deathbecomesthem

[deathbecomesthem]

Logged into FB for a mo and saw an unsolicited AI photo of my COVID vaccination card in the style of anime, a gift from Meta AI.

This is never going to be normalized for me, and I just hate that it's the status quo from here on out.

[deathbecomesthem]

Sometimes I can't think too hard about the end result of my work product because it's Too Big to consider and it impacts people's real lives in a huge way.

Scawy

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I continue to run into people that are confused as to why Americans have screens on our windows and it’s really quite simple.

Bugs

Diseases carried by bugs

Other assorted wildlife such as dogs and teenagers

[deathbecomesthem]

This is a topic I have thought about A LOT over the years. The US reckons with its racism in the light of day, the same cannot be said about our European counterparts. How can it be dealt with if you refuse to admit it exists?

I would also insist that people remember the US is a behemoth that includes a shitload of different cultures, ethnicities, and races. If you think Americans can be addressed as one people, I think you don't understand what you're talking about. It's like referring to Europeans as one singular entity.

We are not our political rulers. We live in a massive country with major roadblocks in the way of equal voting rights. Even with Trump winning the popular vote, we're talking upwards of 160 million Americans that did NOT vote for him.

There’s this misconception that Americans are somehow worse than the rest of the world when it comes to bigotry and let me tell you- no.

I grew up in rural England/wales. Racist as fuck.

Went to college in a city with a MASSIVE polish immigrant community- also racist as fuck. (Many polish friends attested to this too)

The n word was thrown around like a normal swear word, with many kids truly not being taught the difference.

Here in the UK, our racism and bigotry is bespoke. It’s perhaps quieter- I think the occurrence of 9/11 catapulted the US into a kind of bigotry that’s loud and in your face- but if you’re British and you think ‘oh well at least we’re not as bad as America’. We are. We just don’t have guns to shoot people about it.

[deathbecomesthem]

Yes @raccoonboywrites

This is what I mean.

I was 19 years old on 9/11/2001, sharing a house with 7 other college students. We had one television with rabbit ears; no one wanted to pay for cable. We had a landline, and only 2 of my roommates had cell phones - I did not have one.

I woke up to one of my roommates (she had been a friend from high school and was very much like an older sibling) climbing onto my bed to wake me up. "We're under attack. You have to wake up."

She was crying, and I heard people talking down the hall in the living room. One of my other roommates was adding aluminum foil to the rabbit ears hoping to make the reception clearer. We all watched the second plane hit the south tower. Eight 19 to 23 year olds watched it together, away from our families. You could hear a pin drop.

I went to my bedroom and fell to my knees. I cried and cried for the loss of life, for the uncertain future, for the loss of innocent lives to come in the pursuit of vengeance.

By noon, the house was full of our friends. No one knew what to do, so they came to our house. I couldn't call my parents because the phone lines were overwhelmed - they were living in New York at the time.

I'm telling you this so you remember, it's normal to be scared when things happen that are so big and out of your control. Hold on to what's important.

[deathbecomesthem]

I was 19 years old on 9/11/2001, sharing a house with 7 other college students. We had one television with rabbit ears; no one wanted to pay for cable. We had a landline, and only 2 of my roommates had cell phones - I did not have one.

I woke up to one of my roommates (she had been a friend from high school and was very much like an older sibling) climbing onto my bed to wake me up. "We're under attack. You have to wake up."

She was crying, and I heard people talking down the hall in the living room. One of my other roommates was adding aluminum foil to the rabbit ears hoping to make the reception clearer. We all watched the second plane hit the south tower. Eight 19 to 23 year olds watched it together, away from our families. You could hear a pin drop.

I went to my bedroom and fell to my knees. I cried and cried for the loss of life, for the uncertain future, for the loss of innocent lives to come in the pursuit of vengeance.

By noon, the house was full of our friends. No one knew what to do, so they came to our house. I couldn't call my parents because the phone lines were overwhelmed - they were living in New York at the time.

I'm telling you this so you remember, it's normal to be scared when things happen that are so big and out of your control. Hold on to what's important.

