#grape keith

[tobeverse-st4n]

Omg the dodgeball episode that just dropped??? The DRAMA?? The HANDHOLDING?? The TEAMUPS???

I can't look at Seth after what happened. Grape was trying so hard to get his attention, Berry too. But instead he ran off with Tobes.

And in the end??? They all teamed up against GrapeKeith. And he forgave them.

My boy deserves better 😔

Not a complete episode explanation but just my thoughts :)

[shurisu]

Not mylene wearing "that" grooms' suit omg

No longer a one-off...

Turns out a few genuine Bakugan fans liked my first comic so...

I've decided to make another!

It's gonna be about two characters she's often shipped with fighting each other lol.

Bonus pic:

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Eleven

Steve watches as Eddie positions himself at the breakfast bar. He easily swings up the end of his tail, the final couple of feet laid out on the chopping board.

He slices a thick piece, turning it and cutting it into neat chunks. It looks like raw steak inside. He cuts a thicker slice, making more chunks, then he does it again.

Next to him, Robin picks up the chunks and slides them onto metal skewers, “thanks Eddie, these will go great on the grill.”

“Yeah, well, we need to get rid of it at some point, might as well use it up now-”

Steve wakes up choking. He doesn’t make a noise, or at least, he doesn’t think he has. He just lies there, heart beating frantically, eyes wet, telling himself again and again, just a dream, just a dream, just a dream.

Steve lies there, waiting for his heart to calm and his breathing to even out, the sweaty flush on his skin slowly cools. He really needs to go back to sleep, but he knows already that he probably won’t be able to settle.

He wants to talk to Eddie. Wants to see him. Doesn’t think he’ll be able to go back to sleep without reassuring himself that Eddie actually is okay which – okay, that’s a bit ridiculous, but he just...needs to. For his own sanity.

Steve blinks gritty eyes at the clock, nearly half three in the morning. His parents are down the hall in their room, and Eddie is at Hopper’s cabin, hopefully asleep on the couch, and there’s not much Steve can do about that.

He lies there, staring at the ceiling in the dark, willing himself to relax. The more he tries, the less likely it becomes, until it hits him; the walkie.

He rolls out of bed, and feeling a little bad for waking Eddie up, makes sure it’s on their channel and the volume is down low before holding down the trigger to speak, “Eddie?”

Nothing. Silence. God Steve is an absolute shit for doing this, and he hopes it’s not so loud that he wakes Hopper or El. He resolves to try one more, if this doesn’t work he will just have to make himself leave it alone and go back to bed, “Eddie?”

There’s a few seconds of silence this time, before a quiet crackle of static, “Stee?”

“Sorry to wake you up buddy, are you okay?”

“Eddidie fine. Pear and grape for din-ner. El Eddidie dance. Mus-ic. Movie on TV. Clean teeth. Couch sleep. Blanket. Stee good?”

“That’s...really good Buddy. Yeah, I’m fine, just had a bad dream,” Steve wants to ask about the dancing and the music and what the movie was and everything else Eddie has been up to today, but it’s the middle of the night, and it would be selfish to keep Eddie talking, “you should sleep.”

“Stee bad dream tell Eddidie? Dark TV tell?”

Steve thinks for a second, “I dreamed you got hurt. Eddie ow. Many ow, really bad. I was...scared.”

There’s a few seconds silence before Eddie replies, “Eddidie no ow.”

“No, I know buddy, but thank you for telling me, we should get some sleep. Night.”

“Stee perfect.”

“Yeah, love you too.”

Steve’s been lying in bed for a full minute before he realizes what he’s just said. It doesn’t really matter; Eddie doesn’t know what it means.

Stupid brunch. Stupid brunch that stopped Steve visiting Eddie before work. Stupid parents. Stupid Keith and his stupid duty rosta so stupid Robin is at stupid work and she couldn’t come to stupid brunch. His parents are so much nicer when she’s there; something to do with keeping up appearances in front of strangers or whatever, Steve knows why they do it. It’s not because they actually like Robin or anything. Steve's pretty sure his parents don;t actually like anyone, not even each other.

Steve sits in his car and sighs. Watches as the door cracks open and the light spills out. Eddie sitting there in his blue sweater. As Steve watches, he lifts his hand and gives a little wave. Steve shouldn’t be visiting this late really, but he couldn’t miss a day. It’s not fair on Eddie, for one thing, being left here like this, when he doesn’t really understand why.

Steve gets out of the car and jogs over to the house, Eddie letting him in. El’s not there, Steve figures she’s already in bed. Hopper’s putting dishes in the kitchen when Steve comes in, “sorry I’m so late Hop.”

Hopper shrugs, “doesn’t matter. I’m going to bed anyway, Eddie, get the lights and lock up before sleep, okay?”

Eddie nods, “make dark. Key lock make safe.”

“You got it. Night kids.”

“Night Hop.”

“Night Hopper.”

Steve throws himself down on the couch; today has just sucked all the way through, Eddie climbs up next to Steve, muttering, “Eddidie not kid,” under his breath.

Steve snorts a laugh, Eddie clearly does not want to be lumped into the same category as the, ‘mongrels,’ “if you’re not a kid, what are you?”

Eddie thinks for a second, the points past Steve, “book please,” Steve hands it over, leaning close to watch Eddie as he thumbs his way with fair accuracy to the page he wants; Steve really should get him some more books. He’s also got to thank El for working on Eddie’s manners.

It’s the frog page again.

Eddie points to the ‘froglet’, “Eddidie.”

“So...like a teenager?” Steve hazards vaguely. Steve figured Eddie is the same age as him, more or less, just because the human parts look the same and are roughly the same size; it’s not really anything to go on though. Steve points, “when do you grow into a frog?”

“Later.”

“What?”

Eddie nods, “later.”

“Eddie...are you going to get legs?” Steve has to be sure. Has to understand what Eddie is saying.

“Legs?”

Steve lifts his feet off the floor, waving his legs up and down a little, trying not to get too excited before he's sure, pointing, “legs.”

“Yes. Eddidie legs later.”

All of the worry Steve's been harboring about what to do with Eddie just...lifts. He knows Eddie couldn't live with him, hidden away, forever...but the thought of releasing Eddie somewhere. Leaving him alone, worrying about what would happen if people found him. Never seeing him again, all of it was tearing at Steve inside, a burden he didn't know how to answer, “Eddie! Why didn’t you tell me! This is awesome-”

“Legs bad.”

“What…why?”

Eddie closes the book, looking sad again, he takes Steve’s hand, “called?”

“That’s my hand buddy...and those parts are fingers,” Steve lets Eddie link their fingers together, the webbing preventing them locking together fully, “Eddie, why are legs bad?”

Eddie shuffles closer, turning his body into Steve’s, “called?” Eddie uses his free hand to point to Steve’s eyes.

“Eyes, buddy,” Eddie’s finger makes contact as he shifts in the seat to lean ever closer, tail pressed tight to Steve’s thigh, he traces Steve’s brow, “eye brows.” Eddie’s finger, his black, rounded claw traces along Steve’s nose, “nose.” Steve can’t move, doesn’t feel like he can breathe really as he waits for what comes next. Eddie’s fingertip traces Steve’s bottom lip, ever so gently he touches, leaving a tingling on Steve's skin, “lips. Lips and...mouth.”

Eddie nods, satisfied, taking his hand away, and Steve can finally take another breath, even with the distraction of Eddie's touch, he can’t avoid the sense of mounting horror, “Eddie, why are legs bad?”

Eddie has to drop Steve’s hand to bring both up to his face, he gets as far as pressing his palms to his cheeks before Steve grabs his wrists, dragging his hands away from his face, “no,” Steve says, horrified, “no, that’s not what happens. You’re wrong, that can’t be what happens.”

Eddie nods, sad but sure.

“No. Eddie no, that’s not- I won’t let you,” and Steve knows as he says it he has no fucking control over this whatsoever.

Eddie takes Steve hand again, pushes it against the back of his head. Steve’s fingers worm their way in, feeling that familiar starburst of ridges. They’re familiar as the rest of Eddie now, Steve’s been washing Eddie’s hair pretty much every other day for weeks and weeks now. Steve fingers find the place where they meet in the middle, right at the back of Eddie’s head, “mouth.”

Steve fights the instinct to pull his hand away in horror. He forces himself to keep it there; it won’t hurt him, Steve can feel the ridges of Eddie’s fucking skull, hard and unforgiving under his skin and hair. That can’t be right, it just doesn’t make any sense but...Steve can imagine it, the petals of a Demogorgon’s mouth unfolding.

“Stee?”

Steve’s voice breaks when he speaks, and he can feel the first tear break free, rolling down his cheek, “yeah buddy?”

“El tell Eddidie...Stee tell Eddidie I love you. El tell Eddidie love...Eddidie love Stee too. Stee perfect.”

“Oh buddy," Steve's voice cracks, "...yeah. Yeah, I love you too,” Eddie wipes away Steve’s tears with his knuckle, licking the water off his finger. Eddie half climbs and Steve half pulls Eddie into his lap. They hold each other tight, Eddie gently nuzzling his face back and forth against Steve's cheek, against his neck, breathing in Steve's hair and skin.

Steve does the same to Eddie, hands tight on Eddie's tail, on his back, in his hair, wherever he can reach to touch, committing Eddie to memory.

Steve doesn’t go home, he can’t. He just sleeps, fully clothed, on the couch, pulling Eddie down on top of him, and holding him close.

Steve and El sit on the stoop, all bundled up. Steve’s got a coffee and El’s got a hot chocolate. They watch as Eddie moves along the tree line; he’s collecting pine cones and burying them. Planting seeds. He uses his hard, blunt claws to dig; the earth is maybe a little harder because of the cold, but it doesn’t seem to bother or hinder Eddie at all.

It feels precious now, watching Eddie. It feels like the time he has with him is suddenly short; that he needs to make the most of every single second. Steve tries to absorb all of it, the way Eddie moves. The look on his face as he examines his finds, his fingers, the dark nails. The way the light is absorbed by the dark matte black of his tail. The way his hair gets blown around in the fresh breeze, shining a little in the light, thanks to Steve’s hair care regimen.

How he smiles at Steve when he catches him watching.

Steve tries not to think about last night; it’s too much to absorb. Too strange; surely Eddie cannot be right. But then Steve reminds himself of where Eddie came from, and the fact that the girl he’s sitting next too can move shit with her mind, and figures he has to adjust his expectations around what could be normal.

“He does this a lot,” El says.

“Huh, maybe he does this back home too; always wondered what he gets up to when I’m not there.”

