#but goddamn if that isn't about half as annoying as the pain in the first place

[dredshirtroberts]

okay note to self: it takes approximately 2.5 hours (fed and hydrated properly) for the ibuprofen to kick in enough to give me the ability to move *some*. It does still hurt but oh god is it less than it was.

[youremyheaven]

i am so here for the mercurial slander omg. i had the displeasure of being friends with a mercury-ketu girl who was genuinely unhinged and extremely immature. like i'd say something completely innocuous and she'd sit on it for like two days and then i'd receive like 4 paragraphs of her chewing me out just because she misunderstood something i said

the other two mercurials i know (free me) are the biggest yappers i've ever met. one of them would literally send upwards of 150 messages to our group chat daily of just a never ending stream of thoughts, which was annoying in and of itself, but the real issue was that she'd yap endlessly and never read any of our messages or ask how we were doing. i've noticed this theme a lot with mercurials where they just use people as a sounding board and forget to even ask how your day was before the yap fest begins

😭😭😭😭 sister,, I can tell the pain is fresh because you did not hold back 💀🫡

Using other people as a sounding board is soooo TRUEEE OMG 😭😭ILL SCREAM

my former friend, Revati Moon who ghosted me for 3yrs came back into my life last year and from the way she spoke about her circumstances I knew that she was alone and just wanted company lmao but I thought I'd give her the benefit of the doubt anyway and what followed was a huge lesson in trusting my gut and not giving anyone the benefit of the doubt 😮‍💨💀🤡 I was her unpaid therapist and soundboard for several months. The conversations were often too long for comfort or she'd go on one of her rampages about how awful people are (Mercurials are unfairly critical of others, have you noticed?) and she frequently took digs at me and was one of those people who make jokes at the expense of others. I had to reallyyyy hold my tongue bc she was clearly at fault in half of the situations she's describing and i couldn't stand how she was always putting down absolutely everybody she spoke about.

I'd have to come up with lies or sometimes I'd pretend the call dropped or something bc 😭 7hrs is too many hrs to be talking to someone night after night (and the conversations are majorly heavy or unpleasant) i felt like she thought I owed her my time unless I had a "valid excuse"

during these months, she'd go on trips and I'd be as good as dead to her in this period. Once she was home and bored again, the calls would restart.

she said something awful to me and I stopped talking to her and maybe a month later after she said some other awful thing, i confronted her and she started shouting at me saying she's been mad at me all along for not talking to her 💀💀💀💀 which

a) isn't true (I texted her like 2 days after the first incident and she didn't respond to it --- she shouted at me saying she wanted me to call her???)

b) she literally said something godawful to me which made me want to not talk to her???

Needless to say, that "confrontation" was a spectacular display of Mercurial manipulation. I asked her why she was so goddamn mean to me and she said "I don't think this conversation is helping either of us, I'm sorry, now let's move on"

🤡😭😭 and I asked her about incident 2 and she said she's used to being around people (read: men) who bully each other playfully and that she wasn't used to my "sensitivity" (for context: I sent her a semi nude picture and she told me my shorts looked too tight around the waist and that looking at my "realistic" body helped her feel seen bc she's used to seeing photoshopped women and went on to compare both herself and me to our friends who are more petite 🤡)

After almost a year of being her unpaid therapist, she once interrupted me telling her something and told me to "wrap it up quickly" 😭😭😭 (the audacity) like she didn't gaf about what I had to say unless it soothed her ego somehow lol

As if all of this wasn't enough, I decided to call her a month ago, even though by this point we hadn't talked for over 2 ish months and she ended the convo 2 mins in saying she'll call me back and never did.

The way Mercurials exploit others to just bitch and whine and yap needs to be studied

Everything you said about your friend, I can also relate to (unfortunately)

Most Mercurials are friendless or have superficial friendships and tbh it makes sense bc they make it really hard for others to stay friends with them 😭 sorry to say it

[shinelikethunder]

there's a warning/notice about the new settings at the top of the dashboard, it takes you straight to the settings page that has the new toggles on it, it doesn't go away until you dismiss it

i hadn't seen it at that point, because you have to go back to your dash and refresh for it to show up, even though tumblr regularly hijacks my android app with "helpful" undismissible FYIs about features i've already used or gone out of my way to turn off. upon refresh, the notice

is in the dash slot usually observed for obnoxious promos that most of us are primed to scroll past without paying the attention tax being demanded

says nothing about being opted in to new filters you didn't sign up for

actually kinda implies the opposite with its vague wording about "more control over what you see on your dash." every time I've exercised control over tumblr's adult content settings it's been to tell it, over and over, that yes i want to see tits. (i'm in the opposite of fucking control when google yanks my privacy settings out from under me and replaces them with new spyware defaults i have to hunt down and re-opt-out of. it's disappointing bullshit for tumblr to stoop to the same tactics and disguise it under the same rhetoric.)

dumps you out in the general settings menu on android, where the new "Content you see" section is not highlighted or marked as new in any way

when you do click into it, the first thing you have to do is scroll past every single goddamn one of your custom tag and keyword filters, with no way to collapse them, which is (a) annoying as hell, and (b) usually a signal that there isn't anything worthwhile buried underneath all that scrolling

so no, actually, zero "giving users fair warning" points to tumblr for putting one vague message in a promo slot and making it a giant pain in the ass to even figure out what it applies to. there are half a dozen ways they could've effectively communicated what they were doing. they opted for none of them.

