for 3k followers here's a first draft of my tlou hucklerobby Dennis was in a cult and Robby "saves" him AU that I honestly may never finish (you've seen some of it before lmfaoo but ☝️ this is the full thing) (it's not that long at all lmao) (writers block!)
A few feet from where Dennis lay, a browned blood smear stains the hardwood floors. A few feet. The body was dragged out— the church is a sacred place, and even in chaos, no one dared to truly defile it— but he watched it go down, heard the gunshot, the squealing clicks like cries of a wounded animal.
Dennis has always felt bad for the Infected, compassionate, in a way he knows is a fault. It reminds him too much of pigs raised for slaughter, too much of being out of control. He looks at mangled walking corpses, alive only through parasitic fungi, and sees the human they used to be. He’s never shot one. Never stabbed one, never hurt one. He doesn’t know if he could.
All he’s ever been good at is running. Lithe, quick feet, always aching but more than used to it— a grounding, sharpening factor rather than a drawback. His soles are scraped up but toughened, calloused, weathered. He can take it. He’s good at taking it. Pain, sharp and biting, pain, dull and aching, pain, familiar. He can take it.
Lips dry and cracked, he winces as his tongue stripes out, licks over them in a futile attempt to wet the bloodied split in the center. Banged up and bruised, he’s not once tried to uncurl his limbs, not sure if he could. Why did he try so hard to stay alive? All to rot here with the wood, all to sit with himself in his shame.
He wants to pray, swallows thickly to whisper the familiar words, but they won’t come out. Throat dry as his mouth, an invisible hand around his throat keeping him from reaching out to the unseen force he’s never quite been on good terms with. He doesn’t know why he still tries, when God has never once heard his pleas. When God inflicts the pain instead of taking it away, bears down on his laden shoulders instead of lightening the burden, as he was taught. What a fucking lie.
But it’s a comforting lie, one that used to widen his eyes in wonder as a kid, one that gives a semblance of soothing even now. Silly, pathetic, Dennis just wants a father. Even an unseen one, even one who would hurt him. A figure to decide his fate, to tell him what to do. All knowing, all powerful. A hand guiding him forward, leading him like a lamb to slaughter.
The creak of the church is haunting, wind groaning through the wood like phantoms buried. The daylight is trickling away again, beams retracting from the windows, dimming the heavy atmosphere. Ever since Dennis was a child, he’s been scared of the dark, and years later he hasn’t shaken it. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathes shaky, the dust making him cough quietly as his head slumps back to the floor.
He’s so, so tired. Cold and shivering, impossibly heavy for his slender frame. He just— he just wants to go to sleep. That’s it. Just for a little while.
Just for a minute.
…
“What’s a little thing like you doin’ out here, huh?”
The voice is gravelly, low, quiet, like whoever it belongs to is talking to himself, not to Dennis. Vaguely he registers hands on his body, trying to uncurl him, gentle but prodding, taking note of his bruises. A quiet groan is all he can manage, coming out as more of a whimper, weak and spent as his eyes crack open to the man, knelt, leaning over him.
The church pew that used to be safely over his head is gone, or maybe he is, dragged out from underneath it. Like a prey animal, his heart start to pick up, pitter-pattering painfully in his chest as he blinks away his bleariness, hiccups out a quiet noise as the man’s thumb presses gently into a bruise on his hip. He should feel revolted, he should pull away, fight, but he can’t, the man’s palms are warm and all over his body and he doesn’t hate it and he should. He should.
“Hurts,” he manages to whisper, hoarse, aching.
Dennis catches it, the flicker of darkness in the man’s eyes before they soften. It pulses fear in his chest, but still, he does not pull away. Breathless and woozy, he considers maybe God heard the quiet pleas of his heart. Maybe this man is an angel. Maybe this man is going to help him.
