#what happened was so much worse (in a very good way)

[yanderedrabbles]

What's the worst thing Yan Military Contractor has ever done to the reader?

Yandere! Military Contractor

The very worst? Now that's tough competition. He's fucked you raw so many times that afterwards you can only curl up and whimper, legs aching so bad you can't stand. He's bitten you so hard that he's left a scar of his teeth on your thigh. He's bent your arm so very far up your back that on bad days your shoulder still aches. He's done anal without any prep or lube.

But the very worst? That happened on the day you almost escaped.

He likes to humour you. Likes letting you try and get away, just to drag you back at the last second. Likes the way you fight so much harder when freedom is so very close. But he never once entertained the thought of you actually succeeding.

You're too damn clever sometimes. Too smart for your own good.

You planned your escape carefully this time. Waited for a rainy day when he'd have trouble hearing your footsteps and seeing your tracks. Managed to make a mess in his armory and get out of a second story window when he was distracted counting his guns. And then you ran.

You saw a tree out on your forced walks once. Thick oak with branches that just about reached over the fence. It would be a hard fall, but if you managed to not snap an ankle you'd be home free.

He almost found you. You were up in the branches, rain pelting you in thick sheets when he walked right under you. It was pure luck that you noticed him in time. Even without the noise of the rain to cover his footsteps, he was dead silent.

He looked pissed. But that wasn't what made your heart drop.

He had his gun with him. Not one of the rifles or shotguns. That might have almost been better. Those guns felt unreal, felt like something out of a movie. No, he was carrying his chrome .50 calibre Desert Eagle.

You hated that gun. It was the one he carried on him almost all the time, the one he had the day he took you. Huge, mean looking thing. 'One of the nastiest shots you'll ever see,' he told you once.

It was scratched with years of use. A soldier's gun. A killer's gun.

You fingers went numb on the branch before you had the courage to keep moving. You dropped down on the other side of the electric fence, landing bad. You smacked a hand over your mouth to stifle your yelp.

Staggered to your feet, holding onto the trees to take the pressure off your stinging ankles. You did it.

You actually fucking did it.

You were free. Actually, finally free. You half didn't believe it until you reached the end of the trees and open farm land stretched in front of you. The rain was so much worse without the trees to protect you, but you didn't care. An empty field of wheat had never looked so damn good.

"On your knees."

You froze. No. No.

"I said, get on your fucking knees!"

You sat so fast that you felt lightheaded.

He came to stand in front of you, blocked your view of the open land and your last chance to escape. He was scowling, hand gripping his gun so tight that veins were standing out on his forearm.

The rain was sheeting down around you, running past the grooves and catches of his pistol. You couldn't see his face through the rain, but you could feel his eyes. Raking down your body, burning.

He pointed the gun at you, cocked it. The metallic sound of it somehow the loudest thing you'd ever heard.

"Open your mouth."

"I'm sorry! Please just-"

"Open. Your. Mouth."

You did. He forced the barrel passed your lips, all the way to the back of your throat. Your teeth scraped the metal.

It tasted bitter. Iron, gunpowder. It tasted like your death.

His finger was on the trigger. One little twitch, one inopportune gag, and you were done.

"Suck it."

You did, crying so damn hard but terrified to make a sound.

"No," he snarled. "Suck it like you would a cock."

He grabbed your hair, yanked your head back. "Show me why I shouldn't kill you right here and now. Remind me exactly why I keep you around."

You sucked his gun like your life depended on it. Tongue out, drooling, like you weren't a hairs breadth from death. Looked up at him with rain and tears pouring down your face.

You must have given him one hell of a show. When you couldn't take it anymore, when you were shaking from the cold and your lips were turning blue around the metal, that's when he pulled out. One hand still in your hair, he pointed the gun at the sky and pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed over the trees.

Fuck. You really did just have a loaded gun in your mouth.

He holstered it, grabbed your jaw with the hand that just held your death.

"Never again. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

[petermorwood]

As someone who's also done some writing, this is all Extremely Sound Advice. :->

Here are a couple of point enhancements, and a rant about how a famous production torpedoed itself - IMO, anyway - by getting fixated on one of them

*****

(2) Head-hopping / POV change - think screen format and a change of camera angle. A "dinkus" (one or more asterisks, bullets or other symbol) between paragraphs is enough to indicate this, and you're good to go.

I do something similar in my own posts, including this one, though properly speaking the asterisks would be centred. I've done that with the next set, though since I've done the centring by inserting spaces, they may be well off-centre in other themes:

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(3) and (4) Treat info- and expo-dumps like pungent seasoning. Your recipe (story) needs them, but Not All In A Lump.

A good way to do this (the equivalent to "stir in gradually") is to combine them with other action - eating a meal, a walk-and-talk, watching some non-essential business like someone grooming a horse, washing a car, mowing a lawn etc., etc.

Intersperse the necessary dialogue of the info-expo with descriptions of and comments on the other business. If that business can be made relevant to the info-expo (comparisons, side-comments etc.) so much the better, but the point is to break up what can too easily be what TVTropes calls A Wall Of Text.

Thriller-writer Philip Kerr's later books are notorious for this: there are numerous instances where a character starts to talk ("Open Quotes") at the top of one page and - without interruption and sometimes even without paragraphs - doesn't finish ("Close Quotes") until halfway down the next.

Worse, the character is often reciting a chunk of background information from Kerr's research files which should have stayed there, or at the very least been pared down to its bare essentials as something a human being might say during a conversation with another human being.

Which Does Not Happen. :-P

*****

(8) about epithets, tackles something well-enough known that it has a TV Trope, "Burly Detective Syndrome". This has a cousin, "Said-Bookism", and no matter what you might have heard or indeed seen posted along with lists of sometimes-ridiculous alternatives on Tumblr, "said" is not dead.

It's alive, it's well and it's doing its job, which is to be the unobtrusive hook from which dialogue is hung. As I've said more than once, if a hook attracts more attention than the thing it's holding up, something's gone wrong.

*****

(10) If there's a scene that's likely to be fun to write, and another that's likely to be a slog, then if it works for your writing habits try to swap to and fro between the writing of them, with fun as a reward for slog.

If chop-and-change writing like this throws you off, then write the slog first and the fun after since once again, that's the reward, something to look forward to. Doing it the other way means you're looking at the slog to come, and that's not my idea of a reward.

Also, it can happen (personal experience) that after the refreshment of the fun, you'll come back to the first-draft slog bit and revise it into something better.

*****

I'd suggest (6) and (7) about subverting expectations - whether characters' or readers', and the one will become the other as reading happens - are something that need approached with care, and should always have a solid reason beyond (box tick) Not What They Expect.

Showing an unsubverted episode or incident - for instance the character's going-out preparations, or their commuting-home routine - is necessary, often more than once *, to establish Normality, so the character and reader are aware that This Time Is Different.

(* I've seen this done by cut-and-paste repeating the same description from one chapter into the next. It was imaginative and effective there, but could easily have tripped up on its own cleverness by seeming UNimaginative. YMMV.)

Why is the character including a concealed weapon in their party dress-up? Why is the character concerned they might be tailed during that commute? A comparison between ordinary and extraordinary is needed to show this doesn't happen every single time.

It's also a good way of racking up page-turning tension before invoking (5) that cliff-hanger chapter ending... :->

*****

And now the rant... :-p

Subverting expectations as a (box tick) action because it was So Effective That One Time is what transformed the final seasons of a once-popular fantasy adaptation into such a disappointment.

"Game of Thrones" is an excellent example of subverted expectations, such as the Red Wedding where - despite the way heroes are expected to escape at the last minute - a crapsack world like Westeros means bad things play all the way through to their bad conclusion.

*****

It's also an excellent example of how bad writing and a (box tick) attitude can lead to subversions that should have been left alone.

One instance is the way Jaime Lannister's redemption was abandoned "to subvert expectations" (box tick) complete with redemption-dismissive dialogue that was a slap in the face to several seasons of character development.

The lack of any hint or implication that such a thing was even possible suggests - to this viewer anyway - that it was no more than a (box tick) without additional thought as to whether it was logical in-story, as long as it generated yet another "Oh No, we didn't see that coming!" reaction from the audience.

(Of course nobody saw it coming, since neither plot requirement nor character development had any reason for it to happen.)

Sometimes a story should play out logically as a story because It's A Story, Not A Documentary. Terry Pratchett knew this and called it Narrativium, the element which drives stories. TV Tropes calls it The Theory of Narrative Causality.

Whatever the name, and however storytellers may tinker and tweak with it, they ignore its basic rules at their peril.

*****

Another example is Cersei's death.

When a writer as amiable as C.S. Lewis said:

"Let there be wicked kings and beheadings, battles and dungeons, giants and dragons, and let villains be soundly killed at the end..."

...just dropping a building on her without involving any of the many other High-Profile Characters she'd hurt throughout the series was ridiculous, especially with one of those High-Profile Characters already in the vicinity.

It may well have subverted expectations, but it was a lousy resolution.

It was also bad storytelling which abandoned at least one long-anticipated set-up (all too common in later GoT), and still vexes me since in a storyline filled with subversions for the sake of shock value, NOT subverting audience expectations but instead rewarding them with what they want (what they really, really want) becomes a subversion in itself.

*****

It's not hard to imagine more original and entertaining ways of bringing Cersei's pigeons home to roost, the most obvious being a fatal encounter with Arya-reFaced-as-Jaime.

This IMO would have been a much more satisfying use of her well-established Faceless Man sneakmurder skills than that no-setup leap from nowhere onto the Ice King, another Bad Guy built up to deserve a more spectacular termination than his you're-done-now-kthxbye demise.

Certainly after eight seasons of scheming, murder, cruelty - and infuriating smugness, oh yes, that too - having Cersei "soundly killed" should have involved something, anything, more conclusive, up-front and personal than a load of bricks landing on her head.

Subvert, yes. But not just for the sake of doing it.

*****

And as @writeblrfantasy concluded, no matter what way you're doing it, have fun in the doing of it...

my 10 holy grail pieces of writing advice for beginners

from an indie author who's published 4 books and written 20+, as well as 400k in fanfiction (who is also a professional beta reader who encounters the same issues in my clients' books over and over)

show don't tell is every bit as important as they say it is, no matter how sick you are of hearing about it. "the floor shifted beneath her feet" hits harder than "she felt sick with shock."

no head hopping. if you want to change pov mid scene, put a scene break. you can change it multiple times in the same scene! just put a break so your readers know you've changed pov.

if you have to infodump, do it through dialogue instead of exposition. your reader will feel like they're learning alongside the character, and it will flow naturally into your story.

never open your book with an exposition dump. instead, your opening scene should drop into the heart of the action with little to no context. raise questions to the reader and sprinkle in the answers bit by bit. let your reader discover the context slowly instead of holding their hand from the start. trust your reader; donn't overexplain the details. this is how you create a perfect hook.

every chapter should end on a cliffhanger. doesn't have to be major, can be as simple as ending a chapter mid conversation and picking it up immediately on the next one. tease your reader and make them need to turn the page.

every scene should subvert the character's expectations, as big as a plot twist or as small as a conversation having a surprising outcome. scenes that meet the character's expectations, such as a boring supply run, should be summarized.

arrive late and leave early to every scene. if you're character's at a party, open with them mid conversation instead of describing how they got dressed, left their house, arrived at the party, (because those things don't subvert their expectations). and when you're done with the reason for the scene is there, i.e. an important conversation, end it. once you've shown what you needed to show, get out, instead of describing your character commuting home (because it doesn't subvert expectations!)

epithets are the devil. "the blond man smiled--" you've lost me. use their name. use it often. don't be afraid of it. the reader won't get tired of it. it will serve you far better than epithets, especially if you have two people of the same pronouns interacting.

your character should always be working towards a goal, internal or external (i.e learning to love themself/killing the villain.) try to establish that goal as soon as possible in the reader's mind. the goal can change, the goal can evolve. as long as the reader knows the character isn't floating aimlessly through the world around them with no agency and no desire. that gets boring fast.

plan scenes that you know you'll have fun writing, instead of scenes that might seem cool in your head but you know you'll loathe every second of. besides the fact that your top priority in writing should be writing for only yourself and having fun, if you're just dragging through a scene you really hate, the scene will suffer for it, and readers can tell. the scenes i get the most praise on are always the scenes i had the most fun writing. an ideal outline shouldn't have parts that make you groan to look at. you'll thank yourself later.

happy writing :)

[eepy-cookies]

I will ask as anon for I’m to scared to ask otherwise but can we please have more art of

Characters: Shadow Milk Cookie x G/N! ReaderContent Warning: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

You made a little story of with that title and I swear you made one art of it and I really want to see more art of it like a little sorry book if that happen if that’s okay for I love the story so much how we meet shadow milk again after we waked up

I didnt made a title at that time since I just want to type a one shot. So I might as well add some explanations about this with only two arts! Oh btw, if anyone is a bit offended by this. I’m sorry. Your warned in advance about the yapping.

About his name: He can be called as either Blueberry Milk Cookie, Blue Moon Cookie, Blueberry Yogurt Cookie, and etc tho its safe to call him Sage of Truth. At that time his soul jam is similar to Pure Vanilla for a good solid reason, it was the first original soul jam but I do want to add a tiny head-canon that there should be a “closed eye” to his soul jam but the canon was just like Pure Vanilla’s. Just like what happens at the Blueberry Yogurt Academy before it was abandoned, it was ONCE his second history wanting to teach the cookies more knowledge while his first being crated. Plus meeting Y/N Cookie allowed him to experience what falling in love feels like.

About Y/N Cookie: They made their own appearance as a mortal cookie but had an incurable illness that the witches made a mistake, but what if it wasn’t and it was part of their experiment? Although it was very cruel Y/N Cookie was one of the cookies who suggested Sage of Truth to create that said academy to not find a way to get the cure but also to create memories that can last through time. But they knew their time is up and yet they wanted to live more just to see him one more time, after all they love him.

About the Incurable Illness: Its hard to find a better title for the name so lets call it “Incomplete Dough Illness” its just similar to humans who had disabilities that won’t let them survive much longer, however even tho it’s incurable it’s incurable since it was THE PAST before modern technology was introduced to the new generation of cookies, wether or not it can be cured it can never be cured despite everything.

The life longer spell: A spell casted by the Sage of Truth before he had become Shadow Milk Cookie, it extended a cookies lifespan thus converting them to become almost immortal, the word almost is that a Crescent Moon needs to be presented in order for that spell to perform well. The consequences is becoming corrupted and if that caster perishes that person perishes with them. If that person is also sealed they are comatose until the seal is broken and if that unconscious person is touched or worse that unfortunately cookie will live the most unluckiest and cursed life till they perish.

What happens to them: Shadow Milk Cookie took Y/N Cookie with him to a more safer place. Of course that would make the other cookies worry but Pure Vanilla told them that they will be find, after all Y/N Cookie is the ONLY COOKIE Shadow Milk Cookie recognize despite them being new in a newer world that cannot go back. Of course this time Shadow Milk Cookie CANNOT afford to let go of Y/N Cookie, they are immortally connected with him but they are still weak so they need good care by Shadow Milk Cookie himself (it has become a connected soulmates). If that makes you happy you can see Y/N Cookie still being sweet to him despite everything, sure it takes alot of time for them to understand but you should know that they are an understanding and wise cookie.

