#writing is too much effort lol

[forabeatofadrum]

Happy Sunday and thanks @artsyunderstudy , @nightimedreamersworld and @you-remind-me-of-the-babe for the tag.

As the banner suggests, I have no writing done myself but I have read other people's writing. Not a lot though. God, I have so much fic to catch up on. But I have read 2 fics this month.

(I originally planned to do a Fic Rec Friday, but my Friday got super busy and hey, I didn't have anything to show and I also had this banner from last year so it all works out.)

People who follow @klainepolls might've followed along to @kurtsascot's unexpected, a Choose Your Own Adventure-esque kind of fic. Every day, Genevieve would look at the result of the poll to see where the story would go and I voted in almost every one of them and it was honestly a lot of fun, and I applaud Genevieve for coming up with a chapter on such a short notice without being able to plan ahead.

I also read One December Night by @artsyunderstudy and my initial reaction (and AO3 comment) is "Ashton holy fuck" cause Ashton, holy fuck, you've done it again. I am a sucker for reunion/second chances fics, although Simon and Baz never got together beforehand. They meet again, ten years after Simon took down the Mage. I always love how emotional Ashton's fics are.

So yeah, fics!

And now, the weather: @quizasvivamos @blurglesmurfklaine @coffeegleek @otherworldsivelivedin @caramelcoffeeaddict @sillyunicorn @dragoneggos @raenestee @tectonicduck @urban-sith @thnxforknowingme @captain-aralias @justgleekout @cerriddwenluna @tea-brigade @ivelovedhimthroughworse @bookish-bogwitch @confused-bi-queer @that-disabled-princess @1908jmd @special-bc-ur-part-of-it @larkral @cutestkilla ​ @wellbelesbian ​​ @martsonmars ​ @facewithoutheart ​ @shrekgogurt @rockitmans @bitbybitwrites @blackberrysummer @whatevertheweather @theotherhufflepuff @shame-is-a-wasted-emotion @kurtsascot @esilher

#my exams are almost done but i don't have a lot of free time before classes start again #like i really miss writing #but i am just so tired #so i just play viddy games #writing is too much effort lol #tagged in #six sentence sunday

[ghost-proofbaby]

SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON)

CHAPTER FIVE: HOLY GROUND

I LEFT A NOTE ON THE DOOR WITH THE JOKE WE MADE, AND THAT WAS THE FIRST DAY. AND DARLING, IT WAS GOOD NEVER LOOKING DOWN.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, minors dni

☆ WC: 8K+

☆ A/N: trying something new in the formating here amongst the chapter - please bear with me <3

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.” 

Oh, how you realize you’ll come to regret that taunt. 

The first week of working on organizing Corroded Coffin’s single release party is easy enough. Most of the communication is restricted to Matt and vendors, beginning the process of assessing venues as you start your list of all that will be needed for the party. An actual location, an open bar, entire stage crews. Matt is able to provide a few connections here and there, people in the live music industry that owe him a favor as he had so kindly put it. You had your spreadsheet of contacts that was growing with each passing day, you had several venues that looked as though they would work well for the occasion — the only thing you had yet to do was go over options with the band or properly reach out for their list of requirements for their night of celebration. 

You had tried to be sneaky about it. Get around asking for any of their emails, continue living comfortably in the radio silence of not hearing from Eddie. And then you’d made the fatal mistake of asking Matt if he could gather the list of things the boys may want.

And of course, as any sane person would do, he had only forwarded the email to all of the boys’ professional emails and replied: I’ve CC’d our rockstars. I’ve instructed them to personally send you any requests they may have.

Fuck.

Eddie’s email sat at the lead of the list of CC’d emails, almost teasing you as it stared back at you from your laptop screen. A full week, you had avoided this. Even if he could have gotten your email from Matt, he hadn’t, and like a fool, you’d assumed that meant you were in the clear. 

So much for that.

You compose and erase multiple emails until you decide that if the boys want to reach out, they can. There was no need for you to make first contact; they now had your email, a bait set for them to initiate a conversation by sending you their lists. If Eddie wanted to reach out to you, he had the perfect excuse to do so. 

For a few hours, you don’t hear anything, and instead of sighing in relief, it only puts you further on edge. You want him to just get it over with. To send you an email, preferably an impersonal list that allows you to continue your job. No relations, no interferences. You didn’t know it, but the Universe was already laughing in your face. 

The first email from any of the boys comes from Jeff.

A simple list, just as you’d requested. There was nothing outrageous; he’d recommended an open bar, asked for a specific brand of whiskey if possible, and thanked you for all you were doing. Simple, kind, appreciative. Jeff, it seemed, had stayed as humble as you remembered him. 

The next email came from Gareth. Less simple, but still just as expected.

Nerds (the CANDY) of any kind. That vodka infused whipped cream (does it even get you drunk?), the softest robe money can buy. Actually, can I get matching house shoes with that robe? Can we also have some cigars in the dressing room? (We are getting a dressing room… right?) 

You’re so busy snorting at his requests, rolling your eyes but also losing yourself in the warmth to know he also hadn’t changed much, you don’t see the next email come through.

It was comforting. You knew Eddie had changed — more than you could ever wrap your head around — but these boys you once knew seemed to still be connected to their roots. You read the requests and recall the times you’d spent in Gareth’s hot garage over the summer, sitting on warm concrete as you cheered overly excited, even occasionally standing up to jokingly mosh to their rehearsals. Sweltering summer nights between friends and beers that lost their chill far too quickly, laughter that echoed down the driveway and out into the empty streets of Hawkins. Nostalgia burns away at you, sitting restlessly in your chest as you let yourself simmer in it for the first time since…. since moving to New York, really. Even in that first year, life had moved so quickly, you and Eddie never took the time to ruminate in your past too often. If you did, it had caught you off guard, always fleeting to make room for the next uncertain experience. 

You two had been so busy running away from your hometown, you’d never stopped to consider what you had given up in the process. 

A soft sigh escapes your lips, and you swear you can still taste the shitty Miller Lite, the only brand that seemed to occupy the Emerson’s fridge, on your tongue as you exit the email and scribble on the notepad before you. Even if Gareth had been joking around with some of his requests, you’d take them seriously — besides, the mental image of Gareth in a plush robe and fluffy slippers to match made you laugh. You were thinking about your past, and for once, you were laughing. This part wasn’t a stain, wasn’t something you had scrubbed away at in a haste to make it fade from your ledger. This was the part you should have been lingering on. 

And linger you did until you glanced up to find the next unread email.

Eddie. 

[email protected]. You could fool yourself, tell yourself that email is from anyone else, but you know it isn’t. It isn’t even the email that had been CC’d. It’s his personal email. 

Your mouse hovers over the highlighted and unopened message, heart dropping with each passing second. There’s a small preview of his message, but your vision blurs just enough that you can’t make out the small words. 

Is this how you were always doomed to live out the rest of your days? To freeze, to panic, to malfunction at every slightest thing that has to do with the man you left to begin with? Would he always pull such visceral reactions from you? 

In an act of bravery, you press the tip of your finger against the smooth mouse pad, a muted click that doesn’t reach your ears signaling the official opening of the email. All of your hopes are shattered as you realize it’s clearly too short to be a list similar to the other boys, a simple response that you could acknowledge and move on from. 

No, he sends something that specifically calls for you to play with him. To reply and interact, to give him what he wants. To talk. 

Two fucking words. Two loaded, vexing, provocative words that call to you with the titillating grin you imagine he wore as he typed them. 

Your fingers work faster than your brain, slamming away at the keys hurriedly without thought as you type your least professional email to date. 

The bottom of the email is automatically signed off with your work signature, including your direct personal line. If you had half the mind, you would have erased that bit of information to keep it from Eddie. It even has your actual signature, a mature one that differs from how you used to scrawl your name atop of schoolwork in high school, that you had scanned into your computer after having gone through the painful process of rewriting it what must have been a thousand times. No one had let you in on the fact that most other corporate monsters and coworkers just used one of the sloping fonts available to them. No one had shown you the ropes – you’d just assumed that it was the normal, to go so above and beyond. 

Another brick in the foundation you’d built for yourself, separate from Eddie. Another attempt to change from the girl he’d once loved. 

You’re shocked when a reply comes very quickly. You hadn’t even clicked out of the thread before it entered your inbox.

You try to channel fury, years of irritation and calluses you’d built up against him. But your chest has been weakened by that brief moment of nostalgia that Jeff and Gareth had triggered, and it’s a fruitless battle when he sends another message rapidly. He’s treating it like casual texting rather than stiff business interactions. 

Your entire body flushes, a shock to your system coming that brings you out of the allusive hypnosis easily. 

My emails are monitored. They’re going to see that we know each other. I’m going to get fucking fired. 

You steady your breathing and try to stave off the anxiety. It’ll be fine; Lydia has no reason to comb through your emails at this time. Nothing said would trigger any bells or whistles to cause concern. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. It has to be. 

You wish you had it in you to see red. He had an incomprehensible amount of nerve to be asking for your personal email all because he refused to use his professional email. 

Soft. You’d worked on becoming a hardened version of your old self for two years, and all hard work was quickly going down the drain as you remained too soft for him. It was easy, too. All the rough edges had melted so discreetly somewhere amongst the in between. 

You think he’s dropped the topic of your personal email, but you should know better. Not even mere seconds after you receive the first email, brimming with nonchalance and a teasing tone that has no room between the two of you, another message comes through.

Good to see he’s still annoying and persistent as ever, I suppose. 

He’s all bark, no bite. That’s what you convince yourself. There’s no way he could find your personal email, a plethora of power and connections at his fingertips or not. Even if he could, it would take him ages and more effort than it would be worth. 

All bark. No bite.

You hadn’t realized just how quick and consistent his replies had maintained until you’re met with silence. You wait impatiently, biting at your fingernails as you await for another one of his responses. The more the time passes, the excessive minutes piling up in the quiet midday hum of your midtown apartment, the more noticeable Eddie’s online silence becomes.

No, you think suddenly and strongly. No, I am not doing this. 

You refuse to sit around like this and succumb so easily. All your half-healed scars thrum with aches deep-rooted within the skin you’ve grown over the last two years, screaming out in phantom pains with a reminder of what happened to you the last time you’d let yourself sit around and wait on the boy on the end of the line. Every lonely night, every tear shed, every beat of your bleeding heart — you cannot be doing this again, and not so soon. 

Quickly, you click out of your email tab and back onto the list of vendors you needed to contact for the bar commodities. Distract, distract, distract. You comb through your list. Some vendors seemed to hold more potential than others, more attainable in the grand scheme of it all. For the first time ever in your very short career of event planning, budget wasn’t the issue.

