#what do y'all think??

[ixiraider]

Trying to decide on a petpet...................... 🤔

[remosdeerica]

Older Damian from the future for post related reasons: *is wearing glasses*

10yr old Damian: This is outrageous! I am a Wayne! An al Ghul! I would never succumb to such weakness as needing a visual aid!

Older Damian: *so done* Listen, whether you want to admit it or not we are, in fact, a human being. And as such there are only so many concussions we can get before there are consequences.

10yr Old Damian: But father has no such difficulty! And as his son neither should we!

Older Damian: Father is a lying little bitch that secretly wears contacts like the coward he is.

Bruce: *has been outed*

10yr old Damian: *shocked Pikachu face*

Older Damian: *smirks* And besides. Its not like I need to keep up the appearance of being invincible. I'm not even a vigilante anymore. I'm a doctor.

10yr old Damian: *demonic screaming*

[daisywords]

One of my biggest nitpicks in fiction concerns the feeding of babies. Mothers dying during/shortly after childbirth or the baby being separated form the mother shortly after birth is pretty common in fiction. It is/was also common enough in real life, which is why I think a lot of writers/readers don't think too hard about this. however. Historically, the only reason the vast majority of babies survived being separated from their mother was because there was at least one other woman around to breastfeed them. Before modern formula, yes, people did use other substitutes, but they were rarely, if ever, nutritionally sufficient.

Newborns can't eat adult food. They can't really survive on animal milk. If your story takes place in a world before/without formula, a baby separated from its mother is going to either be nursed by someone else, or starve.

It doesn't have to be a huge plot point, but idk at least don't explicitly describe the situation as excluding the possibility of a wetnurse. "The father or the great grandmother or the neighbor man or the older sibling took and raised the baby completely alone in a cave for a year." Nope. That baby is dead I'm sorry. "The baby was kidnapped shortly after birth by a wizard and hidden away in a secret tower" um quick question was the wizard lactating? "The mother refused to see or touch her child after birth so the baby was left to the care of the ailing grandfather" the grandfather who made the necessary arrangements with women in the neighborhood, right? right? OR THAT GREAT OFFENDER "A newborn baby was left on the doorstep and they brought it in and took care of it no issues" What Are You Going to Feed That Baby. Hello?

Like. It's not impossible, but arrangements are going to have to be made. There are some logistics.

[luwha]

Not telling y'all that you should be able to identify AI slop (but it is a valuable skill, you totes should), but if you're to be accusing artists of being AI left and right at least go and do your homework, or at least do the bare minimum and use AI identification tools like Hive Moderation, so you 1- don't ruin someone's lifehood 2- don't make a clown out of yourself maybe

Like, i get it, AI slop and "AI artists" pretending to be genuine is getting harder and harder to identify, but just accusing someone out of the blue and calling it a day doesn't make it any better.

The AI clowns shifted to styles that have less "tells" and the AI arts are becoming better. Yeah, it sucks ass.

They're also integrating them with memes, so you chuckle and share, like those knights with pink backgrounds, some cool frog and a funny one liner, so you get used to their aesthetic.

This is an art from the new coming set Final Fantasy for MtG. This is someone on Reddit accusing someone of using AI. From what i can tell, and i fucking hate AI, there is NO AI used on this image.

As far as i can tell and as far as any tool i've used, the Artist didn't use AI. which leads to the next one:

they accused the artist of this one of using Ai. the name of this artist is Nestor Ossandon.

He as already been FALSELY ACCUSED of using AI, because he drew a HAND THAT LOOKED A LITTLE WEIRD, which caused a statement from D&D Beyond, confirming that no AI has been used.

Not to repeat mysef, they're accusing the art above, that is by Nestor, to have used Ai.

REAL artists are not machines. And just like the AI slop, we are not perfect and we make mistakes. The hands we draw have wonky fingers sometimes. The folds we draw are weird. But we are REAL. We are real people. And hey, some of our "mistakes" sometimes are CHOICES. Artistic choices are a thing yo.

If you're to accuse someone of using Ai, i know it's getting hard to identify. But come on. At least do your due diligence.

