#cheebs's notebook

[itsheccincheebs]

The calm before the storm...

You’re about to call it a night, not because you’re all that tired but because Kaminari, in his increasingly desperate bid to kickstart his high school romance once and for all with the remaining time he has left, has started trying to goad some of his classmates into playing some childish American game of spin the bottle. Much to your horror, some of them are starting to warm up to the idea.

And frankly, you’re not about to run the risk of locking lips with that whole mess. So you make a show of stretching and yawning and you’re just about to get up when the front door opens.

Midoriya walks in, looking adorable in a fluffy cable knit sweater and you slowly settle back down to admire the rosiness of his freckled cheeks and the sparkle of those large doe eyes that somehow retain that youthful, boyish glimmer despite already nearing his 18th birthday. It’s taking every atom of your very being to not rush over and plant a fat one right on those pink lips.

To your left, Shinsou does a spit take (gross) and almost chokes on his tea. “Oh my god,” he wheezes while thumping his chest. He’s doing this weird coughing laugh and you curl your lip, moving away slightly. “You’re so whipped, holy shit.” You freeze as he gives you a look that says all his dreams came true at once. “That’s your type? I never would’ve guessed.”

You stomp down hard on his foot while ignoring the sinking feeling of dread. He’s definitely going to blackmail you about this later, the bastard.

Shouto appears right after holding a small paper bag, which he hands over. “I remember you saying you liked these,” he offers as explanation and when you take a peek, you smile at the paw print candies stashed inside.

“You keep doting on her and people are gonna get the wrong idea,” Shinsou interrupts before you can thank Shouto for the gift.

“Like what?”

“Shouto, I thought you had detention,” you cut in, derailing the conversation entirely. You’re so done with Shinsou today and he’s starting to get on your nerves. “Aizawa still let you go out?”

For some odd reason, Shouto’s face colors, just the faintest line of pink across the bridge of his nose. He glances at a spot over your shoulder and scratches his neck. “I…had today booked since last week. He didn’t keep me too long.”

You blink. This is very uncharacteristic behavior from your best friend. You’d almost think he was…

“Sho — ah, Todoroki-kun,” Midoriya pipes up from behind you, sending your heart into overdrive. From this close, you can see he’s wearing lip balm for the weather, making his lips look so soft and just a bit shiny. You want to scream. He has no business looking that cute, what the fuck — “Do you want to come up to my room later and start on that essay for Mic-sensei? I’m having a bit of trouble with it and I could use some help.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. As the resident English expert, you’ve already finished that essay. Wouldn’t it be the perfect opportunity to…perhaps help Midoriya with said essay? You try to catch Shouto’s eye so he could do you a solid and be your wingman, but alas, your best friend has many strengths, but picking up social cues isn’t one of them.

“Yeah, I’m just going to take a shower first. I’ll be up later,” Shouto answers, shrugging off his coat and missing your sullen glower completely.

“Shut down,” mutters Shinsou under his breath.

You round on him, having just about enough of his shenanigans. “You are just asking to get your ass kicked today,” you hiss, swearing when he catches your oncoming fist. “It’s like you don’t know when to shut the hell up.”

Shinsou barks out a laugh, mocking grin on full display and snagging your other fist. “Not my fault your game’s so weak,” he retaliates. “Watching you was starting to get painful.”

With a snarl, you shove him off the couch, but he takes you down with him and you land hard on your elbow. “Asshole!” you snap, eyes watering from the pain. What follows feels like the world’s most aggressive wrestling match, with Kaminari and Sero sliding in to do some improv sports commentary on the side and several spectators cheering you on.

Eventually, Shinsou gains the upper hand because the guy’s got at least forty pounds of pure muscle on you and you’re tapping out before long. “Good match. Just no biting next time,” he pants, trying to ruffle your hair.

You duck away with a grunt, out of breath and sour-faced. “Whatever. Hope it gets infected,” you add just to be spiteful.

Midoriya’s long gone, and so is Shouto, the traitor. You straighten up with a stretch, twisting from side to side when you spot something lying on the arm of the couch. “Oh…Shouto forgot his coat,” you mumble. When you pick it up, you pause at the faint whiff of cologne that wafts from it. The hell…? Since when does Shouto wear cologne?

---

Oh good golly gosh, y'all are not ready for the shitshow that's comin'. I don't do Hurt No Comfort cuz I'm too chickenshit, but there's definitely a lot of whump in this future one-shot. So hold onto yer butts.

[zeeposting]

HEY GAYS, GUESS WHO MADE A LIST OF ALL THE ZEEVERSE CHARACTERS. lmk if theres one not on here and ill add them :3

zeeverse accomplices (tagging people): @gabedoessillystuff @ryuatewater @cloudstongue @millylostintheosc @zombieefish

Scroll

Quill

Fire Extinguisher

Globe

Azriel

Xen

School Bell

Paperclip

Lunch Tray

Eraser Cap

Box

Charger Block

Heartbreak Anon/💔

Grenade

Ace

Mic

Prism

Briefcase

Ornament Anon

Pot

Brick

TV

Pinwheel

Sharpie

Felt-Tip Pen

Mop

Notebook

WFS

Protractor

Glitchy 

Recorder

Beaker

Rapier

Wine

Cocktail

Mug

MG

Soda Bottle Cap

Cork

Anon that sent (fake) coords

Bucket

Basket

Nuclear

Ciel

Nyx

Dolphin 

Triangle

Spade

marxson 

Pinata 

Slasher

Mask

Acid

Taffy

Dynamite

VHS/Pager

Lunar

Ambulance

Milly

Debt Card

Danger

Exclamation Mark

Mango Juice

Strawberry Banana Smoothie

Fries

Cheeb

Lemonade

Curly Fries

Onion Rings

Potato

Lunar

Inkwell

[ragnar0c]

Some OoS drawing skill trivia copy and pasted from twitter:

Alope won't call herself an artist, but she really likes observational artwork and cartography! There are traces of pastel dust on certain items in her room.

