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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year

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Better failure for social media

Content moderation is fundamentally about making social media work better, but there are two other considerations that determine how social media fails: end-to-end (E2E), and freedom of exit. These are much neglected, and that’s a pity, because how a system fails is every bit as important as how it works.

Of course, commercial social media sites don’t want to be good, they want to be profitable. The unique dynamics of social media allow the companies to uncouple quality from profit, and more’s the pity.

Social media grows thanks to network effects — you join Twitter to hang out with the people who are there, and then other people join to hang out with you. The more users Twitter accumulates, the more users it can accumulate. But social media sites stay big thanks to high switching costs: the more you have to give up to leave a social media site, the harder it is to go:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/facebooks-secret-war-switching-costs

Nature bequeaths some in-built switching costs on social media, primarily the coordination problem of reaching consensus on where you and the people in your community should go next. The more friends you share a social media platform with, the higher these costs are. If you’ve ever tried to get ten friends to agree on where to go for dinner, you know how this works. Now imagine trying to get all your friends to agree on where to go for dinner, for the rest of their lives!

But these costs aren’t insurmountable. Network effects, after all, are a double-edged sword. Some users are above-average draws for others, and if a critical mass of these important nodes in the network map depart for a new service — like, say, Mastodon — that service becomes the presumptive successor to the existing giants.

When that happens — when Mastodon becomes “the place we’ll all go when Twitter finally becomes unbearable” — the downsides of network effects kick in and the double-edged sword begins to carve away at a service’s user-base. It’s one thing to argue about which restaurant we should go to tonight, it’s another to ask whether we should join our friends at the new restaurant where they’re already eating.

Social media sites who want to keep their users’ business walk a fine line: they can simply treat those users well, showing them the things they ask to see, not spying on them, paying to police their service to reduce harassment, etc. But these are costly choices: if you show users the things they ask to see, you can’t charge businesses to show them things they don’t want to see. If you don’t spy on users, you can’t sell targeting services to people who want to force them to look at things they’re uninterested in. Every moderator you pay to reduce harassment draws a salary at the expense of your shareholders, and every catastrophe that moderator prevents is a catastrophe you can’t turn into monetizable attention as gawking users flock to it.

So social media sites are always trying to optimize their mistreatment of users, mistreating them (and thus profiting from them) right up to the point where they are ready to switch, but without actually pushing them over the edge.

One way to keep dissatisfied users from leaving is by extracting a penalty from them for their disloyalty. You can lock in their data, their social relationships, or, if they’re “creators” (and disproportionately likely to be key network nodes whose defection to a rival triggers mass departures from their fans), you can take their audiences hostage.

The dominant social media firms all practice a low-grade, tacit form of hostage-taking. Facebook downranks content that links to other sites on the internet. Instagram prohibits links in posts, limiting creators to “Links in bio.” Tiktok doesn’t even allow links. All of this serves as a brake on high-follower users who seek to migrate their audiences to better platforms.

But these strategies are unstable. When a platform becomes worse for users (say, because it mandates nonconsensual surveillance and ramps up advertising), they may actively seek out other places on which to follow each other, and the creators they enjoy. When a rival platform emerges as the presumptive successor to an incumbent, users no longer face the friction of knowing which rival they should resettle to.

When platforms’ enshittification strategies overshoot this way, users flee in droves, and then it’s time for the desperate platform managers to abandon the pretense of providing a public square. Yesterday, Elon Musk’s Twitter rolled out a policy prohibiting users from posting links to rival platforms:

https://web.archive.org/web/20221218173806/https://help.twitter.com/en/rules-and-policies/social-platforms-policy

This policy was explicitly aimed at preventing users from telling each other where they could be found after they leave Twitter:

https://web.archive.org/web/20221219015355/https://twitter.com/TwitterSupport/status/1604531261791522817

This, in turn, was a response to many users posting regular messages explaining why they were leaving Twitter and how they could be found on other platforms. In particular, Twitter management was concerned with departures by high-follower users like Taylor Lorenz, who was retroactively punished for violating the policy, though it didn’t exist when she violated it:

https://deadline.com/2022/12/washington-post-journalist-taylor-lorenz-suspended-twitter-1235202034/

As Elon Musk wrote last spring: “The acid test for two competing socioeconomic systems is which side needs to build a wall to keep people from escaping? That’s the bad one!”

https://twitter.com/elonmusk/status/1533616384747442176

This isn’t particularly insightful. It’s obvious that any system that requires high walls and punishments to stay in business isn’t serving its users, whose presence is attributable to coercion, not fulfillment. Of course, the people who operate these systems have all manner of rationalizations for them.

The Berlin Wall, we were told, wasn’t there to keep East Germans in — rather, it was there to keep the teeming hordes clamoring to live in the workers’ paradise out. In the same way, platforms will claim that they’re not blocking outlinks or sideloading because they want to prevent users from defecting to a competitor, but rather, to protect those users from external threats.

This rationalization quickly wears thin, and then new ones step in. For example, you might claim that telling your friends that you’re leaving and asking them to meet you elsewhere is like “giv[ing] a talk for a corporation [and] promot[ing] other corporations”:

https://mobile.twitter.com/mayemusk/status/1604550452447690752

Or you might claim that it’s like “running Wendy’s ads [on] McDonalds property,” rather than turning to your friends and saying, “The food at McDonalds sucks, let’s go eat at Wendy’s instead”:

https://twitter.com/doctorow/status/1604559316237037568

The truth is that any service that won’t let you leave isn’t in the business of serving you, it’s in the business of harming you. The only reason to build a wall around your service — to impose any switching costs on users- is so that you can fuck them over without risking their departure.

The platforms want to be Anatevka, and we the villagers of Fiddler On the Roof, stuck plodding the muddy, Cossack-haunted roads by the threat of losing all our friends if we try to leave:

https://doctorow.medium.com/how-to-leave-dying-social-media-platforms-9fc550fe5abf

That’s where freedom of exit comes in. The public should have the right to leave, and companies should not be permitted to make that departure burdensome. Any burdens we permit companies to impose is an invitation to abuse of their users.

This is why governments are handing down new interoperability mandates: the EU’s Digital Markets Act forces the largest companies to offer APIs so that smaller rivals can plug into them and let users walkaway from Big Tech into new kinds of platforms — small businesses, co-ops, nonprofits, hobby sites — that treat them better. These small players are overwhelmingly part of the fediverse: the federated social media sites that allow users to connect to one another irrespective of which server or service they use.

The creators of these platforms have pledged themselves to freedom of exit. Mastodon ships with a “Move Followers” and “Move Following” feature that lets you quit one server and set up shop on another, without losing any of the accounts you follow or the accounts that follow you:

https://codingitwrong.com/2022/10/10/migrating-a-mastodon-account.html

This feature is as yet obscure, because the exodus to Mastodon is still young. Users who flocked to servers without knowing much about their managers have, by and large, not yet run into problems with the site operators. The early trickle of horror stories about petty authoritarianism from Mastodon sysops conspicuously fail to mention that if the management of a particular instance turns tyrant, you can click two links, export your whole social graph, sign up for a rival, click two more links and be back at it.

This feature will become more prominent, because there is nothing about running a Mastodon server that means that you are good at running a Mastodon server. Elon Musk isn’t an evil genius — he’s an ordinary mediocrity who lucked into a lot of power and very little accountability. Some Mastodon operators will have Musk-like tendencies that they will unleash on their users, and the difference will be that those users can click two links and move elsewhere. Bye-eee!

Freedom of exit isn’t just a matter of the human right of movement, it’s also a labor issue. Online creators constitute a serious draw for social media services. All things being equal, these services would rather coerce creators’ participation — by holding their audiences hostage — than persuade creators to remain by offering them an honest chance to ply their trade.

Platforms have a variety of strategies for chaining creators to their services: in addition to making it harder for creators to coordinate with their audiences in a mass departure, platforms can use DRM, as Audible does, to prevent creators’ customers from moving the media they purchase to a rival’s app or player.

Then there’s “freedom of reach”: platforms routinely and deceptively conflate recommending a creator’s work with showing that creator’s work to the people who explicitly asked to see it.

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/10/e2e/#the-censors-pen

When you follow or subscribe to a feed, that is not a “signal” to be mixed into the recommendation system. It’s an order: “Show me this.” Not “Show me things like this.”

Show.

Me.

This.

But there’s no money in showing people the things they tell you they want to see. If Amazon showed shoppers the products they searched for, they couldn’t earn $31b/year on an “ad business” that fills the first six screens of results with rival products who’ve paid to be displayed over the product you’re seeking:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/28/enshittification/#relentless-payola

If Spotify played you the albums you searched for, it couldn’t redirect you to playlists artists have to shell out payola to be included on:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/12/streaming-doesnt-pay/#stunt-publishing

And if you only see what you ask for, then product managers whose KPI is whether they entice you to “discover” something else won’t get a bonus every time you fatfinger a part of your screen that navigates you away from the thing you specifically requested:

https://doctorow.medium.com/the-fatfinger-economy-7c7b3b54925c

Musk, meanwhile, has announced that you won’t see messages from the people you follow unless they pay for Twitter Blue:

https://www.wired.com/story/what-is-twitter-blue/

And also that you will be nonconsensually opted into seeing more “recommended” content from people you don’t follow (but who can be extorted out of payola for the privilege):

https://www.socialmediatoday.com/news/Twitter-Expands-Content-Recommendations/637697/

Musk sees Twitter as a publisher, not a social media site:

https://twitter.com/elonmusk/status/1604588904828600320

Which is why he’s so indifferent to the collateral damage from this payola/hostage scam. Yes, Twitter is a place where famous and semi-famous people talk to their audiences, but it is primarily a place where those audiences talk to each other — that is, a public square.

This is the Facebook death-spiral: charging to people to follow to reach you, and burying the things they say in a torrent of payola-funded spam. It’s the vision of someone who thinks of other people as things to use — to pump up your share price or market your goods to — not worthy of consideration.

As Terry Pratchett’s Granny Weatherwax put it: “Sin is when you treat people like things. Including yourself. That’s what sin is.”

Mastodon isn’t perfect, but its flaws are neither fatal nor permanent. The idea that centralized media is “easier” surely reflects the hundreds of billions of dollars that have been pumped into refining social media Roach Motels (“users check in, but they don’t check out”).

Until a comparable sum has been spent refining decentralized, federated services, any claims about the impossibility of making the fediverse work for mass audiences should be treated as unfalsifiable, motivated reasoning.

Meanwhile, Mastodon has gotten two things right that no other social media giant has even seriously attempted:

I. If you follow someone on Mastodon, you’ll see everything they post; and

II. If you leave a Mastodon server, you can take both your followers and the people you follow with you.

The most common criticism of Mastodon is that you must rely on individual moderators who may be underresourced, incompetent on malicious. This is indeed a serious problem, but it isn’t the same serious problem that Twitter has. When Twitter is incompetent, malicious, or underresourced, your departure comes at a dear price.

On Mastodon, your choice is: tolerate bad moderation, or click two links and move somewhere else.

