#practicing confessions
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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 5 months ago
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Conceal, don't feel, don't let it show.
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technically-human · 6 months ago
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Hey, don't cry. Ghost yuri, okay?
(Now that you know the girls, they need to meet the boys!)
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hitlikehammers · 2 days ago
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POV: when you overhear your boyfriend’s bandmates who ⛔️do not like you⛔️ talking to him—about YOU
“Be real though, Ed. Harrington? You can’t actually be serious, here.” Steve doesn’t like to eavesdrop, like, on principle. Which is to say he totally does it. He just doesn’t wholly approve of it, or think it’s a very good habit to have, while still doing it. “You got me,” Eddie sighs, longer and deeper than can be taken wholly seriously. “I’m running my longest successful con to date.”
rating: t ♥️ tags: post-s4, established relationship, corroded coffin, as in: the gang’s all here and being VERY JUDGEMENTAL of eddie’s taste in men, and maybe steve had to pick eddie up from practice today so he overhears it WHOLLY WITHOUT INTENDING TO OKAY?, no one ever REALLY want to hear what the people they love really think of them when said people don’t know who all’s actually listening, true love, declarations of feelings, it’s actually really fucking hard to stand up to your friends, happy ending♥️
for @steddielovemonth day ten: "We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love." —Dr. Seuss
also! Unnamed Freak is Doug for the purpose of this fic because the book can fuck itself I say so 🖤
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“Be real though, Ed,” the voice that filters through, and holds Steve’s hand from pushing the car door shut loud enough to notice, is fairly reasonable, like trying to talk down a suggestion absurd enough to send someone to the ER—which means, of the subjects at hand? It’s gotta be Jeff.
“You can’t actually be serious, here.”
Steve doesn’t like to eavesdrop, like, on principle.
Which is to say he totally does it.
He just doesn’t wholly approve of it, or think it’s a very good habit to have, while still doing it.
“You got me,” Eddie deadpans, but it’s like, venom-laced. It stings just to hear and Steve’s struck with how much his life’s changed since Spring Break, and more still since…well.
Since Eddie.
Because Steve is well aware the man can cut glass with how sharp his tongue can get, they did go to high school together whether they ran in the same circles or not.
It’s just strikes Steve in the moment that not once since Vecna, has Eddie turns that tongue on him.
Now, other uses of his tongue—
“I’m running my longest successful con to date. Yep, totally pulled it over on all you bitches,” and where it could be playful, every single word is sharpened to stab, to pierce, to drag the wound out so it bleeds, like a shiv to remind someone where they fucked up, in perpetuity.
“Please applaud.”
And oh, even Steve flinches at that tone, and he’s not even the target. Hell, he’s still in the driveway—he doesn’t make a rule of crashing band practice, no matter whose parents’ garage they’re using; Eddie’s van is just regularly in the shop for one thing or another, so he’s gotta come get his man. But he doesn’t, like, push his way in. Sometimes doesn’t even get out of the driver’s seat. He knows Eddie would more than welcome him; has the handful of times he’s ventured to step in to apologize for interrupting but remind him they have to pick up the shitheads. But one: Eddie is alone in his welcome, and like, the polar opposite of the other three guys, who range from staring daggers at Steve to sneering so scrunched up to the nose that it’d give Carol Perkins at her snittiest a run for her money.
And Steve wouldn’t have made it this far if he didn’t know how to recognise where he’s not wanted, and learn how to make the calculated decision of whether to walk or push his way in. And much as he loves Eddie? Steve actually wants his friends to eventually come around from probably, like, muttering ancestral curses under their breaths at him or something.
Plus, from what Steve understands? Jam sessions are personal. Sacred. Eddie had blushes and stammered the first time he let Steve listen in on works in progress; and Steve had rewarded him for the gift of it liberally and with genuine gusto. It’s earned him repeat performances on the regular, but Steve gets it’s a private thing in general. And these guys don’t know him, don’t presently care to—don’t trust him.
He figures it’s like…masturbating in front of someone. The art thing, the depth of making music and stuff. Showing your soul a little bit, losing control for the betterment of the final product.
Now, he and Eddie definitely have masturbated together, it’s actually fantastic foreplay, or even just a deliciously sloppy go on its own. But that’s neither here nor there. And also totally fucking different.
Steve really doesn’t want Eddie masturbating in front of anyone other than him, ever again. Steve’s sure as shit not looking to on his end; definitely not with the other members of Corroded fucking Coffin.
The metaphor might have gotten away from him. But you get the picture.
“No, man,” and that’s, that’s Gareth’s voice, Steve’s almost sure. Sharper. Concerned but also caustic on the undertow. “It’s just,” he snorts, the disbelieving sort: “this can’t be real.”
Okay, yeah. Tone plus actual words add up.
“Yeah, just,” Doug laughs a little nervous, like of all of them, Eddie’s verbal attack had the most weight in tempering his response of the three of them; “blink twice if you’re being held against your will.”
They all chuckle, but it’s toned down the whole way around—even Steve can clock that. These guys are boisterous when left to their devices, Steve’s taken note of that. Mostly watching from the sidelines—almost exclusively when they don’t know he’s there to watch.
Again: does not condone eavesdropping.
Does not try at all to refrain from doing it.
“I mean, you don’t expect us to believe you’re actually fucking him,” and oh, yeah, okay: Steve was pretty sure he was the topic conversation here, and despite some of the setbacks of recent years, he’s not insecure when it comes to relationships especially.
He’s definitely the only one fucking Eddie. And Eddie’s the only one fucking him.
And while he doesn’t really hold it against these guys for being wary of him—he wasn’t really a perpetrator of their high school woes, but he definitely didn’t do anything to make them less…woeful—so he’s mostly bummed about it for Eddie’s sake, and on principle, but like, seriously.
