#like if they’re not touching my brain is unhappy

[polin-erospsyche]

Ok real talk here and I’ll preface this by saying I do not ship Luke and Nic together I just really love their friendship. But I cannot be the only one who’s highly highly bothered whenever they do not stand close together to the point of touching. Like whenever there is some kind of space between the two of them my brain just goes on high alert thinking things aren’t as they should be.

Like just for illustration sake:

Touching. Everything feels right in my little brain. Happy and safe place.

Not touching. Things are going haywire in my brain. What is that potted plant doing there? Get it away. Give them a couch so they can touch for god’s sake!

[moonstruckme]

touchy bestfriend james makes my brain short circuit i love it so much

can u write a touchy bestfriend james and he’s lying on the bed while reader is in the bathroom and r comes in and sees him and he tells r to come over and lie with him then they fall asleep but she wakes up because he’s awake and playing with her boobs like stress balls and r asks what he’s doing then he just says that they feel warm and soft

Okay this was definitely a rough attempt, but I hope you like it!

cw: pg-13 level smut

bestfriend!James x fem!reader ♡ 618 words

When you come in, James looks nearly asleep despite the sunlight still streaming in through the windows. His face has gone soft and squishy, lips in a half-pout from how his cheek is smushed into his pillow. His hair is getting so long he’s had to push most of it to the back of his head to be able to see his phone screen where he scrolls idly in front of him, but one stubborn curl falls down his face and rests on the bridge of his nose. 

“What, do I have a massive pimple or something?” he asks without looking up. “What’re you staring at me for?” 

You cover your embarrassment with annoyance, rolling your eyes as you lean against the doorway. “Just wondering why you look like you’re about to drift off at four in the afternoon.” 

“Because it’s nice and warm in the sun,” he answers easily. “C’mere, love.” 

You do what he says (you always do, in the end), crawling onto the bed and laying down beside him. James shuts off his phone, setting it down in favor of sliding his hand between your waist and the mattress, big palm coming to rest at your navel as he tugs your back closer to his front. You don’t know about the sun, but James is certainly warm. 

“Your arm’s gonna fall asleep,” you point out. 

“Don’t care,” he says, already sounding drowsier. 

“Don’t we have to be up to meet Remus and Sirius in a couple hours?” 

“We will be.” 

You’re out of protests, and not unhappy for it. James’ palm is warm and comforting on your stomach, his other hand reaching over you to rest just below your sternum. His breathing evens out quickly, and it’s that steady rhythm that eventually lulls you into sleep with him. 

You wake, an indeterminable amount of time later, because something feels odd. You rouse slowly, aware first of the pleasant warmth at your back, then of the fact that you’re fully clothed in James bed, and finally of his hands on your boobs. 

He’s squeezing them, feeling about with curious but sure hands, one tit in each. You lie there motionlessly, unsure if James is awake, or honestly, if you are. His touch is oddly comforting, and while your best friend is a very tactile person, this level of intimacy is unusual enough that you almost wonder if you might be dreaming. Then he squeezes too hard, and you’re sure you’re not. 

“Ow!” you flinch back into James, hand coming up to grip his wrist. “What, are you trying to get milk to come out?”

“Hm?” James’ voice is sleepy, less so as he realizes the placement of his hands. His grip loosens. “Oh, shit. Sorry, love, I was half-asleep. Didn’t realize I was doing that.” 

He doesn’t sound nearly as embarrassed as you would be in his situation, but that’s James. “It’s okay,” you say (really, it’s more than okay). “Just, it hurts when you squeeze that hard. They’re sensitive, Jamie.” 

You feel him nod against the back of your head. “M’sorry, sweetheart, didn’t mean to hurt ya.” He doesn’t move his hands, though, and you make no move to encourage him to. “They’re just really warm and soft, y’know?”

You do know. The thing poking into your back is warm too, though not so soft. 

“I mean, I don’t mind,” you say, glad you’re facing away so he can’t see the intense blush spreading over your face like a blight. “It’s sort of nice. Just…don’t squeeze so hard, okay?” 

James’ thumb soothes over the skin of your breast, a comforting touch and a promise. He begins to knead at it gently. “Got it,” he says.

[sweet-evie]

Satoru & Suguru defending Shoko like…

I have so much brain rot about this, so hear me out and take the imagine/scenario... 😭

TW: Sexual harassment

This also may or may not be inspired by a recent real-life experience of mine where a bunch of guys harassed my friends and I at a bar, but thank God three gentlemen on the opposite table existed and were kind enough to tell the others off and walk us back to our car in the parking lot just to make sure we were safe.

✨ masterlist ✨

Shoko has scary dog privileges... Her "scary dogs" in question being Satoru and Suguru.

The trio had just finished their festival food.

Satoru wanders off to find shaved ice and some crepes, Suguru excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and Shoko willingly stays at their outdoor table, smoking her cigarette while keeping an eye on her friends’ things.

A guy approaches with ill intentions.

He’s hitting on Shoko, trying to engage her in conversation. At first, Shoko entertains him and participates in the casual talk, but when the guy invited her to come spend time with him and his friends (there were 5 other dudes standing not far away, grinning and hollering at their friend).

The guy hitting on Shoko is like, “I promise we’re cool.”

Shoko says ‘No.’ The guy was flirty about it at first, but when she expresses that she’s waiting for her friends, the guy keeps pushing and starts to try and touch her inappropriately. He tried to slide a hand around her waist and Shoko slaps his hand away. He pushes and pushes and leans closer and Shoko’s getting very uncomfortable, but she plays it cool.

Shoko is calm, collected, and plainly tells him something along the lines of, “You’re making me uncomfortable," "Please stop," "Thanks for inviting me, but I’m waiting for my friends. Nice talking to you.”

Unhappy, the guy explains that he’s going to lose a bet to his friends, and grabs Shoko’s arm. He’s manhandling her from the seat, pulling her up, ready to drag her towards his groupies. She struggles and tells him ‘No’ firmly.

People are starting to look…

Suguru is back, sees Shoko’s predicament, and acts immediately.

The guy looks older, a little bulkier, but Suguru isn’t fazed. He closes the gap in three strides, separates Shoko from the stranger and puts himself between her and him. He was just glaring menacingly at first, but the stranger is cocky and flashes a smile.

“This your girl or something?”

“No, she’s not. But even if she is, it’s none of your business. She told you ‘no.’”

Shoko is now just standing casually behind Suguru, taking another drag from her cigarette. There’s tension, and it looked like the stranger was raring for a fight. He’s sizing Suguru up. They’re about the same height… Maybe the other guy was four inches shorter. His friends are closing in now too, subtly.

Suguru looks calm as ever.

“What if we just took her and leave you for dead?” One of the guy’s friends pipes up, grinning and cracking his knuckles, rolling his neck. “Bring it on big boy, I got a black belt.”

He throws experimental aerial punches that look absolutely ridiculous.

Suguru looks dreadfully bored, but he’ll let them talk for the fun… well, until Satoru shows up anyway.

“Five against one, what do you say?” One of the other guys sneered.

Shoko snorts. “If only they knew. Can’t we just go?”

“Satoru should be back any minute now.” Suguru grinned.

“Having one of your other friends won’t save you.”

A guy throws a punch that Suguru effortlessly blocks, dodges, and counters against. It’s at this moment, Satoru shows up with small bags of kikufuku in hand, and he looks surprised for a second, before his face breaks into a shit-eating grin.

“I leave you alone for 5 minutes and you get into a fight.”

“Not like you would have stopped it.” Shoko deadpans. “And they were harassing me. Suguru stepped in before they could.”

“Huh…” Satoru dropped his bags on the table and sauntered up to the ongoing one-sided scuffle between Suguru and four other guys. 

It was a poor match-up. Suguru was alone, but the rest of the men were clearly outmatched. Tired of the bullshit, Satoru uses Amplification Blue to manipulate a pocket of space, pulling all the strangers away from Suguru, sending them crashing against each other. Disoriented, one of the guys get up and try to challenge them again, but Satoru steps up with hands in his pockets and slams his foot into the guy’s face.

Kinda like this...

He was trying to stand, but Satoru kicked him down before he could. One of them tried to touch him but failed (for obvious reasons)...

“That’s for harassing my friend. Can’t even defend yourselves against one guy." (He means Suguru) "You’re embarrassing.” He glowers at Shoko’s assailant over the rim of his glasses. “Think twice before trying to commit a crime, will you?”

SaShiSu, how I love you~ 💔

[artemisrisen]

chapter 51 musings/impressions

This chapter caused every synapse in my brain to fire off like cannonballs during a battle at high sea. This isn’t anything coherent, just word vomit as I process everything that’s happened. I may go back and edit as I think of more things or decide how to phrase other things better. cut for massive spoilers below. 

By the way, this is fantastic for non-Japanese reading fans because there is barely any dialogue. Just mad, bad, and rad touching, baby

-          The color pages are so ominous. Let’s get this pissed-off parade going

-          I don’t like Doumeki shoving Yashiro like that. With that being said, Yashiro SHOT DOUMEKI IN BOTH OF HIS LEGS and LEFT HIM IN AN ABANDONED WAREHOUSE. Not to mention Yashiro gets him back tenfold (twenty-fold?) in this very same chapter. So I can probably get over it.

-          Doumeki, who hasn’t moved a facial muscle in days, yells at a resisting Yashiro to stop acting like that when they’ve already done it; his expression is nothing like the cold, remote Yakuza he’s role-played as, but pure-cut Doumeki from pre-Sakura days, pre-hospital days: it’s not just anger at all, but desperation.

-          And Yashiro sees it: he realizes Doumeki is truly angry –the angriest he’s ever seen him, he thinks— and the switch is flipped. Doumeki’s indifference has eaten at him throughout the time-skip chapters; no matter how he prods or ingratiates himself, Doumeki seemed to be as unmoved as a mountain. I know there were even readers who questioned if Doumeki still loved Yashiro (which is, you know, absurd.) But now—now Doumeki is furious and it shows all over his face and his actions - and it’s because of Yashiro. Doumeki, who was unreachable, is suddenly right here. You can see Yashiro visibly relax into the ministrations; he pets Doumeki’s hair and even begins to pull the other man’s jacket off, which is shockingly active for him as a participant in sex.

-          Of course, this causes Doumeki to freeze in his angry lovemaking. Because he seems to know that Yashiro will be Pretty Unhappy with the back tattoo – the bridge that cannot be uncrossed, the hope of any reintegration to normal society extinguished. But how upset was he anticipating? Maybe he expected some disgust, or being called stupid, or for Yashiro to roll away and close himself off.  

-          I think it’s safe to say he didn’t expect Yashiro to have a genuine meltdown and proceed to beat the shit out of him with his bare hands. Yashiro’s eyes resemble the same wide, unhinged look when he tried to kill Hirata with a rock –but Doumeki was unconscious then. He’s never seen Yashiro out of control, especially with his emotions. In their first conversation, Doumeki relays that Yashiro “smiles even when he’s mad”, so he knew off the bat that Yashiro hides himself. He’s seen Yashiro kick Nanahara to injury, but there was a distance in that act, like a parent calmly disciplining a child. This rage feels like the child himself is screaming and pounding on the ground to exhaustion.

-          And Doumeki can see it. He lets Yashiro just pummel him right in the face. I think, in this world they’re in plagued with violence, this is as damning as a love confession. If Doumeki’s reaction is anything to go by, which is that after Yashiro exhausts himself, Doumeki cups his cheek and then kisses him full on the mouth.

-          Their pose near parallel to their first kiss, with Doumeki kissing from above with Yashiro’s eyes still wide open in shock.

-          But this time, instead of pushing away, Yashiro meets Doumeki fully: their kissing becomes heated, and it builds until Yashiro is all but sitting in Doumeki’s lap. There’s a frame of a single line of spit connecting their lips and it’s beautiful and filthy and a precursor to the feral sex that’s about to happen.

-          Naturally it ends here, because sensei wants us frothing at the mouth and ripping the upholstery apart for the next chapter as always.

- so what’s next? I think the sex is an absolute given; Doumeki’s hand is already dipping into the back of Yashiro’s pants (and Yashiro jolts / shivers in response) on the last page, so unless Kamiya comes barging in - well, actually, even if he does come barging in, Doumeki is going to use his entire Yakuza Superior Authority and make him leave, so. I think 52 is going to be raunchy as hell, and also sad, and also intense, because that’s saezuru.

- I mean, they’re gonna break the bed, right? that flimsy-ass frame that only holds Doumeki and not a single pound more? they might have better luck on the floor, but somehow I feel like both want to deliberately fuck that poor mattress into the below neighbor’s living room.

- And what happens from here? There’s still an investigation happening; the bad guys are still out there, targeting Doumeki. Yashiro now has to contend with the idea that Doumeki is fully “in”. Will he rejoin the Yakuza despite finally getting one foot out the door? It’s really hard to say. Personally I think they should just move abroad to Hawaii or somewhere and live peacefully and anonymously on Yashiro’s hoards of cash he’s accumulated in the last 4 years.

[the1975attheirverybest]

Jealousy, jealousy

A/N: okay, change of plans. I’ve decided to split menswear from this request and write them as two separate pieces. Here’s the requested one shot. Hop the anon who requested it sees it. Enjoy, and as always, feedback is more than encouraged!

Warnings: smut. Sub!Matty. Smoking, drinking.

——

Matty just knew today wasn’t going to be a good day. He had this weird feeling as soon as he opened his eyes this morning. A pit in his stomach that he couldn’t quite shake off. A feeling that everything was just a bit too much for his racing brain. But nothing could’ve prepared him for where this night seems to be going.

He cowered in the dark corner of the party venue, lighting a cigarette and clutching his damp, slippery beer bottle. It probably wasn’t a good idea to come tonight, let alone bring her with him. He attempted to take a couple of deep breaths, to calm down, help clear his mind, but it was like his lungs were physically incapable of doing it. The more he failed, the more frustrated he felt. He knew he had no right to be upset. It’s not like they’re dating. It’s not like he has the right to all of her time and attention. But she’d hardly spent two seconds with him at this party. Though she came with him. And, the host seems to have caught her eye. Or she caught his eye. The details didn’t matter. All he knew is, he’s all the way over here, struggling to keep from going crazy, while she was just….having the time of her life.

