#teddy sanders imagine

[cod-dump]

Y'all want some uhhhh *checks notes* nikpricegraves pet names headcanons bc my brain won't shut up about it?

Cool thanks

Nik calls Graves his sunshine in both English and Russian. In Russian it's "Лучик" (luchik).

Nik gets to call Price John extremely affectionately. Also calls him (and graves) Родной (rodnoy) which is a way of saying darling or dear by calling someone your home (which makes me all 🥺)

Graves started calling Nik "teddy bear" as a joke bc it made the boys gag and Price turn a funny shade of red. But it stuck and now Nik loves it.

Graves calls Price handsome and "darlin". I imagine if Price ever had to shave, he might try calling him dollface, but that would be shut down so fucking fast 😂

Price isn't heavy-handed with the pet names, but he regularly uses love, darling. He will call Nik "Лев" (lev) bc he loves watching his face light up being called lion.

"Teddy Bear" evolves into "Nikky Bear" which Nik adores. Graves said it once to mess with him and the man melted. So, Graves keeps using it (the boys fucking hate it so much so he tries to say it when they're around).

Graves would also be the king at coming up with ridiculous pet names. He honestly does it just to fuck with the boys but he also likes messing with his boyfriends. The pet names don't even make sense half the time and some of them are just names of everyday things used in a certain tone.

"Captain Crunch" is the most popular of Price's pet names that Graves' uses. It's so random when he uses it and Price always looks at him like he's losing his mind. Graves loves it when he gets looks from Price after calling him something silly.

"Sup, hot potato," Nik had to stop what he was doing and look at Graves who was smugly grinning at him.

"Sanders" evolved from a joke and no one will tell the boys what the fuck it means and Graves takes great joy out of mentioning if Price wants fried chicken whenever they ask. They never connect the dots but Price still gets pissed at Graves teasing the origin of the pet name right in front of them.

[tinynerdz360]

Above and Beyond Chapter 8: First Contact?

With a simple press of a button an image was released to the public; an image that would set the internet ablaze: an enigmatic alien boy with snow-white hair and piercing green eyes, standing with the Ares Crew. His build was of a scrawny teenager compared to the adult astronauts.

 The questions came fast —Was this incontrovertible proof of extraterrestrial life? Had the government been harboring cosmic secrets all along?

The unknown employee smirked at his handy work. He felt pleased at what he had done, and not an ounce of shame or regret. This would set the necessary wheels into motion.

***

Hashtags and buzzwords spread like wildfire across social media as the leaked image of Dantom went viral. Theories abounded, ranging from measured skepticism to wild-eyed conspiracy.

"Alien Boy Among Astronauts – What Is NASA Hiding?"

"NASA discovers evidence of aliens on Mars #LittleGreenMen #WeAreNotAlone"

"Leaked photo reveals hidden extraterrestrial, are they walking among us? #Area51Revealed #TruthIsOutThere"

"Press conference DEMANDED - what is @NASA hiding from the American people? Full transparency now! #ReleaseTheAliens #NASACoverup"

Teddy Sanders scrolled through the endless stream of tweets, a scowl etched on his brow, fingers drumming an agitated rhythm on his mahogany desk. They had planned to let the public know, he was hoping to do this on his own terms. That they would be able to delay for a little bit longer. An alien discovery was one of those cases where NASA had wanted to give its own government a heads up and time to process this world-changing event.

But soon after getting the crew picture with Dantom, someone leaked it to the public.

With a heavy sigh, Teddy picked up the phone and dialed the president. This conversation wasn't going to be pleasant.

The call clicked through. "Mr. President, we have a situation." Teddy gripped the receiver with white knuckles. "An unauthorized image of the entity has been leaked. It's spreading rapidly online."

"God damnit, Mr. Sanders!" President Davis' voice boomed through the line, frustration palpable. "I thought I made it crystal clear - no leaks, period. You assured me NASA had this under control."

Teddy winced, feeling the sharp sting of failure. "Sir, I apologize. We're investigating the source of the breach. But right now, we need to get in front of this. The media sharks are circling, demanding answers. And I’d like to point out, that NASA did not have to tell you first. We are a public domain; the public would be told eventually. It’s just happening sooner than later."

Tense hung between them. "I see. I assume we’re on the same page?” Davis asked.

“The page being the emphasis of peaceful contact and diplomacy?” Teddy emphasized.

“Yes, yes, of course.” The President replied. Teddy could just imagine him waving his hand in the air in dismissal. The line clicked dead.

Teddy leaned back in his chair, rubbing his throbbing temples. This alien kid was proving to be more trouble than he ever imagined. As speculation raged out of control, time was of the essence. They needed to seize the narrative before it spiraled beyond their grasp.

With a deep breath, Teddy reached for his computer mouse and clicked open his saved draft of his speech.  

***

The cameras flashed incessantly as Teddy Sanders stepped up to the podium, the NASA logo emblazoned on the wall behind him. He cleared his throat, his heart pounding against his ribs. "Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for being here today."

He glanced down at his carefully prepared notes. "As many of you are aware, an image has been circulating online depicting what appears to be an extraterrestrial being alongside our Ares crew on Mars." Murmurs rippled through the room, but Teddy pressed on.

"I can confirm that this image is authentic. During their mission, our astronauts encountered a juvenile alien life form, which we have come to learn is named 'Dantom.' This alien child was injured, and our crew has been assisting him and successfully making peaceful contact.

The room erupted into a frenzy of shouted questions and camera flashes. Teddy raised his hands, attempting to quiet the crowd. "Please, let me finish. We understand the monumental significance of this discovery and the delicate nature of the situation. Our top priority is ensuring the well-being of Dantom and maintaining a peaceful relationship with any potential extraterrestrial civilizations."

He took a deep breath, his voice growing more solemn. "We face unprecedented challenges in navigating this uncharted territory. But I assure you, we are proceeding with the utmost caution and respect. NASA, in collaboration with the government, is committed to transparency and will provide regular updates as the situation unfolds. Thank you."

As Teddy stepped away from the podium, the room exploded with a barrage of questions.

***

President Alfred Davis stood tall behind the lecture podium, he had handsome dark skin, and a charming smile. His presence commanding the attention of the entire nation. The cameras zoomed in on his confident smile, capturing the historic moment. "My fellow Americans," he began, his deep voice resonating through the room, "today, we stand on the precipice of a new era for humanity."

He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in. "The discovery of an alien child, Dantom, on Mars is a testament to the boundless possibilities that await us in the vastness of space. This is not a moment for fear or apprehension, but one of hope and opportunity."

Davis leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with ambition. "As your President, I am committed to fostering peaceful contact and maintaining good relations with Dantom's species."

"We must approach this situation with wisdom, compassion, and an open mind," he continued, his voice growing more impassioned. "I call upon all nations to join us in this endeavor, to set aside our differences and work together for the betterment of all sentient beings."

Behind the veneer of diplomatic ambition, those closest to him recognized the undercurrent of self-interest. To be the President who welcomed aliens to Earth, who brokered alliances among the stars—it was a legacy any leader would covet. And one that Alfred Davis craved more than anything else.  

As the audience erupted in applause, Davis basked in the moment, his ego swelling with each camera flash. *This is my destiny,* he thought, his smile widening.

***

The scene shifts to a bustling newsroom where reporters from various international outlets scramble to cover the breaking story. On a large television screen, a stern-faced journalist from the BBC delivers a scathing report.

"While the discovery of an alien child is indeed a momentous occasion, many world leaders are expressing their disappointment and frustration with President Davis's decision to keep this information hidden from the international community."

The camera cuts to a press conference, where the UN Secretary addresses a room full of journalists. "Transparency is crucial in matters of global significance," she states, her voice laced with a mix of relief and irritation. "While we are thankful that first contact was handled peacefully, the lack of communication and cooperation from the United States government is deeply concerning."

Meanwhile, on the streets of New York, a reporter wove through the crowd, microphone in hand, capturing the pulse of public opinion.

A middle-aged man in a suit shakes his head, his face etched with concern. "I don't trust it," he says, his voice tinged with xenophobia. "For all we know, this could be the beginning of an invasion. We need to protect our own first."

Not far from him, a middle-aged woman shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm neutral about it. If they wanted to harm us, wouldn't they have done so already?"

Next, a young woman steps up to the microphone. "I think it's incredible!" she exclaims, her enthusiasm palpable. "Just imagine what we could learn from them. This could be the start of something truly amazing."

The reporter approaches an elderly couple walking hand in hand. The man shrugs, his expression neutral. "I've seen a lot in my life," he says, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Aliens? Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time. As long as they come in peace, I've got no problem with it."

Excitement bubbled up in the form of a group of people of various ages all clad in sci-fi merchandise, their eyes bright and voices animated.

"Can you imagine? Actual aliens!" one exclaimed. "This could be the dawn of a whole new era, like...like Star Trek coming to life!"

"Think of what we could learn from them!" another chimed in, practically bouncing on their toes.

As the interviews continue, the divided reactions of the public become increasingly apparent. Some express fear and mistrust, while others embrace the possibility of interstellar friendship. The reporter turns to the camera, her face a mix of excitement and uncertainty.

"One thing is clear," the reporter says, her voice steady. "The world will never be the same again. As we stand on the precipice of a new era, it is up to all of us to decide how we will navigate this uncharted territory and shape the future of human-alien relations."

***

In the flickering glow of the living room TV, the residents of Amity Park clustered together as the evening news shifted to a breaking story. Amidst the collective gasp that rose from the townspeople, there lay a thread of recognition that twisted their shock into bewildered concern and confusion.

"Isn't that... Inviso-BILL?" someone trailed off, lips quivering in disbelief.

"Can't be; I thought he was a ghost, not an alien," another murmured.

Dash Baxter dropped his plate of pizza as the camera zoomed in. “Danny Phantom! So that’s where he’s been. In Space! So COOL!

"Is that... Danny Phantom?" Paulina asks, her voice laced with disbelief. "What's he doing on Mars?"

"Oh, WOW! I guess he was an alien this whole time.” Star said.

“Does this mean we had first contact? Kinda sucks that NASA’s stealing credit,”   Kwan remarked.

As the news spreads, the people of Amity Park find themselves grappling with a mix of emotions. Some express concern for their beloved hero, wondering if his presence on Mars means he's left them vulnerable to ghostly attacks. Others wonder if he was always an alien and not a ghost. Some wonder once again why The World never bothered with Amity Park's business.

---

Across town, in the privacy of Sam's bedroom, three figures huddled around her laptop. Sam, Tucker, and Jazz watched the same broadcast, but their reactions diverged sharply from the rest of Amity Park. As the image of Danny—no, Dantom—flashed across the screen, relief washed over their faces like the first rays of dawn after a long, harrowing night.

"He's alive," Jazz whispers, her voice trembling with relief. "He's alive, and he's on Mars."

Sam stops pacing and leans over their shoulders; her brow furrowed with worry. "But why is he pretending to be an alien? What happened to him?"

"You know, only Danny can make first contact happen by being the alien.” Tucker chuckled, though the sound was shaky, relief undercutting the humor. "Classic Danny."

Jazz took a deep breath in and out, calming her anxiety. Her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles turned white. "This whole week...we thought the GIW finally got him." She let go of a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

Their search had been relentless, scouring every corner, confronting every specter with the same desperate question: Where is Danny? But each inquiry led only to dead ends and mounting despair. They had been in the middle of making plans to infiltrate the GIW to see if they had him and rescue Danny if they had to. Sam had been ready to take any means necessary to save her best friend.

Sam stands up, her eyes blazing with resolve. "We're going to D.C.," she declares, her voice unwavering. "If Danny needs us, we'll be there for him. No matter what."

“Wow! Wait, if he’s on Mars, it will take them months to return. And they haven’t even left Mars yet.” Jazz quickly pointed out. 

“I know that I’m not stupid.” Sam glared. “But my gut tells me; we need to be the ones to inform NASA of the truth. Do you really think the government will sit by and play 'first contact tea party' with him? Do you really think that they won’t sic the GIW on him the first chance they have? I say we go, so we can be his backup. We can see what NASA knows and see if they can be allies. If not, WE get Danny out of there. Distract them, find a way to give him an opening. What if they greet him with ecto guns and shoot him down before he can run or poison him somehow? He might not be able to get out!” Sam ranted.

Jazz stared at the other teen. Her face turning from worry to determination. “You’re right. We don’t know what NASA knows. If they truly want to help, we might be the only ones that can give them the correct information. We can’t trust the government to play nice……I mean, they already keep Amity in the dark and out of the eye of the world.” Jazz crossed her arms; she hunched her shoulders up in concerned thought. “I’m honestly surprised they haven’t done worse to us. Especially with the anti-ecto policy. They could drag any of us off the streets.”

 Tucker nods, his fingers already flying across the keyboard. "I'll start digging into NASA's servers, see if I can find any information about what they know and what their intentions are.”

"Right," Jazz agreed, already pulling out her phone to look up flights. "He might have kept his secret from NASA, but the GIW must know by now, which means the government knows. Which means…... Danny is on borrowed time.”

"We've got his back," Tucker finished, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by the steadfast resolve of a friend ready to wade into the unknown. "Just like he's always had ours."

***

Jack Fenton's fist slammed down onto the console in his lab, causing a small eruption of sparks from the machinery. "That darn Phantom!" he bellowed, glaring at the image on the computer screen that showed Danny Phantom, or 'Dantom' as the media had begun to call the figure, standing amongst the astronauts on Mars.

"Jack, calm down," Maddie pleaded, her voice strained with concern, her eyes not leaving the second monitor that displayed a map with their son Danny's last known locations—each point a dead end.

"Can't you see what he's doing, Maddie? Pretending to be an alien just to gain fame! It's infuriating!" Jack's face was red with anger, and his hands shook as he raked them through his hair.

"Jack, please," Maddie said, her own frustration barely contained. "We need to focus. Our son is still missing, and if Phantom is on Mars, then he couldn't have taken Danny." Her voice broke slightly on their son's name, revealing the depth of her fear.

"Then who did?" Jack's question hung heavy in the air, unanswered. Together, they returned to the task at hand, capturing and interrogating any spectral entity they could find, hoping one of them held the key to Danny's whereabouts. But it had already been a week. They both felt the cold tendrils of fear crawl into their hearts. The more time that passed without a lead to Danny, the odds of them never finding him increased. The police hadn’t been able to find anything either. Both Jack and Maddie were convinced that a ghost had done it, not the living.

Jack wraps his arms around his wife, pulling her close as he tries to hold back his own tears. "We'll find him, Maddie. We won't rest until we bring Danny home safe and sound. And if a ghost did take him, they'll have to answer to the Fentons."

***

Meanwhile, in his mansion, Vlad Masters paces back and forth, his eyes glued to the television screen. He watches as the news anchors gush over the incredible discovery of an alien child on Mars, his fists clenching tighter with each passing minute.

"Damn you, Daniel," he mutters under his breath, his voice dripping with venom. "Of all the attention-seeking stunts you could have pulled, you just had to go and become the world's most famous alien."

Vlad's mind races with possibilities, his anger warring with his ever-present concern of maintaining his own secret identity. "As long as that brat keeps his mouth shut about our true nature, I suppose I can let him bask in the limelight for now," he muses, a calculating glint in his eye.

“But be careful, little Badger, one slip up, and I’ll have you locked away for all eternity.” Vlad thought. He could live without making him his adopted son. After all, without that pesky brat getting in the way, he could kill Jack and take Maddie all for himself. He could always make more sons.

With a final glance at the television, Vlad settles into his armchair; his fingers steepled as he begins to plot his next move. He knows that patience is key, and he's more than willing to bide his time until the perfect moment arises to strike.

***

A cacophony of angry voices rebounded off the walls in the stark, sterile confines of the GIW’s operations center. Agents clad in their customary suits huddled around monitors that showed an endless loop of the image that had ignited worldwide speculation.

"Sir, the public's eating this up," a junior analyst said, tapping her tablet to bring up social media reactions. "Public opinions are mostly positive.”

Agent A glared in anger. “We can't let Phantom continue this masquerade. It's... it's a national security threat!"

Agent O nods in agreement, his jaw set in a grim line. "We need to get the President on our side. If we can convince him that Phantom is a danger to the country, he'll have no choice but to hand him over to us."

"And once we have Phantom in our custody, we'll make him pay for his deceit," Agent K adds, a cruel smirk twisting his features. "We'll expose him for the evil entity he truly is, and the world will finally see ghosts for the evil beings they are."

Agent A nodded, his expression unreadable behind dark glasses. "Move up the meeting with President Davis by force if necessary. He’ll understand once we explain," he ordered, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of urgency. "It's time we exposed the truth about ghosts, starting with Danny Phantom."