…
Robby doesn’t know if he’s ever experienced luck this good. A miracle so palpable it almost makes him wanna believe in G-d again, this sweet, adorable little thing blinking up at him with the biggest, bluest eyes he thinks he’s ever seen. In the middle of nowhere, alone, vulnerable… poor baby. Don’t you need someone to take care of you? I could take care of you, sweetheart.
His hands slide from the boy’s torso to his neck, pressing into his pulse, tamping down a grin when he feels it rabbit under his fingertips. How sweet.
“What’s your name, little mouse? Can you speak?” Robby inquires, staying gentle, quiet, not wanting to scare the kid off.
The boy blinks up at him, throat bobbing underneath Robby’s hands with a thick swallow. He tries to open his mouth and obey— what a good boy, doesn’t even hesitate— and fails, mouth too weak, vocal cords uncooperative with disuse. Only a small sound comes out, raspy and weak. That just won’t do.
“Poor thing,” Robby whispers, sliding his hands up from the boy’s throat to cradle his face, stroking the pads of his thumbs under those pretty eyes. He watches satisfactorily as the boy droops ever so slightly, shudders. You like that, huh, mouse?
Robby inches closer, head tilting, studying the boy’s pretty face— so pretty it’s hard to believe he’s real, alive in a place like this. Cute, sharp nose, and even cracked and bleeding his lips look so invitingly pink. Sweaty and tangled, his dark blond curls are still cute, chopped haphazardly like he’s done it himself. He’s on the thinner side, hungry, but Robby can fix that. Robby will fix that.
Little pants tremor out of the poor kid, puffs of air brushing over Robby’s hand. Still so scared, baby. That’s alright. It’s cute. He pulls the boy’s lip up to expose his teeth, bringing up his other hand to trace along the sharp edges. His mouth parts readily, pink and pretty, licked nervously dry. Even as the younger man trembles, a little whimper caught in the back of his throat, he is still, easy, pliant. Something to be guided, something to be molded and taught. A prey animal that knows he’s done running.
Robby has him in his maw, and he’ll keep him there, won’t bite down. It’s enough for the kid to know that he could if he wanted to, feel the pressure around his throat, caged and helpless. Robby chuckles, presses his thumb gently into a canine. The sharp point is a tiny pain on the pad of his finger. The boy doesn’t try anything, doesn’t fight, even though he could, even though Robby has offered a way to hurt him on a silver platter. It’d be as easy as breathing, clamping down on Robby’s fingers ‘til they bled. The sweet thing doesn’t, of course.
“You really don’t have any bite to you at all, now do ya, kid?” Robby coos, softens himself, because while he wants this pretty thing either way— would look so good in his cabin, in his sheets, on his floors— it’d make things so much easier for them both if the boy chose it himself.
The boy responds, a small shake of his head, followed by a wince. Robby frowns, upset at the reminder of the pain the boy— his boy must be in, the possibility of it being inflicted by someone else, by foreign hands. That’s not right, not at all, but it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s another thing for him to fix. It’s another thing he can fix.
“Gonna get you up, now, okay? Yeah, oh, I know,” Robby sighs, sympathetic, as the boy’s eyes widen again, a protesting whimper falling from his cracked lips. “I know, honey-baby, I know it’s gonna hurt. How’d you get so banged up, mouse?”
The question is one the boy can’t answer, not right now, at least, but Robby hopes the attempt to explain will distract him for at least a few seconds as he scoops his arms under the little thing, hauls him up into his grip. His boy hiccups, the cutest little tears slipping out of his eyes as his chest heaves, body tremoring with a mix of fear and ache. Robby feels a little tinge in his chest as he carries the poor thing out of the church, but it’s hard to focus on much else when his boy is such a pretty crier, sniffling in his grasp, noises pitiful and soft.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Between the ages of about 14 and 24, the period where my social anxiety/whatever other shit was at it's most intense, there was effectively one person on earth I ever spoke to. I won't belabour this point too much but you need to take my word that that's not an exaggeration; I was never literally mute but the substantive conversations I had with anyone besides this person throughout that whole decade could probably be counted on fingers.
