#( visage: dustin. )

[hxllfircs]

⛧. ⸸ Small tag dump. (1/??)

#iconic

[imaginarianisms]

roose has no feelings, you see. those leeches that he loves so well sucked all the passions out of him years ago. he does not love, he does not hate, he does not grieve. this is a game to him, mildly diverting. some men hunt, some hawk, some tumble dice. roose plays with men. you and me, these freys, lord manderly, his plump new wife, even his bastard, we are but his playthings.

[brooklynbred-c]

just a tag drop. feel free to ignore.

[after-the-end-times]

Summerween in Hawkins

💚Rating: M💚 Words: 4.6k 💚 Tags: TransFem!Steve, Trickster!Eddie, Buffy Halloween Episode Vibes, Everyone's turned into their costume, Stevie's pretty happy about it, coming out to the party 💚For @steddie-spooktober Summerween: Trickster 💚For @genderthings Pride Things Bingo: Make up 💚For @stevieweek Day 2: Cryptid 💚Ao3

Eddie loved Summerween. It was the one time of the year when he could truly let himself be free in public. He could finally release his tightly held glamour, dropping his human boy form, and take on his true visage.

The damp heat of late June in Indiana didn’t touch his skin. He walked unseen, unnoticed through the trees surrounding the Summerween Craft Fair and Festival. The whole town was out, everyone in costume, playing fair games, buying homemade art, eating candy, and carving watermelons. It was all so fun and silly and innocent. Eddie grinned, he was about to shake that up.

Someone needed to remind them that Summerween was not just any other summer holiday, it wasn’t 4th of July with dress up. Summerween was about celebrating the dark and spooky elements of summer; it was that feeling of standing at the edge of the deep, dark woods and knowing something older than the woods, something bigger, more powerful, more dangerous than you watched back and with one step into the cool shade, it’d snatch you right up. Summerween wasn’t about candy and silliness. It was about him.

Power flowed along his body, snapping outwards, tasting each and every person’s energy. So much joy and excitement, no one was spooked or uneasy. Well then, wouldn’t this be more fun for him. He closed his eyes, still seeing the crowds of happy families wandering around. With little effort, he pushed his power outwards, it flowed quick and easy, happy to finally be released, covering the entire festival. He leaned against a large, old tree and waited for the screams.

-

Stevie loved Summerween. It was one of two times a year when she could truly let herself be free in public. She could pull out the dresses hidden in the back of her closet, the make-up tucked below a floorboard, and walk out amongst the crowds of her town with a Hello My Name is STEVIE sticker stuck to her handbag. She finally got to relax and be happy for a whole entire day.

For the town’s festival, Robin dressed in Stevie’s normal jeans and polo shirt, her hair pinned close to her head, and a sticker telling people to call her ROB. They’d gotten dressed at Stevie’s house, giggling away in her room as Stevie showed Robin some of her subtler makeup tricks. However, just for the day, just for Summerween, Robin had convinced her to go a little more dramatic; darker lashes, a red lipstick she normally kept just for herself when her parents were out of town, hair curled down around her face. She caught herself looking in every reflection of the surrounding crafts, she looked so beautiful and happy.

They wandered around the open field of booths, only slightly sweating and fanning themselves, as the tall trees surrounding the area insulated them from the heatwave that had enveloped the town in the last week. A craft booth caught Robin’s eye and she pulled Stevie over to check out a table of small clay dragons.

Stevie thought they were cute, not something she’d normally be interested in, but maybe she’d grab one for Dustin. He and the other kids were probably over at the games, playing for candy and bragging rights, but she hadn’t run into them yet.

She kind of wanted to see their reaction to her “costume”. She knew it wouldn’t be the same as when she’d actually eventually tell them, one day in the far future, but it’d be good to at least see where they’re starting from.

She picked out a couple of the cooler looking dragons while Robin waffled between two. The vendor had just handed her a bag with her dragons and her change when she heard a distant scream.

Years of dealing with monsters, human and supernatural alike, had left her a tad jumpy, but when Robin didn’t seem to notice she let it go. Most likely kids just having fun. Annoyingly, it was often difficult to tell excited kid screams from scared kid screams.

Robin handed one of the clay dragons to the vendor and Stevie wandered out of the booth. She could see all the way down the line of booths to the fair end of the field.

A pack of blue smurf looking kids ran up the aisle screeching. Her belly clenched. A woman cried out, a man in a hockey mask ran between the booths with a huge knife, and someone started belting out Like a Virgin in a very convincing Madonna impression.

A cold breeze flowed around her, making shivers dance along her skin and twisting her hair around her face. She shoved her hair back out of her face, yanking her fingers out of the knotted strands, and pulling them out of her scalp with a sharp flash of pain.

“Ow,” she scritched her fingers against her scalp, relieving the shock of pain. She paused. “Wait, ow? Wait, is that my voice? Is that my voice? Robin! Come here!”

Robin, finally finished paying, joined her out front.

“Robin, do I sound different to you?” she turned to Robin and stepped back startled. “Uh, I think something’s going on. You look- Well, you look like if you had a brother and then turned into him.”

Robin stared at Stevie, blinking. “Yeah well, you look like a- well, I mean, you look like you. Like, you still look like you, but also girly? Okay, that sounded wrong. What I mean is, you look like the you that you want to be- Ugh, sorry, I don’t know how to- A mirror! We need a mirror. Come on. And wow, my voice sounds so deep in my head. Does it sound that deep to you? So so weird.”

Robin grabbed Stevie’s wrist, pulling her toward the booth with mirrors and crystals. Stevie looked down at where Robin held her, amazed. Her wrist was still strong looking, but also tapered where Robin’s thicker fingers wrapped around. Her belly felt wobbly and tears clogged her throat.

Stevie didn’t know how it happened, though she was getting vague idea of what happened, but she hoped it was permanent. For her at least. Maybe not for Robin. Or that guy who got turned into Jason Voorhees.

Either way, Stevie hoped whatever or whoever decided to mess with Hawkins this time would let them decide if they wanted to go back. Because she really, really didn’t want to.

Plus, this would be so much easier to explain. Ope! Just another mysterious Hawkins thing! Nothing I can do about it, Mom and Dad! Guess you’ll just have to call me Stevie forever! Stevie nodded, yeah, that’d work.

Robin shoved her in front of a hanging mirror with mushrooms painted around the edges. And she did still look like herself, except...sharper somehow. She tilted her face back and forth trying to catalog the differences. She really couldn’t put it in exact words, except that she did look different...but still like her.

She looked down, finally noticing that the padding in the bra was actually her boobs. She smoothed her hand down her dress, over her breasts and soft belly, noting a lack of penis. Okay, never really thought about not having that, so that part might actually take some getting used to.

Giddiness bubbled up and she twirled to Robin, grinning. “How long do think this will last? Wait. Do you think we’re supposed to do something about it? I mean, every other time something’s happened around here the kids are right there in it, which meant I was right there in it. But I don’t wanna do anything to stop it! But, what do you think?”

She looked at Robin imploringly, waiting for her to decide how they’d handle this.

“Wow, okay, gonna need to get used to your new puppy dog eyes,” Robin held a hand up, blocking Stevie’s eyes. “They were dangerous before, but now they’re lethal. Bet you’ll be able to get anyone to do anything with those things now!”

Stevie smiled and swished her hips side to side, making her skirt flutter. “Good to know,” she laughed.

Robin groaned, rolling her eyes. “So happy for you. I’m a guy and you’re gorgeous, yep that makes sense.”

Stevie smiled, she couldn’t stop smiling, and threw an arm around Robin’s shoulders, turning them to walk down the grassy aisle through the mass chaos that had been picking up around them. “Okay, I think the little punks were coming, so let’s go see if they’re here. And what they turned into.”

“I think Max, Erica, and El bullied them into dressing up like Care Bears,” Robin said, stepping around a flower power hippie lady just sitting cross legged in the path. “They came by the store to ask me what Care Bear I think of when they said Dustin or Mike or whatever other child’s name. Pretty sure they wanted to ask you, but you were home sick, so I got to answer your children’s questions.”

“Okay, well that’s gonna be adorable. Guess I’ll keep an eye out for Grumpy Bear, I mean, Mike,” she snickered.

-

In the soft, cool shade of the dark trees, Eddie reveled in the chaos.

His powers slid along the grounds, picking up their emotions, feasting on the prickly energy of everyone’s confusion, their compulsions to give into their roles, to act out who they’d decided they wanted to be that morning. He was just giving them what they wanted after all, he smirked.

Of course, he’d made sure no one would get hurt, trapping them all within the clearing. He wasn’t the type of trickster who fed on the swirling energy of anger or desperation. Eddie would just let everyone have an afternoon of bewilderment, where they come out of it asking themselves if that really happened, no harm, no foul. Except.

He kept picking up a different emotional energy. Something sparkling and zesty, like the blinding spots of sunlight reflecting off bouncing waves: giddy happiness. How unusual.

Even the children didn’t feel like that, in their clueless excitement at suddenly being their favorite characters.

He chased the echoes of the feeling across the field, searching for an adult so deeply thrilled with being turned into their costume that they left a trail of pure, undistilled happiness in their wake.

Got them.

In his mind, he could see one person lit up like a beacon, so bright he couldn’t even see through the burst of light to the person within. Very odd. He’d never experienced this before. Perhaps if Wayne were with him, he’d know. However, one thing he did know, he was going to be watching this beacon of light til he uncovered their identity and solved this mystery.

-

Stevie and Robin reached the end of the craft booths and stared out at the field of child sized translucent ghosts, pirates, ninja turtles, and thundercats. Stevie saw the earlier pack of smurfs setting up a little town meeting near the trees.

Oddly, everyone seem contained to the field, so no children were running off into the woods never to be seen again, which was good she supposed. But, it also seemed like none of the adults were really trying to wrangle their children or fix the problem.

There was a group of hippies holding hands in a circle off to the side, a fight breaking out between a couple of singing Madonnas, and several serial killers stalked around the perimeter hiding in whatever shadows they could find.

Stevie sighed. “Why do we always have to fix things? Can’t we just sit in the grass like those Muppet Babies?” she said, waving her arm at a pile of toddler sized muppets crawling around together.

Robin looked over at her, understanding written clear across her face, even with newly masculine features she was still easy to read.

Stevie pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed deeply, “No, you’re right. Guess I really am always the goddamn babysitter. This time for the whole town, it seems. Alright, where would a pack of real life Care Bears be?”

“Duck!” Robin pulled Stevie down to the grass as a beam of rainbow light shot over them toward the fighting Madonnas. The light swirled around them in a blaze of rainbow colors before dissipating into golden sparkles, leaving two hugging Madonnas gushing about the other’s perfect voices.

Stevie blinked over at Robin. “Found them.” She stood up, brushing off her dress, and held a hand out to pull up Robin.

“Steve! We found you!” A fluffy pink bear the size of a teenager, and sounding suspiciously like El, ran toward them. “Did you notice everyone is changed? You’re so pretty now! Hi, Robin.”

Stevie reached up, ruffling the fur between El’s bear ears, and chuckled. “Now that you mention it, something weird does seem to be going on.”

It was kind of surreal, having a group of human-sized brightly colored bears trotting towards her, but if there’s one thing Stevie was good at, it was rolling with whatever Hawkins and these children threw at her.

“Okay, no one say anything! I want to see if I can guess right” Stevie took in the bears looking at her with oddly human expressions written all over their fluffy bear faces. She started pointing, “The blue Grump in clearly Mike, Heart Bear is Will, Shooting Star is Max, Sunshine is Lucas, Flower Bear is Dustin, aaaand that leaves Erica as Pink Heart Bear! Come on, tell me I wasn’t spot on.”

The bears looked at each other, looked back at Stevie, and immediately started shouting over each other.

“None of those are their names! Did you even see the cartoon?”

“Why would I clearly be Grumpy Bear! I’m not a grump! You don’t even know!”

“I’ve been turned into a girl bear! I don’t know how I know, but I do!”

“I keep having urges to be nice and cheerful and it’s making me sick!”

“I don’t know guys, this is a really good bonding opportunity to bring our friendship closer!”

Stevie knew there was no stopping them until they just naturally ran out of steam or actually remembered there was something bigger going on. She stepped back, crossing her arms under her chest, and shifted her weight to one side, cocking a hip. She sighed, waiting.

Robin, however, was clearly done waiting. “Okaaaay! Children! Can we focus!? There’s literally a guy with a giant knife stalking us from behind that tent leg and you’re standing here arguing about Care Bears! Maybe we should put your powers of friendship to good use and think up a plan, hm?”

Dustin Bear stepped forward. “Yeah, that’s not really how our powers work. And perhaps you’d like to be a little nicer? I have to keep fighting the urge to blast a beam of kindness at you. I’m really not sure what that’d do to you. Though, maybe if I ask nicely you’ll let me blast you and we can see?”

Stevie blinked as Dustin held out his fluffy paws, nicely asking Robin if he could blast her. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh at how ridiculous it all was or preserve to memory Dustin actually speaking with a nice and sweet tone...even as he asked to experiment on her friend. Still. Maybe, when it was all undone, this whole day would be worth it just for taking Dustin down a snarky notch.

-

Eddie felt the beacon of joy and happiness dim a single iota. What had happened?

This was getting ridiculous. He should be focusing on the rest of the town members, on the chaos he’d reaped, in the lesson he’d taught them about the true meaning of Summerween. But all he could focus on was one person. One glowing, rapturous, brilliant person. He had to know.

Eddie stepped out from the tree line and followed the bread crumbs of sweet joy through the field, sidestepping the town of characters acting out their stories. A child size ghoul ran head first into his shin, fell back, bounced up, and darted toward a small witch standing at a tiny cauldron. He shook his head, blinking away the sight of the witch pushing the ghoul into the cauldron. They were fine.

His journey led him to the back of a group of giant arguing Care Bears, their paws waving at each other making hilariously adorable points, he was sure. None of them however were his beacon. He walked a wide path around them and saw her.

-

Stevie was still waiting for the kids to remember they had an actual goal to achieve with all their squabling. Robin had finally realized what Stevie had already known and was crowded beside her muttering under her breath about never wanting children if this is what it’s like. Stevie understood the annoyance, but still thought it’d be nice to one day have her own Muppet Baby. She shrugged to herself.

A dark figure to their side caught her eye. Worried it was one of the many serial killers getting too close, she shifted her weight to send a dark look over at them, hoping to intimidate them into finding another group of victims. But oh! It was just Eddie from school.

She smiled at him, waving for him to join them. “Hey, Eddie! You got caught up in this Summerween day spell too, huh? What were you dressed as, an elf or fairy or something? Your hair looks awesome.”

Eddie seemed a little out of it as he came closer. Maybe he’s still stuck in his character?

“It’s me, Stevie Harrington, we went to school together? This is Robin, obviously. And these Care Bears are our kids- uh, the kids. From Hellfire. You know, Dustin and them.”

She felt a flush crawl up her neck to her cheeks. Apparently, she blushed a lot easier now, which was unfortunate. She hadn’t meant to imply the pipsqueaks were their kids, no matter how much Dustin acts like they’re his second set of divorced parents.

But now that the thought entered her mind, she looked at Eddie again. He was pretty tall like this. And his hair was long and shiny and so very curly. And his eyes-

Were staring right into her. The hot flush rushed downwards. He gazed at her as if seeing within, seeing the truth of her, knowing her. She gulped.

He stepped forward, his eyes never leaving hers. He held out a hand. Blinking down at it and back up to him, she slid her hand in his, her heart thudding and her breath speeding up. Somehow, she knew this was an important moment in her life, one that could change it forever.

-

Eddie lifted Stevie’s hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles. He had no idea how they’d gone to school together for so many years and he’d never seen really her. She was glowing, lit up from within with a happiness that one so very infrequently gets to experience, a happiness that suffuses every little cell in their body and shines so even those without magic can see. He wanted to give that to her forever. He could.

He closed his eyes, bowing his head over her hand, pushing his power through their joined hands, down her arm, and into her. Stevie gasped. He glanced up, meeting her eyes. She looked...hopeful, her eyes wide and chest heaving. He pressed, pushing more magic within her. Her body trembled and she took a tentative step toward him, her hand coming up to grab his hip.