Bonus: Shadow Milk Cookie got a kiss in the end. A comforting one. ❤️

[steviewashere]

Back in My Head Again

Rating: Mature CW: Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Steve Harrington, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use (In Various Points), Mental Health Issues, Past Referenced Parent Death Pairings: Tommy Hagan & Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington & Steve Harrington's Father, Steddie Tags: Post-Canon, Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington's Father Being an Asshole, Steve Harrington Making Some Bad Decisions, Impulsive Steve Harrington, Good Friend Tommy Hagan, Protective Tommy Hagan, Tommy Hagan Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Tommy Hagan Cares About Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is Loved, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Eddie & Tommy Bonding About Steve, Childhood Friends, Hopeful Ending This one's a very personal piece to me. So please be kind, but also take care of yourselves. This one gets dark really fucking fast. Read all content warnings and tags, take care! <3 Also on ao3 (because this is long)

☎️—————☎️ Tommy’s the only one who knows what happened to his mom. It’s not that he’s keeping her death a secret, but it’s easier to just not say anything. Sometimes, when he’s quiet in a room, all the eyes around him are a bit more attentive than they’d be if he were just being stupid. He only found out because Steve needed an ear to listen and a brain that remembers when she had been sweet.

Not that his mom hadn’t been nice or sweet or motherly. She was just…different near the end. Combative. Argumentative. Angry. He could breathe the wrong way and receive an earful for the way his nostrils whistle. Had he known the inevitable, maybe he would’ve been a little bit more receptive to her comments, accepted them like soft punches to an even softer pillow, but as it was, he was just as angry—if not more.

With her gone, his dad became worse.

They weren’t, like, buddies before she died. But if they were in the same room? Well, it would take a whole lot of tongue biting, but Steve could manage it. With his nose cradled in the crook of his elbow, all his words muffled by warm skin, and hands curled into tight white fists. At least in the before, there were only a handful of times where he felt the need to be scared of his dad. The one afternoon where he came home from a basketball practice—pent up and exhausted, hungry as hell, sweating where the sun didn’t shine—and his dad had been furious about something probably ridiculous, and charged at him from the other side of the room. Steve had acted on a weakened instinct, one he thought he trained to be obediently dormant, but when his fists went up in front of his face and his eyebrows furrowed into the soft hoods of his eyelids, he knew he’d always had to be ready just in case.

Maybe he was just a spoilt brat. Maybe he was just an angsty teenager with too many misplaced emotions. Maybe he was just naive.

But he had been ready, always, to pack his shit, dodge some punches, and get the hell back. Though, when his mom was alive, he survived on her affection like a sick bee needing sugar. Now, without her? It was a matter of time before his dad starved him. Or worse.

Tommy knew, though, about his parents. That his mom died suddenly and too young. That his dad was an asshole. He knew about the always packed backpack in his closet, the overstocked first aid kit he hid under his bed, and that secret he let spill from his lips too late one evening, beer soaked on his tongue, a hunger for Tommy’s freckles in the deep pit of his stomach—I want to kiss you, is that weird?

Was it maybe too weird that he went to Tommy still? Even after everything? Even after telling him off in that parking lot? Maybe, but Steve’s never been one to make good decisions. But there was a certain sort of security blanket when it came to talking to Tommy. 

After a bad hookup? He went to Tommy. Drank a little too much and needed somebody to not judge him for it? He called Tommy. Wet the bed from a nightmare like he did as a kid? To his childhood friend, Tommy, he ran to.

They’ve seen each other at their worsts. Well, the non-NDA, government cover-up worsts. He’d been there for Tommy when his parents divorced. Been there the first time Tommy had been rejected. Been there when Tommy was sick with the flu, threw up a little too hard, and gave himself a nose bleed. And in turn…

Steve trusted Tommy still, despite it all.

Was it unhealthy? To rely on Tommy in certain dire moments and then to recede as if it never happened? Oh yeah, Steve can recognize that. But would he go to Robin with information about his dad? No, unfortunately, he wouldn’t. There’s not enough time and comfort and days spread between them.

He’s known Tommy since he was seven years old.

If they weren’t such big piles of shit, to each other, to themselves, maybe they’d still be orbiting. But. They are, that’s the problem. They are.

Now, though, he needs Tommy.

Hugging a payphone by the nearby park, wrapped up in loose, thin layers, seventeen degrees and lips turning purple, he needs him.

“C’mon, Tommy…c’mon,” he mutters, breath puffing in front of him in a large white cloud. This is his last quarter. His cheeks are searing with tears. There aren’t gloves on his hands, his fingers are fucking numb and bluish. He’d go home, but his dad is there. Drunk and stubborn and angry, his dad is always there.

Finally, on the last ring, it’s picked up. “Hello?” Tommy answers gruffly.

Steve sobs, hard and sour and ugly, “T-Tommy.”

“Holy shit,” he hears, that voice now alert, “Steve, is that you? Oh my god, are you okay?”

His eyes dart around. The street is empty. There’s ice under his stupid sneakers, one wrong move and he’ll give himself another concussion. Words bubble in his throat, but all that leaves him is an awkward, dry retch.

“Hey,” Tommy whispers, “take…take a deep breath for me, okay? I’m—Take a moment, I’m right here.”

The breath stutters in his chest, hiccuping and sharp and painful. He heaves a sigh, is praised for it, and sniffles. “My d-dad f-fucking sucks. I hate him, Tommy. I fucking hate him.”

Over the line, Tommy shuffles—probably in his bed, this late at night; 3:23am, when Steve hazily glances at his watch. “I know,” he says softly, “what’d he do, Stevie? Or is he just…”

“He—fuck—I came downstairs to get some water, y’know, and…and I don’t know, he was just in the kitchen. I could…I could see the alcohol on the counter, so he was drinking, and he’s always drinking, Tommy…he’s always, always—but he saw me and h-he called me an asshole, I know I am, but I just—I was just trying to get some water and he just said it and he—he said it was my fault that my mom, that she…”

The moment ‘mom’ leaves his tongue, the sobs boil again in his throat. Gurgling and wet, he allows it to happen. Bile-laden sobs rip wild through his chest, staining the back of his mouth, heaving out of him because the breath burns through him too fast to mean anything. He blubbers, words incoherent through his teeth, slurred in a way only his dad knows how. And it’s within the blink of an eye, sorry on himself that he’s so close to being just like him, that he’s wrenching something deep from within his pocket.

On his sixteenth birthday, only a few short years ago, his grandpa had still been alive. Happy and well. There was one thing he gave him. A pocket knife. Heavy silver handle, sharpened silver blade, his name engraved in pointed letters. It was for self-defense, a good tool just in case of an emergency.

Is it self-defense if it was himself that he was protecting from?

Is it self-defense if it pierces between his ribs?

Is it self-defense if it was an emergency escape?

“Where are you?” Tommy asks. It’s urgent in the air, as if he’d already been asking it in Steve’s daze, looking down at the pocket knife shiny in his grip. “I’m going to come get you. Where are you?”

He could bite his tongue, he’s good at it. 

But one thing about Tommy that nobody else knows is that he’s perceptive as hell.

Steve could swallow his own tongue, but even then, Tommy would pick up that something is going seriously wrong.

“That park near my house,” he mumbles in response, “you know where it is?”

“You see a bench nearby?”

He nods stupidly, humming without words.

“Can you sit on it for me, Steve?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, “I can do that.”

“Okay,” Tommy sighs, but it doesn’t sound put-out. It’s relief. “Stay on that bench and wait for me, okay? I want to be able to see you.”

Steve hums again. Bobbles his heavy, eyes-burning head. “Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“Hurry?”

His hand fists tighter around the folded pocket knife. Thumbnail etching into his own name, eggshell white paint chipping at the pressure. One wrong move, one wrong thought, one wrong second—he takes a deep breath, the air burning inside him, and can pinpoint the exact spot where the blade would rest. It’d be just one quick push. One last scream. One last bout of terror. The metal is cold in the center of his palm, yet his fingers haven’t quite picked up on the temperature.

“‘Course,” Tommy murmurs, “I’ll find you soon.”

The phone buzzes dead in his ear. There are tears crisp and hot to the gentle wobble of his chin. He darts his eyes to the nearby park bench, lonely and dark with a gentle spattering of snow along its back, and he begins the gentle path forward. Tiptoeing around sheets of slick, thin ice. Fog in the air hanging, clouding the dark sky to be a semi-permanent pale grey. He settles himself on the bench, the cold seat against his pants.

In his hand, the knife rests uneasily. It’s a light thing, but tonight it’s especially heavy. Especially daunting. He blinks, still looking at it with his tired, seeping eyes, and curls his fingers around it. It doesn’t go back to his pocket, though.

He doesn’t know, really, why he took the little knife with him. As if, possibly, there’d be a demodog out there searching for him—that’s the only truth he can bring to the forefront of his mind. That he’d be hunted down by something he could only control with the folds of his own flesh, but even that’s a sorry excuse; the demo-creatures have long since been rid of, they were connected to Vecna, and Vecna’s as good as dirt. If he had to think of a reason, Steve could conjure up reality with a simple blink. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the need had always been there.

To kill himself.

That’s as bluntly as he could put it.

Even that brings a fresh churn to his ever-churning stomach.

The need had been there, though. An etch to the sketch of his whole person. A fleeting thing. Maybe since the first time he’d been left home alone—eight years old and confused. Maybe when he called the police after his dad had hit him the first time—ten years old and told that that’s how bad kids are punished, a spanking. Maybe when he drank himself into near hysteria—thirteen years old and puking up his lungs in his mom’s nice peonies outside the kitchen window. Or maybe it was after the demogorgon—seventeen.

Could’ve been in part because of Nancy or even Jonathan. Possibly Carol. Even Barb. At one point, definitely, Tommy.

But even he knows pointing fingers at friends is pointless.

This need, this feeling, the weight of the knife in his hand—

He’d always held the handle. It was just a matter of sensitivities that controlled the blade.

Why this time?

Why now?

Because he was an asshole? Whatever. He’s been an asshole. Because his dad was home? Whatever. Steve’s always wanted him home. Because his mom was dead? Whatever. She’s been dead for over a year now. No Vecna to get her, no demogorgon to savor her—he had been eighteen, she had been sick, like really fucking sick…it was nobody’s fault.

So why now? Steve couldn’t even pinpoint the reason.

It was a build probably. Unresolved shit from the Upside Down, hand in hand with his failing minimum wage job, with his spiral of never-ending college rejection letters, on and on. He never went through with flicking open the blade. Had to protect and whatnot. Is it because there’s no reason to protect? Is it because he doesn’t have to now?

Sure, he was staying because of Dustin, Max, the lot of them, Robin, and Eddie.

He wasn’t staying for himself, though.

Why would he? Who could?

He’s always had this need to never truly pocket the knife. Despite its name.

It belonged to him. Name on it and everything. And as fate should see it, maybe it was a sign.

Read: Steve Harrington is fucked in the head and is going to do something about it.

Read: Steve Harrington brandishes a weapon and he knows how to use it.

Read: Steve Harrington wants to die and has wanted to for a really long time.

Longer than he cares to admit.

He flicks the handle, blade unsheathing with a quick schtick! It’s shiny and clean. Never used. There’d been a back up pocket knife, one he was given from his dad; it was only ever used for shotgunning beers. Couldn’t bring himself to use it for anything else outside of that. And he couldn’t ever hurt himself, not when he was swimming and playing basketball. Everybody would see. Everybody would know. He was known, sure, but not known, and the prospect of that brings a fresh wave of goosebumps to his arms. Unless that’s the cold. But the point still stands.

The knife he currently has, shiny and clean, it could use a little grit to it. Some roughage.

Why hadn’t he killed himself, though? Was it the blood that made him squeamish? The fact he’d hurt anyway? He could drown, but then there was the problem of his bloated corpse. And there was the possibility of overdosing, but then somebody would go all detective on his stupid body, trace back the ketamine in his system to Eddie…Eddie doesn’t deserve that.

He’s had plans. They were kind of…intrusive, though. Made in a split second decision. The ketamine one, he almost went through with that. Bought as much as he was allowed to purchase in one sitting, whatever Eddie was willing to part with—years ago, he has half a mind to squander, he doesn’t sell like that anymore—and then he’d return a few days later, stock up some more…he was just gonna go for it. All in one sitting. Lock the bathroom door behind him. He had even brought in a dining chair the night he was going to, set it up underneath the doorknob and everything, yet when it came to the actual drugs…

The toilet had a very open mouth and very willing stomach that night.

There was the quarry. He’d only been there a few times. Not since Will’s “body” had been discovered, but he’d been there before. It was always during a morning jog. Crisp autumn air, low hanging fog, nobody on the roads. Steve would make a detour, in his short sleeve t-shirt and even shorter shorts, and he’d jog right up to the edge.

It was farther and farther and farther down the more he went. The more he grew. Even when he sat, he was taller than the time before. Sometimes he’d throw a rock, watch it skitter down the sharp edges of other rocks, listen until the sound disappeared, until the only thing that gave proof it was there were the ripples in the water far below. There was always a passing thought, though, that he’d leave a lot more evidence behind. Every sharp edge stained with proof of him. He wanted nothing left in his wake. Wanted it to look like somebody had just snatched him while he was out, dumped him in the water, had very little care for his body. Because who would care? No, if he went through with his plan, there’d be evidence. The news would break: Steve Harrington, age 15, Death By Suicide. Or would they publish it? Beat around the bush, probably. Save face and all.

Point is, there had been plans steadily over the years. Each one getting smaller and smaller and lesser and lesser. It was always the clean up that startled him. The fear that little bits and pieces of him would be left behind. Vomited foam from his mouth, blood from his head, the wet shadow of his body pulled from the pool. He’d be everywhere. And everyone would know.

Steve Harrington was suicidal.

King Steve Harrington had problems.

Steve Harrington was a scared little boy, hardly a man, and oh how fun that is to laugh at.

Who would miss him? Well and truly miss him?

At eighteen? Dustin. Maybe Nancy. Maybe even Jonathan. They’d would’ve gotten over it, wouldn’t they have? Poor Steve Harrington, the ex and the babysitter. At fifteen? Just Tommy and Carol. He always imagined it, people like Barb and Nancy and Robin and Eddie, all of them adrift by the news, but later getting over it. Just a ‘who cares’ thrown over their shoulder, a ‘good riddance’ in the back of their mind they’d never admit to. At twelve? Bobby in the A/V club, who always welcomed Steve with a gap-toothed grin and his wide bright eyes, making sure there was always space for his confused questions. The kid that some time later, Steve watched get his head swirled in a toilet, laughing at how he sputtered. At eight? His mom. She would’ve been inconsolable. Though, she would be young enough, maybe she could’ve tried again.

Now, though?

There’s…there’s too many people to even name.

God, way too many people.

He was staying for them, never himself. Got a best friend and a few pseudo siblings, his adopted dads in Hopper and Wayne…and he’s got a boyfriend that nobody knows about. He’s got everything.

Why is he still here? With the knife in his hand? In the cold? Frostbitten and scared?

Underneath all the scars, the anger, the hair, he’ll always be that scared little boy. The little boy afraid of his dad—the monster he lives with. Of drunk hands and slurred words, cigar smoke and stale dinners, wooden paddles and leather belts. He’ll always be the little boy that cried in his knees, hidden in the depth of his closet, under tens of old clothes, hanging on for dear life. Always be the kid that called his best friend, Tommy, when things went to shit. Phone cradled to his ringing ear, a slap still stern across his cheek, and needing instructions from Tommy’s parents on how to use a first aid kit.

He’s gotten better at discerning what he needs from the kit. Not because of alternate dimension beings, though. No, due to the monster that sits at his dining table, sipping Jack with glazed eyes and sorrowed brows, angry veins and angrier words. Asshole.

Steve was scared. Vulnerable. Soft-bellied. And he was small, despite being so big, he was always smaller than he showed. Any sign of himself—this true self, squirmy and squeamish and small—that would be it. He didn’t want to be known. Didn’t want to be found out.

But then, here he was, holding the knife.

Distantly, he hears the slow jog of heavy steps. He has the wherewithal to recognize he should stow away the knife, deep in his pocket where nobody can see. Though, as it glistens and blinks—mesmerizing him—he leaves it wide open.

