#writings from the gremlin

[sepetajmikolikomehoces]

The lovely @punanenmarli asked for a drabble based on a Bojere kissing hypothetical I yeeted into our chat, and well...

This happened.

[artemisdesari-blog]

A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.

My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.

My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.

This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.

Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.

I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.

So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.

[pangur-and-grim]

okay sorry, one other thing annoyed me about that writing class. one of the students is this super clean-cut doctor who works at an HIV clinic, and he asked the prof "do you ever get distracted while reading books, because you find yourself analyzing the craft of them instead of sinking into the story?"

and she said "no," and turned away. and the whole class laughed awkwardly, bc it was a pretty abrupt and dismissive answer. so then she turned back to him and said "you wouldn't ask a musician if they get distracted listening to songs. they just enjoy the music."

but I dunno, I'm a newbie writer with only one (scheduled-to-be-published) book under my belt, but I get distracted sometimes when I'm reading. if I find I'm not sinking into a block of text, I'll squint at it and be like "okay, they're using too much passive voice, that's why my brain isn't grabbing on to it." so I'm sorry Mr. HIV doctor, I thought your question was reasonable!

[sepetajmikolikomehoces]

“Hei. Hei, jäbä, mitä sä– Siel– Awake. You– Wake up. Wake up.”

I'm shamelessly stealing this from twitter, but writers !! Quick, reblog with the last line or two that you wrote, no cheating.

[ghostwritergirl]

DPxDC Prompt: Open Invitation

Every ghost in the Zone and out of the Zone knows about the Christmas Truce. The single day of no fighting has lasted since Christmas had been called Yuletide and other names, that every single ghost respected it and tried to make it, especially if they weren’t in the Infinite Realms. After all, when you were dead, it was fun to have a little party and cut loose without fighting and where any grudges or rivalries were temporarily suspended.

And despite being ghosts who mostly resided in the living realm, Deadman, Gentleman Ghost, Marilyn Moonlight, Lady Gotham and other ghosts like them all attended the Christmas Truce party—once, Lady Gotham had brought Solomon Grundy, and no one cared. He may be a zombie, but undead was still dead and Grundy was more halfa-adjacent if it came down to technicalities, and had been welcome there ever since. JLD, of course, had an open invitation due to their association with Deadman (though Constantine tried to avoid the Ancient of Time he hooked up with one—okay, several—times), and after Danny started attending after the Ghostwriter incident, his fraid had an open invitation too, despite how half of them were still among the living (not like it mattered anyway, since they were liminal enough to count as ghostly)

It was due to Danny’s, and later Dani’s, attendance that Lady Gotham and Deadman realised they knew a halfa, who the Truce party’s open invitation extended to even though he didn’t know. And being in the pure ectoplasm of the Realms might help the halfa with the issues of his core and the damage the Lazarus Pit had done to it, and the Phantom twins would be thrilled at meeting him, that all three weren’t alone.

So, on Christmas Eve, Lady Gotham and Deadman go into Crime Alley and bring Red Hood into the Ghost Zone to where the Truce party is being held at (re: kidnap him)

Jason has no idea where he is, who these strange, glowing people are aside from Grundy or why they’re all drinking what looks to be Lazarus Water or why he feels better than he has in years since he came back, but for some reason he doesn’t feel like he’s in danger and like a part of him belongs here, and these people haven’t batted a single eye around him and are instead encouraging him to let loose and drink some shots and have some fun, it’s a Truce party after all. And when in Rome, right?

Danny rocks up a couple hours later and has no idea why the regular human vigilante Red Hood is in the Ghost Zone or drinking ectoplasm while having the time of his life and is internally freaking out and not having a single clue that he’s a potential halfa. Yet (Dani knows, having arrived before both of them and Deadman had let her know right before he and Lady Gotham had brought Jason, and is having the time of her life meeting another halfa despite how gross his core feels and seeing Danny lose his mind before he realises, too)

Meanwhile, the Batfamily is low-key worried (read: high-key panicking) about Jason’s disappearance and trying to figure out where the hell he is.

[davey-the-disturbed]

Oh, nothing, just thinking of a world where the rich own the poor and the more money you have, the more whumps you own. 

Just thinking of how the classification of a whump depends on their abilities and attributes. 

Decor- the prettiest, the most unique, the most sought-after whumps, put on display and dressed up. They greet guests and stand in poses for hours on end, the most valuable and entrancing objects one could have. 

Spectacles- the most talented singers, dancers, acrobats, actors. Trained for hours on end to be the best entertainment around. Their sole purpose is to stun an audience, then maybe, maybe they won’t be sold off. 

Oxen- The strongest, the toughest, the fighters. Used for manual labor or cage fights, to gamble on a winner. Kept like the cattle they are named for, their strength saves them where beauty doesn’t. 

Mundanes- The filler. The ordinary. The unimportant. Not pretty, strong, or talented enough to be of much worth, they work lower jobs. Cooks and maids, foot soldiers and punching bags. They are left to fill in the gaps—and aren’t noticed when they go missing. 

Just thinking of how certain tattoos or brandings signify which type of whump someone is. Thinking of how their age, their looks, their skills affect their pricing. Of how the faint chance of earning their freedom keeps whumps going, trying their best, pleasing their masters to the best of their ability. 

Thinking of how different masters treat their whumps. Of how whumps treat each other. Is there contempt among the Decor and Spectacles? Is there resentment among the Oxen and Mundanes? Do they see the others as competition, or do they try to help each other in the little ways they can? 

Just thinkin. 

EDIT: Thank you to everyone who commented and introduced me to the world of Box Boys! I now realize how similar this idea is, so think of it more as a personalization of the subject!

(btw my taglist is open 😊)

[lily-claw]

got inspiration from @marronje 's art and also from these ones

[bobbinfire]

Chapter 7 now up!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60638107/chapters/165310858

Also- Spotify playlist

<Previous chapter comic

Next chapter comic>

[ghostlysoaps]

Inspiration - @ghcstao3

There's something to be said about the way John "Soap" MacTavish, notorious for his fleeting fancy of any given subject when off an op, hasn't been able to get Simon Riley out of his head. Granted, even before "The Incident" his lieutenant occupied his thoughts frequently. But now, oh, not a minute goes by where his attention doesn't stray, where his eyes aren't drawn to Ghost’s hulking figure, and he wishes they'd been stationed literally anywhere else but the monotone grey of autumnal England.

His sketchbook is filled with pages upon pages of studies. Greens and browns and gold – the myriad of colours hazel can be – despite how none of them feel right. Too saturated, too dark, too light. Too much or too little. Then again... it is near impossible to recreate a work of art after a mere fleeting second of studying the original. La Gioconda del Prado wasn't made with a peripheral glance at Da Vinci's subject – so how is Johnny to do the impossible?

-

"Spar with me."

Ghost pauses with his fork mid-way to his mouth. A mouth Johnny would gladly analyze at length, or map with his own one day, if not for the unhealthy obsession he's taken with Ghost's eyes.

One thing at a time.

His irises are shadowed by the tilt of his head and the presence of eyeblack but there is a subtle difference between them. Johnny is fool enough to think he can see it no matter how shit the lighting. Deluded, even, if his long-suffering best friend is to be believed. They're also dark with question, narrowed with thoughts and opinions kept close at heart.

"Alright," Ghost says and pushes the rest of his dinner away, pausing briefly as if to say something before ultimately deciding against it.

Johnny follows him with a pronounced bounce in his step and speeds through stretching and warming up. It'll be a killer tomorrow but that's a problem for future Johnny. Sore muscles are a small price to pay if it means settling a mystery.

