#fuck you shithead cops

[skatoonyfan1234]

self explanitory.

[kuuchuuburanko]

but if I say 'kaiser would rather continue the cycle of abuse than get therapy' I'd be jumped so I won't say that someone else said that not me tho

[feralnightwing]

for my own sanity i try to pretend that dick grayson was never a cop. like huh? what do you mean? i've never heard of detective grayson. who's that? you're talking crazy.

[pedge-page]

can you write something where pregnant reader has trouble holding her bladder and joel messes with her a bit? 🫶🏻

Joel Dealing with Preggo Wife drabble - Hold It

Notes: This is NOT Piss kink, just a little Joel and Preggo reader torture amusement. I have separate PK x preggo wife request coming up soon

-

The one thing that women aren’t best at as they get older is holding their bladder. When you gotta go, you go.

And the number one thing that having a fat ass baby shoved up your uterus and pushing aside every organ and pressing the full weight of their tiny bodies on—is your fucking already-terrible-to-hold bladder.

Bumping up and down in Joel’s ugly ass truck with suspension that feels like shit because you can feel every single crevice from every single crack in the road does NOT do well for anything except stir up the amount of liquids inside you.

“Joel,” you whisper warningly, legs scrunched together.

Joel knows the difference between your “Joel” with legs scrunched together and the other “Joel” with legs scrunched together.

“You better not have to p—“

“I have to pee!”

He shakes his head with hearty laugh. “I told you to go 30 minutes ago when we were at the stop.”

“I did go,” you retort venomously. “But now I have to go again.”

“We’re 30 miles from the nearest exit. What do you want me to do?”

“Drive faster?!” Are you fucking dumb?

“We’re an hour late as is. I told you—“

“Don’t you dare fucking scold me like a child Joel Miller, this bitch needs to piss and she needs to go right fucking now.”

“You going on the side of the road?” He suggests with half hearted venom.

You whimper and shake your head. You do NOT want to squat down for a piss next to the highway on the road. You wouldn’t do it not pregnant, but definitely definitely not WHILE pregnant.

“Just—just drive faster. And shut up,” you rasp. You hold your hands between your legs and close your eyes, focusing on willing your baby to help you squeeze that lemon for once. “And don’t breathe. Or cough or just —just don’t exist.”

Joel has to wipe his face to hide the smirk on his lips. Your sheer concentration right now, all burled up and shaking side to side has him holding in a laugh.

 He checks his rear view for any signs of cops, then begins to lean into the gas more. You would pay for the turmoil you’re putting his poor truck through—not in any type of obvious payment of course, but in a more satisfying transaction.

Joel balances the wheel with one knee as he opens a bottle of water set on the dash.

He keeps his eyes on the road and makes the loudest, most grating, obnoxious slurping sounds known to man.

Your head slowly rotates towards him as if a killer hawk were seeing prey landed right next to her. He only peeks over and see the absolutely thinnest lined lips on you, and your exceedingly horrifying wide eyes ready to murder him. 

“MMmMM,” he moans, gulping down the bottle with big swallows so you can hear it sloshing down his jugular with each bob.

“You—you shithead,” you snarl.

He raises his eyebrow. “Do you want some?”

You shake your head, neck bowed low because you can’t concentrate on a scolding your asshole husband and holding your urine at the same time.

“M’ gonna ruin your seats.”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t be so bad. Got all kinds of your juices on here already, what’s another variety to the blend—“

“SHUT THE FUCK UP.”

“Okay okay, I’m pulling off.”

You tumble out of the car before he’s even fully parked, crouching low to the ground begging to God as your last resort to keep. it. In.

Joel just puts his hands on his hips. “You gonna do It through your pants?”

shutupshutupshutupshutup Ohfuckfuckfuck.

He can hear your tiny whimpers, looks down upon his poor little wife and her even tinier bladder about to make a fool of both of them and piss yourself all over your stretchy pants—

He decides you've had enough torture.

“Gas station is 7 feet away, honey.”

You look up and lo and behold, you’re crouched in a parking lot right outside the quaint convenience station, its glowy neon signs and cigarette flyers and “2 for 3” signs illuminating like you had just won the lottery.

“OOHHHH” you gasp, sitting up and holding your vagina in your palm as you wobble into the quaint store like Road Running and down the alley to the bathroom.

Joel comes in afterwards and does the courtesy of buying a few snack for the trip. 

“Pregnant wife,” he muses to the clerk as he slams a few jerky sticks on the counter.

The two of them are startled by a very loud, satisfied moan coming from the women’s toilet room.

The clerk just chuckles and rings up the items.

-

He checks his watch again, tapping his fingers on the wheel impatiently. What the fuck is taking you 20 minutes?

Its not until the gas station door chime goes off outside as the door swings open, and you’re coming out with a 32 oz Big Gulp cup of Frozen Pepsi ICEE while happily waving goodbye to the clerk as you waddle back to the car.

You settle your bumbum into the seat with a little wiggle and slam the truck door closed, sipping away happily with two hands fisting the styrofoam cup.

Joel has one arm over the steering wheel, facing you with a frown and deadpan eyes glancing between you and your cup the size of Africa, your annoying slurps filling the silent car.

You don’t pick up on his silent aggravation at all, offering him a chipmunk smile. “M-ready now,“ you chirp.

He grits his teeth while looking at the cup you can’t even wrap your fingers around. Holds his tongue and doesn’t say anything, faces forward and turns the key into ignition.

-

25 minutes later, with your empty Big Gulp cup rolling around on the floor mat:

“Um, J-Joel,” you warn again, this time voice wavering timidly. “Joel, I have to—“

“NO!” 

- - - -

Permanent Taglist

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[macksting]

"I still want to make things, but perhaps I should just keep them to myself for the time being. For anyone that cares, I’ll still be continuing Heart of Elynthi and the JOmega charity, but once those are finished I will be taking an indefinite break from posting anything online. It’s a decision I’ve considered ever since the first hate wave from about a year or so ago but wanted to sit on it and see if the feeling would persist. I know now this is the best choice for me."

If I catch anybody celebrating this, I am going to eat your kneecaps. This guy is a sweetheart, I have friends who needed the sort of kind, GNC representation of masculinity he presented earnestly, he was humble and respectful and tried to use his platform for good, and you fucking miserable little shitheads, you pearl-clutching jackasses, decided to take one video out of context and make a crusade out of it. Why don't y'all pick a fight that matters? You think Cop City is gonna crumble because you chased someone offline who was supportive of trans folks and was glad to have been liberated from cishet society? Do you think the world is a better place now? If I find anyone celebrating this, I will be eating the forbidden plantain chips that are their fucking kneecaps. I may even let them have a bite. Yes I am fucking angry about this. Is it that important compared to everything else in the world right now? No, but you made one guy's life hell for no good reason, and that's horrible. Die in a fire. And to be clear, I am not angry about this on his behalf. He did not ask me to be angry. He does not most likely want anybody to face consequences for being a shit-eating little cop who feels good about themselves for crusading against a guy who is using his platform to help trans folks because we helped him too. This is for me. This is because I want a world liberated from oppression, not one where folks recreate it in miniature hoping this time they'll be the Big Man and everyone else will be oppressed, so they pick fights they know they can win just to abuse and belittle someone to feel good about themselves.

He was sweet. He still is. And I hope he lives a better life far away from this.

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 ao3

When Robin and Eddie return to the trailer, Steve is still unconscious.

“Fuck, should we be worried that—how long can someone…?”

Eddie trails off, goes to check his watch reflexively before remembering that it’s stopped.

Robin shakes her head.

“This kinda thing happened, um. Before. I didn’t see much, but I… I don’t think… Billy Hargrove was completely—well. Steve had to, like, crash a car into him, and I, uh, sorta blacked out? For a bit of it? But he just walked it off, I think. Eventually. Billy, I mean. Like his body wasn’t fully… Like he didn’t really feel it.”

Eddie stares at her, reeling. A dozen thoughts scramble to be heard, many not helpful in the slightest—namely that Billy Hargrove stalked the basketball court like there was something seething within him every goddamn school day, so he can’t even imagine what that combined with the uncanny strength of The Mind Flayer would bring.

And the real major concern is—

“But Hargrove died.”

Robin looks up from where she’s been checking Steve’s head. Her fingertips are flecked with blood.

“He didn’t die from—he wasn’t killed by. By a person,” she says jerkily. “So we… we should be fine to…” She eyes the cistern lid, but her face drains of colour again.

Eddie exhales. “One problem at a time.”

He grabs Steve underneath the armpits, Robin holding his legs up.

They take him to the bedroom. Set him down, back leaning against the cabinet.

Eddie finds the handcuffs and gingerly attaches one end to a drawer handle, the other around Steve’s wrist.

Steve doesn’t even stir at the touch. His head lolls down unnaturally.

“They better not be the shitty plastic kind,” Robin says. “I’m not having him escape cause all you had was a Baby’s First Magic Set.”

Eddie’s startled into a weak chuckle.

“Excuse you, Buckley, these are the bona fide, genuine article.”

It had become a joke in the first place, actually keeping them. A year ago, maybe two. A girl from Loch Nora with a college boyfriend had either naively or intentionally thrown an open invite party—Eddie had only gone out of curiosity, wanting to see just how impressive the living space was.

He’d barely lasted an hour there, because a shithead of a ‘concerned’ neighbour called the cops on young people ‘loitering sinisterly’—as if their precious hydrangeas were in danger of being uprooted and sold.

Eddie got grouped in with a select lucky few accused of stealing. He hadn’t been, but he figured he might as well try and get something out of it. It was either Callahan’s wallet or his cuffs; Eddie picked the wrong pocket.

Now he thinks he actually lucked out, in a grim kind of way.

They take stock of everything they’ve got: lighter fluid; a couple space heaters discovered in the RV, another one found next to Wayne’s folding bed. A few bottles of alcohol along with cloths and spears. One walkie. Lighters.

Rope.

-

Nancy had left with Dustin in the RV. The plan had been for her to drop him off at the Creel House before returning to the Gate at the trailer.

But Eddie caught the steely glint in her eye as she readied herself in the driver’s seat.

Dustin sat by the table. He pinched his bottom lip between his fingers and tugged, harsh enough to draw blood. His hand was shaking.

Eddie couldn’t look at him.

He turned to Nancy.

“You’re not coming back,” he said in an undertone.

It was only once he’d spoken that he realised it didn’t come out as a question.

Nancy grabbed him by the wrist, pulled him close to whisper in his ear.

“Going to another Gate. Where Fred…”

Eddie understood: it was a last-minute change that she alone was in control of. One that Steve didn’t know.

And if Steve didn’t know, then…

The engine rumbled into life.

Eddie got out—had one last look, hand on the door. There were tanks of gasoline wedged behind Nancy’s seat.

Dread chilled him. He wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t be alone. That when she burned it all down, she needed someone to pull her back lest she get caught in the flames, too.

He didn’t say any of that.

Because Nancy just looked at him with something close to sympathy, as if she could tell everything he was thinking; it was already clear that whatever he said, it wouldn’t make a difference.

It didn’t stop him from trying.

“Nancy. Be careful.”

She nodded. “You too.”

Eddie shut the door behind him.

He was halfway back to the porch when he realised that the RV hadn’t pulled away. He heard the door opening again, began to turn, and was almost bowled over by the force of Dustin’s hug.

“Hey,” he said softly, once he’d caught his breath.

He ruffled Dustin’s hair and then stopped near the end of the motion, kept his hand there. Just held him.

He didn’t say it was okay, because it wasn’t.

Dustin sniffed. He pulled back and finally looked Eddie right in the eye.

