#they just realized we're profitable

[the13throseii]

I'm gonna say it.

I hate how the only two types of fat character drawing tutorials are "curvy only where it's sexy, miraculously skinny everywhere else" and "wears a size 4 or 5XL". Can we get some fucking variety, please? Yes some fat people look like that, but what if I'm trying to draw someone who's an XL, 2X, or 3X?

[artisimpossible]

I keep seeing posts talking about the WGA/Sag-Aftra strike, which yes, good, but in all this "support writers" sentiment I'm seeing no one talk about book writers, which I think is something people should know more about right now.

We are at an all-time high for book bans, namely targeting queer & PoC-authored books. This means that a lot of schools and libraries are no longer stocking diverse YA books, and if you're not in publishing, you may not realize this but school & libraries are by far one of the biggest markets for diverse YA books.

This means that in 2023, YA book sales are down. This is also in part because Barnes & Noble (the largest physical book retailer in the U.S.) is no longer really stocking YA hardcovers. This means that marginalized authors and debut authors are struggling to sell books.

But it's a LOT worse than that. In the past couple of years, marginalized authors are *really* struggling to get new book deals. Most books are acquired by a publisher about 2 years before they release to the public, so this isn't all that noticeable yet, but a LOT of marginalized authors I've spoken to (myself included) have been unable to sell a new YA book since 2020. So while I had a book out last year, even if I sell one right now, you won't see it until 2025-2026. That's three to four years without a new release or the income I get from publishing those books.

On top of that, Big 5 publishers have started closing imprints (namely their diverse imprints) and have started telling their marginalized YA authors to just go. I've had multiple authors tell me their publisher basically said, "eh, we don't care to put in the work for you anymore. You can just go somewhere else". Of the authors who *are* getting offered new contracts, we're being offered pay far below the cost of living and we're being handed contracts that split our payments 4 or 5 ways and require we sign over our work to be used to train AI so they can replace us a few years down the road.

Authors are freelancers who own our IPs, which means we can't unionize the way Hollywood writers can, and despite authors showing up in droves to support HarperCollins employees when they went on strike for fair wages, we're being hung out to dry when it comes to our own rights.

If you enjoy diverse books, especially diverse YA, please understand that many of the authors you loved over the past 3-5 years are being forced out of the industry. We're being exploited, and we have no way to defend ourselves. Our books sales are drying up thanks to anti-queer legislation, our rights are being eaten up by AI, and our publishers are degrading us while profiting of us and refusing to share those profits with us.

Within the publishing industry, we've all been watching this decline happen over the last decade, but outside of it, I know most people have no idea what's going on so please spread the word. And if you care about diverse books especially in YA, please support marginalized authors in any way you can. The industry needs to be reminded that it needs us before we're all eliminated from it.

[shownohajimarida]

In the Beginning...

In the beginning, God made phantoms and thieves.

If you're reading this in English, there's a 90% chance you first learned the word Kaitou from Kaito himself—and only slowly come to realize just how many corners of Japanese pop-culture it's really bled into, from Tezuka to Tuxedo Mask to Princess Peach. There's thieves, there's thieves with style, and then there's phantom thieves. A law unto themselves in their own worlds and ours, a breed of gentlemen who can magically stay gentlemen while doing the most ungentlemanly things known to society.

You'd need a book—probably a whole shelf—to properly explore all the ancestors of this proud archetype, never mind all the twists and turns it's taken in modern times. But we're a bunch of poors in money and time, so let's settle for just one tonight.

Fun fact, there's a doctor in Japan who runs a full-time clinic, lectures for one of the top med schools, and still finds room to blog about his fifty-odd niche interests. With him lighting the way, we tracked down this: the oldest book Japan's National Library has ever picked the word Kaitou out of.

Not a gentleman sort of book, you'd assume—and be absolutely right. Dated 1908 (just a little after Leblanc's Lupin, just a little before his first Japanese translation), Eishirō Suzuki's Strange Worlds is a loud, proud freakshow, trotting out ghost story after tall tale after Believe-It-Or-Not article about some wackos in America marrying in a lion cage. Our story of interest comes about halfway in: six pages and change, unmistakably headed 怪盗.

What lies within? A tragically forgotten ancestor to this great and greatly profitable archetype? Or a dead-end that happens to share the name and damn little else? Or, despite all odds, a combination of both?

Why don't you see for yourself?

Pull up a seat, grab a drink, and enjoy our exhaustive translation of history's first...

Phantom Thief

In the days of Jōkyō,¹ near Shitaya's Ikenohata-town, a pawn-shop called Yamaguchi Place² stood rich beyond imagining. Its master, with eleven vaults to his name, was a long and proud worshiper at the Benzaiten³ shrine on Shinobazu Pond. Now, it happened that this man heard the Shogun’s offices had recently surveyed the pond for land-filling, and grew troubled.

One evening, having closed early and settling the day's accounts, the boy tending the shop heard a tap at the front door, and opened to look. Lo and behold—there was a magnificent palanquin, inlaid four-square with silver, bound on every side by tens of fine, sentinel-eyed Samurai. Shocked, the boy ran to his master telling all. The master, no less shocked, came out with warm greetings, asking the company into his home.

Then from the palanquin emerged a most exquisite woman, so noble and divine of bearing that she might have been taken for a celestial maiden, with face sweeter than any peach or plum, and dress of the richest twill brocade. With hardly a sound this beauty sat, drew open her vermilion lips, and bade all listen—

“To begin, my being is not of flesh, but an envoy of Her Lady Benzaiten, in whom thou hast believed all thy life. The Shogun's men mean to bury Shinobazu Pond, and Her Ladyship suffers no small distress hearing this, for Her own power may well draw sanctuary from any ladle's-worth of water, but Her kith and kin—some hundreds upon thousands of scales—must wilt and suffer without mires to call home. “Deep ran Benzaiten's pity, and with it a divine will to bring salvation of some, of any kind. Mercifully, thy garden declares a most generous pond, and in behalf of those kith and kin I call upon thee to guarantee it as their new sanctum. If thy faith in Benzaiten be strong and true, take not these words in vain. Know only that Her Ladyship wills a night of storm and squall, fast approaching, to lay Her kin. Come that day, thou shouldst make fast the doors of thy home, withdraw to thine own room, and put no eye at door-slit, nor foot outside to enquire. Heed this, and Benzaiten will grow thy riches ten-fold in reward. Such is my message, in sum.”

Hearing this, the man grew ecstatic—rapturous, even. He spared nothing treating his guest, servants and all, to the very end of their departure.

In less than a fortnight came a dawn with greying skies, and by afternoon rain was falling, the wind slowly rising. On this day the man chose to fast, thinking it the day Benzaiten would descend, and so admonished his family and cohorts, warning them to keep the doors firmly shut and let no-one out after dark.

As the night crept toward second-watch,⁴ the wind grew wilder and wilder, until all the trees and bamboo in the garden could be heard thrashing, and all the water in the pond roiling. Now every breath was held, every head bowed, every heart thundering, thinking it time for She to come. Gradually the rain stopped and the wind ebbed, and the master, unable to wait for dawn, immediately threw open the door, eyes cast on the garden and its pond. There, he saw fish darting—more than the prior day—and thought, Benzaiten, your fellows are sown. Then, thinking of the promised reward, he rushed to check his stores. But as he swept up and down the row of vaults behind his shop, what did he find? Every lock undone, and every door open! Now uneasy, he entered, and found nothing left! Not the pawn-goods, nor the furniture, nor the thousand-ryō boxes. Floor to ceiling, everything was nigh-bare. He stood alone, dumbfounded and gaping.

Now, it happened that a shrine sat in the mountains on Kōshū-Kaidō Road, and before this shrine came men in packs, reeking of banditry, laying down their fresh and ill-gotten gains, eager for a proper portioning.

Onto this the shrine opened its doors, and who should be shocked to see the bandits' chief! No older than twenty-eight years she stood, with beauty to shame the sky and stars. A beauty that laughed aloud and said—

“My, what lovely work, boys!”

It was this very enchantress who had gulled the shop-master by claiming to be a goddess's envoy—and then, catching the slightest storm, sent all these men to his shop in dead of night. Some had hitched ropes to trees and bamboo all around his garden, and whipped them to bluff the sounds of a roaring wind, while others had beaten at the pond to affect waves. Under such clamor they had cunningly hidden any sounds of vault doors opening, of wares being moved.

A most unusual—most phantasmic—thief, no?

—Eishirō Suzuki, Strange Worlds: Tall Tales and Oddities (1908).

¹ Approx. 1684–1688 CE. ² No relation to Kappei. That we know of. ³ Wealth goddess strongly associated with rivers and lakes. One of Japan's Seven Lucky Gods. ⁴ Approx. 9—11pm. Adapted from Old China's gēng-diǎn system, each "watch" marking one-fifth of the time between sunset and dawn.

[itsclydebitches]

Watching The Apothecary Diaries and from a character perspective I love the detail of the pipe, the one used in the warehouse explosion. In just a few, literal seconds of storytelling we're shown quite clearly who Maomao is:

She notes that she "accidentally" took the pipe with her. Despite being a poor commoner surrounded by luxury, she resists most temptations towards theft. There's one moment - was it when she went to Ah-Duo's palace? - where she notes that anyone with so many nice things wouldn't notice something small going missing, but then she knocks herself out of that thinking. Maomao isn't some #pure protagonist who'd never even consider such a thing, rather she's an upstanding and smart individual who realizes this is both wrong and, notably, a dumb move if she gets caught. Maomao is careful to ask for the materials she needs to pull off the bomb experiment and there are times when, even basking in a love of herbs, she will not pick them if they're from someone else's garden. Maomao respects others' property and not even her hyperfixations will override that (a common flaw in other single-minded protagonists). This also dovetails nicely into her admission that she and Luomen built a lot of things they needed because she grew up poor. Who's to say how hard someone else worked to make/buy/secure that object?

Sidenote: It's interesting to me that the exception here seems to be Jinshi. Just an episode earlier Maomao tried to fleece him of who knows how much through the sale of Granny's "educational materials," which, you know, is very much theft. Beyond the fact that the general wealth of a noble differs greatly from the specific possession of a commoner (or even a woman concubine), it feels almost... intimate to me? That's not quite the word I'm looking for, but I mean that Maomao allows Jinshi to influence her in ways she doesn't let others, at least outside of her immediate family. Another notable example of that is her unwillingness to fake an interest in him. We see many times over the course of the show - facing off against the women in the outer court, acting as a courtesan for the night, etc. - that Maomao is perfectly capable of playing the smiling, docile, hapless woman society expects. Yet from day one she's refused to apply that mask for Jinshi's sake and, in turn, despises when he turns his charm mask on her. Maomao wants people to exist plainly, just as she normally does... and a part of that is accepting that she's sometimes an imperfect, immoral person. Weirdly, trying to steal from Jinshi feels like an act of trust towards him, both on a safety level (I trust that you won't punish me too harshly if I get caught) and an emotional one (I trust you to see an important part of my character: that I'll bend and even break the rules for my family's sake).

Moving on, Maomao is also incredibly practical and is living under the realities of a) poverty and b) a patriarchal society. She notes many times throughout the series (this episode included) that Luomen is terrible at turning a profit and Maomao herself owes Granny a fair bit. Combine that with the reminder that she was just fired from one position after being kidnapped from another and of course Maomao thinks about selling the pipe. She didn't intentionally steal it and - crucially - she has no reason to think it's still important to the investigation, but now that it's in her possession she might as well make use of it. Clean it up, find a new mouthpiece, and sell it off for a good price. Maomao is constantly thinking about the price of things, particularly in the context of whether she, a commoner, deserves them and that leads to her likewise noting the everyday objects that could make a big difference in her life, things that others don't even notice. For Jinshi that's just a useless stack of papers to burn; for Maomao they're a potential source of income, translating directly to her father keeping a roof over his head. Class is HUGE in The Apothecary Diaries, so of course Maomao takes one look at a beautifully carved pipe and considers how much she could sell it for.

...but she doesn't. Maomao looks closer still, uses those keen deduction skills to assume the pipe may have sentimental importance, and decides to give it back. Laomen isn't in immediate danger of being evicted, she may have just snagged him a new customer in Lihaku, and Granny isn't hounding her too much, so soft-hearted Maomao is going to put practicality aside and return it. Because she is soft-hearted. This is the girl utterly committed to the big gestures - risking exposure to warn two mothers about the poison killing their babies - as well as the small: staying up night after night to sew pockets into everyone's clothes just so they might be a little warmer for one festival. Now here, Maomao decides to still clean up the pipe. It's not enough to just return it, she's going to return it in pristine condition, even though that won't net her anything other than a potential 'Thank you' now. For me, Maomao so often embodies the message that when peoples' basic needs are met, they're then free to be quite kind to one another.

Love this girl. So, so much.

[corvidcrossbow]

~•♡•~ Double The Fangs, Double The Fun

➳ Summary: Daryl and Scud are regulars at the bar you work at, but they're only really there for you. One night while chatting, you injure yourself, so they help you home to heal up (Vamp!Daryl & Vamp!Scud x Fem!Reader)

➳ Setting: idfk sometime, somewhere, no apocalypse (this is a crossover fic for smut lets be real)

➳ Word count: 5.5k (3k of it is smut)

➳ C/W: VAMPIRES ‼️‼️, minor wound, blood (duh), biting/vampire feeding, double penetration, hints of Scud's mommy kink

➳ A/N: I wrote doc title for this as “DTFx2” cuz of the lettering, not even realizing the “down-to-fuck” till later, plus it being 2 partners – I cooked on this title. BUT ANYWAY I AM FUELING THE VAMP!DARYL FIRE AND VAMP!SCUD TOO BECAUSE THIS IS A PLAGUE AND I AM ILL AND I WILL SPREAD IT

You stretched your arms up over your head, leaning forward against the counter in front of you. It was another slow weeknight, no customers present, hindered by the fact the bar was tucked away in some deader part of the city. It was pretty boring, but you got paid for kinda just diddleling around a lot of the time. You rhythmically tapped your fingertips against the surface, but straightened up when the door jingled open.

