#blood is mentioned

[blushweddinggowns]

Eddie was biting at his nails as he paced around the apartment. 

Steve still wasn't back.

He still wasn’t back and it was an hour past when he said he would be. 

He checked out the front window every few minutes, praying that he would show soon. He wouldn't be able to take this all night, he was only ten minutes away from finding him himself, parents be damned. He was probably overreacting, Steve had insisted he was overreacting, but nothing about this felt right. 

Two years they had been together, two years and Steve hadn’t seen them once. They had been at their vacation home in Jersey when things went to shit, and decided to stay there for the foreseeable future, son be damned.  There were a few calls here and there, maybe once every two months, calls that Steve was always expected to initiate, calls that he would walk away from downcast and depressed, always crawling into Eddie’s lap with a short, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Eddie’s not exactly proud, but he had eavesdropped once on the other line, morbid curiosity and worry taking full control. It was his dad who picked up, who completely ignored Steve’s small, “Can I talk to mom?” to berate him over still living at home, and how he was lucky that the housing market in Hawkins was at its worst or he’d be homeless, and how it was about time he started to pay some rent. 

“If you can actually learn to be responsible down there, we might let you live with us when the house is sold, whenever that may be. But we'll be damned if we let a free-loader stay in our home. Do you understand Steven?”

He hadn’t even said goodbye when he was done, just a short, “Your mothers sleeping, I’ll tell her you called,” and the click of the phone. 

Steve hadn’t set foot in his old house for nearly a month before that call, it was more of a glorified storage unit if anything. Steve had basically moved in with him and Wayne when they were still dancing around each other, and he could probably count the times they’d slept apart in the past two years on one hand. 

And he was already paying rent, in his own way. Even when Wayne had absolutely refused to take a dime from Steve the first time he’d tried it.

“Just keep my Eddie out of trouble and smiling, and you can stay here as long as you want, free of charge,” The embarrassing, wonderful old fuck. 

It helped that Steve was slowly becoming Wayne’s new favorite, because his uncle had fantastic taste, and Steve was probably the sole reason they had stopped eating cut up hot dogs and canned green beans every other day. 

So Steve bought groceries, gas, even snuck in a few twenties into Wayne’s wallet every month, the little weirdo. He cooked and cleaned, forcing Wayne and Eddie to do the same, out of the sheer guilt of watching someone so sweet do all of their dirty work. 

It’s not that Eddie and Wayne couldn’t take care of themselves, they could, but it had been just the two of them for so long, and Wayne had been a mill working bachelor living in a trailer park before Eddie came along, he hadn’t been brimming with knowledge on how to keep a clean house, just a moderately decent one that CPS wouldn’t raise a brow to. 

But Steve…Steve was a cleaner. 

“You learn a thing or two when you gotta get rid of all traces of a house party,” he had laughed, when Eddie had caught him cleaning under the couch, a concept neither Wayne or he had ever grasped. Though that explanation hadn’t explained how he was so good at cooking. 

It had been almost shocking the first time Steve had cooked for him. He loved Steve, he really did, respected him too, but back then the guy basically subsisted on granola bars and pop tarts, and it was Robin or Eddie who usually had to shove real food down his throat, even if it was from a shitty fast food place half the time. 

He couldn’t really be blamed for the expectation that Steve couldn’t cook for shit. So imagine his surprise when Steve blew him away with something he hadn’t even heard of before, beef bourg-something, which ended up being about the best thing Eddie had ever tasted. 

“You can’t be gorgeous, sweet, and a good cook Stevie, you gotta pick a lane here.” He had been worried for a split second that he’d gone too far with the gorgeous and sweet bit, but Steve had just laughed, so obviously pleased that Eddie liked what he made. Which, in hindsight, Eddie should have taken as a massive green flag, it could have saved him weeks of pining. 

It became a regular occurrence after that, and Steve would always glow from the approval he would get from Wayne and Eddie, like they were doing him a favor by eating delicious food. 

“My mom used to like it, when I cooked,” Steve had admitted, much later one night, “Dad hated it, said that it was a short fall to being a fag, but my mom…she always said thank you. Always smiled. She’d ask me about my day sometimes, if I made something she really liked.”

“I like doing it,” he confessed, “But I haven’t had anyone to cook for in a long time."

"Steve…"

“But now I do.” Steve interrupted with a grin, so sincere as he grasped Eddie’s hand, “For someone who deserves it."

Eddie had kissed him silly that night. 

He still wasn’t sure if he actually deserved it, but he could agree that the Harringtons certainly did not. He didn’t even know what the fuckers looked liked. Their house was always shockingly impersonal, no family photos ever in sight, just expensive meaningless art that went with the furniture.

So why were they calling now? And how did they know to call Eddie’s house?

It had been Wayne who picked up the phone, just on his way out, eyebrows raising to his hairline as he passed it to Steve. It had been a short call, and then Steve was getting dressed, trying and failing to reassure Eddie that everything was fine. 

“It happens sometimes, when they get back, it’s like a checklist item, to see me.” Steve had said, shrugging on Eddie’s jacket. He was failing to reassure him, not when he could see his hands shaking as he tied his shoes, “I’ll be fine. It will be one awakward dinner, and then I’ll be back before you know it.”

