#LIKE THIS DUDE IS LIKE WHAT FORTY YEARS OLD? AND HE'S THIS FUCKED UP OVER A TEENAGER LIKE ETHRTMRGFDSGHTJMHNFGBVC

[seecarrun]

“Tah-dah.”

The combination of the deadpan tone and the perky little spirit finger wiggles is enough to make Eddie roll his eyes and scoff at Richie’s antics, so he opens his mouth and starts to call him a fucking idiot.

That is, until he actually gets a look at what it is Richie is showing him.

There, carved into the old wood of The Kissing Bridge, are the letters R+E.

He blinks down at them in something like surprise. “The fuck is this?” he asks. Richie frowns, irritated.

“It’s our fucking initials. What the fuck does it look like?”

“Well, why are our initials carved here?” Eddie asks, not meanly or anything, but definitely bewildered. “Who the fuck wrote our initials here?” He steps closer and bends down to get a better look. “This looks old. Is this from when we were kids? I never noticed this before. Did someone do this to make fun of us or something? Why wouldn’t they tell us? Did they tell you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Richie waits for Eddie to finish the worst game of twenty-questions in history, exuding the kind of patience he didn’t even know he was capable of as Eddie goes on for what feels like forty fucking minutes.

“Dude,” he finally bursts out, unable to take it anymore, “I carved those. Me. Jesus Christ.”

Eddie blinks up at him, all eyes and freckles, confused. “You did this?”

“Yes.”

“When we were kids?”

“Yes.”

“So…” Eddie looks at the wood and then back at Richie again, and Richie tries not to burst into a million pieces as he sees the cogs slowly turning in Eddie’s head.

“Oh my god, get there faster!” he finally snaps, and Eddie shoots him a glare.

“Shut the fuck up, dude! You had thirty years to know about this shit, I’ve had thirty fucking seconds, I’m fucking processing!” Richie throws his arms into the air and does a weird, exasperated little circle as Eddie continues to inspect the carving, his brows furrowed. “You carved our initials into the kissing bridge when we were kids,” he states again, just to hear the whole thing put together, and gingerly runs his index finger over the plus-sign. “Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Richie asks, cringing.

“Obviously not, if I’m fucking asking.”

Richie’s heaves a sigh. “I liked you,” he finally admits. Somehow, the world doesn’t end. He briefly thinks teenage-Richie would have been surprised by that.

Eddie traces his finger along the E now, slowly. “You liked me back?” he says, so quietly it takes Richie a moment too long before he realizes what Eddie said.

“Wait, back?!”

(Part 2 here)

[syrupfog]

Tired, tired barista Law. Works in the coffee shop at the heart of campus where the line is always out the door and the drinks are so sugary it makes him physically ill to pump the syrups. He's the shift lead though so he has to pull the longest hours and cover anyone out sick. 

He's just. Tired all the time. But it's fine, he just has to keep his grades up and keep his job and get into the fellowship he's after and then it'll be smooth sailing to get onto the night shift at the hospital he wants and work his way up to day shift it's fine.

Honestly the biggest problem he deals with is the store manager, Doflamingo. Once, a year ago at this point, Law had mentioned that he would have to leave his position if he managed to get the receptionist position at the university hospital. It would've given him connections.

But apparently the mere idea that Law would be willing to leave, to no longer work under Doffy, was betrayal enough. He's been... off. Ever since. At the very least, Law knows he's never getting a raise again. He'll be lucky if he's not framed for stealing from the till.

One morning, after an especially rough clopener where Law found himself cleaning literal shit off the bathroom walls multiple times, Doffy comes in to inform him that he's going to have to stay until close because he’s declaring an emergency shift lead meeting.

Law has two midterms and a lab due within forty eight hours, but he needs the money and as much as he'd like to in this moment, he can't just walk out on the job. He nods, stiffly, and goes back to creating the worst latte art of all time.

It's for a regular. He comes in almost every day, orders lattes, and then DOESN'T DRINK THEM. He insists on the drinks that are the most annoying to make (Law's good at hearts but he's started turning them into dicks out of annoyance) and then he doesn't EVEN DRINK THEM.

He just sits in one of the plush chairs in the corner until his drink is cold and then leaves, waving at Law with a big smile on his face like they're old friends. 

It's weird. Law doesn't trust it. 

Of course, as Bepo says, Law doesn't trust much of anyone these days.

And as Penguin says, that's probably because he hasn't slept more than 3 hours in a night in two years. 

And as Shachi says, damn. That's fucked up, dude. 

Finishing the latte (the art is a dick, there's no denying it), Law pushes it across the counter to the regular.

His straw hat is pushed back, giving Law a view of his wide, wide eyes and general overexcited look. 

"Thanks!" he says, taking the drink and blowing on it, instantly sloshing foam over the side. 

Law rolls his eyes and goes back to the ever growing line of customers.

The day doesn't pass quickly, but it ends eventually as all things must. Law is dead on his feet, sweeping the same spot of floor with stained mocha powder for almost ten minutes before Bepo, sanitizing the espresso machines, takes pity on him.

"You should go," he says. "I can finish cleaning up. Go get some real sleep." 

Law rubs at his eyes. "No, it's fine," he says. "Actually, you should go. Doffy's making me stay for a shift lead meeting so I'll be here regardless." 

Bepo does not look happy with that answer.

But Law's his boss, technically. Law grits his teeth and checks another closing chore off the list. 

He knows Doffy's upstairs in his office, but it does slowly dawn on him that he's seen no other shift leads coming in. There's four of them, and yet... 

Odd.

All he can concentrate on at this point, is that the sooner he gets done the sooner he can go home. Home. Where his bed is, and more importantly his notes for O Chem. 

He shoos Bepo off home when the only thing left to do is inventory. Moving slow, he grabs the clipboard and makes his way into the walk-in, propping the door behind him. 

Scones, muffins, cheesecakes... It's dark in here, and Law realizes he's left his phone on the counter. He can't tell what's blueberry and what's chocolate chip. 

He's just about to turn around and grab it when the door of the walk-in slams shut. 

Law freezes. 

He'd propped that door open, right? It wouldn't just close like that. 

The walk-in door doesn't lock, for like. Security purposes. He goes and pushes against it, only to find resistance. Not like it's latched, but like like someone's barricaded the door. 

Law grits his teeth. This isn't good. 

It's cold in here, he has no phone, and Bepo's already gone. If he listens, he can hear someone's footsteps, the scraping of chairs. 

It feels like overreacting to yell. To react at all.

But— he's cold. he's in his uniform, and a short sleeve polo doesn't do much when one is locked in a freezer. Is this one of the shift leads playing a prank? Kid wouldn't be organized enough to try this. Apoo might... 

His chattering teeth eventually win out over his pride.

"Hello?" he yells. "I'm still in here!" 

There's a beat of silence, and then slow, steady footsteps. 

"I know," says a voice that is distinctly Doffy's. "And you'll keep being in there, until you learn your lesson." 

"What the fuck," Law spits. "What fucking lesson?"

"I saw your papers, Trafalgar," Doffy says. "I know you're applying to that summer internship program." 

Law is. He doesn't have a shot in hell of getting in, doesn't have the connections. He's still applying, though. "So what?" 

"You're my best shift lead," Doffy says.

"You're my best worker altogether. It would be ridiculous to abandon me now." 

Law was always going to abandon him. This is a coffee shop. He's not planning on working clopeners the rest of his life. "Let me out, Doffy," he says. His nose is icy. His hands are in his armpits.

"I'll give you a night to think on it," Doflamingo says. "Maybe you'll make better decisions in the morning." 

Law knows very well that he won't survive in a freezer overnight. He's not even wearing socks inside his boots, the cold is already numbing his ankles.

"Stop!" he yells as he hears Doffy's footsteps receding. "Wait! I'll-- I'll cancel the application!" 

The footsteps return. Then Doflamingo laughs. "You can't fool me like that," he says, still chuckling. "I'll give you the night to REALLY reflect on it."

His footsteps recede again and Law shudders out a breath. This is bad. 

He tries the door, pushing with all his strength, until his shoulder is freezing against the metal, but it doesn't budge. He tries pacing, but it's pitch dark in here. He breathes onto his hands for warmth.

He's so cold. So cold. It's been barely any time at all and he's already feeling desperate. Did Doffy lower the temperature? 

He wonders if the door is barricaded well enough that he should be worried about running out of air.

Squatting down, he tries to wrap his apron around himself, but even that is already freezing. it's wet, too, from a spill he'd been cleaning up. 

Law's thoughts drift against his will to home. He thinks about all he did to escape everything. How it wont have made a difference.

How he'll be found in the morning, how the newspapers will say that he is succeeded by no kin, because everyone else has been gone for two decades. 

He should've quit months ago. 

The thing is, is Law is so tired. He was already tired. And now he's cold, and it's dark.

And he knows he shouldn't go to sleep, but— it seems easier. It would be so much easier than having to deal with the numbness in his hands and feet, the way his eyelashes stick to his cheeks. 

But he knows he shouldn't. Knows he should be doing something.

And as a last ditch effort— he knows no one can hear him. Knows Doflamingo will laugh— as a last ditch effort he screams. 

He screams until his throat hurts. Screams until he's coughing from the cold. 

Wordless screams that draw the last of his strength, steal his warmth.

He falls into unconsciousness as the last of his breath is ripped from his cold lungs.

Darkness is welcoming. 

He floats in it. The cold is still there, but muted now. 

He had been so tired. For so long.

Suddenly, Law is pulled back to consciousness, painfully, like ripping a bandaid off of a wound. 

There's light in the walk-in. He feels it on his eyelids. When he cracks open his eyes, he's hit with blinding light. Is this heaven? If it is, it's pathetic.

But with the light comes a wave of warmth, not enough to help him, but enough for him to notice. 

And with the warmth comes arms, strong arms, roughly hoisting him around his middle, dragging him out and onto the blessedly warm tile floor of the back room.

"Traffy?" a voice says. "Traffy! Hey!" 

Someone slaps his face. 

"Fuck!" Law yells, putting a hand to his cheek. He still cant really feel anything in his fingers. The blindingly bright light is clearing enough that he can see the silhouette of someone standing over him.

GOD he hopes it's not Doflamingo. 

But that voice didn't SOUND like Doffy. 

"Traffy! You're alive! Do you have hypno thermia?" 

"Hypothermia," Law mumbles. "Who the fuck is Traffy?"

"That's what your nametag always says!" 

Law's nametag says Trafalgar. He knows it.

"How-- Where's Doflamingo?" 

"That tall guy who locked you in here?" 

Law's vision finally comes into focus and he startles at the sight of the regular with the straw hat. "Yeah," he says. "Him." 

"I dunno, I saw him leave a while ago." 

Law flexes his fingers in search of warmth

"What do you mean you saw him leave? Why are you here?" Are you a part of this? he doesn't say. 

Straw Hat doesn't look at all embarrassed when he says, "I was hiding in the bathroom. You guys never check it at the end of the night." 

Law gapes at him. "Why?" he asks.

"I dunno, I mean most places do and I was honestly surprised you guys don't, but--" 

"Not-- you do this a lot?"

Straw Hat grins. "Yeah! My roommate kicks me out whenever he wants to have sex, which is like every night at this point. So I've been sleeping here. Chairs're comfy."

Well that's. Better than it could be, honestly. 

Law tries to refocus. He probably IS hypothermic. What's he supposed to do for that? Body heat? 

"You said Doffy left?" he asks. 

Straw Hat nods. "Yeah! A while ago! It took me a bit to get all that stuff off of the door though. Like, he's strong! He pushed a whole refrigerator in front of it!" 

Dear lord, he really had been trying to kill Law. 

Shit. Doffy knows where Law lives. 

Law can't go home. 

"Anyway, I think you're hypno thermomic," Straw Hat says. "And you probably need, like, a hot bath."

Okay Law does know that will kill someone with hypothermia. He remembers that much. "I can't go home," he says, still trying to process. "He knows where I live." 

"Oh," says Straw Hat. "You can come home with me! My roommate is a cook, he'll help."

"Your roommate kicked you out to have sex," Law points out, dazedly. 

Straw Hat shrugs. "This is more important," he says, and like. Well Law can't argue with that. 

He tries to sit up and his limbs listen a little, but Straw Hat steadies him anyway.

"Not that I don't appreciate the help," Law says, "But I shouldn't just impose. I can-- I'll call my coworker, my phone's around here somewhere." 

"Oh," says Straw Hat. "Is that it?" 

He points to a spot on the floor where Law finds his phone. 

Smashed. 

Into several pieces.

He does NOT have the money for a new one. 

"Oh my god," he whines. 

"Come on," Straw Hat says. "Let's go to my place. We can build a fire!" 

"Do you have a fireplace?" 

"No!" 

Law still can't feel his hands or feet. "Listen," he says. "Just- why do you never drink your lattes?"

Shockingly, Straw Hat looks embarrassed at this, gaze shifting nervously. "Because," he says. "They're really gross." 

"Why do you get them, then?" Law demands. 

"The first time I came in, I asked what to get and you said a latte because you're good at hearts!"

Christ. Law has... no memory of that. 

Straw Hat crosses his arms, looking petulant. "It's not my fault they taste gross." 

Law's throat is raw and he's probably got frostbite on his penis like that prince. "I'll make you something you actually like," he says. "Next time."

Straw Hat perks up. "Next time?" 

"If I live through the night," Law adds. "And. Not next time here. I'm quitting this job." 

Straw Hat nods. "Good. That guy was mean, I think." 

Then, without informing Law of his plan, Straw Hat turns around and pulls him onto his back.

Everything in Law hurts at this, but he also doubts he could've walked wherever they're going. 

Straw Hat is shorter than him, but he's jarringly strong. 

"Hey," Law says. "If you murder me, I'll kill you." 

He feels Straw Hat laughing through his teeth.

The actual straw hat's brim is pushed up against Law's cheek. 

