#The fuck did I just write

[jgrills]

Ghostface hobie (readers a survivor)

"Stabbing Fest"

Tw: stabbing, MENTIONS OF GUNS, blood and injuries, ghostface, character deaths, chainsaw, cussing, honestly, this is more of reader fighting their betrayer.

Got inspired by @breeandhermunches and her e42 and 1610 ghostface miles fic.

reader survives.

6:30 pm.

It was an exhausting school day, good thing its Halloween night, now you can chill out and watch a (horror movie you like marathon).

Your phone rings as soon as you snuggle into the couch blanket. You groan and check who it is..

It's Mekell.

You answer, and immediately get your ears bursted with a loud "Hey!!" From them.

"Yes?" Your voice is groggy, still comfortable in the covers.

"I know exams were exhausting, but can the group come over?"

"Why are you just now deciding to tell me?"

"I'm sorryyy, the plans just came in late, so can we?"

"I swear.." you sigh

"Come on over, just don't mess shit up"

"Okay, we'll be there!"

6:56 pm

Shortly after they arrive, everything's going well, laughing, grimacing at the gorey scenes, but mostly yelling at the characters for being dumb.

"Fucking dumb bitch, go the other way!"

You snicker at Kay's comment, as she dramatically groans and leans on Maya , when the character on the screen gets stabbed.

You notice Mari, just admiring her features, she had looked even more different more different than when you first saw her. She had a afro-mohawk, several piercings, just overall beautiful.

You guys talk for a while, just talking about school, what grades you got, and just relaxing.

it's been a while since you've been able to hang out with them.

9:30 pm

All your friends are asleep, except Mani and Maya, Mani seems unnerved, looking at Maya with a suspicious look. Maya just looks back in worry, shaking her head.

The tv blares with a loud sound, you recongnize the yellow bottom banner.

"BREAKING NEWS: TAY'SHAWN HARRISON, HAS BEEN MURDERED IN HIS FAMILY HOME ON QUEENSWAY GROVE"

"Shit.." You hear Mani murmur. "He just texted me too, rest in peace."

"Poor Tay'Shawn, today was his and his girlfriends anniversary.."

You see Tay'Shawns family on the tv, looking absolutely horrified and crying as they speak into the mic.

The house phone goes off. Mani and Maya look towards the phone.

"I'll go get it"

You pick the phone up, putting it to your ear.

"Hello? Is (your name) here?"

"This is them"

"Look, I..just want you to tell Mekell about the group chat, she didn't invite me to it."

"Why? There's a reason she wouldn't invite you."

"Speaking of Mekell, she talks a bunch about you"

"What does she say about me?"

"She says your (insert personality), and that you like scary movies."

Since the call is on speaker, Mani quickly wakes the others up, telling them a possible killer is talking with you. They all get up, and go to several hiding places around the house.

"She..does?" You're feeling unnerved as the strangers voice suddenly got deeper, and with more of an accent.

"Yeah, (your name)"

...

How does he..?

You hang up quickly, putting the phone back.

"Man-"

"Nope, I know, but keep the phone on you incase that fucker tries to mess around." Mani whisper-shouts at you from upstairs. "Maya's with me also."

"Thank you Mani, I can always trust-"

Phone rings.

"Now, let me ask a question" The stranger asks on the other line.

You stay silent.

"Did you lock the back door?"

Fuck.

FUCK.

You quickly downthe stair- Mani stops you. "Do NOT go down those stairs, I know that tatic"

Drip.

Something lands on your forehead.

You put a finger to it, looking at it..

It's blood.

"Mani.."

"I know" She wipes the blood off your forehead and leds you somewhere else.

"Not gonna answer me now?"

"Wait, huh-"

"Okay then, sucks Mekell will go the same way Tay'Shawn did." Horrible screams and stabbing noises come from the other line, something bubbling, choking sounds, likely from blood, then no more.

You go up the steps.

You put the stranger on mute.

"Mekell?!" You open the door and..