Eddie watched him, trying to process the whiplash of Steve being calmly cuddled up to his side to getting ready to rush out the door.  

“If it’s not gonna take long then I can just wait in the car baby, it’s not that big a deal-”

“Eddie, no,” He was firm and unyielding, but was refusing to look Eddie in the eye,“I’ll be fine, trust me okay?”

He kissed his cheek on the way out the door, “Nine at the latest, I swear.”

Eddie didn’t trust him, not with this. Steve didn’t talk about his parents much, but the small things he had been able to coax out of him were never good. Selfish, neglectful, mean, but he wouldn’t elaborate, never going further than small stories and tidbits. Eddie never pushed him, never asked explicitly, but he had a pretty strong suspicion it didn’t end there. 

Steve had scars, some he would talk about and others he wouldn’t. He could perfectly recite the story of the mark on his chin, even though he was messed up on truth serum with a russian induced concussion, but when asked about the thin, silvery lines that adorned his body, he suddenly couldn’t remember a thing. 

And Eddie wasn’t the only one suspicious, the rumor mill of Hawkins was strong. Daniel Harrington was known for his temper, and was borderline psychotic in highschool according to Wayne, always trying to pick fights, and always buying his way out of the consequences. 

Back in highschool, there were a few whispers in the hallways, small shit about hearing screaming from the Harrington household, rumors about hand shaped bruises seen in the locker room, questions about why Steve startled so hard at loud noises. 

Eddie had dismissed it, something he still hasn’t quite forgiven himself for, and most of the school did with him. Afterall, kids who had their dads beat the shit out of them weren’t popular, they weren’t captains of the swim team, they didn’t walk around in designer clothes or drive new cars. They were supposed to be damaged losers, easy to pick from the crowd. Someone like Eddie, never someone like King Steve. When in reality, even without his parents, Steve had been dealing with shit that would have sent normal people spiraling for years. 

Even Wayne was on edge, obviously disturebed by the Harrington's sudden arrival. He eventually called from his girlfriend’s place, checking in on how it went, grunting unhappily when Eddie told him he still hadn’t gotten back yet, “If he’s not home in a few hours call Hopper.”

“Agreed.”

Eddie gave up on pacing and peeking, deciding to just sit his ass down on the front stoop and stare at the street. He was seconds away from giving in entirely, already trying to remember where he put his keys when he saw it. Familiar headlights were making their way up his street, parking crookedly on the curb.

Oh thank god. Eddie finally let himself breathe for the first time in hours. He should have just trusted Steve like he said-

His brain short-circuited as he watched the car door open and Steve tumble out of the driver's side, falling to the curb. Eddie was flying off of the stoop, at Steve's side in a moment as he struggled to stand. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, his baby was bleeding. His baby was bleeding and blurry eyed as he pathetically tried to stand up. Eddie didn’t hesitate, scoping him up in his arms to bring him inside.

“What the hell happened Steve?” Eddie asked, panicked as he laid him out on the couch. He looked awful, so bad that Eddie wanted to cry. His right eye was swollen and already purpling, his lip was split, sending dark, red tracks down his chin. Eddie took his jacket off for him, eyes widening to see the blood running down his arms, embedded bits of glass sparkling in the light.

"I'm sorry I’m late," Steve slurred, trying and failing to help Eddie remove the jacket, “It didn’t go so good.”

That was the understatement of the fucking century. Eddie’s mind was a cluster fuck, filled with worry, confusion, rage, despair at seeing Steve so hurt, for no fucking good reason. But he needed to focus, freaking out wasn’t helping Steve, who was still fucking bleeding. Stopping that took precedent. 

Steve looked down at himself, frowning as he seemimly took in the damage for the first time, before stupidly trying to sit up, “I’ll get blood on the couch,” 

That stupid statement was enough to get Eddie out of his shock.

“I don’t give a shit about the couch Steve.” Eddie hissed out, fighting not to yell. He was feeling too much all at once, but he refused to let himself be mad at Steve for being so idiotically self neglinat, not when he needed him. He rubbed a hand over his face, steeling himself to get his shit together before standing. 

“Wait here sweetheart, and keep your eyes open, okay? I’ll be right back,” Eddie had to gently push Steve back down when he tried to sit up, “Just let me take care of you.”

Steve nodded, seemingly accepting the fact that yes, his literal life took precedence over cheap furniture. Eddie made it to the bathroom in record time, for once surreally grateful he had experienced the Upside Down, because it had forced him to have multiple first aid kits on hand. 

He was back in less than a minute, horrified to see Steve standing on unsteady feet, spreading a blanket on the couch, like ruining the upholstery with this blood was really the priority here. He had the good grace to look guilty when he saw Eddie, sitting back down with a heavy sound, unprompted. 

Calm down, calm down, calm down, Eddie thought to himself, before kneeling in front of Steve. His hands were shaking as he opened the first aid kit, but he made them work. He pressed up against the cut on his lips with cotton rounds, placing Steve’s hand against it to keep the pressure. His arms were worse, and his shaking wasn’t helping him tweeze the glass out, beer bottle by the looks of it, but he managed. 

Steve was still acting woozy, barely acknowledging the sting of the alcohol as Eddie bandaged and cleaned all of his cuts, “What hurts the most baby? I need you to tell me.”

