#whew this got long sorry

[lesbianjamies]

You have two gap anons☺️ sorry to butt in but yeah there's only 12 episodes, though before it started airing saint said that we can get more episodes or something if it does well and well it is doing REALLY well. Freenbecky also mentioned that they are working on something "challenging" together, we don't know what that means but we'll see in due time. I just feel hopeful tho, considering all the setbacks they had at the beginning what's happening now is amazing. And we have another magazine photoshoot coming soon. They've worked together before gap and if they continue under idol factory then I guess there's a possibility for a lot more things in the future, which makes me really excited! And let's not forget that there's a second book for gap so who knows maybe they'll get a second season.

As for their ages, sam is 29 at the beginning and turns 30 on episode 5. Mon is 22 cause they have an 8 year old difference.

They both mentioned episode 9 is must watch (they really emphasised this) so I'm super excited! Hope you're too☺️

oh nice! i have two people to blame for when episode 9 breaks me mentally alsdjkfsl but srsly no worries at all please butt in because im very much out of the loop on the bts information about the show, so this is very helpful!

oh doing well is an understatement! they're pulling millions of views per clip of each episode and that's just on youtube and i know they also air it on local thai tv right? so that HAS to count for something, i would absolutely love it if they get the chance to film more episodes!

oh? that's very interesting, i would love to see what other projects that they'd be together on, i do like their chemistry together, and i wish them the best for that!

i do wonder if the thai entertainment industry is like ours here in the philippines where two actors who play a couple and do well together in one show/movie become a "love team" and they just like do more movies and shows for as long as they want to or the public wants to see them... wonder if its like that over there lol

ooooh i didnt know the comic/visual novel (?) this was based on is still on going, and if so !!! hell yes i would love a season two

yeaah the people who replied to my question said the same thing, glad my guess wasn't far off

we can't miss this episode bec its the one where mon finally tops sam!! lmao but narrative-wise this is also probably the climax and the central conflict culminates so yeah !! im afraid !! but i have faith in this show so i'm also looking forward to it 😁

[stunie]

it’s soooo criminal that we are online friends bc i saw SO many of your faves at the mall today >:

[the-bi-space-ace]

13, 16, 21 for the Bad Batch ask!!

13. What jobs do you think each of the Batchers would have in a Modern AU?

Crosshair: I think he's the grumpy manager at a small coffee shop that every employee loves and every customer is terrified of. Any time a customer makes one of the baristas uncomfortable Crosshair is right there ready to throw hands. He's kicked out so many people. That protective streak is going to make him an employee favorite.

Hunter: maybe some kind of camp counselor. Takes the kids on hikes. Is the dude at the bonfire that is really committed to keeping the fire going.

Tech: bro is either a professional gamer or he is a scary good hacker that erases people's medical and student loan debt. Ya know what, maybe both. He is a streamer as his regular job and uses his skills to help people on the DL.

Echo: I think he is either an engineer or he is some sort of doctor. I think he'd thrive helping people but would need something fast paced or challenging to keep himself interested. Oh! Oh wait!!! What if he was a fire fighter?!?! That could work! It's dangerous, it requires a lot of strength and endurance, and it very much helps people. I think he'd be a fire fighter. Fits him perfectly.

Wrecker: I think he'd like being a personal trainer. Someone that helps people reach a certain goal. He loves helping people improve their strength or gain more flexibility or confidence. That's a lot of fun for him.

Omega: Vet. I feel like this just fits.

16. What are some headcanons you have about Echo?

Oh boy. What headcanons do I have about Echo?!?! Well I'm GLAD YOU ASKED!!!

I think Echo has always had anxiety. I think he's channeled that anxiety into learning the regs, honing his skills, and trying to be a top performing (just like a lot of us with anxiety did as kids. we have to be the best so we sure do try.)

He's a tricky little thief. He can steal something right out from under someone's nose and they'd never know. He picked that habit up early on and it never went away. Sometimes he does it just to see if he still can and to practice. He's an excellent thief.

He has broken his knuckles punching someone in the face before. Why do I think that? IDK. He just has.

Sometimes he follows the batch around the ship. Sometimes he talks, sometimes he doesn't. But he tends to pace (can't sit still) and he doesn't like to be alone so it's almost absentmindedly.

Has learned (particularly with Crosshair) that his silence hurts worse than anything he could say to them during a fight. If he's quiet for too long the rest of them get really uncomfortable about it. They'd rather apologize than endure silence from him. It feels too much like disappointment and Echo being disappointed in you is THE WORST.

He tie-dyed one of Hunter's bandanas as a prank once and then hid all the other ones so Hunter HAD to wear it. Hunter still has no idea who did it. Tech knows. Tech has never told anyone. Echo will remember the look on Hunter's face sometimes and laugh to himself.

He actively seeks out Wrecker when he needs a distraction. Wrecker is great at that. Whether it's a physical distraction like sparring, a dance party (let me have my dance parties I neeeeeeed them), or some cuddles Wrecker is the BEST and Echo will seek him out if he needs to.

Speaking of dance parties!!! Echo loved going out to bars/clubs with Fives to go dancing. They had a song that they loved so much they made a dance routine to it. It came on at most clubs and they really stole the show.

With the same idea: He wasn't too sure about dancing in public after being rescued from Skako so it took him a little bit to warm up to the idea but the batch LOVES dancing and he finally caved and went with them. Turns out Wrecker and Tech can learn dances in ten minutes and love to be the life of the dance floor. Echo had a lot of fun that first night and has since learned to just drag Crosshair and Hunter into their antics otherwise they'll sit on the sidelines and watch instead of participating. He's stopped waiting for them to join. He's going to go get them, make them join. They don't get a choice anymore they're gonna dance with them.

ok i'll stop now i got carried away

21. Road trip with the Batch! Where are you going? Who’s driving? Who has the snacks? Who is in charge of music? Who got left behind at the gas station? And other headcanons you have about going on a road trip with the Bad Batch. 