Doubting Steve successfully scoring Eddie Munson? Like, Eddie’s a catch, Steve of ll people is well aware, but. Steve’s also been long past fishing the shallow end of the pond, y’know?
Give him some credit.
“Right,” Steve narrows back in on what’s happening in the garage that he’s definitely feeling less guilty bout, seeing as he’s definitely a subject of the debate unfolding, but Eddie sounds…angry. Pissed off in that way he gets when he’s fed the fuck up.
“I’m out,” Steve hears scraping of equipment, the guitar case flipped open; “can’t actually make it next week,” he adds like a footnote.
It’s clear within a second he’s the only one who takes it with that same…energy.
“But we have to practice before the open mic—” Jeff, ever the voice of reason, sounds baffled; on his way to ticked off but not quite there yet.
Eddie, however—as is his wont in this type of mood—could not give two shits where the people around him land on the anger-o-meter; he’s exceeded them, even if only in his own head, and they are all therefore irrelevant to his very responsible decision to put distance between himself and doing something stupid he can’t take back.
It’s not the nicest way to deal but, honestly? Steve’s mostly just proud of Eddie for sticking with a coping mechanism that, while not without consequences, generally works better than most.
“I’ll see you guys in two, then. Probably.” And the case clicks shut, definitive, and Steve’s proud of that too; that Eddie’s not digging a hole when the guys re trying to bait him, intentionally or not, over Steve.
Steve doesn’t need Eddie to complicate his band, his friendships, over what the two of them have. One, it’s not their fucking business. And two?
Steve doesn’t thing he’s being self-important in saying he and Eddie…are bigger, and more, than even the very beat high school band.
Not that Steve would ever ask Eddie to choose or some bullshit like that. And he really does believe Eddie’s going places, if that’s what he decides he wants. But…there’s that.
Then there is them.
Different, like, stratospheres.
“What the fuck came up that you can’t make it next week? When we’re staring down our first actual shot at Battle of the Bands this year,” and yeah, of course, if anyone’s gonna try to drag the whole thing out, it’s Gareth. Kid’s got a fucking temper.
“Something more important.”
Which yeah, that’s what was going through Steve’s mind, basically, but—
“The hell could be more—“
“I have plans,” Eddie hisses, viper-quick and fucking deadly, shuts them all right up for it, but then he spins a 180–preens so big Steve swears he can hear his shoulders go back and his chest puff out:
“It’s my anniversary.”
So…yeah. Just because it was where Steve’s head had just been at doesn’t mean his whole chest goes all gooey to hear it said out loud.
And in front of Eddie’s band, who…they aren’t hiding from, but they have discussed keeping kinda mum around. For the same kinds of reasons Steve’s been privy to just in the past couple minutes.
But then Eddie’s voice follows the feeling in Steve’s chest like they’re tethered there, and honestly, more times than not?
Steve thinks they just might actually be, and he’s not proven wrong with the way Eddie halfway coos:
“Our anniversary.”
“Your what?”
Jeff, again, is that middle ground: actually confused, laced with being angry that Eddie’s ducking out.
“Six months,” Eddie answers, soft-like, a little dreamy but in this way that’s rooted somehow still, and in being struck all over again by a level of shock Steve understands, sometimes feels in reverse, but still doesn’t understand being felt so deep as it sounds, now, when it’s applied to…him.
It’s wild y’know?
“I’m like,” Steve hears Eddie’s curls brush against something as he shakes his head—Steve’s money’s on him crouched by his case, or having it already slung over his shoulder:
“Never thought I’d get something to celebrate like that in the first place, but get to keep it, that long without fucking it up?”
Steve, again, wants to give up the pretense and walk the fuck in there and kiss the shit out of his boyfriend because one, same, but two?
Dumbass.
Steve goddamn adores him.
“You mean, with Harrington?” Gareth’s spitting and Steve just shakes his head, a little sad—he doesn’t know what’s crawled up that kid’s ass about him, man; he’s not so much younger that Steve never saw him or didn’t know of him but godDamn: the circles he ran in at the time weren’t the ones doing shit yet when they were in the same elementary school, Steve was barely popular in middle school, and come high school the worst anyone he knew did to the frosh was bang them into a locker—not great, but.
Not worth this shit. And the worst part is if he doesn’t know what’s crawled he did to really piss Gareth off this bad? He can’t even try to Harrington-charm his way back into the guy’s tolerable category. Like, even his best fucking not-pot brownie recipe didn’t sway the fucker.
“Yes,” Eddie is answering, the answer emphatic, like he’s brimming with feeling over it, but then clipped too, like demonstrating that he was brimming and is now being forced to clip it all backis very much the intent: “of course I mean with Steve, who the fuck else?”
It’s not lost on Steve how Eddie says his name. Ever. All the name.
But right now, how he’s making a point to say it in that warm, kinda…beloved way, when anyone else uses his last name in a way that’s anything-but.
“You cannot be—” Gareth scoffs, Steve can imagine him throwing up his hands, that sort of deal, but then Eddie comes in, and it’s a tone Steve’s only ever hear when he’s about to run a campaign into the ground where the characters may never recover, and if somehow manage it, they’ll wish they hadn’t:
“Oh, I am deadly serious.”
Because it’s not Steve’s character, but in defense of Steve’s relationship, that tone trickles something molten through his veins and prickles up his spine and…he’s gone have to stick that one in his back pocket to explore at a later date, for sure.
“Six months?”
Jeff—and Steve kinda likes Jeff, and not for the reason his bandmates would like, that he kicks around Hawkins after graduation, too, but more because Steve knows why; that’s to make more money for a college outside Indiana, and Steve thinks that’s fucking cool—but it’s here where Jeff dips fully away from being angry to being stupefied. Steve lets himself smirk at nothing because fuck yes: him and Eddie.
Six whole goddamn months.
“I was actually gonna ask you guys to come over soon, introduce him properly and stuff,” Eddie says, the disappointment in his voice again; Steve’s niggling desire to go and hug him from behind, maybe kiss under his ear a little, back in full force.