“Head,” Steve mumbled, “feels like it’s burning.”

Fuck, Eddie didn’t know what to do with that. Surface level shit he could handle, but it sounded like he had a concussion, “Steve, I think we need to take you to a hospital-”

“No.” It was automatic, so quick from Steve’s mouth that Eddie did a double take. 

“Why the hell not?”

"I don’t…" he sighed, "I don't want everyone to know, okay? Not yet. I just want you."

"But-"

“Eddie, please?” He was begging, pleading in a way Eddie didn’t know how to say no too.

Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to be patient, “Okay, okay. Just stay right here, and keep your eyes open, got it? I’ll be right back.”

Eddie kissed him on the forehead, ignoring his soft comments about being sweaty and gross. He went straight to the phone, calling the only number he could think of. 

Wayne picked up on the third ring, obviously expecting the call. He told him everything, desperate for advice, “He doesn’t want to go to the hospital, but he looks bad, Wayne. I-I don’t know what to do,”

“Jesus christ, wait a second.” 

Eddie kept peeking his head out into the hall, like Steve was going to spontaneously combust if he let him out of his site for too long. He repeated everything to Mindy, relieved that there was someone who knew what to do.

“Oh honey…Keep him awake okay? If he can’t stay conscious, call 911, don’t wait for us. And don't move him too much, we’ll be right there."

Thank god for Mindy, the saint. He had already adored the woman the first time they’d met, just from the way she made his uncle smile, but this was going to have her in his good books for the end of time. 

Steve was still awake when he got back, thankfully. Eddie sat on the floor next to him, taking his hand, “Wayne and Mindy are coming over in a bit, okay? Someone has to check on you.”

Steve started to protest, but one look at Eddie’s unamused face shut him up. He looked away, “I forgot she was a nurse.”

“If she says you need to go to the hospital, you’re going.”

“Okay.”

Eddie waited for Steve to start telling him what the fuck had happened, so he knew who he had to murder. But he didn’t say anything, he just kept occasionally playing with the rings on Eddie’s hands, proving that he was still awake. 

Eddie broke the silence first, he just couldn’t take not saying anything,“You’re not going back there. Ever. I'm never letting you out of my sight again.”

Steve laughed, wincing when it made his lip bleed a bit more. That was almost enough to have Eddie crying all over again. 

“I, um, can’t go back there, actually.” He didn’t even look sad, just resigned, “They said it was you or them. I chose you and,” he chuckled, humorless, “And they did not take it well.”

“They know?” Eddie asked, the answer obvious, but the how wasn’t. They were hundreds of miles away, never giving a single shit about their son’s life.

He nodded, “They told me on the phone, said they knew what I was up to, that I owed them an explanation.”

“How?”

“Tommy, I guess. He called them, sat down with them or something,” he shrugged and even that small movement looked painful, “Worried about my life choices or some shit.”

Another one to the list of people Eddie was going to have to choke out. 

Eddie should have never let him go over there alone, or at all. He knew something was up, he fucking knew it, but he was here sitting on his hands while Steve was getting the shit beat out of him. 

Eddie wanted him to look at him, needed him to look at him. He cradled Steve’s face, carefully moving him to meet his eyes, "Stevie…baby, why did you go?”

He looked so broken down, tears starting to gather in the corner of his eyes. Steve went to bite his lip, flinching when he realized what a mistake that was, “If I didn’t go he would have shown up here. A-and I didn’t want you to get hurt. I thought I could talk them down or something, or just lie my way through it but…I couldn’t.” 

Eddie resisted the urge to argue with him, to say that Steve mattered more, that he couldn’t put himself in harm’s way for his sake, that he would have gladly been the one to take the beating if it meant he would be okay. He was tracing the outline of his jaw, half for comfort and half to check for more injuries, biting down all of his indignation. 

“How many times have they done this before?”

“They haven’t-”

“Sweetheart, please don’t lie to me,” Eddie wiped the tears from his good eye, patient.

Steve took a deep breath, closing his eyes, admitting the truth out loud for the first time in his life, “I’ve lost count.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

"I didn't want to scare you away,"

Eddie frowned, immediately confused, “What does that mean?”

The tears were really starting to fall now, Steve wincing at the sting of them in his cuts, “I-I know I’m already a lot okay? I’m clingy and annoying a-and I fucking scream and shit in the middle of the night and I just didn’t want to add another thing for you to have to deal with.”

Blaming himself for the terrible things other people did to him, classic fucking Steve. Eddie wanted to shake him, to yell at him that he was the most important person in his world, how could anything ever scare him away?  But he held it all back.

"There is nothing that would ever make me not want you," Eddie swallowed, his own eyes starting to sting, "I'll always love you, don't you know that?"

"I-I do, really, I just...I don't know. I should have told you," Steve managed to look ashamed through his tears, and it just made Eddie's heart hurt more. He wanted to hug him, to hold him tight, and never let go. But he couldn't, not without hurting him. Steve's favorite thing in the world was getting held, and they managed to take that away. Eddie didn't know why that fact was standing out so much, but he'd never forgive them for it. 

He could hear the sound of Wayne’s truck pulling into the driveway, footsteps not far behind. Eddie kissed the side of his mouth, as lightly as he could before standing to let them inside. 

