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al-astakbar · 10 months

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☆ The Gift -- Thrawn x reader ☆

> title ☆ The Gift ☆ part 2/?

> summary ☆ As congratulations for his recent promotion to Grand Admiral, Emperor Palpatine gives Thrawn a gift -- a young woman who has been trained as a pleasure companion.

> pairing ☆ Thrawn x reader ☆ word count [3.8k] ☆ warnings for this part ☆ brief sexual language ☆ series warnings ☆ dubious consent; sexual slavery; concubine/ sex slave AU; will add more warnings as more parts are posted

>series navigation ☆ part 1 ☆ part 2 ☆ part 3 ☆ part 4 ☆ part 5 ☆ part 6 ☆ part 7

> posted on ao3

author note!! To be very clear, in this story reader is a concubine against her will and is gifted to Thrawn, but there is at no point any noncon between Thrawn and reader. Reader is never noncon with anyone, either referenced or explicitly, and there is never any explicit noncon. However, this is a darker take on Thrawn and he doesn't really have many hangups about putting his gift to use...

Neither Mirri nor Solis know where his shuttle is, and one did not stop a Grand Admiral as he was walking away to ask for clarification about something so trivial, despite you elbowing them to do just that.

They walk you to the turbolift, and just before you get on, an aide comes up and gives directions. Landing platform E-52. The lambda class shuttle. The aide leers at you openly, and wonders to his superior officer, “what do I have to do to get one of those?”

The Commander snorts. “A Prasad?” the formal term for the type of trained, indoctrinated pleasure companion popular among the Empire’s elite; you are surprised he knows it, though any good Imperial citizen would recognize what you are just from the distinctive robes. “Gain more favor than you’ll ever hope for in a lifetime. Or make friends with someone who’s got one. I hear they share the best ones around. Get invited to the right party and all you’ve got to do is wait in line for a turn.”

You stiffen and stumble, nearly managing to turn towards the two men, with no real plan of what you might say. Mirri catches you.

“Do you think he’ll be-- he’ll be nice?” You ask in a small voice once the lift doors have closed. Or at least gentle. Mirri and Solis do not answer. The walk to the platform is quick, just a short ways outside through more elegant, richly appointed halls. These ones have hanging gardens, trailing vines and foliage beneath a huge glass ceiling and bursts of flowers, the entire floor a mosaic of millions of black and white stones. You try to dawdle, slowing your pace to spend just a little more time. Given to a Grand Admiral, you will likely spend at least the next six months in space, on a warship, and you don’t know when you might be planetside again, let alone on one with greenery.

But Mirri and Solis lead you through it too quickly, and after a short walk, you are there on LP E-52.

Private platforms such as this one have small, luxurious waiting rooms, so that the senator or whoever is being flown that day does not have to wait out in the elements. Mirri and Solis choose not to use it, and you know they would have happily made you stand there in the wind, until you are bone-chilled and shivering despite the bright Coruscant sun.

Luckily-- one small mercy on this day-- the Grand Admiral arrives within minutes, walking ahead of a small contingent.

Nausea has been a constant, rising bloat in your stomach since walking into the throne room but now it threatens to overwhelm you. A wild, horrible thought comes to you, that maybe if you’re quick enough you could run for the edge of the platform, and just be… done. But you know it wouldn’t work. There are safety measures. Systems of repulsor barriers and simple old fashioned nets to catch people in case of falls or accidents.

“Be sure to mind him,” Mirri whispers to you harshly.

“The last nine to be presented before you all went to lower ranking officers or minor dignitaries—“ Solis says.

“And all were better behaved than you.” Mirri’s tone is venomous.

Then they both step back, bowing deeply to him, and you stand alone. Strong winds buffet the platform, whipping your robe against you like a sail.

Instead of his aide approaching you, the Grand Admiral himself advances. Up close, he is even more imposing of a figure, his bearing imperious and assured, his skin unmistakably blue and his hair sleek blue-black, like indigo. In this light, he looks magnificent, a paragon of an Imperial officer. His uniform is blindingly white, gold shoulder bars, silver collar insignia, and code cylinders glinting brightly, the broad expanse of his chest interrupted by the large rank plaque. The jodhpurs and black jackboots only make his legs look longer-- most Imperial officers you have seen do not carry off the look so well.

You have heard of Gifts kneeling when presented, and always thought it was stupid, but the urge to sink down in front of him pulls at you now. Somehow it would feel so natural. Just the idea of it feels traitorous to everything you believe.

“Come,” he says, bringing one white leather-gloved hand from behind his back to gesture for you to walk beside him. He is stern, but not hurried. He is a Grand Admiral, meaning everyone else bends to his schedule and never the other way around. A cadre of four black armored death troopers fall in step behind— they must be his personal guard. You gawk at them a moment too long, turning your head to look over your shoulder, then the Grand Admiral’s hand is at the small of your back.

“Watch your step,” he murmurs, a second before you trip— the hem of your robe, the uneven surface of the boarding ramp, or both— and he catches you, sets you right.

“I’m fine, I don’t need help,” you say sharply, even as your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

He lets you shrug off his assistance with another quiet word. His accent is like nothing you’ve heard before-- not that you are particularly well traveled-- but it certainly isn’t from any Core world.

“Where are we going?” you ask, feeling strange and a bit guilty for wanting to hear him talk more.

Once you, the Grand Admiral, the complement of troopers and a handful of aides are inside the small loading bay, the ramp closes with a prolonged hydraulic hiss.

“This way,” he says. You follow him through a narrow passageway to the main cabin. Unlike the rest of the shuttle, which is drab, Imperial-issue grey, this cabin is furnished with plush leather seats, what looks like a small bar, and a shiny stone surface desk in one corner, all in sleek black and white.

The Grand Admiral motions courteously for you to sit, while his aide, a pale, light haired young man in an olive-drab lieutenant’s uniform takes a post standing by the hatch you just came through.

“I meant-- are we leaving the planet? What system are we going to?”

At that moment, the shuttle’s engines kick on, and light streams into the cabin as the wings unfold while the craft slowly lifts off and rotates. Strange. From the outside it looks like the only transparisteel on the shuttle is around the cockpit.

“Yes,” the Grand Admiral says. “To my ship, the Imperial Star Destroyer Chimaera. Lieutenant Tyvo, send word ahead for the stormtroopers to begin preparing their cold weather uniforms and kit. And during the next week, have the section chiefs ensure forward chasing tractor beam targeteers run through another training cycle.”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant says, and immediately begins typing on his datapad.

The Grand Admiral continues speaking to the lieutenant, giving instructions about maneuvers and training schedules and meetings and briefings, and you realize he will not be sharing any more information with you. So you settle deeper into your seat-- much more comfortable than any in the austere cloister where you had spent the past year-- and gaze out the starboard viewport. The city flashes by, spire after spire, growing quickly smaller as the shuttle rises. No waiting in traffic, but of course a Grand Admiral must have his own priority lane.

“Anything else, sir?”

“No, that is all. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

You look over to find the Grand Admiral standing, as he seems to like to do, with his hands clasped behind his back. He regards you for a moment, cold and appraising, before sitting opposite, and his authoritative bearing makes you sit up straighter. Somehow his starched white uniform doesn’t wrinkle. “What is your name?”

The question gives you pause. It is customary to only speak a companion’s given name in private. “They didn’t tell you?”

“I would like to hear it from you.”

He does not seem cruel or pushy, and that unbalances you. With less reluctance than you feel you ought to have, you quietly give him your name so the Lieutenant can’t hear, and then ask his.

“Mitth’raw’nuruodo,” he says. “But you may find it easier to call me Thrawn.”

You repeat his name with a small nod. “Thrawn.”

His glowing red eyes do not have pupils, and though you can’t tell quite where he might be looking, you feel the weight of his attention pinning you down nonetheless.

You feel your face grow hot. Is he going to have you here, now? It would be well within his rights. He is entitled to anything— everything. The thought makes you squirm with anger and… something else hot and deep in your chest you can’t give a name to.

Quickly, you pull your gaze down to your lap. Demure, as you had been taught. “Sorry,” you mumble.

“For what?”

“Staring. You probably get stared at a lot.” Hold your tongue. Mirri and Solis would have seen that you were punished for this impertinence. There had been one girl who had been with you, retraining after her first master had been terribly displeased with her. At least, that is as much as you could glean. He had removed her tongue before sending her back, and the threat of having all her teeth pulled out too kept her obedient.

Thrawn raises a blue-black eyebrow. “Indeed.”

For a time, he says nothing more, but studies you closely. His eyes seem to roam over your form, and you feel somehow naked, exposed for his discernment. You watch him back, thankful for your veil once more, studying his face. His features are even, well proportioned, though severe, and his dark hair slicked back from a widow’s peak makes him distinguished. Perhaps he is considered handsome among his people. The third time he catches your gaze, you get the distinct sense that he knows exactly where you are looking.

There is a definite hunger in the way he watches you, intent and completely still. As if waiting for you to act first. The tiniest movement. You exhale slightly, and it makes the fabric covering your face flutter.

Caught again.

“Remove your veil.”

You jerk at the order, and in a split second of gut instinct, almost obey, such is the authority in his voice and bearing. Thrawn’s aide gives a start too, fumbling the data pad he’s holding.

“Give us the room, Lieutenant,” Thrawn says without looking away from you, and his aide hurries out.

Thrawn rises, unfolding his long limbs gracefully, and crosses to you in two steps. “My apologies.” He stands at his full height, broad shoulders square and hands behind his back. It gives him an infuriating air of calm superiority. And still, you can’t shake a foreboding sense that he is very, very dangerous, and not to be crossed. “It is customary for those of your position to remain covered at all times, except during… intimate situations. Is it not?”

“Y-yes. Yes sir,” you say, relieved that he understands.

A beat passes, and then he prompts: “we are alone now.”

You feel your face heat at the implication. “I don’t want to.”

His mouth presses into a thin line. “That is of no concern to me.”

“I don’t want to kiss you.”

His red eyes gleam. “It was not a request.”

You stand up, meaning to move away, but it only puts you closer to him, and his height dwarfs yours. “I don’t want to lay with you!”

“Is that what you imagine necessitates showing your face?” His voice drops to nearly a whisper, full of dark promise. “When I fuck you, it need not be so personal.”

At that, your heart thuds in your chest.

Before you can think it through, you try to slap him. He catches your wrists, dispassionate and unflinching as you struggle against him. “Enough. There will be no need for…theatrics. I was given to understand that those of your Order are all volunteers. Is that not true in your case?”

You can’t help your wide-eyed expression. It is an open secret that many young men and women were pressed into this sort of service, and your Order is no exception-- but nobody spoke that secret aloud. And it certainly wasn’t brazenly stated by an Imperial Grand Admiral to his new companion. You nod in confirmation, hoping that this isn’t some sort of trap or game to get you to admit something he could punish you for.

“I see,” he says, considering for a moment. “Then, you have a choice to make. An unwilling partner is of little use to me.”

You wrench against his grip, but it’s futile. “Oh so I guess that makes it all right then. You don’t want to— to fuck me but you’re going to anyway,” you say hotly. He doesn’t rise to the accusation, merely waits for a beat, allowing you to continue. When you say nothing more, he speaks.

“As I said, I would prefer your cooperation, but it is not required. However, there are… complexities… to our situation. Our Emperor—“

“Your Emperor.”

“--Will expect me to fully enjoy the gift he has given me. This is not in question. He will know, if I do not take you to bed. I have no intention of slighting him by refusing his generosity.”

“But how would he know! Couldn’t you just tell him that you have?”

“No,” he says, his voice cold and soft.

You stare at him for a moment, breath catching suddenly at how close you are, and then you start struggling again. “Let go of me!”

His hands tighten around your wrists like shackles, squeezing so hard it feels like your bones grind together.

“Please!” A note of panic, breath tight in your chest. It had been your last, foolish hope that whoever you were given to would be understanding, would find the whole practice barbaric. “Just let me go, pretend I ran away, just leave me somewhere!”

Thrawn, evidently, is not that person.

“Think,” he presses, red eyes flashing with impatience, though he reins back in to calm just as quickly. “Under what circumstances might you leave my service?”

It takes a moment for you to realize that this is not a rhetorical question. Most of the time Mirri and Solis had considered answers to such questions as just another form of backtalk, worthy of punishment.

“When I ask you a question, I expect an answer,” he says, rather sharply.

Another trap? You try to gather your thoughts, calm your breathing, but your pulse is wild with high emotion, and your voice shakes. “I could… run away.”

“Yes. What else?”

You draw in a deep breath, and smell the starch and wool of his uniform. “You could let me go.”

He nods but stays silent, expectant. A third option? You frown, then venture: “someone else takes me. Without your permission. Steals me away.”

“Indeed.”

Your mind flashes to the ones who were returned broken and maimed. “I could misbehave,” you say, with a touch of defiance.

“Yes, you could,” he agrees. “The circumstances of you leaving my ship would be altogether unpleasant, but more so for you than for me. You are a gift that cannot be refused, so your removal would be necessitated by your own behavior. Now, what do you imagine the consequences would be like?”

You swallow thickly and shake your head, unable to find the words.

“At best, placed with somebody else with less concern for your… consent. At worst…” his voice trails off, letting you reach the obvious conclusion silently.

He is right, which is all the more infuriating to admit because of the matter-of-fact way he had stated it. Gifts who came back were, if deemed ‘salvageable’, subjected to months of remedial conditioning and then reassigned, almost always to someone less desirable than the previous recipient. Lower ranking, or particularly hideous or cruel. It was whispered that there was one Outer Rim Governor whose appetite for a fresh face had been the demise of at least four Gifts.

“There are functions, too,” he adds quietly, with just a hint of something in his voice that you imagine to be embarrassment or reluctance, “ that I will be expected to attend, with you by my side.”

“And by functions you mean…?”

“You might call it a party. Others who have been recipients of the Emperor’s goodwill would also be there, with their gifts. We will be… observed.”

He waits for that to sink in.

No… You have an idea of what he means, and it makes your blood run cold.

“It is imperative that we demonstrate our appreciation of His generosity.”

Your stomach turns. Not quite ready to confront the reality of what he’s telling you. “Can’t you just send a ‘thank you’ holo or something?”

He remains silent.

“How… how many people?”

“Hundreds.”

“Hundreds…” you repeat hollowly. “Observed… doing what? Having dinner together? Do you fuck me right there on the table between courses or could we get away with waiting until after the meal and finding a dark corner?”

Thrawn says nothing for a moment, just gives you a rather irritated look. “Understand,” he says flatly, “that I did not ask for you. You are a distraction.”

You have to swallow down the insult of this rejection.

“Then leave me at some spaceport. Outer Rim, I don’t care.” You say, voice cracking. One more try, even though he’s already convinced you of the futility of it all.

“I did not say I don’t want you. But— as I said, I cannot. If I let you escape, I show incompetence, and lack of control over those in my care. If I let you go, it would be seen as rejecting the Emperor’s goodwill, disobeying his command, even.”

It clicks in your mind, then. If you do not give him a certain degree of cooperation, it could hurt his career and reputation— whatever that might be. He is concerned enough to mention it, though his attempts to cajole you into compliance so far have been baffling. This strange Grand Admiral claims to have no regard for your wishes but he is actually trying to convince you instead of ripping off your clothes and holding you down. He’s taken the time to explain it all and seems to want you to understand his reasoning.

You take a deep breath, trying to slow your heart pounding. Thrawn still holds you close, and he is so tall his rank plaque is just above eye level for you.

“The embroidery on your robe and veil — tell me about it.”

This catches you off guard. “I—it’s part of our traditional— I don’t know what to call it. Our uniform, I guess. It’s added during our Vigil.”

“It is very fine work.” He sounds intrigued, and picks up the hem, holding it closer to look at and brushing his thumb over the stitching. “And the other two with you before, their garments had similar work to yours, also done in the same type of thread, though not as intricate. The motifs were simpler, and the execution… adequate. This was done with great skill and care.” He grasps your wrist in such a way as to closer inspect the embroidery; it draws you clear to him so you are pressed against his body. You squirm, knowing he can feel your breasts against him, as you can feel his heavy belt, and that he’s half-hard and hot against your stomach.

“Be still,” he murmurs, making no effort to conceal his arousal. He takes a few more moments examining the work, then lets it fall.

“Now,” he says. “Will you remove your veil?”

With a cooler head, you realize he had done nothing to punish your outburst, nor any of your other little jibes. Stars, you had tried to hit him and he hadn’t even been angry about it. This doesn’t mean you’re safe with him. Doesn’t earn him even a little trust. But for now, it seems wise to acquiesce. This will be okay, or at least not so bad. He will not demean or abuse you. And he is right. There is no good way out of this, for either of you.

Heart pounding-- no one outside the cloister on Coruscant has seen your bare face in over a year-- you sweep the fabric up and over, so that it trails down your back as if you were a bride. The change in light makes you blink and squint for a moment. Thrawn leans forward, as if he can’t help himself, and strokes a lock of your hair off your face.

You try not to flinch away from him, nor to let any emotion show.

But he traces his thumb over your lips and you feel a hot prickle of tears that you can’t hold back. It would almost be easier if he were cruel.

“When they train you,” he says, voice dangerously quiet, “do they fuck you?”

You feel a pulse through your core at his question, and immediately shove the feeling down. “Why? You don’t want someone who’s been used before?” Mouthy again. His expression stays mild.

“Previous experiences do not concern me. I only wish to know what your training entailed.”

“No. They don’t. In most cases the recipients want to be able to be the first, you know, to be in control of…that.” You finish lamely, a vivid blush creeping up your neck.

“It is believed the recipient will wish to shape the desires of his companion,” Thrawn offers.

“Yes. Not because of anything like— like purity.”

He takes a moment to consider this, then asks, “are you pure?”

You blink, meeting his eyes, and immediately regret it, as you feel tears well up anew. You quickly look aside, and can see the dark edge of space out the viewport, just where it meets the muddy orange-gold of the atmosphere. “No,” you say, then look right back at him, lifting your chin. “Are you?”

One blue-black eyebrow goes up. “No.”

Then he lets you go, saying nothing more during the ride except to direct your attention to the Chimaera on approach. It is a magnificent ship, and you press against the transparisteel trying to see more of it, though its bulk quickly fills the entire view. On the underbelly of the ship is painted a huge, stylized chimaera, twin heads crossing over the wedge line. You have to restrain yourself from asking him a million questions about everything you see as you pass beneath the bow and into its massive shadow.

An escort of four TIE fighters sweeps in to escort the shuttle to the hangar bay. The distinctive high roar of their engines is somehow audible inside the shuttle. You had never understood that, though admittedly your knowledge of physics and space travel is limited. You almost ask Thrawn. He would know, and he is still standing quite close to you. You can feel him at your back, watching the same panorama, and the one time you brave a glance over your shoulder at him, his gaze is distant and his expression inscrutable.

☆ link to part 3 ☆

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#thrawn #grand admiral thrawn #thrawn fic #thrawn fanfiction #thrawn x reader #thrawn x you #thrawn x y/n #mitth'raw'nuruodo #thrawn fanfic

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ecoamerica · 1 month

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The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

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alwaysxlarrie · 2 years

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favorite fics of 2021/2022

i love recommending fics & i love appreciating the talented, lovely writers in this fandom, so i wanted to make a list of my fav fics in 2021/2022. there are some longer fics that came out this year that i’ve wanted to read, but haven’t gotten a chance to, so knowing me i’ll make a masterlist of long fics or something bc i simply continue to be a slut for making masterlists & recommending fics idk what to tell u LMAO. anyway, these are in alphabetical order. sorry there’s kind a lot, thank u for ur time xoxo

are you taking clients? by @jaerie / jaerie

“Escaping had been the hardest thing Harry had ever done. They'd stolen his child and nearly stolen his life. Being homeless and pregnant gave Harry few options. It's a last resort to let men fetishize his body, but the luxury of choice is something Harry doesn't have.”

all your mates are here by @londonfoginacup / ladylondonderry

“"The pack is... It's folding, Harry."

