#that's clearly the big shit incoming

[pikahlua]

MHA Chapter 374 spoilers translations

This week’s initial tentative super rough/literal translations under the cut.

tagline 1 No.374 Butterfly Effect　　堀越耕平 ナンバー374 バタフライ　エフェクト　　ほりこしこうへい NANBAA 374 BATAFURAI EFEKUTO   Horikoshi Kouhei No. 374 Butterfly Effect   Kouhei Horikoshi

tagline 2 声は届かず、そして目覚めた黒霧‼︎ヒーローVS敵の激闘は新たな局面へーー‼︎ こえはとどかず、そしてめざめたくろぎり‼︎ヒーローバーサスヴィランのげきとうはあらたなきょくめんへーー‼︎ koe wa todokazu, soshite mezameta Kurogiri!! HIIROO BAASASU VIRAN no gekitou wa aratana kyokumen e---!! His voice didn’t reach, and then the awakened Kurogiri!! The fierce battle of Heroes VS Villains enters a new phase---!!

1 時は現在に戻りアメリカ・ワシントン州 ときはげんざいにもどりアメリカ・ワシントンしゅう toki wa genzai ni modori AMERIKA WASHINTON shuu Time returns to the present, USA - Washington State

2 日本で突如発生した巨大な積乱雲は現在も急速に発達しており にほんでとつじょはっせいしたきょだいなせきらんうんはげんざいもきゅうそくにはったつしており nihon de totsujo hassei shita kyodai na sekiran’un wa genzai mo kyuusoku ni hattatsu shite ori “A giant cumulonimbus cloud that suddenly appeared in Japan is still rapidly developing.”

3 今後ジェット気流に乗って北米にも影響を及ぼす可能性があります こんごジェットきりゅうにのってほくべいにもえいきょうをおよぼすかのうせいがあります kongo JETTO kiryuu ni notte hokubei ni mo eikyou wo oyobosu kanousei ga arimasu “From here on, there is a chance it could ride a jet stream and affect North America as well.”

1 気象局によれば同時多発的局所温度上昇により発生した対流と南西からの熱帯低気圧が合流したことによって きしょうきょくによればどうじたはつてききょくしょおんどじょうしょうによりはっせいしたたいりゅうとなんせいからのねったいていきあつがごうりゅうしたことによって kishoukyoku ni yoreba douji tahatsuteki kyokusho ondo joushou ni yori hassei shita tairyuu to nansei kara no nettai teikiatsu ga gouryuu shita koto ni yotte “According to the weather bureau, due to the convergence of convection generated by multiple simultaneous local temperature rises with the tropical cyclone from the southwest,”

2 かつてない程の大規模な"火災積乱雲"が形成されたのではとの事です……………… かつてないほどのだいきぼな"かさいせきらんうん"がけいせいされたのではとのことです……………… katsute nai hodo no daikibo na “kasai sekiran’un” ga keisei sareta node wa to no koto desu.................. “it is said an unprecedented large-scale ‘pyrocumulonimbus cloud’ was formed..................”

3 ……ブラジルでの蝶の羽ばたき���テキサスでハリケーンを引き起こすか ……ブラジルでのちょうのはばたきはテキサスでハリケーンをひきおこすか ......BURAJIRU de no chou no habataki wa TEKISASU de HARIKEEN wo hikiokosu ka “......Will a flapping butterfly in Brazil cause a hurricane in Texas?”

4 光る赤子から始まった超人社会はカオスに呑まれる定めなのでしょうか ひかるあかごからはじまったちょうじんしゃかいはカオスにのまれるさだめなのでしょうか hikaru akago kara hajimatta choujin shakai wa KAOSU ni nomareru sadame na no deshou ka “Is the superhuman society that began with a shining baby destined to be swallowed in chaos?”

5 世界は一人の力で変えられます せかいはひとりのちからでかえられます sekai wa hitori no chikara de kaeraremasu “The world can be changed by the power of one person.”

6 メリル？急にどうした？ メリル？きゅうにどうした？ MERIRU? kyuu ni dou shita? “Meryl? What happened all of a sudden?”

7 私は政府が…世界がAFOに阿ろうとしている現状に断固として反対します！ わたしはせいふが…せかいがオール・フォー・ワンにおもねろうとしているげんじょうにだんことしてはんたいします！ watashi wa seifu ga...sekai ga OORU FOO WAN ni omonerou to shite iru genjou ni danko to shite hantai shimasu! “I strongly disagree with the status quo where our government...where the world is trying to pander to All For One!”

8 CM行けCM‼︎ああ シーエムいけシーエム‼︎ああ SHII EMU ike SHII EMU!! aa “CM, go to CM!! Aah” (Note: I assume “CM” means “commercial.”)

small text ダメだもー終わった ダメだもーおわった DAME da moo owatta “No good, it’s already over.”

1 日本　神野区　（轟、荼毘確保） にほん　カミノく　（とどろき、だびかくほ） nihon KAMINO-ku (Todoroki, Dabi kakuho) Japan, Kamino Ward (Todoroki and the secured Dabi)

2 なんだこの火力は‼︎ なんだこのかりょくは‼︎ nan da kono karyoku wa!! “What’s with this fire power!!”

3 轟くん　君も灼ける今再戦は無理だ！"燐"で限界の筈だ！ とどろきくん　きみもやけるいまさいせんはむりだ！"りん"でげんかいのはずだ！ Todoroki-kun kimi mo yakeru ima saisen wa muri da! “rin” de genkai no hazu da! “Todoroki-kun, now that you’ll burn too, a rematch is impossible! This is surely the limit of Phosphor!”

4 全員限界だよ！皆限界を超えて頑張ってる！ ぜんいんげんかいだよ！みんなげんかいをこえてがんばってる！ zen’in genkai da yo! minna genkai wo koete ganbatteru! “This is the limit for all of us! Everyone is surpassing their limits and trying their best!”

5 でも…あいつだけが！ demo...aitsu dake ga! “But...only this guy!”

6 まだ… mada... “He’s still...”

7 動いてるんだ！ うごいてるんだ！ ugoiterunda! “moving!”

1 俺だって親父の血が流れてる筈なのに……！ おれだっておやじのちがながれてるはずなのに……！ ore datte oyaji no chi ga nagareteru hazu na no ni......! “Even though I, too, have father’s blood flowing through me......!”

2 燈矢兄だけが動いてるんだ とうやにいだけがうごいてるんだ Touya-nii dake ga ugoiterunda “Only Touya-nii is moving.” (Note: “Nii” is a suffix meaning “older brother.”)

3 エンデヴァーは群訝か… お父さんはぐんがか… otousan (kanji: ENDEVAA) wa gunga ka... Father (read as: Endeavor) is at Gunga, huh...

4 遠すぎる…分断ってやっぱクソだわ… とおすぎる…ワープってやっぱクソだわ… too sugiru...WAAPU (kanji: bundan) tte yappa KUSO da wa... Too far away...the warp (read as: division) really was shitty...

5 このまま焦凍と継戦して…土産を持って出向くには… このまましょうととけいせんして…みやげをもってでむくには… kono mama Shouto to keisen shite...miyage wo motte demuku ni wa... To continue fighting with Shouto as things are...I’ll be coming back with souvenirs...

6 身体が からだが karada ga [My] body

7 保たねえや もたねえや motanee ya won’t last.

1 飛んで親父の下に行く気だ！ とんでおやじのもとにいくきだ！ tonde oyaji no moto ni iku ki da! “I intend to fly and go to where my old man is!”

2 気力でどうこうできる範疇を超えてる！ (?)でどうこうできるはんちゅうをこえてる！ (?) (kanji: kiryoku) de dou kou dekiru hanchuu wo koeteru! That’s beyond the scope of what he can do with willpower! (Note: The furigana reading of the kanji for “willpower” is illegible.)

3 おかしい！体質が合ってないんじゃなんかったか⁉︎ おかしい！たいしつがあってないんじゃなんかったか⁉︎ okashii! taishitsu ga attenainja nankatta ka!? How strange! Wasn’t it that he doesn’t have the constitution [for that]!?

4 何でまだ原型を保っていられる‼︎ なんでまだげんけいをたもっていられる‼︎ nande mada genkei wo tamotte irareru!! Why is he still able to endure that prototype!! (Note: I think she means: “Why can he endure that move (Phosphor) he only just learned?”)

5 待て‼︎まだ俺は動けるぞ‼︎ まて‼︎まだおれはうごけるぞ‼︎ mate!! mada ore wa ugokeru zo!! “Wait!! I can still move!!”

6 俺を殺すんだろ おれをころすんだろ ore wo korosundaro “Aren’t you gonna kill me?”

7 そっちこそ中途半端じゃねえかよ‼︎ そっちこそちゅうとはんぱじゃねえかよ‼︎ socchi koso chuuto hanpa ja nee ka yo!! “Aren’t you also being half-hearted!!”

8 ファザコン！ FAZAKON! “Father Complex!”

9 話しかけるなと言っておいてなんだが朗報だ はなしかけるなといっておいてなんだがろうほうだ hanashi kakeruna to itte oite nan da ga rouhou da “I told you not to talk to me, but there’s good news.”

1 旅費は無料で済むらしい りょひはタダですむらしい ryohi wa TADA (kanji: muryou) de sumu rashii “It seems the travel expenses are completed for free.”

1 雄英校舎「緑谷VS死柄木」 ゆうえいこうしゃ「みどりやバーサスAFO」 yuuei kousha 「Midoriya BAASASU AFO (kanji: Shigaraki)」 The UA building, Midoriya VS All For One (read as: Shigaraki)

2 風が強くなってきた水の調整がブレるかもしんない…！ かぜがつよくなってきたみずのちょうせいがブレるかもしんない…！ kaze ga tsuyoku natte kita mizu no chousei ga BUREru kamoshinnai...! “The wind is getting stronger, so the water adjustment may be shaky...!”

3 物間大丈夫か⁉︎ ものまだいじょうぶか⁉︎ Monoma daijoubu ka!? “Monoma, you okay!?”

4 この戦い絶対　教科書に載るでしょう!!? このたたかいぜったい　きょうかしょにのるでしょう!!? kono tatakai zettai kyoukasho ni noru deshou!!? “This battle will definitely be put in the textbooks, right!!?”

5 僕のおかげで勝ったって文科省に書かせますよ‼︎ ぼくのおかげでかったってもんかしょうにかかせますよ‼︎ boku no okage de katta tte monkashou ni kakasemasu yo!! “I will make the Ministry of Education write that we won thanks to me!!”

6 まだ中でエッジショットが まだなかでエッジショットが mada naka de EJJISHOTTO ga “Edgeshot, who is still inside”

7 ルミリオンがジーニストが RUMIRION ga JIINISUTO ga “and Lemillion and Jeanist”

1 緑谷が頑張ってるんだ みどりやががんばってるんだ Midoriya ga ganbatterunda “and Midoriya are all trying their best.”

2 たかが瞬き一つこらえるだけで たかがまばたきひとつこらえるだけで taka ga mabataki hitotsu koraeru dake de “To just hold back one blink of the eye”

3 弱音吐くワケないでしょう‼︎ よわねはくワケないでしょう‼︎ yowane haku WAKE nai deshou!! “is no reason to whine!!”

4 青春時代の経験が せいしゅんじだいのけいけんが seishun jidai no keiken ga “Experiences from adolescence”

5 人の一生を決定づける ひとのいっしょうをけっていづける hito no isshou wo ketteidzukeru “determine a person’s whole life.”

1 僕は何より ぼくはなにより boku wa nani yori “I, more than anything,”

2 人の感情を信頼している ひとのかんじょうをしんらいしている hito no kanjou wo shinrai shite iru “trust in people’s emotions.”

3 暗い人生を歩んだ彼が抱く友への想い… くらいじんせいをあゆんだかれがいだくともへのおもい… kurai jinsei wo ayunda kare ga idaku tomo e no omoi... “Feelings for a friend harbored by one* who walked a dark life...” (*Note: I used “one” to make it sound good in English, but in Japanese the word used here is the pronoun “he.”)

1 群訝山荘跡 （エンデヴァーVS AFO） ぐんがさんそうあと （エンデヴァーバーサスオール・フォー・ワン） gunga sansou ato (ENDEVAA BASAASU OORU FOO WAN) Gunga Mountain Villa Ruins (Endeavor VS All For One)

2 情報を持たぬ黒霧が即行動できるよう"志村の手"にはマイクロデバイスを埋めてある じょうほうをもたぬくろぎりがそくこうどうできるよう"しむらのて"にはマイクロデバイスをうめてある jouhou wo motanu Kurogiri ga soku koudou dekiru you “Shimura no te” ni wa MAIKURO DEBAISU wo umete aru “So that Kurogiri, who has no information, could immediately act, I embedded a micro-device in Shimura’s hand.”

3 伊口くんは成った！ いぐちくんはなった！ Iguchi-kun wa natta! “Iguchi-kun has succeeded!”

4 お父さん…!!! おとうさん…!!! otousan...!!! “Father...!!!”

5 そして soshite “And”

1 ホォォオオオオオクス…！ HOOOOOOOOKUSU...! “Haaaaaaaawks...!”

1 哀れな男の死は あわれなおとこのしは aware na otoko no shi wa “The death of a pitiful man”

2 一人の少女の胸に"敵意"を生んだ ひとりのしょうじょのむねに"てきい"をうんだ hitori no shoujo no mune ni “tekii” wo unda “gave birth to animosity in the heart of one young woman.”

3 全てを巻き込み怨恨を晴らしたい男は すべてをまきこみえんこんをはらしたいおとこは subete wo makikomi enkon wo harashitai otoko wa “A man who wants to swallow up everything and dispel [his] resentment”

4 そして少女に傾国の一手を与えた そしてしょうじょにけいこくのいってをあたえた soshite shoujo ni keikoku no itte wo ataeta “and then gave to the young woman the one method to destroy a country.”

5 さァ見ようじゃないか鷹見くん さァみようじゃないかたかみくん saA miyou ja nai ka Takami-kun “So now, shall we see, Takami kun?”

6 君があの時彼を最優先に処分していなければどうなっていたのか きみがあのときかれをさいゆうせんにしょぶんしていなければどうなっていたのか kimi ga ano toki kare wo saiyuusen ni shobun shite inakereba dou natte ita no ka “If you hadn’t disposed of him as your top priority back then, what would have happened?”

tagline 邂逅、再びー かいこう、ふたたびー kaikou, futatabi-- Chance encounter, once again--

7 ーーーそいつを殺せ‼︎今すぐ‼︎ ーーーそいつをころせ‼︎いますぐ‼︎ ---soitsu wo korose!! ima sugu!! “---Kill that guy!! Right now!!”

[sp0o0kylights]

Eddie was all about desecrating corpses. 

Particularly, the huge ones--and nothing was larger than the burnt out husk of Starcourt. 

Yellow caution tape, muddied and ripped from its time in the weather still decorated parts of the doors. 

The place used to be crawling with security, but that had eased off now, the job returning to a local outfit rather than the smooth and swift guards who previously haunted the joint in pairs. 

It was easy as two days spent camped out in his van, watching the main entrance and a few side doors. In no time at all, Eddie had schedules memorized, points of entry selected and even three possible escape routes should things get dicey.

He didn't expect them to. 

Not when he’d already rolled his checks and came up with a number that, were this an actual D&D game, would make him a happy man. 

It was always a point of contention between him and his Pa. This perception. The natural ability he had that good ‘ol dad just didn’t seem to possess. 

The one that made him patient long enough to get a feel for a gig. 

To know instinctively how hard a job might be, and how to go about doing it safely. 

(Eddie personally doesn't believe much of it is talent. Thinks it is in fact, forcibly learned, due to the nature of his upbringing. 

Grandma and Grandpa Munson, bless their dead, departed souls, had at least given something of a shit. Tried to keep family things family and work things work, even when said work was illegal as it gets. 

They understood things like appearance and public reputation. 

How that kept the pigs off your back and food on your table.)

His Pa had never cared for any of that. 

Eddie didn’t grow up with family meals, or even food in the house let alone on the table. He grew up watchful, forced to learn or take a hit meant for an adult in the process. To weigh the risks against the benefits, and how to charm the pants off an unsuspecting target while doing so. 

It was how he’d escaped his own prison sentence when his Pa finally got eyes too big for his abilities.

Eddi had gotten lucky in that situation. 

Or rather--he’d gotten Wayne. 

Wayne, who gave up his own room, his own bed, for his nephew. Had bought him his sweetheart on his sixteenth birthday and a van on his eighteenth. Both things were used, and a little battered around the edges, and Eddie had almost thrown up the day he accidentally found out Wayne had used his life savings for the damn car, but they were above and beyond anything he had any right too. 

Eddie would be damned without him. 

But he knows his uncle needs help. 

Can't pay for himself and Eddie. Never really could, and so has been giving his nephew literally everything he has in an effort to make up for it until Eddie could help pay his way. 

Not that a singular soul would trust a teenage Munson with such a precious thing as a part time job, and so Eddie had turned to the familiar. 

The mall fire, and the resulting flood of federal agents had really put a damper on his income the past few months. Drugs were risky, and getting riskier with them sniffing about, and things were getting tight again in a way they hadn’t in a long, long time. 

(All it had taken was finding the hidden stack of bills. 

Big ol’ words stamped in red topped every one. Bold letters screaming ‘Overdue’ and ‘Payment Missed’ and ‘Late Fees.’ 

One single letter had panicked Eddie more than any other, the one that clearly said Wayne had been talking to the payday loan place down the street, and he’d be damned if his shortcomings made his Uncle willingly walk into a debt pit so few climbed out of.) 

Growing up like he had, Eddie was trusted in certain circles. Had access to places many didn't as his sole inheritance, because he was known.

 Someone who didn't rat, who could be trusted with given tasks. Who kept to the criminal code, and was good about not backstabbing you if caught.

He’d hit up a few old connections, dropped some hints. Put out “feelers” as one might say. 

Got a nibble and soon enough, Eddie was back in business, getting called up and offered a few small tasks for decent dough. 

Sometimes it was fetching information. 

Sometimes it was ferrying an item.

Today, it was a retrieval.

There was something someone wanted in the ruins of Starcourt--and they were offering an insane amount of money to get it.  

The plans hadn't made sense, not at first. The instructions Eddie had been given sounded outlandish, if not outright total bunk. 

Like the existence of a multi level basement under Starcourt? How the hell had no one caught that being built? 

Or that the security systems down there could possibly still be turned on? After four months? 

Who was even paying for it? 

Eddie had heard stupider things though, and the pay for this little jaunt was good. Too good to pass up. 

"They want a local in case something happens and the rescue squad comes running in. That way, it's just a little trespassing fun. The town deviant getting his kicks in the big scary mall, and not what they think it is." His connection had told him, meeting with Eddie in a Mcdonalds the town over. 

The place had a play palace, big enough to host a number of screaming rugrats. It made for a great cover as they pretended to be just two men in overalls, getting burgers on their lunch. 

Not a soul could hear a sound over the kids screaming, and if a blueprint sat between them then, well, if it looks like a maintenance worker, and it talks like a maintenance worker…

People never did look twice.

"And what else exactly would they think this is?" Eddie asked, munching on the food he got for free as part of even entertaining the offer. 

"A retrieval, Double D." 

Eddie hated that nickname.

"Some rich kid bit it in the fire, and his parents are paying out top dollar to get a few of his things, seein’ as the feds wouldn’t let anybody back in after they condemned the place." The guy, whose name was Mickey said. 

He idly traced a finger along the lines of the blueprint, the path he was wanting Eddie to take. 

(The path Eddie would later ignore, on grounds that it was going to get him caught.) 

 “Specifically a signet ring and car keys.”

