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killersfool · 10 months

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You Might Get What You Want | ROBERT KEATING

PAIRING: robert keating x original f!character

GENRE: childhood frenemies to lovers

SUMMARY: lucia (luz), nieve ella’s keyboardist, has an estranged history with inhaler—especially with the band’s bassist, bobby. their fiery hatred for eachother rapidly blossoms into something sweet, especially when she learns that he wrote a song about her.

WORDS: 5.8k

WARNINGS: kissing, swearing, alcohol use, mild sexual content

Being Nieve Ella's keyboardist has completely altered the course of my life. Only eight months ago, I was doing my second year of uni, trying to get through a Music course and completely regretting all of my life choices. My favourite part of the day would be getting home and sitting at my piano, writing songs and posting them on Tiktok. Views racked up, followers kept coming in and I think I realised how well everything was going when Laufey commented on my cover of 'Like The Movies'. Then about two weeks later, an email shot through my phone—literally like a bullet to skin. I dropped the rectangular device to the ground mid-lecture, hand on my mouth, teeth in my lip.

Nieve Ella had asked me to join her on tour. With Inhaler.

At first I was laughing, then I was bawling with endless tears of happiness and now I'm on my final show still feeling woozy and adrenaline is banging through my brain. The whole band have become my best friends. And, quite shockingly, me and Inhaler have a weird shared history. I've known them since I was really young. I used to watch their first gigs at tiny venues where they'd run around in the crowd and hardly anyone knew the lyrics. I went to the same school as Bobby, Eli and Ryan who were a bunch of madmen. They'd let me hang out with them backstage or at practice and jam before they finally found a 'proper' keyboardist (Louis). To be honest, I'd always been slightly salty that I never got into the band. But I guess we were never close enough and I could be quite horrible to Bobby — but honestly, he deserved it. He was a whiny, teenage nightmare. Still is. Except he's not a teenager anymore.

Thankfully, Nieve Ella and the band take a train separate to Inhaler. I don't have to hear Bobby's jests 24/7. Today we're heading to Dublin. The final stop of the Cuts and Bruises tour. It's been a long ride but it's all been worth it. I've had the best time ever. I'm listening to the Strokes, a song Bobby recommended to me a few weeks ago. It's been on my mind ever since and I can't stop hearing the same chords and riffs over and over. Even when my headphones leave my ears. The song is 12:51 and funnily enough Bobby has a tattoo right on his bicep with those exact numbers. The lads gave us a rather enjoyable tattoo tour with reasons for each of their inked designs.

I lay back my head against the cushioned seat. I like this, I prefer it to what I was doing before. The constant stress, the exams, the structure. I like the freedom of doing shows and seeing new people and travelling to new places. Never sure what you're in for. Crowd after crowd with all different energies and enthusiasm. The adrenaline rush is the best part of the day but when you wake up the following morning, it's like the life has been sucked out of you. You feel like nothing. Human. A person with legs and arms. Flailing around with no thoughts in your head. A billion times worse than a hangover. Post concert depression. The lull after such a powerful high. It's nice to go through that hell with a group of friends who all feel the same way. Becomes a strange group therapy.

For the past hour, I've been begging Josh to tell me what is on the set list. I'm praying they'll add some different songs. Older ones. Seeing as it's the last show of the tour. Something to surprise the fans. Maybe 'Falling In' or 'There's No Other Place' or even my favourite 'You Might Get What You Want'. That was one that was written when Rob was the lead singer of the band. When I'd bang the keys in that garage. When we'd sing the lyrics together and sound like an awful church choir. I never got the chance to listen to it live, performed properly by the band. I'm still heartbroken they didn't leave it on the track list for the album. I have to resort to listening to illegal Spotify versions.

I feel like crying everytime I remember this is the last show I might ever do with Inhaler. The last time I might see the lot of them. They'll surely disappear off into the shadows once tour is over, making their next album, cutting off all contact to focus solely on their music. After spending so much time with a group of people, then completely losing them from your life, you just feel so very empty. Like a swimming pool with no water. Or a mug of tea left hollow after spilling it all by accident. Last night — I would never dare to admit this to anyone — I cried for two hours straight into the pillow of my hotel room. Tour is a glorious thing. Fun, exciting, terrifying all at the same time. But the thought of finality is what split me into pieces, broke me up and squeezed tear after tear from my eyes.

Fran keeps looking at me with raised eyebrows like she's about to ask a question. She's scribbling on her set list, making sure she knows exactly what's happening and when. Her earrings twinkle as she tilts her head, her eyeliner sharp and perfect. Her mouth parts the slightest bit to reveal white teeth, a small smile. "You alright there, Luz?"

God, anytime someone asks me that, it makes me want to cry ten times more. I look down the train compartment, stare at the bathroom and decide whether to make my move. Do I run and hide in there for the duration of the trip, two hours of crying into mouldy train toilet paper? Or do I try to brave it and tell her how I feel? Or just lie through gritted teeth? She's good at reading me. She'll know that I'm not telling the truth.

"Don't tell Nieve this but I feel like absolute shite." There it is. I said it. Fire sinks into my skin, blood rushes up to my head. I squeeze my cheek to make sure I am actually sitting here and that I'm not hallucinating. Lack of sleep had made me seem some weird shit. I need caffeine. Quick.

"We all do." Fran puts her hand on top of mine. "Look, one more show, then we can sleep for as long as we want."

"That's the thing. I don't want this to end."

Fran gets up from her seat and swivels around the table. She sits down beside me, arms opening up and embraces me until I think I see stars. No one has ever hugged me so tightly. My bones seem to audibly shift.

"Nieve's doing a few shows in February, remember? And I'm sure next time Inhaler tours, they'll be on their hands and knees begging for us to come back." She strokes my hair. "Although, Bobby might be telling us to bugger off instead. You two need to sort out this drama. It's driving us all mad."

"He started it." I sound like a three-year-old irritated at my brother.

Fran laughs to herself. "Fucking hell. I bet he did."

—

Arguing. It's happened again. Our last day together has gone to a great start.

First stop of the day—a random restaurant that Ryan dragged us to. Hugs were shared, kind words uttered, teeth glowing under dim lights. I sit down on a wooden chair, peel my jacket from my body and place it on the back. The cool wind is slamming against the windows. I'd forgotten how cold Dublin was. Especially in November. Some Christmas lights adorn the streets and pubs are lively with masses of people. We were stopped a only once on the way there by a group of fans—even our attempt at scuttling through empty alleyways didn't work when five friends with Inhaler-themed cowboy-hats impeded our trail. They were lovely. Photos taken and compliments exchanged. Sadly, Bobby was in a bad mood. When I say a bad mood, I mean a 'I want to kill everyone on this planet and throw myself on a train track' kind of bad mood. He hid away from the fans, behind me and Nieve. His height wasn't particularly helpful in that instant. The blonde, 'Amelie', had said in her thick French accent, "Is that Bobby? I was wondering where he was."

Caught. Found. He thought staying there for a while longer would make them think he wasn't there at all. Amelie was persistent, however, and said softly, "Please could I take a picture with you?"

Her friends all started whispering. Eli was tapping his friend on the shoulder to get him to move. He was frozen. Eli frowned and shook his head.

"Sorry but Rob's being a bit weird today," Josh explained. "I don't think he wants any photos."

Amelie nodded, but the sadness in her eyes was apparent. "That's okay."

I felt bad for the girl. I turned around, looked at Bobby. He was on his phone. Scrolling through Tiktok still crouched down. A quick look at his phone screen showed me that he was watching edits — edits of himself. I had to take a double take to actually believe what I'd just seen. He was staring at clips of himself, smiling, and wouldn't even stand for five seconds next to a girl who'd paid to see his band. He continued to swipe his thumb against the screen, blue eyes lit up by his bright phone.

Then his eyes caught mine and he closed the Tiktok tab. "You didn't see that, did you?" He worriedly spoke so unbelievably quickly, I had to scramble my brain to decipher the words. His smile flipped upside down. Shock written all over him. Blush rising right up to the tips of his ears.

"The hell is wrong with you?" I muttered. Nieve heard. She stepped away. She did not want to be involved in whatever the two of us were plotting.

"What's wrong with me?" He breathed. It's like he was asking himself the question but there was an unyielding harshness to his voice, raspy and agitated. I was sure that this argument was going to be just as bad as the Sid Vicious incident, or worse. Halloween Bobby was on a different wavelength — bordering on depravity.

"You're watching fucking Tiktok edits of yourself. Didn't think you could be that self-centered—"

"Can we not do this now? Please?" Bobby tried to get me to calm down. Amelie and her friends were still only metres away, asking Josh about the tour, about the next album. Fran was listening in. She was smiling to herself. Part of her definitely enjoyed the beef between us.

"Show me your Tiktok."

"No."

"Now."

He sighed. I grabbed his phone, opened Tiktok straight away. His whole 'For You' page was edits of himself. The account he was on was a fake user account. I couldn't believe my eyes.

"What the hell..." Was all I could manage to say.

"I can explain."

"Can you? Go on then."

He didn't say anything. Took his phone back and kicked the brick wall beside him. He shook his phone around like he was going to throw it as well. That wouldn't change anything. I'd seen the worst of it — at least I hoped I'd seen the worst of it.

"Take that photo with those girls and I'll shut up about this." I gave him an option. A way to let him get out of the hole he'd dug for himself.

He was so tall. Sometimes I forgot that. But there, back straight, no longer slouched and his neck craned to meet my eyes. I couldn't hold eye contact. His clenched jaw was making me nervous.

"Fine." He finally concluded the argument with a single word. His index finger then pointed towards me, just beneath my neck. "But you don't tell anyone about this."

I grinned. "I promise."

Stepping over towards Amelie, he smiled widely, put an arm over her shoulder and allowed Fran to take the picture of the group. Moments later he was complaining about his shoes. How they were too small. If Robert Keating had a chance to complain about anything, he'd take it and wouldn't shut up about it. I just knew at that point that we'd be hearing about his shoes for the rest of the day.

Tension is thick in the restaurant. I can almost taste it in my mouth. Rob sits beside me. I don't want to look at him, don't want to hear him talk, don't want to have anything to do with him. He's only the only person I won't miss once this tour is over.

Before anyone can get a word out, Eli taps his fork against his glass. All eyes fall to him. Grace is next to him, she's appeared out of nowhere.

"I just want to say thank you to Nieve, Fran, Lucia, Finn and Matt for being such great openers on our tour. We're so grateful for all of you. This wouldn't have been the same without you."

"Aw, Eli, I might cry a bit, please stop." Nieve shakes her head, holding her napkin to her eyes. "This has been such a dream. We should be thanking you for giving us this opportunity."

"We need to do this again sometime." Ryan pitches in. "Next time we tour, you're coming with us."

"Yeah. That would be grand," Josh exclaims, pulling up his pint of Guinness and crashing it against everyone else's.

Bobby, after all his hours of complaining, has gone back to silent, angry mode. Playing around with his fork, he stares blankly at the menu, fingers tracing the lettering. I watch him as the others melt into conversation. I just want to know what is going through his head. Why is he acting like this? Last week, he was fun to be around and we had a good time. Especially when he's drunk, he loosens up a bit and stops with the facade. He even kissed me once. As a joke. I think.

