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#that's why reading fic is so fun
xjustakay · 3 months
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y’all know that saying “writers are people, treat them like people!!” means you shouldn’t put them on a pedestal they didn’t ask to be put on, too, right……
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gammija · 1 year
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ok since the Magnus Protocol is confirmed AU from tma, and jonny and alex have purposely not said that their voices are not reappearing in TMAGP, consider:
evil AU jon and martin. mostly because I just know jonny and alex would have such a good time acting that out. And also because i want to see a completely unhinged jon and a web!martin used to their full potential damnit
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astrobei · 1 year
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for @quinnick: kiss prompt #4 - lips barely touching
The car is out of gas. Will is about ten seconds away from maybe-dying (again). Mike Wheeler has been abnormally quiet today.
At least of late, one of those things is more abnormal than the others. 
The car is always out of gas. Will doesn’t know when the last time they’d filled it up was, but he does know that it’s not his problem trying to figure it out. That’s Hopper’s deal. Or his mom’s, maybe. Or Nancy’s, or Jonathan’s, or–
Whatever! The point is that the car is out of gas, Mike and Will are stranded at the currently closed general store, and they’re probably about to die.
Again.
“Mike,” Will tries, for maybe the hundredth time. “It’s not your fault, okay, it could’ve happened to anyone–”
“Yeah,” Mike grumbles miserably, as they round the corner, from aisle four – cleaning supplies and household items – into aisle five – canned goods. Most of the shelves are empty, turned over. Mike picks up a can of pickled green beans, pulls a face, and puts it back on the shelf. “But it didn’t happen to anyone. It happened to me.”
Will takes a long, deep breath in through his nose. God forbid Mike Wheeler ever let anything go. “You didn’t know,” he huffs anyway. “It’s not your fault.” The store is dark, which is great for being able to roll your eyes without Mike seeing. Will’s flashlight sputters, briefly, the bright circle of light flickering in and out of view. He smacks it against his palm once, twice, and it steadies. “Seriously,” Will adds, as Mike slows to a stop in front of him. “Stop beating yourself up. So we have to wait for a ride. Big deal.”
Mike turns around to face him. His expression is mostly unreadable in the dark, but Will’s flashlight catches the edge of it – worried, a little guilty. “Yeah,” Mike says softly. “Except there are things everywhere and waiting for a ride is just– we’re sitting ducks here, okay,” Mike frowns. “I don’t like it. It feels like tempting fate.”
“Well, the simple fact of my existence feels like tempting fate sometimes,” Will jokes. It works, for a split second – Mike’s furrowed brows smooth out into something halfway amused, and he makes a noise that might be a laugh.
“Not funny,” Mike says anyway. His lips twitch.
“You laughed!” Will insists, smiling. His voice carries down through the hallway in a vibrant echo. “I know you did!”
“Shut up,” Mike whispers, looking away. “Would it kill you to keep your voice down?”
It might. Somewhere in the back of Will’s mind, he’s vaguely aware that they’re not safe here, out in the open, and that the whole point of them coming inside instead of waiting in the parking lot was to hunker down until Jonathan and Nancy could get another car here to pick them up. And also, preferably, get some gas.
Somewhere significantly closer in Will’s mind, though, is the knowledge that this is the most Mike has said – and the closest he’s come to laughing – since the car had stalled on the way from the cabin to the general store ten minutes ago, and Mike had just barely had time to pull into the abandoned parking lot before it had stopped altogether. He knows Mike doesn’t like this – being caught off-guard, out in the open. Even minute changes in the plan – which you’d think they’d all be more prepared for, considering the way things have been going lately – get Mike a little keyed up.
And the sorry, borderline pathetic part is this: despite it all, despite the ever-present threat of danger, and the impending sense of doom that’s been hanging over their heads for what seems like forever, Will feels vaguely pleased with himself anyway, seeing Mike hold back a smile instead of forcing one on his face.
So yeah, it might kill him, if he kept his voice down. That’s okay. Will thinks it would be worth it, sometimes – the danger and the doom and everything else – to hear Mike laugh.
God, what’s wrong with him? That’s embarrassing. That’s so embarrassing.