This isn’t the first time he’s been here.

It needs to be his last.

“Stevie!” Tommy shouts somewhere on his left. Steve’s head swivels to the sound of his own nickname. Jogging up one of the clearer snow paths, Tommy’s making quick work of getting to him. He’s in heavier clothes than Steve is: a beat-up Carhartt jacket, thick and long jeans, brown work boots, a tartan red scarf wrapped messily on his neck, mittens, and a beanie with a big pom-pom on the top. As he gets closer, Steve can hear his heavy breathing, see the puffs that emanate from the frigid air. Still got that boyish way to him. A million freckles, those soft brown eyes, his pearly white teeth. The first boy Steve ever thought to kiss; the first and last boy to break his heart. “Steve,” Tommy murmurs now that he’s close, “hey…hey, I found you.”

He can’t move from his spot on the bench. It’s cold. His bottom aches from the chill of the wood, but he can’t make himself get up. Legs like lead. That knife still heavy. And he might cry if he speaks right now.

Tommy can see him. Truly see him.

For the first time.

Steve can catch the exact moment Tommy spots the unsheathed, flipped open knife. His eyes widen a fraction, eyebrows shooting up to the edge of his hat, his light smile fading into the paleness of his cheeks. He stutters in his settling, standing frozen to the spot. Like he became one with the slick ice. He’d do something like laugh at the expression, but again, it may just catch like a sob.

“You…you have a knife,” Tommy dumbly points out. His eyes dart away from the blade, though. He’s forcing himself to not look. To ignore it. Setting his focus on Steve’s face instead. “Your lips,” he whispers, “what’re you doin’ out here without a scarf? And your gloves and coat and…you need to be warm.” With great speed, the same quickness Steve used to see on the high school’s track, Tommy is unwrapping the scarf from around his neck. Gently, he tucks it on Steve’s, forcing it to sit tight against his going blue lips. Then, he’s tugging off his jacket, slipping Steve’s left arm through one of the sleeves. But by the time he makes it to the right—“Stevie, can I…I need to take the knife from you, okay? I need to get you warm.”

He can’t move his hand.

But his eyes stay on Tommy’s. Big on his sunken face, burning hot with fresh tears, chin wobbling. He can’t even ask.

“I’m gonna take it,” Tommy gently says, “put it in my pocket, okay? Just for a little while.” Slow now, he reaches for the knife. When Steve doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even flinch, he takes it in his grip. It’s probably the only thing about him that’s warm, if the surprise on Tommy’s face says anything. But he ignores that, too. Simply folds it up—schtick!—and buries it deep in the front left pocket of his jeans. Just like that.

Like it was nothing.

The outline of its handle in Tommy’s pocket is something, though. Heavier than it seems.

Had it looked like that in Steve’s sweatpants? All weighted and obvious?

He pities himself—the fool.

Tommy continues to take care of him, though, one piece of clothing at a time. The jacket all zipped, mittens on Steve’s numb hands, beanie on his big head. And when he’s done, he steps back with a tight, light smile. “There,” he breathes, “all done.” He tucks the scarf tighter again, as if he can manifest it to be warmer. Then, softly, he takes Steve’s hands in his own, rubbing them with his palms. Forcing them to get warmer. “Can I get you to come with me to my car? Let me turn on the heater and warm you up?”

Steve blinks. The first thing he feels on his face since he finished sobbing on the phone—a single hottear. “Are you taking me home?” he asks, wobbly and so unusual, even for himself. It makes him sound like a little kid. A little, vulnerable, very afraid kid.

“No,” Tommy murmurs—simple—“I’m not. We are going to drive around for a few, so you get warmed up in the car, get you a gas station hot chocolate—which will taste and feel amazing right now—and then I’m going to take you wherever you want to go.” He pats Steve’s shoulders with both of his hands, almost like he’s reminding himself that Steve is still right there. To touch. Alive. “How’s that sound?”

He nods once. Then, he blinks and shakes his head. Nods. Shakes. “I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, muffled by the scarf, “I’m really sorry.”

“Hey, no, I don’t want an apology. No apologies allowed. I’m glad you called.” Tommy squeezes Steve’s shoulders, looking dead on. There’s something watery in his gaze now. He doesn’t let it fulfill. “I’m really glad you called, okay? Let’s go to the car to warm up. And if…if you want to talk about it, we’ll talk. My ears are yours and my lips are sealed, you know that.”

They make their way back one slow step at a time. Their arms are hooked like they’re on some winter wonderland walk date. It’s fucked sideways, completely fucked, but Steve smiles small behind his scarf anyway. Tommy’s trying to fill the silence, something about baseball and little league and coaching, but Steve’s too lost in the warmth seeping through his body. The heat that makes him feel truly like a dancing flame, alive.

He’s still bad enough to know that once tonight is through, wherever he ends up, he’ll be left bereft with the consequences of his own actions. Probably something about disappearing in the middle of the night from his dad, something worse if his mind’s eye isn’t playing tricks. A lot of people will have questions as to why they’re seeing Tommy Hagan around a lot more—wandering into the Family Video just to talk to Steve, swooping into their local diner just to grab some fries with a wave at Steve, hanging around the arcade just to catch Steve beating his own high score. Nobody has to know what happened tonight.

But if he doesn’t talk, eventually he’ll self-immolate. Implode.

Steve Harrington, 19, Found Dead in Ditch; does not sound appealing. It wouldn’t make sense, he’s a great driver. He’d make it look like an accident, though. He’s still too much of a live-wire for a million and one questions, let alone all the queues being dispersed among so many people.

He needs help, he knows that. How does he ask for it, though? Who’s going to be less judgmental when he finds the strength to ask? Or is it going to be just as he feared? Under a microscope, people poking and prodding, local town pariah for being so mentally unwell. It happened to Eddie’s mom.

Maybe he’d be the only one to truly grasp it.

The conversations that have to be had, though, are daunting. Less daunting, however, than the knife still stowed in Tommy’s pocket.

He’s just sat in the passenger seat, reclined the way he likes with the door shut behind him, when Tommy abruptly turns on the car and starts messing with the dials on his vents. Pointing every single one at Steve, cranking that heat up. His radio is on, too, playing a mixtape on low volume. It’s the one Steve made him in their freshman year—“Nowhere Man” by The Beatles is just starting.

“Rubber Soul?” Steve finds himself mumbling.

“Hm?” Tommy stops moving for a moment, seatbelt halfway to being buckled, darting his eyes to the radio. “Oh—yeah, yeah! Remember, you showed me this album? One of my favorites, man. Always liked this song the most…you put it on this tape twice just to make sure I heard it.” He smiles at Steve. Bright and happy, his eyes squinting and his freckles bunching. It’s always been a great smile.

It’s been a while since it was pointed at him.

He likes it.

Wishes these were better circumstances. That they had been better people. That they’d survived. Maybe if they both weren’t so conniving and embarrassing and crude. One day, he thinks he can forgive Tommy. Not now, not for a while.

Tonight, though, he can learn to thank him.

Maybe that in itself is forgiveness enough for Steve, but even then, it takes more than a few good years of near radio silence to pass them by.

“Let me just”—Tommy whispers, leaning in. He reaches for the seatbelt, stretching it across Steve’s rigid body, and safely clicks it into place. There’s a moment where he lingers, staring, darting his eyes over every minuscule part of Steve’s face. Up close, there are definitely unshed tears in Tommy’s stare, but he just smiles. Small and safe, just for them, he smiles again. He pulls back to his own seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other hovering over the gearstick.—“there we go, all tucked away. Sorry if the jacket is a little tight, it was the only winter coat I could find, guess it’s getting up there in years.”

Steve blinks and settles his head deeper into the headrest. Exhausted, he doesn’t say anything else.

Tommy seems to allow it, pulling away from the curb and back onto the empty street. He’s going at a snail’s pace, most likely because he doesn’t have chains on his tires. But he keeps his focus on the road ahead, unlike the him of previous years. Sitting passenger in Steve’s car, talking directly at him, not sparing a glance out the window. Instead, he looks forward, occasionally squeezing the leather of his steering wheel tighter. His eyes are darting, though. Nervous. Scared.

They pass by a few dark houses. Some small stores.

And then the gas station is pulling into view, Tommy slowing to turn into the parking lot, putting it in park. He turns to Steve, eyes big and dark in the dim light of his car. “I’m gonna go in there and fetch a large hot chocolate for you. D’you want me to grab anything else?”

He shrugs.

“Hey,” Tommy murmurs, “let me take care of you for a little bit, okay? Drive you around, get you some things you need.” He reaches out, gently squeezes Steve’s left forearm. His thumb is tracing the seam of the jacket’s sleeve. “You hungry?”

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, “…maybe just some peanut butter cups?”

Tommy nods. “‘Course. Want some Reeses Pieces, too? I remember you liked those.”

“No, it’s okay. Shouldn’t put you out like that anyway.”

The fingers still resting on his forearm tighten. Squeezing so hard, Steve can feel the bite of his fingernails. “You aren’t putting me out, Stevie. It’s no big deal.”

Up close, he can make out the eye bags and dark circles under Tommy’s eyes. The tired fold of his smile. Laziness creeping back onto his face. Probably tired as hell.

“Just those things. Don’t need anything else, promise.”

For a brief, brief moment, Tommy remains rooted to his seat. Something flickers through his face. A shuttering shimmer of daylight, darkening in the edges the way a vignette photograph does. It’s not confusion or disbelief or anger. A sadness, maybe. A fear.

But then Tommy is heaving himself out of the car, keys still in the ignition, radio volume low, heaters pulling their weight.

Steve glances out the passenger side window. At the chainlink fence on the edges of this gas station parking lot, curled into itself and overgrown with wild weeds. Some needles are littered at the base of the fence—he wonders where those people are now. Were they looking for a little relief? Partying with the hard stuff for the sake of it? The thrill of it?

How many of them were like him?

How many were there?

His reflection is blinking in the glass of his window, peering out softly at the needles. What if there was only one? Just as young. Just as scared. With nobody there to pick them up, take them out of their head, be patient. Nobody, not even an old friend, not even a neighbor. He wonders if this person—this figment—was running from something. Feelings, responsibilities, the very thing they feared. Seeking shelter, semblance of a normal in the dark parking lot of their local gas station chain.

Maybe they made it out. Got away from their head in that manner. Maybe they see the needles, too. Putting themself in those shoes, some of them new, some of them dirty, some of them laced, some velcro. He hopes they got their peanut butter cups and hot chocolate. Hopes they got a soft ending; wherever they may have ended up; whoever they ended up being.

Glancing out the windshield, he spots Tommy looking back at him, as if checking to see if he’s still there. His stomach turns over, clenching hard at the reason why. The fact he put that worry there. Shit.

And then, finally, he gets a good catch of himself in his overhead mirror. There are barely any lights around that illuminate his face, just whatever shines outwards from within the little convenience store. His hair is tucked away in the beanie, not wild from the wind like he had been expecting. His cheeks are puffy, starting to redden with color, from the heat in the car. But his eyes.

Flat, pink, bloodshot, yet empty.

No wonder Tommy keeps looking at him. He put that worry there, in the absence of himself, he instilled that worry. The fear.

Tommy eventually comes back out, swinging into the car with a to-go carrier of hot chocolates, and a crinkling plastic bag in the crook of his left elbow. He settles in his seat, off loading the carrier to Steve, regaling him to divvying out the drinks. Once he’s in, buckled and warmed, he reaches for the ignition.

“Can we stay here for a minute?” Steve meekly asks.

All at once, Tommy stops in his tracks. Sitting back. “Y-yeah, dude, sure. Just figured you’d wanna see around first, give yourself some time to…to think, I guess.”

He hands off one of the hot chocolates when Tommy reaches out for it, saying in the process, “I feel like I’ve done enough thinking tonight. Enough for a lifetime.”

There’s a sharp inhale at that. “I get that,” Tommy murmurs, “seems like there’s a lot of empty time on my hands these days.”

Steve sniffs, takes a swig of his drink, hums unconsciously at the flavor. “What are you up to these days? ‘Sides saving my sorry, stupid ass.”

“You’re not stupid, Steve. Don’t say shit like that.” He’s momentarily frozen in his seat, as Tommy’s eyes ice over to him. “And I already told you, I’m glad you called me.”

“You were asleep. You could’ve told me that. I would’ve found somebody else.”

“I wanted to get you,” Tommy insists. “It doesn’t matter how much time or space or whatever other garbage is between us, if you call me, I’m gonna be there. Even if you need me to—fucking, I don’t know—tie your shoes or something.”

Steve traces the lid on his cup with the thick thumb of his mitten. Words caught splintered in his throat, dead.

At his silence, Tommy lets out a sad little sigh. And then he goes quiet for a moment, too.

The air isn’t exactly tense, but it isn’t pleasant either. Thick, heavy, and warm. Maybe it’s the heater vents, the million layers he was forced into, the hot chocolate in his hands. It’s not even a good hot chocolate—Wayne Munson is the king of that—but he can appreciate it for what it is. A chance to make sure that he isn’t going to collapse in on himself.

It’s an appeasement. In a way, he’s being convinced to stay.

“What would it take to show you that you’re worth caring for?” Tommy suddenly breaks through. “Because I…I know I was going to let you talk about it in your own time, but…Steve, I want to be there, but I can’t always be there. And I. I have to be honest, right?

“I’m always going to try and save you. I’ll always come to your side when you call me, even if it’s been months or, shit, even years. But what happens when the next time I’m out here in the cold, your toes are too far over the edge? What if I go to grab the back of your shirt and it rips in my grip? What if…what if you can’t be patient anymore?” He won’t look up from the lid of his cup. Won’t answer, not yet. Right, passes through his head, he’s right. You know he is. Tommy’s gaze is set on his face, shiny in his peripheral. “I love you with every piece of me, again, no matter what, I’m always gonna love you. Just…

“Steve, I’m worried one day I won’t reach you.

“Or that I’m gonna come across…that you won’t be there by the time I arrive,” he stresses, “and I don’t want any of that to happen. Seriously, whether you’re my best friend or fuckin’ best enemy or whatever, I still care about you. You were still my first friend, the first person outside of my family that I was hugging, my first camaraderie, and you were my first wake-up call.”

Finally, he drags his eyes up. Burning, heavy, aching, Steve blearily looks to Tommy. Caught up in the blur of his own vision, unable to see even two feet ahead of him. His whole everything aches. Every ember of his soul. The drip of his blood, rushing straight to his toes, up to his no longer numb fingers.

The world’s a fireplace around him, words sound like near deathbed confessions, and he can taste his stale breath cutting through the chocolate. He never did get his glass of water. Can’t believe he let his dad play into this. Into tonight.

“Tommy,” he chokes out. “I don’t…I don’t know what you want me”—

“Sorry,” Tommy whispers, “I’m sorry. That was a lot and all at once. I just care about you, man.” He reaches out, grabbing for Steve’s forearm once more. Fingers tense and tight in his jacket. “I’d hate to see you gone. You deserve to be here, to be cared for. Please, Steve, just let me care about you for tonight. Please.”

Bending forward, Steve places his hot chocolate in the cup holder closest to him. Having his ear closer to the speaker, he can hear “Nowhere Man” again—or what must be for the second time. Tommy was always trying to make Steve feel better, even if sometimes how he showed it seemed impossibly stupid; but maybe the song wasn’t purposefully put on the cassette twice, he has half a mind to realize, Tommy didn’t want him to feel dumb for what he did.

Slowly, he peels off his mittens, fingers sweating with anticipation to not be so damn hot. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Tommy begin to lurch forward, stop him, but Steve only works faster. Just so he can place the naked skin of his right palm over the back of Tommy’s. Their skin joins in a puddle of malleable warmth. And even further, the hand under his turns, palm now up, gripping tight to his fingers. He rests his head against the passenger window, looking out at the bottom of the fence again.

