#writing at work while I wait on things

[solarmorrigan]

Silly idea I talked about ages ago with @azure7539arts, inspired by a similar event my workplace hosts every year. Would minors be allowed to participate in such an event? Probably not! But then again, it was the 80s, who can say for sure. Anyway, it's my birthday and I'll post nonsense if I want to <3

-

“I need you to buy me.”

Eddie looks up from his notebook, effectively jarred from his campaign-plotting fugue state by Steve’s declaration.

Steve is standing at the other end of the dining table, staring at him expectantly.

“Y’know, this is the part where someone usually follows up their completely bonkers demand with an explanation,” Eddie says slowly.

“At the charity auction,” Steve clarifies. “I need you to bid on me, and I need you to win.”

Ah, yes, that weird Rent-an-Athlete charity auction the school runs every year; anyone on any Hawkins High sports team could volunteer to be “auctioned” off in order to raise money for said sports team, to spend a day at the beck and call of the highest bidder (within reason, supposedly). It’s generally restricted to students, but occasionally, prominent alumni are invited to participate – and Steve certainly fits the bill, especially after the story the government spun about his heroism in the face of “serial killer” Henry Creel last spring.

“And what, deny all those pretty girls a chance to get at you?” Eddie asks drily (he’d never turned up at previous auctions himself, but you could hardly avoid gossip in a school their size; it had usually been some cheerleader bidding with daddy’s money who won a date– that is, a day with Steve Harrington).

“It wasn’t always a girl who won,” Steve says, crossing his arms over his chest. “One time it was Mrs. Dalton – you know, the lady on the school board who lives on my block? I just spent the day doing yard work for her. She gave me lemonade. That was pretty cool.”

“Right,” Eddie drawls. “And I’m sure she definitely didn’t sit outside and stare at your ass while you were working.”

“She did not– she– I mean she was on the porch, but, like– she wouldn’t have– she’s, like, seventy, Eddie,” Steve splutters, and it’s all Eddie can do not to laugh.

“Older gals have needs, too, Steve,” Eddie says, giving in to a smirk. “So she was checking you out from the porch, huh?”

Steve goes red. “Shut up, that isn’t the point. I’m trying to ask for your help.”

“Right, right, your absolutely reasonable request for me to buy you at market. Why, again?” Eddie asks.

“The kids are planning to bid on me,” Steve says gravely.

Eddie blinks at him. “Okay?” he says, when no further explanation is forthcoming. “You basically do most of what they ask, anyway, so…?”

“Okay, believe it or not, I actually say no to at least half of what they ask me to do. I would literally never get anything done if I gave in to all their demands.” Steve jabs a finger at Eddie, who holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Anyway, this is all Henderson’s fault.”

“It usually is,” Eddie agrees, nodding sagely.

“He decided that he was going to bid on me and then use that day to finally make me play your nerd game with you–” Eddie snorts, and Steve shoots him a look, “but Wheeler doesn’t want me to play, so he said he was going to bid against Dustin and make me do anything but sit in on a session with you guys.”

“So let Wheeler win.” Eddie shrugs.

“No! I can’t let fuckin’ Mike win, he’ll probably make me do something even more ridiculous!” Steve exclaims. "He’ll make me play chauffeur for him and El on a date, or something, and he’ll probably include the stupid hat.”

“Wait, I thought El broke up with him,” Eddie breaks in.

“No, they’re on again,” Steve says absently, shaking his head. “Which is why Max has been in a bad mood lately.”

Eddie bites back the reflexive need to ask “How can you tell?”, going instead with, “I thought she and Sinclair were on again.”

“No, they are. That’s why no one’s been actively murdered,” Steve says.

“How do you keep track of all of this?” Eddie asks, squinting at Steve.

“It’s a natural skill. And we’re getting off track,” Steve says quickly. “Normally, I wouldn’t be that worried, because Dustin regularly blows his savings on weird science gadgets or whatever, but then Lucas and Will started taking sides.”

“This is getting very involved,” Eddie says.

“So you see why I’m stressed!” Steve insists, smacking a hand to his forehead (personally, Eddie thinks Steve is stressed for many other reasons, but he figures pointing that out just now won’t be appreciated). “Lucas is on Dustin’s side, and that kid does odd jobs like nobody’s goddamn business; he actually has shit saved up. And usually I’d have faith in him being more, like, sensible than to spend it all on this, but the little shit is really fucking competitive.”

“Wonder who he got that from?” Eddie mutters.

“Okay, we do remember that I’m not actually biologically related to any of these idiots, right?” Steve snaps.

“Well now we’re just getting into nature versus nurture–”

“Eddie.”

“Right, sorry, continue.”

“Well, Will took Mike’s side–”

“Shocking.”

“Right? But anyway, I don’t know if the kid has much saved up, but between him and Wheeler, they might be able to win.” Steve sighs, looking far more world-weary than Eddie feels the situation really warrants.

“You know you don’t actually have to do what they ask you to, right?” Eddie points out.