“We’ll get him back,” Dustin said.

His voice wavered in the middle. But his determination was much stronger than the falter had been.

Eddie put his hands on Dustin’s shoulders. Nodded.

It was obvious that when it came to Steve Harrington, Dustin would go to the ends of the earth for him. And here he was, doing the hardest thing in the world: leaving Steve behind.

Compared to everyone else, Eddie thought, his job was simple, really. All he had to do was prove Dustin’s trust in him.

-

Steve’s face twitches when Robin shuts the window.

Eddie watches closely, holding his breath.

One eye opens, barely a slit. Moves sluggishly before finding Eddie.

“Hi,” Steve says.

He sounds… normal.

“Hi,” Eddie echoes cautiously. “Are you—um. Are you…?”

He trails off, feeling immensely stupid. What was he even gonna ask? Are you okay? Like he honestly was expecting Steve to say, Oh, could be better, but the malevolent entity inside me is a fucking bummer, man.

“How’re you feeling?” he settles on, because Steve still hasn’t moved, at least seems in control, and Eddie’ll take any semblance of normality he can get.

“M’okay,” Steve says, after a pause.

He lifts his head up slightly, notices the handcuffs. Gives a faint nod of approval. With his free hand, he gestures vaguely to the back of his skull.

“Feels… distant. I dunno.”

“Good, uh, that’s good,” Eddie says conversationally, like that will take away the reality of what he’s currently doing: tying Steve’s legs together with rope.

Both of Steve’s eyes open, his gaze turns sharper, calculating, and Eddie tenses—

“Eddie,” Steve drawls. He sounds supremely unimpressed. He shifts his legs and the knot Eddie made goes slack. “Tighter, dude.” “Oh, I’m sorry, not of all of us got our Scout’s badge.”

“Here,” Robin says. She nudges Eddie out of the way and binds Steve’s legs; the knots don’t budge. She gives a half smile. “At least Starcourt was educational.”

Steve laughs through his nose, but he grimaces a bit, like something Robin’s said is distasteful.

She puts a hand on his knee, peers at him. “Still here,” she says.

It isn’t a question, but Steve answers anyway. “Still here.”

Robin ties his free hand to another drawer handle.

Eddie catches a glimpse while he’s turning on the heaters, and his stomach twists—unbidden, thinks of Christ on the cross.

Steve nods at the heaters. “Put ‘em closer.”

Eddie does. He keeps waiting for a change, ready to leap back, but it doesn’t come. The only difference is that the pulse point in Steve’s neck starts to jump rapidly when the heaters are tilted towards him, but even that’s nothing like before, nothing like the frenzy in the bathroom.

Eddie puts his palm in front of one of the grilles. It’s only just been turned on, sure, but he can’t help thinking that it’s not nearly strong enough.

He stands in front of Steve, Robin by his side.

No-one moves.

Then Robin speaks out the side of her mouth. “Should you still…?”

Her fingers curl, palm up, and Eddie realises that she’s mimicking fret positions.

“Yeah,” Steve says before Eddie can answer, and Robin jumps. “Should still work.” His cuffed hand twitches. “S’in… Vecna. Me. Not enough… can’t control bats, too. Not—not all of ‘em at once.”

His throat clicks as he swallows, like the words are getting stuck.

“Should follow. Like… like, um.” His eyes widen for a split second, as if in panic, before he swallows again and says, a little clearer, “Pied Piper.”

Eddie glances between Steve and Robin. “Okay,” he says eventually. He steps back while Robin remains where she is. “I’ll—”

“No,” Steve says, and this time the panic remains; he shakes his head urgently. “Not alone. Don’t—not alone with—with me.”

“Steve,” Robin says.

“No,” Steve repeats, and there’s a fierceness to the word—Eddie feels it thrum in his chest, and he somehow knows that it’s not from any unnatural force, that the power is being drawn from Steve alone.

“Buckley,” Eddie says reluctantly.

She squares her shoulders. Takes a step back, eyes never leaving Steve.

Something in Steve unwinds, relaxes. His head droops, almost like he’s falling asleep. A stark vein in his neck pulses.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Good.”

Robin pauses at the door. Her eyes dart to the heaters, then Eddie.

“Are they…?”

“Highest they’ll go,” Eddie says.

Robin bites her lip.

Eddie knows what she’s thinking: that Nancy said unbearable, and right now barely one corner of the room is being warmed.

“It just takes time to, uh, kick in,” Eddie says.

It doesn’t sound convincing—sounds like he’s free-falling, desperately searching for something to hang onto.

But Robin accepts it, Eddie thinks, because what choice does she have? What choice do any of them have?

“Eddie,” Steve says, just as Robin’s stepped out of the room.

“Yeah?”

Steve wets his lips. Swallows again. It looks painful.

“It’s gonna… make him mad.”

Fear seeps down Eddie’s spine.

“We’ll come back,” he says, because right now, it’s the only promise he can make. “We’re not leaving you alone.”

“S’okay,” Steve says. He’s starting to slur his words. “Better this way.”

-

They tumble through the Gate as quickly as they can, then immediately set up the trailer defences.

“We’re lucky this is here,” Eddie says when they’re done, as he picks his electric guitar off the wall, untouched by vines.

“Yeah,” Robin says. “Lucky…”

She abruptly gasps and runs from the room.

Eddie curses, follows her—flinging the guitar across his back.

But there’s nothing in the living room, no bats to fight—just Robin pulling something out from behind Wayne’s bed, laughing with a touch of hysteria.

“Jesus,” Eddie breathes, “you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

Then he actually processes what he’s looking at. Robin’s brought out a space heater, a bulky kerosene-fuelled one, much larger than what they’d originally rustled up.

“But that—that broke last winter,” Eddie says, bewildered.

Robin doesn’t say anything, just turns it on. The effect is almost immediate compared to what they’ve been working with: the heater glows red-hot, and Eddie already feels the urge to take off his jacket.

“Eddie,” Robin says slowly. “It’s 1983.”

“Holy shit,” Eddie says. He grabs her by the shoulders. “You’re a fucking genius.”

Robin turns the heater off, drags it to a point just underneath the Gate.

There’s a couple more treasures they manage to stash away: a match box found on the counter, thrown into a deep cooking pot Robin snatches from a cupboard.

“Oh, you mean business,” Eddie says. “That’s the good pot.”

Robin grins, and it makes Eddie’s heart ache—he knows what they’re doing, forcing smiles to hide their shaking hands.

“And what goddamn atrocity befalls it in the future?”

“That’s between me and God.”

They’re up on the roof, Robin crouched by the amp, when Eddie hears the Walkie crackle.

“Max is—bait’s still been taken,” comes Erica’s staticky voice.

“Uh, copy that,” Eddie says. “Sinclair. Henderson with you?”

A click.

“I’m here,” Dustin says quietly.

Eddie breathes out. “Good. Stick together.”

He sets the walkie down and yanks off his guitar pick. He thinks of Chrissy, her body contorting. Of Patrick, dragged from the water.

Steve’s hands clenched around the sink.

“Showtime, Buckley.”

The noise is explosive. It barely takes a few seconds for the bats to start coming; Eddie watches the horizon as his fingers fly over the strings.

Underneath everything, he can hear Robin counting out bars like she’s in band: One, two, three, four. Two, two, three, four.

Prestissimo.

“Eddie, two more bars!”

He nods in acknowledgement. Feels his heart pound as if in time with the music.

“Now!”

They run. The bats circle dumbly round the roof, some clustered onto the still ringing amp, like moths drawn to light.

Pied Piper.

“Go, go, go!” Eddie urges.

It’s tricky getting the heater through, but they manage it between them, an awkward handover across the Gate.

And then Eddie’s falling, landing next to Robin, breathless. They sit up as one, give each other a speechless high five.

Robin moves first. But she stops midway to Eddie’s room—like a reversal of when he was first brought to a standstill, seeing Chrissy’s eyelids fluttering erratically.

“Eddie,” Robin says. “You—you closed the door, right?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, mouth dry.

He knows that for certain because as he shut the door, his last glimpse was of Steve leaning the back of his head against the cabinet drawers, eyes closed.

Now the door’s ajar.

Eddie strains to listen, but he can’t hear anything.

He feels Robin’s hand dart into his. He squeezes tight before letting go. She picks up the heater. He’s got the cooking pot under his arm.

Together, they open the door.

The space heaters they’d left are broken, cracked down the middle. The handcuffs are dangling from the drawer handle, pried open, the ropes frayed apart—and the whole room is littered with…

Shards of wood. Snapped strings.

Eddie’s guitars. They’re shattered beyond repair, the red of the Warlock mixed with the dark wood of the acoustic.

And there, backed into the far corner, is Steve.

He’s cradling his wrist to his chest—it looks badly broken. Even from here, Eddie can see evidence of splinters embedded in both hands.

But above all, what’s drawing Eddie’s attention is that his shirt is off, revealing the state of his stomach, the bandages shoddily ripped away. The wound is oozing slow, thick trickles of black and red.

Steve doesn’t seem aware that anyone’s entered the room, just mutters indecipherably to himself, hair hanging down in front of his eyes.

Eddie manages to set the pot down silently—takes one hesitant step forward, cringes when he jostles a piece of wood.

Steve’s head jerks up at the sound. He stares at Eddie, a crease in his forehead.

“Who’re you?”

Robin lets out a breath like she’s been punched in the stomach.

“It’s…” Eddie clears his throat. Stays as still as he can. “It’s me, man. It’s Eddie.”

Steve doesn’t reply.

More wood scatters across the floor—Robin stepping forward frantically, “Steve, it’s me, it’s—”

Eddie stops her with a touch to the back of her hand.

“Steve,” he says, digs deep to find a calm tone. “Who’s this?”

Steve’s jaw works.

“R… R…”

Robin’s face shatters.

She sets the heater down. Turns it on full blast.

“Robin!” Steve gasps. “Robin, it’s me, I’m still—Robin, Robin, please—”

Robin takes another step—“Careful,” Eddie whispers, heart in his throat—and forcibly shoves the heater across the room.

Steve tries to dodge it, but he’s not quick enough; the grille slams against his arm, and Eddie inhales sharply as the skin blisters an angry, weeping red.

Steve’s cries are piercing.

But they reach a peak than taper off into whimpers; he presses himself against the wall, curls his upper body around his blistered arm.

He starts to sob.

They have to get closer to hear, stepping into the circle of heat radiating from the grille, Eddie just behind Robin; sweat pools in the small of his back.

“No, no…”

It’s a dreadful whisper.

They crouch down. Slow.

It doesn’t look like Steve notices: his eyes are shut tight, lashes damp as he continues to plead, “Don’t make me. Please don’t make me.”

Eddie can’t blame Robin for what she does next.

It’s instinct—he’d seen it in his peripheral vision at the boathouse, her hand reaching out to comfort, like she couldn’t stop herself.

No, he can’t blame her. Because Steve is hurting, sobbing like his heart is going to break from it, and he’s right there.

Robin’s hand moves forward.

Eddie sees the moment Steve’s eyes open, cold and inhuman, and Christ, for a millisecond too long, he’d forgotten that they had stepped into the ring with a cobra.

“Robin,” Eddie warns, too late, as Steve’s hand seizes her wrist.

“Don’t worry,” he says, and it’s almost perfect, almost Steve’s gentle concern, but there’s something off in the inflection, a misplaced note—“I’m not killing you first.”

He twists Robin’s hand.

She doesn’t scream, doesn’t even try to move, like she’s holding her breath just to stay silent.

“I can…” Steve breathes in and out through his nose. Predatory. “I can feel her.”

“Who?” Robin says.