They take their places, circling each other lazily. Johnny, ever the impatient one, lunges first and ends up with Ghost's heavy weight straddling the small of his back a couple minutes later. He grinds his teeth and heaves himself back to his feet. Sweat beads at his temples, his neck, trickling down his spine. Alight with purpose, he throws himself back in the fray.

He sways out of Ghost’s reach, blocking and evading, bouncing on the tips of his toes, throwing punches when it's fitting while he awaits the perfect time to strike. They're both grinning. It's plain as day on his own face, more subtle on Ghost's. The way the corners of his eyes crease gives him away, the shift of his plain balaclava as his lips twitch.

Johnny is focused on them like a bloodhound on a scent and when Ghost tosses his head, tilting it up with a roll of his shoulders, the florescent lights catching them just so.

Oh, is all he can think with the truth of him laid plain to see – how Johnny had been right all along. They differ subtly in darkness but when cast in either sunshine sepia or lightbulb white the contrast between them is stark. One is the deep, dark of pine, a forest green with too many hues to accurately count. It compliments the wooden brown of tree-trunk bark, flecks of whiskey-gold therein framed by pale lashes of nearly the same colour.

A modern day Medusa who stops him dead in his tracks, mesmerised, as Ghost's fist slams into the side of his face with the concentrated power of an eighteen-wheeler barreling into a concrete wall.

-

Ghost's face swims back into view an undetermined amount of time later. Worry etched into the tense way he carries himself. His hands are cupping Johnny’s cheeks, thumbs stroking once under his lower lids before they tilt his head back a fraction. He hovers close, peering into Johnny’s eyes as if they hold the secrets of the universe therein.

"Fuckin' hell Johnny. Anything broken?"

Johnny blinks at him, a dopey smile spreading over his lips like molasses.

Ghost, if anything, looks even more worried.

"Talk to me, Sergeant."

"You've beautiful eyes."

Ghost freezes in place. Gobsmacked, if Johnny were to put an expression to it. He murmurs a string of delightfully innovative curses under his breath, manoeuvring Johnny to sitting upright, and the change in vantage point only makes him a little bit dizzy. The dark spots dancing before his eyes is nothing new, honestly, but they are annoying when they're ruining his view.

"Knocked what little sense you had left right out of your head, huh?" Ghost sounds amused and Soap realises, belatedly, that he might've said all that out loud. "Price'll have a field day with this."

"Take some responsibility an' kiss it better then."

"You're concussed."

"Och aye, an' whose fault is tha'? You and yer bonnie eyes. Could get lost in 'em, y'ken?"

"You're off your head, mate."

"Ahm'nt! An' if you'd jus' stay still for a moment an' lemme look at ye, this wouldn't 'ave been an issue," Johnny grumbles indignantly. Grumbles, because whining is for children and it never works in getting him what he wants anyway. Ghost usually looks at him with the flattest stare imaginable whenever he tries. Horrid man. Johnny kind of wants to kiss him about it.

"Tell you what, Johnny. If you're good–" Ghost slings his arm over his shoulder, kindly ignoring the way his words leave him shivering, "–i'll let you look all you want."

Johnny leans against him when he's levered to his feet, swaying like a branch caught in the wind. "I can be good."

"Mmh. You're gonna listen to the nurses once I drop you off at medical?"

Soap groans and smushes his face deeper into Ghost’s surprisingly comfortable shoulder.

"I'll take that as a yes."

-

Ghost keeps his promises, it is an irrefutable fact, and Johnny can and will take advantage of that with shameless abandon.

Crawling into Ghost's lap with a shit-eating grin, paints and brushes well-within reach, wobbling precarious on his perch until Ghost takes pity and steadies him with scorching hands on his hips feels like a victory despite the dull throbbing in his temple and purpling bruises lapping up the side of his face. There are no protests when he guides Ghost's head this-way-and-that. No complaints are heard even when the warm glow of his bedside lamp shines at his eyes and their kaleidoscope of colours become present again. Ghost keeps his gaze unwavering focused when Johnny's hands rest on his face in a mirror of the day prior – though his eyelids droop down the fraction of an inch. It's intense and intimate and Johnny, no stranger to selfishness when he can get away with it, can't help but be greedy.

"Can you be good for me now, Simon?"

His lieutenant nods as far as Johnny’s hands allow and though him closing his eyes is the opposite of good, Johnny can't fault him when his own slide shut as he brings their faces together for the first time – a new obsession flaring to life in the wake of lips brushing fabric.

[sepetajmikolikomehoces]

Surprise, people. Me and the idiots are back.

[fromtheseventhhell]

I love how people are only ever interested in defending Arya's right to be weird-looking. It's never defending her intelligence from people who claim she's incapable of thinking for herself, highlighting her importance to the plot and refusing to see her as just a prop, acknowledging how much of her story gets stolen and given to other characters, talking about her trauma or how often it gets erased and overlooked, seeing her as more than just an attack dog/bodyguard, etc. Nope. It's just a "why can't people let Arya be ugly/unconventional looking? :(" post every other week because people are, for whatever reason, obsessed with how Arya is visually perceived. One of the most misinterpreted characters yet the issue is only ever with her being portrayed as "too pretty" or the wrong "type" of pretty. This fandom will entirely rewrite a character's motivations, values, and role in the story to the point that they consider references to canon "hate" but! The true injustice to canon is we acknowledge that she is described as pretty several times. Arya simply existing as her pretty, important, and non-conforming self is too complex and confusing for people to comprehend 😔.

[runraerun]

ao3 • 6.1k • @steddie-spooktober day 30 prompt: “Where did you find that costume?” • beta: @netflixandchilis 🧡🖤

Summary:

“This is not a sex costume.” Steve rolls his eyes, “I swear, I could show up dressed as a clown and you guys would accuse me of—”

Steve doesn’t have time to brace himself before Eddie reaches forward and yanks. The sound of tearing velcro is deafening, and so is the silence that follows afterward.

His entire cop costume is suddenly off of his body and somehow, inexplicably, in the hands of Eddie Munson.

Or, unbeknownst to Steve, he shows up to Eddie’s Halloween party dressed as a stripper.

*Knock knock knock*

Steve steps back from Eddie’s front door, then rocks back on the heels of his boots that he hasn’t fully broken in yet. He knows that technically, he could just stroll into the trailer—he’s done it before after all, but sue him; he’s feeling playful tonight. And if there’s one night a year you’re allowed to embarrass yourself a little in the name of shits and giggles, it’s Halloween, right?

Steve had drawn the short straw between the four of them and was saddled with babysitting duty earlier tonight. As usual, Steve thinks with an amused sort of bitterness. Always the goddamn babysitter…

He’d just finished dropping the kids all off at Henderson’s house for a sleepover, but this was after they had forced him to trail after the lot of them for what felt like an eternity while they filled their pillow cases up with sugary garbage. Steve’s fucking exhausted.

When no one answers the door, Steve steps forward again, delivering three sharp knocks in quick succession.

“Hawkins PD, open up,” he bellows, giving what he considers is a fairly decent Hopper impression.

Steve’s skin prickles against a sudden cool breeze. He hooks his thumbs into his belt and waits on the creaky front porch, trying not to squirm against the wedgie that this outfit seems determined to give him.

Cheap ass costume…

The front door swings open, and Steve is suddenly bathed in the warm, welcoming light of the trailer’s interior. Robin, who has a football helmet on, along with some kind of orange jumpsuit with tubes wrapped around her torso, looks him up and down.

