#but this whole fucking period has been so damaging to me

[theodore-lasso]

.

#the closest thing that seems to describe my relationship with dysphoria lately is chronic pain and i know its not 100% #but theres not a single second of the day that it doesn't cause me mental/emotional distress or like it's VERY rare #and i can almost feel it like a physical pain now #it feels so dramatic but like it's fucking. life threatening. #i run out of spoons so quickly #and im struggling to see the difference between a physical condition getting worse and smth like dysphoria which #when its bad or like even when its not that bad makes me want to kill myself #ive been talking about it for 6 months now was an actual issue that desperately needs medical treatment #but the fact that its woven in with mental illness and so enmeshed with depression and anxiety has made it almost impossible for me #dysphoria has essentially blocked me from everything i love and all my coping mechanisms that i usually use for my mental health #i cant spend time with ppl bc it makes me dysphoric i cant sing bc i can't listen to my voice i cant meet new ppl or do new things #any energy i was spending on catching up with old friends or friends i only saw irregularly is fkn gone #like its disappeared i can't fucking do it #which of course isolates me and makes my mental health worse #its just the compounding issues that make each other worse and the answer is to relieve my dysphoria #and then i can slowly start to rebuild as a person #but this whole fucking period has been so damaging to me #to be out for years and suddenly be so mentally ill that your brain challenges things it knows are true and starts saying #youre just a mentally ill woman every time you look in the mirror. #like thats a fucking horror movie #its isolation its doubting reality its exhaustion and normalised suicidality and kinda disordered eating and just. holding on #like i cant build anything new in this state im just treading water #idk i think i didnt realise what dysphoria was before. i think people downplay it to make trans people more palatable #or you only see people talk about it post transition #or you only hear ways to alleviate it #you dont really hear all the ways you just have to live with it. and you do. voice dysphoria is my biggest issue for sure #and i cannot get around it #so ive stopped one of my number one hobbies and sources of joy - music and singing. which was a big way id get around anxiety #because you have to breathe properly to sing #im running outta tags i just didnt wanna put this in a post but. yeah listen its rough out here buddy lmfao and it has been for. a while

[inky-duchess]

Writing Characters with Glasses

Glasses are one of those components in writing that one just knows whether the writer has any experience with or not from the offset. So how do we write glasses-wearing characters or characters with impaired vision?

What is your character's eye strength?

Now, you don't have to know your character's exact diagnoses but you should know what sightedness your character has. Near-sighted means your character has trouble seeing things far way but can see things up close. Far-sightedness means a character can see things better in the distance than they can in before them.

Typically, one eye can be weaker or stronger than another, so a lense may be slightly thicker or slimmer than the other. Myself, my left eye is much weaker than my right.

Wearing Glasses

Typically when you wear glasses, you start to ignore the frames in your peripheral vision, however if you may notice it more if you haven't been wearing your glasses for a while.

Also when you change lenses, your sight is funny for a while. Things, like the fucking ground itself, seem a lot closer which can lead you to feel very disoriented. Its best to break glasses in gradually, in the words of Our Lady, Theresa Manion, "Do not make unnecessary journeys, do not take risks on treacherous roads..."

Glasses can get dirty and smudged very easily and do require cleaning. You may often see somebody wipe their glasses with their shirt tail but this isn't always effective, some fabrics just worsen the issue. Dry tissue paper is the best or a glass cloth. Frames also should be cleaned too.

Glasses tend to fog up when it rains, when you sweat or when you're somewhere steamy or drinking/eating something really hot. It can be a nuisance but it usually won't impair your vision that much.

Glasses can strain your eyes and start to chafe after a while. Long periods of wearing glasses can make your eyes start to ache (it always happens to me) and the best thing to do is just remove them and rest your eyes. The frames can also rub against the tops of your ears or the bridge of your nose.

People who need glasses tend not to remove them very often. If your vision is very bad, you won't be whipping your glasses off at every opportunity like Horatio Caine. If you only need reading glasses or need glasses for specific tasks you, wouldn't wear them 24/7 as it can further damage your eyes (I did this and now I can barely see 4ft ahead of me).

You can do tasks without your glasses but you do feel more cautious, especially if you have difficulty making out details. Glasses usually make you more comfortable in situations.

And as for the whole pushing up glasses when they slip (and they do slip but gradually), there's no right way or wrong way. Personally, I adjust by moving the entire frame between my thumb and forefinger so I don't smudge the lense. But pushing it up by the bar that crosses your nose is also effective.

When you're not wearing glasses

Not wearing glasses isn't delibiltating if your character's sight isn't majorly mad. As I mentioned before, they can still carry out tasks. But not wearing glasses can leave you a little unsure and sometimes disoriented.

Most people can still see without glasses, things just aren't as focused. For me, things get very fuzzy especially if they are far away but I can still make out the shape - for example, I can see how many fingers you're holding up but not your ring. I can do a lot of tasks without glasses.

When you're not wearing your glasses, you do tend to squint which can help you see a little better or tend to lift things to your eyes to see them better.

Characters wearing glasses

If your character loses their glasses in a fight, they won't be unable to fight back. They can likely still see some things.

Glasses hurt when knocked from your face, you can cut or bruise from a blow to the glasses. (it's happened to me which is why I have a massive scar on my forehead).

Your character will likely dislike going to the optician. Getting your eyes looked into by a stranger with a torch is irritating. Buying new glasses is a long drawn out hellish experience.

Breaking your glasses will upset your character, mainly because they're expensive. A character may opt to get the glasses fixed instead of replaced.

Your character will keep their glasses near at all times. Sleeping, they will be in reach. In the shower, they will be somewhere close by. Glasses may your more confident in your ability so they will always be near.

Also your character will likely not store their glasses in a pocket (they can break) or on their heads (your hair can smudge the lenses).

If your character has one of those early 2000s rom-com moments where their glasses are removed so the world can see their "true beauty", yeah that isn't a thing. Now that person can't fucking see.

Also, your character will likely hate anybody grabbing their glasses or wanting to try them on.

#Characters with glasses #Characters wearing glasses #Writing guide #Writing Characters #Creative writing #writing #writeblr #writing resources #writing reference #writing advice #writers #ask answered questions #writing advice writing resources #spilled ink #Writing reference writing resources #Writing resource writing reference #Writing reference writing resource #Writing advice writing help #Writing help

[python333]

need a ride? — python333

— — — —

synopsis ur walking home from school and theres a weirdo following you, luckily the 141 are there and they help u out!! :3

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & gn!reader.

characters cap. price, soap (for like 2 seconds, so sorry soap enjoyers), ghost, gaz.

word count 2.4k

warnings a creepy old man following [reader], [reader] intended to be in high school, 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of y/n [your name].

note i have like 5 drafts and all of them are requests from people so im so sorry i havent been working on those!! i pinky prom once i get the motivation to write them--which probably sounds weird since i wrote this but trust me when i had to force myself to write this lmao--i will be posting them :3 i hope u all enjoy this fic, its all fluff and emotional hurt/comfort + protective-ish 141!!

You really wish you had listened to that first warning light. 

For a whole two days, your car had been in an auto repair shop, because you decided to ignore four whole warnings signs that something was seriously wrong with your car. Suspension and alignment issues, they’d told you yesterday, The wheels need to be realigned, the damaged suspension components need to be replaced, and the whole thing would take a day or two.

Fast forward to now, it’s 3:30 in the afternoon and you’ve been walking from school to your house for about ten minutes. The sun is close to being fully set—one of the worst parts of winter—and there’s been a guy following you for about five minutes now. 

He showed up once you’d exited the school premises and since then had been very determined to follow you home. You obviously did not want this to happen. But it didn’t matter if you walked faster, because he would only match your pace. If you tried to run, you assume, he’d just run after you, and seeing as he had far longer legs than you—you were pretty fucked if you decided to run. 

You would try to call an Uber, but your phone had been dead since fifth period. And you would try and catch a bus or something, but there were no bus stops near where you live, and even if there were, you weren’t carrying any cash or any cards on you. 

So, again, you’re pretty fucked. 

You look back at the man again, and turn your head right back around to look ahead of yourself once you see him looking right back at you, closer than you remember him being. Is he walking faster? Do I have to walk faster? 

You let out a shaky breath and keep walking, speeding up your walk just a bit and widening your strides, trying to think of what you should do. You didn’t want to just lead him to your house, that was just stupid. But you couldn’t just not go home—where else would you go? 

You continue to walk, speeding up a bit when you start to hear the man behind you speed up, and you try to control your panicked breathing. What are you supposed to do? You mentally curse yourself out for not carrying any self defense on your person, and continue your walking. 

Then suddenly, as if they were sent by God himself, you see four men come into view—one with a mohawk, one wearing some sort of skull mask-balaclava, one with sunglasses on even when the sun is almost set, and one with a boonie hat on—all walking together, all engaged in a casual conversation. 

You wonder for a moment if you should try and get closer to them to see if the guy would leave you alone. You hear the guy behind you speed up as you think and you take a deep breath before walking significantly faster to get closer to the men ahead of you. 

Am I really gonna trust a group that has a guy wearing a fucking skull mask in it? You hear the man behind you speed up as well and you speed up in retaliation, trying to think more about what to do, Do I just walk near them or do I straight up pretend I know them?

You think that the second option would be more likely to ward the weirdo following you away, but how would you even go about it? Do you just walk near them, or actually talk to them and join in on their conversation? 

You look behind you again and see the man significantly closer to you.

Deciding to take the risk, you rush up to them, swallowing down your panic when you hear the man behind you’s footsteps speed up to try and match your own speed. 

“Hey, guys!” All four of the guys turn around to look at you, their expressions all varying looks of confusion as you continue to talk, “Crazy seeing you guys here, it— it’s been so long.” 

You try to get as close to them as possible while not touching them and end up standing right by who you assume is the oldest. You try to subtly gesture to the man who was just following you, and the man you’re standing next to seems even more confused for a moment. 

“Uh, I don—” One of his friends cuts him off with a swat to the arm and when he turns his head to look at them in confusion, they nod over at the man whose just now catching up with you, and his mouth shapes into an ‘o’ before he looks back at you with a bit more understanding in his eyes. 

“Right, yeah, it has been really long,” He corrects himself, the other two of his friends catching on and stepping closer to you, almost creating a shield around you. He looks you over for a moment, before asking, “You just get out of school?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I did,” You nod, grateful that they caught on, hoping your gratitude is somewhat apparent, “About ten minutes ago.”

“Nobody picked you up this time?” The older man asks, tilting his head to the side a bit. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the man who’d been following you getting closer, but you force yourself to ignore him. 

“Yeah, no, everyone was kind of busy, so I have to walk home,” You respond, shoving your hands into the pocket of your hoodie to hide their shakiness as the other man stopped to stare at you two’s conversation. 

“Aw, well that sucks,” The other man frowns, before offering, “I was just heading back to my car, I could drive you back to your house? It’s on the way to the hotel we’re staying at, anyway.” 

You hesitate, trying to see if the man who’d been following you was still there, and much to your disappointment, he was. It was like he was just waiting for you to make a decision. 

Not knowing if you had any other choice, you nod affirmatively, “Yeah, sure. If that’s okay.” 

The older man gives you a small smile and pats your shoulder, “Of course it’s okay. I don’t want you just walking out here by yourself.”  

You almost sobbed in relief when you heard the creep that was following you scoff and finally walk back to wherever he came from after hearing that you accepted their offer of a ride. The older man takes his hand off of your shoulder and looks over, noticing the man has left as well, then looks back at you with a more concerned expression on his face. 

“Sorry, I almost gave you away at the beginning there,” He sincerely apologizes. 

“It’s fine, he probably didn’t even notice,” You put on a small smile and take a deep breath before adding on, “Thank you for that. I didn’t think he was ever gonna go away.” 

“Yeah, no problem,” The older man smiles at you, and tacks on, “I was serious about the ride, by the way. If you’re comfortable with that, of course.” 

You pause for a moment at that and think about if you trust them enough to have him drive you to your house and know your address and everything. 

“It’s my car, by the way,” The guy with the sunglasses butts in, “I’m the one paying for it. No clue why he said it was his.” 

“Because it was easier than saying it was yours,” The other guy sighs. 

“Actually—” The one with a mohawk interrupts, before immediately being cut off by the other two with a simple ‘shut up’. He rolls his eyes, and does indeed shut up. 

The one with a skull mask must notice your slight confusion, because he comments, “We’re renting a car for this week. Gaz is paying for it.” 

“Don’t call me Gaz in public,” Gaz grumbles, “That’s weird. Just call me Kyle.” 

“That sounds weirder,” The one with the skull mask argues, before the one with the almost-bucket hat sighs exasperatedly, the sound enough to make the two others shut up. 

“Uh…” All their attention is back on you as you talk, making you resist the urge to shrink back in on yourself, “I mean, if you guys are totally okay with it, then I’d be… okay with getting a ride home.” 

“Great!” Gaz smiles at you before dropping the smile and turning to the one with the skull mask, “You’re getting an Uber or something. I’m not driving you after that.” 

“Wh—” The one in the skull mask, despite you only being able to see his eyes, looks baffled, “I didn’t do anything, fuckin’ kick out Soap or something!” 

“Me? Why me?” The one with the mohawk—Soap, you assume—squawks, watching as Gaz actually thinks about it before nodding. 

“Good point. Soap, call an Uber so…” Gaz pauses before turning to you, “What’s your name, love?” 