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmurs.

“Stop apologizing. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.”

“But I”—

He’s silenced with an even tighter pressure to the tips of his fingers. So hard that he can feel the way Tommy’s wrist shakes with the force. “You don’t need to be sorry. I’m not asking for it. It’s not necessary.”

Steve nods against the window. Beanie pushing up, hair falling free against his forehead. “Okay,” he crackles.

Again, Tommy’s moving, his shirt rustling against the leather seat. But he’s closer, if the warmth of his shoulder bleeding into Steve’s says anything. “Hey”—he tugs their joined hands, Steve glances over—“you think you can talk to me? Tell me what happened?”

Shrugging, Steve sighs. “Just…what I said earlier. Trying to get some water, Dad’s in the kitchen starting shit. Guess I just…just pussy-ed out. Went running out the door.”

Tommy swallows hard. “Did he…”

“He tried to get his hands on me,” Steve admits quietly, confessing what Tommy already knew. “But he was so drunk, he swung and stumbled. Made it out of there with my hair still intact.” His shoulder hurts in this angle. But he doesn’t want to pull his hand away, not when it gets another squeeze, not when he earns Tommy’s thumb rubbing into his knuckles. “I think he’s waiting up on me,” he whispers, “I can feel him, even here in the car, standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the front door. Like he did when I had weed that one time…couldn’t lay on my back after what he did that night.”

“I hate him,” Tommy darkly murmurs. “I’d kill him if I wasn’t so much shorter than that fuckwad.”

Dryly, Steve snorts. Rolls his eyes. “You’d give him a swirly and his face would get all red from how angry he’d be. From humiliating him. We’d call ‘im cherry cheeks for a week. ’Til he caught on.”

In the reflection of his window, he can see Tommy nod in agreement, smug little smirk on his face. “Until he caught on.” He shifts again, shoulder melting into Steve’s. “And then you decided to go on a midnight walk…did he take your car keys or something?”

“I didn’t really think about the car, Tommy. I just went. It was a dumb thing to do. But, well, I don’t make good decisions,” he states bitterly.

“Well, you called me and now you’re here.”

Steve doesn’t say anything to that.

There’s a squeeze to his hand that has him looking over. “So…did you…were you planning on…”

He shakes his head. “Guess I grabbed the knife without thinking. Self-defense or something, I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Tommy mutters. And there he goes, squeezing at Steve’s fingers again. It’s nice, though. The contact, warmth, the reminder. He twists his head so that they’re looking straight on each other, even as his neck contorts uncomfortably. “I’m glad I got to the park when I did,” he murmurs, “the world wouldn’t be the same without you, Steve. It really, really wouldn’t.”

“You’re just saying that,” Steve mumbles.

“Hey, I mean it. Who else would be there to call your dad cherry cheeks? Tell him he looks like a big, ugly oaf?” He snorts at that, a smile itching to make itself known. Tommy nudges him, shakes him, smirks. “Also, dude, the world needs a little bit more light, don’t you think? Who else is gonna call me on my bullshit? Knock me upside the head to tell me how much of a bigoted turd I’m being. You keep the balance, you bring the laughter, you bring the warmth, man. Nothing would be the same if you just…”—poof!—“left,” he whispers.

“Think someday I’ll believe you.”

Tommy shrugs. “Someday is better than never. But you better. Because I’m right.”

“When have you ever been right about something?”

“Well, I may be kinda thick in the head…but when have I lied to you?”

“I don’t know, think I can think of a few…”

“Those were well meaning lies! Like for your birthday that one year! You almost saw me wrapping up that new pack of baseballs—no way in hell was I going to let your snooping little ass ruin the surprise I had been sweating over for hours!”

There’s a big fat smile on both their faces, mirrored in each other’s all too expressive eyes. Tommy’s alight, Steve’s finally full. The laughter they share trickles out into shaky, steadying breaths. And for a moment, things are just like normal. Another late night with his old best friend, kicking rocks and talking shit. A time before.

Oh so before.

Tommy nudges him again. “You ready to blow this popsicle stand?”

Steve chuckles, shoulders jumping with it. “Sure, dude,” he sighs, “let’s get outta here.”

The hand in his lingers for a beat, then two, a third. It tenses, pressing deep into his knuckles. And retreats. Thrown into his lap is the crinkling plastic bag from the store. Inside are at least three packs of peanut butter cups—way more than he asked for.

He looks up at Tommy, ready to protest. Instead, he gets a wink. “Our secret, Stevie-boy, you peanut butter fiend.” And then they’re off, driving aimlessly on the empty streets of Hawkins.

As the sun begins to rise, coloring their cheeks with tangible warmth, snow beading on the sidewalk, brown wrappers tossed aside, Steve is somewhat content. Rustling with nerves, knowing full well that Tommy still has that knife. But he’s…relaxed, nerveless, almost free.

All without the pain. All without the task of planning. All without the fear of saying goodbye—Steve is free.

They wind down familiar roads. Until, eventually, Tommy cracks with a yawn.

“Getting tired?” Steve mumbles.

“Oh, I’ve been tired. It’s fine, though. I can be out a little bit longer.”

“Nah, you don’t gotta. Think I’m ready to hit they hay, dude.”

Tommy sniffs. Runs a hand over his mouth, lets it fall back down to his lap, hitting the handle of the knife with the hilt of his palm. “Where do you want me to take you, Stevie?”

“I…I have an idea. But, uh, you’ll promise to keep the secret to yourself?”

He shifts nervously, catching Tommy give him a confused little quirk. “As long as it’s not gonna hurt you, sure. What…this sounds big.”

Steve swallows, nods, squeezes his hands into fists until his nails just begin to bite. The passenger window is enticing. “Remember that one secret years and years ago? When, uh, when we were kinda tipsy and hanging out by the pool and it was just us and”—

“The kiss thing, right?”

He inhales sharply. “Yeah, the…the kiss thing.”

“You can talk to me, Steve. I’m an asshole, but I’m not Brutus, man. Not gonna betray you for spilling your guts.”

“You promise you’ll keep it to yourself?”

In the blink of an eye, Tommy is pulling over to the curb. Slow and careful like. Twisting in his seat to face Steve, he only swivels his head to follow suit. “My ears are yours and my lips are sealed, remember? Hell, you don’t even need to tell me if you think it’s not safe to do so.”

Steve nods, slowly, absorbing. “Um…I-I have a partner.”

“You have a boyfriend?” Tommy asks, voice dropped low like anybody within a 100 mile radius could hear them. It’s a startling question, but it’s a soft one nonetheless.

“Yeah…he…he’s really good at taking care of me, y’know. And we look out for each other. He tells me I can come to him any time, if I need anything…anything.”

“Is it okay if I know who it is? Or is that…”

“I mean, I figured you’ll need to know to take me there? But, uh, Eddie Munson? Forest Hills?”

Tommy’s eyebrows raise slightly. He blinks. Takes in a slow breath. Then, quietly, “At the far end of the park, right? Near those swings?”

“Um…y-yeah. Yeah, near the swings.” Without responding, Tommy turns towards the steering wheel, shifting gears, pulling away from the curb. He makes a U-turn, back the way towards Forest Hills. “Is that…you’re not gonna say anything, right? Please don’t say anything.”

“My lips are sealed,” Tommy repeats. “I’m just…little surprised, I guess. Not about—Not that you two are, like, gay and into each other or something. Just…you guys have things to talk about? Get along okay?”

“He’s crafty. So, sometimes, we’ll watch a game together—whatever’s on—and he’ll listen to me rant and cheer and stuff, ask me about the stats…usually, he sits next to me and paints or draws or whatever. We keep each other entertained.”

Tommy nods in his peripheral. “Good, that’s good. Does he know about your…your mom? Your dad?”

“You’re the only one who knows about my mom. Figured it didn’t matter to bring it up, I guess. I mean, Nancy might know, but…I don’t know. It’s not important.”

“‘Course it’s important, Steve. Her death kinda hit you sideways…in a lot of ways, actually. It’s good, y’know, to talk about that kinda stuff. Plus, well, I’m sure Eddie would understand, right?” Steve shrugs at that. Tommy must be able to see it. “You don’t know about his mom? That’s a conversation you guys should have, dude. That was pretty big, last I remember.”

“Why do you know that?”

“This kid was picking on Eddie back in high school. Picking on him about his mom. Think I gave that kid a black eye or two…what a shitty thing, shitting on somebody ‘cause their fucking parent died.” Tommy begins to slow on the road, blinker clicking as he signals turning into the Forest Hills drive. “But he’d understand, that’s all I’m saying. Plus, you need more people in your corner. More people to rely on. Not that—I mean, I love being there for you, dude. I just…it would be good.

“When my parents divorced, I relied on you, sure. But I had a few other people, too. Some teachers. Principal Higgins. Even Mrs. Byers…which kinda shocks me, considering how I treated her kid. Makes me feel sick thinking about that.”

Steve blinks, notices they’re outside Eddie’s trailer, parked next to his shit-box of a van. He gets a good look at Tommy’s side profile. Gently aged. “You grew up,” he states.

“Best fucking feeling in the world. Should’a followed in your footsteps, Stevie. Should’a quit being an asshole when it was time.”

“But you did eventually.”

Tommy gives a slow nod, unbuckling himself. “Yeah, well. There’s a time for everything.” He looks over to Steve. God, his big brown eyes look even bigger in the sunlight. Even gentler. Even sweeter. “Can I walk you up to the door?”

“I don’t know…Eddie might”—

“I kinda need to talk to him anyway. It’s important.”

“Yeah, okay…okay.”

By the time they make it up the steps, peanut butter cups stored deep in Steve’s pocket, Eddie’s already swinging the door open. There’s a look of apprehension on his face, darting his eyes between Steve and Tommy. A bite behind his lip that he’s very noticeably trying to hide away. “Stevie,” he greets softly, “what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Um…I…I had a bad night,” Steve quietly admits, “thought I’d come here, after Tommy helped me.”

The screen door opens wider. Eddie’s face goes soft, deeper. “Everything alright? Nobody’s hurt, are they?”

Steve swallows, shifts uneasily. “I don’t wanna talk about it right now, please. Just…can I hang out for a bit? Maybe nap?”

Eddie’s already placing a hand on the center of Steve’s back, ushering him in. “Of course, just go in and get comfortable, I’ll meet you inside in a second.”

As soon as he steps inside, the door shuts behind him. Muffled conversation is all he hears, retreating to Eddie’s room. In a matter of minutes, stuffy jacket taken off, he’s dozing.

——— “Alright, what’re you doing here?” Eddie asks, finally addressing Tommy.

In front of him, Tommy shifts uncomfortably. “Listen, I know you don’t trust me. I get it. But I…I just need to talk to you, okay? It’s about Steve.”

“If you’re here to talk shit on him after he was lookin’ like that, then you can take your sorry ass”—

“He called me, ‘bout a couple hours ago, sobbing on the phone. His dad’s being a real piece of work. Just a total shitbag, okay? And he called me from the park by his house, talking to me about his dad, and I couldn’t just leave him there. Kept zoning out on the phone, sobbing, I couldn’t just leave him there.” Tommy thrusts his hand into his pocket, producing a pocket knife from it.

Eddie startles back slightly, a half-step backwards. “Why do you”—

“I found him there, completely out of it on a bench, with this fucking knife in his hand. It was open. Like he was…and I took it from him, kept it from him. Took him around town for a bit, trying to get him not to spook, y’know?” The knife is warm, placed heavily in Eddie’s palm, fingers curling tight around it. “He was going to do it. If I hadn’t gotten there, if he had never called me…I don’t even want to think about it.

“But he told me that you guys take care of each other. And he told me that if he had something, he could go to you for it. I’m just. I’m worried, okay? I can’t always be there to save him, he needs more people in his corner—people who are not going to judge him—because I can’t fathom with”—Tommy’s voice wobbles, thickens—“with losing him. And I know you’d be absolutely wrecked, if what he told me ‘bout your relationship is true”—

“You know about us?”

“That’s not important,” Tommy emphasizes. “Just don’t let him get this, okay? Keep an eye on him. He needs it. I care about him, even if it doesn’t seem that way, I do. He was my whole world up until our junior year. If something happened to him—fuck—I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t know…I don’t…”

Eddie’s not used to people crying around him. The only people who have are, well, Wayne and Steve.

But Tommy’s shoulders shake, his whole back heaving. Each sob caught on a choked breath. His eyes squinting into themselves, skin going splotchy with the effort.

Without a care for image, Eddie is stepping forward again, wrapping Tommy in a tight hug.

He doesn’t get Steve and Tommy’s whole dynamic. Not at all. All he knows is that they had a falling out. But he gets it, calling on the past to try and ground the present, that’s something Eddie’s been doing his whole life. Nostalgia or something. Relying on the lucidity of memories to bring him back. But if Tommy says something’s bad, sobbing so bad he’s choking with it, then it’s something worth tucking away.

And with that knife heavy in Eddie’s hand, he sees what Tommy’s doing.

He understands it.

He fucking gets it.

“Sorry,” Tommy muffles into his shoulder, “shit, I’m sorry. The world wouldn’t be the fuckin’ same if he—god, shit—he’s too good to do shit like that.”

Eddie’s squeezing so tight his knuckles hurt. “I’ve got him,” he swears into Tommy’s hair, “I’m not letting him get away like this again. I promise, man, I fucking promise.”

“Be easy on him,” Tommy murmurs, “he’s easily spooked.”

“I know, fuck, I know.”

Tommy pats him on the back in that dude-bro way. And then he’s pulling away, wiping hastily at his eyes. “If you guys need anything, you can call me. I know I’m not the best person, but I can try. Fuck, for anybody in Steve’s life, I can try.”

Swallowing down his own wave of tears, Eddie nods. “You in the yellow pages?”

“Yup. Leonard Hagan’s residence. Think it’s somewhere in the 130s.”

“I’ll reach out. ‘Specially if I can’t get to him.”

“I got him some peanut butter cups. Works wonders with trying to get him to open up.”

There’s a small little smile on Tommy’s face, knowing and soft. Eddie chuckles airily. “Yeah, he’s a peanut butter goblin or something. Think he ate eighty percent of my last jar, honest to God.”

“He’ll do that to you. Think he still owes me at least three jars.” Tommy reaches out again, patting Eddie on the shoulder. “I’ll see you around, Eddie. Keep an eye on him for me, yeah?”

“Nothing else I’d rather do.”

☎️—————☎️

[caparrucia]

There's a fork in the road, when you're unlearning toxic shit, that I like to call the Slur Event Horizon. Where you've learned just enough about social justice to identify the surface symptoms of oppressive structures, but you haven't really internalized the principles on a foundational level.

So you find yourself staring at the face at someone you really fucking hate, and fumbling for a slur to use.

Because you come from a culture (built on those oppressive systems) that has taught you slurs are the words you use, in this situation. You have cultural baggage that has taught you how to handle this situation, and the way you handle this situation is by yelling a slur at someone.

But here's the thing, you've also learned from peers and mentors that social justice is in fact a thing you want to cosign. You agree with everything you've been told about social justice. You think women should be people and gays should be married and trans people should get all the dresses or drugs they want to be happy. You have Black friends and Asian friends and you even know the difference between Latino and Hispanic. Your crush turned you down but you were okay with it because they're ace and you know that's not just an excuse, that's just who they are.

You like to think you're a good person. Nothing extraordinary, you're not one of those people who are radical in their beliefs. You vote when you find out there's elections (but you don't seek them out or stay on top of them or go to meetings to yell at people or anything). You're normal and pretty decent, even, certainly better than your boomer parents and all their hateful bigotry that you've been really thinking about limiting or cutting off contact because you've realized they make you into a worse version of yourself and, well. Here you are, trying to be better. And then you run into this person that you hate (justifiably, even!) and you need to make it known, you need to grab the festering, vicious, poisonous thing under your tongue and spit it out, preferably in your face.

