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[superblysubpar]

<- part one | part three -> | series masterlist

chapter summary: The week of the bet begins with a bang.

the song: Bodybag by chloe moriondo

also for your listening pleasure: Hungry Like the Wolf by Duran Duran / The Girl is Mine by Michael Jackson & Paul McCartney / I Can't Go For That by Daryl Hall & John Oates

4,024 words | please see masterlist for gen warnings / underage alcohol consumption & mentions / slut shaming from idiot/asshole teens | my blog is 18+

A house on Cornwallis Street - the past

The beat from the drums in the Duran Duran song playing throbbed, the speakers physically pulsing as you passed them. Your heels stuck to the kitchen tiles as you entered the room that had been your sanctuary for the past hour. Once the beer had been moved to the living room and the chip bowls thoroughly destroyed, the sticky vodka bottles and punch that looked like something died in it weren’t visited as frequently as they had been at the start of the night. 

So it was there, forearms pressed to the edge of the sink as you lifted a foot and rolled your ankle, then the next, with a soft and maybe too sensual sigh of relief, that Steve Harrington finally caught you alone. 

“New shoes?”

You spun, forgetting the teeny tiny sticks beneath your heels didn’t really care for quick movements or aiding in the process of balancing. 

He caught your forearm, fingers curled around your wrist as you settled. Like he was reminded he wasn’t supposed to like you, he dropped it, fingers running through the darkening hair he was keeping longer now instead as you lied. 

“No.”

Steve squinted at you, taking a sip out of red cup, mumbling into the plastic with a snort, “Sure.”

Your arms crossed, now acutely aware of the fact that the entire outfit you’d been in all night was much more revealing than anything you’d worn around him before. Eyes focused on the denim cut off a little too high on your thighs and the sliver of skin between the top of the mini skirt and your borrowed pink top as you accused, “What are you doing here?”

Steve took a step closer, white Adidas kicking a forgotten red solo cup as he did. 

“Funny,” he clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth, “Was just about to ask you the same thing.”

As you glanced up, you couldn’t help but notice the dark blue of his polo was starting to get tight around his shoulders and biceps.

Couldn’t help but look at his eyes that were unwavering in their gaze on you. Which all only made your skin hot, made you need to look away and pretend you were looking for something on the counter littered in trash. 

“Where else would I be, Harrington?” 

Steve was right behind you as he hummed, “Anywhere else. Literally, anywhere but a house party.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You spun with the biting accusation, the little black heels now your arch nemesis as they wobbled beneath unsteady ankles again. Steve caught your waist that time, bodies closer together as you fell back against the counter. 

He didn’t let go, his finger resting just above the denim, right against your skin. 

“It means,” he swallowed, exhaling a shaky breath as he leaned in and explained, voice taking on a tone that seemed like he was quoting something. Or someone. “That I thought you were better than stale beer and shitty conversation with idiots.”

A flash of an argument with your friend Robin in the hallway ghosted across your memory, making your lips part, but only a small noise escaped them. 

The movement and sound had Steve’s eyes glancing down, his adams apple bobbing. It had him squeeze at your hip involuntarily, had you wondering if it was possible for skin to spontaneously catch on fire. 

“I love beer,” you finally managed to sputter out while wondering if he always had those two freckles on his cheek and if he did, why could you suddenly not look away from them as they lifted with his smirk. 

“Yeah?” He offered his cup out to you, “Have at it, honey.”

Maybe it was the challenge in his eyes. Or that word, honey, that made you do it - made you aware of how close you were to the boy you’d always hated and how he wasn’t the one you came with. 

You took the cup and kept eye contact as the rim met your lips, kept it while the bitter liquid washed over your tongue. You kept it still, as you wondered if it was the color of his eyes or the alcohol that had your stomach warm and fizzing with something abnormal. 

“For the record,” you whispered after your fingers swiped at your lips, “I do hate shitty conversation with idiots. I came in here for a drink for my boyfriend.”

Steve blinked, like he hadn’t heard anything you’d said since you took the cup from him and that wonderful pride swelled in your chest with the thought that you’d successfully gotten the ball back to your side of the court. 

You cocked your head and blinked innocent eyes up at him, “Brenden Peterson? Junior? I think you’re on the basketball team with him…or well…” you winced, “You’re on the bench of the team he plays for…”

Steve’s hand dropped from your waist as boisterous calls came from the other room, shouting about spin the bottle. Tina’s voice carried over the music that dulled to something quieter, Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney singing about loving the same girl. Your name called in her shrill squeal, asking if you were playing. 

“Absolutely!” You yelled, still too close to Steve, “I love spin the bottle!”

You were sure it was the beer on your tongue that made the words slip over it, then out of cherry glossed lips so easily. 

Not the way Steve Harrington was looking at you. That had nothing to do with it. 

Nothing at all. 

Steve finally made a noise, scoffing as you shimmied out from his spot keeping you against the counter, wandering closer to the rowdy boys cheering at your agreeability to the suggested game. 

His jaw pulsed as you sipped out of the solo cup and made eye contact with him over the rim. He hated that something deep in his biology or wherever it came from had him suddenly panicked he’d pop a boner when your tongue darted out to catch amber liquid and foam from a pouted bottom lip. 

He hated that he followed you into that room. 

That he sat across from you in that circle. 

He hated what happened next. 

You were looking around the room, eyebrows furrowed together as a girl named Carol patted the carpet next to her and told you to sit. Brendan wasn’t in the room and as you looked around the circle, you caught Steve looking right at you with a challenge in his eyes not unsimilar to the one you just had in the kitchen. 

So you leaned forward and yelled, “Me first!” 

The circle ooh’ed, Steve looked anywhere but your chest as you crawled to the center and your fingers spun the green bottle. 

You were settled on your knees, blinking down at the slowing bottle and silently screaming for it to keep spinning, keep spinning, keep…

Carol yelled out an “Oh La La!” and boys snickered as the green bottle finally stopped right between Steve Harrington and Tommy H. 

“I-I just spin again, right?” You went to do so, panicking as Tina laughed from somewhere on your right. 

“Nope! Gotta kiss both boys!” 

“But I-“

“Oh, come on!” Carol moaned, snickering, “It’s just a kiss! Or two!”

You hesitated, hating the way Tommy grinned at you and Steve continued to stare at the carpet. 

“Wait,” someone in the circle laughed, “You’ve kissed a guy before, right?”

Another person whispered, “Dude, that’s Brendan’s latest conquest. The one who…in the back of his…”

Your vision got a little blurry, the room suddenly too warm.

