#actually this goes to all of my fanfics

[soccerpunching]

INAGO PLOT SPOILERS!

you see, the thing about gouenji saying he only allowed taiyou to participate in the match because he reminds him of ichinose is that ichinose's relationship with soccer and how much he's willing to break his body to play is that it pales in comparison to whatever the fuck gouenji was willing to do for soccer and the children who need it. example below:

no mentally adjusted person would ever think of sacrificing their mind, body, dreams, all of their possessions, everything that makes them happy, free fucking will, and their IDENTITY for a sport!!! knowing his personality, he would follow up on this until it kills him. this is insane and something a 24-year-old should not be doing!!

Disclaimer: I am not in anyway saying that what he did here is more noble or more meaningful than what ichinose or taiyou did but what i'm saying is that he unintentionally used ichinose as a reason for his actions when he probably would have allowed it even if he never met ichinose. this is proof that he's still unaware of his own toxic ties with soccer as he genuinely thinks that both ichinose and taiyou were noble for risking the destruction of their bodies just to be able to play one last game

[moonjellyfishumbrella]

I LOVE READING ACTUALLY I LOVE WRITERS I LOVE THEN THEY CREATE

If you are an ace attorney fan and have finished the main storyline and are waiting for the drop next year (or just dont mind spoilers i guess) you need to read 'and the tree was happy' by zombiekittiez

I love writers and their writing i hope op releases some sort of novel i hope they have and idk it yet this was FANTASTIC. Not to he that person i think this can be annoying at times but like... this is The ace attorney fanfiction, coming from someone whos been reading them since middle school i think. BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY JEEZ WOW WOW WOW WOW i feel enlightened

I feel like i have ascended

I was listening to Esperanza Spalding while reading this so this feels biblical honesty

I love being reminded of why i love writing and literary works and AAAAA my heart swelled this was so good

If you're an AA fan you just have to read it its the law and for your own good

[highfunctioningfleshrule63]

hey, your video compilation of 4chan post about shield is a great ressource for fandom psychology. Interesting to see another user who lurk the wrestling board and use tumblr. Did you ever work on compilation of the tumblr fandom during the peak of the shield era ? I did not research it yet. xoxo

glad someone liked that video, only in times when im super fixated on something will i end up searching through the 4chan archives for more content...unfortunately 4chan vernacular tends to get a laugh out of me (if it isnt absolute lowtier content, had to scrape through a lot of that). the shield stuff i tried to get from when it was at its peak and you'll see posts on there from 2013+, but i also got modern stuff now bc the boardspeak actually changed with it.

ironically it is way easier to deepdive and compile stuff from 4chan bc it has a much better archival system than tumblr; ive also looked for lots of old stuff on deviantart due to the crossover but i found that it has a pretty shitty way of archiving/sorting older posts (just like on here. ive been on tumblr since 13 so i know what sorts of areas to look for, but its still very hard to find it directly on here. i havent spent as much time as i did getting those posts for that video so i can try harder.)

fandom psychology is interesting to me too so im happy you saw my video with that angle. ive collected lots of old shield fangirl content off of sites like weheartit and pinterest (ironically those are often better at keeping images up for longer periods of time) too but i didnt know if i should make a comp, maybe i will. i also looked through random forums and places like lolcow dot farms (which only really granted one of the screenshots...not too much discussion over there for good or bad. i was hoping to find discussion abt shieldfangirls or wrestling rpf but surprisingly they didnt think to make a "point and laugh" thread abt those topics). i find it interesting how much shieldrelated psychosis was on both sides of the spectrum (tumblr vs 4chan)....i could talk more on it but im a little brainless and sleep deprived rn

heres some extras i had that didnt make the cut (plus just some of my favorites):

and these were from a thread talking abt the modern stereotypical tumblr wrestling fan (specifically talking abt aedubs young bucks fans/the elite fans)

(*fangirl in this is a term im using loosely of course)

[factorialsotherfandoms]

So um yesterday's tazercraft stream happened and I caught up mostly with other people's notes and now... have this I guess. I hesitate to call it a fic, but its definitely fictional prose imagining the night after Pac's return with the two of them in Chume Labs.

Usual disclaimer of I only speak English with any fluency and so characterisation is likely to be abysmal. I just... also love these two guys and I'm doing my best to make them happy. But it doesn't seem very realistic, so I'll make Mike cry instead.

Pac will not wake up screaming, he never does. Mike had when Pac was taken from him - when Walter Bob was taken too, and each and every time he remembers the cells they have been held in. Pac, though, Pac was the strong one, the one who could handle it, who could just manage whatever situation was thrown at them - who acted like everything was okay so he could look after Mike.

