#chunk! no captain chunk

[quietandfalling]

[spark1edog]

how tf is chunk! no, captain chunk! supposed to be pronounced. like where does the emphasis lie. are we saying “the name is chunk! no, captain chunk!” or “nooo chunk!! no, captain chunk you can’t die like this!” or what

[cosmicwhoreo]

Baked Alaska Cookie

because I have no self control-

BIO BELOW!

Make way for Commander Baked Alaska Cookie! For he leads the helm of all of House Custard's [admittedly small] battalion! Truly, a station to be revered by any cookie. Unfortunately... It would seem Alaska himself doesn't really revere the position himself, as he goes about his duties oftentimes drunk out of his mind. He also seems to enjoy messing with new recruits with random nonsense, games or ridiculous jobs to do for him. Likely just to see them run around, getting him his alcohol that he downs nearly every hour of the day... It had gotten so bad that Custard had even hired a Parole officer under the guise of security to keep the old buffoon in check. An officer he can be seen running and hiding from every now and then when he shouldn't be drinking. But don't mistake his disposition as a weakness... He is notably unnaturally strong when he feels like showing it off. And while he likes messing with his officers, he still cares for them on some level. Some rumors also go around saying the drunk stupor thing is an act to make sussing out bad actors and other such dishonesty much easier... BUT no one has anything concrete so-

[python333]

bedbound — python333

— — — —

synopsis you're on a mission and oopsie daisy you get trapped under a building!! you end up in the medbay and tf141 visits you one by one, each of them giving you a lil piece of their mind for going and getting yourself trapped under a collapsed building.

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & gn!reader.

characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.

word count 4.5k

warnings pretty detailed (i think) descriptions of [reader] being in pain [specifically having a bunch of leg injuries], angstier than i usually write, 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign].

note this is my first actual fic ive wrotten in MONTHS so i hope its okay! so sorry if it feels like a majority of the focus is on the reader, i had a too much fun writing out the first part where they get crushed :3 i am also once again begging for requests. like on my knees hands together begging for requests. its the best way of getting motivation istg. anyway, this is all mild hurt/comfort and some angst + fluff so enjoy!! :3

You tried running out of the building—you didn’t expect the whole damn thing to come crashing down on you.

You’d just been chasing after an enemy soldier moments ago, dashing into the building, when suddenly the whole building seemed to shake. Then, the whole thing seemed to just collapse. When you think about it now, you realize the shake must’ve come from a nearby explosion, an explosion somehow powerful enough to damage the structural support of the building so terribly that it couldn’t hold itself up anymore and instead fell down onto you. 

Now, here you were, just ten steps away from the entrance of the building, stopped by the huge slab of concrete and twisted metal that pinned your legs down to the ground. Your earpiece fell off when you fell down, sliding across the floor, preventing you from calling your team.

Sure, you could try and move your legs, but the excruciating pain that came with each movement wasn’t worth it. You think your legs are broken with the way your nerves scream at you every time you move them, and with how uncomfortably and horrifyingly disconnected they feel.

“I’m making shit up,” You whisper hoarsely to yourself, ignoring the tears that welled up in your eyes from the debris and dust in the air, “They’re not broken. I’m making it worse for myself by thinking that.”

In the back of your mind, you remember that you’re quoting Price on that one, from the last time you got seriously hurt like this. You vaguely remember your panicked words and Price’s soothing voice that came after every worry, telling you that no, you’re not too badly hurt, it’s gonna be okay, you’re just panicking.

But in the forefront of your mind, all you can do is think about how you can’t reach your earpiece to talk to your team, the only thing you can do is listen to their worried voices.

The earpiece is loud enough for you to hear, even though you’re just out of arm’s reach from it, you can still hear your teammates repeating your call sign and asking how you copy. With the stupid Push-To-Talk thing, you can’t even just respond, no, you have to push the button on the side of your earpiece to unmute yourself.

You stretch your arm out just a little bit more to try and reach the earpiece, but when your leg starts to strain and your nerves light up you immediately give up, letting out a small, pained huff. You take a moment to just lie there and listen to your own labored breaths, every other breath hitching or catching in your throat.

You swallow down a sob that threatens to bubble out of your throat and try to reach again and—nope, that still fucking hurts.

You bring your hand back and put it over your mouth to muffle a small sob that climbs up and out of your throat, and try to take a deep breath the best you can with the debris in the air.

You feel a slight discomfort in your chest and cough, horrified when you see small specks of dust in the air you cough out, and God, the sight of it makes you want to rip out your lungs.

