#this is a shitpost im not adding visibility tags

[azumasoroshi]

if you're too tired to write physics notes at midnight after writing chem notes for six hours straight. may i suggest making everything satosugu

[the-francakes]

Welcome to tumblr now what...

Hi, I wrote this up for my cousin because she’s never used any platform, but since a lot of twitter users are coming to tumblr, I thought I would share as someone that has been here... way too long. This blog might only be a year old, but i lived through tumblarity. both times. ugh. 

cause i will use this interchangeably and forget to clarify, tumblr dash (short for dashboard) is more or less the same as twitter feed. 

likes - these are a thumbs up. A nice little ‘hey this post is cool!’ or ‘i agree with this post.’ users can elect in settings to have their likes visibly on their page, meaning when you go to their actual tumblr, theres a link to liked posts. however, i have always disabled this in the same vein that none of you will ever see my ao3 history. if you get a like, you’ll get notified, but that’s all it really does in the grand scheme of things. 

reblogs - if theres a post you want to share, reblog it.  reblogging it puts it on the dash (feed) of anyone that follows you. tumblr does have a setting to see popular posts, ‘in your orbit,’ or ‘for you’ as in things it thinks you may like.  it has a setting for recommended posts into your feed. i, and mostly everyone i know, disable these features and rely solely on their dash.  so assume if you’re reblogging this post, you’re sharing it to make sure the people that follow you also see it. if no one reblogs this post, then only the 150 people that follow me will see it and it will die. which is totally cool. im rambling all over this shit and forgot what capital letters are. its probably half wrong anyways. 

some people will say always reblog instead of like. i think its give or take. it depends on what you like, what you want to share, you’re weird taste in shit you want people to know about and not know. if you reblog, you will make sure more people see something wonderful and its a really lovely and free way to help writers, artists, etc. spread their art.

commenting on a reblog - its not necessary.  I probably do it once in a blue moon these days.  adding a comment in your reblog is like jumping into the conversation. usually i reserve this for things that are important and want others to build on as well. or continue the shitpost cause i like to think im funny sometimes. if its something like my bullshit commentary that really does not apply to anything in the post or i dont want spread on everyone’s dash as they go on to reblog it, i write it in the tags. for example, please reblog this and add anything i missed that helps you navigate tumblr. write in the tag if you think its bullshit and i should delete. 

replies - replies were made because when they didn’t exist, people would have ‘dash conversations’ by reblogging one post over and over and over and over again.  it would be a post of 50+ posts of two people having a conversation and about things like is it red or blood orange.  this was especially awful in rp when sometimes posts would only be a few sentences asking ‘hey whats up how are you.’ so use a reply if you want to tell the original poster something, but youre not adding onto the post.  a good reply to this post would be a ‘thanks for posting this’ but a good reblog with a comment would be ‘i agree, but also you forgot this important bit!’ 

something different than twitter (i think???) - your replies do not just show up on someone’s dash. they have to click the little word bubble on the post to read them. 

tagging - tagging someone with an @ will give them a notification that you mentioned them in your post.  you can also tag in replies.  you don’t need to tag the original poster in a reply because they will get a notif that says ‘___ replied to your post.’ my brain is fuzzy here, but i believe if you put a reply on a post that is a reblog, both the current poster/reblogger and the original poster will get notifs. i only say this cause some people get annoyed by too much tagging, but as someone that doesnt give a shit, just always tag me. tumblr eats shit or doesnt work sometimes, so just blow up my notifs. 

asks/submit - some people enable you to ask or submit posts.  when they answer the ask or approve the submission, it will end up as a post on their dash.  if the ask is not anon, they can also reply privately. a lot of people do not allow anons these days because while tumblr is one of the better social medias ive encountered, there are still some assholes that like to send hate anons. and i will say this for the people skimming this - ASKS GET EATEN. aka they disappear from asks boxes or don’t even show up. if someone says they didn’t get it, there’s probably like an 80% chance they are not lying. there’s a 20% chance they are and don’t want to answer it but like that’s their choice too. 

messaging - for the new kids, this is DMing. for the cool kids in back, this feature was enabled cause aol took aim away from us. this caused a huge panic of how do we privately talk to our friends since while replies are okay for convos, anyone can see them and tbh can get cumbersome for longer communication.  i use this feature a lot to send my friends posts that i need to make sure they see.  maybe its not my sort of content id reblog, but i know for a sure thing they will love it, so im passing it along for them to reblog, laugh at, tell me im an asshole cause its a meme making fun of them, etc. 

ask games - sometimes people reblog posts that say SEND ME A NUMBER and theres a list of numbered questions.  as i grew up here in roleplay, i was taught it was good tumblr etiquette to always send numbers to the person you reblogged from. I was also taught just to send numbers if you see them cause you’re cultivating friendships here and maybe you don’t know the person, but TRUST ME, they will love and appreciate you took the time to get to know them just a little. its not hard to send 1-5 and then fuck off but it will give them something fun to do and maybe make their entire day so.. send the numbers. 

WHAT YOU SHOULD PAY ATTENTION TO: who interacts with your posts a lot. do you see the same username liking your things? does the person reply a lot. FOLLOW THEM! reply to their posts! fangirl from afar and send a shy ask saying hi i love you. propose on the dash.  answer their questions. become FRIENDS. we’re all the weird kids here so don’t worry, we love you already. 