Steve rolls his eyes. “If an auction winner complains to the school that the person they bid on didn’t fulfill their end of the bargain, they can get their money back. It’s a whole…” he waves his hand vaguely, “thing. Happened once when I was a sophomore; Deacon McNab. Lost a good chunk of change for the football team, and they vandalized the shit out of his car.”

“Ah, right. Forgot we went to school with literal psychopaths,” Eddie hums.

“So, I just need you to bid on me and win, so I’m not stuck wasting a Saturday on whatever the hell the kids are going to try to make me do. Or not do. Or– whatever,” Steve says.

“Okay, not that I don’t understand your predicament here, but I think you’re forgetting something kind of important, Steve,” Eddie drawls.

Steve’s brows draw together in question. “What?”

“I’m fucking poor.”

“Oh.” Steve shakes his head. “I didn’t mean– no, I will give you the money, you don’t have to spend a dime, man, I just need you to get me out of this.”

“Why not have Buckley do it?” Eddie asks.

“That was Plan A, but she actually has a date that night, and it’s kind of a big deal, so I don’t want her to cancel,” Steve says. “But I assumed you wouldn’t be busy.”

“Wow, rude,” Eddie scoffs, and Steve sighs.

“Fine, sorry, I just really hoped you wouldn’t be busy.” Steve gives him the most lethal set of puppy dog eyes Eddie has ever seen, as if there had been any chance from the beginning that he’d be able to say no. “Please?”

Just for show, Eddie lets out a long sigh, falling against his chair and letting his head flop over the backrest like he’s deflating.

“Fine.”

“Thank you,” Steve groans, sounding so genuinely relieved that Eddie almost feels bad about how quickly his thoughts dip into the realms of the inappropriate. “Oh my god, I owe you.”

Eddie glances back up at Steve, tongue darting out to wet his lips almost unconsciously. “You know I’m not as easy to appease as a couple of fifteen-year-olds, right?”

Steve’s eyes drop for just a second—maybe down to Eddie’s lips, maybe not; who can say?—before he looks back up, cocking an eyebrow at Eddie. “I think I can handle it.”

Slowly, Eddie grins. “We’ll see.”

[tea-cat-arts]

Shen Yuan getting transported into pidw isn't "the system punishing him for being a lazy internet hater," but instead representative of "step 1 of the creative process: getting so mad at something you decide to go write your own fucking book" in this essay I will

[soyboywenzie]

anyways…

[coolnonsenseworld]

Samurai and Ninja in crappy pics because December here is under a constant cloud and I just want y'all to see them all golden and cute without learning how to take aesthetic pictures 🥴 💙❤️😆🥰

linktr.ee/Mezzy

[moralcandy]

fifteen things that don't come back, by charlie slimecicle:

number one. the paper airplane you and your daughter throw at your husband while his back is turned in the kitchen, the two of you hiding behind the counter as you snicker quietly when he stops humming and yelps a curse as he turns around with a faux angry expression and a poorly-hidden smile.

number two. the glass your daughter broke trying to grab it from the cabinet on her tippy-toes. you didn't look over until you heard the glass shatter against the kitchen floor, too preoccupied with grabbing the jug of cold orange juice from the fridge to notice until it was too late. golden, afternoon sunlight shone warmly on the both of you from the open window as you swept it up while she stood to the side with a sheepish expression.

number three. your husband's soft shirt he let you borrow when you said you couldn't find your own but really you just quickly shoved yours under the bed when he wasn't looking. you absently noted that it smelled like him. your lips curved into a slight smile without input. your foot shoved your shirt under the bed a little bit farther.

number four. the pictures you took of your daughter and niece, hugging eachother as they posed for the camera, the photo incinerated into ash when you blew up your house. you frantically dug through your daughter's chest afterwards, soot covering your hands as you searched for the photograph. you did not find it.

number five. your niece.

number six. the feeling of a cold glass of wine held tipsily in your hand, the waterdrop of condensation slipping down the glass at the same pace your tears did down your cheeks. you downed the alcohol until there was nothing left except a burning feeling and a lump in your throat. the bartender did not give you another drink.

number seven. your friend, the one who used to laugh hysterically with you as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders before he began to scream at you while he wrapped his hands around your neck. he pushed you into the dirt, the metallic taste of blood in your mouth and the feeling of wet dirt on your skin as you absently question whether the water dripping on your face was the rain or the tears slipping down your friend's face. you know that was the funeral of your children, but you think both of the real 'you's died that day, too.

number eight. the warm, rumbling feeling of laughter in your chest as a smile hurts your cheeks, the sensation long gone. your mouth, for a moment, twitches into a small smile at the memory of the feeling.

number nine. the feeling of hands on your own, your husband's warm hands intertwined with yours as your cold, golden rings clink against eachother. your daughter's tiny hand clasped around yours as she leads you to a butterfly she found, grass brushing your ankles as you walk.

ten. the sound of your daughter's amused laughter, snorts interrupting occasionally. her head leans back as she giggles, her eyes scrunched up in happiness.

eleven. the sound of your husband's soothing voice, lilting with fondness as he looks at you. a smile absently crosses his face as he speaks, audible in his voice. you always remember smiling back.