A vague noise rumbles from Steve’s chest, like he’s searching for a name again.

“N… Nancy,” he says eventually. “She’s dying,” he says, off-hand. “She can’t breathe.”

Eddie reaches behind. Feels carpet beneath his palm. Steve doesn’t track the movement, eyes fixed on Robin.

“She will be like… like her friend. She will know how it feels to die alone.”

Steve grunts, and then…

Eddie has to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from making a sound; the skin around Steve’s stomach wound ripples, like there’s something bubbling up underneath, moving, alive, crawling up, up, up—mottled veins spreading, black as tar.

Eddie swallows back bile as his hand finds something solid. Wood.

He feels for the lighter in his pocket.

Steve leans towards Robin, baring his teeth.

“I will—”

Click.

“—consume her.”

The jagged piece of guitar burns in Eddie’s hand.

He throws it.

Sparks fly, land directly in Steve’s eyes, and he yells, lets go of Robin—with such an impact that she’s thrown across the room, landing slumped against the cabinet.

“Robin!”

But Eddie doesn’t have any time to help her, because there’s another click, a crackle, and the walkie comes to life, and it must be on accident because all he can hear is the sound of someone—Dustin and Erica—breathing quickly. Running.

Steve’s eyes narrow.

Eddie thinks of Dustin saying, “He knows where we are, he’ll know—”

“Shit,” Eddie hisses.

He tries, desperately, to turn the walkie off, but it suddenly feels like all the air leaves his lungs, and he’s pinned against the wall, Steve’s hand on his chest.

The walkie’s wedged between them. Steve’s somehow using his broken wrist to still Eddie’s hand, to keep the walkie turned on.

Eddie has no choice but to listen to what comes through the static.

It’s chaos. Heavy, frantic breathing; it’s like he can feel the kids clutching their sides as they run. In the distance, a car, the engine stopping. A door opens.

Jason Carver’s voice. “Did you see them?”

Behind Steve, Eddie spots Robin stirring.

Steve keeps staring down at the walkie.

An abrupt cry of pain, and another voice curses, says, “Shit, Jason, I think it’s broken.”

“El?” Dustin breathes.

Something in Steve’s face flickers, but Eddie’s too terrified to know what it means—tries and fails to turn the walkie off again, but he doesn’t even know what’s the right thing to do anymore. He just wants them to be okay, he just wants—

“Jason, no-one’s fucking there. You—you can’t even stand, I’m taking you to the hosp—”

A car door slamming shut. An engine starting up, fading…

Gone.

Dustin and Erica exhale shakily. Running again, footsteps pounding up the stairs, across floorboards…

The walkie cuts off.

Steve grits his teeth.

“Please,” Eddie whispers.

Robin’s up, moving so quietly—scooping the remnants of his guitars into the pot.

Another crackle.

“Eddie!” Dustin’s voice again, up close. “Max is—the music’s not working! I—I don’t know what to—”

There it is again: that flicker across Steve’s face. A ripple in a lake.

“Max,” he says.

The name cracks with emotion, and although his voice has been used before, an uncanny imitation, Eddie knows this is different, feels it in his gut; it’s him, it’s him, it’s him.

The snick of a match being struck.

Steve’s head tilts ever so slightly, but he doesn’t turn around. Like he already knows Robin is right behind him.

Instead—

Steve pries the walkie out of Eddie’s hand. Presses down on the button. Inhales.

“Run.”

The walkie drops with a clatter. Behind them, the fierce roar of flames; Eddie’s face stings.

He can feel Steve’s grip on him loosening, feels himself sliding down the wall.

Steve’s eyes bore into his—and although dark veins have spread across the whites, like spider webs, Eddie can still see the slightest gleam of something real in them.

Something human.

Steve’s lips move, cracked and bleeding.

Now, he mouths.

“Robin!” Eddie yells.

Steve lets him go, and Eddie sees a flash of Robin throwing the entire contents of the pot over Steve, raining fire upon him; Eddie covers his face from the scorching heat, scrambling to get away, relying on touch alone, and his hand hits something, the crunch of plastic, fuck, the walkie—

He’s by the doorway, gasping for breath.

Awareness comes in stages: the fire’s gone out, charred remains of the guitars on the ground where Steve once stood; Robin’s there, her hands red raw, and she’s looking at something, what’s she…?

Steve.

Steve dragging himself across the floor, his broken wrist pressed against his stomach. Crawling to sit next to the space heater, head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed. Breathing.

Just breathing.

Then, so faintly, Eddie almost thinks he’s imagined it.

“Railroad… Snow Ball… Muppet.”

Steve thumps the back of his head against the wall with each word.

Robin goes to him.

Eddie can only watch. He feels like he’s staring at a puzzle with too many missing pieces.

Despite everything, Robin reaches out with her hand again. She touches Steve’s knee gently, and Steve falls silent, stops hitting his head.

Robin smiles, tearful.

“You’ve—you’ve changed that song for me forever,” she says, choked up, and although Eddie can’t really understand, he senses the heart in it, the echoes of their story, of their love hitting him square in the chest.

“Do you remember,” Robin goes on, laughing through it, “the first time we were closing, and you—you got that whole bag of chocolate chips? Tore the corner and just, like, scarfed it. You looked like a chipmunk. It was—it was so gross. And you just said let’s see you do better, then. So we just kept eating them, and we had to pretend we had, like, a whole week where every order had chocolate chips just so we could get another shipment. You… you made me feel like I was five years old. That’s—that’s when I knew.” Robin takes a shuddering breath. Keeps smiling. “Right there. I wanted to be your friend.”

Steve just looks at her. He blinks, and a tear falls down his face, and Eddie can see it, like the sun briefly appearing through storm clouds, can see more of him breaking through, and for a moment, just a moment, there could be a chance, please, please…

Steve’s stomach spasms, and he groans, inhales short and sharp, twists away from Robin’s touch; the litany starts again, fever-slurred.

Eddie rediscovers the walkie. There’s cracks all through the plastic—it might not even work.

But Steve keens, pressing, pressing as blood flows through his fingers, as he trips up on the words, almost insensible now, and Eddie knows he has to take the risk.

His thumb pushes the button.

“Dustin,” he murmurs, “don’t tell me where you are. But if you’re—if you’re safe. Christ, please say you’re… Steve, he—he needs you.”

Silence.

Eddie closes his eyes.

“—safe. We’re all safe. I copy.”

Eddie thinks he laughs or something close to it. Maybe something else, too. He presses his forehead against the walkie. A benediction answered.

“Eddie?” Dustin says, and his speech keeps crackling, keeps threatening to cut out, but he’s there, he’s there.

Steve blinks, turns towards the sound of Dustin’s voice.

But Eddie’s not afraid this time.

“Railroad,” Steve repeats. Soft yet intentional, like he means it with everything he has left. “Railroad.”

Eddie passes the word on to Dustin. Waits.

Dustin takes a little while to figure it out—or maybe he solves it almost instantly, but here, time moves slow: just Robin and Eddie holding their breath, Steve only mouthing the words now. Barely there.

Dustin must push his button down mid-gasp, the words rushing out.

“That’s how we—that’s when everything—”

What follows is a garbled speech Eddie can barely make sense of, as static obscures every third word or so: about the junkyard and demodogs, and tunnels, and…

“D-different details, Henderson,” Eddie says with a choked laugh.

Fondness wells up; for a second it had felt like he was listening to Dustin in the middle of a campaign, on a tangent, and Eddie knows he just has to nudge him down the right path and then he’ll work it out, because the kid’s a goddamn genius.

“Stuff he can feel,” Eddie tries.

Steve looks at him, unblinking, and God he’s still in there, Eddie thinks, there’s so many thoughts, so much of him trapped beneath the surface.

So Dustin talks about Queen playing in Steve’s car, of how the fall leaves looked as they walked, of his shoelaces coming loose, and Steve getting down on his knees in exaggerated exasperation, you’re gonna fall flat on your face, dickhead, we’ve got enough going on.

Eddie takes the thread he’s been given, adds embellishments where he can—the crunch of leaves underfoot, the steady clunk of walking on the tracks, Dustin sometimes hurrying a little, just to match Steve’s stride—and as Steve finally blinks slowly, Eddie prays.

Can you feel it? Please go there. Go somewhere safe. Go somewhere it can’t find you. “What—what else did he say?” Robin says, when Steve lips stops moving, and his eyes close; he looks so tired. “Snow Ball?”

“Yeah, that’s—” Eddie pushes the walkie button again, so Dustin can hear. “Didn’t the Middle School have something… Did you do anything for it? Like put up decorations or…?”

Robin shakes her head.

Eddie furiously racks his brains for one detail, anything—curses himself for not paying attention, for shirking the ‘volunteering’ he was forced to do that December in lieu of detention; for viewing it all with a petty indifference, when for others, it must’ve meant so—

He releases the button.

“Did you say Snow Ball?” Dustin asks, before he launches into Steve shielding his eyes from hairspray, of the forest green gift bag his mom had passed into Steve’s hands, of Steve’s surprise, his shy smile—and then it’s Erica who takes over, calling over somewhere, “Lucas, remember when we came to pick you up?”

And the Sinclairs had stayed much longer than expected because Max’s folks were late in collecting her; and when Steve came to pick up Dustin, he’d noticed and stayed, too.

“He didn’t make a big thing of it,” Max says quietly, somewhere distant; Lucas adds that Steve opened up all his car doors so the tape he was playing could be heard: The Carpenters, some Christmas medley.

“He danced with Max,” Lucas says. “We were betting on how many times he could spin her in a row.”

“Ugh, shut up.”

Eddie can hear Max’s eye roll. Her smile.

“And,” Erica says, “he actually enjoyed dad’s small talk. Like, he was fully hooked on mom and Uncle Jack’s gift wrapping contest.”

Eddie smiles, covers his mouth just in case a traitorous noise slips out. The kids sound happy, and he doesn’t want to ruin that for the world.

Steve’s eyes shine, almost like he’s thinking the same thing.

Sorry, he mouths. I’m sorry.

The walkie dies.

Steve groans again, pushing down on his stomach wound. He’s trying to hide it from view, Eddie realises.

Robin keeps reaching for him. “Steve, don’t—let me help. Please.”

Steve shakes his head. “Can’t—can’t hold it back.” His voice is rasping.

“I saw you,” Eddie says, and Robin glances at him. “Last year. At school.”

The memory comes to him all at once, sparked by the kids and the thought of Steve chatting in a parking lot, so at ease.

“I was pissed ‘cause I’d just flunked—doesn’t matter. Was walking it off outside, and you turned into the parking lot, windows down, and you looked so fucking pleased with yourself cause you’d already passed everything. You must’ve had a free period, maybe a double, I dunno. I was,” Eddie huffs self-deprecatingly, “jealous.”

Steve’s head slumps against the wall. His chest rises and falls rapidly, laden with sweat. Eddie tries not to look at the marks—where the burning pieces of wood struck his skin.

Steve’s eyes find his. One long blink.

Keep going.

“You—you were wearing these sunglasses,” Eddie says, and Robin sobs, laughs, like she knows exactly the pair he means. “And you—the radio was on, but I—I can’t remember what was—anyway, you were kinda. Singing. Or, like, humming to yourself. And you were walking to the middle school, you kept throwing your keys in the air. You caught ‘em every damn time.” Eddie chuckles. “Do you know how annoying that was? And I—I just kept watching, ‘till the bell rang, and I just didn’t get it. Didn’t get why you looked so… so happy. But I—” Eddie swallows. “I know now.”

Steve’s mouth tilts, not quite a smile—he’s trying, he’s trying.

