don’t want? You just can’t seem to escape the fact that you need him. In your state of disarray, you’ve even tried to figure out how to become the one that he thinks about. To try and curate him into being the other half of what you’ve never had. Closeness. A deeply set solitude that seemed so alien to you before you started hanging out with him. Time is slipping at this point. You swear you must be going crazy because of it. There have been a couple of nights when you swear something - someone - has been lingering outside your bedroom. Yet, when you get up to check, there’s nothing there. Part of you hopes that it’s your long-awaited love checking up on you whilst the other screams that you have indeed lost your mind. 

As it would turn out, you’re not as deluded as you might think yourself to be. Indeed, Donatello has tried many a time to meet you in person but to no avail. Many times he has attempted to knock on your window only for his courage to crawl back into the ground and, alas, he does the same by retreating to his home in the sewers. What is he meant to do? You hardly message him if at all these days. Considering the state of injuries you’d endure, he’s worried about you. He has every right to be worried about you. What more could happen to you whilst unsupervised? He doesn’t want to be overly protective but he has valid grounds for such concern. His only assurance that you’re alright is when he sees your shadow through your curtain at night but that isn’t enough. Of course, it isn’t enough. He wants to care for you and cater to your every need and undying whim. 

If only words could do him justice in articulating how he feels about you but he has never been so eloquently spoken unless it’s with regards to the sciences. He’s yours but you’re not his. He just wants you to be with him. If he had to - if he could - he would take the light out of the stars to help you see that. Anything for you to understand just how much he loves you. These spats of poetry are easy enough to site to himself but he knows he would tumble the moment he does as much as even consider reciting such lullabies to you.

Donnie leans over his desk, head in his hands, and sighs heavily for the umpteenth time this day, ever thankful that the streets have been quieter than usual. It’s not as though he can focus on much of anything. All surfaces of his brain have been overtaken and overruled by the thought of you. At this point, he doesn’t even care if nothing happens between the two of you. More so than anything, he just wants you back in the lair. It doesn’t matter if you’ll never be more than friends, he misses his lab partner. It isn’t as though he’s been particularly subtle in his grovelling, either. Figuring out that he had a crush on April was a no-brainer but this has been much more obvious and much more detrimental. His brothers can’t seem to get him out of this funk as much as they may try. Day in and day out, it’s the same thing: Donatello sulking in his lab, staring off into space and pretending to look busy on one of his gadgets. Desperate times call for desperate measures and if he needs a smack up the head, there’s only one person for the job. 

“Come on, Donnie, when are you gonna stop beating yourself up over this?” Raph asks, palming at the desk and resting his body weight against it. 

“Oh, yes, because I stand so much of a chance with (Y/n),” his brother remarks sarcastically. 

The shorter of the two shifts his attention elsewhere, lips turning to the side shamefully. He never wants to feel bad about poking fun or laying out the hard truths of their shared situation being mutants. The bitter contempt within his brother's voice is fair given the fits of teasing in concordance with the cold facts that mutants and humans can’t be. In hindsight, he and his brothers could have treated the situation with more care. Still, as brash as he can be, Raph hates to see a family member suffering as such. Whilst his methods aren’t all conventional, sometimes it’s necessary. 

Raphael huffs and rolls his eyes. “You know what you need?”

“For you to go away?”

“No,” he responds quickly, stifling the annoyance beneath bated breath, “what you need is to get your head out of this storm cloud. Sitting around and moping all day isn’t gonna change anything. So what if you don’t stand a chance? You won’t know until you try.”

“Thank you, Raphael, your input is valuable as always,” Donnie scorns rudely once more and exhales heavily. “I think I just want to be left alone.”

As heartbreaking as it is, such a wish can be respected, especially by the turtle that frequents isolated periods when he’s in a bad mood. Raph takes his leave and reconvenes with Casey for their night of watch duty. They sit atop an apartment roof, scathing the barren area for trouble that never seems to come. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes before the main matter at hand becomes the point of conversation. 

“He just needs to take action,” Raph claims as he smacks a fist down into his palm. “I know we haven’t exactly been supportive but it’s eating him up. The sooner he gets it over with, the sooner he can be done with the whole thing.”

Casey’s cheeks puff up into his hands and he frowns, only for a wry grin to quickly take his lips. “Or, he just needs the expert to give him a helping hand.”

“Oh? You’ve changed your tune.”

“Hey, as long as he isn’t trying it on with Red, I’m all good.” Jones shrugs and pulls out his phone. “Now, watch a pro at work.”

Just a few blocks down from our duo lies your rotting form within the confines of your bedroom. It feels as though the space has somehow gotten smaller these last few days. You’ve chosen to spread eagle on the floor seeing as the bed has suddenly become uncomfortable, too. Rolling onto your side, you grab your phone and flick through your music, every song you pass turning out to either be a love song or something somber. Thanks, fate. Turning out to be a great ally here. You scroll a little longer in search of a distraction when a notification takes your attention. 

Hockey Junkie: Hows the ankle treatin ya, everyone in the lair misses u

It hasn’t been uncommon for any of the gang to message you but Casey being somewhat sentimental isn’t inherently natural. You suppose it was only a matter of time. You have been quiet for a short while now. If this has been good for anything, at least you know your friends care about you. It’s only fair that you halt your pitiful oath of silence. 

Nerd’s Assistant: I can walk on it fine but I might give it another day or two just to be sure Hockey Junkie: Playing safe, gotcha Hockey Junkie: Forget that crap tho, get your butt down here, the guys think ur dead

You huff a laugh to yourself and rest your weary head against your folded arm as you roll onto your stomach. In truth, you could have returned to the lair a couple of days ago but that sinking sensation sullies your stomach any time you contemplate the idea. All the more reason to stick to this seclusion. Without knowing what to say, you put your phone down and sigh into the carpet. The sweet melodies from your speaker are almost all-encompassing until your phone dings again. Then, again and for a third time before you decide to take a look.

Hockey Junkie: Look lemme be real with you Hockey Junkie: Gap tooth aint doing so hot right now Hockey Junkie: Can you at least give him a visit? Do it for your favorite classmate yeh?

The last cocky comment goes amiss with the main picture here. What’s wrong with Donnie and what has it got to do with you? All you can think on the matter is that he misses having someone to vent about April to. No, that isn’t fair to him. There’s more to him than just being madly infatuated with her. He’s a beautiful person of vision, albeit a little on the awkward side but that just makes him all the more adorable. Seeing as you haven’t replied to a lot of his texts, he must be bloated with a bad conscience. That must be what Casey is getting at. It takes some effort but you convince yourself that Donatello indeed misses his friendly assistant and that it’s high time you make a move. There goes your vow of distancing yourself. Goodbye, vegetative bed rotting.

Walking to the lair after so much time would be alien was the route not learned via muscle memory. There’s still an unsettling energy that becomes all the more poignant with every step you take but you’re putting that down to your nerves. You should probably text first; let him know that you’re coming but you’ve already made it to the large doors of his laboratory. As your fingers trace over the smooth metal, you think about the day that started this all - the day that would mark a start to something so unexpected that it almost doesn’t seem real. This is real. The alarming beat in your chest is all too loud for it to be a dream. It’s now or never. Taking a deep breath, you knock and pull one of the doors to the side, revealing the beaten-down turtle surrounded by unfinished projects and forgotten inventions alike.  

He slumps further and throws a hand up loosely. “I know you’re trying to help but I already said-” He stops speaking when he turns around and sees it’s you. 

You wave awkwardly with a just as clumsy smile to greet him. He springs up to his feet and bounds towards you, going in for a hug, only to stop himself just a few steps in front of you. That’s too much too soon. Your arrival is just so unexpected but by no means is it unwelcome. Many questions. There’s a lot he wants to ask and much more that he wants to say, like how much he’s missed you, how concerned he’s been, or please, never do that again. 

Instead, he says the only thing he can rationally think to, “How is the, uh, ankle doing?”

“Much better. Some positions still hurt but…” You do a little spin on the spot to demonstrate how much you’ve healed, laughing shortly. “... I can walk now at least.”

Donnie laughs as well, glad for that much. “So, no more injuries I need to worry about?” he asks playfully with raised brows. 

“Nah~” you resound melodically, winking with a waggishness. “Sorry to disappoint, Doc.”

Not a disappointment at all. Knowing you’re in good health, at least physically, is a huge relief. Between the shared chortling and the all-together prospect of dismantling the initial awkwardness, it’s great to have you back. It’s good to be back and you’re inwardly scolding yourself for depriving yourself of pleasant company. An aching heart can make you do stupid things and you’re about to realise just how stupid going quiet was. Donatello rubs the back of his head and seems to look everywhere but at you. 

“So how come you never messaged?” he asks slowly. “I got worried.”