So you do what you're told and you reach for a slur and it... chafes.

Your feelings are real and valid and burning, but you know better, really. You like to think you do. You know calling someone a name for their gender or race or sexuality is... y'know. Bad.

This might be in fact the reason why you hate this specific person so much! They're so bigoted and evil. They pick on your friends. They've hurt your family. They make a mockery of real tragedies. Perhaps, they have proudly committed or participated in actual, real, serious crimes and the thought alone makes your blood boil.

But you're a good person, and you've done all the reading about why slurs are bad and hurtful and evil.

But just this once...

And here's where the split happens:

Because you can choose to swallow it back and sit with your feelings and internalize a bit more why slurs are not good, actually, and yeah. Yeah, you need to learn a new way to express frustration and anger towards people who, frankly, fucking suck, but who are, at the end of the day, still people.

Or you decide you need a slur, but not like all the other ones, because the problem with slurs, surely, is not that they dehumanize people, but that they target the wrong people. So you come up with a new one. This slur is okay to use, because it's targeting evil people.

Or maybe you decide that in this clear instance, the slur is okay, actually, because the target is irredeemable and unforgivable and not actually a person and therefore it's okay to use a slur because it's not dehumanization if they're not human anyway!

And the thing is, the Slur Event Horizon is where a lot of would-be progressives slideback into bigotry, because now you've made a choice. Now it's not about when you were younger and more ignorant and you didn't know any better. You knew and you made the choice and if someone points out, "yeah that's... that's wrong actually, try again" you will feel very attacked. Obviously targeted. Singled out unnecessarily.

Here's the thing, you can't bully a stranger to backtrack, if they've chosen the wrong option out of the Slur Event Horizon. You can absolutely nudge a friend or family member and point out you think they've fucked up, because your relationship will serve as a buffer. See, a friend pointing out they might have gone down the wrong road is helpful. Considerate even. People who are close to them care about them, so it's not about punishment or public humiliation, it's about growth!

But a stranger fumbling this will not in fact recalibrate if you yell at them about it. That's not to say you should just let them go about calling the dipshit of the hour slurs. Slurs are bad, they're toxic and hurt people, more than just the person being targeted. They ruin communities and ostracize minorities. Slurs have no place in public spaces and the reaction to them should always be "no", sometimes "FUCK no" and even "the fuck, NO."

My point is, you should not derail the swift, unforgiving response to slurs by trying to shame or bully the user for being a bad leftie or a bad progressive or a bad whatever the fuck ideological group you're part of. You're not changing minds by derailing into a debate about the appropriate use of slurs and whether a specific dipshit has dipshit enough to merit unpersoning. You're just platforming slurs and giving them a veneer of acceptability, because otherwise there would be nothing to debate.

(There is nothing to debate. Slurs are dehumanizing language and if you give two shits about social justice, dehumanization should be the first, biggest nono you learn. And now, "reclaimed" slurs are not the same as slurs. It's not about the words themselves, it's about how you use them. If you're using words as slurs, you've fucked up and fundamentally lost the plot.)

[possesseddesiress]

Bass Drop: Body Swap

CONTENT WARNING: This story includes themes of transformation and body control with a suggestive approach. If this type of narrative is not to your liking or you do not meet the recommended age, we suggest you do not continue.

All images used (if any) belong to their respective owners. I claim no authorship over them and they are only used for illustrative purposes.

If you decide to go ahead, welcome to Possessed Desires, where mind and body are never completely under your control.

Bass Drop: Body Swap (English Version) + Extended version

I hated my brother. He was five years older than me, and we were definitely polar opposites in every way. If you ever saw us on the street, I don't think you'd ever think we had any blood ties; and in personality, it was the same.

He was the typical athlete: big, strong, muscular and handsome, he had the girls at his feet and everything went well for him.

And on the other side was me. Thin, small, with geeky tastes and incredibly clumsy. He always used to tease me about my looks, making derogatory comments about how I looked like spaghetti or that without an ounce of muscle I was a girl. I was fed up, but what could I do? No doubt years and years of him teasing me had somehow made me get used to it all. Until the day the glass finally fell over.

— Please, Chris, I want to go to the concert, you know how much I love electronic music!

— I already told you no, shorty - my brother mumbled as he saw what clothes he would wear tomorrow for EDC.

One of the most important music concerts, and the one I wanted to go to with all my might. It was clear that I was a fan of the music, although I was also curious about the whole atmosphere there. The guys used to wear clothes so tight that they left nothing to the imagination, suspenders, bows, harnesses. It looked like a gay pride parade if you saw it up close, and I want to see it.

— You and your friends have an extra ticket! Let me go! Chris, please! - I begged him while he just ignored me.

— And that ticket we're going to sell, pff. How do you think we're going to pay for part of the other tickets? Reselling is good business.

— Then I'll pay you, sell it to me

I said, almost on the verge of despair. My brother stopped what he was doing, only to let out a mocking laugh in my face.

– You're not going, silly - he denied still laughing - not even mom and dad are going to let you go in the first place.

– Yes they will, just give me the ticket!

– No - he said sharply - I'm not going to sell it to you even if you give me extra money, this is only for real men, not wimps like you - he boasted. Widening his chest with mockery.

I could only press my lips together in anger before leaving his room to lock myself in mine. I felt so much annoyance, anger and rage at that moment, but what could I do? He was older and even worse. He would go to the concert.

Defeated, I sat on the bed. For a while I was crestfallen until I felt my cell phone buzz, I picked it up to see the loading screen, as if it had just updated. Once it was back to normal, I couldn't help but notice that there was a new app called "Possess".

I opened it right away, noticing the slightly odd interface and the app's instructions, "Possess whoever you want. Select the data."

There was a section to enter my data and the other person's data. I felt ridiculous, I even thought it was a virus, although curiosity called me to give it a try. I filled in both fields and clicked on the button that said "Own", it stayed loading.

And nothing happened in a minute, I clicked the button again to get the same result over and over again.

Annoyed, I threw my phone across the room, to close my eyes, tired and annoyed at not being able to go to the concert of my dreams.

The next morning, I felt very different. Heavy... yet strangely invigorated, I opened my eyes, confused as I looked around, I was no longer in my room but my brother's room. It smelled of sweat, there were sports posters, cars and so on on the walls, a typical sportsman's room. I stood up confused.

– Chris?... - I mumbled. Noticing my new baritone. I looked down, only to find my brother's big muscles that now seemed to be mine – Oh fuck!

I couldn't help but scream. I began to explore my new body, caressing my pecs and abs, my huge biceps. God, he was huge!

I smiled in satisfaction at my new body, I even felt the outline of my new member, my unhappy brother certainly got the best genes.

I was still lost in that exploration of myself, with my new smell, I think I could spend hours smelling myself... but then I remembered the concert, now I could go and there would be nothing to stop me!

Without waiting a second longer, I started getting dressed up for the festival, I would have liked to wear some revealing and tight fitting clothes on my older brother's body... but there was nothing in his closet that would stick to that fantasy, so I just put on some jogger pants, and a sweatshirt tied at the waist, I looked kind of silly.... But hey.

My brother's body was hot, who cared if he looked ridiculous, you better see the size of these pecs!

I also put on some sunglasses and painted my new body with neon paint. Once I was ready, I took my brother's car to go straight to the festival. I thought it would be hard to learn how to drive, but the moment I touched the steering wheel, it was like an automatic knowing it.

I felt a strange thrill akin to excitement as they scanned my ticket and let me in, the music booming loudly. There were thousands and thousands of people in outlandish costumes, dancing or just chatting.

My heart was pounding. For some reason, I felt small and misfit, even being in such a huge body; it wasn't long before several people started noticing me, and smiling at me.

They were looking at me. They were... Flirting? For some reason, that seemed to be an adrenaline rush to boost my confidence. I stuck out my chest in a self-centered way, moving through the crowd, smiling at the occasional guy who kept overlooking my body. Gosh... it felt so good to be this muscular.

The rest of the evening and day I did nothing but dance, listen to the music and admire my new attributes from time to time. Caressing my pecs, or feeling my arms.

Or my scent, it took all my willpower not to start sniffing and licking my armpits right there. Although, what if I did? Others would surely be attracted to all the acting of this body, after all, I now had the physique of a god.

I also loved to notice how other guys tried to flirt with me, carelessly squeezing my biceps or directly staying inches away from my lips with theirs, one even almost sniffed my armpit under the pretext that it was a joke!

The music was vibrating loudly, every now and then I would raise my arms to make them flex, seemingly dancing. Everything felt great, the attention, the music, the smell!

Believe it or not, so many guys dancing for hours on end really put a stink in the air. But fuck... It didn't bother me, I loved it. I could feel my brother's relief stiffen every time the smell hit my nose. Maybe my brother's body could be straight with him in control, but with me controlling him...

At first I tried to restrain myself and show "respect" to his body, it had already been crossing a boundary to have stolen the festival experience from him and become him. Although that feeling lasted for at least about 10 minutes before I remembered all the hell he was making me live through on a daily basis - 《 Fuck it, what does it matter if I do something that affects him? It's my turn to enjoy 》

I could feel the stares of several guys. Some muscular, others slim or with defined bodies, but they all shared one thing: They were ogling this body.

I smiled egocentrically, raised my arms to flex them, swelling my big, strong biceps. It was like making them drool.

Although in that process, I could smell something... heck. I forgot to put on deodorant. My brother had a very strong, musky, potent scent that immediately made me gasp when I smelled it. I lifted my armpit, and unable to contain myself any longer, I began to sniff and lick it, enjoying the stench of my new body.

This seemed to disgust some of the guys, but others were even more interested by this act. In a matter of mere seconds, I had at least seven guys of all complexions surrounding me, taking a bit of advantage of the darkness in the area to move their hands all over my muscles.

One was on my relief, another took my pecs, another my buttocks, even my arms and abdomen, it was as if no inch of my body was left unattended.

But, hey... This body belongs to a god. And it deserves to be worshipped. So if they want to play, let them play. I don't give a fuck if someone records and they notice my "brother" behaving like this. It's my body now. And if I want him to be addicted to flexing his arms and smelling his own scent, so be it.

I closed my eyes, lost in all that adrenaline until I heard a familiar voice.

–Chris?!?

Shit. I opened my eyes quickly to meet the gaze of Mauricio, one of my brother's best friends, I was about to get nervous. But I preferred to put on an indifferent and cold face.

– Sup, bro? - I lifted my armpits a little more so that my new admirers would continue in despair. Which caused commotion in the guy.

Mauricio was certainly cute, a little dark, strong and huge... and apparently his suit left nothing to the imagination, he didn't even look like one of those typical "straight" suits that were simply a sport shirt. He was wearing a denim suit, tight and flashy. He looked so good...

– What the fuck, dude? You didn't answer your cell phone for hours! And what are you doing!

He clearly looked upset, but I just smiled arrogantly at him.

– Well, I had other plans. Sorry I didn't call, I guess. Don't be so dramatic - I let out a deep laugh.

– Are you on drugs? What's wrong with you? Hey! What with Samantha!?

Ah, so that's the name of the new girl my brother has a crush on, interesting to know now.

– Nah, bro. I'm completely lucid, and I don't know. I think I like men more now - I smiled –And from what I see, maybe you do too.

I lowered my gaze, pointing to the relief forming on his face. The sportsman immediately covered himself up; I was loving the whole performance, although it seemed that my new admirers got bored because little by little they ended up dispersing until there were none left.

I took advantage of that to shorten the distance, immediately approaching to cling to his contour.

– Bro! What the fuck is wrong with you?!?

– I don't know, dude. Maybe I realized that you are very hot - I murmured to finally kiss him with intensity, it was inconclusive until he ended up kissing me again. I felt how he grabbed me by the waist to stick me to him.

– Chris... - he murmured panting. I moved closer to him to lift his armpit and start sniffing it, it smelled even better than my brother's...

– What? - I said still nonchalantly.

All that adrenaline was taking me through the roof, I could feel the outline of my brother's armpit against his underwear and leave it a little damp. I didn't care if it ruined his friendship with Mauricio, if his other friends or his social circle found out. Fuck, if his college found out about all this, even better.

God, it's so cool to be my big brother!

---

I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you liked it, don't forget to follow it and share it so more people can discover it.

I'm always open to suggestions and ideas, so if you have any fantasy or scenario in mind, let me know in the comments or in messages.

This will be my new account, I hope you like the stories that are coming soon. See you in the next story... Who knows what body you will occupy this time?

---

[suzieloveships]

Cybertron Pre-Sentinel's betray

AKA High Guard x B99 au

Part 1/Part 2

Soundwave: Just talk to him and apologise.

Shockwave: Nope. I’m going to wait until I am on my deathberth, get in the last word, and die immediately.

Soundwave: That’s your plan for dealing with this?

Shockwave: That’s my plan for dealing with everything. I have 72 arguments I am going to win that way.

------

Megatronus: Starscream, can I speak to you for a minute? In private.

Starscream: Ooh, someone’s in trouble. It’s me. I don’t know why I did that.

------

Starscream: Maybe it's not too late to get out of here. We could start a new life on some distant planet, maybe have a lab in a basement of our home

Skyfire: How dare you tempt me with a lab in the basement!

------

Thundercracker: Skywarp, I screw up, big time.

Skywarp: TC, given your daily life experiences, you’re gonna have to be more specific.

------

Shockwave: It's just that you can be... judgemental, at times.

Megatronus: What a stupid thing to say. Name one time that I've been judgmental.

Shockwave: Okay.

-2 seconds ago-

Megatronus: What a stupid thing to say.

-present-

Megatronus: Oh, I see.

------

Thundercracker: Desperate times call for Desperate Housewives

Megatronus: What?

Thundercracker: Measures! I said measures!

------

Starscream, to Megatronus: before you say anything, yes, we screwed up, and yes, you warned us, and yes, I don't know where I'm going with this, but I do know this

Starscream: I have reached the end of my sentence

------

Skyfire: once we get that new berth we'll have to break it in

Starscream: oh I hear what you're saying, mattress trampoline

Starscream: wait no you were talking about sex

Skyfire: yeah

------

Thundercracker: remember you have to pretend to be surprised

Shockwave: how's this: oh my Primus, it's so much worse than I imagined

Thundercracker: the energy was great but the message was flawed 

------ Starscream: Anything interesting happened while I was gone Shockwave: Prime banned headphones from the main bridge after the "Skywarp incident" Skywarp incident ⬇️

------ Starscream: Okay, okay, okay. I think I know how we can get some more money. Skywarp: Yeah, you would make a good prostitute. Starscream: I'd make an amazing prostitute. ------ Shockwave: We talked about emotions for 20 minutes Megatronus: Primus below ------ Starscream: What I'm about to say will make you very horny but you have to try and remember we're still at work Starscream: Do you want me to quiz you? Skyfire, turn on: Primus, yes

[mclager]

Devil's roll the dice (angel's roll their eyes) | Landoscar X reader

English is not my first language, take it easy

Warnings: Stupidity (in a cool way), drunken marriage, Landoscar having a crush on eachother and being little bitches about it, drunk sex, m/m/f, mentions of Elvis Presley covers

Face claim: girls of pinterest under the "white dress" search

🃏

Ynrkv

Liked by Lando, oscarpiastri and others

Ynrkv Only white dresses for Las Vegas, I hope I don't have to say anything else!

View all comments

User81 someone is getting married this weekend!

Lando I will say it for you

→ Ynrkv Thank you very much 🙏🏼

Oscarpiastri Why Lando get a cool picture and I got whatever this is?

