#and put it on a03

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One / Part Two (You are Here) / Part Three 

A03

Hopper had undersold Harrington's condition. 

Wayne hadn't expected anything pretty, but the face that turned to them as they walked through the door almost had him freezing in place. 

Black eye, bruised chin, split lip. 

More and more bruises, some faded and some very new, trailing down the kids neck. 

 The rest was hidden by his preppy little polo shirt, but Wayne didn't doubt that there were more.

Harrington tried to stand when they entered the room and the way he moved--entirely unbalanced, clearly in a lot of pain--made Wayne think the only thing the kid really needed was a hospital. 

Because Steve Harrington hadn't just been beaten. 

He'd been tortured--and very recently strangled. 

(Abruptly, Wayne realized that Hopper had implied the boy had been in the mall fire--just as much as he implied the mall fire was anything but. 

He also hadn't stated how Harrington had escaped the Suites trying to break into his house.) 

"Sit down." Hopper commanded, and Wayne expected Harrington to do anything but listen. 

Say something cocky, or act the part of a demanding little shit maybe, despite the condition he was in.

Instead the kid just sighed in relief and dropped like a stone, right back into the chair. 

Hopper came around his desk, talking all the while. "Steve, this is Wayne. Wayne, Steve."

"Hello Sir." Steve croaked politely. His voice was wrecked, no doubt from the necklace of finger shaped bruises around his neck.

"You're going to stay with him for a while, and you're gonna pay him for the privilege." Hopper informed him, as he began digging around his desk. "Money, chores, whatever Wayne wants." 

Wayne held his gaze as Steve turned to appraise him. 

Would Harrington pitch a fit? 

Would he look at Wayne's work clothes, streaked with dirt and sweat, with the name of the warehouse embroidered in the corner and crinkle up his nose, just like his daddy did? 

Hopper didn't lie, but a part of Wayne wanted to see just how different this Harrington was. If the respectful demeanor was an act done for Hopper. 

Or perhaps, Hopper had mentioned Steve's father for a reason, instead of his mother. Did he adopt her ice-like approach to life? 

Micro managing and long-held grudges were Stella Harrington’s game, and she excelled at it. 

Steve however, did nothing of the sort, instead settling with the situation in a way that reminded Wayne far too strongly of the men and women who'd come home from war.

"Okay." The kid said simply, after a long moment of consideration. He turned back to Hopper. "But we need to tell the rest of the Par--" 

Here he cut a look back to Wayne, correcting himself. "the kids. I don't want them showing up at my house trying to find me and freaking out." 

"They wouldn't--" Jim paused, fingers freezing from the rummaging they'd been doing. "they absolutely would, goddammit." He muttered darkly.  

"I'll tell the kids. The only thing I want you doing right now is laying low. I need to get a hold of Owens, but it's gonna take time to do that, and more time to fix this, so as of right now, Harrington? You're on vacation." He pointed sternly, as if Steve might argue.

The kid looked too tired and messed up to bother trying. 

"I mean it. You're out of the country, where is anybody's guess. No one's seen you and no one better be seeing you, got it?" His voice held firm, and Wayne had to blink because the tone here wasn't one of a police chief warning a teenager--but of a father talking to his son.

He knew, because his own voice did that now. Took on a worried tone that masqueraded as something more like annoyance and seriousness. 

"Yes, Sir." Harrington said, remaining weirdly compliant. "Consider me gone." 

A hand came up to briefly press above one eye, and Wayne wondered if the kid had been looked over, or if they had just crammed him into Hopper's office without offering so much as a tissue box. 

How many painkillers did they have back at the house? Wayne usually kept a good bottle around, but Steve was going to need more than that…

He found himself once again cataloging Steve's wounds, this time comparing them to the medicine cabinet he had at home. 

"I expect you to be a damn good house guest, you hear me?" Hopper continued, trying to cut a menacing figure. He finally found what he was looking for; pulling out a large, padded envelope. 

He handed it over to Harrington, who took it without looking, shoving it into the duffle bag he'd had sitting at his feet. 

There was a smudge of red on the handle of said bag, that matched perfectly up to a shittily done wrap on Steve's right hand. 

Wayne mentally added 'buy more bandages' to his list. 

Steve nodded at Hopper again. "Yes, Sir."

Jim’s eyes narrowed. "Quite that, you know I hate that." 

The briefest glimmer of mischief crossed Harrington's face. "Sorry, Sir. Won't happen again, Sir."

'Ahh.' Wayne thought. 'So there's a teenager in there after all.'

Jim rolled his eyes. "Get out of my office."

"Thanks Hop." Harrington said, finally dropping that odd obedience, a hint of a smile on his battered face. 

He stood, and Wayne had to stop himself from offering an arm out as Steve reached for his bag and limped towards him. 

He paused right before he left Hopper's office, hand on the doorframe.

 "You'll check up on Robin too, right?"  He asked, and for the first time his tone took on something more alive--and filled with worry. "And Dustin? Erica?" 

"Dustin and his mom are finally taking me up on my suggestion to see their family in Florida for a while, and the Sinclairs are taking a sabbatical from Hawkins. I'm working on the Buckley's." Hopper drummed his fingers on the desk. "So far, no one else besides you and El have been targeted, and we're going to keep it that way."

Steve let out a breath, and while Wayne could tell the worry hadn't left him, he could almost physically see Steve force himself to put it away.

Another act that was far beyond the kid's years. 

A different officer popped up as they walked down the hall towards the exit, waving his hand madly. "Harrington! Chief says you forgot this!" He barked.

(Or tried to anyway. Callahan wasn’t the most aggressive of officers and frankly, never would be.)

A slim sports bag was held in his hands, and Steve nearly tripped over his own feet when he tried to turn and claim it.

"I'll get it." Wayne said, knowing his tone sounded gruff.

No use for it. He could either sound gruff or sound sad, and Wayne knew better than to start off the relationship with yet another hurt young man by acting sad.