“You were gonna go see the kids, huh?” Eddie says. “Surprise them or something, I don’t know. You can tell me later. Promise me? And you—” His voice threatens to go, but he pushes through it, because if there’s one thing Steve needs to hear, it’s this.

Just this.

“You were happy. Because you loved them,” Eddie whispers. “And they loved you.”

Steve breathes in.

And he rises up so suddenly that Robin falls back in alarm. He hits the space heater as he goes, and while it still blisters his skin, he doesn’t cringe away, more deliberately leans into it—

“Quick,” Steve mutters. “He’s mad, he’s mad, we don’t have much—”

And he lies down directly on the bed frame, his stomach still oozing that viscous black and red; Eddie’s stomach drops.

He feels strange, like his body already knows what’s coming before his mind’s caught up.

“Quick, quick—”

The smash of a bottle as Steve fumbles it, spilling alcohol on the floor—he tries again, reaches for lighter fluid and douses the whole bed frame in it.

“Robin,” he says, “Robin, please.”

She’s watching Steve’s every move with wide eyes; Eddie just looks on helplessly.

Fucking move.

“Robin!”

“Steve, I—” She shakes her head, uncomprehending—more like she doesn’t want to understand. “I don’t—”

Steve doubles over, picks something off the floor. Eddie’s distracted—stupid, stupid—watching in horror as more black veins spread up, across Steve’s shoulders, the strained muscles in his neck, and too late, he realises that Steve’s holding a lighter in his hand.

Click.

Steve drops it.

Sets the wooden slats ablaze.

He cries out, back arching—the flames lick higher, higher, and Robin’s screaming Steve’s name, running to him, like she can pull him from the flames…

There’s something else in Steve’s hand.

Robin’s trapped where she’s stood, a broken piece of glass to her neck—and Steve’s struggling against it, but his hand doesn’t move, as beads of blood dot Robin’s skin—

Eddie doesn’t know when it happened. Just knows that he’s holding a spear, and it’s on fire too, flames creeping up…

“Eddie!” Steve says. “Finish it!”

His skin writhes, contorting; Eddie thinks of Chrissy again, of Patrick—and a faint memory of Will Byers, vanishing without a trace.

It was you, Eddie thinks numbly. It was all you.

The glass presses closer still against Robin’s neck. She gasps—

And Steve begs.

“Kill me!”

The stomach wound heaves like a living creature, gaping and monstrous.

“Give him back, you son of a bitch,” Eddie breathes.

He lunges forward.

With all his strength, he digs the spear straight into Steve’s stomach; the flames surge, engulf—

Steve screams.

A black mass pours out of his mouth, and Eddie thinks he’s screaming, too, but he can’t hear anything, can’t hear anything but Steve, the torture in his voice, fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, and the mass hits him; he flies through the air, feels his head smack against something solid.

Then nothing.

He comes to in the living room. Blood dampens the back of his head.

Sits up. Blinks dazedly at the ceiling. The Gate… the Gate’s gone.

Bedroom. Has to… Steve, Robin. Bedroom.

He shoves himself up, wobbles. Forces himself on.

He knows he’s lost time when he nears the room: a chill hits him from the broken window, and the flames have been put out.

Robin. Robin kneeling by the bed, burns all up her arms.

“—open your eyes,” she’s saying. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

Eddie very deliberately doesn’t fully register who she’s talking to. If he does, he’ll freeze, useless. He will never forgive himself.

“Band lungs, Buckley,” he croaks, and then he falls beside her.

Starts compressions.

You’re not going, you’re not going. You’ve got so many people to see again. No. You’re not going.

He tries just to count out loud, but even as he’s doing it, something crumbles, something breaks apart irreparably inside of him, “Don’t you dare leave, don’t you…”

Robin. Two breaths.

“I wanna talk to you, Steve Harrington, and you’re gonna fucking be there to listen, do you understand, do you…”

He loses track of what he’s saying completely, lost to wilder and wilder promises, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters except this, except the desperate push of his hands, the crack of Steve’s ribs, Robin’s long breaths; and God, Eddie would give anything, anything at all, would tear his fucking heart out if it would help, if it meant that Steve would—

“—just breathe!”

Something jolts underneath his fingers; for a moment, it destroys him: it’s back, it’s—

“That’s it,” Robin’s saying, “there, there, that’s—”

Eddie’s head sinks down to his knees.

Wretched coughs. Gasping.

“He can’t—Eddie, he can’t breathe.”

Eddie staggers over to the window. Makes the hole bigger, again and again. Glass slices through his palms.

“That’s better, huh?” Robin’s murmuring, and Eddie can’t look at her, can’t look at who’s in her arms; if he does, the proof will shatter, and that can’t… he has to…

The phone rings.

Eddie goes to it. His arm lifts, heavy and delayed. Like he’s in a dream.

On the other end, a terrified voice.

Mike. Mike Wheeler crying.

“Did it work?”

“I—” There’s a high-pitched ringing in Eddie’s ears; he shakes his head. “I don’t—”

“I-is Nancy there? Where’s Nancy?”

And there’s that gut feeling again, the one that pulled Eddie out of the RV in the first place; “Hang on,” he says to Mike, and he lets the phone fall, pushes the front door open to stand on the porch, breathing in shallow, frigid breaths.

There’s something coming out from behind the trees.

Closer and closer, and Eddie almost assumes the worst.

But it’s Nancy. There’s ash in her hair, and she’s drenched, coated in black sludge; her teeth flash as she smiles, a pocket knife gleaming in her hand.

“I made my own Gate,” she says.

Barely missing a beat, she tilts her head to the side to throw up. She wipes her mouth with the back of her sleeve, spreads more thick tar across her face.

Underneath everything, there’s a scarlet ring around her throat.

“Your brother,” is all Eddie can get out.

Her eyes blaze white-hot.

“Mike,” she says, clutching the phone so tightly, like she would do the very same if she could hold his hand. “It’s gone, it’s all gone.” And then, louder, louder, trembling, “And whoever’s fucking listening on here, get us help. I know you’re there. I won’t stop. I won’t—”

Eddie knows she says more. She must do.

But he can’t stop staring down at his hands. At the blood.

He steps forward—almost sways, and Nancy catches his wrist.

“Don’t go outside without me. Don’t talk to anyone apart from us, Eddie. Okay? They won’t touch you. I won’t let them.”

Eddie thinks he manages a nod. He believes her. Her jaw quivers, but her head’s held up high: if a gun was pressed to her head, he knows the bullet wouldn’t take.

The phone call continues, but the sound is muffled, underwater.

Eddie comes back to himself in the bedroom doorway.

Robin’s still by the bed.

Steve’s lying there, eyes closed. His stomach’s still bleeding, slow, slow, but the veins have gone, they’ve…

“Eddie.” Robin reaches out a hand to him. “Come on. You… you can feel him breathing from here.”

Why don’t you hate me?

He should leave. He should leave.

He doesn’t deserve…

But Robin keeps reaching, and Eddie’s on his knees next to her, a coward, you’re a fucking coward.

“Here,” Robin says.

She guides Eddie’s hand. Places it on Steve’s sternum, above the awful wound, above all the pain Eddie caused—

There. A rise and fall.

Just breathing.

Eddie’s breath catches.

“I thought—” He shudders. “I thought I’d—”

Robin must sense it before he does, before he even really knows it’s happening.

“You’re okay,” she says, and she pulls him into her embrace—keeps one hand on Steve as she does.

Good, Eddie thinks. He needs to know you’re there. He shouldn’t be alone.

He turns his face into Robin’s shoulder, and weeps.

[jackdaw-kraai]

People forget that in fandom you’re like. Allowed to believe multiple things simultaneously. And explore all of those things. You can both agree with the opinions that a character is a shithead and that they’re the most amazing person ever and do zero reconciliation between those opinions. Not “I like this character because they’re a shit head” or “this character is the most amazing person ever because they’re a shithead” no! You’re allowed to hate a character’s guts and sing their praises at the same time without there being any link between those opinions! It doesn’t have to make sense! It doesn’t even have to make nonsense! You’re just allowed to do that!

And it fucks!

Being able to use multiple opinions whether while enjoying media or while creating it fucks hard! It allows you to create multiple perspectives! It even, and stay with me here, allows you to use different perspectives for different stories. I know right?? You can just do that! And no one can stop you! Not even the cops!

You can just write a story where in one you shamelessly make your blorbo the most OP and perfect form of themselves that gets all the guys and galls and palls and another where you mercilessly tear them to bits and have everyone and the universe and the readers cheer as you repeatedly kick their gonads in and it literally doesn’t matter at all! It’s free and fun and good for the soul! Go do it!

[shdo-xplosion]

Hihihi! Your event is super cute and I couldn’t even choose which option to pick! The spells are beautiful, the sketches are adorable and my lucky numbers were both black hearts- 4 and 7!! I’d love whichever one inspiration strikes on💕

hello, thank you very much! you can play all the games! if this tiny piece is enough, though, then that’s okay too!

since you didn’t specify a character i just went off what i saw of your blog (bakugou teehee) so i hope you enjoy! thank you again (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡

🖤4 - NON-CON, VOYEURISM, ft. k. bakugou x reader + h. shinsou

(no explicit consent, clear trepidation, mind control, female bodied-reader, spit)

𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 • 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓 •

Every muscle in his body is screaming at Katsuki to run—turn around and walk away and maybe call the cops. This is fucked up. This is something he’s supposed to put a stop to, not get invited to. Definitely not get involved in.

He’s here, though, standing in the dimly lit bedroom of his not-really-friend. Katsuki always knew Shinsou was a freak, but this is… not what he was expecting.

“Pretty, right?” Shinsou prompts with a smile. He squats down on the ground and caresses your face, thumb rubbing your cheek. “Anything you want, buddy. She’ll do anything.”

Katsuki comes close to spitting “we’re not buddies”, but he’s too distracted by the way you’re blinking up at him from your place on the floor, misty eyes doe-like as your lips wrap around the pad of one of Shinsou’s fingers.

It’s not true. You won’t do whatever Katsuki wants. You’ll do whatever Shinsou commands you to do, and that shit isn’t cool, not at all, but…

Fuck, it’s been a dry few months. A stressful few months. And you’re lookin’ real fucking cute in the little teddy Shinsou keeps you in. Katsuki has a nice view of your tits from where he’s standing, and against his conscience, his dick hardens in his pants.

Glaring at Shinsou, Bakugou growls, “tell anyone about this and I’ll kill you. Got it, shithead?”

Shinsou chuckles and nods, looks back to you and demands, “open your mouth, love.” When you do, he spits right into it, and though you flinch, you don’t fight when he leans forward to kiss you afterward.

That’s what gets the party started.

Shinsou starts undressing you, tells you to strip him next, then Katsuki. Your hands are steady, eyes clouded, and it makes Katsuki a little sick to his stomach to know you’re under the power of a quirk.

“I promise you she gets off on it,” Shinsou says. “Just touch her pussy if you don’t believe me. Guarantee it’s dripping wet already.”

“Yeah?” Katsuki asks, and as soon as he sees the glint of Shinsou’s teeth, he knows he fucked up.

“Yeah. Touch her, Bakugou. Play with her pretty cunt.”

Katsuki feels his cognizance slipping away. He’s still in his head, just more of a background voice—an extra. He can still see your beautiful body in front of him, still hear the quiet beat playing from outside the room, and can definitely feel the heat radiating from your core as he gets closer and closer. Katsuki is still in his own head; he’s just not calling any shots anymore.

Your pussy is slick with want, just like Shinsou promised, and when Katsuki slides a finger into your hole, his cock twitches. You make a cute mewling sound, head falling back, and then Shinsou is spouting instructions as he leisurely strokes his own dick.