[deathbecomesthem]

Deep sigh, my friends. No matter what happens, it is out of your control. Keep your loved ones close.

[deathbecomesthem]

Stop romanticizing abuse.

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Just one? King Cone...no, Drum Stick, wait...Strawberry Shortcake, no...Chocolate Eclair...

[deathbecomesthem]

Death's One Shots and Blurbs

One Shots

Who, Me? - 2.3K - Eddie x fem!reader, 90s coffee house AU - fluff

Trailer Park Blues | 3.7K - smut & fluff

You Can't Go Home Again | 8.1K - smut & fluff

Gone Baby Gone - 2.2K - smut & fluff

Second Chances - 2K fluff

Halloween 1976 - 2.1K - A Munson Family Story - angst

A Night Apart - 2K - smut

Anything We Want - 3.4K fluff

Tommy - 1.7K Young Eddie and Uncle Wayne

Blurbs

Rainy Picnic - 1.7k smut & fluff

Fishnets and Purple Panties

Wool Skirt - ~900 WC - male masturbation & fantasy, gn!reader

Smut 1 - 900 words, sub!Eddie

Half Asleep - 600 words smut

Bad Day Smut - smut & fluff

Caught in the Act - smut

Disabled Reader Smut

Movie Night - smut

Drunk Eddie - smut

Eddie in the Shower - smut

Jean Shorts - smut

Crying Jag - angst & fluff

Morning After - fluff

Kiss

First Time He Tells You - fluff

Gutterballs: Than's Edition

Pick Up, Brother - angst - Al Munson POV

[deathbecomesthem]

Pick up, Brother | 1.2K

Al Munson POV - a couple of days following the Hawkins "earthquake".

Warning: Grief, canon compliant.

For the third time in as many days, there’s been a message waiting for him at the front desk from his little brother. He doesn’t know how he tracked him down this time around, and he doesn’t really care. He knows it’s probably something to do with Junior if he’s trying this hard to get a hold of him. They both made it perfectly clear the last time he came around that they didn’t want him there, so what exactly is the fucking problem now?

Al snatches the paper out of the hand of the kid behind the counter and heads up to his room. This particular motel isn’t the best, but it’s definitely not the worst. At least here you’ll find more than just Johns and lot lizards renting out the neighboring rooms by the half hour. He even saw a pretty normal looking couple with a toddler last week. The novelty of that normalcy wore off when he heard the kid screaming at 6 in the morning the following day, but at least he didn’t have to worry as much about the cops raiding the place.

$50 a week, cash. A roof over his head and hot water in the shower. It’s better accommodations than county lockup, which is where he most recently came from. That dumbass Holt and his shit ass car. If he’d known about the cracked radiator before the job, he would’ve at least patched it up for him. That’s what he gets for teaming up with that inbred dipshit. Should’ve been a red flag when he said he didn’t make it past the fifth grade. At least all the Munson made it through middle school.

Al can hear the sound of a woman yelling at the end of the hall. A lovers quarrel, perhaps? A smile curls on his lips at the thought of her, whoever she is, giving some guy what for. What he wouldn’t give to have a lady shouting at him again, it’s been too long. Maybe tonight he’ll head down to the bar across the street and see if he can ease her pain. Ease his own pain. Fill that void of loneliness for a minute. That’s what it’s all about, right?

Al wiggles the key in the door to his room, it sticks like a motherfucker every time. Every time he leaves he thinks he ought to just leave it unlocked. There’s nothing worth taking inside, unless someone wants a mud caked pair of boots that are worn too thin to keep the moisture out. Maybe they want his sweat stained Fruit of the Looms, or his duffel bag with the busted handle. 

Al uses his shoulder to give the stubborn lock the extra oomph needed for the door to swing open - and he’s greeted by the view of his own personal castle. Rust shag carpet and tobacco smoke stained curtains. The comforter on his bed, dark maroon and scratchy as hell, is still in disarray from last night’s sleep. Housekeeping exists at this motel, but they haven’t touched his room in at least 4 days. Or, if they have, they’ve left no trace of their presence. He crumples up the paper he was given with the words, “Wayne Munson called at 5:15” and tosses it into the overflowing wastebasket next to the nightstand. 