Mindy made quick work of tending to him, revealing more injuries under his clothes that Eddie hadn't even realized were there. His heart almost stopped at the sight of Steve shirtless, mottled yellow bruising strewn across his sides.

He and Wayne stood on the sidelines, both anxious as they waited for the news. Wayne was furious in a way that he hadn’t seen since he was a kid, back when it was Eddie being patched up from his own shit dad.

"You can stay home tonight," she finally declared to Steve, gesturing Eddie over, "You just need lots and lots of rest. Give those ribs a chance to heal a good while before you do anything strenuous. Now let's help get you to bed.”

"Thank you," Steve mumbled as Eddie scooped him up. Now that he had gotten the go-ahead to sleep, Steve was already letting his eyes fall closed, clearly exhausted. He set him down on the bed carefully, helping him change into clean clothes, ignoring the weak protests that he could do it himself. 

“Please don’t go after him,” Steve mumbled when Eddie got him under the covers, "Promise me?"

Eddie hesitated, "But-"

"It's not about them," Steve rushed out, shaking his head, "Getting arrested isn't worth it. Losing you isn't worth it. Swear?”

He was right, Eddie knew Steve was right. His father wasn't just anybody, he'd press charges against almost any offense against him. And he had the lawyers to back it up. Steve was still looking at him, struggling to keep his eyes open as he waited. Eddie relented, begrudgingly giving into stupid things like logic, “I swear.”

"Thank you," Steve whispered, finally letting himself fall asleep, "I love you."

Eddie kissed his forehead, staying by his side until he was fully out of it, losing himself in his own thoughts. He wouldn’t lie to Steve, he couldn’t lie to Steve, even if he wanted to. 

He wouldn't lay a hand on his father. But that didn't mean he couldn't get his shit back. Preferably before it was thrown out or damaged by his psychotic family. He left Wayne with a sleeping Steve, after a few dozen promises, that no, he was not going to go commit a violent felony.

Just a few misdemeanors. 

“If they haven't already skipped town, then you come right back. You hear me?” Wayne insisted, watching him tie up his boots with narrowed eyes. 

“I hear you. It'll be two hours, tops.”

He parked a block away, slinking along the sidewalk. Lucky enough for him, there were no cars in the driveway of the Harrington house, and all the lights were off. The whole neighborhood was quiet. It sure looked like they booked it, maybe too afraid of an assault charge actually sticking to stay in town.

Breaking into Steve’s room was easy, first floor with an unlocked window? Child’s play. His room looked untouched, thankfully. Whatever had happened, hadn’t happened here. He didn't waste time, immediately starting to throw the few things left in his bag. There really wasn’t much to grab, a few mixtapes, some drawings from Will, the last of his clothes. Eddie was searching under the bed when he heard it, the sound of the knob turning. 

He froze, hearing a sharp intake of breath behind him. He expected whoever it was to start yelling, but instead there was only the click of the door closing shut behind them. He turned slowly, surprised to see who was standing there.  

He had never seen her before, but he recognized her immediately. Steve looked just like her. The same big eyes and pouty mouth, the same gravity defying hair. They stared at each other, but she didn’t scream. She kept her eyes on him as she walked forward, primly sitting at Steve’s pristine desk. 

Eddie was trying to calculate how much time it would take to book it back down the window and to his car, when she opened her mouth, “You can keep packing, don’t worry. Daniel’s gone for now.”

She was shuffling around in Steve’s old desk as she spoke, "You're Eddie, I presume.”

It was a statement, not a question, despite the phrasing, but Eddie answered anyway, “That’s me.”

She found what she was looking for, plain paper and a pen and started scribbling as she spoke, “Is he okay?”

That broke him out of his stunned little trance. Eddie stared at her, baffled and annoyed that she would even ask, “He’s alive.”

“Did he go to the hospital?”

“Why do you care?” He was pushing it. He should just pack Steve’s shit and go, but he was stuck, seething at the woman who allowed Steve to live with that monster, too angry to keep his mouth shut.

She shrugged, “If my husband is about to be arrested for disciplining our son, I’d like to know about it.”

There it was. Eddie was pretty sure this was the first time he had ever wanted to hit a woman before. He scoffed, “Un-fucking-believable. I’m not even going to answer that.”

He made his way into the closet, grabbing the few things that were still left on hangers. She was still scribbling at Steve’s desk, when he came out, flipping the page over to start on the back. 

She didn’t look up at him, “He’s…” she shook her head, eyes on the paper, “It’s never been that bad before.”

Eddie ignored her, hurriedly going through Steve’s drawers, desperate to just get away from this bitch, this house, and get back to his Steve.  

She was folding the paper up, letter style, before finally looking back up at Eddie. She was biting her lip, the exact same way Steve did, “Will you take care of him? If he stays?”

“Better than you.” Eddie snapped, mind jumping on the if. 

She stood giving him a head to toe look, obviously displeased with what she saw. She held the letter out, “Give him this. He deserves to know he has options, and everything he’s giving up, because of you.” She said it matter of factly, like Eddie was just a temporary bump in the road, “We can give him a new start, and he’ll need a new start somewhere anyway, his father is spreading the news of your affair as we speak.”

Eddie stared down at the letter, making no moves to take it, "Your husband nearly kills him, and you think he’s going to be open to giving him a new start?" He scoffed, “Are you insane? Steve’s never going near that psycho again.”