“Car keys?” Eddie had asked, mostly in a bid for more information. Mickey was the kind of guy you could breadcrumb into giving more information than he intended to, if one played their cards right.

And Eddie was a damn good poker player. 

“Yup. Goes to a BMW--which they want you to drive to a safe place. Parents think he lost it somewhere around,” Mickey’s finger stopped, before tapping the blueprint twice. “Here.”

Something had niggled in the back of Eddie’s head. The first whispers of recognition, of a fact that he knew something about this--something he couldn’t yet recall. 

He wasn’t stupid enough to ignore it. 

“Who's the kid?” He’d asked. 

Mostly because he was curious, partially because it was a way to ease in the real questions he wanted to ask.

Like what a rich kid was doing four levels down in Starcourt the night of the fire. 

“Does it matter?” Mickey said, but dug into his pockets anyway. Retrieved a little 2 by 3 wallet photo, done in the traditional High School Picture Day style. 

He’d tossed it on the table, and Eddie didn’t react. 

Kept his face perfectly blank, even as his stomach contracted and his breath caught in his chest. 

Carefully pulled the picture to him, to make a show of examining it. 

“Don’t know him.” He lied after a moment, fighting to get his breathing back under control before Mickey figured out what was up. 

“Told you it didn’t matter. What matters is that you get the shit. And hey, while you’re down there…” 

Mickey talked a bit more, and idly, Eddie listened. He knew this little B&E was going to have more components than just retrieving a few things. Had long figured out that this entire front of retrieving “some rich kids keys” was just that--a front. 

Word on the street was that Starcourt was hiding something--something a lot of very powerful people were getting increasingly interested in. He’d rolled his eyes when he caught wind of the first little rumblings, the rumors and whispers that the thing was shrouded in Government secrets and conspiracies, but hadn’t been able to ignore the shit that had come after. 

Likely, the people who had hired him and Mickey understood they had to act now, before someone else did, to see if anything worthwhile was actually down there. 

The real question is why the hell they were using Steve Harrington’s death to do it--when Eddie knew for a fact that Steve Harrington was alive. 

Or alive as anyone could be, at two am at a Shell gas station. 

“Alright.” Eddie said finally, pulling the blueprint towards himself before rolling it up, making sure to casually roll up Harrington’s picture with it. “You got me interested. Half up front and I’m in.”

Mickey grinned at him. “Knew you would be, kid.” 

One hand shake and a hefty envelope later, and Eddie found himself on the way to Starcourt on his very first stakeout. 

It was that first initial look that confirmed it--Harrington’s prized BMW was in fact, still sitting in the parking lot.

Abandoned by rich assholes who absolutely could have paid to have it towed.

Which led to a domino effect of stakeouts, late nights and confrontations, up to and including his present position, counting down the minutes before he could break into Starcourt.

“Ready?” He murmured, and one could be forgiven for thinking he was talking to himself given how quietly he said it.

They would be wrong. 

“Yeah.” The not-so-dead rich kid drawled from the passenger seat.

Eddie tossed a grin at Harrington, who rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Come on, Stevie.” He purred. “Let’s go find out who impersonated your parents, and why they want that ring you supposedly own so badly.” 

“Honestly dude I just want my car back.” 

“That too.” 

[scoops-aboy86]

By The Heart (Secret Admirer pt 2)

Steddie Week 2024, July 2: Hands / touch starved / Invisible Touch by Genesis

wc: 2136 / rated: T / set between seasons 2 and 3 / also on ao3

After the world fell apart a second time in November of ‘84, Steve had finished out the rest of his senior year in a daze. Partly because Billy Hargrove had broken a fucking plate over his head, giving him a small scar by his hairline that the doctor said would fade and recurring headaches that the doctor said might stick around anywhere from a few months to forever. 

It’s been more than a few months and the headaches are only slightly less frequent and a tiny bit less severe. 

He graduated, barely. His dad keeps dropping pointed comments about how his parents let him stay in their house rent-free after high school, how he’d saved up while attending a nearby college by not having to worry about the cost of a dorm or basic meals, and that it is his gratitude towards them that has moved him to offer the same to Steve. Usually said comments come after Steve tries to sidestep some sort of menial task, and it always feels like a threat.Steve just grits his teeth and takes it—refills his dad’s drink when the bottle is already literally right by the man’s hand, washes the family car after dinner when both his parents know that Steve has a shift at Scoops first thing in the morning, whatever. He can’t afford to get kicked out right now. 

His job at Scoops Ahoy is shit, all bright fluorescent lights and kids screaming and everything getting sticky for a measly minimum wage, but that probably reflects the quality of the job application he’d submitted. 

He has no friends, no prospects, no one in his corner except a bunch of incoming freshmen and the only one who really seems to want him around is off at some sort of smart people camp that he’d never even heard of… Go figure. 

But he has Secret Admirer. 

Okay, what Steve has is a pen pal who has a PO box and prefers to remain anonymous, possibly because Steve is an embarrassing person to have a crush on these days. And it’s really stupid that he thinks of them as first name Secret, last name Admirer, but it’s not like he hasn’t tried to come up with better names! Unfortunately, there are so many things Secret Admirer has called him (sweetheart, darling, dearest, honey, baby) that he can’t really think of anything original with those constantly rotating in his head… He can’t use them, though. It’d be weird. 

The first letter had been shoved into his locker in the last few weeks of school, looking like someone either wrote it with their non-dominant hand or had also suffered a blow to the head recently, and he hadn’t known what to make of it at first. In fact, he’d considered the possibility that Tommy or Billy were playing some sort of prank on him… but he didn’t think either of them could write “To Steve, the heart of my heart” without bursting into homophobic flames, and if it was Carol she would’ve done her girliest handwriting with hearts dotting the eyes. And his Secret Admirer had mentioned things no one else in his life seemed to care about. 

Like, 

I hope you’re feeling better. Sometimes I notice you squinting or grimacing in the classes we have in common… Are you still getting headaches? Do you get enough rest? You probably already know this, but mental and physical rest are super important for getting your handsome self all recovered, big boy. 

And,

I had a concussion once, not a bad one but it really left an impression. Felt like I was trying to think through a head full of soup for weeks. It sucks that teachers didn’t seem to cut you much slack because, just saying, I noticed they used to do that a lot more when you were still on the basketball and swim teams. Jock privilege placed above consideration of an actual, serious injury? I’m sorry, but that’s the rankest compound of villainous smell that ever offended nostril, sweetheart, and you deserve better. 

So, yeah. Clearly his Secret Admirer is a nerd who doesn’t necessarily have the best opinion of jocks… but still took the time to notice all those things and write kindly about them. It felt nice, knowing that at least one person out there noticed, maybe even cared. 

And when that letter turned out not to be a one-off, a few more letters in his locker and then one in his mailbox, postmarked and everything, after graduation? Steve was hooked, enough to start writing self-consciously back. 

Which has brought him to the point of wanting so badly to meet this person that he’s stooped to begging, and it’s not even getting him anywhere. 

It’s occurred to him that it could be a guy, of course it has. Steve might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he knows it happens. He’d had a friend in middle school, Todd Fischer, nice guy, totally normal kid—got caught kissing some boy in the next grade up behind the gym and turned out to be the worst sprinter of the two. The Fischers had moved out of Hawkins a few weeks later and Steve hadn’t heard anything from or about Todd since. They’d been halfway through reading Romeo & Juliet in English at the time, and Steve remembers thinking when they got to the end of the play that at least things hadn’t gone that badly for Todd and whoever the other kid was. He’s old enough now to know that it could have; between Todd being such a nice kid, Barb dying in his own backyard, and the threat of government agents coming out of the woodwork if he ever breathes a word about certain secrets, the thought leaves a bad taste in Steve’s mouth. 

Anyway, if it is a guy, that would explain why Secret Admirer keeps dancing around his pleas to meet. And the initially disguised handwriting—which had been dropped by the second mailed letter, along with a brief, sheepish apology. 

But it could also be a girl who’s really shy or something. Steve doesn’t want to assume and then look like a total idiot further down the road. Whoever it is, all Steve knows is that he doesn’t want to lose them. He has to play this smart, play it cool… because he knows himself, and already knows that they have him by the heart based on words alone. 

The latest letter is in his hands, crinkled a little at the edges, and Steve can’t help himself from rereading the fifth paragraph yet again. 

… those indecently tiny shorts. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about running my fingers up the inside of those thighs. Or my mouth. Whichever you think you’d like best, baby, I’m not picky. And while I do like ice cream, particularly strawberry with rainbow sprinkles in a cone, I can think of something else I’d love to wrap my hand around and run my tongue over before any drips can escape. You just think about that, hmm? Maybe share some of those thoughts in your reply, if I haven’t scared you off…

He’s not scared off. Doesn’t need to know exactly who put pen to paper to imagine hands and lips running up his legs, either, an invisible touch that sends shivers along his spine. 

Okay, maybe it’s been a while. Between striking out from behind the Scoops counter and not really trying all that hard anyway, the only action Steve’s seen is from his own hand… and this letter. He has thoughts, alright, but has a much better idea of how to translate them into action than words. And this is his problem with the whole pen pal only thing, his natural charm (if he has any left) is absolutely useless in this medium. 

The other problem is that he really, really wants to jerk off about this, except he’s got almost no details to fuel the fantasy. He knows that Secret Admirer had a concussion once, but not what color or length or texture or style their hair is; knows they’re on the fringes of popularity and not really into sports, but nothing about their height or build or how they might move against him. Hell, he doesn’t even know if they’re a girl or a guy, isn’t sure if he should try to imagine boobies and painted nails or stubbled cheeks and big hands. 

Secret Admirer has mentioned being a smoker though, of both tobacco and grass, and Steve is not exactly proud of how strongly this makes him want a cigarette just because it’s all he has to go on. He has work in under an hour and Robin hates the smell of cigarettes, will be extra vicious for their entire shift if he comes in reeking of smoke. 

He’ll have to figure out something else…

Dear Secret Admirer, Thanks for writing again, I was really glad to get your letter. I don’t sleep with them under my pillow because sometimes my pillow ends up on the floor and I don’t want to drool all over them. I keep them in a box in the back of my closet, because sometimes my parents have the cleaning lady do my bedroom without telling me and I don’t want her going through my stuff or putting it in weird places that I can never find again.  Sorry for laughing at you You must not have seen me last week when I threw a banana peel at my coworker for It’s not being humble if I don’t deserve Yeah, fuck high school.  Sorry for not rewriting this, I’m running out of paper and my dad’ll kill me if I break into his office to get more I definitely thought about what you said in your last letter. I thought about it a lot. It’s hard to figure out how to explain what though, because I wanted to picture you like you were probably picturing me when you were writing it. You obviously know what I look like, but I don’t know who you are so I had to get creative. (Which isn’t my strong suit. So if this is stupid maybe we could just never mention it again?) Since I don’t know what you look like and it’d be weird to try and picture you anyway, and then what if I’m not even close and that makes it seem like I don’t like you for who you are? I’m not sure if that makes sense. But anyway, since I don’t know what you look like I pictured you dressed like a ninja.  Hear me out, okay? You’re such a mystery. Ninjas are mysterious, and dressed all black to blend in with the shadows. You can’t see their hair or face and they wear gloves because you can tell a lot about a person by their hands. I guess what I’m saying is I imagined you sneaking into my room at night when the lights are off. Totally silent but with this powerful presence, you know? I think if I were in the same room as you it’d feel like that moment right before the whistle goes off at a swim meet, because that’s just like, holy shit it’s about to happen and your muscles are all tense but ready but you’re waiting, coiled like a snake. So I’m coiled like a snake and you’re still a ninja and I’m not very good at this. I’ve done it over the phone a few times but that’s different. I don’t know where I’m going with this just sitting writing this alone in my room with Genesis playing in the background so I’m going to stop. Just trust me, it was hot. If you ever want to exchange numbers I’d be happy to tell you all about it sometime.  It feels weird to end like that, so I’ll also tell you that I tried reading that Hobbit book you suggested and you were right, it’s a lot easier than the Rings book that the kids I babysit tried to bully me into reading. Bibo is freaking out about all these dwarves in his house and I can relate, it sounds like when those kids all show up and try to rope me into driving them around town. At least they haven’t tried to make me steal anything or try to take on a damn dragon yet. Hopefully this book won’t give them any ideas.  — Steve PS If that was so dumb you changed your mind about still writing to me, please let me down easy. Seriously it would be no hard feelings. At least I still have a great ass and great hair, so I’ve got that going for me.

Tag list (open): @hotluncheddie @lawrencebshoggoth @sofadofax @tangerinesteve @steviewashere

@cryingglightningg @theresebelivett @sleepy-steve @rozzieroos @lunaraindrop

@just-my-latest-hyperfixation @wheneverfeasible @swimmingbirdrunningrock @yesdangerpls @matchingbatbites

@ihavekidneys @p0lybl4nkk @grtwdsmwhr @cheesedoctor @thetinymm

@practicallybegging @fuzzyduxk @greatwerewolfbeliever

[angelisverba]

kryptonite

in which y/n smokes weed (sometimes) and she thinks her dealer is super cute, and harry always gives her a little extra because she’s sweet

word count: 8.2k

pairing: plug!h and y/n

warning: if you are uncomfortable with the use of drugs, please do not continue reading!! i DO NOT want to see any messages in my inbox that talk of ‘glamourizing’ this drug. if you don’t like it-> don’t read it. mentions of bullying, peer pressure, 

author’s notes: the second and final part to this fic will be posted next week, feb. 02 at 8am pst.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

Harry hated parties. 

Admittedly, they were a third of his source of income, but unless it wasn’t a gathering exclusively composed of his close circle, he didn’t want anything to do with it. They were too loud and sticky, messy and smelly. Red solo-cups littered at every available corner, half filled with Coca-cola, vodka, and the occasional sad, cigarette butt. Scantily clad girls and ‘discreet’ boys that didn’t know how to read body language that clearly screamed ‘I’M NOT INTERESTED!’. It just all got his nerves because half the time he knew they were only using him to get reduced prices on the marijuana he spent ample time on growing. 

He tried, as a general rule, to limit his reluctant, brooding attendance to parties he knew would only consist of Mitch, Sarah, Adam, and the handful of other friends that just wanted to have a good time and a nice snuggle on a cramped couch that rumbled with intoxicated laughter. He liked being in a crowd he knew, it was much more intimate, less pressure-filled. He didn’t have to maintain that ‘polite’ air that was socially required in an atmosphere of people he didn’t know. No niceties or complimentary. When it was just him and his friends, all of that ‘quiet’ and ‘please, thank you’ shit wasn’t necessary. He could jump straight to his affectionate, giggly, sprawling-all-over-everyone’s-lap self, and no one would question it because they know it’s what he preferred.

But, at a big house party like the one where he was at, where everyone knew him as The One Guy Who Sells The Good Shit, Harry had to pretend to be polite and quiet and small, and adopt an overall stiff persona that made him prickly and cold. This wasn’t him. He didn’t like this, and wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for his very convincing friend Mitch, who noticed that business was slow and assured him that he was bound to 1) ‘sell a shit-ton’ and 2) gather a handful of new clients once they realized that what he had to dispense was pretty good quality for a subjectively cheap price. 

Mitch had been right, of course. 

The small black backpack of goodies that Harry had brought to this inconspicuous function had been empty in less than two hours, and he’d repeated his number enough times that it started to feel forgein on his tongue. Once or twice, a few girls had flashed him what could be called ‘bedroom eyes’, but he wasn’t in the mood to get his rocks off. When he came with a purpose to sell, any need, want, or hope for sex flew out of the window because then he ran the risk of girls thinking their ‘connection’ entitled them to some sort of discount on weed, and he didn’t particularly fancy ruining his post-coitous bliss with the awkward exchange of rejection that followed their questions. 

Plus, it made him feel used. 

A good three hours have passed, and he’s about to tell Mitch he’s ready to leave when his line of sight is snagged on the diamond image- no, a beautifully deceiving mirage, because there’s no way this girl is real. Not when she looks like a ditzy sprite, a walking mermaid, a glimmering fairy, a heart-wrenching siren, and any other bewitching, ethereal creatures that stole men’s souls upon the first breath they took in their presence. She looked like one of his psychedelic hallucinations that whispered sweet things to him and played with the ends of his hair when he’s in the lull of shrooms, brought to life. Grounded, real, and three-dimensional, not just in the airy, green-leafed recesses of his muddled mind. 

This pretty little enchantment that caught his eye had floated into the room on two clumsy, shoddy-sneaker covered feet that extended from bambi-like legs with knees that were almost comically knocking against one another. She walked slanted, her shoulder pressed against her friend’s, whom Harry might have been able to recognize as Sarah if he spared his gaze, but that was impossible. So, he thought to himself, this is how magnets work? Even if he wanted to, he knew he wouldn’t be able to dislocate his line of sight from the socket it had carved itself into. Her cheeks, rounded with laughter and smiles, were dusted with the telling, glimmering sheen created by alcohol, and her eyes were bright, shiny, and starry from the handful of lamps that lit the living room. The slope of her waist, semi-shrouded deliciously from the billowy fabric of her powder blue summer dress (he couldn’t fucking believe she was wearing a dress when it was windy outside. Did she not care for her health?) and it made him think of the marvelous illusions created from marble. He was fond of going to museums and staring- for hours, at times- at statues of women draped in silk that were replicated with such precision, it was almost as if the wind was right there, rippling against the tantalizing figure of the unidentified female, so much so that an man was inspired to share his tortured vision. In solid form, nonetheless. 

It made him wonder what the artist could see in real life. What they envisioned the model to be like underneath the heavenly fibers that twisted and turned restlessly with running air, preventing a clear grasp on the body underneath. Spurred to the point of such desolation, left with a hunger to resurrect what their mind’s eye consumed in physical format to live on forever and torment anyone else who looked. 

He understood then. Understood that hunger and want for more. 

She spun prettily like one of those ceramic ballerinas in a golden music box owned by children of important people, and that damn dress was both too loose and too free, moving around her with a protective fluidity from hungry, lovelorn wolves like him.  He can’t hear her clearly because he’s too far away, but the snippets of her laugh that his ears manage to funnel down to his eardrums sound like a fairy’s tinkle. 

She is a dream. Head thrown back before she replies with such enthusiasm and a strange half-lucidity that it has him leaning in to try and hear the drunken words that escape her soundless lips. He’s stuck in a moment of frozen time with her and only her. There’s a pinch behind his sternum when her head moves in his direction, and a strong titanic-worthy sink when she stops before even reaching his gaze. The words of some pop song from the early 2000’s skim cheesily through the background of his brain like a lonesome draft. Where have you been all my life?

Tunnel vision, he believes it might be called. 

Next to him, Mitch bumps his shoulder, shattering his dangerously sharp focus with mumbled words that Harry doesn’t quite register with complete comprehension because they sound warped, as if they were spoken through a thick layer of glass or from underwater. 

“What?” He blinks, his eyes stuck on her but his head rotated enough to the side that his friend knows he’s listening. He’s afraid that if he stops looking, or even blinks, she'll evaporate into thin air and he’ll spend the rest of his life wondering if she really was a mythical being conjured from his second-hand high. 

Mitch clears his throat and hides a knowing twitch of his mouth beneath the rim of his drink, “I said her name is y/n.”

Harry, distracted and oblivious, is unaware that Mitch caught on to the focus of his attention, asks, “Who?” 

This time, he can’t help but huff a chuckle, “This girl, H. Her name is y/n. She just started working with Sarah. Sarah says she keeps to herself, but there’s been a bit of… bullying, so she invited her out for a good time.” 

“Bullying?” A faucet of anger opens in his major arteries and replaces his blood with a river of internalized rage. Bullying? Bullying her? His head whips around with enough speed to crack the vertebrae in his neck, and his thick brows furrowed with a fierce expression that would scare anyone that looked at him then (Mitch being exempt because he knew there would be no harm coming from that look). “What do y’mean bullying?” He spits the word out like it tastes foul. 

