#this got so long i'm sorry!!

[aymmidumps]

Andrew doodles

[vaguely-concerned]

can't believe garak went from 'hope you have fun following my little breadcrumb trail of maybe-truths doctor it builds character ;)' at the beginning of the show to '*sigh* fuck it here's the whole loaf. the entire fucked up bakery of my soul. if you somehow still wanna have sex with me after this you know where I am, yours in infinite longing etc.' in a stitch in time. has anyone ever been so pathetically horrifically enduringly down bad as garak is for julian (laudatory)

[14dayswithyou]

💖 Day 3.5 is now available! 💖

For the last couple of months, only Server Boosters had access to the 3.5 update... Buuuuut now it's available for everyone to play in the 14DWY Discord — and soon itch.io once I'm happy with the QA and state of the game — so please don't feel pressured to join unless you want to!!

The full devlog + even more screenshots are under the cut ^^

What's been added to the 3.5 version?

📺 Streamer Mode!

I've been told that it's difficult to stream and monetise age-restricted videos on YouTube and Twitch, so I added an option to remove the sexual content and strong language used in the demo.

Now y'all can invite Ren into your bed for cuddles without putting your streamer career on the line /silly /lh

This won't affect the 18+ rating or dark themes/elements of the game, however! Although Streamer Mode will prevent you from seeing any "gruesome" CGs in the future, most of the core elements of the game will still be tied to the choices and decisions you make. So you won't miss out on the overall experience by using streamer mode!!

⚙️ Custom Pronouns!

It only took me one entire year to get around to it, but you can finally choose your own preferred pronouns (or use a set of pronouns instead)... At the cost of being able to change them mid-game ^^;

Since the original pronoun screen wouldn't update until a new scene was displayed, I temporarily disabled the feature. But once I find a workaround, I'll bring it back!

💗 Choose how others perceive you!

You can now choose how the cast and narration perceive you! Originally, the narration was kept strictly gender-neutral (outside of pronouns and genitalia picked by the player), but this will soon change in future updates.

For more clarity: you don't get to choose the words specifically, but you can choose between masculine, feminine, and androgynous terms!

📋 Separate top and bottom genitalia!

You can now choose your tatas and pps separately! >:3

Alongside that, you can also choose your preferred body type!

I removed the "both" genitalia option because a few players still assumed it was an obscure version of "intersex". That wasn't my intention and I don't want to mislead anyone, so I took it out for now ^^;

I also didn't want to include a screenshot of the new genitalia choices in action (because it's NSFW), so y'all get the same character menu screen for the nth time instead lmao

📱 Relationship Screen Overhaul!

You can now change your own status for more immersion, and long-term Server Boosters will eventually be able to submit and use their own icon within the game as well!

Stalking finding your friends has now become easier by using "Buddy Maps"; a new app that allows you to see the location of all the cast members!

I want to offer players more incentive to check the relationship screen since they tend to miss the status updates, so hopefully this might help ;v;

It also says it "updates every few hours" so folks don't go overboard and check every 5 seconds to see where Ren is gdsghf (also keep in mind that he's a hacker lol)

🖤 Additional Scenes Update!

Day 2 received a brand new CG!!!!! Originally, I planned on only adding a few CGs sporadically throughout the game, but it didn't feel right to leave Day 2 so... empty... so I added a brand new CG to (hopefully) make things feel more balanced and natural!

If you decline Teo's offer on Day 3, Leon will now call and try to convince you to reconsider. However, players are still allowed to decline, and if they do, they'll reach a dead end.

After listening to feedback on itch, I changed some of the dialogue during Days 1-3 to make it seem more consistent! They're only small changes though, so it's honestly not worth looking for sdgjssga

🎶 Updated BGM and SFX!

I wanted to try out a different style of music to see if it fits the vibe of 14DWY more! The BGM features more acoustics to suit the "beachy" theme of Corland Bay, though I made a conscious effort to include piano elements as well to stay true to the original!!

I figured it'd be better to give players a live example before I make a poll (to see if they prefer the change or not) and publish it to Itch.

Some new SFX have also been added, though it's very minimal and honestly not that noticeable.

How to download and play the update?

(warning: clicking on the following links will open Discord!!) To download the Day 3.5 update, simply join the 14DWY Discord server, verify your age, and visit the "14dwy-updates" channel!

Alternatively, you can also wait until the update is publicly released on Itch to play it as well!! (It normally gets released shortly after a round of QA testing/getting feedback from the server, though I may release it earlier if I feel like it hehe ^^)

Enjoy!!

[flowercrowngods]

who did this to you. part 2

🤍🌷 read part 1 here pre-s4, steve whump, protective (but scared) eddie

This is not happening. None of this is happening, he’s… He’s dreaming. He’s high. High as a kite somewhere where reality doesn’t matter, where it can’t fucking reach him and he’s— He’s not panicking behind the wheel with Steve Fucking Harrington bleeding against the passenger side window. 

It’s not happening. 

Because if it were happening, Eddie would simply throw up. He’d leave his van on the side of the road and run the fuck away. Away from Harrington and his trouble, away from his rattling breath that’s so loud and unsteady, Eddie doesn’t even dare to turn on any sort of music, even though he’s itching for it, his hands clenching and unclenching around the wheel until his knuckles go white. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mumbles under his breath, barely aware of his surroundings at all, his eyes flitting from Harrington to the red stain against the window, back to the road and then down to the white-knuckled grip and the speckles of dried blood that is decidedly not his. 

Lost in his panic and disbelief, Eddie almost runs a red light. 

It’s harsh, the way he hits the brakes, and the sound Harrington makes is pathetic enough that Eddie feels like maybe this might actually be happening. 

“Sorry,” he breathes, his voice no better than Steve’s — and he’s not the one with a concussion, a broken rib, and that… fucking fear. Of something. Or someone. 

Who’s hurting you, Steve? 

Jus’ everyone, sometimes. God you don’t… You don’t even know.

He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t wanna know. All he wants is for Harrington to stop fucking bleeding, to keep his eyes wide open and— 

“Ed,” the boy says, wheezes, and it sounds like he wanted to say his full name, but had to swallow first. Blood, Eddie thinks. Don’t let it be blood. “Think I’m… ‘M gonna throw up.” 

“Please don’t throw up,” Eddie says before he can stop himself, hating how small his voice sounds, how urgent — like that’s the thing to be urgent about. God, he’s such an ass, but he… If Harrington throws up, Eddie will lose it. He knows he will. 

He chances a glance over at Steve, who has somehow managed to get his right arm tangled with the handle at the door, keeping himself upright and safe from Eddie’s rather frantic driving style. His head is drooping, moving this way and that against the red-stained glass, and he blinks unseeingly as blood begins to trickle down from his nose and temple again. 