You see Mekell, or..what's left of her, she's torn up, her eyes dull and she stares ahead, her left arm chopped up, being able to see the bone underneath, and a knife in her throat.

"Mekell.." You sob, holding a hand to your mouth, Mani slowly brings you away.

"I know, I know.." She mumbles, bringing you away from Mekell's bloody body.

10:47 pm

Nothing has happened since you've handed up and saw your best friends body. You can't get a hold of your parents, you only have their gun for comfort.

"You don't need to hug it that tight you know, it could be a prank" Maya murmurs.

"Nigga, what did you just say? A PRANK? A FUCKING PRANK? HE LITERALLY JUST KILLED MEKELL, AND YOU THINK THIS IS A PRANK?!" You yell at her, Mani holding you back by your shoulders.

"That's not what I meant, I know she's dead, just get over it."

"Just shut the fuck up Maya" Mani grimaces at Maya, and Maya quickly shuts up. Mani continues comforting you, and you put the gun on the island table, you soon go to sleep.

12:00 AM

You're in your bed, gripping a gun to your chest, looking at that door-

You hear steps, firing off 2 shots.

"Did you just fucking shoot at me?"

You go downstairs, and keep your gun pointed ahead.

Revvvvv...

What's that noise..

Revvvvvvvvvv.... (my poor sound text of a chainsaw)

You go and see who it is..

MAYA?!

Maya stands there, looking downwards, pulling the string to rev up the chainsaw.

"You helping us? Cus i know he's in the house."

"Yes"

You hear the sound of clothes rustling,

Firing off two shots and getting closer, the figure stabs you in the stomach, and slashes you on the collarbone, seeming to dissapear in the shadows as he laughs.

It's a charming laugh..

You keep the knife there, not wanting to bleed out.

"Shit! Mani!" You run back into the house, through the back door.

The powers out, and you can't see shit.

Someone pins you to the wall and digs the knife deeper as you let out a scream of pain. Maya doesn't seem to come to your rescue though.

You kick him away, running to another room.

Where the hell is Mani??

"Mani!!" You yell out, desperately putting your hand over the wounds.

Mani comes out, prepared with a knife.

"What?!"

"Oh thank god" you slump on her, she grabs you close in response.

She sits you on the couch, patching you up, the best she can anyway.

"You keep a close eye on Maya, she's been acting weird."

"Why do you say that?"

"Saw her talking to someone on the phone-"

"Back already, (your name), you must really want to die"

You fire shots where the voice came from, you get a kick to your shin, and Mani jumps into action by stabbing the figure in the chest, but she gets stabbed in the neck.

Seems effective, she falls down beside you, and Ghostface goes somewhere else.

"Mani.." you look at her, tearing up as she looks up at you, her eyes softly dull meanwhile.

"You better kill him and Maya, or I'll haunt you, you hear?" She laughs, choking a little, then letting out a sigh. Mani gives you her families knife.

"Why are you-"

"Don't question it, take it, kill Maya and Ghostface, cya in heaven or hell.. (your name)." She gives you a two-finger-salute, and she goes limp. You hug her cold body, then get up.

Your sweater, now riddled with blood, holes, and the shoulder of the sweater loose, draping over your right shoulder.

12:45 AM

You walk into the kitchen, and walk in on Ghostface stabbing Maya, her screaming and crying for you, you help, stabbing him and throwing him to the kitchen floor, seeming to knock him out. You drag him outside, and tie him to a tree by his waist, you also grab his knife.

You go back to where Maya is, she's standing up, and she hugs you, getting her blood on you.

"Maya, are you-"

"I lied."

"About what?"

"I planned this all out, I'm not really injured" Maya grins sickenly, looking at you through her locs. "How did you think Mekell and Tay'Shawn got all torn to shreds?"

"How could you.."

"How couldn't I?" She grips your face, inching you closer to hers, smiling creepily. "You were all so vulnerable, and honestly, all those years of friendship didn't mean shit, I just wanted a reason to kill you in the end."