This friendship began suddenly--in my memory we went from hardly noticing each other during the first couple years of secondary school to talking every day with no build-up at all--was kind of involved and intense in both good and bad ways, was intermittently sexual but never romantic throughout basically the whole ten years, became slowly and steadily worse after a time until it eventually became awful for reasons that were wholly my fault, and ended decisively forever one day after an incident that's far too embarrassing for me to be willing to describe it here. Today--I didn't have the date memorized, I had to look it up, but I've been conscious for a while that it was sometime this April--it has been exactly ten years since I last saw him. I have no clue what's going on with his life now beyond that I'm pretty sure he doesn't live in this city anymore.
I've tried to write about him on this blog a few times, there's some drafts in the drafts, but never really got very far, beyond a few peripheral bits (you may possibly remember him as the friend from the nearly-stepped-on-a-frog anecdote, for example). It's all very embarrassing and hard to summarize and a long time and a long time ago (<-two separate things), I don't seem to be able to talk about it in a way that feels satisfactory. This post won't satisfy me either but I feel a superstitious need to get something down before the 10 years has officially passed, like I forfeit the right to mention it if I still haven't by then.
I remember so clearly the feeling that my capacity to make even shallow connections with new people had been permanently destroyed somehow in early adolescence, and he was the one exception that had been mysteriously granted me by providence; I could be smart and funny and candid and charming when I was around him, while with everyone else in the world I could barely get a sentence out, and no amount of exposure to other people seemed to change that. I fully expected, was completely convinced, that I would never have another friend or even friendly acquaintance for the rest of my life. I was wholly convinced that if I ever lost him that would be the end of all communications between me and the human species, it would make me fully a ghost forever.
(Which sounds extreme in retrospect, but please understand that it was years and years and years until I received even a small scrap of evidence contradicting this; the entirety of my teenage years and then the entirety of my student years and then some more time went by without me ever really existing in the presence of any other person. I don't think I can truthfully say my anxieties about this were irrational.)
That's a very me-centric write-up; of course he was wonderfully curious and playful and intelligent and aesthetically-minded like nobody I'd encountered before etc etc, of course he was beautiful. I'm not going to try to describe him in any detail because I'm writing to a deadline. If I've ever been in love, which who really knows and who cares, but if I have it's only happened once and this was it.
When this went bad it went bad in ways that are probably kind of predictable if I've accurately communicated the situation so far. My attachment to him was too neurotic to make a stable and good friendship. I needed him a lot more than he needed me, he had other people and I didn't, I was never going to feel like I was getting what I wanted out of the friendship in the long run because he was one singular guy with his own life who I was relying on to fulfill 100% of my social needs forever. Eventually the gap between how much time and attention each of us wanted to give each other became awkward, then tense, and then honestly downright creepy on my part. It was only later in retrospect that I really appreciated how deeply this all must have sucked from his perspective as well as mine. I did not, to understate significantly, handle the lack of reciprocity gracefully. I was pretty shameless about the kind of guilt-tripping and boundary-ignoring talk and behaviour that puts me in a bit of a cold sweat to think back on now. I was a terrible, terrible friend to him towards the end and I'm amazed looking back that he put up with me for so long.
Well, so it ended, which was obviously right. It was hard, but also since our relationship had come to largely consist of anxious tension by that point there couldn't not be some relief there too, to have a clean break. It took a long time to adjust; my thoughts had been habitually oriented towards him for almost as long as I remembered, things I experienced and read and saw and etc kept offering themselves as things to talk to him about, long long after we'd stopped talking. Nowadays I virtually never think about him, but when I do I notice that I'm still capable of missing him, not very painfully, but it's there. And then I'm sometimes uncannily conscious of the strange fact, which might apply to many or most intense early friendships(? not sure about that), of how much of my personality was originally built with and around him, of the way (eg) much of my sense of humour was calibrated on wanting to make him laugh, of the way many little idiosyncrasies and quirks in the way I speak became firmly established because he responded to them, way back then, all kinds of stuff like that. Strange to be reminded that you made yourself at a specific moment in time and made yourself for someone, and for a specific someone.