Mitch takes another sip from the red solo cup, taking time to compose his face before continuing casually, “yeah. Y/n’s new, sweet, and quiet. Sarah says the others at work think that she’s their personal coffee runner or something. She tries to help her when she can, but she's not always around ‘cause of meetings or whatever.”

Harry sucks on his teeth and shakes his head, twisting again to observe y/n with mooney eyes, bitterness still simmering within him at the treatment she receives at her workplace. Especially when the smile he was so fortunate to witness made him taste caramel and honey and peach nectar and all of the sweet treats that traversed through his esophagus when the munchies hit. It warmed him to finally have a lovely name to attach to a lovely name. 

Y/n. It settled nicely in his inner monologue, and he wanted to speak it. Test it on his tongue to see if it molded his lips as nicely as he imagined it would. It fit her, he thought. Y/n. Weirdly, Harry itched to throw it casually in a conversation with her. An exclamation. A wheezed whisper in the middle of a breathless laugh. In a greeting. In a goodbye. To grab her attention. To console. It was ridiculous! He didn’t even know her but he wanted, badly, for this party to transform into one of the more comfortable ones he had with his friends. For her to sit next to him on the couch his arm around the space behind her as she leaned into him unconsciously as the conversation continued. To grab her bicep in a nervous giggle when he stumbled after one too many. To share a bowl of chips with her (lime was his favorite, but he would eat barbecue flavored ones- his least favorite- if they were hers). 

“Whose-”a burp, “motorcycle is blocking the driveway?!” 

A clearly drunk male slurred from the front of the house, an arm raised as he swayed in a half-assed attempt to grab everyone’s attention, the drink in his hand sloshing onto the carpet and Harry winced, half from being startled and half from the suddenly stiffness that came with several pairs of eyes landing his way. 

“Sorry, mate. That would be me.” He raised a finger in the air and bent at the waist to deposit his unfinished drink on a low black coffee table by his knees. He shrugged, rolling his lips into his mouth and turning to Mitch with his shoulders lifting with the beginnings of a hug, “‘was just gonna leave, anyway.”

“Early night, H?” Mitch mumbled, pressing a quick kiss on his cheek while embracing his friend, the ghost of a laugh lingering in his nasal passage. Harry’s cheeks turned a light pink and his nostrils flared in his attempt to hide his smile. 

“Yup.” Harry returned the kiss, his nose digging onto the scruff of Mitch’s cheek, tickling him. Stepping back from their show of affection, he patted his palms against his thigh to make sure he had his phone and keys, and tugged the strap of the small backpack on his shoulder to verify it’s presence. 

Mitch resumed his leaning position against the door frame, hand in his pocket, “alright. Text me when you get home.” 

“‘Course.” Sparing one last glance in the charming sprite’s direction as he said his final goodbye, he was devastated to find that she had, in fact, disappeared, just as he’d feared. 

He almost stayed to find her and watch over y/n like some sort of guardian angel, but he didn’t have the guts to go up to her. He hadn’t even finished one drink, so liquid courage wasn’t there to help him, not when he had to ride his motorcycle home. He almost asked Mitch to keep an eye on her for him, but it wasn’t necessary. Sarah was with her, and therefore he’s already watching her. 

And from the comforting, yet teasing, twinkle in his friend’s eyes told Harry everything he needed to know. He knew that he was well on his way to cracking his head open over his heels. 

Their friendship had always been one of little words. 

******

Harry’s been delivering weed for a while now.  

What started as a side hustle to obtain much needed income when times were tough developed into an interesting near full-time job with amazing results and benefits (he got to smoke weed for free now, since he grew it himself, but there was always that whole ‘don’t get high off your own supply’ rule, so he did limit himself). He had thought that he would have trouble attaining customers, but word spread like wildfire amongst his close circle of friends, which all happened to be free spirited individuals that harnessed the powers of nature, and then their friends, trusted friends, and so on and so forth. 

It got to a point where he needed a separate phone for dealing alone because the ‘rush hour’ would meddle with his personal texts, leading to frequent ‘wrong person’ texts, and he traded his crappy car for a decent motorcycle so he could get to drop-off locations quicker. The added ‘badass’ effect also stroked his ego, so it was a wonderful bonus. 

But the annoyance of being interrupted in the middle of something like, let’s say… an episode of Hannibal with a warm bowl of buttered popcorn in his lap always came in the same frustrating amounts. 

Like now. 

The Netflix screen pauses on Mads Mikkelsen’s face, spouting some bullshit about a tea cup, when his phone dings with a new notification. The sound is a specifically selected ‘ding!’ that is different from his personal phone so it’s easier to differentiate the purpose of the incoming message, and a rumbling groan vibrates from the back of his throat. Throwing his head back against his beat up, brown leather couch, Harry slams his hand around him until his ringed fingers click against the sleek device, and it automatically lights up as he brings it up to his face. 

Unknown Number: Hi! Mitch gave me this number and said I’d be able to buy some pre-rolls?

Fucking Mitch. He often passes the number off to his buddies at the record store he works at. The dude started typing again, and the grey bubble with three dots wiggles at the bottom corner of the new text chat. Harry waited. 

Unknown Number: If it’s too late for you, I understand. 

It was, in fact, too late for him. But, money was money. He technically wasn’t doing anything important, so he would go and deliver to this-

Unknown Number: My name is y/n, by the way :D 

Not a dude. 

Fuck. 

Not a dude. 

The popcorn went flying off his chest and spilled all over the floor as he jumped up from his seat. Fuck. Y/n? Y/n with a smiley face. The girl from the party?  His heart came to a stuttering stop, screeching like tired on asphalt breaking at a high speed as he came to the realization. The girl has haunted him like a stubborn will ‘o wisp for the past week was texting him. Albeit, it is for a service, but it was still something. The marijuana aspect of his situation didn’t bother him. He sold and consumed, it would be hypocritical of him if it did. Besides, she was an adult. She could do what she liked. 

His jaw is on the floor, his eyes popping out of his head and he can’t believe what’s happening to him at that moment. He’d kiss Mitch on the mouth next time he saw him. It’s not until he sees the grey bubbles appear and disappear quickly again that he remembers the normal, usual response to this kind of situation is to type back. With trembling fingers, he pressed on keys, tapped on the backspace button, and repeated those motions several times because he had no idea what he was supposed to say- no, what was right to say to her. He had a standard response when it came to people who wanted to buy from him, but sending her prewritten message in his notes app that consisted of a short, perfunctory greeting followed by a menu-structured list of what he had available that day and their prices. There was no way in hell he’d send that to her. 

Harry: Hello! It’s not too late for me to deliver. What can I help you with?

Unknown Number: Mitch mentioned that you offered a 2 for $35 deal? 

Unknown Number: Is that still available? 

Harry did offer a two-joint for thirty five bucks deal. Pre-rolled joints in cherry rolling paper about as long as his middle finger to the halfway point of his palm, semi-thickly packed with a hybrid blend of the two Mary-Jane plants (Sativa and Indica, none of that Maui Wowie, Blue Dream, or other strains; he liked to keep it simple) he had in a specially insulated box in the garage attached to the house he rented. It was his most popular sell; decent amount, excellent high, excellent trip. But… two? Was she smoking with someone else? Or was she saving one for a later time? He didn’t think she was the type to smoke two at once, but then again he didn’t know her, so her reasons were unclear to him. 

However, if he arrived at her location and she was with someone (a male, specifically) his night would be ruined, because then that would mean that any marginal chance that he had with her was out of the question. And he couldn’t ask her right away because they hadn’t even properly met yet, and that would be weird and rude. That didn’t help his overthinking tendencies, and in a matter of seconds, Harry was sitting at the edge of his couch, popcorn crunching underneath his butt as a frown settled on his handsome features. Jaw set, lips puckered in contemplation with a pinch between his drawn eyebrows that casted shadows over his emerald eyes. He looked menacing, and his smattering collection of tattoos didn’t help either. 

Or his motorcycle. 

Or the intimidating stigma that came with his title of ‘plug’. 

Stubborn as he was, this look of ‘don’t fucking talk to me’ would stay with him for the rest of the night, all because he couldn’t restrain himself from coming to incorrect conclusions. He didn’t know if y/n had a boyfriend, if she was with a friend, or if she would even be interest in him, but the sour thoughts that she did have a boyfriend and wouldn’t be interested in a ‘lowlife’ drug dealer loomed over him like a murky, stormy, thundering clouds. 

He sent his response and changed her contact name. 

Harry: I do! 

Harry: Did you want to see the rest of the menu or are you set?

He knew he was being short with her. His messages were missing their customary smiley faces, the extra exclamation marks, the occasional x’s and o’s. He didn’t even type with capitalized letters, but in order to refrain from diving even further into this hole of hope, he decided that the change in his style of grammar would help him become emotionally distant. He just couldn’t bring himself to add them while he was in a stubborn, self-induced slump. While he looked angry, glittery butterflies beat their cellophane wings inside his ribcage and shook magical glitter onto his intestines, making them warm and queasy. 

Y/n: I think that’ll be all for tonight

The causal mention of ‘for tonight’ gives him hope. That implied there would be other nights, and even though he’s currently grumpy because relationships are fucking complicated, he wanted to see her again and again. 

Harry: Send your address, please. 

She sends her location. 

Harry: I’ll be there in 15 minutes. 

Since he’s already half dressed in black jeans and a white Fruit of the Loom t-shirt from his earlier afternoon deliveries, he only has to part the crystal bead curtain in the doorframe of his living room to grab the leather jacket hanging from a bright yellow coat rack besides his door, and the backpack that he left in a slump besides his shoes (already packed with goods). He doesn’t think twice about the popcorn that’s scattered all over his floor and couch or that the Netflix “are you still there?” screen blinks black when he picks up his keys from the hook next to his door. 

The garage opened when he pressed the button inside the kitchen hall, and he stepped out through the side door leading to the space where he kept his motorcycle. The owners before him had left a shit-load of junk that had taken up most of the space, and with their permission, he sold and threw most of it away. For the most part, it was empty. A bench, some boxes, and the white-refrigerator like rectangular box underneath the worktable along with his ride were the only things in there. 

Grumbling and pouting like a petulant child, Harry clipped on his black helmet, flipped the visor down with two slender fingers, and dropped the backpack into the compartment attached to the backseat. A button on his keys closed the garage door behind him as he kicked aside the stand and swerved with a screech onto the road, the night air wrapping around bare throat as he cut through at a higher velocity than was surely legal on a residential street, but he didn’t see it as a crime when the heart was involved. He could picture himself explaining to the officer that pulled hi over in a hypothetical situation, that he was on his way to deliver drugs to the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, and the officer nodding solemnly at his noble cause. 

Totally realistic. 

Cars honked when he cut them off abruptly, and he gathered stares from the handful of people that were still wandering along the streets, spilling out at random intervals from bars. He had to cut through bits of the city to get to where she lived, and the three red lights that stalled his perusal were lucky that they were government property or else he would have damaged them in a severe fit of impatient rage. He tapped the tips of his shit-colored vans against the road and clenched his ringed fingers around the handlebars, engine roaring with pending release. He should have grabbed leather gloves, he thinks, if not to impress her, then at least to keep his fingers warm because it was an especially chilly night. 

Harry’s pulling up to a brick building in exactly fifteen minutes. There’s fire escape ladders trickling down the side, and cement stairs leading up to a brown oak door with a thin window pane slightly left ajar while a burning yellow light seeps in a long bar across the steps like a satin ribbon. Several windows are bright with light from the inside, and the spare streetlamps that cast a spotlight on the sidewalk make the street unsettling, like someone is hiding in the shadows extending from tree trunks. Harry doesn’t like it one bit, and he hopes y/n isn’t walking these streets by herself at night.

He’s simultaneously taking his helmet off and reaching for his phone in his back pocket when he hears her small peep coming from the door. 

“Hi!”

And then, she’s all he can see, hear, think. She’s just as absorbing and hypnotizing as the first time he saw her, even though she’s standing in what is clearly pajamas. A long, sage knitted sweater that ends at the tips of her fingers and just above her knees, making her look like a leafy blob. Black sweatpants that are just as loose and baggy shadow the faint silhouette of her legs. Y/n is fiddling with her fingers, picking whatever color nail polish paints her nails (Harry can’t see because he’s too far away) and it makes him want to soothe her hands with his own. She’s tugging her bottom lip between her teeth and she probably doesn’t even realize that her eyebrows are furrowed and the bunch on her brow-bone casts comic-like shadows across her pretty little face. 

Stupidly, because he can’t think of anything else to say other than ‘hello’ but he thinks that’s lame, he clears his throat and says, “how’d you know I was here?”

“Your… uhm- your motorcycle,” she points with a finger to the machinery beneath his bum. He’s leaning against it, not wanting to intimidate her by crowding her space in a dark-ish place but he doesn’t realize it actually makes him look very intimidating and ‘bad-boy’ looking. Especially with the leather jacket, “was kinda loud.”

“Mmm,” he hums his acknowledgement, because at that last corner he had purposefully revved the engine more than necessary. To impress her or to sate his devilish tendencies, was unclear. The space between his collarbones feels like it’s inflating and deflating with every rapid pulse of his heartbeat, and for the first time in a while, he doesn’t know where his ‘game’ is. He feels lame, at a loss for how to act around an angel when he was nowhere near her level. Hell, did this count as corruption of her innocence? He was selling her drugs for fuck’s sake. 

At this realization, a heavy, sticky, nasty weight slathers itself all over his back and it can only be described as guilt. Should he be selling her weed? Should he even be morally conscious at this point? He sells weed to teenagers when he’s sure they aren’t narcs, but this wasn’t some zit-faced twerp. 

This was y/n.

A few seconds of silence pass and she’s just staring at him, her lips rolling like there are words she's holding in and Harry staring at her with a closed-off expression, thick chocolate eyebrows furrowed deep in concentration because he’s memorizing every curve of her face to look back on when she wasn’t with him anymore. It’s after her first intake of breath with her mouth open that he snaps out of it and twists hurriedly to yank out the pink baggie with shiny red cherries printed on them. His current special, though he saved the decorated packaging for his closer group of friends because he knew it made them happy and he loved seeing that smile on their faces, but he wasn’t going to tell her that (and secretly he hopes it might put a dent on his irrational guilt).   

“Here are y’cherry joints,” he holds it out, pinched between two fingers and his lips are a hard line as his heart beats out of his chest because- oh, god} she’s stepping closer and she smells really good and- 

“‘Kay, uhm…” She takes the bag from him and mentally, Harry curses because she chooses to cup the underside of the bag and that wipes all chances of their fingers accidentally touching. She won’t meet his eyes, she’s shifty on her feet, and he doesn’t know how to tell her not to be nervous without sounding like a creep, “I’ve n-never done this before, and Mitch didn’t say if you took cash or Venmo so I brought my phone and wallet because I wasn’t sure which one you preferred.” 

His heart goes through the life cycle of a dandelion. It blooms, yellow with happiness and new life breathed into his seedling soul by the sound of her voice, and transforms into the wispy tufts that fly away, ditzy and twirling from her sweet breath. All the while she holds him in her hand, smiling. 

But all of these feelings are hidden away under his mask of self-preservation, writhing and squirming like worms. He gives away nothing, his eyes looking a little dead even though the in-between space where his head meets with the nape of his neck is damp with nervous sweat and he remains stiff and lazily posed against his motorcycle because he’s sure if he didn’t have that support his knees would knock together and sound like the cue ball hitting a winning shot in an empty pool hall.

Carding his hand through his unruly curls, he realizes that he should’ve styles his hair before leaving the house or foregone the helmet entirely, not caring about dying because first official impressions should be killer, and the extra harsh cut in his British drawl when he rasps, “cash is fine,” has to do with his own annoyance.  

Y/n is flustered, evidence of that clearly sprawled all over her cheeks and base of her throat which he can see even in the darkness. She lifts the front end of her sweater with a paw-hand and Harry’s insides explode. Her phone and folded dollar bills are squeezed between the band of her bottoms and bare skin of her stomach. For just a second, the beautiful second in which she plucks the money from her body, he catches sight of a white, lacy bra-band that looks glorious while backdropped by the plane of her abdomen. He discovers the meaning of life and death, and wishes for a bit of both because this is torture. 

The back of his mouth is drier than the sahara desert. Two tender fingers give him Holy ten and five dollar bills, and her angelic voice sings, “thank you,” when he takes it from her like a beggar. 

Harry is an asshole because he can’t even respond with words only a hum of ‘mhm’ before swinging his leg over his ride and muttering a half-hearted, choked, ‘see you’ before roaring away. 

****

He tries to invalidate his rapidly growing crush. Truly. He wants to brush it off his shoulder like dust because it’s annoying and distracting to constantly think about her, but nothing works. 

In retrospect, he was even psychologically rude about it, trying- and failing- to find negative qualities about her or flaws in her appearance, but his fawning heart wouldn’t allow such disrespect to the receiver of it’s pesky little affections. The worst he could come up with was that her eyes looked as if some snot-nosed, uncoordinated, messy little kid had shaken an entire bottle of glitter onto a piece of copy paper and called it a day. And that her voice was soothing enough to coax that same child into comfortable, cow-jumping-over-moons dreams. 

He wishes he were that hypothetical child rocked to sleep by her lulling voice because by the way things were going, he’s having a pretty hard time getting a wink of sleep because every time his phone vibrates he snaps straight up like his spine is locked and obsessively searched his phone for her name. And he’s tried putting his phone on ‘Do Not Disturb’ but it only makes it worse because what if he texts her and he doesn’t see it because he’s sleeping? 

All of the customers that came after her, during his period of constant surveillance over his ‘trap phone’ received the best delivery times and the snarkiest attitude he’s ever had to offer. The morning sun isn’t as bright as it used to be and the moon is dimmer than usual because nothing can compare to her. He misses her terribly and it’s stupid because he doesn’t even know her and she probably thinks he’s a jerk because he acts like such a dick. 

Mitch thinks it's funny that he’s so twisted about a girl. ‘A’ girl because even though he was high when he spilled his secret to his friend, he doesn’t think he could stand a potential breach of his privacy in the case that Sarah found out. 

“I haven’t heard from her in a while,” Harry said.

“Do something about it,” Mitch said. 

And well, what the fuck was he supposed to do? It’s not like he can reach out to her to ask her if she wants to buy more weed. That would seem greedy and insensitive on his part; a money hungry dealer. He’s already in a limbo of moral dilemmas that shouldn’t exist in the first place and he doesn’t want to complicate it by any form of shady communication. 

His dilemma, however, was solved by whatever divine being that dared to bear witness to his nonsensical pleas to the ether. It seemed as though she favored the night and dark for her ‘picking up’, because the delightful ding! came at the thirty minute mark of his tossing and turning. 

With the sheets rumpled around his waist and his templed damp with faint beads of perspiration, Harry straightened in the same way he has for the past month, only the tedious exhaustion of it not being her was begging to gnaw at him. Was this what it felt like to be paranoid? Snapping alert at every single indication of a phone because you think it’s the IRS- or the girl who infects your mind, in his case- calling to demand a service? 

Preparing for disappointment again, Harry picked up the phone and squinted as his pupils adjusted to the sudden change in light. 

Y/n: Hello, Harry! This is y/n. You delivered to me last month? Are you available for delivery at the moment?

There is a muted thud as his phone slips out of his shocked hands and lands on the rumpled duvet. A thundering set of drums replaces his beating heart and his jaw remains slack because it has lost the ability to close. The perspiration on his hairline transfers to the cave of his hands. For weeks he’s been in a constant state of glum, waiting for her next text, and now that he has it the only thing going through his mind is oh my god, oh my god.