Pity wasn't gonna win him any favors here. 

He took the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, uncaring of the wince on Harrington's face until something sharp poked at his shoulder. 

Several somethings, in fact. 

"What the hell do you got in this thing?" He asked once they hit the parking lot, voice low as he escorted Steve to his truck. 

"Just a baseball bat, sir." Steve said, in the exact same tone Eddie used every time he thought he was bein’ slick. 

Considering the thing in the bag could have passed for a baseball bat if not for the sharp pokey bits, it wasn’t a bad attempt. Steve just hadn’t accounted for the fact that Wayne lived with Eddie. 

An unfair advantage, really. 

‘Least there can’t be any baby racoons in the damn bag.’ Wayne thought idly. 

Went on to gently put the bat in the backseat, watching as the kid struggled to lift himself into the truck.

"You can drop that, I take too being called Sir about as well as Hop does." He said, keeping his tone nice and calm, hoping to ease into calling Steve out on his lie. 

Fussed with a few dials on the stereo, giving Steve an excuse to take his time before starting the engine and taking the long way home.

Wayne wanted to talk a little-- without the chance of Ed’s interrupting. 

"Son,” He started off. “I was born in the morning, but not this morning. I'm hoping to make the next few weeks as easy as I can for both of us, and I can't do that if you're starting off with a lie." 

Steve blinked, turning to face him in a matter that was too fast for his injuries. He didn't bother hiding the hurt it caused him, but his voice stayed even as he spoke.

 "What do you mean Si--Wayne." 

"Nice catch.”  Wayne said. “We’ll get you there yet.” 

It was a trick he'd learned with Eddie--little tidbits of praise went a long way when it came to gaining trust.

Especially with kids who hadn't ever been given much. 

Harrington seemed smart to it, or perhaps was just hesitant to speak in general because he remained quiet, not offering up any info. No further lies, but nothing towards the truth, neither. 

Which was fine. Wayne didn’t think a little pushing would hurt.

"That bat of yours was digging into my shoulder like a bee swarm." Wayne continued, when it became clear Steve wasn't talking. "I'm more a fan of football than baseball, but last I checked they hadn't changed the design of a bat." 

"What teams?" Steve asked, perking up a touch. "Of football. Which ones are yours?"

Wayne could ignore it of course, or demand Steve give him an answer to the question he asked. 

He did neither. "I’m liking the Colts since they got moved here. You?" 

"Green Bay Packers, though I like the Colts too--that trade in 84’ was crazy." Steve said. After a second he proved that answering instead of pushing was the right move because he added; "What did Hopper tell you? About…" He trailed off, making a gesture Wayne didn't bother trying to interpret. 

"He said some things. I've guessed a few others." Wayne admitted. Cut a little look out of the corner of his eye as he came to a stop sign. "I know the feds are real interested in you after Starcourt." 

Steve took that in, hands tightening on the handle. 

"It really is a baseball bat." He said, a little fast and with the tiniest hint of that challenge Wayne had been looking for. "It just also has nails hammered into one end." 

Wayne took that in with one nice, slow blink. 

"A bat with nails in it." He said, and it made a hell of a lot of sense compared to the sensation he'd felt carrying the case. "You use it against anyone?" 

"Some of the feds." Steve admitted, and even with his eyes on the road Wayne could tell he was being stared at.

Judged.

Not in the way one expected a rich kid to judge, but in the way Eddie had, those first few months he'd lived here. The times when  he'd push, just a little, to see what Wayne's reaction would be. 

Eddie hadn't done it in a damn long time, but Wayne recognized the behavior nonetheless. 

"Anybody else?" He asked. 

"Nobody human." Steve replied. 

"Alright." Wayne said, and made a mental note to drop all questions related to that. 

He didn't need to know, definitely didn't want to know, and had a feeling if he did know he'd find himself being watched by the same spooks after Steve.

"I've got a few deck boxes that lock on my porch. Think you'd be agreeable to leaving the bat in one?" 

Steve paused, hand clenching tighter around the strap of his duffel bag. "If you gave me a key so I could get it in an emergency,  I'd be happy to." 

He tried to sound calm, even a little charming in that sort of upper-class businessman sort of way, but the fear bled through. 

The kid wasn't happy separating from the bat, and given it sounded like it might have saved his life recently, Wayne understood the hesitation. 

With an internal apology to Eddie, he promptly threw his nephew under the proverbial bus.  "I've got my nephew at home and he'd be far too interested in it, is all. Blades and weapons and such tend to attract him, and I don't need to be rushing anyone to the ER." 

All of which were very true facts (one Wayne learned the time he'd allowed Eddie to bring a sword  home, only for him to nearly cut his own nose off winging the thing around) but he figured it might make Steve more amenable to separating from it. 

Sure enough, some of the tenseness bled out of Steve's shoulders. "Yeah that's fair." 

The truck hit a few potholes as they finally turned into the trailer park, and the kid hissed, a quiet sound. 

Judging by the uncomfortable wince, and hands clenched into his jeans something painwise was giving him trouble. 

"When was the last time you took a pain pill?" Wayne asked, doing his best to weave around the other holes that dotted the gravel roads.

Steve blinked. "Uh…" 

"You take any today son?" 

Steve his head. 

"Didn't have time to grab it." He said, offering a sad look to his pack. 

Course he hadn't. 

"Let's get you inside then and get you some." Wayne said with a sigh. Thankfully Eddie's van wasn't here--Wayne was fairly certain he had band practice today but knowing him it could be a million other things.

Just meant he had to acclimate Steve as fast as he could, to try and get the poor guy settled before Ed’s came in. 

He just hoped life and lady luck would work with him, for once. 

[ladyddanger]

thinking about the events of the dsmp hundreds of years later being just a bunch of stories.

In a village nestled between tall pines children play Manberg Vs Pogtopia, the names of nations and reasons for war long forgotten as they hit each other with sticks and tackle their friends to warm summer grass.

