#im not dealing with hate in my inbox

[butch-with-a-deep-voice]

So I recently received a rather hateful anon. I chose to block them instead of responding to the anon itself, so as not to receive any further bullshit from them. But they were attacking me on grounds that I was white, and faking being indigenous (along with some rather hateful slurs mixed in), and I do want to address that.

I never claimed to not be white. I'm Métis, a community that is entirely predicated on being mixed race. I am of both white family roots and indigenous. Glossing over the fact that light-skinned Indigenous and Latinx people exist all over North and South America, and that the internalized colonial racism-binary received on that basis is its own expired can of worms (thank you blood quantum debates 🤮), mixed race people exist y'all. In fact, most Métis people are light skinned. Our people's history is defined by being "too white" for many indigenous communities, and "too Indian" for white society, and that comes with its own generational stories, traditions, and trauma.

When I joke that "my family's shit is in the colonizers museum" that's because it literally is. It's like a 5 minute drive away, and a request to access the vaults to go look at it. When I go to ceremony with Métis community members and Elders I don't stop being white, and when I interact with purely "white" aspects of society I don't stop being indigenous. Both are true, that's how dialectics work. I am very aware of the privilege my skin colour affords me, and I never take it for granted. In fact I actively try to use it when I can to create opportunities for my indigenous siblings who aren't as light skinned.

I don't make this post as some form of defense or argument to my indigeneity. I have enough security in myself and my community that some anon isn't going to shake me that easily. But I make it because the notion that a blood quantum or a hue of my skin color negates my family's heritage is what colonization aimed to achieve in the first damn place. Attacking eachother for shit like how pale I am during winter (cuz honey, I *TOAST* during summer) achieves nothing but furthering internalized racism plaguing indigenous people baseline.

To that anon, if you find a way around my block somehow, I'm sorry you've been hurt by people enough to find it appropriate to drop vitriol like that into people's inboxes unannounced. I hope you can find healing and love within your life, to turn that around. I'm gonna light a smudge for you.

[kuruk]

help I also had that same oversensitive problem with anons like the ones where it's somebody trying to be silly or w/e and the person responds like "ok" I cant leave the post on my screen for too long. it used to make me answer all my asks like a cheerleader writing an hr email because I'd be like what if they think im mad and then theyre so sad forever... it used to be so bad when I was a kid too I'd get flushed and tear up during cartoons where there's one guy who's always the butt of the joke bc he sucks I'd be like i can feel squidwards pain intuitively

help I know I used to answer every ask like that too but then I got annoyed by myself and my enthusiasm or well more embarrassed lol. but I used to get a lot of asks everyday but I'm shy and don't have much to say and never know how to respond and I get overwhelmed easily so I just couldn't answer every single ask or think too deeply about it anymore.. also I thought if I answered a lot of people with just "..." and such when I don't know what to say it would just be like well I'm the kind of person who always talks like that naturally so it doesn't mean I thought it was stupid imjust talking and being myself and such. so now I don't put too much effort into my online tone I'm always like Oh and Okay and I see and . and such. because well I do see.

[generalzar0ff]

really hope that person wasn’t a mutual istg

[princessmyriad]

.

[wirt-and-wirt-by-products]

The bots be hacking real folks now ,,,,

[propertyofwicked]

ONE - LN

summary: the quadrant team find themselves in a hotel for the night, but there's just one issue - there's only one bed left.

warnings: none, just fluff ig

a/n: this is so short and i kinda really hate it im so sorry - i think this was requested but i cant find it in my inbox :(

masterlist the playlist

y/n had been working with the quadrant team for a while now, helping out with filming and editing their videos. it was a dream job, honestly, getting to travel around and hang out with friends, even if it meant dealing with a few chaotic moments here and there.

they were on location, ready to shoot some new content for an upcoming video. however, when they arrived at the small hotel only to find that there were only three rooms available for the night, chaos ensued as they tried to figure out the sleeping arrangements. three bedrooms, six beds, six people.

“lando snores - absolutely not,” max called out, grabbing niran quickly.

“y/n wakes up at 6am - absolutely not,” ria followed, grabbing araav too, leaving y/n and lando stood quietly next to each other, assigned to a room despite not getting a word in edgeways.

“it’s a good thing i’m a heavy sleeper,” y/n sighed, looking up at lando who smiled at her softly.

“it’s a good thing i don’t mind waking up early,” lando replied, grabbing her camera bag before leading the two of them to their room. y/n fumbled with the keys, trying to unlock the door quickly.

she opened the door and froze, lando walking straight into her back, not expecting the sudden stop. there, in the middle of the room, was a single double bed. y/n turned back to lando, who was standing behind her with their bags.

“um, lando, we have a problem,” y/n said, stepping aside so he could see.

lando peered into the room and his eyes widened. “oh, great,” he muttered. “one bed.”

“yeah,” y/n said, rubbing the back of her neck, trying not to be saddened by his upset at the situation, “we’ll figure something out.”

“i’ll take the floor. it’s fine,” lando sighed.

“no, you won’t,” y/n shot back. “i’ll take the floor. you need a good night’s sleep for filming tomorrow.”

“so do you,” lando argued. “we can’t have you exhausted either.”

“no, i’ll take the floor,” y/n shot back, crossing her arms defiantly.

“y/n, don’t be ridiculous. i’m not letting you sleep on the floor.”

“well, i’m not letting you sleep on the floor either,” y/n countered, voice firm.

the others watched the back-and-forth with amused expressions, until max finally stepped in, appearing suddenly in the open door.

“you two are adults. just share the bed. it’s not a big deal.”

lando and y/n exchanged hesitant glances. they had been friends for years, sure, but sharing a bed felt... different. still, they both nodded, realising it was the most logical solution.

“fine,” y/n said, a touch reluctantly, “we can share the bed.”

as they got ready for bed, both of them were internally stressing. as y/n stood in the bathroom brushing her teeth, she couldn’t stop thinking about how close they’d be, especially when the mirror gave her the perfect view of lando laying on the bed, arm behind his head as he scrolled his phone. lando was trying to ignore the feeling in his stomach at the thought of lying next to y/n all night, one step away from googling alternatives to a cold shower. still, she climbed into the bed, each of them staying rigidly on their respective sides, trying to give each other as much space as possible - y/n half tempted to set up a pillow between the two to add some distance.

time passed and y/n found it impossible to fall asleep in the unfamiliar bed. she tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position, and with each turn, the sheets rustled loudly in the otherwise silent room. every few minutes, she let out a frustrated sigh, clearly unable to settle.

lando, who was on the verge of falling asleep, noticed y/n’s restless movements. he heard her get up and walk to the bathroom, the sound of the door closing quietly behind them. after a few minutes, y/n returned and climbed back into bed, but the tossing and turning continued.

another sigh escaped y/n, and lando, though exhausted, turned over to face her.

“you okay?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“yeah, i just... struggle to sleep in unfamiliar beds,” y/n admitted quietly.

lando sighed, his exhaustion outweighing his nervousness.

“c’mere,” he sighed, exhaustion outweighing his logic as he reached out, gently pulling y/n into his arms.

y/n’s heart raced, her body momentarily freezing up at the sudden contact but she relaxed into lando’s embrace as his hands settled on her hip, fingers extending along her skin. surprisingly, it did help. being close to him, feeling his warmth, was comforting.

as y/n’s breathing evened out, lando assumed she had finally fallen asleep, feeling a mix of relief and adoration for the woman that lay in his arms. he hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding. then, with a gentle, almost hesitant movement, he pressed a soft kiss to y/n’s head.

“good night,” he whispered, his voice tender.

“hmm night,” she mumbled back, barely conscious to recognise what was going on around her. it was better not to dwell.

[massiveladycat]

i will never get over people laughing at octavian's death personally,,, he was SHOT INTO THE AIR!!! thats so painful. all the burns and the impact, plus being flung from a cannon and probably slamming into gaia (literal earth goddess) plus festus (gigantic metal dragon, i bet that HURT) and leo (pretty sure leo was burning)

he was a kid and he was annoying to some people and he was usually antagonized but he didnt deserve to die OR go out in that way. the gods are a thousand times worse than octavian, and apollo told him that he'd be a savior of new rome, but people still justify them. not to mind there are much worse people in the PJO universe (gabe, LUKE)

octavian ily they could never make me hate you EVER. idc what you say he could have been redeemed. did he do bad things? yes. but he was so deeply influenced and the day meeting with leo and the others, in which i remind you octavian literally was watching new rome get blown up (no wonder he was livid, his home was on FIRE).

like come on. octavian is a complex character and people aren't willing to admit that he could've been better and he was just a literal teenager in the sake of hating him because everyone else/pjo characters hate him.

he is such a tragic character imo because he grew up in new rome and all he wanted to do was protect it (and he was highly ambitious and aiming for praetor, i won't deny the fact that he was selfish but that is a quality that can be REDEEMED) and sure the way he went about it was messed up but most of his actions (except killing that one centurion) were justifiable

btw im not saying octavian's like an angel or anything im pretty sure i remember him "killing" a 5th cohort centurion once but then she was revived which . . . what was the point of that?? was it just to like make us hate him more?? huh??? and then was it even ever talked about again?? also yeah he blackmailed hazel thats not good also judging from the wikipedia it only said frank suspected octavian because.. he didn't have his spear?? what?? reminder that there is proof that a lot of pjo characters are unreliable narrators and for all we know octavian could've screwed up somehow and left his spear somewhere (just saying i'd do that too ngl)

also "I am the savior of Rome! I was promised!" i didnt know why but that quote DESTROYED me but now i know that it was because he genuinely believed he was doing the best for new rome and he'd finally have someone's praise and they'd praise him like they praised percy and reyna. pretty sure his mental state was not very good in that scene either and nico and will just let him shoot himself out of an onager on accident. also are we just going to gloss over the fact apollo told him that and encouraged him he was doing the right thing?? of COURSE octavian trusted apollo on that and believed it was the truth; apollo was his ancestor and someone he worshipped as an augur and trusted in for omens and prophecies and allat

yeah. octavian's an asshole. but he was a kid and he couldve been redeemed. then again i am a huge octavian apologist and im not saying you have to have the same opinions as i do also i will not be responding to any asks in my inbox im 2 tired to deal with that!! anyways dont go and insult people or me if you think the opposite thats fine !! i was just bored and found this in my drafts so whats the harm of posting it because im not going to get sent threats over this right,,, right??????