"Don't worry," Straw Hat says. "I want you to make me a better drink!" 

He carries Law across campus to a rickety old dorm. 

Law listens to him talking about all of his friends and also his favorite bugs.

He makes sure that Straw Hat does NOT draw him a hot bath or make a fire in the dorm, but he does accept skin-to-skin warmth, which does wonders. The hot tea made by his cranky roommate also helps. 

Tomorrow, he's going to have to press charges, probably. And get a new phone.

Tonight, he's sharing a bed with the weirdest guy he's ever met. 

Life is sort of okay.

[seat-safety-switch]

You've probably heard of the old story about the shoemaker's elves. Some dude who makes shoes falls asleep at night, tiny mythical creatures arise and finish his work for him. Everything works out, and they show the elves some gratitude which is repaid by lifelong success.

Friends: kidnapping an elf does not work at all like you'd think.

When you have a large American luxury automobile, like a Cadillac, Lincoln, or whatever it is that Chrysler makes, people will often remark on the size of the trunk. Even non-car people will tell you that it looks like a four or five body trunk. This is both because of this style of car's popularity in gangster movies, and because "trunk big" is one of those things that even the dimmest bulb can come up with in an attempt to break the ice with someone who, based on their daily driver, may actually be a semi-retired mafia enforcer.

Thing is, after weeks and months and years of hearing this from everyone who comments on your car, this intrusive thought can burrow, weevil-like, into the innermost folds of your brain. You start to plot crimes. Speeding is easy, of course, the real gateway drug, and it's achievable even if your five-litre V8 only has about a hundred and forty horsepower in a car with the aerodynamics of a sailboat. It doesn't take long from there to go "I should stop by the haunted castle and see if they have any of those elves." In my defence, I had lots of shoes that needed repair.

Of course, you all know what happened next if you read the biased newspapers, or saw the whole courtroom drama that ensued. I forgot that it was Star Trek cosplay night and shoved a couple Spocks into the trunk, then sped off. As I soon found out, despite the pointy ears, Spock has no fucking idea how to make shoes, having become dependent on replicator technology to build and maintain footwear. That said, one of the actors was willing to break character and show me how to apply a new insole, which I was grateful for until he hit me over the head with one of my own Doc Martens and fled into the yard.

[jungle-angel]

Playing Doctor (Rhett Abbott x Reader)

Summary: Rhett will literally do anything to get out of going to the doctor, but a little roleplaying goes a long way

Warnings: SMUT, parenthood, Rhett trying to get out of going to the doctor's, cancer scare etc.

Tagging: @floydsmuse @bradleybeachbabe @callmemana @attapullman @sebsxphia @rhettabbotts @hangmanapologist

You groaned when you saw the number for the missed call on the answering machine for the phone in the kitchen.

"You ok hon?" Cecelia asked as she began prepping the raw green beans for dinner.

"That's the third time this week," you huffed. "Rhett was supposed to go for a doctor's appointment on Friday and it's Tuesday."

Cecelia chuckled a little. "Typical Rhett," she said. "Him and Royal are two of the same. They'll think of any excuse to not go, they both hate going."

"I know Cece, it's just annoying," you sighed, helping her snap off the ends of the green beans.

"Annoying as it is, they still need to be careful," Cecelia remarked. "Still haven't forgotten Roy's reaction when they found that cyst in my left tit last year"

"Ooooooh."

"Yep," Cecelia continued. "Nasty, nasty stuff. Mom had breast cancer and so didn't Aunt Anna, Aunt Betty and Aunt Mariah."

"Isn't that what Oma Heidi had too?" you asked.

"Oh Roy's mother had it bad," Cecelia answered. "Both his father and my father had it too but part of that was because his father was over in Vietnam and my father smoked for forty two plus years."

You and Cecelia chattered away when you heard Rhett trailing through the door, groaning as he kicked off his boots and hung his tan carhartt jacket up on the hook.

"Hey Ma," he said, greeting his mother cheerfully. "Something smells real good, what's for dinner?"

"The prime rib your father had sitting in the drop freezer," Cecelia answered. "By the way, I think ya'll might've missed something this afternoon."

"Huh?" Rhett said, his eyebrows scrunching together.

"I saw a message on the answering machine from the doctor's office," you said, giving him 'the look'.

"Oh um......yeah about that......ya see, a funny thing happened, Wes called and one of the cows had a breach birth and......"

"RHETT!!!!!"

"Hey ya'll try havin some creepy old dude feelin up your nuggets!" Rhett blurted out. "It's awkward as hell!!"

"Rhett need I remind ya'll that I have to have my tits felt up every six months?" Cecelia reminded him.

"No, but it's still awkward!"

"Oh you wanna talk about awkward?" you chuckled. "You wanna hear about my last gyno appointment?"

"NO!!"

"Well first she takes a speculum, which is like a freezing cold pair of salad tongs and widens the hole a little bit," you explained, delighting in watching him squirm. "And then she takes a little stick and scrapes my cervix......."

"LA LA LA LA!!!!! I CAN'T HEAR YA'LL!!!!" Rhett interrupted, covering his ears. "I can't hear ya'll!!!!"

"MY CERVIX DAMNIT!!!"

Rhett ran right out of the room and hurried upstairs to wash up for dinner, leaving you and your mother-in-law to laugh it off.

*****************************

Rhett fucking HATED being in the doctor's office.

He hated the cold, sterile feeling of the room, the smell of rubbing alcohol, but most of all, that you had managed to lure him to the truck with a trail of mini KitKat bars and the fact that he had been gullible enough to take the bait. But here he was, sitting in Pete's exam room in nothing but his shorts and awaiting the awkwardness that was to ensue.

The door creaked open and in walked Pete, one of only a few doctors in the whole of Wabang who had known the Abbotts since Royal was knee high.

"Ah there's Wabang's favorite bull rider," Pete remarked. "How's it going Rhett?"

"Not alot of complaints Pete," Rhett said, scratching the back of his neck.

"Well that's good," Pete said, glancing at his clipboard. "Wow.....looks like the last time you had a physical was the turn of the century."

Rhett made a face and nodded.

"Well, I'm glad you came in when you did," Pete remarked as he began probing Rhett's neck and along his jaw with his fingers. "According to the medical records you had some pretty nasty injuries with a bull last year."

Rhett had remembered clearly the ornery son of a bitch that had landed him in the ER right around the time of Amy's second birthday and having to have concussion tests every two weeks. "Quit the bull riding about a month ago," he said, squirming a little at the feeling of Pete's fingers on his neck.

"Good on you," Pete chuckled. "Told my son the same thing. Deep breath for me."

Rhett took four deep breaths as Pete listened to his lungs and then his heart. Good God he hated the feeling of that thing moving all over his chest and under his left tit and especially along his belly.

"Anything hurt?" Pete asked as his fingertips began probing Rhett's abdomen.

Rhett shook his head.

Good grief his hands were gnarled and cold. He winced a little when Pete felt up around his bellybutton, not from pain but from the uncomfortable wave of awkwardness that washed over him.

"Alright, looks good," Pete remarked. "Mind rolling over on your side for me?"

Rhett rolled over so Pete didn't have to see his face scrunching up, more so when Rhett heard the snap of a rubber glove.

*****************************

You came up from the basement with a pile of freshly dried laundry in the basket. The house was relatively quiet seeing as Amy had gone down for a nap, but the sight of your husband laying on the couch with a grumpy pout on his face told you that something wasn't as it seemed.

"Alright, talk to me cowboy," you said, setting the laundry down near the coffee table. "What happened?"

"Don't wanna talk about it," he said flatly.

You smiled and rolled your eyes. "Come on," you purred, slithering all over Rhett, the same way Garfield usually did. "I know something's up."

"I just had my balls and my asshole diddled by a creepy old dude with gnarled hands," Rhett answered, barely moving.

You snorted and giggled a little.

"I mean it darlin I ain't goin again," Rhett insisted.

"Rhett."

"I mean it."

"Ok, you know what you need?" you said. "I think you need a little help and that entails a little roleplaying."

Rhett arched his eyebrows. "Roleplaying?" he asked.

You nodded. It was something you did with your fifth graders when they were practicing for the spring play and had done with them ever since you had first had them in first grade.

Rhett joined you upstairs in the bedroom as you dug around looking for some things that your friend, Tara, had been storing at the house. You found her extra scrubs and medical equipment while Rhett stripped himself down to his shorts and seated himself on the edge of the bed.

"Can I get your name and date of birth sir?" you asked him.

"Only if ya'll buy me dinner first," Rhett answered, wiggling his eyebrows.

You rolled your eyes. "Name and date of birth please sir," you told him.

"Mike Rotch, January twenty-nine, ninety three," Rhett answered with a shit eating grin.

"Mike R......NO!!!!!"

Rhett laughed, an annoyed groan escaping your throat as you began to probe his neck and jaw, feeling his lymphnodes for anything out of the ordinary. You could feel the low purr in his throat as he leaned in for a kiss which you couldn't help but return.

"Mind laying back for me?" you asked him.

Rhett lay on his back before you began to gently probe his belly with your fingertips. "Lower," he said. "Just a little lower........nah that's still too high......there you go....."

You rolled your eyes, still feeling lower and lower until you hit pubes. A naughty little thought had bloomed in your head as you took his flaccid dick in your hand.

"Oh woah wait....wait a sec what are you....??" he said before sucking in a breath.

"Oh I'm sorry, where does it hurt? Here?" you asked him cheekily.

Rhett groaned as you slowly gave him a few gentle tugs and rubbed the underside of his balls. "Fuck......feels so good darlin," he hissed.

You took his dick in your hand again, gently massaging and caressing his shaft and his tip with your thumb until he had hardened right in your grip. "You sure it hurts there?"

"Feels so fuckin good," he groaned again, thrusting his hips into your hand.

You leaned up and kissed him full on the lips, your tongue slipping over his bottom lip and into his mouth to sneak a taste of him. "Well hello nurse," Rhett purred.

You giggled as you helped him get the scrubs off. Rhett practically tore your panties off of you, shoving his cock deep inside your already wet pussy. You moaned feeling his lips and tongue on the curve of your neck, his hips ramming into yours with so much force that the bed shook and knocked against the wall. You felt him gutter into you just moments later, the both of you out of breath and thoroughly fucked enough to forget your troubles.

"Feel better?" you asked, your head resting on Rhett's chest.

"Loads better," Rhett purred.

"Think you'll go back once a year from now on?"

Rhett kissed your lips and rolled on top of you, pressing you a bit further into the mattress. "For you darlin? Anything."

And ever since then, you never had a problem getting Rhett to go back to the doctor's office.

[steviewashere]

Time loop fic where there's elements of Life is Strange; so a fusion of sorts, but not an exact au.

Steve Harrington, a seemingly normal dude—almost a nobody, is chosen to have these time-altering powers; similar to how Max Caulfield did in Life is Strange, where she traveled through old photos. In which he realizes the "destiny" of it all is to try and save Eddie Munson from supernatural danger/death. It happens when Eddie "dies" from the demobats. And right as Steve actually reverses time to save him, he's spat back out into 1983, following an aloof, and wanting to do good for the world, Eddie Munson.

(Also, Eddie would come to know about Steve's powers. He'd wonder: why me? Why Steve? He'd think of his life to be selfish, it would be a whole thing. Anyway.) My full idea is under the cut, I'm so sorry for rambling.

Eddie gets caught up trying to find Will Byers in 1983—nearly drowns when he discovers a "body"; Steve is there sulking (over something, you decide what) and notices somebody swimming out, doesn't think anything of it until they sink and don't come up for forty-five seconds—he jumps into lifeguard mode.

Eddie is at the junkyard trying to find metal scraps for a D&D map he's handcrafting for a campaign, gets caught up in the demodogs—Steve shoves him out of the way, all the while taking a gnarly claw to the chest. He survives, but it's a near sort of thing.

Eddie wanders out from a showing of a late night movie, Robin Buckley and Steve Harrington are drugged out by the water fountains, he follows them to the bathroom where they proceed to tell him how Steve got beat up, he overhears a confession he probably wasn't supposed to be privy to—eventually, he's out fighting the mind flayer, being told to duck and get down by Steve Harrington.

The events of 1986 happen, as they initially played out. Except, this time, Steve has the memory of what it's like to watch Eddie come close to death. Over and over and over again. He had moments in time where he knew what it was like to be covered in Eddie's blood; knowing he cared too much and had to go back.

He's in 1986, staring at Eddie Munson's big, doe eyes. "Don't be a hero," he says—a threat, no longer a warning. And he's faced with two choices:

Save Eddie Munson OR

Save Hawkins, Indiana

If he saves Eddie, he swaps places with Dustin. If Dustin takes Steve's place, the demobats are no longer distracted. Steve realizes something that he must do. He has to abort mission, like what should've happened in the first place. Instead of fighting, Steve hauls Eddie out as soon as the others leave for Vecna's lair. Eddie squawks, protests, tries to put up a fight. But it's no use. Steve is set in stone. He could've left Eddie to rot in the Upside Down, but coming to know him, coming to know every version of Eddie, coming to know his family and his life and his secrets over the years (even if it seems like seconds to everybody else), Steve can't stomach that. He cares too much; knows what he wants.

Eddie is what he wants.

And Vecna, the Upside Down, Eleven's powers, the resurgence of the ugly and awful every year can finally be over if he makes this choice.

Up to this point, he had used the missing posters of Eddie to save him, to go back through time. But each time he goes back in time, Vecna gets stronger and stronger. If he tries it again, he knows they'll be fucked even if he actually does save Eddie.

He can choose to save Eddie.

He can leave Hawkins all behind, right before the demobats come flooding through the trailer. He can quickly escort Eddie out. In doing so, however, the demobats get to Vecna's lair. The demobats kill the others. Vecna gets Max. Jason gets Lucas. And Erica doesn't fair any better. In the end, with Steve and Eddie skipping town, Hawkins is destroyed by Vecna and his powers, succumbing. Everybody in this scenario dies. Eddie will not be known as a "satanic murderer", he would not face the death penalty after surviving the Upside Down and coming back to Hawkins; nobody will know that he was there when Chrissy died.

