#but that's because I got photographers disease

[hawkpartys]

Any advice for people looking to get over their fear of incests? Especially flying venomous ones that sometimes chase people (horse flies for example)

I'm going to quote something I said earlier(though it was wasp-specific), because I think it still holds, and add a little bit to it after

Honestly? Just exposure I think I’ve said this before, but I highly recommend just… looking at them. Photos to start, since bothering wasps in the flesh probably won’t be fun for either your or the wasp. Look at images of them, how many of them there are, how colorful and varied their appearances are. Look at them living their lives, pollinating, building nests, feeding their young, eating pieces of fruit. Get used to them. Realize they’re just… animals. Doing their thing. Take note of the ones that you think are particularly cool or interesting or fun, and maybe research those species in specific. Here’s a link to where you can view every wasp observation on iNaturalist(link provided because it took a little url trickery to filter out other hymenopterans). You can even filter for your local area to see which ones live around you, and from there you can search the names and learn about your own local wasp populations. I’d also recommend just being aware of wasps while outside. Partially because most stings happen because people weren’t paying attention, missed clear warnings from the wasps, and got to close to them/their nest/etc. Wasps don’t want to hurt you, and if you learn to pay attention to them and respect their boundaries, they won’t. I’ve never been stung despite habitually getting within centimeters of wasps to take photographs, because I keep this in mind

Another thing to do is try to interrogate *why* you feel a fear response towards bugs. Like what freaks you out? Are you worried they'll hurt you? Learn about the bugs around you, which ones are venomous or medically significant. I used to be kind of afraid of spiders, because I knew that some in my area were medically significant, but not which ones or how they looked, so I was just afraid any spider could seriously hurt me and I'd never know. Once I learned about spiders, which ones were dangerous, where they lived, what would make them bite me(not much, most bugs don't want to get involved with people. awareness and respect helps so much), I was a lot less afraid because it removed a lot of unknowns from the situation.

As for bugs that chase you, I mean I think its natural to be startled or annoyed at them, and I'm not gonna pretend I haven't gone "eep!" and swatted at a bug as an instinctual response. But if its a true like, "this completely freaks me out" fear instead of just startling and annoyance, then the interrogation of why and desensitization I think would help.

Here's a link to do my level best to include all bugs, including spiders (Its basically arachnids + hexapods + myriapods +isopods to filter out crabs and such lmao)

[bzurk]

sight

It would be too selfish to have all of you - your thoughts, your body, your mind and soul. Simon doesn't deserve it. But he needs it, craves it. So he'll break you down, bit by bit. Because if he can't have you wholly, he'll settle for the pieces instead.

<- part 1 here

part 3 here ->

The nightmare started as all nightmares do—with a creeping unease, a sense that something wasn't quite right. It starts small, like scratching a mosquito bite you don’t notice until it’s already bleeding.

The back of your neck would tingle with unseen stares. Your favourite knife went missing from its hiding place in the med-bay. Your desk chair would be slightly out of place after a long day in surgery. The ballpoint pens you’d unconsciously nibble on disappearing from your office.

Either you were finally going mad, or someone was playing a cruel fucking trick on you.

Weeks after the niggling paranoia came the photos.

You stumble back to your quarters after a long day, boots dragging across the gritty floor, muscles sore and mind hazy. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting sickly shadows that dance along the narrow hallway. You stop at your door, keycard in hand, when you see it—something white, peeking out from under the doorframe. You bend down, groaning as your knees protest, and pick up the small stack of photos. The first is simple, unassuming. It’s you, alone, walking through the base, minding your own business. Just you, unaware.

The next one hits you like a punch to the gut. It's you, mid-laugh, half-dressed in the doorframe to your quarters, with Jackson’s hand sliding up your shirt. That was more than a month ago. Your breath catches, heart racing. You flip to the next one. Different guy, different place—your favourite nook in the gym, sweaty and close, his lips on your neck. Your hands start to shake as you look through the rest. Each one a memory, twisted into something filthy, voyeuristic.

The tipping point, the first time they scared you, was the night you found a printed photo slipped under your doorframe after a long, exhausting night in the medical wing. Standard procedure, by now, routine. But the photo was different. It wasn’t blurry. It was crystal clear, almost artistic in its composition. Framed by parallel black lines on the long edges, illuminated only by yellow lamplight. The slim photo is centred on the expanse of a naked back, sat upright and framed by a pair of bent knees, the pair surrounded by mussed sheets and discarded clothes. It had only captured your back, but you knew it was you. It had to be.

Written on the back of the photo, in jagged, scratchy writing:

“You’re wasting your time. They’ll never make you cum like I can.”

That was the moment you realized this wasn’t just a cruel prank. This was calculated. This was dangerous. Your entire life, and the lives of the men you’d fooled with, would be ruined if these photos got out.

But the messages, the photographs—they're like poisonous weeds in your mind, choking out the light. And they're spreading. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched, all the time, even in the supposed safety of your room. The vines and roots had wrapped around your heart and your head, sapping away all sanity, feeding off your turmoil.

Every day, more of them appear—under your door, slipped into your locker, hidden in the med bay. They’re like a disease, spreading, tainting everything they touch. Each photo is a small piece of your life, stolen and corrupted, each message attached a slash to your sanity. The air always smells faintly of sweat and disinfectant, the harsh lights overhead casting everything in a cold, clinical glare that does nothing to alleviate the creeping dread settling into your bones. It feels impersonal, uncomfortable, clinical, this base you’ve spent the last six months at.

You try to ignore it at first. You really do. You shove the photos into the deepest drawer, lock them away, but they fester there, a hidden rot. You start to jump at shadows, every creak of the base’s old pipes setting your nerves on edge. You walk around with a constant buzz of anxiety, like an itch you can’t scratch. He’s there, somewhere. You swear you can feel it, a dark cloud hanging over your head and threatening to suffocate you.

Days turn into weeks. The photos continue to arrive, each more invasive than the last. There’s one of you sleeping in your office, one of you in the women’s showers, in the gym, in the rec room, in the gun range. Each new photo intensifies the dread pooling in your gut. A photo of you in the locker room, half-dressed, with a red marker circling all of the scars on your skin. "Every mark tells a story. I want to know them all. I want to leave my own.”

‘They were just photos’ becomes your newest mantra. They’re just photos. They’re just photos. They’re just photos.

But deep down, you know it’s more than that.

The photos aren't just photos. They are violations. Each image, each message, is a boundary crossed, a line blurred. They are an invasion of your privacy, your autonomy, your very sense of self. And each time you find another one, it feels like a piece of you is being ripped away, exposed to the cold, unforgiving light of scrutiny and judgment.

—

"Fuck!" you exclaim, slamming the cabinet drawer shut with such force that the metallic clang reverberates through the small room. The sound almost drowns out your racing heartbeat. Soap leaps off the exam bed behind you, his eyes wide with concern. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over.

“What’s wrong?” His voice is sharp with worry as he rushes to your side, peering over your shoulder, trying to understand what’s got you so rattled.

"There's another one," you manage to squeak out, your voice trembling and weak.

“‘Nother what?” he asks softly, trying to pry one hand off the desk and open the drawer with his other.

"No!" you snap loudly, pushing against the drawer with all your might as you lift your hands only to slam them back down. The muscles in your arms strain as if they're the only thing keeping something monstrous from getting out. "Don't open it!"

Soap’s expression hardens, a crease forming between his brows as he stares at your trembling hands. “What’s goin’ on, Stitch?” His voice is low, steady, trying to anchor you, but the fear and paranoia are already creeping back in, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.

The image is burned into your mind's eye. You, in your private bathroom under the streaming water with your eyes squeezed shut, tears mixing with the warm water running down your face. A moment of vulnerability that you thought was yours alone. You had let yourself get too comfortable, let your guard down. And now they had seen it, captured it.

"Close the door, Johnny," you whisper weakly, barely holding yourself together. "Please?"

The door closes with a click, the sound of the lock turning echoing around the small, sterile room. Your breaths are coming in ragged bursts now, each inhale sharp and painful, each exhale a desperate attempt to calm the storm inside you. Soap is by your side in an instant, his presence a balm against the raw, exposed nerves.

His hands gently pry your white-knuckled fingers from the desk, and you let him pull you into his arms. You break down, the sobs tearing through you, harsh and uncontrollable.

“Shh, lass. It’s alright,” he whispers, rubbing soothing circles into your back. His voice is a soft rumble, a steady presence amidst the chaos, the rise and fall of his chest like the calming lull of waves. “Just breathe. I’ve got ya.”

You take a shaky breath through your nose, fighting the sobs that threaten to spill over. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and bleach, a combination that does nothing to ground you. “I don’t know what to do, Johnny,” you croak out, your voice raw and broken. “I thought if I ignored it, they’d get bored.”

Soap doesn’t say anything, just continues to hold you and rock you gently back and forth. His arms are solid, a fortress against the madness. Slowly, your ragged sobs subside, the storm inside you calming to a dull, painful ache. A handkerchief is pressed into your palms, and you dab at your nose and eyes furiously before chucking it into the bin.

“Stitches,” he starts softly, pulling you to look at him. His blue eyes are full of concern, the weight of unsaid words hanging between you. “You have to tell me what’s goin’ on.”

You swallow hard; there's a lump in your throat making it difficult to speak. The room feels too small; the air too thick. You're trapped in this moment, in this nightmare with no way out. His eyes are sincere and pleading, wide with concern as his hands grip your arms tightly, grounding you in the moment. The sincerity and sympathy in his eyes force the words out of your chest before you can stop them. You've never broken down so completely in front of another person before.

—

The next evening in the med bay is eerily quiet, the sterile smell of disinfectant hanging heavy in the air like an uninvited ghost. You’re hunched over your desk, pretending to focus on some paperwork, but the words blur together, meaningless in your state of heightened anxiety. The door swings open, breaking the stillness, and in strides Ghost, his imposing figure casting a long, ominous shadow across the room. His face is as unreadable as ever, obscured by the skull-painted balaclava that always makes your skin crawl.

"You look like shit," he says, his voice low and gravelly, each word a deliberate probe. His eyes, dark and intense, scan you with an intensity that makes your stomach churn. He's nursing a cut on his arm, blood seeping through the makeshift bandage, a stark contrast against the black fabric of his uniform.

"I'm fine, Lieutenant," you respond lightly, forcing your voice to remain steady as you avoid his piercing gaze. You get up and grab a suture kit, your hands trembling slightly. "Just a bit tired, that's all. It's getting rather late."

Ghost steps closer, the air between you thick with unspoken tension, a palpable current of unease. "Tired, huh?" He sits down on the examination table, the leather creaking under his weight like a groan of protest. "Seems like somethin' more's botherin' you."

You force a smile, the expression feeling foreign and brittle on your face, tugging at sallow cheeks. "Just the usual stress, sir. Nothing I can't handle."

Ghost narrows his eyes, his gaze sharp and unyielding, like a hawk sizing up its prey. "You sure about that? 'Cause you look like you're about to break." There's a cold, calculating edge to his voice, like he's testing you, pushing you to see how far you can go before you snap. Ghost was not someone you’d had the pleasure of getting to know, and to the extent of your knowledge, this is just how he was. A man of intensity and determination, unfaltering in every task no matter how big or small. A soldier who lived and breathed loyalty to his team – it was only normal that he’d be wary of its newest addition.

"I'm fine," you repeat, more firmly this time, trying to mask the discomfort and insecurity bubbling beneath the surface. The words feel like a thin veneer over a churning sea of anxiety. You focus on stitching up his wound, the one thing you could always control, your unfailing hands and the technique etched into your joints. The suture thread weaves through his skin like a silent promise, each pass of the needle a testament to your skill. The needle pierces his flesh with precise, deliberate motions, the rhythm almost meditative. In this small, controlled act, you find a semblance of peace, a momentary escape from the chaos that has invaded your life.

He watches you closely, his silence heavy and oppressive, like a storm cloud waiting to break. His eyes are relentless, boring into you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. The seconds stretch into an eternity, the only sound the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of your breaths and the crinkle of your gloves with each pass of the thread. You can feel his gaze like a physical weight, pressing down on you, amplifying your every heartbeat. It's as if he's trying to peel back the layers of your composure, to see what's really going on beneath the surface.

The med bay, with its sterile white walls and harsh fluorescent lights, feels claustrophobic, the air thick with tension. Every detail seems magnified – the faint hum of the overhead lights, the sterile scent of antiseptic, the metallic tang of blood. Your world narrows down to the needle and thread, the thin line of the suture a fragile barrier between you and the encroaching darkness.