[kvhaani]

MICHAEL

MUSE: MICHAEL D. V. SANTOS

Date written: early 2020

Short summary of plot: This was done for a plot inspired by the podcast series, ‘Welcome to Night Vale.’ I wrote this piece with a focus on comedy because I sort of wanted to have fun with it!! Michael falls into an alternative reality when he fucks around with spooky places. Enjoy :> 

Heavy panicked breathing is the first thing he remembers hearing. Michael wakes up upside down in some sort of tree, the kind he remembers seeing on the nature documentaries he likes to watch when he gets high. If he recalls the soft spoken words of David Attenborough correctly, he is currently hanging by his legs from the top of an Acacia tree, green leaves lightly tickling his cheek.

’What the fuck is an Acacia tree doin’ in the middle of New York?’

There’s no tree like this in Central Park, that’s for sure. Once the initial shock of his current predicament passes, Michael pulls himself up and takes a second to adjust to this new world, his head spinning from the blood trying to regulate itself in his hurting body. Where the hell is he and how did he land himself in a goddamn tree from the plains of Africa?

Nothing makes sense in this strange new reality he’s woken up in and for a good minute and a half he wonders if he’s experiencing some sort of trip. Why is the sky purple in some places, blue in others? What has he taken this time? LSD? DMT? Those weird experimental shrooms his buddy Luke keeps pressuring him to take?

There’s whispers all around him, voices speaking in hushed tones he can’t understand, wailing and moaning in muted Ancient languages he can’t comprehend. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, goosebumps lining sunkissed flesh. Michael keeps getting the unsettling feeling that he’s being watched. Even his worst drug experiences have never left him feeling this fuckin’ shitty— something’s off. 

Michael knows he’s not getting any answers if he stays up here on this tree that clearly Doesn’t Belong, so he makes his way down, careful not to tear his prized black leather jacket as he navigates the slanted branches to the bottom. Slowly and surely, bits of his memories start coming back to him, like water from a jug trickling into an empty cup. Flashes of the past come back to him in hazy images that last for the briefest of seconds before vanishing behind his eyes.

The sounds of cheering and words of caution being shouted at him as he enters the forgotten subway tunnel. . .emerging on the other side of an invisible barrier that had locked him in. . .wild winged beasts with deformed faces rising from the shadows and chasing him until they’d grabbed him. . . his backstreet boys ringtone going off, the demonic creatures screeching in pain and letting him go. . . falling from a great height and breaking his fall in the Acacia tree before blacking out. . .

It had just been a dumb stupid dare. This wasn’t supposed to happen.  

He was supposed to go into the closed off subway tunnel 13 to show his friends that it was all just an urban legend, that nothing freaky or supernatural was going on down there. That, like the Parisian Catacombs, New York’s abandoned subway tunnels held nothing but rats and the smell of piss. More than anything, Michael’s just annoyed that the motherfuckers had been right. He hates being wrong. 

So all the stories about people disappearing in the infamous tunnel 13 had been true, and now he’s condemned to this place probably forever; cause in all the urban legends he’s heard about this place, none had ever mentioned anyone ever getting out. He's going to be another one of those people, isn't he?

Fuuuuuuuuck.

It’s disheartening but Michael can’t focus on that right now, his only priority is to get shelter from the winged beings that could descend on him from anywhere and take him away. He’d gotten lucky one time but he gets the feeling lady luck isn’t going to be on his side a second time. Adrenaline pumps through his aching body as he runs through the open space, looking for anything that might be able to provide some sort of protection from those otherworldly creatures. 

The gravity of his dire situation hasn’t fully set in but Michael is careful not to let it get to him just yet: find refuge now, freak out later— there’ll be plenty of time to scream and be hysterical when he isn’t the main course for bizarre demons with disfigured faces and chilling cries. 

As he runs, his legs aching under the pressure of the rough uneven terrain, Michael’s rationale begins to catch up with him and he struggles to keep all the wild questions swimming around in his head in check. Maybe he should make a list of all the insane shit that’s happened so far so he can ask someone about it later. Assuming there is a /later/, or even a /someone/ for that matter.

1. Why had the government kept this place a secret for so long? They must have known people go missing here all the time— why hadn’t they tried to make it safer?

2. How the hell did those /things/ never escape tunnel 13? What was sealing them in? 

3. What the fuck is a sunflower field doing here?

Michael freezes. A haunting sound somewhere between a moan and a scream sounds from behind him, one he's unfortunately familiarised himself with— the creatures have returned and judging by the sounds of their anguished screeching, they're ravenous. 

Is he going to die here in this open field in the middle of nowhere? 

Fuck, not like this—

His fight or flight instincts finally compel him to get a move on, just as the demons advance on him, their open mouths showing off layers of sharp pointy teeth— yeah, /layers/, not rows. He doesn't have much of a choice in what to do next so Michael curses loudly and heads towards the sunflower field. This small field is his only source of protection from the bloodthirsty animals that are about to devour him slowly, his best bet is to lose them in the tall growth somehow. 

“Jesus,” he calls out to the heavens, heart pounding painfully in his chest, “I know we ain't got the best relationship—” helplessness creeps into his voice as he feels them gaining on him, their extra legs allowing for faster traversal, “—but if you save me from this hell, I promise I'll go back to Church!” 