Eddie’s reputation was.

But you’re not thinking about Eddie. No, your focus was anywhere but him right now. You weren’t thinking about him, or his new cologne, or his new rings, or his new life-

Just as you pick up your cell phone to start your calls down the list, a notification pings.

Only seven minutes had passed. Seven minutes, and your phone is suddenly alight with a small but terrifying notification from your personal email.

New email from [email protected]!

Oh, fuck.

Your thumb hesitates over the tiny banner before you release the breath you were sure you’d been holding the entire seven minutes. It shouldn’t have taken him such little time. You expected it to realistically take him a few hours, all your anxious waiting aside. 

There had been only one fatal flaw in your taunting — well, technically there were several becoming more apparent as the seconds ticked by, but only one so glaringly obvious. Your personal email address. You had forgotten.

You hadn’t changed it since high school, since moving to New York, since meeting and since leaving Eddie. 

[email protected]. 

The stupid inside joke haunts you. 

“Why does your email even matter?” Eddie huffed from where he was sprawled out on your bed, tossing around some bouncy ball he’d acquired a few nights before during dinner at a local pizza joint, “No one even uses email anymore.” 

He tossed the ball of rubber into the air once more, a blur of the rainbow swirl pattern whirring too close to your ceiling for comfort. Your focus waned from your laptop for just a moment as you suddenly shot out a hand, attempting to intercept the ball. 

No use. Eddie used one hand to swat yours away, the other happily capturing the toy in his palm with a muted thud. 

“Nuh, uh, uh,” he drawled as he looked at you with his boyish grin, eyes sparkling as his fingers closed loosely around his prize, “If you wanted one so badly the other night, you should have also coughed up a quarter.” 

You snorted, “Are you really proud of that? You spent a whole twenty five cents on a hunk of rubber, Rockstar.” 

“A hunk of rubber you’re now trying to steal from me.”

“I’m not trying to steal it,” you scowled, “I’m trying to focus here. Emails are important, despite your pessimism. Something my English teacher said about professionalism.” 

“You’re really going to listen to that dinosaur? The old O’Donnel-saurus?” Eddie mused, chuckling beneath his breath at his own joke.

You refused to crack a smile in return, or show any recognition at the awful joke, but your chest still warmed. The smoke of your affection for the boy in front of you unfurled, thick enough to choke you up a few extra seconds but thin enough to not suffocate. Never suffocate — it was a time in which you could never imagine your love for Eddie Munson being your downfall. It was a wispy and adaptable type of adoration, just like the smoke that flows off of the end of the incense you’d taken to burning in your room lately in lieu of candles. 

“It’d do you well to also come up with a professional sounding email, you know,” you hummed. You were mere seconds away from shoving your laptop away and joining Eddie in his relaxed position, maybe even laying your head on his chest or shoulder and bringing up the idea of a late afternoon nap you knew he’d never turn down, “Can’t go around emailing important people when you’re a rockstar with your Dungeons & Dragons nickname.” 

“One,” he held up a stern finger, “Like I said — I don’t use email. And two, I’m very happy with my email, sweetheart. I’ll probably email the damn President with that name. Life’s too short and we’re too young to get a stick up our ass about shit like that.” 

You reached out and wrapped your palm around his finger, tugging it down. Unlike with the ball, he let you capture him in your grasp, “I don’t have a stick up my ass about it.” 

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.” 

“Then make it something funny,” he wiggled his brows, “Make your email something stupid and live a little.” 

“A little?” you scoffed, “I think I live plenty for the both of us. You’ve put me through at least three lifetimes worth of stress before I’ve hit twenty. I probably have grey hairs already.” 

Your hand curled around his pointer finger drops to your thigh, but doesn’t release him. The touch remained, ever constant, now more for comfort rather than defiance. And he let you continue to hold him, as if your touch was a luxury he was indulging in just as much as you were his. 

“Wanna check?” he taunted. He lifted up off his back for a microsecond, tugging your arm with his before the roll of your eyes had him falling back flat once more.

It was a losing battle, arguing with Eddie.

Your conjoined hands settled back atop your thigh as you sighed. Maybe Eddie had been right, and you were stressing out too much about this. He was right; you were young, and having a dumb email was a right of passage. Something to giggle at in your maturity when you’d provide it later down the road, a flash of your youth to keep close. 

Fuck professionalism, or whatever high horse O’Donnel had been on.

“Fine,” you huffed, “What do you suggest?” 

“… To check for grey hairs?”

“For my email, you idiot.” 

A bit more back and forth, a bit too raunchy of ideas that passed Eddie’s lips only to be rejected quickly with rough shakes of your head. His finger remained locked in your palm, at some point his knuckle wiggling between suggestions to stroke at your skin. 

“Sweetheart, you’re being too picky,” Eddie finally whined as you shot down yet another one of his ideas, “At this point, just make it something related to the band. You’ll probably be Corroded Coffin’s manager when we make it big, anyways.” 

“That sounds like a nightmare,” you murmured, even if you enjoyed the thought. You already had started to get a hang of wrangling the boys in your small town for menial tasks and day-to-day activities. But on a wider, professional scale? You could already feel the headache pressing into your temples. If they ever offered you the proposition, you wouldn’t have said no, but you certainly would have complained to no end. And definitely got grey hairs.

“Sweetheart.”

The repetition of the nickname froze you. Your eyebrows furrowed as the wheels in your brain turned and you looked down at your boy, the formulation of an idea that was combining both of Eddie’s suggestions suddenly.

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” 

Eddie was taken back by your question, face crumpling with confusion, “What?”

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” you repeated yourself as you finally let go of his finger and twisted to face him fully, laptop momentarily forgotten as your legs folded beneath you and pressed into your worn mattress, “Like, I call you Rockstar because I know you’ll be a rockstar someday. Already are technically, to me, but don’t let that go to your head,” you explained, smiling shyly as Eddie narrowed his eyes and shined his dimples at you, “So why do you call me sweetheart?”

He hardly had to think about it, although his answer came out as more of a question, “Because you’re my sweetheart?”

“That’s all?”

“Is this a trick question?” 

You nearly cackled at his hesitation, “It isn’t, I swear. Just… humor me.” 

This time, he took his time to carefully deliberate his answer, “Well, I guess because it just fits,” he paused, wide eyes catching yours as you lifted your brows in question, “You know? Cause you’re sweet like sugar, and you’ve got a heart of gold,” he grabbed up the hand that once held him and drew it into his lips, peppering kisses across your knuckles and fingertips, fighting a grin as he groveled, “There. Is that romantic enough to humor you?” 

“Almost.” 

You pulled your hand away despite the fact that you wanted to let him continue his display of affection. You would have laid around all day, letting Eddie Munson shower you in all the affection he had to give. But you really needed to create this email.

And now, you had the perfect name.

CORRODEDSUGAR.

You created the account quickly. Set everything up with ease before you proudly turned your screen to Eddie. 

“Corroded sugar?” he read outloud in a murmur as a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, “Cute. But also, very metal. Very badass. I approve, Sugar.” 

A new nickname was born that day, to haunt you and taunt you at every corner. In soft mornings when he woke before you, his voice softly cooing ‘wake up, Sugar’ as he’d brush his nose along your jaw and attempt to awaken you with needy nuzzling. Amidst heated and passionate arguments had all in good fun while out with friends, where he knew you were right but the closest he’d come to admitting it would simply be ‘whatever you say, Sugar!’. He’d even once weaponized it against you during sacred moments, where his lips worshiped you as they trailed leisurely down the skin of your torso until he’d settled between your thighs, humming as he wrapped ringed fingers around your hips and whispered nothing more than the nickname. ‘Sugar’. He had sighed as if he were a starving man, and you were the plate of sweetness that would bring him back to life.

Sugar. A prayer, a promise, a reminder. 

You couldn’t remember the last time he’d called you that. Until now.

When you’d tried to reset, rebuild, remake yourself, it had been hard to figure out a new email address. Amongst all the changes and all the decisions to be made, choosing a new email just felt overwhelming. And you’d been foolish, clung to one last relic of your past like an estranged child fisting a blanket to sleep. 

The seven minutes suddenly makes crystal clear sense. 

Whether it had really been Eddie’s rockstar connections from his fame, or simply recalling a far away memory, you hadn’t made yourself a very hard person to find. And you never considered that your laziness would have a consequence like this. 

You don’t know what else to say. Your mind keeps reading over that silly five letter word, the bold lettering jumping off the page at you. All recollections of every time he’d ever called you that slip into the forefront of your brain, slapping away any concentrated thought. 

You’d had dreams of him calling you that again. A mixture of memories and fantasies that would wake you up in the months following your departure. Compared to the other dreams you’d had amongst those, they had been a sweet reprieve. Not a nightmare of Eddie with his lips pressed to another, or mournful dreams where you reached out to him only for him to become intangible smoke where your hand should have connected with his torso. They were one of your only dreams you had awoken from without immediate tears. 

They were the type of dreams where you’d awake, and for just a moment, you’d forgotten all that had happened. They’d twist you up in a blissful blanket of delusion that he was still yours, that you were still laying in a shared bed in that small apartment, that there was still a calendar on the wall with the date of his return marked with a scarlet heart. 

The tears would come later. Once the dreamy fog cleared, and your eyes opened up to see the unfamiliar space you had taken to calling home instead.

The two of you should be discussing the release party. He should be handing over a list of requests and you should be adding them to the same page that you’d copied down Gareth’s. 

You shouldn’t be doing this. 

Talking, like nothing happened. Having a playful conversation over email that reeked of the same make-believe that had clung to your dreams of Sugar. 

He won’t break the illusion, so you do.

Messaging him from this contact only reminds you of all that could have been. All the joking conversations back in Hawkins of your involvement with the band once they inevitably blew up, all the late nights where you’d been privy to a private show as he hunched over his guitar and hummed out melodies to new songs, all the bruises those once familiar hands had left and then caressed in the afterglow. 

For just a moment, you miss it all. 

For only a second, you wish he wore the same cologne and you wish you still signed your name as you had when you first met him. You wish for days of instability and the solid touch of his shoulders beneath your palms as you convince him to take a leap of faith on himself and the band. Dancing in a small apartment, falling asleep on the phone while he was a world away, quiet confessions of love to soothe the wound that distance made grow larger — for just a moment, you want it all back. Even the pain. Even the hurt you’d been burying alive for years.

Silence. Once again, he’s left you with static lines as the minutes pass and no new message is received. 

You think you liked it better when he was being inappropriately playful. 