They had been working with the mole in the White House to set up a meeting, but it was clear they needed to educate the higher government sooner rather than later. They would understand and forgive the need for secrecy. Agent A could just see the President agreeing that the GIW needed to take funds in secret.

Agent A paused a nagging thought clawed at the back of his mind. “Agent O, how about you take this mission? I want you to meet with the President. Can I trust you? To make the President understand by any means necessary?”

Agent O straightened, purpose igniting within him. "Yes, Director. I'll make sure the president understands the gravity of the situation. I’ll do whatever it takes; you can count on me!"

As agents scurried to carry out their orders, TVs nationwide aired President Davis' call for unity and cooperation with the alien species. The channel switched to an UN assembly where diplomats voiced their concerns and criticisms, the atmosphere fraught with tension.

***Back on Mars****

Commander Melissa Lewis glanced at the beds lining the wall, her gaze lingering on the one where Dantom lay curled up, seemingly asleep.

"Alright, let's keep it down," she murmured, her voice carrying the authority.

"Let's go over our tasks once more," Lewis began, her eyes scanning the expectant faces. "We need to find a way to get Dantom what he needs —"

"Commander," interrupted Johanssen, her brow furrowed. I think we need to address the elephant in the room first." She gestured subtly toward Danny, " like how he can speak English and how Vogal can speak this alien language.”

Lewis nodded slowly, acknowledging the point. "You're right, Beth. This situation with Dantom... it's complicated things."

"Complicated is an understatement," Rick Martinez chimed in, his skepticism a stark contrast to his usually jovial demeanor. "He lied to us about speaking English. What else isn't he telling us?"

"Exactly," Lewis agreed, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. "It concerns me deeply. Not just that he wasn't honest from the start but also that his interaction with humanity has obviously been negative. If someone on Earth hurt him... We need to be careful how we handle this."

"Whatever his reasons for hiding the truth," Lewis continued, her voice firm yet tinged with empathy, "we have to remember he's just a kid. And he's scared. Let's not forget that."

Alex Vogel cleared his throat, drawing the room's focus. He stood with an engineer's precision, his face somber yet earnest. "I spoke with Dantom," he glanced toward the slumbering figure. "And I believe I understand how we can communicate."

The others leaned in, curiosity piqued.

"Back in Germany, when I was a child, I nearly drowned in a lake during a family outing," Vogel began, his voice steady despite the personal nature of his story. "From what Dantom told me, experiences like that allow for one to understand and, in some circumstances, speak what he calls, ‘Soul Speak’.”  

"Wait, you're saying because you almost died once, you can understand him?" Rick Martinez interjected, disbelief etching his features. "That sounds like something out of a fantasy."

"Perhaps it does," Vogel conceded with a nod. “But We don’t have much else to go on.”

“I can’t prove anything or disprove anything, for that matter. Nothing stands out in Vogel’s vitals, and nothing that stands out as odd from everyone else.” Beck said.

"Sure, but English? How does some near-death childhood experience explain him knowing our language?" Rick pressed, folding his arms across his chest as he scrutinized Vogel with a sharp gaze.

Vogel met Rick's skepticism with a calm resolve. "I do not claim to have all the answers, Rick. But our communication transcended mere words. It was as if we connected on a level beyond language—a shared understanding."

Rick's frown deepened, and he looked away. There was no protocol for otherworldly linguistics.

"Regardless of how it works," Vogel continued, addressing the group, "it's clear that Dantom has knowledge far exceeding our own in certain areas. We should consider the potential for learning from him."

Beth Johanssen leaned forward. “From what he said, he’s been on earth before, maybe he’s been there awhile…...but clearly someone hurt him….” Beth pointed out, trailing off with a hint of sadness in her tone.

Chris Beck shifted in his chair, the physician in him analyzing the boy's reactions from earlier interactions. "That would mean he's been among us—hiding in plain sight, or worse, a captive……someone hurt him, and it’s possible he learned English from his captors. And it would explain why he lied to us…...he was scared.”

Commander Lewis gave a heavy sigh. “We better hope it wasn’t the US government. THAT will complicate things.”

“Still doesn’t explain how he got here, and yes, I know he said by portal…...but a lot is missing from that story,” Mark commented.

“Maybe he found a way back to this ‘infinity realm’ as he escaped somehow. Maybe he got caught, then escaped, and then somehow ended up here?” Rick babbled on.

Vogel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We really don’t know how these ‘portals’ work and even how much of what the kid said was the truth.”

Beck crossed his arms in thought. “Either way, he needs this ecto-deposit. He’s weak. If we want to help him, we either find the deposit here or leave for earth.”

“I’ll contact command, I think our best bet is getting him back to earth.” Commander Lewis said. She turned to her computer screen to send off the message.

Mark Watney stepped up to Lewis’s side. He leaned over and whispered to her. “Maybe find a way to let command know that someone hurt him back on Earth.”

*sigh* “I plan to Watney.” Lewis replied.

“Yeah, but are you adding in the possibility it was us…. like the US government? Like this could be our fault, well, not OUR fault, but someone down there. What I’m trying to say is that we should come up with a backup plan to make sure he’s safe and we’re not handing him over to the wrong people.”

Lewis frowned. NASA would not like to hear this theory. But with NASA being a more public institution they might have a chance at protecting the kid or at least making him known to the public. “Keeping him in the public eye should help…...not just our public but the world.”

“Right! THAT way they can’t lock him away in area 51.” Mark replied.

Chapter 9

[i-need-coffee1573]

0: 5'5 or 5'6 idrk

1: minor

2: 7 1/2 in men's ands 9 in womens

3: nope and I don't plan to

4: nope

5: also nope

6: about 16 sometimes :<

7: no but I really want some

8: ABSOLUTELY

9: unless earrings count no

10: I want more ear piercings, but I also want a nose or a lip piercing

11: @forever-bi-panic and I'm just gonna call them Maxime (cause they don't have a lot of social media that they'd be comfortable with me sharing on here)

12: Single as a pringle but ready to mingle

13: I don't necessarily really have any huge turnons, but for me to instantly like a person probably random affection, casual biting but not to the point where it hurts probably words of encouragement when I at least expected and corrected gendering.

14: homophobia or the nickname/pet names boo or teddy bear idk I just don't like it (and obviously no consent)

15: idrk maybe Slumberland or A Whisker away

16: I will love if someone just randomly out of nowhere brings me my favorite food, hugs me from behind, or just casually holds my hand (I will kill for you if you do all three)

17: one of my friends named Emma

18: I would prefer not to share

19: I will randomly make weird noises for no reason whatsoever and then continue to pretend like everything's fine along with the fact that I also randomly stare at a corner of a room and start shaking violently Most of the time i'm okay

20: I overshair/info dump way too much.

21: idk I guess the 'good side' of my imagination

22: Idk every single time I think about this nothing comes up to mind I guess a power plant operator

23: It's actually pretty good most of the time on the weekends we get together to watch my little pony

24: I don't talk to them unless I need something from them they don't talk to me unless they need something for me or if they need to talk to me about my life

25: just about anything except for a movie date will impress me I don't like movie dates bc You're not really supposed to talk or communicate that much through movies and I'm a huge movie talker

26: Cleaning up after other people without them contributing anything

27: I'm not currently crushing on anybody at the moment but I do tend to flirt with my friends a lot

28: I also don't really dislike people that much.I guess the person I dislike the most would have to be ✨️myself✨️ and i'm not describing that to people

29: To make them feel better a lot of the times that I've lied to my friends it's just me lying about my okay status or like how I'm feeling

30: The fact that I have to separate that from my home life

31: "it's ok and believe me your awesome 🫶🏿"

32: my deadname or people misgendering me

33: being called a good boy or a pretty boy. If you want me to instantly like you just call me a good boy or a pretty boy

34: Actual women who can stand up for themselves or what they believe in or just basic equal rights

35: Men who also stand up for what they believe in or men who believe in equal rights or

36: I probably stay where I am or move to oregon

37: probably my hair when it's down or not in braids

38: A veteran

39: coffeeeeeee ice-creammmmm😋

40: Thomas sanders

41: in my friends lap cuddling w/ them But if we're talking about places then my grandma's house w/ my dogs

42: Girl scout tagalongs

43: My two best friends immediately come to my mind

44: A bunch of crows is called a murder and a bunch of bunnies is called a fluffle

nosy anons let's go

0: Height

1: Age

2: Shoe size

3: Do you smoke?

4: Do you drink?

5: Do you take drugs?

6: Age you get mistaken for

7: Have tattoos?

8: Want any tattoos?

9: Got any piercings?

10: Want any piercings?

11: Best friend?

12: Relationship status

13: Biggest turn ons

14: Biggest turn offs

15: Favorite movie

16: I’ll love you if…

17: Someone you miss

18: Most traumatic experience

19: A fact about your personality

20: What I hate most about myself

21: What I love most about myself

22: What I want to be when I get older

23: My relationship with my sibling(s)

24: My relationship with my parent(s)

25: My idea of a perfect date

26: My biggest pet peeves

27: A description of the girl/boy I like

28: A description of the person I dislike the most

29: A reason I’ve lied to a friend

30: What I hate the most about work/school

31: What my last text message says

32: What words upset me the most

33: What words make me feel the best about myself

34: What I find attractive in women

35: What I find attractive in men

36: Where I would like to live

37: One of my insecurities

38: My childhood career choice

39: My favorite ice cream flavor

40: Who I wish I could be

41: Where I want to be right now

42: The last thing I ate

43: Sexiest person that comes to my mind immediately

44: A random fact about anything

[lookwhatilost]

june laporta, shoe0nhead, the youtuber who makes that “hell world” series where she goes over strange headlines seems like she’s always getting into some sort of trouble over on the bird website. she got big on the “sjw cringe” era of youtube, but she’s moved leftwards over the years. and she’s presently in this weird ideological space where she’ll support politicians like sanders or fetterman, but it coexists with some other stuff like her using terms like “egalitarian” over “feminist” or epstein posting, which means you need to be much more aggressive in moderating your space because right wingers find the more conspiratorial stuff appealing, which she doesn’t strike me as discerning enough to do. even though the epstein stuff was not a fever dream, the right has a habit of being the most loud about it because they use it as this kind of factual cudgel to justify all kinds of other speculations, because a figure like epstein fits the bill for other, less-grounded things they spend a lot of time narrativizing about. i honestly don’t have strong feelings about her other than i don’t think she’s responsible or, frankly, smart enough to have the audience size she does.

the current PR hurricane she’s riding out is this tweet from sunday criticizing an admittedly very Off balenciaga shoot with kids and... bondage teddy bears? is this really necessary? ... and one of other the promotional images has a printout of an overview of the us v williams supreme court decision, which had been going around on the ~conspiracy zoomer~ side of tiktok over the weekend. she’s getting criticism for posting this so soon after the colorado springs shooting, which is fair. i also do think how discussing anything related to child sexual abuse during a political climate of accusations like this being thrown around frivolously by the right wing to get as much trans-exterminatory legislation on the books as possible is a legitimately complicated ethical problem. what do you do begin with something that’s both frequently brought up manipulatively, but a true matter of public concern when it does happen?

my thing about the photos: i don’t buy anything suggesting a balenciaga cabal, but i also do think whoever was contracted to take those photos put it there on purpose, either for the purposes of outrage marketing, or because they’re a sex pest and these types have an extremely creepy habit of putting like... sex pest easter eggs into their creative output. dan scheinder specifically has a habit of being so shameless about this stuff. i have this pet theory is that people who have the specific kind of personality defect where they find consent violations arousing in principle do their deranged sex pest easter egg thing as an extension of this but. yknow. it’s 3 in the morning and this post is already way too long.

but running with the dan schneider example, imagine an alternate world where this somehow never got press coverage, and you, an investigative reporter in 2022, collected bombshell testimonials from the child actors who used to work under him, and were about to break this story for the first time. how the hell would you do this responsibly? the story has nothing to do with anything remotely lgbt-related, but people who have built their media careers off fear-mongering about child abuse as a supporting argument for political outcomes you don’t endorse at all. you can denounce it, but i don’t know if there’s a way to discuss this without it being warped into conspiratorial fodder. this has been a problem for a long time, but it’s so bad now. do you just not run the story? what about the moral implications of that?

i think people dumb down how messy this is because laporta is an easy figure to dislike, and seems incapable of understanding that her conduct can and often does produce results she doesn’t want, but this would still be a doozy even if she deleted her profile tomorrow.

[allthingsfangirl101]

You Again–Teddy Sanders

A few years ago, my brother and his wife had some issues with a fraternity living next door. All the horrible pranks and stories were almost unbelievable.

Until a new sorority moved in. Then the pranks and the stories got even worse. Somehow, the girls were more ruthless than the boys. At least in a whole other way.

When things got too much, he called me in for backup. The second I pulled in front of his house, I looked over and saw the girls in the front yard glaring at me. To be petty and, well me, I got out of my car and waved.

"Y/N!"

I looked over to see Kelly running out of her house. I laughed as she grabbed my hand and pulled me into the house.

"Kel," I chuckled as we got back inside. "Will you calm down? This isn't going to be just like what happened with the fraternity."

"You don't understand," she sighed. "These girls are ruthless."

"Yeah," I smirked. "Girls are horrible. Why do you think after my first semester at college, I lived alone?"

"Makes sense," she smiled.

"Where's Stella?" I asked. I laughed before adding, "And Mac, but all I really care about is Stella."

"She's upstairs," Kelly chuckled. "She should be awake from her afternoon nap in a few minutes."

Kelly and I spent the rest of the afternoon playing with Stella and preparing dinner. A little after 5, we heard the front door open and shut.

"Kels? Is Y/N here?"

"In here," I answered for her.

We looked over to see Mac walking in. I put my drink down before standing up and walking over, hugging my brother.

"How are you, kid?"

"Better than you, it would seem," I chuckled as we broke the hug. I froze when I saw the doubt in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing," he stuttered.

"Mac," I said slowly. "What's up?"

"It's just. . . Maybe I shouldn't have brought you into this. I mean, these girls are little devils."

"Mac," I cut him off. "I went to college. I know how manipulative and bitchy girls can be. I can handle myself."

                                * * * * *

We spent the rest of the night coming up with a plan. This weekend was the school tailgate where fraternities and sororities sell cookies and car washes to raise money. Kelly overheard the girls talking about selling drugs under the table at their booth.

Kelly suggested we call the cops, but I had a better idea. Instead of selling them out, we were going to steal their drugs. The entire time we made our preparations, Mac kept mentioning a new friend that could help us out. Whoever this was, planned to meet us at the tailgate. He was apparently going to distract the girls while I grabbed their stuff.

When the day finally came, I fit in with the crowd but my brother and his wife stood out like, well old people at a college party. I looked around, rolling my eyes at the college kids already drunk off their asses.

I graduated from NYU with a degree in art history a year ago. I was currently working at a museum in New York as an assistant paying my dues. I planned to eventually go to Europe and work at some of their museums.

I looked up, my breath getting caught in my throat when I saw him getting out of a car.

"You okay?" Mac asked. I grabbed his hand and dragged him away. We walked a little away from everybody, tucking behind some of the booths.

"What's going on?" Mac laughed as we finally stopped.

"You didn't tell me he was the one helping you," I said through my teeth.

"He?" He asked. "You mean Teddy? I didn't think it mattered," he shrugged. The look in his eyes changed from playful to skeptical. "Wait, why does it matter that Teddy's here?"

"Mac," I said, my breath getting caught in my throat. "You were at college when I was in high school."

"Yeah," he said slowly. "What does that have to do with this?"

"Do you remember the guy I dated all four years?"

"I never met him," he shrugged. Suddenly, I heard him suck in a breath. "No way," he mumbled. "You and Teddy?"

"Teddy and I dated throughout high school," I explained. "We were inseparable."

I ran my fingers through my hair as all the memories came flooding back. I bit back the tears as I thought about the last time we saw each other.

"Look, I didn't know that you two dated," he mumbled, "but we really need his help. He knows all of this fraternity-sorority shit. I don't think we can do this without him. Anyways, it happened a long time ago. You've grown a lot since then. And I'm sure he has too."

"You don't understand," I cut him off. "Mac, you were at college so you didn't go to my graduation. At my party that night, Teddy dumped me because he–and I quote– "didn't want to be a caged bird".'

"He said that?" Mac asked under his breath.

"That was the last time we saw each other," I said, my voice breaking. "We went from being closer than ever to being strangers."

"Oh, Y/N," Mac sighed as he pulled me into his chest. He rubbed my back and leaned his chin on the top of my head like he used to do when we were younger.

"If this is too much," he whispered, "why don't you go home?"

"What?" I asked, pulling out of the hug. "I thought you needed my help."

"I do," he stuttered, "but I don't want to force you to be around an ex that makes you feel uncomfortable."

"It's not that he makes me feel uncomfortable," I said quickly. "I just. . . I haven't seen him since. . ."