You feel the sudden urge to cough everything out, to flush out the dust in your lungs, to get rid of the uncomfortably full feeling you feel in your chest, but you know that every time you cough you can only exhale more of that debris-filled dust back in so now you’re trapped in a loop and—

“[c/n], how copy?” God, you want to yell at them that repeating that question won’t help, but you know there’s nothing else they can do. They’ve already asked where you are, if you’re okay, and how you copy multiple times, all of which got no answer.

They’ve only experienced radio silence on their end, and the thought makes you feel guilty for not being able to suck up the pain in your legs and just reach over to the damn earpiece and tell them you’re trapped.

You take a few deep breaths, trying your best to ignore the way you can literally feel the dust entering your lungs, and reach. You stretch your arm out the farthest you can, and feel the strain in your leg, and you’re almost to the earpiece, just a few more inches— pop.

A bone chilling pop rings through the air the moment you manage to snatch the earpiece, and good thing it was at least after you managed to grasp it firmly in your hand because you recoil back on instinct and gasp.

The gasp only lets in more dust, and you cough, wet tears dripping down onto your cheeks as you go through a seemingly endless loop of coughing out dust and inhaling debris and coughing it out again only for new dust to make its way into your system.

You stifle a pain-filled whimper and try to control your shaky breath, gripping the earpiece firming in your hand, looking down at it, looking at the sheer amount of debris on it. You bring your free hand out and wipe away the debris with shaky hands, making sure it’s clean enough to put in your ear before you carefully insert it.

It takes you a moment with your trembling hands, but you manage to do it, and you listen to Price ask how you copy one more time before you push down on the PTT button.

“Copy—” You hoarsely say, before coughing, everyone on the other line going silent, “Copy, not doing very well over here.”

“What happened?” Price’s voice crackles through on the damaged ear piece, “Are you hurt?”

“I got trapped under— under some concrete, and I…” You take a moment to catch your breath, “My legs are pinned, I can’t move.”

“Okay, okay,” Price’s voice softens, his tone becoming more soothing, “Where are you?”

“In a building— dunno which— which one… it’s by the really tall one,” You breathe out, mentally slapping yourself in the forehead for not being able to remember, “I’m sorry, I just know it’s orange and it has the entrance that Ghost bumped his head on—”

“It’s okay, I know which one you’re talking about,” Price reassures you, “Catch your breath. I’ll be there to get you out of there, okay? Just stay still, don’t move a muscle, you hear me?”

“I hear you,” You mumble, trying to catch your breath, coughing at the amount of dust that infiltrates your lungs. You bring your hand off of the PTT button and sob once, quietly, and sniffle to try and stop yourself from crying, blinking away tears.

The tears that trailed down your face earlier now only make you realize just how much dust and grime is on your face, how the tear trails must’ve been the only clean lines on your face, how there’s a whole layer of pure filth on your face and you can’t even properly wipe it away because your hands are dirty too.

The pain in your legs are throbbing and you know that you’ve torn some of the muscle in your thighs, and you know the popping noise had to have been your hip, from the unnatural way you’d twisted it to reach your earpiece. You don’t even have time to think about how pathetic you look when suddenly Price opens the barely-hanging-onto-the-hinges-door, looking at the floor for a moment before his eyes finally land on you.

He immediately walks over to the slab of concrete pinning your legs down and forcing you to lie on the ground and you can hear him faintly murmur, “Oh, God,” and kneel down to the same level as the concrete.

You turn your neck to look at him and watch as he looks at the concrete for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to lift it, before he simply grabs the edge of the concrete and, with a grunt and after a good thirty seconds, he manages to lift one end up and flip it over onto its other side. The circulation that immediately floods back to your legs and the sudden feeling of weightlessness you get is almost too much, and you can barely find it in yourself to feel shame as you let out a small, relieved sob at the sudden rush of blood to your legs.

Price immediately gasps and you can’t see much from your angle but in the midst of your relief you suddenly feel a pang of pain and oh God, that hurts. You can recognize now the warm blood that accompanies the drying blood on your calf, and with the blood rushing into your legs, more spills out from the wound in your leg. Vaguely, you can remember twisted metal doing something to your leg—stabbing it, maybe? Your brain becomes fog-filled; too hazy to think through but just clear enough to register the throbbing pain in your leg. 

“I’m so sorry,” Price murmurs softly, and before you can question him he takes the metal out of your leg and you let out a closed-lip scream, slapping a hand over your mouth to try and muffle the now uncontrollable sobs that break past your lips, the pain you feel making you light-headed.