“Come on, I don’t bite,” Tommy shrugged, lifting his eyebrows up and smirking. “Unless you want me to.”

Steve’s fingers clenched into fists on his knees, he finally looked up at you and whispered, “You don’t have to-“

His words were cut off as you grabbed Tommy’s collar and pulled him towards you. Lips colliding in a kiss that made the circle cheer, wet lips and tongue and you pulled away with a gasp. Grabbing at Steve who looked shocked but his hand landed on your waist as your noses bumped. 

You took a deep breath, your eyelids started to flutter closed when you heard, “What do we have here?”

Brendan stood to the side of the circle, a tilted head of mussed blond hair. He laughed as he gestured to the circle, “Wow, you really will just do whatever guys ask you to, huh?”

Looking around the circle, everyone snickered into drinks or looked at you then Brendan, waiting for more of the show. 

“I-“

“You what?” Brendan interrupted, eliciting more laughs and your eyes started to burn, cheeks too hot when Brendan nodded at Steve and scoffed,

“Enjoy my sloppy seconds.”

A tear rolled down your cheek and when Tommy started to laugh, “Oh no, she’s cry-“

Steve elbowed him and whispered your name.

You shoved at him and stood, ready to bolt, when you saw the girl standing just behind Brendan with the purple mark blossoming on her neck.

Your jaw clenched as you took a step, then another, Brendan too focused on laughing at you with his buddies to care until he was doused in beer. 

The music stopped, the circle fell silent, and Brendan blinked through foam, swiping at his eyes as he growled, “What the fu-“

“Enjoy continuing to fail freshman level biology, getting kicked off the basketball team, and going absolutely fucking nowhere in your life, Brendan.”

You threw the crumpled red solo cup at his face as you tried to leave the room with some ounce of grace on the stupid heels you couldn’t wait to never see again. 

The slam of the front door behind you rattled the framed photos inside as much as the sob in your lungs did to your breath. Your fingers pressed to your lips as you blinked back the hot tears that wanted to pour out of you. 

“Hey,” a quiet voice from your left called, “You okay?”

A boy was leaning on his elbows in the grass, curly brown hair that was a little too long catching in the breeze, a lit cigarette dangling between his lips. He looked familiar, like you’d seen him in the back of the band room or somewhere in the first few months at Hawkins High. 

He looked you over and shook his head with a grimace, “Yeah, no, that’s not an okay face.”

“I’m fi-fine,” you managed to hiccup out. 

“Well, fine,” he groaned like a person much older than the boy he was as he stood, “I’m Eddie. Nice to meet you.”

A laugh left you, despite the tears still trailing down your cheeks. You swiped at them and told him your actual name. 

Eddie nodded and twisted the toe of a black boot into the cigarette now on the ground. “Still nice to meet you, but far less cool and interesting of a name than ‘Fine’ if you ask me.”

“It was nice to meet you too, Eddie,” you waved a little, hugged your arms around yourself and started down the driveway, only stopping to kick off your black heels and leave them in the grass. As you began again, now barefoot, his voice carried on the early autumn breeze. 

“Hey, Fine!” 

He grinned when you turned, and he held up his hands in surrender as he spoke. “Tell me to fuck off, but whatever just happened inside is not worth your time or energy, but you know what is?”

You sighed, and waved your hand towards him, “I suppose you’re gonna tell me yourself?”

He beamed and held a hand to his chest covered in some sort of skull and snake design, “Well, that probably remains to be seen. I do have a whole presentation on the value of having a Munson for a friend, but, nah, I was gonna say cherry pie.”

That laugh left you again, and Eddie only smiled wider at the sound, a dimple poking out on his cheek. 

You looked at him, then the house behind him, then down at the heels in the grass. 

“Can we stop and get me new shoes?”

“Can we…?” Eddie looked at you incredulously, “Sweetheart, I wouldn’t think of bringing you to get cherry pie without sneakers on your feet.”

He waved to a van a few cars down the street, bowing, “Your chariot awaits, ma���lady.”

By the time Steve got outside, bruised and bloody knuckles hung limply at his sides as he watched a van round the corner of his street, then disappear. 

A house on Cornwallis Street - the present

His fingers press the top of the alarm clock at precisely five fifty-nine am on Monday morning, the red glow of clock telling him he’s up too early yet again. 

He doesn’t drive Robin to school anymore, he doesn’t have to be at work till nine thirty, but he’s kind of used to his routine now.

And it’s not like he was sleeping anyways. 

His old Hawkins High swim team t-shirt slips over his head as he sighs, hands rubbing and slapping at his cheeks as he thinks about how he hasn’t really slept all weekend. He’s lacing his sneakers up as he thinks about how he definitely didn’t sleep on Friday. 

Not after he let you inside, and you smiled at him like that. After he yelled about how this wasn’t a fair bet and how Eddie upped the stakes to three hundred dollars then, the ‘arch nemesis’ clause as he put it. 

He holds his ankle in the driveway, pulling his leg up and stretching it, then the other, glaring at the red sign on the front lawn in the hazy morning sun beginning to rise. He starts down the sidewalk, but sees the house on the corner and decides that after an entire weekend of revisiting memory lane, he doesn’t need to physically go down the literal lane of his past mistakes and regrets. 

His feet thump on the ground in time with the Duran Duran song playing in his walkman. 

Family Video - the present

Daryl Hall and John Oates voices abruptly stop when you slam the stop button on your walkman due to the sight in front of you. 

Your feet straddle the baby blue bike, docs pressed to the pavement as you glare at the maroon car idling in the parking lot. 

He has his head leaned back against the head rest, eyes closed. His arms are crossed over the green vest while Tears for Fears plays out the open window quietly. 

Pulling your headphones down around your neck, you slam your hand on the hood of his car and Steve jumps in his seat, blinking profusely and swiping at his eyes before he glares at you.

“What are you doing here?” You accuse, fingers gripping your handlebars.

Steve rolls his eyes then his window up. He yanks his keys from the ignition, the sudden loss of the vehicles noises making the cicadas and frogs in the pond across the street louder. 

He gets out and squints at you as he slams the door. 

“Cute helmet.”

You quickly snap it off, cheeks warming as you shove your bike lock into a wheel and glare at him from your new crouched position. 

“Again,” you snap the lock closed, “Why are you here?”

Steve sighs, leaning against the storefront’s window. “We open at ten, do we not?”

