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The aborted hiring manger would’ve hired me

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honestly i never thought the phrase “i want that twink obliterated” was like a sexual thing. like when i read the phrase i imagine “a meteor like the one that killed the dinosaurs is summoned from the heavens and hits the twink in question” type situation

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The Old Guard 2 [2025]

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and please remember to stay up late because that’s free time

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The world has gone, but nothing's really new We're just making love in a bigger room

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she's so prettyyyyy

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Today's high schoolers romanticizing 2016 as if there weren't the clown incidents

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warnings depictions of manic behavior, emotional dysregulation, emotional breakdowns, discussions of mental health struggles, references to disordered eating

word count 1.1k

the apartment is too quiet when jason steps through the door.

no music, no tv, no lights—just the low hum of the fridge and the whisper of movement somewhere deeper in the space. he locks the door behind him, tugging off his helmet with a quiet grunt. his ribs ache. his shoulder’s bruised. he wants nothing more than a shower and a soft place to land.

then he hears it. the scuffle of feet. the scrape of furniture. a drawer opening and closing with the sharp clatter of silverware.

“babe?”

no answer. just the sound of something being shifted. again. and again. and again.

he follows the noise down the hall, past the darkened living room and into the kitchen where you’re pulling everything out of a cabinet—cups, mugs, plates, all stacked high on the counter. your hair’s messy, your shirt inside out, and your eyes are wide with a frantic kind of focus that makes his heart knock hard in his chest.

you don’t even look up when he enters.

“i thought maybe if we switch the dishes to this cabinet,” you say quickly, gesturing vaguely, “then we can use the other one for pantry stuff. it makes more sense, right? i mean, the coffee maker is closer to the fridge, and i keep reaching the wrong way for spoons—so i’m just fixing it. no big deal. it’s fine.”

jason drops his helmet on the table.

“sweetheart.”

you ignore him. you move past him, too quick, too jittery, grabbing a box of cereal from the top of the fridge and shoving it into the newly emptied cabinet. then the flour. then a stack of napkins. your hands don’t stop moving.

“i haven’t been sleeping,” you say brightly, as if that explains it. “but it’s okay because i’ve been getting so much done. everything just—feels wrong. out of order. i needed to fix it, jay. i needed—”

he reaches out gently and touches your wrist.

“you’re spiraling.”

that makes you pause. not long. just a beat. but he sees it—the flicker of something wounded in your expression, the hesitation before you grab the peanut butter off the shelf like it’s going to save your life.

“i’m not,” you say too fast. “i’m just reorganizing. god, can’t i reorganize without it being a thing?”

“it’s not reorganizing if you’re vibrating out of your skin while doing it.”

you’re still not looking at him. your lips are pressed tight, eyes darting from one thing to the next like you can’t pick a target to land on. he knows that look. the edge between too much and not enough.

the mixed ones are always the worst. he’s seen it before—when your body can’t sit still, but your mind wants to crash. when you talk too fast but avoid every word that matters. when you haven’t eaten anything all day except half a piece of toast but swear you’re “fine.” you say it like it’s a magic spell. but you’re shaking. and your voice is cracked. and he knows you.

jason steps forward slowly, careful not to crowd you, his voice low and steady.

“give me the peanut butter.”

you clutch it tighter.

“i just need to finish this—”

“you’ve been up for three days,” he says, calm but firm. “you rearranged the bookshelf at four in the morning yesterday. i watched you color-code the spice rack at six. baby, come on. please. just give me the jar.”

for a second, your fingers tighten. then they loosen. he takes the jar out of your hand like it’s a bomb and sets it gently on the counter.

“now the fork.”

you look down, like you didn’t even realize you were holding one. it’s bent slightly—grip too tight. you release it slowly into his palm.

then nothing. just the air between you.

he sets the fork aside and reaches for your hands. they’re cold. shaky. he rubs his thumbs over your knuckles, grounding you in small circles.

your eyes flick up to his—and that’s when he sees it.

you blink once. twice. too fast. too sharp. your mouth opens like you might say something, but no words come out.

“there you are,” he whispers.

and the dam breaks.

your chest jerks on the inhale. your shoulders cave inward. you make a sound, low and wet and aching, like your whole body is apologizing for existing too loudly. jason doesn’t wait. he pulls you in hard, one arm around your back, the other cradling your head like he’s afraid you’ll crack.

you shatter against him.

your fists curl into his shirt. you sob into his collarbone. it’s not pretty crying—not neat, not cinematic. it’s all gasps and shaking and raw, open exhaustion. the kind of cry that leaves you hollowed out.

jason holds you through every second of it.

“i’m here,” he murmurs into your hair. “i’ve got you. just let it out.”

your knees buckle, and he shifts to support your weight without missing a beat. he walks you slowly to the couch, guiding you like glass, and sinks down with you half in his lap. his hand never leaves yours. his other palm rubs your back in lazy, grounding circles.

you’re still crying, but softer now. quieter. like the tide pulling back.

“i’m so tired,” you whisper into his chest. “but my brain won’t stop. it’s so loud, jay. i just—i thought if i moved things around maybe it would stop.”

“i know,” he says, kissing your temple. “i know, baby. i wish i could flip the switch for you. but i’ll be here until it quiets.”

you go quiet for a while. you hiccup a little. breathe a little.

his fingers lace with yours.

“i’m sorry,” you mumble.

jason pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are dark with concern, but soft, and steady.

“don’t ever apologize for hurting.”

“i’m not eating. i’m not sleeping. i’m… i feel like a mess.”

“you’re not a mess. you’re struggling. that’s not the same thing.”

you close your eyes. he feels you press your forehead to his throat like you’re trying to hide in him, crawl inside his chest and stay there until everything stops spinning.

he lets you.

“i don’t need you to fix it,” you say, muffled.

“i know,” he says. “but i’m still gonna hold you while it hurts.”

you don’t respond. but your fingers tighten around his like you’re clinging to the edge of something.

jason’s still tired. his shoulder still hurts. but he doesn’t care. he would stay here all night if it meant keeping you grounded. keeping you safe. keeping you from vanishing into the storm that lives in your head.

he presses another kiss to your hair.

“we’ll get through tonight,” he says softly. “one breath at a time.”

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Cucculelli Shaheen Spring 2025 RTW

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🍒🎨 Jason practice. thinking of doing some little jaytim comics & I realized I need to get my sht together and actually start drawing him consistently. im more happy with the bottom two than the top two but that just means: MORE PRACTICE SOON

Tim is always so much easier to draw because he has more 'iconic' hairstyles (long hair/ bowl cut). While I feel Jason is a bit more flexible and tends to change so often he's a new person with each drawing lol. But I am definitely keeping the white streak, no doubt. But long or short hair. its hard.

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NAT SCATORCCIO YELLOWJACKETS | 3.05

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SCREAM (2022) | dir. Matt Bettinelli-Olpin & Tyler Gillett COMPANION (2025) | dir. Drew Hancock

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a woman will be 28 or whatever and all the 24 year olds are in shock like “no fucking way I seriously couldn’t tell. you don’t look near death at all”

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07.07 ― "You'll Never Ever Get a Chicken in Your Whole Entire Life" SHAMELESS

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SHAMELESS 7.02 • Swipe, Fuck, Leave