[redr0sewrites]

Can you write Vox x reader where like the reader just says like really unhinged things and just like vile things whenever they rage and stuff like the internet could be slow or smth and the reader is just like “IM GOING TO RIP OFF MY SKIN” idk man I’m kinda just self projecting rn like you can right anything with it tbh idk sorry for rambling anyway you don’t have to do this if you don’t wanna

THIS IS SO MEEEEE I LOVE THIS IDEA SM!!! sorry it took me a hot minute to reply to this i have over 70 hazbin hotel requests in my inbox 😭

🥀Cw: fluff, crack, silly vox

when he first met you, vox was charmed by your seemingly sweet nature- that is, until you were pissed

your unholy screech of how you were going to rip off your skin if he cut the wifi again was both endearing and confusing in his eyes

vox would just short circuit for a second, just blinking at you while he tries to process what you just said

once it clicks, he just starts giggling. vox very rarely genuinely laughs, most of his laughs are professional or part of the persona he adopts as the leader of vox enterprises, but when he's so shocked by what you just said, he can't control the booming laughter thay fills the room

he's wheezing and gasping, each barking laugh only pissing you off more

"what's so funny? if you keep laughing i am going to fucking break ur fingers like carrot sticks!" you snap, and vox only giggles harder

after a few seconds, you can't help but notice how adorable his laughter is, and soon you don't mind it as much

once you two are officially together, you notice how stressed vox often is, yet how he seems to visibly relax around you

the batshit crazy things you say, which normally disgusts other people, only seem to amuse him

its actually a wonderful dynamic because you bring some spontaneity and slight insanity into vox's otherwise irritating and depressing lifestyle, and vox balances out the crazy things you say and calms you down every time

you often find yourself searching for new phrases to baffle him with, and for new ways to make him laugh

after vox has a stressful day, he enjoys just listening to you ramble about the most insane things and adores hearing whatever fucked up saying you've adopted recently

vox notices himself beginning to copy your speech patterns. he only begins to realize when he slips in an exceptionally odd metaphor into a work meeting and everyone stares at him, yet his heart skips a beat at the thought

there's something so charming to him about the fact that he's adopting your mannerisms, and you truly make him laugh when no one else can

whenever another one of the vees pisses him off, he always comes to you for advice on incredibly deranged comebacks, and you never disappoint!

he's won multiple arguments by just repeating one of your fucked up sayings and the other vees being too lowkey shocked to disagree

vox LOVES IT when you diss people he hates, hearing you ramble some fucked up insults about alastor made him fall in love with you all over again

"that worm on a string fucked up karen cut bob looking ass- if i see him around here again im going to eat a fucking brick" *cue vox looking at you with the biggest heart eyes*

overall, you are both menaces, but you're menaces in love ♥️

vox lay with his head in your lap, the blue light of his screen illuminating the dim room as you rambled mindlessly about your day.

"and THEN, this fucking asshole tried to flirt with me! ME!! as if he doesn't know were dating! ugh, it makes me feel like i have an entire beehive living beneath my skin. i swear if he even looks at me again im going to lick wet cement i can NOT deal. how can you even work with him? he's such a fucking CREEP voxy, i'm going to cut off those ugly ass wings and shove them so far down his throat- hey, are you even listening?"

you look down to see vox half asleep, his eyelids drooping as his light dimmed. "keep talking.." he murmurs, looking up at you with a lazy smile on his face. "you're my favorite person t' listen to.."

i love the idea of vox with a partner who challenges his very idea of power. he clearly wraps himself in a sort of persona, surrounding himself with powerful people and acting like he's so serious and important. i love the idea of him falling in love with someone who can break down his walls in seconds, someone who can dismantle his entire bravado act and who allows him to truly be himself. this is such a wonderful prompt and i am eating this up. nonnie ur awesome!!!!

[moonsaver]

hi hi double yandere anon again -- thought i'd put this in a separate ask :] this is only if you wanna write it, but normal sunday with a yandere reader is giving me some great thoughts. like, reader flipping the script on him, usually so composed and with everything in control, and sunday has to deal with being entirely at their mercy. idk having usual character dynamics reversed is always fun to me, so! again tysm and have a great day!! :}

Hello anon! Since both of these inbox messagws are from you, hope you dont mind that i coupled them lol. Sorry it took so long for me to respond. Im glad to know you liked that piece!

Anyways, this is a very interesting dynamic in my opinion..

Sunday x yan!reader.....

Listen. You might actually be able to convince him to a degree. Lets be for real, this man is probably STARVED for some good loving. But like almost all hsr characters, he'd be unnerved by it at first. The most repulsive situation isn't the fact you're obsessed with him, but rather that he doesn't have control over this situation. You, somehow, do.

Sunday himself is a bit.. intense in my opinion. He's had his fair share of suitors, but most likely not many or any lovers at all. He's isolated to a degree, and doesn't feel like he's desperate for love.

But when yan!reader shows up, proclaims having oh so much love for sunday.. it turns the cogs in his head a bit.

Our dear yan actually has a good chance of winning Sunday over, depending on how you might present yourself inititally. It's like when you finally get a taste of something you didn't want, but realise you've needed almost your entire life.

He's reluctant, as.. minorly expected? But not for the reasons he should be. It's the control factor that's holding him back. His secondary concern is actually more logical – he doesn't know you. And it does unnerve him slightly when you give him the tip of the iceberg of how much you might know.

But, somehow, someway, if you manage to render Sunday unable to defend himself, or kidnap him, or strip him of his reliable abilities?

Boy he is freaking. Out.

He's speaking with a strained voice, his eyes almost blown wide open, his breathing is heavy, slow and shallow, as he desperately tries to stay calm, but every alarm in his head is about to burst from the signals at the loss of control. He's like a rabid dog that's shown a glass of water. Almost snarls at you. Hates hates hates this situation so much, and it's not too soon before he settles quietly with a glare, his mind working relentlessly to weave out of your trap.

But it's a strange pull. He protests and threatens you when you even try doing something – even if its harmless and he would allow you to outside of this situation. But then you wear him down, and you're so gentle with him. You kiss his face and hold him so close and warmly, you listen and even understand his ideals when he talks about them to gauge your personality. This feels as though it's the first time someone truly sees him – scary as it might be, to lay bare all your self, but the very fact you can love him so well makes him.. delirious.

Oh, but he still despises you (for the lack of a stronger word) because of the control aspect. However, instead of planning a heavy punishment for your crime of kidnapping him after he finds a way out.. he may form other methods of payback.

[icyharrington]

So I Can Get Mine, And You Get Yours (Eddie Munson X Reader)

hayyy so for some reason this fic took me like a million years to write even though it’s short ??? idek lmaoo but anyways this shit is finally done !!! i hope y’all like, once i’m done with this im gonna go back to working on some requests and stuff in my inbox!! and feel free to send any ideas u might have uwu

description: after your weed stash is discovered and confiscated by your parents, you’re desperate for a re-up but are unwilling to spend the extra cash. lucky for you though, eddie munson is willing to work out a deal.

contains: sexual tension, dom!eddie, drug mentions, stoner reader lmao, blowjobs, deepthroating/face fucking, dirty talk, eddie is a slightly perverted yet charming asshole, tha reader sucks dick for weed lmao

wc: 5.1k

tagging: @jargotquinn @wordsaretheonlyescape @ankokubunka @rottnteen @msunravelled @animesnowstorm @send-me-a-cryptid @itsanithemenace @lenora91 @mxh0neylol @reddesert-healourblues @capricornrisingsstuff @i-me-mine @somnobun @harrystylesplschokeme @harringtonfan4 @bimbobaggins69 @sarahgarlic @xxlilyxx90 @daddy-long-legolas @virgovixen89 @manicpixieautismgirl @hahahafucku @stephanie-nicks76 @f-me-reid @winterton-reads @dixontardis @kleinegamerin @bbellee @bohemianrhapsody86 @for-hearthand-home​

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my most valued and reliable customer,”  Eddie Munson says with an evil grin as the front door of his trailer swings open. He reclines against the doorframe, eyebrows raising in amusement at the sight of you standing there in front of him.

You’re situated on his porch, huddling your arms together beneath your baggy coat as you shiver in the mid-autumn chill. Narrowing your eyeliner-smeared eyes into a glare, you shove your way past him into the gentle warmth of his home.

“Shut up,” you say irritably, which makes Eddie throw his hands up like he’s at gunpoint.

“Just come right in, I guess!” he exclaims, slamming the door shut in your wake to keep out the cold air. Unfazed, you throw yourself back onto the living room couch, ignoring the look of utter annoyance that stretches itself across Eddie’s angular features when you do. “Now that you’re nice and comfy, what the hell do you need?”

As if the chip on his shoulder is unjustified, you let out an offended scoff. Stalling at his question, you will yourself to break contact with Eddie’s gaze. “…Weed.”