He’s making himself small, and Eddie wants to pull him upright and tell him to stay like that, tell him to stop looking so terrible, so horrible, so… 

So much like Eddie’s fucking problem. 

He hates it. Hates everything about that vision. Boys like Harrington shouldn’t look like this, shouldn’t hold themselves like this, shouldn’t… Shouldn’t have no one but Eddie to take them somewhere safe. 

It’s just not tight. 

“Don’ wanna throw up,” Steve says at last, the pause too long for Eddie’s liking, and he sounds so solemn about it, yet so helpless, and Eddie kinda wants to scream. Wants Harrington to scream. Anything to stay awake and maybe not ruin his car. Anything to not fucking die in it. 

“Tell me something,” he says then, because he knows he has to keep Harrington awake and speaking. Just for another ten, fifteen minutes, he tells himself. “Anything, yeah? Tell me anything. Gotta keep you awake there, you hear me? Sounds great, right, staying awake?” 

He’s rambling and he knows it, desperation shining through his words and the god-awful way his voice breaks a little. This is not about him, he knows it isn’t, but still he wants to punch himself, wants to pinch himself and stay fucking calm. 

But who could stay calm in a situation like this? The silence is filled with the horrible wheezing and rattling of Harrington’s breath barely audible over the engine, and Eddie has to look over several times to make sure he’s still there, still with him, still alive. His panic spikes each time. 

He’s just about to reach over and shake him a little, snap in front of his face to get him back, when—

“I don’t know what.” 

It’s quiet, that voice, breathy and tiny and almost invisible, and Eddie wants to scream again. 

Tell me why you’re so scared. Tell me why your old buddy did this to you. Hagan would never touch you, so why did he now? Tell me what happened to Hargrove. Tell me why you sound so fucking small. 

“Tell me about your…” He fumbles for a moment, taking a sharp left and pretending not to hear the choked-off whimper. Focusing on good things. On normal things. “Your favourite person.” 

Eddie cringes at himself the moment the words leave his mouth. Your favourite person? Really, Munson? He scrambles to find something better, something cooler, or maybe something easier like asking his favourite fucking colour, but the overthinking really doesn’t mix well with the already panicked state of his mind. And Eddie just blanks. 

Beside him, though, Harrington sits up a little straighter, smearing more blood against his window in the process that Eddie pretends not to feel nauseous about. 

God, he never did like blood. 

“You wan’ me to tell you ‘bout Rob?” 

“Sure, yeah,” Eddie says, a little too loud, a little too shrill, actually running a red light this time because he doesn’t want to brake again and hurt the boy some more. There’s no one around anyway. This is Hawkins. Fucking dead-end of a town. It doesn’t need red lights, or boys who look like Harrington. “Rob. Tell me ‘bout him, what’s he like? Favourite colour, all that shit.” 

“Her.” 

Eddie blinks, looking over to find Harrington looking at him — or trying to, his eyes still drooping and empty. But it’s a good sign. People don’t die when they look at you, right? 

“What?” 

“Her,” Harrington says again. “An’ blue. Deep ‘n’ dark blue. She’ll say something corny when, when you ask her, jus’ to fuck with you. Sunset gold or rose, jus’ to mess with… But is blue.”

Eddie doesn’t really listen, doesn’t really process what Steve is saying, already thinking of the next question just to keep him talking. But then he continues on his own. 

“Mornin’ blue dep— de… makes her sad, though. So only dark blue. Says it’s why we’re friends. You’re so blue, Stevie. Got half’a my clothes, still, she does. All the blues.” 

That's... really fucking endearing, actually. 

And he says it with a half-smile, too, bloody and pathetic as it is. Like it’s a secret that only the two of them are in on, only Steve and Robin. It’s kind of sweet. 

Not for the first time today does Eddie find himself wondering, Who the hell are you, Steve Harrington?

He exhales through his nose, ignoring the way he’s started to shake with all that panic that’s been sitting inside him for a little too long now with no way to let it out. 

“Not much longer,” he mumbles under his breath again, or maybe he just thinks very hard. Maybe he doesn’t know where he is at all. It’s like he blanks every few seconds, too busy thinking and trying not to.

Before he can tell Harrington to talk some more about that girlfriend of his, there’s a pained, confused little whine that forcefully tears Eddie’s eyes from the street for a moment only to meet hazel eyes widened in confusion. 

“Wh— Where… Where’re we going?” 

Oh no. 

“Why’m I in y—“ 

“You’re safe,” Eddie interrupts him, speaking slowly because suddenly his tongue is too big for his mouth, and not entirely sure if he’s reassuring Harrington or himself. “You’re hurt, okay? It’s bad, but it wasn’t me. I’m taking you to… to someone. My uncle Wayne, he’s— He knows about that kinda stuff. You were telling me about Rob. Remember her, Blue? How about you tell me some more, hm?” 

Eddie’s voice is unsteady with worry and fear and panic, and he’s doing a piss-poor job at hiding it. The thing is, he’s going to cry. He’s actually, absolutely, no-doubt-about-it going to scream and cry and punch a fucking hole into something when this day is over, when his van is no longer bloody, and when Steve Harrington won’t have reason to look at him any longer. 

Oh, how he wants to skip forward. Past the nausea, past the fear, past everything that’s happening right now. Maybe past the insomnia that will come with a day like this, too. 

Past all of it. 

Or better yet, travel back in time and never get to that fucking boat house. 

But he can’t. So he breathes. 

At first, through the ringing in his ears and the racing of his own heart so loud and so forceful he’s shaking with it, he worries that Steve’s gone silent again, that he’s gonna ask again, ask what happened, ask where he is, ask all the questions that make Eddie feel like he’s been doused in ice water because they’re questions that only get asked in stupid movies where terrible things happen to people. 

But then he hears him mumbling something. Numbers. 

“What’cha mumbling there, Blue?” 

“‘S her number,” Steve says, his voice slurring again, worse than before, and Eddie hits the gas a little harder. “‘S jus’ her number. Robbie’s number.” 

And he mumbles again. Over and over and over, until Eddie couldn’t forget it if he wanted to, ingrained into the frayed edges of his mind now. 

He lets him ramble, lets him repeat the number until the words slur together and he can’t separate a four from a nine anymore. Each time Harrington hesitates, each time he stumbles over the words or forgets a digit, Eddie wants to punch the wheel. 

He doesn’t. He only grips it tighter and counts down the turns he takes, the streets he passes, the fucking trees that are familiar, before, finally, the trailer park comes into view. 

The sob Eddie lets out when, with shaking, trembling hands he pulls up to his home to find his uncle having a smoke outside is deafening to his ears after the quiet weakness of Harrington’s voice. 