On Twitter, your choice is: tolerate moderation, or lose contact with all the people you care about and all the people who care about you.

The interoperability mandates in the Digital Markets Act (and in the US ACCESS Act, which seems unlikely to get a vote in this session of Congress) only force the largest platforms to open up, but Mastodon shows us the utility of interop for smaller services, too.

There are lots of domains in which “dominance” shouldn’t be the sole criteria for whether you are expected to treat your customers fairly.

A doctor with a small practice who leaks all ten patients’ data harms those patients as surely as a hospital system with a million patients would have. A small-time wedding photographer who refuses to turn over your pictures unless you pay a surprise bill is every bit as harmful to you as a giant chain that has the same practice.

As we move into the realm of smalltime, community-oriented social media servers, we should be looking to avoid the pitfalls of the social media bubble that’s bursting around us. No matter what the size of the service, let’s ensure that it lets us leave, and respects the end-to-end principle, that any two people who want to talk to each other should be allowed to do so, without interference from the people who operate their communications infrastructure.

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

Heisenberg Media (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Elon_Musk_-_The_Summit_2013.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[Image ID: Moses confronting the Pharaoh, demanding that he release the Hebrews. Pharaoh’s face has been replaced with Elon Musk’s. Moses holds a Twitter logo in his outstretched hand. The faces embossed in the columns of Pharaoh’s audience hall have been replaced with the menacing red eye of HAL9000 from 2001: A Space Odyssey. The wall over Pharaoh’s head has been replaced with a Matrix ‘code waterfall’ effect. Moses’s head has been replaced with that of the Mastodon mascot.]

#pluralistic #e2e #end-to-end #freedom of reach #mastodon #interoperability #social media #twitter #economy #creator economy #artists rights #content moderation #como #right of exodus #let my tweeters go #exodus #right of exit #technological self-determination

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queers-gambit · 2 years

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Tears in the Rain

prompt: feelings are confessed and a decision is made; the only thing left to do is heal and be okay.

pairing: Eddie Munson x female!reader

fandom masterlist: Stranger Things

word count: 8.4k

note: Eddie's 19, reader's 18+, and Chrissy's 17-18 years old. and yes - The Book of Unholy Mischief was published in 2008, but i still use a quote from it, oh well - roll with it!

warnings: Hanahaki Disease AU, cursing, unrequited love, y'all know the drill - angst! hospitals, and minor description of surgical procedure. again - angst! please proceed with maturity and caution. is this a happy ending? depends on your mental state idk anymore. ✅ no spoilers

other Eddie Munson Hanahaki Disease fics: Cherry Blossom Colored Kisses Gone with the Sin

It started in the 8th grade, spitting out bits of petals and scraping them off your tongue when nobody was looking; subtly wiping your hands on your jeans and pretending you hadn't. Your child's mind was overwhelmed and confused by the sight but figured it had to be normal, never asking any questions, because who would ever believe your symptoms?

You kept this secret to yourself like you did many others, never sharing with anyone the pain that was slowly creeping through your veins. You didn't even tell him - the boy who made your heart race and palms get sweaty. The boy who made your mind go blank and simultaneously race with thought. He's been your friend since the 1st grade, best friend since 3rd, you thought you could share anything, but after the talent show in 7th grade and you saw the way he was held hostage in his seat while watching Chrissy Cunningham do her cheer routine, you knew things couldn't stay the same.

His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape, and it was the first of many star-struck looks Eddie would give the strawberry blonde. A look you'll come to understand would never be directed at you.

Everything around you was changing but you refused to be left behind, so, you changed with the times; you changed with your friend. Your hair was cropped short as his grew out in unruly curls; you wore black almost everyday (like he did), you might've even learned how to play guitar so you two could have another bonding experience, and you even joined his stupid fucking Hellfire Club because you thought you could impress him with your Dungeons and Dragons knowledge that you didn't spend all summer studying over.

When you got to high school, your symptoms changed - just like you did. It wasn't fair, but you never tried to fix what was wrong; Nancy Wheeler spending hours with you in the library as you feigned a personal project you needed to research, searching for any solution. Your friend didn't know you found answers the summer before high school, the summer puberty hit you like a bullet train; the summer everything changed.

You knew something was terribly and fatally wrong yet never bothered to fix it, because why bother putting forth effort into an inevitable end? Your options were limited and neither sounded better than the last.

Option One: you succumb to your symptoms and suffocate. Two: you got a surgery to remove the blooms growing in your lungs - but it would in turn take away all known thought and memory of your beloved. And Option Three: confess your feelings and pray to any and every known God, Goddess, Deity that he would return them.

However, you worried that if he did return your affections - whether he verbalized them or not - you wouldn't be in this predicament to begin with. So, you sucked it up and kept quiet because having him as just a friend was better than forgetting him, or losing his friendship. You were never good being alone but found being alone with him was better than being by yourself. You chose to remain strong and silent, despite the way you withered away inside; you chose to stay close, even though his proximity made your heart crack. You chose to borderline torture yourself because you knew walking away would take more bravery than sticking around.

But in the words of Ellie Newmark, "Unrequited love does not die; it's only beaten down to a secret place where it hides, curled and wounded. For some unfortunates, it turns bitter and mean, and those who come after pay the price for the hurt done by the one who came before."

You positively refused to turn "bitter and mean", so, you plastered a smile on your face and never gave anyone reason to think anything could be wrong. You never thought there'd be anyone after him, because you were enamored with everything he did and the very idea of being in love with anyone except him drove your heart into your throat. The idea was unimaginable.

The first semester of high school, your chest got heavier with meat but also pressure, causing a terrible tightness that left you feeling as if you were breathing through a sauna; your lungs constricted with tendrils of prickling pain, and soon, those bits of petals were fully intact, giving you first sight to what was being hacked out of your body - white chrysanthemums.

After a bit of research, you discovered these particular flowers were used in European funeral bouquets - but not many others. You discovered white chrysanthemums were a symbol of death, grief, and mourning in some Asian cultures, and it did little to quell the worry in your chest.

Yet, how oddly beautiful to suffer through this; where your own body betrayed you but produce something pure, innocent even, despite being slathered with a halo of tacky blood.

However, you feared life without him and even if it meant your heart would permanently weep, you would sign yourself up for a lifetime of pain if it meant he stayed close. If it meant he stayed in your life. If his hand would continue to hold yours. If his smile would grace your sight, if those pillowy lips would form precious nicknames that always made you feel on top of the world.

You'd mourn yourself, in order to preserve and celebrate all he was.

For years, you persevered through the unimaginable pain in body and mind, and for years, you and he grew closer than ever before. In the 10th grade, things changed again - but this was only because you caught yourself about to confess your feelings for Edward Munson. Panic-inducing fear halted the words before they could slip out, and instead, it caused a violent coughing attack.

One so intense that it made you turn away from Eddie and get back in your father's car, driving away from his trailer as your palm was slathered in a slick, sticky mixture of blood and limp white petals.

You felt immense guilt when you glanced in the rearview mirror, Eddie's shocked, confused, and concerned figure standing on his porch - watching you drive away, and wondering what had gone wrong. You two had been smoking, sure, but Eddie often thought that you could smoke him under any table, any day. Maybe he had indulged you too much, and maybe your lungs and throat were going raw from it all - spurring a bud of guilt to sprout in Eddie's gut.

He didn't let you smoke going forward.

You accepted the new limitation because you couldn't handle telling him the truth. You chose to suffer for him, you chose to remain close and depend on him more than you should've. It became increasingly painful to live through your days, and to your heart-stopping fear, the pain was tenfold when you were nearest Eddie.

Eddie, who was oblivious to your pain.

Eddie, who couldn't pick up a fucking hint.

Eddie, who you've been in love with since you were a kid.

Eddie, who you spent every birthday and holiday with.

Eddie, who only ever wanted the pretty, popular head cheerleader... And not you.

Still, his friendship was better than nothing at all and you dealt with the staggering pain that soon left your limbs weak. Surely, the pain of losing him wouldn't match the pain you had now, so, you stuck it out.

You and Eddie hung out every weekend. You went to his shows at The Hideout, you helped him do his homework and study. You defended him against bullies, you'd wipe his tears, hold his hand through tattoos, you brought him new customers to up-charge his drug sales. You loved him, and you did what you could to show that without needing to verbalize it.

You laughed with him, cried, watched movies; went to concerts, checked out books in the library on how to fix automobiles to help him tune up his van. You remembered his Uncle Wayne's birthday and got him a new mug each year, you taught Eddie how to bake, you both would raid the music store and spend his drug money - and he'd always buy you a new record, even if it "wasn't real music".

Because that's what best friends did - they loved each other unconditionally.

And for years, you'd watch him stare after the pretty captain of the cheer team; her oblivious to his staring and him oblivious to yours. It was like a never-ending circle, watching the three of you idiots tiptoe around feelings and truth. Yet Eddie was focused on what was in front of him in the form of Chrissy, never bothering to ever check to see what was behind him - in the form of you.

Because you were always there. A constant presence tethered to his soul, forever being a safety net during the times he pushes himself too far.

The stake in your heart drove deeper when he'd ask your opinion on his hair - wondering if Chrissy would notice the trimmed dead ends (like you did). He'd ask you what flower was your favorite, because he wanted to impress the pretty strawberry blonde with a pretty bouquet. He asked you for a mixtape of your favorite love songs - learning a few of them on his guitar in the hopes of serenading the girl who you'd never be.

Thing was, Eddie was the only constant in your life and you felt it was impossible to walk away from him; some kind of chain keeping you from ever wondering too far. He was there from Day One, never leaving your side, and always knowing when something was wrong - until now.

When your symptoms graduated to coughing out blood daily, he didn't notice. When your chest was ready to cave in, making your breaths ragged and wheezy, he didn't notice. When your eyes became dull and lifeless due to the consistent pain that didn't let you rest through the night, he didn't notice.

What he did notice, was how Chrissy Cunningham was paying him slightly more attention since she and Jason Carver broke up. He noticed when her hair was different, he'd rave about how good she looked in the color green, gush to you in excitement when Mr. Lang had assigned them as project partners, and how Chrissy told him how funny she thought he was.

And the first day they decided to hang out together outside of educational purposes was the day you coughed out a full bloom. Floating on the surface of the water plugged in your bathroom sink was a white chrysanthemum, speckled in bright red blood; a string of red-stained saliva dripping from your mouth as you stared in shock. The face scrub popped lightly on your cheeks and fingertips, but your skincare routine was forgotten as you registered the newest symptom change.

This was new, this was much more painful. The usually beautiful flowers slowly grew in your lungs, sprouting thorns the longer you fought against your feels - refusing to admit defeat, and confess your deepest, longest kept secret.

For the following days, you were excusing yourself every single class period to retch into a toilet bowl, the blooms now sopping wet from your blood due to the shredded rawness of your throat and lungs.

Eddie didn't notice because Chrissy's perfume was still in his nostrils. Her swaying ponytail still behind his eyes. Her beaming smile painted in his mind, and fingers tingling from the ghostly memory of her hand in his.

