#without having to do anything worthwhile''

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for belconna behind the cut, who asked for Billy/Damian fluff and is getting “Damian gets a Pocket”. The fluffy aspects admittedly got a bit less focused on than I intended them to, but in my defense, we're dealing with a displaced ten year-old with extremely skewed perceptions who knows how to do a murder but does not know how to admit to having a single human weakness. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Love love, love love,” Beloved sing-songs contentedly as he slings his new and newly-packed bag onto his back and the eraser bag over his shoulder and secures them both. Damian is–surprised, somewhat, that Beloved has not abandoned such an unworthy offering as the eraser bag now that he has been provided a clearly more suitable option for his purposes. 

Beloved’s mere existence is already surprising, though, so Damian supposes such peculiar choices are to be expected from him. Admittedly far less peculiar than Beloved attempting to ensure that Damian has eaten instead of being concerned with securing his own sustenance, but peculiar all the same. 

Beloved’s point of origin would likely find him peculiar too, he supposes. Most people seem to, since his arrival in Gotham. It seems . . . unavoidable, here. 

Damian finds many things about Gotham very tiring, though he is aware that he is expected to perform to expectation despite that fact. To improve himself to Father’s standards and surpass expectation, because, of course, how could he be the Heir to the Bat if he did not? 

He is no longer with the League, but he is well-aware that Father holds himself to even higher standards than theirs, and ones that seem senseless and difficult and that Damian has yet to deduce the purposes behind. 

Father does not kill his opponents; Father insists that they all waste Pennyworth’s time. Father complicates simple matters, and simplifies the complicated. A foe is not to be slain even in open combat, nor even particularly maimed if at all avoidable. “Manners” are performative distractions, and blending into civilian life is mandatory. 

Damian finds it all very tiring, though making such comments is unappreciated, he has learned. Which is understandable, of course. Father expects better of him. 

It remains–frustrating, all the same, when Drake and Brown and everyone else under Father’s mantle can make such statements without reprimand, and often even with approval. But Damian is Father’s blood son and one day will bear his mantle, so he understands that he must meet higher standards to perform to Father’s expectations. It is only logical that he must, in fact. 

Though it is frustrating that when Brown cuts short a training program or sparring match and announces her exhaustion to Father’s face, he allows and even instructs her to step back and recover her energy, even if she is still perfectly capable of standing and holding a weapon, but if Damian informs anyone that he finds anything about the process of acclimating to Father’s endless list of illogical rules tiring, the response is always negative–short or irritable or outright hostile, as opposed to the neutral acceptance that Drake receives whenever informing Father that he is tired. 

But he is the blood son, Damian reminds himself, so it is natural–and perfectly reasonable–that Father should expect more from him than Brown or Drake or any other ally to his cause. As he well should, in fact. It is preferable that Father does not consider him to be weak or incompetent. That Father considers him capable of meeting his expectations; his standards. 

Even if it is–tiring, as well. 

Damian will meet Father’s expectations, of course–meet Father’s standards–and will prove that he is worthy of such expectations, and then Father will acknowledge his worth as his heir, and will trust him as his heir, and then all of Damian’s efforts will prove worthwhile. Father will not doubt him, after that; will accept his opinions as worthy of consideration and will not feel the need to doubt his loyalty or compare reports of how he allocates his time when outside of the manor. 

So . . . not, Beloved will not last, and neither will whatever Pocket came from Damian himself. Such a distraction from Father’s mission would not be worthwhile, in Father’s eyes. Not be acceptable, in Father’s eyes. 

Certainly not for the heir to his mantle, at least. 

Upon arrival to the manor, Damian stows his purchases for Beloved in his school bag and sets Beloved himself upon his shoulder where the strap lays, then heads inside while Pennyworth returns the towncar to the garage. Beloved buttons the coat’s shoulder strap across his lap in a manner akin to a seatbelt and settles in with his bags, his hands hooked over the edge of the strap as if expecting potential–turbulence, for lack of a more suitable term. Damian appreciates the obvious instinct of preparation on Beloved’s part, given how frequently “turbulence” has been a concern in his life. It will certainly prove useful on patrol, he reflects as he crosses the threshold into the manor, and he has in fact already sketched out several potential plans for arranging something more secure to actually– 

Beloved freezes on his shoulder, then very suddenly throws himself and his bags into the collar of his coat and hides against the back of his neck. Damian–frowns, briefly. Beloved’s instinct to conceal himself is another instinct that he approves of, but he is uncertain as to why Beloved just did so that quickly. The previous occasions he has concealed himself upon, he was much less rushed. So why . . . ? 

“Welcome home, Damian,” Father says, and Damian is immediately mortified to realize he was distracted enough by Beloved’s behavior to not notice Father approaching the foyer from the stairs. He locks his spine in perfect posture and represses any physical reaction to that sense of mortification, because he is certain Father already knows he has caught him unawares, and equally certain that the only worse thing would be to attempt to excuse being caught unaware, even by the Batman. Father is going to no more effort to conceal or quiet himself than he typically does inside the manor, and Damian knows better than to allow himself such distractions. 

Any distractions, but especially the distraction of a soulmate. 

“Thank you, Father,” Damian says, because he has been informed that is the appropriate response to such greetings. He supposes it makes sense, to continually thank Father for his hospitality. He is well-aware that Father has many potential heirs, and he is the youngest and least physically mature of those, and also the one that Father has spent the least time personally training. 

And Father did not give him Robin to begin with: Grayson did, in his absence. Because in Father’s absence, Grayson had inherited his mantle, and Damian . . . he had not been Father’s heir, but . . . 

Grayson had accepted his service as his partner long before Father had even considered the idea. 

[psalmsofpsychosis]

[ angry rant ahead ]

you know, i usually dont talk to other people much in real life right now, even less so on the internet, it takes a lot to get me on the case of disco horses and other variants of supposed "discussions". It's a strange thing because i'm actually a quite talkative person, but also in the recent 5-6 years any and every kind of expression i've had, no matter how mild or colorful it was, people [who had already decided they hated my guts] used as an excuse to justify why "they were leaving me behind". It was always my fault that i was being treated like shit; they were just reacting sensibly to me being a fuckhead.

