#little dish

[fieriframes]

[A lot going on in a little dish. Duck tongue, meatballs. Sound like a dame. The Duck Tongue Meatballs will be playing later tonight. So I'm here in downtown El Paso, Texas, right across the street from the big library]

[teaboot]

Me: I appreciate that you keep bringing me tupperware leftovers but you really really shouldn't, you're going to lose a lot of containers

My brother, handing me the 10 thousandth container of leftovers: Oh yeah I forgot to ask when are you bringing those back

Me: You don't want them back.

My brother: What did you do

Me: Better question: what did I NOT do

Him: ...

Me:

Him: Oh my god

Me: Yeah

Him: You haven't been WASHING THEM?

Me: Bruh I'll be honest I haven't even been eating most of them

Him: Oh my god

Him: I have been bringing you lunch since-

Me: Halloween

Him: OH MY GOD

Me: Yeah

Him: It's been- we JUST bought those containers

Me: I'VE BEEN TELLING YOU TO STOP

Him: WHAT THE HELL

Me: I HAVE TOLD YOU SO MANY TIMES TO STOP

Him: IF I DONT FEED YOU, YOU DONT EAT

Me: I AM AN ADULT I PACK FOOD

Him: WHAT FOOD

Me: I DONT KNOW, FUCKING. SPAGHETTI

Him: IN WHAT? IN WHAT? YOU DONT WASH YOUR FUCKING TUPPERWARE

Me: I DON'T *BUY* TUPPERWARE CAUSE I KNOW I WONT WASH IT

Him: WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU CARRY THE SPAGHETTI IN

Me: Bags

Him: What

Me: Ziplock fucking bags

Him: YOU'RE EATING SPAGETTI OUT OF BAGS

Me: IT'S LESS WASTEFUL

Him: HOW is it less wasteful? HOW?? You're throwing out a plastic bag every single day!

Me: It's better than throwing out tupperware!

Him: TUPPERWARE IS REUSABLE

Me: NOT IF YOU DONT WASH IT

Him: WHY THE FUCK NOT

Me: I DONT DO DISHES

Him: THE FUCK YOU MEAN YOU DONT DO DISHES.

Me: I hate doing dishes. You KNOW I hate doing dishes. I have ALWAYS HATED DOING DISHES you KNOW this

Him: WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN EATING OFF OF

Me: PLASTIC BAGS

Him:

Him: You're a fucking trash monster

Me: You wore the same pair of Shrek pants every day for two years

Him: When will you let that go

Me: I will never let it go

Me:

Me: ...thank you for the lasagna

[artkaninchenbau]

People keep on asking for more Baby Robin and Papadile so here is more Baby Robin and Papadile. Now never ask anything from me ever again

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

I've never been more normal in my life.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[jellyselkie]

Blue Sky Clayworks Crab Dinnerware Set

[antivancathedral]

I don't even know how to word this in a way that makes sense and I think in an overall world building sense this is a major case of "Man I think it depends" but I actually don't think Spite is a "demon".

Spirits and Demons are essentially the same, yes, and I think there's much to be said about this in in parallel to a healthy person vs a deeply traumatized person, but to quote Neve, "one is more likely to manipulate you, or kill you," etc etc.

A demon is a spirit whose purpose has been twisted. And I don't think Spite's purpose has been twisted much at all.

Determination's purpose is "accomplish my goal (whatever that may be)". Spite (the emotion)'s purpose is exactly the same, with the added benefit of "especially against the wishes of others".

I think the demonic version of Determination would be "Ruthlessness", not Spite.

Spite (the guy) is not wholly consumed by his purpose like other "demons" are. He doesn't pursue his goals at the expense of his companions. He has several other interests even if they seem a little silly (learning what tastes good, or even new forms of combat like fire). And he tells us his purpose several times...it's his promise with Lucanis! Escape, kill, and live! This goal is one of determination and it has not changed by his becoming Spite. The goal is not warped in any way even with his joining to Lucanis.

Bellara speculates as to why Spite doesn't just take Lucanis over or turn him into a nasty mound of flesh. I want to argue that this is because Spite is a named spirit, not a demon.