Still, through his haze he manages to reply with, 

Harry: Hi! 

Harry: Yes, I remember, and yes, I’m available

What he really wanted to say, and what he should have sent was, how could anyone forget you? You haunt me day and night. But that was a little obsessive, and probably would have scared her off before they even got anywhere. 

Harry: Would you like to see what I have available? 

Y/n: Please :D !

The pre-written list of items he has available changed this week. He’s added some chocolate edibles, brownies, and gummy bears that he picked up for a cheaper, wholesale price at the dispensary he frequents, and it makes him wonder if she’ll dare to buy them. He had one a few days ago at Mitch’s place with Sarah and has a smashing time. He couldn’t stop petting their cat, Texas, because the feel of her brown fur between his fingers was heavenly. 

Grey bubbles appear and disappear several times along with his intake of oxygen before a long text appears, listing everything she wants from his makeshift ‘menu’ and… it’s a lot. The last time he received an order like this it was for a frat party that one of Mitch’s coworker’s friend’s brother referred him to, and it took him an entire week of rolling and baking to get his inventory back up. His kitchen smelled like weed-butter for a solid month. 

Harry: Give me a moment to make sure I can sell you everything. Pretty large order…

The chipped black paint on his nails became a dark blur as his fingers typed, deleted, and typed uncertain words over and over again before finally settling on a sentence that was… neutral and didn’t send the wrong meaning. Usually, with his customers he was a mixture of blunt and friendly, but y/n wasn’t just a customer, and it made everything ten times harder. 

Y/n: I’ll take whatever you have, please! Take your time, I don’t mean to stress you out 

If she said please one more time, Harry was sure that he would become a liquid, coagulated version of himself among the mess of his blankets. 

Jerking his ankles free of the fabric snake that snared him to a useless bed, he clambered off, knuckling at his tired eyes and shivering as the cool, still air of his room wrapped itself around the warmth of his body. Reaching into his closet for the first things he finds, a dark green hoodie and grey sweatpants, Harry yawns and dramatically stretched with his arms way above his head, hoping that the movement would push out the feeling of loneliness that was beginning to take purchase between his ribs, right underneath his heart. 

Another late night, another delivery. He wished there was someone in his bed to call him back. Please don’t go, they’d say, the bed is cold without you in it. A warm hand trailing like a ghost against his thigh as he walked away, and a sleepy smile or groan of displeasure as his goodbye. He might not stay in the bed, but he would be happy- no, elated, to know that he would be coming back to someone. 

The grow light of his makeshift greenhouse tinted his skin purple as he rummaged through all of his pre-rolled and pre-packaged items, his phone at his side as he checked off everything she has asked for. 

9 of the Cherry Deals

6 of the citrus-infused pre-rolls

4 lavender-infused 

10 brownies 

And 2 8ths

In total, it came out to 28 joints. 

Which is… well, a lot for just one person, or two, or three (unless you’re Snoop Dog or something). Packing everything up into four separate paper bags, and then a larger white bag so that she isn't filling with all of the smaller ones, he types out another cold text.  

Harry: Okay I have everything. 

Harry: Send the address, please. 

She sends the address, and Harry follows the same routine as the last time, nearly eating shit as he flew out into his garage. Excitement bubbles in his guts at the same increment and volume of his motorcycle’s initial purr. Flipping open the back compartment he usually stores things in, he realizes that there is no way it’s all going to fit inside, so he turns on his heels to grab a backpack from inside and then he realizes that he’s not wearing any shoes. The smooth, grey floor is cold against the arches of his bare feet, and his brows furrow at his own insolence. Had he been so wrapped up in… everything that he didn’t put on shoes?

Rolling his eyes at his own actions- and feeling a little embarrassed that he’d let it happen- Harry returned to his home and snatched up the first pair of fashionable compatible shoes within his reach (green converse  the same shade of his sweater) and the backpack to place the white bag in ( a little redundant, but he didn’t think holding it while he rode would be a good idea). Rushing back to the garage, he hoped that he wouldn’t come up empty with words like he had the time before. 

The last thing he wanted to do was scare her away. 

***

  He was right about it being a party. 

At least three minutes before he was flipping down his kickstand, the thundering bass of some rap song (he thinks he can hear ASAP Rocky, but he’s not too sure) shakes the streets and the trees. It’s a house party in a building that was too big to fit into the word ‘house’, but yet too small to fit in ‘mansion’. Toilet paper and trash litters the front yard while couples make out and loners smoke cigarettes, or maybe joints, out on the generous porch. Sports cars and beat up rides pack the driveway and most of the street in front of the house, so it makes it really difficult to station his motorcycle in an area where he has a clear view of who’s coming in and out of the house, and therefore, really hard to spot y/n. 

That is until-

“Hi, Harry!” 

She’s sitting down on the curb with her arms around her legs and her chin on top of her legs, looking… scared. Her eyes were blown open like a newborn doe, and the sprawl of her limbs as she unravels from her sitting position to a wobbly stand mimics the shaky, knocking knees of a filly that is learning how to walk for the first time. Her voice is even headier than it was the last time he heard it, like windchimes in the spring chill.

 Harry’s eyes roam over her with no attempt to conceal his blatant appreciation for the fuzzy sweater falling down to her mid-thigh. They seem to have become a pattern with her. This time, it’s a baby blue crew neck and a pair of jeans, and y/n’s has tried to tie her hair up into a bun at the back of her hair but spiky pieces stick out the back and tendrils swap her ears, making her look like a soft, smudge-y dream. 

“Hello,” he says softly, not needing to clear his throat this time. He steps forward a bit, so he can hear her better (or at least that’s what he tells himself), “s’good to see you again.” Harry’s words are louder and more amicable than the last time he greeted her, and his lips part in a crooked friendly smile which she returned with the same tentativeness. There’s something off about her this time around. She’s pulling at her sleeves and shifting her feet, glancing over her shoulder as soon as she’s standing straight and her eyes won’t stand still on Harry’s figure for more than a few, burning seconds. 

“It’s good to see you, too! I hope I’m not waking you up every time I text, though,” an exhaled laugh left her lips, and she dropped her gaze down to her shoes. Y/n rocked on her feet, once and then twice. “I think I’ve��� I’ve made a habit of texting you late at night.”

And he blushes, “I- uhm… I was having a hard time sleeping, so you didn’t wake me. It’s fine.” 

If only she knew that he was having a hard time sleeping because his subconscious was a bothered brat over not seeing her again. Pleading words of requests to ask her never to stop texting him were dancing on the tip of his tongue, banging against his barricaded lips and begging to come out. However, he didn’t think such daring words were fitting with their barely budding relationship. They were pitiful and needy, like a puppy, and frankly, Harry didn’t want to present that image. 

“Oh,” she stilled her movements, checked over her shoulder again and then looked him in the eyes and said, “are you okay?” 

“M’fine, yeah. Just got a lot of you on my mind at the moment,” he says. It makes y/n furrow her brows and tilt her head at him like a little cat, only then that he realize what he has said, “Things! Got a lot of things on my mind. Sorry,” he clears his throat, looks away while hanging his helmet on the handle of his ride. “Haven’t been sleepin’ much.” 

“Aw, I’m sorry. That sucks,” y/n pouts. Pouts at him. And he just blinks. Doesn’t smile or laugh.

“S’alrigh’. Y’got quite a large order this time. Havin’ a party?” As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to slap his palm against his forehead. He probably sounded stupid, given there was clearly a raging party going on in the house behind her. Of course she was having a party, what he should’ve said what ‘what are y’celebrating?’ or ‘are you here alone?’. Like the ‘do you have a date?’ kind of alone.

“You got it right? Thank you. And… something like that, I guess. I’m a bit nervous, honestly, because I’ve never…” She shrugs, looking away from him and back to the house. 

“Never been to a party like this?” He’s confused. Surely he can’t mean that she’s never smoked before? Right? Because if that were the case, then what did she do with the weed he gave her last time? And what was she doing at a party were they were on this much drugs. 

“No! No, no, I’ve never… smoked before.” She’s adamant in shaking her head. Her hands too, splayed wide like jazz hands.

“Y’never smoked before? What about last time?” Harry hates how it sounds as though he’s accusing her, but he can’t seem to control the way his words are coming out of his mouth, not around her, and it’s making him look like a dick. What he wants to do is smile and tease her, to find some way to ask her if she would like to share a joint with him without sounding too sleazy. 

Shaking her head, “those were for my roommate and his boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Harry’s heart pitter-patters in his chest, his mouth in a straight line, and although there’s an abundance of emotions elbowing against the other in his chest, he shows none of them.

“Yeah,” awkwardly, she shifts her weight from heel to heel, arms crossed before reaching into her pocket and bringing out a folded wad of cash. “$540, right?” 

“That’s right, but…” C’mon man, he scolds himself, pull it fucking together. This is a concerning situation. Surely she can’t be buying this much this time and not plan on participating. “Are you gonna be a’right?”

Worrying her lips between her teeth, she lets out a deep breath before answering. Smiling and nodding as she answers as if she wants to convince herself, “I think so. How hard can it be?”

“Pretty hard if it’s y’first time, sweetheart,” Harry forces himself to smile a little, but instead it looks as though he’s grimacing.  “Will y’friends walk y’through it?”

Y/n looks back at the house again, and shuffles her feet. She’s got a sad little look in her eye, droopy and shy. Great. He was making her uncomfortable. “They’re n-not really my friends,” she says, “but I guess so.” 

What? “What?” The word is sharp in his mouth. What the fuck was she doing, then? Hanging with people that she didn’t look all that enthused to be with, buying their weed, standing out here all alone? 

“They’re not-”

A male comes out of the house, red solo cup in hand, and he’s not wearing a fucking shirt. He’s waving a hand in the air, trying to flag y/n down Harry assumes, and he’s offended for her. Harry’s brows furrow and his hands curl into fists behind his back. Why isn’t he wearing a shirt? What the fuck is he drinking and why is he being so disrespectful interrupting their conversation this way? All for some weed? 

Now on the last step, the guy shouts, “Y/n, what’s taking so long?” 

The poor girl jumps, startled, and her eyes go wide. “Sorry, I’ll be in soon!” Y/n shoves the money at him, frazzled, and takes the paper bag from his hands.  “Here's $560, Harry. The rest is a tip. You can count it if you’d like!” 

“It’s alright, here you-” she’s already bounding away from him, but he doesn’t want her to go, and somehow, he finds the will to call her back. He just wanted her to look at him once more, because she wasn’t even inside yet, but he missed her gaze.  “Y/n!”

She stops, and he gets exactly what he wants. Her attention. “Yes?” 

Harry swings a leg over his motorcycle and gets ready to leave before he does anything stupid like… like trying to hold her hand or something. Who knows, he lost his ability to act his age around her. “Have a water bottle at your side,” he’s mumbling almost, “and don’t take too much in on your first try. Exhale and don’t freak out when y’start coughing. Or embarrassed. It’ll be okay. And… and do y’best to relax.”

“Thank you, Harry.” 

And y/n smiles at him. 

It’s small, and it’s meek the way a feral kitten approaches a human with food. Scared, and rightfully so, because Harry wants to scoop her up and take her home. 

“Of course. Have a safe night.”

She nods and walks away with another piece of his heart in her hands. 

[thlayli-ra]

Prompt:

Punkintyre fucking in Cody's dressing room since they nearly got caught it the hallway (maybe it's the day before or of a ppv) and Cody is never in his dressing room. Drew and Punk trying to stay quiet, and they manage to not attract attention despite their activities, until Cody and Roman (Or Randy if you prefer Candy) walk in clearly about to use Cody's dressing room for the exact same thing as Punkintyre.

(I personally think Roman would be funnier since Drew/Punk could get all pissy about Cody banging him:

Punkintyre: ROMAN?? SERCOISLY?! HE'S THE WORST! YOU CAN'T BANG SOMEONE WHO YOU FOUGHT AT WRESTLEMAINA, WHO ATTACKS YOU, WHO INTERFEARS IN YOUR MATCHES?!

CodyRoman: :/

I just think they're funny)

Anyway, love your writing/Art, keep up the great work! I hope you enjoy their Hell In A Cell match <3

Whelp! The same day I tell my brain not to get distracted, I get this amazing prompt and immediately get distracted 😅

I've written Dead Dove Punkintyre, heart-warming hurt/comfort Punkintyre - now it's time to get a little silly with these two. **Warning** - Punk being the ultimate little shit incoming...

Rating - Mature (18+)

Words - ~3k words

'Were you under the ring the whole fucking time?'

Punk blinked up innocently at Drew who was looking more than a little hot and flustered. 'The signal aint great,' he replied with a cute shrug as he held up his phone, pointing to the app that was currently open on the screen. 'I had to be close by for it to work.'

'You mean, you wanted to be close by,' Drew shot back, seeing right through the tattooed man's lies, 'so that you could listen in while you tormented me.'

'And you did so well,' Punk cooed. 'Nobody would have a clue.'

'Please, please tell me you didn't go live on Instagram this time?'

'I didn't, I swear,' Punk put up his hands before muttering under his breath, 'stupid apps wouldn't let me use them at the same time.'

All of a sudden, Drew's entire face scrunched up and he nearly collapsed in on himself. Quickly, he put his meaty arm against the wall for support.

'Oh?' Punk tilted his head to the side, a cocky smirk rising up one cheek. 'You feeling ok there, Big Boy?'

Drew grunted a blasphemy in reply. 'Turn it down.'

'Turn what down?' Punk bent low in order to see the harrowing expression on Drew's face.

'The thing! The damn thing!' Drew pleaded, screwing his eyes shut.

'Turn the damn thing down, what?'

'Fuck you! FUCK YOU!'

'Tut tut,' Punk shook his head and looked back at his phone. 'You know what happens when you disrespect Daddy?'

Drew's brow shot up when he saw Punk's finger slide up the screen. 'NO! WAIT! GAARRRGGHH!' The large Scot fell against the wall, needing both hands to hold himself upright.

'Damn!' Punk's huge green eyes glistened impishly and he practically giggled with glee. He could actually hear the damn thing vibrating like crazy in Drew's trunks. 'It sure packs a punch, huh?'

'TURN IT DOWN! PLEASE! FOR THE LOVE OF THE WEE MAN! TURN IT DOWN OR I'M GOING TO-'

'Shhh!' Punk scolded the Scot, glancing around him. 'You want the entire backstage to hear you?'

'GAH! FUCK! FUUUUU-'

'Dammit!' Punk grabbed Drew by his large shoulders and shoved him down the hallway, away from prying eyes and ears. Heading the first door they passed, he looked inside and found the small locker room empty. 'Here, get in.' Pushing the writhing Scot inside, Punk pulled the door shut. Now that they were safely hidden away, he could focus on torturing his victim even more. 'You can't take a little teasing, you big baby?'

'YOU HAVE THAT THING TURNED ALL THE WAY UP! DON'T YOU?!'

"Don't be dramatic,' Punk scoffed. 'Of course I don't have- oh, wait, yeah I do. Whoops!' He used his finger to slide the curser on his screen down, but only by a tiny margin. Just enough for Drew to stop yelling but still enough to keep his breath coming in those juicy little gasps. 'That better?'

'You little shitebag,' Drew cursed through his gritted teeth.

'What happened to all that self-control in the ring out there?' Punk asked, sidling up to the Scot who was soaked through with sweat, and not just from the exertions of his match. 'Is it cause I'm here now?'

'You wish that- hrrfff!' Drew's words were savagely cut off by Punk's hand grabbing the front of his trunks, fingers curling tightly around his rock-hard cock and balls...

..and the solid silicone ring around the base of his dick!

'Ooh, there it is!' Punk's eyes lit up with mischief. Using his thumb, he slid the curser up and down so that he could feel the difference in vibrations, grinning from ear to ear as Drew's whimpering kicked up into desperate whines and back down again, allowing the suffering Scot to steady his senses for a few seconds. Before jamming it all the way back up again.

'FUCK! FUCK! FU-'

Punk felt a throbbing down south and couldn't resist anymore. Grabbing Drew by the back of his head, he yanked him down to his height and muffled his howls by shoving his tongue into his open mouth. He hummed joyfully as he invaded the warm cavity, giving Drew some vibrations above to match the ones below, and entangled his inked fingers in his wet hair.

A rumble tingled Punk's lips, not from his own throat but from Drew's. He had finally awoken the Scot's inner beast! Large hands grabbed him by the thighs, lifting him clean off his feet and he was slammed against the wall. Drew thrusted his aching groin between Punk's legs, the vibrations of his cock ring now shuddering through the denim of Punk's jeans to excite his own dick.

'Shhhhhhhiiiitttt,' Punk choked out, the strength of the sensation between his legs almost blinding.

'How'd you like that, ye wee prick!' Drew snarled in Punk's ear, ruthlessly pinning the smaller man's groin with his own.

Inked fingers clawed at Drew's naked shoulder blades, ragged nails digging in as the fierce convulsions pulsed through them both. Overcome with animalistic desire, Drew began to dry-hump the older man, growling at every distressed yelp from his trapped victim.

Until-

'What was that?' Punk lifted his head, eyes wide and ears pricked. Drew hadn't noticed and was still grinding his hips against him. 'Drew! Stop! Someone's coming!'

The Scot finally paused. In the silence, they both heard voices right outside the door.

'Shit!' Punk swore as the handle to the door began to turn. He wriggled free from Drew's grasp. 'In here. Quick, you idiot!' Grabbing Drew by the wrist, he pulled him towards a closet in the corner and managed to squeeze them both in right before the door opened. The two men held their breaths as the voices became clearer, drawing closer.

'I meant what I said,' the first voice said, footsteps stomping into the room, 'I'm done with the Bloodline.'

Inside the closet, Punk gulped loudly. He knew that voice. It was Cody Rhodes! And going purely by the sound of the hefty footsteps following him, he was most likely with his work husband, Randy Orton. Or maybe Kevin Owens?

'So you keep sayin',' a deep, rich voice answered, 'but I'm not buyin' it. Nobody is!'

Punk's jaw just about dropped to the floor. That wasn't Orton. Or Owens.

It was Roman fucking Reigns!

'I don't care what anybody thinks,' Cody snapped back. 'I have been fighting the Bloodline in one variation or another since I returned to the WWE. I've watched them hurt the people I care about, I've endured all the punishment they've inflicted on me, that you inflicted on me. I have bled because of you and your family.'

There was a pause. Tension filled the air so thick it could be sliced with a knife. Punk imagined the two men were standing chest-to-chest and feverishly wished there was a slit or keyhole or something in this closet door he could peep through to watch the action. Instead all he had was a six foot five, quivering Scotsman jamming all four giant limbs into him.

'Can you just-' he hissed at Drew but clammed shut when Cody started talking again. Low this time, quiet. Oh, it was getting serious. Punk pressed his left ear against the door - his bad ear but it would have to do - to hear what he had to say.

'Far as I'm aware, I beat Solo Sikoa in Berlin. I beat the Tribal Chief-'

'He is not the Tribal Chief! He may wear the Ula Fala but that man is an imposter!'

'That's your problem, not mine!'

'You are the WWE Champion!' Roman lets his words hang in the air. 'When you won that belt from me, you made a promise to change the WWE for the better. To lead us all-'

'You were the one who made the mess in the first place.'

'I know...' Roman's voice turned small. Defeated. 'I just... want to fix it.'

Punk pressed his ear tighter against the door. Damn his partial deafness! And Drew wasn't helping with his constant whimpering. Two large fingers tugged at his sleeveless shirt, trying to pry his attention away from the other men outside. 'Get off,' he scolded Drew.

The Scotsman gave a pathetic whine.

'Shush!'

'P-Puuuunk!'

'Shut up! Or else they'll hear you.'

