As a student, I was terrified of those crab riders. So much so that I couldn't sleep at night x))
But I also wanted to draw one. After who knows how long, I finally got around to it
liking math feels so cartoonish like yeah right the autistic kid gets a little feverish when the numbers do a thing in a predictable and unique pattern. im a fucking stereotype
You’ve written a lot about Connor Rhodes’ kinks, any thoughts on what Tommy Merlyn may or may not enjoy in the bedroom?
Good question, because I don't have a particularly good answer lol.
I think, like Connor, Tommy is down for pretty much anything. However, I also believe that Tommy is a thrill seeker to a pretty dangerous degree. So, a little list:
Bondage: Tommy absolutely finds a good thrill in being helpless. The thrill of being unable to move is super appealing to him
Exhibitionism: I think Tommy just likes being seen; the thrill here is that there's a high chance people will recognize him. I think his desire to be watched stems from how little his father was there for him, and how starved of attention he is. Malcolm left, and in a way, he never came back.
Knife Play: Tommy enjoys a little pain. After all the drugs, partying, and sex, he needs a little push for things to stay entertaining
Manhandling: When Tommy bottoms, he loves being thrown around and moved. He doesn't have to think about anything, and he likes it that way.
🚨TW for past SA🚨
Consensual Noncon: In my personal canon for Tommy, he's been deep in the party scene since before he made it to high school. He's dealt with his fair share of nonconsensual interactions, and even though he's refused to acknowledge them, he is very much affected by it. By indulging in this kink rarely (because how often is he going to find someone he trusts enough?), he gets some power back. He controls how this goes, when before, he was utterly powerless.
Thanks for the ask! Sorry it got a little dark at the end.
He needs to break something. He vibrates with it—the need to annihilate and hurt until everything is as damaged as he is. He wants to punch Oliver's glove box until the skin of his fist tears; to hit and hear that beautifully dull thud until his flesh shreds and his bone splinters, and the leather is torn and dripping with blood. He wouldn't stop until his fingers broke—keep going until his wrist snaps in two.
The air was just shy of getting too hot, but the setting sun and gentle breeze kept it from being unpleasant. In this little part of the world, the sun was at that perfect angle to lay down a golden tint over the grass.
One more.
Tommy didn't notice the cheering—he never did. It always faded into a gentle droning. Nothing could touch him on the field.
He stared down the batter. Spit out one of a mouthful of sunflower seeds. Glanced at his catcher. Just under his glove: pointer finger, tilted just toward the batter.
Fastball inside.
A grin split his face, ball rolling in his palm. An exaggerated nod. Cocky. Tommy's fastball was one of the most feared pitches in the league this season.
He sends a quick glance towards the crowd as he plants his foot on the mound, glove up to his chest. It's absolutely packed, so many bodies bunched together like wriggling, angry sardines. He sees Mr. Queen first. Tall, imposing, but too charming to feel intimidating. His hand rests on Thea's shoulder to keep her from running off, which has become an unfortunate habit of hers. Speedy, Oliver started calling her. Moira is to his left, smiling, too, cheering as much as she'd allow herself. And then there's Oliver, probably cheering the loudest and still drowned out by everyone else.
But they're not who he's looking for. No, it's the empty space next to Robert. Frantic, Tommy scans the entrance, the food stand. His smile drops, just a hair, as the familiar stab of disappointment lodges itself in his throat. It's been festering for years, pushed down and drowned until he could ignore it, knowing that doing so was rotting him from the inside out. He can tell tonight is when he'll finally waste away into the horrific, ugly pile of decay he knows he is.
Tommy turns back to the batter without a second glance. He takes a deep breath, winds up.
He throws.
The congratulations and celebrations and interviews and pictures take almost an hour and a half to finish, and by then Tommy feels about ready to throw up. There's a tightness in his throat that's getting harder to ignore, a wall that he must force words through to sound pleasant enough that no one will notice the way his body droops, or the way he can no longer hide his wariness.