Ghost's silence is unbroken, his presence a looming spectre that fills the room. You can almost feel the weight of his thoughts, the questions he doesn't ask hanging in the air like unshed rain. His arm, though injured, remains steady, a testament to his own discipline and strength. There's a kind of respect in that steadiness, an unspoken acknowledgment of your skill.

Finally, the last stitch is in place. You tie it off with a deft twist of your fingers, snip the excess thread, and step back, the weight of the moment still pressing down on you. "All done, sir," you say, your voice flat and devoid of the turmoil roiling inside you. "I'm sure you know the drill by now. Keep it clean, keep it dry."

Ghost flexes his arm slightly, testing the stitches. His eyes never leave yours, the intensity of his gaze unrelenting. "Thanks," he says, his tone deceptively casual, like a predator feigning disinterest. He stands, his movement fluid and controlled, every inch the soldier. As he heads for the door, he glances back at you, brown eyes reflecting the cold, sterile clinic lights. "Take care of yourself, Stitches. Wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

The door closes with a soft click, and you're left standing there, your heart pounding in your chest, the weight of his presence still lingering like a dark shadow. You sink into the nearest chair, burying your face in your shaking hands, the tremors in your fingers betraying the façade of calm you've tried so hard to maintain.

The sterile med bay, once a sanctuary of order and control, now feels like a cage, its white walls closing in around you. The fluorescent lights above cast harsh, unforgiving shadows that seem to mock your vulnerability. The antiseptic smell, once a comforting reminder of cleanliness and safety, now only amplifies your sense of isolation.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but the air feels thick and heavy, like trying to breathe through a wet cloth. The encounter with Ghost has left you shaken, his probing questions and unyielding gaze stripping away the layers of composure you've wrapped around yourself. His words echo in your mind, a relentless reminder of the danger that lurks just beyond your control.

Each stitch you placed in Ghost's arm felt like a small victory, a momentary reclaiming of your competence and purpose. Yet, as the thread pulled taut, so did the tension in your chest, the reality of your situation tightening its grip on your heart. You can't help but feel like you're unravelling, each new day bringing you closer to the breaking point, the thread threatening to tear.

[divinebunnii]

long / personal story ~ tw: ed recovery

these two photos are almost exactly 3 years apart. I struggled for my entire life with an eating disorder caused by my own chronic pain and physical ailments. it got very hard for several years trying to even maintain the small amount of weight I did have, but my ribcage hurt because my skin was pressed so tight to the bones, my arthritis in my knees and hips was unrelenting in pain, sleeping was impossible because my sides would just go numb.

then I found out I have endometriosis, a painful disease that overwhelms the ovarian tubes and uterus and I decided to put myself on birthcontrol to get that pain under control.

then slowly, i started having more of an appetite. they mentioned I might gain weight, and I cried at the fact that there was hope for me to have meat and squish and phat. I kept the light off in my bathroom so I didn’t have to look at my progress, all I did was open a tumblr blog and started taking photographs to chart and track as well as find a community of sex positive and lovely souls.

3 years, many different deactivated tumblrs, and that one picture of the left that is the only reminder from then just how small and malnourished I was. this one picture that shows just how tight and painful being that thin is, one picture that I now have to look back on and smile at the body I tried to take care of, and finally returned the favor when I could take care of just one pain.

on the right was today, my thighs don’t have a space between them anymore when I stand, my hips and knees have more cushion so my arthritis doesn’t act up as much, my curves are here and real and squeezable, my ass oh boi my ass is the phattest it’s ever been and I jiggle when I walk now.

Struggle lasts a long time sometimes, but when we finally are able to get just one thing under control, a lot of other things fall into place. I may not be able to eat everything I wish I could, but that’s just part of being an adult and taking care of my temple. This body loves me, and I love it, and will continue to nurture and grow with it ~

thank you to all of those that have known me these many years, to those that have uplifted and supported my growth, and a huge smooch to those that are still on their journey, are just starting, or haven’t begun yet. we got this ✨

~ okay to rb ~

[jennay]

Photographs

Noah Sebastian x reader

Request: I've got a fluffy one with Noah!! You've been best friends forever, and one day, Noah looks over old pictures of you guys and realizes that he's in love 🥰

An: this is around 3-4k and it's the longest thing I've written on here. I loved this idea so much. 🖤

Noah Master List

Noah didn't want to tell you the bad news. He didn't think you would take it well, but much to his surprise, you acted like you didn't care.

You didn't want him to feel guilty, so you put on a brave face and pretended it didn't matter. "It's okay." You give him a reassuring smile. "We've celebrated so many birthdays together, one more or less won't make a difference." You wrap your arm around his and pull him along. "Let's make the most of our time?"

"Really? You're not mad?" He asks, sounding doubtful but following your lead.

"I know you have a lot going on, and you need to show up at these things." You say, stopping in front of an old building with a sign that says 'Antiques.' You'd always loved browsing through the dusty shelves and finding hidden gems from the past.

Noah, on the other hand, hated the smell and the clutter of these places, but he never complained when you dragged him along.

"Come on, let's go treasure hunting." You say, pushing open the door and stepping inside.

"It smells like my grandma's attic," Noah whispers to you, keeping his hands in his pockets and looking around nervously. He always acted like he was afraid of catching some ancient disease.

"Stop." You laugh, "You're literally so dramatic."

You unlock your arm from his and walk into one of the sections filled with stuff from the 1950s. You loved the feel of the fabrics between your fingers, the smell of old perfume and dust, and the thrill of discovering hidden gems among the piles of clothes.

You told everyone you would reinvent the style and wear them, but you never did. Instead, they collected dust and stayed in boxes. You always told people it was because your apartment was too small for such a big project, but the truth was, you just didn't have time for all your hobbies.

Noah watched you with amusement, wondering what was going through your mind. He'd known you for a lifetime, yet you still surprised him.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him watching. "You look awkward, Noah. Can you at least pretend to look at something? They're gonna think you're casing the place."

He saunters closer, standing behind you and leaning down to rest his chin on your shoulder, "I hate this place."

You pick up another shirt, holding it in front of you, and observe the fun pattern, wondering if it's worth it. "Do you think I should get this?"

Noah stands straight and gently grabs the shirt from your hands and holds the shirt close to your chest, imagining what it would look like on you. "I like it, but I think your boobs are too big." He laughs. "I don't think it's going to fit."

"My boobs aren't even that big." You say, shrugging your shoulders; you grab the shirt back, folding it and setting it down.

You notice his eyes falling to your chest as he says, "They are!"

You cross your arms over your chest, a light laughter falling from your lips, "Stop looking at them!" You snap your fingers at his face, "My eyes are up here!"

"Sorry, but the denial is extreme."

You tilt your head back, looking at the ceiling, praying for the strength not to murder him right then and there. "Let's get out of here; I'm not asking you for advice ever again."

Noah laughs, following you down the aisle, and when you reach the door, he gladly reaches out, holding it open. "After you." He smiles goofy as he showcases the world outside.

He inhales the fresh air, glad to leave the musty store behind. "How about a drink?" He gestures to the bar down the street. "Or are you ready to call it a night?"

"Let's go to my place instead. I still have some beer from the last time you were over. And I found these old photos of us when I was packing. You have to see them!"

He freezes on the sidewalk and gapes at you. "Packing?" His voice croaks, and his smile quickly fades.

Your eyes widen. "Shit." You say under your breath. "Noah, I…let me explain."

He blinks at you a few times, waiting for you to start explaining, but you can't find the words.

You and Noah never kept secrets from each other, and his heart sank at your words. He feels anxious as he wonders why you're moving and why you didn't tell him sooner.

You two had been inseparable since childhood, growing up in the same neighborhood in Virginia, and when he moved away, you followed him. You had never lived more than half an hour apart.

"I meant to tell you, but I knew you'd freak out, and I had this whole speech planned." You say, trying to sound casual. You hope he'll understand you're not abandoning him but just trying something new.

He shakes his head and walks away from you towards his car. He presses a button, and the doors unlock.

"You can explain in the car." He says coldly.

He's angry you didn't trust him enough to tell him sooner and feels betrayed by your secrecy.

You fasten your seat belt, feeling a knot in your stomach. The silence between you and Noah is deafening. You wish he would say something, anything, to break the tension.

Noah rests his head on his hand on the middle console and steers the car with the other. His expression is blank, but you can sense his resentment. "Where are you moving? Is it far?" He asks, his voice flat.

"Washington." You manage to squeak out.

He straightens up and grips the wheel with both hands. He glances at you when he stops at a red light. His brown eyes are cold and distant. "That's two states away from me." He says, his tone bitter.

You sigh heavily, "My brother offered me a job, and with it being a new company, I want to help. He helped me through some pretty hard times." You pause, remembering how your brother was always there for you when you needed him. "I wanna help him out now that he needs it." You say softly, hoping he will see how much this means to you.

You glance at him, hoping to see some understanding in his face.

"What about me?" He quietly asks, his voice cracking slightly. "You're okay with just peacin out on me?" He stares at you with disbelief.

"It's not like that." You try to explain, but your voice trembles. "Noah, you do this to me all the time. Every year four the last four years, to be exact." You look away from him, feeling tears welling up in your eyes. Arguing with him was your least favorite thing to do.

He rolls his eyes, "My job is touring, and I always come back!" He reminds you, raising his voice slightly. "And when I'm not working, I spend time with you!"

He pulls into your apartment complex, but you don't respond to his words. There was no use in adding gasoline to the fire.

You unclick your belt and open the door. On a typical day, this is where Noah would get out and meet you in front of the car and give you the biggest bear hug telling you he will see you soon, or he would come upstairs and have a few drinks while the two of you played games and laughed your asses off, but Noah won't even look at you after you.

You shut the car door and walk around to his window. He rolls it down and numbly looks at you. You hate this. You hate hurting him like this. "I know you're mad, and I'm sorry. I should've told you a long time ago. Before I started packing." You say in a shaky voice. "I didn't mean to upset you."

He nods, biting his lip. He doesn't know what to say to you. He feels like he's losing you.

"Can you wait a minute? I have something for you." You ask him, hoping he will accept your gift.

He studies you for a second, noticing the fear in your eyes. He doesn't want you to be afraid of him, but he's angry, too. "Yeah." He says softly, giving you a weak smile.

Noah waits for you in the car, lost in his thoughts. Is he wrong for feeling this way? Does he have the right to be upset?

You come back with an envelope in your hand. You hand it to him through the window. "These are some photos of us. I thought you might like them." You say with a sad smile. "I made copies so you can keep these."

He takes the envelope from you but doesn't open it. He looks at you with a conflicted expression. "Thanks." He says quietly. "I'll look at them when I get home."

Noah was curled up on the couch, his eyes glued to his favorite show. He knew it was a futile attempt to distract himself from the pain of losing you.

The envelope you gave him lay on the coffee table, a silent reminder of what he was about to lose.

He had brought them down from his bedroom, telling himself he would look at them, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. They just taunted him with their presence.

He glanced away from the TV, noticing his bandmate and friend coming down the stairs. He watched as Jolly approached and sat on the couch beside him.

Jolly picked up the envelope and examined it curiously. "What's this?" He asked, shaking the envelope slightly.

"(Y/n) gave me some pictures," Noah muttered, turning his attention back to the TV.

"Ooh, pictures? Like naughty pictures?" Jolly joked, wiggling his eyebrows. He tore open the envelope and pulled out the photos.

Noah didn't stop him; he wanted to see the pictures, too, but he needed someone else to do it. "She's moving to Washington next week," Noah states painfully. "She thinks she gave them to me as a parting gift, but I think she's a sadist."

Jolly hands Noah the photos one after one, making sure that he looks at every single picture. "You're going to let her go?"

He shrugs at his friend, "I can't tell her what to do, man. It's her life."

Noah stares down at one of the photos, feeling nostalgic. He smiles as he recognizes it's a picture of you and him from your teenage years when you were both rebellious and adventurous.

Noah remembered the day perfectly because it was the same day your parents decided he was able to stay with your family for a few weeks until he could figure something out.

He was always grateful for your parents, who treated him like their own son. He bounced back and forth between your house and a few others, never feeling like he belonged anywhere. But with you, he felt at home.

You were sitting next to him on a bench at the park, leaning your head on his shoulder. Your hair was bright pink, contrasting with your black clothes and accessories. You wore stud bracelets and Converse shoes, showing off your punk style. Noah wore skinny jeans and a red band t-shirt, matching your edgy vibe. You thought you were the coolest kids in town, but doesn't every 16-year-old think that?

You had a camera in your hand and snapped a selfie of the two of you, capturing the moment forever. You smiled at him with your eyes sparkling, and he felt his heart skip a beat. He still feels it every time he looks at you.