He shakes the thought off. “Whatever,” Will says instead, praying the cover of darkness is hiding the blush that’s rapidly rising to his cheeks. He angles  the flashlight away from them anyway, just in case, and Mike’s face falls back into silhouette. “You know I’m right. You’re doomed just by being here with me.”
Mike shakes his head. “You know I don’t think of you like that.”
Will frowns. “Like what?”
“Like– like a bad luck charm,” Mike waves his hands around. “Or whatever.”
“I didn’t say bad luck charm,” Will exclaims. “Ouch! Stop putting words into my mouth.”
Mike grins. “Would you rather have, uh,” he picks up the nearest can to him, something small and vaguely gray, “tinned sardines in your mouth? Tinned sardines in water? Oh, gross. Never mind, actually.”
“I would rather not,” Will decides, even though the shelves are so bare that they might have to suck it up and take home the tinned sardines in water after all. “Would you like some, uh. Tuna?”
“I guess we know why there’s so much fish,” Mike sighs, leaning heavily against an empty shelf. “Nobody wanted it.”
“You mean the ten people outside of our circle of friends that are still left in Hawkins? Yeah,” Will scoffs, then sets the can back down with a soft clink. “I guess not.”
Neither of them say anything for a moment. It’s quiet in the store, the room dark and lit faintly by Will’s flashlight and the display in the corner. It lights Mike up a faint blue, catches the edges of his jaw and where his hair is curling softly over the hood of his jacket. 
Will’s flashlight sputters again. 
When it comes back on this time, it’s more faint than it was before. It’s dark in here, Will realizes, a bit belatedly. Like, really dark.
He takes a deep breath and shuffles closer to Mike, just a little, like the shape of his body all leaned against the empty shelves is a grounding force. Mike gives him a look that Will can’t quite decipher in the dark.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Will breathes out. The proximity is helping, a little. “Just– waiting for our ride.”
Mike leans in a bit closer too, places an arm under Will’s elbow. It’s a light touch, nothing forceful, but the semblance of support is there. “You sure? You look a little pale.”
Sometimes, Will hates how well Mike knows him. He doesn’t get antsy in the same way Mike does in situations like these, but he’d be lying if he said they didn’t affect him at all. It should be expected by now, the automatic fight or flight. 
For some cruel reason, it still isn’t. “You can’t even see me,” he says, but lets himself lean into the touch anyway.
“I can see enough,” Mike says easily. “Do you want to sit down?”
Will shakes his head. The only thing worse than waiting out in the open is sitting out in the open. At least when you’re standing, you can run. “No. I’m fine.”
Will can’t see Mike either, but he’d be willing to bet real money – that he doesn’t have – that he can tell exactly what Mike’s expression looks like. The pause grows, swells and swells and swells, until Will is sure Mike is going to say something–
There’s a clattering outside.
Instantly, Mike’s hand tightens its grip on Will’s elbow. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes,” Will hisses, twisting around to try and see through the windows. “Of course I heard that, Mike.”
“Do you think that’s–”
“No idea,” Will whispers. With no small amount of reluctance, he tugs his arm out of Mike’s grip. He misses the warmth of it almost instantaneously, and the tugging in his stomach is only amplified by the way Mike automatically leans in behind him, places a hand on his back to replace the absent touch, like it was never gone at all. Will swallows, and flicks the flashlight off. “Now be quiet.”
“The windows are boarded up,” Mike says, decidedly not being quiet. Will wonders where the Mike Wheeler of fifteen minutes ago went – the one that was sulking and fidgeting in silence the whole way down the first aid aisle. “They’re boarded up, so nothing can get in. Right?”
“We got in,” Will points out, which Mike seems to realize at approximately the same second he does. It’s getting a little hard to think, with Mike so close to him.
Will really wishes Mike would pull his hand away.
“Right,” Mike whispers, breath ghosting gently over the back of Will’s neck. “Okay. That’s fine. That’s fine.”
Fine, Will thinks. That’s one word for it.
Another clattering. It’s closer this time.
Will freezes.
Jonathan and Nancy are probably about ten minutes out. Twenty if they had to go back to the Wheelers’ for the other car. So they’d probably be fine if they stuck it out here, because the chance of something happening across them now, in the brief period of time where they’re stuck without a ride, in a building equipped with close to nothing that could help, is small.