“Fuck, I was about to start praying you two would show up. ‘Ts borin' as shit in here,” You laughed as two familiar faces walked in from the night; Daryl and Scud. They were your regulars, stopping by most any time you were on shift. And you heard from coworkers sometimes they'd show up, see that you weren't there, and just leave.

You never found it creepy though, it wasn't like that. They were always very respectful towards you, kind of chivalrous, but not obnoxiously. They'd always buy a drink and tip heavy, or just straight up give you money – and would scare off the actually creepy drinkers: the one's that'd prey on a woman as if she was frail. You didn't require them, having pepper spray and a gun beneath the counter, but they gave you extra security. And we're good company.

Scud, who you knews real name was Josh – the more ‘loverboy’ one of the two – popped by most nights after work. He was really sweet, having grown a soft spot for him and letting him bend the rules; like allowing him to smoke a joint, or three, inside, so long as he shared them with you. He claimed he was a sort of engineer, which you found a little surprising given you'd never seen him without the skunky smell of weed wafting around his figure, but it's not like it mattered to you.

Daryl, on the other hand, was much more reserved, and you'd be lying if you said that didn't intrigue you. He appeared older, and more of a rarity, seeming to drift in and out of town: which made sense given that scratchy, deep southern accent he carried.

“Ain't gon’ pass up seein’ ya, moonshine,” Daryl grinned as he sauntered up to take a seat, Scud following right behind and taking the one opposite him. ‘Moonshine’ is what he always called you, given you were a bartender, and it was ironic because you never saw either of them till after sundown. “Shift slow?”

“Painfully,” You groaned and rolled your eyes. “Ion even know how we get enough profit to keep this place open. Not sure anyone in our staff remembers the last time we saw the owner in person. I swear this is some money laundering scheme.”

“‘Least your gettin’ paid, yeah? My boss don't even got me onna regular schedule,” Scud tisked, reaching into the pocket of his large, layered jacket and pulling out the container he kept his joints in. “Ya wanna J?”: To which you nodded and he passed you one. Daryl's observant gaze watched your every movement, as he typically did.

“Ya get yer nails done, darlin’?” He asked, squinting his pale blue eyes and setting his hand out as you lit the joint.

“Hm?” Your eyes flicked to him, understanding, and you set your palm in his hand so he could see. Pressed to your nail beds were coffin acrylics, painted a rich red, the gloss making them almost bloody. “Jus’ got ‘em done this morning. Figured if ‘m gonna be sittin’ here twiddling my thumbs half the time they might as well look good.”

“Looks perfect on ya.” Your gazes locked together for a moment, hypnotic in a way as his irises seemed to pulse, then suddenly shift down. He loomed closer and ran his thumb over your fingers, appreciating the gleaming texture that reflected in the dim light.

“Real pretty momma's,” Scud added as he took a long drag of his smoke, holding it for a moment before skillfully exhaling in a long plume that dissipated and began to fill the small space with a haze.

“Mm, thank you boys,” You turned a little, offering a bashful smile at their endless complimenting – they showered you with affectionate comments every time they came in. “Either of you want somethin’? It can be on the house, think the workers drink more than customers.”

“‘Ll take'ah whiskey – ‘nd m’payin’ ya anyway, angel,” Daryl replied, fishing for his wallet and passing you bills that more than doubled the price of a shot. Frankly you felt bad sometimes, like you were taking his money, but gave up a long time ago with trying to decline. He insisted.

As you went to grab the iconic bottle of Jack Daniel's off the shelf behind you, your elbow stuck out a bit too far and knocked over a large glass you'd been using for water, sending it to the floor where it shattered. “Ugh, never complain that you're bored at work. Fate'll always make ya clean.”

You quickly poured the auburn grog into a shot and slid it across the wood countertop to Daryl, dropping to your knees to pick up the larger shards.

“Fuck!” You seethed, accidentally slicing open the palm of your hand by sweeping it over the edge of a fragment in the other, your joint nearly falling from where you'd pinched it between your lips. Both men bounded from their stools to look over, simultaneously uttering ‘Ya alrigh's?''s. You half-clutched your fist and rose to be level again, hitching your breath with a small whine as striking pain electrified your nerves.

Blood quickly began to spill from the gash, running down your wrist and upper forearm before dripping to the floor a couple times as Daryl snapped to grab a clean rag from behind the bar so you could hold pressure, moving so fast he registered as just a whoosh. As your eyes were shut in pain, theirs were blown open, locked onto the crimson that tinted your skin. They could see the microscopic way it gushed a bit more from every beat of your heart.

Tendrils of that sweet, mind warping scent curled through the air and around the pair's bodies. God it smelled so damn good – you smelled so good. They didn't wish you harm, but they'd just been agonizingly waiting to someday, by some chance, get to smell the life-giving fluid that pumped through your veins without the blockage your skin created, keeping the complete experience inside of you. And they could only dream of getting to taste it…

You spun back to face them, and swore for a second, the color of both their blue eyes had altered to match the plasma soaking into the grey washcloth in your grip – their faces flat like they hadn't eaten in years and you just baited the idea of a gourmet feast. But once you blinked, they were back to azure, concern etched across eyebrows and frowns. Maybe it was just the shitty brilliance of the bar.

“‘M fine, jus’ being mindless I guess. Scud, how the hell are ya smokin’ and working with wires ‘n soldering shit,” You shook your head, blaming your incident on the brain fog from weed, although it was a poor excuse given it should not have taken effect that fast. Perhaps you were just embarrassingly locked on auto-pilot.

“Ya look like yer bleedin’ bad, princess. Lemme see.” Daryl beckoned you over and took your hand. His body tensed, that dangerous feeling of his canines extending creeping up. It took all he had to not press his mouth to you. He knew better, he had control. You let him remove the rag, examining the cut and finding it to be quite deep, him stating it might have to be closed

“We don't got any medical stuff here ‘sides maybe a few bandaids. I'd be surprised if anybody else came in ‘ere tonight so I'll just close up ‘n deal with it home. Sorry to cut our chat time short guys…” You gave a half frown, taking an unsteady inhale and trying to mask the aching in your extremity. You smothered the joint, enjoyment ruined.

“Don't gotta apologize mama's. Wantcha to be okay,” Scud commented, mirroring your expression. Looking between him and Daryl, you felt there was some synergy connecting them, like they were communicating despite both staring at you.

“Why don't we take ya home, mebbe have me patch tha fer ya, hm?” Daryl suggested, readjusting his leather jacket as he tilted his head slightly.

“Oh, no. I don't wanna bother either of ya with that…”

“‘Ts no bother, sugar. We wanna make sure you're safe. ‘Ts late, dark, ‘nd you're bleedin’. Don't want anythin’ bad happening to ya,” Scud explained, his every word ending on a sort of mewl as he plucked his joint from his mouth to speak clearly.

“Alright – just cause I know you two will follow me to check anyway.” You grabbed your things, Daryl and Scud helping to close up the bar so you didn't further injure yourself, then leaving with you. It was reasonable for them to come with, and this wouldn't be the first time. And this wasn't the safest part of town, so it wouldn't hurt to have them.

❥-》》—————➣

When you returned to your apartment, both of them praised your designing of the interior, having not been inside before. To you it wasn't much of anything special, but again, it was just in their nature to say kind things to you.

You nodded Daryl in the direction of your bathroom so he could grab some ointment and gauze, going to sit on the couch as Scud plopped beside you. You easily could've nursed it yourself, but if there was anything you really knew about Daryl, it was his tendency to always be doing favors – and not letting you decline.

“Y'know… I know a way tah make that heal faster than any dressings could,” Scud broke the silence, dragging his gaze over your frame, and landing on your hand where you still held the soiled rag. He couldn't fucking take it anymore. He didn't have the control that Daryl did.

“What do you mean?” You now faced him, confused at the way his breathing seemed to grow a bit heavier, chest puffing further out despite his lazy posture. But he straightened some, scooting closer to you and reaching for your hand.

“Just trust me on this…” He was salivating, bottom lip practically trembling with anticipation. He was so close, access to your fresh blood right there. God how he ached for it every time he saw your beautiful face, just so damn entranced by you. He tried not to completely lose his mind as he neared your palm.

“Um… yer gonna get it infected doin’ that.”

“Won't.” And his mouth hovered right above it.

“Seriously, Scud, what are you doing?” Now you were concerned, tempted to call Daryl back. Was this some weird sex thing? His way of trying to seduce you? Taking ‘kiss my boo-boo to make it feel better’ a bit too far. But you sensed this… energy, radiating off of him, drawing out your naïve trait of curiosity. Something felt different about him, although you guess it always did – but only now could you really perceive it, having him so close. “What are you? ”

Scud's eyes flicked up to yours, blue flipped across the scale of hues to match the color you'd caught a glimpse of at the bar – the color of your blood, and those flawless new nails. “Whadda ya think I am, sweetheart?”

As his lips peeled back with a grin, you could see the lengthy, pin-sharp fangs that descended from the roof of his mouth, glistening with his famine. Your mouth fell open, pupils dilating as realization worked through your brain. Oh shit. Oh, shit..? You didn't speak, but didn't know what to say anyway.

He chuckled at your reaction. “Jus’ relax, mama's.” Finally. His tongue darted out, dragging a long lick over the front of your wound, causing you to wince and jerk a little. It didn't particularly hurt, but was so odd at the start. Scud held back a moan, but couldn't help his remarks: “Mmm, you taste so good… bettah than I ever imagined…”

You swallowed thickly, watching him work saliva over your tender flesh, and lapping away any remnants of the blood that ran down your arm. He stared intensely into your eyes as he drew a long, excessively slow lick up your limb and back to the wound. You felt it begin to radiate, an unfamiliar warmth centralizing over the cut but spreading out into your entire palm.

He brushed his lips against your fingers with a featherlite kiss, and reluctantly pulled away, letting you watch branches of skin connect together from both sides, color quickly shifting back to your normal tone, and your hand completely unscathed. You flexed your tendons, feeling it for yourself. It was completely healed, a two-week time lapsing into under a minute.

“Why'd ya show ‘er.” Daryl's voice was stern, silently standing behind the couch and startling you as you whipped around. You should've figured – it wouldn't take that long to find simple first aid in your bathroom.

“Known ‘er for long enough, D. Why let'er suffer with some gash if we can just heal it for her?” Scud replied and shrugged innocently. But his wording was key; ‘we’.

“You're both vampires,” You nodded dryly as Daryl grumbled something under his breath and came around the couch to sit on the other side of you. Now the ‘moonshine’ was really ironic. “Okay… I assume if you were gonna drain me ya woulda done it by now.”

“Don't tempt me, baby,” Scud smirked, and Daryl shot him a harsh glare. “What? Sure she appreciates the healin’ at least!”

“Yeah, I do… but it's weirdly intimate, no? Just, wetly runnin’ yer tongue all over someone, gathering saliva on their skin, tastin’ the irony remnants of their blood-”

“Quit talkin’ like that,” Daryl hissed, your sight passing back to him, watching his adam's-apple bob and his jaw tense. His eyes reddened as well, and it dawned on you how teasing your choice of dialogue must've been for them.

“Or keep goin’. Like hearin’ your gorgeous voice say such pretty words,” Scud wet his lips, volume just above a whisper. You felt trapped between two sides of a spectrum, both equally covet… and you were way more into it than you would ever want to admit. Your jaw laxed with a weary breath, mind wandering further ahead than you liked it to. “But you're right, can be real intimate.” His voice dropped lower as he neared you, keeping sights intertwined.

“You're torturing me momma's… pleas’... would give anythin’ to feel ya,” He almost whimpered, puppy dog eyes peering up at you. “He would too, he's jus’ a lil’ more shy.”

It'd be the fattest lie of your life to say you didn't find him attractive, both of them. Closing the door behind you some nights after they'd walked you home, tempted to just bring them inside. How many times you muttered dirty words as your legs tangled in your bedsheets and you touched yourself, imagining how they'd sound in Scud's whiny hitches, or Daryl's gravelly grunts…

You reached up, taking Scud's chin in the light hold of your acrylics and bringing his mouth to yours. He directly melted, turning to puddy from that alone and cravingly dabbing your lips with his tongue. When you pulled back, he tried to follow, pining for more. But you wanted to be fair, and switched to the other man.

Daryl looked like he didn't know what to do, that effort of displaying confidence broken the second the gate he'd been waiting outside of for so long actually opened. But a quick ‘C'mere’, and the curling of your pointer finger brought him to you expeditiously, rough lips chafing over your moisted ones. He shoved away his groan, not quite ready for that yet.

“This ain't gonna stop at kissin’, right?” You checked on an exhale, both their eyes boring into you from either plane, the patterns of their breathing reworking themselves. Dropping it here would be teasing you now.

“S’ain't gon’ stop less ya want it to, moonshine,” He rasped, irises captivating and luring you back to him, clawed hand coming to his cheek – that made the groan slip. He inhaled sharply, ardently guiding his tongue into your mouth, which definitely made Scud jealous.

The engineer brought his hands to your waist, toying with the seams of your shirt as Daryl harshly tugged you closer to him, gaining momentum, growing hungrier. He explored the entire cavity of your mouth, feeling the heat of your gums, the smoothness of your teeth in comparison to his canines, and drew a moan from your throat, hints of a smile crinkling.

“Yer not good at hidin’ whatcha want, honeysuckle,” The southerner purred, trailing down to your jawline as Scud's lips pressed to the nape of your neck. You weren’t sure if he could tell by your body language, or was able to read your mind or something; all the near whorish thoughts running through your psyche.

“Then you should know how long I've thought about this.”

Daryl immediately hooked his strong arms under your thighs, shoving Scud back to stand up off the couch, your legs instinctively latching around his torso as he started to leave a hickey on your neck and find his way to your bedroom.

Scud awkwardly stood behind for a second, shyly glancing to the floor, feeling literally and figuratively pushed aside by the other's dominance. “C'mon Scuddy,” You mouthed, and he looked like he came in pants right there – hurdling to track after you.

Daryl roughly threw you onto the edge of your bed, simultaneously ripping your shirt up over your head. He reached down for the button of your jeans, quickly popping it out and tearing them off, leaving you in just your lacey, red bra and panties.