It was a mess of alcohol. A 'midnight tour bus party'. We were in London and instead of going to the hotel, we ended up spending the night in the lovely green tour bus. We all got so drunk we could hardly speak. I can't remember all that we got up to but when we were sobering up, Bobby dragged me outside of the bus. He gave me his jacket, placed it over my shoulders. We sat down on a random doorstep, hugging each other to keep warm. Two penguins. Two people who usually hated eachothers guts, finding comfort in the warmth that emanated from our bodies. I'd never thought his hair was nice until that moment. How it grazed over my neck. How the curls twisted perfectly and his overgrown mullet framed his face. Or how pretty his eyes were as they shone under streetlights. Dreamy, long eyelashes, sea-like waves. He'd kissed me. His long fingers over my cheeks. His pink lips slotting between mine. I pulled away, shocked. Electricity had sparked between us, my heart was pounding, my body was a torch. Then I ran away from him. I couldn't understand what If just felt. I had never seen him in that way. We never mentioned it again.

Maybe that's what has made him colder. I still haven't acknowledged what happened that night. I keep thinking that he was too drunk to even remember it, but maybe he does. I'm not going to bring it up. Especially now. Especially in this restaurant with everyone sat with us.

"I'm sorry, Lucia."

My heart drops. Bobby is looking at me. Downcast. Entire state is disjointed. His mouth just said that, his brain just formulated those words.

"What?" I must've heard him wrong. Imagining it. This time I must be hallucinating.

"I'm sorry about that night."

Mindreader. He knew what I was thinking about. What my mind has been lingering on. The weather reminds me, his scent reminds me, his hands remind me, his jacket reminds me. That night. London. The night after Troxy. The wind — cut-throat, sharp, steely — the rain, and my tear-stained bedsheets. The taste of his mouth and the dejction locked into his eyes as I left him. Like I'd made a terrible mistake. Like running into my hotel room, alone, was the worst possible option I could've chosen.

I'm wearing the same earrings as I did that night — these ribbon ones that a fan made for me. Bobby had pointed them out — which he shifted between his fingertips and said they suited me. He's eyeing them now, hands curving, resisting any urge to touch them again, to drag us back to that moment.

The waiter takes my order. Bobby's words properly forage the depths of my mind, the veins and the arteries circling around my body, the aching crevices of my heart. I ask for the first thing I see on the menu and a Fanta. I want to stay sober. I want to savour all that will happen beyond this second. Bobby also doesn't get alcohol. Shockingly. The Bobby I know would never turn down a pint of Guinness. But he gets a 7up instead and takes a long, hard gulp of it when the waiter comes back. I'm counting the cracks on the table, how squeaky the chair is, the coffee stain on the ceiling — trying to guess how they managed to get up there. Musicians like to occupy their brains. They don't like to think too much - just do.

"I'm sorry..." I whisper. Finally giving him a reponse after a long pause for thought.

He had been waiting for an answer. He catches it. Twists uneasily in his seat. Wood creaks. Rain patters.

"...It was wrong of me to leave you." The image of his despair still rings through my bones. I swear when my cells divide they keep trying to recreate that look on his face.

"I shouldn't have..." his voice lowers, heat pf his mouth glides by my ear "...kissed you."

I'm trying to drink my Fanta with no reaction. Sugary greatness. Cold, slightly wet fingers. Orangey flavouring. But his voice is so low, trickling, burning, goosebump-inducing. I can't look at him. He's too close to me. It's too hot in the restaurant. Soundcheck is in 20 minutes. I want to run away again. I always want to run away.

Down my Fanta, smooth my skirt, breathe in deeply.

"I liked it." I similarly glide my lips over his ear when he's least expecting it, returning the favour.

He coughs. Chokes a bit on his drink. Then he eats his Pesto pasta with the pinkest neck I've ever seen on a person. Jacket off to reveal long, tattoo-covered arms, and the muscles that have progressively been getting bigger over the months. I join Ryan and Matt's drummer conversation to stop staring. It's weird. Being attracted to him feels wrong. Teenage Lucia would be ashamed. She’d slap some sense into me.

Dinner ends quickly. We're thrusted back into Dublin air before we can even adjust to the complete switch in environment. Running to the venue, through alleyways, shooting splashes of water all over the place, we realise how late we are. I feel better than I did in the morning. That dreaded train ride. Bobbys giving me the silent treatment again. I hate it. I hate it more than when he's being downright horrible to me.

Our set was unbelievable. The best show I've ever done. The crowd was unreal, the size of the place was absurd. We had never sounded so great. Everything went according to plan. We're crying now that we're offstage. We need something to uplift us. Nieve's idea is to party in the back. Which is one of the best parts of the night.

We find a spot just before Inhaler goes on. Screams bleed through the room, adoration written in teenage faces, phones held up to capture the moment. The five lads on stage. One final time. I scream like I'm sixteen all over again, dancing as the first song 'These Are The Days' begins to play. Shouting along, throwing my hands in the air. I don't think I've ever been so happy and fulfilled before.

The setlist is the usual. I didn't expect them to change it. Eli gives a little 'thank you' speech, mentioning us at the end. Then suddenly encore starts and I'm met by a mildly unfamiliar song. The crowd seems just as confused as I am. Bobby is wearing that stupid black vest and I swear his bass has been lowered all the more. The next time they perform, it'll surely be grazing the floor.

Bobby doesn't normally speak to the crowd at shows. It's always Eli. But as they play the intro, he begins to speak, "Hi everyone. Hope you're all having a good time." Commotion, screams, chanting 'Bobby' as if it's a cult gathering, not a concert. His eyes are searching through the crowd. The party in the back turned into moshpits and luckily I got pushed near to the front. His eyes land on mine. I can tell he's looking at when he plays with his earring — like it's a code between us. He keeps playing the same few notes on the bass lazily as he grabs the mic stand. Everyone is silent and listening as he says, "This is 'You Might Get What You Want'.

I recognise it now. I'm sent back to high school. 6 years ago. Practice room at school. Instrument cases strewn all over tha place, broken drumsticks leant against the wall. I'm sat at the piano as Bobby announces, "This is a new song I wrote." He passes me the chords starts singing. My thoughts are quiet. The external world is too loud for me to think. I'm lost in the music. The song is beautiful — lyrics, chords, arrangement, Bobby's voice. That was the day when I wanted to ask to join the band. Then Bobby was horrible to me so I changed my mind. I even asked him what the song was about. He looked at the Jim Morrison poster on the door, hand against his buzzed head as he thought up a response. "A girl," was his final conclusion. I thanked him for his specificity. He told me, quite frustratedly, it was 'none of my business'. Then he was riled up and told me to leave because I was 'playing it all wrong'. One of the last times I ever played with the band. So when I hear the song again — I'm back, sitting at the piano with my school uniform, waiting for cues to play the next chord.

The crowd goes wild at the fact that Bobby is singing alone. This is unusual. The majority of the crowd don't know the song. Reminds me of their first gigs in tiny venues. I sing along, staring at Bobby as he stares back. I wonder which girl the song was actually about. At seventeen, he hung out with every girl in sight - parties, random town meetups, gigs. The way he is looking at me is shattering me down to my core — eyes painted with affection and how he keeps moving his earring. For some reason, I wish the song is about me. Then he sings, 'You Might Get What You Want' whilst pointing right at me. Has anyone else noticed his staring? Nieve and Fran seem clueless. It could all be in my head. His face appears on the screen. I stare. Not ashamed. Appreciating his beauty for as long as we have left. Only tonight. Then nothing. Only the possibility of seeing eachother once again. It won't be set in stone.

I'm a sweaty mess by the end of the show. Last goodbyes, last waves, last shocked stares at the extent of the crowd. I always forget how boiling it gets in the standing area. I'm almost at the point of suffocating. We leave with the crowd, taking a few selfies with fans along the way. I stand in the merch queue. I need something to remember this. Something I can keep and wear and just be brought back to this venue, to this atmosphere. I buy a black tour shirt with the bubbly lettering, slipping it over my tank top. I just know the change in temperature will murder me. The more layers I have on, the better.

We slip through the crowd. Thankfully, it's quieter after my long time in the merch queue. I'd never seen such a long amalgamation of people.

Back at the hotel, I crash straight down onto my bed. Don't even turn on the lights or take off my clothes. I just close my eyes and stretch out my body like a cat. It all happened too quickly. I left the band early to head back, although I heard the rest of them were going to the tour bus to get drunk. I've already had so much fun. I just need to relax. Alone time. Silence. Comfort.

A knock on the door.

I jump up. Still in my Inhaler shirt and lacy white skirt, I feel like taking a shower. But whoever just knocked has impeded any plans. I could just pretend I didn't hear them. I could fall asleep and they'll just walk away.

Another knock. I jolt up this time. It's louder.

This time I reach the door. Sliding the keyhole open, I see him. Of course it's him. Of course. Of all the people that could be here right now. His hair is wet, mussed up. He's holding his jacket under his arm as it's completely drenched. Looking from side to side, he seems to contemplate giving up and leaving me solitary.

I open the door. Let my guard down. I want to talk. Rant. Let out all the garble mixing up and stuffing my skull. He'd listen to me.

"What are you doing here?" I ask. I don't say it rudely. Make sure to keep my tone quiet and curious. The rise of his head to meet my eyes is almost film-like, tracing along my skin, photographic.

"I need to talk to you."

"Come in then."

Close the door behind him. He drops his jacket onto the floor. Slides off those shoes with a groan. They really are too small on him. He can hardly untie the laces without sucking in a quick breath. He looks at himself in the dodgy mirror, trying to fix any flying pieces of hair. His beard is growing a little — little moustache fading in above his mouth.

He sits down on a chair by the table. His lengthy legs reach up to the end of the bed where I'm sat. He picks up a tea bag, sniffs it then puts it back. I'm worried about what he's about to say. He looks like he's gone through hell and back to get here. I've never seen him so dishevelled.

"You were amazing today." I hate the silence. I fill it up. "You all get better every time."

He's been so serious since he came in but the ghost of a smile haunts his lips. They twitch then fall. "So do you."

“Is this about your weird For You page because I’m pretty fucking worried.” I’m trying to forget I saw any of those edits.

“It’s not that.” He shakes his head. He's hugging his chest, arms shivering. My eyes narrow. Each hair on his arm is stood to attention.

"Do you want a blanket?" I'm about to look for something to warm him up when his hand clasps around my wrist. He's stood up. I'm sat down, looking up at him. His thumb traces the inside of my wrist, over a bracelet I have. One that he gave me when I was sixteen. A friendship bracelet he'd brought to one of the rehearsal sessions. I wore it just to get a reaction out of him. This is the first time he’s noticed it.

I want to ask him what he's doing. But then he's sat next to me with his arms around my body and I forget what I was going to say.

"Robert..." I don't normally say his full name. It's the only word that's coming to mind. His wet hair is dripping all over my skirt, his head is against my chest, he won't look up at me.

When I pick up his face, stretch my hands over his cheeks, I find his crystal eyes glossed over. Tears. He's crying. I don't know how to react. He buries his head back into the crook of my neck like he's embarrassed. Then he's breathing heavily. Heaving. Sniffling.

