Steve watched Eddie's van turn the corner and shut the front door, closing himself away from the outside world so none of his neighbors could see him as he rested his forehead against the painted wood.
"I'm not going to cry," he told himself.
He said it even as his eyes began to burn and his face began to twist, teeth grinding and throat closing. He wiped quickly at his face, again and again, as he stumbled to the couch to sit, drying each tear as it rolled down his cheeks, clinging to his jaw.
"I'm not going to fucking cry," Steve choked, and then doubled over into himself, arms around his thighs, and he began to sob.
So what if he was twenty-two, living in his parent's house alone, working the same dead-end job with a sixteen year old manager. So what if all his friends and family were in college, spread out from New York to Chicago to Los Angeles. So what if his boyfriend was moving to Seattle for his band and they broke up, because Steve was never going to be his parents, resenting and being resented for keeping his partner from his dreams. So what if he was too scared to ask Eddie to stay, to ask Eddie if Steve could go with him. So what if everyone moved on and Steve couldn't?
Steve grew up lonely. He could get used to it again.
He didn't realize how hard he was crying until the front door burst back open and Eddie hurled himself at Steve's feet, long limbed and clumsy and babbling.
"Baby, oh fuck, I'm sorry," he said, already untangling Steve from himself, tying all his loose ends back up together with his until they were a knot of their own. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Stevie. I never should have— I wanted to—"
"I'm sorry," Steve sobbed back. He gasped and swallowed it all back down. Eddie had already gotten them raveled up again, it would take forever to pick it back apart. Steve knew it would hurt worse this time. "Fuck, Ed, you didn't have to— I'll be okay, I don't want to hold you back—"
"Come with me," Eddie burst.
And Steve couldn't help himself, and began to sob again.
"Please," Eddie begged over Steve's crying, his voice shaking and his face wet enough to match Steve's. "Please, sweetheart, honey, please just come with me?"
Steve took a shaky breath, embarrassed and now too full of hope and fear. "You sure?" he whispered. He pressed his face into Eddie's neck, breathing him in again for what might be the last time, again. "Eddie, don't—"
"I'm so sure," Eddie said. "I'm so fucking sure, Steve, please."
"Okay," Steve breathed. Eddie had always been the braver of the two of them, especially when it counted. Steve leaned back so he could look at him, red faced and watery eyes. He tried to give Eddie a smile, but he knew it was wobbly and weak. "Okay."
All of Steve's fears meant nothing as he watched the happiness break like dawn over Eddie's face.
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Sometimes you read a fic where the author is clearly and intentionally writing dead dove content like:
These garbage boys are going to torture and gaslight each other until they’re inextricably intertwined 😈 they are going to make each other the most fucked-up and worst versions of themselves 🔪 they will be so codependent and broken they will never be able to be with anyone else after ☠️
And, like, this is probably written by a pretty normal, well-adjusted person. Genuinely. The dove is dead but the author knows that the dove is dead because they killed the dove. On purpose. Gleefully. They were like “wouldn’t it be fucked up if…” and then wrote the if.
But then sometimes you read a fic where the author is like:
uwu these soft boys are soooo cute and in love 🥰 they’re so sweet and pure and good 💕 I just want them to be cutesy-wutesy and in lurveeee forever 😍 this is my new fic about soft boys being soft 💋 this is the height of romance 😘
And then the fic is. Not. The relationship is THE must fucked up, manipulative, passive-aggressive shit show where both characters are being awful to each other, but in the most socially-acceptable heteronormative way where you could 100% picture a friend of a friend telling you this bizarre story at a party while you’re sitting there like wow 😬 straight people are wild who acts like that?
I don’t read fics like that often, but whenever I do I’m always like................... 👀 you good? You doing okay? You seem to think this kind of behavior is, uh. Normal. And, uh, romantic? But these characters certainly seem to hate each other. Not in the narrative, in the narrative they’re super in love somehow but uhhh. Um. You good?
There is such a chasm between people writing something fucked up on purpose vs someone writing something fucked up on accident. And the latter is where things are not tagged properly, and they’re infinitely more disturbing imo.
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endless love!