What's more spiteful than not allowing your captors to change you? What says fuck you to people who would use you as a tool than self-determination? What's more spiteful than being determined to be free, to fight who would enslave you, to live?

My working theory is that Spite is not a demon in the same sense as, say, Wisdom being corrupted into Pride, which twists a desire to guide, teach, or navigate situations with care into a desire to be right and unchallenged.

I think Spite is to Determination as Eulogy is to Compassion.

[nayrring]

Shinazugawa hide the tiddies!!!

[jvlianbashir]

horror movies are so much scarier when the actors look like an average sampling of the human population. and the house is a little messy

[hotshotsxyz]

this town is only gonna eat you

(buddie) (s8 spec) (1.1k) already wrote some buck-gets-hit-by-a-car spec, so how about some buck-gets-shot? kept thinking about "take eddie [to the laker's game] and die" and uh... here we are. cw: mass shooting/ gun violence (described vaguely), somewhat graphic description of a bullet wound, blood edit: now featuring a companion piece

Buck is smiling when it happens. Grinning at Eddie like he hung the fucking moon as he points out what must be the hundredth interesting play he’s seen on the court tonight. Buck’s smiling.

Eddie registers the screams before the gunfire. He smells the metallic scent of spent shell casings before he sees the shooter. He tackles Buck to the ground before he realizes he’s already hurt.

Buck was smiling, but now his face is inches from Eddie’s and his eyes are wide with pain and panic.

“Eds,” he says, and it’s barely above a whisper but it’s still too loud.

Eddie shakes his head, a tiny, sharp movement. Buck takes a shaky breath and presses his lips together. He understands. Eddie hates that he understands. Thank God he understands.

There’s something warm and wet slowly spreading between them, and it takes Eddie several wasted seconds to realize it’s blood. He’s almost completely certain it isn’t his, which—

God, that’s so much worse than if it was.

One of Eddie’s hands is still cradling Buck’s head, an instinctive act of protection before they hit the ground. With the other, Eddie slowly begins feeling his way around Buck’s abdomen. His fingers brush against torn fabric and he feels nauseous.

I’m sorry, he mouths before pressing down hard.

Buck gasps in pain. A muscle in his jaw ticks with the effort it must take him to keep from screaming.

“You’re doing so good,” Eddie breathes into Buck’s ear. “I’ve got you; I promise.”

The bullet caught him somewhere along the fifth intercostal space on the right side of his chest. Eddie doesn’t have a way to feel for an exit wound, not without letting up pressure on what he knows is there.

At best, the bullet glanced off a rib and tore through nothing but skin and muscle. At worst…

At worst, Buck is dying beneath him and there’s not a damn thing Eddie can do, not until the shooter is dead or gone. All Eddie can do is pray. Pray and hope like hell that God has forgiven him for his incomplete confession.

Another spray of gunfire echoes through the arena. It’s nearly impossible to identify where it’s coming from, but Eddie’s got a vague idea based on the direction people seem to be running in.

Buck takes a ragged, watery breath.

For the first time in his life, Eddie hopes he’s crying. He draws back, just far enough to look Buck in his eyes. His eyes, which are clouded over in pain but free from tears.

Fuck, fucking goddamn it.

Eddie presses his cheek against Buck’s.

“Slow, steady breaths, okay?” he whispers. “You have to breathe through it, even if it feels like you can’t.”

The tiniest whimper escapes Buck’s chest.

“You have to, Buck, I can’t—” Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and takes a shuddering breath. “I just need you to hold on,” he begs.

A single shot rings out, and nearby, something falls to the ground with a dull thump.

“Suspect is down!” someone shouts. “We’re clear for EMS.”

Eddie carefully extricates his hand from behind Buck’s head. “Hear that? We’re so close, Buck.” He brushes a thumb across his cheekbone, then sits up and raises his hand in the air. “Over here!” he shouts. “I’ve got a penetrating chest wound that needs to be on the first ambo out of here!”

Buck’s eyelashes flutter as he fights to stay conscious.

“Come on, eyes on me,” Eddie says.

