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#oooo
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I think we should stop telling people that The Silmarillion is this incredibly dense, dry, practically academic text that you need to be some kind of modern day lore master to comprehend. It's actually a very good book and there's no reason to be afraid of it.
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thepenguisalive7 · 5 months
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Red words
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candiewrapper · 11 months
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get out!
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jewishrat420 · 11 days
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Steve always thought Eddie was beautiful.
He never let himself linger too long on it in fear of what he might see if he let himself look. If he let himself dust off the dirt that lay on top of it, too overwhelmed by the possibility that he really hadn’t had himself figured out the way he thought he did.
But it’s true.
Like the sky knows clouds that filter in and out of eyesight, like the moon knows the unwavering devotion of the tide, Steve knows this to be a fact as irrefutable as the nature of gravity:
Eddie Munson is beautiful.
It’s in the way his hair bounces with every step. These springy, frizzy little curls that Steve desperately wants to know, intimately, the way he knows his own. Wants to compare them, wants to feel them in the spaces between his fingers, the sensitive parts that nothing else really touches.
It’s in the way he lights up a room as soon as he steps into it, a walking sun that burns so bright that he leaves the hole of every space he was once in great and gaping and singed at the edges. Everything he touches turns to gold, everyone he meets ruined for anyone else.
It’s in the way he carries himself. Tall when people are looking and small when they aren’t, like his body is a show that no one ever willingly buys tickets for but ends up seated front row at regardless.
Steve would buy tickets.
If he had known, if he had been brave enough when it really counted, he would have bought tickets.
There is no one like Eddie, and there never will be again.
But it doesn’t matter now.
Because Eddie is still beautiful, Steve thinks, even when he’s pale.
Even when his skin is sallow and sunken, even when his big brown eyes are tucked behind grayed eyelids.
Even when Steve himself was the one to shut them, but only after he spent nearly an hour gazing into their emptiness.
His hair is shorter now, the frayed edges trimmed by Wayne. He’d laughed as he did it, a sad little hitch in his throat, because apparently Eddie never let him cut his hair when he was younger.
When his blood flowed warm through his arteries, when his skin was still pink.
Wayne said he used to bounce his leg so hard that he was worried he was going to stab the scissors right through his thick skull.
So Eddie grew his hair out, split ends running wild.
But Steve still thought he was beautiful. Frizzy hair and all.
Steve’s never seen him dressed so fancy, not even for his own graduation.
But then again, he never got to try on that suit he borrowed from Wayne. Never got to see just how long the sleeves were, because he never got to be as tall as his uncle, did he?
No, Eddie never got the chance.
Never got the chance to he a normal boy with a normal childhood. To grow into the man he could have become and then into the world that was always too small to fit him.
Eddie Munson: born to die in Hawkins, Indiana.
If only he had tried just a little bit harder.
Fought just a little bit longer.
But he did his best, didn’t he?
Steve certainly thinks so.
Steve thinks he looks beautiful, now, still, always. He tucks a trimmed curl behind his ear, wishes he could have known what it would feel like if his skin were warm.
But it’s okay. He’ll know the feeling one day.
Next time.
Next time, they’ll try again. They’ll try harder.
Next time, Steve won’t be afraid to tell Eddie how beautiful he is.
Won’t be afraid of what comes after, because it will be different.
It won’t end with Eddie, sallow and skinny in a suit six sizes too big for him.
It won’t end with Eddie, pale and pretty as ever, laying in the coffin that’s been on reserve for him since the day he was born.
Next time will be different, see, because it won’t end.
They’ll do it right.
Steve will do it right.
And Eddie will still be beautiful, and Steve will tell him so.
x
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rugwurm · 5 months
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raddest-laddest · 3 months
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i think bug parents would probably wait to buy their children a mask until around their final molt— unless they have a lot of geo to burn
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lil-beanz000 · 5 months
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Watched the Bay verse tmnt with the roomie yesterday. Her first time watching, was fun! These poor Boiz be struggling for likes XD never realized how hated the movie was till later. 🥺🥺
-twiddle fingers- I like themmmm, I think they are cuteeee.
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vveirdnobdy · 6 months
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a lil headcannon
what if when KRS Transmigrates into cale he notices certain habits the original had, muscle memory like running his hand through his hair when stressed, and stuff like that.
Just the idea of while the mind/soul no longer remembers the body does
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ghosts-and-glory · 9 days
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As an aside on page 8, I need it to be known that past me left a grocery list in the middle of my comic notes/script for some fuckin reason.
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This is a lazy man’s script I promise I know how to write a script I promise I know how to write a script I promise I know how to write a script
Also my collection of panels where it looks like Kallamar is having what the kids call, a panic attack.