Small, but not nonexistent.
Will isn’t really feeling inclined to take that chance. “Come on,” he says, then spins on his heel, grabbing Mike’s hand and tugging him in the opposite direction. “Come with me.”
Mike follows easily, stumbling slightly with the sudden movement. “Wh– where are we going?”
“Just come on,” Will says, then tugs Mike around to the back of the store. He yanks open a door, and shoves him inside. “Get in.”
“Whoa,” Mike says, as Will tumbles in behind him. “Will, what–”
“Would it kill you to be quiet?”
“Sorry,” Mike says, then does, at last, fall silent.
Immediately, Will wishes he hadn’t said that. It’s dark in here – even darker than out in the front of the store – and the only noise is the faint hum of a generator, somewhere behind the walls. It’s grating and stilted. Will wonders when the last time it had been repaired was.
Plus, it’s really–
It’s really fucking dark in here.
Will lets out a long, slow exhale, and reaches out to feel for the wall beside him. His palm comes into contact with chipped paint and he follows the shape of it down, lowering himself onto the ground.
“Will?” Mike says, and Will is in half a mind to say that thing about being quiet again, but–
It’s dark. It’s really dark.
“Yeah,” he says, barely audible even to himself over the faint hum of the generator, and the louder hum – demanding, prominent, persistent – of his blood rushing through his ears. “I just– sitting. I’m sitting.”
There had at least been some light out in the front, but this storage closet might as well be a void. It smells vaguely of dust, something stale and unknown and probably untouched for who-knows-how-long. Will takes another deep breath in.
“Where?” Mike asks. “I don’t want to step on you.”
Will cracks a smile. “Here,” he says, and holds a hand up in the air. “Right here.”
There’s a quiet shuffling sound as Mike moves closer, and then Will feels fingertips brushing against his. Mike latches on immediately, gripping tighter onto his hand and sits down in front of him. 
Will still can’t see anything – he can’t see anything – but he can feel Mike’s presence like it’s a tangible thing.
Mike could let go of Will’s hand now. Now that he’s found him.
He doesn’t, though.
“Hey,” Mike says, then there’s another faint shuffling noise. “Where are we?”
“Storage closet.”
“Huh. How did you know it was here?”
Will cracks another smile, despite himself. “My mom worked here, remember? For, like, years.”
“Right,” Mike laughs, and then he’s moving closer, knees bumping against knees in the dark. “I forgot. It doesn’t feel like the same place.”
“Tell me about it,” Will sighs. He’s probably breathing in dust and debris and soot and all sorts of gross stuff, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He presses his knees against Mike’s a little harder, just because he can.
“I remember,” Mike starts, readjusting his grip on Will’s hand – fingers interlocked, a firmer grip – “she’d give me free candy from the front counter. Whenever I came in with my parents, I mean. My mom was so confused about why I kept asking to tag along to Melvald’s with her.”
“That’s not fair,” Will laughs. “She never let me have any candy.”
“You were a menace all hopped up on sugar,” Mike points out. “I knew how to behave myself.”
That’s a damn lie, and they both know it. “Liar,” Will says quietly, leaning his head back against the wall. “You’re such a liar.”
“Maybe so,” Mike hums. “But I’m still the one who got free candy, so–”
“Mike!” Will shoves lightly at his knee, and Mike’s answering laugh fills the small space instantaneously. It’s loud – too loud, because they’re supposed to be hiding, goddamnit – but the nagging little voice at the back of Will’s head is vanquished almost as quickly as it came. “Shut up.”
Mike, as always, ignores him. “Why don’t we turn on a light?”
“The fuse is probably blown,” Will responds. “If there’s even a light in this stupid closet.”
“I mean this, idiot,” Mike says, and then clicks the flashlight back on. The batteries must be dying, because it flickers to life weakly, steadying out into a dim yellow-white. “Obviously.”
“Don’t waste the batteries,” Will says at once, trying to grab for it. “Come on, Mike–”
“Jonathan and Nancy will be here any minute and then we can go put in new batteries,” Mike says, holding it easily out of reach. “No point sitting in the dark, right?”