twelve. your golden wedding band your husband lovingly slipped onto your ring finger so long ago, the one you furiously tossed into a dusty corner with particularily bad aim. you blame the poor aim on the tears blurring your vision, but it could've been the alcohol, really.

thirteen. your husband. you try to go to sleep in the center of your bed now, knowing that he won't be there. when you wake up, you always find yourself on the left side of the bed, as if you've moved in your sleep to accommodate someone. you scowl and think that your asleep self should stop being so stupid. ..you make the bed just in case he really does decide to come back.

fourteen. your daughter. whenever you make yourself breakfast now, you keep accidentally making two bowls, the muscle memory automatic, familiar, and no longer needed. you sit down at the table and set the bowls and begin to eat, but you always end up just stirring the cereal with your spoon as you stare at the untouched bowl across from you. you always end up throwing them both away. without your input, a frown tugs slightly at your lips as your pour out the second bowl but you know that nobody else was even here to eat it anyway. your eyes burn.

fifteen. your daughter, the one you know isn't the real one. sometimes you walk down those train tracks where you found her, hoping she'll be here this time. she never is. ..you still keep checking, just in case.

[unknownarmageddon]

Bathroom Sink

kross drabble thing, i didn’t do as much editing as i usually do but im happy enough with it as is i think

rental suits belongs to me and @psycho-chair

Cross was startled awake four hours before his alarm to the scraping of a window in his living room being forced open.

Sloppily forced open, and closed again, with a struggle, like whoever it was was hurrying. Hurrying desperately, erratically. He can’t remember being woken up like this before. Killer was too smooth, too undetectable. Too quiet. 

        The storm of a single person’s footsteps stumbled heavily through his apartment. The bathroom door was jerked open, and then slammed closed. 

        Cross laid there a minute. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell, shuddering with his quick breathing. Nothing about this sit right.

    The bathroom sink turned on suddenly. And if he could hear it this clearly from here, it was on strong. 

        He ripped sheets off of him and slid off his bed. He stormed, rushed, the short way through the apartment to the bathroom. There was blood on the floor.

There was blood on the floor.

    Red spots dotted a lazy, haphazard trail to the bathroom. 

That fucking idiot. 

     What was wrong with him, why did he keep doing this. Why did he keep doing this to Cross. 

      Cross didn’t stop. Before he could think about what he would find on the other side, he jerked the bathroom door open like he was trying to pull it off its hinges.

       All he saw was blood. There was blood on the counter, in the sink, on the floor, soaked into the small rectangular rug under the sink, slathered on the sink’s knobs. God, it was allover the counter. The swirl of water in the sink bowl ran red, and the crimson on the counter puddled with the liquid. A single messy handprint of blood was pressed and half smeared into the mirror. Some of it was even on the fucking walls, streaked in even messier handprints. 

          It was everywhere. In crevices Cross didn’t want to even think about.

         Killer hunched over the sink. He was propped against the wall on his shoulder, leaning and almost sliding down it. He held that arm wrapped around his torso to grip at his side. 

         Much like the state of the bathroom, he was bad, and bloody. It flowed from his nose, his mouth, dirtied his partially torn jacket. It was splattered on every article of clothing he wore. The void-like tar from his sockets was practically pouring out of his eyes, dripping down his chin and leaking out of his nose, mingling with blood. His face was busted to hell and back. His ribs probably were, too, with the way he was holding himself. Either that or he’d been stabbed. 

        He looked like a crime scene, a gruesome one. He coughed and hung directly over the sink’s bowl. A string of red dripped into it from his lips like syrup. His breathing was ragged, and his soul was like an unstable supernova; it fizzled and spun uncharacteristically rapidly. 

      It was something straight out of a overdramatic horror film, and Cross almost wanted to laugh just as much as he wanted to vomit. 

Again.

He inhaled, then exhaled, shakily.

    Maybe it wasn’t as bad as the last time he did this, but in that moment Cross didn’t even fucking care. There was still blood coating his bathroom that he’d have to clean up, and it was too late for this again. 

At least Killer was actually awake this time. 

“Killer,” Cross breathed. His right hand clenched.

    Killer turned to look at him and grinned his stupid grin when they met eyes. Though, this one was more of an ironic sneer. 

“Most of it’s not mine.” Killer rasped.

“What the hell did-“

“Ran into some trouble at work,” Killer replied. He winced as he said it, and spat another string of blood into the sink. 

“‘m fine.” 

“No, you’re not.” Cross argued, stepping farther into the room toward the sink, and him. 

“I said most of it isn’t mine.” 

“You still look like shit.” 

Killer grimaced. “Thanks.” 

      Killer fumbled to quickly pry off one of his fingerless gloves and it came away with sticky red strings. It sounded wet when it hit the counter. He started on the other, and struggled, slipped against the counter, fought with his shifting conscious state.  

      Cross immediately went to him, grabbing his wrist and roughly pulling, ripping, the glove off for him. Like he was tearing fabric, or flesh. He absently threw it onto the counter with the other, and started stripping Killer of his jacket. He was firm, and deliberate. Like a wolf taking its packmate’s prey. He gripped Killer’s arms maybe too tight, forced them out of the way, held his wrists in place. Killer staggered when he was pulled away from the wall.