No more.

Now Mike is the one sat at Pac's bedside, holding his hand even as he sleeps. Pac seems frozen in time, perfectly still even with the tension running through him. His muscles are so tight that even his back shakes with the tension, clearly stuck in a nightmare despite how quiet he is.

And Mike... Mike does not know what to do.

He thought he was a protector, but he has failed to protect in every way that matters. It had always been the two of them - Mike would shield Pac as they fought the world, and Pac would be there to patch up his wounds. But then they were taken, and then their friend was taken, and then Pac was taken leaving Mike alone and now-

If there was something to destroy it would be easier, Mike thinks.

Destroying the Federation will not be easy, and whatever he has seen in his time, alone in their grasp, Pac does not even think it possible any more; something in Pac has been broken, or perhaps stolen, and Mike can only hope that it is something that, despite his clumsy attempts to soothe, will heal.

Impossible is not a word that should be found in Pac's vocabulary, and yet...

There it is.

Mike has never been good at picking up the pieces, not when building, and certainly not of a person. But, but if Pac has broken, has slipped beneath the water, then Mike will not give in until either he is dead, or until he has Pac in his arms, fully this time around. If Pac has learnt the word impossible then Mike will forget it, and bludgeon head first into a world trying to destroy them, tearing it piece by piece until they are all safe once again.

Pac is his friend, and Mike is Pac's friend, and they mean everything to one another.

So, when he catches Pac's eyes, half-lidded, barely open, Mike will reach slowly out, and brush the hair from his eyes. He will tell him he is safe, that Mike will protect him, that nothing will be allowed to touch him again. Perhaps Mike will fail, but he will get back up and scream and try again, and do everything Pac can't until his wounds have healed and they move together again.

He will be scared when Pac does not respond beyond a slow blink, hesitate only a little before squeezing his hands. He will help Pac sit up, fold his hands around a water glass, and keep those hands steady as his friend drinks.

He will ask Pac if he is okay, and receive only a slight bowing of his head in return.

Fear will grip him tighter - it has not left yet, it had never gone - but he will pull Pac against his chest, hold him close, clutch him closer as he tries to outsqueeze the fear.

Pac will turn his face into Mike's chest, and wrap his fingers in his shirt, and say nothing as Mike makes promises of them being together, of them being home, of having trapped the area around the beds to hell and high heaven and that, even if something can make it past, it will not be quiet enough to escape Mike's notice.

Mike will hold him and comfort him and, when the words run out with Pac still silent but now trembling against him, he will let himself sob, and he will cry for the both of them.

[danothan]

everyday i log onto the internet i am forced to fisticuffs combat the halbarry default yaoi allegations. THEY’RE NOT A BASIC BRUNETTE/BLONDE JOCK/NERD DYNAMIC THEY’RE MORE THAN THAT (coping)

[purpleshadow-star]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, Neil Josten & Andrew Minyard Characters: Andrew Minyard, Neil Josten, Mentioned Aaron Minyard - Character, mentioned nicky hemmick, Mary Hatford, Brief Drake Spear, Other Various Foxes Mentioned Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Pre-Canon, brief Post-Canon, brief during canon, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Time Skips, warnings for andrew's past, One Shot, no beta we die like tilda minyard, Dialogue Light, andrew and neil are in denial for a bit, they get over it, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Soulmates Summary:

Andrew Doe is freshly six years old when he wakes to the sight of his shadow leaving him for the first time. Andrew knows he should be more careful while racing through the house; he doesn’t know these new people after all, but he’s too excited to let a little thing like caution keep him from finally finding someone who loves him. Someone who wants him. ~ Nathaniel Wesninski is four years old the first time his shadow leaves him. He doesn’t notice, but his mother does. She makes a mental note to make sure that neither Nathaniel nor his father ever have the chance to follow Nathaniel’s shadow to his soulmate. One less thing for Nathan to hold over Nathaniel, and thus over Mary, the better. ~~ Twice a year, your shadow leads you towards your soulmate. For Andrew and Neil, this changes surprisingly little.

***

New fic!!!

This year I want to challenge myself to write, finish and post at least one fic every month, starting with this one for January!

This fic is based off of a prompt from a book called 5-Minute Daily Writing Prompts by Tarn Wilson (I did not write this in five minutes, I just used the prompt). The prompt I used is:

"Prompt 1: Fantasy, Plot: A woman awakes in the early morning to see her shadow sneaking out the bedroom door. She follows. (Continue the story) The woman sees her shadow holding hands with another unattached shadow. What happens next?"