Gravel crunches under Tommy's cleats as he walks through the parking lot. The sound is roaring with how many feet disrupt the rocks. It's no longer quiet; it's too loud here.
"That was a fantastic game, Tommy, really. I don't think there's been an immaculate inning all season in the major leagues." Robert's hand is a heavy weight on Tommy's shoulder. Crushing, even. He doesn't shrug it off.
"Robert, don't suffocate him," Moira chides, but she's smiling up at her husband. They must be having a good week. "But yes, that was a fantastic game. I'm sure you'll have scouts lining up to have you pitch for them."
"A bright future yet," Robert agrees.
Their conversation continues, but Tommy finds it difficult to pay attention. Oliver is next to him, arm brushing his. The hand's weight is still on his shoulder, and it's becoming a chore to keep himself from tensing under it.
He can feel it spreading, so slow in its effort to infect. It would be easier if it were like wildfire, leaving no question as to just how much damage will come. Always, something will burn to ash. With storms, it's always a question. What will get water damage? What trees will lose their branches? How many people will suffer because they didn't see it coming?
Tommy snaps back to attention at the sound of his name, desperate that he hasn't missed something important.
"—mind letting us take you out to dinner?"
"Please, Tommy! Please?" Thea bounces towards him, but her hold on Moira's hand is firm enough to constrict her like a leash. She grins up at him.
He hopes his face doesn't give away how lost he is in the conversation. The eye contact is forced, the quiet, irrational plea that they'll take back the invitation. "I… Yeah, I'd like that. Thank you, Mr. Queen."
Oliver clasps him on the back, pulling Tommy's smaller body closer to his and away from Robert.
"You, my friend, will get the privilege of being the first passenger of my new Porsche."
Any other time, that name would have brightened up Tommy's week. Oliver had been talking about it for almost a month, because he knew Tommy had been dying to try it out. He was more of a car enthusiast than Oliver ever was.
"The Carrera GT?" he manages.
Oliver grins. "That's the one."
"For the love of God, please don't crash on the way to the restaurant!"
Olives led the way with careless "OK!" over his shoulder. The talking and the crunching grow quieter the further they go, well past where most of the cars are parked. At least Oliver seems to be trying to be careful with this one.
It's uncomfortable in the car. Sitting in the sun for so long has left the air stuffy and the leather seats burning. Oliver says as much when he sits down, bare legs burning in their shorts.
"Dude, that was one of your best games, seriously," he says as the door slams. So much enthusiasm, and so much honesty in how he says it. "A home run and a fucking immaculate inning in the bottom of seven? You're a fucking machine, man!"
Tommy can't bear to look at him. He focuses on the glove box, trying everything he can to ignore the building shame and disgust building in his stomach. It's trying to force its way out of the tender muscle, pushing, pushing, until—
Breathe in, then out. Again. Again. Again.
He needs to break something. He vibrates with it—the need to annihilate and hurt until everything is as damaged as he is. He wants to punch Oliver's glove box until the skin of his fist tears; to hit and hear that beautifully dull thud until his flesh shreds and his bone splinters, and the leather is torn and dripping with blood. He wouldn't stop until his fingers broke—keep going until his wrist snaps in two.
Again. Again. Again.
"Your parents are doing good," he mumbles.
Oliver scoffs, brows furrowed at the sudden change. "Yeah, one good week after a hundred bad. He cheats, she screams, they fuck, make up."
The seat creaks as Oliver leans back, leather shifting under his weight with an agonized sigh.
Finally, it's quiet, and all the fight and bubbling anger settle down to a simmer, leaving Tommy empty and sore. They sit in silence, neither able to meet each other's eyes. Robert is an amazing father—certainly not perfect, but what other role model did Tommy have? He envied the effort Robert put into being there for Oliver and Thea, envied that he loved them unconditionally. Sometimes, late at night when he can't sleep, that envy ebbs into hate, a disgusting film covering his heart like rotting meat left in the sun. Sometimes, he despises Oliver for having the one thing he can never have, and then hate turns into the shame that clings until the cycle repeats all over again.