At least then, he was saying something. Now, as he says nothing, you have to resort back to doing your job. You bring up a knee to rest your chin on as you adjust in your home office chair, clicking over to tabs of information on a physically small but well-known venue that had several different capacity options. Ranging from a small room that could hardly fit twenty five people to a rooftop set up with the ability to entertain several hundred people. Something about it had felt very Eddie to you; reclusive, with opportunity for an afterparty. Some odd mixture of who you once knew and who you’d seen flashes of through headlines and brief encounters. You hadn’t been given many guidelines from Matt to go off of, and when you’d questioned capacity size, he’d only brushed it off.

Just something smaller than the venues they play on tour.

Would Eddie even want this small of a venue? Looking over the venue’s website, you catch sight of the approximate occupancy limit for the “largest” stage room — 750 standing. What was Corroded Coffin’s new normal? Once upon a time, you were amongst a crowd that couldn’t even break double digits. But now, a show like this might sell out for them in five minutes flat. Hell, they could probably even sell out a thousand person capacity room. 

A ding sounds to signify a new email. 

For a second, you’re nonsensically relieved when you see it’s from Eddie. You find yourself blindly hopeful for a continuation of banter, another message solely trying to get on your nerves – something to satiate that stubborn need to slip back into old habits, even if for only just today. 

It’s not. It’s a stale list of requests. Sent to your work email, this time.

No sight of his playfulness between the words. No beckoning of him taunting you, teasing you, whispering for you to just give in and play pretend with him one last time. 

It’s probably for the best. 

—

Have Mondays always been this hectic? 

Week two of working on Corroded Coffin’s album release was starting off very differently from the first week. It seemed every corner you turned, you were faced with a new challenge that only made the headache behind your temples pound more relentlessly. Denial from venues, cold calls being forwarded to voicemail when you’d reach out to vendors, and Matt being impossibly busy with the band to get back to any of your emails in a timely manner. 

If you had to hear one more venue representative turn down your business proposition with a “Sorry, but we’ve heard about Eddie’s reputation…”, you might make a detour to go jump off the Empire State Building. 

Had he really been that awful to venue properties? 

“You look stressed,” Romina notes when you hang up on your third unsuccessful call of the day, slamming the phone down more violently than you should. 

“Who, me?” you bitterly reply, looking over your shoulder to where she leans in her chair, turned entirely from her desk to watch you with gentle amusement, “Never. I have never been stressed a day in my life.” 

She quirks an eyebrow, “And before this new secret project of yours, I would have agreed.” 

“Every venue is shooting me down.”

“It happens,” you yearn to feel the nonchalance that flows through the shrug of her shoulders, as if she’s now the one without a worry in the world, “Are they giving reasons?” 

You open your mouth, but your tongue stops short. Because yes, they were each giving the same resounding, completely valid reason. But to admit this is to inform Romina what your secret project really is – something that a certain NDA strictly prohibits for the time being. 

“Conflict of schedules,” you tightly lie as your glare diverts to your computer screen, still open on a mostly empty inbox. 

Eddie hadn’t emailed you since last week. 

Somewhere amongst your frustration, there was a sore disappointment lying in patient wait. You have not a single doubt that once the storm of the task at hand passes, once you finally secure a venue, that you’ll be forced to deal with it. But for now, a boy not emailing you after being so insistent for your personal contact was the least of your worries. 

Romina’s voice draws you back in, “Really? How far out are you trying to book for?”

“Three months.” 

The squeak of her chair pauses abruptly. Your eyes shift and you catch the way all her mindless swaying has ceased, mouth flat with eyes widened in disbelief. 

“Three months?”

“What?” you finally spin your chair to face her, playing off nonchalance. You know why she’s reacting so dramatically, “Should I not be booking that far in advan-”

“I- No, no. You absolutely should be. It should actually be making it easier to book,” she leans forward in her seat, squinting at you, “Is that really the only reason they’re giving?” 

You get it. Because she’s right; giving such fair notice should be making your job easier. But you can’t defend yourself and explain how the client you’re representing is the real issue. 

“Yeah,” you force a forlorn sigh.

“Jesus,” she whistles out, “Well, that’s just… Fuck. I’m sorry, babe. That’s rough. What types of venues are you even trying for? Wait - didn’t you say you were arranging for a grand opening of a bakery? Wouldn’t they already have their shop set up-”

“Hello ladies.” 

Thank fucking God for Lydia. 

“Lydia!” you sit up just a little bit straighter, nearly leaping out of your seat with relief as your boss approaches. You knew exactly where Romina’s train of thought was heading, and you wouldn’t have been able to come up with a single pitiful excuse to keep up with your little white lie, “How are you today?” 

Romina is still perched in her chair with a confused look, but Lydia doesn’t even glance her way, looking just as concerned as she looks down at you, “I’m… fine. There’s a client for you in the conference room.” 

Straight to the point. Except, you didn’t have a meeting scheduled today. 

“A client?” you echo, shrinking down a bit. You only have one client, technically, at this moment, “I didn’t have anything on my calendar.” 

“Apparently, they were just on this side of town. Said you’d left a few voicemails and he thought it’d be easier to just pop in to discuss things.” 

It had to be Matt. He must have gotten one of your frantic voicemails you’d left over the weekend, the ones you’d instantly regretted and worried had lacked in professionalism. 

It has to be Matt. 

“Oh,” Romina’s eyes are burning holes in the back of your chair as you fumble to lock your computer screen, scrambling to gather anything you might need. The notebook you’d been using to keep track of the entire ordeal crinkles slightly in your grip, “Yeah, of course, that- I’ll go straight there. Are they in one of the smaller conference rooms or the-”

“The main one,” Lydia interrupts you, and her tone makes you pause. 

She sounds as if Matt’s arrival is the largest inconvenience she had experienced in the last month. 

Why would Matt popping in to talk to me be such a big deal? 

She’s clearly not in the mood for questions, so you only nod as you stand up, “Got it.”

And then she’s gone. No interest in joining you, or to question what could be going wrong. No sign of involvement like the day you’d originally met with the band and Matt to sign all documentation. 

Your gut twists in knots that not even boy scout’s have discovered yet. 

And they only worsen when Romina calls after your retreating figure, “Good luck with your baker!” 

You’re kind of fucked. It’s clear she’s no longer buying into your lie of your client, and the thought of facing her after Matt is nausea-inducing. What if you just came clean? Would they sue you for telling Romina? Would Romina tell anyone else if you confided in her? Your thoughts race with question after question as you quickly make your way through the maze of cubicles, taking lefts and rights far too fast as you worry about making Matt wait much longer. 

It was just stupid. Because amongst the questions, one rings out that’s insane enough to make the rest of them actually sound reasonable.

If you did manage to fuck this up in any way, would Eddie protect you?

Whether it be because you couldn’t complete the task at hand that was beginning to look impossible, or if it was because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, would he defend you? 

You’d figured you’d lost his servitude and protection long ago, back when you’d first left that apartment and ignored every attempt at contact. But if it came down to it, would he offer you one last privilege of his defense? Probably not. Which — fair enough. You hadn’t done anything in the last week to have already earned that back. You hadn’t wanted to earn that privilege back, either. No matter how badly you found yourself wanting a new email from him in your inbox, there was a clear line in the sand drawn by your own stick, and you had to stay to your side of it. 

You were a big girl. You could handle it.

Just as you finally approach the conference room, eyes trained to the ground and brows tightly furrowed in careful consideration (definitely not frustration, because the thought of Eddie surely couldn’t frustrate you), you make a fatal mistake. It’s a small detail you’d never paid much mind to prior — a stain on the carpet just outside the doorway, subtle yet large once the shadowy shifting of the carpet’s color caught your eyes. You’re so busy letting your eyes trail the perimeter of it, trying to focus on the threaded shades rather than the shade of Eddie’s dark eyes in the hallway the week before, that you aren’t prepared when the toe of your shoe catches against the said carpet. 

You should have ate shit, to put it plainly.

One quick fumble, and you’re flying forward, hardly thinking as you throw out your hands to brace for impact. Foolish, considering the fall would have left you with severely aching wrists, or a bruised face. But it never arrives. 

Large hands suddenly appear to grab you, catching you halfway through the sudden fall, and the unfamiliar cologne that’s plagued your waking thoughts for a week now overtakes your senses. 

You thought it was Matt waiting for you.

“Woah!” his voice echoes easily in the empty hallway, “Shit, are you okay?”

You swore it was Matt waiting for you. 

“Fine,” you strangle out, pulling away from that touch as quickly as possible. Like he’s burned you. Like those hands that once knew you all too well held your entire demise in their palms.

 And they might. 

It wasn’t Matt waiting for you.

Eddie doesn’t seem shocked by your retreat, only watching with a blank face as you regain your balance on your own and avoid eye contact. He looks nice – a leather jacket too shiny to be the one he wore when you wore together, a faded band t-shirt beneath you can’t fully see the logo of but know was bought that distressed just for looks due to the familiar unfamiliarity that has begun to cloud around the man you once knew, heavy boots planted right on the stain in the carpet that had distracted you. 

“What did you even trip on?” he finally questions, looking curiously behind you as he retraces your path, “Was it-”

“Air,” you cut him off, “Save me the embarrassment, but I tripped on air.” 

If you had half a mind, you would have interrupted with something more useful. Maybe demanded to know why he was here in your office. Questioned his intentions of showing up unannounced. Asked why he never emailed again. 

Okay, maybe not that last one. 

He lets out a short chuckle, more a breath than anything else as his face finally cracks and he almost grins, “I see. To be fair, it’s an easy thing to trip on. Very hard to see. Almost as if it’s invisible.” 

He gauges your reaction, but you don’t let yourself so much as smile at his awkward attempt at a joke. 

You can’t. You can’t casually joke with him, you can’t laugh and pretend like there isn’t an elephant sitting on your chest every time you occupy the same space as him. There’s no magic eraser to everything between you two; no amount of emails, no amount of bad jokes that can vanish all that has transpired. Your past and the carpet, it seems, have something in common.

Never thought you’d say that about the ugly threads you only look at to disassociate during particularly long days. 

“What are you doing here?” you finally whisper out the right question, and internally cringe as your mouth keeps moving only to tack on a completely unnecessary addition of, “I didn’t receive any emails about a meeting-”

“Matt sent me,” Eddie shrugs. You watch the way the leather creases and fits his wide shoulders, catch yourself studying to see if there’s any new muscle beneath the layers to further estrange you further from him, “He’s been stuck in meetings for the album and single, and said you’d left him a few voice mails so… I’m the rescue team, I guess.” 

You finally look him in his eyes, jaw dropping ever so slightly, “You?”

“What about me?”

“You’re my ‘rescue team’?” the words are bitter on your tongue, his presence anything but a relief of rescue, “No offense, but how can you possibly help me?” 