He continues to flip through the photos, listening to Jolly's side comments about how dorky the two of you are or how he couldn't fathom having a friend that long.

Noah felt a strange sensation in his chest as he continued flipping through the images. He saw your smile, your eyes, your laugh, and he realized how much he missed you. He was starting to comprehend why he was so upset you were deciding to move away from him. He felt like he had been punched in the gut. "Fuck." He says, tilting his head back and dropping the photos beside him. He runs his hand down his face dramatically. "I can't let her go."

Jolly finds this whole situation amusing. "Oh?" He laughs.

"It's her. It's always been her, dammit! I'm mad because I love her, and she wants to leave." He shakes his head, feeling a rush of emotions.

Jolly chuckles at Noah's sudden realization. "Yeah, man. I was wondering how long that was going to take. Glad you caught up." He says sarcastically.

Noah leans forward, groaning while resting his face in his hands, "What do I do?"

Jolly stands up, stretching his arms out and yawning. "You can start by, I don't know, telling her?" His hands fall back at his side, "Why are you still sitting here? Go tell her." He demands. "I think heartache is great for making music, but dealing with you having a heartache moping around all the time is going to be miserable for all of us."

Noah looks up at him with a hopeless expression. "But what if she doesn't feel the same way? What if I ruin our friendship?"

Jolly rolls his eyes and grabs Noah by the shoulders. "Dude, trust me. She feels the same way. She's been dropping hints for years. You're just too dense to notice." He says bluntly.

Noah blinks in disbelief. "What?"

Jolly sighs and lists some examples. "Like how she always hugs you longer than anyone else. Or how she laughs at your lame jokes. Or how she looks at you with those puppy eyes. Or how she always calls you her best friend, but in a way that sounds like she means more. She's never gotten along with any of your girlfriends…and she's jealous when you don't spend time with her?"

Noah thinks about it and realizes he's right. He feels hope, "She does do those things."

Jolly nods and pushes Noah towards the door. "Exactly. Now go get her, tiger." He laughs.

Noah smiles and walks out of the door, leaving Jolly behind.

Jolly shakes his head and smiles to himself. "I did it."

You'd just finished packing the last box for your kitchen. You hated packing. You always left it until the last minute, hoping that somehow it would magically get done by itself. You always procrastinated. It was your biggest weakness and a terrific motivator.

You lay on the cold kitchen floor, exhausted from the continuous packing. You felt a wave of sadness wash over you as you looked around the empty room.

This was where you cooked, laughed, cried, and shared many memories with your friends. And now you were leaving it all behind. You thought about asking a friend to sit with you, but part of you wanted to be alone. This would be your new norm until you made new friends.

Am I doing the right thing? You text your sister.

You needed some reassurance, some validation, some support. You peeled yourself off the ground, lazily crawled to the fridge, and popped open a beer. It was one of the ones that Noah left. You stared at the label, feeling a weird pit in your stomach. You wanted Noah here helping you through this and sharing what's supposed to be a positive pivot in your life.

You wanted his support more than anyone's, but he ignored your text, and you decided to give him space. You understood why he was upset but thought he would get over it. It's not like the two of you were dating, and this was somehow breaking up your relationship. But maybe that was the problem. You wanted more, and he didn't.

You sipped the beer, feeling the bitter taste on your tongue. You wished you could talk to him, hear his voice, see his smile.

You wished he would tell you that he loved you, would miss you, and would follow you anywhere, but that just wasn't the case.

I think big decisions are sometimes scary. Besides, this will be the first time you won't have your sidekick, and I'm sure that's a weird feeling.

You sigh as you lean against the cupboard, texting her back, I don't think I can do it.

You feel a surge of panic and desperation. You can't leave without telling him how you feel. You can't let him go without knowing if he feels the same. You stand up, set your beer on the counter, and search for your keys. You knew what to do, and it was now or never. You didn't care that you were in pajamas; you needed to talk to Noah and understand what would happen if you chose to stay. You grab your purse and head for the front door.

As you open it, you're startled to see someone standing in your doorway with his hand up as if he were ready to knock. Your heart stops as you recognize him. It's Noah. He's here. He's looking at you with shock and confusion. "Hi?" Noah says as if the wind has been knocked out of him.

You stare at him, speechless. You can't believe he's here, at this exact moment when you were about to find him. Is this fate? Is this a sign?

"Is this a bad time?" He asks.

You shake your head no. Your shoulders relax, and you smile while letting him in. You hang your purse on the coat rack and lead him to the living room. "Sorry, there's shit everywhere."

He doesn't seem to care. He only has eyes for you. "You can't go." He bites his lip nervously. "I can't let you."

Your eyebrow raises, and you decide to stay quiet, hoping he will enlighten you.

Noah nervously grabs your hand and pulls you to the couch where the two of you sit. He turns to face you, holding your hand tighter than before.

"Just hear me out for a second." He swallows hard, unsure of how to say the words. "I'm an idiot." He exhales loudly. "I'd do just about anything for you. I hope you know that. Miles got us out of that interview on your birthday… the one out of town. So that I could be with you."

You pull your hand back, squeezing the bridge of your nose. "You guys didn't have to do that."

You feel guilty.

He reaches for your hand again, gently caressing it with his thumb. "We did Because I wanted to spend that day with you. I need to tell you something."

He looks into your eyes, his own filled with sincerity. "I'm in love with you." He says softly. "I can't stand the thought of losing you."

You feel stunned. You don't know what you were expecting, but it wasn't that. You feel a surge of joy and relief mixed with disbelief and fear. Is this real? Is he serious? Do you dare to believe him?

Your stunned face finally shows a smile creeping on your lips. "Good. I was going to find you to tell you the same thing."

He grins, no longer nervous, as he brings his hand to your face, closing the gap between your lips and pressing down. You feel his tongue gently trace your lip, asking for permission, and you don't hesitate to accept, allowing his tongue to dance with yours.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, feeling his heartbeat against yours, and before you know it, he's pulling you on his lap and deepening the kiss, making you moan softly.

In between kisses, he tells you how much he loves you, wants you, and needs you.

You gently pull away, resting your hands on his chest, lust in your eyes, craving more touches from him.

He smiles at you with love filling his eyes, "This means you're staying, right?" He rests his hands on your hips, waiting patiently for a response.

You giggle, a little surprised by his question. You thought it was obvious. "Yes," You say, looking around the apartment, "Wanna help me unpack?" He groans, but his eyes sparkle with joy. He pulls you closer and kisses you softly. "I guess I can, but only because I love you."

[jadevine]

Have watched MAD MAX: FURIOSA and I am struck by several excellent things:

1) The Ancient Roman/Greek aesthetic of Dementus’ gang and pre-crazy Immortan Joe, and the attention to costumes for everyone’s gang/clan/settlement in general. A+++ for the costumes again! Is it just me, or does the Green Place feel Wild West/frontier with all their blue/indigo denim, long skirts, and their rifles/shotguns, and walking around barefoot??? Even considering shoes are rare in the apocalypse, you don’t put all of those elements together, along with a theme of PEACHES, and expect folks from the States to NOT immediately think “country,” lol.

2) The medieval/“fall of Rome” feeling. Dementus’ motorcycle chariot is Greek/Roman, obviously, but his procession to the Citadel is a REALLY medieval show of power/people all carefully filing down the road behind him on motorcycles. Everyone’s got their own fiefdoms, and the war style is given a medieval feel with skirmishes, long-ranged weapons, and trading “hostages” (especially Furiosa) in exchange for good behavior.

3) Neon colors bursting out of the endless orange desert, or shiny and chrome metal versus rusty and old metal! It’s like “a desaturated photograph with a single pop of color,” but for the whole movie, and I love it! Another thing that imitators forget about when they fall into the “real is brown and dirty” trope is that people are people, and they will TRY to look nice, even in the apocalypse.

4a) The detailed body language. Dementus has at least one herald/signaller, folks are constantly signaling each other from a distance, and everyone seems to automatically gag/muzzle or cage an excessively violent person. Even in the apocalypse, some people are clearly considered too far gone, and biting is frequent ENOUGH that people watch out for it. People also know to just wait for a clearly angry/traumatized hostage to start talking again, or that some people don’t talk at all (whether because they physically can’t, or they just stopped due to trauma). Everyone also inspects a new person to check for disease/injury.

4b) The shifting/forgetting of spoken language. On the surface it sounds like the standard trope of “after the world ends, everyone forgets how to talk good,” but they haven’t forgotten JUST YET. History Man still remembers how to read, and the various gangs/settlements clearly have their own dialects. Military orders are distinct, and Dementus and the History Man are especially well-spoken throughout the film. (Besides making good use of Chris Hemsworth, Dementus was also an adult when the world ended, so he is constantly using ALMOST-right words.)

5) Heights! Cliffs, towers, the long range weapons, the diggers, and kites/gliders! It gives the fight scenes a three-dimensional feel and the impression that even the SKY isn’t safe. Sky-octopuses or metal buckets swooping down on you??? A+! Also terrifying! Related: Dementus’ gang sure uses a lot of monster trucks that are twice the size of everyone else’s cars. Durability aside, I wonder if the expense of these vehicles (especially in the apocalypse) is another symptom of Dementus being a) arrogant and needing to feel “bigger” than everyone else, b) desperate to fill the void of his family’s deaths with cars/killing, and c) an excellent fighter who unfortunately knows nothing of logistics, and he drains everything/everyone around him. He uses THREE motorcycles for his chariot, and using a monster truck in battle also means you need more gas and more metal/rubber for repairs.

6) THEY KILLED MY BOY JACK! 😭

7) Several POC characters, whose faces we can see! We are also Mad Max fans, so it’s nice to see them even as supporting characters ❤️

There is a A LOT more to talk about, but in general: This movie is shiny and chrome!

[muzaktomyears]

John Lennon by his friends and son: ‘He got eight years more than Jesus’

The former Beatle would have been turning 84 this autumn. Now his son Sean and those who knew him best are keeping his spirit alive with the rerelease of his classic solo album Mind Games

Everyone wonders what John Lennon could have become. When he was murdered in New York on December 8, 1980, the 40-year-old was in his post-Beatles prime. The superb album Double Fantasy had just come out and he was plotting a world tour. His second son, Sean, whom he took time off to bring up with his wife, Yoko Ono, was five, and Lennon was feeling inspired. Seven solo records since the Beatles had split ten years earlier; a reconciliation with Paul McCartney.

“Everyone gets the time they get, and he got eight years longer than Jesus,” says Bob Gruen, the rock’n’roll legend who took photographs of everyone who mattered in the 1970s. He captured Lennon and Ono’s time in New York and is confident and chatty — until conversation turns to what Mark Chapman took outside the Dakota that day.

“John should be alive now,” Gruen says, clearly still affected 44 years on. Gruen had spent the weekend with Lennon before he died and was developing his photos when he got the call. “He didn’t die in an accident or of a disease. His death broke my trust in everything. He was grounded at the time. He learnt a lot from raising his son, about enjoying his life and being sober. Then I heard he was dead.”

Lennon would have been 84 in October — and at least we are left with his songs. But legacy is complicated. Over the years McCartney has stolen his crown as chief creative in the Beatles. Partly because Lennon is no longer here to speak. Also because, during Peter Jackson’s 2021 film, Get Back, Lennon was largely stoned, while the charismatic McCartney conjured up magic. So to redress the balance, this month’s innovative rerelease of Lennon’s Mind Games (1973) pushes design and immersion in ways few box sets have before. It features new mixes — some that amplify Lennon’s voice, others that emphasise the instruments.

It is the work of Sean, 48, who has been at the forefront of the Mind Games rerelease. Lennon’s younger son is a musician and artist based in New York near his mother, 91. “The title track is one of the most beautiful songs ever written,” he says.

The songs answer questions Sean never got to ask his father. Despite being very young when his father was around, Sean does have memories of him — talking, watching TV, playing guitar and saying, “Good night, Sean.” The song Aisumasen (I’m Sorry) on the record is an apology from Lennon to Ono.

“One thing that distinguishes my dad’s solo career,” Sean says, “is how personal his lyrics became. It is like a diary, and it is my duty to bring attention to my father’s music. Not just my duty to him, but a duty to the world. With the world as it is now, people have forgotten so many things that I never imagined could be forgotten. I refuse to let that happen to this music — it means too much to me.”

Two years before Mind Games came out, Lennon moved to New York and met Gruen. Living in New York was simpler for him and Ono. They were hounded in Britain. “One paper called Yoko ugly,” Gruen recalls. “But in New York they were just treated as the quirky artists who came to town.”