So i learnt to control and manage and frame and reframe my expression, not because i wanted to and liked it, but because of necessity— you can only afford to be left behind so many times before it starts damaging you emotionally, mentally, and physically in many aspects.

And i actually started developing severe physical symptoms because of how much i curated and leashed in my self expression— eating up 3/4th of what i actually wanted to say and spend so much fucking energy trying to script my thoughts and opinions in a way that would be oh so accomodating and considerate and soft-spoken and mild and non-threatening and harmless and agreeable so paper-skin-and-glass-bones fuckers online and offline dont feel threatened and start crying, or start biting me for "being rude" when all i did was to literally just open my mouth and form one or two sentences.

And i'm so insanely resentful about this. I'm resentful about constantly self censoring and watering down my expressions and forcing myself down to the level of other people the way grown ups squat to talk to a child so the child feels less threatened. Constantly writing and rewriting what i want to say so it's not "too antagonistic, too angry, too vicious, too confident, too anything" —"make it friendly, light, no-big-deal, agreeable, appropriate, acceptable to the rock bottom level boundaries of this context," the voice in my head says— when the truth is, i'm so so so much more than anything i've ever shown to people online and offline in the past 6 years. I'm full of hatred and rage and i'm shameless and i enjoy it too, i can hurt people terribly and i'm good at it and this is why i'm hellbent on kindness. It's a choice, i wake up and i make this choice every fucking day, and i dont like being taken for granted. I dont think most people truly understand what "where the light is brightest the shadows run deep" means, like no, you dont understand the depth of how fucked up i can be, you take my joy and delight for granted, and you cannot live up to either. You're not my equal on either front and you lack the substance it takes to mirror my happiness or my rage– and i get very irritated when people think they're on the same ground with me, "we're so alike!" no we're not, you just feel connected to the super mega easy digestable non-threatening responses i craft for you because i know you can't handle any more than this without having a mental breakdown and making me mom you.

Like, i solid feel like everytime i want to talk i have to put on kiddie gloves and do the kiddie talk, patting people's heads like "dont be scared, dont be scared, i'm a friend, no need to panic, now we're gonna play a game in which i give you super easy hints on life being more complex and deeper than you percieve it on a surface level and you proceed to think about that for 5 seconds everyday, easy, easy." Because that's what they are to me, children. I feel like i'm talking to children all the time, and no it's not about age, it's about the way most people are so incredibly shallow and superficial and simplistic and are so depth-averse it's kinda astounishing??? Like you'll find them hanging 6475378 adornments from every branch of a tree and thinking a tree is "a collection of leaves" and they never see the roots, or water them.

And yeah i'm so incredibly resentful about all of it. I feel like i put people in cute fun little floaties in the shallow end of the pool and stay with them and we play simple games and splash water at each other and they dont know the deep end of the pool exists, they dont care, they think everyone and them and me are kiddies playing in the shallow part, "oh you're just like me, we're all the same and having so much fun here," no, i'm so much more than you at any given point in this interaction, and what you sound like to me is a child mistaking their mother as "another playmate in the kindergarten".

And i'm super fucking tired of defanging and declawing my expression all the time so i dont spook the little dainty shallow people inside or outside my phone. "but they'll get scared and they'll leave!" and you know what? good. I want them to get very, very scared. And i want them to fucking run. I'm tired of trying to cater to simple people who i dont give a fuck about, people who are merely contemplating whether i'm worth loving or not. You walk into a haunted house only when you love ghosts and want to see one, this is not a space for the faint of heart. i am not a space for the faint of heart.

[welcometogrouchland]

ONCE AGAIN thinking about how Steph and Cass both think of crime as being related to abuse but they think of it in different ways based on the abuse done to them- Cass is inclined to see perpetrators as abused in some form and in need of rehabilitation bc the only way she can conceptualize her abuse is through David's making her a killer (and not any of the physical abuse involved in her training or the emotional and psychological abuse of depriving her of speech, because those both make her a better vigilante in her mind) whereas Steph sees the perpetrator as abuser, because her father's criminal persona (his violence, his inferiority complex, him literally and figuratively holding Steph and her mother as hostages) is so entwined with the abuse he inflicted on her and her mother, and she feels this so strongly she often fails to see Cass' perspective of criminals as victims, when of course the answer lies in between in that many of the most iconic rogues of Gotham (save few who lean one way or the other) are both abused and abuser, victim and perpetrator, Steph and Cass' number one fear, the one Steph can't think about and the one Cass obsesses over, of being just like the people who hurt you.

[seilon]

If i don’t get an update soon on my god damn top surgery insurance negotiation im going to lose my fucking mind

[end-orfino]

ahhhhhh i remember why i dont read comics & books and watch movies as much as I should. Because they make me lose it

[someonesomewheredown]

Guys I don't know how I'm supposed to survive college I'm scared

[saltomortal]

sighhhhhhhhhhh

[bookskittychad]

I wanna sleep but I also wanna fix my sleeping schedule.......

[boredymcbored]

What if

I have another crush based on something I thought was real but kinda casual and fun but turned out to be 100% casual and fun and the casual and fun thing I thought for sure wasn't real turned out to be really real and now I'm flirting and spending all this time with someone that's coo with me but not the cool I really really want to be?

Ugh not only did that other situation months ago fuck me up in what's genuine or not online but I'm also a lil pressed bunghole that likes people I maybe shouldn't while ignoring people that I know irl that may like me. 😔

[peachdues]

Sanemi doesn’t think masturbation is a worthwhile use of his time.

For one, it’s a distraction. There’s a million things he’d rather do, most of which center around killing every damn demon he can get his hands on, and he can’t do that if he’s wasting time keeping his hand down his pants. Besides, the few seconds of watery pleasure is never worth the cleanup that comes after. Rarely is he ever left satisfied.

But, Sanemi is a man, and unfortunately, his cock sometimes has a mind of its own. Particularly when he’s frustrated and pent up, and left without much in the way of options to deal with it.

When the mood strikes him, he approaches it with the same utilitarianism as he does with everything else. So, today, when his frustration is tightly coiled in his stomach like an asp waiting to strike, and he finds he can’t focus on anything — not his training, not the handful of missions he probably could take, not even the battered practice dummy in his garden, begging to have his fist shatter its face — Sanemi knows there’s only one way to relieve his tension. Fast and quick.