Michael is enveloped by the tall sunflowers just as he finishes uttering his desperate plea for help, the monsters no longer able to touch him. He doesn't stop running until he's a good distance away from the border of the sunflower field, terrified that the cryptids are following him still. When he doesn't hear them anymore, Michael allows himself to cautiously stop and peek back through the field. Surprise colours his features when he notes the way the creatures burn up the second they touch the flowers.

They can't grab him here. 

“That's right, motherfuckers,” he shouts, letting out a loud whoop and giving them the finger. “Can't touch me in here!”

He takes several moments to catch his breath and steady his train of thought which is now running a million miles an hour. 

“Thanks, J,” he trembles, kissing two shaking fingers and raising them to the sky because he can't remember which way he's supposed to cross himself. “You came in clutch back there. Guess you're real? F-fuck.”

It's not the most surprising revelation of the day— not by a long shot— but Michael really hopes it's the last; if he has to deal with another reality-altering discovery today, he's going to spontaneously combust. When he exits the sunflower field, his legs are shaking badly, whether it's from the strain from the running or the shock of the traumatic experience, he doesn't know or care. Michael's expression is filled with wonder, however, because what he sees before him leaves him totally stunned. 

It's a whole town out in the middle of this topsy-turvy world, complete with what looks like late 50s or early 60s architecture nearly everywhere he looks. There's a milkbar to the left, nestled between a sad looking diner with the words "closed on Wednesday due to scheduling errors" and an abandoned looking motel. The neon sign on the motel flickers ominously, only making his inner alarm bells ring louder and louder. 

What's a small town doing here? This place shouldn't exist? 

Why the 50s and 60s? Has he somehow stepped through a portal into an alternate universe where the world never progressed past those two decades? And that's another thing— what is all this doing in what had supposedly been just a simple abandoned subway tunnel? Tired and hungry, he just adds it to the ever-growing list of questions he doesn't think he'll get the answers to. 

One thing excites him, however. If there's a town here, there's definitely people around; and if there's people around, well he can get help and end this nightmare.

What he needs now is something to eat, fast. 

His stomach rumbles loudly on cue so Michael once again swallows the millions of questions buzzing around his head and begins marching towards the colourful diner. 

[bluetomorrows]

Going Through My Movies Part 3: A Brighter Summer Day (1991)

Christ this is a long one. 3 minutes shy of 4 hours and INCREDIBLY slow, it makes 4 hours feel like 6. Almost made me forget the Looney Tune I watched...

Long Haired Hare. Yep, that one. WB put WAY too many of their most iconic shorts at the very beginning of the golden collection. I get that you want to make a good impression but save some stuff for later.

So yeah another super famous one that I can't add much to. I was surprised that the iconic bit of this was really only the very end. The first half of the short isn't even in the opera house, it's when the singer is practicing and gets annoyed with Bugs playing his music over him. I obviously want to see what Bugs is going to do to ruin this guys life, but also he has a good reason to be mad at him.

Anyways that final gag is iconic for a reason. The joke keeps building and building, raising the note is a genius way of escalating a joke. Love the bit where Bugs puts out a mail order for ear muffs, gets them delivered, and then comes back to the opera house all while making him sustain the note. Good stuff.

"Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way

The time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something more to say"

Or I suppose in this case, quiet desperation is the Taiwanese way.

A Brighter Summer Day is not an easy watch. It’s 4 hours long, and those 4 hours do not go by quickly. Multiple times during my watch-through I believed I was approaching the end only to realize that I was nowhere close

But I feel like there was a purpose. At the end of this you are absolutely emotionally exhausted, but so are the characters. They aren’t exhausted because of one specific thing, like you, they have simply been worn down by a series of disheartening, difficult-to-understand events. You feel like you've truly experienced another life, a life that no one is able to handle.

A Brighter Summer Day follows a period of time in the life of Xiao Si'r, a 14-year-old in 1960 Taiwan. The country is very much still developing and a sense of national identity or stability has not really arrived. The plot follows Si'r's relationship with a girl named Ming, and ongoing gang violence throughout Taiwan.

Adolescence is terrifying and crazy, especially under certain circumstances. While it may not appear so if you’re someone looking in from the outside, Si’r, the main character, is fighting his way through extraordinary circumstances.

Si’r lives in a country that, to put it lightly, is experiencing growing pains. We underestimate the value of national identity, especially in times of crisis and unrest. After a population is in a way emasculated, what do you do to feel like a man? He’s trying to find his way in a social power vacuum. It's the reason so many kids his age are drawn into gangs.

There’s no proper authority in his life. No order. The characters live in a state of simply pretending they live under some kind of order.

Everything in Si'r's life that he thinks makes sense crumbles apart as the film goes on. The order that the gangs bring to their lives, gone. His view of his friends, gone. The belief that his family is safe and stable, gone. The belief that his government cares about him, gone. The belief that he's a good son, a good boyfriend, a good person, gone.

Si'r wants to be useful. He's tired of going through the motions in an unchanging world. After 4 goddamn hours, we feel the same way.

There's definitely a feeling of duality in ABSD. Gangs who want peace but still resort to violence. The mix of a distinct Taiwanese culture and different foreign influences creeping in. Ming, the girl who Si'r goes to for a feeling of stability and usefulness, whose had many boyfriends and doesn't want or need to be fixed. Si'r, and by extension the audience, is being pulled in many directions.