[cozymodeonpoint]

senshi fans: learning how to make nutritious meals for themselves

laios fans: down bad

marcille fans: lesbianism

chilchuck fans: putting that man in situations

[hasnomoxxie]

IM SORRY IVE BEEN BUSY MAKING THIS LEVITY RISES INTRO ANIMATIC

song by @maddiesmiles I love her she's so cool

Swaps to note from this:

Bill Cypher // Smile dip Puppies

Read about them here

The altered intro end was moreso to reference the animatics unused one!

Darlene // Paul Bunyan

(Yeah this does mean mason fails to flirt with him Paul, half because he knows he's a cryptid ithink. Paul probably turns into a blue minotaur maybe. As for Darlene, she's probably just a super frequent ad mascot)

Waddles // The axolotl

(the axolotl is called wades! Bc of this change, at the end of the summer Mason doesn't get his memories back immediately- it takes a few months)

Zombies // Gnomes

(I thought flipping the premise of the first episode would be fun, plus, tiny sentient zombies and tall garden gnome like cryptids that kinda stand there sound COOL)

I've been seeing the messages in the inbox, I'll get to answering them soon 😭😭😭

[cozylittleartblog]

Columbo and the Knight (1984)

put me in the universe where Columbo ran through the 1980s and had a crossover episode with Knight Rider. I think they deserved it, and I am not just saying that because they're my two favorite Old Shows. @telebeast wrote a little fanfic blurb about it and I HAD to visualize it into a comic (which is also the longest comic I have finished thus far at five pages...), so writing credit goes to them.

Autism W!

[revvethasmythh]

"I just think about the time we've spent together, and I start to fantasize about the way things could've been, about different choices and every little thing that's come our way, and those thoughts fade into a dream as I slip off to sleep to the sound of your breathing."

+ Sam taking emotional damage

[abd-illustrates]

🧡 Lance 🧡

I’ve been bitten by the “I need to draw my OCs or I’ll explode” bug once again 😔🙏 It’s been too long since I’ve drawn Lance - but I have a much clearer idea of who he is and what he’s about nowadays, so I tried to put plenty of attitude into this one! ⚔️🐉

[DO NOT EDIT OR REPOST TO OTHER SITES / ACCOUNTS] ♻️reblogs are lovely tho!♻️

[swampybogg]

[rollaroundincompliments]

"It's fun and easy and important and good to dunk on Harry Potter and J.K. Rowling. But keep going and what you get at is: What about this story type and story telling resonates with you? Can you keep that while dropping all the things you know now cannot be maintained and should not be venerated? And is that a part of growing up?"

- Aabria Iyengar

[eggbem]

(A continuation of this post)

Don't worry, when Mikey's painting, he gets really in the zone, but he DOES take breaks to give the kitty cat attention. He's not ignoring her

[wordsofwhimsy]

𝘚𝘏𝘈𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘌𝘋 𝘈𝘍𝘍𝘌𝘊𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕𝘚 - 𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘛 𝘖𝘕𝘌

Pairing: Mohawk!Mark x Reader | Sinister!Mark x Reader

Warnings: Alluding to sexual content

—Synopsis—

All surviving Variants have been brought to the Main Universe as a means to help defend and protect Earth.

It’s understood that if they try to indulge in any of their past, evil behaviors they will be promptly sent back to the wasteland universe.

The reader only ever developed a romantic relationship with Mohawk!Mark and Sinister!Mark in their respective universes, but died as a causality of battle in Mohawk!Mark’s timeline.

Being that Sinister!Mark is one of the strongest variants, the GDA obliged his condition of only cooperating with them if he was allowed to bring you to this universe, too.

To avoid using the same descriptive terms over and over again I'll be using "M.Mark" to refer to Mohawk Mark, and "S.Mark" for Sinister.

The rain was pouring outside in thick sheets, drenching everything in its path. Inside your house, however, the air felt colder than the storm. The dim lighting cast the room in an orange glow, illuminating where you sat on the couch as you fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve. You tried to muster up the courage to speak.

Mark sat on the opposite side of the room, his gaze distant, unfocused. His body language was closed off, rigid, as though he was physically there but mentally somewhere else. He hadn’t looked at you directly in what felt like days. Every attempt you made to break the silence seemed to fall flat, as though he was unwilling—or perhaps even incapable—of offering any kind of comfort.

“Mark…” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly. “I’ve been trying to talk to you. I just… I need something. Just a little reassurance.”