"Y/N, you don't have to stay."

"No," I said unconvincingly. "I want to help. It'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" He asked as he rubbed my shoulders.

"Yes," I said, trying to sound more convincingly. "I'll be fine."

Before we could walk back to the group, Mac grabbed my hand. I smiled as he led me through the already drunk college kids. We jumped back when a group of girls cut us off.

"Geez," I scoffed. "I don't remember college being this. . . Drunk."

"Yeah," Mac laughed. "That's because you always had your head in your textbook and a paintbrush in your hand."

"Y/N?"

Mac's hold on my hand tightened when Teddy noticed me. I took a deep breath before turning towards everybody.

"Hi, Teddy," I said, my voice not coming out as strong as I had wished it had. "It's nice to see you."

"Really?" He asked. He cleared his throat as he nervously ran his fingers through his hair. "I just mean, it's nice to see you too."

It took everything in me not to look him up and down. From what I've allowed myself to see, he's changed for the better. His looks anyway.

"What have you been up to?" He asked.

"Not much," I shrugged. "I got a job at a museum right out of college."

"That's great," he smiled.

"What about you?" I asked. I saw the look in eyes falter.

"I'm umm. . . I graduated," he stuttered out.

"That's great."

We stared at each other, neither one of us looking away. The tension between us grew the longer we stared at each other. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Kelly walking over to Mac and whispering in his ear. Mac leaned over and explained what I already explained to him. Kelly's eyes widened as she looked between Teddy and me.

I cleared my throat, finally breaking eye contact with Teddy. I looked down and played with my fingers. I took a shaky breath, struggling to push down the sobs I've been holding back for years.

"Alright," Mac said, awkwardly clearing his throat. "The girls aren't meant to set up their booth for an hour. That gives us time to study the environment and finalize the best approach."

"Why are you talking like that?" I laughed.

"Like what?" Mac asked innocently.

"Like you're straight out of a crime show," Kelly backed me up.

"Can we just focus on the plan?" Mac sighed. I sent Kelly a playful wink as Mac started to explain the plan.

The entire time Mac went over the plan he's already gone through a million times, I could feel Teddy watching me. It took everything in me not to look at him.

Even though I told Mac I would be fine, it became clear rather quickly just how hard this was going to be.

The second we agreed where we would walk, I left. I wrapped my arms around myself, chewing on my bottom lip as the memories came rushing back.

Teddy Sanders is the only boy that I've ever fallen in love with. We went to school together all our lives. We didn't talk much in elementary school, but we got closer in middle school. We spent more time together and the more time we spent together, the more we fell for each other.

When we dated, he knew more about me than anyone and I knew more about him than anyone. And when all of it came crashing down, I felt like I lost a part of myself.

I walked into a random campus building, quickly finding the bathroom. I locked the stall and leaned against the door. I closed my eyes and had to take slow deep breaths to keep myself from crying.

Seeing Teddy after all these years made the pain feel like the breakup happened yesterday.

                                * * * * *

On my way back from the bathroom, I checked my watch. In forty-five minutes, Teddy and Mac were going to go distract the girls as Kelly and I stole their weed. As I left the building, someone grabbed my hand and pulled me into the alley.

I had just enough time to see it was Teddy before his lips came crashing down onto mine. My mind screamed at me to stop, but I started kissing him back anyway.

I moaned as Teddy pushed me up against the side of the building. Our lips moved hungrily in sync as he wrapped his arms tightly around me. As we made out, memories of high school flashed in my brain. Soon all the pain came rushing back too.

"No," I said as I roughly broke the kiss, pushing him off of me. "I can't do this, Teddy. After everything. . . I can't do this again."

I started to walk around the building, but Teddy ran over and stopped me again. He grabbed my hand, spinning me around.

"Y/N, please. . ."

"No!"

I tore my hand out of his hold, tears officially streaming down my face. I took a shaky breath as I looked at my first love.

"You have no idea how much it hurt when you broke up with me," I said, my voice breaking. "Do you even care that you broke my heart?"

"Of course I care," he stuttered.

"Do you even care that when you left, it shattered my heart? You shattered my heart, Teddy Sanders."

"Any chance I could help you piece it back together?"

I scoffed, wrapping my arms around myself. "It's not that easy," I said under my breath.

"I know," he said instantly. "And I'm not saying it's going to be easy. I meant that I want to help piece it back together. I broke it, so I should fix it."

"Teddy," I sighed.

"Look, I know I was an asshole for leaving you the way I did. I never should've walked away like that."

"Why did you?" I asked, cutting him off.

"What?"

"You never explained why you suddenly didn't want to be a caged bird anymore," I said, nervously looking at my fingers. "I mean. . . I wasn't trying to "cage" you or keep you down. I just thought that we could continue being us, even in college. And honestly, the idea of going away to college was scary and I wasn't sure if I could do it. I thought that if we were together then it wouldn't be. . ."

I let my sentence drop as I wrapped my arms around myself and looked away from him.

"Y/N," he whispered, trying to get me to look at him. "I had no idea."

I shook my head, tightening my arms around myself. I looked down at my feet and asked the question I've been mulling over since he broke up with me.

"Why did you leave me?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I didn't get into NYU."

I snapped my head up to finally look at him. "What?"

He sighed as he ran his fingers through his hair. "Senior year, right before graduation, I found out that I didn't get into NYU like you did."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was embarrassed," he admitted, not looking at me.

"Teddy," I sighed, "I would've gone to school here with you. I could've gotten just as good of a degree here as I did at NYU."

"And I knew you would offer to come with me," he said quickly. "But you've wanted to go to NYU since middle school. I didn't want to be the reason you didn't follow your dreams."

"But Teddy," I stuttered, "you're more important to me than a degree from a special college."

"I am?"

"Were. . ." I corrected half-heartedly. "You were more important to me than NYU. I mean, I could've gotten just as good of a degree at your school as I did at NYU."

"If I had asked, would you have come with me?" He asked, taking a hesitant step towards me. I held my breath as he grabbed my hands, instantly intertwining our fingers.

"Yes," I whispered.

The second that word left my mouth, Teddy leaned down and pressed his lips to mine. I couldn't resist the urge to kiss him back. I wrapped my arms tightly around his neck as our lips moved in sync. Teddy pushed his tongue into my mouth, instantly battling for dominance. I moaned when I felt Teddy snake his hands down my back. I bit his lip as he squeezed my ass.

"Teddy," I gasped, breaking the kiss and leaning our foreheads against each other.

"I'm sorry I broke your heart," Teddy whispered. "Please give me a chance to put it back together."

I bit my bottom lip as I looked into his eyes. I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss him like crazy. Ever since we broke up, I have constantly thought of him. I reached up and gently cupped his face in my hand.

"It's the least you could do for breaking it."

I gasped, giggling as Teddy pulled me into his chest and pressed his lips to mine. Our lips moved desperately in sync as Teddy's arm tightened around my waist. He broke the kiss again with his signature smirk on his face.

"How about we get out of here and I can start repairing your heart now?"

"Aren't you supposed to help Mac distract the girls while I steal a garbage bag full of weed?" I chuckled.

"Yeah," he sighed dramatically. "But I much rather take you somewhere and start fixing things."

"Teddy," I chuckled as I pulled out of his arms. I took his arm and led him back to our meeting spot. "First, we destroy the sorority. Then you can start fixing my heart."

[plus-size-reader]

Love and Support

Teddy Sanders x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 1610 words

Warnings: none 

Summary: Teddy doesn’t know where to go when Pete gets engaged, so he goes to the only person in the world that he can always count on. 

———————————————————————————————————

When Pete got engaged, Teddy realized that he didn't have anywhere to go. It had just been the two of them all through most of high school and all of college. However, now that Pete was doing the whole marriage thing, he was no longer interested in living with his best friend.

So, he went to the one place that he knew he would always be welcome...

Your house.

You and Teddy had been on and off most of your relationship but more than that, you were also best friends. You had always had his back, and always would so even when he was lost and had no where to go.

He knew that he was always going to have you...no matter what.

Which was why you didn't even ask questions when he knocked on the door of your apartment, wearing nothing but his track pants.

Instead, you ushered him in and sat him on the couch before heading into the kitchen to grab him a water. As far as you could tell, he'd actually ran all the way from his house, and not super successfully.

"Thank you" he hummed, taking the glass in one hand, and running his free hand through his hair, which was slightly damp with sweat.

You nodded, plopping down on the couch beside him. You knew that you should have been upset with him, considering the two of you hadn't talked in what seemed like forever...but you weren't.

The two of you weren't exclusive and Teddy didn't owe you anything. Right now, he just needed someone to look after him for a while. He only came to see you when he really needed it and you weren't going to turn him away.

"Did you lose your shoes or just not wear them?" you wondered, breaking the silence in the room. You wanted him to open up to you at his pace but a little bit of context would have been nice.

It wasn't every day that he showed up like this, and he was being super quiet.

Typically, Teddy was super affectionate and was all over you as soon as you opened the door but today he was in his head.

Something really intense must have happened to get him like this.

You hadn't seen Teddy like this in a really long time.

"Didn't wear 'em" he muttered, downing the entire cup of water like he was shooting tequila. He was really upset, and to be totally honest, you hated it.

You just wanted to make it all better for him. "Oh, poor baby" you cooed, pulling him into your chest lightly so you could play with his hair. He had always liked to cuddle like this when you two would spend the night together.

That was the best thing about the two of you and the relationship you shared. You were comfortable together and there was no room for shame there.

Whatever was bothering him, Teddy was going to have to own up eventually because you were here for him, but you didn’t have all night. The sooner he told you what was up, the sooner you could help him work through it.

“Are you going to tell me why not?” you wondered, running your fingers through the slightly curly hair at the base of his neck.

Once Teddy got comfortable enough, he was going to tell you what had prompted his arrival at your door...all you had to do was wait for him to break the ice.

Which he did, after a hefty sigh into your lap.

“Pete is getting married”

The sentence came out as a strangled huff against your thighs, which he was face down in currently...but you caught enough of it to understand.

Pete and Teddy had been together for even longer than the two of you had, by a very large margin and with him moving on with his lover, it was understandably hard for him to grasp.

If your best friend was getting married, you would have struggled too. It didn’t help that the both men lived together too, because now Teddy didn’t have anywhere to go.

Everything had snapped into place with a single sentence.

“And you don’t want him to abandon you?” you finished, filling in the blanks as best you could. In the mood that Teddy was in right now, he was most likely not going to finish a whole thought.

He could be kind of spacey when he got emotional...and this was a very emotional topic for him.

“Of course I don’t want him to abandon me!? I just want him to appreciate me” he whined, wanting more than anything to just have everything go back to the way it was before.

Everything had been perfect, but now that Pete had Deran, he didn’t need him anymore. It was hard to feel like he was being tossed away for a different model. He didn’t want to throw away everything that they had built together as brothers.

You got it...no one wanted to feel that. You could definitely understand where Teddy was coming from, though you still weren’t one-hundred percent certain where you’d come in.

“But you know that he appreciates you right? You know that he loves you” you reminded, trying to stop the dramatics that Teddy had in store for you.

He was dealing with something that was hard, but not impossible.

“You should be happy for him Teddy bear, because he’s happy” there was something pretty calming about your words. You had a point, there was no reason that any of this had to be about him because the wedding was for Pete.

The whole thing was about Pete, no matter if it hurt him in the process.

It wasn’t about Teddy, and he just had to realize that.

“Thank you Y/N, I can always count on you” he purred, sitting up finally to sit beside you. His hair was disheveled because of your playing with it but not too much for either of you to care.

What really mattered was that he seemed much more calm about the entire situation than when he first arrived at your door. There was just something so reassuring about having you in his corner at all times...

Teddy should have known that you would always be there.

He was so lucky...and he only just realized.

“I’m in love with you” he blurted out, shocking you both with his confession. He hadn’t ever said that to you, even when you were more serious and you weren’t sure how to react.

There was no way that Teddy was actually in love with you. He was probably just feeling emotional right now and wouldn’t see you again until he had another problem.

That was just the way that it went and you were comfortable with that, you liked it that way.

“What?”

You were positive that your eyes were as wide as saucers as you waited for him to clarify but he only shrugged, turning toward you fully to get a better view into your eyes.

“I am in love with you...and I always have been” he hummed, reaching out to take your hand in his own to give it a squeeze, as if that would somehow prove it to you.

In any other situation, you would have assumed that you two were just messing around, or maybe he was too emotional right now to think clearly but when you looked at his face, you knew differently.

Never in your life had you seen Teddy like that. There was a look in his eyes that told you that he was serious...

And Teddy was rarely serious.

He acted like his life was one big joke, and that had always been a problem that you had with him. However, this was completely different.

Teddy would never play with your feelings like that...you knew that for a fact. He might have been a bit goofy, and unmotivated but he had a heart of gold, no matter what happened.

So you had to believe him.

"You're in love with me?" you repeated, only repeating it to make sure that you weren't totally insane. You wanted to make sure that he was a hundred percent sure before admitting anything to him.

Sure, you'd always been in love with Teddy, it would have been impossible not to be. However, that didn't mean that you were completely ready to be vulnerable right now.

This was about him, this was about his feelings and how hurt he was about his best friend getting married. The last thing you wanted to do was talk about your history, not when he was in this hyper-emotional state.

Still, you were open to having a conversation about it...in the morning.

For now, you just wanted to make sure that Teddy was alright, and then you two could go to bed. It would be much better to talk about such a sensitive issue over pancakes and orange juice.

"I love you too Teddy bear, now lets get you to bed" you allowed, taking his hand in your own to lead him to the guest bedroom, where he'd spent many nights since graduating.

As tired as he was, it was definitely a good call to wait until he felt a little better to talk about it. The two of you may have been in different rooms as you fell asleep but you knew that you were just as much on Teddy's mind, as he was on your own.

You just couldn't wait for those pancakes in the morning, so you could get to the bottom of what he'd told you tonight.

[obscure-imagines]

“want to sit on santa’s lap?” the guy asked, staring at you from the couch.

you laughed, “you’re not even dressed like santa.”

you turned to go and the guy got up and grabbed your hand, “hey look, im sorry, sometimes those lines work-”

“really?” you asked in shock.

he shrugged and grinned, “im Teddy.”

he held out a hand and with a laugh you shook it, “Y/N.”

[gothicwidowsworld]

Time to grow up 1/3

Another day another frat party. Life felt like it was on repeat recently and there was nothing Y/N could do to stop it, she had to just sit by and watch her friends get drunk and high. The neon strobe lights assaulted the y/h/c girls vision. Sighing Y/N took another sip from her red cup the liquid inside bland compared to her usual drink of choice. A couple of days ago Y/N would have been like her friends wearing small amounts of clothing and swaying her hips drunkenly but she couldn’t do that anymore. She realised she had to grow up and it seemed like nobody else could give a fuck about tomorrow it was all about the now, living in the moment and nothing else. 

“Hey you okay?” Teddy practically yelled over the music at the girl who had barely moved all night and had stuck to the walls like a middle schooler. Shrugging Y/N rested her head against the cold wall trying to control the pounding in her head. Teddy rolled his eyes before taking a seat next to the girl. “Okay what’s wrong you’ve been weird all day.” he questioned in an accusing tone. Teddy may give off the vibe that he only looked out for number one but deep and I mean very deep down he was a sweet boy and cared for the y/s/c girl like she was his own flesh and blood. “It’s nothing.” Y/N whispered not caring if Teddy caught what she’d said or not. Frowning the frat president took the cup of the girl before giving it a quick sniff. Glaring Y/N snatched her cup back taking another sip. “You know you can tell me right.” Teddy added slinging a sweaty arm around the female in comfort. “You wouldn’t understand Ted just leave it.” of course though Teddy couldn’t leave it, if anything he was more curious now and he was going to make damn sure he got answers.  Attempting to wriggle out of the males hold Y/N sighed again “He’s going to hate me Ted.” somehow she couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. “Who? Nobody could hate you Y/N/N you’re too sweet for that.” Teddy whispered in reassurance.  Fiddling with her fingers Y/N choked back the gathering tears. “I’m pregnant Ted happy.” though she sounded snappy it felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Teddy huffed in disbelief at how distraught his friend seemed. “Well that explains the water you’ve been drinking all night. How about a dance.” Cutting the frat member off Y/N shook her head frantically. “One song?” Teddy begged hoping to get the girl out of her funk. 