There was a long, drawn out silence, a shuffling of feet. By the time Cody spoke again, his tone has softened. 'You have your chance to fix it now. You're back! Go, take down the Bloodline. For good.'

'But, I can't do this alone,' a squeak of a sneaker. Punk guessed that Roman had stepped closer to Cody. 'I've never done anything on my own. Please, Cody. I need you!'

'Puuuuunk.'

'Will you just shut the fuck up!'

God he wished he could see. He was certain that Roman had his arm out, hand cupping Cody's blushing cheek. He knew that sweet sight well. Punk always loved how his pink cheeks contrasted beautifully with his platinum blonde hair.

Cody heaved a sigh. There was a slight shake to it, like he had been caught off-guard. Punk licked his dry lips and used all of his energy to focus. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend,' he said finally. 'Right?'

'Right,' Roman replied, his tone warmer, like he was smiling. 'Anyway, you remember how it was when we feuded. We were good together.'

'We were good together,' the champion had turned a little hoarse. Just exactly how close was Reigns to him right at that second? Punk was dying to know!

Another tug at his shirt. 'Puuuunk. Pleeeasseeee!'

'I swear to Jeebus, if you say one more word, I'm gonna- woah!' Punk had finally turned around to look at Drew and was shocked to see the scarlet face on the larger man, beads of sweat as big as bullets raining down his brow. He suddenly remembered the toy on his cock and the high-pitched buzz filtered back into his range of hearing. 'Oh fuck, I forgot!'

'T-turn it d-down. P-p-please. I'm going to, I'm so close to-'

'Don't you fucking dare!' Punk warned the Scot, frantically searching his pockets. 'Not before I have a chance to-'

Both men jumped a foot when a long clatter boomed out right next to them. Something had smashed into the other side of the closet door. No, wait, not something. The mumbled moans and loud slurps betrayed the culprits as Roman and Cody, making out sloppy style right there on the other side of the thin wood.

Punk turned to Drew in disbelief, mouthing 'holy shit' to the other man. Drew could only reply with a pained grimace.

'Damn, I've missed this,' Roman's voice rumbled, only an inch or two away from the stowaways. 'You always taste so good.'

Cody was breathless already. 'So... so everybody keeps telling me.'

'Is this an expensive suit?'

'No. Why?'

The sound of fabric being shredded bucked life back between Punk's legs. The blood drained from his head, rushing down south fast, making his jeans all the tighter. Then his shirt was tugged again.

'Daddy?'

Oh, fuck! Drew was desperate now! Why now? Why call him that now? When Punk was starting to ache horribly himself but couldn't do a damn thing about it.

'Daddy! P-please h-help me.'

'I'm trying! I'm trying!' he hissed back, sliding his hands into every one of the pockets of his jeans, struggling to fit his inked fingers between the too-taut denim and coming up empty.

Punk went still.

Horrible realisation dawning on him.

Drew arched his brows wretchedly at him, his blue eyes swelling with dread.

'D-daddy?'

Punk slowly met his gaze, lips pursed tight. 'I... don't have my phone,' he whispered fearfully. 'I must have dropped it when-'

Another clatter against the door and both men backed away, wedging themselves as far back into the tiny space as they could. The wood slammed again and again, rhythmic. Punk's brain went into a spin when he recognised the sound of two men fucking one another like wild animals.

Meanwhile Drew let out a pitiful squeal of his own, the intensity on his cock too much to bear. Punk rushed towards him, ramming both of his hands over Drew's mouth. 'Shhhh, hold on. Just... hold on a little longer.'

The rhythmic banging intensified, punctuated by deep strains of Roman's grunts and higher tones of Cody's gasps. All while Drew's warm dog breath fogged on Punk's hands, the buzzing seemingly getting louder, like a swarm of angry hornets surrounding them. Punk was pressed so tightly against Drew that he could feel the sensation of the cock ring on his stomach, jiggling his lower gut like jelly. On a hydraulic drill. During a mag 9 earthquake!

He grit his teeth, tried to fight back against the growth in his jeans but was failing miserably. How the fuck had Drew's dick not exploded from this fucking thing yet?

The Scot was dangerously close though. Teetering right on the edge. A tear ballooned out the corner of his eye and slid down his cheek.

'No! Drew! No!'

Suddenly Punk's hands were useless. Drew's bellows breaking through the inked fingers.

'The fuck was that?'

Punk's heart skipped a beat. They'd been rumbled!

Ten seconds later, the door was wrenched open, light hitting the two accidental voyeurs concealed inside the closet. 'Punk? Is that you? And... Drew?'

The Scot let out a final strangled wail followed by a long, drawn-out groan of relief. His large legs went slack and he slumped to the floor, back pressed into the corner of the closet and head lolled.

'Oh for fuck's sake, Drew,' Punk kicked one floppy tree-trunk leg with the toe of his sneaker. 'You fucking, pathetic-'

'Eh-hem!'

Punk looked up sheepishly at Cody and Roman. Both men were in a dishevelled state, like they had only had enough time to zip up their flies after the interruption. Cody's shirt was torn apart and his cheeks rosy. Roman was panting, his shoulders heaving.

Punk crossed his arms and lowered his brow. 'Yeah?' he glowered at the pair. 'Can I help you?'

'Well, yeah!' Cody replied incredulously. 'You can tell me what you're doing here.'

'We were here first,' he shot back with a shrug. 'What are you doing here?'

'It's my locker room.'

Punk squinted at him, confused. 'Your locker room?'

'It has my name right there on the door!'

'Oh,' Punk withered. 'I... did not see that.'

'Punk,' Cody scrubbed a hand through his hair with a sigh, 'what are you doing hiding in my locker room, with Drew McIntyre of all people?'

The tattooed man bristled at the question. 'What am I doin'-? What about you? What are you doin'? What would Randy say if he found out you were sleeping with the enemy?'

'You're the one fucking Drew McIntyre!'

'Hey! We were not fucking!' Punk protested before quickly returning the conversation back to Cody and Roman. 'And anyway, come on! Roman fucking Reigns? The guy made your life hell? You faced him at Wrestlemania, twice! He attacked you for crying out loud!'

'Drew McIntyre smashed your face into a metal door and left you a bloodied corpse in your own home town!'

'Roman had his third cousin, thrice removed, through wedlock or however the fuck Dwayne is related to him, beat you to the floor and whip you senseless with a leather belt.'

'Oh... my god!' Cody screamed into his hands. 'Are you even listening to yourself right now? Are the concussions finally catching up with you? Do you even remember what the hell happened in Berlin or have you just lost your damn mind?'

'What did you do to Drew?' Roman's booming voice broke through the two men's bickering and they turned to spy the unresponsive Scot.

'Oh, shit! I forgot! Again!' Punk looked around and spied his phone on the floor close to where Drew had lifted him up earlier but before he could retrieve it, Roman picked it up. 'Hey! Gimme that!'

'Hmm,' Roman cocked an eyebrow as he scanned over the controls on the phone's screen. 'Just-Vibing? What is this?'

'Nothing!' Punk failed miserably at looking innocent.

Roman slid his thumb down the curser and Drew let out a sigh of sweet relief. But as he slid it back up, he tensed up again and thumped his head back against the corner of the closet. Then, when he pressed a button, there was a series of sharp buzzing which Drew gasped with in unison.

'Wait, it pulses?' Punk asked in astonishment. 'I didn't know that!'

'Man, old people with technology!' Cody mocked.

'Shut. Up!'

Roman ignored them and walked over to the ragged Scot. 'Hands up, Puppy,' he said and Drew immediately complied.

'Wait, what?' Punk spluttered out from behind.

'He was mine first,' Roman returned. He dipped two fingers into the studded waistband of Drew's trunks and pulled them back, discovering a wet, sticky mess coating the inside of his gear as well as the brightly coloured silicone ring wrapped around Drew's softened dick. 'You got him a cock-ring?'

'He broke my bracelet, so I told him to buy me a replacement,' Punk shrugged with a mischievous grin. 'Told him he could keep it in his trunks like he used to, you know, for old times sake.'

'It's the same fucking colours too,' Roman rolled his eyes.

'Maybe it's about time he returns it,' Cody side-eyed Punk, slyly.

'Huh?' the tattooed wrestler glanced warily between them. 'What are you-?'

'Good idea,' Roman said, reaching into Drew's trunks and slipping the silicon ring off of him, the Scot purring as he was freed. However, Punk's panic spiked and he tried to back away from the impending danger. 'Here,' Roman tossed Punk's phone to Cody, 'since he sullied your locker room, you get to play with him first.'

'Well, if you insist,' Cody grinned wickedly at Punk, who found himself backed into a corner, Roman and the cum-soaked cockring drawing closer and closer.

'Now, wait, we can all talk about this like gentlemen, right? Guys. Guys???'

[nikethestatue]

Rant incoming.

Maybe I am a bit of a psycho (okay, not a bit) but for the love of God and all that is holy--Sarah, give us the Shadowsinger that you keep hinting at.

I need at least ONE of these men to go dark. Go fucking black.

We keep hearing about the violence, the terror, the sheer presence of them that would make a grown man piss his pants---but we never see it?

The one and ONLY time where I feel it happened (and marginally too) was when Rowan skinned (not gonna say who) alive.

But it's kind of like--if SJM insists on making all these men ruthless warriors, torturers, the most powerful Fae in the kingdom or the world or whatever--then SHOW IT. Show us the men we are supposed to crave and fear.

We had Hunt, the Umbra Mortis, who barely ever 'mortis-nized' anyone ever. He was just a himbo who wanted to eat pizza and watch sunball.

Cassian, the Commander General, had one good run during the war and then became a human dildo.

Azriel cut the Attor a lil bit.

Give me the scary. The unhinged. I don't need cinnamon rolls. I want one of these dudes to rip out someone's heart and then fuck his ladylove on top of the corpse.

I am also so so so tired of the 'girl Power woooo!' thing that SJM keeps writing--where the women always take care of business and need no help, no protection, no revenge, no assistance from the men whatsoever. Why even bother making these men these illustrious warriors, when we know that Nesta can kill a Death God in 10 minutes, and Bryce can kill an Asteri in about 8 minutes.

I am beginning to wonder what is the point of men in SJMs' stories at all?

We had the 'Most Powerful High Lord In History' running around dropping to his knees, looking for a good OBGYN for all of ACOSF. We had the Commander General taking lots and lots of time from his clearly not very busy schedule to train some girlies and have repetitive sex. Lucien, not much of a warrior to begin with, just hangs out at his country manor. Azriel seems to be working at least, but mostly he is just being angsty.

Like there's been a shipwar raging for 3.5 years over these guys, and honestly, for what? Azriel is a spy, a torturer and 'a freak'. If it all ends up being for nothing, and he is just going to be some pining useless follower, carrying Elain's purse, whose 'freakiness' consists of light spanking and a nipple bite, then honestly, GAs or whoever, can have him.

I feel like 90% of all ACOTAR readers came to the series through Rhys. Because Rhys was so shifty. So cold. So unremorseful. Rhys was...INTERESTING.

What happened? Where are the interesting male characters? We know that SJm is not GRR Martin or anything, but come on.

Let's even take Lucien--and I don't give a shit about Lucien--but make Lucien...interesting? If he is so wily and crafty, why can't Lucien at least TRY to trick Elain into liking him, going out with him on a date? ANYTHING. Try to gaslight her, lie to her, trick her--do anything that makes me want to read about you. Eluciens keep whining about 'mean Elain' but like, why are they satisfied with this limp noodle of a painfully boring character? Why no demands of fucking everyone over and going after what he wants? 'Oh, he is so respectful'! Who cares? Why do you want to read that in a fantasy book about supposedly violent and brilliant fairies?

I am reading all kinds of things outside of ACOTAR, and I reflect and I think, OMG, SJMs males are boring AF!!!! Why do they even inspire a glimmer of desire or interest? They literally do nothing memorable or interesting.

Honestly, if the next book is the same, and she murders Azriel's character, it will be a big fat goodbye from me.

I am holding on to hope that she'll write him and even Lucien somehow, somewhat compellingly.

[mayashesfly]

Some thoughts I have about the differences of my Forgotten Radio AU and Canon. (Mostly focused on Vox since he's my favorite character despite this being a SilentStatic AU. Unfortunately I'm not well-versed at writing Alastor's character even if I wanted to :')

After calming down Valentino's tantrum just like in Canon, Val tried to rile up Vox by mentioning Alastor. However, since Vox has already wiped his memories and added some… preventive measures, he merely dismissed Val's comments.

But because the Princess of Hell was involved, Vox still brought more spy drones onto the Hazbin Hotel to monitor the happenings there in addition to the drone Valentino already sent in to inform him.

They didn't bring Sir Pentious or someone else to spy on the Hazbin Hotel for them because of this.

Sir Pentious takes some time recuperating after being Team Rocketed by Alastor before he'll eventually strike again on the hotel again.

Ever since Alastor's return and seeing the remnants of his partnership with Vox first things first since he returned (The Radio sHack in the Pilot), he was bidding his time for Vox to get wind of his return and react explosively in some way for his entertainment and to take advantage of.

However Vox didn't do anything of the sorts. Unlike how he would've reacted otherwise if he still retained his memories.

When Alastor caught sight of the painfully obvious Vox drones around the hotel, he purposefully posed in front of them a few times, hoping to finally gloat out the tv-headed demon from his hiding. Much to his growing annoyance and confusion though, nothing happened as the drones flew passed him due to the corrupting footage in order to clearly see what else was happening in the hotel.

He did this for a few times a day in slowly increasing frequency for the entire week before Sir Pentious attacked the hotel again and proceeded to get fucked over for ruining Alastor's coat. Alastor barely letting the poor demon alive thanks to Charlie's pleas.

Vox and Velvette discussed to one another who should be the one to attend the Overlord meeting. Valentino is forever banned from attending any of these things after a particular incident that the Vees would rather not repeat again.

It took some back and forth between the two of them before they agreed on Vox going to the meeting. But the only reason Vox's head wasn't ripped out like the torn up models Valentino so gracefully provided her is because she has a big fashion show incoming and those fucking models aren't going to dress themselves.

"Seriously Vox are you sure you don't have anything better to do? Like that bullshit Angelic Security of yours?" "Carmilla would be there. Which is all the more reason for me to go there myself" "Just don't forget the plan you flat-faced fuck, who knows what would happen if we screw this up?" "Well someone else could get screwed instead~"

Groan

"Shut up Valentino! I'm being serious!" "Who says I wasn't being serious too, Velvette~?"

"GUYS"

"You have nothing to worry about. I have this all handled, just trust me alright?" "Well you better keep your words Vox, cuz I have a show to run and no time for a shitshow to fix" "That's my boy~"

After Alastor's wonderful talk with Zestial, he finally meets Vox again outside of the meeting room. Being on time for the meeting unlike Velvette.

Vox introduced himself to Alastor, thinking he was a new Overlord because he never saw him before. Much to Alastor's slowly growing frustration and realization.

Thankfully, Rosie took note of Alastor's presence and promptly lead him away from Vox before he tore out the other's head before the meeting started. Being able to catch up with him and tell him to visit her in Cannibal Town sometime.

Upon taking his seat besides Rosie, Alastor makes a comment about his reappearance, hoping that it would distract him from whatever the fuck Vox was on. Unfortunately, just like in canon, Carmilla does not give a shit. Causing Alastor to steam in his frustration.

While whispering quietly, Rosie admits to Alastor that she doesn't exactly know what happened to Vox. But three years into his absence, something about Vox has changed when he was suddenly more active after three years of mostly being inactive.

It only makes Alastor's head swim in confusion and possibilities of what might've happened.

Unlike Velvette who instantly hijacked the meeting upon entering, Vox waited for the perfect opportunity to present the information he had about the Angel's death. He first showed the scene of the crime on the screen Carmilla was using in her presentation before bringing out the literal Angel's head once he was questioned about the credibility of his source.

"Unfortunately, I couldn't bring the entire body with me. But surely this is enough evidence to show you that what that screen is showing isn't faked?"

Alastor became curious and impressed by such information. It was a rather valuable information he could use for himself after all... Perhaps finally having something for the Princess...

Though it didn't completely ease the discomfort he had from Vox's strange behavior. Vox was barely glancing his way, if at all, during the entire meeting when used to feel those stolen glances from him, even after their partnership ended and he had teamed up with that disgusting pompous moth instead.

His gaze never failed to land on him one way or another before.

Unlike now.

Vox still pitches a similar idea to Velvette with a bit more professionalism, noticing the odd reaction Carmilla had upon seeing the golden blood stain the table. But saying nothing of it as a musical number rolled around.

The complete details and differences between this AU and Canon's Overlord Meeting eludes me since there's a lot of character dynamics at play. But the meeting does end up much shorter than usual as Vox tries to casually take his leave, if not a bit annoyed by the words thrown his way.

That was the very first time Alastor saw Vox fight someone else for once. Except for him.

But regardless of his feelings on the matter, he has a sneaking suspicion that Carmilla may know something even when Vox said nothing of the sorts.

Without Sir Pentious and thus the Egg Boiz in the picture, Alastor couldn't easily eavesdrop on Carmilla and Zestial without possibly outing himself as the eavesdropper.

And unfortunately for him, he couldn't hide in his shadows in Carmilla's office to hear the information straight from the Overlord's mouth.

Vox never said his suspicions about Carmilla's involvement during the meeting, however he did say it to the other Vees about his findings and suspicions. Perhaps that private meeting with Carmilla would yield more results than just for Angelic Securities after all.

Time passed and Alastor was utterly bored. There wasn't as much development between his thralls and Angel Dust's relationship ever since he joined the hotel. They have already tried "trust falls" and "show and tell with the group" and whatever else nonsense the Princess had thought about. But nothing of interesting was happening.

He never caught wind of the TV demon as well besides his usual drivel despite seeing the bumbling drones around the hotel.

It was strange, knowing that his rival didn't give him any mind unlike before. And it was just making him inch for a bloodcurdling fight to ease his boredom.

It was only during a traumatic experience in the middle of a turf war did his thralls and Angel Dust bond.

Much to Sir Pentious' misfortune, he just had to attack the hotel while Alastor was in a bad mood about Vox, the dear Princess nowhere in sight.

And well…. he still very clearly remembers Sir Pentious now after he ruined his best coat.

[laura1633]

thinking about max accidentally liking charles’s thirst trap without following him. later he goes through a big ass crisis because of this situation and decides to do something about it 👀

Perfect set up for a fic anon and honestly Max is getting closer and closer to doing something like this I think 😂

Max is scrolling through Charles' thirst trap photos like he normally does when he is having a little "alone time". He gets carried away and accidentally double taps on the photo and likes it. He has a minor heart attack and tries to unlike it but he's almost certain people will have picked up on what he has done.

He distracts himself by having a few drinks and trying to forget about what he has just done. Except the more he drinks to forget the more he keeps thinking about it. His vision is a little blurry and he's not thinking properly as he decides to pull up the picture again.

The next morning Max wakes up with a small hangover and hundreds of missed calls. Even as he is looking at his phone he sees an incoming call from Lando who asks him what he was thinking.

"It was an accident" Max groans, his voice groggy and still laden with sleep.

"Yeah sure" Lando laughs and Max can picture the smirk on his face, "I believe you"

"Well you should, it's the truth. I fell asleep and must have sat on my phone, my ass probably hit like on hundreds of pictures" Max knows he should probably stop babbling because he's protesting too much and it sounds ridiculous.

"Cool" Lando sounds unusually jovial, "I'll leave you to get some more sleep, you sound like shit"

"Thanks mate" Max huffs, happy the inquisition was short and sweet.

"Oh and Max" Lando pauses, "you have a very talented ass"

"Wh- What?!"

"It wasn't the liking it I was referring to" Lando chuckles clearly enjoying himself, "It's a special talent if your ass accidentally types out 'I'd let him absolutely ruin me' in Charles' comment section.

