#this is the third time i'm doing this post

[leon4nyx]

Are You Mine Tonight?

Sub!RE2!Leon x Dom!AFAB!Reader

word count - 1.2k

tags - MDNI, not proofread, porn w no plot, handcuffs, blindfolds, cumming in boxers, slight BDSM, begging, desperation, overstimulation, excessive cumming (4 times), dry orgasm, post-orgasm torture, praise (‘good boy’, ‘good puppy’, ‘needy baby’, ‘poor baby’), pegging, nipple play, riding, mention of hickeys, slight cum eating (mentioned once)

Leon goes full submissive good boy mode at the hands of his beloved. Since I'm on my period, y'all are getting this 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓀𝓎 fic from me <3

“Easy there rookie,” you whisper against the shell of his ear, eliciting an uptight moan from the overstimulated mess that is Leon beneath you.

“N-Not fair, ‘m so sensitive…” He whimpers, though his hips still buck up in search of your heat.

You’ve brought him to his second orgasm of the night just by grinding, boxers thoroughly soaked and sticky with loads upon loads of his spend; you haven’t even set your hands and mouth on his cock yet he’s gone twitchy and fucked-out, rivulets of drool leaking from the corners of his lips.

Jumpy hands rock against the cuffs linking him to the headboard, metal clinks joining the desperate moans and creaking of the bed in the dimly-lit bedroom; his head lolls from left to right, blue eyes hidden away with a black blindfold. The sight is nothing short of sinful: smeared lipstick stains his mouth, a leather collar around his pale neck, chest adorned with bite marks and reddish-purple splotches; his pebbled nipples are especially flushed from the merciless rubbing and bites, earning the most number of pleasure-driven cries aside from the delicious friction applied on his cock with each grind.

Unsatisfied with just two orgasms from your boyfriend, the humping starts back up again to wring out more cries from the strung-out mutt beneath you.

“Ngh–!”

You cackle, inching close to his face to lick the drool. “It’s good isn’t it, pretty boy?”

He can only pant in a crazed fashion, head lifting before it plops back down into the pillows. “Pleasepleaseplease mistress! M-Mercy on my p-poor cock, please–! Ah–!”

Deciding to show him a sliver of that mercy he begged for, you slow down the grinding and remove the blindfolds from his eyes, unveiling lashes dampened with tears of earth-shattering pleasure.

“C-cum, w-wanna cum for you baby,” he breathes as his hips snap up to meet your grinding pussy. “Puppy w-wants to cum for h-his m-mistress– mmh–!”

“Puppy wants to cum, huh?” You repeat. “I don’t think so baby, you’re cumming too fast and I want more cock.”

“Fuck–!”

Before he can stop himself, a third wave of hot cum soils his underwear. His orgasms are painful pleasure now, sizzles of electricity surging from his neck and racing down. His breaths are rapid and shallow, swiftly gathering the air that the orgasm knocked out.

“Damn right because that’s what I’m going to do to you next.”

You slide the sticky garment off of his legs, bringing it up to his face to kitten-lick at the spend before you toss it haphazardly. The head of his cock blushes a bright red, the tender tip especially reddened and glossy with oozing pre-cum; the shaft is just as glossy, veins lightly rippling the skin up until the base. You drizzle lube over it despite the sensitive little thing being properly soaked just to wring out another heady moan, the cold liquid contrasting with the heat radiating from his body.

“God– please– I want more,” he begs. “Want t-to cum in that p-perfect pussy mistress–!” In his desperation, he thrusts into the air and you watch with an animalistic gaze as you watch his cock bounce helplessly.

“What a desperate boy,” you tut before you line your entrance with him. “Always so needy for some pussy, aren’t you?”

No warning was said, you simply sank down a lot faster than Leon anticipated; his back arches, throat bared to the heavens as his swollen nipples were pushed up.

“Sensitive, so sensitive,” he mumbles in his pussy-drunk and orgasm-crazed haze.

Squelches and clear shlicks and plaps of skin reverberate throughout the bedroom as you bounce with reckless abandon. Your own moans meld with his, a disturbance that is sure to earn you both a noise complaint taped to the door of the apartment but that’s a problem saved for the morning.

His face creased, eyes shut tight, and you took a moment to stop and check up on him. Given the go signal to continue, you resumed taking his cock and chasing after that otherworldly high. As for Leon, the line between pain and pleasure felt too good to stop toying with as his body writhed and his broken voice cried out for your name.

“That’s it Leon,” you coo before engaging in a sloppy kiss. “Such a good puppy for me. Good boy.”

The praise encouraged him to go on, planting his feet as he aggressively jutted up as much as he could, like he’d die if he stopped at all. With a high-pitched cry of your name, hot cum splatters against your pulsing gummy walls.

“Can you give me one more, baby?” You ask. Your chest rises and falls rapidly in time with soft pants, recovering from your own orgasm.

“O-One more?” He asks in disbelief and you nod. It doesn’t take long for him to consider having another go, though he makes it known that this’ll be the last for tonight. “Okay, but one and done.”

“Got it,” you say before you slip off of him and fasten a strap on to yourself. Hearing the velcro of the strap, your boyfriend lifted his head up and watched on with a reignited lust burning in his groin. Blood filled in his cock again, stiffening it back to arousal and heightened receptivity. Right after you slicked up the silicone cock with lube, you drizzle some over Leon’s winking asshole and gently prod in with a finger to warm him up.

“Mmpfh–! Shit, f-feels so good–!”

Taking it as a sign, you gently pump your curled index finger in and out to accustom him to the feeling of being stuffed. The ministration received positive reception from him, Leon moving his hips to have your finger rub against his prostate.

“Needy baby,” you sneer. “Always needing a cock in his filthy pussy, no?”

“Don’t have a pussy,” he whimpers back in shame.

“You were just acting like a bitch in heat earlier,” you point out. He stays silent, gaze trained elsewhere so the vibrant pink in his cheeks speak for him instead. “Shamelessly needing my finger deeper inside.”

Soon enough, Leon is stuffed full of the silicone cock and is taking all the inches like an obedient puppy. Each thrust results in a delicious rub of his prostate, the sensitivity sending more and more rivulets of pearly pre-cum to drip from his flushed cockhead’s tip. You latch onto a pinkish nipple, sucking and kitten-licking on one while the other is twirled and toyed with in between agile fingers.

“Ah–! Ah–! S-shit–!”

Unlike the previous times he ejaculated, he came dry this time. He winced at the twitching of his overly receptive cock, the sensations far too much for him to handle this time.

“You were so good Leon,” you say as you place a kiss on his warm cheek and reach up to uncuff his hands from the headboard. “I’ll go get a warm rag and clean you up, okay? Just tell me if you need anything else.”

Leon could only give you a thumbs up, arm plopping back on the sheets as he recovered from several explosive orgasms. He’ll definitely have more of these in the future.

NOTE - hi guys!! second smutty fic on this account that i haven't touched since last year <3 this entire thing is actually a spontaneous idea (if it isn't obvious enough lmao) that i typed up between the hours of 2AM and 4AM, where i am sleepy but i was determined to post this so here it is :3 i havent posted a fic in a bit back at main because i'm dry on ideas and working on this was something like a writing exercise. im very tempted to make an unwise purchase rn rgrghrg can't it get cheaper or something im going to go broke :'( anyway, that's it and thank you for reading this <3 let me know what you guys think as i am new to writing smut :)

[craacked-splatters]

Aye!! I'm late and this is rushed but I'm hopping on board with this @year-of-the-echidna project!!

Cannot guarantee to finish the prompts on time but I will try my best!!

I couldn't decide if I should do game or movie knux for Innocence so I did both. Bcuz baby knuckles no matter which iteration, has me tearing up. Bcuz baby yk?

I did Communication with regular knuckles cuz I always wondered how those 1st few calls after he started considering the others his friends must've felt like for him after all those years of only hearing his voice.

The third prompt is on the way!! I need to tweek the writing a bit B4 posting it.

