#✯ | words left unspoken ( isms. )

[stvrliing]

tag dump

#✯ | fly fly fly ( visage. ) #✯ | quid pro quo ( thread. ) #✯ | words left unspoken ( isms. )

[wildriot]

Steter Week Day 5

It’s midday Saturday when Scott calls and begs Stiles for a favor.  Stiles, two days into his pre-heat, is fully prepared to deny him, but those puppy eyes are lethal, even through a phone, and he ends up agreeing to swap patrol shifts with Scott.  So he changes his clothes and heads out and is pleased when Peter joins him five minutes is.

It’s stupid, really, and irrational, but of all the alphas and betas in the pack, Peter is the one that gets his proverbial hackles up the least.  Maybe because, unlike the rest, Peter doesn’t use his dynamic as an excuse to act like an asshole – instead relying on his own personal charm to earn the title.

Stiles thinks at some point, a tally of all the shifts he’s spent with Peter running through his mind, that this might not be so bad.

Forty minutes later, they’re running for their lives.

“Fucking hunters,” Stiles growls, slogging his way through the mud.  “Always ruining everything.”

He’s out of breath, legs and lungs protesting the flat out sprint of the last who even knows how long.  The adrenaline’s starting to fade, the tepid beginning’s of exhausting slowly rearing it’s head and, to be perfectly honest, he really doesn’t think he can go much further.

Ahead of him, leading the way and dragging him along, Peter snorts.  “You have awfully low standards.”

Because focusing on Peter is better than thinking about what awaits them if they stop moving, Stiles takes offense.  “Excuse you,” he says, grip tightening on Peter’s hand as something – probably a tree root (they are in the Preserve, after all) – snags his ankle and nearly takes him down.  “I will have you know that my standards are reasonable.  Very reasonable.  So reasonable, in fact, that they spend their time reasoning with everyone else’s stupidly high expectations.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes!”

Peter just hums and Stiles silently flips him off.  In his head, obviously, he’s way too tired to do it for real.  

But Peter must sense his intentions anyway – all that werewolf-ism...ish? – and glances over his shoulder.  His eyes are glowing, too-bright in the darkness, and momentarily leaves Stiles blinking away white spots in his vision, and yet he still catches the tightening of Peter’s mouth, the way he seems to look past Stiles, deeper into the spaces they’ve left behind.

“Can you hear anything?” Stiles asks, trying to ignore the way his heart starts to bleed ice through his veins, sticky and cold.  He doesn’t think Peter can, over the rain and the noises they’re making, and Peter shakes his head.

“No,” he says.  

“But…?”

“But we have no idea what that thing was.  We can’t stop.”

Which is true.  Very true.  Hunters were one thing, but some sort of Lovecraftian hell-spawn was another thing entirely.  Just those few seconds in it’s presence, when it had entered the clearing where Stiles and Peter had been ambushed by a group of hunters, before it turned it’s attention to them and given them the chance to run, had been terrifying.  Stiles couldn’t even describe it.  The monsters they’d faced, human and not so much, had always scared him, but it had been the sort of fear that he could push aside and largely ignore until the problem was dealt with.

This, whatever it’d been?  It’d been fucking primal.

And he never wanted to feel that again.

So he shuts up, digs deep for the extra reserves he totally doesn’t have, and picks up the pace.  He doesn’t drop Peter’s hand.  He tries not to think about how, if Peter hadn’t been so quick to grab him, and Stiles had been left alone to race through the wet gloom of the Preserve, he’d most likely be dead right now.

They run for what could be another ten minutes, could be another hour. Stiles has no way of telling, phone dead and waterlogged in his pocket and he’s struggling.  The wet clothes are weighing him down, feet slipping across the forest floor more than before, and it’s only getting darker.

He’ll be damned if he says anything, though.  He cops enough shit from the pack as it is, being human and omega and thinking that he has what it takes to keep up with werewolves and alphas, because they’re jerks like that and he’s just stubborn enough to deny them the pleasure of being right even if it kills him.

Humans can do incredible things when their lives depend on it.  He saw that youtube video about that women that stopped a car from hitting her kid, yes he did, and he swears to god that if she could do it then so can he--

“Just a little further,” Peter says.

“Thank fucking Christ,” Stiles gasps.

Forget it.  He’s done.  Absolutely done, no energy left, no sir-ee.

Another handful of minutes and then they break through the treeline, staggering out into long grass and open skies.  The rain falls harder here, with no trees to act as a measly cover, which is just perfect, because it means Stiles can go longer than a couple of seconds without blinking the water out of his eyes and wishing his  hair was still short, if only so that it didn’t stick to his face like cold seaweed.  

Then Peter’s tugging him close, almost angling him so that Stiles is tucked into his side, and Stiles looks up, probably to ask him a flat why – they’re both soaked, the gesture is useless – when he sees what else is in the clearing, and instead ends up asking, “What?”

“We should be safe here,” Peter says, and starts forward, like he’s expecting Stiles to be okay camping out in some old house that looks, even in the dark, like it should’ve been torn down years ago for health violations.

Which, fine.  He wouldn’t be wrong – Stiles has always been freakishly adaptable to most things, and running for their lives during a freak storm is definitely a Thing – but, and Stiles is just putting this out there, really?

“With our luck?” He half snorts, half splutters.  “Doubt it.”

“So young,” Peter mutters, shaking his head.  “So cynical.”

“So old,” Stiles parrots, delighting in the way Peter tenses – so predictably – then relaxes.  “Such an asshole.”

Peter barks a laugh that’s drowned out by a sudden deluge.  

By unspoken agreement they both leg it across the remaining bit of what was likely once the front lawn and huddle underneath the overhang.

Stiles hugs his arms around himself while Peter fiddles with the lock. Kicks the toe of his shoe against the ground, bites his lip.