"That how you really felt.." you mumble, grabbing ghostfaces knife from your pocket.

"Yep" She hugs you closer, and she stabs your chest. You gasp, bloods pooling already.. but quickly look at Maya with your own knife.

1:20 AM

It's a bloodbath, you and Maya are in a whole stabbing competition it seems, you have the lower hand, while Maya has the upper hand. She's made 2 lethal hits.

Neck and stomach.

You cough up some blood in a towel and rush towards her. I haven't made any lethal hits yet.

You manage to pin her down and keep stabbing her in the chest, she screams and cries, no one comes to her aid.

Like she did to you.

In a few minutes, she bleeds out on the floor, the marble having a stain on it, and some splatters on the floor and your face.

"Seems like you did the job for me" Hobie grabs your waist and kisses you.

You keep looking at her body though, feeling a sense of bloodlust rush through you.

It's just a dream...

right?

@chessbox, fics can be translated (ask first), I don't allow my content to be posted on wattpad/tiktok/youtube without MY permission.

I'm so sorry, this was genuinely unnvering, have a drink from me after that!

(^^)~☆

I actually apologize with what I just wrote.

[chaos0pikachu]

I can’t tell if Ken giving it all up b/c he was fucking Vegas was actually canon and I just forgot or something fandom just decided was Obviously Facts b/c of course Ken would give up the bussy for Vegas b/c him and Big were two sides of the same simp mean girl coin for slick dressed mafia men

[your-stranger-halfblood-things]

Richie and Eddie used to have sleepovers all the time. They used to make a giant blanket fort that would swallow them while. They would have pillow fights and end up wrestling each other in the fort. Then they'd stop and stare at each other before whoever was on top would lean down and connect their lips. Each time they kissed, each time their tongues danced with each other, sparks erupted in the two of them.

And now, Richie goes to sleep with only the framed photo of Eddie and all the memories he has of him. Goodnight, Eds

One tear. Two tears. It soaks the pillow and all Eddie can do is watch Richie hug the picture close to his chest. Eddie reaches out but thinks better of it. Good night, Richie

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[pixlatedvampire]

It’s best to introduce your Hag slowly through the door first to not scare the others

[catgrandpa]

Gotham has always been weird, so when the groundskeeper at the cemetery noticed the Wayne kid’s plot was disturbed, he just chalked it up to more of the same ol’. Alright, so ‘disturbed’ may be a tad too light of a word, but what’s an empty grave in the grand scheme of Gotham? God knows in a city like this one, they could use all the burial room they could get. He figured he’d just jot it down on the website and hope nobody noticed for a while.

Too bad he didn’t account for the 13 year old boy in Bristol who periodically checks the cemetery’s website when he’s feeling particularly lonely.

Plot Removed.

Tim Drake stared at the two words under the heading for Jason Todd’s plot number. Removed? What do they mean ‘removed’? They can’t just remove a plot? That’s a person down there! That’s Robin down there! You can’t Remove Robin!

Calm down. Deep breaths. Assess the situation.

Robin has been dead for 5 months and 14 days. There is no reason for a grave to be removed that early, especially one of a member of such an affluential family. Chances are likely it’s a simple clerical issue. He can call first thing in the morning and make them aware of the mistake. He can have it all fixed in 5 hours.

Just a phone call.

In 5 hours.

…

Tim hates talking on the phone almost as much as he hates waiting.

Well it won’t be the first time he’s snuck out to head to Gotham proper at 1am. It can’t even really be considered sneaking out if there’s no one home to catch you.

Buses stop running at 2, so he layers a couple sweaters under his coat and grabs his best running sneakers so he can comfortably make the trek back.

Just a quick trip to settle his nerves. Maybe get a few shots in if he spots Batman, but really he just wants to see with his own two eyes that things are okay and Jason can rest.

It’s 1:37 by the time he gets to the headstone reading ‘Here Lies Jason Todd’ and the gaping, muddy pit in front of it.