Price quickly pulls a tourniquet out of one of the many pockets of his tactical best, wrapping the bright red strip around your leg just above the bleeding, blocking the blood from reaching past that point. He tightens it and rolls you over so that you’re laying on your back, making you stifle another pain-filled whimper. Without another word, he slips his arm under your knees and his other below your back and lifts you up bridal style, making you gasp sharply and cry out for a moment in pain, a few drops of blood making it onto the floor from your calf, the whole sight dizzying.

Being lifted up like this gave you vertigo—your head spun as you were lifted up and you could barely process anything with your hazy mind. Price mutters small ‘sorry’s under his breath, carrying you out of the door and quickly running with you in his arms back to where the others are, almost wanting to cry for you, seeing how much pain you were in.

Your eyelids drooped and your eyes shortly became half-lidded, and your ears started to ring, and everything was so overwhelming you just wanted it to be over. 

Price notices your eyelids drooping and quickly says, “Hey, hey, don’t pass out on me, you gotta stay awake, kid.” You can only shake your head ‘no’ because talking feels like too much right now and let out another small, pain-filled whimper, just the sound of it making Price’s heart shatter.

You can only find it in yourself to talk a moment later, your words slurring together as you try to speak, “I can’t— can’t… I’m sorry, I can’t—” You don’t even know what you’re trying to say, what you’re trying to warn Price about, but he seems to know.  

“No, no, no—” Price tries to beg you, as if you had enough strength to stay awake. Those are the last words you hear before you completely black out.

—

You wake up to a white ceiling and the faint beeping of a heart monitor. You move your head around a bit, trying to gauge where you are, when you realize— oh, I’m in the medbay. You blink for a moment before sighing and just resting there for a moment, trying to recount the events that happened earlier. You don’t have time to go down memory lane, though, because suddenly the curtains in front of your bed are pulled back to reveal your Captain. “You’re awake,” He states, closing the curtains behind him. “How could you tell?” He snorts and sits down in a chair by your bed. You look at him questioningly, “Where’re the others?” “They’ll be here soon,” Price assures you, looking at your blanket covered legs for a moment before looking back up at your face, “Medics said one at a time.” You hum neutrally in response to that and wait a moment before asking, “How bad is it?” “Your leg?” “Yeah.” “Well…” Price starts to list off on his fingers, recalling the doctor’s words, “The joint that connected your hips and your legs was twisted and it had to be set back to normal, your muscles were torn, your ligaments were torn, your nerves were so compressed someone had to physically massage your legs back to life, and the stab wound in your leg almost got infected.” “… Huh.” You blink at Price, before asking, “When can I get out of here?” “Why is that what you’re thinking about right now?” Price asks, confused, before sighing and answering, “Kid, your leg was basically broken. You can get out of here in maybe a few weeks to a month. Getting back to your assignments is a whole different story. It could take several months for your muscles to fully heal, and even then I don’t want you back out there for a while. Not until it’s guaranteed your leg won’t… give out, or something, out there.” You frown at Price, “So what, I’m just gonna be stuck here?” “What else are you gonna do with an almost-broken leg?” “…” Price sighs and puts a gentle hand on your shoulder, “Look, I know it’s frustrating, having to sit here for a few weeks then be able to get out only to not be able to do anything too physical, but your leg muscles were torn. You were trapped under concrete. You’re not going on any missions any time soon. I feel like that should be kind of obvious.” You can understand it, knowing the condition you’re in now, but you still deflate a little where you lie down and let out a tired, frustrated huff. Price chuckles softly at your clear display of disappointment and rubs your shoulder gently before patting it and getting up. “I guess I have to let the others see you too,” He muses, making your lips twitch up into a smile, the sight making him smile in return, “But I’ll be back tomorrow to talk to you again, alright?” “Alright,” You nod, watching as he walks past the curtains blocking your bed from the rest of the medbay and listen as the door clicks open and closes shut. Not even a few seconds later, the door opens again, this time with someone walking faster to the curtains, pushing them aside eagerly. You quickly recognize Soap as he walks in, quickly closing the curtains behind him before rushing over and leaning down to hug you. This all happens so quickly you have to take a moment to process it, but you eventually hug him back, sighing at the warm embrace. “I want tae call ye stupid sae bad,” Soap mumbles into your neck as he hugs you, “but it wasn’ even yer fault sae I can’.”