“He does,” El says with certainty.

“Oh have you...have you looked. Inside his head?”

“Only a little. Just to check if he’s alright and...when he’s struggling to find the words.”

“Oh. Yeah. Is it...is it very different?”

“Yes.” El seems to think for a moment, “he thinks in...pictures. People think in words a lot. And he pretty much only thinks about now. People think about a lot of things at once, the past, the future. Eddie doesn’t do that, there’s mostly only now.”

“Huh...I guess that...makes sense.”

Eddie comes back to the foot of the steps, brushing loose things from the woods off the sweater of the day, “Hopper now,” he informs them.

“Oh yeah Buddy? Can you hear his car?” Steve touches his ear.

“Hopper car yes, Eddidie hear. Hopper inied work.”

Steve can’t help but smile, even though it feels like he wants so cry at the same time, “what is Hopper’s job, do you know?”

Eddie nods, “Hopper Hawkins Indiana safe.”

“Yeah buddy, that’s exactly right.”

Part Thirteen

[dualityvn]

The hyperfixation is hitting hard 😞 Just wondering, how would the boys feel about a Nymph Mc? like, a flower creature. Idk how to explain it well, but I feel like they would express themselves and flowers would bloom everywhere if they’re happy, or wither if they’re sad, or bloom where they walk or touch, all of that. Or be able to bloom flowers out of their hand, or wear flowers everywhere on their body, or petals fall from their hair and all of that. I have this specific scenario of mc wanting to spoil the boys with fruits and flowers, feeding them grapes like the typical scene of a beautiful person popping grapes to a guy’s mouth that’s laying down LMAOOAO. I don’t know, someone please get me out of my house ☹️

(also please excuse my poor English, I have NOT been paying attention to my classes)

They'd be very happy with a nymph MC. For one, because you'd be nonhuman and therefore wouldn't be scared by Tenebris as easily. And also because Keith adores flowers and they literally grow on you. He'd spend forever just admiring you.

[metamorphicmuse]

War-Time Love (Based on a True Story)

Here's a real letter which was written by a World War 2 veteran to his lost lover, a fellow soldier. While rarely documented, this attestation to love among soldiers stands out as a tender, if impossible, reminder that it did occur. I've imagined they must have been part of the Special Services Branch based on historical details. The letter is a real artifact. The images are imagined but no less real.

Dear Dave:

This is in memory of an anniversary–the anniversary of October 27th, 1943, when I first heard you singing in North Africa. That song brings memories of the happiest times I’ve ever known. Memories of a GI show troop–curtains made from barrage balloons–spotlights made from cocoa cans–rehearsals that ran late into the evenings–and a handsome boy with a wonderful tenor voice. Opening night at a theater in Canastel–perhaps too much muscatel, and someone who understood. Exciting days playing in the beautiful and stately Municipal Opera House in Oran–a misunderstanding–an understanding in the wings just before opening chorus.

Drinks at “Coq d’or”–dinner at the “Auberge”–a ring and promise given. The show for 1st Armoured–muscatel, scotch, wine–someone who had to be carried from the truck and put to bed in his tent. A night of pouring rain and two very soaked GIs beneath a solitary tree on an African plain. A borrowed French convertible–a warm sulphur spring, the cool Mediterranean, and a picnic of “rations” and hot cokes. Two lieutenants who were smart enough to know the score, but not smart enough to realize that we wanted to be alone. A screw-ball piano player – competition – miserable days and lonely nights. The cold, windy night we crawled through the window of a GI theater and fell asleep on a cot backstage, locked in each other’s arms– the shock when we awoke and realized that miraculously we hadn’t been discovered. A fast drive to a cliff above the sea–pictures taken, and a stop amid the purple grapes and cool leaves of a vineyard.

The happiness when told we were going home–and the misery when we learned that we would not be going together. Fond goodbyes on a secluded beach beneath the star-studded velvet of an African night, and the tears that would not be stopped as I stood atop the sea-wall and watched your convoy disappear over the horizon.

We vowed we’d be together again “back home,” but fate knew better–you never got there. And so, Dave, I hope that where ever you are these memories are as precious to you as they are to me.

Goodnight, sleep well my love.

Brian Keith

----------------------------------------

~~What follows below is my imagined story of these two lovers, with the names changed to protect the dignity of the dead.~~

As Time Goes By

Nathan had never expected to be here.

One week ago, he was just another soldier in the North African campaign—following orders, keeping his head down, surviving. His uniform was dust-streaked, his boots worn, his days spent waiting. Then someone heard him singing. Just a quiet song in the barracks, something to fill the empty space between letters from home and the next long march. But it was enough. A lieutenant pulled him aside, asked a few questions, and by the next morning, his papers were signed. He was being transferred.

Now, he stood beneath a makeshift spotlight, on a stage stitched together from sandbags and salvaged wood, dressed in the same uniform but with a different purpose. The GI show was a ragtag affair—curtains made from barrage balloons, footlights crafted from tin cans and spare bulbs. Soldiers filled the seats, some smoking, some waiting, some already half-drunk.

Nathan exhaled, shifting slightly under the warmth of the light. His heart pounded. It wasn’t the audience that made him nervous—he’d sung before, in another life, in school productions and local revues. It was him - Matthew.

Nathan had only been in the troupe a few days, but he knew exactly who Matthew was. Everyone did. He was the leading man, the showrunner, the one who kept things moving, cracking jokes between acts, slipping effortlessly into character when the stage needed him. Matthew owned this world.

And yet—Nathan had felt his gaze on him all evening.

It had started the first day he arrived, during rehearsals. Matthew, watching. Matthew, teasing him—just a little, just enough. Trying to figure him out. But tonight was different. Tonight, Matthew sat in the front row, expression unreadable, arms crossed over his chest, eyes locked on Nathan as if he were waiting for something.

Nathan closed his eyes, took a breath. And he sang.

*You must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss…*

His rich tenor voice lifted through the dimly lit theater, wrapping around the men in the audience, filling the spaces between them, touching something unspoken. The song wasn’t new, but it was fresh in their minds—the war had seen to that. Casablanca had only come out last year, and everyone had felt something in it, even if they didn’t say it aloud.

But for Nathan, and maybe for Matthew too, it was something more. They had grown up knowing that love stories didn’t belong to them. They had spent their youth on stages where the romances they played were never theirs to keep. They had studied love, rehearsed it, recited it in iambic pentameter, and pressed their lips to women in the dim glow of theater lights, knowing it was all just an illusion.

And yet, here they were. In uniform. In a war zone. Listening to a love song that felt like it belonged to them for the first time.

Nathan didn’t see the audience anymore. Didn’t see the dim glow of cigarettes or the quiet, reflective faces of men thinking of sweethearts back home.

He only saw Matthew.

Matthew, who had been caught off guard. Matthew, who had spent weeks running this show, calling the shots, knowing exactly what to expec5—until now. Because Matthew hadn’t expected Nathan. Hadn’t expected this voice, this moment, this feeling curling inside him like something dangerous and real.

The lyrics rolled over him, soft and certain.

*The world will always welcome lovers, as time goes by…*

Nathan let the final note hang in the air before stepping back from the microphone, his pulse still pounding in his ears.

The applause came—steady, appreciative, a welcome break from war. But Matthew didn’t clap. He just sat there, staring at Nathan, eyes shadowed, expression unreadable.

And Nathan? Nathan finally understood.

He had never been the leading man before.

But tonight?

Tonight, Matthew had looked at him like he was.

----------------------------------------

A Series of Almosts

Things progressed as they usually do.

A glance, held a second too long before Nathan turned back to adjusting the microphone stand. A casual joke at mess, Matthew’s voice pitched just a little lower than usual, meant only for Nathan’s ears. A brush of fingertips when one passed the other a prop backstage, neither lingering but both aware.

A small but meaningful liberty—the kind afforded to soldiers whose jobs weren’t measured in miles marched or rifles fired. It was never much. But in a place where nothing belonged to them, these moments were their own.

Until the night they almost had too much.

They had minutes—maybe less. Matthew had pulled Nathan into the stockroom under the guise of looking for spare canvas, the pretense so thin it may as well have been an open invitation for trouble. The dim light made it easier to forget they were still in uniform, still in the war, still being watched even when no one was there to see.

Nathan was the first to falter. “You know this is a bad idea,” he murmured.

Matthew, standing close enough that their breaths mingled, barely smirked. “That never stopped us before.”

Nathan swallowed. He didn’t move away. Matthew lifted a hand, slow enough to let Nathan stop him. He didn’t. His fingers brushed over Nathan’s sleeve, tracing the place where their hands had met a dozen times before—only this time, neither of them was passing a prop or adjusting a collar or making an excuse. This time, Nathan let him.

This time—The door creaked.

Nathan barely had time to move before two lieutenants stepped inside, both of them carrying the casual air of men who weren’t looking for anything but had already found exactly what they expected.

“Ah, there you are,” the first said, too cheerful, too pointed. He didn’t bother asking why they were here.

Matthew straightened just a little too fast, stepping back to grab a crate, as if this had been nothing at all. “Sir.”

The second lieutenant didn’t even glance at the crates. Instead, he leaned against the nearest shelf and sighed, as if settling in for a long, excruciatingly dull conversation. “You know,” he started, “I was just saying the other day—logistics out here are a damn mess. I mean, supply routes, requisition forms, the whole thing. Just a nightmare, really.”

Nathan stood completely still.

The other lieutenant made a noise of agreement, shaking his head. “And don’t even get me started on fuel rations. God, the paperwork.”

Matthew nodded along, expression perfectly neutral, but Nathan could see the tightness in his jaw.

Neither lieutenant was looking at them anymore. They didn’t have to. The message was clear.

We see you. We won’t say anything. But don’t be stupid.

After droning on about the various papers to be pored over before the night shift, the first lieutenant clapped his hands together, as if that thrilling conversation had settled all matters of logistics and rationing for the evening. “Well. I think we’ve spent enough time on that.”

His gaze flicked to Matthew, then Nathan. Pointed. Brief. Final.

Then he turned for the door. The second lieutenant followed, but not before muttering something under his breath—too soft for Nathan to catch, but it made Matthew’s jaw twitch.

Then they were alone again. The air had changed. Nathan exhaled, forcing himself to look anywhere but at Matthew. His hands were shaking, so he grabbed the nearest crate and made himself useful. Matthew, beside him, did the same.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them had to. They had been given a warning.

They had also been given a choice. And the next time—when they had another moment, when there was another quiet place, when fate gave them the smallest sliver of privacy again—

Nathan knew exactly what choice he was going to make.