Tbh the more I think about it the more I don't even agree that "does Omelas having a suffering kid make it more credible?" is solely an indictment of an inability to imagine a perfect utopia without there being some catch or dark underbelly.
Why does your imagination fall short? Why is it so easy to imagine that these happy people are doing something heinous behind the scenes, like taking pleasure in hurting a child? She gives an answer, a point of view, and I think there is a genuine frustration. I think she is genuinely going, when you think of a perfect utopia where everyone is happy, why are people often immediately skeptical and looking for holes? Why do people often imagine something fairytale-esque? Why do people so often imagine everyone must be stupid in such a world, that people are secretly unhappy?
And, you know, glancing at the wiki, the work seems to be in conversation with specific, kind of insufferable instances of this exact hypothetical being used.
And I kind of get that like. The inclusion of a hidden abused child that adults insist must be abandoned and abused and that most kids see the injustice of but many eventually grow up to tell themselves excuses of how "well, this is the way it has to be" is still sort of condemning a skeptical reader, and I get how walking away from omelas means to walk away from this entire hypothetical and imagine a different world rather than believe that a perfect world without a suffering child is true just because you've been told so. The metaphor is certainly there.
But simultaneously I don't agree that it's just walking away from the hypothetical. It isn't just, here you go edgelords, I gave omelas something terrible to make it more realistic, are you satisfied? There are reasons beyond a lack of imagination to be doubtful, and there are reasons beyond not accepting the "banality of evil" to find the idea of the secret suffering child compelling and, almost certainly, familiar. Maybe you've even been that hypothetical suffering child, told that your mistreatment is just and necessary for others to prosper.
I also don't think walking away possibly being read as acceptance of the framework isn't a little bit on purpose as well. I think going, "what, I'm supposed to believe this framework just because the author said so?" is a response she's purposefully trying to provoke in people! "I would save the kid anyway" is protesting against the framework of Omelas as much as "walking away" is. The hypothetical omelas likely sparks your desire to fix things, encourages you to come up with solutions, to think about what you'd do, a want to build a better world that doesn't involve the child's suffering, and going "Omelas is just a hypothetical it's not about finding a solution and you're stupid if you say you'd try to save the child" is also I think incredibly reductive, and I think it's a take that bothers me so much more because it so quickly contradicts itself and refuses to engage with a good chunk of the story put forth.
She's not just criticizing a disbelief in perfect happiness, she's also stoking your desire for one. She almost certainly put in a suffering child because most people would respond with wanting to save it.
Or maybe I'm crazy and this is nothing. Maybe I don't even believe this 100%. You'll never catch me
So like detransitioning a few years ago, I didn't really want to do it but it seemed like the best thing to do at the time and I got used to it I guess. I tried to find joy in my assigned gender right, and sometimes i felt good, sometimes I felt bad, overall I'd say I've now found my niche where I'm like, comfortable.
But I'm not loving... Some things... like I used to before. I mean, life is great and easy, but I dunno. I miss wearing the things I really want to wear. Or looking how I want to look.
I'm actually ok with my pronouns though because I kept my trans name and that is like, enough to stop the "misgendering" dysphoria?
I mean hell maybe I should just walk out the house dressed up and shit but part of the issue is thinking of the context in which other people see me.
At this point most of my acquaintances and like work friends don't even know I was trans they just think I have a weird name.
"I am too. Mostly because it means you're back. I've been worried -- don't the aliens usually take people for only a night?"
"Not these ones."
"Not... oh no, the ones who took me up said something about some kind of others."
"Ones who took you up?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"All right. I wanted to ask you something else anyway. How much did you have to do with my abduction?"