We're going to somewhere like... the grand canyon or Yellowstone bc I've never been and I want to go SO BAD and I've never been that far west before and just need to go so I'm choosing a nature/sight seeing trip. Maybe some stops along the way. Maybe there's a fun amusement park or zoo or something on the way!!!

Tech is driving bc I feel like he'd be annoyed with everyone else's driving and he likes to drive. Plus he can handle driving long distance and has it all planned out. Plus he speeds so we'll get there faster.

Wrecker is in charge of snacks. He'll bring A TON. And he knows the best snacks. We'd never go hungry.

Music is tough for me bc I feel like Crosshair and I have similar taste so I'd pick Crosshair but then I think the rest of the batch would complain about the music the whole time. So I'd also consider Echo who has a decent mix of music that I love and music that I've never heard before so I'd find new bops. Cross and Echo fight over the aux cord final answer.

Hunter gets left behind at the gas station. He spent too long looking at the nuts in the snack section. No one did a head count when they were back in the car.

[dagaan]

Aight we love a lesbian squid yes

but does she fist fight other lesbians to be the best lesbian??

Looks like she’s got her hands full at the moment…

Otherwise she might get into fights, but probably just for fun. Simple zest for life, you know.

[mirrortouchedsea]

Day 20

Madara pulled the yarn through the final stitch and looked at his… scarf. It was an attempt and while it didn’t look awful, he could tell that his tension had been maybe too tight and there was a weird dip a few rows in, but at least it was finished. He grabbed a yarn needle and tried to weave in the tails so he could properly call it finished. 

Leo had been complaining about losing his scarf the week before and Madara had the genius idea to try and make one himself. He had tried knitting but three dropped stitches later he decided to try something else. Kuro had suggested crochet since it was much more beginner friendly, and Madara had to agree. Despite everything, at least the scarf in his hands wouldn’t fall apart if he forgot a stitch somewhere. 

It still looked like a pretty messed up rectangle though. He debated just making a second one when the door opened to the craft room and he felt someone drape themself over his shoulders. 

“Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” Leo whined. “Why are you ignoring me?” 

Madara turned his phone on and noticed a dozen missed calls and several unanswered texts from Leo. Oops. 

“Sorry Leo-san, I got distracted.” He turned to press a chaste kiss to Leo’s lips. “I tried to make you something but--” Leo’s eyes lit up and he reached for the garment in Madara’s hands. 

“Wahaha! You’re the best Mama! I love it!” Leo had already wrapped the scarf around his neck despite being indoors. “Oh I’m filled with inspiration! Do you have any paper? I need to write an Ode to Mama’s Scarf immediately!” 

Madara laughed and pulled out the notepad he had started carrying with him from his bag. Leo grabbed it and began scribbling, singing the melody as it came to him. When he was finished he tore out the page and folded it into his pocket for later. 

“Thank you, Mama. I mean it.” Madara felt a light blush on his face, a rare occurrence in their relationship. 

“Anything for you, Leo-san.” 

[velnica]

What got you into writing about the bard boys? Love your works by the way! :D

Oh this is a great question and I apologise in advance if this sounds like a meandering trip down memory lane, but I have not actually reminisced about this in so long!

I'm gonna have to rewind to 25 April 2022 when I finally finished the Stormblood Bard quest. I practically inhaled both the HW and SB portions, and I was excitedly talking about it to some uninterested friends. I started trawling AO3 for all their fics, tried talking about it to other FFXIV players (which ended nowhere, as I was decidedly not in shipping spaces yet), and then I nearly gave up because no one wanted to talk about them as much as I did 😭

No, I did not go into Tumblr or Twitter yet because I was a dum dum and I could have skipped this initial heartache if I had lol.

ANYWAY someone in a lore channel I was in said that their initial tiff in the Nine Ivies look like two jilted lovers getting annoyed at each other and then an idea started forming. What if they were jilted lovers? What if they had met each other but subsequently avoided the others due to reputations, or unwillingness to commit, or whatever else? And then the smut writer in me started cackling; what if they had a one night stand and they remember it?

Before I knew it I had the first draft of Breathe In written in my gdocs. I posted it and then bam! there was no way to go but onwards. I started finding fandom spaces for ffxiv shipping, and then I found people who also ship the bard boys and the rest, as they say, was history.

To me this is really the story of how an interest that was fed and nourished can grow to be something that elevates my life. I enjoy the act of writing/creating itself and in the boys I found a subject that I want to explore through many scenarios which is I think just a match made in heaven. I also would like to think that they're cheering me on from between the lines, encouraging me to keep unfolding their stories in my own way and I think that's a really sweet thought that will keep me going in this niche space for a very long time 💖

[meownotgood]

au where I help aki heal his inner child by forcing him to play all of the games I hyperfixated on in my youth

[eorzeashan]

saw that ETL post about needing to have respect for your enemy to both loathe and love them, and sat there for awhile thinking about it in Eight's terms because when do I not have thoughts about him, lol.

Eight gives as much respect as he can to whoever he kills, but he can never despise them, unless they truly are someone who has fallen into depravity and cowardice (i.e. Valkorion). Even for someone like Arcann who effectively stole 5 years of his life away and hurt countless lives in pursuit of a rather close-minded goal, he could only judge him on what he saw of him on the battlefield in their private duels-- and that was Senya's son who fought every single time to destroy Valkorion. A conviction that he was unafraid to die for. Even "judging" is a loose term when it comes to his enemies because he cannot actually judge based on any morality: he can only see the full extent of their devotion to their own cause no matter how small and their lives in the few minutes before it is cut away.

