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Show & Tell
Peter Solarz
Xuebing Du
titsay
ellievsbear
Cosimo Galluzzi
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Product Placement
oozey mess
sheepfilms
dirt enthusiast
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
YOU ARE THE REASON
d e v o n
Andulka
Sade Olutola
Misplaced Lens Cap
Not today Justin
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Mexico
seen from Malaysia
seen from Romania
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
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seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Argentina
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seen from United States
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@feralego
𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎 // 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢'𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 !
an indie multimuse ft. e-1048 peter parker + many, many others!
i’ve completed sm2 and am available for plotting, but will tag anything remotely spoilerly for the foreseeable future. i would prefer to write sm2 related threads on discord, but will write them here too!
guidelines. // memes. // template. // psd.
in the process of moving old threads over to a new blog. 👀
in the process of moving old threads over to a new blog. 👀
I’m not usually someone who does well remaking a whole new blog. But the way tumblr keeps logging me out of this one in particular anytime I think about coming back has me like 🤔
Its all fun and games until you’re working back to back to back 14 hr shifts with no breaks
Tony gets in from work with a headache. This one's neither electromagnetic, or the common Stark concussion----- just good old-fashioned stress, tiredness and a good dose of dehydration. He's slumped, footsteps lethargic, but his spine straightens as he sees Rafa, a hint of that trademarked endless energy returning.
It's not that he doesn't like Rafa. He does. But he doesn't know him yet, not really, and the mask he wears is hard to shed. Even moreso, these days.
"Yeah, no, you're good. I mean," he jerks his head to the side, a rough tilting action, "there's better tools and such in the workshops, if you want."
He doesn't offer to fix it, primarily because they both know he could. If Rafa wanted help, presumably he would ask. So he bites his tongue, and doesn't even try to look more closely at the prosthetic leg in the man's arms. Tony treads softly where he might have once poked. He's so goddamn TIRED.
"FRIDAY would say," he adds, circling back around to the question, "if you were out of bounds, or whatever." He makes a face as if he genuinely hasn't considered that to be a possibility, or a problem. They're adults, aren't they? This isn't a prison, or a psychiatric hospital or----- or-----
( Maybe it SHOULD be. )
He glances at the clock. He's hardly a stranger to this hour of night, even if today it's not his own fault. But not being able to sleep and instead TINKERING, well, that hits something deep inside Tony. It's a distinctly odd feeling, to be on the other side of that.
"You want to talk about it?" he asks, both concerned and curious. Most people would be surprised by the offer from Tony Stark, and he's almost surprised himself. But he's not trying to play therapist. He's just TRYING.
"Cool, cool."
Some tension melts from his shoulders when Tony confirms that he's in a perfectly okay spot to be; that he's not overstepping his host's generous hospitality. And he's-- Well, maybe he's a little surprised when it's revealed that he's allowed in the workshops.
He eyes his toolkit. Most of the little handheld tools had been supplied to him when he'd been discharged from the medical facility.
But he'd managed to make a few of them himself for tinkering about with the specialized equipment when things the engineers hadn't foreseen had gone wrong, or when the provided tools had broken. Both of which happened frequently enough to give him plenty of opportunities to improvise and adapt his homemade solutions.
He's quite proud of them, actually, even if they are incredibly rudimentary: they get the job done, and he hasn't had to go back.
That's all that matters to him.
( God, he can't even imagine willingly walking back in to ask them for anything. Can't stomach the thought of sitting in one of those sterile, uncanny rooms again. )
A man like him makes do. Without all the fancy--and expensive--tools and machines and materials a man like Stark has available to him, he makes do.
But he's not so recklessly self-sufficient that he can't recognize an opportunity when it's presented to him. Even if he has to war a bit with his mind to capitalize on it.
Stark's not treating him as charity case: they are valuable to one another. They're teammates now, just the same as he and the boys in his company had been. One for all, all for one.