With choosing to save Eddie, Steve will forever live with a gnawing guilt towards the others. He would become less of who he was. He'd be forever altered. He would know that Hawkins succumbing would be his entire fault.

If he doesn't save Eddie, the events of season four still happen. However, Vecna doesn't win. With Eddie's death, Vecna dies—almost like they have an odd hive mind connection (you choose how or why Eddie has this connection, I don't have the brain to do so).

Steve comes out of the Upside Down with Nancy, Robin, and Dustin. He comes out clean and harm-free. Max does, and Lucas, and Erica. Everybody is safe—except for Eddie.

Since the town doesn't go into ruin, Wayne doesn't go to the high school when the trailer is ruined. He's still putting up the posters around town.

I think, too, that outside of Eddie knowing, Nancy would know. Because I mean, come on. She's the journalist, knows of the crazy other worldly shit. She had been somebody that Steve trusted, and he trusted her in turn. He comes to her with this knowledge. And they know, with the outcome of Eddie's death, they have to break the news. Edit: I also think Robin would come to know, she'd spot something wrong with Steve and she'd beg for him to tell her; she believes him, of course, and helps however she can.

They tell Wayne. Who takes it as well as any mourning father would.

And in the end, when Wayne isn't looking, Steve and Nancy take the rest of the missing posters. They take down all the other ones around town.

They burn them. Burn all of the missing posters. They burn any trace Steve has of interacting with Eddie in 1983, 1984, 1985. He gets rid of it all.

Steve won't forget who Eddie Munson is. And, yes, unfortunately, the town will still think of Eddie as the "satanic murderer". But everybody else would be safe. And in Eddie's last moments, right before he succumbs to his injuries, he tells Steve, "Do it. For Dustin. Nancy. Robin...Wayne."

If he doesn't save Eddie, Steve will forever live with a gnawing guilt anyway. He will know that Eddie's death was something he could not prevent, even if he wanted to. He would know that Eddie's death isn't his fault, it was supposed to happen in the first place, but he interfered just in time. Only Nancy would know of Steve's choice, of his guilt. (This wouldn't bring them together romantically (don't think of this as me pushing a stancy agenda onto you or whatever), but this would lead to a deeper understanding of their friendship; Nancy couldn't save Barb, Steve couldn't save Eddie. Something, something: You can't save people, you can only love them.)

And that's the dilemma that Steve would have to wade through. Does he sacrifice the guy that meets everything that Steve has ever wanted, the guy that he created literal years worth of memories with, the one he was so set in stone over saving; does he live with the guilt of killing his other friends? Or does he save the family he's come to know, just with a black, absent spot where the rest of his family should be—Eddie Munson; the guilt from his death instead?

Is Eddie worth saving?

That's the thought going through his head when he looks back at Eddie in the Upside Down. Is Eddie worth saving?

(Also, this could work as Jonathan x Steve or, another angsty one I just thought of, Jonathan x Nancy.)

[around1302]

YOU WROTE ME

SPARE PARTS: blurb 1/1

THE TROUBADOUR, LONDON

(W) strong language, alcohol use, brief smut: if u can call it that

THIRD PERSON’S POV

9 MONTHS POST-SPLIT

“Why can’t you just trust that it’ll be fun?”

“Because you don’t even know who’s playing! What if it’s some screamo guy and I get traumatised.”

“Please, Charlie, you’ve met my friend. You think he’s going to guitar for a screamo guy?”

Charlie pauses, remembering everything she can from the brief meeting between her and Becca’s friend at her house party last week.

“Yes. Yes I do.”

Becca rolls her eyes, nodding in gratitude at the bouncers who let them into the Troubadour, past the lines and lines of people. Charlie has to admit that’s promising, at least. Surely a hundred teenage girls wouldn’t be queueing for something unworthwhile.

“I thought as a musician you’d be buzzing for a free invite to the Troub!”

Charlie’s turn to roll her eyes, now.

“The Troub?”

“Let me pretend I’m in on the lingo, too.”

“God, you’re just making it worse.”

Becca is Charlie’s only remaining friend from her pre-band days. In contact far too little, but enough to see each other in between schedules. Becca manages a restaurant in London, and throws killer house parties every Saturday. It’s ritual.

Of course, with band life, Charlie barely ever attended. But since the split and a (much too long) nine month hiatus from the industry, she’s had a little more time for living her 20s like she never entered that competition in the first place.

“You want a drink?” Becca shouts over the already loud crowd. Just as Charlie opens her mouth to answer, her forearm’s gripped so tightly she’s sure the blood supply’s been cut off.

“Oh my God! Charlie Greene?” A girl practically screams in her face, holding the hand that isn’t keeping Charlie there in a death grip over her mouth.

Despite her usually extreme routine when it comes to being avoided in public, Charlie assumed tonight could be a one off. Who would recognise her in this crowd, in this venue? Panic strickens her before Becca has to step in, shoving the girls palm off.

“Dude, don’t touch strangers like that.”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m just such a huge fan. I can’t believe you’re here! We all thought they were just rumours.”

“What?” Charlie’s dumbfound, forgetting all that media-trained ‘smile at the fans, don’t let them know you want to punch them’ bullshit.

“You know, you and–”

“Look, I’m sure you’re a nice kid, but we’re just trying to enjoy our night. You want me to buy you some alcohol to get you to go away?”

“Becca–”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, of course. E-enjoy your night.”

The poor girl scurries away, screaming something to her group but Charlie’s too riddled with guilt to hear what.

“For fuck’s sake, Becs, she’s like sixteen!”

“Gripped you like a forty year old WWE champ though, look at your arm!”

Charlie glances down, noticing the white and red splotches beneath the hazy blue lights. Becca has a point, even if she was a little harsh about it.

“Screw the drinks, let’s just get backstage before anyone else tries to cut off your circulation.”

Nodding, Charlie follows Becca through the crowd, making sure to keep her head down this time. Of course they’re asked for IDs and stage passes before getting through, Becca proudly letting security know they’re friends of the guitarist.

“I’m so proud of Mitch, man. He’s come so far. Can you believe he used to work in a pizza shop?”

“I know, it’s impressive shit,” Charlie nods, hugging her hoodie tight to her chest. Something bad swirls in her gut as she watches the audience from the safety of a thick curtain, seeing whispers and screams shared.

“You don’t think that’s about me, do you?” She points for Becca. Becca scoffs.

“Nah, don’t get too up your own ass, Char. The act’s probably about to come on.”

The band will be entering from stage left, opposite to them both. Charlie has to admit she’s curious. It’s been forever since she’s attended any kind of underground gig, it’s exciting – what music’s really about.

“Gemma Styles.”

Until that moment.

Ears ringing, throat drying, sweat forming. Charlie grips her hoodie so tight her knuckles blanch – she’s wrong, she has to be. It’s just her mind and anxiety playing tricks on her. It’d be impossible for–

“No way, Charlie?”

“Fuck.”

“… Charlie?”

“I mean hi! Sorry, hi!”

Pretending her ears aren’t still painfully ringing, Charlie accepts the open arms of the woman in front of her. Specifically, the sister in front of her. Her ears stop buzzing enough for her to hear Becca’s gasp beside her, and enough to hear her heart coming up through her throat.

“I can’t believe you’re here, it’s so good to see you!”

The one thing Charlie never understood was how Harry could be so intolerable and Gemma could be so… Gemma. Despite the ugliest truth she’s discovered in a while coming undone, she feels somewhat comforted by her hug and her words and her smile.

Perhaps they’re all a little too alike Harry, or perhaps the opposite. She can’t tell. There’s a lot happening.

“Yeah, um…” at a complete loss for words, Becca quickly steps in.

“Hi, I’m Rebecca. Friends with the guitarist.”

“Oh, Mitch! Isn’t he amazing? I’m Gemma, Harry’s sister.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry.”

Charlie shoots Becca a pointed glare. She apologises again, a little more sincerely this time.

“So does Harry know you’re here? Bet he’s thrilled, are the others here?”

“Um, no. And no. Not that I know of. I’m actually here for Mitch, too.”

“Oh, I–” Gemma frowns, understandably confused, but is cut off by the house lights dimming and some opening music starting.

Charlie pinches at her arm beneath the once soft material, it only now feels scratchy and too thick. Should she run? It seems like her only viable option. Except her feet are failing her and it’s too fucking late because–

“Hi everyone! I’m Harry, it’s a pleasure. This is my wonderful band, and we’re going to play a few songs for you. Starting with a new one, this is Complicated Freak.”

Frozen to her place, Charlie listened harbouring feelings she couldn’t quite place. Part of her wishes she had just done those few shots before she left like Becca had quite smartly suggested, but a larger part of her wishes she never came.

Because fuck, has she missed him.

She’s missed his voice, and his hands, and his eyes, and his dimples, and she could say she’s missed his hair but that’s gone with the last nine months. She missed watching him concentrate entirely too hard on playing the guitar and she missed watching that crease form between his brows as he closes his eyes and just feels the music. His music.

The music that sounds eerily familiar. Then suddenly flashes of a tour bus come to mind; long hair and slender fingers strumming a guitar. Lyrics that rendered a little to close to home but were promptly ignored at the time now echo the venue, echo her chest.

“Thank you so, so much everyone. I’ll see you soon!”

Harry lifts his palm to the roaring crowd, intimate and small yet still as deafeningly loud as she remembers them always being for him. Begging for an encore, or at the very least one more wave.

But it’s only then that she realises, still stuck to the floor, that he’s taking his guitar off. He’s offering the audience one final bow and kiss, and he’s turning, and he’s walking, and he’s grinning ear to ear and accepting his friends and family’s congratulations, and then he’s stopping, and he’s staring, and his lungs have stopped and his heart has faltered and–

“You wrote me.”

His lips quiver, paused in an effort to say the right thing. Say anything.

“Yeah, I…”

It’s as if the venue and people around them grew wings and flew away as time itself stopped just for them. The first time they had seen eye to eye in the time you could grow a whole fucking baby for God’s sake – and yet they could barely speak. So much unsaid, it’s almost too much. What do you start to say to the love of your life – who you lost?

Luckily, the people around them didn’t actually grow wings.

“We’ll see you later, H,” his older sister squeezes his dead arm, nodding towards Charlie (as if she saw) and then the other confused onlookers who had developed behind them during the show but fuck if Charlie noticed.

Gemma leads the group out, leaving the pair of them in a silent standoff, the muted sound of a dying crowd and crew starting to clean punctuating the quiet.

“Drink?”

“I wanted to call you so many times.” Charlie finally admits, three double vodkas deep.

“Why didn’t you?” Harry almost whispers four whiskeys in.

Malibu’s, their old, usual haunt, has been avoided for the last nine months. Not a single band member dared to go, whether it be that Zayn no longer bartends there or that they were afraid of memories. But it felt like the only place for them to be right now. Elbows leant on the same sticky counter, knees pressed together in their tipsy mis-care, no time passed yet the whole world between them.

“I was scared.” Charlie begins. “I needed time, and after I realised that you leaving us didn’t really matter in the end, I was too late.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Harry. I saw the tabloids. A month after we split you were seen with this person, that person. You had moved on from us, from me.”

Her confession is startlingly sobering, and Harry can’t help but gulp down a painful lump at the way her eyes water. Harry hadn’t moved on in any sense of the word, Harry was simply trying to find Charlie in anyone he could. The way in which he had coped with his web of feelings for the woman for the past six and a half years.

“I could never move on from you, Char. I was just… lost.”

Charlie snorts, turning to down the rest of her drink.

“Baby I–”

They both freeze. Harry didn’t mean to call her that, but God, doesn’t it feel natural? Isn’t that why it slipped out in the first place? Yet, a slap in the face would have felt better for Charlie. The vodka gets caught in her throat, the once warm liquor running ice cold down her chest.

She turns, her heart melting at the sight of his face. It’s that same heartbreaking, broken concoction of regret and worry knitting his brows and dripping from his eyes. And it has her lips hungrily on his.

He catches her, grabbing her hips as he opens his legs for her and draws her to his chest, breathing in every inch of her. Because that’s what kissing Charlie is like. Oxygen for the first time, water for the first time, life for the first time. His rough hands snake up her back, grip her sides, pinch her skin. Her nails rake at the nape of his neck, muscle memory expecting locks to hold onto but finding short curls as their home instead.

Their tongues and lips work in an unspoken agreement, all the way to her new apartment by the bar, all the way to her bed.

They didn’t speak. They were both far too terrified to lose this moment. They just needed each other, the touch they’d both been desperately chasing for months. Charlie closes her eyes as Harry’s mouth starts its attack on her neck and is transported to Louis’ apartment, where she first felt that same desperation.

“Please.” She breathes, wrapping her legs around his hips, eliciting from him a muffled groan as she grinds up towards him. He nods into her neck, his lips still working down her soft skin. She still tastes the same, that strawberry vanilla he could drink by the gallon.

Charlie claws at his back, making an attempt to remove his black button-up as he moves down her body. She just about manages it as he settles between her legs, pushing up her denim dress without grace or care before biting the edge of her knickers.

The heels of her feet press into his toned back, her palms already fisting the sheets as he harshly grips her hips to push her back into the mattress.

A million thoughts run through Harry’s head, but fear holds him back from saying a single one of them. Months ago, he would’ve told Charlie everything. How good her thighs feel, how fucking pretty she looks laying there, needy for him. How much her soft little pants sound like she should be begging for him, how hard he is for her like this.

But he can’t. For all he knows, he’s simply a mouth right now. He’s not Harry, he’s just something she needs, and fuck if he’ll be whatever she needs.