“We,” you laughed, sticking your key into the front door with the shake of your head, “Don’t do anything. You work in the afternoon all week. With Robin. I’m alone in the mornings until we-“

“Find a replacement for Tracy. Yeah,” Steve bites the inside of his cheek, pointing his finger like he’s just remembered something, “Keith said something about that. But, well, I volunteered for extra shifts, to help out while we’re short staffed for summer.”

You pull the key from the lock and narrow your eyes. “You what?”

Steve smiles at you, freckles on his cheek lifting as he shows off perfect teeth. “What can I say, I’m just a nice guy.”

You actually yell out a, “Ha!” with your head thrown back as you open the front door, not caring to hold it open for him. 

“You…you…” you stomp towards the back room as you search for the right words, “Slimy, sneaky…”

“Sexy?” Steve provides, following you.

“No.” You spin with the word, not expecting him to be so close behind you.

He stops just as abruptly as you, face mere centimeters from yours, both of you having the cover of the slow to buzz on overhead lights to steal breaths and find your composure once more. 

Steve sighs, walking past you towards the wall where time cards are kept. “Listen, if it’s actually that terrible to work with me, I can call Keith again. But I really would appreciate the extra shifts.”

You hang your helmet on a hook and push your own card into the machine, skepticism evident in your voice as you ask, “You need the extra shifts?”

Steve faces your profile, and you feel his gaze lingering on your cheek as he whispers, “Well, yeah. I’m about to be out three hundred dollars in a week.”

Turning to face him, you finally take in his appearance. The sincere look in his eyes is almost overshadowed by the circles under them, the frown of his pink lips almost forgotten due to the stubble surrounding them that’s not normally there. 

Your silence seems to mean something to him though, because the frown becomes a smirk, and his head tilts as he asks, “Or am I not?”

“Not what?” 

His smirk becomes a full smile, “Not gonna be out three hundred bucks. See something you like, babe?”

And just like that, it’s gone. 

Your eyes roll as your shoulder bumps his on the way to the coffee pot.

“In your dreams, Harrington.”

He watches you press start on the coffee, sitting on top of the break rooms table with crossed arms over a plain blue t-shirt. 

“Bet you’d like that.”

You fiddle with the cream you’ve pulled out of the fridge, the clipboard of tasks Keith left for the week. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask, keeping your tone bored, willing the minutes of this day to go by faster. 

Steve’s voice is quieter, and closer to you as he says, “If I dreamt about you.”

Spinning at his words, cream canister in one hand, coffee mug in the other almost colliding with his chest. You blink at him as he continues, “Bet you’d like it even more if I told you what we did in those dreams.”

Your back hits the counter, not realizing Steve took a step closer as he spoke and there was nowhere for you to avoid how good he smelled or how what he was saying was making you sure there was something wrong with your stomach. Nowhere to avoid the eyes that look at you unashamed, and you could swear dare to seem hopeful. 

Until he’s grinning, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

And doesn’t he?

Steve taps the counter behind you twice with two of his fingers and hums. 

“On second thought, maybe you should take my afternoon shifts. Looks like I’m not the one who’s gonna be needing the extra cash after all.”

He leaves, whistling a song you can’t quite place, but it itches at your skin, demanding to be felt like the burn of his words left on your cheeks. 

You shake your head, and fix your coffee. This is not happening. Despite Robin and Eddie vouching for the new and improved Harrington, you will never, ever, believe it. 

You will never let him win. 

Especially after the first morning shift with him. 

When the store opens at ten, there are three cars in the lot already, families stocking up on weekly rentals. Kids are in and out, shouting about candy and horror movie marathons. Steve and you are both behind the counter for most of the shift dealing with returns and large purchases, arms bumping too many times to count. It’s when his hands land on your hips as you threaten to topple over with the stack of tapes you were desperate to get out on the shelves in the lull, that you both notice you’re finally alone again for the first time in four hours. 

Steve’s breath hits your neck, making you even warmer with a murmured, “You’re welcome,” when you gasp out a thanks. He drops his hands quickly and squints up at the ceiling, then out the front doors. 

The sky has turned darker, gray and gloomy, and you wouldn’t be surprised if a typical summer thunderstorm was rolling in. 

Steve leans against the counter, the back of his hand swiping through his hair as the other fiddles with the TV remote. He turns off The Breakfast Club, switching to a cable station. You keep your back to him as he’s surely staring at the news anchor’s chest that most men in Hawkins want to suffocate in, until he mutters, “Knew it.”

“That Lucy Lebrock’s boobs were fake?” You mumble, stacking tapes.

Steve snorts out a laugh and then he gasps, standing up straighter, “Holy shit. Are they really?”

“Honestly, Harrington, look at them.” You spin and gesture to the TV and whisper, “Oh, fuck.”

“I know,” Steve nods, biting the inside of his lip as he glances out the store windows again. 

Lucy points to a map showing a massive storm inching closer to Hawkins, red banner announcing a tornado watch for surrounding areas. 

Steve and you continue to watch, leaning against the counter next to each other in silence as Lucy tells everyone about tornado safety. 

“I cannot believe they’re not real. You’re right. I really am an idiot.” Steve’s whisper finally breaks the silence. 

You snort, covering your mouth with your hand, hiding your laugh but your eyes sparkle when he looks at you. 

And then a loud clap of thunder booms overhead, like the universe itself is warning you of what’s happening, of the danger just around the corner. 

Then the power goes out. 

It all happens quickly after that, and yet, each moment lingers, like it’s making sure you’re committing it all to memory. 

There’s a moment where you grab Steve’s arm and he grabs your hip. 

One where you both jump a part, shouting sorry too loud.

There’s another, that threatens to steal your breath when Steve holds his vest over your head as you squint through rain streaming down your face as you lock the front door, the ‘Sorry we’re closed’ sign swinging behind the glass erratically as you inhale cedar and mint.

Then one, that grabs something inside of your chest and squeezes, when you start towards your bike and Steve slips his fingers between yours and tugs, shouting over the rain, “Don’t be stupid!”

There’s several filled with the splashes of your feet in puddles as he tugs you towards the BMW’s passenger side, unlocking it and racing around the hood himself. 

One that’s silent, save for rain pelting the metal roof, and both of your heavy breaths fogging up the glass. 

Then the sirens start going off, Steve’s fingers shake as he starts the car, swiping water from his eyes with the other. 

“My…my apartment. It’s on the other side of…”

Steve shakes his head, backing out carefully as the wipers work faster than what seems possible, and yet they do nothing to aid in his ability to see out the windshield. 

“Honey, you’re crazy if you think I’m taking you anywhere other than my house that has a full basement and an emergency storm kit Robin made me make with her last summer.”