"What is it?" I whisper. I stroke every inch of his hair, the nape of his neck, the thin material of his vest. I trace the tattoos on his arm. Finally landing on the music notation inked into his wrist.

"I don't want you to leave." He holds onto my waist, under my shirt, cold skin. "Stay here. With me. Please."

I wipe the tears from his face. I must look like a beetroot. I'm boiling.

"Really?" I think I'm crying as well. I can't help it. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him so unguarded, so helpless.

"I only sang that song so you'd hear it." He looks up at the ceiling, cogs turning in his brain. "It's not just about a girl. It's about you."

"You're kidding." I have to laugh.

"I'm not. I wrote it during the summer holidays before high school. I had some weird thought that you were going to call me and ask me out. I was always a prick to you so I don't know where that idea was coming from exactly. It's just when you want something so badly—I guess your brain manifests it into reality. Like every time I turned around a corner, I thought you'd magically appear. I thought you'd say that you liked me. But then you went off to Uni, the band got big. And now this. You're in fucking Nieve Ella's band. I thought I was going to throw up when I saw you get out of the train. Everything just came back. I didn't put the song on the album because every time I hear it, I just remember what an idiot I am for not treating you well and for not telling you how I feel. Singing it brought me back to the practice room, to that shitty piano with pedals falling off the hinges. How you made such a disgusting piano sound divine. I don't want to make the same mistake. If I let you go now, I'll be regretting it for the rest of my life."

"So you were looking at me? When you were singing?" I tilt my head, thumb below his eye.

"I might have been." He's not crying anymore. His voice is less rough. He sounds like normal Bobby again.

"I'll stay with you. As long as you want."

"Forever?"

"Bit too long. I can only deal with you for about three hours at a time."

"Then we should make good use of the—" He looks down at his watch. "—Two hours and 43 minutes we have left."

"What do you have planned?" I'm getting closer to him. His nose bumps against mine.

"What do you want to do, Luz?" He's challenging me. Thumb swirling over my lips.

"This." I kiss him. Lips to lips. Two notes in perfect harmony. Everything we've been through culminating into one simple kiss. It's a peck. A tease. I pull away as I feel him yank me closer.

His hands find my ears and it's like that night again. His mouth tastes the same. Sweet. Lukewarm. He still grazes my bottom lip with his teeth when he feels me shift back.

"You're an angel," he says.

At that, I'm kissing him again. This time with more passion. Exploding fireworks. Jumping into the ocean, water floating around you. The ringing in your eyes after an explosion. An earthquake. A tidal wave. So many feelings at once. He's trying to take my shirt off. I let him. Pulled it over my head so quickly I thought he might get my neck off as well. He throws it onto the nearby chair, looking at me, with those glimmering eyes and perfect eyebrows. Beauty spots and smooth skin. I attempt to take off his shirt too, although it's pretty much stuck to his chest. He helps me out, laughing at my stress.

"It's not that hard." He smirks, tugging at the top as I manage to unstick the bottom.

"Fuck off." I roll my eyes.

He pushes me down onto the bedsheets, helping me up until my head is on the pillow. I look over his frame. Long torso, large biceps, chain around his neck. It's too much to deal with. Hooded eyes, smirk on his lips, happy trail leading down to his belt. He knows how he's making me dizzy. He leans down, curling over me, scent hanging, cool skin against mine. I throw my head back. I've never been touched like this. So precise. So gentle. Like I'm his favourite bass guitar. I'd never noticed how long his fingers were until they were splayed over my bra, until the other hand was sliding up my thigh.

He kisses my neck, my shoulders, my collarbones, the valley between my breasts, tongue flat, teeth sharp. I hold onto his hair, then onto his toned shoulders. This morning, I would never have expected that this would happen. That the boy I loathed was admiring me and tasting me with unrelenting adoration. Now, the thought of leaving him makes me sick to my stomach. I pull him a little closer, kiss him a little harder and remember just how red teenage Bobby's face was after he'd sang that song to me. How defensive he was when I asked him about it. Now it all makes sense.

I won't ever leave him again.

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eyesofshinigami · 3 months

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WIP Weekend!

I was tagged by the always wonderful @shares-a-vest, so here we go!

The Rules:

In a reblog (or a new post w/ rules attached) post up to five (5) file names of your wips. Not titles, file names.

Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any, go make some and come back to post!

After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file. If the filename is one you can’t share from (for example, an event fic), write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.

That’s it! You can invite others to join in, or just post. If you tag me in your post, I will send you an ask request!

The WIPs:

Teenage Dirtbag: where Eddie is a lot a bit of a creep when it comes to Stevie Harrington, but wouldn't you know it, but she's kind of into it too?

A/B/O Rarity: Where the Alpha and Omega genes are incredibly rare, but with Steve's luck, he's one of the few people who's got it. He hides it for years, until he can't/doesn't want to anymore, especially after he meets Eddie, who is the only other person he's ever met who also has the gene.

Adventures in Babysitting: another A/B/O idea where Eddie is an older Alpha and needs a babysitter/nanny for his young son, and cue them meeting Steve, the incredibly hot, young Omega babysitter who immediately pings every box he's ever had.

As for a snippet, here's one from Teenage Dirtbag that's a wee little spicy.

Things changed again, after that. Stevie abandoned all her old friends, stuck by Nancy and Jonathon Byers of all people, the three of them looking haunted and weary in a way that stuck in Eddie’s mind like a splinter in his finger. Gone was the ice princess who roamed the halls of Hawkins High like royalty, and instead was a girl who looked like she had Seen Some Shit. Eddie knew that look. He saw it enough in the mirror when it was a bad night.

And still, it didn’t wane. It got worse again, where Eddie pictured himself as some kind of black knight that would ride in and make everything better. He thought about getting her flowers. Or asking her if she wanted to go to one of his concerts and watch him play. Wondered if she would like having a picnic by the quarry, where he could get his hand up her skirt and kiss her and tell her that she was a supernova that had completely consumed him.

But he didn’t. Maybe there was too much Munson in him, too much of a coward to try and reach out and touch the untouchable. Stevie Harrington was always going to be the pipe dream, even more than Corroded Coffin getting discovered and him hitting the big time. Especially because she was graduating, and Eddie was still stuck spinning his wheels in this lame-ass school because he couldn’t figure out how to get his head out of all of his imaginary fantasies.

She was probably going off to some rich-kid school on a coast somewhere. She’d probably find some blonde-haired blue-eyed guy named Chad or Kevin or something and get married, pop out kids and live in the suburbs.

Until she didn’t leave. Until Eddie was fucking assaulted with the sight of Stevie Harrington in a tiny sailor’s uniform, slinging ice cream at the mall. That skirt was criminal, even more than the stupid tennis skirts she wore to school all the time.

His thoughts took a turn for the worst, sitting outside Scoops Ahoy like an absolute asshole and just drooling over the thought of bending her over the counter. Thinking about pulling her into the freezer and fucking her until neither of them could move, her clawing at his back and pulling at his hair and telling him what a fucking freak he was.

No pressure tags: @ghostinthelibrarywrites, @just-my-latest-hyperfixation, @marvel-ous-m, @devondespresso

I'm sure people have already been tagged, if you have, please poke me and I'll go take a look!

#wip weekend #les writes things

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wheels-of-despair · 9 months

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What You Deserve | Leonard Bast x You | Series Masterlist

Once upon a time, a boy entered a bookshop...

Part Two: Is That Fair? Words: 1.7k Date: Friday, December 22, 1911

Over the last year, you had fallen completely in love with a man named Leonard Bast.

He came to your father's bookshop every Friday. On his first few visits, he'd browsed for fifteen minutes and talked to you for the remaining forty-five. But then, after a while, he'd just accept the book you'd chosen for him and spend the whole hour discussing last week's read, or a classic, or the symphony he'd recently attended, or a highly lauded stage play nobody seemed to be able to acquire tickets to. You laughed, and you joked, and you looked forward to that hour with him all week long.

He was brilliant. He was passionate. He was handsome. He was the sort of man people wrote novels about. And tonight, you were finally going to tell him how you felt about him.

Your older sisters had teased you about your preference of books to men for years. They said that reading too much had made you romanticize men to the point that no real one would ever suit you. But they'd married the first boys who showed interest in them and moved out of your family's cozy home above the bookshop as soon as they could. What did they know? They certainly didn't know about your Friday evenings with Leonard Bast.

He was your most treasured secret. That hour alone with him on Friday evenings was always the best part of your week, but it wasn't enough. You wanted more of him. You needed more of him.

He was always on your mind. When you read a new book, you wondered what he'd think of it. When you made dinner, you wondered if he'd like it. When you curled up by the fire to read, you imagined leaning your head on his shoulder. And sometimes in bed, when the fire died down and the chill of the night crept in, you wondered what it might be like if he were there to keep you warm.

It was a flawless plan, really. You'd take him into the storage room in the back to show him the pile of books scheduled to go out on a sale cart tomorrow, and offer him first shot at the bargains. Once Leonard had made his selections, you'd wrap them in brown paper so they'd be easier to carry, and slip in your favorite book of poetry. As a bookseller, you were typically against writing in books, but this was an exception. You'd written an inscription to him inside the front cover and included several notes throughout that you thought would be meaningful to him.

Writing your feelings on a page in a well-loved book felt much safer than just telling him how you felt.

You watched the clock and the door, waiting for him to hurry in like he always does. Even though he doesn't need to rush anymore, it seemed like he was always in a hurry to get here. You like to think it's because he was as happy to see you, as you were to see him.

Your face breaks into a smile when you spot his red ears holding up his ill-fitting hat, probably frozen from the cold December air. He steps inside, wipes his feet, and smiles at you.

"Mr. Bast! I was hoping to see you today."

"Me?" he asks, in mock-surprise, like he always does.

"Of course," you smile, keeping up your little game. The clock chimes, and you leave your place at the counter to lock up. Mr. Bast is the only customer in the store. He hangs his hat and coat on the rack as the lock clicks.

"Do you have a good one for me today?"

"Even better," you smile. "Follow me."

You lead him through the store and to the storage room, where a cart is packed with books that are priced to sell.

"What's this?" Mr. Bast asks.

"Sale cart," you explain. "Jimmy's taking it out tomorrow, in hopes of clearing out some inventory before the post-Christmas flood of unwanted gifts."

Jimmy, the teenage son of one of your father's friends, was an occasional employee. A few times a year, you'd pack up the cart of books that had been shelved for too long, and send Jimmy to sell them on the street. He was friendly and talkative, which made him an excellent salesman. He also had a very obvious crush on you, and your sisters had teased you about your "young lover" relentlessly when they found out.

This cart is what led Leonard to you. He'd spotted it on the street one day, bought all he could afford, and was given a business card with the store's address on it with the promise of more discounted books. It was quite a walk from his place of work, and he'd struggled to make it on time… until you developed your Friday routine.

"But the sale doesn't start until tomorrow?" he asks, picking up a book to inspect it.

"For you, it starts now."

"Is that fair?" he asks, worry on his face.

"Consider this a Favorite Customer Preview Sale. Tomorrow, people will buy random books for friends and relatives as Christmas presents, because they are inexpensive and easy to wrap and appear to be thoughtful. You are one of the few customers who will concern themselves with the content of the books, and not the fact that giving the gift of a book makes you look superior. Please, good sir, shop to your heart's content."