It startles him, makes him stop his rambles and sit up straighter when Eddie finally kills the engine. For a moment, without the steady, rolling hum, the car is filled with the small, tiny whines Steve makes on each exhale. Like it hurts to even breathe. 

“Wha’s wrong?” He asks, but Eddie can’t really hear him. Can’t turn to him, can’t— “Eddie?” 

He’s out of the car before he can take hold of another thought, stumbling out of his open door on legs that feel numb and heavy. The urge to cry is back again, the burning in his eyes only getting worse when Wayne takes in the dried blood on his clothes and hands with careful, calculated worry.

“Ed?” 

“I didn’t know what— where—- I’m… Wayne, I’m sorry.” 

“Slow down, kid,” Wayne says, raising his hands as if to calm a spooked deer. Like Eddie is the one who needs his help. And he is. He really, really is, and he shouldn’t be, because this isn’t about him, but—

Wayne grabs him by the shoulders to keep him still, and only now does Eddie realise he’s shaking again, restlessly moving his weight from one leg to the other. His uncle steadies him, gently pressing down on his shoulders to ground him, and Eddie nearly sobs again. 

“Ed. Are you in trouble?” 

“No,” Eddie scrambles to say, becoming aware of what this looks like, hiding his hands behind his back on instinct, like that’ll make Harrington’s blood disappear. “‘S not my blood, I didn’t do anything, I swear! I swear. It’s, uh. I just found him. In the boathouse, I found him, and he was… God, he looked so bad, okay, but he didn’t want the hospital, and he was, like, so scared of something, and we don’t even talk, we don’t even look at each other, but I just… I didn’t know what to do, and you know something about concussions and people who were beat to shit and, again, I’m—“ 

“Eddie,” Wayne says, his voice so calm but so assertive that Eddie shuts up immediately, gladly handing over to controls to his uncle now. “Who’s the kid?” 

He nods towards Eddie’s van, where Harrington looks to be halfway unbuckled, but his eyes are closed and his face smushed against the door again, like he just gave up.  

“Shit,” Eddie says, adrenaline and panic slowly falling from him with Wayne’s hand on his shoulder. He sags into his uncle and rubs at his face. “It’s Steve. Uh, Steve Harrington, I mean.” 

“Okay,” Wayne says, and he’s so calm. So calm. Eddie feels like he’s about to fall apart, and Wayne is the only one keeping him together, with that’d steady, warm hand on his shoulder. “And you promise me he didn’t give you trouble? Or anyone else who’ll come finish what they started?” 

Eddie shakes his head profusely, getting a little dizzy with it. “I promise I’m not in trouble. He said Hagan did this to him, was alone when I found him. No trouble, Wayne, I swear, I’m not like that, you know I’m not.”

“Okay,” Wayne says again, and Eddie wants to weep. “I know you’re not like that, but some people are, y’know? You did good, son. You did good. Now help me get him out of that car.” 

It takes his uncle tugging him towards the van for Eddie to kick back into motion, nearly falling over his feet turning back around. It’s only Wayne’s “Easy” murmured under his breath that keeps the ground from opening up and swallowing him whole. 

He climbs in on the driver’s side while Wayne rounds the car and gets to Harrington’s side. 

“Hey there, Blue,” Eddie says, his voice shaking and the nickname slipping again — but it’s easier to call him that than his real name, it’s easier to pretend it’s literally anyone else in here with him, bleeding against his door. 

It’s easier to pretend it’s not Harrington’s breath rattling the way it does, easier to pretend those pained groans so high in their cadence they can only count as whines don’t come from Hawkins High’s Golden Boy who graduated a few months ago and was supposed to be done with bullshit like this. 

“Come on, up you get,” he tells him, not daring to raise his voice too much. 

He looks so frail. Like he’s already broken. Or like he’s trying not to. Like he’s holding on. 

Eddie pretends not to think that the hand he places on Steve’s cheek to gently pry him from the window is not the only thing keeping that boy together right now. 

Harrington groans, whines, wheezes, but opens his eyes to meet Eddie’s. Jesus, we’re they this blown before? Or this swollen?

“Hey,” Eddie says, just to say something. Just so he won’t have to hold the boy’s face in silence, just so he won’t have to focus on all the blood. Just so he won’t have to hear more questions that people aren’t supposed to ask. 

Steve opens his mouth, his breath coming out a little sharper, like he wants to say Hi rather than Where am I? or When will it stop hurting? Like he wants to say How can I help you help me? 

Somehow, Eddie manages a smile. 

Wayne chooses that moment to open the door — just unclicking it, not pulling yet; giving Eddie enough time to support Harrington, make sure he doesn’t fall.

“Careful,” he whispers, though whether it’s for Wayne, for Steve, or for himself, he can’t quite tell. Maybe it’s a plea to the rest of the world, and to anyone else who will listen. 

Steve is still staring at him. That’s probably not a good sign. He leans back a little, turning Steve’s head to make him follow him. Slowly, of course. Gently. Eddie can’t remember ever having touched something like it was going to break if only he looked at it wrong, but somehow he’s hyper-aware of it now. 

Because Harrington is staring at him. Entirely too still, like he has no strength, no coordination to do anything but stare. And yet Eddie is the one who, now that the adrenaline has fallen from him, now that he can let someone else take over, now that Harrington doesn’t need him anymore, finds himself unable to look away. 

Because Steve is just a boy. And so is Eddie, who can feel Steve’s breath against his wrist. And maybe, out of the two of them, Eddie is the fragile one. The one about to break. 

“Blue, you with me?”

Steve nods. Doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t move. Eddie swallows, briefly looking back down at Wayne to see if he’s ready. His uncle nods, ready to catch Harrington should he go down, and Eddie turns back to the boy who’s smeared with his own blood.

“I’m gonna take off your seatbelt now, yeah?” he tells him, not entirely recognising his voice anymore. “That man out there, that is Wayne. My uncle. He’s safe. He’ll take care of you, okay?” 

“Safe,” Steve breathes, and that shouldn’t be the one thing he focuses on. It shouldn’t sound so unsure. So insecure. So hopeful, so relieved, so— Fucking earnest. 

Swallowing all these thoughts, all this desperation and all those questions, Eddie reaches over Steve, one hand still supporting his head and feeling the overheated skin of Harrington’s cheek against his palm, the hint of stubble and the crust of dried blood. As if in slow motion, not daring to make a wrong move and hurt him more than he already does, Eddie frees him the rest of the way, letting the seatbelt slide into its hold behind his shoulder. 

“Careful,” he says again, just to say anything, but he is careful, and his hold on Steve is steady. 

“‘M careful. Not gonna break, Eddie.” 

“I know.” But maybe I will. 

“Good. ‘Cause… Don’ wanna break.” 