With his free hand and his teeth, he tears a strip of fabric from his shirt to wad up and press into Buck’s wound.  The skin there is ragged and torn, almost certainly an exit wound. Eddie curses.

“I need EMS now!” Eddie roars, not tearing his eyes away from Buck for even a second.

“I’m coming to you!” someone calls back.

Buck’s eyes slip shut.

“No!” Eddie commands, rubbing his knuckles across Buck’s sternum. “You’re staying right here with me, you got it?”

Buck groans weakly. His eyes flick back open.

“That’s perfect, you’re perfect,” Eddie babbles. “Just keep—c’mon, Buck, just keep fighting. I need—you have to be okay.”

Buck’s lips part. “Hurt,” he breathes.

“I know,” Eddie says desperately, “I know it hurts, I’m sorry.”

A pained sound falls from Buck’s lips. He lifts one of his hands just high enough to ghost his fingers along the ruined hem of Eddie’s shirt.

Behind him, Eddie hears a gurney roll to a stop.

“Here!”

Eddie turns and find a young woman, no more than twenty years old, wearing a polo that declares her part of a private ambulance service. He doubts she’d weigh even a hundred pounds soaking wet.

“Alright,” he says, turning back to Buck. “I’m going to get you onto that gurney. Let me do all the work, okay?”

Buck’s eyes widen. He makes a strangled sound. “Hurt,” he coughs out again, fingers scrambling uselessly against the concrete floor of the arena.

“They’re gonna give you the good stuff at the hospital,” Eddie reassures. He lets go of Buck’s wound and pulls him into a seated position, then rolls him awkwardly onto his back. “I got you,” he says as he stands.

Eddie staggers beneath Buck’s weight but manages to get him down three rows worth of steps and onto the gurney without the young EMT’s help.

“We’re staged just outside the north entrance,” she says as she begins to push Buck toward a set of doors.

Eddie nods sharply. “He’s got a perforating chest wound, probable pulmonary laceration, and a history of pulmonary embolism. Allergic to naproxen,” he rattles off as he pushes the gurney alongside her.

“Um, okay, that’s—are you a doctor or something?” she asks.

“Firefighter,” Eddie corrects. “We both are.”

The closer they get to the exit, the harder Eddie has to work to keep pace with the EMT. He must be coming down hard as the adrenaline fades. A few spots cloud the corners of his visions. He blinks them away.

The doors to the outside fling open, revealing two paramedics from the 136.

“Diaz, is that you?” one of them asks.

The best Eddie can do is nod.

“Shit, and that’s—”

Eddie’s ears start to ring.

“Diaz, were you shot?”

No, he tries to say. One of the paramedics grabs him under the shoulders, and the other pushes his t-shirt up until—

Oh.

Huh.

He has been shot.

The paramedic in front of him is saying something, but Eddie can’t quite understand it. Over his shoulder, the EMT looks blurry and horrified.

The spots in his vision return with a vengeance, and in his last few moments of lucidity, it occurs to Eddie that the bullet in his abdomen is probably the same one that ripped through Buck’s chest.

Then, the world fades to black, and Eddie thinks nothing at all.  

[js-dragonart]

Sick Day Since it's the time of the year again where my instagram feed is flooded with memes about how everyone is getting sick and I start avoiding people even more than usual cause I almost died from pneumonia once, I got inspired to do some doodling.

I already explored the hilarity of man-flu Severus Snape in the past, so now I ventured on to man-flu Aegon (because Aemond would probably just suffer in silence).

And for the people who can't decipher my atrocious handwriting:

Top left Aemond: Still not better? Aegon: F*ck off.

Top right Servant: Is it enough blankets, your grace? Aegon: *miserable sniff

Middle Aegon: *violent sneeze Aegon: Kill me, Aemond. Aemond: Don't be so dramatic, your grace. Aegon: Your king demands it. Aemond: Let's get you back to bed. Bottom Aemond: I should be at a council meeting...I can't move. Artist's notes: 1. After drawing the picture of blanket-pile Aegon, I noticed he looks like an Onigiri. A friend of mine called him an "Aegonigiri" and I hate myself for not thinking of this joke first. 2. For the picture where he's napping on Aemond's shoulder I'd like you to imagine the most obnoxious stuffy-nose snoring. 3. I'm in love with the green and gold color scheme.