There’s the guilt you had expected but you didn’t realise it would be so gut-wrenching. He’s trying to mitigate how hurt he was but it’s clear as day on his face. You contemplate reaching for him as extra consolation, finger flickering towards his. Instead, hold onto your forearm and tilt your head shamefully.

“I’m sorry. I never wanted to worry anyone, especially not you. Just needed some time to myself, I think. You know, reflect on stuff.” Ah, he thinks to himself, Casey stuff no doubt. You blow off a cackle and shrug. “Without sounding like a complete pessimist, I think it’ll be easier to accept that no one could ever fall for me.”

You play it off as a joke - for the most part, that’s how you meant it - but he isn’t having that for a second. His hands jolt for your shoulders unexpectedly. Nothing follows and your wide eyes blink furiously with the abrupt action. 

“Donnie?”

Still, nothing. Gaze turned downwards, he just holds your shoulders, as though he’s thinking long and hard about something. He is. He’s thinking so very hard about this. Even the risk of making a fool of himself can’t scare him out of doing it now. There’s only so long he can carefully tread on this ice before it eventually breaks beneath him and swallows him whole. One might argue that’s not as bad as flat-out rejection but he doesn’t care anymore. It’s time to put those words to the test. 

He breathes deeply to collect himself, to avoid falling into a blubbering mess, and closes his eyes before getting straight to the point. “I know I could never stand any chance with you, as much as I like to pretend that I do, but I’d like it to be known at least. Even if you could never feel the same way, just know that you are loved - that you’re worth loving - and that… I’m in love with you. Don’t ever say stuff like that because it’s not true.”

All you can do is stare. Had he kept his eyes open, he would have witnessed your face shift into every conceivable expression whilst you tried to unpack what had just been said. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Both could be an option were you not so stunned to the point of near incapacitation. The lack of response is jarring yet still, he can’t bring himself to look at you. 

“Oh my God,” you suddenly wheeze under a whisper, afraid that if you speak any louder, you’ll surely burst into tears. “Are you for real?” Confused, he goes to answer but you continue. “Donnie,” you breathe more weakly, “I have been hopelessly in love with you for weeks and now I’m hearing that you feel the same? In all this time where I’ve been in my own head. I just thought that- with April-” You cut yourself off and step back, jerking your shoulders away from his clutch. “No. There’s no way. This isn’t funny, Donnie. Just stop.”

There’s a brief period of chronostasis - a beautiful phenomenon in which time stills and he has the space to reflect on what has just sputtered from your mouth. He almost can’t believe it and, it seems, you can’t believe his own words either. He wants to jump with joy, spring with glee, and throw it in his brothers’ faces for ever doubting such circumstances. The overconfidence can wait. At this moment, it’s just the two of you with this air of reconciliation, though dampened by doubt. Your doubt. 

He holds a hand out to you only for it to clasp into a soft fist. It would be easy to act on the defensive but that wouldn’t amount to anything. If it’s evidence you seek, so he shall provide. He walks over to his desk and retrieves a small box - the same box that you had snooped on the other week, the one containing the quaint, little bracelet that is surely meant for April. That’s what you assumed, which is why your heart clenches tightly. He carefully takes it out of its packaging and fawns over it in a moment of vulnerability. You’re awaiting words of inclination towards the redhead but he remains silent. A green thumb skips over the turtle charm and Donatello outstretches his other hand to you. Wearily, you oblige and bestow yours to him. He cups the back of your hand and turns it over so that he may place the delicate-looking jewellery in your palm, making sure the charm is turned up on its backside. You frown at his peculiar behaviour, only to realise that something is inscribed on the turtle’s underbelly: your initials. 

When it all comes to light, your head turns up to meet him again. He’s glanced away shyly but there’s an awkward smile on his lips. One would think that this shared admittance is something to be celebrated with a fantastical display but it feels much too surreal. You have this horrible vision of waking up in your room, finding this to be another one of your crazed dreams. When he finally meets your stare, those fears vanish. Wild imagination or not, you could never replicate that warm glow of those maroon eyes. Even thoughts of being embarrassed about the tears in your own couldn’t ruin this moment. You fawn over the little bracelet again and shimmy it onto your wrist. The exchange is silent but there’s an ambient comfort: an unfamiliar familiarness that paves way between the two of you and closes the gap you’ve both been aching to be rid of. Neither of you is well-equipped with your words, so this alteration best suits the moment. Everything that has come to be may have been born from unrequited feelings for your friends but the birth place doesn’t matter. Value is held in each other’s happiness and simply loving one another unconditionally.

You lean up, lifting yourself on your good foot mostly, and kiss him on the cheek. His inelegant grin drops and you’re sure the tassels of his mask would have flickered up if they obtained sentient life. A primrose hue blossoms his face - one that you become well-acquainted with when he cups your cheeks and presses his lips to your forehead. With you both soaring ever higher, he pulls you into a long-awaited embrace, holding you close as your bodies transcend orbit and go off into the stars. 

Man, he sure does love being a turtle.

[wileycap]

Special Instructions For Luke Skywalker

(approved by hon. Sen. Organa, Gen. Solo, entirety of Rogue Squadron, Adm. Ackbar, hon. Sen. Mothma, distributed to Cmdr. Skywalker)

1. No acrobatics, except in designated excercise areas.

1.1. Not even if you can "jump really high, the Force is so bright right now, look!"

2. Absolutely NO mind reading.

2.1. If you do it on accident, try not to get a weird look on your face and also tell us what you learned. Proverb: It's better to know than to wonder about it until one ends up doing something stupid.

2.2. Yes. I'm talking about that. I can't look General Madine in the eye anymore.

2.3. It's still allowed for intrasquadron prank purposes. But you can't do it to the others, they freak out.

3. No posing. Yes, you pose. It's annoying and wrong. The rest of us are dirty and want to slump down into our own filth and sleep. We don't need to see you being all heroic.

4. No claiming "the will of the Force" when you do something weird. Yes it's saved all our lives more than once. Yes it's still offputting and just plain disturbing.

4.1. "The universe is telling me that..." is not an acceptable substitute.

4.2. "I have received an omen" is also out.

4.3. "The vibes speak to me" is funny but no.

4.4. "Hey guys, guess what came to me in a dream" might be okay but it was in the middle of combat. And you said it over the general comms. And then you did an unannounced microjump into actual hyperspace in the middle of actual combat. Admiral Ackbar nearly had a medical event.

5. If somebody wants to hold your lightsaber you should let them.

5.1. You're officially allowed to disregard that. Never give Janson your lightsaber again. We have no idea how he snuck that in in the first place.

5.2. If Princess Leia requests to inspect your ceremonial weapon (commonly known as a 'lightsaber'), you should let her. For reasons for legitimate cultural intrest and archeological research. And because as your superior, she has the right to inspect your weapon as set down in the Alliance Charter, section General Conduct, heading B4467, subheading BA561-33. By permission of Princess Leia. I approve of this. Luke give it to me for a second you get to have it all the time.

6. If you need to "have a conversation with a ghost", do it in a private place.

6.1. If you agree to have your ghost conversations in private, we promise to stop referring to our "private time" as "having a conversation with a ghost."

6.2. In fact, we could just stop announcing it altogether. It was funny the first time and it hasn't been funny since. Guys, I don't want to know.

6.3. But please don't talk to thin air in front of us.

7. Luke, you are a hero of the Alliance. We are also friends. You don't need to bow when you see me, even if I am technically royalty and your superior.

7.1. It's very sweet that you do it and I appreciate that you want to show your respect, but the new recruits are getting confused.

7.2. NO, ADMIRAL ACKBAR DIDN'T WRITE THAT. It was obviously me, Leia!

7.3. If you're doing this on purpose and hiding it behind your innocent farmboyishness, I'LL KILL YOU. I'll kill you until you're dead.

7.4. STOP BOWING STOP

8. Don't work on the Falcon unsupervised.

8.1. Me being in the general area isn't supervision.

8.2. Me being near you but working on a different part isn't supervision.

8.3. Apparently me looking over your shoulder isn't supervision either. Just don't do it, kid.

9. Cub. You are very small in comparison to other humans. If you are having trouble hunting I can do it for you.

9.1. Apologies. Han reminded me that you are an adult by the standards of your species. I travel with him and I am often confused that he is an adult. You understand.

9.2. No asking Chewie if his relationship with me is "kind of like adopting a tooka" for him. For one, no, and for two, everybody else already made that joke.

9.3. He is very much like a badly behaved tooka.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Cheshire behind the cut; Billy adopts Conner and it actually goes pretty good! (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Is that bad, maybe? That he’s this glad about Lynn being easy for him to like? He’s gonna take care of him the best he can no matter what, just . . . it helps, a little, that Lynn’s this easy to like. Makes it feel less . . . intimidating, maybe. 