He looks from you, to the cart, and back to you. You sigh and try again.

"Mr. Bast, I am expected at my sister's house on Christmas Day. Her children are expecting a fun aunt who wants to play with them. If you do not leave this shop with an armful of books today, I will consider myself a failure of a saleswoman. And if I am a failure, I will be unable to enjoy my time with my sister's children on Christmas. Think of the children, Mr. Bast."

He laughs.

"Too much?" you ask, cracking a smile.

"Most definitely," he grins, finally stepping closer and inspecting the cart full of books.

With your assistance, he picks out five books to add to his collection. At this price, not even Leonard Bast can pass them up. He passes you a few coins, and you drop them into your pocket with a jingle.

You'd eventually noticed the frays in his clothing and his well-worn shoes and the loose seams in his hat. He hid them well, but he needn't hide them from you at all. You're a seller of used books. You know that a good story is a good story, no matter what condition the cover is in. The same applies to people.

"Shall I wrap these up for you?" you ask, trying to mask your nervousness.

"Alright," he smiles.

You take the books over to the table, where you keep the brown wrapping paper. You let him ramble about the one he's most excited about while you wrap his selections - plus the book of poetry. You distract him by mentioning another title that may be on the cart, and slip the gift into his stack when he goes to check. You hope it brings him back to the shop tomorrow, rather than a week from now. You can't wait to hear his thoughts on it.

He takes his wrapped package with a warm smile, which you return. If he only knew…

You make your way to the storage room's door, and he pauses to let you exit first. You reach back in to close the door after he enters the hallway, and when it clicks shut, you notice that he's staring upward.

Someone has put mistletoe in the doorway.

You look into his big brown eyes, an explanation on the tip of your tongue - you don't know how it got there, honestly - but no words are spoken.

You feel yourself drawn to him.

You lean in slowly, and he does too.

You close your eyes as your lips finally meet Leonard Bast's in a sweet, chaste kiss. Your heart flutters. Your brain buzzes.

You want to do this every day for the rest of your life.

You can't control your blissful smile as you pull away…

But Leonard Bast is not smiling.

Panic sets in. What's wrong? Were you bad at it?

"I'm sorry," he says. What is he sorry for? You both clearly wanted this. You've been dancing around it for a damned year. "I have a wife."

Your heart drops into your stomach.

"A what?"

"I have a wife. This isn't fair to her."

A wife? He's never mentioned a wife. You're sure of it. He's told you all about his parents, and his brother the lay-reader, and his two married sisters who were older and had never been very close to him. You absolutely would've remembered him mentioning a wife.

You felt faint. You leaned against the wall and closed your eyes, trying to focus on your breathing.

When you opened your eyes, Leonard Bast was gone.

Your father returned soon after. He found you in the hallway outside the storage room, sitting on the floor with tear-stained cheeks and staring into nothing. He thought you'd been attacked, and was preparing to summon the police when you finally found your voice. You were fine, you lied. Just had a bad day and a lot of demanding customers. It's nearly Christmas, after all, and people were desperate to finish their shopping.

He scraped you off the floor and took you upstairs to revive you with tea and biscuits. But it didn't help. Nothing helped.

Mr. Bast didn't come back.

You and your broken heart carried on, trying not to wonder what Leonard Bast would think of this book or that one. You tried not to worry about what he was doing, or who he was doing it with. You tried not to care. He was gone. He was nothing to you. Just a man you'd sold some books to.

Once upon a time, Leonard Bast had been your best-kept secret. Now he was just a ghost inside your head.

#writings of despair #leonard bast deserves the world #leonard bast #leonard bast x you #leonard bast x reader

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chirpsythismorning · 1 year

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Your last post is amazing and I want to share with you that I had a similar journey when it comes to shipping byler.

I first watched the show when season 2 had just come out in 2017, and I was a hardcore milkvan shipper (I was 13 and I didn't know any better and lacked critical thinking skills lmao). While watching season 3 for the first time I noticed Will being gay (I gasped at the rain fight scene), but just like you I assumed milkvan would be endgame. After watching the infamous last milkvan kiss in the last episode, I was left with a weird feeling about it for the next week but I was never able to put my finger on what exactly had felt so wrong in that scene.

Like you, I also have never shipped ships where I didn't notice that there was clear buildup towards endgame (I even watched outer banks for the first time earlier this year and a lot of the fandom swears there has been jiara buildup from the first season, but I know that's not true and the only scene I can identify as true buildup is in the last episode of season 2). However, two years ago I began studying film and how it works, first in highschool and last year in college. I learned a lot about visual storytelling and I also gained an incredible amount of media literacy. Exactly a year ago, a month before vol 1 came out, I was bored and decided to rewatch the whole 3 seasons.

With my older age now and my better understanding of cinematography and narrative, I stopped liking milkvan in the first season because of the born sexy yesterday trope, but I also began to notice how Mike was surrounded by queer coding, both narratively and by the framing of his scenes with Will (the hand hold close up hello). Then I got to the end of season 3, watched that kiss again... and I noticed Mike's eyes were full open and the closet (Wills closet!) door was perfectly dividing Mike and El as if there was a wall between them. That's how, years after, I realized why that scene had felt so wrong to me the first time I watched it. I saw that boy was gay.

However, I was still skeptical precisely because I never fell for queer coding. But I went onto to Tumblr and I decided to read byler theories. I went in with an open mind and I realized that it made perfect sense and it was set up way too perfectly, so it couldn't be a coincidence, either it was queer waiting or true.

I went into vol 1 so excited, I noticed Mike's queer coding on episode 1 alone was SO heavy (I went 🤨 with his bedroom posters and one way sign, the way he looked at Eddie, the people he wanted to ask to be subs in Hellfire...). Then when he dropped the famous "were friends, were friends!" that's when I knew they were going there. And they I saw that he couldn't say I love you to El? That was the moment I smiled widely, and ever since that moment, I've known byler is endgame and I've never had a single doubt ever again. Not even in the aftermath of volume 2. I knew Mike's speech being based on the painting attributed to El when it's actually Wills mimicked the plot of many teenage early 2000s movies (yes I was the girl who wrote you that love letter not her, I'm the one who actually loves you like that... And then boom they always end together). Then, El wasn't speaking to him, and I saw the last shot with the couples standing together. I knew that it was intentional for them to be positioned that way, and at this point I knew it wasn't queerbaiting

YES!

It's so cool to hear other bylers experiences with being introduced to all the evidence and just hearing about similar experiences in general!

I feel like a lot of bylers are just sort of lumped in with this naive stereotype of someone who always falls for queer-bait? Like we kind of just get lumped into it when the circumstances for Byler are completely different than the queer-bait ships that came way before.

I'm not saying there's anything wrong with being a frequent queer-baitee. There literally isn't. Especially bc queer-baiting is referring to instances when a queer non-canon pairing is supported by the fans and the creators sort of humor it while knowing full well it won't happen?

Obviously times are changing at like lightening speed.

For example Stranger Things came out in 2016 and tbh 2016 is a completely different era of representation that 2023. 2016 was like the end of the queer-baiting era almost, give or take a few years. As we got closer to the 2020's, we started to see more queer rep that I feel like wasn't very overtly obviously queer-bait, but often queer characters at the forefront as the main or being more than just another example of the 'bury your gays' trope.

Also I took film classes in high school and I'm now majoring in film studies! So that was also something that no doubt had a massive impact on my perspective of things changing throughout that time from s1 to s4's release as well!

Even despite that I am a little bit slow about catching onto things, and so like it doesn't even matter that I have extra terminology under my belt or something. For example, I have a sister who hates movies, but when I do manage to convince her to watch a movie or show that I think she'll like, she'll notice stuff I didn't notice upon watching for the first time, while I on the other hand didn't notice that detail until like my 3rd rewatch. And it seriously pisses me off so much!!!!! She doesn't even appreciate her gift!

I remember watching s4 with her, and literally having no knowledge of anything outside of half paying attention while watching, she was like, Mike's pocket looks like an arrow... And I just looked at her completely silent and had to look away like seriously fuck you I had to go online and hear hundreds of bylers obsessing over it to think about it that way. But that's also just us as a fandom seeing stuff simultaneously and figuring it out together. Maybe I would've figured out the arrow pocket myself if I had actually not been exposed to the flurry of theories while s4 was promoted and released.

Still, it just goes to show that while yes extra knowledge about film is extremely helpful, like very helpful obviously, someone without any experience can be capable of picking up on things you missed regardless. And I do love that because it's just a reminder that no matter peoples bias' we can work together and figure shit out.

Also why I sometimes still enjoy lurking reddit bc they can be smart, and even a homophobes POV can come in handy bc I feel like they are avoiding the gay subtext at all costs so they're able to focus on things that we might overlook?

I do notice that a lot of people treat bylers like they are pervs and need to stop shipping boys together bc it's just not going to happen and we shouldn't be crying queer-bait, or this or that?

But like, first of all, it's half-canon my friend. One of the characters is, in canon, in love with the other. And there's still one more season left. And the other character has no idea that the other character is in love with them...

That doesn't happen bro. It just doesn't.

And not only that but, we were obviously milkvans at one point... I personally skipped entire episodes for those bitches...

And yet, even despite that, I also noticed something off between them just like 90% of the ga did before even looking up theories or picking up on byler fully.

This isn't a case of a bunch of people shipping two boys for shits and giggles (and even if it was, who fucking cares).

What's happening on Stranger Things is not something that happens, ever. You don't make the main couple become this pairing that the audience is indifferent to in the 3rd and 4th season, practically repeating the same storyline of them being incompatible, only to make their love for each other fail at saving the day... and with unresolved feelings between the main guy and his best friend being unaddressed... It's not a thing.

If more fans realized that this isn't even about shipping and it's just about literally paying attention beyond seeing what you want to see, then they'd understand where we're coming from. I shipped Milkvan but it's clear to me that the story is trying to convey they are not right for each other. I'm not going to hold onto a romantic relationship between two characters who met when they were like 12 and were sort of pressured into being romantic instantly, just bc love at first sight or something? That's stupid. If it was built up more satisfying, and if Will wasn't there being in love with Mike and with Mike clearly holding similar feelings then it wouldn't be what it clearly is. A fucking story that is clearly heading in the direction of a straight-bait/endgame main queer couple.

#byler #queer-baiting is sooo complex #the history behind it is also soooo complex #bc back in the day gay people were so vilified that ANY representation was a fucking godsend #even being teased and mocked was like well we're getting something?#it was at least something #that's the shitty part #but over time #dead gay character after dead gay character #it got exhausting #it wasn't even unique anymore #it wasn't something anymore #it was just the same recycled tropes reused by coward showrunners #who instead of telling the audience it wouldn't happen #they would joke about it very subtly in the show #like so subtely barely even there #but never actually have the characters talk about it #while also joking about it all the time in press #it was always like a big laugh fest while also humoring it even though... they knew it wouldn't happen #so byler is so interesting bc despite will being in love with mike #they refuse to go beyond discussing the other side of it #if they wanted to avoid queerbait they would have had mike be obviously aware of will's feelings rn and end the confusion #instead they tell fans that mike is still clueless #and then they're like next question #WHY do that if you see that everyone is starting to hate your main ship and support them?#why not be like sorry not happening?#probably because it would be awkward to backtrack from that statement when it does happen *gunshots*

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mbti-notes · 2 years

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Anon wrote: Hi, reading your posts made me realize I’m likely an INFJ in a terrible loop. For the last 6 months i’ve been reading about mbti I thought I was INTJ, and every test i tried said it too, but i didnt and still don’t understand Fe vs Te, even after reading your posts. But INFJ in a loop sounds a lot like me. So let’s go with that.