Eddie folds his arms in front of his chest, staring you down; he’s wearing a leather jacket with his Hellfire tee underneath, paired with gray-black jeans and combat boots. With the shitty yellow glow of his trailer surrounding him ominously as he looks down on you with near-black eyes, he almost appears intimidating, but in all honesty, you’d be more afraid of a golden retriever than of Eddie Munson in most situations. He likes to play himself off like he’s some kind of unpredictable bad boy, dealing drugs after school and wreaking havoc in the hallways by way of his wild antics, but you’re not stupid, unlike most of the other Hawkins high attendees.

You’ve been regularly buying weed from Eddie for a few months now; once a week you’ll meet him under the staircase at school to purchase a half-ounce, occasionally sticking around for some idle conversation.

He always struck you as a lonely kind of guy- somebody with a lot to say, but nobody to say it to. You’d nod along as he rambled on about his band, or the assholes at school he hated, or Dungeons and Dragons, which you would pretend to understand just to humor him. He was a nice, if not slightly geeky and eccentric dude, and you could never quite understand the fear your classmates harbored for him.

“Ouch, (y/n). And here I was thinking you just wanted to spend some time basking in my presence.” He shakes his head with a click of his tongue, his face contorting into an exaggerated display of devastation. “What the hell happened to the shit I sold you this morning?”

You grit your teeth into a wince, reminded directly of the cause for your bad mood. Flailing back dramatically against the throw pillows beneath you, you flash Eddie a helpless look. “God, don’t even get me started, Eddie.”

“The cops didn’t catch you, did they?” He knits his brows, voice dropping to a concerned whisper as his spindly frame hunches over you. “You didn’t rat me out, did you? My uncle will be so fuckin’ pissed if our trailer gets raided.”

“No. Worse,” you say flatly, stifling a giggle when his dark eyes expand cartoonishly with alarm. “My mom found it.”

You’d made the mistake of tossing the baggie of weed in your sock drawer before heading to your evening shift at the record store, only for your mom to come across it while putting away laundry that evening; when you’d arrived back home later in the night, you found your mother, red-faced and teary, sitting at the kitchen table across from a box of Kleenex and your stash. Blubbering endlessly about life paths and bad influences, any outsider would have assumed she’d caught you lighting a crack pipe redhanded.

He lets out a prolonged exhale in a combination of relief and exasperation, shaking his head at you like a disappointed parent. “And how exactly is that worse?”

“You haven’t met my mom.” You reposition yourself on the couch, sitting upright and crossing your legs in favor of a less unhinged approach. “She’s gonna be on my ass until the end of time now.”

“Sorry, I’m still having trouble seeing how that’s worse than getting raided by the police,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes as he starts towards the hallway, where you assume his bedroom is located. “So what do you want? Another half?”

“That’d be nice,” you say, chewing your lip apprehensively. You decide not to say anything else until he returns with what you want, spreading your hands out on your knees and drumming your fingers restlessly.

You wouldn’t consider yourself a stoner, though you’ve been smoking daily since your sophomore year of high school, after befriending a few punk-obsessed senior kids who introduced you to it; at this point you’re probably semi-dependent on the naturally occurring substance, but you can’t bring yourself to stop- you love the way it makes you feel, all cozy and content, your cheeks aching from smiling at every damn thing you cross paths with.

You know it’s mildly pathetic to have walked all the way to the trailer park after midnight with the sole intent of replenishing your confiscated stash, but you hate the thought of spending a weekend without any weed.

On second thought, maybe you are a stoner.

When Eddie emerges from his bedroom, he’s carrying a twisted-up Ziploc bag, a telltale earthy green shade visible through the transparent plastic. He swings it back and forth as he approaches you in the living room, humming something off-key to go along with his needlessly jaunty strides. “Should I even sell this to you? Kind of a waste to sell if mommy’s just gonna add it with the other contraband.”

“Hey!” You feel your cheeks burn in response to his teasing, which is embarrassing enough of a reaction in itself- why do you care what Eddie Munson thinks, anyway? “She isn’t going to find it this time.”

He examines the bag thoughtfully, holding it above his head so that it catches in the room’s sallow lighting. “I dunno, (y/n). I dunno.”

Eddie’s doing what he does best: putting on a show, and you don’t know if he’s merely acting on his ever-present impulse to behave idiotically, or if he’s purposefully being an asshole- either way, you can feel your patience gradually depleting by the second. “Eddie, seriously- don’t be a dick. I walked all the way here.”

“That was your idea!” he exclaims, visibly dumbfounded by the audacity of your demeanor. “What if I was all out, huh? Then you’d be shit out of luck, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, good thing you’re not,” you say defiantly, extending a hand in between the two of you with an obnoxious grabbing motion. He’s starting to really get on your nerves now, though you assume it’s intended. “Just give it to me, Eddie.”

He acts like he’s going to hand you the bag before he abruptly retreats his arm to loop behind his back, shoving it into his back pocket. “Not so fast. I want my ten dollars.”

Glancing down at your palms in an attempt to avoid Eddie’s expectant stare, you fidget uncomfortably in your seat, before blurting out, “Yeah, could I maybe get it for free? Just this once?”

Eddie lowers his chin towards his chest, his eyebrows raising in disbelief; you force yourself not to look at him, knowing fully well that you’re making a complete ass of yourself right now. “Sorry, I don’t think I quite got that. Did you say free?”

Fuck. Out of all the people you figured you could get free weed from, Eddie seemed the most likely to oblige, but obviously you’d misjudged him. Maybe you do need to cut back on the Mary Jane, because damn- you’re really starting to act like a corner-store crackhead. You’re growing increasingly more embarrassed with every moment Eddie’s dark eyes remain fixed on you, but you’ve already made the journey, so really, there’s no point in backing down now. “Well, yeah. I mean, I didn’t even end up smoking the other shit I bought. My mom probably threw it in the trash.”

Eddie laughs, though you get the impression he’s doing it at you, rather than with you. “Do you think drug dealers come with fuckin’ insurance or something?”

You stifle a frustrated groan, fully realizing the stupidity of your request now that you’re being called out. Still, you refuse to let him catch on to your self-awareness, choosing instead to double down on your argument. “C’mon, Eddie. I only make three-fifteen an hour and I already spent half my paycheck on cassettes.”

“Well, damn, (y/n)! Learn to manage your finances better, then!” He speaks with a lighthearted tone, but his body language communicates a prominent irritation, his arms crossed firmly over his slender midsection. “If I give you weed for free, then I’m going to lose money, and I’m already strapped for cash. Plus, if word got out that I gave you a freebie- I’d have a whole line of desperate potheads begging outside my door instead of just one.”

You gasp at the bluntness of his remark, huffing out when you can’t think of anything clever to come back with. “I wouldn’t tell anyone you gave it to me for free. I swear.”

“Like I said- I’m too broke to be giving away goddamn goody bags,” Eddie snaps, angling his head to glance not-so-subtly at the front door, before flashing back to assess your flushed face. “I know you probably thought I’d cave at the sight of a pretty girl at my doorstep since I’m a freak who gets no female attention and all that, but I’m sorry to tell you that I actually run my business with integrity.”

The whole of Eddie’s statement blindsides you, and you find yourself blinking wildly as your mind races to process it; he’d just called you pretty, to your face, as matter-of-fact as reciting the alphabet. You can only pray that your complexion doesn’t redden too drastically as you feel your cheeks prickle and flush, but you somehow carry on, feigning indifference to the best of your ability. “You’re a drug dealer, dude. I don’t think there’s any way you can do that with integrity.”

“You can think whatever you like, sweetheart,” Eddie says as he taps your shoulder twice, signaling you to get up, which you do, albeit reluctantly. Once you’re back on your feet, you’re reminded of your height difference, though it had never really crossed your mind in the past; perhaps it’s your close proximity to him that makes it seem so much more conspicuous now, with Eddie looking down on you- literally- from mere inches away. “My answer is still absolutely fuckin’ not.”

“It’s just ten dollars worth of weed!” you yell, not unlike a child being denied a balloon in a grocery store.

“If it’s just ten dollars, why can’t you pay me, huh?”

He bows his head so that his dark, frizzy hair curtains either side of his angular face, shrugging nonchalantly, despite the pride that you can see gleaming within the mischievous blackness of his eyes. Check-fucking-mate.

It dawns on you that you’re probably just going to have to accept not getting your way, and you pout, giving up on trying to convince him. “Because I’m broke.”

“Well, so am I!” He looks at you like you’re out of your mind, and you can almost agree with him, though you’d never say so out loud. During the resulting lapse of awkward silence, you can see him start to ponder something, his mouth screwing up in earnest thought until his tone eventually shifts.“Y’know, if you showed up at any other dealer’s house at this time of night with no money, they’d probably think you were coming to fuck them for drugs.”

Your mouth drops open, and for once, you’re genuinely speechless. The worst part, however, is that he has a valid point- you really are acting like someone trying to whore themselves out for drugs, aren’t you?

“Oh, come on, (y/n). Don’t look at me like you have no idea what I’m talking about.” He chuckles, his eyes dropping to briefly scan you over. You’re not wearing anything scandalous, despite the self-consciousness that floods your body as he surveys you- just your thrifted jeans and an oversize corduroy jacket, hardly the appropriate attire for drug prostitution.

“Um, ew?” you manage to retort, stepping backwards until your calves are pressed up against the couch. There isn’t much space available for you to create any meaningful distance between the two of you, so you’ll just have to settle for the time being. “I totally did not come here to fuck you for weed, you pervert.”