Thorns sliced your throat, stabbed your tongue, and shredded the inside of your cheeks when you tried to spit them out as quick as possible. It was like your blood was made of glue, keeping the blooms and thorns stuck to your mouth and lips - no matter how your river of tears tried to wash them away. Or how your sobbing breath tried to force them out into the toilet - they just wouldn't budge.

Petals and flowers and thorns stuck to you, like your love for Eddie.

And Eddie didn't notice because Chrissy was wearing that skirt today, and he was telling you all about how beautiful she was instead of focusing on spending quality time with you; instead of noticing how you visibly shrunk into yourself in an effort to quell the pain throbbing in your chest and head, in an effort to block out the pain of hearing the boy you love gush about the girl he loves.

Breathing became harder, as if something were blocking your lungs. Blocking the passageway air needed to travel; blocking you out of your life. It took a physical toll; color of your eyes dulling, hair drying of any moisture, bones protruding from the harsh symptoms that refused to ease in severity. You felt fear for the first time since the 8th grade and this had all first started; trying to weigh your options over what to do.

Three options...

Eddie didn't notice your turmoil to make a decision because Chrissy agreed to a date with him.

Before you know it - years have passed since your first indication of symptoms. You prayed for deliverance, but God couldn't hear you through your gargled cries; coughing petals and blooms out between blobs of thick clots. Your pillow cases were all soiled, yet you couldn't replace them - it was futile with the way blood shot from your mouth and nose. You ran through tissues more than tampons, and your bedroom became something akin to a hospice room.

Eddie didn't notice when you dulled of life.

Being as you were now seniors, you figured showing up at Eddie's trailer in the middle of the night wasn't totally weird. After all, you both had sought refuge with the other since before you really understood what friendship meant. With worry and fear dropping your heart to your feet from the weight of your panic, you hopped in your beat up Toyota and drove through town to reach Eddie's home; used tissues scattered across the passenger seat - all saturated with blooming drops of blood.

You had no idea how to explain what was happening, but you needed to tell him. You needed help, and if there was a chance all of this could be over if you just told him the truth, you were willing to let down your walls. Eddie had always told you he'd do anything to help you, and you just banged your hands on the steering wheel as you tried to rid the idea from your mind that that, too, had changed.

When you got to Eddie's front door, the lights were on and you prayed he'd answer despite the late hour. You knocked, waited; knocked again, waited some more. After 4 minutes, you were pounding at his front door until it was shoved open - forcing you back a step - and to your horror, there stood Chrissy Cunningham... In Eddie's favorite Metallica shirt.

And only his shirt.

"Oh, hey," Chrissy smiles awkwardly, shifting her weight over her feet. Her shining strawberry blonde hair is strung off her neck in a messy bun that makes her look fucking ethereal. "Um, Eddie's in the shower... Do you want me to go get him for you?"

But the small blemish poking out from the collar of the shirt she wore made you shake your head through tears; trying to offer a small smile. "No, oh, my God, I'm so sorry, I-I didn't mean to interrupt. Shit, my bad, Chrissy," you backed away down the stairs, needing to use the railing to save yourself from falling over.

"You weren't," she assured. "We were, um... Done. H-He's in the shower, why don't you come in?" Her brows pulled together as if a string was threaded between them, offering sweetly, "I was gonna make some tea, do you want some? We could, um, hang out? Until he's out of the shower, i-if you want?"

FUCK! You knew Eddie didn't have fucking tea, so, the sweetheart must've brought it with her and now, she's offering to make you some? God damn it. Why'd she have to be so nice!?

"Oh, yeah, um, no, no thanks, Chrissy, that's really nice of you, but it's really nothing. I should just get going, I'll talk to him later, um... H-Have a nice weekend, and I'm sorry, again."

"Are you sure? You look kinda upset - I don't think you should drive right now."

Eddie didn't notice - but one look from Chrissy Cunningham and she had. If your heart wasn't broken before, it was now.

You nodded despite the pain swelling in your chest, "Yeah, no, no I'm fine - I should've just called. It's not a big deal, I'm sorry again, um, good night, Chrissy, um, yeah - just, yeah, have a nice night."

She nodded, "You, too. I hope you feel better, I'll tell Eddie you stopped by."

You trusted that she would, returning home and with petals still sticking to your tongue, charged into your mother's room. She sat up in her bed in shock - late night shifts taking their toll and leaving her sleep deprived. This was her first weekend off in months, and you felt terrible for interrupting her, but you couldn't hold it in anymore.

You needed your mother. You needed her more than ever before because your fear was tangible, and you weren't ready to die.

See, thing is, your mother was borderline your best friend (besides Eddie, that is). She and your father had been high school sweethearts, married, and he died in a tragic car accident on the night your mother was going to tell him she was pregnant on their first wedding anniversary. She never dated, she never brought a man home, she only focused on you. When you got older, she figured she could work more and you were happy to support her; taking up more house chores to save her from any unnecessary stress.

It was just you and your mother... Until Eddie, then, he was a constant presences at your dinner table. He had his own Christmas stocking your mother knitted. His favorite snacks kept in a stocked up supply for whenever he chooses to visit. And you and your mother would spend an entire day baking a cake for his birthday before hosting a full meal for him and his Uncle Wayne.

Your mother never had an issue with doing any of that because she was grateful for Eddie being in your life. It made her feel as if you'd never be alone.

However, you now felt like a burden, but the moment your mother clocked your tears and trembling hands clutching bloody tissues, she was beckoning you to her chest and begging you to tell her what was wrong as she rocked you soothingly.

So, you confessed. Everything.

From that night in 7th grade when you saw Eddie mesmerized by Chrissy Cunningham for the first time. That being the night you coughed out petals... And how everything changed and got worse from there on, and you didn't understand what was wrong, why you were suffering.

You told her about how you were now coughing out the full thorny blooms, how the bleeding wouldn't stop; how the pain was festering, spreading, and suffocating your heart, mind, and soul.

You told her about tonight... What you saw... How nice the cheerleader had been, how you couldn't find it in your heart to hate her, and how you didn't know what to do anymore.

You told her how Eddie didn't notice anymore - he couldn't see you - because he could only see Chrissy, and it was slowly killing you.

It took all night to explain, and your mother sat you at the kitchen table. She made you hot tea and plated a few cookies - talking well through the night and into the morning. She wanted to understand everything and as the sun breached the horizon, she was encouraging you to tell Eddie how you felt after reading the same book you had that explained the disease you suffered from.

You told her she was crazy, but she begged you to at least try. She validated that you had the right idea in going to his trailer; she thought that you and Eddie had always been cute, that you'd make a great couple; and though your sense of style had changed again (after it didn't get Eddie's attention, like you'd hoped), she still thought you two complimented each other well. "You balance each other, my dove," she whispered. "Tell him. Please, for your own sake."

So, you bucked up the courage to tell him on Monday. You'd see him at school and couldn't back down, leaving it neutral grounds for you both to be honest and open in. Or, so you hoped.

That morning, you caught Eddie before he could enter the school and asked to talk to him. "Shit, I meant to call you, doll," he breathed, looking at you with concern. "Chrissy said you were upset and showed up at my door - are you okay? What was wrong? I'm sorry I wasn't there."

So, when Chrissy points it out, he pays attention. Instead, you just answered, "It's okay, I'm okay. Um, c-can we go talk? Privately?"

"Of course, yeah, c'mon," he agreed, leading you to the lesser-populated hallway to slip into the old drama classroom that now posed as the Hellfire Club room. Eddie sat on his throne but leaned forward on his knees to hold your hands as you took time to think over in your mind what you wanted to say.

"Eddie," you whispered. "I-I just really need to tell you something, and you have to promise not to hate me after."

He nodded, "I could never hate you, pretty girl, and you know you can tell me anything."

"Right," you sniffled. "Well, um, listen, I just want you to know that I-I value this friendship more than anything, and never want to jeopardize it..."

"Okay, now you're scaring me," Eddie chuckled. His hands squeezed yours, encouraging, "C'mon, sweetheart, what's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

You nodded, blurting, "I'm in love with you."

Only the silence stretched between you two like an oversized bubble of Hubba Bubba - popping as your words registered in his mind. His eyes just shot between both of yours, mouth opening to form a word before sighing and shaking his head. Panic and fear gripped your heart, lungs, and mind in a tighter vice than the white chrysanthemums' roots.

"You can't be," he finally whispered brokenly.

A record scratched in your head, "What?"

"You can't be in love with me," his head shook as he repeated his statement. "No, no, you - you can't be."

"Why can't I be? Is it that hard to imagine?"

"Because you're my best friend - you're supposed to be my best friend!" He looked spooked, startled, unsure, and like he was going to have an anxiety attack. "You can't be in love with me, you're just - no!"

"Well, I didn't exactly plan it."

"Just - stop!"

"Stop what?"

"Stop loving me!"

"You don't think I've tried!?"

"Try harder!"

"For fuck's sake, Eddie! You don't think this is hard enough?"

"Well, it'd be easier if you had some kind of restraint!" He snipped, wiping a hand down his mouth. "Shit, I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do about this?"

"I-I don't know!"

"Well, why tell me?"

You gulped, fearing telling him the truth now. Instead, you just whispered, "I-I take it you don't feel the same?"

"Shit, sweetheart," he sniffled, shaking his head, "y-you know I love you but... But no, I-I'm not in love with you."

You nod slowly, blinking even slower, "No?"

"I'm so sorry - fuck, God damn it."

"It's not your fault," you promised. "I-I didn't mean for this to happen, okay? I swear, I didn't want to do this, I never wanted things to change between us."

He nodded sadly, "I get that, I do, but I think I need time to think."

"Wait, what? Think about what, Eddie? L-Like - you need to think about us? You need time to think about us?" You squeaked, panic swelling. You started to cough lightly, that sticky feeling clogging your throat again.

"Yeah," he whispered. "Because I'm with Chrissy and I don't think she would like... This."

Now you understood... "So, because you're dating Chrissy, you can't be friends with me? We've been friends forever, Eddie, why does this have to change things?"

"Because you're in love with me! I didn't want you to be, you were supposed to be my friend. Just my friend!"

"I'm sorry it happened, but why does this mean we can't still be friends? I've dealt with it this long, I can go longer - "

"Because I'm in love with Chrissy, and can't do this to her! For fuck's sake, why'd you have to do this, huh? Why'd you have to fall in love with me right when I got a girlfriend - "

"It didn't just happen, Eddie, I've been in-love with you since middle school! But notice how we stayed friends! Please - please, we can stay friends, this doesn't have to change anything."

He shook his head, standing abruptly, "It changes everything. I gotta go - I just can't be here, I'm sorry."

"Eddie! Please! Wait, just wait, please, let me explain!" You begged, watching him flee the room; the door slamming in an echo around you and forcing the tears teetering in your waterline to fall pathetically. You felt your heart nailing you to the floor, tears falling numbly down your cheeks; hands shaking and coughing getting worse. Your hands finally found feeling again and rose, covering your mouth and nose to catch the splatter.