When their mothers tuck them in that night they tell them stories of a snowy wasteland, so ancient it still holds the scars of long wars forgotten. They tell them of the wasteland’s inhabitant, the greatest warrior this world has ever seen. His name is lost to history but warriors still pray to him on the eve of battle and tie ravens feathers in their hair in his honor.

If the children misbehaved that day their mothers tell them a different story, one of a masked man who steals bad children and drowns them in the sea.

There’s a crater a few miles east of the village in the middle of the marshlands up by a glittering ocean. The crater is so deep that you can throw rocks off the edge and never hear them hit the bottom. Legend says that once upon a time the goddess of death had a son who walked this earth and when he died in her rage and grief she tore into the city that once stood there with her bare hands and ripped it from the earth leaving nothing but a crater behind.

On long sunny evenings in the inns that dot the coastline bards tell stories of a cursed city of gold and glass buried in the heart of a desert where it snows. They whisper the city is full of riches but nobody who looks for it ever comes back.

On stormy nights the Bards tell a different story, a story of a town that sits over a slumbering god. Strange things happen there. Red vines sport up over night. If you listen closely, the people say you can hear them talk. Everyone there has red eyes and cold cold hands.

If you start at dawn and ride in the opposite direction of the carter you can reach the vault before nightfall. The locals claim it used to hold a faceless god guarded by a king but time has weathered the vault’s defenses and the towns children dare each other inside its walls, running though the tight passages.

An old fairytale says if you follow a small barely visible path from the doors of a vault beyond you’ll reach a forest full of trees so overgrown they block the sun. The fairytale says if you walk to the heart of the forrest there’s a prince sleeping there, nestled in the flowers and weeds. The fairytale says his true love and his knights are long dead. The fairytale says he dreams the whole world in existence. The fairytale says a lot of things but nobody really believes it.

[bamsara]

when I said I liked robots, porn bots trying to give me viruses to mine for crypto coin wasn't what i meant

[nat-20s]

THE GIRLS (FOURTEEN AND DONNA) ARE FIGHTIIIINNNGGG'

aka Donna has some lingering Feelings on the whole mind wipe thing and she's gonna shout about it <3

The Mess That's Made of Us

She didn’t mean for an outburst. They were having a calm, rational, adult discussion, not a fight. She didn’t even want a fight, not really. But The Doctor, he couldn’t just let it go and let her sort out her big stupid feelings on her own. No, he had to needle, he had to inquire, he had to push. He had to say that “everything had turned out all right, in the end”, and oh, that so wasn’t the fucking point. Nearly choking on the words, she yells out, “What would you have done?!”

After he startles and she has a moment to be thankful no one else is home right now, he’s shockingly even when he replies, “You..you know what I did.”

She lets out a right and proper growl of frustration. Clenching and unclenching her fists a few times in an attempt to ground herself, she grits out, “Not what I meant.”

“Donna, I don’t-”

“I meant, you pedantic little-”

She cuts herself off, takes in a deep breath in and out through her nose, and tries again. “I meant if our roles had been swapped. If I had been the one to take that year away from you, if you were about to have an essential part of the person you had become stripped all away in a moment. How would you have reacted? What. Would you. Have done?”

“I..”

She doesn’t let him finish, collect his thoughts, say pretty words that would fix it all. See, she can push, and push, and push too, now can’t she, Doctor? Generally, Donna doesn’t consider herself a cruel person. Sometimes oblivious, sometimes obnoxious, sometimes inconsiderate, but not cruel. But she knows she’s capable of it. She knows, if she so desires, she can hurt someone. She’s not trying to hurt The Doctor, except that she is, not to wound but to pull him to where she is right now. To make the grief and the rage and the conflict be shared. So she keeps going. “It’s not the same though, right? No, of course not. One year out of a billion, maybe more, that doesn’t make much of a difference, does it? Like forgetting what you had for breakfast that morning, barely a breath. I bet it would’ve been so easy, for you.”

“Donna!”

When he says it, his face is hard, and frustrated, but not cold. That’s something she’s still getting used to, with this new-old face. He used to have the coldest rage she ever saw, standing like a stranger. Now, he doesn’t tend to rage at all. It’s enough to make her clamp her mouth and actually listen for a second.

“Respectfully, what the hell are you talking about? Barely a breath, easy for me? Do you really believe that our time together meant that little to me? Do you really not understand by now? I mean, look at my face, Donna. And this is the second time that I’m completely rearranged myself in memory of you! One day with you changedme. One full year with you? Rewrote me.

So yes, removing my time with you would’ve made a difference. It would’ve made all the difference in the universe. And I don’t know what I would’ve done. If I had to get rid of the part of me that was made from you. I’m not sure I could.”

Such pretty words. And, well, the face in front of her right now does suggest some truth to them. But she can’t quite believe them, and she can’t quite look at said face, so instead her vision drifts over to the Tardis parked outside their kitchen window. Folding her arms and staring listlessly, she counters, “Yeah? Don’t you think you would’ve, I dunno, blinked and gone ‘oh that’s odd’ before putting on one of those manic smiles and inputting the coordinates to Venus in the 15th century, and that would’ve been that?”

Out of the corner of her eye, The Doctor’s face goes through a rapid series of motions that she can almost sort out, before stopping at realization. Oh. She didn’t like that one bit.

“Ah, that’s what you think did happen, huh? You think I flew away in my box and had magical adventures and found someone else in a day. It would make sense, right? Start pallin’ around with the nearest redhead I could find, forget all about me ol’ mate Donna, it’s not like she was gonna remember, so why should I?”

She sniffs, and tilts her face up, and resolutely does not let any tears fall. She also does not look at him.

“Donna, there was no one else, not until I was someone else. You want to know what happened, after I lost you? I broke. And then died. There was no me without you.”

