#it’s a comforting lie

[smarmy-yet-satisfying]

Future wars will be fought over access to water

The mass extinction we’re seeing today will be nothing compared to the amount of death that clean water shortages will lead to, for all living things on this planet.

[plushievash]

There’s only so much time, we have to play with To waste it is a crime, we have so much to give

//

Never let me go

[pamgkrthwrites]

Katsuki Bakugou is everything sharp. The shapes that make him up are sharp. His jaw, hair, eyes, his stare, his personality, his quirk.

Then there you. Anything but sharp. All cycles and round. Nothing naturally about you is sharp. Your everything he’s not. Your not sharp anything, just round.

So you thought he wouldn’t like someone like you. Your more emotional, more soft, more of a cry baby, more shy, more weak than he was. He was strong physically, emotionally closed off, mentally and emotionally strong, more loud.

He would never like someone like you.

All you’ve ever wanted was to be liked, for people to choose you and want to be around you and love you for being you.

But that was never going to happen.

Your parents overlooked you for you siblings. Your grandparents overlooked you for your cousins. Your teachers overlooked you for other students. Your friends overlooked you. Previous boyfriends have cheated or left you for other people.

You hated being alone, having no one.

Bakugou was everything you wanted to be.

You wanted people ti pay attention to you, be able to name you, be able to hear and see you. Just like Bakugou.

But you could never be that.

Maybe there was something wrong with you as a person. Maybe you were a bad person and everyone else was too nice to tell you. Maybe you gave everyone in your life the ick and wanted to avoid you. Maybe you just had bad breath.

It was hard to avoid Bakugou’s loud personality. It was easy to not notice you.

That’s why it was so surpising to have him at your dorm room giving you flowers and a gift for your birthday.

You weren’t even in the hero program, you don’t think you’ve ever stated a word to him. Not a sorry or hi or excuse me.

And yet he knew what class you were in, what floor and what door of the dorm you lived on.

He knew your favourite flowers, your favourite colour, and got you something that you wanted for your birthday. Something your parents seem to have not realised you wanted.

Maybe to everyone else you were easy to overlook, easy to ignore and easy to mute out. But maybe to Bakugou, your mere presence was too loud for him to ignore you.

And you think you liked it.

[quimera-cami]

Request: Spetsnaz team baking something sweet.

[moncuries]

rip the razor crest hows din supposed to have romantic copilot experiences now :/

[spidertams]

I won't let go of your hand

[mintjeru]

rough day?

open for better quality | no reposts

[jakeperalta]

defining a "comfort album" as whatever feels right to you :)

[blueskingdom]

and so what if i stare at you lovingly whilst you’re not looking

[stnexus]

speaking of jason, a big hug from him would be so freeing. like imagine being so out of it and he can just tell. you’re walking around just…existing. and he can tell you’re just not doing well. so he gently guides you in to the living room, pulling you down onto the couch with him as he wraps his arms around you.

“come on back to me, pretty girl. everything is alright. you’re okay.”

[sleepymrshmllow]

insp 🌸

[lululeighsworld]

it was literally their moment and they just let us watch

(if you need me i'll be marinating in this for the foreseeable future)

[nico-di-genova]

“I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.”

or

“You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you.”

(for lestappen please, you can choose whichever one you prefer (or both, I would not mind both)) have a great day <3

32. “I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.”

“You’re ignoring me,” Max states when he manages to get Charles alone for the first time in nearly a week. It is a feat accomplished only by knocking on his hotel room door until the Monegasque either grows tired of the noise or fearful of the attention it will bring. Charles Leclerc does not do anything he does not want to do, and it is clear at the moment he does not want to see Max. Even if he says otherwise.

“I am not.”

“Liar.”

“I am not lying.”

It’s clear he is, from the tension in his shoulders to the set of his jaw, to the way he keep glancing between Max’s feet, the door behind him, the blood red sleeve of a Ferrari hoodie that’s been thrown across his bed. Anywhere other than Max’s steel-eyed gaze and the hurt that must be obvious there.

Max knows how to read him, he’s had years of practice by now and the drive to study. Charles is far too expressive for his own good, his eyes betraying him when he does briefly glance at Max and there’s mirrored pain there. He looks away quickly, knows Max will see it, bites his bottom lip and curls tighter in on himself against the dresser he’s propped back on.

“Why are you avoiding me?” Max asks, calm, because he knows that raised voices accomplish nothing. His parents taught him that.

“I don’t know what I did wrong, Charles. You have to tell me, please, because I cannot read your mind.”