He watched as she lightly touched the guy’s elbow, leaning in and tucking her hair behind her ear. The guy whispered something to her, making her smile. What could they possibly be talking about? What could this man have to say to her that he wouldn’t want anyone else to hear? The sight was making his stomach turn. Or was it the combination of alcohol, cigarettes, and weed, on a fairly empty stomach? Either way, he decided he wasn’t sticking around to watch this show play out. He made a beeline for the exit, but not without squeezing right past her on his way out and hoping that she’d notice him.

Outside, the cold winter air hit him harshly. He panted, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think he was starting to panic. Was he panicking? What for? He turned back towards the door, watching it and telling himself that she’d pop out and find him any minute now. One minute went by, then two, then three….

***

Matty felt his phone buzz in his back pocket. He tore himself away from the lips he’d been kissing, hands shaking and fumbling for his phone.

The woman leaned in closer, taking him by surprise when she grabbed him by his leather jacket, clearly unhappy about him disrupting the kiss. “Don’t get shy on me now.” She whispered in his ear. Matty smiled at her nervously. “N-not shy. Just- uhh- my phone.”

He blinked rapidly, the intoxication and dim lighting had made his vision blurry and he couldn’t quite read the text for a moment. When he finally got around to it, it read:

Thanks for bringing me. heading out now. You seem to have your hands full. Didn’t wanna interrupt the steamy make out. Have fun. 😉

What was that supposed to mean?

Matty turned around instantly, rushing for the exit.

Thankfully, he’s caught up to her in time. She’d just lit a cigarette. He coughed and cleared his throat, tapping her shoulder.

“Oh, hey, you” she smiled at him, blowing the smoke out of the side of her mouth, her lipstick leaving a stain on the cigarette between her fingers.

“You’re…leavin’? Without me?”

“I mean- you seemed…occupied.” She giggled.

Matty couldn’t quite read her. Was she mad? Happy for him?

“What?” She frowned at the look on his face.

“I- wouldn’t have been ‘occupied’ if…you weren’t throwing yourself at Nick in the first place.”

“Wait, what?!” She took a step backwards, her heels grinding against the sidewalk. “I feel like I missing something here…”

Matty looked away from her, that same pit in his stomach tightening.

“Hey, what’s the matter with you?” She took another drag of smoke. Puffing in his face.

“Nothin’s the matter with me.” He whispered, grinding his teeth, still looking away.

“Oh yeah? Why won’t you look at me, then?”

He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“Matty, what’s going on inside your head right now? Talk to me…” she placed a hand on his cheek, tilting it slightly and forcing him to look at her. Her fingers were cold against his hot face. “Can see you thinking…what’re you thinking about?”

“You sure you wanna hear this?” He mumbled barely coherent.

“Yeah, I mean, since when do you keep things from me?”

Matty threw his hands up. “Okay fine. I just- I just think- Nick isn’t the guy for you.”

Her hand slipped away from his face, and Matty instantly felt the loss of her touch. She laughed incredulously.

“You’re…laughing’ at me. Great.” He rolled his eyes, looking away again.

“‘The guy for me’ ? really, Matty?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I thought Nick was your friend…”

“Yeah. For like when I’m town for a few days and want to party. Not- to- to-“

“To what?” She had a strange, self-satisfied smile on her face that Matty had never seen before.

“To date my best mate!”

She burst out into a fit of laughter, putting out her cigarette and stepping on it. “Awww, I’m your best mate? Wait, does George know? I’m gonna tell the guys you called me that.” She smiled, giving him a pat on the back.

Matty fought back the urge to roll his eyes again “I call everyone that. Look, I’m being serious! I know- I don’t own you. I don’t- you can date whomever you’d like-“

“Just not Nick.” She finished his sentence for him, still laughing.

“You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”

She checked her phone to see that her Uber was just about to pull up and then grabbed Matty’s hand, intertwining her fingers with his. “That’s my ride. Come with me.”

“I don’t-“

“Matty. Get in the car.” There was a firmness to her tone that made Matty’s head go mushy.

She kept a hold of his hand the whole ride. Whispering their conversation in his ear. Matty struggled to focus on what she was saying, the feeling of her breath against his neck, her fingers joint with his, everything was just too distracting. “I thought you were gonna go home with that….lovely lady who had her tongue down your throat?”

“N-no. she…was lovely. But- no.”

She leaned forward to get a better look at his face and then put a hand on her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Oh my god!”

“What?!!” The way she was finding all of his rage amusing was driving him crazy.

“You we’re trying to make me jealous, weren’t you?! Oh, Matty…”

He placed a hand on her thigh, squeezing a bit too harsh. “I- I wasn’t. Okay? I could accuse you of doing the same thing with Nick!”

“Yeah, except I’m not the one who’s panties are bunched up over ‘my best mate’ being with someone else.” She smiled and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

Matty’s face turned bright bright red. How was he losing this argument on so many levels, right now?

“Look, I know we’re not datin’ or anything….I just- don’t like sharing.”

“Okay, so you’re jealous. Got it.”

It surprised Matty that for the rest of the ride back to her place, she couldn’t stop smiling. She also couldn’t stop grabbing her wherever her hands landed. His neck, his arms, his hair….he didn’t understand it but he wasn’t about to complain.

***

“My sweet boy.” She whispered, marveling at the sight of him on his knees, his face against the mattress, utterly fucked out, his chest heaving and still whimpering slightly.

She walked over to the bed, running her fingers through his sweat-drenched curls. “You got one more in you?”

Matty said nothing for a moment, still struggling to catch his breath. “For- you? Always.” He eventually muttered.

She grabbed his shoulders, slowly pushing him to sit up, he winced slightly, his whole body weak and sensitive from what she’d done with him, but he let her maneuver him around until she had him on his back.

She went around the bed, grabbing a condom from the nightstand.

Matty sat up quickly at the sound of the packer crinkling. His trembling fingers reached for it. “I- I can-“

“Oh, I got it, good boy. You just lay there looking perfect.”

Matty felt flustered. He wasn’t sure if it was her praise or the fact that he’s never let a woman put one on him before. His eyes fluttered shut and he gasped quietly at her feather-light touch.

She moved to align her body with hers, placing a kiss to his face as she sank down onto him.

Matty’s head strained against the bed. “You- feel so-“ a moan interrupting him.

Soon, her hips rocked back and forth, her nails digging into the skin of his chest as she rode him. He whined when he felt her clenching around him.

“Ah- alright- Angel. You’re gonna cum with me, yeah?” She looked into his eyes. He nodded vigorously, unable to speak.

***

“Thank you…” Matty blurted out as he watched her walking around the room to clean up and bring him a drink of water.

“Mhm” she hopped back onto the bed next to him, taking the water from his shaking hand and sipping on it herself. “For your information, not that you own me or anything, but Nick is a total douche.” She spoke with a grin. “His frat boy humor is gross. If I ever meet someone? You’d know.”

Matty sat back, resting his head against the headboard, smiling gratefully up at her.

[azrielgreen]

Touched 🦇CH8🦇 Preview

Steve’s shoulder hurts, his arm is tingling and painful but it’s much better, so much better in fact he literally couldn’t care less about it.

All he cares about is…

‘Eddie,’ he groans pathetically, trying to get into Eddie’s lap, needs kisses, needs love, needs that aching cavern inside to be filled until he thinks it’ll split him in half, he needs everything. ‘Alpha.’

‘Oh my god, are you fucking serious?’ Nancy hisses, trying to pull Steve away. ‘This is not the time!’

‘Is it the Thing?’ Jonathan asks in a low whisper.

Eddie grunts with the effort of dodging Steve’s kisses, in the end has to flip Steve around and imprison him in a wall of muscle, wrap him in tight arms with Steve’s back against Eddie’s chest.

‘Stop it, you have to be quiet.’

Steve can’t, he’s writhing with it. Doesn’t know if it’s the adrenaline, or the pain or what, but he’s… he feels like he is mid heat and Jesus Christ, he doesn’t care who sees it, but he’s gonna have to beg Eddie to fuck him right here, on the dead soil of this dead world.

‘Can’t,’ he whines, scrabbling for freedom. ‘Eddie, can’t control it. Use the voice, please.’

Eddie doesn’t hear him though and Steve’s facing away, so he dips into the bond, finds it scalding hot to the touch and fever-bright.

Use the voice to calm me down, please.

I can’t do that.

If you don’t I’m gonna lose it and get us killed. Use it carefully, I know you can. I love you. Please.

When he opens his eyes, he’s wet between the legs, he’s throbbing and desperate, his blood thick with itch and his body screaming to be filled, fucked, bred.

Eddie’s cheek is against Steve’s, holding him from behind when he drops his voice to that rope burn baritone, and says, ‘Be calm and quiet for me, Omega. Slow, deep breaths. Calm. Relaxed. You’re OK. Just for a few minutes then it’ll pass.’

Steve feels like someone cut his strings.

His whole body sags, his brain drops into bliss and he exhales a breathy sigh, feels so much better.

Everything’s fine.

He just has to breathe.

‘That’s it,’ Eddie says, kissing him, holding him tight and his voice cracks beneath the weight of a guilt that Steve doesn’t understand because everything is fine, it’s OK, it’s perfect. ‘That’s it, so good for me.’

‘Fucking hell,’ Jonathan utters, but it’s not about Steve. Everyone is looking up at the shadow passing overhead.

Everyone except Steve, who just needs to breathe.

‘What the fuck are they?’ Jason whispers.

‘Never seen those before,’ Hopper states grimly. 

‘They’re like bats.’

‘Owens said everything has a hive mind, so let’s make sure to stay out of sight.’

Eddie muses, ‘Like the Crebain?’

‘What the hell is a Crebain?’

‘He still can’t hear you,’ Chrissy reminds Nancy.

‘I can hear you through Steve,’ Eddie points out, sounds deeply unhappy about it though. ‘When he’s like this… he’s mindless. There’s no interference. I can hear through him.’

‘My god,’ Robin mutters.

Hopper turns to watch the last of them fly on. ‘They’re passing by.’

Steve is so relaxed.

So calm.

He could nap.

‘You’re doing so great, Little Fox,’ Eddie tells him, kissing his neck. ‘Just a few more seconds and then you’ll be back to normal.’

‘Are you controlling him?’ Jason demands.

‘Stay the fuck out of it, Carver.’

‘That’s gross, that’s like mind control.’

‘You don’t know shit, so shut your mouth!’

‘Guess you really are a monster.’

‘Hey,’ Hopper warns sharply. ‘Enough. Carver, don’t make me regret bringing you. Munson, sack up, I mean it. No bullshit in here, it’s too dangerous.’

Steve feels like he’s waking up, even with his eyes open. He can hear other sounds, he’s noticing things. It comes in a massive rush of pure overwhelm.

And the death right with it.

The smile in the dark.

The dead eyes.

I see you. I taste you. I know you, Steven James Harrington. I will find you.

[frodo-with-glasses]

For the ask game:

Frodo - kiss

Faramir - mirror

Eomer - fire

Gimili (and Legolas) - salt water

Kiss

OH HECK YEAH HOCKEY ANNA YOU KNOW WHAT I L I K E

(And what I like is platonic displays of affection through Physical Touch)

See talking about this topic is great because for the vast majority of kisses involving Frodo in this book, a) he is the recipient of said kiss, and b) the one doing the kissing is Sam. 8-D

THIS is why Frodo and Sam own my brain. Not only is their friendship crucial to saving the world—not only is it a beautifully gut-wrenching reflection of what it’s like to love someone with mental illness, which is an intensely familiar and poignant thing to me—but they’re also just so openly affectionate and vulnerable and sweet with each other, and confident and secure in that bond without embarrassment, and it’s demonstrated in so many ways including but not limited to kisses and IT’S SO HECKIN’ CUTE (and also FEELS)

Le Evidence, for the court’s review:

Sam weeps on Frodo’s hands at some point when they’re climbing the Emyn Muil, but the narration specifically points out that he does not kiss them, which makes me insane because it implies that such a thing was a possibility to begin with and Sam actively decided against it

Sam kissed Frodo’s forehead when he was out cold with Shelob’s poison and Sam thought he was dead (which is utterly gut-wrenching)

Sam kissed Frodo’s forehead again in the Tower of Cirith Ungol and tried his best to sound cheerful as he said “Come! Wake up, Mr. Frodo!”, trying to put a brave face on the less-than-ideal circumstances of Frodo having been captured, stripped naked, interrogated, and scourged with a whip just moments before

Sam kissed Frodo’s hands twice while they were climbing up the side of Mount Doom—one instance of which was specifically because Frodo begged him for help to resist the temptation to grab the Ring (I didn't draw these and darn it I probably should have)

And lastly, of course, Frodo kisses Sam’s forehead at the Grey Havens before he leaves for Valinor, which will never not shatter my heart into a million pieces in the best way possible

I could scream about literally every single point in this list forever and a day. I could scream about how kisses on the hand used to signify service and fidelity to a superior in Ye Olden Days, and how that relates to Sam considering kissing Frodo’s hand but deciding against it. (Did he think it was a bit too forward? Did he figure his loyalty was already implied? Was it just too early in their friendship, and he wasn’t ready to be that vulnerable—thus forcing himself to stop crying and playing it off like “where the heck is that stinker Gollum” a few seconds later? Maybe it was some combination of them all? I don’t know! Am I losing my mind?? Probably!!)

I could scream forever about Sam thinking Frodo is dead, and the raw agony that it is watching him grieve, and the way that that kiss on the forehead is (at least what he thinks) a final goodbye. I could scream forever squared about the fact that the forehead kiss happens as he’s taking the Ring from Frodo’s limp body.