“Mike,” Will tries to protest, but it’s useless. Mike’s made up his mind.
Slowly, and a little far away, Will realizes what Mike is trying to do. He’s not being subtle about it, but subtlety has never been Mike Wheeler’s strong suit. He’s always been exuberant, quick and spontaneous with his actions, and this is no different. Sitting up close, closer than would be strictly necessary in any other situation. Turning the light on, despite the dying batteries. Telling Will about coming here as a kid, all those years ago. Making him laugh. Diffusing the tension.
Jesus, and he’s still holding Will’s hand.
A wave of affection washes over him, sudden and overwhelming enough for Will to feel borderline nauseous.
This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair. Mike can’t just sit here and touch their knees together and hold Will’s hand, and–
“Look,” Mike is saying, and then he’s holding the flashlight under his chin and grinning. “Don’t I look freaky?”
In all honesty, Mike looks fucking hilarious. The direct light casts long shadows across the dips of his cheekbones, the shapes of his eyelashes distorting wildly as he blinks. “No,” Will snorts, rolling his eyes. “You look ridiculous.”
“Really?” Mike grins, in a way that means he knows just how ridiculous he looks. “Not even a little?” He waggles his eyebrows, and the resulting effect is so comical that Will can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him, sharp and sudden and real.
“Mike,” he chides, for the millionth time. “You’re going to kill the battery.”
Mike looks way too pleased with himself. “Worth it,” he says anyway, as he sets the flashlight down. It evens out the sharp angles of his face, now that it’s farther away, lights his cheeks and nose and eyes up into something softer, more open.
Something about the steadiness of Mike’s expression is brighter than any source of light. Suddenly, it’s too much. Suddenly, it’s blinding. 
God. He’s so screwed.  “For what?”
“Getting you to laugh,” Mike says, simple and easy, like he’s reciting times tables instead of proceeding to turn Will’s entire world upside down on its pathetic little axis.
Will feels his lungs stutter on his next inhale. He looks away. “Don’t do that.”
The gleeful expression falters on Mike’s face. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t,” Will says, “don’t– you’re being so– so–”
Mike looks caught somewhere between confusion and amusement. “So what?”
“So,” Will tries again, and then Mike moves closer, and the difficulty of articulating a halfway decent sentence immediately increases tenfold. “So.”
“So,” Mike echoes, shifting so the side of his thigh is pressed up against the side of Will’s. He’s being slowly backed into the corner, but the thought isn’t terrifying like it might have been five minutes ago. Suddenly, Will is overwhelmed in a completely new way. “So what?”
“Nice to me,” Will gets out. “Stop being so nice to me.”
Mike pauses, then says, incredulously and half-laughing– “What? Why?”
Bad choice of words. “You heard me,” Will says anyway, because he’s nothing if not stubborn. “You’re being too nice.”
“I should hope so,” Mike says. “I mean, you’re my friend.”
Maybe Will is imagining it, but the sentence feels unfinished. Like there’s a second half to it that Mike is keeping for himself: You’re my friend – right?
The obvious answer here is that yes, Mike is his friend. But that answer feels unfinished too, like a lie by omission. Will tries to imagine it, doing these things with anyone else – what it would be like if Dustin was holding his hand, or if it were Lucas sitting next to him this close.
The conclusion he comes to, almost immediately, is that it would be weird.
It would be really fucking weird.
That feels like– something. An admission, maybe. Because the fact of the matter is that things with Mike have always been like this, and they’ve never been like this with anyone else, and Will doesn’t think they can be like this with anyone else without it being the most unsettling thing that’s ever happened to him.
The silence, he realizes, has gone on just a second too long.
“Yeah,” he blurts out at last. “Yeah. Obviously.”
Something settles over Mike’s face. “Will–”
“Forget I said anything,” Will backpedals, a little bit desperate. “Never mind. Be as nice to me as you want.”
Mike bites down on his lower lip. It looks like he’s holding back a smile. “As nice as I want?”
Oh, no.
“Sure,” Will tries. “Do your worst.”
Mike lets out a shaky exhale. He presses in further, leans in closer until their shoulders are almost touching. “How about this?”
“That’s not nice,” Will says weakly. “That’s just an invasion of personal space.”