He must zone out, he thinks, because he jumps when the door swings open with a rusty shriek and Peter doesn’t look amused, only concerned, and doesn’t say anything smarmy before ushering Stiles inside.

“It’s safe,” Peter insists again, like he wants Stiles to believe him, and Stiles kind of wonders what his scent must be broadcasting, to get that tone in Peter’s voice.  “I promise.”

So Stiles looks over his shoulder at Peter strangely, a sort of ‘what gives?’ and sets off down the hallway.

The house is clearly old-fashioned.  All narrow and tight instead of the open and spacious.  It’s too dark to make out any detail, the little bit of diluted moonlight painted across the floor through the broken windows glinting dully off what Stiles assumes are bits of glass, maybe some metal fixings.

Peter is a steady presence at his back, a hand on his back.  The alpha is tense, strung tight like he’s on high alert and that’s making Stiles stress out even more, which is not fun and he kind of wants to tell Peter to chill out, only… This is Beacon Hills.  It’s the middle of the night.  Some creepy monster thingy is haunting the Preserve, and they’ve just spent the evening running for their lives.

In a town like this, you relax and you’re dead.  

In fact, a part of Stiles is actually, stupidly, rather pleased with the attention Peter’s giving him.  He feels like a priority, something important and it’s been so long since he felt like that…he just knows that’s the omega in him speaking, and firmly tells himself to knock it off.

“What is this place, anyway?” Stiles asks., figuring that, having nearly a decade and a half on him, Peter probably knows.  He doesn’t mean to be quiet, rarely ever is, yet something about this house reminds him of the Juniper Mausoleum he had to pass every time he went to visit his mom’s grave.

Peter is silent for long enough that Stiles labels it as hesitation, and opens his mouth to pester, when Peter finally talks.

“It’s my grandparent’s house.”

Stiles actually has to repeat the words back to himself before it sinks in.

“Wait what?”

Peter huffs a sigh.  “Of all the things – yes Stiles.  My grandparents lived here.  Happy?”

“No. I’m wet and I’m cold – what the hell happened to this place?”

“…”

“Peter?”

“They died.”

Well, Stiles considered, wincing.  Didn’t that just make him feel like a dick.

“Was it…?”  He isn’t sure what he want’s to ask.  Was it the fire? Hunters?  What?

And it’s like Peter reads his mind.  As the man maneuvers them up a flight of waterlogged stairs and into a room that Stiles is happy to see has all it’s window intact, Peter talks.

“It wasn’t the fire,” he begins.  “Though my father, Talia and I were never completely convinced that Hunter’s weren’t involved. They died when I was twelve.  Car accident, head on collision with a truck.”  He pauses, falling silent, and Stiles stands still as Peter drops his hand and moves away, heading towards what Stiles thinks might be an armchair.  “When they died… there are wards up around the clearing, still are.  When they died, this place, the house, the garden, everything, vanished.  Like it had never been here.  We spent years looking.  We could never find it.”

He watches Peter run his hands over the fabric and imagines the man must be trying to finds hints of familiar scents, doubts he’ll find anything after so long.

Stiles is lost for words.  They’re friends now – inasmuch as they wind up beside each other at pack meetings, and have a joint order at an Italian place that Stiles loves but can’t afford regularly and eats whenever he joins Peter for research at his apartment  – and Stiles has seen him with all manner of expressions and yet, this is maybe the most human Peter has ever been.

So he says, “I’m sorry,” and Peter waves his hand.

“It was a long time ago,” Peter says, voice light in a way that Stiles knows means the total opposite.  Peter pauses, then adds, “My mother was with them, in the car.”

“Jesus,” Stiles mutters before he can stop himself.  “You don’t have to, like, talk about it, or anything, not if you don’t want to.”

“Don’t you want to hear my story, Stiles?”

There’s an edge to his words, somethings Stiles can’t place, which makes him tip up his chin, makes him bristle like he’s been insulted. “Only if you want to tell it,” he says.

And maybe it was the right thing to say, because Peter seems to relax, shoulders no longer hunching forward, and he let’s out a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh under different circumstances. “What’s a little more tragedy between us, right?”

Stiles snorts, and eases into the room, dropping his worry like yesterday’s laundry by the door.  There’s still a part of him that’s tense, keyed into every sound, every creak, but he’s not alone; he’s got Peter and, honestly?  That’s kind of reassuring.

“I wouldn’t call us tragic.”

“Then what would you call us?”

Stiles shrugs, and blinks and wonders at how everything is full of color, suddenly.  “Misplaced, I guess.”  

The colors makes his eyes hurt.  His head starts throbbing and he misses whatever Peter says when his blood starts rushing loudly through his ears and his fingertips go numb.

It reminds him of coming down from a sugar high as a child.

“Peter,” he says, or thinks he says, thinks he hears himself say, but he’s shaking so hard now he might not have said anything at all.  

And then Peter is right there, filling his vision.  He’s so close Stiles can feel his breath against his cheek but he’s blurry around the edges.  Sort of wobbly.

He swallows, focuses on not throwing up, whines, maybe, and lists forward.  “I don’t feel so good.”

“No,” Peter says.  “I imagine you don’t.  You’ve never Dropped before, have you.”

It’s not a question.  Stiles treats it as one, anyway.  “Almost once,” he says, and grabs onto Peter’s jacket because that is the only thing not spinning right now

He thinks of a funeral and the wreak of alcohol and the smell of a furious alpha.

Thinks of cold tiles and ambulance sirens and the fuzziness of medication. Thinks of being too young to understand what was happening.

“Oh god,” he groans, doesn’t fully register Peter grabbing him and holding him when he starts to sink down, legs folding beneath him. “Is that what this?  This can’t be happening.”