You hacked as your lungs shriveled to expel whatever clogged them, falling to your knees and needed to use two fingers to reach in the back of your throat to pull a full floral bloom out; blood dripping off of it and from your mouth to soak into the old, dingy carpet. The thorns pierced your finger pads when you rolled the short stem between them, the flower falling into the puddle of blood you'd spat out.

Stumbling to your feet, you kept a tissue in hand and covering your mouth; the material slowly saturating as you punched your mother's number in the outside payphone.

"Mom?" You begged into the receiver, wheezing and sobbing through the pain. Everything had changed, again. "I-I need you to take me to the hospital. Please, Mommy, i-it's hurts. 'S blood everywhere, an-and the pain - Mommy, please, it hurts so bad."

Your mother was pulling up in a skidding halt within 6 minutes. Her rubber tires burned over the pavement, slight smoke wafting into the air to indicate not just her speed, but her harsh stop when she saw your body bolting towards her.

From the side of the school, moments before the first bell rang, Robin Buckley and Nancy Wheeler watched you fully sprint for the car and how fast your mother pulled off, sharing an uneasy look before darting for the same payphone and calling Steve Harrington.

But they couldn't find you all over town, opting to wait at your house instead. They only waited for about an hour before your mother's car was pulling into the driveway.

"You gonna tell them?" Your mom muttered, smiling and waving at the three teenagers.

"Yeah," you whispered. "Doctors said keeping it a secret doesn't make it easier, right?"

She nodded, "For whatever it's worth, my dove, I think you're making the right decision. This took a lot of bravery, but you're going to get better, and you're going to feel better, too."

"I know," you whispered with a watery smile. "Just gonna suck until Thursday."

"I'll call the school, you're gonna be out for recovery for at least 2 weeks."

"Don't forget my post-op appointment," you nodded.

"Right," she agreed, opening her door and triggering you to follow suit. "Hey, kids," she beamed at your worried friends.

They greeted her politely (but enthusiastically) before she was excusing herself and heading for the house. It left you to stand before the three people, who, up until a few years ago, you wouldn't have imagined being real friends with.

Technically, you and Nancy Wheeler had been friends since before Eddie; Robin and Steve coming into your life through inter-dimensional circumstances before choosing to stick around.

"Are you okay?" Nancy asked first, looking the most worried. "We saw you running from school and thought something was wrong."

"So, you blew off school to stalk my house?" you teased lightly, trying to alleviate the pain settling on your heart after leaving the hospital.

"Exactly," Robin crossed her arms. "You ran like something was chasing you - we knew something was wrong. What is it? A-Are you okay? I mean, you looked pretty spooked, we were afraid something else came back - you know - "

"Okay, Robin, yeah," you chuckled lightly, interrupting her rapid words. "Um, I appreciate the concern, but it could've waited."

"Not when you've been acting funny for months now," Nancy shook her head. "Don't think we haven't noticed; you're skinnier, you look like you haven't slept in weeks, you carry tissues around like you're paid for it... What's up with you?"

"And I've clocked the constant nose bleeds," Steve nodded, arms folding against his chest. "Look, if something's going on, you're going to need friends through it, and we're willing to take on the job."

Your heart swelled slightly and you nodded, blinking quickly to keep the tears down. "Um, yeah... Yeah," you sniffled, looking up at them as the emotion couldn't be kept out of your voice, "something's going on, and um... I-I think I would like to tell you guys about it. Do you mind waiting in the backyard? I've gotta grab a book from inside, trust me, it can explain some things better than I can."

Nancy looked nervous as her fingers twisted together; Robin nodding before nudging her along. Steve shifted on his feet and dropped his arms, clearing his throat, "You sure?"

"Yeah," you nodded with a whisper. "Just hang tight."

He nodded with crinkled brows of concern, heading off behind the two girls as you bolted for the front door. Your mother was heard in her room, on the phone, and you dropped your school bag on your bed, snatched up the library book you checked out every year, and made for your backyard.

As kids, you and Nancy loved hanging out here because it was spacious, and your mother had a beautiful garden with patio furniture nestled amongst the greenery. At the white-washed table, Steve, Nancy, and Robin waited together, muttering quietly, and left you to take your seat.

Sighing, you opened the book and slid it forward; Nancy's hands darting to pick it up and read swiftly as you began your tale. After voicing everything to your mother, you had a better idea of how to word it all; starting with when you realized you had a crush on Eddie in the 5th grade, how it festered in middle school, and when you realized you'd only be friends - so, you kept it that way.

You told them about the tiny bits of torn up petals, then how they became intact. Next, you explained how things got worse for you; blooms being coughed out with blood, how Eddie crushed majorly on Chrissy, and then to how everything hit rock bottom.

You explained the petals changed into full blooms, sprouting thorns as you stuffed your feelings deeper inside your cracked heart. You explained the constant pain, the confusion, the sleeplessness, showed them the cuts on your lips and in your mouth; even picking a leftover petal from the inside of your cheek to prove your point.

Steve's hand deftly reached out to examine it.

You explained the mental anguish of loving someone who couldn't love you back; the anguish of being so close - yet so far; and the anguish of knowing you were being killed from the inside, out because you couldn't let go of your overwhelming feelings for Eddie 'the Freak' Munson.

Then... You told them about Chrissy and Eddie at his trailer when you went to tell him the truth. How you confided in your mother for the first time in years. How you were encouraged to tell Eddie - and how it royally backfired, which lead you to today.

To your decision.

To your appointment at the hospital that your mother bullied administration into giving you last minute.

To meeting the cardiothoracic surgeon that diagnosed you with, as the library book highlighted, Hanahaki Disease.

Steve had tears in his eyes; elbows bent on the tabletop to keep his folded hands in front of his mouth, like he was physically suppressing his emotion with the petal laid to the table. Robin stared at you the whole time, never once making you feel as if you were talking to thin air; brows crinkled and perked at appropriate moments, never interrupting.

Nancy had read the entire passage before slamming the book down and letting her tears fall. She listened intently as you explained to the three that you had to choose one of three options, and immediately after that, you told them you had come to a decision.

You'd made the appointment and you were to under the knife that Thursday before returning in two weeks for a post-op check-up that would ensure all of the blooms were cleared from your lungs. And after today, you had discovered the plants were creeping up your esophagus and if you waited, soon, it would kill you.

"Well, why're you upset?" Robin asked gently, reaching for your hand. "This is good, right? Y-You'll be cured!"

You nodded in agreement, but it was Nancy voicing, "She'll forget Eddie completely."

"What?" Steve asked, looking between you and Nancy urgently. "Are you serious?"

"It's the only contingency in exchange for my life," you nodded.

"You've been friends forever," he shook his head, leaning back. "No, I just - I can't believe him. He doesn't love you back? That's just bullshit - c'mon!"

"Steve - "

"No, seriously!" he cut Robin off, her hand tightening in mine. "We've all seen how he looks at you, how he behaves! It doesn't make sense, it's not possible. He's just scared," his head shook still, looking angry with pinched brows. "He's scared and he's not thinking."

"No, Stevie," you whispered, "he understands, and trust me, he doesn't feel the same. It's okay."

"You'll forget your best friend," Steve shook his head. "That's not okay."

"It's a small price to pay, right?"

Nancy nodded, "If it means you're out of pain, and you won't die, yeah, I'd say it's a reasonable price to pay."

You agreed, "It's gonna be okay, but I'll be in recovery until the surgeon okay's me to return to school and normal activity."

"Will you remember why you need the surgery?" Robin wondered.

"Apparently not," you shrugged.

For the next few days, you remained at home and prepared for your operation. Your mother worked extra shifts because she was taking Thursday through TBD in order to take care of you, and your friends visited you everyday.

Nobody spoke of Eddie, who had asked Robin that Wednesday where you were - only to receive a fierce glare and slammed locker in his face. Chrissy's brows furrowed at the aggression, worrying something was wrong with you if your friends were shunning Eddie. She reminded him of how upset you'd been when you showed up at his trailer, his mind flashing to when he found a bloodied white chrysanthemum in the Hellfire room after he left you when you confessed your feelings for him.

He knew that was why you showed up at his trailer that night, and his heart constricted as he grew cold in your absence. He had to admit, if you've had these feelings since middle school, you never let it interfere with your friendship and he was a fool for blowing up at you.

Could it really be that hard to love you? Was the idea that far fetched?

The day of your surgery, your mother and you pushed out of your front door at 4 am to make it to the hospital for pre-op; blood work; all the standard procedures that needed done before you were sliced open and roots carved out of your lungs. And to your honest shock? Steve Harrington was waiting on the street, leaning on his car, dressed in a pair of jeans and an old hoodie.

"What're you doing here?" You wondered, oblivious to your mother's knowing smirk.

Steve shrugged lightly, "Figured you'd want a familiar face around, and Nance and Robin have tests in school today - otherwise, they'd be here, too."

"'Too'?" You repeated with a soft smile.

"Yeah, well, I-I'd still be here," he nodded. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah," you breathed, nodding with a soft smile. "I think I'd really appreciate the, um..."

"Support? Comfort? Seeing my pretty face when you wake up from anesthesia?" He grinned.

"All of the above, Harrington, c'mon," you chuckled, waving him with you. In your mother's car, she kept conversation light as a distraction when your nerves flared the closer you drove to the hospital; the boy in the back doing his best to chime in charmingly. Steve was allowed to stay with you once in the pre-op procedure room (again, your mother bullied hospital admin into letting him stay), and cracked a few really poor jokes while needles were poked into your skin.

Medicine was administered, your hair stuffed into a surgical cap, vitals taken for a final time - and then it was time to go.

When you were wheeled away, Steve squeezed your hand and your mother kissed your forehead; both wishing you luck, reminding you of your brave decision, and sent you down the sterile hallway. While staring up at the blinding, florescent lights of the operating room, a gas mask was placed over your mouth and the anesthesiologist instructing you to count backward from ten... And your heart begged you to change your mind.

Begged you not to erase Eddie. Begged you to jump off that table.

But your mind told only your tongue to move, and you counted, "Ten."

Eddie's soft hair through your fingers, "Nine."

Eddie's stupid grin when he's showing you a new guitar riff he'd mastered, "Eight."

Eddie's laugh, "Seven."

The warmth of Eddie's hugs, "Six."

His hands holding your cheeks, thumbs sweeping to clear your tears as he would coo to you, trying to calm you down, "...Five..."

"She's out," the doctors nodded to one another; scalpels clinking over the sterile table, machines beeping to indicate vital readings, and rubber gloves snapped into place as your hospital gown was peeled away, and disinfecting betadine squirted over your skin.

Across town, in the hallways of Hawkins High, Eddie was pacing by your locker. He looked disheveled, not himself; confused and scared, by what Robin could judge.

"What're you doing here?" she shot venomously, using her hand to push his chest and force him back a step from your locker.

"Where is she?" he begged. "Please, Robin, I know she's hurt - I know I hurt her, but I have to talk to her an-and she hasn't been at school all week. Please - I have to talk to her."

She used your combination to open your locker and set the packet of missed work inside for her to pick up at the end of the day, sneering, "It's too late."