Like every werewolf does when they get to a new town, Harry joined one of the many local packs when he started university. Now, three years into his program, he's hit with the news that his pack is giving up, going their separate ways. In the wake of the holidays, the three single wolves from the Majestic pack are pointed in the direction of a new pack to join; one that's got struggles of its own.

A new pack, a new house, and two new roommates with personal space issues... Plus exams, of course.

Happy Christmas, here's to many more.”

babydoll blues by @thedevilinmybrain / devilinmybrain (venomedveins)

“Louis is a high profile, filthy rich label executive who has the world at his feet - a music god.. Harry is the sugar baby trying to make a name for himself singing in shady bars and hanging off the arm of Louis' biggest rival. What Louis wants, Louis gets. But what if the game gets too hot and hits a little too close to the heart?”

boy for sale by @ohpleaselarry / ohpleaselarry

“Three large cushioned chairs face him, each holding a suited man. Mr. Horan, Mr. Payne, and Mr. Malik respectively sit at these chairs, eyes on Harry as he steps up to the middle of the room, lowers fluidly to his knees, hands behind his back, and looks to each man one by one, neck prickling with the eyes all on him, on his nude body.

They’re all going to have him, and yet Harry only really wants one man here, and it’s the man who steps up behind him, sets a hand on the nape of his neck, right over his collar.

“Alright,” Louis says, voice raspy and authoritative, “Mr. Horan, you’re first. Would you like his mouth or his arse?””

between two lungs by @hershelsue / docklands

“Harry and Louis are graduating medical school. There's a big party and everyone has big expectations. All of Harry's are exceeded when Louis remembers him from a long time ago. They fuck.”

boom, boom, don’t you wanna go by anonymous

“It doesn't take much to convince Harry to participate in Lambda Sig's annual ceremony for graduating seniors. She's hooked up with a few of the brothers already anyway, as lackluster as they were. She has to have her legs and bare bottom half on display for the rest of the brothers in the senior class to see, but she's always kind of liked being played with and definitely likes being on display. She's graduating in a few weeks anyway. What's the worst that can happen?

She doesn't expect contestant number fifteen to blow her mind in the first round. He doesn't let up.”

caught in your gravity by @lululawrence / lululawrence

“It felt like the blood froze in Harry’s veins even as he got a bit lightheaded. He hadn’t even made it two practices, only one of which he was remotely in charge of, without giving it all away and now he and Liam were both absolutely fucked.

“Shit,” Harry breathed out. “Who all have you told? Does everyone know? I thought I covered it better than that…”

“No, no,” Louis said quickly. "They’ll figure it out soon enough, though, because they’ll get used to you changing things up, but you’re only going to trip over your so called Americanisms for so long before they realize it’s because you don’t actually know fuck all about football.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah. I figured. I just need to bullshit for long enough to allow Liam to get the situation figured out from his end.”

“Right, which brings me to my entire point. I think we can find a mutually beneficial arrangement with all of this.” Louis leaned forward. “You need to learn the ins and outs of the sport incredibly fast. I can help you with that.”

“What do you want in exchange?”

Or, an AU inspired by a 30 second trailer of Ted Lasso that doesn't actually have much in common with the show at all.

counterculture by @sadaveniren / sadaveniren

“It all culminated to this: Harry in the middle of a crowded basement, music blasting from the live show on the far side, shirtless amongst alphas and omegas who all weren’t covering their scents. He took a deep breath of the heavy air and he felt alive.”

erva venenosa by @hershelsue / docklands

“Harry goes to his first all-gender party. There, he meets Louis, an eccentric bartender who claims to know more than he does. He turns Harry's world upside down.“

hint: i want to be yours by @greenblueish / bluegreenish

“Thinking back to Harry’s rut, Louis shivers, needing to put effort into keeping other bodily reactions at bay.

“Are you cold?”

While Niall’s been commenting through the entire film, Harry had stayed mostly quiet, so it’s a surprise when he speaks up, eyes zeroed in on the omega.

“Uh, yeah. It’s a bit chilly, innit?”

Niall shrugs, dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt and seemingly unbothered by the room temperature. Harry doesn’t ask for an explanation though.

“You can have my hoodie, wait, here.” Before Louis can counter, Harry’s pulling the light grey piece of clothing over his head and handing it to the omega.

or, the one where Harry unconsciously starts acting like Louis' alpha after they spend his rut together and Louis finds ways to make sure Harry's affection doesn't end.”

hike up your skirt (and show your world to me) by anonymous

“Louis has a very hands on approach to training his new secretary. How else can he make sure Harry realizes his full potential?”

i can’t wait to see what you find by @non-binharry / enbyharry

“"What do you do for work?"

"I, uh, don’t. I don’t work."

"Cuckold’s got you well kept then, yeah?" Harry’s face morphs into a frown, adorable creases forming along his brownbone, and Louis throws up his hands in a placating gesture. "Sorry! Sorry! I’m just taking the piss. You can do whatever you like. I swear I’m not some judgemental prick." Harry’s expression relaxes. He wedges a hand between his crossed legs, looking down at the arm of his chair. "You do like it though, yeah? You know, the whole —" Louis cuts himself off, gesturing broadly to avoid overstepping on a dynamic he doesn’t fully understand.

"Yeah, I um. I do like it. I get off on feeling used for him. I only belong to him and he loves that, no matter how many hands I’m passed through."

"Okay, so what happens if I agree?"

Louis finds himself entering an interesting sexual arrangement with a happy, committed couple.

He gets more than he bargained for.”

i’ll be your new favourite tune by @harrystinyshorts / lsforever

“Louis gulps, all coherent thoughts flying from his brain as he unabashedly stares. There’s just so much to take in, from the silky curls springing out in every direction under some sort of headband/scarf looking thing, to the bright eyes and rosy cheeks and cute dimples that make the man’s - Harry, Louis reads from his nametag - smile so charming. He’s wearing a simple black shirt paired with some short jean shorts that only reach the middle of his thighs, and Louis has to force himself not to stare at those long, beautiful legs.

“You okay there?” Harry sounds amused.

Louis clears his throat.

or, Louis is the Pop Punk King of our dreams, and Harry is the cute associate at the rescue who helps him adopt a cat.”

it’s been ages by @2tiedships2 / 2tiedships2

““We need to talk,” Niall said as he plopped down on Louis’ bed. “It’s you and Harry. You like him, he likes you, it’s a match made in heaven and you will one day be mates,”

Louis shook his head in exasperation. “If you’ve been watching, you would see that Harry is interested in, like, alpha alphas. Not me.”

“What the fuck is an alpha alpha?” Niall asked with furrowed brows.

“You know what I mean,” Louis said, giving Niall a pointed look.

“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”

i love this feeling (but i hate this part) by @lululawrence / lululawrence

““Stand up.”

Harry stood up from the couch, not a moment’s delay.

“Oh my god, is that what that’s like?” Harry turned to Louis, surprise on his face. “I really thought they were somehow exaggerating, but it really is an automatic response with absolutely no thought from me behind it whatsoever.”

Louis sighed again. “You really wanna keep doing this? Have me use my alpha voice on you so you can work on resisting it?”

“Yup,” Harry said, clapping his hands and smiling. “How else am I going to be able to have any chance at reducing the power an alpha voice has on me?””

keep me closer by @zanniscaramouche / zanni_scaramouche

“Louis expects Harry to react poorly, maybe even file a formal complaint and that’s gonna suck ass but Louis won’t say shit cause he knows he deserves it, so he prepares an apology before Harry’s even turned around.

What he doesn’t expect is Harry to fucking drop.“

know you better. by @wabadabadaba / wabadabadaba

“It didn't help that oftentimes Niall and Zayn's other friend, Louis joined them and from all the stories Marcel has heard about Louis, he was positive they wouldn't get along. From their description, Louis was loud, annoying, and competitive. He liked to tease Niall and Zayn mercilessly and he was creative. Being a tattoo artist, Louis knew things about art that Marcel would simply never understand due to his analytical mindset. He was the complete opposite of Marcel and Marcel didn't think he would ever last in a social setting where he had to be with Louis.

or the one where Marcel and Louis fall in love.”

like air to the fire i need you to breathe by @larrydoinglaundry / cuckootrooke

“Louis is going to do this right. He is going to praise every little effort Harry has made and will still make with his nest, telling him how cozy and well put together it is. And practical, on top of everything. Despite being situated in Louis’ closet. But it has so many blankets, duvets and pillows that Louis will happily make Harry fall apart in that nest when he goes into heat.

… Well. He’ll try.

The thing is, Louis is sort of terrified.

OR Harry is in preheat and Louis is nervous about his upcoming heat, fearing that he might not be able to fulfill his mate's needs. Lucky for him, Harry knows how to push the right buttons to get him relaxed.”

lost in your paradise by @sadaveniren / sadaveniren

““To the alpha I fucked at the Ziam concert, I think this is yours.”

aka Harry and Louis have a one night stand.”

my service, your pleasure by @hershelsue / docklands

“Harry moves in with Louis, his childhood best friend. He had always enjoyed doing things for him, never putting much thought into it. What happens when they're in the same space all the time and Harry can't keep his hands to himself? Surely, his adoration bursts at the seams and a very suspicious Louis tries his best to keep up.”

making my way downtown by @disgruntledkittenface / disgruntledkittenface

““Bye, Harry!”

“See you tomorrow, hon!”

Harry turns in the doorway and waves before he hitches the strap of his backpack over his shoulder and steps out onto the pavement. He tries to ignore the pang of regret after he couldn’t muster a smile, knowing that the middle-aged women he works with love him and won’t hold it against him. The walk from the bakery to his apartment takes almost an hour, which is usually brutal after being on his feet for a full shift, but he decides to skip the bus today. Maybe the sunshine and light breeze will lift the mood that had taken a nosedive when he checked his phone after getting off work.

So Louis didn’t text him back. So what?

So fucking everything.”

milk kinship by @jaerie / jaerie

“Harry had aspired to become a wet nurse since first learning about the honored and respected tradition when he was a teenager. The first documentary he’d seen had been detailed and brutally honest and Harry had still fallen in love with the idea. It’s origins were rooted in highly regarded positions of the royal staff and were credited in playing a role in the lives of some of the most famous children in history. There were medically trained wet nurses and other milk services for mothers unable to feed their babies, but true wet nurse nannies could only be afforded by the rich and famous. The glamorous life appealed to Harry even if his understanding of his role changed to a more realistic view over time. As a starry eyed kid, that was where he wanted to be.

Or Harry is a wet nurse and isn't allowed to have an alpha. He may or may not break his vows.”

my pleasure (to make you mine) by @zanniscaramouche / zanni_scaramouche

““Think about it.” Niall raises an eyebrow at him before amiably leading the interrupting customer to the other side of the store.

And the thing is, even a day later, Harry's done nothing but think about piercing his nipples.

Harry decides to get his nipples pierced. Louis is the piercing artist with a smile that breaks every rule of the universe.”

no one likes to be alone by @lululawrence / lululawrence

“Harry was a full-on fucking failure.

Letting out a whimper, Harry pressed his hands to his face as he finally allowed himself to cry. After a few sobs, he realized that something soft was pressed to his face, catching his tears instead of his hands. Harry pulled it away to see what it was and saw it was one of his sister’s shirts.

Shaking his head, he turned and placed it very specifically right where he usually tucked himself up against the wall. As he carefully shifted the shirt so he could see the faded image of Britney Spears looking out at him, Harry was overcome with a need he had only ever felt once before.

He needed to nest.”

opulence thrills by @brightgolden / brightgolden

““You know, it’s my first time bidding-”

“Bidding on people?” Harry supplies.

Louis snickers as he shakes his head, a small smile playing on his perfectly shaped lips. “You could say that, yeah.”

Where a well-versed submissive, Harry Styles has spent eighteen months in BDSM abstinence after an irreconcilable difference in kink preferences with his ex-dom, and a random winner for a charity auction might just be the one who brings him back.”

plenty of time by @juliusschmidt / juliusschmidt

“Harry gets into Louis' Uber. He's not in heat. Not fully. Not yet.”

picture this by @kingsofeverything / kingsofeverything

“Part of Harry’s job at the bar includes working the door on Friday nights, checking IDs and asking for proof of vaccination. One night, Louis Tomlinson accidentally shows him something else.”

sweet like candy by @neondiamond / neondiamond

“Louis is an Alpha with an odd obsession for gummy bears. Harry is an Omega who makes friends a little too easily. They meet on the bus.”

scent partner by @daggerandrose / amomentoflove

“The name of the company was horrible: Scent Partner. Whoever was on the marketing team should be fired immediately for green-lighting that name. But the instructions were simple.

Alphas wear a shirt for three days and nights. The shirt gets sent to omegas nearing their heats to pick the alpha who smells the best to them. The company notifies the alpha and gives them the opportunity to say no. If both parties agree, they meet at a heat room for the omega’s heat. Everything is safe and consensual.”

secrets don’t make friends by @thedevilinmybrain / devilinmybrain (venomedveins)

“5 times Louis' crew knew too much, and the 1 time they thought they knew, but didn't really. Not at all.“

single bells ring by @absoloutenonsense / nonsensedarling

“A holiday singles event is not where Louis wants to be tonight, but there he is, helping his best friend find love. Just as Louis is settling in, ready to have a terrible time, he meets the fittest alpha he’s ever come across.“

skip the small talk by @sadaveniren / sadaveniren

“"Your initial Result is that you are a service based submissive.”

Harry froze. James’ eyes were on him, boring into his soul. Harry had never felt so exposed. He wasn’t a submissive. He was an alpha.

“But I’d been so careful,” came out before he stopped himself.

aka Harry is an alpha that's just a little too soft to be a good dom but that's okay because Louis is an omega who is a little too rough to be a good sub.”

the lost art of breeding and (mis)behaviour by @indiaalphawhiskey / indiaalphawhiskey

““Strip, slave.” His voice was rough – stern, as a proper Master’s voice should be. Harry couldn’t help but feel pleased. “I could have had five of your kind for your price. Best make sure I’ve not been cheated.” -- Or, Harry learns a thing or two about fate and faith.“

the only one (when it’s said and done) by @londonfoginacup / ladylondonderry

“Louis Tomlinson, alpha, twenty nine years old, is head of the Tomlinson pack.

He's unbonded, and happily so. A trip to the neighbouring Arthur pack certainly isn't going to change that.”

there’s always another option by anonymous

“Harry gets all dressed up to go see his boyfriend with one goal: get railed. He doesn't expect his boyfriend's cousin to be staying in his flat, and he definitely doesn't expect his boyfriend to dip out to go cheat on him. Oh well, just because his boyfriend isn't there doesn't mean he can't still get what he wants.“

this is my jam by @disgruntledkittenface / disgruntledkittenface

“The guy’s eyes are so blue that Harry can’t tear his gaze away, even as he moves to the beat. The searing light shade is magnetic; he finds himself leaning in and yelling, “This is my jam!” only to earn a laugh from thin pink lips that Harry’s definitely going to be dreaming about tonight.

“Your jam?”

When the guy yells back over the music, his blue eyes sparkling and his lips twisted in a smirk, Harry’s chest literally puffs out with pride at earning his attention. His obvious approval. Tongue-tied, Harry nods and closes his eyes as he lets go, the music reverberating around them. All of the usual inhibitions that keep him in the corner at parties fall away and he bounces around the center of the dance floor, waving his arms above his head. Somehow his towel stays on, even as he starts to think he wouldn’t mind if it fell off. Fuck it. He finally made it here, he’s damn well going to enjoy it.

Harry goes to a gay bathhouse for the first time. 90s AU.”

the money mark by @brightgolden / brightgolden

“Harry's heart beats faster in his chest as the name sinks in. The Tomlinson name is awfully familiar, and he isn’t sure how many rich Tomlinsons are out here in London, but he knew one. Seven years ago.

Like all fine things in the world, Louis Tomlinson ages exceptionally well.

Where Louis is Harry’s first sugar daddy who dumped him over text and their paths cross, seven years later.”

the risen by @creamcoffeelou / creamcoffeelou

“In search of the next breaking story, Harry goes off to do something no one else has been able to do: get the scoop on Louis Tomlinson and his devoted group of followers.“

the flower that blooms in adversity by @hershelsue / docklands

“Harry is twenty-six and he hasn't presented yet. He lives in London with his alpha best friend, Niall, who invites him to a New Year's camping trip with his other alpha mates. Amidst them, there's the always sharp Louis, who has a knack for observation and dirt under his toenails. Harry ends up agreeing on going, unaware he's leaving for the trip of a lifetime.“

venus as a boy by @hershelsue / docklands

“When Harry goes to a friend's movie night, the last thing she expects is to meet an enigmatic and handsome stranger who sweeps her off her feet. Louis might just think she’s the most wonderful thing alive.“

where’s the divide? by @2tiedships2 / 2tiedships2

“Louis brings potato salad to Niall's barbeque.“

wait by the light of the moon by @jaerie / jaerie

“Being a single parent of a newborn was not in Harry's plan. He can barely keep himself together doing everything on his own. He can't explain why he finds comfort in his neighbour next door, but apparently it's mutual.“

you’re shooting stars from the barrel of your eyes by @thedevilinmybrain / devilinmybrain (venomedveins)

“5 times Louis was gross hot and 1 time Harry was.“

you make the world taste better by @loveislarryislove / livelaughlovelarry

“"Nice to meet you," Harry said. "What can I get for you today?”

Louis rattled through the order – a couple loaves of different breads, some pastries, and a dozen cookies. There was a niggling sensation in the back of his mind that he was forgetting something, but he couldn’t think what it might be.

Harry nodded along as Louis spoke, starting to flit around the shop and gather things together. “Is that all?” he asked when Louis finished. “No muffins this week?”

That was it! “Oh yes, a half-dozen of the pumpkin and blueberry,” Louis said. “Almost forgot, thanks.”

“Of course,” Harry said, packing the muffins into a box. “I remember all my regular customers’ favorites. Your mother has good taste.”