He didn’t react. Didn’t even glance your way. His gaze remained fixed somewhere outside the window, as though the storm outside was far more interesting than you.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the emptiness in the room pressing down on you. “I don’t understand. You used to be…” you trailed off, feeling the words die in your throat. What was the point in continuing? The man you once knew, the one who was obsessed with you (almost overwhelmingly so), the one who would hold you like you were the most precious resource in the world, the one who placed you on a pedestal—he was slipping further and further away. Now, all that remained was this cold, distant version of him.

Finally, he spoke, though it wasn’t to comfort you. His tone was flat, dismissive. “I don’t know what you want from me. To be honest, you’re being kind of unbearable right now…”

Your chest tightened, and the sting of those words cut deep. You had long since stopped expecting the tenderness you once shared, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. You couldn’t understand it—how could he treat you like this? You wanted to reach out, to get closer to him, but he kept you at arm's length. The affection you sought, the closeness, the connection—it was all gone.

“I’m not asking for a lot, Mark. I just need you to… to care,” you whispered, almost pleading, your voice cracking at the end.

Mark’s gaze flickered to you, but it was detached—like he was looking through you rather than at you. “I care.” The word came out choked in his throat, as if physically hard for him to say. “But I’m getting a little tired of this pity party you’re having. We’re fine.” His voice was as sharp as ever, the bite in his words unmistakable. The cruel indifference felt like a slap.

You fell silent, swallowing the lump in your throat as you stood up, unable to stay there in that house any longer. You couldn’t bear to watch him, to feel like you were begging for scraps of affection that never came. You turned and walked toward the door, the weight of your heart dragging with each step.

What had happened to the love you once shared? Was this the person he had become? The person he had always been inside, buried beneath the façade of warmth and charm?

The back of your eyes acted like a projector for all your dearest – and now must painful – memories. You could vividly see Mark coming home from the chaos, his body battered but triumphant, filled with the kind of energy only someone who’d just carved their name into the world through violence could have.

His eyes would burn with intensity, always wild, always searching for something. And when he found you—always so sure of himself, so sure of you—he would pull you close, like a soldier who’d just returned from battle, needing to feel grounded. His hands would roam over your skin, not tender, but with that fervor only he had. His lips would press against yours with an almost sense of praise—a deep, guttural, obsessive need to remind you that you were his. You are mine. You are perfect. You are an extension of me. he would breath against your skin like a mantra between kisses.

There were moments when his touch made you feel like you were his greatest victory, like all the destruction and bloodshed that had led him to you was worth it. His devotion was all-encompassing, his adoration warped, twisted into something you could never quite explain, but it made you feel important. Needed. He praised you in way that was strange, almost as if he were talking to himself, as if you were a reflection of all that he had conquered. You didn’t question it. This was your reality. This was all you knew.

He was the one who built everything around him with iron fists. And you—you—were right there with him, watching him burn his way through life, loving him with a devotion that matched his own distorted sense of self-worth. You couldn’t imagine anything different. You wouldn’t have even wanted to.

But now... now, everything just felt wrong.

Ever since Angstrom had torn you from your reality, and you – along with all the other variants of Mark – were forced to live in this universe, things had changed. You could see it happening—the subtle changes that had crept in over time, the way his eyes lost their spark when he looked at you, the way his voice started sounding distant, hollow, as if the weight of his own mind was too much for him to carry.

He didn’t come home in a frenzy of passion anymore. He didn’t need to be reminded that you were there, that you were his. He didn’t praise you like he once did. His words—once so filled with unyielding confidence—now felt like empty echoes. He didn’t need to – couldn’t – conquer the world anymore, and it was as if the absence of that fire had drained so much from him. As if the very air around him had turned cold, and with it, you felt the chill, creeping into the corners of your own heart.

He rarely got to fight anymore. Couldn’t carve a path through the world to show the power he held. He wasn’t allowed to in this universe, the threat of being sent back to the wastelands always looming overhead. And you know that was tearing him apart. It hollowed him out from the inside. The man who once stood at the center of every battle, the man who demanded the world kneel before him, could no longer reign supreme.

He couldn’t suppress the world anymore. He couldn’t conquer. And without that, there was a vacancy inside of him that no amount of praise or love from you could fill.