WHAT NOT TO DO: NEVER STEAL POSTS OR CONTENT. this means, you see a pretty piece of art- reblog it. do not right click, copy link to image, and make your own post.  love a passage someone wrote? see a HILARIOUS joke? do not copy and paste it into your own post.  If you feel in someway you NEED to do this, contact the original poster, ask permission and how they want to be credited.  you might have to link to their tumblr, you might have to link to their tumblr, ig, ao3, website, mom’s best friends snapchat, whatever... you listen to how they want to be credited and respect it. and if they say no? go reblog it and sit down. this is the same how you would never copy and paste someone’s tweet and say it as your own. or would you???? is that a thing??? maybe i shouldn’t be helping you come here... 

ALSO, JUST LIKE AO3, NOTES MEAN NOTHING. a lot of notes does not mean its a great post. Something can have 500 notes and its two friends shitposting ‘hi’ back and forth in the replies 250 times each.  and yes, this has happened before and will happen again because this is a hellscape. 

crabs/april fools/tumblarity/fonts and colors/xkit - you know how in YOU they have those like seven totems of living in LA? same concept except when you understand it all, you’re cursed to live here forever. you’re welcome. 

--- --- --- 

please expand, add to this, tell me im wrong, tell me to get off tiktok cause i need to stop yelling at children to let me love my favorite ships idc what canon says.  

the good news is, if you think you’re doing it wrong, then youre using tumblr right.  people might say don’t use it like a diary, but you bet ill write a long ass post venting about my depression and/or that my sock has a hole in the toe.  people say posts have to have content and length... brevity is the soul of wit or whatever and i love a good shitpost and i will reblog a post that is legit ‘wish i could pet a dog today.’ 

[turtle-steverogers]

made it this far

sad boi hrs

warnings: implied suicide attempt be careful

ship: spracceeee 

word count: 713 yoink

The bed of the truck was surprisingly warm in contrast to the cool, night air.  It wasn’t even like it provided much shelter, but the blankets that were situated there were more than enough guard to the breeze.

Stars shone brightly overhead, oddly visible considering their location.  Some parking lot somewhere in California.  They’d lost track.

It was nearing midnight, but cars still sped along the street near them, adding to the noise of the night- reminding them of who they were.  Only one story in a sea of millions.

“I’m glad I’m here.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, almost getting lost in the sounds of traffic.

Spot looked down, head cocking slightly.  He hadn’t realized Race was still awake.

“Hm?”

Race shifted so that he was laying on his side, looking up at Spot.  They held eye contact for a moment, before his eyes flickered strangely and he looked away.

“You okay?” Spot murmured, reflexively reaching up to pet through his curls.  Race caught his arm and held his palm to his lips, kissing the calloused skin softly before intertwining their fingers.  

His thumb grazed the backs of Spot’s hand as he stared almost absentmindedly at the sky above Spot’s head.  His eyes were squinting as he sat deep in thought, and as the minutes passed, he seemed to grow more troubled.

“Hey,” Spot squeezed his hand, grabbing his attention, “What’s on your mind?”

Race opened his mouth to speak and held his breath.  Spot could see the thoughts in his mind rushing at top speed as he willed himself to say what he was thinking.

“I…” Race shook his head, looking back at Spot.  The raw vulnerability that Spot saw in his eyes was almost frightening, but he willed himself to remain neutral.

“I wasn’t…” Race paused, breaking their gaze again and swallowing, “I wasn’t even supposed to make it out of high school,” another pause.  Bated breaths.  Hearts hammering. “But I did...and at first I was disappointed, but now I’m...glad.  I’m glad I made it.”

Spot sat still for a moment, allowing for the words to sink in, “What do you mean you ‘weren’t supposed to make it’?” He knew the answer and he almost didn’t want it to be real.

Race winced, his free hand moving to pick at a thread on Spot’s jacket.  He didn’t answer for a moment.

“Things were hard,” he started, steeling himself, “I was in a really bad place for reasons that even now I’d rather not get into and,” he heaved a breath and Spot tightened his hold on him, “I was supposed to off myself, you know?  Seemed like the only good option…” he trailed off for a moment and Spot waited with a pit in his stomach for him to continue, “So one night,” Race twitched his nose, “one night I thought I’d, you know,” he gestured vaguely, his hand waving for a moment before it landed on his wrist.  He kept it there for a moment before he withdrew it quickly, as though it were white hot, “I thought I’d try, but my plan didn’t go so well and,” another breath, “I’m still here.”

Spot’s head was spinning as he tried to make sense of what he was hearing.  He hadn’t known of Race’s past state and it was beyond jarring to hear.  He rifled through his mind, trying to pick out the right words to respond with.  Did he apologize?  Offer help?  Was Race doing better?  Should he be worried?

“But,” Spot blinked, snapping back to the moment, “I’m glad it didn’t work,” Spot let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, “I’m glad I was able to meet you and fall in love with you and run away with you and-” he cut himself off, looking up at Spot, “I’m glad I’m still here.”

Spot pulled him closer, kissing him softly, “Tony I…” he pulled back, staring at Race with the most sincere expression he could muster, “I’m so beyond thankful you’re still here, too.”