“Jeez, you ‘nd fuckin’ red, woman.” He bordered on a growl, sliding off his jacket and tossing it to the floor. You sat upright on the rim the mattress, aiding Scud in dropping his many layers, but he teetered like he just wanted to fuck himself senseless with all it still on.

Both them now shirtless, you raked your nails down their chest, taking extra notice to follow the lightning-like scars carved into Scud's abdomen to your left. You let out a breathy curse at their defined v-lines and mouthwateringly sexy happy trails, discarding Daryl's belt, and gently cupping his pulsing erection through his jeans – the same through Scud's cargos.

One twitched, then the other, and you chuckled. “You two really want me that bad, huh?” You questioned, beaming up through your lashes with a flirty smirk: but that mischievous temping simmered seeing the pure lust on their features. They looked like they were gonna eat you alive, and honestly… you wouldn't mind it.

You undid their pants to drop them down, and with some sort of unspoken permission translating between the three of you, they pounced forward, resistance snapping like twigs. Scud hauled your body up the bed and instantaneously found your lips, already gasping into your mouth. His hands each found one of your breasts, fondling and pawing impatiently through your bra.

Daryl grabbed your hips, tugging you back down a little and drawing a wet lick from the hem of your panties up your navel, holding you to him as your spine arched. He kissed and sucked at the delicate skin on your pelvis and inner thighs, leaving behind litters of those gentle bruises on the surface, spotting across the curves of your body. His fangs grazed you as he worked, a persistent reminder of what a feral vampire could just take from you – but he was a humble man, and prefered to give.

You directed Scud to strip your bra, given he'd basically lost all ability to function the second your clothes were off, and even worse once he was on you. Now with your chest fully out, he was gone. He greedily sucked one nipple into his mouth, kneading the other like a cat, while Daryl curled a finger around the hem of your panties, deliberately running from side to side before he suddenly ripped them away – literally ripped. “Promise ‘ll buy ya new ones, babydoll.”

Whatever deeply guttural noise that erupted from you when Daryl's tongue made contact with your cunt was everything but holy. Your hips bucked up into his face so rapidly it almost caught him off guard, his palms splayed out on your thighs and his mouth latched onto your clit. He sucked in rapid pumps, before trawling down then back up and spreading your folds. He lapped up every bit of your pooled wetness, taking a deep inhale and the hidden claws in his fingertips nearing shooting out as his toes curled.

“Fuck! Yer pussy smell's'so fuckin’ good.” His words came out as near snarls, reverberating against your core. Should the view of him not have been obscured by Scud, you're sure you would've came at the sight of him so deeply intoxicated by just the scent of you. “‘Nd tastes so goddamn lovely.”

“‘Ts not fair, man, ah wanna taste ‘er-”

“Nah. Ya got ‘er hand, pussy's mine.” Now he was snarling, possessive crimson eyes stabbing into the other man as he'd turned to look back at him, burying himself deeper into your cunt and earning another wild moan. Scud frowned a little, but you brought your hands to his hips and readjusted him to be sitting on your chest, legs on either side of your body.

“Don't worry, baby.” And you rolled down his boxers so his dick was free: fully hard, tip swollen up and flushed with color, absolutely weeping for you, and it bobbed with a twitch. You wrapped your hand around the base, giving a few pressurized strokes as he bowed forward over your head and straight up whimpered in your ear, aching and pulsing and starved of touch and attention.

“Oh-.. God, momma's… t’so good…” He wove his fingers through your hair to tug lightly at the roots and anchor himself. But the second you put your tongue on him, he jerked forward and shoved into your mouth, cumming abruptly. He couldn't help it, you were; “Jus’ so warm…”

Still you swallowed it down, swiveling the tip of your tongue along the underside of his head, prolonging his high. You weren't surprised; with how frenzied he was, acting like he'd been edged for far too long – which you supposed he had, based on how he talked earlier – you pegged him for the kind to cum fast. He probably wanted you to actually peg him too.

Daryl tipped a domino by chuckling at the early orgasm, the sound waves making you moan around Scud's cock, which in return made him slide a bit deeper again. Daryl started to hum, and removed one hand from your thigh to slip two girthy fingers into you, curling them up and pressing into that sensitive spot in your walls. He focused his mouth on your clit, drawing it in with suction while he rapidly wagged his tongue, soon pumping his fingers in and out of you, and your moans picked up.

The shallow edge of Scud's claws inched further out and held your skull, careful to not scrape into your skin, but exigent nonetheless. His breathing descended into ragged heaving against the side of your head as you worked his cock like you knew every little thing that got him going.

“Getch'yer dick outta her mouth so Ah can hear ‘er cum,” Daryl barked, breaking contact from you for just a moment. Scud groaned, wanting so badly for you to deepthroat him, but he shifted over to the side, knowing Daryl would forcibly do it anyway. Now he moved impossibly faster, fingers stretching you open and filling the bedroom with wet noises from how he had you dripping.

Getting to hear you clearly now sent him into overdrive, grunting against your clit while Scud just laboriously returned to toying with your boobs. “C'mon girl, jus’ cum. Cum fer me. Wanna see yer gorgeous face.”

“Jesus, Daryl-” Your sentence split, and you cried out, trembling legs coming together and forcing him flush against you. You rode his face, a hand flying down to tug at his shaggy locks and assisting you in rolling your hips. He clutched you bruisingly hard, nearing ripping into you.

When your limbs relaxed again, he lavished long licks over your cunt, swirling the tangy, sticky nectar of your release over his entire mouth. “Mos’ perfect fuckin’ thing.”

“Pleas’ mommas, can I fuck ya?” Scud pleaded, cupping your face to catch his distress. Sharing was hard when one party was so much more controlling. Poor thing needed you.

But seeing Daryl yank down and discard his boxers, hard cock visibly throbbing and tip shaded red, he needed you too. And you could tell a blowjob just wouldn't settle it for either of them. “Fuck, just-.. both of you fuck me.”

“Can ya handle two, sweetheart?” Daryl exhorted, swiping a strayed bit of hair from your forehead and deftly tucking it back, slightly softened eyes checking for sincerity in your expression. With your nod, they acclimated to desire once again.

He flipped onto his back, and manhandled your body overtop of him, your back flattened on his chest, and Scud hurriedly positioning above. Daryl kept your legs spread apart with his, reaching around and palming at your breast while going down to slick himself between your soaked folds, slapping himself against you a couple times. “Ya tell us if s'too much, alrigh’?”

“Yea, yeah- please, just fuck me already,” You wailed as he angled you down and slipped deep into you, Scud giving you a second to adjust before coating spit over his shaft, and gently guiding into you as well.

Your back arched as Daryl held you firm, whining in delectable pain as they strained you further open than you ever had been, your acrylics digging into his waist beneath you. Scud layered himself onto you, sucking another hickey into your chest then rocking his hips a couple of times.

When you handled it well, Daryl took it as a cue to join him, plodding more in his thrusts to still give you the opportunity to bail if this wasn't to your liking. Your eyelids fluttered closed, head lulling back to rest on Daryl's shoulder as your heavy breaths fell in line with the pace. When Scud pushed in, Daryl would pull out, and vice versa: always keeping you full while maintaining the motion that granted so much ecstasy to you three. Every one of their filthy noises sounded incomprehensibly better than you'd ever pictured.

Scud mewled against you, head buried into your breasts and giving quick pecks or licks any time he wasn't being uncontrollably vocal. Daryl did the same, groaning into your shoulder and hair.

“Takin’ us so good, arentcha darlin’? So wet, pussy so tight,” Daryl hushed into your ear, hooking up faster and faster following each of his thrusts like the speed was on a multiplier.

You twisted fingers in the back of Scud's head, triggering a loud whine when you tugged on the roots of this hair and that metal choker he always wore. He started to waver, weakly humping you like his brain was fried and just focusing on staying as deep inside you as he could. “Mmm… mommy, I… ‘m so hungry. Please…” The hinges of his jaw started extending on their own, humid exhales dampening an area by your neck. Tasting hints of your blood earlier spawned a black hole that decimated the sinkhole he'd previously had caving in over time. In the near year he'd known you, that urge to just feed from your tender flesh was all he ever thought about. And now, warm walls of your cunt wrapped around him, urging him to another orgasm… He couldn't wait much longer, he was starving.

Daryl planted his feet to make up for Scud's faltering rhythm, the strengthful build of his hips and thighs making it easy to lift you. He was trying so hard to focus on just fucking you, but as the other vampire's imploring got the best of him, he started to follow suit. “Ya know yer'a damn tease, righ’ moonshine? Lookin’ so sexy all tha time, tha seductive scent ah yers… Fuck, I kno’ ya taste like heaven…” He craned his neck up, applying pressure to your carotid artery with his tongue, feeling everything he wanted pump through you at a rapid rate.

You took in a shaky breath, vivacity emanating from the both of them and encircling you. Their dicks throbbed inside of you, the drifter pistoning while the engineer hunched, but that just wasn't enough, and it made the craving so much more pressing. Their pairs of fangs rested on the edges of your skin, tracing over it, each on one side.

“Shit… just do it-.. Jus’ fuckin’ do,” You panted, and it happened so fast you barely even realized it. Scud's bite was eager, being more frantic and on your left: Daryl's more longing, savoring the feeling of piercing into your silky flesh on the right. They drew long siphons into their throats, sultry crimson flooding their systems as their eyes blazed a mutual color.

A strangled moan ripped from your being, your consciousness floating in a haze. Daryl fucked you faster, empowered by your smooth blood, grunting savagely as his razor-edged talons dug into your breasts, Scud's on your waist: but they were so careful to not rip you up.

“Mmmnngh… oh, gods momma, m’gonna cum…” Scud lost any last sense of his composure, curving his spine and slicking out of you to cum over your pelvis. He whimpered like an injured dog, anchoring himself with the teeth lodged in you, grinding against you a few times to ride out the bliss as he messied your body with lengthy ropes of white. Waves of body-wracking pleasure made him writhe around on your chest, lost in some other realm.

“Fuck… cum fer me again, dollface. Know yer good fer me,” Daryl mumbled against you, driving into your cunt with every newfound bit of liveliness he garnered from feeding on you. Your brain stopped working at this point – those red acrylic nails scratching at Daryl's thigh with your left, and Scud's back with your right.

You felt lightheaded, loss of ichor incapacitating you even as they'd ceased thirsting, just keeping fangs planted in your muscles. The crest of euphoria floated your soul to nirvana, Daryl's tip brushing past one specific golden point in your walls and shoving you off the cliff of your climax, tightening his hold on you as you bowed and bucked, vision stripped from your senses.

Your pussy spasmed and massaged around the southerner's cock, and with a final few abusing thrusts, he withdrew and spilled his own load over your folds, resistant moans rumbling from his vocal cords. All three of your chests heaved intensely, fighting to steal any oxygen from the lust-filled atmosphere of your bedroom.

Daryl's hands drifted to your midsection to push up and roll Scud off of you to the left, knowing he was too much of a fucked out mess to do it himself. He gently laid you between the two of them, smoothing a caring hand over your chest and pressing a kiss to your upper arm. “Ya feelin’ okay, moonshine? Didn't take too much, righ’?”

“Yea, ‘m good.., jus’ need a minute,” You wheezed, eyes shut and soma trying to recuperate. Daryl peeled himself from the bed, going to wet a rag, and fetch some water and food. Returning, he compassionately cleaned away the cum smeared across your curves, supporting you as he helped you drink and all – then gathered extra layers of healing saliva over your puncture wounds just to make sure they'd seal over.

He soothed you by tracing patterns with his calloused palm, the three of you resting for a long while and wrapping thoughts around what just happened.

Scud snaked his arm around yours and cuddled right up against your side, keeping lips pressed against you with his whiny hums. “Wanna feel more'ah ya mommas…” To only say he was needy was an understatement, he was full on reliant – vampiric endurance adapting the role of an exponent for such.

“Let ‘er rest.”

You brought your nails to Scud's scalp, gently scratching his head and he practically began to purr. Even if Daryl shoved him off, you appreciated how benevolent he was to you, and could tell he felt less-than right now, lacking your focus. “That spit of yours work on swellin’ too?”

He nodded with a mumbly ‘Mhm…’

“Then how bout'cha lick my pussy till it feels better, ‘nd we'll keep goin’ till botha ya are ran dry, hm?” You suggested, planting a kiss on the top of his head and sensing the energy shift.

And they were both on you all over again in an instant.

©corvidcrossbow 2024. I do not give permission for my works to be copied, modified or adapted to other platforms. My work may be translated only if asked and with proof of given consent.

[star-anise]

What radicalized me was Conservative philanthropy.

I've said before that my parents were property managers, which is to say, the people real estate investors who owned apartment buildings hired to act as landlords for them. And they and a lot of my other relatives were really big into investing in real estate as a means of creating generational wealth. (This has not worked out for us, by and large. Some have given up, but others are still hustling today.)

This means that when a local government wants to create a Taskforce on How We're Totally Addressing the Housing Crisis, You Guys, and among all the shelters and charities desperate for funding, they look to appoint someone who can represent the landlords who control most of the housing here... they appoint the kind of people I end up sitting next to at Thanksgiving dinner.

So this story I just shared about landlords and government and housing benefit payment dates?

Yeah. That got shared with me by a conservative. Someone who knows I'm a fruity socialist leech now, and wanted me to know that this was proof that the private sector CARES!

Actually, it was part of an argument about how government or nonprofit housing wasn't a good solution to the housing crisis, because the private sector "can do it more efficiently". The landlords saw something was really wrong and they were having to evict a lot more people than usual! So they called up their buddies in office and got it FIXED! Let us join hands and sing!

I, meanwhile, knew that benefits recipients had been screaming about this problem to national newsmedia for months before the landlords stepped in, so I was less than impressed. Imagine a type of noblesse oblige that only takes notice when they realize they're making people homeless when they might have made a profit off them instead.

Every time conservatives pat themselves on the back for how good they are to the poor, I can't stop seeing just how good to the poor they aren't, most of the time.

(And also: I know how the economics work, and how most of the time the landlords couldn't afford to just let people stay for less money. Mortgages need paying. But that doesn't inspire me to let the landlords off easy; it says to me that we really do need radically different funding models for housing.)