----------------------------------------

A Quiet Favor

The base was quiet.

No rehearsals, no performances, no last-minute scrambling to set up a stage. Just soldiers moving through their routines, mail being sorted, the distant sound of a radio crackling out big band music from someone’s tent. No show tonight. No show tomorrow.

Matthew leaned against the doorway of the officer’s quarters, one boot resting against the wooden frame. He had spent just enough time building an easy rapport with Lieutenant Calloway—the kind of officer who liked things running smoothly and saw no reason to make a problem where there wasn’t one.

“The base is quiet today,” Calloway muttered, signing off on a requisition form.

“That it is,” Matthew agreed, casual as ever.

Calloway sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t a bad officer. He was a man who appreciated the things that kept his soldiers from losing their damn minds, and the Special Services troupe had been doing just that—keeping spirits up, making the long weeks a little more bearable.

Matthew and Nathan? They were the best part of the show. Nathan had that voice—the one that made men pause mid-drink, made them lean forward without realizing it, made them forget where they were for just a moment. And Matthew? Matthew made it all work. He was the one who made Calloway laugh even when he didn’t want to.

Were they inseparable? Yes. Did Calloway care? Not even a little.

He exhaled, looked up, and smirked. “Let me guess. You want to get off base for a few hours.”

Matthew grinned. “Could be nice to stretch our legs.”

Calloway eyed him, then flicked his gaze toward the motor pool. The captured French convertible sat under the shade of a canvas tarp, a sleek little thing in dire need of a proper wash. It had been one of many vehicles left behind when the Vichy forces surrendered—now a “general-use” car for errands and, occasionally, small liberties.

“Lunch at the coast,” Calloway said, voice dry, as if he already knew the excuse Matthew was about to offer.

Matthew tilted his head. “Something like that.”

A pause. The lieutenant tapped his fingers against the desk, then sighed. “Take the convertible.”

Matthew barely held back a smirk. “Obliged.”

Calloway pointed at him with the end of his pen. “Back before sundown. I don’t want to have to explain why my best performers disappeared into the goddamn Mediterranean.”

Matthew gave him an easy salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Nathan was waiting by the barracks, already knowing, already anticipating. He straightened when he saw Matthew approaching, a faint hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “We got it?” Nathan asked.

Matthew tossed him the keys. “We got it.”

And just like that—They weren’t soldiers. They weren’t performers.

For one afternoon, they were just two men with a borrowed car and the open road ahead of them.

----------------------------------------

A Stolen Afternoon

The road curved, dipping toward the coastline, the sea stretching wide before them—deep, endless blue, sunlight glinting off the waves like scattered gold.

Nathan slowed the convertible as they neared a small cove, a secluded stretch of beach where the sand sloped gently into the water. The wind carried the scent of salt and warm earth, the air thick with the kind of quiet only found far from war.

Matthew grinned before the car even stopped moving. “Come on,” he said, already reaching for the door handle. Nathan barely had time to cut the engine before Matthew was out, boots crunching against the sand as he stepped onto the beach, hands on his hips like he was staking a claim on the entire Mediterranean.

Nathan shook his head, smirking as he climbed out, stretching his arms above his head. The sun felt different here—hotter, brighter, like it had never known war, never known uniforms or rules or anything beyond this moment.

Matthew turned back toward him, then glanced at the waves, then back at him. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Nathan raised an eyebrow. “That the water’s probably freezing?”

Matthew’s grin widened as he hastily untied his boots. “Only one way to find out.” And then he bolted.

Nathan laughed, kicking off his boots before running after him, sand shifting beneath his feet as they raced toward the shore. Matthew hit the water first, letting out a startled yelp as the icy Mediterranean crashed around his ankles.

“Jesus—that’s cold.”

Nathan skidded to a stop just as the waves rolled over his own feet, hissing between his teeth at the shock of it. The heat of the sun had lied—the water was sharp and biting, enough to make his skin prickle.

Matthew groaned dramatically, running a hand through his wet hair. “That’s it. I’m staying right here. No deeper.”

Nathan snorted. “Coward.”

“Smart,” Matthew corrected, stepping back to stand beside him.

For a moment, they just breathed it in. The war felt impossibly far away. There were no uniforms here, no lieutenants watching, no stockrooms with creaking doors. Just the rhythmic pull and retreat of the waves, the soft laughter of gulls, and the sound of their own breathing blending with the tide. Nathan started to lose himself in thought, and Matthew edged closer to rest his forehead on Nathan's.

Another cold wave crashed at their knees. Matthew sighed. “I’m starving.”

Nathan shook his head with a small smile. “We’re on a beach in the Mediterranean, and you’re thinking about food.”

“I can appreciate both.”

With that, they waded back onto the warm sand, settling near the car, where their makeshift meal was waiting—ration tins and two bottles of Coke, still lukewarm from the heat of the day.

----------------------------------------

Nothing

Nathan cracked his open, the fizz hissing softly in the still air. He took a sip, grimacing. “Tastes awful.”

“Yep,” Matthew agreed, doing the same. He lifted his bottle slightly. “To stolen afternoons.”

Nathan met his gaze, watching the way the sun lit Matthew’s profile, the way the light made everything golden and unreal, a moment slipping between reality and something else entirely.

“To stolen afternoons,” he murmured, lifting his own bottle in return. They clinked them together gently, letting the sound vanish into the waves.

The sun sat higher now, warming the sand beneath them, casting light over their skin, their uniforms, their discarded boots beside the car.

Nathan had leaned back, hands pressed into the sand behind him, his bottle of cola resting half-finished beside his knee. He was still gazing out at the Mediterranean, watching the waves roll in, slow and steady. Matthew had finished eating a few minutes ago, but he hadn’t moved.

He was watching Nathan. Had been for a while.

Nathan must have felt it because, after a long silence, he sighed and let his head tilt toward him, his expression unreadable. “What?” he asked, though his voice lacked curiosity.

Matthew smirked, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

Nathan held his gaze for a second longer before exhaling through his nose. He stretched his legs out, letting his bare toes dig into the warm sand, his body easing further into relaxation.

Matthew shifted, leaning back on one arm while his free hand absently traced lines in the sand between them.

It wasn’t nothing. It was everything.

It was the weight of a stolen afternoon, of borrowed time, of knowing what he wanted and not knowing if he’d ever have it again.

Matthew cleared his throat. “You’re quiet.”

Nathan made a soft, noncommittal sound. “Mm.”

Matthew tilted his head. “Thinking?”

Nathan smirked, glancing at him. “Not everything is thinking, you know.”

“Mm.” Matthew mocked his answer, a teasing glint in his eyes. “So what is this, then?”

Nathan exhaled, tilting his face toward the sky. “Existing.”

----------------------------------------

A Test

Matthew watched him for another long moment. The sea breeze shifted Nathan’s hair, and the way the sunlight caught on his cheekbones, the line of his jaw, the curve of his throat as he breathed—

Matthew’s fingers twitched against the sand. He sat up.

Nathan barely moved, only watching as Matthew shifted onto his knees, brushing sand from his trousers. The tension was there, but it wasn’t sharp. It was slow. Heavy.

The kind that sank into your bones and made you feel alive in a way you couldn’t explain.

Nathan didn’t move, didn’t speak as Matthew reached for his wrist.

A test. A question.

Nathan let him.

Matthew traced his thumb over the inside of his wrist, slow, deliberate. Felt the warmth of his pulse beneath his fingertips.

Nathan exhaled through his nose, his lips parting slightly.

Matthew watched his mouth.

Nathan swallowed. “We should—”

“I know.” Matthew’s voice was quiet, but sure.

His fingers slid higher, barely brushing over Nathan’s palm, and Nathan let him.

The tide pulled in.

Nathan’s breath hitched as Matthew leaned in, close enough that he could see the sunlight reflecting in Matthew’s eyes, catching in the lighter strands of his hair.

They weren’t careless.

They weren’t reckless.

They were just here.

Matthew let the moment sit, let it breathe, watching Nathan watching him, feeling the way Nathan’s fingers curled slightly, barely resisting, barely holding back.

The waves lapped at the shore.

Nathan licked his lips.

Matthew made a choice. He didn’t kiss him. Not yet.

But he leaned in, until their foreheads touched, until the sun-warmed space between them was gone, until Nathan sighed—deep, surrendering, wanting.

And then—finally—Nathan lifted his hand, resting it lightly against Matthew’s jaw.

An answer.

A yes.

And this time, Matthew took it.

Nathan didn’t move at first. Not away. Not closer. His fingers rested lightly against Matthew’s jaw, as if testing the weight of his own decision—of his own want. Matthew let him.

The Mediterranean air was warm against their skin, the waves rolling in, the sand shifting beneath them. It was safe here. As safe as the world would ever allow.

Nathan inhaled, slow, steady. Matthew could feel the breath against his lips, the barest quiver of hesitation between them.

Then—Nathan closed the distance.

It was careful. Measured. Deliberate.

A kiss like something discovered, not taken.

Like something they had been waiting to find.

Matthew exhaled against his mouth, leaning into it, feeling Nathan—really feeling him—without the weight of war, of uniforms, of fear pressing between them.

For one afternoon, they were only this.

Matthew's fingers curled against Nathan’s wrist, holding him there as their lips met again—slow, savoring, as if learning the shape of something they weren’t allowed to name.

Nathan sighed against him, his thumb barely brushing against Matthew’s cheekbone, and something in Matthew’s chest cracked wide open.

They didn’t rush. Not this. They let the moment linger, let it settle, let it exist in a way neither of them had ever been allowed to exist before.

And when Nathan finally broke away, it was with a breathless sort of laughter, forehead still pressed against Matthew’s, eyes half-lidded in the golden sunlight.

“God,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, his lips barely brushing against Matthew’s again. “We’re idiots.”

Matthew grinned, breath still uneven. “Biggest ones in the damn war.”

Nathan exhaled, a small smile curving at the corner of his mouth. But his fingers lingered against Matthew’s jaw, as if committing the moment to memory.

Matthew knew they couldn’t stay here forever. Knew that the sun would lower, and the car would have to return to base, and that this moment—this impossible, stolen, sacred moment—would have to end.

But not yet.

Not yet.

Matthew shifted, pressing one more kiss to the corner of Nathan’s mouth.

Then, just as deliberately as before, Nathan pulled him down into the sand, where the waves rolled in and the world disappeared.

----------------------------------------

How Long Do They Have?

Long enough to breathe.

Long enough to linger.

Long enough for Nathan to keep his forehead against Matthew’s, their breath still uneven, their bodies still tangled, their fingers still grasping for something neither of them wanted to let go of.