Si’r is driven down his spiral because he lives in a world that lacks any kind of meaning. This film is the story of him realizing that, while everyone around him dreams of a brighter summer day where things will finally make sense.

I don’t think I completely understand this movie, I might need another watch to fully get it. I’m sorry but that isn’t something I plan to do soon, I felt dead by the end of it and I’d probably choose Yang’s shorter, and in my opinion better, Yi Yi.

This is still a masterpiece in its own way though, massive respect for it as a piece of art.

Alright, my next movie is... not a movie. The next unwatched piece of my collection is Cowboy Bebop: The Complete Series. Well, I say unwatched but I've seen most of it, I only have like 4 or 5 episodes left. But I'll still cover it next time.

See ya when I see ya

[shrouded-jed]

► You're not getting out of this so easily, Ghostface. What, have you gone soft? Your knife is going into Samantha. Wear what you want (though the shroud is most appropriate, given the title you've taken up). Keep her from running, kill her slowly, and make sure she sees and knows you're doing it. Kill her. Enjoy it as much as you can. Every last scream and beg for mercy. You can do that, can't you? Isn't the Ghostface supposed to be good at his job?

((so this got kinda long, just gonna pop an @unwilling-survivor in here cause that’s who this is about. Also... I know things.) TW: torture basically.  There is no moment of respite. This one is detailed, this one had it out for him. Did this also give him the chance to do the last command he got? Fuck, hopefully not. Please do not make him add insult to injury on this. He’s already hurting. 

There’s the urge, it rests on his fingertips. He has to, but god he really doesn’t want to. Being stripped of options or autonomy is just so painful.

This one mocks him. It chastises him like it knows him. He hates that it probably does. 

“What, have you gone soft?” 

Only for her.

“Kill her. Enjoy it as much as you can.”

That’s not how it works.

“You can do that, can't you? Isn't the Ghostface supposed to be good at his job?”

... 

He has to do this. While every bone in his being is telling him not to, there’s the pull. It’s other-worldly. It’s beyond what he can refuse. He wishes that the commands bring out the truly sinister version of himself. Seems compartmentalizing wasn’t as helpful as he first expected it to be. 

There’s so much rage running through him. He’s angry, it needs to be expelled right now- 

With a sharp scream, the glass is hurled across the kitchen, shattering instantly. He’ll deal with it later, Sam is not going to feel any anger from him. He’s not using her as a punching bag, not anymore. He’s filled with a strange haste. Just get it done, get it over with, hold her, do something to let her know he’s being forced to do this. 

The Shroud is back on in record time- mask as well- the knife is on his belt. He had the note with him, he was going to show it to her. He wasn’t told not to. He needed her to know he was desperate to do anything but this. He had no choice. 

--

Finding her is easy. Too easy, painfully easy in fact. Why did they have such poorly timed luck? No, this wasn’t luck. This was just cosmic torture. Forced and painful. 

“Keep her from running…” 

Goddamn it. He grumbles, his hands twitch. There’s too much anxiety, he can’t, he won’t- but he has to. There is literally no choice. Some random, tiny god said so. It was all so stupid. Even with his mind being defiant, he’s gotten into the stalking stance. His heart was pounding, it was uncomfortable, annoying. He hates this. 

He’s still moving forward, regardless of his loathing. Make it quick, they didn’t say he couldn’t do that. Spare her as much as possible, not painless, but swift. Aftercare is part of his routine, he can still do it, right? He wouldn’t be able to help himself either way. 

It’s instinct, the way he darts toward her from behind. One arm locks around her shoulders, the other over her mouth. He just.. Can’t handle her screams yet. Obviously, Sam is a spitfire of a human being. She’s not going down without a fight, she probably doesn’t even know it’s him.

Jed wants to keep it that way for as long as possible.

It takes a surprising bit of effort to wrestle Sam to the ground, he fears he might have to actually use Judas’ suggestion. Just to get her arms out of the way. He’d fully understand if she punched him.

He deserves it for this. 

Wrangling an angry redhead is hard, he needs his knife, so he gets it. She’s flat on her stomach, shouting at him. He needs her quiet, it’s too loud, too much. The knife is gently pressed between her shoulder blades, making her instantly pipe down. Something like this works too well, though, shouldn’t it? He’s basically threatening her. No- he’s promising pain. 

There’s a fucked up, sick rush of power. Why was he like this? Why could he not turn off his subconscious evil? The note did order him to ‘enjoy it’. He still didn’t want to, but he might not be able to really help it. He was born like this. 

Born a monster. 

“Make sure she sees and knows you're doing it.” 

Sam has to face him, so she does. He grabs her, turning her over to be on her back. There’s a look of realization on her face, she’s gone tense. It’s a familiar response, though how long has it been since he wore his mask around her? He’d stopped doing that ever since their first meeting. The majority of the time, then. Fuck. 

He has a chance to show her the note. Keeping the knife steady above her sternum, he fishes out the command. No words are said, he simply holds it in front of her for a solid ten seconds. Hopefully that would reduce the damage, mentally at least. He wasn’t betraying her trust for fun, he was being told to. 

The note is then crumpled up and tossed away. It needs to start, he can’t make either of them wait any longer. Jed shifts, he has to start. 

So he does.