Billy likes a lot of people, technically. He likes most of the other League members, and he likes a lot of people he’s met on the street, and he even liked a few of the kids he met in foster care, and obviously he’s always liked Tawky, but . . . 

But it wasn’t really easy to like most of those people, he has to admit. Not after . . . everything. 

He tries. He really tries. But it’s just–not always easy. And he knows it won’t be easy all the time with Lynn either, but . . . 

But it’s nice, just meeting somebody he likes right away. 

“Okay,” Billy says, glancing reflexively towards the windows even though he already knows what the weather’s like. They were just outside, after all, and even if they hadn’t been, the windows are big enough to make it hard to miss either way. “It is a good day for a walk, if you don’t mind another one.” 

“. . . sure,” Lynn says, just a little hesitant again. “Um. It’s . . . okay? To be . . . out that much?” 

“Yeah,” Billy says, wondering where he can even get as much lighter fluid as he’s gonna need to burn down a whole fifty-two levels of underground lab. That might be hard, kinda. Batman would probably wanna know why he’d bought that much, is all. Like, he’d definitely at least ask. Maybe Billy can figure out how ATMs work and just pay for it all in cash, though. That’s an option, anyway. Like, for plausible deniability and whatever. “You can be out as much as–okay, um, not all the time, but mostly as much as you want. Like, if it’s not bedtime or after curfew or anything like that. And, um, please take your phone when you’re out. Definitely take your phone when you’re out. No offense, just you’re still really little and you just got out of the lab, and I don’t want you to get lost or in trouble and not be able to get ahold of me if you need something, you know?” 

“You’d let me go out unsupervised,” Lynn says. It doesn’t really sound like a question, but . . . well, it still kind of sounds like a question. “And if I got in . . . trouble, you’d . . .” 

“I’d come get you,” Billy says immediately. “Or answer your questions or whatever. Whatever you needed.” 

“. . . okay,” Lynn says, shifting his weight a little. Billy wouldn’t really notice, except mostly Lynn doesn’t shift his weight like that. He’s really, really still, actually, and takes up as little space as possible for a kid his size. 

Billy wonders exactly how big that pod actually was, come to think. 

That’s . . . kinda depressing, as a thought. Thought maybe for Lynn it just felt, like . . . like being swaddled, or something? Babies like that, right? Well–he’s overheard people talking about that before, and the wisdom of Solomon seems to agree, so . . . maybe it felt like that, for Lynn. Like, safe and secure and–

Oh. Is that why he was in the closet for so long earlier? 

. . . Billy’s not sure if that’s depressing either. Well–not if it makes Lynn feel better, obviously, and if it is kind of the same idea as being swaddled, he’ll just grow out of it anyway, right? 

Billy definitely needs parenting books. Like–ones for teenagers and newborns.

“Do you wanna go now, or wait like twenty minutes for lunch to settle?” he asks. Little choices, he figures. So Lynn doesn’t get overwhelmed with a whole bunch of them or anything. Also, he still doesn’t know if Lynn did accidentally overeat, so just in case . . . 

“Um,” Lynn says, a brief flash of hesitance flickering across his face. “I–don’t know.” 

“Okay,” Billy says. Still better than a definitive answer that isn’t true, he figures. Like–way, way better. Like–the honest answer is always better, as far as he’s concerned, at least in this kind of situation. 

Lying to supervillains and bad guys is morally and ethically okay, like, eighty percent of the time at least. 

“Spit the difference and wait ten?” he suggests, and Lynn pauses for a moment, and then just shrugs. 

Again: still better than a definitive answer that isn’t true, so Billy’ll work with it. 

“Ten minutes, then,” he says, and then doesn't really know what to do with himself so just . . . goes and sits down on the couch again. They can maybe just talk a bit, he figures. They already had the “no” conversation, and that'll probably need to come up again because it's hard to change behaviors like that, but for now they can just talk about lighter stuff. Small talk or something. He doesn’t wanna overwhelm Lynn with a ton of serious stuff or complicated conversations all in one day. They’ve just met, and Lynn is so young. It’s just, like–weird, if he does that. Like, expecting way too much. Especially after Cadmus force-grew him and stuffed years worth of information into his head all at once. 

Billy thinks it’s fair to give Lynn a break, after that. More than fair. 

Lynn looks at his shoulder instead of meeting his eyes. Billy isn’t worried about it, but notices it. It’s not very subtle, is all. 

“Do you know what kind of books you like?” he says. “Or–well, stories, I guess. Or nonfiction. Or, uh . . . subjects, maybe. Maybe that’d be better. I just dunno how many stories Cadmus told you or if you even like stories, so . . .” 

“Cadmus didn’t tell me stories,” Lynn says. Billy . . . pauses.

[theunvanquishedzims]

I once found a toddler trying to talk to a strange man while climbing the stairs leading to a busy mall driveway. The parents were in a nearby restaurant and the other kids (both under the age of 10, busy playing) were babysitting themselves and their little sister while their folks ate. There were two mall security guards watching the plaza who didn't notice any of this going on.

The young man was deeply freaked out and looking around for someone to help. He clearly did not want to be accosted by this child, nor accused of anything untoward. I stepped in, picked the kid up, carried her to the security guards, and said "This is not my kid." They nodded and looked bewildered. I waited for them to take action. They did not.

They had misheard me and thought I said "This is my kid." I was still processing the fact that a toddler was trying to walk into traffic and talk to a strange man with no one else doing anything about it, and was trying to get help from an authority figure.

When people say "Nobody's a real adult, we're all just faking, nobody knows what they're doing," I scoff. There are people who are mature and experienced and have accomplished things in life, who know what to do in an emergency and in day-to-day life. I strive to be one of those people. Because in that moment, with an armful of suicidal kidnap-bait toddler that uniformed men were letting me carry off unchallenged, I realized how scary it is to be faking it.

The parents who left three small children unsupervised? Faking it.

The young man on the stairs with a little girl trying to grab his pant leg and follow him home? Faking it.

The two guys in black and yellow polo shirts trying to look Official Law Enforcement? Faking it.

Me in the moment, stepping up to take control of the situation, was definitely faking it.

And every year I hope to get a little further away, and closer to the adult who knows what they're doing.

Somebody's got to.

Might as well be me.

[icycoldninja]

Dmc incorrect quotes

Nero, tearing up the room: Where are they? Nero, looking under a pillow: Who moved them? Who moved my children? Nero: Somebody moved my M&M's, and now I am going to start killing.

Dante: Then either Sonic is a god or could kill god, and I do not care if there is a difference.

V: Why shouldn't you put a toaster in a bathtub full of water? Nero: Because your toast would get soggy!

V: Let’s not Dante this into a worse situation than it already is. Dante: Did you just use my name as a verb?

Dante: Can you pass the salt? V: Can you pass away? Dante: Too much salt.

V: I drink to forget but I always remember. Nero: You're drinking orange juice.

Dante: I got an idea! V: Does it involve breaking the law? Dante: By now don’t you think that’s a given? V: I was just trying to be optimistic. Dante: Don’t bother.

Dante: I'm gonna nickname my child "Lil Bitch". Nero: I see you're passing on your name.

Nero: In my defense, I was left unsupervised. V: Wasn’t Dante with you? Dante: In my defense, I was also left unsupervised.

Nero, Vergil, and Dante are playing poker. Dante is winning by a long shot. Nero: Aw, come on. Vergil: It’s not fair! He doesn't even know what we’re playing! Dante: Go Fish?

Nero, holding an antique bottle: Is this whiskey or perfume? Dante: grabs and chugs the entire bottle Dante: Dante: It's perfume.

Dante: What is wrong with you? Vergil: Many, many things… Vergil: And most of them are your fucking fault.

Dante: I can’t do this, it’s against my moral compass. Nero: YOUR MORAL COMPASS IS A ROULETTE WHEEL! Dante: …Your point?

Nero: I can be your partner for the next race. Vergil: Sorry, Nero. It's a sibling race. Dante: Maybe there's a contest for lonely children after this. Vergil: It's only children, Dante. A lonely child is what you're gonna be when I sell you!

Dante: They called me the B-word. Vergil: Motherfucker doesn’t start with ‘b’.

Nero: If you’re going to suggest I try dropping twenty feet down a pitch dark tower in the hope of hitting a couple of greasy little steps which might not even still be there, you can forget it. Vergil: There is an alternative, then. Nero: Out with it. Vergil: You could drop five hundred feet down a pitch black tower and hit stones which certainly are there.

Vergil: If there’s one thing I learned from Dante, it’s to set people’s expectations real low, so you end up surprising them by practically doing nothing at all.