“Seems pretty nice to me,” Mike mutters under his breath.
Will inhales sharply. “Mike.”
“What?”
“What are you– doing,” Will whispers, stumbling over his words, just slightly, as Mike places a hand on his arm.
Mike’s gaze does not waver. “Is this okay?”
Is it okay? Will thinks his brain might be halfway to leaking out through his ears. This is–
This is–
“Yeah,” he hears himself say. “Yeah. Great.”
“Okay,” Mike whispers. He’s so close now that Will could count all the freckles spattered across his nose, if he wanted to. He could, and the thought is dizzying, dizzying – suddenly, it’s not the claustrophobia that’s making him feel like this. It can’t be, because Mike is in front of him, and he’s so close that Will could just lean forward and–
He could just–
“Mike.” And maybe he’s a bit of a broken record, but he can’t come up with any words other than his name. He clutches at Mike’s knee and meets his gaze and prays – to whatever deity allowed him to get trapped in a storage closet with Mike Wheeler two inches away from his face – that Mike Wheeler will find the courage in him somewhere to close the fucking gap.
He doesn’t, though, which is a sign that the universe must be majorly fucking with him. Not yet, anyway. Not anywhere near as fast as Will needs it to be – if this is what he thinks it is, it’s nowhere near fast enough.
In actuality, what it is is excruciating – the way Will’s heart is beating so loud that he’s sure Mike can hear it, in the proximity. The slow circles Mike is tracing over his other hand – the hand that he’s still holding. He’s so close that Will can discern the warmth emanating off him, the familiar scent of soap, can feel Mike’s eyes trained steadily on his mouth, and yet–
Either Mike is actually moving at a speed of one nanosecond per minute, or time has slowed to a near-stop around them. Mike’s grip on his hand is agonizing, caustic in all the places where they’re touching, each slow circle of Mike’s thumb against his wrist driving him slowly and steadily out of his mind. Do it, Will thinks, like maybe if he thinks it loud enough, Mike will be able to hear him. Do it, do it, do it.
Mike’s lips touch his.
The world stops moving.
It must, anyway. Or maybe it’s just that Will doesn’t think he’s breathing anymore – he doesn’t know if he can find it in him to remember how. All he’s aware of is this: Mike’s hands on his arm, his wrist. Mike’s leg under his own palm, warm and steady and pressed up against him in a smooth, unyielding line. The pressure of the wall behind him, the strands of Mike’s hair brushing against his face, and Mike’s lips – gentle, gentle, gentle, and nowhere near enough.
It’s like Mike is waiting for something. Waiting for Will, maybe.
God, okay.
Fuck it, Will thinks, from somewhere far off in his own head. Fuck it. Fuck this. 
“Will,” Mike whispers, pulling back a precious few millimeters, and that’s it. That’s all Will can take.
Will lifts his hand off Mike’s leg, raises it to his wrist and tugs. Mike topples into him with a small gasp, Will falls backwards into the wall, and then they’re kissing.
God. Okay.
Mike steadies himself quickly, braces a hand on the wall behind them and leans in, firm and enthusiastic. His hand, Will notices, faintly and with no small amount of affection, is shaking. Just slightly. Will’s trapped between them again – Mike and the wall – but this time he can’t find it in himself to care even the slightest bit. As if there’s anywhere he’d want to go that wasn’t here, as if he’d want to be somewhere without Mike’s hand carding through his hair, or without his lips moving softly against Will’s own, or the noise he makes when Will presses forward, too fast, too eager, too betrayed by his own fluttering pulse – something like a laugh, trapped deep in his chest.
Suddenly, it’s not enough. It’s not enough. It’s–
“Mike? Will?”
Shit.
In a flash, Mike pulls away, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked and breathing like he’s just run a marathon.
Shit.
“Yeah,” Mike calls, voice cracking just slightly on the syllable. “We’re in here!”
Shit.
“So,” Will says, aiming for nonchalance. He fails immediately. His voice cracks too. Great. “That–”
Don’t freak out, he thinks. Please don’t freak out.
Mike, to his credit, is not freaking out.