“Eddie,” she breathed out. She looked up at him like she couldn’t believe he was real and standing in front of her, like he’d disappear if she looked away. “Please tell me this is real and not one of your little make believe games.”

He smiled, already so enamored, “Honey, this is as real as it can get. Don’t worry, the rest of them will go back to their normal selves soon enough. But you- I just want you to stay this happy forever. Is that- Will that make you happy?”

She trembled, the hand on his waist twitched, bunching his tunic tight. She nodded. “And you? Is this...you?”

“This form?”

She nodded.

“It is, though my human form is just as real. Do you like this one, baby?”

Her cheeks flushed red and he grinned. Her face dropped into a glare.

She tsk-ed. “Don’t get too cocky, Eddie. Let’s see what you’ve got when you’re not all tall and hot.”

Eddie smirked, “So, you think I’m hot stuff, huh?”

Stevie rolled her eyes, huffing out a breath, but he could see a happy smile playing at the edges of her lips, so he’d take it. Movement from behind her caught his eye. “Incoming.”

-

Stevie was staring up at Eddie, wondering what he meant, when a wall of yellow fur shoved its way between them. She stumbled back and waved an angry hand out at Dustin’s back. “Dude!”

Robin stepped in close to her. “I couldn’t hold them off any longer. They seemed to think he was ‘working dark magics’ on you and didn’t believe me when I said their mommy and daddy were just making up for lost time.”

“Wait.” Stevie glanced over at Robin. “Am I the mommy or the daddy?”

Robin flicked a flat look at her. “Does it matter? I couldn’t hear everything, but did he do this to us? I don’t like being taller than you. It’s weird and I can see the top of your head.”

“Yeah,” Stevie smiled, watching Eddie getting surrounded and accosted by teenaged mutant Care Bears, “he said it’d wear off soon and everyone will go back to normal. Except me.”

Knowing she’d be like this forever made her pause. She was so happy, it was exactly what she wanted. But, also...she almost felt like she was cheating, skipping a thousand little steps others must take if they were like her. She thought she had time to face this future, time to tell the kids, time to tell or not tell her parents.

It was suddenly real in a way it hadn’t been before when she had to keep this to herself and could only bring it out in the open two days a year. She’d been afraid, she realized, and not just of the reaction of people around her.

She’d been afraid of doing anything that would lead her to this conclusion. If it hadn’t been for this chaotic Summerween day, she doesn’t know if she ever would’ve had the courage to walk down the hard path toward being herself. Would she have lived forever as Steve Harrington? Married a woman. Had kids with her. All while waiting every year for the two days she could bring out her hidden dress and make-up?

Welp. She may now have a different difficult path to walk, but at least she’ll do it as Stevie Harrington. And she knows she’ll have Robin by her side, the children too, once they stop haranguing Eddie. She’s also pretty positive she’s going to have Eddie by her side as well. Just a feeling.

“Stevie!” Eddie shouted, throwing a panicked look over the tops of fuzzy ears.

Stevie rolled her eyes and clapped her hands loudly. “Alright guys! Take a step back. He might actually be able to explain himself if you stopped jumping all over him.”

Four bears rolled their eyes at her and grumbled while pointedly taking one step back away from Eddie. “Eddie? Why don’t you start with how it’s not permanent?”

Robin shuffled closer and Eddie started his explanation from the beginning. Stevie looked around for the other three bears and found them sitting nearby in a little circle in some shade. She nodded, content at knowing where all her charges were. It may be a surprise babysitting situation, but she wasn’t going to let them get into trouble now that they were under her watch.

She turned back as the boys started chatting, Eddie clearly done with his explanation. Dustin turned to Stevie, “Eddie said he’s keeping everyone safe, so we’re gonna go experiment with our beams of power. We’ll start reversing in about an hour, so you guys don’t have long til you’re Steve and Robin again!”

“Dustin,” Stevie took a deep breath, Robin slipped her hand in hers, “I’m gonna stay like this. Robin will go back to being a girl and you guys will go back to kids, but I don’t want to go back to being a boy. So, yeah. This is how I’ll be forever. Except, I’ll keep getting older. Wait-”

“Yeah, babe, you’ll keep aging. I didn’t make you immortal or anything. Just changed your form.”

“Okay, then yeah. Dustin, I’m gonna be Stevie for the rest of my life. Is that- I mean, are you- That’s just how it’s gonna be.” she nodded firmly.

Dustin blinked at her not saying anything. It was probably the longest Stevie had ever seen him not speak. She glanced over at Robin, who squeezed her hand. She was suddenly surrounded by warm, yellow fur. She snaked an arm around, hugging Dustin back.

“You okay, bud?” she said automatically, the same thing she’s ever said when he hugged her out of the blue.

“I’m good,” he muttered into her shoulder. “It’s weird that you’re so pretty, but I’ll get used to it since you’re like my sister now.”

She breathed out a laugh, surprised and happy with how easy that went. She looked up over his head, noticing the rest of the kids waiting. Will gave her a thumbs up. She smiled and waved them over for a group hug, the girls crowded in from behind, pushing Robin out of the hug circle.

“Why are you so pretty as a girl, though? That doesn’t seem fair.” Stevie heard Mr. Grumpy Bear Mike mutter. She shook her head, rubbing against several fluffy ears.

“Just special, I guess.” She smiled, closing her eyes, soaking it all in. She’d probably never get them all like this again once they were back to being human teenagers, so she was going to savor it, remember it.

-

Eddie would remember this as the best Summerween. Not because he taught the town a lesson in the true meaning of the holiday, but because of that moment, right there. Seeing Stevie glow so brightly surrounded by all her favorite people and knowing he played such an enormous part.

Perhaps, Summerween wasn’t only about the spooky elements of summer, the dark shade created by the harsh sun. Perhaps, it could also be about cloudless blue skies, the hot sun high above, its light glinting off windows and lakes. Eddie sighed, knowing he would get Wayne’s “I told you so” look the moment he told him about this little revelation he had today.

Eddie had been so sure their family’s old ways were better, that the town needed to be brought down a peg for him to feast and for them to understand they were nothing compared to his and Wayne’s Trickster lineage. After years of them treating them like crap, they’d learn just how powerful they could be. That they live in the shadow of his power.

But no. His first Summerween as a full Trickster had to be the one where he met Stevie, the brightest star in his night sky. Wayne had warned him, telling him stories since he was little that Tricksters had a choice, that whichever way they chose could warp their powers.

Of course, Eddie hadn’t understood, thought he was just playing an innocent little trick on the town, that he couldn’t ever become a Trickster who feasts on anger and vengeance. But looking at Stevie shine? He realized how close he had come.

He was going to hold onto her for the rest of his life, if she let him. His beacon of happiness.

[hbyrde36]

Times Like These

(The Anniversary Edition)

Link to anniversary post

Now with amazing FANART 😱

When Eddie finds himself back in his living room, staring down a very alive Chrissy Cunningham, after just having bled to death himself in the middle of a nightmare world, he was rightfully very, very fucking confused.

-Or-

What happens when the new guy, who only just got inducted into the fucked up world of monsters and mayhem, gets stuck in a time loop and finds himself responsible for saving everyone?

Chapter 1: The Hell Loop

WC: 2,902 | AO3 link

Eddie could hardly breathe past the blood that was flooding into his mouth, threatening to choke him before he even had the opportunity to bleed out. He tried to keep it together for Dustin’s sake. The last thing he wanted was for the kid to get hurt or have to see something like this, hence the cutting of the rope, but traumatized was a hell of a lot better than dead, so he couldn’t regret either of the choices he’d made.

“I love you, man.” 

Eddie forced the words out, coughing and sputtering

“I love you too.” Dustin replied.

Eddie couldn’t see anymore, but the tears in the younger boy's voice were hard to miss. 

It was the last thing he heard before he died.

Dying didn’t hurt, quite the opposite actually. Eddie could pinpoint the exact moment he passed on, because it was the same moment the pain stopped. He found himself floating away into an unfamiliar blackness and couldn’t even bring himself to be scared. He was too relieved at being free of the agony and guilt.

Before he could do much more than wonder where he was floating off to, a loud almost overwhelming rushing sound hit his ears. Instinctually, he tried to cover them to drown out the noise, only to realize he didn’t exactly have a body right now. No ears to cover, no hands to do it with.

With that frightening thought his eyes shot open, -oh thank fuck he had eyes again- and his feet hit solid ground. Inexplicably, he was back in the trailer. He looked up to find that the ceiling was intact, and Chrissy Cunningham– whole, and alive, was standing just a few feet in front of him, looking nervous and jittery. 

“Are you sure you have it?”

What the actual fuck?

“Holy shit, Chrissy! You’re alive?!” Eddie gasped.

Her face twisted up in confusion, a feeling Eddie was also becoming intimately familiar with. What was this? Some life-flashing-before-your-eyes-on-the-way-to-the-grave bullshit? But he was already dead, he was sure of it, so that could only mean…

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry,” he blurted out. 

Why he was apologizing to some visage of the past that probably wasn't even real, he did not know, but it felt appropriate. 

She’d been through a lot. 

“You’re probably not alive, actually, if you’re here. Since I'm, y’know– dead, and all.” He continued, letting out a frankly deranged sounding laugh as he began to pace around the room.

“But why are you here?” He mused, thinking out loud.

It could actually be her, he reasoned. She was dead too, right? But that would mean they wound up in the same place and that was absolutely ridiculous. 

A sweet little thing like her? 

Guaranteed one way ticket to the good place. 

And Eddie? 

Well, he never had any doubts about where he was going to end up.

The realization hit him like a Mack truck, stopping him in his tracks. 

“Oh my god, I’m in Hell. This is Hell. I ran away. I ran– I didn’t even try to help you and then I fucking died!” Eddie let out a painful sob as he dropped to his knees on the floor, hands covering his face. Now that he was back here, having to face her again after what he’d done, It was all hitting him at once. 

His voice shook as he continued rambling. “Right in front of Dustin too… and- and now this is my Hell. I’ll probably have to watch you die, over-and-over-and-over again.”

He felt the air shift, heard the light footsteps as Chrissy took a few hesitant steps towards him. 

“Watch me die?” She said, voice cracking, sounding so, so small and scared. “Eddie, please… you’re kind of freaking me out.”

Shit, he really couldn’t stop fucking this up could he? 

Even if Hell-Chrissy wasn’t real, he still felt horrible for scaring her. None of this was her fault. He rubbed at his face hard and took a deep calming breath before looking up at her again. 

She wasn’t looking at him anymore though. She was rigid, staring straight ahead at something he couldn’t see, only the whites of her eyes visible as they rolled to the back of her head. 

He jumped to his feet, every instinct in his body screaming at him to run, again, but fuck that. He was already dead, probably, and none of this was real– he was almost sure none of this was real, but maybe he could still try to help her. 

Music had snapped Red out of it, maybe it would work for Chrissy too. 

Eddie raced to his bedroom, snatching his Walkman off the bed before sprinting back to the living room. He knew it was pretty fucking unlikely that the head cheerleader of Hawkins High was a secret Metallica fan, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

He gently placed the headphones over her ears and pressed play, the volume loud enough that he could just make out the sound of the opening riff to Master of Puppets.

-

It didn’t work. 

He hadn’t really thought it would.

He forced himself to watch as her body began to float.

Listened to the sickening snap as each of her arms and legs were twisted, and broken.

Stood frozen, a silent witness, unmoving until her body dropped to the floor like a ragdoll.

He didn't even scream.

He’d tried, and he hadn’t let her die alone. It was all he could do.

Hell or not, Eddie wasn’t keen on hanging out with a dead body if he could help it. So finally, he let himself go, grabbing his keys off the counter, and rushed out to the van.

–

Eddie drove slowly, aimlessly around town, at a bit of a loss for what to do next. It was a far cry from the way he’d peeled out of the trailer park and sped down the road on the night of Chrissy’s actual death, heart racing like a trapped rat desperately seeking shelter from a predator he couldn't even see. This time around he just felt numb.

Not knowing what else to do, he decided to follow his previous course of action. If he was right in assuming that he was being made to relive his greatest hits from the last 7 days, at least this way he knew he’d get to see Dustin’s face again. He drove towards Lover’s Lake, already dreading spending another night at Rick’s.

–

The morning after a sleepless night found him back in a boat, hiding under a tarp, and clutching tightly to the neck of a broken beer bottle. The numbness had faded hours ago, leaving the door open for anxiety and terror to return in full force. In short, Eddie was freaking out. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he’d left Chrissy's body to grow cold on the living room floor, but the second he heard the voices outside the boathouse he went into panic mode, just as he had the first time, unsure of what or who might be coming for him. 

Would it be more visions from the past? Or had the devil finally sent his minions to collect.

A few confusing moments, and a jab to the ribs with a fucking wooden oar later, Eddie was, for the second time in his life, throwing Steve Harrington violently against a wall and shoving a jagged edge of glass close enough to his throat that one deep breath would draw blood.

He stared into the other boy's eyes from inches away, and he wanted to drop the bottle. He remembered every single thing Steve and the others had done for him as he faced down the worst week of his life, but this could very well be Hell. 

And that might not be the Steve he’d come to trust.

The one he’d come to know wasn’t the same stuck up asshole he remembered from high school, who had proven time and time again that he was a good guy.

And he couldn’t afford to be wrong.

“Eddie! Stop!” The thing that looked like Dustin shouted. “Eddie, it’s me, it's Dustin. This is Steve, he’s not gonna hurt you. Right, Steve?”

Eddie, wanting to believe it so badly, actually did lower the bottle a little, only to accidentally drop it to the ground, his only weapon shattering at his feet. 

He fisted a hand into the front of Steve’s shirt. 

“What are you doing here man, what do you want from me?” 

Steve dropped the oar, all the breath whooshing out of him at once. “Dustin and Max wanted to find you. I’m just here to keep the little shits safe, I swear.”

Eddie caught movement out of the corner of his eye as Robin and Max began to approach from the side cautiously. Right, they had been there too, he'd almost forgotten. 

“We just want to know what happened, Eddie. We wanna help,” Max said.

It was the earnestness in her voice that got him, that made him finally break and move away from Steve, allowing Robin to rush to his side. 

“You won’t believe me,” Eddie said, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice with the way it trembled. 

He was sure they wouldn't believe it. If it even mattered, if they were even really here, if any of this was even real. 

He was still pretty convinced this was all just some form of divine punishment, and only happening in his own head, after all. 

It wasn’t about what happened to Chrissy. He knew they would believe that, they had once already, but whatever else was going on here? This deja vu flashback thing or whatever it was? They had no reason to trust he was telling the truth about the fact that he was dead– or had died temporarily? Or that this had all happened to him before. 

It was, admittedly, unbelievable. 

So, he made a choice. He didn't tell them that part. He told the same story he had the first time around and they in turn told him a very short history of the Upside Down. It didn’t hit so hard this time, since he’d already heard it all once before, but it was still wild to think about everything this group had been through. He couldn’t believe it’d all been happening right under his nose.

Despite himself, he watched Steve through most of the explanations. Eddie had been so focused on his own experience at the time that he hadn’t paid much attention to him after the attempted throat slashing. He looked dejected, sad, already resigned to the fact that the monsters he’d been protecting these kids from for years now were back, again. Eddie sympathized.

-

The week flew by in a blur of blood, sweat, and tears, events unfolding in the exact same way that he remembered, and he never said a word about it to anyone. 

He kept expecting it all to end somehow. 

On the rare occasion that he fell asleep,  he thought for sure he would wake up from this nightmare either back in his bed after having the longest most fucked up dream of his life, or somewhere– else, preferably on a fluffy cloud after having served his penance for petty crimes.

Unless god actually did hate the gays… then he was fucked. 

It wasn’t until he and Dustin were alone, after fortifying the trailer and getting his guitar set up that he decided– maybe he’d been an idiot to just keep going along with the script like this. It’d been days without so much as a hint of fire and brimstone, so either he'd been sold a bill of goods his whole life about what Hell would be like, or, this was really happening. 

Again. 

At this point, neither possibility was a particularly good one. If he’d been somehow sent back in time and given a second chance, he had absolutely screwed it up. 

Fuck it, he might as well tell Dustin now at least. See what happened.