Long enough for Matthew to let out a quiet, shaky laugh—a sound of wonder, of disbelief, of something unspoken but deeply felt.

Long enough for Nathan to trace the edge of Matthew’s jaw, his thumb skimming the damp skin at his temple, his lips parting as if to say something—but not saying it.

Long enough to not need words.

Long enough for Matthew to close his eyes, to sigh as Nathan shifted against him, as the heat of the sun and the warmth of each other blurred into one.

Long enough to memorize this.

Because there would not be another afternoon like this. They both knew it.

Nathan could feel it in the way Matthew’s fingers curled, but never fully grasped—never fully held him in place. Matthew could feel it in the way Nathan’s breath caught, but never turned into words—never became something permanent.

They had minutes. Maybe longer. But the sun was inching toward its descent.

And Nathan—who had spent his whole life waiting—did not want to wait for the moment this would end.

So they did not move. They only breathed. They only existed in the space they had made for each other.

Because they had made this, together. And if all they had left was his fading golden hour—then they would not waste a second of it.

----------------------------------------

The Cooldown

The sun hangs lower now, stretching golden fingers across the sand, spilling light over them in a quiet benediction.

The afternoon wind shifts, cool against their warmed skin, stirring the waves into a gentle call.

Nathan’s fingers flex, brushing against Matthew’s knuckles, and then he exhales, stretching. He turns his head toward the sea, as if remembering where they are, as if remembering that the moment is still theirs.

Matthew watches him for a beat longer. Still memorizing. Still holding on.

But then— Nathan tilts his head back toward him, a slow, contented smile on his lips.

"Come on," he murmurs, his voice still drowsy, still wrapped in warmth. "The water’s waiting."

And just like that—he is reaching first this time.

Nathan rises, shaking off the last remnants of stillness, of surrender, of rest, of love settled deep in his bones

Matthew exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head as he watches him go. But he follows. Of course, he follows.

They leave their uniforms folded in the sand, wading into the Mediterranean with the same ease, the same inevitability that brought them to each other.

Nathan moves first, stepping forward until the waves lap at his ribs, his head tilting back as the water cools the last traces of fire from his skin.

Matthew watches, standing just behind, before a smirk pulls at his lips and—with one decisive motion—he splashes him.

They push, pull, tumble, weightless in the salt and the sun, until breathless gasps turn to easy floating, until the playfulness settles into something quieter, something softer.

And for a while, there is nothing but the lull of waves, the endless stretch of the horizon, the feeling of existing completely, entirely, within a moment that cannot be taken from them.

The war will call them back soon.

The car will carry them away from this place, this day, this version of themselves that exists only here, in this golden light, in this fleeting, eternal afternoon.

But not yet. Not while the sea still welcomes them. Not while their bodies are still weightless in the salt and the sun.

Not while they still belong to this moment.

And so they go, to wash themselves clean, to cool the fire on their skin, to step together into the waves, knowing that no matter what happens next—

They were here.

This was real.

----------------------------------------

The Ring, The Promise, The Memory of the Sea

They return to base regretfully.

The drive back is quieter than the drive there, the air thicker, heavier, full of something unspoken. The road winds ahead, dust curling behind them, the scent of salt still clinging to their skin. They do not rush, but they do not linger.

The world is waiting for them again. By the time they arrive, the golden hour has faded into the cool edge of twilight. The moment has passed, but the weight of it remains.

Lieutenant Calloway watches them approach, standing near the barracks, arms folded. He doesn’t look annoyed. He doesn’t look surprised. "How was the swim?"

Matthew, ever quick, ever the showman, gives a casual smirk. “Good, sir. Refreshing.”

Nathan glances at him—just a flicker, just a beat—before nodding. "Yeah. It was good."

Lieutenant Calloway looks at them both. He sees more than sun-kissed skin. He sees more than wet hair and salt-streaked arms.

He sees the change in them.

The way they stand just a little closer. The way their voices are too steady, too careful. The way they look at each other without looking at all.

But Lieutenant Calloway is no fool. He does not ask what he already knows.

Instead, he exhales, gives a short nod, and mutters, "Good. Glad you made it back before dark - barely. Get some rest. Big show coming up."

And just like that—the world returns.

The normalcy.

The routine.

The performance of daily life.

Nathan sings again. Matthew charms a crowd again. Their days resume, full of staged laughter, careful movements, rehearsed lines.

But the sea has not left them. The rising and the falling of the tide still pull at them.

It stays in Nathan’s voice, in the way he sings just a little differently now, in the way Matthew hears something new in every note.

It stays in the weight of their gazes, the brushes of their hands when passing a prop, the slow, lingering minutes before sleep takes them at night.

And then, one night, after a show, Matthew finds his chance.

The world is quieter in the wings, where the only light is the glow from the stage beyond. The last soldier lingers off, laughing in the distance. Nathan is rolling up a spare cord when Matthew catches his wrist, tugs him back into the shadows.

Nathan stills, looking at him, questioning. He sees something raw in Matthew's eyes, something full of urgency.

And then—Matthew presses something into his palm.

A ring.

Cheap. Small. Nothing. Everything.

Nathan exhales a soft laugh, looking down at it, laughing, touched. “What the hell is this?”

Matthew doesn’t laugh. He watches him—serious, steady, certain.

"I mean it," Matthew says, voice low, voice careful. "After the war. We'll find each other."

Nathan blinks, his fingers curling around it instinctively. He swallows, tries for something easy, something light, but it doesn’t come. Because Matthew means it.

Nathan doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say, I promise.

Because promises in war are fragile things.

But he slips the ring onto his finger. And Matthew sees that for what it is.

A vow. An answer.

A quiet yes when the world does not allow them to speak it aloud.

Nathan keeps it. Wears it.

And within a few weeks, he is gone. His unit is called to a new front.

Because that is how war is.

Because the world does not stop for love.

Matthew watches him leave. Nathan does not look back.

But Matthew knows— That Nathan carries the sea with him now.

That Nathan carries that day with him now.

That Nathan carries him with him now.

And somewhere, in the folds of a uniform, against the skin of his hand, the ring remains.

A promise.

A memory.

A hope that, one day, the sea will bring them back to each other.

[formosusiniquis]

c-sharp on an untuned piano

Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington wc: 855 | T | tags & themes: Stobin hivemind, Steve & Robin's weird gender, women's rights for day 4 of @stobinmonth: possession AO3

“So it’s like feminism.”

Robin rolls her eyes, but she really didn’t explain it that well and unlike what Dustin says they can’t fully read each other's minds. It’s just hints and like mood and danger and stuff, like bees. He almost wishes he could show this to Dustin to prove that the kid isn’t right about everything.

But that little comment got him a danger signal.

They aren’t bees. So he knows enough to know that danger is Robin and he’s said something stupid that’s annoyed her.

“It’s more than feminism. It’s about ownership.”

That isn’t exactly helpful.

“Ownership,” he says. He thinks he can taste the syllables that he just put into the word. Or maybe like he put too many in there.

“Ownership,” she repeats.

“I didn’t pay a lot of attention in History but…”

There’s that danger signal again. Raises the hairs on the back of his neck, tastes bitter in the back of his mouth. The danger signal is the worst one.

“That’s not what I mean. It’s about possession, belonging, being.”

“Those words don’t mean the same thing, Rob. I’m trying but is this really a big enough deal that you want to fight Keith about it?”

“I do, actually. He’s inventing a dress code that doesn’t exist because I told him to stop putting his hand on my lower back when we work together.”

That’s anger that he can feel now, buzzy like bees. Which he thinks is funny, the bee feeling and them having bee brains, but Robin doesn’t.

“Okay, okay,” he taps the desk in front of him trying to send calm and ‘I believe you’ signals  which are complicated and probably getting buried under the louder murkier ‘what is happening’ thing that he’s actually feeling. “Tell me again.”

“Miss and Mrs. are linked to marriage, they’re the only ways women were referred to and it’s about how they’re being tied to a man. Like possessions. Ms. is about being a person and not something that a man can put his name on. I don’t belong to anyone, ergo Ms.”

It still doesn’t totally make sense. He can tell from the emphasis that she’s using the different spellings of the word, but all three sound the same to him. It’s important to Robin though, and he understands how the concept of marriage frustrates her even if he doesn’t understand it.

“Give me one then.”

“Steve.”

“If I’m wearing one too then Keith can’t say anything about dress code.”

“You aren’t a Ms., Steve.”

“I could be.”

“You could be?”

This disbelief tastes like humor, bright and rich like honey. It doesn’t have the weight on the back of the tongue. It bubbles and fizzes like a fresh, cold coke.

“If you can be, I can be. I’m young and I’m kind of already tied to a guy but I could be Ms. Buckley too and that wouldn’t be too bad.” He nods, set and settled on this. Except for one thing, “Dustin would argue you’re kind of already linked to someone though.”

There’s warmth, that’s love he thinks, or fondness. Both of them feel like the slow heat of an electric blanket, heavy like a quilt. “You could be Ms. Henderson if you’re worried about what he thinks about our freaky brain thing.” Robin says.

“Hivemind.”

“Mind meld.”

“Mind meld,” he agrees.

She taps the desk now, hits it with the corner of a tape they’ve been pretending to shelve for the last hour, it’s 10PM on a Wednesday and if Keith wanted them to get any work done he wouldn’t have started a fight with Robin right before their shift started.

“You’re missing one crucial part of the Ms.”

“Nah.”

“Nah? You can’t just say nah.” Surprise, tart like a good grape.

“What do you mean I can’t say nah, I’m saying nah, no, nope. If you can be one, I can be one. We’re the same, it’s like possession.”

“Possession?”

“Maybe not that. Parts of the same thing, if you’re a Ms, I am cause we’re the same thing. You got me and I’ve got you.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Joy is a feedback emotion. Good feedback, not the sound of a microphone too close to a speaker. It starts like a bell ringing and gets bigger and bigger until it fills the both of them to bursting. Robin pops first, tap, tap, tapping his arm in a happy little patter that always makes him think of Thumper and Bambi and movies on the couch with his mom.

“You need a button for your vest.” She tugs at the side with his name tag on it. “Or we could quit.”

“You’re gonna quit over a button.”

“I’m gonna quit cause Keith doesn’t know a French New Wave from a German Expressionist film. The button is like the sound of a buzzing light bulb on an already bad day.”

“The radio station is hiring.”

“Better uniform.”

“Anything is better than Scoops,” Steve says. In his nightmares he’s always wearing that stupid hat.

