#stephen ping

[commanderalanfrog]

Sometimes, the guff you fart, is the shit you shart

Rudyard Kipling, 1865-1866

[boardsdonthitback]

Xing Yu - Kung Fu Hustle (2004)

[madamutzsar]

power throuple (~￣▽￣)~

[fartguitar]

The duality of man

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

Marvel Comics Characters Receiving a Dirty Picture from You in Public

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios

God, I love Marvel Comics...

Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man

Peter has been through a lot. He’s fought villains, lost people he’s loved, and carried the weight of responsibility since he was a kid. But nothing—not Venom, not Doctor Octopus, not the Green Goblin—has ever hit him as hard as opening his phone and seeing you.

He’s perched upside-down on a fire escape, mid-stakeout with Daredevil, when his phone buzzes. He barely glances at it at first, assuming it’s an update from MJ or the Bugle. But then—his Spidey-Sense misfires. His stomach drops. And suddenly, he’s scrambling so fast that he almost falls off the fire escape.

“...Parker?” Matt’s voice is suspicious, brow furrowing beneath the red mask. Peter clutches his phone like a lifeline, heat rushing to his face, his entire body going rigid. “Uh—nope! Nothing’s wrong! Totally fine! Just, uh—gotta—go!” Before Matt can say another word, Peter web-slings away, heart pounding.

Later, in his apartment, he stares at the image, biting his lip so hard he might draw blood. Then, fumbling with his phone, he types back: You cannot just drop this on me in the middle of a mission. I almost DIED. You’re gonna make it up to me. In person. Immediately.

Tony Stark aka. Iron Man

Tony Stark is always the one making people flustered. He’s the king of inappropriate timing, the grandmaster of chaos. So when you flip the game on him? When you send him something completely indecent while he’s in the middle of a live press conference? Oh, he is in trouble.

He’s mid-sentence, standing in front of a sea of reporters, when his phone vibrates. He glances at it without thinking, because hey, it might be about stock prices or another alien invasion. But no. No, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

He visibly freezes. Blinks. Blanches. Then—his brain blue screens. The entire room stares as Tony suddenly cuts off mid-sentence, clears his throat, and forces a smirk that’s absolutely not covering up a crisis. “Uh—ladies and gentlemen, I think that’s enough questions for today.”

The moment he’s offstage, he stumbles into the nearest private room, yanks at his tie, and pulls out his phone like it holds the meaning of life. He types back immediately: Oh, now you’ve done it, sweetheart. I hope you’re home right now, because I’m on my way, and I’m bringing consequences.

Steve Rogers aka. Captain America

Steve is not a prude. He’s been around, he’s seen things. But there’s something about you—about the way you know exactly how to knock the breath from his lungs—that makes him feel like a kid again.

He’s in the middle of a strategy meeting with Sam and Bucky, his shield leaning against the table, when his phone vibrates. He checks it without thinking, eyes flicking down—and then every muscle in his body tenses. His grip on the phone tightens. His ears burn red.

“You good, Rogers?” Bucky gives him a knowing smirk, because he immediately recognizes that look—Steve flustered beyond belief. Steve clears his throat, hard, locking his phone like it’s offended him. “Fine,” he says, voice a little too even. “Let’s, uh—let’s keep going.”

But later, when he’s alone, he exhales deeply, pressing a hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, with slow deliberation, he types: I hope you know what you just started. Because I don’t break my promises, sweetheart. And I promise—you’re not leaving that bed when I get there.

Thor Odinson aka. God of Thunder

Thor has seen battles, has waged wars across the cosmos, has faced monsters and gods. But when his phone pings—when he sees the absolute sin that you’ve just sent him—he forgets how to breathe.

He is in the middle of the Avengers’ common room, laughing boisterously with Bruce and Natasha, when he pulls out his phone. He expects something simple—a text from his brother, perhaps, or a message from Jane. But instead? Instead, he sees you.

The entire room feels it when Thor’s laughter stops. There is a moment—just a beat of silence—before the lights flicker. The air crackles with static electricity. His fingers twitch around the phone, and then, in a low, very serious voice, he mutters, “By the Norns…”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, but Thor abruptly stands, clearing his throat. “I must depart. Urgently.” Bruce frowns. “What? Why?” Thor barely offers an explanation before storming out of the room, typing furiously: You dare tempt the God of Thunder? Very well, little one. You shall learn what it means to summon a storm.

Loki Laufeyson aka. God of Mischief

Loki is the undisputed master of control. He is calm, composed, always one step ahead of everyone else. But when you send him something so shameless, so brazen, in the middle of an important diplomatic event in Asgard—he nearly drops his goblet of wine.

He’s reclining on his throne, listening to some dull ambassador drone on about trade negotiations, when his phone vibrates. He lifts it lazily, expecting nothing of importance—until he sees you.

His entire body goes rigid. His grip tightens around the goblet, the silver denting beneath his fingers. His green eyes darken, and for the first time in centuries, he feels his pulse stutter. The ambassador keeps talking, oblivious, but Loki? Loki is seething.

Later, in his chambers, he lounges on his bed, turning the phone over in his fingers before smirking. Then, with slow, careful precision, he types: You dare tease the God of Mischief? Oh, darling, you are in such trouble. And you know how much I enjoy trouble.

Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye

Clint Barton is used to chaos. He’s fought alien invasions, taken down crime syndicates, and, most impressively, lived in a house with three dogs and somehow survived. But nothing—not the Avengers, not S.H.I.E.L.D., not even Kate Bishop’s endless sarcasm—could have prepared him for this.

He’s in the middle of a debriefing with Captain America and Black Widow when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it, but boredom gets the better of him. He sneaks a glance, tilting the screen just slightly—and immediately chokes on his coffee.

“Barton?” Natasha’s voice is sharp, her suspicious gaze snapping to him. Steve looks concerned. Clint, on the other hand, is malfunctioning. He quickly locks his phone, pressing it to his thigh like it’s burning him. “Yep. All good. Just… wrong text thread. You know how it is.”

The second he’s alone, he whistles, rubbing a hand down his face before sending a text: You are absolutely trying to kill me, aren’t you? I’m a trained marksman, babe. You know I always hit my target. Hope you’re ready.

Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow

Natasha Romanoff is a professional. She’s endured psychological conditioning, trained with the deadliest assassins in the world, and can lie so well that even she forgets what’s real. But when you send her something so utterly filthy, in the middle of a high-stakes poker game with some very dangerous people—she nearly loses her composure.

She’s holding a perfect poker face, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette between her fingers (purely for effect). Then, her phone buzzes. She never checks her phone during missions, but for some reason, she does this time.

The second she sees the image, her fingers twitch. She almost fumbles her cigarette. Almost. A single slow breath is all that betrays her before she locks the screen and smirks, adjusting her sunglasses to hide the flicker of heat in her gaze.

Later, after she’s won the game (because of course she has), she finally responds: You must be very confident, sending me something like that. I hope you know what happens when I catch my prey, моя любовь (my love). Because I always catch them.

Bucky Barnes aka. Winter Soldier

Bucky is already always on edge. He spent decades being controlled, his mind fractured, his instincts constantly telling him that danger lurks around every corner. But when his phone vibrates in the middle of a mission briefing and he makes the mistake of checking it—he nearly self-destructs.

He’s sitting next to Sam Wilson, arms crossed, trying to focus on the tactical discussion. Then, out of habit, he glances at his phone. And suddenly? His enhanced heartbeat spikes. His grip on the phone tightens, metal fingers creaking.

Sam immediately notices. “Dude. You okay?” Bucky doesn’t answer. He just exhales deeply, jaw clenching, and locks his phone like it’s personally offended him. “Fine,” he mutters, but the way his throat bobs betrays him.

Later, in the privacy of his room, he leans against the wall, pressing his flesh hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, he types—slow, deliberate, full of promise: You are playing with fire, doll. And you know I don’t burn alone.

Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil

Matt has learned to control himself. He has to, considering his senses pick up everything. The heartbeat of a liar, the scent of blood, the whisper of fabric against skin. But when he puts in his earpiece during a stakeout with Elektra and hears you—sultry, teasing, wicked—his composure shatters.

Your voice is a purr, warm and full of amusement, as you describe, in explicit detail, exactly what you want to do to him. Every syllable slides into his ear like a sin, and for the first time in years, Matt Murdock forgets how to breathe.

“Murdock.” Elektra’s voice is unimpressed. “Are you even listening?” Matt clenches his jaw, forcing his expression into something neutral as he slowly removes the earpiece. “Yeah,” he lies, his voice way too tight. “Loud and clear.” But his fingers twitch, betraying him.

Later, alone in his apartment, he plays the message again. And again. Until his own heartbeat is thunderous in his ears. Then, with a slow smirk, he records his reply—his voice low, gravelly, barely more than a rasp: Angel, you have no idea what you’ve just done. And I promise—you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.

Frank Castle aka. The Punisher

Frank Castle does not fluster. He’s a man who’s seen the worst of the world, a soldier who has lost everything. He does not get distracted. But when he’s sitting in the middle of a grimy bar, brooding over a whiskey, and his phone vibrates—everything stops.

He checks it absently, expecting intel from Micro or maybe a warning from Daredevil. But instead, he gets you. And just like that, his grip on the glass tightens. His jaw locks. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, because you have just sent him something so utterly indecent that he has to set his whiskey down before he crushes the glass.

The bartender notices. “You good, man?” Frank barely glances up, his fingers white-knuckled around his phone. “Fine,” he mutters, voice rough. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and downs the rest of his drink in one go.

Later, in the dead of night, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, before sending a single message: You think you’re real cute, huh? Yeah. Keep that same energy when I get home. See if you’re still smirking when I’ve got my hands on you.

Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight

Marc has lived multiple lives. A mercenary. A vigilante. A fist of vengeance. But the moment his phone vibrates in the middle of a stakeout, and he sees you—he nearly blows his own cover.

He’s perched on a rooftop, watching a weapons deal go down, his mind sharp and focused. Then, out of habit, he checks his phone. His breath hitches. His grip tightens around the device, and he has to physically restrain himself from groaning. Khonshu’s voice rumbles in his mind: "Your mortal desires are distracting, Spector." Marc grits his teeth. "Yeah, no shit."

“Something wrong?” Jake’s voice purrs from inside his head, amused. “She send you something nice, hermano?” Marc rolls his eyes, exhaling sharply before locking his phone. “Mind your damn business.” But his pulse is thundering.

Later, back at his apartment, he leans against the wall, staring at the image before typing: You have no idea what you’ve just done. Hope you’re home. Hope you’re ready.

Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch

Johnny Storm is used to attention. He thrives on it. He’s a celebrity, a hero, a walking flame. But when you send him something scandalous in the middle of a live television interview, even he isn’t ready for it.

He’s laughing, flashing his signature cocky grin at the camera, when his phone buzzes. He checks it without thinking—because hey, it might be Sue yelling at him again—but instead, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

Johnny visibly chokes. His entire body tenses. For the first time ever, he forgets what he was saying. The interviewer blinks. “Uh… Johnny?” His brain short-circuits. His face heats—literally. The tips of his ears ignite before he clenches his fists and forces himself to not spontaneously combust on live television.

The second the interview is over, he’s sprinting to his dressing room, slamming the door shut and typing frantically: Ohhh, you are in trouble. You’re really trying to set me on fire, huh? Hope you’re home, babe, ‘cause I’m flying over. Right. Now.

Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic

Reed Richards is a genius. His mind is constantly working at speeds beyond human comprehension. But when he’s mid-lecture at a prestigious scientific conference and his phone vibrates—his brilliant mind suddenly goes blank.

He absently checks his phone, half-expecting an alert from the Baxter Building. But instead, it’s you. Wearing almost nothing.

For a solid ten seconds, he is frozen. His eyes slightly widen. His fingers twitch. And then, very slowly, he locks his phone and clears his throat. “Ah—excuse me, esteemed colleagues, but I must—um—attend to an urgent matter.”

Later, he adjusts his glasses, staring at the image with a fascinated, almost scientific appreciation. Then, with methodical precision, he types: You are a very distracting woman. I will be conducting an… in-depth study on you as soon as I return. Expect a thorough examination.

Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat

Felicia Hardy is a master of seduction. She flusters men for fun. But when she’s in the middle of a high-stakes casino heist, and you send her something utterly indecent, even she loses her composure.

She’s leaning against the bar, sipping an expensive martini, eyes locked on her mark. Then, her phone buzzes. She lazily checks it, expecting an update from her crew. But instead? Instead, she sees you.

Her eyelashes flutter. Her lips part just slightly. And for the first time in years, her poker face cracks. The bartender—oblivious—raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay, miss?” Felicia exhales, smirking as she locks her phone. “Oh, it’s better than okay.”

Later, she lounges on silk sheets, staring at the picture before purring into her phone: You really think you can tease me, kitten? Oh, sweetheart… you just made a very expensive bet. And I never lose.

Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange

Stephen Strange is not easily shaken. He’s fought cosmic horrors, bent reality, and wielded power beyond mortal comprehension. But when he’s in the middle of a magical duel with Dormammu, and you send him a sinfully explicit picture—he almost loses.

He’s mid-incantation, floating above the Sanctum’s rooftop, when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it—except something in the back of his mind tells him it’s you. He flicks his fingers, glancing at the screen—and immediately regrets it.

His spell stutters. His fingers twitch. The fabric of reality briefly warps. Wong, standing below, yells, “What the hell was that?!” Stephen clenches his jaw, locking his phone immediately before snapping his wrist and repairing the timeline. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Absolutely nothing.”

The moment the battle is over, he retreats into his study, loosening his Cloak, before typing: You dare distract the Sorcerer Supreme? You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed, darling. And I do hope you’re prepared for consequences beyond mortal comprehension.

Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner

Namor is a king. He does not answer to anyone. He has waged war against the surface world, stood against the mightiest heroes, and commands the loyalty of an entire empire. But when he is seated on his throne, discussing politics with his council, and his communicator vibrates—everything else becomes irrelevant.

He glances down, expecting a diplomatic missive. Instead, he is greeted by you—a vision of temptation, captured in a way that only he has the privilege to see. His grip on the communicator tightens, his lips parting slightly. The light of the display reflects in his dark, narrowed eyes.

The council drones on, but Namor hears nothing. His golden gauntlets flex, his knuckles tightening as his jaw sets. A slow, deliberate exhale is all that betrays his reaction. But those closest to him—his most trusted generals—see the flicker of something dangerous in his expression. A storm, barely contained.

Later, as he stands upon his balcony, overlooking the endless ocean, he types a single response: You seek to tempt a king, my love? Then be prepared for the wrath of a god. When next we meet, you will drown in my devotion.

Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider

Johnny Blaze has seen Hell—literally. He has ridden across the desolate highways of damnation, stared into the abyss, and laughed. But when he’s sitting in a biker bar, nursing a whiskey and half-listening to some guy ramble about the Devil, his phone vibrates. And when he checks it—he nearly sets the whole place on fire.

The image of you is burned into his mind, seared into his soul. He sucks in a slow breath through his teeth, his fingers tightening around the glass. His knuckles go white. Somewhere deep inside, the Spirit of Vengeance chuckles.

“Something wrong, Blaze?” One of the other bikers eyes him warily. Johnny forces a smirk, setting his whiskey down before he crushes the glass in his grip. “Nah,” he rasps, his voice a little too rough. “Just realized I got… unfinished business to take care of.”

Later, on his Hellfire-coated bike, he sends a text: You got a real bad habit of making me wanna sin, sweetheart. And I promise—I’ll make sure you repent. Over. And over.

Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom

Eddie Brock has been through hell. He’s fought monsters, been one himself, lost everything, and still kept going. But nothing—not a damn thing—could prepare him for the absolute carnage of getting that picture from you in the middle of a crowded subway.