Hana is skilled at drawing diagrams, stars, shapes. Geometric shapes too. Hana can draw people but it's very amateur. Her style looks like the cursed cheebs I make. She draws in her notebook. She only uses sharpened graphite, compasses, basically tools to get good lines. But even without them she can draw a perfect circle.

Tank draws technically. Machines. He can draw a person but he thinks it's boring. He can draw anything with anything, but prefers using silver and canvas. Probably the best in the guild when it comes to skill, he can cross hatch, draw detailed items, even backgrounds. But he really likes Alope's stuff once he finds out about it. (How messy and colorful it is, but it’s faster and readable) Hana can still draw circles better than him.

Enid can do calligraphy. If that counts. Can forge handwriting and illuminate manuscripts. Has forged Tank’s signature.

Ignis… cannot draw 💔 didn’t remember that from knight school. Really funny how the serious ones (Hana, Enid, Ignis) would draw the guild as stick figures and then Tank can draw the most beautiful picture ever.

[irageneve]

I know that sometimes it is better to let your praise stand alone but I can't help but respond again. Because it is not just that piece I mentioned. You always produce such detailed artworks (even for free which is mind-blowing and making me wish I had enough money to pay you.). You invest so much time and love and it shows, each piece seeming to have a soul of it's own. May I ask how long you already draw? I would love to know about the road you've taken so far while pursuing your passion :)

you will literally make me cry you’re so so kind i don’t know how to thank you enough T__T feel free to come around and ask me anything, my heart is yours

story time, Ira’s art journey (it got way longer than I expected and I also got sappy lol, I’m sorry)

like any other kid I started to draw when I was little. I used to spend a lot of time in hospitals as a child so coloring books where how I was spending my time. after that I continued to draw just for myself, ugly drawings that back then were full of thoughts that I was proud of haha. besides that I was always drawing on something, notebooks, napkins, my hands, tables. even now I draw floating eyes and random hair shapes on my notebooks lol

I continued to draw by pausing different anime scenes on TV and drawing them on paper, trying to reproduce it as accurate as I could only by studying the paused episode. looking back I realize I was doing art exercises without even knowing what I was actually doing, back then I was just drawing what I was admiring (I remember even now the anime Slayers, I drew Lina one night and then I wrote down every one of her spells that I was remembering)

I was never the best at traditional art, I’m pretty clumsy, smudging everything or painting everywhere that shouldn’t have paint on it. watercolors hated me (literally, once I had a watercolor tube explode in my face when I tried to open it)

I started digital…12 years ago I think? I started in paint and for good years I mastered that. my first ever digital art was an anime schoolgirl I reproduced from the cover of one of my notebooks. I drew that in paint and I remember it took me several days to finish. and then after a while I discovered Paint Tool Sai

I kept drawing for myself and for my friends for the longest time, mostly my OCs and my own stories. after a while, with school getting stressful and losing motivation because I had the mindset that art is just a hobby and it won’t get me anywhere, because society and family and etc told me that, I stopped. for 3-4 years I haven’t touched anything art related (I used to draw with a mouse back then)

then, I got into mystic messenger where I met people outside of my group of friends. I started to want to draw again for that fandom and even if my skills were really rusty I was enjoying it. I started to post art online two years ago under the name of Cheebs. for a while everything went fine. I was drawing and a friend that I considered very close to me was doing the backgrounds, we called them collaboARTs. but when I started to feel art was more like a chore than a passion plus some other details that I won’t go into now (regarding the friendship between me and this person) I realized it was toxic for me. things went south, we “broke up” and that was the moment I decided to never leave my arts with a white background anymore. even the simplest backgrounds are fine, but no more lazy

around…August/September I think, 2018, I got my first tablet. man the difference between a mouse and a tablet is HUGE. I felt like I was rediscovering drawing all together

wanting more of my art I started to watch speedpaintings on youtube, to search for different ways to do backgrounds, how to make the composition in order to enhance your art and not to make it heavy, color theories, etc. I started working on my technical side, I always drew just how I felt like it looked good (I never got art classes, only in elementary school which were more to play around than to learn art)

my art improved in the last year while I realized I was drawing for myself and that it never should become a chore, more than the entire time before that. I worked on my fears of “what if” (what if won’t come out good, what if they won’t like it, what if someone will find this trash) and that helped me more than anything. I improved in anatomy, perspective, colors, backgrounds because I wasn’t afraid of failure anymore and I pushed myself to go out of the comfort zone. it really helped

now my next step is to make my art a bit more…lively. I love when I hear people saying that they are feeling things when seeing my art or my writing, cause that’s what I’m aiming for. but I feel like I don’t have the dynamic I want, I feel some of my pieces are…stiff. I want more fluidity in my art so lately I’m trying to draw in a different way, to use more lines of actions