“That’s the worst thing that’s happened all day,” You mutter sarcastically, making Soap laugh quietly. He pulls away from you and looks down at you. “It is, actually,” Soap says, and at your confused and mildly offended expression, he adds on, “It’s been over a day since ye got yer leg fucked up.” “… Oh.” You dumbly said, trying to process that. Over a day. “Everyone was really worried about ye, too,” Soap tacks on, refusing to sit on the chair behind him, simply standing by your bed. You stay silent, and Soap takes that as an invitation to keep talking. “I think that's the first time I've actually seen Ghost stressed," Soap muses, making you huff out a small laugh. “Really?” “Yea,” Soap smiles, “I ken. Stone cauld L.t, suddenly worryin’ o’er ye.”

“Isn’t that a surprise,” You mutter, a small smile gracing your lips thinking about Ghost worrying over you, “So you were all really worried?” “Very worried,” Soap nods, “Gaz thocht ye were gonnae die, poor chiel.” “Hm,” You hum neutrally. Soap stays silent for a moment before his voice softens and he quiets himself down a bit. “Try no' tae dae that again, aye? Ye'll gie the captain a heart attack," When you give him a pointed look, he rolls his eyes and adds on, “And me. Possibly. Maybe.” “Uh huh,” You look at him, unimpressed, “Right. I’ll try to predict when a huge piece of concrete is gonna fall on me.” “Ye ken wha’ I meant.”

“Never said I didn’t.” “Ye— y’know wha’? I’ll just leave then,” Soap says, feigning annoyance as he walks away from your bed, making you laugh quietly. He slips out and doesn’t bother to close the curtains behind him, simply walking out the door, not bothering to close that either.

You can hear him letting someone else know you’re ‘free to visit’, and just a few seconds later you watch Ghost walk in. You shouldn’t be as surprised as you are, seeing as Soap had told you Ghost was worried over you, but you still find yourself a little shocked when he walks over to you and closes the curtains behind him. He sits at the chair beside your bed, and silently stares at you from the chair.

You stare back, not blinking, waiting for him to say the first word. You and Ghost’s silent staring match ends with Ghost sighing and speaking up. “How does your… leg feel?” “How do you think it feels?” You ask, deadpan, watching as Ghost’s eyes narrow. You blink at him for another moment before adding on, “It feels numb, right now.” Ghost hums at the actual answer and sits there awkwardly for another moment before stating, “Gaz thought you died. Or, were gonna die.” “I heard about that,” You respond, raising an eyebrow at Ghost, “Did he not know it was just my leg that got hurt?” “Hurt is a mild word,” Ghost mutters, before clearing his throat and saying, “No, he knew. He was more worried about all the stuff that got into your lungs.” “Oh.” “Yeah.”

You both stay silent for a bit, again, before you speak up, “So… are my lungs okay, or… ?” “No, yeah, they’re fine.” “That’s… good.” “Mhm.” Why is this so awkward? You purse your lips and turn your head back so that you’re staring at the ceiling rather than at Ghost, not knowing what to say. Why’d he even come in here if he was just gonna be awkward about this whole thing? It’s silent again, an uncomfortable sort of quiet that’s silent yet deafening at the same time—and you hate it. It seems Ghost hates it too, because he shifts in his seat, not saying anything verbally but you can tell by his body language it’s awkward for him too.

This goes on for maybe a minute or two, when suddenly Ghost gets up and walks the short one step between him and your bed and leans down to hug you. Like the silence, the hug is awkward, but unlike it, it’s comforting. A comfortable awkward? You tentatively hug him back and you feel his hands snake underneath your back, forcing his arms under you so that he can hug you properly. 

“I know Soap told you I was stressed and worried and whatnot,” Ghost mutters, his skull mask pressing into your shoulder, “… And he was right.” “… Did you think I thought he was wrong?” “Shut it and let me try to talk.” “Yes, sir.” Ghost sighs and takes a deep breath before continuing, “He was right. I was growing greys watching you passed out, and I think I almost passed out as well, hearing you were trapped under a huge block of concrete and got stabbed by metal.” 

“Did you ever find out what the metal was?” You ask after a moment, making sure he was done talking.

“The Captain said it was a twisted pipe.”

“Huh.” You lay there for a moment, simply enjoying Ghost hugging you, before Ghost speaks up again.

“I know it wasn’t your fault, but please, God, never do that shit to me ever again.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m in a collapsing building.”

“I’m serious,” Ghost pulls away from the hug and looks down at you, keeping his hands on both of your shoulders, “I had to drive a car with you in the back passed out laying in the trunk with Price, all while not knowing what happened, and having to drive you guys back to base.”

“… Damn, you guys didn’t get a helicopter, or anything?”

“[c/n].”

“Sorry.”