      Cross didn’t aim to hurt, far from it, but he was tired and fed up and he knew if he didn’t just do it himself Killer would make this difficult. 

“Woah, woah! Don’t get too excited, I’m kinda in the middle of somethin’ here.” Killer drawled, stepping backward away from Cross and grinning that lopsided grin. 

“Shhh, shut up.” Cross hissed. 

     By the time he got the jacket off, his hands were already coated in a layer of blood, as was the ends of his sleeves. He wondered whose it was, if most of it truly wasn’t Killer’s. Whose blood did he have on his hands, whose blood was smeared all over his bathroom. It made his soul twist to think that he didn’t know, could’t ever know.

     Cross began doing the same as he did for the jacket for Killer’s shirt, just as rough, but only got halfway before he paused, and lingered. There was a slash along the top of his pelvis that grazed spine and a few bottom-most ribs. It was bleeding steadily. Cross’s grip tightened on fabric, then he let go and pushed past him in favor of the tub.

“I’m running a bath.” Cross said.

     And he did. Despite himself, despite everything in him screaming that he didn’t owe Killer this much trouble, or anything, he ran a bath. He heard shuffling as Killer managed to pull his shirt over his head, and he glanced back.

“All of it. Nothing’s coming off otherwise.” He said. “And we’ll have to wash them.”

“Fuck, pretty boy, didn’t know you had it in you.” Killer quipped from the other side of the room with mock surprise. Everything he said was tinged with fatigue.

Cross gripped the side of the tub.

    Regardless, Killer still discarded the rest of it, as well as kicked off his shoes, and his clothes became a pile on the floor. Sticky wet footsteps padded unevenly over tile, then he was beside Cross. 

      Cross didn’t look at him, not fully, not enough to see him. He grabbed him by the shoulders and half-pushed, half-lowered him into the tub. 

        Then he started scrubbing, face screwed up and brows furrowed with focus. He’d sponge off a limb, then plunge it back into the water. It was fresh, so it came off easily, at least. 

It was fresh…

     It smelled practically smotheringly metallic this close to Killer. 

      The bath quickly became red-tinted as blood seeped and washed off of Killer’s body, and the soap suds on Cross’s sponge turned pink.

“You keep doing this.” Cross murmured.

“Sorry about your carpet.” Killer replied, quietly, but still with that stupid hint of amusement. 

Cross kept his eyes on his sponge. He gradually scrubbed harder, like he was going to scrub Killer’s bones raw. “It’s always me.”

“You expect me to go anywhere else?” Killer replied sarcastically.

Cross exhaled through his nose. 

    He saw Killer’s body recoil, saw him wince almost weakly, at how hard he was scrubbing now. Cross immediately was tanged by faint guilt, despite how much part of him thought Killer deserved it for fucking up his bathroom. Cross paused to roll up his sleeves, and when he started scrubbing again, he wasn’t as rough. 

       The knuckles on Killer’s left hand were busted and bruised, but other than that the shear amount of blood on his hands wasn’t his. He was bruised what felt like everywhere, especially his face and his side. They weren’t bad. He might get a black eye, but they weren’t bad. 

     Some ribs were cracked, and he had other numerous minor cuts, but the worst injury he appeared to have was the gash on his torso. 

The gash. Cross had to do something about that.

     He emptied and refilled the tub once, and quickly, thoroughly, finished ridding Killer’s bones of the grime.

      He found himself getting surprised at how quiet Killer had gotten. Normally he’d expect more from him than this. It was like he had receded into his own mind, or like he didn’t have the energy to keep up his facade. 

“…Does it hurt?” Cross asked quietly. “To talk, I mean.”

“I’ll live.” Killer replied, which Cross took as a yes.

     Eventually Cross decided he’d done what he could, so he drained the tub a final time, and gripped Killer’s arm to assist him to his feet.

      They passed the dark, bloody pile that was Killer’s clothes, and Cross glanced at them. He’d deal with the rest of it eventually. 

        Killer leaned against Cross and staggered beside him as Cross took him to the living room. He was light; it hardly felt like Cross was even supporting anyone at all. And he was cold, even after a warm bath. He’d always ran cold, though, Cross knew that. 

        He sat Killer on the couch and left to hunt down the first aid kit. He managed to find it, detoured to quickly wash at least some of the blood off his hands in the kitchen sink, then he returned to Killer.

          He ripped the kit open, found what he needed, and his vision tunneled. He dealt with the gash first. After an inspection he decided it wasn’t that deep, thankfully. Swiftly, he pressed a wad of gauze into it and wrapped it. He relaxed, glad to have that done with. He didn’t realize he’d been that tensed. 

         He started with the rest. He wrapped cracks, applied disinfectant ointment. He kept finding new wounds; some fresh, but most were old and scarred. While he worked he didn’t fully see Killer, like when you’re so focused on a drawing you can’t see the full picture, only the stroke right in front of you. 

     But when he was wrapping the knuckles of Killer’s left hand he looked up, and saw him. He was holding a handful of now-bloody gauze to his nose with his free hand. His eyes felt more vacant than usual, and he was staring directly at Cross with an expression that he couldn’t read as any specific emotion in particular. 