Go check it out and let me know what you think!

[itsjustdg]

When an accident leaves Charlie temporarily blinded, he's left grappling with both the injury and its impact on his life... But was it really an accident? Or is something more sinister afoot in St. John's?

Now finally updated and complete!!

All the things you wanted: more blind!Charlie, more Charlie whump, and, of course, hero!Rex (because we all know he's the real hero of this show)

[compacflt]

Fully support your desire to cut down on the extras as they're already so long, but as someone who was also looking forward to the sickfic section and is sad to hear it's been taken out, I will simply have to ask you about it instead! First off the discussion of home in the snippet you shared was delicious - when do you think Mav started thinking of the house as 'their' home? And Ice taking Mav to the hospital has a lot of crunch there around how they're seen and how they act in public, especially if Ice was worried and Mav was kind of out of it. Do you think Ice would have taken Mav in to the hospital if he'd really been spiking a fever and decided he needed it? How would he explain themselves? And I suppose a separate, related question: who are their official next of kin/emergency contacts?

the reason i got rid of the sickfic is cause all those questions were answered better elsewhere in the extras ❤️

i was kind of annoyed that the house inconsistently appears to be the property of whomever the plot calls for at the moment -> another reason to cut the sickfic

Yes Ice would take mav to the hospital. it happens elsewhere LOL, maverick is extremely incident-prone

obviously a fun surfing injury with friends != the sickfic’s ice taking “a friend” to the hospital in the middle of the night for dangerous levels of illness-related dehydration… implies familiarity, intimacy above everyone else… the hospital staff would probably assume they’re together, yes, & i don’t think ice would challenge that at all, especially if he had to make sure all the paperwork was filled out right. just not worth the effort. “is there anyone else we should call for mr mitchell?” / “Um no. Just me.” Yeah i took him to the hospital at 4am bc i love him and im worried about him what r u gonna do about it 🤨 violate his hipaa rights? It’s 2009 gay people exist grow up🙄 hospital staff isn’t gonna tell anyone, so who cares

(Luckily for ice in the sickfic he didn’t have to take mav to the hospital)

the point of the sickfic was to establish a precedent for one of them voluntarily taking care of the other who is unable to take care of himself, to set up the parallel of maverick taking care of Ice when he Really gets capital-s Sick. but then i still can’t bring myself to write ice actually being capital-s Sick because i have some weird neurosis where i simply dislike thinking about ice (powerful guy) being helpless or incapacitated or, um, dead. so the mav-sickfic isn’t really relevant anymore because i haven’t written (and never plan on writing, besides that one half-assed one-shot) the corollary ice-sickfic. so the sickfic became the Nixed-fic ❌

And according to this wip wednesday snippet, they are each other’s emergency contacts. don’t ask me how that works or how they figured that out, idk. some stuff you do have to talk about for logistics purposes i guess. which is kind of the point of all the house-related/money-related discussions I’ve written throughout my fics—they Have to talk about the logistics because that’s real life. But they don’t INTERPRET those logistics or assign them a normative value.

for instance debriefing presents (maverick’s) death & taxes as the only two things that ever get them to actually talk to each other lol. logistics become a vessel through which they can talk about their situation without actually talking about it. The state of being each others emergency contacts might be a death-and-taxes discussion—acknowledging permanence without acknowledging permanence

[thegreatyin]

in a lot of ways the scoundrel's relationship with transhumanism parallels beechwood's... Everything about transhumanism. in ways i didn't intend in the slightest going into heart's desire but now that ive finished it all and am looking back. there really was only one way this all could end

[letapollojusticesayfuck]

smile for the camera (and keep your fingers crossed) Chapter 2: Interrogations, Interviews, and Impromptu Not-A-Dates

So instead of the food trucks, he’d bought a sandwich and a soda from the convenience store (and maybe a magazine too, shut up, he needs the physical proof that yes, he had in fact kissed Klavier Gavin). He’d also bought a pair of nondescript sunglasses and a baseball hat, in the hopes that he’d have a good enough disguise to head back to the office without being recognized. What Apollo Justice had failed to account for, however, was the fact that unlike in the movies, paparazzi aren’t stupid.

Well. Whoops! Didn't mean to take so long to post this chapter, but...here we are, more than a whole year later. Hopefully the chapter's interesting enough to make up for it?

In all seriousness, thank you so much to everyone who's read, commented, and reminded me that there are people out there waiting for the continuation of the story. Somehow I thought I'd already posted the start of this chapter?? Maybe I just thought about doing it so much that I thought it had happened already.