Y/N was never really a big fan of Garf’s musical playlist but the fact he ‘contaminated’ it with Ke$ha for her meant she couldn’t really turn down Teddy’s outstretched hand. For a couple of minutes all seemed fine, like it was normal again. Well minus the fact the old guy from next door had challenged Ted to a dance off and lets just say there was no competition. But soon it all came crashing down. In a split second the girl went from letting her hair down to almost in tears at her naivety. There was Pete and Brooke hand in hand sneaking up the stairs, there was only one reason why people sloped off at a Delta Psi Beta party  and it was the same reason that caused Y/N to be in this little dilemma in the first place. Tears stung at her y/e/c orbs and it felt like time had stopped. Like Pete couldn’t see her due to being too loved up with the girl Y/N had thought of as a friend. Some sort of friend huh. “I think it’s best I… I’m gonna go.” Y/N told Teddy still in shock before stalking out the house party leaving Teddy to storm off after Pete and Brooke.

[theimagineparadise]

Imagine Teddy trying to impress you with his strength.

[drarryandscorbustrash]

Scorpius, talking to Albus : "That's a cute butt-"

Albus : *turns around, with some what hope in his eyes*

Scorpius, quickly changes : "-terfly, butterfly, cocoon, your sister drew a perfect visual metaphor for puberty"

Albus : *sighs, defeated, cause he was hoping for yes homo*

Scorpius, causally : "You also have a really nice tush"

[ineedahugesticktobeatyou]

Back in february I took part to @malex-cupid‘s event for Valentine’s Day. I finally translated the three one-shots that I wrote from italian to english. Here is the first one.

Thank you to my amazing friend Viviana, the best beta reader I could wish for ♥ All errors are mine and mine alone.

Read on Ao3

Everything was so red. And pink. It was like an entire supermarket section had exploded and rearranged itself, from a Christmas' card into a Valentine's one. Every year, Michael thought it was a little disconcerting. It was consumerism at its finest form, kind of a social plague, a black hole where people's common sense and a lot of money disappeared.

Michael wasn't a moralist but was pretty sure about this. Maybe it was because he never had money to waste or more probably because the things he always wanted - answers, a family, someone to love - couldn't be bought. So he didn't really understand the rush to buy things, to jump from one festivity to another, just to give your feelings the value of a gift and its receipt.

Okay, maybe Micheal was a little bit of a moralist, at least about certain things. Or maybe it was Sanders' fault and some of his cynicism just rubbed off on him. Michael nodded to himself. It was definitely Sanders' fault. And it was even more pleasant to think that he had been shaped more by Sander' presence than by the years of abuse and deprivation of his youth.

Michael squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. He had just wanted to buy some cereals. How did he ended up having such existential thoughts in front of the supermarket shelves?  He couldn't really explain it but it's been twenty minutes already and he was still stuck there, contemplating teddy bears, heart shaped cushions, chocolates and Valentine's cards. It was all so red. And pink. Hasn’t anyone really noticed that there are far too many hearts around? Despite it all, Michael wasn't bothered. There weren't bad jokes on the tip of his tongue nor a prickle on his skin for all the sweetness in the air. There were just the old thoughts bouncing around his head. Michael was a bit terrified realizing this but he imagined that there was a first time for everything, especially if you had an Alex Manes in your life.

Michael bitten his lips and the smile that he couldn't stop. In the end it was clear as day that it all came down to Alex. He made all the difference. Until that point, Valentine's Day didn't really mean anything for him, not even when he had tried to make things work with Maria. He had tried to blend in, throwing some money into a gift to consider himself a good boyfriend. It has been a way to convince himself that if things didn't work out between him and Alex it wasn't his fault. In reality both of them had been at fault. Alex always knew it, Michael instead needed more time and space to see things as they really were. There had been too much pain and too much anger for Alex's imperfect love to be enough on its own to repair all the silences and absences of their story. There had been too much disillusioned hope for Michael to be able to look beyond Alex’s and his own suffering and to see that he was really trying to make things work and to stay. Sure, in the end he had succeeded, but how long did it take? Too much. Too much for sure. So much time wasted. So much unnecessary waiting.

Knowing this and thinking about it was like an electric shock behind his eyes. A teddy bear moved on the shelf in front of him. Michael was aware of this because he felt the familiar pressure of his telekinesis and that was why he needed to regain control over his mind. The teddy bear laid still again and hopefully no one noticed it. It didn't change that the supermarket's aisle was the worst scenario for Michael's daydreaming. Michael sighed. He had just wanted to buy some cereals. Instead, he will leave with something red and full of hearts, right? Michael already knew it and it was such a joyful thing that it felt like the best decision in the world. What should he buy? The teddy bear stares at him from the shelf with its glass eyes, an empty look he didn't like. The chocolates were an even worse possibility, since Arturo's churros were available. The Valentine's cards instead… there was potential in them!

Michael moved a perfect curl out of his eyes and looked at the cards display. Too many glitters… too much pink… too silly… Michael rejected one card after another, even if the big-eyed, sappy, seventeen years old boy he once was - and  that was living again in his head since he got back with Alex - screamed at him to buy all of them. And that was what he did. Michael desisted and bought all the cards. The one with too many glitters, the one that was too pink, and the silly one, and at least another couple which he hadn't even looked at. The seventeen years old boy from his memory was already planning everything - when, how and which card - and Michael had just decided to go along with him. This Valentine's Day will be special. Alex and him deserved it. Consumerism could be damned.

---

The pen made another lazy spin before Michael stopped it mid air. Alex was in the shower,. The water was flowing slowly behind the closed door of the bathroom and he had no idea of Michael's inner turmoil. The red Valentine's card or the silly one? Two nights ago, Michael had finally been left with two cards only to choose from and hadn't slept since. He was tired. It didn't matter though, because Alex and his first Valentine’s date was ready, carefully planned. He put into this surprise the same care that was reserved to his scientific projects or the delicate engines he worked on. It will be romantic and sappy and maybe a little ridiculous. Michael couldn't wait. The last thing to do was to choose the right card. It seemed to be the most important thing to do and yet it wasn't, Michael knew it. He knew that it was all in his head - the doubts and the obstacles created to be a perfect alibi if things went wrong.

Michael shook his head. Why did he always have to make things so complicated? Michael grabbed the pen, scribbled something on the red card and then hid it under Alex's cup of coffee. Then he waited. He waited for the water to stop running and for the bathroom's door to open. He waited to hear Alex's crutches pounding on the floor and for him to be in the bedroom - the wet towel tossed on the bed, the clothes chosen to be worn, the prosthesis firmly attached to what is left of Alex's right leg. Michael waited until Alex appeared in front of him, with his slightly irregular gait and the sweater's sleeves rolled up. If Michael stared at Alex in awe - at his dark eyes, his perfect cheekbones and his elegant hands - who could blame him?

«Good morning!» Alex said. He smiled and walked around the table to kiss Micheal.

Michael accepted the greeting, the kiss and Alex's hands in his hair with a deep, satisfied moan. Yet again, who could blame him?

«Good morning to you too. I brought breakfast!» Michael explained.

Alex laughed. He watched with the usual awe the coffee pot floating from the kitchen and filling the cups, all by itself. Alex opened the bag of Crashdown's food with great satisfaction. At some point he will have to ask Michael what the problem was, if he thought that he was starving himself or simply not eating enough. Meanwhile, Alex will leave Michael alone and won’t say anything every time he will check on him bringing breakfast or lunch or whatever he wanted. Alex allowed his boyfriend to take care of him, which was good for the both of them.

Michael seated with Alex on the couch, arms and legs spread wide. There was something strange that morning, as if Michael was about to vibrate out of his own skin. A foot was tapping on the floor, a leg was shacking, a hand was torturing the couch's seams. It was anxiety, Alex was sure of it, but he thought there was something positive in it.

«Are you going to drink your coffee?»

The question sounded a little strained to be really casual. Alex would have liked to drag this out a bit longer, just to see how much patience Michael had left. Very little, he suspected.

Alex stretched to take his coffee, the red card visible under the cup. It was folded in half. There was a spaceship with a light beam and "You're my favorite human" written on it. Inside the card, there was Michael's angular writing who invited Alex to their "first Valentine's date". Alex happily laughed and waved the card in front of Micheal.

«First date, uhm?»

«First Valentine's date!» Michael specified, because it was important that Alex understood. It was because they already had their first date and it had been such a long awaited matter for them, that it couldn't be belittled. It came after more than thirteen years, after draining wars - both real and metaphorical - and a couple of terrible fathers to defeat. It has been hard and exhausting. That was why that first date was so important. It was because it has been Alex's choice to hold hands in Main Street right under the judging look of Jesse Manes' statue. It has been enough to make that night the absolute perfect date. Sometimes Michael sounded so sappy that it was ridiculous but he couldn't help himself. It's always been like this with Alex, from their very first kiss at the UFO Emporium, and it was ok. It was something inevitable. And once again, who could really blame him when Alex looked at him like that?

«First Valentine's date» Alex repeated, the words spinning around in his head.

«So, what do you think? It's pathetic, right?»

Alex hated the doubt on Micheal's voice and even more being the one who put it there.

«No, Michael, it isn't. It's so beautiful that I don't know what to say. It's all so new for me…» there was no need for Alex to add this thing between us to be understood. Michael felt the same way.

«We had never got a Valentine’s date. I want to see what it feels like.» Michael shrugged, unsure and vulnerable.

«I can't wait!»

Alex's words were very sincere and Michael took a huge sigh of relief. The anxiety that finally left him was palpable like the air out of a popped balloon.

«Thank God!» Michael exclaimed, slouching on the couch and taking even more space on it.

Alex shook his head smiling. Then he took a last sip of cold coffee for him and gave a quick, unexpected kiss to Michael - more cheeks than lips.

«Do you have any special requests for the date? I don't know, do I have to wear something in particular?»

Michael seated upright, suddenly alert. He looked at Alex with huge and passionate eyes filled with burning desire.

«Please, wear your leather jacket!»

And Michael's voice was like a warm, comforting gesture that Alex will cherish all day long.

---

Michael should have known that planning the date inspired by the teenager he was so briefly and so long ago, it would have been a mistake. He should have known! He should have had a little less trust in his enthusiasm and a little more caution. Not much, just enough to remember to turn off the phones and to build so many walls in his head to block Isobel out of his mind forever. But no, Michael trusted that for once everything would have be okay. How stupid!

«I just asked for one peaceful night. Just this once!» Michael grumbled, again and again. He's been complaining since the exact moment he was dragged into the last alien crisis. What was wrong with them? What was the big unsolved mystery that was preventing them from a quiet night under the radar? Seriously, what was wrong with them?

«Nothing! It's just a little superiority complex mixed with a smudge of protagonism and a lot of very bad timing.» Alex answered, dry and sarcastic.

Michael bitten his tongue so as not to swear. It was bad enough talking out loud without realizing it, that there was no need for him to snap, especially when Alex was already annoyed.

«It shouldn't have been like this tonight» Michael grumbled, words stuck between his teeth.

«Yep!»

When Alex locked himself up, it was never a good sign and Michael felt powerless.

Behind them, Isobel took her eyes away from Bonnie and Clyde's last victims. She had just  deleted every single trace of alien presence and rewritten their memories about that night.

«I did everything I could, now it's on Max.»

Isobel secured her hair in a tight ponytail, straightened up an earring and sighed. Michael nodded in her direction and nothing more, he had zero interest in what Max was going to do now, how everything was going to be explained in the report and, even less, how he was going to handle the alien thiefs. It was none of his business and Michael didn't care. He had tried to help Bonnie and Clyde but, at this point, he suspected they didn't really want to fit in.

«I'm sorry if all of this ruined your plans for the night.» Isobel said and she appeared tired and disappointed like them.

«I don't think we are the only ones with our plans ruined tonight.» Alex shrugged, shards of glass creaking under his shoes. Isobel shrugged too, there wasn't anything else to say. The night was gone now.

«Ok, we are done here. Bye, Iz!»

Michael grabbed Alex and gently pulled him outside from his hand. The glass on the floor an obstacle to walk around. The journey home was filled with nothing but silence, Michael's disappointment still so full of rage that there wasn't space for anything else.

«It's not the end of the world.»

When Alex broke the silence they were already home, the patio barely lightened up by the lamps through the living room's windows. Michael knew it was not the end of the world. Rationally. It was just hard to explain that to his romantic side, the one who planned every detail of that night and that watched the entire thing go up in flames.

«It's not the end of the world, Michael. It really isn't. We'll have another chance.» Alex grabbed Michael's shoulders and shook him a little, so that he could really make a point of his words. Michael really needed to listen and feel the conviction in his voice, so he could believe what it had been said.

«You were angry too, before.»

It was not a question, it was simply the truth and Michael was right, but Alex's anger was different from his own. What bothered him the most was being constantly dragged into someone else's drama. On the other hand, Michael’s anger was much more complex. It was something alive, some sort of self destructive force that made everything look like it was his fault even when it was not.

«I am angry, who says otherwise?» Alex's hands were on Michael's neck, warm and protective. «I am upset they ruined our plan, more so because you cared about it so much. But it isn't the end of the world, ok? It's not your fault, whatever your mind may be telling you right now, it's not and it's fine.»

Michael sighed and the anger flowed out of his body, leaving him so very tired. «Couldn't they have done the robbery tomorrow?» He complained.

«I told you! You aliens have bad timing! Absolutely the worst!»

Alex pressed his forehead to Michael's and searched his eyes despite the uncomfortable angle. And then he kissed him - their smiles pressed together.

«Do you want to tell me what the plan was for tonight?»

«Really?»

«Yep, I'm really curious to know what you planned and what you wanted to do with me and my leather jacket.»

Alex's hands were now buried in Michael's hair, his fingers pulling on his curls tight enough to show Michael’s thoughts changing path and taking a very specific direction. Their night was ruined, okay, and there will not be a dinner and no star gazing after the drive in, but it was still Valentine's Day, after all. Alex was there and they had all night. To be fair, it was more than enough.

Michael grabbed the jacket's lapels and pulled Alex against him. He whispered in his ear, hot and so, so in love.

«So, my plan was this…» and a heartbeat later the jacket was on the floor.

[soysaucevictim]

“aching, shaking, breaking (like humans do)”

Summary: Remus thinks Hypnos has abandoned him for good (metaphorically speaking), Patton is there to help. (Sanders Sides, Gym Rat AU. One-shot. Ao3 link.)

Genres: Slice of Life, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic

Characters: Patton and Remus centric. Logan, Virgil, and Roman mentioned.

Relationships: Intruality (platonic), Logicality (platonic), Background Intrulogical (platonic/ambiguous), Background Dukexiety (romantic/QPP), Background Moxiety (paternal/platonic)

Warnings: Remus angst, extreme insomnia, (unintentional) self-injury, medications, mental health issues, grim imagery, Remus Has Intrusive Thoughts, Remus Is A Mess, Patton Is A Good Friend, Interfaith Friendships, Implied (Extended) Family Problems

-

Patton was pedaling on one of the exercise bikes, which was one of his favorite activities to do at the gym. Relatively low impact and he usually took a “something is better than nothing” approach to his routines nowadays. Just appreciating the people watching and socializing with his workout famILY.

That was odd.

Remus hadn’t been to the gym for the whole week. Even when the kiddo overdid it – usually he’s not out of commission this long for it. Unless-

Something hit him in the gut when he realized that. He stopped on his bike and immediately buzzed his number.

Ring.

Ring.

Nothing.

He could shoot him a text, but it was just not settling right with him. Logan had been doing one of his HIIT circuits on the bike next to him. He took a deep breath, gently tapping Logan’s shoulder. Despite Logan’s concentration, he desisted immediately, turning off his music to respond, “What is it?”

“Have you seen a certain Pottymouth at your work recently?”

Logan paused, with a look of concerned realization, “Come to think of it, no. No, I haven’t. Well, he was getting particularly erratic and called in sick… 3 days ago.”

“I think I should go check in on him. My Other Son’s been swamped with work lately, sooo…”

If Logan was perfectly honest, it was often confusing when Patton referred to half their crew as his son, “Other son? Did you mean Virgil?”

Patton nodded.

“Probably prudent. Unfortunately, no one can stand in for me at the firm tonight. And. You’re better at the… emotions stuff.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence! Hopefully I’m just worried for nothing.”

Patton rose up from his bike and was about to leave with his things. Logan smiled faintly, “Hey, if you would, could you tell me how he’s doing when you find out?”

Patton smiled back, a little forced if he was honest, “I’ll make sure to have him tell you that himself!”

-

It wasn’t a very far trip across the city to get to Remus’s apartment complex from the gym.

Once Patton parked his car and took another deep breath, he stepped out toward it.

After getting buzzed in and jogging up a couple flights of stairs, thanking his stars for basic training, he was at the door in a jiffy.

Patton wasn’t in the business, but he was reminded of the time Remus was raising heck to get Unit 404 from this building. He remembered seeing Logan trying desperately not to laugh when he heard about it.

He knew to knock to the phrase “Shave and a Haircut”, to alert Remus. He drummed out a few calls, waiting for Remus to make a sound on the other side, hoping he would.