“I could convince him,” she insisted, “When he calms down and realizes Steve needs help, he’ll be willing to give it to him.”

She shook the letter at him, her forced calm finally starting to crack, “Just give it to him. Consider it a trade for me not having you arrested for trespassing.”

Eddie snatched the letter from her hands, stuffing it into his back pocket, "Fine."

“Good. You can go back out through the window,” she said, turning to leave, “No reason for the neighbors to see more than they already have tonight."

“He won’t come back,” Eddie said, staring at her back,“He has a new family now, a real family, and I’ll never let either of you hurt him again.”

She scoffed, “We’ll just see about that,” Eddie could feel the venom behind her words, a peek into the real person behind the pretty mask. She slammed the door on the way out, like the petty child she was. 

Eddie hated her, hated how she was so sure of herself, so confident with someone she didn’t even fucking know. 

He hated how she thought she loved Steve.

Eddie was still fuming by the time he got home. He dumped the duffle bag into the entryway, the letter still burning a hole in his pocket. Steve wasn't going to leave him because of some scribbled words from his mom, on some level he knew that.

But even on the off chance he had suffered some serious brain damage and wanted to go back he wouldn't let him anyway. He'd kill Daniel Harrington himself before letting his Steve be around the piece of shit. He stepped from the hall into the living room, freezing when he saw Steve curled up on the couch, wide awake. He looked relieved to see him, before letting a frown take over his bruised face.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Eddie asked, shrinking a little at Steve’s glare. He ignored the question. 

“What did you do?” Eddie flinched, but he couldn’t really blame him for expecting the worst. His track record wasn’t exactly…stellar in the physical protection department. 

He raised his hands, placating, “Nothing, I promise! You won’t be seeing my name plastered on any headlines. I just got your stuff.”

Steve stared at him, looking for any tells. Eddie didn’t know how he did it, but the guy would just know when he was lying. Eventually he seemed satisfied with whatever he saw, relenting.

“Come here then,” he made grabby hands, adorable even when he was pissy and all bruised up. 

Eddie went to him, hugging him with careful hands, “How are you feeling baby?”

“Horrible,” Steve admitted, cuddling into his side “But not worse.” 

Eddie nodded, taking him in. He still looked awful, but he was way more coherent than a few hours ago, a sign in the right direction. He thought of the letter burning a hole in his pocket, wondering if it would really be so terrible to just throw it away, Steve none the wiser. What could she possibly say to make up for this?

But on the other hand…it wasn’t his choice to make.

“I uh, “ he rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, “Kinda ran into your mom, while I was there.”

Steve went rigid in his arms, staring up at him with wide-eyes. 

"But nothing happened!" Eddie rushed out, flinching at the sight of Steve’s panicked face, "We just talked."

“Why would she want to talk to you?”

Eddie sighed, digging into his back pocket. Now or never he guessed, “She wanted me to give this to you.”

Steve stared at the envelope, taking it in shaky hands, “She gave it to you?”

"Wrote it out in front of me. She said, uh, that you deserved to know everything you were giving up.”

Because of me. 

He left that part unsaid.

Steve frowned at the paper in his hand, shaking his head, "Help me up," 

“You’re not supposed to be moving-”

“Just to the kitchen,” Steve insisted, “I’ll lay down right after,”

Eddie gave in, helping Steve to his feet, fully intending to drag him back to bed the second he was done with whatever this was. Steve steadied himself, shooing Eddie away to weakly walk towards the kitchen.

Eddie followed him, confused as he dug around in the drawers, finding whatever he was looking for before going to the sink. Eddie watched, wide eyed as he lit a match, promptly setting the paper on fire.

"Steve-"

“It doesn't matter what it says," Steve cut in, letting it drop into the sink, "I made my choice."

He turned away from the sink, stepping back into Eddie’s arms, “All I want is you.”

Eddie held him, forcing himself to be gentle when all he wanted to do was bury himself into the other man, "You won't regret it.” Eddie choked up, teary-eyed, “I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you don't."

"It sounds like you're proposing," Steve said with a wet laugh. Eddie started kissing his face, helpless to not touch him. 

"Maybe I am,”He managed to gasp out in between pecks, “But only if you'd say yes." 

Fuck being young. Fuck every doubt that other people would have. There was no future that existed where Eddie wouldn't want Steve. This was it, the only person he would ever want, ever need. Steve stopped him at his mouth, careful of his cut as he kissed him, so light it was barely there.

He whispered into the small space between their lips, like a secret just for them, "I would."