But anyway...I'm going to make sure the gap between this chapter and the next is significantly shorter--you guys deserve to not have to wait for annual fic updates, lmao

As ever, huge thanks to @cubedmango for providing some incredible spot art! And for understanding the "oops, what do you mean i didn't post that?" moment I went through like two weeks ago.

[that-was-anticlimactic]

all fluttering and dancing in the breeze

🍃written for @nobamaki-bigbang🍃

“Great! Okay, so I’m assuming we all know how to play baseball, right?” Maki asked.

Everyone was nodding, and Nobara was about to scoff and say duh, was about to proudly announce that she was actually a fantastic baseball player. But…

But then she glanced at Maki—sweet, gorgeous, Maki with a determined fire blazing in her eyes—and she had an idea. A terrible, devious, but quite possibly genius idea.

“Um, actually,” she spoke up, much louder than necessary, “actually, I, uh… I don’t know how to play baseball.” She fluttered her eyelids and smiled shyly, grabbing a strand of her hair and twirling it around her fingers as if she were the epitome of innocence.

[or: nobara pretends that she doesn't know how to play baseball so she can spend time/flirt with maki]

🍃11,157 words | nobamaki🍃

🍃art on tumblr here & here🍃

🍃art on twitter here & here🍃

[dbphantom]

maybe i should have gone into practical effects instead of computer science...

[hanni-bae44]

What am I doing with my life reading sad Woosan angst after angst fanfics on Ao3 while listening to Wish You Were Here by SuperM on repeat😔🚬

[insertsickusername13]

Promises Made on October 30th

title is the concept and summary bc i thought of the title before the concept of the fic. whoops.

warnings: implied abuse, alcohol is referenced and consumed but not in like a bad way (most of the time), no smut but there's one scene where they kiss and i describe it in a gross way for some reason and sex is talked about once or twice

word count: 3.6k

 Jake spent most nights alone. He had friends, sure, and plans most evenings. Dates with girls, parties to attend, and though he’d like to spend the rest of his life swimming in a fuzzy unconsciousness where he was only just aware of his existence, half passed out on someone else’s couch, dawn always sunk her rosy fingers into the horizon and one hostess or another was forced to give Jake a pitying look as they showed him to the door.

 My parents will be home soon, some would say, and Jake would leave with a bitter laugh. If he was lucky, he’d get to stay and help clean up. On the best days, he could sometimes sneak in a quick fuck with whatever girl was still around. 

 Most nights, though, he left before anyone had the chance to kick him out. He spent hours sitting on the floor of his living room, staring at the front door and waiting for them to come home. If he pretended hard enough, the pictures on the walls weren’t the most terrifying thing he had ever faced. Photographs from family weddings, birthdays, anniversaries, and award ceremonies all taunted him. His parents’ faces stared at him, scrutinizing every move as he trembled, cried, and broke down. Every sob echoed back like a bullet ricocheted off metal. He was sitting expressionless in the middle of a war zone watching soldiers (read: dreams) and civilians (read: his future) bleed out and die on the floor around him. 

 Despite holding onto the childish hope that things would get better, that the future held something more than loneliness for Jake Dillinger, there was still the undeniable truth that it wouldn’t. Jake was doomed. Life wasn’t going to be anything special for him—he was going to suffer and he was going to have to get used to it young. He hated his parents, himself, his girlfriend, his life, and his house. He wasn’t going to kill himself, he wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t going to wake up every morning and fight to be okay. He was resigned to his sadness.

 Until Rich Goranski knocked on his door at 10 pm on September 17th and showed Jake that silence wasn’t the only thing that could exist in his house. 

 He didn’t wait for an invitation inside. The second Jake had opened the door, Rich pushed past him and into the kitchen. He wasn’t quite fast enough for Jake to miss the bruises on his cheekbones or the way he favored his right leg over his left. Jake cataloged the injuries and promised himself he’d ask about them later. 

 “The hell are you doing here?” Jake called after him, his tone tipping over the border between annoyed and concerned.

 Rich shrugged and settled on the kitchen counter. He seemed to only be slightly aware of Jake’s presence, more focused on the empty floor in front of him. His eyes were glassy in a way that suggested he’d already been crying and was done with it. Jake studied him, searching for his next move in Rich’s body language. If Rich looked like he was going to cry again, Jake could probably swoop in for a hug without being called gay. If he didn’t, Jake would probably offer a drink. Or a movie?