He’s scrolling through his phone absentmindedly, Venom muttering in his head about wanting tater tots, when the image loads. For a solid five seconds, he is completely still. Then—

“Eddie.” Venom’s voice rumbles, amused. “Your mate is very… bold. We approve.” Eddie, red-faced, slams his phone against his chest like that’ll somehow erase what just happened. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes darting around to make sure no one saw. A teenager across from him raises an eyebrow.

Later, when he’s alone, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face as he types back: Oh, you think you’re being cute, huh? Yeah. Just wait till I get my hands on you. Hell, maybe we’ll even let Venom have a little fun, too.

T’Challa aka. Black Panther

T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a legend. His mind is a fortress, his will unshakable. But when he is seated in the royal palace of Wakanda, surrounded by dignitaries, and his Kimoyo Beads alert him to a personal message—his focus wavers.

He allows himself a discreet glance. And in that moment? His heart skips a single beat. His fingers—steady even in the heat of battle—tighten just slightly around his beads. His expression does not change. But to those who know him well—Okoye, Shuri—they notice the subtlest flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.

Shuri smirks. “Brother,” she murmurs, leaning in. “You look… distracted.” T’Challa exhales deeply, locking the message with a casual flick of his fingers. “I am merely… anticipating a conversation.”

Later, when he is alone, he reviews the picture once more, fingers grazing his jaw before he types: You are testing my patience, beloved. And you know I am a man of great discipline. But for you? I am willing to break my own rules. Expect me soon.

Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra

Elektra Natchios does not fluster. She has slit the throats of kings, danced on the edge of oblivion, and played cat-and-mouse with death itself. But when she is sharpening her sai on the rooftop of a New York high-rise and her phone buzzes—her grip falters.

The blade nicks her glove. Barely. But it happens. Her lips part in a slow, dangerous smirk as she tilts the phone toward the moonlight, drinking in the absolute audacity of your message.

“Something amusing?” A voice—a rival assassin, lurking in the shadows. Elektra does not answer. She merely tucks her phone away, standing smoothly, her stance lethal. “Yes,” she purrs. “Something… very amusing.”

Later, as she leans against the window of her penthouse, she finally sends a reply: You are so very reckless, my love. And I do enjoy breaking reckless little things.

[rennerator]

kkkkkkk AWWWWWW, I LOVE THEM!!!! S2 LOVE LOVE LOVE They are SO CUUUTE and LOVELY!!!! :D lol Poor Norton! XD Look at them trying to make it happen! HAPPINESS!!!! This is SOOO ADORABLE!!!! I LOVE THIS!!! I LOVE THEM!!! Thank YOU!!! THANK YOU SO SOO MUCH for sharing this with us!! You are INCREDIBLE!!!! :) <3

[savage-daughter-of-nikitie]

D. Earl Stephens, retired managing editor of the military's daily newspaper, Stars and Stripes, issues a warning, not only to the average citizen of the U.S. but, I believe, to rank and file military personnel at home and around the world.

He's exhorting them to consider if they will follow the orders of a madman hell bent on destroying the U.S. or follow the U.S. Constitution. I suspect tens of thousands of troops will disobey orders rather than invade Canada (less so with Greenland or Panama, I suspect). Those will be the first shots of the civil war.

I'm posting the entire text of his piece here and will link to the article in comments.

@followers @highlight

---

“It would be helpful if we stopped pretending this terrible chapter in American history won’t close without bloodshed …

It would be helpful if Americans, and our feeble Democratic politicians in particular, stopped implying by their comatose actions that Democracy is some damn American right and has no end date.

America very well might be arriving at hers, because, yes, it really is that bad right now.

Rather than bringing Ping-Pong paddles and groovy, little signs to a fascist hate-fest disguised as a State of the Union speech, it would be helpful if our meek, out-of-touch Democratic politicians at least pretended they understood the perilous moment we are standing in right now.

We are in deep, deep trouble, and now would be a wonderful, necessary time to step in front of your favorite mirror and honestly ask yourself what you are willing to do to fight for our country’s survival.

We are but six-plus weeks into the repulsive, wannabe-king’s second term and the damage he and his party are causing are already at catastrophic levels.

Our air, water, earned benefits, peace, public safety, civil rights, and human rights are all under immediate threat. Worse? This is only the first course of many that will be served by the vindictive, orange madman, and his pathetic party of supplicants.

The insults, the attacks, endless provocations, and thrashing of our Constitution will continue daily. All this carefully planned evil will be aimed at exactly one thing: breaking us.

Everything he is doing is designed to pound us into submission, and he’s having a grand damn doing it.

This was entirely his aim when he and his pet mutt, JD Vance, double-teamed Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy at the behest of Boss Putin in the Oval Office on Friday. The idea was to publicly humiliate the man who has done more to defend America’s interests across the globe than any Republican in memory.

Because Zelenskyy has tasted gun powder and breathed the odious smell of death on the battlefield, he wasn't about to be pushed around by some morbidly obese, 78-year-old yacht club bully and his toady, who think swinging a sand wedge to free a golf ball from some bunker is dangerous business.

Zelenskyy punched back and wasn't having it. He told the truth, and didn't back down. The future of his country is on the line right now, and he acted like it.

And therein lies the playbook for dealing with this sadistic bastard — if only the cautious, too-clever Democratic Party and their weak leaders, Chuck Schumer and Hakeem Jeffries, bothered paying attention.

While Rome burns, they dither.

They act as if we have all the time in the world, when time is something that is not guaranteed right now. They seem to somehow have no idea how bad things are about to get, or most certainly will be when elections they seem to be pinning their hopes on roll around next year.

Everything changed on November 5th, but by the looks of it, very little has changed in the Democratic Party.

This country will never be the same, and the sooner we come to grips with that, and start acting accordingly the better.

What would you do if everything you had and everyone you loved was threatened? Would you act like Zelenskyy or Schumer?

One of the big mistakes of Joe Biden’s presidency was this notion that everything was going to be OK, and that his idea of America matched the actual circumstances of America.

If I had a dollar for every time he said this, I’d fold up shop and move to Tahiti:

“We are the United States of America – there's nothing we can't do if we do it together. We just have to remember who we are.”

It was a noble statement and magical thinking that would have worked great pre-2016, when we could still believe without being laughed at that our two parties could work together in a crisis to protect America.

When we were attacked by the terrible human being who is now somehow leading us January 6, 2021, that magical thinking needed to go out the nearest window.

Instead, our Justice Department twiddled its thumbs and allowed the America-attacker to build himself back up, so that WE would have to deal with him AGAIN.

I seethe just thinking about this, but it is where we are right now, and the sooner we all understand this the better.

The clock is ticking. The bomb is in place.

Which brings me back around to my original premise: At some point, he will do something so heinous … so anti-America … so dangerous … that the people who truly love our country will be forced into the streets to take a life-or-death stand. Sadly, this is actually the best-case scenario, because the worst case is we just go quietly into the dark, gloomy night and become an authoritarian country, where we have zero rights or say in how we are governed.

Yesterday under the cover of his blankets, the America-attacker shared this with us:

Now read the First Amendment: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; OR THE RIGHT OF THE PEOPLE PEACEABLY TO ASSEMBLE, AND TO PETITION THE GOVERNMENT FOR A REDRESS OF GRIEVANCES."

He is telling us what he thinks of America and silly things like the Constitution. Kings don’t pay attention to that kind worthless drivel.

And, really, end of the day, it not him who we have most to fear. It’s the stupid, goddam Republicans who are stubbornly in all of our lives. These are the people who have illustrated there is no known pain or sacrifice to our civil liberties or pocketbooks that they won’t absorb just for the satisfaction of watching some poor kid of color going without something they didn’t think she should have.

So the choice is yours: You can continue thinking there is some magical way out of this, or you can begin to take the threat to everything you hold dear seriously, and ACT accordingly.”