“A lot of buttons could fit on a lanyard.”

“Ms. Buckley, let’s quit our job.”

[pidges-lost-robot]

I have the dumbest fucking idea for a scene of like Pidge deciding to train with Keith and being like wtf is up with these acrobatics and him offering to teach her and her having to admit she can't do a handstand or cartwheel cause she was always too 'busy' (scared) to learn and wouldn't even let Matt teach her so Keith starts with basics teaching her how to do a handstand and it's just their shenanigans for the next 10 mins of Pidge stalling, Keith telling her he's not gonna drop her cause she's like a bag of grapes after she insinuates he can't carry her weight and then Pidge going for it and yelling the whole time as Keith catches her legs and having to tell her to put her hands back on the ground and Shiro walks in but decides not his monkeys not his circus and walks back out

edit: with a drawn version

[magiefish]

There is a name oft spoken of in hushed tones within the circles of those who are fans of the Fifth Doctor’s era. It has a rating of 3.5 on the Timescales; it has no plot description; it is the reason why the TARDIS wiki has an article for ‘anal probe’. But, as much as it mentioned and then hushed up, there is at present no further in-depth guide to this novels bizarreness, it’s staggeringly low-quality, it’s unrelenting horniness. If one wishes to understand this horror, one must read it firsthand. Well no more. I, in the name of knowledge and first-hand wisdom, have decided to set out on a journey so that no others may have to undertake it, and with the skills I have honed through my study of English Literature provide a degree of critique and commentary to Keith Topping’s infamous offspring.

I, dear readers, am going to liveblog reading The King of Terror. Starting now.

The King Of Terror Liveblog: Part One

[TW: This being the King of Terror, we will almost certainly be getting into discussions of SA/non-consensual sex. The word ‘r@pe’ will almost definitely come up (indeed it literally comes up on the first page). Also, I will not be censoring it beyond this point because a) this isn’t TikTok, and b) even if I used ‘grape’ or something everyone would still know what I was talking about so there’s no real point. I assume everyone here is a mature adult who doesn’t need to hide behind codes in order to discuss serious and upsetting topics. If you are not, Please God Don’t Read This, it will likely still be here by the time you’re old enough. Go watch the show instead, it’s better and more family friendly (and has well-written violence and kissing in it). If these topics bring up any unpleasant memories for you or will put you in a bad state of mind, then please do not read this live blog, it is not worth it. Furthermore, I imagine various kinds of bigotry will come up in incredibly breezy barely relevant ways (sexism, racism, homophobia, etc.) because this is the year 2000 we’re talking about. There’s also probably something related to medical trauma in here. I will also probably get Very Angry as a lover of literature and Doctor Who at some point, so we’ll see how that goes. Anyways, onwards and downwards.]

Wow, I feel sorry for these guys

Interesting choice. Wonder how this will be relevant to the ‘themes’ of this work.

Huh. Okay. This isn’t actually a bad start. A bit pretentious maybe, but the descriptions are very visceral and it’s certainly a good hook, perhaps this won’t be so bad-

Aaaaand yep not even a page in and we’re already using the phrase “rape”, really cool Keith, very mature and based. Now, I’m not categorically averse to using the phrase ‘rape’ semi-metaphorically. But it is one of those words that has to be handled very carefully and with a proper understanding of the feelings and ideas that it implies.

‘The Things’ (the 2010 short story based off of ‘The Thing’) uses it towards the end in a way that I feel illustrates my point - the alien is disgusted by humanity and our ‘individualised’ existences and decides to forcefully ‘teach’ us why it’s so much better to be like it via the means of, y’know, infecting people with parts of it and then making them go all schlorp. Right before it assimilates one of the men, he calls it a ‘rapist’ which the alien later adopts in the final line of the story: ‘I will rape it into them’. Now, to me, this works because the aliens convictions are painted in a somewhat religious light throughout the story and also because assimilating people is literally a physical violation, so the use of the word at the stories end seems to be used to deliberately conjure ideas of ‘corrective’ SA in a way that feels intentional given the previously discussed themes. It is also, as I have noted, used right at the end as the final line of the story, in a way that indicates to me that the writer understood the very visceral feelings the word evokes and decided to reserve it to be used to reinforce the bleak, foreboding tone of the ending.

Keith does not do this. Keith decides to use the idea of SA and all its violent implications right out of the gate to, presumably, shock the reader and try to grab their attention. He did not have to do this. His abstract, vague descriptions and in-media-res opening were enough by themselves. What this belies to me is a) a belief that violence or shock are inherently compelling and b) a lack of confidence in the strength of his writing on its own. We shall see if I am correct in both of these estimations.

Now, Keith is certainly not the only writer guilty of a very liberal use of SA in the wilderness years of Doctor Who. It seems, from the little I have read, almost inescapable. I remember reading ‘Goth Opera’ and the word ‘rape’ being used to describe what the Mara did to Tegan within, like, the first 30 pages or something. (Which, okay, some critics have definitely compared the scene from ‘Kinda’ where the Mara possesses her to an SA scene, but within the first 30 pages? And without unpacking any of that? Mr. Cornell??) But that doesn’t excuse any of this it just makes him another part of a rather unfortunate pattern.

Oooo somebody wrote this before ‘The Weddding of River Song’. Keith Hopping JNT just called, he wants you to know that fucking with the UNIT timeline is his domain.

So old Keith is aware of Shadows Over Avalon. I don’t really know how much cross-continuity was going on with the PDA / EDA / VNA / VMA writers, so I’m not really certain whether this reference to stuff that has happened in other stories is complacent or unusual. I haven’t actually read Shadows Over Avalon, I’m not that far into the EDA’s (I got distracted before I could read Alien Bodies :( ).

WILL this man ever get to enjoy retirement!

I was never under the impression that the Brigadier was a straight up Tory but I haven’t seen that much of him so what do I know? Also, ‘a smile of admiration’? What, cause being a Tory is just such good old lovable nostalgic Britain? And patriotism too? Ugh. Anyway, the set-up for this narrative is seemingly that a bunch of UNIT files have been decommissioned. This journalist is initially interviewing the Brigadier about a case involving the Waro (who were in Keith’s last book “The Devil Goblins From Neptune”, so, nice self-repping Keith).

This then moves into the two of them discussing the Doctor and his involvement with some company called ‘Intercom’, setting up the events of this story. I also don’t know what the Brig is on about here with the Doctor being ‘a man of peace’ because *I* definitely saw Three’s Venusian moves but okay. Anyway, this section is attributed to an in-universe book so it seems like Keith is trying to a bit of a meta-textual House of Leaves thing. Let’s see how he succeeds in the next post, which will be a reblog of this one.

[dark-frosted-heart]

Ikepri 4th anniversary The Chara Cafe collab menu

Menu items under cut

FOOD

Keith: Twice as delicious! Fruit salad

- Contains: salad mix, mango, mozzarella cheese, cherry tomato, strawberry, caesar dressing, radicchio, cured ham, lemon dressing

Licht and Nokto: Spaghetti napolitan with carrots for the twins to conquer their least favorite food

- Contains: pasta (spaghetti), onion, napolitan sauce, bell pepper, sausage, carrot

Azel: Butter chicken ~with god's protection~

- Contains: saffron rice, caesar dressing, chicken, parsley, cherry tomatoes, cheese, salad mix, butter chicken

Chevalier: Undisputed champion's omurice oozing with elegance

- Contains: omurice, bacon, bechamel sauce, parsley, spinach

Clavis special!: Rabbit cake that looks exactly like my lovely accomplice ~ Love's Proposition (Curse of Love) version. Decorated with clay figures ~

- Contains: roll cake, edible paper, mint, strawberry whipped cream, blueberry sauce, cake pick, milk, mixed berries, chocolate candy (biscuit?), silver dragee

Kagari: Perfect dorayaki plate for princess

- Contains: dorayaki, sakura condensed milk, whipped cream, vanilla ice cream, strawberry, chervil, strawberry sauce, mixed berries, feuilletine

Gilbert: Trampling beast’s cheesecake plate ~ I’ll go “ahh” for you ~

- Contains: no-bake cheesecake, ganache squares, cocoa cookie, chervil, whipped cream, edible gold, blueberry sauce

Rio: I'll go "ahh" for you! Adoring doggy's orange parfait

- Contains: orange jelly, vanilla ice cream, granola, dried orange, whipped cream, mint, orange sauce

DRINKS

Leon: King of the beasts' red drink

- Contains: wildberry syrup, mixed berries, watermelon juice, rose petals

Yves: Tsundere cat's lemon drink

- Contains: pink lemonade syrup, whipped cream, lactic acid drink, gummy

Jin: Naughty adult's coffee float with candy

- Contains: black coffee, gomme syrup, vanilla ice cream, candy, mint

Matias: I want to warm your body and heart...let's look the window at the snowy landscape while drinking milk tea together

- Contains: black sugar syrup, whipped cream, milk tea, silver dragee

Sariel: The devil is always watching violet drink

- Contains: violet syrup, whipped cream, violet jelly, monaka wafer, muscat-flavored water

Luke: Mr. Bear's special honey sangria

- white grape juice, orange slice, honey lemon juice, mixed berries, mint, honey

Silvio: Tyrant's jangling ocean float

- blue raspberry syrup, ramune ice cream, cider, edible gold

[tobeverse-st4n]

I will be doing updates on all the episodes that air!! I hope to see some other fans here!!

If you don’t have access to this AMAZING SHOW, dont worry! I'll make sure to give all the details

Tobeverse forever!!

[johnwickb1tsch]

Vino Veritas - Part III

A Destination Wedding Frank x Fem!Reader Fic

Attending the wedding of your ex-fiancé gets slightly better when you meet someone having just as miserable a time as you... Warnings: Nothing too serious holy shit. Cursing. Broken engagement. Nihilism, existential bullshit, copious amounts of sarcasm. NSFW. Angst. Grump/sunshine trope. Loosely based on the movie but I'm not that smart. Or bitter. 😆 chapter map.

III. Just what the world needs, Another Fucking Sunset Wedding

It’s almost sweet. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think Frank had been waiting for you to catch the shuttle to the wedding venue, dallying in the lobby pretending to look at an atrocious modern art print while keeping one eye on the hallway.

“You look nice,” he grumbles, taking in your white A-line sundress printed with big red roses.

“Thanks,” you say, admiring his navy blue suit unabashedly, since he brought it up first. “You look very handsome.”

This makes him stand up a little straighter, clearly not sure how to take the compliment, but you dare to think, he liked it.