[starii-void]

going to chb must be crazy like imagine sharing a camp with

-one of the strongest demigods ever who's saved the world like at least 3 times, fought multiple gods & titans and WON (and is a tartarus survivor)

-the literal main architect of OLYMPUS who's also saved the world multiple times (also tartarus survivor)

-THE lord of the wild who's also close friends with the first two (and has helped save the world multiple times)

-an emo kid from the 1930s who again helped save the world and is also a tartarus survivor (TWICE)

-a son of apollo who survived tartarus with nothing but cargo shorts and sheer will (pun intended)

-the main designer and builder for the argo II, also the first hephaestus kid to have fire powers since hundreds of years ago (did i mention killed gaea? no? yeah he did that too)

-a girl who somehow charmspeak-ed gaea into falling back asleep (also side note daughter of super famous actor because why not)

-pretty much everybody is a two-time war veteran

-THE GOD APOLLO who just sometimes comes down to visit in the form of a teenage boy

-did i mention dionysus, god of wine madness and theatre

-also chiron, trainer of pretty much every greek hero ever

[luminarai]

hey, hi, I was just on the former bird app and came across this info from a brand new study and now I cannot stop screaming internally??? what the actual fuckkkk

theres' an article from the guardian here and here is the actual study:

[demigods-posts]

headcanon that percy and annabeth have a relationship contract they made after they got together once the war came to pass. they outlined it on paper in percy's bedroom. typed up a final draft using sally's laptop. and printed out and laminated it at the local library on their two month anniversary. and they abide by it like it's the law.

[rockingbytheseaside]

Hi! I wanted to say I absolutely adore your art and headcannons! I wanted to ask if you would be interested in making a headcannon for our lovely harbingers where there is someone trying to sabotage their relationship with the reader like for example the person is saying that the reader is cheating or is saying mean things about the harbingers and that they have ,,proof" it is if course a lie. Don't force yourself to do anything you don't want to tho!

(Absolutely genius idea! Sorry to keep you waiting! I’m a slow writer…)

✦ When others try to sabotage your relationship with them

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Childe

(tw: general mentions of violence and blood. sfw) 

Being intimate with a powerful Fatui Harbinger provides the illusory dream of having riches, power, and status. Some watch you with hushed murmurs as you accompany your beloved with linked arms, looking all elegant beside him. Perhaps some people cannot comprehend how such a ruthless Fatuus can even court someone like you. Others simply cannot comprehend that status and money is not a key factor in your relationship.

✧ To crossfire with Pierro is to go against every single Fatui Harbinger. The Director is known far and wide as a man of cold words and power beyond the seven nations. All valuable intel and actions are reported to him first and foremost, as even the top Harbingers bow before him. You, on the other hand, were not meant to bow before him. The Jester shall never let you lower your head, because it is he who shall stoop to worship you. 

However recently, a certain rumor reached his ears. His spies related to him info that certain Fatui soldiers, some lowly commoners at the bottom of the ranks, are spreading uncouth jabs about you and Pierro. Intel states that these fools think you infiltrated the Fatui and The Director’s inner circle by some intimate provocation and seduction; that you’re in it for the money and status.

Pierro’s gloved hands gripped the papers. Nevertheless, his expression is placid as always. 

Thus, the culprit now sat in Pierro’s office, trembling as the room oozed with murderous silence. The Jester never raised his voice, nor did he question the man who “joked” about you. The fellow kept spitting apologies, begging for mercy. He knew it was futile to lie or waste the Director's patience.

And the Jester? It took everything in his power not to get his gloved hands bloodied. To hear someone accuse you - his most cherished, as a shallow harlot? Consequences shall be faced. Calming his boiling turmoil, Pierro continued to conduct himself professionally:

He made sure the man and his entire generation met their oblivion. 

With the recruitment of his best spies, he ascertained that the culprit’s disappearance was not felt by a single soul, his entire family gone, and all traces of spread rumors eradicated. Above all, it was orchestrated so that you would remain unaware that anyone dared to tarnish your reputation.

You carried on with your life, blissfully unaware and undisturbed. Even now, you came in knocking on his office, asking: “Long day at work, honey? I can bring you some tea or coffee if you want.”

The Jester's smile returned, throwing away some crumbled documents into the trash can - “A tea break would be excellent, my divine.”

If it’s blood that needs to be spilled to protect you and his private affairs, then Pierro won’t think twice. 

✧ For Il Capitano, the way of the blade speaks more for its wielder than words. If you wish to prove your stance, you better be prepared to face the First Fatui Harbinger, as his might will test you in a relentless duel of strength. So what do you think happened when Capitano overheard someone calling you “weak”? That his beloved does not deserve an ounce of his attention, because you are a meek being compared to the Harbinger? 

His hand instantly found its place on the hilt of his claymore. He left no room for negotiation or doubt. He marched straight towards the culprit, unsheathed his weapon, and pointed the sharp point of his blade straight at the person.

“If you are so confident to spit such insolence about them, then you must be equally confident with your strength. Let your blade speak.”

The poor fool tried to defend himself with excuses. But his mocking meant nothing to the Captain’s weapon. Before you know it, there is an ongoing duel initiated by Il Capitano. The witnesses know that whoever is on the receiving end of his wrath has no chance of surviving. Not when a single swing of his weapon causes craters on the ground.

The man was about to collapse, accepting his violent demise. But just as Capitano was about to unleash his final lesson, your voice rang out amongst the crowd.

“Hey! Cease this commotion at once!” - you stepped up, your expression stern as you stood in front of your beloved. In a rare moment of vulnerability, the Captain’s already stoic body language shifted. His claymore was sheathed back to its place.

“My beloved, you shouldn’t have seen this…”

“And yet I did. It would’ve reached my ears anyway. What did I say about temperamental duels, Capitano? Morons are not worth it.” 

“He called you weak. I cannot allow it.”