[bberry005]

maces and talons symbolism post because i was originally gonna just post it as a reblog to the other post i made but it got WAY too long. but basically i've recently been going a little insane about how maces and talons is used as a way to symbolize hiccup's character arc from explorer to chief that's eventually fully realized in httyd 2 (and also 3 but i'm not gonna touch on httyd 3 for this one even though i think it does have some fascinating storytelling that just wasn't conveyed well. but that's a whole other post)

we're first introduced to maces and talons when viggo is introduced as the primary antagonist. maces and talons is, in its shortest form, a game used to test the skill of chiefs in battle. it's mentioned multiple times that this is the game's primary purpose, even if we see multiple instances of the riders playing it for fun. so right away we're somewhat subtlely told this game is going to be used to test hiccup's skill in battle and his abilities as chief.

maces and talons is above all else a strategy game, and as hiccup and viggo fight we see that they're playing real life maces and talons against each other for seasons 2-4. hiccup is the viking chief and viggo is the chief of the marauders. the dragon riders and dragon hunters are the viking pieces, and the dragons are surprise! the dragons. but we're also introduced to a special piece: the traitor, who viggo explicitly names as heather. she plays both sides, tries to figure out dragon hunter secrets to tell the riders, and in the end is nearly killed for it, hence the line "the traitor always dies in the end" (this isn't an exact quote this is just what i'm remembering)

this first game is our first indicator at exactly how high the stakes have risen and despite how smart hiccup is, it shows us how much smarter he needs to become to best viggo with his morals and ideals still intact. with just dagur as the antagonist previously, the stakes were high but they weren't as impossibly difficult as they were with viggo. viggo gets innocents caught in the crossfire (ex: STARVING BERK to get hiccup to do what he wants), he payrolls a gladiator style fighting ring, and we understand him as someone who will do anything do profit off the sale of dragons. it's a harsh introduction for both hiccup and the viewer that the world outside the archipelago is much rougher than it seems and that dragon's edge is much MUCH more than a research station and their outpost. it's a military base, and often times serves as the last defense for berk before enemies get too close. hiccup running dragon's edge is almost his "trial run" as chief, and his first maces and talons match with viggo is the first real test. he passes because he won that specific game. viggo is presumably dead. ryker is certainly dead. there's no more threats to the dragons or berk, and dragon's edge can once again be a research outpost.

but then krogan enters the picture, and the riders are on their back foot again. it's an incredibly rude awakening to the fact that if hiccup wants to be a protector of dragons, he needs to be hypervigilant. it's unfair and harsh, but hiccup's distraction is what led to the edge falling. yes, he's 19 and wants to spend time with astrid and have fun, but if he wants to run dragons edge like a true leader, he needs to operate under the assumption the maces and talons game is never over.

the fall of dragon's edge is hiccup's biggest failure to date, and it's the first one we're led to believe he can't come back from. even when he lost all of berk's gold, there was the assumption he'd get it back and that it wasn't entirely his fault. but when dragon's edge falls? the blame falls on entirely on hiccup, and i think it's amazing writing that snotlout is the one who calls him out on it. snotlout is hiccup's right hand (yes, even over astrid or fishlegs. i have a lot of thoughts on this that i'm not gonna get into right now), and we often see snotlout as the irresponsible one. but here he is, after having just led the rest of the dragon riders through the absolute hell that was krogan's takeover, forcing hiccup to confront the fact that being a leader isn't everything he originally thought. in this moment, hiccup reaches that turning point he didn't reach with all his other missteps. this mistake is what solidifies the reality that people rely on him for more than just training dragons and that distraction isn't acceptable. it's the first thing that forces him into leadership in ways he didn't really process before. the next time he plays maces and talons with the newly resurrected viggo, the stakes will be much higher and the implications even more severe.

the true players of the next game aren't revealed until season 6 episode 8: triple cross. this is the episode where viggo dies, and maces and talons comes fully back into the picture with this episode. there are hints that there's still some game going on, since viggo and krogan do have a conversation about the merits of maces and talons when they take dragon's edge in season 5, but we don't truly know what's going on until triple cross. in this episode, hiccup is positioned as the viking chief, viggo as a new piece known as the accomplice, and johan as the chief of the marauders. the accomplice is a piece similar to the traitor. it's a piece on the other side that actually belongs to the opposing player, and with viggo's death, we assume the accomplice also always dies at the end. this is also the first and only time in rtte where hiccup loses an ally (no matter how brief or reluctant) to death, which is notable in its own right. no one on hiccup's team has ever died in battle, and viggo's death is another thing that shocks the reality of the situation into hiccup.

when they part ways at the end of the episode, viggo gives hiccup the one missing piece on his maces and talons board. back on dragon's edge, hiccup places the piece on the board, knocks it over to represent viggo's final defeat, and closes the board before walking away from it. closing the maces and talons board represents the end of hiccup haddock, explorer and researcher of dragons. there's no more game, no more dragon's edge, no more living with his friends and finding new islands and having his "trial run" as chief. hiccup's game of maces and talons is over. he's proven himself, and now he's hiccup haddock, future chief of berk and legendary trainer of dragons. he walks away from the maces and talons board because his time for learning is over, and he even says it when he tells astrid that they learned a lot from viggo.

SO BASICALLY all of this is to say that race to the edge is set up as a giant maces and talons game that proves hiccup is ready to be chief. he's learned all the necessary leadership skills and proven himself in battle over and over again. he's cemented himself as a strong, capable, and strategic leader who is curious and loyal to a fault (as many fictional characters are), and at this point his reputation makes him seem larger than life to many (ex: astrid is literally able to use hiccup's reputation as the "dragon master" to bide time for her and the rest of the riders when they're captured by eret)

okay that's it for now. this is already so long but maybe i'll do more maces and talons posting later who knows

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

Wait, does it matter if Hans is king or prince consort? He'd still have "power" because he thinks Anna is weak and he's still basically half-ruler of a kingdom, which is leagues better than what he previously was. I guess he could always off Anna after a while though. Maybe sire a kid first though.

Well, the thing is, he planned to let Anna die immediately.

Hans was really getting ahead of himself/everything was happening so fast (this is great!)

I imagine his plan was to slowly work his way to power by a) marrying Anna to get his foot in the door then b) either dumping Anna for Elsa (somehow???) or else getting rid of Elsa then c) figuring out how to gain control through whoever he manages to get on the throne.

Profit.

Problem is the day he arrives things move much faster than he could have ever dreamed. First, Anna says yes to marrying him, sure he didn't have much of a choice in proposing right now but oh my god she said yes. Then... Elsa is a witch??? Who just froze the country?!?!?! And is now universally hated by the entire nation?!?!?!?!?!?!

And Anna wants to... immediately run after her, into the snowy wilderness, in a party dress.

"Alright," Hans says who is... is he king yet? He's engaged but does that count? Um, HERE ARE SOME BLANKETS, CITIZENS OF ARENDELLE, VOTE FOR HANS YOUR FUTURE KING.

Then Hans works up his nerve, alright, he gets where they are now, WE'RE GOING TO FIND HIS WIFE (he loves her dearly guys, so much, so in love with wifey who is probably dead at the bottom of a cliff) AND KILL THE WITCH! And then it turns out Elsa's more of a witch than he thought and fuck she has an abominable snowman what the fuck? But nevertheless, Elsa is captured, hooray. Hans can happily kill the witch, stop eternal winter (what the fuck is up with that, it's been two days and he's still not processing), and become a beloved king figure for his new kingdom.

Everything's coming up Hans!

And then Anna shows up and "oh my god" her hair is all white, she's freezing to death, "Elsa accidentally shot me with her cursed ice powers and I'm about to die unless we suck face."

And Hans... is tempted by a priceless opportunity. He doesn't really want to marry Anna or have to deal with her and here she is... conveniently dying because of her sister. Hans doesn't even have to do anything, he just has to sit in his chair.

"Wow, I am so king".

And Hans doesn't stop to realize a) he's not married yet and he's a foreigner who the Arendelle nobility will side eye as making a power grab (because he is) b) it would be much safer/easier to wield power through Anna as a beloved couple and have children to secure his lineage and make sure he's not seen as an envoy of the Southern Isles but that his and Anna's love story is totally real, totally guys.

Basically, things were going too fast even for Hans, and he was banking on becoming a hero king by killing Elsa and stopping eternal winter (which wouldn't have worked out as he'd likely kill Elsa and not.. stop... eternal... winter...) and being so beloved by the country/nobles (who have just lost the entire fucking royal family in a week) that they desperately just put him in place to keep the country together.

Though even then a lot of his actions just don't make any sense as they really don't help him with his goal.

But a lot of things in Frozen make no sense, especially Hans.

[seat-safety-switch]

So much of our day is spent on time-wasting activities. You know it, and I know it. If I could have back all the time that I have used up, trying to find the tool that I just had in my hand, I would probably be able to have finished another couple of crappy cars by now. There's a whole cottage industry of variously-good-willed folks trying to tell you how to get this time back, but not a single one of them has a solution for the biggest waste of time of all: sitting in traffic.

That's right, traffic. We all hate it. Even fancy-dan city folks with functioning public transit still have to wait behind some dipshit clogging the escalator, or for the next train. It seems like we're always trying to get somewhere at the same time as everyone else, even if we've opted out of the rat race through a series of elaborate financial scams whose profits are funnelled through a Cayman Islands corporation.

I've tried a lot of solutions. Buying a four-by-four truck and just driving over curbs and through red lights when they oppose me. Buying a used firetruck, and cranking up the siren when I am getting bored of being in gridlock. Buying a little kei truck from Japan and sneaking into the gaps between lanes like Bangkok pizza deliveryfolx. Hell, I've probably even tried other ideas that don't involve a truck at all; that's how desperate things are getting around here.

For now, though, I'm learning to live with it. I realized, when I saw everyone else waiting at the stop light on their smartphones, that I could be using this time more productively. Don't take me for one of those one-eyed-touch-rectangle-fondlers, though. What I do is much simpler. My '79 Monte Carlo has a real big backseat, easily big enough for a baby bathtub or two. I pulled that seat right out, welded in a couple chunks of rebar, and I now have an engine stand ready whenever I want it. Will this light ever turn green? Don't care, because I can simply turn around in my bench seat and spend the time adjusting valves on this super-high-mileage propane Slant Six that I pulled out of the junkyard.

My cars have never been in better shape, and there's a bonus, too. Although it seriously irritates law enforcement to admit it, I am technically still "operating an automobile with my full attention" and cannot be considered to be driving distracted. Now if only I could stop dropping the inch-pound torque wrench when I'm merging onto the highway. This must be why all those fancy Japanese bullet trains have glass in their windows.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddiesmuttyseptember and @steddiesongfics.

No Loose Ends

Week #3 Prompt: Sneaking Around | Word Count: 6500 | Rating: E | POV: Steve | CW: Post S4, Sexual Content, Underage Recreational Alcohol and Weed Use | Tags: Eddie Munson Lives, Florida!!!, Hiding Out, Healing, Steve & The Boys of Corroded Coffin Taking Care of Eddie, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Bisexual Eddie Munson

Song inspiration to fill the @steddiesongfics prompt is FLORIDA!!! by Taylor Swift feat. Florence & The Machine:

Little did you know, Your home's really only the town you'll get arrested, So you pack your life away, Just to wait out the shitstorm back in Texas Indiana

Steve's almost eight hours into the twelve hour drive, when he starts looking for another gas station. The smaller the better. One with a cashier who would rather be anywhere else other than at work behind the counter, and who in turn, won't be paying any attention to anything going on around them.

Not that he's wanted, or being looked for, because he's not. He's just being extra careful. Trying to garner no additional eyes on his car, or himself, if possible. No speeding, no rolling through stop signs. He's never driven this carefully in his entire life, and he feels tense from it.

It gives him a glimpse of what it might be like, sometime in the future, if he's in charge of hauling around six of his own little nuggets.

But that's not today. Today he's just in charge of one, well two, other people.

And himself. But he's used to being in charge of himself, since he has been, since basically forever.

If everything goes smoothly tonight, nobody's even gonna realize he's been out of town. Only Robin knows, and she's running interference with everybody else. Giving excuses for why they haven't seen him all day. Just buying him the time to get down, and back, without being missed.

The next filling station is a little raggedy, but exactly what he wants. Probably no cameras. Perfect.

He parks alongside the pump, and pulls up on the handle, starting to fill his tank. He looks in the backseat, and the bundled up figure moves under the blanket, shifting. It's dark under the poorly-lit canopy, three of the six fluorescent bulbs are out, and it makes it look just a little bit spooky. But even better, unless you were looking for him, you'd never see the slightly moving lump in the backseat.

And nobody's looking for him. Not anymore.

Thank fucking god.

Steve pays for the gas, and grabs drinks. Back in the car, he puts his own Coke in the cup holder, then lays the Mountain Dew in the backseat floorboard for when Eddie wakes up, and finally slides the Dr. Pepper into the passenger side cup holder.

He doesn't know Gareth Jones, not really, and it has taken everything he has to trust him. But Eddie couldn't be left alone, not yet, and Steve had asked who could they trust, and Gareth had been Eddie's answer.

Now he's asleep, head against the window, and Steve pulls back out onto the two-lane road, and keeps heading south.

They pull up in the driveway of the dark house, and Steve kills the engine.

"We're here," he says, and Eddie stirs in the backseat.

Eddie can barely walk. Once they've gotten him out of the car, he can only shuffle along, blanket over his shoulders. Together, they hold him up on both sides. The sand surrounding the beach house is not making it easier for him to move, Steve can tell. Steve has to try three keys before the door swings open, but they get him inside. Steve's not satisfied until Eddie's on the couch of his grandparent's vacation home in Destin, the city they swear is gonna become a tourist hot spot in the coming years.

So, the elder Harringtons scooped up a waterfront home that they only use once or twice a year, swearing it's an investment they'll be able to turn a profit on in the future. Steve doesn't care about that, but he is glad they have it right now, so they have a place Eddie can lay low. 

It's a little musty from being shut-up, but it'll do. 