→ ynrkv You look cute, shut up

→ Oscarpiastri @/Lando I hate you

→ Lando You don't

🃏

"Is Lando responsable for this?" Oscar stopped in front of me and showed me my newest post on Instagram. Specifically the first photo on the slide.

"Yeah." I said still laying on the couch in his driver's room. "Did you like it?"

Osc locked his phone and put it in his pocket.

"I did, half of the grid did too." He he said a bit too irritaded, and I chuckled.

"By half of the grid you say Lando?" Oscar rolled his eyes and closed the door behind him, starting to pack up his things.

"And it matters?" He wasn't in a good mood, the race wasn't the best, so this, what is a normal thing, became a little bit bigger than it should.

"Lando is always flirting, it's nothing new."

"I don't like it." He said closing his backpack passive - aggressively.

"He flirts with you too, should I be mad?"

"Don't be crazy, he doesn't."

"He does, I'm not crazy." I got up. "We're in Vegas, let's drink the bad fellings away."

"I want to sleep."

"You don't, you want to cry to sleep, is different. Now please, can we go have a drink?" Oscar nodded. "Thank you."

He kissed me and out we went. We debated where to go, but in the end the hotel had a great bar, so we went there, no thoughts, just a cosmopolitan and a expresso martini on hand. It was conforting, just me and Oscar talking about silly things, but a couple drinks in I saw Lando walk in, comicly trying to get away from a blonde girl that was following him like a lost puppy. I chuckled and Oscar looked too.

"This girl again? Jesus." Oscar made the same face he did when he was talking about the picture and Lando flirting with me.

"Go help your mate." Osc shook his head and took a sip of his drink.

"Last time I did that she started crying." I laughed and shook my head.

"Babe, you have dealt with worse, go help, Lando." He rolled his eyes, but I could see he was glad to go fuck that girls happiness up. Oscar walked to Lando, and without even say hi, he pulled the man away from the girl. She tried to say something, but Oscar can get a bit intimidating when he wants to, which is not often, and strangely only happens in situations when Lando and Myself are needing help with something. The girl looked around and her eyes stopped on me, so I waved to the girl, I don't think she liked it.

"Got a girl problem?" I asked Lando as he aprocched me with Oscar by his side.

"Problem is a cute word, she is worst. She is everywhere, I can't anymore. Thanks for the help." He looked at Oscar that nodded.

"To celebrate, let's do shots?" Before anyone answered I was ordering the shots.

"I like her." Lando said to Oscar.

"She is my girlfriend, Norris."

"And? I never said I didn't liked you." Lando was tipsy, and it was visible, but so were we. I turned to look at Oscar that was blushing.

"Why are you all red, love?" I tease him, he always denied when I asked if he had a crush on a man ever in his life, but everytime Lando looked at him with his flirty eyes, the man was blushing like a little girl.

"Shut up." The shots were now in front of us.

1, 2, 3, 4 at the fifth round of shots we decided to go somewhere else, since Las Vegas has too many places to just be stuck in one hotel bar. First, Lando used his famous F1 driver badge, and Oscar's too just for good mesure, to get us inside a club, and it worked. The place was crowded, but it had good music and I love to dance.

"Good pick!" I yelled trought the loud music to Lando and he nodded.

"I know." He didn't yell like me, he got way too close to say it in my ear. I looked at Oscar that just looked at Lando, not one sign of jealousy, so I let it slide.

"Let's dance." I pulled Oscar by his hand to the dance floor, when I looked at him I saw he pulling Lando like I did with him.

The lights on the dance floor were blinding me, the smell of sweat and alchool were strong, but the song is too good to not enjoy it. I started to dance, Oscar did too. I don't know what happened, but between one song and the other, I was being pressed in between the two men, Oscar's face was so closed to mine, and Lando's body even closer to mine.

This was overstimulating all my senses, but god, it was good. Oscar's hands were on my hips, and I was sure of it, so it was clear that the other pair on my hips were Lando's. I never thought that this could happen without Oscar getting mad or too jealous, but it was happening and I wasn't mad at all. His face was sundenly on my neck, this was going too far, but Oscar was just looking.

We had to let go of eachother when we saw a girl in the distance pull out her phone to film us. So we got to go to the next location. We walked for some minutes and we were at a chapel one of those that you get married by a Elvis. I was ready to walk away from it because I didn't thought anything of it, but Oscar stopped.

"Love?" He called me and I looked at him.

"Yeah?" He looked at the little chapel and back at me.

"Do you want to marry me?" I look at him confused.

"What?"

"Do you want to marry me?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, come on." Lando looked at us.

"Please, go get married." I nodded.

"Let's do this." We runned in, and again, Oscar and Lando did all the complicated stuff and I just needed to say yes to Elvis, as it played love me tender in the background. Lando was the best person to have with us in this moment. Then we got back to the hotel and drank more.

It was almost six a.m when we were walking into Oscar's room.

"Don't break anything, Lando." Oscar said closing the door. I took of my heels and went to drink water.

"Why me? That's crazy."

"You're the liability, not me or my wife." Lando threw himself on the bed.

"Me? Oh fuck you, I'm not a liability, I'm fine." I gave a bottle of water to Lan and other to Oscar before hugging my husband.

"Yes, you're. Thank you, love."

"Thank you, darling."

"You're both welcome." Lando opened the water bottle and spilled all over himself. Oscar looked at Lando, and Lando looked at Oscar.

"I know what you're going to say, so don't." He got up and took off his shirt trying to dry his pants.

"As I said, liability." I sat on the bed and looked at them.

"At least you didn't wet the bed."

"But everything else is fucking wet." Oscar looked at me and smirked.

"Everything? Are you sure?"

"Oscar!" I threw a pillow on him.

"I just asked if he was sure."

"Pervert." Lando said laughing. Oscar lay down on by my side and hugged my waist.

"What? You two are perverts, I'm just saying, not everything is wet. The bed is fine, the floor is fine, you're the only thing that's wet."

"Sure." Lando said throwing his shirt on the floor.

"Take it off." Oscar said to Lando.

"What?"

"You want to be all wet fine, if don't, take it off, it's fine."

"Can I?" Lando asked me and I nodded.

"Sure." As he was taking his pants off, Oscar put his face on my neck leaving little kisses and soft bites. This man knows what he is doing.

"Can you two stop?" Lando was way hotter in his boxers, I have to give him that.

"Stop what? I'm just hugging my wife, can't I?"

"Osc... You're not just hugging her." He sat by my side rolling his eyes.

"No?" He pushed his hips against mine, Oscar was really excited about what was going on in his mind.

"Love, what are your plans?"

"I don't have any plans."

"Can you control your boyfriend, darling?"

"Oh, he's past the control part. I'm sorry." Oscar sighed.

"You two are boring. Sometimes I forget that all Lando can do is bad flirting."

"I'm really good at flirting, and I can do a lot more than that."

"Prove it." I turned to look at Oscar, completely in shock.

"How? You want me to do what? Kiss your wife? Kiss you?" He joked, little did he knew that was exactly what Oscar wanted.

"Are you thinking about it, Oscar?" I asked and he nodded.

"Any cons?" I shook my head.

"Go ahead."

"Oh god, you really mean that don't you?" Lando asked.

"What? Do you think I would let you grind on my girl just because I'm nice?" Oscar sat on the bed. "Are you going to say now you don't like the idea? If you don't, it's fine too..."

Before the end of his thought, Lan pulled Oscar and kissed him. Everything is happening too fast, or my head is too slow because of the alcohol, either way everything looks like a wet dream.

"That's what I'm talking about." Oscar said against Lando's lips. The unclothed state of Lando didn't help his case, he was getting hard by the second.

"I fucking knew you had a crush on eachother." I whispered more to me then to them, but they heard it, of course they did. Oscar chuckled letting Lando go.

"Sorry for lying."

"Well, sure, yes, sorry. Can we skip to the part fun? We can discuss about your man being canonically bi later."

"You're more needy than her after a race weekend, this will be fun."

"I'm not needy." I sat up.

"Sure, show Lando how not needy you're." I rolled my eyes jokingly and kissed Lando, and it was as good as I thought it would be.

Oscar unzipped my dress pulling it down, Lando's hands went to my hips in my naked skin, Oscar's hands also came in contact with my skin, less shy than Lando's. Oscar was quick to slide his hand on to Lando's body too, who pulled him into the kiss.

My hands went to Lando's boxer and Oscar's pants, both men incredibly hard. Lando moaned into the kiss making Oscar smile as he helped me get into his pants.

"You moan like a little bitch did you know that?" Oscar examined Lando's face trying to see if he was aligned with him, and the second moan coming out of him said a big yes to that.

"Now I know." I got down to take him on my mouth while I kept Oscar on my hand. "For fuck's sake." He gripped my hair pulling me against him.

"She's great." I heard Oscar saying, and if I needed to bet, I bet he was smiling.

"Yes." I looked up seeing Lando's face he wasn't able to answer more than that anyway. Oscar slapped my ass before sliding his fingers on my folds making me moan against Lando, and he gripped my hair even harder.

"Not only his clothes are wet, I see." He put on of his fingers inside me and moved a couple times before taking it off making me whine at the loss. "Lando?"

"hm?"

"Do you want to feel her?" He nodded eagerly, with his free hand he put one of his fingers in me, being followed by one of Oscar's. I took my mouth of Lando and moaned. They moved in an unison, driving me fucking crazy, just the thought of them fingering me could break me.

"Fuck, can someone fuck me already?"

"As I said, needy." I hate when he is right, but right now I hate to not have anyone inside of me. He took his fingers of me, sucking my juices off his finger, before he grabbed my face making me look at him. "Do you want to be fuck my Lando?"

"Yes, please!"

"Will you be a good girl for him?" I nodded.

"Yes, I will." Oscar smiled.

"Ok, then." He looked over to Lando. "She is yours, be good and make my girl come before you do."

"Yes, sir." Lando said without thinking, but quickly took it back. "I mean, Osc."

"No, no, I like that, keep it up." I couldn't see Lando's reaction to Oscar, but I could feel the tip of his cock brushing on my pussy. I looked at Oscar as Lando buried himself in me, like Osc likes to say: Moaning like a little bitch.

"Lando, you feel so good." I whined.

"You feel even better." He groaned. I saw Oscar getting closer to my face and I opened my mouth, he didn't think twice before starting to fuck my mouth, as hard as he could. My eyes where watering, I was drooling everywhere, but Oscar was looking at me like I was the prettiest girl he ever saw. It made me clench around Lando, who gripped onto my hips for dear life.

As harder as Lando fucked my pussy, Oscar did as well to my mouth, I never felt as full as right now. I could get used to it. Oscar pulled Lando to a kiss, they looked so good together I could put it on the Louvre and if I did, people would stop looking at the Mona Lisa. I moaned against Oscar, and tightened around Lando.

"Fuck, darling." Lando moaned.

"Do you want to come?" Oscar asked me and I nodded, he took his dick off my mouth and said on my ear. "Then do it as loud as you can."

"And as quickly as you can, because I'm almost there too. If you take longer I'll cum inside you." It wasn't a threat, or a promise, it was a concerned statement, but the thought of him cumming inside me just made me go over the edge, I screamed, both of their names, feeling every inch of me trembling almost falling against the bed. Oscar chuckled.

"I think she liked the idea." Oscar looked at my face and back at Lando. "You can if you want." He didn't have to say it twice, as soon as Oscar finished his sentence I felt Lando coming undone inside me.

"Fuck." He moaned and Oscar pulled my hair to make me look at him.

"Open up." I opened my mouth as he came partially inside of it. Lando pushed me against him to lick my chin clean of Oscar's seed, as he was still inside me. We kissed, then Oscar joined.

"Is this one of those things that doesn't leave Vegas?" Lando asked as he helped me to lay down on the bed.

"I would love if it did left Vegas." Oscar said as he got up, going to the bathroom. I hugged Lando's waist and nodded agreeing with Osc.

"You will sleep with us tonight, right?" I asked Lando, he looked at Oscar who just sat by my side and started to clean me up with a wet towel.

"You heard the queen." Oscar answered jokingly.

"If you insist."

"I do." I said closing my eyes, they started to talk about something, but I slept so quickly I couldn't understand what it was.

I woke up with the sun on my face, cursing myself for not closing the blinds properly. I opened my eyes to see Oscar sleeping like an angel, but I could feel the heaviness of someone else's arms on my waist. I turned around to see Lando drooling on the pillow. I smiled. It wasn't a dream, it was real.

I pause. I look at my hand.

All of it was real.

I was really wearing a wedding ring that matches Oscar's, and I can't really believe that our first action as a married couple was bring Lando in. It wasn't a bad idea.

"Good morning." I heard Oscar and I turned to see him.

"Good morning." He kissed me and looked passed my shoulder to see Lando. He smiled.

"Sorry for keeping it a secret from you." He whispered to not bother the sleepyhead.

"It was not very well kept, but I'll forgive you for denying it when I asked." I brushed his hair off his face. "Don't lie to me again."

"I won't." He paused. "Did you enjoy it?" I nodded.

"Very much, you?"

"Very much." We smiled.

"By the way, why you decided to get married drunk in Vegas?"

"Because I love you." He looked at Lando, as if that I love you was him too, and I didn't mind.

"I hope that nobody in PR gets even close to discover this."

"If they do I'll simply confirm that I'm the luckiest man alive."

[keyaho]

summary > Blaire is sick and Terry takes care of her. chapter warnings > fluff, mentions of pregnancy,

'Meet The Richmonds' takes place in between A Different World & Melanin Prep. It's a small series detailing the first 7 years of their marriage and what actually happened in Rebel Ridge.

Terry stepped into the house and toed off his boots by the door. His keys were tossed in the little bowl on the table by the door. The house was warmer than he had left it and that meant one thing. Coupled with Aaron calling him about Blaire passing out during their class field trip, he hauled ass to get off work and home. Noah was in the hands of his grandmother and Angela told him he'd watch him for a few days. They all knew Blaire didn't just get sick. Sighing, Terry rounded the corner into the living room and into the kitchen. Her appetite was probably shit, so he placed an order for takeout and asked Aaron to swing by and pick it up. He could drop it off and just leave it in the kitchen. 

He entered their bedroom and walked to the side of the bed. Blaire was buried beneath the sheets, her hair wild, curled into a ball. Pulling out his phone, he snapped a photo. 

"Dushi,' Terry whispered, sitting on the edge while peeling back the damp layers of sheets. 

He touched her forehead and pulled back, very concerned. She was burning hot. He knew how she felt about hospitals and opted to try and break her fever himself. Terry left her side for a moment, turning on the shower in their bathroom and closed the door so it could build steam. He found her some warm clothes to change into after running her a bath. 

When he came back to the bed, she was sitting up. 

"How's my baby doing,' he asked softly, pushing her hair out of the way so he could see her face. 

"Tired,' she cried in a rush as if she was using the very last of her breath to speak. "My baby,' she suddenly tried getting up. 

Terry realized she remembered what time it was and he grabbed her as she almost fell off the bed. 

"Angela is going to watch him for a few days, baby. Noah is fine. You're not." 

Blaire leaned into Terry, her head falling to his chest. "I don't feel good." She croaked, throat burning as she tried to speak. He reached between them and unbuttoned the silk shirt she was wearing. His hand flattened against her stomach and she placed her hand on top of his. 

"Your morning sickness is getting worse,' he murmured. 

Carrying their second, they hadn't told anyone yet, had Blaire struggling to keep the secret, especially when she was sick, but she had done a good job until now. As soon as Blaire's doctor confirmed her pregnancy, Terry had been all over her and overbearing. He had done the same when she was pregnant with Noah, but this time because she was sicker, Terry was all in her space. 

“It’s time we tell everyone.” He said. 