Honey. 

The word lingers, swooshed away with the sound of the wipers and the Duran Duran song that scratches the itch that lingered all morning spilling out of the car’s speakers. It disappears with the spin of tires on the wet pavement as they take you to Cornwallis Street. 

Tag List - thanks for your endless patience and excitement for this and sorry for the delay in posting today 💛

@ash5monster01 @madaboutjoe @foreverinwanderlust @the-fairy-anon @scarletwitchgf

@curlsincriminology @siriuslysmoking @redbarn1995 @starry--sarah @starksbabie

@taccobelle @angst-lasagna @blckburd @crownofdecit @torntaltos

@sanniegirl1214 @yourmommilf

[hijinxinprogress]

Young Justice spends all of their time violating the Geneva conventions or mocking their mentors bc they’re traumatized theater kids without any capacity for a verbal filter which is also why they’re not allowed to watch movies at the tower

YJ is watching some hero movie and a character with a gruff voice sternly says “we don’t kill…we’re better than that” so Tim gives the most dramatic sigh and goes “this is giving me back the migraine from our last lecture from the league” which leads to YJ doing their best to dramatically reenact disappointed justice league lectures

Cissie, offhandedly: Most superheroes having that dumbass code that’s some variation of “we don’t kill, we’re better than that…” make me fucking nauseous because who’s we? I’ll have you know my mother assures me that I’m a piece of shit everyday so no I’m not better than this.

Greta, in a mocking disappointed tone: Cissie! I’m very surprised at your behavior, we’ve taught you better than that! We’re here to protect people not to hurt them

Kon, in his best angry Cissie impression: Well, who’s gonna protect my sleep schedule? You woke me up at 3am to stop some idiot that wanted to steal kryptonite? Are you serious?They’re not going to jail they’re going to the nearest cemetery that I can promise you

Anita, in a dramatic hero pose: I’m not like you…you made me realize something, I have friends and people that love me so I’m not going to-

Bart, doing an excellent mimicry of Anita’s unimpressed face: He killed your family wdym you’re better than that, that’s dumb as hell you even look at anyone I know with the tiniest hint of malice you’re leaving in a bodybag

Kon, turning to Bart and making his voice echo the way Greta’s does when she’s annoyed: what is this nonsense I wouldn’t let anyone get away with doing that to you guys I promise they’d suffer immensely

Cassie, hovering in the air doing a terrible impression of disappointed superman: We can’t kill because then we’re no better than they are

Anita, glaring at Cassie with her best Kon impression: I’m okay with that…let’s not pretend you don’t expect this from me, am I supposed to care? They deserve to suffer, why should I be the only one that has to suffer?

Anita, pretending to storm off dramatically while Cassie tries to look disapproving:

Cissie, doing her angry Bart impression: You’re not gonna waste people I actually like then get to chill in jail and breakout in a couple days

Tim, in a dramatic ‘I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed’ tone: I’m not sure how you did things in the future but you can’t do things like this, do you understand?

Cissie, snorting and crossing her arms in the agitated way Bart does: I understand that our first fight will be our last because we’re not doing this shit again I’m not superman

Greta, in a gruff Batman voice: People can change if you give them a chance

Cassie, in a sarcastic Tim impression: I’ll start a timer I’ll even give him five minutes why are you playing with me rn Batman

Bart, sighing disappointedly: You're so angry and I wish you’d find an appropriate outlet for all this aggression. You don’t know what taking a life will do to you, what it’ll take from you….

Tim, in an irritated Kon impression: why not? we can find out let’s do an experiment and find out I like science I’m game hbu??

Cassie, who does the second best Batman voice: Neither of you can even begin to understand-! How do you know you won’t end up ending low tier criminals like pickpocketers? We can’t play judge, jury, and executioner… what happens when you’re wrong? What’s going to stop you?

Greta, fiddling with a phone and shrugging before giving Cassie Tim’s patented ‘I can ruin your life and you’ve just given me a reason’ look while doing her impression of the way Tim stands when he’s pissed and rolling her eyes: Self control? Common sense? When have my hunches ever been wrong? Don’t play with my intelligence, it will not work out for you

Bart, doing his best to copy the way Cassie stands and messes with their hair when they’re pissed: I’m just saying, if you blow up a city block you lose air privileges I have debris in my shoes rn for what?

[JL was meeting with a bunch of reporters in the tower and later had to do a lot of damage control after the press released a statement about the JL failing to rehabilitate young villains]

[itstimewehavesomesoliddick]

what do u think about the theories that israel actually knew about the attacks but pretended they don't, just so they can justify attacking with everything they have and killing as much civilians as possible? death to israel anyway xx

I don't think it was because

A) like most westernized nations Israel depends a lot on its image and the one it can project, while right now the damage to their image is too great and irreversible (their well maintained myth of IDF invincibility and being the best in the world was shattered into a thousand pieces, they're already talking about writing off the hostages as collateral damage (which is particularly hard to sell after previously exchanging over a thousand prisoners in exchange for a single captured IDF soldier), and it's also hard to sell a genocide when your foundation myth is based on one)

B) if they did they would have kept the attacks contained, just enough to have a justification but not enough to cause any actual hard damage (they wouldn't have let that many hostages get taken/soldiers killed/entire military bases captured), meanwhile right now Merkavas are burning, IDF helicopters are being shot down and bodybags are stacking up in the biggest Palestinian attack on Israel since 1948

C) they would have had a media campaign ready for it, while here we've seen a delayed and reduced response while they scrambled to put out articles, same with the international response, the prepared media campaign is always the tell

This whole thing also caught the US by surprise as they're talking about pausing aid to Ukraine in favor of Israel, which would be a death sentence for Ukraine despite all the billions they've already poured into it, since Israel, much like Ukraine, cannot sustain a war without US help (much like in 1973, where mothballed tanks, pallets of shells and F-4 parts had to be constantly shipped), this is also happening right after the US gutted Israeli shell warehouses for 300K shells to send to Ukraine, and it's unknown whether or not those have been replenished in the 6 months since

I know we like to pretend that the Mossad is omniscient and omnipresent, but it's possible that they'd gotten complacent while also being distracted with domestic matters (namely the civil strife caused by those judicial reforms) and ones abroad (like a certain war in Eastern Europe involving a certain military bloc)