“Alright, uh, listen, I have to tell you something– and I’m not sure you’re going to believe me but I swear I’m telling you the truth.”

Dustin laughed, bright and incredulous as he checked the plugs on the amp one last time. “After everything we’ve been through the past few days, and the shit I’ve seen over the last three years, do you really think there’s anything I wouldn’t believe?”

Ok, kid had a point. 

Eddie took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

Here goes nothing. 

“I’ve been through this before, all of it, with you guys. For a while I thought I was in Hell, y’know? Doomed to relive Chrissy’s death over and over again, and between you and me I’m still not totally sure that isn’t the case, but then you guys found me in that damn boathouse just like before, and everything else has happened exactly like I remember, and I-” 

His speech was cut short by Dustin screeching, “Are you serious right now?! You have to be fucking kidding me! I can’t believe you… you’re in a time loop and you didn’t say anything?!”

Eddie’s mouth dropped open, eyebrows raised up nearly to the bandana he had tied around his head. “Wait, you believe me?! Just like that?!”

Dustin put his hands on his hips, in a gesture that was eerily reminiscent of a certain babysitter that Eddie definitely hadn't developed the habit of staring at at every given opportunity. 

Not the time!

“I wouldn’t say, just like that.” Dustin said, snapping his fingers. “If it was anyone outside of the party I would think they were crazy, but this is you we’re talking about. And like I said, after everything? This is not that hard to swallow. I mean, why would you make something like that–”

Dustin stopped abruptly, his entire demeanor changing on a dime as if he’d just discovered something awful. Belatedly, Eddie realized his mistake.

“Eddie, why would you think you were in Hell? Did you… “ The kid trailed off, and when he spoke next his voice was thick with unshed tears. “Do we lose? Did you…die?”

Eddie sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. “Shit, I didn’t think– I guess there’s no way to tell you I might be repeating time without admitting it. Yeah, I… died. As far as Vecna, I have no idea. I was gone before Steve, Robin, and Nancy got back.”

Before he could respond, the Walkie in Dustin’s hand came to life, with Robin’s voice crackling through the small speaker. “She’s in, move on to phase 3. Over.”

“Guess that’s it. Time’s up.” Eddie muttered.

Dustin bit his lip as he looked at Eddie, eyes questioning and full of fear.

Eddie shook his head, silently answering the unasked question. He didn’t want Dustin to tell them, or try and stop this. It was too late. He refused to risk the kid, or somehow make things worse by changing the plan this late in the game. 

Dustin squeezed his eyes closed and pressed the button on the handset to reply, “Copy that, initiating phase three. Over.”

Eddie gave the kid his best reassuring smile as he pulled the guitar strap up over his head and with shaking hands began to play, knowing there was no time to waste. 

-

Bleeding out wasn’t any more fun the second time around. 

Eddie had given it his all, fighting tooth and nail against those flying leeches, but there was no use. There were hundreds of them, and only one of him. Just as he had the first time he took off on that bike to lead the bats away, he’d known the fate he was resigning himself to. The difference this time was, he actually had a sliver of hope. 

If the impossible happened once, maybe it could happen again. 

“Sorry, kid.” Eddie said, choking back blood as he watched Dustin limp towards him. “Didn’t notice the leg last time–“ He paused, panting, trying to catch his breath. Talking had already become difficult. “Shouldn’t have cut the rope, s’not like it stopped you.” 

He forced a smile, trying so hard not to let it show on his face just how much pain he was in. Not that there was much point, the kid had eyes. He could surely see the red ruin Eddie’s body had become.

Dustin sobbed openly and it broke Eddie’s heart. 

“God damnit, Eddie!” He shouted, shaking his head and pounding the ground with his fist. “Promise me if you get another shot at this that you’ll tell me. Tell me as soon as you possibly can about the time loop. Please! We have to come up with another plan.”

Eddie wanted nothing more than to be able to scoop the boy into his arms and comfort him, might have tried anyway but he couldn't move. “What if you don’t believe me?” He choked out.

“I'm adopted,” Dustin blurted out through his sniffles. “My mom only told me last year. No one else knows, not even Steve, but… I trust you, Eddie. I’d believe you without it, but if you need to, tell me that and I’ll believe you.”

Eddie nodded, or tried to, and felt Dustin’s hand slip into his. 

“I love you, man”

“I love you too”

Chapter 2

Thanks to @penny00dreadful for being the best beta, friend and cheerleader.

Shoutout also to @theheadlessphilosopher @withacapitalp and @hitlikehammers for the help and encouragement to do this.

Tagging a few friends that expressed interest or I think might be interested? I am ALWAYS happy to tag or remove - just let me know!

Taglist: @hitlikehammers @pearynice @cranberrymoons @thoroughlycollected @blubblesandink @finntheehumaneater @brbsoulnomming @estrellami-1 @hellion-child @mentallyundone @manda-panda-monium @spicysix @kikidoesfanfic @dreamwatch

[inkstainedheartbeats]

So I’m part of this really chill, really awesome Discord mainly for Steddie and in the prompts/idea pitch channel someone (the darling @yesdangerpls) mentioned Wayne Munson stuck in a time loop. And like… I love Wayne a lot. Took me a bit but I’ve got the first chapter done! Other than spoilers for like the show as a whole I don’t think it needs tw’s or cw’s but if you think it does let me know? Now has a part two!~

Wayne clutches the chain of his nephew’s pick necklace tight in his fist. The world’s gone to shit and one of his boy’s ‘sheep’ have just delivered the news that he’s gone. That Eddie is gone. It just can’t be true. His boy ain’t dead. He can’t be. He closes his eyes, head resting against the steering wheel of his truck, just for a moment. It’s parked outside the trailer them government spooks told him to stay away from. But Eddie ain’t dead, and he knows that he can always come home. That Wayne will be here waiting. So he’s gonna wait here until the spooks make their evening rounds and he has to scurry back to the plant.

Looking down at the necklace he misses the street lights flickering. Thinking it’s his own eyes fluttering with gathered tears Wayne leans back, he doesn’t think the hatted teen lied. There was too much emotion in the boy’s voice for a lie, too much devastation in a scent that hasn't settled. But Eddie can’t be dead. Wayne ain’t about to bury his boy this soon. Ain’t natural for a parent to bury their kid. So Eddie ain’t dead no sir. Wayne refuses to believe it. The old Beta won’t believe it until Eddie is cold under his hands. He looks up in time to see something move in the trailer he once called home.

Gets out of the truck with creaking knees, voice already shouting Eddie’s name. He doesn’t even feel the impact from behind. But he sure as shit feels the teeth.

He wakes to Duncan kicking the chair he’s sitting in. His head hits the table, knocking him out of his doze. The other Beta grins at him cheekily.

“Come on, old man, don’t want the brass catching you snoozing,” Duncan teases.

“Old man my ass. I’m only two months older than you,” Wayne quips back forcing the nightmare, because it had to be a nightmare and the sense he’d done this once before out of his head. Shakes out the pins and needles that settled in his bones like old friends.

Work is monotonous. Go in, make sure the machines behave, make sure cocky newbies don’t get eaten by machines, clock out. So what if he jerked back the new Omega hire before the pipe known for spitting steam spat what would have been a painful ass spurt straight to his shoulder. So what if he knew Duncan’s machine was gonna rattle and spook the man. He’s just good at his job, that’s all.

The drive home his stomach starts to turn. Starts to twist. The nightmare is there. Laughing at him as he pulls up to a trailer with the door wide open. Absolutely cackling as he comes upon the twisted body of a cheerleader. Ain’t no way his boy did that. Even if his boy is an Alpha. Eddie cries when he steps on a worm.

Like a machine he calls the cops. Like a puppet he talks and argues and fights the urge to throttle the cocky son of a bitch that follows the new chief around like a puppy. All the while his nightmare is there.

Talks to the little reporter lady with steel in her eyes and leadership in her stature. Thinks, again, for the first time, she would have made one hell of a lieutenant if she was a man. He searches for his boy, deals with spooks who warn him away. Like a play he never misses a cue. Like a branch stuck in a river he goes with the flow.

It leads to this. To standing in front of a wall filled with posters. Yanking down the defaced visage of his boy. It leads to the limping form of one of his boy's sheep approaching him.

"Mister Munson."

The nightmare comes full circle.

Dustin, the sheep, the lamb, the kid his kid had raved about, rambles on. Says something about never seeing Eddie get mad which is a load of horse shit, Munson's have tempers like wildfires. Calls his boy a hero. Leaves him there on that cot with just a pick. Leaves him soaked to the marrow with transferred scent of despair.

Later he parks outside of his trailer. Pick necklace around his neck. He steps out of his truck, leaves the door open. His boy is still alive. He knows Eddie is. Has to be. Wayne ain't burying his boy. He ain't traveling to the prison that holds his little brother to tell him that Wayne failed. He ain't calling up his momma or his siblings and delivering soul crushing news. Because Eddie is alive. Wayne doesn't know why his boy tricked Dustin. Doesn't care to know. He just knows that his boy is in there. Has to be. So he ignores the goosebumps, ignores the way he shivers like there is a whole flock of geese tapdancing their way across his grave and enters the trailer. Fights back a gag as the smell of rot slams into him like a linebacker. Like Chet fucking Harrington when he saw a poor kid try out for his football team.

The lights flicker. Something to his left squelches. It's a mix between the sound ground beef makes when being formed into patties and stepping knee deep into mud. He watches in sick fascination as something drops from the ceiling into the front room. It ain't his boy. Too small. Walks on all fours. Ain't exactly sure what the fuck it is. No eyes to see but the thing is staring him down. Betty, a shotgun his pa bought him before he went off to war, should be leaning against the door. She ain't. The damn spooks moved her. So Wayne's left to watch as the sightless thing hisses. Makes a noise low in its throat. Reminds him of coyotes, reminds him of the things you don't name up on the mountains. Behind it something breaks through the ceiling. Bigger. He takes his eyes off the smaller thing for a second. But that's all it takes for it to launch at him. He sees it this time, the thing that tackled him in the nightmare and he sure as fuck still feels its teeth.

[dirtyriver]

Epitaphs from the Abyss #1, cover by Dustin Weaver introducing three new horror hosts: The Grave-Digger, The Tormentor, and The Grim Inquisitor

THE GRAVE-DIGGER

IN HIS CEMETERY, EVERY TOMBSTONE TELLS A TALE! As the central host of the upcoming EPITAPHS FROM THE ABYSS series from EC Comics and Oni Press, The Grave-Digger’s charming visage will soon regale readers far and wide with the tales of murderous intent and ill fortune that earned his cemetery’s denizens their places six feet deep.

THE TORMENTOR

INTRODUCING HER ROYAL TRAVESTY OF PAIN! A one-eyed butcheress with a penchant for playful flaying and audacious amputation, there is no weapon of opportunity or implement of torture too grisly to escape The Tormentor’s notice. But she still holds a fondness for “the classics” – like her red-hot poker and rusty pruning shears!

THE GRIM INQUISITOR

THE DEACON OF DOOM! THE VICEROY OF THE VICE! THE PRINCIPAL OF PUNISHMENT … OR SO HE’D LIKE YOU TO THINK! A mad monk with a fanatic’s eye for keeping his secret sect’s surprisingly extensive bureaucracy of terror running like clockwork, The Grim Inquisitor fears no man . . . except The Supreme Inquisitor, who demands extremely exacting results from his right-hand man and deputy master of obscure occult rites.

[jooyeonjooyeoff]

Its currently like nearing midnight so enjoy this idea my brain conjured up

Its dark, so dark...and surprisingly not as cold as Eddie would have thought. Is he dead? Is he alive? Who the fuck knows. "Eddie-" an eerily garbled voice calls to him from within the darkness.

"Who are you- where are you, what do you want from me!?" Eddie yells out into the seemingly endless void. "And more aptly, where the hell am I!?"

As if things couldn't get any stranger, the metalhead watches his world start to bleed from an inky soot into that of the theatre room. Visages of red, velvet curtains fade into view, a throne he and Gareth built sat before a long dining table with a lonesome dodecahedron in the centre. Eddie stepped cautiously towards it, gulping down a glob of saliva and blood. "What's this? Ya wanna play a campaign, cause if so...all ya had to do was a-" his throat constricted out of thin air, his body floating upwards

"Don't taunt your final chance at life" the garbled tone scratched his eardrums like a fork being dragged on a ceramic plate. "You have few rolls before you find out where your soul will wind up. May the dice deities choose you fate"

Eddie was lowered- no...dropped into the throne, die in hand as he wet his dry lips with his tongue in a nervous sweat. "Saving throws- the most important ones" he felt the die clack in his hand against his rings while he rolled it in his palm. It dropped to the table and rolled onto the number 9. Fail. "Shit-"

He picks the die up once more, rolling it again. Two more and he's dead, or the dice gods could prolong his life. Hearing it clatter on the table he peeks an eye through sweat dripping fringe. 17. Success. "Oh gods-" he sighs with relief. Rolling again, the die clacks on the surface. 11. Success. One more success is all he needs. Just. One. More.

Picking the die up, he feels every side against his thumb pad before rolling it again. 3. Fail. This next roll decides his fate. It all rides on this last roll. Over 11, thats all he needs to live. Shit, even another 11 would do the trick. He picks up the die.

Feeling every flat surface, every corner, every inlay that he etched into it, he rolls. His heart is pounding out of his ribcage, eyes shut tight in anticipation as he hears the clacking...stop. The world goes black once more. Eyes open or shut, he can't see a thing. If silence were quieter, that would better describe what he was hearing. Thoughts reeling, he tries to hold back tears as his eyes snap open and then squint shut again. Too bright. The world is too bright.

Looking through his lashes he finds himself in what looks to be a hospital room, the faint beeps of a heart monitor fading into focus. Before he can speak he's met with a warmth by his side. Eddie looks down and sees spirals of chocolate attached to a head, Dustin. Reaching a hand out he pats the nerds hair gently before looking over to his bedside table. The die sat precariously atop a book, the side facing the ceiling read: 20.

[cryptofmadness]

EC Comics' New Horror Hosts Revealed!

By Chet Reams

The new trio of horror hosts for the upcoming EC Comics revival have been revealed! Introducing "The Grave-Digger", "The Grim Inquisitor", & "The Tormentor". These three new characters have been designed by Dustin Weaver, and are planned to be used throughout the upcoming EC Comics horror-themed titles that Oni Press is co-publishing with EC!

In alphabetical order of name/title, here are their character images and descriptions as provided to Crypt of MADness by Oni Press:

The Grave-Digger: IN HIS CEMETERY, EVERY TOMBSTONE TELLS A TALE! As the central host of the upcoming EPITAPHS FROM THE ABYSS series from EC Comics and Oni Press, The Grave-Digger’s charming visage will soon regale readers far and wide with the tales of murderous intent and ill fortune that earned his cemetery’s denizens their places six feet deep.

The Grim Inquisitor: THE DEACON OF DOOM! THE VICEROY OF THE VICE! THE PRINCIPAL OF PUNISHMENT … OR SO HE’D LIKE YOU TO THINK! A mad monk with a fanatic’s eye for keeping his secret sect’s surprisingly extensive bureaucracy of terror running like clockwork, The Grim Inquisitor fears no man . . . except The Supreme Inquisitor, who demands extremely exacting results from his right-hand man and deputy master of obscure occult rites.

The Tormentor: INTRODUCING HER ROYAL TRAVESTY OF PAIN! A one-eyed butcheress with a penchant for playful flaying and audacious amputation, there is no weapon of opportunity or implement of torture too grisly to escape The Tormentor’s notice. But she still holds a fondness for “the classics” – like her red-hot poker and rusty pruning shears!

(All character art by Dustin Weaver; images copyright William M Gaines Agent, Inc.)