Not for lack of trying, not for lack of want. He’s spent countless nights studying Charles’ face in his sleep, the curve of his lips, the mole where his jaw meets his ear, another next to his nose, the way his eyelashes fan across his cheeks in a way that makes Max’s stomach do summersaults. He’s tried cataloging every expression Charles has ever given him simply for the pure organization of it. Like understanding Charles was a sport and he was going for the title, but it is the one game he cannot seem to win. The one where Charles always finds a way to throw him for a loop right as Max thinks he’s finally putting together the pieces.

Charles shifts against the dresser, uncomfortable under the pure weight of Max’s gaze. He swallows and Max watches as his adams apple bobs. A week ago he was pressing kisses there. A week ago Charles let him.

“Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

Charles shakes his head, “You did not do anything.”

His voice is thick with tears, the way he gets after a particularly rough quali, or a DNF where he comes out with bruised ribs and fractured confidence. Max steps forward, the urge to comfort, soothe, fix overriding him, but forces himself to pause. His reaching hand drops back limply to his side, spasms with the memory of Charles’ shoulder beneath his palm.

Charles’ hands fist tighter around the fabric of his shirt, where he’s attempting to comfort himself.

“Then what is going on?”

“I-,” he shakes his head like he’s clearing away a memory, clenches his eyes closed until Max can see the tears beading at the corners, “I think I am in love with you.”

He opens his eyes and Max is confronted with the glassy shine of unshed tears.

“And I am terrified.”

If there was air in the room before it quickly evacuates, sucking Max’s ability to speak right out with it. He thinks of a week ago, the way the confession had fallen so easily from his lips while it looks like it is ripped from Charles now – carved  from his chest and placed before Max bloody and still beating with the truth of it.

He opens his mouth, he closes it.

Charles tries to wipe away the tears with the back of his shaking hand and it only spurs them into falling, trailing down his sunburned cheeks and dripping in splotches onto the fabric of his white shirt. Max watches them spread across the cotton.

“Charles.” He forces out around the lump in his throat, the only word he can manage because it is a name he would know even if all others left him. He speaks it like a prayer, like a promise, like there is nothing else.

Charles sobs, chokes, and then he’s stumbling forward as Max catches him with the ease of someone who would never let him fall.

‘This sport. It takes from you...It is like this.’ Charles had once whispered to him in the dim light of another hotel room in Japan. When Max had heard him muffling his sobs in the bathroom and knew not to press against a wound that was raw. He’d let him cry, let him pretend Max hadn’t heard, and held him that night until Charles fell asleep against him with his head tucked beneath Max’s chin.

When he woke the next morning, Charles was gone. They didn’t speak of it again.

“I’m here,” Max promises now, the same way he had whispered it into the dark of that hotel room, against the soft tufts of Charles' hair as he slept. “I’m right here.”

Max can feel Charles' fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt along his back, pressing deep enough he scratches along skin.

“I love you. And I’m right here.”

And he’s terrified too. Terrified of the way Charles makes him feel a way he’s never felt before. Max hates the feeling of unpredictability, hates that he’s come to frequently feel it with Charles. With racing, it is simple. He puts his helmet on, he drives, he takes corners that he’s practiced on the sim so many times that he can see them in his sleep. He knows how the car should feel beneath him, and he trusts his team to fix it when he tells them what is wrong. Charles is not a car. Charles cries easy, laughs easy, speaks easy, changes between moods with a frequency Max often cannot predict. He is the boy that would send Max into the barriers if pressed to, and the man who can dance along the track with him tire to tire until the end. He is perhaps the only person Max could know, truly know, down to the core of him, and the enigma who Max will never be able to solve.

He's fucking terrified of loving him. But he holds Charles anyway.

“You will leave,” Charles whispers against Max’s neck, muffled and so quiet Max knows Charles is hoping he does not hear.

Max hates to be told what he will do. He and Charles share the same stubborn drive to ignore whatever predestined path they were set on. Charles drives for Ferrari because he wants to. Max wins championships because he can. They aren’t doing it because the universe told them it was what they were meant to do, or because Max’s dad kept his hands taped to that steering wheel and pushed him into this. Charles could leave, he’s got a contract that is firmly under his own control, and Max could quit tomorrow simply because he got bored of it all. They could both fuck off to the middle of nowhere and sell ice cream from a hut simply because they had the money and means to do so. So maybe Max will leave, and maybe he won’t, and maybe he'll crash his car and maybe he’ll make it safely back to his and Charles’ bed. Who knows. He certainly doesn’t

“I might,” he says, in the same easy tone he tells GP that the car is handling like shit, feeling the way Charles freezes at the statement, “I might do a lot of things. But I will still love you in the end of it.”