And then he smiles. And, oh Lord, you’ve forgotten how nice of a smile he has. It’s painful – a sharp reminder of the past that you just can’t shake. He’s an old photograph that never quite burns, a stain on your favorite article of clothing you’ll never wear again. For a moment, it doesn’t matter how many parts of him he’s replaced, how many pieces of him have been turned over brand new and unfamiliar, because he looks just like the boy you left behind. A relic you can mourn for once you return to your apartment all alone. A whisper you’ll exchange with your children about someday, as you tell them all about the boy who changed you for the worse. 

“You’d be surprised,” he muses, reaching a hand up to drag over a chin shadowed over in faint facial hair, “Apparently, once you make it big, you have to learn about more things than just how to play an A chord on a guitar or sing in tune. Business, for example. That’s what you’ve been struggling with, yeah? The business aspect of it all?” 

You kind of want to walk away from him. To go and eat shit in a different hallway, on your way to tell Lydia you can’t do this anymore. 

“I’m not struggling,” you snap. 

He’s quick to lift his hands in surrender, “Don’t shoot the messenger. Those were Matt’s words, not mine.”

“Yeah, well, tell Matt I’m fine,” you huff indignantly, “I’m a professional who can handle myself. I can figure this out on my own.” 

You’re turning your back to him, ready to storm off dramatically for your own sanity, when he clears his throat. 

You pause. You don’t turn to look, but you halt mid-step. 

“Humor me, for a second,” he begins, “What exactly are you fully capable of figuring out on your own?” 

“The planning,” you state the obvious, staring at an odd piece of art on the office wall to your left. Not quite turning your head to him, but angling so your voice carries. 

“Yeah, no shit,” his words spark a little more anger, a little more rage, “I mean what part of the planning? You’ve left Matt at least two voicemails. Probably more, if he’s resorted to sending me.” 

More like five. Possibly seven, but you’d indulged in more wine than would be wise to admitting this weekend after receiving your third venue rejection. 

“Maybe he just got tired of babysitting you. Decided to make you someone else’s problem.” 

“Maybe,” Eddie hums, and you can hear his slow footsteps as he slowly walks to block your vision of the abstract artwork. Your gaze is cut off from the silvery lines splattered across a black background and forced upon brown eyes that are more lively than you remember from the previous week, “But I already made the trip all the way down here. Might as well make myself useful to you.” 

He’s still wearing that smile. The one that belongs captured in a polaroid at the back of your closet. The one frozen in a time that was so much simpler than this. 

The kind that leaves a mark – a stain. 

“You want to make yourself useful to me?” you narrow your eyes, straighten your shoulders, prepare for battle, “Then leave. That is the most useful thing you can do for me right now – walk out of this building, and leave me to figure this out without being a pest.” 

Your words should hurt him, but they only seem to fuel him. It’s the exact same reaction you’d imagined on the other side of all the emails. A pep to his step and a perk in his posture that elicits unhinged annoyance from deep within you. 

“No can do,” he smirks, “Sorry, I’m on Matt’s orders to not leave until we figure this out. Together.” 

You don’t care how nice Matt is – you decidedly hate him at this moment. 

“Eddie,” you don’t notice the way his chest catches when you say his name, even in your defiant tone, “I am telling you right now, there is nothing you can do to help.”

And then he takes you off guard, breathing still not quite steady as he breathes out, “Let’s go get coffee.”

“I already told you, I have no interest in getting coffee or lunch with yo-”

“Not like that,” he waves off, finally slipping back into his casual demeanor, “Just- throw me a bone here, Sugar. We don’t even have to talk. You can bring your laptop and phone, focus on work and pretend I don’t exist the entire time. But I have to stick around long enough to get Matt off my ass, and you clearly have been stuck in this stuffy ass building for too long.” 

Sugar.

Your breath catches at the nickname, just as his had when you said his name. 

Shakily, you exhale, “No, I-”

“Funny thing,” he shoves both hands in the pockets of his jeans. Well-fitted, fairly new. No signs of distress like he preferred in his youth. Just starch black that clings to skin you once knew, “I’m not asking. Technically, I’m your boss. And as your boss, I’m instructing you to join me for nothing more than a free coffee and change of scenery. Like I said, it’ll be as if I’m not even there. I’ll keep my mouth shut the entire time – strictly business.” 

You nearly slip up and inform him that it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t talk – if he’s near you, your body always seems to know. Your body, your senses, your soul. Any time he occupies the same room as you, his vicinity lights something in you impossible to ignore. It had been that way since the first day you met him. And would probably continue to be that way until the day you were buried six feet under. 

Even in death, his soul would probably haunt yours. You would never know another day of peace since meeting Eddie Munson. 

“You’re not my boss,” you argue, crossing your arms, “You’re my client. Lydia is my boss.” 

“And would Lydia appreciate you arguing with a client like this?” 

“What do you want from me?”

The question falls from your lips with unexpected weight and exasperation. 

Your arms fall down from your chest just as quickly as they’d risen, the two of you encased in silence as you both realize the implication behind the question. It’s about more than just the coffee, more than just his impromptu visit to your work. It’s the heaviest question you could have asked at this moment; and one that neither of you were ready to hear the answer to quite yet. 

There’s a million unsaid words swirling behind whiskey irises. A hundred and one conversations never had, a thousand and one battles never witnessed on both ends of this war. Something in them whispers you might not be the only one haunted. 

Maybe, just maybe, his soul will only haunt yours for as long as yours haunts his. A haunted house, a ghastly gallery. Two ghosts always meant to hang up parallel to each other in crooked frames, in an empty hallway. 

“Just a coffee,” he whispers, and something in you cracks quietly, “Just one cup of coffee, for now.” 

With all things considered, it’s not asking that much of you. 

You don’t have any fight left in you. Whether he’s here, whether he’s a world away, you’re still destined to be stuck across from him in the damn hallway. Always staring, always drawn. There might not be a single corner of this world far enough away to break whatever thread ties you to the man before you, whether you still know him or not. 

After a pregnant pause, you sigh, “Let me grab my purse.”

With all things considered, he probably should be asking more of you. 

But you’re grateful he isn’t as you retreat and do exactly as promised, not looking Romina in her eyes before you begin your doomsday march for just one cup of coffee. 

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @gagasbee @d64d-n0t-sl66p1ng @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n

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#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #rockstar!eddie munson #maroon #ghost's writing #ghost's stories #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson angst #i don't know how i feel about the email things i did but #i put too much effort into them to give up now waaah #was originally going to include the coffee date but that would have made it like 12k words lol

[babykittenteach]

Some Ed studies for the evening.

#not worth tagging lol #I aten't dead yet #but I've been doing too many other projects to post much. #I'm four disc audiobooks down for crochet hell #and am nearly done with a blanket #Finished a Reverse Bang submission tho! #have ideas for a second one but we'll see #also I inexplicably seem to be writing but don't tell anyone #if you made it to the end of these tags and have any dumb low effort drawing ideas come drop them in my askbox or dm? #I'm feeling very dumb and drained rn

[victimized-martyr]

Do you think Kenny actually likes cartman? I’m not so sure since the reading of his will in s9e4 (https://youtu.be/QGx92r8NLIM)

I feel like nobody likes him but Kyle is the only one who thinks he can possibly get better at all.

I agree on some level with that last statement. Due to Kyle's morals and complicated attachment to Cartman, he would be the only one willing to nurture the potential Cartman has, though I'd say Cartman isn't universally hated as one would assume. I think Kenny and Cartman's friendship deepened off screen since s9. It shows itself strongly in the covid specials and post-covid (not post covid the special, I mean like.. after the actual irl covid and.. ARGH mattrey u make my life so difficult)     

      Kenny was the one to approach Cartman about the fragility of the broship and inspires Cartman to be the one to make sure the gang stays together. That's a level of openness and vulnerability that frankly, I haven't seen him share with Stan or Kyle. Quite the opposite in fact-- When Kenny finally admits he's immortal, Stan and Kyle dismiss him in their own way. Neither have made the move to sympathize with him since, especially at the level Cartman does in the covid episodes. Now, Cartman's "sympathetic" method of coddling Kenny wasn't the best thing to do I'd say, the show was clear  Stan, Kyle and Cartman weren’t handling the broship fallout well, but Cartman definitely proved himself as the “best friend” the show has claimed he’s been in prioritizing Kenny during Covid. We even get a verbal reminder from Cartman and Kyle in Post-Covid that despite it being the literal worst future for everyone, Cartman and Kenny’s friendship thrived. With the opposite lives they lead, it's astounding they remained best friends for forty years.

That level of loyalty is kicking Stan and Kyle in the dirt and laughing rn. Look at Dikinbaus! Cartman and Kenny had a blast “planning the business” (ie living it up as owners and mutually taking advantage of Butters to just pal around) and Cartman once again concedes to Kenny when he lets him work from home. It’s a gag first and foremost, but still, I think it works as part of character analysis lolol. I’m analyzing this a lot from Cartman’s perspective, or at least his actions, but I don’t rlly have much to go by on Kenny’s end and I hope y’all can see why lol. excluding the Mysterion arc and the s22 Halloween episode, he’s a passive character. things rly just are happening to this dude. 

Cartman's attachment to Kenny has grown exponentially since the early seasons ("I hate yew guys/ specially kinny/ ah hate em the most/") whereas we've heard directly from Kenny what he thought of Cartman at the time s9 was written but we don't really know what he thinks of Cartman presently. Now, mattrey have written Kenny's quietness and frequent disappearances as part of the charm of his character--the mysteriousness with a pinch of hidden sadness, maybe a dash of loneliness--and not like, a serious writing pitfall of not knowing what to do with one of your main characters, not giving them the chance to let the audience see their motivations. So the uncertainty surrounding Kenny's true opinions, in this case of his friendship with Cartman, isn't by accident. I'd say it's fair to assume Kenny now views Cartman as a best friend, given how much Cartman has done for him.

I’d also say it’s fair to assume the pity for Cartman hasn’t changed.