     He looked better now, at least. Less like some maddened, bloody monster. That part had just receded for the time being. 

     Cross let his eyes linger on him a moment. His soul tugged. He could feel how startlingly cold Killer’s hands were in his, hear the fast whirring of his soul. His bones were still too thin.

     Cross wondered what he used to do before he knew him. Who else has had their apartment broken into in the ungodly hours of the night, who else has had their bathroom turned red. Who did he go to. Was there even anyone? Or did he just ride it out in some dark corner in an alley somewhere, like an animal looking for a hidden place to die?

This was all so absurd, Cross realized.

“You likin’ something you see?” Killer managed after Cross had apparently been staring for long enough, and for a moment he looked a bit more like how Cross was used to. 

“You’re helping me clean the bathroom.” Cross said matter-of-factly, and looked back down at Killer’s hand. 

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

hey remember that caramel-carmel Fake Script i was writing? yeah it's technically not done but i'm tired of tinkering with it so here it is! we'll just say it's a uhhhh uncovered partial script or somethin

this is not in any way official! it's a 100% unaffiliated fanwork & i am Just Fucking Around for Funsies

~

BARNABY: oh, I love carmul!

FRANK: [long, disgusted pause] …what? 

BARNABY: Carmul! You know, those tasty little treats you’re holdin’!

FRANK: You mean caramel?

BARNABY: That’s what I said.

FRANK: [scoffs] No, you didn’t. You said carmul.

BARNABY: We’re sayin’ the same thing here.

FRANK: We absolutely are not!

JULIE: [giggles] You really aren’t.

BARNABY: Carmul, caramel, tomato, tomahto! What does it matter!

FRANK: [flustered, stammering] It - it matters! Julie, you agree with me, don’t you?

JULIE: Well… I don’t know, Frank! I think both are fun!

FRANK: You’re both wrong, then! Wally, you agree with me, don’t you?

WALLY: [hesitant] …I say carmul.

FRANK: No! Not you too! How could you poison him like this, Barnaby?

BARNABY: Don’t look at me! I’m innocent, honest!

FRANK: Ha! So you admit that carmul is the wrong pronunciation!

BARNABY: [groans] ah, geez… throw a dog a bone!

FRANK: I’d be delighted to if you’d just-

[distant yelp as Eddie trips off-screen] 

FRANK: Eddie! Thank goodness, finally someone who can put an end to this debate!

EDDIE: [nervous laugh] Oh no, what did I stumble into this time? 

BARNABY: Hold on a tic, Frank. Hey Ed, take this. What do you call that tasty treat?

EDDIE: [with a tinge of fear] A… caramel?

FRANK: [triumphant] a-HA!

SALLY: [approaching] Did someone mention carmul?

FRANK: AGH!

BARNABY: [delighted] Perfect timing, Sally!

SALLY: What, for a delicious morsel? Hand it over, thank you!

FRANK: You’re all wrong, and I’ll prove it! We’re going to go around the neighborhood and - wait. [under his breath] One two three four - [returns to normal volume] we’re taking this to Poppy’s!

BARNABY: Then Home, then Howdy, yeah yeah - might as well ask the daisies, too.

JULIE: Oooh, and the butterflies! 

SALLY: While we’re at it, we should phone everyone in the book, just to get the widest audience input.

FRANK: [unamused] You all think you’re so funny. 

EDDIE: Well, you gotta admit it’s… it’s… 

[brief, tense pause. Eddie clears his throat]

EDDIE: It’s perfectly sensible!

[Frank makes an affronted noise]

FRANK: Poppy will see sense.

-

POPPY: I’d be delighted to have a cah-mehl, but I’m afraid it-

FRANK: [aghast, truly astonished] You’re joking. You have to be joking. CAH-MEHL? Does no one in this town have sense?! Besides Eddie, of course. And Julie - on a technicality.

EDDIE: [oddly pleased] Why thank you. 

POPPY: My goodness, did- did I say it wrong?

BARNABY: [gleeful] Not in the least, Pops!

SALLY: As far as I’m concerned, you added an extra layer of… pizazz to the word. In fact, I may adjust my own pronunciation accordingly!  

POPPY: [flustered] Oh, well, I didn’t - don’t change on my account -

SALLY: Take the compliment, Poppy. 

POPPY: [meekly] Thank you.

[Sally wanders from the group, practicing the slightly adjusted pronunciation]

WALLY: I’m not sure I understand. What’s wrong with carmul or… care… mul… carmel…

POPPY: Don’t strain yourself dear, you’ll get a migraine.

FRANK: What’s wrong is that it’s ENTIRELY incorrect! It! Is! Pronounced! Caramel!

JULIE: Aww, Frank, I’m sure Home and Howdy will agree with us! Team Caramel, WOOO!

BARNABY: [barely restrained disbelief] Boy, won’t they! 

POPPY: I’m not sure what the fuss is about… there isn’t much of a difference, is there?

[Frank makes a high pitched, frustrated noise and stomps off. He can be heard calling Home’s name in the background]

JULIE: Oop, there he goes!