See, in Sam’s mind, there’s no contradiction here. The Ring was Frodo’s burden, and now Frodo is gone, so out of love for him and duty to the world at large Sam is taking on that burden and honoring Frodo’s memory by doing so. BUT ON ANOTHER LEVEL. THERE’S A HUGE AND EPIC CONTRADICTION. Because the Ring is a thing of evil and malice that has only ever switched hands through murder or theft or unhappy accident, until this upstart little bundle of hobbits had the NERVE to pass it on in LOVE and HONOR for each other, and here is Sam taking on this thing that has been coveted and lusted after through the centuries by people far more powerful and important than him, and he has the gall to imply that he doesn’t actually care about the Ring at all right now; all he cares about is his friend that he thinks is dead. LIKE WHAT AN EPIC SCREW-YOU TO SAURON. HOLY COW. SAM IS THE BOSS and he literally proved it just by loving Frodo more than he loved the Ring.

I could scream forever about the moment in the Tower when Sam tries to wake Frodo up like it’s just another day in the Shire. They are in the middle of Mordor. Frodo was just interrogated and beaten. Sam is hungry and parched and exhausted. There’s danger all around them, and if all goes well—not poorly, mind you, well—they’re going to walk into far worse. But darn it if he isn’t going to try his darnedest to throw some light into this bleak situation, because Frodo needs comfort, and Sam is the only one around who can give it.

Also he’s probably far less embarrassed to kiss Frodo now, while he’s awake, ‘cause he’s already done it when he thought Frodo was dead, and that’s incredibly cute.

Also also, this happens while he’s cuddling a still very very naked Frodo. Which. I. Wow. I’m still in awe. 🤣🤣 You literally cannot get more vulnerable and comfortable with another person than that (short of things getting Very Much Not Platonic). Tolkien really looked at every single silly inhibition we have built up around friendship and went “that sign won’t stop me ‘cause I CAN’T READ”

If I had a nickel for every time Sam kissed Frodo’s hands on the slopes of Mount Doom, I’d have two nickels, and that would not be nearly enough money to make me stop screaming about it. I just. The tenderness, the exhausted attempts at encouragement, the way Sam helps Frodo fight temptation through love and gentleness and affection and the way Frodo begged for Sam to hold his hand and then Sam immediately goes above and beyond. They’re both utterly spent and exhausted. All they have left is the task in front of them and each other. Sam’s lips are dry and cracked from thirst, but he continues to put Frodo before himself, and I will never ever be over that.

And I could scream forever squared—no, cubed—no, forever to the power of itself about the kiss goodbye at the Grey Havens. Of all the things it means, the gratitude and love and grief and joy and pain and victory and hope that’s all wrapped up in it. Frodo very rarely uses Physical Touch as a love language. That’s Sam’s purview. Frodo is much more a Words of Affirmation kind of guy. But at some point, the words run out—and even if you had enough of them to say what you feel, the whole world could not contain the books upon books you could fill—so you fall back on the very first way each and every one of us learned to perceive love, when we were teeny tiny and wrinkled and brand new and someone held us close; and when we felt the warmth of their body and the safety of their arms and heard the heart beating steadily in their chest, our brand new little brains knew that we were loved.

At some point, Frodo’s words run out, and he returns the love and affection he’s been given in the same way Sam has always given it. One small gesture, and it says leagues more than ten years of Words ever could.

One kiss—and absolutely everything has been expressed that could be.

This is why Frodo and Sam are ultimate friendship goals. Until I write a bromance that has the same casual intimacy and extraordinary vulnerability that these two have, I will forever consider myself a mere grasshopper to the galaxy-brained genius that is Tolkien. Until I myself have a friendship on that level, I will always feel I have something to learn. Until I surpass the Master, I am but his humble Student.

Basically Tolkien—despite being Incredibly British—really came out here and said “it’s cool to kiss the homies, actually”, refused to elaborate, and left, and I have never stopped screaming about it.

WORD ASK GAME!

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Vast!Jon AU - Archivist!Sasha Snippet

AKA: That Moment When you want to scream at characters to get as far away as they can... but it's already too late.

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

It’s Eye stuff. It’s got to be.

Sasha lies on the floor, nausea rising, vertigo leaving her unable to do much more than be a slug.

Well. And churn Jon’s words.

Do you know what Elias is?

A boring, letter-of-the-law manager?

Except she suddenly knows he is not.

What this place is?

It’s an archive. It’s an intellectual curiosity, knowledge tucked behind glass and incorruptible.

Except she suddenly knows it is not.

If only her head would stop spinning.

If only she could stop feeling like she was falling off a cliff. 

If only she - 

“Sasha?”

Elias.

“I’m here.” She lies still, eyes closed, digging the heels of her hands into her forehead.

“My, my, he did hit you hard, didn’t he? It was an accident, at least. Sasha, I am going to touch you.”

“Excuse you?” she says, because he’d fucking better not mean what that sounded like.

“To free you from the grip of what has made you dizzy. It will not be inappropriate.”

Sasha laughs. “So appropriate that you have to tell me it’s going to be appropriate? What, I couldn’t figure that out for myself?”

“Lie still.” And he touches her forehead.

There is a snap, a flash of light behind her eyelids, and the vertigo abruptly stops.

Sasha makes a low, breathy sound.

“Take your time,” says Elias, who is not at all what she’d thought, and she grows afraid.

She tries to think. There’s nothing remotely like a weapon in here. Maybe if she got into Artefact Storage, but the things in there would be just as likely to eat her as they would him.

“Relax, Sasha. I am not your enemy. We’re on the same side.”

“What side? There are sides?” She risks opening her eyes, and finds the room has stopped whirling. Carefully, she sits up. Her stomach is still unhappy, 

“This is not how I would have preferred to introduce you,” says Elias, who is seated where Jon had been, out of reach, non-confrontational. “You needed more time to acclimate, but our young Mister Sims accidentally accelerated the timeline.”

Sasha thinks maybe she knows now why Gertrude was always so secretly crunchy. “Forgive me, Elias, but what the actual hell are you talking about?”

Elias smiles.

It is a terrible smile.

It is knowing, and smug, and absolutely eager, as if whatever is happening now is satisfying some deeply creepy need. “It’s very simple, Sasha: Do you want to know?”

And it’s not even a fully fleshed-out sentence, and it’s not even a question that should make sense, but it resonates in her, rings her heart like sympathetic tuning forks, gongs through her skull as if he’d hit her brain like a bell.

She needs to know.

She needs it badly.

She needs it with a hunger she’s never known in her entire life, and it eclipses everything else in this moment.

Vaguely, she’s aware of staring back at him, not breathing, so caught in those five, simple words that she’s lost the thread of herself. “Yes.”

“Perfect. Come join me at the table. We have a lot to discuss.”

#

“Fuck that guy,” Martin says the moment they’re outside, taking out his phone. “I’m so mad I’m getting us a rideshare. And we are going someplace ridiculous, and having substandard ice cream, and maybe some booze. Right?”

“I have to go back in,” whispers Jon.

“Nuh-uh. Simon Fairchild has to know some other guy to teach you how to be a proper monster, because that one is full of bats.”

"I hurt her," Jon whispers.

Martin stops. Grips Jon’s shoulders.  "What?"

And Jon won’t meet his eyes.

“Jon?” says Martin, soft.

“I hurt her.” He’s trembling, and his lashes are wet. “Completely by accident, I hurt her. I… I hit her with the Vast, somehow, and I don’t even know how I did it. I have to go back. I have learn how not to do this, so I never do it again.”

Martin stares at him. His phone buzzes. He ignores it. “Jon… should… should we go help her?”

“She asked me to leave. Twice.”

Ouch. “I know you’d never hurt anyone on purpose.”

“I have to go back.”

Martin’s phone buzzes again. He resists the urge to lob it across the street like a grenade. “Jon. It’s been a crazy few days. Apparently, there are fear gods. We’re going home.”

“Martin, if I hurt you - ”

“You won’t. Jon, you’ve been kipping with me for three days. If you were going to hurt me, it already would have happened.”

Jon glances up at his face and away again, but that was long enough.

Martin gasps. “Jon… your eyes.”

“Don’t look!” Jon tries to pull away.

Martin pulls him in instead, both arms around him, and holds. Jon practically goes limp, face to Martin’s shoulder, and trembles. 

Martin cannot process what he just saw.

Jon’s eyes.

They were galaxies.

Looking into them was looking at those fancy NASA photos, shrunk to a thumbnail size.

Martin was absolutely sure for one irrational second that he could fall into Jon’s eyes and be lost in space forever.

Then he shakes it off, because that is ridiculous, and this is stupid. “Come on. Copious amounts of sugar. No arguments.”

“I don’t think I can. I think… I probably need to be alone. Away from you, especially. I can’t… risk doing this to you. I can’t.”

“You won’t.”

“At least give me a couple of days to be sure I won’t just start… hurling people into the air off the street, or something.” Jon risks a glance again (stunning, stellar, impossible), then gently puts his hand to Martin’s cheek. “I’m not going to do anything stupid. But I… if something happened to you because of  me, I don’t…”

Martin’s thoughts have derailed thanks to that hand. Jon’s never done that before.

After a moment, he puts his hand over Jon’s. “You promise you’re not doing something stupid.”

“I promise.”

“Okay.” He wants to kiss Jon’s hand. “Okay.” He wants to kiss Jon’s lips. “Okay.” He wants…

Jon gives him a tight, desperate hug, face to his neck, breath warm and fluttering, and then he’s hurrying away down the street, head down and hands in his pockets, visibly trying not to look at anyone who might cross his path.

Martin stands there, feeling bereft.

Should he run after him?

Maybe?

No?

Jon had the right to ask to be alone, and they had been together for the last three days unceasingly.

Should he check on Sasha?

Maybe?

Probably?

There wasn't an ambulance coming, or anything, so she was hopefully okay?

This was fine.

Sure.

Completely within reason and all very healthy.

Martin’s phone buzzes a third time.

In a daze, he takes it out.

The first text is an enormous privacy invasion, because he had not given Peter Lukas his number. Had a chance to look at that link yet?

Ugh! He deletes it.

The second text is automated, and expected, reminding him the monthly bill for his mother’s care is due.

But the third text.

The third comes from his shift manager.

Martin, it’s Nicole. Antoine lost it and burned down the kitchen, ranting about “desolation” and “lightless flame” and I don’t know what else. We all got out, and we’re not hurt, but Antoine is dead and the restaurant is ruined. Sorry, Martin, I know you needed the money, but Poisson is closed until further notice. Take care of yourself.

Martin stares.

He pulls up the news, and there it is: wild photos of the blaze, black smoke licking the sky, people gaping from across the street, firefighters in full gear and blasting the building with hoses.

He stares.

It’s just… one too many weird things in a week of weird things, and Martin sits down right where he is on the curb.

Right, he thinks, because he was barely making ends meet even with that job.

Right, he thinks, and tells himself it’s absurd to assume the Lukas thing had anything to do with the fire.

Right, he thinks, because the bill for his mother’s care is due, and without the next paycheck, he won’t be able to make it.

For one moment, he drowns.

In a daze, he texts Sasha to ask if she's okay.

Then he scowls. “Oh, fuck it,” he says, and fishes Lukas’ card out of his wallet.

The link still works.

“Fuck it,” he says again, feeling reckless, telling himself asking about an opportunity is not tying him down to anything, and it’s at least worth his time to see if they’re serious.

Coincidences happen.

They do.

"Fuck it," he says one more time, and calls the number.

He just wishes he could lose the stupid, obviously wrong feeling that a net was closing around them all.

[bumblebeerror]

To anyone worried T will make you ugly or angry, from your local fat masc-presenting non-binary

Hi. I’ve been on T (not low dose) for 10 months.

Physically: it has squared my jaw a bit, I have grown a lot of hair: I now grow dark hair on my legs, arms, pits, and my face - and have found all easy to shave (it irritates my face a bit but I’m getting used to doing it right), and I have a lot of acne. My voice is a fraction lower and I’ve lost a good bit of my upper register. My legs got more defined, my weight stayed the same. I gained a little bit of upper body strength, my chronic pain stayed about the same, and my chronic fatigue stayed about the same. I’ve noticed bottom growth, and more than anything else it’s just sort of weird-feeling to walk for a little bit, lmao.

I’ve found myself to be less attractive in some ways, but almost all of those ways I can control (various hair) or were already present and now just have a more predictable schedule/just need more intense treatment (acne). Any unattractiveness I feel is vastly outweighed by everything else that changed. I’ve never felt more comfortable wearing revealing clothing. I regularly feel perfectly comfortable going topless as long as my breasts are covered somehow. I’m particularly happy with my legs and how much more comfy I am with my tummy.

Mentally: I have noticed a lot less anxiety, depression, and self-consciousness. I’ve felt more grounded to my body. I’ve not been more angry - I’d personally say I’ve gotten a lot calmer, actually. It’s much easier to handle my brain in general. My mood can swing, but generally it’s because I’m already tired and pretty similar to PMS anyways. It’s made me cry a few times, overwhelmed or extremely touched by whatever caused it. These mood swings happen kinda rarely, and they’re never worse than any mood swings I’ve gotten from ADHD, Anxiety, Autism, or PMS.

You’ll be okay. If you want to do this, then do it. Anything you don’t like, it’s okay. If what I’ve said is a dealbreaker, that’s okay too. But know that you’ll never be so fucking awful as the people who try to scare you away from helping yourself by calling transmascs ugly.

Remember that they don’t know you. They don’t know what you look like and they don’t care, more importantly. All they want is to keep you unhappy. Please don’t let them.

[iriswords]

Febuwhump Day 5: “That’s gonna scar”

You can also read this on ao3 and find the rest of my works for febuwhump here.

tw: torture, blood and injuries, emotional and physical whump, mention of canon sexual abuse

Fandom: All For the Game

Words: 1590

Riko will not stop until he is satisfied, until he knows for certain Jean has learned his lesson and will remember it. But when Riko purposefully leaves Jean's wounds shallow enough to need a second round of punishment, Jean asks Kevin to remedy it.

--

Jean clenches his eyes and tenses when the tip of the knife first touches his chest. He is bare-chested, lying down on his bed, his wrists handcuffed to the headboard. Riko is kneeling above him, a knife firmly held in his hand. Kevin is sitting on his own bed, across the room, eyes locked on Jean’s chest because Riko will be unhappy if he looks away. 