“He picks you up from practice, we see him,” Doug pipes back up, likewise confused, but Steve just takes the useful confirmation that no one did catch on that he pulled up ages ago, now.
“We know who Steve Harrington is—” Gareth snaps, protests in the way that betrays his eye-rolling, his thin-wearing patience.
“No!”
And that comes out of Eddie fierce enough to echo down at least half the block they’re on—seems like Eddie’s patience was worn out a while ago.
“You don’t!”
And everyone is silent in that way Steve knows all too well: when shit’a gone down but now you’re waiting in the edge for the worse thing to hit.
Then it does:
“And it’s a good thing I didn’t bring it up because you dipshits aren’t ready,” Eddie snaps, says dipshitso different from how he does with the Party, theirParty, their kids; he says it here with something real fucking close to disgust.
“Asking hostage questions, fuck off,” he huffs, and Steve hears Eddie’s footsteps, can’t tell if he’s gonna leave it at that, come find Steve and know he’s been standing there but that’ll be fine, it’s not like Steve wasn’t going to let him know as soon as they left—but then:
“Look,” and Eddie sounds the way Steve sounds when he’s pinching the bridge of his nose to fight a growing migraine, the sting of tears for all sorts of pain behind his eyes, and that hurts to hear from his boyfriend, like, a lot.
It fucking hurts.
“I am not just fucking him,” Eddie growls through the bridge-pinching pain; “I mean, fuck yes, I am, but,” and Steve hears the way he swallows all the way down the drive:
“I’m in this for the long haul,” Eddie tells his bandmates like throwing down a gauntlet; “and if you can’t respect me enough, and my choices, that stings,” Steve knows Eddie shrugs then: “but I’ll live.”
Steve’s about a millisecond from saying fuck it, opening the door just to slam it to announce his approach, and then going to physically grab his boyfriend, drag him to the car, and park in the abandoned lot down from the Wheelers’ neighborhood to kiss him senseless because that’s the closest place he can think of and he doesn’t think he’ll make it to either of their homes before he can’t fucking handle himself.
“But if you are gonna disrespect the man I love, no. Absolutely not.”
Eddies voice is a deadly sort of whisper. Steve would cower at it, the way it washes through a person, if he hadn’t just…said.
That.
“You love him?”
And for what Steve thinks is the first time since he climbed out of the car and committed to listening where he wasn’t invited, Gareth sounds…muted. Genuinely asking a question.
Steve, for his own part, kinda expected that he’d be more breathless, heart racing and shit, to hear the answer but in reality?
“Of course I love him.”
Steve already knew that in his cells, in his bones.
In his steady, not all-that-fast but particularly-especially-happily beating heart.
“Have you guys, like, said it and stuff?”
And of course Steve already knows that answer, both the literal one and the one that matters more, but he does perk up a bit, curious to hear what—if anything of note—Eddie chooses to give away here.
“He has,” Eddie says, and now…now maybe Steve should stop listening because this part, the way Eddie says that as flat fact—Steve doesn’t knowthis part beyond speculation. But…
“I wanted to, like,” and eddies voice can’t hide the way he’s gotta have that soft smile, the one he used to hide behind his hair before Steve started pulling it back to see in full, so now he only brings his hair out just to tease, to okay.
“I don’t think I’ve wanted much in my whole life, but he’s,” and Steve thinks he hears how Eddie chews his bottom lip for a second, in the subtlest click of how it slips free before Eddie takes a deep breath and—
“He doesn’t know what he’s worth,” Eddie starts, a little mournful almost, even, and Steve is unexpectedly glued to the spot in his fucking Nikes.
“He doesn’t understand that I’d sell the sun and the moon just to keep him,” Eddie’s saying, and with passion. With whole-ass honesty. And here, maybe, is where Steve gets to have some of the heart:fluttery feeling after all:
“He comes out the gate with the whole you don’t have to say it back and I just,” Eddie sighs, sniffs a little before heaving another breath deep enough to stretch his shirt, which Steve’s not imagining or anything, at all;
“I couldn’t say it, not right then, and risk him everthinking it was something I’d done to like, match. Like that I didn’t mean it with everything I’ve got, when I mean it with everything I’ve got and then also everything else. Like, anywhere. Ever.”
Steve realized he’d stopped breathing at some point when the little dots start floating in front of his eyes and he sucks in a shaking breath because: he’s known Eddie loves him. Unshakeably.
But, but all this—
“I couldn’t say it and have him ever wondered if I wouldn’t rip my heart out of my chest just to keep his safe.”
And of-fucking-course Steve’s pulse is running fucking riot about how much he’s in love right now, make no goddamn mistake. Jesus, he—
“Fuck.”
And Steve has never heard Gareth Emerson pushed just this side of speechless but: that’s the best way Steve can describe the kind of breathless wonder he says it with, like watching a rare bird take flight.
“You mean it.”
And Steve can pick out Eddie’s huffs and categorize them, on demand at this point: he doesn’t need to see the eye-roll to know Eddie’s deemed the expression of pure shock to be so beneath him in this specific context that he’s deemed it unworthy of any more attention.
His heart’s not jumping that loud to have missed it. So.
Steve just kinda grins toward the blacktop under his shoes.
“Why didn’t you,” Doug starts, still—usually, really, in Steve’s limited experience at least—the peacekeeper, the one who’s most invested at the human level when he’s not getting swept up in whatever the rest of the gang has deemed the cool thing to laugh at or make fun of at any given moment.
The huff Eddie gives this time is his incredulous one, which allows for just the slightest bit more consideration:
“The fuck do you think?”
The slightest bit, being the operative point.
“I’d hoped you’d take it better but,” Eddie adds, and there’s less drama in it than Steve might have expected. He’s being serious with them, and he sounds…disappointed.