"No, it's not - "

"No, seriously, Eddie," she snapped, the locker slamming in an echo. "It's too late for you. She's let you go, time for you to do the same."

For two weeks, Eddie repeated the last words he'd said to you, how broken you looked when he said he didn't love you. The words you said to him, then how you weren't seen again, to that bloody flower he found, and how Robin, Nancy, and Steve were all giving him the cold shoulder. He thought over what went wrong and every single way he was going to make it up to you, because while he might be in love with Chrissy Cunningham, there was never replacing you - and he needed you.

Eddie needed you.

And his heart sunk to his stomach as he realized how bitter he's turned; shunning Chrissy, becoming testy, canceling Hellfire, and missing you to the point he was tugging his hair out of his scalp and chain smoking cigarettes.

Loving you was easy and maybe he's loved you longer than he's known - longer than he ever wanted to admit. But missing you was hard, and Eddie wasn't accustomed to it.

It was supposed to be easy between you two, but when you confessed your feelings, Eddie felt everything become messy and change. Eddie Munson wasn't very good with change. He missed your laugh, he missed your comfort, a few times he'd even looked up to his bed when he mastered a new guitar riff - and feeling his heart sink in disappointment when he only saw Chrissy.

Granted, she was smiling at him, but it wasn't your smile. Tears filled his eyes when he realized he spent every Friday with Chrissy, finding new ways to impress the cheerleader, and feeling crushed when he remembered he never needed to impress you. You were always proud of him, you always encouraged him, and with a single look, you could say more than ever opening your mouth.

Eddie needed you, and he had ruined any chance of loving you properly. But Edward Munson was stubborn and not willing to give up, not until you were beating him off with a stick. The two of you had been friends forever and he knew you had some fights, but one way or another, someone was always apologizing and together, you could move past the issue. So, until you were telling him to fuck off, he was going to try - because you had never given up on him.

Two weeks of nothing. Two weeks of your home's voicemail. Two weeks of nobody answering the front door. Two weeks of confusion, heartache, and stress. Two weeks of smoking packs of cigarettes, of snapping at Chrissy, of praying to a God he's never prayed to before.

When he saw you that Friday, Eddie's heart leapt into his throat and he gave a strangled gasp before sprinting across the carpark to make it to your side. You were surrounded by Nancy Wheeler and Robin Buckley, all three piling out of Steve Harrington's car - who now leaned on his driver's door, mid-conversation - and he thought you looked more beautiful than ever.

The weight you've lost had slowly built back up now that you weren't constantly vomiting. Your head had cleared, your heart feeling lighter than ever before, your veins racing with helium, and the bags under your eyes had cleared. In fact, your eyes looked clearer than they ever had, and your skin was practically glowing.

God did you look good.

Eddie panted your name, coming to a skidding halt as Steve pushed off his car and looked at you with worry.

Why would Harrington need to worry about you?

"Oh, uh, hi there?" you nodded at him, tugging your binder closer to your chest and sending a cautious look to Robin.

But Eddie's heart was in his throat, "I-I need to talk to you, please."

To his horror, you shook your head, "Um, I don't think we actually have anything to talk about."

"What? No, we have so much to discuss, please, I know I was a jackass and you don't deserve that - "

"Wait, hang on, I-I'm sorry. You don't understand, we don't have anything to talk about," you chuckled weakly, "because I don't know you."

Ice shot into Eddie's veins, stuttering, "W-What? Th-That's not funny, doll, don't joke like that."

You looked at Nancy for support, whispering in a small, panicked voice, "I don't know him, do I, Nance? I don't think I know him."

"No, honey," Nancy assured, smiling softly at you before glaring at Eddie. "He's just a classmate."

Eddie knew Nancy was protective of you but what the hell was going on? What kind of a sick prank was this? Look, Eddie knew he's pulled some mean jokes in his life but this? This wasn't mean, it was cruel, and he didn't find it funny in the least bit.

"What? No - what the hell are you guys talking about?" Eddie begged, looking between the four teenagers. "Sweetheart, it's me - it's Eddie. It's your Eddie, please, what do you mean you don't know me - what's going on? This isn't funny, sweetheart, please, okay? Look, we've known each other a decade, right, how can you - how can you not know me?"

"I'm really sorry, um... Eddie? Was it Eddie?"

His heart shattered, shards stinging as they were pumped through the rest of his body. "Sweetheart, no, please, I just... I'm so sorry, but this isn't funny - "

"Look, I'm really sorry, but this isn't a joke, I really don't know you," your head shook. "And I would remember someone I've known a decade - right?" You asked Nancy again, looking nervous. "I-I don't know him, but he knows me. Nancy, I-I don't understand, I don't know what's wrong. Is something wrong with me?"

"No, honey," she rushed to speak, sending Steve a pointed look when stress made your eyes shine. "You're okay, you're okay, it's okay."

"Okay, hey, hey, hey, okay," Steve stepped in, pushing Eddie back a few steps. "You need to back off, you're upsetting her."

"I'm upsetting her?" he repeated, tears collecting as his feet tried to plant against Steve's force. "She doesn't remember me - "

"Back off, dude," Steve warned.

"I'm really sorry," you called to him, genuine look of distorted pain over your face. "I'm sorry," you repeated to Robin and Nancy, "I-I don't know him, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I-I don't know what's wrong, I'm sorry - "

"Hey, hey, breathe, okay? It's all fine, it's all good, you're okay, I promise, just try to focus on breathing," Robin assured, hand rubbing circles over your back.

"No! Baby! You do know me!" Eddie begged over Steve's shoulder as Nancy turned you away. "Please! No! You know me, baby! Don't do this, please, please, I need you! Sweetheart - please! I need you, and I'm so sorry for what I said! Don't do this! No, please, I-I'm sorry!"

His heart glued itself back together just to shatter once again when Robin took your books to let your hands slap over your ears to block him out as Nancy directed you away - Steve still pushing Eddie back.

"Dude!" Steve snapped with anger coloring his iris' a darker shade, "You're fucking upsetting her!"

"Steve, please - "

"No," Steve shook his head. "You had your chance, and it's too late. Okay? Leave her alone, she doesn't remember and doesn't need you trying to 'remind' her when it's already done, dude. Okay? It's done."

"What the hell does that mean? Please, Steve, I need her - she's my best friend and I can fix this," Eddie begged.

Steve felt fleeting compassion for the other boy, seeing the distress and heartbreak over his face. Steve sighed, glancing back to see you being spoken to softly by Nancy and Robin, assuring you it was okay not to remember the boy with long hair, before turning to look into the eyes that had broken your heart on too many occasions.

"She doesn't remember because you were removed from her memory, Ed, you were just... All of you was removed from her, okay?" Steve sighed finally. "Look, it's hard to explain, but do yourself and her a favor?"

"Anything."

"Go to the library and look this up," he pulled a torn piece of paper from his pocket, handing it over. "It'll explain what was wrong, and you should hopefully be able to piece together why she can't remember you. Don't make this harder, all right? She's finally okay, and you were so sure you didn't want her that it's time for you to be okay without her, too. Don't do this to her, man, you get me?"

"What did I do?" Eddie whispered.

Steve gulped, shaking his head, "You couldn't love her back."

Eddie stood there, piece of paper clutched in his fingertips like the petal of a flower, as Steve turned and headed for you three girls. He lifted his arm to bring you in for a side hug, assuring you that it was okay not to remember - while Eddie stood there, like you had so many times, watching with tears and heartbreak in his eyes.

He didn't go to classes, he obsessively searched books for the Hanahaki Disease Steve told him about; finding his answers, and never finding peace. He had to live everyday watching you really bloom into your own person; becoming more radiant by the passing second, realizing he was draining you of your life before, and how there wouldn't ever be room for him with you now.

When you graduated with an acceptance to your first choice college, you returned home in your cap and gown with a giggling Robin and Nancy; planning on changing and getting ready to hit a few grad parties already. The girls were so excited that you were feeling (and looking) better now that they didn't want to waste anymore time and insisted you all hit a few parties. However, before you could hop up the stairs to your room, a large bouquet of flowers caught your attention.

Sat on your kitchen counter was a thick bouquet of white chrysanthemums. There was no note, no signature, but something in your gut twisted with knowledge. Your fingers reached out to gently stroke the petals before smiling lightly, leaning in to sniff them, and then turn for the stairs to rush up to your bedroom.

All the while across town, a long haired metalhead in a matching green cap and gown, tipped a bottle of Irish whiskey to his lips; a single stemmed white chrysanthemum rolled between his fingers; old polaroid photos scattered around his body on the floor, tears sliding down his cheeks, and regret echoing across his mind.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fics #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things x reader #stranger things 4 #stranger things season 4 #requests open

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yandere-writer-momo · 9 months

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Kids first day at school, who’s crying like a little bitch and who’s like “Bruh fucking finally anyways~”

Katsumi’s kids are so spoiled but they’re tolerable. They behave well in public… but they’re cling to their mom just like Katsumi. The clinginess is hereditary.

Hanayama’s kids are always well behaved. They hardly make a peep.

Baki’s kid is a little turd. He’s always causing problems and getting into fights. Baki’s son is bad in school jsut like he was.

Retsu’s kid is a model student. They have good grades and are quite popular. Retsu is an amazing father.

Oliva’s kids are so spoiled so they can be bratty from time to time but they’re not bad. Oliva is a gentle parent while you’re the more stern one.

Pickle’s kids bite people. Like they take full chunks out of legs. They’re little hellspawns.

Jun has four kids and they’re very ornery. They took over the class and held the teacher hostage to attain freedom (he was proud of them while you were mortified).

Jack’s kids also get in fights a lot. And they’re very competitive. But they don’t talk much.

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babydollmarauders · 7 months

Text

MEDIA MANAGEMENT — JACK HUGHES (23-24 SZN PART 5)

au masterlist

notes: do i like this? idk. but it’s out.

y/ndevils00

liked by jackhughes, dawson1417, and 221,691 others

y/ndevils00 ALL HAIL SATAN! i mean— THE DEVILS!!