[w-d-g]

Do you know. Is there anyone out there who is missing you? Who would notice your absence? Assuming they even remember you. Is there anyone to care? With how ornery you seem I'm not sure if there would be. I can't see anyone caring beyond what you could do for them. I'm not sure if any of 'us' care beyond the amusement you provide :)

((this fool spilled espresso on the universe in a nutshell . wtf

((obviously he is unaffected by this, you can tell by his sure and proud body language

((asks open now until . idk how long. a while

((under the cut is my process yap session. this was agood one to do it on bc i had to redraw the whole pose and scene, and the head angle allowed me to show off the Noggin Prism. i would have done like, a speedpaint type thing, but my insecure ass cant handle ppl seeing the 900 mistakes i make every time 😭😭😭

((so first i usually draw out the hipbone, ribcage, leg forms, and approximate head shape/position. for this guys figure im going for a combination of the machinist and goth anime legs uncle. hes got no arms but i usually put in shoulders for an expressive silhouette. i dont do the legs every time, as sometimes for more simple poses it isn’t necessary.

((second i figure out what i wanna do with the hands, drawn on a separate layer. good time to remember sketch is just a general loose layout, and you can change things whenever you decide.

((third i do whatever props are supposed to be around. i do this after the pose bc i usually base the “camera” angle around what makes sense for the pose, then i know what perspective they should be.

((fourth i do the goop. i do it after the pose and hands because its similar to the way i would draw clothes - kinda held up by and draped over the body forms.

((step five i dont often need to do, but for when i have to draw the head at an unusual angle, i make this boxy mapping shape. this step is a little complicated so i wont explain it in full, but its super helpful and easy once you understand the shapes that make up a face. if enough people wanna know i might make a separate post for it.

((step six is lineart. i did the full face lineart before i covered it with the hands, because once its all lined, you can make sure that it looks correct. usually its easier to tell during lineart because the forms are more clearly defined, and you can tell where things might not line up, or they look unnatural. you can do the hands first if you turned off the head layer, but its harder to tell where the hands should be resting. you can see in this step i changed the shape of the hands and the position of the head a bit, which happens often in this step for me usually due to the definition of the forms i mentioned. remember its good to zoom out and look at the whole form often so things arent drawn too big or small!

((next was doing the neck, white goop outline, filling in the face and hands, and doing some minor shading on the white bits. since i use a black background, i dont actually need to fill in the body with black. when i color lineart, i duplicate it and put the color on the layer on the bottom. this is so i dont accidentally change or erase the lineart, but also because if i decide to color the lineart, i can mask layer the lines instead of the lines And the color. this is also the step where i lined and colored the props.

((after the

((after i finish doing the black prop outlines and coloring them, i turn the black back up to full opacity. i turn it down so that im not trying to see black lines on a black background.

((then i finish up with resizing, text, and whatever extra effects i decide to add.

((i dont do all of these steps every single ask, but i should because shortcuts fuck it all up fr. thats all hope this was cool and helpful.

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

While I'm on a kick of being really open about my sexuality, lets just start throwing shit out there and seeing how people interact with it

People who have followed me from the beginning will know that most of my partners get some quippy little nickname assigned to them in place of a name for the internet, and I want to name that this actually DOESN'T come from where might think (or rather it's still infosec, but it goes beyond "don't post the actual names of people you fuck online"

In the scene I have most cultural context for, people often came to group play sessions with an alias (I have one too lol, and it's the only name I ever introduce myself to partners as, mine has been static for going on a decade now). You would introduce yourselves to playmates under your alias, and often you would continue to use it as a marker of in-scene vs out-scene topics of conversation (e.g. sometimes people will talk about their aliases in third person as a whole entity with their own motivation, life, and power, my mom used to talk about "her friend [redacted 1]" if she ever needed to be able to reference a thing without naming explicitly that she and [redacted 1] were the same person, and there are friends of hers who still call her exclusively by that name in private because they have loved each other for going on 50 years now and [redacted 1] is still their partner and love even if mom isn't and vice versa).

So for example, on here, I will refer to any metamours by the plural-inclusive term The Metamour with very little discussion of which one or how many there are or whatever. But in person, I call one metamour [redacted 2] and another metamour [redacted 3] because they were introduced to me by their aliases first, and I genuinely DID NOT KNOW THEY'RE ACTUAL NAMES until after we had become real friends lol.

Anyway, Youtube Boy doesn't know that his nickname here is Youtube Boy, and that's not his alias in scene, nor his actual name, but critically these terms allow me to side step early uncertainties around terms like "boyfriend/girlfriend/datemate/etc" which may imply a degree of romantic entanglement I'm genuinely uncomfortable with. On occasion during this round of posting, I have gone "well it's CLEARER tho" and tried to type out "my boyfriend" about one of my current partners (partner does not carry this same issue for me, as I have always carried dual connotations of Romantic Oartner and Play Partner, so I feel no discomfort/cognitive dissonance with it's implications) and every time I do it I physically cringe away from the screen and delete it. Maybe he wouldn't feel the same way, and hell maybe I won't forever either! But I have almost never been willing to use a word like boyfriend without fairly explicit conversations about commitment, meaning to each other, and boundaries that just don't come up all the time in play partnerships for me you know?

Anyway, what I'm saying here is that sometimes the point of being a slut is to get to be every iteration of yourself that you love being independently from each other in a space that adequately facilitates that iteration of you. I like the people I play with to each get absolutely all of me that is available to them, and I **LIKE** that this often means I get to spend time as different important aspects of self, wholly and without self-doubt or minimization.

And hell, sometimes I even name the iteratioms and let them become something bigger than just a "version of me" and that can be fun too.

[welcometololaland]

i'm sure i'm gonna make something super emosh (sylvanian drama anyone??) after the final ep but this was such a cute game idea by @thisbuildinghasfeelings so i wanted to jump on board!

ty also for the tags @strandnreyes and @everlastingday 💜

1. THE DAY SOMEONE SENT A VIDEO OF THE PROPOSAL™️ TO THE POPCORN SQUAD AND MADE ME USELESS FOR TARLOS

i think i'm gonna blame @three-drink-amy. lives were changed (my life was changed). i played that damn video 9384209348 times. i immediately had fic thoughts. i basically didn't leave my couch for an entire day. i made my partner watch it (confusion). i cried internally. i wanted to KNOW THESE CHARACTERS!!! and even after years, i feel like i'm still untangling all the threads of tk strand and carlos reyes, and i love that <3

2. THE SEVEN CONSECUTIVE WEEKS OF WRITING 10-15K OF PURE CHAOS

looking back. we were insane for the choice to write the ring-in (@dustratcentral and @rmd-writes) on a week-by-week basis, but i'd probably do it again. it remains my third most popular fic of all time and although i don't super understand it, i feel like the people felt the chaos vibes and were drawn in. i think the mess of writing, beta reading and vibing made for some magic.

3. CO-WRITES. ALL OF THEM.

i love co-writing. i love creating magic with someone else. i love sharing in the thrill of posting, and i'm very fortunate to have had many people in this fandom trust me enough to take the wheel (partially).

4. LEARNING ABOUT TARLOS, THE FANDOM AND ALSO ME

sounds stupid but literally just getting in the HEADS of the characters. watching the eps over and over, reading through the discourse, talking and talking and talking and talking about ideas and head-canons and specific character traits with anyone who would lend me an ear. learning from people who had been in the fandom way longer than me, learning from (dare i say it) anons, learning from my own mistakes. this fandom has taught me a lot about myself, writing, tarlos, fandom and a bunch of other stuff. i know this is a cop out because it's not a single memory or a time point but!!!!!! i never said i would play by the rules!!!!

5. PEOPLE

whether we spoke for five months or five minutes, you told me a random story about your pet or we just chatted about the show, you read my fics or I read yours or whether we just co-existed, whether you consider us friends or not, honestly, thank you. the way i look at it, my life is enriched by every interaction on here, because without lone star, without fandom, without tumblr, i never would have known you at all.