The simple reframing loosens his tongue, and makes it easier to ask for, and accept, the assist
"Do you have anything I could use to remake this?" Rafa lifts one of the cruder instruments he'd fashioned from a broken Oscorp tool: he'd spot welded the nonstandard driver bit onto a similarly sized hex key. Which had been fine until the repeated torque had somehow stripped the cheap metal of the bit. "Shit's all got specialty heads. Can't find a replacement for the trash they gave me."
It's easy enough to pretend this is what Tony is asking him if he wants to talk about. And maybe, just maybe, it'll work as a segue into the real meat and potatoes of it all.
They're a team, he reminds himself.
Tony might need to know it all eventually. And hell, if he--as a part of this team--ever makes the news and Osborn finds out that he's working with Stark, he may find it safer to assume Rafael's spilled it all anyway. And who knows what that might lead to.
It's not a question, it's not a greeting either, and Harry almost wishes he could pause the moment and figure out what to say to untangle the knot of feelings in his chest. Because that's Peter, looking at him as if he'd seen a ghost and of course, he cannot blame him because Harry hasn't told anyone he's back. Not yet.
He hasn't even opened all the messages he hasn't answered to, all the calls he hasn't returned, and he wants to wonder whether he can salvage anything from the consequences of a cowardice he still doesn't fully regret.
But as he takes the briefest of moments to look at the pile of debris that could have killed him, that almost did kill him, then pushes down the horror and the dread and instead takes hold of Peter's wrist and tugs on it, to start running the other way.
He doesn't even pay attention to his sleeve, because what's a sleeve in this situation, even for someone as vain as Harry. He looks at it once, though, because it's easier than thinking on how Peter has always made him feel so comfortable with his company alone and now Harry feels fully off-balance.
He hadn't planned for this, and every excuse, every misdirection, every lie to explain why he'd been gone for so long, not even one call answered, suddenly feels so inadequate that it almost -almost- drowns the joy of being able to run away.
So he says nothing. Instead, when they're no longer in danger, he turns to hug Peter. Because if this year-long silence he's not yet sure how he wants to explain away is to be a rift between them, he wants to have stolen at least one last hug.
They run. They run, with Peter trailing just behind Harry, mind reeling as he remembers what MJ had told him about Harry's room at his dad's, and about the note. The illness.
The one that had taken Emily Osborn in what should have been the prime of her life. The one that Harry had nearly succumbed to. And the one he's not sure Harry knows that he knows about.
How is any of this possible?
Had everything that had happened with Martin Li and Octavius and Devil's Breath actually led Osborn to a cure?
Peter can't calm his mind. Even just trying to focus on the present, and on Harry looking well just keeps propelling his thoughts back to everything he needs to know. And everything he'd wanted to share with his dear, dear friend.
"Harry--" Peter pants out when they finally come to a stop, and when his friend's arms wrap tight around him. A sensation he'd nearly thought he'd never feel again.
Of course he hugs him back. There is not a thing Harry could have ever done that would have Peter deny him that comfort. And frankly, he just hadn't had the time to do it first.
He throws his arms around his friend, buries his face against his neck, and tries not to think about the fact that he'd very nearly just lost him again. And if he tears up a little, so be it.
Harry's seen worse from him.
When he's finally had his fill, he pulls back, but he keeps his hands cemented onto Harry's shoulders. And he just-- He looks.
Peter Park studies him. He tries to get a reading on his breaths per minute and looks for any pallor or signs of pain or distress; his eyes track his friend's facial expressions and gauge his posture; he watches the way shadows interact with his form just to be sure it all feels real; any and everything he can think of.
"I'm so glad you're back."
He wants to pry and ask a million questions. He wants to dig his phone out and call MJ. He wants to take him out to celebrate. He wants to sprint up the walls of the next building he sees.
"You missed so much," he tells him, his voice cracking. Smile threatening to crumble. "And I missed you more."