People tend to show their true selves to him when they know these are their final moments, so he understands the full weight of taking that life. There is nothing glorious nor honorable about it. In fact, it only reaffirms that war is truly hell- where even the most fulfilling of lives can be struck down the same as the most insignificant ones. To that end, he believes true warriors should understand this: taking anything more from your enemy after taking their life is abominable; no killer should find peace or satisfaction from murder. An odd statement from one who does nothing but kill, but he despises the thought that killing is anything other than the act itself no matter how you dress it up. It can be for a worthy cause, but it should be seen for what it truly is at the end of the day.

That's also why he seems to bide his time waiting for the penultimate battle that barely lasts 10 minutes the entirety of a war. Everything else is just steps leading up to that. He conceals and holds back everything until he can meet his enemy face to face, which is why he essentially got...bored waiting to strike at Ardun Kothe, since it took forever to get to him with a bunch of menial tasks. He's a guy who does everything 0 to 100. It was the same with Hunter.

The real tragedy of Hunter was that they both knew they were very nearly the exact same-- only that Hunter could not stand up to him martially and once caught, was as good as dead. Eight just barely came out on top because of his doggedness and the fact that Watcher 2 and Keeper acted as his tactical minds. I think he wished Hunter could've met him on the same level in battle, but the way both of them fought was too different, despite the way they lived being extremely similar.

I guess the end point of this analysis is that Eight devotes his entire being to the fine point of a blade because it carries all the meaning in the world and none at all when it comes to those he meets and inevitably kills. You can attribute it partially to being Echani as yet another culture that thrives off war, but killing itself means nothing. It has no honor. It is yet another duty only he can carry out because of his detachment and dedication to it that surpasses everything. To his dear enemy that he meets for the first time on the battlefield, he'll give them his entire life- a meaningless thing designed to cut theirs.

[verytendou]

Looks up wikihow for what to do when you realize your office has 5x the amount of budget of every other executive office combined

[boysgenuis]

˙   ៹    ♡     @mndstom           /            eunji   &   yoomi.

          the rain pelts the roof in a torrential downpour. it's loud enough to drown out the music playing in eunji's airpods, a playlist specifically designed for moments like this. she's always hated thunderstorms. summer storms around here tend to be the worst ; they knock out the power & flood the basements, leaving everything a dark & sopping mess. they've already gotten the candles out, preparing for the inevitable. their apartment doesn't have basement space, so it's one less thing to worry about, but they've put everything important out of the way, just in case. for an hour, they were amicable, though the bar was in hell considering they hadn't said a single non-essential word to each other.           now it's half-past midnight & the storm is raging. eunji stands at the kitchen counter, swiping a butter knife coated in peanut butter over a piece of bread & humming along to her music, as if her own voice can outdo the heavy rain. thunder clashes overhead & pink lips purse together. she puts the pieces of her sandwich together & takes exactly one bite before the lights go out. she stands still, praying beyond hope that the lights will flicker back on after a second. they never do ; this time is no exception. moments tick by without so much as a flicker of a lightbulb or the hum of a generator. she slowly puts her sandwich down & grabs the lighter out of the drawer. she lights the candle on the kitchen counter, painting the wall in a faint orange glue. she doesn't bother to light any of the others. it's almost time for bed anyway.           she makes quick work of eating her sandwich & rushes to finish up the paper that has her out of bed in the first place. she clicks submit just before two in the morning & closes the laptop. her bottom lip worries between her teeth for a brief moment before she blows out the candle & retreats to her room. she stalls at the door. she . . . really hates thunderstorms. she won't be able to get any sleep like this. not like this. she makes a snap decision ; against her better judgement — & god knows it is the better judgement — she pads down to the other end of the hall & knocks lightly on the closed door. ❛ yooms ? ❜ she calls quietly. she hasn't called her ex that name in a while, but storms always bring out her more vulnerable side. she pushes the door open, listens to it creak beneath the sound of pouring rain. ❛ can i —— ❜ she stops herself. it's ridiculous to ask, but equally ridiculous to hesitate. yoomi knows how she feels about storms. more than anyone, yoomi knows. ❛ ... can i stay in here ? just until ... you know. ❜ she makes a gesture that her ex can't see in the dark, then bites her lip again, braced for rejection.

[journeyofthemoonprophet]

Unfortunately for you, the half of the patrol you need is on a hunt. They won’t be back until late evening, according to Sota, if not well into the night. “Maybe even morning,” he says, glancing out over the raised path you’ve found him on, “with demons now roaming about.” You have no choice but to wait for them to come back.

"There you are!”

The new voice behind you turns out to be Akemi, near breathless as she bounces up the path to meet you. She all but flops into your palm when you crouch down to pick her up. “Y’know,” she pants, “for someone that looks like you... you were really hard to find!”

Apparently Yawa sent her to find you after hearing from the girl in the square, with an added instruction to make sure you eat something before you come back for the night. Akemi, however, talks you into turning your trek back into a proper tour of Wep’keer, insisting that it’d be better late than never. She eagerly points you this way and that, calling out to anyone she recognizes and eagerly introducing you to anyone who is brave enough to ask.

“You’re making Yawa’s instructions very hard to follow,” you tease between introductions.

“Aw, hush!” Akemi huffs, smacking her tiny hands against the crown of your head as you smother a laugh. “Besides, Bikki’s stand is right across the square from Granny Yawa’s. If we wait a little bit, he’ll probably have a fresh batch of dumplings when we get there!”

At one point, the two of you pass what she calls the ‘playground’. It seems there’s a snowball fight going on, and a mix of pups and children toss and dodge flying snow in all directions. Akemi grumbles about being too small to join in, but your attention is snagged by a successful strike. The pup that’s been hit makes a dramatic show of howling, coughing, and flopping over in the snow; you know he’s just playing dead, but you still find yourself holding your breath until he giggles and rolls back over.

“Hey, that’s not fair!” a girl cries (presumably the one who took the lucky shot). “Get back down! I got you!”