Louis smiled. “She usually does,” he says. “I look forward to trying your goods myself, and finding my own favorites.”

~~~

Or, a story based on Hans Traxler’s fictional non-fictional text, The Truth About Hansel and Gretel, which is based on the Grimm fairy tale Hansel and Gretel.”

young hearts on the chase by @polaroidlouis / daffodilsforlou

“Before he can question him any further, Harry’s holding out a drink to him, ‘Louis’ written on the side of it with messy, pink letters. Warmth spreads all throughout Louis’ body when he takes it, starting from the tip of his fingers where they brush Harry’s to curl around the cup and settling in his chest.

“I also got us– um,” the omega starts, nervous fingers fumbling to get the paper bag open. “Got you an egg muffin. Or– or a normal muffin if you don’t like egg ones.”

“Who doesn’t like egg muffins?”

The smile that breaks across Harry’s face in response is as bright as the one yesterday. Louis almost expects it to be kissed into his cheek as well. It looks like Harry’s considering it for a moment, too, dreamy gaze gliding all over Louis’ expectant face. He seems to decide against it with a sigh though, and Louis’ not disappointed when they start walking side by side instead (he’s not).

harry’s a hopeless romantic, louis’ oblivious, and it’s going to be Valentine’s Day.”

if you read any of these fics, please don’t forget to leave kudos & a comment!!

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love-kurdt · 6 months

Text

This is Me Trying (byler): 1

word count: 6,469

warnings for this chapter: lots of sexual content!! underage drinking, mentions of drug use, roofie mention bc college, internalized homophobia, maaaajooorrrr depression. this is semi-autobiographical so pls be kind <3

in short: if you are emotionally or mentally vulnerable, please dni.

If someone were to ask Mike Wheeler what time it was, he wouldn’t be able to tell them. First off, he would look down at his watch and realize that said watch was not on his wrist. He would then ask himself why his watch was not on his wrist, then he would remember, oh yeah, Will has a matching one, and he was dead to Will, so he didn’t wear the watch anymore. Time was just a construct, anyway. In the end, he’d probably mess around with the person asking and say some shit like, “It’s 420:69.” He was drunk, though, so he was allowed.

Mike was at some frat party, spending what was his last official night as a student at the University of Indianapolis with the brotherhood of Alpha Lambda Dickhole. He was seated on some musty couch, stained with whatever the fuck that was, with an empty glass resting between his legs and a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He’d given up some time ago on trying to pace himself. Some kind of synth-infused rock music vibrated across the floor, and Mike could feel the bass reverberating in his bones, which would normally make him want to get up and dance, but he wasn’t particularly in a celebratory mood; he was only halfway through his sophomore year, and had just dropped out.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen this coming. Mike had been spiraling for a long time. It all started over summer break between his senior year of high school and his freshman year of college. Mike never even wanted to go to college in the first place. What was the point of spending tens of thousands of dollars on a creative writing degree when he could just freelance and eventually get published? But Ted insisted on Mike at least attending a state school with cheaper tuition, claiming, “You can’t run on ink and espresso, son. You have to put in the work and have the credentials to show for it.” On the bright side, it was a miracle that Ted had enough confidence in his son to allow Mike to pursue writing at all. But he was on thin ice with his father, had been for years, so he agreed to at least think about college.

Mike’s friends chose their respective schools fairly quickly; Dustin had gotten in with a full ride scholarship to Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Max and Lucas went to UCLA as sports science and physical therapy double majors, El went to Vanderbilt University in Nashville to pursue a degree in therapy, and Will… Will went to Chicago. Which school he went to, or if he went to college at all, Mike didn’t know. To study what, he had no clue. Where he lived within the city, he hadn’t the slightest idea. That’s what happens when your ex-best friend up and leaves without so much as a “goodbye.” Mike considered the day Will left to be the day his world stopped turning and time froze. So he took off his watch and hid it in a shoebox under his bed with the rest of his mini-shrine.

Dr. Owens and his team had arranged government-mandated counseling for all of those involved in the Vecnapocalypse. A year in, though, Mike didn’t see a point in going anymore. He was healed. He was fine. He was ready to move on with his life. Well, everyone else in the Party was ready to move on. Why wouldn’t he be? It probably hadn’t been the best decision on Mike’s part to stop going to therapy, but without Will in his life, Mike didn’t have much of a reason to stay in Hawkins at all, and he really didn’t feel like dredging up his past once a week to pick apart as if he were in an anatomy lab practical. Besides, he didn’t feel like arguing anymore with his dad. So, he begrudgingly packed his bags and headed to Indianapolis, killing two birds with one stone.

When he got to campus, he was assigned to dorm with this guy named Elvis (yes, as in Presley). Aside from his stupid ass name, Elvis Kuiken was a good roommate. He was a senior who kept to himself most days, when he wasn’t working. He was clean, by Mike’s standards (which were on the floor, literally and figuratively speaking), and he was also part of a fraternity. He’d always bring Mike along to parties, all in the name of the formative freshman experience. What this “experience” primarily entailed, Mike came to find out, was alcohol. Weed, too, no doubt… but extra emphasis on alcohol.

Mike didn’t want to admit it, at least not to others, but he became a lot more withdrawn since his falling out with Will. He wasn’t as outgoing, as daring, or as extroverted as he used to be. He was used to being an outcast of sorts, so not much changed there. Except now, where he used to have the confidence to at least approach people and introduce himself– “Hi, I’m Michael! Do you want to be my friend?” “Yes.”– he couldn’t do that anymore. It was like his communicational skills had completely disappeared. But during his first party, he took a shot of tequila and must’ve made at least ten acquaintances within the three hours he was there. If only Troy could see how popular he was now. He’d piss his pants… again. It was like a light flickered on in his head; the more he drank, the more sociable he’d become. Mike took this epiphany and ran with it.

One time back in— September?— or something, Mike had been at a party for a few hours, and came up with the idea to try every single type of liquor to ever exist. He picked up a shot glass and stood at the counter for a good fifteen minutes, downing shot after shot. He woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache, unsure of how he even got back to his dorm room. But then he looked to his right and saw Elvis’s head resting on his very shirtless, hickey-covered chest. Oh. That’s how he got home. Mike wasn’t able to wear any shirts with collars below his clavicle for days. He didn’t hate it, though. In fact, that wasn’t the last time Mike and his roommate hooked up. Stumbling through the door, making out in the dark, and whispering each other’s names into otherwise complete silence until the sun came up became a regular occurrence.

Christmas break arrived, and most of Mike’s time back in Hawkins was spent trying to avoid Will. And from the way Mike saw it, Will was everywhere. He was the art on his bedroom wall. He was the yellow sweater that hung in Mike’s closet, probably the only colorful item in his entire wardrobe that Mike hadn’t thrown out, because it was Will’s sweater. He was the shea butter soap on the bathroom counter. He was the hot cocoa mix in the kitchen cabinet. He was the D&D box buried underneath his bed that Mike neglected since Eddie’s death in 1986. He was the Party. So Mike didn’t leave his basement for the entirety of mid-December to the beginning of January, with the exceptions of family dinners and sleep. He wouldn’t lie, he was a little bit ashamed of how he’d handled things with the Party. He definitely shouldn’t have iced everyone out. His friends made various attempts to get the Party back together, and always invited Mike, but he’d always have some kind of excuse as to why he couldn’t hang out with them. They eventually stopped calling.

One Saturday afternoon, he was sprawled out on the couch watching Star Wars: Episode VI– Return of the Jedi, and Nancy and Jonathan came barrelling in through the basement entrance, practically swallowing each other whole. Mike missed the feeling of being in love. He’d cleared his throat when it started to get a bit too steamy, causing the couple to jump apart in shock. Nancy smoothed her skirt while Jonathan lifted a hand into the air to greet Mike. He nodded back in acknowledgement. This silent interaction had Mike wanting to crawl out of his skin. All he wanted to do was ask Jonathan about Will; how Will was, what Will was doing, if Will had met anyone, if Will remembered him. It was like Jonathan could read his mind, because he said, completely unprompted, “He still thinks about you, Mike. He hasn’t forgotten you.” Mike actively committed those words to memory.

Mike ran into Joyce during a last minute school supplies shopping trip to Melvald’s on his way out of town. It was bound to happen at some point, what with Joyce owning Melvald’s now. He’d expected it to be awkward, but was proven wrong when Joyce practically jumped the counter to engulf her honorary third son in a hug. She’d pulled him all the way down to her level, so he was bent at almost a 90 degree angle, but he didn’t care.

“How’ve you been, sweetheart? How’s Indy treating you?” she asked. That was a loaded question. It would be spectacular if your son hadn’t left, but whatever.

“It’s treating me well, I’m mostly taking my gen eds right now, but I’m always writing my own material when I’m not in class,” he grinned, trying his best to not let it look fake or forced. Joyce seemed to buy it.

“I’m so glad to hear that. You know, I always knew you were going to become a writer,” Joyce smiled, and Mike nodded, staying as neutral as possible. He knew where she was going with this. “I remember it as if it were yesterday,” bingo, “that in the mornings after your sleepovers, you and Will would sit at the dining room table with your eggs and maple syrup and work on your comics for hours. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” Mike replied wistfully, “I do.” He glanced down at his shoes, trying not to let any tears escape. The amount of crying over Will that he’d done just within the time he was back home was pathetic. But Joyce didn’t seem to mind in the least, because she reached up and ran her thumbs over his cheeks, where a few stray tears had traveled down against his will.

“Oh, honey,” Joyce held Mike’s face in her hands, eyes filled with compassion, and pulled him into another hug, holding him close. Mike had always loved Joyce, but this mutual understanding led Mike to reserve a special place in his heart for her.

They engaged in a little more small talk before she personally walked (dragged) him through the store with his shopping list to retrieve the items he needed. When she checked out his items at the counter, she grabbed a pen and post-it note, wrote something on it, and handed it to Mike. He held it up to eye level with a shaky hand.

“That’s Will’s phone number, he’s at the American Academy of Art,” she whispered. Mike’s eyes widened, and he breathed, “Thank you, Ms. Byers. So much,” before heading out the door to his car. He sat in the parking lot for a solid fifteen minutes, causing himself to fall behind schedule, but he had Will’s phone number. That was a good enough reason to be late, in his book.

After what felt like a fucking eternity, Mike was finally able to return to campus. He’d set his suitcase down next to his bed, and took a minute to collect his thoughts prior to unpacking. All of a sudden, Elvis clumsily tripped over his own feet through the door, sheepishly grinning at a startled Mike. Mike felt a blush rise to his cheeks, followed by a quiet, “hi.” Seconds later, they were all over each other.

It was around this time that Mike finally came to terms with the undeniable fact that he was exclusively attracted to men. He’d always believed his sexual preferences existed as a strict ratio of 70:30, with 70% being women and 30% being men. He’d always been aware of his attraction to guys (Will); he’d been sure of that for as long as he could remember. The confusing part about it all was when El came into the picture, and everyone and their mother expected them to start dating. Mike was, like, twelve at the time, so of course he went along with what everyone else wanted. That backfired majorly when El confronted Mike with tears in her eyes, asking, “But… you don’t love me anymore?” and his impulse response was, “I don’t even think I loved you romantically to begin with.” It took a long time for Mike and El to repair their friendship following that conversation, and to help him bullshit his parents into falling for some half-baked reason as to why he and his “sweetie pie” broke up so suddenly.

When he started his… situationship with Elvis, though, he began to question his 70:30 ratio. Elvis, to put it simply, was hot. He was taller than Mike, just by an inch, but it didn’t stop him from calling Mike “short.” Mike found that hilarious, as he himself stood at a staggering six foot three. Elvis had tanned skin, blonde hair which he kept in a preppy side part, and bright eyes that captured the essence of the bluest sky. He had full lips, a chiseled jawline, and a lean yet muscular build with the likeness of a Greek statue. Elvis had the most gorgeous hands. Mike particularly liked when those hands pinned his wrists above his head. He also liked when those blue eyes bore into his soul in the way that only one other pair of eyes had ever been able to do within his mere eighteen years of life. And he loved when that chiseled jawline, rough from lack of shaving, rubbed abrasively against his neck.

Elvis was adamant on there being no strings attached. He made sure to remind Mike every time they did anything remotely sexual, but over time, those words began to lose their potency, like watering down vodka to make it go down smoother. Mike’s wide eyes and “yes, of course, I understand”s were slowly replaced with absentminded “mmhmm”s. He figured that as long as Elvis never picked up on Mike’s social cues (or lack thereof), and as long as he never knew about Mike secretly developing more-than-fuck-buddies feelings for him, Mike would be in the clear. But eventually, something in Elvis had melted away, and he started calling Mike “my boy,” “love,” and “sweetheart,” amongst other gross (sweet) pet names. Mike assumed that Elvis had caved and given up on whatever rules he’d set for himself.

Regardless of the apparent stability in his situationship, Mike’s mind dwelled in a constant state of disarray. He knew he was not straight. He wasn’t even sure if he was bisexual. He became more conscious of who caught his eye in public, and what he wanted out of the people he interacted with. He discovered he didn’t feel the same way about curves, boobs, or soft lips as he felt when he saw a pair of broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, or a tapered waist. He felt different.

Part of Mike resented himself for being different. He hated the idea of being a target, whether it be for his family, the government, or society as a whole. He’d tried to change. He hooked up with a few girls over the course of a week, “just to see something,” but he’d spent the entire time wondering when it would be over so he could go home. All of those girls either got bored, weren’t satisfied, or got mad that Mike couldn’t get it up— if not a combination of all three— and left. Mike scared himself a little when he didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty.

When his encounter with the last girl fell through, he decided he didn’t want to live his life in sexuality limbo anymore. He ran all the way back to his dorm hall, hauled ass up the stairwell, and let himself into his room. Elvis spun around from where he sat at his desk, and could barely get out a “Hey, man,” before Mike was ripping Elvis from his chair and pulling him in, kissing him with all his might. It didn’t take long for Elvis to reciprocate Mike’s advances, kissing back with equal intensity and pushing Mike back until they hit the side of Elvis’s raised bed frame. Mike huffed a laugh against Elvis’s lips before hoisting himself up backwards and onto the mattress, watching as Elvis chased after him. He pushed his knee between Mike’s legs, and Mike took the hint, wrapping his ankles around Elvis’s hips. “I want to be with you, baby. With strings, all the strings,” Mike had told Elvis before pulling him down for another searing kiss, and… that was when his memory cut out for the evening.

Mike woke up the next morning, hangover hitting him like a truck, to see Elvis already awake and dressed, lifting boxes onto a trolley that was stationed in the middle of the room. Through squinted eyes, he noticed Elvis’s side of the room was essentially bare, save for the dorm furniture, which belonged to the school.

“What’s happening?” he croaked out, and Elvis dropped the box he was holding onto the pile with a loud thump. “Too loud. Headache,” he whispered sharply through gritted teeth.

“It always is too loud, isn’t it?” his roommate laughed wryly to himself, not making any effort to be any quieter. Mike sat up, rubbing his eyes and ignoring the fact that he was naked and in Elvis’s bed, the only thing that hadn’t been packed up yet.

“What the fuck, Elvis? What are you doing?”

“I’m moving out today, remember?” The two young men finally gained eye contact, and Mike felt his stomach drop like he was on a roller coaster. “I’m graduating in a few days and need my stuff out by this afternoon.”

Move out was today? Vecna must have been back with a vengeance, because how else would time move so quickly on its own? Sure, Elvis mentioned in passing, like, a few weeks ago, at most, that he was leaving soon. But it still didn’t make sense, because it was only… What, March? No, The Phone Call™ was a while ago. Was it April? Mike’s mom called him at least a few weeks prior to wish him a happy nineteenth birthday. Plus, weren’t commencement ceremonies scheduled for the weekend of– “What’s today’s date?”

Mike watched the blonde in front of him unsubtly scoff with impatience. “It’s May 1st, Mike.” He could only blink back at Elvis in response for a few seconds while he tried to process the fact that his brain was capable of skipping over whole months of his life. There was no way it was May 1st already.

“No,” was the only word Mike was capable of saying.

“Yet here we are, baby,” Elvis sneered as he whipped his comforter off of Mike, leaving him exposed and humiliated. “Time flies when you’re blackout drunk. I suggest you try and get your drinking under control, before you end up having to drop out.”

It was like Elvis was a completely different person, completely different from the man who had fucked him senseless the night before. What did Mike do to deserve this? He didn’t do or… say anything? Oh no. Now Mike knew what was going on. He drank too much, opened up, and blurted out loud that he wanted to be in a relationship with Elvis, who didn’t feel the same. Mike’s face was on fire with embarrassment.

Mike scrambled off the bed and ran to get dressed while Elvis pulled the last of his sheets off the cheap university mattress. He didn’t fold them, and instead balled them up and shoved them in the trash. Mike could barely breathe. He merely stood there and watched as his gorgeous Greek (actually Dutch) god of a roommate left their shared room for the last time. Well, Mike seemingly dodged a bullet. What an asshole.

Mike was sad that Elvis was gone, but it didn’t completely destroy him the way Will leaving did. What it most likely came down to, in Elvis’s instance, was a horrible case of internalized homophobia. Mike was very familiar with this mindset; he’d fought a gory, gruesome battle with his own mind for his entire adolescence, at war with himself to prevent acting upon his ever-growing romantic love for Will. But one day, his feelings finally retaliated, and his life immediately went to shit.

“What are you doing, Mike? Is this a joke?”

“No, Will, I’m in love with you.”

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

Comparing the two inevitably led to some old memories resurfacing to haunt him, but Mike felt strangely lucky. He’d been let off easily. Despite the way he stood completely stupefied in his dorm room, he knew this was temporary, and had full confidence that he’d be able to recover from this pretty quickly. Said confidence was probably the only thing that saved Mike from losing his mind. Well, that, and the pressure to pass his classes distracted him for a few days. Without having done much studying at all, Mike army crawled through his finals and barely made it out alive.

About a week later, Mike moved out of his dorm hall and into an apartment about two miles away from campus. It was a pretty nice place, considering the rent he (his father) paid for it. He got a job at the local coffee shop… which he lost before the month was up, because he never showed up to his shifts. He’d been shocked when Ted insisted upon co-signing the lease, because he didn’t think his dad would be willing to help Mike stay away from Hawkins. On the other hand, though, it made sense when Ted told him flat out that he wanted Mike out of the house. Mike didn’t blame him; he’d been referred to by his father as a “leech” on multiple occasions during his stay over Christmas break, which pretty much tracked. He felt a little guilty about that one.

Mike appreciated the independence, he truly did. It was a great feeling to have his own room again, to have a more comfortable desk chair to sit at while he drew up plans for a new fantasy novel starring a gay protagonist, to have a bathroom to himself, and most importantly, to have a full-sized refrigerator to fill with all the alcohol he could ever want. But sometimes, late at night, he would catch himself getting a bit too sad.

The entire summer was an endless cycle. Mike would wake up and make a pot of coffee. He’d sit down and write a chapter or two of his book, and stick to doing that for a few hours. He would check the time (on his wall clock, of course) and take a lunch break, which was usually a box of Annie’s shells and white cheddar. After he’d haphazardly tossed his singular bowl and fork into the sink to be washed later, he’d go back to writing. This wouldn’t last long, because he’d get distracted after smoking a joint, and probably end up staring at that one photo of himself and Will from senior year (Jonathan captured the moment: Mike had, by some miracle, perched himself up on Will’s handlebars, and Will struggled to hold his bike steady because he was laughing too hard) that sat framed on his desk. He’d snap out of his trance ten minutes later and mentally kick himself for staring for so long, which led to grabbing some form of alcohol and getting wasted, like all his potential. He would make one last attempt at writing and fail miserably. He’d stumble into the shower, and drag himself through his apartment until he found his bed. Most nights, he would end up crying himself to sleep, staring at The Painting™, which he’d tacked up on his bedroom ceiling as a form of self-punishment. It was a sad way to live, really. So Mike vowed that when the school year started up again, things would be different.