For a minute, Capitano kept his head hung low in reverence. You stood with your arms on your hips, scolding him. Was it not for your intervention, that person who vocally mocked you would’ve been lying dead now. Instead, you spared the offender, and the man was allowed to flee in humiliation. 

The conflict was eradicated, and Capitano's imposing demeanor showed he didn't regret his actions. Considering how even Capitano bowed to your words, the accuser realized - you are not weak. Because if there was one person who made the First Harbinger go motionless then it was you. 

✧ Today was a good day for Il Dottore, but you weren't sure why. He was a tad clingy, his steps laced with a sense of giddiness. Giving you extra squeezes while hugging, smothering you with longer kisses on the cheek. Even as you sat idly in his lab, you watched him as he worked on some paperwork with a grin.

Thus you questioned him, lazily strolling around his lab and observing the countless tools or vials. But he waved off his excitement, tapping his pencil over some papers - “Nothing of major importance, but I did have something interesting happen recently.”

You raised an eyebrow, beckoning him to continue.

“An idiot made a pathetic attempt at spreading rumors about us.” - You stopped in your tracks, going still as you held some miscellaneous container with what seemed to be tissue samples. The Harbinger continued: “Some fool spoke behind your back; stating that anyone who is close with a heretical scholar is bound to be equally insane. They thought that if their words didn't reach you, then it's of no consequence.”

Your expression fell somber with each word Dottore spoke. He said it with such profound avidity, that his voice demonstrated threatening intent behind them. So he continued. “But you know me, dear. Nothing goes past me. Vile nicknames are nothing new to me. My work is not for the faint of heart, and those pesky cretins enjoy concealing their fear with profane titles. And they can call me whatever they want. However, I won't allow them to call you names. Not because of my work.”

You averted your gaze sadly onto the samples of veins and organs in vials. You pretended to inspect them, but your sorrow was more prominent. You suspected Dottore already did something, hence his unusual giddiness today. Thus, you inquired in a soft whisper - “So… what did you do?”

“I handled it, naturally.”

“...You did? What happened? To the person who said such things, I mean.”

“What happened? Dear, you're holding them in your hands right now.” - Il Dottore beamed, pointing at the vials of organs you held. 

✧ Today, Scaramouche was eerily silent. You were accompanying him during one of his work expeditions, aiding him with certain formalities regarding his Fatui subordinates. The 6th had soldiers working under him, and although he did not care for their training, he did not tolerate any incompetent weaklings.

Therefore, you decided to lend a hand. You helped conduct a training program for his underlings, making sure all standards were met. It’s not the first time you did so, since The Puppeteer often placed you as the second in command whenever he was absent. And the Fatui soldiers did not conceal their thrill - it’s like you were their favorite substitute teacher who was more cheerful and forgiving than their superior.

Either way, Scaramouche saw that the mission was going smoothly. But soon, lightning would strike. A certain Fatuus, an agent in training, was getting too charmful with you. It was during the usual training assigned by you, and this person was focusing more on his conversation with you than his training:

Telling you how you are a remarkably skilled person. How it’s a marvel to see someone so delightful as you working alongside the Balladeer. How you shouldn’t waste your time with someone as aggravating as Lord Harbinger Scaramouche. He’s even leaning closer towards you.

You smiled uncomfortably, your attempts at polite disagreement did not work with this agent. Yet now you felt the static in the air, and that’s when you realized - Your beloved heard all of it.

On this usual, unassuming morning, Scaramouche walked silently and struck a man with lightning. All eyes turned towards the commotion as you stood behind the Harbinger. His fists were clenched, sparks of electro crackling from them.

He may have been silent the whole day, but don’t mistake his silence for impassivity.

“Next time, know your place,” - he seethed, standing over the person who endeavored to sweet talk you. He permitted his subordinates too much leeway, now they dare charm you with empty flirts. Scaramouche would’ve stomped that man’s head if he wanted, but he wouldn’t create such a grotesque scene in your presence. Instead, he turned away, held your hand, and pulled you away.

He gave you a day off, his mind already conjuring plans to deal with his underlings later. At least he scoffed out an apology. Not for what he did; he does not lament that. Just a small ‘sorry’ for giving you a quick fright. The lightning strike was very loud, after all. 

✧ Pantalone often gets invited to luxurious meetings or extravagant galas. Any party that is attended by the richest man in Teyvat is a guarantee to make high-society elites turn heads. However, considering your prolonged relationship with your darling Pantalone, you know he secretly despises these social gatherings. Therefore, he takes you with him. Dressed in your finest, Pantalone proudly shows you off to the pompous aristocrats.

People would watch enviously, thinking to themselves: The Regrator’s sweetheart, spoiled by his riches. Your attire is as glorious as his expensive suit. His arm is tenderly linked with yours, always offering you his hand like a true gentleman whenever you two walk. Even as he conversed with various business partners, he always had to make sure his hand was around your waist or your hand.

This dotting behavior made certain ladies of Snezhnaya jealous. They could see you were not a noble-born, nor were you used to the attention during such gatherings. You just timidly accompanied him, and Pantalone kept rambling about you and your benign achievements. Childish, really. You’re probably someone who just ran after and clung to the Harbinger until he relented to keep you. Therefore, a group of ladies initiated the conversation: 

“It’s a pleasure to meet a man such as yourself, Lord Harbinger.” and “Why, a man of your status is probably seeking some interesting company. Oh? You are with someone? My, my, I did not notice them.” or “Surely you desire connections worthy of your status, sir.”