Steve kinda want to make some kind of noise, give away his position, and just…hug Eddie tight from behind, if nothing else. Be there. Solid against him, wrapped up around him. Never wavering. Always at his back as much as at his side.
But Eddie’s not done:
“I’m not even asking you to like him, just be decent,” and it sounds like it hurts him to say as much, and Steve knows why; he genuinely despises when anyone thinks Lea with a the very beat thing about Steve. Steve believes this to be n unreasonable standard, and has expressed as much to Eddie who nods and smiles and kisses Steve’s forehead and does absolutely nothing to change his stance, but deep down?
Steve fucking feels so…loved for it.
“And like I said,” Steve can hear the judgement in Eddie’s tone clear as day; “you’re not ready, and I’m not putting him in that kind of situation.”
Steve sucks on the inside of his cheek, lest his grin at the way Eddie is not just defending him, but…protecting him, not his honor but his heart…
No ones ever even tried that before. Steve may not need it, or maybe he just learned he couldn’t survive needing it.
Getting it now…now it’s just…
Wow.
“And I’m in this for keeps, like, this is a forever type thing, so long as he wants it,” Eddie saying, explaining the color of a sky to a small child like what these words are that fundamental, that unalterably true. “So—”
“We’ve known each other forever, man,” Gareth eventually mutters, sounds indignant, but mostly gutted.
Steve knows before it happens that it’s not gonna make a difference.
“And we can still know each other. Just not everything, anymore,” and Eddie does sound a little sad but he’s…he’s a monolith, unshakable. “I don’t trust you with the parts that revolve around him, yet,” and Steve feels more than hears the ways his friends deflate, maybe shrink for being deemed so…insufficient. In the eyes of their ostensible leader, no less.
“Eddie, we didn’t,” Jeff starts, slow, and he doesn’t sound remorseful but—Eddie has all those coping mechanisms for a reason, right?
Because he’s quick to feeling, good and bad, and sometimes neither is fit to the moment.
Steve can’t help but be kinda glad Eddie doesn’t bother with those mechanisms just now, though, if it means he gets to hear this part:
“I know you didn’t, that’s the fucking problem,” Eddie groans, Steve can see the way he lens, bends at the knees and throws his body around a little in sheer, undiluted exasperation. “
“Because I could tell you he’s changed since school, and that’d be true, but that’s not even it,” and there’s more of the frustrated stomping round, Steve can hear it, but he’s…he’s ready distracted by that thing in his chest that has to has to be tied up in Eddie’s, too, that thing tugging on him to pay the fuck attention.
And who is he to ignore it?
“he was never who we thought he was in school in the first place. He is,” Eddie licks his lips, just to snack them loud:
“He is kind and funny, and goofy, and such a fuckin’ nerd, and he’s smart in these incredible ways where he’s sees what everyone else misses, and he’s protective as fuck and he’s got a heart of gold,” and Eddie’s voice only gets more heartfelt in its own right that longer he goes and Steve just, he’s, it’s—
“And I would tear my skin off just so it doesn’t get so much as a scuff on it,” Eddie ends with the most scathing delivery imaginable: he fucking meansthis shit. And Steve is going o live and die next to this man, scuffed heart still kept safe to the fucking end, he will swear that shit to anyone who needs to hear it.
He is going to have a whole fucking life with Eddie Munson, and love him for every single breath of it.
“And I don’t trust you guys yet not to tempt me to tear off my skin,” Eddie says finally after enough silence to catch his breath, and temper his tone just enough to sound tired; a little dejected. “I don’t trust you with him, and until that changes, we’re still friends,” Eddie sniffs, breathes out long; “you just won’t get to know about that part of me.”
He says it so simple, like he’s not half-cutting off some of the longest, closest friendships he’s ever had, and for Steve.
Steve doesn’t know if it makes him a person, or a really selfish one or whatever, if he doesn’t feel any urge to talk Eddie down, to make him walk it back just a little.
He doesn’t think he cares, though, either way.
“Seems like a really big part of you,” Doug says, deflated entirely.
“It is,” Eddie answers, unapologetic in a way that swells and sparkles in Steve’s ribs. “He is.”
“You’d walk from the band?” Of course Gareth asks, but it’s the first time he sounds small in his words. Like he maybe knows the answer, and isn’t so okay with how he got around to it even before Eddie wishes all doubt:
“In half a fuckin’ heartbeat.” Boom. Done. No hesitation whatsoever.
Less than half-a-fuckin’-heartbeat.
“That’s not what I’m saying I’m doing right now, but,” Eddie laughs a little, and that probably cuts deeper than anything for the boys, Steve suspects, especially when Eddie makes it unquestionable:
“It’s not even a question.”
And…maybe that drives a knife deeper for the band, but for Steve?
Steve kinda wants to…giggle, or some shit. He hadn’t realized just how much he wanted someone who answered a question like that, exactly like that, who talked about Steve exactly like that, without anything to gain, just because they…believed it.
“Jesus,” Gareth mutters, sounds kinda blindsided, kinda thrown and then some.
“If we,” Jeff clears his throat after a long period of quiet; “if we do better, could we meet him someday?” And the way he says it, earnest and shit:, like he wants to at least think about, at least maybe try:
“Like, really meet him?”
Like Eddie means enough that he’ll try, and that sings sweet in Steve’s veins because goddamn straight, his Eddie deserves that from the people hecares about. No matter who or what Steve is, Eddiedeserves that much, and so much more.
But he sounds like even just this is something amazing, Steve can hear the smile in his voice:
“Yeah, man,” he answers Jeff, claps him audibly on the shoulder; “I look forward to it.”
And shit, y’know what?
So does Steve.
“See you in two weeks,” and Eddies footsteps follow, guitar slung over his back for the way his weight falls with each one, but then:
“Eddie!”