“No way!” he barks, shaking himself off before popping back into a boy’s shape. “Now I get to be one of the throwers!”

“Nuh-uh!” She stamps her foot, huffing angrily. “You’re supposed to be dead!”

Akemi is giggling, but you feel like you’ve suddenly been shot by a stray arrow. You’re supposed to be dead! You’re supposed to be dead... At some point, it’s no longer the children’s voices saying it, and hundreds more begin echoing in your skull from all angles, demanding to know how you escaped and pondering on why it was you. Moshiri’s words remind you about being hunted down, and many voices from the heavens and moon chorus after it: because you should be dead.

Something cold smacks your thigh, and you're tugged back out of your thoughts. “Sorry!” yells a voice, and you blink to find your eyes refocusing. It’s only now catching up to you that a wayward snowball’s hit you in the leg, and the children are now staring at you. “Hey... are you okay? It didn’t hurt that much, did it?”

Come on, you have to say something. If only to get their eyes back off of you. “I... still have a bruise there,” you insist, loosely waving a hand while you brush yourself off. “I’ll be fine; maybe next time I’ll be well enough to play.”

The kids seem satisfied and return to their game. Akemi, however, climbs down your hair to plunk herself on your shoulder. “I thought the bruise was on your other leg,” she whispers.

“It is.” You busy your hands with pulling your coat tighter around yourself. “I think we should go back now.”

“What? But we still have plenty of daylight before--”

“Akemi.” The word is a bit firmer than you intended, and when you shoot her a glance she leans away a bit. This is going from bad to worse, and you force yourself to take a breath before trying to speak again. “Let’s... just go back to Yawa’s. You can show me the rest of Wep’keer tomorrow, okay?”

Maybe it’s because she can now see your face, but Akemi proves quick as usual to catch on. She hums a bit, then scoots a little closer to your ear. “Maybe we should still eat something first?” she suggests quietly. “Granny Yawa will be mad if you try to skip out on a meal, you know.”

You really just want to get out of here (and, let’s face it, Akemi wouldn’t be able to stop you if she tried), but she has a point: Yawa would definitely scold the two of you if you came back unfed. You’re pretty sure she picked that argument on purpose, but all the same you have to admit defeat. “... okay. But no detours. Please.”

That seems to satisfy her, and Akemi wastes no time climbing back atop your head to guide you once again. Instead of waving over the people you pass, she explains to curious onlookers that you’re not feeling your best right now and need some space. To your surprise, they seem to understand right away; as if they’re used to this sort of thing, despite having never seen you before in their lives. You let her do the talking when you get to the merchant, as you’re still running a bit on autopilot as you’re handed the pouch and sent on your way.

“Kuki gets overwhelmed really easily,” she explains when you’re mostly out of earshot from the square. “Though she isn’t good at talking her way out of things like you seem to be.”

“Right, the two of you are friends.” Given what little you know of Kuki to begin with, this must be a regular occurance for her... even if it isn’t for you. “You must be used to... this, then.”

“I mean, a little. But you’re pretty different from Kuki.” She hops down to your arm before you can push Yawa’s door open, tipping her head back to look up at you. “You still seem kinda rattled,” she murmurs. “Did something spook you up in town?” She gasps a little, then whispers a new thought: “Did you get a vision? Like you did in Yoshpet?”

You kind of wish she hadn’t said that; now that prophecy is fluttering awake too, future and past mixing in your head like oil and water. “... I do have a prophecy, but I received it before you caught up with me. It’s... hard to explain what happened at the playground, Akemi.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The thought of trying to sort any of your head out loud threatens makes your stomach churn along with it. You try to push the feeling back down; you don’t need that on top of everything else ringing in you. “Not really.”

[kanguin]

Like. Guys. It's the art theft and plagiarism that's the problem. When AI bros say they couldn't make their tools and programs without taking from others, they are LYING. The truth is that these tools and programs have been made ethically by studios for years, and still are! It just costs more time and money to do it the ethical way, and they don't like that! Convincing everyone that theft is necessary to the development of these tools only serves to benefit them, because it makes people think that it's either AI built on theft or no generative algorithms at all, but that simply isn't the case.

Generative algorithms are like, really simple when you break it down. All you need is a lot of inputs, a lot of trainers, a lot of processing power, and a lot of time. All of those cost money, but if you steal, you can decrease the time by increasing the inputs, saving money on both time and inputs. And the entire reason this has only now become a problem is that only in the past few years can your average slightly-well off schmuck get access to the processing power needed.

Back in the early 2010s only big corporations could develop these kinds of algorithms, and they were costly to maintain, not open to the public, and didn't use unlicensed materials for fear of lawsuits. Now though, relatively young startups have shown the tech world that if you throw enough money at PR and convince the public that your Plagiarism Machine is synonymous with the entire concept of machine learning, then you can completely control the press you get.

This just. Pisses me off so much. I literally studied AI as a minor in college, before ChatGPT and DALL-E hit the scene and changed everything. Machine Learning, or "AI", can do so much good -- it's helped scientists identify diseases, detect cancer, sort the lineages of living and extinct animals, it's detected serious coding errors and automated menial tasks for artists and engineers alike -- but it's become so associated with evil. And that just breaks my heart.

[katscye]

closed starter for @ofdoycnnes !!

ADELINE STEPPED OUT OF HER BATHROOM quietly, wrapping her robe tightly around her waist as she glanced to her bed where the other woman lay peacefully. she knew eventually she would have to wake her up but felt that sending her off after a nice cup of warm tea would soothe the hurt of being tossed out into the cold. after making her way downstairs she placed the kettle on her stove to warm before walking over to the windows and taking a look outside. to her surprise the rooftops and streets were covered in snow and there were no signs anyone outside. she grabbed the remote to her tv, no longer caring if she was quiet or not, and hit the power button. adeline flipped through the channels until the news popped up. in a giant red banner across the screen she read: 'mayor calls for emergency shut down of city. everyone is to stay in doors except for all essential workers who, if able, can go to work.' she let out a curse beneath her breath as the other woman finally came downstairs and joined her. "looks like we're stuck with each other for the next 24 hours." she said. "seems like we're snowed in."