“Get on the bed. Suck on her tits. Tease her pussy.”

And Katsuki does everything he’s told. It’s like a film has been pulled over his consciousness, and while it’s terrifying to have no control over his actions, it’s also… sorta nice.

“Are you ready to cum, baby?” Shinsou asks after several minutes of Katsuki messily eating your pussy. His face is wet, your arousal all over his mouth and nose. Even if he wasn’t being manipulated like a toy, he would enjoy going down on you.

“Yes, Toshi,” you breathe, legs quivering over Katsuki’s shoulders.

“You heard her, Bakugou,” Shinsou nods. “Time to make her cum.”

“How?” he’s able to rasp out.

The other man shrugs where he’s sitting, simply watching the show. “I myself like to see her tight pussy stuffed with cock, but I guess it’s up to you.”

And, just like that, Katsuki feels ownership of himself again, completely in his own mind and in control. He has the power now. He can stop this right now. It’s still wrong, isn’t it?

You look so desperate, though, like you do want him. Want him to make you cum… want him inside you.

Katsuki swears as he lines himself up with your entrance, thick cock sliding against your spongy walls until he’s nestled as deep as he can be, and fuck, you feel so perfect.

Shinsou may not have control over him anymore, but Katsuki still doesn’t feel entirely like himself. More like an animal as he starts fucking into you, hips pistoning so that the clap of skin on skin echoes in the room, his heavy balls slapping against your ass over and over.

You never said yes, and neither did he, but it’s way too fucking late to say no now.

event masterlist ✿

[yourtoradorasextendedwarranty]

You are not ACAB. You're an asshole

SO this post has been a long time coming and I have sent a rant to several people to look over it for me just so I could get opinions. And most agreed with what I had to say. However it was mean, callous, and too "I'm ok being an shithead" for my taste.

If I am being 100% honest, people hate cops just to hate cops. It's not because there are cops that do wrong. It's just because they are told to/programmed to hate cops. Ok, so why do I say that?

Well a few reasons.

For the past 40 years *minimum* it has been a point of the media to showcase any time a cop does anything bad. Because what better way to "Reach the people" than to assuage them with a "Hello fellow Americans. Doesn't it suck with cops get on our ass about stuff".

Social media has been using bait for years in order to get more traffic to more links and articles. This alone has made rage baiting as an entirety more of an issue.

Because of both of the above, there was a time when alt media *at the time* and social media worked in tandem to constantly show off instances of cops being assholes or outright doing things that were illegal.

So what does this mean. Well it means that you are under a notion that is already provided to you. "Cops are ruthless bad guys that don't do anything for anyone at all".

Except that's not even remotely true. What is true is that often, any positive stories involving cops is buried or glossed over and only ever talked about in very local reports. What's more a cops job is to do the right thing. So when a cop does do the right thing, the understanding is that they are not meant to receive praise. However, that is lopsided in how it works. It more or less means that you are under the LARGEST of microscopes, and if you fuck up at ALL, then you end up as a youtube video that reinforces that "Cops are bad guys" or "Cops are stupid and annoying". Rather than the truth which is that cops themselves are human beings.

Now. I can already see the comment from the shitheads. "ACAB EXISTS BECAUSE-" Shut it. I don't care. Unlike most of you I understand nuance. And more than that, I've had poor run-in's with cops. I have also had to work along side them as private security as well. And my mother, who's not shy about telling people they fucked up, worked as Dispatch and as a Secretary for the PD in the small city we lived in. "Oh well then your brainwashed", you can say that but it does not make you right.

Unlike you, clearly I'm able to think critically about subjects where as you are not. Am I a "Back the Blue" cultist? Absolutely not. I'm solely in the camp of Abolish Unions and hold officers to account for what they do wrong.

However, having said that, Cops duty to uphold the law sometimes manifests in ways that we don't like. Like Uvalde. The cops were in their rights to stop the shooter, but the top brass would have decimated any officer that decided to not follow his order of standing down. I don't think that's ok. Hell that entire chain of command should have faced a lawsuit. But where they DID properly enforce the law, is stopping parents from going in. Because had a parent gone by cops in order to stop the shooter, at that point, it legally could have been considered vigilantism.

Regardless of the moral implications of that, fact is, that's the truth.

So why am I making this post? Mostly because ignorant people exist in this world and their only reason for living at all is just to hate. "All cops are bastards"? Are you so sure? I wonder how many people in the US over the past 100+ years have been saved by cops. I wonder how many kids have been rescued from abuse. I wonder how many women have been saved from rape. I wonder how many kids have been save from gang violence or drug dealing.

Saying, "All cops are bastards" is no different than saying, "Yes all men". Functionally you are saying the same thing. And while you may say, "Hey that's not the same one is an immutable trait and the other is a job", to which I'll say, sure. Except you are making a gross generalization. Which IS the same. And ignores every single decent, good, great cop that exists out there. And every single good cop that has ever existed.

In my last post talking about this, I stated that people that are ACAB don't really hate cops. They just hate that they can't break the law without consequences. And I still believe that, but let me add a bit of nuance to that.

Most of the people that hate cops are programmed to hate cops. Because, like the media does, it picks something that will engage you, and will put it in front of you any way it knows how to. There are also a lot of people out there that hate cops because they can't break the law. That's also very true.

However there is another group that exists and it's Anarchists. Now, I have followers and people that I follow that are Anarchists. And while I view them as different from Tankies, Fundamentally they share the same, "Ideal Utopia" idea. Which is that, "Under my ideals, the world would be better". Except it won't be. It will be warlords and dictators forming groups. Assuming that we don't get taken over by Islamic Extremists, China, or the UN. Their ideals aside, they hate "The State" in all it's forms. And if you are fine with any form of "State" they will quite literally go off on a tirade of why you are a bootlicker. *Sigh*

Now, the last of these groups is just people that either 1) Do not understand what goes into being a cop and just hates them based on baseless notions, or 2) People that have had bad run-in's with cops and take that notion out on ALL cops.

So for these last two sets, things are difficult to deal with. Because they will go out of their way often to not care about how hard it is to be a cop. What do I mean?

Well for starters, cops are expected to be perfect at all times.

Perfect Aim

Perfect knowledge of all laws both federal and local

Perfect judgement at all times

Perfect execution of force at all times

Perfect response at all times

Perfect awareness of surroundings at all times

Perfect ability to listen to the law but also not piss off people breaking the law

And I could go on. Humans are fundamentally imperfect. They always will be. So expecting a cop to be perfect is like asking your SO where they want to eat every day for a month and them knowing right away. Unless you're a LIAR it's not going to happen. Same such, cops can't be perfect. Combine that with having to both uphold the law AND be sure to follow the law at the same time, then combine that with the dangers of the job, the fact that human beings are ANIMALS that are violent by nature, and unpredictable on top of which, with use of force laws. And yeah. You don't have a good time. It becomes a huge issue of people that are like, "Why didn't just just tase him?" or "Why didn't you just shot the gun out of his hand" or better yet, "He only had a knife and was threatening to kill someone. Why'd did you have to shoot him, you are not judge jury and executioner."

And that's where you are both right and wrong.

Right in the fact that they are not a Jury. Wrong about the fact that they are not acting in their capacity to judge a situation, and execute those that are too great a risk to subdue. And if you ever talk to a person that does MMA, subduing a person is not as easy as you think. More over, Tasers are not considered, "non-lethal". In a lot of cases they are considered lethal because you are delivering a shock, meant to incapacitate someone. Meaning that you have the risk of permanently injuring them, OR killing them if their heart stops. Hell you could also in theory turn them into a vegetable.

But sadly no one considers all of these things. And only people familiar with cops and how their jobs work, know any of this.

Am I justifying bad, or even evil cops with this post? No. I think cops fundamentally need more training. I also think that they need frequent psychological evaluations to see the effect of the work on them. Because some of the things you see in your capacity as an officer can be gruesome. Dead bodies. People that have been mutilated. Dead kids from drugs or gang shootings. And the list goes on and on and on.

Recently I made a post talking about how since the summer of 2020, there have been less good cops. And fact is, because of the 2020 riots, a lot of good cops did quit their jobs. That's a fact. Many actually put in for early retirement. And not because "They were being held to account". No. It was because they were told, "If you do your job, we will riot outside your station. Firebomb your cars and homes, and we will find a way to railroad you into prison".

So what do we see in NY and LA? Car break ins. Looting. Beatings in the streets. Cops that will literally stand down while people are being hurt. Why? Because why the hell would anyone be a cop when you are under a microscope SO LARGE, that even the SMALLEST twitch in the wrong direction could end your career and possibly your life.

It's easy to say, "Yeah I'd stop those looters and assaulters". Sure. Right up until the are a protected class. Then enjoy your media crucifixion, loss of work and likely stint in jail. As well as your family getting death threats for years to come. So given all this, I made a point that a lot of hires over the last 3 years have probably been scraping the bottom of the barrel. Because in truth, knowing all the above, why WOULD anyone be a cop? Certainly there are still good cops. But a lot of the good ones quit.

What's more, Now a days it's better as a cop to just NOT enforce the law. Because why risk everything I mentioned. You protect the law and you make the conservatives happy but piss off the woke. And the woke currently more or less control law and media. Good luck getting shanked in jail. If you don't uphold the law, you piss off people who want you to enforce it but you probably get to live another day.

At that point you may say, "OK so why be a cop at all then", and the answer is easy. It's a job. And it pays. Why excel at all when you are expected to be a bastion of perfection? What's that? Didn't use the PERFECT amount of force? Death Penalty. Oh? You shot a guy that pulled a gun on you and you didn't just take the shots to the chest? Well clearly you deserve to be put in jail for the rest of your life.

Cops are treated like they are supposed to be absolutely perfect at all times and it's stupid. I HATE police unions mind you. But you know what I hate more. People that have no idea the risk to their lives that cops are put through day to day just for putting on the badge. The fact that cops NEED wiggle room within the law in order to enforce it.

Remember "Hands up don't shoot"? Yeah. So do I. I also remember that it was a fucking lie, and that there are people to this day that still believe that lie. And if not for Police Unions, he might have rotted in jail for the rest of his life. There is no PEFECT in this life. Not for cops, not for anyone. Cops are not superheroes. They don't swing in on a web shooter and punch the bad guy JUST hard enough to knock him out without killing him. And with morality as fucked up as it is in the west, even just in the US, Law enforcement is in a no win situation. At all times.

But I want to find every person that has ever been saved by cops, and force you to tell those people that all cops are bad. And tell them about how whatever they were saved from doesn't matter because "ALL cops are bad". Tell the women that were possibly saved from rape, "You should have just been raped. Cops are all evil." Or tell the kid that was saved from the person that kidnapped them, "Yeah no, you should have just been a sex slave. Cops are bastards and clearly they didn't WANT to help you". Stop making assessments about ALL of any group of people. Because the likelihood that you'll be right is near zero.

There are good cops. And there are bad cops. Police Unions need heavy reformation. Accountability needs to actually be able to happen. And people need to understand how hard cops actually have it. All of these things can be true at the same time. And none of it is justifying evil or bad cops or even ones that don't enforce the law. It's a nuanced topic. And as such, it should be treated so.

[skatoonyfan1234]

MY REVIEW TO SOMEONE'S IN THE KITCHEN WITH SANDY

FUCK THOSE SHITHEADED BIKINI BOTTOM COPS. FUCK THEM TO BLOODY FUCKING BULLSHIT HELL!!!!!