It's cute that Rafa thinks that Burns has a choice in the matter. It's perhaps cuter still that Burns, on a conscious level, thinks that he is choosing this. Burns is oblivious to the fact that, no matter what, he will be destroying, and he will be beholden to the strongest person in the room. (Again, on that conscious level, Burns thinks that he is the strongest person in the room. But that's just not true. So Burns is doomed to perhaps never realize the twisted cycle that governs his every move, his every fiery "impulse.")
Burns listens to Rafa justify and vent and rave about Osborn, Oscorp. Burns doesn't understand much. He doesn't really care, either. He listens, or at least pretends to, but the comprehension isn't there. Burns doesn't even make the connection that Osborn might have gotten along quite well with Burns' own creator, Doctor Richard Hayes.
(They probably don't know who he really is. Isn't that the question? It's one Burns has never considered. He destroys indiscriminately. Justice is the last thing on his mind.)
"I'm not a kid," Burns says, his ultimate, grand response to it all. "I'm, like, twenty-five years old." Twenty-four. But who's counting? "I'm fuckin' grown, is what I'm saying. You don't need to treat me like I'm made of glass. 'cause I'm FAR fuckin' from it. You got me?"
Rafa remembers--or at least he thinks he does--what it felt like to be in his early twenties. To be young and brash and dumb. To think himself invincible and ready to take on the world. Though maybe not to the extent that Burns is feeling now. Rafa hadn't been through his own personal hell at that point in his life; not like Burns has.
"I know you're not," Rafa tells him, nodding. He can't help it: Burns , Gabi, and his younger sister are all about the same age, and they're always gonna be a kid in his eyes. The same way he's always gonna be a kid in his older brother's eyes, as annoying as that is "It's a bad habit, but I'll try to lay off, yeah?"
He taps out a rhythm on his steering wheel, but if you asked him, he wouldn't be able to tell you the name of the tune. He's just nervous, and that nervousness unchecked has turned to movement. An expelling of the boundless energy still in his head and chest.
"But, y'know." The word kid dies on his lips. He's trying, at least. "If we're gonna be a team on this, I gotta look out for you. And you gotta look out for me. We aren't glass but we sure as shit can still break."
He's not twenty anymore. He's not twenty-four or twenty-five. He's--somehow--barreled past thirty, despite everything, and he doesn't know how many more times his beat up and rebuilt body can be broken before there's nothing left to put back together.
They're coming up on the exit they need to take, and Rafa's grip firms back up on the wheel as he steers over into the right lane.
"Anything you need before we stake the place out?" A hidden way out. One he knows Burns won't take.
tagged by: @ruinaa
tagging: @strongenough, @inhcritance, @suffcring + u!
@feralego moved from here
It’s not really what he wants to hear, but he’s too old now, he thinks–and too involved in superhero matters; in the plays of life and death games on a cosmic scale–to be talked down to like a child. To be pacified with false hopes. With lies.
He’s always respected Stark, but the feeling grows more personal now. Even if the honesty feels draining. Painful.
His shoulders slump, and he lets his head droop forward before clasping his hands together at the back of his neck. Peter can barely remember the last time he felt this tired. Even as a small, sickly, often hospitalized kid, this level of fatigue had been a rarity.
Stark rouses his attention when he slides it in his direction, and Peter gazes down at the iconic piece of armor, fixating on the eye slits as his breath catches in his throat. And he has to wonder if gazing into those cold, soulless eyes would make it any easier to record anything to have sent to May. If she’s even still alive.
Part of him thinks it might be. Part of him thinks that distinctly mechanical visage might help him control the emotions in his delivery more, making it easier to say what he needs to say, and quickly.
He lifts the helmet gingerly and moves to stand, tucking it under his arm.
"Thanks…“ He tries to smile, or to look anything but glum, but he can’t manage. "I’ll– I’ll do that. I’ll be in the back for a bit if you need me.”
Tony watches him---- the way Spidey droops, the look of defeat in his eyes. Probably a good reflection of Tony himself, ten minutes ago. It only steels his resolve. Tony knows he has a tendency to wallow in his own guilt---- his therapist has told him so.