Either they grew complacent and got surprised, or they grew too overconfident and bit off more than they could chew, either way they vastly, vastly underestimated the capabilities of Palestinian groups, and Netanyahu's talk of TOTALER KRIEG on Gaza is only digging them into a deeper hole that they'll have a lot of trouble climbing out of (if at all), as invading Gaza implicates Hezbollah, which would turn this war into a very different one as they're a far more capable, far more dangerous force, they're currently mobilizing in the North, UNIFIL troops are either returning to their bases or abandoning their positions, meanwhile two Egyptian armies are on high alert in case anything happens

Speaking of, it wouldn't be the first time Israel's overconfidence would come back to bite them, they were certain that the Egyptians were incapable of crossing the Suez canal in any meaningful capacity and guess what happened in 1973

Make no mistake though, this is a big one, this is one of those weeks where decades happen, history is being made as we speak, we'll see how it develops

Death to all Satans

[bitterarcs]

Asking or demanding Reno to be a good boy had the same effect as spraying a cat with water. He'd heard it before, be a good boy for me and are you going to be a good boy or am I going to have to punish you? — blah, blah, blah. Tseng was a not only his superior, but a person he actually respected, and it was those two factors which prevented something nasty from spilling from the redhead's lips. He smiled dangerously, yet nodded his head as though he were actually complying. In some way, he was. There was fooling around, and then there was crossing the line. Tseng had no inkling of a funny bone to keep up with Reno's shenanigans, so he felt resigned to play nice.

(  ❛  I jerked off in a body bag once, but I get yer point. What do I apologize for? The hot dog thing or the cum thing though? ❜  )

"Go be a good boy and say sorry to Rufus, because if you get fired and I have to take over your paperwork then you're not leaving HQ in any way but a bodybag." @ceaselxss

(   is this a love confession, tseng ?  )

[psych---ologically-deranged]

Woody!!!!

I finally get to meet Woody! I didn't know he only appeared in s4!!! I love this guy so much, he is the OG psych-ologically deranged (I mean, not really, look at the characters we have)

So here is my psychfacts masterpost on Woody because I'm insane

He has been playing with dead things since he was a toddler

The second ever episode I see with Woody in it has Shawn bribe Woody with slippers. They were so close & chill & calling each other nicely gelled & stuff, so I thought the first time that I'd seen it that they had been close & had conversations for years. I love them.

I'd be honoured to saw through your chest & remove your good natured heart from its cavity.

Third! "Hello Friend!" he says to Shawn <3

"is that third dead person you?" 'Yeah my daughter took a picture of me playing dead for her photography class"

Up to the elbows in blood "you need to try these french fries"

No fingerprints as there are no fingers. Also calls lassiter lassie.

MY MAN JUST DRAWS A KNIFE ON THIS MAN... & then... licks his finger to rub it off...

He's nice, telling gus to breathe properly. ..& then he unveils the severed leg

Woody may not have his face & voice in the philippines. Protection. He also might be a necrophiliac & mixed up formaldehyde & baking soda to get high. He was also part of a barbershop uartet. & their baritone was not alive. & his passion is skydiving, 42 jumps & 3 chute failure deaths.

Woody has the urge to comb their hair & try on their jewelry. I love this man.

He sent a 911 text trying to be a 7/11 text asking shawn gus & lassie to bring him a quesadilla in the shape of a tube. He also plays shuffleboard on the morgue table. Man I miss Rocketball. We had this weird shuffleboard table that was not like any shuffleboard table I've ever seen (shuffleboard is like mini curling), we had billiard/pool balls, & we would set them up on the opposite end like bowling & try to hit them off. I was a champion. It was shuffleboard/curling crossing with billiards/pool crossed with bowling. Great game.

& he found a jackrabbit in his dishwasher.

Ha. Does the perfectly coiled human intestine fit in a 10 gallon hat? Of course I can. *opens his computer to pleasureguide dot net with the word furries on it*

Wowza. Swan dive out of his bedroom window. I've always wanted to try that.

Woody with ipad shawn XD "Can you see this?" 'just like I'm with you there.' "How about this?" *ipad under the blanket... from the wrong end* *Shawn screams*

WS, holding up a 30yo photo of the vic: She was quite a looker. *looks at the mummified skeleton* Still is.

& proceeds to criticize her fashion. & my man didn't know that smallpox was eradicated.

Calls himself the woodmaster

omg he showed up with a six foot body bag when henry got shot. My dude. & later on my man shows up with a pair of bodybags when shawn & gus sit on a landmine. Dang. JoH: Then why are there two body bags under your arm? WS: No reason, dear *drops them*

WS: Whoever covered this up must have kept the body on ice.

WS: Now, come over here.

WS (when they hesitate): Come on! I want to show you something. It's not like you're gonna catch necrophylopigmentosis.

*Shawn laughs*

WS: Probably not. *He reveals the foot with a flourish*

WS: As anyone good at foreplay can tell you, electricity always leaves a mark. I know, I know. T.M.I. Tell more information. You see, a flashlight battery and a paper clip--

BG: Uh, no need to explain, Woody.

WS: I gotta tell you, I sometimes have trouble reading social cues, especially cross-culturally.

BG: What?

WS: Yeah, it's really starting to hurt me in the dating department. I can't--I can't read alive women anymore. *To Juliet* It's like, you're strobing right now.

Juliet set Woody up with Marlowe's parole officer

Woody tried to slip an illegal substance to Lassiter during his bachelor party. (Later, he bakes a cake with a gun in it to give to the guy who held him hostage. "only insane people do that" *throws it away*)

This man, who used to be married & had a 15yo daughter, is living in some mobile home. & Shawn is now his roommate. (& in the remake of the law episode, he slept with the suspect in his mobile home while he was down from LA)

He does a fair amount of nude sunbathing & goes into the water to rinse off, meaning he has almost been taken out by The Vortex.

He is not bulimic: he ate a donut out of the trash the other day

WS: What we have here is a… Woman. I am guessing by this wound, that she died of blunt force trauma to the back of the head. I would place her at about 27 years of age. SS, looking at her hands: I'm gonna say more like 47, Woody. WS: Trust me, Shawn, I know what a 69 (nice) year-old woman looks like in her birthday suit and this ain't it. SS: I said 47. JoH: She's actually 48 years old. WS: Oh, see? So, we were both wrong.

WS: Yeah, you are right. There are tiny surgical scars on her scalp. Yeah. This is well done. Clean lines. Nice smooth finish. This is Dr. Joan Diamond's work. I'd know it anywhere. I saw her speak at a symposium of forensic artists. She also appeared on The Love Boat back when she was a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.

(Good old botulism. I could hyperfixate on that if I wanted to.)