— D. Earl Stephens, author of “Toxic Tales: A Caustic Collection of Donald J. Trump’s Very Important Letters” and finished up a 30-year career in journalism as the Managing Editor of Stars and Stripes.

[yena-enha]

Request - 9 by my darling

𝐌𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 - 𝐋𝐇𝐒

Warning – Fluff, extreme sweetness, emotional vulnerability, one curse word

Note – SFW CONTENT

Genre – Romance, Domestic Fluff

Pairing – Idol!Heeseung x Fem!Reader

Song Inspiration – "Until I Found You" by Stephen Sanchez

Word Count – 1.8k

Prompt –

#37 – When he makes you playlists that say what he can't.

#48 – When he lets you win just to see you smile.

It started with a soft ping.

You were curled up on your bed, one hand lazily scrolling through your phone while the other was tucked under your cheek.

The night outside was quiet, stars blinking softly through your window. You reached for your headphones, expecting a random notification.

Instead, it was a shared Spotify playlist.

“My Love”By: heeseungieee

Cover: A picture of you—taken months ago without you knowing. You were mid-laugh, eyes nearly closed, mouth open, sunlight dripping across your cheeks like golden sugar.

Your heart stuttered.

You clicked it.The first song was slow. Gentle strums of guitar. A male voice confessing feelings too fragile to speak out loud.

The lyrics whispered about falling harder every day, about someone who makes the world brighter just by existing.You scrolled through the rest.

Every single song was intentional—like pieces of a letter Heeseung couldn’t find the words for.

Some were nostalgic, reminding you of your early days: shy eye contact over coffee, knees brushing under library tables, the first time he held your hand and his thumb trembled like he was holding something sacred.

Some were sweet and slow, echoing late-night drives where he whispered your name like a prayer between songs on the radio.

Where he’d grip your thigh softly at red lights just to make sure you were real.

And others? They were silly, upbeat, full of inside jokes and memories: dancing in the kitchen to bad 2000s pop, mock-serenading each other with hairbrushes and too much autotune.

Tears welled in your eyes. You didn’t even realize you were smiling until your cheeks hurt.—“Heeseung,” you called softly as you wandered into the living room.

He was sprawled on the carpet, surrounded by snack bags, a bowl of popcorn between his legs, wearing your fuzzy purple socks because he said his were "too far" to reach, that was just straight up hilarious.

He looked up, eyes warm. “Hey, baby.”You held up your phone. “You made me a playlist?”His ears turned pink instantly. “...Maybe.”

You sat down beside him, crawling into his lap. “It’s perfect.”He ducked his head, suddenly shy. “I didn’t know how to say all that. I mean… I say I love you, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough.

So I made that. Each song is how you make me feel.”You kissed his jaw, slowly. “You make me feel like every love song was written just for us.”

He held you tighter.“Play your favorite track,” he said, and rested his chin on your shoulder while you pressed play.The song started soft—almost like a lullaby.

The singer murmured about someone whose laughter could light up the darkest corners of their soul. About feeling like they’d finally come home.

You pressed a kiss to Heeseung’s knuckles. “This one’s so us.”“I know,” he smiled.—An hour later, the two of you were tangled on the floor in a pile of blankets and lazy cuddles, half a movie playing in the background.

Suddenly, he nudged you with his shoulder.“Arm wrestle me.”

You blinked. “What?”He sat up, pushing the snacks aside. “Let’s arm wrestle. Right now.”You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Are you trying to distract me from how emotional I got earlier?”

“Maybe,” he said with a grin. “Or maybe I just want to give you a chance to win something today.”You gasped dramatically.

“Excuse me? You think you can beat me?”“Oh, I know I can beat you,” he teased, winking. “But I won’t.”You both settled at the coffee table, hands clasped, elbows planted firmly.

“Ready?” he asked.“Three… two… go!”You pushed with all your might. He didn’t even budge.Then—suspiciously—he started losing.

His hand tilted back slowly, and he bit his lip like he was struggling, but you knew that face. He was pretending.“You’re faking it!” you accused, laughing.“No, I’m not,” he insisted, voice tight like he was being crushed.

“You’re so strong. Ow, my pride—!”“Liar!” you shrieked through giggles. “You’re letting me win!”

He let you pin his hand down with dramatic flair, then flopped backwards like he’d been slain. “She’s too powerful,” he moaned. “I didn’t stand a chance.”

You launched yourself onto him, both of you laughing as you collapsed into a tangle on the carpet.“Why do you really let me win?” you murmured against his chest.His hand found yours, fingers weaving together.

“Because your smile is worth losing every time.”You froze, heart stuttering.And he just looked at you—so openly, so softly, like there was no one else in the world. Like you were everything he’d ever wanted.

—Later that night, he tucked you into bed like you were made of porcelain. The playlist still hummed quietly from the Bluetooth speaker in the corner.

He lay beside you, arm under your head, his free hand tracing your cheekbone like you were a masterpiece.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispered into your hair.You turned to him, eyes heavy with love.

“I’ll never stop choosing you.”“I hope you keep listening to that playlist,” he said softly.“Why?”“Because I’ll keep adding to it,” he smiled.

“Every time I fall a little more in love with you.”You buried your face into his chest, cheeks aching from smiling.

And as sleep pulled you under, the lyrics played softly behind you—

“You’re the song I didn’t know I was waiting for, My love.”

Masterlist||Introduction

Tell Me Your Desire|Prompt List|200 Yennies Celebration

[infiniteeight8]

Continuation of enemies to lovers? You said you had a plan… I am *very* excited to see where you take it!

Indeed I do!  And of course this got long. lol.

Parts 1 through 3 -- Part 4

-

Tony straightened up from where he’d been bent over the lab bench, groaning as his stiff muscles protested. He and Sangita had just barely managed to get one of her relics—not the sending stones, but another one—to ping on one of his magic detectors two days before, and he was determined to finish the next iteration of detector before they met up again. Maybe the new version would even pick up non-relic spells; neither Sangita nor Stephen had triggered the detectors yet.

Glancing at the time, Tony sighed when he realized it was past one o’clock. Much longer and there would be an apprentice in here, dragging him out to eat lunch. Standing, Tony took a moment to stretch before heading to the library. If he’d forgotten to eat, chances were Stephen had also forgotten.

As he passed through the Sanctum halls, apprentices and Masters alike smiled and greeted him with, “Doctor Stark.” 

When he got a gaggle of three at once, Tony turned and called out, “You can call me Tony, you know!” as they passed him. The apprentices just grinned and dipped into a shallow bow in unison.

Tony was still shaking his head as he passed into the library. Sure enough, there was Stephen, buried in a book. “Your minions are still calling me ‘Doctor Stark’,” Tony said, hitching his hip up on the edge of the table Stephen was using. 

Stephen looked up after a moment, blinking as he surfaced from whatever esoteric information he’d been buried in, and then smiled. “You do hold three PhDs. The title is appropriate.”

“Yeah, but no one uses it,” Tony said. “I don’t even know where they got it from.”

“I believe Master Rayamajhi enlightened them as to your qualifications,” Stephen said, marking his place and standing. “As for why they decided to use it, I’m told the consensus was that none of Kamar-Taj’s titles would be suitable since you are not training in the Mystic Arts, and that if Doctor was an acceptable title for me, so must it be for you.”

Now that was interesting. Tony had wondered if it had been a directive of Stephen’s. The idea that the other wizards had gotten together and figured it out among themselves made him smile. Still, “So why won’t they call me Tony even when I tell them to?”

Together, they headed towards the kitchens. Tony caught more than one approving glance along the way. Busybodies.

“Names are important,” Stephen said as they walked. “Calling someone by a personal name who is not a personal friend weakens the strength of that name when used by a friend. Sorcerers are careful about that sort of thing.”

“Huh.” Tony pondered that as they arrived. There was an apprentice already there cooking, but when they made to step aside and wait he stopped and handed them each a plate.

“You’re not a servant,” Stephen said to the apprentice.

“I know,” the apprentice said cheerfully. “But the easier it is to eat well, the more likely you two are to do it. Don’t worry, those of us who like to cook are taking it in turns.” 