You give him your name and he nods before turning back to Soap, “So that [y/n] can take your spot in the car.” 

“I—” Soap begins to argue, before sighing and rolling his eyes, reaching into his back pocket for his phone, “Fine. Whatever. Fuck all of ye.” 

“Sorrows, sorrows, prayers,” Gaz says dryly before turning back to you, “The car’s just another block up.” 

“Got it,” You nod, “So I should just follow you guys then, or…?”

“Yeah,” Gaz confirms, “Stay a little closer in case that guy decides to come back, or if anyone else tries to follow you, alright, love?” 

You nod again and take another step closer to the man with the skull mask and follow everyone else as they continue walking down to their car. They’re silent for the rest of the walk back, the man in the skull mask and the one with the almost-dad-going-fishing-hat keeping an eye out for any creeps while Gaz leads the way to the car. 

Once you’ve all reached the car, Gaz unlocks it and the man in the skull mask and the one in the almost-bass-pro-shops-hat immediately get into the back seats, letting you have shotgun. You mentally thank them for it and wordlessly get into the passenger’s seat, happy that it’s not too dirty in the car, closing the car door once you’re in. 

You buckle yourself in immediately and look right out the front window whilst Gaz gets in. This definitely won’t end up in me being kidnapped, You tell yourself, Totally not. This is the best idea I’ve ever had. Getting in a car with someone who goes by Gaz, someone who wears a mask from Spirit Halloween, and someone’s dad who somehow ended up here. Fucking perfect idea. I should do this more often.

Gaz gets in and buckles himself in, putting the car key into the ignition and twisting it, starting up the engine. You continue to stare out the window wordlessly as Gaz pulls out of the parking lot he’d been in and gets onto the road. 

“Could you give me the directions to get to your place?” He asks you once he’s stopped at a red light right outside of the parking lot. Silently, you nod. 

“Yeah, just, uh, keep going straight then take a left on Monroe,” You instruct him quietly. He nods and presses on the gas once the light turns green, continuing straight like you’d said. 

“You alright?” The bearded man in the back pipes up, making you twist your head back to look at him. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” You assure him, half-lying, “Just a little tired and creeped out.” 

“Reasonable,” He hums, before adding on, “I’m John, by the way, and this is Simon.” 

Simon, the dude wearing the Spirit Halloween mask, perks up at the sound of his name, but otherwise doesn’t say anything. 

“Good to know,” You respond, wondering if you should say anything else before awkwardly turning back in your seat to continue staring out the window, watching as Gaz takes a left. 

“Take the next right, then just continue straight and then take a right on Balboa,” You tell him. He nods and takes the next right just as you told him to. 

It’s probably safe to assume they aren’t kidnapping you, You think, your breathing finally back to normal now that you know you’re probably not in any danger. 

“So what’s with the name ‘Gaz’?” You ask Gaz without thinking, tired of the silence in the car. Based on the way Gaz groans and John huffs out a laugh, you assume it’s somewhat of a long story. 

“It’s kind of a long story?” Bingo. “But in short, I just don’t talk too much, and someone decided to make a big deal out of that.” 

“I never made it a big deal!” John insists, all while Simon looks at him like he knows he’s lying, “It’s just a nickname!” 

You listen in on their bickering, grateful to finally have some noise in the car, and huff out a small, amused laugh at their antics. 

Soon enough, Gaz is turning right on Balboa, and he drives right into your neighborhood. 

“It’s the house right up there,” You point to it, and he looks at the house you pointed at and speeds up a bit to reach it faster. 

Once he’s at the house he thinks you pointed at, he asks, “This one, right?” and pulls into the driveway when you nod in confirmation. 

He parks the car in your driveway and turns off the engine, immediately unlocking the car and turning to you. 

“Well, I hope you have a good rest of your day,” He says politely, offering you a smile. 

“Thank you, you too,” You smile back, feeling a little bad for being so eager to get out of the car. Then again, you really just want to get inside of your house where it’s safe, so you quickly unbuckle your seatbelt and open the car door. 

You carefully get out and close it behind you, fishing your keys out from your back pocket, walking up to the front door of your house and unlocking it, only hearing Gaz’s car pulling out of your driveway after you’ve successfully opened your front door. 

You yawn as you walk in, and close the door behind you, toeing off your shoes and leaving them by the front door.

You think, in the back of your head, about how weird it is that you didn’t get kidnapped despite that being the perfect opportunity for them to do so—but you don’t think about it too hard. You’re just grateful to have gotten home safe.

#cod #cod hcs #hcs #task force 141 #tf141 #captain john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #platonic taskforce141 #simon ghost riley #platonic task force 141 #platonic task force 141 x reader #platonic cod #task force 141 x reader #price #soap #ghost #gaz #its 2:44 am currently #and i dont feel tired #which is an issue #because i really need to go to sleep #but its fine!!! #yall ever think about the 141 just being ur dads to fall asleep and just think about them comforting you to sleep #no?? just me?? #alright then #fluff #hurt/comfort #emotional hurt/comfort #technically proofread

[nevertheless-moving]

unable to stop dwelling on the discworld trouser leg of time where, in the penultimate fight scene in Nightwatch, Carcer manages to kill teenage Sam Vimes.

Which means that the future that Duke Vimes came from can no longer exist, which means he can’t go home. Meanwhile you’ve got a bunch of history monks with stored up temporal energy, a prepared space outside of time, and the need to do some desperate damage control before the Auditors get involved. Death shows up, reality is unweaving, Sam is reading Carcer his discworld miranda rights because what else is he supposed to do.

and finally, with little other option, the monks de-age Sam so he fits the time period and send him back out into the fray.

(they didn't call it deageing of course. His memory is hazy, splintered during that terrible in between moment, They....took the time out of him? Sanded away the edges of his self for a terrible, workable fit? It...wasn't a good feeling.)

Just—damn. Sam Vimes having to live his whole crapsack life over again, but this time as his disillusioned-reillusioned, unwillingly-character-developed, noir-epic, Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes self. 

Younger (Older? He's never felt so Old, His steps so Childlike, reality twisting in his gut like one of Dibbler's pies) Sam Vimes walking around in a haze after the revolution. Desperate to go home, knowing he can’t. Wanting to drink. Knowing he can’t.

The whole precinct feels pity, he really took Keel’s death hard, hardly speaks except to do his job. Eventually he has to grit his teeth and start being present, because what else is there to do?

Resists the urge to drink until Colon takes the whole watch out to celebrate because -he’s going to be a father!

Come on Sammy, one drink won’t kill you— and after the first drink he’s cracking jokes and after the second hes smiling and after the third hes honestly the life of the party and sometime after that he’s crying about how he was going to be a father and my wife would be ashamed if she saw me drinking like this and— 

Oh shit, Did anyone else know he had a wife?? A PREGNANT wife??? What—aren’t you like 12—no you're 17 now aren't you but when did—

You guys n’ver met ’er—oh gods none if you ev’n know ‘er, is jus’ me...

What—when did you lose—

I lost her the same damn day I los’ ev’rythin else, whadya think...bleeding Carcer...the fuckin revolution...

So! That! Sam only vaguely remembers the night, but rumors travel faster than light on the disc, so by the next day the whole damn city knows about poor Sam brung low by the loss of his poor, tragic, pregnant wife, so young to be a widower, and the Seamstresses nod because they already knew, don’t ask them how, somethings you just have to know in that trade.

And his mother—I don’t know, sue me, I’m a time travel fiend but there’s something deeply intriguing about a man meeting his dead parent, who is somewhat younger than him, and stepping into the old relationship like a badly fitting thing that's supposed to fit well. She would know, right? How would she deal with her son’s impossible grief? Maybe she wouldn’t know—he spent most of the time out of the house, running with different street gangs, maybe he avoids her until she dies and lives with the guilt twice over. God, we don’t even know her name. There’s just so much narrative and emotional potential that I don’t even know where to start.

When he’s on duty, which is most time - it’s agonizing because at first he remembers cases, saves lives that would have been lost. But the more time passes, the hazier his memory because in the original timeline he was becoming an alcoholic. Fuck! A kid dies and he could have saved her if he hadn’t been such a drunk, if he had just remembered where the asshole lived, but it’s all a haze, and he wants to drown out his guilt, but that’s what caused this in the first place.

Good young Sammy, who spends his rare off-time in dusty libraries (and yes, the irony that he’s apparently Carrot now is not lost on him) reading gods-only-know.

It’s not like he can ask the wizards for help, cutthroat and vicious as they are now in the not-so-distant-past.

Good young Sam, who...talks to the Broken Drum’s pet Bouncer like he’s a real person and not a dumb rock? That’s a bit weird, but he’s a bit of a funny guy.

Good old Sam, who believed the testimony of the dwarf who said the humans were trying to rob him and let the dwarf go??

the PROBLEMS this man would cause, good grief. Can you imagine a moderately progressive middle aged man with some degree of begrudging diversity and equity training that he did, for all his sins, pay attention to, suddenly going back to like, 1990, going back just 30 years, and going...oh damn this is kind of fucked up, no man you can’t say that, holy shit.

Except Sam’s lived through even more rapidly shifting social moroes! There’s no seamstress guild, there’s no women allowed inside the university, there’s no black ribboner’s society. People hunted trolls for their teeth! But Sam can’t just unlearn everything, and he can’t shut up, and he has no real luck and anyway he would absolutely get himself (temporarily) fired.

FUCK. Sam has no idea what to do with that. None. Zero clue. Wanders around in a haze until that dwarf he saved from police brutality finds him and insists on repaying the debt. No, he insists, do you have any idea what debt means to a dwarf?

“Sort-of?” he replies hesitantly, and that honest admission of incomplete knowledge shows a hell of a lot more respect and understanding than any self proclaimed dwarf-expert ever did.

Gets a job as a surface man, hauling rocks into the city. It’s backbreaking work, but, in true Discworld fashion, it’s also one hell of a workout (again the irony of being Carrot is not lost him. he freezes for a minute while hauling a rock cart, when he remembers he's technically Lost Nobility too, in a strict sense, but someone curses at him in the street and he's comfortingly grounded)

And here is where this au slides into a SPECTACULAR romantic comedy, BEAR WITH ME. Because in his time on the Watch he’s already done noir, action adventure, war story, detective who dunnit, psychological horror, but guards guards only allowed him to be a romance protagonist in an extremely limited context.

Give me righteous, twenty-something-looking, can’t-say-he-doesn’t-have-style, young Sam Vimes, not an alcoholic,  being fed three square meals a day by his dwarven forced found family, hauling rocks. He is startled to find him bumping his head on a low hanging bar that he doesn’t think used to be there, eventually realizing that he’s an inch or two taller than he remembers. Huh. Guess all that bearhuggers really did stunt his growth.

Still doesn’t get what some of the looks from women he’s getting are about, sure, he’s dirty but so is everyone else. Fine, he took his shirt off, but it’s hot out, there’s far wrinklier than him hauling heavy loads, get a life. 

Happens to glance in the Ankh one day when it’s particularly slow and shiny and is startled to realize that he might be turning heads for a different reason. Oh. Right, not that he was ever a heartbreaker, but he did alright for himself... when he was a younger and his face hadn’t been broken so many times. Which...it isn't now.

Is mildly disturbed by the revelation.

Especially once things blow over at the precinct and what with high mortality rates, he ends up with getting hired again. The boys are delighted to have him back, nevermind that he’s an odd one, noone is ever quite in your corner like Vimsey, absence makes the heart fonder, no one else works that hard, and he’s not even competition for promotion. All around great guy, we should set him up with somebody and just, no.

It just keeps getting worse! He’s literate! He’s a feminist! He believes abuse victims! He’s got a tragic backstory! He’s unreasonably good in a fistfight! He’s kind to animals! Word gets around that there’s a good man on the watch and he’s just waiting for a good woman to come snap him up. The widower excuse doesn’t hold people off completely, and for some it’s its own sort-of appeal. 

Things REALLY become stressful after he rescues that carriage full of noblewoman.

What’s he supposed to do? Let them get robbed? Or worse? Chasing down and beating up 10 goons is as easy as beating up one, when they’re that stupid, getting separated like that, drunk and distracted, and he knows these streets better than anyone, really it’s nothing. And oh lord he’s Modest too.

I mean, they were genuinely greatful, as genuine as people like that are capable of being, the skill having grown rusty. And then there is something...magnetic about the man. An air of command.

So, soon enough you get Lady Marigold of Marigrave calling on Treckle Road for that gallant young officer who rescued them, she really needs to thank him. And Viscountess Elanor Thitzferal specifically requesting that he guard her at her next soiree. And Baroness Julieta van Shoeholten insisting that he come to her home while her husband’s away, for... manly protection.

Aaaah just zero sympathy from the guys. None. 'It’s become a competition, they’re just trying to see who can get me into bed first, it’s like I’m a piece of meat, you can’t send me sir, the Marquess greeted me in a nightee last time you made me go to—' and 'small gods Vimes are you even listening to yourself, shut the hell up'.