That was how Mike ended up at the library in late July, browsing the mythology section, squinting at titles printed on spines while his lips formed a straight, thin line. He knew he was officially a hermit when even the library gave him social anxiety. He’d just pulled a rather old looking book off the shelf when a tenor voice behind him caught him off guard.

“Never thought I’d see the day that book would leave the shelf. You must’ve had to brush off, like, a hundred years’ worth of dust just to get to the cover.” Mike twisted around to put a face to a voice, and was pleasantly surprised when he met eyes with a short guy (well, to Mike he was short; he was probably, like, 5’9”) with dyed, firetruck red hair that fell over his forehead in a sweeping motion. Mike liked how he wasn’t afraid to be bold.

“You’re definitely right about that,” Mike smirked, setting the book down and watching as the growing pile teetered from side to side on the table’s surface. He couldn’t decide where he wanted his story to go next, let alone if he wanted to continue with his current plot at all, so he’d planned on taking a bit of inspiration from… well, everything.

“So you’re into mythology?” the guy asked, and Mike shoved his hands in his pockets, leaning against the bookshelf as he focused his gaze down. He had pretty eyes. They were hazel, but not too green, not like–

“Yeah, I’m a creative writing major, and I’m trying to expand my horizons a little,” Mike replied, sitting down at the table. “Like, not to discount the genius of Tolkein, because he literally founded my childhood, but sometimes it’s good to go back to the basics and draw inspiration from there.”

The guy shrugged, and sat across the table from Mike. “Nothing wrong with that. I think it’s really smart, actually. Or else stories end up getting repetitive and dull.”

“Exactly!” Mike pointed both index fingers in the guy’s direction, as if to say, “Finally, someone who understands!” Mike struggled with this concept lately; the uniqueness factor. It turned out that having a male protagonist who just so happened to be romantically attracted to other males wasn’t enough reason to get a book to sell. He needed something else, something of substance, and something that wouldn’t remind readers of other books they’d previously read. “Are you into writing as well?”

“No,” the guy shyly smiled, “I’m just into guys who write about mythology.” Pardon? Was this masculine male-dude-man hitting on him? In public? Mike wasn’t complaining, but he hadn’t necessarily picked up on any hints. Although, the dyed hair should’ve been a dead giveaway.

“Oh. Um, I– wow, okay,” Mike stuttered, diverting his eyes to his books for a few seconds to process what was being said before returning to an expectant pair of hazel eyes still looking right at him. “I’m Mike, Mike Wheeler.”

“Wyatt Bowman.”

Mike cleared his throat. “Are you free in an hour, Wyatt?”

“Yeah, why?” Wyatt raised an eyebrow, causing Mike to huff a nervous laugh, tapping his Ticonderoga pencil against his spiral-bound notebook at the same speed his knee bounced up and down underneath the table.

“I just gotta take some notes from here, then I was thinking we could… hang out, or something?” Mike glanced up hopefully at Wyatt.

The corners of Wyatt’s mouth curved upwards as he repeated, “Or something?”

Mike nodded, confirming their silent sub-conversation.

“Cool. That sounds like a good plan,” Wyatt said, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table as he rose out of the seat and headed for the exit.

“Cool,” Mike whispered back, reminiscent of a certain afternoon in a certain town in California in a certain room with a certain boy that made him feel a certain way. But that was the past, and Mike believed he was ready for the future.

When Mike started seeing Wyatt Bowman, they established that their relationship would not be serious. They were, in a small amount of words, friends with benefits. And they were actually friends. They could hang out without getting all hot and heavy. And Mike didn’t have any objections; he actually preferred the idea of friends who sometimes had sex over the label-less, no strings arrangement that he and Elvis had. It left less room for loopholes of chronic insecurity and self sabotage. It also, in turn, left more room for exploration.

Mike met Wes Butler in August at his first ever visit to an actual bar. He’d been sitting at the counter with a few of his female friends (Ruby, Alexis, and Julia), and had just received one of the fruitiest cocktails he’d ever tasted when a piece of eye candy, who might as well have been dressed in nothing, lightly tapped his shoulder and asked him to dance. Of course the girls encouraged him, not really giving him an option in the matter, but hey, good dick was good dick. It didn’t really turn into much else; once they’d had a few rounds of unnecessarily loud sex in a supply closet (ironic, but typical), Mike bid goodbye to his friends, tossing his condom wrappers in the trash on the way out.

He met another guy, Walker Brooks, in September at an off-campus nerd rave. He looked a lot like Eddie Munson, which may or may not have been coincidental. They left the party not even an hour after it began to go to Walker’s dorm. They fucked in between Lord of the Rings themed bedsheets, and Mike had to endure an excruciating hour and a half of Walker speaking Elvish rather than English. Afterwards, he invited Mike to join the University of Indy D&D Club, of which he was, of course, the Dungeon Master. Mike politely declined.

On a particularly difficult October night following being roofied followed by some unwanted advances, Mike slapped himself awake with one hand as he unsteadily held his handlebars with the other, biking back to his apartment. His grip slipped, and the front wheel hit the curb, which sent the bike to come to a screeching halt and throw Mike over the handlebars, tumbling onto the concrete. Warren Blakely, one of his classmates in English 101, watched Mike fall, stopped him from biking again before he hurt himself even more, and asked him what exactly had happened. Once he told Warren what had gone down, he wouldn’t let Mike out of his sight. Over the next two months or so, Warren kept Mike safe and let him take control back over his own life. Mike and Warren had a special bond. If Mike didn’t still love Will, and if he didn’t have such extreme trust issues, he would have absolutely dated Warren if provided the chance. But he couldn’t, not until he got over Will, so he ended things with Warren. This specific relationship put things into perspective for him. In the end, none of these men he slept with would ever be Will Byers. So he’d either have to get over Will, or find someone better.

On the nights he wasn’t at parties, he was at his desk, writing letters to Will. It was kind of cathartic, honestly. He’d rip a piece of college ruled paper out of his notebook, just like old times, and write letter after letter saying things along the lines of:

Dear Will, I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry that I love you. I’m sorry I did what I did to you. And I’m sorry I can’t take it back. I wish we could be best friends again. I wish we could have late night walkie conversations like we used to. I want nothing more than to play D&D in the basement with you for the rest of our lives. Love, Mike

These occasional letters became a part of his nightly routine… whenever he wasn’t too fucked up to focus his eyes on his own handwriting. And recently, it was more often than not that he couldn’t actually fall asleep without drinking. Mike wasn’t even of legal age yet, and wouldn’t be for another two years.

Mike stopped attending his classes halfway through the semester, so it wasn’t a surprise when his grades plummeted. His mailbox became inundated with letters from the registrar’s office, advising him to withdraw from the classes he was failing before the pass/fail deadline, but Mike couldn’t care less; so, not only did he fail out of his classes, but he couldn’t even retake the classes even if he wanted to, because his record forced him into the red zone. And the entire time, he couldn’t feel a thing.

“Hey, by any chance do you know the time?” a deep voice asked, and Mike lifted his gaze up from his lap to a muscular brunette. He blinked a few times in an attempt to form a coherent sentence.

“I, uh– I don’t—” Mike stuttered, lifting his bare, watch-less wrist up to show to the guy, who merely lifted an unserious eyebrow and chuckled. He took Mike’s hand in his and let it down gently before sitting next to him on the couch.

“It’s all good, man. I was just using that as a reason to talk to you.”

Mike was surprised someone clocked him that quickly. But then again, he was wearing insanely tight jeans that he’d cut right above the knee paired with a floral print shirt. He wasn’t exactly being subtle. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” the guy laughed, extending a rough, calloused hand. Did he lift weights? Or play guitar? Or both? “I’m Carter, by the way.” At least his name didn’t begin with a W. Or maybe it did, but the W was silent. Wcarter. Ouah-carter. Wah-carter. Double-you-carter. Dub-yuh-Carter. Cart… Chart… Astrological chart. Mike made a mental note to check his horoscope. What was he thinking about originally? He couldn’t remember.

Jesus. Mike was hammered.

“I’m Mike,” he replied, taking the guy’s— Carter’s— hand, but Carter didn’t shake it. He instead let their fingers intertwine, anticipatorily slow. Okay. Mike could be good with this.

“Do you maybe want to get out of here, Mike?” Carter asked, and Mike felt a blush rising to his face.

“Sure, yeah,” he breathed, and let Carter pull him up out of his sunken spot on the couch, down some hallway, and into an empty bedroom. Mike scoped out the place and noticed a photo of Carter with a dog framed on the desk; this was his room. Mike exhaled in relief. He didn’t want to have sex in someone else’s bed. Never again.

Carter pulled the door closed and locked it, turning around to face Mike before looking him up and down. Mike gulped. He hadn’t realized before, because it was so dark, but in the lamplight, Carter’s resemblance to Will was uncanny. He was a few inches shorter than Mike, and had a muscular build– that much he knew already. Thank god he didn’t have a bowl cut. He had a strong jawline but a subtle softness to his features. His lips were a light pink, the upper one a bit thinner than the lower one. The most similar feature they shared, though, was their bright green eyes, full of life, and something else Mike couldn’t name… intention? Vulnerability? Yearning?

In his inebriated state, Mike didn’t notice how close Carter had gotten until he felt two hands snaking their way up his shoulders and joining behind his neck, pulling him down until their lips met. He couldn’t move fast enough, lifting his shaking hands to rest on Carter’s waist, pulling him into his chest and deepening the kiss immediately. Carter was more languid in his movements, while Mike was more firm and calculated; this felt strangely antithetical. It probably had to do something with his increased tolerance. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but if there was one person who knew how to repress his feelings with a series of bad decisions, it was Mike Wheeler. His life was already on fire, what more could possibly happen to exacerbate the flame?

The two young men made their way over to Carter’s bed, where they quickly undressed. Carter kissed down Mike’s body, and Mike ran his hands through Carter’s hair. Then he went down on Mike without warning.

“Ah!” Mike yelped in surprise, his exclamation becoming a moan almost instantaneously. This was good. This felt nice. This is exactly what he’d imagine–

“Will…”

“Excuse me?”

And with that, the night was over. Carter stopped what he was doing, got up, muttered a “fuck you,” and left without another word. Mike felt the world zeroing in on him. He could just picture what he’d write in his next letter:

Dear Will, I said your name while another guy had my dick in his mouth. Do you believe me now? Love, Mike

next part

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fullscoreshenanigans · 1 year

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I appreciate that Shirai didn’t think this was a satisfactory conclusion to a conflict that had been simmering in the background for twenty-five chapters, but this was still one of the most disappointing moments of the back half of the series for me, especially when he notes Ayshe contributed to saving Norman in chapter 6 of the mystic code book.

“Recover from the stigma of slaughter” is an interesting way of phrasing it because as @hylialeia concisely phrases it in this post, Norman and the Lambda kids do deserve the chance to do this:

#this is why I feel he's so similar to scar from fmab #like I love the demon characters in tpn but it would have been extremely iffy if the writing had decided they were all suddenly innocent #overall the narrative does a good job of balancing that complexity #without veering off into that self-righteous bs so many stories try to pull #like. the demons commit genocide. actively farmed humans.experimented on them. brainwashed and enslaved a good portion of them.and that happened when there were alternatives! #even the more sympathetic demons are guilty of complacency in the face of this #and the reason I'm still able to root for them is because that sympathy #doesn't require norman or the other lambda kids to be demonized (pun not intended) #so yeah I'm not onboard with the idea that norman didn't ~suffer enough~ for his actions #the kid was raised as food and turned into a human experiment and tortured #the idea that like. musica or sonju should have been meaner to him or whatever leaves such a bad taste in my mouth #(ayshe is valid tho.)

But Ayshe is only given one impassioned sentence in response to her father being slaughtered that’s enough to make her fist clench in anger before the narrative pushes onward.

(Chapter 139 & Mystic Code Book Chapter 6 Q&A)

And it’s made even more tragic because Ayshe’s father was largely reclusive already after a lifetime of being made fun of for his misshapen face

Adopting Ayshe pushed him further to demon society’s outskirts, potentially not speaking to any other demons after quitting his job except possibly at the rare market exchange for goods he might need for her. There was no one he was going to tell about the Lambda escapees.

(Shirai does state he was part of the aristocracy at some point to explain why he knew the demon language:)

(So between that and working at the farm, he did implicitly uphold the system without questioning it, but by the time he leaves his job we can assume he’s only eating humans to maintain his sanity, or he’s somehow related to the group of aristocrats who drank Mujika’s blood 700 years prior so he has no need for it. He wasn’t actively fighting against it, but he wasn’t contributing to it in the last twelve years of his life.)

But while most of the Lambda crew doesn’t know any of this backstory, Shirai also notes that Norman knew the demon language by the point they meet Ayshe thanks to Smee:

So he knows exactly what she’s saying as he stands before her in the wake of her father’s murder. He doesn’t make any attempts to correct the others’ inferences based on their own experiences with the demons at Lambda. Ayshe either quickly composes herself and goes along with them without a fight or another word, or Norman plays her reaction off as her not being in the right mind after being her held captive by a demon for however long as they carry her off to the paradise hideout (I’m assuming it’s the former though because her dogs would likely attack in the latter scenario). And he lets all of this simmer for potentially months (the timeline’s not exactly clear on how long Ayshe has been with them)

(Mystic Code Book Chapter 7)

instead of talking to her about any of this despite knowing they made a mistake. Upon meeting with her again after the events at the imperial capital, he takes a few panels to collect himself before deciding on a single sentence to say to her, and then moves on. Ayshe contributed to saving him per Shirai, but we’re not privy to any attempts at him repaying her or trying to make amends. It’s a shame such a promising, nuanced conflict that should not have an easy, immediate answer was sidestepped to save on page space and expedite the series finale.

I do think it’s interesting that despite whatever he said being infuriating to her, Ayshe is willing to be in physical proximity to him during the timeskip, and her and her dogs allow him to hold a puppy.

(Chapter 181; fucking rip Vincent getting a new scar on his head)

Like many people I’m defaulting to him providing her with some form of a short apology in that chapter 160 exchange. He’s accepted that Ayshe might kill him one day, though after everything he’s gone through in his arc about the flawed thinking of sacrificing your life in pursuit of a cause, I don’t believe he offered her his life in exchange as part of any honor customs, or at least not while he’s still able to do some good in the world. Ayshe has accepted this, albeit not happily by any means.

Finally, all that said,

(TPN Exhibition Booklet: Tracks to the Neverland (Dec. 2020) Interview)

Really fucking glad these didn’t happen ldskfslk

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mostthingskenobi · 6 months

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CASSIAN'S RECKONING - Chapter 12: The Ghosts

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Rogue One may have rescued Cassian but he's not out of the woods.

The piece of art above is a preview. I commissioned 5 illustrations for this fic from @amikoroyaiart and you can see the first 3 on my Patreon.

READ THE FIC ON AO3

THIS IS A WHUMPY FIC W/GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE. PLEASE HEED THE TAGS ON AO3.

——————–

CHAPTER 12: THE GHOSTS

As the Lambda shuttle dropped out of hyperspace, Rogue One was greeted by a familiar ship floating in a vast nothingness. Their rendezvous with the Ghost took place in a remote part of the cosmos near neither planet nor space station. They transferred to the starship through an umbilical, leaving the imperial vessel—along with its tracking beacon—powered down and floating aimlessly.

Jyn and Melshi struggled to support Cassian as they entered the Ghost’s cargo bay. Hera greeted them, taking in Andor’s dire state. She retracted the umbilical and shouted into her commlink, “Chop, get us out of here.” She pointed at Baze, Chirrut, and Bodhi. “You three head up to our crew quarters. You can grab blankets and water for Cassian.” She turned to Jyn next. “I would offer to put him in one of our bunks but I don’t think he can make it up the ladder.”

Erso nodded her agreement.

“I need to speak with you,” Hera said, lowering her voice.

Jyn and Melshi eased Cassian to the ship’s deck before she stepped to the corner with the general. “We can’t go back to Yavin,” Hera began.

“Why? What’s happened?”

“I just got word from base of an immanent threat. The Death Star has arrived in orbit over the moon. Our fighters will be engaging shortly, but even if they succeed in defeating the weapon, the base location has been compromised.”

“What about Cassian?” Jyn fought to tamp down the panic rising in her throat. “You can see he clearly needs help now.”

“They’re scrambling the fleet. I’ve secured us a rendezvous with the Nebulon-B frigate Redemption. We have to hurry because they’ll only wait for a short window of time. The fleet is going to have to constantly keep moving until we find a new base location.” Hera looked over her shoulder at Cassian who sat slumped against Melshi. “He looks bad.”

“They were ruthless,” Jyn replied grimly.

Hera placed a hand on her arm. “Don’t worry. The Redemption has a full medical set up. They’ll be able to help him.”

“If he survives the flight back.”

“We have to keep hope.”

Rebellions are built on hope. It felt like years since Cassian first said that to her. She’d almost scoffed in his face at the time. But now, it was the mantra that kept her going.

“I’ll be in the cockpit,” Hera said. “If you need anything, there’s a comm on the wall or you can just come up.”

“Thank you. For everything. None of this could have happened without you.”

Hera couldn’t hold back a smile. “I’m sure you still would have found a way.” She turned and climbed up the ladder out of the cargo bay.

Jyn went and knelt next to Melshi.

“I don’t feel so good,” Cassian murmured.

“We’ll be home soon.” Jyn could have sworn his bruises looked darker. “They’ll get you fixed up. You can have a nice, long rest. You’ll be safe there.”

Cassian nodded weakly, his chest lifting heavily as he tried to stay lucid.

“Do you want to lay down?”

“Maybe.”

“You need to try to stay awake, though,” Melshi cautioned.

Cassian’s head fell back against the bulkhead, no longer able to hold it up. “I’m awake.” His body visibly shuddered as he struggled for another rasping breath. “It’s so cold in here.”

Jyn and Melshi shared a concerned look. “I’ll go find a med kit,” the sergeant said, pushing up and hurrying out of the cargo bay.

Cassian’s teeth began to chatter. “I’m freezing.”

Fear gripped Jyn; she’d seen enough men die to know this was the beginning of the end. “Cassian,” she said firmly. Her tone startled him and his eyes slowly pulled open. “Don’t let go,” she commanded.

His gaze became dull and he began to slide down the wall. She caught him by the shoulder and eased him to the floor before ripping off her vest and stuffing it under his head. “Help is coming.” She tried to stay calm but all of this was too familiar. They’d been here once before, Cassian dying on a ship’s floor while Jyn frantically tried to save him. “We’re not doing this again.” Her voice broke. She cradled his face in her hands and leaned over him. “Cassian!” He was declining quickly, his breath weak and his eyes rolling, but he reached up and took hold of her wrist. She put her cheek against his. “Stay with me,” she whispered as tears stung her eyes and slipped from her lashes onto his skin.

His other hand weakly grasped the back of her shirt at the base of her neck as he nuzzled against her. “I’m with you, Jyn,” he breathed before going completely limp.

——————–

The phantom trail of Jyn’s tears still tickled across his cheek; the feeling of her fingers against his skin was still alive; but he found himself alone. Cassian opened his eyes and once again saw swaying, beautiful, verdant branches of an ancient, silent forest. Slowly, he sat up, still stiff from Tarkin’s abuse. He noticed his hands were cut and bleeding, his wrists raw, but the pain was gone.

Carefully, he got to his feet and looked around, taking in every detail. He could tell the tree line ended somewhere far off in the distance, and beyond lingered a tease of sunlight and warmth. Where he stood, the grass was lush and the tree canopy high, vaulting like a natural temple. The breeze gently tousled the hair around his eyes and smelled of something green and fresh.

“I was worried you’d be back.”

Cassian spun around, and what he saw cause his breath to hitch. His mother and father stood between two arched trees, their expressions more relaxed and gentler than he’d ever seen. His mouth fell open, unable to find words to express his heartache and joy as he stared dumbly at the two people he grieved most.

“You’ve had a hard time of it,” Maarva finally spoke, gesturing at his still bleeding face. “Harder than I think we’ll ever fully know.”

“Perhaps that’s why he’s here,” Clem said, leading Maarva forward a few steps.