Nero, cowering in fear: What do you want from me?! Vergil, standing in front of Nero: bites into the whole KitKat bar like a heathen Nero, crying: Please…stop…

[infamousbrad]

ive seen some discussion of this in the notes already, but i'd like to second the people saying that they don't fit into either full pornotopia or pornotopia lite.

i'm asexual. a world where every adult "should" want sex with most other adults, and is assumed to want sex with most adults as a baseline, isn't gonna work for me. but pornotopia lite, as it's described in your post, is already too anti-sex to me. nearly everything past the first sentence feels objectionable. "people should be picky about partners; sex or porn addiction is a real thing worth worrying about; forming a family should be your priority; sex is private and talking about it in public should be frowned upon" these are all things i heavily disagree with. i'd find pornotopia-lite way too restrictive.

i guess similar what you said about how even though you're not a woman, you feel unsafe in places where women don't feel safe to be topless. i don't want sex, but i don't feel safe in a place where people wanting sex aren't allowed to be open and casual about it.

I'm going to address that. Soon. Or at least Soon™ (as such things go) and in pieces, because this next point ardently resists being condensed and generalized.

I'm still on my bullshit. Block the #pornotopia tag if you want to keep reading my other stuff but are done with this topic. And, importantly, before I go on ...

This post comes with a Content Warning for discussions of weight loss and disordered eating, below the cut. If you're struggling and at risk of relapse if you think about that too hard, skip this post.

I have to start this one by being personally vulnerable in a way that I'm afraid is going to hurt me, but if this goes to 10,000, fine, I can at least hope it does somebody some good.

Okay? Let's go, let me expand on something I tried to condense and ended up over-condensing in my "Searching for Pornotopia" kick-off post.

The "Unfuckable" are Easy Prey for Villains

It's early 1978. I'm 17 years old, and months away from graduating from the Union of Christian Schools (and John Birch Society covert front group) high school that my parents forced me into to escape murderous bullying for my mental health in the local public schools.

The senior class is having an unsupervised "open study hall" in one of the larger classrooms, some few of us working on homework, most of us just socializing. I'm as happy as a pig in congress because I'm hanging out with both of my ongoing (if fruitless) crushes. Let's borrow some names from cryptography, call the taller, skinnier, bespectacled, earnest girl Alice and call the shorter, cheerier, heavier, sexier one Carol. And of course I'm Brad (sorry Bob), the compassionate famine-thin autistic liberal nerd. I've been friends with both since at least sophomore year.

Alice and Carol get to talking about their respective most-recent dating disasters, and they turn to me and ask for my my most recent dating disaster. Mortified but brave, I admit to them that I've never been on a date in my life. Do I want to date Alice asks, hell yes. Nobody's ever said yes. (Left unsaid: including both of you, not that you apparently remember.) So Carol turns to Alice and says, "[Alice], you've known him forever, why haven't you gone out on a date with him?"

And Alice's laugh is sudden and brief, shocked and horrified. She's a good person, she knows that her surprise has made her do something unforgivably wrong, so she chokes it back fast. But then she makes it worse, right to my face. "I can't imagine dating Brad. (pause) I can't imagine anyone ever dating Brad."

I wrote this in the first-person because it is 2025, I'm 64 years old, and I am still there. That mental, emotional , and social injury has never even scabbed over, let alone healed. It has haunted me my whole life.

And it didn't occur to me at the time, but it may not be a coincidence that within about a year, I read Atlas Shrugged for the first time.

I've lived a long life, and not all of it awful or alone. I've been ferociously political since I was 13, and a journalism addict since I was four. So feel the impact of those facts when I say that I cannot think of any more effective way to permanently cripple a human being than to tell them that nobody will ever feel an ounce of attraction for them, that they will never feel an affectionate touch. And we have whole industries dedicated to doing just that. What diet-culture capitalism and Alt-Right violent radicalization have in common is that they prey on the unloved.

A Perfect Cinderella Story

It's an intense competition to ask me "Brad, what's the most radicalizing thing you've ever read?" but with this on my mind, the slam dunk has to be chapter 5, called "A Specimen American Myth," in Philip Wylie's 1942 (and thus public-domain!) mental-health jeremiad Generation of Vipers.

He points out in the older, continental, mythical stories of the Little Cinder Girl, the prince is a cipher, barely a character, just a reward, a McGuffin in modern terms. The Fairy Godmother intervenes because he's in danger of marrying one of two lazy, slovenly, greedy (but lovely, not ugly!) girls, but also, more importantly, because Ella of the Cinders is everything the Faerie realm admires: generous to a fault, considerate to a fault, and tidy to a fault. Cinder Ella's introduction to, and ultimate marriage to Prince Charming is a reward for her virtue.

Not, unlike in the children's book versions that began to circulate in the Anglosphere in the early 20th century, a reward for her beauty. And it is those versions that make the stepsisters Ugly. Wylie argued that one of the reasons that the whole world was going insane was that:

Boys are taught that the only things women care about are wealth and power, and that they should judge their own success by the youth and beauty of the women who want to fuck them. And, the obvious converse:

Girls are taught that the only things that men care about are youth and beauty, and that they should judge their own sexiness by how wealthy and powerful the men who want to fuck them are.

And, he argued, this drives all of us insane because most moms are disgusted with themselves for having to settle for the husbands they got, and most dads are disgusted with themselves for being married to someone who got old and fat. And dads (and other men) teach young boys that that's why they have to be ever more successful providers so they don't end up with an ugly woman like their mom, and moms (and other women) teach little girls that they have to stay young and thin, and at least dress to look like they have big boobs, or else they'll end up with a loser like their dad.

The Return of Fascism and the Black Pill

This is the straight line that leads to pickup artistry, to Game, to incelry, to the black pill. This why two consecutive generations of right-wing violence hucksters have flogged the same story: liberals and feminists have stolen the good jobs that were supposed to fund your success, they left you behind, you won't have a home of your own or any other success to be proud of until you're 40 or more, by which time all the young, pretty girls will be married, out of your reach, and you'll be lucky if you have the option to be grudgingly accepted by women who are total losers, irreparably damaged themselves by that point. No young, beautiful woman will ever express any attraction to you. You will never feel an affectionate touch.

So vote for Trump, they said. Burn it all down.

The Horror of Diet-Culture Capitalism

A strong candidate for the most radicalizing documentary I've ever seen was Catharine Gilday's 1990 movie, The Famine Within. She interviewed many girls and women of all ages about their experience of a then-recent research finding. I'm quoting from long-ago memory here, so I may have a detail or two off by a little bit, but it was something like this:

The average woman goes on her first calorie-restriction diet at the age of 11. Nearly always because of an unkind remark from an older female relative. She will go on another diet every 8 years. Each of these diets will fail within 18 months and result in a net gain of at least 10 pounds.

Let me also send you to nutritionists Matt Priven and Jen Baum's hour-long podcast episode about the history of diet drugs. If I may summarize their summary, we've had multiple generations of diet drugs, starting with "thyroid extract" in 1888 up to GLP-1 inhibitors of today. They all have the same ultimate mechanism of action: they make anorexia nervosa less painful. Not less deadly, just less painful. And just like every other form of extreme calorie restriction, none of them could be taken for very long and, just like every form of extreme calorie restriction, they on average result in an overall net gain, not loss, of weight, they make the women who take them fatter.

So after 137 years of failure, why do diets and diet drugs still sell, especially to women? Because successful men, the ones women want, are looking for youthful appearance, big boobs, and narrow waists. And there will never be a shortage of scientists and companies, deep in the throes of confirmation bias, willing to take their money, "cashing in on body issues, selling skin and bones and big boobs" (as Jax put it in her hit song "I Know Victoria's Secret").

Because this time just might be different, maybe for you. Because otherwise, no successful man will ever express any attraction for you. You will never know affectionate touch.

Stop eating, they say. Take the drugs.

And it's spreading to men, too, thanks to cultural pressures and intense marketing of anorexia in a bottle, Wegovy and Mounjaro, and equally intense marketing of orthorexia nervosa, aka "clean eating." If I may risk being vulnerable again?

It's gotten to me. I started going to extreme lengths to starve myself rather than eat "unclean" foods, after years of nagging since my primary-care physician got herself certified as a dietitian. By the time I got her to stop, she'd infected me with orthorexia nervosa, and getting her to stop (which took years, and intense courage) hasn't done me a lick of good. In her horror, as my health markers have declined, she's tried to refer me to an eating disorder clinic, but there are none that are affordable, accessible, and who treat men. I'm having to tough it out myself.

But you know what makes it harder? I lost almost 60 pounds in four months, and for the first time in decades, more people were happy to see me, and for the first time in decades, my female friends started telling me that I finally looked attractive. They're still doing it. They're still telling me that, as a relative failure on the wealth and power scale, that if I don't keep making myself dangerously ill, I'll never hear anyone call me attractive, never again feel an affectionate touch. They don't mean to. But they're not immune to the culture we live in.