“It’s not ideal,” Peter agrees.  The world lurches, sways, making Stiles bury his face in Peter’s jacket, and the next time he resurfaces, it’s to find Peter has taken a seat in the armchair, and arranged Stiles so that he’s curled up his lap, feet free of his shoes, cold toes tucked between Peter’s thigh and the cushions, back pressed against the armrest.

“Just try and relax, sweetheart.”

And something just… slumps, inside him, goes warm and soft.

“That’s easy for you to say.”

Peter hums and Stiles kind of likes how it echoes through his own body, but then Peter is moving, jostling him around, and Stiles latches on, suddenly unbelievably terrified that he’s about to be displaced.

But Peter’s only awkwardly shrugging out of his jacket, which makes a certain amount of sense, being soaked through and all, and deftly flicking open the buttons of his shirt, baring his chest.

Stiles doesn’t even get the chance to appreciate the view before Peter is doing the same to him, shoving off his hoodie, sliding up his t-shirt.  The chill is immediate but Peter must’ve found a blanket somewhere and now covers him with it.

Stiles is certain he knows what Peter’s doing, positive he’s read about it, at least, and yet his brain isn’t making sense.  His throat is hot, bonding glands feeling swollen and puffy and his limbs basically useless.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” Peter says into his ear and Stiles huffs a whine and falls forward into the alpha’s warmth, into his strong grip.

He shoves his nose into alpha’s neck and inhales rapidly.  It’s maple syrup and warm blankets, sun-warmed soil with the bitter undertone of expensive coffee and something Stiles can’t name but craves anyway.

He probably isn’t under for longer than an hour.  Time passes and his mind… drifts, overcome by instinct and the overwhelming need to feel safe.

It feels like falling asleep, almost, stuck in that in-between where nothing feels real.

Wakefulness returns slowly, seeping in at the edges.  He is conscious of Peter’s hands running up his back, of his own hands curled into Peter’s chest.  The hint purr building in his chest tickles his throat and makes him blush, knowing how intimate that sort of reaction is, how intimate their position is; an unmated omega alone with an unmated alpha.  

His dad would lose his mind if he ever heard of this, which he was never going to if Stiles had anything to do with it.

Aside from their position though, Stiles feels… good.  Not better, still a little unsteady, but it isn’t as bad as before.

His fingers don’t feel like little ice-blocks, for one.  And he’s no longer shaking like some preteen that accidentally wondered into the horror showing in a cinema, which is wonderful, truly wonderful.  

Of course, there is the small matter – very small, certainly not a big deal at all – that he just Dropped for Peter.

Psycho Peter, whom the rest of the pack can’t stand and don’t trust.

Crazy Uncle Peter that pokes and needles until he’s got Derek looking ready to start throwing him through walls again, and drives everybody else insane.

Peter, who…

“Back with me, sweetheart?”

Peter who does things like that.  Calls him sweetheart and touches him like he’s something precious, something cared for, instead of a nuisance that’s too loud or too blunt or just too much.

Peter, who’s never mocked him for his dynamic, or put him down for instincts he can’t help.  Who always buys him his favorite coffee and orders in Italian food for him and never minds when Stiles just happens to fall asleep on his couch during a research binge because the house is empty and he’s so goddamn tired of being alone.

Peter, whom Stiles is just realizing he might be a little bit in love with, while sitting in his lap.

Talk about inopportune moments.

“… this is so embarrassing,” he mutters, feeling stiff and awkward.

Movement, then Peter’s fingers are tangling through his hair and tugging gently, sending a pleasant shiver down his spine.

Peter is quiet for awhile.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he says at last, quietly, like if he says it any louder, the meaning won’t be the same, will transform from something that makes Stiles’s heart stutter and race into something shallow and flippant.

Stiles swallows.  “You – you.  I, uh.”  He was not equipped to handle this kind of conversation.  “I am not equipped to handle this kind of conversation.”

“And what conversation would that be?”

Multitudes of snark appeared on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back.  Breaths. Tries to get his thoughts in order.

“...you know very well what kind,” he settles on saying.

Peter doesn’t say anything in response to that.  He just sighs, turns his head so his nose is in Stiles’s hair, and somehow pulls Stiles closer.

It’s nice.  It’s so nice.  It’s the kind of nice that should be illegal and after the shitty night he’s had, Stiles is weak for it.

An illicit thrill runs through him when he thinks of what this would be like if Peter was his mate rather than just an alpha that his omega was sweet on… thinks of a soft bed and pillows that smell of both of them… thinks of purring, something he’s never done in front of anybody else before, ever.

“You are very young,” Peter says, sounding pained.

Stiles worries his bottom lip.  “I’m eighteen in two weeks,” he whispers, voice hitching.  He clears his throat, adds, “Besides. After everything that’s happened, am I really still that young? Are any of us?”

“The pack will never accept it.  Derek won’t accept it.”

“So? It’s none of their business.  I can do what I want.  Just because they don’t personally agree with what I do, doesn’t mean their opinion suddenly matters.”

“And Scott?”

“Scott,” Stiles starts, so sure of what he was going to say only to falter, because… because what if Scott didn’t understand?  Derek and the pack were one thing.  Stiles felt semi-responsible for them, mostly because he’d helped save all of their lives at some point, and that meant something, you know?  But Scott was his brother, they’d grown up together, and Scott still looked at Peter like he was never going to be anything but a spree-killing monster.

He made a helpless sound, frustrated and confused.

Peter soothed him, humming unintelligibly into his hair.  

“Let’s not talk about this now.  You’re e--”

“If you say I’m emotional, I swear to god I will hurt you.”

“-exhausted. Don’t lie to yourself, you’re running on fumes right now, and I am not a good enough man to let you regret anything else you might say tonight.”

“Fine.”

“Okay.”

“Just because you’re being reasonable.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.  Now, why don’t you try and get some sleep?  The wards won’t let anything through.”

“...why’d it let us through, then?”