My auxiliary function is suffering. When I’m outside I have this tendency to observe people, the room, their behavior and enjoy dwelling in it, as if I’m reading a novel. It bothers me when someone says or acts rude, when a man bothers a woman like a creep.

In my head i’m so criticizing of other people. And if i’m not criticizing, im acting as if i can read everything about another person. I know this sounds horrible and very narcissistic, but i want to be honest to fix myself. And I know i’m doing this overthinking in social situations to defend myself by acting as if im superior.

But i just observe, i never interact. I havent talked to a single person in my class in university, since im a few years older (24 in a room of 21yo people). Even though i know if i want to socialize thats the right place. I start thinking: if i talk to them, they will get to know me, they will find that i failed or that i dont have a lot of my shit together, and then i will be judged. So why bother. And i know that its so flimsy and stupid. I only made one friend in my old uni before changing courses.

This is not only at university btw. I dont go out in the evenings, or try to meet new people, because i literally have no fucking idea of how to do it without looking like a misfit. My old friends are all very distant now, and while I know many people everything I never really dated, and while i have this insane void of emotional intimacy, i keep rationalising every attempt of experiencing life. I live in a shell.

And the fact i haven’t dated and i’m 24, is so scary. I’m not even ugly or that uninteresting or without hobbies, because people told me the opposite many times, but i dont know why i cant come out of my shell. This is not only about dating, but in general. Im always distant emotionally and end up thinking about it instead of living it. Because im a grown man scared of being judged for my smiles,tears and my love.

I think i have some trauma issues from my teens, when i talked to a girl on facebook for 2 years listening to her problems because i liked her, without ever approaching her irl (because i was a scared teenager idk why). It was a one way thing. I was basically her diary in human form. When i told her my feelings it was too late. After that i ended in a 1 yr depression, and it definitely marked me as a person. I never really opened myself emotionally with anyone else after. Maybe this is not even trauma, it actually feels demeaning to call it as such when other people have suffered more.

This post is a mess. Maybe im just overthinking, and you’ll probably read this and think i need therapy and/or im mistyped . But I really want to break these chains, and hearing an insight from someone who understand people very well could help.

------------------------

If I understand correctly, the main problem is you are closed off and unable to open up. It sounds like you are very afraid of socializing, most likely because you are afraid of being hurt by other people's negative judgments of you (it is a common problem related to unhealthy Fe). There are several factors that may be contributing to this problem:

- Low Self-Worth: You exhibit oversensitivity that arises from using other people's judgments to define your identity and/or determine your personal worth. If you're always worried about how you're being perceived, then you will of course feel anxious about interacting with anyone you're unsure about. This makes it very difficult to meet new people and expand your social circle.

- "Mindreading": You presume to know what others think, without any evidence, easily jumping straight to the worst case scenario. This is a defense mechanism that gives you a false sense of control, as though you're preparing yourself for the worst to happen. As such, you manage to talk yourself out of socializing, losing every opportunity to learn and grow socially.

- Unresolved Past: You've had negative relationship experiences in the past. When you don't resolve negative feelings, learn the right lessons from them, and consciously put the past behind you, you will take the past and project it into the future, expecting it to happen again. This means you are out of touch with reality because you never treat people as NEW people and give them the benefit of the doubt. You assume that people are out to hurt you and you build walls of protection, which conveniently prevents anyone from knowing you and getting close enough to want a relationship with you.

- Lack of Social Skills: It's hard to feel confident when you're incompetent. Even if you were to work up the courage to meet new people, it sounds like you would still lack the skills required to develop the relationship. Immature INFJs often suffer in relationships because of unrealistic ideas and/or unreasonable expectations, which is often related to faulty reasoning patterns (Ti loop). Social skills are called "skills" because anyone can learn and improve them. If you care about being a better version of yourself, you have to be honest about your deficits and apply yourself to learn the knowledge and skills that you need to move forward in life. See the recommended books on the resources page.

While it's possible to work on these issues on your own, it's the more difficult path to take. When you have a serious problem like social anxiety that prevents you from living the life you hope to live, then, yes, it is best to reach out for professional expertise and assistance. People aren't born knowing everything, so everyone needs help at some point and there is no shame in getting it. As long as you keep trying to convince yourself that your needs don't matter or that your problems aren't as serious or serious enough to warrant attention, you will continue to dig your own grave of unhappiness. How long do you want to go through life with these problems weighing you down and holding you back?

#infj #auxiliary fe #social skills #social anxiety #infj relationships #ask

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reasoningdaily · 1 year

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From left: Charles Turner, Timothy Catlett, Levy Rouse, Chris Turner, Russell Overton and Clifton Yarborough, attend the funeral for their friend Kelvin “Hollywood” Smith on Oct. 27 in Capitol Heights, Md. (Jahi Chikwendiu/The Washington Post)

https://wapo.st/3PFKslz

Clifton Yarborough patted his chest as he turned his gray Honda into a narrow alley in Northeast Washington. “My heart racing fast,” he said. He eased the car to a stop and pointed to a garage behind a rowhouse. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s where it happened.” There was graffiti on the weathered plywood door. Otherwise it looked ordinary. There was nothing to indicate what had unfolded in the small structure 39 years earlier.

The alley in the H Street neighborhood is around the corner from the home where Yarborough, 56, grew up, but this is the first time he has been here since he was a teenager. He didn’t want to stay long. He put the car into drive and pulled away from the place where a 49-year-old mother of six from the neighborhood was found dead in 1984, the victim of a brutal beating and rape.

Then 16, Yarborough was the youngest of 17 people arrested in the case. He and seven other young men from the neighborhood would eventually be tried, convicted and incarcerated for a combined 258 years. Justice, it seemed, was served.

But the men have insisted all along that they had nothing to do with the rape and the murder. That they didn’t know anything about those crimes. That their trial wasn’t fair.

Kelvin Smith, who served 35 years before being released in 2019, died at home in October. Steven Webb died in prison in 1999 after a stroke. He had served 15 years. The other six men — Yarborough, Christopher Turner, Charles Turner, Timothy Catlett, Levy Rouse and Russell Overton — are now in their 50s and 60s.

They have completed their sentences and been released from prison. The final one got out just last year.

But this ghastly crime hangs over them. They are free, but not free.

What they want, they say, is for their names to no longer be associated with one of the most vile crimes in Washington history. And they want the government that prosecuted and jailed them to admit it was wrong for not sharing evidence they believe would have helped them prove their innocence.

All of the men now live in Washington or its close-in suburbs. They have jobs — forklift driver, maintenance worker, parking lot attendant, janitor, warehouse worker.

They have reconnected with their families and friends and are trying to shape a new life in a city and world that has changed immeasurably from the city and world in which they grew up. Their newly free lives are dominated by thoughts of what they’ve lost and what they can still salvage.

“What hurts is my character being slandered, that people say I would do such a thing that I didn’t do, especially to someone I knew,” Yarborough said. “Clear this. Make it be known we didn’t commit this crime.”

Rouse says it is hard for him to trust anyone. He was 19 when he was arrested and had a newborn son,whom Rouse wouldn’t see in person until his release in 2019.

“I wrote letters to him a lot, and when he grew older he would write me back, saying — Dad, I know you’re innocent and I’m always going to love you,” Rouse said. “It hurts me inside to know he had to go through that.”

Rouse says he and his 39-year-old-son are now the best of friends, making up for time they were apart.

Since getting out of prison, Rouse has focused on moving forward.Now a maintenance worker, he has completed computer courses from a career training school. He also counsels other former prisoners who have recently been released. And in September, he got married. “It’s wonderful, wonderful,” Rouse said. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”

But even as he looks forward, Rouse can’t let go of the past. “It’s important the truth comes out because they know they was wrong,” he said.

Charles Turner lives at brother Christopher’s apartment in Southeast Washington. He has a full-time maintenance job at the Martin Luther King Jr. library in downtown Washington. He’s determined to reclaim his time.

“They took 36 years from me, so I plan to be out here alive for another 36 years,” Turner said. “I’m gonna get those 36 years back.”

Turner, 59, said he feels cheated that he was locked up when his mother died and that he couldn’t say goodbye to her. And he laments never having children.

“Being locked up, they took my bloodline,” he said. “No one is gonna ever know I was even here.”

Christopher Turner, nicknamed “the Mayor” by other defendants, was the first to bereleased. He was given a shorter sentence than the others because he had completed high school and had no criminal record. In prison, he spent much of his time reading and learning about the law. While incarcerated and in the years since his release in 2010, he has led the effort to clear his name and those of his fellow defendants.

Along the way, Christopher Turner has also become an advocate for prisoners. He is on the board of the Mid-Atlantic Innocence Project, which works to prevent and overturn convictions of innocent people, and Free Minds, a D.C.-based book club and writing workshop for incarcerated youths.

The men’s effort to continue lobbying for their innocence while reentering the workforce and reconnecting with their families and their city, Christopher Turner admits, is wearying.

“I know the guys are really tired,” he said recently over breakfast at a Capitol Hill diner. “We’re trying to move on with our lives. But this is still a fight we need to fight. As long as there’s air in my body, I’ll continue to fight.”

The men compare their case to that of the Central Park Five, the five teenagers from Harlem who were convicted of the 1989 rape of a woman and spent years in prison before DNA evidence and a confession led to their convictions being overturned in 2002.

But this murder occurred before the use of DNA in solving crimes began, and no evidence that can be tested survived. And unlike the Central Park case, no one else has come forward to admit guilt.

Over the years, the men have unsuccessfully appealed their convictions.

In 2017, at the Supreme Court, their attorneys argued that prosecutors violated the Brady rule by not turning over evidence to the defense. The court ruled 6-2 that the withheld evidence would not have made a difference in the outcome of the case. After that decision, the men were out of options.

But their attorneys and some of the most powerful law firms in Washington have stuck with them.

“I wouldn’t represent them if I thought they had any involvement in this whatsoever,” said Shawn Armbrust, executive director of the Mid-Atlantic Innocence Project and Christopher Turner’s attorney. She has been working with the defendants since 2005. “Our standard is — you can’t have any involvement in the crime. If we find evidence pointing to guilt, we’re done.”

But there are no legal appeals left to file. No courtroom arguments left to make. No witnesses left to cross-examine.

For the defendants and their attorneys, their only hope may be a presidential pardon. And that, all of them acknowledge is, a long shot.

Crime was a problem in Washington in 1984, especially in the busy, blue-collar corridor of H Street NE. Murders in D.C. were nowhere near the astronomic levels they would climb to in the late 1980s and ’90s, but they weren’t rare either.

Among them, one murder stood out: The Oct. 1, 1984, killing of Catherine Fuller.