So he bites into her inner thigh, sucking away the sharpness as she grips and tugs at his hair. He moans into her skin, eyelashes fluttering against her hips as he kisses the top of her pubic bone. His touch is rough in every place but his lips as he makes a path to her core, pressing teasing kisses over her clit. Her knickers are fucking soaked through, and the sight alone is enough to send him berserk.

“Charlie, I’m gonna have to–”

“Please, just–”

With that sliver of permission, he reaches down, squeezing himself over his trousers. The slightly relieved pressure has him gasping against her lace, which quickly becomes wetter. Charlie sits up on her elbows, watching Harry touch and squeeze while he continues to tease her.

And it’s there. In between the need and the pleasure, Charlie begins to cry. Softly, quietly, but enough to garner Harry’s distracted attention.

“Hey, hey,” Harry moves back up her body, tugging her dress back into place as he squeezes her hip, “I’m sorry, I-”

“It’s fine.” Charlie’s voice cracks as her head hits the pillow, hot tears quickly meeting her hairline before she can wipe them away.

“Sweetheart–”

“I’m not your fucking sweetheart.” Charlie murmurs between gritted teeth, sending Harry aback. He sits up on his heels, his touch slowly leaving her. Charlie presses her palms into her eyes, squeezing the tears out as she muffles sobs against her hands.

“That’s the problem.”

It’s hardly above a whisper, but Harry hears every last syllable. Leaning back over her, he removes her fists, gently brushing her blotchy cheeks.

“I’m just drunk and emotional and weird and–”

“Stop it,” Harry murmurs, pulling her up to sit in front of him. “Tell me what you’re feeling.” When she doesn’t budge, he drops his head and whispers, “please.”

Charlie finds his eye. In so many ways, he’s unchanged. He still looks at her like that, and it crumbles her, just as easily as it did all those months ago.

“Everything got so fucked up, Harry. The band, me, us. I haven’t sang a chord in months. I see the guys, what, once, twice a month? And you…”

“It’s my fault, Char.” Harry sighs, collapsing beside her, rubbing his face. “I left, I split everyone up–”

“You needed to.” She interrupts, stern. “I didn’t realise at the time, it took me a while to accept it, but you needed to. Niall was starting a family, everyone was starting to burn out, even if we didn’t want to admit it.”

“You did the right thing.”

Those fives words are all that Harry’s wanted to hear for nine months. He’s spent countless, sleepless nights wondering if he’d messed everything up for everyone, forever. If in his selfishness he’d forgotten to use logic.

“I’m just not sure I did.”

Harry frowns, turning to look at Charlie.

“What do you mean, Charlie?”

“I worry that I was… hasty. Rash.”

Harry can’t help the small smile that starts to tug at his lips. He lifts his knees and rests his chin on his palm to hide it.

“I did a really messed up thing, you were justified.”

“No.” Charlie sighs, looking at the ceiling. “I was right to be mad, but I wasn’t right to have said all the stuff I did. I was especially not right to leave you.”

Harry’s chest jumps, but he tries to calm his excited heart before Charlie can finish. When it comes to her, there’s no real predictability. She might be about to destroy him all over again.

“Those six years mean more to me than anything I’ve done in my entire life. You were there through everything, every shitty and amazing thing, all I can think about is flashes of you. My sister, my audition, my first heartbreak, my first– I could go on and on, but the point is, you were there.”

“Even if you annoyed the shit out of me for the better part of it, you’re my life, Harry. I was stupid to think I could ever live it in the same way without you.”

It’s impossible to fight his grin, now.

Charlie finally turns to face him, instantly rolling her eyes at the sight of him. His entirely too wide smile, his glinting eyes and how they quickly flit to her lips, the twitch between his brows that lets her know he’s holding back a comment.

And despite his speechlessness, his answer is obvious.

“You sure you don’t want someone easier?” Charlie lilts, swaying into him.

“Why on Earth would I want anyone else?”

“I don’t know. I yell at you a lot.”

“I’d rather have you hate my guts than have anyone else.” Harry takes her waist, easing her beneath him again as he hovers over her. “I’ve spent my entire life waiting to hear you say that, you know.”

“Entire life is a bit dramatic.” Charlie drapes her arms around his neck, her fingers finding his nape. That hair is going to take some getting used to.

“Nope,” Harry pops his P, leaning down to press a kiss to her jaw. “You’re my life too, Char.”

She leans back into the pillow, her thumb circling his neck. “You mean it?”

It’s Harry’s turn to roll his eyes, now.

“You really have to ask? What more could I possibly do to prove to you that you’re it for me, you always have been.”

Charlie smirks. “I could think of something.”

“Always thinking with your dick, Greene.”

Charlie lets out a scoff, and Harry let’s his chest do whatever it wants.

@lilfreakjez @be-with-me-so-happily @sirtommyholland @tpwksm @b-reads-things @tiaamberxx @daphnesutton @mleestiles

[chaos-and-recover]

Here's a silly ask. I'm in my 30s now but I was once young dumb and full of cum like any other teen boy. I got tall and bearded early looked old as fuck tbh thought it was great then but less great when I go in to buy cigarettes nowadays and some guy says thank you for serving in Vietnam and I have to say bro. Bro. I was born in 1992 and went bald at 21. Anyway that's not the point. So I'm this 15 year old former fat boy with the rage of being bullied for being fat stuck suddenly in a 6'2 body. Wrestling and free weights were all I cared about. I'd been in so many street and school fights and won all of them. Because I was kicking the shit out of bullies teachers kinda turned a blind eye. Also because I was undefeated in wrestling and got my school gold in nationals I knew I can handle my shit. So there was a door greeter at Walmart who at the time I thought was old as balls cuz I was fifteen right but the dude was probably like. Forty. Some short Mexican guy. And he caught me shoplifting and I said wtf you getting mad at bro you ain't gonna touch me door greets can't do shit. And he says boy I ever see you steal shit again I'll teach you manners when I see you off the clock. Guy also worked at the bar and thought I was older than 21 cuz I looked older. Like full ass Brigham Young beard and a receeding hairline, couldn't even drive yet, so he never ID me. Bold as hell I steal shit in front of him again. I knew I could take his old ass, I was in my prime. So I see him at the bar later that night and he meets me outside both of us sober. He says you really gonna get your ass beat over a Snickers? in front of the bar crowd and I go someone's about to and charged him. To say he beat my ass would be a lie. He didn't beat it. He obliterated my ego and body and soul there in front of everybody I fucking knew. Had me spinning around his 5'2 head like one of bruce lee's bo staffs and bapping me against the walls and sidewalk. My dumb ass kept standing up and he kept going you sure son? and I was like shit yeah. Well eventually I just kept my ass on the ground and he helps me up, asks what my name is, says he'll take me home since I walked there. Goes why did you walk? I say oh I'm not sixteen yet. And that's how I got permanently 86'd from every bar in my hometown.

This is top tier, excellent pacing and character development. The drama of a Wal Mart greeter who cares way too much about his job vs the kid who definitely needed to be taken down a peg (I mean. You did. Sorry. <3). A+.

[declanscunt]

kenstewy fic recs?

oh god… so many… first of all anything and everything by ao3 authors leoandsnake (especially tsd i & tsd ii) and stewyonmolly (im particularly fond of lesbian kenstewy & their senses series)

MORE RECS UNDER CUT!!!

coefficient of variation by trill_gutterbug

summary:

"No, it's not—I just want to. It's not like, a thing, you know?"

"You want to lie here slobbering on my limp dick while I read forty-seven thrilling pages of Macroprudential Policy Regulation, but it's 'not a thing.'"

Kendall's face, already hot, pulsed feverish with a livid mix of embarrassment and arousal. He shut his eyes. "Something like that, yeah."

Telemachus’ Detachment by magnoliabud

summary:

There’s one thing Logan hasn’t used against Kendall yet: his relationship with Stewy. Kendall decides to jump in front of it.

Or: thirty years of something.

Set from the middle of Series 3, after the shareholder’s meeting.

tenderness of heart by strangeluvz

summary:

Stewy,

My assistant said that you told her if I wasn’t using my phone “to at least send a fucking letter or some shit” and I don’t know whether you were joking or whatever but here. You know that being online is bad shit for me man. So here’s this: I’m OK. Is that good enough? Do you need a stool sample or something too? Vial of my blood? Let me know

Kendall Roy

*

Kendall goes offline. Stewy sends him letters.

we’ll meet in even greater darkness later by moonrocks

summary:

Kendall isn’t exactly sure what Stewy’s doing here, if this is a booty call for old times’ sake or there’s something else they need to discuss. Maybe Stewy’s just doing him another solid. Since his dad died, it’s been hard to be stagnant in his apartment all alone. Between the studio in LA and the corporate retreat in Norway, Kendall has actively avoided it, but the election is coming up, and there’s nowhere to run now. He’s in the bullpen and the beast is rearing its ugly head.

(Set sometime between 4x04 and 4x08).

some little language by strangeluvz

summary:

Stewy says, “Dude, sometimes. I think I, like, love you so much, it physically hurts.”

Kendall replies, without thinking, “What the fuck.”

*

Post-canon: Kendall goes to Stewy. Stewy’s arms are always open.

Make Good by Springandastorm

summary:

"I don't think…" Kendall trails off. His shoulders hang heavy.

"You don't think, or you do?" Stewy asks, the usual smooth scale of his voice a little softer, like he's talking Kendall off a ledge somewhere.

"I think I'm pretty fucking hollow."

"Yeah. My voice echoes when I talk to you." Stewy agrees, leaning a little closer and knocking his shoulder into his. "That's okay."

a current under sea / picked his bones in whispers by ingwertee

summary:

God, he’s been picking up the pieces for a mopey, strung out, kicked puppy version of Kendall for over a year now. Kendall’s sudden surge of confidence, however unjustified, turns him on, reminds him of the Kendall he had started to think only existed in his daydreams.

a little of the collapsing space by ohtempora

summary:

“I’m not gonna say you should have told me,” Stewy says. “You absolutely should not have told me fucking anything."

what did you tell me, mary by harukatenoh

summary:

In which Kendall and Stewy attempt to answer: what have you got in your fucking hand?

i figure you with love by alaczije

summary:

Stewy manages to do a decent job of forgetting about Kendall, and him-and-Kendall, and all the neuroses contained therein, until the pap photos leak.

Luxe / Redux by orestesfasting

summary:

He’s not sure what he’s more angry about, is the thing. The betrayal or the subsequent lie.

Or—maybe that’s not quite true. He knows which one he’s more angry about, and he knows that rationally it should be the other one. But needless to say, if Kendall had told him the truth about why he did what he did, Stewy wouldn’t be heading to his place uninvited at 11PM on a Saturday night, brimming with righteous fury like the proverbial woman scorned.

[theoddcatlady]

Teacher's Pet

TW: Statutory Rape

I think every straight guy in my school had a thing for Miss Bell.

I’m the last dude you want to come to when it comes to judging ‘female beauty’, but even I could admit she was pretty. Blonde hair usually drawn back in that messy bun style, a bod that would make Venus jealous, and a round face that was always smiling or laughing.

She was our English II teacher, she’d just transferred in that year from California. During our first class, she told about going to college and how she used to surf on the weekends. My friend Sean elbowed me and whispered about how she’d look in a bikini. My practical ass said that she probably was wearing a wetsuit when she surfed. This got the back of my head punched and Sean whispering ‘Gaaaaaaaaaay’ into my ear. I mean, really not inaccurate, but the punch wasn’t necessary.

Miss Bell wasn’t a bad teacher, I don’t think, but she wasn’t the greatest. For one, she so clearly picked favorites. I think Sean nearly creamed his pants when she leaned down next to him when wearing a low button down shirt to explain how to properly use an adverb. Me, on the other hand, she’d just tell me to check the notes when I had a question. The notes were useful but Jesus Christ woman, would it kill you to take two seconds out of your day to teach?

The favorites in my class were my friend Sean and Elijah, the former being captain of the debate team and the latter being halfback on the football team. Now I can say without a doubt both of these guys were hot as fuck, so I guess that’s why she liked them. Her least favorite students were so clearly the girls. She ignored them more than she ignored me and that’s saying something. When she did talk to them, it was condescending as fuck. Poor Tracy had the nerve to ask a question about Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘Masque of Red Death’ and the look that Miss Bell gave her could make plants wither.

I mostly ignored this for the most part until the rumor spread that Miss Bell was sleeping with her favorites.

I know, lots of guys would think this was the greatest thing, scoring with the hot teacher… but all her students were around fifteen or sixteen at this point. That’s not fucking okay, I don’t care how ‘hot’ people think it is. It’s a bit personal for me, if I’m honest. My older sister was preyed on by one of her teachers when she was a freshmen. It only came out when she got pregnant at age fourteen.

That guy’s still rotting in jail and when he gets out I’m gonna probably punch his face till it breaks.

It’s the double standard of it. Up until this point I tolerated Miss Bell, but after that skeleton fell out of the closet, I despised her. I decided to follow up with Sean at his house, since he was a supposed favorite.

We were playing video games, eating mozzarella sticks and just chatting it up when I decided to bring up Miss Bell.

“Soooo… what do you think about her?” I asked, snatching another mozzarella stick off the Mt. Everest mountain pile of them. Sean’s mom always wanted to make sure I was fed, I think she genuinely believed I didn’t eat anywhere else but her house.

Sean’s face lit up in a way that made my stomach twist. “Oh man, she’s the greatest! I got to study at her house last Saturday,” He said.

I swallowed. “… Did… all you do was study?” I asked, glancing up the stairs to make sure Mrs. Barnett wasn’t within hearing distance.

Sean grinned and leaned in close. “… We did it on her kitchen table,” He said.

Well, that confirmed it. “Dude, she’s like, thirty! That’s not cool!” I said, jerking away and nearly knocking over Mt. Mozzarella.

Sean snorted and rolled his eyes. “Come on, it’s not like I didn’t want it. And she’s not thirty, she’s twenty eight,” He said as if that made it all better.