[mrsquill]

Alone and Forsaken

Summary: Joel is on his way to bail Tommy out of Travis County jail, having left Sarah behind sleeping. He soon realises something has gone terribly wrong with the world, and he and Tommy are desperate to save her. Basically: my interpretation of the truck journey back to the Millers to rescue Sarah, on the night of the outbreak in the HBO version. Based on this piece I wrote.

Notes: This took it out of me: I rewatched both the HBO series and the game scenes leading up to/after this to get into the right headspace, and it really did a number on me. This follows the events of the show, however feel free to interpret it however you wish! Please don’t hate me - this fic is quite sad, so please don’t continue if you feel it’ll upset you. Special thanks to @mandrillusphinx for the idea.

Warnings: Angst, swearing, mentions of violence and blood, potentially distressing content.

Slamming the truck door harder than he meant to, Joel cursed his little brother under his breath. Fuckin’ Tommy. Couldn’t even keep his shit together on his birthday. He knew it’d been a bad idea as he’d watched Tommy go earlier that night; they’d had a shitty day at work, the hours dragging on, more and more problems cropping up on site. His brother’s solution? Head into the city when they were done, hit a couple bars and drink till his back didn’t hurt anymore. Tommy knew better than to invite Joel. He’d never had that kind of freedom; becoming a father unexpectedly at 22 would do that to anyone - not that Joel resented it for a moment.

He thought of his daughter, now, as he headed along the highway towards Travis County jail to bail his shithead brother out, ready for Tommy’s lazy excuses. Guilt pooled in his stomach. The fuckin’ cake. The fuckin’ watch. Sarah was his blessing; his biggest achievement, and more often than not he felt he was letting her down as another year of fatherhood passed him by. She was growing up, blossoming into a young woman, as beautiful as her mother had been before her. He knew he ought to treasure the twilight years of just the two of them. Joel was seeing his baby through college and beyond, no doubt about that.

He couldn’t forget Sarah’s words, eating away at him as they had been for the last hour or so as he struggled to concentrate on Curtis & Viper 2, her other birthday gift. You were never gonna do it for yourself. Joel tried to escape the notion that his kid was doing a better job of parenting than he was. His baby was polite, popular; Joel swelled with pride at parent teacher conferences and at school pickups, overhearing comments from some of the other parents. She’d had to grow up quicker than her peers, and she’d taken it in her stride.

He resolved to take a couple days off that weekend; head out hiking with Sarah like they did every year for his birthday. It was their favourite thing to do together, and he hadn’t made enough effort so far this year. Joel needed to make the most of it before he lost her entirely to soccer practice and sleepovers, or when she inevitably thought she was too cool to hang out with her old man. Tommy already did a good enough job of making him feel like a fuckin’ dinosaur. Small steps first, though: don’t forget the fuckin’ cake. Again.

Joel sighed; scrubbing a hand over his face, weary to the bone as he tried to concentrate on his driving. It was only then, pulled from his reverie, that he noticed the stream of traffic flooding past. Cop car lights dazzled him; he counted a dozen in less than a minute, speeding erratically on the highway. He felt the smallest frisson of fear. What the fuck? An accident? A bomb? Police activity in Austin on a Friday night was not unusual, but the numbers were unnerving. He was driving into in the city now; a journey he knew like the back of his hand. But as he travelled further; Joel began to feel a strange sort sickness, unimaginable chaos unfolding before him.

It all happened so fast. It flashed by as he headed for the jail on autopilot: cops scuffling with bystanders on the sidewalk, smashed glass and smeared blood, and people running - sprinting - seemingly for their lives. In every direction, with no thought for the road or whatever may be on it, any sense of human instinct totally abandoned. Bodies on the floor as helicopters thundered loudly overhead; white beams casting a horrifying light on the scene playing out before him. Joel turned the radio up, chasing an explanation; terror sliding down his spine like sweat in the summertime. A monotonous voice filled the cab of the truck: “This is a National Security Alert. Return to your homes, and stay there. Further instructions will be announced in due course. This is a National-“ he switched it off, heart leaping into his mouth. Sarah.

Joel rounded the corner much too fast; headlights miraculously landing on Tommy, eyes wild as he sprinted toward the truck, people fleeing into the darkness around him. “Move the fuck over, Joel! Let me drive!” his brother was yelling, and Joel slid across the bench, half in shock. “How’d you get out-“ Joel began, but Tommy was firm, temporarily more composed than his older brother. The military man in him. “Doesn’t fuckin’ matter, Joel. We gotta get outta here, away from all these people,” he said darkly, pulling off the sidewalk. “Where’s Sarah?” he asked, wiping sweat off his brow. “At home, asleep,” Joel whispered, feeling bile rise in his throat.

Tommy cursed loudly, foot to the floor as he navigated out of the city; Joel tried to center his breathing, anxiety washing over him in an endless tide. He couldn’t drag his eyes from the windows. People hunched over bodies.. Robbing them? Murdering them? Was it some kind of poisoning in the water supply? Psychedelic drugs gone wrong? Protesting taken too far? Civil unrest? Cars were rammed into one another, power lines were faltering and storefronts were on fire. “Tommy, what the fuck is happenin’? What do you know?” Joel demanded. He hated the loss of control; the world was falling apart around him and he’d left his daughter at home. Alone. Defenceless. In the one place she should be safe.

“I overheard a nurse, sayin’ it could be some sorta new virus, people attackin’ each other and shit like that,” Tommy rambled nervously, “You remember that stuff goin’ on in Jakarta? On the radio this mornin’? Well, looks like it’s happenin’ here.” Joel did remember his birthday breakfast that morning. It felt like a different life, a million miles away, a normalcy that had been torn to shreds. Reprimanding Sarah for the egg shells, hustling her out the door for school. Sarah. His baby. “I left her, Tommy. I fuckin’… I just left her, in her bed,” Joel muttered, anger at himself curled in his chest.

“You lock the door?” his brother asked, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Of course I did,” Joel spat, watching - waiting - for each street sign and junction, counting down the minutes. “She’ll be fine,” Tommy tried to quietly reassure him, “bet ya she won’t’ve moved an inch.” Joel ran a hand through his hair in exasperation, dripping in sweat, praying his brother was right. She’d be there, sure she would. Curled up with her sneakers on still. Right where he’d left her. Nobody could get into the house, he knew that much. Not unless they tried very fucking hard.

The disorder seemed to dissipate a little as they headed away from the city center; a tiny comfort. “Joel, this guy at the bar? The reason they called the fuckin’ cops?” Tommy started, “I ain’t ever seen shit like that in my life. I couldn’t stand there and let it happen. Dude was fuckin’ crazy, tryin’ to bite this waitress. Like he had a disease or some shit. He was twitchin’ all over, too. Maybe it’s a parasite,” he shrugged.

The blood in Joel’s veins had long since turned to ice, his brother’s story solidifying it. “Tommy, you fuckin’ get us home, and you get us there now,” Joel urged, feeling his heartbeat accelerating. His daughter’s name was a mantra in his head, repeating with each frantic thrum of his pulse. He was taking charge; Sarah needed him, and so did his brother. He hadn’t failed them yet, and he sure wasn’t gonna start now. “Rifle in the back?” he asked, Tommy nodding solemnly. Joel leaned over, grateful for something to do. Five minutes till home.

Equipping himself with a wrench, Joel urged Tommy on. Images flicked over and over in his brain like a sickening picture show: Sarah, her dark eyes - his eyes - wide with fear, her breath quickening, screaming for him, her father, who’d abandoned her in the darkness. No. He shook his head, physically, ridding himself of the nightmare. “What about the neighbours, Joel?” Tommy asked. “The Adlers? Denise, and the kids? Should we warn ‘em? Take ‘em with us?” Joel shook his head; again, more furiously this time. “Like hell, Tommy. We don’t even have a fuckin’ plan. Best we can do is tell them to stay inside,” he said irritably, guilt ever-present and swirling in his guts.

“So, what do we do?” Tommy asked plainly, earlier bravado deserting him. It always worked this way. Whatever Joel said, Tommy did. “I don’t.. I don’t know,” Joel mumbled, voice cracking. “We grab Sarah and we get the fuck out. No time for anythin’ else.” Tommy was nodding; orders received and heard. “Get a fuckin’ move on, Tommy!” Joel slammed a hand on the dash.

The cul-de-sac loomed into view: it was eerily, deathly quiet, besides a car alarm in the distance. “Come on, come on,” Joel pleaded, adrenaline coursing through him, homing in on his daughter. His purpose, all that mattered in the world. “There, Joel. I can see her!” Tommy pointed up ahead, outside the Adlers. Sarah was running. Fleeing, like he’d seen everybody do in the city. From the unknown, from danger, from death. But she was alive: her face caught in the glow of the headlights. Terrified and alone. But Joel was here now. He’d save her. Because he didn’t know what he would do if he couldn’t.

[bigfan-fanfic]

The Clinic (Male!Reader x Mafia!Bucky and Steve)

Requested by @jayfeather965 for Your response to the captain and batdad ask has my creative juices flowing. The captain and iron arm Barnes are equal partners in a mafia, lovers and stuff. But then one of them, Bucky or Steve gets shot and separated from from the gang. Ends up going to a street clinic, with doctors who don’t ask questions. And naturally he’s fascinated by the doctor who helps him but calls him out for his arrogant attitude and takes no nonsense. Could you write a long story on this? Lmk please

Trigger warning blood, crime, mob au, etc.

"Babe."

"Yeah, boss?"

"You're thinking about him, aren't you?"

The Captain grips Barnes' chin in his fingers, tilting up his face. Barnes knows better than to resist.

Barnes is shirtless, the bandages wrapped around his chest and over his shoulder where he had been shot. His cheekbones still have the stitches in them.

The Captain is impeccably dressed, their states incongruous.

"What can I say, pal? It's hard to find a man that ain't afraid of me."

The Captain lets go, grabs the tumbler of whiskey in Barnes' hand, and tosses it aside.

It shatters in the fireplace and the alcohol makes the fire burst in a roar, but neither man hears it, because they are locked in a bruising, harsh kiss.

Barnes' hands frame the Captain's waist as the big man straddles him, clutching Barnes' face, his thumb brushing over the not-quite-healed gash in a way that is painful, but also grounding.

Cap growls, knowing that even with the pretext of healing, another man has touched what is his.

Only Barnes has been able to calm the raging beast inside him, this thing that makes him the most feared boss in the city, The Captain, and his iron right hand, Iron-Arm Barnes.

But maybe he's too hard. Like a callus that grows from overuse and dulls sensation. Maybe this sawbones has a tender touch Barnes has been missing.

For his part, Barnes has always been given to obsession. If the Cap had never had that growth spurt and hit the gym like a train crash, Barnes knew he'd have taken him. The little punk would be his precious little pet instead of his boss. But they would be together no matter what.

For Barnes, his blood wasn't his own, it flowed in the Cap's veins. So there wasn't a question of loving instead. They were parts of the same organism.

Barnes remembers you.

He dragged himself to your clinic after being shot, after his men had gotten away and he had been left for dead.

It's attractive, he won't lie, to see a man cool in a crisis. You get him on a table, strip him of his dirty and bloodstained clothes without a hint of lust or a sneak at his body, and you get to work picking shrapnel out of sensitive areas and stitching him up.

Barnes waits for a while after he wakes up post-op, knowing that he's not at full strength, before he reaches for his gun.

And you slip it out of his reach.

"No guns in my clinic."

"Do you know who I fucking am, sweetheart?"

"I don't care who you are. Bullets left at the door, or I let you bleed out on the floor."

"So much for the damn Hippocratic Oath."

"Fuck you. I have my license, and I don't ask questions. So maybe lose the attitude."

"Touché, sweetheart."