There was a gleam in his eye. He was more excited for their new addition than Blaire. He already started transforming one of the guest rooms into a nursery. Each time he talked about the baby or did something for the baby, he had the biggest grin on his face. Out of the two of them he was the one that wanted children the most and he wanted a lot of them. So when Blaire gave him he greenlight on baby number two, he put in overtime. No ovulation period went unfucked over the past three months. 

"Tomorrow. I can make soup." She sniffled, sneezed, and let out a tired breath. 

Wrapping his arms around her, Terry lifted her into his arms and carried her towards the bathroom. He sat her on the sink and opened the medicine cabinet. He noticed none of the medicine had been opened. 

"I will make you soup and we will do a video call." He bends his knees so he can look her in the eyes. "Okay?" 

Blaire knew it wasn't safe for everyone to pile in the house while she was sick. She much rather see their faces in person, but conceded. 

"Okay." 

Helping her out of the silk pajamas, he guided her into the tub. He pulled her hair up into a bun so it didn't get wet. He'd seen her wash day routine and knew she was in no condition to do it herself. He'd do it tomorrow because there was no way she was making it to work until the end of the week at least. The studio had already been informed and her assistants would be taking over her classes. 

The water felt soothing on her skin and the added eucalyptus and lavender oils began to clear her mind and ease some pressure she was feeling. She looked up at her husband as he leaned against the sink. His thick arms folded across his chest and she furrowed her brow. 

"What is wrong, Terrence?" 

"Nothing, baby, nothing." He smiled. "You just look so miserable." 

She didn't have the energy to go back and forth with him in light banter. She instead shrugged. 

"Can you come get in the tub with me?" 

"I haven't showered from work." 

"We will shower after." 

Terry rubbed a hand over the back of his head. She was more clingy when she was sick. She leaned into letting him take care of her like he had promised years ago. He knew she loved to teach dance but all he wanted was her home at a reasonable time and her attention on taking care of their children. He'd give his wife whatever she wanted. So Terry nodded and began undressing, watching a smile come to her tired face. Blaire leaned forward as he got in the tub behind her. She instantly made herself comfortable in his arms. He wrapped them around her body and kissed the side of her neck. 

Able to see her small rounding belly, Terry placed on hand on it and rubbed back and forth gently. 

"How's my son doing," he asked, a coy smile on his lips. 

It was faint, but Blaire kissed her teeth. "You made a girl." She corrected. "And she is doing fine." 

They didn't know the gender of the baby and planned to keep it that way until birth. This time Blaire was sure it was a girl, while Terry made sure to tell her he only made boys. Blaire placed her hand on top of his and relaxed as she closed her eyes. 

"Thank you." He said suddenly. 

"What did I do?" She asked. 

"For giving me another child." 

Blaire turned her head and looked up at him. "You wanted a lot of children." 

"But I told you that it's up to you when and how many." He rubs her stomach and rests his hands just under it. "So thank you for this one and Noah." 

They could have stopped at Noah and he would be thankful. He knew Blaire considered his son, Terrence Jr. her son as well, but it was a little different being his wife but having his second child. Her therapist had helped her through that during her pregnancy. It wasn’t a case of infidelity. It was before Blaire made it to Hillman to even reconnect with Terrence. Their sporadic run ins didn’t make them a couple. 

“You are welcome.” 

Taglist: @nayaesworld @peachbuttetfly @heauxvibez @avoidthings @mymindisneverhere @eilujion @heytaewrites  @insidefeelingofanadult @captainwithoutmakingitlove  @kindofaintrovert @jimmybutlrr @beenathembo  @virgomess  @theereina @randomhood @ash-ketchumzzz @megamindsecretlair 

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[triptychcryptid]

O'Sadley's, sometime in the early 90's:

Stan H512'12 at the bar with a drink in his hand, smooth-talking the bartender who just mentioned it's her last day.

-Anti-Ford walks in and spots Stan- "Hey Stan! Good to see ya!"

-Stan turns around as Anti walks up to him with a friendly smile. Gruffly- "Hey man."

Anti: "What are you doing here? You doing okay? You seem upset."

Stan: -scoffs- "Upset? Nah, I'm fine, man. What, somethin' needs to be wrong for me to get a drink? Man can't just go into a bar on a Friday night and hit on the bartender?"

9 drinks later

Stan: -face down on the bartop, sobbing while Anti-Ford sits next to him with an arm around him- "-An' then that fucker took off my fingertip to get me to let go of him, and he LEF' ME TO DIE! My own brother! " -holds up his hand so Anti can see the missing fingertip, except that Stan's friend Saoirse already fixed it for him, so there's nothing to see-

Anti: -in a soothing tone- "Hey, buddy, I know. It's okay, you're not alone."

Stan: -still sobbing as a different bartender walks in, switching out with the other one- "An' I ended up on that stupid ass dinosaur planet and almost got eaten like 50 times!"

Anti: "That must have been terrifying! Big hugs, let it out."

Bartender: -sighs and goes to the bar phone, presses the 3rd speed dial button and waits. After a minute: "Hey, yeah, it's Matt. -pause- Yeah, again. -pause- 10. -pause- Yeah, it was fuckin' Nicole. It's ALWAYS Nicole. I never let him drink that much. -pause- No, Anti's here with him. He's scaring off my other customers, though, get him out of here. -pause- Yeah, okay, thanks." -To Anti-Ford and Stan- "Saoirse's coming to get him."

Anti-Ford: "Hey, thanks, man. I appreciate you calling her, I think the poor guy's had enough."

About 20 minutes later, Stan's best friend Saoirse shows up and walks up to them

Saoirse: "Hey, Anti-Gravity! Thanks for babysitting him. Sorry you had to see this. He's such a baby when he has more than like 5 drinks."

Anti-Ford: -gives her a friendly wave and smile- "Hey! Oh, no worries. I deal with worse from my best friend." -meaning Jerk Ford- "He had a lot of feelings he needed to get out. I really don't mind."

Saoirse: -shakes Stan's shoulder- "Hey, Staniel Day-Lewis, let's go. You're a fucking mess and you look like shit."

Stan: -grumbles something unintelligible at her-

Saoirse: -grabs him around the waist, slings one of his arms around her shoulders and slides him out of his chair- "Nope, come on. Matt's losing business because of you and you're embarrassing yourself. And me. And Anti-Ford." Anti-Ford: "Oh, no, I really don't-"

Saoirse: -in a teasing sort of way, grinning at him- "Shut up. You're embarrassed, I'm embarrassed, we're all embarrassed. He's extremely embarrassing. Anyway, see ya later, Lisa Frank!" -waves to Anti-Ford and Matt as she drags Stan out of the bar to her ship.

I don't know, I had an idea where Stan gets shit-faced at O'Sadley's one night and Anti-Ford just happens to be there and lends a shoulder for Stan to hysterically sob on. XD This would be after they'd crossed paths a few times, so they were sorta on friendly terms, but Stan's still warming up to him as he's still very against Fords in general. But Anti is the most NOT like his Ford, so he trusts him more than the others. Also, this happens enough that the bar has Saoirse on speed dial. XD Also, if people don't know how to pronounce Saoirse's name, it's Sir-Shuh. Rhymes with Inertia. XD

Hopefully I did Anti-ford justice. Or...SOME justice. XD According to @tinfoil-jones, Anti's superpower is accurately translating emotional unavailability into it's deeper meaning. A.K.A, this is the 10th anniversary of Stan's arrival to the portal and he's got feelings about it, but refuses to admit that he's upset. XD

@localcanadiancreature62

[electrikworm]

Lula

Relationships: 99 & Wrecker, 99 & Clone Force 99

Content Warnings: Clone Trooper dehumanization, Nightmares, Crying

Summary:

When Wrecker comes to 99 crying after another nightmare, 99 starts looking for a solution to the bad dreams that are keeping the young clone awake.

Written for the @wrecker-week Bingo prompt "Lula"

Word count: 1,497

Read on Ao3

Work Text:

99 wakes to a knock on his door. Nobody comes knocking if he's needed to clean, 99 usually just getting a message on his comlink. This must be something else, likely not anything work related. 99's guess is it's a vode needing help in some way. With a groan, 99 pushes himself upright. The person at the door knocks again, more insistently. "Be right there!" 99 says, not sure if they can even hear him from the other side of the door. 99 doesn't change into his work clothes, just slipping on his boots. Body still adjusting to walking again after laying, 99 makes his way to the door, activating the panel that makes it slide open. He hadn't expected to see someone so small on the other side.

Wrecker, freshly named a few weeks back, is standing there, tears rolling down his young face. He's shaking, clutching at his shirt with unsteady hands. His sleeves are soaked through, proving that he'd been crying for a long while already. 99 wonders if he'd walked the entire way from the experimental squad's barracks to 99's tiny sleeping quarters whilst crying. He probably did by the looks of it.

“What's the matter?” 99 asks, carefully placing a hand on top of Wrecker's head. Wrecker's face scrunches up, then he bursts out in a sob, grabbing hold of 99's hand. It's hard to tell any of the mumbled words that burst forth from Wrecker apart, but from what 99 does understand, Wrecker's had another bad dream.

It's far from an uncommon occurrence. If anything, the dreams have been getting worse. But for Wrecker to be here, alone, something has to be wrong. He always goes to his brothers first and they can usually calm him. Wrecker tells 99 about the dream later during the day, since he finds it hard to forget the disturbing images his brain bothers him with.

“Are you and your brothers fighting?” 99 asks. That's the only option that 99 can think of. Wrecker shakes his head.

Wiping at his face, sniffing quietly as he tries to control his tears, Wrecker looks up at 99. “Don't wanna wake them,” he gets out, scrubbing hard at his face to rid himself of the tears. "They have to sleep," Wrecker sniffs. "They have training tomorrow!" 99 ducks into his quarters quickly to grab a tissue for Wrecker, handing it to him. As Wrecker wipes his face, 99 crouches down in front of him, ignoring his aching leg and back. "You need to sleep too. How about you tell me about your dream whilst we walk back to your barracks?" Wrecker nods, putting the wet tissue in his pocket before taking 99's hand. They don't walk very fast, 99 already slowed down by his bad leg and Wrecker walking slow because he's crying. 99 listens carefully as Wrecker talks, trying to offer ways Wrecker can push the bad thoughts aside. The dream sounds like it was confusing, but seems to boil down to the Kaminoans taking Wrecker's brothers away, then taking Wrecker away too because he was too weak. There's not much 99 can say to assure Wrecker. Those are both things with a real possibility of happening, as much as 99 hates to admit it. He just tries to tell Wrecker that they're too good at training to be taken away. It only works somewhat. At the barracks, 99 has to leave Wrecker, not wanting to wake his vode by entering. The young clone hugs him before he goes, clinging on to 99. 99 almost can't leave, wanting to stay and make sure Wrecker can sleep again. But he's not even supposed to be up, let alone staying here with Wrecker and his brothers. Walking back to his own sleeping quarters alone feels long. 99 spends the entire time worrying about Wrecker. By not waking his brothers, he gives them a better chance at doing well during training, but what about Wrecker? The dreams are only getting worse, meaning he'll get less and less sleep. 99 needs to think of something and he needs to do so fast, before Wrecker's performance drops enough to warrant decommissioning.

-

An idea finally comes to 99 when he finds Hunter, Tech and Crosshair arguing about the very thing 99 is looking for a solution for. He bumps into them on the way to his sleeping quarters, Tech loudly declaring that stunning Wrecker would make him sleep but likely wouldn't be very good for his health.

“Don't say that,” Crosshair hisses. “We're not stunning Wrecker!”

“I was merely saying that it technically would be an option,” Tech says, holding his datapad to his chest.

“I'm going to have to agree with Crosshair, Tech'ika,” 99 says, repressing a laugh. He'd be worried, but at their age, they're not allowed real blasters anyway, so there's very little risk of any of them actually stunning Wrecker.

Hunter's face scrunches in concentration. “There has to be something we can give Wrecker to stop his dreams! He's falling asleep during training.” Despite only being a little older than the rest of the batch, Hunter already feels responsible for his vode.

“Nothing that hurts or involves doctors,” Crosshair spits, glaring at Tech. Tech in turn rolls his eyes.

“It was a hypothetical suggestion.”

Then 99 remembers a conversation he'd had with an injured trooper a while back. 99 had been cleaning the medbay, purposefully doing so late as to not disturb anyone. One of the troopers sleeping on one of the uncomfortable medical cots startled awake when 99 passed him. He was in his mid teens by the look of it.

After greeting 99, he seemed to look for something, coming up empty.

“Have you seen Dusty?” he'd asked. 99 thought he was asking for one of the medics at first, so he offered to get someone for the trooper.

A peculiar expression crossed the clones face as he clarified that he had been talking about a stuffed animal, a bantha to be precise. 99 still wasn't sure what the man was talking about, but when he spotted something furry on the floor he picked it up. It really did look like a bantha, just gray.

When 99 hands it to the clone he smiles. “Thanks. These narrow beds keep making me drop her,” he says, placing the bantha toy on his knees to brush her fur down with his hands.

99 ended up asking the trooper what the stuffed bantha was for. He explained that she helped him feel more comfortable falling asleep. 99 never got the clones name, but the chance encounter may just help out Wrecker. There's no guarantee it'll work, but it's certainly worth a shot.

“Do you know what stuffed toys are?” 99 asks the boys. Hunter and Crosshair shake their heads, whilst Tech starts typing on his datpad.

“They are usually animals sewn from fabric and stuffed with something like cotton wool. These animals act as comfort items, often aiding in sleep or stress reduction,” Tech reads out loud.

Hunters eyes go wide. “Do you think something like that could help Wrecker?”

“There's no harm in trying,” 99 says.

“Where are we going to get one?” Crosshair huffs.

“We won't. We're going to make one,” 99 smiles.

-

“99, 99, look!” Wrecker exclaims running towards the janitor as he works. He's got the stuffed animal 99 and Wrecker's brothers have been working on all week clutched to his chest.

“What have you got there?” 99 asks. He'd collected all the materials for the stuffed tooka and had done a lot of the sewing, but 99 hadn't seen it as necessary to take the credit for making it. She'd likely mean most to Wrecker coming from his brothers anyway.

“This is Lula,” Wrecker says, holding it up so 99 can see it. He briefly wonders if Wrecker or his brothers named her. 99 found the fabric in various places, but always made sure what he chose was soft. “She's a soldier, like we're going to be! But she fights bad dreams,” Wrecker explains.

99 smiles. “Is she good at her job?”

“Mhm,” Wrecker nods, hugging Lula to his chest again. “She's amazing.”

“I'm glad to hear it Wrecker,” 99 says, ruffling Wrecker's short hair.

“Hunter won't tell me where he got her, but I don't care,” Wrecker continues.

99 laughs. “Where ever she came from, I'm sure she's glad she found her way to you.”

Wrecker beams up at 99. “I'm going to take really good care of her,” Wrecker announces seriously. 99's sure he will. Standing there with a pleased look on his face, Wrecker just holds Lula for a while, then realization crosses his face. “I have training!” he exclaims, saying goodbye to 99 before running off.

99 laughs again, glad he could at least help Wrecker a little bit. He's not sure how long this will last, but even if it's just a little while, the effort will have been worth it.

[thewistlingbadger]

I don't like ep7 of s2 but I had a little thought about the episode that I thought was worth considering and sharing. One of the starkest contrasts between the Arcane Universe and Episode 7's universe is Jinx and her much healthier mental state. In the Arcane Universe, Jinx is a character who has mental illness from a very young age, potentially even being born with mental illness. Her illness only gets worse with each traumatic experience she lives through, resulting in extreme meltdowns and hallucinations. But in Episode 7's universe, Jinx doesn't seem to have any of those same issues. People have theorized that it's because she has a more of a support system/a better support system than she does in the Arcane universe or because Episode 7's universe is more peaceful than Arcane's universe. However, I think the reason why Jinx and Powder are so different, despite loosing Vi at the same age, has to do with Ekko.