Simultaneous to this, (again this is several years into the timeline) swamp dragon accessories come into style. Which means abandoned swamp dragons scrounging on the street. Vimes takes one back to his apartment, blows his paycheck on dragon medicine, and eventually, heart in his chest, brings it to the Ramkin estate. The sunshine orphanage doesn’t even exist yet and he’s just standing outside the gates like an idiot, what is he thinking. Turns around, but her carriage is pulling up and—

well. they meet. it's cute. he's never felt so young. he's never felt so old, too old for her, too poor—

and certainly her thoughts linger too long on the awkward, kindly, handsome young commoner, but is it any wonder she doesn't quite connect it to the stern, dangerous, sexy young guard the ladies seem to be in some quiet, cuthroat competition over?

i have this gorgeous, absurd scene in my head in which Vimes is strong armed into standing guard at some high society soiree and one of the pushiest ladies insists he dance with here, or, if he prefers, if he's not confident about his skills, he can dance with her in-private at her home and he’s like [grinding teeth, looking for a way out, seeinf one] “I would be honored to dance with you.”

Steps right into some ultra-complex dance with multiple partner swaps (she never thought he'd pick this one, devilishly intimidating to one not strictly trained, and you barely spend anytime with your first partner).

But he does alright. Better than alright, for a common man, sometimes misstepping but his hands and feet always end up where they need to be. Raises several eyebrows part way into the song because he's throuwing in some slightly scandalous, no innovative, extra lifts and twirls that wouldn't become fashionable for another decade or two. Who even is that guy? Some out of towner? No, no he's in a guards uniform...how very strange.

Gets to Sybll and she's used to embarrassment during these dances, she tries to get out of them when she can... but can't always. Men awkwardly skipping the lifts, or worse, trying and failing. But him — oh it's him, the one who helped little Erold, and looked at her like—like—well like she was someone beautiful. And he's doing it again, and he's strong and there's a quiet moment where she's in the air, they lock eyes, and the rest of the room melts away.

And then the partners change again, the moment ended.

Just...living throught it all again. To the left, a dance he almost knows the steps to, throwing others off balance with erratic moves , honest mistakes, and delibrate stepping on toes. Improvising. Ruining. Improving. Getting far, far too much attention.

Hes almost excited when the first assassains start coming after him. It's like a hobby.

Everyone tells him he should get a hobby.

Interactions with young vetinari...I don't have the energy to write it all down, the slow circling in on each other, both burning with the need to fix the city, save it, their city.

needless to say he ends up fired again, life under real threat after offending some high lord.

Conveniently enough he has an employment opportunity- bodyguard to fucking Vetinari on his 'grand sneer.' The bastard knows vimes isn't what he seems, though sam is pretty sure that he doesnt know the exacts.

Vetinari hypothesis:(the ghost of keel? Keels son, with some hereditary curse? Or a larger spirit of justice possessing a string of unrelated souls? He knows things he shouldn't- mind reader? Fortune teller? Havelock once arranged for a wizard to bump into him on the street, the magical fool gave an odd double look and then muttered something about destiny looping in on itself giving him a headache. Destiny? Lost noble? And hes far too familiar with sybyl, one of the few bearable noblewomen in this city. And his thoughts on guilds, when havelock can trip him into speaking... Most of all, if hes reading him at all correctly (for all the mystery hes not that hard to read, unless thats a very clever cover) then it seems that behind those dark haunted eyes is Respect. Loyalty. For vetinari. What an interesting man. A puzzling asset. An intriguing threat. )

Did I mention the timeline is changing, healing slowly around the place where it was torn? Healing enough around scars to perhaps get some flexibility back, with some painful stretches and...massaging of said scar tissue?

And hes heading to unresting uberwald, a place where a werewolf pack still hunts humans and, truely unrelated but perhaps equally exhausting, an eldritch spirit of vengeance just might be looking to stretch its legs in a hapless vessel?

Opening drabble Vimes Vetinari Meta (Unwell)

#discworld #sam vimes #discworld au #nightwatch au #i literally drafted this post in December 2021 #and i know it was living in my head for years already at that point #i have more somewhere aging like cheese in the back of my mind #discworld fanfic #night watch #Let this be free from my mind #Perhaps someone else will write it #BE FREE ANCIENT AU OF MY SOUL #For all my obsession with discworld I have but this one (1) AU though it tears at me like the seam of a pair of pants #The songs I have permanently associated with this au are slightly bonkers by the way #My au #Seriously there's like two full novels worth of content up here. Sybyll running away from home and living as a commoner #To mirror Sam joining upper class in original timeline you see? #Some early discworld murder Wizard nonsense when they try to poke at the temporal anomaly and the universe goes brrrr #Eventually catching up with color of Magic city burning bs and vimes is mad as fuck #Weird year that never was protecting people during sourcery #And when we start catching up with where he left #Oh ho ho you can't to forward to something that doesn't exist but maybe you can go sideways to a place that's got a tear in it #A sam vimes shaped tear #And his pregnant wife from 30 years ago in the other trouser leg #AND that's not even mentioning how carcers trial got taken to a...higher court

[chloeangelic]

I’ve spent the past week getting slandered in this community with not a shred of evidence, proof, or receipts of me being a mean girl, “Wish Regina George”, a bully, an asshole, someone who spends more time answering anons than I do writing, or any of the other things I’ve seen people say about me out of absolutely fucking nowhere, seemingly because people have grievances towards Gracie that I know nothing about. I appreciate everyone who has checked in on me and asked how I’m doing. 

ETA: I have spoken to one of the people who posted statements and anons about me and we have squashed the beef. The statements made about me have been debunked and they have deleted their posts. Please leave me and my friends alone - I've gotten harassed directly and indirectly by anons and posts for two months and I'm tired. I'm not gonna prostrate myself and try to convince the internet that I'm a good person when I know I've done my best to always be kind and respectful in this community. My words will inevitably be twisted and I feel paralyzed. The damage to my reputation has already been done.

This is the only time I’ll address this, and my anons will not be turned back on because this is literally slander and a waste of everyone’s time. I’ve seen multiple vague posts about me as well and I’ve chosen to ignore it all, but it gets to a point where it feels like bullying and I’m done with it. When someone goes on tumblr live to rehash the same shallow shit talking post about me (i.e. talking shit about people they’re accusing of talking shit), that’s when I feel like my limit has been crossed, and since that same live devolved into an advertisement for the host’s own writing… This no longer reads like vigilante justice. 

Let me get one thing straight: I am here to write about dick, cock and that old man. I am extremely grateful for the friends I’ve made along the way, and I am beyond appreciative for my readers who support me and who like what I come up with. I am 27 years old, I have a fulltime job, and this is one of my hobbies. If you think I’m going to spend my time in a fandom spamming group chats and being catty, I literally don’t know what to tell you. The few uncomfortable situations I’ve had on here have been addressed and squashed very quickly, whether that’s misunderstandings, accusations or anything else. In a creative space, you are bound to butt heads with people occasionally, or have people who dislike you, and that is fine. I know I have an aloof persona on here, I don’t expect everyone to like me. 

I didn’t block anyone up until two days ago when this tumblr live host posted three anon asks in a row about me, and I decided to block the people who seemingly agreed with anons insisting I’m a mean girl, asshole etc. cause why the fuck wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t anyone? I don’t understand why on earth they’re so mad about me blocking them if they dislike me so much already. My shit is still on ao3 if they want to read it. 

I don’t know what my mutuals do in their own DM’s, or group chats they’re in that I don’t participate in, because I stay in my lane and I spend my time writing. Of course I don’t condone bad behavior but how am I supposed to know what happens in GCs and servers I’m literally not in? Or conversations in servers where I’m not active? I have not witnessed any of my mutuals talking shit in any GCs, period. That’s all I can say. Additionally, this whole big/elite writers discord people were talking about a while ago - if that exists, I wasn’t even invited lmfao how’s that for being a big writer? 

One anon said I was an asshole when they tried to have a conversation with me months back, and I assume this was my Rendezvous anon who I was snarky to cause they were snarky to me. I make it very clear that I have limited patience for anons, and when people in my comments respond back to them, they are responding to a statement that is separate from the person who sent it. 

I am not entertaining this insanity any further than this. I will continue to post my old man porn and interact with my mutuals and reblog gif sets of that same old man cause that’s what I’m on here for. If you don’t like me, you are well within your rights, I assume you have your reasons, and that is ultimately none of my business. Everyone has the right to curate their own experience on a website like this. 

Love, 

Daddy

[steddieas-shegoes]

For the requests: heard of hearing and/or partially blind Steve + his parents realizing. Maybe they come home & see how their house has changed to be more accessible for Steve? Or something like that.

HONESTLY THIS ONE HURTED. But as usual, you provide the quality shit!!!! Poor Steve, but also if it ain't hurt/comfort, then did I even write it? Everyone loves Steve. Except his parents. His parents suck. But everyone else? Angels. Hope you love it darling!!! - Mickala ❤️

--------------------------------------------------------------

Concussions were a bitch.

Multiple concussions in a three year period were a bitch.

But the worst part was when he noticed he couldn’t hear out of his left ear. Robin had been talking to him at work on his left side, whispering about some customer that was walking down every single aisle as if they didn’t know what movies were out, and he didn’t even notice until she switched sides halfway through a sentence.

He pretended it was fine, that he’d heard her the whole time, but then she asked him a question he couldn’t answer. She walked to his left side and said something, and when he shook his head, she bit her lip, fighting back tears.

“It’s okay, Robs. I can still hear out of the other one,” Steve said to comfort her, but also to comfort himself.

If he lost it in one ear, he could lose it in the other, and then what?

She tried to convince him to get a hearing aid, but he didn’t think he needed one.

“Your parents sent you money for medical expenses, use it for this!”

But he couldn’t.

And then he started getting blurry vision in both eyes. The left was rapidly growing worse, and Dustin noticed.

“Dude, you’re squinting. Do you have a migraine? You could’ve had Eddie drive me.”

“Nah, just tired. Trying to focus.”

Part of that was true. The squinting helped him focus a little, but he knew he had to do something about it.

So he sat down with Robin and came up with a plan.

He hated every fucking second of it.

“You get a scan first, we need to know if this is gonna keep getting worse or what permanent damage is there. You get glasses-“

“I might not need-“

“You get glasses. Then you get fitted for a hearing aid.”

“Yes ma’am,” Steve rolled his eyes.

But looking back, he was grateful Robin made him do it.

The doctors had been amazed he was able to talk with the damage done.

“Will I lose my ability to talk?” He asked, realizing that not being able to hear, see, and talk was too much for him to deal with.

“I think we can work through some physical therapy type exercises to make sure that doesn’t happen. I’m glad you came in now and not a few years from now.”

Robin never said ‘I told you so,’ probably sensing that Steve wasn’t coping well with the news.

They told him he would most likely lose all hearing over the years, and his vision would progressively get worse, though it would most likely plateau and he wouldn’t lose it completely.

They said he needed to do vocal exercises every day, brain exercises as often as possible, and to come back the moment he recognized any change in his speech.

So he lived with the anxiety of not being able to communicate with anyone he loved every second of every day.

Dustin, Will, Mike, and Max had done research for weeks, finding things they could do to help him live in his house alone. Sure, they were there often, almost enough to be considered roommates, but that wouldn’t always be the case.

They would all grow up and leave.

Max had lost her own vision after Vecna, only able to see light and sometimes movement, but never any detail.

The day he got his glasses, she threatened him with murder if he didn’t wear them.

“The more you strain your eyes, the worse they’ll get. Wear the glasses. I’m sure you look just as cute as always.”

He didn’t have anything to say to that, but he didn’t want to piss Max off, so he wore them all day every day.

Dustin had found a way to wire the doorbell to the lights in the whole house, so if it rang, and somehow Steve couldn’t hear, he’d see the lights flash three times from any room he was in.

He’d done something similar with the walkie, so Steve would know if someone was trying to communicate with him.

Will figured out a light system for the phone, where it flashed with green while it rang and red if he missed a call that went to their voicemail.

It only worked if he was in the kitchen, living room, or his bedroom and paying attention, but the thought behind it made him want to cry.

He got debilitating migraines frequently, which left him bedbound, unable to even get up to use the bathroom on his own sometimes.

They figured out a signal for his walkie that he could push the button in a sort of Morse code to make sure someone knew he needed help.

If he couldn’t get to his walkie for some reason, Dustin programmed buttons on all the phones: *1 called Robin, *2 called Eddie, and *3 called Dustin.

All of his meds were moved to the drawer by his bed, with a reminder note in every room of his house, just in case he forgot.

Which was apparently another thing he had to worry about: his memory.

The doctors seemed to think he would be okay if he stayed active and healthy otherwise, and definitely needed to avoid another concussion, but they did say he could notice some issues as he got older.

Mike looked up what vitamins he needed to help boost his memory and vision, and increased his iron intake to hopefully stave off some of the migraines before they even started. He put the instructions with his medication reminders all over the house.

But what surprised him most was what happened when his parents came home early on a random Thursday morning.

He was dealing with a bit of a migraine hangover, the day before being a blur of calling for help, reaching for his meds, and Eddie arriving to make sure he stayed hydrated and made it to the bathroom as needed.

Eddie was still here, in fact.

So when he heard them banging around downstairs, his eyes flew open and he looked at a still sleeping, very shirtless Eddie next to him in his bed.

Nothing happened obviously. Eddie just ran hot.

But his parents had already been questioning him a lot about not having a girlfriend in a while and hanging out with “queers” like those two things alone could make him gay.

And if they saw Eddie like this, they would make assumptions.

Assumptions that would get him kicked out of the house that everyone just worked so hard to make accessible for him.

So he got up as quickly, but quietly as he could, ignoring the buzz in his ear where his hearing aid was loose from sleeping in it. He wasn’t technically supposed to, but he didn’t like anyone touching his head on migraine days so it stayed in.