Fuck. He changes his tune then, and she’s pretty sure they’re no longer fighting. They’ve always lacked a talent for it. He comes closer, placing both his hands gently on top of her still crossed arms, and moves until she has to look him in the eye. He even throws in a smile. Damn him to hell, he knows it’s near impossible for her to see her best friend smiling and start smiling a bit herself.

With a breath that borders on being a laugh, he continues, “But you! You got married, and yelled at parking attendants, and had a kid, and you existed. And I can’t regret that, I can’t. So I’m sorry, I really am. I ignored your pleas, and I took some of you away, and I’d do it again. I’d do it every time.”

She lets out a sigh and lets her arms drop to the sides. “I know.”

Wiping a hand down her face, she mixes a huff and a shrug. “Honestly, Doctor? I think I’ve already forgiven you.”

With a nod, she stands up straight and tells him straight, “I think I forgave you the moment it happened. I just..I just need time. I know it’s been years but I’ve only been able to think on it for a week.”

“I understand. Hell, there’s things that take me a couple thousand years to process, so.”

Donna rolls her eyes and let’s out a small chuckle, before opening her arms and saying, “C’mere, spaceman.”

The Doctor quite readily does, and the hug fits just as naturally as it always has. They take a moment to breathe together, and Donna gets to listen to the comforting double rhythm of the two healthy hearts in his chest. The silence is comfortable and the sharpness has eased.

When she pulls back, she can’t help but ask, “Wait, second face? What was the other one?”

“Ah. About that-”

[inkvigilante]

The Heart-Switch Bet (Coming Soon on A03!)

Dazai and Ranpo don't butt heads often but when they do it's a nightmare for the whole office. Today Ranpo was grumpy and started a nasty fight. Now they have settled on a bet to determine the winner.

"You get to hang with Ed and I will go with Mr. Fancy Hat. We tolerate the others rival for the day."

"And if we can't tolerate them?" Dazai asks just to amuse him.

"Whoever holds out the longest wins."

Dazai looks to be considering it but Ranpo already knows the answer.

"You're on."

[half-bakedboy]

For bucktommy! “For some reason, I’m attracted to you.”

read on ao3

Buck knows objectively that dating a guy is much different than dating a girl. He’s done enough research—if a lot of articles like Dating Advice for Gay, Bi, and Pansexual Men count—about how dating someone new is supposed to be exciting and nerve-wracking, and dating men isn’t going to feel any different than dating a woman.

If that’s all true, then why has he never felt so awkward in his life?

He’s sitting across from Tommy at this quaint Italian restaurant that Maddie once mentioned wanting Chimney to take her to and all he feels is unsettled. The table is too small between them and Buck worries that if either of them moves, their knees will knock over everything on top of it. Buck ordered white wine because it seemed like the classy choice but he hates wine, and Tommy ordered a red wine that makes him wince every time he swallows.

The butter is as hard as a rock and Buck refuses to eat bread without it ever since his first date with Abby. Somehow, this date almost rivals Abby performing a tableside tracheotomy because Buck choked on the dry bread he’d shoved in his mouth to tame that awkwardness.

He catches himself glancing down consideringly at the basket of bread rolls before him but looks away abruptly when Tommy breaks the silence.

“So, this is a nice place,” Tommy decides. Buck nods and grabs both sides of the small table with a white-knuckled grip. “How’d you find it?”

“Maddie! My sister,” he says, unsure how much their mutual friends have told him. “Chim’s girlfriend. Fiance actually, but uh, my sister. She suggested it to me.”

“As a place to grab drinks?” Tommy asked with a raised eyebrow.

Buck shook his head. “As a place for a date,” Buck says proudly, tipping his chin up a little, challenging anyone to say a damn word about it. A small smile tugs at the corner of Tommy’s lips at the words.

“You told your sister you had a date? Did you tell her…” The rest of the question is obvious, but Tommy pulls back like he’s unsure whether he should ask.

“That this is my first date with a dude?” Buck finishes for him. Tommy chuckles and takes a sip of his classic red wine. He presses his lips together as he swallows and nods. “Not necessarily, but Tommy isn’t exactly a gender-neutral name.”

“Hey, it’s a big step. I’m proud of you either way,” Tommy says softly.

He reaches for Buck’s hand across the table like he’s testing the waters. It should be a cute moment, but Buck panics—an obnoxious casualty of his sexuality crisis—and turns his palm up to welcome the first public sign of affection between them, knocking over both of their glasses of water, drenching the aforementioned bread rolls.

Buck immediately thinks it’d be hard to choke himself with them now.

“God, I am so sorry.” Buck panics, stands up too abruptly, and the knees he was so previously concerned about hit the edge of the table painfully, sending Tommy’s almost empty plate onto his lap along with the remnants of water on the table.

Buck feels his face heat up like a furnace and he closes his eyes in hopes that this is all some fever dream born out of his fears of his newfound sexuality. But Tommy is chuckling and a waitress is apologizing like this is somehow her fault and Buck has to accept that he really is just bad at this.

He has his hands white-knuckled on the back of his chair and he’s considering just running away when a gentle hand rests over his. When he looks up, Tommy is still grinning—Buck doesn’t understand how he just keeps smiling through it all—like he isn’t covered in all of Buck’s mistakes.

“Evan,” Tommy mutters. There’s humor in the voice and Buck feels like he might actually die if Tommy makes fun of him. “Do you wanna get out of here?” Tommy asks. Buck’s eyebrows pull together and he sees the moment Tommy reads his mind. “C’mon, Kid.”

Tommy somehow unglues Buck’s hand from the chair to maneuver them toward the door. Buck apologizes to every waitstaff he sees, but it doesn’t matter. They’re all looking at him with so much pity that Buck feels like one of the patients on his calls. It’s a feeling he really hates, especially when Tommy must notice the stares, too.

Once they’re outside, Buck blurts, “Please don’t tell Eddie how bad this is going.”

Tommy snorts out his laughter like he’s been holding it in for hours. Buck should be mortified, but Tommy’s hand is still gripped in his and it’s firm and warm and much larger than his own.