(BONUS: 4 x 16. WILL GO DOWN IN HISTORY AS MY FAVOURITE TARLOS SCENE! SOULMATES BABY!)

open tag <3

@guardian-angle22 @reyesstrand @lutavero @heartstringsduet @carlos-in-glasses

@ramblingdisaster73 @danieljradcliffe @fitzherbertssmolder @she-walked-away @liminalmemories21

@reasonandfaithinharmony @alrightbuckaroo @firstprince-history-huh @ironheartwriter @emsprovisions

@ladyknight1512 @carlos-tk @bonheur-cafe @queen-saltyfries @lemonlyman-dotcom

@actual-sleeping-beauty @herefortarlos @rangersoup @tellmegoodbye @marjansmarwani

@nancys-braids @captain-gillian @saguaroblossom @eclectic-sassycoweyes @lightningboltreader

@chicgeekgirl89 @theghostofashton @whatsintheboxmh @freneticfloetry @detective-giggles

[asteralexpress]

- ͙۪۪̥˚┊❛ shiftblr intro ❜┊˚ ͙۪۪̥◌

╔═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╗ ╔═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╗╔═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╗

✧.* i'm aster, aka aeryth, and i'm new to ( posting on ) shiftblr / tumblr .ᐟ

✧.* basic info :: 20y , he / him prns but i do change my gender a lot in drs , INTP , leo , pagan witch , total extrovert online ( i love replying to dms / comments / asks.ᐟ )

✧.* shifting since about 2020 ( yes i was in the shifttok trenches ) , took a break in 2022 for about a year , still have not shifted to a desired reality for a desired amount of time but have shifted to countless alternate timelines as well as random different realities for up to an hour , minishifted ( to drs or otherwise ) countless times .

✧.* i do not use a method, i just do whatever feels right in the moment . i will go over what aspects i use interchangeably in another post later / if there is demand for it .ᐟ

✧.* most ( if not all ) of my drs to fictional universes are NOT for the plot and mainly for the world without the plot . i always script safeties for this , and all of my drs are just really chill . for example :: my mha drs have the whole war scripted out , and all for one is always scripted out as well . you get the idea . if you see me not mention that i scripted out a traumatic plot , just know that i did . i also love scripting multiple lives for the same universe .

✧.* otherwise a very spiritual person ; i don't bite .ᐟ we can totally be friends :))

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩��*˚DR LIST˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

( not all of my drs )

✧.*avatar dr ;; i have 3 drs on pandora :: one where i am an avatar and sully triplet -- this dr is mainly for learning purposes , as i want to learn about na'vi culture , language , etc . my second dr on pandora is just as a native na'vi where the humans never come to pandora in the first place . i am an insignificant na'vi , but it's mainly for the na'vi experience . oh to live like them . third is a group shift dr with my best friend ( that i am married to in that dr ) and another friend that we adopted as a child . we are friends with the sullies in that dr .

✧.* bungou stray dogs ;; this dr has a TON of lore , but to sum it up , i am with the decay of angels . i scripted the plot out ( duh ) and it's a dr that is mixed with royalcore . instead of the casino being just a casino , it's a castle as well , and we host balls / masquerades . i am dazai's sister in this , and this was NOT scripted .

✧.* mha ;; i have two active drs for this universe :: one is an mha student ... i just want to experience being a high schooler at UA . i do not have a scripted s/o , and i made my own class as well ( sorry class 1-a, y'all are kind of boring ) . i am tamaki amajiki's sister in this , also unscripted . second is a pro hero ( sort of ) dr . i am roommates ( and best friends ) with hawks , and we are both considered pro heroes but we both do vigilante type work . again , just calm UA universe shenanigans .

✧.* haikyuu ;; you guessed it .ᐟ two drs :: one is a dr i made back in early 2021 , and have minishifted there multiple times , so i can't just let it go . i go to inarizaki here , and my scripted s/o was suna . this dr is somewhat on the back burner , for now at least . cozy japanese life . two is a more recent dr , where i go to itachiyama . me and the i schools , man ... anyway , i actually play volleyball in this one , and am a setter . i did script itachiyama's school colors to be magenta and lavender instead of the neon green and yellow .

✧.* hoyoverse ;; grouped these tgt cs it makes sense .ᐟ 4 drs :: one is genshin impact , where i am tartaglia's twin sister ( again , not scripted , it just happened ) and i basically travel around teyvat and meet everyone . no scripted s/o , i'll just see who i hit it off with . second is also genshin impact , but i am a sumeru native , and tighnari is my best friend . i scripted that i am khaenri'ahn ( i hyperfixated on khaenri'ah back in 2022 ) and nari took me in basically . no s/o again , but my friend group is 4ggrevate . i adore hot and humid climates , so i am very looking forward to living in the jungle . third is honkai : star rail . i have two drs for hsr , but i will only talk about one , as the second is not quite fleshed out yet . in this dr i am an avgin that got adopted by the nameless very early in life ( not experiencing that trauma , no thank you ) and grew up with them . i am in a polycule with aventurine , sunday , and ratio in this dr . could not choose . fourth is a modern college au of genshin impact . my s/o is scaramouche ( very specifically , noah's version ) . just your average college au .

✧.* k-pop ;; i made an original kpop group ( called NYX , as that was my name a while ago ) . it is very diverse , and i spent a really long time scripting all of the members . there are 6 members . if you want to know more i can yap about this dr for ages and ages .

✧.* acotar ;; ( a court of thorns and roses ) adore this dr . i have once again been bestowed with a brother ( rhysand ) without scripting it . my s/o is lucien . very obviously scripted out the plot . i just wanna be a fae in prythian , man .

that is all of the drs i feel comfortable sharing atm . likely more to come , and i do have other drs i have yet to fully flesh out , but i certainly have other ideas .

.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ..·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .

other places you can find me ::

pinterest | @ aery.th on tt (it won't let me link it for some reason) | instagram | bluesky | spotify

i am most active on tiktok .

enough yapping and happy shifting :))

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[mixelation]

i've been reading heavenly tyrant (the sequel to iron widow by xiran jay zhao). thoughts after finishing the first part below the cut.

note my impression is mostly critical so far, and so clicking will reveal negativity. i assume most people have control over their own ability to gauge if they can handle this or not, but i've been proved wrong before

bullet points:

i feel the writing has improved on a structural level, but frequently veers into strange twitter-esque rants about the evils of capitalism? and often there are very first draft vibes to descriptions

there is a scene-- i shit you not-- where zetian accuses qin zheng (a legendary emperor who was frozen for 200 years that zetian woke up) of treating her like he owns her, and then makes a quip about how a guy who's against private property shouldn't be like that. qin zheng then replies-- i shit you not-- by explaining the difference between private and personal property. then he says something like "i have to go reform the education system" and leaves. i choose to believe this is a joke for my own sanity, but it is genuinely unclear

one of my complaints about iron widow is that the last 2/3-ish of the book seem to lack focus because zetian doesn't really have a specific goal, she's just doing stuff. in the first third of this installment, she spends 85% of her time confined to a single room. so now she doesn't seem to have much of a goal (she keeps talking about learning how qin zheng became powerful, taking that power, and killing him... but it's unclear why she wants to do this or what she thinks will happen if she succeeds) AND she's not even doing stuff.

i do like qin zheng more than shimin or yizhi. probably because he is the only one in this book making any sort of decisions. that being said, his ~toxic situationmance~ with zetian isn't... like... fun? they just don't like each other

if you liked yizhi or shimin then bad news!!!! they're barely here!!!! i didn't really care so i'm having fun with this new guy. how are you going to uplift the common man but live in a palace, new guy? hmm?

also zetian has gone from "ridiculous but fun to watch break things" to just like. unlikeable. it's to the point where it's hard to feel bad for her because some of her problems really do feel like they wouldn't exist if she was just, like, polite.

ANOTHER complaint i had about iron widow was that there was too much telling instead of showing. i felt this had improved a little with heavenly tyrant, as we see zetian actually attempting positive interactions with women (one of her repeatedly stated goals in the first book was wanting to help girls, and yet we barely saw her give a shit about any individual woman) and the narrative actually gives itself enough room to have zetian and qin zheng interact. however qin zheng keeps giving speeches about new policies he's going to use to fix society and folks, we have not been shown all these societal problems. like at all. there's medical debt? educational debt? no named character has these problems. i did not know these problems existed in this society before this speech.

also his big plans really do read like a 16 year old on tumblr making up an imaginary government based on some posts they read and 0 real world experience. slay

a lot of the reviews on storygraph complain it's too slow but honestly i read the first ten chapters really quickly because like. what is happening here. we'll see if anything manages to happen in the next part

[chippedshake]

Apparently, I never posted this on tumblr and it's actually one of the fics I'm proudest of. so. here.