“I’m telling you, it’s kinda creepy that a twenty eight year old woman wants to ‘do it’ with a sixteen year old,” I said.

“It won’t be creepy when I’m twenty eight and she’s forty… is that math right?”

I shoved him and was about to tell him exactly what I thought when Mrs. Barnett came downstairs with hamburgers and chattered our ears off. By the time she left, all the courage I had about broaching that topic again with Sean had left. I know that makes me a coward, but it’s kinda hard to tell someone they’re being victimized when they think they’ve reached cloud nine.

God, I really should’ve talked with Sean about it sooner.

That Friday I’d forgotten my copy of ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ in Miss Bell’s class and was heading back to get it when I saw she wasn’t alone in class. Maybe hoping to get some evidence of her creeping on teenage boys, I listened in.

I recognized the other person as Malcolm. Malcolm wasn’t the brightest bulb in the package, he’d been held back a year and thought of himself as a bad ass just because he graffiti’d the school with giant spray paint dicks once. Right now, Malcolm was crying and I felt sick to my stomach.

“I just… I just don’t wanna lose you, Tia,” He said between choked sobs.

“Oh, baby,” Miss Bell brought Malcolm into a tight hug, “You won’t lose me. I love you, and you love me. That’s why I know you’ll do your very best to keep me.”

Malcolm sniffled and pulled back, but there was this oddly peaceful smile on his face. “I’ll do it. You know I can,” He said.

“That’s my baby.”

I darted off after that, resolving on Monday that I’d go to the principal and tell him about the conversation I heard. I needed that much time to work up my nerve… I really wish I wasn’t such a coward then.

That night Malcolm went into Taco Bell and put three bullets in Chase Stanford’s chest.

It was all over Facebook. My feed went from cute animal rescue stories and memes to ‘HOLY SHIT SOMEONE’S SHOOTING UP TACO BELL’. The only person killed was Chase and thank god no one else was injured, but it shook me to the core when it came out that the shooter was Malcolm… and that he was still at large.

It was like everyone went fucking crazy over the span of a single night. My mom ended up guarding the door with a gun while my dad watched the back door while wielding a baseball bat. I was ordered to stay in my room and if I heard anything suspicious to immediately call 911.

How crazy, do you ask?

Well, Malcolm’s murder spree had only just begun, and it wasn’t only him who had suddenly gained a lust for blood.

An hour after Malcolm killed Chase, someone broke into a party at Elijah’s house and proceeded to pummel the shit out of him before putting another bullet in his back. Unlike Chase, Elijah managed to survive after some serious surgery, although he’d never walk again. The cops weren’t sure if Elijah’s attempted murderer was Malcolm or someone else, although if it was Malcolm, well…

Malcolm ended up getting stabbed to death that night.

He was found with a dozen stab wounds in his chest and neck, bleeding out on a street corner. He didn’t even make it until the medics got there. In his jacket pocket was a confession and a dedication. He was doing this all for his girl, to prove that he was going to be her true love forever and ever.

Murder. Murder everywhere. Everyone in my school made it their responsibility to keep everyone updated as soon as they could. All I could do was watch.

Max Reid broke into Brad Watson’s house with a knife and after stabbing his mom went after Brad. Brad ended up throwing Max down the stairs and the idiot broke his neck. It came out later that Max’s knife was the one used to kill Malcolm.

Brad ended up trying to break into the hospital where Elijah was being treated (god knows how he found out) and tried to get to him. He obviously got arrested.

Someone broke into Jake Curtis’ house and when he found out Jake wasn’t there ended up shooting both of his parents. They both died.

Jake wasn’t there because he was choking Oliver Ballard to death. His hunter caught up to him and executed him.

The list goes on and on.

I found out the pattern real quick. Each of the murderers/victims were the favorites of Miss Bell. I had a breakdown and told my parents what I’d figured out. They immediately called the cops and tipped them off. Of course the cops went to Miss Bell’s house but she was long gone, she’d probably not even returned home after school let out. Her car was found abandoned a few miles out of town.

I ended up getting questioned about the other ‘favorites’ and I listed who else I knew was rumored to be a favorite. I’d like to think I saved a few lives by doing that.

I didn’t save Sean’s though.

When the police caught up to him, he’d been in the process of shooting another student in the head. The mystery second shooter. I don’t know how they talked him down from the gun but he was brought in. He’s going to spend a long, long time in prison.

The sun came up and over a dozen people were dead. Five favorites remained and all of them were locked up in prison. Their stories were basically all the same though- Miss Bell told them that they had to.

That fucking bitch. She’d managed to manipulate all of her teenage lovers into murdering each other before she skipped town. Why, we don’t know. Miss Bell’s gone with the wind. Heck, they found out that wasn’t even her real name. Her real identity is a mystery.

I’ve graduated by now. Every week I go visit Sean in prison. He’s gotten his GED at least. I’m proud of him for sticking around. At least two of the other kids that were caught committed suicide within a month of incarceration.

Last time I saw him though I noticed something on his left hand. A golden ring. I asked who gave it to him.

He just smiled and changed the subject, but I’m worried about him.

I wonder if Miss Bell is still lurking around, waiting for her favorite student to get out of prison.

[drdemonprince]

oh my god can i get trans masc self infantilization for 500 alex

Quick hate read of this piece:

my relationship to gender was mediated (isn’t it always) by capitalism. I could not meet another trans man who could tell me how to behave, but I could shop for one. I could buy distilled trans expertise, and tell myself I was putting money back into “the community;” I was engaged in political action, redistributing my middle-class cash to support people I had never met, but whose welfare was, nonetheless, my business.

oh my fucking god Jude buying a huge crop of trans books at the local indie bookshop is not political action. I know booksellers who work at beloved indie-progressive bookstores quite intimately so if you haven't heard yet, I'll be the first to tell you: no matter their feminist branding, these places treat their workers like shit and pay them minimum wage. And often these stores are hell to be in for trans femme people.

edit: whoops he didnt even claim to support indie bookstores, it was a chain in a mall wtf

Also, it's baffling to me that a published author like Doyle can claim buying books is somehow redistributing wealth to poor, trans authors. First, wealthy people are widely overrepresented in publishing, and two, the vast majority of published authors never see a single cent of royalites. Over 90% of books never "earn out". You'd be kicking them about $2.50 of a $25 hardcover sale even if they did. stop making your consumption seem righteous dude.

These authors didn’t hate people like me; they didn’t disagree with me or dislike my general aesthetic. These authors literally hated me, me personally, the dude who had recently given them money. 

the ENTITLEMENT!!! How dare these trans authors post openly that they disagree with you and your tepid liberal politics, you bought one of their books and (maybe, but probably not) gave them $3 !!!!

To a shy eleven-year-old boy on his first day of school, which is what I was emotionally and even hormonally at the time, it was devastating. I cried for days. I was on vacation.

a middle aged incredibly well connected man in publishing is pulling "im a little birthday boy -- hormonally" shenanigans. I get that reading critical comments about yourself hurts. I have been there buddy. I've received repeated misgendering, misogynistic criticisms and insults while I was newly on HRT and not even out to anyone! I was also a 30 year old adult man with a career and coping tools. I was not an eleven year old boy. I was not the victim of anything, really, except for my own lack of comment moderation habits at the time.

the amount of real life transphobia i have since lived looms so much larger that little petty online slights doesnt even rank. we're not talking about threats or doxxing here. we're talking people on twitter thinking he shouldnt be the face of trans politics.

because I know who this author is and move in the same circles, I have seen the message of hate that he's talking about. People mostly talk about him sardonically and insult his worst opinions and most hastily-written pieces. That's not even hate. That's just begging him to be responsible in his work and to maybe not write apologia for trans cops (one of the bad takes he was most openly criticized for at the time).

Those guys were my heroes, was the thing. They were the ones I had wanted to teach me how to act. I used to imagine conversations with them, think about what I would ask if I got the chance.

Buddy, you said you literally just discovered these authors mere weeks or months prior, having bought up every book published by a trans guy that you could find. It's not like you had posters of them hanging up on your bedroom wall as a child. And even if you did, youre a grown man in your forties who writes very inane takes. Some critique from your contemporaries comes with the territory and is in fact a compliment. it means people recognize youre a significant cultural voice and they want you to do better!

When I get into conflict with another trans person, when I stumble on the thread where my elders are shit-talking me, I am not looking at my computer. I’m in my math class, after lunch period, hearing the squeak of metal on linoleum as someone drags their desk a few inches away.

your elders??? are you talking about people who are like, three years older than you Jude .I understand that hostile middle and high school experiences bring massive trauma, but holding adults who are intellectually critiquing you, a fellow adult, responsible for the trauma you endured as a teen is so wildly inappropriate and immature that i cant stand it.

It would be one thing if Doyle showed any self-awareness of the disjoint here, and was just talking about being triggered, but he doesnt, not anywhere in the piece. he implies throughout that it's people being mean to him on twitter who are really at fault.

oh my god he likens himself to Isabell Fall later on in this piece i cant

i just cant with this dude hes always taking so many unnecessary Ls and gets hired so fucking much to write about trans experiences when he clearly has next to zero community connections and sense of scale when it comes to the issues we face. its so annoying!!!

[ascendthisday]

Rn'R Pretty Bad Boys

gif by veilofmegiddo

Pairing(s): Axl Rose/Izzy Stradlin

Word Count: 3,000~

Info: BDSM, Smut, Sadism, Masochism, Rope Bondage, Sex Toys, Orgasm Denial, Circa 2012

Summary: Sometimes, what happened in the 80's can't stay in the 80's, especially if you happen to be Axl Rose and Izzy Stradlin.

Authors Note: HIII okay sorry for not posting yesterday, i forgot💀💀 but im getting there, i swear!!! this takes place circa 2012 so be warned it is not like... uber coke twink izzaxl but instead.. them being just cute old men in love ! enjoy!!!

     Many claim Guns N’ Roses would be nothing without Izzy Stradlin. They say that Appetite for Destruction would have never happened had Jeffrey Dean Isbell not come into the picture. But, truth is, sometimes Izzy wanted to be nothing more than, well, nothing. He wanted to be treated like he had lost all of his credibility. The guitarist adored that feeling of being unworthy of his fame. Of basic respect. He wanted the dirtiest and nastiest treatment he could pay for. The power of being famous required so much control that sometimes, he just wanted to lose all of it. He wanted to be not anything more than putty in someone's warm palm. Preferably, that someone would be a busty hot woman. Or, when he was at his most desperate, one of his dear bandmates. Most of the time, he got the latter. Hey! All of them looked like hot chicks anyways! It’s not that gay. The reason he found himself in the control of his coworkers so often was that paying for a hooker- a dominatrix, as he’s learned they’re called, is embarrassing. Especially when you’re a Guns N’ Roses superstar. 

     This is exactly how he ended up at the hands of the perpetually sadistic Axl Rose. He thought he was getting too old for this shit, it was 2012 for God’s sake! He is fifty damn years old! Axl is- what, forty-nine? Izzy shouldn’t remember that. He shouldn’t have known that the man's birthday was only a few days away. A month and twenty-nine days away from Izzy’s own. How the fuck did he know that? They’ve barely talked in the last decade. Most of their conversations were about the handful of reunion gigs he was doing with Guns N’ Roses, but occasionally they’d stray into that thick sexual tension they held between each other. Casual emails would drift into long letters about their previous sexual escapades and some things that they dreamt about doing in the future. Izzy would carefully pluck out words to describe those endearingly painful moments of pleasure and Axl would obsess over every little detail until he could try to possibly put together a lustful, yet less fancy reply.

     They did their best to plan out a proper session while on tour, but it was hard. The bus was too risky; too public and honestly he didn’t want to expose such strangers that made up the band's current line-up. The green rooms were too hectic- even if Axl demanded an excess of space in the venue, techs still rushed from room to room to chirp out information and fix any sort of last-minute hiccups. Hotels were almost perfect, but even then, alone time was hard to find. Since when the fuck was Axl hanging out with dudes who liked to have ‘night-time chats’? Fuckin’ gaylords, amirite? Alas, they made it work. Axl, being the absolute caveman that he is, simply stuck a sock on his hotel room’s door knob and ignored every knock that smashed against the wood. Occasionally, one of his co-workers would slam a fist on the door and whoop out a cheer on how ‘Grandpas finally getting some!’ or something along those lines. Axl would only snort as he continued to set up the room for Izzy. He might be a little bit cruel sexually, but he only wanted the absolute best for the man outside of his sex life. Despite the way he would make him writhe and sob, he still pampered him the moment the cuffs came off. 

     So, there he was. Izzy Stradlin, gagged, bound, and butt-naked on Axl’s plush mattress. Intricate blue knots traced over his pale skin and pulled his long arms behind his back. Two big loops wrapped around each of his upper arms, almost framing the tattoos on the outer muscle of his arms, ever so slightly above and below his triceps. Those loops braided into complex knots that danced down his forearms and around his wrists. He couldn’t move much of his arms outside of a small shoulder shimmy and the slight flick of his wrists. Just how he liked it. He couldn’t believe Axl still remembered that. Izzy would have made a snarky comment about how the man must have never stopped thinking about him, but the shiny gag lodged between his puffy lips made that damn near impossible. The occasional grunt would slip past his common sense and echo around the rubber and Axl would give him a harsh glare as he gave a particularly hard tug to the ropes he was still working around Izzy's legs. They both knew this game all too well. You behave; use your manners and you get a reward. If you couldn’t? You paid the price. 

     Since when the hell had Axl gotten so good at tying knots? Izzy had no clue. He certainly wasn’t a boy scout- especially not when they had been at the peak of their relationship. Izzy used to be able to wiggle out of his poorly tied knots made of cotton scarves in seconds, that’s why they had made the switch to steel handcuffs so early on. Axl had stolen the initial cuffs they used from one of the many police escapades he had found himself in, and Izzy never could never quite figure out how he managed to do it. He never found a good excuse as to why his wrists were perpetually covered in thin purple bruises, instead, he found himself draped in too many damn bracelets to play guitar with. It wasn’t uncommon to hear the beads scatter around on stage during soundcheck, or worse, the live show. Those live incidents made Axl the maddest. Yet, it made their playdates even funnier for both of them. Izzy got ruined; berated, and Axl got to release his frustrations. 