He traces a finger along Charles' spine, from the notch in his neck to the dip of his back. Charles shudders, sniffles, buries himself closer to Max like he’s trying to mold them into one. He’s still crying, Max can feel the fresh tears warm against his carotid, spilling down to his collarbone and collecting at the hem of his shirt.

“Will you love me?” he asks, raw and honest, letting the ache of it fill his voice so Charles knows the truth of it, of him. Max does not ask for much, he’s learned to be content with what he has, but he’s asking now. Hoping in a way that is unfamiliar to him.

When Charles nods, it is like air returning to his lungs, like crossing the finish line and hearing GP’s voice tell him he’s won his third title. Victory, and euphoria, and the rush of adrenaline hitting him all in one fell swoop.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. I love you,” Charles pulls away from him so he can meet Max’s gaze. His eyes are red-rimmed, bloodshot to shit, there’s snot beneath his nose. Max thinks he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He lifts a hand to cup Charles’ cheek and the man leans into the touch, slots perfectly against his palm that splays along his jaw. He brushes a stray tear away with his thumb and Charles’ eyes flutter closed at the touch before blinking open to meet his once more - wide, and green, and so honest - so familiar.

Max leans forward to press their foreheads together, warm breath mingling between them.

“I am terrified, but I love you,” Charles whispers, “and I’m sorry for pushing you away. It hurts too much sometimes.”

“It hurts to not know what I did wrong,” Max counters, continuing to stroke his thumb along Charles’ cheekbone, to comfort the part of him that thought he might have been losing this.

“Sorry.”

“No- Charlie, no. Don’t be sorry, just- just trust me next time, okay? Or try. I’m not going anywhere right now. You have me.”

I’m yours, he wants to say, always yours. He thinks he maybe always has been, been chasing the boy with stubborn resilience and cutting resolve for his whole life. Instead he holds Charles until the tears stop falling and their breaths come easier and the world stops feeling like it’s falling out from beneath both of them.  

I love you, and it is fucking terrifying he thinks, but god is it worth it.

When Charles looks up at him, with the quirk of his lips, the tear tracks drying on his cheeks, and the vulnerability in his eyes Max knows he feels the same.

He’s been studying, after all.

[aeirithgainsborough]

#im just like her fr

YELLOWJACKETS 105. Blood Hive

[avephelis]

every time someone mischaracterises jay ferin as the therapist friend a fairy loses its wings btw. put some respect on her emotionally-constipated ass.

[sp0o0kylights]

Steve And Robin Are Stuck in A Timeloop AU 

Steve's lost track of which time loop this is.

Had lost track pretty much instantly, because it turns out when people die repeatedly in front of you, it kinda takes precedence in your memory. 

Besides, Robin has a list in her head, memorized via some kind of musical code, alongside all the dates and times they wake up in. 

(Steve doesn't see what difference it makes if they wake up at 7:15 am the day of the Championship or 8:25 am, but Robin's insistent that even the slightest variations could mean something.) 

He’ll have to ask his soulmate when he finds her though, because presently Steve has determined they're having one of their weirder loops.

Typically, when the two of them get kicked back in time, they wake up the day of the Championship game. Occasionally it will be the day right before or the day after, but sometimes? 

Sometimes they’re sent back someplace, some time, that isn’t related to 1986 at all. 

Thus far, the Starcourt loop had been the worst. 

("If it happens a third time I'm killing myself." Steve had told Robin after they’d failed that one. 

Robin didn’t even look at him, the two of them huddled up together in Steve’s bed. "No you're not Dingus, not without shooting me first."

"How come I have to shoot you!? Is it because I'm a man? That's not very feminist of you."

"No its because you've seen me shoot, I would miss!") 

Steve had even woken up in an odd place. Not his bed or the couch, but the driver's seat of the Beamer, seated in the high school parking lot.  

It made him immediately uneasy. 

The chair is reclined all the way back, the mass of cars indicating it was a school day. Steve struggled to recall when he's ever taken a nap in his car as he got out of it, trying to decide how he wanted to go about things. 

Felt his pocket and was surprised to find it full of a packet of smokes. 

The sheer implication of that had him pulling out a cig and lighting it before the knowledge that he'd officially quit buying his own cigarettes in 1985 sank in.

Panicked and chainsmokes three, before deciding his best course of action was his usual one. 