He watches, silently, as the guy disappears through the doorway, and he’s just a KID, a teenager who shouldn’t have to be contemplating leaving a goodbye for his aunt.
Maybe losing to Thanos had been Tony’s fate, inescapable. The end of Iron Man. His last failure.But it shouldn't be Peter’s fate to die on this spaceship. To starve to death so far from home. Yinsen had lost EVERYTHING, but he’d never given up in that cave, he’d never let Tony give up. Maybe it’s Tony’s turn. ( Is this the last act of defiance of the great Tony Stark? )
It hurts when he stands, worn down muscles aching, pulling, weak. But pain is an old friend. It’s second nature to grit his teeth and ignore it, to control his breathing and keep on going. He’s not going far. The engine is one of their problems; the console at the front of the ship is the other. Nebula said that they couldn’t fix it----- but Tony will rebuild this whole damn ship from scratch if he has to. ( With a box of scraps. )
Ideas spark across his mind, settling into one cohesive thought. He’ll have to discuss it with Nebula, with Peter even, because the kid is smarter than him, somedays---- but it’s a plan.
Maybe he’ll manage to not fuck this one up.
It is not, in fact, any easier. Peter fumbles emotionally through many different things that he needs to say to his aunt; to Harry; to MJ. None of whom, with any degree of confidence, he can say are even alive as he makes the recordings.
But he wants them to be. Needs them to be.
He makes himself believe that they are, and he holds onto that belief with every atom of hope he has left. Because if they're still alive, he can find rest in that, if the time comes. He can drift off into an airless slumber knowing in his heart that his loved ones will rally forth and carry on.
They are resilient, even if he wishes they didn't have to be. Where else would he have learned it?
After he makes the recording, he sits alone for a while with these thoughts, giving himself a renewed sense of vigor. And once his eyes are dry and the sting of the tears are gone, he seeks Tony out.
It's not hard to find him. The ship isn't large enough to make it so, and even if it were larger, the engine bay is a sure enough bet to find Stark in.
He nods and waves to Nebula when he arrives, not familiar enough with her to stop for conversation--not that she looks like she wants to talk to him all that much--and keen to make the most of his time doing anything he can to help Tony's last ditch efforts to save their skins.
"Can I help with anything?" His tone is brighter than before, even it if hitches and hiccups a little with the remnants of a good cry, and he puts a hand down on Tony's shoulder before holding the helmet out to him. "I'm good now."
I think, he wants to add. It sits repressed on the tip of his tongue, which is pressed up agains the roof of his mouth to keep it still until it dies off. Even if he can't be confident, he can fake it.
From the get-go, Spider-Man's always faked it. Confidence is just as much a mask as the one he's sewn himself.
His fingertips tingle a little too familiarly--a little too ominously--and Peter dry swallows one of his last, rationed doses of the medication he'd stored in one of his suit's hidden little gadget pockets.
"I'm here to help."
His eyes fall on new schematics and formulations. They're hastily scrawled out on bits of debris and a large bit of the ship's wall; whatever Tony could find, apparently. And Peter devours them with his eyes, stepping closer and following along with Stark's mad inspiration.
They're going to get out of this.
And they do. They manage to limp the ship along with eccentric ingenuity and sheer force of will for just long enough for some sparkly, badass blonde woman--alien?--to find them and bring them home, just as their oxygen reserves were running dry.
By that time, however, Tony needed his and Nebula's help to come down the ramp and onto solid earth, though Peter's not faring much better off himself. He's grateful to Nebula for moving to hold him up after she hands Tony off to the waiting Pepper Potts and a plainclothes Captain America .
His muscles are achey and cramping, long past the slight tingle in his extremities he'd felt before the trio had started work on their saving grace. And he can only credit the spider that had bitten him to the fact that he's still standing under his own power.