Jean doesn’t resist as Riko traces a line on his chest, as blood wells up from the shallow cut. He doesn’t resist when Riko presses the tip at the beginning of the cut and traces it again, deepening the wound. Resisting, thrashing, fighting back never gets him anywhere. It amuses Riko, and what amuses Riko is bound to repeat itself. That, and Kevin would have to hold him if he thrashed too much.

Jean can’t do that to Kevin. It’s bad enough that he has to watch, bad enough that he blames himself for everything that happens to Jean even though the only one to blame is the fucker who thinks himself king of the world. Jean knows, though he is never there when it happens, that Riko convinces Kevin every punishment Jean endures is because of Kevin’s mistakes. No amount of reassurance from Jean can change how ingrained this belief has become in Kevin’s brain. Jean can’t make him hold him on top of everything, can’t make him believe he is not only responsible for but also complicit in the hurt Jean is inflicted. 

He grits his teeth as Riko traces the same cut a third time. Bordel de merde, it’s only the beginning. Riko likes games, likes symbols and meanings. He likes for his punishments to be not only amusing to him but to bear a certain signification. To embody something. 

Today, it is the number seven. Seven, for the number of goals that were marked against the goal Jean was supposed to defend during practice. Nevermind that he isn’t the only backliner, nevermind that the goalie too was supposed to defend the goal, nevermind that all of the Ravens are supposed to be the best players in the country. Riko wanted fun, he invented a reason to get it. 

He could just go and torture Jean, but then he would not be able to play the mind games he so loves. He would be marked as the villain, who acts without reason, instead of the master who controls his pet’s behavior. Meaningless torture would stimulate his victim’s bitterness, their rebellion. Gaslighting breaks them, makes them believe they deserve it. It makes them thrive for perfection while fearing punishment. It makes them obedient. And Riko likes nothing more than breaking people. It is the only means through which he can feel truly powerful. He is number one in nothing else. He has complete power over his victims, in a way he doesn’t over everything else in life. Even at Exy, he isn’t truly the best.

Si seulement. Ca lui ferait des vacances. (If only. It would give him a rest.)

But Jean can’t say that. That would get him killed, and as much as he longs to escape his suffering, he can’t do that to Kevin. Can’t leave him alone at the Nest. 

Riko plunges the blade into the first cut with more violence. It draws Jean from his thoughts and a cry out of his mouth. Above him, Riko chuckles with dark glee. 

“There you are,” he says. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Riko hops off the bed and flicks a hand at Kevin. “Clean this,” he orders. “I’ll come back and check if they’re deep enough to make a fitting punishment.”

 By the time Riko has finally traced and retraced the seven cuts on Jean’s chest, silent tears are streaming down Jean’s face. His chest harbors a fire that spikes with each panting breath he takes. The blood on it provides a stark, gruesome contrast against his pallid skin. It makes Riko laugh. 

Jean seizes with panic, but thankfully, Riko doesn’t notice it. The door closes behind him, and Jean shares a wide-eyed look with Kevin. 

“It won’t be deep enough,” he says as Kevin kneels beside the bed, alcohol bottle in hand. It’s the only thing he’s allowed to use to disinfect the cuts. “Kevin. Kevin, listen. Ecoute-moi.” Kevin’s attention turns to him. “It won’t be deep enough. He’ll return and he’ll hurt me again and again until he’s satisfied.” Jean is going to work himself into a panic, probably already is, but he doesn’t care. He looks down at the cuts on his chest. Blood masks them, but Jean can tell they won’t scar. It’s not a punishment Jean will bear on his body until the end of his days. Thus, it won’t be enough for Riko. 

An idea forms in his head. It is cruel and goes against his principles of involving Kevin, but he isn’t thinking straight. He just wants it all to end. He can’t bear the thought of Riko kneeling above him again, like the Ravens do when he orders them to rape Jean, of Riko grinning as he hurts Jean, of Riko, just Riko, who destroyed Jean’s life. He can’t do that again, he can’t, he just wants it to end.

Beside him, Kevin wets a cloth with the alcohol. The knife lies abandoned on the ground, dripping blood onto it. 

“Kevin,” he calls again more urgently. Tears have resumed their path on his cheeks. “Kevin, it’s not gonna scar. He’ll— He’ll do it again, you have to… Please, you—”

“No.” Kevin’s voice is strangled, his eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears. He never lets his mask down unless he’s with Jean. 

“Please,” Jean begs, choking on a sob. They don’t have much time. How long, until Riko returns? He can’t find Kevin hurting Jean, or the punishment will be much worse. “Please, I can’t— Not him. Not again, I can’t do that. I’m sorry, but please. It has to be you. I can’t do it, not with my hands cuffed.” He will be ashamed, later, of what he asks of Kevin, of the way he sobs like a kid through his demand. At the moment, though, all that matters is that Riko won’t hurt him again today. He might tomorrow, but today Jean can’t take anymore. “Please.” 

“Jean.” 

Jean keeps his eyes closed. He can’t look at Kevin. “Je suis désolé. Je suis désolé, mais s’il-te-plaît. Je peux pas— Pas avec lui.” (I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but please. I can’t— Not with him.)

Silent, searing sobs wrack his chest by the time Kevin is finished, but the cuts are deep and bleeding enough to need stitches. Deep and bleeding enough to leave a scar. 

Kevin’s hands are steady as they wrap around the knife’s handle. He darts a quick, careful glance at the door before bringing it up above Jean’s chest. 

Jean throws his head back and clenches his teeth when the blade sinks into the first cut, merciless teeth tearing through his flesh. Kevin is more insistent than Riko but quicker in his work. He works as he does in everything else: methodically, painstakingly. Jean’s face is soaked with tears, and his breath caught in his throat, but he doesn’t let a single sound escape him. It’s the least he can do for Kevin. 

Kevin has not shed a single tear, and his grip on the knife is as secure as it is on an Exy racket, but his gaze is distant, and he won’t meet Jean’s eyes. Jean whimpers and sobs harder as Kevin cleans the cuts, the alcohol setting fire to them and bringing with it scorching torment.

He only realizes it is over when Kevin’s hand cards gently through his hair. Blood is already welling up again on his chest. 

Riko comes back not even a minute later, his eyes sparkling with pleasure when he takes in Jean’s face. He bends over Jean’s chest, carefully examining the cuts and trails his fingers along them, ignoring the way Jean shudders from pain at the contact. 

“They’re deeper than I thought,” he comments eventually, and Jean forgets how to breathe. 

“That’s gonna scar,” adds Riko, cutting through Jean’s thoughts. Then, unbelievably, “It will do for today.” Jean stares at him, dumbfounded. He is half certain he is dreaming, delirious from the pain. But Riko’s steely grip on his chin, forcing him to look up, is real enough. “I hope these scars will remind you not to be a failure, Jean. Take a look at them next time you forget.” He lets Jean go and turns on his heels. “I’ll send for the doctor. That’ll need stitches.” 

He fucked up. He fucked up so badly. Now, not only did he hurt Kevin, but it will also have been pointless because Jean is a fucking fool. Of course, Riko would know how deep he made those damned cuts. He kept them too shallow on purpose, so he could keep hurting Jean, so his play-toy would last some more. 

He doesn’t even want to imagine what kind of punishment Riko has in store for such a situation. He dreads to think of it, dreads to think of the consequences, of how he’ll have to keep going anyway. He won’t make it through a single practice and he’ll be punished for that, too. He might end up dying from this endless cycle. And then he’ll leave Kevin alone and guilty. 

Jean lets his head fall back against his pillow. It’s over for today. 

@febuwhump

[raraeavesmoriendi]

I’m watching the newest episode of Queer for Fear and I’m thinking out loud.

I’m thinking about the fact that since I’ve been writing, I’ve been writing stories about people who are always trying to find what’s wrong with them through something else. Searching and writing about something that may or may not exist, that feels a little bit like a mirror of how they feel inside, even if they don’t fully understand it yet. Trying to find someplace else to go, where they don’t feel like they stick out like such a sore thumb.

More specifically, people who feel like they need to run away to the metaphorical Dark - because it’s safer there, because if they’re going to be who they are, who they really are, then they might as well embrace all the parts of them that other people find odd or monstrous or what-have-you. “Better to rule in Hell,” better to be themselves, than to try to stick around in the sunlight world they’ve been brought up in and living only half a life.

I was writing these kind of stories before I knew I was queer (sexuality or gender-wise), before I knew I was neurodivergent, before I even really got to be goth like I wanted to be, because I just knew I wasn’t happy even if I couldn’t put it into words. Something always felt missing, my life only felt partially mine. It was years and years before I felt like I could speak my mind and make my own choices for real, partially because I was hiding in a closet in a conservative part of the country and partially because I didn’t even understand how my brain worked, so I just felt like I couldn’t fully articulate who I was or how I felt or what was going on, so I went along with what was expected of me sometimes because it made people happy and it felt... easier.

I was drawn to Halloween decorations from a young age, even if they scared me, because I knew monsters were something that felt... real? The shadow side of the world that I was always trying to run away to existed in some sense. Then when I was older and had my anxiety a little more under control, I was immediately drawn to the horror genre, especially creatures with double lives and hiding in plain sight like vampires, because I felt so out of touch and separate from people who were supposed to be my peers. I couldn’t relate to what a teenage girl was supposed to be, act, or do when I was supposed to be one, and for a while I transposed that into a bit of internalized misogyny, that “different than other girls” feeling that I was supposed to be sucked into a portal to another world or find out I was intended to follow some prophecy or whatever, very Sarah from Labyrinth where I’m much too young for my age and much too old for anyone else’s. But I still liked men along with women, and the way I liked both didn’t feel like anything I saw or heard from the perspectives of straight people, so I thought I was just... built wrong. On top of all the sensitivities my brain gave me, I completely related to being a monster in secret, because I thought I wasn’t cut out to have anything close to a normal or happy life. It just wasn’t for me, I was one of those statistical people who was supposed to end up alone and unhappy or dead.

And then later I figured out girls my age seemed so fucking inscrutable was because I wasn’t one lmao. I wasn’t a guy either, or at least not in the very Texan co-opted redneck conservative stereotype I was used to. And oddly, now that I think of myself as something separate gender-wise, I’ve felt more solidarity with women than ever - because I know their experiences and mine are somewhat necessarily separate, we’re on different paths, and I can respect that as something else, rather than resent it for being forced onto me.

I think what I write about now, still horror but more romantic, even more erotica now that I’m comfortable expressing what I want and how I want to be loved, I’m still writing about people who want to find a place away from the daylight world, but it’s so much more joyous when they find it. It’s a celebration, rather than a harrowing escape. It’s coming into their own more than trying to disappear, and I’m so happy about it. I feel so loved and in love with the horror genre as a queer person and as a neuroatypical person, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I want my research to be about how the genre has been Queer along, and how it empowers Queerness, which is maybe what I’ve had a hard time putting into words for my professors lately and thus been avoiding it.

I know one of my worst fears as a romantic is that I’m Too Much(TM), that being queer, genderweird, mentally ill/neuroaytypical, and expressing my gender in a way that’s aligned very obviously with a subculture centered on the weird/morbid side of life was too much to ask for any one person to put up with. And that’s still a little bit of a worry, but when I’m writing, and looking at where my writing falls within a long history of my fellow Queerdos writing horror and exploring themselves through it, then I feel so much less alone. I have already found my place in the dark to run away to, I know it exists, and I’m happy to have made it mine.

I’ll keep writing HEAs in my works that can have them for the other people that still need to find their way here. To let them know it exists, and it’s possible to stay. That they can be themselves without having to hide, even if it takes a while to get there.

I’m just really happy and proud to be here, as a weirdo and a horror creator. It’s a wonderful season to be spooky. 

[goodtoseeyouhen]

Tommy has been hearing about Eddie all night. It’s not the first time, it won’t be the last time - he knew exactly what he was signing up for when he kissed Evan - but it’s not usually this stressful.

“I don’t know what to say, Evan. I can’t help you strategize if I don’t know the full story.”

“It’s not mine to tell,” Evan says, again. “And I - I don’t think even I know the whole story.”

Tommy sighs, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “And I respect that, I do. I just - I don’t know how to help.” Tommy’s like most firefighters he knows - give him something actionable, like say flying into a hurricane, and he’s on it. Something more abstract, like Chris is gone and Eddie is sad please help, and he has no idea what to do. There is nothing to do, not when Eddie all but kicked Evan out of his house because he apparently needed space (bullshit) and Evan insists Chris needs time to settle before anyone tries to get in touch.

“I know,” Evan says. “It’s killing me that I can’t just fix it. I don’t like Chris being out in Texas with his grandparents. They tried to make Eddie give him up after Shannon died and now they’re just gonna be right in his ear twenty-four seven.”

“That might solve itself. Sounds to me like a great way to annoy a teenager into wanting to cut his visit short.”

“Maybe,” Evan says, visibly unconvinced. Which probably has something to do with the reason why Christopher is in Texas, which is the key piece of information Evan won’t share, and Tommy really does respect his protecting the kid’s privacy like that, but Evan got here an hour ago and they’re still standing in the kitchen with the beers Tommy got for them just going in circles. Tommy is exhausted.

“Okay,” he says briskly, because he needs to be done circling, “we can’t fix anything right now, but we can order dinner and watch a movie.” He takes out his phone, opens up DoorDash, and tosses it to Evan. “You order us something. I personally could use some fucking whimsy and I’ve got Mary Poppins somewhere around here, so I’m gonna go dig that up.”

‘Someday,” Evan says, already flipping through the app, “you’re going to join the rest of us in 2024 and subscribe to a few streaming services.” He still looks unhappy, but he’s relaxing a little around the edges. Accepting the blatant attempt at distraction. Tommy’ll take it.

“And someday you’ll realize you only have to pay for a physical copy once, Evan.” They do this routine every now and then, a little different every time.

“You’re just mad about your old man collection going obsolete.”

“Mm, I seem to remember somebody being pretty happy I had that Dogma DVD.”

“What was that? Extra pineapple on your pizza?”

“For that, we’re watching it on VHS.”