Before she can even say a single word though, Steve cuts her off, playing at arrogance.

“Got a couple of noise complaints, ma’am. Are your folks home? I’m gonna need—”

Robin holds her hands up with barely contained glee, “Wait wait, hold on! Just stay right there.”

The door slams shut in his face, leaving Steve in the darkness of the porch again. Through the door, Steve hears Robin yell for Eddie, but can’t make out much of the muffled voices after that.

Left on the porch with nothing but his thoughts Steve can’t help but wonder if Robin even recognized him. The fake stache wasn’t that convincing… was it?

“Man, c’mon…” Steve sighs, stepping forward and knocking again, this time with more force. He’s very quickly regretting his decision to ham it up as opposed to just walking in, kicking off the uncomfortable boots he’d been wearing all evening, and plopping down on Eddie’s lumpy, yet deceptively comfy sofa.

“C’mon, open up, Hawkins Police.” Steve calls again, trying to keep his exhaustion out of his voice.

In a blink, the door swings open again. Steve makes the extra effort to push his shoulders back and puff out his chest. This time, instead of Robin being the one haloed in the dingy light illuminating the trailer, it’s Eddie. A very confused, shockingly pale, cape-wearing Eddie.

Steve tilts his head back and peers down through his dark aviators at his friend, trying to maintain a stern, authoritative demeanor. His lip itches from underneath the stupid fake facial hair he’s got taped to his face. He can’t wait to rip the damn thing off.

Eddie grips the edge of the doorway, apparently stunned into silence.

“Sir, did you or anyone in this household place a call to 911 this evening?” Steve barks, trying his best to lean into his power-tripping asshole persona he’s decided to adopt.

“What the–” Eddie starts, but doesn’t seem to have any words to follow. His wide, dark eyes roam over the uniform and his twitching smile says enough.

Steve’s putting on a good show, it seems.

“Because it’s a criminal offense to prank call an emergency hotline, sir.” Steve leans forward, hoping for intimidation, “I could have you arrested.”

Steve suddenly becomes aware of Nancy and Robin both snickering in the background, watching the interaction with seemingly great interest. Eddie, for the most part, appears frozen at the door. It’s an odd bunch of reactions if Steve is being honest—he’s just dicking around, after all. Was he really being that out of pocket?

“Shteve, where in the fresh hell…?” A bewildered looking Eddie begins, his words slightly slurred, almost as if he has a lisp. Then Steve spots them; the sharp toothed plastic tray of vampire teeth that Eddie’s got stuffed into his mouth, making his lips pucker out just a bit. He looks ridiculous. If anyone should be laughing, it should be Steve. But instead of waiting for everyone to get their shit together, Steve forges on. He makes a show of sniffing the air. He slowly pulls the aviators down his nose to shoot Eddie a look. “Is that marijuana I smell, son? You kids smoking the devil’s lettuce in there?”

Robin sounds like she’s choking on something, Nancy’s all but retreated back into the trailer, unable to contain herself. Was it really that funny? Steve knows he can get the girls laughing on occasion, but he’s not like, a comedian or anything. And this cop bit he’s doing wasn’t even all that funny, even he can admit that. It’s just dorky fun. But Eddie’s shoulders are shaking and he’s giggling hard enough that he’s gone all quiet. Steve briefly wonders if he has something on his face…? Besides the stache, of course.

A particularly cool breeze hits his side, and he can physically feel himself break character as he brings his shoulders up to his ears in an attempt to brace against it. This cheap fucking costume does absolutely dick all to keep the cold out.

“Alright alright, jokes over, just let me in already.” But when Steve takes a step to pass through the door, Eddie quickly holds a hand to Steve’s chest, stopping him in his tracks. With his other free hand, he noisily pulls the vampire teeth from his mouth, a string of spit connecting the two until Eddie wipes his mouth with the back of a hand.

“Slow your roll, Sargent Cinnamon,” Eddie exclaims, barely able to contain his laughter to get the words out, “Jesus Christ, Steve, you’re gonna get the actual cops called on us.”

Sargent Cinnamon?

Steve takes off his aviators, perplexed. “What? Why?”

“Just—just turn around for me for a minute.” Eddie says. His hand falls from Steve’s chest as Steve begrudgingly takes a step back.

“Yeah, give us a spin, Steve.” Robin calls from the kitchenette, and Eddie gives a noisy laugh through his nose in what looks like a failed attempt to withhold a full on fucking belly laugh from escaping.

“Why?” Steve makes a face as he asks again, defenses up.

“We just have to confirm something.” Eddie says, playing coy.

Now that Steve’s really looking at him, he can see Eddie’s clearly dressed as a vampire. He’s all in black, though most of him is covered up by the long, heavy looking cape that’s tied around his shoulders and draping down his back. The collar of it looks stiff, its points reach damn near up to his cheekbones. His eyes are rimmed with dark makeup, making them pop even more than they usually do. Most striking of all though, is the white makeup that’s smeared all over his face, down his neck, and even over his mouth. It makes for a shock when he speaks or laughs, the deep red of the inside of his mouth contrasting sharply with the undead paleness of the rest of his face.

He looks… good. Spooky, but good. Especially now that those chunky fake fangs are out. Maybe Steve should have dressed as something spooky too…

“C’mon, just let me in. I don’t wanna spin.” Steve frowns. He does not pout. His lip may or may not jut out the tiniest of amounts. But Steve Harrington does not pout.

Eddie’s brows pinch together in mock sympathy, “oh, I’m so sorry Officer, but in that case, we’re gonna need you to come back with a warrant.”

Steve sighs. He’s cold, annoyed, and he’s pretty sure there’s two big watery blisters on the backs of his heels that’ll need patching up before the night is out. “Dude–”

Eddie holds out a finger, silencing Steve, “ah ah ah. You don’t get to show up here dressed like that and not put on a show.”

Steve’s brain stutters to a halt. “...I’m just dressed as a cop. What’s the big deal? Why’re you guys acting so weird?”

“Less yapping, more spinning, Deputy.” Eddie smiles wide, tilting his head. Despite being a total shithead at the moment, that smile never seems to fail at making Eddie look strangely endearing. It’s like a trap—one Steve always seems to be tumbling into as of late.

He gives a noisy groan of frustration to show exactly how ridiculous he thinks this whole thing is, before he complies and slowly turns around on the spot. Steve puts out his arms in defeat, suppressing yet another urge to dig at the wedgie now firmly up his ass. “There. Happy? Any more questions or demands?”

“Yeah, just the one,” Eddie says, seeming no less entertained than if Steve had just burped the whole alphabet backwards while simultaneously juggling a set of kitchen knives. “Where did you find that costume?”

Steve feels his neck go red, then his ears. He stuffs his hands under his armpits to try and warm them up, then shrugs defensively, not fully knowing why he is so embarrassed, only that he is. “Just a regular costume store.”

“What store exactly?” Robin calls from behind Eddie while she nurses a beer, “was there, oh, I don’t know, lingerie in the window of this costume store?”

And with that, there’s simply no helping it; Steve’s face goes scarlet. “No! It was just that pop-up Halloween store—the one next to Family Video. Robin, you went there too, what’s the big deal?”

“Did you happen to have crossed a beaded doorway in order to get to this costume by any chance?” Eddie asks in mock curiosity, barely withholding more of his obnoxiously loud laughter.

Steve opens his mouth to deny the downright weird accusation but… thinking back on it, he may have hit some beads at a certain point while he was in that shop.