It was a thing in their group, ever since they all watched “Roger Rabbit” together for a movie night, years ago.

Once. Twice. Thrice…

Patton heard the sound of chaotic crashing noises and an off-script, but still in the right cadence, “Fuck OFF!”

“Remus!? Kiddo, it’s me. I wanted to check on you!”

He heard some stumbling noises and a hoarse, “P-padre?”

“Can I come in?”

There was a dramatically loud sigh before the door was unlatched, unlocked, and open.

“Thanks- oh.”

Patton wasn’t exactly sure what he was expecting, but Remus looked even more harried than he usually was. The darkness around his eyes even more pronounced, his face was so drained. His makeup smudged, tear-streaked, and hanging on for dear life. His gaze wild and jumpy. Remus didn’t do much more than stand in the living room, staring at Patton once he entered.

Patton saw that Remus had knocked over one of his glass cabinets. He noticed Remus looked pretty scratched up and was bleeding in places, mostly his hands and knuckles.

Patton furrowed his brow, asking mostly to avoid presumptions, “How are you feeling?”

Remus sounded breathless too, “What does it fucking… look like!?”

Patton paused and looked around some more, there was a lot of trash strewn about the floor. Granted there usually was, Remus would just call it “organized chaos”. But Patton did note that there was an alarming number of energy drink cans piled around a hopelessly full trash bin. Monsters, NOS, Red Bulls, 5 Hours, yerba mate, the works.

Patton slumped a little bit in worry, “Not exactly peachy keen, I take it?”

Patton had a hunch that Remus was screaming not that long ago, based on just how raw his voice sounded, “No SHIT!”

“Um, would you like to sit down for a bit? It might help to talk it out.”

“Can’t.”

“Too restless, huh?”

“Yeah.”

At that point Remus was mindlessly digging his fingernails into his arm. Patton winced a little and decided to ask, “Can I take care of those injuries, at least? I just want to make sure they don’t get-”

Remus glanced at but barely registered the wounds, “Infected?”

“Yeah.”

“F-first aid kit’s in the bathroom. Not like it matters. It would be just my luck to have a brown recluse bite or resistant staph or necrotizing fasciitis. You know where shit rots and liquefies and you get all septic?! Imagine the SMELL.”

Patton slowly worked his way to the bathroom to get the kit, not taking his eyes away from Remus, “Well, if it looks like it’ll be that way, I WILL be taking your butt to the ER.”

Remus didn’t seem to register that, droning on, “Oh. What if I lose a finger? Or several! Or my entire hands! Everybody says I might die of a heart attack before I hit 30? My ticker feels like it’s going to EXPLODE, Teddy Roosevelt. Imagine a live grenade strapped to it – BOOM. Sounds like fun.”

Patton flinched, thinking that was to get a rise out of him, “Kiddo, I think that’s the opposite of fun.”

Remus weakly laughed, pointing at his chest thoughtlessly, “Better than worrying about cancer or some shit!”

Eventually Patton had to break line of sight to grab the kit, but he kept talking, “When… when did you last get some sleep?”

There was a pause that made Patton’s own heart ache a little bit. Remus muttered after some hemming and hawing, “Uh… 3? 4?  4 days ago? I think. I don’t even fucking know.”

Patton took a moment to look over the medicine cabinet while he was there. Just to see if Remus had anything that could help him get much needed snooze time. There was a bottle of trazodone, mostly full, Benedryl, also mostly full… no suspiciously empty bottles of anything around. So that was a hopeful sign.

“Would you mind if I asked you to take something to help you sleep? After I patch you up?”

“You remember that story where a whole batch of Tylenol was tampered with and killed like seven whole people?”

“… I’ll ask again a little later, then.”

Patton returned to the living room, kit in hand, both relieved and disconcerted about Remus just standing in the same spot he was in. His hands were clenching and unclenching, like he was fighting to stay awake even longer. “Okay, it would be easier on both of us if you sat down while I dress those wounds.”

Remus didn’t move, so Patton tried to gently nudge this poor kid toward the sofa anyways. Thankfully, he didn’t resist at all. Patton noticed just how wobbly a gait he had in that short distance. Once seated, Patton also saw that both his knees were scuffed. Patton winced, imagining that he took at least a few falls very recently.

Without prompting, Remus whined, “Everything hurts, Padre.”

“Well, going without sleep as long as you have can give you a bad case of the body aches. Seen some of my old combat buddies deal with that on our worst deployments…”

Patton started to wipe down Remus’s knuckles first with some cotton balls and alcohol. He just wanted to get a better sense of how deep these cuts were. He was relieved that they were surprisingly shallow, “I think these will only need some simple bandages and antibiotic cream… but I’m definitely going to check on you later, to see how your hands are doing.”

Remus nodded, and started to blather a bit again, “I feel like Hypnos himself has forsaken me. A curse! A bane! Pat? Is his brother going to come for me? Am I going to ride down Styx and meet the big H himself?”

“… you’re not going to die, if I can help it. I swear to God Himself.”

“Gross.”

Patton sometimes forgot that their positions of faith were so far removed. But that didn’t dissuade him from caring a lot. He hated seeing his friend suffering so much. He took another breath, and addressed the gouges and cuts in Remus’s arms. They were rough, probably unintentionally from his own hands. He approached those similarly. “You feeling any sleepier, yet?”

“Mmm… no.”

Remus looked like he was about to pass out, Patton was reasonably sure just the fact he was seated and getting some TLC helped push him closer to shutting his eyes. “Well. I’m going to hang around for a few, just to make sure you’re alright, okay? Mind if I turn on the TV?”

Remus started to slur his speech considerably, “Knock yourself out, Holy Ghost.”

Patton thinly smiled about the blasphemous sentiment, but he shook that off, it didn’t matter really. He was just glad to see Remus doze off like he desperately needed it.

Patton decided to tune into Nickelodeon and watch some cartoon reruns, eventually hearing some loud snoring coming from Remus. Patton sighed and smiled at the sight.

-

“Oh GEEZ, Patton. Were you – were you here all night?”

Patton blinked awake from the shouting and looked outside to see it was bright out, “I-I guess I was?”

Virgil was there to see his boyfriend sleeping like the dead and Patton next to him.

“Logan told me to check on Remus and I just got back here. And-”

“Remus is going to be okay, I think. Do you have any idea what may’ve started this episode?”

Virgil sat down on the recliner nearby and looked tired but contemplative.

“His “family” tried contacting him. All I know was it devolving into a messy fight and it rattled him. He… stubbornly didn’t want to talk about it.”

Patton understood what he meant at this point.

The only blood relative Remus had anything nice to say about was Roman. Someone who should probably know what happened, if he wasn’t already aware.

All to address later, once Remus recovered a little more.

Patton ran his fingers through Remus’s greasy hair. Not the most pleasant, but he hoped it helped to soothe him as he continued to slumber.

Virgil smiled at both of them, his own concern never quite gone, “Thanks for this, Pop Star.”

[death-himself]

hnnNNGg imagining bogeyman!Virgil having a nightmare and Thomas checks on him and Virgil starts crying and picks up Thomas and cuddles him like teddy bear

aaa sorry it took me so long to write this anon!

(For plot purposes this takes place before Sleepy Bargaining)

Word Count: 886

Warnings: Nightmares, Character death in a dream sequence

The Sanders family had moved to a new house. Thomas’s Youtube channel had begun growing in popularity and they had been able to afford a new place with more room for the four kids to live in. Virgil officially moved in, now having his own room and bed to sleep in rather than their previous arrangement of him sleeping on the couch or in his cave. Roman had his own room as well; having three kids sharing one room had always been a bit of an issue for him.

The move had been a bit of a strange adjustment for Virgil. As he travelled back and forth from his cave to the new house with all of the little trinkets and clothes and drawings he had found, made, or stolen over the years, he continuously appeared in their old home instead, having had that location memorized for roughly a year by that point. It frustrated him to say the least.

He huffed, collapsing onto his new bed. No more sleeping in that cave. It wasn’t something he had truly realized until that moment. He turned over, staring up at the ceiling.

He could actually stay with them all throughout the day. He would never even have to leave their house to grab his sketchbook to draw with Roman, or grab one of his old stuffed animals for Patton, or one of his books for Logan. It was all in their house already, where they could just come in and grab it if they wanted it. It was all in this room—in his room.

Virgil laughed incredulously. He was almost living like a human, how weird was that? He had never expected his life to end up like this. All he had ever imagined was loneliness and the empty feeling he had always gotten seeing humans interact with each other, knowing he could never do the same.

Without realizing it he had begun drifting off to sleep, eyes slowly shutting and breathing becoming slower and steadier. After using that much energy going back and forth, he needed a nap anyway.

The nightmare had started out as a pleasant dream, as many nightmares seem to do. He had been with his dad and brothers in a pillow fort made in the living room, gathered around the TV. Roman and Logan had been preoccupied with whatever show was on, while Patton sat in Virgil’s lap and Dad sat at his side.

He wasn’t sure what had happened, what had led to it, or why it happened, but he had suddenly been filled with an uncontainable rage. Rage towards the darkness, towards the humans that had screamed at his presence in the past, and towards those that had accepted him.

And god, were humans so easy to break. A scream had torn through Patton’s throat, before weakening and being cut short as his soulless body collapsed to the ground. Dad screamed in horror, and when Virgil looked up they were in his cave rather than the pillow fort, the screaming echoing louder and louder until it was unbearable. Roman and Logan’s bodies dropped, as empty and soulless as Patton’s. Dad continued to scream, the sound only getting louder and louder, Virgil closed his eyes and covered his ears, begging for it to stop.

And then it did. He opened his eyes again and took a look around. He was alone. He took his clawed hands off his ears. It was quiet.

But he preferred the screaming over the silence, and the traumatized father figure over the loneliness.

Warm, almost burning hands grabbed Virgil’s shoulder. He opened tear-filled eyes, and Dad was standing over him, concern on his face as he shook him awake.

“You okay, bud?” He asked, though he definitely already knew the answer. Virgil’s breathing was shaky, his body trembling, and the occasional choked gasp came through his lips as the tears brimming his eyes began to fall. He sat up shakily, hardly noticing the blanket he had been covered with.

“You wanna talk about it?” Dad rubbed his shoulder comfortingly. Without really thinking Virgil pulled him into a hug, the pain and hatred in Dream Dad’s eyes burned into his mind. The way he had grabbed Dad prevented him from really being able to hug back, but he didn’t really care.

Meanwhile Thomas awkwardly allowed his son to cuddle him as if he were some sort of teddy bear. When he had first become a father and had been researching parenting advice, he hadn’t really planned for anything like this, though he supposed no one really had any advice for if your son was almost twice as tall as you and needed comfort.

While he admitted it felt somewhat embarrassing, he let it happen, as Virgil’s breathing seemed to grow a bit less erratic and his body shook a bit less as time went on. Virgil loosened his grip on him for a moment, and Thomas took that opportunity to move to hug him back, rubbing gentle circles into his back and giving him time to calm down.

They talked about the nightmare later, after Virgil’s mind had settled and they had checked on his brothers. Thomas wasn’t entirely sure what to say or do to make him feel better, but he did what he could.

[hopes-peak-academy-imagines]

INTRODUCTION AND MOD APPLICATIONS~

Hello! New danganronpa blog here. Let’s start with introductions before I get into what this account will be for.

My name is Mod Junko and I am the creator of this imagine page. I am an omniromantic asexual female who uses she/her pronouns. I am a big fan of Danganronpa, The Promised Neverland, Sanders Sides and Five Nights at Freddy’s. I have two dogs and I might get a cat after one of them passes (they are 1 and 6 right now, so hopefully it won’t happen soon). Now, let’s get onto what this blog will include.

This blog is strictly for Danganronpa and I accept the following types of requests: Angst Fluff Comfort SFW Yandere Character/reader X Reader Character x Character I do not do NSFW imagines, but that doesn’t mean other mods won’t. It just means that any NSFW imagines may take longer to get too, depending on how many of the other mods will take them. Here’s a short sample of my writing, extracted from one of my wattpad stories (which is ironically a FNaF book..but hey, this is just a sample. The rest of this blog is strictly danganronpa only!)

Third Person POV: Everything was dark. All the watcher could hear was silence as they walked through the blackness. They heard a thud behind them and turned around just as the lights snapped on. As their eyes adjusted to the light, they could blearily make out three figures. A tall man and two young children, walking towards the kitchen of a brightly lit restaurant. One of the children, a young boy clutched a teddy bear in his left hand as he gripped his older brother's arm with his right one. The younger boy, who looked about 6 wore a red fox mask while the older, around 8 wore an orange,white and purple version of that mask. The older boy appeared to have a red mark across his cheek as well as a thin scar under his left eye. The scene disappeared as a bright light flashed through, now showing a scene in a small side room away from the hustle and bustle of the outside world in the underground pizzeria. The same boy from the last scene was now leaning against the wall while his father watched him closely, silence heavy and suffocating. Suddenly a loud noise bounced off the walls, startling all of the people in the room. The older man pulled his phone out of his pocket and left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar as he spoke in hushed tones with the person on the other end of the line. Something shuddered in one of the darker corners of the room and the boy looked up. He was now slightly older, by maybe one or two years and he looked even worse than before. The bright red slap mark had been replaced with a black eye and that tiny scar had somehow grown slightly longer over time. The boy took a step closer which must have triggered something, seeing as what ever had been in the shadows sprung out, its open jaws, ready to clamp shut. The boy opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The jaws shut, just short of the boys face and shoving him to the floor. Unfortunately for the boy, the angle he'd fallen on had proved to be fatal.

Crack

The boy’s eyes shot open as he woke up in a cold sweat. He reached for his bedside lamp and switched it on as he gathered his thoughts. This was a reoccurring nightmare that never seemed to disappear. The sickening crack as the young boys neck broke. That silent scream that never seemed to catch anyone's attention. He missed his younger brother and mother greatly, but knew there was a slim chance of ever seeing them again after that. He rubbed his eyes slightly, removing some of his eyeshadow to reveal a small scar under his left eye.

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~Mod Junko

[kvetchlandia]

Richard Meltzer     Lester Bangs Passed Out on Meltzer’s “Highly Uncomfortable Living Rm. Chair,” 104 Perry St., Apt. 4, West Village, New York City     1972

On December 14th, this December 14th, Lester Conway Bangs, while probably not the greatest writer of his generation, arguably its most vital so far to die, would have been 36. Haunted and driven by demons, so- called, a cheerless many of whom/what/ which — or their kindred ilk — he directly sought, found cum stumbled upon, or was inadvertently ensnared by on the demon picnic grounds of Rock and Roll, he never made it to 34.

Following the lead of a handful of babes in the rock-critical woods, one of which I'll admit (if sometimes reluctantly) to having been. Bangs at the dawn of the seventies played as prominent a role as anyone in both expanding the expressive boundaries of rockwriting as a form and giving it a voice that played the newer, more mannered and cautious, mass-market rockmags like Rolling Stone and Creem — the latter of which he even edited for awhile — as on the dime as it had played the catch-as-catch-can, limited-edition fanzines whence it came. Though he also served as the burgeoning genre’s most prolific scribbler, a mission he sustained with relative ease for the bulk of his days, it is to the man’s lasting credit that he rarely delivered copy on anyone’s dotted line. In fact, he probably “got away with more’’ in major- publication print than all his rockwrite brethren combined, conceivably (however) because it merely simplified matters to have a single Designated Outlaw, one entrusted with a blanche enough carte — and unmonitored options galore — to spike with “authenticity ’’ a rock-media stew of bogus Freedom and ersatz Candor.

Retrospectively cliched or not, there was an existential purity to the sheer commitment evinced by Lester’s prolonged wallow in (and about) the rock- and-roll Thing-in-itself. It was, in many ways, the critical headbang to end all critical headbangs; it would be hard to even imagine, for instance, a professional art-film bozo, a jock-sniffing sports jerk, or a food-review lunatic more uninsulatedy gung-ho vis-a-vis x — either as primary experience or typewrite wankery. His patented shameless multipage gush, coupled with an unswerving advocacy of certain conspicuously over- the-top rock genera (Velvet Underground offshoots; Heavy Metal; Punk Rock), made him a must-read favorite with both cognoscenti and dipshits alike, and he came as close to encountering idolatry per se as any non-musician in R&R. A good deal of which — natch —could not help hitting the self-consciousness fan, but while a man’s life was ultimately undone in the process (“I’m Lester — buy me a drink! ’’), the integrity of his art/craft was essentially unaffected. For, while he might have been a tad too glib-messianic those last couple years, he was by no stretch of things an opportunist, never really giving a hoot for what in squaresville would be known as a career. (Or, perhaps, unlike his role model Kerouac, he simply didn’t live long enough for that, too, to be strenuously tested.)