[astro-inthestars]

had an impromptu going to a different church, going to the mall, going to relative's house, having a family gathering experience today. ougghhh

[ikarakie]

after eddie introduces a demogorgon to one of his hellfire campaigns, the kids get a little squirmy. they're nervously looking at each other and aren't engaging as excitedly as they usually do. when he calls time, he watches dustin rummage through his backpack and produce a walkie talkie.

he watches, a bit dumbfounded, as the kid demands a 'check-in'. all at once, multiple different voices come over the channel. stating a name and then saying 'safe.' ("nancy, safe." "robin, safe." "max, safe.")

"steve?" dustin demands. there's only static. "steve!" a little more frantic this time.

"he left to pick you up." a female voice replies, "he's probably fine. you'll see him soon."

none of the kids look particularly pleased, and pack up hastily. eddie and the other hellfire members all share confused glances. he, more morbidly curious than anything else, follows the little sheep as they hurry out of the school.

dustin is fucking restless as they all stand in the empty parking lot. he won't stay still and none of them are answering any of eddie's questions. and he only gets more confused when a brown beemer pulls in, windows down and playing depeche mode through the speakers. dustin goes to sprint towards it, and he has to hold him by the collar to stop him getting run over.

the beemer pulls up and steve harrington, in all his glory, steps out, frowning. dustin wrenches out of eddie's grip and all but bodies the guy, wrapping arms tightly around his midsection. steve, still looking puzzled, hugs back. lucas and mike trail after dustin.

"we called a check-in." dustin says, a bit muffled from where his face is smushed into steve's shirt. steve goes sort of pale, and- and presses a goddamn kiss to the top of henderson's head before tightening the hug.

"shit, i'm sorry." and eddie believes him. he sounds so guilty. "i meant to replace the batteries before i left. sorry, i'm okay." dustin pulls back and scrubs at his eyes. lucas takes his place, though the hug he gives is more like one of those bro-hugs jocks seem to love. steve smiles regardless. he just ruffles mike's hair, who pouts in response but looks relieved nonetheless.

"asshole." he mutters. "rule four, walkies on at all times." steve nods as the kid half-heartedly waves goodbye to eddie and hops in the backseat of the beemer. lucas follows. dustin seems reluctant to walk around the car, to take his eyes off steve for even a second.

"you wanna stay over tonight?" steve asks, warm and gentle. he folds his arms and in that moment eddie thinks they look sort of like brothers. "robin and me were gonna watch some films. we can call your mom from mine."

the kid nods, looking a bit happier. steve slaps him on the back and motions him to get in the car. dustin swivels to hug and say goodbye to eddie (who sort of forgot he was physically present in this moment) before doing as he was told.

steve turns to eddie. which- whew! hi pretty eyes.

"sorry." he smiles and eddie can't for the life of him figure out what he's apologising for. "they, uh- yeah. them." he gestures vaguely at the car and eddie just chuckles.

"hey, man, no worries." he says, a little breathless that he's having a conversation with the steve harrington. "they okay? never seen henderson look so rattled." steve nods, then seems to think better of it and just shrugs. cocks his hip to the side (stop fucking staring at his hips, munson, lord!)

"they will be." he glances back at the beemer, which is now full of childish bickering. pauses to think and then asks, "you using demogorgons in your campaign right now?"

eddie blinks at him. "yes? yeah. what the fuck- how do you know what that is? what-" steve just laughs.

"long story." there's a haunted look in his eyes before he continues, "just, uh- that's probably what upset them. demogorgons and us- them, i mean-" he waves his hand. "bad memories. hard to explain, but... if you could..." he doesn't need to ask, seems like he doesn't know how or even if he's allowed.

"got it, ill tweak the campaign." harrington smiles at him, something small and genuine, and murmurs a thanks. offers him a fucking lift, which eddie declines, motioning to his van. harrington just nods, tells him to get home safe and then clambers back into the car, yells at the kids to put seatbelts on with all the exasperation of a single dad, and pulls away.

eddie watches them go, having seen a side of harrington he'd thought dustin had been lying about. steve harrington, the caring babysitter, everyone's older brother, a changed man.

he starts escorting the kids to the parking lot more often.

[angelplummie]

here for revenge.

being lily's best friend - you grow up with her - you're in the donaldsons orbit for all your formative years. you develop a crush on art that turns into love as you grow older. your home life isn't so glamorous. you spend lots of weekends at the donaldsons. art has tucked you in. brought you snacks when you stayed up late for movie nights, making you and lily promise not to tell tashi. you were there when art and tashi got divored, held lilys hand and pretended not to be happy inside at the thought of getting closer to art.

lily gets into college - a big smart one because she has tashi's ambition and leaves you behind, you're still stuck at home because your dreams have always been smaller.

maybe its not appropriate, to still spend time with art. but he's lonely. tashi left, and now his daughter has and you're the only one left in his life that actually wants to be around him, that has always looked at him with stars in your eyes. its probably not healthy. there should be a boundary there. your lilies, not his.

but you like being around him and he likes having someone to take care of. you come over and he makes you eat something healthy and you needle him about spending all his time at home and how he should get out more, and he rolls his eyes, tells you he should be saying the same to you, you're young and beautiful and you should be dating around.

but how can you date around when art donaldson is your dream man? when you're happiest at his side, eating what he makes you. you want more though. you want to share his bed, warm it for him, you want to make him not so lonely, you want him to stop seeing you as a little girl and as the adult you've grown up to be - so you start wearing less and less around him. start acting more and more like a housewife.

art accepts it without even realizing. now you just need to find the right opportunity to pounce.