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https://twitter.com/edvinblue/status/1747986293471039743
FISHES? 🐠
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hazopal · 9 months
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quite rare pairing I know but I used to draw them all the time 🙁🙁
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thestuffedalligator · 3 months
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Hello! One of your posts got memed and happened across one of my feeds else-internet where you were wishing for a UF series about a paranormal hospital.
(this one)
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WELL DO I HAVE GOOD NEWS FOR YOU!
My good friend Cassie Alexander wrote a fantastic series that starts with Nightshifted, and you can find that here. It's great, and the protagonist is a nurse who works on the supernatural ward of her hospital as a human. Gets a bit spicy in bits and is UF and not paranormal romance, though there are romantic plotlines, just not the Main Point. Super witty and fun and Cassie makes me laugh out loud at least five times per book. (I'm her copy editor, and if it tells you anything, I no longer take copy editing work except from Cassie and a few other clients because I love her books so much!)
Anyway, HAVE FUN and tell your pals, haha. Cassie's books are fantastic and if you want an f/f romcom with demons, try AITA (literally the title, lmao).
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👀
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Buttons was 16 years old. He'd been a Newsie for ten of those years, therefore being around to see some of the younger kids grow with him.
When he saw Elmer, he still saw the three year old Spot brought to visit Manhattan four years ago.
When he saw Splasher, he saw the five year old he and Tommy Boy found sat alone on a bench outside the church three years ago.
When he saw Mike and Ike, he saw the babies left in a basket outside the Lodge House five years ago.
So, seeing each of them beaten up and bloody hurt all the more.
The Lodge was absolute chaos after the fight. Not the usual Lodge chaos, however, it was a scary and fearful chaos. The one that made your heart pound and brain blurry.
Kids were wailing and crying, teenagers were yelling and shouting. There wasn't a quiet place in the house.
Everybody realised quite quickly that nobody had walked out without a few battle scars to show afterwards, and the little kids were no exception.
Elmer had a shard of glass thrown at his forehead, and it was bleeding badly. Despite the bandages now wrapped around the injury, the injury had bled through, creating crimson dots splattered around it.
Splasher had broken his ankle after being shoved to the ground by one of the bulls. Buttons had a pole tied to his leg to keep it as straight as possible and had it elevated on the other bed. He was still weeping silently with the pain shooting up his leg every few minutes.
Mike and Ike were sat on his lap and were crying harder than any of the Newsies had ever seen, despite knowing them their whole lives.
Mike had been struck in the back with a baton multiple times, his back now scattered with bruises and blood. He didn't understand what was happening or why he was in so much pain, he just wanted it to stop.
Ike was hit in the face with one of the Delancey's brass knuckles, leaving him with a black eye and scarred nose. He was practically inconsolable, not allowing anybody to touch him for a very long time after the fight, only relaxing enough for Button's to check him out when Mike was brought in with Albert and Finch.
Buttons, with no help from the others got to work helping the kids in any way he could. The kids needed a shoulder to cry on and a helping hand to wrap up their injuries while some of the older newsies tried to sort out where Jack was and if they could try to save Crutchie.
They didn't understand what any of this meant. They just wanted somebody to hold them and tell them they were okay. Someone to sing one of Meddas songs while they wrapped up their scars and cuts.
Buttons was okay. He was fine and could help with the little ones with their injuries. Yeah, sure, he was struggling to breathe properly, and his knees were throbbing with pain, but the little kids needed help more than he did. He could handle it.
Buttons was 16, but sometimes he wishes he was still 6, when there was always an older kid around to help him out.
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gurenginawo · 7 months
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Different type of Sabo 🔥
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tallykat · 8 months
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epiclamer · 1 year
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Whumpees taking care of each other anyone?
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Spiteful
Justice. Something Hero fought to bring to their city streets every day, but couldn’t care to fight to earn it for themselves.
They had been used and abused and worked until their legs gave out. They fought tooth and nail for their pay check twice a month just to receive the measliest dollars the agency had to give. They sat in the shower until the water ran cold, trying to wash the blood from their uniform, unsure of whom it belonged to.
Always giving; people drained them dry. Left for dead in abandoned alleyways or stripped of everything they had for performance reasons. It didn’t matter. They were reduced to a shell of a human being after it all. A shell that worked all day and sat empty all night. Every time they closed their eyes they saw flashes of everything again and again and again.
Reliving everything at night was worse than mulling it over every morning. At least they could tear themselves from the flashbacks if they were awake, nightmares weren’t kind enough to allow one that option.
A knock on the door sounded to their left, it barely registered through the fog that clouded the hero’s mind. They couldn’t bother to get up. It was probably a solicitor. Odd at this hour, but not impossible.