Fuller was 49, Black, a married mother of six who lived a short walk from the alley behind H Street where she was found dead on that rainy October day. She had been beaten and sodomized with a pipe-like object. It tore through her intestines and abdomen, according to medical examiners. Her ribs were broken. Fuller weighed less than 100 pounds. She had been robbed of $50 and some jewelry.

Years later, her son David Fuller would remember her as “a loving, caring parent.” His mother, he told The Washington Post in 2017, “was the type of person who would go out of her way to do anything for you.”

The pressure on police and politicians to find the culprit — or culprits — was intense. The most promising information came the first day, when a street vendor who found the body told police he saw two men acting suspiciously in the alley, one with an object under his coat. They ran when police first approached the scene.

But there was little else to go by. Then a couple of anonymous phone tips. A caller referenced the “8th and H Crew” and mentioned a few names.

Three days after the murder, detectives, acting on the tip, picked up Yarborough. Then 16, Yarborough was a special-educationstudent at Eastern High School. His IQ was below 70, and he had difficulty reading. He was interrogated for hours without a lawyer or a parent present.

Yarborough said he told police he didn’t know anything about the crime, but he eventually signed a statement that provided some details and names. He would later say he signed the document because he was scared.

Despite the early leads, the investigation stalled. It was not until late November that a 16-year-old girl gave police the name of Calvin Alston, a person she said had talked about committing the crime. The girl later acknowledged being high on PCP when she was interviewed by police. Alston denied being involved but eventually gave police information about Fuller’s death and a few names, including Yarborough’s. Later Alston would testify that police threatened him with life in prison if he didn’t admit to a role in the murder.

The detectives brought Yarborough back in.

According to Yarborough, the questioning this time was relentless. He said detectives slammed him against a desk, injuring his knee, and held his head above a flushing toilet. The detectives denied those allegations under oath and said the injury was preexisting.

Eventually, Yarborough said, the detectives wore him down. He said they read a statement to him given by Alston and told him to corroborate it. Yarborough agreed, and his statement was videotaped.

“The homicide people interrogated me to a point where I wanted to do anything to get out and go home,” Yarborough said, sitting at a Starbucks across from a Whole Foods on a revitalized H Street that bears little resemblance to the neighborhood in which he grew up. “First they had to calm me down from crying.”

His attorneys would later argue that Yarborough’s testimony was coerced. The two lead detectives and a police officer who worked on the case either declined or did not respond to interview requests for this story.

Yarborough’s statement became crucial evidence that helped lead to the arrests and conviction of his fellow defendants and cemented the idea in the public mind that the crime was the work of a ruthless gang, the “8th and H Crew.” All of those charged, however, said there was no gang. Some of them didn’t even know one another.

Ultimately, 10 people were brought to trial in 1985 for Fuller’s murder. After deliberating for seven days, the all-Black jury found two defendants not guilty and six guilty. The jury told the court it was “impossible” to reach a unanimous verdict for Christopher Turner and Russell Overton.

The judge ordered the jury to continue deliberating, and two days later, the jury returned with guilty verdicts for both men. It had taken “40 to 50” more votes to reach a unanimous decision, jurors told reporters later.

Christopher Turner, then 20, was stunned. He was so certain he would be found innocent that he had turned down a plea deal that would have required him to serve just two to six years. Taking a plea deal for something he hadn’t done was something he objected to on principle, he said. “People still ask me, do you regret not pleading guilty and going on with your life? And my answer is no, emphatically no, I don’t regret it.”

David Fuller was 16 when his mother was killed. He knew a few of the defendants. Christopher Turner was three years older and helped manage Fuller’s go-go band. Yarborough was the same age and lived around the corner. Yarborough said he used to bring pies his grandmother made over to the Fuller house.

Fuller, who now lives in Missouri, originally agreed to be interviewed for this article but then did not respond to messages. The Post was unable to locate Catherine Fuller’s other children. But David Fuller talked about his mother and the case in 2017 for a Post story.

By then, he said, he had found a measure of peace with what had happened. “Even with loss you got to keep going,” he said.

And he acknowledged that some or all of the men may not have been responsible. “My heart goes out to some of the gentlemen if they were falsely accused, because they suffered,” he said.

Russell Overton, 65, folds his 6-foot-7-inch frame into an armchair in the living room of his 85-year-old mother’s tidy Silver Spring home. He has lived here with his sister since his release in March 2022.

Overton, the last of the men to be released, was the oldest of them when they were arrested. He was 26 then and had children. Now he is a great-grandfather and getting to know his family as a free man.

The adjustment hasn’t been easy. Overton still sleeps with his door open and wakes at every sound. He keeps his toiletries in a container on his dresser the way he did when he was locked up. He has a job at a warehouse where he is doing well but is still coming to terms with engaging in pleasantries and trusting people.

“What happened to [Catherine Fuller] was wrong. I’m sorry that it happened. Sympathy for her family,” he said in an interview, leaning forward in his chair. “But there’s no way I can have remorse when I never did have anything to do with it. I wasn’t no angel out there. I got in trouble here and there, but I didn’t do this.”

The system, he said, failed them all.

In 1995, while still in prison, Christopher Turner wrote to Post reporter Patrice Gaines, who had helped cover the original trial. He told her he wanted her to know he was innocent. Gaines looked into the murder and made discoveries that raised questions.

In 2001, Gaines reported that Harry Bennett, called as a witness in the case, told her he had falsified testimony to avoid a life sentence.Bennett said the prosecutor, Jerry Goren, “painted a picture for me. All I had to do was say yes.”

Gaines would also learn a critical piece of information never turned over to the defense. Three weeks after Fuller’s murder, a woman named Ammie Davis told police she had been in the alley that day shooting heroin and saw a man she knew named James Blue. She said Blue savagely attacked a woman and stole money from her in the alley. The week before the Fuller trial began, Blue fatally shot Davis. He died in prison in 1993.

The defendants in the Fuller case challenged their conviction in D.C. Superior Court in 2012 and learned during discovery that another key piece of information was never turned over.

One of the men who ran when police first approached the scene was James McMillan, a 19-year-old who was new to the neighborhood. Three weeks after Fuller’s body was found, McMillan was arrested in two violent assaults and robberies of middle-aged women in the neighborhood. But even though he had been identified at the scene by three witnesses, prosecutors did not share that information with the defense in the Fuller case.

Eight years after Catherine Fuller’s murder, McMillan would be arrested for the murder and forcible sodomy of a woman in an alley in the same H Street neighborhood. He is serving a life sentence in federal prison in Virginia. He declined through prison officials to be interviewed and previously denied any responsibility for Fuller’s death.

During the 2012 proceedings, Goren, the prosecutor, admitted that evidence had been withheld from the defendants. He testified that he didn’t pass on information about McMillan because he did not believe it relevant enough. He also said he didn’t tell the defense about Davis because he didn’t find her story credible.

Reached briefly by phone at his California home earlier this year, Goren declined an interview.

D.C. Superior Court Judge Frederick H. Weisberg ultimately rejected the bid for a new trial, saying the “petitioners have not come close to demonstrating actual innocence.” In 2015, the D.C. Court of Appeals confirmed that ruling. The Supreme Court decision in 2017 ended any hopes the men had of having their convictions overturned.

For some who have followed the case, the Supreme Court ruling was the culmination of a process that has been flawed at every step of the way.

“It’s reaffirmed for me that there are some deep systemic problems in the legal system and that those need to be fundamentally changed,” said Thomas L. Dybdahl, whose book, “When Innocence is Not Enough: Hidden Evidence and the Failed Promise of the Brady Rule,” tracks the legal journey of the Fuller murder defendants in the context of examining Brady disclosure requirements.

Dybdahl argues that even though the Brady rule requires prosecutors to hand over favorable evidence to the defense, they have little incentive to do so because they face little threat of punishment for not adhering to it.

The defendants in the Fuller case “didn’t want mercy, they wanted justice,” Dybdahl said. “Unfortunately, they didn’t get either.”

In 1985, Michele Roberts was a D.C. public defender representing Alphonso Harris, one of the men charged in Fuller’s murder. Roberts, who retired last year as the executive director of the NBA Players Association, remembers the “intense pressure on the government” to get a conviction. Her client was one of the two defendants to be found not guilty.

While her client went free, Roberts said the evidence withheld from the defendants would have been critical to the outcome of the case.

“If I had what we later discovered … all of them would have walked,” she said. “The most powerful evidence that you can present as a defense attorney, if it’s credible, is to be able to say ‘Not only did my guy not do it, but let me tell you who did.’”

John Williams, a lawyer with the powerhouse Washington firm Williams & Connolly who represents Yarborough and argued the men’s case at the Supreme Court, said one option may be available to the defendants to provide them some measure of justice.

Williams said he and the other attorneys are actively considering petitioning for a presidential pardon. It is a complicated process that could take years, and there is no guarantee they will be successful.

“Those are always long shots,” he said. “But these men are incredibly deserving.”

“They were wrongly labeled as murderers. The system still regards them as murderers,” Williams said. “I understand why they’re continuing to fight, and that’s why we are continuing to fight for them.”

In late October, the six surviving defendants wore suits to the funeral of their gregarious and fun-loving fellow defendant Kelvin Smith, known to all of them by his nickname, ‘Hollywood.’ On a breezy, sunny afternoon at a cemetery in Hyattsville, they walked past rows of headstones and markers to the gravesite. One of Smith’s favorite songs, “Bitter Sweet Symphony” by the Verve, played through a speaker nearby.

Smith was Christopher Turner’s best friend. On the day of the funeral, Turner said he thought about how little freedom his friend had been able to enjoy and how he wouldn’t live to see his name cleared. “I felt bad because I wanted him to have that moment,” Turner said.

On days when he struggles to find the energy for this fight, Turner said, he thinks about Hollywood and about Steven Webb, who died in prison. And he thinks about his fellow defendants and their families and friends, whose lives were forever changed by a horrific crime in a small garage in an alley in Washington almost 40 years ago.

“I’m not even sure what keeps me going,” he said. “I just know there’s a fire burning inside me to right a wrong.”

#DC #Wrongfully Imprisoned #Fake Evidence #No Rape #They served decades in prison for a crime they say they didn’t commit #Black Lives Matter #Six men #wrongly convicted of a rape/murder in 1984 #with no recourse with no DNA evidence available

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ilovewhiteroses · 2 years

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The comparison of The Corinthian and Cassidy

Hello there! I hope everyone is doing fine! In this post I looked at the similarities and differences between The Corinthian from Netflix's Sandman and Proinsias Cassidy from AMC's Preacher (they are originally from DC comics). I did this because I love both men and I thought it would be interesting to take a little closer examination at them 😀

DISCLAIMER: This post features mentions of violence, horror and adult themes so do not read it if you are under 18! Also, spoilers for both shows.

NOTES: - I never read the comics, this post is about the show version of the characters (as it is mentioned above). - Keep in mind that these are my views and opinions therefore they may differ from yours. - I didn't go into depths, I wrote in general terms. - At the end of the post I listed the sources that I used and helped me in this writing. - The most important: All this was written for simple fun, please, no mean comments! 😇

THE STORY: Sandman: Morpheus, the personification of dreams and one of the seven Endless, is captured in an occult ritual in 1916. After being held captive for 106 years, Dream escapes and sets out to restore order to his realm, the Dreaming.