Eddie didn’t budge, and he hoped he stayed that way while he tried to keep his parents busy.

Then the lights flashed and he heard the distant high pitched ring of the doorbell.

“What the hell?” His father asked as Steve ran down the stairs.

“Steven?” His mother asked as he flew past them and made it to the front door.

“Steve!” Dustin yelled excitedly as Steve glared at him.

“Dustin, not now.”

“Why? I saw Eddie’s van, so I figured-“

“Who is at the door, Steven?”

Steve closed his eyes and heard Dustin mumble ‘shit’, before he turned around to face his parents.

His glasses were dirty, but he could see that the looks on their faces were not impressed.

“Since when do you wear glasses?” His mom asked.

“Is that a hearing aid?” His dad added.

“Dustin, I’ll call you later.”

“Answer the questions.”

“I started wearing glasses and the hearing aid after a few concussions that caused a lot of damage.”

“What’s going on with the lights? Do they always flicker like that?”

Steve hadn’t really expected them to care much about him, but it still hurt a little how quickly they became concerned about the house instead of him.

“They’re a visual aid so if I’m not wearing my hearing aid or my hearing gets worse, I’ll know when the doorbell rings.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“Yeah, it is,” Eddie said from the stairs, luckily not shirtless.

“Who the hell are you?” Steve’s dad didn’t waste time with pleasantries, he never did unless someone had something to offer him.

“I’m Eddie. Steve’s friend.”

“His friend?” Steve’s mom was hesitant to be obvious about what she meant, but everyone could understand where she was going with the questioning.

“Yeah, or would you prefer if we were boyfriends?”

Steve couldn’t help the snort he let out.

Eddie wasn’t the type to hide himself away, but he wouldn’t purposely make Steve’s life harder.

“Is there a reason you’re here?”

“I was taking care of him yesterday. It got late so I stayed.”

“Take care of him?” His mother turned back towards him. “Are you sick?”

“I get migraines.”

“We all get migraines, Steven,” his father said as he crossed his arms.

“But we all don’t get the kind that leave us crying and throwing up for hours on end because we can’t even see straight, do we, Richard?” Eddie asked as he walked closer to them.

“I don’t know who you think you are-“

“I told you, I’m Eddie. And as far as I’m concerned, I, and quite a few other people in town, are quite good at taking care of Steve. Unlike his parents.”

“Steve’s a grown man-“

“Yeah, now. But where were you when he wasn’t and got the concussions that caused this?”

Steve could feel his head pulsing, and he knew his migraine would be back at full force if he didn’t rest.

He took his hearing aid out for a bit of relief, the volume of his father and Eddie arguing going down considerably.

He massaged his neck the best he could, knowing that the release of some tension would at least keep the pain at bay until this could be over.

Then, he saw the phone start flashing green.

“What is going on with the phone?”

His mother directed the question at him, but Eddie stopped berating his father long enough to answer her.

“It’s so Steve knows it’s ringing if he happens to have his hearing aid out like he does now. In case no one is here with him and someone needs to reach him.”

“That explains not answering our calls.”

“I think that could just be that you don’t call at all.”

Eddie moved closer to Steve.

“Go upstairs, Stevie,” he said quietly into his right ear. “I can handle them.”

Steve was too tired, too frustrated, too borderline on a migraine to fight.

He walked upstairs, ignoring his father’s protests, his mother’s pleas, and Eddie standing in front of them both raising his voice to be heard.

Everything felt blurry as he removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes when he made it up the stairs.

His room was dark still, the blackout curtains still drawn closed, lights off, like Eddie had suspected it might be a bad day again.

His pills were on the table, a cup of water next to them. He set his glasses down and took them, trusting that Eddie followed the instructions perfectly.

He always did.

He always took such good care of him.

He came at the drop of a hat, even if Robin was already here. He brought Steve’s favorite soda, insisted it helped with migraines even though it probably didn’t. He massaged the spot on Steve’s neck that always held the most tension, pulled him close until he fell asleep on the couch or in the bed, always on his chest.

He’d been learning and teaching everyone sign language too.

Steve had started learning immediately, and so did Robin, but Eddie had insisted on it too, and started teaching the kids. He’d been showing Max one sign at a time, putting her fingers and hands into the movement so she knew how to do it.

And Steve didn’t think he could love Eddie more.

But he figured if Eddie was interested in him, he would have made a move already.

He could very distantly hear Eddie’s voice saying something, but he wasn’t sure what. With his hearing aid out, he usually couldn’t hear anything downstairs from his room.

He closed his eyes, settling under the blankets so he could try to do what Eddie wanted him to.

He drifted in and out, tired, but not quite enough to fall asleep all the way.

At some point, Eddie had made it back to the room and got in bed, his hand running through Steve’s hair gently.

“Eds?”

“It’s alright, Stevie. Your parents are gone. They won’t be back again for a while.”

“Mkay.”

He let himself drift again, safe with Eddie there.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #robin buckley #the party #hurt/comfort #hard of hearing steve harrington #visually impaired steve harrington #steve harrington has terrible parents #he also has migraines #but he also also has the kids and eddie #so thats a plus #requests #ficlet

[wistfulrat]

・❥・lesbian wangxian reccs ・❥・

ao3topships poll gate made me realize there are hundreds nay thousands of u who dont know abt lesbian wangxian ?? that’s so sad can i proselytize u real quick

mimilamp cinematic universe (the ppl’s mcu) sorry for starting this list with a whole author catalog. as if it's my fault!! these gave me covid. no listen mimilamp fics have feverish lesbian angst levels of hot horny despair that could paralyze a large forest animal. and on a sentence level it's just stunning. messy dykes fumbling toward love confessions while making emotionally insane choices and the sex scenes fuckn bang ??? god is real

good, good - 13.5k E Wei Ying has two broken wrists and now she needs Lan Zhan to help her do stuff (jerk off)

here’s a story - 46k E Wei Ying reluctantly joins her recently-dumped best friend, Lan Zhan, on a couples' holiday retreat. Snow! Drinks! Truth or dare! There's a s-s-s-single bed! You'll never guess what happens next.

out of your system - 20k E “Maybe you should get me out of your system,” Wei Ying blurts. “Maybe that’ll help.” // Wei Ying finds out her best friend Lan Zhan is in love with her and offers a really super solution.

exposure therapy - 14k E Wei Ying clambered up from the floor, put the joint on the corner of the night stand, announced, “Exposure therapy,” and got into Lan Zhan’s bed. // Lan Zhan doesn't like to be touched, Wei Ying likes to touch.

know no one else - 20k E Lan Zhan moves out, Wei Ying's boyfriend moves in. Six months later, Lan Zhan visits, they go to a party, and Wei Ying has something to tell her.

74243 this author should be studied in a lab bc these 2 fics ruined my life. a pulitzer prize short fic with immaculate tone followed by the fuck nastiest shit you will ever read. "wei ying swipes right" still a top 3 bar of all time re: fic summaries. like people died.

chef’s kiss - 6.5k E Wei Ying said, “You know, in some ways I’m kind of depressed. I took your biggest dick on my first try. Now I don’t have anything to build up to.” “There are bigger ones available,” Lan Zhan said lazily. “I can pay for express shipping.” // (Lan Zhan works the late shift.)

pull out game weak - 22.7k E Wei Ying swipes right.

plonk this is the only fic in many ways. dyke nmj's mustache academy award winning breakout role. possessive hot dyke lwj. the sentence "don't knot her you freak." have u ever seen a group chat get rabies in real time. the slut rot breached containment. it was a public health crisis. it brought back horny cinema. cultural reset.

good friends - 11.5k E “I could invite her over for when the game’s done,” Nie Mingjue offers. Lan Zhan hums, considering it. They do that sometimes. Take omegas down together.

occultings will i ever get tired of -wwx thinks she's straight and wants to practice being gay with sadsack lwj who is like sure im in love with u and this will cause me psychic damage but mayhaps that's the cost of being homiesexual--? no i dont get tired of the classics it's called taste

give me one good honest kiss - 25k E The text keeps flashing over and over in Lan Zhan's head like the bulb lights on a marquee. They’d been talking about homework directly before that, swapping notes on music theory in the baroque period. Then, like a fork of lightning out of a clear blue sky: wanna practice kissing? 😚 // Wei Ying suggests an arrangement. Lan Zhan, in love, deals.

saltyfeathers ok so like sure it's ill advised to get your cartilage pierced at claire's but if you wanted the experience of participating in deranged hysteric behavior that kinda bangs in a badgood way? well then.

the mall that has it all - 8k E She introduced herself in the food court, breathless after sprinting across it in Lan Zhan’s direction and vaulting over a table only to crash into the seat across from her, ask, “Can I have a sip?”, spring forward with both elbows on the table to wrap her burgundy lips around Lan Zhan’s smoothie straw, wrinkle her nose, and say, “What is that, kale? Not really my thing, as like, a mall goth. Oh!” A pleased, chaotic exhale. “My name’s Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan said, after taking a moment to fully process the last forty-five seconds, “What?” or; mall goth au

#just thought abt mimilamp “baby are you happy” and almost walked into traffic #wangxian fic rec #lesbian wangxian #mdzs #the untamed #cql #femslash #wlw wangxian #mimilamp #74243 #plonk #occultings #saltyfeathers

[buckybarnesss]

Bro, the noise I just made. I literally cannot stand the fanon for Stiles or Derek. It is so so soooo bad, I think these people literally have only seen the 2 hour sterek compilation. Every day I am like "who fucking told you people that Derek never smiles and has no sense of humor?"

Stiles gets turned into this big eyed, kitten twink who wouldn't dare to misbehave because he's the sheriff's son (the kid who gets drunk in the WOODS, and gets his dad drunk so he can steal casefiles!!)

Derek like... He is either completely useless and cannot dress himself for a date without fanon!Laura (do not get me started) telling him what to do, or he is so emotionally repressed and damage that he can barely handle someone kissing him without him falling to pieces.

LIKE. Derek smiles. Derek makes jokes!! Derek laughed at Stiles right before the pool scene. Derek knows how to use a cellphone and a laptop. Derek is a goddamn millenial, he knows what grumpy cat is. He knows he's hot, he has a mirror!!

Also... the man lived in New York fucking City. He's not afraid of crowds or talking to people or making out, he uses sex to get his way (Erica and the deputy at the front desk!!)

i know.

like, there's a period of fics that are usually from the s1-2 period that lean pretty hard on derek's dark, brooding and grumpiness from season 1 but of course he was like that. he was going through The Horrors during season 1. he was grieving laura, he was being retraumatized by kate and dealing with scott, stiles and fucking jackson.

he wasn't one dimensional though. his anger was a mask for all the fear, confusion and trying to be in control.

do you know how many fics i've read where people have stiles think about all the apparent physical violence derek has done to stiles as if he's always slamming him into surfaces? way too many to count and it's incorrect. off the top of my head i can count 3 times derek did something like that to stiles. the shove into the wall and slam into the steering wheel in wolf's bane both of which had a point to them. whether or not it was a good emotional response doesn't matter. what matters is that they were not random or part of derek's personality. he didn't just shove stiles into things every time he saw him. the wall shove in s4 with de-aged derek was a deliberate call back to that very instance in wolf's bane. it was literally coupled with the whole cousin miguel bit.

fandom doesn't like to acknowledge that derek hale isn't particularly violent over the course of the show. he hardly even wins the fights he engages in and he is often forced into fights knowing he cannot win.

our boy mostly ends up on the fucking floor.

derek also does make jokes. dry ones usually he thinks they are hilarious too. he thinks he's a funny guy. his dad joke game must've been off the charts, sorry eli.

he and stiles trade barbs a lot and he thinks stiles is funny. stiles amuses him and he indulges it a few times. he shows off to stiles too like a loser.

he likes to fuck with scott and stiles and enjoys taking the piss out of peter. he genuinely enjoyed fucking with liam in s4.

he's not a luddite either. he has a cellphone and we see him use it. i bet he plays games on it. i bet he plays candy crush and words with friends.

and fanon evolved to strip away that stiles is an asshole. he a violent little freak. he threatens people, he expresses regularly his desire to kill people or have them die, he cares about a very small selection of people in his life and if you're not in that circle than god be with your ass because stiles most definitely won't.

he loves and respects his father but this doesn't mean stiles respects the law which is why i don't know why the law enforcement route was chosen for him. stiles hates rules and boundaries. he chafes at them.

stiles casually helps kira and scott break into evidence to get her cell phone. he tells scott's fbi agent father to fuck himself. he got his dad drunk to get access to case files. he copies people's keys. he's a nosy shit.

the whole show started because stiles was a nosy punk kid who wanted to see a dead body.

but i digress.

fanon stiles had a lot of scott's characteristics projected onto him so they could bash scott. i know there's a lot of people who don't like scott which is fine or whatever but there are so many that do it so they can make a pinata out of a character they've extracted all the good points from and give to their favorite little white boy fav.

stiles "i will beat you with a bat" stilinski is a freaky little shit who will bite you.

do you know how hard i laughed when in s3 stiles and isaac genuinely just like could not stand each other? they couldn't be in the same room with out insulting one another and it was the complete opposite of stiles being oh so sensitive to isaac's past and history than straight up in 3b stiles the epitome of insensitive says to isaac something about still milking it (his abuse). stiles is a dick.

i also genuinely have umbrage with the pack mom trope that stiles gets saddled with. the way fandom has oft feminized stiles leaves a bad taste in my mouth too.

derek and stiles are both assholes and i love them very much.