“Oh, so I’m a pervert now for pointing out the obvious,” Eddie says, his hands splaying out theatrically in front of him. “I’m just saying what it looks like, not that I want you to! Jeez!”

You scoff without really thinking, insulted. “Oh, so if I did offer you something in return, you’re saying you’d turn me down?”

Eddie just looks at you with a perplexed expression, before his lips twitch upwards at the corners, giving way to a self-assured smirk. There’s a devious glint in his eyes that you’re not familiar with, and when you peer back up at him, your body inadvertently shifts and squirms. “Not necessarily.”

You attempt to back away but can’t, seeing that you’re cornered up against the couch with nowhere to go. The air is somehow thicker now, more tense, and there’s an invisible hum of electricity that gnaws at your fingertips; it’s like you’re frozen, your limbs stiff and unresponsive, and you gulp, hyper-aware of the sudden tilt in atmosphere.

Eddie’s smirk intensifies as he witnesses your bad attitude slip away, your disposition no longer bold, but trembling and timid. “I don’t normally accept trade offers in the form of sexual favors, but hey, maybe if you ask really nicely, I’ll consider it.”

“Fuck you.” The words come out immediately, desperate to mask  your humiliation with some sort of vitriolic statement, but the effect isn’t what you were hoping for; your voice shakes weakly, and there’s no punch to it, no bite to let him know who he’s messing with. “I would never fuck you, for weed or any other reason. You’re creepy and a freak.”

You’re a bit guilty for getting so nasty with him, but at this point you’ll do anything to prevent your pride from enduring any more blows. Eddie just poises a brow skeptically, cocking his head to one side. “Yeah, I’m so much of a creep that you felt safe coming to my house in the middle of the night to beg for pot, isn’t that right?”

“I wasn’t fucking begging you!” You stomp your foot to accentuate your point, though it just comes off like you’re throwing a tantrum.

“Right- you were just asking persistently, then,” Eddie quips, growing more smug with each second that passes while you cower. “You’re reaaaallllly digging a hole for yourself right now, aren’tcha, sweetheart?”

“Whatever,” you say flatly, finally gathering the courage to step out of Eddie’s way, awkward in your movements as you shuffle toward the front door. “A simple no would’ve sufficed, but I guess being a douchebag works too.”

You’re taken aback when he stops you, his long, jewelry-clad fingers wrapping loosely around your upper arm. There’s a friendlier appearance about him now, and you figure he’s trying to ease up on the intimidation. “Hey, c’mon! I didn’t tell you no, remember? I just said you’d have to ask me nicely.”

You jerk your arm back, scowling, even though your heartbeat inexplicably quickens when he touches you. “Yeah, you said that about me fucking you for weed, and that’s not happening.”

“Why’re you so shy all of a sudden, huh?” he asks, moving beside you to snake an arm around your shoulders. You can smell the cigarette smoke that clings to the inky leather of his jacket as you catch yourself inhaling deeply, and this time, you don’t pull away. “You’re saying you don’t want this?”

He retrieves the half-ounce of weed from his pocket, dangling it above your head like bait. Eddie’s weed isn’t even that good- there’s more seeds and stems than actual flower, and you have to smoke a whole joint’s worth to even feel anything, but damn, do you want it. There’s just something special about his supply, something that caused you to stop buying from all the other dealers in Hawkins and focus your business loyalty solely on him. You give the weed a purposefully-indifferent side-eye, commenting, “What happened to you being too broke to give away free shit?”

“See, hon, it isn’t actually free if I get something in return.” He leans closer to speak directly into your ear, giving you goosebumps when he uses one hand to sweep your hair out of the way. “I like you, (y/n). Like I said- you’re a valued customer. That’s why I’d be willing to work out a deal for you.”

He talks like a Wall Street broker closing in on a deal, which you’d probably laugh at, if you weren’t so fucking nervous. You don’t know what to make of the events that unfold before you like a scene in a bad porno, but you still have a hard time believing that Eddie Munson is actually trying to seduce you right now; part of you wonders if he’s putting on a show in an attempt to teach you a lesson for intruding on his space. “I already told you, Eddie. I didn’t come here to fuck you.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re too good for all of that trashy nonsense,” he deadpans, rubbing your shoulder in circles with his callused palm. “Pretty girls like you should never give more than a blowjob for some Mary Jane. Right, princess?”

It’s like you’ve just taken a blow to the stomach, with the way his words knock the wind out of you; you quickly turn your head to hide the unmistakeable rosiness that blooms across your cheeks, although the effort is futile. “I- I didn’t say that.”

“C’mon, babe. You really think I believe that you came all the way here just to ask me for a little favor?” He gives your shoulder a condescending pat, chuckling at your efforts to evade him. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Had you known what you were doing, at least in your subconscious? It wasn’t like you’d put much thought into your plan before carrying it out, but what if there was an ulterior motive you weren’t even aware of? Are you really so disconnected from yourself that you’d be this clueless to your own intentions?

The way your body reacts to his closeness, however, tells you that Eddie “the freak” Munson has a profound affect on you, perhaps on a far deeper level than you know.

“Sure, if that’s what you wanna believe,” you say dismissively as you place one hand on your hip, regaining a bit of your cool exterior to scan his face over in search of any sign that he’s fucking with you. He appears entertained by your flustered state, but there’s also an earnest look behind his dark eyes, signaling to you that he’s down if you’re down. “But if you wanted me to blow you in exchange for the weed, you could’ve just asked.”

“You’re the one who’s gonna need to ask me, sweetheart. I’m giving you a pretty good deal, don’t ya think?” He bats his lashes mockingly at you, apparently in the mood to drag this little power play out for as long as possible; you can tell it’s turning him on, just from how quick and sharp his breathing is becoming.

As much as you hate yourself for it, you’re turned on, too, with an aching warmth making itself known between your shifting legs; logically, you know you should be ashamed for partaking in such a degrading activity, but physically? Well, that’s a different story altogether.

“Fine, if it helps boost your ego,” you mutter, shocked with yourself for even retaining the ability to speak. You try to keep your words straightforward and unemotional, managing an even “can I blow you for weed, Eddie?”

He looks at you like you’re stupid, letting go of his hold around your shoulder as he drops to sit down on the couch. “I, uh, think you might’ve forgotten something there, (y/n).”

Rolling your eyes, you watch as he unbuckles his belt noisily, leaning back against the throw pillows expectantly. He’s really having fun with this, isn’t he?

“Can I please blow you for weed?” you say through a pained wince, causing a triumphant grin to spread across his face as he continues to undo the front of his pants. Your question is ridiculous, pathetic even, but it’s music to his ears, his head falling back to let out a whoop of obnoxious laughter.

By now, you’re almost positive that this treatment is payback for calling him a freak, and while you probably deserve it, you can’t help but resent him for being an asshole anyway.

“See? Now, was that so fuckin’ difficult?” Eddie chides, eyeing you expectantly as he pulls his jeans and boxers partly down his thighs, exposing himself to you. He’s almost fully hard, and it’s evident that he’s packing a lot more than you ever would’ve guessed, with his thick, flushed length curving gently to one side. You sink onto the floor in front of him, wedging your way between his parted knees so that you’re face-to-face with his hefty dick, which is big enough that you’re actually intimidated by it. “Well, I guess since I’m in such a good mood, I’ll allow it. ”

He puts the bag of weed on the couch next to him, to provide with a good view of what you’re sucking him off for.

“You’re such an asshole,” you murmur, getting into a position where your mouth can reach him. You pretend to be fixated by the view of your own fingers taking hold of his cock, refusing to find out what sort of cocky expression is painted across his angled features.

“Yeah, yeah. I can act however I want,” he says while winding his fingers through your (h/c) hair, not implementing any real force to his grip just yet. “My house, my weed, my rules.”

“Whatever you say, dungeon master,” you say wryly, winking at him as you permit some saliva to dribble from your mouth and onto his cock, which twitches in response to your tongue-in-cheek nickname. You close your mouth around his leaking tip and suck on it lazily, your eyes heavy-lidded as they look up to drink in his admittedly pretty features.

“Yeah, that’s a good fuckin’ girl. You gotta earn it,” he encourages, his hand settling on the back of your head, still entwined with your hair. “D’you do this with all the dealers? Huh?”

You glare up at him resentfully, dipping your head to take him further into your mouth, his skin smooth and salty as you run your tongue along one of his prominent blue-green veins.

Taking advantage of the fact that he has a tight grasp on you, Eddie pushes your head down all the way until you’re gagging on him, causing you to move your hands to splay over his thighs; after a brief moment admiring you as you squirm, he moves you back several inches in a gesture of mercy. “Fuck. Yeah, you want it bad, don’t you? Fucking burnout slut.”

The harshness of his tone causes your head to spin, your panties soaked completely through; you’re sure he can sense how much you like it, because he jerks your head back down until your face is nearly flush with his pelvis once again.

“Must’ve smoked all your brain cells away if you thought you could pull one over on me,” he continues, and although you can’t see his face, you can practically hear the smirk within his voice. He lets up, allowing you the opportunity to bob your head freely up and down his thick cock, sputtering and drooling as you do so.

Hissing, he administers a sharp tug to your scalp, resting his head back as you explore him with your hot, needy mouth; his jaw is unhinged, giving way to a string of profane grunts, hips rocking up beneath you to make contact with the back of your narrow throat.

“Fuck, babe. Yeah, that’s it.” He uses your hair as reigns, guiding your motions to better suit his liking. You’re rendered temporarily speechless, your only sounds being the crude wet noise of your mouth being filled and fucked. “Goddamn, your mouth feels so fuckin’ good.”