It’s been just a week since he appeared in Tulsa, fresh off the latest freight with an exaggerated New York accent and nothing but a shoebox he refuses to open to his name.

Dallas Winston.

Johnny has to admit, he’s intrigued.

It may have to do with the fact that nothing ever changes in this goddamned town, so his mind has latched onto any hint of novelty, any new flavour that hasn’t been chewed to a pulp yet, eager for something beyond the usual cycle of fighting and smoking and skipping school.

It may have something to do with Dallas’s slight hesitation before saying his name or the way he forces himself to seem more like a New Yorker than he is. The way he refuses to open his shoebox – even pretends it doesn’t exist when asked (so convincingly Johnny almost falls for it) – and says he’s been in and out of the cooler since he was ten, but doesn’t say where or what for.

Johnny’s intuition is screaming at him that there’s something Dallas is hiding. Something he’s not telling them. Something there’s still to discover, underneath tall tales of muggings and conquests.

But all the intrigue in the world can’t make Johnny glad to find Dallas Winston leaning against a chain fence in the abandoned lot when all he wants to do is try and catch a couple hours of sleep.

It’s after midnight – too late to go to the Curtises’ after he assured them he’d be fine tonight. He doesn’t feel like waking Mrs Curtis up with the doorbell after she already made him dinner. There’s only so much generosity in a single person, even if Mrs Curtis’s seems infinite.

He’s considering turning back and pretending like he was never there – he doesn’t know Dallas, and something about him just screams ‘danger’ – when Dallas’s head turns almost imperceptibly towards Johnny and catches sight of him. His expression hardens slightly and he nods stiffly.

Johnny nods back and shoves his hands in his jacket’s pockets, trying to warm them any way possible. And also maybe to hide their uncontrollable shaking that he’s choosing to chalk up to the cold.

“Hey.”

For a moment Johnny thinks Dallas is smoking, but it’s just the brittle air, turning his breath to fog just as it needles Johnny’s skin and steals the feeling from his fingers.

“Hey.”

Dallas fumbles with the pack of cigarettes he takes out of his pocket.

“Wanna smoke?”

Johnny nods, uncomfortable. “Sure.”

The thin layer of frost that covers Johnny's face melts ever so slightly as Dallas lights his cigarette.

They stand side by side in silence, wrapped in condensation and cigarette smoke that spiral around them, carried by the whistling wind as it pierces through Johnny’s skin.

He suppresses a shiver for the third time as Dallas says, “You kicked out?”

Johnny laughs, short and dry.

“Nah, I come here for fun, y’know. Try ta’ see how long I can last ‘fore the frostbite gets me.”

Dallas rolls his eyes and scowls, but something about it is off, different from the perpetual frown his face seems to be stuck in the rest of the time. There’s a hint of smile, the smallest of curves at the side of his mouth, telling Johnny he’s amused.

“You?”

Dallas turns to face him, hint of a smile gone, seemingly annoyed at the mere idea of Johnny asking him a question. “Huh?”

There’s a spot of compressed air inside Johnny’s chest on the brink of an explosion. Every word he says to Dallas Winston could be taken however he wants to, and if he takes it the wrong way there’s no doubt in his mind that he’ll be beat to a pulp.

“You kicked out too?” he manages to get out.

Dallas scoffs and kicks at the ground, turning away from Johnny again. “Ain’t got nowhere to stay.”

“Oh.” There’s not much else you can say to that. “Where you been stayin’ ‘till now?”

Dallas shrugs. “Around.”

Johnny’s known for not saying much.

People notice, not because they’re uncomfortable in his presence, but because he’s learnt to attune himself to the people around him. He knows just what questions to ask to get someone talking – mention the plot hole in a book to Ponyboy, ask Two-Bit about his sister, complain about teachers to Sodapop, compliment the tablecloth Mrs Curtis has chosen (gift from her grandmother, as she always forgets she’s already told him), make a comment on Steve’s car, feign ignorance on something football-related with Darry.

He hasn’t had to figure a new person out since he was eight and first befriended Sodapop. Even then, Soda mostly monologued, only expecting the occasional monosyllabic response from him.

But Dallas Winston is a puzzle he has yet to figure out. He doesn’t have any easy buttons to push, anything that’ll clearly fill the silence between them.

He doesn’t seem hard-pressed to fill it either, eyes flitting around from the bushes on the other side of the lot to the small rocks at their feet, sometimes at the stars above them.

“That’s Taurus,” Johnny says, remembering a couple nights ago, laying in the Curtises’ backyard, Ponyboy pointing out the stars.

Dallas’s sharp gaze reminds him with a jolt that the person he’s trying to talk to is a hood. Just about the personification of the stereotype of a greaser. Telling him about the stars will get him called a sissy at best. At worst…well, Johnny doesn’t want to think about what’ll happen at worst.

“Yeah?”

He spares a glance at Dallas. Their eyes catch for a single disarming moment. Johnny turns away quickly and looks back up at the sky.

The air in his chest decompresses, wrapping around his heart protectively.

“I don’t know, really. Pony told me about it some time ago but I wasn’t really listening. All the stars look kinda the same.”

Dallas sighs – is he tired? Exasperated? Wistful? Johnny hates not knowing – and takes a moment to respond. “Yeah.”

Silence hangs tensely in the air between them and yet Dallas is completely unaffected. His eyes – jarring shards of ice – drift idly around the abandoned lot, making Johnny actually look at it for the first time. Notice the curb, the pathetic little shrubs that try to survive through the cracks in the old cement.

Another breeze sweeps the lot, prickly needles that poke through Johnny’s pores and freeze his bones, and make the dry leaves he always uses as firewood swirl around in a pointless circle before settling down again.

Dallas breathes out intentionally and watches the fog fade, its edges curling slowly into nothingness until it’s like it was never there at all.

The silence no longer hangs, strung between them with a tightly-wound cord, but rather settles, wrapping around Johnny’s shoulders like the blanket Mr Curtis brings him whenever he comes stumbling in at night to sleep on their couch. It’s a peculiar feeling, one Johnny’s never known before. Comfort in silence. Not feeling the need to prod at the other person until they fall into the easy trap of self-indulgent ranting.

Even as the wind cuts through his skin and he feels the late hours take a toll on his mind, Johnny is more at ease than he’s been in a long time.

…

When he sees Dallas in the same spot the next night, Johnny doesn’t hesitate to walk towards him.

Logically, he knows nothing new about Dallas apart from the fact that he’s not much of a conversationalist, but silence speaks volumes. Even if Johnny is never the one to fill a silence, he’s always the one most uncomfortable with it.

Because silence has never meant anything good. Because silence is never real. His house seems silent until an old wooden plank creaks under his father's heavy footsteps. His room seems silent until the smallest whimper escapes his lips. A Soc’s car engine is almost silent, imperceivable if you haven’t spent your whole life training to hear it.

Silence is never safe because nowhere is ever safe.

Silence just means the danger is hiding, camouflaging itself in the shadows, tiptoeing closer slowly. And Johnny can’t see it until a hand is wrapped around his throat.

Maybe it’s the knife Dallas carries around in his back pocket, the one with the dried blood on the handle that says he’s not afraid to use it. Maybe it’s the fact that Dallas didn’t laugh at him for looking at the stars, and could’ve jumped him at any point last night but didn’t. Maybe it’s the way he never questioned from the moment Johnny showed up that they would stick together that night.

In any case, something about Dallas is making Johnny want to trust him, something makes him comfortable in silence around him.

Johnny doesn’t know whether that should be comforting or terrifying.

Dallas notices him earlier this time, icy eyes following him from the edge of the lot until two feet in front of him.

“Hey.” Dallas doesn’t respond, limiting himself to a curt nod.

And for once, Johnny’s okay with that.

…

Johnny’s at the lot, just like Dally expected. He hasn’t noticed him yet, so there’s still to turn around.

Wait a minute. He shouldn’t want to turn around. He’s Dallas fucking Winston, for Christ’s sake, feared all around Brooklyn itself; he shouldn’t be scared of a guy his own age who can’t hurt a fly.

So why can he feel the acid in his stomach?