POPPY:  Oh - oh dear. I didn’t mean to rile him up.

BARNABY: Don’t twist your beak about it - Frank’s just bein’ Frank. Now if you’ll excuse us, I wanna see how it goes with Home.

WALLY: [quietly, thoughtful] But Home doesn’t talk like us…

POPPY: If you’re sure… Do let me know how it goes. 

SALLY: [swaying back to the group] I’ll phone you post-haste! Or even better, I can come by for one of your delicious muffins and regale you with the whole escapade, in detail.

POPPY: [audibly pleased] That sounds - well that sounds like a wonderful idea! I have some fresh from this morning-

BARNABY: Sounds great! See you around, Poppy.

-

FRANK: Home, I have an important question to ask you. Is the correct pronunciation for this candy ‘carmul’, or ‘caramel’? One creak for caramel, two for the incorrect carmul.

BARNABY: Talk about a bias…

[Home stays silent. Sally yawns.]

FRANK: One creak for caramel, two-

[Home slowly shuts their curtains]

FRANK: Hmph! The nerve… well, I suppose a house that can’t speak shouldn’t have a say, anyway.

WALLY: Home can speak. He just does it differently.

BARNABY: And I’m pretty sure they just agreed with me, Walls, an’ Sally.

JULIE: They did not!

BARNABY: Looked like it to me!

SALLY: I have to agree with Julie. Home just declared itself a neutral party, and so the vote can’t be counted either way. On to Howardson!

JULIE: Yes! Howdy! Our last hope!

FRANK: He may have terrible taste in company, but he’s a sensible businessman. Poppy and Home have let me-

JULIE: Us!

FRANK: -us down, but surely Howdy will back us up. 

BARNABY: [faux-serious tone, knows something they don’t] Absolutely. Without a doubt.

-

[store bell chimes]

HOWDY: Howdy-do - [brief pause, a tinge of surprise] everyone! My my, what brings the entire neighborhood to my bountiful bodega? Finally decided to clean me out for good?

BARNABY: [snorts] With how fast you restock? I think I’d break my funnybone!

FRANK: We have important business.

HOWDY: [mildly curious] Do we? That’s news to me! But I’m letting you know now that I don’t deal in bugs, Frankly. It’d be hypocritical. 

FRANK: Believe me, I wish I were here to talk insects. Unfortunately, I need to settle a score. Mr. Dear, if you would?

EDDIE: If I would what?

SALLY: [stage-whisper] Barnabello gave you the, ah, parcel earlier?

EDDIE: The…? Oh! Oh, right - I have it right here, just… give me a second… which pocket…? There we go.

[sound of a small, hard candy placed on the countertop] 

HOWDY: A carmul all for me? You shouldn’t have! No, really, you shouldn’t have. I’m on the clock.

BARNABY: [loud bark of laughter] I knew I could count on you, pal! So what’s the tally, Frankie?

[Frank mutters something inaudible]

BARNABY: What was that? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of me bein’ right!

FRANK: [explosive] You’re all wrong! The correct pronunciation is caramel, CARAMEL! You’re all - you’re all just - heathens! Heathens, I say! I’m taking my company elsewhere! 

EDDIE: Mr. Frankly…

JULIE: [overlapping, following] Aw, c’mon Frank! 

[the door jingles. Julie and Frank’s hushed arguing in the doorway underlies the dialogue]

HOWDY: It sounds like I missed quite the context! Mind filling me in?

BARNABY: That was pretty much it; a real potato potahto argument.

HOWDY: If you say so, Barn. Speaking of potahtos-

[the background argument abruptly cuts off, the door jingles again as it's closed]

FRANK: [rapidly rejoining the group] Hold it! You don’t really say potahto, do you?

BARNABY: [under breath] Here we go again…

SALLY: [deeply amused] Where on Earth did you pick up such a butchered pronunciation? I must have missed the sign on my tour down from the heavens.

EDDIE: [baffled, underlying the dialogue] I’ve never heard anyone say it that way.

JULIE: Oh! Is it a joke? Like, Barnaby says potato-potahto, and then you jokingly say potahto to make us laugh? 

HOWDY: It’s not a joke. That’s how it’s said.

FRANK: [genuinely disturbed] No - no one says that. It’s potato.

HOWDY: Well I say potahto, thank you very much! And if you ever want one from my store again, you’d do well to accept that.

[Various grumbles of reluctant acceptance]

HOWDY: Good. Now, can I get any of you a refreshing drink after such a squall? You must be parched! 

WALLY: I wouldn’t mind a glass of mulk.