Ghost sighs, “I’m trying to say that I don’t like worrying over you like that. I don’t like knowing that my kid is hurt, and I can’t do anything about it. That was the first time I was seriously worried and— and stressed over you, and it was terrifying, seeing you just passed out with dirt all over you and blood all over your leg, and just seeing you like that— I can’t do that again,” Ghost takes a deep breath, and looks down at you, trying to gauge your reaction, trying to see what you think of his words, but all you can think is, wait, he called me his kid?

“You called me your kid,” You dumbly voice your thoughts, watching as Ghost’s expression becomes more confused, and he opens his mouth to deny that when suddenly— oh shit, he called you his kid.

“… I did,” He dumbly says back, sounding surprised by his own words, before he fully realizes what he said and simply blinks down at you, not knowing where to go from here. You both blink at each other, not knowing what to say, before he clears his throat.

��I’ll just… head out then,” He awkwardly says, slowly walking away from the bed.

You take the opportunity to say, “Alright, dad.”

He freezes and slowly turns towards you and mutters, “Don’t call me that.”

A grin splits across your face, “Oh I will. Dad.”

He points at you with a single finger, “Don’t. You. Dare.”

“I’ll call you it in front of everyone. I’ll gaslight them into thinking we’re related.”

“God, you better not.”

“I will. In fact, tomorrow, I’ll begin with the Captain. Then I’ll tell Soap, he’s the next most gullible next to Gaz, who I’ll see right after you. Gaz won’t fight with me over it, he’ll just accept it, I know he will, then, and only then, will I tell everyone else. I spread it across the base like the flu. Everyone, and I mean everyone will think that you’re my father, Ghost.”

“That is…” Ghost blinks at you, dumbfounded and mildly horrified, “... terrifying.” “Yeah, I know. Pretty sure I got that from you, dad.” “Oh my God,” Ghost groans, making you laugh at his misery. He walks out without another word, being sure to slam the door behind him, making the poor medic passing by jump at least a foot in the air. You giggle quietly in your bed, waiting for the next person to walk in. By the time you’ve contained your laughter, Gaz walks in, looking strangely sheepish as he walks over to you and closes the curtains behind him that Ghost had forgotten to close. He doesn’t say anything until he’s right by your bed and bends over to give you a nice, firm, quick hug before standing up straight again and clearing his throat. “Hi,” He greets you simply. “Hi.” “How’s the uh… how’s your leg?” “You thought I died?” You ask teasingly, ignoring his question. You can’t see any blush on his face, but you’re almost certain his face heats up as he looks away from you. “Listen…” He sighs, looking back at you, “Price ran over to the whole group, with you not moving at all in his arms, and a tourniquet wrapped around your calf. I feel like it was a bit reasonable for me to think you were dead for a second.” “Right, of course,” You nod, definitely not believing that he only thought you were dead for a second, “That’s totally why I’ve had both Soap and Ghost tell me you thought I was dead. They only told me that because you thought I was dead for a second.” “I’m gonna murder them both, I swear to—” He mutters, burying his face in his hands, making you laugh quietly. He glares at you from behind his hands and adds on, “Oh, you think this is funny? You having a laugh down there, knowin’ that I thought you were dead?”

“I think this is hilarious.” “You’re insufferable and I don’t even know why I try to care about you anymore.” “You don’t try, you just do,” You roll your eyes, “Don’t act like you have to actively try and care about me.” “You’re so snarky today, my God,” Gaz scoffs, “Wait ‘til I tell Captain Price about this.” “Alright, Draco Malfoy. You do that.” “I shouldn’t have ever visited you in here,” He mutters, crossing his arms and looking away from you, feigning annoyance. You huff out a laugh at that and that makes Gaz laugh a bit, though he keeps up his dramatics, continuing to look away from you. “You still think I’m dead now, or?” “Shut it, you.” “My bad.” “I wish they amputated your leg.” “No you don’t.” “…” Gaz can’t even argue with it, simply sighing and rolling his eyes before looking back at you, ”No, I don’t.” “I knew it,” You smile at him knowingly, making his lips twitch up into a smile. You think for a moment before tacking on, “Wanna hear what Ghost said to me?” That makes Gaz perk up and immediately reply, “Oh, absolutely.” Cue you both five minutes later, Gaz gaping at you while you laugh every other word, remember the horror on Ghost's face when he realized what he called you. Gaz covers his mouth with his hand, laughing into it, gripping the rail of your bed with his other hand, keeping himself up.