Preacher: Jesse Custer is a hard-drinking, chain-smoking preacher who, enduring a crisis of faith, becomes infused with an extraordinary power. He embarks on a quest to better understand his new gift and literally find God, alongside his trigger-happy ex-girlfriend, Tulip, and new vampire friend, Cassidy.

THE ACTORS: Boyd Holbrook: American actor known for Narcos, Logan, The Predator. Joe Gilgun: English actor known for Misfits, This Is England, Brassic.

THE CHARACTERS: The Corinthian: He was a tall, blonde and charming nightmare who escaped the Dreaming. Despite being old (in the show he was thought to be around 130, although I think he was much older), his desire for freedom and independence was more similar to a rebellious teenager. When he broke free, he enjoyed life and killed people for pleasure over the years and he was notable for his sunglasses, due to the fact that he had no eyes just a pair of small fanged mouths in place of them.

Proinsias Cassidy: He was a roguish, dark haired (but was blonde in season 4) former human, who turned into a vampire in 1916. Cassidy was around 119 and since he had nothing better to do in the world, he also enjoyed life: he was drinking, used drugs and slept with people. Similarly to Corinthian, he had sunglasses but only wore them rarely. He killed animals when he needed blood and only killed people when he felt he was in danger or felt threatened. He was notable for not having fangs unlike other vampires (season 1), but this was changed in later seasons.

SUPERNATURAL POWER: The Corinthian: Consuming the eyes of his victims allowed Corinthian to view their memories and thoughts.

Proinsias Cassidy: As a vampire Cassidy was immortal, was able to consume deadly amounts of drugs and alcohol without feeling the negative effects (although he passed out a few times when he got really drunk) and had superhuman strength at the beginning of the series.

MOTIVATION: The Corinthian: He left the Dreaming to see what the world had in store for him, but mainly to taste what it was like to be human.

Proinsias Cassidy: Unlike The Corinthian, Cassidy had no real motivation, he was just out there meeting people, having fun and drinking.

DRESSING STYLE:

The Corinthian: The Corinthian was always dapper, sharply dressed and usually wore white and cream-colored outfits, plus the essential sunglasses. When he killed someone, miraculously his clothes never got bloody.

Proinsias Cassidy: Cass had a rather chaotic fashion style, which meant that he wore whatever he could have find on his way, most of the times clothes that did not go together. In season 1 for instance, he was wearing items from the church’s collection box. When it came to murder, unlike The Corinthian, Cassidy's clothes got quite bloody and it didn't seem to bother him.

RELATIONSHIP WITH THE TITULAR CHARACTER: The Corinthian: Corinthian had no friends and he didn't seem to need any. His relationship with Morpheus, at least to me, seemed more like a creator/creation one, but at the Cereal Convention, when Morpheus confronted him, Corinthian looked like a rebellious teenager who was angry at his father so there maybe was reference to a father/son connection

Proinsias Cassidy: Since he used to be a human, Cass longed for friends, but was a lonely soul because, being a vampire, he saw his friends - whom he cared about - die and that meant he had to look for new ones. Upon meeting Jesse Custer the preacher in the first episode, Cass considered him early on as his best friend.

LOVE / ROMANCE: The Corinthian: He was not in love with any human, he just flirted with and was having sex with them to fullfill his needs. Although this didn't mean he was incapable of falling for someone whom he would have had find interesting. I think what he needed was rather appreciation. He never got it from Morpheus but we saw him enjoying the adoration and applause he got from the killers at The Cereal Convention.

Proinsias Cassidy: Over the years, Cass, quite possibly, had several romantic affairs with humans and became the father of numerous children. In the show, we saw him falling in love with Tulip - who happened to be Jesse's girlfriend-, and dated Eccarius, the vampire cult leader in season three. While The Corinthian used flirtation to manipulate people and get what he wanted, Cassidy's feelings seemed genuine when he showed attraction to someone.

GROUP OF FANS, FOLLOWERS:

The Corinthian: The Cereal Convention, while it suggests that it was a convention for cereal lovers, was actually a convention for serial killers where Corinthian was asked to be the guest of honor.

Proinsias Cassidy: Les Enfants Du Sang was a cult of vampire wannabes, lead by Eccarius (a real vampire, who turned out to be a killer). He showed Cassidy what vampires were capable of, for example, flying among the stars, controlling minds and transformation.

VILLAIN / ANTI HERO: The Corinthian: He was a sadistic killer, basically the villan of the season. Despite of being the bad guy, Corinthian himself killed several bad people: - Miss Rubio (after she repeatedly refused to let Rose see Jed) - Barnaby and Clarice (the abusive bastard and the spineless wife who was too scared to help Jed) - Fun Land (a child molester who tried to get Jed)

Proinsias Cassidy: Cass wasn't a villain but did some horrible things in the past (assault and battery in Las Vegas, attempted murder in New York). Like Corinthian, Cass also killed some bad guys: - The vampire hunters (who wanted to kill him) - Eccarius (who murdered the vampire enthusiasts) - Frankie Toscani (who tortured him)

DEATH:

The Corinthian: Well, technically he didn’t die in the first season, he was unmade by Morpheus and has the chance to be remade, to return.

Proinsias Cassidy: He committed suicide by walking into the sunlight in season 4.

SOURCES: AMC Netflix Wikipedia tvtropes.org preacher.fandom.com/wiki/Preacher_Wiki sandman.fandom.com/wiki/The_Sandman_(TV_series) Google Images boyd-holbrook.com/photos showme-yourfears.tumblr.com kissthemgoodbye.net

#boyd holbrook #joe gilgun #the corinthian #cassidy #sandman #preacher

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noisynaia · 2 years

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TAG GAME - YOUR FIRST FIC

In honour of my pocket friend who posted her first fic today (she shall go unnamed because she’s still reeling from the anxiety) I thought I’d share my experience posting my first fic and tag some writers who I’d love to hear from on the subject!

I’m curious - why did you decide to post your first fic? How did you feel about it? Any tips/advice you want to share with people who are thinking about posting their fic?

Thank you for the tag @davnittbraes! <3 what a fun and meaningful tag game!

My First Fic Story:

I think I have always had a tendency to get very engulfed in the media I consume.

I have had a very strong fondness for literature, since I was very young, my parents read a lot for me and because of that I was exposed to many stories from an early age, that I properly was too young to read myself. (My parents also had a rule that you had to have read or heard the book before watching the movie haha)

Then when I was a little older I found fanfiction and that was such a fun and intriguing way to continue and build on the stories and characters of the books and movies I liked.

I wrote my first fic when I was a teenager, It was a hunger games one and I posted it on ao3, I was not huge or anything, but it got a decent number of hits, I had not expected that and I actually enden up deleting it because I got too insecure about it and I stopped writing for a long time after even though I kept on reading and enjoying fanfiction and kept making up stories in my head. A lot of my insecurities came from the fact that I write in English, which isn’t my native language, and it is honestly something I’m still pretty insecure about. The whole ‘I’m not good enough’ thing is so real and so brutal.

But around christmas of 2021 I sat down in front of my laptop and wrote again for the first time in years. It wasn’t until August 2022 that I got the guts to actually post something, which enden up being Distant Suns, here on tumblr and ao3. It was super uncomfortable, but I am so happy I did it!

I think what really helped me finally doing so was that I came to the conclusion that my writing didn’t had to be perfect or even necessary ‘good’, if I enjoye doing it it reading enough and if other people happen to enjoy it too then that is just an amazing bonus and most importantly that it is okay to make mistakes. My writing is never going to be perfect no matter what language I write in, but so what, nothing is. I stopped telling myself that I shouldn’t write because my writing was flawed and started to tell myself that it was cool that I wrote despite of it.

So for anyone who is thinking about publishing their first fic or doubting themselves, I can only recommend you doing it, cause I’m sure that someone out there are going to be really happy that you do <3

And to any of my fellow writers out there writing in English despite it not being your native language, here’s a little reminder that you are really cool, in the form of a Giancarlo Esposito meme <3

no pressure tags <3

@goodwithcheeseese @wildemaven @obi-ham-kenobi

#tag game

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autopotion · 2 years

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I love seeing you guys final fantasy tactics-posting omg :,) glad to see that people still love this game

Anon I will be super honest I had no idea that I had anon questions even on at all so when I went into my inbox this was a huge surprise LMAO. A pleasant one though. I'm not really a BNF or anything, I kinda keep a low profile, so this is extremely sweet.

But yeah!! I'm not sure if you're new here (re: to my blog) but I'll give you the backstory anyway. FFT was a foundational game to me growing up. It also is among the games introduced me to video games as a whole; I actually grew up watching my mom and sister play it, and then my brother and I played together when we were a little older. All of us cite it as among our favorites, if not our very favorite. FFT is also one of the few media properties from my childhood that I haven't grown out of. In many ways I feel like I grew into it, as the text is quite dense for a video game and a lot of the finer points and politics flew over my head as a child (not the least because I was playing the PSX version, which I adore, but that translation is not exactly known for its clarity).

I got my spouse @officecyborg to play it when we first started dating, and she liked it all right then, but it wasn't until I replayed War of the Lions about a year and a half ago that she really latched onto it, which was delightful to me as a long time FFT lover with no real place to channel my interest (most of my close circle of nerdy friends haven't played it, and my siblings like it for different reasons than I do). We got really into Delita/Ovelia, which was a delight for the teenager in me who had been obsessed with them (and I guess I still am lol), and I maintain that Zoe has The Best And Most Correct Delita opinions. (Ovelia is my favorite. (: )

Over the course of April/May last year we also wrote in a feverish haze what we lovingly refer to as "the manifesto," AKA a series of interconnected Delita/Ovelia vignettes that frames their tumultuous relationship in a way that we feel reflects what we like most about them. I've yet to read a fic that really captures what I love about their dynamic, though a small handful come very close, so it's been an exciting project. We put it away for a while to focus on other things, but have since returned to it to clean it up, and plan to slowly post it to AO3. One of our favorite scenes from "the manifesto" is already up, actually, since we liked it enough to post on its own, and wanted to present it to the world just in case we abandon the project for other endeavors. You can read it here, if you want. (My spouse and I usually focus on writing our own original fiction that we hope to post as a mixed-media web serial, so "the manifesto" is an unusual side project that we happen to hold very dear.)

Also, if you like my spouse's funny and insightful FFT posts, please go through her #tactics blogging tag for more wonderful gems.

And if you're looking for more people who talk about FFT, I would be super surprised if you hadn't poked around @corpsebrigadier's blog, who is I think hands-down the most steadfastly encouraging FFT fan when it comes to reading, distributing, and creating FFT fan content. Also their cakes look amazing. @adalheidis has also created some of my favorite FFT fanart ever, though Lou is more chiefly a Tactics Ogre fanartist if you're into Tactics Ogre too, and also just creates really stunning art regularly, especially original stuff.

But yeah. My blog name is an FFT reference (the Chemist reaction ability) and so is my video game aesthetics blog, @zeltenniacastle (though unfortunately FFT shows up on that blog quite rarely, as not a lot of folks gif it or make edits of it). It's a very important game to me and probably my favorite game of all time. I used to replay it every summer, and started switching between the PSX version and War of the Lions as a comparison. I don't talk about it all the time, but it's always lying in wait, waiting for me to re-hyperfixate on it, lol.