“Yeah,” Mike says, voice a little high-pitched but surprisingly even. He clears his throat. “Um. Yeah. You were–”
“Yeah,” Will finishes, rather lamely. He’s grinning like an idiot. He doesn’t even need to look at himself to tell. His expression is mirrored, perfectly, flawlessly, brilliantly, on Mike’s own face.
The closet door gets thrown open, and there’s a blinding, sudden light– “What the fuck,” Mike exclaims, squinting and throwing a hand up in front of his eyes. “Nancy?”
Jonathan peers around her shoulder. “What were you guys doing in here?”
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t–
Will can’t help it. He looks at Mike, and they immediately burst into laughter.
Shit.
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carnivalcarrion · 5 months
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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]
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wikiangela · 1 month
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wip wednesday
tagged by @theotherbuckley 💖
I wasn't gonna post any today bc progress slowed down with working mornings again and having to actually sleep at night 🙄😂, but i'm so excited about this fic and I'm loving it and I just wanna share it all lol
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“I’m fine.” Buck responds through gritted teeth. He’s okay, he’s fine, he can do this. “I don’t know why I’m crying.” he laughs, wiping his cheeks with one hand. He needs to get a grip. At least while he’s driving. “This is all so stupid, I’m fine, everything is fine.” he takes a deep breath.
“You don’t have to be fine. Not with me.” Eddie says, and he sounds almost desperate. Desperate for Buck to listen, to hear him. He sounds so earnest and gentle, and Buck can imagine those piercing eyes that always feel like Eddie’s looking into his soul, and he can’t handle this. He can’t handle being so cared for, he doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve someone as wonderful as Eddie. All he does is make him worry. All he does is make everyone worry. (...) Eddie once said Buck's the guy who wants to fix everything, and it’s true. He wants to fix everything for everyone he loves. He’s the only thing that’s unfixable, though. And he hates that people even try, only to get burned in the process.
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no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gaydiaz @diazass @thebravebitch @silentxxsoul @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @arthursdent @911onabc @housewifebuck @watchyourbuck @underwater-ninja-13 @eowon @loserdiaz @evanbegins @ladydorian05 @wildlife4life @diazpatcher @lover-of-mine @monsterrae1 @thewolvesof1998 @puppyboybuckley @weewootruck @buckaroosheart @spagheddiediaz @steadfastsaturnsrings @rainbow-nerdss @malewifediaz @giddyupbuck @jeeyuns @epicbuddieficrecs @pirrusstuff @spotsandsocks @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @hoodie-buck @nmcggg @jesuisici33 @exhuastedpigeon @rogerzsteven @honestlydarkprincess @hippolotamus @fortheloveofbuddie @diazsdimples @daffi-990 @disasterbuckdiaz
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shibaraki · 1 month
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I like ‘bad’ fanfiction I like crackfic and silly AUs I like fic that diverges so far from canon that it’s practically unrecognisable and fic that is blatantly self indulgent I like fanfics with no plot and cliches and predictable twists and repeated tropes! not every fanwork has to be a bestselling novel every single fic has a place and a purpose and sometimes I want to come home and read something that doesn’t require me to think! sue me
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blackberry--mouse · 1 year
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In light of the recent reveal in @naffeclipse ‘s Fanfic, Cryptid sightings, I did a lil watercolor painting of our beloved heart-eater, eclipse!! They’ve absolutely stolen my heart (pun completely intended) and I couldn’t not paint this precious cryptid pretty much as soon as I was finished reading the newest chapter! :)
image description is under the read more! :3
[image description: a small watercolor painting of the cryptid eclipse. They’re drawn from the bust up, and only parts of their arms are visible. They are a large, vaguely humanoid creature, with four lanky arms and a head that resembles a sun. Their body consists of a dark brown, dark blue, and red colors. They have one layer of large red tipped rays circling their face like a frill, and a second smaller set that are a dark blue. Their face is a circle consisting of two large red eyes with white halo pupils. They have a wide, sharp smile that spans from one side of the face to the other. their chest and arms are thin, incredibly so. Only the shoulder portions of all four of their arms can be seen. Their entire body is covered in drips, giving them the appearance of being made of liquid. A white lined, ghostly speech bubble sits in the bottom left hand corner, contains the words “heart” in all caps with a heart drawn next to them. The background is a light brown color. End description]
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eegnm · 11 months
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Its been 9 years and im still fighting in the Caryl trenches
⏬️Alternative Version⏬️
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marimbles · 6 months
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at the risk of sounding like really entitled….
does anyone else have a fic that is their most popular, but you don’t want it to be, because you don’t think it deserves it, and you have better stuff, and while ofc you are grateful that people like something you wrote, it’s almost annoying that for some reason That one is the most popular. lmao
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duchi-nesten · 7 months
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ITS TIME FOR @invisobang POSTING WOO!