Gruen’s eyes light up. “He was just funnier than everyone else,” he says. “I’d have loved him on Twitter, he was so cool with one-liners.” He smiles. “And, also, he learnt to cook. I’d always try to go to the Dakota for mealtimes.” What sort of food? “John used to be a meat and potatoes guy, but he met [the actress] Gloria Swanson in the vegetable store and she gave him a book that acted as a way into a macrobiotic diet from a western one. He got really into healthy food, baking vegetables and steaming fish.”

And this is the frustration. In the late 1970s Lennon was cleaning up his act. For himself, for Sean — a son he was involved with, as opposed to his first child, Julian. He had changed, from the man who went on his fabled “Lost Weekend” in Los Angeles in 1973. The weekend actually ran for months, during which Lennon left Ono, on Ono’s suggestion, for their assistant, May Pang, then 23. After Lennon went back to Ono, Pang carried on in the music business and married the producer Tony Visconti, but the Lost Weekend era remains her headline. During that time Lennon enjoyed chaotic recording sessions with Phil Spector. “I wondered if he’d ever make it back to New York,” Gruen says. “I thought he might get a place in Hawaii, or just die.” But Lennon returned in 1974, for his final six years.

What does Gruen think about how Lennon is remembered? Especially in Get Back? “Well, who’s the last one standing?” Gruen scoffs. “Who gets to write the history? The survivors get to write the history. That’s the way it goes.”

Tony King was the vice-president of Apple Records at the time of Lennon’s Lost Weekend. “We’re here to talk about my friend,” he tells me sweetly. King was out in Los Angeles working on a Ringo album when Pang phoned to say that Lennon needed help with his Mind Games record.

“I wasn’t looking forward to it,” King admits. “John could be sharp-tongued. But, in LA, he was super-friendly. I was straightforward. I told him he had to repair his reputation. After Imagine [1971] he’d gone in a different direction, making songs with a political edge. It was quite easy for John to get caught up in things. He had this tendency to see someone, decide he loved them and then go in their direction. I was lucky he went in my direction for a while. He realised he had lost some fans. Mind Games was more what people wanted.” Its songs were simpler and less political.

Personally, however, Lennon was in turmoil. “May on one arm, Yoko on the other!” King says. “He was juggling a lot.” Did Lennon talk about McCartney? “They were not getting along, but he was still fond of him,” King recalls. And what about that Lost Weekend era? “He was off the walls, to be honest.

“We went to Las Vegas and John interrupted Frankie Valli during a show, saying, ‘Get your cock out!’ We got thrown out and on the way back to the hotel he was pissing up against trees and then throwing his chips around the lobby. I put him to bed. It was difficult when he drank. John had taken way too much acid and so when he drank it flipped him into another style of person. One day it was great, the next it was very hard.”

King remembers the night his friend died clearly. “I was out at dinner in LA and the waiter said, ‘He’s dead.’ I returned to a very lonely, sad hotel room.” Does he ever think about what Lennon might have achieved later in his life? “Elton and I talk about John,” King says. He means Elton John. “We say, ‘I wonder what he’d be up to?’ Well, he’d have pounced on the internet and got into AI. And he’d still campaign. I could see him hopping on a plane to see Zelensky. He was a busy person, with an arresting personality. You’re never going to forget him.”

The Mind Games reissue is a beast, a lavish celebration of a fine, melodic rush of songs. Bonuses include the Ultimate Mixes, which bring Lennon’s voice to the fore; Raw Studio Mixes; there is a Super Deluxe Edition “presented in a 13in cube”; puzzles; and even an experience on the free Lumenate app that is described as a “consciousness-expanding psychedelic meditation” and uses the phone’s torch and Lennon’s tunes to guide users into “a state of consciousness between deep meditation and psychedelics”.

We are a long way from 1973 — when the session musicians David Spinozza, on guitar, and Ken Ascher, on keyboards, were asked to play on Mind Games. They recall the recording as efficient — Lennon left his partying for later. He was in a creative peak, with Mind Games his fourth album in three years since the Beatles.

“He was a Beatle!” Ascher says. “I was thrilled to get the call. Yoko told me, around 10pm, that John would like to meet. I called my wife and said, ‘I’m not coming home — I’m meeting John.’ He played me music he liked, and we talked for hours. His humour helped me relax.”

Spinozza worked with Lennon and McCartney in the 1970s. How did the men compare? “Paul would do one song for six hours, even for a day,” he says. “With John we never worked on one song for six hours. He worked quick — he was all business. I’m not saying one was better than the other, but Paul could work on a drum sound for hours. John just wanted to get it done.”

How does Sean feel about his parents, looking back? “Their story is a love story,” he says. “They found each other across a great divide and certainly struggled through ups and downs, but never doubted their love. It is important we remember them as an example. Even through rough patches you can see my father thought about my mother. They were simply, irrevocably intertwined.”

Lovely words — and as for John Lennon himself? “Generally it’s whatever comes out, like diarrhoea,” he once said of his recordings. “A bit personal, a bit political — someone told me Mind Games was Imagine with balls, which I liked. It was like an interim record between being a manic political lunatic back to a musician again.”

Speaking in the early 1970s, after a decade of super-fame, he said he did not feel different to how he had before. “I’m still a bit adolescent,” he said in one of his final interviews. “My old friends from Liverpool got jobs after school. I’d see them six months later and their hair would be thin and they’d be getting fat. They were becoming old men — while I just keep going.”

(source)

[sroloc--elbisivni]

a Red-Tailed Hawk theory of culture

These photographs are courtesy of this todaysbird post; that post identifies its source as the Macaulay Library but that page won't load for me so I can't confirm. They're here to help me illustrate my point. All of these are examples of real red-tailed hawks.

Speaking of illustrating, this is a screenshot of a duckduckgo search I did two minutes ago for 'red tailed hawk illustration.' You'll notice that most of them follow the same coloration trend, with less variety than the pictures above. In fairness I will note that looking for 'field guide red tailed hawk' promptly yielded a scan from the sibley guide to birds, which represents six varieties in coloration. The information isn't hidden; I'm not suggesting conspiracy. It just struck me as interesting to see the first series of photos when most of the pictures I've seen, and the ones most easily accessible, had a broad and consistent agreement that This Is What A Red-Tailed Hawk Looks Like. Real red-tailed hawks can look any number of ways, but the collective idea of what a red-tailed hawk looks like is fairly set.

So. Metaphor established. Let's talk culture.

I think modern culture tends to embrace the idea that the best sign of authenticity is uniformity. We want a series of markers that can be run against a checklist to confirm yes, this displays the correct signifiers. Yes, this matches our expectations. We know it's a real xyz because it does this-and-such. I don't know what this could be attributed to, though I'm sure you could find any number of things to blame it on. The scientific method requiring repeatable results to prove something. Factory mass-production and the notion of 'the Real McCoy,' the best version of something that works better than the knockoffs. Art authentication where there are often steps required to prove yes this is a real da Vinci. Proliferation of branding and trademark and copyright. The 'No True Scotsman' fallacy, and corollary of 'you're not a real fan if you don't do this.'

The thing is, authenticity in culture doesn't work like that.

There are as many ways to participate in a tradition as there are people who participate it. Got any holidays that your family celebrates in a particular way or with a certain thing, even though the holiday is also observed by a broader group of people? Got any regional traditions that are different if you go to the next town or next neighborhood over? There's no singular way to be involved in a culture. Any culture, I would argue. Even in cultural groups that value conformity, or have a single central authority dictating which things are correct, there are going to be people who approach their position in different ways.

Variety in expression is not a sign of cultural weakness. I would argue, in fact, that it's a sign of strength.

We have a great deal of data from the field of biology to demonstrate the limits of singularity. Consider the campaign the WWF ran back in 2008 that's had followup art projects since, where pictures of endangered animals are made using only one pixel per living member of that species to demonstrate how much harder it is to see that species the less data you have to work with. Consider cheetahs, which are all extremely similar in coloration because the species is suffering from genetic bottleneck. Consider the instability of monocultures, especially clonal monocultures, where entire populations can be killed with the same disease or fungus because they share vulnerabilities.

Moving back to cultural considerations: the singular of culture is too often reduced to 'stereotype.'

Maybe what the tendency to boil things down can be attributed to is simple human desire for pattern recognition. We like knowing what things look like. We like having examples to point to and emulate. There's a pleasure in playing to type, in assuming a role, in fitting oneself to a form. Nuance and variations are hard to remember, and often hard to observe in the first place. There is a very real satisfaction in concrete knowledge.

A culture adhering to a singular presentation, however, is often a culture under threat.

In the interest of not being reductive, I'm going to only offer a single example here, from a situation I'm familiar with: late 20th century efforts to revive Breton, a regional minoritized language in France. After the language underwent a period of (often enforced) decline throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, there were efforts to institute public education in Breton for children and adults, encouraging those who did not already speak the language to learn it, thereby avoiding widespread linguistic dormancy. Mari C. Jones wrote an article in 1998 called 'Death of a Language, Birth of an Identity' that called attention to a difference in traditionally Breton-speaking communities vs. people learning it to participate in cultural revival. She pointed out that cultural revivalists were interested in identifying themselves specifically as Breton, forming an association between themselves and their region as a whole. The traditional speakers, however, were far more likely to identify with their local parish, or their larger diocese, with only a faint connection to the idea of being 'Breton' as an identity. The movement that understood their culture as being under threat was the one focused on constructing a stable, singular, pan-Breton identity.

Variation and internal diversity is the sign of an active and self-sustaining cultural community that has the energy to go a lot of different directions at once.

I suppose the overall point I'm driving at is that the more people there are doing something, the more ways that something should be done, and this isn't a sign that something's gone wrong. One realization I came to after thinking about this is that queer microlabels--which I, personally, am rarely interested in engaging with--are a sign of a healthy and thriving culture. Having the time and energy and space to argue about things like this, rather than needing to appeal to a greatest common denominator of your peers in order to get time and energy and space, is a good sign. Growth is the enemy of conformity. An authentic culture is an adaptive one.

Fundamentally, culture is what people do together, and people are always going to do something different eventually. Illustrations are meant to show reality, not dictate it. There's a lot of ways to look like a red-tailed hawk and there are red-tailed hawks out there proving it every day.

[k-martins]

So I found this around, can I ask for Itadori/ Fushiguro?

♥ Send a ship and I'll give you who:

- Gives nose/forehead kisses

- Gets jealous the most

- Picks the other up from the bar when they’re too drunk to drive

- Takes care of on sick days

- Drags the other person out into the water on beach day

- Gives unprompted massages

- Drives/rides shotgun

- Brings the other lunch at work

- Has the better parental relationship

- Tries to start role-playing in bed

- Embarrassingly drunk dancer

- Still cries watching Titanic

- Firmly believes in couples costumes

- Breaks the expensive gift rule during Christmas

- Makes the other eat breakfast

- Remembers anniversaries

- Brings up having kids

This is a fun activity. Thank you for sending it.

- Gives kisses on the nose/forehead.

Oh, sure Yuji, but Megumi also does this sometimes when he felt more comfortable with the relationship. I imagine Yuji giving sweet, innocent kisses to the tip of Megumi's nose when he makes a frown (which he immediately gets rid of, because this boy is weak to Yuji's nonsense 🙈🙈)

- Gets more jealous

Megs wins this one for sure. Do you remember the way he looked at Osawa? He knows how cool, kind and amazing his boyfriend is, so he would keep closer to Yuji, keeping sharp eyes on anyone who tries to get close. Always attentive and keeping an eye on Yuji. But I also think that Yuji has a little possessiveness towards Megs, especially post-canon. After more than a month apart, it's no wonder he wants to stay attached to Megumi's hip lol.

- Pick up each other at the bar when they're too drunk to drive

They are both minors, so there is no such thing. But when they get older (AND THEY WILL GET TO OLD AGE!!!!), Megumi is much more responsible and less likely to get drunk. Yuji, on the other hand, is an affectionate and cheeky drunk. He would definitely tease Megumi all the time, trying to induce him to relax, while Megs remains sober and smiles fondly at his boyfriend's nonsense.