#quiznaibus #oh yeah my ask tag is an fft reference too!#to the dancer ability 'wiznaibus' from the psx translation #in sum: final fantasy tactics (:#fft blogging #tactics blogging

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thedepartmentofdiscoveries · 2 years

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Noah Schnapp News!

Noah Schnapp, who plays the closeted gay teenager Will Byers on Netflix’s “Stranger Things,” has come out as gay.

In a video posted to his TikTok account on Thursday, the 18-year-old actor wrote, “When I finally told my friends and family I was gay after being scared in the closet for 18 years and all they said was ‘we know'” — over Schnapp lip-syncing to an audio clip from a different TikTok of someone saying, “You know what it never was? That serious. It was never that serious. Quite frankly, will never be that serious.”

In the caption to his TikTok video, Schnapp wrote, “I guess I’m more similar to Will than I thought.”

In July, following the debut of the final two episodes of the fourth season of “Stranger Things,” Schnapp confirmed to Variety for the first time that Will Byers is gay and in love with his best friend Mike (Finn Wolfhard).

“It was always kind of there, but you never really knew, is it just him growing up slower than his friends?” Schnapp said. “Now that he’s gotten older, they made it a very real, obvious thing. Now it’s 100% clear that he is gay and he does love Mike.”

Will’s sexuality had been an open question since the first episode of “Stranger Things,” but Schnapp had always deflected questions about the character’s identity, noting instead that the character was still “up to the audience’s participation.” In his July interview with Variety, Schnapp said that he wasn’t entirely sure what “Stranger Things” creators Matt and Ross Duffer had in mind for Will, and once he did, he didn’t want to spoil the way the show revealed the character’s journey in Season 4.

“I think it is done so beautifully, because it’s so easy to make a character just like all of a sudden be gay,” Schnapp said. “People have come up to me — I was just in Paris and this, like, 40-year-old man came up to me and he was like, ‘Wow, this Will character made me feel so good. And I related to it so much. That is exactly who I was when I was a kid.’ That just made me so happy to hear. They are writing this real character and this real journey and real struggle and they’re doing it so well.”

When Variety asked Schnapp about how he navigated the attention on Will’s sexuality while he was also still figuring himself out, the actor pointed to all the tribulations the character has faced over the course of the series.

“I think it’s all just part of the challenge of acting,” he said. “This isn’t just a single layer thing of he’s struggling with coming out. It’s this multifaceted trauma that goes years back, because he was taken by the Demogorgon and then his friends, they never acknowledged him, and now he’s scared to come out and doesn’t know if they’ll accept him.”

Netflix and the Duffers have announced that Season 5 of “Stranger Things” will conclude the show, but there is no confirmation yet when production will begin on the season, let alone when it would debut.

#noah schnapp #gay #lgbtqia+#stranger things #will byers #good for him though

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mangoshorthand · 1 year

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I want happiness for Five, and I mean no disrespect towards your or thebearmage's opinion! I just wanna share mine, but somehow I can't see Five with anyone when it comes to having a romantic relationship. Even when I think being "trapped" in his teenage body is some sort of a second chance since he lived for so many years alone in the apocalypse, but his mental age remains and gets older, and him being with someone the same physical and/or mental age or older seems still weird to me.

You're fully right that getting with Dolore's in some sort of way would be a regression in Five's emotional development. He's all right to still treasure her though since she played an important part in his life.

What I am curious about the first episode that's called "The Unbearable Tragedy of Getting What you Want" is if it's only about Allison, and probably Reggie, because we saw they got what they wanted after the reset, or if it affects the other siblings too. So I was thinking about human or humanoid Dolores as well, but it still wouldn't make much sense since Allison and Reggie had a deal.

What I mostly want for Five is his siblings finally cherishing him instead of blaming him all the time, they would be already dead without him. I am so sick of it. I like Luther and I can understand he's angry because Sloane disappeared, but I really wanted to punch him when he scolded Five in the last scene. He doesn't deserve this.

As the family will mostly live their own lives, I really want Five to also find some connections to new people that care for him and love him as well. Love doesn't always have to be romantic. With this said I just hope they do the finale season justice, because adding too much in only 6 episodes would be messy since there are already a lot of answers that we must get for the previous seasons.

I didn't intend to suggest that Five necessarily needs romantic love. I would be extremely surprised if season 4 went down that route with him (except perhaps as a joke: I think him winking at/checking out a 50+ librarian at the university could be a funny side gag but that's as far as I'd go with it were I writing S4). I didn't have romance in mind when I wrote the post, I more just wanted him to find someone he can confide in who likes him for him. Outside of meeting new people, I could see Lila fulfilling this role for him extremely well, (although obviously she has Diego-shaped biases). Having said that, I can see him struggling to understand emotional intimacy that isn't romance, if only because he probably doesn't have a framework for it. It would be another good site of character development for him: learning to trust someone who just wants to be friends and has no ulterior motives.

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abyssofsydney · 5 months

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Scrolling through social media this morning I came across a post in one of my support groups made by a mom that instantly took me back.

She wrote about how her family consisted of narcissists and how recently her father had bought her teenage daughter a car and it has been brought to her attention that he was keeping tabs on the granddaughters whereabouts (suggested via airtag tracker on the car) which he justified doing so as "he owned the car".

There was much more to the story and the mom was very concerned for her daughters wellbeing and simply in shock that her father could do such a thing.

I read through the post once and had to read through it again, the more I read the more memories and emotions come flooding back.

I remember being that scared teenager driving home from school being followed by an unknown car, usually an older male. I remember turning down side roads and going way out of my way just to loose him, only to finally make it home and have that same car sitting across the street.

I remember the feelings of constantly being watched and always looking over my shoulder. I remember never feeling safe.

I remember the police lights flashing in the darkness of my cars mirror's while my friends and I are being questioned about what I was doing that night, who purchased my car, and who my mom was hanging out with while we weren't home.

I remember the nightmares every night of people peeping in my bedroom windows and trying to break in... just to wake up and look out my windows to see unmarked cars watching my house day and night.

I remember being pulled out of class my junior year by police officers to interrogate me about who my mom was currently dating.

I remember when my mom and I called the county and state police just to try and get the harassment to stop, to no avail.

I remember being run out of the only place I had ever called home, by people who were supposed to protect me and make me feel safe.

My father and his small town connections wreaked havoc on my life during my final two years of high school. Well he has always wreaked havoc, and he usually has minions to assist and do the dirty work, because that would require audacity to do himself. After his and my moms divorce my sophomore year, he constantly tried to control every aspect of our lives. Brainwashing my little sister to think that my mom was a drug addict, persuaded her to tell my mom she didn't want to live with her anymore, as he was trying to "protect her" by moving her out of state to live with him and his new girlfriend (whom actually was a drug addict). He then left my mother and I with a house that he refused to sign over or sell, therefore went into foreclosure because Mom was unable to refinance after he left and could no longer afford the monthly payment with only one full time income. My Mom and I were literally days away from being evicted from my childhood home and no one in the family cared at all that we were about to be homeless. My father and sister had actually ghosted us at this time. To be honest I really don't remember most of the reasoning behind why the arguments happened, all I know is that it was always the same pattern. lies, broken promises, overstepping boundaries, confrontation, blow up, silence, silence, and more silence.

During those two years of high school, and for many in my early twenties, it was common to go months, if not years without talking to my Dad. It was only until he starting dating this awesome lady who had a huge heart and family as a prerogative that he started to try and have a relationship and somewhat what to be my Dad.

These two years he lived out of state with my sister and had almost zero contact with me. He told everyone who would listen that I was a bad kid who was always into trouble and going nowhere with my life.

Occasionally I would want to go visit my sister, and I knew the only way to do that was to reach back out and apologize and say whatever to make him happy so that I had the privilege to drive the 9 hours to visit with my sister. Usually these "good periods" with my Dad were not long, weeks, maybe a couple months, and something would happen and the cycle would repeat.

lies, broken promises, overstepping boundaries, confrontation, blow up, silence, silence, and more silence.

I had a really nice car in high school, thanks, to my aunt and uncle. They made an agreement with me where they financed and I made the payments.

Almost immediately, the car and how I came about it, Dad had spun it into a thousand different lies, depending on who you asked, all of which made me look bad.

He was bitter that I had gotten a sports car on my own when he had only weeks prior took away an old pickup truck that he had given to me at 16. Again, I never remember what specifically triggered the agreement, but this one specifically I remember blowing up at him for something (maybe secretly getting married? still not totally sure) and then we didn't talk. Next thing I know my Grandpa walks into the house after school one day and he said, "I need the keys to your truck, your dad called and told me to come pick it up". I cleaned my stuff out and gave him the keys. A week later I saw his friend driving it around town and heard that Dad made him a "great deal!".

After this happened I cut contact for months, as did my mom for how he left us for homelessness over silly signing a piece of paper. He then became thirsty for control over us as he no longer had access to our lives. He then decided to recruit his friend from high school who was now a detective with our local police department. I used to get followed by marked and unmarked cars around town and home from school constantly. We always had cars parked across the street staring at us, and then when you would approach they would turn their lights on and drive off. One time I got pulled out of class to go to the principals office where they put me alone in a room with two officers who interrogated me about what I do after school, the locations and people I hang out with, as well as where my mom goes outside of work, and who she was dating. I worked at a local restaurant and they would sit in the parking lot and either watch me get into my car after my shift and follow me home, or be parked waiting across the street when I got home.

He used to tell me he had friends in the CIA and they were trained to sneak into peoples houses without you knowing it while you're sleeping. He then would call me a few days later and ask if I noticed a picture was crooked something was moved, because so-and-so had been in my room and did it without me knowing. Now that I am older I realize that probability of that is very low, however, it still gives me the creeps to think about.

Going back to the social media post that stirred these memories all up... I commented on it telling her she's a good strong mama for being concerned and trying to do what's best for her daughter. I also gave a smidge of my backstory with my Dad and this woman was so kind that she felt bad for me! It was not my intention at all, I was only trying to reassure her that she is taking the right steps as someone who has gone through similar. The responses I received to my comment made me step back and really think about what I had endured with him those last two years of high school...

Especially as at this time of my life I was already dealing with so much. I spent everyday after school in the PEDS floor of the hospital spending time with my cousin, who was only one month older than me and we grew up side by side. Down the hall was one of my dearest friends since 8th grade (and future prom date). They were both dying of cancer, Kallie from a brain tumor, and Spencer from testicular cancer that had spread. I was so young, dealing with so much as it was, all I wanted was a Dad I could count on. Not one that harassed me and had strangers follow me. Looking back I truly do feel bad for my younger self. I don't know how a father could be so cruel to one daughter and then treat the other like a princess...

My parents always seem to find it appropriate at present day to tell me about how I was such an angry teenager. But they always fail to remember the circumstances that I had to grow up and live in.

#rant post #personal rant #long rant #family #family drama #dysfunctional family #eldest daughter #oldest daughter syndrome #childhood trauma #police harassment #abuse of power #mind games #scared teen

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