The edge of his knife presses down, cutting into her skin, right along the middle of her sternum. Of course she bites out a hissed curse, her hands shoot up to grab his wrist- pushing him away. He almost let her, until the urge of the note said otherwise, “Stay still, just… Don’t move.” His tone is harsh, though not in the usual way. He’s stressed, he just wants to end this. How long would the note make him hurt her for? Hopefully he could decide that. 

Probably not. 

He grabs one of her hands, pushing it down to the ground so he had a bit more control over the resistance she gave. This was so much harder than he thought, “Don’t close your eyes.” Another order, all to preserve the rules they already had in place. Codes of comfort. He needed them. 

The knife is pulled away, he’s lost as to where to target next. Fuck, make it quick, right? Into her side it goes, just under her ribs. For some reason he does his best to miss anything important, as it kind of mattered outside of trials. As per requested, Sam screams. She shrieks, her grip on his wrist crushes him. He deserves it. It’s embedded all the way down to the hilt, something compels him to twist it clockwise, so he does. No, wait, no no stop. He didn’t want to do that, why did he do that? Sam is already agonized, he’d barely even started. 

“I’m sorry.” The weak apology is blurted, barely audible above her screaming. He hates this. He hates this so much.

“Eyes open.” 

Deadly metal is pulled from the nasty wound, only to be shoved right back into warm flesh. Her collarbone. Her literal collarbone. He hears the bone crunch and snap when the knife pierces it. God, that’s awful. It’s awful. Her screaming devolved into crying, Sam is thrashing around, attempting escape. She’s only making it worse, she needs to stop moving. 

His hand lets go of her wrist, going to grab her face and hold it in place, “Sit still.” He speaks with a bit more conviction this time. He twists the knife, hearing more hard things break. Stop, stop it, why can’t he stop? Yanking the knife out again, he stabs the wound in her shoulder three times. He can’t control half of these actions, how fucking powerful was that note? Stop, let him stop, please.  

Sam’s begging has begun. At this point, he’d have dropped everything to sooth her. But he can’t, he can’t comfort her. He can’t do anything other than obey this wretched command. 

She’s bawling, incoherently pleading with him. Emotionally, something in him breaks. He can’t. He wants so badly to listen, to stop, but he just can’t. 

The pain goes on for another twenty minutes. Sam’s screams are hoarse and gritty, painful to listen to. Jed’s hands are covered in blood, his knife even more so. End it, he’s gotta end it here. He can’t do this anymore. 

But how? He’s sure as hell not gonna slit her throat. What’s something less bloody? 

Choke her to death. End it. 

For the last time, he shoves his knife into a random wound, two shaky hands coil around her throat. All of his effort goes into literally crushing her windpipe. End it, just end it. 

“I’m sorry, I’ll find you, I’m sorry, Sam.” He finally lets his words slip just a bit. If there’s one thing that kills him most about this, it’s that he can’t hold her when it’s over. He can’t comfort a corpse, it won’t even stay. 

With a final squeeze, Sam is killed. It’s not at all what he intended. It was messy, rough, and anything but swift. He can’t stand staying here. He needs to go home, get out of the gear, erase this with alcohol, then find her. He can’t bring her back to the house, shit. Goddamn it. He’s so tired he can’t even punch the ground in a blind rage. All he can do is get up unsteadily and go home. 

He needs to know that she knows he’s so goddamn sorry for this. He needs to find her as soon as possible, but not like this. Not like this. 

Give it time.

[argylemikewheeler]

Richie and mike twins Prompt: can we have older mike and younger richie who are twins. And even tho richie is like the loud and obnoxious one mike is protective of his little bro™ it shows in like the little things he does and if someone messes with richie, mike will hella fight them (poor dude isn't much of a fighter tho) plz and thank u!

Mike was older than Richie by ten minutes and one calendar day. Technically, Mike was older, but Richie argued every Thanksgiving and Christmas that he was the same goddamn age as Mike and shouldn’t be treated like Holly, not allowed to come too close to the kitchen when they were using the stove. Richie was even an inch taller than Mike, although that was only because of his unruly hair, curls stacking on top of each other to try and tower over Mike.

It was also his hair that was so horribly out of style. Every kid at school thought Richie got a perm, giving him every awful nickname and most embarrassing picture day photo in Hawkins. Mike liked to remind him of it every so often, reminding him of the photographer that didn’t ask him to take off his glasses for the flash. Mike would erupt into laughter, but it was the same picture he had in his locker with the other photos of his friends. Mike had neither curly hair nor coke-bottle glasses, but he always told Richie he wish he did. Mike also didn’t have the ability to lie well.

“Richie!” Mike waved to his brother, standing at his locker with Will and Lucas. “Where were you?” It was a half hour after school ended and Richie had just escaped gym class. He adjusted his glasses to see them more clearly.

“Got stuck in the locker room.”

“Doing what?” Mike laughed, lifting an eyebrow. Richie stopped in front of the three of them, diverting his gaze from their faces to the crack stretching up from the bottom of his frames. “What happened?” He gasped, reaching for his glasses.

“Used my hair as a handbag.” Richie sighed. “Got launched into a locker. Got called the only f-word I don’t like using. Again.” Richie rolled his eyes and began unlocking his locker. “I’m not even the gay twin!” Lucas began snickering and Will covered his own smile.