- Take care on sick days

Yuji, definitely. Megumi strikes me as the type of person who wouldn't admit to being sick until he's unable to get out of bed, so it's up to Yuji to take care of his boyfriend during these times. He is affectionate (and even a little overprotective). He wraps Megumi in warm blankets, makes soup, massages the painful parts, and lies with him until Megumi feels better. Megs says that Yuji will also get the disease, but YUJI comforts him and stays close (and if the next day he also woke up sick, YUJI won't complain about being taken care of by his boyfriend ❤️)

- Drag the other person into the water on a day at the beach

Yuji lmao. I can even imagine the scene. A beach in Okinawa. Megumi photographing Yuji and the sunset. Yuji approaches, takes the camera from Megs' hand before picking him up and running towards the beach. Megumin screaming to be put down, squeezing Yuji's neck to keep himself steady (although he knows Yuji wouldn't put him down). The two heading into the sea, laughing and splashing each other in the water before sharing a sweet kiss and then turning to watch the sunset while still holding each other. Wishaiaksiahai this looks perfect! 🥹🥹🥹

- Gives spontaneous massages

Hmm, I think Megumi would be that type. He would see Yuji's tense shoulders (too much post-mission adrenaline or stress because of Sukuna) and start massaging his shoulders to calm the nerves. But I also imagine that Yuji likes to massage Megumi's feet while he works on his cell phone and Megumi reads (he sometimes puts his hand on Megs' calves, which earns him a kick in the chest lol)

- Drives/rides shotgun

Megumi got her driver's license before Yuji, so he's the one driving the car while Yuji talks the whole way, checks the map on trips, and takes care of the radio. On the other hand, it is YUJI who drives the motorcycle, sometimes taking it to take Megumi on a date to the ice cream shop in the middle of the night. The two enjoy these freer outings after spending so much time confined to the lives of wizards.

- Bring another lunch to work

Megumi is the one who does this, because YUJI constantly forgets about food in his rush to leave. Megs doesn't mind since he has an excuse to see YUJI, lol. The two have lunch together at these times, sharing food and hugs. They're so sticky it makes me roll my eyes.

- Has a better parental relationship

Yuji. Choso accepted Megumi very well, at first because Yuji's determination to save him and chapter 143 convinced him that their relationship was mutual and true. He may not know much about human relationships, but even for a half-curse the bright, loving eyes Itafushi exchanges with each other is clear. (Miki would love YUJI too and Gojo already considers him a perfect son-in-law, but we know what happened in canon 👀)

- Try to start role-playing in bed

(The bad side of not knowing some expressions in English is that I end up in situations like searching for role-playing in bed on Google 🙈🙈🙈) Yuji. I won't elaborate further. Let's just say he has a lot of stamina and creativity.

- Embarrassingly drunk dancer

Yuji is a terrible dancer and his lack of discretion evaporates when he injects alcohol. Not only will he dance like crazy, he will pull Megumi to dance with him. Hands on hips, spicy jokes and slow speech. As if he wouldn't then fall on Megumi's shoulder the whole way back LMAO.

- Still cries watching Titanic

This film is prohibited in their cinema session. It doesn't bring back good memories for Megumi. You know, being submerged at the bottom of the sea... 😿

- Strongly believes in couple fantasies

Yuji is an idiot and he will drag Megumi into his idiocy because yes (and because he would sell a kidney to see Megumi in a bunny costume 👀), so at Halloween they combine costumes with references to films that only Yuji knows. Once, according to the meme, Yuji and Megumi dressed up as Satosugu, which offended Satoru. ("Suguru, tell that punk Megumi to stop pitching him voice and say it's me. It's annoying" "you're annoying, Satoru")

- Break the rule of expensive gifts during Christmas

Megumi really likes to spoil Yuji (and he doesn't have a very clear idea of prices after being spoiled since he was a child by Gojo and his expensive jackets lol), so he always buys something expensive but that he knows Yuji will like.

- Make the other person eat breakfast

Yuji usually makes breakfast for them, both because Megumi doesn't think straight when he wakes up, and because he likes to cook different things. And Megumi will always eat a full meal before the two leave.

- Remembers birthdays

Megumi has a good memory, so he remembers several important dates (even those that Yuji makes up like "the first day we kissed" ((which was December 24th, what a coincidence 👀)))

- Brings up having children

It was Megumi who brought the matter up when he observed Yuji dealing with a child. The way he seemed so patient and gentle with the little one made a feeling rise in Megs' chest. He had never thought about being a father (until he always believed he would die before he was 30), but seeing YUJI there made the desire come alive. yuji was more than happy with this notice

Thanks again for sending me this game! I had so much fun imagining these things LMAO! and I'm sorry if I misinterpreted any terms. Google confuses me sometimes lol ♥️♥️♥️

[teecupangel]

Got another idea. XD Sorry! 💜

Do you know about Yuri on Ice? I loved the animation of the ice skating in the show and just imagine Desmond doing those graceful jumps is making me swoon like a maiden. XD

Could do a light AU where Desmond is scouted by a proffesional because he is so nimble shortly after running away from the farm or a full blown AU with Altaïr, Ezio and Ratonhnhaké:ton as professional ice skaters.

The light AU would be a bit difficult to pull off unless we make the trainer ex criminal or something, so that Abstergo couldn't try to grab Desmond immidiently when he starts competing. The trainer would assure him that whatever threat is out there he would protect him and it works until 2012. Abstergo probably got desperate enough to kidnapp Desmond, damn the publicity of a famous athlete going missing. The image of Desmond wielding the ice skates as knives is also both funny and badass. XD

Full blown AU could have Bill getting injured early on in his career and pushing(abusing) Desmond into becoming the star Bill was meant to be. Because athletes in general retire around their 30s, we can muck about with the ages so that Al Mualim, Haytham and Bill where skating around the same time and after Bill was forced to retire early, he decided to date and have a kid with another famous skater in the hopes that Desmond would be a prodigy(he is, but that is not enough for Bill).

Al Mualim, when he lost his eye in a duel skating rutine gone horrificly wrong(imagine a few years after Bill), decided to take on his old friend Umar's son as his personal trainee to live vicariously through.

Haytham is the only one of the 3 who retires of his own free will. He could discover that an intense, but short relationship he had with the skater Ziio resulted in a child and she saw how fiercly competetive and single minded Haytham was about the sport, so she decided to not tell Haytham about Ratonhnhaké:ton or more commonly known as Connor. Once Haytham discovers he has a son after Ziio dies(i imagine disease), he takes him in and tries to bond with him, to mixed results. Connor decides to follow in both his parents footsteps, to honor his mother and because it seems to be the best way to bond with his father. I imagine some light angst about Haytham pushing Connor because that was how he was raised after his father died early on, but eventually Haytham learns to just be proud of his son. 🥰

Ezio is the fan favorite with his devilish charms and outrages antics with his older brother, gossip magazines love them because Ezio loves to tease and indulge the photographers in exchange for most of them leaving his family alone. The Auditores are not an ice skating family, Ezio is just really talented and does it for the love of the sport, so he is pretty chill about competing. He is feared for his jumps though. VERY feared. XD

This could be Altdes or Ezides(because i'm traaaash! XD) where Desmond growing closer to the love interest lets him discover what true love and family is meant to be. Tbh think Ezio is the most fitting if we do that route, because let's face it: out if every goddamned assassin i know of, he is the only one with a good family/upbringing until the hanging. Fucking Disney mom syndrom over here. XD

Btw, i have no idea about ice skating and it's been years since i watched Yuri on Ice, so i am sorry if any details here is wildy inaccurate or impossible. ^^ And sorry for the text wall, got carried away. Again. XD Love ya! 💜

I love Yuri on Ice and I’m still waiting for that movie lol.

If you don’t want to choose between AltDes and EziDes, go with both? XD

But in all seriousness, EziDes would be more on the side of fluff and Desmond slowly becoming part of the Auditore family and learning what it means to have an actual loving family. Ezio would be the kind of person who would show Desmond the world beyond the small confines of being William Miles’ successor and he’ll learn to be interested in other things.

AltDes, though, considering the setup we have here, would focus heavily on the distorted mirror image they both share. Altaïr would be the son William Miles wanted to raise in Desmond’s eyes and Desmond would be the type of person he would have become had he not rose to all of Al Mualim’s expectation in Altaïr’s eyes. This is less of a found family kind of thing but more on the side of “I am jealous of you but I also can’t help but worry about you” kind of thing because they both have an idea of the loneliness and suffering they are hiding.

So yeah, it really depends on what kind of story you want to go for. Fluff for EziDes, angst for AltDes XD

Also… maybe in some ways, EziDes is about Ezio saving Desmond while AltDes is about the two of them saving each other.

Regardless of which path we take, Ezio’s relationship with Desmond would be about ‘learning of the outside world’ kind of deal and having an actual healthy support system who cares and love him. Desmond’s relationship with Altaïr would be more on the side of finding someone so similar to one’s self that caring and loving them (either platonically or romantically) is a way for one to care and love themselves.

Ratonhnhaké:ton, on the other hand, is that kind friend who serves as Desmond’s own foil thanks to his relationship with his own father. But, unlike Altaïr, their friendship is less burdened because Ratonhnhaké:ton actually knows what he wants and Haytham is trying. Their father-son relationship is actually what makes Desmond realize that, shit, his own relationship with his father is fucked up.

Ezio told him that too but Desmond can’t really wrap his head around it because Giovanni act really different from Bill that he can’t really compare them but Haytham? Haytham definitely acts a lot like Bill. And then he meets Al Mualim who acts a lot like Bill as well (it’s the other way around, Bill is trying to copy Al Mualim since he was more successful than Bill). So yeah, Haytham shows Desmond (and Altaïr) that a father can fuck up but make up for it as well.

Also, regardless of the pairing, the four of them would have a close bond with one another with the not-love interest and Ratonhnhaké:ton having front row seat to whatever shenanigans are happening between Desmond and his love interest.

(Sidebar: Kadar is absolutely Altaïr’s Number One Fan. Malik is absolutely embarrassed because he’s actually competing in the same competition and everyone who knows Kadar is his brother pities him because his own brother is cheering a different contestant. Kadar also skates and he can actually copy Altaïr’s performances. Ask him to perform his own and he blanks out though)

Love you too💜 and never apologize for text walls. I love reading them hahahaha

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Photograph of Jason Robards via Bettmann.

* * * *

By now the first marriage is finished and he marries another actress (“I 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 marry them,” he says later). And from the plush precincts of “21” to the No Name Bar in the Village, he is one of the legendary boozers of New York.

“It’s an occupational disease with actors,” says Robards. “It goes back to Dionysus and the Greeks, they always got pissed after a show, and it’s been going on longer than our society and I think it will continue forever. . . . It was great fun in those days to wipe out things you couldn’t cope with—stay up all night and have a good time, sing and laugh and play the piano, sit around and bullshit till dawn and forget about responsibilities. O’Toole was part of that, and Plummer, and Burton, all of us in the theater who wanted to forget our night’s work and pain and family and whatever. Maybe it’s because actors are in another world for a while. It takes them some time to get back. Actors are using their whole adrenal system—a whole physical system as well as a whole mental system. They need time to come down. So they drink. But drinking actors are sober when they work.

“Movie actors do it in a different way. They drink because they’re sitting around the beach all day and never get a call for six months. A lot of wonderful actors are sitting out there waiting to work three times a year. They do three television movies a year and that’s it, so what do you do the rest of the time? I used to live out there and never go out on the beach, never walk on the beach for a month or two at a time. I just didn’t want to go out and watch a bunch of bastards jogging around . . .”

--Jason Robards to John Bryson in Esquire, January 1978

[Follies of God]

[yummynomnomyummy]

I Know There's a Smoker Inside of Me Somewhere

I just got to 1000 words on this fic I'm writing. It's based in a hc I saw on tiktok. It's not very interesting atm but I figured I'd share it anyway.

Lawrence couldn’t stop thinking about him. His face, his voice, his name. Adam.

With how much he thought about Adam, Lawrence always figured he should know more about him, but he knew next to nothing. 

The blackmail photographer had been learning about him for days before they met. So he had already known so much about the doctor, but Adam didn’t talk much about himself, at all.

The blonde wished he had, then there would be more of Adam to hang on to. More that Lawrence could carry with him through life.

After he got out of that bathroom and to a hospital to recover, he and Allison knew they needed a divorce. They didn’t want to make things harder for their daughter, Diana, who had also just survived one of Jigsaw's traps. But they mutually agreed that staying together would just damage her - and them - more.

Lawrence wished that Adam could be here with him through the divorce, he could have been such a good stepdad and supporting figure.

The doctor was driving his daughter and soon-to-be ex-wife over to the house she had found for herself, (they still only had one car though.)

“Mommy, Daddy?” Diana’s voice spoke up above the radio. Gordon turned down the volume and spoke in a sweet voice, despite his thoughts dripping with grief.

“Yes Diana? What do you need, sweetie?”

“Are you two getting a divorce because of what that man did?” They knew immediately what ‘that man’ was referring to. Jigsaw.

“No, honey.” Allison spoke up, “We knew that a divorce was necessary long before that man was a part of our lives. He just..” Allison paused not really knowing how to explain the whole thing.

