the big argument at the end of ‘preventative medicine’ is so good. every time i watch it, it’s like. god. like bj’s facial expression. we know what he looks like angry, and that is not it. it’s more like desperation, maybe fear. like, he’s obviously upset, but he doesn’t have the rage that hawkeye does.
cause hawk is mad at lacy and the war and at beej and at himself, and you can see it in his face and hear it in his voice, and yeah, bj is yelling back, but it sounds less like criticism and more like begging.
reading star trek fanfic after a long fandom hiatus and I just literally threw my fists into the air triumphantly and said out loud "I forgot how much I love them!"
I am thinking of Alicent secretly adoring those big poofy dresses with dozens of stiff petticoats and wide skirts that lets you kinda flounce around but never lets herself wear them because she is Holy and Holy People Do Not Suffer Vanity, I am thinking of twenty-two year old Alicent stroking her mother’s extravagant Hightower dresses like a child playing pretend in secrecy, never allowing herself to try them on, never letting herself experience joy because of the pressure she’s put on herself
we deserved to see Bella teaching Edward how to cook. just because he wanted to learn to take care of her in a human way. Bella eyeballs every measurement and cooks a lot of things from memory, but Edward has to follow the recipe exactly. she gets him to open all the jars that are stuck shut. he hugs her from behind and watches over her shoulder while she works. ugh. they deserved more happy domestic moments.
49. “Don’t look at me! I’m a mess!” + 50. “I love it when you’re a mess!”
In Hollywood, the first year of marriage is portrayed as light, breezy, and sexy. A fairytale romance. That coupled with a hot spouse should entail nothing but perfection, right?
Wrong. Nothing in Piper’s life is light, breezy, and sexy. She’s either on the verge of death or thinking about the verge of death.
Or in this case, she has a newborn and she’s half-dead because she hasn’t slept or showered for what feels like a million years.
Piper was named for her lungs and her ability to scream as a newborn. When Tristan came to visit his grandson in the hospital, he looked up at the new parents with a sympathetic, pained look on his face as Tommy started to cry and said, “Oh, he’s definitely got Piper’s lungs.”
If Piper had a choice, she would wade through the pits of Tartarus instead of waking up every hour to rock her crying baby back to sleep. This is her version of Hollywood’s first year of marriage and she wants a refund. (Or to go back in time to throw a box of condoms at Jason’s head before he knocked her up.)
After finally laying Tommy down to sleep, Piper decides it’s her turn to shower (seriously, there’s baby vomit in her hair) when Jason asks tiredly, “Can that wait? I haven’t held you in ages.”
Cuddling her husband is almost too tempting right now—he hasn’t had the energy to shave, resulting in stubble on his jaw that she wants to kiss, and his sweatpants lay low on his hips. She just wants to run her hand down his chest and—
Stop it. He is dangerous. These thoughts are how you get pregnant again. Do you want two children under the age of one?!
“No, I haven’t showered in two days and I have vomit in my hair.” Jason raises his eyebrows as if what she just said isn’t an issue. “I will cuddle you after my shower. Don’t look at me! I’m a mess!”
“I love it when you’re a mess!” is Jason’s whispered reply as she heads towards their bathroom, only blowing her a kiss when she flips him off.
Some fairytale marriage this is, Piper thinks to herself, but she wouldn’t want it any other way.
@shrimptacodaniels based on our conversation earlier and ofc Sasha is. Your guy.
Dust had been trapped in a- a something.
A weird, grey, shadowy box. A box made of paint, somehow. Paint and canvas, that when he smacked it open with his cane revealed- Revealed a fucking face. A face made of paint, that knew Dust’s name. Not- not even his actual name, not just ‘Dust’. The name that most people in this town actually called him. But, he knew Dust’s real- no, Dust’s legal name. His birth name. The name that his parents and brother called him, and nobody else. The painting man had called him ‘Dustin Turndto’, a name that he shouldn’t have known. A name that Dust didn’t care about. Except he sort of did care, apparently, since he was thinking about it. And then the painting man had known Sasha’s name, too, even though Sasha rarely told anyone his name was Sasha, let alone ‘Alexander Horatio Biligrim’. The name alone made Dust gag. But- Dust was getting ahead of himself, here. Really ahead of himself. What was he supposed to be talking about? The painting box, and being trapped, and- Right!
Dust had been trapped and he had been alone.
Maybe that was what scared Dust the most. He thought the creepy and the haunted house it guided him to was cool. He thought the whole ‘being kidnapped by a ghost thing’ was cool. He even thought the weird creepy painting was cool, in a Picture of Dorian Gray meets The Ring sort of way. But being alone, without Sasha or Raffa, without anyone, that hadn’t been cool. And the way that the painting man had spoken to him, that hadn’t been cool, either. But most of all, the thing that had spooked Dust the most about- about all of this, was that Dust had been facing it alone. Dust wanted to tell himself that it was because he wanted proof, of what was happening, more proof than a selfie outside a haunted house. Dust wanted to tell himself that it was because he wanted people to know how cool he was, dealing with this creepy painting man. Dust wanted to tell himself that he just wanted someone there to see his coolness, and his bravery, and- And yet, that wasn’t the truth.
The truth was that Dust just didn’t want to be alone in a creepy painting box with a creepy painting man.