Oh, he grumbles about it all the way into his Manor, though no one is around to hear or care. But bitch he does, all the way down the hall and to his bedroom, his hands jerking irritably at his belt.

The blankets on his futon are rumpled and unmade, but Sanemi doesn’t care. Probably for the best, given that he’ll have to wash everything once he’s done, anyways.

Belt loose and pants unfastened, Sanemi flops down into his bed. He’s half-hard already, which means he’s really on his last thread. All the more incentive to get this the fuck over with.

Except. He can’t fucking focus; not on this, not on anything. He’s too strung out, yet he’s unable to concentrate enough on this base need of his, and that only pisses him off more. His touch is too rough, his fingers, too calloused to be enjoyable.

Groaning, Sanemi throws an arm over his eyes and tries to let his limited imagination run. He pictures a faceless woman, shrouded in shadow, but her touch is softer than his, more certain. Fingers slide up the burgeoning length of him, turning over his head before trailing back down to take him in hand and slowly, Sanemi begins to pump at himself. Steady, even strokes, quick and efficient, like everything else he does. He will work through this frustration and then he will go back out and train until his limbs give out and he has to drag himself back inside.

Behind his eyelids, Sanemi tries to give the woman a face. He always does, and he always comes up woefully empty, even when his spend is smeared across his lower abdomen. He doesn’t know why; it’s not like he’s never seen a beautiful woman. He just didn’t notice them. Not enough to remember them, it seems. Not enough to make it count during these shameful moments of weakness.

Exhaling forcefully through his nose, Sanemi pumps harder at himself. If he could just peel back the curtain in his mind, see a face that looked at him not with fear or disgust, but want, sensual and heady. Then, he could finally finish this salacious act and get back to what mattered. Training; becoming stronger, faster, deadlier —

A familiar scent creeps in from the recesses of his conscience, sudden and unbidden. A memory of flowers and honey, first smelled on a distant training yard only a few weeks before. At first, this association confuses him; he knows that faint perfume — it belongs to a certain, pain-in-the-ass Kinoe whose sole mission in life has been to drive him up a fucking wall. He hasn’t seen you since that last training, so he sure as fuck doesn’t know why you’re trying to invade his thoughts — his bed — now.

But, does he stop?

No. No he doesn’t.

A few, hesitant strokes along his shaft helps the picture in his head grow clearer. He sees familiar hair tickling his cheek; hands smaller than his roaming his chest. Those immaculate nails raking across his skin, over his nipples and down his abdomen.

A feeble moan escapes past his lips and Sanemi’s hand tightens around his cock, now stiff and aching. His fantasy runs wild faster than he can reel it back in, and he finds himself unwilling to try. Because now, now he pictures silky skin against his own and one of your shapely legs curled around his hips, rocking him against you. Reflexively, his own hips buck up into empty air, desperately chasing the friction you withhold from him in his dreams. Teasing; taunting. Daring him to follow you down, down into the futon with that challenging tilt of your brow, the very one that always set his stomach twisting with anticipation.

He’s close, now; dangerously close, and the knot behind his navel is tighter than ever. Whatever it is mounting inside him is unlike anything he’s ever felt. It’s precarious and frightening, yet he still cannot stop chasing it. Cannot stop chasing you and those lips, those gorgeous, plump lips that part with a breathy moan that is not his. It’s yours, and your voice a siren’s song that he is too happy to drown to.

The coil in his stomach seizes as your face blooms in his mind, sharper than any photograph. Your eyes glisten with the same need burning in his chest, and there’s a flush in your cheeks that deepens when he bucks again. Somewhere, over the broken moan that vibrates in his throat as he spills fast and hot over his fist, Sanemi swears he hears you sigh his name. His true name, whispered like a prayer rather than a curse.

Every muscle in his body tenses, his body tauter than a live wire. Your face whites out under the punishing force of his high as it ricochets through him, starting low in his navel. His fist turns sticky and the grip he has on himself becomes sloppy. But he only comes harder, and he’ll be mortified in a few seconds when he realizes he can’t tell whether he’s coming to you or for you.

Sanemi gives himself a last, few languid pumps before he collapses against his futon. Spent yet not sated, and scowling at the mess he’s made of himself and his bedding.

Part of him scowls too at you; at the way you so easily invaded his secret space. But his annoyance is quickly tempered by the guilt that wells up inside him, creeping up his throat. Who is he, to think of you in that way? Sanemi Shinazugawa has a better chance of getting ripped apart by some low rank, bastard demon than ever touching you the way his dreams demanded. Not to mention hell itself would freeze over before a woman like you ever wanted him, stripped and bare and vulnerable.

Sanemi doesn’t know how to be a lover, and no one would be stupid enough to ask him to try. He knows this.

Yet, he cannot get the memory of your perfume out of his head any more than he can silence that alluring call of his name reverberating around his skull. And he finds himself hardening again, as he imagines what you might look like bent over or — fucking hell — on top of him, and Sanemi realizes he’s not going back to training. Not any time soon.

divider credit to @strangergraphics !

[dreamsteddie]

Enamored with an Eddie who comes back from the Upside Down completely changed and turns to writing as his only solace, eventually turning it into a successful career.

When Eddie realized that the grate wasn't closed properly and the bats started swarming, when he saw the fear in Dustin's eyes as they quickly lost control of the situation, he had been well and truly prepared to die. Part of him, privately, was hoping to die.

The town was out for his blood, his friends hadn't even come to the trailer park to check on him, and despite what he said, he knew 86' was not going to be his year. Not even close. At least if he died in the Upside Down, he died as a hero. Not a failed rockstar, or a high school dropout, or another victim of Hawkin's endless bloodthirst for anyone outside of their preconceived ideas of "normal". Not a mirror image of Al Munson.

So when he wakes up in the hospital, bedridden and dehydrated, it doesn't feel like a victory.

When Dustin comes in to see him, positively bursting at the seams with excitement at Eddie's long-awaited return to consciousness, Eddie can't say a word. He has to watch as the light in his too-wise eyes dims as Eddie just stares. He's trying, he's trying so fucking hard, to say anything, but the words have dried up.