What Does That Have to Do with #Pornotopia?

I do not believe we can defeat the return of fascism or the health ravages of diet-culture capitalism without providing all people with an attainable, achievable path to feeling attractive, to feeling loved. I think we must find a way to build a not merely sex-positive but actively sexual culture, no matter who it makes uncomfortable, because the alternative is horror for us all. I think those made uncomfortable by the idea of living in a pornotopia will not find its absence any more comforting. I don't think it's enough by itself, but I do think it's essential.

Why do I think that, and how could we get there? Man, give me a brief break. Those are good questions, but writing this and then condensing it down even this far has drained me. Let this go out there and (as if) get read while I build back the strength to continue.

Previously: "Searching for Pornotopia" (poll still open!) and ...

"Topless Women are an Indicator Species."

And this piece: "The 'Unfuckable' are Easy Prey for Villains." Next, tentatively:

"Looking for Reasons to Say Yes?" Can and should everybody feel attractive? and hopefully finally, but probably not ..

"Nobody Wants to See That" We can't fix any of this while preserving shame culture.

[blowflyfag]

Pro Wrestling Illustrated: August 1995 

It’s a Man’s Sport? Yeah, Right!

Women are taking over the workplace in modern society–and taking over in wrestling, too. Men are no longer making all the key decisions. 

By Liz Hunter

Sherri Martel can remember the times when, as a little girl growing up in New Orleans, she and her friends would go to the playground for an afternoon of unsupervised fun. Within 15 minutes, there would be a dozen parents on the scene trying to break up a disturbance. Little Sherri had done it again. 

“It got to the point after a while where none of the other kids would sit in the sandbox with me,” Martel fondly recalled. “To me, that was a little wrestling ring, and I’d just pick up the little kids and slam them in the sand. I guess I knew what I wanted to do with my life at an early age.”

Tamara Murphy Fytch has slightly different memories of her earlier years. Fytch didn’t punch, kick, or slam anybody, but she controlled her peers nonetheless. From 10th grade on, Fytch was president of her student council, head cheerleader, captain of the girl’s varsity soccer team, and president of the debating society. Not surprisingly, her peers voted her “Most Likely To  Succeed” During her senior year of high school. 

“Everybody knew me,” Fytch said. “I had my hand in just about everything, and you know what was the most awesome thing of all? Even with doing all that, I still pulled straight A’s. I’ve known I’m something special for a long time.”

Fytch and Martel are two of the very special women ruling the power meetings in wrestling these days. They are mentally and emotionally stronger than a lot of the men in the sport. Physically, Martel can give many of the guys a run for their money (did anyone catch her beating on The Nasty Boys at WCW Uncensored?). Anyone who still thinks wrestling is a man’s sport has another think coming when wrestlings power gals are around. 

Fytch. Martel. Woman. Miss Texas. Alundra Blayze, BullNakano. These are the women whose power, intelligence, and beauty shrink any man down to size when they’re around. Wrestling’s female power brokers wear the pants in this sport. 

Take Martel, who has managed Harlem Heat to the WCW World tag team title. Here’s a team that had little going for it until Sister Sherri joined the fold. Under her management, they have risen to the top of the tag team heap. 

[Woman doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her. Sandman probably wouldn’t have accomplished nearly as much in ECW without her. Heck, she’ll even try to claw Cactus Jack’s eyes out if she sees fit.]

“Harlem Heat is great because I don’t let anybody step on them,” Martel said. “Anyone who thinks they can pull a fast one on my men is in for a big surprise. I’ve been around this game long enough to know the ins and outs, and one thing I know is that when you have the belts, you call the shots.”

Martel has also won the AWA and WWF Women’s titles and managed WCW World champion Ric Flair and WWF Intercontinental champion Shawn Michaels. She is not only the top female manager in the world, she is possibly the top manager in the world, period. 

“I don’t see who’s had more success managing more top wrestlers lately,” said broadcaster Tony Schiavone. “Sherri has power, and she knows how to use it.”

So does Fytch, who made relative unknowns Chris Candido and Brian Lee into somebodies… and champions. There’s little doubt Fytch’s star will soon rise much faster and shine much brighter. She’s just one of those self-made women who need only one little break to turn it into something big. Fytch is smart, beautiful, and aggressive.

Woman hides her intelligence behind a beautiful, though somewhat slutty exterior. She knows sex sells, and a sexy image can help advance a woman’s career. This Woman, who managed The Sandman in ECW and had managed former World tag team champions Doom in WCW, rules with a lace first.

Who can forget the night when Tommy Dreamer, despite being beaten to a bloody pulp by a Singapore cane-wielding Sandman, refused to kiss Woman’s feet? She said Sandman would stop only if he did this. But doing so would have been giving in to her power. There is no doubting who controls Sandman. 

“I don’t like men telling me what to do,” Women said. “It’s not my style. Men think they can have their way with me because I’m beautiful and sexy, but it’s all part of a power trip, and the power is mine.”

[Sherri Martel regularly assists in the physical assaults by The Nasty Boys and doesn’t care what the consequences are. Is it so hard to believe she bullied all the other kids in the sandbox when she was little?]

Kimberly, “Dirty White Boy” Tony Anthony’s “Dirty White Girl,’ has been a bit more subservient than most women in wrestling, but still plenty powerful. Last year, she knocked out a wrestler named The Hornet with a single punch. 

[Alundra Blayze is beautiful, but she’d rather be known as the woman who made women’s wrestling popular again. As for Bull Nakano, she’s as tough and powerful as most men.]

There’s no doubting Miss Texas’ beauty or power. She is still the only woman ever to be ranked on the “PWI 500.” Long live Missy Hyatt, who’s out of the sport, but not out of our hearts or minds. The image of Missy lives forever. And she wasn’t merely the blonde bombshell to end all blonde bombshells. She was an effective manager, valet, and Tv commentator. 

[Would Chris Candido ever have won the NWA title without Tamara Murphy Fytch’s expert guidance? No way, she says. In just two years, Fytch has become one of wrestling’s most powerful managers.]

Alundra Blayze, formerly known as Madusa Miceli, and Bull Nakano, the WWF World Women’s champion, do their work mainly in the ring. Although she is extremely beautiful, Blayze would rather be known as a world-class wrestler than a world-class beauty. Her goal is to make women’s wrestling as popular in North America as it is in Japan. 

[Miss Texas has made life hell for practically every woman who has appeared in the USWA… and a few men, too. After beating Hamie Dundee two years, she became the first woman ever to be ranked in the “PWI 500.”]

Nakano, who has never been accused of being beautiful, is one of the world’s most violent wrestlers. Many men are afraid to go one-on-one with her. Nakano is so tough that she has scared away a host of potential contenders to her title. 

Luna Vachon scared away many suitors before marrying the equally scary Vampire Warrior in 1994. It takes a strong man to simply look at Luna, much less confront her. But Luna is the prototype of today’s strong female in wrestling. She is much more concerned with actions than appearances. She isn’t afraid of being aggressive. Luna doesn’t care if men approve of her. 

Like most of the other women in wrestling, Luna approves of herself, and that’s all that matters.

[galaxylgbg66]

Mixtape: School Life Part 1

February 7th. 

The day before one of his best friends’ birthdays. Jeongin was turning 21. 

Finally, it was about time. 

Chan had long since been adamant that the youngest of their ragtag team of misfits not drink anything at all before he was of legal age. Despite their best efforts aka attempting to sneak the brunette sips of their drinks, Chan always caught them, scolded them and took away their drinks. Which was stupid and unfair. Everyone drank before they were 21, it didn’t seem like a big deal. 

Maybe it was because Jeongin was their baby, or maybe because he was far closer to Chan. But in his humble opinion, he really didn’t see the big deal. It wasn’t like they were huge party people- they were- or like they would let Innie drink unsupervised or out and about in the world. 

He was already an avid cannabis user. Okay, they all were to be fair. That didn’t count. But! But butt, but! …He was too high for this. The thought alone made him giggle. 

He was half lying in somebody’s lap with his legs on the couch in what he thought was his and Changbin’s room, but he was happy and had no room to care at this moment in time. If anyone had questions they could reach him at 1-800-don’t-call. 

He thought he was funny. 

They thought he was funny. 

So clearly, all that to say is that he was the funniest person on planet earth thank you very much. 

He was tired though, heavy exhaustion weighting down his bones and making him continually have to blink to keep his eyes open. The way Felix was running his hand though his hair and scratching lightly at his scalp wasn’t helping in the ‘keeping himself awake’ department. 