That’s Doug; the footsteps stop close to the edge of the garage door as another set rushes to catch up, where he’ll see Steve if he walks much farther, where Steve’s got his hand on the door handle of the car, slowly inching it open to push shut and look wholly-unsuspicious now that Eddie might be followed out to his ride:
“Get him flowers. For your anniversary,” Doug says, tone low like a secret; “I know, like, it might seem like guys wouldn’t want flowers, but,” and Steve actually has to strain to hear the next part:
“My mom gets my dad flowers on his birthday every year, and he lights up like the Fourth of July.”
Steve remembers the first time he ever got flowers. His favorites, even if he thinks he only knew it subconsciously because they were handed to him with the stammering explanation of I don’t even know if you like flowers, or like these ones, but you look at them when we’re out, like, just walking or something and your eyes linger, and these ones just remind me of you and—
Apparently, Steve loves hyacinths. And sunflowers make Eddie think of him.
Because of course Steve’s first gift of flowers came from Eddie.
“Thanks man,” Eddie sounds the lightest, most genuine Steve’s heard him since he pulled up and got out of the car; “they’re already ordered.”
And Doug chuckles, and Steve?
Steve bites down his smile to less exploding-star levels—if he’d just pulled up he doesn’t have a reason, save that Eddie is enough of a reason in Steve’s eyes, his mind, the way his chest expands just thinking on him—as he pulls the car door closed again, loud enough to be noticed.
For Eddie to walk out of the garage fast as anything and meet Steve with a smile of his own that justifies the fuck out of where Steve’s had started, anyway.
All star-bright and everything.
♥️🎸♥️
✨also on ao3✨
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btw this is either titled ‘halcyon shoegazing’ or ‘heart in your shoes’ so if you have an opinion you should maybe tell me or something, my brain’s tired and is resisting decisions rn
✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here
divider credit here and here and here
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chiquilines · 4 months ago
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Whoopsie daisy im late to the panel redraw train but this page is tattooed on my frontal lobe
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xxplastic-cubexx · 4 months ago
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you open my Super Important Documents and its just pictures of charles xavier
#xmen#mcu#xmen movies#xmen first class#charles xavier#professor x#snap sketches#todays schedule has been ruined by my ever occurring need to practice drawing movie charles its horrendous#i started this sheet last night but then i kept adding to it and i keep wanting to add to it but i MUST stop myself#in an ideal world i get paid to draw charles xavier and erik lehnsherr but no i live in this baka society#sleepless charles WAS inspired by me starting this at 1AM and forcing myself to sleep at 4AM#and then here i am picking i up still later .... i need professional help i fear but i aint got time for that#NEVERTHELESS I THINK IT GOT IT NOW. I THINK IM OK. i think i know how i wanna go bout drawing him now ...#chat can i confess that like. .5% of the reason i barely draw FC charles i because of his hair#for some reason some demonic entity prevents me from drawing it easily i am in STRUGGLE CITY#the only thing that gets me is that whenever i draw him i can only think of the likes of a disney prince but man thems the strokes ig#i also drew a quick dark phoenix charles but i figured id just keep this first class oriented#anything else i want to say ? uh. hm. its funny i never do any of these sheets for erik#genuinely On My Life made One (1) sheet and was like 'no yeah i got it. i got it down'#literally not my fault his head is So Shaped and defined but anyways. this aint about him.#i mean it could be. i still wanna do a doodle page concentrated on drawing how his powers show#more specifically how do i wanna draw the glow cause i cant decide on it ... also i wanna draw the 'levels' ...#but thats for another time. for right now i should probably eat i havent eaten all day#bye bye !!!!!! here's to hoping i draw something thats not a doodle sheet one of these days
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hellspawnmotel · 1 year ago
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even after settling down, theyre pretty cautious.....
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.......it doesnt last long
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starcurtain · 4 months ago
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I have a headcanon that girls in Natlan (and hey, guys too, we are fair and equal in this house!) obsess over Ancient Names the way real teens obsess over astrology signs.
There's entire scrolls with clickbaity titles like "What His Ancient Name Says About Him" and "Are Your Names Compatible? Read Up on the History to Find Out If You'll Be a Match!"
Ancient Names that can be interpreted as relating to relationships in any way, like "Honest" or "the Protector," are extremely sought after, and having an appealing Ancient Name is basically a one-way ticket to popularity in the dating pool.
So when Ororon debuts as a hero of Natlan and his Ancient Name is revealed to be "Devotion"...
Well, Citlali and the other Night Wind elders seem to have found themselves a brand-new full-time job--on the Ororon Defense Squad. ("Does beating the girls off with sticks count as a misdemeanor?" "Well if you've got problems with how I'm handling this crisis, come handle it yourself, Mavuika!")
Ororon is pleasantly bemused by the entire situation. His field is full of visitors. He's never received so many presents in his life.
But... why do none of these girls want to visit his aphids? 🤔
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clemelntine · 3 days ago
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There is something about the one spotlight on the center of the room, in between them, but leaning more towards Fadel that (under the assumption that this scene, like many compositions, uses a big spotlight from above as a metaphor/visual representation for the ever watchful eyes of God, or that it applies Foucault's theory that being seen is the start of being punished) says a lot about the scene and visually represents the conversations they have. The whole place/room is being watched, with the chairs all standing under the light, so anybody who comes to the meetings is being seen. They come here to share their feelings and lay themselves bare, so it makes sense.
But because Fadel comes here often and it is more his confessional than it is Styles, when it is just the two of them the light leans more towards him. This, together with the fact that they are discussing Fadels problems and his emotions, makes it feel like he is more in the focus, being watched more.
Later, when Style joins him on his lap (and under the light), he shows that he is there not just for Fadel but with him as well. What Fadel will be judged for, so will he. Because they are one and they stand together. This message is, ofcourse, reflected in Styles words, but it is nice that they emphasized it with the lighting as well.