The sound of his praise only fuels your avid movements, your fingernails digging through the denim of his jeans, clinging helplessly to him. You purr when he affectionately strokes you from your forehead to the base of your skull, the heavy metal of his rings assisting to cool your feverish skin. “Fuuuck, (y/n). Keep going.”

Doing as he says, you make an effort to take his cock all the way into your throat, peering up from underneath a veil of mascara-coated eyelashes. Eddie’s eyes are closed as he’s enveloped in your inflicted ecstasy, but they flutter open momentarily to meet yours, giving you a goofy half-smile when he notices you. He only abandons his douchey persona for a lapse before swiftly getting back into character, bucking his hips up fiercely into your mouth.

He rolls himself on your face, relishing in the sounds you make, the vibrations reverberating throughout his bottom half. You focus on taking your air in through your nose, ushering shallow gulps of oxygen that are only effective in keeping you from passing out.

“Gotta swallow it all if you really wanna earn it,” he groans, voice hoarse and gravelly. “You gonna do that for me, princess?”

He yanks your head off of his length, and you cough as spit strings rudely from your swollen lips, tears spilling out from the corners of your eyes. He waits for your composure to return, pursing his lips impatiently until you’re done wheezing.

“Yes, Eddie,” you say weakly, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, completely forgetting that you’re wearing dark mascara (not that you looked any more polished beforehand). He basks in your disheveled appearance, petting your cheek and using his thumb to rid your face of tears, seeming drunk off the sight of you.

“Good girl.” He stands up from his spot on the couch, bringing you into an upright kneeling position by the root of your hair. Obediently, you open your mouth up for him, lolling your head back so he can slide himself deep. “Gonna make me- fuck- cum so hard, baby.”

You go limp as he fucks your face, enjoying the defenseless sensation of being used so carelessly. The arousal is loud and unrelenting as it burns through your core, your thighs squeezing together, needing friction. God, why the fuck had you only offered to blow him?

Eddie’s stomach flexes beneath the cotton of his shirt, and you know he’s about to climax, his head tilted back to fixate on the chipped ceiling. “Shit. Open your mouth.”

Once again, you’re taken off of his cock, which he angles above you, one hand working at his glistening length while the other holds you still.

It only takes a few more strokes before he’s releasing his hot cum into your waiting mouth, adorning the back of your throat with heavy ropes of white. Just like you promised, you swallow it all down with a slutty grin, licking your lips as you shrug your shoulders coyly.

“Holy fuck. Never woulda guessed that (y/n) (y/l/n) is a fuckin’ whore,” he laughs breathlessly, tucking himself back into his boxers and buttoning his jeans. He motions with his head to the half-ounce that still sits untouched on his couch, his fingers hastily buckling up his sturdy black belt. “That’s all yours, babe. I think you earned it.”

“Glad you think so,” you say with a sardonic raise of your brows, snatching up your prize and stuffing it into the inner pocket of your jacket like he might change his mind at any second. “So I guess this is when you tell me to get the fuck out?”

Eddie double-checks that is buckle is properly secured before squinting at you incredulously, seemingly put off by your suggestion. “Are you fuckin’ crazy? You think I’m gonna send you walking off into the night for any hillbilly with a van to snatch you off the side of the road?”

“Eddie, you are a hillbilly with a van.” You fold your arms in front of your chest, somewhat bashful at his sudden protectiveness.

“I am not a goddamn hillbilly, (y/n),” he protests, patting himself down until he hears the faint jingle of his keys from his coat pocket. “Y’know, I could always take my offer back if you’re going to be ungrateful.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” You hug your jacket tighter around you, a challenging expression situating itself over your features as you fight to stand your ground. “What, you think I’m your little slut now or something? I don’t need you to protect me, Eddie. This was a one time thing.”

“No, stupid,” he says as he slides his ring of keys into view. “It’s called not wanting to find your missing poster plastered all around town tomorrow morning. I’d be a piece of shit to let you go, blowjob or otherwise.”

“Whatever,” you mutter bitterly, tucking your hands into the corduroy material of your oversize jacket. “Just remember that this isn’t happening again.”

“Which part? You blowing me for weed, or just hanging out with me at my trailer?” He slips his hand around your waist as he walks you to the door, a hopeful ring to his words.

You stifle a grin, leaning into his shoulder unintentionally. “I’d hardly call what just happened hanging out.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe we can some time, yeah?”

It’s difficult to ignore the way your insides twist, your heart thundering wildly into your ribcage, threatening to break loose. Eddie Munson has successfully charmed you, a feat you never would have thought possible until now, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing it just yet.

Curving your lips into an inhibited smirk, you blink at him sweetly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

[certifiedstarrr]

Open Arms - Matt Sturniolo

warnings: panic attack, kissing, use of y/n, degradation thoughts, use of pet names, & fluffy fluff

POC FRIENDLYYY !!

summary: y/n has a panic attack because she was petrified of falling behind and disappointing people around her. Not wanting to be to annoying or clingy to Matt, and trying not let people down. Matt assists and reassures that she’s not letting people down and she’s doing great.

a/n: sorry if this is bad, but leave reqs in my inbox anytime, ily💕 also i know after party pt.4 has been put off awhile but i’m making time to fix it😭🤞

wc: 1k

not proofread (a bitch dont got no time for that shit)

based off of this song ↓

“when no one’s around me, you lost and found me, i was surrounded, with open, open, open, Open Arms”

y/n’s pov

fucking stupid idiot. you should have done it but look where you are now. from before i had 2 things on my to-do list

・Flashback・

“well, i’ll do it later.”

i wrote it down on my to-do list. i pet my dogーkelani and hug her,

“it’s okay i will get to it.”

i wrote down “get this week’s groceries and kelani’s dog food”

just make sure to get to it y/n.

・Now・

i had well over 7 things on my to-do list. i should’ve just done it while I could. so fucking dumb y/n. why do you let this happen? first it was my college classes, food for my dorm, the triplet’s birthday, my car repairs, my sister’s wedding back in london , my mom wants me to visit her in new york, and I have to study for my literature exam. if I don’t get anything for the triplet’s birthday they’ll definitely be disappointed, if i don’t visit my momーshe’ll definitely be upset; and if I don’t go to my sister’s wedding in london, i’m going to be seen as disrespectful to my elders.

i felt something bad was gonna happen but i wasn’t sure.

I was leaning on my bed, going through the list over and overーscolding myself each time. a sharp pain drilled through my chestーa new type of painーsomething i’d never felt before. but this? this hurt like hell. and all at the same time my vision got blurred and breathing became impossible. i’d decided that i had to call matt. he’d surely know how to deal with this, right? as i continued sobbing repeatedly, with breathing impeccably difficult, and my vision completely shattered. my phone rung a couple times, then,

finally he answered.

“hey baby what’s up?”

“matt i- n-need help”

my voice was in a mid-whisper but he still heard it.

“please help m-“

my voice was cut by me dropping my phone.

all of a sudden, my palms sweat and feel prickly and my clothes are overly tight. i hug myself and get into a fetal position, feeling like everything is wrong and i’m going to let everyone down and be one big disappointment.

matt’s pov

we were filming friday’s car video when i got that call from y/n. her voice sounded like she was crying, but she said help me. what the fuck happened?

“hey guys something is wrong with y/n”

“what happened?” chris questioned.

“her voice was all shaky and it sounded like she was crying or shit”

no questions were asked. nick didn’t yell or go on a rant about leaving. just driving.

ೃ༄

 

when i got to her room she was laying on the floor in fetal position, weeping, sobbing. god i hate to see her like this. curls laid out around her shoulder and her beautiful face covered in tears.

"matty?"

"yes baby its me"

"i don't know what to do matt," y/n said in between sobs whilst grabbing her chest trying to breathe.

i held y/n against me and tell me what's wrong.

"what's wrong y/n?"

"m-my vision went blurry and breathing became impossible and my palms felt like they were being poked by a million needles, my clothes got too tight and and-"

"you're having a panic attack y/n"

she didn't hear me so she went on about what happened.

"im going to let everyone down mattーthey're never gonna forgive me,"

"i have too much on my to-do list and if i dont do it i'm letting everyone down"

"look baby we're gonna take it one step at a time, one thing at a time."

"o-okay"

"let's breathe in on 3, okay?"

"okay"

y/n’s pov

i took a nice breath in then repeated the same motion, breathing out. my vision got better, my clothes stopped feeling too tight, palms stopped being pricked.

"thank you matt"

"of course y/n"

ೃ༄

we crossed off things of my to-do list, one by one, and before i realized i only had 2 things left on to-do list; like before.

i've never had a panic attack before and that attack could have been worse. but before i could spiral and get lost inside the darkness, i found my light.

matt was my light.

he was there for me, and always there with Open Arms

ೃ༄

extra: first of all, im so so so so so sorry for starving you all to fucking death; this fic took me forever😭😭

but tysm for reading !!

xoxo, riri <3

taglist: 🏷 @lovingmattysposts @elliesturniolo1 @elliewrites1 @sturnsbitch @lovingmattysposts @luvmxtt @novasturniolo03 @tyjna6 @sturnlova @sturniolo-lover1317 @patscorner

(comment here be on the taglist !!)

[harcove]

hi 🥺 i hope you’re doing all right — i’m sending so so much love 🫶🏼 i don’t want to bother you with a request so please feel free to just read this and move on if you need to ! i was just doing my hair, and as a curly girl i imagined begging Billy to let me do my post-shower styling routine on his luscious hair. he’s probably protective over his hair but i think it would be so cute !! like , him sitting on the edge of his bed, a little (a lot) stiff, with hair strands in his eyes as his s/o fusses over his wet hair, scrunching product and twirling clumps into ringlets 🥹🫶🏼 and he hates to admit that he loved being taken care of and despite his grumbling, he liked how his hair turned out 🥹

A/N: me, a year after taking a hiatus from writing, answering all my year old requests: "heyyy guysss...."