and now because you mentioned the free art part, I’m going to be a bit honest: giving free stuff (art, writing, edits, readings, any free content) it’s always going to be tricky. there are going to be people who demand, who are pushy, who want things their way. I opened requests a while back because I wanted to get better and to draw more, and I don’t regret that, but it was hella stressful and it burned me out in half a year because I didn’t know when to tell them to stop. I was making full illustrations daily. then after I stepped up for myself and changed the rules I felt much more better and now I can do up to 6 requests per day. of course, not top quality, but that doesn’t mean I don’t put love in them. love, and time and thoughts

there are wonderful people coming into my inbox almost daily and I love to draw for all of them for free, but there are always people making you question your choice of doing it in your free time. this is why I always fire up when I see people being mean towards learning artists. no one just knows how to draw, not even pro artists. who says “do it” never ever tried to do it themselves

I like to say that creativity is a muscle, if you don’t train it and challenge it it won’t evolve. but the pace of doing that it’s different from an artist to another. who cares if a young artist doesn’t know how to draw latino characters but still wants to draw that certain person cause they like them? let them try, let them fail, let them learn

ahh this got off track but I got a bit sad and angry today because of this topic and some discourse, I guess I just had to let it out. I saw people bloom when they got a bit of support to start drawing, after years of putting it off because teachers or family told them they have no talent. they only needed a bit of push and while they aren’t Picasso they are drawing, it looks great and they are using their creativity. they are enjoying it. that’s all that matters

it’s late and idk why I’m sappy but I really hope people would start appreciating creativity more and would let people enjoy and discover the world without any labels or judgements or unnecessary drama. I’m so sorry if I bore you, thank you for your kind words and I’ll stop here before I’ll write a goddamn novel hahaha

much love to you anony, you’re truly an angel 🧡

[hartwinner]

So I have a total of 32 Kingsman emoji cheebs (including the Eggsy set I showed before) and other than for my own enjoyment, I don't know what to do with them. Do you guys want to buy the set and Idk use them as icons or such? Do I turn them into washi tape? Notebooks? Select acrylics? Laugh as I cry? 😂😂😂

[originaldetectivesheep]

The Thirty and One Nights' Momentary Diversion - Like A Thief In The Night

The bar at the Galway Arms has seen more than a few strange tales, but few stranger than tonight's story, which sees one of the gang on the track of a phantom anticapitalist poet.

Like A Thief In The Night

The English games were over, and the crowds were gone; Barcelona was playing, but they were getting tanked, and so the usual crowd of casuals, bandwagoners, and fair-weather fans who'd probably followed Neymar to PSG now were cleared out as well, so it was only Greg and Lou and Sarad posted up around the end of the bar at the Galway.  Greg was there live-tweeting the action and keeping an eye on trolls for the site he moonlighted for; Lou was there because Lou didn't really do 'going home' except as a consequence of 'going broke'; and Sarad was there because he was an actual Barcelona fan, forever faithful, win lose or draw – even when 'lose' meant 'get tanked 0-2 by goddamn Girona at home, with none of the team's overpaid mercenaries showing an ounce of fight'.  You had days like this as a soccer fan – following Barça just meant that there were fewer of them.

Sue noticed Sarad shaking his head, the empty glass in front of him, and came down the bar to lift it away.  "Another Stella, Sarad?"

He looked at the glass, then up at the game, the time ticking away in the upper left corner.  "Sure; but that's it, just cash me out after this one.  I've got to go up to work after the game, but one more should be okay, I'll dry out before then."  Sue was off down the bar to the taps, but Sarad's face snapped suddenly, pensive, like he'd just remembered something really important.  "Actually, no, can I change that?  Can I change it out for a coke?"

Sue nodded, half the beer poured, and tipped it over towards the drain. "Wait, hold on – no need to waste it.  Put it on my tab, I'll take it off your hands."  Lou had a hand up; the next time someone wasted alcohol in front of him would probably be the first. Sue scowled, but set the glass down on the grille and dropped the tap open, finishing off the beer as she buzzed up Sarad's coke from the gun.

"Fine, Lou, but it's the last one – you're shut off now too."  She plonked the drinks down in front of her customers, and Lou dug for his wallet.  "So what happened?  Do you have to leave sooner? Do you have something you have to do before work?"

Sarad shook his head.  "No, nothing like that.  I'm still gonna stick to the end of the game, but I really gotta be on my A-game tonight. There's a difference between showing up sober enough not to get fired, and being where you got to be to catch a prowler at three in the morning."

"Prowlers?" Sue was concerned.  "What's going on?  Don't you just call the cops?"

Sarad shook his head.  "We're supposed to – if I could get a sight of someone, prove that there was someone there, that's what I'd do: get on the radio, get dispatch, get them to put the U cops or the city police up on the doors around where I saw them.  But you gotta see something to get that far – and it's been the last two shifts, same shit, and I ain't been seen hide nor hair of nothing.  It's like this guy can walk through walls."

"Yeah, it's a good thing I was here to soak this one for you, Sarad," Lou said, glugging away at the reallocated Stella.  "And I'll tell Sai'id to come down, shadow you and smoke your extra cheeb for you – no more cats walking through the walls at work after that. Don't worry – we've got your back."

Sarad rolled his eyes.  "Man, I wish that was all it was.  Man, do I ever wish."