All Eddie can think about is the lack of anything worthwhile waiting for him out in the big, scary world. He's missing the pinky on his left hand, and the corresponding elbow has been chewed to bits. Even through the opioids, he's aware of an odd, sharp tingling that screams nerve damage. He knows that he'll never play again, and if he does it will never be worth anything to anyone. He's not going to graduate, which is the one thing Wayne always wanted for him. The one thing that has always kept him going despite how much the world has tried to bury his head in the sand has been taken from him, his excitement to get out into the world.

When Eddie looks out the window in his hospital room, all he can think about is how badly it wants to swallow him up and spit him back out.

Dustin has to be dragged out of the room by Steve and Robin as Eddie's silence seems to make him hysterical. He's screaming at Eddie, mad and desperate and sad.

Eddie doesn't see him for a week. When he comes back he's sheepish but determined, carrying a load of books under his arm. Eddie still won't say a word, but Dustin sits by his bedside and reads out loud until his voice is hoarse. Tolkien, Le Guin, Pratchett. He ends every visit by taking his hand, squeezing it tight, and telling him he's glad he's alive. Eddie can't agree with him, but he's grateful that doesn't stop him from saying it.

Wayne is faithfully by his bedside. He doesn't say much, content in Eddie's silence the same way he was in the midst of his endless chatter. He holds his hand, brushes his hair, turns the TV to all his favorite channels, and settles in for the long haul the same way he always has. Eddie doesn't know what he would do without him.

The rest of the monster fighting crew are in and out. Steve is there the most, standing in a corner with his arms crossed near the door during Dustin's visits. He never says much, but Eddie thinks Steve might understand him the best. He thinks back to those moments in the Upside Down.

"Don't be cute"

"Please be safe"

"we are noooot heroes"

"We'll try our best"

"Steve...make him pay"

"I'm scared, but I'll keep him safe"

When Steve looks his way, it feels like someone is hearing him, hearing how loudly he's screaming in his head.

He's in the hospital for five months and not once during that time does he breathe a single word. He feels hollowed out in a way that's foreign to him, like a great void has taken the place of organs, veins, and muscles and left him cold and stiff.

When he gets home, a new but almost identical trailer sitting in the same plot as the last one, he's far from better. He's weak, and sore, and tired to the bone. Wayne has to go back to work, no two ways about it, so Eddie spends his days wasting away on the couch. Dustin is back at school, leaving long stretches of time where Eddie is alone with his void and the sound of him screaming into it, so he turns to his books.

Except there are only so many books in his possession and even if he wanted to leave his house, a feat that seems insurmountable in his current condition, he still can't walk more than the length of the trailer without feeling like he's going to collapse. So, he turns to his notebooks.

At first, it's just reems and reems of sloppy-looking screams. He tries to make them as loud and angry looking as the voice in his head. His hand aches, weak from damage and disuse, but when he's done his throat feels just a little looser. Like maybe that void just got a little smaller.

That's how Steve finds him, sitting on the couch huffing like he just ran a marathon, surrounded by pages and pages of frantic writing. He's been coming by once a day, usually for an hour or two after work, to sit with Eddie and hang out. Eddie is pretty sure Wayne asked him to, but he honestly doesn't care. Steve is a little more chatty in the confines of the trailer when it's just the two of them, and Eddie craves the presence of someone who gets it. Gets him.

Steve takes in the scene, gives a low whistle, and asks if Eddie feels a little better getting that all out. Eddie still can't talk, kind of hoped for a moment there that he would, but when all he does is nod Steve still gives him that annoyingly charming smile and a firm pat on the back with a wide, warm hand.

And, well, Eddie doesn't think he's ok, but for the first time in a long time, he thinks maybe he will be.

After that, it's like something is unlocked. He spends almost all day every day writing away in his notebooks. They used to be for songs and campaigns, but even the thought of music and DnD makes him feel like he's going to be sick, so instead he writes stories.

Eddie has always loved to spin a tale. As a child, his mom would make up stories of knights and princesses, bards and bakers, peasants and children, love and life. When she died, Eddie wrote as many as he could remember in a book that sits proudly on his shelf. He can't bring himself to crack it open, crack himself open, when he's already so vulnerable, but the act of building a narrative makes him feel closer to her.

He writes stories about a young alchemist falling in love in a foreign land. A scribe reluctantly taking up with a rouge knight until she reaches a more accepting kingdom. A princess working to expose the ugly underbelly of her village.

A handsome prince abdicating the throne to fight on the side of the rebels.

A disgraced bard finding his way home.

Day by day, page by page, the void gets smaller.

The first person he shares his writing with is Dustin. The younger boy spends all Saturday at the trailer with Eddie, chattering away about Suzey, the Party, school, and all the things a kid his age should be worried about. He never asks what he's writing, which probably means Steve warned him not to, which Eddie can't help but appreciate.

Eddie wordlessly hands him a notebook. The one he's been filling for the better part of the last two weeks. Dustin takes it with eager hands, flipping through pages until his eyes are clouded with tears and he's flinging himself into Eddie's side.

It's about two brothers, separated at birth but brought together by a mutual cause. They adventure across the kingdom, seeking the knowledge that will end the brutal war ravaging their homeland. In the end, the eldest must sacrifice himself for the other, but the youngest defies fate to save him. It ends with the eldest, unable to live the life he once thought he would lead, thanking his brother for fighting for him when he wasn't brave enough to do it himself.

He lets Dustin take that one home with him.

Ultimately, it's Steve that gets him to speak.

He doesn't try, never seems bothered by Eddie's lack of voice, content to pass notes and relish in the silent company.

Eddie hands him their story, the one about a handsome prince and a voiceless bard, and for the first time since he woke up is met with that terrible smile. The one that isn't a smile at all, but an apology. While Eddie and Max may have come out the worst, no one came out of the years of interdimensional terror unscathed, especially not Steve.

He explains that since last summer, his ability to read has deteriorated steadily. The doctors aren't sure exactly what the cause is, but they assume the continued damage to his head has damaged the centers of the brain dedicated to reading and writing.

But Edddie needs him to read this, needs him to know this. Because this is the only way Eddie can think to confess. Writing has become so much of who he is since he left that hospital bed, and he wants more than anything to offer it to Steve.

When he speaks, it's rough. Scratchy and almost incomprehensible but when he chances a look up Steve is giving him his undivided attention. It takes him all day, stopping and starting and getting water and fighting off the pull of the void. The only thing that keeps him going is the stars he sees in Steve's eyes.