Fr I'm sorry y'all I stopped writing, and left all your beautiful requests in my inbox cause I didn't wanna delete them cause I love them and always wanted to do them someday... Even if it's LATE BY A YEAR IM SO SORRY... I hope this kinda makes up for it 🥺

Pairing: Billy x reader

Length: 3.4k

Warnings: Nopepepepe, but I will say OOC Billy just so no one tries to tell me I write him OOC even though this is how I characterize him lmao

Nah, I trust you - B.H.

Billy's back was stiff as a board.

He couldn't help it; it was his natural reaction to the situation. Facing his back towards people. It was hard. But you had begged- pleaded. Please let me do your hair, please! And no matter how many times he said no or brushed you off, you wouldn't let up. You were absolutely relentless.

To Billy, his hair was a key part of him. It was one of the few things he had complete control of in his life; something that was completely his and something he had the free will to do with it as he pleased (even if it meant his father would make a nasty comment or two about it) and it was something he took pride in.

Yes- he had let you touch his hair before. But that was after a long day, when he knew he wouldn't be going out again and was winding down in bed.

Not after a shower. He usually did that himself because he was the only one who knew how to do his hair the way he wanted. Or at least, he believed he was the only one who could do it right.

It may have sounded stupid; people might say it's just hair and its not that big of a deal. But to him it was a big deal. It was an integral part of him that even his father couldn't take away, even if he had something to say about it.

He supposed, maybe, if there was anyone who he might trust enough to do his hair after he showered, it might be you.

Your hair was beautiful. Thick curls that you tended to and he had seen you tend to before. Times where he'd been in your room, reading some random book he found on your bookshelf while he waited for you to finish showering- you walking out with wet hair and sitting at the vanity to put things in it- to make sure you took care of it.

So, if there was anyone he might trust for this, it was you.

In fact, it was always you. For every thing that Billy found himself alone in, found himself with no one he could trust, there was always you. He trusted you.

"Trust me, you're in good hands."

You note his stiff shoulders as you sat behind him on his bed whilst he sat on the floor. Billy was caged; in the beginning of your relationship he was especially so in all situations. Some days were still harder for him but he was much better than before.

It took a lot of patience and thinking past his personality at times, but it was worth the effort. He was worth it.

It was just too bad that so many people in his life didn't think so.

"I'll stop driving you to school if I'm fucking not," his voice is low, and much of his words came out as a grumble from his chest.

Gently, you place your hands on his shoulders and lean forward, bracing yourself on him so you don't fall from the bed. For a second his shoulders tense a bit more but when he realizes what you're doing they start to relax.

"Trust me," you kiss the side of his face gently- your lips brushing against the spot beside his ear, his wet hair tickling your own face.

Before you can pull back to work on his hair, his hand grasps your arm and he drags you back with enough force you think for a minute you're going to fall over his shoulders onto the floor, but thankfully you manage to use your other hand to grab onto his shoulder again.

He's pressing his lips to yours. It's rough and it's almost as if he's kissing you for the first time after years of not seeing you. Billy Hargrove is a great kisser. It's passionate at times and gentle at others. Oftentimes he's stronger than he realizes, but he's never hurt you.

You feel him bite your lip, and you squeeze his shoulder hard, pulling back.

"You're trying to distract me," you breathe out, trying to catch your breathe.

There's a heat deep in your lower body, in your stomach, and your face feels a tad warm. He knows what he's doing, he always does. But you won't let him get away with trying to distract you- besides, making him wait grants a better reward, for you and him both.

"I don't need to try babe," his eyes have a glint in them and you push his back as you sit up straighter.

"Okay Prince Charming," you role your eyes and bring your hands to his head, feeling the curls in his hair.

Billy's got a mullet; a ever popular hairstyle at the moment, but his looks better than others you've seen. He's also got a natural wave and some curl to his hair. He uses a curling iron on it too sometimes to really accentuate the curls.

He could always try to get a perm, but it was something in the back of his mind. He was fine right now doing what he was used to. Besides- who knew better about how much curl or wave he wanted than himself?

Pouring a bit of leave in conditioner into the palm of your hand, you slap them together to coat both of your hands before running them through his hair again. Your fingers tangle into his locks and you can already see the natural curl and wave in his hair. It's thicker at the root and thins out a bit at the ends.

With it damp like it was, it looked brown rather than the dirty blonde/brown you're used to seeing. His hair is beautiful, and you're unafraid to let him know so.

"Your hair is so beautiful Billy," you say with a smile that can be heard in your voice   "Beautiful just like you are."

Billy's not used to being called beautiful. It's not a word people commonly use on him. Hot, yes, sexy, of course. Beautiful, no.

Yet you always seem so keen on using the word on him. At first, he'd always push back and claim that a word like that was meant for the likes of you, not him. Just call him sexy like everyone else did.

But you were insistent. You always were. And you'd brush him off and do it anyways. And soon, the word began to have a different meaning to him. A word that he associated with you. He wasn't sure if he thought himself beautiful but he knew you were and to you he was.

It always managed to make him feel something in his chest, that was for sure.

"Jesus, can't you call me hot, or some shit?" Billy bites out, but there's no malice in his words. More so, he sounds akin to a petulant child in that moment.

You suppose he's never had a chance to really be a child in his whole life. Never been taken care of, or babied.

So of course you'd do it for him now.

"You are hot," you make a sizzling noise with your mouth as you pull your hands from his hair, "but you're also beautiful."

"Glad you know."

It quiets down from there, a gentle lull in conversation is peaceful and welcome. Sometimes, Billy can be so loud (and as he likes to tell you, you can be especially loud when you're alone with him) and he can play loud music and get angry. But he likes the silence sometimes- only with you- because when he's alone, it's the music that blocks out his darker thoughts and his father's words.

But with you, the silence is safe.

Your hands pick up the heat protector Billy has on his bedside table and you spritz it a few times in the air to see that it's working, making Billy grab it.

"That shits expensive," he says before he starts spraying it into his hair himself.

"Alright, alright, I'll buy you a new one for your birthday- stop, I'm supposed to be doing this!"

With a quickness you grab the bottle back from his hands and spray his hair once more at the back before putting the bottle back on the table.

You're the only one he let's do these things.

Once that's done you run your hands through his hair again, half because you want to feel his hair again and have to make sure the product is everywhere.

You can feel it; the way his body relaxes just a smidge as you place your hands into his hair, playing with his locks and massaging his scalp. Compared to when you started, his body has loosened, his back is not as stiff- he's actually somewhat slouched, and his shoulders are too.

Moving to crawl across his bed, you grab the hair dryer and curler to really get to work on his locks. As you plug the former in, Billy looks at you, just drinking you in in those simple and quiet moments.

He's fucking whipped for you, and at one point in his life, that terrified him. It still did sometimes. But only because he'd never felt that way before. And he didn't want to ruin you.

Soon his hair is dry and your moving onto the curler.

His natural hair is already wavy as it is, and he's got some natural curls- especially on the nap of his neck he has what you called baby curls. You pull on them lightly, tug them, and you're doing it on purpose because soon Billy's large hand is grasping yours from behind and you're giggling.

"You're like a fucking child," he squeezes your hand, not enough to hurt you, but he's always been more heavy handed than most, "You're not touching my goddamn hair again if you don't stop."

"Your baby curls are so cute," you smile- removing your hand from his grip and placing both of your hands on either side of his head, tilting it back to look up at you.

He's always had the most beautiful eyes. Blue, clear, piercing.

Beautiful.

You gingerly place your lips against his as you lean forward. But he kisses back less gently, more needy, and his hands are soon finding their way backwards to hold the side of your own head. The position is odd, but the passion is familiar.

But this time it's not you that pulls away, it's him. And you can't help but pout as he does so- his tongue jutting out to lick his lips before a Cheshire like smirk shows itself, beautiful white teeth making their appearance like a vampire.

"Well? We don't have all night," he's so snarky when he speaks, knowing what he's doing to you- in a battle of wit and playfulness, Billy is the master. He is always one step ahead of you. You can never win. He throws your actions back in your face- the ball in your side of the court but he's the one holding it.

You let out a hmph as you take the heated curler and begin the task of curling, ignoring the heat that pools in the depths of your stomach and the way you can still feel his lips on yours. And he sits there, shoulders hunched slightly; a tiny thing that you notice with a soft smile and a bittersweet happiness. For so long when you had first met him, he was always tense; even alone, he always seemed like he was wound tight. At first it was confusing, worrying, and your worrying was warranted when you found out about his father. Neil Hargrove was at the bottom of the bucket, not worth any of your time or energy. Only ever worth the energy if you were trying to protect Billy.

He tells you to leave it alone. But you would never sit there and let him get shoved around in front of you. Something his mom should've been there to stop, you were trying to stop instead.

But now, he relaxes his shoulders, slumps his body lazily, when you're with him alone he is all mush. Usually. Right now, you were both aware that Neil and his wife, Max's mother, were away for a weekend trip together or something like that, so he could be this way in his own home.

It breaks your heart to think about how every other time he was home, and Neil was too, he was wound tight; always on edge, always waiting. Wondered how he could sleep at night. (That was probably why he liked to take naps at your house whenever he was there.)

If you could, you would keep him with you at your house. Your parents didn't mind his presence and were privy to the knowledge about his father. It was inevitable they found out that his relationship with his father was less than stellar. The extent of their knowledge wasn't that deep however- because if they knew, they'd call the police.