Cassian wanted to go to them, to hug them, but he was afraid any movement could break the spell. He stood frozen in place as emotions pushed to the surface. “Dad?”

“My boy.” Clem’s voice was soft and kind, fully aware that he and his son last looked on each other during a moment so horrific neither dared speak of it.

Tears slipped down Cassian’s face. His gaze shifted to his mother. “Are you both safe here?”

She looked pained by her son’s worry. “There’s nothing to harm any of us.”

“But you can’t stay,” Clem said very gently.

Cassian knew in his heart it was the truth but he didn’t want to accept it; he could sense that he didn’t belong in this place—a feeling he lived with for as long as he could remember. “I want to stay with you.”

Maarva’s chest heaved as though she were holding back a sob. “You’ve been through a lot of strife but you have a good heart, Cass. We want to let you rest, but this isn’t your time.”

“And,” Clem said with a loving smile, “unless I’m mistaken, you still have some unfinished business.”

Cassian thought of almond-shaped eyes and dirty combat boots and a woman with so much fire in her heart she could burn everyone around her.

“Look at him!” Maarva startled Cassian from his reverie. “He’s healing!”

He looked down and saw his fingers were no longer crooked and bruised. He touched his face and realized the cuts had turned into thin scars.

“Not long now,” Clem nodded.

Cassian stared at his parents, trying to imprint their faces on his memory. “I don’t want to leave you,” he said, tears still burning his eyes. “I miss you. I think about you all the time.”

They came as close as they could without touching. “You’re a good boy,” Maarva said, fighting her emotions.

“He’s a good man now, love,” Clem teased his wife. Cassian had forgotten how comforting his father was, how his eyes twinkled and his smile calmed those around him. “We’re not going anywhere, Cass.”

Clem wrapped an arm around Maarva, who gave one stiff nod before saying, “We’ll be here when the time is right. Do your best.”

“Remember,” his father said, “eyes open. Possibilities everywhere.”

His heart ached but Cassian smiled. Losing his parents was a pain he could not put down. Though Clem and Maarva were not his biological family, they had loved him as no one else in the galaxy had loved him. And he loved them, loved their quirks, their flaws, their passions. He knew he hadn’t always been a good son, but they loved him anyway; they loved him because, unlike so many of his other relationships, his connection with his mother and father was unconditional. He never doubted them.

“I love you.”

“I know, my boy,” Maarva finally smiled.

Clem gave him one final nod then said, “It’s time to wake up.”

——————–

Jyn had watched as tears slowly formed on Cassian’s eyelashes and slipped down his temples while he slept. She chewed her lip with anxiety, unable to help him while he silently suffered.

Hours passed before his eyes unexpectedly opened; she moved to his side, taking his hand in hers.

“Where am I?” he asked, his vision unfocused and disoriented, not seeing her or the room beyond.

“You’re on the Redemption. It’s an Alliance frigate.”

He blinked hard, unable to see past his tears, so Jyn gently wiped his lashes with her thumbs. Cassian finally looked at her. “Jyn,” he breathed with relief.

She sat next to him on the bed and placed a hand on his chest, trying to calm him. “Everything’s OK. You’re safe. You’re healing.”

He was shuddering with emotion as he closed his eyes against more tears.

“What is it, Cassian?” Jyn’s voice betrayed her worry. “Are you in pain? Do you want me to get the doctor?”

He reached up and set his hand over hers in the middle of his chest and just breathed for a long time.

“I saw my parents,” he finally said.

Worry flashed through Jyn. Many rotations ago, Cassian and she had once spent a long night drinking strong still alcohol, telling each other about their parents, eventually both crying so hard they ended up laughing—a testament to grief’s strangeness. She knew losing his mother and father had caused a deep fracture in Cassian’s heart.

“That’s good,” she said, gently squeezing his shoulder with her other hand, concealing her fear. “That’s really good.”

He stared blankly at the ceiling as more tears welled in his eyes. “They’re together now.”

Jyn swallowed her own emotions, biting down hard on her lip. She wasn’t sure what any of this meant; part of it scared her; the surgeons had said Cassian was not yet out of the woods. She feared a visitation from deceased parents did not bode well for her friend, but she dared not voice her concern. Instead, she asked, “What did they tell you?”

His eyes began to roll back in his head as his eyelids drooped. He was desperately exhausted and still heavily drugged. “They said,” he mumbled, “that I have unfinished business.” He barely got the last word out before he lost consciousness again.

Jyn looked down at him, taking in every detail; his beard was growing back, his arched brow was now split by a gash, his sharp cheekbone was marred by a dark bruise. She thought he was beautiful, and all she wanted was the chance to make him laugh again, to see him smile at her from across the room, to talk late into the night about everything and nothing.

She slid back to her chair and pulled her knees up to her chin, suddenly overwhelmed with the turmoil she’d been fighting since Cassian first disappeared. Jyn clamped a hand over her mouth to silence her sorrow while tears poured down her own cheeks. She took out the kyber crystal that hung around her neck and squeezed it. If the Force would give her this one little thing, if it would save Cassian, Jyn Erso promised the mystical power that she would truly believe in hope.

——————–

END NOTES

NEXT CHAPTER IS CALLED “THE REDEMPTION" - Tarkin may be gone but he still has a hold on Cassian.

Thank you for reading!

Likes, comments, and reblogs are very welcome!

Much love!

——————–

READ IT ON AO3- Kudos and Comments Welcome :-)

READ CHAPTER 1 “The Razor”

READ CHAPTER 2 “The Scythe”

READ CHAPTER 3 “The Cold”

READ CHAPTER 4 “The Expendable”

READ CHAPTER 5 “The Truth”

READ CHAPTER 6 “The Detritus”

READ CHAPTER 7 “The Salt”

READ CHAPTER 8 “The Power”

READ CHAPTER 9 “The Betrayal”

REACH CHAPTER 10 “The Ruse”

READ CHAPTER 11 “The Reprieve”

READ CHAPTER 12 "The Ghosts"

READ CHAPTER 13 “The Redemption”

READ CHAPTER 14 “The Spoils”

READ CHAPTER 15 “The Interrogation”

READ CHAPTER 16 "The Rogues"

READ CHAPTER 17 “The Absolution”

READ CHAPTER 18 “The Reach”

READ CHAPTER 19 “The Hologram”

READ CHAPTER 20 “The Divide”

READ CHAPTER 21 “The Cost”

READ CHAPTER 22 “The Fallout”

READ CHAPTER 23 “The Wounds”

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ecoamerica · 2 months

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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spiderh0rse · 25 days

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stark's mind notes part 7, e31-33, -1, and stark's mind 2 chapter 1. those last two aren't crucial to the plot and sm2e1 is noncanon, I believe, but they're fascinating regardless. the series is functionally in a hiatus at the moment, so this is all there is.

e31

sounds far more calm now. off to the lambda labs!

his tram has locked into the fastest setting! He has to jump off of it! Inertia! Fuck!

honestly I do think he ends up the most hurt from his own accidents than being attacked

tries to gripe for a second and gets shot at

admits that though he's not the paragon of virtue, morality, so on, the military is Still Worse. Score one point for self esteem??

confused about how the tram broke open a blast door, then shakes it off claiming he's wasting time

he says he can't shoot at shoddy and decrepit infrastructure and that makes it more dangerous than the things actively trying to kill him. OSHA inspector Stark when

having a rough time staying afloat

underwater mumbling

glad he didn't fall into the water from too high up. Surface tension and all that

a physics puzzle! Yippee!

confused about how a marine can die to a headcrab zombie

continues to be mad at poor construction and poorly maintained infrastructure

gets water in his mouth on accident

very thankful that none of the aliens are aquatic...

sprinklers! But yeah that and the water in the silo probably washed the blood off!

spots. The ICTHYOSAUR

thinks grenades will have killed the icthyosaur. Confusing that they don't tbh considering what being underwater near an explosion does to you

e32

deep breath. sigh.

so confused about the room layout of the icthyosaur encounter

claims he's been conditioned to kill every dangerous alien in his path. Relieved he doesn't have to kill this one

almost slips into the water! This shakes him badly

collapsed hallway > the fucking pool

"if there is a god, this door will lead to the lambda labs! I hear beeping and booping!"

a week. Stark doesn't comment on the timeline here.

stark does NOT want to talk to this pushy guy who's trying to get him to kill the icthyosaur

so so so beleaguered by this asshole scientist. Very quiet to him.

ignores the shark cage in favour of shooting into the water. Admits it isn't working

finds this while detour stupid

visibly struggling for air while turning the valve

seems to be shaking a bit for a while there! The water drains out of his suit when he stands up

wants seafood now! Get him some shrimp

likes the scope on the crossbow

likes that being able to see things at a distance with the scope affords him some safety

when you can teleport, everything's an ambush!

enjoys peeking around with the scope

climbs a grate! Poorly!

Colleague.

it's 2:34! PM? AM? Hell if i know

e33

spaced out for a minute there! My word he's exhausted

you know I think he'd have pieced together this puzzle easily a day or two ago. Hasn't eaten has barely slept...

yeah! Right there! Admits he missed something earlier! He's slowing down!

wonders if he'll be able to catch up to the man he saw

ignores the puzzle and stacks boxes

bangs his head on some metal

"the electricity won't kill me, it just hurts" man this'll give you brain damage, pal

agrees heartily to being called Gordon Freeman

cooooooold

shivering terribly. Has never been this cold in his life

goes and huddles by some warm pipes until everything clears up

still pissy about the icthyosaur

Stark's compliment of choice for the aliens is "sneaky"

alas that guard there is probably not Arlen

20 FOOT VERTICAL JUMP

handles the black ops pretty well!

considers the skintight bodysuits very impractical for combat

it's morning. It was 2:34 not too long ago. Wanna bet that little space out was him being asleep on his feet for a bit?

pretty sure he's doing very well right now. Nothing has stopped him so far. Nothing will! He's in complete control of his situation!

came back to the facility because of a promise

surface access is not his ideal direction right now

makes a dark joke, considers it may be too far, then figures he's allowed

hears the ambush, kind of gasps, shoots around, gets hit over the head, and hits the ground with a whimper

the voices of the HECU dragging him are much harder to make out than in Half Life. Stark is silent.

e-1

new titlecard! Neater hair. shorter.

on a coffee break! Likes the taste.

was manually delivering paperwork to Management

on his way, was mistaken for Freeman five times

and now a sixth. Politely corrects the man.

works with Freeman! Seems to think he doesn't like Stark

waits around watching the monitors for a tram schedule for a while

Kleiner has lectured him on tardiness before

makes a little ditty about walking around

so happy some random guy didn't call him Freeman!

responds to What's Up with The Ceiling

has been working at the company since he was 19, before Freeman was hired on

pretty sure the Freeman thing rn is a prank

picks Felix and Ramirez as a good example of someone who'd prank him

wonders how Ramirez would convince people to join in on the prank

he and Ramirez have had some manner of prank war going on for a while now

Stark managed to convince maintenance to swap the orange soda in the vending machines for lemon lime, which many were unhappy about

the racquetball incident saved Stark from being fired over the Soda Swap

hasn't heard from Ramirez in weeks due to some... Research project he's on...

Ramirez doesnt have to witness his prank to be happy about it

sees an exploded printer and compliments maintenance nearby for their work

knows a janitor! Marty! Considers helping him clean up a puddle if he weren't so late.

leaps a spilled puddle. Proud of his jump. Most physical activity he's done in a while

hazard course training next week!

considers shaving his goatee

sm2e1

fancy slow title screen. No card.

however ending up in the train worked, it is unpleasant.

oh yeah man's just whispering the whole time

does get a bit louder to protect someone

tells some combine (Barney) "You don't know who you're dealing with."

prepares to attack the combine

doesnt object at all to Barney calling him Freeman

only slightly objects to Kleiner

just. Deeply confused.

knows who Alyx is

exasperated at the combine, at Barney urging him along and offering no explanations

claims it's good to be back.

claims this is Black Mesa all over again, in the map department

throws away the can

figures out they're being watched pretty quickly

knows what Xen is called!

finds the Citadel imposing

talks about the man in the suit

a bit shocked at the sight of a strider but pushes past it

thinks Gman may have brought him back to Earth to mock him

realizes he hasn't seen any kids.

insults someone who doesn't fight his impending doom

a lot better at keeping calm under pressure than we're used to seeing him

#stark's mind #vincent stark #mindverse #rmanotes #ramirez stark's mind #uh #ramirez's mind #???#he does not have a series but i hear this is how individuals in mind series are tagged regardless #at any rate i love ramirez.

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stemmmm · 9 months

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part 5 (+?) thread

ep1 ep2 ep3 ep4

erika furudo is bern's fucking self-insert oc................ i knew they had to be the same person because they Look Like That and also. Name. but. oh my god this is funny. she's managed to say a single line btw, this is just spoiler knowledge and inference running

ah! ok so we are doing answer arc-ass answer arcs. cool i'm fine with that! makes things a lot easier to follow especially since more inane bullshit's gonna get thrown in

hate haaaaate seeing beato like this tho :(((( this is miserable, she makes me so sad, and battler saying over and over again "dw boo i'm gonna kill u for sure" also makes me so sad. get well soon queen!!!!!!!!

i may be wrong but i get the impression that this was kind of the same as the evolution of the real life beato's situation/personality.... and in that sense i can't imagine any of this ending well but i want it to so baddd because i love herrrrr she deserves the worllldddddddd

it's nice of them to rewind things for battler's sake but uh. erika's a bit of a fucking cunt huh. no love in this game, indeed. we are bringing out peoples worst and making sure battler has as miserable of a time as possible. it's interesting to see that the epitaph is solved before any murder but know that people still die in the end tho.

also love that we're saying kinzo's dead for real, none of this with natsuhi is happening. open your eyes battler, look. nothing's there. really good moment.

battler's been confronting the epitaph in terms of why it exists rather than solving it, and there's definitely been much spoken of miracles, added onto by lambda saying there'd be no point in the riddle if it wasn't hard which would add ammunition for a miracle to happen, though there's still the insistence that beato has nothing to gain from the riddle existing... at least materially. and she doesn't kill for pleasure. so there's the obvious point that she made the epitaph because she wanted to play with someone, specifically battler since he always lives, and battler himself mentioned the play aspect though I dont know how serious he was about that. beato's very obviously just wanted to play with him from the beginning, even though her kidnapping and torturing of him in the first place pretty heavily obscured that. if we accept play as her reason for it existing and doing the murder games, that still leaves the miracle up in the air. does the chance of a miracle occurring not count as a potential material gain? is doing something purposely to try and create a miracle not... a reason for doing it? is the miracle that beato could Actually be revived in some way or is there something else?

#m.txt #umineko liveblog

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chidoroki · 9 months

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182 Days of TPN - Day 139

Chapter 139: "Demon Search, Part 2"

Yo demons can be so rude. Norman's extermination plan is extreme and while I think it should only target the aristocrats and those in charge of any farms instead of drag down innocent lives down as well, these select few randos can bite the dust too simply because they're making fun of one of the kindest demons this series has to offer.

I know this world runs differently and the demons only see us as food, so this scene is essentially like us watching fish or something on a conveyor belt being tossed out, but it's still a hard scene to witness as these are literal babies.

His panic over stealing from the farm is actually kinda cute and I love how quickly his intentions changed, even from him switching from saying "it" to "her." He could've very well just had her for dinner, possibly improving the state of his face (since eating other humans haven't really worked in the past so who knows if she would've helped or not), yet he decides to treat her as family instead because of the empathy he feels simply because both their faces are a little messed up.

Someone please help this precious demon, he's trying his absolute hardest to figure out how to raise a human child and it's adorable! It means everything that he's raising her as his own daughter and not as food like the plantation mothers/sisters are forced to do. I wish he has an official name though aside from us just referring to him as Ayshe's dad because he's just so special and I love him. He's tied with Lucas & Alex as one of the best parents in the series and I'll go as far to say he's my second favorite out of the whole roster. (no need to ask about number one when it's obvious.)

I don't have any strong opinions on Zazie, like he's okay, I don't necessarily like or dislike him a great amount, but I gotta say that killing this amazing dad ain't gonna reward him with brownie points.

A moment of relief for me that this scene wasn't animated because I'm sure it would've made me tear up. Poor guy didn't deserve this.

Of course, by extension, this means that Ayshe didn't need to suffer this unfortunate loss either. This whole event sorta parallels the shelter raid, to the point where Andrew & his men invaded the escapee's home & ended up killing Yuugo & Lucas. Only difference is the children managed to escape their pursuer while Ayshe was basically captured by hers. We learn later on that Norman was already knowledgeable with the demon language at this point, so it's pretty bold of him to bring this traumatized girl back with him to paradise knowing fully well that she's hellbent on ending their lives.

I'm.. starting to remember why Norman is my least favorite of the fullscore trio and unfortunately it's partly due to all the pain he caused Ayshe to experience. Granted, her father's death was a direct result of Zazie's attacks, but it goes without saying that the kid was acting on Norman's orders. Sorry not sorry but I don't do well with people who make my favorites suffer, just look at all the dislike I have towards the demon god (the effects the reward had on Emma), Andrew (killing bunker dads & the injuries inflicted on Dominic & Chris), the GF demon (taking my queen's life), and Peter (he's a Ratri, there's literally so much I could list here). Norman isn't as bad as the rest of them, but eh, I can't find it in myself to adore him as much as Ray or Emma.

It's smart of her to remain quiet though. She can't risk acting out, whether it be on her desires or just being rebellious, since she's seen first hand how powerful the Lambda crew is.

Not really relevant to these panels but it's what made me think of this.. I wish we got to see Ayshe and Emma interact more. Or at all, actually. Ayshe learning that someone like our best girl actually cares this much for demons must have been such a relief to hear. I get that Ayshe kept quiet around the Lambda crew because of the stuff regarding her father, but she couldn't really bond with the other paradise hideout kids either since they all have opposing opinions about demons than she does.

HELP she is so darn adorable!! I would've been fine if Ayshe remained this cool assassin throughout the whole story because I really do love those cold, silent characters but being able to see her have a little silly side is such a pleasant surprise.

Just because Ayshe is now an ally doesn't mean that the idea of assassins magically goes away! That's still a concern!

Favorite panel/moment:

I pretty much adore every moment of the flashbacks between Ayshe and her dad, even the tiny moments we get in this panel are super cute. Norman wondered in ch127 if it was possible to refrain eating your favorite food if it asked you, so let me tell him that this tiny, happy family is living proof of that! Aaahh, they deserved so much better! (ALSO, the lights on the small table behind them are identical to the ones Ray & Mujika used back in ch45, so it's cool that all kinds of demons use those plants the same way.)

Ayshe has many lovable panels as well, but the tiny one here has a special place in my heart for some reason.

#the promised neverland #tpn manga #182daysoftpn #chidoroki used chatter

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anonymous-user-a · 2 months

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[Video ID: Archer seemingly pays Petrel no mind as he wakes up, simply putting on a black face mask before turning around and just... Watching him. He groans, shaking himself awake. He realizes he's being restrained, immediately meeting A's eyes, "Uh... Arch?"

Fidgeting, Archer lets out a sigh through the mask, immediately breaking the eye contact that Petrel formed, their tone resigned and tired, "... Do you want to know the full story?"

"What in the Shattered World are y' talkin' about?"

She lets out another exhausted and unwilling sigh, pinching the bridge of hir nose, "What do you know about the multiverse?"

"... It never exactly peaked my interests... Arch, you're not plannin' on like... usin' more of the stuff we stole from that Galactic Team or whatever, are ya?"

"Archer is dead, Petrel," it probably could have been said with a bit more tact, coming out blunt and almost rude - like ripping off a particularly bitter bandaid. The tone softens as ze continues, "Your Archer is dead. You are the only survivor, I believe."

"... ... What? But cher... yer standin' right in front of me, ain't cha?"

"I am not the Archer from your word, understood?", ce crouches down to glare right into Petrel's eyes. She sounds insulted and bitter, clearly this is a sore spot, even though Arrow is dead, "Do not associate me with that monster. He hardly counts as an Archer."

He meets back the glare with an obvious look of confusion, "Yer acting like a lunati—" The man breaks down into a fit of coughing and gagging. Shaking it off with a grunt of annoyance.

"Tsk, and he was a lunatic...", he words are muttered under Archer's breath, bitter and disdainful. After the coughing stops, another exhausted sigh is let out, "Do you want me to drag his corpse here for you to see?"