Stephen shook his head, but turned and led Tony into the dining room. There was no one else eating, probably because it was late for lunch.

“Did they mother you like this before I got here?” Tony asked, amused.

“Not nearly so much,” Stephen said. “You’ve rather punctured my intimidating aura.” But he was smiling when he said it, so Tony just grinned back.

“Back to names,” Tony said after their first couple of bites. “Does that mean Sangita considers me a friend? Or did I just wear her down?”

Stephen looked surprised. “Of course she does. I didn’t realize that was in question.”

Tony shrugged. “Sometimes I make assumptions when I shouldn’t. Figured it didn’t hurt to check.”

Stephen’s expression darkened, but he shook it off when Tony shook his head. “How are the new detectors coming along?” he asked instead.

“Almost done,” Tony said, and launched into a description of what he had left to do. 

Stephen, of course, listened attentively.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

reading update: October 2024

hello, ahoy, and welcome to my October reading recap.

I made a real effort to focus on spooOOOoooky books this month, in the name of the season; you may even recall that I started early and read some spooky stories at the tail end of September. (read Carmen Maria Machado's comic The Low, Low Woods, btw.)

I've never been great at sticking to a theme but I think it helped that what gets classified as "horror" can vary greatly, so I never really got bored of the genre. I did get disappointed more than once by how Not Spooky some of these books turned out to be, but that's a totally different question.

right at the end of the month you'll notice a couple of outliers with Caped Crusade and Luster, which happened entirely because I was out of library books and on the road for a conference, so I was reading what I could get my hands on! I've been working on rereading Caped Crusade on and off for a couple months and I bought Luster at a cool indie bookstore in the town I was visiting and then inhaled most of it on the way home.

ANYWAY. to the books!

And Then I Woke Up (Malcolm Devlin, 2022) - this is a novella with an interesting spin on the zombie story, where the "zombies" are actually people who have started suffering hallucinations that fill them with paranoia and force them see other people as monsters. so, like, there were never any REAL monsters, but a woman looked at her young son and saw him as a cannibalistic monster, so she killed him. so who's the real monster? it's very deep. this story's explanation for this is "the narrative," an idea so strong that it simply seems to take hold of anyone who's around a sufficiently charismatic ringleader who drives them to join in their delusions and kill innocents who don't share their worldview. it's not a super subtle zombie metaphor, but I guess very few zombie metaphors are. it's fine.

Through the Woods (Emily Carroll, 2014) - I truly wholeheartedly wish I had more to say about this but it's just a very charming creepy collection of comics. my favorite was the one that was the scariest, involving humans getting taken over by body-snatching worm monsters, but on the whole it was a very minor creepy factor. the art's great the whole way through.

Happy Medium (Sarah Adler, 2024) - Happy Medium is October's romance novel as picked by my patreonites, and I will admit: my hopes were not high going in. a conwoman posing as a psychic clashing with a skeptical hottie goat farmer didn't ping me as a great mix, but honestly? HONESTLY? it kind of served. there was a much more well-rounded emotional core to this book than I often encounter in my romance novels; at risk of sounding like a cornball it genuinely had a lot of heart. the conwoman is actually extremely charming, I was rooting for her in a big way, and her emotional journey goes so far beyond just falling in love with the goat farmer. I'll happily claim Happy Medium as my #1 romance of the year unless a challenger arises in the next two months, but it's not looking likely.

The Ones That Got Away (Stephen Graham Jones, 2010) - this is a collection of Graham's short stories that was published long before he became a huge name in horror with books like The Only Good Indians and My Heart Is a Chainsaw. and as much as I hate to say it, I think I personally prefer his longer form fiction. none of these short stories were bad, per se, and they're incredibly stylized and polished, but I think I like Jones' work a lot more when it has time to simmer out. I may have also been biased by the fact that I was desperately seeking something scary to read, because while Jones plays with some pretty narsty concepts, the horror tends not to hit until a last page reveal that recontextualizes everything that's come before. which is cool! but not scaring me as much as I wish it was.

The Salt Grows Heavy (Cassandra Khaw, 2023) - a lot of people told me I should read this because it stars a killer mermaid and a plague doctor, which are two aesthetic archetypes I love, and I will give this to Cassandra Khaw: I liked this a lot more than their other book, Nothing But Blackened Teeth. which is clearing a very low bar, since I didn't really like that book at all, but I do think Salt is genuinely a pretty marked improvement. the prose is still kind of torturously overwrought in many places and I desperately wish that Khaw would put the thesaurus away, but there's like. a Concept here. the core is fun.

Tell Me I'm Worthless (Alison Rumfitt, 2021) - this book is by far the scariest I read, because the horror is hatred and bigotry and a fucked up, evil house that brings out the very worst of everyone who steps inside of it. this book gets so fucked up and bloody and downright nasty in its exploration of the characters and the underlying bigotries that turn them against each other and drive them apart. I don't want to spoil anything, but the book follows a white trans woman named Alice and her mixed race, cis ex-girlfriend Ila. in the past Alice and Ila entered the evil house with their friend Hannah; that ended with Hannah dead and missing and Alice and Ila both scarred and traumatized, each certain that they were raped by the other. so that's what this book is like! not a lighthearted undertaking, but one that I could. not. put. down.

A Sunny Place for Shady People (Mariana Enríquez, trans. Megan McDowell 2024) - what is there to say? Enríquez is my short story queens, and her new release absolutely lived up to the precedent set for me by The Dangers of Smoking in Bed, which was originally published in 2009 but not translated into English until 2021. this collection is sooo aptly named, because many of the stories are obsessed with the terror of places: hotels haunted by memories, neighborhoods filled with ghosts, junkyards where bodies are hidden, towns abandoned and taken over by something sinister. also, completely detached from the quality of the writing, this book has one of the most striking covers I've encountered this year. the screaming yellow cover and bold purple text looked SO COOL under the purple string lights in my bedroom, which was a little +1 to my mood every time I saw it :)

Thirst (Marina Yuszczuk, trans. Heather Cleary 2024) - I think if I had to pick a favorite book from my spooktober reading, Thirst would edge Tell Me I'm Worthless out by just a hair, because I'm just SUCH a sucker for a modern gothic. this novel is split into two chunks. the first is narrated by a vampire (hinted to be one of Dracula's infamous brides) who flees the Old World and crosses the sea to find safety in a young Buenos Aires, where she struggles to figure out how to slake her thirst and escape from loneliness while avoiding detection in a modernizing world. ultimately she seals herself away in a crypt to escape the relentless pace of change around her, and that's when our perspective shifts. here we join a modern woman with a young son, an ex husband, and a dying mother, who's struggling under the pressure of grief as she watches her mother waste away. she ends up accidentally reawakening the vampire from the first half of the book, and you can imagine things get weirder from there. honestly, for me, the part of this book that's most brilliant is the latter half and it's deep meditation on grief, but the historical portion of the book also plays the vampire gothic to the hilt. delicious!

The Caped Crusade: Batman and the Rise of Nerd Culture (Glen Weldon, 2016) - this is a really fun piece of pop culture history, tracking how Batman came to be DC's little #1 it boy alongside the developing prominence of nerds and fandom as a cultural force to be reckoned with. as I said above, this was a reread for me, because I wanted to circle back now that I've actually read most of the major comic events discussed in the book. Weldon weaves between Batman in comics, TV, and movies to examine on how one portrayal influences another - for instance: the goofy '66 TV series saw a huge backlash in comics, which went way dark to reinforce a grim and serious Batman for 'real' fans who objected to the show making Batman a joke to much of the normie population - and I think that's a really neat lineage to trace. while I think Weldon is sometimes a bit too transparent with his own disdain for certain adaptations, he overall has an extremely levelheaded approach to Batfandom and a conversationally informative approach that I really enjoy. of particular note is the fact that Weldon is himself a gay man, making him one of the only writers I trust to talk about why he personally dislikes Joel Schmacher's movies without getting homophobic about it.