It must be because he didn’t eat lunch. Yeah, that’s probably it.

(Nevermind that he’s skipped food for longer and never felt like this before).

“Hey.”

Johnny looks up from the ground and nods at him. “Hey.”

“You doing anything later?” Johnny tilts his head curiously. “Wanna go to the drive-in?”

He looks at Dally with a strange expression. It’s calculating, careful, not unlike the leader of his Brooklyn gang when he first joined. Dally wants to squirm under his stare, but years of learning to keep his cool keep him still.

Johnny’s eyes flit around his face before his features relax just the slightest bit.

There’s something more there, something everyone else isn’t seeing. There’s more to this boy than the kicked-puppy impression or quiet kid stereotype he’s trying to fit. A shy kid can’t control his expression so well that even Dally has trouble figuring him out. An innocent puppy doesn’t immediately find all escape routes and potential weapons the moment he enters a room.

Something’s hiding under the face everyone’s fallen for.

“Sure.”

What’s under there, well that’s none of Dally’s business. He’s got his secrets, Johnny can keep his.

Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself to keep the curiosity from burning him alive.

…

Dally isn’t sure why he invited him to the drive-in. He doesn’t really like the movies or the people that hang around the place or the overpriced popcorn and Cokes.

He’s just trying something new, he tells himself. Something fresh in this town that’s getting old after just a month. Honestly, he probably should’ve split by now, but there’s something holding him back.

Whatever it is, it’s definitely not the shitty movies, if the one he’s watching with Johnny is anything to go by. The plot makes no sense – he’s not even sure there is one –, nothing makes any sense, really, the audio is terrible, and Dally also just doesn’t like movies.

Even so, there’s something about the experience that’s vaguely fun.

It doesn’t make sense for it to have been fun because, objectively, the whole thing was terrible, but Dally doesn’t walk away irritated at having spent two hours of his time watching an absolutely atrocious movie.

He walks away remembering how Johnny finally strung more than two sentences together when they were walking back home. He walks away remembering all the little comments Johnny whispered to him during the movie, making sure to keep his voice down even though there was at least one empty seat in every direction. He walks away remembering the short burst of laughter from when Dally surprised him with a dry response.

He walks away remembering Johnny.

…

Dally's late today. He got held up on a date with Sylvia and forgot to head to the lot.

He feels awful guilty considering they didn't even agree to meet up.

Something's wrong.

The lot is too quiet. It's always silent, but there's something different in the silence. It's lighter, maybe. Less intentional.

When he stands with Johnny and neither of them say anything, the silence is sort of comforting, in a way. Like a heavy blanket, weighing down on them, wrapping around both of them. Now it’s menacing, hiding something he can’t see. Until he hears a sniffle from nearby.

Johnny’s behind a pile of rocks, legs up against his chest, sitting like he always does.

Funny. Dally hadn’t noticed Johnny had a certain way of sitting. Or he did notice, only he didn’t notice he noticed.

Dallas Winston doesn’t like not understanding himself.

But now Johnny doesn’t look like he always does because he’s breathing too quickly. Needily. He’s gulping in air too fast to be normal. Like he isn’t actually processing it, the air isn’t reaching his lungs.

It doesn’t happen often that Dally isn’t aware of his movements. Maybe before it became too dangerous he used to move without thinking, but it’s been a long time since instincts were allowed. Now every twitch has to be calculated and every wince has to be planned.

There isn’t a hair on his head or a shiver down his spine that hasn’t been meticulously thought out.

And yet he’s freezing his ass off sitting in a cement lot on a cold December night, hand on Johnny’s shoulder with no idea how he got there. How the two of them became close enough for Dally to touch him without either of them flinching away. How Dally grew to care about him enough to not run away the moment he saw a tear.

He has no idea when he sat down, when he outreached his hand like it was second nature, not needing a single thought to know what to do when he saw Johnny almost crying.

Johnny never tells him what brought him to tears, and Dally never finds out. He doesn’t know what made the strongest person he knows turn into a blubbering mess, and he never will know.

All he knows are the muffled screams against his shoulder and the arm he didn’t notice wrapping around Johnny.

…

Johnny doesn’t know when Dallas became Dally, but at around the same time, he started coming around the Curtises’ for dinner like the rest of the gang does whenever they don’t have anywhere else to go.

It’s been a year to the day since Dally turned up unexpectedly in Johnny’s usual sleeping spot. This year they’ve thought ahead, though, and Johnny won’t leave the Curtises’ right after dinner; he’ll stay there so he doesn’t get frostbite in his sleep. Dally’s decided to stay too, so he’ll have company.

All the lamps in the living room have long since been turned off.

It’s almost completely dark; the room’s only source of illumination is the faint moonlight that filters in through the thin curtains. Johnny can only just make out Dally’s shape on the recliner as he turns over for the tenth time.

Dally’s got the recliner, Johnny’s got the couch, as always. It’s comfortable, and usually he’d be asleep by now. Sleeping on concrete every other day makes you appreciate a couch a whole lot more. But rather than lying with his eyes closed, he’s sitting with his knees up against his chest, arms around his legs, back against the armrest opposite Dally. Watching.

He doesn’t know why he’s watching Dally. It’s kind of creepy, when he thinks about it. He doesn’t know when he started. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t laid down yet.

Mrs Curtis said goodnight and turned off the light and he just… didn’t lie down. An hour later, he doesn’t know why he still hasn’t laid down.

His eyes trail out the window.

There was a new moon a couple days ago. It gets dark earlier now. Walking down the street alone was lonely, even with the streetlights on. Johnny doesn’t know what the newly white moon is called, but its light is milky. It trickles down the floor slowly.

It pours onto a small square of Dally’s forehead and a couple strands of hair above it. That’s the only part of Dally that’s visible. Everything else is submerged in the inky blackness around them.

Quiet hangs around them like drops of condensation on a glass. It’s a sort of peace in silence that Johnny still hasn’t been able to find with anyone else. Not with Ponyboy and his poetry or with Sodapop and his grinning ease. Not with Mrs Curtis and her golden warmth or with Two-Bit and his easy laugh.

No one but Dally. Dally, who gets into a fight every other day. Dally, who hasn’t treated anyone softly a day in his life. Dally, who came out of the womb with a blade in his hand and crude words on his tongue. Dally, who Johnny has every reason to be afraid of.

And yet, Dally is the only one whose silence is safe. The only one Johnny trusts enough, cares for enough, to feel truly safe around.

It’s easy, too, and maybe that’s the most terrifying part. Caring about someone has never been easy, not with the way he was rewarded for it by his parents. And yet Dally’s carved out some space for himself without even trying.

Johnny’s never listened to anyone breathe before. Maybe he’s never even heard them. But Dally’s breaths wade through the air, calm and steady, and for some reason Johnny finds himself following along. He doesn’t know why.

It doesn’t bother him, the not knowing.

Ponyboy always wants to know why things happen. Why the sun rises in the east and sets in the west and why he has to eat his vegetable, but also why Steve is so angry all the time, and why Johnny is the only one Dally relaxes around. Why Darry spends more time with Paul than his other friends and why Two-Bit can’t go anywhere without a can of beer.

Johnny, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind part of the world being shrouded in shadow. He doesn’t mind not seeing the whole picture. Not everything happens for a reason, he’s old enough to know that, and not every reason needs to be uncovered.

So he stays quiet when Steve kicks the wall after his dad kicks him out. He doesn’t say a word about Dally untensing when they sit next to each other on the couch, touching from shoulder to knee. He doesn’t ask questions when Darry says he’s going out. He hands Two-Bit his beer for breakfast silently.

Ponyboy wishes the whole world were in broad sunlight, eliminating any hint of a shadow that could shield the intricacies of reality from his view. Johnny lets the darkness distort it to the extent that he can’t be sure Dally isn’t just a figment of his own lonely imagination.

And he doesn’t know whether he should mind.

“You watchin’ me sleep?”

“You ain’t sleeping.”

Dally makes a sound between a huff and a laugh and rolls over, burying his face in the couch before sitting up.

“Why ain't you asleep, Johnny.”

Johnny shrugs. “Not tired,” he says. And he really isn't.

Dally scoffs so softly Johnny almost can’t hear him. “Stupid kid. You’re gonna be tired tomorrow.”