When he's done, there's no room for the silence to build back up because Steve is cupping his face in his wide, warm palms and telling him how much he loves him, too.

In the end, Eddie never regains his voice entirely. He goes days, sometimes weeks without saying a word. A year in, when they've all accepted that Eddie will never be the same as he was, Robin invests in a handful of ASL books and drills them all in sign language until their fingers cramp.

Two years in, Steve and Eddie watch as the kids walk across the stage, all six of them flipping Principle Higgins the bird as they accept their diplomas. Eddie cheers so loud his throat aches the next day, telling them how proud he is of them even as their parents tell them off.

The year after that, Nancy confiscates one of his books and sends it to her friend in publishing, mailing him a generous publishing offer and a heartfelt letter that makes him cry. Steve holds him tight as they call Nancy to work out the details, his boyfriend talking into the phone for him as Eddie signs frantically.

Five and a half years after Eddie survived, Eddie's first book opens like this:

To the love of my life

Who hears me in my silence

And to myself

For filling the void with words

[gay-dorito-dust]

Never mind I had one more in the tank.

‘Who’s you’re favourite person?’ Sam asked once.

‘Joaquin.’ You replied without hesitation.

Sam’s brow quirks upwards as a amused smile crept on his face, the same face that you and Joaquin had teased him constantly that made him look as though he knew something about you both, he didn’t understand the joke but that only made it funnier for you and Joaquin. ‘Why?’ He said.

You shrugged. ‘Why not. He’s my favourite person because when I’m with him I can be myself, I can be a little silly and not feel bad about it. I can be stupid and instead of laughing at me, Joaquin is laughing with me.’ You smiled to yourself when you remembered how you tripped over thin air, only for Joaquin to catch you as he tells you to be careful, only for him to trip over his own feet seconds later which lead to the pair of you laughing at the irony of the moment; To you that was the beauty of Joaquin Torres.

‘Joaquin is someone who I can go to in conference, knowing he’ll always have my back, offer wise sage like advice even when it’s like three in the morning and we’re both half out of our minds. As long as I know k have Joaquin in my corner, then I can take on anything and everything for he’s my friend, my other half, my person whom I can’t live without as I don’t want to ever think of having to live without him anymore.’ You continued as you remembered how often you spent in his room more then your own at this point, always feeling that warmth within your chest whenever you saw him after mission and how happy you were to see him come back from his without so much as some minor bruises and cuts.

You remembered how often you’d find yourself tucked protectively within his embrace after movie nights and how you’d give just about anything just to stay like this within his arms forever, protected and protecting him when you found his head on your chest on the rare occasion where he needed your comfort, never once withholding it from him as he was more then deserving of anything and everything. You couldn’t help but swoon when you remembered the nights where you both would go to the roof of the compound to watch the stars, only to find yourself looking at them as they visited within his eyes, the man was beautiful and he knew it and you weren’t one to let him forgot it either.

‘He’s my favourite person because he’s authentically himself, never giving up his true self just to fit in with the rest and I admire him for doing so. He’s my person because without him I’ve got nothing, he’s my person because he makes life brighter and more worthwhile and worth running the risk for and I can’t thank him enough for being my person.’ You finished telling Sam, who had been looking over your shoulder the entire time, which made you furrow your brows as you looked to see what had caught his attention, only to see that Joaquin was stood in the doorway behind you with his arms crossed over his chest; smiling.

‘He’s asked you the same thing huh?’ He says with a playful air to his voice, but his eyes held a sense of sincerity as he pushed himself away to move to your side, leaving your feeling a rush of warmth wash over you from the close proximity when he moves his head so it was near your ear. ‘But I’m glad to hear that I’m your favourite person, the feelings more than reciprocated my love.’ He whispered before pressing a kiss to your forehead tenderly, making you lean into his touch and smiling stupidly, but that was the effect he had over you without having to try though that’s what you loved most about him.

[dirthenera]

Ok I need to get this out with the news about devs being fired dropping.

There will be spoilers for Veilguard here so proceed with caution.

EA fucked the game, and the more I think about it, the more angry I am with them.

It all starts with one choice- the devs wanted the veil to come down in that opening, and EA told them no. Told them they couldn’t bring the veil down at all.

It was never going to be a player choice- it couldn’t, it would create two entirely different worlds leading forward, so it would have to be something outside player control, and they were told no.

The veil coming down was outside forces and the veil staying up was Rook’s choice. And had to be Rook’s choice.

Because of that, our Rook could never see the veil coming down as a worthwhile option. Which means we could never engage with it as a reality. We could never ask what that would look like, or question the morality of the veil, either practically, or as a thought experiment. No companions will bring up what it might be like in any positive way or even just as an “I wonder.”

We only get to see veil =bad so Rook must be right.

They cut Solas’ elven followers because having even *one* npc on his side for noble reasons would make us question too much, and we were not allowed to have an opinion other than veil =good, because the devs were hamstringed by it.

No companions ever discuss what it could be like without the veil, and they *should*. Can you imagine Emmrich and Bellara debating it? Emmrich absolutely fascinated by how it would impact spirits and they wouldn’t need to possess anyone or anything, Bellara leery after seeing so much wild magic in Arlathan but wondering if uninterrupted etheric flows would create more stable magic over time. Taash surprising the party by being way more cool with it than expected due to their Rivaini upbringing, and more open to that than necromancy.

Lucanis and Harding being firmly against it to the point it causes some friction in the team, Davrin just staying out of it because he doesn’t get it and doesn’t want to. Harding has a moment of questioning at a weak point after reminiscing about Cole, and wonders how many like him there could be if the veil did come down.

Neve feeling extremely mixed about it, between it possibly allowing a reshuffle of power in Tevinter, removing the ability for mages to make deals with demons, but also upset at the potential raw chaos.

But we never even get to look at that. Because there was no option there. Even if each character landed on veil=good, we never even got to have the discussion, because we couldn’t do anything with it.

And we can see how that spirals out and created a much less morally complex game than we’ve previously gotten. Rook is the good guy because they said so, Solas is the bad guy who, despite being beyond willing to talk to anyone who will listen to him, refuses to expand on what the veil coming down looks like. Because he can’t. Because then we might agree with him.