#my blog #teen wolf #thoughts on teen wolf #sterek #derek hale

[queenshelby]

Yes! Mr Murphy (Rewritten)

PART 43: MORE TAPE(S)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Lots of Angst, Age Gap, Teacher x Student, Extreme Smut

PLEASE COMMENT AND ENGAGE!

Two days had passed and you were back home in Dublin, confronted with a sex-tape between Cillian and his assistant Kit that, by now, had spread like wildfire, making you uncomfortable and emotional every time a notification popped up on your social media accounts, alerting you to the video. All of your friends and acquaintances had, by now, sent this to you and you were sick of it.

Reaching for his phone, Cillian shut off the recording, unable to bear witnessing further humiliation in front of you. The walls of his luxury apartment closed in on him, suffocating in an oppressive shroud of shame.

"My own daughter has seen this and so has my son! Fuck!" Cillian groaned aloud, pacing agitatedly in the room. He turned to you with a look of desperation, his eyes pleading for understanding. Despite your resignation to the fact, your heart went out to him, feeling sympathy and guilt for placing him in this predicament.

"You know you can sue her for this, right?" you suggested hesitantly, clasping his hands softly, trying to offer whatever solace you could provide. Though your intentions were pure, you couldn't help but notice Cillian's reluctance.

"No, this would make things worse, I think," Cillian responded solemnly, running his fingers through his tousled hair in distraction.

A heavy silence settled upon the two of you as reality seeped in – there was no escaping the consequences of this event. No amount of legal action could undo the damage already done.

"Will you at least confront her about it?" you asked, seeing that she had filmed this without his knowledge and then leaked it to the press in spite.

"Yes, I am meeting with her tomorrow. My lawyer has sent her a letter to address the issue privately at first. But legal action? It would just create more publicity which I don't want for Nina's sake," Cillian revealed, looking downward, defeated. 

"I understand, Cills and I think that you should tell her exactly how devastating this is for everyone involved, especially your children. Surely, she can see this. You need to be firm," you advised earnestly, trying to impart strength to his weakening spirit. He nodded gratefully, appreciating your support during this challenging period.

"I will be firm Y/N. I promise," Cillian responded resolutely, pulling away from your touch with newfound determination. He needed to maintain composure now more than ever; letting emotions overwhelm him wouldn't serve anyone's best interest. Instead, it required coolness, levelheadedness, and strategizing. The battle was about to begin, and it wasn't one easily won.

Kit, his once trustworthy employee, had betrayed him in the worst possible way.

The very thought made him nauseous. How could she film them doing something so personal and share it with the entire world? The anger boiling inside of him threatened to consume him entirely.

Walking around aimlessly throughout the day, you noticed his turmoil increasing tenfold. Every step he took echoed with uncertainty and doubt; you could sense that something truly dramatic was about to unfold. After hours of deliberation, Cillian finally decided to take matters into his own hands, requesting a change of scenery.

"We should do something nice after I deal with this tomorrow. Just you and me," he suggested, and you smiled faintly, grateful for any respite from this hellish storm. Glancing at his tired features, a wave of protectiveness swept over you. It was essential to stay strong for him, offering moral support where necessary.

"That sounds perfect. We need a break from all this madness," you agreed, smiling warmly at him. As you looked into his weary eyes, you felt a mix of love, admiration, and concern, knowing just how difficult this whole debacle had become for him.

"How about a trip to somewhere like the Maldives? I have never been there, and Dermont reckons it's quite nice. Just you and me on the beach," Cillian proposed with a sparkle in his eye, as though daring you to imagine the possibility.

Your stomach fluttered, excitement building within you at the prospect of exploring such an idyllic destination while, at the same time, you knew that you could not leave Ireland now without risking being denied re-entry upon your return.

Your visa was about to run out and you needed to address this issue before embarking on a vacation.

"Cillian, I would love to go on a holiday with you, but I can't leave the country right now. My student visa expires soon, and I don't know what to do about it just yet. I am working on it though. But, if I leave Ireland now, I can't return without a new visa in place," you explained sheepishly, avoiding his gaze.

His expression shifted instantly, a mixture of disappointment and frustration flashing across his features.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Cillian murmured softly, his eyes filled with understanding and worry.

Flinching momentarily, you admitted to him the difficulties you faced due to your impending immigration issues.

"Well, you've got your birthday coming up. You also have more important things to worry about at the moment and the premieres next month...I didn't want to burden you with my problems. I was just going to sort it out, but it proved to be much more difficult than I had anticipated, " you said and your words trailed off as your shoulders slumped, indicating your defeat.

Cillian wrapped an arm around your waist tenderly, displaying solidarity amidst adversity.

"Listen Y/N, you are my priority! I will ask my lawyer about this tomorrow after dealing with Kit. There must be an option if you want to stay. You may be able to change your visa to another visa or something," he said, and his tone exhibited care and understanding, allowing you to lean on him for support. "You do want to stay here, don't you?" Cillian questioned, wanting affirmation that his plan for staying together wasn't merely wishful thinking.

"Yes, Cillian. Of course I want to stay here. With you. I love you. Despite, Emma is staying in Ireland too. She is moving to Cork soon, and I want to be close to her as well," you expressed sincerely, locking eyes with him to convey your commitment.

His relief was palpable, and he held you closer still, promising to find a solution.

"Good. I am glad. Because there is no fucking way, I will ever let you go again," Cillian proclaimed confidently, taking charge of both situations which were now overshadowing your happiness.

"Dublin is my home now Cillian, so don't worry!" you replied cheerily but, just as you did, a bound of nausea hit you again, forcing you to make a mad dash to the bathroom.

Cillian, worried, followed behind and gently placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, whispering sweet words of encouragement, easing your anxiety somewhat.

He led you towards the bedroom afterwards, sitting beside you carefully, ensuring you felt comfortable enough to discuss the matter openly, thinking that the nausea was the result of your stress levels lately.

Feeling better physically, Cillian reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers lovingly. His eyes searched yours intently, seeking confirmation of your feelings regarding the situation.

"I hate seeing you like this, because of what Kit has done..." Cillian told you, but you interrupted him.

"No, it's not because of this. I am just hormonal. My cycle is all over the place ever since the surgery and I think that this is why I feel sick sometimes, "you tried to explain your condition, hoping that he understood the physical strain it put on you.

Cillian nodded sympathetically, wrapping you tightly in his arms, providing much-needed comfort.

"You should probably see someone about this again," he offered kindly, genuine concern evident in his voice. Your brow furrowed slightly in response, sensing the underlying undertone of concern rather than dismissal.

"I will, once you have dealt with Kit," you conceded, pondering the idea seriously for the first time. Your health had always taken a backseat, considering the recent surgeries and recoveries, coupled with the chaos surrounding the scandal. And perhaps this constant stress wasn't helping either.

"No, let's make sure we prioritise your health," Cillian remarked solemnly, adding weight to the conversation.

"Okay, I will get an appointment scheduled," you promised reluctantly, aware that the stress might eventually cause serious complications. Nevertheless, you couldn't help feeling irritated that these small concerns seemed to dominate most of your life currently.

With an aching heart, you glanced at your lover, acknowledging the gravity of the situation involving Kit and what you suggested next caught Cillian by suprise.

"You know, maybe, we should do something a little bit adventurous. Maybe this will take our minds off this video your crazy ass assistant shared on the internet," you teased playfully, your lips curling into a wicked smile.

"What do you have in mind?" Cillian asked, intrigued, as his eyebrows raised salaciously, a gleam of mischief lighting up his eyes.

"Something kinkier than anything we've done before," you told him before sliding down onto his lap.

"Okay. You have my attention. Tell me what you want to do," Cillian asked eagerly, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

A delicious thrill coursed through your veins as you contemplated the possibilities. The seductive power dynamics between you two made the air thick with sexual energy.

"I want us to explore some boundaries," you began slowly, savoring the taste of the forbidden fruit.

As you breathed heavily, trying to steady yourself against his chest, you continued, "And do things that we haven't even talked about."

Cillian swallowed hard, his breath catching. "Like what?" he ventured hesitantly, a hint of trepidation crossing his face.

You grinned wickedly, running your tongue along your bottom lip.

"Well, you are an actor, aren't you? So, how about some role play?"  You suggested coquettishly, letting your imagination run wild with various ideas dancing inside your head.

"I am all ears," Cillian said, his curiosity piqued.

"Well, we could pretend to be strangers meeting for the first time at a hotel. Then we could indulge in our fantasies, testing boundaries in our roles – teacher and student, doctor and patient, maybe even a dominant and submissive scenario," you mentioned, excited by the thought of turning the tables and experiencing each other differently.

"And we will film it, but just for us," you added, causing a wave of nervousness to ripple through him. Cillian hesitated briefly, his mind processing everything rapidly. Finally, he took a deep breath and accepted the challenge.

"I need to buy a camera first," he started, finally breaking the silence that hung heavy in the room. 

"Of course," you agreed, smiling warmly. The intensity of the discussion had increased exponentially, and your body burned with desire. It was almost painful to contain yourself, longing to experience the scenarios you discussed. As you kissed passionately, tangled limbs entwined in an erotic dance of pleasure, but your excitement was short lived as, suddenly, the doorbell rang startling you both.

Tags:

@sunbeamseas @saint-ackerman @oatmealisweird @naxxsstuff @amanda08319 @r-m-cidnah @elysiannook @cillshot @infireddabdab @tastycakee @harrysbestiee @lilybabe22 @adalynlowell @henrywintersdearestgirl @ietss @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @ryiamarie @axionn

@heidimoreton @nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

@galxydefender @hunnibearrr @saint-ackerman @lunyyx @gentlemonsterjennie1 @ihavealotoffandomssorry @nadloves @lost-fantasy @nolucesn@mcavoy-girl @hjmalmed @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @blushykiss @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @rhaenyra4ever @xcinnamonmalfoyx @budugu @nadloves @kmc1989 @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @forgottenpeakywriter

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian murphy fanfic

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 ao3

A series of notes passed during private study periods in Hawkins High School Library, circa January—May, 1985.

A sheet of paper hastily ripped from its notebook, folded over with a crease down the middle.

—Harrington, did you just turn down that girl?

—What are you talking about?

—Hey, you can’t blame a guy for being nosy. You were the one deciding to TALK in a SACRED LIBRARY.

—If you heard us, why are you asking?

—Okay, sound doesn’t travel that far.

—Why don’t YOU tell me what happened considering you know everything?

—Wow. Touchy.

—Fuck off.

—Sorry. Thought we were just joking around. Didn’t mean to be a dick.

—It’s fine.

—You sure?

—I wasn’t ‘turning her down.’ She’s on the Yearbook Committee. Asking for photos.

—Too many pin-ups to choose from?

—Baby photos.

—What’s the problem? Did you come out the womb holding hairspray?

—No.

—Table it or ditch it?

—?

—It’s something my uncle says. If he asks me about stuff I don’t wanna talk about, I can either table it for later or ditch it completely. But if something keeps coming up and I keep saying to ditch it, then it automatically becomes a table it for later.

—That’s smart.

—Yup.

—Table it.

—Okay.

—? Why do you keep scoring out stuff?

—Sorry sorry. I can only think of baby photos now.

—Not against them in general. Feel free to talk about yourself, Munson.

—Uh-huh. I could hear the sarcasm in how you wrote that.

—Ha. No, really. I don’t mind.

—Well, lucky for you, talking about myself is my favorite subject.

—Lucky me.

—I thought I’d lost literally all of my baby photos. When I lived with my dad, the house got flooded and all of them were hit. Water damage. I had to get my books spread out on a radiator so the pages would dry, and that kinda worked for some of them. Photos were goners, though.

—That’s awful.

—Hold your horses, cowboy. But then when I moved to my uncle’s—we’re at the trailer park in Forest Hills—I saw he had all these photos stacked on a bookcase, and I thought they were all really old, like from when he was a kid and stuff, and some of them were, but he had whole entire ALBUMS of me. Way more than my dad ever had.

—That’s cool.

—You’re so verbose, Harrington.

—I meant it. It’s just. I was just thinking.

—About?

—That’s not why I—I HAVE baby photos, that’s not the problem.

—Don’t sweat it, dude, you don’t need to tell me.

—It’s just. Rebecca, that’s who was talking to me, she kept going on about how everyone else has already sent in a baby photo or, you know, a photo from when they were a kid, and she was excited about it, it’s a whole new thing they’re doing for this year. They’re gonna do a special layout, old photos next to current ones, you know what I mean?

—Afraid I’ve never been privy to the wondrous goings-on of the Yearbook Committee.

—She said it’ll look weird if I’m the only one not doing it. But it’s—I don’t know. I know I could just pick any damn photo and send it in, it’d get the whole Committee off my back. But I think I’d feel weird at the thought of the whole year getting to see—god, this doesn’t even make sense, like I don’t mind them seeing at a photo of me NOW, but I don’t. I don’t like looking at old photos, I never have. I don’t know why. Guess I just don’t like looking back.

—Fuck what everyone else is doing. They’re YOUR photos. Forget the precious ‘layout.’

—Yeah, that’s sorta what I told her, minus the ‘fuck.’

—If it’ll shut them all up, you could send in one of mine. See who actually notices.