From the official Press Release (provided by Oni Press):

"PORTLAND OR, (June 25, 2024) – JUST AS EVERY COFFIN NEEDS A CORPSE, SO TOO DOES EVERY STORY NEED A STORYTELLER! FORTUNATELY, THIS TERRIFYING TRIO HAS YOU HANDLED ON ALL COUNTS . . . Just one month away from the long-awaited resurrection of the infamous and influential EC Comics in the pages of EPITAPHS FROM THE ABYSS #1, Oni Press – the multiple Eisner and Harvey Award-winning publisher of groundbreaking comics and graphic novels since 1997 – is proud to unveil the first look at EC’s all-new, never-before-seen, dead-and-not-getting-better-anytime-soon trio of horror hosts . . . Meet EC’s all-new masters of menace: The Grave-Digger, The Tormentor, and The Grim Inquisitor! Making their first full appearance on the EPITAPHS FROM THE ABYSS #1 Horror Host Variant cover by acclaimed artist Dustin Weaver (Avengers, Paklis), Weaver’s work on and character designs for EC’s new torturous trio will be featured throughout the double-sized, 40-page issue arriving in comic shops worldwide on July 24th . . . and continue through multiple new EC horror series yet-to-be-revealed in the future. “Usually a big part of designing characters is costuming, but in looking back at the original Tales From the Crypt comics, it's clear that the most important and defining features of the horror hosts are their ghoulish faces,” said Dustin Weaver. “It's all about the faces, and with these modern host designs I wanted to carry on that tradition. Making sure the faces were suitably fiendish, properly cruel, and the right amount of unseemly was key, but there's also an effort here to go a step further and bring some more thought and characterization to their costuming and physicality as well. Ultimately, it's just such a treat to draw characters so unabashedly wicked.” “Crafted from the dead center of depravity and delight, these new horror hosts are primed and ready to assume their roles as storytellers,” said Corey Mifsud, Executive Director of William M. Gaines Agent, Inc. “All three characters honor the creepily comical spirit of EC, but contribute uniquely twisted points of views that will surely keep the reader up at night!”"

[marie-swriting]

Perdre Une Autre Seconde - Robin Buckley

Stranger Things Masterlist

Résumé : Tu dois affronter Vecna et tu as peur de mourir sans avoir avoué tes sentiments à Robin.

Warnings : se passe pendant 4x08 & 4x09, un peu d'angst, happy ending.

Nombre de mots : 2.9k

Version anglaise

Chanson qui m'a inspiré : Last Day On Earth by Jade LeMac

L’heure est arrivée de se préparer pour vaincre Vecna ou plutôt Numéro Un. Avec Nancy, Max, Lucas, Dustin, Eddie, Erica, Steve et Robin, vous êtes en train de préparer vos armes et de peaufiner le plan. L’anxiété est à son paroxysme et pourtant, personne ne semble en parler, comme si c’était un sujet tabou. 

Dans un champ, vous êtes divisés en quatre groupes distincts. Dustin et Eddie s’amusent, ignorant le danger qui les guettent. Erica et Lucas fabriquent des armes de fortune un peu plus loin. Quant à toi, tu es avec Max et Nancy. Cette dernière a sorti son fusil et vous montre comment il fonctionne. N’ayant jamais tenu une arme de ta vie, tu as pas mal de choses à apprendre. Derrière vous, un peu éloignés, il y a Steve et Robin qui préparent des cocktails Molotov et discutent. La tension est palpable pendant qu’ils parlent. Ils ne sont pas bavards comme d’habitude. Ils se connaissent tellement bien qu’ils arrivent à sentir la peur de l’autre même s’ils ne parlent pas du Monde à L’envers. Toutefois, Robin finit par évoquer le sujet tabou alors que, nerveusement, elle exprime sa peur à Steve à demi-mot. 

-Ça peut pas toujours bien se finir.

-Ouais, je sais. Mais à qui le dis-tu ! répond Steve, ne comprenant pas le double sens de la phrase de Robin.

Robin lève les yeux et elle te regarde avec Max et Nancy qui tient un fusil. Ton dos lui fait face pendant que tu écoutes les instructions de Nancy sur comment tirer. Même si elle ne peut pas te voir, Robin sait exactement quelle est ton expression du visage. Tu as les sourcils froncés et tu te mords l’intérieur de la joue, comme à chaque fois que tu es concentrée. Robin a un pincement au cœur en pensant à ce qui vous attend et aux mots qu’elle n’a jamais osé dire. 

-Je parle pas de déception amoureuse. J’ai… un très mauvais pressentiment, commence Robin avec hésitation. J’ai l’impression que ça pourrait mal tourner pour nous cette fois.

-Tu penses qu’on doit renoncer ? demande Steve. 

-Je pense qu’on est une bande de fous, tout autant qu’on est, mais si on arrive pas à le battre, qui va y arriver ? Il faut tenter notre chance, non ?

-Ouais. A la mise à mort de Vecna, déclare-t-il en levant une des bouteilles de cocktails Molotov.

-Alias Henry, ajoute Robin en faisant le même geste.

-Alias numéro Un, précise Steve avant que les deux amis trinquent les bouteilles ensemble. Si ça devait mal tourner, tu devrais lui parler au lieu de la regarder au loin.

-Tu vas pas recommencer avec ça. Je t’ai déjà dit que ma vie amoureuse était le cadet de mes soucis actuellement, soupire Robin en évitant le regard de Steve.

-Tu as le béguin pour elle depuis des années, c’est peut-être le moment d’enfin dire quelque chose !

-Elle n’a pas de sentiments pour moi.

-Je sais que t’es aveugle, mais quand même ! Elle te regarde comme tu le fais. Dès qu’il y a le moindre danger, elle s’inquiète pour toi. 

-On est amies, c’est normal.

-Tu me désespères. Vous êtes plus que des amies et ça serait officiel depuis longtemps si vous arrêtiez d’avoir peur d’un rejet qui n’arrivera jamais, déclare-t-il, sûr de lui.

-Tu vas pas me lâcher avec ça ?

-Si c’est la dernière chose que je dois faire, qu’il en soit ainsi.

-Mais qu’est-ce que tu veux que je lui dise ? demande Robin après avoir lâché un cri de frustration. T’as oublié qu’à chaque fois que je dois ouvrir la bouche, je ne fais que de m’enfoncer ? Je continue à parler alors que je devrais me taire et je dis que des choses de travers. J’arrive jamais à trouver les mots. 

-Parle avec ton cœur.

-T’as plus cucul comme conseils ? s’exclame-t-elle en levant les yeux au ciel. 

-Sois toi-même, rétorque Steve avec un faux sourire niais.

-Donc, t’as plus cucul. 

-N’aies pas peur du rejet.

-Ecoute, faisons un deal. Si on sort vivant de toute cette histoire, je lui avouerai mes sentiments et toi, tu arrêtes avec tes maudits conseils.

-Deal. 

Steve serre la main de Robin pour sceller leur accord. Robin regrette déjà d’avoir cédé. Pourquoi est-ce qu’elle a craqué ? Elle va sûrement ruiner votre amitié et juste parce qu’elle ne savait pas comment faire taire Steve. Robin pousse un grand soupir avant de jeter un coup d'œil dans ta direction. Tout de suite, quand tu vois les yeux de Robin se poser sur toi, tu détournes le regard, prétendant inspecter le fusil dans tes mains.

-Vous me fatiguez, vous deux, te dit Nancy, une fois que Max est partie retrouver Lucas et Erica.

-Qu’est-ce que tu veux dire ?

-Toi et Robin. Vous êtes attirées l’une par l’autre et pourtant, vous restez là à vous regarder au loin. Toi qui dis toujours ce que tu penses, pourquoi est-ce que tu as encore rien dit ?

-Parce qu’elle est clairement attirée par Vickie. Elle la regarde avec toute la tendresse du monde. 

-Tu te trompes de personne. C’est toi qu’elle regarde de cette façon. 

-Je veux pas perdre son amitié juste parce que j’ai des sentiments. Je préfère souffrir en silence, déclares-tu, peu convaincue.

-T’as raison, c’est plus sain, dit Nancy ironiquement. Y/N, on va affronter Vecna dans peu de temps et honnêtement, je ne sais même pas comment ça va finir. Et si j’ai bien appris un truc avec toutes ces histoires de Monde à L’envers, c’est qu’on ne sait pas combien de temps il nous reste alors si on doit dire quelque chose à quelqu’un, on doit le faire tant qu’on a le temps. Alors, arrête d’avoir peur et va lui dire ce que tu ressens. 

Sur ces dernières paroles encourageantes, Nancy prend le fusil de tes mains et te pousse vers Robin. Avec réticence, tu décides de suivre ce qu’elle t’a dit. Jouant nerveusement avec tes mains, tu te rapproches. Quand tu es en face de Robin et Steve, tu prends une grande inspiration avant de prendre la parole :

-Robin, est-ce que je pourrais te parler seule à seule, s’il te plait ?

-Bien sûr.

-Je vais vous laisser, commence Steve en se levant rapidement, Henderson a sûrement besoin que je lui montre deux, trois trucs pour se défendre. Je vous laisse parler, seules. 

Robin se frappe mentalement la tête devant l’attitude de Steve. Tu as envie de rigoler face à l’excuse de Steve, mais ne fais rien. Tu restes en face de Robin alors qu’elle se lève pour que vous soyez à la même hauteur. Dans ton dos, Robin peut voir Steve faire des grands gestes en te pointant du doigts et en mimant les mots: “dis-lui que tu l’aimes bien.” Robin détourne vite le regard avant de mourir de mortification. 

-Tu veux parler de quoi ? demande Robin, embarrassée. 

-Oh, euh… Je ne sais pas vraiment comment commencer, réponds-tu avant de prendre une grande inspiration. Je... Ça fait un moment que j’ai envie de te le dire, j’ai des sentiments pour toi, Robin. Depuis deux ans pour être précise. Dès le moment où tu m’as parlé pour la première fois en me sortant toute l’histoire de Dizzy Gillespie quand je t’avais posé une simple question sur la trompette, j’ai su que tu allais me plaire ; je ne savais juste pas à quel point. Il y a plusieurs moments où j’ai voulu te le dire, mais à chaque fois, je me suis dégonflée. Tu n’as pas à me répondre ou à te sentir obligée de me dire que tu ressens la même chose. Je sais que tu as des sentiments pour Vickie donc je sais très bien que c’est à sens unique - c’est d’ailleurs pour ça que je n’osais rien dire. Mais maintenant qu’on va littéralement en mission suicide contre Vecna, je me suis dit autant te l’avouer. Si je dois mourir, je devrais dire ce que je ressens. Je voulais juste que tu le saches. Je vais y aller avant d’aggraver la situation, finis-tu alors que Robin reste muette.

-Y/N, attends ! te retient-elle. Je ressens la même chose.

-Et Vickie ?

-C’est une amie, mais je ne l’aime pas de cette façon. J’ai toujours pensé que tu étais trop bien pour moi, c’est pour ça que je ne t’ai rien dit. 

-Vraiment ? demandes-tu, sous le choc.

-Oui, vraiment. 

-Est-ce que ça veut dire que tu accepterais d’aller à un rendez-vous avec moi quand tout sera fini ? proposes-tu, en évitant de la regarder, craignant un rejet. 

-Totalement ! 

-Parfait, alors, souris-tu en posant à nouveau les yeux sur Robin. Et maintenant qu’on doit officiellement sortir ensemble, tu as intérêt à faire encore plus à toi quand on sera là-bas.

-Toi aussi.

Malgré votre promesse au milieu du champ, vous comprenez vite que rester en vie sera plus compliqué que prévu lorsque vous vous découvrez la maison Creel remplie de vignes. Steve jure en voyant dans quel état est la maison. L’angoisse monte d’un cran, toutefois Steve prend une profonde inspiration et entre en premier en sautant entre les vignes. Nancy est derrière bien qu’elle n’ait pas encore totalement passé le pas de la porte. Quant à toi et Robin, vous êtes encore en retrait. Robin te prend soudainement la main, craignant que Steve tombe et également de marcher au mauvais endroit quand ça sera son tour. 

-Je couvre tes arrières. Ça va aller, lui assures-tu.

Les mots se coincent dans la gorge de Robin, alors elle te fait seulement un sourire pincé avant de suivre Nancy et Steve, peu confiante. Quand Robin a un peu avancé, tu pénètres enfin dans la maison qui est tout sauf chaleureuse. Vous continuez de marcher jusqu’à monter à l’étage. Vous sortez vos armes, une machette pour toi, une hache pour Steve et il sort le fusil du sac de Nancy et le lui tend. Soudain, il y a un tremblement de terre dans la maison et vous tentez tant bien que mal de vous retenir sans prévenir Vecna par inadvertance. Robin ferme les yeux tandis que tu poses ta main sur son épaule, espérant calmer son anxiété. Quand le calme est revenu, vous arrêtez de vous tenir. Vous vous apprêtez à continuer de monter au grenier quand une vigne s’accroche au pied de Robin et la tire en arrière.

-Robin ! cries-tu en te jetant après elle. 

Malgré tes efforts, tu n’arrives pas à retenir Robin qui se retrouve plaquée contre le mur, les vignes s’accrochant à tout son corps. Avec ta machette, tu essayes de couper les vignes qui se referment un peu plus sur elle. Robin vous appelle au secours et rapidement Steve et Nancy te rejoignent pour la sauver. Nancy frappe avec son fusil alors que Steve utilise sa hache. Cependant, sa hache est tirée en arrière sans que vous vous y attendiez puis, il se retrouve collé au mur. Nancy part dans l’autre sens, tentant de libérer Steve pendant que tu restes concentrée sur Robin. Malheureusement, tu peux seulement donner un coup de plus avant d’être violemment ramenée sur le côté. Tu te retrouves plaquée contre le mur à côté de Robin, la peur te paralysant totalement. Nancy est la dernière libre, mais pas pour longtemps. Une autre vigne s’accroche à son pied, la faisant tomber et lâcher son arme. Elle essaye de la récupérer, mais elle se retrouve coincée et attachée au mur. 

Les vignes se resserrent autour de ton cou, te coupant ta respiration. Les larmes coulent à présent sur tes joues, sentant la mort arrivée. Avec tes dernières forces, tu arrives à tourner légèrement ta tête sur la droite et à voir Robin qui est totalement effrayée. Tu n’arrives pas à croire que c’est la fin alors que tu es encore jeune, que tu n’as pas fait tout ce que tu voulais, notamment être avec Robin. Tu penses à tes parents que tu aimes, malgré les conflits que vous pouvez avoir. Tous tes regrets te frappent de plein fouet. Tout ce que tu aurais dû dire, toutes les fois où tu aurais d�� t’excuser. Tu aimerais avoir plus de temps. Ça ne peut pas se finir comme ça. Ta vie ne peut pas se finir dans le Monde à L’envers, tes regrets te tuant autant que Vecna. 

Après ce qui semble une éternité, tu sens l’emprise autour de ton cou se relâcher. Tu arrives à prendre une grande bouffée d’air alors que tu tombes au sol, tes amis également. Vous voyez les vignes se rétracter alors que vous toussez pendant que vous respirez normalement à nouveau.

-Je crois ni en une force supérieure et ni à une intervention divine, mais c’est un miracle, déclare Robin.

-Il vaut mieux pas se rater, réplique Nancy avec fureur une fois que vous êtes debout, chargeant son arme.

-Quatrième étape, ajoute Steve.

-Le cramer, réponds-tu. 

Enfin arrivés au grenier, vous faites face à Vecna en lévitation alors que toutes les vignes sont reliées à son corps. Robin pose son sac au sol et avec Steve, vous sortez les cocktails Molotov. Steve lance le premier, réveillant Vecna. Alors que Numéro Un se rapproche, tu lances le deuxième et enfin, Robin lance le sien. Vecna en feu, il n’a pas l’air de vouloir s’arrêter pour autant. Nancy fait un pas en avant, une expression menaçante sur son visage, fusil en main et tire à plusieurs reprises sur Vecna jusqu’à ce qu’il tombe par la fenêtre. 

Vecna a enfin été vaincu, mais à quel prix ? La ville a subi un tremblement de terre si violent que le sol s’est ouvert, Max est à l’hôpital entre la vie et la mort, Eddie est mort, Dustin et Lucas sont traumatisés d’avoir perdu une personne chère sous leurs yeux et le reste du groupe n’est pas mieux. Même Mike, Onze, Will et Jonathan n’en sont pas sortis indemnes alors qu’ils n’étaient pas à Hawkins. 