"I mean... Y' haven't exactly given me puch proof t' work on yer whole not from this world thing, have ya?", his tone waves in between upset and playful.

Archer lets out a frustrated groan at the response, clearly annoyed by the tone - why did Petrel have to make things so difficult... "Do you not see my scarring on my face? It has not been long enough for it to have healed this much... And I do not think you want to see your friend's corpse."

"Scarrin'?", he blinks, squinting at A for a moment, eyes trailing around. "Ah-", he stops. "... This lighting doesn't really do much fer ya, does it?", he attempts to laugh it off, looking very uneasy.

"Is that enough proof for you? Or do we need to acknowledge the fact that I am two inches taller than your Archer?", they would rather not unbury Arrow's corpse, causing the tone to get harsher as every little physical difference between A and Arrow is pointed out.

"Yeah, yeah. Whaddya want?", he huffs, "Where is my nephew?"

"Our nephew is fine. I made sure of it.", for a second, Archer seems to soften, still being just as direct as before. Then, in a split second, that softness dissipates, giving way for more glaring, "They are safe now that your friends are dead, which I also made sure of."

"Don't dodge the question, now! Where is he?"

"I told you, he is fine. He is not your concern at this moment.", as Archer talks, its tone grows more steady and authoritative, seemingly trying to intimidate Petrel as well as assure him of Lambda's safety.

"Yeah? And can I be so sure of that? We're both Rockets, ain't we? It's in our core t' lie.", seems like the intimidation isn't working as A had hoped. Petrel's gaze is hard.

"Because, if you do not believe me, that puts me in a position where I need to deal with you.", despite the harsh glare, Archer doesn't falter, merely standing to look down on Petrel. "Just how I dealt with Arrow, and Ariana, and Proton, and Giovanni... Now, neither of us want that, so I recommend that you work with me instead of against me." Petrel's gaze remains harsh as Archer talks. "So... What is it going to be, Petrel? Because I am seeing a definite better option here. Besides, you need to persuade me not to kill you. Being aggressive is not going to help with that."

"An' who said I was bein' aggressive?"

Archer rolls her eyes at the comment, "Being sassy will not help you either." Petrel sighs, mumbling a bit to himself. The blue-haired individual took that as an invitation to keep talking, "... Perhaps, I can call him and ask if it would like to speak to you. At a later point, however, as your distrust of me is more than reciprocated."

"Course it is, yer actin' like a damn fool!", he snaps. Without warning, his arm gets free. Realising that Petrel's arm is loose, Archer says nothing, immediately grabbing the shovel and preparing to attack. Petrel seems prepared for it. He eyes A carefully.

"... You are lucky that Silver wants you alive, or I swear to Arceus, you would be in the same condition as Giovanni."

"Yeah? An' cher lucky I ain't in any shape t' fight, huh?", he coughs slightly.

"... Next time, the restraints will be tougher. Or there will not be a next time. We will see.", with that, Archer strikes Petrel with the shovel once again. Apparently, his other arm wasn't the only one freed. He swiftly blocks the attack by grabbing the shovel, slightly cutting his right arm. Taken aback by the unexpected strength, Archer lifts the shovel again, sending out Charcoal to preoccupy Petrel lest he gets mauled.

He's quick to go at the rope on his neck, "Look, I don' wanna hurt ya, Arch-from-another-world. Nor yer dog. Let me go an' we can talk this out like real men, no?"

"Firstly, you call me A.", Charcoal growls at Petrel's motion towards the rope, warning him before the attack, "Secondly, how do I know you are not faking being injured?"

"I ain't got my gear on me t' fake the blood, do I?", Well, he's right. His belt is gone, "An' fine, alright, A. Y' don' gotta go t' these extremes, do ya?"

"Do you believe I enjoy this? I told you, I do not want to harm you. I would not go to these extremes if I did not feel a need for them."

"An' I wouldn't go t' mine if you didn't go t' yers!"

"Oh, Arceus forbid I assume the worst of someone who's friends with Arceus-damn pedophiles!"

That has him stop, "'Scuse me? The Distortion are y' talkin' about?"

"Proton and Archer?!"

"Look, I know Pro was a bit of a creep, but I don' think he'd..."

Did he honestly not know? That could explain quite a bit. "... Then you need to pay more attention.", despite the harsh words and obvious anger, Archer stands down, resting the shovel as Charcoal steps behind his trainer.

"What? What happened to my nephew?!", he shouts, suddenly panicked.

"I am not telling you the details. That is for him to share when he is ready...", Archer softens up, realising that Petrel may not be as much of a threat as she thought, "... But, I promise, he is safe now. They are with a couple of friends right now, alright? Nothing is going to happen on my watch, I can promise you that."

He notices A softening and slowly finds himself doing so too, "... Aight... Given yer reaction, I guess I can trust ya..." He lets out a sigh, coughing harshly again and getting blood on his uniform, "... Jus' keep my nephew safe, alrigh?"

"Of course... It is my nephew as well, for your information.", retracting Charcoal into his Pokéball, Archer sits beside Petrel, leaving the shovel on the opposite side of the room, "How about I take you up on that offer - to talk?"]

#[shoutout to fries for rping this with me again thank youuuu]#tw csa mention #tw csa

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beniial · 3 months

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Half Life 2

Woah! I do reviews now. These aren't going to be professional critiques or anything, I just wanted somewhere to dump my thoughts out as I work through games. A lot of these will also be posted over on Backloggd, if you want to see all of them together. Also, don't expect them all to be this long. I just had a lot of thoughts I wanted to get out.

Half Life 2 feels revolutionary. Not in the sense that it blows what I've played before out of the water, but that I can feel how it changed the way games after it were designed and influenced where we are now. I've been meaning to get around to it for a while after playing HL1 on my laptop between classes a couple years back, and after giving it a bit of a try and getting distracted last year I sat down and worked through it over a couple days.

The game's world building is excellent - I think it's its strongest suit. City 17 and its surrounding areas feel like a lived in world, torn apart and scavenged back together in the cracks. The moment to moment story isnt that complicated, often just being enough to point Gordon to the next main location, but I feel like that's ignoring the rest of the story going on. The person waiting at the train station asking if anyone else is getting off, the small resistance armies dotted along the coast, the pinboard in Eli's lab keeping tabs on Breen's rise to power. You see a lot more of the world than just the hallways and canals you're running through, and it feels like spotting these things is a reward itself, even if there are the lambda caches dotted around encouraging you to slow down and comb through the world more as well. It does feel like the game is a bit lacking in the actual environments you're in, though. It matches the setting but a huge chunk of the game is spent in kind of samey urban environments, and when it does switch up the aesthetic you're normally locked into that new look for a while as well, like the coastal cliffs or the inside of Nova Prospekt.

Playing the game, you cant help but feel how excited the Valve designers were about their new engine. Every setpiece or mechanic has a "WOW" factor you can still feel today, with both big dramatic changes in the environment and tiny details among the rubble that only exist to give you more toys to play with. The "pick up that can" moment early on isn't just a tutorial for moving objects, it's the developers showing just how immersive a game can be in the future year of 2004, and giving you the freedom to throw that can at a cop's face and then run away giggling while they chase after you. The game is in wonder of the source engine's technology and wants to show off just how flexible it can be. Unfortunately, part of the game's wonder with its own technology is having Gordon sit down in a vehicle and pilot the physics engine for a while. Yes this deserves its own section. I don't think they're quite as boring as other people have said, there's plenty of side areas to explore and you have to get out on foot often to break up the pace, but they're definitely not as strong as the core gameplay. They feel like a 10 minute setpiece stretched out to an hour for the sake of not wasting all the time it took to make them work. The airboat segment is definitely the better segment out of the two - its looser controls and bigger emphasis on doing cool stunts and darting around make it more fun to use, and it gets incorporated into puzzles and combat more often than the car. I suppose I have to put myself back in the moment for these - back then switching from on-foot to in a vehicle on the fly and having it feel realistic would've been enough to hype you through the entire area. Or maybe not. I wasn't there.

The game isn't just about stacking bricks on a seesaw and showing off how cool Havok is, though. The meat and potatoes is still a set of really interesting combat encounters. It felt like all of them had something unique to it, just like the original. Combat is a puzzle, and the solution isn't always to just sprint in and spray whatever gun has the most ammo - I needed to pick out which enemies had to be taken out first, where I could afford to take cover and reload, which I could pick off at a distance or flush out of cover with a grenade. That is until Father Grigori blessed me with the holy 12 gague and let me switch from Gordon Freeman, the MIT scientist plunged into comat, to Gordon, the creature that will sprint up to you at 20mph and blast 12 pellets of 8 damage into your chest before you have time to fire back. I think its a bit of a shame the weapon arsenal is more tame this time around, with the limited use antlion pods not being a substitute for flocks of snarks I have at all times, but they all had a place in combat and I never felt underequipped for what was being thrown at me. Likewise, I prefered the larger range of enemies HL1 had to offer. Combine soldiers are a fun challenge to deal with, but other than headcrabs and zombies in 3 flavours or the occasional swarm of manhacks it felt like I was fighting the same enemies the entire game, just with their health tuned up to match my rising damage output.

The ending cliffhanger worked on me. Episodes 1 and 2 are now installed, and I am ready and eager to be stuck waiting for what comes after them, same as everyone else has for 17 years or so. I dont think it's a perfect sequel to Half Life 1, losing out on its tighter design and variety of content, but it definitely is a perfect introduction to the Source engine, giving the groundwork for other excellent games to work off. Also the gravity gun is cool i guess.

#benialreview #half life 2

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mizukagami-takamagahara · 4 months

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I also really relate that BBDW turned around my opinion on Nu. I have a thing where it's obviously not like I inherently dislike characters who are pretty horrible and insane (a lot of my favorite BB characters are exactly this) but they have to have more complexity and ability to make their personality work with the story that's going on and especially when Nu came back in CP/CF I was left kinda like "why did they do that :/" and just kind of viewed it as them bringing her back for gameplay/people like her purposes which annoyed me. I think I could best describe it as what you were saying about Nu being a very static character who doesn't have any interesting dynamics or threads in the story beyond Ragna and general PFD stuff and now (at the time in my eyes) they were trying to shove her back into a plot that had gotten VERY busy since her death in CT. But BBDW at least made her revival make sense enough so I could begin to drop my gripe that Nu was a character they were trying to push back into the story for no reason and then I was able to be more open to them changing her to flesh her out as a character more. It was just one of the many things they were playing the long game on. Man this is just making me wish BBDW had a bit more time and now I'm getting sad lol there's a lot in CF that didn't make sense and kind of annoyed me that seemed like was getting answered or elaborated upon in DW.

I remember rumors going around that the original plan was to leave Nu, and later Lambda, dead after their respective games. The general story goes “Mori intended to have Nu’s story end there, but since BB is a fighting game and fans wanted their main back, Lambda was developed to replace her. She was also intended to die permanently after her story, but then BOTH of them were popular, so there was a studio push to bring both back.”

I haven’t found a source on this, though, so who knows. If it is true, that there was some executive meddling behind how it all happened, an interesting connection could be drawn to Mori’s latest interview about Studio Flare- where one of the studio philosophies his company is dedicated to is that they won’t prioritize audience requests or market desires over the integrity of the story they want to tell. I also recently heard some rumors that Central Fiction’s development was rushed to release in time for ESports, which led to a lot of scenes being cut, character arcs being rushed or dropped, etc. If true, that too would add some perspective on BlazBlue’s progression as a whole and on the growing rift between Mori and Arc System Works.

However, as I said, for now these are just rumors. They paint an interesting narrative, but don’t take them at face value until we can source some of these claims.

True or not, my point here is that you’re MORE than onto something here- Nu was an incredible character with a solid arc and death that just… have you ever read the Iliad? You know that scene where Hektor’s corpse is tied to a chariot and dragged in circles around the city? Nu post-CT felt a lot like that… Whatever the executive intentions were, she was being kept alive in the story long past the point where she needed to be left to rest.

Which, as you touched on, really made the situation in BBDW all the more impactful. It felt to me like, as a character and narrative asset, she was finally being approached with real intention. Like, she was being written, as a full character, who needed care, purpose, and narrative intent- all of which were finally being given to her, whereas in the C-series proper she had subsisted entirely on gameplay necessity/utility.

This makes me start to wonder how it could have been done better. I can understand both competing needs- her story is over, the narrative needs her gone, but as a character in a fighting game the game itself needs her to stay. Perhaps I’m naive, but the answer seems simple: keep her out of the story but leave her as an unlockable character for the fighting game portion only.

The biggest problem left in that solution is that newer players would lack context, but that seems like more of an opportunity than anything. Give her an arcade mode and/or story mode that is an engaging retelling of her arc from Calamity Trigger. If you’re really worried, add some kind of note/page/thing at the start or end of her route that briefly explains that this character’s story is from a previous game. Then you’ve turned your issue (her not being in the story, confusing her new players) into profit (it’s a fucking advertisement now. You want to see this cool new waifu you found??? awesome, here’s some stuff for her, if you want more go buy our other game where she’s in the spotlight!)

It’s kind of like, she had been failed/messed up so bad, that the amazing way she was handled in BBDW really surprised me. It’s so easy for any writer or studio to end up in a position where a character is written into a corner and they just… stay underwhelming forever. There’s not always the need or the time to go back and try to improve things. That, too, I would assume, was part of Mori’s desire to make BBDW and later his own studio. I’ve spoken several times about my thoughts on mobile games being a unique market that allows for more writer freedom and more room to take chances than mainline video games right now- and Mori’s interview heavily implies that Studio Flare was designed to try to free himself and his coworkers from the current industry norms.

Ultimately, like you, god DAMN do I mourn BBDW. For that exact reason, really. We both know Mori has a lot more to say about the world of BlazBlue, HE knows these stories were left unfinished, and BBDW was probably the best chance any of us would have to get those stories told. With the death of the game, it seriously looks like the rest of BlazBlue will forever be buried somewhere between the depths of Mori’s mind and all the red tape of intellectual property law.

I really hope I’m proven wrong!

#nu 13 #lambda 11 #bb meta #blazblue #ao no kokagami #bbdw my beloved

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goldentigerfestival · 4 months

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for real tho, i actually... love the way richard's yandere shit was handled?

most media romanticizes the shit out of yanderes (either through the characters or the storytelling putting a heavy focus on it being romantic). it's seen as this thing that's worth admiring because it exists out of true love and shit.

though richard was possessed, what the possession effectively did was elevate his feelings in a way that resulted in him being wholly aggressive even if that response didn't match his feelings or behavior from two seconds ago. it took good feelings that he would not act violently upon and pushed them over the edge. it also took situations happening to him and warped them into the most negative way possible, and it's always when bad things happen to him.

in richard's mind, this bad thing that happened to him isn't fair, why is he suffering and being hurt, he didn't do anything wrong, it's the people who hurt him who should suffer. so with that mindset, he does things wrong with the heightened emotional responses from lambda's possession. they're things he never would normally do.

so, when asbel's friends and family are involved in any way, richard is now viewing it under the lens of "they're trying to take him/another thing away from me". his response to that is to destroy the problem and keep asbel with him... until asbel can't handle that anymore and doesn't want his friends being killed.

richard immediately takes that as a betrayal, and a betrayal of his most precious friendship, after the sheer fucking onslaught of bullshit he has put up with for most of his life and the shit that just went down with his uncle. the people who cared about richard are terrified. asbel, who cared about him more than anyone and even left his home for seven years to become a knight in richard's service - asbel, who basically ran straight to richard when he was kicked out of his home unceremoniously by his own brother - is terrified.

on that note, let me put into perspective the fact that, technically, politically, richard was well within his right to handle hubert the way he did. by hubert "helping" lhant, lhant is now is a situation where it owes fendel. in a sense, you could argue this was an invasion by fendel (and looking at it through richard's currently skewed perspective, he very well could use that justification for an attack). lhant is within richard's territory, so by getting involved in any way, hubert is threatening richard's rule over lhant. normally, richard would solve this diplomatically, but in his current state, he won't and can't.

that said, asbel would have been fully on board with handling things if richard wasn't demanding an attack to solve the problem. as far as asbel was concerned, even when richard's sanity was getting worse, he was still loyal first and foremost to richard over anyone - and understandably, seeing as his family just yeeted him out (and let's face it, all his mother did was cry about it and didn't even try to help him or give him any means of surviving. he was kicked out on the spot and his mother just cried about it) and richard was the one who took him in without question or a second thought and had him by his side during the most important moments for his impending reign - fighting the rebels back and defeating cedric.

for richard, considering the above, there is zero reason asbel even has to defend lhant at this point. they threw him away and didn't want him back, while richard did want him and did care about him. for asbel to "betray" him for the very mcfucking people who forced him out of his home on immediate notice? that was the breaking point for him because it was the worst betrayal he'd ever faced. it was the most painful and it was why he finally completely snapped.

prior to that, richard was going off the deep end, but for the most part, calmly. aggressively and snappily sometimes, but he was not actively losing his shit when he made the plans to attack lhant. it was asbel's betrayal that made him give up on everything.

and you know what? most media would've been like wow that's so romantic! such dedication! is it possible it's because richard is not a woman and thus it's not seen as some kind of violence born out of a pure love? probably, in mcfuckin' fact!!! but take, idk, say, mirai nikki for instance. put them in that situation. asbel would have sided with richard and decided that all of his killing was valid because it was for him. at first in mirai nikki, the killing is seen as terrifying... until shit happens and the mc decides love conquers all and that it was for him so it was all valid. translated to graces, richard loved him and so there can be no wrong done by the hands of someone who does something for love. he was terrified at first but learned the error of his ways and realized richard was right all along and just wanted asbel to be safe and happy.

and that leads me to my next point: "I did it for you, Asbel". not my words! they literally pulled the most traditional yandere trope ever of gaslighting! despite all his pain and hurt on top of it, they could've argued that he was putting his love for asbel above his own hurt. he attacked lhant for asbel, because the people in charge of lhant hurt him. they threw him away. tossed him aside because he wasn't good enough for them. the same shit richard's family did to him. in richard's mind, by all rights, there is negative fucking reason for asbel to choose them over him.

but he did, because it was too much for him. hubert was his brother, and an attack on lhant endangered the citizens who had nothing to do with asbel being thrown out. asbel did everything for richard recently up until this point, so now for richard it becomes "you were on my side all this time, but when i try to protect you from these horrible people, you turn on me? for them?"

part of it was because this wasn't the richard he knew anymore, but that in and of itself didn't make asbel give up on him. he spent the entire fucking rest of the game thinking and worrying about him. even when it came down to "what if i have to kill him", he struggled. he kept resorting to "have to save him".