You wished you could fill that emptiness for him, but it wasn’t your place. And, maybe, it never was.

You knew it wasn’t your fault. Hell, you knew it wasn’t even his fault; not really, at least. But the fact remained: your relationship wasn’t the same. And as much as you tried to hold on to the echoes of what you’d had, every day you felt it all slipping through your fingers.

And it hurt. Some nights, like tonight, more than you could bear.

You wondered if when he looked at you now, he still saw the person he once admired—or if he just saw another casualty of the war he could no longer fight. You wondered if the love you gave him, the love you thought was unbreakable, was crumbling into dust.

And you wondered, in the silence, if it could ever be changed.

Unknown to you, one of Mark’s variants – the one that sported a mohawk – had been floating just above the house, seemingly unphased by the heavy rains. He had heard every word, felt the crushing weight of the emotional distance between you and his counterpart, and something inside him snapped. The heartbreak of seeing you treated that way when in his universe, you had been everything.

He watched as you stepped out into the downpour, clinging tightly to your red umbrella as you walked down the street. Mark, without thought, took this opportunity. His boots landed with a heavy thud on the front doorstep slowly pushing the door open. Inside his counterpart barely flinched, his eyes flickering over to the doorway before narrowing slightly. He didn’t need to ask who had come in. He already knew.

“You don’t deserve her,” M.Mark’s voice was low, filled with an intensity that was hard to ignore. He stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides as he kicked the door shut behind himself. His eyes bore into S.Mark, filled with frustration, grief, and a deep, aching anger. “I don’t understand how you can just treat her like that. How can you not appreciate her? After everything? After all the time you’ve spent with her? How could you just shut her out like that?”

S.Mark didn’t move, his eyes locking onto M.Mark’s with the same cold indifference. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his posture relaxed, as though he wasn’t even fazed by the accusation. “You don’t know anything about me, or what I’ve been through,” he said in a flat tone, clearly unbothered by the confrontation. “She’s fine. She’ll get over it. You’ve got no claim on her, Mark. This one doesn’t belong to you.”

The words sent a surge of anger through M.Mark. His eyes blazed, chest rising and falling with every shallow breath. His voice cracked with frustration as he stepped closer. “You don’t know the first thing about love, or sacrifice. You don’t understand how lucky you are to even have her, and you’re throwing it all away because of whatever twisted, cold version of love you’ve convinced yourself is normal.” His fists clenched harder, the tension between them palpable, the air so thick with emotion it would suffocate the average man.

S.Mark’s expression remained unchanged, but there was a coldness in his eyes that betrayed a flicker of annoyance. He uncrossed his arms, standing up slowly, deliberately, his body language suddenly more menacing. “You think you have any right to lecture me? You think your pain means anything to me?” His voice dropped an octave, the words laced with venom. “You’re nothing but a ghost in this world. You’ve already lost. You’re just a sad version of a man who couldn’t even keep the woman he loved alive. And now you think you’re in a position to tell me how to treat her? How to live my life?”

The words were cruel, meant to provoke. But M.Mark didn’t flinch. He took another step forward, his chest heaving with every breath. His eyes narrowed into a cold fury that seemed to burn right through S.Mark. “I don’t give a fuck what you think. If you cross the line with her I will fucking kill you.”

The two of them stood there, face to face, inches away from each other, the weight of their anger and frustration practically radiating off them. There was a feeling that at any moment the calm veneer between them would shatter into a violent explosion. M.Mark was just a hair away from pushing S.Mark to the edge.

But then, the door opened.

You stepped back inside, eyes cast down at first as you shuddered from the cold rain, shaking off and closing your umbrella. You froze when you finally lifted your gaze, seeing the two of them standing inches from one another. You quickly became acutely aware of the silent, threatening tension, and although lost on the details, the look on their faces told you more than enough.

You felt your stomach churn, a sickening wave of confusion and dread washing over you. What the hell had happened? Why did it look like they were seconds away from coming to blows?

M.Mark’s gaze flickered to you, his face softening for a brief moment. But that softness quickly turned to something deeper—something more painful that you couldn’t understand.

For him though, it was a flash of a memory of you – the one that had made his world turn just with a flash of your smile – and the overwhelming longing he had to reach out and grab you. But you were not with him. Not in this life, here. You were not his.