You know I can't talk too much about where I work, where I pick up shifts; company policy, that people don't know which guard is on which place when, but you probably got the basics: most of the time, I'm overnights on one of those big biomedical labs up the river back towards Watertown.  But I'm saving up, get some extra money so Kezia and I can get away down to Miami or Puerto Rico this winter, and there was this thing where all of a sudden they were looking for people to pick up shifts at… well, let's call it "a" university b-school, up north, not across the street.  They had their own night guy, supposed to be a student job, but all of a sudden they up and quit, and they called my company, my bosses, looking for a temp security guy to plug in.  The pay was normal, actually a little less since they were paying the company the hourly they used to have their own guy for and of course the company has to take a cut, but it was extra shifts, it was an extra two paychecks a week, so of course I took it.  And it's just a business school – nobody staying late doing, like, actual work, no expensive equipment or like substances that you'd jack to make drugs; the most trouble you'd get would be like some boat-shoes bro trying to break in and get test answers, like, right?  This was nice and simple and free money I could pick up around my normal shifts. Easy.

On the first shift, I had the facilities manager running me through it; older guy, beard, long ponytail, mad at having to pay extra to get his job done, wants to go home.  It was like any other overnight: go through and make sure the doors are all locked, do a round all through the floors, wait a bit, do another round, maybe check the doors, go eat your overnight meal in the kitchen back of the cafeteria or whatever, wait some more, do another rounds, and then coming around morning check all through everywhere again and unlock the doors that people got to use in the morning.  What's the route through the building.  Who do you call for like a medical deal or something; what's the number for the cops and what's their response time.  It was normal, nothing big, my post up in some like junior faculty area, up over a bunch of lecture halls – all just like normal, even if dude was stopping, squinting, at every hallway bulletin board we passed.

Nine to midnight, it was just fine; this was a big net of empty buildings I had to walk through and check over, but it was all empty, you get it done in thirty minutes, and then I was back on my phone, feet up on the desk.  I was thinking, like, kids, you know; what was the student guy who had this job before me doing flaking on this sweet gig?  After, though; after, that was when it started to get strange.

I was done with the cold chicken and asparagus and potatoes they had up for me, and I was coming back up through the halls to get back to the office, checking every second door out of pure habit, when I didn't see it, around the corner as I was turning back from turning on a door handle.  Like I said, I didn't see it – a shape, a blur, right at the corner where the corridor turned, and I couldn't prove that I'd seen anything or I didn't.  I didn't hear anything – and as soft as I rolled my feet I could always hear myself walking those halls.  No noise, no motion – nothing definite that I'd seen what I didn't seen.  I walked up careful, real quiet, back on the far side of the wall to see around the corner first, but when I cleared up to it, up along the lockers to the corner, there was nothing there, nothing all the way down the hall to the next turn around.  I came up along, looking at the lockers, looking at the doors, and maybe because the manager'd done it, or maybe because it was sticking out, I looked over the bulletin board.

Most of it was just normal shit: events, guest speakers, an evacuation plan.  But there was something tagged up there that didn't look like it was supposed to be: a little bit of notebook paper out of a moleskine or something, writing in pen.  I came over, squatted down to get a closer look.  It was a poem – and anytime you get a poem in a b-school, that's suspicious, but this was a hell of a lot more than even that:

the stars are for everyone the moonlight the purple misty cloud on the floorboards of heaven and when the night is poured up with neon and halogen and bright white teasing spotlights to yell Paxotracin Citgo Best Prices On Certified Pre-Owned then the hand that swings the hammer to shatter the lights into a new galaxy of impact-glassy stars is a hero for the liberation of humanity

This was bad.  I ripped the paper down.  There was anarchists or communists or something creepy-crawling in my building, and no matter how much I agreed with the ideas in, like, principle, if it was still up in the morning they'd blame me. I stiffed the poem in my pants pocket and quickened up my rounds, watching out for the corners, looking over the bulletin boards like a hawk.

After that, I was a lot more thorough; I was on my feet almost all the way through my shift, checking carefully through all of the classrooms and halls that I had keys to, opening and checking out and re-locking every outside door and landing that I could unlock the bar on without setting off an alarm.  There was no more poems, no physical sign of someone who went through putting them up that, like had to be, but there were a lot of signs and pieces, half-clues, that could be.  Piles of papers on desks that looked like they hadn't been in that order the last time I went through.  A candy bowl locked up in an AV stack where all the Tootsie Rolls had been picked all to one side.  And a couple more times, around corners or way ahead of me, flashing into a shallow doorway that no person could've passed, that idea of a moving shadow.  It was really getting to me by the time I went back down to the facilities office to turn the keys in, but I was determined not to let it show.

The day manager was back in, looking me over kind of weird as he signed the keys and the radio back over.  "How was it?  No problems?" like he was expecting something from me.

I shrugged. "Nothing.  It's an overnight.  Isn't a thing." He sighed, his shoulders flexing like he'd shed the weight of the world off them – so he was afraid that I'd've said something about the shadow, or the poems, or whoever the hell this invisible visitor was.

"Yeah; that's right, you're a professional.  Nothing to worry about." He checked the radio and clipped it onto his own belt.  I was heading out the door, since I was out and this wasn't really any of my business any more, but I realized that I could maybe find out what the hell had happened to get me onto this job, and have him not notice that I knew something weird was up.

"Yeah, this was an easy shift; you got students on this normally, right?  I gotta wonder at someone who'd just like ghost on easy money like this.  What happened, they drop out and move back somewhere?"