He feels the shame now, and all at once he knows that the storm has flooded him too full; the dam he's carefully built since his mother died is cracking under the force, pushing against his skin, ready to break and let loose a torrent of water that won't stop until there's nothing left. It burns behind his eyes, burns to try and hold it back.
"Tommy? Dude, are you—"
A strangled noise, not quite a sob, not quite a gasp, burst from his mouth before he could stop it. He drops his head into his hand like concrete, hand clamping over his mouth as if he can stop anything. His fingers tangle in his sweaty hair, pulling, punishing for allowing it to happen.
The most disgusting part of himself is pushing against his skin, bursting out of his mouth, and he's powerless to stop it. He can't bear to look at Oliver when it does. When he finally realizes Tommy isn't what he thought he was.
That thought—losing Oliver because of his shortcomings—is the final drop that sends everything crashing. He breaks into sobs, his dam of dirty water and jagged branches rupturing irreparably.
He can feel the weight of the absences of his life, the holes in his heart, push down on him, forcing the guttural wail from his lips. He bawls into his hand, body twisted away from Oliver. Tears are pulled from his eyes, torn away from him with such violence that it sends him reeling. Ugly sobs, ugly keens come and don't stop.
People are supposed to lose track of time when mourning something. At least, that's what he was told when his mother died. Take your time; soon you won't even realize you've gotten better; your father will be back before you know it—you won't even notice he's gone. It's never applied to him. No, Tommy knows exactly how long it was. Is. Two minutes, three, five. They have somewhere to be, people waiting for them. But no matter how much he tries, he can't stop.
Pauses only start when Tommy's body can't keep up with his crying. His lungs ache with it, unable to get enough oxygen to placate the burning in his chest. It sends him sputtering, gasping desperately between sobs. He doesn't even realize Oliver is talking to him until he chokes, chest heaving but refusing to take in air.
"—Jesus Christ, Tommy—breathe, man, please!"
There's a moment where Tommy can't tell what emotion is bleeding through his words, because not once in their decade-long friendship had he ever heard fear come from Oliver. He's scared. Tommy did that to him. He did this.
Out of the corner of his eye, hands hover hesitantly. He hopes Oliver chooses not to touch him, lest he be tainted by all that's wrong with Tommy.
"T—"
"He doesn't love me, does he?"
It's the first time he's ever verbalized it. He'd always kept it locked away, just like his envy, because if it ever left his lips, it wouldn't be just a thought. It'd be real.
Oliver doesn't seem to understand—not between Tommy's blubbering and gasping. He tries again, but he's cut off by another sob, and then another, until the words come in broken stutters instead.
"He was supposed to be here! He—he was supposed to be here! He promised!" He's screaming, but he can barely hear himself over the rumbling of his heart, as insistent to keep beating as his insides are to carry all the worst parts of himself within their cells, ingrained so deep they'll never leave. "I don't even like baseball, but I kept my grades good so I could play so then he'd have something to be proud of, but he's not even here!"
There's a barely perceptible pain in his scalp, but there's no point in checking. There's no point in any of it, is there?
"I'm…" Tommy hiccups, barely able to force the words out. After everything—trying to keep it all in, and now he can't even get it out on his own accord. "I'm not worth anything to him. I think the only way he'll love me is if I'm dead."
He wonders sometimes if Malcolm wishes he were. That it had been him instead of his mother.
Finally, all the ugliest parts of him are splayed out for Oliver to see. It's the first time in years he's felt truly empty. There's nothing left holding him together besides torn seams left wet and stained from his torrential downpour. He doesn't have anything else to give.