Eddie smiles, despite everything. “You’re not gonna break, Blue. Wayne’ll catch you.” 

Harrington loses his focus then, his eyes glazing over, but the small smile on his lips widens. “Blue. ‘S nice.” 

Yeah, Eddie thinks. He kinda is. 

Somehow, miraculously, they get Harrington out of the van and into the trailer. He throws up halfway to the doorstep, and Eddie curses under his breath while Wayne talks quietly, asking him yes and no questions that Eddie can’t really hear through the ringing in his ears — a strange mix of fear and relief, a panic not quite over, but soothed by his uncle’s familiar voice; even if it’s not directed at him.

“Don’t worry about it, kid, the next rain’ll take care of that. Stop apologising.” 

It throws him then, rather suddenly and violently, watching Wayne supporting Harrington, watching the blood smeared boy with the swelling, angry red bruises in his face. Somehow it’s different, seeing him in his home. 

This was always a safe space. Always void of everything terrible. 

And now there’s a broken boy on his doorstep who’s not Eddie. 

He remembers the fear, the panic, the plea for no hospital, Eddie. Can’t go there.

Why not? You need a doctor—

Monsters. Only monsters there.

It paralyses him and he stays where he is, holding the door with an arm that’s heavy like lead, standing on legs that begin to go numb again. He watches, but not really, as Wayne sits Harrington down on the living room couch, between magazines and brochures and some of Eddie’s calculus notes from last night that he was searching for a sketch of a monster he was so certain he’d drawn in the margins a few weeks back. 

Now there’s blood on his calculus notes. And Eddie is helplessly keeping the door open as though he’s going to run away any second now. Letting in more trouble to join Harrington on his couch. 

He should… He should close the door. Help. Run. Disappear. 

“Ed,” Wayne calls, snapping him out of his stupor. “The first aid kit, please. A bottle of water. A clean, wet cloth. A blanket, too.” 

Wayne talks him through it, takes it one step at a time, has Eddie bring him one after the other like he knows how much he’s keeping his nephew together by keeping him on the brink of usefulness.

Soon, Wayne has everything he needs, taking care of Harrington and his wounds, keeping him awake and talking so much better than Eddie did, even making him smile here and there, hiding his wince when the motion pulls on his split lip or the huffed breath sends a jolt of pain through his rib that Eddie is absolutely certain must be broken with the way he holds himself — with the way he lets Wayne hold him up. 

Wayne is doing his thing and Eddie is hiding, gripping the kitchen counter like a vice, staring both unseeingly and hyper-vigilantly as exhaustion washes over him, dragging him under and draining him of more than adrenaline. He slumps against the cupboard behind him, rubbing at his face like that’ll make it all go away. 

It’s not right. It’s not. This is Eddie’s home, it’s supposed to be safe, it’s not… 

He breaks away, ripping his hands from the counter and all but stumbling outside, heaving a deep breath and giving in to the urge to cry. Tears spring to his eyes and he wipes them away angrily, because it’s dumb, it’s so stupid, it’s absolutely fucking insane that he should be so worked up when Harrington talked about dying earlier. 

These things don’t happen. They don’t! 

“Stop fucking crying,” Eddie grumbles, sniffling and wiping away more tears as he closes his eyes against the afternoon sun. “Get a grip, Munson, Jesus Christ, there’s no reason to cry you big fuckin’ baby.” 

Nobody’s there to contradict him. Nobody’s there to make it worse. So he lets his eyes sting for a while, lets his lips wobble, his jaw clenched shut, the balls of his hands pressing into his eyes, breathing deliberately. 

In. Hold. Out. Hold. 

He doesn’t even scream. Doesn’t punch the still bloody side of his van, doesn’t run into the woods and disappear into the void. 

He simply breathes. Tries not to think about boys dying in mall fires, and even less so about boys beaten and abandoned in boat houses.

Doesn’t think about fucking Hawkins in Bumfuck-Indiana and the cursed way it has, driving its people mad. 

Doesn’t think about, They said my brain is hurt, Eddie. Doesn’t think about the Monsters Harrington mentioned. Doesn’t think about Blue, doesn’t think about I’m tired, Eddie. Don’t wanna hurt anymore. 

Doesn’t think about blue, blue, blue. 

He’s shaking when he comes back inside. He’s shaking when Harrington meets his eyes, looking a little clearer now, the blood washed away and everything bandaged a lot better than Eddie managed. He’a bundled in Eddie’s blanket. It’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. 

Eddie can’t move, and neither does Steve. 

“Steve,” Wayne says, waiting until those eyes tear themselves away from Eddie and back to him, though Eddie sees them fill with such trepidation, he almost asks what’s wrong. “I won’t hear a no on this, and I won’t let you go home. I’m taking you to the hospital. Especially if you tell me your head was hurt like this before, more times than one.” 

“Three,” Blue breathes, a little dazed still. Not magically healed, not even from Wayne. Another thing that doesn’t feel right. 

“Three times,” Wayne says, nodding, like he’s encouraging Steve to continue. 

“But I don’t want a hospital.” Again with that tiny fucking voice. Like the Monsters are hiding under hospital beds. 

“I know, son,” Wayne sighs, tugging the blanket a little tighter around Steve, and Eddie’s eyes begin to sting again when he notices the tone Wayne uses. When he realises. When he remembers. 

”I want my mom.“ 

”I know, son. But she’s not coming. Your mama is gone, Ed, and this is your home now. Think we can make that work, hm? You and I?” 

Eddie had never felt so lost as he did then, clutching his blanket to his chest, burying his face in the wet fabric even as this man — his uncle — tugs it tighter around him. Like he is fine with Eddie wanting to hide as long as he doesn’t run away. 

He had shrugged, then, even though we wanted to shake his head, tell him no, tell him he wanted his mama. 

”I’m scared, uncle Wayne.” 

And Wayne had smiled a little, and nodded. “Then we do it scared, Eddie.”

Actually, Eddie feels like he never stopped doing it scared. 

And now there is Steve, who Eddie never believed knew what being scared felt like. It’s dumb, of course, because even Harrington is just a boy, but he was always untouchable to Eddie. They never talked. They never existed in the same space together, not in a good way and not in a bad way. Their worlds just never aligned, never collided, never coexisted. 

And now… 

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, okay? There’s a doctor, Doctor Clarke. Like— Yeah, like your science teacher, remember him? ‘S got a brother who’s just as much of a genius, and just as kind. He’ll take a look at you, yeah? Make sure your brain isn’t too hurt, clean your wounds, give you something for the pain. He won’t, uh. He won’t hurt you, kid. Whatever’s got you so scared, Dr Clarke will be nice to you. Especially when I’m there with ya, I’m an old pal of his. And I will be. Won’t let you outta my sight until you’re well enough to run away from me, you hear me, kid?” 