We’re only allowed Varric’s point of view, which makes sense for the beginning, but there was never an option to expand it. There is one single dialogue option where we can tell Solas “whoops didn’t know that.” But that’s the beginning and end of that train of thought.

They even set us up as this FANTASTIC foil to Solas, having meddled in a ritual we didn’t understand and unleashing multiple blights and elven gods, essentially destroying the south, blighting most of the north, partially destroying a city, and a countless death toll. But taking actual responsibility with that isn’t allowed- because we may sympathize too much with Solas. Because we clearly did the right thing because the veil is still up. It’s not even addressed in the regret prison! Solas tells you thousands would still have died if he took down the veil, but thousands did die as a direct result of Rook meddling. And nowhere can you acknowledge that.

[corawithfanfiction]

Hi! Would you ever consider do anything that was Aaron Taylor Johnson x reader? (his celeb self I mean.) Maybe something like they’re working on a movie together (y/n is younger) and get to be friends and then something transpires between them? Ahh!!

Aaron Taylor-Johnson x Fem!Reader (Young Actress Reader - Request)

MY MASTERLIST! - EVENTS! - HOME!

This is an original story and may not be copied or translated into another language without permission!

warning: claustrophobia, age difference, dirty language, nickname, divorce, coworker, action scene, car accident, creep, expectation.

summary: You're doing test shoots for action scenes with the lead of your new movie. You always thought you were like a sister to her until you find out that he is now a single man.

(2632 word)

Hope you like it sweetie, I try the write as soon as possible :) @smallmarvel

It was one of the new weeks in your new project. The reading rehearsals had been over for a few days. But post-production had taken a long time. Or maybe it's because it's your biggest project and you've never experienced this kind of crew and work discipline before.

The cast had been in camp for months and all of them had been working out constantly to change their bodies for their roles. In the last days you have been working on your choreography. Your screen time would be about fifteen to twenty minutes, but the opportunity to work with such a cast made it all worthwhile.

You had two fight scenes, one big and one small. Although it wouldn't be right to call them both fights. Generally the bad guys were chasing you and our hero was there for you, but there were still moves you had to memorize.

When you first read the script, you thought that since it was an escape scene, it wouldn't challenge you and you would just run. But it wasn't like that. You had to jump, jump, sometimes crawl and even fight one-on-one. To make the scene more realistic, you were choreographed to fight for your life. At first you hated it, but once you learned the moves and started doing them much faster, you started to enjoy it.

Today was the day of the test shoot.

It was the first time you and the rest of the crew would act out the scenes together. Of course you had all met each other. You had rehearsed readings, the director had organized some nights for you all to get along better. One of them was a movie night where you watched some of the old crappy horror movies. It was a milestone day when you couldn't be afraid to laugh and you started to feel comfortable around each other as a team. Another night was a silent movie night. It was through events like these that you formed good friendships.

Aside from being friends with the crew and spending time together, today was the first day you were going to be in front of the camera. And it was for the fight scene. You were the last name in the cast and you were the least famous of them all. In direct proportion to that, you were not the main female character of the movie, but all your scenes were with the hero of the movie, the leading male character. Aaron Taylor-Johnson, who is going to save you from the bad guys in today's the test shoot.

Aaron was a very funny and kind man. He would come to your workouts to make you feel comfortable, give you feedback and often praise you on how well you were doing. In addition to these interactions, he was usually quiet on set. He would share a laugh with certain people, but he was very kind to the whole set and the staff. A true English gentleman.

When you arrived on set, you put on something comfortable. Leggings, a sports bra that covers your breasts and makes the whole action scene easier for you, and a loose t-shirt with the logo of your favorite band. Since it was a test shoot, you were wearing air force sneakers. You were determined to at least make this test as comfortable as possible until the main shoot.

Aaron came into the field right behind you. He was similarly dressed in comfortable clothes. He arrived in gray sweatpants and a basic t-shirt. They rocked back and forth with their hands in their pockets, talking to the director about the scene. You'd have to be blind not to notice the movement of his muscles with each sway…You reminded yourself that you were a married man and tried to focus on your scene.

After he finished talking to the director, he came up to you and said, “Good morning, baby.” He pulled you into a hug. You knew he gave you that nickname because of the age difference. You reminded yourself that there was nothing to be excited about and accepted his hug.

When he pulled back, with an energetic smile on his face, he asked, “Are you ready for today?” His smile must have been contagious because you were smiling back. “As much as I can,” you replied, shaking your legs - in a pose as if you were about to run a marathon.

His grin was still on his face. “We'll try not to push you too hard today, but we still want to go through all the scenes. But if there's any scene or movement that makes you uncomfortable, we'll definitely stop shooting,” he explained with great care. You had to admit that you were very lucky to be working with someone so kind and understanding. “Thanks Aaron, I really appreciate it, but I don't think we'll have any problems, we've been rehearsing these moves for weeks.” You reassured him. “Honey, the shot might feel different though, remember to stop if you have trouble.” He insisted. “I promise I will stop the scene if it feels uncomfortable,” you reassured him. All the while trying not to get hung up on the new nickname...

The first test shoot went quite well. The more complicated scene was next, but you decided to do it tomorrow. Or rather your director decided so. This decision was made because he wanted to shoot tomorrow with full make-up and clothes. Because it is necessary to decide whether the costumes in the movie will cause any problems in the scene and choreography and what precautions should be taken if necessary. So tomorrow you will enter the set as if you are shooting the first scene of the movie. Lights, camera, makeup, hair, costume… Everything you can think of will be prepared. To be honest, you're very excited about it.

But this was tomorrow's subject, today's subject and a new movie night. The leading lady of your movie had invited everyone who was doing a test shoot today to a movie night at her house because her house was quite close to the set.

You decided to change at the set before going back to the hotel and go with Aaron. Because he had arrived by car and you didn't want to waste time looking for a taxi.

The ride was peacefully silent until the sound of Aaron's cell phone connected to the car filled the air. “Excuse me, this is important. If you don't mind-” As soon as I saw the word lawyer appear on the screen, I said, ”No, no, please. I don't mind at all.”