When the shuttle drops you off at the base of the vineyard you look up the steep hill planted with curling grape vines in their nice neat rows with a sense of dread.

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“I am not wearing the right shoes for this.”

He looks down at your platform heels. “It said in the itinerary you’d have to walk up a hill.”

“Ok, but what was I supposed to wear? Hiking boots? The unfair standards of women’s dress clothes don’t allow for that.”

He holds out a hand, albeit begrudgingly. “Come on. I’ll help you.”

“I swear, these shoes are actually usually the sensible option.”

“Sure they are. Wearing anything that elevates your feet four inches off the ground is a sensible option.”

You sigh, and take his hand, trying to ignore the thrill running through your bones as you feel the strength in his fingers and his arm, as he helps propel you up the incline.

“I can’t believe they don’t have…stairs, or something? Did the old people have to do this?”

“Presumably not.”

“Then what the fuck?”

“Quite.”

Men’s dress shoes aren’t exactly made for rough terrain either, and at one point you both almost slip, clutching each other in a bid not to tumble back down the hill. It’s…nice, you have to admit, to be held close by this man.

He looks at you with wide eyes, for a moment for all the world appearing as though he’s drowning, before that thunderous frown appears. “Fuck this.”

You yip with surprise as he sweeps you up into his arms, and marches determinedly the rest of the way up the hill. Before you can even think about taking it as a romantic gesture, he practically drops you back to your feet at the top, releasing you as though you’d burned him.

You sit together in the back, as usual, though Frank very pointedly crosses his arms and is careful to keep a respectable amount of distance between you.

That shouldn’t make you feel sad, but it does.

The excruciatingly drawn-out bullshit Reception

“I used to like this song,” you muse, watching the dancers on the floor with an odd mixture of wistfulness and distaste. Keith dips his new bride, and a mean little part of you really wishes he would drop her.

“Do you…want to dance?”

Frank could have knocked you over with a feather, after how he’d behaved earlier. It definitely colors your answer, the knee-jerk impulse to push him away too.

“I said I used to like it.”

“Fine.”

Then, of course, you feel bad. And maybe you feel…a sliver of hope, however stupid.

“Why, do you want to dance?”

“Of course I don’t want to dance. It’s moronic and ridiculous. No one wants to fucking dance.” There is more venom in this statement, than perhaps the situation calls for.

After a moment, a bit softer and with a hint of apology, he qualifies, “I just thought it might take your mind off things.”

If you looked miserable, it’s ironic that for once, Keith was not the cause of it.

Perhaps this should send you running in the opposite direction too.

“Do you want to take a walk?” you ask instead.

He looks pointedly down at your questionable footwear, but you point at the basket behind you bearing what are professed by a whimsically written sign: Walking Shoes. They’re some kind of slide on deal that will do in a pinch. Honestly you’re willing to go bare foot, if it gets you out of that tent.

The meandering and pointless Walk

“You know, I was actually diagnosed with PTSD after the whole Keith thing?”

Frank snorts at that, the farthest reaction from sympathy he can manage. “Rich people’s PTSD.”

“I’m not rich.”

“Fine. Privileged.”

That’s probably true. Goddammit.

“Well…am I not allowed to have problems?”

“Sure, just no one wants to hear about them. Anyone who doesn’t have to worry about food, housing, or getting shot by the police should just keep it to themselves.”

“That’s not very healthy.”

He shrugs. “It’s not just you. No one should care about my problems either.”

“What if I care?”

He snorts. “Then I will feel even sorrier for you than I already do.”

“Ok, fine. Maybe not me specifically. But what if…say, you find someone else you actually like. Isn’t it ok to talk about your problems with friends?”

“Isn’t that a terrible thing to do to someone you like? Making friends or a significant other listen to your problems for free, when you should be paying a shrink for it?”

“It’s just a thing people do who are close to each other. They talk.”

“People who aren’t close too, apparently.” He says all this with a surprising amount of cheer in his tone, either enjoying himself, or the walk, or the view…or maybe even your company.  

He changes the subject as you round a bend. “So, are you glad you came to this thing? You made your show of strength, you’ve got your closure now that the knot is tied and they’re legally bound to be miserable together, and you’ve fled the scene with his half-brother, whom he despises, which the family surely will gossip about. You could almost chalk it as a win, if you squint just right.”

You huff, breathing a little heavy as you walk up a hill on the ridge the path follows. It truly is beautiful in the backcountry of the vineyard, rolling mountains planted with nice neat rows of green vines.

He makes a good point, but strangely…you don’t feel satisfied. “I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I’m not sure how I feel,” you admit, pausing to incline your head up at him. He pauses too, looking down that straight nose at you, and he is standing very close. You fancy you sense him tense, as though about to take some great leap, and he looks at your mouth with something like consternation, when a god-awful yowling roar travels down the path at you.

You both turn to see a very big, very unhappy cat displaying its impressively large and sharp canines at you.

“What the fuck is that?”

“I think it’s a mountain lion.”

“What the fuck do we do?”

“I don’t know. We’re too far away, no one will hear us scream.”

“Is it a bobcat?”

“It’s not a fucking bobcat. Look at the tail.”

“You should run. It’s going to eat me anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m smaller and slower.”

“I wouldn’t presume about the last part.”

It roars again, and you clutch at his arm.

Suddenly Frank charges the thing, making that god-awful hissing sound from earlier with his finger in his ear. They both sound like demons from hell, and with shock you watch as the predator backs away.

“Now, we run,” says Frank, grabbing your hand and booking it down the hill.

You run what feels like a long way. Your legs are burning, and the stupid little slide-ons are not made for athletic activity. And the thing about running downhill is…sometimes gravity gets the best of you. Like now, when you trip over a rock, and take Frank with you. Suddenly you are both tumbling down a steep grassy incline, locked together in a death roll.

“Fuck!”

“Fuck!”

“Fuck!”

“Fuck!”

When at last you come to a stop you are utterly stunned. “Y/n?”

You just lie there, unable to move.

“Y/n?”

Are you even alive?

Suddenly, Frank grabs your arm, hauling you around. “Ah!”

He looks…so worried, that if he hadn’t wrenched your back, you would have been touched.

“I’m fine! Jesus!”

“Ok. Sorry.”

You lie there for another moment looking up at him. He has grass in his hair; it’s endearing somehow, seeing this put-together grouch of a man just a little undone.

“You saved me,” you tease, sitting up beside him.

“I saved us.”

“Yeah right. It would have eaten me anyway. Why’d you save me?”

“Because I’m an idiot.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Just trying to spare myself the guilt.”

He reaches up to pluck grass out of your hair. His light touch gives you a thrill down your spine. Again, you are aware that you are very close, and his dark eyes have gone wide again, that slightly panicked look he gets. His gaze flicks to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and you are completely taken by surprise when he grabs the back of your head and pulls you swiftly into a hard kiss.

He retreats from it just as quickly, and now he does look like he’s seen a ghost. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“I—”

Before you can say anything he’s grabbed you again, and this kiss is less forceful, though maybe no less desperate. You’re able to reach up to cup his cheeks before he shoves you away again, this time hard enough that you topple back in the grass.

“Hey!”

“Sorry,” he pants again, looking for all the world like a horse that would like to bolt. “I don’t—it’s been a long time. Heat of the moment. Near death experience. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“How long?” you ask, incredulous. Because, this man is so…so. Fucking. Good looking. How has he not been with anyone?

He scowls at the grass. “I don’t think I’ve felt real pleasure since 2006.”

This admission makes your eyes go wide. You sincerely hope he’s exaggerating, but then again, the way he behaves towards people…maybe he’s not.

“It’s just…” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “If it all sucks, then fuck it, but if it doesn’t? Then there’s so much pressure.”

A part of you wants to snark at him. Well well well, welcome to the human race at last. But another part of you…another part of you just wants to kiss him senseless and fuck him silly, and make him feel all the things you’ve both been missing out on because he’s been such a goddamned coward this whole time and you’re not much better.

 Maybe he reads the pity on your face, because he feels the need to defend, “Not that I haven’t been with anyone. Just…”

“You weren’t that into it?”

He looks away, glaring at the world again. “Yeah.”

“It’s been a while for me too,” you admit.

“Please don’t say it was Keith,” he snarks. “I’ll kill myself.”

You laugh. “No, your brother was incredibly, monumentally selfish in bed. I literally could have had better sex with a lamppost.”

He looks at you sideways. “That really shouldn’t make me as happy as it does.”

Your lips twist as you try not to smile. Frank, however, is back to frowning at the vineyards again. “We can’t have sex right now. I don’t have any protection. It would be irresponsible.”

You’re a little amused, that his brain has leapt immediately to sex, while you are sitting in the dry grass together. Apparently just kissing was not enough—or maybe he’s been thinking about it for a while. You’d be a liar, if you said you haven’t.

“What if I said you’re in luck?”

“I would say that’s highly improbable.”

You feel bold enough to cup his cheek, bringing his attention back to you. It doesn’t take much persuading this time, when you press your lips to his. He kisses you back, his fingers digging into your ribcage, and you’re not really sure who’s more desperate to feel alive after defying death at the claws of a tiger or whatever the fuck that thing had been.

“That’s not helping,” he pants when you part.

“Why? Are you actually into it?”

He pulls you closer with hands on your waist. “Pretty into it,” he admits begrudgingly. You smile against his mouth, suddenly feeling electrified from head to toe. The colors of the world around you seem brighter, somehow. You take him by surprise when suddenly you straddle his waist, perching on his legs and pushing him back down into the grass, your pretty skirts spread around you.

“What—”

You unbuckle his belt and undo his pants, freeing him to the desert air. “Oh…” When you bend over to lick his tip and take him into your mouth you get an even more emphatic, “Oh…”

“What about now?” you ask him as you withdraw with a pop.

He blinks, for the first time since you’ve met, speechless. At least, for a few long moments.

“I think I’d like to be inside you.”

“How’s your health?”

“Fair to middling, for a man my age.” You give him a look, and damn if he doesn’t soften for you, even if just for a fleeting second. “Clean,” he answers quietly. “You?”

“Clean. And fully armed with IUD.”

He blinks. “Like they use to blow up humvees in the Middle East?”

You laugh, throwing your head back, your curls bouncing around your shoulders. You haven’t had this much fun in a long time. “Like, an intrauterine-device?”

“That definitely makes more sense.”

“Well?”

You watch as he licks his fingers, reaching under your dress to push your panties aside and find your center. The saliva is appreciated but not necessary. You are drenched, and his big fingers rubbing your clit feel like magic. “Is all that for me?” He sounds genuinely surprised, like this was a gift from the universe he did not expect to receive. Usually it’s more inclined to deliver a kick to the balls.