Pantalone had mastered the art of courteous smiling, yet even his act was about to crack. He noticed the way these ladies tried to stand too close to him, pretend you were not in the picture, or even passively mock you. Their insolence stenches, and noticing your silent discomfort caused his heart to sting. But he had a plan.

“Why yes, you are right,” - Pantalone smiled with his charming looks “I do value my time, and it’s important to not waste it on shallow conversationalists. Oh, but it’s such a shame that the people in front of us are just that. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Pantalone turned to you, his arms encircling your waist while speaking such backhanded comments with triumphant smiles. The ladies’ smiles fell instantly, and you tried everything to avert your gaze. “Um, Pantalone? Maybe we shouldn’t-”

“Shouldn’t bore ourselves with such lowly individuals? Hmm, I agree. There isn’t much to do here anyway, only the greedy will seek something in this superficial gathering. Oh well, let’s go so I can take you to dance, dear.” - Pantalone concluded in his usual enamoring tone “Ladies, if you would excuse yourself.”

In this world, the 9th of the Fatui Harbinger doesn’t excuse himself - others do. Therefore, he took you away, scoffing and checking up on you with hushed whispers. Pantalone was offended. Why do they assume it was you who desperately sought out the rich Harbinger? Little do they know it was Pantalone who used to run and seek your attention just to be yours. Honestly, they’re discrediting his neediness for you. 

✧ Should anyone meddle with Tartaglia’s personal life, they are picking up a brawl. Someone dares to flirt with you? His fists are ready. Someone said something unwelcoming about you? Anything in the vicinity can be used as a weapon. Someone endangers his relationship? Their life is now in danger.

Of course, you’re the one who consistently yanked him out of these fights. Usually, it’s nothing serious, as when you scold your boyfriend for such reckless behavior it ends with his heartfelt words and apologetic chuckles. He finds solace in embracing you from behind, gently enfolding his arms around your shoulders, reassuring himself that all is well.

However, Tartagia is still a Harbinger. Away from home, he’d personally search for intel on the culprit who dares to offend your relationship. Names, records, locations, anything to keep tabs on those who think they can drag his family into bloodshedding matters. Tracking is of no issue, after all, when he was still a young rookie, training as a Fatui agent was just the first step.

Once he determines the offender, he’ll pay a discreet visit to them. And this time, without you dragging him away from fights, there is no place for mercy or jests.

At night, Childe returned home, cheerful as the sight of you getting ready for bed welcomes him. Yet in the dim lights, you’d gasp and approach him with concern, catching traces of smeared blood on his face or hands.

Ajax would just smile; he didn’t need to explain. Instead, he would quietly approach you from behind and envelop his arms around your shoulders in quiet stillness.

[hankandmonty]

“Remember when we died?” Is such a raw line. Happy D20 eve

I forgot I had a rain version thank you for coming to my Ted Talk

[asthedeathoflight]

I think an underrated angle on 2x05 is something that either Jacob or Assad said in some interview somewhere, which is that in that episode Louis is addicted to heroin. Thats why he has that whole stash of drugs that he gives to Daniel, that's why he gives Daniel the drugs even though he's already got him alone. He didn't just use those 128 boys for sex he was using them to get high. Bring them home, get them to shoot up, and then drain them to get that secondhand high.

It clarifies something that's always confused me about that scene, which is why Armand saves Daniel the first time. He wouldn't save Daniel as a person, he clearly knows Daniel needs to die, but he's not seeing Daniel as a person there. Daniel is just a substance. He rips him away from Louis to stop him from using.

And i think that adds a whole other layer to the fight he and Armand have to think that this is Louis on a bender, with Armand cleaning up after him because he's not stable enough to. Louis in the bed for a week isn't just healing from the burns, he's going through withdrawal. Him at the table with Daniel giving him the "bright young reporter" speech is probably the first time he's been sober in months.

It adds another layer to Armand's desperation, that Louis has been running from both Armand and himself in this way, and of course Armand wants to erase that memory. Of course he wants to pretend that that fight never happened. Not just to protect himself but in a way to protect Louis from having said those things. When he describes the fight to Louis afterwards, he says "you said the worst things you've ever said to me." And he doesn't really know how to forgive Louis for that so he just wants to bury this rock-bottom moment and move on like it never happened. After all, Louis was high, he didn't really mean it, but if he remembers then maybe he might think that he had a point. Better to wipe the whole experience away.

[stil-lindigo]

the calamity.

a comic about being seen.

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creative notes:

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[somerandomdudelmao]

Part 1!

..of an episode that reveals that if something looks like a space horror and sounds like a space horror, maybe it is a space horror.

Who would've guessed?~

Previous Next

Masterpost

[gallusrostromegalus]

The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

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[smiisevenwhyplus]

the fact that these are minutes apart is KILLING me

[amelia-yap]

internal screeching

[undercovercannibal]

+

THE BOYS 4.04 “Wisdom of the Ages”

[bamsara]

Befuddled sparring match. No weapons and no curses, but claws, teeth and horns don't count tho

[ra3kiv]

few recent commissions i made!!

[iwander12]