Race held his gaze for a moment longer before allowing his eyes to wander back towards the stars.  They fell back into silence, but Spot gripped Race’s hand a little tighter, counting his blessings.

They were safe.

TAG LIST: @bencookisagod @we-dont-sell-papes @suddenly-im-respecsable

@aw-jus-let-em-try @well-the-kids-do-too @spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn @felix-loves-albert-and-ralbert @tommy-boyyy

@andthewoildwillknow @the-newsies-justice-for-zas-blog @sunshine-e-cigarettes @have-we-got-news-for-you @musical-shitposts @thebroadwayaesthetic

@thomasbeingthomas

@irondad-spiderson-duo

@snakesarenonexistent

@i-got-no-clue-what-im-doing

@kpop-kk

@mentallytiredgoat

@yxseminx

@be-more-chill-evan-hansen

@stopthe-presses

@elmers-half-a-cup

@and-i-lostmy-shoe

@spot-me50-papes

@honeynutpoptarts

@newsies-ensemble

@bennie-badeend

@auspicioustarantula

@faithmil

@hopefully-not-the-ghostbusters

@bxnesof92

@backgroundnewsies

@sure-as-a-star

@skybert-daherty

@eveningpaper

@malex-13

@albert-eats-cookie-cake

@heart-a-n-o-n

@bitching-newsboys

@orollyitsracetrackhiggins

@joshuaburrageenthusiast

@random-superhero-stuff

@awkwardstranger98

[turtle-steverogers]

The California AU: Catharsis

sorry if any of this is inaccurate, i’ve never been to cali (sad yeehaw)

warnings: none! WOW!

ship: sprace

word count: 680

-

Race pressed his face against his car window, mouth slightly agape as they climbed further up Mount Tamalpais.  They drove slowly to compensate for the uneven ground, but the sheer excitement never drained from Race’s veins.  They were almost close enough to touch the stars.

Spot eased the car over a bump, driving for a few more feet until a ledge came into view.  He put the car in park and took the keys out of the ignition, hand lingering near the steering wheel for a moment as he followed Race’s gaze out the window.  

The scene that unfolded in front of them was breathtaking.  San Francisco gleamed in the distance, the blinking lights of the buildings emanating with a different energy than they were used to.  It was less cluttered than New York- less claustrophobic.  It was as if the atmosphere were taking hold of their lungs, breathing life back into them.  

Race glanced back at him, an awed smile glistening in his eyes and brightening his face in the darkness.  He jerked his head for Spot to join him as he opened the passenger side door and climbed out.  The air was cool and damp, clinging to his skin and sending goosebumps up his arms.  

He drew his shoulders up, slipping his hands in his pockets and clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.  Spot strode to his side, leaning his head against his shoulder as they drank in the view.  

Race reached down, intertwining their hands and pulling Spot forward, “C’mon,” he said, strolling over to the ledge and sitting down so that his legs were dangling.  Spot followed suit, once more curling into his side.  Race rested his cheek against the top of Spot’s head, enjoying the more vulnerable side of his boyfriend that he rarely got to see.

They were silent as they observed the painting like view, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the beauty of it.  The Golden Gate Bridge expanded in the distance, snaking out from the base of the mountain.  Thick fog surrounded it, hazy tendrils licking at the deck, but falling short of the suspenders, leaving the towers visible to the rest of the world.  It loomed magnificently, somehow failing to lose its red hue, even in the nighttime.  

Spot stood abruptly and Race looked up, bewildered.  Spot seemed to be deep in thought, his eyebrows furrowed slightly as his eyes flicked wildly over the scene.

“Spot?” Race asked, standing as well, “You okay?”

Spot didn’t answer him.  Instead, he spread his arms out to the side, clenching his fists and opening his mouth, letting out a long shout, which look broke into a laugh.  

He looked at Race, a childlike giddiness rolling off of him in waves.  Race had never seen him look so carefree.

Race joined in his laughter, bemused, “What was that?”

Spot shook his head, facing forward again and shouting once more, drawing it out longer this time.

“Try it,” he said, taking Race’s hand and thrusting it above their heads.  

Race blinked from Spot to the bridge, a freeness in him surfacing and seizing his entire being until adrenaline overflowed.  He raised his other arm, too, spreading his fingers as if the energy were spouting from the tips. Then, he shouted, letting out a long yell into the night air.  It was fulfilling in a way he couldn’t describe.  

Spot joined in once more and they howled and whooped for what could have been hours, letting out every last drop of fear and anguish that gripped at them.  It was cleansing in an odd way to feel so free.  Nothing tying them down or holding them back.

All at once, their shouts ceased and they fell back, laughing in the cool grass as catharsis washed over them.

Race rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand as he reached out, pulling Spot closer to him.

“Running away was the best goddamn idea we’ve ever had,” he murmured, punctuating his words with a soft kiss.

Spot smiled against his lips, “Fuck yeah it was.”