“Who else would it be for? The lynx?” He snorts, and in a softer tone you confess, “I have been a wet little mess for you since…the moment we started arguing in the airport.” He blinks at this, dumbstruck for a moment, before kissing you with an edge of desperation you both feel keenly in your bones.

He guides you onto him with his big hands on your buttocks. That feels like magic too, his thick tip at your entrance sinking in. It’s your turn to say, “Oh,” with your head thrown back, his big cock sliding deeper and deeper inside you, until he’s filled you to the hilt. For a moment you just sit like that together, joined, wrapped up in each other’s arms. It’s wonderful.

You imagine how ridiculous you must look, to an outsider looking in. Two people tangled in the dirt, grass in your hair, dust all over your nice clothes. You giggle a little to yourself.

“Something funny?”

“Just…do you ever think about how silly humans look, doing the things we do?”

“All the time.”

You laugh joyously, but you feel him withdrawing from you, that subtle tension returned in his limbs. You realize he thinks you’re making fun of him. It’s like this man expects he’ll have to defend himself from the world at any given moment. Then, from what he’s told you about his life, you guess he has. You don’t let him get too far, pulling him closer. “But fuck it feels glorious. I don’t care. Fuck me, Frank. I need you.”

 You feel him relax, and maybe even surrender. He moves for you, and you with him, his thumb on your button and his mouth on your neck as you ride him out…it’s the fastest you’ve ever orgasmed, with another person involved, that shining pleasure ambushing you in the cradle of your hips and spreading outwards. It’s almost embarrassing, except he’s right behind you, holding you almost desperately with arms locked around your waist, his face buried in the bend of your neck. Neither of you are quiet about it, your yells echoing across the empty hills.

“Oh my god…” you pant, resting your forehead against his.

“Can’t say…I believe much in god,” he informs you, out of breath.

“Me neither,” you admit. “But that was fucking fantastic.”

“Yeah. That was pretty damn good.” He sounds so surprised about it.

He kisses you, more softly this time. There is a long moment of eye contact between you; it is vulnerable, and electric, and raw. He is the first to look away, almost flinchingly. Then he focuses on the business of disentangling yourselves.

“I’m afraid we’re about to make a huge mess.”

“You don’t have a handkerchief?”

“What am I, a nineteenth century dandy?”

“Okay, relax, Romeo. I’ve got it.”

You rather cleverly, if you don’t say so yourself, use the petticoat of your dress to avoid staining his trousers as you uncouple, in a way that won’t leave you an embarrassing mess when you return to the tent either.

“I like that dress even more now,” he quips, looking at you with something almost akin to tenderness as you right yourselves. He reaches up to pull another sprig of straw out of your hair with a smirk.

“Frank…” You’re not really sure what you want to say. There’s a pent up ball of something in your chest, and it kind of actually hurts, and you’re not sure you like it at all.

“No,” he answers resolutely, but he cranes his neck down to kiss you anyway. “Want to go back to my room?”

“Yes.”

TBC...

-----------------

ahhhhh I didn't have the courage to make it as awkward as the movie 🤣🤣🤣 but I feel like I need to make a note here bc i'm always writing wildly irresponsible sex practices: always use protection with a new partner. It's just a good idea. And ALWAYS use some kind of birth control, or you WILL get pregnant. mother nature is a bitch.

[diceriadelluntore]

Storia Di Musica #368 - Lynyrd Skynyrd, Second Helping, 1974

Nel continuare i dischi che hanno un legame con il numero 3, oggi l'aggancio me lo dà questo disco, che nacque da un esigenza pratica: un bassista fondatore della band si deve assentare, viene sostituito da un altro, quando torna il bassista titolare il secondo, quasi per caso, viene spostato alla terza chitarra, e nasce così uno dei motivi più famosi del suono unico ed emozionante dei Lynyrd Skynyrd. La grande band del southern rock deve il suo fantasioso nome alla storpiatura di Leonard Skinner, il professore di ginnastica del loro liceo di Jacksonville, Florida, che non amava tanto i capelloni scalmanati. La band inizia a suonare insieme in un posto nelle campagne di Jacksonville, chiamato Hell House per il caldo infernale nelle giornate estive. Furono notati dal mitico Al Kooper, che li vide suonare in un locale di Atlante dal nome Funocchio's, e li presentò alla MCA, producendo il loro primo leggendario disco: (Pronounced 'Lĕh-'nérd 'Skin-'nérd) del 1973. È proprio durante le registrazioni di questo disco che Ed King, proveniente dagli Strawberry Alarm Clock, è chiamato a sostituire Leon Wilkenson. King è un bassista non eccelso, ma se la cava, però è un grande personaggio che è simpatico a tutti, quindi al ritorno di Wilkenson viene spostato alla terza chitarra con Gary Rossinton e Allen Collins, che formano il più famoso three guitars army. Nella storia della musica non è una novità, anche gli Allman Brothers Band, gli Eagles, i Moby Grape e anche Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young usavano le tre chitarre, ma nessuna di queste formazioni le ha esaltate così tanto, da creare un suono distintivo, caldo e vibrante come il loro carattere schietto, emotivo e perfino un po' folle (leggendarie le scazzottate sul palco tra loro, ogni tanto). Dopo il disco di debutto, fanno da spalla ai The Who in un tour negli Stati Uniti, con la fama crescente: la band inglese presentava il suo Quadrophenia, ma alla serata del Cow Palace di Daly City California (passata alla storia anche perchè Keith Moon stravolto dalla droga non finì il concerto, sostituito da un groupie della band, Scot Halpin, alla batteria) si rifiuta in un primo momento di suonare perchè il pubblico a gran voce reclama più minuti per i Lynyrd Skynyrd.

È sempre Al Kooper che li guida in questo secondo, magistrale Second Helping, del 1974. Disco meno prorompente del primo, ma più poliedrico, con una canzone passata alla storia. Perché è il disco di Sweet Home Alabama, una delle canzoni del rock americano. Nata in risposta a ad Alabama e Southern Man, due canzoni di Neil Young nelle quali egli aveva criticato l'Alabama (e tutto il sud degli Stati Uniti d'America in generale) per il perdurante razzismo nei confronti dei neri, la canzone dice esplicitamente: «spero che Neil Young lo ricordi, un uomo del sud non ha bisogno di lui». Tuttavia tra la band e Young non c'è mai stato astio, anzi Ronnie Van Zandt la cantava spesso indossando una maglietta con la scritta Neil Young, e fu Young ad autoaccusarsi di essere stato troppo "accusatorio e sussiegoso, non pienamente ponderato e troppo facile da fraintendere". Sweet Home Alabama è l' equivalente di Smoke On The Water del southern, verrà usata in decine di pellicole cinematografiche, telefilm, perfino nei cartoni animati. Ma il disco è pieno di canzoni che diventeranno classici: la dura e rabbiosa Workin’ For MCA, cavallo di battaglia sempreverde nei torridi concerti, è un atto di accusa nemmeno tanto velato sull'avidità del music business; gli slow blues I Need You e la splendida The Ballad Of Curtis Loew, altro episodio antirazzista, mostrano il loro animo più intimo e melodioso, Swamp Music è un altro manifesto di fierezza (gli swamp sono le zone paludose della Florida dove sono cresciuti). The Needle And The Spoon e la cover di J.J.Cale Call Me The Breeze, che diventerà molto più famosa dell'originale, sono altri esempi del perfetto amalgama tra blues ed hard rock, con le chitarre che ruggiscono selvagge in un turbine di riff e assoli travolgenti.

Un disco capolavoro, che li porta in vetta alle classifiche (disco d'oro in poche settimane), li porta in un estenuante tour, famoso anche per i numerosi episodi di violenza sopra e sotto il palco. Tutta questa tensione verrà fuori: Bob Burns, il batterista, se ne va a fine tour, la band torna in studio con Artimus Pyle a sostituirlo, ma dopo le registrazioni di Nuthin' Fancy (1975) e le prime date del Torture Tour, Ed King se ne va sbattendo la porta, "stufo di fare a pugni con quel pazzo di Ronnie". È l'inizio della fase più delicata della loro storia, che termina con il tragico e spaventoso incidente aereo del 20 ottobre 1977, tre giorni dopo l'uscita di Street Survivors, quando muoiono il chitarrista e cantante Steve Gaines, la corista Cassie Gaines, sorella di Steve, l'assistente all'organizzazione del tour Dean Kilpatrick, il pilota Walter McCreary e il co-pilota William Gray, il cantante Ronnie Van Zant, e furono feriti gravemente Allen Collins, Leon Wilkeson, Gary Rossington. La loro storia proseguirà, sulla scia della loro musica forte, infuocata e unica, anche per il loro suono a tre chitarre inimitabile e riconoscibile.

[sparkle-jules]

Grape eating contest with Keith

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Two Three four

Steve’s eating a bowl of cereal, squinting in the morning light. He’s barefoot, wearing nothing but sleep shorts, and is considering going back to bed. He shouldn’t though; he has to be on time today.

Since the mall burned down, Scoops Ahoy is, annoyingly, no more. Robin thinks she has something though, some guy at Family Video who probably has the hots for her or something. Doesn’t matter though, Steve doesn’t really care what this Keith guys motivation is as long as it results in gainful employment for the both of them.

He really should shower.

Steve can see the pool from here, so he’s in a prime position to watch as Eddie pulls himself out of the water and makes his way to the back door.

This is the second time Eddie has come into the house, if you don’t count the emergency temporary over nighter in the bath tub. Well, it’s the second time Eddie has brought himself into the house, at least.

He waits patiently at the back door, like a cat waiting to be let in, and Steve opens the door for him, cereal bowl still balanced in the other hand.

He holds himself in that same way, flat of his tail curled up beneath him, giving him a little height, and he sits himself uncertainly in the middle of the kitchen floor, “hi Eddie.”

“Stee. Buddidy”

Steve gets him some celery from the bottom of the fridge and gives him the whole thing. They stand, and sit, together in comfortable silence, crunching their way through their respective breakfasts.

Steve watches as Eddie cautiously makes his way to the fridge once he’s done, looking to Steve with his his hand on the door, a question on his face, Steve nods, “yeah.”

Eddie opens the door, and Steve watches as he explores, carefully moving jars and condiments and stuff around, glass clinking quietly, before he opens the drawer at the bottom and pulls out a pear, carefully closing the drawer and door again after. He eats the whole thing, stalk, core, seeds, everything.

Steve washes up his dish, checking the time, “want to watch some TV?”