Once he's sure Tony's taken care of, he's quick to tell the medical attendants what he needs, though he was to place his own IV line to get the needle past his skin. And he winces when the saline-diluted medication burns in his veins.
But that just means he's alive. Sitting in an armchair next to an alive Tony's bed with a rolling IV tower, he's alive. And so are Pepper, Nebula, and a handful of other Avengers.
Peter's staring at a phone Pepper had given him to make some calls when Tony wakes up some time later, and he shoves it into the pocket of his sweatpants.
"Do you need anything?" he's quick to ask; quick to center the conversation on Tony, who somehow looks even more frail than he did on the ship. "I can get Miss Potts--she just stepped out a minute ago--or one of the doctors in here."
@feralego asked: [ REUNION ]: after spending a considerable length of time apart, the sender reunites with the receiver after saving their life from an immediate and potentially lethal threat. — from peter 👀
It had been almost two years, and the signs weren't easy to miss. Small as some were: some shops had changed, closed or opened. Different names on the newspapers -one of them familiar and dear both-, different faces on TV. New York, however, remained New York, and for the first half an hour of his first day outside, he let the familiarity and the strangeness both comfort him.
He hadn't told anyone he was back, not yet. Not until he fully believed it, until it all felt more real than the last two weeks had, reading over newspapers when his father wasn't home and trying to catch up with a world that had kept going. But he was there to see it now, walking on his own two feet and dressed in comfortable, discreet clothes.
And for the first half an hour, everything was nice. Familiar, in a strange way. Comfortable enough to make him the kindness of letting him pretend he hadn't been gone at all, lie that they all knew it. Then, with that half an hour gone, gone was any mercy the city held for him: he'd been moving with the crowd, trying to get away from the chaos when a blast hit one of the buildings nearby.
In the rooftops, a Spider-Man Harry didn't recognize was fighting yet another new face, and apparently winning easily enough. At street level, however, someone crashed into Harry, the debris from the building atop him crashing on the spot they'd been just a moment before, and Harry only had a moment for relief, to try to stand up and move, before he saw the face of the other and that was enough to halt, for a moment, the very reasonable instincts to get away and keep running.
Instead, Harry's expression lit up in a mix of disbelief and joy, and then -as he realized that his friend probably thought he'd been ignoring him for years- something almost wary and sheepish both.
"Pete." He said, however, resisting the urge to hug him, trying to figure out where they stood, until common sense kicked in. "Let's get out of here?"
Miles has the fight handled and Peter knows it, but he's close when it had broken out, and Peter--a worrier by nature and nurture--had wanted to be close. Closer than the three blocks away he'd already been, grabbing a pretzel from a street vendor.
He'd hustled on foot, inhaling his snack with his eyes locked on what he could see from street level. There are sparks, smoke, and some minor debris that might hurt a little if it hit someone, but wouldn't be dangerous. But--
His spidersense buzzes vigorously--standing his hairs on end--before it happens. Before a heavy blade of sheet metal, no doubt part of an HVAC system, careens off the ledge, followed closely by the fan housing.
And Peter reacts without conscious thought, his mind automatically calculating the trajectory of the hazards hurtling downward, and slamming himself into a pedestrian to push him out of the way of the inevitable slice and crunch.
The pair of them hit the ground, Pete shielding them with his broad back and shoulders until he's sure nothing else is coming their way.
Only then does he realize who he'd saved. Only then does his long gone but not forgotten friend's face come into focus.
It feels unreal. His senses--usually overloaded with the city's input--all zero in on Harry Osborn, and the mustard stain he'd left on his sleeve when he'd tackled him. The fight all those stories above either dies out or fades from his mind; he's not really sure.
Pete's still on the ground when Harry gets to his feet, staring incredulously up at him. But finally, he moves to stand uncertainly before him.
"Harry." It's not a question, or even a greeting, really. He's just voicing what--who--he sees, in a desperate attempt to make this all real. "I-- Yeah. Let's."