“Shove it, both of you!” Mike hissed, slapping Lucas on the arm and pointing at Will sternly. “Who did it?”

“The same people who always do it.” Richie wasn’t sure why Mike would be interested in knowing their names; every kid in the school that wasn’t in their group wasn’t a big fan of them; the bank of names of students to avoid and the yearbook were the same list.

“Was it Troy?” Mike asked, pushing off from the locker. Richie muttered an answer and fiddled in his locker. “Richie. Answer me.”

“Relax, Mom.” Richie said. “It doesn’t really matter. Okay? Just back me up when Dad complains I broke my glasses again.”

“You didn’t even break them last time! It was them!” Lucas cut in, waving at them. “I was there!”

“That’s right!” Will nodded. “They can’t keep doing this, Richie.”

“What am I going to do? Argue my side? Objection your honor– the twerp in ladies’ glasses would like to repeal the decision to deny him respect.” Richie scoffed. “Yeah. No thanks. Not fucking happening, Brain Trust.”

“Then I’ll do it.” Mike said. His voice was low and quiet, not announcing his exit as to not invoke anyone’s opinion.

He took off for the front doors and left Richie, Lucas, and Will scrambling, try to chase after him and remind him all he had left to live for; asking for death this soon wasn’t worth it. Mike didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder as he pushed the glass doors open, storming into the parking lot. Much like everything else in Richie’s life, God had decided to make things ten times worse by putting Troy in the dead center of the vacant parking lot. And then God decided to have every single one of Troy’s friends gaggled around him.

“Hey, you!” Mike pointed angrily, his gait swift and heavy. “What the hell is your problem?”

“Excuse me, Frogface?” Troy asked with a laugh. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yeah. What do you have against my brother?” Mike demanded, shouldering off his backpack and leaving it with his shadow as he kept walking. Will scurried and picked it up, calling for Mike to stop and put it back on.

“You have to do something.” Will said to Richie after Mike blew off his plea. “You can’t let him fight them.”

“And sacrifice myself?” Richie asked. “Not fucking likely.”

“Richie!” Will cried, shoving the backpack into his chest. “What do we do?”

“I’m not really sure it matters what we do. We just have to do something.” Lucas muttered, watching Mike refuse to back down.

Mike stormed up to Troy, stepping around his friends surrounding him and shoving him backwards. Troy stumbled but remained on his feet, giving Mike a furious stare. He regained his balance in a moment before shoving Mike back. He collapsed backwards like Troy’s arms were a strong gust of wind.

“You want to fight, Wheeler?” He laughed. “You want to fight your Barbie Doll brother’s battles? Be my guest.”

“Leave him alone.” Mike said, pushing himself to his feet. Lucas, Will, and Richie echoed the same sentiment across the parking lot.

“Mike, I’m not mad!” Richie cried, trying to get him to stop.

“Mike, please stop!” Will cried, inching forward. “This is not a good idea.”

“Dude, get up!” Lucas cried, holding his head in his hands.

“You can’t treat my friends like crap. They haven’t done anything to you.” Mike said. Richie wanted to scoff, Mike’s threat weak and cliched, but he was faced with a far more frightening reality as Mike slowly lifted his hands up– like he was going to fight someone. “You fuck with my brother. You fuck with me.” Oh shit.

“We have to do something. We have to do something now.” Richie muttered, grabbing Will’s arm and shaking him. “Quick, Will, uh, do something.”

“Like what, Richard?” Will sighed, just as frazzled but now slightly more annoyed. “What do you propose I do.”

“I dunno! Start confessing your love! Something like that.”

“Because that won’t make things worse.” Lucas pointed out, rolling his eyes. “Hold this, Will.” Lucas shouldered off his backpack into Will’s hands and started for Mike, his fists curling and feet planted shoulder-width apart. Richie looked at his brother and somehow saw his own life flashing before his eyes; he was going to watch himself get the absolute shit kicked out of him.

Troy swung an arm out with far less finesse than Mike’s form seemed to promise. It hit Mike in the cheek and he immediately went down. One punch and Richie was staring at his brother’s face, his own face, bruised and lying face up on the asphalt. It looked a lot like him, down to nearly the same freckles, but it obviously wasn’t. Richie had to remember it wasn’t him. Mike had intervened to make sure it wasn’t Richie on that asphalt. Someone as foolish as Mike apparently got fucking dumber when he wanted to protect someone he loved.

“Don’t you know,” Troy said, leaning over Mike and spitting on him. Mike groaned and cradled his face, looking at Richie with pained eyes. The physical pain seemed to be nothing compared to the anguish of guilt in his eyes. He turned away from Troy’s prodding foot in his side and Richie began walking forward, Will yelling behind him. “fairy’s can’t fight, Wheeler. Fairy’s just can’t fucking fight.”

“Oh yeah, well this one does.” Richie was fuming, storming up to Troy. Richie had never fought anyone in his entire life, didn’t know how to punch, kick, knee, or even dodge a fist flying at his face. Richie didn’t know shit but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. “Eat shit, bitch.” Richie grabbed Troy by the shoulders and brought him harshly down on his lifted knee. Richie had been kneed on four separate occasions by failed romances; he knew how debilitating it was to suddenly have a firm bone strike you in your other bone.