     “Feel good, pretty boy?” The ginger teasingly questioned as he finished off the final knot in the tail-like pattern that cascaded down Izzy’s legs, his tone was sardonic but somehow loving at the same time. The older man gave him a hard nod. Such a sweet nickname made him nervous, honestly. Axl rarely played nice. Hell, even outside of the bedroom he was somewhat of an ass. Maybe that was what made him so loveable. “Ya feel as pretty as you look? You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, man. Pisses me off that you haven’t quite wilted yet.” Axl’s tone was gruff.

     It was true, Izzy was damn near as gorgeous as he was when they first met. His hair, which was once a black box-dyed shaggy mess of bangs that fell over his eyes, was a lot shorter. More manly, but just as stylish. It had faded back into a more deep brown color, almost. Axl found it almost funny, the Izzy he knew would have never settled with having his natural hair color show, not even at the roots. Yet, here he was. Mahogany with thin silvery grey hairs that danced throughout it. A handful of soft wrinkles bit at his features, that was the only noticeable difference in Izzy outside of the hair. Fuckin’ crows feet. That’s all he got in his old age. It almost made Axl angry. He was so different, physically and emotionally, and all that changed for the guitarist was his hair and a few wrinkles. He was envious but so glad at the same time. Izzy deserved it. He was a way better person in general. He deserved to stay pretty.

     He trailed his fingertips along Izzy’s bound legs and smirked to himself at the smooth sensation of hairless skin that graced his senses. Of fucking course he shaved. He was always so oddly hairless. It didn’t come naturally, he knew that. On many nights in the early 80s, he had stayed up late in their shared hotel room and watched him perch with one leg drawn up to his chin as he shaved off his body hair. Rarely was he caught with stubble. It was the little details that made him so gorgeously put together. 

     Axl’s fingers danced over the soft blue rope that kept Izzy restrained, stopping just next to his cock. He drew small circles around his pubic mound, which was just as smooth as the rest of him, and grinned as a soft sigh slipped around Izzy’s gag. He quivered at the sensation. The guitarist hadn’t been touched in so long. He craved touch, craved the pain that followed any slight graze of his skin upon Axl’s. He couldn’t have asked for a better thing to happen to him. Digging his short nails into his soft flesh, Axl let a full grin slide onto his features. A sharp inhale puffed up Izzy’s bare chest. He drew a line from Izzy’s hip area to the base of his cock. Then, he drew that blunt line all the way from the very bottom of his balls to the soft area of flesh just below the head of his cock. He lightened the sharp draw of his nails as he drew vague shapes on the tip, smearing precum across the angry red tip. The shiny liquid made a sheen on his cock that Axl pumped down his shaft with a few quick vertical movements of his fist. A soft moan slipped through Izzy’s lips and slammed against the rubber in his mouth. It wasn’t very loud, especially not with the general deafening efforts of the gag, but Axl always heard his noises. Even the tiniest little ones that Izzy wasn’t even aware of. 

     “Oh! I got you a gift, honey!” He grinned. The sarcasm in the pet name was by no means lost on Izzy, yet it still gave him a warm fuzzy feeling inside. Axl rose from the mattress. Immediately, Izzy yearned for that slight bit of contact that Axl had given him. He wanted to fuck something- a hand, a chick, whatever! just give him something! Axl’s obnoxious wallet chain jingled against the pockets of his studded Affliction jeans as he strode toward his duffle bag of belongings. Axl looked good, and Izzy couldn’t lie about that if he wanted to. He had gained a couple of pounds, sure, but he wore it well. His hair was shorter, too. A bob almost, but he could pull off just about anything in Izzy’s eyes. He hated to admit it, but he loved a lot of things about the arrogant man. But, he would never tell him. As previously mentioned, Axl was arrogant as all hell and would never let him live it down if he said something vaguely nice about him. He wasn’t a fan of the handlebar mustache, though. That was a weird choice, but he could live with it. Or, he could talk Axl into shaving it off if he was lucky and played his cards right. Izzy was a sly fox, he knew he could do it. It was only a matter of when and how. As Axl rummaged through his bag, purposefully drawing out the suspense in the room as he pretended to be unable to find his surprise, Izzy got a nice solid look at his ass. 

     God, did he have one hell of an ass. 

     Axl sauntered back toward him with one hand stealthily tucked behind his back. The other man contemplated straining to possibly see whatever he could have, but decided against it. The mattress dipped as he sat on his knees next to Izzy's pelvis. Then, Axl dramatically unfolded his right hand from his back and exposed his surprise. A thin plastic purple vibrator sat between his thumb and forefinger. Izzy’s face scrunched up as his brows furrowed. He would have frowned had his mouth not been held open. His cheeks flushed as he came to realize exactly how his night would pan out. Knowing Axl, this could go one of two ways. He would either have a surplus of orgasms drawn out of Izzy to the point where the older man would be writhing around in overstimulating pain or he wouldn’t let him come at all. He would carry out their games into the next night- week, whatever he felt like. Truly, it didn’t actually matter if Izzy obeyed his rules. Instead, it was all wholeheartedly based on what mood Axl was in! If he was having a bad day, Izzy would have a bad orgasm! Luckily, the singer seemed to be happier than normal. He was almost bouncy in his mannerisms. The click of a switch and the following buzz of the vibrator snapped Izzy out of his thoughts. He quivered as Axl pushed the plastic close to his skin. It didn’t touch him quite yet, but he could imagine that soft tingle spread across his thighs. 

     Then, he made contact. Izzy locked up. He almost convulsed at the intensity in which he shivered. How could something so tiny make him feel so much? A lithe moan slithered through the gag. Axl trailed the vibrations up his thighs and across his pelvic bones. He tensed the muscles in his thighs. Flexed his toes. Bucked his hips. Anything he could do, he did it. Izzy had given up on wiggling his fingers. His arms were already numb and tingling. Maybe it was because he was laying on them, maybe it was because he was tied up that tight. Everything was so tingly. Axl teased the tip of the vibrator along his pubic mound, grinning at the shaky breaths that Izzy took as he tried to calm himself. Then, he slid the plastic across his balls. He chuckled as he watched Izzy’s control quickly slip away from him. It was hard to play it cool like this. Before Axl could bring the toy up toward his tip, Axl gave him mercy. He dropped the shaking plastic on the mattress and leaned toward Izzy’s upper body. After crawling up the mattress, he cradled his head in his palm. His fingers plucked away at the buckle in the back of the guitarist's head. Axl slid the gag out of his mouth and chuckled as he wiped away spare strands of spit away from his mouth. Drool had begun to leak from his lips, anyways. Izzy beamed at him. It was a broken grin, a depraved grin really, but a grin nonetheless. Axl returned the slight smile. 

     “Make those noises for me, pretty boy. I wanna hear ‘em.” He snickered as he scooted back down the bed. He picked up the wriggling toy once more. Softly, he assaulted the man's senses once more. Izzy damn near screamed as he placed it directly on his tip. It was like he had lost all of his common sense. He shook and wiggled so much that a thin sheen of sweat pooled on his skin. “Stay still, bitch.” Axl hissed and pinched one of his nipples between his fingers. Hard. “Fuck! Sorry- I’m sorry!” He sobbed back dry tears as he tried to stop his spasms. He nodded at him and let go of his ever-so-sensitive nipples. Eventually, his frantic moments subsided. Sharp breaths and a perpetual buzz filled the room. Izzy could feel himself growing closer to his peak by the second. He didn’t normally come so fast, but life gets lonely. He needed this. “Axl- Ax, man. Close-“ He babbled, unknowingly pulling at the sheet with his numb fingers. Izzy tried to focus on something other than his impending orgasm, like the color of the blue ropes and the smell in the air. Columbia blue and sex. That came to him too easily. He needed something hard- like math. But, those thoughts were lost on him. “You come when I say you get to. Patience is a motherfucking virtue.”  Axl sneered back at him. Well. Someone’s mood has flip-flopped. Wild how he could change like that. That’s probably why Izzy likes him and his sadistic tendencies so much. 

     He held steady with the vibrations on Izzy’s cock. Izzy writhed, releasing soft moans. Desperately, he tried to keep himself from squirming. He wanted to be good enough to come. Izzy did his best to hold back his orgasm, and he did! It was impossible to hold back his arousal, though. The aggressive leak of precum that Axl worked up and down his cock with the toy made the signer beam. He may be a sadistic, arrogant asshole, but he liked to have proof that he could make people feel good when he wanted to. Maybe that’s what made him so perfect. Soon enough, he was back to babbling incoherent begging noises. “So- so close, Axl. Please.” He hissed. Axl just stared back at him. A soft snort escaped him. 

     “Nope.” He grinned and popped the p. 

     “Fuck! Fuck you- cocksucking whore!” Izzy rambled. In an instant, he gasped at himself. He didn’t know why such a combination of words slipped out of him. Axl wasn’t a cocksucker, nor was he a whore. The singer pulled away from him immediately. It was like he had been burned. Izzy gave him a scared, sorrowful look. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t- I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t even know-“ He panickedly babbled his words, struggling against his bonds with the means to take Axl’s hands in his own and try to explain himself. Axl didn’t speak. He just wiped his hands on his studded jeans and stood up. The vibrator was dropped next to Izzy’s legs but didn’t get turned off. It just sat there in their silence. Axl spun on his heel and walked toward the door. Before he could leave he uttered one sentence. “Figure it out yourself, then. Bitch” He scoffed and opened the door. Maybe he was crazy, but he certainly opened it aggressively wide. He may have even let it stay open for longer than needed as he walked out into the hall. He closed it behind him, but not all the way. It was still open by just the tiniest bit. Just enough to let the artificial hallway light stream into the slightly dim room. Just him, his tied-up body, and a vibrator that was on the bed beside him. He wanted to sob. This hurt. But, it hurt so good. He could hear Axl deliver a few sharp knocks to the door across the hallway. Then, he could hear his faint voice. 

     “Heya, Richard. Wanna have that chat or whatever?” 

     Damn you, William Bruce Rose Jr. 

[fatfables]

A sample from my weight gain novel: Camp Shawn

You can read the whole story so far at fatfables.com

5.

JIm woke them up the next morning at precisely eight am. Shawn was about to get dressed when Jim told him not to bother.

“It’s the weigh in dude. Just come in your boxers.”

All of the boys were gathered again in the dinner hall. All eighty five of them. The dinner tables had been removed and they all sat in lines on the benches waiting to be weighed and measured. Shawn was last as the weigh-in was done in age order. His new friends were sat next to him. They watched as the younger boys were weighed and measured one by one.

Shawn had never seen so much fat in his life. Every boy was just in his briefs or boxers, layers of fat spilling out in every direction. Boys as round as beach balls waddled up to the scales, some had mounds of back fat piled up in rolls, some were short and dumpy, others tall with low hanging breasts. Several had clearly visible stretch marks on either their bellies or thighs, or both. One boy had marks on his upper arms. Their weight would be read out loud:

“Tom Stanton 265lbs,” “William Mitchell 310lbs,” “John Jones 240lbs.” There was only one boy who weighed less than Shawn, “Tony Holmes 225lbs,” and he was clearly the youngest there.

When it was finally Shawns turn he walked nervously up to the scales. When they read out his name, he felt kind of ashamed, “Shawn Stringer 230lbs.”

The camp leader, a rotund forty five year old called Gary, placed a tape measure around Shawn’s belly, taking his waist measurement at belly button height. 

“Forty two inches.” 

He then measured his chest, thighs, and arms. Shawn looked down at his feet. 

“Don’t worry son,” Gary was speaking in a calm relaxed tone, “We’ll have you in great shape by the time you leave here.”

Gary smiled at Shawn and gave him a friendly pat on the back. Shawn watched his, now seemingly small, belly jiggle due to the movement.

“Thank you,” he mumbled under his breath.

“David Dolittle!”

Shawn turned around in surprise. He wasn’t expecting any more names to be called. He had waited for over an hour to be weighed and had always been the last in line. 

“David Dolittle!” yelled Gary, even louder.

David stepped slowly into the dinner hall. He was a giant. Shawn had never seen anyone like it. Not in real life anyway. David was as wide as he was tall. He lumbered slowly forward.

“I’m… coming… sir.” He was already out of breath.

Shawn stepped aside to let the monstrous teenager pass. David slowly stepped up onto the scale, his white briefs invisible from the front due to the mounds of fat that hung down limp over them from every angle. Shawn watched from behind, staring at the largest ass he’d ever seen, cellulite seemingly aching to break free from the confines of the underwear.

“David Dolittle, 475lbs.”

Shawn gasped in shock. David’s neck fat started to roll like waves out at sea as he slowly turned his head in order to give Shawn the devil eyes. Camp leader Gary had asked Jim to bring him the extender to the tape measure. Jim attached the two pieces together and the pair of them held it around David’s elephantine stomach.

“Eighty seven inches, congratulations David, you’re much bigger than when you left us last year.”

“Of course I fucking am” was the only response.

That was until he slowly turned once more and looked at Shawn with a glare of total contempt. 

“And what the fuck does this skinny little dickhead think he’s looking at? … He can fuck right off! The skinny little runt!”

6.

“Who the hell was that at the weigh in?” Shawn asked. 

The four boys were back in their cabin. 

“I thought we were the oldest here?”

“That…” said Axel “...was David Dolittle. He’s the spoiled rich kid. Nobody likes him. He’s got his own private accommodation that Daddy pays for.”

“And his own private chef,” chipped in Henry.

“Yeah, he’s only so fat cos he’s so rich,” added Steve.

“I’m pretty sure that he’s eighteen. I think his birthday is around Christmas” said Axel.