Find Robin. 

Which of course means that he found Eddie instead. 

xxx

He’d started his first lap, walking out if the parking lot and round to the more shaded, empty parts of the building when a voice he knew yelled. 

The kind of yell he’d grown intimately familiar with, the one Eddie used when he was terrified and using anger to hide it. 

Steve turns automatically, following the taunts and loud, pained breathing until he finds a handful of jocks encircling the metalhead. He's down on one knee, snarling like a wildcat caught in a trap while some guy Steve barely recognizes holds him by the hair, laughing. 

Red coats his vision instantly, and any thoughts Steve had about being stuck in time (sort of) vanish from his mind entirely. 

The world shrinks down, to that white knuckled grip on Eddie's hair, the way it’s pulling the older boy’s face up so that Steve can see the straining muscles in his throat. 

The protective creature that lives in his chest and likes to punch it’s way out of problems awakens, and a thrum goes through Steve as he feels its demand for blood. 

"Hey fellas " Steve calls joyfully, striding directly into the crowd. "What’re we doing?" 

Two part before him like fish seeing a shark,and a faraway inner voice identifies them as members of the swim team. 

Which likely meant the other two were football players, and for all the tackling they did they were surprisingly easy to scare, if you knew how to play it right. 

Steve absolutely knew how to play it right. 

"Fuck off Harrington. This isn't your business." The one holding Eddie's hair spits. 

"Well that would be where you're wrong." Steve was still keeping things conversational as he positioned himself, arms nice and loose at his sides. He lets the thing that lives inside him, who made him turn right back around all those years ago and charge back into the Byers house, out a little more. Feels the need to protect, to save, to destroy the things that are his, fuel him.  "Seeing as all of Eddie's business is my business."

Eddie stares up at him, wide eyed at the declaration. 

Feeling entirely out of control of his body, Steve sends him a wink. 

"Since when!?" The other football player asks. 

"Since now." Steve declares cheerfully--and then smiles. 

It isn’t a nice smile. 

Thoroughly unnerved, his swim team members shrink back. He’ll have words for them later if he has time--Steve can't ever recall the swim team members being dicks but who fucking knows. 

His memory wasn't the best before he and Robin got stuck in time. 

"You fucking into drugs now or wha--" Their ringleader, still holding onto Eddie by the hair, doesn't get to finish his sentence.

Mostly because his mouth is too busy catching Steve's fist. 

Fighting, he knows, is something he does best when it's too the death and he's armed with something. 

Bonus points if his opponent is a horrific monster from another dimension. 

He has gotten better though, and here the rapid pace he sets feels almost too easy. 

The first guy goes down on the ground before the rest pick up on it, giving Eddie time to lurch backwards as Steve turns and torpedoes into the next jock. 

This one gets in a good shot--Steve staggers with a blow to his side but it's not enough to wind him. He keeps to his feet and advances, delivering one more punch before the swim team guys are trying to call him off. 

"Come on man, you're gonna kill them!" 

Steve almost laughs-- he hasn't come close to killing either idiot-- but backs away, keeping himself between them and Eddie. 

They wave their hands, getting ahold of their bloodied friends as they slowly ease between them and Steve. Make apologizes and promises that it was a poor joke, Munson just got to them, hot heads you know? 

Steve snarls at them to fuck off, and glares until they're gone. 

"What the hell just happened?" Eddie asks him, and Steve turns to find him on his feet, leaning heavily against the brick wall of the school. 

As far as he can get away from Steve. 

"Our football quarterback can't hit for shit." Steve informs him, having finally placed an least one of the guys. "It's probably why we always lose." 

Eddie gives him such a freaked out face it almost makes him laugh a second time.

The effect isn't helped by the fact that Eddie's normally long mane is hovering just over his shoulders, the curls somehow poofier than normal. Clearly he’s still trying to grow it out, but it just makes him look like one of those frazzled dogs. 

Adorable. 

On instinct Steve reaches out to playfully pull a few strands, then freezes when Eddie flinches from him. 

"Sorry." He keeps his hands up, as he takes in Munson's face. "Shit dude, he got your nose good." 

There's blood smeared under it, and given the look of the skin surrounding it? 

Eddie's gonna have an impressive bruise soon enough. 

Steve gets a glare sent his way. "Why do you care?" Eddie spits, back very much still up, and-- right. 

Right. 

Time travel. 

"I'm really bad at explaining it." Steve warns, running a hand through his hair. He did this part plenty without Robin (meeting Eddie that was--Robs usually tackled Nancy.) But he also typically did in it 1986, and with at least three of the kids, not whenever they currently were. 