WHEW. this one is long so buckle up

“art?”

“mr donaldson.”

you roll your eyes.

“mr donaldson, how come you never started dating again?”

he chopped the lemon with a deft clunk, eyes never leaving the knife.

“never felt the urge.”

“what does that mean?”

“what i just said. never felt the need to.”

“hm.”

you sat on the island, next to the chopping board. your legs swung haphazardly, and you watched art as he chopped.

why was he playing this game? he could’ve told you to leave, to stop coming back and bothering him, that this was inappropriate. and yet. he didn’t even tell you to get your sorry butt off the counter, or some such dad-ism. the low glow of the many warm lamps that adorned such a luxurious house illuminated art so softly, he looked as young as the day lily was born. he was as fit as back then, if not meatier. he didn’t have the pouch your dad had, but the years had given him a thickness. instead of wasting away like most lean men did, he struggled to the other side. he got broader. layer upon layer of muscle encased in a thin finishing of fat. he was skinnier when you were a kid, but he had no reason to be lean now. under his chin a tiny hammock of pudge rested as his head tilted down, kissed by light stubble. his blonde hair was streaked in silver, but that somehow made him younger looking. made him glow. he had grown it out, by your suggestion. he was everything in the world a man should be.

“what about you?”

“i hate boys. they’re all stupid.”

“you got that right. you’re too good for all of them, never settle.”

“maybe it’s just boys my own age. theyre so immature.”

arts wide chest heaves. his eyes flick to you then flick back down. you see it all, and cross one leg over the other.

“maybe.”

“what were you like when you were my age?”

he laughs at the memory.

“stupid, immature, evil. if i was anything to go by you should swear off men entirely until menopause.”

air left your chest cavity.

“i don’t wanna wait. i want a fully formed one.”

you watched the muscles in arts forearms flex as he squeezed the lemon onto salad. the main course was cooking, was singing loudly on the stove. art had gotten into cooking after the divorce. it took all his attention and put it in one place, something complex and delicate and time consuming. it helped to clear his head. it wasn’t helping right this second.

“i shouldn’t say that,” he said curtly,”boys your age aren’t so bad. give them a go and quit hanging out with an old man.”

“but i like you, old man.”

art was so harsh on himself. he really wasn’t that old. and you really weren’t that young.

he pressed his lips together and kept squeezing. his pink lips, that gave his face the everlasting youth it held. he shrugged his shoulders in that way he did when he was confronted with the truth of your arrangement. there was something going on. something very, very, very wrong. you were the same age as his daughter. 3 months younger. he was the worst man in the world. the worst person to ever breathe. what could he do though? tell you to go? tell you to leave his house and never come back? what would become of you then? without him, what pillar of paternity would you rely upon? what new low would you reach? what men would you come across, and what would you do to please them? while he gingerly entertained you, you dangled something in front of his face that others would not have the restraint or morality to resist. if you had to move to another target, your next victim might not care so deeply for your wellbeing. were you not altogether safer, sitting in his kitchen, eating his caesar salad, rather than inhaling second hand cigarettes from old wrinkled fucks who might murder you, or worse-

“art?”

“mr donaldson.”

“you got a bunch of lemon pips in the salad.”

“oh.”

he set down the lemon.

“are you ok? you seem tense.”

“i’m good. are you cold? i can turn on the heating if you like.”

“no. it’s actually quite warm in here.”

he hears the zip of your hoodie and starts away from the island, under the pretence of getting a paper towel to deposit the lemon seeds on. your jumper clatters to the counter, and you watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. low cut top. he knows that’s what you’re wearing. because that’s all it’s been for the past 2 months. your mini skirt flowers around you as you sit, but when you stand each swish and sway of the fabric is a death sentence. god forbid you take the stairs for some ungodly reason.

“hey, you know what you said about never having the urge?”

oh, fuck off, he thought. fuck off. leave him be. leave him alone. release him.

“yes.”

“you can’t really mean that can you?”

“sure i can.”

“i mean, you can. but i don’t think you do.”

you twirled a strand of hair in between your fingers. your stomach grumbled, loud enough that he could hear. you were so hungry you could die, but if you ate what art was frying your breath would smell like fish all night.

“let me check the salmon.”

“i’m not that hungry. you can’t mean that you never had the urge to. everyone has urges.”

“well sure. but after tashi, i needed a breather. a grace period, if you will. you can’t go from marriage with a woman like her right into dating.”

“but it’s been 3 years. you must be over it by now?”

he ignored the hope in your voice. ignore, ignore, ignore.

“i am over it. but. women scare me.”

he walked languidly over the salmon. it was ready.

“i don’t scare you, i’m a woman.”

a woman. he turned off the stove, and turned to fix you with a stare for the first time tonight. a woman. that was not the word he would use to describe you. your eyes were the size of saucers, and you bat your lashes languidly, like you knew how much you were making him suffer. you sat up pin straight, and twisted your spine to make eye contact with him. your body. he tried not to look. tried not to look in front of you and see the twisted grin come across your lips. but he was a weak man. the weakest of men, and his eyes dragged over where a fatherly view should never cross. your perky new tits, the press and curve of your ass against the counter, the plush of your thighs. it seemed you had grown up overnight, and didn’t know you were still a baby. you’re a baby. you knew what you were doing to him. you knew. he blushed involuntarily.

“you scare me most of all.”

his voice trembled. he hadn’t meant to say that. hadn’t meant to dignify you will any response at all. it had crossed his mind and then it crossed his lips.

your eyes lit up with extreme delight. he liked to make you happy, but his stomach churned with the thought of why.

“why?”

he turned back around, and plated up your salmon, adding potatos and asparagus from the same pan, drizzling it all in the residual oil.

“why art?”