Oh God…

“There’s that lightbulb,” Eddie gives a smarmy type of smile, “knew it would turn on eventually.”

Steve casts a glare between Eddie and Robin. They’re just poking fun at him, surely. If he’s being honest, he’s sort of sick of them ganging up on him lately. It’s like, all of the sudden, Eddie and Robin had just decided to become besties. They were always whispering and sharing these weird, heated looks between the two of them, ones Steve could never interpret. Like they suddenly had a whole slew of inside jokes that they refused to let Steve in on. It was infuriating!

If he didn’t know for a fact that there was no possibility of a romance between the two of them he would think they were hooking up. But no, apparently they’ve just bonded over their shared love of torturing ex-jocks. It’s like fucking Revenge of the Nerds out here.

“This is not a sex costume.” he growls, bunching his shoulders up just a little in an attempt to keep the breeze away from his neck.

“Steve,” Eddie’s voice goes soft, as if he’s opting to break the news to Steve gently, “you’re dressed as a stripper, man.”

“No, I’m not!” Steve shouts before he thinks better of it. He reels it in, but only a little, “It’s just… I’m just a cop. Okay, maybe it’s a sexy cop, but it’s just a stupid joke costume! It’s not my fault the outfit looks good on me, alright? That doesn’t make it a stripper outfit.”

Eddie nods empathetically, “right right, sure.”

“It’s true!”

“Totally, yeah.”

“I’m being serious!”

“Oh, I know you are.”

“It’s just a little tight is all.”

“I’ll say.”

Steve huffs, “I swear, I could show up dressed as a goddamn clown and you guys would accuse me of–”

Steve doesn’t have time to brace himself before Eddie reaches forward and yanks. The sound of tearing velcro is deafening, and so is the silence that follows directly afterward.

The entire front of his cop costume is off of his body and somehow, inexplicably, in the hands of Eddie Munson. And without the support of the front piece, Steve feels the entire back half of his costume follow suit, slipping down and off of his shoulders. Humiliatingly, the only reason it doesn’t hit the ground altogether is because the fabric is so securely lodged in between Steve’s ass cheeks.

Either way, he’s standing there, on the Munson’s front porch, in front of Eddie, in nothing more than his bright red boxers that he put on this morning, his uncomfortable fucking boots, his fake stache, and the octagonal police cap he’s got resting atop his head.

Eddie takes a deep breath, not even bothering to try and hide the way he’s basking in Steve’s utter humiliation. “Well well well. Looks like Christmas came early this year, huh?”

Robin at least has done him the good favor of collapsing somewhere in the living room, shrieking in laughter.

“Wh–Why would you do that!?” Steve clumsily grabs for the cap atop his head before holding it to his crotch in a flimsy attempt to preserve at least some of his dignity.

“Honestly? Because I don’t have a lot of impulse control,” Eddie admits truthfully, “but mostly I did it to prove to you that you did, in fact, show up to my party dressed as a stripper.”

Steve’s had enough. He grumbles out every single curse word he knows and shoulders his way into the trailer, yanking the remainder of the costume off of his body and out of his ass as he goes. If Steve was cold before, he’s freezing now. His nipples could cut fucking glass.

“Don’t tell me you took the kids out trick or treating in this.” Eddie says, motioning towards him with the bundle of thin fabric that had been, up until a few seconds ago, Steve’s costume.

Steve snatches the dark blue remains of his outfit, suddenly furious. He’s sure his face matches the red of his boxers at this point. Boxers that are now on display for all to see, apparently!

He reaches up to angrily tear off the mustache from his upper lip, and has to bite back an honest to god scream as it tears away, taking some of his actual lip hair with it. It was like a fucking wax strip!

“You did.” Eddie gasps, all but clutching his damn pearls, utterly scandalized. “You really went around and gave the good folks of Hawkin’s a free fucking show tonight, huh? Jesus Christ, Harrington, you probably sent some poor fucker out there into cardiac arrest!”

“No, I–” Steve sputters, “well, yes, I wore the cop costume while I took the kids around a couple of neighborhoods, but there wasn’t any kind of show.”

“Were the mothers especially kind to you, Stevie?” Robin asks from her position on the sofa beside Nancy, one sandy brown brow arched. “Did they give you extra candy?”

“One, I didn’t go trick-or-treating, so I didn’t get any candy at all,” Steve says, suddenly reluctant about taking his boots off, wary of losing any more of his clothing. As he speaks, he shuffles behind the countertop in the kitchen area instead, hiding at least his lower half from further attention. Everyone had already seen his hairy chest plenty of times, but still. It was the indignity of it all! “And two, I didn’t know it was a stripper costume. And three, screw all of you.”

Thank Christ the kids seemed oblivious to that sort of thing still. Steve’s as relieved at preserving their innocence as he is grateful they didn’t bear witness to his great blunder.

“Didn’t it feel weird when you had to velcro the sides shut..?” Nancy asks, sheer amusement playing across her features.

“Well, in hindsight… yes.” Steve has to stop speaking because all three of his so-called friends dissolve in further fits of laughter. He has to shout to be heard over their cackling, “but I just thought it was because the costume was cheap!”

“Oh, Steve.” Nancy shakes her head, still giggling. She sounded a little drunk.

“Sweet, naive Dingus.” Robin adds, as if she were finishing her girlfriend's thoughts.

So now Nancy and Robin were ganging up on him too. And after Steve gave Robin his blessing to date his ex-girlfriend! Traitors, all of ‘em, Steve thinks haughtily as he crosses his arms and glares.

“C’mon big boy, you can borrow something of mine.” Eddie says, finally deciding to take pity on Steve. “Unless, of course, you want me to help velcro your ass back into that little number..?”

That’s the absolute last thing he wants. So, with an angry grumble, Steve accepts Eddie’s offer for clothes and follows him down the narrow hallway, into his bedroom. Steve all but collapses on the end of Eddie’s unmade bed, snatching a pillow and holding it to his lap as he watches Eddie dig around his dresser drawers.

Steve notices that Eddie’s oddly quiet now that they’re alone.

Steve was sort of used to Eddie’s constant prattling on when they were together—so much so, that the lack of it seems unnatural in its own sort of way. It’s damn near unsettling to be near Eddie and not have him chewing his ear off.

Eddie pulls some soft, gray clothing from his drawers, attempts to discreetly give it the cautionary sniff test, then turns to offer them up to Steve. “Here, these, uh, they should fit you. Elastic waistband.”

“Thanks.” Steve mumbles, still a little pissed at Eddie for the whole tearing him out of his clothes thing. To be fair, Steve would have probably returned the favor if the roles had been reversed and would have laughed just as hard. Maybe harder.

He shoves the shirt on, then discards the pillow in order to stand and attempt to rid himself of the godforsaken boots from hell... Steve is unnervingly aware that the red of his underwear stands out like a fucking fire engine.

Eddie turns his painted face away, suddenly very interested in the various posters on his wall.

“Oh, sure, now you’re shy.” Steve snorts, but when he steps on the backs of his heels in an effort to toe off his boots, he sucks in a sharp breath and wobbles back onto the bed, cursing. The sharp stinging pain from the blisters is enough to cut his breath. “Shit, shit, shit–”

“What is it? What happened?” Eddie’s full attention is back on Steve, and Steve’s insides squirm a little at the intensity of it. He kind of loves that about Eddie; how he can be flighty and erratic one minute, but wholly and completely laser focused on something the next.