"Nothing."
"You sure about that?"
"Bella, I had no idea. I invited you over because I -- urgh."
"Urgh?"
"Look, I don't usually go after married chicks. Not unless they have an open relationship. Too much drama, you know? But you..."
"But I what?"
"Mortimer asked me to."
"Did he."
"I know it's unbelievable. I'm also never pushy like I was with you, but he was so concerned about having a younger wife who was so hot and he wanted to test you. I figured I should make it a real test. Also, I was drunk. I'm sorry, it was a terrible thing to do. I haven't touched alcohol since. Erm -- also he bought me a hot tub. "
"I know. I found the receipt. At first I thought he was paying you for woohoo -- he'd never been interested in men before, but you never know. But then, after you were so persistent, I went to talk to him. And I overheard him talking on the phone to you. That's when I decided to go to your place and confront you about it."
"You didn't confront him about it?"
"Morty's too good at wriggling out of everything."
"Besides, I was angry, and you're hot. If my husband didn't trust me after all these years, what use was being faithful?"
"So you wanted to..."
"Revenge woohoo with you. Of course, things are different now."
"Meaning you don't want to any longer?"
"I'm not married any longer. But it's been an awful long time, and I've been through an awful lot. I hate to spend another night alone."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
had a falling out with a friend yesterday over her continuous shitting on cis people (among other things). supposedly they are the enemy and are oppressing us simply by existing. yes, even those who are just living their lives and minding their own business - cuz if you're not directly helping an oppressed group, you're participating in their oppression indirectly somehow (???). it's cishets and cishets only who came up with all things queerphobic in the first place; if one of our own perpetuates that crap, it's still the cishets' fault, the poor dear is just traumatized and lashing out. as for cis allies who do put their lives on the line for us - their efforts don't mean shit, because they're an outlier, and cis people "as a class" are still the oppressor anyway, so her hatred is justified.
and when i point out to her that appointing a broad, diverse group of people as the enemy helps no one, least of all herself, that's just me being purposefully obtuse and/or a traitor to my own people. and if i keep disagreeing with her, it's only to piss her off and to attack her.
and she's a radfem, so i knew what i was getting into from the start, but this is still just so frustrating. she's such a bright, passionate young woman. how can she be such an ass.
we had both legally transitioned at nearly the same time, pretty much in parallel but in different directions, and we supported each other as we navigated that whole ordeal. it hurts because i understand why she's so angry and why she's so scared, but she just. won't. listen. living with this hatred is hurting her, but she clings to it like a it's a damn lifeline. because being a hateful little gremlin and an anxious mess is the only appropriate/possible response to the current situation, i suppose. silly old me, what do i know.
i got it into my head that i have to help her because she's younger than me, and she's trying to do good for the community, and she's broke and hurt and has suicidal tendencies, but fff. i just can't do this anymore. i feel like crap almost every time we talk. the hatred and the fear just keep spilling out of her to land onto my head. it's like i'm a dumping ground or a fuckin outhouse or something. "oh, men are at the root of all evil, they just suck fundamentally because they're men - not trans men tho, and def not you, you're cool :)", "am i passing??? fuck, i have so much internalized transphobia. how's my woman voice??? i feel like i'm never gonna be a "real" woman, i need this and this surgery", "all sex work is rape, are you in support of rape???", "it's been five whole minutes, why aren't you answering me, i feel like we barely talk anymore :(", "i'm anxious, i'm terrified, i can't get out of the house. i'm taking a break from arguing with terrible people on the internet, it's been taking a toll on me - oh wait, nevermind, i'm back to arguing with terrible people on the internet, because SOMEONE HAS TO", she keeps telling me, day after day and week after week, nothing seems to change, "i want to kill myself right now - what do i want you to do with this information? i don't know, i guess i just want some support", "i remember you told me you feel like you're being used for your money and it makes you feel like crap, i feel so bad about this, but could you lend me some money???", and after i had just told her that i was kinda struggling financially at the moment - "oh, you're so boujee, you should give me money, hehehe :P", "i know this comes off as manipulative and i feel so bad about this, but i'm gonna do/say it anyway, please forgive me", and she begins to cry. "i got it into my head that you will save me - can you please save me?" - springing that shit on me in a public place, during a smoke break at a support group we both regularly attend, girl, wtf. how am i even supposed to respond to that. "let's drop the g and the l, this is a gay exclusionary support group - hehehe, jk, i just mean the cis gays of course :P i'm just mirroring the shit that gays say about us, it's fine", and now she's a moderator of said support group. just great.
