#ANYWAYS. first breakfast.

[forest-hashira]

i have so much to do today... record a video of myself answering question for a job application, maybe also try to answer the short answer questions for the same job app, make rice + tofu filling for riceballs, also possibly make tofu katsu w/ the rest of the tofu, get some writing done... sigh. i need to learn to pace myself on my days off fr

[cjlouwho]

once a year tommy goes to this little cafe outside of LA and sits at the same table and orders the same meal. he's done it since he got back from the army. no one knows about it except for the owner of the cafe, steve, who's been there since day one. he didn't always go alone. when he was young he would go with his mom. it was a yearly tradition when they'd go back-to-school shopping. they went right before he was shipped off to afghanistan too, just because they'd miss their usual date. when tommy was away, his mom died of a sudden heart attack. he didn't even find out about it for a few weeks.

he didn't go for a couple of years after that. the anniversary of their annual cafe date was somehow worse than the anniversary of her death. but one year, something inside him screamed for him to go back. go have that meal that they loved so much. sit at that table. do it for her. maybe you'll even feel her there? so he goes. and steve remembers him. how could he ever forget tommy? he'd watched that kid grow up!

the first year he went back was hard. he barely ate the food, felt indescribably lonely, and once he got back to his car he sobbed for nearly half an hour before he could even drive away.

then he came back the next year, and the next, and the next. he kept coming back, always alone. even when he had people in his life, he'd come alone.

then one year steve looked over at the table, knowing tommy should be arriving soon, and saw two men sitting there. he went over to tell them they'd have to move- the table was reserved, but halfway over he stopped. it was tommy... with someone this time. the other guy was looking around, then leaning in close to tommy. it looked like he was asking questions. he reached over the table and took tommy's hand and squeezed it and tommy... smiled. he smiled a real smile that reached his eyes. steve hadn't seen that smile since the last time he came with his mom.

so steve walks over to the table to say hello, like always. to ask him about his life and what he's been up to this last year. he'd always say "not much, really. nothing new." but this time he kept his smile, motioned toward the man across from him and introduced him as, "My boyfriend, Evan Buckley, or Buck. Evan, this is Steve."

and this boy, Buck, he stands and shakes steve's hand, asks to pull up another chair, says, "i heard you knew tommy's mom?"

steve nods. "i did." because while tommy only came once a year, his mom came more often. it was her little safe haven away from home.

"i've heard a lot about her from tommy," this buck said, a bright smile on his face. "but i'd like to know more. what was she like?"

so steve sat, and talked and talked, and the boys listened- Buck listened.

tommy never came to the cafe alone again.

[notherpuppet]

I understand people being curious/excited about when you’ll release your comics but demanding anything from you is unfair and I can only imagine makes you feel unmotivated to continue. Thank you for all you do and props for maintaining your boundaries 🫶

Aw thanks doll ♥️

Luckily I feel like I’ve got a good sense between real life and internet life. And even though I’m online like all the time, I know how to prioritize real life’s demands, duties, and fun times.

Even if those comments are a bit annoying, I am really grateful that the vast majority of the folks who like my fanart are kind and gracious 🥰

I still don’t really understand how I get all this interaction (ty algorithm?) but making fanart is my favorite pastime and I’m glad there are fellow fans who appreciate it! It’s all very sweet. Makes this corner of the internet a happy place for me 🌷

I’m also totally addicted to seeing fanart of hazbin hotel and I love fanfiction, cosplays, and the like. Fandom is so fun, and it’s great to see people be creative. So I try not to pay much mind to the “not-fun and not-helpful” aspects 😂

[themalhambird]

There were times when Ankh-Morpork as a whole possessed a conveniently short memory. Inside of a week “that thing with the dragon” was already being forgotten, partly because nobody wanted to admit they’d thought crowning a bloody great lizard was a a good idea and partly because no one wanted to remind the Patrician that they’d been complicit in locking him inside his own dungeon. The palace was repaired; any damage to the city was propped up or painted over. Nevertheless, there were clearly going to be some lasting effects. It was early in the morning, and Sybil Ramkin was leaning over the Patrician’s shoulder, examining one of the said consequences with a somewhat critical eye. “It’s not bad, Havelock,” she said. “A little more practice, perhaps.”

Lord Vetinari hummed his agreement. His fingers did not stop switching lace bobbins from one position to another, moving pins down the board and leaving a slightly lopsided web in his wake. “I find it…relaxing,” he said. “A challenge, to be sure, but easier to wrangle than the city.”

“To be sure,” Sybil repeated with a wry smile. “Lacemaking is only a craft that takes most people years to learn properly. You’ve read one book and away you go. Honestly Havelock. You’re insufferable.” 

Vetinari smirked. Sybil stepped away from his shoulder and strode gracefully to the far end of the long table, sitting opposite her old friend and helping herself to breakfast. “So,” she said, “Captain Vimes.” 

She waited. Vetinari said nothing. His bobbins clacked. Sybil popped a grape into her mouth. “”I’m not going to sit here  playing mindgames with you, Havelock. I’m not one of your little lace bobbins- I’m your friend.”