With a single, almost imperceptible shake of his head, M.Mark stepped back, his eyes avoiding yours as if the weight of what he was feeling was too much to handle. “I can’t do this,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Your body seemingly acting on its own accord you found yourself moving slightly closer to him, confusion and hurt rising in your chest at the sight of his pained expression. “Are you alright?” Your voice was soft, filled with a tenderness that could smother.

He didn’t look back, his shoulders tense as he walked toward the door. “You deserve more than this,” he muttered almost bitterly, his voice filled with something that was equal parts regret, sorrow, and anger.

With that final remark he stepped out into the storm, rocketing into the sky with unhidden frustration.

“What happened?” you asked quietly, the words stumbling out. “Why was he here?”

Your Mark barely looked at you, his face still cold. “It’s nothing,” he said dismissively, as if the whole confrontation had meant nothing at all. “It’s over. Don’t worry about him. The guy’s got issues.”

You wanted to say more, but before you could form the words Mark took a step closer, his eyes darkening with something you knew all too well—an edge of something physical, something he always used to silence the tension between you two.

“You done with your little hissy fit now?” His voice was low, almost predatory, and his words felt heavy in the space between you. “Because I’m ready to make you feel good again.”

You flushed at his words, a wave of embarrassment and heat sweeping over you. This was the only language he spoke anymore. It was the only thing that ever seemed to break the cold distance he had put between you. The reality of it hit you like a slap—this was what he had reduced your relationship to.

Your heart thudded heavily in your chest as he moved toward you, that same practiced smirk curling at the edge of his lips. He wasn’t asking, not really. His gaze said it all—he was in control, and you were meant to follow. And you, desperate for any semblance of affection from him, would trail him like a shadow.

He stepped past you, his hand brushing against your arm, leading you down the hall toward the bedroom, the tension from earlier still lingering between you like a heavy fog.

But there was nothing left to say. The door clicked shut behind you, and the world outside continued to storm. And ignorant to you, but of course not to Mark, his counterpart had never truly left. He still lingered in the sky above the house, his stare burning into the shingles of the roof as if it would collapse beneath the weight and give him a clear view of you. His fists were clenched at his sides, the muscles in his arms taut with tension. He shouldn't be there. He should be gone, away, anywhere but there. But his body was fixed in that point in space, the pull of something dark and twisted keeping him anchored.

Inside the room, he could hear it—the unmistakable sound of you and him. The other version of him. The version whose world was still illuminated by your light, the one who hadn’t been left in this world with nothing to remind him of his own identity. The one who still had you. Mark's breath hitched, his stomach twisting with something he couldn't quite name. It wasn’t anger, not at first. It was something deeper. Something visceral.

The sounds from inside the room flooded his ears. Your voice, soft and breathless, calling out in pleasure. That’s what did it. The way you sounded so free, so open with him. And then S.Mark’s low growl, his deep, commanding voice that was all confidence, all power. Mark’s jaw clenched, his throat going dry as he turned his head away, as if that would shut out the noises.

Every gasp, every sigh from you made his skin burn, his fingers twitching and reaching out slightly, as if he could feel you beneath his own hands.

That was supposed to be his praise, his obsession, his touch. The things he once gave you in his own twisted way. The things he once thought were proof of his love. But this? This was wrong.

His jaw clenched so hard it ached, and yet, he didn’t move. The sounds of you—his you—and him—the other him—seeped into his mind, poisoning his thoughts, grinding into his chest until he couldn’t breathe. His heart beat so loudly, so painfully, that he could barely hear the noises inside the room. But they were still there, like a hammer driving deep into his skull.

This isn’t right. This shouldn’t be happening.

But it was. And no matter how much he told himself to leave, to escape the twisted knot in his gut, his body betrayed him. He was completely frozen in place, listening. Listening wordlessly to you with him. The sound of you unraveling under the other Mark’s touch, under his control. And it sickened him, but he couldn’t make himself stop.

There was a rawness to it. A harshness in the way S.Mark’s voice filled the room. The way he demanded you. The way he didn’t ask, didn’t plead. He took. He had you, and you—you—were giving it to him, freely, openly. There was no hesitation. There was no fear. Only him.