Especially since there's no chance anybody in his family will turn up, since they're all in Europe right now without him. That left it just sitting empty, the perfect place to stash Eddie long enough to wait out the shitstorm back in Indiana.

Nobody knows he survived. Not the public, and barely any of their friends. Not even Wayne. Not yet. It's easier to keep a secret when you don't know the truth, as guilty as that makes Steve feel. 

But right now, he can't dwell on that. Today, Steve's gonna try to get him holed up in here, and then figure out a more permanent solution once Eddie's back on his feet. 

He can't dwell on the rest of them, or his guilt will eat him alive. Knowing Wayne's mourning his nephew. Knowing that Dustin is going through hell. Steve hopes they'll both forgive him, when the truth comes out. Eddie swears Wayne will. Says he'll understand. Says he'll only be relieved that Eddie's safe, and well. 

Steve hopes that's true. 

He knows he'll be in for an ass-chewing from Dustin, but that's nothing new. He can handle that.

Steve gets Eddie situated. A blanket. Some pillows. A drink. All while Gareth looks around the house, snooping, and it sets Steve on edge. He's a kid. Is he really gonna trust a kid to keep Eddie safe? Alive? He supposes he is. It's not like he has any other choice.

Gareth's older than Steve was when he got involved in the Upside Down. But still. Kid.

Steve can't stay long. He takes a nap, and then gets back on the road before he's missed. Back in his bed in Hawkins before anyone has started asking any real questions that Robin can't deflect.

A week later, when Steve steps out of his front door, Pop Tart in his mouth, he nearly chokes when he sees two guys leaning against his car. Jeff and…the other one. Steve's drawing a blank. They're Eddie's friends, but as far as Steve knew, they'd evacuated with the rest of the town. 

Out of the way, not a concern. But, here they are.

People are starting to come back, Steve's noticed, now that the town is rebuilding after the earthquake damage. If they have houses to return to, lots of them are doing just that.

He should have expected this.

Well, not this. Because they shouldn't know Eddie's alive or that Steve might be a person to talk to about anything.

"Uh, hey?" Steve says as he pulls the dry pastry out of his mouth, trying to chew it up, and buy himself some time.

"Where's Gareth?" the one that isn't Jeff asks. 

"Um, Gareth who?" Steve asks.

Jeff laughs, showing a mouth full of braces. 

"Gareth Jones. He's not with his mom, and she thinks he's with you."

Steve tenses. That little shit. Gareth told his mom the truth? What the fuck? For real. That wasn't the plan. At all. 

What a dumbass kid. He can't believe he has to trust him with Eddie's safety. Clearly, he's doing a bang-up job.

Steve looks around, "Don't see him, do you?" Steve asks, sliding back into his King Steve persona easier than he'd imagine he'd be able to after a few years.

"Harrington," Jeff says. 

"He's not with me," Steve says, which is true. "I don't even know him." Also true. 

"If you have Eddie. If he's out there somewhere, you're gonna take us to him," the other one says. Goldie? Steve thinks his name is Goldie. Goldwin, maybe? Gareth was talking, and he's sure he mentioned him, but Gareth talked a lot. Steve zoned out. 

"Or we're going to the cops."

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn't actually think they'll do that, but fuck, what does he know? He cannot risk that. He'd rather tell them what he knows, than have any officials poking holes in their story.

He makes a decision, one he hopes he won't regret.

"Okay, Goldie, get in," Steve says, resigned to this, but Jeff laughs loudly, mouth open as the guy who is probably not Goldie by his reaction, jabs Jeff in the ribs with his elbow.

"Goodie," Jeff corrects, "but that was closer than most get."

In the car, Steve squeezes the steering wheel. 

"Where is he?" Jeff asks. 

"Florida," Steve answers.

"Florida?" Goodie demands, and Steve just nods.

"He's healing. Gareth's with him. You can't tell anyone," Steve stresses. "If the government finds out. They'll, well. Dispose of him, I reckon. No loose ends."

And Steve starts from the beginning.

They worked out a schedule. Every week they'll switch. And somehow Steve is stuck making the long fucking haul in the dead of night, with one of them in his passenger seat. It's awkward. He doesn't know them, and they definitely don't like him.

This week it's Jeff Williams. Honestly, he's nice enough, but Steve runs out of things to say before they hit the Indiana state line.

The long haul back has Gareth jabbering nonstop about what they did this week. All Steve really wants to hear is updates on Eddie. Is he getting better? Are his wounds healing? Still no infection? Did you help him change the bandages he can't reach? Can he climb the stairs yet?

But he's having trouble getting those answers. He does learn all about the new Accept album, though. Whoever the fuck that is.

The third week is even worse, because hauling around Goodie Goodwin is like having an angry bear locked in the car with him. A brown bear, not a black one. He's fucking pissed, and snarky, and only belligerently agreeing to help for Eddie's sake. Not for Steve's. He's made that abundantly clear. 

He hates Steve, in case Steve needs it spelled out for him. 

Steve does not. 

It's definitely clear.

Super duper clear.

Crystal clear.

And that's fine. Eddie just needs a babysitter, and an angry bear will do, so long as Eddie trusts said bear, and he seems to, for whatever reason.

When they fucking finally pull up, after a twelve hour drive that felt more like twenty-four, Eddie's sitting on the covered porch, the color finally seeping back in his face. Goodie sits down in the glider right next to Eddie, and steals Eddie's lit cigarette right from his mouth. Eddie leans against his shoulder, face pressed into his very weather inappropriate leather jacket, and smiles.

Oh, so now he's a gentle giant. 

Fucking dickhead.

Hauling Jeff back to Hawkins is a breath of fresh air after twelve hours of having Chernabog in the passenger seat. And he actually gives helpful information. Eddie's doing great. He's made some real progress, and he probably doesn't need a babysitter much longer. He's getting out of the woods.

Steve wishes he knew that before he had to spend time in the car with Goodie, but it's still good news, even if Steve had to suffer.

"Are you sure you're gonna be okay alone this week?" Steve asks, and he doesn't know what he'll do if the answer is no. Leave Goodie for a second week of duty? Stay himself?

"I'm fine, Harrington," Eddie promises, and Steve nods.

"Okay, then. I'll be back next weekend," Steve assures.

Steve worries about Eddie being alone the whole next week, and it's a long drive by himself, but not as long as it was with Goodie refusing to make even the smallest of small talk. 

Goodie didn't say a word for the eight hundred miles back to Hawkins.

Honestly, it was actually an improvement from the ride down.

When Steve pulls up the house, Eddie's on the porch again, and Steve wonders if this is where he spends most of his time. There don't seem to be any neighbors here right now close enough to see him, and even if there were, they wouldn't know the Harringtons well enough to be sure Eddie didn't belong. 

"Harrington," Eddie says, foot pushing slowly, keeping himself in a soft sway on the porch glider.

Steve sits down next to him, and then Eddie keeps them moving, the breeze coming through the porch, and not feeling bad at all. 

"Ocean air is healing, you know," Eddie says as if he's serious, and Steve smiles.

"Is the gulf considered an ocean?" Steve asks.

And Eddie just shrugs and grins back, shaking another pack of cigarettes out of the fresh carton Steve brought him. Steve feels like a pack mule, hauling food and smokes and beer, back and forth across several states.

"Closest thing I've ever seen to one, at least," Eddie says, and Steve has the fleeting thought that someday, Steve will change that. 

He doesn't know why. They aren't really friends or anything. Just two people that were thrown together to fight back against evil. They don't exactly have a whole hell of a lot in common beyond that.

They get into the beer, and Eddie pulls out a joint. It's fun, and relaxing, honestly. Doing a whole lot of nothing. It feels like a mini vacation, and like Steve's settled for the first time in weeks, months. So, he stays an extra day, and then another, because they're having so much fun. Robin will cover for him. She will. But he's really gotta go in the morning. 

"Your friend Goodie hates me," Steve says. 

"All bark, no bite," Eddie laughs. 

Steve doesn't know about that. He seemed pretty nippy to him. 

The next week, he brings the decks of cards Eddie had asked for, and now they sit around the round table on the porch, and play hand after hand, going through a case of beer and cigarette after cigarette. It's fun, and unexpected, and Steve's pretty sure next week, he's gonna find a way to stay longer. 

He's tipsy, they both are, as they stumble up the stairs towards their rooms. He's got his hands on Eddie, the excuse that he's helping him not fall, but he's pretty sure that's not the whole reason.

He doesn't examine it too much.

They're just having fun, and that's a nice change of pace from the shitshow that Hawkins has been over the past few years.

He wants to stay. 

As his head hits the pillow, and he rolls over onto his belly, he tries to devise a plan to make that happen, even as he's drifting.

The kids aren't happy about it when he says he's going to be traveling with his parents for a while, and they'd really be pissed if they knew that he was actually sneaking back to Florida to hole up with a very much still alive Eddie Munson. 

He's gonna have to pay for lying about this, to a lot of people that really love Eddie. Steve knows it. But, he'd do it again. Eddie's safe. He's healing up. Every week he's been more mobile, more agile, more…Eddie.

Sure, it's not as if Steve knew him well before all this. But they went to school together. He knows what Eddie Munson is all about, and it's definitely not being quietly introverted on a couch.

When he gets there, he lugs in his huge suitcase, and takes back over the empty room across the hall from the one Eddie's been staying in. 

And then they spend their time laying on the beach, or getting drunk, or stoned, as Eddie's body slowly finishes stitching itself back together. He still aches, and so does Steve, but it's not too bad anymore. There are no more bandaids, ointments or creams. No more antibiotics. They hurt, sure, but they're getting by better now.

Eddie wants to venture into the water, and with no open wounds, Steve can't find a reason to say no. Eddie had had to watch from the porch that first week as Gareth ran across the sand, wading out into the water.

Now, it's his turn. 

Steve by his side, making sure he's okay. Strong enough. They didn't go through all this just for Eddie to drown.

Steve's getting concerned that he can't quit touching Eddie, but Eddie doesn't seem interested in making him stop.

They're wet, and wrapped in towels, but it feels inevitable when Steve pushes Eddie towards the bathroom, and into the shower. Inevitable when he turns to leave, and Eddie snags his hand, pulling him back towards the tub. Inevitable as he washes his body, trying to not only ignore his own half-hard dick, but Eddie's too.

It's still inevitable as he slips on his clean underwear, and crawls into Eddie's bed instead of his own, and finally presses their lips together. 

Eddie kisses back, and hands roam across bare skin. Eddie's fingers trailing his back, making Steve squeeze his eyes shut. He didn't realize how long it's been since someone touched him like that.

Neither of them take it further than that, but they do find themselves, lips kiss-swollen and laying together, breathing heavily in the quiet of the room, and Steve doesn't even know how they've gotten to this point.

One day Eddie was just some guy, then he was wanted on trumped up murder charges, and now, well, this.

"What's the plan? I can't stay here forever," Eddie says into the darkness, and Steve thinks maybe he could. They both could. They'd be safer that way. Hawkins can fuck off. It's their hometown, but not home anymore. Just a place that would arrest Eddie and throw away the key, given half the chance. 

"We could," Steve says, and Eddie meets his eyes.

"You know you can't. And your grandparents will turn up eventually, and be less than thrilled to see me here."

"They won't be back until winter, and even that's iffy," Steve reassures, more himself than Eddie, he's pretty sure.

They could sneak around for months, until the snow birds fly south, and nobody would know. 

That's all Steve thinks about as he falls asleep, Eddie's arm slung over his stomach.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Steve jerks, sitting bolt upright in bed. Eddie doesn't even stir beside him.

Gareth Jones is standing at the foot of the bed, and Jeff and Goodie are in the doorway. Steve's heart is hammering in his chest. There's no explaining this away as anything other than exactly what it is. Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Eddie," Steve says, nudging him with his elbow. Eddie still doesn't budge, but his foot is sticking out of the comforter, and Gareth runs his knuckle up Eddie's bare sole.

Eddie's awake then, jerking his whole leg backwards.

"Jesus H. Christ, kid!" Eddie screeches, pulling the sheet up to his neck as if he's trying to protect his precious modesty. It's fucking endearing. 

Terrifying, but endearing.

Steve must be staring at Gareth, because the kid shrugs, "He was late to school. A lot. Wayne asked me to start getting him there before he was a fifth year senior from tardies alone. The bottom of the foot is foolproof."

And Steve's hammering heart slows, just a little. Nobody is screaming, there's no fight breaking out. Nobody's being called names. He's not sure how to take this. They've been caught in bed, but nobody is really reacting to that. 

It's just a best friend explaining how to get Eddie awake. Robin would know how to do that for him, too.

"What are you doing here?" Steve finally asks. 

"We thought we'd come give you a break," Jeff says from the doorway. 

"Doesn't look like you want it though," Goodie adds, and it's the nicest thing he's ever said to Steve, Steve's pretty sure.

"Our parents think we're at a band camp," Gareth adds, "before school starts back up for me."

"Band camp," Eddie laughs, flopping back against the pillows, "Go wait downstairs."

And they listen. 

Steve just lays there next to him, finally saying, "Well."

Eddie laughs, then turns to face Steve, "They knew about me. I mean, the theory of me. It's not like I was getting any action. From boys or girls. But they're cool. Freaks gather together."

Steve chuckles, but Eddie keeps talking, "I'm sorry they know about you without you okaying it first, though."

It's fine. Honestly. Like, if they aren't gonna kick his ass? Everything's fine. Sneaking around always ends this way. Steve knows it. You always get caught by someone. He just didn't predict it to be so soon, or here.

"How'd they even get in here?" Steve asks, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He's pretty sure he locked the door when they went to bed.

"That's probably my bad. I taught Goodie to pick locks."

"Another Munson family trick?" Steve asks, pulling his jeans on, sliding up the zipper.

"Yep," Eddie answers, "the school would sometimes forget to leave the room unlocked for us to have Hellfire. So, I taught him to open it, since I have a bit of a tendency to run late."

Steve laughs, pulling his shirt over his head.

"Regret it now, though," Eddie says dryly, and Steve holds open the bedroom door for him.

Gareth and Goodie are sitting around the kitchen table, already helping themselves to the beer they found in the fridge. Cards dealt. Waiting.