In any event: dead, cremated, literal ashes. California born (Escondido ’48), bred (El Cajon, ages 9-23), and traveled (I first hung with him in San Francisco, last in L.A.), Lester bought the big one on the opposite coast — his final home, the fabled Apple — April 30/82, ostensibly from a hefty pull of darvon employed, in lieu of aspirin, to placate the flu. Since his death, variously interpreted as a mile-radius teardrop’s once-in-a- lifetime terminal burst, a joke and a half on both himself and his precious chosen whole damn Thing, and — by occasional uncouth louts — the final glorious triumph of his excess, the spectrum of Bangs-in-ongoing-print has dwindled from monochromatic /sparse to colorless/ nonexistent. Of the two books in his name which appeared during his lifetime, quasi-coffeetable numbers on Blondie and Rod Stewart, neither a particularly representative Lestorian effort (or even particularly good: the former admittedly hacked out “in two days on speed,’’ and looking it, i. e., ad hoc and forced; the latter disowned as a clumsy, if innocent, foray into “writing as whoring’’), both are either out of print — officially — or on the back burner of barely having ever been in same, at least as regards this coast, where I’ve yet to see either in bookstore one. Nor have two posthumous whatsems. Rock Gomorrah, cowritten (early ’82) with L.A.’s Michael Ochs, and a projected collection of unpublished fragments scrounged from Bangs’s apartment a day or two after his death, gotten more than inches off the publishing ground — the former for reasons which if herein revealed would get me sued but good, the latter because, in the words of editor Greil Marcus, “the stuff is less tractable than I thought at less than 5000 words or so.’’ Also stalled, and/or abandoned (and/ or nonspecific pipedreams to begin with) : all known plans to reissue out-of- print Live Wire LP Jook Savages on the Brazos, recorded, Austin, TX, Dec. ’80, by Lester Bangs & the Delinquents, lyrics and vocals by guess who. In fact, the only anything by L. C. Bangs readily available where availables are sold is his liner copy for The Fugs Greatest Hits Vol. I, released by PVC/Adelphi some months after he’d croaked, for which he (or rather his atoms) later copped a Grammy nomination, and for which, reliable word has it, he never was paid.

Well, I’ve been proven wrong; it hasn’t been easy recollecting Lester in even half a toto in so much tranquility. Didn’t seem like such a bad idea back when obits were appearing left & right and at least two- thirds of ’em smacked of revisionism at its well-intentioned worst; having ridden the range with the guy, having been as intimate with his daytime/nighttime revealed essence — I would bet my boots — as anyone in or out of various possible beds with him, I had fiery goddam galaxies to say in his behalf that were simply not being said, at least not in print by his designated peers; and, although my no longer living in New York couldn’t help but delay my shot, remote and after-the-fact seemed like the ticket, y’know anyway, for some major necessary rerevision.

But here it is two, two and a half years gone & more, and whuddaya know if all the raw goddam pain (at the loss of, yes, a brother) and jagged fucking anger (at a waste of life, life-force, and relative inconsequential like “talent” and “genius”), an unbeatable duo which for weeks, weeks, months gave the Lester totality so cosmic a shape, scale and intensity, have by their own inevitable burnout given way to the contemplation of standard-issue mere data, of the skeletal remains of a larger-than-life life which have come to make sense (or not) in too neat, too linear, a manner. Well — hey — fuggit: Even if grocery lists, chalk diagrams and hokey storytellin’ are the forms ongoing life-as-life has imposed on the mission, there’s still a heap of essential Lester information that could use, uh, exposure to printed-page light.

What too many write-biz intimates sought to do in the wake of his death was debunk the Lester Legend (solely) by reciting evidence that his bark was worse than his bite. While I’m sure he’d have “wanted it done” (i.e., have the saga-as- litany scraped of treacherous barnacles, or at least of their treacherous vogue), I can’t imagine the projected post-life intent of such a wish as in any way entailing cosmetic overhaul, especially in the service of moral/experiential object lessonhood. Lester’s day-to-day transaction with post-adolescent life-as- dealt was — let’s be conservative — 94 % anything but pretty. If he’d have wanted his entire whatsis to serve up viable scenarios for intimates and non-intimates alike (gee, would the Pope prefer to be Catholic?), there’s no way the deal’d come out even provisionally Lester-functional without interested non-intimates having retroactive access to as hefty an eyeful of the not-so-pretty — in all its hideous, non-Clearasiled blah blah blah — as intimates galore regularly managed to cop and, in their various personal ways, have already learned from. To deglorify an earlier incarnation of shit (which the man himself was clearly hellbent on doing in his waning days on earth) you’ve got to at least speak its name — loudly! — for the whole entire planet: c’mon now, one & all. A solemn responsibility (I call it) which, credibly/incredibly, the smelly sumbitch’s closest associates have, to this day, all but refused to consider.

To wit: For every time anyone saw the defanged, declawed Lester teddy bear rear its cuddly li’l head (see obits 2, 3, 5 & 7) the man was uncountable times the asshole, the buffoon, the sodden tyrant; been those things myself — in semi-prior lifetimes — so I know. Back in ’73, for inst, the soon-to-be-dead Lillian Roxon gushed shameless love for the s.o.b., in New York on Creem business, ordering up a Lester button and leaving it in his hotel box; response to this purest of offerings was “What’s that fat cunt want from me?” About a year later I get this call from Nick Tosches requesting that I please take Lester, who’d shown up at his door on acid, “off my hands”; took him to a party at John Wilcock’s place, during which he verbally brutalized Wilcock’s wife (in green Fingernails) for being a “hooker,” snapped at an affable Ed Sanders for being “the only alkie in the counter-culture,” and had nothing more to say to Les Levine’s Asian girlfriend (wife?) than “Yoko is a lousy gook”; further into the night, at Vincent’s Clam Bar in Little Italy, he literally bellowed ( more than twice), “There’s a lotta tackin’ wops in this joint.” And how can I forget the way he treated me and Nick, his closest approximate friends f'r crying out loud, as our wonderful editor while at Creem? He’d call us each up at 3 a.m. to urgently solicit various (rather specific) reams of pap, needed via Special D toot sweet; we’d climb outta bed, peck away bleary-eyed to whack out the closest possible takes on what he’d claimed he wanted, whereupon he’d reject ’em with a vengeance (“I won’t print beatnik shit”), then run thoroughly like-minded i. somethings — under his own byline — or with our words, usually verbatim, laced throughout. Just a few “examples,” dunno if they sound like big stuff or small, in any event typical Lester, with plenty, plenty more where they came from — y’know times n-plus-many.

In spite of such anticommunal upchuck, or quite possibly because of it — post-adolescent of a post-summer-of-love feather & all that — I did have deep affection for the bastard during my final years in New York; he could really piss me off (and I, I’m assuming, him) but bygones were always eventually ditto. In those days I generally shared his affection for The Edge, and might even’ve gone extreme slightly ahead of him; in January ’72, this is true, he actually dubbed me “the Neal Cassady of rock and roll.” But by fall ’75, when I split New York to at least simulate an escape from the Frantic and Hyper (and he subsequently arrived, ostensibly to embrace same), I was feeling the first stirrings of apprehension re my own prolonged massive intake of Edge Substances (emotional, cultural, but above all chemical) and was on the verge of an early series of attempts to, y’know, cut down, to maybe get off my collision course with all sorts of walls, both metaphoric and real. Lester, meantime, seemed on a rapid upswing in the intake dept.; what had so far served as mere horizon or frame for his trip, or at most been its semi-essential fuel, was now lunging headlong for the foreground of his life ... or should we call it the twin foregrounds (life as Mythic Construct; life as physical/emotional/cultural Hard Mundane Reality).

Hey, the guy was beginning to scare me. Certainly as an advanced — or rapidly advancing �� version of what I no longer wanted to be and could (possibly) imagine once again becoming, but more as this vivid, palpable spectre of specialized human decomp not just out there but right there: a pal & a buddy headed (willy nilly?) for the sewer. From late ’75 immediately onward, on those unlikely occasions when separate coasts — underscored by far fewer rockwrite junkets — any longer allowed for it, I was usually unable to handle being in the same room with him, knowing I’d have to witness whole new increments of what could really no longer be passed off as anything but (gosh) misery and (dig it) horror. Where in the earlier ’70s it was almost cute — once in a while — the way Lester would stumble into classic self- directed drunk jokes (like the time he called me from the Detroit airport to tell me he was headed for an Alice Cooper show in London, presumably England, only he’d drunkenly got it wrong and was on his way to London, Ontario), there was this half-week in ’79, for inst, during which he hung out at Michael Ochs’s house in Venice with no daily design but to get skid-row-calibre gone and stay there, that was just fucking grim. Looking an unhealthy as I’d ever seen him, basic shit-warmed over with an ngly bump on his forehead (which he claimed he was “treating with Romilar”), he refused to eat without an Occasion. When, one evening, Michael and I pretty much dragged him to a Mexican restaurant, he refused to actually step inside until he’d fortified himself with the cottons from six Benzedrex inhalers — the local pharmacist was out of Romilar — busted open on the sidewalk with a shoe.

Washing down their remnants with a Dos Equis as his enchilada sat there staring at him, he quoted (or claimed he was quoting) Sid Vicious: “Food is boring.”

So, inevitably, when Billy Altman rang me up from N.Y.Clearly on a California morn, to let me hear it straight from a friend — “instead of from a creep” — my immediate response to no more Lester, steps ahead of all the pain & anger & whut, was holy fucking shit, the fucker finally did it; it’d been in the real-world cards for long-long times for Lester to cease to be. Though even on his gonest days he was no way a classic cornball suicide-romantic — heck, I don’t really think he was all that clinically suicidal (big-sleep fantasies never overtly/covertly lured him, not even metaphorically, from the darkest sub-basement of his World of Dread; nor was Danger, though he often nonstop lived it, itself the merest tickle of a ripple of a thrill for him, a context before the fact) — he’d sure staged more corny, frightful dress rehearsals than Jim Jones plus Judy Garland (squared) for simply ending up dead.

Biggest of which I ever saw was January ’81. I’m at Nick’s place in New York, en route back to L. A. from Montreal, when who should pay a surprise visite but Mr. Bangs, cassette in hand. It’s a tape of these tracks recorded during an Austin romp I’d heard about second or third hand (he’d planned to “live there forever,” it was said, ’til a night in the local drunk tank — on top of who knows what else — totally changed his mind), and in the course of the next 12-15 hours he played it, for us and at us, many times. Also during this stretch, after boasting, rather proudly, that he no longer drank, he managed to ingest at least 36 cough- suppressant tablets (three 12-packs of Ornical — we weren’t always watching) washed down with sizable slugs of bourbon, as there was nothing else but water to wash ’em down with.

All stages of this ordeal, in which Nick and I were little more than foils for surge upon surge of what we’d come to regard as typical Lestorian bathos, were hardly bearable in the state we were in (after far too many “nights with Lester,” going back to the days when we even could dig it, we’d opted for a change to take this one straight), but the morning-after phase was literally one for the books. On the umpteenth playback of what was soon to hit the racks as the Jook Savages LP, Lester insisted that one particular vocal was pure Richard Hell (in Lester’s cosmos an a priori yay); my dogtired no-big-deal of a response was it sounded existentially neater than that, more on the order of Tom Verlaine (a Lester nuh-nuh-no). Suddenly hair-trigger sensitive — in a performance-trigger vein — he tapdanced back with “Then I might as well go sell shoes in El Cajon.” Next cut he compared himself to somebody (very contempo) else, prompting me to comment, for non-pejorative, sleep- denied better or worse, that his vocals (across the board; in general) had the same basic flavor as those on such country-western parodies as Sanders' Truckstop or the Statler Brothers’ Johnny Mack Brown High School LP. Affecting grievous offense, as if any of his b.s. actually mattered (the Lester of ’73/’74 — in any chemical state — would merely’ve giggled), he took things up a full notch of indignant/sarcastic: “Well I guess I’m just no fucking good. ”

But he wouldn’t stop playing the crap, not with every cut looming as a supercharged occasion for kneejerk call- and-response, a challenge for him to goad Nick and/or me into goading him, in turn, into mock-self-deprecatory one-liners ad nauseum — a dress rehearsal, as it were — his puke-stained sweater seemed appropriate — for his triumphant appearance on Johnny Carson, which he had no doubt the worldwide success of his Blondie book would imminently require . . . along with a shot of his mug, cleanshaven, on the cover of People (over which he whined “fear” of besmirched personal image).

Ultimately Nick and I, weary of further compliance in so shoddy an interpersonal number, old buddy or not (and/or old bud in particular), found ourselves laughing in his face; enough was enough, and the sight of this bumbling mammal going gaga for an audience of two-who-knew- better was kind of otherworldly amusing. The object of our yuks, however, took it as us laughing with him: Great Moments in Standup/Audience Rapport! Swollen with illusory (or whatever) whacked-out self, Lester then proceeded to announce his program: (1) to save Rock & Roll; (2) to become president (presumably Oi the U.S. of A.); (3) to move to England and in turn save their Rock & Roll. As mere dipshit goals, nos. 1 and 3 meant topically little to either of us — geez, we’d all but buried the Anglo-Am mainstream as even an idle, y’know, sometime hobby or whatnot — but (2) hit us firmly, instantaneously, in the breastplate.

Lester’s neurons, no recent model of health to begin with, had made the short-circuit of Lester Bangs . . . [tenor saxophonist] Lester Young . . . (latter's nickname] Pres . . . Pres/U.S.A. per se!!!

Guffaw, guffaw — we guffawed — though I guess we could've gasped (or shuddered). Then: a heavy silence, as cosmic (or whatever) as it was awkward, filled presently by the man himself:

"Hey! I'm gonna buy some import albums! I'll get a whore I know to lend me her charge card! Cab fare too!" And he was off; no amiable nudging, no “Get the fuck out of here" could take the place of timeless vinyl hunger. Gone at last — and we gave him (in all solemn, empirical, non-jive reckoning) six months to live.

But of course he fooled us, by (nearly) a whole damn calendar year. Surprise, surprise: but an even bigger surprise was the extent to which he managed to actually turn things around — well, almost — during that extra annum, especially during its. and his. final months. Not only was he still among the living, not only did he no longer seem conspicuously earmarked for premature exit — the Lester with whom I spent a rather refreshing week in February '82 gave every indication of having already gone beyond mere survival (as an issue) and appeared, astonishingly, to be thriving on the theme.

In L.A. following his mother's eventually fatal stroke and staying with his 56-year-old half-brother in Studio City, he accompanied me one night to a low-stakes poker game attended by members of the Blasters, the perfect setup, you’d figure, for Lester to revert to type. But no, he just minimally fun-&- games'ed it like anyone else — no lookin' for opportunities to “be Lester," no showing off for rock-roll peers either verbally or intakewise. no diving for the evening's jugular and letting 'er rip — and after two beers (!). without so much as a grimace, he declared he’d had enough. Postgame he engaged Phil Alvin in a lively musical dialogue, but at no point did fightin' words fill the air, or were axes even poised for grinding. The pair agreed to exchange tapes — a wholesome friendship in the making — and next day Lester complained (true, true) that reefer had been smoked.

As the week wore on in consistent, low- key fashion. I was struck by the fuckload of inner capacities the guy was perceptibly calling on, left, right and center, to extend his defiance of Death to the domain of just plain living, capacities I hadn't caught sensory evidence of — all previously told — for more than 11 minutes total. A far cry from anything as cheaply benign as, let's say, more frequent eruptions of "Lester washes the dishes" (see obit 04), what I got to witness was kind of on the order of a whole new Lester, one who'd finally found a non-lethal, functionally less jagged (though in no way “benign") rhythm for his life. Engaging him in tight quarters with more open-heartedness per se than I*m sure I’d ever mustered (sharing an Edge does not always make for brotherhood-by-numbers. let alone by pure, unedited inclination), I willingly submitted to his rap/rant and bought its tenor if not its verbatim transcript; by the time he returned to New York, his mother still hanging on. I’d seen and heard a New Lester series pilot that could credibly have played — prime time — on the Pro- Life Network.

For starters, he’d learned to slow down, to proceed apace through a given experience without easy reliance on everpopular on-off switches. He'd gotten far more selective about the company he kept, seeking out, for the first time in his known adult life, social interactions stressing soulwarming interpersonal comfort over thrash-trigger me-you tribulation. A good deal less insistent upon strapping each day to an emotional chopping block (as recalled, for inst, in that old chestnut of his, “I need to be in love!"), he'd begun to let his life embrace emotional motifs of greater duration and resiliency. And. as stuff like this fed back to his theoretic apparatus, even Lester's ideas (as stated) began to display an unexpected day-to-day congruity; no longer, it seemed, would he write an anti-racist wowser for the Village Voice in one breath and scream, "Fuckin’ niggers!” at Village Oldies the next. Lester-as-flux had had its thoroughly engaging run. and for this to give way to a “maturer” unpredictability was not the worst of possible outcomes.