“Oh, I’m gonna,” Tommy promises. Buck attempts to pull his hand away but Tommy only squeezes tighter. “Evan, c’mere.”

This time, Tommy pulls him into a warm hug while they stand in the cool night air. Buck breathes him in, eyes closing as he relaxes into the touch. He’s rarely smaller than those he hugs, and he’s never been smaller than someone he’s hugged like this. It’s almost like Tommy is ensuring Buck knows he’s still interested. Even after the awkwardness and tragedy, Tommy knows Buck has more to offer and is willing to find out.

It means so much to Buck that when Tommy pulls away, he has to stop himself from gripping even tighter at Tommy’s broad shoulders. He doesn’t move far, though, and keeps one hand on Buck’s waist, playing with the fabric there like he’s somehow more nervous than Buck. When he starts walking, Buck follows, finding no reason not to trust wherever Tommy is taking them.

“Are you… okay with all of this?” Tommy asks. Buck blanches because he never once considered his inability to remain calm around this man to come off as some sort of internalized homophobia.

“Y-Yes! I’m—Are you okay with this? With me?” Tommy tilts his head inquisitively, cocking an eyebrow up like he doesn’t know exactly. “C’mon, don’t pretend that this wasn’t the worst date you’ve ever been on.”

“I’ve been on a lot of bad dates, Evan,” Tommy says.

Though, it’s not as reassuring as Buck thinks he meant it to be.

Tommy sighs. “I think that we both wanted this to be perfect. For some reason, I’m attracted to you,” he teases, “and I wanted to woo you on your first ‘date with a dude’,” he mocks, earning a smack from Buck. “I remember how terrifying my first public date with a man was, so I can imagine how you were feeling leading up to this.”

“It was scary for you, too?” Buck asks shyly. He’s more reassured by that fact than anything else. In his attempts to not be weird about the date, he tried to hide his fears—this is something so new and important to him but it might not be a singular experience.

“Oh my God, yes!” Tommy laughs. “It was with a dancer. A small guy who looked like he walked straight out of the magazines I used to keep under my bed when I was a teenager.”

“I forgot you grew up in the 80s,” Buck teases. Tommy pinches his waist in retaliation and Buck squirms just a little closer to him.

“Since he was a dancer, I tried to find us a club. You know, dancing at a club was a stereotypically gay thing I could do to prove to this guy I was, in fact, gay. Like the asking-on-a-date part wasn’t explanatory enough.”

“Dancing’s a good first date!” Buck argues, not yet seeing the downside to this conversation.

“Oh, it can be! Except I was terrified to fuck it up, so trusted some stranger on the internet to recommend a spot.”

“Oh no,” Buck mutters.

“Oh, yes,” Tommy agrees. He winces like the memory has been repressed for a little too long. “It was a swingers, leather club. Needed a password to get in.”

“The stranger didn’t give you the password, did he?” Buck guesses.

“Worse. My date knew it and ditched me almost the second we got inside.”

“Oh no,” Buck repeats, though he’s holding back laughter. Tommy waves him on.

“Go ahead, go ahead. Get your laughs out.”

Buck does, throwing his head back for a moment before looking back over at Tommy. He’s staring at Buck like he’s made of sunshine and Buck has never felt brighter.

“So, is this your way of telling me you're into leather, then?” Buck jokes.

“It’s my way of telling you,” Tommy stops, turns, and makes sure he’s looking directly into Buck’s eyes, “that first dates are terrifying no matter who you are with, but how you feel about someone at the end is all that matters.”

“Yeah?” Buck asks. He feels small with Tommy’s eyes on him, with Tommy’s hand around his waist, sliding to the small of his back where he’s unused to being touched so gently.

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees. Buck waits until Tommy glances down at his lips before he smiles.

“And how do you feel about me?” Buck asks. He brings his hands up to put one of Tommy’s broad shoulders and the other brushes a strand of Tommy’s hair back. The red that blooms on Tommy’s cheeks makes Buck’s heart sore.

“I feel…” Tommy begins to lean forward and Buck’s ready for the kiss this time. He isn’t going to be surprised. He knows what to do with his hands. He’s ready to show Tommy that he knows how to kiss better than he knows how to date.

But then Tommy’s gone, and when Buck realizes it, they’re already a few feet apart, Tommy walking backward down the street.

He shouts, “I feel a little damp and sticky. Come back to my place so we can fix that?”

Buck runs after him, shouting, “Is that an innuendo? I don’t get them all yet!”

Contagious laughter echoes through the almost empty streets, and joy thrums through Buck’s entire being. Awkwardness aside, he thinks he could easily get used to this.

[razormain]

quickly scribbled smth for a fic i wrote :) everyone read it its about romance positive aroace argenti

[ensinia-internetstranger]

Me waiting for the day this mf loses his shit please we need to see his sanity go out the window

[twilightsleepjunkie]

One Hard Pill to Swallow

Emmett was the most collected of all the Cullen children but he wasn’t calm or collected right now.

“Carlisle–”

Carlisle pressed the phone against his face and stepped out of the Emergency ward, into the hallway. His ears pricked as he listened to her screams in the background. “Is Esme hurt? Emmett, what’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know,” Emmett spoke through his teeth. “That’s why I called you. Is today special or something?” Emmett could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen her break down. Usually it had something to do with her baby, but Emmett couldn’t think of anything that would have upset her like this.

Carlisle ran through the family calendar in his head, it wasn’t an important day that would set her off like this, it was just a normal Friday. “Where is she?”

“We’re at home, I didn’t want to leave her alone.”

“Stay where you are.” Carlisle demanded, already heading for the locker room, he’d hang up his coat, pass off his patients and be out the door. “I’ll see you in ten-minutes.”

—

Exactly eight-point-five minutes later, Carlisle’s Mercedes screeched to a halt in the driveway, and 2 seconds after that, he was inside the house. 