Marks fingers curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms as if he could physically hold back the rush of emotions threatening to tear through him. It should be me, he thought, his mind a swirling mess of anger and confusion. It’s supposed to be me.

The sound of the bed creaking, the rush of breaths becoming more frantic, more urgent, rips him from his thoughts. His stomach lurches, the bile rising in his throat, but his body betrayed him again. He stayed. He listened. Every sound pulled him deeper into the dark, twisted pit of jealousy and rage that churned inside him. He hated this. Hated him. Hated the way he felt so small above that house, listening to what felt like the final unraveling of everything.

The weight of the silence between his breaths is deafening. He should’ve left. He should’ve stormed away, broke everything, anything to stop this feeling, to stop this moment from ever happening. But he didn’t.

Instead, Mark stayed motionless. The heat of your pleasure mixing with the sickening taste of his own jealousy, the taste of losing you but knowing this you had never been his to begin with.

And even as the noise inside the room escalated, even as the sounds of your pleasure rose higher, Mark still couldn’t force himself to leave. His fingers trembled, his chest tightened, but he stayed. Stayed until it was over, and every shred of sanity was torn from his mind.

→ 𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙏𝙬𝙤 ←

[magnusedom]

When I’m in a being embarrassing about Eddie Diaz competition but Buck is my opponent 🧍‍♀️ [part 1/∞]

[bookshelfdreams]

yk when you see someone share a finished handmade item that they clearly spent a lot of time and money on and it's just. The absolute tackiest thing you have seen in your life. And then you ask yourself why someone would waste all those resources on such an eyesore.

(no, of course you can't relate to that because you're a much nicer person than me)

In any case.

BEHOLD!

A wool coat!

The top fabric is handwoven and handspun, the whole thing is sewn by hand, too.

Leftovers. Barely anything, all things considered, which is very satisfying.

This thing took me well over 3 years to make, on and off. And now I'm done.

Thank you for your attention.

[strangersteddierthings]

Jealousy Looks Different On You

[Part One] ✨ [You Are Here] ✨ [Part Three] ✨ [Final Part]

Steve can be a jealous man. He can be.

Just not in the same way that Eddie seems to thrive on it. Steve doesn't have a right to jealousy outside a relationship, so even if he feels jealous, he'll never act on it.

He thought it was just one of the many ways Eddie and he were incompatible romantically.

It was the same song and dance when they'd go out. Eddie would drag someone onto the dance floor and spend most of the dance making eyes at Steve until his catch of the night got jealous enough to pull Eddie out of eyesight.

Steve is used to that. That's the routine.

Except.

Well, except Eddie's broken the routine now, hasn't he?

Flipped the entire script by saying the things Steve has wanted to hear for years. I wouldn’t have rejected you and Jesus, Steve, you’re the only one I’ve really wanted.

Steve knows Eddie well enough to know that Eddie believes he's telling the truth or believes he really does want what he's saying to be the truth.

And now, sitting in silence in the back of a taxi that Eddie's gotten them, Steve can't bring himself to hope about it. Eddie's not a liar, as far as Steve knows, but that doesn't mean he actually wants Steve. Not for real. Not in the long run.

Steve can't give Eddie all the things Eddie seems to enjoy most. He's heard enough about Eddie's sex life to know they aren't super compatible in that department. And as far as he knows, Eddie's never even had a relationship. Just one-night stands and friends with benefits situations, which, y'know, Steve's not judging him about because Steve had all that once, too.

And maybe it's shitty of him to think but because Eddie's never been in a long-term monogamous relationship, Steve's not sure that one between them will work.

Okay. It's a lot shitty for him to think.

There's no real basis for Steve to think this other than that everything Steve wants out of a relationship, Eddie's shown him he wants the exact opposite.

Maybe Steve's just thinking shitty thoughts because it's easier than hoping that this might work.

The ride to the apartment is awkward only for Steve. They can't exactly talk about liking each other romantically in the back of a taxi where a stranger can clearly hear them, so they don't. Instead, Eddie chats up the cabbie about everything and anything that comes to his mind and Steve sits with just his thoughts.

Which are not being kind.

God, he's kind of a shitty person, isn't he?