Troy staggered back, groaning and grumbling in pain. The boys standing around Troy straightened as Richie stumbled back, the two sides knowing that the fight wasn’t over but awaiting the orders to start battling. In the hesitance, Richie crouched down to Mike, slipping his arms into his underarms and pulling him to his feet. Mike gripped Richie’s arm, wobbling on unsteady feet. Troy looked up, hands still cradling his groin and face tense with pain and fury.

Richie smiled, Mike standing upright and tall, like he had somehow gained that extra inch of height. “Seeing double, sweetheart?” Richie reached out and clapped Troy on the cheek. The boys around them didn’t know what to do in a situation where two of the least threatening people in Hawkins Middle hit their “leader” in the crotch. Richie placed his arm around Mike’s shoulders and laughed. “I’m bored. Ready to go, Mike?”

“Shut up and take me home.” Mike grumbled, already following Richie away from the gang.

Will was the first to Mike’s side, to which Richie refused to be surprised about. He took Mike from Richie and helped him sit down on the floor of the school’s foyer floor. He looked at his growing bruise with wide eyes, Lucas saying he could use the pay phone and get his mother if Mike couldn’t bike home.

“I’m fine.” Mike said. “Really.”

“You’re not.” Will countered, looking at his watch before looking at his bruise, as if calculating its growth rate. “You just let someone punch you in the face.”

“And Richie took care of it.” Mike said, trying to ease Will back down. He placed a hand on Will’s arm and smiled, reassuring him. “It’s fine.”

“You two are never doing that again.” Lucas said, standing with his arms crossed. “Never.”

“Deal.” Richie agreed. “Promise to stop acting like I’m your baby brother?” He raised an eyebrow at Mike.

“Promise to stop being a asshole and getting into trouble?” Mike laughed, leaning his head against Will’s.

“I’m not a miracle worker, Michael.” Richie sighed.

“Fine. Deal. You aren’t my baby brother anymore.” He agreed. “But you are still ten minutes younger.”

“That’s it. Next time you want to battle the Neanderthals, I’ll let you break your teeth. Try explaining that to Dad.” Richie spat, sinking to the floor beside Mike.

“Shut up and come here.” Mike teased, putting his other arm around Richie and pulling him into his side. “If I said I loved you, would you shut up or would I hear about it for the next month?”

Richie broke into a grin, placing his own arm around Mike’s shoulders. He looked at the bruise attempting to consume Mike’s entire face, admired his weak smile, and felt his hand squeeze his shoulder. Okay, fine. Big brother in maybe one sense of the word. “Two weeks tops.” Richie said. “But I love you too.”

ao3

[spacenightwing]

What are you doing here anyway?

Summary: Writing prompt for dialogue "What are you doing here anyway?"

Jason finds Dick in a place he's not supposed to be. Why? Their father is the king of pricks.

Brotherly bonding, drunken Dick Grayson and protective Jason Todd ensues.

HUGE thanks to @marvelgirl411 and @conchacunt for beta help! You guys are amazing thank you for everything!! 

A03

Jason likes this bar. It's in the heart of the Narrows, so it's not exactly the best place to snag a date and the quality of alcohol is pitiful on a good day; but it's cheap as hell and it's the perfect place to go when he's trying to avoid a particular bat and his cult following. On the accusations the Bat does find himself in this part of the city, Gotham's protector prefers to watch from the rooftops above, rather than actually be a part of the city he claims to love. So imagine Jason’s surprise when he walks into the bar to celebrate a particular annoying drug bust and sees the Golden Boy himself.

Jason spends a good minute and a half deliberating what to do. He comes to this bar for the sole purpose of avoiding the Bats. But he can't think of a reason Dick would show up in this dump. It's not even Nightwing looking to get answers for a case. It's Dick Grayson drowning himself in a couple of empty shot glasses and whatever he's currently nursing.

It’s not like Jason wants to be Dick's shoulder to cry on. He doesn't want to be anyone's shoulder to cry on! Maybe Barbra's… or Cass's. Maybe, if he's in the mood and the need to cry was world crashing. But Dick is in a place he is clearly not supposed to be, doing something that is uncharacteristically crazy for him.

Worse, right behind Bruce, Dick has one of the most recognizable faces in Gotham (one if the consequences of growing up under the shadow of Wayne Manor and Wayne Tower) and there are a lot of people in this bar who would like to take a crack at such a face; either to hold him for ransom or to symbolically smack frustration into the face of Gotham elite for so-called charity work.  Jason could see both happening. Or at least, attempted; no one in this bar could take on a Bat, even if Dick looks ready to blackout. Some people are already giving him some side looks that make Jason uneasy.

All this considered, Jason decides to take pity on the drunken brother. He walks up to the nearest end of the bar and asks for a draft beer. It's not exactly the liquor he's looking for to celebrate the bust, but it's better than nothing. After getting the cheap drink, he slides a stool next to Dick and claps him on the shoulder. That was a mistake.

Dick whips around and pulls a gun. "Dude!" Jason yells. "What the fuck you doing?"

"Jay?" Dick slurs. The gun dips towards the ground. Before Dick can do any damage with something he’d hate himself for, Jason grabs the top of the gun and pulls it out of his hand. He goes to unload it but finds the gun empty.

“What the actual hell Dickface?" If Dick is carrying around a gun, empty or not, it's worse than Jason originally thought. Jason’s not sure if he's okay with the fact that he got involved in something clearly out of his depth, but Dick clearly needs help.