Lawrence stepped in for Allison, “When that man did what he did, we figured that it was better to do this now than put it off any longer.” He left out the part that he no longer wanted to be with Allison after he had fallen for another man, even if that man was probably dead now.

Allison explained to Diana that they both still loved her very much, and that would never change.

Lawrence dropped the two of them off at their house and started driving back to his own. He looked at the gas meter and groaned as he realized he would need to fill up his gas tank.

Pulling into the gas station he got out of the car so he could walk in the building to buy the amount of gas he needed.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He muttered to the cashier after giving him the money. The doctor looked up and spotted the cigarettes on the wall behind the counter.

He chuckled to himself, using the laughter to cover up his want to cry. Adam had smoked. Lawrence never understood why anyone would smoke, it was so bad for you. 

Having a medical degree, he knew how many diseases were caused by smoking. Spoiler alert: nearly all of them.

At the same time, he considered buying some. He knew Adam had smoked, and he wanted- no, needed some of Adam with him. He had barely anything to remember him by.

Lawrence had a blue flannel shirt, like the one Adam was wearing when they first met. He was saving up money for a camera, but he had no idea the kind that Adam used.

Maybe he could buy some. Not smoke them, just to kind of have.

"Hey, could I have some Marlboro Reds?" He asked the cashier. He didn't even know if that was the kind that Adam smoked. When they were in the bathroom together he just seemed happy that there were cigarettes there.

"Sure man." He turned around to grab a pack and threw them on the counter between them. "$3.75."

Lawrence pulled the money out of his wallet and handed it over before he grabbed the pack. Back in the parking lot he threw the pack in the cupholder before he filled up his car and left.

He glanced at the pack in the cup holder occasionally. He hated that he had no idea whether or not Adam smoked that kind. He hated how little he knew about this man that obviously had such a big impact on him.

It was like he was missing a piece of himself. And the knowledge he could never get was the only thing that could fill the Adam-shaped hole in his heart.

He was never going to smoke them He told himself. He just needed a little bit of Adam with him.

When he got back to his house he debated leaving the pack in the car, but ultimately decided to take them with him, maybe keep them in his nightstand.

Lawrence grabbed his cane, put the cigarettes in his pocket, and got out of his car, wincing as he accidentally put weight on the leg without a foot.

Back in the house, Lawrence sighed and took his coat off. Now that Allison no longer lived there, and Diana was at her house that week, the house seemed incredibly empty. Like it was missing something.

Lawrence knew having Adam there would make it seem so much less empty. He would greet Lawrence every time he came home, and be there to listen to his struggles with the divorce. 

He would have loved to have Adam living with him. It might’ve taken some getting used to on Adams part, given that it seemed like he was used to much more run down, minimalistic living. Lawrence remembered Adam saying something about his "shithole appartment" when they were locked in the bathroom.

Lawrence walked by his daughters empty room, his cane clacking against the hardwood, and tried not to look in. When he reached his own doorway he leaned against the doorway. He still wasn't used to having a prosthetic foot.

"Stupid prosthetic." He muttered. "Stupid Jigsaw. Stupid bathroom. Supid…" He paused and sighed, "Stupid Adam."

He didn't really mean it, but he tried to convince himself he did. He wanted to forget all about the trap he was in, so he didn't have to feel the ache of missing Adam, of not fulfilling his promise.

But he felt the pack of cigarettes in his pocket and knew he would never be able to. He walked over to his bed with moderate difficulty and sat on top of the covers.

[ihatepeanutss]

steve harrington x byers!reader

warning: r is sick. It’s enough to be a love! 😩. diseases, isn’t it? reader’s nickname is cherry bcs i like cherries

you took care of Dustin when his throat was swollen for a week and a half, when no one wanted to approach him and they left him at home isolated.

you healed Max’s wounds when he fell off his skateboard and sold most of his shaves, in addition to kissing his scars.

you took care of your brothers, Jonathan and Will, you fell asleep for more than two days to help Jonathan and his photographs, you helped Will with his campaigns and drawings, also with him, you took his hand and helped her in many things.

and when did your brother get lost? You also took care of your mother and it was your priority.

you did exactly the same with the adults, you took care of Robin when he had a stomach ache, you took care of Nancy when she had a problem sleeping and you stayed by her side until she managed to fall asleep, you helped Eddie when he thought there was no one for him and to be able to finish high school, you were with steve when he felt bad.

you constantly took care of everyone, that was your job.

tonight was the night when the basement of the vehicles with wheels was the main place, Nancy and Mike were the hosts, they all had pizzas in their hands, drinks, sweets and different sandwiches, steve and Robin arrived together with drinks and certain sweets.

the place felt incomplete for some reason, not only did steve feel it that way, but Robin and Eddie had also felt it.

“i took the ghost hunters to be able to use Mr. Parks’ benefit” robin spoke while extending the movie to Nancy and took it to put it on the old television that had happened here

“it must be jonathan , i’m going to open,” nancy spoke when she left the basement to go up and end up arriving with only two of the three byers

no one asked about you but if they noticed your absence, no one asked a question until Eddie realized your absence.

“jonathan, will cherry be late?” eddie asked while taking one of the cans from the table.

jonathan denied “she won’t come tonight,” he reported, “mom didn’t let her leave the house, she hasn’t left her room in days”

“because she’s sick,” will continued talking with a full mouth, “she got sick last week and hasn’t stopped-“

max let out a sigh and looked at will “but yesterday he helped me with a model for school and honestly she looks really sleepy i suggested that she could sleep but she didn’t want to do it so….”

“that makes her sicker, she forget to wear a jacket and she came back worse than yesterday” will watched steve stir in his seat, his hand was biting for getting up from his place, taking his car and going to your house just to be able to see if you were okay.

his hand stung him for exactly twenty minutes, it was his limit before he stopped and said that he would go to the bathroom, spoiler, he never went to the bathroom, took his jacket, his keys and went to his car, a small trip to the supermarket and on the way to the byers house.

joyce smiled when she saw steve’s car park in front of her house, looked at hopper and let out a laugh “i told you” he replied before opening the door “steve, did anything happen?”

“cherry…, will said she was sick and... it makes sense because she didn’t go to the store yesterday and-“ steve was nervous

“she’s in her room, hopper had to bribe her to give her a pill and she fell asleep. she’s woven some hard days and this has probably been the worst” Joyce pointed to your room at the end of the house and saw the paper bag in steve’s arms. “do you need help?”

“no, i only brought some of her favorite things,” he said, putting the bag on the table, “ice cream , cookies, I brought her favorite coffee and her candy”

joyce smiled and gave way to the fridge where they kept the things that had to be stored, with the bag full of sweet and salty things.

he knocked on your door but he still entered seeing your whole room made a mess, usually it wasn’t like that, your clothes on the floor and shoes scattered on the floor, he looked at your bed and you were there, made a ball forming a lump.

he thought about closing your window but thought that fresh air was enough to keep your breathing with fresh air and avoid fever. He began to accommodate and pick up some of the things that were in your room.

“steve?” you murmured between opening your eyes, he was arranging your room, two of your books in his hands, your CDs and your pink stockings “what are you doing here?”

“you didn’t show up yesterday on our date and neither did you today in the basement of the wheelers and- hey, hey, go back to bed” he make went back to bed when you started murmuring apologies and opening your sheets but he couldn’t help but touch it was hot skin “i’ll be back, stay seated” he ordered before walking to your mother and hopper

“hey, I’m sorry to bother you, i was just coming to ask if they had a thermometer?” steve asked making joyce get up from the couch and walk to the kitchen to give him a thermometer

“is everything okay?” hopper looked up at the television making steve deny “do you need anything?”

“i’ll take her temperature and see if she has a fever or a fever” steve started looking for a bottle of water in the fridge and observed Joyce “i’ll go see her”

you had a fever, 39 and a half to be exact worrying about steve who took off his sweater and stayed in a queen t-shirt and began to take care of you.

“you’re going to get sick” you murmured looking at steve sitting on your bed letting out a laugh “you should be in the basement of the wheelers”

steve denied before approaching you and kissing your cheek “i’m here with you, let’s see what we have here” he commented softly before taking the paper bag “in addition to food, i found this book and this magazine, boxed chips that you hate so much, gummies, chocolate, although now we no longer need it because ill go get the ice cream” steve commented looking at your red cheeks

“did you also bring ice cream?, god he’s a angel” you murmured as he left your room nodding, you looked at your neat dresser, your makeup was comfortable and your hairbrushes on your dresser next to your perfumes. when came back with a pot and two spoons you smiled

“according to Robin, the ice cream and the icy things lower your fever” Steve extended your spoon and opened the mint ice cream, the favorite of the two “you should have told me earlier when i called you but as Jonathan said you were sleeping”

“i know but I didn’t want to bother anyone” you replied by raising your shoulders, your head hurt a little but you were hungry “honestly i don’t know what happened”

“you collapsed, you had been bad last week and then you focused more on giving priority to Max, him and the others that you didn’t completely heal” steve scolded you by making you lower your eyes “you don’t have to take care of everyone, you know?”

you nodded “but everyone needs someone” you answered “max is alone, eddie is alone, dustin is-“

“dustin has his mother, lucas has his parents, the others have us, you are not the only one who has to carry responsibilities” steve interrupted you “the thin line between you entering a mental or physical collapse was really thin”

he approached you and kissed your cheek, curled you up and started playing with your hair, you felt safe, cared for, loved, loved and really cared for, it was a strange feeling but you could get used to it.

when they finished eating the vast majority of ice cream, you let out a sigh and steve began to move around your room, taking a towel, a pair of new pajamas and extended it to you.

“go take a shower” he smiled at you helping you get out of bed slowly “i’ll be here waiting for you when you get back, take all the time you need”

steve didn’t take long to get to work laying your bed and changing them to your favorite cotton sheets, using the soft duvet and fixing the pillows for your comfort, he called your room from the phone to your favorite pizzeria, Joyce told him that she would go out to dinner with hopper and that it would take a little longer than usual but there were no problems.

when you returned to your room with your new pajamas feeling fresh but still horny you saw your room even cleaner, your bed groomed and smelling of cherries, your heart was in your throat and there was a ball on your chest. did you feel like you feel cared for by someone?

you were very independent, you grew up being independent and taking care of others, you thought you did an excellent job taking care of yourself but it seemed that you had never felt the power to be wrapped and pampered... not since you turned 13.

steve looked at you from your door before showing up with your mother’s dryer and sitting on your bed to start drying your hair gently and with love, steve made you feel safe and loved.

“come here” steve whispered as you approached him after having eaten two pieces of pizza, you curled up close to his chest and the detoured your body starting to caress your hair gently “it’s good to ask for help sometimes” he murmured to you again

“you take care of everyone but tell me, who takes care of you?” steve let out a sigh and you got closer to him, their relationship was a strange development but you were sure of something, steve would never deny you and neither would you deny him.

“i take care of myself,” you answered softly and he denied.

“now i’ll take care of you, honey,” he murmured, kissing your forehead gently before seeing you fall asleep.

[dirteater69]

here’s something that i wrote in february. its a segment of a fic i’ve been writing since last year, that i might post if i ever finish it. its about the killjoys ten years or so before the music videos, when they’ve just escaped battery city and are fighting in the analog wars as teenagers.

There’s a lot more waiting in war than Party expected.

That’s not to say that they expected much about war — they barely knew there was a war happening before they were dropped into it like oil in water, like a fish into a desert — but they had their ideas, set up by movies and assorted Americana folklore. This war is not much like those ideas. There’s no uniforms, for one, at least not on the side they’re fighting on. There’s no mustachioed generals walking around with sticks up their asses that yell at you if you’re not enthusiastic enough about killing other human beings. There’s no melodramatic longing for the home front, for the women and children only seen in photographs in lockets, because the war is taking place in the zones, which Party has come to know as their home whether they like it or not, and because women and people-who-are-practically-children go out and fight in it just as much as anyone else. Party’s yet to have a friend bleed out in their arms on the battlefield, which they’re very thankful for, but they do think that if they attempted that, they’d be gunned down before anyone could say the first word of a bleeding heart monologue.

Some things do line up with their expectations. None of Party’s closest friends have died yet, but that’s not to say that people don’t die, because they certainly do. There’s the direct deaths in the battles, but there’s also those who’ve died of festering infections weeks after they got the wounds, or of diseases, or amputations gone wrong — these are the kind of topics that come up when you try to have a conversation with your best friend who works in the medical tents. There’s those who took too much of what everyone takes to numb the pain, and passed out in a pool of their own vomit, and then never woke up. Some people just disappear: they might silently get out of their sleeping bag one cruel night and walk off into the stars, leaving only a memory and a pair of boots bound to get taken by someone else because, hey, who would waste a good pair of boots in a time like this; or they might get dragged off screaming on the battlefield by someone dressed in the whites and blacks of the enemy, one of the few unlucky chosen ones grabbed for rehabilitation in the big bad battery, or else turned into a masked and mindless weapon if they won’t comply.