“Wayne Munson can go fuck himself, and so can Junior for all I care,” Al says under his breath as he kicks off his sneakers. His gray socks, formerly white, are stretched so thin the big toe on his right foot is lost in the carpet under his feet. He sighs and reaches into the mini fridge for a tall boy. At least he’s made enough scratch working as a dishwasher at the diner down the road to keep beer. Just don’t tell his parole officer.

The thought of Wayne’s persistent phone calls have all but left his mind as he flops down on the bed and clicks on the television. It’s Wheel of Fortune time. He ordered a pie from Vinny’s on his way home from work, should be at his door in the next 20 minutes or so. He’s going to spend time with Vanna for now. He’ll smoke a couple of butts and drink a couple of tall boys, and watch the prettiest lady in primetime tv smile just for him.

The phone on the nightstand next to him begins to ring. The shrill sound drowns out the clicking of the wheel as Tommy from Spokane makes his first attempt at big bucks. Bankrupt. Al smiles to himself. He likes it when they lose more than when they win. He pretends he can’t hear the phone and reaches for the PBR can next to the phone’s receiver for a drink. 

Except this time, it doesn’t ring twice and stop. That phone keeps ringing, and ringing. He can’t hear what Pat just said to Vanna. Whatever it was, it made her giggle in a girlish way that reminded him of his Bets. And then it rings again. He knocks back the remainder of his beer before flinging the can over the end of his bed and grabbing the phone. 

“Yeah,” Al grumbles into the hard plastic mouthpiece, “whatcha want?”

“Al, it’s Wayne,” the voice says, echoing down the phone line across the state line, “we gotta talk.”

“Little brother, to what do I owe this pleasure? Last time we talked I got the feeling you didn’t want to know me anymore?” Al can’t hide his contempt. What’s the point? He’s too tired and he doesn’t need this bullshit from Wayne of all people.

“Al, I’m really sorry to do this to you,” Wayne’s voice is steady. He’s not meeting Al’s anger. To Al’s ears, Wayne really does sound sorry. Munsons don’t say sorry. “Listen. Something real bad’s been going on in Hawkins. Real bad. Eddie’s missing, Al. I think…” Wayne stops and audibly gulps before continuing, “No, I know he’s dead, brother.”

Al coughs a laugh out along with the smoke from his last drag of cigarette. He doesn’t think what Wayne said is funny, not at all. That’s not fucking funny.

“Fuck you, Wayne. My boy ain’t dead. I’d know that,” Al’s voice is loud enough that the lady at the end of the hallway can hear him clear as day. As soon as Al says those words, he knows Wayne’s not lying, though.

“Al, hear me right now,” Wayne’s tear soaked plea is almost too much for Al to bear, but the grip of his hand on the plastic receiver does not loosen. It’s pressed hard against the shell of his ear, “you know how it can be here in Hawkins. Something got him, Al, and I know it’s true. I’m sorry.”

Al is left standing next to his bed, toes deep in the dusty shag carpet with the phone still pressed up to his ear when he hears the click of Wayne’s phone disconnecting. The sound of cheers on the television drew his attention, someone won a jackpot and his girl is clapping for them. Her wide smile radiates through the screen, and it feels like mocking. There’s a knock at the door of his room, and he remembers Vinny’s. He wonders who will answer the door, because he can’t move. He thinks he might never move again, he will stay frozen in this place with Vanna White and her mocking smile clapping at the death of his boy for the rest of eternity.

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I know I wrote an incredibly sad Al Munson POV fic about Eddie's death, but I'll be goddamned if I can find it.

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I refuse to believe that the lives that celebrities lead are more exciting than what the average person experiences. They're BORING and obsessed with their appearance and how other people perceive them.

I would much rather hear about your day than the day of any Hollywood actor.

*unless, of course, your day is dedicated to obsessing about a celebrity. That's pretty boring, Babe.

[deathbecomesthem]

unrestrained summer fun

[deathbecomesthem]

I don't believe in an afterlife necessarily, but if a paradise of some kind exists after we shuffle off this mortal coil, smoking will have no health risks there.