Also (working within Foucault's theory) there is power in seeing and submission/powerlessness in being seen, so for Style to sit on Fadel's lap making it so that they are both unable to see eachother, because they have their head on eachothers shoulders, (other than giving physical comfort also) puts them on an even level of both not seeing or being seen. So that Fadel will no longer feel watched and judged.
(Might also be why Fadel likes stuffing his face into Styles neck. It's hot ofc, but I've discussed many times that Style is very observant, even when they kiss (and more) so kissing Styles neck assures that for a moment he cant look at Fadels face)
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chevroletdean · 3 months ago
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Tainted — Chapter 1: Practice My Confession
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SUMMARY: As his nightmares get worse, Dean realizes he’s turning into something he’s terrified of; he needs his girlfriend to promise him something.
SHIP: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader (MOC!Dean x Reader, Demon!Dean x Reader) GENRE: Angst TO NOTE/WARNINGS: Seasons 9-10 spoilers, established relationship, angst, alcohol, violence & gore (a little grittier than canon level), mentions of torture WORD COUNT: 2.5k A/N: This is the first chapter of Tainted, and my second post for the @jacklesversebingo challenge! PROMPT: "I don't want to find out what I would do if I lost you." CREDIT & LINKS: header edited by myself ──〃★ dividers ──〃★ jacklesversebingo 2024 masterlist ──〃★ series masterlist
⏯️PLAYLIST ⏩NEXT CHAPTER
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The clock's digits stared back at him, mockingly so — 4:06 AM. Their glow matched the same crimson shade that had originally startled him awake.
He was still breathless, too, after jolting up into a rigid, wide-eyed state.
Every fiber of him felt as if it was made of stone. Lifeless, cold, paralyzed. Everything except his heart, anyway. That part of him defied his stillness, hammering relentlessly against his ribs and threatening to leap into his throat.
Squinting, he averted his gaze by lowering his head. Reluctantly he blinked down to his hands, which were trembling in his lap. Though his clammy palms felt sticky and cold, a pang of relief washed through him when he realized it was simply sweat that was sticking to his skin.
He had half expected to see the blood still.
Just a nightmare, then.
Those weren’t anything out of the ordinary for Dean Winchester. The man had spent more sleepless nights in his life than he’d ever had the luxury of a full night’s rest.
However, this one was different. It was raw. Violent.
Last time his tormented slumber left him this hollow and shaken was years ago — back when the memories of Hell were still fresh in his mind. Even to this day, seven years later, the times of fire burning flesh and endless torture sent shivers down his spine. But it’s been a while since his dreams were this vivid.
The soft rustling of bedsheets pulled him back to reality.
“Dean?” — Her voice was thick with sleep and laced with concern. Just mere moments ago she had been fast asleep. Peaceful and calm at his side, grounding him as always. Except he was still unable to shake it off.
This feeling, which was just as attached to him as the symbol embedded into his skin.
“Hey,” was the only lame reply he could muster. Even the movement of his mouth felt askew and wrong. “Sorry, did I wake you up?”
Instead of replying, she reached towards the nightstand, flicked on the lights and sat up. Dean remained perfectly still at her side, his eyes still glued to his trembling hands.
That was until her hand entered his field of vision. The second he understood her attempt of grabbing his hands, he pulled his away. His shoulders stiffened further as he cleared his throat.
“Just a nightmare, ‘m fine,” the hunter grumbled, more to himself than anything, whilst swiftly swinging his legs over the edge of his side of the bed. He rubbed his palms up and down his thighs thrice, then ran his wiped hands through his messy hair only to realize his forehead was just as sticky with sweat.
Even with his back turned towards her, quite a literal manifestation of the impenetrable walls he liked to build around himself, she recognized the gravity of his ‘nightmare.’ His shoulders were slumped yet tense, and the way he avoided not only her gaze but also her touch caused her stomach to churn.
Right away she understood this was about more than just an unpleasant dream.
She watched in silence as he got up, barely making out the mumbled word “shower” as he slipped into the bathroom.
Part of her wanted to follow after him, just to make sure he was okay. As okay as he could be, anyway.
They’ve all noticed how on edge Dean was lately. Not that anyone blamed him for it, given the stressful nature of the past few weeks. Defeating Abaddon has taken a toll on Dean, more so than any of them wanted to admit.
They could’ve never killed a Knight of Hell without the Mark of Cain.
However, it became more and more obvious that the strings attached to this curse were heavier than originally anticipated. Desperate times had called for desperate measures. But seeing Dean slip away from sanity more and more made her question whether it was really worth it.
Ever since killing the demon, his temper became unpredictable.
Even his appetite had diminished as of late, shocking both Sam and her when he downright refused to order a cheeseburger at one of his favorite fast food spots. Furthermore, Dean’s patience ran thin lately, his recent behavior during cases increasingy reckless — if not downright suicidal. He’d charge into the enemies’ nest, guns blazing, just like that and without regard for any possible dangers.
Not to mention, the frequency of those nightmares have reached an all time high, a new record if you will. It wasn’t just the usual disruption of his four hours of shut-eye either; these were the kinds of nightmares that had him instinctively reach for the gun under his pillow, nightmares that left him giving up on going back to sleep at 4 AM.
She would’ve asked him to open up to her, but she knew that would be like talking to a brick wall. Whenever she’d test the waters, he’d dismiss her and avoid awkward conversations about his feelings.
Still, it was worth another try.
As she listened to the water running in the bathroom, she decided to slip out of bed as well, despite her own fatigue. Grabbing her fluffy robe and putting on her slippers, she used the small time window to head to the kitchen. Since it was the middle of the night, the bunker was eerily silent, every step of hers echoing off the bleak walls.
Once in the kitchen, she grabbed a kettle and two mugs, brewing up some tea. Something to warm and soothen those nerves of Dean’s. For good measure, she added more ingredients to both cups, then walked back to their shared room.
She kicked the door shut behind herself just in time for Dean to leave the bathroom.