“He— oh my God,” Gaz laughs, trying to keep quiet so Ghost wouldn’t hear him, knowing the latter was right outside the medbay. He takes a deep breath and another before breaking into small giggles once again, making you do the same. After maybe a few more minutes of just pure laughter, Gaz manages to catch his breath and stop laughing, and you do the same. “I should probably head out now,” He says, sounding almost disappointed by the fact, glancing over at the closed curtain a few feet away from your bed. You nod in understanding and don’t say anything in response, making Gaz look back at you and add on, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow though, yeah?” “Yeah,” You confirm, making Gaz offer you a warm smile and lean down to hug you tightly one last time before getting up and walking over to the curtains, sliding them to the side and walking out, sliding them closed behind him. You hear the click open and shut of the door, as well as Gaz’s footsteps walking outside of the medbay and eventually fading into nothing.

[bibannana]

Wolffe *casually threatening the other clones in the barricks*

Rex *meeting him for the first time*: Uhh should someone stop him.

Cody *shrugs*: Nah, leave him be.

Bly *rolling his eyes*: That's just his love language

Fox *holding his arm*: It's not love if he bites me!!!

@first-light-of-the-library this is for you my dear.

Taglist: @nekotaetae @jiabae @staycalmandhugaclone @sexy-rex

[coern-art-very-cool-and-nice]

☀🌒

+alt shading colors I thought looked cool

[rexscanonwife]

Brea and Rex in 'civvies' inspired by @antisocial-mariposa!

I imagine she convinced him to sneak off to Batuu for a day to get away from everything and they're enjoying a bit of ice cream together to beat the heat! She told him he had a bit on his face but it was just an excuse to fluster him > w < ❤️💙❤️💙❤️

Taglist♡: @me-myself-and-my-fos @tiny-cloud-of-flowers @sunstar-of-the-north @dearly-beeloved @adoredbyalatus @changeling-selfship @crushes-georg @miutonium @cherry-bomb-ships @rosieaurora @rejaytionships @sunflawyer @in-true-blue-love @tropicalgothships @little-miss-selfships @hotrodharts @cupiidzbow @frozenhi-chews

[lostyesterday]

This is just personal preference and not some kind of statement about what I think is objectively better, but I really prefer Star Trek captains who struggle deeply with the moral burden of command and find themselves doing incredibly questionable things in the name of their ideals or to protect their crew and who are then filled with terrible guilt over what they’ve done while knowing they would probably make the same choices if faced with them again. So when there’s a captain who’s problems are more along the lines of worrying about balancing their interpersonal relationships and professional lives or something like that, I’m just not very interested. Starfleet captains have got to be more fucked up than that for me.

[unanchored-ship]

quick doodle for polks bday

[kelpermoosee]

we can’t let the people know that I’ve been drawing Nintendo yaoi

[diamondwerewolf]

🍒🌼✨

[frauleinsmaria]

✨ give me something that’ll haunt me when you’re not around ✨

[allgremlinart]

look at this picture of bruce at a party (source is Punchline: The Gotham Game #1)

LORD... thank you for this offering..

[tstain-is-an-idiot]

The Fine Line Between Hate and Love

Melvin Sneedley had never been thought of as a “creative” kid, despite being known as “that nerdy kid who invents things” by the rest of his classmates and teachers. Apparently, inventing things didn't count as “art”. It didn't mean he didn't enjoy art. In fact, he somewhat appreciated it, even reading the comics created by George and Harold. Though he barely understood most of the jokes written by George, it was a different story for Harold's illustrations. At first dismissing them as nothing more than childish slop he was too grown-up for, he found himself growing to admire the talent and effort put into them as the drawings slowly started improving. The anatomy and linework got better and cleaner, and the colouring went from hastily scribbled (in order to push out a new issue of whichever character the boys had fixated on that week), to carefully inked between the lines with markers, leaving no white gaps in sight.

Of course, he'd never let the two boys know he had taken an interest in their comics (particularly the artwork), instead opting to read them whenever he felt there was nobody around to judge him, mostly in his room after school. That was exactly where he was headed as soon as he'd finished up the last of his extra homework (which he'd stay after school to do in an empty classroom, occasionally peeking under the desk at the cover of the latest issue of Captain Underpants that he'd managed to snag earlier), until he heard something coming from across the hall. Melvin quickly buried the comic deep into the back of his schoolbag. Someone else was still there. He listened. It appeared to be coming from the music room. He discarded his pencil with an annoyed sigh and got up from his desk before making his way across the hall to where those horrible sounds were coming from. Closer now, he started to make out the sounds as some people messing around with the instruments that had been gathering dust for years, in particular the sounds of someone attempting to play the piano. Key word being “attempting”.