And Steve is man enough to admit that he sort of likes it when that undivided attention lands on him. Admittedly, he likes it when anyone pays attention to him, but… it’s different with Eddie. Even Steve’s not entirely sure why. It just makes him feel… seen, maybe. Special. Understood?

Steve doesn’t fucking know. He gives his head a shake.

“It’s just these stupid boots. I’ve only worn them a few times and they always give me blisters. I shouldn’t have worn them tonight but I just thought they went good with the outfit...” Steve explains, as if it’s a confession. The price of vanity, he thinks bitterly. Steve lifts one of his feet until it’s propped up his opposite knee and begins working the boot off, flinching as he goes, “they’re just stinging a little, it’s fine.”

“I’ll get some band-aids.” Eddie mutters as he darts out of the room, nearly tripping over something in his haste. Steve can hear him digging through the cupboard in the bathroom through the paper-thin walls of the trailer. Eddie sounds like a goddamn tornado. But hey, what’s new? Dude is tornado incarnate.

By the time Eddie’s back, armed with a battered box of band-aids and a tube of Neosporin, Steve’s already managed to work off a boot and peel away one of his socks. He’s poking the painful, fluid-filled blister with a grimace.

“Here.” Eddie awkwardly passes both of the items to Steve. He practically shoves them into his hands. Steve accepts them all with a quick thanks and gets to work. He half expects Eddie to go and just leave Steve to it, but he doesn’t. Instead, Eddie just stands there, hovering in the middle of his bedroom, staring like a weirdo.

Which sounds harsh even in Steve’s own mind, but there really was no mistaking it; Eddie most definitely is a full-blown, bonafide, one-of-a-kind weirdo. But as time’s gone on, and the further Steve’s gotten away from high school, the more he’s realized that his favorite people in the whole world—the ones he’d lay down his life for any day of the fucking week—are all freaks and weirdos. And maybe that made him a weirdo freak right alongside them. And hey, if all the best people were weird, shouldn’t he be proud to be counted among them?

Steve finds he doesn’t entirely hate the concept.

“You must think I’m a moron, huh?” Steve mutters as he smears some of the antiseptic cream over the blister, then a band-aid overtop, flinching the whole way through.

“For getting a blister? Or for accidentally cosplaying as a sex worker?” Eddie asks, grinning. Knows he’s being a cheeky little shit.

Steve just scoffs and rolls his eyes, “it could’ve happened to anyone, y’know. The costume thing, I mean.”

He settles his bare foot on the ground and starts on his next boot.

“Maybe. But it’s funny because it happened to you.” Eddie aims a set of finger guns at him. Steve, despite himself, chuckles a little under his breath. It was sort of funny.

“I don’t, though, by the way.” The couple of words tumble out of Eddie’s mouth. Steve knows by now that when he isn’t following Eddie, all he usually needs to do is wait a few seconds. Eddie never seems to mind taking the time to further explain himself to Steve, unlike most other people. So, Steve just spares him a glance and waits. “Think you’re a moron, I mean. You’re just… more of a do first, think later kinda guy. It doesn’t make you dumb. Maybe a little foolhardy, is all.”

“Foolhardy?” Steve’s hands stop what they’re doing as he looks up at Eddie. Steve’s pretty sure he knows what it means, but who the hell throws around digs like that?

Well, come to think of it, Eddie Munson would. Between writing his own songs and making up those D&D campaigns, Eddie’s inner voice probably speaks to him in sonnets and soliloquies.

“It’s a good thing—well, it is when I say it…” Eddie rushes to explain, but seems to abandon a few trains of thoughts before shaking his head, “whatever, nevermind, forget I said anything.”

“I know what foolhardy means I just–” Steve doesn’t have any fight in him though, too focused on how fucking painful this blister is compared to the last. The sharp sting was enough to make his eyes embarrassingly prickle. “Fuuuuuck…” he groans as he pulls.

“Stop, stop, just–” Eddie kneels, taking a knee, before he grabs Steve’s boot.

“No no, Eddie, don’t–!” Steve shrieks, suddenly terrified of Eddie’s jumpy, erratic movements he’s known for. His foot can’t fucking take it…

“Calm down, I’ll pull it off slow. I’ll even give you a countdown. You just–just relax, alright?” Eddie says, looking downright ridiculous in his costume. And yet, despite how crazy he looks, Munson seems sincere. He liked to poke fun at Steve, sure, but Eddie wouldn’t hurt him. Steve knows that. And when Eddie’s fingers curl around the back of his calf, the touch is gentle. Steve’s skin heats underneath Eddie’s hold. It’s enough to make his head go a little fuzzy.

Trying to follow Eddie’s instruction, Steve hesitantly leans back on the heels of his hands, allowing his leg to go slack in Eddie’s grip. “Relax. Right. Okay.”

“Alright. My safe word’s Ronald Reagan, but you can borrow it for tonight if you want me to stop, cool?” Eddie looks up at him through his lashes. The liner around his eyes was really something else… And his hair looked especially poofy tonight. Like Steve’s hands could get lost in there. Were those plastic spiders in his hair? God, Steve hoped they were plastic spiders…

A beat passes before Steve’s brain catches up with him. “Why the hell is Ronald Reagan your safe word?”

“Because nothing kills my boner faster than thinking about that dickwad. Duh.” Eddie explains, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And maybe it was, but Steve wasn’t exactly experienced with things like safe words and… well, the things that normally go along with safe words.

He feels himself shift anxiously at the idea. He wondered if Eddie was just making a joke or if he actually…

“Ready?” Eddie interrupts and utterly derails that particular train of thought. He’s cradling Steve’s booted foot, one hand low on Steve’s calf, the other gripping the bottom of the boot. Real comforting like.

Steve takes a quick breath before giving a sharp nod. “Ready.”

“3, 2, 1, deep breaths everyone!” Eddie says, and true to his word, he pulls off slowly, trying to angle the boot away from Steve’s heel as best he can. Steve clenches his teeth through the whole thing, determined not to utter the president's name. “Aaaaand we’re done!” Eddie says triumphantly.

Steve sighs, and lets himself fall onto the bed in relief. He’s built up a bit of a tolerance for pain over the past few years (purely out of necessity), but he still fucking hates it. Even if it’s something small like this. Call him a pussy for it, whatever. Steve doesn’t care.

When he feels Eddie begin peeling off his sock though, Steve bolts upright, returning to his seated position. “Y-you don’t gotta do that part–”

Eddie shrugs nonchalantly and continues peeling away the sock. “It’s okay, I wanna help.”

“My feet probably fucking reek, dude. I’ve been wearing those all day.” Steve wrinkles his nose. The idea that Eddie could possibly be repulsed by him in some way just doesn’t sit right with Steve. “You don’t–... I-I can do this part.”

“I told you, I don’t care.” Eddie says as he peels away Steve’s sweaty, ripe sock before sticking it into the no doubt equally sweaty, ripe boot.

Eddie's now kneeling in front of a pantless and sockless Steve—to say he felt exposed would be an understatement. He watches as Eddie takes the tube of Neosporin in hand and squeezes out a glob onto his finger and lines it up with Steve’s heel.

“Unless,” Eddie halts, as if an idea had just occurred to him, “unless you don’t want me to.”

The two of them just stare at one another for a few seconds, as if they’re both just realizing that they don’t really know the limits of their friendship yet. Both of them seem to be asking the other for permission to cross some kind of a line that they don’t know even exists or not. It should be awkward, but somehow it isn’t. It’s a little uncomfortable, sure, but… exciting, in a weird way.

Steve swallows, “no, I want you to. I mean, if you want to, of course. I—”

I like it when you touch me.