He lies back down and rolls onto his side.

Something settles in Johnny’s chest, and he suddenly feels very sure. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s so sure of, but there’s a feeling of rightness, an absolute certainty that the pieces of the universe have fallen into place. Everything fits.

He didn’t even know something was out of place before.

…

They seem like little kids.

Dally’s never liked kids much. Annoying little shits, won’t stop moving around and screaming in those ridiculously high-pitched voices they have.

Under any other circumstances, he wouldn’t be caught dead playing tag like a five-year-old. But Johnny’s laughing despite himself and Dally can’t bring himself to give a shit about looking stupid.

Then they’re laying down in this stupid field and they’re both panting because of the stupid game and Dally’s nose is about to freeze off but his cheeks are warm and he’s smiling unironically and he might’ve never been good with words, but he’s sure it’s impossible for primitive caveman sounds to explain the way his chest is swelling.

…

Dally.

Dally’ll know what to do.

“Shit, what happened to you?”

“Dallas,” Johnny manages to rasp at Buck. “I need Dallas.”

“Yeah, man, I’ll go get him.”

Johnny leans against the doorframe as Buck fades from view. His vision blurs and he closes his eyes for a moment before remembering the very public place he’s in. A couple people send him concerned looks, but no one bothers to come up to him.

Of course they don’t.

Buck comes back out of the crowd, Dally trailing behind him. He looks vaguely pissed off until he catches sight of Johnny. Then his features morph into something indescribable before going blank as he quickens his pace. There’s a hand gripping Johnny’s upper arm in a couple seconds.

“You alright, man?”

Johnny just tilts his head ever so slightly to the right and Dally sighs that dry breath with a hidden smile that means he’s reluctant to find Johnny funny.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.” He doesn’t ask before wrapping Johnny’s arm around his shoulders to help him up the stairs to the room he’s staying in. Johnny never would’ve asked but, well, he’s not exactly in a position to deny help.

“First aid kit’s in the bathroom,” Buck calls out as they leave.

“I know!”

People part for them as they walk through the crowded room, loud country music making Johnny’s head pulse. He groans and buries his head in Dally’s shoulder. Stares follow them up the stairs.

“C’mon, just a bit further, Johnny.”

The sound Johnny makes is probably vaguely affirmative.

At some point, his eyes close.

He’s sitting down. Biting winter air hits his chest. He would shiver if it didn’t hurt. A sharp intake of breath. Is that Dally? He sounds scared. That has to be wrong. Dally never shows when he’s scared.

“Who did this to you?”

Cold tension ties the question together, strung in the air between them, frozen over.

Not even Johnny’s thoughts are intelligible, much less his words.

A cotton ball presses against his collarbone, wet in something cool. It burns. He sucks air in through his teeth.

“C’mon, Johnnycake, it’ll be over soon.”

Johnny nods and doesn’t open his eyes.

Time goes by. Bandages are wrapped around Johnny’s body. He laughs at the thought of putting ice against his bruises. He’d get pneumonia before it ever helped him. He’s guided to a laying-down position and a blanket is drawn around him.

After some rustling, another body lays down next to him.

He sleeps.

…

Dally’s in the cooler for a couple weeks. He hasn’t told Johnny why yet, but he probably will once he gets out.

For now, Johnny waits alone in the lot. He could be at the Curtises’ right now, but something inside him wanted to be in the lot. It makes no sense. The temperature is negative, and he can feel the wind’s needles through his jacket. He could be warm, under a blanket, leaning on a soft pillow rather than the lot’s hard cement.

And yet here he is. Why, he has no idea. But he needed to be here. So here he is, yawning himself awake.

It’s cloudy tonight. Cloudy enough that he can’t see the stars. Or the moon.

It’s dark tonight. Dark enough that he can hardly make out the far-away silhouettes of the houses across the street. Dark enough that closing his eyes hardly makes a difference.

Dark enough that he can imagine a lanky figure sauntering over, face hard enough to pretend he hasn’t a worry in the world. He can imagine the figure sitting down next to him and their hands inching together. He can imagine hot breath on his face, a brief respite from the coldness closing in on him, weighing down on his shoulders. He can imagine a chest under his ear rather than a jacket. A heart beating. It rises and falls.

He can imagine an arm around his shoulders and the days that come after. Fingers linked in the darkness, chasing each other in the twilight. Voices fading to the background in a movie theatre. Images casting shifting lights onto Dally’s face.

The months that come after. Stolen moments, stolen from God Himself. Hidden touches and forgotten smiles, sitting just close enough during dinner.

The years that come after. The world changing, maybe, enough for twilight to turn to dawn and darkness to broad daylight. Touches could become purposeful, smiles meaningful. Getting out of this town, or being the reason they stay, but being together either way.

Together.

The image is almost warm enough to give his fingers their feeling back as they touch his face, ice cold against flushed warm.

…

There’s a lot of breathing around Dally.

He can hear his cellmate fast asleep and the guys a couple cells down snoring. Someone nearby is panting like he’s just run a marathon.

It should be enough to cover up the aggressive silence in Dally’s head. The poignant lack of something. Of a rhythm, something constant and grounding, like a heartbeat, like a clock ticking.

Like shallowing breaths as someone falls asleep.

Like soft exhales rippling the thin fabric of his shirt.

…

Dally should’ve been there.

He should’ve been there. But he got distracted by a stupid argument with Tim and he wasn’t there.

And now Johnny, he’s– please don’t be dead.

There’s so much blood – and Dally’s seen worse things, he really has – he’s not exaggerating when he tells stories about New York.

But nothing as disturbing as this.

No amount of unknown corpses could make him sick to his stomach. The squelch of a knife entering a soft body would never make him turn away in disgust, unable to face it. If someone swears at him, he says something worse. If someone hits him, he hits back harder.

He’s never been squeamish. Closer to impenetrable.

But none of what he’s seen before has hurt Johnny. None of it has made him fear losing him.

He’s seen friends, even buddies, hurt. Almost dead. And it’s never hit him like the scene in front of him is hitting him. Because Johnny’s somehow entered a new category of person, one Dally didn’t even know existed. Touching a hair on his head is worse than any of the gruesome murders that’ve been committed in front of him.

Because Johnny isn’t his friend or his buddy or a part of his gang. Johnny is the air he breathes, and whenever he’s hurt, Dally starts to suffocate.

…

Johnny’s teachers may say he’s stupid, but he knows that fire takes up oxygen. He knows it’s why it’s getting harder to breathe.

He also knows that smaller kids have smaller lungs.

Johnny always thought that books were exaggerating when they said a fire roared. He thought it was an expression that caught on, something someone made up in the middle ages. Someone who’d never seen a fire in their life, never heard an actual blaze.

But the fire around him is roaring like a wild beast.

Ponyboy’s mouth is moving quickly. He’s yelling. Johnny can’t hear him.

The kids are a couple feet away. They’re screaming. Johnny can’t hear them.

He doesn’t know why he’s calm.

But wait– there– there’s something. Something he can hear over the raging fire.

A voice. Yelling. But not incomprehensible distress or futile attempts at organising their spontaneous rescue mission. Just a name.

His name.

Pleading, like his voice so rarely is. Begging him to leave. To get out. To save himself.

Johnny wishes he had the words and the lung capacity to tell him why he can’t.

…

Dally doesn’t say it back.

At least he doesn’t lie.

…

Johnny always knew life was going to run out. His granny died when he was eight; he knew it would come eventually. He just didn’t think it would come so quickly.

He used to think about killing himself. Putting an end to it, once and for all. No more screaming matches overheard in his bedroom, no more tiptoeing home from school, trying not to be perceived. It got to the point where he even talked to Ponyboy about it.

But now that it’s here, now that it’s really here, he’s not so sure.

Infinity. Eternity. Nothingness.

It sounds peaceful, really. Eternal rest. Who wouldn’t want that?

Johnny. Johnny doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want peace or eternity, he just wants to live.

He wants to keep breathing. He wants fog, condensed breath against cold air, and the way Dally sighs, vaguely amused, the way he’s only ever done in front of Johnny. He wants the heavy panting of that one time he convinced Dally to play tag, or even the hurried, desperate breaths when he just wants to curl up and cry.