Max wants to burst into flames 🔥

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

I’m legit curious why the British press is so dedicated to sucking this Dipshit’s dick with such devotion. He’s shat on them consistently and they are still so desperate to do his bidding at turn. Why? Also, what did William do, because they are clearly so against him. I never thought I’d see a day when the british press treats an heir’s entire existence as an affront to the non-spare.

The press likes it when they have a leaky royal. They prefer it, in fact. Because leaky royals give them content and things to talk about, which gives them bylines and clicks, which makes them a shit ton of money.

So they cover Harry because he gives them scoops, leaks, and something to talk about. Harry even famously used to go out to pubs with them. William doesn’t. William keeps them at arm’s distance; he’s courteous to them on engagements and is a proper host on foreign visits but distant and not as easily accessible. The press ignoring William’s work to cover Harry is meant to be a punishment: “become our bestie like your brother is and we’ll cover your work but don’t talk to us, we’ll ignore you.”

Because the press is threatened by the fact that William doesn’t need them to do his job. He’s the heir, the future king, generally well-liked by the public, and has a huge income now from the Duchy of Cornwall. He can sidestep the press by using his social media or his own comms team. He makes the press irrelevant, which terrifies, frustrates, and angers them.

Harry makes the press relevant. He lets them do their job. He gives them that ability. Which is kinda…ironic, I suppose. For as much as Harry hates the press and has bullied them for what they do, he doesn’t realize that he enables it. So while he wants to be the great modernizer who revolutionized how the monarchy engages with the press, it’s actually William doing that by not talking to them or engaging with them outside of his work. If Harry had just kept his mouth shut and cared more about the work than getting positive, friendly coverage, then he’d get all the credit.

But he isn’t, he doesn’t, and once again it’s Big Willy getting all that Harry wants.

Anyway.

I see from the coverage yesterday that:

1. Harry and Earl Spencer patched up whatever disagreement they had that made Earl Spencer nope out of going to Lili’s christening with his sisters. Perhaps it was Earl Spencer’s own vomitsastic memoir…because like nephew, like uncle: oversharing on private details about his virginity no one gives an absolute shit about.

2. Harry clearly isn’t that worried about his safety in the UK if he can do a surprise walkabout to meet his fans. Can’t wait to see that backfire on him in his RAVEC appeal.

3. Is Harry setting William up as a controlling husband to try and smear his reputation? There was an article yesterday about how Harry can’t see Kate or support her through her cancer battle because William forbids it. 🙄

[wolfjackle-creates]

Bring Me Home: Arc 2 Part 10

Happy Wednesday!

Story Summary: Tim and Danny are both neglected by parents who care more about their work than their families. They deal with this by spending too much time online and find each other playing MMORPGs. They keep up their friendship as Tim becomes Robin and Danny becomes Phantom and don't bother keeping secrets from each other.

First, Previous

Word Count: 1.4k

-----

The sun was high in the sky when Tim stirred the next morning. He and Bart were the only ones still in the guest room; Cassie and Conner must’ve gotten up already.

Bart had an arm tossed over his torso and his head was shoved into the pillow inches from Tim’s. No way to extricate himself without waking his friend, so he let his eyes close again. It was a long night and they deserved a lie-in.

But it was not to be. Moments later, the door banged open and Conner was there.

“Rise and shine, sleepyheads!” he called out. “Breakfast is ready!”

Bart grumbled into the pillow and Tim nudged him with his elbow. Without opening his eyes, he mumbled, “Don’t think we’re gonna be given a choice, Bart.”

“But, Rooob,” Bart complained, “you’re comfy.”

Tim yawned. Cassie ran into the room and jumped on the base of the bed.

“Come on, guys! It’s almost noon!”

“That early?” asked Tim. “I changed my mind. Give us another hour.” He covered his eyes with his arm and tried to roll over without displacing Bart’s arm. Bart pulled him closer.

“You’ve gotten like twenty calls from Bruce, Tim. You might want to answer them.”

Shit, Bruce. Tim missed morning check in and Bruce must be panicking. He grumbled and pushed himself up so he was sitting against the headboard. “B’s a worrywart.”

“Dick’s called a few times too,” added Cassie.

“They’re both worrywarts.” Tim yawned and held out his hand, and Conner passed over his phone.

Bart sat up next to him with his own grumbles and rested his head on Tim’s shoulder so he could see the screen as well.

Conner had only been slightly exaggerating. Ten new calls from Bruce, three from Dick, and one from Alfred. His texts, on the other hand…

Tim opened the group chat and sent a message.

Tim: We’re fine. Just had a late night and needed to sleep in.

After a moment’s hesitation, he added,

Tim: Return will be delayed by a few days. Will give ETA when I have more information.

Immediately, he received an incoming call from Bruce. Bart laughed against his cheek.

“No way am I sticking around for a bat interrogation. Kon, you mentioned breakfast? Are the Drs Fenton around?”

“Nope, they’re gone,” said Cassie.

Tim answered the call as Bart pushed off the bed. He and Cassie left discussing breakfast options.

“Hey, B,” said Tim as soon as the call connected.

“Report, Robin. What happened? Why’d you miss check-in?”

“Sorry! Didn’t mean to. Stayed up late catching up with my friend and then overslept this morning. Everything’s fine.” Tim expertly ignored Conner’s raised eyebrow. Why did everyone make such a big deal about lying to Batman?

“Hn.” Shit, that was Bruce’s I’m-not-sure-I-should-believe-you ‘Hn.’

Tim let the silence drag on. If he got too defensive, Bruce would absolutely know he was lying through his teeth.

“You just overslept?”

“Yep. Stayed up late playing a video game. It had to do with ghosts.” And sprinkle in just a bit of truth.

“Set an alarm for tomorrow. Do not miss any further check ins. When will you be returning? I need to arrange attendance with your school.” Bruce was clearly not happy.

“It’ll probably be a few more days. I’ll give you an update on this evening’s check-in. After Danny gets back from school.”

“I want all your homework completed by the time you return to Gotham, Tim.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you need help with transportation?”

“Nah. Conner’s agreed to take me back.” Not that he had asked. He looked up at Conner and raised an eyebrow in question.

Conner rolled his eyes, but smiled fondly and nodded. Tim grinned back and gave him a thumbs up.

“Very well. Is his phone working yet?”

“Uh, let me ask.” Tim looked up to Conner. “Is your phone working yet?”

Conner shook his head. “Nah, they weren’t able to get to it. But Cassie’s and Bart’s are.”

Tim relayed the information to Bruce who merely hummed. “Very well. Your next check in will occur before nine PM, Tim.”

“You’ve got it, B. Talk to you then!” Before Bruce could ask any more questions or begin to doubt his lies, Tim ended the call.

“Dude, I can’t believe how easily you lie to him.”

Tim shrugged. “I don’t get why people think it’s such a big deal. You just have to know what he’d expect and play into that. So long as he doesn’t learn Danny is also a superhero, this’ll be easy. And my chats with Danny are so encrypted not even Bruce will be able to hack them.”

Conner just shook his head. “Whatever you say. Now, come on downstairs. Cassie and I’ve been listening to the news and we’ll give you the rundown on what’s going on.”

“Where are our hosts anyway?” asked Tim as he followed Conner through the house.

“They went to Danny’s school to give an assembly on ghost safety and help implement some new security protocols for the students.”

“Danny’s not gonna like that.”

On the way down the stairs, Tim heard the voice of a newscaster.

“…why Phantom has hidden his connection to the Justice League. Perhaps we were too quick to judge him a menace. Though the Fentons still insist that all ghosts are merely posthumous consciousness implanted on ectoplasm and evil. I suppose we will just have to see. Either way, the combined work of Phantom and the Teen Titans has appeared to scare away the invasion last night. Due to their hard work, no casualties occurred, however the city did suffer hundreds of thousands in property damage.”

Cassie passed him a bowl of cereal and selection of protein bars. “We heeded your warning about cooking, so you’re stuck with a cold breakfast of stuff Kon and I picked up at the store.”

“Thanks.” Tim took it and started eating. “So what do we know?”

“The ghosts seem to have disappeared,” said Cassie. “But I don’t know if I trust it. They could be hanging around invisible or possessing people. The Fentons left for Danny’s school about half an hour ago and according to the news, the mayor will be there as well.”

“We’re hoping that’ll be broadcasted as well,” added Conner. “Considering how many times the mayor said he’d be at the school this morning when he was giving his press conference, I feel like he’ll want it publicized as much as possible.”

Tim nodded. “At least by publicly associating with him, our presence seems to have helped Danny’s reputation as a hero in the town. He’s been struggling with that.”

Bart snorted. “Wonder why. His parents love his alter ego so much.”

On the TV, the newscaster said, “Now, let’s switch to our correspondent live in Casper High!”

“Looks like it’s starting! Think we’ll see Danny in the crowd?” asked Bart.

Tim shrugged and moved until he was sitting right in front of the TV, eating mechanically as the mayor proved he was only there for the photo-op.

At least until the assembly was interrupted when a giant humanoid-wolf creature attacked. “Shit,” said Tim as he tried to call Danny.

Who of course didn’t pick up.

“I’ll go see if there’s anything we can do to help!” said Bart who was gone before Tim could agree or disagree.

Five minutes later, his phone rang. He set it to speaker before answering. “What’s going on?”

“The wolf escaped, but Danny wants us to stay put. His parents will be returning soon and he doesn’t want us to raise any suspicions. Since this time it’s only one ghost, he should be able to handle it.”

Tim ground his teeth. “Fine. But tell him to keep us in the loop.”

“Will do!”

The call disconnected. And a minute later, he had a new group message.

Danny: Hey, Tim. I’ve added Sam and Tuck to a group chat to keep you up to date at Bart’s request.

Tim let out a breath and added Cassie, Bart, and Conner.

Tim: I’ve added my friends to make it even easier Tucker: Tell Conner I’ll work on his phone as soon as school’s over Tim: He says thanks

And then Bart was back.

Tim sighed. “So I guess we’re sitting tight until the Drs Fenton return. I feel blind right now.”

Cassie sat next to him and bumped their shoulders. “We’ll figure this one out just like we have all the ones before.”

Conner sandwiched him on the other side. “Yep. And the Fentons don’t seem like the type to hide information. They’ll tell us everything we want to know.”

“You’re both right. We’ll fix this and be home before we know it.”

-----

Next

A little bit of a quieter segment after two weeks ago, but all the action is happening with Danny and co. It'll pick up shortly, though!

I'm afraid I'm no longer doing tag lists, but please check out the subscription post if you want notifications when I update!

[tigertan]

neighborly favors and chicago cigarettes. [ jellybeans. ]

part two of said slow burn fic ^_^ this is mainly a snippet but there is some silly smut incoming in the full chapter oooops ..

part one [ mac n cheese ]

ao3 link

[ word count ; 1k ]

;; all fluff. awkward meeting again. carmen takes a strange interest in your nails.

your new acrylic nails gleamed in the cold sun of chicago’s morning as they curled around your steering wheel. a pretty candy pink, nothing fancy. they were short and blunt to maximize efficiency, and you’d always liked doing your nails. 

with your new job starting tomorrow, you arranged a nail appointment early this sunday morning just to get it out of the way. 

you rounded the corner of the apartment building's back parking lot and hopped out of your car into the complex. 

despite your freshly scrubbed face and still damp hair from the morning shower, yesterday night’s chicago smoke lingered both on your skin and your memories. the mild hangover you’d gotten was bravely fought off with a fistful of tylenol and gallons of water.  

after finally finding something in common with carmy, sydney rushed out and began apologizing for richie’s behavior, to which you’d reassured her it wasn’t a big deal. you’d just avoid him your entire life after that. because while you weren’t in the wrong, it was an embarrassingly public outburst that burned itself into those moments your brain would never let you forget. 

sydney decided to take you home at that moment, and you didn’t complain. 

you nodded a bye to carmy with a smile still stuck with a cigarette and he’d nodded back, unsmiling.

it was only after you’d wrapped the covers around you did you realize you never asked him if his name was really carmy. 

oh well, you guys were neighbors. you were bound to see him anyway. 

you hummed a song to yourself— specifically frank sinatra’s classic hit, rain in my heart— as you climbed up the stairs and turned the staircase straight into a brick wall. 

but that couldn’t be right, because why did it stumble back at the impact at the same time you did? 

the answer was easy; it wasn’t a wall. it was the tightly fitted cotton-shirted chest/face of your neighbor carmy. his awful brown jacket was thrown across his right bicep, and you could see his tattoos much more clearly. the numbers on his fingers weren't numbers, they were three letters of ‘SOU’ on his index, middle, and ring respectively. 

there was also an inked flower on the back of the same hand, and further up his arm was a measuring cup carrying a globe. you noticed he had more but stepped back too quickly to discern others. 

your nose stings lightly at the impact, and you raise a hand to hold it, eyes widening. a tiny part of you wonders if he is going to yell at you. 

“shit,” you say, blinking. 

“sorry, i didn’t see you,” 

“are you okay— sorry,” 

you both spoke at the same time, which pushed a smile out your lips, and you giggled. so he wasn’t going to yell at you.

“sorry,” you whisper, a grin peeking out from either side of the hand in front of your face. he blinks, the chicago morning sky making his already ice-blue eyes seem ever clearer. 

“you uh— your nails,” he blurted, a muscle in his temple shifting as the words nearly burst from his lips. 

it takes you a second to realize what he’s talking about, but you lower your hand and splay it out, the uv coat catching the light perfectly. 

“oh! yes. nails. got 'em done a few minutes ago.” you explain, giving him another quick smile. “they uh, they’re nice. like jellybeans.” but the compliment, if you could even call it that, was stamped out with deliberate volume and a strained edge of a rather inept tone that creased your brow despite your smile. 

“... thank you,” you reply, absentmindedly running your thumb over the groove of the keys in your pocket. 

he watches your hand fall back beside you and then swallows. 

“do you like—“

“is your—“ 

your voices overlapped once more, and this time he smiled too, curving into his left cheek and carmy released a singular, airy laugh. 

“sorry. uh. you go ahead,” he gestured to you, flicking his eye contact from you to the floor. “yeah, sorry.” you grinned with genuine humor now, “is your, is your real name carmy? sorry, i just heard syd say that last night and i just…” you trailed off, the question sounding dumb and cold on your tongue now that you said it aloud. he blinked again. “uh. no— no. it’s a nickname. for– for carmen. carmen berzatto.” 

he extends his hand out as if you had guys met for the first time. finding it endearing, you take it, a gel-nailed hand clasping the weathered, inked one. 

“were you heading to work?” you ask, and after a momentary silence, he nods, then scrunches his brows and quickly shakes it, the oat-colored curls on his head bouncing. 

“hm? no, just… heading out. kitchen doesn’t open until four today,” he replies, carding a hand through his hair. 

you mouth a silent oh and nod back. 

“well uh, it was good to see you neighbor,” you grin and step the side lightly, breaking the awkward yet giddy conversation that had transpired. 

“yeah. yeah, you too.” carmen gave you a half-smile back, nodding a final time as he passed by you, his hair bouncing as he walked down the stairs, not looking back. 

you did, however, watch until his curls disappeared behind the coffee wood and industrial metal of the stairs. 

you realized you didn’t ask him what he wanted to ask until you’d slotted your key into the lock with a smile. 

—

carmen slammed his car door behind him as he sat, cushioned in the faux leather seat, hands firm on the steering wheel. he stared directly in front of him, boring holes into the dusty red brick of the building wall, sky tinted a slight grey from the windows. 

“jellybeans? really carmen?” he sighs-slash-scoffs, running a hand over his face before fumbling his keys out of the jacket pocket. brows scrunching, the man hesitates before putting the keys into the ignition. despite the faint alarm bells going off in his mind— they seemed to always be there anyway— he twists in the front seat to look behind him at the building entrance as if she’d walk out of the large, heavy-duty door at that moment. 

for a moment or two, he stares. but the reality of it catches up to him in flushed, heated cheeks and brows creasing further. “fuckin’ stupid.” he mutters, finally shoving the keys into the car as the engine purred to life. it was odd how the light from yesterday’s cigarette had bent around her mouth despite the unforgiving fluorescence of the alleyway, and made carmen stare. 

but that’s all. she was only enough to stare at, he concluded with a steely grip on the wheel. with the bear at its peak, how could he do anything but stare? 

he pulls into the back of the bear’s parking lot with the recipe for a spaghetti alla carbonara stuck in his head and a smile stuck in the corner of his mouth. 

—

for more / updates check out the ao3 !

[flower-boi16]

sorry for the incoming rant.

(cw for: mainly arophobia but also mentions of acephobia and mentions of people shipping an abuser with their victim)

praying for the teens and pre teens who think hazbin is *the* show for queer rep or progressive in any matter. it scares me immensely. not only the blatant fetishism and sex negativity and whatnot, but the fact people are being taught that labels *don't mean anything* and that they can do whatever they want (with a character).

yeah, "i gave my characters labels but fuck those labels ship whatever you want" is SURELY a great sentiment to leave behind. surely nobody would erase or discriminate against labels and identity, right? surely people WOULDN'T repsect labels and identities, right?*COUGH* *COUGH*

seriously the amount of ace- but more aro-phobia in that cult/clusterfuck in that fandom is insane. i hate how the aro tag has been poisoned/infiltrated by red twink no. 45 because of shipping discourse, and these people are being enabled by their "leader", never being lectured correctly. these people will ONLY listen to anyone who either agrees with them or isn't part of said label/identity. im so pissed. aros have little to none rep AT ALL and even then people will erase existing rep or come up with shitty excuses (if i hear the phrase "b-but aros can still date!!" one more time im breaking something. you dont care about the AROMANTIC dating experience, you only care about your stickmen kissing. period.). its more than exhausting.

i am not the only aro and aro-ace severly pissed off by this but im afraid there's nothing we can do. these people ship a severly traumatized victim and their assaulter together so im not suprised. at all.

all i came to know is that nobody actually fucking cares about representation or labels- they're all hopping around in fanfiction-shipping wonderland and bullying people relentlessly if they DARE to think otherwise. and they're being enabled.

-an exhausted and "done" aromantic. (i'm also on the ace spectrum but that's not as important to me right now- even though striker- the only one that's not horny 24/7 and clearly sex-repulsed or at least disgusted, is played as a big joke, but i believe someone else already said that. but that alone should raise eyebrows.)

Honestly, I don't even know what to add other than...this fandom kinda sucks. Like first bullying someone into killing themselves over shipping stuff and now this? And the fact that Viv doesn't call out ANY of this shit at all makes it worse.

Look, I'm of the opinion that we should not blame a creator for having a shitty fandom, HOWEVER, Viv needs to stop enabling her fans and say SOMETHING about this behavior.....but she isn't. Like, she could just say "hey guys stop doing this pls" buuuuut no. She's too busy whining about people criticizing her shows to actually do that.

Alastor is aroace guys, stop trying to erase that part of him just so you can drool over him. Just do that for LITTERALY ANY OTHER CHARACTER. It's that simple.

[sp0o0kylights]

Part one here:: link

"oh i dunno if Im going to finish this" I say, right before the plot ate me. anyway this was too big to post in full to tumblr. If you want the full, completed fic (with bonus Fun Fic Facts tm) it is finished and up on A03 here:: link

TW vomiting, drug use

Eddie is good.

Eddie is kind.

Eddie does not run over Henderson’s bike, laying haphazardly in Harrington’s pristine driveway, even if it would make him feel better. 

He does slam his van into park with enough force to make the brakes squeal, which he decides is an excellent way to announce his appearance to the entire neighborhood. 

It’s a move he’s pulled countless times. Charging in and making a scene meant people forgot that he couldn’t actually fight for shit, and equally, took their attention off whatever their original target was.