"I didn't feel like becoming ransom." Dick's words spill out of his mouth without much control.

"So you carry around an unloaded gun? That doesn’t scare anyone in this town, you know that." Dick's response is a half shrug as his head falls onto his chest. "Do I even want to ask how much you've had to drink?" It takes him a few seconds, but Dick finally holds up four fingers. Jason doesn't believe that for a second. He looks to the bartender: a 50 some year old man who doesn’t seem to be paying attention to anything. "How much has he had?" Jason asks.

"Four," the bar tender answers.

"Four what?"

"Four tequila shots."

"Damn it, Dick." His brother may have been raised in galas, but he's still one the worst light weights Jason knows. Two shots of tequila tend to put Dick in a bad spot. This won't be a pretty night. Jason takes Dick's half full drink right out of his hand and takes a sip of straight whiskey. After letting the burn die down, he looks back to the man behind the bar and yells "why the hell would you give him a glass of whisky?!"

The old bar tender’s tired response is "I ain't his babysitter," and goes back to what he was doing before.

When Dick reaches out to take the whisky back, Jason slides it down the opposite end of the bar. It nearly falls completely off. "Asshole," Dick mumbles. Before he can attempt to oder a new one Jason stops him.

“The fuck you doing Dick?"

"None of your bees-wax little wing."

"Okay, are we twelve?" Dick's incredibly mature response is to stick his tongue out. "Do not make me be the big brother here."

It's a deep cut and Jason knows it. Dick's not exactly the best big brother, but he's been trying, much to Jason's protest. It started when he came back from the dead. Dick had been in too much of a pissing contest with Bruce to be much of a brother to Jason when he was alive the first time. When the long lost Robin returned, Dick took it upon himself to be "the brother Jason deserved" (and never wanted or needed).

"Don’t go there," Dick spits with bitterness. His face is pinched tight. But whether that pained expression is from Jason's insult or whatever caused this mood in the first place, Jason doesn't know. Probably both.

"Then don't act like it." Dick gives him the infamous Bat glare, which has little effect on a fellow former Bat, but at least he’s focused on something other than getting a new glass. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"B's full of shit."

"I could have told you that. I have told you that. But none of his shittyness has ever caused you, of all people, to do this. You've taken my spot at my bar and pulled gun. That’s my job. So what gives?"

Dick swallows hard. He takes a moment to collect himself then asks, "You know what day it is?"

"Ummm… Sunday…? Does it matter?"

"No. What date, Jay?"

Jason takes a second to think about. Soon realization dawned on him, resulting in him wanting to shove his fist into Bruce's skull.

Dick can see when Jason realizes the significance of the date. His response is to huff out a breath of hot air and pick up an old shot glass. Ignoring the fact that the glass is empty, Dick puts it to his lips, attempting to drink away reality.

Not needing or wanting to address the date, Jason asks, "What did he do?"

"Doesn't matter. I'll get over it."

"No you won't.”

"Nope. Honestly, I'll bury it. But what matters is the day he chose to be an ass."

Jason can’t argue with that. After a moment of silence, Jason asks, “Have you visited them today?" It's not a topic he wants to touch with a ten foot pole, but he'll go there for his grieving brother's sake.

"Yep. Still six feet under. Not much has changed."

And that's the saddest truth to the situation. No matter how many time Jason visits his mom, or how many flowers Dick takes to his parents on birthdays and anniversaries, no matter how many times Bruce broods over the Wayne family cemetery, the dead will stay buried; in all cases except him, it seems.  People say that time heals, but it that's the case, time is taking its sweet ass fucking time for all of them. Bruce knows exactly what watching parents die does to one's mind, even years and years after the event. Why he would choose today of all days to be a prick? Simply letting the date slip his mind isn't an excuse for the World's Greatest Detective. The goddamn time of his own parents death is the code to get into the man's personal military base for crying out loud. Forgetting one of the most important dates to your first adopted son is inexcusable. Hell, as depressing as it is, it's this date that brought Dick to Bruce; that brought Robin to Batman. The man has some fucking nerve.

This isn't the time or place to take Jason’s anger out on Bruce. For one, Bruce isn't even here. Second, Dick needs help now.  This is not normal for him and a choice few low-lives are again glancing at Dick with malice in the eyes. He's wants to get Dick out of here.

"Come on Dickiebird-"

"I'm not going to the manor. Or my place. I don't wanna see 'im."

"I'm an asshole Dickface; I'm not a monster. You're coming to my place. He won't bother you there."

Dick hesitates, but after a moment, he nods slowly and allows Jason to help him stand up. After assuring the bartender that he'll pay the tab tomorrow, Jason grabs his brother into a side hug and all but drags his brother to his motorcycle outside.  

Getting him on the bike isn't easy, but it's a hell of a lot easier than getting the acrobat up five flights of steps. His flexibility has always freaked Jason out, and when he's this out of it, Dick has very little control over him limbs. It's like trying to get cooked spaghetti to stand up straight.  But after about an hour of cursing and sheer determination, Jason is able to lie Dick down in his bed. He puts a trash can right next to Dick's faces and adds, "You throw up on my bed, you die Big Bird” before taking to the couch for the night.

The next morning, Jason is thoroughly entertained by making fun of a very hungover Nightwing, migraine be damned. Red Hood did miss out on celebrating his drug bust after all.