Even the drastic reduction in Lester’s intake of physical poisons bore little trace of on-the-wagon-or-bust — y'know, as if any day, minute, second the tension of it all would cause him to snap right back with equal vengeance — particularly with its status as but part of a whole-body package that included both eating at regular intervals and a radical olfactory modification: He now took baths. (One afternoon in ’74 Nick and I met Lester at some ritzy midtown hotel. Though he’d been in the room all of an hour, the smell was like a dog had died there, and been left to rot, weeks or months before. Consequently, we vetoed his offer to call down for drinks on Creem’s tab, suggesting, to his consternation, that any dump of a bar would be more, uh, whatever. Many of his heterosex liaisons had foundered on the rocks of precisely this issue.)

In terms of cultural orientation, no longer was he monomanically enslaved to rock & roll (-or-perish). For virtually the first time since the sixties he didn’t need, burningly, brand new Big Beat LP’s in his mail slot each (and every) day; the state of the Art, wobbling on a multi-year terminal gimp, no longer served as his external psychic barometer, his armband of first-person pride (or shame); having finally produced Music of his own, to severe personal specifications (regardless of the giggles it inspired in jerks like me), he no longer needed to prove anything with it or through it. Crucially, though some would probably like to deny it. he no longer saw Rock’em-Sock'em as a viable metaphor for his (or any, kindred or otherwise) state of being, viewing it as the all too easy — and ultimately, revoltingly, unsatisfactory — crystallization of (mega-numerous) blank and scattered lives. Lester's break with rock-roll mythos as his be-all/end-all of etc., which I have no doubt (had he lived) he’d've sooner rather than later made official, was as profound, and profoundly moving, as his break with the Myth of Lester. As one committed jackass who’d made the same painful transition — goodbye, Rock-Automated Self! — I knew how tough a bond the chronically intermingled personal/cultural can be to crack (and my heart went right out to him).

It also warmed my cockles, considering his record in the mere civility dept., to see him relate (graciously) to his half- brother’s wife, this unaffectedly pretty 21- year-old rural Mexican the macho blusterer, a stuntman by trade, had recently acquired, maritally, while on location Down South. Though she knew pun near zero English, my first sight of her she was watching some random English-language crap, while hubby rested for a shoot of the Fall Guy series, on the tiny TV in her fussy suburban kitchen; materially cozy for the first time in her life, she seemed lonely, disoriented, far from home. Silent and solemn, she visibly stiffened — shyly? menially? — at the intrusion of Lester, my girlfriend Irene and me. only to be put at ease by Lester introducing us, without missing a beat, as, well, friends of the family. Like it mattered to him that she feel like family — and thus shared in all aspects of etc. — and for a moment the loneliness left her face; she smiled broadly, shook (or at least took) our hands, went back to her tube.

But what came off as so genuine when he was dealing with his family, his friends, kind of sputtered into the ether when he tried to branch it to the family of Man. Whenever he got to talkin' Hard Humanism, which had all the earmarks of being his preoccupation of (Rock- replacement) record, he’d make these broad, lecture-ish, relatively flavorless statements which often didn't wash.

Never wholly credible 'cause once again he seemed to be performing — without booze/etc. but surely with a script — he’d say thus & such about human courage and folly that not only had an artificial ring, it tended to run in direct opposition to what had clearly been his experience. Even his word choice sounded stilted, alien, not his own; when he spoke of "women" he could easily have been reading straight from a column in Cosmo.

A lot of which suggested a Lester so hellbent on being a good boy once and for all that to merely work overtime cleaning up his own act was scarcely sufficient; he had to render a transpersonal commentary that made his good intentions “universal,” even if the topical universality he’d taken an option on was simply the first he found it comfortable song-&-dancing a provisional connection to. There were moments when his bill of particulars made me uneasy, realizing that to intellectually challenge any of this would be like kicking mud on some kid’s newest/truest pastime, 'specially when it was one so socially redeeming, so non- self-destructive. one which, for all intents and purposes, I basically shared with him anyway. What really counted was the miracle of Rock Tough Guy #1, after 15 years of rocknroll plug-in and little else, during which he'd come to thread that needle upside down (and asleep), to the point (even) of smugness, flipness, pomposity, out on a goddam limb over something else: a neophyte at last! (I could dig it.)

Anyway, finally, on the last night of Lester's stay — which worked out as our last time together, period — we did something we’d previously never found the appropriate nexus for: trading rants (in earnest) with blank tapes a-rolling.

For something like five-six hours we went apeshit re such topics as: the sellouts & prejudices of mutual colleagues; novels and novelists; New York as (quite possibly) the coldest outpost on Emotional Earth; the usual standard rockish garbidge (plus some un- and some non-). We also hit on shrinks-we- have-known, with Lester's rap on this rooty-toot of a subject being the single one, from the four-and-a-half hours I’ve so far transcribed, which most tellingly nutshells the excruciating self- examination he had to've undertaken — and undergone — just to be sitting around discoursing as fluidly as he was, to’ve transcended whatever the fuck en route thereto:

“Like I went to a psychoanalyst, one in New York and one in Detroit, for a total of, I dunno, three-and-a-half years. I finally concluded, I mean yeah I’m insane, I’ve got my problems, my sicknesses are fucking me, yeah, I’m sure they both probably helped me, y’know, I know the last guy in New York, it's like everybody I know was totally appalled by my drinking and drugging, well like you, right, and everybody else had the same reaction, y’know, except my shrink. He’d say, ‘No, that's alright.’ I went out to this, he had a country retreat, a whole bunch of us would go out there on weekends. And the first time I went there like I got drunk on Friday night, and Saturday morning I got up and washed down a bottle of Romilar with a bottle of beer while sitting on a slick rock by the stream. I got this great idea for something I wanted to write, I stood up on the rock in boots like these and whoosh, went like that and smashed, see it, the scar on my nose? That's how I got it, smashed my face open.

“And he thought my druggin' and drinkin' was great, y'know? He said, in fact he kind of told me I'd be not as great of a writer if I gave all this stuff up. And I said, 'Yeah, but look at all these people, they rot away, they end up like self- parodies like Kerouac and Burroughs and all that sort of shit.' And he said. 'No. no, not everybody's like that.' I said, How could I someday be 55 years old and have to take a handful of speed to sit down at the typewriter?' Well he said, 'People do it. heh heh heh!' Well both my shrinks, especially this guy, they had real great humanist compassion and empathy and all that, but I know what both of 'em did, and in the long run in essence they were no good for me, because they were getting off on me being there. It’s like they’re so bored, one housewife alter another, 'I don’t love my husband, I don't know why.’ Then they get someone like you or I that's actually interesting, that has ideas, and so it's fun time for 'em. I mean if I hadda follow this guy’s advice I’d be dead, uh, pretty soon.”

Hmm: one effing eery end-of-quote as, alas, all is now dust — reactively acquired caution or no. Possibly possibly possibly, any tonnage of prudence would inevitably have proven insufficient for the autopilot courses he was still, evidently, all too capable of flying. Or, reversing horses and carts, maybe his tortured shell was already jus’ too beat-to-shit, with even a radical lessening in his scale of abuse being too little — archetypally — too late. And then there’s this pharmacological biz about purified cells succumbing to doses they’d have been more than up for when poison was all they knew. (And can we ignore the Wrath of Influenza?)

Even if, to some bitter-enders, his death remains as shrouded in formal “mystery” as those of Eric Dolphy and Warren G. Harding, all-of-the-above can't help but provide a not-unlikely profile of how Lester came to die. Throw in a few more mainline Causalities (cultural: rock-roll glut, esp. coupled w/ too literal an intoxication with Kerouac, Celine, et al; primalpsychological: a childhood more woeful than most, his Jehovah's Witness mom — pushing 50 when she had him — mind-setting, almost singlehandedly. a chronic “inability to cope"; geographic: the Apple, even when it wasn't absolute Edge Central, affording him. given his makeup, scant opportunity for inner peace) and you'd easily have an explanation that 'd hold up in a court of his cronies/cohorts/camp followers.

But if Lester was the pawn, victim, and (indeed) fellow traveler of such easy- Aristotelian a-implies-b, he was also, in those last fitful months, a scatterer of all such shit to the winds, a man who showed his true destiny muscle by throwing all the elements out of on-the-head mythopoetic sync just when they threatened, conspiratorily, to reduce him to merely another Jim Morrison. Jimi Hendrix. Mr. Kerouac. Screamingly, courageously, he committed himself, as wholly (really) as possible, to a counter-causal gameplan which even if flawed — and accidents, y’know, happen — did actually manage to defuse (at least where I live & breathe) the mythic oompah of any time-delayed rat-trap he may subsequently (or previously) have fallen in. If there's anything almost pleasing about the timing, the anti-drama, of Lester's death, it's the monumental Mythic Disjuncture factors he'd set in motion were thereby — implicitly, explicitly — to forever effect.

LESTER’S (WRITERLY) LEGACY — “One of rock’s most colorful characters, Bangs made his reputation as a pugnacious, participatory journalist who was not above picking fights with rock stars in pursuit of a good interview." So wrote one voice of prevailing wisdom, Patrick Goldstein, in the May 9/82 L.A. Times; nothing — latter part — could be farther from the truth. If Lester (the writer) more than once battled Lou Reed into (and beyond) the wee hours of etc., it was not to get a story, it was to live a story: to encounter all the rock-related being his writerly credentials (as a wedge) were able to afford him (as a person)'. Nor was he in any way enthralled by the sickening spectacle of stars being stars; artists, maybe, but stars, fug 'em. When he as mere citizen found himself face-to-face with the pose, pretense, and professional guardedness of such gaudy, extraneous creatures, Lester could not (for the life of him) deal with such crap but to cut right through and speak, directly, to the mere citizen in them, or (failing that) force the situation into functional self-destruct — before the fact of anything so dispassionate as actually “writing it up."

That his eventual write-ups tended to display utter contempt for the entire food chain of music-corporate life, often biting, intentionally, a grimy hand that could not’ve been more willing — his mighty Credentials & all — to feed him, heck, fatten him, was but half the take-no-shit of Lester's essential statement as a writer de rock; forcefeeding the stuff, his stuff, the stuff-as-writ, to the only marginally less corporate (or grimy) running dogs of rockwrite publishing was at least as pugnacious a gesture of this-is-what-I-am/this-is-what-I-do/take-it-or-be-fucked. Since the extent of his success in shoving it down so many otherwise unyielding editorial throats may have had less to do with his willful intent than theirs — camouflage, for inst, for their being life-deep in major-label record company pockets — its significance at this juncture is, at most, merely ironic; the reciprocal influence, in any event, of his ease at getting published upon subsequent moments of raw critical-expressive spew was procedurally nil. In fact, what may most enduringly matter about Lester's approach to his chosen profession, way ahead of dandy journalistic touchstones — "courage," “integrity,” “pride in craft" — that he ate for breakfast like so much broken glass (but which, really, you can still get from Nat Hentoff and Howard Cosell), is the “anti-professional," forcibly non-dehumanized square-one struggle he by design submitted to — and could not. with any kernel of his humanity, avoid - in order to pump out critical prose of any scale of note. (Pugnacity with form; with ritual creative context; even — especially — with roleplaying writerly/critical self.)

That he was ofttimes a great writer/critic, so-called, was but icing on the cake. That scant few others, on the hottest days of their lives, have even approached him — or particularly cared to, considering the requisite gravity and passion of the chore he’d set — probably says as much about their investment in lesser quals of cake as it does about the relative inadequacy of their writerly follow-through. Rockwriting is, and nearly always has been, the trade of simps, wimps, displaced machos, brats and saps; of, in Lester's own words, “ass-kissers of the ruling class”; of fuddy-duddy archivists with cobwebs on their specs; of pathetic idealizers of a lost youth no one has ever (even approximately) experienced or possessed; of sycophantic apologists for chi-chi trends, musical and extramusical alike, without which (so they've always claimed) “rock is dead”; of binary yes/no cheeses with the cognitive wherewithal of vinyl, shrinkwrap, the physical column- inch. Rockwritin' Lester, like anyone else in the trade, was certainly each of these things from time to time, though (probably) none of 'em, singly or in tandem, for longer than the odd off review. Sadly, though his untradelike comportment surely tantalized mere tradefolk while he lived — at least in terms of Style — and even begat a not-half-bad (early-’70s) clone in “Metal Mike" Saunders, his actual abiding sway among such clowns, beyond the occasional liftable riff, was — as it continues to be — infinitesimal.

Finally: the twin silly questions (1) where a still-living Lester might hypothetically've taken it (i.e., beyond the rockwrite fishpond) and (2) what such imaginary newstuff could/would conceivably’ve meant to his basic audience. Second one first. Okay, that Lester's rockstuff generally read so hot as personal testimony is one thing; for it to have been perceived by so many as being eminently, genuinely about something — something rather specific, in fact something "rear’ — is something else. When you get down to it, the gospel of Lester's radical about-ness rested largely on a big hunk of readerly illusion, the illusion of a functional one-on-one between the guy’s fertile imaginings and the psychic infrastructure of rock & roll as dealt; there could be harsh discordance, of course, but as long as a firm relationship could (for whatever readerly vested interest) be consistently inferred between Lester’s mindgames and rock’s g-g-games per se, you at least had the stamp of a viable — if totally simulated — one-on-one. But, really/truly, while Lester’s psychic playground may surely have been one drastically twisted maze, its actual correspondence (sympathetic, hostile, whatever) to rock's own labyrinth, one so airtight and dank as to make his seem like wide open etc., was far too often naught but a matter of readerly convenience. Everyone loves a cipher, a living/ breathing anagram or two. even some — hey — with flaws more rampant than Lester’s, but for the man’s writerly service to’ve been gauged (almost solely) vis-a-vis his reliability as a stand-in cipher-of- x, y’know for readerfolk too lame — or lazy — to suss out x themselves, is the real tragedy of the trip, particularly when the first-&-final glue of most folks’ attachment to his writing was never much more than their own desperate attachment to an x they could, and should, have been accessing more independently (and less desperately) to begin with.

So, anyway, here's the rub. Had Lester lived long enough to both sever his own desperate rock connection — officially, in sheets read by his fuckheaded fans, simply by writing other stuff — and, furthermore, to back it up with an equally official rejection of the Fount of Neurosis from which he'd sung its tune (and they'd listened), it ain't really much of a longshot to imagine him losing a huge percent of the fuckheads — certainly the most gung-ho among 'em — in, well, no time flat. And, c’mon, how much of an immediate, uh, new audience was he likely to yank in writing up (as he insisted he would) such transcendently pivotal mere-humanistic trifles as the dearth of love (as we know it) in scene X or Y . . . how this set of new-age culture jerks uses that set of new-age culture jerks as props in regards to bluh . . . New York editors who pull rank (pshaw!) along collegiate lines [a hard-hitting exposé] . . . or, I dunno, something about shams and follies in clothes and/or grooming?

Plus, well, though, um — (even if) — then again: Aside from loss of ad hominem authority due to the fickle scumbait nature of the pop-world Beast, aside from the fact that many of his generic partisans would prob'ly now be targeted, topically and even personally, in scathing printed-page rants, aside from the limited run such goulash (Sensitive Ties His Laces, w/ Brass Knucks & Footnotes) has ever had — hey — can ever/will ever have . . . aside, aside, aside — the most glaring fact fact is how few times, as of his death, he'd as yet even aspired to the heights (or whats) or non- rock journalism. Four-five-six, some number like that, in the Voice and wherever else, all of ’em still pretty much rockwriterly appendices to the rockwrite “adventure," meaning he had a good ways to go before he'd’ve got the wings/chops/ legs for a total-pulp plunge (or at least a regular shift) at full oldtime capacity (but with newtime thrust and content). Which would’ve been no fall from grace no matter how you scope it — give the boy time (for fuck sake) to stumble and bumble and get it right — but how would any possible Lester have dealt with a (previously amenable) shithook book co. like Delilah telling him not now, sonny when he handed ’em a ream of copy on (let’s imagine) friends who’re fuckups? Personal persona limelight Lester had learned to live without — but writeperson limelight? (It would not’ve been easy.)

Okay, he's dead. All this brand new grief and hardship never befell him; never will. But words on pages remain: What is their lot? Lester's standard fare was so paradigmatically “of the moment" that he was the rockmag shootist. But books of the stuff? Nah; it’s kind of nebulous how even his best mag outings will wear when inevitably (??) anthologized. For someone so public in his orientation, both as input and output, he was — don't laugh or even smirk — one of rock’s more precious and fragile "private moments.” Private moments you can always document — coercively, of course — but try and play ’em back and. well . . . we'll all see, I reckon.