The facilities manager was standing board-stiff, eyes wide, like I'd said something wrong and hit the wrong switch.  "Yeah – yeah – something like that.  The last one couldn't handle the overnights with day classes, insisted he was seeing things, and quit.  We shouldn't bother with kids; I've been wanting this contracted out for a while."  His jaw was set, because he was lying: you start contracting your security, and the next thing you're contracting your janitorial and your facilities, and then this dude would be out of a job.  I nodded like I didn't understand, and went out the door to get going back home.

The next shift, a couple days after, I was ready.  I had my backpack with my James Randi-style ghost hunting kit, and I had a plan, a solid plan, to be sure that I knew when something had actually gotten moved or changed so I knew I wasn't jumping at shadows.  As soon as I finished locking up the outside doors, it was back for my backpack, and a thorough, thorough, work-through of the entire place.

Everything that might be something that would get disturbed, I took a picture of it with my phone.  Every door, I taped it shut after I'd checked out and documented everything inside: two chunks of heavy clear packing tape, one on the frame and one on the door, and between them I taped one of Kezia's hairs across the crack; of course I keep mine too short to do this, so I cleaned out her brush before I went down.  If someone went through one of these doors, the hair would break – either that or they'd have to spend time scrabbling the tape off, and I'd see that too; they wouldn't be able to if they were going fast. Every door; every single door.  It would take time to clean up in the morning, but it would be worth it to know that nobody was going to mess around on me tonight.

I took another rounds after it was all done, making sure that all the tape and the hair locks were in place still, and then went down to the caf to get dinner.  I came back up by a different way after dropping the dishes at the potsink, and on top of a stack of the school paper in an old pay-phone alcove by the stairwell, I saw it, out of place.  I checked my phone: I had a picture of the stack of papers, and I could prove that it hadn't had a poem on it the first time I came through here.  I picked it up, reading it over:

the doors are all closed and the windows are barred but love gets in the stores are all closed and the shelves are all empty but love gets in love gets in the borders are closed and the fence is electrified but love gets in the seals on the scrolls are closed and the bowls of wrath are pouring but love gets in love gets in love gets in love gets in in every nation in every language across every obstacle where it should not love gets in love gets in love gets in

There was something ominous in it – you could publish chunks of this on your aunt's Facebook and nobody would blink, but other parts about it would make anyone who read it call the cops.  Was this a threat? From whoever or whatever was hovering around at the edge of my vision, not following me around, not walking through walls?  I stuffed the poem into my pocket.  I could prove that it hadn't been here, but if I couldn't find how whoever got in to put it where I found it, the only thing that was gonna prove would be that I got bored and liked crying wolf.  I made a careful mental map of the building, and set off to check all the doors, all the locks, all my tape, all over again.

By the time I finished that, the sun was starting to come up, so I had to grab a CVS bag and my knife and clean up all the tape while I unlocked the doors.  Since I'd taped the doors shut, I knew that when I found the tape and the hair in place, everything inside would be fine – but when I actually got to the first of the lecture halls I'd taped up like this, I felt it really gnawing at me as I took the tape off and got ready to go.  I had to go in and check; I had to make sure, double sure against the impossible, and I had my pride of work as a night watchman.  Wasn't nobody going to say that I didn't do exactly everything exactly right, totally complete.

The room was a nightmare. Nothing wrong, nothing that a normal person would see or even know, but I knew it – I had proof on my phone. The order of the markers on the sill under the whiteboard had gotten swapped around.  The old-ass overhead projector in the corner was turned ninety degrees.  And the candy bowl locked in the desk, again, had gotten its Tootsie Rolls sorted out to the edges, separated by color.  I knew no one had been in here – no, all I knew was that no one opened the door – and unless I was going to admit some kind of maniac crawling around in the ductwork – which, in here, involved a minimum fifteen-foot drop from the HVAC grills down to the terraced floor – I had no idea how to explain all this shit getting screwed around. All I could do was hope this was the only place – that there had been like a midget hiding in the drop ceiling, come out to mess with me, and that they were back up there – and that something I'd done to try and solve this crazy mystery or lay down this ghost had actually worked.

No luck.  Every room – every room, every single room, and not a one of them had their hairs broken. Little things – all kinds of little things that nobody normal would ever notice, but I was looking for them, and I knew that they were wrong, and had proof, and they were driving me goddamn bananas.  It was worse than last time – it was like the poltergeist or shit was gunning for me, was doing this on purpose. I was freaking out – freaking out so bad that I didn't bother maybe-noticing the little swirls of shadows ahead of me, those hints that this was all getting set up as I was going along, some kind of crazy reverse dominoes running out ahead of me.

I was sweating and beat by the time I got back up to my seat, tied up the trash bag and tossed it in the can, and mechanically picked up my backpack to head out, get the hell out and get the hell home.  The backpack moved it – the moving air as I yanked my bag up caught a corner under the bit of paper lying face-down on the desk, and I noticed it. I turned it over, even though I was scared out of my mind about what it was going to be.