-

an angsty one is next

send your aesthetics! i have a folder

thanks for reading, chiefs 

hmu to be added to my tag

TAG LIST: @bencookisagod @we-dont-sell-papes @suddenly-im-respecsable

@aw-jus-let-em-try @well-the-kids-do-too @spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn @felix-loves-albert-and-ralbert @axolotlwhizzy

@andthewoildwillknow @the-newsies-justice-for-zas-blog @sunshine-e-cigarettes @have-we-got-news-for-you @musical-shitposts @thebroadwayaesthetic

@thomasbeingthomas

@irondad-spiderson-duo

@snakesarenonexistent

@i-got-no-clue-what-im-doing

@kpop-kk

@mentallytiredgoat

@yxseminx

@be-more-chill-evan-hansen

@stopthe-presses

@elmers-half-a-cup

@and-i-lostmy-shoe

@spot-me50-papes

@honeynutpoptarts

@newsies-ensemble

@bennie-badeend

@auspicioustarantula

@faithmil

@hopefully-not-the-ghostbusters

@bxnesof92

@backgroundnewsies

@sure-as-a-star

@skybert-daherty

@eveningpapers

@malex-13

@albert-eats-cookie-cake

@heart-a-n-o-n

@bitching-newsboys

@orollyitsracetrackhiggins

@joshuaburrageenthusiast

@random-superhero-stuff

@awkwardstranger98

@falling-out-trees-101

@modern-race-owns-airpods

[turtle-steverogers]

91 and 6 angsty angst?

mmmmm mm whenever i write sprace on here (except departed) spot suffers oooof mm

warnings: anxiety mentions, implied past drug use, spot like breaks the fuck down but what’s new

editing: nnnnnnnnnnnnnegative

ship: sprace

The moment Spot walked through the door, Race could tell something was wrong.  His shoulders were hunched in a defensive position and his eyes were trained on the ground, refusing to meet Race’s concerned gaze.  He pushed past Race, making towards the bathroom, but Race stopped him, grabbing his bicep.  Spot flinched and shrugged his hand off, finally looking up at him.

Race’s frown grew as he took in Spot’s expression.  He looked incredibly worn out.  Tear tracks were visible on his cheeks and there was something like expired panic lurking behind his eyes, sending a chill down Race’s spine.

“Love,” Race breathed, instinctively reaching forward to cup Spot’s jaw, but stopping himself when Spot reared backwards.

“Hey,” Race murmured, shaking his head as worry pooled in his stomach, “What’s going on?”

“I-I..” Spot swallowed, looking down and heaving a shaky breath.  His face screwed up and Race could practically feel the anxiety coming off of him in waves.  He glanced down to Spot’s hands, which were shaking violently as he braced them on his knees to compose himself.

“Want to go to the bedroom?” Race asked, gently.

Spot nodded, squeezing his eyes shut.  

“Okay,” Race said.  He lead Spot to their room, allowing him to settle himself against the headboard, drawing his knees up to his chest.  He looked incredibly small and scared.  

“Deep breaths,” Race reminded gently, “In through your nose and out through your mouth.  Take your time.”

Spot nodded, clenching and unclenching his jaw as he willed the tension to drain from his neck and shoulders.  Race reached out to turn off the lights at one point, hoping that the lack of stimulus calmed Spot down a bit.

“I-uh,” Spot cleared his throat, wiping at his face, “I saw Morris n’ them on the way home.  Cornered me and…” he trailed off, shaking his head, “Tried to get me to buy again.”

Race’s face fell, dread working its way through his veins.  Morris and Oscar Delancey were Spot’s old drug dealers back when his father was part of a gang and he was roped into the life, raised from a young age to be addicted to coke and speed.  He’d worked so hard to escape that life and it had taken him years to rid himself of the urges to shoot up.  Even once he’d weaned himself off his addiction, his history still haunted him.

“Sean, love,” Race started, groping for the words to say.

Spot pressed his knuckled to his eyes, “I hate this,” he said, voice wavering dangerously, “I hate this, I hate this, I HATE THIS!” He slammed his fist on the bed, legs straightening in front of him.  His shoulders shook as uncontrollable sobs ripped their way out of his throat.  Race froze, unsure of what to do.  He blinked, gathering his wits.  He couldn’t check out now, no matter how much Spot was scaring him.

“I don’t wanna do this anymore, Antonio, I don’t wanna feel this way anymore,” Spot cried, curling back in on himself and gripping his arms, “I’m gone, I’m gone,” he muttered, breaths coming out short, “I’m so far gone, I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Hey, Sean, come on, love, hey,” Race said, quickly, shifting onto his knees and leaning closer to Spot, “Can I please touch you?  You can say no.”

Spot shook his head, then whimpered and reached out for Race’s shirt, crumpling the front of it in his fist like a lifeline.  

“Okay,” Race nodded, regaining his balance and scooting forward to wrap Spot in a hug, “There we go, okay.”

He rubbed a soothing hand up and down Spot’s back, tracing his fingers over his shoulder blades.  They sat like that while Spot cried, Race cooing sweet nothings into his hair as he regained his self-control.  

“I don’t wanna do this anymore,” Spot repeated in a broken voice, “I don’t wanna be him anymore.”

“Him?” Race asked.

“The druggie, the gang member’s son,” Spot spat, “him.”

“That’s in the past, love,” Race mumbled, pressing a kiss to the sweaty skin of Spot’s neck.

“Then why does it still fucking affect me?”