CL: Did you sleep here last night? WS: No. Actually, I… Crash here all the time. Something about the smell of formaldehyde just lulls me to sleep. I think it's the scent.

Woody has an anxiety disorder. I'm just glad he didn't swallow the camera. I should liveblog that episode.

Woody Strode: Wife cheated on him 12 times, with 10 men. (He approved the one with the personal trainer)

Woody has a spell cast on him by his mommy that he's getting broken by a wiccan consultant.

My man goes to putin on the ritz a shady russian club for the buffet.

*giving a report to the detectives while there is no body* Here we have a man, looks to be about six foot two. JoH: Woody, there's no body. WS: Oh what a relief! I thought I was the only one not seeing it!

He... ate applya mushrooms (possibly from under the fingernails of the vic) & says they taste like ass...

[zy-murge]

2bhank writing stuff

Pressing needle and suturing the flesh back together, Doc grazes a gloved hand over Hank's marred skin. He remembers every little bullet he's picked from it, every slash and scrape he's had to stitch, every bruise he's tended to with fingertips meeting scars over and over again. He'll never grow old of it, meeting a new part of Hank every moment he spends treating another wound he'd gained in a pointless battle. Doc hears Hank whimper as he grazes over the indents crossing over from bicep to shoulder. It's all too peculiar, how Hank allows Doc to love him like this.

//

(THIS WILL PROBABLY NEVER BE FINISHED)

Cold, narrow corridors reek of the metallic odor of blood. Pipes tracing along the ceiling, huffing and puffing with all sorts of sloshing and steam as you continue towards the heart of the establishment. You can't help but adjust your black face mask a little, as unpleasant as it is on your bandages. On the elusive "Hank J. Wimbleton's" last rampage through yet another AAHW facility, the brute had killed your most important source of information: Dr. Jebediah Christoff. It's been a while since you last spoke to Christoff, last time he was around he'd been working for the AAHW. A real prick, but that key fragment he holds has a sort of dissonance only compatible to Christoff for whatever reason. Approximately 83 dead, the corpses and gore coating the floor in red warm viscous tells you that this Wimbleton character was out for more than just a job well done. You wished there was someone else to accompany you in such a sprawling facility. In recent days, there's been a shortage of labor thanks to the AAHW pruning off possible employees thanks to the Fall of Nexus and the Nexus Core's constant decline. S.Q. doesn't offer enough to hire too many people anymore, since apparently "not utterly dehumanizing" isn't as appealing anymore. The stench of blood gets thicker in the air, almost overwhelming, as the wet crimson gets much thicker as you continue. EDM blares from a stairway before you-- some chicken related song you'd think-- and beckons you to enter the basement. You can see the dazzling lightshow on display projecting itself on the walls, brighter as you walk down ever so slowly.

REDO THIS SHIT LATER IT SUCKS

You never liked that genre anyway-- Bright flashing lights and volume up too loud assaults your senses, but you're used to it. You adjust your black mask and goggles, hopefully blocking out some of that damn light and noise. Luckily, seems no one here is alive. You kick one of the mangled bodies to be sure. Maybe you should take one home to experiment on… You have enough work as is, though. Looking at the mess around you, there's some horrid writing in blood above the DJ booth: "LOOKING FOR THESE, FIVE EYES?", signed with a T and an arrow pointing to an assortment of flesh with a keystone fragment, assumedly Dr. Christoff. You won't complain, less work is less work. It's ominous though, right? How did this "T" know you were coming? You can't afford to stay here any longer, and you can't waste time thinking about those things. You take your steps towards the DJ booth and prep your bodybag for the pieces of Christoff that are left over. From the looks of it, he was killed from an explosion. Close impact, only enough to have affected a small area. It'll be difficult to stitch with so much of him in pieces, what a pain in the ass. You can finally turn off that music too, the problem is finding the button. You slide Christoff's remains into the body bag, and reach over to the buttons. Reset? Maybe that'll-- AGHH! IT'S LOUDER THAN BEFORE! You hit another, only adding to the chaos. Another, and another, and another, until you hit a blinking red one that finally shuts it all off.

…Ah, that first one said "Preset."

A sound still emanates within the room though, from behind the DJ booth. Soft wheezes, you grip the handle of your pistol and slide to the floor on your side of the booth. There wasn't fucking supposed to be anyone left! You're wildly unprepared for this situation, but the breathing is weak. You can use them for information. (ehhh redo this part) You can't help but peek over a little, seeing another man weakly shifting around in a pool of his own blood. He seems to be holding something, but you can't make it out. You'll have to get closer. You take the pistol in your hand out of its holster, prepared for any move the stranger might make. He doesn't move as you rise out of your place on the floor and towards him, he simply writhes. You see now, he's attempting to stitch his own arm back on. His face is nearly unrecognizeable, mutilated with botched stitching and without a jaw. How grotesque. There's something almost familiar about it, about the physique and description. About 6'2, large stature with muscles to match, and a lack of life in those barely-noticeable eyes. Crouching down, you stare a little closer. He doesn't seem to notice, too caught up in anaphylactic shock. Oh my god.

[ironlvngs]

976-EVIL 

     — a link & sassa playlist. 

cop car by mitski ★ is it really you? by loathe ★ the spell of mathematics by deftones ★ crazy girls by TOOPOOR ★ sunspots by nine inch nails ★ it’s gonna kill me by filter ★ lucifer loves me by summer 2000 ★ kimdracula by deftones ★  be my druidess by type o negative ★ dark angel by provoker ★ we’re in this together by nine inch nails ★ needles & pins by deftones ★ knife prty by deftones ★ fighting in the car by joe p ★ dai the flu by deftones ★ meant to be yours by heathers musical ★ you’ve seen the butcher by deftones ★  976-EVIL by deftones ★ this is a trick by crosses ★ beware by deftones ★ closer by nine inch nails ★ choke by IDKHBTFM ★ bodybag by chloe moriondo ★ just the girl by the click five 

[skaruresonic]

abstaining wont get you a better government that doesnt contribute to genocide itll get you a far right government that contributes to genocide even harder

I'm going to talk about some heavy unfun stuff that will harsh your buzz.

The US government wants NDNs gone regardless of party because the entire country is inherently built on our genocide. Neither side wants us to live, much less have a say in how the country is run, and in some cases, Democrats have blatantly ignored us when we asked them for help. The fact of the matter is they give as little a shit about Natives as Republicans do. Neither side has lifted laws on blood quantum requirements for tribal enrollment, which will lead to tribal collapse if unchecked precisely because tribal collapse is the entire point. Likewise, when the Diné asked for help against COVID on a reservation without running water, AKA that thing you need to wash your hands with, the government sent bodybags. Nor was COVID the first time the US government sent the Diné bodybags in response to an outcry for help against disease.