YOUR NEW JERSEY DEVILS ARE NOW 6-0 IN THE PRESEASON! STILL THE FINAL UNDEFEATED TEAM IN THE PRESEASON!

tonight we played a home game against the dirty dish rags, and WON 5-2!!

the normal roster played tonight, which means prudential center was finally not just a whore house, but a whore HOME 🫶

we kicked off with a power play goal from my sweet blonde swede, Jesper Bratt! with an assist from my personal devil, Jacky!

literally THIRTY-TWO SECONDS later, MY SMUSH GOT HIS FIRST GOAL OF THE PRESEASON! I COULDN’T BE PROUDER OF YOU, MY MUNCHKIN! I KNEW YOU COULD DO IT!

in second period, we got a power play goal from best friend number 1!!! you are a star in every way! shine your light, puppy!!

we also got a power play goal from the light of my life, the love of my heart, my uber hot and a lot less smart, boyfriend; JACK ‘BABYGIRL’ ROWDEN HUGHES!!! SO PROUD OF YOU, YOU SEXY DEVIL, YOU!

and to finish us off, in third period, we got a goal from the one, the only, CAPTAIN SWISS SLUT!! look at you go! sticking your tongue out, one game at a time!

p.s. can you guess who was able to talk her way into being allowed to bring her professional camera and take pics through the camera holes in the glass?

i’ll give you a hint! she’s super hot, super smart, loves nicknames, and has a degree in ‘annoying her boyfriend’!

tagged jesperbratt, lhughes_06, dawson1417, jackhughes, nicohischier

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john.marino97 i’m not featured?

y/ndevils00 do better

john.marino97 but i played good?

y/ndevils00 do. better.

john.marino97 @/dawson1417 translate?

dawson1417 she has my child hostage. i cannot translate.

john.marino97 @/dawson1417 your child?

dawson1417 …i’ve said too much

user74 omg PROFESSIONAL GRADE PHOTOS

jackhughes you are an odd duck, my love

y/ndevils00 why are you talking about trevor on MY post?

jackhughes why would you think i’m calling Z “my love”?

y/ndevils00 idk what y’all are into 🤷‍♀️

lhughes_06 thank you squish! but “munchkin”? you know i’m taller than you, right?

y/ndevils00 only physically

lhughes_06 i think that’s the only way that counts…

y/ndevils00 mentally? i could squash you. but i would never, because you’re my smush and ily

lhughes_06 mhm, i appreciate that

user62 where can i get a captain swiss slut? asking for a friend…

y/ndevils00 mine came from Bern! check there!

dawson1417 i’m a star 😊⭐️

y/ndevils00 YOU’RE A STAR!! AND YOU SHINE THE BRIGHTEST!!

dawson1417 and no do better?

y/ndevils00 no do better!! you did great!

john.marino97 i hate you both

y/ndevils00 @/john.marino97 you love us so much you could die

john.marino97 shut up 😒

jesperbratt i look good! 😄

y/ndevils00 you look like the sweet angel that you are!

nicohischier why do you always get me with my tongue out?

y/ndevils00 i have a sixth sense

nicohischier i thought your sixth sense was finding Jack when he’s on the ipad?

y/ndevils00 i have a seventh sense

nicohischier yeah, okay

user29 THE GOALIE TAPS

dougieham y/n, how do you feel that Jack wore a mouthguard tonight? 🎤

y/ndevils00 I FEEL GREAT! THE SUN IS SHINING, THE BIRDS ARE SINGING, THE FLOWERS ARE BLOOMING 🗣️

jackhughes you said you’d love me even without teeth 🤨

y/ndevils00 i don’t wanna test that theory

trevorzegras hot damn! my man is on fire! GO HUGHESY!

y/ndevils00 i’m gonna fly to anaheim and soak your pillow in vinegar

trevorzegras YOUR man is on fire!

y/ndevils00 that’s what i thought

#media management au!#media management series <3 #jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes blurb #jack hughes fic #nj devils #nhl fic #nhl imagine #faithlynn’s writings <3 #faithlynn’s insta edits <3

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arlana-likes-to-write · 26 days

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Hi there. I'm sorry if I'm doing this the wrong way. I've never requested anything before. (i want to put a trigger warning for self harm)

I was wondering if you could do a Kate Bishop and female reader angst/comfort where they've been dating for a bit. Kate comes home early from duty with cliny to surprise her and finds her self harming. If you can't or its too dark I understand. I struggle with self injury and a story with Kate comforting her girlfriend who struggles with mental health sounds nice.

Scars to Your Beautiful

Summary: You thought you had time to get it under control, a dark secret that not even your girlfriend knew about. But now she knows.

Please read the warnings as some topics in the this story can be triggering for some. As always you are enough and I am here if you need someone to talk to!

Warning: mention of past and current self harm, act of self harm, verbal abuse from parents, anxiety, Kate being a good girlfriend, reader has bad mental health

Word Count: 3.2k

“Sweetheart,” you looked up at your girlfriend’s voice. Her eyes flicked to yours and the small razor blade in your hand. What was she doing at home? She was earlier.

5 Days Ago

You dropped your bag to the ground with a groan. It seemed heavier daily, but you were one step closer to graduating. Then you would be free—free from strict professors, free from anxiously waiting for a paper or test to be graded to pop up on the portal, free from the endless pressure your parents placed on your shoulders to carry on your family’s legacy.

You slumped down on the couch, and your girlfriend’s dog rested his head on your lap. The action made you smile. “Hi, Lucky baby,” you whispered, scratching his head. His tongue hung out of the side of his mouth. “When do you think your mom is going to be home?” The one-eyed Golden Retriever jumped on the couch and laid on you, forcing you to lay back. “Lucky,” you laughed. “I have to do homework.” Instead of getting up, he placed his head on your chest and closed his. “Unbelievable,” you mumbled, but his breathing soon brought you to an unwanted nap.

Soft fingers running through your hair slowly woke you up. You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and saw Kate with a smile on her face. “Hi, sleepy,” she teased. “How was your nap?”

“Good but unwanted,” you sat up and put your arms around her neck. “Your dog held me hostage and forced me to take a nap,” you felt her body shake from laughter, and her arms locked you into place. “Katie,” you whined. “I have to get up and do homework and cook dinner.”

“Nope,” she popped the ‘p’. “Homework can wait, and I ordered food. So now you can cuddle with your girlfriend.” You huffed, but Kate pouted her lips and gave you the best puppy dog eyes.

“Cuddling does something nice,” you gave in and rested your head on the crook of her neck. Kate reached for the remote and played the next episode of Grey’s Anatomy. You loved these moments. With her training, your classwork, and other extracurricular, it was hard to have these moments of peace. Still, anxiety began to creep into your bones as the seconds ticked to minutes, and the list of assignments was not getting any smaller. Kate touched your neck and dug her fingers into the knots. You melted against her. It was unfair how easily she could turn you into a puddle. You stayed there until the food was delivered and had to part away from the warmth of your girlfriend to eat your Chinese food. She allowed you to change the show to SVU while you ate.

“I leave for a mission tomorrow morning,” you said, dropping the chopsticks you were using. They said it should be about a week.” A week without her would be the longest you both would be apart.

“Whose going with you?” You asked.

“It’s a small team—me, Kamala, America, and Peter.” The urge to ask more died on your lips. Kate never told you what the missions were in the name of keeping you safe. It was hard to wonder, especially when nightmares woke her, and you had to clean her wounds. Instead of rattling off a hundred and one questions, you placed your food on the small table and wrapped your arms around her.

“Promise me you’ll come back to me in one piece.” It was a hard promise to keep, but you needed to hear her say.

“Of course, sweetheart,” she kissed your temple. “You are my home, my one and only. I’ll always come back to you.”

The universe must have liked fucking with you. As soon as Kate left for her mission, one bad thing happened after another. You received a horrible grade on a group project you were stressing over because your other members-only did the bare minimum for their part. Pleading your case to your professor fell on deaf ears because you passed. A passing grade wasn’t good enough. You needed to be perfect.

Then, your internship kept piling more and more work on you because they claimed you were the most responsible and could handle the workload. The cherry on top of the shitty sundae was a phone call from your mother.

“It seems that Dr. Narvaez hasn’t received your application,” you rolled your eyes at your mother’s tone. “Is there a reason for that?” Lucky greeted you at the door, making walking into Kate’s apartment difficult. But you greeted the one-eyed dog with a forced smile and a pat on the head. You toed off your sneakers and dropped down at the small table.

“Because I didn’t send it in,” your confession was met with silence. Sometimes, you preferred your parents constantly yelling or belittling you over the silence.

“And why is that?” You played with an arrowhead that Kate left.

“I don’t know if I want to work for Dr. Narvaez,” you said honestly. He was a friend of your father’s and owned a private practice catering to high-end clients. It would be good money but different from the work you wanted to do. You wanted to help people, not rich saps who wanted Botox.

“Are you serious? Your father gave up a lot to secure you that spot.” You bit your lip, stopping the sigh. It was what they wanted, not you.

“I want a break,” you told her and crossed your arms on top of the table. “Kate and I are thinking about taking a vacation.” The Bishops had a cabin up north, and she wanted to take you right there after graduation. She scuffed at the mention of your girlfriend. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“That girl doesn’t know what’s best for you. Not like your father and I,” you pinched the bridge of your nose. It was the same argument every time. “If you do not work with Dr. Narvaez, you will not have a successful future. You will amount to nothing. You will not only be a failure to yourself but your father, brother, and me.” This type of rant was what you were used to with her. Not praise or support or a gentle reminder that she loved you. All she would do was remind you of how much of a failure you were. If she said it so many times, it had to be true. Right?

Your mother’s degrading words echoed in your head. Worthless. Stupid. You were a disgrace. An embarrassment to the family, and you were going to amount to nothing. You were a mistake. A nobody compared to your brother. They consumed you. Everything seemed to spiral out of control. You needed some aspect of it back. It was a behavior you weren’t proud of that started in middle school. For the six months you were with Kate, you had no need to resort to destructive habits. Kate grounded you. She kept all the negative thoughts away. You found the razor blade in your jewelry box. A hidden compartment at the bottom was perfect because Kate had gone through it all the time.

So you sat on your shared bed with your pant legs rolled up. Your fingertips danced over the faint scars that decorated your skin. Sometimes, Kate traced the lines but never asked where they came from. It was second nature as you moved the sharp razor across your skin. The red of your blood bubbled to the surface. The pressure you’ve felt for the past day and a half disappeared. Finally, you felt like you had control.

The behavior continued over the next two days. Every time you brought the blade out, you promised yourself it would be the last time. It never was, but you had time to get your habit back under control. You had three days, then Kate would be home, and you wouldn’t need it anymore. You had to get everything under control, so you thought.

Present day

“What-what are you doing back?” You asked. You tried to keep your voice steady, but panic raced through your body.

“We got done early,” her voice was surprisingly calm. “I wanted to surprise you.” Her hair was damp, and she was dressed in a purple tracksuit. She must have taken a shower at the tower and rushed over here. Slowly, she closed the distance between you and here. There was enough space so you wouldn’t feel trapped. “Sweetheart, can you hand me that?” She pointed to the razor in your hand. On instinct, you gripped the blade, and you felt it cut your hand. “Please, baby, give it to me.” Her voice was firm, but you heard the plead.

“Katie,” you whimpered and dropped the blade into her outstretched hand. The world seemed to collapse around you. Your legs began to shake, and Kate caught you before you hit the ground. No tears fell from your eyes. A blanket of numbness covered your body.

“I’m going to lift you so we can get you all clean, okay?” You nodded, unable to open your mouth. Your stomach dropped as Kate quickly picked you up and walked to the bathroom. Goosebumps formed on your skin when she set you down and turned to get the first aid kit. Her body shook as she exhaled, looking at the new cuts on your thighs. “This may hurt, but I’ll be gentle, okay?” Again, you gave her another nod. You expected the sting of the antiseptic, but you felt nothing. How long have you been numb to it?