 “Stop looking at me like that,” Rich snapped. He was looking up at Jake, his eyes narrowed and lips pressed together, almost like he was challenging him. Jake flinched back, unsure of what he’d done to deserve such treatment. 

 “Like what?”

 “Like I’m a fucking math problem or some shit. I’m not. Just fucking talk to me.”

 Jake considered him. Though it was invisible to Rich, Jake could still see bullets and spears flying through the air as people screamed out war cries and fought with everything in them for land or oil or their families. Metaphorical war didn’t end just because a friend had shown up. Jake was always surrounded by imagined violence; always on the verge of fleeing. 

 “I don’t know what you want from me,” Jake answered. His voice was barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of a bomb going off in the distance.

 Rich forced out a bitter laugh and hid his face behind his hands. 

 “God, fuck, me either. I don’t know why I’m here. Just fucking distract me. Do whatever the hell you want.”

 Jake found his parents’ record player in the living room and hit play. It was the only thing he could think to do—why, he wasn’t sure. But Rich had said anything, so Jake did anything. Some song by The Police (god, the irony) drifted through the room, a byproduct of his parents’ last anniversary together in the house. Jake had long since stopped caring—it didn’t even hurt to know they’d danced in this room, laughed in this room, raised him in this room. 

 He turned back to Rich and was met with a small, borderline amused, “What the hell, Jake?”

 “You said I could do whatever I wanted.”

 “This is what you want?”

 “I dunno.”

 Rich laughed as he hopped off the counter. The sound was so pure Jake watched the blood-soaked carpets go from crimson to pink as the rain washed away the worst of it. A white flag waved in the distance. Rich swayed to the music mindlessly, still favoring his right leg. 

 “Dancing?” Jake asked, the single word enough to get across his message. Rich nodded as he took Jake’s hand in his own and pulled him in close. 

 “Why not? We’ve got nothing better to do.”

 So Jake learned about music and dancing and how small Rich could feel when Jake had his hands on his hips, fingers digging into his skin just to convince himself Rich was real instead of some fantasy made up as a coping mechanism for his parents’ leering memory. Silence wasn’t the worst thing to exist. Jake knew how to make it go away.

 Still, that did nothing to dispel the obvious and ever-painful emptiness. Jake could play record after record as loud as he wanted until he had every song memorized and could sing it from any room in the house, but it was still empty.

He stumbled into the kitchen, drunk and disoriented, his feet dragging across the tile floor. Each step was like wading through the ocean, sea monsters grabbing at his ankles and trying to drag him under. He gripped counters and walls to keep himself afloat just long enough for Rich to knock on his door and saunter in, his presence a song in and of itself. 

 Jake followed his every movement with every sense: his ears, listening to the sound of Rich’s footsteps. Taste: kissing the corner of Rich’s mouth—never his lips, Jake wasn’t gay, but close enough that he could convince himself there was something like love brewing between them. Touch: holding onto Rich’s hand, his clothes, his hair, latching onto the warmth of him to convince himself the air conditioner wasn’t too cold or the empty spaces too vacant. 

 Sight: looking at Rich and only Rich. If he only looked at his hazel eyes and dyed-red hair and, on the days when Jake was weak and scared, his lips, then the shadows in the corners of the room lightened into something manageable and the photos on the walls that functioned as the closest thing Jake had to family faded into… well, photos. Just photos. 

 Rich helped, but he wasn’t enough to make the emptiness go away until October 15th.

 He showed up in the same way he had before. Glassy-eyed, hurt, and willing to do whatever Jake wanted to make everything slightly okay for a little while. 

 Tonight, Jake chose balloons. 

 “You can’t be serious,” Rich groaned. He was on Jake’s couch, a glass of white wine in hand. Something imported from Italy, or maybe France? All Jake knew was that it cost four hundred dollars.

 Jake shrugged. “Isn’t Brooke’s birthday coming up? It could be for her party.”

 “This is literally just a fucked up coping mechanism, don’t pretend it’s anything else.”

 Jake sighed disappointedly and leaned back against the couch. He was on the floor in front of it, a pack of two hundred balloons in his hand. They were all different colors—some neon, some pastel, some black, and others white. He’d bought them on a whim at a Walgreens for twenty bucks with no particular plan. Faced with his barren living room, the only signs of human existence the expensive vases on the end tables and the overstuffed throw pillows, he’d decided he’d blow them up and throw them around just to add a splash of color. 