Jeff's cooking a massive skillet of eggs and there's toast piled high on a plate.

Beer and eggs. That's something. Breakfast of champions.

"You can fuck him, but Eddie is my card partner," Gareth says, pushing a waiting hand of cards towards Eddie.

Fair enough.

Steve snags a plate, and is more interested in eating than cards, anyway.

"We can't have set partners with five of us," Jeff says. "It's just gotta happen as the game unfolds."

Gareth starts to argue, and it's like they totally moved on from what they all saw upstairs. Steve feels off-kilter, but he takes another bite of toast.

Maybe these guys are Eddie's version of Robin. That's the only thing that makes any sense. 

Steve picks up his cards, and starts organizing them in his hand. He isn't even sure what they're playing, but he guesses he'll figure it out. There were lots of card parties in the Harrington household growing up. He probably knows whatever they're gonna throw at him, as long as it isn't something they've straight made up.

Which is possible, he's sure, knowing Eddie.

But that's about the extent of the discussion about what they walked in on earlier. 

Jeff turns over a card.

"Eldest, auction is in your hands," Jeff says, and Eddie looks down at his cards.

"Order it up," Eddie says, eating eggs and playing at the same time.

"Trumped up, just like your murder charges," Goodie says, and everybody laughs. 

"That doesn't even make sense," Jeff says.

"You just wanted to say it," Gareth adds, and Goodie takes his needling pretty damn well, all things considered.

And Steve smiles, happy that this is something they can all joke and laugh about. That as fucking terrible as it all was, is, that they can still make light of it to cope.

That's not nothing. That Eddie wasn't lost to it. That he's here to be gently ribbed. That his friends believe in his innocence, totally.

Eddie names his card, and Gareth plays it, becoming Eddie's partner. 

They continue to play, and things do not go Gareth's way, which Goodie seems to be enjoying.

And later, Goodie smirks, "I'm in the barn."

Gareth heaves a big sigh, "Damn. I'm gonna get skunked." 

And everybody laughs at his misfortune.

They stay. Camp out in all the rooms in the house, staking their claim. And it's actually a lot of fun. Like a high school house party that just doesn't end in a fist fight on the lawn. Steve hasn't been this relaxed since, well, before. Before 1983. Before monsters and the Upside Down came crashing into his life. 

He embraces this break, this chance to just be. He's not a kid anymore. Not in age, and definitely not in life experience. 

He lays on the beach, catching a tan.

These couple of weeks have felt as close to a vacation as he's gotten in years, and he lets the worry of the past slide off his back. 

Steve supplies the beer, Goodie has a few pre-rolls left, so they smoke, drink, and play cards. Steve watches them fight over the stereo, and he learns to recognize the new Accept album by ear with time. 

They swim, except for Goodie, because apparently he's scared of gators. Even if they tell him that the gulf isn't a swamp, and the chances of him being taken down by a gator are extremely unlikely. Not impossible, gators gonna gate, but it's not like it's super plausible. 

Goodie doesn't care. He's not doing it, and says no amount of peer pressure will work on him. So, he sits on the porch, beer on his knee. Cigarette in hand. 

So much for him being big and bad, Steve thinks. 

Today, girls have suddenly appeared down the beach. Screaming and laughing, and they all watch them intently. Taking in the bikinis. The bouncing boobies. Not one of them above watching a free show. 

They have a volleyball that comes bouncing in their direction, leading the girls to finally notice them and approach. Apparently Steve's the only one with a working voice, though. He learns there are a pair of sisters staying in their grandparents' beach house with their friends. One last hurrah before going back to, or for a couple of the girls starting, college. 

University of Nebraska. Go, Cornhuskers. Apparently.

Since Steve's the only one engaging like a normal human, they're paying extra attention to him. One in particular. And she's cute. But he politely rebuffed her attention the best he could, and then watched Eddie do the same.

Goodie builds a little bonfire, and Steve is kind of impressed. He doesn't even know where he got the wood at. 

Of course, Steve was less impressed when he was sent off for the stuff to make s'mores.

Eddie followed him, and as nervous as Steve is any time Eddie pokes his head out of the house, it's probably fine. Honestly. They are so far from Hawkins. 

Eddie does wait in the car at the grocery store, but then digs through the bag to see what Steve bought. 

Graham crackers, chocolate bars and marshmallows. Steve's not sure what else Eddie expected, honestly. It's s'mores.

By the time they get back, one of the girls has taken a shine to Gareth, and now Steve and Eddie are watching him blush and blunder through what Steve thinks could be considered flirting, maybe. 

It's honestly a good show. 

For some reason, she isn't put off by Gareth's awkwardness, and later that night, with the window to his room open, Steve can hear Gareth talking to her down below on the porch. 

He's not as bad as Steve once thought, none of them are.

Just like Eddie.

Steve should have realized that earlier, he's pretty sure. First impressions are almost never right about anyone.

And their partying continues, just now there are girls involved. The group, growing. 

Goodie's suddenly not as scared of gators, apparently. Because there's a girl on his back out in the water. 

Steve sees Gareth dip under the water, and knows where this is going, and sure enough, he must snag Goodie's foot, which causes a commotion. 

Steve misses Robin. He sits there considering if there's any way he could get Mrs. Buckley to let her join them, but can't think of an excuse that would seem plausible. Unless Robin also wants to go to fake band camp, too.

Steve's lounging on the steps, leaned back, his elbows braced against the wood. Watching from behind his sunglasses. 

Gareth sits next to him. 

Two of the girls are hitting around a volleyball. Bouncing along the sand. 

"Boobies," Steve says. 

"Boobies," Gareth echoes, then laughs. 

They sit and watch a few seconds longer, then Gareth says, "Eddie doesn't have those, you know." 

"I know," Steve answers. "I like both. I'm okay with that. Are you?" 

"Yeah. Eddie does too," Gareth says, then turns and looks at Steve fully. 

Steve turns to see what he's doing. 

"Thanks. For saving him. I know we've been kinda shitty at times, but we owe you." 

They don't owe him anything, but he still teases, "Don't worry. Someday I'll collect." 

Gareth slaps him on the shoulder, and then inserts himself in the volleyball game down below.

The next morning, Steve's shaving at the sink, bathroom door open, when Gareth appears in the doorway. 

Then says nothing. 

Steve keeps shaving, waiting to see what this is. Finally asking, "Eddie okay?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, he's fine. Um, I have a question." 

Steve meets his eyes in the mirror. Still waiting.

"Do you have a condom I can borrow?" 

Steve grins, "Maybe. But not borrow. I definitely don't want it back."

Gareth rolls his eyes, "Very funny. Eddie told me to ask you. I regret that decision, now." 

Steve reaches over and gets his bathroom bag, and tosses it to Gareth, "Help yourself."

"Thanks," Gareth says, as he digs through it, finding what he was looking for. And then takes the whole box. Little shit.

But Steve lets him. He'd rather Gareth have more than he needs, instead of less. Steve can buy more. He's not embarrassed at all. 

"Play safe," Steve says as Gareth tosses his bag back, it thumping against Steve's bare chest.

Gareth doesn't come home that night, and by mid-afternoon the next day and still no sight of him, Eddie is sending Steve down to check on him. 

He's fine. Just laying on the couch in the girls' house, hand up the shirt of the petite, blonde one. 

"Check in with Eddie later," Steve says, startling him. "You know how he worries." 

Gareth laughs, and gives Steve a little salute and then a dismissive shooing away motion. 

Another girl is at the top of the staircase, and lifts the hem of her shirt, flashing him. 

"If only I wasn't already spoken for, sweetheart," he says, holding his hands to his heart, as if he's wounded by this admission. 

And she's laughing, and seems charmed, not offended, which is what he'd hoped for. He hasn't made anything official with Eddie, and they have definitely cooled their jets since Eddie's friends arrived, even if they all know. 

Steve walks down the sand, and Eddie is waiting on the porch.

"Well?" Eddie asks.

"I saw some tits," Steve says, sitting down next to him, "and Gareth's fine."

Eddie laughs, and briefly slides his hand through Steve's arm, squeezing his elbow.

In no time at all, the girls are packing up their cars, and Gareth is acting like he's about to become a war widow. 

Steve gets it. He does. Your first, you don't forget. But this should have been a little summer fling for him, not a pending broken heart. 

It's not like Gareth doesn't have to go soon, too. Labor day is quickly approaching.

Gareth is pretty pissed off that summer has slipped away, and now he has to go back to school. One more year. The youngest. Without him, they could probably stay indefinitely. 

And he's very unhappy about that fact.

But, he's made it his life's mission to make it clear to all of them that while he has to go back to high school for another year, at least he's not a virgin anymore. 

They're all sick of hearing it, and Steve's grateful it isn't gonna be him stuck in the car for twelve hours with him this time.

Eddie has given Gareth very explicit, detailed instructions on how to run Hellfire. How to keep it going for the other sheepies. Sure, the name will likely have to be changed. It's far too tainted now. And they might even if they have to do it in private, away from that godforsaken school, but Eddie wants that to happen, if need be.

A few days later, it's their turn to leave, and they're dragging feet, Gareth especially. 

"Are you ever coming home?" Gareth asks Eddie, standing next to his mom's borrowed minivan.

Eddie looks at Steve, and Steve doesn't have the heart to answer that. 

But no. Eddie's probably not.

Alone, once again, Steve follows Eddie up the staircase, his hand resting in the small of his back. As if Eddie still needs help with his balance. He doesn't, but Steve wants to touch him, nonetheless.

Steve watches as Eddie pulls his shirt over his head. He's gotten a bit of a tan while his friends were here, and he looks healthier, finally. Steve's hands find his bare skin, squeezing his sides. Eddie laughs, hair falling into his face. 

And Steve wants. 

He kisses him like he means it, then pulls back. During his last beer run, he'd done some other stocking up as well. He pulls the plastic sack out of the nightstand. New boxes of condoms and K-Y jelly. He shakes them out onto the bed.

"You wanna?" Steve asks, and Eddie looks at them, cheeks going a little red, but he nods.

There's a little confusion on the expectations here, but Steve rolls over onto his belly. This is what he wants. He's never had it, but he wants it, anyway.

"I've never, have you ever?" Eddie asks, holding the tube in hand, flipping the cap open and shut, over and over again.

Steve shakes his head, "No."

There's a learning curve. It's kinda steep, but at least they can laugh about it. They can figure it out together, and now that Eddie's finally got two fingers in him, Steve thinks they're finally getting somewhere. 

It's an odd feeling, honestly. He isn't sure what he feels about it, other than full.

But he's gonna ride this out. See where it goes.

Now up on his knees, the blunt head of Eddie's cock is definitely bigger than his fingers, and Steve hangs his head down between his shoulders, and sucks in a sharp breath.

Eddie stills, "You still okay?"

There's a hand on Steve's ass, and he focuses on that point of contact. Like everything is in that warm touch, and nowhere else.

"It's a lot," Steve admits. Because it is.

"Want me to stop?" Eddie asks, his other hand now trailing up Steve's spine.

"No. No. Just, more lube, I think. And go slow," which Steve knows is an ask. He's pretty sure Eddie's barely been moving at all.

Eddie slides out, and now Steve feels left open, and missing something. It's so fucking weird. There's more lube, and more fingers, and even more lube. Steve feels it dripping out of him, he's pretty sure. 

But then Eddie's pressing in again, and it seems to go a little easier. He feels the head of his cock pop past his rim, right into him, and he groans, fisting at the sheets underneath him. It's good, and the rest of the slide feels easier.

Eddie eventually stills.

"You all in?" Steve asks. He's not sure what he'll do if there's more.

"Fuck, yes," Eddie answers, and then Steve can feels his fingertips brushing along his hole as it's stretched around his cock, buried deep inside. "Look at you."

Steve can't do that, but wishes he could.

"You good?" Eddie asks.

Yeah. Steve thinks he's good, "Yeah. Yeah. You can move. Slow. Go slow. But fuck me."

And Eddie does. It's a little hesitant, and uneven, but he draws back, and then slides deep again. And again. Until he's found a nice rhythm. Steve feels insane, and whiny, and so fucking needy. 

He didn't expect how much he'd enjoy this. He kinda just thought he'd be taking one for the team.

Fuck that. He's taking this for himself. Happily, greedily.

It doesn't last long. Steve knows how that goes. The first time you slide into a body that's allowing, welcoming, you inside. It's overwhelming, and feels good in a way you can't even begin to expect.

Eddie shoves deep one more time, and comes with a noise that is nearly enough to send Steve over the edge, untouched. 

When he pulls out, Steve feels empty. Cracked open, and then Eddie rolls him over onto his back, slick hand finding his cock, eyes locked straight on Steve's, and Steve melts into it. He looks at Eddie. Into his dark eyes, his hand gripping Eddie's scarred waist, holding on.

It's a firm slide up, and back down, and Steve can feel his orgasm building. And when he tenses and comes, splattering his own belly and chest, he feels so fucking good. Eddie eventually lets go, cleans him up, and then curls into his side.

Fingers dancing along his skin, and Steve suspects, going from mole to mole.

He's gonna fall in love with him, hell, probably already has.

"We gotta do something. Make a plan. We can't stay hidden here forever," Eddie eventually says, and Steve squeezes his eyes shut. "Even if I want to."

Steve knows. He knows that's true.

"Okay. I'll figure it out."

Steve paces on the porch, worried. He eyes the nailbat leaning against the railing, waiting, in case he needs it. He's scared he's made a mistake. Scared that it's gonna be helicopters, spotlights, and a whole fucking army decending on them.

It's not.

It's Dr. Sam Owens. Alone, with a briefcase.

Two hours later, Eddie Munson has a whole new identity, and a small tote bag of cash. A payout Steve hadn't even known to ask for, but Owens had brought as a peace offering to keep Eddie quiet if he'll just slink off and not expose all their secrets. 

Wayne's paperwork is on the counter, if he wants it. 

Jeff and Goodie are bringing Wayne out next week. That's the plan anyway. If they can lure him into the car. 

Eddie can't return to Hawkins with his new identity, but he can leave the beach house. Can leave Florida. He can go anywhere he wants, now.

Dr. Owens is descending the steps, nearly onto the sand, when Steve hurries out onto the porch. 