Democrats just want to seem more "polite" about it. Our choices are not red or blue. They essentially boil down to the choice of death by lethal injection or death by firing squad. Make no mistake: unless you attempt to resist, you're going to die either way. Framing one method as less "painful" than the other makes it neither a mercy nor a pardon. Playing into the system that desires your death may retard it, but it will never prevent it.

If what I say seems dire, it's because it is that dire. You talk of genocide not realizing we've already suffered from one and continue to do so because they've never let up.

Nobody talks about this but voting, like getting a passport, is a big sovereignty and self-determination issue for Native nations. "Just register to vote" - it's not that easy. Or simple. If we do, that can open the door for the government to say, "Well, you guys consider yourselves US citizens, therefore Your Tribe isn't Really Sovereign, hence there's no reason for you to keep your lands and tribal rights, thus we can do whatever we want with your lands and identity and there's fuck-all you can do about it." This isn't even getting into the fact that Natives were among the last demographic to receive the right to vote in the first place.

There are still old laws on the books to this day which would give Congress the green light to dissolve rights to Native land stewardship at any given time. We always have the proverbial sword hanging over our necks. The question isn't if, but when, it drops.

You give the government any reason to strip you of your rights, no matter how small, they'll take it. Moralizing about how we're Personally Contributing to Genocide by not giving the government the means to perpetuate ours while we're still coping with ours is equivalent to rubbing salt in a festering wound. Direct your ire towards those who have more power and less to lose.

Re. passports: similar issue. Yunęhwá·kneʔ uhéhčhakę·w. It's a pain in the ass because we have tribal cards, but not everybody acknowledges them as a valid form of ID. The DMV's refusal to accept mine was the reason I wasn't able to get my driver's permit for three years.

It's up to the whims of fate, mostly. Imagine having a driver's license but whether the DMV recognizes it depends on whether or not they feel like it at the moment. It's always a crapshoot with crossing the Canadian border specifically because whether you can cross with your tribal card depends on who's working at the bridge that day, sometimes whether they're Native too and sympathetic, or feeling magnanimous. It can be easier to get into Canada than to return home.

You cannot, however, use it as a passport to fly, even though it's strongly encouraged that you do.

So, even disregarding the pressures from our government, other governments also practically force us to get US passports if we want to get anywhere, (which btw, the thing I just described? violates the Jay Treaty which says Natives are allowed to cross the Canadian border freely. Not that anyone ever gives a shit about respecting treaties, though). The US is so invested in the idea that All the Indians Are Dead that the rest of the world believes the lie. Besides, tribal council keeps tabs on everyone who registers to vote. It doesn't matter why you did it or who you voted for. If you choose to register, you're potentially undermining your tribe's sovereignty. It's not that we wouldn't vote, it's that we can't, not without incurring risk to ourselves. And it doesn't mean you don't care about what happens to the country overall, it means that the government could take away your rights to self-determination at any time regardless of if they're Democrat or Republican and you need to Be Vigilant about that shit.

sorry but i want to hit every american talking about not wanting to vote democrat anymore with hammers. lol

[berberleathercomblog]

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[whimsicalcotton]

⭐_⭐?

okay i'm going to cheat a lil bit bc you sent me two stars so. two chunks i've been dying to talk to about. sorry hjhdfgdj

first off, this bit from ch.5 of Polluted Marrow;

She atones for what’s about to come out of her mouth by letting herself be gathered up and held still, gritting her teeth through the pins and needles of unwanted touch. And there, cradled in her mother's arms where no one else can hear her muffled voice as it creaks and croaks and crackles into being, Max delivers the killing blow. "I-If you want me in Seattle, you'll have to take me back in a bodybag." It works like a charm, ugly though it may be. First the arms around her slacken in surprise, then her mother pulls back to look at her, paled and appalled, hands tightening around her shoulders. Max holds her stare, because she means it with every mangled fibre of her soul. It's not a persuasion. It's a promise, a threat and a confession inextricably linked, crowned in shame and so, so heavy.  Yet more weight to shed.  And Max funnels all of that dread and disdain straight into her expression. She may still be small, she may look like nothing more than frail prey, but she's not the wide-eyed, innocent child her mother is thinking of. She can look out for herself, even if she treats it as an annoyance. She's taught herself discipline, focus, despair, perseverance. She can take hit after hit, and if she falls she knows to pick herself back up, dust herself off and get back in the ring. She’s been face to face with one of the most insidious creatures this world had to offer and made herself sharp enough to match him. Besides, it would be foolish to underestimate a prey's ability to injure. A deer's antlers can still batter, a rabbit's teeth can still puncture. She can see the realization dancing in her mother's gaze, bewilderment and worry marred by terror's gleam. 

okay so for some reason when i was writing up my brainstorming notes for this chapter, i did this scene from vanessa's perspective which was. really unhelpful when it came to actual writing but i managed to get something useable out of them lmao. anyways i specifically said "she's looking at Max and she's seeing all of her stubbornness and all of Ryan's quiet simmering determination" which i thought was metal af but i couldn't actually put it in bc of how i tend to do pov's. i still tried my best to weave The Vibe of it in there tho

speaking of Ryan there was also a little bit just before this where i mention that he isn't there, which stems from my headcanon that he's always felt really fucking bad about moving Max away from Chloe, so he tried to make it 'worth it' by working extra to have a bit more money. however this doesn't really work in his favor bc he ends up doing a fuckload of overtime and just doesn't have much time off so Max has been feeling more and more distant from him over the years; hence why she's not surprised + the slightest bit bitter in thinking, "But he's not here."

for my already cheating second bit i'm going to cheat More and talk about a fic i haven't even finished yet bc i'm really meguca-brained today.

so from the as of yet unpublished sequel to Spiderlily, Daffodil;

She sets a plate down in front of Homura. A meagre portion compared to her own, hardly more than a few spoonfuls.  "Eat," she says, nodding towards it. Homura blinks down at it. She can still taste saltwater. A scoff, small and hollow. Kyoko sits herself down on the opposite side of the table in a harsh, hapless heap. "Mami's too gentle on you, lettin' you skip meals all the time. Eat it or I'll kick your ass." There's no real threat in her tone, just low, weighted exhaustion. Her stubbornness remains intact, however. She sits there, stare piercing, arms crossed, until Homura finally takes a bite. Only then does she start on her own dinner.

i just. i'm so normal about my wraith timeline Kyoko and Mami looking after Homura like she's their sad wet dumpster cat <3

Kyoko tries her best to be patient but she projects a lot of her Sayaka trauma onto Homura and is much more willing to ask questions/call her out than Mami is. she and Mami have spoken at length about What To Do With Homura basically and most of the time she secedes to Mami's insistence on not pushing her too hard.