The door to the recently re-opened music room had a window, but the thick layer of dust it had accumulated over the years it had been locked shut made it difficult for Melvin to make out the figures darting about inside at a first glance. There were two of them, probably fourth-graders the same as he was, and they were darting around the room, messing around with the various instruments and laughing like hyenas at the noises they were making. Well, at least one of them was trying out seemingly every instrument. The other appeared to be sitting at the old piano, trying to figure out the notes, only stopping to giggles at the antics of their crazy friend. Melvin soon recognised the giggles as coming from Harold, meaning that the other kid in the room was probably George, Harold's partner in crime (at least, that's how he'd describe the two of them together).

He thought about going in there and telling them to shut up (because unlike some people he was trying to do his homework in peace, like they should be doing after school), but he decided he'd rather live with the cacophony they were causing than them finding him and figuring out that he read their comics. He slowly slunk back to his desk in defeat and continued his work, gritting his teeth in frustration. He waited until he heard them leaving the school grounds about an hour later (they sprinted down the hallway, as usual disobeying the many ‘’no running' signs that were plastered everywhere) before he, too, made an effort to leave school for the day.

The next week, it was the same story. George and Harold took to the music room the second the bell rang to signal the end of the school day. And then between them they would play ALL of the instruments in the room (at times sounding like they were attempting to play them all at once) for an hour or so before heading home afterwards. This would become a weekly routine for them, much to the annoyance of Melvin. Instead of engaging with the troublemakers (dealing of them for six hours of the day was bad enough as it is), he opted for bringing in earplugs and wearing them during his after-school homework sessions. They weren't the most comfortable things in the world, but anything was better than putting up with George and Harold for an extra hour every week.

A few weeks later, as Melvin had gotten accustomed to his new homework routine, it all changed. To the surprise of everyone, Harold had shown up at school George-less. Apparently George was off sick or something. Melvin scoffed. He wouldn't dream of skipping school just because he was sick. He was the type of kid who, unless he dropped down dead right at that very second, would not miss school due to something as trivial as a cold. He smirked in Harold's direction. The blonde was moping at his desk, clearly upset that his best friend wasn't there with him to joke around in whatever classes they had that day. Melvin breathed a huge sigh of relief. Today was going to be a doozy.

The bell rang at the end of an uneventful school day (thanks to half of the class' comedic duo being absent), and the kids all grabbed their stuff and left the classroom as fast as they could, because anywhere was better than school (unless of course, your name happened to be Melvin Sneedley). He took a relaxed breath as he pulled out his extra worksheets. He figured he wouldn't need the earplugs, as he assumed Harold would have bolted out of school the minute it ended so he could visit his sick friend. The first few minutes of Melvin working on his homework were the most peaceful few minutes the kid had experienced since George and Harold had discovered the art of pranking. That was how he liked it, just him and his work in complete silence. He could already taste the extra credit.

About ten minutes in, as per previous weeks, he once again picked up a sound coming from the music room, but this time it was different. Yes, it was the familiar sound of the keys of the old piano being pressed, but it was like the person playing the notes was genuinely trying to learn how to play a coherent tune. Aside from the odd wrong note and the slam of discordant keys whenever the player obviously felt that they had screwed up, whoever this mystery pianist was was actually sounding pretty good.

Curiosity got the better of him, and he once again abandoned his work to go and see exactly who was playing the piano. Aside from the few teachers who stayed behind after the school day to grade papers and host extra-curricular activities, he couldn't think of anyone else (besides himself) who would willingly stay in school after the day was done.

The door to the music room had slowly but surely began to lose it's coating of dust in those previous few weeks, due to being in constant use once again. This time, Melvin was actually able to clearly see into the room. There, sitting at the piano, trying his best to play a simple melody was none other than Harold Hutchins. The bespectacled fourth-grader let out a quick gasp before ducking out of sight and comprehending the scene he had just witnessed.

Harold playing the piano? He had no idea Harold even had the attention span to learn the piano, but no, there he was, gently pressing the keys in order to play a short but sweet little tune. Melvin let his breath catch up with him before slowly resuming his position of staring through the glass window of the door. He could see Harold's determined face as he tried over and over again to get his song just right. Melvin caught his reflection in the glass pane as he was staring at the other boy. His usually pale cheeks were gaining a little bit of colour, and he got a weird sort-of feeling in his chest. He quickly dismissed any thoughts he had in that moment and dashed back into the classroom across the hall, vowing that no matter what he would bring his earplugs in and not let some silly music distract him from the more important things he was supposed to be doing.