Cette fois, le poids de se battre contre le Monde à L’envers est insoutenable. Vous avez déjà été proche de la mort à de nombreuses reprises, mais rien à voir avec cette fois. Et le pire, c’est qu’il y a encore ce sentiment d’anxiété que la disparition de Vecna n’est que le calme avant la tempête. Certes, vous l’avez vaincu, mais est-ce vraiment fini pour autant ? Êtes vous enfin en sécurité ? Peu importe la réponse, le stress lié à tous ces évènements ne va pas partir de sitôt. 

Chaque seconde horrible reliée à toute cette histoire tourne dans ta tête. Tu es encore traumatisée de ce qui s’est passé dans la maison Creel où tu as failli perdre la vie. Tu n’arrêtes pas de te dire qu’à tout moment, tu aurais pu mourir dans le Monde à L’envers et tes parents ne l’auraient jamais su, tu n’aurais jamais eu ton rendez-vous avec Robin et tu ne serais pas en train de la raccompagner chez elle actuellement. Maintenant plus que jamais, tu as pris conscience d’à quel point chaque seconde est précieuse. 

Le chemin jusqu’à chez Robin se fait de manière silencieuse. Quand vous arrivez chez elle, tu prends une profonde inspiration avant de laisser échapper :

-Sois ma petite amie.

-Quoi ?

-Désolée, c’était trop direct, tu t’excuses en fermant les yeux pendant une seconde. Laisse-moi recommencer. Je tiens beaucoup à toi, Robin, vraiment beaucoup et s’il y a bien quelque chose que j’ai retenu de toute cette histoire, c’est que je ne veux pas mourir en ayant de regrets. Je ne veux pas repenser à mes années lycée et me dire que j’aurais dû faire ça ou ne pas faire ça, que j’ai laissé mes peurs m’empêcher de faire ce que je voulais. Je veux vivre chaque instant à fond. Et je sais que tu as accepté d'aller à un rendez-vous avec moi et honnêtement, c’est plus que ce que j’espérais, mais j’adorerais pouvoir t’appeler ma petite amie. À la base, je pensais organiser un premier rendez-vous romantique et à la fin de ce rendez-vous, je t’aurais demandé d’être ma petite amie, mais on a pas encore fixé de date et même si c’était le cas, la date serait encore trop loin. Je sais ce que je ressens pour toi et et je veux être avec toi, alors, si c’est ce que tu veux aussi, j’aimerais qu’on soit officiellement ensemble, finis-tu en reprenant ton souffle. Évidemment, si c’est trop rapide pour toi et que tu préfères qu’on avance doucement, alors c’est ce qu’on fera. Ne te sens pas obligée de faire quoique…

Tu n’as pas le temps de finir ta phrase que les lèvres de Robin s’écrasent sur les tiennes. Tu poses tes mains sur ses hanches et approfondis le baiser alors que les siennes sont sur tes joues. Vous vous embrassez pendant plusieurs secondes et plus rien n’existe autour de vous. Plus de Vecna, de Monde à L’envers, de pression, de peur. Rien. Seulement toi et Robin en train de vous embrasser dans ta voiture. 

Robin recule légèrement mettant fin au baiser et elle sourit tandis que ses joues prennent une teinte rosée.

-Je ne savais pas quoi répondre, avoue-t-elle, doucement. 

-C’est rare venant de toi, mais je suis contente d’avoir cet effet. Même si j’espère que tu continueras à me parler de tout et de rien.

-J’adorerais être ta petite amie. Je ne veux pas perdre une autre seconde sans être avec toi. 

Ravie de savoir que le sentiment est partagé, tu la regardes avec amour, ta main droite passe de sa hanche à sa joue, la caressant doucement avant de ramener le visage de Robin vers toi et de l’embrasser à nouveau.

Stranger Things Masterlist

[harriet-de-g]

Encore des rêves indociles de justice handie pour la fin du monde

[initialement publié dans la revue Multitude 94, Justice handie pour des futurs dévalidés, traduit de l’anglais (Canada) par Emma Bigé et Harriet de G. Texte Original et Image d'illustration de Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha]

Comme tous les textes de ce blog avant lui, il est disponible à la commande à prix libre, pour permettre de soutenir cette activité. Pour cela, il suffit de m’envoyer un message privé en précisant sa commande, le prix qu’on veut payer, son mail & selon le mode d’envoi : une adresse. Vous pouvez aussi le retrouver ci-dessous ou dans sa version imprimable ici (en pleine page) ou ici (en format cahier).

Tu te rappelles comment, en 2019, on a survécu ? Comment tu as appris que tu avais un cancer, et comment tu as cru que tu allais mourir, soit du cancer, soit de la négligence du chirurgien sur la table d’opération ?

Tu te souviens comment, en 2018, c’était l’année où un groupe de personnes handicapées avait construit un réseau de distribution de masques pendant les incendies de forêt en Californie, distribuant près de 80’000 masques en un mois ? Tu te souviens de la première fois où tu as entendu les termes « pic de pollution de l’air à grande échelle », et comment ce n’était pas la dernière ? Tu te souviens de la première fois où tu as vu une section « justice handie » à la bibliothèque municipale, avec les visages d’Audre Lorde et de Leroy Moore côte à côte sur l’étagère créée par Dustin Gibson ? Tu te souviens quand la loi sur les revenus annuels garantis est passée, et quand le revenu minimum a été augmenté et quand les personnes sous protection sociale avons enfin pu garder nos revenus ? Tu te souviens des réparations obtenues après les abus médicaux ? Tu te souviens du jour où le dernier centre d’internement de force pour jeunes autistes a fermé, et où on s’est retrouvées pour des cérémonies de deuil et de célébration ? Tu te souviens du jour où on a commencé à faire des réserves de masques, d’eau et d’essence avant d’emménager dans la ferme, tenue par des crip racisées, où nous vivons maintenant ? Tu te souviens quand nous avons construit notre premier monument aux mort·es pour célébrer celleux que nous avions perdu‧es, Carrie Ann Lucas, Steve, et toustes les autres ?

Au printemps 2019, Alice Wong du Disability Visibility Project [projet de visibilité handie] m’a demandé d’écrire une suite à mon article de 2017, « Cripper l’apocalypse : rêves indociles pour une justice handie » pour son anthologie Disability Visibility. J’ai dit oui. Et puis, j’ai eu du mal à l’écrire. Il est difficile de rêver quand on est terrifié·e, et c’est et c’était des temps terrifiants. La répétition incessante des traumatismes des trois dernières années, des horreurs du trumpisme qui sont souvent pires que ce que l’on pouvait imaginer, et qui ne cessent de s’empiler les unes sur les autres, m’ont mis·e, moi et tant d’autres de mes proches, dans une sorte d’état perpétuel d’immobilité du type « chevreuil pris dans les phares d’une voiture ». Des camps de concentration aux durcissements des conditions d’accès à la nationalité, de l’ascension de Brett Kavanaugh à la Cour suprême à l’interdiction d’entrée aux ressortisssant·es de pays musulmans, aux feux de forêt dans tous les coins du monde et à la glace qui fond aux deux pôles : on dirait qu’il est plus facile d’apprendre à lire le monde dans un livre que d’essayer de répondre à ses urgences en temps réel.

L’année dernière, au cours de la tournée pour mon livre Care Work: Dreaming Disability Justice [le travail de prendre soin : rêver la justice handie], je me suis souvent retrouvé·e à porter (à l’occasion des conversations publiques et sur les campus) le T-shirt conçu par la militante queer handie Latinx Annie Elainey Segarra où il est écrit que LE FUTUR EST ACCESSIBLE. Je fais ce truc régulièrement pendant mes interventions, où je demande au public de fermer les yeux un instant, de plonger au dedans, et d’imaginer le futur. En tant que personnes actives dans le mouvement pour la justice handie, nous savons que l’accès n’est que le premier pas sur la voie d’un futur handi libéré : c’est la rampe qui nous permet d’accéder à la porte où le futur pourra être façonné, mais ce n’est pas le futur comme tel. Mais quand je demande : « okay, à quoi êtes-vous arrivé·es ? », on entend le son des grillons. Tout le monde reste bloqué. Au mieux, iels arrivent à imaginer un futur où iels ne mourront pas dans des camps de concentration.

Mais en tant que personnes handies, nous savons que l’un des plus beaux dons que nous recevons, ce sont nos rêves Fols, malades, handis et Sourds, ces rêves que nous rêvons au-delà de ce que nous sommes autorisé·es à rêver. Et non, je ne parle pas de la « pornographie inspirationnelle », cet imaginaire validiste des rêves handis qui voudrait que « nous ne laissions pas le handicap nous arrêter », qui s’imagine que nous voulons marcher, voir ou être « normales » à tout prix. Être une super-estropiée ou une inspiration, mais jamais un être humain.

Je parle des petites, énormes façons quotidiennes dont nous rêvons de révolutions crips, de la façon que j’ai de me regarder dans le miroir, cheveux en désordre et mon vieux jogging et mes douleurs le cinquième jour d’une poussée majeure, et de dire : vous savez quoi, je ne vais pas me détester aujourd’hui. Et nos rêves de révolutions crips sont aussi dans nos manières de créer des refuges pour handicapées, des réseaux de parrainage pour handicapées, des façons d’aimer, de se battre et de s’organiser pour les handicapées que même les valides les plus talentueux·ses ne pourraient imaginer en un million d’années.

Et malgré toutes les manières dont nous sommes en enfer, nous sommes toujours en train de rêver. Alors que je vais à trois réunions du réseau de soutien par semaine pour des amies confrontées au cancer, à une chirurgie rénale et à des besoins continus en matière de handicap psy. Au moment où je prends, enfin, une profonde inspiration et demande l’aide dont j’ai le plus besoin à mes amies, et que je suis capable de le faire grâce au travail collectif effectué pour rendre l’acceptation de ce soutien sûr et possible. Alors que je commence à devenir l’artiste handicapéE d’âge moyen que j’avais peur de devenir, alors que j’arrête de prendre autant l’avion et que j’apprends à écrire et à parler et à partager mon travail sans voyager dans le Nebraska ou le Maine, dans une communauté d’autres écrivain‧es et artistes handicapé‧es qui ont trouvé une manière crip de produire et de vivre d’excellentes vies d’artistes handicapé·es.

Nous rêvons de brillantes réponses handies à la violence du changement climatique. Mask Oakland distribue 80 000 masques gratuits lors de l’urgence aérienne à grande échelle des incendies de forêt de l’automne 2018 en Californie. #PowerToBreathe, un réseau de douze organisations de justice pour les personnes handicapées, s’unit lors de l’incendie de Kincade de 2019 pour créer un réseau de « centres de survie » accessibles avec des générateurs et des purificateurs d’air pour et par les personnes handicapées qui s’organisent pour survivre aux coupures de courant potentiellement mortelles de de la compagnie électrique PG&E. Nous créons un espace culturel public de justice pour les personnes handicapées racisées, alors que Dustin Gibson, activiste noir basé à Pittsburgh, construit une collection dédiée à la justice handie dans une bibliothèque de quartier.

Quand UnitedHealthcare assassine la militante et avocate handiqueer latinx fèm grosse Carrie Ann Lucas en refusant de lui rembourser un antibiotique à 2000$, nos peurs, nos deuils et nos rages conduisent le Health Justice Commons à établir la toute première ligne d’assistance téléphonique contre les abus médicaux. Les travailleureuses du sexe handicapé·es, les migrant·es handicapé·es, les prisonnier·s handicapé‧es, les personnes handicapées qui sont en invalidité ou utilisent Medicaid se sont auto-organisé·es pour survivre face à Trump – et sont la raison pour laquelle Medicaid et l’ACA ont tenu bon tandis la règle de la « charge publique » de Trump n’a pas été adoptée1.

De nouveaux collectifs de justice handie se multiplient partout, du Disability Justice Network of Ontario à Detroit Disability Power et à Fat Rose. Mon adelphe, læ militant·e queer coréen·ne Stacey Milbern, a acheté et rendu accessible sa maison à East Oakland – le Disability Justice Culture Club – avec les 30’000$ qu’elle reçoit, tous les mois, en petits montant de vingt dollars envoyés des quatre coins de la planète par la communauté handie. Et deux cent personnes handies, grosses et vieilles brandissent des pancartes qui disent irremplaçable et #PersonneN’estJetable aux manifestations de Crips and Fatties Close the Camps [Les estropié·es et les gros·ses ferment les camps] en face des bureaux de la police aux frontière de San Francisco – un aperçu d’un mois de manifestations quotidiennes en août 2019 contre les camps de concentration formés par les services d’immigration aux ordres de Trump, manifestations menées par des personnes grosses et handicapées qui créent des liens entre d’un côté, nos expériences de l’enfermement dans les institutions psy, les maisons de retraites et les hospices, et de l’autre celles des immigrant·es (y compris les immigrant·es handicapé·es) qui sont enfermé·es.

J’écris tout cela pour me rappeler et pour nous rappeler. Même et surtout quand nous sommes terrifiées au point d’être immobilisées, nous continuons à rêver collectivement des futurs de justice handie et à les rendre possibles.

Se souvenir du passé pour rêver le futur : nous nous sommes toujours trouvé·es les un·es les autres

« Tu connais, toi, ce genre de personne handicapée qui veut juste être là pour les autres personnes handicapées, qui ne demande aucune reconnaissance, qui veut juste faire ce qu’il faut ? », me dit mon ami Lenny au téléphone. Bien sûr, je connais. Je ne lui dis pas, mais il a justement toujours été ce genre de personne pour moi.

À l’époque à Toronto, nous étions les deux seules maisons avec des rampes d’accès faites-mains du quartier. Avec le triomphe de la gentrification dans les quartiers ouest de Toronto, nous vivions au milieu de gens pauvres et de maisons aux porches à moitié déglingués. Des années avant le mouvement pour la justice handie qu’on connaît aujourd’hui, sa maison était un lieu où les gens pauvres, les personnes multiraciales, queer et handicapées, pouvaient venir traîner, se soutenir, faire de plans et rire ensemble. Pendant des années, il tenait des « dîners du vendredi soir » où n’importe qui pouvait venir manger. Il me disait toujours à quel point il était important pour lui de centrer le travail sur les estropié·es les moins populaires : celleux qui tiraient la gueule, qui étaient en colère, les « difficiles », les tellement cinglé·es que même les autres Fols s’éloignaient en disant que c’était « vraiment trop ». Parce que le validisme nous tue en nous isolant les unes des autres, il voulait que les gens qui ont le moins de communauté puissent se sentir quelque part à la maison.

Quelques semaines avant cet appel, je donnais un atelier sur les « réseaux de soin (care webs) » dans un centre communautaire local tenu par des personnes queer et trans racisées : comment créer des réseaux d’entraide en tant que personnes handicapées, comment bien recevoir et comment bien offrir du soin. La première moitié de l’atelier s’était bien passée ; j’avais beaucoup parlé du travail de soin non-payé que de nombreuses personnes réalisent, de la difficulté qu’il y a à demander du soin quand on est une personne racisée malade et handicapée en raison de toutes les fois où l’on est forcé de faire ce travail gratuitement, et où l’on est puni·es pour en avoir besoin. Toutes ces manières qui ne cessent de nous rappeler que les bonnes filles, et mêmes les enfants queer, sont celles qui restent pour aider. Toutes ces peurs d’être un fardeau.