"Wipe that grin off your face. You lost a lot of blood."

"You gonna pump me full of morphine?"

"Bold of you to assume we have that kind of funding. The bullet passed through you clean. We're gonna need to change your bandages regularly for the next ten hours or so, and you're out of commission the next six weeks, at least."

"Really? I feel like a million bucks. A million bucks with a big hole in it."

You shake your head and take his gun, locking him in the room behind you.

"You gonna call the cops?"

Nope. That's not what you did.

"Name's Bucky."

You didn't tell him yours.

He talks incessantly, you answer some questions, remain silent for others

By the time the next morning rolls around, he's head over heels. "You're a shithead, Bucky. I don't wanna see you in here again, OK?"

He can hear the concern in your voice. You don't want him injured like that again. There's a connection there. A dangerous man, the battlefield angel.

And now he wants. And he wants his other half to want too.

They break their steamy kiss. It was a claiming, but Barnes is already owned.

"You still love me?"

"To the end of the line, pal. Never a question."

"You want the sawbones?"

"I'm yours, punk."

"Not what I asked."

"I want him."

"Then you'll have him."

"We."

The Cap grins. "I never met a guy with more heart. You think I have it in me to not get murderously jealous?"

Barnes kisses him. "Stevie, you're gonna be as head over heels as me. We're a team."

"I don't get you, pal, but I love you more than life."

"Then let's get us a sawbones."

[cchapsticck]

A couple things: 

The first album he ever owned that he got to choose on his own was Master of Reality when Wayne handed him 5 bucks at the used record store after he picked him up from foster. And he’s pretty sure Children of the Grave changed his brain chemistry. Like something in him got hard re-wired and soldered in place. Like there’s no unfixing that fix.

The first song he ever learned to play on Wayne’s old beater acoustic was Here Comes The Sun, but if anyone asks he says it was Smoke on the Water, which was actually second but the truth is possibly humiliating, considering his curated reputation.

He cannot read music. Which is funny, considering he’s had a “band” since 7th grade. He just kind of picks at shit by ear. Which he’s pretty good at, thank you very much. It's why he likes shit with solos, he can pick out a riff better than he can pick out a chord progression.

Said band did not lock down members with any kind of permanence until 10th and no one had any kind of electrified instrument until 11th because Jeff and Phil and Gareth might be better off than he is - drug money notwithstanding - but tuns out parents aren’t keen to just drop that kind of money so one’s kid can fuck around in another kid’s garage every couple weekends for that kind of price tag

Metal shows are few and far between in Roane County, considering all the ways it is. But the couple no-name bands that have breezed through town at the dive-iest of bars the county has to offer well - he doesn’t want to say, changed his life but - but he’s never been so glad to have been elbowed in the face because everyone’s having a good fucking time and without the accompanying “faggot” attached to the act, which he’s had a repeat performance of just. Generally. In his life outside of the shittest bars in Indiana.  

He’s not saying Zepplin II made him gay but Robert Plant’s face pasted onto that German soldier’s body made him feel some kind of way at a formative age and that’s maybe just something he’s going to take to the grave even if apparently the shittiest of shitheads just decided that was a true thing about him on their own.

Steve Harrington has been hot since, like, junior high. Which is horseshit. Because like, first of all. He sucks. Like, he’s a douche. But Barb Holland died and he ended up in the hospital because apparently those two things are related events and rumor has it he got kicked out of his house and he shaved his head about it and there are a shocking number of scars hidden under that disco hair and that, unfortunately, does not make him less hot or less of a douche. 

Another thing: Dustin Henderson is fucking annoying. Like annoying in the unremarkable way all nerds are annoying that he’s a little dead to (like sometimes he catches himself mid-tirade and thinks ‘damn, I’d kick my ass too’) so he gets it but also. He’s fucking annoying. He’s fucking annoying about Steve Harrington in particular which like. Hilarious. Go figure. 

And he’s got a lot of annoying ammunition in that particular annoying gun, because apparently Harrington’s been living in his basement. So the kicked out thing is probably true. A lot of what he’s got to say is anecdotal. Lives in the basement. Pays rent. Makes dinner for Henderson’s mom. Drives him to school. Owns a bat with nails in it? Which. Alright? That makes about as much sense as anything else going on. The weirdly dense law enforcement presence in the wake of the Holland murder (and those are feds, like, he knows cops, he grew up around a lot of cops - thanks Dad - these are not cops) and the ever evolving whatever-this-is of Steve Harrington which he is for sure paying a normal amount of attention to and not unloading his guts at Gareth and Jeff who for sure don’t want to kick his ass about it because are we all seeing this shit? It's been like 5 years of high school and this is a puzzle he is no closer to solving, as he is no closer to graduating. And it's not because he’s being a dipshit about Harrington’s gradual transformation no matter what Gareth keeps insisting. (he’s being a dipshit about graduating because he’s a dipshit - separate problem)

But like, something is for sure going on with Steve Harrington. And fuck him dead because he is desperate to pick it apart. It's got nothing to do with the horny goblin in his brain barking about the, shall we say, aesthetic realignment here (which maybe, like, is coming for the integrity of his own genre cred but like. Come on, man.) and it's got everything to do with someone like Steve Fucking Harrington willfully abdicating the throne to throw himself amongst the Maligned With Problems The World Will Make Your Fault. Like he had to have known the flavor of hell people like him and Hagan and every other one of those silver spoon fucks made of his life. And not just his, just like, anyone remotely adjacent in the social order. 

There’s this kind of unspoken truth at shows. Like metal, hardcore, whatever, any genre within a genre that fills up bars like this, like he’s pretty sure the punks even have this rule, this remains true: the more normal the guy looks the more fucked in the head he is. That guy is dangerous. That guy is working through some shit you cannot even begin to conceive of and this is only outlet he’s got. Like that guy will straight murder you if you come at him wrong in a pit and everyone knows it. You do not fuck with that guy. You do not make eye contact with that guy. So Steve Harrington in his tightass Levi’s and bright white fresh out the 3-pack t-shirt hugging the back wall of the Hideout on a Thursday night sure is a red flag. But red’s always been his favorite color, so-

So he buries his shoulder blades in the wall right next to him and hits him with a of all the gin joints and Steve just squints at him like he’s got no fucking clue what he’s talking about. Figures. Harrington always seemed like a philistine. Steve just runs his hand over his shaved short head, and Eddie swears he can hear the rasp of Steve’s palm over the noise of the bar. 

“You come here often?” And it's not not a come on and he’s a little prepared to get decked but it's also a genuine question. 

“It’s work.” Steve says, not unkindly but not really looking at him either. Like he’s not really interested in the conversation or Eddie at all.

“It’s work?”

And that gets Steve looking and he does not look impressed. It's cute. Which probably says more about Eddie’s ability to turn disdain into some semblance of private affection but we’re not going to unpack that bag we’re just going to throw the whole suitcase out. 

“Well, I can’t work the bar so I just pull people out of the pit. Work the door sometimes.” Steve says over the noise of the bar, by way of explanation.

“How about that?” he says with no small amount of genuine awe. “Mall work not cutting it for you, then?”

Steve just kind of one shoulder shrugs. Not cutting it in the sense that the mall like, fuckin’ burned down but. Y’know. Speaking in kind of a general hypothetical kind of way. Looking for a new career path kind of way. Less about the mall directly. Or at all. 

“Yes and no. I got punched less by skinheads at the mall.” and that almost sounds like a joke, like Harrington isn’t totally hating this conversation. Delightful. 

“And you’d willingly go into this line of work when Henderson says you can’t win a fight?” he says it like he means it, like he’s actually surprised. Because he is. Because getting laid out at a show is just some shit that happens sometimes. Assholes with something to prove, the wrong guy took an elbow at the wrong time, a drunk got in the pit and doesn’t know the difference between a good time and a fight, like, shit happens. 

Steve’s scrunched up face of repulsion and offense is additionally cute. 

“Yeah well, Henderson says a lot of shit about you too.” 

He may have been operating on the assumption that Steve actually had no idea who he was. And was just some weird guy who, for some reason, had a lot of personal information about him that was in no way reciprocated. Just kind of figured he would have been beneath Harrington’s notice in a big picture kind of way. 

Fuck you, Henderson, how dare you. 

“Only glowing reviews, I’m sure.”

“More or less.”

Alright he’ll take back point two, then. You’re on thin ice, Henderson. 

“Is that where the uh-” and he kind of gestures limply at the pit and then towards the thick, formerly stapled up scarring in Steve’s hairline. Like he’s come home from a show with a bloody nose or a black eye or two but nothing like that.

“No.”

It's the finality in his tone, when he says it that makes him suspect he’s fucked this up and the conversation is over.

And it is. 

So he hangs around the bar for the set and then he leaves and its not really all that interesting. 

But he thinks about that for a while, that something rattled Steve Harrington’s cage so hard he’s this now. Somewhere in the realm of quietly fucked up, and on the edges of good sensibility and good taste because its more comfortable out of a spotlight. Even if the dark on the edge of that pool of light is more than a little dangerous, but at least there’s a place to hide. 

And then Chrissy Cunningham dies on his ceiling and he has to keep hiding.  

[dreamersbcll]

Omg i was watching scrram 5 and i just had an idea for a prompt.

So what if in that hospital scene when judy tells sam that "when the sun comes up, she should leave", sam actually does that? Because she thinks she's only causing tara more trouble but tara stops her.

“Leave”

she said “love me” so i loved her, she said “leave me” so i left

——————————————————————————-

“Like we’ve been so far?”

Sam knew the moment the words tumbled out of her mouth she made a mistake. But she couldn’t help it. How could she? She had just been attacked in the hospital where her injured sister lay after being stabbed by the same asshole in the mask. It was a ridiculous notion that one fucking cop would keep them sake.

Hell, give Sam a gun. She could lock this down.

But Officer Judy, well, Hicks now, didn’t love that answer.

Smiling tight-lipped, Officer Hicks spoke firmly. “Samantha, let’s step outside.”

Fuck.

As she stepped outside, Sam gave herself an internal pep talk. She wasn’t going to back down from the shitty cop that arrested her too many times. Sam wasn’t afraid of Deputy Hicks- she was just a cop. Sam was older now and clean. She knew better, and she wasn’t going to stand down.

Sam straightened up, glaring at the woman. “Nice to see you, Deputy Hicks. So many fun memories,” she lamented, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.

The woman smiled sickly, her face confronting into a pained smile. “It’s Sheriff Hicks. I remember you, too. And all the trouble you used to cause your family,” Hicks sniped, looking Sam up and down.

And damn it to hell, Sam stiffened at that. She fucking loathed that the woman wasn’t wrong. Sam was a menace to the Carpenter name, a shitstain across that family history. A monster to a family that she wasn’t actually a part of.

Sam was Loomis. And like Loomis’ did best, they destroyed everything in their path.

Judy smirked at the look on Sam’s face, smugly knowing she had her beat. “Your presence here is not helping. So maybe, when the sun comes up, you and your boyfriend can hit the road and leave it to people who actually care about this community.”

With that, Offi- Deputy- Hicks walked off, leaving Sam and the other shithead cop to stare at each other. She breathed in deeply, closing her eyes. Fuck. She couldn’t let this go on any longer.

Sam had to tell Tara who she was and what she had done to their family.

——

Naturally, Sam fucked it up.

“I just couldn’t be around you, Tara,” she whispered, her heart tearing in two at the way Tara froze.

Fuck.

She cleared her throat, trying to keep her voice level. “Not only because I destroyed our family that night, but because those diaries told me who my real father was.”