“”Captain Vimes” is not a statement that seems to require a response, my dear.” Vetinari set down the bobbins and sat back in his chair, tapping one slender finger on the wooden armrest. Sybil smiled. 

“Fair enough. Let me rephrase. What do you think of Captain Vimes?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I like him.” Sybil said frankly. “I like him a great deal.”

“Why?”

Sybil gave a half shrug. “He’s passionate. Blunt, but the honesty is charming. He’s brave- heroic-”

“-an alcoholic. Hardly a paragon of the law. Oh, he may not take bribes, but the Night Watch as a whole doesn’t have much of a purpose beyond running away at the first sign of danger.”

“Now that’s unkind- they were fighting Wonse and the dragon whilst you were sitting in a prison cell. Look, Havelock,” Sybil sighed. “I like him. I really rather like him. So I would like to know what you think of him.”

“...I think,” Vetinari said slowly, “that given half a chance Samuel Vimes would lock me up and throw away the key. I think that Samuel Vimes has a great deal in common with his famous ancestor and I think, Sybil, that if you like him, there wouldn’t be any harm in continuing the acquaintance.” His mouth curls in a sly smile. “Besides,” he said, “Think of how it would annoy Ronnie Rust- Lady Ramkin, consorting with the plebs.” ��Well,” Sybil said. She picked up another grape. Vetinari picked up his bobbins. There would be City Business to attend to, soon enough, but the Patrician could spare another ten or fifteen minutes on Ankh-Morpork’s richest daughter who had, after all, been through so terrible an ordeal lately. And, considering Wonse's betrayal- though it had hardly been unexpected- Havelock wanted to spend a little longer in company with his old friend. Besides. It was gratifying to know that he wasn't the only person to see the merit buried deep within Captain Vimes, and Vetinari wanted to spend a little time ruminating on all the doors that Vimes forming a connexion with Lady Ramkin might start to open up...

[pluvio-floret]

Ah, tragedy au (said like Dungeon Meshi. Winged Lion voice.)

Original post

[introspectivememories]

cannot stop thinking about loguetown shuggy and im not talking post-execution shuggy. loguetown shuggy as in the two-year gap between reaching raftel and roger's execution. like that was it!!! that was the universe giving their chance to be together!!! to get it right!!!! except they were what? 14? 15? so of course they got it wrong!!!! of course they fucked it up, and now they've spent decades apart and buggy's got a good thing going with crocodile and mihawk and shanks is finally ready to claim the one piece or whatever and the last time they properly talked was at their captain's son's execution. funny how the only thing that seems to bring them together is death

[shiberamune]

one day i'll learn how to do this

[dysfunctionalcreature]

just watched Breakfast On Pluto (2005) for the first time and it was beautiful 10/10. but more importantly now I can't stop thinking about Kevin watching it and being completely destroyed by it, just a sobbing shaking mess,, like it's about an Irish transgirl that's never met her mother or known her father but desperately wants to and spends the movie searching for them and is finally found and saved by her father in the end,, tell me that that wouldn't break Kevin Day

[13lizardsinatrenchcoat]

Panels from This is not Fine by KC Green that capture what it feels like to return to life after an episode and wonder how the hell I'm going to clean up the mess I've made.

[varpusvaras]

I can't believe I only now thought 'what about 17' in Up that Mountain.

He gets one panicked crying message from Cody about how they lost Fox. 17 doesn't get more out of him, so he tries Ponds, because Ponds is not a fucking idiot. Ponds tells him that yes, they did, in fact, lose Fox, but...he isn't sure in what way. Fox is not on Coruscant and Thorn is now the Commander of the Guard, and Fox's name is not even in the GAR database anymore. So, uh, they assume that he is dead? But then there is the problem that they don't have the body, so they have double lost him. And something about this is making Ponds a little suspicious because if there is no body, is he actually dead? He has seen people get into worse situations and come out alive. None of the Guard seems like they are bothered either? They all liked Fox, so wouldn't they be?

17 is getting a headache. After the call he goes to get a drink or something, and Shaak Ti walks past him in the hallway. She smiles at him and then, for some reason, congratulates him, saying that he must be very proud and happy. What 17 is, is really fucking confused.

Meanwhile, on Alderaan, Fox wakes up in cold sweat. He thinks he has forgotten something really important.

[lonely--seeker]

So happy for him

[teddybeartoji]

started thinking abt how differently all of my blorbos would start my bday eeeeeee they're all so cute

[rogdona]

wanna draw digitally....... i miss my puter(shes in front of me(she has no battery(i cant charge her)))

[blot-squisher]

Yall ever take a sip of water that just hits different? And then like three seconds later you realize half the bottle is gone?

Mmmm moist innards.

Anyway, I probably should drink more water.

[hunnicute]

“Hello! You there, in the cot. I know you’re feeling sleepy, but I wonder if you’d mind taking a brief survey. I’m sure it will make you feel right as rain. Five questions.”

There’s a crackling over the speaker. Or maybe it’s in his head. Everything feels at once itchy and gloopy. He tries to sit up as the speaker fizzes, there’s mumbling on the other side but it’s indistinguishable as language.