“Well, I fucking hate him. He was rude as fuck to me for no reason. Called me a skinny little runt!”

“That sounds like him,” said Steve, “He’s a total douchebag.” 

“There’s one way to get him back,” said Axel. 

“Yeah, what’s that?” Shawn really wanted to get David back. 

“Well to gain weight of course!” all the boys except Shawn laughed. 

“But, I’m not sure that I want to gain weight. I didn’t even know that was what this camp was for!” 

“But, I bet when you first came here, when you thought it was a weight loss camp, I bet you hated it then, didn’t you?” said Steve insightfully.

“Yeah, well that’s true. I was well pissed off with my parents.”

“I bet you were!” said Henry.

“So if you didn’t want to lose weight then you don’t mind being fat?” said Axel.

“Well, I guess not.” Shawn knew when was being peer pressured.

“So you may as well gain weight!” Axel and the twins laughed again.

“Well I did feel kind of like the odd one out at the weigh in, you know, everyone else was so much bigger than me, I do wanna fit in here.”

“Of course you do!” exclaimed Axel. “We want you to fit in too. You’re a cool guy. You just need a bit more puddin’ on ya!”

“What you need is to find the motivation,” said Steve.

“Yeah, the motivation!” Henry copied his brother like a facsimile.

“Why do you guys wanna be fat?” asked Shawn.

“Because it tastes so sweet!” said Steve, almost salivating.

“Because my brother is!” said Henry with a smile.

“For private reasons,” said Axel with a wink. “But you need to find your own motivation. Motivation is a personal thing.”

Shawn lay on his bed kneading at his soft stomach. The other boys had taken to eating their snacks while he thought. He thought about his Dad. He thought about his parents. How they had both nagged him constantly the last eighteen months. All he wanted to do was chill out, play games, eat some snacks and be left alone. But they never left him alone. They were always on at him about his school work, and his future, and what he wanted to be. Why wouldn’t they just leave him alone? All I want to do is eat, play, and watch porn. I’m only seventeen! Just leave me be!

“You’re a lazy piece of shit” his Dad had said.

“Get out of that damn room, it stinks!” his Mom had said.

“Come and eat dinner with us! You can’t have take-out again!”

“You’re getting chubby”

“And lazy!”

“Get off your god damn fat ass and do something for fuck’s sake!” His Dad had been really angry that day, and he hadn’t even done anything!

And now they had sent him to fat camp! When he hadn’t even done anything! And he wasn’t even that fat! Not compared to the kids here. I’m not even the fattest kid at school, he thought, Danny Dinkles and that fresher kid, James Whatever, are both way fatter than me! 

And they send me to fat camp?! Fucking cunts!!

Shawn sat up with a sudden jolt, “I’ve got it!” 

The other boys looked straight at him. 

“Revenge!” he shouted.

“My bastard parents forced me here against my will ‘cos they wanted me to lose weight. Well, think how pissed they’ll be when I come home from “weight loss” camp not just heavier but WAAYYY fucking heavier!!” 

“Perfect!” said Henry, his chubby mouth, full of candy, breaking into a smile.

“I think that’ll work just fine,” said Steve, rubbing his distended belly.

His belly’s going to swell so fucking beautifully, thought Axel, as he smiled and stared into Shawn’s eyes, his right hand moving discreetly in his pocket.

Continue reading at fatfables.com

[miniscrew-anon]

Favorite vampire duo ficlet featuring the line “he’s your daddy”

—-

“Do you ever think about Bram Stoker?”

Dark leaned right, furiously mashing buttons on his controller. His avatar stepped back to avoid Shadows' next attack but was caught in the combo. His avatar was thrown into the air and had his head ripped off. Match over. “Fucking fucker fuck-! What are you talking about? Who the hell is Bram Stoker?”

Shadow sighed disappointedly. “C’mon man. Aren’t you old guys supposed to be all cultured and shit? What have you been doing for the last few centuries? Other than not setting up a stock portfolio.”

“Can you get off my back about that already?”

“You’re a million years old and you work for minimum wage, dude. There’s living in your parents basement until you're forty, and then there's whatever you’re doing.”

The character select menu opened up and Dark quickly switched to someone else. That other one was useless. He’d pick someone with a shit ton of fire power this time. He needs to take Shadows head off. The little shit has been getting a bit too smug recently. “I’ve been busy. Mostly trying to survive. Drinking myself to undeath. A few crusades. You know, the usual.”

Shadow clicked his tongue. “And yet you don’t know the father of all erotic vampire lore.”

Dark pried his eyes off the screen to stare at the younger vampire. “What?”

“Bram Stoker wrote Dracula, you uncultured heathen.” Shadow rolled his eyes at Dark’s confusion. “How did you not know that? This is like a Hylian not knowing about Hylia. Or a basic bitch not knowing about pumpkin spice lattes-”

“What the hell are you talking about? Erotic vampire lore? What?”

“Think about it,” Shadow started, eyes glowing in the darkness of his apartment. “Stoker wrote the original broody, sexy vampire, right? Rich guy in a castle with hot vampire babes and a ‘take you passionately’ attitude? All the forebringers of modern cliches. His work inspired future film adaptations that have dark, alluring men pulling unsuspecting victims into their thrall. He took vampires from some ugly monsters in dark alleys into gracious counts with depth and sex appeal.”

“And your point is…?” Dark turned his head back to the game. While he listened to Shadows horrible reasoning his on-screen counterpart met his bloody demise.

Shadow grinned mischievously. “I’m saying that you owe him big time. You do know that the only reason you’re getting laid these days is because of him, right?”

“I’d ask you to elaborate but I really don’t want you to.”

“Well you know how Twi is into the whole vampire thing, right?”

“Yes I do. And I regret telling you about that every single day,” Dark sighed.

Shadow stuck his tongue out. “Right, well. Why do you think he’s into it?”

Dark side eyed his friend. He's not happy about the way Shadow smiles like a shark smelling blood. “Don’t-”

“Because of decades of sexy vampire lore - because of Bram Stoker! He’s the daddy of sexy vampires. He’s your daddy.”

“Stop talking to me.” Dark groans. “Stop talking in general holy shit. I’m going to kill you-”

Shadow giggles like the insane demon he is. He sits up fully, barely paying attention to the TV but still managing to kill Dark’s avatar with ease. “Don't get upset now. I’m just pointing out a fact.”

Dark cursed as his character was ripped in half brutally. Fatality. “Fuck this game! Piece of shit-! And I’m not the only vampire here, asshole. Whatever messed up logic you’re applying to me can be said for your bleeder, too.”

Shadow rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. Rain doesn’t care about that stuff. He does it because despite whatever he might say, I’m his favorite person. He’d feed me no matter what. But you, unlike me, have no redeeming qualities. So your only chance at getting some is to be someone's personal spank bank fantasy.”

Dark cracked his knuckles. Fuck doing this virtually. “You know what? I’m going to rip your head off.”

Shadow smirked. “If you think that’ll shut me up then you’re in for a surprise.”

———

-and after that Shadows dismembered head offers to get tickets to a showing of the original Dracula at a local theatre for twark because he’s an asshole who takes the bit all the way to the bank

So I was googling because I was wondering when vampires turned sexy and it was around the time of Dracula in the late 1800s. There were a few foreign novels too. Before that they were depicted as purely demonic and evil. So I figured that would be a fun lil factoid to write about. Especially when I thought about how old Dark might be and how if he predates Dracula then he’d have been around when vampires were only seen as monsters. No wonder he was so surprised Twilight didn’t outright reject him.

[astromechs]

and then one to follow the rules more: Vigilmaker + Christopher Marion Smith with that big ole praise kink we know he got.

does this fit the prompt? i'm not even sure. i'm not even sure what this is. i just know i missed these idiots.

fic under the cut and also on ao3!

The first time it happens, he cums in his underwear like a fucking fourteen-year-old boy.

Look, Chris knows there could be worse problems, okay? He's only just turned forty, so he still has plenty of time before his dick gets too old and wrinkly to get it up — and he's, like, in peak physical shape (apart from the old shoulder that acts up that he totally ignores), so his dick is doing stuff. His dick is doing a lot. That's fucking great.

But when they haven't even gotten all their clothes off yet? When all he's done is stick his hand down Adrian's pants, barely even touching his dick at this point — and all Adrian has even said is, “Fuck, that’s good” — this shouldn’t be his reaction. No fucking way.

He’s not some… some stupid sentimental fuck who hasn’t been touched in a while and is just that desperate for praise. Okay, maybe meeting his needs had been hard to come (ha) by in prison, and maybe he’d spent his whole life supposedly desperate for his dad’s approval, but that doesn’t have anything to do with this. And —

It doesn’t even fucking matter in the end, though, because right as he’s about to open his mouth, there’s a gunshot coming from somewhere in the woods behind his trailer. Those skinhead fucks have followed them here; that’s the only thing that can mean. In an instant, Adrian gets into fucking terminator mode, all traces of a smile or anything goofy that’d just been there moments before swiped away as his eyes narrow and his gaze goes sharp; robotically, like he’s on some kind of fucking autopilot, he disentangles himself from Chris, and bends over to collect all the pieces of discarded Vigilante armor from the bedroom floor, one by one.

If it weren’t so fucking terrifying, it’d be kind of hot. No, it’s hot because it’s kind of terrifying; both things can exist at the same time, in all kinds of weird combinations, and if hanging around Adrian this much has taught him anything, it’s that all those things can exist in the same person.

Fuck, no; he needs… his uniform and one of his helmets. A blowdart. A gun. Not to be thinking about anything else — and definitely not the stupid thing that shouldn’t have been happening in the first place.

He assembles all those things in record time (though the fucking pants, recently washed, are still a struggle, and his back slams into the edge of his bed three times as he tries to pull them on), but by the time he does, Adrian’s still way ahead of him, and he only catches a glimpse of him sprinting by through the yard.

Which — it’s a good thing he does, actually, because even if it’s going to mean they’re heard (fuck it), at least he has enough time to call out through the open window:

“Dude, your dick’s still out!”

The only indication he’s been heard is a “Fuck!” that comes from somewhere in the trees, along with all the obvious sounds of more hastily-applied armor.

The second time it happens, he just tells Adrian he’s tired.

Which isn’t that far from the truth, honestly. For one fucking reason or another, he barely even sleeps anymore, and he’s going around all the time pretty much exhausted. Okay, maybe half the reason, more than half, is that his dad’s ghost keeps picking the worst fucking times to appear, leering over him like some demon monster from a disappointing horror movie that doesn’t even have any hot chicks in it to make it worth his time, and it feels like he’s walking around through the fucking fog all day. Always.

He could collapse, right now, without a lot of struggle.

It kind of fucking sucks to lie to Adrian, though, Chris thinks. Not because it’s hard or anything; it’s actually really fucking easy, and that’s the problem. He keeps having these stupid insights all the time now about everything, thanks to his two therapy sessions every week — and a lot of them are about Adrian. How Adrian’s always hanging on his every word, and would believe everything he told him, probably.

There’s always something globbing in his throat when he thinks about that — what he can best place as some form of guilt.

It’s what almost chokes him right now.

But Adrian doesn’t seem offended — and, in fact, doesn’t seem fazed at all. Like he never has any reason to fucking question anything that Chris ever tells him.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, already slipping his pants back on and buckling his belt back up in about two seconds flat. “No problem, man. See you tomorrow!” It’s all bright and fucking cheerful, even as he pivots on his heel and tosses a dumb wave over his shoulder before he strides down toward the front door. “Gonna raid the kitchen at work for zoodles. Motherfucking criminal how much food they waste. Someone should get stabbed for that.”

Even after he shuts the door, Adrian’s humming can still be heard until the Sebring starts up.

Somehow, that just makes Chris feel even worse.

The third time it happens, Adrian figures out that something has to be wrong.

Of all the things that Chris is expecting, it really isn’t that. Look, not because he’s being a dick; it’s not being a dick to point out things that are true, and the truth is that Adrian just isn’t good at picking up on stuff like that.

So it about makes him jump out of his fucking skin when Adrian turns toward him with wide eyes, brows knitted in concern.

It gets really quiet between them for fuck knows how long. Then:

“Dude,” Adrian says slowly, carefully, when it must’ve clearly become obvious that Chris isn’t going first. “Do you… do you not want me to tell you when something feels good?” A pause; he wrinkles his nose, and presses his lips together. “I thought people liked that, and the Internet says that people like that, but you get really weird every time I say something.”

Fuck, Chris thinks. He’s not equipped for these fucking conversations.

He buries his face in his hand, rubbing his temples with two fingers; he hears the bed creak as Adrian sinks down onto it.

“No, it’s….” The last of whatever he’d been trying to say gets lost in a huge sigh. Fuck, everything he can think of just sounds fucking stupid. So, what does he do? Just come out with it? His mouth makes the decision before his brain, he guesses, because the next thing he knows, he’s blurting out: “I do like it, okay? I really like it. Like, apparently a little too fucking much.”

He chances a glance just in time to see Adrian tilt his head, and the whole sight in front of him isn’t that much different than some kind of confused cocker spaniel puppy. (Cocker spaniel… cock… the whole fucking problem here. Fuck. It’s all Chris can do to keep from shaking his head or looking down at the floor, but he keeps his eyes on Adrian.) “How can you like something too much? Isn’t the point of liking something… you know, liking it? Having fun?” After he scrunches his face for a second, like he’s super deep in thought, he adds: “Like, I really like it when we shoot appliances until they blow up, and that’s a lot of fun to me.”

This was never going to go anywhere but in fucking circles; Chris should’ve known better than to try to explain himself.

So, he does the weirdest fucking thing imaginable (weirder than killing fucking aliens): he slides his tightie whities down his legs, and holds them up in front of Adrian’s face.

“Oh.” Adrian’s eyes go round and wide under his glasses. “Sick, dude!” His voice is so loud that Eagly squawks from the next room over, but Adrian is, once again, unfazed. “You’re just really happy about making me happy, and I don’t think it’s a problem. That’s why you’re my BFF.”