Dean only stole a brief glance in her direction, before he sat down on the bed again, back leaning against the headboard. “You didn’t go back to sleep?”
“Figured a cup of tea would do us good,” she shrugged, crooked grin on her lips. She handed one of the cups to him and maneuvered herself to join his side. “Roiboos-Orange.”
Dean sniffed at the steaming liquid.
“Not to sound ungrateful, sweetheart,” he sighed, already moving to hand the cup back to her. “I don’t think I’m in the mood for a tea-party.”
“That’s a shame, ‘cause I even added the special secret ingredient,” she replied with a feigned pout and fished a small flask from the pocket of her robe, wiggling it in front of him. The quiet sloshing of rum inside indicated the bottle’s half-empty state.
Dean paused, then choked out a weak chuckle. Convinced, he brought the cup to his lips and took a sip. Behind the sweet aroma, a spicy note lingered, which admittedly did fill him with some warmth, at least.
“Bribing me with drinks now, huh?”
“Only for the special occasions,” she mumbled and went for a sip of her own cup. Normally she didn’t like endorsing Dean’s drinking habits, but she could tell he needed something to steel himself. Deseperate times, and such.
“Special occasions,” Dean echoed. He sure didn’t like the sound of that.
“I’m not gonna beat around the bush,” she sighed, her fingers closing around the warm ceramic as if she could brace herself for a heavy conversation that way. “Your nightmare, what was it about?”
Unsurprisingly, silence followed.
With great effort, Dean stared at the golden colored mixture in his hand. He focused on the swirls of steam emitting from it, along with its herbal scent. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about it. Then again, he knew better than anyone that he couldn’t bottle it all up forever.
Then, Dean took a big swig of the warm tea, deeming it to be his liquid courage.
“Abaddon,” he vaguely answered at last.
“Abaddon,” she echoed, skepticism obvious in her tone. “But… you killed her months ago, Dean. She’s no longer a threat, right?”
“Right,” Dean hummed and allowed his finger to circle the rim of his cup. “She isn’t.”
At that, her brows knitted together in confusion. Admittedly, she didn’t understand what Dean was hinting at. If he wasn’t anxious about Abaddon, what else made him so skittish?
“It’s the Mark,” he gruffed through a strained voice, and he definitely did feel his throat close up, no matter how often he’d try to swallow the lump inside. “It’s this burning sensation, I— it felt good, killing her, you know?”
She remained silent at his side, listening with increasing confusion and tension.
“Because we had to defeat her,” she nodded in agreement, but Dean shook his head and she saw him clutch the cup until his knuckles turned white around it.
Clearly, she didn’t get what he was saying. Not at all.
Dean paused for a moment, unsure how to put it into words. Killing Abaddon hadn’t been a task of necessity. It had been one of urgency, the personal kind. He needed to kill her, yes, because every fiber of him had demanded it.
Because he wanted to do it.
“Because it was satisfying,” he corrected her with just a mutter under his breath, barely audible, as if he was ashamed to admit it. “The First Blade sinking into her was just, well, powerful. It was like scratching an itch.”
He stared ahead, blankly. Even in the dim light of their bedroom she saw the green of his eyes being swallowed by something dark and cold.
“It keeps replaying in my dreams, me killing her,” Dean mumbled.
He remembered every detail of it, even though at the time it had felt like he had just blacked out. Impaling Abaddon smoothly, her pained scream melting into her last breath, him stabbing the lifeless body again. And again, for good measure.
And again, and again, and again.
Sam had struggled to make him snap out of it, to make him drop the First Blade.
The familiar voice of his girlfriend reeled him back from the flashbacks. “You did what you had to do,” she reassured him, but he knew that it wasn’t as easy.
“I kill other demons in my dreams, too,” he continued, clearing his throat. “Tonight, I dreamt one attacked you and I just… I snapped and I ripped him apart. I’m talking limb after damn limb, severing sinew and muscle and tearing flesh from every fucking bone, until there is nothing left but pulp.”
It was the way he said it that sent cold shivers down her spine.
It was not as romantic as it may initially sound, not when his hands were twitching, jaw clenched and eyes filled with a sinister bloodlust. That was what it was all about.
The Mark of Cain was singing a siren’s song, calling for violence. Demanding bloodshed.
She knew her boyfriend would do anything to protect her. He’d kill for her in a heartbeat, without regret, if it meant keeping her safe. After all, Dean Winchester was known to be ruthless when it was necessary.
But was it really about fighting for her, or was it about ripping the enemy to shreds?
Dean’s small ministration — him scratching mindlessly at his lower arm where the Mark was embedded, burnt into him like a scar — told her he was after the latter. After the thrill of gutting foes like animals and drawing enough blood to quench the curse’s thirst.
It was an unsettling thought, both for her and for Dean.
They had already seen the darkness that came with the Mark of Cain, but the real grasp it had on Dean suddenly seemed much more terrifying.
She, too, remembered seeing him practically slaughter Abaddon.
But she also remembered him taking back control, and she knew he still held the reigns.
What he needed most now was trust. And she did trust him, with her life, always. Mark or not. So she reached for his hand for the second time this night. This time, her fingers grasped his wrist successfully, gently but firmly, and she pulled it away from his arm so he’d stop scratching the Mark.
“It was just a dream, baby.” Despite her greatest effort, there was a slight tremble in her voice.
Her eyes searched his green ones and she saw the turmoil within. The look of exasperation.
He was so tired.
“You don’t get it,” he huffed, his voice breathless and broken. “I enjoyed it.”
Was it about vengance? Maybe.
But even more so it was about the sheer simplicity of it. The twisted needs falling into place so perfectly whenever, dream or not, he’d sink a knife into flesh, crack bones and drain as much blood as possible, until it was hot and sticky on his hands.
The Mark craved it, corrupting him slowly but surely into madness. It was constanty calling for him to do unspeakable things, even now.