Race thought about it for a moment, “sometimes,” he started slowly, “shit happens in our lives that really fucking sucks,” Spot scoffed, but Race plowed on, “We don’t always have control over what that shit is, but we do have control over what we do in those situations.  You took control and advocated for yourself.  You moved on and got better as soon as you were able to.  Now the rest of that shit just needs to catch up and quit, just like you did.  What happens to you doesn’t shape who you are as a person, what you choose to do does.”

Spot was quiet, head turned to look at Race.  His eyes were drowning with a million emotions, fear and admiration the only readable ones.

“I don’t fucking deserve you,” He whispered, leaning his forehead against Race’s.

“You deserve comfort, Sean,” Race said fiercely, weaving his hands through the hair on the back of Spot’s head, “You make everyday worth living.”

Spot melted into his embrace, trying to show every ounce of gratitude he could through his actions.  

Race held him tightly back, “I got you.”

“I know.”

-

yoooooooo scalp me im so mean to them

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

TAG LIST:

@bencookisagod

@we-dont-sell-papes

@suddenly-im-respecsable

@aw-jus-let-em-try

@well-the-kids-do-too

@spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn

@thatpoorguysheadisspinning

@tongue-blep-tommy

@andthewoildwillknow

@the-newsies-justice-for-zas-blog

@sunshine-e-cigarettes

@have-we-got-news-for-you

@musical-shitposts

@thebroadwayaesthetic

@thomasbeingthomas

@irondad-spiderson-duo

@snakesarenonexistent

@i-got-no-clue-what-im-doing

@kpop-kk

@mentallytiredgoat

@yxseminx

@be-more-chill-evan-hansen

@stopthe-presses

@elmers-half-a-cup

@and-i-lostmy-shoe

@spot-me50-papes

@honeynutpoptarts

@newsies-ensemble

@bennie-badeend

@auspicioustarantula

@faithmil

@hopefully-not-the-ghostbusters

@bxnesof92

@backgroundnewsies

@sure-as-a-star

@skybert-daherty

[turtle-steverogers]

Secret Santa Gift Fic for Whizzy

( @newsiessecretsanta ‘s secret santa set up)

SURPRISE WHIZZY i was ur secret santa!!! ily @spec-s-pecs

warnings: implied alcoholism/drug use

ship: sibling smalls/jack/spot w momma medda!

editing: actually yeah, kinda

Spot groaned as he struggled to tie his tie for the third time, “I don’t get why I gotta dress up,” he complained, eyeing Jack, his foster brother, in the mirror, “We’re jus’ stayin’ in the house.”

“Miss Medda likes us lookin’ nice,” Jack defended, not looking up from his phone.  He was already dressed up, a well-fitting green button down tucked into a pair of sleek khaki slacks.  

“Yeah, well it’s stupid,” Spot grumbled, tossing his tie down in frustration.  It was his first Christmas in his new foster home and he wasn’t looking forward to it.  Christmas had never been anything special in the past.  Even before he was in foster care, his family rarely did anything.  His father was almost always far too drunk to know the date and his mom was rarely home, most likely out somewhere getting fucked by some needle.  When he finally escaped that home, his new ones were always crowded by kids and any Christmas spirit was thwarted by uncaring adults who just want the money benefits of fostering kids.

Not celebrating Christmas was normal for Spot- comfortable at this point.  It was routine and he wanted it to stay that way.

“If you really don’t wanna dress up,” Jack sighed, finally meeting Spot’s gaze, “I think Medda’ll understand.”

Spot grunted, not saying another word as he began to unbutton his dress shirt, grabbing his sweatpants from his bed before stepping into his and Jack’s shared bedroom to change.  He re-emerged a few minutes later, feeling much better in his comfy clothes.  If Medda really cared about him, as she claimed to, then she would want him to be happy, right?

“Spot, Jack,” Their nine year old foster sister, Smalls, poked her head through the door, “Medda wants us down now for dinner and presents.”

Spot scoffed, “Presents?  Ain’t that for Christmas Day?”

Smalls entered the room fully, fixing him with a confused look, “Christmas Eve is where we get family presents, like, from Medda.  Tomorrow mornin’ is when we get Santa’s presents!”

Spot rolled his eyes, bunching his dress clothes and chucking them into his hamper, “Santa ain’t-”

He was cut off by a sweatshirt hitting his face, “Ow, Jack, what the fuck,” He pulled the sweatshirt away to see Jack, shooting him a warning look.

“First off, language,” He hissed, “Second,” He glanced at Smalls who was looking between them innocently, “Second, summa us still got Christmas Spirit, you don’t gotta ruin it on accounta you bein’ the Grinch or sum.”

Spot shifted his jaw, “Whatever,” He muttered, pushing past Smalls and padding down the hallway.  He entered the dining room to find the table filled with a plethora of different dishes, ranging from a small ham to a giant pan of mac and cheese.

Medda, who had been setting forks out for the four of them looked up when he entered, “Hi, Sean,” She smiled, “Feelin’ okay?”

“M’fine,” He mumbled, looking past Medda into the living room, where a load of presents were visible under the tree.

“You sure?” Medda asked, her eyebrows creasing in concern, “Ya can let me know if somethin’s goin’ on in that head of yours, I don’t mind listening.”