This- This doesn’t make any sense. This is not removal. This is destruction. Desecration. Somebody did this. Somebody-

Assess the situation.

A hole in the ground, approximately 1.5 feet in diameter.

Mud and grass flung outward but with little force.

Large chunks of earth turned over and shoved away.

No signs of tool marks or clean lines of entry into the dirt.

Dragging claw marks.

Staggering, shuffled pairs of foot prints in the mud.

A trail of dirt.

Something… Something large clawed its way out of the ground here. Something large and bipedal and- and humanoid.

Tim refuses to jump to any conclusions he can see all the facts laid in front of him. He’s going to cautiously follow the trail and simply hope to any god listening that he isn’t the world’s first line of defense against the zombie apocalypse.

He’s been walking for 23 minutes and there’s good news and undecided news. Good news: he’s closing in on the target and the trail isn’t taking him out of the way so his trip home won’t be prolonged. Undecided news: The potential Zombie Robin is heading directly for Wayne Manor.

As zombie apocalypse news, this is very bad. From Tim’s collected observational evidence, his not-so-professional opinion is that Batman, faced with a horror movie level zombie of his dead son, would not respond well, and would likely not fight back.

In Batman and Robin news? Tim’s unsure. If Jason is simply back? What could that mean for them? Batman can have his Robin. He wouldn’t have to continue nearly killing others and himself every night in his grief. Jason could-

No. Stop. Do not jump to conclusions.

Hope only brings heartbreak.

What would Batman do? Get close and see if the target is a threat.

Target is male. Mid-teens. Dark hair. Pale skin. Leaning against surfaces as he walks. Appears injured and disoriented.

Minimal risk assessed. Approaching and attempting contact.

Target identity confirmed: Jason Todd.

“J-Jason?” It comes out as a croaked whisper. Jason shows no sign of acknowledgment.

Tim clears his throat, steps right in front of his path, and tries again.

“Jason. Jason, stop I want to help you.” Still nothing.

“Please, Jason. I can help, I promise I can help!”

Why isn’t this working?! Why can’t he just do something right for once?! He wants this to work, he wants to help Bruce, he wants to fix Batman, he wants to not be alone, he wants-

“Robin!”

Robin jerks to a stop.

Tim reached out his hand.

“Robin. Robin please, I’m sorry you’re going through this, it’s really scary, I’m really scared. But I just want to help you. Help you find Batman. Help you get home.”

Jason just stares at him. Of course he does. Of course it’s not going to work. Why did he even bother hoping he could help?

Hope only brings heartbreak.

His sight blurs as his eyes fill with tears and he starts to lower his outstretched hand.

His arm is slowed as a cold hand weakly grasps his own.

“Don’t… scared… Bat… help… Dad… help.”

A relieved sob tears out from Tim’s chest and he gathers himself together. He yanks his extra sweater off and gently pulls it over Jason’s cold shoulders. Jason lets Tim drag his arm over his shoulders to try and carry some of his weight.

“Okay, Robin. Yeah. Your dad will help us.”

Batman will solve everything once Tim gets Robin home.

[letsplayeternity]

Honest question, I've been rethinking the whole "Colin has done the same with Penelope Featherington" speech Anthony gave to Daphne and his mother in season 1 and the fact that when Colin talked to his brothers in 3x05 both Ben and Anthony were like "I didn't have a clue" and like... do we think Anthony spent the evening rethinking every single interaction he has ever witnessed between Colin and Pen and every single instance where he let things slide because "oh that's just eloise's friend?" and just banging his head against a wall as Kate laughs her ass off??