Steve lets them both into the apartment and it feels different now. It's not like Eddie's never been in Steve's apartment. Hell, he's been sleeping in his old room for this whole 'break from the LA stress' he's taken. Has been here three days already, so this isn't even the first time this week that Steve's let them both into the apartment.

It's just different now that Eddie knows. Steve's been living his life with the assumption that Eddie knew but now he knows and everything is different.

"You, uh, want a beer?" Steve asks as he toes off his shoes, stalling because he doesn't know how to start this conversation. Isn't even sure he wants to because having this conversation means there is no going back. He won't be able to unsay these things, Eddie won't be able to unhear them. It'll be out there. All his hurt and love and fear and hope.

"Steve," is all Eddie says, in a tone that says 'we need to talk'.

So, Steve swallows thickly, nods, and heads for the living room. It's so stupid but he suddenly feels exposed, so he picks up a throw pillow from the couch before he plops onto it. He turns completely sideways, back to the armrest of the couch and legs crossed, pillow in his lap to act as a barrier of some sort. Something to feel less exposed.

Eddie takes longer to join him because, unlike Steve, he'd gotten completely done up for the bar and that includes full lace up combat boots that he can't easily slip out of.

Eddie finally joins him in the living room, pausing when he sees Steve before he moves to sit on the couch, one leg folded under him and the other on the floor. He leaves a respectable foot of distance between them and Steve's not sure if he's disappointed by that or not.

There is a tense silence that falls on them, neither brave enough to really begin the conversation that could be the end of everything.

"Steve, I- I don't even know where to start, man," Eddie finally says, running a hand through his hair.

"Me either," Steve says, looking down and picking at the pillow. "You were the one who said we needed to talk."

"Because we do?" Eddie sounds confused. "I, fuck man, I basically accused you of being in love with me and you confirmed it. We gotta talk about that."

Steve frowns because he doesn't agree. They don't have to talk about it. As far as Steve was concerned, they've been successfully not talking about it for years. Nothing has really changed from Steve's perspective. "What's there to talk about?"

"That you love me! And that I was, am, in love with you, too! That feels like a big deal!" Eddie cries, voice not loud enough to bother the neighbors yet but he can easily get that way. "You- why don't you seem as happy about this as I am?"

"Because I'm not," Steve says, stern and biting as he finally looks up from the pillow. "How am I supposed to be happy about this? This is going to change everything between us. Everything! And I've been- I've made peace with how this wasn't- with how things were between us."

Eddie stares back at him, eyes wide and mouth agape in his shock. It takes him a moment to recover. "I don't... understand. Why, why aren't you happy? Of course this will change things between us, but you make it sound like it'll be for the worse? I thought-"

"What? You thought you'd tell me you love me too and I'd jump into your arms?"

"Well, kinda," Eddie starts, but Steve doesn't want to hear it.

"I can't! Eddie, I can't. I'm not- I-I get that you, that you've just realized I loved you, but I've been living with the assumption that you already knew. I thought you knew for years. And now you're sitting here, telling me that you've felt the same. What, this whole time?"

"Yes! For longer, probably!" Eddie argues back, anger and hurt mixing on his face. "I've never known you to not go after the person you want, so why did you say anything sooner?"

"Why didn't you!?" Steve shouts, feeling the heat of tears in his eyes. He throws the pillow at Eddie and jumps from the couch to pace the living room. "We lived together for years! And I watched as you brought home guy after guy after guy. I listened as you waxed poetry about the perfect man for you; a fellow metalhead who would want to go to concerts with you, someone who'd play DnD with you and enjoyed your other nerd things, and-and-and," Steve stutters over the word, fighting back making a sobbing sound because it's one thing to let Eddie see his tears; it's an entirely different thing to let him hear the whole sob-fest Steve's fight back. "And a laundry list of all the kinks they have to b-be into so you don't get bored. I- God, you'd laid out your incredibly long list of standards that I didn't fit before I'd even realized I liked men. That I liked you! Why would I even try when I already knew I'd never measure up?"

He's pacing still. Movement helps him push the urge to cry down and makes the tears dry up. It takes him a while to realize that there's been no answer from Eddie. So, Steve finally gets his emotions under control and turns to look at the couch, to see Eddie's response.

He's not expecting to see tears falling down Eddie's own cheeks and wearing a face of heartbreak and regret.