#asks #south park #eric cartman #kenny mccormick #kennman #sure this could be seen as kennman why not lol #now Kyle believes cartman can change and maybe kenny can see it too but kenny definitely isn’t proactive enough to put in the effort to #see it thru #Kenny’s friendship with Cartman has grown to become the least tumultuous of the m4 #so Kenny doesn’t need to feel compelled to search for the food in cartman. he already sees in in their friendship #on a writing level it’s just… off to have Cartman and Kenny go thru so much only for Kenny to still have the same opinions of Cartman in s9 #they’ve taken on this weird new role where Cartman takes it upon himself to console kenny in addition to stringing hm along in his schemes #ohh but as much as i’ve said that kyle sees good in cartman and wants to be the one to help see that goodness come to fruition #it’s also try that as of s20 Kyle’s been disillusioned #he told heidi ‘Cartman will never change’ and I think that was a wake up call for himself as much as it was for heidi #when cartman gave up the pangolin all kyle said was ‘i don’t believe it’ #when cartman said he converted kyle refused to give cartman a chance even at the end of the special #s7 kyle would’ve clung to the promise of cartman changing with rosy eyes full of hope #that hope for cartman ain’t dead but dormant rn. the heiman arc rly burnt him out #Cartman get off ur ass and win Kyle back pls he’s so done w/ u rn my guy he will Nope himself out of stories now so he won’t deal w/ u #(kyle’s absence in streaming wars was rly felt) #wait in streaming wars kyle had a ‘he can change 🥺’ moment when he went ‘🥺’ for cartman when talkin abt the surgery #he was on everyone’s case abt the surgery he was on top of managing cartman’s boat building quality #but yeah cartman ended up taking the money for himself and. now we’re fuckin back to square one :)) #although i’d say in streaming wars cartman didn’t withhold the deets on the surgery on purpose. he didn’t know what was going on #when he went to talk to the guys and he was genuine. #A​NAYWAYS FUCK OK STOP TALKING EPSERANZA GOD

[deviljesterlamb]

The next part to this fic.

This one takes place during NB lesson 17-17 and after it. Just a small update to help move us closer to what I want to hit most soon.

Warnings: None really. Just more angst and drama lol

When Solomon arrived to RAD, he instantly regretted coming over. The loud chattering from everyone around him made his headache only worsen as time went on. Even when trying to tell others, especially Mammon, to not yell around him. It didn't help.

Not only that, it was hard for Solomon to hide the fact he wasn't feeling well at all. He looked like he was about to hurl again, and faint at the spot.

Though the sorcerer tried to keep his composure, the best way he could. As well kept his eyes on Jayce for most of the time...Even though they rarely locked eyes with him, and if anything, avoid any eye contact with him.

This all only made Solomon more upset, and wanted to leave now. Though same time, drag Jayce with him, to demand some answers on why they were treating him the way they did...

After Raphael arrived and gave his important message to the demon brothers. Everyone was dismissed and sent back home to have a moment to think about what just occurred, as well, what their plans will be from here on.

Solomon took this moment to pull Jayce away alone for a second. With how the brothers were acting and feeling right now. They wouldn't notice Jayce missing for a bit.

"Quite a surprising heavy start to this day, isn't it?" Solomon said with a forced smile, trying to hide his real feelings.

"Yeah...I really should get going. They need me." Jayce was about to leave, but Solomon stopped them.

"I know. But I need you too..." He noticed Jayce's gaze stray away from him. Once again, they were trying to avoid any eye contact with him. "Jayce, why are you acting distant around me and trying to avoid me suddenly? Did I do something wrong?"

"Did you do something wrong? You're joking, right?" Jayce's voice rose, and unaware to them both, Barbatos was nearby overhearing this all.

"I'm not..." He frowned, upset to see Jayce acting like this towards him. "Did something happened last night between us? I know I drank a lot, by how horrible I'm feeling...But beyond that, everything is...a blur. So please...Tell me what happened. If I did anything to upset you, then tell me. I want to fix this." Solomon reached a hand out to hold Jayce's but they stepped back, not letting him even touch them.

"Stay back. I don't want you touching me right now." The drop Solomon felt in his chest was one he never thought he'll feel over Jayce. Just hearing them say that to him, made him not only upset but angry too. But not at them, but at himself.

"Jayce...Fine...I'll let you go. The brothers need you more right now anyway, I feel...But, we're going to continue this conversation later. You're going to tell me EVERYTHING. You got it? Promise me." Jayce looked away, not wanting to show their tears building up again from this talk alone.

"Yeah...Sure..." All Solomon could do was just watch Jayce run off, leaving him alone in the room to sink in his own despair.

Barbatos only stared at Solomon from afar. As much as he was upset with him for his own personal reasons. Seeing Solomon like this, wasn't a sight to enjoy either.

Solomon was about to leave the room himself now, planning to head back home to just go back to bed. Until he got a text message from someone and checked his phone to notice it was from Barbatos.

"I wish to invite you over for some tea I just prepared. I hope you'll join me." Solomon stared at the message, surprised by the sudden invite. Then looked up, hoping to see Jayce come back to him to apologize, or yell at him more, anything than have them avoid him. But nothing happened...Solomon responded back to Barbatos with a simple "Sure. Be right there." Before heading over to the castle.

The visit from Barbatos wouldn't be the greatest moment for Solomon. Especially by how Barbatos didn't shy away from expressing his thoughts and feelings towards Solomon.

Though the tea Barbatos prepared especially for Solomon, was a special one. A special blend, with magical properties to not only help on clearing headaches, or hangovers for Solomon's case. As well, to both clears one mind, and even help recall missing or forgotten recent memories...

The moment Solomon started to recall what had happened last night. His eyes widened and his chest started to feel tight from it all. Did he really act in such a way towards Jayce, as well say those things? It was foolish of him, reckless as well, now he started to agree with everything Barbatos called him or said to him.

"...I'm sorry, but I need to--" Barbatos raised his hand up, stopping Solomon from speaking.

"I know. Now do not waste this chance to fix what you can. If things can be fixed, that is." Barbatos already was cleaning up the table and preparing to leave.

"You talk as if Jayce and I are a lost cause already...But I'll fix this. I'll have Jayce back by my side, and never let this happen again." Solomon stood up from his seat, ready to leave to go back home and wait for Jayce to come back. "Barbatos...Thank you for helping me."

"Don't be foolish. I didn't do this to help you, at least not directly. I only wish for this issue to be resolved as quickly and cleanly as possible, for Jayce's sake...and the brothers that will surely be effected by this all too. If not resolved sooner than later."

"...Ah...I see...Anyway. You still have my thanks, from the both of us." Solomon gave a smile, a weak one, since its all he could force out right now. Since remembering his falling out with Jayce from last night, was taking a emotional toll on him. But he still appreciated what Barbatos did for them.

To be continued...

#I didn't put much effort on this one since not feeling too great rn but still wanted to write lol #obey me #obey me nightbringer #;mc jayce 🐑 #obey me mc #obey me solomon #obey me barbatos

[icewindandboringhorror]

Found a very cool pastel cat sweater at the bins but I have literally nothing that matches it well, so I always struggle to make outfits with it lol

#ootd #pastel #I really really want to SELL CLOTHES I keep talking about selling clothes.. its just such a process..hhhhhhh #Because you have to take pictures. edit the pictures. list them somewhere. write descriptions. choose a price. advertise the fact you listed #it somewhere. Repeat with literally hundreds of items (since I get bulk clothes at the bins and etc.). I have a lot of cool stuff that I thi #nk people into similar styles would want to buy. and I always need money to fund art and healthcare expenses and eventually moving to a diff #erent place someday. replacing broken electronics. etc. etc. So a wise decision is 'well sell a lot of the old clothes you have'. It is so #difficutl with my specific functioning issues though since it's such a long process and also packing things up. taking them to the post offi #ce etc. takes timing since I always have to be driven by roomates and stuff. etc. etc. #I think the way I was considering getting around this was to sell clothing in 'packs' like.. A pack of 5 or 6 matching items the same shade #of pink. or all green items with flowers so it's the same 'nature theme'. Or even selling full outfits or something. so that way I can kind #of bundle items. Instead of the effort of photograohing and listing literally 50 individual items. Turn them into 5 packs of 10. Or 10 packs #of 5. etc. ? But I think I never got too far with that because I was uncertain how that'd actually go over in terms of whether people would #buy groups of items instead of just individual. Especially whole outfits or something like. I think you'd get a wider audience giving people #more individual choice to choose seperate things instead of putting them together and going 'this is just what you get' or etc. #but I could also see it being cool. You already have some guaranteed stuff that matches. They have a theme. Especially if it's something you #like. Love brown themed mori kei items? here's 5 of them already together. etc. etc. etc. #ANYWAY. Came to mind because as much as I love anything with cats on it that's a light color. I also am chronically warm natured due to my #health issues so I overheat immensely if I wear sweaters. even in the winter I don't wear that many layers lol. So a sweater like this is ju #st impratical for me outside of taking one or two outfit photos with it. but I don't think I could ever actually wear it even if I really wa #nt to. But it's nice! and very cool!! so a good candidtate for selling. Give it to someone who would be happier to have it than I would in #the sense that maybe they could actually WEAR it lol. #ANYWAY... rhgh #everything......... difficult.......... whye #Also sweater is too hot for me and doesn't match anything I own even though it's perfect and I love cats..... whye....... cruele world #self

[something2believe]

did anyone else used to be ashamed of their own intelligence as a child. that was crazy

#what i wouldn't give to still have that kind of insecurity lol. unfortunately i feel like an idiot now #but i remember i would dumb myself down by pretending to be slower at tasks and participate less #this might have been after i was picked on (by my crush😻) for making too much of an effort in a writing assignment #and was starting to become labelled as 'the smart one' (how awful!)

[mementoasts]

masadai fic that i took too seriously

rating: T word count: 3676 context: that ridiculous chart i made

it’s the fireworks fic woooo. they argue a little, they make out and make up (not really), and they're gonna break up again after a few days anyway bc that’s how they are </3 i mean it, i put too much effort into it until the end when it just becomes a comedy LOL

slapping this bad boy under here ok bye

......................................................

A screech rings out into the skies, bringing with it a tranquil moment of anticipation before evolving into a thunderous roar, screaming out from above the resort and blooming into a radiant spread of colors.

Masato sits beside an ornate wooden bench placed near the base of a short, wide tree, its remaining autumnal leaves swaying overhead with the cool breeze. He quietly observes from this lone spot as the vibrant flames rain down and fizzle out, returning darkness to the sky. The faint cheers of awe that drifted his direction die down with the display as the crowd patiently awaits what will come next. The massive group of onlookers are gathered far enough away that Masato can’t see them, and not a soul has passed by since the show commenced.

Two more fireworks are launched upwards, peering down from their peak upon those watching for only a split second before bursting, illuminating the area with their glowing lights. Masato is distracted enough by the sounds and colors that he doesn’t notice anyone approaching, and he jumps in his seat when a white puffer jacket is thrown into his lap.

“Looked cold.”