Something was wrong. The unnatural, suffocating silence emitting from the house, set him on edge. 

 Of the entire family, Emmett was the least likely to need him for anything, ever.  

“I can’t get her to come out and I can’t get in without breaking the house.” Emmett pointed towards the staircase. “She got quiet and in this house, that’s never been a good sign. She slowed down as soon as I called you.” 

There was always sound coming from Esme’s art room. She played soft classical music on the stereo system while she painted and when she was throwing pottery, 1960s love songs floated through the house. She was never loud, but there was always some level of sound coming from the room.

Then suddenly, there was nothing. No music, No gentle humming. Just silence, deafening and uncomfortable silence. The largest part of her breakdown was over.

Carlisle darted up the three flights of stairs, sliding on his heels when he reached the door to his wife’s art studio. He listened closely, waiting for some indication that she was in there. 

“Esme,” Carlisle called her name softly through the antique door and knocked twice before trying the handle. As expected, the glass knob wouldn’t budge. “May I come in?” 

He waited for a beat and heard the quiet snick of the lock and the door swung open.

Newspaper clippings were scattered across the hardwood floor, Carlisle had to step around them. He stooped onto the floor and grabbed one, but every headline said the same thing. Small Cemetery on the outskirts of Milwaukee: Land Reallocated’

“Oh no.”  

She’d moved to the floor for the extra space to spread out her research. Esme subscribed to all of the newspapers from the various towns the family moved to. It padded the recycling, helping them blend in with the rest of the community. 

What she’d found in Wisconsin, broke her. She wanted the floor to open underneath her so she could drop into the hole, allowing the uncertain aching darkness to swallow her whole and she would disappear.  She would never have to feel this kind of pain again.

When she finally spoke, “He’s gone.”  The hoarse whisper came from the corner of the room. Esme had wedged herself between the corner of her drafting table and the wall. She was hiding and still so afraid to take up too much physical space. Carlisle suddenly remembered the last time he saw her like this. Though it had been nearly 8 decades, the memory burned bright.

A year after her change, on the exact one year anniversary of her son's death Carlisle found her in the small coat closet, knees bent to her chest, dry-sobbing into a pillow so she wouldn’t be heard. Somehow, this was worse. Esme worked to keep the memories of her baby, they were so tightly intertwined with her vile first husband that she couldn’t think of one without the other.

The angular window cast a pathetic ray of sunlight over her head. A broken halo, over his angel. 

“Why are you here?”

“Emmett called.” If Carlisle’s heart could still move, it would have lurched into his throat when he saw her like that. 

“Carlisle–”

He cut off her argument and dropped down on the wood floor beside her. “You’re not alright.”

Though there were no tears, dark makeup smeared on her face and her hands. The collar of her shirt was torn and shallow pale lines marred her chest where she so clearly aimed to claw out her own heart. Folding himself into the small space with her, he pulled her into his lap and slid his hands over hers, holding them in place so she couldn’t reach for her chest again. With vampire strength, and Esme’s pristine manicure there was a real danger of her hurting herself.

“The city.” She choked out into the side of his neck. Chest heaving, hands shaking against him.

“Shh…” He stroked her back. “I got it, now.”  The evidence on the floor was all the information he needed.  

“They turned my baby’s grave into a parking lot!” The words tore out of her mouth in an angry hiss. Saying it aloud cemented the fact that her child’s final resting place was gone. She’d outlived her son, twice. 

The desecrated grave stood as a tangible reminder that in this semblance of a life, there was no place for fairness. Their never ending existence meant that they would always be the last people standing, while everyone around them died. It was the curse that came with immortality. 

Carlisle pressed his wife against his chest, helpless as she convulsed in his arms. Her hands clawed at her chest, screeching like steel on granite. 

“Stop trying to hurt yourself.” Carlisle locked her hands in his keeping them still. “Hold me,” he guided her hands to his shoulders and curled her fingers around either end of his scarf.  

 He held her tight as apologizes and pleas for forgiveness slipped through her sobs as she gasped for air and trembled.

“I left him there-”  

Carlisle knew there was no sense in reasoning with her, she didn’t need to be told that staying in Milwaukee would not have helped her son. Esme’s anguish couldn’t be reasoned away, it bubbled up like a pus infected boil needing to be lanced. 

“You’re forgiven.” He whispered into her hair, “I promise he forgives you.”

Sitting up slightly he grabbed the handmade quilt from the desk chair and covered her with it.  “Jasper.” Carlisle depended on Jasper’s enhanced hearing. “Help me.”  

 Carlisle kissed her hair, bereft of anything useful to do. All he could do was try to offer comfort. “I’m very sorry,” his words were not hollow, but she couldn’t hear him. Not really. “Both of you deserve better than this.”

 After nearly 80 years of marriage, he’d learned that sometimes all he had to do was shut up and hold her. Today was one of those days. The long-buried pain ran bone deep and he had no hope of ever truly alleviating her suffering. 

Her voice was frail when she could finally speak again. “My poor baby. I’m sorry.”

Carlisle, for the first time in a century, wished he could drug his wife. As a doctor he would’ve given her a xanax and put her to bed. But she needed this release and drugging her because it broke his heart seeing her so upset, would be selfish.

A minute later, Jasper was in the doorway. “You rang?”

“Can you make it easier on her?” She needed the release, he didn’t want to take it from her completely. “Calm her down gradually?” 

“I’ll try.” Jasper sat on the floor in the doorway, concentrating on Esme. A few seconds later, her breathing slowed and she’d stopped shaking.

“Breathe,” Carlisle pressed his palm against her chest, his fingers smoothed over her sternum as her eyes fluttered open. “Nice and slow.”

“He’s gone.” She blew out a breath, the hollow feeling in her chest weighing her down. “For real. He’s completely gone. What am I supposed to do, Carlisle? Leave flowers at a truck stop!”

“We’ll find another way. I promise, we will find a way to remember him.”