[hotluncheddie]

‘No.’ eddie says, standing from the table and puffing his chest out. Clenching one fist and holding the other up like a freaky Halloween version of a traffic warden. He brings the outstretched hand to his chest, closing his eyes for a moment. ‘Allow me.’

Steve stares at him. Stack of plates in hand, half up from the table and confused. ‘Uh’ he manages before Eddie steps over and takes the plates from Steve, their fingers brushing as eddie squishes his thumb into a leftover dollop of sauce and grips them tightly. He then hip checks Steve back into his chair and waltzes over to the sink.

‘Munson’s on dish duty I guess.’ Robin says, smirking at Steve and finishing her soda.

Steve schools his slack jaw expression, closing his mouth and going to stand again. ‘Eddie, it’s fine, really.’ But Eddie’s sudden outstretched palm stops him, has him sinking back down onto the dining room chair.

‘Stevie, please.’ Eddie says from the sink, eyes closed and head bowed. ‘You cooked, therefore, as your humble knight, I will conquer the dishes.’ And he brings his hand back to his heart again, looking up at the ceiling with reverence and verve. Side on from the table and Steve thinks he looks like a painting he saw at a Chicago art gallery Robin dragged him to. Heavenly in his light and shadows, cut from glass, shrouded in sun rays and glowing with a quiet, broken sort of intensity.

Steve clears his throat. Feels a blush run up his neck and he readjusts the legs of his jeans. Scooting his chair so he’s sitting back flush against the dining room table; he avoids Robin’s eye. ‘If you like.’ He rasps, fiddling with his used napkin, tearing off a corner and letting it flutter onto the tabletop.

Eddie does like. He turns the tap on, pouring dish soap into the filling basin before pulling Steve’s Marigolds on slowly, one at a time, as if he really is a knight - gearing up for battle.

‘Love the new look.’ Robin heckles and Eddie flashed her a grin before going back to serious; pulling at the gloves one last time and tuning the tap off with a flourish. Then he stalks back over to the table, Legs long and striding, arms bowed slightly from his body with adrenaline filled tension.

He steps up to the side of Steve’s chair, looming over him, tilting Steve’s head up slowly with one bright yellow, slightly damp finger under his chin. ‘Rest now, my leige.’ He murmurs lowly, reverently, gazing down at him before dipping to place a slow, soft kiss on Steve’s lips.

A embarrassing, needy, wounded sort of sound, whine, extracts its self from Steve’s throat. Chest heaving and throat bobbing as Eddie smiles at him softly, stepping away again to scoop up the remaining glasses and utensils in his capable, rubbery, hands.

‘…Your boyfriend is weird dude.’ Robin says from across him, eyeshrows raised and the corners of her mouth dropped in pinched distaste. Her eyes dancing with glee.

‘Yeah.’ Steve breaths, voice reedy and he blinks a few times, his fingers feeling tingly and numb, all of him syrupy and slow moving. His boyfriend is a freak.

And Steve has never once felt so loved.

(Tag list (open): @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @pearynice @scoops-aboy86 @tangerinesteve @marvel-ous-m

@cheesedoctor @chickensinrainboots )

[florallylly]

less steve harrington "i try to be a good guy despite my past" and more steve harrington "i've always been a good person (albeit probs annoying asf), you just stereotyped me based on my interest in sports"

[emmaziadarcy]

It is your way, is it not? When something does not please you, you run.

[handweavers]

made bulgogi and spun some cotton today and didn't realize until after i took these pictures that the colour palettes match omg

[tributary]

nah man that’s not me sympathizing with the uhc ceo that’s simply being sexy as always and correct. everything reverts to the mean unless you boil the frog, and you’re proud of the fact that you don’t even know how to use the stove.

[ventique18]

Anyway here's the initial sketch of Farmer MalleYuu that inspired me to start developing a farming game. 🥔🥕🐮🐥 They just make me so happy tbh

It's my last semester in uni I'm trying to hold onto my remaining sanity