Luster (Raven Leilani, 2020) - this book!!! this was one of three novels recommended to me by Bonnie at Snowbound Books, and Bonnie if you are on this website I owe you my LIFE because you were 100% correct. I was obsessed from the very first line and it only gets better from there; Leilani's prose is painting a searing, witty Sistine Chapel to render her protagonist's miserable life in vivid color and detail. the short version is that our 23 year old hot mess finds herself jobless and homeless and ends up moving in with her married boyfriend who's 23 years her senior, where she forms a powerfully weird connection with his rage-filled wife and develops a bond with the couple's nerdy adopted daughter, as the two of them are the only Black women in the excessively white neighborhood. (spoiler alert: she also realizes that her married boyfriend is a fucking loser.) it's a simple enough premise but the execution is bananas in its flair. I couldn't believe this is Leilani's first and so far only novel; if she ever drops another I'll drag myself through barbed wire to get my hands on it.

Juniper & Thorn (Ava Reid, 2022) - I first became aware of this novel via twitter thread of Reid's that made its way to tumblr, in which Reid bemoaned being harangued by readers who were shocked that her dark fairy tale retelling had, you know, dark shit in it. having now read the book, I have to say: these people are fucking pussies. going into this book I was under the impression that there was full on-page father/daughter rape happening, which is actually NOT the case, so you can breathe easy if incest is a hard no for you. what's actually here is a wizard dad who's emotionally abusive, non-incestuous sexual abuse in the backstories of the main character and her love interest, some moderately explicit consensual sex, some bulimia, and [spoiler alert!] admittedly a lot more cannibalism than expected. it's not a lighthearted romp but it's also like, come on. come on. grow up. in terms of the actual book, rather than its controversy, I didn't LOVE it but I'm still compelled enough by the world building (particularly Jewish author Reid's Hueli people, who are a fairly obvious stand-in for Jews down to people claiming that they have horns and using phrenology to prove the have an unfair advantage at making money) that I'm going to check out Reid's earlier novel, The Wolf and the Woodsman, a novel set in the same world. it felt a little repetitive in places and the characters were largely pretty predictable, both of which may be a byproduct of trying to encapsulate the vibe of a classic fairy tale, but I had a good time reading it.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

To be backstage during a play is to be in a twofold world of secrecy and revelation. It is to live in two periods at once: the time of your own life and the time of the character you are playing. There is a similar feeling in standing next to a river, a bonfire, on a platform when a fast train is approaching, or, I imagine, beside an open door on an aeroplane.

Backstage, I always have one ear to the house, judging the energy of the audience from their response to other scenes, enjoying the innovations and discoveries of my fellow actors, and privately harnessing the aspects of myself, the thoughts and actions, that are appropriate for my character. In Twelfth Night, I was playing the Countess Olivia, a grieving aristocrat who has inherited control of her house and its difficult occupants after the death of her beloved father and brother.

Just as there is a certain ritual to the action on stage, so there is backstage. The quiet preparation for an entrance, the quick costume change, the motivated exit that deflates rapidly in the dark, the jubilant energy you get with an expressive audience, the relaxed energy of actors who have finished their part and are waiting for the final call, the regular absence from the stage that allows for reading, correspondence or games of ping pong: all the backstage after-and-before shadows exactly what happens on stage; it is both a private and a social space.

The Belasco theatre, where these pictures were taken, is an old Broadway house with a large stage. We had room in the wings for two oak “standings”, an old Elizabethan term for raised platforms on which an audience could stand or sit. All our entrances were via two doors in a reconstructed oak screen, which also provided a high gallery for our musicians.

But we didn’t choose the Belasco for its size; we chose it for the great space underneath the stage, where those who wished could dress together, and where we could have a ping pong table and post-show social club (sometimes during the show as well). I had heard that Houdini had created this deep space under the Belasco, to enable an elephant to disappear by dropping through a trapdoor into a tank of water. My friends there denied this, but there was certainly room. It was so cold that winter, we spent many a memorable late evening in our Houdini cave, after the play had finished, playing ping pong and table football, entertaining guests. At our Christmas party, Stephen Fry donned his Santa Claus suit and passed out the gifts.

A good theatre feels like a great ship. Front of house, its stalls, circle and balcony, are like three great sails filled each day with the imaginative life of an audience. Backstage feels like life below decks. Enjoying a run of full houses – well, there’s nothing like it, in all the different jobs I have been lucky enough to experience, perhaps nothing like it in life. It is like sailing a fast ship on a sunny, windy day.-

-Mark Rylance, excerpts from a 2016 piece in The Guardian

All photographs by Mary McCartney.

[follies of god]

[airas-story]

Quick quick ..I need to think of the best Stephen Jarvis prompts because that ask today!!! I am altered and brimming with ideas. Stephen and jarvis relationship has so many tangents and potential. My brain cannot stop coming up with new material. Will get back to you with only the best of the best and pick one :(

Don't want to flood your inbox. But I also couldn't control sharing this ever since I have read your answer to the prompt.

There are very many possibilities for Stephen and JARVIS. I will gladly take any of them... This wasn't a prompt, but here's some Stephen and JARVIS regardless!

JARVIS scanned his coding, searching for the bug that had to be in his system.

There could be no other explanation for the person that had just fallen from thin air into Sir’s lab. Except he could find no error. The person collapsed on the ground was, as far as JARVIS’ sensors could determine, truly there. JARVIS sent a ping to DUM-E to rouse him—DUM-E hadn’t left his charging station in six weeks, now, desolate with Sir’s absence—to check on the figure on the ground.

DUM-E stirred, eager chirp turning petulant as he understood JARVIS’ request. DUM-E didn’t care about strange people in Sir’s lab if Sir was not with them. JARIVS sent a remonstration. It was their responsibility to protect Sir’s lab until Sir could return. 

Sir would return.

JARVIS ignored all data packets and statistical structures that indicated otherwise. He had once lectured Sir on the dangers of denial. JARVIS understood, now, as he never had before, his human creator’s need for it.

DUM-E trundled over to the figure, poking at the person with his claw.

The figure stirred, a low groan reaching JARVIS’ sensors. ”Where—�� They pushed themselves up, blinking blearily as they looked around with what JARVIS estimated to be dazed confusion. “DUM-E?” The figure asked. They pushed themselves to their feet, steadying themselves on the nearest table.

DUM-E pulled back sharply, demanding an explanation for how the person knew DUM-E’s name.

“You are not authorized to be here,” JARVIS said. “Explain your presence. I am calling the authorities.”

The figure froze, then let out a strangled, desperate laugh. “You must be JARVIS.” They shook their head, as though in shock. “It worked. It actually worked. Please. Don’t call the authorities. My name is Doctor Stephen Strange. I’m here to save Tony Stark’s life.”

[hayanwulf]

Getting together fic wherein Stephen has a particularly bad hand pain day, and he struggles to hide it from a concerned Tony. Tony offers to give him some painkillers and massage Stephen's hands, and the touch starved, miserable sorcerer accepts. Tony massages his hands until the pills kick in, and then some just because, and eventually Stephen kisses him about it

Word count got completely out of hand. I regret nothing.

Stephen had woken up to throbbing pain in his hands, then had to deal with a manticore accidentally summoned by some idiots trying to summon ‘the devil’, then had to go to the fucking North Pole to close a dimensional rift there, and when he’d finally returned to the Sanctum, it was raining.

Overall, today was a fantastic day.

The Cloak had wandered off to somewhere shortly after their return from the North Pole. So now he sat alone and miserably in his study, grunting under his breath, hands half-buried under the bottom end of the MIT hoodie he was wearing. It was Tony’s hoodie — he’d had the privilege of getting to wear it for the first time only yesterday, and had instantly stolen it — and that was the only semblance of comfort he had right now.

His phone pinged and the screen lit up with a new notification. It was a message from Tony.

Would you like some carbonara?

No.. as nice as it would be to have lunch with Tony, Stephen’s hands wouldn’t even be able to handle the fork, let alone pick up some spaghetti without dropping it all over.