Eddie’s hands are hurting, his fingertips raw from where he’s been biting his nails while Wayne talks Blue through what’s going to happen — and he wonders, with the way Steve’s eyes are glued to Wayne, if he ever had anyone talking him through shit like this. 

“Okay,” Harrington breathes at last, still sounding way too small. “But. I’m…” 

“Scared anyway?” Wayne offers. Steve nods. You’re so blue, Stevie. “Then we do it scared anyway.”

And they do. Wayne goes to get the car so Steve won’t have to walk too far, leaving Eddie alone with him for a brief moment. 

He watches, from his place in the kitchen, how Steve’s face falls into a look of utter exhaustion and tiredness; the adrenaline washing from him just the same. Eddie wants to reach out. Wants to say something, break the spell of tension and silence and I know we don’t talk, but I’m glad you’re doing a little better. I’m glad you’ll go see a doctor. I’m glad you haven’t died, I guess. Do you really think you will? Are you really so scared of that? 

But Eddie keeps biting his nails, and Steve keeps his eyes closed, blanket around his shoulders. And they don’t talk. 

“Thank you.” 

Eddie perks up, not entirely sure he didn’t imagine the words — but Harrington moved slightly, his eyes still closed but his face now turned towards Eddie. 

“For, uh. This.” 

“I didn’t do shit, Blue,” Eddie says. “That was all Wayne. All I did was freak out, I promise.” 

Harrington shakes his head, though, slowly. “Mh-mm.” 

Eddie’s mouth snaps shut, because there is no room for discussion here. They don’t talk. And he doesn’t want the bubble to burst with insecurity and sourness. 

“Thank you,” he says again, and he sounds final about it. It makes Eddie wonder what he’s like, really like, when he doesn’t consist of pain and nausea and disorientation. 

He has a feeling that, despite everything, despite Monsters under hospital beds and torture in boathouses and mall fires that kill teenagers, Blue Harrington might be someone good to talk to. Compassionate as shit, even when all he wants to do is pass out. 

“You’re welcome,” Eddie rasps, pretending that his eyes don’t sting.

He wraps his arms around his chest like he’s hugging himself, or like he’s holding himself back. From reaching out, from asking, from telling, from talking. 

Unwittingly, even with his eyes closed, Steve mirrors him, and Eddie wonders if he, too, it holding himself back, or just curling in on himself some more even though it must hurt, feeling so small. 

Maybe that’s what fear of death does to a nineteen year-old. It’s so fucked up. Eddie wants to scream again. 

Outside, he hears a car door fall shut just before Wayne reappears in the door, giving Eddie some kind of meaningful look that he wouldn’t mind deciphering on any other day, but today he fears he needs words. 

“I don’t know how long this’ll take. Will you be okay, Ed?” 

“Will I be— Yes! I’m not the one with the concussion, man, of course I’ll be—“ 

It’s a bluff, comes too fast, and Wayne sees right through it before Eddie even realises it, and he steps closer. A warm hand on his shoulder. His eyes stinging again. 

“You did good, kid. Everything will be fine. But it might take a while. It’s fine if you need to go somewhere, just… Don’t drive. Call Jeff if you need someone, just. Don’t do anything stupid. And don’t get behind the wheel. Deal?” 

Eddie swallows hard, hit by another desperate, aching wave of I wanna go back in time and skip this day. A wave of tired exhaustion and wondering, aimlessly, just who the fuck Steve Harrington really is. 

“Deal,” he says, and Wayne pulls him into a hug. 

Eddie follows them outside then, trailing behind them like a lost little puppy, helping Harrington into Wayne’s car. His movements are still slugged and a little disoriented, so Eddie decides to lean in again and fasten his seatbelt. 

“Careful,” he mumbles, allowing the boy a moment’s warning, a moment to adjust before the weight settles on his chest. 

Dejá-vù hits him and makes him pause, with Harrington staring at him again. 

“I’m careful,” he says, the corners of his mouth tugging into a little smile.

More lucid than earlier, and Eddie thinks it that which takes his breath away for a moment. 

“Not gonna break, Eddie.” 

“I know,” he says, still not moving back, instead reaching up to tighten the blanket around his shoulders even though the seatbelt is already there to hold it in place. “You’re not gonna break, Blue.” 

The smile on those lips is genuine now, gentle enough to not be ruined by the blood crusting them. 

“Thanks. Again.” And then, when Eddie finally pulls away to close the door and tell Wayne to drive safely, “I really do like that name.”

It soothes the urge to scream.

Eddie closes the door as gently as he can — which isn’t much, because the car is old and not exactly smooth. 

“I’ll see you later,” he tells Wayne. Promises. To stay out of trouble, to stick around, to not run away for a while again, to stay out of his car. 

Wayne nods, a faint smile on his lips. 

“Later, Ed.” 

And then they’re gone, and Eddie is untethered again. Wonders, for a few seconds every now and then if it really happened, if this is real. 

But it did. And it is. 

And after sitting on the steps for a while, having a smoke and staring at where Wayne’s car disappeared ten, twenty, forty minutes ago, Eddie heads inside. 

He has a phone call to make.

🤍🌷 tagging: @theshippirate22 @mentallyundone @ledleaf @imfinereallyy @itsall-taken @simply-shin @romanticdestruction @temptingfatetakingnames @stevesbipanic @steddie-island @estrellami-1 @jackiemonroe5512 @emofratboy @writing-kiki @steviesummer @devondespresso @swimmingbirdrunningrock @dodger-chan @tellatoast @inkjette @weirdandabsurd42 (a thousand percent sure i missed some but oh well such is the 3am disease)

addendum 22 jan 24: onwards to part 3

[cut-aare]

🩸🫦

[groovyangelkisses]

hi my sweet baby suse :') love you sm n'just wanna know your thoughts when it comes to sitting on jax's lap <3 would he pet your hair? call you sweet little pet names? just wonderin' <3

anything for you clo, my pretty girl ! 🫶🏻

this became super long-winded, i just think he's neat :')

cw: jealousy, slight! innocence kink, potential 'opie yearning for reader' moment (who's shocked?) slightly nsfw

personally, i think jax is constantly pulling his girl into his lap. whether it's because tig is getting a little too friendly, or you've been talking (gazing) at opie for a tiny bit longer than he'd like, it's like you make a movement & you're in his lap. he's very "hey, where you goin' sweetheart, hm?" all teasing and smug and smiley, pulling you by the wrist to sit on him.