This scene takes place after Homura's done some Self Destructive Shit (again) and also Mami's not present so Kyoko has free reign to be as insistent as she wants. But despite grumbling about Mami being too gentle she is, in fact, also being super gentle by way of making dinner and tea and just doing her best to take care of the absolute trainwreck that is wraith arc Homura.

[petite-girl1-blog]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: NWOT Dolls Kill x Candyland Castle Keeper Crossbody Bag.

[dvarapala]

[ ruffle ] sender ruffles receiver's hair (if you're still accepting affection prompts!)

⋆ ⁺ ₊ ⋆ ☀︎ showing affection // @tempportal

"i'll have you know that it was not about us liking the same person. truly, it was less about the boy and more about being pissed that i had to perform my humanity - had to prove it - in front of guadalupe ochoa of all people. she's literally a werewolf and she's calling me out on my status as a hybrid when her parents literally have the 'little red riding hood fell in love with the big bad wolf' love story going on, effectively making her a hybrid as well."

udyati rolls her eyes and rolls them again for good measure. if hunters ever did decide to attack, neither of them would be safe. none of them would be spared. but guadalupe conveniently forgets that every time she gets into a scuffle with udyati.

"and of course i'm the one getting nailed to the wall like a bug because why would the teachers ever listen to me when they can just take someone else's word for it immediately?" she crosses her arms. "if i really wanted lupe ochoa dead, her parents would open the door to a bedazzled bodybag right about now."

"you're better than that," luther says as he ambles past, catching the tail end of their conversation.

"i try to be, uncle luther," udyati mutters as he vanishes into another room.

from yet another room in the house, rhythmic thunks can be heard as diego throws his knives around, hitting bull's eye each time. then his voice sounds: "if i were you, i wouldn't bring that up during the meeting with the principal or dean or whoever the fuck it is that called you into their office. besides, if someone talks shit about the people i love---" the name patch goes unsaid but udyati hears it all the same. "---i'd start swinging too."

udyati shouts back a sincere thank you for understanding, uncle diego! and looks at five again.

it's not just that, she tells him. it's also the fact that lupe is very good at re-opening wounds, widening cracks and finding what's hidden deep inside those crevices. it's probably a werewolf thing. enhanced senses and all that.

five ruffles her hair. "i would come along myself but i am very aware that people ask questions. moronic questions, yes, but questions all the same. for something like this, allison is probably your best bet, seeing as your mother is still out of town." udyati gives him a grateful smile and nods her head.

for a moment, she's quiet. then she asks: "what about uncle klaus? where is he at anyway?"

"oh no," five says immediately, staunchly ignoring the second part of udyati's question. "you do not want klaus anywhere near any kind of academic institution."

[thisgirlypoplovesyou]

Margie held a black bird in her bare hands, she was holding it by its feet. It scared me and I had a nightmare that night. She told me:

“the bird got stuck in the window Mali”

The little girl that I was -frightened by the sight of a lifeless animal hanging upside down, its jet black feathered body only held by the strong grip of a 5 foot and 1 inch Filipino lady with thick, black long hair- naturally started to cry.

“Don’t cry Mali” She let out followed by one of her witch laughs.

“It’s okay, I will take it to the basura”. She said this so calmly and confidently as if she was just doing another house chore like ironing my father’s humongous dress shirts.The crying only ceased because of her playful dangling of the carcass, as an attempt to lighten the mood. Margie always knew how to calm me down by way of distraction, she was always making jokes even in serious dead bird matters. In all matters in life, avian or not.

The bird was dead. It had banged itself against the 12th story kitchen window of the two bedroom duplex of Sunrise Gardens. There must have been at least 500 residents in that apartment complex yet this bird had its strange end on my family’s window. Maybe it was a good sign. Maybe it meant Margie and I were lucky, we were the only ones in the flat that afternoon, my father was on business and my mother was somewhere else praying to someone else. I didn’t mind being left with her for hours, I was the kind of kid who enjoyed being around adults more than other kids. It wasn’t uncommon for me to play by myself even among a group of other kids.

My favorite adult to be around was Margie. She made sure I did not step foot in the kitchen

“Quedate, stay there Mali”

She opened the metal dustbin from under the sink, gently placed the animal in it and took out the black plastic bag and looked for thread to wrap it up snugly.

My foot had crossed the kitchen entrance’s threshold by this time and I could see some black feathers popping out of the shiny black plastic bag.

“Mali don’t come in here, just wait a little bit”

She told me in a very serious and concerned tone.

I froze yet couldn’t steer my gaze away from the black bird’s feet. The contours of it were so defined and looked like something from my dinosaur book, I had never seen a bird that close up.

She tiptoed out of the kitchen and told me to stay in the living room, still clutching the lifeless plastic bodybag of our unfortunate new friend.

I sat on the couch, the thai silk cover with the image of Sian elephants distracted me enough that I had forgotten about the dead birds’ feet.

“I put the bird to sleep Mali, your mama is coming back soon”

My favorite adult to be around was Margie.

The way she handled a dead bird, in my young eyes, gave her a mythical quality, it was as if she had transformed into a gentle witch tending to her duties of giving the bird a proper goodbye.

I was a pretty squeamish child, I didn’t like accompanying Margie to the market because of all the dead animals on display. The event of the bird made me less afraid of these dangled corpses.

The scene of the dead bird in the kitchen being cared for by my nanny was an important moment in my 5 years of life. I have come to interpret this scene at 23 years old as my introduction to drama in the real untelevised world. Pain and suffering were experienced by that deceased black creature, yet it looked so elegant and peaceful in my nanny’s hand.

This is what drama is, it is a powerful moment in a play, a confrontation with a friend, a jagged line on a lined page, a scream in a quiet room, spilled yogurt on the couch, bangs cut with paper scissors, my sister’s frown, the scar on my right thigh and it most definitely is a dead black bird dangling upside down held by its feet by my best friend in the kitchen of my childhood.

[daddysgirl7289]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Leather Cross body bag.

[avenging-fandoms]

i found my outfit for harry! its cherry themed and i bought the dress and boots. and jewellery. and a cross bodybag to match 💀

cute!!