Spot glanced down at his baggy clothes, then at the beautifully set table, feeling guilt wash over him.  Medda had worked so hard to set up a nice evening for them and he couldn’t even adhere to her one request.  He suddenly felt entirely overwhelmed.  It was too much- the dinner, the presents, the tree, the caring home on Christmas.  He kept his eyes trained on the floor as a lump rose in his throat and as a sob forced its way out of him, he took a defensive step backwards, crossing his arms at his chest.

“Oh, honey,” he heard Medda sigh, guiding him to one of the chairs, “What’s on your mind?”

“I don’t know,” Spot hiccuped, shame preventing him from looking at Medda, “It’s jus’ a lot.”

“What’s a lot?”

“This,” Spot said, gesturing to the table, “I ain’t had nothin’ like this before.  No big meal, no presents, no nothin’.  It hurts.  I dunno why.”

Medda nodded slowly, eyes scanning over the dinner table, “I’m sorry, hon,” she said softly, “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you,” she paused to consider, “Why don’t we all get in our PJs and then we can take our dinners to the living room and watch Christmas movies instead.  Presents can wait until tomorrow morning, tonight we can just relax. How does that sound?”

Spot shook his head, “No, I don’t wanna ruin-”

“Sean, sweetheart, you wouldn’t be ruinin’ anything.  Your comfort is my priority.”

“But Jack and Smalls-”

“Jack and Smalls will understand better than anyone,” Medda said, firmly, yet sweetly, “Now why don’t you go freshen up and I’ll let the others know the new plan, yeah?”

Spot nodded, wiping his eyes shakily on the back of his hand, “Okay,” he stood on wobbly legs, crossing to the bathroom down the hall and flicking on the lights.  He braced himself on the sink, gathering himself for a moment before splashing some water on his face.  When he got to the living room, he found Jack already huddled on the couch, Smalls stretched comfortably across his lap.  The two of them had already been living with Medda for two years when Spot arrived, so they were fairly close with each other.  They were both in pajamas, and when Spot entered, they looked over at him.  Spot winced, expecting to see disappointed looks on their faces, but relaxed when he found nothing but concern.  Although, that wasn’t much better.  He didn’t like pity.

Jack seemed to notice his discomfort and visibly wiped the worry off his face, “Yo, you good?” he asked, nonchalantly.

Spot shrugged, perching himself on the armchair adjacent to the couch, “Yeah.”

“You can come sit on the couch, ya know,” Smalls piped up.

Spot hesitated, confliction pooling in his stomach.

“If you’d rather sit alone, that’s cool,” Jack stated, “But you’re welcome to come sit over by us.”

Spot blinked a few times, steeling himself, then carefully tucked himself on the couch, huddling into the corner near the armrest.  Jack smiled softly, but didn’t say anything. “Here you are,” Medda said, setting a tray with three plates on the coffee table in front of them, “I got you guys a little bit of everything to try, but you don’t gotta finish your plates if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“Thanks, Miss Medda,” Smalls and Jack chimed.

“Thank you,” Spot said, leaning over to grab his plate.

“Have you guys thought about what movie to watch yet?” Medda asked, settling on the other end of the couch near Smalls.

“Rudolph!”

“No, Jackie, Miracle on 34th Street!”

“Uh,” Spot cleared his throat, “I’ve never seen A Christmas Story before, so…”

“Holy shit-”

“Language, Jack.”

“Sorry, Medda, just,” Jack ogled at Spot, dumbfounded, “You’ve never seen A Christmas Story?  We’re watchin’ it.”

“Alright,” Medda chuckled, pulling it up on Amazon Prime, “You’re in for a treat, Spot.”

Spot sank into the cushions as the opening credits played, working his way through his plate of food as he watched.  As the movie played, plates were abandoned back onto the coffee table and Smalls dozed off.  Jack was quoting the movie alongside the characters and as Spot allowed himself to relax, laughing alongside Medda and Jack at some of the more iconic lines, he couldn’t help the warmth that spread through his stomach like a wildfire.  

If this is what Christmas could be, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

-

ily whizzy i hope this was good

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[turtle-steverogers]

Mmm Whatcha Say

take this meme shit i came up with in the shower

ship: platonic ralbert

warnings: dumbassery, hospitals

editing: no it’s bad

“Should we add a 540 in the second verse?” Antonio “Racetrack” Higgins asked while pulling his tank top over his head, tossing it unceremoniously to the side.

Albert DaSilva looked up from where he was fiddling with the stereo, about to rewind the song they’d been choreographing for their studio’s showcase in two weeks.  

He quirked an eyebrow, “Do you even know how to do a 540?” he questioned, finally getting the stereo to rewind, but pausing the song before it could start playing.

Race plopped himself on the ground, tucking his left leg in and extending his right, leaning over to stretch.  He shrugged, “You do,” he stated, matter-of-factly.

“I know I do,” Albert said, “But do you?”

“I’ve..tried it a few times,” Race said, hesitantly, “I’ve almost got it.”

“Okay, then show me,” Albert challenged, “I’m not agreeing to include it unless I’m sure it’ll look good.”

“Fine,” Race said, hopping to his feet, “Film me.  I want my success documented.”