“Where am I?” The man asks, pushing up from the bare cot, looking around the room which seems to be made up of concrete walls and little else.

“Close, the first question is actually: who are you?”

Where was it coming from? The voice seemed to echo off all of the walls, its source at the moment unknowable. The man jumps off the cot, barely that - it’s only some green canvas stretched over a metal frame, an intense prickling filling his brain and sinking down his spine. What was that called? Anxiety. This wasn’t right.

“What is this place, where am I?” He asks again, pacing the room. There’s one exit. A metal door set into the concrete walls. Beside it a black panel with dozens of tiny holes. The speaker. Beside the cot he woke up on there’s a chair made of metal. Florescent lights beam from the ceiling causing the man to squint as he zeros in on the speaker grill. He nearly trips over his feet reaching for the door. He tries the handle, it doesn’t budge. He pulls. Nothing. Pushes. More of the same. Not even any give in the hinges or lock. Whatever was holding it in place wasn’t something he could get past.

“Who are you?”

Calm down, breathe. The man tries to order his thoughts into rationality, fighting the building rage and stress that's filling his entire body. Find out what they want, if you can give it to them then you may make it out alive. If you can’t… convince them you can. The man analyses the voice. Young, most likely male, tone what could be called chipper. It doesn’t seem threatening, or deceptive. Still best to be cautious.

“Who are you?” The voice comes once more, some of the cheerful edge is dulled this time, like it expected an answer by now and doesn’t know why it’s not getting a response. Like turning on the radio and expecting a song but only getting static when everything seems to be in working order.

Play along for now, the man thinks. He goes to answer, only to find out he can’t. Nothing’s physically stopping him, there’s air in his lungs and his lips are free to move. But he can’t answer. The simplest of questions, he reaches for the information in his brain and it’s just- gone. He clamps his jaw shut, teeth clicking together. His veins turn to ice.

What the hell is going on here.

“If you can’t answer, feel free to say unknown.”

He needs to get out. He needs to get to- Make sure- Is safe- It’s his job to- Home is-

There’s only one way out of this room, built of concrete and smelling of freshly printed pages and antiseptic (how does he know that?) and it’s through that door. Whoever is talking through the speaker can open it. He picks up his hat and runs a hand through his sandy blonde hair.

“I don’t know.” The man says, voice floating out of him like it doesn’t even belong to him. Maybe it doesn’t, how would he know?

“Unknown. Okay. Second question, in which US state or territory were you born?” He reaches for it. Nothing again. The ice in his veins spreads again, as the anxiety builds. His breath speeds up and his fists clench. He takes a step back from the door. Stay calm. He shakes his head. They must be watching him because the voice goes on.

“Unknown! Great.” Some of the chipperness has returned. He didn’t notice the round black bump above the door before, like a beady eye staring him down. How does he know that it’s a camera? He’s never seen one before, but he knows exactly what it is and what it does. The urge to run begins to overwhelm him the longer this goes on. His stomach twists with nausea. Commonly caused by motion sickness, intense pain, early pregnancy, food poisoning, various enteroviruses or in this case emotional distress.

“Question three, please name any US state or territory.”

“Uh- I don’t know… Delaware.” Delaware? Where did that come from? What else? Georgia. Iowa. Alaska.

“Delaware.”

New York, California, Virginia, New Mexico.

“Question four, what is Mr. Eagan’s favourite breakfast?”

Illinois, Rhode Island, Texas, Idaho. There’s another voice in the background, one he hasn’t heard up until now. It’s deeper, exasperated. God, he thinks it says. The chipper voice ignores it. So there’s someone else there. Maybe someone higher up, someone in charge?

“I don’t know who that is.” He reaches for the handle of the door again and jiggles it futilely. “Maybe we can have a conversation and you can tell me face to face.”

“I’d love to chat with you, after we finish the survey.”

He lets out a terse laugh, a smile tightening his lips - but not with amusement. The action feels familiar.

“And would you look at that, we’re on the final question! To the best of your memory, what is or was the colour of your mother’s eyes?” Does he even have a mother? He must. Everyone has a mother. The nausea threatens to take over and the man turns around looking for a bucket or a trash can. There’s nothing but the cot and the chair. He stumbles towards them.

“I don’t remember.”

“Unknown! Wow!”

“What the hell is this?”

“Unknown, unknown, Delaware, unknown and unknown right?”

“Look if you don’t tell me what the hell I’m doing here I-“

The door swings open and out of it comes a kid who can’t be older than 17, holding a clipboard and grinning behind large circular glasses.

“Gee sir, you got a perfect score! And quicker than most too, that first question is usually what really trips people up but you done it just swell.”

[mynonclicheblog]

it's probably not healthy how often i imagine portland row years into the future, after the trio's talents have faded, where they no longer hunt ghosts together but they find other ways to pay the bills and never move out because they just love the little home they've made here, and lucy and lockwood are an actual couple and george simply tolerates it because he loves them individually so much and can't imagine life away from either of them, which is good because lucy and lockwood wouldn't have it any other way

i don't know if this is compatible with book canon in the long run, but thinking about it just. soothes my soul. it is everything i want for them