“They were once keyed to Hales.  You were with me.”

“So… what would’ve happened if I hadn’t been with you?”

“Likely something suitably horrible.”

“Wow, great.”

****

They don’t ever really talk about it.  The next day, when the storm’s passed and everything is yellow-wet and sweet, Peter steers them through the Preserve, back to town.  They come out two streets over from Stiles’s house.

After… nothing really changes.  They spend time together, do things together.  Nobody notices.  Or, if they do, they don’t say anything.  The Sheriff isn’t home enough to notice how often his son is out, and when he is home, Stiles is careful to not make it so blatantly obvious that he’s spending at least three nights a week in a bed that isn’t his. It’s not like he’s trying to hide anything, exactly.  Just, he knows his dad, okay?  Knows exactly how much he would freak out if he knew what was going on and… well, sue him but he likes what he has now, and he doesn’t want to ruin it.

Outside of that, being with Peter and researching and hanging out with the pack, Stiles graduates, and seriously thinks about what he wants to do with the rest of his life, which leads to him hunting down a mage that’s willing to be his mentor in return for free labor and a research assistant and moving halfway across the country.

Peter is with him every step of the way and officially begins courting him on his twentieth birthday.

By his twenty second, they’re mated and back in Beacon Hills and Stiles is incandescently happy with the way his life is going and Peter is leading him through the Preserve after making him promise to keep his eyes closed.

Stiles does, reluctantly.

It’s spring, the day warm and the woods seemingly come to life with bird song and the quick scamper of small animals across the ground.

Peter’s hand is a familiar weight in his, fingers laced together in a way that should be awkward but isn’t and Stiles is busy cursing how no amount of training will ever make him the kind of graceful that means he isn’t always tripping over himself and--

Peter slows them to a stop, and Stiles has the sense that they’ve come to a clearing, sunlight warm on his face.

The air is filled with the subtle scent of flowers and fresh grass and there’s a sort of hush that’s fallen over the place, like even the birds have gone quiet in anticipation.

Peter steps up behind him, presses against his back, arms going around his waist.  Stiles relaxes against him, not bothering to hide his smile, or the way his scent goes mellow-sweet.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” Peter tells him, and Stiles does.

His breath catches.  

“Oh my god,” he says, staring.  He can’t help it.  He’s thought of the house often, wondered what it looked like in the daylight.  In the months after, he’d even thought of asking Peter to take him out again, show him around, but Peter had never mentioned it, not once, and Stiles had figured that it was one of those things that had too many bad memories to outweigh the good but…

“Peter,” he says.  “You…”

“I bought it,” Peter responds.  “Fixed it up.”  Then, while Stiles is still staring and speechless because the house is beautiful and equal parts Peter’s taste in architecture and Stiles’s taste in color, Peter shifts so he can press a kiss to the bondmark on his neck and says, “Consider this my mating gift to you.”

And Stiles breathes in, trying, and probably failing to contain his excitement, and says, “It’s perfect.”

And you know what?  It kind of really is.

#steterweek2020 #Steter Week 2020 #Stiles Stilinski #Peter Hale #steter #omega-verse #A/B/O dynamics #omega stiles #alpha peter #sort of friends to lovers #fluff #unrepentant fluff #idek #it just happened #slave to my impulses #Steter Week Day 5 #visual theme

[the-harrington-hair]

The Beat Of The Drum Is The Fear Of The Dark ~ Chapter 1.

Chapter One ~ The Vanishing Of Will Byers.

A/N: hey kids!! This is the first part of a series I’m writing! I hope you guys will like it :) lots of love to @harringtown for screaming about poppy !! Hope you enjoy!! Also, the next part could take a while due to the fact that writing this fic and script thing takes a lot more time than I thought :/ anyways, this is an OC fic, told through a script and a fic!

Pairing: Stranger Things characters x Poppy White (OC) 

Warnings: alcohol(ism), swearing, violence, abuse, smoking.

Words: 3139. (sorry, it’s a long one!)

Read the Script for this chapter here!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The day hadn’t even started yet, and Poppy was already done with everything. She had to cover a shift last night, and it ended up taking until 12 before she could finally go home. But that was just the downside when you worked at a 24-hour truck stop café. That and constantly having grease stains in your clothes.

On top of that, she woke up with a killer headache. The ringing sound that had developed along with that was growing stronger every minute, didn't exactly help. At least, if she didn’t make any wild head movements, it was sort of bearable, but with David yelling that they had ran out of coffee, then storming off and slamming the door so hard poppy was afraid it might fall out (which at this point, with all the slamming David does, she wasn’t surprised if it did.) That was simply impossible.

So now she was drinking fucking milk, the only other thing they had left, and trying to focus on the words the tiny reporter on the tiny television in the kitchen was saying. Something about bad weather, and mayor whatever had done another thing, it all sounded like one big ringing blur to Poppy, but focusing on something was better than falling back into the unconsciousness she gets every other time when the headache and ringing sound combine into a literal hell.

Poppy’s so-called ‘focus’ was interrupted by screeching tires coming to a halt on the road before their house, and slamming of doors, this time car’s, again. Poppy stood up slowly, trying not to worsen what was already stirring in her head, and walked out the door. It was cold outside, a little foggy even, and she hugged herself to keep a little warm.

There, on her driveway, Joyce Byers hurriedly walked over to her. Her face was featuring the kind of worry only mothers can have, and it frightened Poppy. Joyce was always a little worried, but in a good way, to protect you. Every time Poppy came into their house with a black eye, or bruised knuckles, Joyce had ice ready and tea made, as if she already knew what had happened before Poppy even had told her. Poppy didn’t tell a lot of people what happened when they asked about the blood and the bruises. Then again, not a lot of people asked.~

“Is he here, David?” Joyce asked, looking around the area to spot him if he was. She knew all too well what kind of danger she’d put her family in if he found out about how Joyce took care of Poppy more than he did.