There’s a lot of fear. Fear and worry, as well as rage and indignation, despair and nihilism. Impatience. Mania. Apathy. Hope. After a while, everyone’s grasping at straws to feel something, and not everyone’s sure they even want to.

The smell is bad. Party didn’t really expect that, but they can’t say it surprises them.

But they definitely didn’t expect all the waiting. Between the battles and attacks, you are obviously waiting for more battles and attacks, but you’re waiting for more than that. You’re waiting for news: partially reports from spies, strategy and intelligence regarding the elusive Other Side, but you’re also waiting to hear something exciting on the radio. Is there a party or a market happening soon? How shall we drown our sorrows tonight? If you’re Party, or another of the two dozen or so people in the zones like them, you’re sometimes waiting to be called to a strategy meeting. Party doesn’t really know shit about strategy meetings, at least they didn’t the first few times they attended them, but they got a feeling it made people feel better to think that they did, so they did their best to pretend.

Really, a lot of the waiting in war is like the seasons, like how you want it to be cold when it’s hot and hot when it’s cold. When nothing is happening, you want something to be happening; when something is happening, you want nothing to be happening. That’s how it is for Party, at least.

There is also waiting during the actual battles, though. If you’re pulling an ambush — like Party and those on their side like to do — then you’ll be waiting a while until you’re given a signal and get to actually start the fight. Even beyond that, though, there’s a lot of waiting in battle. Looking at it from the outside, it might not look like there’s any possible pauses, but it’s very different in the heat of the action. You’re always waiting for something: a new strike or shot to hit you, a new enemy closing up on you with hardly any time to retaliate, a new order shouted out barely audible over the gunshots, a new plan to form in your mind.

Party’s currently waiting for all of these. They’re crouched behind a car that has, at some point in the past ten minutes since the battle began, tipped over onto its side. They’ve never seen the bottom of a car before. Sadly, they won’t get much of a chance to look at it now, because they’re currently busy desperately reloading their blaster. They spent the final bits of their last battery pack making a couple of particularly rowdy Draculoids see the light of heaven, and now they’re hurrying to get back into the game before something similar happens to them. They fumble getting the handle open: they’re high on adrenaline and a few other things, and the roaring and blasting of the battle pulls their mind in all sorts of directions. They’d’ve thought they’d be used to it by now — or, at least deaf enough to ignore it better.

The handle of the gun comes open with a satisfying click, and they barely have to think in order to reload and close it again, pure muscle memory. This proves itself very useful when, as if on cue, a white-dressed BL/ind soldier jumps around the corner of the car with a glowing shotgun pointed at them. Party doesn’t get a good look at the soldiers face: they turn it into a mess of brain matter and burning flesh before anything else can happen. Ray gun wounds are messy.

Party scrambles up from their spot against the car to inspect the body, wearily glancing around themselves, the way you have to on a battlefield. They consider looting the body, but they don’t have the time; besides, this is just a toy soldier, and it’s usually only the Scarecrows or Exterminators that have good stuff on them. The shotgun could be worth taking, though, so they do. It’s heavy, and bright white — like most things BL/ind made. Their blaster’s still a little too hot to holster, but they do it anyway.

They crouch to protect their body as they creep around the car, taking in the battle. It’s what it always is. Something like a thunderstorm: car motors and shitty zone-made bombs create a sea of gray clouds; ray guns blast out neon lightning, beautiful and skin-scorching, always just a few inches away from hitting one vital organ or another. There’s people all around, Zonerunners and BL/ind troops shooting and stabbing and hitting and screaming. The shotgun is a little uncomfortable in Party’s hands, they’ve only used one a few times, but they’re good enough to take down a couple of Draculoids that they spot rushing at them. Four or five of the bastards down in fifteen seconds, max.

They run a sweaty hand through their hair and take a split second to consider the situation. There was a big strategy talk before this, they’re sure, but they can hardly remember any of it. This is a siege, right? A siege of a BL/ind base, somewhere in zone 2, definitely. Or zone 1.

The car behind Party shakes, and they stagger away from it, shotgun grasped tight. It’s caught on fire, the car — someone’s thrown a bomb at it, and now it’s tipping over. They bolt forward, still crouching like they have to. They glance around and spot a Drac and Zonerunner guy wrestling in the sand twenty or so feet away. Neither of them have their blasters, but they’re choking and punching and clawing at each other, and the Drac has got the Zonerunner under it with a hand on his neck.

Before Party knows it, they’re kicking the Drac of the Zonerunner, and then in the ribs a few times for good measure, until it’s no longer moving. Wordlessly, they hand the Zonerunner their shotgun — he clearly needs it more than them — and pull out their blaster to carry onwards.

Were they supposed to be doing something specific in this battle? They weren’t, right? They would almost definitely remember if they were. Almost. They comb through the mess of chemicals and fantasies that they call a brain and try to find any sort of mission, any sort of plan or direction, but they get nothing. Hopefully, the fact that they don’t remember anything important means that they don’t have anything important to remember.

There’s a loud blast behind them. It’s louder than the car falling over, louder than all the bombs around them combined, louder than anything they’ve ever heard. It’s like a gunshot and a punch in the face all at once. They spin around, and in the distance, beyond the metal fence of the BL/ind base — they were right, it is a siege — is a red form with glowing black eyes, two hundred feet tall. It’s made out of sand and smoke and carnage, with a gaping maw full of scrap metal teeth, and it’s lumbering towards the battle on four blurry but certainly real legs.

Their first thought when they see it is that the colors are all wrong. It’s supposed to be a black form with glowing red eyes, not the other way around, and surely something black can’t glow. But the black eyes of this monster are surely glowing. Their second thought is that they don’t know who it’s aligned with. They would know about it if it was a secret weapon of the Zonerunners, and it’s far too colorful of a monster for BL/ind to use, so the only other option is that it’s here to destroy all of them.

Their third thought is their about ray gun.

They look down at it, in their hand. Yellow-painted and nimble, freshly loaded. It’s taken many lives, this ray gun, but Party knows it would be ridiculous to try to defeat that giant with it. All of the weapons of the Zonerunners and BL/ind combined couldn’t take it down. It is going to eat Battery City and have the desert for dessert.

Still, it’s worth a try.

Party raises the blaster to the monster, but when they look up to aim, it’s gone. There is nothing but the battle, and beyond that the fence, and beyond that the sky. It’s gray. Too pale to be the night, too dark to be the day — is it evening or morning, right now?

Another BL/ind soldier charges at them from the left, blaster aloft and yelling, and Party takes her down with two shots. It’s a really dumb strategy to do alone, running at someone and yelling; especially when you have a ray gun that could just kill them from a distance. At least she had a flare for the dramatic, Party thinks, as they step over her corpse and look around the thunderstorm. She will be sorely missed, or not — if she will, it’s not by Party.

They start to run towards the direction that they saw the monster, for lack of a better plan. Maybe they’re looking for something. It’s unclear. A mean-looking Exterminator sets his eyes on them, and they fire off a series of shots at him. The sky remains a confusing gray.

Suddenly, when the fence is only fifty or so feet away, they start to feel horribly dizzy. It’s like all of reality has been flipped upside down, but they’ve been left still and hanging. They try to take a step forward. They’re not sure if they succeed. A convulsion strikes through their body. There’s a little vomit in their mouth, and the texture is weird. They can’t remember what they last ate.

Then, the world spins around them, and all they see is the uncaring gray of the morning-evening sky.

[ominiscorridor]

Not sure why I keep on thinking about the heart pirates adopting rats but here's more, now as a headcanon list.

-After Penguin's rat's one night stand with Shachi's, Law made sure to neuter them all to avoid more litters. These events are known as "the last ball", a name Shachi came up with.

-Law actually enjoyed doing it since it was on very small critters and he rarely gets a chance to operate on live, tiny things like this. It was a fun challenge.

-Ikkaku's rat wears a matching hat to hers. She also likes to add a cute little bow to Wrenchy's tail when she can, because it's cute and she enjoys her little fashion shows.

-The Lab Rats get tea parties with tiny pieces of cheese on tiny pieces of crackers. At first it was only Shachi, Bepo and Penguin doing it, but slowly the entire crew got involved.

-Law felt very betrayed when he found out, asking why Sora was being excluded (the crew simply forgot to tell him).

-The amount of rat toys on board grew exponentially, thanks to Jean-Bart making them. Law had to ask him to slow down because they were going to run out of space to store them.

-Pingu and Snowflake got a wedding after their litter. They did not care much for the silly clothes, but the tiny wedding cake suited them just fine. (Shachi and Penguin refer to each others as in-laws now. Yes it does annoy everyone else after a while.)

-The reason why Law got rats and not guinea pigs is because he hates being told what to do, and guinea pigs wheeking at him for food would offend him greatly.

-They absolutely will defend their rats. No they aren't dirty, they're very clean in fact. What do you mean they carry disease we litterally have the best doctor in the world for our captain of course there's no illnesses here. No they're not ugly how dare you don't listen Captain Junior, they're just very dumb.

-Clione and Ikkaku worked on making little labyrinths for the rats. Shachi and Penguin handle the bets. Bepo's rat turns out to be a natural so he's only allowed to participate once, otherwise he'll just win everytime and nobody wants to participate in the rat races anymore.

-Bepo's hair also is used to make fancy little nests for the rats, which he's happy about since nobody complains about his shedding anymore.

-All of the crew are big fans of Sora, because he makes Law a little softer. They're glad to see him smile a little more often than usual, and it seems like having a new pet helped him. Basically Sora is a bit of a support animal for Law and takes his mind off of things, which everyone approves of.

-Imagining Ratatouille is a book they have around there- obviously there would be attempts to replicate it. It mostly led to scratched up scalps and a rat ban in the kitchen.

-Sora is the most spoiled rat on the Polar Tang and everyone knows it. He even gets to sleep in Law's hat at night. Law lets him sit on top of his hat too, though it does kind of get in the way of his cool, intimidating image.

-When they meet up with the Strawhats, they'd absolutely give Sanji his own rat from Pingu and Snowflake's litter. (Law would refuse to give one to Luffy though, deeming him to not be responsible enough for a pet. Robin would be allowed one if she asked, but it's only her and Sanji. The heart pirates are very serious about who gets their babies.)

-The moment any member of the crew gets their hand on a photographing snail, you know they'd take so many pics. Little rat toes. Look at this one sleeping. They'd be so many of the same or very similar pics but they'd still take more.

[radiomagdalene]

deep dark confession time….!!!!!i am Missing c!beeduo, but cannot find much new stuff about them …. Do you have any recommendations? Pls… im so hungry..

From one diseased person to another, with love:

You are someone I have loved by creeptozoologist - one of my all time favourites. You HAVE to read it. It’s the law. In my opinion it’s the best ever depiction of Mikey B and I’m a big fan of Tubbo also. Ranboo is dead of course but this fic is NECESSARY to cultivating the cbee freak experience.

Photograph by Flickersprout - GOOD GOD. Time loop. AMAZING time loop. I’m a BIG FAN OF TIME LOOPS! oh, how I want to be free by monsterloot is another incredible time loop but it ends in gay divorce and I have a feeling that’s not what you’re looking for. But you should read it regardless please.

The Idiot With the Painted Face by ArtofanAmateur - I am now beginning to realise that all of these recommendations are sad and miserable. HOWEVER I believe this is just what being a cbee enjoyer is like.

berry beeswax by bytesYou - a classic, of course. Now I’m sorry because if you’re as starved as you say, chances are you’ve already read this one. HOWEVER it doesn’t have NEARLY enough attention as it deserves and you should go leave an extra comment please. all the best conversations happen on snowy steps by the same author is also very good.

if lost, return to someone you love by popsunner - chances are you’ve read this one too, but it’s BRILLIANT and I HIGHLY SUGGEST you read it again. This is the fic that got me into cbee. I read it in April 2021 and still have not recovered. columbines and grief and saudade by the same author are worth reading too - the first is very soft and Hamlet-related (FUCK YEAH! BONUS POINTS!) and the second is maybe the best ever take on eggtubbo. A real roller coaster that one is. I’m talking you I do adore by bupine levels of ‘best ever’.

Fucking anything by ssootsprite. All of it. I refuse to be specific here. Everything ssootsprite has ever written ever is good. Also iconic and amazing and real clever.

vulture by Pyrotechnical - GOD! God.! The best of the best. You all know I love nuclear weapons. It doesn’t even have cranboo in it but it’s so well written and the dialogue is beautiful and after I first read it I went back to it everyday and read it out loud to myself and god it’s a good one.