When he picked up the phone, the loud, booming voice of the lawyer on the other end filled the car. “Hey, buddy, how you doing?” Aaron's fingers were turning white as he gripped the steering wheel. His grip on the steering wheel was tighter than it had been since he'd called the lawyer. “Please give me some good news Kev,” his lawyer, Kev - you probably think it was Kevin - noticed Aaron's nervousness and started to chuckle. “Relax man, you're a single man now. Sam accepted the deal and signed all the papers. Congratulations man, enjoy your new life.” Aaron let out a deep breath at the sound of the phone hanging up. “I'm sorry this is really-” before you could finish the sentence Aaron's laughter filled the car and you heard him say something like 'oh shit' but you didn't dwell on it. His happiness was contagious and the awkward silence in the car was gone.

You couldn't say the same about movie night, though. They had chosen a really terrible movie this time and you were constantly screaming and disturbing the whole crew. One or two people who were really enjoying the movie were a bit annoyed by this, but the crew was having a lot of fun with your reactions.

When the lead role was finally placed alive in the coffin, you felt your breath catch in your throat. “I think I-” the incoherent words came out so quietly that no one even realized you were about to have an attack of claustrophobia. As soon as you started to fidget on the couch, an arm grabbed you around the waist and pulled you towards him. You couldn't see who it was in the dark room. With one hand still on your waist, he grabbed your neck with his free hand and held you against his chest. You immediately inhaled the familiar scent. You relaxed yourself in the safety of the warmth. “Shh, calm down doll, I'm here.” His low voice and the sound of him moving around your waist were enough to calm your nerves. But his lips barely touching your ear sent a shiver down your spine. You were about to remind yourself that this was wrong when you remembered that he was now a single man.

When you arrived on set, you went straight to your trailer for makeup. While you were lost in the memories of yesterday, your makeup was finished and your hair was being done.

Shortly after the movie ended, you and Aaron said goodbye to your friends and left. You were staying in the same hotel, so you went on the car ride together again. He made fun of you a little during the ride and finally you agreed to watch a comedy movie together. When you arrived at the hotel, he insisted on escorting you to your room even though your rooms were not on the same floor.

After opening the door to your room, you wished each other good night. Before you parted, you shared another hug. It was the longest hug you had ever shared. Sure, it was a minute hug, but it usually lasted no more than a few seconds and no, every time you hugged Aaron you didn't calculate how long it lasted. “Good night, baby,” he whispered in your ear as his hand circled your back. Then he left after leaving a vague kiss on your burn.

While your hair was being done, you were drowning in memories. You told yourself you were exaggerating, after all, he always called you baby. You were like his little brother, that's what you had been telling yourself for weeks, except you didn't know then that he was about to get divorced and that he was now a single man. Yes, there was an age difference, but it wasn't twenty years. You were just a couple years younger.

You came out of your daydream with Aaron's voice. “Hello baby,” he winked at your image in the mirror. ‘Good morning Aaron,’ you smiled. When you were called from inside to put on your costumes, you waved “See you in a minute” and headed towards the cabin. After changing your clothes, you took one last look at your image in the mirror and went to the set area. It wasn't a superhero movie so there were no weird tights and uncomfortable costumes. It was a chase scene where you would be chased by the 'bad guys' after you left work and then it would take place on the streets of the city. He was wearing tight fabric pants, a white shirt and stilettos. When the scene first started you would run in heels. Then you could switch to sneakers because they would not be visible in the camera angles. But neither the shoes nor the shirt made you unhappy. The only thing that bothered you was the lacy bra. You were looking for the comfort of your sports bra from the day before.

On the director's orders, you started the test shoot. You came out of your model building, realized you were being followed while walking down the street and jumped into the first taxi you saw. The team chasing you rear-ends your taxi with the car they are driving and you get stuck in the vehicle. At this moment, Aaron arrives and performs the fight scene with the men chasing you. After he rescues you from your trapped position, you take him by the hand and run together. At this point you were planning to change your shoes but you didn't want to stop shooting and you wondered how long you could go on.

After all, it was a test shoot. If you failed, you wouldn't try something like this next time. As you ran hand in hand, your heel caught on some fake stones. As Aaron checked you were okay, you gave him a sign that you could continue. As you continued your scene, you realized that the shoe was hurting you now. And the more you stepped, the more it hurt. But you were still shooting and you didn't want to give up on the first try.

You squeezed the hand that Aaron was holding. Immediately he turned to you and a low whimper of “Aaron,” escaped your lips. He immediately checked you with his eyes and tried to figure out what was wrong. “I don't think I can go on in these heels much longer,” As he was about to signal the director to stop the scene, he shook his hand once more and said, “Please don't stop the scene, we are almost finished. I don't want it to be cut because of me.” As you were quickly looking for a solution, the camera was coming towards you from the backstage area.

As you wondered what to do, you felt yourself being swept off your feet. As you let out a little scream of surprise, you could tell that your director was enjoying the moment and was pleased with the image that was being captured on camera. Aaron embraced you bridal style. And he was running towards the area where your final scene would take place. “What are you doing!” you whispered after your astonishment had subsided a little. “I couldn't let you writhe in pain Y/N,” she said, giving you an angry look. “Oh, I thought you would enjoy watching me writhe in pain…” you snapped.

When you got to where you needed to be, he took you off his lap and you did the moves you had memorized for your scene. With the fake explosion planned on the set, you ducked down and crawled together to where you were supposed to hide. The camera went back to filming the extras fighting. You had time to lie down for a few minutes.

You tried to forget the pain in your feet as you lay on your back where you were crawling. You were a little stressed by the narrow space you were in, but your breathing was regular.

As the shouting and explosions continued in the background, Aaron crawled to where you were. Since you had decided to lie on your back, he was now standing over you, leaning on his elbows. He never took his eyes off your eyes for a moment. “I enjoy you squirming Y/N” he said, and you realized that he had returned to the previous conversation. “But I'll make sure it won't be in pain.” Your breath began to betray you as his gaze slid to your lips. He leaned in even more, closing the distance between you a little more. “But I will also show you that we are away from the cameras,” his words sent a shiver down your spine and a warmth to your core.

He immediately noticed when you involuntarily squeezed your legs together. He leaned down until his lips touched your earlobe before leaving his spot for his scene. “I knew you were made for me, baby.” He said. And he left his location to continue shooting. Leaving you there to daydream with all your wetness and anticipation.