“No, he just left” Poppy was trying her best to make out what she was saying, but it was difficult, as if someone was trying to talk to her underwater.

“Will, is he- did he come here last night? Cause he’s not home, and not at the wheelers, and I called everyone and they say he’s not there either, and I-“

“I didn’t see him, I told him not to come here.” Fuck. He can’t be… gone.

Joyce's face went from pale to blindingly white. She swallowed her sobs, she didn’t want to worry her, poppy could see. It didn’t exactly work, as Poppy increasingly felt like she was going to faint.

“Oh… okay. Well, we’re gonna go to the police station, but if they- I didn’t want to ask you this, baby, but, if it’s not too much trouble, can you- can you ask around? Maybe your… contacts know something?” Joyce asked.

Her contacts. Criminals. Delinquents. Poppy knew what that meant. She had to ask the people who might have taken Will if they’d give him back. It was impossible, of course, they’d get nothing from kidnapping him, unless-

Unless they’d want to get to her.

Poppy made sure no one knew anything about her relationship with the Byers family. As far as Hawkins knew, she didn’t have a family, no friends, hardly any friendly acquaintances. It’d pose a threat to their lives, if Poppy would ever fuck up, they’d be the ones to pay. And she couldn’t have that. So, no one knew she ate dinner at their house, that she studied with Jonathan, that she’d spend time with Will when the others had work, that she brought left-overs from the cafe when Joyce didn’t have time to cook, that she was somehow, a little bit part of a real family. That she loved them.

And they knew, she’d made it very clear, don’t come to my house. Don’t tell people you know me. Maybe all the carefulness was useless. Maybe it wasn’t. You couldn’t be careful enough when you were a part of a fucking mob. And she didn’t even want to be, when her parents died, and she was left in David’s hands, she didn’t have a choice. Especially when they found out she was such a good boxer. Bates didn’t have a boxing club as a cover for no reason.

“Of course! Of course I-“ Poppy said, after processing everything. She couldn’t deny, it was Will after all. She’d do anything to get him back.

Poppy didn’t get the time to finish her sentence before Joyce pulled her into a bone-crushing hug. She was fighting back tears.

Poppy looked at Jonathan, who converted his gaze anywhere but her. He couldn’t be blaming her for this now, she’d done everything she could to not get them involved in her mess, she’d warned them. Poppy couldn’t even remember if she’d done anything wrong. But maybe she did. Could she really blame him then?

“Thank you, Poppy.” Joyce sniffled, and let poppy go. There was a different kind of worry in her expression when she saw the pained face poppy still had, the headache hadn’t exactly gotten better, but she didn’t ask about it. Poppy didn’t blame her, she had other things to worry about.

“Right.. well, uh, Are you coming over tonight?” Joyce composed herself, though it didn't work.

“No, I… have things to… do.” Poppy didn't have things to do. Mondays were for training and homework, and anything else she couldn't do when David was around. So usually she’d go to the Byers, but it didn't seem like a good idea this time.

“Oh… well, uh, we- we should go. See you soon, honey.” Joyce smiled sadly.

“Bye.” Poppy said, it came out more like a whisper than like a word, but she couldn't be bothered, the ringing sound was growing stronger, way stronger, and she was doing everything in her power not to scream out in pain. The headache seemed in beat with the ring, and poppy had a feeling that she was going to fall over very soon.

They got back into their car, and with another one of Joyce's famous worried looks, they drove off. Poppy’s hands shot up to her face, her head felt like it was going to explode. Maybe it would, she didn’t know. The ringing sound eerily seemed like an air raid alarm, and she wasn’t sure if it was her head making it up, or the actual alarm going off. Either way, she definitely wasn’t going to school today.

~

Poppy wasn’t exactly thrilled to go Bates’ Brawl at the 2 in the afternoon. The boxing club was somehow even worse than a stripclub during lunchtime, and she could know, because there was one next door. The club was at the far outskirts of Hawkins, far enough to keep any unwanted visitors out and close enough for all of the towns “outcasts” in. Outcasts was the term Bates used, but you could0 say they were criminals and you’d be about right.

Was making her way over to Bates’ office, while doing her best to ignore all of the alcoholics that got kicked out of the strip clubs, the jobless crooks with nothing to do, and the hopeless youngsters like her, who risked their lives by stepping into that cursed ring. Poppy understood the ravenous faces the boys who were fighting had, once you’d stepped into the ring, the only thing you’d think about was winning. Sometimes not even that. It might sound weird, but poppy had seen enough fights in her life to know that every half-good boxer experienced the same.

Maybe gambling on boxing matches wasn’t exactly legal, but Bates kept it under wraps carefully, making sure only the people who had any business knowing knew. Poppy wasn’t sure if the towns police chief, Hopper, knew about all of it specifically, but she did know that him and bates had an unspoken agreement that bates could have his club and his gambling and his little ragtag bunch of criminals if he stayed away from central Hawkins, away from where the “normal” people could notice.

She’d heard rumours of Hoppers drinking habits, his drug habits among the drunks late at night. It was an advantage, being part of all of it. You’d get to hear things no one ever said.

Not that any of that mattered now. Poppy made sure she looked as scary as possible, dark eyeshadow making her eyes scream ‘’stay far far away’’ and red lips that could kill if they wanted to, her precious leather jacket as her armour. she was dressed for battle, dressed prepared. Prepared for the very dumb thing she was about to try.

She walked into the small side room serving as Bates’ office, passing the big, imposing and surely dumb bodyguards. Someone had set up a poker table in a corner, though unsurprising, and multiple foldable chairs surrounded it. the room was stuffed to the brim with trophies, some of which poppy had won herself, photos of him with… influential leaders, and lots of other crap he thought would make an impression. It had a deep stench of cigars and whisky, almost intoxicating. She was suddenly thankful her headache had worn off. Bates himself was sitting in the single big brown at the poker table. he was already sipping a drink, and it certainly wasn’t his first, looking at documents. she didn’t want to know what was in them.