It was.

this is a commendation for SARAD K DARTMOUTH (insert recipient name here) for service far above and beyond the call of a cog in the capitalist machine for doing what was expected for accepting a paycheck for carrying out the enumerated job functions and for doing uncompensated work at his own expense to further feather the nests of the ones who already have too much. let it be known that the bearer of this certificate shall never be refused entrance anywhere let it be known that all doors will always be opened to him because, from the furthest end of the earth they will always see him coming

I crumpled up the paper and threw it at the garbage.  They were screwing with me.  They were screwing with me by name, taunting me for caring about my job, having to work for a living, that I hadn't caught them yet because I didn't have X-ray vision and I wasn't an actual ghost.  Screw this.  I slung up my pack and stomped down the stairs to turn the keys in, resolved that I was going to call Bernard as soon as I got home and cancel the other shifts here I'd already put my name in for.  I'd had enough of this.

"Of course," Sarad said, turning his straw through the ice cubes left at the bottom of his coke, "I calmed down by the time I got home, and I realized that I still needed the money.  So I'm still in for those shifts – that's the one I've got to go up for tonight."

Greg was stunned.  "After something like that?  Calling you out by name?  You're braver than me, man; if something like that happened to me, I'd've taken that last threat straight over to the cops instead of throwing it in the trash.  Just the one, and you might get laughed at, or pulled up for like missing a door, but what if there's other people been getting these?  You said it – the facilities manager was looking out for stuff on the bulletin boards, and the guy before you flaked because he was seeing things."

Sarad shook his head.  "No, nothing doing: I'm a night watchman; I'm security my own self.  We get shit on enough by the regular cops that there's no way that I'm gonna go run something in to them if I don't got it all together with a neat ribbon on top."  He slurped at his straw, the last dregs of his drink.  "This time, I'm not gonna go crazy on watching out.  I'm gonna do my job, and clean up these poems – maybe I'll make a book out of them and publish them in that English-lit journal Oliver has editorial on.  I'm gonna do exactly what they're paying me to, and ignore this black-bloc ghost or whatever – and if it wants to step, well, I carry a flashlight around same as the radio, and it can come step to that."  He finished off his drink and pushed his stool back, standing up.  "Good seeing you guys, even if the game didn't work out so good.  See you around."

Lou was fishing through his pockets.  "Later, Sarad; good luck.  I'm about tapped out, but I'll see if I got a buck fifty to light you a candle at St. Francis.  Just in case."

Greg shut his netbook with a snap.  "Don't worry, Lou, I'll spot you if you're short.  Let's go; I'm in on that too.  It's probably not gonna do anything, but something like this, you gotta check everything – you can't be too careful."

[itsheccincheebs]

A preview of an AU I've been cooking up...

When you wake up late one Thursday morning, there’s no obvious sign, no premonition that your world is about to be turned upside down. You had gone to bed late the night before, sending Shinsou stupid memes and ignoring Yoarashi’s late night text spam of how many cats he rescued that day (but you still save the cat pictures). It’s as mundane as Thursdays go and breakfast is spent in a quiet corner with Shinsou, who doesn’t have much to say other than matching your tired yawns.

“What would you rate this out of ten?” you say, turning your phone so he can see the chubby tabby splayed out in the sun.

“Trick question. All cats are tens,” he answers around a mouthful of rice.

“But he’s so fat,” you snicker. “Look at those neck rolls.”

“Doesn’t matter, still a ten.”

You take a sip of your miso soup just as Ochako stops by your table. “Hey, have you seen Deku-kun anywhere?” she frets, looking a little frazzled. Your stomach does its usual swoop at the mention of Midoriya, but you ignore it. “He said he was going to lend me his notes for Ectoplasm’s quiz today, but I can’t find him anywhere.”

You frown, exchanging a look with your friend across the table. “Maybe he got called in to Endeavor’s last minute,” you suggest, but her frown only deepens. “I mean, you can borrow mine if you want. They aren’t as good, but they’ll do in a pinch.”

Her face brightens and you relax. “You’re a lifesaver!” she beams, bouncing a little in place as you rummage through your satchel. “Thank you so much!”

“Don’t mention it,” you say, handing over your notebook.

“That might explain why your Icy Hot boyfriend isn’t around either,” mutters Shinsou under his breath. You shoot him with a glare so severe that it could probably strip paint from the walls, but he just grins. Unrepentant little shit…

“But Bakugou-kun left for class a few minutes ago,” interjects Ochako, which effectively stops any potential bickering.

“Odd…” you murmur, then shrug. It’s really none of your business, but…

Ah well. Stranger things have happened.

And it turns out all your worrying was for nothing when both Midoriya and Shouto finally show up to class, disheveled, clearly sleep-deprived, and almost five minutes late. Iida stiffens with displeasure and Aizawa opens one bloodshot eye from his spot on the floor. “Detention, both of you,” he drones without preamble. “I want you at my desk as soon as the final bell rings.”

“This is completely inexcusable behavior!” Iida bellows, waving his arm stiffly. “At this hallowed institution, it is imperative that you develop good habits as heroes-in-training!”

“Class prez is in top form today, huh?” mumbles Shinsou, arms folded on his desk and clearly trying to cram in a last-minute nap.

At that moment, Kaminari bursts in and Iida nearly has an aneurysm. Aizawa gives up trying to restore order just as the class erupts into chaos.

---

Whoever guesses the ship in this AU gets a doodle of Izuku picking lint off his All might hoodie (/hj). There's more than one~

I'm going to be on vacation for two months, but rest assured that I'll still be writing tons! I've been super busy with work, but now I get to breathe easier and work on my fics without (much) interruption.

[itsheccincheebs]

Something familiar on the horizon...