Mais les choses se sont corsées quand j’ai commencé à demander : « Ok, maintenant, pensez à un besoin que vous avez, et prenez un temps pour réfléchir à ce qu’il faudrait pour que ce besoin soit bien satisfait ! » Les gens ont répété plusieurs fois : « Pardon, est-ce que tu pourrais réexpliquer la question ? » La température dans la salle est descendue de dix degrés. En bonne facilitatrice, j’ai dit : « Hé, je commence à remarquer une tension, est-ce que quelqu’un veut en parler ? » Et c’était bien le cas. Iels m’en voulaient parce qu’iels avaient l’impression que je leur racontais des contes de fée à propos d’une chose qui ne leur arriverait jamais : recevoir de l’attention. Certain·es d’entre elleux dirent qu’iels n’y croyaient pas : les personnes ne recevraient jamais l’attention appropriée. Quand je leur ai demandé de penser à une chose dont iels avaient besoin et sous quelles conditions ce besoin pourrait recevoir le soin adéquat, une personne a répondu, dégoûtée, « Je comprends pas pourquoi je devrais m’embêter à lister ce dont j’ai besoin – y a pas moyen que je reçoive quoi que ce soit sans qu’on abuse de moi. »

Face à ce cercle de gens tristes, traumatisés et en colère, j’ai ressenti beaucoup de choses. Je me sentais salement triste. Je me sentais stupide. Du genre, comment avais-je pu ne pas me rappeler, en préparant l’atelier, que tant de personnes handicapées et malades n’avaient jamais reçue de soin sans être traitées comme de la merde ? Et une partie de moi aussi était incrédule, frustrée et énervée. À l’intérieur, je me disais : Allez, personne ne t’a jamais donné de cigarette quand tu faisais la queue au bureau des bons alimentaires, personne ne t’a jamais apporté de plats à emporter quand tu étais malade ? Si moi j’ai déjà donné à plus pauvre que moi, vous aussi, non, arrêtez l’embrouille !

Mais je comprends. Au cours des quinze dernières années, depuis que l’expression « justice handie » [disability justice] a été inventée par un petit groupe de personnes handicapées intersectionnelles et radicales, nous avons fait tellement de choses : nous nous sommes retrouvé‧es et nous avons changé le monde. Nous avons fait en sorte qu’il y ait un mouvement des personnes handicapées qui ne soit ni blanc, ni masculin, ni cis. Un mouvement handi où l’on a enfin pu commencer à parler non seulement des meurtres policiers de personnes handicapées noires et racisées, mais aussi des olympiades de la désirabilité validiste qui s’imposent à la communauté queer trans racisée. Nous avons créé des communautés handies et des manières profondes de prospérer. Alors évidemment, je peux l’imaginer ! J’ai eu tellement d’exemples de réseaux de soins handis, imparfaits et beaux. J’ai une décennie de discussions archivées et animées de Sick and Disabled Queers (SDQ) sur mon ordinateur, des souvenirs des moments où nous avons collecté des fonds pour offrir à mon ami Dorian une camionnette accessible en fauteuil roulant que nous voulions également être un accès communautaire à du transport à la demande ou quand les gens envoient des pilules à de parfaits inconnus qui en manquaient. Le tout passant sous le radar valide, le tout sans financement extérieur, intégralement payé par nous. Et bien plus que les collectes de fonds et les collectifs de soins : la façon dont nous avons passé du temps ensemble sans essayer de nous « réparer » ; et comment nous sommes allé‧es rendre visite à des amis dans des maisons de retraite, et comment nous avons joué à des jeux de société, créant des amitiés et des socialisations communautaires où le handicap était au centre. On s’est mutuellement sauvé la vie. Et pourtant, si vous n’étiez pas là au bon moment en 2013 sur SDQ, ce monde-là vous est peut-être invisible, parce que vous n’avez pas pu nous retrouver.

En tant que personnes handicapées, nous sommes à la fois hyper visibles et invisibles. Simultanément dévisagé·es et invisibilisé‧es, notre travail et nos vies sont effacées. Je pense qu’une partie de notre plus grand pouvoir réside dans ce qu’un ami appelle « l’obscurité révolutionnaire ». Nous nous organisons d’une manière inconnue des personnes valides, pour passer sous leur radar. On ne rejoint pas le mouvement pour la justice handie en payant une cotisation à une organisation nationale de justice handie. La justice handie existe partout où deux personnes handicapées se rencontrent à une table de cuisine, sur des bouillottes dans leur lit, discutant de nos amours. N’importe qui peut faire partie de la justice handie s’iel s’organise à partir de ses propres cuillères, de son propre corps et de son esprit, et de sa propre perception des besoins de sa communauté.

Les fondations commencent à comprendre que la « justice handie » est le nouveau truc sexy à financer. Même si l’argent pourrait bien nous être utile, on sait ce que ça fait habituellement aux mouvements. Nous savons que le complexe industriel de la charité a une longue et riche histoire histoire d’investir dans des mouvements puis de les déstabiliser et de les déradicaliser. Dressant les groupes les uns contre les autres, donnant souvent de l’argent aux plus blancs et à celleux qui ont la peau la moins foncée, à ceux qui ont le plus de diplômes et payent leurs impôts. L’argent est tellement compliqué, et pas compliqué du tout, mais tentant. Nous nous creusons la tête en essayant de comprendre comment et quel type prendre. Je ne pense pas qu’il y ait une seule bonne réponse, ni que l’argent soit même le plus risqué pour nous – mais la tension que nous pourrions ressentir à mesure que le Justice handie grandit et que les gens qui ne sont pas nous pensent qu’il est important de s’éloigner d’un mouvement bancal entièrement horizontal d’anonymes où n’importe qui peut avoir une idée, n’importe qui peut diriger, ce que nous avons été, vers un endroit où seuls les estropié·es avec les diplômes et les mots qui ont un sens pour celleux pouvoir sont adoubées comme des stars.

Je crois fermement, comme j’y croyais dans mes années de jeunesse à étudier les techniques de guérilla radicale, que notre pouvoir est plus fort lorsque nous employons une diversité de tactiques selon nos propres conditions – des tactiques qui nous renforcent, qui frappent là où l’ennemi est faible ou faillible. Nous faisons de notre mieux lorsque nous nous battons pour gagner selon nos propres conditions de personnes handies. Pas de compromis. Créez quelque chose de handi et de merveilleux.

Quand j’ai peur de tout perdre, je me rappelle qu’avant même de disposer d’un nom pour nous dire, nous arrivions déjà à nous trouver les un·es les autres. Dans la maison de Lenny, sur les porches de nos maisons avec leurs rampes d’accès bricolées. Et dans les maisons de retraite, dans les prisons, dans les hôpitaux psy, et oui, dans les camps. Je sais que aussi terribles que puissent être les circonstances, nous continuerons à nous trouver les un·es les autres. Nous l’avons toujours fait. Nous nous retrouverons, que nous soyons exalté·es comme le dernier parfum à la mode ou ciblé·es pour être éliminé·es, ou les deux.

Propagations indociles

Je parle depuis le début de l’indocilité des rêves handis, alors voici quelques rêves handis pour les temps qui viennent :

À mesure que grandissent nos réseaux, les personnes qui les composent, les collectifs et les groupes culturels dans lesquels ils s’organisent, pouvons-nous imaginer des formes de communication entre nous ? Pouvons-nous développer des principes pour nos actions et nos solidarités là où le complexe industriel caritatif et les systèmes de pouvoir essayent de nous mettre en compétition ? Pouvons-nous nous préparer à affronter les luttes de pouvoir et les dégâts qui, inévitablement, en résultent ?

Les personnes handies radicales – en particulier les personnes handies noires, autochtones, racisées, queer et trans – vont continuer à écrire, à créer, à faire de l’art. Quelles structures voulons-nous créer pour construire les unes avec les autres ?

Les réseaux sociaux nous ont donné un outil important pour nous connecter les unes aux autres et en finir avec l’isolation des dernières décennies, mais Facebook, Instagram et la plupart des réseaux sociaux étouffent et censurent secrètement nos paroles au point d’empêcher un certain nombre d’entre nous de publier leurs idées, ou de voir leurs idées relayées. Et si nous créions nos propres réseaux sociaux de communication ?

La vieille garde des luttes pour les droits handis est en colère contre les militant·es pour la justice handie parce que nous avons réussi à convaincre davantage de genxtes à se dire handicapées, parce que nous ne sommes pas racistes et parce que nous ne concentrons pas seulement sur le travail de réforme. Nous nous dédions à la construction de maisons, à la construction d’un million de petits groupes plus bizarres les uns que les autres et d’actions et de projets et de hashtag sur Instagram et de médias et d’histoires et de partages de rampe d’accès et de boîtes à outil prêtes à l’emploi pour des bibliothèques et de projets d’habitats partagés et de pratiques de sexe collectives. Alors que se passerait-il si nous prenions la direction de Centres pour la vie en autonomie ou de programmes en Études Handies ? Et si nous faisions quelque chose de complètement nouveau ? Et si nous créions des Centres pour la vie en interdépendance plutôt qu’en autonomie ?

D’ici vingt-cinq ans, les personnes noires, indigènes et racisées constitueront la majorité des personnes vivant aux États-Unis, et l’une des grandes victoires du mouvement pour la justice handie est d’avoir fait en sorte que moins en moins de jeunes personnes racisées ont peur du handicap – de plus en plus d’entre elleux s’en revendiquent, ou l’intègrent à leurs activismes. Que faire de ce potentiel ?

Poussées à quitter les villes côtières par les forces croisées de l’hypergentrification et de la montée des eaux, quelles nouvelles maisons et communautés handies pourrons-nous construire dans ces banlieues et ces terrains vagues de l’exode ? Quels foyers crip construirons-nous sur les îles que deviendront la Floride dans les zones industrielles désaffectées, dans les réserves autochtones ? Que se passerait-il si nous crippions le Green New Deal ? Que se passerait-il si les infrastructures vertes qu’on nous promet adoptait, dès leur point de départ, les principes de justice handie ?

Nous luttons pour maintenir la sécurité sociale tout en sachant que les structures de soin payant telles qu’elles existent ne payent pas suffisamment les soignant·es, et restent trop souvent difficiles d’accès ; nous faisons éclore des structures de soin collectif mais nous savons que pour nombre d’entre nous, elles ne sont pas accessibles, notamment parce que nous aimerions que ce ne soit pas nos ami·e·s qui nous torchent les fesses, ou parce que nous n’avons pas le capital social/amical qui le permettrait, ou parce que nous savons que prendre soin continuellement épuise. Et nous nous demandons : quels sont nos rêves de réseaux d’entraide collective, d’une société où le soin gratuit, juste, accessible, est un droit humain pour toustes ? Et si nous pouvions créer un système d’entraide et de soin à l’échelle de la société fondé sur les principes de justice handie ? Je pense à quelque chose comme la société des Dépossédés de Ursula K. Le Guin où une lune anarcho-syndicaliste est dotée de logements, de travail et d’entrepôts remplis des biens nécessaires pour toustes. Et si tout le monde avait accès à ce genre de soin ? Et si le droit au soin et à l’accès se trouvait inscrit dans toutes les constitutions ? Et si des Réformes du Soin étaient implantées biorégionalement, en lien avec les autochtones qui vivent dans chaque ville, chaque localité ?

Dans son appel à financer sa maison, Stacey Milbern avait écrit « les rêves de justice handie m’ont portée jusqu’ici, et je continuerai à m’appuyer sur eux. » Il n’est pas exclu que d’ici cinq ou cinquante ans, nous soyons toustes mortes, étouffées par les airs viciés des incendies provoqués par le changement climatique. Mais je sais que nous avons déjà persévéré et survécu face à l’adversité. Et je sais cela aussi :

Nous avons ce que nous avons toujours eu, et davantage encore.

Nous savons vivre nos deuils, prier

persister

trouver la résistance dans les plus petits espaces

nous retrouver les unes autres et créer des foyers

nous allonger au milieu de la rue et, animées par le deuil et par la rage, bloquer la circulation

déployer des trésors d’imagination crip

faire des trucs que tout le monde pense impossibles

inventer des gestes indociles et inattendus, qui passent sous les radars et nous permettent de continuer.

1 NdT : L’Affordable Care Act ou « Loi sur la Protection des Patients et les Soins Abordables », surnommée Obamacare, est une législation de 2010 qui, aux États-Unis, édicte l’interdiction pour les assurances de refuser d’exercer des discriminations du fait de maladies ou handicaps. La règle de la « charge publique » permet, sous l’administration Trump, à un État des États-Unis, de refuser un visa à une personne du fait de son handicap/sa maladie faisant d’elle une « charge » pour la collectivité.

Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

[savagecowboy]

𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒

Severen leaned back as Jesse reached a hand out toward his face. “What are you doing?” He asked skeptically, still in the process of coming to terms with this man’s story, regardless of his passing acceptance of the “gift” he offered. “I gotta nip ya to turn you”. Severen cocked a brow with a wry grin. “Sure looks like you tryin’a kiss me”. Jesse sighed heavily, a shred of doubt taking to seed in his mind, a thought-- that would come forward in the future every so often-- that in choosing this man as his partner he would have a hidden price to pay; one that would require patience.

“I mean, you could at least pour me a drink, roll me a smoke or somethin’ first”. Severen chuckles, turning what had been a moment of solemnity between them into something more comical. There is a mischievousness shining clear on his face, this Jesse's first inkling into the true nature of the man he knew only by his moniker. Even after a tale of the supernatural made real, the scoundrel was out to saw. Jesse's jaw tightened at the insulting miscomprehension; his story of transformation twisted by farce.

“Hells bells, I thought you was comin’ on a little strong complimentin’ me about the ruckus over in Ponyville an’ all that. What kinda accord you tryin'a strike?” It is the bandit’s turn to lean in toward his fireside companion who holds his ground admirably for how irritable he seems at present. “You lonely on them ships?” Severen asks pointing to a singed and worn patch on Jesse’s coat indicating his military service. “I been lonely a spell so I get it, ya did’n have to stretch a blanket for some hogamundy on my account”. Jesse has had enough of his mockery, the jest directed at both his misguided service-- which led to his untimely fate-- a step too far. Snatching the laughing man by the throat, he half crushes his windpipe, fingers bruising into the skin roughened from hard living. Though potentially fatal, the act does not falter the smile on the cowboy's face a single shade. “Lissen", Jesse tells him pointedly, "I'm fixin’a hobble yer lip you don’t do it yerself, you lunk-headed wise ass".

“No need to get ringy” Severen choked out around the thin, skeletal fingers, capable of feeling the strength in them, “I wasn’t sayin’ no”. Even while he acted impish, he comprehended that this was not even a quarter of the force that lay within the grip that constrained him. There was burgeoning evidence that what he had assumed was some roving old coot, was indeed the invulnerable creature he was claiming to be. It was obvious to Jesse that threats were not the way to pervade the indolence Severen surrounded himself with. He took an audible inhale, exhaling slow, calming the quick anger that had risen up in him. He reckoned it was best to cut to the heart of the matter. “I didn’t come here to flap my gums tellin’ windies. I came to find a man I could ride the river with”, Jesse's tone was firm, expression fierce, patience near its end. “I didn’ spend all this time trackin’ your fool ass down, offerin’ you the shake of a lifetime to be run on. This is for real play, you gonna saddle up with me, or am I dustin’ off?” Severen's next answer would be the final word; fate decided in his next breath.

Blue eyes meet silver, the levity fades from the former, a sincere edge replacing the glimmering mirth. It is in this moment that he can see the predator within Jesse, knows there is something more just under the outward facade of man; true belief coming alive witnessing this preternatural visage. The desire to have such a strength, such a presence himself overrode any errant skepticism. Reaching up, he taps the back of Jesse's boney hand. Slowly, he is released from the choke, lungs desperate to breathe deep, yet he stays controlled, one quiet, mild cough, still staring at the other man as his understanding dawns. Jesse watches vigilantly, never breaking his unblinking gaze.

Before, Severen had said 'yes' without conviction, as one might an offering of a free meal. In light of Jesse’s display, his earnest speech, he has a renewed intrigue; a vigor sparked to life-- one only equalled by that of letting loose with his six shooters, gunning down men, leaving nothing but blood and ghosts. This, at last, was the man Jesse had been trying to recruit; not the jokester that he had been presented. The man that sat across from him now was the one they called Reaper. It might be an unfortunate fate that a killer so useful had such a frustrating personality underlying his more desirable aspects; time would tell if his use superseded his annoyance. Jesse would be sure to put the undisciplined cretin to the test.