*

Evan doesn’t order extra pineapple, or even order pizza at all, and they do not watch the movie on tape, because it would look like dogshit on Tommy’s TV. They settle in with something from a little Brit-Indi place that’s pretty good, and Tommy cues up the Blu-Ray.

He had hoped that a Disney film, especially one with literal decades of lore, would serve as further distraction by unlocking the extensive store of Disney trivia he knows for a fact Evan carries around in that bewildering brain of his, but that plan is DOA. Evan’s watching the movie, but his mind is clearly somewhere in Texas. When Mary Poppins describes herself as “practically perfect in every way,” Evan points his fork at the screen and says, “She’d have fixed it by now,” and that’s about all Tommy gets.

Honestly, he’s relieved when his phone starts buzzing frantically in his pocket.

are you working tomorrow

this is an important question

no one else can do this for me

HELP ME TOMMY-WAN KINARDI YOU ARE MY ONLY HOPE

“What - ? Oh, absolutely not.”

“What’s up, is everything okay?” Evan, who slid in closer the moment they were done eating, leans further into his space to look at the screen. Tommy turns it away, because if Evan gets hold of Tommy-Wan Kinardi it will spread like wildfire and his life as he knows it will be over. Chimney, at the very least, will never call him anything else ever again.

“Marisol,” he explains. Evan freezes.

“Marisol,” he repeats. “I forgot about Marisol!” His stricken tone makes Tommy himself forget what he’s typing, looking up to see Evan’s equally distraught expression.

“What - ?” he starts, but Evan just shakes his head.

“Why is she - ? What does she want?”

Tommy reads through the next rapid succession of texts. “Someone to vent to, about something only I seem to qualify for.” He lets Evan watch him reply, pausing only to drop a kiss near the corner of his eye when he grumbles I haven’t said it that many times.

Marisol asserts that yes, it is hers to tell, and Tommy lowers his phone and turns to look at Evan directly.

“Is it?”

“I - oh, man.” Evan frowns, taking a moment to think. “I don’t know if that’s my call to make? But,” he adds quickly, perhaps because Tommy’s exasperation with that is visible from fucking space, “I do know that - she deserves to have someone to talk to about it. And if you’re the one she’s comfortable talking to, then, uh. Yeah, I don’t really get a say in that.”

“So I’m good to go?” Tommy confirms.

“If you want to.”

“I wanna help her out.” He checks the screen again. “At brunch tomorrow.” A brunch date is an easy ask, it’s something he can do, and he does actually like Marisol. It’s too damn bad she got the short end of whatever the hell stick this is. “And then of course, conveniently, I’ll know what’s going on without you having to tell me.”

Evan flushes guiltily, which is adorable enough to wipe out the last of that burst of exasperation. “I meant all of that! It’s like the least we can do. But, okay. Yeah. Maybe a little that too.”

Tommy kisses him for that, and as he finishes making plans with Marisol, Evan is smiling his first real smile of the night.

*

After brunch, Tommy just sits in his car for a while, resisting the urge to beat the shit out of his steering wheel or whatever other stupid macho bullshit might occur to him. Say what you like about the kinds of person he’s been in the past - letting his anger get the best of him has never really been his thing.

Though it was probably just as well that he put his knife down long before Marisol said he thought she was Shannon.

Jesus.

Yeah, he gets exactly why Evan was so fucking neurotic last night, even if ninety percent of what came out of his mouth was about Eddie. Tommy’s gonna go ahead and let him do that heavy lifting. He’s not feeling very charitable toward Eddie fucking Diaz right now.

Christopher, though . . .

Well, he and Marisol are in similar boats, aren’t they? Obviously Chris knows plenty of people who know Eddie, but, judging by how he’d reacted to Marisol, he probably doesn’t want to talk to most of them right now. The association with Eddie will be too tight and run too deep.

But Tommy hasn’t been around all that long, and his visits to the Diaz household - first solo, then mostly with Evan - have revolved just as much around Chris as Eddie, if not sometimes more.

(He remembers that first visit with Chris home, the look in Eddie’s eyes as he’d introduced them promising that if Tommy failed this test, their burgeoning friendship would be over. He’d actually been a little nervous.

But it turned out that he and Chris have the same sense of humor, and that thirteen is still young enough to be a little overawed by the whole firefighter pilot thing, so it had gone just fine.)

Yeah. He pulls his phone out to send a text. There are a few messages in their text chain, mostly Chris asking him to pick up something Eddie had told him not to ask Tommy to pick up or just outright said no to, and Tommy (after surreptitiously checking in with either Eddie or Evan, he’s not an idiot) nonchalantly agreeing.

. . . there are more of those than he’d realized, actually. It became kind of a running joke at some point, at around the time Tommy had stopped bothering to check with any relevant parental figures. Stopped bothering, because it had become clear that Chris knew exactly how far he could push.

There are also exchanges resuming movie discussions they’d had with Eddie fondly looking on, several of which, Tommy remembers now, had resulted in a spontaneous FaceTime when Chris was feeling too passionate about a topic for his hands to keep up with his thoughts.

And memes, memes too, examples of Gen Z/Gen Alpha humor Tommy had found borderline incomprehensible more often than not and had retaliated against with classics like all your base and dragostea din tei.

Christopher Diaz has taken up space in his life, and he’d hardly noticed.

“I’m friends with a thirteen-year-old,” he says to his phone, baffled. “What the hell?”

Okay, then. He probably is the adult in Christopher’s life that he’s most likely to talk to.

Heard what happened. If you need someone back home who’s not your dad or Buck to talk to, I’m around.

That will at least get Chris’s attention - it’s the first time Tommy has ever used that stupid nickname without Chris scolding him into it. He’d call it another running joke, but it’s also about twenty percent stubbornness on both their parts. Tommy gives in long before anyone can get genuinely frustrated, of course, but.

If Evan had a problem with Tommy not using that nickname, he’d have said something by now. He’s a big boy. Tommy thinks he can be trusted to use his words.

He figures it’ll be a while before he hears back. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet, so Chris is probably busy settling in and resting after the flight. But even as he’s moving to start the car so he can quit wasting battery on A/C and get on the road, his phone plays the little video game fanfare he let Chris program into it for his contact notifications.

who told u

He’s tempted for a second to claim it was Evan, but the many ways that could backfire come to him before the thought has finished forming. For this? He’s going to have to be completely, scrupulously honest with Chris for this.

Marisol. She needed someone to talk to.

The screen lights up to inform him that Chris is FaceTiming him. I accept the charges, he thinks.

“Hey, kid.”

Christopher looks exhausted and miserable in a way that makes Tommy’s stomach twist.

“Why her? I would have thought it would be Buck.”

“Well, Buck was trying to respect yours and your dad’s privacy, and Marisol doesn’t have anyone else to talk to about it.” Tommy briefly imagines trying to explain the situation to someone well outside the 118 sphere of chaos. Yeah, not a chance. He wouldn’t even try it with Lucy and he knows she knows how they are.

Chris sighs. “I knew you two would make good friends,” he says, then, “How pissed at me is she?”

Any other time, Tommy would feel a bit of fond amusement at that - experimenting with off-color language outside of Eddie’s hearing - but as it is, he’s taken aback.

“How p - Chris, nobody’s mad at you.”

He can feel the flatly unimpressed look Chris gives him right through the screen.

“I mean it. She understands that you were upset. We all do.” He winces at the alarm that immediately threads through Chris’s expression. “By which I mean, Marisol, me, Ev - Buck, and your dad.” He knows Evan’s not telling, and he’d bet twenty bucks that Eddie isn’t exactly screaming his idiocy from the rooftops either. “It’s nobody else’s business.”

Smooth, Kinard. Great work there. The alarm has passed in favor of a more general no shit, Sherlock kind of look, though, so. It’s probably fine.

“None of us is angry with you,” he reiterates, because it can’t possibly hurt to say it again, and because it happens to be true. Okay, he hasn’t talked to Eddie yet, but the guy’s an idiot, not a monster; Tommy can’t imagine him being angry with anyone but himself.

And hopefully not-Shannon, because what the fuck even was that.

“Not even -“ Chris cuts himself off as Tommy hears a door open. He doesn’t think he heard a knock.

“Christopher, I thought we agreed you were resting,” says a voice that must belong to Grandma Diaz.

“I am resting.” There’s a defiant edge to Chris’s tone. “But Tommy texted and I wanted to talk to him.”

“I told you you could keep your phone as long as it wasn’t a distraction. Clearly, it is.”

“Abuela,” Chris protests, “he’s still -“

“I’m sure your friend will understand. Phone.”

Chris lowered the phone when he started talking to his grandmother, which gives Tommy a clear look at the way his jaw tightens for a long moment before the blurred rush of handing the phone over.

Then he hears, in sugary tones, “Sweetheart, could y - oh,” and he finds himself looking at the confounded face of a woman who did not expect “Tommy” to be a grown man.

Well, it’s not the first time. It’s just usually funnier. Lower stakes.

“I could go get my mom,” he says, “but that would involve a little light graverobbing.”

She doesn’t smile, or really even acknowledge him except in the way she keeps her eyes on him as she says,

“Christopher, who is this?”

“Tommy,” is the unhelpful, sulky reply. She does look at Chris then, with an expression that makes Tommy’s spine straighten and results in, “Buck’s boyfriend.”

Right, great, there’s gonna need to be a conversation about when and how to deploy strategic information and when you maybe don’t out someone to someone else, even if they’re not in the closet, especially when you’re in fucking Texas, because Mrs Diaz looks back at him and he knows exactly what math she’s doing in her head.

He tries a friendly smile.

“Tommy Kinard, ma’am. It’s nice to more or less meet you. I’m glad Chris had somewhere he could go to get some breathing room.”

She considers this, then nods once, decisive. “Helena Diaz. You and I should talk.”

*

“I expected someone who wasn’t Eddie to reach out to Christopher sooner rather than later,” Helena says once she’s settled into what appears to be a tidy living room, “but I thought it would be Buck, not his - ?“

“Partner,” Tommy supplies, because he is fucking forty-five years old and the window on going around saying he had a boyfriend closed twenty years ago. “I was friends with Eddie first, actually.”

She doesn’t need to know it was only by two weeks.

“And I assume you’re aware of the” - she pauses delicately - “situation?”

“With the doppelganger? Yeah. Just found out, wanted to let Chris know I was around if he wanted to talk.”

She also does not need to know that he found out from Eddie’s ex.

“We were hoping to minimize Christopher’s contact with anyone in LA until we feel he’s ready.”

Until they feel. Okay. Tommy can work with this. He keeps his expression relaxed and sincere.

“He is thirteen. Seems old enough for him to have a say.” Being as how he had clearly, in fact, wanted to talk.

“Oh, of course. But there is a reason thirteen-year-olds aren’t left to raise themselves, even the ones without his particular limitations.”

Tommy knows he himself isn’t exactly on the cutting edge of progression when it comes to disability, even if he is miles better than he used to be. But it’s been so easy to fall in line with Eddie’s approach to Christopher’s condition - treating it as an incidental fact of life in the Diaz household, as just one part of who Christopher is and far from the most important part at that. It’s easy to forget in that house that many, if not most, people will look at Chris and see his CP first.

It’s a shock to hear Chris’s own fucking grandmother do it.

He wants to say as much, so badly, but he cannot start an argument with this woman if he wants any kind of contact with Chris while he’s out there.

Later, he tells himself. Once Chris is home. Then he’ll give Helena Diaz a call and tell her exactly what he thinks of her shit.

Instead, for now, he says,

“I understand your concerns. Protecting him from anything to do with Eddie right now - I’m not exactly thrilled with your son myself.”

He’s going to owe Eddie an apology by the end of this conversation, he just knows it.

“Then you realize that, as much as it breaks my heart to consider Christopher’s own father someone he needs protecting from, it’s still necessary. He is in no fit state to act as a parent and I won’t have any attempts at contact facilitated behind my back.”

“I have no intention of trying that. Like I said, Chris needs the space you’re giving him, and he’s the only one who can really know how much for how long. I just want to - to be someone he can talk to, about whatever he wants, who doesn’t have anything to do with this whole mess.”

“And what, Mr Kinard, do you even talk about with a thirteen-year-old boy?”

There it is. For all he knew it was coming, for all he knows that it is in fact her responsibility to make sure he isn’t some random guy preying on Chris’s vulnerability, it still stings like hell, because that’s not the only reason she’s asking.

Fine. He still remembers how to eat shit with a smile.

“Anything. Star Wars. Girls he likes, because he says I’m the only adult he knows who doesn’t get all mushy about how fast he’s growing up. 9/11, once, from our respective generational standpoints. That was an interesting one.”

“. . . I see,” Helena says, clearly not having expected any kind of comprehensive response. Tommy smirks inwardly.

“Treat kids like people you like being around and they can be pretty cool,” he says, and nevermind that he learned that himself with Chris. “I like Chris, Mrs Diaz. Not just as my friend’s son, but as a person. Look, when it comes down to it, you and I both just want what’s best for him. And right now, what’s best for him is having support while he deals with this” - storm of bullshit probably won’t go down well - “. . . Hitchcockian nonsense.”

Well, that’s not better.

Helena blinks, then, to Tommy’s considerable surprise, a flicker of humor crosses her face. “This is all giving you vertigo too, hm?”

Tommy laughs, as much from relief as anything else, and wonders exactly when he passed her test. “It was not how I was expecting my morning to start.”

She’s looking at him more thoughtfully now, more like he’s a person and not just a potential threat. “All right,” she says. “You can keep in touch with Christopher. But if I get even the slightest hint that it’s affecting him negatively . . .”

“Understood,” Tommy says quickly. “Thank you, Mrs Diaz.”

“Helena is fine. Christopher won’t be needing his phone today, but he’ll have it back tomorrow, along with an understanding that it’s a privilege in this home, not a right.”

*

Tommy had intended to at least text Evan right after brunch, but after those conversations - he needs a minute.