It demanded him to kill.
“I’m scared of what I’m capable of,” he whispered through a strained voice and squeezed her hand, clinging to her like his life depended on it. “In that nightmare, you were just gone and I… I couldn’t control it. I just saw red and it felt so fucking real.”
Without hesitation, she reached over him, placing her cup of tea on the nightstand on his side and adding his right with it. With both of her and both of his hands free now, she interlocked their fingers together.
“It wasn’t real,” she reassured him. “You can control it, you always did.”
Dean took a shaky breath and scoffed. So far, yes, she was right. But what if one day he’d fail and lose his composure? He felt like he was hanging on by a thread. And he was way too weak to hold on for much longer.
He was slipping. He knew he was. It was only a matter of time.
His voice was so defeated, weeks of exhaustion weighing down heavily on him: “I don’t want to find out what I would do if I lost you.”
Those words were a stab to her chest. She didn’t even know what to reply with. No words could console him, she felt just as helpless.
“We’ll find a way to get rid of it,” she whispered, but they both knew she couldn’t promise something like that.
They could try, and they have looked into just about everything. But it was a losing battle, honestly. There wasn’t much lore on Cain, much less on the curse and how to remove it.
“No,” Dean sighed, shaking his head. “No, ‘cause if not, then— I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“Dean—”
“You have to stop it,” he interrupted her. “If things go to shit— when they go to shit, you have to stop it. Stop me.”
The invisible stab-wound in her chest froze to solid ice. He was talking as if he had already given up on a cure. Was it so wrong to still have faith?
“Nothing will go to shit,” she insisted, letting go of his hands only to cup his face instead. “Look at me. We won’t let you down like that, you know that, right?”
He regarded her words for a moment, but the silence between them was heavy and the despair palpable.
“Promise me you’ll put an end to it if things go wrong,” he spoke, begged. “Please.”
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NEXT CHAPTER ➡️
Dean Winchester Taglist: @ladysparkles78 @deaniemyboo @winchester-whiskey @whormotional @spacecowgirl126
@zepskies @calibootsgirl @hot-and-confused @spookyfunhottub @berryblues46
@midnight--raine @emmy21842
Put a green heart 💚 in the comments to be added to the Dean x Reader taglist. Let me know, if you want to be tagged for this Series specifically. (Please note: Ageless blogs will only be tagged in fluff and angst posts!)
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moonlarking · 8 months ago
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Do you dumbasses realize he quite literally confirmed his relationships with both women and confirmed having sexual relations with them?
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magicaldragons · 1 year ago
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peak romance is saying "be on my side"
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"All I wanted, was for you to be on my side. I would've done anything for that to happen." – kang yohan | the devil judge
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"Hit me all you want, but be on my side; because even when you hit me, it's for my sake." – nam shin | are you human too?
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"I thought you were on my side." – ryu shi oh | strong girl namsoon bonus: "no matter what, you must stay by my side." – ryu shi oh | strong girl nam soon
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stuffed-frog · 1 year ago
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Jooster fic writers imitate Wodehouse so well that I often forget they’re not gonna confess their undying love to each other by the end of an actual novel, and when I do remember I become immediately discouraged.
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kazimakuwabara · 1 month ago
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optiwashere · 6 months ago
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Huh, I didn't even realize it'd been a year since BG3 came out until I opened tumblr this morning. Kinda wild. I didn't think much of the game's release: I like Larian's games, and I like the BG series. I wasn't ever going to skip the game, but I didn't think I'd play it at launch because I was busy working on a novel in 2023 and not doing well financially.
Thankfully, circumstances left me with a little bit of extra money last year just before launch and it meant I could spend on a video game. I needed a pick-me-up after said 2023 novel failed to go anywhere, and BG3 was right there. Like most CRPGs, I played it in basically every moment of free time that I had and did as much as I possibly could in one playthrough.
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It's so odd how these small happenstances can snowball into coming back to fandom, finding some friends I might've never met otherwise, and writing a lot of fanfiction along the way. I'll probably have something more interesting to say/share when it's the 14th, AKA when I sat down and wrote my first fic for this fandom.
Anyways, it's been a lot of fun and I'm looking forward to more years to come 💜
#random fandom thoughts#there's a fair few tidbits about that first fic that will be more fun to share on the 14th#but there's some fun facts about the early parts of my first playthrough:#Asheera killed Us because the player thought it was going to be a hostile intellect devourer and didn't want to deal with that at lvl1 lol#It took me several hours to recruit Gale because I didn't want to interact with the glowing portal until I was “ready”#I (the player) sent Barcus flying at first because I have a very silly sense of humor#I did reload that one because Asheera wouldn't BUT I was satisfied#and finally the one that is always entertaining considering how things ended up#I originally thought nothing of Shadowheart and didn't go into the game with any idea about romance or the companions whatsoever#all I noticed about her was that she wore Sharran symbols everywhere but tried to hide her faith#then she tried the most miserable attempt at manipulation I've ever seen in my life (when she tests you about Raphael's deal)#and she exposed herself as the Worst Sharran Possible#then came her confession of her faith and I knew something special was happening#the confession sounds so robotic and prewritten almost like it's from a canned speech she's practiced and rehearsed#and sounds more like regurgitation and being Told what to believe rather than an impassioned plea borne of bone-deep faith#the sudden shift in her tone had me thinking: “this is either atrocious character writing or fantastic characterization”#and lo and behold#anyways if you've read this far then bg3 is a very special thing for me and I love getting to create for the fandom
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jaybirdscoffee · 3 months ago
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please reblog this and tell me where you were on november 5th, 2020.
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paintaboveyourbones · 3 months ago
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Woops! I tried redrawing the previous sketch and my hand slipped and I ended up making it into Bianca instead and adding one more person. I’m so excited to finish inking this - Marius turned out so fucking rad! 🤧
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