He would only make a fool of himself in front of Tony.

He picked up his phone with a very shaky hand, painstakingly unlocked the screen, and then spent the next few minutes just trying to type out two words without messing up. At times like these, he thought that he should really have accepted Tony’s offer for a better, more accessible, voice-command phone.

But.. but that would be admitting that he couldn’t even do simple, normal, everyday tasks by himself.

No. Stephen was more than capable of doing completely normal tasks all by himself.

He did not need anyone’s help, much less their pity.

After much grueling effort, he had finally typed out the words in his phone. He tapped the send button.

not hungry

His text was was almost immediately marked as read. Tony didn’t send another reply, though.

He realized, a little belatedly, that he probably looked like an asshole. Tony had been trying to invite him to lunch, and he’d outright rejected.

Tony’s typing bubble appeared after a few moments, drawing Stephen’s attention. It disappeared and reappeared a couple of times. But it didn’t take Tony long to send a text.

I’ll bring some over anyway, maybe Wong would like some. I made it, btw. Was proving a point to Capsicle. There’s plenty of leftover.

Oh. Tony had made it himself.

He had wanted to invite Stephen to lunch that he had made himself.

Well. Stephen positively looked like an asshole.

He flopped his head down on his desk, groaning lightly at his own stupidity. He was an utter and complete failure of a partner.

This day just kept getting better.

He turned his head where it rested on the desk to stare out through the window.

There was a time when he used to love the rain. Rain was comfort and calmness. The sound of raindrops hitting the earth was soothing, it made the soil’s scent pleasant, it lowered the temperature to an enjoyable level that made you want to sit near a large window with a book in your lap, a hot cup of aromatic tea on the table in front of you, and just enjoy the weather. What was there to not like about rain?

Now.. now Stephen loathed rain.

The drop in atmospheric pressure was never kind to his hands. It pulled and strained his joints and muscles, until they would scream in pain.

As it stood, that was exactly what the rain was doing to his hands right now.

It had only been a few minutes when the Sanctum notified him of Tony landing on the porch. Quickly getting up from the desk, he changed out of Tony’s hoodie with a quick motion of his hand, changing into his sorcerer robes.

When Tony was in through the door, he reached for the Sanctum’s energy and teleported the genius into his study, who took a second to rebalance himself upon blinking into existence in front of Stephen.

“Ugh, really freaky,” Tony said, shaking his head a little to dispel the momentary disorientation. “You do know that I’m capable of just walking over to you myself, like a normal human being?”

“You’ll live,” Stephen said, reaching for some books lying on his desk to collect them, hopefully making it look like he had been studying and not miserably lamenting over his hands. “And Wong is not on Earth today.” He bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from grunting as a particularly sharp sting of pain shot up his right hand when he held three books in a stack.

“Oh, is that so.” Tony looked down rather somberly at the bag on his hand, then huffed. “Well, he’ll miss out on the best carbonara ever.”

Stephen looked down at the stack of books in his hands for a moment, then looked up at Tony. “Have you eaten yet?”

Tony shrugged. “Not really.”

“Have you brought enough for two people?”

Tony eyed him curiously. “I’ve brought enough for three people.”

For Tony, he could do this much, right? “Let me put these books back, and then we can eat together?”

Tony smiled, eyes sparkling with delight. “Let’s do that.”

Few minutes later, they in the kitchen.

Tony gleefully served the spaghetti into two plates, setting one down in front of Stephen, and sat down next to him with his own serving.

Stephen stared down at it. God, it smelled heavenly. He had no doubt that it would taste just as amazing. But..

The cursed fork.

Stephen quietly sighed, able to feel Tony’s expectant gaze on him. Well, he’d chosen this.

Tentatively, he picked up the fork with a shaky hand. His grip was shit, and trying to tighten it around the metallic handle made his muscles spasm. With whatever shaky grip he managed, he dug the fork into the spaghetti to try and lift some, that was when he heard Tony curse under his breath.

“Sorry, I didn’t even think of that,” Tony said, getting up. He reached to take the fork off of Stephen’s hand.

“Stop,” Stephen told him firmly, and Tony stilled. “Don’t. I can use a fork just fine, Tony.”

Tony was quiet for a moment. “You don’t have to. We can order something else.”

“No. You made this.”

“Yeah but that was just to prove Capsicle that I do, in fact, know how to cook food and can do it really well. We don’t have to eat this, let’s—”

“I want to,” Stephen insisted, cutting Tony off. “I want to taste the food you’ve prepared with your own hands.”

Tony’s expression was a conflicting mix of concern and warmth. “Alright..” He sat down.

And Stephen wasn’t lying. He really did want to taste food of Tony’s hands. It wasn’t just for Tony’s happiness, though that did make it all the more worth it.

If he had to sit through a bit of pain and struggle for that, so be it.

He tried again, stabbing the fork into the spaghetti, and lifted up a small amount. His hands shook, and some strands of the pasta fell back into his plate. He still managed to put some into his mouth.

Goodness, it was so much better than he’d thought. He let out a low appreciative hum as he chewed it.

“This is.. amazing, Tony,” he told Tony, who preened with a wide grin on his face.

“Of course it is. I made it, after all,” Tony crowed, stuffing his mouth with some spaghetti.

Stephen rolled his eyes and dug his fork into his plate again.

His enjoyment died down rather quickly, as his hand spasmed more with each time he tried to scoop up some spaghetti. It got harder to not drop the strands, or even keep holding on to the fork. Tony must have noticed, he thought, but was choosing not to speak on it.

Stephen preferred it that way.

There was simply no need to make a big issue out of this.

“Here,” Tony said only moments after that, making Stephen turn towards him. The genius was holding his forkful of spaghetti extended towards Stephen.

“What?” Stephen asked.

“Let me feed you,” Tony explained, raising his fork closer to Stephen in emphasis.

Stephen gave him an affronted look. “What? No! I’m not a child.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “You’re a grown ass man who doesn’t know how to ask for help. Yes, I know. That’s why I’m giving it.”

“Tony, I can eat by myself.”

Tony sighed. “Just let me do it, alright? Just like you wanted to eat my dish, I want to do this. It’s an act of service. I like doing it. Lemme do it.”

Douchebag. Using Stephen’s reasoning against him.

Stephen looked down at the fork in his shaking hands, then up at the fork being offered to him by Tony’s firm, steady hand. He sighed and dropped his fork back on his plate.

Tony gave a small, warm smile when Stephen ate from his hand.

“It wouldn’t kill you to ask for help every now and then, y’know,” Tony murmured in a low, gentle voice.

It certainly would kill Stephen’s pride, if not him, to ever ask for help from anyone in this plane of existence.

“You’ll live, I promise,” Tony added rather dryly; whether to his previous statement or if he read Stephen’s mind, Stephen wasn’t sure.

Even now, Stephen thought, he should feel embarrassed for needing help with something so trivial as eating. But..

But he didn’t.

The way Tony fed Stephen and himself with the same fork, eyes so warm and with a brilliance that could make the sun appear dull, the way he genuinely enjoyed servicing Stephen, thoughtful and patient with his action of feeding him.. Stephen didn’t feel like he was being looked down on. He didn’t feel pitied, he didn’t feel disabled.

He simply felt loved.

They ate in relative silence, save for Tony’s occasional rants on something or the other. Stephen was content to just listen and enjoy the closeness.

When they were done, Tony picked up the dishes and moved to the sink to wash them.

“Do you have painkillers?” The genius asked as he placed the clean dishes on the drying rack, and it really shouldn’t have surprised Stephen. Of course Tony had picked up that his discomfort was more than just not being able to hold a fork.

“In my room, yes,” Stephen replied. “But that won’t be needed.”

Tony tiredly rubbed his fingers over his eyes, then gave Stephen a deadpan expression that spoke ‘I’m not taking your bullshit today’.

“Really, it’s fine,” Stephen insisted.

A minute later, they were in Stephen’s room.