Which in this case, was Eddie’s too fucking nice freshman. 

The rage pulsing through him is white hot and all encompassing, and it’ll get him through a lot--but the switchblade he carries ensures everyone’s safety in these little matters. 

It makes him brave.

Braver than he should be really, but Eddie spent the entire drive over here chain smoking out the window while prepping for this little confrontation and the more he’d thought it all over, the madder he got.

That a washed up jock thought he could still take advantage of actual children. 

Nevermind Hellfire, or Henderson ditching, or Sinclaire’s ranting. 

This was about their relationship with Harrington. 

A picture has been building in Eddie’s head. One that’s only gotten clearer after today, and one he will be putting an end to, because he doesn’t believe for a second Harrington has a headache. 

Henderson might always be the smartest person in the room, but he’s dumb as hell socially. Too honest, too blunt, and frankly, too goodhearted. 

That makes him easy to take advantage of. 

Sinclair was worse--the guy was too easy to guilt trip. 

It was a noted issue with his ranger, and apparently, himself, and Eddie could easily see how Harrington could have twisted the idea of some ridiculous life-debt to keep Lucas in his clutches.  

Even Mayfield, Billy Hargrove’s former stepsister, was wrapped up in Harrington enough to have a go at her own friends over him! 

She wasn’t even one of his flock, but Eddie was her neighbor. Saw how her mom was barely home. How she was practically raising herself, head down, doing her best not to ever let people see her cry. 

Yeah.

Wouldn’t exactly be difficult for a guy like Steve Harrington to swoop in and take advantage there. 

Wheeler clearly wasn’t a fan and Eddie can only come up with reason after reason as to why--King Jackass had the poor kid’s entire friend group under some kind of--of sick spell.

Well. 

Eddie was here to break it. 

Even if it meant storming into the King’s castle by himself and calling him out on his shit. 

Nobody fucked with his people. Especially not douchebag, washed up jocks. 

He’s up to Harringotn’s ridiculous double doors in a flash, banging hard on the wood with a closed fist, positively fuming and uncaring of who sees. 

Surprise, surprise, it’s Henderson who opens it.

“Eddie?” He says, blinking up at him like he’s not sure of what he’s seeing.  “What are you--hey!” 

Hey, because Eddie’s pushed past him, storming into the house. 

“This has gone on long enough.” He announces, loud as he ever has been. “Where the hell’s Harrington?”

Henderson, frustratingly, does not weep or throw his hands up in celebration of Eddie’s incoming rescue. 

Which is fine--Eddie hasn’t broken the spell yet.

Unfortunately he is bitching, in that infamously annoying tone of his.

“Dude, shut up, Steve’s pills really only work for like, an hour--” 

“Fantastic, he’ll be clear headed for our little talk.” Eddie tells him, head sweeping left and  right as he looks for his target. He’s been in Casa de Harrington a few times before to deal, but it was always at night.

He can now say with perfect honesty that the place looks worse in the bright light of the day. 

“Was that Eddie?” Sinclair calls, and Eddie orients towards him instantly, storming down the hall. 

It doesn’t take long to find the kid. 

 Lucas is standing in a kitchen larger than Eddie’s entire trailer, a too-large pink apron drowning his frame. 

He turns, revealing the front of the thing has  ‘Whisk Taker’ written on it in syrupy white font. 

(Baking puns. Disgusting.) 

“Are you cooking?” Eddie accuses with a sneer, though his disgust isn’t aimed at the freshmen. 

This is exactly what he was afraid of finding. 

Lucas just stares at him. “Uh--yeah?” 

“What did I say about too many people, Munson?” Mayfrield spits angrily. It takes a second to locate her--the kitchen is enormous and far too white--but eventually Eddie realizes she’s perched up on a counter next to the largest sink he’s ever seen. 

For a second, Eddie thinks that’s just where she’s chosen to sit. Then she moves, and he realizes she’s washing and drying a series of water bottles. 

He never in his life thought he’d witness Maxine Mayfield willingly do someone else's dishes. 

“Someone get me Harrington.” He’s not trying for anything dramatic, but his voice must sound dangerous because all three freshmen stop dead, eyes wide as if he's just spoken in tongues.

He zeroes in on Dustin with a glare. “Now.”

Who huffs, throwing his hands up in the air like Eddie’s the one being unreasonable here. 

“Absolutely not--we just got Steve to sit down. He’s been following me around the house insisting I’m causing more problems than I’m fixing!”

“Because you are.” Steve says, voice dripping with calm condescension as he appears like a wraith in the doorway. “And I know you’re all into the whole dungeon game, Munson, but this is a little dramatic, even for you.”

Eddie whirls to face him, already vibrating with fury. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from the guy who’s treating them like his personal minions. What’s next, Harrington? Gonna make them re-shingle the roof? Paint your house? Wax your car?”

Steve gives him a flat, almost disbelieving stare. “Do you seriously think I had Henderson miss your game just so I could lounge around while he’s doing chores?”

Eddie doesn’t bite, too busy unloading. “Oh we can both see it’s more than that.”

He doesn’t notice the way Steve’s jaw tenses, or how his hand creeps up to the side of his head, rubbing at his temple. 

“Anything else you want done, Harrington? Maybe make ‘em mow the lawn?” Eddie sneers. “Or teach ‘em to plump your pillows just the way you like—”

Steve finally snaps, pushing himself upright. “You know what Munson, you're right,” he says, voice tight with barely-contained frustration. “I’m clearly a terrible person they need to be rescued from so--”  

He cuts himself off with a hiss,  eyes squeezing shut as his hand goes to the side of his head, and spits out his next words like they hurt. 

“You can play the good guy and take them all home.” 

Dustin, with an exasperated sigh, steps between them. “No,” he tells Steve sternly, as if managing an unruly child, before spinning on his heel to say the exact same thing, in the exact same tone--to Eddie. 

(Jackass freshman can’t even appreciate when they’re being actively rescued!) 

“Eddie, I promise that this isn’t what it looks like.” 

For anyone else it would sound like a plea, but Henderosn somehow makes it condescending.

“We can explain, alright?” Dustin says, raising his hands as though coaxing a skittish animal. “Will you let us explain? Please?”

Eddie glowers. 

“You clearly do not, in fact, know what this looks like. Because if you did,” 

Eddie can make himself menacing and he does so now, pulling on every single year of drama and theatrics and lying to cops he’s had, pushing his shoulders back and making his body tall.

“You would know that it looks like a guy who peaked in high school is forcing a bunch of fourteen year olds to do his bidding.” 

He takes an aggressive step towards Steve, boots thunking hard on the floor. “And that isn’t happening on my watch.” 

“Aren’t you like an extra super senior?” Mayfield says, arms crossed over her chest. 

“Irrelevant!” Eddie swats the air in her direction, as if to physically bat away her words. “I’m still in high school and I’m not emotionally blackmailing a bunch of kids into waiting on me hand and foot while I fake a headache!” 

“Oh ew.” Max’s nose scrunches in disgust, a mixture of disbelief and fury warring on her face. “That is not what’s happening here.” 

“Were you even listening earlier?!” Lucas says, like he can’t quite believe Eddie is this dumb. 

(His character will be the next to die, so Eddie swears.) 

“I did.” Eddie points a finger at him, triumphant. “I heard all about how he’s tricked you into thinking you owe him a life-debt!”

“A what?” Harrington’s squinting, like he’s struggling to follow along what is happening. It’s a halfway decent sick act, Eddie will give it to him, but he knows the facade will drop in a moment. 

As soon as the asshole loses his temper and decides to try and throw Eddie out, he’ll switch from the Poor Me act into the usual pompous, rich dick on a rampage persona. 

“How he’s saved you all, convinced you and Henderson that you’re in debt to him.” 

“Could we just---please stop yelling?” Steve says in the background, heel pressing hard against his eyes. 

Then winces like his own voice hurts his head.

“What the hell, Eddie?!” Dustin’s cut across the room, stepping in between the two older teens. “Where did this even come from!?” 

“Guys.” 

“The mouths of babes, Henderson. Which you would know if you witnessed Sinclair’s rant instead of missing out because King Dickhead demanded your presence at his castle!” 

“Guys.” Steve’s voice abruptly takes on a weird tone, and it’s only Mayfield’s eyes popping wide that has Eddie realizing something is wrong--right before Harrington shoots past him, noisily hurling in the sink.

“Gross!” Max shrieks, throwing herself off the counter. 

Harrington aims a shaky middle finger in her direction. 

“I just washed those bottles Steve, I'm not washing them again!” Mayfield rants, but she’s not fooling anyone. Not with the way she’s already edging back towards him, like she’s afraid he might fall over. 

(Worse, like she might try to catch him, as if Harrington’s broad, barbarian-like shoulders wouldn’t flatten her instantly.) 

“Al-’right.” Harrington slurs a moment later, still panting over the sink. “Everyone--out. Now.” 

“Steve--” 

“Nope. Making it worse. Out.” 

He manages to stand and turn, leaning hard against the counter and for the first time since this all started, Eddie looks at him. 

Properly, and not through the lens of righteous fury. 

Harrington’s pale.

The shirt he’s wearing is stained with sweat marks, his sweatpants clearly old and worn for comfort rather than style. 

His hair…

Eddie has never seen Harrington without his infamously perfect hairdo, and the messy, slick waves plastered to his forehead is more of a shock then him vomiting in the sink. 

He’s got his hands pressed hard against his eyes again, and there’s a slight tremble in his fingers that belay he’s likely in a lot more pain than he’s letting on.

In short, Harrington looks like absolute shit, and Eddie, maybe, possibly, the tiniest bit believes he actually has a migraine. 

Well, it was that or he was really committed to the bit… 

The tense silence that has befallen them all is ruined when Harrington makes a ‘hurk.’ noise.

“I’m going to throw up again.” He decides after a moment of contemplation, before whipping back around to the sink and doing just that. 

“Steve’s right.” Mayfield decides suddenly, over all the nasty noises. “We should leave.” 

“I’m almost done cooking!” Sinclair protests, as if Harrington isn’t presently throwing up the contents of his stomach. 

“You’re almost done burning things, you mean.” Max mutters, but her words can’t hide the blatant concern written all over his face. “I don’t think he’s going to keep anything down.” 

“He needs us to finish what we started.” Dustin argues passionately. “You know how bad he gets, he’s not gonna be able to get up in an hour!” 

(A clear exaggeration, because Harrington looks like he’s not gonna make it across the kitchen unassisted.) 

“What I need is for everyone to stop talking so fucking loud.” Harrington moans, before appearing to give up on life entirely. 

He sort of sags against the counter, resting his head against his arms while bent double, as if that would help things. 

It was at this point that Eddie had the most unfortunate realization that he might be the asshole here. 

Because Harrington looks rough--and if he actually does in fact, have a migraine, then Eddie has done nothing but make it worse.

(Very likely the freshmen have as well, given Dustin is incapable of talking in anything other than a loud yell, and the smell of Lucas’s burnt food has permeated the air.

Mayfield seemed to have accomplished a small amount of actual work, at least.

…If Harrington managed to miss throwing up on the water bottles.) 

“Look,” Harrington interrupts with an audible, thick swallow.“You guys did great, and I appreciate the uh, help. I’m fine, I promise, you can all go home. Munson,” 

He doesn’t turn, but his voice does change into something that’s half pleading, half demanding.

“Can we please fight about this tomorrow? Or next week?” 

“No fighting!” Dustin shrieks, which has the effect of making Harrington cringe into the counter--and that is what finally kicks Eddie over.

Bows to the instincts that now want to wrap up Harrington in a blanket over the ones that want to strangle him, (though both are very much at odds in his head with each other.)

“We can put a pin in it.” He says, all the venom dropping out of his voice,  already knowing what’s going to happen next and hating himself for it. 

Even at his absolute worst, Eddie has never been able to resist trying to fix a problem he’s been presented with--or turn down someone who needs help.

Harrington, clearly, needs help. 

“You heard him.” He tells his freshman, then immediately holds up a hand when all three try to protest at once. 

“Ah-ah, inside voices.” He himself uses a harsh whisper, and then has to fight not to laugh aloud when all three abruptly eye him like he’s lost his head.

He probably has.

(Fucking King Steve.

No one who is that much of a douchebag should ever look that pathetic without deserving it, it’s against the Munson doctrine.) 

“Henderson, have you done anything actually useful while you’ve been here? Like, say, getting a warm washcloth?” 

“I--oh.” Dustin’s on the defense instantly, but for once actually listens before he finishes his sentence. “Uh. No.”

“Go do that then.” Eddie instructs, making sure to keep his voice quiet and even. 

“Sinclair, toss out the eggs, then take the garbage out so it’ll stop stinking up the place. Mayfield, see if these windows open. Harrington…” 

He pauses, watching as Harrington tries to gather himself, moving slowly and deliberately like even breathing hurts. His entire appearance is grating Eddie’s nerves—not because he doesn’t care, but because he does, and that’s infuriating. 

“Go lay down, man.” He finishes lamely. 

He expects the freshmen to listen to him. Knows they will, in his heart of hearts, even if they bitch back, because that’s just how things are when he decides to take charge. So few people truly want to, that others are often relieved when he does. 

Steve Harrington is not most people.

If he argues, he could very well tip things out of control again, which means Eddie is likely going to have to force the trio of fourteen year olds out of the house. 

Henderson and Sinclair he can manage but Mayfield…

Thankfully, Steve pushes off the counter with a groan, muttering something under his breath, but slowly making his way toward the couch without any other protest. 

The freshmen exchange glances, all of them looking just as unsure as Eddie feels. Like they’re waiting for instructions now that their default leader is down for the count.

He clears his throat pointedly. 

“Hello? Did I not give you marching orders?” He bats his hands at them. “Go march!” 

Mayfield mutters something that sounds an awful lot like “hypocrite” but thankfully, does as asked. 

“Are you gonna give us a ride home?” Henderson asks as he finally starts moving around--hopefully to get a damn washcloth. 

“You got yourself here, you can get yourself home.” Eddie scoffs back, taking stock of Harrington’s kitchen. 

He eyes the line of pain pills laid out on the counter, quickly noting not one of them is anything that would help with a sneeze let alone a migraine. 

Typical. 

“Why not?” Dustin disappeared down a hallway, but the fact Eddie can still hear him plain as day speaks to his ability to keep quiet. “You have your van, don’t you?” 

“Because I’m not leaving when you three are leaving.” 

It’s an absentminded comment, given his mind is elsewhere. 

Weed may be his bread and butter but he does have a handful of more serious things on offer. 

Of those things, one or two have some fun little unexpected side effects, and if Eddie recalls Rick’s yapping right, one of said things was stopping headaches. 

Said magic little mushrooms might even be in a pocket or two, here, if he remembers right… 

“Wait, you're staying here?” Lucas protests, far too loudly. 

"Ssszzhh!" Eddie hisses, drawing out the sound dramatically, mostly for the sake of cutting off whatever protests were coming his way. 

“No arguing. Your beloved King clearly needs a nap, and that means you’re all off duty. Unless," he adds with a raised eyebrow, "you intend to watch him sleep?"

Dustin looks torn, but mutters a quiet, "No," his eyes shifting sideways like he's weighing the logic.

"Good. Then if you’re all finished…?”

He waits for the nods he knows are coming. 

“Excellent. Now leave." Eddie says, pointing towards the door. 

They hesitate for a second, but then finally begin to shuffle out, the door clicking quietly behind them. 

And just like that, Eddie’s left standing there, watching Steve breathe shallowly on the couch--with a washrag over his eyes.

(At least Dustin managed that.) 

He could leave now. 

Should leave, really. Giving out drugs for free is not exactly a good business move and Steve will no doubt sleep the headache off without it. But Eddie’s feet don't seem to agree with him, rooted in place as his gaze lingers on the sharp line of Steve's jaw, the slight twitch of his brow every time a muscle aches.

Feels the pull, deep in his gut, to provide the relief he knows he can give. 

Before he knows what’s happening, he’s moving, crossing the room toward him.

“Munson?” Harrington squints up at him as he registers his presence, washcloth nudged upwards by shaky fingers. “Why’r you still ‘ere?” 

“Because I’m stupid.” Eddie mutters, right before realizing he actually said that outloud. 

“What?” 

Thank God for Harrington’s headache. 

“You look terrible, man.”  Eddie says slightly louder. “That hair of yours is so flat I think your crown’s gonna fall right off.” 

He’d meant it as a joke--spoke it like one, but it seems to snap Harrington out of his pity party. 

The sigh that blasts out of him is a whole body affair, and gets his feelings across better than his words do. “I get it. You thought this was something else and it wasn’t. Not the first time that’s happened.” 

He turns, cheek scraping against the fabric of his shirt, red rimmed eyes squinting against the light to look at Eddie. 

“You got your laugh in, so you can go.” 

There’s defeat in his voice. Like he’s accepted this might as well have happened. 

(Like he’s just as beaten down as anyone Eddie has ever saved.) 

“I didn’t stick around to laugh.” Eddie keeps his voice soft, and that somehow, makes the next part easier to say.  

“I honestly thought you were messing around with Henderson and Sinclair, and I uh, I’m used to being the only person who gives a shit. When that kind of thing happens.” 

Harrington grimaces. 

“It’s okay.” he mutters, eyes sliding closed once more. “Most people still think I’m an asshole.”

His tone has gone odd again, wrecked and rasping, migraine clearly trumping whatever strong feelings he had on the matter. 

And the stupid thing was, Harrington himself was never really an asshole. 

Sure he went along with the assholes, and he definitely egged them on if not outright participated in some of the lower tier shitty activities, but he wasn’t the guy slamming people into lockers. 

(Eddie, in fact, has a hazy memory of Steve telling off Hagan for doing said locker slamming.) 

It didn’t make him a good guy--he’d had slung too many insults around to get that label--but in the rankings of assholery, his was of the average variety. 

Which means that Eddie cannot logic himself out of his own stupid desire to help.

Even if he really, really wants to.

“Yeah well, even assholes need assistance sometimes, and since I kicked your help out, it’s on to make up for it.” 

“No offense,” Steve slurs tiredly, “but I don’t think you’re any quieter than Dustin.” 

A smile ghosts over Eddie’s face. 

“I live in a tiny ass trailer, Harrington. Trust me,  I know how to be quiet. I simply choose not to be.” He moves, slow and careful, until he’s seated next to the fallen King on his stupidly huge (and very uncomfortable) couch. 

Steve’s eye follows him over, staring up as he white knuckles his sweatpants, washrag sitting crooked on his forehead. 

“I’m not sure I’m not gonna throw up again.” He admits after a moment. 

“And that right there is one of the things I can help with. Provided,” Eddie waggles his eyebrows, “that you don’t mind taking a more recreational route for your recovery?” 

“....are you offering me drugs?” 

“I am indeed.” Eddie confirms with a real smile, plucking the offending baggie out of a pocket. 

“You ever done shrooms, your majesty?” 

Steve huffs a quiet noise that might have been a snort, had he put any effort behind it. 

“How is that going to help?” 

“Be-cauuuuuse,” Eddie draws the words out, still a showman even if he is doing his level best to talk as quietly as possible, “shrooms are what we call a psychedelic, and those are pretty well known among certain circles as the headache healer.” 

Provided one took the medicinal amount and not the down-the-rabbit-hole amount. 

Harrington’s eyes are back open, only this time they’re looking at Eddie’s fingers the same way a dog looks at a nail trimmer: concerned and not entirely unsure it wasn’t going to bite him. 

“I’m not…” He cuts himself off, frowning. 

“You’ve bought plenty of my weed, Harrington. Trust me this isn’t any different.” Eddie tells him. 

Isn’t offended in the slightest--this reaction is pretty typical for people who have only smoked the ganja. 

Even the ones who asked to try for something with a little more ‘umph.’ 