That didn’t seem very cool, Dust knew. Cool people didn’t need anybody. Ever. They were lone wolves. But, well, Dust wasn’t much of a lone wolf. Not anymore. He had been, as a kid, since he had never fit in with Jason, or with the other kids. But ever since moving out of his parents’ place, moving in with his roommates- He hadn’t been so much of a lone wolf anymore. And now, here he was, sitting in the dark in a creepy paint box, and Dust’s only wish wasn’t to get out of this place. It was, instead, simply to be with someone. To have Raffa or Sasha here, somehow, with him. It would make it all more bearable, somehow, if he had one or both of them with him. But they weren’t there. Nobody was there. It was just Dust, alone, in this equally cool and terrifying box, and-
And that was when the arm reached through the canvas.
It was an arm, an actual arm. Somehow, in this weird hellscape painting thing, Dust saw a real, human arm. And as Dust looked closer, he saw the sloppily painted multicoloured nails- alternating green, blue, and red- and he saw the friendship bracelets adorning the arm, and- And Dust saw the tattoo on the forearm, the all too familiar disco ball with the rounds of Saturn around it. Not only did he see the nail polish, and the friendship bracelets, and the tattoo- He recognized them. No, Dust didn’t just recognize them. Dust was intimately and deeply familiar with the arm in front of him. He knew the freckle on the elbow, and the dusting of hair covering the arm, and how the weight of it felt draped over his shoulder, when they were all cuddled on the couch together, stacked like a nesting doll. He knew this arm more than he knew his own arm, really. Because Dust knew, without a doubt, that it was Sasha’s arm.
Dust knew, without a doubt, that it was Sasha’s arm, and yet pulled him into the weird paint box anyway. It wasn’t like Dust thought about it, even. He had- He just saw Sasha’s arm, there, sitting in the weird murky goo-like texture of the painted wall, and he had pulled him in. Dust couldn’t stop himself from doing it. He hadn’t even had time to stop himself from doing it, because it hadn’t even been a thought, not really. It had just been an impulse. An impulse to grab at Sasha, and pull him in close. Bring Sasha to where Dust was, reunite them without thinking about what he was doing. He really hadn’t thought about it. If he had thought about it, Dust probably would have realised it was selfish, tp pull Sasha in. Dust probably would have changed his mind. Dust probably would have stayed, alone, in the painting. But Dust didn’t think. All Dust did was pull.
Sasha was pulled through the painting- Dust pulled him through the painting- in one movement. It was like Sasha hadn’t fought it, had just felt Dust’s hand grab his and let himself be dragged into the painting. Dust didn’t know for sure, though. All Dust knew was that Sasha was, suddenly, standing there. In front of Dust. Real. Stuck in the same nightmarish painting world as Dust was. And yet- Dust didn’t feel bad about it. Not as bad as he should have, at least. How could he feel bad, when Sasha was standing next to him, as excited to see Dust as Dust was to see Sasha? They were together, at the very least, even when both of them were stuck. At least they were stuck together. That- that mattered to Dust, for more reasons than Dust really wanted to examine. Uncool reasons, quite frankly. But, most of all, together-
Together, they at least had a chance to get out of here.
They were stronger together, that was the thing. Alone, all three of them were, well, they were good. They were fine. They had survived alone for years, and Sasha and Raffa had survived together before Dust had ever made it into the picture- ha, picture, when Dust, and now Sasha, were stuck in a painting- What had Dust been talking about? Right. The roommates worked best as a team. As all three of them, ideally, but even two of them were better than one. That was just how it worked. Dust alone was capable of many things, great feats of musical talent, an exceeding amount of being annoying, whacking things with his cane. And alone Sasha and Raffa were amazing. But- but together? Together they were something else together. And now, now there were two roommates in the gross painting box, not just one.
The weird painting ghost guy had no idea what was coming.
He really, really didn’t know, apparently. He kept on goading them, like he had all the power here. All because he was ‘eating up their sorrows’, or something. They were in his stomach, which made the painting guy think he was winning. But he wasn’t, because it wasn’t just anybody stuck in his painting stomach. It was Dust, and Sasha, and also an oddly endearing old man who thought that Dust was a very cute young man. And there was someone on the outside, too, though Dust didn’t know who exactly. They had the stupid painting guy surrounded, basically. A stomach party on the inside, a weird- something going on on the outside. Dust wasn’t exactly sure. Things were sort of confusing, at that point. But Dust could suddenly hear the person on the outside, and they were, slowly, being helped, and-
And Dust had to agree that -gag- mock trial was cool.
That had been far worse than whatever the painting guy had put him through. And then, somehow, a grave had popped up and the guy outside the painting box had told them the name on the grave. Pasco St Agricopolis. Or something like that, anyway. And for somebody who had had such a fun time calling Dust and Sasha, ‘Dustin’ and -gag, again- ‘Alexander’, he really couldn’t handle anyone calling him his own name. Loser. They had just called him Poco Agrippa a couple of times, and poof! Just like that, Sasha and Dust and Miles were out of paint hell, and back in the creepy house again. And then very quickly out of the creepy house, to go take a commemorative selfie with the loser’s losery grave. It was a great selfie, too, and they were all free, and safe, and- And, well, Dust had no real reason to regret pulling Sasha into the paint world with him. They were free, now, and safe, and going home to watch fucking Legally Blonde of all things. It had, yeah, it had all worked out.
But, Dust had to admit, even if things hadn’t worked out well, Dust still wouldn’t have regretted pulling Sasha into the painting with him.
"Steve and Ezra aren't angsty" woe mortifying ideal of being known and the terror of daring to hope and look towards the future after spending so long assuming you'd die be upon you.