 Jake looked up at Rich. He was half asleep but tense, his face scrunched up and hands clenched. It’d been bad this time around. It hadn’t just been Rich’s existence that pissed his dad off—he’d done something. Probably something minuscule, like broken a glass or clogged the toilet, but it was enough that what was usually a couple of light bruises and a limp had turned to black and blue blemishes over his right eye and up his chest. His lip was busted and every breath seemed labored and painful. Jake, unsure of what else to do, ran his thumb over Rich’s pulse and whispered, “Please?”

 Rich opened one eye to look down at Jake. Amongst the annoyance and pain, Jake saw a flash of pity. Rich shifted uncomfortably. 

 “Fine, but I have at least two broken ribs so you’re going to have to accept the fact I’m only blowing up one or two of these.”

 “Of course,” Jake rushed out, his hands already fumbling with the packaging of the balloons. “I wouldn’t—if it hurts, you don’t have to. Obviously. Just—”

 Rich thoughtlessly threaded his fingers through Jake’s hair. Jake’s voice gave out. 

 “I don’t understand you,” Rich whispered, not even bothering to look at Jake. “You’re confident all day, and then the second it gets dark you freak out. I’m the same person I am all the time. I know you don’t want to hurt me. Calm down.”

 It was, of course, a trend Jake had noticed as well. At school, he could control his tone and inflections to the point he sometimes wondered if he was accidentally manipulating the people around him into loving him. Then at night, when his defenses were already broken down by hours of facing the empty, stormy seas that were his house, he could barely find it in himself to get out a sentence without stuttering. 

 He blamed it on the one lie Rich had told in his claim: that he was the same person. He wasn’t. There was something different about nighttime Rich that had Jake’s face feeling too hot and the silence turning into the sound of his heart beating circles in his chest. 

 “Sorry,” Jake replied softly, “I dunno why it happens. You make me nervous.”

 Rich raised an eyebrow. Jake shoved a purple balloon in his face and hoped that would be enough for the topic to be dropped. It was still too sensitive, still too in the early stages of development, for Jake to be prepared enough to vocalize the worst of it. Someday, maybe. Probably. Once he didn’t have Christine to distract him or Jeremy’s constant insults to scare him into suppressing every urge that didn’t perfectly line up with the picture everyone else had of him in their minds. 

 Rich took the balloon and started to blow it up. For Jake, the process was effortless. Rich struggled through it tediously, taking small breaths and wincing after almost every one. Jake hated to say that he’d originally interpreted Rich’s complaints as a joke, but his worry hadn’t really spiked until Rich choked out an awkward, muffled cough and pained groan. 

 “Do you need—”

 “No,” Rich breathed, “No, I’m fine. Shut up, Jake.”

 Jake turned back to his neon green balloon without a word. He’d blown up almost twenty by now, enough to coat half the living room in a thin layer of color. He thoughtlessly kicked one with his foot and smiled as he watched it hit a picture of his mother and uselessly bounce off. Smiling, he kicked another one. It hit a picture of himself as a child. 

 He turned to Rich to tell him—about what, he wasn’t sure. Kicking balloons? Hitting pictures of himself and his family? His coping mechanisms were getting more fucked up by the second—and was almost immediately paralyzed by… fuck, by Rich. Just Rich. 

 He was sitting crisscross on the couch, a balloon in his lap. He’d spent the last four and a half minutes blowing it up to just a little bigger than Jake’s head. It was still smaller than it was supposed to be but Jake wasn’t going to complain. It was physically impossible when he could barely get enough oxygen in his lungs to speak. It wasn’t that there was a crushing panic on his chest stopping him from breathing, it was something much brighter. There were so many butterflies in his stomach they were flying into his chest and choking off every inhale. 

 Rich’s lips were wet. That was really what doomed Jake. He’d previously been unaware that every time Rich removed the balloon from his mouth he felt the need to lick his lips, but now that Rich was focused purely on tying the balloon off and was giving Jake ample time to stare, Jake was forced to acknowledge the way his vision tunneled at the sight. The way his whole body seemed to go warm. 

 Jake turned fully to face Rich, the balloon in his hand completely abandoned in lieu of watching Rich stick his tongue out in frustration as he struggled to keep the balloon inflated while tying the knot. When he finally succeeded, he burst into a smile louder than any record Jake had played over the past month.

 Rich looked up, eyes bright, and faltered when he found Jake already staring at him. He cleared his throat as his face flushed red. 

 “Uh, hi,” he squeaked out. Jake wanted to scream. This was one of the differences that left him speechless. Daytime Rich would smirk and call him gay. This Rich just looked flustered. 

 “Hi,” Jake whispered back. 

 “Whatcha doin’?”