“That grave site was supposed to be permanent–suddenly–it’s not. He’s not here anymore and I don’t know how to do this.”

  “We’ll just  have to find another way…” he insisted,  but he couldn’t come up with a solution at the moment. The Cullens rarely stayed anywhere longer than a few years. Who could have foreseen that the little gravesite with the stone placard and  concrete angel wouldn’t be around for the next hundred years? 

He lifted Esme into his arms, letting her head rest on his shoulder, her breath tickled the side of his neck.“Mind your head, My Dearest,” he gently extracted her from the small space and held her against him, his long legs eating the short distance to their bedroom. 

****

“My poor boy,” the whispered words faded into the low light of the bedroom. The plush mattress dipped when Carlisle sat beside her, moving her hair out of her face. One finger ran back and forth against her cheek.

“His poor mother, too.” He kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger there.“I’ll be right back.”

Before she could ask where he was going, Carlisle was at her side with a warm, wet washcloth in hand. Carlisle was no stranger to washing wounds and all he could do was hope that Esme’s would start to heal.

“What are you doing?”

“You have makeup all over your face,” he explained, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear where it had slipped from her ponytail.

“Oh.” 

Carlisle washed the makeup from her eyes, he moved down the bridge of her nose and  droplets of water drifted down her chin were the closest she would get to real tears.

“Does it even count?” A shy, timid question that Esme didn’t want to hear the answer to.

 “Of course he counts.” He moved the cloth down her cheek, ever so gently;  slowly chasing the dark streaks of makeup that melted off her face. “You held him in your body, kept him warm, safe and well fed. You loved him because that’s what a mother does.”

“Not well enough.” She choked, still teetering on the verge of emotion. “Not long enough.”

“It’s not your fault.” He didn’t know what happened to her son, but he knew Esme to be certain that she’d had nothing to do with his death. 

“It was only three days.” There wasn’t enough time, she didn’t kiss her boy’s face enough times or watch his feet draw up when he slept. She didn’t get to read to him or even take him outside and let him feel the sunlight on his face. It wasn’t enough time, enough life to count herself as his mother.

“Joseph is your little boy. You nurtured him and loved him for as long as you had him, that doesn’t change.” He’d moved to her hands now, tenderly washing between each of her fingers and across her palms.

His hands slipped down her neck, barely grazing the nearly invisible self-inflicted wounds across her chest. 

“Let me take a look.”

“It’s fine,” she tried to pull away but his hand on her shoulder held her in place.

“No, Esme.” He turned on the bedside lamp and retrieved his doctor’s bag from beside the bed. “It’s not fine.” He insisted, angling a penlight so the light shone across her chest.  

“Carlisle please–”

“Answer the question, please. Does it hurt whilst I touch it?”

“N–” She sucked in a breath when his fingers prodded against her collarbone and down her chest.

“That would be a ‘yes’” He answered his own question, continuing to palpate the area.  “Please stop trying to hurt yourself.” There was no question she’d cut herself. A long jagged line stretched across her breastbone, over her unbeating heart.  

She didn’t deserve the pain and trauma of her human life. Now, her only tie left to that life was gone. 

****

When he was finished and the ruined makeup had been washed away, Carlisle laid down beside Esme, holding her close.  Her tangled curls falling across his chest. It was his fault for not keeping up with the gravesite. Carlisle knew he should have made it a priority to take Esme back to Milwaukee. The harrowing arrival of their grandchild and subsequent need to gather every vampire they’d ever had contact with; to confront the Volturi, took priority. Still, he should have made more of an effort to preserve the cemetery. Esme and Joseph did not deserve Carlisle’s negligence.

 Mere words of apology couldn’t fix this, she would tell him that it wasn’t his fault. Without another comment, she’d kiss him, comfort him while she was the one in dire need of tenderness, and drop the subject completely. Esme wouldn’t hold a grudge, she didn’t have a mental rolodex of his mistakes filed away for ammunition to use later. She would just forgive him.

Carlisle didn’t want to be forgiven.

“Lay back,” he pressed one hand behind her head, angling her face away from his, giving him a clear look at her chest. 

The venom washed up his throat, coating his tongue and he bent forward, sealing her wounds with his kiss.

[glitter-alienz]

here's something I originally planned to make a comic for, but ended up on my empty ao3 account. it's uhh it's about 12 year old mikey's fear of bathrooms and 14 year old donnie trying to be when it's not in his nature.

i tried to make it as lighthearted and silly as possible, tho maybe at some point im gonna write about how evil donnie was as a kid (he was badd)

these two fight a lot but at the end of the day you are stuck with your brother so you have to love and forgive him and be nice and im totally not projecting my own issues with family on them what are you talking about?

[thepavementsings-archive]

"I love the internet and I'm so impressed with some of the people out there and the imagination of putting real life situations with some names and also sort of features that you find out there."

Ive genuinely read this sentence 47 million times and there is no other possible meaning I can glean from this sentence other than pierre loves rpf and i mean that.

[thetopichot]

Auron is the A03 writer that posts the most toe curling, jaw dropping, butt clenching, eye squinting, hand squeezing fanfic known to man while trying to survive the horrors at the same time & leaves a note on his fanfic saying something like:

"I'm sorry for not posting. I was busy selling drugs, killed a guy, & the time wizard might fuck me over but I hope you enjoy this new chapter."

[miralines]

uhh. I have no real excuse for this but. catboy king cole

[tyetyetyetyetyetye]

I've officially had to put a timer on tumblr because I couldn't stop reading bucktommy fanfic when I'm supposed to be working

[artemistorm]

Avalanche Rescue Pt 1

Whumptober Day 25: Buried Alive -- Wolfie, everyone

958 words

TW - broken bone, asphyxiation

******

Before the snow around him had stopped moving, Wolfie dug up up up. His paws broke through the surface snow and his nose quickly followed. Fresh air, cold air, snow-laden air, no brother smell—that’s bad bad bad. Quickpaw digging, gotta leave snow den. Wiggle wiggle wiggle—Wolfie pawed and pushed and wriggled his way out of the snowy cocoon the avalanche had buried him in. Wolfe shook the powder snow off his coat, filling the air with sparkly ice.