He wants risk and excitement and running and toothy grins. He doesn’t care if it’s stolen, he doesn’t care if it’s secret, he just wants time. Time to graduate. Time to do something.

He hasn’t done anything with his life yet.

It’s not easy to realise he never will.

Peace is meant for the old, not a boy who’s just barely sixteen. A boy who’s never left his neighbourhood. A boy who’s never heard someone say “I love you” and mean it.

A cold hand wipes the tear from his cheek.

“It’s gonna be okay, Johnny.” He doesn’t answer, just stares back at him, asking his silent question that Dally can’t answer. “It’s gotta be.” Then, so quiet Johnny can hardly hear him: “I don’t know what I’m gonna do if it ain’t.”

Johnny sighs shakily and Dally pulls away.

“I gotta go. Nurse is comin’ soon.”

He didn’t say it back.

…

“Johnnycake?” Johnny doesn’t move. He just lies there, quiet. Still. Dead. “Johnny?”

“Hey,” he manages softly, opening his eyes to look at Dally.

“We won,” Dally says, and he knows he’s said something wrong because Johnny grimaces. “We beat the Socs. We stomped them — chased them outta our territory."

He tries to get Johnny to smile. Tries to get what he can’t accept will be his final moments to be happy.

And maybe he smiles a bit when Dally says they’re all proud of him. Maybe the light that usually danced around his eyes comes back for a couple seconds.

But it’s not enough.

It’s not enough because Johnny managed to dig his way into a part of Dally’s life that Dally didn’t even know existed. He pulled out the Dally that cared with scrapes and bruises and heavy breaths. He did whatever he needed to do and managed to find the version of him he’d left in Austin when he ran away at nine years old

It’s not enough because Dally didn’t say it back, earlier. He didn’t say it back when Johnny managed to rasp the words out and look at him hopefully. He couldn’t make himself say the fucking words that have been running through his head since finding him in that fucking lot. He couldn't make himself say the truth that's been beating with his heart, running through his veins, tied to every word he's said.

Because he always believed there’d be more time. There’s always tomorrow. There’s always later. You don’t have to think about that now, let it wait ‘till later. You’ll come to terms with your feelings later. Accept it later. Just live in the moment.

Well, it’s later now.

It’s later now and he didn’t say it. He didn’t say anything he really meant. He can’t say it now, either, not beyond acting like he’s speaking for the gang when he says he’s proud of him. There can’t be anything beyond pride in what he says because Johnny wanted Pony there and Dally’s lost his chance.

It’s not enough because Johnny’s talking to Ponyboy about something that Dally can’t even begin to understand. And he’s laying back down.

He spent his last words on someone else. He spent his last breaths on someone else.

And now he’s gone and Dally wants to scream.

How do you scream without air?

…

Dally’s running. He can blame his breathlessness on that.

He’s panting, just like he did when they ran around the lot chasing fireflies or played stupid tag to chase away the numbness in their bones. Only now there’s no Johnny chasing him. Now there’s no breathless laughing and grins and settling down to sleep.

Now there’s just pain.

Bullets ripping through his flesh. His friends watching, helpless. Johnny missing.

Dally breathes out and he knows it’s empty because his air is gone.

Dally breathes out and he knows it’s pointless because they’ve fallen for his bluff.

Dally breathes out and he knows it’s for the last time, so he watches the condensation curl into nothingness and pretends Johnny is still standing beside him.

[faceless-aces]

Hypno Thoughts on A Series Of Experiences

It's been a while, and unfortunately the writing of the third part of the main ASOE series has been...slow. To say the least. There is a reason why I write almost exclusively oneshots lmfaoo.

Anyways! Here are some fun hypno thoughts because Billford (esp pre-portal) is so hypno coded and I love it so much.

Ford, after the events of Revisited ACTUALLY did some more research into hypnosis, especially since after Weirdmaggedon, there was much more research done on it than in the 80s.

Ford was pretty interested in the field of hypnotherapy, if not also skeptical due to the Bill's previous usage

Ford was MUCH MORE interested in the idea of hypnosis being used in medicine (i.e as an anesthetic) and played with the idea of experimenting with it, but decided not to

Confusion/Conversational Inductions work WONDERS on Ford

So do Overload Inductions

Basically any induction that can calm his overactive brain

Bill is an absolute ASSHOLE as a tist, and a mega brat as a subject (which only happens post-weirdmaggedon)

Bill never formally learned any true hypnosis techniques, his go-to plan is Fuck Around And Find Out lmfao. It's worked so far.

Bill will NEVER admit it, but he loves it when Ford hypnotizes him, both because he can relax and not think about his self-hatred, but also because he feels like he's making up for all the times he hypnotized Ford

There are times (post-weirdmaggedon) where Bill's brain will not SHUT THE FUCK UP and he'll like shut down, and Ford will notice and help bring him into trance until he's feeling a bit better

They have had a battle where they both hypnotize each other and see which one drops first (no triggers allowed) at least once. Probably more.

....most of these Bill ones don't make as much sense without that 3rd part. I should write that-

Some non-Billford related thoughts, that I thought were fun!

Fiddleford did a bit of recreational hypnosis either during college, or after college but before he came to Gravity Falls

Honestly probably decently well versed in hypnokink (Yes I subscibe to the idea that Fiddleford messed around in kink in college, sue me)

Stanley would NOT be an easy subject. Like at all. Or he'd be super easy, I'm indecisive

I imagine he's like, super skeptical to the point of actively resisting OR if one were to do a conversational induction, or something more subtle he wouldn't notice.

Stan would in fact fall for Resistance Inductions. So badly actually.

Soos just would not be able to be hypnotized. I have no basis for this other than the fact that it feels right.

Dipper would be interested but also intensely creeped out by hypnosis, but also given how he handled the mind control tie...maybe he wouldn't care *that* much.

He definitely did his own research after being told about it, and yapped to Ford about it's uses in helping anxiety and addiction cessation

Mabel would listen to those hypno sleep files specifically tailored for ADHD once in a while when she had trouble sleeping. She also would listen to asmr.

[tiphprince]

Yeah, we rarely get to discuss the state of the Snape vs Marauders fandom war from both sides in a genuine way, so this is nice!

I get what you're saying about the canon vs fanon thing, and I think it's also mostly because of the way our two fandoms work.

The Marauders fandom operates almost entirely on headcanons and fanon, while the Snape fandom prizes itself on staying true to canon.

Like, the Snape fandom has a proud legacy of fucking amazing metas and essays covering every little part of his life in an effort to understand just a bit more about him. The biggest offence a fanfic writer can make in their story is writing him Out of Character. Hell, there's even some people who sometimes get annoyed when fan artist don't portray him exactly as he should be (which I do think is taking things a step too far). Even when fans post their Snape headcanons, it rarely deviates far from canon, and when it does it's for the smallest possible things that wouldn't change his character anyway.

The thing is, that for the younger part of the Marauders fandom (from what I've observed at least), many of them are proud to have only read stories like ATYD and not read the books. Admitedly, it's the exact opposite to how I like to enjoy fandoms, so I'm the worst person to possibly understand this way of doing things, but that in itself isn't a problem so much as the way these fans then act towards Snape (canon) fans.

A year or so ago, there was a post bashing Snape in the Snape tag, from a James fan. Usually as Snape fans, we treat any post in the Snape tag (that isn't tagged with any anti-Snape tag) as being free to engage with, so we did. This person argued tooth and nail that James was not a bully, that James would never bully anyone, that they knew James and he would never do anything like that.

You can imagine just how infuriating that was. Then they finally admitted to never having watched the movies, or read the books (if I remember correctly, they were only starting on the 2nd one). It was a mind blowing moment to me, and I get that this is now a common thing in the Marauders fandom, but the fact is that many do not know the difference between their fanon and the actual canon. Or rather, will bring their fanon "facts" to an arguement/debate about canon, and not realise just how nonsensical it all is.

For me, I tend to stay away from Marauders content, and I'd certainly never go on any James content to just bash him. I agree it's stupid and serves exactly no purpose, no matter the character. Just let fans enjoy their fictional peeps however they want. However, I will debate and argue with Marauders fans (or just Snape haters in general, it's not always Marauders fans) who post on the Snape tag (or in general HP subs on reddit) and to bash him, using fanon as their weapon.