—No way.

—Yeah, I was just being stupid.

—No. Those are YOUR photos. Save them for your own Yearbook. Sounds like your uncle could fill the whole thing with pictures.

—Wouldn’t put it past him.

—Shit, is that the time? The bell’s gonna ring in five minutes. I’ve done NOTHING.

—The horror!

—I’m blaming you.

—Honored to be considered a distraction, Harrington.

-

A scrap of paper, hastily dropped into the pencil case of an unknowing Eddie Munson as the bell rang.

—Thanks.

#notes from hawkins high school library #epistolary fic #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steddie #eddie and wayne munson #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #pre steddie

[slavghoul]

There’s an interview with Martin in the new issue of Sweden Rock Magazine and he talks a bit about Ghost. I know some of you still miss the good ole Omega days and wonder what the hell happened in 2016 or whether he and TF are on speaking terms at all, so I translated the few parts where he talks about his time in the band..

--

There have been countless rumours about the reasons for your departure from Ghost, everything from mental illness to alcohol. I want to give you a chance to sort out what happened when you left.

MP: I don't know if I need the chance. Well, I have severe fucking ADHD, I was diagnosed the other year. And I've been taking anti-depressants for 16 years, I quit three months ago. So yeah, mental ups and downs have been plenty. No more alcohol problems than the average construction worker. It's invasive and so fucking unnecessary to delve too much into it, but in short: after six-seven years of intense fucking work, you get tired of each other in a way that might be unimaginable to someone who hasn't experienced that kind of relationship. It wasn’t just Tobias, it was everyone towards each other. You sit on a tour bus and you don't feel like it's a holiday or a fun thing, but such is life. I see it as a marriage. Ask anybody, let a mate move into your living room and live together in the same room for two years. A lot happens to your personalities and even though we were anonymous, you got a boost of some feigned self-esteem that some of us never had. It was turbulent, but also really fun and beautiful to do those things with that gang. There was nothing dramatic happening, no one doing more drugs than anyone else. Me and Tobbe both thought and think good things about each other. I can say the same about Simon or keyboardist Mauro Rubino or drummer Aksel Holmgren or bassist Rikard Ottoson or guitarist Henrik Palm or whoever. But people don’t need to know everything. It's as bizarre as me talking about my ex to the newspaper. Maybe if I lived in Hollywood, but now I live in Linköping, haha.

Do you have contact with Tobias today? Will you ever reconcile?

MP: Strictly business. I definitely think so. Sometimes you just have to have some time apart. I see no reason why we shouldn't, I see it that way with all the guys involved. It's a bit like having broken up with a girlfriend. It can be hard to see her with a new guy and you have to look after yourself. I've never felt the need to pour this out to people, I think it just does more damage. I understand that people want to know, but it's funny. People buy that it's anonymous for however long and then they want to know the most intimate stuff.

You have an Omega tattoo, your symbol in Ghost. Is it a painful reminder or do you mostly look back on that time as something positive?

MP: I have it on my shoulder, it sits where it sits. The Omega thing has nothing to do with Ghost for me. We had five symbols to distinguish the costumes and I had one stuck to one of my guitars. As we didn't have names, people started calling me that. When I think back on my time with the band, it's many years of great stuff. Being on tour isn't a great thing if you're unwell or homesick, but overall it was fantastic. We had so much fun, it was great and new for everyone and we learned stuff every day. We took it seriously, were smart and strategic and didn't party the whole thing up. If we had been 20 years old, it wouldn't have worked. For me, it's a great, important period.

How different would Ghost's first three albums have been without you?

MP: I'm not going to trample on myself, but I'm not going to put myself on some fantasy pedestal either. The band, the idea and the concept was started by Tobias and bassist Gustaf Lindström. That's it. Five guys don't wake up the same day and have the same idea. He's the main visionary, no question about it. He started Ghost and has written Opus Eponymous more or less alone. But for the next album, we had formed a band around it. It was still his band, everybody understood that he's the boss, but the musicians became more or less contributors. I came up with song ideas, ideas of what we should look like, album covers, concepts. And Tobbe was damn clever. He understood that if something was good, it didn't matter who did the shit. But there was no one with the mandate to take his place. lnfestissumam would have been a little different, but not that different. Some people say that when the old members left, the band died. That's not true. I think the musicians have played a big role live, but in the song-writing I don't think so. It's really hard to say what impact someone has had, but if you've been there, you've been there. On Impera, Hux Nettermalm plays drums and I hear it's not Ludvig Kennberg who plays on Opus Eponymus, Meliora and Prequelle. Aksel has his style and Martin Hjertstedt who played drums live also has a great style. Other than that, there are not so big differences.

The first time I heard that Magna Carta Cartel and Ghost shared members, I thought that the bands had the same singer.

MP: I've heard that plenty of times. In MCC it has been me or Simon singing. Neither Tobbe nor I, especially I, are trained singers. I won't compare us too much, because he's probably done over a thousand live shows by now. But we're from the same town, have the same accent... I can't sing any other way, I can't really sing at all. My voice here is just another instrument. If I'd done it again from the beginning, we'd probably have a different singer. I know people want to imagine it’s Tobias singing in MCC. They can stand in the room when we play and think it's him. People have been talking about the lyrics of "Sway" being about Ghost, but it was written in 2004 and is about a girl I had a crush on. But it doesn't matter how many times you present the facts, people still think things - and it's both amazing and terrifying.

#martin persner #omega ghoul #the band ghost #interview #magna carta cartel #mcc

[ceaseless-watchers-special-girl]

you guys. you guys you guys. i think i know what i want from the final season of the penumbra podcast. i have spent the past ten minutes pacing around my room. yesterday i read up to chapter 17 of prydon's fic separate but syncopated (https://archiveofourown.org/works/30943430/chapters/76417991) which let's be honest, you've probably read already. it's phenomenal. if you haven't, you should.

so i've been thinking. i just really want to go back to brahma. i want to go back to brahma and take down the guardian angel system.

the thing is, the junoverse is a very character driven storyline, and i love that about it. the second citadel is more event driven i think, and it was more difficult for me to get into that storyline and stick with it (i'm weak i'm sorry). for example, although the first season focuses a lot on juno solving the whole martian artefact doodah, back then the penumbra crew were still finding their feet.

then junoverse season 2 happened, and the entire point of that season was basically "get juno over his trauma" (that's why it was so long oh my god). sure, there was a whole plot with ramses and the theia souls, but i think we can all agree that was secondary to juno's character development.

next, season 3. season 3 is definitely character driven, you literally can't deny it. it focuses on each member of the carte blanche in turn, and it uses the plot, finding the curemother prime, as a secondary tool to further the true point of the season: getting to know the characters.

season 4 i'm a little less certain about because i'm typing this post straight into tumblr fresh out of my brain (if anyone wants to help out with the analysis i'd love that). but i think the point of season 4 is to test and showcase the bonds of the carte blanche with each other, and juno rescuing them all is not only a good story, but also a good way to show off the relationships they built in season 3. his relationship with nureyev is shown through periodic reading of the journal, and juno's copious inner monologues (i say like i'm one to talk when all of these thoughts are swirling around in my own head).

then, season 5. the point of this season mirrors that of season 2, but this time, we need to get nureyev over his trauma. this is way trickier, because we're not inside nureyev's head, we're still in juno's. it's still character driven because the aim is to help nureyev, but the plot is given by juno having to chase him across the galaxy. hence, juno's hesitation when he finally finds nureyev.

well, steel, you've caught him. now what the hell are you going to do with him?

there is no plot to drive the character study anymore. our goal was to help nureyev, and juno (poor juno) has done all he can. the ball falls squarely into nureyev's court now, and juno has no say in the plot of the rest of the story. this is why i have been chewing myself alive since the last episode — we know what's next for the characters emotionally, but we have absolutely zero idea what's happening next plot-wise. it's killing me.

(what was the point of this post again?)

OH WAIT I'VE GOT IT. so. since our whole thing for this season is helping nureyev, and we all want him to go batshit fucking insane, i really want nureyev to go back to brahma, and finish what he started two decades ago. i think it's the perfect circular story arc to keep them occupied while nureyev heals emotionally from the fallout from everything going on with slip.

also, sorry to get real for a second, but i've just been tearing myself apart being morally outraged at the world we live in, and the fact that i'm barely able to do anything about it. maybe one day i could, but until then, it would be nice to see my favourite space gays set an example.

now, i know there's complications with this. nureyev refused to take the guardian angel system down in the first place because of the damage it would cause, and i'm willing to bet he hasn't excised that moral core just yet, no matter how hard he's trying. but i'm sure they can find a way to make it work. they have rita, after all!!

they're definitely hinting at a homecoming arc for juno. i think nureyev needs one too, is all.

#tpp #the penumbra podcast #junoverse #peter nureyev #juno steel #rambling again sorry #dear god penumbra has me in it's grips will it never let go? #essay #i genuinely for real did not intend this one to be an essay i promise #it just happened my brain doesn't shut up

[rosewaterandivy]

Part 4. all fired up

Summary: Rumor has it, that hometown hero-turned-teacher Steve Harrington is hot for teacher. The English teacher next door to him at Hawkins High, who also happens to be his childhood friend, that is.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x chaotic!dumbass reader

Warnings: No use of y/n - reader goes by Trouble instead, depictions of drinking & drinking games, cursing, Eddie being shockingly graceful, and laundry room confessions

A/N: Modern!Teacher AU, English teacher reader, History teacher Steve, slow burn, friends to lovers, romance. Here’s 3.8K of multi-perspective tension, sexual and otherwise, and timeline fuckery; feedback and reblogs are appreciated, enjoy!

series masterlist | playlist

previous || next

Now - Spring break, March

Steve asking you to move into the loft was the last thing you’d expected. Not that the house hunt had been going so hot, to be fair. And you found yourself back on the couch of 4B more often than not. 

He’d broached the topic with you a few weeks ago before school started. Seated at your desk and hastily applying your makeup using the mirror from a compact. Steve hung out with you most mornings before first period, shooting the shit and gossiping about students. Eddie and Robin would join you when they could, but usually it was just the two of you.

“Are we aligned for quarter 3?” You ask, attempting to curl your eyelashes without pinching yourself. “I’m doing Night just as you roll into WWII with AP World, yeah?”

Steve nods, “Right, we have the field trip to the Holocaust Memorial Museum before spring break, so that tracks.”

“Good,” you swipe mascara through your lashes. “We should send out the permission slips this week then. I’ll send out an email to parents if they wanna volunteer as chaperones.”

He goes quiet, as if he’s lost in thought while you begin the same meticulous process with your other eye. 

“Y’know Nance is moving out soon,” he says casually, his loafer toeing the tile on the floor. “Her and Jonathan finally found a place; she’s thinking she’ll be out in time for spring break.”

“Ugh, finally,” you comment, setting the lash curler down. “Thought the day would never come.”

He laughs at your flippant response, watching as you continue your routine. And just as you were going to consider your makeup application for the day ‘mission accomplished,’ Steve says, “The room’s yours, if you want it.”

Shocked, you nearly stab yourself in the eye with the mascara wand, tears beading at your lash line, “Fuck!” 

Dropping the wand and compact, you screw your eye shut in pain thus ruining your mascara. May as well accept you’d walk around looking like a raccoon again. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so ridiculous.

“Are you okay?”

“Considering that I nearly put my own eye out? Yeah, I’m just peachy.”

He cringes watching as you blink, “Sorry, that was probably my bad.”

“How,” you laugh, pain dissipating slightly, “I don’t recall asking you to do my makeup today.”

“No,” he huffs, “I mean with the whole asking you to move in thing. Shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that.”

Surveying the damage in the mirror, you admit defeat and grab for the makeup removing towelettes. “Mmhm, really missed an opportunity to wine and dine me there, big guy.”

The joke lands like a lead balloon. Ba dum tss!

You scrub the towelette across your face, paying special attention to your overly mascara’d eye, and pop open your moisturizer. “It’s not a big deal Steve, and you’re not wrong to bring it up.”

“Yeah, how you figure?”

Your shrug dotting on your moisturizer, “Solves two problems, doesn’t it? You need a roommate and I need a place to live.” 

He stays quiet as you finish your ablutions, omitting the fact that they don’t necessarily need another roommate to make rent since his trust fund kicked in. But then again, Eddie and Robin don’t know that either.

“I guess,” he says, checking his watch. “Well, no pressure, either way. But I gotta bounce, I have hall duty.”

“Sure,” your voice is a clip as you zip the makeup bag shut, “See ya later.”

He gives you a small smile and wave as he leaves. The door closes behind him; the silence left in his absence deafening.

“It’s too soon, Nance,” Robin says, voice a crackle in the slow, calm of the morning. 

Nancy considers her words, taking a sip of coffee from her travel mug. And true, Robin knows Steve well and is understandably protective over him. But Nancy knows you and Steve, and that you’re both chickenshit.

“Maybe so,” she breathes, eyes glancing out the window and settling on Steve helping you to unload a few boxes from your car. A half-hearted shrug, “But then again, maybe not.”

She had made quick work of moving out, room packed in an orderly fashion and boxes labeled appropriately. The moving company arrived promptly and Nancy had successfully moved out of the loft before you had arrived that morning.

Jonathan and Argyle would meet the movers at the house, and she’d head out then. For now, she observed the debacle unfolding on the street outside of the loft. You had packed your car in typical fashion, which was …chaotic, to say the least. When you and Steve couldn’t free a box wedged against the window of the backseat, you hollered from the street for Eddie until he woke up.