The thought hits Steve with such a sudden and sharp clarity that for a second he’s not sure if he’s said it out loud or not.

But if Eddie somehow heard it, he doesn’t let on.

Instead, the sides of his mouth twitch into a tentative grin, but then Eddie ducks his head before Steve can watch it blossom fully into a smile, though he can tell by the way his cheeks rise near his eyes that it indeed does.

Eddie smears the antiseptic cream on Steve’s blister with guitar string scarred fingers, with more care than most people bother using when they reach for Steve. Then he wipes his hands on his own bed sheets before unpeeling a bandaid from its wrapping and laying it overtop of everything. He smooths a finger overtop of it, once, then twice for good measure. Why Eddie runs his finger over the band-aid a third time, Steve hasn’t got a clue.

There’s something about the way Eddie so can flip the switch from being a loud, boisterous, all out terror of a human being, to this sincere, gentle… almost sweet person. It’s hard for Steve to wrap his head around. Especially since Eddie doesn’t show the second side nearly as often as the first–and only to a lucky handful of people. Steve’s one of those happy few.

It’s like a secret Eddie.

Steve briefly wonders if there’s a secret Steve, but if there is, not even he knows about him. Steve has a feeling he’s more of a ‘what you see is what you get’ kinda guy. Hopefully, that doesn’t mean he’s shallow.

And just when Steve thinks Eddie’s done with him, the guy spins around and rummages in his top drawer for a few seconds before turning back with a rolled up set of fresh socks for Steve. Without a word, he kneels and begins putting them on Steve’s foot for him.

Which…

Honestly, Steve doesn’t know how to feel about it. Good, obviously. That much, at least, is crystal fucking clear. But there’s more. Like the fluttery sort of warmth that comes specifically when someone brings you a bowl of hot soup when you’re sick, or cares enough to hold your hair back for you while you puke your guts out after drinking too much. It’s that same sort of feeling. Only more.

“Thanks, man.” Steve says, utterly relieved his voice comes out sounding steadier than he’s feeling. Because… Well, because no one takes care of Steve, except Steve. It’s been that way since he was old enough to tie his own shoes. He’s always on his own. Self-sufficient. Steve takes a sort of pride in it.

But here’s Eddie, on his knees, tending to him, even though Steve can do it perfectly fine on his own. He’s still doing it for Steve, and for the hell of him, Steve can’t wrap his head around why. And all of it over some stupid blisters. It makes Steve’s chest ache, fixing to burst.

“No problem, Officer. Just doing my civic duty.” Eddie’s tone is soft when he flicks his eyes up briefly, paired with a grin. He finishes putting the fresh set of socks on Steve’s feet, careful to avoid the blisters. The socks are pilled, and scratchy, as if neither Wayne nor Eddie bothers with fabric softener, but they’re comfortable enough and blissfully warm.

“Well the city of Hawkins thanks you too, Mr. Munson.” Steve replies with a two fingers salute, attempting to match Eddie’s energy, but the words sound so deeply stupid when they’re strung together like that, that it has them both chuckling.

“Christ, you’re cute.” Eddie mutters, dragging a knuckle under his eye to clear away the stray tear that had formed from all of the laughing he’s done tonight. Then Steve watches as that easy smile that he had just been so admiring quickly fall away as Eddie seems to realize what he’d just said.

Eddie thinks he’s cute?

The question of what kind of cute he was referring to bombards Steve's brain. Cute could mean a hell of a lot of things—from puppies with big wet eyes to Michelle Pfeiffer in a skin tight leotard. Or maybe Eddie didn’t mean to say cute at all. Yeah, maybe it just slipped out. Hell, maybe Eddie’s just high. He does get a little extra tactile and emotional when he’s high. And Eddie definitely smells like weed, but—well, Eddie always smells like weed.

“Here’s your–” Eddie suddenly stands, cape fluttering behind him, and tosses the sweatpants from earlier back at Steve who catches it with ease, despite the newly unmoored feeling he’s got in his gut. Steve suspects Eddie’s blushing by the way he’s holding himself, but because of all the makeup, Steve can’t be sure. Eddie anxiously twists his rings around his fingers muttering a quiet, “sorry, man.”

It’s said so timidly that Steve almost misses the tacked-on apology entirely. Now, timid isn’t usually something that Steve would associate with Eddie Munson but, well, there it is. And despite their playful back and forth with one another, Steve can tell this is wholly different. He doesn’t—can’t leave Eddie standing there with egg on his face.

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not—it’s whatever, dude.” Steve says, forever baffled at how the English language, the only language he even knows and is apparently fluent in, still manages to sound like knotted garbage when it comes out of his mouth. He shoves his legs through the sweatpants, yanking them up to his waist.

Eddie seems to get it though, thankfully. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Steve says, quick, casual-like.

Eddie chews on his lip. “I didn’t make it weird?”

At this, Steve barks out a laugh. Because, yeah but… well, if Eddie started going around apologizing every time he did something weird the guy would never stop apologizing.

And Steve likes Eddie’s flavor of weird anyway.

“Hey, I’m the one who showed up to your house dressed as a stripper, didn’t I? If anyone’s made it weird tonight, it’s me.” Steve runs a hand through his hair, briefly concerned about how the stupid hat probably left an embarrassing indent where it was sitting.

Eddie’s wide smile is back, the one that lines his face and makes his eyes do that starlight thing. “That’s true.” He chuckles.

“I like your costume though.” Steve grins, feeling that fluttery feeling in his chest when he gets Eddie smiling like that. “Vampire, right?”

If possible, Eddie’s eyes widen further, giving him a manic look. He hastily pats his various pockets before finding his fake fangs and shoving them into his mouth. They look terrible, but admittedly, they sort of complete the overall look.

“That’s Count Dracula to you, foolish mortal.” Eddie says with a truly terrible Transylvanian accent as he dramatically swishes his cape over one of his arms, then positions it underneath his kohl-rimmed eyes.

Steve pretends to cower, but he’s always been kind of a shitty actor so he just ends up snorting and shaking his head. “Terrifying. If you hadn’t torn it off me earlier, I’m sure I would have shivered right out of my uniform.”

And again, it’s enough for Eddie to break character and bark out a laugh around his plastic fangs. He recovers quickly though, a smile still pulling at the sides of his mouth.

“C’mon, the girlsh have probably put the movie on without ush.” Eddie says with a very distinct lisp. It’s sort of adorable.

It’s profoundly less adorable after Steve hears how Eddie needs to suck back the spit trapped between his teeth and the tray so he doesn't drool all over himself.

Thankfully, Eddie doesn’t end up wearing the fake fangs for the whole movie, especially not after Nancy demands their removal after two or three noisy, spit-retrieving sucks. There’s some petty back and forth that lasts a couple of seconds, but it’s settled quickly and amicably, as most of their squabbles are.

Steve and Eddie spend the majority of the horror flick pressed up against one another, from shoulder to knee. Steve’s not entirely sure what the hell is happening between them, but whatever it is… it’s nice.

And when there’s a particularly scary bit that makes Steve nearly jump out of his skin, Eddie teases him and slaps a patronizing hand to his knee just to further torment him, but it’s the damnedest thing. Even after the joke’s over, and their collective focus is back (in theory) on the movie, Eddie just… doesn’t take his hand back. Neither one of them seems keen on addressing it either, afraid to spook whatever it is away.

They stay that way for the rest of the movie. He doesn’t risk putting his hand over top of Eddie’s—he can’t. Not yet, at least. But Steve will think about little else besides the feeling of Eddie’s warm hand curled around the top of his knee, searing into him like a brand, for many nights to come.