I'm not trying to attack you, and I aplogize if I'm coming off a bit too strongly here, this is not my intention! I've been a Snape fan for over 15 years, and the hate for him was never this bad. It all started with ATYD and the rise of the Marauders fandom. Of course there always had been Snape haters before, but the fact that they used canon to back their opinion made it easier to not want to tear your hair out after the third time in a day you read about how Snape tortured muggleborns in school.

Before all of this, I had never spared James Potter a single thought beyond "he's Harry's dead father, used to bully Snape, don't care". James Potter fans were just not a thing. There were Sirius fans, and Remus fans, but little to no James fans. With how the Marauders fandom blew up so fast and so big, it propelled him at the very center of debates and with it the inevitable Snape vs James war (Snape being also the one character through which we learn that James wasn't the picture perfect hero, but an actual human being with flaws), and Snape fans in turn reacted very strongly to this new and sudden shitstorm coming their way. Sometimes probably even too strongly.

For example, how would you take it if suddenly James, let's say, was believed by hundreds of thousands of people to be a rapist who fed Lily love potions to keep her captive? And not only that it's these people's fanon, but it's what a lot of them actually think is truth, and then base this and go on and judge and directly attack James fans who have no idea what the fuck is even happening. New James hater: "Wow, James is such a horrible person, can't believe there's people out there who like him, this is disgusting. The guy is a rapist." Old James fan: "Hum, no? What the hell? He never did that?" New James hater: "Ah, you're a James apologist, nevermind then, I don't want to talk to someone who thinks rape is okay." Old James fan: "?????????? No???"

one thing i genuinely don’t understand is like

okay there are marauders fans and pro-snape (anti-marauders?) fans, and like, nice, people have different views and this are literally characters (most of whom barely even appear) in fiction but like why do they not only hate but seem to sometimes actively try to go against each other like can’t they coexist and just not interact and leave each one be?

because i understand that from an entirely canonical perspective, the marauders (especially james and sirius) were FAR from saints, but i also understand that pretty much the entirety of the marauders fandom stems from entirely fictional ideas from these fictional characters, like the marauders & co. are pretty much OCs at this point (within the marauders fandom) and i think that comparing them to canon is just kind of unfair? like they are literally different characters at this point, only with the same name

i see why snape fans would hate the canonical marauders, but i don’t see why they seem to hate the fan-made marauders, or the people who enjoy said fan-made marauders

i just really don’t understand the overall hate sorry please don’t come for me

[welcometogrouchland]

[ID in ALT] I've made posts before about Talia/Dick co-parenting Damian moments (will never happen but let me dream) and this came to me in a vision. Took me ages to finish for some reason 😭 and then even longer to post

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Thank you all for an incredible 500 days of love and support. I offer you: answers to questions that no one has asked.

(As always, more can be found in the tags <3)

[tomlinfonda]

TEDTRENT + checking each other out

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Suddenly remembered something I wanted to say re:Akechi, because I think it's really core to his character (at least the way I interpreted him?) and I feel like it explains a lot of his contradictions. Essentially, he is incapable of seeing himself as just a person - he's either the greatest hero/detective ever, or he's some violent monster, and it's like there's no in-between. It's very in keeping with his obvious superiority-inferiority complex, but it goes deeper than that too; when he's in a role, it seems like his self-perception kind of changes too depending on how he is perceived by others. He really does get a confidence boost from being the Detective Prince. He really does shut down emotionally as the Black Mask.

They're masks that he's made, and it's not that aspects of them aren't based in truth to some extent, but I think it goes to show why he's not actually that fantastic a liar (imo, I found the outright lies pretty obvious), but he is a very good actor. He's either an angel or a demon, and never a person, but there are conditions to that. He is an angel when he is perfect - to society. He is a demon when he is vengeful - again, to society. He is never a person, because he never was seen as one - to society. He was disregarded. To be anything of value or notoriety, whether that's hero or villain, he has to be wildly more or less than who he actually is, and he's been building these masks up for so long that I really think he lost sight of the actual person behind it all. And I don't think he wanted to see that person anyways, because that person "wasn't good enough" and I do think he'd rather be anything other than himself. That trickery, that deflection from the person within, in itself brings him pride and satisfaction. He wants to be loved and needed instead of being cast aside, but I also think that if he can't have that then he'd much rather be hated than never have mattered at all. He weaponizes his own loneliness - if he can't ever be accepted then he'll build his own pedestal apart from everyone else.

It's so fascinating too, because I just wonder how much of this he was consciously aware of pre, during, and post engine room. There's this recurring thing with him where he goes "I can only be myself" etc but I just want to shake him because, well, who is that, Akechi??? Or, who do you think that is? Do you actually have an answer? Is it predicated on your actual feelings or solely on your success at fooling everyone around you? Is there any part of you that you actually like that isn't based on a painstakingly constructed mask? Isn't it all mostly lies to deflect from the truth? Isn't it all founded mostly on truth, nonetheless?

It drives me insane. And I think this is a big reason why he breaks so hard in the engine room, because so much of his mask requires his "audience" to perform in a particular way. And here he is, and the Thieves have beaten him, so there goes the first mask, because he's no longer "perfect". He swings wildly into the ugliest sides of him, but this mask is broken too, amidst him vehemently and desperately denying that he has any other emotions than hatred and rage, or any other needs or desires than vengeance. And after that, it's just him. And they should reject him, right? That's what happens. He's not useful, he's not needed or perfect, his hands are stained with blood. But the Thieves, again, don't play the role he expects them to. They, despite everything, relate to him - because he is in fact very similar in a lot of ways and they acknowledge him as a person - not a hero, or idol, or villain, or tool, or unwanted child - but as a damaged teen like the rest of them. And he does not know what to do with that. His identity is intrinsically dependent on getting the right reactions from other people as a form of ingratiating himself - if he does not get that reciprocal reaction he's looking for, his act falters, and, I really do believe that so does his self-perception. That's why you see different aspects of him seep out when he's spending time with Joker, because Joker does not react the way he expects, and Akechi both does and does not like this, because it leaves him feeling both intrigued and vulnerable.

I do think this particular aspect of his character is something a lot of the Thieves don't fully grasp - certainly, I think Joker "I need the mask" Persona 5 understands to a degree, but the sheer degree of reliance and the level of pride attached to it is something that confuses him a little, I think, especially in Mementos Mission. I think the thief that comes closest is actually Morgana, who has a similar superiority-inferiority complex and a desperate need to be seen as competent and useful lest he be discarded. (This is a big part of why the rather lackluster writing with Morgana's arc frustrates me so much because I really do feel it was meant to be contrasted with Akechi's, but I digress.) Morgana is the one to make that emotional appeal to Akechi, which makes a degree of sense - Morgana struggled all along with finding a place in the world. His form leads others to underestimate him; he visually doesn't fit in. He's acting out the role of a chivalrous and cool phantom thief but is more pragmatic with how he views relationships, at least at first. He wants a place to belong where he is appreciated more than anything but his pride won't let him spit it out. Accepting that he belongs and that he is loved even if he really did have nothing of value to provide is a big part of the resolution of his arc. He tries to offer that learned lesson to Akechi in turn ("Follow your true feelings. Even if you think people hate you, or don't want you around-"), but Akechi just wasn't in the right space to listen. There's also an important distinction between the two - Morgana envies humans and looks up to them. Akechi envies humans and looks down on them. Morgana is perfectly happy once he is assured a place amongst the group, but Akechi see-saws wildly between wanting to belong and wanting to be a step above the rest and separating himself further. So while Morgana actually really did cut to the core of the issue, his appeal would never have worked at this point because a) Akechi's pride is dependent on him maintaining his solo act, and b) he just got outed as not actually hating Joker in front of seven other people including Joker himself lmao.

So, uh, sorry, Morgana. Points for trying.

[desultory-novice]

I get the feeling that Adeline is the most likely to get therapy.

...She'll probably need it too... (Pausing the fun times for something dreadfully serious) -

"Pieces"

-

[Apologies AU Masterpost] [Noir's Field Trip]

[bloominheresy]

Happy Halloween!

what the hells did cotl twitter post 💀