while jax loves having you in his lap to see you get all blushy and shy "c'mon darlin' they all know you love sittin' on me" (never letting the opportunity for innuendo pass him by,) he also loves the sense of pride that he gets from having a pretty, sweet thing like you perched in his lap. while jax is all leather and dirty t-shirts and baggy jeans, you're sweet pastels and soft fabrics— the warmth that jax is slowly starting to feel in his heart again.

and he'll take any form of lap sitting, by the way. if you're sitting directly on him, after you deliver some comment about jax bein the "comfiest, cleanest chair here!" he'll laugh, and wrap his big arms around your tummy, his face in your hair, whispering dirty jokes and funny comments about juice and chibs in your ear.

and if you're sitting sideways? legs spread across his lap and dangling over his thighs? his hands never leave them. one hand protectively holds your ankle, fingers lightly fiddling with the cold "J" anklet he bought just for you. his other hand slides up and down your leg, pausing to lay his palm flat on your knee, or to slide his extended hand up the sides of your thigh. and jax knows nooo personal space with you, by the way. so you two are face to face as he talks, his strong nose brushing against yours, and when he leans over to tell you a secret, his beard brushes against your cheek. eventually, his hand starts to slide up the center of your thighs, and his lips get a little too close to the sweetest spot on your neck, and he notices opie looking at the smooth skin of your face too long, and suddenly he can't help himself. nights like those usually end with you happily skipping behind jax as he leads you to his clubhouse room, trying to supress a smile at your obvious affection and excitement for him.

that being said, jax is a veerrrryy jealous person, so whenever he senses a prospect gettin' a little too close for his liking, he'll give you the look and you'll know where to go. of course, jax never tells you exactly why he'll suddenly stop your conversation with happy and ask you to come (essentially) straddle him in the clubhouse— he never wants you to know the true, horribly corrupt fantasies of the other male bikers.

so he'll take you in his lap, hooking your arms over his shoulders and pulling you together; chest to chest, him pressing against your panties in a comforting way. jax will pull the hem of your dress down and hold it still (he saw them trying to take a peek, and if he's being honest it took everything in him not to flip the pool table and start screaming) and start the sweetest little whispers in your bejeweled ear "my sweet girl, you know how pretty you are, hm? you know everybody here wants you? but they can't have you right? can they?"

and like clockwork, this same song and dance you get into everytime there's a meeting, you nod happily. and jax'll smile, a nice, wide, shit-eating grin aimed just as much at you as it is at the other samcro members looking onward; always yearning for a girl like you— loving, loyal, only having eyes for the blondie they all yearn to be.

his hand will move to your hair, softly running his fingers through it, soft applogies leaving his lips as your hair gets tangled in his rings, and he'll always kiss the corners of your lips to make up for it. he'll press your head to his chest, a big, protective hand sprawling across the back of your hair, holdin' you to him "just rest your eyes a little darlin', i gotta talk to the guys abit, kay?"

oh and he will. his hands running up and down your back and hair, in lulls of the conversation he'll kiss your cheek and ask quietly "still with me, babe?" and wait for your comfortable purr of "mmhmm" and continue on with the conversation. and he knows no one will ever say anything, they wouldn't dare. you're his little "doe in the headlights" and beyond jax's admittance, he needs to feel you in his hands just to get through the fear that he battles with everyday— the fear of disappointing the club, trampling his father's legacy, losing you. the thought makes him tighten his grip on you, hugging you like a child hugs their teddy bear, and the pressure, the sheer weight of his love is so fulfilling, you'll happily flirt with juice if it means it'll always end with jax holding you like this.

[francy-sketches]

sorry I got posessed by the wattpad demon I'm normal now (lying)

+alt version that didnt fit the #aesthetic but it better represents my #vision of them ^_^ hashtag couplegoals

[ruporas]

feast (ID in alt)

[demaparbat-hp]

Almost

[breadmecoshy]

Oumota comic, Part 2

Headcanon - Kaito has nicotine withdrawal during the events of Danganronpa V3 (among other things, what happens to him there). Just a cute little comic

Part 1: https://www.tumblr.com/breadmecoshy/736606178824650752/oumota-comic-part-1?source=share

Plot Twist - After finishing the main game (which we all want to believe was a simulation), Tsumugi became so attached to the guys at V3 that she talked Danganronpa's company into launching a spin-off in romcom format in which she would try to bring together the couples most popular with viewers

joke (or maybe not)

[wispscribbles]

why are you and your drawings so cool 😭🙏

afdsasdfasg thank you !! irl ppl would laugh at me being called cool lol - Have a ghoap as thanks <33

[gunbun]

Gunbun's Pro Wrestling Explainer For FFXIV Players Who Don't Understand Graps Very Well

Hi! Are you an FFXIV player whose only exposure to pro wrestling is the tales of how Vince McMahon is a piece of shit? Do you have thinkthonks about the raid storyline so far but aren't clear on how it relates to pro wrestling? Do you think "correct me if I'm wrong, but…" about any part of pro wrestling, but you're not a watcher? Are you interested in obtaining a little bit of knowledge and context about what it is we're seeing in the Ascension Arcadia Championship?

I gotchu. This whole raid storyline is a large homage to the highs and lows of professional wrestling, and from my knowledge as a fan of WWE in particular, its storyline so far is unfolding just like the fictional storylines that unfold in our real-world on a regular basis.

I posit that the present Ascension Arcadia Championship is a pro wrestling promotion that exists in Solution 9. And that it's not only helpful but entertaining once you become a little genre-savvy about it.

Sidebar For The Smarks: Yes, other professional wrestling promotions exist. We got TNA, ROH, AEW, all the indie promotions, AJPW, NJPW, STARDOM…. there are many. I'm just using WWE here as an example as it's the promotion I'm the most familiar with. There's more to pro wrestling than WWE. But I'm using one promotion as an example to explain the tropes of these kinds of storylines to folks who might not understand.

Preface: A List of Wrestling Terminology

Pro Wrestling has its own lingo. This is not an exhaustive list, just trying to cover the terms I'm gonna use in the essay part.

Promotion/Federation - a company that presents a stable of wrestlers fighting to compete to win a title to the greater public for sports entertainment. Talent can move from promotion to promotion. Federation is an older-school term for the same.

Title - the cool belt that the champion gets to wear. disclaimer: may not always be cool.

Talent - a professional wrestler.

Heel - the Bad Guy character.

Face - the Good Guy character.

Gimmick - basically the core of the talent's character. Are they an undead wizard? A genre-savvy angry Canadian man? A sexy male stripper? Pro Wrestling Barbie? A maybe-stoner Samoan who turned YEET into his catchphrase? These are all gimmicks that have existed or do exist in pro-wrestling today.

Booking - where the management of the promotion decides who fights whom and what the stakes will be (title defense, match style, etc).

Bump - when wrestlers collide with either one another, or the mat, or the turnbuckle, or the announcer table, or the ring steps, or the barricades…..