It’s hands down the most embarrassing Halloween Steve’s ever had—but it’s also kinda the best, thanks to Eddie.

[myokk]

Her kisses were all-consuming and he felt his heart surrendering to her with every gentle nip, losing himself in the feeling of her. Her soft body pressing tightly against him, her breathy moans, the soft hair at the nape of her neck, her taste.

When Eloise finally pulled away from him, breathing heavily as their foreheads pressed together and their eyes locked, Sebastian was dazed and content and...happy. Merlin, he was so happy. Her cheeks were bright pink, and her lips were swollen and red and smiling up at him. His breath caught in his throat - he didn't think he had ever seen anything so beautiful as Eloise in that moment. Sebastian knew that he was grinning like a fool but he didn't care.

Happiness was bubbling up in his body and he was leaning down to kiss her again because it would never be enough and -

She started coughing.

Eloise abruptly pulled away from him, covering her mouth with her sleeve as she doubled over. A terrible, horrible, familiar wracking cough that Sebastian never thought he would hear again.

When she pulled her sleeve away from her mouth, there were little flecks of blood.

They both looked at each other in horror.

"Eloise..." he started, his voice cracking. The balloon of happiness that had filled him burst and he felt himself crashing back to the grim reality that had been his life for too long. Arms hanging limply at his sides. When his voice came out again, it was a whisper. He could barely choke the words out.

"...what did you do?"

their first kiss😇😇😇

[foggieststars]

sex pollen + overstim and/or denial for landoscar queen?

"Jesus fuck," Lando says, and Oscar glares at him with baleful eyes. Lando takes affront to that. If anything, Lando reckons he's sort of underreacting to the whole, finding his teammate slumped nearly-unconscious outside the door of his flat, thing.

"Are you - I mean. Y'alright?" Lando asks, heartbeat loud in his ears. Oscar's got sweat pouring off him, like he's just finished 62 laps of Singapore. His hair's clumped together with sweat, stringy and

"Of course I'm not alright," Oscar snaps, and - that’s new. 

Lando blinks, unsure what to make of Oscar like this. It’s the most tense Lando’s ever seen him - the most genuinely irritated. Even after Carlos took him out of the race in Spa last year, the most emotion Oscar had shown was the tightly clenched fists in his lap during the debrief. Seeing Oscar like this… it’s an uncomfortable display of vulnerability. 

“What’s happened to you?” Lando asks, reaching out to offer Oscar a hand. “Why are you–?” here, he doesn’t say. Figures it’d be rude. Make Oscar think he’s like, unwelcome or something. 

“I dunno,” Oscar says, breathing heavily. “I was opening some fucking - oh, fuck,” he says, doubling over. Lando fumbles in his pocket for his keys, unlocks the door with clumsy, trembling hands. “I was opening some fanmail, for some stupid fucking video, and one of them had all this powder in it, and it got all over my hands, and I started feeling - like this.” 

“Oh, christ,” Lando says, mind whirring. Can people send, like, drugs in the post? Drugs that only need to touch your skin to activate? Lando tries not to panic too obviously, wants to stay calm for Oscar. Who’s crawled here, for some reason. 

“Fuck, Osc,” Lando gnaws on his lip, shutting the door behind them. When he reaches out to steady Oscar, swaying on the spot, his skin is searingly hot to the touch. “I reckon you need to go to the hospital, mate.” 

“Dunno where it is, do I?” Oscar snaps. “And besides. I don’t think… I don’t think I need a hospital. Not for this.” 

Lando nearly shrieks, panic turning his hands clammy. “Oscar, you just told me that you - that you’ve touched some random fucking powder, and now you’re here, sweating buckets on my doorstep. Of course you need to go to the hospital!” 

Oscar lurches dangerously to the side as Lando’s speaking, and Lando reaches out to grab him. One hand finds Oscar’s forearm, pulls him in close to his body. The other hand lands on Oscar’s waist, trailing around to his stomach. 

“Oh,” Oscar moans, swaying into Lando this time. 

“What hurts? Your stomach?” Lando babbles, scrabbling with the hem of Oscar’s top. “It might be your appendix or something, you know?” 

When he gets Oscar’s top up, exposing the smooth expanse of his stomach, Lando presses his hand to it. He doesn’t know what the fuck he thinks he’s looking for - like he’ll be able to feel Oscar’s appendix about to rupture - and then Oscar makes another noise. It’s low and sharp and unmistakably aroused. 

“Osc?” Lando probes, and then Oscar’s doubling over, moaning louder, and his hips - well, oh Jesus, he’s fucking forward into the air, like he’s got his cock in someone. 

The movement continues for what feels like forever, but is probably no longer than ten seconds, and then Oscar slumps over, like a marionette with its strings cut. 

“Oh my god,” Lando says, hating the way his voice has gone all high-pitched. “Did you just–?” 

Oscar groans, still bent double at the waist. “‘M sorry,” he grits out, voice hoarse. His cheeks are stained pink. “Fuck, Lando. I’m so sorry.” 

“When you said - when you said you didn’t need a hospital…”

Oscar looks at him, eyes shining. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and nods. “Ever since I touched that stuff - I don’t know. I just - I can’t stop.” 

Lando’s brain goes offline at the mental image of Oscar, alone in his flat, jerking himself off frantically, again and again and again. 

“And - so. You came here?” Lando queries, voice tremulous. 

Oscar looks at him with a pained expression. “I want. Will you - help?” 

Lando feels like he’s teetering on the precipice of something massive. There’s been tension between them since Oscar arrived. Lando never acted on it. He’d sworn to himself - this would be the teammate he doesn’t let fuck him. Oscar’s always respected that unspoken decision; never pushed too hard, never made so much as the tiniest of moves. Even though Lando knows he feels it just as urgently - the intangible thing shimmering between them. Seems like Oscar’s finally reached his breaking point. 

Lando steadies himself with a deep breath. “Alright, Oscar. I’ll help.” 

*

Five minutes later find them in Lando’s unmade bed, shirts off, Lando fiddling with the drawstring of Oscar’s shorts. Shorts - in December. Lando barely resists the urge to tease him about it, thinks it might be just too much for Oscar right now. 

When he finally gets them down around Oscar’s ankles, Lando doesn’t feel much like joking any longer. 

“Fuck, Osc,” Lando says, looking down at the mess. “You came so much.” 

His cock is an angry shade of red, so hard it’s resting against his stomach. There’s a mess of drying come in Oscar’s boxers, a testament to how many times he’d gotten himself off before coming to seek out Lando’s help. It must hurt. Lando’s never come this many times in one session - not even when he was a horny teenager with no refractory period. 

Oscar pants, arm thrown across his eyes, nods. Didn’t even bother to clean himself up. Needed it that badly. 

“How many times did you–?” 

Oscar makes a quiet noise, like he’s embarrassed to admit to it. “I - Lando,” he rasps, hips hitching as Lando takes his hot cock in hand. It’s pulsing gently, weeping pre-come when Lando thumbs over the tip.

“Come on,” Lando pushes, unsure why he can’t resist the urge to tease. Why he never can. “I won’t tell anyone. Swear.” 

Who’s Lando gunna tell, exactly? Max wouldn’t even believe him. 

“F-four,” Oscar says, moaning when Lando twists his wrist. “Lando, fuck, I’m - so close.” 

“Already?” Lando asks, laughing despite himself. “I’m not even - oh.” 