His scalp burns, and only then does he realize he'd been pulling hard enough to yank strands out of his head. Gently, he lets go, allowing his hand to drop. He stares at the hairs resting around his fingers as tears fall into his palm. He's still crying, but it's nothing more than meager whimpers.
Oliver doesn't speak. Tommy doesn't, either.
Maybe he should have insisted on driving himself home. Maybe he should have been stronger, so then he'd still get to keep Oliver in his life. Maybe if he'd been a better son, his dad wouldn't hate him so much. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe doesn't take this back.
"Tommy."
The mere thought of looking at Oliver makes Tommy nauseous. It's starting to hit him now that he's ruined absolutely everything. Oliver knows that Tommy's fucked in the head, that there's something wrong with him, and now he's going to leave just like his dad left when mom died and then he'll be alone and how can he survive being alone after so long—
"Come on, buddy, please just look at me!"
He doesn't know why he listens, but he does. He comes back to himself, practically panting, once again unable to get enough air to support the things going on inside him.
Oliver looks…afraid. Tommy's never seen an Oliver Queen that wasn't self-assured. He's tense, too, but it's hard to tell if it's because Oliver is trying to keep himself in the car, or if he's ready to make sure Tommy stays.
"Just…" Oliver swallows, glances away before his gaze darts back. "Just stay with me, ok? I don't— I don't know what to do, but don't fucking do what you're doing, man." The pit in Tommy's stomach grows wider, so wide that it's going to swallow him whole; Oliver's lip trembles, and tears are building up in his eyes.
"I didn't… I didn't mean to do that." It comes out as a whimper, meek and so fucking weak. Malcolm would be so disappointed in him. "I'm sorry."
They both go quiet, unsure of what to do. It's silent, besides Tommy's sniffling and huffing, fighting to regain the oxygen he wasted.
It's a long time before Oliver speaks, unsure and timid.
"Are you ok now?"
He takes a minute to think about it. Ok? What does that even mean anymore? He hadn't been ok since his father woke him up the morning after his mother had died. It was such a nice day—especially for Star City's Fall—and for some reason, Malcolm was crying. He looked so pulled thin, so tired. He'd never seen his father like that before, and hasn't since.
"I guess so."
"No, you don't get to say that. Yes or no, Tommy!"
Tommy flinches back at the tone. He watches his hands shake, shrinks as much as he can.
"I don't know—"
"Yes, you do! Come on, did you not see what you just did? Don't lie to me!"
"Jesus Christ! No, I'm not, Oliver, fuck!"
He can't stay here. He needs to leave, right now. He can't face this, or he'll just break down all over again.
There's a pause before Tommy turns, scrambling desperately for the door handle. He yanks, once, twice, in rapid succession. Again, again, again.
"Unlock the door."
"No!" Oliver sounds perplexed, but Tommy is still focused on the door. He goes for the lock, but over and over, the lock keeps clicking back into place. "You think I'm going to let you leave like this? How are you getting home? Huh? You can't drive like this! What the fuck are you going to do, Tommy?"
"Unlock the fucking door!"
The need to get away is all-encompassing, filling the hole his crying had left behind. It's such a profound fear that even if he ran, he'd never escape it. His whole body shivers with it, so horribly recognizable. Feeling so small and helpless, aware of the danger standing right in front of him. How paralyzed he was, standing in front of it but unable to move, lest he anger it into doing what it had done so many times before. Wondering what he could do to make it stop. What he could do to make it stay.
"Please, Ollie, just unlock it! Please!" His voice breaks, like he's going to break, as if his body forgot that there's nothing left to give.
The second he feels a set of hands grab at him, Tommy flinches back against the door. "C'mon, T, stop! Stop it, it's ok!" Oliver is undeterred, despite how hard he fights back. It's less fighting and more flailing: flapping hands make poor contact with Oliver's chest; Oliver goes to wrap an arm around his middle, but misses and jabs at Tommy's ribs instead. He twists and turns, pulls back, but in the end, Oliver always gets what he wants. Tommy gives up, and he's let go.