Work - this is stuff within the entertainment itself that furthers the fictional story of kayfabe.

Shoot - this is stuff that is Real Life that may affect the fictional story of kayfabe.

Promo/Promo Segment - speeches/skits done between matches to further storylines.

Pin/Pinfall - when one guy pins the other guy for a count of three. it usually means they win!

Submission - when one guy taps out after the other guy usually twists them into some kind of painful position. it definitely means they lose.

Kayfabe - the illusion that the characters, rivalries, and championships within a promotion are anything more than stuff that the talent does to get a paycheque. Both the talent and the audience suspend their disbelief and buy-in to the idea that the match has real stakes. It's the fiction that plays out as part of the matches. ------

Part One: PRO WRESTLING IS FAKE AND GAY

First thing I want you to do, while the smarks are still distracted above because I neglected to mention their favourite promotion, is hop over to YouTube and watch….. oooh! How about Drew McIntyre vs CM Punk in Hell in a Cell at Bad Blood 2024? Content warning for blood, blood, so much blood, but you can view this match here.

Did you see how CM Punk just annihilated Drew McIntyre with that toolbox? Did you see the absolutely balls-to-the-wall violence on display? The athleticism?! I went to that match in person and Drew had to have his head stapled back together! It was intense.

BUT WHAT THE FUCK, GUNBUN, you say, I THOUGHT PRO WRESTLING WAS FAKE.

Nope. It's predetermined. It's booked. It is a live performance involving people beating the shit out of one another for the entertainment of a crowd. It is done deliberately, with full consent of all parties, and today is done as safely as is possible.

In my other posts, I said that wrestling is predetermined and semi-choreographed. However, saying this does not mean that the bumps are not real and that they do not hurt. It doesn't mean that the talent aren't giving it their all.

The wrestlers are still beating the absolute shit out of one another. They use their skills and know-how to do their best to keep it from causing severe injury. In fact, wrestlers are always contending with one injury or the other. The vast, vast majority can be stapled up and given some PT and are back to work (wrestlers are in insanely good shape; they have to be!), but sometimes it's career-ending. Look up Diamond Dallas Page or Big E or Charlotte Flair and what they've been contending with lately/in their past. It is rough on the talent, even when practiced as safely as is possible.

The 'fake' part comes from the wrestling principle of kayfabe. Kayfabe is the fictional world wherein the promotion exists, it is the personae of all the talent in the promotion and the way they interact with one another.

I asked ya to watch the HIAC highlight reel for a reason. In real life, CM Punk is a guy named Phil and Drew McIntyre is a guy named Andrew and this match is the culmination of months of matches and feuding between their characters. Phil and Andrew, the people, are working together to create a spectacle for us, the audience. Punk and Drew, the characters, want to kill each other. It was expected that there would be blood during this kind of a match, and it was expected that Punk was gonna clobber McIntyre with that toolbox, but the cut was not expected to be that severe. And yet, this is live. They can't stop. And they deliver what is shaping up to be an all-time classic match. You'll notice everyone cheering and chanting. This is the other part of kayfabe: the promotion presents us the fiction, and we play along. We cheer for the faces, boo for the heels, or are die-hards for our favourite talent. One of my favourite wrestlers right now is undergoing a heel turn, where his character is moving from being a face to being a heel, and the reasons why are very dramatic storytelling.

If you think about it too hard, it's stupid as hell. But the talent love to do it and pride themselves on doing it well, it is undergoing kind of a renaissance right now from its shady past, and it's the modern-day gladatorial combat.

(The 'gay' part? Just…. just google Rhea Ripley. Then Damian Priest. Then Drew McIntyre. Then Roman Reigns. Then Tiffany Stratton. Then Becky Lynch. Then Jey Uso. Trust me.)

--------

Part Two: OKAY BUT WTF DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH THE ARCADION

I am already 1200+ words deep into this, so I looked at the introductory cutscene for the raid. And…. um, friends, Romans, countrymen, puks that I know: kayfabe is demonstrably and textually alive and well in AAC. The Arcadion is a show. What is my proof? First conversation, Metem, the promoter of the federation tells the WOL it's a spectacle. That's the word he uses.

He then says the purpose of the Arcadion is "By providing them with gripping entertainment it is our hope to have them forget their cares." However, to shock the citizens out of their stupor, they need someone new! New entertainment is the best way to get them to think about something that isn't their dead queen and the horrifying realization of what regulator usage means, after all.

Well, how about the hero of the day, the one who killed the king?

That's what the mysterious behind-the-scenes president of the federation (Metem's boss) thinks WOL can be the next champion. And then immediately tells us the storyline he wishes to cultivate and discusses WOL's remuneration for participation.

WOL agrees.

Opinion time: At first I called him Lalafell JBL because of the hat, but having reviewed the cutscene Metem is totally giving me NXT-Shawn Michaels vibes. I love it. Anyway.

WOL enters THE LOCKER ROOM. We are introduced to the three combatants AS THEIR CHARACTERS. We don't learn their names yet, but all right.

Honey B talks about sharing the stage with the WOL.

Brute Bomber talks about meeting WOL the ring and how he's gonna take them down!

This is literally and explicitly kayfabe we are walking into. It is not a matter of opinion. It's in the text. It's in the tropes. The three other combatants are doing the kayfabe thing of establishing themselves. Metem explains that they're characters (literally) and that this is their way of welcoming WOL to the locker room. Metem then explains how AAC works and he and WOL work out the deal for the souls from the repository. This isn't anything deeper than making the battles align to an 8-man raid. This is all Alexandrian flavor.

The shoot is the WOL saving souls. The work is Fresh Flavour for the Arcadion. Metem tells us he'll tell us more after our first match.

Thus begins M1: Black Cat is our foe who uses a feral soul to become .... that thing. This is Black Cat's gimmick. In the Arcadion the gimmicks are literal transformations via feral souls, but they serve the exact same purpose. WOL's gimmick is LOOK MA, NO REGULATOR, in case it wasn't clear.

WOL is told that all of this hullaballoo is in place in order to provide the audience with a spectacle. it's first and foremost entertainment.

Metem explicitly tells you this is entertainment, this is a show. Right there in the cutscenes.

Like IDK what else I can say. It's kayfabe. QED.

I am not going to get into the storyline for M2-4, but it is almost a shooty nature: something from real life is affecting the fighters and it's being covered up. THIS is the wrong that WOL will right. The spectacle continues because it is the way of life for people.

[alltimefail]

Okay gang, I noticed something super intriguing in my recent weekend rewatch of Dead Boy Detectives!

In Episode 4 when the night nurse goes into Charles' mind there's a consistent detail in his memories that I haven't seen anyone point out: not all of Charles' five schoolmates throw stones at him when he's in the lake.