Daigo passes in front of him, fading lights outlining his figure (making Masato notice he was still wearing his headband, adorned with mouse ears and a polka-dotted bow) as he flops down onto the bench without so much as a glance at Masato. He slouches against the wood with his legs stretched out in front of him, staring outward at the fireworks– now having almost entirely disappeared by now– and seemingly trying to avoid Masato’s intense leer. It’s moderately chilly outside, but all Daigo has on top is a t-shirt from the gift shop. Masato is wearing a thin sweater, at least.

“What, still trying to earn brownie points? Dad’s not here to see,” Masato bites immediately, narrowing his eyes at him. “Don’t bother acting nice to me just because you feel obligated. I really don’t fucking care about it.”

He grabs the jacket and thrusts it back towards Daigo. However, Daigo firmly pushes it away with his forearm, urging Masato to calm down and just keep it. Masato huffs, withdrawing his hand and slipping his arms through the sleeves. “Fine. Whatever. I’m not giving this back.”

A beat passes before Daigo speaks up again, just after another firework explodes in the sky.

“Y’know, believe it or not,” he begins softly, turning his gaze a bit further away, “Sometimes I’m just trying to be nice, Masato. I’m not always going out of my way to piss you off or anything.”

“Just trying to be nice,” Masato repeats, mockingly. “Well, apparently you’re not trying hard enough, because you are just pissing me off.” He sinks into the wheelchair, folding his arms over his chest as he adds, “You’re really good at doing that, actually.”

“Yeah,” Daigo simply agrees, looking down toward the sidewalk. Masato is unable to get a good look at his expression when he flatly says, “I am, aren’t I.” 

His reply comes out too easy, too heavy, too exhausted, that Masato is admittedly unable to find the words to form another snide response. He ends up choosing to change the subject, too drained from the day's events to want to dig any deeper. “...Why the hell are you over here anyway? Everyone else is standing down there to watch the fireworks.”

Daigo inhales slowly, raising his head back up. “Honestly, I thought you’d be back at the hotel, so I just, uh,” he trails off for a second, rubbing the back of his neck, “tried looking around for a place outside to chill by myself for a while. But then I spotted you up here, so…”

“You can just leave.”

“I know.” Daigo peeks over, meeting Masato’s dark eyes for a brief moment before looking away again, but remaining facing him. “And, I… I don’t know. I guess I was just surprised to see you, so I ended up coming up here anyway. Figured it wouldn't be too bad watching the fireworks with the only other person here who doesn't wanna be down there with the crowd.”

"Thought you were having fun with the rest of them?" Masato replies. "You like hanging around Dad and Ichi enough that you even came on this stupid trip to begin with."

Daigo shakes his head at Masato’s words. "I don't think I'm ever going to understand what your problem with them is." 

"There's no point in me trying to explain it," Masato cuts in like a knife. "I don't expect you to ever get it."

"I'd like to get it. With how you used to describe him to me, I imagined that he'd just be a huge prick, but I don't think Arakawa-san is like that at all." 

Masato is already trying to tune him out. Daigo wasn't going to convince him. He just doesn't understand.

"He's a much better man than my father ever was, that's for sure. He was just a piece of shit. Even you would have agreed with me on that one," says Daigo, bitterly. "And there's also– ugh, whatever. Nevermind.” 

He groans as an unsavory memory surfaces, hunching over in his seat and clasping his hands together over his knees. Masato can tell that he is itching for a cigarette– he'd barely had the opportunity to smoke all week– but they've spent enough time with one another that he's grown used to not smoking around Masato.

“We are not doing this right now... Listen. I think Arakawa-san is great. He's been good to me. And I really like spending time with Kasuga, too– but I'm just trying to say that I can still want to be alone sometimes."

"Alone with me?" Masato scoffs, tone pitching up with a hint of dry amusement.

That finally gets Daigo fully looking his way. “Shut up,” he grunts, shifting so that he's turned toward Masato, knee pressed against the metal arm of the bench. He props his elbow on it, resting his chin against the palm of his hand, and gives Masato a miffed look. "I just wanted to tell you something, and I thought this’d be a decent time to try doing that, okay? I haven’t been able to get you alone the entire time we’ve been here.”

“Uh-huh?” Masato says, raising a neatly plucked eyebrow at him. “Go ahead then, I’m all ears. Doubt this could put me in any worse of a mood.” Another firework goes off.

“Now I feel like I shouldn’t have come up here at all,” Daigo grumbles, expression twisting into a scowl. “Look, I just figured I’d say sorry for showing up. It didn’t feel right to refuse the invitation just because of–” he gestures between himself and Masato with his other hand, “–you know.”

"Yeah, I know. You're obviously not here for me. It's not hurting my feelings." An icy gust of air passes over them, matching his harsh tone. Masato suppresses a shiver, begrudgingly moving to put the jacket on properly and wishing he'd brought his own. (He pays no mind to how much it smelled of Daigo's cologne.)

"I'm not not here for you though," Daigo tries.

"Right, and that's why you've been avoiding me."

Daigo rolls his eyes. "You've been avoiding me too, jackass. I just didn't want to make this trip any worse for you than it already has been. I've had a little fun with those two, but I know you just hate all of this."

Masato clicks his tongue, frowning. Another firework. "Don't pretend to know how I feel, because you don't have any idea."

"In regards to this trip, specifically? I'm pretty damn sure you hate every part of it," Daigo states, matter-of-factly. "I don't know why you have to act like I don't even know that much about you."

"Because you don't," Masato emphasizes, not backing down. He wouldn't admit it to Daigo (or himself) that he was correct, even if, somewhere deeper down, Masato did know it was true.

"In that case, then maybe I would, if you would just let me," Daigo says, raising his voice in frustration. "I want to know you better because I like you, Masato. You're actually someone worth spending any time with in fucking Kamurocho."

Another, another, and another, erupting against the moonless canvas one by one.

Masato couldn't care less about deescalating this conversation; truthfully, he tends to enjoy seeing Daigo get worked up. He doesn't care about what Daigo is saying, and he doesn't think it will amount to anything when all is said and done. They could bicker for hours into the night, both of them usually too stubborn to stand down after being provoked.

Usually. So maybe Masato can blame it on the fact he's had such a long, shitty day that he also doesn't try pressing any further into that particular topic, for once. Nothing more.

"Seriously?" he eventually says, voice quiet and somber. He pauses, allowing another row of fireworks to spring up and fill the theme park with their deafening roars. "You can still say you like me, even after what happened?"

"I–" Daigo appears partially startled by Masato's question, most likely because he expected this to devolve into a full blown argument. "You're stupid," he huffs, quickly tacking on, "We both are. And we keep fighting over stupid fucking shit. But..." he trails off for a moment. "You’re still, y'know. Important. I still care about you."

Masato almost laughs. "Is all this some roundabout way for you to ask that we get back together?"

"Well– I mean–" Daigo stammers, suddenly sheepish. "No, not necessarily. I'm just trying to be honest. It’s still kind of nice being around you."

"Nice enough that you'd hike all the way up here and watch fireworks with me with no one else around, apparently," Masato says, now blatantly teasing Daigo. "Even after you were the one who broke up with me this time."

"God, fuck off," he sighs, though it held no malice. He runs a hand through his messy hair, getting visibly more flustered when it’s clear that he’s forgotten he was wearing a headband. He removes it, placing it on the bench beside him. "I was really pissed. That's also part of why I wanted to talk to you tonight."

"Uh-huh."

Their bantering continues for a few minutes now that they've both simmered down and steered the conversation away from the actual issues. (They could calmly talk through them some other night, surely. Definitely. Totally). 

Eventually, they settle into a comfortable silence. They stay somewhat attentive to the view, watching with mild interest as the shapes of mascots take form in the otherwise empty sky and trickle down into specks of color.

"Have you ever watched the fireworks show they do in Theater Square every year?" Daigo pipes up again. "The one the city puts on to celebrate New Years."

"Can't say I have." Unsurprisingly, Masato had always turned down his father's invitations until he stopped asking altogether. The closest he'd ever been was catching a glimpse through the curtains of his apartment window and drowning them out by blasting heavy metal.

"I haven't for a couple of years, but uh... back when he was still around, a close friend of mine used to take me when I was younger. Obviously weren't as impressive as these, but they felt more… special I guess? I don't know." Daigo sticks his hands into the pockets of his black jeans, looking off to the side in thought. "...Wanna check it out with me next time?"

Masato attempts to muffle his laugh into the collar of the jacket, failing the more he realizes what Daigo is asking. "I haven't agreed to anything yet, and you're already asking me out on another date? On my goddamn birthday, too? That's cheesy as hell."

It's much too dim where they are sitting for Masato to actually see, but judging from Daigo's unsteady tone, he has to be flushed a pretty shade of scarlet all the way to the tips of his ears from embarrassment. "Fucking– I forgot about that, okay! I was just thinking about the fireworks!" Masato only laughs harder. 

It's a rare sight.

Daigo ends up muttering his name as he watches, stricken with the realization that he’d ever seen Masato laughing so much in the past. Never this… real, either. 

"Masato…"

Masato dabs at the corners of his eyes with his sleeve, trying to relax before he ends up giving himself a coughing fit. Another firework briefly grabs his attention, the sound of it nearly suppressing his breathy tone as he asks, "Yeah?" He turns back too quickly and finds himself mere inches away from Daigo's face, meeting his widened gaze straight on.

From their close proximity, Masato is rendered speechless as he watches the fireworks' sparks cast their muted hues across Daigo's features, painting him in a mixture of colors until they vanish, the last traces of them trailing along his cheekbones and down toward chapped, parted lips.

Perhaps Daigo was seeing a similar view as well, because they're both leaning forward almost simultaneously.

What starts as something that could almost be considered soft or meek devolves quickly, becoming feverish as it deepens. That's always how it goes– making out usually solves whatever they’re going through. (Was anything really solved, though? Well, it didn’t matter right now either way.)

Masato takes the lead– again, that’s how it tends to go. Daigo is more than happy to cooperate when Masato bites down harshly, his tongue delving into the warmth of Daigo’s mouth, prodding against a familiar piercing and drawing a long moan out of Daigo. Daigo slowly shifts in his seat, getting into a better position to bridge the space between the bench and wheelchair. Masato can’t readjust as easily, keeping his head tilted at an awkward angle.

“Hey,” Masato exhales, managing to break away in order to ask, “could you–”

But Daigo has already leaned back in, reclaiming Masato’s lips and causing him to grunt in weak annoyance. Daigo smiles against him at the reaction, opening his eyes halfway when he draws away again. He hums lightheartedly in acknowledgment, already getting up to stand in front of Masato. He bends down, allowing Masato to wrap an arm around Daigo’s shoulders. In turn, Daigo begins to lift him up, grabbing him by the waist and assisting him toward the bench. When Masato is seated, Daigo doesn’t hesitate to climb onto the bench as well, placing his knees on either side of Masato’s thighs and settling down nicely onto his lap. Masato automatically places a hand on Daigo’s hips, giving a light squeeze before traveling around to his backside, slipping under his shirt and eliciting a sharp gasp from Daigo as he jerks away.

