#talking around things

[loveinhawkins]

the first in a history of removals

ao3 Written for @steddiemicrofic June 2024 prompt, “stuff,” 483 words. Rated G, Post-Canon, Pre/Developing Relationship, Steve Harrington Backstory, cw: absent parents, implied depression in a parent

The house is quiet when Steve gets back, not in a too quiet way, exactly, not in the way that makes Steve’s hair stand on end.

But there’s an imperceptible shift in the air, like summer waning, on the cusp of fall—enough for him to know that something’s changed in the time it took to give Robin a ride home.

Eddie’s in the living room, kneeling near the TV; he’s wearing an old off-white t-shirt of Steve’s, one that’s grown soft and faded with time. The sight would normally make Steve smile: how their spaces are blurring together; how there’s a new toothbrush resting on the bathroom sink that, by silent agreement, belongs to Eddie.

But he spots the change immediately: the cabinet by the TV has been opened. Eddie’s holding a photograph delicately by the corners; he turns when he notices Steve’s in the room, keeps glancing down so his thumb doesn’t smudge the picture.

“Your mom called,” he says softly.

The words sound just like how he’s holding the photograph. Careful.

“Oh,” Steve says.

He can’t stop the wave of sadness in his voice—that he wasn’t there, that he missed her. He never knows when the next phone call will come.

But he does know that Eddie would’ve been kind.

“Was she, um. Was she okay?”

“Yeah, she—” Eddie stops, a tiny crease in between his eyes. “I think so. She—she just wanted me to check…” With his free hand, he indicates the open cabinet, “I wouldn’t have—it’s just, she asked me to—”

“I know,” Steve says. “Eddie, it’s fine, I’m—I’m glad you picked up.”

He sits down, and Eddie hands the photograph over so gently that Steve has to look away. His eyes catch on the cabinet shelves, the old photo albums, and he laughs quietly, “I can’t believe she kept all this stuff,” because that’s easier than trying to explain the rest of it.

When she calls on bad nights, her voice trembles with the strain of sounding upbeat—like how people try to disguise drunkenness, their over-enunciation only giving them away. More than once, Steve has wanted to say I know you’re not sleeping, because they are similar in that regard; sometimes the louder they are, the worse it is.

“How old were you?” Eddie asks.

Steve glances down. He doesn’t look at the picture directly, but he sees enough. The crimson blur of fall leaves. His mom pushing him on the tire swing.

“Ten,” he says. Then, suddenly, “That house isn’t there anymore.”

“Okay,” Eddie says kindly. He pauses. “Steve. You know you can… you can tell me anything.”

Steve nods. Murmurs, “Not tonight.”

“No,” Eddie agrees. “Wanna sleep?”

Steve nods again.

Eddie leans over, kisses his forehead; it’s the closest they’ve come so far, and all Steve can think is that Eddie must’ve brushed his teeth already, because his breath smells faintly like mint.

Smells like home.

[marypsue]

Keep seeing that post where OP starts like 'Thinking about...grieving the undead' and then adds on about like. Real life situations where people have not died but have left your life and you would have reason to grieve them.

All respect, that's an important concept, but that is not what I am thinking about when I read 'grieving the undead'.

[crowkip]

yeehaw, baby!

[chloesimaginationthings]

FNAF movie Vanessa’s thoughts when meeting Abby..

[technically-human]

Payneland² 

[taikk0]

i cant think of a caption i have an exam tomorrow 💀(it is currently 12 am <3)

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[drenched-in-sunlight]

i love the DLC man

[aalghul]

once again thinking about jason as duke’s robin. he’s ~4 years younger than jason, and that puts him at 8-12 during Jason’s time as robin. that’s prime time to get attached to your local kid vigilante before your own life goes downhill.

and if we try to keep duke’s meeting with bruce in zero year + duke’s age (so he can remember the meeting and hold that conversation with bruce), he has to be around 8. if he starts following batman through the news at that time because of the mess that just happened, the robin he sees is probably jason. I’ve literally connected the dots

[starry-bi-sky]

on a completely separate note; shizun luo binghe with a disciple shen yuan who fell into the abyss??? *thinks about LBH canonically stealing SQQ's corpse for 5 years* he'd hallucinate i think. like, like visual and audial hallucinations.