PROMPTS FROM BODY HEAT 🔥 * assorted dialogue from the 1981 film, adjust as necessary
my god, it's hot.
i want you with me.
i got a serious question for you. what the fuck are you doing?
i have to be with you.
i've lived so much of my life with nothing.
i'm going to make it up to you tonight, but you must behave.
you and me. your body near mine, close. i'm not right when you're not with me. i get the shakes.
i wouldn't mind having breakfast.
you've had your fun.
don't test my patience for even five more minutes.
i think i've underestimated you. i don't know why it took me so long.
this is beneath even you.
i would have gladly come to the house.
i'm not looking for company.
you're not too smart, are you? i like that in a man.
how about i buy you a drink?
i would have noticed you.
me? i need tending. i need someone to take care of me. rub my tired muscles. smooth out my sheets.
i just need it for tonight.
i asked you not to talk about the heat.
you don't want to lick it?
look who's here. isn't this a coincidence?
do i remind you of hot air?
i'm not that eager.
how'd you know i drink?
you shouldn't have come. you're going to be disappointed.
you must come here a lot.
maybe you shouldn't dress like that.
i don't like my body much. it's never been right.
sometimes... i don't know. i get so sick of everything. i'm not sure i care anymore. do you know what i mean?
i'm not looking for trouble.
i mean it. i like you. but my life is complicated enough.
i think you should go now.
i don't think you want me to go.
there's nothing to be afraid of.
you're not so tough after all, are you?
i didn't want this to happen. but i didn't try hard enough to stop it... because i wanted you.
i wanted you here, like this. this is bad for me.
now nothing's going to be the same anymore.
jesus, i think you're right. you better be on the bottom.
no one must know. promise me, [name]. no one.
hey, wanna make love?
what do you take me for?
don't you like it?
i want to be in bed.
is that all you ever think about?
you've never been shy about that stuff.
please don't say it if you don't mean it.
tell me the truth, please. i'll understand. i swear to you.
from now on, when it starts coming down on you... i'll be there to protect you.
come to me.
it scares me to talk about these things.
that's what you want, isn't it?
maybe you should let me do it for you.
that's the way it is. there's nothing we can do about it.
i'm going downstairs. do you want anything?
all that matters is we're together.
no, darling. don't talk that way.
get the hell out of here and don't come back.
i don't blame you for thinking i'm bad.
you must believe one thing. i love you. i love you and need you. i want to be with you forever.
you imagined it.
i tried to make it up to you.
is there something wrong with your phone?
"A beach sounds lovely," Ruskin says fuzzily, blinking at the other. He rubs at his forehead, at his temples, but the pressure does little to soothe the ache and the touch of magic does nothing to clear his mind. He curses, silently, face screwing up.
"I am Ruskin," he adds, because that's the only one of their questions that he knows the answer to. His memory of places he's been is not perfect, but California doesn't ring a bell. No, that's right. He hasn't been here before. He's lost. He... he needs to be lost. Did he lose them?
He looks around himself, suddenly, and then back to his rescuer. "Sorry, what was your name?"
"It does." She moves on from abusing her lip and chews at the inside of her cheek a little, her eyes darting off toward the barely visible coastline from a few blocks away. "It's a beautiful beach, but--"
Sighing, Pippa wonders if she should call for medics, or find a way to cart the stranger to a clinic or hospital herself to save him a costly ambulance ride. His clear confusion and the way his body language indicates some degree of pain in his head says yes, he needs professional medical attention, but something about him gives her pause.
"I'm Pippa," she tells him. "Do you need me to call a doctor, Ruskin?" It's not a name she's heard before, and she hopes she's repeated it passably. "I'm worried that you might have hit your head, or had something else happen. Is your vision all right?"
@milehighmechanic, continued from X:
May doesn't flinch when she notices that Anthony is staring perhaps a bit more than what society as a whole might deem appropriate, nor when he blurts out the apology for it. She just keeps that same, safe, warm expression on her face.