[gammija]

tiefling jon's first day at the Archives

[basslinegrave]

random monarch trio stuff (and 24 is also there yeah)

[gnawgag]

it’s their’s to burn

sharing a cigarette with joan of arc - dante émile ( @orpheuslament ) // photography by brendon burton

[tomfrogisblue]

i forgot to post this during june but i think one of the reasons qsmp was so important was how unapologetically Gay it was

for starters, the number of creators and admins involved who are irl queer of some variation, just chilling in a place where any kind of phobia would get Philza's legendary ban hammer faster than you could say "rainbow jelly"

and then the characters.

i remember showing up that first day and being shocked that somehow foolish had an ex-boyfriend already (I had missed the squidcraft lore apparently)

that server. gay. all the gay. all kinds of gay.

govermentally assigned platonic husbands that stayed together the whole time (despite one of them being gone for months at a time), not a chance in hell of infidelity. Proud fathers of two wonderful children.

governmentally assigned partners who yelled full volume at each other about cheating any time they were in the room together and between the two of them killed two children.

a grieving father and ex-convict becoming one of the most solid couples in the server, with a beautiful wedding and consistent public displays of affection via the in-game chat.

a demon ashamed of who she was and a lonely detective struggling with family trauma, now with a lil girl of their own, to love together and take care of, with more moms than could ever allow the little girl to ever be lonely herself.

a 2b2t warrior coming to terms with his sexuality with the support of his beautiful baby boy at his side, slowly but surely opening up to his eventual Brazilian Boyfriend. Where they went from the most cautious couple (baby steps) to the most sickeningly sweet couple on the server.

- and this list doesn't even scratch the surface.

gay characters, trans characters, ace characters, aroace characters, gender fluid characters, all kinds of relationships and families.

all presented without negativity or shame.

the point of the server was to exchange languages and cultures, without the biases and barriers seen so much in both the content creator scene and the wider world.

it also had a beautiful little side effect, practically by accident.

our lgbtqsmp.

[solarmorrigan]

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

-

“I need you to buy me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So let Wheeler win.” Eddie shrugs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is getting very involved,” Eddie says.

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

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

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

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

“Eddie.”

“Right, sorry, continue.”

“Well, Will took Mike’s side–”

“Shocking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fucking poor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine.”

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

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

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

Slowly, Eddie grins. “We’ll see.”

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[ef-1]

look at the state of sport journalism dawg, he sucked on a lollypop with steeliness and determination??? oozing mental fortitude??? Autosport it's time to open up the schools

[radiance1]

"May I help you, mister...?"

Pariah Dark paused, slowly looking the old (by human standards) butler up and down before slowly sheathing his sword and crossing his arms. He looked the butler up and down once more, before glancing at the mansion and back at him.

Hm.

Hm.

"May I come in?" The king asked calmly, voice kept carefully lower than he would usually speak with. He was aware that his normal tone of voice was 'loud' in human standards. The butler stared at him for a moment, before slowly stepping to the side. "Of course, sir. Though I am certain I have not yet gotten your name."

He pushed his foot forward, soon passing through the threshold as fire wrapped around his body as he shrunk. Armor being exchanged for more 'comfortable' clothing besides his cape as he stepped through the doorway and grunted. "You may refer to me as War."

The butler nodded, not batting an eye as the sudden shift in clothing or size. "You came at quite the convenient time. Would you like to join us for dinner, sir War?"

Him?

Eat mortal food?

Perposterous.

"If you would have me and it's no further effort on your part, I could make such an arrangement." He fell in step easily behind the butler, hands folding behind his back in a similar if not a bit more extra way as his cape and hair swayed behind him with his every step.

"I believe I can arrange something to your liking," There was a sliver of mischief in the butler's tone as he led the king to what he assumed to be the dining room. "So far, all of my guests had only good things to say about my hospitality. I do so hope you're among them as well, words of praise from one of your station is quite hard to come by."

"I trust that your hospitality be nothing but kind." The king said, coming to a stop at a door the butler soon held open.

"Please, make yourself comfortable while I go inform those who will join you and make something more..." There was a slight twinkle in the butler's eyes. "Attuned, to your pallet."

The king chuckled. "I look forward to it." Then stepped inside.

[daily-sifloop]

Stargazing? ✨

Day 10: looking for your star