He gets almost a whole hour before Evan takes matters into his own hands.

u will not fucking believe what’s happening here

i don’t wanna text about this

ur probably still driving anyway

call me when u can

please

Tommy glances briefly at the screen with each message. He’s seen the aftermath of texting and driving too many times to do it himself, but with Evan’s tendency to send half a dozen short texts at a time in a sort of stream of consciousness style of communication, he’d compromised by purchasing a bracket to post his phone on his dashboard so he can keep up without being distracted by text notifications every three to five seconds. This particular stream is capped off by a string of emojis that he doesn’t even try to parse individually, but which give off a general sense of fury.

Oh, good.

Tommy doesn’t talk and drive either, when he can avoid it, but if he remembers correctly, that new little wine shop he’s been wanting to check out is more or less in the area, and this feels like a conversation he’d rather have sooner than later. Maybe he’ll find a good pairing for whatever new bullshit Evan is about to drop on him.

He calls about half an hour later, half-heartedly perusing the Malbecs, and is greeted with,

“Bobby retired, except he says he never filed the paperwork and it was really just something he talked about with Chief Simpson. At the ceremony.” Contrary to the emoji storm, there’s more hurt in those last few words than anything else.

“Retired?” Tommy repeats, giving himself a second to catch up. “No warning?”

As if he would have been hearing about anything else, even Eddie, if there had been.

“No.” Definitely hurt. Tommy eyes an especially cheap-looking bottle, wondering if dumping it over Bobby’s head would count as breaking the man’s sobriety. “He said he’d get it taken care of but it might take some time, and . . . Tommy, guess who the new captain is?”

In retrospect, Tommy will realize that he should have paid more attention to the mix of anxiety and indignation creeping into Evan’s tone.

“They got the new guy in already? We used to have to wait weeks between captains sometimes.”

“They - yeah, they . . . it’s Gerrard.”

If Tommy had been holding the bottle he was glaring at, he’d have dropped it. He almost feels a phantom bottle slip through his fingers.

“. . . Tommy?”

“Does he know?”

“Know what?”

“About you, Evan, does he know that you’re not straight?” Maybe -

“He does now,” Evan says scornfully. “I told him.”

Told him. Of course he did.

Because Evan isn’t a coward.

“He called me into his office,” Evan is saying, “and tried to . . .” he trails off, audibly searching for words, because yeah, when Gerrard isn’t being blatantly racist he can be surprisingly subtle.

“To draw you into a white boys’ alliance against the big scary minorities without actually using any of those words?”

“Yeah. That. I didn’t even know what he was doing at first, just that he was being friendly and it was kind of giving me the creeps.”

“I’m assuming you didn’t tell him to go fuck himself -“

“- not that I wasn’t tempted -“

“- so what did you do?”

“Uh. I asked him who his favorite Mary Poppins character is.”

The laughter this surprises out of Tommy is loud, loud enough to turn the heads of the few other browsers and the annoyed-looking woman at the counter. Okay, now he has to buy something. Worth it. “You what? No, wait, of course you did, god, Evan.”

“It was the first thing I thought of!” Evan protests, also laughing. “He stared at me like I’d lost my mind, so I told him my boyfriend and I watched it last night for date night.” The cheer fades out of his voice as he continues, “He, uh. Suddenly didn’t want much to do with me after that.”

Tommy sighs, the warmth that had been spreading in his chest vanishing.

“What did he say.” It isn’t a question, not really.

Evan hesitates, clearing his throat awkwardly. “He, um. Uh, something, something about you getting to me. How you can’t trust anyone’s influence these days.”

Tommy wonders if Evan, too young to remember the AIDS crisis, hears the hidden word there.

Got to Evan. Infected him.

It doesn’t seen to have tripped anything for Evan, or if it did then he is, like Tommy, choosing not to say it, because he keeps going. “Yeah, the Mary Poppins thing was kind of the highlight. It’s been - kind of awful. No one’s really talking, I can’t tell if Hen and Chim are in shock or just still taking it in, and he’s making them do a bunch of cleaning anyway. Like the stuff we save for the new probies kind of cleaning. I wasn’t allowed to help earlier but I don’t think he’d care now.”

“I wouldn’t try it,” Tommy advises, hating how easy it is to slip into Gerrard’s mindset. “They’re being punished. You’d just make it worse. Trust me, you and Eddie and Ravi will all get your turns.”

“Eddie,” Evan repeats, voice distant like he doesn’t realize he’s saying anything, then, “Brunch! How did - I, I mean I really shouldn’t be talking about it here, but how did - ?”

“Marisol filled me in. You’re just doing a twelve today, right? Come over after you’re done, we can talk then.”

*

Evan’s twelve turns into more of a fourteen with a last-minute building fire call, so when he arrives, exhausted, Tommy just kisses him and points him to the shower.

“I ordered pizza already, and we’ve each got a bottle of rosé with our name on it.”

Evan brightens a bit. “When you say you ordered pizza . . .”

“Yes, I got you your warm tropical fruit.”

Evan grins and gives him a quick kiss before heading for the bathroom, calling back over his shoulder,

“I keep telling you, the acidity cuts the fat and carbs!”

“And I keep telling you, that’s what the tomato in the sauce is for!” Tommy calls back, grinning. Evan closes the bathroom door on a laugh.

The pizza arrives while he’s in there, and by the time he’s out, Tommy has everything set up. Two pizza boxes, which he opens when he hears the door, with accompanying plates even though Evan won’t use his, and two open bottles of wine with glasses that they will both be using because they are not animals.

Evan, of course, shoots him a wicked look as he immediately grabs his bottle and swigs directly from it.

“What?” he asks off the look Tommy gives him, which he suspects is not nearly as annoyed as it should be. “Why dirty a glass if I don’t have to?” He taps his temple. “One less dish to wash.”

“Is that why you never use your plate with pizza?”

“I use my plate with pizza,” Evan lies, in that way he does when he is convinced he is telling the truth despite the evidence of reality. It shouldn’t charm Tommy, but it does a little. Maybe because Tommy’s pretty sure that’s what was happening when Evan said so abruptly that he’d been trying to get Tommy’s attention.

“Okay,” he says, because file that under arguments not worth having, and picks up his own wine bottle.

He slides a glance at Evan, then takes a long swallow. He feels a bit ridiculous doing it, but Evan’s triumphant laughter erases that almost instantly.

“See?” he says. “No one even died.”

“You” - Tommy tilts the neck of the bottle at him, carefully - “are very lucky I like you.”

Evan’s smile softens. “Yeah, I am.” He sweeps an arm toward the set-up on Tommy’s living room table. “I come home - well, here - after a really bad day and I don’t have to do anything because you’ve got it all taken care of.” He looks at Tommy, blue eyes dangerously earnest. “You’ve got me taken care of. You even ordered me pineapple.”

“And I might not even make you brush your teeth before you kiss me after,” Tommy says lightly, leaning forward to set down his wine and grab a slice of his normal human pepperoni pizza. There’s a brief beat of silence, then Evan snorts.

“Thinks he can say that and still get kissed.”

“Yeah.” Tommy smirks at him. “I do.”

The movie he picked for the evening is some inconsequential nothing, a supernatural cop drama made for about five bucks that they can talk over as necessary without missing much, and, aside from a brief interlude with Evan protesting that polygraph tests don’t work like that Tommy what are they even doing, it serves its purpose.

Not that they need the full runtime for that - the conversation about Chris and Eddie, now that they can finally have it, is simple, brief, and brings Evan’s mood down considerably.

“At least you got to talk to Chris a little,” he says. He’s put aside his half-full wine bottle for his phone and is somehow managing to compose a text to Chris as he talks. “And you’ll get to talk to him again. I don’t know if he’ll be ready to talk to me right away, so at least with you he’s got some kind of lifeline.”

“Hey.” Tommy shifts a little on the couch, wraps his arm tight around Evan’s shoulders. “That kid loves you, plus you’re not the one who brought not-his-mom home. I’m gonna be old news in no time.”

“I dunno, I think I’m on the shit list. I did try to talk to him for Eddie, and, okay, yeah, he is starting to do that teenager thing where he’s too old and too cool to hug us, but.” Evan shrugs the shoulder Tommy’s hand is wrapped around. “He just walked right past me when he left. A-a-and look, I’m not trying to make it about me, I know he didn’t mean anything by it and it wasn’t personal -“

“Like you said, teenager,” Tommy says. “He might have meant something by it.” Something about his conversation with Chris drops into place even as he winces a little at the half-hurt, half-indignant look he’s put on Evan’s face. “You know, before Helena cut him off, I think he was trying to ask if you were mad at him.”

It makes the most sense. He’d already asked about Marisol, Tommy himself has no reason to be angry, and Tommy doubts very much that Chris would be asking anything about Eddie so soon.

“Mad at him? Why would I - ? Oh.”

“Yeah. So if he did mean it, I don’t think he does anymore.”

Evan chews this over for all of a second before he picks up his phone, types i am NOT mad at you and decisively hits send.

“It’s weird,” he says, “this is usually the kind of thing I would talk about with Eddie. A-and listen, I know you said you were pissed at Eddie yourself and I get it, but maybe you could, you know, be cool about that?” Evan sits up straighter and turns to face Tommy, eyes serious this time. “I know what it looks like when he’s beating himself up. There’s nothing you can say to him that he’s not already telling himself. He just kept his head down all day today, didn’t say a word that wasn’t about work. He isolates himself when things are bad and this is the worst it’s been since Shannon. And that - really got out of hand. I can’t try to pull him back from the edge if you . . .” Evan trails off, uncomfortable.

“I can be civil.” He can, too, with his initial fury having settled into a manageable level of steady anger over the course of the day. “Not exactly going to be going out of my way to talk to him anyway.”

“Oh,” Evan says, air of melancholy fading in favor of realization, “I haven’t asked you yet. Ravi’s got us all coming in an hour before shift tomorrow for a Taylor Swift dance party.”

Tommy - pauses, for a moment, to absorb the conversational whiplash. “What.”

“Yeah, they’re really popular right now? And he says it would be good for morale to do something fun together before work, and serve as a clear message to a guy like Gerrard that we’re not gonna just lie down and take it. He said you should come. Hen’s gonna bring Karen, Maddie said she wouldn’t miss it, and he invited Bobby and Athena too. Uh, and Chim said to tell you he’s gonna give you exactly as much shit as you think he is, whatever that means.”

Probably shouldn’t have included that in your sales pitch, Tommy almost says. Almost, but doesn’t, because Evan looks so hopeful and there’s only one real answer to the implied question anyway.

“Yeah. Of course I’ll come. Wouldn’t miss the look on that asshole’s face for the world.”

Or the one on Evan’s face right now, almost as happy as he’d been about the damn pizza. Totally worth an hour of Taylor Swift and Howie rubbing it in Tommy’s face about how he’d been right about her unparalleled genius all along.

“Great! And, y’know, we’re using the employee parking lot and we’ll need all the space we can get, so if you could drive and we could pick up Eddie on the way, that’d be one less car to worry about. Your shift’s at noon, right, you’ll have plenty of time to get there after.” He pauses. “And, maybe you could take a minute to talk to Eddie, if you wanted.”

Tommy sighs. “I should, shouldn’t I.” Another question with only one answer.

Evan is nodding a little as he says, “Yeah. You should. Chris needs us, but Eddie does too, even if he thinks he doesn’t deserve to.”

“Okay. Yeah, I’ll talk to him. I’ll be nice. Hell, maybe I’ll even dance with him.”

“Oh, like I’m gonna let you go anywhere.” Evan kneels up on the couch, bracing himself on the back of it, and leans down for a kiss.

The movie finishes playing on its own.

*

Even with the detour to pick up Eddie, they’re a little early. Evan, who has been sharing Taylor Swift facts from Wikipedia for much of the drive, puts his phone away and catches Tommy’s eye to glance pointedly at Eddie and back to him, saying,

“I’m gonna go help Ravi finish setting up.”

Tommy gives him a slight nod. He smiles and all but bounces out of the car.

Other than a thanks for the ride, Eddie has been quiet in the back, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. The only sign that he didn’t just fall asleep is the way his head has been tilted toward Evan through his monologue, faint smile playing around his mouth.

Jesus.

Eddie takes his sunglasses off, meeting Tommy’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Thank you for reaching out to Chris.”

With the sunglasses on, he’d looked tired, a little pale. Without them, he looks exhausted. Breakable.

A substantial portion of Tommy’s anger just kind of - dissolves.

“Not exactly a hardship. Though I did have to talk a little shit about you to your mother to maintain access.”

“Hey, if it helps Chris, throw me under the bus as many times as you need to.” His tone isn’t quite as light as his words, but, well. Those words themselves aren’t very light in this context, are they?

‘Will do.” Tommy turns in his seat to face Eddie head-on. “So, how this is gonna go is, if Chris tells me anything that you should know about as his parent, I will tell you. But that’s it. You don’t get anything else unless he says it’s okay, and I’m gonna tell him the same.” He’d been thinking about it last night, awake long after Evan, and it’s the best thing he’s come up with to have Chris both feeling safe and actually safe.

Eddie is nodding. “I, yeah, that’s along the lines of what I was thinking. It might kill me a little, but he needs to know he can trust you. Thank you, Tommy.”

“I was fucking furious when Marisol told me what happened,” Tommy says abruptly. “I’ve had time to calm down and I’m still not happy with you, but.” He blows out a breath. “We’re all on the same side here and I’m not gonna lose sight of that - no, Diaz, thank me again and I’m gonna find a bridge to throw you off.”

Eddie shrugs, unapologetic. “I’m just grateful he has so many people who care about him.” He slides his sunglasses back on and pops the car door open, leaving Tommy feeling vaguely like an asshole.

*

Ravi’s put together a nice little set-up, with a pretty generous amount of dance space and even a table with pastries and some to-go boxes of coffee. Tommy has just enough time to make a mental note about finding out what he should chip in for expenses before:

“Tommy,” Chimney calls, gleeful. “Just in time for your favorite.”

Tommy knows what he’s going to hear before the first note even plays.

You're on the phone with your girlfriend, she's upset

The new vocals are an improvement, at least.

Obediently, he groans on cue. Evan looks up from where he’s fussing over Jee - for all that they were early, they seem to have been the last to arrive - and asks,

“Okay, what’s the deal, because if you’re one of those guys who hates Taylor Swift just for being Taylor Swift, then I’m gonna have to reevaluate some things. Right, Jee?”