[Horrified silence. A pin drop would be deafening]

[Sudden uproarious and overlapping argument]

[mllekurtz]

i'm just. taking a break from work and thinking about the fact that it's been almost two years since the c2 finale and that campaign still has me in a chokehold. i still think about the wizards all the time, which shouldn't surprise anyone but it's still remarkable. just taking a little moment to be in my feelings about them on main, nothing to see here

[a-dumb-sarcastic-bisexual]

A long list of Clone Wars headcanons just cause

Sometimes Ahsoka will get the zoomies and how she handles that energy is roughhousing with Anakin who's more than willing to participate 

It becomes a show for the 501 because seeing the small togruta tackle the lanky ass nightmare that is Anakin Skywalker to the floor is hilarious 

They are both guilty of not knowing their strength so some people (cough cough Obi-Wan cough cough) caution them against it they don’t really listen tho which has resulted in some pretty hilarious injuries 

One of those injuries happened when they were playing around and Ahsoka shouldered Anakin so abruptly that he fell back on him tailbone and got the wind knocked out of him she sat by his side laughing her ass off

It took her an unreasonable amount of time to realize he was in pain and when she did she started apologizing like crazy she still gets embarrassed when people bring it up and still apologizes years later

There was another time when Ahsoka turned her back to Anakin when they were roughhousing and he pushed her so hard that she almost fell off of the landing platform they were standing on

He snatched her up by the stomach while muttering “I’m so sorry” and then he started frantically checking to make sure he didn’t seriously hurt her while Ahsoka laughed so hard she swears to this day that she pulled something 

Unfortunately when the laughter stopped she did realize she managed to sprain her wrist and when Anakin found he helped her wrap it

You’d think that they’d learn from these incidents but nope they still play fight like two big dogs 

Even tho Anakin and Ahsoka’s place is pretty clean it’s never really quiet there’s always gotta be some kinda noise 

Sometimes it’s Ahsoka’s music playing loudly in her room, sometimes it’s a holomovie in the living room, and sometimes it’s just them bickering in the kitchen

It doesn’t matter what it is it’s never truly quiet even at night there’s a small amount of noise from Anakin’s snoring (which he denies) and Ahsoka’s purring thing (which she also denies) 

As crazy as it sounds the people closest to them will admit that their noise is strangely comforting  

Anakin and Ahsoka are so freaking similar that it turns heads sometimes they’ll say something the other said but they’ve never heard like “This is where the fun begins” 

It’s stopped Obi-Wan in his tracks before it kinda freaks him out and worries him a little bit but it also puts a small smile on his face when the duo says the same thing at the same time

They’re also able to predict how the other will react once Ahsoka was teaching the clones tricks with her saber and they broke it they felt terrible but they were also terrified about Anakin’s reaction 

Ahsoka was the only calm one in the room and explained to the group that Anakin would pretend to be pissed for about an hour but then he’d “calm down” and ask for the parted to fix it and by that time rolled around she’d already have his favorite holo prepped and food from Dex’s

They listened to her with a healthy amount of skepticism and were happily surprised to find out the next day that she was right  

There was another time when Anakin and Obi-Wan decided to buy Ahsoka her favorite boba to soften the blow that she wasn’t gonna go on a mission Anakin told Obi-Wan that she’d be happy for a minute before asking what happened and he was right 

When Ahsoka got closer to Anakin the clones and everyone else she showed her secret passion for acting like she doesn’t know them in public when they piss her off

It worked a couple of times and one of those times Rex almost got arrested because the officer didn’t believe that they were the commander and captain of the 501st Rex didn’t blame the dude because he couldn’t prove it without Ahsoka’s help and she refused to back him up

Ahsoka finally dropped the act when the cuffs came out but she was still kinda reluctant

She did agree to take a break from that prank and she stopped doing it entirely when Obi-Wan had to bail Anakin out of jail (she bought a lot of boba for a very long time to make up for that one)

They will reference the prank occasionally by asking each other at random points in the day “Do I know you?” 

Like sometimes they’ll be out and Anakin will ask “Have we met before?” most of the time Ahsoka will answer “No actually we haven’t” (this girl is wearing his cloak he’s wearing one of her headwraps and his arm is resting on her head) 

Sometimes Padme will make a big deal of taking Anakin and Ahsoka out to do something just the three of them

Whenever Padme and Anakin show the smallest form of affection towards each other Ahsoka makes a big deal about gagging Anakin makes a bigger deal of “evening it out” 

Like if he kisses Padme and Ahsoka gags he’ll grab her and give her a big smooch on the forehead and then like the little shit that he is he’ll whip his lips calling her greasy

She gets him back by whipping the spit off her forehead with his robes (and also backhanding him which Padme kindly ignores)

Padme will sometimes tease her too like if she grabs Anakin’s hand then she’ll link arms with Ahsoka and make a small comment like “There now you’re even”

Sometimes Ahsoka will get them both back in the moments when they check on each other first she’ll make a big deal about saying “Well kriff me I guess” even if she doesn’t have a scratch on her 

Both Anakin and Padme will make a big deal about checking her for injuries with a couple of comments like “Oh my poor little padawan you have a scratch from training last night how did you cope”

I said in my first post that Ahsoka and Anakin have a playlist and I love the idea that they have different titles for them like “Obi-Wan’s least favorite playlist” “get ready to kick seppie’s ass” “the council pissed me off again” and stuff like that 

It’s all in good fun but they’ll never let anyone else see those titles because they know it’ll get a good scolding from Obi-Wan

The moment Obi-Wan knew Anakin had formed an “unnecessary attachment” wasn’t some big life-or-death moment on the battlefield 

In hindsight it was a pretty funny moment that was caused by Anakin’s stupidity cause he had broken a glass earlier that day and he thought he got all the pieces so he didn’t feel it was necessary to tell Ahsoka

Next thing he knows the poor togruta is gasping in pain and when he goes to check on her she’s sitting on the kitchen floor while the mother of all glass shards is sticking out of her foot 

Now you might be asking “How did Anakin miss a glass shard the size of his hand?” he honestly couldn’t give you an answer but he could tell you was in that moment he realized that he forgot to restock the med kit even though Ahsoka had reminded him about it earlier that day

All Obi-Wan got to see of this was a blur of Anakin holding his profusely bleeding padawan while yelling at the top of his lungs “Move she’s bleeding out!”