Felix was so sweet to him. 

“Jin?” 

Felix had the voice of an angel. 

“Jinnie…”

Felix looked like an angel. Acted like one too. 

“Hyunjin?” 

Felix was looking down at him, concern etched all over his features. His brows were drawn and his lips had formed a tense line. “Hyunjin why are you crying?”

“I don���t know!” Hyunjin wailed, suddenly overcome with so much love and emotion that it all flowed out of him like a river dam. He hadn’t even realized he had been crying in the first place. “I just- I just love you all so much!” 

“He’s drunk.” Chan said, peering over Felix’s shoulder. 

“White girl wasted.” Innie supplied from the armrest of the couch. He was clutching a kids juice carton, absentmindedly playing with the straw as he watched the show. 

He looked so small. So cute. 

Hyunjin felt tears stinging the corner of his eyes, begging to flow freely. 

Seungmin laughed at him, pointing gleefully as he took a sip from his own juice pouch.

He peered up at the younger , a whine of protest escaping from his throat. “Why didn’t I get one?”

“Get what, Hyunjin?” Felix asked, hiding a smile behind his hand. But Hyunjin could hear it. Felix wasn’t very good at keeping secrets. 

“Juice!”

“…You didn’t ask.” Minho supplied, very unhelpfully, in Hyunjin’s hazy mind. 

They were all assholes. To hell with them. 

Felix, his angel, his savior from a dark and uncaring world stopped playing with his hair- Hyunjin did not whine like a pupppy dog at the loss of contact thank you very much- and his hand disappeared from sight. When it reappeared in Hyunjin’s peripheral, he was holding a juice box. 

Smiling like he had won the lottery, he wordlessly tilted the straw towards Hyunjin’s face, shaking it teasingly for a few seconds before he finally let Hyunjin take a sip. 

The artificial flavors hit his tongue like a sugar fueled symphony—sickly sweet, almost too much, like melted candy in liquid form. It was chemical cherries and synthetic sunshine, a punch of fruitiness so exaggerated that it looped back to being comforting. It tasted like childhood. Not his childhood, but the childhood he imagined Chan & Felix had, like neon colored memories of school lunches (he always took his lunch) and sticky fingers (he would cry when his hands would get dirty), of simpler days when the worst things in the world were a scraped knee or a missing crayon. 

Hyunjin hiccupped, his eyes going wide as the taste spread, tangy and cloying and perfect. A sob broke past his lips before he could stop it and all at once all of his friends' eyes fell on him, a mix of worried, concerned and downright entertained expressions among the seven men. 

“Oh god what now?” Minho asked, unbothered to attempt and hide his joy of the situation. 

“Felix…” he gasped, clutching at his friends sleeve as if he’d just discovered the meaning of life at te bottom of that damn juicebox. An overwhelming joy swelled up on his chest and he sucked in a breathe, looking at the juice box like it had given him the greatest gift of his life. 

“It tastes like happiness.” 

“Does it?” Felix would ask, eyes sparkling as he played along to Hyunjin’s drunken ramblings. 

“It does.” Hyunjin nodded feverently, the straw still in his mouth. 

Felix let out a soft laugh, reaching out to ruffle Hyunjin’s already-mussed hair. “Then drink up Jinnie.”

And he did. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the better part of an hour his stomach had been cramping unrelentingly. The constant pressure was enough to make him feel sick, nauseated. He didn’t want to ruin the fun though, so he plastered a wide smile and continued messing around with the others. He wasn’t the only person not drinking, Seungmin for example had said from the start that he wasn’t interested from the moment he walked in the door. He was the one who bought the juice boxes- with the help of Felix. 

Chan had said that he wasn’t going to, but as the

clear blue sky turned navy on an otherwise chill Friday night, he took that back. Now he wasn’t one to go crazy with his alcohol, he knew his limits, but he -when he knew things would be fine and he didn’t have to be the designated driver- would have a few drinks socially within the group. And, of course, Jeongin’s big day was a perfect excuse to have a few drinks. 

Felix and Changbin were past tipsy. Minho was drunk but he held his drinks well enough and with Han draped across his shoulder, it was clear to Seungmin that Jisung wasn’t as sober as he appeared to be. 

He had decided hours prior that he wasn’t drinking tonight. The others had tried to convince them, but he had shrugged them off with relative ease and an explanation of ‘work tomorrow’. He didn’t. 

By late evening, the headache had worsened into something far more insistent. The dull pressure behind his eyes had sharpened into a deep, throbbing ache, radiating from the back of his skull and creeping down his neck. Keeping his eyes open for too long sent sharp pulses of pain through his temples, and even blinking felt like dragging sandpaper over raw nerves. He could practically feel his uncomfortable clothes digging into his skin and the scratchy sensation sent shivers down his spine. 

“I’m going to step outside,” he mumbled, sidestepping past the group gathered on the floor. 

“You alright?” He heard Chan ask. 

“It’s feeling a bit stuffy in here.” He replied, flashing Chan what he hoped was a convincing smile. 

Chan’s brows furrowed and he stepped closer, but Seungmin ducked under his outstretched arm, opened and walked out the front door of the apartment. 

He walked down the small hallway and out the main building doors, coming to a stop when he reached the small communal sitting area in the back. He sat down in his ‘normal’ green lawn chair and breathed through his nose in attempt to calm the budding nausea. 

“Are you alright?”

“Fine.” He gritted out at the same time a hand rested itself on his shoulder and then his forehead. 

“You’re not fine.” Minho whispered, sounding too far and too close at the same time. 

Seungmin’s vision blurred at the edges, the light around him too bright, too harsh, like knives slicing into his retinas. Sound wasn’t much better- every noise, even the softest ones, seemed amplified, reverberating inside his skull like an echo chamber. His stomach churned uneasily, a roll of nausea rolling through him with each pulse of pain. 

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying in vain to relieve some much needed pressure, but it only made things worse.

“Seungmin stop!” 

The pain swelled, unbearable now, wrapping around his skull like a vice tightening notch by notch. His heart pounded in his ears, each beat another hammering pulse of agony. 

[theclaravoyant]

I've been hearing the theory that Gerrard is going to captain the precinct for a while because something happens to Bobby?? Do you think you could write something about that? *prayer/please hands emoji*

AN ~ all aboard the Everybody Hates Gerrard Train!! whoo WHOO XD I am loving writing solidarity of these guys against that bench. I do have something angstier in the pipeline (ooof the buckbobby feels) but in the meantime I wanted to have a little fun with it.

tw for gerrard being ... Like ThatTM I may have dialed it up a bit for funsies. and because if Gerrard gets the Captaincy when Hen and Chim are sitting right there it might be dynamically interesting and whatever but imma still punch him tho

equality

“What are you wearing?”

Buck grins, turning away from the oven with a smear of cheese on his nose, and gestures down at his newest favourite apron. Printed across the front it reads: In my defence, I was left unsupervised.

“Hen got it for me.”

Gerrard is distinctly not amused.

Buck's smile falters. Yeah, they warned him about this.

From the table behind, Chimney attempts an assist - “Buck's in charge of the kitchen when Cap's not here. It's kinda their thing.”

“Well.” Gerrard turns back to Chimney and gives him a bitter smile. “Then it's a good thing 'Cap' is here. So I'll decide whose thing is what. Wilson! Get in here!”

“Shocker,” Hen mutters, but she moves nonetheless.

“What was that, Firefighter?”

“I said, yes sir.”

At least Buck, who's been doing his best not to look like a kicked puppy, gets a snort out of that. Chim bites back a grin.

“Good,” Gerrard spits, glaring. “'Cause it'd be a shame to have to write you up.”

“Really?” Hen challenges. “'Cause it would be a joy to report you.”

Buck and Chim's expression turn from quiet glee to panic. Abort, Abort. Hen resists the urge to bite her tongue. She's put her foot in it, and Gerrard relishes the stumble.

“For what, hm?” he presses, closing slowly in on her. “For making one of my subordinates do something she doesn't want to do? Boo hoo.”

Hen takes a deep breath. She has to choose her next words quietly - She can't afford to make a wrong move, and set off the trap. But then a new voice interrupts from the top of the stairwell. Eddie.

“For putting the only woman on the team in the kitchen. Again,” he points out. His voice is clipped. Confident. Impatient. “When somebody else has clearly volunteered to do that task.”

Hen groans silently. She's pretty sure there's nothing Gerrard would love more than to fire them all in one fell swoop. And probably nothing Eddie would love more than to punch the guy and set that chain reaction going. But- it seems to work. Sort of. Gerrard stops closing in on her and throws his hands out as if this has all been an innocent mistake.

“Ohhh, so that's the problem! Why didn't you say so? Wilson. What's something Buckley hates doing then.”