“mr donaldson.”

a twinge of irritation tickles your stomach. what was he fighting this for? you’re all grown up now. you both knew what was going to happen. he was resisting fate, the inevitable.

all your life you had known he was the man you were meant to be with. from that first time he kissed your forehead as you dozed off on the couch, thinking you were asleep. when his strong arms would carry both you and his daughter, flinging you around, threatening to dunk you in their backyard pool. when he would catch your eye in the rear view mirror as he drove you around and winked. he was so nice. so nice and brave and kind and warm, and if you had to be with any man it should be him because you’ve loved him since you were 8, and now you’re old enough to claim it. you’re not just a dumb kid with a crush. you love him. you understand it being one sided back then. but it isn’t anymore, and you wouldn’t let him deny it. with gliding footsteps you approached him, drawing closer every second he didn’t turn around. a hand rests on his shoulder blade.

“just stop,” you breathed after a pause.

his spatula clattered to the pan with a metallic thunk. you pull your hand away like he burnt you. he gripped the counter with a sigh and hung his head.

“you stop. stop it now,” his voice was stern. you felt yourself shrink. art was never stern.

“i know what you’re thinking, and it’s not going to happen. this has gone on far too long and it stops right now.”

a mere few paces from his wide curved back, you blink. the urge to touch him is overwhelming. you want to press your hand to his back, feel him under your palm and tell him you know he wants this. you know he wants this just as bad as you do.

but you don’t, because he’s angry at you, and he’s never been angry at you before.

“i’ve let you come here and cooked you food and watched movies with you because you’re a good kid. because i knew you as a kid and i know your problems with your father and i wanted to be there for you when lily is away. but you have taken this too far. you’re my daughters best friend. i have cleaned up your vomit twice, i baked you a cake for your 13th birthday- it’s not right. i’ve tried to be understanding, i’ve tried to ignore it, but you never drop it. never. your lack of self respect is staggering. you have to drop it right now or, im sorry but you can’t come back here anymore.”

every muscle fibre was clenched. if the counter top wasn’t marble it would’ve crunch and fell away under his grip. he couldn’t take it anymore. he didn’t know how much longer he could be good. didn’t know how much longer he could take resisting you.

maybe he was harsh. but it was the right thing to do. the only thing to do. he rested his elbow on the counter, and between his forefinger and his thumb held the bridge of his nose. he exhaled loudly. he hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, hadn’t planned it. but now it was out. he had stared the elephant in the room dead in its eyes. he felt lighter, somewhat liberated.

until he turned around after a few too many seconds of silence to see you turned away from him, slightly hunched over. he stepped closer, and saw your hands covering your mouth. you body jolted, and you drew in quick, grasping breaths. you were crying. he said your name, and you didn’t turn to look at him.

“i’m sorry. i’m sorry mr donaldson.”

all the relief he felt was replaced by swift, acute, crushing guilt. your hair fell over your face, shielding you from him. he said your name once more. you sniffed.

“hey, hey hey hey.”

against his better judgement, and because of the aching of his heart, he took you gently by the shoulders, and turned you to face him.

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

tears spill from your eyes and you wipe them away with a heavy hand, refusing to meet his eyes. his neck craned down to your eye level, his thumbs began tracing circle in your shoulders. a thoughtless gesture but one that made you cry even harder.

“i’m sorry. i don’t know what i was thinking. im just so sorry.”

“hey, it’s ok. it’s alright.”

“it’s not alright. i’ve ruined everything. i’ve made it- so- weird. i just thought that you- you wanted me. i’m so stupid.”

your mascara runs, painting your face with your turmoil.

how could you be so dense? you had been making him uncomfortable. he didn’t want you. the only reason he even let you hang around was obligation. because of what you meant to lily. you didn’t mean anything to him. you were just some kid. did he even think you’re pretty? you bet he didn’t.

worse than that, you had disappointed him. him. he was supposed to be everything your dad wasn’t. and now he was disappointed. you had failed. you had ruined everything. what even were you? were you even human?

“don’t. you’re not stupid. don’t say that.”

“i’m sorry. i just- i wanted to make you happy. that’s all i ever wanted. i wanted you to be happy with me. you were so- so- so crushed after the divorce, i-i just-“

he guides you over to the bar stool, and you let him. you sit across from each other. his hand touches your cheek, the other holds you shoulder still. the touch of his hand quietens your babbling, your eyes round and wet and open.

“you do make me happy.”

your lips parted, plump with crying.

“i do?”

he cringes at the hope in your voice, at the feeling in his chest that it stirs. the feeling in his whole body at touching, after so many years, your soft skin. the last time he held your face you were 8, crying over a bumped knee. he had very different feelings now than he did then. sympathy and concern had ebbed, making way for much darker, much more corrosive emotions. he felt guilt and want broil in the chambers of his stomach, and the evilness inside him told him how easy to would be to get what he wanted. how close he was.

“yes. you’re my favourite buddy, we have a great time together,” he ruffled your shoulder like you pat a dog, speaking quick to placate you.

the hope in your eyes dwindled.

“so,” you sniffled, “you don’t feel anything for me? you don’t-don’t want me at all?”

with your convulsive sobbing your chest rose and fell, and with each jolt you spilled further out of your thread bare top. he closed his eyes, and swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing. inhaling deeply, his fingers released your shoulder.

“it doesn’t matter what i want.”

“yes it does, it matters the most,” you answer immediately, tears gone from your eyes, now sliding down from your water line and down your cheek, “what do you want?”

what does art want? when was the last time he asked himself that question? years. at least. he drew away from you. you felt sick.

he turned on the stool, ducking his head and cradling his face in his hands

“i want…”

what the fuck was he saying? he couldn’t say this to you. he couldn’t. but he was.