“None are very deep so that you won’t need stitches,” Kate explained. You knew that. Even in your mind-numbing haze, you knew to be careful. There was one night during high school when you cut too deep and stole your father’s suture kit. You learned that night your hands were steady enough to become a surgeon. “I’m going to clean your hand now,” without a response, she didn’t reach to take it. “Baby,” you forced yourself to look into her blue eyes. “Can I see your hand?” You nodded and gave it to her. There was a small cut, nothing compared to the ones on your legs. She cleaned it, placed a badge, and kissed your hand. “I’m going to ask you something, and I won’t be made no matter the answer as long as you are honest with me. Are there others?”

You wanted to lie. All you had to do was say no, and when she went to bed, you could clean the cuts that scattered your arms, but the lie tasted like poison. It made your stomach twist and throat constrict. Before Kate, lying about this was easy. It flowed off your tongue so quickly that even you believed it. With a quick nod, you tugged off your long-sleeved shirt. It was one of Kate’s old college shirts. Your girlfriend scanned your upper half. Again, her body shook as she exhaled. “Okay, thank you for being honest with me, baby. I’m going to clean these too.” You nodded as she kissed your forehead.

Quickly, you put your hand on the back of her neck and kept her close. You knew they needed adequately cleaned, but you needed her close. Everything felt so cold. “Tell me what you need,” she said.

“Need you,” you mumbled. “Katie,” you whined. “Please.” Your throat burned as you tried to keep your tears at bay. Kate hushed you and brought you into a tight hug.

“I’m right here, sweet girl. I’m not going anywhere.”

Once Kate deemed every cut was cleaned, she helped you change into a pair of sweatpants and a baggy hoodie. She carried you to the living room, sat on the couch, and covered you with a blanket. You whined when she pulled away. “I’m going to order food and get you some water. I’ll be right back.” You wanted to protest. She just returned from a mission, and you should be caring for her, but there was no energy in your body. When she entered the kitchen, Lucky jumped on the couch beside you. You ran our fingers through his fur.

The action was mind-numbing, the repetitive motion of his fur through your fingers. You weren’t sure how long you sat there, but Kate returned with a pizza box, and Lucky jumped to the ground. He wasn’t far, just by your feet. “Are you hungry?” She asked. You were, but your stomach twisted and turned. Dark thoughts filled your mind of how undeserving you were. “Just a few bites. I got your favorite.” She opened the box, and it was your favorite. You took a small piece, and with every bite, Kate kissed your forehead and whispered positive words in your ear. You had another slice, and once Kate ate, she put her arm around your shoulders and brought you closer. A conversation was on the horizon, but you were in no mood to talk about what led you here. It would only lead you to spiral more.

“I know we have to talk,” your voice was soft. “Can it wait? I want to cuddle with you.”

“Yeah, of course,” you felt her sigh. “I love you, baby girl. I hope you know that.”

“I love you too, Katie.”

You woke up in your shared bed with Kate. The archer was fast asleep, and at some point, she separated from you in the night. You smiled at how peaceful she looked so different from when she came home. You got out of bed as quietly as possible and went to the kitchen - making breakfast was the least you could do. There was little in the fridge. In your slow mental breakdown, you failed to fill the fridge. Come to think of it, that pizza you ate was your first meal since Kate left for her mission. God, your mother was right. You were worthless.

Deep within the freezer, you found a bag of frozen fruit and decided to make an acai bowl. So you divided the fruit, making sure Kate had more strawberries than blackberries, and placed it in the blender with some Greek yogurt. Thankfully, Kate was a heavy sleeper, and as the mixture was being blended, you started a fresh pot of coffee. Once it was blended, you poured the mixture into bowls.

It was on instinct. You picked up the two still-good bananas and the knife from the drawer. It was an action you’ve done 100 times, but this morning you hesitated.

Your eyes were trained on the knife every time you cut the fruit. It was dangerous to be this close to something sharp after last night. Dark and dangerous thoughts started to fill your head. You wondered how the knife you held would differ from the small razor blade you used. It could be deadly. “Sweetheart,” you snapped out of your thoughts. Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” you answered honestly and set the knife down as your hands shook. “Sit, please. I made breakfast.” She sat at the table, and you placed the cut-up banana on top with some leftover granola you found. You brought it over to her with a coffee, and you quickly turned around to get your breakfast and return to her. You ate in silence. Occasionally, Kate would grab your hand and squeeze it. You wondered if she needed the reminder that you were here.

“I’m sorry,” you finally said and sipped your coffee. “I thought I’d get it under control before you came back.” Kate moved her thumb on the back of your hand.

“How long has this been going on?” You sighed, brought your knee up to your chest, and rested your chin on top.

“Since middle school, but I stopped when we got together. You made me feel grounded despite all the pressure and stress,” you explained. “When you went on the mission, one bad thing happened after the other.”

“Tell me what happened,” you told her about your lousy grade from your professor, the extra work your internship pilled on you, and the comments your family made. When you brought up your family, Kate tried to keep her face neutral, but her blue eyes turned stormy. She’s met your parents a handful of times and you knew how much she hated how they treated you. Once you were done with your story, it sounded foolish. It was typical pre-adult responsibilities; people were going through much worse. But Kate had a soft smile that almost caused the dame you were holding to break.

“You are so loved, baby girl. You are smart, beautiful, and kind. My world is so much brighter with you in it,” you felt your bottom lip tremble. Still, it was hard for you to believe. “Come with me,” she pulled you to your feet and towards the bathroom downstairs. She flicked on the lights and put you in front of the mirror. Her arms wrapped around your waist. “Look in the mirror,” you struggled to say, but you looked at yourself in the mirror. “My beautiful girl,” she mumbled, kissing the part of your skin uncovered by the hoodie. Her hands were warm as they moved under your hoodie and rested on your stomach. The warmth made you melt against your girlfriend’s solid frame. “I will say some sentences, and I want you to repeat them for me. Can you do that for me, baby?” You were a little hesitant but nodded. However, Kate gave you a stern look that said use your words.

“Yes, Kit Kat,” you smiled, using the nickname she hated. She tickled your sides, and your laughter danced off the bathroom walls.

“Okay, okay,” she said once your laughter turned to quiet giggles. Kate let out a shaky breath and turned her attention to the reflection. “I am strong,” you pouted when she expected you to say it back. It wasn’t true. You weren’t strong. At this moment, you felt so weak. “Come on, sweetheart, say it back to me.” You sighed.

“I am strong,” you mumbled. There was no belief in your words but Kate kissed your cheek.

“Good. I’m so proud of you. Alright, next one. I am smart,” she continued with more phrases. Each one was different from the next, but they had the same idea: I am confident, brave, and loved. Every time you repeated a phrase back, your voice was stronger, and a small part of you started to believe it. “Last one, beautiful,” she whipped away your tears with her thumb. I am enough.”

“Katie,” you whimpered. It was almost painful to say or believe. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” she squeezed you tight. “Say it.” She encouraged you and rested her chin on your shoulder. You closed your eyes. “I am enough.”

“I am,” Worthless. A disgrace. Dumb. “I am enough.” It was so soft. “I am enough.” The second time was stronger. “I am,” Loved. Beautiful. Strong. Brave. “Enough. I am enough,” you cried. Kate was quick to turn you around and pulled you into her arms. You clung onto her back as you sobbed into her shoulder.

“You are baby. You are enough, and I will remind you every single day.” It was hard to believe. After years and years of verbal abuse from your family, those thoughts weren’t going to disappear overnight. But you were stronger than them. You were better than them. You were enough.

#kate bishop x reader #kate bishop x you #kate bishop imagine #hawkeye x reader #kate bishop #hawkeye kate bishop

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artbyblastweave · 9 months

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One thing I think about a lot in regards to Bakuda is that one of the few hints we get into her backstory comes from Tattletale, who, while trying to paint a picture of Bakuda’s weaknesses, intuits that she cracked and threw a fit because she was coddled her whole life and couldn’t handle mild censure, criticism, or failure. From here Taylor jumps to assuming that she snapped from a bad grade, and this is why she held Cornell hostage.

But the groundwork from this conclusion was laid by Tattletale, who at this point in the story is actively trying to mold Taylor’s perceptions of events so that she won’t get scared away from the lifestyle. Tattletale being the one who gives Taylor the slanted, decontextualized story that Glory Girl triggered from getting fouled in a basketball game, when obviously the actual situation she was in was substantially more fucked. Tattletale being the one who tries to convince Taylor before the bank job that the cape scene runs on Megamind logic, while simultaneously lumping Lung (the one supervillain who Taylor has actually fought in costume at that point) into the category of irrational, inhuman monsters.

Bakuda had a tinker trigger. You don’t snap from one bad grade; you don’t get a tinker trigger unless, on some level, you see the train coming, even if nobody else can. All signs point to some Uniquely Fucked Situation that would make Bakuda everyone’s Poor Little Meow Meow if we were receiving information about it from anyone other than licensed spin-doctor Lisa Wilbourne (or Armsmaster, or the News, you get the dynamic here.) Also it doesn’t help that she melted an innocent guy in front of everybody. I mean by the time she runs into the Undersiders it’s not like they’re not going to have to fight for their lives, that ship has sailed. But given the sailed ship, Lisa doesn’t exactly have any incentive to accidentally build empathy in the newbie for the mad bomber currently attempting to torture them to death. They are predictably unconcerned with the precise path by which Bakuda came to be this performatively brutal and sadistic. And a scant few minutes after assembling this unflattering mental model of Bakuda, there goes Taylor, choppin’ off digits.

Something about good guys, bad guys, the book’s constant refrain about how framing is everything in the cape game. I forget precisely where I was going with this. Much to be done with Bakuda. Like nearly all Worm side characters there’s a lot of there there in spite of (and to some degree because of!) her lack of screen-time.

#worm #wildbow #parahumans #bakuda #worm meta #thoughts #meta #worm web serial

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kelseytheballerina · 2 years

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I got a lot of asks on this topic with slight variations of essentially the same question so here goes.

Fake confidence is not confidence. It’s literally fake, it says that in the name. It’s pretending. That’s not terrible but if you’re wondering why all this time has gone by and you still haven’t become truly confident it’s because it’s fake! At best it will appear real to outsiders, which is nice, but you will still be miserable as the person who is inhabiting your body and living your life. Fake confidence only looks good until someone with authentic confidence walks into the room and shows you how it’s done. The truth is that most people who fake it until they make it, don’t ever make it. They are just hoping to be perceived as someone who has made it.

I’m sorry to tell you but if you’ve been doing affirmations for years and years and you’re still sending me asks about being confident, it’s not working. I can’t say if you’re doing it wrong, not doing it enough, or not believing it hard enough but either way, something’s gotta give. How many more years are you gonna waste?