“Uh... Laundry I guess?”

Buck flashes her a look - come on, man – but he gets it. She has to take the out.

“You heard the woman,” Gerrard orders. “Laundry. Stat.”

“Okay, um,” he waffles out some handover instructions - “It's on 350 degrees at the moment, if you wait about forty five minutes then dial it up for the last ten-”

Gerrard clears his throat. “Step to it, Buckley! I think the gym rags need doing. And you'd better not have that thing on when you get back.”

Hen mouths, sorry.

“Don't even worry about it. Happy to serve.” Buck forces a smile at their Captain, hands Hen the tea towel he's got draped over his shoulder, and jogs off down the stairs.

“Problem solved, then,” Gerrard resolves on their behalf. “Equality.”

He fixes Eddie with a shit eating grin. Lets his hands linger outstretched as if he's going for a big, weird bear hug. Eddie grimaces as the man goes for a half-embrace-half-shoulder punch instead.

“You've got balls, mi amigo,” he says. “I like it.”

[gorogues]

Fictober 2023

Prompt number #4 Fanfiction Fandom: Flash Rogues Rating: G – General audiences Warnings: None Notes: Science doesn't work that way, shhh.

Day Four: “Do you even know what this means?”

Roscoe had been hard at work in his lab when Axel flounced in -- which was odd, as he was certain he’d double-locked the door.  Either way, he ignored the youth who was literally dancing around his worktable as he soldered.

“Dude, it’s time to get up and do stuff, you can’t sit here all day,” the kid said after ten lonely minutes.

“Watch me,” Roscoe replied without looking up.

“Come on, I want you to show me some cool tops or whatever it is you do all day.  Mark told me you made a machine gun top once, which is way more interesting than one that spits glue.  I wanna see it shoot something!”

Finally Roscoe got up, heading out of the room to look for any other member of the Rogues to babysit the toddler; he found nobody.  The entire building was oddly deserted, seemingly leaving him as the only adult around.  Strange.

Somebody will pay for this, he brooded to himself, and resumed his work with a distinct scowl on his face.  Axel, of course, was still around and in search of entertainment.

“C’mon man, just show me your coolest stuff and I promise I’ll be quiet for a while.  Just one of the absolute coolest weapons!”

“Have you thought about playing in traffic?  I hear that’s pretty cool,” Roscoe snapped, but Axel just smiled and pulled out a strange blob from his satchel, which he held in his palm.  It glowed a bit and hummed, and even changed colours as the two of them watched.

Curiosity finally got the better of the older Rogue, against his more reasoned judgment.  “What is that?”

“Dunno!  I got it from Alchemy’s lab.  It was labelled 'methyl-glyceryl trinitrate'.  Looks neat, huh?”

Roscoe went pale.  Chemistry wasn’t his field of expertise, but he understood explosives very well.  “Do you know what that is?  And do you know what this means?”

“Gonna guess by the look on your face that it’s bad,” Axel replied, though he didn’t seem overly concerned.

“Levelling the entire city block is frequently bad, yes, unless you’re observing from a safe distance.  We are not, and based on the increasingly rapid colour changes it’s probably extremely unstable.  I cannot say it was nice knowing you.”

“Same, same.  You’re weird and mean and you remind me of my dad, but at least we’ll go out with a blast!”

“Your…dad..?!” Roscoe exclaimed with bewilderment, but he didn’t have time to finish the thought.  Alchemy’s blob suddenly enlarged itself and shone with a blinding light and—

--and it soon ended.  The blob abruptly went inert, turning a sickly pale colour and remained that way as they stared at it.

“That’s it?!” Axel demanded incredulously.  “What a complete rip-off!  I wanted a huge explosion!”

“I…suppose Al’s experiment was a failure,” Roscoe concluded, relieved but at a loss to explain what had just happened.  “I will have to let him know, for his notes.”  And perhaps kick his ass for leaving explosives for the toddler to find.

“I’m gonna go find something else to do,” Axel announced sullenly as he left the room, and it was quietly blissful for a moment but Roscoe quickly realized he’d better not leave the kid unsupervised.

“Wait, ah, give me a moment and I will demonstrate the machine gun top for you,” he said hurriedly through gritted teeth.  Then he paused, frowning.  “And just what did you mean by ‘remind me of my dad’?”

[eclipsecrowned]

And Now For Somebody Completely Different...

EVI KHOLIN. (tw for death, mental health, xenophobia) PERSONALS DNI.

Backstory: Born into the far Western nation of Rira, Evi and her brother Toh fled their homeland like thieves in the night decades before canon events. While the exact events that led to their escape have yet to be revealed, Evi headed East carrying her family's ancestral armor, which was the only bargaining chip the pair had. Eventually, the map ran out, and Evi found she and her brother were in Alethi territory, which was itself in the midst of a civil war for unification. Toh negotiated with the rebels for protection and a new home... by offering his sister as bride.

Evi was matched with the then budding warlord Dalinar Kholin, brother to the leader of the unification effort. It was a match that would serve the narrative well, but was less than ideal on both sides. The gentle and pacifistic Evi held fast to the belief that her warmongering, thrill-seeking husband could be a better man. Whether she was right or wrong, the two were just compatible enough that their friction produced two sons from a union that lasted over a decade.

It wasn't just discord in her marriage that made Evi miserable, unfortunately. A refugee in a xenophobic society, she struggled to connect with other women, who regarded her tenderness and easygoing nature to reflect poorly on her intelligence. Overlooked by most, mocked by some, and on the whole patronized by well-meaning false friends, Evi was alone but for her sons -- Who she raised to be better than their society, than their father, to see the best in all that surrounded them. Her sons, Adolin and Renarin, would never know the world as she did.

Regrettably, Evi's story does not end happily. Without spoiling the entire conceit of a character's arc, she dies in a violent event pre-canon, an event that pushes her husband completely over the edge... But also kicks off much of canon events. As stated, the match that took so much out of Evi was also what would give humanity a fighting chance against future evil. It is her love and faith, not her loss, that will ultimately echo long after she is gone.

My Fanon:

I do tend to delve Evi as a much more depressed person than the face she put on for others. She was alone in a foreign power whose core tenets were at odds with her own morals, and the culture is xenophobic besides. I think especially after the birth of her first son, when her husband is called back to the front, she hits her breaking point. She rebuilds herself after, but I think there's always the sense of her trying to keep herself from falling back into that pit as an active battle rather than a temporary fit of 'madness.'

I like to imagine Evi was close to her niece and nephew by marriage. I just think, for her niece specially, Evi understood being the outsider and heretic. I don't know how effective her methods were on a girl that didn't want to be mothered, but I think she did try to understand and support them, to let them know they weren't alone with their strangeness or anxieties.

By that same card, her dynamic with her brother-in-law was... Something. She's a pacifist. She believed the Blackthorn was not beyond redemption, that there was a good man beneath the legacy of war crimes. But the King had the kind of energies that did not pass the vibe check. He was not allowed near her sons unsupervised lest he in an afternoon undid years of work keeping her sons from being radicalized towards Alethi society like their father. I believe the real counterbalance in the royal family was Gav*lar and Evi, given their dogmas/ambitions being at odds. She didn't even have to know about his megalomaniac aims. She just thought something was wrong with this man.

She was a collector of stories and experiences during her years on the run. It's why she had so many different stories to share with Ren as a child. It was the chance to connect with others that made the fraught situation so sweet to her, the way she felt so close to her singular god in that she forged these temporary bonds and carried their words with her. I am in an apoplectic state thinking about if she had met Hoid long before she reached Alethkar.

Evi was not a totally forebearing guileless darling as some of fandom wants her to be. Evi was capable of being quite cutting when the situation absolutely called for it. I can't remember the exact wording or find the post again, but I agree with the post that Renarin translates to 'I'm sick of my husband's shit and I'm sick of his fucked up war cult too, here's your kid 'I WILL BE MY OWN MAN IN SPITE OF MY FATHER' Kholin.'

On the other hand, I'm not interested in exploring 'secretly badass and should shank her husband' Evi. That's not the point of her character. That's not her strength. The point is, after all she went though, she'd be well within her rights to lash out, to hurt others as badly or worse than she herself was harmed. But every day she made the active choice not to. She said someone has to change the system, someone has to make the choice to be better, someone has to show them because they do not know. She refused to play the game the way others had been taught. And given how pivotal her beliefs are to how the world is shaped in her absence, I think that it's her mercy, not her pain, that means the most in the narrative.

Given how my FC for her is of German/Australian heritage, I do write Evi as being of partial Shin descent. It largely manifests in her height and some would argue her 'backwards' concepts of conflict and warfare.

Prior to her death, she was a budding Edgedancer. It's just that the flames caught her before Nale ever could.