"I'm your man" Severen answered, voice firm, unwavering. With that Jesse moved in, quickly grabbing Severen’s shoulder with one hand and pushing his chin up with the other, biting hard into the man’s neck right above his collar. Reflexively, the cowboy winced, grunting at the feeling of teeth— blunt— puncturing his skin. There was a pause, Jesse tempted to pull the fierce vitality within the brutalist into himself, but resisted, just barely. Sitting back, he released Severen and stared, hungrily, in as much anticipation as his victim; this would be the first time he could bear witness to what he had experienced himself. Idly, Severen wiped his hand over the place he had been attacked, feeling the wet blood gathered there, wondering how long he would have to wait to know if he had just spent these last few hours with a delusional drifter, or if had been accepted to be a roving creature of the night. They sat silent, neither one entirely sure what came next. Jesse reached into an inner pocket and pulled out a small tin. Opening the lid there was gathered inside a small pouch, along with a thin stack of rolling papers, and a few loose matches. He began to roll himself a smoke. Severen watched, incredulous, foot beginning to tap in impatience as he stared at the red smear across his fingers. The question “how long" rose and faded from forming on his tongue. Tapping his thumbs in agitation, Severen watched the stranger he had just signed on with diligently fold tobacco into the crease of paper. Lithe fingers precisely rolled it ever tighter before holding the newly formed cigarette to his thin lips, a pale tongue darting out to wet down the paper forming a seal. Time felt like it slowed, volume of the world steadily rising. He thought he could hear ( feel ) the scrap of the paper himself, the dry crinkle booming in his ears as the dampened edge was pressed into place. The jostling of the matchsticks made him flinch, the scratch and spark of the flame both captivating and frightening with their intensity. Suddenly, Severen felt his body cramp. Doubling over he clutched at his stomach, his heart, an overwhelming sickness invading every vein, pore, the whole of him inside and out. A cold sweat broke out on his skin, ropey saliva gathering in his mouth, drooling over his lips as he gaped like a drunk late into a bender.

"Jhhheeesss…" he moaned, sliding from his seat on the log by their dwindling campfire into the dirt, the impact, although light, sent stars into his vision. "You'll live yet", Jesse replied over the baleful sounds of his compatriot, dragging long and deep on his smoke, enjoying the richly flavored tobacco. Severen tried not to move, the faintest motion sending him spiraling into an all encompassing nausea. Even so, his body desperately wanted to flail, kick out, a burst of intense energy feeling coiled up like a spring alongside the guttural pain that consumed him. He tried to spit, but found his mouth parched where once moisture flowed in abundance, tried to shut his eyes, but even behind closed lids he was plagued with bright colors that only seemed to amplify the crescendoing chorus of noise crashing down around him.

All at once, centuries, minutes, years after it all began, it vanished, leaving him in a void. Now he was completely hollow, all except for the illness still rocking his internals as if he were a storm tossed dingy. Gradually, a clarity came, a dim-- but growing-- feeling that anchored itself somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach. It was from here that the pain was focused. Severen tried to swallow, found it hard, but possible. "Jesse?" He asked without moving his eyes, worried that any action might restart the episode.

"Ya, it's pretty bad, wa'n't sure if it would happen the same, s'ppose I coulda warned ya". The cutting glance-- along with a dry smirk-- spoke to this being a form of petty vengeance aimed toward the jug-headed gunslinger. Finally, the newly altered man felt somewhat capable of upward motion. Gently he placed his palms into the gritty dirt, shakily lifting himself to sitting, head reeling as he brought himself upright. There was something new intermingled with his chaotically perceptive senses now, something that he could not identify. His body felt drawn to it, something it wanted of him, demanded, although he could not quite place this fresh drive--need. Jesse caught on to Severen's drawn expression, wane, pallid face as readable as trace to a tracker for him. "Hunger got you roped already" he chuckled, watching Severen come to terms with the ever present urge taking hold of him. "Still feelin' bushed?" Jesse took another drag and rose, putting a hand out to help Severen to his feet. The man below was still trying to comprehend what was nagging at him, did not see the assistance offered until Jesse wiggled his fingers in front of his face. Back on his boots, Severen wavered, steadying himself with a wave of his arms. A cool evening breeze brushed over his skin, prickling the hairs, not because of the frigidity of temperature-- he was unaware of that in the slightest-- it was the sensation of movement that sent an ecstatic ripple over his exposed skin; like a snake sensing a mouse scurry by. He had an entirely new understanding of the world around him.

That was when he understood what it meant to be a hunter. Once indigo eyes now darkened to black with the expansion of his dilated pupils, the night coming alive in grayscale. He turned his vision toward the not too distant glow of the main campfire he had left. The four bodies of his compadres were gathered round it still. They were barely moving, probably drunk, confirmed as such as they slowly passed a bottle between one another. The smell of living man engaged an instinct born of the bite.

"Hungry" Severen stated, the word his final separation from man to beast. "Go on" the master permitted his fledgling.

As if he had been taught by the very night predators that stalked the plains around them, Severen crept up to his former accomplices, ready to beset himself upon them. Not a man amongst the party was prepared for the fate soon to befall them. With a viciousness born of desperate demand, Severen tore into the first, emerging silently from the dark. His unskilled desperation made a mess of things as he ripped at the struggling man's throat with his teeth. He barely felt the man scratch and punch at him, too eager to feel the hot blood pumping just below the skin wash over his tongue-- and when it did at long last, he knew what true pleasure was. Severen moaned as the faintest trickle brushed over his lips, fiending for more, overcome with this one impulse-- to feed.

There was no calculation, no thought toward his actions, he chewed, he tore, pulling, biting anything to deepen the flow. He drank in long gulps, each swallow strengthening him. The hammering of the man's heart filled his ears, throbbing in his head until it quieted, slowly, as each drag at the worried tear in the dying man's neck became less filling. All this happened in a matter of moments, none of those gathered quite comprehending what their leader was doing to Charlie, the booze and unfortunate trust in the man called Reaper making it hard to understand the danger they were in staying in his presence. Mouth bloodied, still yearning, Severen let go of the body, facing the others with a wildness he had never felt even at his most adrenaline fueled.

"Boss?" One asked, blearily squinting at him, trying to piece together what it was that was setting off a warning in his mind. "You done talkin' to that feller?" "Done talkin'" Severen answered, and he was.

He knew that just one man was not enough. Felt not a single regret in feeding the urge clawing from within, happy to capitulate to his base desire; but in order to do so he could not be as sloppy as before. Even though they would have been no match for him previous-- even less so now-- Severen knew it would be best to lessen their chance for escape. Quick as a flash, he drew his revolver, fanning the hammer, taking out the three remaining men at the knees. Yelps and screams echoed into the night as he moved to them one by one, feasting upon them as a man starved; having never known his fill. Pitifully, they put up what resistance they could, there was no staving off the savage brute. With cold indifference he tore into them, drinking them bone dry until none remained.

“Right rumbumptious” Jesse commented looking around at the carnage with a certain appreciation, “Guess they won’t be hearin’ the passin’ bell”. There was an honest delight on the older creature's face as he surveyed the damage done; this was what he had hoped for. Severen looked up at his maker with glazed eyes, blood drunk to the fullest.

“You chock-a-block boy?” Jesse asked, the last nub of his cigarette tossed into the sodden earth. Severen managed a groggy chuckle, stumbling to his feet, face caked in fresh gore, shirt a ruin of dark stains.

“This…forever?” “Month of Sundays” Jesse shrugged. Severen stumbled toward the man, clapping a sticky hand on his shoulder. “Wake snakes an’ barkin’ iron?” Jesse theatrically held his right palm up. “Honor Bright”. A large, enthusiastic smile split the visage of crimson with pink-stained teeth. He thrust his own soiled hand toward Jesse, eager to seal his allegiance.

“Let’s paint the town red!” They shook with vigor, each with vivacious, expulsatory joy at the chaos to come, a long life of misdeeds and merriment awaiting the devilish pair.

[manwalksintobar]

Ntozake Shange to Eisa Davis

          querida antigua eisa,

you almost got it-you really did ‘born of the blood of struggle’ we all were/ even if we don’t know it/ what if poetry isn’t enuf? whatchu gonna do then? paint     ? dance     ? put your back field in motion & wait for james brown to fall on his knees like it’s too much for him/ what? too much for james? yeah/ didn’t you ever see the sweat from his brow/ a libation of passion make a semi-circle fronta his body/ a half-moon of exertion washin’ away any hope he had of/ standin’ it/ can’t stand it & he falls to his knees and three jamesian niggahs in a stroll so sharp it hurts bring him a cape that shines likes the northern star/shinin' i say like you imagined the grease in the parts of yr hair or yr legs/or yr mother's face after rehearsal after she had you/ james falls to his knees cuz he “cain't take it"/he's pleadin’ please please please don't go we look to see who brought james brown to the floor / so weak/ we think/ so overwrought with the power of love that’s why poetry is enuf/ eisa/ it brings us to our knees & when we look up from our puddles of sweat/ the world's still right there & the children still have bruises tiny white satin caskets & their mothers weep like mary shda there is nothing more sacred than a glimpse of power of the universe it brought james brown to his knees lil anthony too/ even jackie wilson arrogant pretty muthafuckah he was/ dropped no knee pads in the face of the might we have to contend with/ & sometimes yng blk boys bleed to death face down on asphalt cuz fallin' to they knees was not cool/ the way to go/it ain't fallin' to our knees is a public admission a great big ol' scarlet letter that we cain't/ don't wanna escape  any feelin'/ any sensation of bein' alive can come right down on us/ & yes my tears & sweat may decorate the ground like a veve in haiti or a sand drawing in melbourne/ but in the swooning/ in the delirium/ of a felt life lies a poem to be proud of/ does it matter? can ya stand up, chile? the point is not to fall down & get up dustin' our bottoms/ i always hated it when folks said that to me/ the point eisa/ is to fall on your knees & let the joy of survivin' bring you to yr feet/ yr bottom's not dirty/ didn't even graze the earth/ no it's the stuff of livin' fully that makes the spirit of the poem let you show yr face again & again & again i usedta hide myself in jewelry or huge dark glasses big hats long pillowin' skirts/ anythin' to protect me/ from the gazes somebody'd see i'd lived a lil bit/ felt somethin' too terrible for casual      conversation & all this was obvious from lookin' in my eyes/ that's why i usedta read      poem after poem with my eyes shut/ quite a feat/ cept the memory'd take over &      leave my tequila bodyguard in a corner somewhere out the way of the pain in my eyes that simply came through my body/ they say my hands sculpt the air with words/ my face becomes the visage of a character's voice/ i don't know i left my craft to chance & fear someone wd see i care too much take me for a chump laugh & go home this is not what happened? is poetry enuf to man a picket line/ to answer to phones at the rape crisis center/ to shield women entering abortion clinics from      demons with crosses & illiterate signs defiling the horizon at dawn/ to keep our      children from believin' that they can buy hope with a pair of sneakers or another      nasty filter for        cheap glass pipe/ no/ no/ a million times no but poetry can bring those bleeding women & children outta time up close enuf for us to see feel ourselves there/ then the separations what makes me/ me & you/ you/// drops away & the truth that we      constantly avoid/ shut our eyes to/ hold our breath hopin' we won't be found out/ surfaces/ darlin'/ & we are all everyone of those dark & hurtin' places/ those dry bloodied memories are no less ours than the mornin/ yes the mournin' we may be honorable enuf to endure with our eyes open the coroner cannot simply bring her hand gently down our eyelids/      leavin' us to the silence of not life/ the solitude of the unreachable can ya stand up, 'chile? hands stretched out to touch again not so you can get up & conquer the world/ you did that when you cdnt raise yr head & yr body trembled so/ you scared yr mama that was when the poem took over & you gave you      back what you discovered you didn't haveta give up/ all that fullness of breath/ houdini in an emotional maze/ free at last but nobody can see how you did it/ 'how'd she get out'/ nobody'll know less you tell em/ do you really wanna write/ from twenty thousand leagues under a stranger's wailin? can you move gracefully randomly thru the landmines that are yr own angola/ hey, your bosnia! are you shamed sometimes there's no feelin' you can recognize in yr left leg? does the bleeding you'll do anyway offend you or can you make a sacred drawing like ana mendieta that will heal us all? do i believe in magic? hell yeah. shd you? i don't know. don't know how yr gonna find yr way out the maze/ ancient as it is no one can tell you the secret/ not me/ not aunt angela/ not yr mama beautiful as she is/ i usedta watch her legs cut thru space like a ninja in      ballet shoes/ i wanted to be tall & clear-eyed like yr mama/ & you come tellin'      me i cd beat you up in a school yard/ no my daddy wda bought the school yard & paid kids not to hurt me/ so what you see is not what you get i am not a poem/ i am savannah's mother/ savannah sat with her bottle      thru the children's class at stanze's once we moved to texas/ but i was always lookin’ for your mother's legs to come slicing the air/ ten years later/      2000 miles away/ed mock dead/ tower of power fallen/ sly stone disappeared/      oakland like the back of my hand/ now unknown/ "get it & feel good" i usedta      say sometimes still do/ diffrence is i cherish stupid lil things now/ did yr      mama tell you raymond asked our whole class after a bout with possessed drummers and gravity/ if we ever took our dance clothes off/ he could smell us comin'       cross the Bay Bridge/ he shouted & pranced like somekinda stallion/ like his sweat      didn't stink too/workin' in the other realm is dirty work/ makes us smell bad/      did yr mama tell ya? i know she didn't let ya believe makin' art was not a messy      business/ she cdn't have/ we were trained too well is poetry enuf, eisa? that's gonna be up to you? is poetry enuf for me? why do you think i wrote 'for colored girls' i wanted yall to come out from under yr starched pinafores & pressed      heads with some notion of dream & sanctity of spirit/ looks like some of it worked but remember i'm still writin' still dancin' fell on my knees so many times now/ i wrote rev. ike for a prayer cloth it's serious like that peaceful like that i sweat when i write/ do you?           the original aboriginal dancin' girl           love,           ntozake

[notmuchtoconceal]

5/23/22

bro, today we're gonna talk about not talkin yourself out of a good idea.

bro, trust me on this -- lotta ideas you get are a lot better than you think they are.

when i was visiting lil bro his apartment flooded for he had angered enlil with one too many displays of haughty outward decadence. just lounging around, you know. being a buttboy. living in his own filth. attracting plague insects. never dustin the woodwork.

as we sat in the library to escape the mildew smell he said he was apparently afraid of cause without years of city living he hadn't acclimated to a potent enough level of toxicity in the atmosphere, he confessed to being boxed and trapped and inert between the walls of his own not very colorful bouncy castle.

i told him bro, it's cool. i'd help him rearrange all his furniture while i was there. he was a shrimp and i wanted to experiment on him live with a cooperative task. i asked him if he only invited me down here to help him clean his apartment. he said no, of course. almost offended that i'd even ask because he's a twerp who sometimes has less of a sense of humor than he should because he's secretly an evil woman and that's not me projecting.

we get back to his apartment, his shelves have collapsed from the moisture. cheap particle board. lil bro don't make good investments. does things half-assed at the last moment. he deserves punishment. the story-telling part of my brain wants to punish him cause it demands ruthless efficiency and i will punish myself and bare all my punishments gladly. right now, though -- i got this lil softie ice cream cone to deal with and i gotta lick him up before he melts and gets all sticky on my fingers. i'm not apologizing for the literate part of my brain being so casually abusive. it has high standards for a reason. i can't make myself less for you, you need to risk the fact that my love may destroy you cause that's what loving me looks like.

you want a ruthless taskmaster lil beta boy. your nerd self needs to be disciplined and guided and structured cause you're a dumb horny stink animal who will do nothing but suck my dick and sniff my pits if i don't smack you upside the head and tell u where to go.

ur playing a video game and don't kno where to go and ur running around in circles and i figured it out like five minutes ago and i should just be laughing at u and taunting u and making u give in faster so u can relinquish control to me -- but as cute and funny as u r when ur helpless, i need u to take care of me when i'm insane and u can't do that as a brainwashed obedient buttboy, so i need to make u man up and develop an independent capacity to decide, lil robot boy

he was under so much stress. bro, he's so sweet to me.

he's just like -- okay, i wanna buy you dinner now.

my insane ass is like -- you wanna fucking leave your apartment in this condition? it is my privilege and my continuous lament to become a cruel and void mirror of his every secretive despair for my visage was too terrible for him to look upon

so he looks down and goes o-o-okay.