@half-deadmagicperson and I collaborated to bring you this cover for @coyotecrackers’s wonderful fic!! She did all the traditional art parts and I did the digital!
There’s more to come as we dive into this week, so stay tuned! Check out the fic (it’s so fun!) and Magic’s tumblr for more art!
You can read “The Freakiest Friday” here!
AO3 || Tumblr || Prologue Cover
Summary:
Of all the ghosts that have tried to challenge Danny for the throne, this one takes the cake for having the most convoluted plan imaginable. Not only does he have to fight yet another power-hungry ghost, but he also has to do it without his ghost half and in someone else’s body? This Friday is about to get a whole lot freakier.
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this-should-do · 2 years
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Losing your identity in favor of survival
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woobifiedvillain · 6 months
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The premise of fanfiction is actually "hey what if this happened, wouldn't it be cool" not "what if this was canon" or anything like that. By the way. "But but it wouldn't/doesn't happen in canon" literally doesn't make any sense as a criticism or comment or anything else. Yes it didn't! It would not. If I wanted that version....that's what canon is for. The fact that it didn't and wouldn't happen is literally the point. So anyway wouldn't it be cool if it did. Wouldn't that fuck so hard. Let's see!
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tinyq · 10 months
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I got invited to participate in this amazing collaborative dramione project (which was such an honour!); then I got to draw some art for @eggbagelsjr​ awesome story!
Go read it or listen to it! It’s so fun and clever!! (I was flailing and smiling while reading!)
Then go look at all the other fest submissions (and read and listen to them too!!).
There’s SO much talent in our community! :D
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Chapters: 2/2
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger's Mother, Hermione Granger's Father Additional Tags: Idiots in Love, Co-workers, Unspeakable Hermione Granger, Magical Maintenance Officer Draco Malfoy, Magic and Science, Secret Organizations, Legilimency (Harry Potter), Memory Loss, Magical Bond, Pining, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Blood and Gore, Needles, Knives, Bombs, Torture, Dentists, Bad Jokes About Dentistry, no really like, Why did the dentist make his patients drink Veritaserum?, Because the tooth hurts!, Cover Art, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 45-60 Minutes Series: Part 3 of Draco’s Quarter Life Crisis Collaboration Fest (an ETL Echo 2.5 year celebration) Summary:
Outside her lab, Hermione was aware of four work-related facts: (1) she was employed by the Department of Mysteries, (2) she did research in the field of magical physics, (3) she was on the cusp of a very important breakthrough, and (4) she enjoyed her work immensely.
What she conveniently forgot during her off-hours: despite all her manifold professional and personal accomplishments, the primary reason she looked forward to coming to work was…
  …Draco Malfoy, L.O.M.L. Maintenance Officer.
OR: Hermione Granger accidentally invents a magical bomb and has six hours to learn how to defuse it. Unfortunately, she's lost her memories. Double unfortunately, Draco Malfoy, the one person who can help her, is covered in blood and holding a knife to her throat.
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trensu · 8 months
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I wish there was more steddie time travel fics. Where steddie travels back all the way to season one. Maybe both or one of them. Actually both because the comedic potential. Like Steve and Eddie trying to change things and save the day. And anyone who sees them sneaking around thinks they are in a secret gay relationship. Nancy has this whole theory that her boyfriend is gay and sneaking off with Eddie Munson. Reason why he's being distant and hiding things. And on one hand she's not wrong, because steddie has so much unresolved sexual tension that one is oblivious to and the other is to afriad to admit to. But on the other hand is she way way off.
okay tbh, as great as that would be, i don't think everyone would immediately jump to the gay thing. if this is during steve's kingly days, he's got enough sway and popularity that people would bend over backwards to prove he's a Normal Straight American Boy.