You weren't opposed to that. But Billy was. Vehemently so. Claimed that if the police were involved, it would only get worse- not just on him, but on everyone involved (this was code word for Max, you knew it). Also told you that police had been called before, when he was younger, by a neighbour who had suspicions. But his father was a good actor. And the police didn't dig hard enough, try hard enough.

You tell him all the time when it comes up that Hopper is different than the police in California at least. Hopper is a good man, a man with morals, and a man you trusted and one who would take this seriously. And it is not just you talking out of your ass, trying to convince him- no, you know Hopper would take it seriously.

But it always falls on deaf ears. And you can't force him to do something he doesn't want. You've tried. So you relent. For now. Things are more calm than they've ever been with Billy and his father. It could be related to the time he spends at your home, not around enough for his father to start too much. It's not good. But he's not bruised up. So for now, you relent.

You do not want to make things worse.

"You should sleep over next week," you casually suggest as your hands move to curl another section of his hair, running your fingers through already finished curls to make them look more natural.

"I slept over last week," Billy says, one of his  legs stretching out in front of him as his body further leans back, "Can't get enough of me?"

You wonder if he's aware of the reason you always ask him to sleep over at your home. Well, part of the reason. You enjoy his company, you enjoy falling asleep beside him, flush against his body because your bed is meant for one person, not two, and God forbid he stays on the ground to sleep or sleeps in the living room on the couch away from you. You enjoy waking up to see his beautiful golden touched skin from his time soaking up any of Hawkins sun, and you enjoy watching his face- calm and at ease, as he sleeps. Not worried, or on guard. Just calm.

The other half of your reasoning is to keep him away from his father when you can.

If hes aware of the secondary reasoning, he  hasn't said anything. Or made indication of it. But you're positive he must know or have an idea, because Billy Hargrove is perceptive and he is smart, something people don't tend to realize. More the fools they are.

"I'd just die without you," you playfully respond, (though you aren't sure how playful it is when you think about losing him- it horrifies you and you don't know what you'd do) as you turn the curling iron off, setting it aside to cool down before it can be put away. You run your fingers through his hair again, lightly pulling curls and brushing through them so they're not so perfect and the blend. So they look natural.

It isn't hard. Billy's hair is amazing. And you're not so bad at doing hair yourself, you remind yourself with a smug grin. Your hair was tended to nicely and you took pride in the curls and coils.

"I know," he scoffs, letting your fingers massage his scalp, "I'll think about it."

You smile softly. As much as you try to keep him at your place, you could never force him to do it. It was up to him when he would accept the offers or show up randomly for a night or two. He was independent. And you knew that was a part of him that he cherished and held onto tightly; the independence to choose to come over, the independence to own something like his camaro. His father took a lot from him, made him feel small- you would never take away his freedom to choose, never make him feel small. Never make him feel like you wanted to force him to do anything.

"All finished... My mom is making those cookies you like by the way," you tease, tugging on his hair, "the ones with those tiny peanut butter-"

"Cups in the middle," he finishes sharply, suddenly pulling himself away from your soft fingers in his hair. He flips himself to face you in a quick motion, a devilish look on his face as he surprises you with his sudden movement- pushing you down against his bed- his body pressed against yours as his face is so close you can feel his warm breathe fan across your lips, "trying to bribe me is a shit tactic. Won't work."

You roll your eyes, but you know he loves your mothers cooking. But you really aren't bribing him. Just a little, jokingly- he knows this too. He knows you.

"I know," you wiggle beneath him, trying to make yourself more comfortable. He rests his entire weight onto you, and it feels like you're covered in a weighted blanket, "she always leaves some aside for you anyways. Sometimes I think she likes you more than me."

Your mom adores Billy. Tries to baby him when she can. And at first that made you nervous; afraid of how he might react to it. He was wary at first but he took it well. He was charming, and good at making people like him. And you thought perhaps he secretly liked having someone try to mother him. Maybe it made him feel safe. Or happy.

"Of course she does, I mean, look at me."

It sounds so funny coming from him. He's referring to his good looks- and how Nancy Wheelers mom had tried to hit on him before.

"Don't be gross," you push down against his shoulders, not doing much to change your position or deter him. If anything it makes him worse.

But this time he relents, if only to get a look at his hair. When he looks in his mirror, you wait with bated breathe, still laying on his bed from where he'd been on top of you and pushed you there- but

His lips catch yours, hungry. He forces his tongue into your mouth, though it doesn't take him. It never does. He's intense and he isn't letting up; his hands move to dig into your hips, pushing your body deeper into his bed.

Billy's body stops resting on top of yours so heavily as he moves, placing one of his knees between your legs, and heading straight for your neck.

He always knows what to do. How to make you feel good in any situation. He's not even giving you a chance go breathe. You squeeze his biceps with your hands suddenly, letting him know you need him to stop for a moment. His baby blues look into your eyes with mild annoyance.

"Don't you want to look at your hair?" You manage to say as you catch your breath, "see if I... Messed it up?"

He looks at you in silence for a few moments, his face deadpan; too void of emotions for you to pinpoint what he's thinking. His eyes search your face and flicker from them to your own curly, thick hair  and his tongue darts out from between his lips unconsciously to wet them. He breathes through his nose.

"Nah," he brings himself close to your face again, a small tilt in the corner of his mouth, "I trust you."

[chainoftalent]

more yan pg shuichi saihara, pleasee

Im not late to like a half of my inbox definitely not nope

More Yandere PG Shuichi

As a reminder I call PG Shuichi Shinichi

He's absolutely internet stalking his crush, he is making 20 "throwaway" accounts with detailed post histories and backstories to like all your selfies or send you asks, or just interact with you online. If anyone is mean to you online he is sending them anon death threats, he justifies it as online and thus not a big deal and the best way to deal with these...desires.

Shinichi isn't the ultimate detective just yet but he's still good at what he does, if you post a lot online about your day or schedule or interests he's going to work towards figuring out your routines through that information. Just...just to see if he could! He's not going to do anything he promises but you really should be more careful with what you say online!!

Definitely drawing a lot of vent art about all this, art about his crush and darling and how perfect amazing he is, and art about how he's so disgusting and unworthy of her, art of them both dead, y'know classic kinda horror art that a venting emo depressed teenager would make, he's got no plans to hurt anyone, but he is drawing knives and demons and demons with knives. He is posting his angsty poetry about how innocence dies from the coveting of the bloodstained on tumblr and getting roasted for it, very teenage behavior going on here.

He wants to get gifts for them but he's too shy and self hating to give them in person, very much leaving stuff on their doorstep or in their locker with note from their secret admirer. It's honestly kinda cute, even if the notes can be a bit...alarming on how they show his low self worth a bit too much information

Probably calling himself a fanon Komaeda kinnie about this, luckily he is joking, he thinks this is peak comedy to reblog 2015 era yandere stalker komaeda aesthetics and fanart and listening to the playlists while he tags it with kin, it is not that funny but he thinks he's hilarious and quirky for this.

[galaxywarp]

It's the anon from a while ago who was going through opioid withdrawal.

I went to a pain management clinic and they basically told me my withdrawal symptoms aren't real and I should see a psychologist. They won't help me taper. That an addiction center wouldn't help because I'm not really addicted. Then why do I feel so sick when I try to reduce my dosage? Why do I have all the textbook symptoms of withdrawal? I can't stop cold turkey and I can't be sick all the time cause I have a full time job.

He said the opioids would be out of my system in a week, is that true? I don't know if I can get through a week of feeling like this. I've been on these meds for over a year, it just doesn't feel safe.

He also told me I just have to deal with my chronic pain and there's nothing they can do. It took weeks to see this specialist and he basically told me to go fuck myself.

I ended up breaking down in the appointment and he just had me leave.

I'm so tired and frustrated and I hate feeling like this.

Anon im so sorry. Thats so fucking shitty

I swear it’s fucking like — all he did was set you up for fucking failure.

He’s telling you to ignore your own warning signs until they get bad enough for him to acknowledge. By then you might be desperate enough that you go to street drugs or your withdrawal might need medical assistance. It happens a lot to pain patients whose doctors fuck them over. By the time they validate your problem their solution is now to just cut you off and leave you with no legal options for your pain. It’s an extremely common reason that people end up on heroin.

He’s encouraging you to pretend that the problem isn’t starting and setting you up to keep digging yourself deeper. But of course they’ll say it’s YOUR fault if your pain drives you to do something dangerous.

Ugh. Okay. Listen.

The opiates may very well be out of your system in a week. And i want to assure you that opiate withdrawal, while extremely painful, is not technically dangerous. Not like alcohol or benzodiazepines where you can hallucinate and have seizures. You won’t be in any danger. Just extreme discomfort (as im sure you’ve tasted already)

But if you continue to feel pain after that, and you very well might, i wanna tell you it’s real and valid. Even if doctors try to do the “it’s only in your head” thing.

Cuz you know what. It WILL be in your head. Your body’s pain receptors are going to feel raw and fragile. I was clean from fentanyl for months before my chronic pain truly eased. It’s like your body has to learn how to tolerate pain again and people don’t respect how miserable and painful that process is. You’re brave and strong for facing it.

I’m a little sleep deprived and im not sure what else advice i can offer atm but you’re on my mind anon. Please drop in my inbox again whenever you need.

[rattycattyfanfic]

(you drive me) crazy

for @mirroredmemoriez's prompt!