[ID Two drawing collage pages of Vash and Wolfwood from Trigun Maximum. In the first collage, top corner, Wolfwood looks upwards disgruntled with a flushed expression, lying against a pillow, as his hair is being pet by Vash's hand. Next shows Vash and Wolfwood from behind, Wolfwood with his top bare and hickies covers around his nape area. Vash lifts hair away from his nape and asks, "More?" Wolfwood nervously says, "No." Next is a side profile of Vash, his arms around Wolfwood from behind while Wolfwood rests his hands against Vash's arms. Next to this are two smaller drawings; Vash turns to Wolfwood and says repetitively, "Wolfwood, Wolfwood..." Wolfwood, not looking at him, says "What?" He finally turns his head and looks shocked as he exclaims, "So close!" Vash says plainly, "You just noticed?" Below these is a drawing of Vash and Wolfwood sitting together as Vash kisses and hugs him from behind with his right arm around Wolfwood's neck and his left hand around his side. He also has his right leg propped against Wolfwood's knee. Bottom of the page has a comic. Wolfwood looks annoyed, speaking to himself, "Where is that idiot?! Need to get out of town before--" A chat bubble exclaims, "Wolfwood!" The next panel shows Vash running from the townspeople, small text saying "Get him! Vash the stampede!". Wolfwood, mad and about to pull the Punisher off his shoulder, says, "Argh, you fucking dumbass!" Vash exclaims, "Ah, don't!" before pulling Wolfwood into a quick kiss. He then tugs on Wolfwood's collar and says, "There's no need to shoot, just run!" Wolfwood stammers, "R-right..." with a flushed, dumbstruck expression.
Second collage; Top left, Wolfwood spoons Vash in bed, his arms around his chest and the other beneath Vash's head. Vash has his hand on top of Wolfwood's as he sleeps while Wolfwood lies awake. Behind this drawing is faint sketches of Vash's face. In a small panel, Wolfwood hides in Vash's neck as he mumbles to himself "Stop. Stop thinking embarrassing things, Wolfwood..." Beneath this drawing is another of them in bed, Vash now turned to Wolfwood and a hand on his cheek as he kisses him good morning. In a simpler style, Vash wraps an arm tightly around wolfwood with the text "snork mimimi" next to him while Wolfwood says, "We need to get up. Spikey! HEY!" In this corner, there are faint sketches of Vash and Wolfwood; one of them looking at each other; Vash kissing Wolfwood's forehead; Wolfwood saying, "Hand" with an outstretch hand and Vash says "ok" behind a drawing of them holding hands, both turned away from each other shyly. Next is a 4 panel comic. First shows Wolfwood's face getting squished by Vash's hands with the text "squish" around his face. Next, his cheeks are stretched with the text "Chee--" Wolfwood then hits Vash's face with his palm, exclaimining "That hurts!" The last shows Vash on Wolfwood's lap, smiling to himself as he continues to have Wolfwood's face in his hands. Next to this is another comic; A close up of their hands, Vash holding Wolfwood's with both of his. He then kisses the palm of Wolfwood's palm and says, "They're soft!" Wolfwood looks at him with flushed cheeks, "There's no way that's true..." END ID]
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I was reading a lot of "Jon turns into a cat" fics recently and realized that no one has given Martin the opportunity to take feline form yet! So I'm granting him the privilege myself :)
Next
[ID: Four sequential drawings of Martin Blackwood from the Magnus Archives. Martin is a fat white man with short ginger hair, round glasses, and wearing a sweater.
Image 1) Martin reaches for a purple book sat on a surface in front of him. Curiously, he says "What's this?"
Image 2) The book cover is visible to the viewer now, where it was cut off from the frame in the previous drawing. On it is some text that reads "Nine Miserable Lives" where the first word is written in blocky text, and the last word is written in a white, cursive font. There is also an image of a cat in the cover. It is tall and glaring at the viewer. Martin, offscreen comments "Cute cat."
Image 3) A full landscape shot showing a bit of the archives stacks in the background. Up front, Martin stands next to a desk and has the cat book now open in his hands. He exclaims "Oh, wait. This has Leitner's name in it!"
Image 4) The same image, except where Martin was once standing there is now a fluffy, orange cat revealed behind a puff of smoke. The cat seems shocked.
\End ID]
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You asked me to teach you chess, and I've done that. It's a useful mental exercise. Through the years, many thinkers have been fascinated by it. But I don't enjoy playing. Do you know why not?
Because it was a game that was born during a brutal age when life counted for little and everyone believed that some people were worth more than others. Kings and pawns.
I don't think that anyone is worth more than anyone else. I don't envy you the decisions you're going to have to make. And one day I'll be gone, and you'll have no one to talk to. But if you remember nothing else, please remember this:
Chess is just a game. Real people aren't pieces. You can't assign more value to some of them than to others. Not to me. Not to anyone. People are not a thing that you can sacrifice.
The lesson is: Anyone who looks on the world as if it were a game of chess deserves to lose.
— Harold Finch, not knowing how to explain to his AI offspring that it should care about people (but doing his best), Person of Interest 4x11 “If-Then-Else”
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