"We usually start with facts only you'd know, but I don't actually know when I am right now." He finishes, and realizes immediately that it doesn’t make a lick of sense. 

"When you are?" Eddie asks, because of course he clocks that part immediately. 

"Ye--eah." Steve says, dragging out the word. 

He looks at Eddie desperately, like the metalhead will tell him the exact information he needs. 

Eddie just stares back. 

"Look, it sounds really stupid when you say it out loud." Steve says finally, because fuck, it does!

"Comparable to all the other times you talk out loud?" Eddie snips, voice full of venom. 

"Shut up.” Steve replies automatically, but his tone holds no heat. He’s too used to trading banter with Eddie that is friendly.  “I'm gonna preface this by saying I can prove it."

"Oh wow preface. Such a big word for you! Did Nancy Wheeler teach you that one?"

"Robin actually." Then, "Nancy?"

The look Eddie gives him could melt steel beams. "Yeah man. Nancy Wheeler. Your girlfriend." 

"Oh--oh god." Steve says, because that means they're way back. Possibly to the beginning. 

Or worse, before he and Nancy had broken up.

"I can’t handle that breakup a second time." He says wide eyed, the panic gripping him for a second. “I could-no, no I could get Robin to tell her!” 

Because that sure would work. 

Steve can just imagine it now. Robin, sauntering up to Nancy and going ‘Hey, we really haven’t met yet but you’re gonna dump Steve, if you haven’t already and to cut through all the drama, I’m here to just tell you on his behalf that it’s over. What was that? A coward? Why yes, he is one!’

You know, provided she didn’t just laugh in his face and then cuff him over the head when she realized he was being serious. 

“Dude.” Eddie says, sinking a world’s worth of judgment into the single syllable. 

“Yeah, you’re right, bad call.” Steve says, and whatever Eddie was expecting it clearly wasn’t that. 

“Are you on drugs right now?” Eddie finally asks when Steve reverts back to looking to him as if he’s going to help. A bad habit, and one Steve knows he needs to stop doing. 

Even if Eddie, in the original timeline and every one after they got him on board, eventually becomes someone Steve can rely on like that. 

“You can tell me if you are, man, you know I won’t judge.” The hateful air around him is fading into something more confused, and then into something else entirely. The persona Eddie pulls when he’s hurt and trying to hide it with jokes and rants. “Unless you and your buddies bought from someone that wasn’t me, in which case I get exclusive rights to judge.” 

He’s shifting as he finally stands up off the wall, and Steve doesn’t miss how he hugs one hand to a rib. 

Shit. 

He needs to get Eddie up to speed and he needs to do it fast.

Steve sighs and just starts listing Eddie Munson Facts like an unprepared kid who was called on in class. 

"Okay, so your uncle collects mugs, right? And--fuck I don't know when you get all the tattoos,” Steve makes a vague gesture around his chest, “but you have bats on your arm and you gave them all names." 

Eddie's eyes pop wide again, jaw slacking as Steve volleys off a few more Munson Facts. 

"You have this weird fear about red ribbon necklaces because of a book you read in third grade, your first guitar has this giant ugly--sorry dude, but you cannot write legibly to save your life, 'This machine slays dragons' quote across it and--oh!"

 He was so fucking stupid. The answer was literally staring at him in the face, dangling around Eddie's neck. 

Steve snapped his fingers excitedly. "The guitar pick on your neck is your moms!"

Eddie’s mouth open and closes like a fish, long enough that the smile slowly slides off of Steve’s face.  

"How the fuck do you know all that?" He manages after a long, tortuous moment, looking like he’d been sucker punched. 

Again. 

With the most pained look his face can manage, Steve finally answers. "Time travel."

Eddie blinks.

Then blinks again. 

 "Time travel." He echoes faintly. 

"Yeah. I'm from 1986, where things kinda got really fucked up."

"No kidding?" Eddie says, right before he erupts into giggles. 

"Did they get you in the head?" Steve asks, abruptly concerned, as Eddie collapses back against the wall in a growing fit of laughter.  

Concussed Eddie was not a road he wanted to go down but Steve knew better than anyone what happens if you ignore such things. 

"I think my weed just hit." Eddie explains as he wipes away a tear, and Steve wants to shake him, but knows it won't get him anywhere. 

"That's great. That's just great."  He grumbles, hands going onto his hips. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To get you a bandage. And then find Robin.” 

Robin, Steve decided, could handle a high, concussed Eddie.