1.) Lynn or Amanda reacting to one another’s music tastes! Can keep it broad and just have it as looking at a genre or pick a specific song. Setting wise it can be anywhere, such as oh I’ve bought this CD and sliding the disc in the car.

a shocking 1,521 words! no real warnings except mentions of mandy brain. can kinda sit in bark like a god verse? but doesn't have to.

if anyone would like to submit some simple easy prompts that i can deal with in 500-700 words ideally (although im finding these are spiralling out of control!) my inbox is open :)

One thing Lynn hadn’t anticipated about Amanda, but finds herself continually pleasantly surprised by, is all the strange little commonalities they share. Amanda’s music taste is not particularly vast or varied, but her taste for the alternative overlaps with the soundtrack of Lynn’s own youth in a nostalgic way. 

She remembers the first time, back when they were new and slightly tense – the relief of a common ground in the form of a familiar song playing faintly on the radio. The Cramps, she thinks it had been, but she couldn’t for the life of her name the song. She had simply known that she’d worn it out in her late teens, and that this strange girl was now in her living room bobbing her head along to the same song, oblivious. “I used to love this one,” Lynn had said, breaking the comfortable quiet and hating herself for it. But then Amanda had looked back, up, at her with this odd expression, something akin to surprise or respect, and it had felt easy. She’d smirked, said something snarky, a bit rude, and Lynn had laughed, and it had been a rare easy moment for them amidst all the turmoil.

It’s nice. Unexpected, but nice. Lynn welcomes the throwbacks to her undergrad days, and the insight that the day’s music choice provides into Amanda’s strange head. Her thoughts are still a mystery to Lynn some days, but the music – it helps shine a light on whatever Amanda is thinking that day.

Sometimes, she finds the girl in an oddly energetic mood, spinning Bikini Kill or Blondie whilst she busies herself with household tasks. Often she’ll be bent over some gadget in the backyard, taking the thing apart and putting it back together – the VHS player, or the old bike in the garage that hasn’t been used in years, or some other currently unidentifiable pile of scrap metal and electronics. Lynn can’t even be mad about it. Amanda always puts them back together in perfect, or better, working condition, and so she’s content to hang in the doorway, watching curiously until Mandy perks her head up and notices. 

“Was it too loud?” she says, with grease on her cheeks and a look somewhere between defiant and owlish. 

And Lynn says, will always say, “No,” and then usually, “I love this album. What are you working on?” Amanda grins and launches into an explanation that goes straight over Lynn’s head, however similar metal and electronics and flesh and nerves might be. She furrows her brow and nods attentively, and thinks that she loves Amanda like this, almost childishly excited and hyper-focused to the bright tones of Eat to the Beat.

Similarly, Lynn can tell when it’s a bad day. She knows that when she hears Fiona Apple, Hole, even the rare occasion of Patti Smith whining from Amanda’s oversized headphones, she needs to tread a little more carefully, treat Amanda with a little extra care. That brain of hers is still a mystery to her, especially days like this when she doubts even Amanda can make sense of her tangled thoughts.

She gets this, though, the appeal of quietly enraged vocals, angsty guitars and pianos, fast or slow but equally intense either way. She remembers listening to Revenge as a teenager and how it had spoken to her, soothed emotions she hadn’t even realised she’d had, and she thinks she gets it a little bit. So she sits down on the back porch next to Amanda wordlessly, and lays her head on the girl’s shoulder to catch the odd angsty refrain leaking out of the headphones. She says nothing about the edgy look in those dark eyes, or the raw pink of her sharp cheeks and wrists from where she’d scratched and rubbed restlessly. Lynn sits silently with her, until Amanda lets out a shuddering breath and relaxes just an ounce. 

Today she unplugs her headphones and allows Lynn to listen with her fully. She leans against her shoulder heavily, allows the tenderness of backrubs or fingers combing through her hair. Other days, the headphones stay on and Lynn remains a voyeur, held at arm’s length, the vulnerability of unplugging simply too much for Amanda to bear. Either way, Lynn tucks these shared moments away inside herself and thanks whatever god there is for the safe catharsis of rageful nineties singers. 

Amanda is not a good driver. This is the main, overarching reason Lynn will give if asked why she always prefers to be in the driver’s seat of her own car. She can drive, legally, and does so without accident, but she is not good at it, and Lynn spends most rides with Amanda holding onto her fucking seat wondering if this was part of her torture repertoire when working under John. But then, she supposes, her victims would’ve been unconscious during transportation, and so all the swearing and sharp veers must be either unintentional or for the sheer thrill of it. 

That is the reason Lynn will give for not getting in Amanda’s car if she can help it. The reason she will not give, is that Amanda’s baseline – and her favourite driving music – is largely completely fucking unlistenable industrial metal. Nine Inch Nails, Nitzer Ebb, and Ministry take pride of place in the driving fast and badly playlist. It all sounds like construction site noise to Lynn, and only adds to the distressing experience of being driven around by someone she has to remind herself is criminally insane. 

Her car is in the shop, though, and they need groceries. And so, Lynn is white knuckling the seat of Amanda’s beaten up shitbox while KMFDM screeches through tinny speakers. She thinks there’s probably never been such an intense fucking drive to the grocery store in all of history.

She’s about to say something bitchy, maybe ask her to turn it off or down at the very least, but when she looks over, she snorts. Amanda has her sunglasses on and is nodding to the beat, tapping her fingers rapidly against the steering wheel, looking fully in the zone whilst she swears at another driver for daring to obey the highway code. “I can’t believe you like this shit, Mandy,” she says instead with an exasperated laugh, and gets a bright grin in response. 

“It’s fun,” Amanda defends lightly, and glances back at the road, veering around another corner way too fast. “It’s fast. I like it!” 

Lynn rolls her eyes. “‘Kill motherfuckin’ Depeche Mode?’ That’s fun?” She doesn’t see the appeal, honestly, but it fits Mandy she supposes. Erratic, brash, angry in a gleeful way. It fits her perfectly. She’ll grin and bear it, maybe even learn to love it like she had Mandy, despite all the ways she had infuriated her at first. 

Amanda opens her mouth as if she’s about to respond, but the song fades out and into the next, and she turns a soft pink instead. She reaches out awkwardly towards the dashboard to skip the song, but Lynn is fast too. Lynn knows her 00s pop music – put it down to having a young daughter and nothing else, nothing else. She grabs the girl’s slender wrist and stops her in her tracks, and the song continues. A grin spreads across Lynn’s face, and Amanda groans.

“Lynn–” 

The unmistakable intro to Toxic plays out through the speakers at the same volume as the heavy industrial stuff, and there’s no hiding from it. Amanda goes a deeper shade of pink, as if this is somehow the most embarrassing thing Lynn has learnt about her to date. 

It must be her growing sadistic streak, but Lynn can’t help but dig a little. She holds Mandy’s wrist still, hovering inches away from the skip button. “I would never have pegged you for a closet Britney fangirl, baby,” she teases, and delights in the way Amanda flushes and splutters. 

“I don’t know how that got on the playlist, Lynn – fuck – Lynn, skip it,” she stammers. 

“No, I like it,” Lynn says smugly, and sits back, entwining their fingers together and effectively stopping her from skipping it lest she crash them both into a ditch. “And so do you, apparently – keep that hand on the wheel.”

Amanda groans, but stops fighting. She squeezes Lynn’s hand hard, digs her nails in a little viciously, but keeps her other hand on the wheel and lets the bubbly pop keep playing. Even as she flushes, loudly proclaims her embarrassment, Lynn can see her knee subtly bouncing to the beat. She looks one second from whispering the lyrics to herself.

One last dig, for the fun of it. Lynn feels high on the silliness of the moment, a bubble of unfamiliar giggliness in her throat. “Do you know the dance moves too?”

“Oh my god!” Amanda exclaims, throwing her head back. She steps on the pedal in exasperation and the car surges forward. She really shouldn’t be allowed to drive. A minute later, when she finally manages to swallow down the worst of her humiliation, Amanda mumbles, barely audible above the autotune. “...Yes.”

Lynn laughs out loud.

[artistotel]

i have so much both sfw and nsfw fanart that ive never posted bc the fear of FREAKS is so rampant on here that i just take a look at my sketchdumps, go like "what problematic thing would people find about this and then make my life be annoying" and go like not worth it

sry to all fans of shows and ships that would like to see it but this site is absolutely showing its ass; the latest wave of active and agressive transmisogyny is really showing how fucking weaponized anti-sex sentiment of this site is, how fast it devolves into literal weapons of hate. im not transfem, my life and existence would not be endangered by annoying people in my inbox, but i have no wish to deal w that either if i dont have to. the absolute vitriol and agression ive seen transfem mutuals face for "FREAKS N DEGENERATES N PEDOPHILES" accusations legit has me stumped.

i dont care abt notes and shit or being like "yOuRe MaKiNg ArTiStS sToP pOsTiNg", ill just keep my drawings between me and my girlfriend, as ive done for months now. i feel bad because me and her send each other fanart by other artists, and i feel sad knowing that they might as well not post that art, the same way i dont. but i genuinely have no nerves or patience or wish to post anything in this vitriolic environment. "transmisogyny affects everyone!" is a disingenous statement to make, its self-centered to say it, but it does in a proxy way. i am not a victim of it, and i do not dare compare me being briefly annoyed on the interwebs with trans women getting their private fucking data outed for having a haha funny side url and fbi called on them, but it sure does have a part of a reason as to why i dont post much anymore. especially since my own sister is transfem.

so keep cultivating that bigotry and keep being silent bc 'it doesnt concern you' - because yeah, it does affect everything around you, the entire society.

so there, in case you wondered why i dont post as much, this is the reason. there is also a serious health situation im going through, but my lack of wish to post fanart has been going on for longer than that