“Right,” she agrees, nodding in that firm way that only little kids can really pull off.

“Oh, I come by it legitimately,” Tommy says.

“Eh,” Howie chimes in, having stationed himself right next to Tommy, rocking his hand in a so-so gesture.

“In 2008, 2009, I spent a year in this shi - this lousy cheap apartment so I could put a little extra away while I was house hunting. It was pretty close to Howie, so we started carpooling. Guess who he was obsessed with?”

“A shining new talent who, even as we were listening, was already singlehandedly rescuing the country music genre from the likes of Toby Keith and would go on to revolutionize the music industry as we know it.”

Hen clears her throat.

“Right alongside Beyoncé,” Howie concludes without missing a beat.

“Or, in other words,” Tommy says, just barely keeping his poker face, “a teenage girl who was sad her BFF didn’t love her back. Not once on his weeks to drive did he ever play anything else, Evan. Not once. I don’t hate Taylor Swift. I have a Howard Han-induced allergy to Taylor Swift!”

“That’s a real tragedy, Tommy,” Evan says, laughter in his voice and all over his face. “I’m gonna dance with my niece about it and then you’re next.” He’s been bouncing to the music with Jee in his arms this whole time; now he takes her out onto the dance floor, such as it is, sets her down, and they start dancing in earnest.

“Tommy.”

“Chimney.”

“I may have been tormenting you on purpose. Just a little bit.”

“I may have noticed,” Tommy says, and looks over at Chim to see his own repressed humor mirrored in Chimney’s eyes. They both break and start laughing, and Tommy feels the tension of the last couple of days ease off his shoulders.

Fuck it, he decides. “Hey Maddie, mind if I borrow your husband?”

“I told you,” Maddie says immediately, pointing at said husband. “That’s dishes for a week.”

“Why do you know this guy better than me,” Chimney complains half-heartedly, accepting the hand Tommy extends.

“Because I listen to my brother when he talks about his boyfriend. Now get out there while there’s still some song left.”

Their joining Evan and Jee on the dance floor seems to be an unspoken signal. Bobby and Athena follow close behind, striking up some kind of ballroom-style dance that has nothing to do with the tone of the song but works perfectly for them; Karen throws back the last of her coffee before she and Hen descend. Maddie and Eddie stay on the sidelines, gravitating toward the refreshments, and Ravi alternates between monitoring his phone and watching them all, looking quietly satisfied.

“I’m letting him handle the timing on the playlist,” Chim says. “He knows his cues.”

“Generous of you.”

(— driving to my house in the middle of the night)

Howie rests his free hand unself-consciously on Tommy’s shoulder, so Tommy places his lightly above Howie’s hip

(know your favorite songs and you tell me bout your dreams)

and imagines, fleetingly, going back in time, maybe in some other universe where he sacked up and got his shit together sooner -

“Red. The rerecording, not the original,” Chimney says, yanking Tommy back to the present, to this universe where everything played out better in the long run anyway.

“What?” he asks, blank.

“For when you decide you owe Taylor a second chance.”

He could point out that Taylor has half the planet under her thrall and will survive without his joining their numbers, but.

“Thanks,” he says instead. Chimney gives him a curious look.

“Any time.”

“Chimney?”

“Tommy?”

“It’s great to see you so happy, man. You deserve it.”

“. . . thanks.” Chim looks over to Jee, his entire face going soft with wonder. “I got really lucky.”

Tommy follows his gaze to watch Evan carefully “twirl” Jee, who’s giggling almost too hard to manage much more than a sort of stomping turn.

“Good job!” Evan exclaims, scooping her back up as the song winds to an end.

“Not doing too bad myself, I guess,” Tommy says, knowing that, if he cared to turn around, he’d see Eddie watching them too.

Chimney snorts and claps his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, then goes to claim his daughter as the next song starts.

“Papa song!” Jee shouts. Chimney laughs and says,

“That’s right, Papa song!”

Evan lingers for a moment to watch them before he turns toward Tommy. Before he can do much more than that, though, there is the distinct sound of a throat clearing behind Tommy. He himself turns to find Athena there, looking at him with an air of arch expectation.

Sorry, Evan. Tommy does not hesitate, holding out his hand in what he hopes is a debonair contrast to can’t stop won’t stop cruisin.

“May I have this dance?”

“Oh, since you asked.”

He hasn’t seen much of Athena since the cruise ship, where his one attempt at a Sergeant Grant had been met with people who help save my husband’s life call me Athena. So they’re on good terms in general, he knows, and Evan told him all about Bobby giving their relationship his blessing, so it’s not unreasonable to assume he’s in good with Athena there, too.

Still, somehow, he’s suddenly got the feeling he’s - if not on trial per se, then at least under investigation.

“I’m afraid my dancing isn’t quite on your level,” he confesses.

“I’ll take care of that,” Athena tells him. “You just keep up.”

She goes easy enough on him that he picks up her rhythm quickly. He may not be a dedicated dancer, but he is well in tune with his body and knows how to make it do what he wants. He has to, to do half the things he does.

“My first time meeting Bobby isn’t the only first meeting of mine you’ve been there for,” she says. “I met Hen the night of that mudslide.”

Getting right to the point, then. He maintains easy eye contact with her, much as part of him doesn’t want to. Sure, that was the call that got the ball rolling, that had Sal dragging him and O’Connell and a couple others out after shift to talk about how to deal with Gerrard for real, but. It shouldn’t have been. That should have happened sooner. Tommy should have - “I’m afraid I didn’t quite witness that historical moment.”

She studies him for a long moment, then:

“I don’t bring it up to have anything out with you. That’s Hen’s business, if she even decides there’s anything left to bring up.”

“You just wanted to see how I’d react,” Tommy says, because it’s obvious enough.

“Bobby trusts you, and I trust his judgment,” Athena answers. “But now it’s looking like you might be around awhile, I needed to see a little something for myself.”

Helena is fine flashes across his mind and he asks,

“Do I pass?”

“It’s not about passing. It’s about never stopping. And you don’t intend to. It’ll do for now.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” he admits.

“You’ll get there.”

She smiles, and that sense of being investigated evaporates. He realizes a new song has started just seconds before Evan is at their side. Athena steps away from Tommy and turns toward Evan immediately with that same expectation, though tempered now with amusement.

“Athena,” Evan complains, even as he also wastes no time accepting the unspoken request.

“You dragged your man out here, the least you can do is let him get a coffee,” she says.

“Next one,” Tommy tells him, then takes his cue and retreats to the refreshments.

Maddie and Eddie have gone off to dance, but Ravi is still there, now with a coffee cup in one hand and his phone in the other. Tommy sets about pouring and doctoring his own coffee, saying,

“I can probably handle that if you want to get out there for a minute.”

“Chimney specifically said not to let you anywhere near the playlist. I’m fine here, anyway. It’s not really about the dancing.”

“No,” Tommy says, “I suppose not. Evan said something about sending a message to Gerrard?”

“To Gerrard, but to them too.” Ravi nods toward his teammates. “Especially Hen and Chimney. It’s not the early 2000s, or even the ‘10s. It’s 2024. Even with someone backing him up, he can only get away with his crap for so long. He’s not gonna win.”

Tommy takes a swig of his coffee. It tastes like it’s pretty good when it’s fresh. “I’m not sure winning is the point for him.”

Ravi shrugs. “It’s not about him. He doesn’t matter. It’s about us. And we’re gonna leave him in the dust.”

Tommy smiles a little against the rim of his coffee cup. He’d already known, just from listening to Evan, that he’d like Ravi. He had failed to guess how much.

It occurs to him, for the first time since Evan dropped this little bomb, that Gerrard has no idea what he’s up against.

“Damn right,” he says.

They have a moment or two of companionable silence to what sounds to Tommy a lot like a more somber take on “Goodbye, Earl” and which he is absolutely fine with having left for Evan to dance with Athena to. For all his protests, Evan is smiling as he and Athena talk, looking happy and relaxed.

He also lets go of her the millisecond the song fades out, with an unapologetic grin that makes her laugh and swat him on the shoulder, saying, “Go on.”

Tommy sets his half-empty coffee on the table as Evan all but stalks toward him. He’s slightly flushed, eyes on Tommy like he’s the only thing Evan can see, and Tommy is all too glad to be dragged out onto the dance floor.

I never trust a narcissist but they love me So I play ‘em like a violin -

“Wait, this is Taylor Swift?” Tommy asks. “I haven’t heard this in years.”Evan blinks at him, thrown; Tommy smirks, drapes his arms over Evan’s shoulders. “It was playing in every club I went to for a while after I came out,” he says, and drops his voice just for Evan to hear. “I did a lot of grinding to this song.”

Evan, to his delight, smirks right back. “We should probably keep it PG,” he says lowly, “but.” He grabs Tommy’s hips, yanking him closer. “That doesn’t mean we have to leave room for Jesus.”

Fuck. Tommy doesn’t kiss him, because if he did then he might not stop, but he does let his gaze drop to Evan’s mouth, makes sure he knows exactly what Tommy’s thinking.

They say I did something bad Then why’s it feel so good?

It’s a long, breathless, suspended moment, heat rising in the little bit of space between them -

A wadded-up napkin bounces off the side of Evan’s head and Maddie shouts,

“Hey, you two! Nothing you wouldn’t do in front of Jee, because you are actually doing it in front of Jee!”

Evan tries to look huffily annoyed, but he can’t hold it, falling into giggles instead. He leans his forehead against Tommy’s, shifting his hold up and around to Tommy’s back, almost respectable. “Sorry, Maddie!”

“Sorry!” Tommy echoes, not in any way giggling a little himself. “Raincheck?” he asks Evan.

“Holding you to it. Also I’m keeping you to myself now.”

“Not going anywhere,” Tommy promises. He came to support Evan, to have that talk with Eddie, and with both of those taken care of, and his fair share of socializing done (complete with shit to unpack later, or maybe not), he just wants to stay with Evan, keep his mood up for the rest of the allotted hour, help him start his shift in a good mood.

The next few songs wash over them; they don’t bother keeping up with changes in tempo, instead swaying together, breathing each other in. He’s going to take Evan dancing, he thinks distantly. To a club at least once, for some of that grinding, but he’s also gonna ask Bobby and Athena where they go. They’ll know some nice places he won’t have heard of.

He and Evan get about three and a half songs together before another one abruptly cuts in. This is one Tommy knows from his clubbing days, too. He realizes belatedly that he heard a car pull up a few seconds ago.

I don’t like your twisted games Don’t like your tilted stage The role you made me play, of the fool No I don’t like you

Evan snorts, looking over Tommy’s shoulder. “Subtle.”

Tommy reluctantly lets go of him (Evan’s hand slides immediately into his), saying, “A little on the nose,” as he turns, knowing exactly who he’s going to see.

It helps, being braced for it this time instead of blindsided.

Gerrard is staring at their little group with distinct displeasure.

“What,” he says, “is this.”

The questions that aren’t questions and never have a right answer. God, Tommy hated those.

Eddie takes off his sunglasses and hooks them into the front of his shirt, looking at Gerrard like he’s the least interesting thing in the world. It is, somehow, mildly terrifying.

Under better circumstances, it would also be kind of hot, which is not a thought Tommy appreciates having right now.

“Taylor Swift dance party, sir,” Eddie says, with no inflection.

- look what you made me do Look what you made me do

Gerrard stares at him just long enough to make it clear that he will not be dignifying that, or Eddie, with a response.

“Anyone who is not with the 118,” he raises his voice to say, “is free to leave.”

“C’mon, Captain,” Evan says suddenly. Tommy grips his hand a little harder as Gerrard’s attention snaps right to them. “Bobby and Athena brought coffee and pastries. There’s still time if you want to grab yourself something, maybe join us?”

It sounds like he’s sucking up; the sarcastic way Gerrard’s mouth tilts says that’s what he’s hearing. But he doesn’t know Evan. He doesn’t know that what it really is is an olive branch, because of course it is, of course Evan is offering him a chance to change his mind even as he knows it’s just going to get smacked away, because who would Evan be if he didn’t try?

Tommy -

Tommy looks at him, his profile and his birthmark and his sincerity, and loves him.

Loves him, loves Evan, and what a moment to realize that.

He doesn’t hear whatever Gerrard has to say in response, just sees Evan’s expression fall, and eases his hold on Evan’s hand so he can give it a gentle squeeze.

Evan squeezes back, and Tommy can’t look away from him.

“- nard. Kinard.”

“Tommy!” Bobby’s voice from across the lot cuts through the pink static, allowing Tommy to wrench his gaze from Evan. He blinks. He’d forgotten, just for a second or two, that Gerrard was here.

Gerrard does not look pleased to have been forgotten.

“Besides,” he says, glancing briefly at their joined hands, “Pawed-over leftovers, when I have a pretty good idea of where some of your hands have been?”

I’m sorry, the old Taylor can’t come to the phone right now Why? Oh - ‘cause she’s dead

“Think about that much?” Tommy didn’t mean to say that, didn’t even know he was going to speak. He shouldn’t have, not when he’s not the one who’s going to pay for it.

He’s having a hard time caring right now (look what you made me do).

Gerrard’s glare narrows in on him.

“Unless you’re here to ask me to talk to your captain about a transfer, Kinard, you don’t belong here anymore.”

“Tommy.” Bobby again, behind him this time, hand delivering a warning squeeze to his shoulder. “Got time for breakfast before your shift? ‘Thena and I would love you to join us.”

Tommy gives himself a mental shake.

“Yeah. Thanks, Cap, that sounds great.” He turns to Evan. “Thanks for inviting me,” he says, sounding mostly normal. Probably. “I had a great time.”

Evan smiles. Tommy doesn’t want to go to breakfast or to Harbor. Tommy wants to bundle Evan back into his car and take him home.

“Me too.” Evan leans in and kisses his temple. It’s not enough, but fine; they don’t really need Gerrard expiring of a heart attack on the spot. “I’ll text you after my shift.”