if this were going for a typical handling of a yandere, asbel would have been thanking him. grateful that richard loved him and "did it for him" - which is not necessarily untrue in richard's case, but it's the extreme measures taken that would often have one side eying the media in question for having someone be like oh wow that's so nice of you!

so tldr; i love how they handled the yandere aspect of richard's arc. due to the possession it could still be argued that it was never his fault, but richard himself still feels awful about it and strives to atone for it post game (or in the tacked on f arc). even he himself doesn't justify all the attempted murder he did because of his elevated emotions. even he doesn't justify it in his sane mind as "it was still for you though". the fact that he even recognizes that and accepts that if it was for asbel and asbel's peace of mind, he would have considered asbel's feelings on it in the first place, is such a contrast to what that kind of story usually goes for. richard's feelings for asbel could've been used as "too important for asbel to leave him for people who broke his (asbel's) heart", and they could have just made hubert the villain.

i am saying it is refreshing storytelling for the yandere trope my dudes.

#GTF Thoughts #Richbel #Richass

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juleskelleybooks · 5 months

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Year-End Wrap Up 2023

Thank you to literally everyone who has engaged with the work I've managed to put out despite everything. It was all carved out of me at great cost and with great love, and sharing it brings me joy and is why I keep doing it. Below are some numbers and some thoughts just to quantify things, but thanks.

Stats:

Words Published - 92,122 Words Written - Estimated somewhere in the 50k range Works Published - 2 Units Sold - 399 (self published titles only, includes free downloads) Milestones - Got to sign my physical book in a local bookstore and be featured on their social media as a local author; entered my book to be judged as part of the Lambda Literary Awards

Goals for Next Year:

Actually start keeping track of sales per title etc.

Start tracking words written

Thoughts:

This is mostly for myself, because I have a hard time with things like "accomplishments" and "chronological time" and "object permanency", and because I'm always looking ahead at what I want to have done, like I'm climbing uphill, and all progress feels slow. Sometimes it's good to look back at how far you've come.

At the end of last year, I parted professional ways with my agent (lovely person though she is), so this year was already a bit new in a lot of ways.

In April, Night Is For Hunting released. It's the second Moonrise book, and was intended to be the middle in a trilogy, but the final book has since been canceled (at my request) because I realized that the third book is not within timely reach for me. Still kind of feeling the sting of that. I'm also not super happy with parts of NIFH, as I pushed through places in order to hit (an already extended) deadline. I had grand plans for sections of the book that I just didn't have time to wrangle.

That's kind of a theme for this year, is that I'm learning that being disabled does unfortunately mean that I am less able to do things on the schedule or to the intensity or degree that I wish that I could. The whole reason I went fully self-pub without my lovely agent was because I knew I couldn't have both work that at least approaches my standards and also a standardized publishing schedule. Not at this point in my life, anyway.

In July, Stars Still Fall was released. I wrote what I consider the pivotal scene in that story back in 2018, and have been obsessed with it ever since, so finishing it was accomplishing a major goal. I let myself take my time to get really indulgent with the prose in places, which I enjoyed a lot. I keep poking at it to see if there's any places I'm unhappy with, that I want to change, and so far I haven't found any. (This isn't, of course, to say that it's above criticism. I'm sure it isn't all to everyone's taste. But I'm happy.) I may update the cover at some point to change the typography for the title, because I think it could be better and do better justice to the actual art.

Looking Ahead:

Blackthorn (low-tech space western, bi4bi m/f) seems to have pulled ahead out of the primordial soup of WIPs for now and is rattling full steam ahead. I'm not going to set a due date until I'm closer to the end, but with any luck, I might manage to finish it within two years?

Other projects that are starting to solidify are A Touch of Magic (witchy single dad whose daughter casts a love spell to try to save his job), A Time For Us (completely reworked reissue of M Jules Aedin title Windows in Time featuring a modern-day person helping ghosts from the 1940s at the risk of his own happiness), and whatever I end up renaming Late Blooming (gray-ace middle school teacher finds out he's same-sex attracted shortly after his 40th birthday and a lot of things start making sense, but his crush on the uncle of one of his students is not one of those things).

Thank you, and happy new year!

#wrap up

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love-kurdt · 3 months

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This is Me Trying (Mike's Version) (byler): 1

word count: 6,469

in short: if you are emotionally or mentally vulnerable, please dni.

If someone were to ask me what time it was, I wouldn’t be able to tell them. First off, I would look down at my watch and realize that said watch was not on my wrist. I would then ask myself why my watch was not on my wrist, then I would remember, oh yeah, Will has a matching one, and I was dead to Will, so I didn’t wear the watch anymore. Time was just a construct, anyway. In the end, I’d probably mess around with the person asking and say some shit like, “It’s 420:69.” I was drunk, though, so I was allowed.

I was at some frat party, spending what was my last official night as a student at the University of Indianapolis with the brotherhood of Alpha Lambda Dickhole. I was seated on some musty couch, stained with whatever the fuck that was, with an empty glass resting between my legs and a bottle of whiskey in my hand. I’d given up some time ago on trying to pace myself. Some kind of synth-infused rock music vibrated across the floor, and I could feel the bass reverberating in my bones, which would normally make me want to get up and dance, but I wasn’t particularly in a celebratory mood; I was only halfway through my sophomore year, and had just dropped out.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen this coming. I had been spiraling for a long time. It all started over summer break between my senior year of high school and my freshman year of college. I never even wanted to go to college in the first place. What was the point of spending tens of thousands of dollars on a creative writing degree when I could just freelance and eventually get published? But my father insisted that I at least attend a state school with cheaper tuition, claiming, “You can’t run on ink and espresso, son. You have to put in the work and have the credentials to show for it.” On the bright side, it was a miracle that Dad had enough confidence in me to allow me to pursue writing at all. But I was on thin ice with my father, had been for years, so I agreed to at least think about college.

My friends chose their respective schools fairly quickly; Dustin had gotten in with a full ride scholarship to Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Max and Lucas went to UCLA as sports science and physical therapy double majors, El went to Vanderbilt University in Nashville to pursue a degree in therapy, and Will… Will went to Chicago. Which school he went to, or if he went to college at all, I didn’t know. To study what, I had no clue. Where he lived within the city, I hadn’t the slightest idea. That’s what happens when your ex-best friend up and leaves without so much as a “goodbye.” I considered the day Will left to be the day my world stopped turning and time froze. So I took off my watch and hid it in a shoebox under my bed with the rest of my mini-shrine.

Dr. Owens and his team had arranged government-mandated counseling for all of those involved in the Vecnapocalypse. A year in, though, I didn’t see a point in going anymore. I was healed. I was fine. I was ready to move on with my life. Well, everyone else in the Party was ready to move on. Why wouldn’t I be? It probably hadn’t been the best decision on my part to stop going to therapy, but without Will in my life, I didn’t have much of a reason to stay in Hawkins at all, and I really didn’t feel like dredging up my past once a week to pick apart as if I were in an anatomy lab practical. Besides, I didn’t feel like arguing anymore with my dad. So, I begrudgingly packed my bags and headed to Indianapolis, killing two birds with one stone.

When I got to campus, I was assigned to dorm with this guy named Elvis (yes, as in Presley). Aside from his stupid ass name, Elvis Kuiken was a good roommate. He was a senior who kept to himself most days, when he wasn’t working. He was clean, at least by my standards (which were on the floor, literally and figuratively speaking), and he was also part of a fraternity. He’d always bring me along to parties, all in the name of the formative freshman experience. What this “experience” primarily entailed, I came to find out, was alcohol. Weed, too, no doubt… but extra emphasis on alcohol.

I didn’t want to admit it, at least not to others, but I became a lot more withdrawn since my falling out with Will. I wasn’t as outgoing, as daring, or as extroverted as I used to be. I was used to being an outcast of sorts, so not much changed there. Except now, where I used to have the confidence to at least approach people and introduce myself– “Hi, I’m Michael! Do you want to be my friend?” “Yes.”– I couldn’t do that anymore. It was like my communicational skills had completely disappeared. But during my first party, I took a shot of tequila and must’ve made at least ten acquaintances within the three hours I was there. If only Troy could see how popular I was now. He’d piss his pants… again. It was like a light flickered on in my head; the more I drank, the more sociable I’d become. I took this epiphany and ran with it.

One time back in— September?— or something, I had been at a party for a few hours, and came up with the idea to try every single type of liquor to ever exist. I picked up a shot glass and stood at the counter for a good fifteen minutes, downing shot after shot. I woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache, unsure of how I even got back to my dorm room. But then I looked to my right and saw Elvis’s head resting on my very shirtless, hickey-covered chest. Oh. That’s how I got home. I wasn’t able to wear any shirts with collars below my clavicle for days. I didn’t hate it, though. In fact, that wasn’t the last time my roommate and I hooked up. Stumbling through the door, making out in the dark, and whispering each other’s names into otherwise complete silence until the sun came up became a regular occurrence.

Christmas break arrived, and most of my time back in Hawkins was spent trying to avoid Will. And from the way I saw it, Will was everywhere. He was the art on my bedroom wall. He was the yellow sweater that hung in my closet, probably the only colorful item in my entire wardrobe that I hadn’t thrown out, because it was Will’s sweater. He was the shea butter soap on the bathroom counter. He was the hot cocoa mix in the kitchen cabinet. He was the D&D box buried underneath my bed that I neglected since Eddie’s death in 1986. He was the Party. So I didn’t leave my basement for the entirety of mid-December to the beginning of January, with the exceptions of family dinners and sleep. I won’t lie, I was a little bit ashamed of how I’d handled things with the Party. I definitely shouldn’t have iced everyone out. My friends made various attempts to get the Party back together, and always invited me, but I’d always have some kind of excuse as to why I couldn’t hang out with them. They eventually stopped calling.

One Saturday afternoon, I was sprawled out on the couch watching Star Wars: Episode VI– Return of the Jedi, and Nancy and Jonathan came barrelling in through the basement entrance, practically swallowing each other whole. I missed the feeling of being in love. I’d cleared my throat when it started to get a bit too steamy, causing the lovebirds to jump apart in shock. Nancy smoothed her skirt while Jonathan lifted a hand into the air to greet me. I nodded back in acknowledgement. This silent interaction had me wanting to crawl out of my skin. All I wanted to do was ask Jonathan about Will; how Will was, what Will was doing, if Will had met anyone, if Will remembered me. It was like Jonathan could read my mind, because he said, completely unprompted, “He still thinks about you, Mike. He hasn’t forgotten you.” I actively committed those words to memory.

I ran into Joyce during a last minute school supplies shopping trip to Melvald’s on my way out of town. It was bound to happen at some point, what with Joyce owning Melvald’s now. I’d expected it to be awkward, but was proven wrong when Joyce practically jumped the counter to engulf me, her honorary third son, in a hug. She’d pulled me all the way down to her level, so I was bent at almost a 90 degree angle, but I didn’t care.

“How’ve you been, sweetheart? How’s Indy treating you?” she asked. That was a loaded question. It would be spectacular if your son hadn’t left, but whatever.

“It’s treating me well, I’m mostly taking my gen eds right now, but I’m always writing my own material when I’m not in class,” I grinned, trying my best to not let it look fake or forced. Joyce seemed to buy it.

“I’m so glad to hear that. You know, I always knew you were going to become a writer,” Joyce smiled, and I nodded, staying as neutral as possible. I knew where she was going with this. “I remember it as if it were yesterday,” bingo, “that in the mornings after your sleepovers, you and Will would sit at the dining room table with your eggs and maple syrup and work on your comics for hours. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” I replied wistfully, “I do.” I glanced down at my shoes, trying not to let any tears escape. The amount of crying over Will that I’d done just within the time I was back home was pathetic. But Joyce didn’t seem to mind in the least, because she reached up and ran her thumbs over my cheeks, where a few stray tears had traveled down against my will.

“Oh, honey,” Joyce held my face in her hands, eyes filled with compassion, and pulled me into another hug, holding me close. I had always loved Joyce, but this mutual understanding led me to reserve a special place in my heart for her.

We engaged in a little more small talk before she personally walked (dragged) me through the store with my shopping list to retrieve the items I needed. When she checked out my items at the counter, she grabbed a pen and post-it note, wrote something on it, and handed it to me. I held it up to eye level with a shaky hand.

“That’s Will’s phone number, he’s at the American Academy of Art,” she whispered. My eyes widened, and I breathed, “Thank you, Ms. Byers. So much,” before heading out the door to my car. I sat in the parking lot for a solid fifteen minutes, causing myself to fall behind schedule, but I had Will’s phone number. That was a good enough reason to be late, in my book.

After what felt like a fucking eternity, I was finally able to return to campus. I’d set my suitcase down next to my bed, and took a minute to collect my thoughts prior to unpacking. All of a sudden, Elvis clumsily tripped over his own feet through the door, sheepishly grinning at me, having just been startled. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks, followed by a quiet, “hi.” Seconds later, we were all over each other.

It was around this time that I finally came to terms with the undeniable fact that I was exclusively attracted to men. I’d always believed my sexual preferences existed as a strict ratio of 70:30, with 70% being women and 30% being men. I’d always been aware of my attraction to guys (Will); I’d been sure of that for as long as I could remember. The confusing part about it all was when El came into the picture, and everyone and their mother expected us to start dating. I was, like, twelve at the time, so of course I went along with what everyone else wanted. That backfired majorly when El confronted me with tears in her eyes, asking, “But… you don’t love me anymore?” and my impulse response was, “I don’t even think I loved you romantically to begin with.” It took a long time for me and El to repair our friendship following that conversation, and to help me bullshit my parents into falling for some half-baked reason as to why my “sweetie pie” and I broke up so suddenly.

When I started my… situationship with Elvis, though, I began to question my 70:30 ratio. Elvis, to put it simply, was hot. He was taller than me, just by an inch, but it didn’t stop him from calling me “short.” I found that hilarious, as I stood at a staggering six foot three. Elvis had tanned skin, blonde hair which he kept in a preppy side part, and bright eyes that captured the essence of the bluest sky. He had full lips, a chiseled jawline, and a lean yet muscular build with the likeness of a Greek statue. Elvis had the most gorgeous hands. I particularly liked when those hands pinned my wrists above my head. I also liked when those blue eyes bore into my soul in the way that only one other pair of eyes had ever been able to do within my mere eighteen years of life. And I loved when that chiseled jawline, rough from lack of shaving, rubbed abrasively against my neck.

Elvis was adamant on there being no strings attached. He made sure to remind me every time we did anything remotely sexual, but over time, those words began to lose their potency, like watering down vodka to make it go down smoother. My wide eyes and “yes, of course, I understand”s were slowly replaced with absentminded “mmhmm”s. I figured that as long as Elvis never picked up on my social cues (or lack thereof), and as long as he never knew about me secretly developing more-than-fuck-buddies feelings for him, I would be in the clear. But eventually, something in Elvis had melted away, and he started calling me “my boy,” “love,” and “sweetheart,” amongst other gross (sweet) pet names. I assumed that Elvis had caved and given up on whatever rules he’d set for himself.

Regardless of the apparent stability in our situationship, my mind dwelled in a constant state of disarray. I knew I was not straight. I wasn’t even sure if I was bisexual. I became more conscious of who caught my eye in public, and what I wanted out of the people I interacted with. I discovered I didn’t feel the same way about curves, boobs, or soft lips as I felt when I saw a pair of broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, or a tapered waistI felt different.

Part of me resented myself for being different. I hated the idea of being a target, whether it be for my family, the government, or society as a whole. I'd tried to change. I hooked up with a few girls over the course of a week, “just to see something,” but I'd spent the entire time wondering when it would be over so I could go home. All of those girls either got bored, weren’t satisfied, or got mad that I couldn’t get it up— if not a combination of all three— and left. I scared myself a little when I didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty.

When my encounter with the last girl fell through, I decided I didn’t want to live my life in sexuality limbo anymore. I ran all the way back to my dorm hall, hauled ass up the stairwell, and let myself into my room. Elvis spun around from where he sat at his desk, and could barely get out a “Hey, man,” before I was ripping Elvis from his chair and pulling him in, kissing him with all my might. It didn’t take long for Elvis to reciprocate my advances, kissing back with equal intensity and pushing me back until we hit the side of Elvis’s raised bed frame. I huffed a laugh against Elvis’s lips before hoisting myself up backwards and onto the mattress, watching as Elvis chased after me. He pushed his knee between my legs, and I took the hint, wrapping my ankles around Elvis’s hips. “I want to be with you, baby. With strings, all the strings,” I had told Elvis before pulling him down for another searing kiss, and… that was when my memory cut out for the evening.

I woke up the next morning, hangover hitting me like a truck, to see Elvis already awake and dressed, lifting boxes onto a trolley that was stationed in the middle of the room. Through squinted eyes, I noticed Elvis’s side of the room was essentially bare, save for the dorm furniture, which belonged to the school.

“What’s happening?” I croaked out, and Elvis dropped the box he was holding onto the pile with a loud thump. “Too loud. Headache,” I whispered sharply through gritted teeth.

“It always is too loud, isn’t it?” my roommate laughed wryly to himself, not making any effort to be any quieter. I sat up, rubbing my eyes and ignoring the fact that I was naked and in Elvis’s bed, the only thing that hadn’t been packed up yet.

“What the fuck, Elvis? What are you doing?”

“I’m moving out today, remember?” The two young men finally gained eye contact, and I felt my stomach drop like I was on a roller coaster. “I’m graduating in a few days and need my stuff out by this afternoon.”

Move out was today? Vecna must have been back with a vengeance, because how else would time move so quickly on its own? Sure, Elvis mentioned in passing, like, a few weeks ago, at most, that he was leaving soon. But it still didn’t make sense, because it was only… What, March? No, The Phone Call™ was a while ago. Was it April? My mom called me at least a few weeks prior to wish me a happy nineteenth birthday. Plus, weren’t commencement ceremonies scheduled for the weekend of– “What’s today’s date?”

I watched the blonde in front of me unsubtly scoff with impatience. “It’s May 1st, Mike.” I could only blink back at Elvis in response for a few seconds while I tried to process the fact that my brain was capable of skipping over whole months of my life. There was no way it was May 1st already.

“No,” was the only word I was capable of saying.

“Yet here we are, baby,” Elvis sneered as he whipped his comforter off of me, leaving me exposed and humiliated. “Time flies when you’re blackout drunk. I suggest you try and get your drinking under control, before you end up having to drop out.”

It was like Elvis was a completely different person, completely different from the man who had fucked me senseless the night before. What did I do to deserve this? I didn’t do or… say anything? Oh no. Now I knew what was going on. I drank too much, opened up, and blurted out loud that I wanted to be in a relationship with Elvis, who didn’t feel the same. my face was on fire with embarrassment.

I scrambled off the bed and ran to get dressed while Elvis pulled the last of his sheets off the cheap university mattress. He didn’t fold them, and instead balled them up and shoved them in the trash. I could barely breathe. I merely stood there and watched as my gorgeous Greek (actually Dutch) god of a roommate left our shared room for the last time. Well, I seemingly dodged a bullet. What an asshole.

I was sad that Elvis was gone, but it didn’t completely destroy me the way Will leaving did. What it most likely came down to, in Elvis’s instance, was a horrible case of internalized homophobia. I was very familiar with this mindset; I'd fought a gory, gruesome battle with my own mind for my entire adolescence, at war with myself to prevent acting upon my ever-growing romantic love for Will. But one day, my feelings finally retaliated, and my life immediately went to shit.