‘’Ah, Poppy Whiteway. What have you done now?” He said, with fondness. Poppy wasn’t sure if that fondness was good or bad. Maybe both. She smiles at him, but she knows he can see the coldness in it. He knows just how well he can scare her. And that definitely doesn't work in her favour.

“Nothing, I think.”

“We can only hope with you, kid,” He laughs, she knows it’s true. You’re always up to something, Pauline. “Sit, what do you want?”

Poppy sits in one of the foldable chairs, though with hesitation.

“I uh, I wanted to ask if you know about this kid, he’s gone missing this morning, and I'd… uh, maybe you know where he is. Or who took him.” She asks.

Bates laughs, loud and roaring, and it startles her.

“Poppy, we don’t ‘take’ kids, you know that.”

“come on, bates. I know you know something. I’m not saying you did it, maybe someone from out of town? You could at least-“

“Who says this kid was taken? He could’ve just ran off to somewhere.” He couldn’t have though. Poppy was sure of that, Will simply wouldn’t.

“No, he wouldn’t do that. He’s… a good kid.” She said.

“Well, kids do strange things sometimes.”

A silence followed, while Poppy weighed her options. She could get out, study for her test at home, and leave it at this. Or she could pressure bates further, and just ignore the consequences for now.

“Look, I really need to know this. Please, Bates.” She sighed.

Bates didn’t respond immediately. Which meant he was thinking. Which, maybe, meant he knew something after all. But Poppy knew bates wasn’t one to crack just for some girl he once tricked into his branch of the mob.

“No, Poppy.

‘’Don’t get wrapped up in something you can’t get out of.” He said, and Poppy couldn't help but snicker.

“I already am.”

Bates pretends to ignore the comment, but it's undeniable. Poppy had always been the most audacious of the fighters, most opting to stay out of the whole business. But she didn't exactly have anywhere else to go to.

“Look, I don’t- I have… the records. And I know someone who would really like to have them. I doubt you’d like it if I gave them to him.” She didn't have any records, actually, but Bates didn't need to know that. She could get them when she really needed them.

“I thought you weren’t this naive, girl.” He smiles, in a very mean way, and poppy realized this wasn’t a good option. She should’ve gone home. Why didn't she ever go home?

Bates yells something in a language she doesn't understand, and the two men standing in front of the door earlier entered. He focuses on poppy again.

“You know the rules. Don’t break them.”

She doesn't say anything, she knows better anyway. She’s been in this hell long enough to learn their ways. 

Poppy stands up and lifts her head, she might know the rules, she might have to follow them, but she’d never bow her head. It’d make Bates far too happy.

And that's when the pain hits. A fist hits her jaw, hard enough to make her stumble back a step, but she’s had worse, the guards are taking it easy on her.

“It’s not going to be a very fair fight Saturday, huh.” She says, though she already knows she’ll regret it.

“It’s never a fair fight, kid” Bates smiles, and though poppy expected it, it still hurts. There’s not an inch of sincerity in the man, but she’d learned that the first day she knocked on his door as a little girl, saying she’d fight if he made sure the really bad men would be kept away. Turns out, he was one of them.

She turns to leave, the “ritual” is over anyways, and her shift at the café starts at 9, she still has to make dinner, but Bates's voice stops her in her tracks.

“You’re a good kid, poppy. It's a shame you had to join us.”

~

When poppy finally got home, after stopping at the grocery store, all she really wanted to was put a record on and hide under the covers of her bed, but alas, there was dinner to make, and wounds to tend to.

Poppy had a whole basket full of gauze and bandages, which also doubled as boxing wrap sometimes, disinfectant, bandaids, and those little butterfly stitches. Her main expense were emergency supplies, after records maybe, since punk rock was surprisingly expensive if you lived in a town where nobody listened to it.

Her skin had split at the top of her left cheekbone, the whole area is red and swollen, and a black eye was starting form. It wasn’t even that bad, she’d had far worse, but it wasn’t pleasant, to say the least. It was gonna take a lot of makeup to cover it up. Which she was far too lazy for, so butterfly stitches and a bag of frozen peas it was.

Poppy was nearly done when she heard a door slam so hard it shuddered in its hinges, making her very aware of who had just arrived. 

“POPPY!” David yells, and she winces. Funny how you can get punched in the gut and come out laughing, but when someone yells at you, you’d rather die than face them.

“For fuck’s sake,” he swears under his breath, she knows he thinks she can’t hear him, but you can hear everything in this house.

But there’s no point in hiding in the bathroom any longer, and she’ll have to go out sometime anyways.

Poppy wonders how if it’s even possible that someone can get increasingly drunk every time she’s sees them, but in David’s case, it definitely is. 

“Did you make dinner?” He literally growls, and Poppy’s almost scared to answer, if she didn’t know better.

“No, but I can start.”

“You better get the steak I asked for.” 

She didn’t, but he didn’t ask for it either.

“We don't have enough money for that.” It’s True, David drinks his paychecks before they even arrive by mail. Poppy isn't even sure he has a job, he says he works for a factory, but she’s never seen any proof for that. He leaves at eight in the morning and comes back intoxicated at six.

“I swear to the shithead up in the sky, Pauline, I told you to get it. A man deserves a goddamn steak on Sunday dinner-“

“It’s Monday.” 

“What?”

“It’s Monday.” She repeats.

“Oh, fuck, well I- I don't care! You use that money you get from that Affuso man, I know you hide it here somewhere. Oh, and when I find it someday, I’ll eat like a king.” He yells, and poppy winces once again. I guess he knows.