No one can really blame the man for dropping everything he was doing to chase after his former padawan and they also can’t blame him for assuming the worst like her being stabbed or shot

He didn’t know what he was expecting when he walked into the halls of healing but it wasn’t an embarrassed Anakin standing over a cackling Ahsoka as the healers scolded him for causing a scene

He makes a silent note to give Anakin a small lecture about keeping his emotions under control before checking on his giggly grand padawan

[some-pers0n]

Every once in a while I think about the ship I've been obsessed over for close to two years now and feel like I'm ascending to another plane of reality. Like sometimes you just encounter a ship that hits every single mark and is perfect in every regard and you're left stunned how something like that can even exist

[dootznbootz]

Odypen definitely and equivalently adore each other BUT I weirdly can't see them as the type to actually say "I Love you".

They still definitely vocalize their love for each other but it's more so in "My Joy", and "Extraordinary Woman", "Strange Woman/Man", etc. And very cheesy lines (both say some cheesy shit in the Odyssey, and he definitely does in the Iliad as well. "Joy like a drowning sailor seeing land" bit???)

I could see "I adore you" but even then, that's probably during very specific moments but the actual "I love you"??? I just typed it just now for fic shit and... It weirdly just didn't feel right and I don't know why. 😅

Idk maybe it's kind of because I see them as over the top in ways, they love wordplay and riddles and I think they'd almost think "...That's not good enough >:( " about it??? I don't know???😂

[doctorbrown]

DOCTOBER '24 ⸺ 「 11 / 31 * IT WORKS 」

22:06

November 12, 1955

Three blinding flashes of light.

Three earth-shaking tremors that shake him to his very core. 

Three sonic booms that lash out so fiercely, they pierce through the fabric of space and time.

Instinct tells him to raise his hand and shield his eyes from what he’s about to witness. This knowledge will blind you—you have already seen too much, you should not see this too. Awe, responsibility, and scientific curiosity stay that hand—I must make sure Marty makes it back to his own time—and keep his attention focused on the road as the temporal displacement occurs. 

It all happens in the span of a single one of Emmett's frantic heartbeats and when everything is finally over, when an eerie, artificial silence settles into the empty spaces around him, he isn't entirely sure what's happening.

Doubt burrows its way into his mind, carried on the long shadows cast by the brilliant burst of light. Something has gone wrong, the connecting hook wasn’t properly attached to the Flux Capacitor and the power overloaded the Time Vehicle’s delicate and complex circuitry, and Marty—

As he rises to his feet, slightly unsteady, Emmett blinks the spots from his vision and looks around for any sign that his worst fears have been made reality.

There's nothing there.

There’s nothing and Emmett has never been so grateful for that in his life. No crash, no great ball of fire–however, interestingly, the Time Vehicle did leave thin fire trails during displacement that were rapidly dying out–and, most importantly, no Marty. 

Emmett lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding to the relief of his burning lungs.

The Time Machine and Marty are back where they belong and, for the moment, Emmett allows himself to get lost in the excitement of a successful experiment and ignore the now-surfacing thoughts born of its conclusion and a mind coming down off the adrenaline, laser-focused on one singular thought.

No, there will be time for that later. Thirty years' worth of time.

A wide grin splits his face and he can’t find himself to care if it makes him look certifiably insane as he races down the street in Marty’s temporal shadow, shouting his enthusiasm to the sky. 

On the wire, the connecting hook holds strong, waving its goodbyes to a spectre.

Everything had been fine.

Everything will be fine; he’ll see to that, whatever it takes.

See you in the future, kid.

[frozenambiguity]

Anonymous asked:

Do you wish Diluc never came back to Mondstadt after what he did to you?

Ask me anything and I’ll answer honestly, but only with yes and no.

«No».

[liquidstar]

a friend who'd wait :)

[rinnysega]

I’m really in a mode of I LOVE WRITING, CHARLIE! I LOVE WRITINGGGG today lol

There’s some days where I miss the brainrot of a fandom/posting to AO3, but coming up with an original antagonist’s most devastating line, the poetry for the characters’ journals, arcs that come together so wonderfully, getting actual professionals to tear up over original content???? That my brain made????

It’s unmatched to what I know I’m capable of doing with my thoughts, emotions, and words ❤️

[astonmartingf]

and when i'm free from the leashes of my comprehensive exam reviews, i will post my dbf fernando alonso fic that has been plaguing my drafts for a very long time!!!!