One of the things that really bugs me about this episode are the discrepancies between the Arcane universe and Episode 7's universe. For example: In the Arcane universe, Mylo really dislikes Jinx. He doesn't enjoy her company and he often blames her for every little thing that goes wrong. If Powder and Mylo had this relationship as kids in Episode 7's universe, as I suspect they did since Episode 7 seems to be pretty identical leading up to the kids' heist, then why doesn't Mylo blame Powder for Vi's death? Why are they able to have such a good relationship years later, despite all of the belittling Mylo subjected Powder to as a child? Well, what if it was because in Episode 7's universe, Powder isn't blamed for Vi's death- Ekko is.

When Arcane Ekko asks Powder if she was responsible for Vi's death, she scoffs and gets really offended, not guilt ridden or hurt. If she felt responsible for Vi's death then her reaction would have reflected that but instead what's the first thing that comes out of her mouth?

"You were the one that gave us the tip."

Now THIS is interesting because it's 100% true. We can play the blame game with everything that happens in arcane all we want and go all the way down the chain, and we'll eventually land on this fact. Jayce went to the undercity to purchase items from Benzo. Ekko saw him and instead of just up-charging him and leaving him alone, he followed Jayce ALL THE WAY to his home and proceeded to tell the other kids about how rich he was and the exact location of Jayce's home. Had Ekko not done that, then the kids would have never went on that heist. Powder would have never found the crystal, the apartment would have never blown up, Silco wouldn't have been able to make his move, enforcers wouldn't have flooded the lanes, Benzo would have lived along with everyone else in the family, they would have stayed together, Jayce would have never met Viktor, he probably would have never cracked hextech. And just like that, the events of Arcane never occur.

This is addressed in Episode 7's universe but it is NOT addressed in Arcane's universe. In the Arcane universe, Ekko and Jayce meet years later but show no signs of recognizing each other or the ramifications of their initial meeting. Earlier in the story, Ekko talked to Vi about the dangers of blaming herself for the events that unfolded post her arrest.

"That's a good way to drive yourself crazy."

And WHAT does Powder say about Ekko in Episode 7's universe?

"Oh, you know those ugly twins. Genius and Madness!"

Now isn't THIS fascinating. Arcane Ekko's line implies that he has his own past issues with blaming himself for what happened to his family and Zaun as a whole. However he no longer struggles with this and he doesn't blame himself at all, it's not something we see him struggle with. Ekko does not live in the past. He honors his losses but does not dwell on them. Jinx is the opposite way. Jinx has a hard time living with the present because she lives in the past. All she knows is dwelling on her losses and it's a struggle she never overcomes. Jinx does blame herself for everything that has happened and just like Ekko's line to Vi, it has drove her crazy.

But in Episode 7's universe, there's a potential that this dynamic is the reversed. In Episode 7's universe, Powder does NOT blame herself at all for Vi's death and the tragedy that was inflicted on her family. She is at peace with Vi's death and what happened that day. She honors Vi's memory and her issue isn't that she can't stop living in the past, her issue is that she can't stop living in the present. She likes the life she has and the community she has built but her life is stagnant. Nothing changes, she doesn't change, and even though the life she's living is comfortable, she's not really living her life. And while we don't have any definitive proof that Episode 7's Ekko blames himself for what happened, we do have evidence that points to this claim. We have the fact that Powder refers to him having both genius and madness. We have the fact that when asked about Vi, her first instinct is to remind Ekko of the role he played that day, and how Vi would still be alive if it weren't for the tip they got. We have the fact that it's thematically interesting and compelling. We have the fact that no one seems to be concerned about Ekko's odd behavior outside of Powder. They react to his strange reactions and inappropriate questions like it's just another day for Ekko, and maybe it IS. Maybe in this universe, EKKO is the one that struggles with his mental health and not Powder. At least not to the severity that Jinx struggled.

Additionally as I was writing this I figured out something HUGE to my own understanding of this episode as well as the characters and their parallels. Powder's flaw with living in the present is also Arcane Ekko's very same flaw. Arcane Ekko lives in the present but he's living too much in the present. He fails to consider the future. This is reflected in the fact that the firelights have no long term goals, nothing that they're actually striving for. Their only stance is silco bad, piltover bad. Once Silco is out of the way, the firelights literally have no idea what to do. They didn't plan on actually defeating Silco, and they didn't plan on housing and providing for all the extra firelights they're getting because ekko and his faction don't consider the future. They were fighting against Silco because they opposed him, not because they had a better alternative in mind. Once Ekko disappears, the firelights fall apart and fall into complete irrelevancy. They don't do anything new, they just all stay stagnant, only in the present. Without silco to fight they have no real cause, especially since piltover is too powerful to fight.

One of my biggest issues with episode 7 was the Ekko's journey felt pointless in regards to his character. I was constantly asking myself why Ekko was sent to this specific universe? What exactly did he learn from this experience? It wasn't that he had to go back home and do the right thing and not stay in paradise. Because Ekko addresses this really early on in the episode. While Ekko did greatly enjoy his time in Episode 7's universe, he struggle with the temptation of staying there because he recognized he had a duty and responsible to his own people, and that they come first. So that's not the lesson he had to learn. The lesson also wasn't that Jinx is a person worth saving, even though Ekko did spend a lot of time with Powder, because Ekko already came to this realization back in season one with his fight against Jinx. The reason why Ekko's relationship to Powder is so important in this episode is because he's able to realize his biggest flaw through her. Likewise, the reason why Powder finds Arcane Ekko so fascinating is because he is like her. It's only after Ekko has formed a relationship with her and seen her life that he realizes the importance of being active in his life and looking to the future. This is how he's able to save the day in the end. Or at least this is what I hope I was supposed to get out of this episode, considering im just now reaching this conclusion months after the episode came out.

Additionally, I'd just like to say that for me, this is why timebomb are a "doomed" relationship. Their worldviews are too drastic to be compatible without one of them changing. In Episode 7's universe, we can infer that between the two of them Ekko is the one stuck in the past while Powder is the one who's able to live in the present. These two characters canonically do have a romantic relationship, but we also know that even if Ekko struggles with the past, he's nowhere near the level Jinx struggles, so they're able to last. Arcane Ekko and Jinx don't reconcile until months after Jinx has been living in the present and not in the past. So the only way for these two characters to be together is if one of them changes their perspective.

[discodummy]

I'm gonna rant about my body image issues and dysmorphia for a second so watch out. I'll put it under a read more if i can figure out how

slay i think i did it. anyway, going to the gym as much as i have and getting into shape and stuff has been lovely, dont get me wrong, but it also makes some things very strange for me. Like, I was raised by a an who had a manual job and was a bodybuilder in his 20's. My perspective of what a "dad bod" was was SO skewed by my dad that i though it meant a buff guy who puffs his chest out when he stands stil to look bigger. My older brother (by three years) was chubby in middle school and then did swimming and lacrosse and had an insane dorito shaped body by 17 and still has it now. I was 6'3 when i started high school and i looked like a lollipop: just a big head on a tiny body. And i stayed that way all through high school. I assumed that getting beefy and filling out like my dad and brother did just want going to happen for me. I spent all of my early and mid 20's weighing like 145 (150 on a good day) and having to buy 28x34's for pants and medium shirts. The pandemic happened and i started working from home and after a few years i was about 210 or so. I stayed around that weight for bit and assumed it was my adult weight and what my body liked and spent over a year coming to terms with it. wel NOW after going to the gym and eating better for the last 10 months, im down to a toned 180 and im all sorts of jumbled up. I hit my shoulders on doorframes bc even though i measured and know my shoulders got at least 4 inches broader, i still dont believe it or feel it. My mediums got too tight, and my XL's from being 210 fit my shoulders and chest but hang off of me. Like im surrounded by evidence of the shape my body is in now, and i can see in the mirror how i look, i just dont think its clicking for me. I'm right about 6'4 and until the last year or so i wouold just say i was "medium tall" bc i didnt think i was TALL tall, just tallER. Like thats how deep this weird disconnect from the objective truths of my body goes. And now im at the point where people compliment my arms or chest or butt or something and i cant shake the nagging feeling that its just flattery and they dont mean it and isnt true. Someone said my arms were big and i was like "i mean theyre long, but i wouldnt say big" and it took me seeing several people with smaller arms over the course of a while for me to be like "oh yeah i guess so". Like, i always felt like the most average and unremarkable of my family and thats SUPER bleeding into things now. Maybe i dont think i can be extraordinary or above average or something?? All i know is im CLEARLY not seeing what everyone else is, and poeple are getting frustrated with me about it and taking it as me being fake-humble or just plain oblivious. And i feel insane talking about it bc one of my friends says it makes him feel awful to see someone who "looks like me" doubt myself so much, because that means that HE must be so much worse then. I also know that a 6'4 in shape white guy having body image issues isnt exactly the easiest thing to sympathize or empathize with, but it sucks that I feel like i cant really talk about it with anyone bc it just gets too personally hard for anyone to go in depth about. Its like my issues are too triggering for others and i just need to get a grip or something. IDK, i just needed to vent about this bc i dont know what else to do. if you read all of this, let me know what you think or something lol

[ilikekidsshows]

Another thing with the rabid Marinette stans is the virtue signaling. It's incredibly annoying cause it's touted as a "kids show" and people want kids shows to genuinely showcase issues that might happen day to day, even in fantasy situations. And a lot of kids shows are great at it, but ML is not one of them and the MariStans only ever care about those things when it makes Marinette upsette while also ignoring her behavior and their own. Like it's been brought up about how shit their behavior is towards anyone who isn't rapidly downing copium while they also go on about how Marinette doesn't have to forgive her bullies or whatever. Marinette's done so much worse than whatever petty thing Chloe or Sabrina or the rest of those middle school bullies have done, and people always instantly forgive her. Same who people just love to claim Chloe caused the most akumatizations or whatever when Marinette's def caused more and has done worse things that didn't end in akumatizations (re: S5 finale and anything related to it + abusing her hero persona because she's been using it to deal with her petty civilian worries since the beginning cause she can't bring herself to face them head on as Marinette so she has to do it as Ladybug. Volpina anyone? Breaking into Adrien's room because she can't bring herself to talk to him face to face?).

That's not even getting into how they cry about the racism and ableism and whatnot Marinette supposedly faces while writing their Alya bashing fics and ignoring the blatant characitures of multiple Asian characters and complete disregard for disabled characters and the show's unwillingness to have any good, well thought out depictions of any regularly/historically oppressed group of people.

---

Yeah, like, I just saw a post where Marinette stans were claiming that just because the people calling out Marinette’s abuse apologia don’t do it as much for all the other characters keeping Adrien in the dark it's misogyny, when the group of people supposedly not being criticized includes another POC girl and two women. This just in: Marinette is the only female and POC character in Miraculous! No, what it actually means is that Marinette is the only character that registers as a fictional person to her stans, which explains why they hate basically every other character in the show. I mean, either that or they’re just parroting Astruc whining about misogyny whenever someone says they don’t like the main character he, a white man, wrote. How progressive of them.

Like, this has been discussed before, but Marinette stans have such strong opinions about bullying, but only when Marinette is the perceived victim. When Marinette bullies the new girls for liking the same boy, it’s crickets. And when they themselves see a take they don’t agree with, the worst of them don’t waste a second breaking out the cyberbullying tactics. Everyone in this fandom knows “salters” are free game for the worst Marinette stans, and, in fact, I’ve seen some Marinette stans go into pretty neutral blogs’ inboxes with messages like: “you sound like a salter” that sound downright threatening when you’re aware of how the Marinette stans that crawl in people’s inboxes act like.

I think the one thing Marinette has on any of the villains is that, uh, actually, I was gonna say she hasn’t gotten anyone expelled from school, but she did, her targets just had actually done something expulsion-worthy (ignore Marinette doing something expulsion-worthy herself to accomplish this). Also, like, people keep pointing out she hasn’t purposefully done a lot of the stuff she does, although, as I keep saying, when Marinette makes a pattern of humiliating, ignoring and insulting people without meaning to, it makes it actually worse than if she was just being a jerk on purpose, because her victims are constantly made to forgive her for “mistakes” that are just the way she treats other people by now.

Basically, there’s very little any villain in the show has done that Marinette also hasn’t, she just has more or less (more often less) convincing mitigating circumstances for when she does it and the stans cling to and make up these mitigating factors desperately.

But, sure, it’s not the show that’s sexist, racist and ableist with how it depicts its characters, the problem is obviously the fans who have a problem with the writing. It's not like Marinette stans themselves constantly cry bad writing in defense of Marinette and then ignore it when said bad writing includes blatant ignorance of the very topics they hold up as weapons against critics.

[ask-postcrash-curly]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=GAHWpWuY-TM

You must get stronger. What good will come from you if you keep shivering in your bloody, filthy corner like a poor little lamb at the slightest thing? Stuttering and simpering? Weak and infirm? Is that all you want to be for the rest of your life?

Man up. Or the world will tear you apart and consume you, and those you care about, bite per bite. It will hurt you even more.

Stay vigilant. I love you.

-🍴

oh for fuck’s sake can I not have one fucking break?!

what good will come from me either way? in case you haven’t noticed, i happen to have next to no mobility and no way to communicate. what exactly do you want me to be doing, huh? get stronger my ass. obviously i don’t fucking want this. it’s bloody miserable! i would love to be able to look at this shit without flashing back to one of the worst moments of my life. i would love to be able to hear screaming without the excruciating pain i’m constantly in getting worse. but for whatever reason, those things are out of my control, and unless you know what it’s like, you really don’t get to say my reaction’s unreasonable. i hate it, don’t get me wrong, but until you know a fraction of how much this hurts you don’t get to tell me not to cry about it. i can’t do anything to help my crew whether i’m shivering and simpering or not. so i might as well cope in whatever goddamn way i can.

fuck you. that’s misogynistic or something. (see? getting better at feminism. i think.) the world is tearing me apart every damn day, i have no way to help those i care about, and there is absolutely nothing i can do to change that. i’ve damn well earned my right to cry about it if i want to. i’m allowed. consume me— god, is it so hard to listen? and i suppose that chunk of meat’s meant to be me do. real nice. thanks. doesn’t force me to remember my flesh burning off at all. i’m well aware that i can always be hurt more than i am, and you know what contributes to that? people like you getting off on fucking tormenting me. in my own mind, no less. as if it wasn’t enough to lose my physical autonomy!

hah! some love. if you really give a shit about me you won’t try to hurt me again and you’ll bloody well listen when i tell you to fuck off.

fork and knife. cannibalism joke. hilarious.

…

right, yeah. i am working very hard to not have another panic attack, but i’m not sure how much longer i can manage to keep it at bay. so if someone could get rid of this sooner rather than later, i would very much appreciate it. thank you. lots of love.

[turtleblogatlast]

I love Raph and haven’t said that enough so to be more specific I love that Raph is a soft boy who loves bear plushies, a gross boy who eats an assortment of things that are definitely better left alone, a smart boy who is more than capable of taking down villains through planning and fortitude alike, a strong boy who is dedicated to training his muscles and fighting prowess, a teenage boy who loves his brothers but is more than happy to tease and roughhouse with them, an angry boy who sometimes lets his anger take a hold of him to cover the fear, a gentle boy who is generous with hugs and affirmations to those he loves, a capable boy who takes on more than should ever be expected of a teenager, a good boy who just wants to be a hero and slowly comes to realize the cost of that duty, a good boy who has no reservations about putting himself in the way of harm coming to his family, a good boy who’s a great brother and son and person and deserves only the best the world has to offer.