“Shit, your hand is fucking cold,” he hisses, his own hands wandering up against Masato’s chest, underneath the white jacket.

"Because it is kinda fucking cold out here." Masato’s hand inches higher, the pads of his fingers almost ticklish with the way they skim across Daigo's inked skin.

Daigo sighs, cupping Masato's face with his hands and tilting his head up to continue their kiss. "And you still just had to bitch at me for the jacket anyway."

Somewhere behind them, the fireworks are ramping up towards the finale, signified by the increasing frequency and intensity. Daigo and Masato are too preoccupied to pay mind to it anymore, fully engrossed in every pleasing sound and movement the other makes.

There’s a twinkle in Daigo’s eyes, hotter and brighter than the spread of fireworks shimmering behind him, when he pulls away to catch his breath. “Isn’t this romantic?” he jokes, once he’s able to speak. “Us two pieces of shit making out during the fucking Disney fireworks show.”

Masato smirks back at him, still breathing heavily. “It’s fitting. You should just admit that you only came out here because you’ve missed having my hands all over you.” 

“I’m sure you’d love to hear that.”

"Because I know you’d hate having to say it.” Masato ducks down into the crook of Daigo’s neck, lavishing the sensitive skin with quick pecks and nibbles as Daigo lifts his head to grant Masato better access. “But I could probably make you. Maybe we should go back to the hotel," he suggests in between kisses. "Make the most out of our last night here." He punctuates it by sinking his teeth in just above Daigo's collarbone, dragging a pleased whine from Daigo's lips.

It’s nothing if not a miracle when Daigo happens to open his eyes. 

From a notable distance, he notices a lone figure briskly making its way toward where they were sitting from the direction of the hotel. The figure, too far for Daigo to make out any distinct features, seems to be looking around as though searching for something. It only takes a few more seconds for it to dawn on Daigo that this person was very likely to be out there looking for someone.

“Oh my god,” Daigo utters, pulling away abruptly. Masato chases after his jawline for a moment before opening his eyes as well, peering up at Daigo in mild irritation.

“What?” he sighs, turning his head around to follow Daigo’s panicked gaze.

“That’s Sawashiro.”

Squinting, Masato boredly responds, “Yeah? So? Let him come over here. It’ll be funny.”

Sawashiro’s silhouette stills briefly, appearing to have spotted Daigo and Masato. Daigo isn’t sure he knows it’s the two of them on the bench, but he doesn’t want to stick around to find out.

“No,” Daigo whispers, still keeping his voice down as if Sawashiro could possibly hear him from this distance, “no no no.” In the blink of an eye, he’s standing up and wrapping his arms around Masato, carefully but urgently picking him up and sitting him back into the wheelchair before circling around it, grabbing the handles, and running down the sidewalk as fast as he is able.

“What the fuck?!” Masato exclaims, holding on to the arms of the wheelchair as he lifts his head up, giving Daigo a bewildered look. “Holy shit, what is wrong with you?!”

“Did you tell him you were going back to your room!” Daigo shouts frantically. 

“Wh– I did, yeah! Because I didn’t want him hovering around me for the rest of the night!”

The fireworks have reached their climax. An array of them, all different colors and shapes, bombard the empty night sky, keeping the area solidly lit for a long enough period that there was no way Sawashiro hadn’t identified them by now. Daigo clings to the faint sliver of hope that he hadn’t: they could just be a different pair of gloomy guys! He dares to toss his gaze over his shoulder, and when he does, he finds that Sawashiro had broken out into a complete sprint.

“Dojima!” he yells at their retreating figures.

Daigo runs even faster, despite Masato’s growing complaints– and for once, he had every right to be upset. “Daigo!”

“How have you not noticed!” Daigo pants, responding to Masato’s previous question.

“Noticed what!”

“The captain wants me dead!”

“Why the fuck would he want you dead!” “I don’t have any fucking clue!”

The two of them continue to scream at each other while Sawashiro remains hot on their tail. With the show now being practically over, members of the audience have begun making their way back up the hill, preparing to turn in for the night. Daigo veers off of the main street, taking the both of them down an adjacent path and seeking shelter behind a decorative building. He leans against the wall, breathing heavily, risking a peek around the corner to see if Sawashiro kept up– and behold, Daigo is met with–

“Kasuga!?”

Ichiban stares at him, wide-eyed like he had just seen a ghost. “Uh, hey!” he greets with a forced smile, very clearly puzzled. “I thought I saw you! Um,” he steps around Daigo, nodding his head at Masato, “and hello to you too, young master. Could I, uh, ask what… you two are doing? I saw you guys run through the square all the way over here.”

“I’d also love to know what we’re doing here, Daigo,” Masato gripes.

Daigo grabs Ichiban by the shoulders, tugging him behind the corner and out of view. “I’ll explain later. Kasuga, have you seen the captain, by any chance?”

“Captain Sawashiro? Uh, yeah, he’s over there talking to Arakawa-san.” He points out toward the main street. No more than a handful of meters away, slightly obscured by the passing crowd of people, are Arakawa and Sawashiro speaking to one another. Arakawa gestures to the general direction of where the three of them were presently hiding. “We were just leaving the show together when we spotted you guys, and then the captain showed up at the same time.”

Daigo curses beneath his breath. “Kasuga, could you keep them distracted for me? We need to get back to the hotel.” “We?” 

“Yes, we, because if we don’t convince him that you were there by yourself the whole time, he’s going to kill me.”

“You have lost your fucking mind.”

Daigo ignores his comment, patting Ichiban on the shoulder and flashing a charming grin. “I owe you big time, Kasuga!”

“Wh– wait!” But before Ichiban could inquire any further, Daigo and Masato were already making their way down the narrow street. Suddenly, a hand lands on his shoulder, making him jump right out of his skin.

“Ichi? Did you see them?” Arakawa looks at him curiously. 

Sawashiro stands behind him, staring through his soul like he knows Ichiban is hiding something. “You remember what you and I discussed, right, Ichiban?”

“A-ahahah, of course! No, I didn’t see Dojima or the young master! It was probably just my wild imagination!” he laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his head.

This was going to be a long rest of the night for everybody.

*the episode ends. silly outro music plays and the credits roll*

#the void given form #I GOT TOO EXCITED BY PLUSHIES EARLIER TO FINISH THIS BUT I FINALLY CALMED DOWN #not tagging it not putting it on ao3 (probably) i'm just hoping the masadai fans see this and hoping they maybe like it LOL #its bc i put actual effort into this that i feel so embarrassed sfkjshfhjds I DUNNO I DUNNO IT'S LIKE. AAAAAAAAAA it's soooo aaaaaaaa #there's so much i wanna get across and it's hard i hate writing /weeps #sorry it's kinda word heavy it's bc i was just visualizing this as a comic in my head (i quickly realized Oh this is a Lot i cannot draw it) #er dialogue heavy i mean #I WANTED TO MAKE IT SILLY BUT THEN I WAS LIKE no it'd be annoying if this whole thing was a joke. so what if i -- #im leaving the internet now goodbye

[ferretwhomst]

extremely amused by the fact that like. my two other published fics on ao3. the most recent one with wendy and stan has only 969 words. the toh one from like may has 1219 words. and the bb au fic? 2800 words already and i'm not even close to considering publishing this thing yet

#2800 words in a few days doesn't sound like a Lot but. it is to me. #i don't want to start publishing chapters right after i write them #because then i get too excited with ao3 engagement #and. i end up not doing anything for the next few chapters lol #because i lost the thread i was working with while refreshing ao3 every 4 seconds #happened with BOTH those other fics #gonna be careful with how i go about this fic specifically because i want it to be good. the bb au means way too much to me #ive put so much effort into planning. completely unlike any other fic ive ever written #ferret rambles #au fic progress

[blessphemy]

me when real human beings read something i wrote: woah. neat.

#nullverse #sometimes i think about that #you know #the effort and attention that it takes? to read something? #i think about it. the handshake of time and effort it is #i spend fucking forever writing something down. time and sanity. so much time and sanity lol #someone on the other end #catching the thread #and reading it. carrying it into them too #idk guys... #something like a psychic connection #two experiences resonating with each other #detached and fundamentally unknowable to each other #but still sharing the same words. in a way.

[tuiyla]

i don’t know how else to tell people that the problem with Leighton’s story isn’t Leighton’s story, for which I would love to be so proud of her, but that it simply wasn’t written well

i’m sorry y’all can’t “Tatum was meant to represent this!!!” and “Leighton has realized that!!” your way out of this when the writing simply did not put in any of the effort. also lmao you wanna know why I’m salty over Tatum’s treatment? cause how she ended was literally not what they’d been writing for 3 episodes. not once did Leighton look like Tatum was reminding her of bad parts of herself, not once prior to the fundraiser was Tatum anything but chill, supportive, and into Leighton for exactly who she was

it just feels so cheap and like I’m still happy for Leighton and happy for y’all if you can run with poor writing but I simply cannot tolerate it, I have to hold the show to higher standards than Leighton kissing any girl at any given moment in time

#okay now I've reeeeeally said piece #so i'll only be reiterating through asks #but goddam forgive me if i want tslocg's writing to be better than glee's lmao #y'all are giving the writing too much credit that it doesn't deserve basically #the only reason i'm so gung ho about tatum is because of WHAT THEY GAVE US FOR THREE EPS #talk about misdirection #cause then they rip it away for a storyline that doesn't work without the effort put into it #tatum you remind me of everything I want to change about myself 😤 #bitch WHERE you've never given any signs that that was the case #feels like there are missing scenes here oooor just pure bad spacing and laziness on the writers part #trust me i do not like being mad at writers of shows i like #alas #someone has to lol #but since i really do not know how else to say this now that was it #tslocg #leighton murray #leighton x tatum #tatum tslocg #fuck me i guess for thinking the writing was consistent #also to note i have no beef with alicia she's fine whatever #but you cannot tell me this was a story well told #okay someone take the tags away from me

[orcelito]

Someday I will get to write my interpretation of vashwood and then none of you will know peace

#speculation nation #Sentido doesnt count bc a: drabble piece & b: it was set in tristamp anyways #i have some dissatisfaction with how i characterized them in that fic anyways. but i digress. #honestly me seeing some glaring problems yet everyone who read & commented loves it #it is my... grudging child. like yes it's good writing yes it's decent characterization but i Know It Could Be Better. #mostly it's frustrating that it's as popular as it is hfkdhfjd like give some of that love to ITNL man that's the Actual effort piece... #oh well. it's whatever. #i WILL get to write itnl vashwood before too long. and it WILL be everything i love out of the pairing. #im already writing itnl vash as purposefully kind of an asshole. bc he Is. that's how he is in canon. #really kind but really bitchy about it. except to kids hes always really gentle with kids. #adults tho??? he WILL annoy the shit out of you Purposefully. bc he has fun with it lol #and i wanna write him with wolfwood SOOO BAAAAAAD #ixll get there. before too long. not too much longer....