what i think would be more likely, considering he throws those parties and is a good athlete, people would assume he's either developing an addiction on something OR taking steroids. nancy would be SO worried about it because omg steve, do you know what drugs do to your brain? how are you going to get into college if you keep doing that stuff??
meanwhile, steve is touched by her concern and also like...just going along with it? What is he supposed to do? That explanation makes WAY more sense than the whole Upside Down nonsense that they're trying to prevent. So now you've got Steve--who can do a mean kegstand but has literally never even considered doing anything harder than that because DUH the hard stuff would fuck up his body and he's an ATHLETE--trying to pretend he's got to get his Drugs so he has to cancel his plans with Nancy and go see Eddie RIGHT NOW. Because of Drugs. No other reason.
But we all know Nancy is a stubborn bastard (affectionate), so she'd definitely use her investigative skills to find out more. She'd track down this Eddie Munson guy and give him a piece of her mind. Now, this Nancy is still pretty mild and is lacking guns because the UD stuff hasn't hit her yet, but Eddie remembers with crystal clarity his Nancy and her weapons proficiency and reacts to past Nancy accordingly. As in, he immediately apologizes for anything and everything and promises not to do it again, please don't hurt him.
Now Nancy is confused as to why this big bad leather and chain wearing drug dealer is practically cowering before her. She starts to suspect other stuff is going on because the pieces aren't adding up. Eventually she figures out what's happening and joins Steve and Eddie because while they're both creative and skilled in their own ways, they're not really that great at the actual investigating bit of the plan-making process.
It's only then, when she's spending more time with the two of them together, does she start to catch on to the way Eddie looks at Steve. She remembers the rumors that go around about Eddie, so she's not too surprised because Steve is stupid hot and really good in bed, like, so good, the things that boy could do with his tongue will stay with her always. What does catch her off guard is the way Steve reacts whenever Eddie does something that edges around flirty (but still has plausible deniability). He doesn't get disgusted, he gets confused and ruminates over it. It's curious (though if nancy were honest to herself, she'd admit that she's never really understood all the romance stuff and it's never particularly appealed to her). If there were more time, she'd probably study them more.
But there are more important things happening, so she's going to leave them to deal with that mess on their own.
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I'm reading up on lightning strikes because it's been a little while and specifically focusing on Litchenberg Figures (this is for fic reasons again). I love the headcanon Barry (and Wally) have Litchenberg scars. I really love that art I saw the other month that had Barry's scar glowing with lightning, that's so very good.
The cause of Litchenberg Figures is capillaries bursting under the skin. They typically fade within a few days.
Now! This is a comic book. In reality lightning strikes have about a 10% mortality rate and 70% are left with a permanent disability (whether from brain damage, hearing loss, chronic fatigue, chronic pain, ect). This BBC article I'm reading mentions nothing about superpowers, so really, how realistic do we have to make things. Plus, Barry and Wally were covered in chemicals, the lightning could have also travelled through them, heated them in its fractal patterns, and left burns on the skin. I have actually written Barry with chemical burns before, and metal belts can leave burns, clothes can catch fire, there's options for burn scars and speedsters.
Also, there's the option it's from their own lightning, the charge the Speed Force gives them pushing down to their legs, a constantly shifting red mark that appears every time they run (and they run so much, it never gets the chance to fade).
But I have a slightly different idea. Scars are not the only mark left on your body from something that has happened to it, and much like scars these can fade over time, but stick around. And maybe the lightning didn't cause a rapid change in weight which these are typically associated with, but it definitely caused a rapid change in something.
What I would like to suggest is a fractal stretch mark that follows the path of the lightning, a Litchenberg that didn't fade because this change sank into Barry and Wally's skin and stayed there.
(Also here's the articles I've been reading:
BBC, ScienceAlert, iflscience, Wikipedia 1, 2, Guardian)
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sleepwalk-living · 11 months
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me: i hate self insert and y/n fics so much- they're too intimate for a parasocial relationship and cross too many boundaries. SO cringey and kinda gross.
niall: im making fun of my fans for partaking in fanfiction by reading this self insert fic for cringe and comedic purposes.
me:
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