There’s a stillness in the air, a leaden silence that settles over everything like the dust motes that catch the waning afternoon sun. You were tasked with sweeping the floor and putting the chairs up for today, you and another classmate whose name you never bothered to remember, but the minute school was let out, they took off, not even bothering to come up with a halfhearted excuse and saddling you with all the work.

It’s nothing new. That’s how it’s been for the past year. So you swallow your resentment and grab a broom.

You could just leave. There’s nothing stopping you, except that your homeroom teacher will probably find any excuse to reprimand you tomorrow morning. A minute of vindication now wouldn’t be worth the harassment you’d receive for it tomorrow.

Now you sit, empty classroom clumsily swept and chairs in their proper places except for yours. You’re not sure how to feel. Not sad, that’s for certain, but there’s a hollowness in the pit of your chest at the knowledge that there’s only a couple of weeks left before you finally leave this cesspool for good.

Tomorrow looms uncertain and foreboding, but you’ve come too far to back out now. Whether you leave school with your head held high or hung in shame remains to be seen, but if it’s the latter, you imagine life among your classmates will become even more unbearable than it already is.

The shadows steadily grow longer while you quietly reflect on the past year. None of it was pleasant. You’re long past the point of thinking about the ‘what-ifs’. You’ve lost count of how many times you had to remind yourself that you can’t change the past, and even if you could, you don’t think you would, armed with the knowledge you have now. And yet, you don’t fight the pangs of loneliness or the occasional twinge of bitter resentment over how it all turned out. Of course you have regrets—who wouldn’t?

‘Maybe it’s better this way,’ you think, resigned.

Still, there comes a point where even you find yourself tired of slogging through one day to another, wondering when your next respite will come and being disappointed (though not surprised) when it never does. You want to feel something that doesn’t make your soul die a little inside, something that doesn’t come with clenched jaws and a hardened resolve.

It’s been more than a year since you’ve felt something approximating happiness. You used to associate the word with warmth from your mother’s embrace and the pale yellow of your beloved omurice that became lunch after a memorable morning of well intentioned, but ultimately botched pancakes. You used to think ‘happiness’ and your mother’s smile would come to mind, beautiful and radiant like the sunlight glimmering across gentle ocean waves while she walked with you hand in hand over soft sand that felt good between your bare little toes.

But that was so long ago and you’re nothing like the little girl you were back then. Now you’re not sure what the word means to you anymore.

You rise with a muted groan, stretching to get the kinks out before putting your chair on your desk and walking out, bag slung over your shoulder. Hardly anyone remains now save for those staying behind for club activities, but you’re not too worried about running into them.

A sleek black car idles a few streets from the school gate, a familiar and welcome sight hidden away from any nosy parasites. You get in, nodding to the well-dressed driver who inclines his head respectfully and you’re on your way. The radio’s set to some random pop station, and while you don’t recognize the artist, it fills the silence as you pass building after building before giving way to the coast, incandescent in the orange sun.

You close your eyes, easing back onto the seat as the gentle notes of an acoustic guitar wash over tired muscles that finally begin to relax.

Several thoughts float through your head, some mundane like debating the merits of getting some last-minute studying before your upcoming entrance exam or resting. Others are more loaded, like wondering if your mother will be home, and if she is, what kind of state you’ll find her in.

You find it sad that you can’t decide which one you prefer.

Your relationship with your mother wasn’t always bad. By all accounts, she did her best with the limited time she had with you in the beginning. She even took you seriously when one afternoon, your little four-year-old self came toddling straight into her arms, face already soaked with snot and tears because you didn’t understand why not having a father made all the other kids in your class make fun of you. You remember how quiet she had gotten, the soothing hand running through your hair so at odds with the thundering fury raging in her eyes.

Then your mother sat you down when you wouldn’t stop asking questions and said, “Oh honey, you do have a daddy. He’s just working in America right now.”

“Then why doesn’t he come back?” you cried, little fists clutching the front of her dress.

Not long after that, you began attending a new school with new classmates that were a little less nosy, where you found friendship with a nice girl who smelled like flowers.

As to whether or not your father really was working in the states, well…you never did get an answer to that one.

A new song begins, an eclectic fusion of jazzy and lo-fi that grabs your attention at once. It’s catchy and after a few seconds of listening, you find yourself tapping your fingers on the seat.

Then a resonant voice, subdued to match the tone of the song but clearly powerful, jumps in and suddenly puts a halt to your wandering thoughts. Your lungs freeze at the flicker of recognition. Jerking upright, you snarl, “Turn that off.”

“Young miss?” The driver, who’s been silent this whole time, glances at you through the rear view mirror.

“I said TURN IT OFF!” you scream, slamming your fist against the side of the door. He does as he’s told and now the only thing filling the air is the near-silent rumble of the engine and your heart pounding a furious rhythm in your ears. You exhale slowly, swallowing against the awkward tension in the air, but it fails to drive away the complicated mix of feelings upon hearing your mother’s voice on the radio.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget.

Less easy is seeing the sight of so many cars along the winding path to your house, which looms overhead like a behemoth and blocks out the dying afternoon sun. Stomach churning uneasily as you step out and walk up to the huge ornate doors, you take note at the lack of reception upon entering the foyer.

Footsteps echoing on polished marble floors, your nose scrunches at the pungent odor of different colognes and perfumes lingering in the air, however faint. Heart curling into itself against your will at the implications of what you might find, you trudge through one wing of the house to another.