“i… you’re a very gorgeous girl. you’re sweet. you’re smart. you’re funny. i like you very much.”

he said it like he was confessing to murder. elbow resting on his knee, his hand covered his eyes with splayed fingers. god, he was going to hell for this. even saying the words felt like the deepest sin imaginable, and he was sanitising his truth extensively. what he thought about at night, when you went home and his house became cold again, when he got into the shower and mechanically relieved himself into the drain, that was truly deplorable. when he touched himself, it was you he thought of. invariably. everything a man could possibly do to a girl, everything a girl could possibly do to a man, he had laid up in his bed and touched himself to with you in mind. ropes and ropes and ropes of cum in your honour, so gently splattered on shower walls and bedsheets he needed to wash anyway. sometimes he came on his torso, just to feel young and frivolous, like you were. and when he did his brain would turn back on, and he would feel so guilty that he would lay there to soak up his guilt, a punishment for himself from himself. so yes. he wanted you. he wanted you very, very badly. with every fibre of his being, he craved you. and with every fibre of his soul, he hated himself for it. but apparently he was still talking. what his morality urged him his mouth couldn’t hear, or wouldn’t obey.

“so don’t think you’re delusional. you had every reason to think i might reciprocate.”

you watched him, glossy eyes wide as ever. he peeked from beneath his fingers, immediately covering his eyes again when he saw you watch him. he shouldn’t have said that. he shouldn’t have. that was bad, it’s only giving you hope, and there is no hope. he can’t, he can’t. he want to so badly but he can’t. god, no he can’t. it would be so easy but easy isn’t right and how could he ever look his daughter in the eyes again if he did? how could he look at tashi?

“mr donaldson?”

“mm,” he replied miserably.

“kiss me.”

slowly, exhausted, he lifted up his head. mistake. now he was thinking about it as he looked at your face, puffy and damp and shining like a star.

why did he look so disgusted? what was so wrong with you? you couldn’t stop yourself from barreling ahead, feeling his premature rejection like a rock in your stomach.

“just once. then i’ll leave and i’ll never bother you and you won’t see me anymore and i’ll go to church and ill get a therapist, but just once.”

he looks so tired. so tired and so fucking good. his eyes smouldered with deep thought, the thought only a mature man can have. he was so mature. he was so much larger than you. he could hurt you if he wanted to. he could make you do anything but all he did was look at you so tired it made you squirm inside. as your sobs died in your throat, regret and embarrassment become indistinguishable from desire.

he blinked slowly, and opened his mouth. the white of his teeth glittered. his tongue pawed the inside of his cheek. he was thinking about it.

how could he be thinking about it? he was the worst person in the world. and yet. and yet. one kiss. he could control it with one kiss. one kiss wouldn’t hurt. one kiss. he had kissed your head before. your cheek. what was so different about this?

wordlessly, he moved off the stool. heart in your mouth you waited. a tremulous breath shuddered from your chest as he took one step. two steps. three steps. until he was stood above you. his face was unreadable. not cold. not warm. just looking, appraising from above his brown lower lashes, down his strong kissable nose.

“one kiss?”

his hand rose slowly, palm facing upwards. his finger tips grazed your jaw, your chin, tilting your head up. fireworks burst in your stomach, and you resisted the urge to moan.

“one. that’s all.”

one. that would be all. one kiss and he would put this silly fascination away for good. a kiss is deniable. a kiss is nothing.

he stoops down, can feel the nerves vibrating from your skin. his head tilts slightly, and your eyes lock as he descends to your level. his hand moves into your hair, a combing hold. and you kiss. no tongue. your lips connect, mush and expand over the others. his nose touched your cheek. your arms remained stiff by your side as they gripped the stool. you felt the pinkness of his lips, felt the edge of his cupids bow. and then he pulled away.

there. one kiss. he had done what he had to to get you to drop it. had fulfilled your criteria, and now you could move on. now he could move on.

but if that was true, why was he leaning in again? why did almost tasting your saliva, a substance he had thought about in great detail, make him hungrier for it? why was almost having it worse than never coming close? why did he pull gently on your hair, making your head tip back, opening you mouth so he could kiss the part of you he craved; the inside part? why was he hard if it was over?

his tongue flicked gently inside, asking permission. your mouths closed together, making the kiss noise you hate hearing but love making. they open quickly and in sequence. your hands rise up to gently hover over his chest, barely grazing his shirt. you didn’t want to touch him too hard in case he dissipated into a cloud of smoke, an illusion.

but he was very real, and under your timid girlish touch he was undone. a soft exhalation like a groan into your mouth, and his tongue protruded. it touched yours and you tasted the salt on it, shivering. his other hand fell back to your shoulder, gripping so hard it was like had no idea what he was doing. feeling your mouth against his was all that there was. there wasn’t right, there wasn’t wrong, there was only sensation.

all the want he had saved for solitary and depressing masturbation now burst through his veins, into his actions and he kissed you with all the passion in him. with everything he’s never said, with all the times he held back with you, with tashi. he kissed you like if he didn’t he would die, breathing and groaning and grunting involuntarily. he mashed his face to yours, crushing your lips, taking your bottom lip between his teeth before recapturing your mouth in a sloppy open mouthed kiss. it felt like steam evaporated from where your met, so hot and wet.

you didn’t know what was your and what was art, where you finished and art began. you meshed like the broken pieces of a vase slotted against each other. his tongue became so wild it clipped the side of your mouth in its frantic exploration, and you sighed.

ultimately it was you who had to pull away. you pulled your hands into your own chest, gasping for breath. he didn’t move an inch. he gripped your shoulder still, cradled your face the same. he opened his eyes, chest rising and falling graciously.

he surveyed you, still too high from your touch to feel guilt, with lazy eyes. he was so fucked. your eyes sparkled like glitter. your lips shined pearly with his spit. his.

“art?”

“yes?”

“it’s not just one kiss is it?”

despite himself, despite everything, he smiled.

“no. i don’t think it is.”