Albert scoffed and clicked into his Snapchat, pointing it towards his best friend and holding down the record button.

“Good?” Race asked, looking towards the camera.

“Good,” Albert replied.  Race nodded and rolled his neck a few times to loosen himself up.  He took a deep breath and stepped forward with his left leg, immediately stepping again with his right and launching himself in the air.  Albert watched as he threw his right leg over his left, executing the kick part of the jump perfectly.  However, as he was coming down to land, Race’s right foot landed sideways, causing him to topple onto the ground.  He rolled a few feet before stopping in a heap on the studio floor.

Albert let out a bark of laughter, taking his thumb off the record button and holding his phone up to watch the video, “Dude, you fuckin’ went for it!  Then you just yeeted to the ground, oh my god-” he cut himself off with more laughter, “Come look at this, you look ridiculous.  I mean the kick itself was fine but the end, Jesus Christ.”

He stopped laughing and frowned when he realized Race hadn’t gotten up yet.  He looked up to see Race still lying down, his right leg pulled up to his chest.  His eyes were screwed shut and there was sweat visible on his face.  He was breathing heavily and Albert blanched, rushing over to him.

“Race?” He called frantically, kneeling to the floor in front of him, “You okay? What happened.”

Race rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, which were clouded with pain, “I landed wrong,” he breathed, “My ankle fuckin’ hurts.”

Albert grimaced, “Can you move it?”

Race lifted his head to look down at his ankle as he tried to roll it, wincing as he did so and stopping almost immediately, “I can, but it really really fuckin’ hurts to.”

“Okay, hang on,” Albert shifted so that he was sitting criss-cross beside’s Race’s legs, “Can I take your shoe off?”

Race nodded, laying his head back on the floor.  Albert gingerly untied Race’s sneaker, loosening it as much as possible before removing it.  He placed the sneaker beside him, then carefully inched Race’s sock down until his foot was exposed.  It was definitely swollen, already showing an array of purple and yellow bruising from the ankle down to the heel.

Albert flinched sympathetically at the sight, “I think it might be sprained, dude.”

Race groaned hitting his head lightly on the wood, “Goddamnit.”

“We should get you to a hospital,” Albert said, “Just to be sure.”

“Fuck meeee,” Race whined, finally sitting up and pulling his left leg to his chest, leaving his right leg extended.

“Maybe later,” Albert said, tossing him his tank top, “For now, I’ma get you some ice from the back.”

He got up and jogged to the break room, rifling through the mini freezer they kept in there until he found a cold compress, then grabbed an ACE bandage for good measure.  When he got back to Race, he found him poking at his ankle, hissing in pain every time he touched it.

“Ya know,” Albert smirked, “If it hurts when you touch it, maybe don’t touch it.”

Race glared at him, but stopped poking his ankle when Albert handed him the compress.  Albert instructed him to hold the ice pack in place while he wrapped the bandage snuggly around it.  Once he was satisfied with his makeshift medical work, he hoisted Race up and helped him limp to his car.

He allowed Race to prop his injured ankle on the dashboard and reluctantly permitted him to play his own music.  He immediately regretted his decision once Race started playing his “Memes and shit” playlist.

“You know, I’m only letting you play shit crap ‘cause you’re injured,” He said, as Tik Tok played through the bluetooth for the third consecutive time.  Race grinned goofily and turned up the volume.

Albert’s eye twitched and he reached over to turn it back down, only to have his hand slapped away by Race, “Ah, ah, ah, I’m injured.”

Albert rolled his eyes, “Fine whatever.”

They arrived at the hospital after ten more excruciating minutes of Kesha.  Albert tried to park as close as possible so Race wouldn’t have to travel so far, but only managed to get a space across the lot.  Albert ended up piggybacking Race halfway through their slow trek to the hospital entrance after their shoddy system of assisted hopping got tiring.  

Albert checked Race in at the emergency care station and five minutes later, Race was being taken back in a wheelchair, leaving Albert sitting awkwardly in the waiting room.  He suddenly felt self conscious, realizing belatedly that he was still in his sweaty dance clothes.  He pulled out his earbuds and busied himself in his phone until Race came back.

“Yo, so good news and bad news,” Albert clicked off his phone and looked up to see Race hovering over him, a pair of crutches tucked under his armpits.  A sleek, black brace was fixed around his ankle, “Which do you wanna hear first?”

Albert considered, “Uh, good news I guess?”

“Good news is, it’s only sprained, not broken.”

“Okay, good.  Bad news?”

“I can’t do the showcase.”

Albert sighed, disappointed, but not surprised, “Yeah, I figured as much.  Don’t worry about it, man, we’ll just perfect it for the Spring showcase.”

“Maybe by then I’ll have my 540 down!”

Albert eyed him amused, “Maybe, oh!” He pulled out his phone, “I made a meme out of your suffering.”

He clicked into his camera roll and pulled up the video he had taken of Race’s failed attempt at the jump, which was now in black and white.  He watched Race’s face as the video played, normally at first, until it got to Race’s unsteady landing.  Suddenly, the video switched into slow motion and Jason Derulo’s ‘Whatcha Say’ started playing.  

Race swatted Albert’s arm, “You bitch!”