Understandably pissed, he trudged out of the loft in his sweatpants and a crop top that had to have been Robin’s at one point (a goldenrod yellow shirt with red text reading ‘Lasagna Del Rey’), muttering something about you being a dumbass. And now, Steve and Eddie eyed the boxes warily, debating how best to wrest them from the backseat and trunk.

“Sup, bitches?” You greet, having successfully snuck away from the boys downstairs, and drop your purse and a box by the door. “Ooh, are the girls fighting yet?” 

Joining them at the window, you spy Steve yelling something at Eddie, who has taken it upon himself to open the sunroof of your car, thinking that the best way to unload the ridiculous amount of boxes in the backseat. He’s laid himself partially out on the roof and trunk, shoving an arm in through the opening, like a human claw machine.

“For fuck’s sake,” Nancy says with a shake of her head, “They don’t have a brain cell to rub together between to two of them.”

Robin snorts, phone out and already recording for posterity’s sake. “You can say that again.”

The boys, only somewhat successful in unpacking the car, badger the group of you in the loft until you’re annoyed enough to come downstairs and help. By the time the movers had arrived and placed the furniture in your new bedroom, your car had been unpacked, boxes organized by Nancy in the kitchen for the time being.

“The end of an era,” you say, hugging her goodbye. “Can’t believe the great Nancy Wheeler is shipping out to war.”

Robin and Eddie laugh from the living room, where they’re currently preoccupied laying out beers some semblance of a shape, a bottle of whiskey at the center of the coffee table.

She hits your shoulder playfully, “It won’t be that bad,” she tells you, “S’not like I’m dying over here.”

“Sorry, what was that?” You turn to Steve, stubbornly ignoring her presence, “I swear, it’s like she’s in the room with us.”

“Spooky,” Robin agrees, with a waggle of her brows, “I can’t remember the last time I saw Nancy Wheeler.”

She scoffs behind you, “Okay punks, I can take a hint,” and places her key on the counter. 

Steve pulls her into a bearhug and says, “Oh, y’think you’re getting out of here without a rematch?”

Nancy pushes back, eyeing him warily. “You wanna go toe to toe with the reigning champ?” 

“Hey, hey, hey,” you cut in, strolling casually to the living room and catching the beer Eddie tosses your way. “We’re all adults here.” Your voice is eerily calm and reserved, “We can do this with dignity, self-restraint, and, dare I say, honor.”

Robin grins, “The name of the game is True American,” tosses two beers Steve’s way.

Eddie counts it down, “One, two, three, four. JFK!”

“FDR!” is chorused in return. 

Beers are cracked open and shotgunned with abandon.

“Steve, you’re in the lava!” you shout from your perch on the dining table, “Get outta there man.”

He stops drinking his beer and looks at you, puzzled, “I thought this was Nancy Reagan’s gun closet.”

“George Washington, Abe Lincoln,” Eddie croons, as you reach out to haul Steve on the table with you.

“Cherry tree!”

Robin whistles, swaying precariously on the windowsill, “All right Americans, ya ready? Let’s do the count.”

“One, two, three.”

You slap the back of your hand to your forehead, one finger raised and inspect everyone else’s numbers; Nance and Robin both had threes, while Eddie came at a close second with a two, Steve was dead last with a four. 

Squinting, you smile and call out, “That’s me!” Moving unilaterally from the tabletop and stepping across a chair and stool to take your new position.

Steadying yourself on the countertop, you signal for their attention. “The only thing we have to fear–”

“Is fear itself!” they call back in response, “Drink!”

_

An hour or so later finds you several beers in and slung across Eddie’s back in a piggyback ride as he steps precariously across blankets and pillows.

“Jimmy Carter atop Grover Cleveland,” you say softly as he takes his turn, well both your turns since it’s turned into a team game now.  

He stops and looks from left to right, “What now?”

Untangling an arm from where you’d wrapped it around his shoulders, you point to the right. “Over here.”

“Huh,” he grunts swaying slightly, “M’over here,” and moves another space to the right.

“I gotta get to the castle!” Nancy yells, hopping toward the coffee table with the help of an overturned barstool.

“Go, Nance, go!” you cheer her on, safely deposited on an armchair near the couch.

“JFK!”

“FDR,” you chant, taking another swig of beer, watching as Steve and Robin intertwine arms to pour beer into the other’s mouth. Most of Seve’s spilling out and onto his shirt as Robin laughs.

_

“Y’know,” Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair, “You’re pretty good at this Nance.”

She smiles, toasts him with her beer can, and takes a bow.

He thumbs his lip, eyes glinting dangerously. 

“But not good enough.”

Slowly, you meandered from the armchair to the coffee table while Steve was distracted and grab the handle of whisky; check mate. You wave to Eddie from where he’s stood next to Steve. 

“D-does this–” he blinks at you, dazed.

Steve turns quickly from Eddie to you and back again. “What–No!”

“Is it–” Eddie continues, treading carefully across the floor to the coffee table. “This means we win?!”

“Yes,” you crow loudly, “This means we won! Suck it Steve–who’s the King now!?” 

Eddie picks you up and swings you around in victory chanting, “U.S.A., U.S.A.!” Your bright laughter rings out amidst Steve’s groans of defeat. 

The next morning finds you all piled on your bed, groaning as the spring sun lances through the windows. Your brain is mush, leaking from your ears it feels like. You turn to get out of bed, cursing the sloshing of your stomach. Still reeling from your celebration after winning True American, you flop on the floor with an audible thunk and belly crawl toward the door.

“You okay?” a low rasp, followed by the rustling of sheets.

You grunt as someone scoops you from the floor, dragging you upwards. Body limp as a ragdoll’s you allow yourself to be carried out of the room, hazarding a glance behind to see Robin, Nancy, and Eddie still passed out on the bed.

Mmm, must be Steve then. 

He was always quick to rally after nights spent barhopping in college, kept his liquor better than you ever could. Hands scrabbling for something to hold on to, you settle for the threadbare fabric of his shirt. He shifts you in his grasp, readjusting the grip he has on you and sighs.

“You’re…freakishly…quiet,” he whispers as he deposits you on the couch, leaning forward to get a better look at you, hair falling in his face. 

Batting your hand at him blearily, you burrow down into the couch hugging a pillow for good measure. Steve leaves you, starting the coffeemaker in the kitchen and mumbling about the moving boxes cluttering the counters.

“Everything is shit.” You whine, “Fucking True American… Fucking whiskey. My bones hurt. I feel like I’m dying. My sweat is sweating. Did I even fall asleep in my own bedroom?”

Steve snorts because at least he wasn’t that sloppy. He doesn’t remember a lot from last night, but something like clarity returns to him, a chorus of cheers and something being tossed. “Was that before or after you took off your panties?”

You whimper and bury your forehead into the pillow beneath you, cheeks coloring in embarrassment. “You remember that? S’last time I rock a lace thong, felt like my ass was eating it.”

He shuts his eyes at the image, tries not comment on anything involving your ass. Instead he asks, “So how do we want the coffee this morning? Regular strength or trying to vibrate yourself out of existence?”

“Jus’ wanna feel normal again. Remember? Bones hurt.”

Steve hums in the affirmative, pouring the coffee into two mugs and adding a splash of creamer to one. He pads over to you, sets both mugs on the table and lets you choose. Opting for the black coffee, you take a bitter sip hoping to feel something other than remorse.

“Mmm, s’gonna be that kinda day I see.”

“All due respect, which is none,” you grouse, “You can fuck all the way off, Steve.”

He sputters the next mouthful at your response, and it catches in his nose, makes him choke and cough all over the coffee table. You suddenly follow suit, except it’s on your own spit and the two of you look like complete morons to Eddie, who is sauntering in, completely fine.

“Told you to lay off the whiskey last night, Trouble,” he says reproachingly. He pauses by the hallway entrance before walking out into the living room, stepping on the back of the armchair with the grace of a prima ballerina. You and Steve gape at how he balances on the back of it, reaching up toward the ceiling.

With a thump he lands back down, arm pulling back before a tiny purple thong quietly smacks Steve in the face.

“What the fuck!?” You shove Steve off of the couch in a poor effort to retrieve your unmentionables. He grunts and shakes it loose, one hand pushing your face back as the other grips your thong. He opens his mouth to cuss out Eddie but the look on his face shuts you both up.

Eddie looks like a dog with a bone. The cat who caught the canary. Smug and casual as he leans against the counter, arms crossed as he looks from your pink face to Steve’s, to the triangle of fabric in your hand. Eddie waggles his brows, sucks on his teeth, and grins– shit-eatingly proud.

“Thought you’d want those back, Stevie. You’re the one who took ’em off her last night.”

The rest of the day slips by lazily. Jonathan collecting Nancy around noon or so, offended at having missed a rousing game of True American. They say their goodbyes and head off to the new house, leaving the rest of you to clean up from last night and unpack the boxes in the kitchen.

Steve is trying to do laundry. He prefers to do it himself, though Robin always offers to throw it in with her stuff. That’s fine though, he’s got a system, one he’s perfected over years of uninterrupted Sundays doing laundry. 

Anyway, he’s trying to do laundry when you saunter in.

On top of an empty dryer, you swing your legs uselessly. “Harrington,” you instruct seriously, “Don’t put the red sock in with the white stuff.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he retorts sifting through his hamper. Separating out the darks from the lights, whites elsewhere—it’s a system. 

You tilt your head, amused, and stare at him. It’s midafternoon now, the boxes had been unpacked and your own items absorbed into the communal drawers and spaces of the loft. Robin and Eddie busied themselves with their usual activities, whatever those were, and the loft had been quiet save for the a/c kicking on.

“D’ya wanna talk about it?”

Your hesitant to ask, voice soft as you bite your lip. He stops sorting the clothes to look at you, brow furrowed. 

“Talk about what?”

It’s only then that he notices you’re wearing his shirt. He shouldn’t be surprised, not really, you’re like a raccoon, always rifling through his shit and stealing his stuff. As if he wouldn’t notice.

An old white t-shirt from some vintage store or another that read ‘Stanley Cup.’ It swallows you, the white dips and stretches over your chest, and drops as its hem reaches the tops of your thighs. Your bare legs stick out, bottoms obscured by its larger size. You’re distracted by the material and fit, fingers tugging at the collar and adjusting the sleeves.

Something feels weird. Kind of funny like how a jab to the side hurts and tickles at the same time. Shock? Relief? Confusion, at the very least. He catches himself staring.

“Y’know,” you say after a while, hand stroking at your sternum languidly, “Christmas? We should get it out in the open.”

That snaps him out of it.

“Don’t you mean Thanksgiving?” 

He goes back to sorting the clothes, anything to distract himself in the moment.

“What do you mean? Thanksgiving?”

If he had to pinpoint it, the moment this whole thing was set off for him, it was that first night in the cabin over Thanksgiving break. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, could barely keep his hands to himself.

He sighs, brushing away the hair that had fallen into his eyes frustratedly, “Yeah. When the idiots conned us into a one-bed-short situation? You got drunk, and I had to take care of you?”

He just stops himself from saying, like always. Just barley, but he does it. Steve knows this has been difficult for you, doesn’t want to belabor the point.

“Oh,” you say. It’s soft, maybe a little dejected, too. Your legs stop their idle swinging. “Sorry, I didn’t know—”

“S’fine,” he says with a wave of his hand, tosses in a load of dark clothes to the washer. “I mean, we probably should discuss it. Just for like, ground rules or something.”

He eyeballs the amount of laundry detergent and shuts the machine, turning the dial and pressing ‘start.’ As the washer begins its cycle, he leans back against it, arms crossed. 

You take a deep breath in, “I didn’t want you to be that guy,” you admit, voice catching. “I couldn’t— I wouldn’t do that to you, Steve.”

“Then why did you–” he responds after a second, pausing to make eye contact, watches your wavering expression, wincing as you recall the events of last December.

“Jesus, Stevie,” you say gently, “You’re--my best friend.”

The door of the loft bursts open as he begins to reply. He takes you aside in the hallway, further from the laundry and closer to your bedroom. Hears Robin shout something about take-out orders, but dismisses it for the time being.

This isn’t for anyone except you and him. You can’t even articulate it to yourself, much less anyone else, so Steve nudges you into your room and shuts the door. You turn to him and the look in your eyes makes his breath stick to his throat. Jesus.

This is worse than sympathy and he wishes it were that simple. But this is heartbreak— and you’re the type of person who feels heartbreak in unimaginable ways. Steve shakes his head, doesn’t know how to navigate this part.

The first time this happened, he joked for your sake, and you laughed back for his. You both were younger then, inexperienced and wary; fumbling hands and lips after the Homecoming dance. The last time this happened, the glances were more pointed, the touches were measured and precise.

He’s thought about that night more than he’d care to admit.

Your mouth falls open in a hoarse whisper, “Sorry— I’m—”

“Hey, none of that,” he chides taking a step closer. “S’nothing to worry about.”

“But I—” you choke up, “I hurt you, Steve. I hurt you so much.”

He sucks a breath in. It was a lifetime ago. It was nothing. He was young and dumb and interested in Nancy, your best friend, and not the girl next door. And then, when he had realized his mistake, you were in love with somebody else— wearing his ring and planning to take his name.

Idiot.