Behind him a small patch of evergreen trees had stopped the snow slide, before him the mountainside stretched upward toward the sky. To the left, mounds of snow he couldn’t see over, and to the left was more downhill to distant trees.

“Packmates?” He yipped spinning around searching for his friends. “Where? Pups? Where?” Gotta find them quick. Gotta dig them out. Snow bury good for meat, bad for Hylians.

“WOLFIE!”

Wolfie whipped around and caught sight of Hyrule sitting on a shield and riding it down the slope, using his feet to slow himself. Hyrule came alongside Wolfie before digging his feet to stop.

Quick sniff! No smell of blood, only fear and sweat and snow. Wolfie licked Hyrule’s face twice before Hyrule pushed him off and stood up. One pup found, seven pups missing.

“Did you see where anyone went?” Hyrule asked, then turned away and shouted. “WHERE ARE YOU?? CAN YOU HEAR ME??”

“Here!”

“I’m here!”

Two voices answered. Wolfie took off following one, catching a whiff in the disturbed air—Old Father! Wolfie took a running leap off a packed mound of drifted snow and nearly bowled over Old Father.

“Wolfie!” Time exclaimed dodging out of the way of the flying canine. Wolfie landed and spun around. Quick sniff—no blood!

“I’m fine, go find the others!” Time said, but Wolfie was already off in search of the second voice. Two pups found, six pups missing.

“I’M HERE!” Young voice squealed—Baby Pup!

“Where? I don’t see you!” Hyrule called, entering the trees.

“Look up!”

Wolfie skidded to a halt next to Hyrule and they both looked up into the craggy branches. Wind draped awkwardly over two branches.

“Hi!” Wolfie barked. Quick sniff—small blood—but no worry. Also sap and armpits and lunch cheese and evergreen.

“What are you doing? Get down from there!” Hyrule said.

“I’m trying! I’m trying! Geez!” Wind answered.

“Are you two alright?” Time asked running up to them as fast as the snow would allow.

That was three pups found, five pups missing. Nose to the ground, gotta sniff sniff out the others. This way and that, up and down, sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff—ooh what was that? Feathers and potion and lunchfood and ozone—Sky Pup! Stronger stronger stronger—

“Wolfie!” Sky called to him.

There he was! Sky pup! Sitting, half buried, legs buried in snow.

“Coming!” Wolfie called to the half-buried Sky Pup. He ran up to him.

“Ahh careful!” Sky exclaimed and Wolfie stopped short and didn’t touch. Quick sniff—fear, pain, alarm, feathers—

“I’m hurt,” Sky said. “My arm—it might be broken.” He hugged it to his chest with a pained expression.

“What?!” Wolfie whined.

“Can you help? My legs are stuck and I can’t dig them out!”

Wolfie whined, indecisive. Though Sky Pup hurt, trapped, though four pups found, four pups still missing. Sky pup hurt, but not in deadly danger. Sky Pup could wait.

“Wait here!” Wolfie barked. “I send help!” Wolfie took off back toward the others. He bounded over the snow leaping through the powder, skidding on the crust.

“Help! Stuck! Hurt!” Wolfie called ahead to the cluster of packmates digging in the snow.

“WOLFIE HELP!” Hyrule screamed. “WARS IS BURIED! HE CAN’T BREATHE!”

Wolfie galloped onward breaking into their crowd.

Hand! Hand sticking up in the snow—quick sniff! Battle Pup! Fear fear sweat snow—but alive! Lick! Hand moved! Touched Wolfie’s nose!

“Help us dig!” Old Father said. Wolfie jumped in digging where packmates dug. Dig dig dig dig! Have to find Battle Pup’s face! Sniff sniff sniff—wait! Battle pup not there! Not where they dig! Sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff sniff—there! Smell of tea and herbs and spit and tears.

“Here! Not there!” Wolfie told the others and started digging.

“What? Are we in the wrong place?!” Wind asked.

Wolfie dug a hole, dug it deep. Hands joined in beside him, Old Father’s big rough hands and Wander Pup’s delicate but strong hands, dug out the sides, widened the hole. Stronger smell stronger stronger!

“Hurry!” Wind cried. “His hand just went limp!”

Dig dig dig—FUR! YELLOW FUR! FOUND HIS HEAD.

“Found! Found!” Wolfie yapped. Battle Pup face down, one arm stretched out behind sticking out of the snow, other arm covering face made an air bubble. Sniff sniff sniff… no fresh breath.

“THERE HE IS!” Time exclaimed. “Be careful Wolfie! Don’t hurt him!”

“WAKE UP!” Wolfie barked as loud as he could and nibbled Battle Pup ear. Wolfie scruffed by Old Father, pulled out of hole, make room for Wander Pup.

“Wars! Wars! Can you hear me?” Hyrule put a hand in Battle’ Pup’s fur. “Guys I don’t think he’s—”

A jolting gasp! A deep inhale!

“Breathe! Come on! Keep breathing!” Old Father begged. Wolfie lunged forward back into the hole. Sniff sniff sniff lick sniff—fresh breath! Battle pup lives on!

“Hey! He squeezed my hand!” Wind shouted.

Once again, Old Father pulled Wolfie out of the hole.

“You did good, Wolfie,” he said. “We can take it from here. Go find the others.”

Five pups found, three pups missing. If any buried like Battle pup, no air left. Gotta find right now!

(to be continued tomorrow...)

[imaginaryprotagonist]

Ok, look, I love to watch Dean Winchester suffer as much as the next person, but fuck do I need there to be a light at the end of the tunnel. This is why angst with a happy ending is my favourite tag, because UNLIKE CANON, he will get a happy ending in my world dammit!