You start building confidence in 2 ways: one, you get action-based self esteem. Get some hobbies and work on them. Learn some skills, get good grades, try something new. Do something with your days!! Make an effort!! Complete something!! Scrolling all day won’t give you a sense of accomplishment and when 5,7,10 years go by and you look up and realize that you have nothing going for yourself, you will obviouslyyyyy feel like crap. Reread this point over and over again. Two, get in tune with yourself and figure out what you like, dislike, and truly want. When you really know yourself like that, you will make moves accordingly. You won’t question everything you do and run all of your decisions past other people. You’ll just happily make decisions on your own accord. You will not get to know yourself on a deep enough level if you are online all day and that’s a fact. You’re constantly bombarded with everyone else’s content, everyone else’s opinions, everyone else’s sense of style. Your brain has become a frankstein monster of every other persons ideas. Who are you even? Do you even know? Without a bunch of tiktok girls to tell you what your new aesthetic of the month is, do you even know what you like doing, buying, wearing, how you like to decorate, or what you want to do as a morning routine? Or are you just gonna keep letting outsiders tell you that in January you’re a pink Pilates princess and in March you’re a clean girl and in July you’re that girl. Who are you?? You’ll never be confident if you’re always cosplaying other people. Log off and find yourself.

Stop crumbling every time someone doesn’t like you or what you do. Learn to like yourself! Stop letting the opinions of strangers hold you hostage. Do you like yourself? Okay then.

Remember that being confident doesn’t require you to think you’re the best of the best, the crème de la crème, the hottest thing walking. You can think your looks are overall average, and still be wildly confident. You can acknowledge that you aren’t the best in the world and still be confident. Not only is being less than perfect absolutely okay, it’s rooted in reality. When people try to boost your confidence by having you tell yourself that you’re essentially perfect in whatever domain, that’s toxic positivity and fake confidence yet again. Rid yourself of the thought that confidence always looks like arrogance and lying to yourself about being at the top of the pyramid. Yes you have shortcomings. Lots of them. So do I. And???

I just want to reiterate that lying to yourself hardly does anything for your confidence long term and it’s just so clear. If you are upset about the fact that your body is average, your face is average, you have little to no dating experience, and you haven’t been a part of any substantial activities since freshman year volleyball where you weren’t even that great and quit after one year, I don’t know why you think that pretending you’re Maddy Perez or Jennie while you halfheartedly recite affirmations that state you’re the sexiest woman in the room ✨, everyone is obsessed with you ✨, you attract nothing but life’s luxuries ✨ is really helping you. Like….this isn’t building your confidence really. Giving you a bandaid perhaps. But what would really make you feel better is to go out and get some activities into your schedule where you start at a low level and through your hard work you get better and better. You start working out and building the body you want. You accept the fact that you don’t need to be the prettiest girl in the world to enjoy yourself and have a fantastic life, so instead you style your hair and makeup in a way that you genuinely like and confidently go out into the world knowing and fully being okay with the fact that not everyone thinks you’re stunning but that’s okay. Because you are pleased when you look in the mirror. And there’s more to life than trying (and failing) to be everyone’s type. That’s much more progress than listening to “manifest looking like an instagram model 10 hour 3D audio” every night.

#yours truly ♡

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nerdpoe · 1 year

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Of Kindness and Empathy part 3

Danny all but collapsed in his and Tucker's hotel room, just as the sun was peeking over the horizon.

After he had removed the neck brace and ice, he’d made himself scarce. The…Wayne family, and wasn’t that a wild piece of knowledge, would need time to themselves for a bit. Besides, it wasn’t like they didn’t know how to contact him. After that, deciding that the local vigilantes would be a…little preoccupied, he decided to stay invisible and do sweeps of Gotham.

Gotham, as it turned out, was painfully huge.

He’d done what he could; stopped a few muggings, messed up a bank robbers plans so he’d set off every single alarm in the building and then locked him in the vault, talked down Poison Ivy and Harley (which was pretty easy, he just had to reveal himself and say that the Batman Brigade had almost suffered a pretty bad loss and needed a night), stopped a few jumpers, stopped some really rude guy from shooting ketchup and mayo at fast food workers, and overshadowed Joker in the middle of him about to kill a bunch of hostages, turned him around, and marched him down to the local precinct.

That last one had been extraordinarily difficult. Joker had a good grasp on who and what he was, and did not take kindly to being taken over and diverted away from his activities.

He felt like he needed to take a shower after that, but he was just so tired he’d deal with it later.

Oh, right, before he went to sleep he had to, uh…the thing. He had to do the thing.

Danny quietly lifted Tucker’s phone off of the bedside table and unlocked it, shooting a text to himself.

‘Hey, it’s Danny. This is my friends phone, and I don’t know if my parents will let me have another one since I keep losing or breaking them, so if u wanna talk just get Tuck to call me out. Hope you-know-who is healing up! :) :)’

Done and done.

Danny collapsed on the bed, eyes closing blissfully. There was nowhere to be and nothing to do, a true vacation if he did say so himself.

As he was falling asleep, he missed Tucker’s phone going off.

‘Thank you for your hard work, we saw the results. He is healing. Sleep well.’

~~~~~

Bruce was idly scrolling through the documents on Phantom and Daniel Fenton he’d pulled up on his tablet, leaning against Tim’s bed as Tim got into a logistical argument with Damian about whether or not Phantom could see when he went intangible.

Phantom was called a menace, apparently. Not quite a villain, but definitely a rule-breaker and a danger to public property.

There was page after page of news reports about him fighting other ‘ghosts’ and laying waste to the town, unable to hold in his need for conflict. Ghost hunters named him target number one, and there were multiple traps laid out for the kid.

But what Bruce saw was an entirely different story.

Bruce saw a kid who barely knew how to control his powers trying to defend the town against opponents who did know how to use their powers.

Bruce saw that every fight had less and less property damage.

Bruce saw that this kid, with no mentor in sight and all alone in fighting apparent interdimensional beings, was slowly improving and doing the best that he could with what he had.

Against all odds, with almost everything against him, Daniel had managed to keep the town safe. Not a single one of his fights had resulted in a casualty. He had never fallen to hatred or revenge as far as Bruce could tell.

One instant of cheating on a test not-withstanding, but it looked like he’d fessed up and retaken it.

He clearly needed training, and looking at his grades he definitely needed help keeping the ‘ghosts’ at bay.

But then Bruce had come across something disturbing.

“Anti-Ecto Acts?” He murmured, pulling it up and getting his mind into the proper place to understand legalese.

This…was horrible.

How had Daniel been living with this hanging over him?

It had probably only passed because most politicians didn’t believe in ghosts, so they didn’t bother to look into it, but the problem was it had passed. This was literally a downward slope into getting meta rights removed.

This…was something that needed news coverage.

How lucky Bruce was that he happened to know a fantastic reporter.

~~~~~

“Hello?” Clark answered his phone without checking who was calling, too busy editing his last story to meet the fast approaching deadline.

“Bad time?”

Oh. That was Bruce. Whelp, the story was good enough Clark supposed.

Stretching his arms above his head, the Super leaned back in his office chair.

“No, not at all. Something I can help you with?”

What followed was a bombshell.

There was a law that was passed to practically legally obligate people to discriminate against ‘ghosts’, and it would be very, very easy for that to roll down to metas. A town called Amity Park had the worst of it, and if he wanted to drop the story to bring attention to it he’d have to see if Lois would want to go there for interviews, as if there really were ghosts a possessed superman was the last thing they needed.

“Uh, this sounds pretty serious. I mean Meta rights are…yeah, sure, I can ask Lois-”

“Ask me what?”

Clark jumped, lost balance, fell over with the chair, broke the arm off of it, and broke his desk when he reached out to catch himself.

The entire office went quiet.

“Kent.”

Clark had no idea how his completely normal human manager managed to sound scarier than Darkseid.

“My office.”

Clark sighed, stood up, handed the phone to Lois, and dragged his feet into the office.

“Why yes, he did break his desk again,” Lois said into the phone, her smile in her voice as she waved goodbye to him, “Now what’s this about Meta rights violations?”

~~~~~

Danny was woken up by Tucker rubbing his face with his ridiculously teched-out phone with one hand and loud smacking noises as said techie ate a rotisserie chicken wing with the other.

“Wake up dude, it’s for you.”

Danny just laid there with the phone precariously balanced on his face, trying to come to terms with being awake, before managing a guttural and slurred greeting.

“...Hewwo?”

There was a pregnant pause on the other end.

“Daniel Fenton?”

Oh shit that was Bruce Wayne.

“Yes, sir?” Danny shot up, eyes wide and looking at the time.

It was about three, so he’d slept for a pretty long time.

“I believe you dropped your phone. Would you like for me to drop it off at the Orchard for you?”

“Oh, um you don’t have to, I can just come pick it up if you want to tell me where-”

“That’s a pity then, because I’m in the lobby.”

Danny blinked, bewildered.

“I…guess I’m on my way? I just need to get dressed real quick.”

“I’ll be in the Tiki Breakfast Bar.”

The line went dead, and Danny decided to use the next thirty or so seconds to question reality.

Then it was a whirlwind of finding his clothes, putting them on, hoping that the Mansons didn’t see him in his ratty everyday wear (suits had been part of the agreement), and bolting out the door.

He barely noticed Tucker jogging after him, plate full of rotisserie chicken now occupying both hands.

He did completely hear Sam’s parents' shocked gasps and even locked eyes with her dad as he slid into the elevator and slammed on the button for the second floor.

Sam used their momentary distraction to dart in after him and Tucker as the doors were closing.

So. Danny had his friends in the same elevator as himself.

And they didn’t know he was about to meet The Bruce Wayne.

Sam and Tucker stared at him expectantly.

Danny caved with a put upon sigh.

“So long story short I saved one of Mr. Wayne’s kids last night and gave him my phone because he needed an Emotional Support Jazz.”

There was no way he’d out Mr. Wayne's secret identity. No. Freakin. Way.

“Wait so that playboy idiot knows who you are?” Sam immediately snapped, glaring at Danny.

“So I don’t think he’s actually that ditzy-”

“The owner of Wayne Industries is indebted to you?” Tucker asked with stars in his eyes, the gears in his head already turning for potential experimental tech he could get his hands on.

“No, I don’t intend to use the man’s kid’s life as a bargaining chip-”

“Wait,” Sam interrupted, staring at the ground. No, not the ground. She was….

“Tucker, where are your pants?” Danny whispered in horror.

The world seemed to stand still as the plate full of chicken was dropped on the floor.

“Go back up go back up!” Tucker wailed, slapping the button for the floor with their rooms and trying to hide his Aquaman boxers from the stares of any of the other patrons through the glass walls of the elevator. Sam, meanwhile, started repeatedly punching the button for the second floor.

“We can’t go back Tucker, my parents won’t let us leave again if we do! Just suck it up!”

Danny started reaching between them to hit the elevator stop button.

“Guys I don’t think we should-” the elevator gave a horrific shutter, a grinding noise, and then came to a complete stop between floors, “Do…that.”

“Dude why would you stop the elevator?”

Never before had Tucker looked so betrayed as in that moment.

Danny slowly turned his head to meet Tucker’s eyes.

“I didn’t actually get to push the button.”

“...No.”

“I…think we’re actually stuck?”

“Are you kidding me right now?”

Danny was not.

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

This is now on AO3

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#dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #danny fenton #sam manson #tucker foley #bruce wayne #damian wayne #tim drake #clark kent #lois lane #phanfic

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