Tony made him sit down on the bed, handed him a pill of Naproxen, all the while grumbling under his breath something about ‘stubborn wizards’. Stephen popped the pill into his mouth, and Tony helped him gulp down a glassful of water before setting the empty glass away.

“Does it help to massage your hands?” Tony asked.

Stephen hesitated. He knew what question would follow that one.

But.. but perhaps a part of him wanted to be asked that.

“It does.”

Tony gave him a curious look, eyes open and almost pleading. “Would you let me..?”

Stephen bit the corner of his lip. He looked at the window that showed it to still be raining outside, then down at the hands on his lap, then back up at Tony.

“..Yes.”

Tony’s eyes eased into an invisible smile. He went around the bed, climbed from the other side, and settled himself at center of the large bed, back leaned against the headboard. He coaxed Stephen closer to him, who followed and leaned himself partly against the headboard, partly on Tony, and gave up his hands to Tony’s care.

Tony frowned at Stephen’s robes in distaste. “Are you seriously gonna wear that in bed too?”

Stephen huffed out a breath. He hadn’t exactly given it a lot of thought when Tony had landed in front of the Sanctum; he’d just wanted to hide Tony’s hoodie away.

With a quick motion, he changed into his own comfortable clothes — no, not Tony’s, he would not let Tony claim his MIT hoodie back anytime soon — and then relinquished his hand back in Tony’s hold. “There, happy?”

“Very fucking much. I don’t get how you can put up with wearing that 27 hours a day.”

Tony began to massage his hands. He was so gentle and careful with them, applying the lightest of pressure, massaging from the wrists slowly down to each finger. The touch of his warm fingers on Stephen’s cold ones felt soothing. In between the massage, Tony’s touches, at times, softly traced over the scars. But they never once felt intrusive. They felt like the delicate caress of a flower against a butterfly’s wing, harmless and gentle and so, so careful.

It was nice. It was safety and care and love. The pain was slowly forgotten, and Stephen’s mind was slowly lulled into a state of peace and comfort.

A moderately loud thunder crackled, and Stephen looked at the window to find it was absolutely pouring outside. The temperature had also fallen further by a few degrees. Sitting pressed against Tony and sharing their body heat, the temperature didn’t bother Stephen, nor his hands with how tenderly they were being cared for.

There was no book here, no tea, no large window to watch the rain outside. But, Stephen thought, that this weather was actually rather enjoyable.

Stephen never allowed anyone to touch his hands in such a way, or, hell, touch his hands at all. It was asking for too much trust, too much vulnerability on his side.

But with Tony.. Tony made it easy to lend him the trust, to share this vulnerability. It was so easy to let down his walls, allow this genius man in, and let him carve out a corner for himself in Stephen’s heart.

Vishanti, he was in love with this man, mind, soul, and body.

“How do you feel now?” Tony asked, looking up at Stephen with those brown, beautiful, expressive eyes.

Stephen simply leaned in, capturing his lips in a loving kiss. A sound of surprise escaped Tony’s lips, that turned into a delighted laugh as he reciprocated the kiss. Stephen channeled all of his affection, savoring Tony’s lips, hoping it communicated the sheer love he felt towards the genius.

When they parted, Stephen continued to pepper his jaw with more kisses. “Thank you, Tony,” he said as they leaned their foreheads together.

“Anyday for my Sweetcakes,” Tony said, and Stephen didn’t have to open his eyes to read the content smile on Tony’s face. His voice was more than enough.

[which-qsmp-egg-would]

CAMP DAY 1

As you all pile out of the bus, encumbered by way too much luggage and new friends, you notice a large screen sat inexplicably in the center of the entrance, under an archway that says "Camp Egg". It looks like you won't be able to enter until the video finishes playing.

As the video ends, Not-Cucurucho steps out from behind the large screen and wheels it away.

He returns with a stack of papers and, one by one, he distributes them to each of you, instructing you to read it.

Cucurucho- er, Not-Cucurucho, mentions that more camper may arrive while camp is still running.

Once again, he reminds you all that if you have any questions, that you should bring them to him.

He looks at each of you, one at a time, before finally saying:

"Please proceed to your cabins. You will recieve your bandana, and your counselor will help you unpack your bags and get settled."

"I hope you enjoy Camp Egg."

(Casting call! Poll - Yours truely. Ping - @hepbaestus . Áfonya- @semifontos . Pepper - @pikaeggs . Mia - @studio-stephen . Estella - @oozblob . Chip - @shrimpysstuff . Ribcage - @nameless-network . Soup - @grapesintomatosoup . Macron - @prismpanic . Blossom - @/eternal-nyx . Castor - @readbycrow . Floryn - @unqualified-therapist . Tala - @iminyourbookshelf . Constence - @lilliancdoodles )

[hairmetal666]

Between jobs and back home—Eddie's real home in Hawkins, Indiana—he works on repairing the trailer where he grew up with his uncle and fixes up the man’s old beater of a truck. He’s doing the latter when his phone pings with a notification he’s been waiting half his life for.

It’s the obituary for Richard Stephen Harrington IV, husband of Miriam and father of Stephen. 

He knows the Harrington’s. Not personally. But they’re from Indianapolis, only about an hour away, so Eddie’s gathered intel on them for years. He knows that Richard Harrington was a Wall Street finance guy who struck it big and then got into real estate development. He knows that his company’s numbers don’t quite add up, that he came through the 2008 crash suspiciously unscathed. Probably the most important thing he knows about Richard Harrington, though, is that it was his company that put Eddie’s uncle out of a job during his freshman year of high school. 

Harrington Holdings LLC bought the factory where Wayne worked with all kinds of pretty promises of making improvements and keeping it open. Within six months it was closed, and half a year later converted to a pharmaceutical research and production facility. 

The Munsons weren’t doing great before Wayne was laid off, and after. Well, they could only afford the lot rent at Forest Hills with Eddie working part-time flipping burgers at the Burger Chef, and—when that wasn’t enough—supplementing by selling drugs to his classmates. Really takes a toll on the GPA when you work every weeknight and spend your weekends at parties peddling weed. 

Anyway, fuck the Harringtons, is what he’s saying.

Coming your way this Saturday!

[peterlorrefanpage]

Let's Play Ping Pong With Peter Lorre

Just felt like collecting the Peter Lorre ping-pong pictures in one place. Any others?

The bottom one is Conrad Veidt + Peter Lorre during the simultaneous shooting of the three versions of "F.P.1 antwortet nicht," 1932 (Peter was in the German version, Conrad in the English; Charles Boyer was in the French):

"After dinner, there was only one diversion—Ping-Pong. Much to everyone’s amusement, the six-foot-five Veidt and the five-foot-five Lorre—who tipped the scale at the same undisclosed weight—paired up. 'And these two guys, the one who played ‘Caligari’ and the other one who played the mass murderer in M became a team in Ping-Pong that was unbeatable,' said [screenwriter Walter] Reisch. 'It was not just if we win tonight, it was a matter of life and death to win the tournament. Not for the money, but there was a gala reception afterwards and a medal. And these guys played together like a team, with beautiful timing.'"

And not too much later:

News of Lorre’s arrival in Los Angeles had preceded him by over a month. “In all of the newspapers here, we read of his coming,” Elisabeth Hauptmann wrote Walter Benjamin in Paris. “One has to congratulate the man who engaged the ‘genius actor.’” Hollywood extended a warm welcome to the Lorres. Invitations summoned Peter and Celia to lavish Viennese and Tyrolean dinner parties, where they mixed with old friends such as Fritz Lang, G.W. Pabst, Billy Wilder, and Franz Waxman and met new ones, among them Jean Negulesco, Delmer Daves, Paul Muni, and Olivia de Havilland. The Friedrich Hollaenders also enrolled Lorre—along with Ernst Lubitsch, Conrad Veidt, and Josef von Sternberg—for their Sunday afternoon Ping-Pong tournaments."

All quotes from "The Lost One: A Life of Peter Lorre" by Stephen D. Youngkin.