He wishes he had a similar excuse for Christmas, but god knows he doesn’t. No excuse whatsoever, just raw feeling and need. He shakes the thought loose before it can take hold. Steve’s hands find purchase along your arms, his weight the only thing tethering you to the ground.

“But I’m okay. I’m good now. I got you with me. I’m okay.” All his rambling rushes out through a harried stream-of-consciousness. His thumbs running smooth circles against your skin, “You— You gotta stop cryin’. It’s killin’ me, honey.”

You blink your eyes, not recognizing the tears beading along your lashes. You press your palms into your eyes, take a deep breath in and out. “Okay.”

You keep to yourself for the rest of the day, only coming out for food when the take-out arrives. And even then, you eat quickly and make some excuse about needing to organize your room before leaving the table. 

Robin eyes Steve suspiciously, “You two alright?”

He leaves the table rather than respond and follows you down the hall. Your door is cracked open, laptop playing some sitcom or other on the desk as you fold clothes on your bed. You pause hearing the groan of an old floorboard, “That you Steve?”

“Yeah, s’just me.” 

Not turning from your task, you wave him in over your shoulder and continue pairing socks. He helps you return the clothes to their respective drawers and flops on your bed, exhausted, while you shut your laptop closed.

“Guess you’re staying then.”

“Guess so,” his voice is muffled by your impossibly comfortable duvet. Like clouds or some shit, Steve wonders passingly where you got it from.

Half-heartedly, you shove him to the side and turn down the sheets. You pat the side next to you and fluff up some pillows. He lays down next to you on the bed, propped up against a pillow or two, settling down for the night.

Steve watches as you burrow down in the sheets, mumble something incomprehensibly, body sliding briefly until you’re completely pressed against him. He tugs the blanket up and shifts so he can lie down comfortably, grabs your phone from the center of the bed.

He’s looking at your background wallpaper when you mumble something unintelligible in your sleep again. It’s a picture of him from a Zoom faculty meeting during the pandemic, brows raised at something some dumbass had said, you’d texted him a moment earlier saying ‘this idiot saying the quiet part out loud’ and he had to cover his laugh with a cough; you’d isolated his cell on the call and posed next to his face as it filled the screen of your monitor, a cheeky grin and thumbs up as Eddie snapped the photo.

A short sigh followed by a deeper one. “Yeah, you know.”

“Uh huh,” Steve smirks, entertaining your babbling. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.” A grunt, a huff of breath before you flip on your side, dreaming now. “Yeah. I love you.”

Steve fumbles and drops the phone on the floor, its screen going dark. He stares wordlessly at the deep blue of your ceiling, sleep-drunk words sinking to the bottom of his swollen heart.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #fanfiction #teacher!steve #stranger things #reader insert #the kids aren't alright - rosewaterandivy

[firenati0n]

year in review: favorite lines! :) <3

hello hello! I was tagged by the lovely @anincompletelist in this adorable tag game where we share our top favorite segments from our published fics and/or wips! :)

I only have one published fic LOL so here are some of my favorite pieces from that and three out of four wips right now (four is buck wild to me considering i had zero like ten days ajflakjfds).

i saved some of my real faves for y'all to read in worm fic (i didn't want to spoil my favorite paragraph at the end LOL). I have linked the fic as well as the tags with wip snips :)

from our world, mine and his alone (the midnight train to go)

Deep breath in. “By the way. Digging the cardigan, Henry. Very…” He rifled through his extensive vocab for literally any appropriate adjective. Refined? Boring. Professional? Practical, but also boring.   “Very…?” Henry raised an eyebrow, long fingers wrapped around a cup of tea. Earl Grey, Henry had said a while ago, but Alex couldn't be sure. He had been terribly distracted by said fingers, wondering where else those fingers could— What Alex’s distracted, useless worms in his left temporal lobe decided to supply him with as a response was: “Slutty-English-Literature-professor core.” Alex was going to jump off the train. He was going to change his name. He was going to get a lobotomy, as a treat.  “Excuse me?!” Henry sputtered into his tea, turning red alarmingly quickly. His sexy-librarian cardigan was collateral damage, tea splattered down the front. 

from the full spectrum of human emotion (WIP, The Proposal (2009 movie) AU, eta 2024):

And selfishly, he’s pretty fucking scared for his career trajectory if it doesn’t work out. He can’t start over, he can’t. His resume can’t take it, and neither can his ego.  He can already hear Oscar clicking his tongue and shaking his head, practically taste the disappointment in Ellen’s pitied gaze and outstretched hand. He absolutely cannot give them the silver bullet that goes clean through his erratic heart and wrenches him back home. He loves Austin, breathes it, and yet…and yet. He just can’t return, not when he’s so close. He still has so much to prove, so much to hold up to the sky and say I’m here, I can take it, I did it, I’m good enough. It almost swallows him whole—his overwhelming love for his family, his nostalgia for the Texas sun. But it’s just not enough to—

from queerano de bergerac (WIP, Cyrano / The Half of It (2020 movie) AU, eta 2024):

“Amber, everyone thinks you’re pretty, it is an objective fact. Irrefutable, even.” “Aw, Henry! That’s so nice of you to say, thank you.” She flashes him a genuine smile. She’s sweet, Henry is loath to admit.  “You’re welcome. But. This letter…we need to workshop it a bit. Make it more personal? More about who Alex is as a person, and not who we see him as. What’s below the surface? What are his hidden depths that you are willing to explore? How do you show you’re in love, not just tell?” Amber raises an eyebrow. “Okay. How do I do that?” She sniffs. “I thought I was being so obvious when I asked if he had lunch plans.” “...You asked him if he had lunch plans during our…one lunch period at school?” “Okay, fine! I’m not the best with fancy words like you, Mr. Future English Literature Major.”

from untitled continuation of worm fic (WIP, eta 2024):

If Alex could land Henry's phone number (a bit forcefully, if he remembered Henry's tone correctly) using sheer fucking charisma, he could nail a date with the guy. Easy peasy.  Except. Except for the fact that Alex's brain seemed to rapidly degrade in every conceivable way when faced with Henry's fairytale hair and anime-worthy blue eyes. Henry's presence was lethal for every ounce of Alex's grey matter. With every blink of his doe eyes, Henry obliterated another one of Alex's (already fucking limited!) brain worms. They would writhe in agony, unable to shake the vicelike grip of Henry's charisma, doomed to a slow and sensual death. Alex was so fucked, and not in the fun, safe, and lubed way. 

+

no pressure tagging @ninzied @inexplicablymine @anincompletelist @myheartalivewrites @suseagull04 @priincebutt @sparklepocalypse @kiwiana-writes @onward--upward @nocoastposts @user-anakin @wordsofhoneydew @littlemisskittentoes @happiness-of-the-pursuit @matherines @lizzie-bennetdarcy @celeritas2997 @sherryvalli @gayrootvegetable @ssmtskw @affectionatelyrs @tinyarmedtrex @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @14carrotghoul @orchidscript @rmd-writes @dustratcentral @eusuntgratie @magicandarchery @leaves-of-laurelin @songliili @cricketnationrise @msmarvelouswinchester @leojfitz @dragonflylady77 @cha-melodius and open tag for anyone else wishing to share! have fun :)

xoxo roops

#tag game #fave #roop writes #rwrb #rwrb fic #fic: tfsohe #fic: worm fic #fic: queerano

[january-summers]

Just thinking about some stuff, whole train-of-thought re: Wash's induction into PFL, (and the idea that it would be hilarious if he was actually one of the first Freelancers selected for the project despite being considered by the others to be a rookie) and it sort of spiraled back into the idea that he and Ohio (Vera) worked together pre-PFL.

Cause like, Wash had to have done at least 7* years in the military, he reached at least corporal (I've seen a head-canon he might have even been a sergeant on his way to staff sergeant but got demoted as part of his court-martial and I'm here for that tbh) and as a corporal he would have been a team leader for a small team, or at least he would be cleared to act in that capacity. (UNICOM Corporal: Enlisted Officer 4th rank - Typical Responsibilities: Fireteam leader)

(*IRL court-martials can come with prison time, so Wash might have been in prison for 'a little while' before PFL, then released with just enough time to realise how hard it would be to get back in the fight before PFL “conveniently” came along with a job offer, or they offered to broker a deal to keep him out of prison if he worked for them instead. If he was discharged right before being recruited and he was recruited at the start of the recruitment period he actually would have been in the military for 9 years at least, which I think we all know by this point?)

Anyway, I'm just picturing rookie!Vera has been assigned to David's team (and yes, as always I'm secretly running “his last name starts with 'C' and his 'call sign' was D.C.” head-canons) and she's not fresh from an academy new, but D.C.'s team is the elite in their field type team, so she's still out of her depth a bit.

Naturally, Military Intelligence has proven to be an oxymoron still, and bad intel has them all in over their heads. The team gets split as they're trying to wipe out a target via ground assault. D.C. takes a flash-bang (or alien equivalent) basically to the face and ends up blind (temporarily) so he's out there with a makeshift blindfold wrapped around his head to stop his eyes taking any more radiant damage and letting Vera steer them through the unfriendly terrain.

And Vera would really like to go home but they still have a job to do, especially if they're the only ones left, so she and D.C. stealth their way to their objective, but they run into a problem, a small covie strike team, and Vera doesn't know how they manage to take them out between her and her currently blind commanding officer, but they do, except for one, who makes a run for it back towards the covie base to tattle on them after the radio gets wiped out.

The covie is way too far ahead of them, they'll never catch up, and they're running out of time before it alerts the base, Vera doesn't know what to do, but D.C. tells her she has to use the sniper and take the shot herself.

“Can-can't you do it?”

“Literally blind kid.”

“Right. … shit.”

“Yep.”

“Okay, okay, I can do this, I can totally do this.”

And Vera fumbles the sniper into position and freezes. She can't do this, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, and the covie bastard is running fucking serpentine!

And then D.C.'s hand is on her back and he's telling her to breathe with him.

“You know where he's running too, look at the ground, he can't stack it now, he'll take the easiest path, that's how he's going to move, aim, lead the target for distance and speed, take the shot. You can do this, look how well you've already done while lugging my blind ass around, you have the potential, the skills, the training. Breathe. Aim. Lead. Take the shot.”

For three long seconds after she shoots, Vera worries she's hyperventilated herself high and imagined landing the shot that turned the covie's head into confetti.

It was an improbably shot and she'd landed it.

"Holy shit did you fucking see that? I mean, uh... sir? boss? -"

"Nope, still blind :) and you know what, you can just call me David; David's fine."

They finish the mission and rejoin the rest of the team, complete success thanks to their maintained stealth.

A few years later, Agent Washington will point to that shot as proof Vera has what it takes to be a Freelancer when he's asked for his opinions on some potential recruits.

It's the reason Wash was the last to know the Triplets were gone. If he'd heard it from on-high, he would have known something sus had gone down, and his penchant for breathtakingly vicious revenge would have endangered Price. Instead, hearing it fifth hand, Wash was left believing Vera had dropped out without telling him because he'd somehow made her think he'd be ashamed of her, and what kind of bastard was he, that she didn't think she could come to him with her worries, that she'd leave without leaving. Did she know he'd put her name forward, did she blame him?

#rvb #red vs blue #agent washington #agent ohio #project freelancer

[indelibleevidence]

People not from the UK are making posts congratulating us on our good fortune that Johnson has resigned, and lamenting that their democracy doesn't work as well as ours. I need you guys to understand some things:

He's got about three months left in government before he goes. He only resigned because people weren't going to stop walking out until he did, not because he admits he was wrong and deserves to go. He might use those three months to fuck up as much as possible before he leaves, because he resents that he has to go. Sure, he SAYS no new policies before he fucks off, but he also said he didn't know Chris Pincher was a serial groper, and that he didn't flout the rules during lockdown, and a million other things he's lied about to Parliament's face.

During these three months, he gets to have a big wedding party at the Prime Minister's estate, to make up for the one he supposedly didn't get to have during lockdown. Is this being paid for with public money? It really wouldn't surprise me if the answer was yes.

A lot of the people in his party want him out right now, but there's literally no system in place to force him out, because he narrowly won a confidence vote last month, and the rules of his party say he can't be challenged again until next June. He only said he'd go in three months because the party was planning to vote for new executives who'd then be able to change that rule, in theory. (Also, because he thinks he's the new Winston Churchill, and being remembered as the Prime Minister whose entire party walked out on him doesn't fit with his internal narrative. He's already broken the record for most resignations in a 24-hour period, by quite a lot.)

Whoever takes over is guaranteed to be just as evil, only they'll look more professional while doing it, and most of the UK media is unapologetically right-wing, so they'll help spoon-feed the 'government back in honest and competent hands' narrative to the whole electorate. They'll make out that Johnson was the reason everything is broken, when their party has been systematically defunding the health service, social services, the justice system, the welfare system, etc. for the past twelve years. The political party isn't changing, just the Douchebag-in-Chief.

Slight shred of optimism: there are two camps within the Conservative Party, and the more moderate one is anti-Johnson. So hopefully there'll be an easing off of insane policies like 'lets deport asylum seekers to Rwanda' and 'let's have a trade war with the EU because we don't like extra paperwork at the Irish border', assuming the people responsible for those policies are sacked (please, god).

But some very damaging laws have already passed, and I doubt any of them will be repealed. And a moderate Tory is still a Tory.

#uk politics #it's still broken here you guys #the late-stage capitalism apocalypse continues