"No need to apologize," she tells him, her tone genuine. Matter of fact. "It's great to meet you too."
Humming a soft little tune to herself, she pulls out her phone and sends a quick, succinct text to one of the shelter's newest volunteers. One she knows she'd seen on the floor earlier, just before Anthony's arrival.
"You'll be staying with us tonight, right? We can't have your first time back in so long be anything but comfortable." Her phone chimes with a response, and she checks it. Then sighs, relieved. "We've several beds available. Top and bottom bunk, your choice. Some near a bathroom, and some in a quieter corner. And we have some hypoallergenic bedding just about to come out of a separate wash if that's something you need."
A young man in a red zip up hoodie rounds the corner, carrying a large, empty laundry basket, and he waves in May's direction. She waves back before he slips through the laundry room door.
"That's Miles Morales. Such a wonderful young man," she gushes to Anthony. "He reminds me a lot of my nephew, though he's--and I mean no offense to my Peter, I love that boy--a bit more reliable. If you ever need someone and I'm not here, Miles always goes above and beyond. He'll take great care of you."
@suffcring, continued from X:
Jaw clenched, Tao tries not to stare daggers at the head of-- well, whatever it is she’s head of. Whether or not he is successful is up for debate.
It feels oddly patronizing for her to be comparing a movie franchise to this real life government overreach. This stall in film production that is threatening to be much, much more to him in particular.
He’d covered this up. Or, at the very least, he’d tried to. Thought he had.
With all appropriate hands on deck, Tao had had money had dropped into the right palms; untraceable threats of blackmail had been whispered into a few ears; a few high-stakes gambling debts had been erased; and some good old-fashioned Hollywood scandals had popped up in the press cycle, effectively silencing the whisperings about the incident before they could grow any louder.
Tao had nearly forgotten about it himself after hearing nothing but the latest juicy drama about some other misfortunate stars for the past four days. It’s felt like much longer, with everything that’s spilled out into the public’s knowledge.
Davidson is less forgetful, it seems, and is more compelled to speak to the figure of authority who stands right in front of him than he is to keep what he’d seen to himself. He steps forward.
“Mr. Song missed the airbag on a jump.”
“I didn’t, though,” Tao chimes in, inserting himself between the two of them. “It was a near miss. Rattled me pretty good, and looked like a miss from across the set, but obviously--”
He gestures at himself, looking hale and hearty, if a little dehydrated to better show off muscle definition in one of the other scenes they were set to film before this aggravating interruption.
Davidson frowns, opening his mouth to speak, but can't counter the fact that the man in front of him has no visible injuries.
“--I’m fine. Everything on set is fine. Or it was, until you got here.”
He lets his eyes wander following a roll, hoping to look petulant. Entitled even. But they land on a catering table laden with picked over snacks and a bevy of beverages, and they soften with desire for even a lukewarm drink.
"How long will this take? If you just-- Let them hunt for whatever the fuck you're looking for? Is our schedule shot? is what I'm asking, because if it is, I'd like to go back to my trailer."
@ruinaa, continued from X:
When Theo is dropped as a topic of conversation, the air in her lungs turns icy; the cold spikes through them and threatens to spear into her heart just in the same way. Josephine is getting into it immediately. Surprisingly. And this bandage ripping approach can only spell out a grim situation.
This is their normalcy; this is who they are, and how they best relate to one another in many ways. This is the skeletal frame their friendship was fleshed out upon: they are two scared young women leaning on one another yet again.
Luz lays a hand against Josephine's nearest knee. Light with her touch, but steadily, she lets gravity press it down. She lets it be an anchor. A grounding point.
"What happened?" Luz prompts. "Are you--? Were you hurt?"
Leading questions--more of them, anyway--cloud her mind and threaten to spill off her tongue. But she does not want anything to take away from Jo's attempt to be direct. So she rephrases:
"What mistake do you think you made?"
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
almost a blackout bingo?? omg
impressive 👀