Eddie cocks his head, but follows Steve into the lounge. He sits, looking around, feeling the carpet under his hands, running his nails carefully through the pile until the TV catches his attention.

He moves closer. And then closer again, making Steve laugh when he taps a nail on the curved glass of the screen.

“I’m going to go shower, you shouldn't sit so close, it’s bad for your eyes.”

Robin does her make up in the car on the way over to Family Video, “how’s Eddie?”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking, it really means a lot to me, how much you care about my well being.”

She sighs through her nose and rolls her eyes, and Steve tuts at her.

“He came in the house this morning, I left him watching TV.”

“Huh. I mean normally I would say it’ll rot his brain but, something for him to do would be good, right?”

“Yeah. And if I’m getting a job, we should try and teach him to use the walkie’s at least. In case there’s like an emergency or something.”

“A fruit and veg related emergency.”

“Yeah, kind of. We really need to figure out what to do with him, he can’t just sit in my pool forever.”

She hums in agreement.

It’s just starting to rain when Steve gets home, the first break in the nearly two weeks of sunny weather they’ve been having.

Probably won’t be sharing a beer with Eddie tonight then. Well, Steve hasn’t really been sharing, he’s been letting Eddie steal the last third of a bottle, which isn’t really the same thing.

Eddie’s actually sitting on on the couch when Steve gets in, which surprises him momentarily. There’s an empty container on the cushion next to him, Steve figures he found the grapes.

“Hey.”

Eddie turns to see him, smiling, clearly pleased to see him, which is a nice change of pace. Sure he knows Robin loves him, but she’s never actually openly really happy to see him unless she’s, like, drunk or high. And the kids. Steve knows they must at least kind of like him, but they’re all just little shits. Having someone to come home to who is genuinely pleased to see him is a really nice change of pace.

“It just started raining.”

“Raiiniing.”

“Yeah,” Steve points at the window, “uhm, wet. Uhm. Sky wet.”

“Et.”

“Yeah.”

Eddie’s eyes widen suddenly, scrabbling off the couch in clear panic, “Et! Et!”

“Yeah Buddy, what’s wrong-”

Eddie’s frantically slithering across the lounge carpet with what is a truly amazing turn of speed considering his anatomy, “et inied! Book! NO! NO!”

“Oh, shit! Your book,” Steve hops over Eddie’s tail, making it to the door and then sprinting across the grass, grabbing the book and bringing it back.

Eddie’s sitting in the door way, hands clasped together, watching anxiously, “it’s not so bad, just a little damp.” Steve holds the book out to show him where drops of rain have speckled the pages, “it’s not bad.”

“Not bad. Good,” but he’s still frowning, clearly concerned where the paper is discolored by the water.

“Wait,” Eddie does as he’s told as Steve runs upstairs for the hair dryer, plugging it in in the lounge and sitting on the floor, Eddie joining him with the book. “Here, feel,” he turns it on, pointing it Eddie’s way.

Eddie sticks his fingers towards it, and then pulls the back, startled. Then he does it again before watching Steve dry the pages of the book, “dry. Et inied.”

“That’s right buddy.”

“Stee Edidie budidy.”

“That’s right. Yeah.”

Eddie sits next to Steve watching nervously as Steve gets the final pages dried off, and Steve hands the book back.

Eddie grins, “thanks Birdidie,” and then darts forward to press his lips to Steve’s cheek. It's just a press, not a real kiss.

“Oh,” and then Steve chuckles when he realizes what’s happened, the behavior that Eddie's seen and is now mimicking, “no. Uhm. Thank you Steve.”

Eddie cocks his head.

“Wait, wait,” Steve takes the hair dryer with him, heading up the stairs again, and this time coming back with a handful of Polaroids, he shuffles them into a neat stack, sitting next to Eddie on the floor. “Right, this is Robin. Birdie.”

“Thanks Birdidie.”

“Yeah, that’s right, that’s Birdie, now,” Steve shuffles through, “Max,” he says pointing, “and El.”

“El. Max.”

It’s thirty minutes and two pears later, but Eddie seems to be able to identify everyone reliably from their photographs, “no, Dustin.”

“Dust bin,” Eddie replies, confidently.

“You know what, sure, dust bin. Let’s go with that. Kind of suits him, actually.”

Steve’s drinking his evening beer. The weather much better again today, but the evenings are drawing in, and the sun set has almost taken Steve by surprise with how early it’s painting the sky pink. Summer’s coming to a close. Which brings some urgency to the question; what are they going to do with Eddie? The pool isn’t heated, and it usually gets drained and covered for the winter months. It’ll definitely freeze over at some point if they leave it open like this, and there’s no way Eddie could survive that, could he?

Steve doesn’t know. There’s just too much they don’t know about Eddie.

Steve’s got his first shift at Family Video tomorrow, a closing shift with the manager, Keith. Apparently he wants to show Steve the ropes when it comes to shutting down the store; Steve figures just from that that he’s going to be stuck with more than his fair share of late shifts.

He wonders if Eddie’s going to miss his evening beer. He really should teach Eddie to use a walkie. Tomorrow, he decides, will be as good a time as any. Tomorrow morning, and then Steve can leave one with Eddie and take one to work with him.

At least he knows Eddie can get into the house if he really has to, if he gets hungry or whatever. He really could do with some sort of cover out here though. Some where to leave his book in case of the rain. Maybe put a couple of towels in there, some food in the cool box when Steve’s out, the walkie, that sort of stuff.

Eddie swims over, pushing his floating toy bucket along ahead of him in the water. There are things in it tonight, which is a first. Eddie puts his bucket on the side of the pool before pulling himself out to sit beside Steve.

He pulls something out of his bucket to show to Steve, “oh, it’s a pine cone. Hold on.” Steve puts his beer down to grab the encyclopedia, and Eddie duly swipes it. Steve flicks through the book wile Eddie sips the beer, “look, this is a tree.”

“Tee.”

“Tree.”

“Trrreeee.”

“Yeah, it’s a seed for a tree,” Steve shows Eddie the series of pictures, how the seed underground grows a little shoot that grows, eventually, into a tree.

Eddie fetches something else from his bucket, showing Steve, “trree?”

“Leaf,” Steve points at the leaf in Eddie’s hand, then, “tree,” as he points to the tree line at the bottom edge of the yard.

Eddie’s frowning at the page in the book, but he does nod, so Steve doesn’t push it any further.

“Steve do you know how early it is.”

“I know, but I don’t care, do you still have that tent you were playing around with last summer?”

“Camping, Steve, I went camping with-what do you want it for, anyway?”

“It’s for Eddie.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dustin’s tone changes to immediately helpful, “yeah, do you want to come and get it? I’m pretty sure I still have it-MAAAAA! MAAAAAAA DO YOU KNOW-”

Steve pulls the receiver away from his head while Dustin's hollering at his poor mother.

“Yeah, we know where it is, you coming now?”

Eddie’s holding a piece of plastic tubing, looking concerned, and watching Steve struggle with the worlds smallest two man tent, “it’s okay, I got this.”

Eddie tilts his head one way and then the other, like a curious bird, as Steve struggles. It takes a couple of failed attempts, not helped by the fact that Dustin couldn’t find the instructions, but it doesn’t take that long before the tent is ready. Steve sets it on the grass, the doorway edge butted up against the tiles that surround the pool edge. Steve fixes the guy ropes using metal tent pegs driven into the lawn. It’s not hugely spacious inside, just big enough to accommodate two medium sized dudes when lying down, just as long as those two medium sized dudes are super comfortable with each other, then it’s fine.

Steve goes backward and forward, lining the bottom with a couple of sleeping mats he also borrowed from Dustin, and then putting in a couple of towels, Eddie’s book, and rescuing the Rubik's cube and slinkie from where they've lain, ignored, on the side of the pool, “there, what do you think?”

Eddie moves closer, cautiously looking inside before looking back to Steve, “yeah, good. Go in, it's okay,” Steve nods and smiles and generally tries to be encouraging.

Eddie goes inside before turning to look out, sitting on his tail.

Steve sits in the doorway, “it’ll keep your book dry.”

Eddie ponders that a moment, touching his book, before looking up. He carefully touches the inside of the tent roof, “et inied?”

“Yeah buddy, that’s right. Good.”

Part six

[dualityvn]

So... I haven't been here in I think 4 months..? Sorry to Keith and Tenebris, promise I'm not avoiding you I'm just too forgetful and awkward with asks, it won't happen again (it'll probably happen again) but! Would you all pretty please help me name some new plants? A dark purple little violet and a big bleeding heart plant? So they can go live with my other violet that Keith and Tenebris named Pudding Belle 🩷

"I'm naming the purple one! Grape Juice!" - Tenebris

"Then perhaps the bleeding heart plant can be called Lorna." - Keith

[thenerdy-artist]

Its time for their yearly redesign/hj

Alt designs | Info⬇️ (there's a lot lol)

Alesha and Keith were good friends in middle school. They grew apart, but once they got to High School, they started to reconnect. During this, Keith became friends with Evelyn, and the three became friends. Later on, the 3, at some point-or-another decided to create a band.

In my head, I imagine type of vibes the songs they would make would be stuff similar to MCR and MSI and stuff like that.

Evelyn

They/she (nonbinary) | ace lesbian | age:18

-Other nicknames: Eva, Eve

-the vocalist & guitarist (electric guitar)

-has a little brother

-child of divorced

-ride or die for their friends

-really chill and cool despite their appearance and attitude

Likes: music, collecting posters, video games, roller coasters, lizards, Peach cobbler, spicy foods

Dislikes: thunderstorms, bugs, snakes, big birds (they freak her out), spiders, mocha, bitter things

Alesha

She/her | Pan | age: 18

-The drummer

-can be a pushover and an over-thinker

-kept to herself before reconnecting w/ Keith

-uses a shit ton of tone tags and emoticons during texting

-Very bubbly personality

Likes: collecting things, vintage things, hairless cats, horror movies, the solar system, mythology, sour candies, porcelain dolls

Dislikes: people that are loud and wrong, obnoxious people, roller coaster, the idea of death, sour/spicy things

Keith

He/him (trans) | gay | age: 19

-the second guitarist (base guitar)

-was his idea to create the band

-live w/ his dad (his mom pasted when he was young)

-really outgoing and friendly person compared to their appearance

-want to create a indie game someday

Likes: roller coasters, dogs, grapes, skateboarding, spiders, snakes, autumn, comic books

Dislikes: the snow, dolls, close minded people, bitter foods, shitty live action shows/movies, bossy people, kids /hj