LESTER LEAPS IN — Y’all know all by now how Lester leapt out of New York; lemme just finish with how he leapt in. His first night in town, just a visit, fall "72, he stayed with me and my girlfriend Roni, West Village, 104 Perry St., apt. 4. Arriving semi-direct from JFK, he split pretty quick for the nearest grocer, returning with three six-packs of Colt 45. What he did for the next day and a half — all he did — was wade through 18 big ones, half quarts, as follows: start can, drink fast, get tired; fall out, dropping remainder; awaken following can’s impact with floor; stagger to fridge for fresh one; repeat cycle. What he mumbled or muttered during any of the 18 pre-fallout phases I simply do not recall.

So like hey y’know wo hey hey wo-wo hey, OLD SPORT: love ya, hope I didn’t cramp yer style, g’bye.

--Richard Meltzer, “Lester Bangs Recollected in Tranquility”  Dec. 6, 1984

[allthingsfangirl101]

*Fraternity vs. Sorority–Teddy Sanders

Request by gummihoney

Warnings: drunk sex, language

When I accepted the position of President of the Gamma Kappa Sorority, I didn't know I'd be battling the president of the Delta Psi Fraternity. Teddy Sanders is the most egotistical, obnoxious, asshole of a man. He thinks he's the shit. He runs around campus, acting like he owns the whole place. And that may have been the case.

Until he met me.

When I became president of the Gamma Kappa Sorority, the previous president warned me about Teddy. She said he'd play dirty until he got you dirty. After she left, one of the girls immediately told me that the previous president was sleeping with Teddy the entire time she was in charge. The real kicker? She had a boyfriend.

Knowing that, I made sure I would never let Teddy get the upper hand. I've been president of the sorority for two years now and we have kicked Delta Psi's ass.

Whenever there is a party, ours is better. Whenever we have a tailgate, ours is bigger. Whenever we do anything, we do it bigger and better.

While in high heels, I should add.

"Hey, Y/N."

"Hi, Pete," I smiled.

Pete is the only guy in the fraternity who isn't a complete asshole. Then again, he was gay. Him being gay made me like him even more. But of course, the poor guy had to hide it from his so-called brothers.

"Rumor around the house is that you girls are throwing quite the end of spring break bash," he chuckled.

"Of course," I said with a playful wink. I narrowed my eyes when I saw the guilty look on his face. I sighed as I crossed my arms over my chest and shifted my weight.

"Pete," I said slowly, "honey, do you know something I should know?"

He opened and closed his mouth, hesitating to speak up.

"Pete," I said again. "If you know something Teddy is up to, you should tell me."

"Or what?" He said, switching into his fake frat-boy attitude. I sent him a look which he responded to by clearing his throat.

"I'm not going to tell the guys you're gay," I sighed. "Look, I know you're tired of this dumbass fued. So am I. All my girls are. They are terrified to go anywhere near your frat because they're worried you guys might. . ."

"Wait," he said when I didn't continue. "Are the girls scared we might take advantage of them?"

"Can you blame us?" I scoffed.

"Us?"

It was my turn to embarrassingly look away. I tightened my arms around me as I whispered, "It's not like Teddy hasn't thought about it."

I finally looked back at Pete when he took a step closer to me. "Y/N," he said softly, "I know Teddy plays a big role as Fraternity President Douche, but he would never do anything like that to you. He talks shit but that's it. He would never cross the line. Especially without consent."

"I wish that made me feel better," I mumbled. I started to walk away, but Pete gently grabbed my hand.

"There are a lot of things you don't understand about Teddy Sanders."

                                * * * * *

I looked around our house, the party already in full swing. I smiled as I saw all the fun my girls were having. Every once in a while, I'd notice one of Teddy's Frat Boys enjoying the party. I rolled my eyes and walked into the kitchen.

As I grabbed a drink, the party raged on around me. I planned to slowly drink my drink, but the second it hit my tongue, I downed it. I poured myself another drink, ignoring the fact that I was one drink away from double-digits.

I took my drink into the other room and leaned against the doorframe, my eyes scanning the room. My breath got caught in my throat when my eyes landed on a very drunk Teddy. I sighed as I quickly finished my drink before walking over to him.

"You look like shit."

"Thanks," he slurred. "But I call it having fun."

"Fun?" I challenged. "Really? You can barely stand. That's considered fun?"

"If you do it right," he drunkenly laughed. I scoffed and turned on my heel. Before I could walk away, Teddy grabbed my hand and pulled me closer.

"Teddy," I whispered. "Let me go."

He hesitated before slowly letting me go. He cleared his throat and shoved his hands into his pockets.

"You enjoying the party?"

"Really?" I laughed. "Small talk?"

"I'm trying," he shrugged.

"Trying," I repeated. "Trying to what, Teddy?"

Before he could answer me, one of my girls came over and grabbed me. The rest of the night, I kept making eye contact with Teddy. Whenever I looked at him, he was already looking at me. It seemed as if he didn't take his eyes off of me all night.

"Alright," I sighed, making him jump when I walked up behind him. "What's going on with you?"

"What do you mean?" He chuckled.

"Teddy," I sighed, "you haven't stopped staring at me all night. I honestly didn't even think you'd show up tonight. So, what's going on?"

"I just well. . . The thing is. . . I know. . ."

"Teddy," I caught him off.

"I heard you dumped your boyfriend," Teddy said, trying to hide how drunk he was.

My breath got caught in my throat. Last week, my boyfriend broke up with me. He was going to San Francisco and the distance got too hard. And by "distance" I mean him. He cheated on me with quite a few girls. It would've been different if he had been the one to confess. It wasn't. Instead, I found out by someone posting a picture of him making out with another girl. It destroyed me. After seeing that picture, I locked myself in my room and cried for what felt like days.

But I wasn't about to let Teddy know that.

"So?" I scoffed as I drank the rest of my drink.

"I also heard that he was cheating on you."

I finally looked at him, shooting daggers. "He was a lousy fuck anyway."

I started to walk away but stopped when Teddy gently grabbed my wrist. He pulled me back into his chest and leaned us against the wall, my back pressed to it.

"From what it sounds like," he whispered, suddenly sounding sober, "you need a guy who knows exactly what to do with you."

Part of me knew who he was and what he did at parties. But part of me didn't want to care. The part of me that didn't care, knew he sure as hell could pleasure me.

"Are you offering?"

                                * * * * *

We stumbled into my room, our lips not pulling apart. I kicked the door shut, Teddy immediately pushing me up against the door. While our lips moved hungrily in sync, I reached behind us and locked my bedroom door. His smirk widened when we both heard the lock click.

I let out a shaky breath as Teddy pulled away from my lips and started sucking on my neck. I leaned my head back against the door, closing my eyes as I felt him explore my exposed skin.

If he did this to my neck, what the hell could he do to the rest of my body?

That thought made me want him more than I've ever wanted someone before. I forcefully pushed him away, his lips detaching from my skin. Before he could say anything, I reached down, grabbed the bottom of my shirt, and pulled it over my head. As I tossed it to the side, I saw the lust in his eyes darken.

"Damn, baby," he moaned. He chuckled as he grabbed his shirt, pulling it over his head, and tossing it in the same direction I tossed mine.

I gasped as he closed the gap between us and pulled me into his chest. Our lips smashed back together, hungrily moving in sync as our hands found their way to each other's pants. In a matter of seconds, we were left in our underwear with our pants discarded.

He broke the kiss, instantly chewing on his bottom lip as he scanned my nearly naked body. He groaned as he lightly dragged his fingers down my arms.

"Holy shit," he mumbled.

I hummed teasingly as I took a step closer to him, pressing my body up against his. I purposefully stuck my chest out so he could get a better look. We continued staring at each other, the party still vibing under us, as I slowly took a few steps back. With every step I took, he followed.

"I want you," he said out of breath. "Now."

I smirked as I grabbed his shoulders, switched our positions, and pushed him so he was sitting on my bed. I sexily crawled onto his lap, teasingly rubbing my hands up and down his exposed chest.

"Then take me, baby."

I gasped as he grabbed my face and roughly pulled my lips to his. I immediately kissed him back, mirroring his moans. I slid my hands up his chest until I reached his hair. I earned some louder moans from him as I pulled on a few strands of his hair.

As our lips moved in sync, his hands slid down my neck and around my back. I smirked into the kiss as he found my bra. The longer it took him to unhook my bra, the harder it was for me to hold in my laughter.

"Damn," I moaned, breaking the kiss. I leaned my forehead against his. "Here I was thinking that the infamous Teddy Sanders could take off a bra."

I gasped as he angrily grunted, followed by the sound of my bra ripping. I looked down and watched as Teddy tore my bra off. When I looked back up at him, he was smirking.

"Don't underestimate me, baby girl," he growled through his teeth. "I can make your wildest dreams come true."

"We'll just see about that," I whispered seductively.

I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed him down. I rolled my body down his, making sure my chest touched his the entire time. He moaned as I pressed my lips back to his. This kiss was desperate and fast and messy.

Without breaking the kiss, Teddy reached down and slid his boxers off. He quickly rolled us over so he was on top. He grunted as he grabbed my underwear and roughly tore them off of me. I gasped when I felt his hardened member pressed against my thigh.

"Damn, hot stuff," I chuckled as I glanced down at our naked bodies pressed together.

"Like what you see?" He teased.

"Ehh," I shrugged. I smirked playfully at his eye roll. "I meant more along the lines of you being bigger than I expected."

"Don't worry, baby girl," he said, the tone of his voice changing. "I know exactly how to use it."

Without breaking eye contact, I reached over and pulled a condom out of my bedside table. I purposefully dropped it on my chest and waited for him to grab it. He smirked as he looked at the condom resting between my breasts before slowly looking up at me.

"Ask me about that in the morning."

I held in my smirk when my voice gave him goosebumps. He let out a deep-throated growl as he closed the gap between us, forcefully pressing his lips to mine. I didn't hold back my smirk anymore as I felt him reach up and grab the condom, his fingers grazing my bare skin.

The wrapper was forced open and Teddy shifted a little without breaking the kiss. Our lips continued to move in sync as he slipped the condom on.

Teddy broke the kiss and immediately attached his lips to my neck. Moans echoed off my bedroom walls as his lips got lower and lower. He dragged his tongue down my skin, goosebumps spreading like a wildfire.

"Holy. . . Fuck," I moaned, arching my back. He chuckled before placing his mouth over my boob. I closed my eyes, breathing shakily as he sucked on my bare breast.

"Oh, Teddy!" I yelled when he bit down on my nipple.

He gave my right breasts some more attention before showing some to my left. Once he was satisfied with what he'd done to me, he pulled away from my breast. I took a shaky breath as his tongue found another part of my body a lot lower to appreciate.

"How you feeling, sexy?" He moaned against my thigh.

"Ready," I said shakily.

Teddy chuckled as he sat back up, his smirking face coming back into view. His eyes glanced back down at my heaving chest as he chewed on his bottom lip.

"Me too."

I took a shaky breath when he grabbed my thighs and open my legs. I arched my back, a moan getting stuck in my throat when Teddy pushed himself into me.

"Holy shit," I gasped as I felt my walls stretch around him.

"That's what I thought," he chuckled darkly.

I rolled my eyes, ignoring his douchy comment as I focused on the feelings he was causing. Our moans and grunts were synchronized as our bodies moved in sync.

In the back of my head, there was a tiny voice telling me that this was wrong. But the part of my brain that controls my body was screaming at her to shut up and focus on Teddy's thrusts.

The entire time we were in my bed, he kept making small comments about how amazing he was. At first, it was easy to ignore him. But when his comments got more specific about what he was doing to me, I couldn't take it anymore.

"Teddy," I said through my teeth, pushing on his chest and making him pull out of me. "Will you please just shut the hell up and focus on fucking me?"

"Yes ma'am," he smirked.

I grabbed his face and pulled him roughly down to me. It was like we hadn't skipped a beat as our lips moved in sync, soon followed by our bodies. We rode out our orgasms, the only sounds between the two of us being our moans.

"Little harder," I stuttered as I got close. "I'm almost there, Teddy."

"Harder it is," he said through grunts.

A few more thrusts later, we were both about to reach our peaks. Teddy let out a victorious laugh as he finished. He was about to get off of me but I put my hands on his back, digging my nails into his shoulder blades.

"Don't even think about leaving," I said through my teeth. "I'm not there yet."

For a brief moment, he seemed confused. But when I grabbed his hips and rocked them so he went in and out of me, he snapped out of it. After he thrust himself in and out of me a few more times, I finally reached my peak.

"Fuck yeah," he chuckled as he pulled out of me.

The second he rolled off of me, I was flooded with disgust. Sure, it was incredible during but now that it was over, I've never felt so. . . Bleh.

"Damn," he chuckled as he reached up to put his arm under his head. "I keep getting better and better with each time."

I glanced over at him, my guilt being replaced by embarrassment and anger.

"I mean," he continued to chuckle, "have you ever had a guy rock your world as much as I just did? I think I win."

"Not everything is a competition, Teddy," I said, angrily standing up with the blanket tightly wrapped around me.

"Y/N," he chuckled as he sat up. "I was just. . ."

"No!" I angrily cut him off as I turned around. "This is not a joke, Teddy. In fact. . . This was a mistake."

"Y/N," he said, his voice barely audible.

"I can't do this anymore."

I grabbed my discarded clothes and quickly ducked into my private bathroom. I had tears streaming down my face as I threw my clothes in my hamper. I turned around and quickly locked the bathroom door. I struggled to hold in my sob as I could hear Teddy walking around my room, grabbing his clothes.

I finally broke when I heard my bedroom door open and close. With the blanket still wrapped around me, I pressed my back to the door and slowly slid down it until I was sitting on the floor. I wrapped my arms around my knees, pulling them into my chest as I sobbed.

I forced myself to calm down as I stood up. I turned on my shower, getting in and letting the hot water relax my muscles. The tears quickly returned as I scrubbed my skin clean of anything left from Teddy Sanders.

                                * * * * *

I spent the next day in my room. The girls were too focused on getting things ready for the follow-up party we were having tonight to wonder what I'm up to.

With headphones in, I got a lot of homework done. I barely stopped to eat. If I stopped, I immediately started thinking about my night with Teddy. I immediately started thinking about what it felt like to be touched by him, kissed by him. I started thinking about how no guy I've ever been with has ever made me feel the way Teddy did.

I finally left my room about forty-five minutes into the party. I leisurely walked into the kitchen and grabbed a drink. As I slowly drank my beer, I looked around at my girls. This party felt a lot like the one the other night.

My breath got caught in my throat when my eyes landed on Teddy standing hesitantly in the doorway. When we made eye contact, he lifted his hand and awkwardly waved. I hesitated before walking through to crowd, gathering my courage as I got closer to him.

I cleared my throat as I stopped in front of the nervous fraternity president. Although he was wearing his usual Delta Psi t-shirt and shorts, he didn't look the same. He looked smaller.

"What are you doing here, Teddy?" I sighed.

"You've been ignoring my calls," he said softly as he cleared his throat.

"Can you blame me?" I scoffed.

"No," he said, looking down at his feet. When he looked back up at me, the look in his eyes was different.

"Pete told me what you said before the party."

"Oh," I said, barely audible.

"Y/N, I really hope you don't think I was forcing myself on you last night."

"Then what was last night?" I asked, cutting him off. "Why did we do what we do?"

"Well. . . The thing is. . . Because. . . The truth is. . . I know that. . ."

"Teddy," I cut off his nervous stuttering. "Just spit it out."

"I'm in love with you," he blurted out.

"What?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

"I just meant," he hesitated. He sighed as he ran his fingers frustratingly through his hair. "I have feelings for you, Y/N. And it isn't recent. I've had these feelings for a lot longer than I should've. I know that our fraternity and sorority have been enemies, but that was long before you and I met. It was sorta expected for me to hate you. That didn't last long. I quickly got to the point where I was eager to see you. I couldn't wait to see what comeback you hit me with. I couldn't wait to see you. I got addicted to you, Y/N. And soon. . . That addiction became deeper."

"No," I stuttered as I took a step back. "This. . . This isn't real. You don't actually feel this way about me."

Teddy cut me off by gently grabbing my face and pressing his lips to mine. This kiss was nothing like the ones last night. This was slow and delicate. When he broke the kiss, he leaned his forehead against mine.

"I understand why you think that," he whispered. "I really do. Please let me show you that I mean every word."

"How?" I caught myself saying before I could think about it.

"By showing you the non-fraternity Teddy."

He studied me, waiting for my response. As I looked into his eyes, I noticed that for once he didn't play into the Fraternity President Douchebag. He seemed real.

"Can't wait to meet him."