You turn right at the end of a hallway that opens to a large empty courtyard and through the open doors beyond, in the expansive flower garden outside, a crowd of people swells with noise and raucous laughter, like a massive ugly beast...

-------

A preview of a rewrite of my first fic to get back into writing. It's been a really long time since I've worked on any of my hobbies, mostly for reasons I won't get into because it's kind of a downer. The only depression I'll dish out will come from my writing, not my personal stuff. This probably isn't what most people are here for, but this makes me happy. And I think that's important too.

-Cheebs

[itsheccincheebs]

Bygone days...

Miki’s hands smell like sweet honey and almond this morning, an echo of the peach buds currently blooming in excitement, little fingertips tracing paths down the intricate soft pink patterns under your eyes, markings that weren’t there the day before.

Your mother has a matching pair in gold, a fact you don’t hesitate to tell her.

“Wow...” she breathes, a little too close to your face because you can smell her breakfast. You don’t care, though. You fidget from trying not to smile, swelling with pride. How often has your mother gathered you in her arms, gliding through the air with magnificent golden wings and singing a song so beautiful to her audience of one?

“Miki, let go,” you squirm and wriggle free. She pouts.

“You’re so lucky,” she mumbles, round cheeks puffing up and making her look even rounder. The flowers in her hair start to wilt. “Does this mean you can make boys fall in love with you now?” She looks almost appalled at the idea and you deflate a little.

“No…? Boys are gross.”

And then she smiles, springtime returns to her hair and all is right with the world. “Yeah, ‘cause it’s just gonna be me and you.” She fiddles with your hands, but doesn’t hold them. You let her, glad class hasn’t started yet and you can enjoy this moment alone with Miki.

“And if you find your Prince Charming, you can’t get on his white horse without me, okay?” she reiterates and you laugh. She laughs too.

“Not even All Might?” you joke and she chokes, gagging.

“He’s a grown up!” Miki’s face is red from all the coughing and petals go everywhere, littering your desk and the floor. She’s going to get in trouble with your homeroom teacher if he sees her using her quirk without permission, but she doesn’t seem to care, shrieking so loudly that a few classmates scowl in annoyance.

“So? He’s the best! And he could save me from any dragon, no matter how big it is.”

“He’s old!”

“Nu-uh!” you cry, immediately rising to the defense of your favorite hero.

---

A snippet I was proud of when writing the other day. I think it's coming along okay.

[itsheccincheebs]

Ch. 2 Preview!

The distinct lack of flowers in the girl’s hair is a dead giveaway that she’s not Miki, who for all her faults, never had the best control of her Quirk. This mystery girl’s pink scarf and dark brown coat show signs of age, loose threads and fading colors that Miki wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing in public. Her voice is too sweet, too cutesy compared to your former friend’s slower, softer cadences.

The girl leaves with a wave, but the memories linger. The wound is not fresh, but her appearance sliced it open once more and you shake yourself from your stupor, ignoring the bleeding memories as you march forward.

In doing so, you spare a glance to the boy beside you and are thoroughly unimpressed by what you see. Plain-faced, freckled, and woefully unremarkable, he’s struck dumb the second your eyes meet and easily forgotten the second he’s out of sight.

Once inside, you’re treated to the banal tedium of paperwork, standing in line to get your picture taken (during which you make no attempt to play nice with the photographer when he asks you to smile), and then following the signs into a lecture hall that’s already filling up with people. You thumb the exam ticket in your hand, your own face scowling up at you.

“Test location: Battle Center A…” you murmur, only to flinch when another examinee plunks herself down on the seat adjacent.

“Oh, sorry! Didn’t mean to freak you out!” Her loud chipper voice immediately grates on your nerves, but it’s her appearance, a contrast of rose-colored skin with a pair of tiny yellow horns protruding from a shock of pink hair that stops the snappy retort from leaving your lips. She grins, seemingly unaffected by your blatant staring. “I’m Ashido Mina, by the way! What’s your name?”

When you don’t immediately answer and instead begin to withdraw, she tilts her head quizzically. “What’s wrong? You nervous about the exam?” She nods sympathetically before you even open your mouth. “Yeah, I totally get it. I heard it helps to stay positive instead of worrying about the ‘what-ifs.’ Self-fulfilling prophecies and all that.”

��What do you know?’ you think with a glower, hunkering down. She talks too much, she’s too loud, and has no concept of personal space. Especially when she leans in a little too closely, her yellow pupils pinpricks of light in a dark chasm.

“Oh wow, your hair! It’s so long and beautiful…what’s your hair routine like? What products do you use?”

“Oh gosh, I love your hair! It must take you hours to get it to look that gorgeous!”

In Ashido Mina’s place sits a familiar face, pretty and vapid, her expression a blend of curiosity and envy, and short stylish hair swept in a long fringe hides the wolf beneath. Ami, the friend who came after…

You blink and it’s Ashido again, who’s smiling and none the wiser. “There’s more important things to worry about right now,” you say with finality, watching other students filter inside. It’s hard to shake the image of Ami from your mind and blessedly, Ashido takes the hint and leaves you alone.

-

Ya girl Cheebs is still cookin'.😎

[ragnar0c]

Need to draw Hana's notebook so bad. I just need to. Gr......

Notes on the inside.... You know, Hana is supposed to doodle and I think her art style would look shockingly similar to the cheebs I draw omg..... But nothing is coming out.

Ough... cue famous ren item line "tomorrow again"