That’s all it takes to have Oscar spilling all over Lando’s hand, hips kicking into the air. It’s scorchingly hot. 

“Jesus,” Lando says, and Oscar throws his other arm across his face too. Like if he buries himself deep enough, this will all go away. “I barely even touched you!” 

“I know,” Oscar says, seemingly more lucid immediately post-orgasm. “It - the powder shit. It doesn’t take much to - y’know. Makes everything feel… louder.” 

Alright, maybe not so lucid after all. 

“Does it hurt?” Lando asks, and Oscar nods. Doesn’t seem to stop his cock filling up again, straining with desperation. Oscar finally brings his arms down from his face, more flushed than ever. 

He’s so - vulnerable, like this. Like Lando could do anything to him, anything at all, and he’d just lie there and shudder through it, small, bitten-off moans spilling from his mouth. It’s a thought that shouldn’t turn Lando on as much as it does. 

Lando gets Oscar off again with his hands, once with his mouth. Oscar starts fully crying when Lando sucks on the head of his cock, and Lando’s never really been one to get, like, turned on by tears, but - well. It’s Oscar, so. 

“You okay?” Lando asks, sitting up, wiping off his chin. “I don’t wanna like, hurt you or nothing.” 

“It’s just - it’s a lot,” Oscar hiccups, chest heaving. “Feels so - I dunno how to explain. I’m all… tingly.” 

Lando finishes him off, sits back on his heels to give Oscar a short break. He leans forward, rests the back of his palm on Oscar’s forehead. It feels absurdly domestic - weirdly maternal, actually - but he’s even hotter than before, if anything. 

“I don’t know if this is helping,” Lando says, watching Oscar ball his fists into Lando’s duvet, trying not to hump the air. “You’re like, properly burning up. Should I call someone?” he hesitates. “Mark?” 

“No!” Oscar practically shouts, hands flying up to grip Lando’s wrists, like he’s in any fit state to physically wrestle a phone out of Lando’s grasp. Like Lando would even have Mark’s number saved. He’d have to call Jenson probably, and then that would be a whole thing. “Not Mark. Not - okay.” Oscar blows out air, ruffles his fringe. “I think. I think you’re gonna have to…” 

Lando raises his eyebrows, not following Oscar’s deluded train of thought. 

Oscar groans, half-twists his body to bury his face in the pillows. He takes a couple of deep breaths, and Lando watches the muscles in his back twitch and flex. 

When Oscar rolls back, he’s calmer. More measured. And then, as if it’s normal, as if this is something teammates do with each other all the time, he plants his feet into the mattress, and spreads his legs.  

“Oh,” Lando says. His cock, already half-hard, jumps to attention so quickly Lando feels briefly dizzy. “Oh, right. Fucking hell.” 

“Only if you want to,” Oscar says, voice trembling. “I know it’s - I’m sorry. I know this is fucking insane.” 

“If I want to,” Lando echoes, feeling vaguely hysterical. Maybe he’s the drugged one. Maybe Max thought it would be funny to slip something into his drink last night, and all this is just one long, horny fever-dream. 

“Yeah,” Oscar says, in a voice that betrays his barely-suppressed panic. “Lando? Can you - oh, god. Say something, please?” 

“Are you - fuck, Oscar. I mean. Are you sure?” 

Oscar nods desperately, the movement ruffling his hair. “Please, Lando. I came to you for - for a reason,” he gulps. And then, softly, almost begging – “Please.” 

It’s so hot Lando almost sees stars. “Alright,” he says after a moment of indecision. “Alright, Osc. I’ve got you.” 

The relief on Oscar’s face is almost enough to make Lando feel guilty, that Oscar thinks Lando’s the one doing him a favour. Like he hasn’t been gagging to stick his dick in Oscar since that first day in the MTC. 

Lando fumbles for his hand, threads their fingers together, gives Oscar’s hand a tight squeeze. “‘M gonna make it go away, Osc, I swear.” 

Oscar gasps at the sensation, banal and sexless as a squeeze of the hand is. He needs it. He’s sore from overstimulation, gasping whenever Lando so much as brushes his cock, and yet he’s still begging for it, desperate to be touched. 

Oscar smiles at him, so sweet and polite. “Thank you,” he says, and Lando loses his grasp on reality. 

[essenceofarda]

I know this may sound weird to say out loud but damn do I wish my tolkien fanart/fanfic/fandom content was at all "smart" :/

Idk if that means more 'meta', or if just more profound/intellectual, but it's been really striking me lately that my art is just not all that great, particularly my tolkien fanart. It just feels very surface level entertainment, budget-friendly stuff, and not exactly anything to write home about, kind of vibe? Which like, there's nothing particularly wrong with that, since that kind of entertainment does have its value, imo

But I wish my tolkien fandom content was just a bit more...? idk, good, maybe.

[lord-squiggletits]

Reread/skimmed my oldest Pharma apologism posts (mainly the ones about Pharma not being a functionist) and it just occurred to me that possibly another reason the fandom saddled Pharma with the "functionist bigot" label is because his introduction by First Aid says that everyone hates Decepticons, but Pharma really really hates Decepticons. Mix that with the portion of the fanbase that lionizes and whitewashes the Decepticons, and I can easily see it entering common fanon that "Pharma hates Decepticons -> the Decepticons are freedom fighters wrongly maligned by the Autobots/the franchise -> Pharma must be a bigoted functionist since he hates Decepticons who represent freedom."

The simpler explanation is just that Pharma is an antagonist and therefore gets the "everything about him must be evil and wrong" black-and-white analysis so common in fandoms in general, but given some of the bizarre Decepticon takes I've seen I can also easily see Pharma's Decepticon hatred being taken as a sign of him being bigoted and evil.

Though AGAIN in this case it would still be singling Pharma out as a bigot for crimes/flaws that multiple other Autobots are guilty of like.

Oh, Pharma hates Decepticons? Well a lot of other Autobots hate Decepticons too, First Aid's narration about Pharma even says "we all hate Decepticons"; for that matter, there are a lot of Decepticons who hate Autobots. It's a massive civil war that's lasted for a lifetime causing two groups of people to be stuck in a near-permanent blood feud, you can't assume that every Autobot who hates Decepticons (and vice versa) hates them because they're a bigot. Maybe there's been a war where both sides have been building an ever-increasing mountain of reasons to hate each other, so hating the opposite faction is a social problem caused by war and politics rather than a sign of individual moral failing.

Pharma worked at the New Institute so that means he must be evil/bigoted? Chromedome and Brainstorm also worked at the New Institute, but there's no widespread fandom shunning of them or headcanoning them as bigots.

Hell, even the very premise of assuming Pharma is a functionist bigot for hating Decepticons is ignoring the very premise of Pharma's motives, which are, uh... being blackmailed by the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division, who represents the ultimate form of Decepticon ideals to the point of literally wearing their symbol as his mask? So how were we jumping straight to "oh Pharma hates Decepticons bc he's a posh bigoted functionist" when there was a far more immediate interpretation/headcanon of "Pharma hates Decepticons because he's being tortured and blackmailed by one."

That's not to say that Pharma couldn't have hated Decepticons before Delphi, and I think you could make interesting headcanons/extrapolations based on either idea. But still. It kinda feels like people saw Pharma and just wanted to make him the Token Evil Autobot who's the opposite of our Good Heroic Autobots regardless of whether evidence from canon supported it or not.

Good riddance to bigoted functionist Pharma fanon, I'm so glad that the majority of Pharma fanon these days actually gives him a chance and puts him on equal footing as other Autobots.