A Study In: Stranger in a Strange Land / Wondering what it would be like to stay / Hope blooms eternal / Giving this world more than it takes from you / It's planting seeds in a garden you will never see / "Kindness is free. Love is free." / Unhappy women in even unhappier marriages / Social ostracization / Mother as Martyr / I've been through Hell and come out singing.

Verses/AUs:

Pre-canon: Follows Evi's canonical life -- except for the fact it ended before the first book began. Starting in the midst of her travels across the continent and following her through wartime, marriage, motherhood, and the chains of nobility, it offers a flexible range of interactions up to her inevitable demise.

Survival: An AU focused on the concept of Evi surviving her canon demise. Allows her to take place in events canon to the novels, though the exact situation is mutable. Staying in court so as not to abandon her sons? Living overseas with her brother and coming back only once the plot gets serious? Regardless, Evi has grown older, with scars from what ought to have killed her, but she has neither given up on the world nor those that live within it.

General Sci-Fi: AU. Having fled her homeworld with her brother, she drifts through the stars, collecting stories and friends on whatever planet she lands on. She loves the freedom she has now, but sometimes finds herself wondering what it would be like to stay, unafraid of whatever haunts her from her home.

General Fantasy: AU. Follows much the same plot as her canon, just transplanted into general or fandom fantasy settings. Whether a wanderess or the foreign bride to a royal family, Evi is a gentle woman working to change the system not with blades or poison, but by words and example.

Modern: AU. Transplants Evi to a regular modern setting, focusing largely on her life as wife and mother in an upper class family. She's devoted to her sons, her art, and her philanthropic pursuits. Surprisingly down to earth and kind compared to most women in her tax bracket, highlighting she married into this rather than being born into it.

Plot Bunnies/Calls to Adventure:

Your muse and Evi met when she was only a refugee moving from country to country. Whether we play out their brief bond while Evi is in the region, or we pick up years later when she is a woman changed by the things she has done for protection, there's fertile ground to build muse dynamics and perhaps a lasting friendship.

Your muse is made or was already a part of the Kholin household, whether as a courtier, a traveler, or a servant. Evi is, if not the most recent member of the royal family, certainly the most curious. She is absolutely the kind to be nice to the waiter for those who have no real standing or power in court, or to be the good-natured but slightly awkward would-be friend to those who just find themselves in the drama at court.

For younger muses: Your muse is a soldier under Evi's husband. This means Evi is your den mother. Do not resist. Can happen in her pre-canon verse or as part of her survival verse, given her husband's consistent adoption shenanigans.

For any verse: Instead of marrying Dalinar for protection, it's your muse that her brother arranges a marriage with. Your muse have a new, lovely bride to be that will love and support them -- No matter what sort of hero or horror they might be. Bonus if your muse doesn't meet the traditional standard of 'strength' that her canonical husband does, ie being more guile-based and damn good at it, holding political power, etc.

For survival AU: Evi has a secret. Perhaps it is about what truly happened when Rathalas burned. Perhaps it is about those long, solitary walks she takes since returning to the Capital. Regardless, she has returned a changed woman, and one that warrants further scrutiny -- especially a new faces appear in the city, seeming intent on finding Evi with unknown motives.

For survival AU: Learning to be Radiants together. Evi a patient cheerleader to your muse, even as she soldiers on in learning how to be the best Edgedancer she can be. Just a suppotive, potentially intergenerational, dynamic.

Notes on this Character:

I actually stay largely canon-compliant with Evi? AUs for more interaction potential aside, I mean. It helps that Stormlight is one of those settings I don't find wanting as compared to several other fandoms I RP in. I'd say what lore I have for Evi that isn't super- or subtext is just headcanon based rather than a strongly worded letter for custody from Sando.

I am completely open to shipping her elsewhere. One, I write her culture as being proudly polyamorous in settings where her husband is in the picture. Two, despite my take that there had to be more to Evinar than what we're shown to explain her continued faith/trust in him, I am always down for AUs where someone else becomes her lover or spouse in a setting either without Dalinar or where she was chosen for another.

[logarhythm-bees]

To Unearth and Back Again; ⛅Chapter 7

Chapter Six | Table of Contents | Chapter Eight

See ronithesnail's absolutely wonderful art for this story!

I always feel like somebody's watchin' me And I have no privacy (Oh-oh-oh) I always feel like somebody's watchin' me Who's playing tricks on me?

-Somebody's Watching Me, Rockwell

Janus stuck his hands in his pockets as he was walking away from the breakfast table, sighing. Yet another struggle of a breakfast–by no fault of his own, of course. Janus had been a wonderful conversationalist, in between flirting with the boyfriends that Roman and Virgil did not particularly enjoy him flirting with (or having in the first place) and eating some frankly delicious blueberry pancakes (Logan was a good cook, even if he preferred the chemistry of baking). It wasn’t Janus’ fault that Roman and Virgil didn’t want to talk to him. It wasn’t any of Janus’ fault that any of this had happened at all. 

Definitely not.

Let sleeping dogs lie, he thought to himself. He had better things to do.

He hadn’t formed much of a plan for the day, besides that he and Patton were going to try to cook vegetarian alfredo later in an ongoing effort to shift the cooking responsibilities off of Logan, who was the primary overseer of the stove and its goings on because he was the only one they all universally trusted around an open flame despite the fact that their stovetop was an electric one. Remus had managed to make s’mores on it anyways in a brief moment where he’d managed to get into the kitchen unsupervised, so they all generally classified it as a safety hazard and stayed away from it unless Logan was present.

Janus had come to Patton figuring that the two of them were probably capable of making something without employing Virgil’s mandatory weekly fire safety drill training skills and suggesting that it would be nice to let Logan rest some nights instead of cooking dinner, so they’d been working their way through simple meals with minimal issue and mostly edible results in the great adventure to learn how to cook without endangering their local wildlife. 

Janus’s personal favorite so far had been a fairly simplified version of Ratatouille; Though they’d gotten the idea from the film, they opted for the traditional recipe over the picturesque version from the movie, because neither Patton or Janus wanted to try to slice and line up all those tiny little pieces. 

It had turned out pretty well, in Janus’s humble opinion, and Logan agreed to let them all watch it while eating. Virgil had lit up a little bit when he tried it, and hadn’t even tried to hide it- probably because they were all watching the movie and he hadn’t thought Janus was looking, but nevertheless. It made Janus happy that his and Patton’s work was good. 

He’d been nervous about the recipe. There was definitely no other reason it made him feel so warm to see Virgil smile like that at something he’d done. 

Janus shooed those thoughts away in lieu of tossing open the door to his room to look for his cookbook. He’d been keeping a binder full of their culinary trials and prevaliances at Logan’s suggestion, decorated on its cover with stickers of hearts and little animals gifted to him by Patton. He’d been incredibly meticulous with their placement, putting the tiny glittery kraken and jackalope in just the right spot next to the bird and frog and snake and little puffy spider sticker collected around the words “Janus’s Cookbook.”

He was pretty sure he’d left it on his desk, but when he entered the room, it was sitting conspicuously on his bed, pages opened to a recipe for homemade green tea biscuits, one of the first recipes he and Patton had tried to learn.

Janus stared cautiously at the binder, sitting unassumingly on his bed and definitely not seeming suspicious at all. He reached for the binder slowly, looking behind his back and around the room contemplatively.

It seemed empty. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything by the mindscape’s rules.

Particularly when it came to Remus, and come to think of it now, he had been acting rather strange at breakfast. Not a single joke about non-monetizable content, and he’d kept winking at Roman. Exaggerated, unsubtle winks that implied he was definitely up to something.

Janus would prefer not to be involved in that something. 

But he needed his binder.

Pausing for another moment, Janus darted forwards, making a grab for the binder. He clutched it in his hands and backed away, nearly stumbling over the carpet. Breathing in the 4-8-7 pattern, he looked around for any signs of booby traps or buckets of slime. To his surprise and satisfaction, nothing seemed to be out of place. Not even the binder seemed to have been tampered with, he thought, inspecting it, even if it had been moved.

Maybe Patton had just come in to check for a recipe, Janus thought, smiling to himself, thinking about how much Patton had adored the green tea biscuits when they’d first made them. Maybe he should head to the kitchen, see if Patton was baking already. Maybe Logan would be there too–he was the best at baking out of them, it being so similar to chemistry. Plus, he was the only one who completely understood the weird dials on the stove.

Too caught up in his own thoughts, Janus stepped out of his room off his guard. He didn’t notice the figure in the hallway until it was behind him, and by then it was already too late to defend himself. There was a cloth over his mouth, and the unfortunately familiar smell of chloroform and garbage filled his nose.

“You’ve got to stop doing this, Remus,” Janus mumbled, and then blanked out.