When it sounded again, slightly more urgent, Hero’s numbness was overcome by pure rage. They were angry. They were furious. They couldn’t explain why. But they were.
They shot up from their seat on the couch, storming over to their front door and ripping it open, sending the figure on the other side tumbling back. One millisecond away from shouting in their face when they recognized the terrified face at their feet.
Villain.
Hero didn’t have to think twice before they put their full force into aiming to slam the door on the other. Villains foot catching it with just a sliver of room left as they winced, feeling the wood bash into their ankle. For a moment they looked hopeful, like they had caught the break of a century, but the hero was not so easily deterred, and in their fit they slammed the door over and over and over again until the villain retreated their foot in pain.
Finally, the door clicked into its frame with a bang and Hero slipped the lock shut. Turning their back to their enemy and heading back to their seat on the couch.
Yet their rest didn’t last much longer than a minute. Their dissociative state interrupted by the villain crashing in through the window.
Their first instinct was to kill the villain. However, the moment the thought reached their rational brain they almost threw up.
It was only a confirmation that they were falling apart. That sooner than later they’d lose everything to a plea of insanity and they’d die. The agency couldn’t keep someone as valuable as a hero out on the streets with precious information, they were a loose end.
Heroes weren’t allowed to retire. They bowed their head to a bullet before they ever got the chance to be free.
Maybe that’s what was wrong with them. Maybe Hero was too aware of the agency watching their every move. Keeping track of their vitals, forcing them to take lie detector tests, controlling their income, monitoring their diet. Maybe the stress was killing them from the inside out.
“I didn’t… didn’t know where-else to go—” Villain cutoff with a pained breath. Clutching their stomach with a vice-like grip in one hand and their ankle in the other.
The hero’s demeanour stayed numb, not angry any longer just a husk of their former self once more. Standing to their full height, Hero approached the villain on the floor. Taking note of the blood on their costume and coating their hands, they watched a glimpse of their past cloud their vision and suddenly felt sick.
They didn’t kneel down, they didn’t inspect or rush to care for the villain, they didn’t and they wouldn’t. “The day you betrayed me you gave up all rights to ever being allowed near me again. Let alone in a friendly manner like whatever the fuck you think this is.”
Villain gasped, their pain seeming less and less manageable by the minute. Hero stayed unbothered, not even the tone in their voice strayed an octave. “Y-You shut me out…”
“I shut you out because you broke my trust. Tell me, Villain, why would I ever let you in?”
“I-I don’t need a fucking l-lecture.” The criminal hissed, clenching their jaw to bite their tongue. “I’m a villain, i-it’s what I do.”
Hero’s attention strayed from the conversation, head filing through first-aid reciprocals as they walked casually towards their kitchen. Opening the top right cupboard and pulling out the medical kit before turning back—almost robotically—and dropping it by the villain’s side.
They snatched it up faster than the speed of light, taking their advantage while the hero was friendly enough to offer it. They weren’t going to test their luck at seeing how long until the other would pry it back from their hands, dangling it above their head while they struggled to stay alive. Villain shivered, they wouldn’t push it, they needed the help.
Swallowing the lump in their throat as their shaky hands peeled back the layers of their suit to reach the wound, Villains eyes watched their enemy intently. The way their eyes were blank, their movements heavy and accounted for, head lulled slightly forwards as well as a hunch in their spine as they sat back down on the couch.
“You look l-like shit.”
The crime-stopper didn’t react. Villain wasn’t even sure if they had been heard.
Speeding through the rest of their stitches and patchwork, once Villain was semi-sure they wouldn’t rip and their bandages would hold, they stood up. Making sure to avoid any pressure on their bad ankle as they hobbled to the hero’s kitchen with the open first-aid kit.
They zipped the bag closed after they had shoved everything inside and dumped it under the sink. Hero would find it if they needed it, just might take them a second or two.
It only took a brief once over of the hero’s food supply for the villain to pull out their phone, dialling the nearest take-out place they could find. “I’m ordering pizza.”
“That’s not agency approved for my diet—” Villain was practically relieved at the provoked reaction from their nemesis.
Still alive. Barely.
“I don’t give a fuck. I’m buying pizza and you’re going to eat it.” Stepping over to the couch they placed their phone on the back of it, balancing the screen on the plush pillows. Their—now free—hands made their way to the Hero’s shoulders, gently and carefully kneading at the muscles. “And you’re going to be grateful and pretend to like it no matter what, understood?”
Hero couldn’t repress the way their mouth watered or their stomach grumbled at the thought. “I hate you.”
And the line finally picked up.
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