“Okay,” Tommy says. Even closer to normal this time. Reluctantly letting go of Evan’s hand. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Evan looks a little like he did after Tommy kissed him that first time. Less poleaxed, but shining with -

God, Tommy’s screwed.

[allisonreader]

I watch the live action Little Mermaid… I have thoughts.

My two favourite moments in the movie were the one extremely short moment where Ariel helped Max into the lifeboat and then where she and Eric were studying the maps. (Which I mean Ariel was having Erik tell her everything about what’s on the maps.) I do think that both of them had wonderful chemistry, but my issue was that I couldn’t stop comparing the movie to the animated one. If I could have turned off that side of my brain, I probably would have enjoyed it more. I was happy to see that at least the CGI was a little bit better than it looked in the trailer. There are definitely things that could have been done differently. I missed the theatrics of Poor Unfortunate Souls in the animated version. Though on the same note, I did enjoy the lagoon scene, even if I currently prefer the original Kiss the Girl better. I do wish that they had went a little bit more along the lines of how the did Cinderella in 2015, where you could see the clear homage to the animated version, while very much being its own version of the story. (I also felt like most of the characters just kind of felt flat in comparison to Ariel and Eric.) I think that it’s going to be a long time before I try rewatch it. If I even do. It’s just made me want to watch the animated version again. I don’t know if it would have been better or worse, probably worse, because I had reread The Hunger Games right before I went and saw the first movie and was super nit picky and unhappy about how they handled it, but then enjoyed the movie more the second time I saw it. For the movie being longer than the animated version, most of the characters feel less developed.

I couldn’t help thinking while watching it how I would have done things differently, but didn’t have anything particularly in mind how I would make it different or change things. Well, that’s not fully true. I did think that I would probably touch a little about why Triton is so against humans. And maybe pull in some of the lore from the original story a bit more again, though still keeping the Disney ending and such. (The sisters were more useless in the live action than the animated.) So I think that’s something that I would change. Also, I kind of wish they had incorporated like traditional sea shanties on board. The soundtrack didn’t need to follow the original so closely. I enjoyed the live action Aladdin more, but then I’m not quite as attached to that movie

Have Ariel and sisters getting ready together earlier in the day from when they’re to gather later.

Have actual sea shanties being sung aboard Eric's ship.

[take-ya-to-the-ghey-bar]

Darling anon (i feel a bit less stressed and kinda find that being my tag name kinda amusing to me but it’s mainly to identify as the same person etc.) (feel free not to answer this but this is just a response msg rather than leaving it open so you know I’ve read it)

I appreciate you taking the time to reply and thanks for also understanding, a lot of people might’ve gotten angry over me mentioning stuff like that though I didn’t expect you to as I enjoy the blog as I said, seems like a safe space, and you seem like a kind person.

I also rationalised with myself about how it could just be that as a woman you hadn’t considered anything like that off the bat as you perhaps weren’t used to it, or don’t experience it etc. so it wouldn’t of been actual judgment, just simple inexperience.. though I thought I’d set it straight as well as I also didn’t want to leave you feeling weirded out either and it didn’t sit right considering the intent of the ask was to send get well vibes/check in you’re alright as sometimes people just need that.

(I don’t hate you for role playing a gay guy, anyone should be allowed to RP anything as long as they’re sensitive/respectful to real life people as well, I only would’ve felt unhappy if it was that you RPd a gay character but weren’t understanding/got funny about real life behaviours or more intolerant to irl gay peoples behaviour/speech/all that, just as some women I’ve come across treat real gay people very different to their favourite gay characters, even if it’s positive obviously there’s such thing as positive homophobia as well, and I needed to understand what was happening.)

Hi again dear~, and i know you said i haven't got to answer this-- but, in turn i wanted to do so just so you know i've seen and read your message as well-- (it just took me a bit to reply this time as i was waiting until i had my laptop again)

Anyway though, i'd like to open this reply with a small apology for if i've misinterpreted/misunderstood anything from both this and your last message, given that sometimes my comprehension can be a little iffy-- But aside from that, i'm still glad to hear that you enjoy my blog~ and still think i seem like a good person even if that initial ask gave an impression i wasn't aiming to give--

Seeing as i do try my best to be an understanding person, and even in moments when i might not fully understand, i'll try my best not to treat anyone without at least a little kindness-- (unless they've done something to deserve otherwise, but that's another issue all together--)

And yes i do admit that thanks to both my status as a woman, and in part thanks to my background as well, i may not have as much experience/understanding of things in a gay/queer space-- i again try my best to be understanding about things i may not know much about, and hopefully plan to learn more about these things in the future… I do appreciate you trying to be understanding with me in return about that, though~ and very much still appreciate the good vibes you originally came to send💕

(aaaa i'm glad to know you don't hate me for soemthing like that-- as i agree, anyone should be allowed to rp whatever they like, so long as they're respectful and such to those irl it may deal with or effect-- because i 100% don't agree with anyone who would treat, for this example, someone gay in real life differently than you would any other person-- even if you do so in a way that's seemingly positive, but like you said, instead ends up being positive homophobia-- because to me, regardless of who a person is, so long as they treat you kindly/with respect they deserve the same in return--)

And to close out this ask, i apologize if i didn't touch on all your points-- But for now this is the best response my brain can give me, so i hope it covers things well enough ; w ;" Tough i'll also close with wishing you well, and hoping that you're having a wonderful day~

[kevin-the-bruyne]

lamb, glasses and makeup for akkayan (or khaofirst, as you prefer)? 🙏🙏🙏

send me earthmix/khaofirst prompts

I had to abandon lamb because i could only think of crack but i want to write Serious(tm) fic about them so enjoy (I hope...)

Rating: G

---

‘Are you breaking into my house now?’

Akk can’t help the smile that pulls at his face at those words. They’re spoken without bite and Ayan looks almost disarmingly soft curled in his blankets, hair relaxed but brows furrowed in mock annoyance, wire framed glasses hanging delicately off the bridge of his nose.

He looks a little bit like an old man and it fills Akk with a warmth he’s slowly getting used to.

‘You told me where the spare key is, Shorty.’

Ayan pouts and mumbles something as he curls further into the blanket, pulling the book he was reading up to hide his face.

Akk rolls his eyes and climbs onto the bed next to him. If there is a part of him that wonders how he got so comfortable with Ayan, in Ayan’s personal space, then it remains traitorously quiet as he pulls the book out of Ayan’s hand without any preamble and peers down at his face.

‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing, Bigfoot?’ Despite the unhappy downturn of his lips Ayan’s sounds a little breathless, like he always does when Akk is close. Ayan’s eyes dart across his face, as heady as a touch, as Akk finally manages to get his hands working long enough to grip Ayan’s chin and turn his face to inspect the bruise there.

He clicks his tongue and there’s a flash of pain that crackles through the core of him, as though he was the one who was punched, ‘I told you the curse is dangerous.’ Akk says, pleading in the way his thumb rubs across the purple-blue tint on Ayan’s face, ‘you have to stop whatever this mission you think you’re on.’ It’s out before he can help it, before he can preface it or justify it. Like clockwork, Ayan pushes him away, ‘I wasn’t mugged by the curse.’ Ayan says and he only sounds mildly annoyed this time. He’s gotten better at it, at not accusing Akk of sins Akk isn’t sure he’s committing.

‘It didn’t look as nasty this morning, did you forget to ice it?’ And Akk has gotten good at it too, at not talking about the things that will tip this delicate balance between them. He doesn’t know why Ayan lets him get away with it but he doesn’t protest when Akk gets close again, joins him under the covers.

Akk holds his breath when Ayan’s head falls on his shoulder, ‘your skull is getting so thick at that shit school, I covered it with makeup earlier.’

Ayan has said something that he should protest but his shoulder grows heavy with the warmth of Ayan’s head on it and Akk can only stutter, ‘how could I possibly guess that a guy would be wearing makeup.’

He seems to have done something wrong again since the weight on his shoulder is gone, ‘some guys do, you have a problem with that?’ Ayan’s warmth now brushes across his cheek and maybe he’s done something right this time. Akk turns his head against his better judgment and his brain empties at the challenge in Ayan’s eyes.

He imagines it before he can shake his head, Ayan’s deep, soulful eyes emboldened with kohl, cheeks and lips brushed with a color he could taste on his tongue. Ayan’s smirk suggests that Akk wasn’t successful in hiding how much of a problem he didn’t have with guys wearing makeup. 

Ayan doesn’t push though - just drops his head back onto Akk’s shoulder - he never does beyond what Akk can take. Ayan’s hands skirts across his middle and settles on Akk’s hips until they’re cuddled together, Akk’s hands rubbing Ayan’s shoulder. Ayan takes his glasses off and holds it until Akk pries it from his fingers and puts it away on the bedside table.

Akk looks at the top of Ayan’s impossibly soft looking head as his breathing grows deep, body getting heavier on Akk’s chest, and drops a kiss hair before he can overthink it. A barely there brush of his nose into Ayan’s hair - Akk tugging gently at the edges of this line between them when Ayan stops pushing.

[catholicdaredevil]

soft || matt murdock & foggy nelson

this is just a small 1k of cute mattfoggy on their first date that i wrote at the request of and for my darling @momokodaisy

warnings: mentions of alcohol and drinking but not a lot

words: 1k

ao3 link

gif credit: @cloudyfacewithjam

“Why d’you always do that?”

They’re sitting, knee knocking into knee at a corner booth tucked away in a dark corner of Josie’s. All of this dancing, the back and forth, the lead-up had done just that and led up; up to a date that was so horrifically awkward that they both considered calling it a night. Until Foggy had the best idea, a certified Foggy Nelson is a genius idea. So they’d ditched the stuffy restaurant, taken a tense cab ride across town and all of the apprehension melted away the second they walked into familiar territory.

“Do what?” Foggy’s hands fall to his sides, done running through his hair in anticipation.

Matt frowns, his own hands twitching in front of him, dying to move forward and land on the blond somewhere, anywhere, “you like, play with your hair whenever we’re in a room alone.”

“Oh, it’s a nerves thing– I just do it when I’m nervous,” he can’t meet Matt’s eyes, knowing it’s a moot point but it’s the principle of the matter and his anxiety can’t let him look anywhere but down at the scratches dug into the wood from all the years.

“I make you nervous?” There’s concern laced in Matt’s words and Foggy can’t help but jump to justify, unwilling to let Matt be unhappy on his behalf any longer.

“No– well, yes, kinda. I just have really fucking liked you, since college actually, so it’s just a lot. Not that you’re a lot, I’m a lot– I’ve built this up a lot, which is like my own fault.” Once the words start it’s a lot harder to stop them than Foggy expected, word-vomiting out onto the table in front of them. Matt hums along when he talks, confirming that he’s at the very least listening.

Then there’s a long moment of silence, in which Foggy thinks maybe he’s ruined the whole thing. Why did he say he’d liked Matt since college, now there’s some added pressure for Matt to live up to this idea Foggy’s had of him since then. Foggy’s about to cut Matt loose, break the ice and give him a chance to leave before this gets worse, when he’s interrupted from his thoughts by a gentle hand against his thigh and Matt’s soft words.

“Y’know I liked you in college too.”

Matt hears the way Foggy’s heart lurches in his chest, like it’s trying to break out and leap into Matt’s arms, like it belongs with him. It warms even the smallest sections of him, the ones long frozen over thought to be gone from the kind world, in just one instant Foggy melts them all, setting Matt’s cheeks on fire with it.

“I think it’s– I think it’s why my hair’s so soft.” Foggy blurts out, brain going haywire in light of this new information placed gently at his feet. “Cause I run my hands through it so much, I mean. I think that’s why it’s so soft.”

A crooked smile pulls at Matt’s lips and he leans back to take another swig from his beer, head tilting as he puts every sense at his disposal entirely on Foggy. “See, I never got that. Everyone says it, everyone says that your hair is so soft, but they’re not touching it. They’re just seeing it, I don’t get it how does your hair look soft. How do people see soft?”

“Well, you could touch it, feel it. My hair.” His brain still hasn’t fully caught up to the moment, maybe if it had he wouldn’t have been forward enough to say it. Maybe if it had he would have at least said it more coherently, but it’s too late now the words are out there and he can see the way they settle over Matt. The way Matt thinks, practically chewing on Foggy’s words, deciding how they taste, how he feels, before nodding.

Foggy’s entire body freezes in place, so still he’s barely breathing when Matt’s hands reach out hesitantly. He only moves to catch onto one of Matt’s hands, to guide it up to his hair. Matt’s fingers dive in, curling around strands, running all the way through it to the tips of blond hairs then going straight back to the start and doing it all over again.

Matt’s entire face falls, slips into a look that can only be described as bliss, blissed out under the feeling of soft silky locks of hair. He keeps going, for minutes that tick by his expression melted into a goofy smile that pulls at Foggy’s heart so desperately. He wants this look to live on Matt’s face, so different from every frown, and line of concern that usually find their home there.

“Soft,” is all he can say, hands still continuing their path, scratching along Foggy’s scalp. It feels great, having Matt’s hands on him in general is always something that makes him a little gooey on the inside, this is no different, if anything it’s better to watch the man enjoy it.

“Told you, it’s soft,” Foggy practically cooes, inching forward so that it’s less of a stretch, scooting into Matt’s space until their legs press up together. It takes another moment for Matt to finally catch a hold of himself, cheeks burning as he drops his hands into his lap. Foggy reaches out to grab onto Matt’s hands, rubbing slow circles across broken knuckles with his thumb.

“Sorry, it’s just very soft, you were right.” His tone is abashed, embarrassment creeping back onto his face and Foggy does the only thing he can think of to try and stop it. He lifts Matt’s hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of his hand.

“S’okay Matty.” Upon the reaction, Matt’s small gasp the second Foggy’s lips touch his skin, Foggy decides to push it a little. Leaning in and kissing Matt’s flushed cheek, but Matt turns at the last second and connects his mouth with Foggy’s. He tugs at Foggy’s hands pulling him even closer to deepen the kiss and Foggy thinks he might cry.

Because here he is.

A lawyer, with his own practice.

Winning cases.

Kissing his best friend.