Two boys are positioned slightly off to the left side of the screen, watching and making no move to stop the others, but they do not directly harm Charles at any point.

I know this doesn't seem particularly interesting in and of itself, but it quickly becomes more interesting when the Night Nurse asks Charles "What could possibly have made [his] friends turn on [him] like this," and we flash forward to the next memory, a visual response to her question. In this memory, we see Charles standing up to all of his so-called "friends" who are senselessly beating up on a boy from Pakistan and...

Wait - actually, no - not all of his friends...

Yet again, two boys have been intentionally set apart from the group and yes, it is the same two boys who stood off to the side and watched Charles be harmed (ultimately killed) in the previous scene. The juxtaposition of these scenes begins to feel even more intentional when the perspective flips and we see the scene how Charles was seeing it, with the passive boys on the left and the boys engaging in violence on the right.

This scene is much brighter so we get a really good look at their faces here, but both of them go through a myriad of facial expressions/reactions in quick succession that are challenging to discern with 100% certainty. But with the blocking for the group being the same in both shots and the roles the boys play being the same in both shots, I feel like this had to be an intentional choice made to convey something implicitly to the audience.

That leaves me to wonder - did these boys know, deep down, that what was happening was wrong? Did they want to resist, walk away, or try to stop the violence like Charles did earlier but felt powerless to do so? It would be remiss of me not to acknowledge how one of the two "passive" boys was black: did that otherness, the same otherness that Charles felt and that boy from Pakistan surely felt, keep him from speaking up out of fear for his own safety (a valid fear, considering what we know).

Whatever the purpose, it's a really sad detail to me. Heartbreaking, actually. Edwin is 100% right when he says that the living are messy, and Crystal is right when she says that she and the boys lost their lives to boys who went too far (hers temporarily in the form of her memories, the boys completely in the form of their literal lives) because that's just it, isn't it? This show is full of moral and ethical conversations surrounding the limitations of labels like "good" and "bad" people; about capability and willingness to change; and about how our actions, whether rooted in good or bad intentions, can lead to unintended or undesired outcomes. Perhaps none of Charles' "friends" believed they would kill Charles that night; perhaps they just wanted to "rough him up" or "teach him a lesson." Perhaps none of Edwin's bullies could have anticipated that the ritual sacrifice "prank" would do anything more than scare a boy they perceived as different, effeminate ("Mary Ann"), and they certainly couldn't have known it would lead to years of torture and suffering in hell for not just Edwin, but for themselves as well. But it doesn't matter, and it doesn't excuse what they did. The boys who stood to the side and watched Charles die, and who watched their fellow "mates" beat on another boy prior to that, may not have thrown a single punch, but it didn't matter - the damage was done. They still were complicit in that violence, and therefore played just as much a role in Charles' death as the boys who were throwing stones and punches. To be alive is to deal with mess, complications, baggage...to insinuate otherwise is to diminish the nuance and intention put into every choice not only in this show, but in some ways, the world at large as well. It may be a small moment, but it struck me as something that said so much without having to explicitly say anything at all. Art is a good mirror on society in this way; it makes us face the reflections of messy, complex characters and situations that we could just as likely find ourselves a part of (maybe as the "good" guy, the vicim; maybe as the "bad" guy, the bully; or maybe as the guys who just... did nothing at all. The ones who watched, who were complicit in the suffering of others for what could be a multitude of selfish or self-preserving reasons).

All that being said, the TLDR here is: considering it's the same two boys who behave the same way in both instances it feels like an intentional detail. I wonder if there's potential for one (or both) of these boys to reappear in Charles' (after)life in the future? They are likely both still alive today, in their 50s, just as Charles would be had he not been murdered. Perhaps one of these boys could die and come to the agency with regrets or unfinished business (directly involving Charles or regarding something unrelated). Maybe Charles will run into them, alive, through a different case or just on the streets of London and be overwhelmed with a sense of "That should be me, too. I should have gotten to live." I imagine he would recognize them, even in older bodies, and it would understandably affect him to have to face anyone who played a role in his death, whether they threw stones or just watched.

Orrrrrrer it could be a totally pointless detail! 😂 I'm always open-minded to the fact that after 30+ rewatches I could be overanalyzing at this point. Either way, it confounds me nonetheless and I so desperately hope we will get to explore Charles' trauma more in season 2 (🤞)... so I thought I would share my thoughts! 🖤

(Last note: please excuse the bad photo quality!! I searched meticulously for the exact screencaps I needed but couldn't find anything, so I just took pictures of my tv screen with my phone lol.)

[mattodore]

birthday boy 🎂

[cspcrashing]

last drink 🥃🪽

[desertcrater]

wilson is diabolical in s3 ep2, especially because a few episodes prior its established that he eats neediness. if someone becomes independent from him, he can't stand it. typically this means he divorces them; but since house isn't his husband, this time it means he instigates house's psychosomatic depression.

both cuddy and cameron are on Team Tell House He Didn't Fuck Up, because they know house is on a quiet downward spiral. they know his leg pain's severity is tied to his self-worth/mental state.

but wilson? Mr I-Pathologically-Need-To-Be-Needed Wilson? he frames his Don't Tell House position as "teaching House humility" when really his motive is to get house back on vicodin and reliant on him. he even tosses a full vicodin pill bottle at house, claiming that it's so house doesn't skip rehab due to the pain. but if that were the case, why not give house something non-addictive? something OTC or non-restricted?

and i think there is an additional aspect in s3 ep1, too. house says he doesn't remember wilson "being this bitchy", and wilson replies that "the vicodin dulled it. in the sober light of day, i'm a buzzkill."

which could just be a dry humor remark, sure, but i think it highlights that their dynamic's going to change now that house is sober. and if their dynamic changes, it could threaten their weird codependent ecosystem that they live in. one where they both tolerate/exacerbate each other's worst qualities (house's misery and wilson's bitchiness). who will love me like he loves me? who will love him like i love him?

this is exemplified in that same episode. wilson shoots house down multiple times when house says he's a changed man, by replying: "no, house, you aren't."

wilson does this manipulative thing where on one hand, he's encouraging house to get better; yet on the other hand, he undermines any true progress. there is something so deeply wrong with wilson. he's so fearful of losing the codependency in his relationship with house, that he'll do anything to keep their fragile Boy Best Friend Status Quo. and that includes outright lying to house & actively sabotaging his rehab.

that also includes manipulating cuddy and cameron into keeping quiet. ironically, he's only able to do so because of his Boy Best Friend relationship to house. after all, who knows house better than wilson? who would know how to make house feel better more than wilson? who would know how to make house feel worse more than wilson? nobody loves house like wilson