TAG LIST:

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[baldudiable]

random astrology observations

pisces / 12th house suns often have a hard time knowing who they are. these placements often look at other sources to discover the true nature of their being. they end up adopting the same habits or interests as people they admire because they don’t know where theirs lie. pisces & the 12th house are associated with neptune, the planet that dissolves everything it touches. the sun is the ego, or what you believe you are. when these energies collide, it’s hard knowing who you are and what you want to do with your life. this can be both a blessing and a curse; it makes you open to all kinds of experiences, and allows you to be freed from the need to control outcomes. but it can also lead you to lose yourself and waste time that you could've applied to certain aspirations, and ending up not accomplishing anything worthwhile. if you have any of these placements, it's important that you do some soul searching and find out what it is that you want to do & become.

gemini is ruled by mercury, planet of knowledge and communication. leo is the sun, constantly showering the world with its light. natives with both of these placements in their charts love talking about themselves & their interests. leo is fixed, meaning it’s more likely to go deep into their interests than mutable & unstable gemini. combine the two and you get an expert in any kind of medium. these guys are real yappers though; once they are comfortable and start talking, it's near impossible to get them to stop.

it is true what they say about leo venus. these people love showering their love interest with affection and admiration. they will let the whole world know about how they feel for them. their lovers are an extension of themselves in a way, which makes them super proud and showy. what is also true is that they expect the same in return. like libra venus, they love being in love. so much so that they stay in unhealthy and unsatisfying dynamics because they need to feel love for someone, and desperately want that love given back to them.

pisces placements are very clumsy. it’s a water and neptune-ruled sign, which makes them ungrounded and kinda foggy in a way. obstacles seem to just appear out of nowhere for these placements. they are always bumping into walls or people, holding things too lightly and consequently dropping them. aries placements are pretty destructive in that sense too. they are always breaking things without intending to. which makes sense since they are ruled by mars, the great warrior. 

aries men enjoy partaking in physical fights or at least watching other people fight. many men with this placement enjoy sports like MMA or wrestling. either they are actively engaged in their practice or are very interested in them. aries is martian, which gives these people a kind of violence to them. fighting or watching other people fight helps them release the destructive anger they feel inside. 

virgo suns are surprisingly forgetful. since they’re given this collected and organized stereotype in astrology, you’d expect them to always remember about important things. but these people always seem to lose their belongings, not answer their texts and forget about their loved ones' birthdays. they are so focused on their work or responsibilities that they end up forgetting about the things that actually matter. 

libra placements are actually very self-centered. yes, libra is the sign of relationships. yes, it is about balance. but it’s on the same polarity as aries, which means that they share similarities. they have the potential to be as self-obsessed and selfish as their counterpart. in this lifetime, they are learning what it means to cooperate and include others in their life. likewise, aries placements can be relationship-oriented and generous with their possessions. their purpose involves learning to share the self without sacrificing it in the favor of others.

scorpio mars' anger can be explosive and honestly, quite surprising. these natives usually keep it under wraps for long until it's just too powerful for them to contain. as they grow, they learn to tame their anger, as they know how destructive it can be. they also hate not having control over their emotions. unlike aries mars, scorpio mars believes that getting involved in fighting means that you have lost power over yourself and handed it over to the other person. 

taurus mars embodies the lazy stereotype more than any other taurus placement. mars is energy. taurus is slow and enjoys comfort most of all. this detrimental mars doesn't like having to do things that require any physical effort. good luck trying to rush them or get them to go somewhere far. they might give in eventually, but you can be sure that they will complain the whole time about it.

a lack of earth in a chart makes it difficult for you to orient yourself. even if you've been to a certain place countless times, it's still hard for you to know which directions you have to take to go there.

[anxiousnerdwritings]

TW: Implied incest, yandere themes

This fucked up thought has haunted me for a bit now and I just need to get it out. I can’t help but think that Damian’s obsession with his twin would go past any form of sibling reunion or anything considered redeeming, downward spiraling into some much more uncharted territory. Maybe it was even something that had been brewing deep within him before. Unnatural feelings bubbling up that he knew were far from ever being considered even remotely okay, feelings he tried to desperately push back down resulting in him projecting his own self-hatred and disgust for himself onto his innocent twin who only ever wanted their brother.

They had once been so close, inseparable, not one without the other. Ever. But now that couldn’t be further from the truth. Damian fucked up. Damian lost a part of himself when he completely turned his back on his beloved sibling. He had never wanted to admit it but he was never truly whole without them. He wasn’t the only one to blame for everything, not by a mile, but he was certainly one who made it worse. He needed to make amends, he needed to make up for so much. But most of all he needed to bring his sibling home once and for all. And he would. It didn’t matter how far gone they were or how broken they’d become, Damian would stop at nothing to have them by his side again. Even if he had to keep them caged up and away from the world, he’d do it. It’s not like this world has done them any good anyway. Then again the same could be said about him and what he’s done to them.

Damian’s more romantic obsession with his sibling would most definitely stem from him over compensating for everything he himself has done to his twin and everything else they’ve been through in general. He’s taking all the love and affection he’s gained from being with Bruce/the Batfamily as well as all the other good influences he’s had come into his life through the years and warping it as he puts it all towards his twin, tenfold. He’s going to make up for everything, he’s going to ensure his sibling feels nothing but loved, cherished and adored from now on. And he’s the only one who can give them that, at least that’s what he believes.

There is also an extreme possessiveness to it all too. This is Damian’s twin after all, if anyone has any right, or rather entitlement, to them it’s him. At least in his mind that’s how it is. They came into this world together, they’ll live in this world together. As one. And no one is going to let anyone take that from him again. He’s the only one who can give Twin!Reader the life they deserved, no one else. If his sibling were to try and pick up the pieces of their fractured and broken self on their own and to make something worthwhile out of their life, trying to finally have something that’s just theirs and theirs alone, Damian wouldn’t allow it. This is something they have to do together. It’s something that can only be achieved with them together. Or that’s what Damian tells himself at least. His sibling doesn’t need anyone else to hold their broken pieces together, not when he’s there. They can hold each other’s broken parts and mend them together. Or they can just stay broken all the same, so long as it’s the two of them together in the end.