 Jake considered his response carefully. One song or another was playing softly in the background, the balloons were filling up the emptiness. Everything was kind of okay. Jake had nothing left to cope with. He just… 

 “I really want to kiss you right now,” he answered. Rich froze. 

 “What?”

 Jake got up just enough so he was kneeling, purple and green and red balloons gathered around his knees and feet and the coffee table his back was pressed up against. He leaned up so he was close enough to run his pointer finger down Rich’s jawline and nudge his nose against Rich’s.

 “You heard me. You can tell me to stop.”

 Rich remained silent. Jake thought he felt ocean waters rising around his waist, drowning his balloons and pictures in stormy salt water. So he did the only thing he could think of.

He kissed Rich like his life depended on it, because it did, and felt his heart start beating again for the first time in months when Rich kissed him back just as desperate and soft and messily. 

 Hands tangled in Rich’s hair, mouth open and his tongue practically shoved in Rich’s mouth, licking at teeth like they were nectar or ambrosia, he scrambled onto the couch, limbs slow and unsteady as he climbed over Rich and forced him back against the couch. He tried to get himself closer to his paradise, his respite, his island in the middle of the ocean, but all he got was a wretched screeching sound and the feeling of air-filled plastic against his chest. 

 He pulled away just enough for Rich to let out a small whine as they lost contact with each other.

 “Rich.”

 “Yeah?” Rich asked breathlessly, already trying to lean up and kiss him again. 

 “Get rid of the fucking balloon.”

 Rich’s eyes widened, almost comically so. Jake wanted to cry at the way that sent his heart into overdrive.

 “Yeah, yeah, right, hold on—”

 He threw it across the room. Jake found the balloons kind of useless now. He was so filled with giddiness and hope that he couldn’t even comprehend how anything could ever be empty. 

 Until October 30th. 

 Rich didn’t need to knock on Jake’s door or let himself in. Jake was at Rich’s house, banging on the door repeatedly, each knock echoing and panicked. He didn’t stop until Rich swung the door open, rumpled and half asleep. 

 “What the fuck?” 

 “I need to talk to you.”

 Rich glanced back inside—presumably at his dad—before nodding. 

 “Yeah, okay, lemme get changed and put on my shoes, then we can go.”

 Jake nodded rapidly. His mind was racing beyond what he could understand, landing on panicked responses before he even knew what had triggered his fight or flight. He didn’t stop moving even as Rich disappeared back into his house. His foot tapped against the concrete. His fingers picked at his nails and the fabric of his shirt and his hair. Curses ran through his mind like a broken record, repeated until the sound was imprinted on Jake’s brain. 

 Rich appeared and suddenly everything in Jake’s mind went silent. 

 “So… are we doing this here or…?”

 “My house. Not uh—” Jake glanced back behind Rich. Not near your father was the implied statement. Rich sagged with relief.

 “Okay, yeah. Let’s go.”

 Jake could feel Rich’s concern in his gaze. He was watching Jake’s every move as if preparing for something, like Jake was going to swerve the car off the road and into a ditch or shoot himself. It made Jake want to laugh. Or scream. Or cry. He was going to die. 

 He didn’t even make it back to his own house. It was only a six-minute drive and he only made it four minutes in before he pulled over on the side of the road and stormed out of the car, his whole body trembling. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he needed an escape from the cramped driver’s seat of his car. He needed the autumn air to stop him from overheating and the wide expanse of stars to talk him down from an anxiety attack. 

 Rich fumbled after him, too confused to be panicked and too disoriented to be calm. 

 “What the hell?! Slow down—”

 Jake halted and spun on his heel, eyes wide. They were by a pond with benches and a dock and a parking lot only twenty feet away. There were grills along the beach and a football in the grass. Jake almost screamed. Every sign of humanity felt like too much. If he was going to do this, he needed it to be in the middle of the desert or the empty expanse of space with no one but Rich around to hear his confession.

 No. Fuck it. He needed to do this now. 

 “I’m gay.”

 Rich seized up. He was only a foot away from Jake, close enough so when he finally regained control of his muscles, he was able to reach out and take Jake’s hands. 

 “Really?” he whispered, looking up at Jake with eyes that literally shone like gold or diamonds. Jake wanted to drown in it.

 He swallowed his shame, not caring that it burned at his throat, and said, “Yeah. Yeah, fuck. Not all the way. I like girls. But I like kissing you and I like boys and I… I just like you. All of you. All the way. I like you. I’m really sorry.”

 Rich broke out into a grin. 