"Hey, wait!"

Dr. Owens turns around, and Steve suddenly isn't sure what to say.

"Yes?"

"Um. What would it take, to get me that kind of paperwork?"

Owens smirks, just a little, and reaches into his briefcase, pulling out a manilla envelope. 

Steve takes it.

"How did you know?" Steve asks.

"I've had eyes on you from the moment you ferreted him out of Hawkins."

Steve swallows. Nods.

Looks down at the envelope he's gripping tight. He could disappear, too. If he wants. He'd have to find some way to loop in Robin, of course, but he could just…go. 

Wherever Eddie wants. 

"Thank you," Steve says. 

"We think the activity in Hawkins has ceased. Once they finish rebuilding, it should be back to business as usual." 

Steve nods again. But it'll never be the same. Can't be. But the town will be able to start over. Have proven that's the plan. Hell, they've already figured out a way to start school on time and everything. 

Dr. Owens gives him one last look, and then he's gone.

Eddie's standing on the porch, and as Steve climbs the steps, Eddie holds open the door, asking, "What's next?"

Steve turns the lock, "Anything you want."

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiesmuttyseptember and @steddiesongfics to follow along with the filth and fun! 💦🎵

Notes: In the 1980's Destin was just starting to turn into the vacation city it now is. It went from fishing village to a resort city.

Accept's album Russian Roulette was released on April 21, 1986. As we're all aware, Eddie was wearing an Accept pin on his battle vest during S4.

[jensthwa]

mountebank chem pt. four teaser+moodboard (JYH x reader).

this mini series is part of the love's an uncharted path universe ★.

status: wip (i still have a bit to go, sorry ya'll). chapter title: i love you, i'm sorry. word count (so far, more to go): 15.8k teaser word count: 1.2k posted: 01/26/2025 taglist: @kyunlov, @tinyelfperson, @ultrapinkvoidbouquet, @kyeomooniee, @fairylover68, @sushiinmidnight, @qveenbunni, @potatomountain, @svintsandghosts, @blue5ummer, @fancypeacepersona, @hyukssunflower, @i-love-ateez, @alsomimi, @e3ellie, @st3ft0n3s, @hotteokkay

notes: hey everyone... how ya'll doing... OKAY, SO. I've been writing like crazy these past couple of days and I explained it in a post before but I just want to let everyone know that I'm a little busy with life, finding a remote stable job (or a job at all at this point) is a little hard, especially when the only thing you do succesfully is being a writer lmao. so I've been focusing on that instead of this but!!! I'm almost done with this chapter. I do think we're getting a chapter five, a shorter one, just to kind of explain how everything goes after the end of chapter four and that's going to be cooking as soon as this chapter goes live! ANYWAY. I wanted to give you all a little teaser that covers a little of what's to come in this one. it's my favorite one so far, too, so I'm really looking forward to you reading it!

remember that I have a permanent taglist form! that way, i can tag you in all my future works <3 also, if you'e reading this on the tags, here's my main masterlist and the mbc!masterlist if you want to catch up!

thank you all for being so patient and into the teaser we go.

Making a mental list to organize and prioritize everything you need to do, you barely register footsteps echoing in the long hall. You should’ve, because it’s lunchtime and there’s no one on the floor, but you don’t. 

And so when the person you least want to see comes through the door and lets out a heavy sigh, you turn to him like he grew a second nose over the course of the twenty minutes you last saw each other. 

“I hate it here, I truly do.” 

It almost makes you want to laugh, but you remain stoic as you move through the office. You take a few boxes and you put them down on the floor until there’s some light leaking through the window and illuminating the space enough for it not to give you a headache as you work. 

Sitting on your brother's chair, barely sparing him another glance before turning on the desk computer and pulling up an empty document. You click and tap a few meaningless things: You pick the font, you mess with the font size for a second before setting it back to its default. Anything to help you look busy and not like your heart is going a million miles per second. 

“Can I help you with anything, Yunho?” 

Blurry, in the background, you can see him look around the office, probably taking the mess in. He moves too, walks until his expensive shoes are tip to tip  with a literal mannequin resting against the wall. 

You stop paying attention as you write the date and the proposal title. Something simple, something that both your father and the CEO of the dumb not-approved-by-you company that has you in this predicament can understand. You hate to say that you assume they’re not very smart if they put out such a dated and non profitable idea for their company. 

Still, you try to address Yunho like nothing’s bothering you and like you’re not nervous you two are in a room alone after everything that went down. 

“You can ask Seonghwa what that means,” you start, sighing like his friend and your brother are hopeless. Because maybe that’s what they are. “They’re not running any ideas by me even though I’m the one that spends the most time in this office, so.” 

“Hm,” he starts and you can hear him walking around, but your focus is now on the first few words of the proposal. You realize there’s really nothing you can start before speaking with marketing and so you open the notes app, to have a list of ideas to run through them at least. “Thought you worked from home.” 

“I do. I have an office three floors down, too.” It’s easy sharing information with him now, especially if it means there’s something to talk about that’s not… Well, the kiss. “I hate it, it’s in a corner and people can see into it. It’s easier to work here.” 

“And Soohyun hyung doesn’t mind?”

“Considering he’s never here, I doubt it.” 

“Cool, cool.” 

There’s something in his tone that makes you want to look up, lump in your throat growing in size enough for you to cough it away. You don’t look up, you can’t look up even if you’ve misspelled the word rebrand like four times already. 

But then the light you managed to cast onto the space disappears completely. You feel something besides you, the soft material of an expensive suit blazer grazing your arm and cheek. You see veiny, masculine hands secure themselves around the arms of the chair before he’s turning you to face him. 

You gulp. 

He’s leaning down close, closer than he should be, closer than what he’s allowed to be considering anyone can walk in on you. You’re flushing, you can feel the redness creep up your neck and heating your ears and face before you gather the courage of raising a questioning brow. Yunho stays silent, his eyes scanning your face and briefly landing on your lips before returning your stare. 

“Can I help you with anything, Yunho?” You ask him again, quieter this time, voice trembling a little. 

“Princess,” he starts, the corner of his lip raising just a little, like it’s funny he has to say what he’s about to say, “are you ghosting me?” 

Shit. 

“Why would you— Why would I—,” a nervous chuckle abandons you and then you huff, trying to seem offended at his accusation, “W-what do you mean by that?” 

Leaning into your space a tiny bit more, he repeats “Are you ghosting me?” 

Creasing your brow, you straighten in the chair but do nothing to pull him away “No.”

“Then what about the ten messages I sent you and you left on delivered?” 

Faking a surprised gasp, you move to take your phone out of the pocket of your jacket and unlock it to swipe through your messages “You did? Oh, my God, I’ve been soooo busy.” 

“You’re shit at lying to me.” 

“I’m not lying to you—” 

“Are you okay?” 

Your eyes snap from the phone to his face, genuine annoyance creasing your eyebrows this time. 

“You don’t have to ask me that everytime you see me, Jeong.” 

“But are you?” He asks as you finally find his chat and open the messages you dreaded to see the entire time that passed. There’s a few of them practically begging you to speak to him, one apologizing for the kiss and the other ones you don’t even see because Yunho is taking the phone from your hand and placing it on the desk next to you. “I mean, what happened didn’t trigger anyth—” 

You hate he’s this considerate with you, even after you clearly walked out of the situation with a poorly formulated excuse.

“What happened was a mistake.” 

Yunho physically deflates and lets the chair go, the tension on your shoulders lifting a little now that he’s not as close. 

“What?” 

“It was a mistake, we shouldn’t have done that. We’re professionally obligated to work together, fake all of this together, so it shouldn’t…” You pause and consider for a bit before doing something you never do: take the blame “I shouldn’t have. I apologize.” 

Letting out a breath, you turn the chair and delete the misspelled rebrand to write it the correct way, heart too weak to even look at his reaction. It doesn’t matter anyway, you’re never doing anything like it again. 

You hear him shuffle with the boxes at both your feet and, from the corner of your eye, you see him turning away from you and then back, hands on his hips “I don't think it was a mistake.” 

“Well, it was.” 

“I liked it.” 

That brings out a genuine, short lived laugh out of you “Thank you, I’m a great kisser.” 

You open your brother’s email and pretend there’s an urgent matter inside the contents of one of them until Yunho’s hand closes over yours, over the mouse. 

“Y/N.” 

There’s a lot of things about Jeong Yunho you hate: The swoop of his hair when there’s no gel on it, the free aspect to his nature you’re never going to get even if you try to, that one time he called you an ugly giant after wearing platforms for the first time ever. 

And the sweetness of his voice when he says your name, the plea you hear on it and the shudder it brings to your spirit. It shakes you, it moves you to look at him again, to actually take his feelings into consideration. 

He’s staring at you with so much hurt, it makes your heart sink into an abyss of guilt. 

“Hm?” 

“I think I like you.” 

Oh.

Well, well, well... If it isn't the enemy turning into a potential lover time. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING THE TEASER. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated!

© jensthwa, 2025.

[enlightenedfeline]

Tips for writing consistently:

I keep bringing it up and I'll bring it up again, my year long writers block is what I base a lot of this advice off of.

1- Don't think about being consistent. Your brain is a silly and stubborn gal, don't actively think about how consistent you wanna be, don't make plans or add writing to your to-do list. No, this isn't counterproductive.

When you think about being consistent in writing, you tend to fall into a cycle, at first it's great and you're productive, next it starts to get a little overwhelming but you power through, the third step you either stop writing altogether because you drained yourself of motivation, or you fall into the second option which is that you continue to write and it becomes a chore. The end result is the same, you stop writing and don't want to look back to your writing because you find it horrible.

So never think about being consistent, never add writing to your to-do list.

Writing is a way we express ourselves, it's an art, just because capitalism has made it something for profit doesn't mean it has to be. It started as a way to express yourself and your thoughts, it should stay that.

2- Don't expect approval. I struggled with this, I relied on other people's approval to find my writing good. So I rushed through stories and chapters just to get that approval in the end, and now I'm stuck with two stories on Wattpad that I want no association with.

Write your stories for you, make them as self-indulgent as your heart desires, make them yours. Don't care about judgement, and don't expect approval.

3- Don't aim to make it perfect. I realized a while ago that as writers, what makes us keep writing is our need to achieve perfection. What makes us start writing is wanting a story or characters that we've never seen before, and what keeps us going is our need for perfection.

But the sad truth is, it's never gonna be perfect.

We write the stories we never got to read, and yet we're incapable of ever reading them with an open mind, because we're constantly criticising and looking for small edits we can make.

That's why you should never aim to make it perfect, because you're constantly evolving, and nothing is ever gonna feel perfect. You'll read your writing sometimes and think wow I did great with this line or scene, but it won't ever be perfect. Because if it is perfect, then you have no reason to keep writing.

I think I'll leave it at that, the rest of my tips regarding this are a bit more centered around me and may not really work in a general sense.

Maybe some of this advice will help, maybe it won't, either way, I hope this feline has enlightened you!

[exeggcute]

relevant to my "I wish the most vocal critics of AI were doing a better job of it because I fear we're not sending our best" soapbox (which I think I bitched about most recently on bsky and not here but I don't want to split this into a bunch of 300-character snippets): I'm listening to another of those freakishly long podcasts about the history of different companies, this time about google, and I actually didn't realize that google struggled to bring in (search) revenue in its early days or that people flat-out thought there was no good/feasible way to monetize their search at all. and like to be clear I do not think generative AI is the next google search lol. nor do I want it to be. but it makes the "openAI's days are numbered because they're burning investor money without a clear path forward" strain of analysis ring even more hollow to me, since not only is "burning investor money" is a pretty typical position for early-stage companies, but it literally exactly describes a company these podcast hosts are now calling "the company with the most successful revenue model of all time" or whatever.

and also to be clear, it describes just as many (if not more) companies that ended up folding or died spectacular deaths lol. but it's not like a death knell in itself, and even though many investors are incredibly stupid there's at least a credible reason why they'd bet this is one of the underdog stories that Defied All The Odds. (as much as I would personally put my money on "it's a bubble, dummy.") so I guess I just get frustrated when people lean on those weaksauce arguments since one, if you're a big tech journo making that kind of analysis it makes me think you don't know what you're talking about, this is basic startup "focus on growth first and profits later" shit, and two, it doesn't really accomplish anything useful. like of all the arguments you could make, why focus on one that's easy to poke holes in and makes your target seem weaker than it is! there are better arguments at your disposal!! and what happens if everyone smugly waits around for this thing to fall over but then it doesn't!!

[aroaceleovaldez]

you're like the first blog i thought about ranting on this to but it drives me up the wall that some people treat any criticism aimed at tsats2 as being anti-ship or avoidable via just "not reading it". i dont think they realize that we're talking about a bigger issue of soulless commercialization and heavy quality downgrade of a franchise, not like. about an indie author publishing a fan book lmao

'i'll read it anyways haters gonna hate' crowd likely largely funding richard's mediocrity is sad.

I think part of it may have to do with a.) a lack of distinction in recent fandom culture between "Fandom" and "Audience" (alongside other recent fandom culture attitudes as well) and b.) so much of Rick's brand is built up exactly on parasocial behavior that a lot of fans get caught up in it. [under cut cause this got long:]

Re: The first, more recent fandom culture tends to treat "Fandom" and "General audience" as wholly equivocal. Because of this, the concepts tend to bleed into each other in a way we haven't quite seen before fandom became mainstream, and as a result we get a kind of Worst Of Both Worlds situation - a bunch of very passionate fans who have no community, create little to no fanworks themselves (only consume), and only engage at a surface level with the source material. Their only "fandom" community hub is the source material and official social media and they don't have a concept of how to exist outside it, unlike folks who are more used to older fandom culture and are self-sufficient. They have the passion and identity of classic fandom, but none of the depth, and so threats to the source material feel like threats to their community as a whole. They also just don't seem to understand that different subsections of the deeper fandom community are engaging with the material on an entirely different level, or they don't understand why they're doing that. They see no need to because they're never actually engaging with the community or source material beyond a surface level. Functionally they don't have a community. And mainstream media is actively encouraging this because it's profitable for them - they're reaping all of the rewards of fandom, minus the fact that because of the lack of actually community and support structures the entire "fandom" will only have a shelf life the same length of the source material. But at the same time this means they don't have to worry about quality or etc, because this extremely passionate side of their audience will just take anything thrown at them and it'll phase out almost immediately. It doesn't need to be good, it just needs to elicit some kind of reaction on social media. Any publicity is good publicity type stuff.