Unfortunately the next week, he ‘accidentally’ left them at home, meaning he once again had to be subjected to the mayhem of the music room after school. George had returned to school that week, but fortunately he had ditched his assault of the instruments in favour of brainstorming new comic ideas, so Melvin could hear the beautiful sounds of Harold's piano playing. Scratch that. They weren't beautiful. He kept telling himself that he only listened to his piano playing because it was impossible to block out the sound of it, it certainly wasn't because he enjoyed it. He'd already decided to never go near the music room after school again, but for some reason he found himself returning again. And again. The same time every week, just to hear the (mostly) delicate sounds of the piano that stood in the old music room. Was he more drawn to the melodies, or the boy playing them?

With every passing visit, that line slowly became more blurred until eventually it ceased to even exist at all. Harold really was improving each time he played, and for some reason even in class Melvin couldn't help but direct his gaze towards him when he thought no-one else was looking. It's as if the blonde had unintentionally put some sort of spell on him, causing him to gradually notice (and eventually admire) his many quirks, both physical or otherwise.

The way he'd stash coloured pencils in the curls of the absolute mess of golden hair he had. Or how when the light hit them just right, you could see that his eyes were in fact two different colours, one green and one blue, resembling the colours of the globe that sat across the class from them at the teacher's desk. How his face would light up whenever you brought up marine biology, and how he would always end up shifting the conversation towards being about dolphins. What the rest of the class failed to notice, was that just as one face sparked with joy when marine life got brought up, so did another. A freckled face, usually covered up by a book and a mildly unamused expression would light up in almost the exact same way as his vastly more popular classmate's did.

A warm feeling tickled Melvin's cheeks once again, dusting them a soft shade of pink as he recalled the smile of the boy who had somehow stolen his heart… wait, no! He didn't have a crush on Harold Hutchins of all people, did he? One of the boys who was responsible for countless pranks directed at himself and most of the school faculty, and a constant target of his tattling? That would honestly be the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to him, possibly even more so than the possibility of being found reading Captain Underpants comics, and yet there he was, blushing like an idiot over him and possibly missing out on some extra credit, just to stand in the doorway of the music room listening to him repeat the same set of notes over and over again on the piano.

George was usually blocking the way to Harold, lying down and furiously scribbling what Melvin presumed to be new ideas for their latest issue, but the ginger didn’t mind. After all, it wasn’t as if Melvin wanted to be closer to the piano.

Although, when George decided to move his usual spot, Melvin couldn’t help but notice that if he wanted to he could enter unseen. Despite their excessive use of the room, they never turned on any lights but one, possibly to not attract the principal’s attention, and he was a rather small fellow to begin with.

Without realizing it, he took a step inside, just barely across the threshold. Just like expected, the darkness engulfed him and the two remained unbothered, too busy in their heads as always. Harold was still covered in more shadows than Melvin liked, but now he was only half hidden.

As his fingers danced across the keys he softly hummed along to the tune, so quietly you would miss it if not actively searching. His singing was soft and melodic, a sharp contrast from his loud and bombastic voice Melvin was used to. It was fragile and delicate, almost as much as glass. The melody itself was upbeat and gorgeous in its own way, which fit Harold in that aspect, he mused.

Heaven knew that he had the attention span of a goldfish, yet he hadn’t taken his eyes off his hands, focusing on it more than he’d ever focused for a test. It felt almost wrong, for the boy to not glance around the room and fiddle with whatever he had on him constantly. Furthermore, his smile was small and gentle, nothing like his infuriating smirk he wore when setting a prank or successfully annoying Melvin.

Before, Melvin would believe it didn't fit on such a person, but recently he observed the same expression when talking about what he liked, sketching, or seeing a friend. Unnoteworthy, but certainly there once you looked for it (in fact, that seemed to be true with a lot of his quirks.)

He hadn’t noticed, but he slowly inched his way closer to the piano, now only a few yards away. Snapping out of his trance, he tightened his hold on the books now against his chest, turning around to leave. His homework wasn’t going to do itself, and he wouldn’t dream of letting some stupid music drag his GPA down.

He tip-toed away, cringing when a book slipped out of his grasp and clattered to the floor.

Frozen like a deer in headlights, he didn't even get to turn around before his fears were confirmed.

“Hey.”

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how would yall describe rex's speech pattern/voice. not in the literal sense of how he sounds, but how atypical/flowery his vocabulary is, how he phrases things, the length of his sentences, etc. i remember a featurette describing rex in the center of a triangle of Clones, making him like the most average (at the time) in terms of like. general behavior, etc