[otter squeaks]

i wanted to buy you a twenty dollar bottle of wine at dinner, but i guess i'll do that another night.

then i make him put on his tight lil himbo shorts and clean the apartment with me.

i scrub his whole stove until it's too late for dinner so we go to his buddy's place and his buddy don't have anything and it's bed time for him anyway and lil bro offers to make me fried PB&J

i think, yes -- let's experiment on you further by making you make me PB&J. you want to cook for me. you want my body to recognize you as a safe and stable source of food so i don't eat you. perform this act and make me think of you as benevolent and maternal so i can weave another thread of incest into our sick dominance and narcissism based relationship, cute lil fuckhole animal brother.

bro, it's delicious -- the olive oil with the crunchy peanutbutter. the hint of sweet. goddamn. i want him to make it for me again another night, but he has no bread, which under normal circumstances would be a huge red flag. he had two or three bottles of wine but no bread. that's a whole lotta body and not a lotta blood. is this a metaphor for how he will inevitably be left less than a husk by his ravenous carnal appetites? why are you so disgusted by human flesh? are other minds unfathomably violent and insipid? are you even capable of love?

anyway, he has no bread, but he has rice. I say use the rice. he says that could be delicious or it could be awful. he don't know. he has no idea. he's scared. i just tell him to trust me. trust me. trust me. i tell him to trust me. it's cool. he trusts me. i let him trust me. it's fun.

it's fuckin delicious. tastes like mashed up PBJ. the rice is the right texture, it was a little crispy from being on the bottom of the pan. totally same effect just slightly looser texture. i love it.

next day he buys bread and i make him make me three.

i can taste the lack of love when mass produced.

now i wait. ready to eat some more.

point is, just do the thing.

it's fun.

[rosewaterandivy]

vena amoris

Summary: some part of me must have died / the first time that you called me “Baby”

Pairing: s.h. x reader

W.C.: 2.5K

Themes: the usual— repressed feelings, smut mentions, Cabaret quotes, Steve ‘down bad’ Harrington™️

A/N: well ahoy there! Did I take a mental health day and brain rot this into being? You bet! Title is Latin for “the vein of love.”

“Oh god,” You’d remarked, with a knowing smirk and lifted brow. “Can you imagine?”

Your tone brokered no argument. It wasn’t a whimsical, starry-eyed, sigh filled statement coming from a naive girl.

No, instead it was a wry, flippant remark laden with sarcasm and pity as the woman by the college green gleefully sobbed out a yes, yes, of course! to a polite smattering of applause as her newly minted fiancé slipped a sparkling band onto her finger.

“And on graduation day, no less.” You bat away the few hairs that had flown into your face buoyed by the summer breeze, your graduation gown fluttering about your legs. “Damn my guy, let the woman have her moment jeez.”

Steve struggled to laugh and maintain composure, because the thing was, he actually could imagine it, and had even done so himself from time to time. The time honored predicament of “keeping it casual” while remaining friends.

He remembers it clear as day, how you’d met in front of the dining hall as he’d overslept (again) and rushed to shove his pockets full of cereal before his morning lecture so as to not fall asleep during Macroeconomics.

”Hey, Buck-o!” You’d crowed from the table riddled with pens, to-go coffee cups, and clipboards, “Are you registered to vote?”

All he can remember thinking, after the pre-requisite it’s too damn early for this was the ever eloquent, well, fuck me.

Nevermind that you were wearing a Reagan Ruined Everything shirt accompanied by the flaming visage of the man. Nevermind that your friend merely snorted at your bombastic accosting of students for the sake of democracy. Nevermind that several people had shoulder checked him in their rush to get waffles and coffee.

”Ritchie Rich,” You’d said with a smile, “Voting solely for your interests or ready to join the proletariat with the rest of us?”

It was an unlikely friendship, to say the least. You, a blue-blood former ballet dancer until “my tits grew in” majoring in poli-sci and him, the sole progeny of a captain of industry on the ivy-league to corporate office pipeline.

So, it really was inevitable that you’d fall into bed together. Even without your grandparents wheedling and match-making attempts. But still, you weren’t dating— he wasn’t that kind of guy and you weren’t even interested in a relationship anyway.

It was sex and friendship, that was all.

Argento movie marathons because it was “a crime you’ve never seen something outside of a cineplex, Harrington,” underneath mountains of a goose-down duvet. Trips to the Cape just to pass the time, M&M’s riddling the hardwood floors in front of a roaring fire with his head between your thighs. Dragging him out on cold autumn mornings to canvass for local elections. Late nights where you’d pass out in front of the flickering tv screen after watching Bitter Rice.

Sure, Robin side-eyed the entire situation and Dustin never failed to remind him how much of an idiot Steve was being. But, in fairness, it was never something that struck either of you as odd.

It was college, people do weirder and more detrimental shit all the time without the evergreen excuse of misguided youth. Who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth?

Eddie was the one to ruin it all.

“Dude,” He’d said, surprisingly serious as he loaded up his bike for the drive back to New York. “Not for nothin, but if I were you Harrington,” He inclined his head toward where you were at the coffee cart. “I’d lock that shit down.”

”Whaddya mean? We’re just friends.”

“Sure buddy,” Eddie laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

But did he really think about it after that? Of course not, just continued to careen toward graduation and the inevitable.

He was destined for great things, according to his father: continuing the family legacy and filling the coffers, working abroad in Europe for year post-grad and securing those overseas accounts.

So when he wasn’t suffering through mind-numbing lectures, and being at dear old dad’s beck and call, Steve was doing what he did best: wilding with the gang or hanging out with you.

Which mostly resulted in fucking at increasingly creative locations at your place or his, but he digresses.

His graduation was uneventful— his father sternly nodded his approval while his mother posed them like dolls for a family photo. They’d drug him to a prolonged who’s who of his father’s connections under the guise of a celebration dinner, to which none of his friends had been invited.

Steve had schlepped himself back to the apartment, less drunk than he would’ve preferred given the circumstances. Only to be greeted by you at the door, in one of your more creative get-ups consisting of a 1920’s boudoir set with stockings.

Plum-painted lips split like a ripe fruit, white pearly teeth gleamed in the dim hallway light. And his heart nearly beat its way out of his chest.

“Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome,” You gently kick the door of his apartment the rest of the way open to reveal people packed to the brim inside— Robin, Dustin, Eddie.

“Fremde, étrange, stranger.”

Because of course you’d throw him a going away party, themed no less (“Cabaret only seemed appropriate since you’re Berlin-bound come morning,”). The drinks are flowing and the music is thumping and all he wants to do is kiss you, so he does.

And the world doesn’t cease to turn, the music doesn’t stop, his friends don’t give a damn. No one is shocked by this turn of events, not even the elusive ex of Stanford fame Nancy Wheeler.

Because if there’s one thing that everyone knows, well everyone excluding you because if you somehow caught on to him Steve might actually drop dead right then and there—

What everyone knew was this: Steve Harrington was not and had never been a casual guy.

He heard Eddie mumble something about Sisyphus into his drink before pulling him off of you. Your lipstick was smeared and a little patchy now, but he sure as shit didn’t care, his own mouth was probably branded now too, bruise-colored as if he’d bitten into an overripe stone fruit.

A big deal is made about getting the King a drink, as Eddie all but frog marches Steve to the bar.

“So,” He greets, clapping him on the back, “You’re down bad.”

Steve nearly chokes on the beer, the frothy foam ticking at his nose. He swallows past his heart lodged in his throat, and shakes his head.

“It’s nothing.”

“Tell that to your mouth, Liza,” He sweeps a thumb against Steve’s bottom lip, it comes back riddled in purple lipstick. “You know you leave tomorrow, right?”

Steve turns back to the bar and signals for a shot of something, anything really. He sips at his beer in the interim, letting Eddie’s declaration linger in the air between them.

They drink in silence until Robin stumbles in, dragging Steve away claiming “besties before the resties!”

He spies you and Dustin chatting nearby, you catch his eye with a lascivious and exaggerated wink before throwing your head back in laughter at something the dingus had said.

The party rages on for hours— he’s already packed and ready to go for his flight tomorrow, and he knows you’d put a lot of effort into this send off, but Steve would like nothing more than to wrap himself around you and fall into bed. Eventually someone catches onto this and alerts the guests that they “don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here!”

Steve doesn’t know who to thank for that, Nancy maybe. He’ll figure it out later. At that moment, he was more concerned with getting those glasses out of your hands and that garter belt on the floor.

“Hey, you okay?” You’d asked in the early morning light, watching as he stumbled into his pants and threw on a shirt.

Your face was freshly scrubbed of your makeup from last night, soft and open as your eyes trailed him from your spot in his bed.

He was a weak, weak man when he’d sat down with a sigh and asked, “Tell me not to go?”

He can hear you shuffle across the bed, can feel the warmth of your body as it drapes against his back.

“Tell me not go to,” Steve continues, “Tell me to blow off my dad, the Harrington destiny, tell me to fuck it all and that I can figure something else out.”

You nose along the column of his throat, lips settling at the nape of his neck. His hand finds its way to yours, arms wrapped against his shoulders, fingers dancing along his collarbone. He links a solitary finger with yours crooking into each other like monkeys in a barrel.

“Oh babe,” You sigh, the pet name rolling prettily off your tongue, “You know I won’t do that, as much as I would delight in smearing the Harrington name.”

You grip him all the tighter.

“You have a plane to catch and a life to start. A life you were dragged kicking and screaming into but you know what?”

“What?”

“The only way out is through, Steve.” You rest your head on his shoulder, continuing, “The changes you want to make? Well, it’s your life so make them. Who’s going to stop you? You’re a blue-blood white man in a world built to serve people like you.”

“Are you going to lecture me about the patriarchy? Because it’s too early for that—"

“I’ll spare you, just this once.” You tease, “But no, I’m just saying that you have options and it’s a year away from your father. Take advantage of it.”

Steve knows you mean well, that you’re trying to put a positive spin on his departure but still, it hurts.

He stands back up with what he hopes is a believable smile on his face. He expects to see you settled back in the sheets when he turns around, not hopping on one leg as you attempt to jam your foot into your Vans with one hand, while clawing into a bra with the other. Somehow, you’re already in sweatpants.

He can barely restrain his laugh, “What’re you doing?”

“Uh, accompanying you to the airport, duh.”

And if his heart wasn’t already broken, surely this would’ve been the nail in the coffin.

“No, don’t get up.”

“Too late for that.”

“My bags are already in the car,” He tries again, trailing after you from the bedroom to the kitchen.

“Great! Do we have time for coffee?”

“No, seriously,” Steve catches your hand before it can land on the doorknob, tugging you back from the door.

“But,” Your voice has lost its joking tone and you can’t bring yourself to look him in the eye. “I have to say goodbye. I have to wave at you from the gate.”

“They won’t let you past security.”

“Then I’ll wave from there,” You say with a sniff, blinking the tears from your eyes. “I have to go, please.”

Steve, in that moment, chooses to glance up at the rafters of his loft apartment in an effort to keep his emotions in check. So he misses how greedily your eyes take him in, as if it’s for the last time, how you’re biting your lip so hard as to draw blood.

And by the time he looks back down again, you’ve found a spot on the floor to stare steadily at.

“Hey,” He says, curling a finger under your chin prompting you to glance up. Steve gives you a watery smile at best before imploring, “I need you to listen to me, please.”

He waits for your nod of assent before continuing.

“Everything is all set— I’ve paid the rent on the apartment for the next year, so you don’t have to worry about that. I know you won’t use the car service, but there’s a few more weeks left on that too, so.”

Your face falls with the finality of it all. That Steve is actually leaving, that he’ll be in Europe for the next year “growing up” as his father intended. And that maybe you should’ve done more to help him want to stay.

“There’s a ticket for you on the counter for after finals, I’ll meet you in London and we can do whatever you want, just like we agreed.”

You nod quickly and take a short breath. He kisses you on the forehead and promises to call once he lands.

As his hand twists open the door, you blurt out:

“Please don’t do this. Let me come with you to the airport. You’re going to be gone for so long and—"

“Baby.”

And you know he’s serious because that diminutive is solely reserved for when you’re at least two orgasms deep and he’s got your knees up by your ears. Sweat-slick and ruddy-mouthed, your whole world narrowed to focus on him, desperate longing veiled by throes of passion.

Steve doesn’t even turn back, and you can hear how his voice shakes. “If you go with me, I won’t get on the plane.”

Your arm drops from where you’d reached after him, hadn’t even registered the action as you did it.

In a small, guilty voice you say, “I know.”

The muscles of his back feather as he sighs, his grip on the doorknob knuckle-white. He knows you can’t really mean it, that it’s the scared, vulnerable part of you stumbling as you offer him an olive branch; a way out.

In the end, he got on the plane anyway.

Smash-cut to a year later, the same college green but this time it’s not him in the graduation cap and gown. Steve took the week off for your graduation festivities, flew back into Logan then rented a car for the drive to Cambridge. Made nice with your parents and grandparents, shook your grandfather’s hand politely when he’d said that Steve was a “fine boy from a fine family,” and tried in vain to forget the fact that this is the same man who’d learned his granddaughter was sexually active with him, mind you, in front of no less than a missionary, a minister, and a rabbi.

But all of that is neither here nor there, as you clap politely for the newly engaged couple, pinning your mortarboard beneath your elbow. And because he knows you, Steve catches your eye roll sequence, surely at the audacity of That Man who proposed on his girlfriend's graduation day, from Harvard no less.

He snatches the satin covered cardboard from you, and throws an arm around your shoulders walking you toward the rager of a graduation party Eddie was throwing at your apartment.

“I know,” He says conspiratorially, relishing as you lean into him. “God forbid a woman do anything.”

Your laugh is a good distraction for him, something loud and joyful to focus on as the ring box in his left pocket sinks like a stone.

[edouardroux]

Le Cinéma et le Blackjack: Des Duos Gagnants à l'Écran

Oyez, oyez, amis cinéphiles et passionnés de blackjack ! Aujourd'hui, on embarque pour une escapade épique aux confins de l'art et du jeu, où les caméras rencontrent les cartes, et où les artistes jouent le tout pour le tout. Préparez-vous à découvrir une sélection de duos gagnants à l'écran : le cinéma et le blackjack. Comme toujours, mettons-nous en mode confort, obligez-vous cette fois-ci à une boisson chaude car on traverse ensemble l'océan Atlantique direction Hollywood Boulevard!

Casino Royale (2006) : Le renouveau du blackjack

Le premier arrêt de notre parcours nous mène vers le visage le plus séducteur du MI6, James Bond. Dans "Casino Royale", le 007 incarné par Daniel Craig nous plonge dans une partie de blackjack intense, où la tension est à son comble. La scène illustre de manière brillante comment le blackjack peut être aussi adrenaline-pure que toute poursuite en voiture ou échange de tir dans un film d'action.

21 (2008) : La réalité plus vraie que nature

Notre deuxième escale est une immersion profonde dans le monde réel du blackjack. Le film "21" est basé sur l'histoire vraie d'un groupe de brillants étudiants du MIT qui ont maîtrisé l'art du comptage de cartes pour pulvériser les casinos. C'est un récit fascinant qui témoigne du pouvoir du blackjack, non seulement comme un jeu, mais aussi comme une expérience humaine.

Rain Man (1988) : Le Blackjack comme élément de révélation

Ensuite, on remonte à la fin des années 80 avec le film "Rain Man". Ici, le blackjack est l'instrument de révélation du génie du personnage incarné par Dustin Hoffman, un autiste savant. La scène où ils raflent les gains au blackjack montre à la fois la puissance et l'humanité cachées derrière chaque jeu de cartes.

Conclusion : Plus qu'un jeu

Mais qu'est-ce que ces films illustrent au final? C'est simple : le blackjack, comme toute autre forme de jeu, est plus qu'un simple passe-temps. C'est un microcosme de la vie elle-même, rempli de risque et de récompense, de triomphe et de tragédie. A travers le prisme du cinéma, le blackjack illustre le triomphe de l'esprit humain, la lutte sans fin pour le succès, mais aussi la brutalité parfois injuste du hasard. J'espère que ce voyage cinématographique vous a plu autant qu'à moi. Restez à l'affût pour plus d'excursions où le jeu et la vie se rencontrent. Au passage, n'oubliez pas votre passion pour le blackjack quand vous vous installez pour votre prochaine soirée cinéma. Vous verrez, c'est une toute autre expérience !