GOOD LUCK OUT THERE! MAKE SURE YOU LEAVE COMMENTS!

Here’s a ctubbo playlist in chronological order of the story the only catch is that it’s a YouTube playlist BYE!

[bread52487]

This is an idea I had, so. Enjoy ig? It's probably gonna be a one shot unless ppl like it and I get more ideas. Uhm, in this universe I'm writing in for plot reasons the rifts from the end of season 4 didn't happen as bad. They still happened, and it still shook things up enough. A pretty decent earthquake basically. But it didn't split the town like a bad relationship.

There are still some sizeable rifts, but basically it's a universe where they either killed vecna or just hurt him enough he went crawling into a hole somewhere before he could finish doing his big bad things and split the earth open totally. Just some bigger than normal hellportals.

Also I have no clue what to call this lol.

⚠️ warning for relatively cannon typical blood and violence and bullying. Also descriptions including kinda gross sounding words lol. ⚠️

Tags: fix-it, steddie, pre-steddie, humor (?. Idk am I funny?), cannon divergence, vampire Eddie (sorta), kas Eddie (also sorta), weird Demobat hybrid Eddie (yeah mostly that)

~~~

The Upside Down was the same as it had been last time Steve was here, and the time before that. It was still and quiet, like a photograph of the town from the day the first gate had opened. A snapshot of Hawkins through some fucked up filter. The ash still rained as it always did, and the sky was red and angry as it always was. Your shoes still stuck to the ground just enough that it was difficult when you walked.

Steve didn't want to be back here. But, Dustin had insisted.

The Kid had come racing into Family Video that way he'd done a month prior, kicking off the start of the latest season of "What's The Hell Dimension Under Ours Gonna Spit At Us This Time?" His bike was left abandoned on the sidewalk, back wheel spinning idly and kickstand forgotten.

The first thing Steve had noticed was the guitar slung across Dustin's back. It was a Warlock. Eddie's Warlock.

One of the thinner strings was snapped and curling, bouncing as Dustin hunched over trying to catch his breath and talk at the same time. His words were incoherent, but he kept trying until Robin finally stopped him.

"Breathe first. Then speak." She rolled a water bottle to Dustin across the counter, and glanced at Steve. A wordless look that was aimed right to Steve's crossed arms and narrowed eyes. Asking him is he was really going to scold Dustin.

He was.

Steve waited till Dustin was done drinking-- Because yes, Steve Harrington is a decent human being and isn't gonna yell at the kid when he's got a mouthful of water and can't defend himself-- and then bore down on him. A glare directly at the ash still settled in Dustin's hair.

"Didn't I tell all of you to stay away from The Gates? Because I'm pretty sure I did."

"But-"

"You could have gotten stuck! Or attacked by something in there. Not to mention you could've brought back something. How would you feel if someone else's cat got eaten because of some hitchhiker you brought from Hell?"

"I had to bring back something! Before I couldn't anymore." Dustin huffed, struggling with the guitars strap for a second before sliding it gently onto the counter.

It was covered in dust and ash, minus the spots Dustin had grabbed it, but otherwise it looked the same. Just like it had when it's owner left it in the parallel trailer park a month ago.

Robin warily eyed a spattering of... something across the body of the Warlock. "Dude. That thing is probably covered in all sorts of diseases.

"It's- Well, actually it might be. But... it's also all I- we have left..."

Some of the tension bled from Steves shoulders. He understood. He still woke up every night with a sour taste in his mouth and his eyes burning, a memory painted behind his eyelids of having to pry Dustin, broken eyes and going voice, from the body of someone Steve wished he'd known sooner. That hadn't gotten wrapped up in this. That might be here if he were luckier. Of telling Dustin they had to leave the body, because they were running out of time. Because they couldn't grieve yet, because they had to go. And leave Eddie behind.

Robin though, turned her skeptical look to Dustin. "And that's all you brought back. Right?"

"Wh- Yes!" Robin raised her eyebrow, "... Okay. I did go down for him originally but... I couldn't find him..."

"...Are you sure you were looking in the right spot?"

"You think I would forget where he was?" Dustin spat, and Robin held her hands up.

"Hey, I'm just saying"

"Well, yes. I was. I'm sure. His blood was there, but... he and the dead Demobats were all gone."

Silence. Then Robin looked at Steve, eyes wider and jaw clenched. Steve gave her the same look, already shedding his uniform vest.

He and Robin had already talked about this. About going down and bringing Eddie back. They'd been planning since El had walked into Family Video about a week after the earthquake. She'd told them that the Gates were closing. That she had already told the rest of The Party. That her and Dustin had already been tracking it, but there wasn't any consistency in the speed at which they closed only that they were closing, and it was unpredictable and unstoppable.

El had then rented a movie, because apparently Max had suggested she watch Carrie and she was already at the video store, and then left. Leaving Steve and Robin with partially eaten sandwiches from the Subway down the street and the same thing on both of their minds.

From then Steve had declared that none of the kids were to go near the gates. For fear it might draw something out. But it was mostly an unnecessary rule, since most of them weren't at any risk of trying to jump back into The Upside Down. Most of them.

After, he and Robin and started to plan. To think of a way to, before the Gates were too small and when they were ready enough to go back, bring Eddie back topside.

To give themselves, the kids, and Eddie's Uncle the closure they deserved.

To end the gossiping, the people that talked like they knew for sure Eddie had done it. That they were sure Hellfire Club was responsible for the Earthquake. The whispers whoever Wayne Munson was around. And the kids at school that seemed more brutal than ever towards those like Dustin who still wore their Hellfire shirts proudly.

And, to keep Dustin out of trouble.

The first Steve had heard of Dustin's misbehaving was from Claudia. She had called him one day, nearly in tears out of concern for her baby. Asking Steve to look out for him. She told Steve about how Dustins first day back at school, when it reopened two weeks after the 'earthquake', was spent in the Dean's office.

Apparently, some kids had decided to take a sharpie to Eddie's locker. They had already blotted out a good deal of the drawings Eddie himself had done, vandalizing them and, when Dustin had seen them, they'd been writing something across the metal that Dustin refused to repeat.

Dustin had retaliated in a way that would have made Steve laugh proudly. If it weren't so uncharacteristic for Dustin to retaliate at all.

He had picked the locks of the vandals lockers, a skill Steve remembered Dustin mentioning Eddie had taught him after they'd been locked out of the Drama room, and attached the parts from Shock Gum he had gotten from the gift shop back at Camp Know Where to the insides of the doors.

The only reason Dustin was caught was because the lockers were right outside the gym. The PE Teacher had seen Dustin and called to him, and in trying to run away Dustin had tweaked his bad ankle. The PE teacher caught up and marched Dustin all the way to the Dean's office to explain what he'd done.

Since then, Claudia had brought up more things she was concerned about. Dustin's grades were slipping, and he was spending more time locked up in his room than was probably normal for a teenage boy. After this Steve had a sneaking suspicion that the other kids weren't fairing any better.

This was the last straw. Dustin had gone back into The Upside Down. Put himself in danger. So Steve decided it was time. Time to put his and Robins, still admittedly half baked, plan into action. "Rob. Stay here with Dustin. He's not allowed to follow me. No matter what he says."

"What, why?!" Dustin straightened, glaring at Steve.

Steve glared right back, hands on his hips, "Because. You've already been down there for who knows how long once today, I'm stronger so I'll be able to carry him, and I know your ankle is messed up again. You were limping on your way in... I also don't want to have to explain to Claudia if you go missing."

Dustin deflated. It was clear that he hadn't wanted to go back, his hands were still shaking, but he still seemed disappointed. "Fine. But you have to bring him back. And Robin and I are watching The Holy Grail while you're gone."

"Sounds like a plan to me Dusty-Bun!" Robin smiled, just a little too tight, and pressed her palm to the top of Dustin's head. Steve relaxed as Dustin shoved her off with a squawk, like none of this had happened. Like there wasn't a hell dimension under their own. Like Steve wasn't about to hop into it to drag their friends dead body back to reality.

Now, Steve grimaced as he looked across the landscape. Bat in hand, he had jumped into the one where Fred had died. It was close enough to the trailer park it wouldn't be too far of a walk, but far enough that it wasn't swarming with people from the lab.

It was almost the same. Down to the gross squish when he stepped. Except... there was something missing. A pressure in the air was gone. The feeling of the place, like you were being judged. Watched. Hunted. Gone, along with seemingly all the beasts that roamed it.

Not a single bat, no unfurling faceless faces. Not even a screech of something Seve never wants to see.

Nothing.

And so he walks, stopping occasionally at imaginary sounds or to look at the ash falling from the clouds. It was almost like snow, except with the stench of rot.

The feeling Steve had come to associate with The Upside Down and the beings within it finally made its presence known the closer he got to the trailer park. Yet despite the uncomfortable yet familiar weight on his shoulders, he still saw and heard nothing.

It was pretty clear the closer he got that Dustin was right, that the bats were noticeably gone. But, when Steve could finally see the amps atop the trailer in the distance, he stopped. Because he could see it again. See him again.

He could see Eddie, torn to ribbons by those bats. The same as he had looked a month ago. See someone that could have lived if he had been there. Had been quicker.

Steve blinked away the burning behind his eyes and forced down the limp in his throat, and at a second glance Eddie's broken body on the ground was in fact gone.

So Steve crept closer.

Dustin was right, all that remained was the tan dirt stained a red-brown.

But what Dustin hadn't mentioned, or maybe hadnt seen, was the footprints. Maybe Steve had been too busy trying to not die last time he was here to notice them either. But, now he could see footprints in the ashy dirt.

There were fresh smaller ones, Dustin's probably. And some more, various sizes and a bit filled in with ash and dirt. Probably from a month ago. And, there was set going around the area, the blood and the trailer, and then off to somewhere that he knew none of them had traveled. And those same footprints seemed to return and leave to and from the same direction.

So, like the totally sane adult he was, Steve followed them. Off into the twisted, skeletal afterimage of the woods behind the trailer park.

The ash seemed to fall thicker despite the gnarled branches overhead, and the ground turned spongey with wet, rotting underbrush as Steve walked. The trees were draped with... something. Something stringy and slimy that Steve would rather not touch.

He wasn't too far in when he heard something. The first sound he'd heard since he'd come through the gate.

It wasn't identifiable. Not as the low, chest rattling chitters of a Demogorgon, nor the rolling screech of the Demobats. But rather something in between. Something he didn't want to meet.

It was too low to be a Demobat, but too high and hoarse to be a Demogorgon. And it sounded like a call to hunt.

In response to the demonic starting pistol, the trees came alive. Steve ran.

Wings. So many wings. The slimy, leathery wings that plauged his nightmares. All behind him, chasing him.

Steve ran faster.

And then he fell.

A tendril, shriveled and solid, dead and twisted like a comically placed tree root right in his path sent Steve sprawling onto his hands and knees, nail bat flying to his left.

The wings got closer, and the Demobats dropped to the ground. They surrounded him, hobbling closer on wings and tentacles, segmented mouths snapping when Steve tried to reach his bat. There were more in the air, he could hear them. They were calling. Calling for the something that called them to action.

Membrane covered branches broke with wet snaps and the underbrush squelched as the Something got closer and closer.

A flash of huge leathery wings and needle sharp teeth set in a too wide mouth through the dark and the thought of 'I really hope if I live this doesn't give me another concussion' was all Steve got before he was pinned to the ground, hand still reaching for his bat and eyes squeezed closed.

But, nothing happened. The claws digging into his shoulders didn't let up, but the Something didn't move. Steve could hear the Demobats rustling. They sounded annoyed, or confused. But none of them were flying anymore. Then something happened, because the Something was no longer dripping saliva onto Steve's neck.

So, he opened his eyes. And looked straight into the eyes of someone he was so sure had died, far more human looking, a month prior.

Eddie. Eddie. With shoes long gone, Hellfire shirt torn to shreds, covered in what was probably his own dried blood. With wings and claws and a mouth that was closing at the seams to a more normal width than before around too sharp and too white teeth. With big doe eyes and curls matted and dirty. Eddie was pinning Steve to the ground.

Steve stared for a good few seconds, and Eddie stared back before seeming to realize what he was doing and sit back on Steve's legs.

"Thank fuck you're here. I can't find my baby and I'm losing my calluses! See?" He shoved his clawed fingers into Steve's face, "Oh, well I guess your probably can't... there's a lotta dirt. And blood. Well, I don't really think it's actually blood? Do the things here bleed?"