“S’not that.”Steve admits quietly. “I uh. Had a bad trip. While back.” 

“Ah, gunshy.” Eddie says it without a lick of judgment, because Eddie’s been there.

Or rather in the shower, at two am because he accidentally spilled LSD on his hand and promptly tripped balls for 48 hours after.  

 “I’ll hang around a bit, if you like.” He offers casually. “Make sure things don’t go sideways.”

He gets another huff-snort as Harrington’s watery eyes return their attention to him. 

“And what are you going to do if they do go sideways?”

“Put you back together again.”  

Eddie knows his grin is crooked, but can’t help it. He’s thinking about Humpty Dumpty and the King’s Men.  

Somehow he doesn’t see Steve Harrington cracking that easily—at least, not without putting up a good fight—but drugs did worse things to better people. 

“It really helps?” Steve asks, voice quiet. Doubtful.

Eddie presses his hands to his chest. “Scouts honor.”

“You were not a boy scout.” Steve tells him, but he’s struggling to sit up anyway, looking game. 

“Alright, so how do I do this?” He asks, though he’s already halfway down again, propped up on his elbows.

“First, you lay back down, and I’ll brew it into tea,” Eddie explains. 

“Tea?”

“Well, you could eat them straight, but I don’t think they’d taste too great. Not that I wouldn’t mind watching you try.”

Steve scowls. “Sadist.”

“Guilty,” Eddie replies, biting back the urge to sing-song it, keeping his voice down and steady. “Just a heads-up: they kick in fast, but I’ll go light on you—nothing like the ‘fun’ dose for the usual crowd.”

Which is how he ends up back in the kitchen, this time making tea and humming to himself, before offering the final brewed concoction to Harrington.

Who downs it like a shot, because he’s a fucking frat-bro at heart. 

“I didn’t find a teacup for you to do that.” 

Between a full-body shudder and a dramatic grimace, Steve chokes out “Not gonna lie I didn’t think we owned a teacup.” 

“What, do you think I just have them in my van?”

“Honestly? Yeah.” 

Which is kind of hysterical, and something Eddie may be doing--not that he’s telling Harrington that. 

“And now we wait!” He announces instead of rambling about teacups, nearly clapping his hands together before he remembers the migraine Steve is soldiering through with surprising grit. 

Eddie himself would have turned into a whiny mess, so he can’t help but admire the guy’s restraint.

“Waiting to see if I hurl again, you mean?” Steve mutters, flopping backward onto the couch. “That tasted like battery acid.”

“Think it’s coming back up?”

“No clue.”

They sit in silence for a second, then Eddie pokes, “Maybe it’s best if you crash in your room, man. You look like death warmed over, and this couch sucks.” 

An understatement, if there ever was one. The fucking thing didn’t seem to be made for people to actually sit on. 

Reluctantly, Steve pulls himself up, heading toward his room. Eddie tags along, snarky grin covering the way he holds his hands out in case the jock ahead of him slips on the stairs and takes them both out. 

(Unlike Mayfield, Eddie does not pretend Steve doesn’t outclass him weight wise. The man was built like a brickhouse, and he has to fight to keep his eyes up toward Steve’s hair instead of on his ass.) 

Thankfully, he’s saved from all R-rated thoughts by the sheer horror of Harrington’s bedroom. 

“Harrington, I’ve found the source of all your migraines.” Eddie tells him, tone as serious as he’s ever been.

“Ha-ha.” Steve deadpans, stepping into his plaid fucking room. 

“I’m not kidding, I’m getting a headache and I’ve been here less than five seconds.” 

The whole place truly is a nightmare--like someone took one of those plaid hunting jackets and themed an entire room around it. 

Fucking rich people. 

“Trust me, it’s not the wallpaper.” 

“Given how you’re weaving on your feet, I think it’s safe to say I don’t trust you at all.” Eddie tells him, half helping half dragging Steve towards the bed. 

It’s a comfy looking thing and Harrington falls into it gratefully, immediately crawling under the covers. 

“You know where to find me?” Eddie asks him, refusing to think Harrington snuggling up in his bed is something cute. 

“Yeah?”

“Good. Hit me up next time your head gets bad. I’ll make sure to keep some of this,” He shakes the little baggie, “on hand.” 

Steve’s pulled the covers all the way up past his chin, but he moves it down a little to properly cock an eye at Eddie. 

“Dare I ask what you're gonna charge for that?”

“Let’s call it a fair trade for all those times you’ve driven the freshman home from Hellfire.” 

If Steve even recalls this conversation, that is. Eddie hadn’t exactly given him the “fun” kind of dose, but then, he himself has never tested out what dose is needed to cure headaches rather than simply having  fun destroying one's own ego. 

He supposes that’s something he and Harrington both will have to test, between them--because Eddie meant it when he offered the drugs for free.

No one deserves to suffer from the kind of migraine Harrington clearly had. 

“Think you’re good to drop off.” Eddie tells him, after making sure Steve is happily content in his bed. 

Checks his watch to make sure enough time has passed to safely call it, before beginning to attempt his way out of Steve’s god-awful bedroom. 

Which of course, is when Harrington reaches out, looping his fingers around Eddie’s wrist. 

It freezes him in place. 

In a moment that is so utterly selfish and stupid that Eddie will loudly insist it was a hallucination should Harrington ever dare ask about it, he turns his palm and moves so that he’s clasping Steve’s fingers with his own. 

“Thanks. For all this.” Steve whispers, as they hold hands for a moment. 

Eddie squeezes his fingers against the younger man’s before he moves to make his retreat, flashing a peace sign over his shoulder as he goes.  

“Anytime, big boy.” 

Anytime. 

xxx

The thing no one tells you about creating a doctrine, is that at some point or another, someone’s going to hold you to it. 

In Eddie’s case it’s four very pissed off teenagers.

He has a gold medal in mental gymnastics and a silver in denial. Left on his own devices he could easily excuse everything that happened yesterday. 

Reclassify the fallen King as pathetic, and the kids' weird loyalty to him as a holdover from his babysitting days. 

Blame their nosy-ness on them being involved in Harrington’s life, and happily go back to mocking their relationship with renewed vigor because now he’s not going to handwave their behavior as being afraid of Harrington. 

Nope, they clearly and willingly, have attached themselves to the King, which means Eddie gets to make fun of them for life. 

Pity they don’t leave Eddie to his own devices. 

In fact, the little shits hit him up first thing in the morning, early enough that he's’ a little suspicious that the boys slept over at Max’s trailer. 

“We’re not done talking about Steve.” Mayfield tells him and given the determined (Henderson) angry (Sinclair) and put out (Wheeler Jr.) faces glaring at him from over her shoulder, Eddie figures his chances for getting out of this conversation are slim to none.

“Good morning to you too.” He snarks, voice gravel-deep with sleep. “What do you little shits want?”

“I literally just said.” Max rolls her eyes so hard he thinks about commenting that they may stick back there, only to decide that makes him sound too much like a teacher for his liking. 

(Besides if they get stuck, he’ll have an excuse to whack her on the back of her head without getting murdered for it.

…well. 

An attempt at an excuse, anyway.) 

“And who says I have anything I want to talk about?” He fires back, leaning a shoulder against the old metal doorframe. 

Just because he understood what they wanted didn’t mean he was going to make it easy. 

“Would you just let us in?” 

“No.” 

“Eddie.” Dustin whines, and Eddie redirects his frown his way. “Come on.” 

“Well I suppose if you say it that way,” Eddie hums thoughtfully. “No.” 

“Steve’s sick, you asswipe.” Max snaps angrily. 

“I know,” He volleys back, brightly sarcastic. “I saw him yesterday.”

Because it’s Mayfield, she matches him tit for tat, a mimicry of his sarcastic drawl entering her voice. “Good! You get to see him today too.”

And just like that their little ambush makes sense.

(He’s got to find a new way to get the damn kids to fear him, clearly his usual menacingness  just isn’t cutting it anymore.) 

“And why would I do that?” 

He’s done his good deed. He helped Harrington out, and even offered free drugs to help him get his migraines under control. 

Checking up on the guy was overkill.  

“We were gonna do it, but someone let it slip that Steve was sick.” A cutting glance is given to Henderson, who makes a face but otherwise holds his ground. 

“And his mom called everyone else's parents with instructions that we leave him alone until he feels better.”  

“So now if we go over there,” Sinclair finishes for his girlfriend, “we get grounded.” 

Which neatly answers every question that just popped into Eddie’s head. 

The threat makes sense for the boys--Eddie’s met Claudia Henderson and though she has that bubbly, easy to confuse nature of suburbanites everywhere, there was an undercurrent in her eyes of someone who knew more than she was letting on. 

Or perhaps, someone who simply knew what they wanted, and was happy to settle and wait for it. 

 Likewise the Sinclair and Wheeler parental units seem to want to keep in her--and Steve’s, no doubt, given he carts their kids around--good graces. 

Given Mayfield’s mom wasn’t even home last night, her participation in this farce does not make sense and Eddie narrows his eyes at her in warning. 

“I fail to see how this is my problem.” He says instead of directly calling her out.

She knows he knows, and he’s smart enough to figure out how to relay that without saying it directly. 

(An action taken out of respect for surviving a bad home life, and absolutely not because he’s terrified she’ll crawl through his window to enact revenge in the middle of the night.) 

“It’s your problem because you owe him one.” she tells him firmly. “And us.”

Oh no he does not. 

“How so?” He challenges with a snorted laugh. 

“You did kind of storm into his house and yell a lot.” Sinclair points out. He’s doing better at speaking up, Eddie realizes with a twisted sense of pride and dread. 

Not quite so easy to steamroll after his outburst yesterday. 

A part of him hopes that sticks around--Sinclair needs a spine, and not just because Mayfield will keep running circles around him until he grows one. 

The rest of Eddie is pissed off that he decided to get one now, when it directly impacted Eddie’s Saturday morning sleeping plans.  

Leave it to these dickheads to use a good deed against him.

“Look--we can’t make sure he’s okay. You can.” Mayfield steps up to jam a painted fingernail in Eddie’s chest. “He won’t let us do anything that will actually help him. You, he can't stop.” 

He does not take a step backward and thus lose all the cool points he has left in the eyes of the younger Hellfire members, but only because he’s already leaned up against the doorframe. 

He bares his teeth at her in a silent snarl instead. 

“We made it worse.” She admits, voice sharp. “And I don’t know how to make it better, but you seem to be able to, so congrats Munson--you get to go again!” 

Which gets Eddie’s back right up. 

He pushes off the doorframe, ready to tell Mayfield--and all his little dipshits--right off, except this is when Wheeler Jr., of all people, decides to add in his two cents. 

“If you don’t go, no one else will.” He looks off to the side while he says it, arms crossed tight across his chest and spitting the words out like he's admitting to a crime. “Robin’s not coming back until Monday and Nancy's got some stupid thing, so you’re literally the only person who can go.” 

Well just stab him in the heart, why don’t you. 

“What are the chances of you fucking back off to whatever hole you crawled out of if I refuse?” He asks, already knowing that he’s done for.

Accepted his fate, because he knows what it’s like not to have someone to rely on, when you need them the most. 

“Zero.” Sinclair and Henderson chant as one. 

“Well then.” He tells them with the biggest, most put upon sigh he can manage. “Guess you got me in a box here.” 

Mayfield grins at him.

It reminds him vaguely of a shark. 

A bloodthirsty, slightly demonic, mean shark. 

“Good. Go get dressed.”

“Oh I’m doing this right now, am I?” He complains, but he’s already moving to go back into his trailer. 

“We’re not leaving until you do!” Mayfield yells at him.

Eddie slams the door in her face. 

(He’s never adopting freshmen again, as long as he fucking lives.)

[pseudophan]

idk if this is confirmed or if im insane but i feel like dan in his why i quit youtube video was talking about how he felt like there was Dan content and Dan And Phil content and how he felt like he was split between them....i wonder if hes trying both to see what he still likes to do. he had his internet show and now danandphilgamws is back like. i have a feeling he's trying to figure things out rn

i think dan ultimately wants to do his own thing and has a lot of ideas and aspirations, specifically he wants to be a stage comedian like his passion is clearly for live performances and while the comedy bit is still being fine tuned (i'm not saying he's bad, in fact he's kinda good ngl, but he definitely has a way to go if he wants to be Great) the performance part he's got DOWN like say what you want about that man but he ooowwwnnnsss a stage. also he's weirdly great at audience interaction lmao? that was my main takeaway from we're all doomed, both the pre show and the show itself, he deals with heckling like.. AMAZINGLY well. he's genuinely hilarious responding to an audience like i never thought i'd say this a few years ago but i think he might actually have a future in live comedy lmao????

but i also think he.. needs money LOL like he's said many a time he doesn't really love being a full time youtuber, but also he does enjoy making youtube videos! just, you know.. not full time. but while on his own channel making Daniel Howell(tm) videos he puts a lot of pressure on himself, and then if he does a slightly less high pressure series or whatever (dystopia daily) it's relatively well received and the videos are good enough but like.. it's not the traction he wants, nor the traction he needs

ultimately dan knows that if he wants to keep and potentially build an audience online that lies in Dan And Phil. it always has and it always will. and i think for a long time he struggled with that, and as much as people gave him shit for it i completely get it. like, lmao, of COURSE he wants to be recognised for his own abilities and not just the dynamic and chemistry he's got going with... his literal partner. honestly it would be one thing if dnp were just comedy partners because there are a lot of comedy duos on the world who've made it big, but i think there's something about it being him and his full time actual real life boyfriend/life partner that kinda makes it weird. and as much as i love the dnp dynamic i still do get that feeling so much like honestly who can blame him ?? if your entire professional life is just.. your personal life but on camera ? that's weird. it's gotta feel weird and it's definitely unfulfilling for someone as aspirational as dan and i can't blame him at all for it

that being said, dan clearly does really enjoy making videos with phil. which yeah of course he does, he gets to just turn on a camera and talk shit with the guy he talks shit with all day long anyway. and i think what he's now realised is 1. if he wants to keep/build an audience, the dan and phil branding is where it's at and 2. he needs an income while he works on whatever solo projects he's got going on, and dnp makes a loooot of money

basically my point is - dan seems to really enjoy making videos with phil but he knows that's not really a life long career choice. as much as i'd love them to, it's not really an option for them to be playing sims when they're like, sixty. and while phil is relatively chill and seems to just take things as they come, which tbh is probably the healthiest way of doing things, dan is very overthinking and wants to get ahead of everything and also in general just like.. he wants to build a career! he wants to build something on his own and i can't fault him for that at all. dan knows that one day he's gonna need something more than just Dan And Phil if he wants to keep working, and he's laying the groundwork right now to be able to do that

again, though, i don't want anyone to take this as like 'dan is only doing dapg to make money and rebuild a fanbase' because as much as that is definitely a big part of it... just look at the man. in these videos. he's having a great time. and also, as annoying as we are, he does kinda love us. sometimes. maybe. <3

[gtzgoblin]

Mrs Flood???

Doctor Who ep8 (empire of death) spoilers :

1a) dressed like Clara

I just saw this in a small post so heres more characters::::::

Why I think she could be the Master (admittedly I love the Master so I'll see them everywhere and I'm almost always wrong with Doctor Who predictions so consider this advanced warning that she definitely isn't 😂):

1b) says clever boy like Clara

1c) who'd be most likely to imitate Clara? Missy gave her the doctor's number right, so would know Clara's crack

2) Mrs "Flood"? Bigger than a pond or a river. Who's that petty to be like I'm gonna imitate the shit outta everyone the Doctor loves to create maximal drama

3) ohhh I waited so long - if she regenerated after Dhawan she'd have to age, but if she IS missy/the one after Missy (there was an audio drama yes? Explaining there was another female regen after Missy? Did I imagine that) that's again a big wait

4) the Mary Poppins schtick at the end. Missy did that shit too

5) suspiciously nice to Rose but vaguely less nice to Ruby the companion in ep7 - jealousy?? Would be on vibe

6) seen photos of another companion in a big white coat, clearly imitating

7) all the comments "never seen a TARDIS before" etc are very smug and Master-like

8) on brand prediction of incoming doom, deffo will be if you're doing a trap babe

9) pretty unflinching faith when being turned to sand, did not seem concerned at all

Fully willing to admit other people out there in the Whoniverse will be that petty and smug and capable of dicking around, plus could be mimicking the Master in the same way as my previous argument for it being the Master, but I really want it to be true so til I'm proven wrong that's what I'm going with.

My only issue is that I really want them to be played by Matt Smith next time after he said it in that interview, but I'll take whatever 😂

[hyerinrose]

hello, angellll !!1!1!1!＼(´ ∇`)ノ i wonder how yan bully react if his darling have a boyfriend... and yan bully ask his darling why they have someone else and then his darling says that they want to lose their feelings for yan bully (like they want to move on yk)

anways i love you and i hope you have a great day/night, angel ♡

-🦈

Hihi 🦈 anon! Mm I like your big brain :00 ily too have a good/night day!

Synopsis : Darius discovered that you have a boyfriend and confronts you about it. The outcome of it was.. unexpected

T/W : Drama, Angst, reader's boyfriend implied to be murdered later, kissing (omg), two idiots in love (one more murderous about it than the other)

•┈••✦ 🎀✦••┈•💌•┈••✦ 🎀 ✦••┈•

"Oi dumb face, I need to talk to ya for a sec" Darius approached you at your locker one morning.

You jumped in surprise at his presence and backed yourself further at your locker. Darius rose an eyebrow at your odd behaviour, usually you would've told him off for bothering you.

"Oh- uhm not sure if I can, I have to meet up with someone right now" Your (E/C) avoided his golden irises, clearly showing you were lying to him.

He snickered and slammed his hand on a locker beside yours, the sound resonating through out the empty hallway. Twirling a strand of your hair he asked in a clipped tone,

"Really? And who would that be? Your nonexistent boyfriend?" Darius laughed at the end of his sentence.

He's the reason you never had a partner up until now. Only those who wish to have their life cut short would dare to pursue you.

You only meekly nodded in response and Darius quickly snapped his gaze on you. Quickly looking for sign of lies on your face, only to be met with none.

Oh he was livid.

"Who? Who the fuck is stupid enough to be your boyfriend, huh? Tell me, tell me damnit!" Darius was beyond angry.

He was angry at your boyfriend for daring to steal you away, angry at himself for letting that bastard even try.

"A-Avery.." You said your boyfriend's name in a low tone, afraid of how Darius was going to react.

"That pipsqueak? You choose him of all the fucking losers in this school to date? Why?! He couldn't protect you with those noodle arm he has, he couldn't do shit for you"

Darius then lean his face closer to you, your noses were practically touching. His expression that was usually contains of smugness now only filled with desperation.

Desperation to know why you didn't choose him instead.

"Because I wanted to forget about you! I- I love you, asshole! And I hate myself for it.." You feel tears dropping down your face, you never wanted him to know of your feelings for him.

The blond looked taken aback at your confession, however once he recovered from the initial shock, a smirk stretched across his face.

You readied yourself for the incoming mockery and the harsher bullying you'd receive from Darius after this but it never came.

"Wh-!" A pair of lips come in contact with yours, your (E/C) snapped open. Darius was kissing you! Your bully whom you had feelings for was kissing you!

"I love you too, dumbass. I always have been. You should've told me instead of using that loser to forget about me" He muttered once you two pulled away.

"Does that mean we're dating now?" You asked him and yelped once he lean his forehead onto yours.

"Of course. From now on you're mine and I'm yours, you got that? Don't ever forget about it, dumb face"

Now that he already got you in his arm, it's time for him to take care of that bastard who thought he had a chance with you.

No one can have you but him. Only him.

•┈••✦ 🎀✦••┈•💌•┈••✦ 🎀 ✦••┈•