Albert cackled, “C’mon, you gotta admit it’s pretty funny.”

Race huffed and rewinded the video, “Okay,” he said, a smile spreading across his face, “It is pretty funny.”

“Ha! I’m an editing god!”

“Don’t push it, DaSilva.”

-

thanks for reading, chiefs

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TAG LIST: @bencookisagod @we-dont-sell-papes @aw-jus-let-em-try @well-the-kids-do-too @spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn @thatpoorguysheadisspinning @labert-dasilver

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[turtle-steverogers]

Marshmallow Madness

warnings: dumbassery

ships: platonic ralbert and mentioned sprace

editing: nah man

“Hey, Racer,” Race looked up from sticking a fresh marshmallow onto his stick to see Albert smirking at him, mouth covered in chocolate.

“What?” Race asked, idly hovering the now secured marshmallow over the fire.

Their little group had decided to go camping for the weekend in order to escape the stresses of school. Even though it was a short excursion, they made Davey and Katherine leave all their coursework at campus and opted to spend the weekend ‘off the grid’. The only means of communication they had to the outside world was an old flip-phone that they could use in cases of emergency, which Davey had already used twice to check in on Les. The weekend had gone on without a hitch. Jack and Race worked seamlessly together in order to cook easy and satisfying camp meals of walking tacos and hot dogs. Katherine and Spot had set up everyone’s tents and kept the camping area decently organized and mostly clean. Albert and Race had only managed to get lost while hiking twice and weren’t injured at all in the process, which was better than anyone could have hoped for. And now, as they approached the late hours of what would be there last night there, it was safe to say everyone was feeling thoroughly cleansed.

“I bet,” Albert said, licking chocolate off of his fingers and not bothering to wipe his face, “That you can’t eat ten roasted marshmallows in two minutes.”

Race’s eyes glinted, “Easy.”

Albert raised his eyebrows, “They have to be fully roasted and you gotta do it one at a time.”

Race simply took the marshmallow he was currently roasting out of the heat and blew on it once before popping it in his mouth, “Still easy,” he said through a mouthful of goo, “One down.”

Jack spoke up from the log he was sitting on, where he had been watching with an amused expression, “That one doesn’t count. You were already roasting it when Al started the bet.”

“Yeah, sorry Racer,” Albert said in a fake apologetic tone, “Gotta start new.”

Race rolled his eyes, “Fine. Who’s timing?”

“Here, I’ve got a watch,” Spot said, taking a bite of his own s’more and slipping off his wristwatch.

“Alright, ready?” Albert asked, leaning over to look at Spot’s watch. Race nodded, taking another marshmallow from the bag and putting it on his stick.

“Okay,” Albert said, “Go!”

Race didn’t hesitate to stick the marshmallow directly in the flame, effectively setting it on fire. It roasted quickly and he pulled it out of the firepit, letting it burn for a few moments before blowing on it to put it out. Immediately, he stuck the marshmallow in his mouth and started the process over. A minute and a half later, he had eaten his way through eight scorched marshmallows and was working on roasting a ninth. However the ninth one had been stubborn to the flame and took three tries to actually set on fire. So by the time Race was on his tenth, he had roughly 10 second left.

“Ten second mark,” Albert said, eyes not leaving Spot’s watch.

“Shit,” Race mumbled, eyes focused and frantic as the marshmallow caught on fire.

“Better hurry,” Spot chimed in, “Three, two….” Race let out a panicked hum and stuck the marshmallow in his mouth while it was still aflame.

His eyes widened in pain as Spot and Albert yelled, “One!” simultaneously.

Race’s mouth was still frozen around the marshmallow and there were tears of pain visible in his eyes.

“You did it! Wait- what the fuck?” Albert said, looking at Race for the first time, “Did you eat it while it was still on fire?”

Race nodded vigorously and Jack clicked his tongue, “Yeah, he did. Race, spit it out.”

“Buh den it wou’n’t count,” Race said, as he began to chew the now extinguished marshmallow. He swallowed painfully and stuck his tongue out, trying to alleviate the pain by sucking in cold air.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” He panted, standing and fanning at his mouth with his hand, “Water, I need water.”

Albert and Spot were laughing now, taking in the scene of their best friend and boyfriend respectively. Katherine, Crutchie, and Davey emerged from one of the tents and froze when they saw Spot and Albert laughing at a clearly suffering Race.

“What the hell happened?” Crutchie asked incredulously.

“Race ate a marshmallow while it was still on fire,” Jack said, matter-of-factly.

“Just- just why?” Davey asked, disappointment at his friends’ idiocy written on his face. Katherine sighed and produced a water bottle from her sweatshirt pocket.

“We bet he couldn’t eat ten roasted marshmallows in two minutes and he was running out of time,” Spot supplied, wiping tears from his eyes. Race was now pouring the water Katherine had provided him directly on his tongue. Most of it was missing his mouth and spilling onto the front of his shirt.

“So close,” Katherine murmured quietly, “We were so close to having a weekend where nothing happened because of your dumb decisions.”

“Sorry, Kath,” Race breathed, tongue still hanging out of his mouth, “Chaos just seems to follow me.”

“It sure does, Racer,” Katherine said, smirking fondly, “It sure does.”

—

idiot boys

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