[brittlebutch]

i knowww that a child would have changed the landscape of the show too much for it to have ever actually happened but oughhhhhh i want to see Joan and Sherlock platonically co-parent a kid so bad

#N posts stuff #you can Remove or Replace characters in long running shows but adding in a whole new character + dynamic is often too much #to pull off without causing problems re: the ability to rewatch / jump in anywhere in the seasons via cable reruns #(not to mention the trouble with trying to figure out where to place the child when the show is about Cases a child could not attend BUT #it would have been so good it would have been so good 'for you watson i would make adjustments' and how he redesigns a doll house #just to make the brownstone look a little more impressive for the social worker #and how much effort joan put into the process too and how excited she was like oahg it's such a bummer #i'm also like. deeply interested in autistic parenting - not to pull too much focus Off of Joan when it's Her hypothetical kid but lol #platonic co-parenting is also such a fascinating dynamic; joan & sherlock's deepset undeniable love that is never anything But platonic #is one of the tastiest aspects of this show introducing a parenting dynamic would have been SO GOOD #imagine what could have been (they are considering writing a fic)

[that-was-anticlimactic]

nothing can keep me from loving you

written for @beachytablecloth - theatre au, renga

There were a lot of ways Reki could describe Langa: goofy, kind, determined, reckless… but something that Langa wasn’t was a quitter.

In the half a year that Reki had known them, he’d never seen Langa back down from anything. He was up for any challenge, up to pushing himself, and trying new things.

So, when he and Langa were at their class’ play rehearsal one afternoon and Langa bolted off the stage, Reki knew that something was wrong. Of all the things he’d seen Langa do, all the incredible things he’d accomplished, he’d never seen Langa give up.

Reki dropped everything after Langa ran off—literally. His clipboard clattered to the ground and he tore his headset off, tossing it to the side as he took off after him.

[or, langa doesn't want to be the lead actor in the school play and reki comforts him]

♡1,235 words | renga♡

#corey writes:) #AHHHHHHHHHHHH #hope this is alright lol #when i started writing this i kind of just Wrote and when i looked at the word count it was seven hundred words and then just said screw it #and kept going lol like today is such a depressing day so hopefully this is something a lil happy oiuytfrderdftgyhuijo #either way it was v fun to write <3 #my first time writing langa angst ! #trying to get into some of langa's character haha #anyways this isn't like my favorite thing ever but if i put more effort into it it would get too long and i have other stuff i need to write #bUT i still love them v much <3 #also purposefully made the title a starkid lyric for you hehe #sk8 #renga #reki x langa #langa x reki #sk8 fanfic

[iwantyoursexmp3]

does anyone else get writing "advice" posts on their fyp (usually from blogs that promote themselves as solely a writing advice account) that is all very neatly laid out but when you read it is actually like. nothing-advice? like i got a "how to plot a book" post and all the points where incredibly vague, "start with an idea" "consider themes and message" "create well defined characters" and i don't think even a beginner writer would benefit from this because what does a "good" idea look like? how do you define characters well? how do you consider and approach an idea thematically? at first i thought maybe i need to remember that im not a beginner writer and dont need things laid out like that, but then i remember the times i was a beginner writer and and would watch similar videos on youtube and just feel overwhelmed by all the steps being laid out in a whistle stop tour with nothing about how to tackle each step, or reassurance that you dont have to a follow a set line of steps in the first place. feel like there's a whole genre of writing advice content, typically marketed at beginners, that's like, the advice isn't bad but it's so surface level and presented in a easy to digest way that it can look helpful but when it comes to actually being helpful you'll realise it's actually saying nothing. coincidentally it's also the easiest content you could make re writing LOL

#it also had outline your book and the basic inciting incident rising action etc like not the freytags pyramid on MY fyp!!! #i think about this a lot with the authortubers i watched when i was just starting out and a teen #the advice wasnt bad it was just so. stripped of all its complexity and nuance? #and i would watch these and TAKE NOTES like i was in a class or smth but could never figure out how to apply it to my own work #and i think that's because the advice was so low effort lol #i watched a whole video on passive voice because my writing tutor at the time (intro to creative writing worst workshop of my life btw!!! #who wants tea!!!) #said i used too much passive voice and then left me to my own devices about that #and yeah that video taught me what passive voice looks like and how to switch it to active #but it didnt teach me at all what passive voice actually was beyond that. what effect it CAN have #which is why im a big believer in writing theory over writing advice #explain passive voice in a neutral way so beginner writers know how to discern when its effective and when its not #cause all that video did was basically teach me how to robotically edit random sentences of my work into 'active' #basically tldr the advice isnt bad but they never really present effective advice on how to apply it #actually i may move this whole post to my main but i have more shit i want to say abt other things today

[bugeyedfreaks]

Gonna try as be as concise with this post as I can, since I’m sure you guys know by now that I… can talk way too much about the PPG. 🤣 I had heard about the Powerpuff Girls live action leaked script, but I never took the time to read it for myself. People sent me screencaps of different sections and gave me a summary of what happened, but from all of that, I thought it didn’t sound very good, so I didn’t want to assault my senses with the full thing. A few days ago, the PDF of the script popped up on Tumblr for me as a recommended post, so I thought I should take a deep breath and finally take the plunge.

I’m surprised to report that after FINALLY reading it… I didn’t entirely hate it. Is the writing bad? Yes. Are there way too many pop culture jokes? Yes. Do they make the mistake of giving all the girls ice powers when it’s pretty established canon that Blossom’s the only one with that? YES, and that’s really aggravating. You get glimmers that the writers have seen the show, and kind of get the characters, but only to a certain point that borders on superficial.

However, there’re a lot of cool ideas in the script. I kept reading it thinking, “Ohhh, that’s a cool idea, but I wish they did it [insert different way here].” I even went, “Awww!” at a couple points. Yes. I was weirded out. I liked some of the character interpretations (I’m like 75% on board with Blossom’s character, liked Buttercup and Bubbles’ sisterly chemistry, strangely love the weird take of crazy stardom obsessed Bubbles 😂 and her relationship with the Prof, among many other things!), but I was super thrown off by the pointless (and honestly, unfunny and baffling) “adult” humor and pop culture jokes. Those made NO sense. Like Craig McCracken has said in the past, you don’t mix the girls in with whatever’s like hot or trendy, they’re supposed to be evergreen. Despite this type of humor sucking, it makes me sad to hear that the network interpreted the fans’ response as hating any humor, and are changing it to go into a “serious” direction. I think all it needs is some good original humor not so dependent on references to things (maybe even a healthy dose of puns). PPG usually has a good mix of serious fighting and goofy hijinks, and you could totally do that with a live action series. The characters are fun and funny and it would be fun to keep them that way, just… creatively!

There’s also some OOCness that’s just unforgivable. Of course, you need these characters to have flaws that they’ll overcome throughout the run of the show, but some of the additions were weird, like they didn’t track for who some of the characters are at their core. There was one that I thought was interesting but had lousy execution, and that was the Professor being a greedy stage dad kind of character. It made me sad, but the idea of our usually sweet Professor being secretly evil or doing some shady things on the side WAS kind of intriguing. If they were gonna do that, I would have made it a slow build up to like a season finale, like, “…wait, the good dad licensed his kids out of the money instead of for the good of the town?! Evil all along?!” or something like that. Maybe he was forced into it and went against his own moral code. Could it even have been an avenue to introduce Him? Was he puppeteering the Prof all along?! I dunno. But the way they wrote the Prof how they did just made it seem like they had no clue what they were doing, or who his character is even at a basic level.

I think a lot of the ideas presented (childhood stardom, the struggles of adulthood, privacy, the real world repercussions of fighting, mental health, etc.) are really super intriguing, and my mind is like REELING with a lot of potential that seems wasted and lost. The girls have established personality flaws that they could really build off more from (Blossom with perfectionism and pride, Buttercup with anger and jealousy, Bubbles with sensitivity and naïveté) and in a more meaningful way. Same with the villains, like… some of them are more complex than a casual viewer would think, and it would be cool to see that complexity fleshed out even more.

One thing I would really want them to do is to try to, like… distance the show as much as possible from the original canon cartoon. PPGZ is a good example of successfully creating a PPG-esque show for a specific market and demographic that keeps the spirit of the original show and the general designs while making it CLEAR that it’s its own thing. After what happened with PPG 2016, it might have made fans skittish that this live-action show is meant to somehow “fix” things, or continue the cartoon’s official storyline. It shouldn’t. This needs to be, like, more clearly an alternate universe. Don’t even have the cartoon in it as a gag (I’d say the least I’d put in are the cartoon designs of the girls as like… in-world merch mascots or something, and even then I’m hesitant). If you look at this show as a separate entity that’s only based off the original characters, it might feel a little more palatable. …maybe. 😆

Anyway, I could write SO much more, but that’s… my general take on it. Not great, but not as much of a dumpster fire as I was expecting. I dunno if I’m confident that they’ve been making any meaningful changes to the script. Realistically, at the end of the day, they’re probably viewing it as a way to push merch and make money rather than setting out to do a live action PPG series justice. That’s okay. It is what it is. If they DO want to make it good though, I think at the very least it just needs more thought put into it and to be scrubbed clean of all those garbage pop culture jokes. We’ll see what happens though, but I did at least detect some potential hiding in there. Now if it builds on the potential… that remains to be seen. 🙃

#ppg cw #sorry I’m late with my Deep Thoughts on this one #also omg #SO SURPRISED that I like the character of Jojo as much as I did lol I seriously thought he’d be ruined #not even close to perfect but there’s Potential™️ #not feeling the dad and son thing but also NOT not feeling it… I have very complicated feelings about it haha #i could write a whole thing about how to properly incorporate mojo into the show but… I feel like it’d be wasted effort anyway so idk #ALSO I will say they should tone down the cringe sex stuff but I AM intrigued by some of the romance aspects #it’s much less cringe since they’re adults here so I was happy that I wasn’t TOO much like… blech… but there were moments #buttercup and bubbles stop being so honry PLEASE 😑