This lack of true community plus the parasocial emphasis the RR company has tends to make these types of fans double-down. Rick and co. are explicitly advertised as being both part of the "community" and integral to it. And when they've built Rick (and co) up as this moral paragon critical to both part of their identity they're very passionate about and what little of a community they have, any attack on him feels like an attack on themself. Particularly when so much of the publicity and marketing surrounding Rick right now is about his alleged activism when a lot of the criticism about him and the series is actively calling that into question with his unaddressed internalized bigotries. Acknowledging that what Rick is saying and promoting himself as versus his writing and actions don't always line up and pointing out the bigotry present in his work forces people to acknowledge and think about performative activism, which can make a lot of people very uncomfortable! It's forcing them to acknowledge "Oh, even if I'm saying all the right words and calling myself an ally, I am not immune to being bigoted if I don't address my internalized biases. My actual behavior matters." and that especially can feel like a personal attack. Especially in today's western landscape of media consumption being viewed as a moral act in itself.

I suspect this is why a lot of the retaliation against criticism of Rick and the franchise right now is "Why can't you just have FUN? You're just trying to hate for views. Don't take it so seriously! It's not that deep!" - they not only have no interest in engaging deeper in the material, but don't understand why others would, and doing so jeopardizes the foundations of what they consider the fandom. They can't fathom anybody legitimately having these criticisms (particularly not anybody who would ACTUALLY consider themself a "fan" - because their perception of "fan" is themself) because they're so resistant to digging deeper into the media/source material or the concept that anyone would for any legitimate reason (because as long as they keep it as "it's not that deep!!! it's just fun! just enjoy it you wet blanket!!!!" and take things at their word, they can feel secure in that performative aspect and not have to unpack it), and acknowledging that those criticisms exist and are valid means they have to acknowledge the franchise is flawed and imperfect, so they presume the claims are entirely superficial and the individual has ulterior motives rather than, yknow, doing what fandom does: diving deeper.

[visiblenostalgia]

can't say I'll warn ya this time... but--

big observation I just realized TW: DEALS WITH THE UPCOMING TIKTOK BAN.... you will not like this observation if you're a fan of TikTok or LRB.

When Saturn was in Aquarius.... do you remember our comments on YouTube being disabled for all of the music we watched? Censored some say?

And how Pluto is sorta the next step up from Saturn? based on how karmic and deep Pluto's version of 'death/limitation' can be? Pluto in Aquarius contains TikTok ban.

[ below the cut will be the reality hitting observations I've made. the ones that scared me initially before I started to make plans. ]

I believe TikTok is the FIRST of many MANY apps banned. Our connections are gonna get isolated. And remember the mars Saturn conjunction in 2020 (at 0 Aquarius)? The lockdown? Connecting IRL was isolated if not stopped entirely? 20 years of being isolated from the world digitally y'all......

we will resort to going back to using our emails and sorts. Discord also being acceptable.

We're going on a 'you know this person?/are you willing to work with this person? and if so, why?' basis. With Uranus going into gemini, it'll only make things more radicalized in the digital world. VPNs can be used from what I see in doing some remote viewing, but bodies of governance (doesn't matter what country) still have a say in what you can and can't view. Internet wise may be a little different but you're gonna hafta pay over a firewall and expose your ID to those security systems if you're gonna use another app (doesn't matter if it was over p**n usage or not). Those that choose to dumbify their tech usage and go a y2k kind of direction, are better off. No drama in dealing with people stealing your email info and phone number, someone making an AI version of yourself for profit and so on n' so forth. If you're making a digital portfolio for work, back it up on a USB port and Zip file the ones that are the most important. Put em behind a password if you will. People are either part of the influencer team, or the digital boomer team. No in betweens. One will eventually be drowned out by the other. But it won't be easy for either at first.

Godspeed y'all. May y'all find your route in reality a little easier from this message.

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 91 (Conrad's Strange Trip)

cw: drinking, ingesting a mind-altering substance

Conrad pulled his cruiser through the gates of Bella Goth's estate in Cavalier Cove. The coastal mansion gave little indication of the paranormal-obsessed inhabitant who owned the property, but Conrad still always felt a chill when he walked through the front door.

Bella swore the house wasn't haunted. Conrad had never seen a ghost so he had to take her word for it, but the home did have two new permanent residents since he and Heather had last visited with the kids. In addition to Alexander and Lydia's newborn son, Jagger, Bella had welcomed a new pet.

"She's a gift from Grimmie. He's off reaping so often, but this crow can travel well enough to send messages between us when we're apart."

"She's beautiful, Mrs. Goth. But don't you worry about things like...bird flu? Especially with a newborn around."

"You don't really think I'd endanger Alex and Lydia's son, do you? My own grandson! Crows are among the most hygienic of all birds, you know. And she's a great little mimic. Watch."

The crow jumped from her wooden pedestal and onto Bella's hand. She spoke a few words in basic Simlish, waiting for her new pet to croak back, 'Nay-doo.'

"What's her name?"

"I haven't decided yet. Do you have any ideas? I thought Grimbella was nice, but Grimmie says we shouldn't name her after ourselves."

Conrad broke a smile across his tense cheeks. "I can't help you, Mrs. Goth. I didn't even name my dog. And, Solomon Wolff, my first partner back in San Myshuno, named him after me."

Bella shrugged with a gentle smile for Conrad and her crow. "I'll sleep on it. Maybe her name will come to me in a dream, or maybe Solomon Wolff will tell me what her name is."

(Surprise! Thank you @deardiaryts4 for making this headcanon canon with me! These two helped bust a puppy mill together as young officers, and Conrad ended up raising one of the pups who followed him back to their cruiser. Solo called him Gord because he was attached to Officer Gordon, and the name stuck. How Bella exists separately and prominently in overlapping storylines both totally makes sense and is outrageous but it need not be explained right now. Just enjoy the ride! Also, taking suggestions to name that crow! Grimbella isn't officially off the table, either.)

Conrad cleared his throat. "River dropped by and told me to come see you. But...I don't really know what I need to talk about."

"Conrad, you look tired." The words were accusatory, but there was only concern in her voice. "Let me mix you a drink. Text Heather, let her know I insisted you stay a while to relax. I'll watch your kids soon to make it up to her. Sometime when you're working late again."

"It's been a long few months," he admitted, following her to the long wooden bar in the dining room. "I know everyone's worried about me."

"So why won't you talk to anyone about it?"

He wavered. "Because sometimes the less people know, the safer they are. I shouldn't talk to you about this, especially since I can't figure out how to tell Heather, but if I don't talk to someone I might lose my damn mind...Have you ever heard of Los Tigres de Selva?"

She nodded. "My grandmother, Enriqueta, was from Selvadorada, but her family got her to Sunset Valley when she was small. They didn't want her to stay because of the cartels."

"I walked away from a case involving them today."

"They're in our ports?"

"They don't smuggle much through here. Probably because our ports are jammed with ice too many months of the year and it's not profitable, but this case...it's sorta personal."

"If you keep pursuing the case, will your family be in danger? You've told everyone you were handling it."

"I've tried. But last night Heather noticed how hard it's been to keep the case separate from everything else, and after River visited today I realized what it's been doing to me."

"This doesn't have anything to do with the woman Heather saw sneaking around outside your house before your daughter was born, does it?"

"She told you about that?"

"No, Cassandra told me because she wanted me and her brothers to be careful if there were any dangerous people lurking around town. And it sounds like there were...Are they still?"

"I really hope not."

Bella nodded. "So they are."

"Why do I always forget you spent a bit of time working as a secret agent?"

"Because they spent more time trying to figure me out than letting me do my job so I rarely talk about it. When Dex came along I said, 'Screw it.' Nothing's more important than family, and that's been my life since I quit."

"Well, you got more out of me than anyone else without much effort, so just know you've still got it."

"I don't know all your secrets, Conrad. I still don't know why you kept it from Heather, but my gut says you're ashamed of something."

"I feel shame about my past. And I feel shame because I should have told her months ago and I kept putting it off. I should have told her years ago. It just got harder and harder to say anything because no matter what, it'll look like I didn't tell her because I have something to hide."

"Do you?"

"There's a lot she doesn't know. There's a lot nobody knows, after my father died."

"Secrets are important to keep sometimes, and I understand wanting to keep her safe if the truth puts her in danger, but you know Heather. She likes honesty."

Conrad stared at the empty glass on the bar. "Heather's the love of my life. I can't lose her because I made stupid choices until my dad bailed me out with what amounted to his dying breath."

Bella thought quietly for a moment, taking a seat at the empty barstool. "You're a fascinating man, Conrad Gordon. Your father would be proud to see what you've made of yourself despite any mistakes of your youth, but something is causing you to go backward. I could press and I'm quite sure you'd tell me everything because you clearly need to talk about it, but..."

"But if I tell you before I tell Heather, I'm an even bigger ass than I've been. And still, knowing that, it doesn't make me want to run home and tell her."

"You know who might be able to provide better guidance than anyone who lacks the hindsight of death? The mentors."

He shook his head with snide laughter. "How did I know you were going to suggest travelling? Mrs. Goth, I have to work in the morning."

"And you know it only takes a few minutes!"

Maybe it was the liquid courage, but Conrad found himself agreeing and followed Bella upstairs. The seance table had been moved into their upstairs hall, with the old attic room turned into a nursery for Alex and Lydia's newborn son.

Conrad took a seat across from Bella, letting her lead just like last time. She chanted her Omiscan summons, with Conrad's palms open on the round wooden table draped in purple and gold cloth. A blue flame flickered above their heads, and Conrad was transported to the Realm of the Dead. He knew Bella wouldn't pull him out prematurely, so he walked cautiously toward the flame.

When he'd returned, he asked how long he'd been gone. A cold sweat broke on the back of his neck.

"You were gone much longer than usual - about twenty minutes. What did you see?"

"I need a drink, Mrs. Goth. The strongest drink you know how to mix."

"Don't you work in the morning?" she countered, but his pained expression gave Bella pause. "I know one drink. It clears your mind of all the jumbled thoughts you can't take with you...when you pass on. Only the most important thoughts and memories remain while you're in this state. But I can't let you drive home if I make it for you."

"Mrs. Goth, what I just saw...I don't understand it. If it'll unscramble my thoughts, I..."

"You can stay here for the night, and I'll tell Heather you helped me with a computer virus."

"I thought I wasn't supposed to be lying to Heather."

"Do you want to tell her you're going to spend the next few hours living as a ghost?"

"Living as a what? Are you going to...kill me?"

"Of course not! Think of it a bit like, oh, I don't know, ayahuasca. It's an out-of-body experience, but it can be mentally transformative! It helps give perspective on the things that really matter to us when our world is clouded with too much fear and worry. It's made with gin and crushed death flower petals, but it won't leave you hungover. Once the effects wear off you'll be fine to head to work tomorrow morning."

They headed back downstairs and he called Heather. Because he was with Bella, who they'd come to trust like family, she made no complaint over him taking a night to combat his stress by getting stuck into a computer problem. Though guilt pecked a hole in his stomach, they exchanged their usual 'I love you' before he hung up. Bella mixed him another cocktail - this one bright green and glowing with spectral gases. "When you travelled for twenty minutes, you must have been gone for close to a year..."

"Almost exactly twelve months."

"What could the mentors have wanted to show you for a whole year?"

"I didn't meet any mentors, other than the professors I already had. I relived my first year of college."

"Fascinating! I've heard of this but never experienced it. I used to hope the mentors could show me where I went when I disappeared and lost all memory of my time away. The mentors let people relive the past if they have an opportunity to make amends for something or if they're sending a warning, so maybe my time away was just boring and uneventful."

"Seems pretty unlikely with you, Mrs. Goth."

As she spoke, Conrad sipped the glowing green cocktail. When he'd finished his drink, he looked down. The empty glass appeared to float on thin air, and he could scarcely make out the faint lines marking his fingertips. He really was a ghost.

Bewildered, he set down the glass on the bar and turned around. Bella watched him with excitement, trying to read his face for a reaction. "Jump-scare!" he shouted, and Bella gasped.

"You're getting better at that," she said with a laugh.

"Jump-scaring feels easier without a body to drag around. But I can't let Heather and the kids see me like this. How long does it last?"

"The sofa's all yours until you've sobered up, and you'll be back to normal by then. But tell me: who are you thinking about right now?"

"Heather and the kids, like always."

Bella smiled. "Good. That's the most important thing. Now go ahead, possess some of the furniture and get this out of your system. I know you want to."

He knew it was time to tell Heather the truth, but tonight, his mind - and body - wasn't right for such a serious conversation. After Bella and her family had gone to bed upstairs, he floated around the house with the cats tailing his every move. Finding the piano open and unattended, he grinned mischievously. Bella was right. He felt an uncontrollable urge to possess the sturdy instrument and jumped inside.

Possessing furniture was a lot harder than it looked, with the treble strings catching on his broad shoulders each time he floated upward. Still, he'd rather possess a grand piano than a litter box.

He had his fun before he passed out on the sofa. For a few hours, he had practically forgotten Ximena's name. But as morning came, he woke remembering what Bella had said about the mentors. He thought finding Rafa would make amends for his past, but it had only caused trouble and he still couldn't find him.

As Conrad headed to work, he wracked his brain trying to figure out what the mentors had wanted him to notice. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

NOTE: Thursday's flashback will let us all see what Conrad saw!

NOTE 2: Not the most responsible night for ol' Conrad, but the stress is still there despite telling Ximena to take a hike. Between fearing her and knowing Heather needs to know the truth but fearing how that conversation will go, dude's cracking! We may judge. Also I wasn't entirely positive what the drink would do before I had Bella make it for him. I had an inkling but didn't look it up, so this was technically an unplanned night of dropped responsibilities for Conrad, who's built a very responsible rep!