 “Yeah?” he asked just for confirmation. Jake nodded again. 

 Rich jumped up into Jake’s arms, fully committed to getting as physically close as he could. He wrapped his legs around Jake’s waist and his arms around his neck and fingers in his hair and kissed him hard on the lips. Jake felt like he was at home for the first time in years.

 “Me too,” Rich said between kisses, “Me too. So much. So fucking much.”

 Jake smiled into every kiss, so ecstatic he could barely keep himself standing. He fell back into the grass whispering, “Run away with me. Forever. It’s terrible here. It’s so terrible.”

 Rich nodded in agreement and pressed a gentle kiss on Jake’s neck. 

 “They hate us and we’re gonna find someplace better. I have enough money. Just run away with me, please. We can go anywhere you want.”

 “Anywhere?” Rich asked. He sounded pained, like the word burned as it came out. Jake nodded and propped himself up on his elbows. 

 “Anywhere. Just promise me you won’t leave.”

 Rich smiled and kissed him again. 

 “I promise,” he murmured, “I promise you’re beautiful, I promise I’ll run away with you, I promise I won’t leave, I—”

 He paused. Dread burrowed itself like a bullet in Jake’s chest. He searched Rich’s expression for answers before Rich had the chance to start speaking again. 

 “Not… not tonight, though, okay? There’s something I gotta do first.”

 “Is it—?”

 “Don’t worry about it, Jake. It’s nothing. How about Sunday? Give me tomorrow to take care of things, then we’re gone.”

 November first. The day after tomorrow. 

 Jake could handle it. He’d host his Halloween party, break up with Christine, and tie up any loose ends he had left. He’d be gone before he ever had to clean up the hell of a mess his friends were sure to leave behind in his parents' house.

 “Promise?” he whispered.

 Rich nodded. 

 “Promise. I just need tomorrow.”

[evansbby]

.

[mintacle]

A trend in whump fanfiction that has been bothering me for a while actually is the conflating of morality messages with whump stories. 

As a great fan of the catharsis through Whump (Whump is like “Angst with a happy ending” or “extreme Hurt/Comfort”) I’ve been noticing that it greatly irritates me when the character being saved out of the bad situation of the premise has to either prove their moral worth before or after being rescued. 

The two characters who get the most whump attention are Tim and Jason, and I want to talk about each of their cases and why implying the need for moral goodness is problematic.

Tim is commonly going to “deserve” his salvation through silently suffering prior to his rescue. These stories enforce the mentality that it is good to not speak up about one’s suffering, that other people will notice if they really love you and that your best hope to be saved is to comply as far as possible with the expectations placed on you, to the point of self-neglect or self-harm.

Jason will commonly “deserve” his rescue through punishment or repentance after the fact. Often he is portrayed to be ashamed of his actions, asking for forgiveness and promising to change his ways. Along the lines of Tim, if silence is rewarded, then Jason’s willingness to speak up about his trauma must be punished. Often the defense for this is to say that Jason has killed people though, and surely we all agree that is just wrong. And indeed, in the real world, we do. But Jason is a fictional character, and his killing is more of a symbolic action for the demand of extreme justice in reaction to one’s trauma than meant to be understood purely literally. 

If we suspend our disbelief for the dressing up in a Batcostume and child-soldier-indoctrination of Bruce to be part of the medium, then we ought to understand Jason’s character with the same degree of abstraction. In the real world context Bruce suffers from severe delusions and Jason commits arbitrary murder. Suffice to say, this is not the story these comics are purporting to convey.

However a lot of fandom whump works choose to include an overt or covert moral message within their work. While it is understandable to cathartically want to feel that one deserves to be relieved of one’s suffering, it is troublesome that the implication arises that one ought to deserve it. The truth is that everyone deserves help and support, regardless of whether they in turn act in the ways we think would be best for them. After receiving help, a former victim should be entitled to the same freedom of self-determination as anyone else. There is no moral debt created by the act of having been saved by someone else.

Where Tim is usually the “good” victim and Jason typically the “bad” victim, they both get measured according to the same insidious metric that pervades the western cultural ideal of victimhood. Silence in suffering is expected and rewarded, complying to the demands set by the abuser is seen as more deserving of outside intervention than standing up for oneself and the narrative that being understood and having people agree with you, means that you are right and that you are loved. I find these implied moral conflations to the whump element of the story upsetting as a former victim of abuse. 

Because, look, the fact is that you aren’t more likely to be saved irl no matter how good you are. Victims don’t have to deserve help, everyone inherently deserves to be helped out of respect for them as a human being. No strings attached.