It isn’t the first time that Chris has found himself wishing that things could be as simple for him as they apparently are in Adrian’s world, but — and this is another one of those lightbulb moments that he’s going to fucking keep to himself instead of share on Thursday, just to be clear — maybe this time, they can be. Maybe he can let them.

The softness of his own voice is the biggest fucking surprise to him of all. “Yeah?”

“Yeah!” Adrian scoots to the edge of the bed, both of his feet tapping on the floor as his legs bounce. “Hey, I have an idea. How about I shut up — and I can even duct tape my mouth shut — so that I don’t say anything until we’re ready? And then, when we are? I can tell you everything about how good you are, and how awesome everything is, and stuff.”

What that sounds like, Chris immediately thinks, is a fucking impossibility; Adrian’s never shut up a day in his life, and he’ll probably never be able to. But he’s trying to be less of an asshole, you know, overall, he’s really trying, so he doesn’t voice the thought at all. Instead, he just says, voice still, somehow, keeping that softness:

“Sure, what the fuck. We can try it.” After a pause, he adds, “Don’t use all my fucking duct tape, though. Shit’s expensive.”

The smile on Adrian’s face might be able to light up all of Evergreen for at least a few minutes, and maybe — it’s okay if he leans in to press their mouths together for a second, taking some of that for himself.

[ivebeentolddreamingsfree]

16 I've Been Told Dreaming's Free

Charlotte and Jerry get closer.

Charlotte sighed as she dropped heavily onto her bed and leaned over to untie her boots and take them off. “So just …be here. What does that look like?”

Jerry opened a cupboard and took down two mismatched mugs. He poured coffee into both of them and brought them to the bed. He sat down beside her and handed her one of the mugs. “I don’t know what it looks like. It looks like me hanging out with you here. You know, the Music Bank is kinda crowded. I like it here.”

With the mug gripped in both hands, Charlotte listened. “So, like friends? We’re friends.”

“Yeah. I mean we were friends in the darkroom that day, too. Weren’t we?”

She blushed and murmured, “I guess.” Charlotte sipped her coffee and then put the mug down on her nightstand. “I’m gonna take this dress off. You wanna find a record or something?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Sure.”

“I mean I’m gonna put something else on!” Charlotte giggled nervously.

“I know.”

While Charlotte was in the bathroom, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and took her make-up off and then changed into pink flannel pajamas. When she opened the door, she found Jerry stretched out on her bed in his t-shirt and jeans and socked feet. He chose an Aerosmith record and was reading the sleeve.

“Good choice,” Charlotte commented as she climbed up on the bed and sat cross-legged beside Jerry.

“My, uh, my mom’s boyfriend loves Aerosmith.”

“That’s cool. My parents don’t really listen to anything newer than the Beatles. Although, my mom likes Donny and Marie.”

Jerry chuckled and turned his head to look at her. “Donny and Marie?”

“Yeah, you know, the Osmonds.”

“I know the Osmonds. I just thought like that’s a strange choice.”

“They’re old.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know. My dad’s like fifty-three or something. Why? How old’s your mom?”

“Forty.”

“Oh. Oh, wow. That’s …”

“Young?” Jerry chuckled.

“I guess.”

“They were younger than I am now when they had me and got married. In that order.”

Charlotte nodded as she unfolded her legs and moved onto her side, facing Jerry. “What happened? I mean why aren’t they together anymore if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My dad …uh, he like really freaked out after he came home from Vietnam. I was like barely a year old when he left and when he came back …messed up. So my mom divorced him and we moved in with my grandma.”

“I’m sorry, Jerry. That’s awful. Is he …does your dad live around here?”

He shook his head. “Moved back to Oklahoma with my little brother.”

“Oh, wow. That sucks.”

He put the record sleeve down and turned onto his side, facing Charlotte. There was a softness in his eyes that made Charlotte’s breath catch. “I like your pajamas,” he whispered as he reached out and touched her sleeve.

“Thanks. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind what?”

“You know, I took my make-up off and stuff.”

He didn’t answer her as he wriggled closer and wound his arm around her back and tucked his head under her chin. Charlotte gasped softly and tensed for a moment. The heat from Jerry’s hand soaking through the flannel and warming her back felt amazing and she slowly relaxed. Her arms wound around Jerry and she lightly rubbed his back.

After a few quiet moments, Jerry said, “Pretty fucked up what Stone did.”

“I know.”

“Don’t be too hard on him, though. He’s a good dude.”

“He thinks you’re a jerk.”

“Yeah, well …most people do.”

“That’s what I don’t get, Jerry. Like, you’re obviously not. Why do so many people say all that stuff about you?”

“What stuff?”

Charlotte stammered a little. “You know, like you don’t date.”

“I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

The record stopped and Jerry wriggled out of Charlotte’s arms to get up and flip it over.

“Are we dating?”

“Chuck, I don’t know. Can we talk about something else, please?”

She watched his eyes dart around the room, looking everywhere except at her. His hands raked through his hair. “Do you want a hair tie?” Charlotte didn’t wait for an answer. She quickly got up and went into the bathroom again. When she turned to step back out, hair tie in hand, she walked right into Jerry. “What - ?”

“I have a hard time with this stuff, okay?” he blurted out as he took her by the shoulders. “I just want to be here, with you. I like you, Chuck. Things are …easy with you. You’re not easy. I mean you’re a total pain in the ass sometimes. But it’s easy living in my own skin around you.” He took the hair tie from her hand and then took a step backward, reaching up and pulling his hair back.

Charlotte stood there, frozen, too stunned to speak. A slow smile spread across her lips. It was the most honest, sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to her. Taking a step toward him, she brought her hands to his face and rolled up on her tiptoes to kiss him. "I don’t think it’s as easy for me. But I’m not really complaining.”

His arms circled around her, holding her tight and preventing her from sinking back down on her heels. “What do you mean?” And he kissed her.

“I mean,” she kissed him again. “I get nervous. Like sick-to-my-stomach nervous.”

Jerry chuckled quietly. “Why?”

Charlotte squirmed out of his arms and returned to the bed. “Cause I like you. And I never liked a boy before. Unless you count Paul McCartney.

“Me and Paul McCartney?” He stretched out on the bed again, settling on his side and propping his head up on his elbow. “That’s some competition.”

Charlotte mirrored Jerry. “Yes, but you have an advantage.”

“I do?”

She nodded and leaned in for a kiss. “You’re here.”

Jerry wound his arm around her back again and returned the kiss. When his tongue touched her lip, Charlotte let him slip it into her mouth. After a few moments, she found herself on her back, wrapping her arms around Jerry’s neck and pulling him on top of her. Jerry kissed her deeply while he gently slid one hand under her pajama top.

With the exception of Jerry’s jeans, all clothing remained on. He stayed the night and they slept in until about 10:30. Charlotte left Jerry sleeping while she brushed her teeth and took a shower. She was just scribbling a note, telling Jerry she was going to get breakfast, when he stirred.

“What’re you doing?” he mumbled as he stretched and rubbed his eyes.

“Food.”

“Gimme a sec, I’ll come with you.”

“I can bring it back here.”

He flopped back down to the pillows. “You’re the fucking best.”

Charlotte kissed his cheek. “Better believe it.”

[casspurrjoybell-23]

LOST and FOUND - Chapter 2 - Part 2

*Warning Adult Content*

I walked into work Wednesday afternoon and saw Paul smirking at me from behind the counter.

I suddenly became very, very worried.

Paul never looked like that.

He was usually very subdued but right now he was looking at me like the Cheshire Cat.

I thought Paul was cute and he was only twenty-six.

I might've asked him out if I wasn't so heartbroken but I knew he didn't meet two key requirements... being gay and being dominant.

"What?" I said as I came behind the counter.

"Someone came in yesterday... seemed pretty bummed that you weren't here. Jonah, I think his name was?"

Paul looked happy to be teasing me but my mouth had gone dry.

"He wanted to know your schedule."

"Please tell me you didn't tell him," I said, already horrified.

"Of course I told him. Dude's totally hot and he's super into you."

My hands shook and I crossed my arms over my chest to hide it.

"Well, what if I'm not into him?"

"You'd be crazy not to be," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"Is it his age? Are you not into the 'daddy' thing? I thought that was popular in the gay community."

"Oh my God."

My face was on fire and I had to turn away.

"You are, aren't you?" Paul asked and I could practically hear the smirk.

"You totally have the hots for him."

"Paul," I hissed and turned back around.

"Look, if you see him again just tell him I'm not interested. I'm not looking for a relationship right now."

He looked giddy as he said...

"Looks like you'll have to tell him yourself."

He was looking at a point over my shoulder and I turned around just as Jona was walking through the door.

I squeaked and tried to move past Paul.

"You take his order. I need to... uh... clean things."

"Nuh uh, buddy," he said, chuckling and shoved me towards the register.

I looked at Paul, horrified.

He winked at me and I wanted to maul him.

He gestured his head to the side a couple times towards the counter, smiling.

I finally turned to walk the rest of the way to the register.

I put a fake smile on my face before I looked up at Jona.

He had that fucking grin on his face again.

"What can I get you? Same as Monday?"

I looked down and started entering my clerk number into the register.

"Actually, I was hoping to get your number," he said confidently.

My head jerked up.

I was shocked.

I didn't expect him to be so forward so quickly.

I hadn't been asked out in seven years and I was completely unused to it.

My eyes were wide and I tried to blink away the shock from my face.

He never stopped smiling.

I cleared my throat and got myself under control.

"How old are you?" I asked.

It was totally rude but he would just have to deal with it.

He chuckled.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-five."

"I'm forty-six. So can I have your number?"

Forty-six.

If he had just been an older looking thirty-year-old I might've considered it.

But he was only three years younger than Harrison had been when we met.

If things went the same way with Jona as it did with Harrison we would only have nine years together.

I couldn't handle that.

I couldn't loose another person I cared about.

I couldn't take that risk.

"Um... no," I finally answered.

"No, you can't."

Did that sound confident?

I heard Paul gasp a few feet away.

Jona raised an eyebrow.

I was learning that was the expression he used when I did something that didn't please him.

"Is it my age? Do you not like older men?"

"Uh, no," I began stammering and stuttering.

"No, no, that's not... that's not it. It's... it's... complicated."

I shook my head.

"Trust me, you can't handle my complicated."

I looked down at my hands.

I was knotting my fingers together nervously.

He reached his arm across the counter and used his finger to tip my chin up, forcing me to look at him.

"Trust me," he said very, very firmly.

My heart beat faster just at his tone.

"I can," he finished.

He had kept a loose grip on my chin while he spoke, then he moved his thumb along my bottom lip.

Holy fuck, he was confident.

I just stared at him for an indeterminable amount of time... I might have been panting.

'What are you doing, Beau? Snap the hell out of it. You can't truly be considering it.'

I shook my head and took a step back, causing him to drop his hand from my face.

"I'm sorry. The answer is still no."

He was quiet for a moment, his head cocked to the side.

"You're an interesting guy, Beau. You want to say yes but you're saying no."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't acknowledge it.

"Do you want something to drink?"

His smile returned.

"No, I have a meeting..." he replied, checking his watch and then adding...

"That, I'm already running late for. I'll be back on Friday, though."

Friday was the next day I worked.

I wanted to protest.

I wanted to scream... "Just leave me alone... you can't handle my kind of fucked up..."

As much as I wanted some strong, older man to come in and fix all my problems, that wasn't going to happen.

Jona would run the first time he saw the real me... he messy me.

"Bye, Beau," Jona said and started walking towards the door.

He also called to my shocked co-worker...

"Bye, Paul."

"Bye, Jonah. Have a nice day," Paul said back cheerily and with that the door closed behind Jona.

"Oh my God, Paul... I'm going to kill you... God dammit..." I yelled.

Thankfully there were no customers in the store or else that might have been a cause to fire me.

I had actually stamped my foot on the floor and it just reminded me that Harrison would scold me when I acted so immature.

I took a deep breath.

Paul held his hands up in front of him like I was a wild animal.

"I'm sorry, Beau. I didn't know you would be so upset. I've never seen you like this."

Guilt rushed into me... I was acting crazy.

Paul only thought he was helping me hook up with a hot guy.

He had no idea what I'd been going through.

He didn't know about Harrison and for the first time I wanted to open up, to just explain why I was acting like a maniac.

I didn't want Paul to hate me now.

"It's not your fault," I said.

"I'm sorry for acting like a psycho. It's just... I was with someone for awhile and... they're not here anymore."

I looked down at my toes.

That was the closest I could come to telling him that my boyfriend had died and left me all alone with way too many bills and no life skills.

"Holy shit," Paul replied. "Like they...?"

I guess he wanted to know if I really meant not here anymore, as in dead and I nodded my head.

"Fuck," he cursed loudly.

"I'm sorry, Beau. I never would've talked to that guy had I known. Really, I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It's not your fault."

I looked back up at him.

"Still, I'm really sorry and I'm sorry about your boyfriend."

I smiled the tiniest bit.

"Thanks."

I almost started spewing word vomit everywhere, telling Paul all my problems but I reined it all in.

No one wanted to hear that and I still didn't know Paul that well, I wasn't going to weigh him down with my issues.

"I promise if I ever see that guy again I'll tell him to leave you alone. He was way too pushy, you don't need to deal with that," Paul said.

Little did he know that I liked pushy, I liked confident, I liked rough, I liked dominant.

But I didn't want to go into that with Paul.

"Don't worry about me, Paul. I can handle it."

He gave me a skeptical look, seeming to take in my short stature and slim frame.

"Don't worry," I chirped and went off to wipe down tables.

Don't worry became my mantra for the rest of the day.

Don't worry about the bills piling up on the table.

Don't worry about the family barbecue on Saturday.

Don't worry about the bookstore and don't worry about Jona.

Just don't.