The two sat there, staring at each other. Sam could see in Tara’s eyes the little girl she once broke and who she was about to fail again. It’s funny. Sam always thought she would be able to visit home years into the future, and Tara would be older, and they could reunite once again. Like it should be.

But she would never get the chance again once she uttered the name that tainted her heart and plagued her life from the age of thirteen and on.

She might as well rip the bandaid off now.

“It was Billy Loomis,” she blurted out, tears blurring her vision. “And somebody knows, and I’m so fucking sorry that I never told you and that I ran away. I’m so-”

“Get out,” Tara softly spat out, her voice cold and eyes vacant.

Sam froze; her mouth hung open, almost cartoonishly. Her little sister stared Sam down, her eyes darkening with rage, her lips curling in disdain.

Tara spoke quietly, her voice tight. “Five years. Five whole years, and then I get stabbed, and then you want to dump all this shit on me?”

Swallowing hard, Sam gasped, shaking her head violently. “No, no, I swear, I was trying to protect you-”

“-Protect me from what?” Tara whispered, her face painted with disbelief. “The truth?”

“No, no, I- Please, Tara,” she begged, her hands shaking.

But it was too late. It was always too late for Sam. She was so good at destroying everything, demolishing any perfect thing she had ever held. All she could do was beg on deaf ears.

“Sam, I need you to get the fuck out.”

Sam shook her head, reaching out for Tara’s hand. “No, please-”

“GET THE FUCK OUT!”

Sam froze at her sister’s tone, faltering at the tear-filled eyes she had seen far too often. Fuck. She was so good at fucking it all up. So good at ruining everything she touched. And here she was again, burning down the relationship that was already a pile of broken twigs.

She had seen the film before. She knew the ending, and she didn’t like it. This was the part where she was exiled from the love she knew and left forever.

Maybe if she left, Tara would be safe.

So she got up and collected her things, beelining for the door. As she pushed through it, she could feel her sister’s eyes on her back, those eyes adding insult to injury.

The door shut behind her with a soft click, and Sam rested her forehead against it, focusing on swallowing her tears. There was no amount of crying that Sam could do for this. She ruined it all. It was all her fault, and fears were futile. They wouldn’t fix this.

Fuck, Sam couldn’t even fix this if she tried. All she did was fuck up.

Sam wiped away the few tears that escaped, sniffling softly. She turned on her heel and walked towards the exit, her jacket in one hand and her keys in the other.

The soft jangle of keys was the only thing keeping her stable as she death marched to the elevator.

“Sam!”

Shaking her head, Sam gripped her keys a little tighter, letting the cold teeth sink into her skin. Stupid. She’s so stupid. She’s just hearing things. It was a matter of time before her brain would twist itself back up again. What a fucking idiot she was.

“Sam!”

She paused, her finger hovering over the buttons. That couldn’t be… no. Tara wouldn’t. It was Sam’s fault. She was just hearing things. Her meds were just fucking with her head. Yeah, that was it.

The yelling didn’t stop.

“Sam! Samantha Carpenter!”

Sam turned around, peeing down the hallway. The shouting was coming from the room she was just in. Tara’s room. That didn’t sound right. Fuck, that couldn’t be right. She wasn’t worth fighting for. Sam was the reason their family was so fucked-up in the first place.

But still, the voice yelled.

“Sammy,” the voice hoarsely screamed, slightly muffled by the door it hid behind.

What the hell.

She fled down the hallway, trying to control her body. Her limbs felt foreign, her movements jerky and uncontrolled. It took everything in her not to sprint down the hallway, throw open that door, and collapse into the arms that she loved.

But that would be ridiculous and much too soon. So, instead, she sped-walked and slowly made her way to the door. She paused in front of it, trying to control her breathing. Tara didn’t deserve her tears, her blubbering. This was Sam’s fuck up. She had to pull it together.

Opening the door slowly, Sam kept her eyes averted, her head down. She could feel her little sister’s eyes on her, burning holes in her skin. Righteous holes.

“Sam,” Tara breathed, her voice filled with wonder.

As if Sam wouldn’t do anything for her.

Sam nodded jerkily, her cheeks blushing. “Yeah?”

Her little sister spoke softly, her voice wavering with choked-up fear. “Please don’t go.”

Sam was sure the sky was purple, and the year was 3024. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what she deserved. She was a fucking Loomis. This wasn’t the end of the storyline she deserved.

This wasn’t what a sinner like her deserved.

She paused, her mouth dry. “You want me to stay?” she said, her voice strangled.

Don’t show emotion. Don’t be weak. Be strong. Your sister needs strength. Not your pathetic tears.

Tara nodded, closing her eyes as if she couldn’t handle another one of Sam’s rejections. “Please.”

Sam closed the door behind her, the soft click forcing Tara to open her eyes. Unbridled relief and brief flashes of joy flickered through her little sister’s eyes, all because Sam was standing right before her.

She didn’t deserve this. She never would. But here she was, all for her sister’s taking.

Tara motioned to the chair next to her, eyes glassy—those beautiful brown eyes. They had haunted Sam for years, and here they were, still warm.

Forcing her legs to move, Sam quickly made her way across the floor and sat down in the chair next to her little sister. Tara just observed her quietly, taking in her sister’s every move. Sam bowed her head in admission, refusing to make eye contact with her little sister— like a stray dog, Sam didn’t know how to love when all she knew was loneliness.

But her little sister did.

“Just, stay. I can’t watch you leave again. I can’t do that again. Please, just stay,” Tara cried softly, her voice thick with tears.

So many words swirled through Sam’s head. I’m sorry, for one. I love you, and I didn’t mean to hurt you, was another. I have always loved you, and I thought of you every single day, was the best one that sat on her tongue.

Yet, she couldn’t get herself to say it. She couldn’t get the courage to let it all out. It was too early. It was all too early to say the things she should’ve said years ago. She just got Tara back in her life, and their relationship was hanging on by a thread.

Despite her chest aching and her heart tearing at the seams, Sam said three words, three words she had been dying to tell since the day she left all those years ago.

“Okay. I’ll stay.”

And so she did.

[hyp3rfixation-h3ll]

not to get into discourse mode on here but the recent shit w/ ao3 being once again called out for being run by racists/genocide supporters and seeing so many fucking Absolute Gormless Shitheads blindly defend OTW and going " dOn'T bRiNg FiCtIoNaL PoLiTicS iNtO tHis!!!111!1 " as if they are not immune to propaganda is wild . my siblings in sin , ao3 is literally The Racism Fetish Fanfiction site , and propaganda via fictional work is exactly how racism perpetuates. ao3 and the otw are a part of the problem whether you choose to acknowledge it or not because they contribute to the cycle of violence , fetishisation and colonisation of marginalised groups via complacency (and sometimes even blatant PASSIVE ENCOURAGEMENT) , and then they cover it up by using soft cutesy buzzwords like " anti-censorship " and " free speech " and their dumb ass complex tagging system to appeal to white people , so when Actual Minorities and people affected by the shit they put on there speak up about it they're met with all kinds of bullcrap about "jUsT bLoCk ThE tAg If It'S a PrObLem1111!111" or "YoU'rE jUsT bEiNg a fAnDoM cOp!11!!"

You're a part of the problem if you support ao3 and actively continue to use it & donate to them , especially in the wake of the OTW being actively chockful of zionists who will , ironically , silence those who speak up and rally with Palestine for liberation . And If you decide to take this as me being hostile towards you or trying to " bring fiction into real world issues " , remember that at Any point in time you can go on ao3 for yourself and find thousands and thousands of raceplay fics and other various works that glorify and condone racism , and that the otw and their large userbase (primarily composed of white people!) has a track record of trying to shut up POC when this issue is brought to light .

Idgaf if ao3 is for " anti-censorship " , because there's a difference between anti-censorship and HIDING BEHIND the concept of free speech and the 1st amendment to do and say awful , horrendous things and believe you're above critique , punishment or consequences for it .

tl;dr: fuck ao3, fuck the otw, free palestine, and most importantly: you are NOT and will NEVER be immune to propaganda if you choose to ignore it because it benefits you.

[raviolirash]

This is all just a way too long personal theory/ramble abt the boi if u disagree that ok

Tldr I believe pre-Caz Astarion is a young asshole who is punished with a job he doesn't take seriously, and his noble parents don't respect him enough to see how much of a good person he could be given a proper chance at redemption and it all goes to shit, naturally.

Long version:

I see few years pre-Cazador Astarion as that asshole teenager who's getting away with everything. He's used to being told that he's handsome, rich, and above others. He's getting away with things, he's spoiled, and has no experience of the world. Especially work experience.

My theory is that Astarion was forced into the magistrate job as a punishment and just didn't give enough of a fuck about the world to take the job seriously, as opposed to consciously being malicious/evil. He is power hungry in the game, half as a response to being powerless for 200 years. That being said:

He's a rogue, through and through. It's implied a lot including with the "I've missed this" line that he wasn't a proper and polite city boy before Cazador. I don't see him doing paperwork or sitting next to a large fancy dinner table without screwing around with a dagger. He slouches. He has his feet on the table. He's a nerd.

If you call The Watch in the final battle, he jokes that it feels wrong to call for guards to come and do something. He's not a snitch. If he sees someone stealing from a sick person he gives a thumbs up. He canonically hates cops lol.

Leading to my theory that he was being so rambunctious and belligerent, his noble parents/elders forced him into the magistrate job as a punishment of sorts because they were just so sick of his bullshit. Just rich people things.

So now:

You have a handsome young elf, with people probably fawning over his beauty, known for breaking laws and being The Worst, not respecting authority and etc. And he's put into a magistrate position through presumably nepotism. He becomes one of those asshole sons of a rich bastard who is a fuck up. Rich, spoiled, knows that he's above others which influences his haphazard rulings and provides him a nice power trip, has a bit of education but not enough to not steal from grandmas.*1

Of course it's going to be a glorious mess! He doesn't care about the world enough to take a stand and try to change the corrupt system from within. Fuck that. He's going to make it worse. Who cares. If there was any good in him, at best it was maybe because he knew it's already fucked and he's not there to be a hero and fix it.

It makes sense that he would double down on the "evil" once freed from Cazador in Act 1. He's used to everything going south because - ironically enough - of the world's failure to do anything good for the helpless and weak. Without realizing that he was also part of the problem once. Hell. He got beaten up by Gur for a ruling he made and his takeaway was "all Gur are bad" and not Baldur's Gate fucking SUCKS and something should be done. No seriously. The politics of the city and the ruling systems are so fucking broken. Bhaal the god of MURDER LITERALLY LIVES UNDERNEATH THE CITY. What is WRONG with this town.

Either way, I don't believe he was consciously and maliciously an evil person. Especially given the scale of evil the city of Baldur's Gate has to offer. If he was, he would have been much worse. He was corrupt in a shithead way and not "we're going to take resources from orphanages to build a machine that punches you in the dick when you tell your boss you are too tired to work overtime in the mines" *2 *3

I also think that he was the reason why Cazador implemented the "no nobles lol that raises suspicion" rule. And the reason why no one of Astarion's family recognized him was because they were too snobby for Elfsong or Blushing Mermaid.

I think his parents still loved him though.

Clarification station under read more

*1. (I guess this does fall under some people's definition of evil, but for me honestly the true evil is the system which allows these people fall into power in the first place and in this essay---.)

*2. (Actions of negligent people in power aren't diminished. If negligence causes a death it is still a death.)

*3. (I don't think he was a young baby either, like a lot of fandom does. He was still young when he was turned but not a teenager. I just believe he was even younger when he started working as a Magistrate. Like on a personal note, it was really heartbreaking when Billy Kametz died because he died so horrifically young. He was 35. 35 is still heartbreaking young.)