“What are you doing, Mike? Is this a joke?”

“No, Will, I’m in love with you.”

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

Comparing the two inevitably led to some old memories resurfacing to haunt me, but I felt strangely lucky. I'd been let off easily. Despite the way I stood completely stupefied in my dorm room, I knew this was temporary, and had full confidence that I'd be able to recover from this pretty quickly. Said confidence was probably the only thing that saved me from losing my mind. Well, that, and the pressure to pass my classes distracted me for a few days. Without having done much studying at all, I army crawled through my finals and barely made it out alive.

About a week later, I moved out of my dorm hall and into an apartment about two miles away from campus. It was a pretty nice place, considering the rent he (my father) paid for it. I got a job at the local coffee shop… which I lost before the month was up, because he never showed up to my shifts. I'd been shocked when Ted insisted upon co-signing the lease, because I didn’t think my dad would be willing to help me stay away from Hawkins. On the other hand, though, it made sense when Ted told me flat out that he wanted me out of the house. I didn’t blame him; I'd been referred to by my father as a “leech” on multiple occasions during my stay over Christmas break, which pretty much tracked. I felt a little guilty about that one.

I appreciated the independence, I truly did. It was a great feeling to have my own room again, to have a more comfortable desk chair to sit at while I drew up plans for a new fantasy novel starring a gay protagonist, to have a bathroom to myself, and most importantly, to have a full-sized refrigerator to fill with all the alcohol I could ever want. But sometimes, late at night, I would catch myself getting a bit too sad.

The entire summer was an endless cycle. I would wake up and make a pot of coffee. I'd sit down and write a chapter or two of my book, and stick to doing that for a few hours. I would check the time (on my wall clock, of course) and take a lunch break, which was usually a box of Annie’s shells and white cheddar. After I'd haphazardly tossed my singular bowl and fork into the sink to be washed later, I'd go back to writing. This wouldn’t last long, because I'd get distracted after smoking a joint, and probably end up staring at that one photo of myself and Will from senior year (Jonathan captured the moment: I had, by some miracle, perched myself up on Will’s handlebars, and Will struggled to hold his bike steady because I was laughing too hard) that sat framed on my desk. I'd snap out of my trance ten minutes later and mentally kick myself for staring for so long, which led to grabbing some form of alcohol and getting wasted, like all my potential. I would make one last attempt at writing and fail miserably. I'd stumble into the shower, and drag myself through my apartment until I found my bed. Most nights, I would end up crying myself to sleep, staring at The Painting™, which I'd tacked up on my bedroom ceiling as a form of self-punishment. It was a sad way to live, really. So I vowed that when the school year started up again, things would be different.

That was how I ended up at the library in late July, browsing the mythology section, squinting at titles printed on spines while my lips formed a straight, thin line. I knew I was officially a hermit when even the library gave me social anxiety. I'd just pulled a rather old looking book off the shelf when a tenor voice behind me caught me off guard.

“Never thought I’d see the day that book would leave the shelf. You must’ve had to brush off, like, a hundred years’ worth of dust just to get to the cover.” I twisted around to put a face to a voice, and was pleasantly surprised when I met eyes with a short guy (well, to me he was short; he was probably, like, 5’9”) with dyed, firetruck red hair that fell over his forehead in a sweeping motion. I liked how he wasn’t afraid to be bold.

“You’re definitely right about that,” I smirked, setting the book down and watching as the growing pile teetered from side to side on the table’s surface. I couldn’t decide where I wanted my story to go next, let alone if I wanted to continue with my current plot at all, so I'd planned on taking a bit of inspiration from… well, everything.

“So you’re into mythology?” the guy asked, and I shoved my hands in my pockets, leaning against the bookshelf as I focused my gaze down. He had pretty eyes. They were hazel, but not too green, not like–

“Yeah, I’m a creative writing major, and I’m trying to expand my horizons a little,” I replied, sitting down at the table. “Like, not to discount the genius of Tolkein, because he literally founded my childhood, but sometimes it’s good to go back to the basics and draw inspiration from there.”

The guy shrugged, and sat across the table from me. “Nothing wrong with that. I think it’s really smart, actually. Or else stories end up getting repetitive and dull.”

“Exactly!” I pointed both index fingers in the guy’s direction, as if to say, “Finally, someone who understands!” I struggled with this concept lately; the uniqueness factor. It turned out that having a male protagonist who just so happened to be romantically attracted to other males wasn’t enough reason to get a book to sell. I needed something else, something of substance, and something that wouldn’t remind readers of other books they’d previously read. “Are you into writing as well?”

“No,” the guy shyly smiled, “I’m just into guys who write about mythology.” Pardon? Was this masculine male-dude-man hitting on me? In public? I wasn’t complaining, but I hadn’t necessarily picked up on any hints. Although, the dyed hair should’ve been a dead giveaway.

“Oh. Um, I– wow, okay,” I stuttered, diverting my eyes to my books for a few seconds to process what was being said before returning to an expectant pair of hazel eyes still looking right at me. “I’m Mike, Mike Wheeler.”

“Wyatt Bowman.”

I cleared my throat. “Are you free in an hour, Wyatt?”

“Yeah, why?” Wyatt raised an eyebrow, causing me to huff a nervous laugh, tapping my Ticonderoga pencil against my spiral-bound notebook at the same speed my knee bounced up and down underneath the table.

“I just gotta take some notes from here, then I was thinking we could… hang out, or something?” I glanced up hopefully at Wyatt.

The corners of Wyatt’s mouth curved upwards as he repeated, “Or something?”

I nodded, confirming our silent sub-conversation.

“Cool. That sounds like a good plan,” Wyatt said, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table as he rose out of the seat and headed for the exit.

“Cool,” I whispered back, reminiscent of a certain afternoon in a certain town in California in a certain room with a certain boy that made me feel a certain way. But that was the past, and I believed I was ready for the future.

When I started seeing Wyatt Bowman, we’d established that our relationship would not be serious. We were, in a small amount of words, friends with benefits. And we were actually friends. We could hang out without getting all hot and heavy. And I didn’t have any objections; I actually preferred the idea of friends who sometimes had sex over the label-less, no strings arrangement that Elvis and I had. It left less room for loopholes of chronic insecurity and self sabotage. It also, in turn, left more room for exploration.

I met Wes Butler in August at my first ever visit to an actual bar. I'd been sitting at the counter with a few of my female friends (Ruby, Alexis, and Julia), and had just received one of the fruitiest cocktails I'd ever tasted when a piece of eye candy, who might as well have been dressed in nothing, lightly tapped my shoulder and asked me to dance. Of course the girls encouraged me, not really giving me an option in the matter, but hey, good dick was good dick. It didn’t really turn into much else; once we’d had a few rounds of unnecessarily loud sex in a supply closet (ironic, but typical), I bid goodbye to my friends, tossing my condom wrappers in the trash on the way out.

I met another guy, Walker Brooks, in September at an off-campus nerd rave. He looked a lot like Eddie Munson, which may or may not have been coincidental. We left the party not even an hour after it began to go to Walker’s dorm. We fucked in between Lord of the Rings themed bedsheets, and I had to endure an excruciating hour and a half of Walker speaking Elvish rather than English. Afterwards, he invited me to join the University of Indy D&D Club, of which he was, of course, the Dungeon Master. I politely declined.

On a particularly difficult October night following being roofied followed by some unwanted advances, I slapped myself awake with one hand as I unsteadily held my handlebars with the other, biking back to my apartment. My grip slipped, and the front wheel hit the curb, which sent the bike to come to a screeching halt and throw me over the handlebars, tumbling onto the concrete. Warren Blakely, one of my classmates in English 101, watched me fall, stopped me from biking again before I hurt myself even more, and asked me what exactly had happened. Once I told Warren what had gone down, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight. Over the next two months or so, Warren kept me safe and let me take control back over my own life. Warren and I had a special bond. If I didn’t still love Will, and if I didn’t have such extreme trust issues, I would have absolutely dated Warren if provided the chance. But I couldn’t, not until I got over Will, so I ended things with Warren. This specific relationship put things into perspective for me. In the end, none of these men I slept with would ever be Will Byers. So I'd either have to get over Will, or find someone better.

On the nights I wasn’t at parties, I was at my desk, writing letters to Will. It was kind of cathartic, honestly. I'd rip a piece of college ruled paper out of my notebook, just like old times, and write letter after letter saying things along the lines of:

These occasional letters became a part of my nightly routine… whenever I wasn’t too fucked up to focus my eyes on my own handwriting. And recently, it was more often than not that I couldn’t actually fall asleep without drinking. I wasn’t even of legal age yet, and wouldn’t be for another two years.

I stopped attending my classes halfway through the semester, so it wasn’t a surprise when my grades plummeted. My mailbox became inundated with letters from the registrar’s office, advising me to withdraw from the classes I was failing before the pass/fail deadline, but I couldn’t care less; so, not only did I fail out of my classes, but I couldn’t even retake the classes even if I wanted to, because my record forced me into the red zone. And the entire time, I couldn’t feel a thing.

If someone were to ask me what time it was, I wouldn’t be able to tell them. First off, I would look down at my watch and realize that said watch was not on my wrist. I would then ask myself why my watch was not on my wrist, then I would remember, oh yeah, Will has a matching one, and I was dead to Will, so I didn’t wear the watch anymore. Time was just a construct, anyway. In the end, I'd probably mess around with the person asking and say some shit like, “It’s 420:69.” I was drunk, though, so I was allowed.

I was at some frat party, spending what was my last official night as a student at the University of Indianapolis with the brotherhood of Alpha Lambda Dickhole. I was seated on some musty couch, stained with whatever the fuck that was, with an empty glass resting between my legs and a bottle of whiskey in my hand. I'd given up some time ago on trying to pace myself. Some kind of synth-infused rock music vibrated across the floor, and I could feel the bass reverberating in my bones, which would normally make me want to get up and dance, but I wasn’t particularly in a celebratory mood; I was only halfway through my sophomore year, and had just dropped out.

“Hey, by any chance do you know the time?” a deep voice asked, and I lifted my gaze up from my lap to a muscular brunette. I blinked a few times in an attempt to form a coherent sentence.

“I, uh– I don’t—” I stuttered, lifting my bare, watch-less wrist up to show to the guy, who merely lifted an unserious eyebrow and chuckled. He took my hand in his and let it down gently before sitting next to me on the couch.

“It’s all good, man. I was just using that as a reason to talk to you.”

I was surprised someone clocked me that quickly. But then again, I was wearing insanely tight jeans that I'd cut right above the knee paired with a floral print shirt. I wasn’t exactly being subtle. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” the guy laughed, extending a rough, calloused hand. Did he lift weights? Or play guitar? Or both? “I’m Carter, by the way.” At least his name didn’t begin with a W. Or maybe it did, but the W was silent. Wcarter. Ouah-carter. Wah-carter. Double-you-carter. Dub-yuh-Carter. Cart… Chart… Astrological chart. I made a mental note to check my horoscope. What was I thinking about originally? I couldn’t remember.

Jesus. I was hammered.

“I’m Mike,” I replied, taking the guy’s— Carter’s— hand, but Carter didn’t shake it. He instead let our fingers intertwine, anticipatorily slow. Okay. I could be good with this.

“Do you maybe want to get out of here, Mike?” Carter asked, and I felt a blush rising to my face.

“Sure, yeah,” I breathed, and let Carter pull me up out of my sunken spot on the couch, down some hallway, and into an empty bedroom. I scoped out the place and noticed a photo of Carter with a dog framed on the desk; this was his room. I exhaled in relief. I didn’t want to have sex in someone else’s bed. Never again.

Carter pulled the door closed and locked it, turning around to face me before looking me up and down. I gulped. I hadn’t realized before, because it was so dark, but in the lamplight, Carter’s resemblance to Will was uncanny. He was a few inches shorter than me, and had a muscular build– that much I knew already. Thank god he didn’t have a bowl cut. He had a strong jawline but a subtle softness to his features. His lips were a light pink, the upper one a bit thinner than the lower one. The most similar feature they shared, though, was their bright green eyes, full of life, and something else I couldn’t name… intention? Vulnerability? Yearning?

In my inebriated state, I didn’t notice how close Carter had gotten until I felt two hands snaking their way up my shoulders and joining behind my neck, pulling me down until our lips met. I couldn’t move fast enough, lifting my shaking hands to rest on Carter’s waist, pulling him into my chest and deepening the kiss immediately. Carter was more languid in his movements, while I was more firm and calculated; this felt strangely antithetical. It probably had to do something with my increased tolerance. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this, but if there was one person who knew how to repress their feelings with a series of bad decisions, it was me. Mike Wheeler. My life was already on fire, what more could possibly happen to exacerbate the flame?

The two of us made our way over to Carter’s bed, where we quickly undressed. Carter kissed down my body, and I ran my hands through Carter’s hair. Then he went down on me without warning.

“Ah!” I yelped in surprise, my exclamation becoming a moan almost instantaneously. This was good. This felt nice. This is exactly what I’d imagine–

“Will…”

“Excuse me?”

And with that, the night was over. Carter stopped what he was doing, got up, muttered a “fuck you,” and left without another word. I felt the world zeroing in on me. I could just picture what I’d write in my next letter:

Dear Will,

I said your name while another guy had my dick in his mouth. Do you believe me now?

Love, Mike

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#byler #byler fanfic #byler fic #byler tumblr #mike wheeler #will byers #will x mike #mike x will #mike wheeler x oc #mike wheeler is 6’3 and i will die on this hill #stranger things #stranger things fic #thisismetrying1

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dreaming-for-an-escape · 1 year

Text

Summary: Scarlett and Randy during their time at Windsor College. Takes place a before the events of Scream 2.

Warnings: Scarlett and Randy just being cute together. Oh, and a bit of suggestive themes at the end ;)

If Scarlett were to be honest, she didn’t really feel like going to a college party on a Friday night. The nineteen year old would’ve much preferred staying in either her dorm or Randy’s.

However she decided to go for Sidney’s sake. Her childhood friend wasn’t much for parties either but she’d been basically dragged by her roommate Hallie.

Scarlett’s opinion on Hallie remained the same since meeting her at the beginning of Freshman year. She thought Hallie was nice, albeit way more extroverted than her and Sidney.

Hallie was always trying to get Sidney, and by extension Scarlett, to go out more. Scarlett was able to dodge some invites but Sidney wasn’t able to so easily because she was roommates with Hallie.

Sidney didn’t even try to come up with a reason why she couldn’t go out tonight. Hallie would’ve spotted the excuse a mile away. It however didn’t take much to convince Scarlett to go with them.

Scarlett already bailed the last two times Hallie invited her to go out with them. So a third rejection in a row didn’t seem very cool, especially when Hallie had been trying to be nice to her. Also seeing the disappointment in Sidney’s soft brown eyes everytime she said she wasn’t going out with them made her feel bad.

So for Sidney’s sake Scarlett prepared herself for a night of partying.

Randy by her side at the party helped in making her feel more comfortable. Having her fun-loving boyfriend by her side in general always made things better.

Unfortunately as much as they wanted to remain by each other’s sides, they ended up separating at some point.

It happened when Randy offered to get Scarlett something to drink. Finding a non-alcoholic drink at a college party was a challenge but Randy had been determined to find a proper drink for his girlfriend.

Randy managed to dodge Mickey, who looked eager for a conversation. He didn’t have time to do his usual banter with Mickey tonight though. His focus was entirely on his girlfriend.

By the time Randy was walking back with a Dr. Pepper he found at the very bottom of a cooler, he saw that during his absence Scarlett got cornered by two sorority girls. He recognized them as Lois and Murphy from Delta Lambda Zeta. Lois and Murphy had been trying to be buddy-buddy with her and Sidney for a while now.

Sidney’s roommate Hallie had made it clear that she was interested in joining their sorority. She’d been trying her hardest to get into their good graces, but she still needed to get there. Unlike with Sidney and Scarlett who were already being welcomed with open arms by the sorority, despite neither being interested in joining.

“Ladies.” Randy acknowledged Lois and Murphy with a nod. He handed Scarlett her drink, a smile on his face as he wrapped an arm around her waist. “If you’ll excuse us, we have matters that need attending to.”

Scarlett waved goodbye to Lois and Murphy, holding back giggles as she happily followed Randy’s lead. “And what exact matters need attending to?”

“I just made that up.” Randy grinned, gently squeezing her waist. “It looked like you needed rescuing.”

“My hero.” Scarlett sang before kissing his cheek. “Thanks for soda by the way.” She said, snapping open the carbonated drink.

“Sorry I took so long. Who knew finding a soda at a college party would be like Mission Impossible.” Randy joked, beaming from hearing Scarlett's melodious laugh. “So I figure we stay here for another half hour and then we can make our leave.”

Scarlett nodded her head, swiftly agreeing. She’d come here mainly for Sidney but her best friend looked like she was doing more than okay now. Sidney’s boyfriend Derek had made an appearance, and since then they’d been sitting on a couch, content with talking instead of drinking and dancing.

When the half hour was up, Randy and Scarlett said goodbye to their friends. Holding hands, the young couple left the party with smiles on their faces.

“I rented Mallrats for us to watch.” Randy told his girlfriend as they made their way through campus.

“I love that movie.” Scarlett exclaimed, laughing with Randy when talking about the movie. The rest of the walk to Randy’s dorm was lighthearted with hand squeezes and quick kisses.

Randy’s roommate Paul wasn’t there much to Scarlett’s content. Paul was nice enough but him being there would’ve ruined the mood. That’s why Randy spent more time in Scarlett’s dorm since she didn’t have a roommate.

Scarlett now lived in a single dorm after the awful roommate she had Freshman year. Never again did she want to go through that drama again, and Randy didn’t want that either for his girlfriend.

Randy put on the movie after making popcorn for the two of them. Unfortunately he had no Red Vines but he had M&M’s. So he threw in some M&M’s in the bowl with the popcorn, mixing them. M&M’s in their popcorn was a thing he and Scarlett had begun to do recently whenever they watched a movie together. It was a snack that was both sweet and salty.

Scarlett grabbed bottles of water before making herself comfortable on Randy’s bed. She was lying next to him with her head on his shoulder while they munched on popcorn and M&M’s as the movie played.

However twenty minutes later both the movie and the bowl of popcorn with the M&M’s were forgotten about. Scarlett and Randy’s quick buttery and chocolate kisses turned into a full makeout session with her now on his lap.

They were still fully clothed as Scarlett started moving her hips against Randy’s. The increasing friction only made the both of them feel more flushed. She pressed kisses to his neck before moving her lips to his face. His goatee on her lips made her giggle.

Randy laughed lightly in return, his hands squeezing her sides from where they were underneath the velvet violet blouse she wore.

“When’s your roommate supposed to be back?” Scarlett whispered against his lips, gently biting on his bottom lip. Although she hit pause on the hip movements, she remained on his lap.

Randy held back a moan, squeezing her sides again. “Paul said something about a late night study session.”

Scarlett smiled, rubbing her nose against his. “Well, that works perfectly for us then.”

Randy agreed, then kissed her wholeheartedly. They continued to kiss, their hips moving against each other’s until Randy suddenly whispered into her ear asking if she wanted more.

Scarlett leaned back a bit, brown eyes twinkling with ardor. “Randy, I’ll always want more with you.”

Randy was left speechless. There were still times he couldn’t believe Scarlett was actually his girlfriend. Sometimes he’d even think he was dreaming and that he’d wake up soon…but he never did.

Then every time this would happen he’d realize all over again that this really was his life. And although terrifying, what Randy felt for Scarlett wasn’t anything like that. What they had was special, a brightness to the horrors they went through in Woodsboro.

Randy never wanted that to go away. He softly captured her lips as his heart beat rapidly against his chest.

Scarlett’s hands found their way to Randy’s hair, and his own began to roam the rest of her body. At some point Scarlett moved to be underneath Randy, and by that point they were less dressed with disheveled hair.

The movie was still playing in the background but the comedy was the last thing on Scarlett and Randy’s mind.

#hear you seek you #scarlett mitchell #randy meeks #sidney prescott #hallie mcdaniel #mickey altieri #derek feldman #scream 2 #scream 2 drabble #oc

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