“You can’t do that.” She says quietly. But she knows he can, even if he’ll never find it.

“Oh, I can, alright. Cause if you don’t I’ll throw you in the gutters, and believe me, that's even shittier than this hellhole.” 

But he doesn’t know that’s the thing she wants most. Poppy had been saving up to move to Chicago after graduation since she was forced to live with David, and though she’d bought a car with half of the money, she still had enough for a little apartment downtown. But she couldn’t leave if she hadn’t finished school, she’d have no chance in the city without a diploma.

Without an answer, David points to the stove, with the kind of condescending stare only men can have.

“Well, get to it then.”

But poppy doesn’t move. She doesn’t want to, it’s only in moments like this that she can feel a little free, even if stupid tags along with that.

He walks to his bedroom, cursing under his breath: “fucking bitch.” And slamming the door once again.

Poppy’s even more tired than before, sitting down at the kitchen table to calm herself down, make sure she doesn't do anything else that’ll make her life even worse than it already was.

But other forces, the ones that had plagued her being since that.. day, had a different opinion about that. The ringing sound from that morning and all the other times, returned with its companion headache. The exact feeling that would result in … that.

The smell of blood and the clicking of heeled boots on the floor. 

Poppy’s first instinct was to say ‘’NO!’’, but as usual, her body was frozen, no words able to escape her mouth.

‘’It's time.’’ It says, she’s never even seen it. 

And with that unearthly sound, her eyes roll back, and Poppy loses unconsciousness.

#i feeellll ssoooo bad about this #sorry its shit!!! #sorryy!!!! #stranger things characters x oc #poppy whiteway #pow #pow au #and its gonna take me a long time to update this!!! #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things oc #stranger things chapter fic #stranger things oc series #stranger things x oc

[onecornerface]

Liberals who aren’t liberal enough

Many of the worst things about (the bad parts of) the social justice left are the result of it being too authoritarian, not too liberal. Too much like religious fundamentalism, not too secular. What follows is an incomplete list of such problems. I think I’m right about at least 85% of my claims. This list is not meant as finger-pointing, but a list of failure-modes to try and avoid.

This is a parallel criticism to Ozy’s claim that social justice’s problems are largely the result of “social justice gone not far enough.” I do not claim 100% innocence of contributing to any of these problems at some point.

~Creating community hierarchies based on level of purity and virtue

~Judging level of purity and virtue based on numerous irrelevant factors, like their personal language use, media consumption, clothing, emotions, friendships, relationships, and sexuality, as well as unquestioning acceptance of certain ideas

~Controlling people’s language. (Gotta avoid any words tainted by a history of -ism or appropriation. Better to second-guess how you say anything, and keep quiet if you can’t think of a surefire way to say it without chafing against any of the many unspoken rules. Language, like many items listed below, has sometimes gone from an important thing to examine to a bludgeon to use as a “gotcha” against people.) (Mel Baggs’ linked posts are quite good.)

~Controlling people’s media consumption. You have to avoid problematic shows and celebrities, or at least earn permission to like them by critiquing all the problematic parts. If you consume the wrong media without sufficient criticism, you corrupt yourself and support wickedness. (Reminds me of fundamentalist forms of cultural critique that say (A) avoid all media with unChristian messages or (B ) it’s okay to enjoy media with unChristian messages if and only if you are really, really careful to recognize them for what they are.)

~Controlling people’s media creation. You are personally encouraging violence against all marginalized people if your story’s characters in marginalized classes aren’t depicted properly. You are responsible for abuse against children if your story features underage characters in a sexual relationship, or if your fanfic ships the wrong people. Your story might possibly influence somebody, somewhere to treat a marginalized person worse (or to abuse a child) and then blood is practically on your hands. (The-real-seebs and their associates have lots of good material scattered around about why this is a bad idea, but I can’t easily find their best material.)

~Controlling what people wear and how they do their hair. (Gotta avoid cultural appropriation. But also avoid all the immense complexity of marginalized people’s debates over what is and isn’t appropriation. Just lay on the shaming and threats of shaming.)

~Controlling people’s thoughts and emotions. You are -ist if you feel uncomfortable with the wrong things, or feel comfortable with the wrong things, or feel an urge to laugh at the wrong jokes, or don’t feel anger at the right things, or don’t feel sad about the right things, or do feel sympathy for people who are too problematic. Or being sexually aroused, or not aroused, by the wrong people or in the wrong way (see two paragraphs down).

~Controlling people’s friendships and relationships. Telling people not to be friends (let alone romantic partners) with anyone who has sufficiently problematic views--at least, unless you are willing to have serious talks to call your friends out on problematic stuff, and end the friendship if they don’t seem to be coming around. (Again, similar to some fundamentalist attitudes on bringing friends to Christ.) (The two links here are to examples of the thing I’m complaining about. I find telling people who to be friends or partners with really fucking invasive and creepy. Behold, a more sensible and respectful approach.)

~Controlling people’s sexuality. Almost all sexual preferences are cool. But sexual preferences regarding race or genitals are racist and transphobic, respectively. You can always say “no”--but you’d better not say no for the wrong reasons. Almost all kinks and porn are fine, but kinks and porn that rely on problematic aliefs or tropes are -ist, and thus shameful. (The four links in this paragraph are to good criticisms of this sort of thing.)

~Also, some parts of the left can’t decide whether -ism is primarily a structural problem or a personal wrongdoing. The whole discourse around why -ism is bad is built around it being a structural problem. But you can’t effectively judge and control people in your anti-ism movement, or personally blame everyone who disagrees with any idea espoused by your movement, unless -ism is also a personal culpable deliberate wrongdoing, one that corrupts a soul and demands repentance and contrition. Not just an intellectual disagreement or even a non-culpable bias. (Best option: Blame people severely for all their many personal -isms and say it’s just a structural problem and that you’re not blaming them, and that they’re being selfish if they think you’re blaming them.)