Keeps thinking he's seeing SQQ in the corner of his eyes, or wandering between the trees, amongst a group of disciples. Thinks he hears him calling for him, but its just the wind or another disciple.

Gets Xiu Ya reforged but patently fucking refuses to make a sword mound. Because his disciple Is Not Dead :))) There was No Body. He's Not Dead. And If You keep Insisting That He Is, He's Gonna Skewer You :). He's holding onto Xiu Ya so he can return his most favored disciple's sword when he returns. It's on his hip right next to Zheng Yang where it's supposed to be.

Also this motherfucker?? does not sleep btw. He has the image of SQQ, wide eyed and hysterical and standing at the mouth of the abyss burned into his fucking eyelids. Can't use the dreamscape to escape it either because he keeps trying to save him and either he does and it's an incredibly cruel trick to wake up to, or he doesn't and he gets his heart broken in several different pieces again.

There is no convincing this man that Shen Qingqiu is dead. Absolutely nothing at all. He is buried so deep in denial that moles would be jealous of how deep he is. He keeps making tea for two in the bamboo house only to remember that it's just him. SQQ's fans are hiding everywhere, little reminders of his presence. He goes to wake up SQQ on the mornings he sleeps in-- only to find the room empty.

[ghoulbats]

well….it finally happened

[bookalicent]

yeah so this was insane

[breadandblankets]

Duke: "So then Ra's went-"

Damian: "You know that's not grandfather's name right"

Duke: "Hm?"

Damian: "that's not his name it's a title, you're supposed to say the whole title, his name isn't 'Head'"

Duke:

Damian:

Duke: "She give me Ra's on my Ghul til I…"

Damian, sighing, unsheathing a sword: "Thomas, I know you will survive this, so I will not be holding back"

[lucabyte]

i feel like people are sleeping on the occam's razor situation of how buckwild it is to outright accuse a guy of being a clone of your friend even if you DO have a lot of circumstantial evidence. there's other options is what im saying. they could just be like. a guy. that's a sensible deduction. you should explore that deduction. ignore my shirt that reads I <3 RED HERRINGS.

i still think odile has the correct theory on lock but she's smart enough to know it needs like... a real smoking gun to be able to bring it up without sounding insane.

anyway. (mirabelle voice) i know its rude to speculate but has anyone else noticed the grieving? they seem to be grieving. does anyone have any thoughts on the grieving? i have some thoughts on the grieving.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Council of lovefools.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[gildedoak]

Episode 7: Beignets!

I rewatched S2E2 of Helluva Boss ("Seeing Stars") and got hit with that BANGER of a line from Loona about dads having issues and messing up all the time but still caring. VIVZIE, I am sensing a THEMEEEEEEE.

And thank you for all the lovely comments thus far! I'm so tickled to see how many folks connect with this, whether you're from the American South or not. Food is such a core love language for so many people.

SOUTHERN COMFORT FOOD SERIES Chicken and Waffles Sweet Tea Peach Cobbler Hushpuppies Crab/Crawfish Boil Gumbo (plus character notes!) Beignets part 2 Shrimp and Grits Cornbread Biscuits and Gravy Pecan Pie/Sugar Pie Fried Catfish ??? - Season 1 Finale

Description under the cut!

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: Radioapple comic

PANEL 1: (Lucifer sits atop a barstool-like chair on his balcony at the hotel. He's curled up in on himself, quietly crying with his head in his arms as he slumps over the marble balustrade and his tail curled around his ankles.)

PANEL 2: (Alastor gently sets a large platter of fresh beignets next to Lucifer's arm, and Lucifer glances up, looking miserable.) Alastor: (offscreen) You're not a bad father, you know.

PANEL 3: (Alastor strikes a jazz-hands pose as a canned laugh track emanates from his cane.) Alastor: Granted, YES you did fail spectacularly! You fail A LOT. But...

PANEL 4: (Closeup of the lower half of Lucifer's face as more tears fall down his cheeks.) Alastor: (offscreen) ...you're consistently, SINCERELY trying. And that is incredibly important.

PANEL 5: (closeup of Alastor's right eye in profile) Alastor: It's certainly more than my father ever did.

PANEL 6: (Alastor reaches over and places a hand on Lucifer's, which is still clutching at his upper arm. Though we can't see Lucifer's face, he's sitting a little straighter, looking up at Alastor.) Alastor: (offscreen) Or yours, for that matter.

END DESCRIPTION]