"Your dad loves you, Tommy, I know he does. How could you say that stuff?" Tommy can't meet his eye. No, won't. He won't. Oliver doesn't know anything. In the end, how could he? His whole life, Oliver Queen has been showered in affection, love, and devotion from every person he's ever come across. He is gravity, pulling everyone towards him and keeping them there even when they hate him. While Tommy's insides have worn down to a rotten shell, Oliver has blossomed into something beautiful and so, so blind.
Growing up, Tommy knew that he was the lesser between them. Oliver was more attractive, more athletic, more charismatic. Oliver flunked out of school, not because he was dumb, but because he was too lazy to care. Tommy could never keep up. Malcolm knew it, too. Tommy wasn't very smart, but he's not blind like Oliver. It was always obvious how much Malcolm wished that Oliver had been his son—that Tommy was a disappointment and wouldn't be anything else.
But what if Oliver is right? Is this really how things are supposed to be? Inherently, he is the lesser half, and therefore, less deserving? Regardless, Tommy knows it is what he deserves. All these things he's done have solidified it.
He flinches at the soft skin that hits his neck, warm and sure with a solid grip that encompasses from his hairline to the top of his jersey.
"C'mon, man, stop fucking disappearing on me." The words are too wet to be coming out of Oliver's mouth. They're too full of the weight of something, but Tommy doesn't understand what. He can't, because Oliver is choking on his words. Another first: Tommy sees Oliver cry.
"Please don't think that. Don't ever think that." His grip tightens, pulling Tommy towards him. "We love you so much. T, for fuck's sake, don't say shit like that again!" As if to emphasize it, he jostles Tommy, looking him dead in the eye. "Do you hear me?"
Suddenly, he's all too aware of everything around him. The fingers on the nape of his neck, ticking slightly overgrown hair, connected to a body stronger than his. He knows he's looking at Ollie, but baby blue is like cobalt staring down at him, disappointment radiating off in angry waves. This time, he knows what they want.
Shakily, he nods. His body is limp under that stifling grip, waiting to see if it will tighten or shift or shove.
The grip loosens instead, and Oliver looks content with his answer. His eyes bounce as he stares at Tommy, watching as if it's the last time he'll ever get the chance. Is it the last time? The last time Oliver will ever see him as his best friend? The last time Oliver sees him as an equal?
He can picture Oliver's face twisting into something ugly now that he's calmed down. How disgusted he'd be, and how right he'd be to feel that way. Tommy's ass would be in the dirt seconds after that, and he'd be on the gravel watching through the dust as Oliver drove away.
Tommy grunts when Oliver yanks him forward, crashing their chests together and wrapping his arms tight around Tommy's middle. It's unexpected enough to take his breath away, a meek huff as his body is squeezed. His body struggles to catch up and understand why he's still in the car, arms suspended and awkward.
"I fucking love you, man. Malcolm's a dick, ok? He's a dick, and he loves you, too, you selfish prick."
He can push him away. He should. Get out of the car himself and end what's been a long time coming. He should be the bigger person for once in his fucking life and spare Oliver the pain and suffering that will continue to ruin absolutely everything he touches.
But Oliver really is the only constant in his life. Oliver, the one between them who has a real chance at being better than his family and doing something worthwhile. He should save Oliver from the complete wreck that is Tommy Merlyn—protect him from the poison that's dictated his life. But if Tommy is nothing else, Oliver is right. He is a selfish prick.
He hugs Oliver back.
The glass is cool against his forehead, soothing the heat behind the red of his skin. He's worn. His body aches from the game—especially his arm—and his eyes and scalp still burn from his outburst. The weight he'd vomited out is gone, yet it has already been replaced. A balloon, overfilled and emptied and overfilled again. You can't see the little imperfections and damage when it's full.