~Describing people in general so as to vastly overstate how bad they are, in hopes of shocking them into improving themselves (ignoring how it often causes guilt spirals in people who feel accused, and learned helplessness in people who come to think everyone around them is bad)

~Gradually expanding the definition of what counts as -ism (or worse, “being a Nazi”) and gradually amping up the social penalties for -ism (eventually, punching); cf. insecure fundamentalist communities expanding the definition of heresy and amping up penalties for it. (It’s getting worse, as a toxic but perhaps inevitable SJ response to the disaster of Trump’s election. It is the opposite of the conservative problem of minimizing what counts as -ist to the point of ignoring it.) (Link 1: Alison and others on punching Nazis. Link 2: An interesting but ultimately unpersuasive defense of Nazi punching. Link 3: One of the many reasons it is unpersuasive. Link 4: My own thoughts on punching Nazis.

~Trying to give more institutional power to universities to shut down their problematic speakers or expel problematic students

~Trying to give more institutional power to corporate bosses and companies to fire their problematic employees

~Flat out anti-free-speech rhetoric, or at worst, trying to give more institutional power to governments to shut down -ist (or “-ist”) speech. (An astoundingly shitty SJ response to the problem of conservative trolls who use “free speech” to justify bigotry.)

~The movement is for the benefit of everyone, so the movement is more important than the individual people in it (let alone outside it), so it’s okay to treat people like crap in order to advance the movement. Easily becomes a collectivist, majoritarian, authoritarian approach.

~Encouraging people to think certain questions are forbidden to ask or even wonder about. (Do some people’s sexual orientations change over time? Are there any biologically-caused psychological differences in the aggregate between people of different sexes or races? Are wage gap deniers’ statistics really bunk? Shh, asking those questions too loudly would embolden bigots. Also, if you keep asking those questions, it makes you a bigot, because bigots Just Ask Questions too. If you’re not -ist, you’ll know the right answers to these empirical questions without having to wonder about it.)

~They can describe their teachings in as vague and easy-to-misunderstand and sloganizing and jargon-filled a manner as they want. If you find it confusing, it’s not their job to educate you. Go Google it, somehow. (Cf. “Just pray about it and you’ll understand.”) (Mogilevsky on some of the complexities at work here.)

~They can chew you out for disagreeing with them as nastily as they want. If you want to be treated decently, you’re tone-policing. (Mogilevsky on yet more complexities here.)

~Responding to wrongdoing with more focus on punishment than rehabilitation or prevention, let alone empathy with wrongdoers. (This is very inconsistently applied. The message seems to be: “By all means, empathize with violent criminals from poverty-stricken communities torn apart by racism and/or classism, and empathize with terrorists whose childhood homes were destroyed by authoritarian dictators and imperialist invaders, but get fucking real if you feel sorry for a Trump-voter who regrets his vote because he might lose his health insurance. Those people are scumbags and deserve what they get.”)

~Finally, denying that their community’s norms are controlling people. They are only bringing you the message, and it’s up to you whether to accept or reject it. And they’re just stating the simple truth that if you reject it, it’s because you’re bad.

---

Caveats, caveats. This list is tremendously oversimplified, and many of the activities in the list are either (A) capable of being done well or ( B ) corruptions of activities that can be done well. Critically examining media, emotions, sexuality, language, etc., for how they relate to -ism, is important and can be done well. But many people conflate “critically examine” with “criticize” and conflate “criticizing” with “shaming,” and end up shaming people in a thousand different ways--or else, speaking so ambiguously that people think they’re being shamed in a thousand different ways. Sometimes SJ people mean to do this. Sometimes they are just so bad at communicating that it seems like they mean to do this. Both are problems.

Contrary to how many of its critics depict it, the social justice left is extremely diverse, and some people in it fall prey to these activities far more, or far less, than others. Often the sorts of activities on this list are carried out in ways that are ambiguous (so you can’t tell if that’s what is happening or not) or in less severe ways than I describe above.

And many of them are understandable reactions to actual oppressive practices or misguided responses to bad criticisms of SJ. And any given toxic SJ activity often seems to make sense from the standpoint of its practitioners, as it seems to make a plausible argument for how you can be less -ist and that’s really important, etc.

But taken together and seen from a bit more distance, it isn’t a pretty picture. It screws up SJ people’s priorities and gives abusive or misguided people more influence within SJ circles. It makes SJ people worry about things that don’t matter, and blame themselves and other people when they shouldn’t. It creates norms against clarity and charity that any community needs in order to grow and improve itself and the world.

I think toxicity and illiberalism in SJ circles are sometimes stoked deliberately by badly-intentioned people (and in any case, they make SJ circles easier for badly-intentioned people to thrive in). But more often, I think they emerge as a natural outgrowth of how well-intentioned people tend to interact with each other under the wrong social circumstances, and are not the fault of any one person.

It seems a lot of the same things that make religious fundamentalism bad are also present, in various degrees, in the social justice left. Such a claim has been made by many people, often too quickly as a discrediting tactic, but I’ve tried to make it in a more substantive-than-usual way here.

Contrary to the claims of many of SJ’s critics, -ism actually is everywhere and is one (rather, many) of the world’s (and our society’s) most serious structural problems! We can’t do without structural critique and calling more and more people to get on board with it. SJ is doing that. But SJ often does it wrong.

At the end of the day, since the good parts of the social justice left are so good, I still consider myself to be within the broader movement. I write posts like this to improve the movement, not to tear it down. But I think it’s understandable that many people don’t consider themselves part of it.

So yeah I think my post is at least 85% accurate, and if nothing else I hope more people discover Mel Baggs, Ozy Frantz, Miri Mogilevsky, and others I linked to within it.

#sj #social justice #liberalism