AND forwarding me a bunch of articles and videos of trans people getting bashed (including one such video of herself), with no warning, because she's been gathering evidence to make her case for immigration, and she thought she should get it all in one place, that one place being my dms - i got so upset i was close to tears, i walked around in a daze for a week. AND THEN a week or so later forwarding me a bunch of transphobic death threats she's been getting, with, again, zero warning??? not the kind of light recreational reading i've been looking for, fuck you very much.
and again, this is frustrating because she's not a bad person, but damn. she's toxic. it feels like i'm a shitty friend, abandoning her for being inconvenient, but. fuck. i can't anymore. fuck it.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Allison Argent, Talia Hale, Cora Hale, Laura Hale, Peter Hale, Sheriff Stilinski, Erica Reyes, Isaac Lahey, Vernon Boyd, The Hale Family - Character, The Hale Pack
Additional Tags: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Long-Distance Friendship, Mutual Pining, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Everyone Is Alive, Werewolf Packs, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Alternate Universe - College/University, Full Shift Werewolves, Scent Marking
Summary:
After Scott was bitten, Stiles told a very small lie in exchange for a very huge prize -- pack membership -- and he has spent the intervening years winning every Best Fake Boyfriend award on the books. Now, however, Scott wants to be in an actual relationship, and Stiles is losing his pack. Enter Derek.
Not Hayden Project related, but neat and unnoticed parallel I found in PM1.
So when we run across the park near the restaurant after our first date with Hayden, an older woman approaches us.
I didn't expect to see her again, since this seemed like a throwaway scene just meant to show us how good Hayden and the MC look as a couple, but then I spotted her (this time, with "Emmett") again in Damien's "stakeout" diamond scene.
So the couple who equated herself and her beloved with Hayden and the MC, is a married older woman who has found her true love in a younger man, but never unite with him. They're considered a "wrong" couple, both socially (age gap) and morally (a possible extramarital affair).
Another example Damien gives is of a "foreign royal" in love with a commoner (most of us figured the reference could be to TRR). This too could refer to star crossed lovers who either united, or didn't become a couple at all.
This scene takes place just a chapter before Hayden's truth is revealed - that they are an android. The moral implications aside, I feel like there is a slight parallel between the Emmett-rich lady love story, and the one between Hayden and MC - in that they could be "wrong" couples for very valid reasons...but (if the MC is in love with Hayden and still wants to pursue a relationship with them) that does not diminish the intensity or power of their love.
This presents a parallel that would work with both options - one where the MC rejects Hayden, and another where the MC continues their relationship, embracing all its complications and confusions.
(The stakeout scene in its entirety is about how messy and complicated relationships can be, with Damien's specific argument being that one should not allow one's emotions to take over. But it also shows us happy endings - such as the closing story of a suspicious husband who eventually reconciled with his wife. Damien himself accepts later how skewed by his own bitter past his views are)
Like Emmett and his beloved, Hayden and the MC could part. Or they could stay together, just as Emmett and the rich lady would have wanted to, social propriety be damned.
PS: The next time we see Emmett, he will be the PA to Winona Johnson, the talk show host we approach for an exposé on Eros. He will be the workholic PA who has too many coffees, perhaps submerging himself in work just to get rid of his memories.