Oliver seems to at least understand this. He holds tight, grasping Tommy's hand so he doesn't float away. In another lifetime, he'd have joked about how girly or gay it was, but he doesn't think it would bode very well. He doesn't want to risk Oliver pulling away.
He stares out the window, watching trees and houses and highway fly past, covered in dark shadow now that the sun has set. It's comforting in a way, added to the vibrating sway of the car, because it reminds him that even if he's a fuck up, there are things he can't tarnish. They'll be beautiful and continue to be beautiful once he's gone.
It doesn't distract him from Oliver's watchful eye. Every so often, he feels Oliver glance his way. He's trying to be slick about it—makes it look like he's checking for cars through the window, or like he's stretching his neck. Oliver's never been good at subtlety.
Knowing that Oliver is concerned makes him feel better, as narcissistic as it is. The overwhelming relief that their friendship wasn't ending sent him crying again, this time into Oliver's shoulder. Gently, he was pushed back, Oliver explaining that they were 20 minutes late and it was time to meet his parents at the restaurant.
When they do get there, Tommy will continue as he always has. He knows Oliver will never talk about this again. Once they walk through the door to that restaurant, to the table, to where Oliver's family patiently waits—where Moira will get up with a worried crease in her brow, asking where on earth have you been, Oliver? Where Robert will look with love and concern of his own, where Thea will sit and beam up at the older brother she admires to a fault—it will be like none of it ever happened.
Tommy will sit with Oliver, go along with whatever excuse he can conjure up, and they'll share a conspiratorial grin, like there's something funny that only they could possibly understand. And Tommy will be a stranger in their imperfectly perfect world, intruding on something sacred.
The rot will come back because it will never be gone. It's a part of him, and always will be. But he can imagine that he isn't a stranger, invited to this table for a reason outside of pity. Robert doesn't take him to football games because Oliver wants his friend to tag along. He'll want Tommy there. He won't see Moira stare at him with disgust when she thinks he isn't looking; Thea won't be annoyed that her brother is off gallivanting with someone else.
He'll imagine it as the storm takes hold again, filling up the hole he's left with more ugly, decayed fragments of anger, self-hatred, loneliness. The weight of two empty seats.
They'll love him. This all-encompassing part of himself won't exist for Oliver to see. He'll be everything they want. Everything his dad wants.
Suddenly thinking of 1989’s The Little Mermaid and you know what, give Eric some props here because he had the weirdest fucking hour of his life—
Wakes up from hypnosis where he was about to marry a woman he’s never seen before with his mystery girl’s voice, the instant he wakes up then the cute girl he’s actually fallen in love with now has that voice. Then she drops to the floor and has a fish tail, and then the first girl is suddenly cackling “too late!” and bursting out of her skin. So it turns out she’s actually an octopus woman who drags herself over to the real mystery girl - who’s a mermaid?! They’re real?! - and taking her back into the ocean. And Eric has no idea what’s going on here but okay, one of these women is clearly evil and he needs to go after his mystery girl.
And all of this happens/he realizes what he has to do within like, a single minute.
Prior to this he was just living out a sweet romance after having a Meet Cute with a shipwrecked girl, but okay, guess he’s involved in whatever the fuck this is. Acting first, questioning later.
I would say killed the villain, not murdered. Murder implies that it was premeditated and out of malice. Eric was defending his girlfriend's life while Ursula was attempting to murder her. He was well and fully justified in his actions.
In legal terms, 1st degree murder is any murder that is premeditated, even if the premeditation was only for a minute. 2nd degree murder involves no premeditation but resulting in a deliberate action to cause harm. 3rd degree/manslaughter is purely accidentally and/or a result of gross negligence.
With this in mind, it's safe to say that Eric did murder Ursula, as he deliberately steered the ship to impale her with the bowsprit, but would be pardoned on account that he was defending the life of another (Ariel).
romaincrisis
turnnoffyourmind
snowghoul
jacobvanloon
