#and in error's case

[juniemunie]

Found these old whiteboard drawings i made with my friends hehe

Anyways heres a not so memey one

[frogsinajar]

[indigo6f00ff]

need to share an experience i had 30 minutes ago

(edit: thanks to @walks-the-ages for providing and reminding me to put alt text, sorry it slips my mind alot lol)

[chi-the-idiot]

"The Homo-Sexual Underground"

Or: that one time when Harry went around Jamrock in the middle of an investigation asking anyone he thought looked like a homo-sexual about "the underground". Kim quickly grew tired of this.

[myeagleexpert]

A story about the director and Grim, who are very close friends <3

Translation from fan to fan, all credits go to the appropriate artist, see the source in the pin below:https://br.pinterest.com/pin/902690319055568233/

Who else wants to see Grim's final form? but…. What cost would this have?

[zu-is-here]

<– • –>

[sandeewithtwoe]

Collab I did with my good friend @vaguerival

Ink belongs to

Error belongs to loverofpiggies

Warning: tentacle tongue kissing under the cut (I’m sorry)

Transcription:

Classic: uh, we gather here today blah blah blah blah… speak now or forever hold your peace

Fell: yeah actually-

Nightmare: NO NO NO EVERYTHING’S FINE!

Nightmare: Everything’s fine, please continue the ceremony ❤️

Classic: uhm, okay, so anyways…

(1 DAY LATER)

Ink: ITS LIKE YOU NEVER EVEN WANTED A CHILD TO BEGIN WITH! WE’RE OVER!!

Error: FINE! I WANTED A DIVORCE ANYWAYS!

Ink: You… you wanted a divorce too?

Error: uh, yeah?

Ink: It’s…

Error: It’s like…

Both: We were made for each other

[pearynice]

Eddie doesn’t like spending time away from Steve. 

He’s fine during the day. He can do his job and chat with his coworkers and do what he needs to do without thinking too much on it, but there is nothing in the world that he looks forward to more than being able to come home every evening to the love of his life. Nothing more gratifying than being the person that makes Steve smile when he walks through their front door. No better feeling than Steve welcoming him home.

So call it unhealthy, call him whipped or codependent or whatever else, but Eddie doesn’t like spending extended time away from his boyfriend. Maybe it was the more-than-one near death experience, the nights they spent in hospital waiting rooms, not allowed to be at each other’s bedside, but being away from Steve, especially at night, makes him anxious. Makes his heart rate pick up and his palms sweat, makes him ruminate on whether or not Steve is okay.

So Eddie hasn’t exactly been sleeping. Or eating all that well. Not for the past three days, at least. Because Steve is at a teacher’s conference in Chicago for the week, only leaving under Eddie’s profuse and continued promises that he’d be fine. That Eddie can survive a week without him. 

Which he can. It just doesn’t mean it’s exactly pleasant. Especially today. Because Eddie has the day off, and there’s not much to distract him from the gaping, Steve-sized hole in it. 

He starts by doing the laundry. Washes their sheets. Washes every throw blankets and every towel, moves onto the kitchen while the washer rumbles and does all the dishes. He goes on the truly spiritual experience of cleaning their dishwasher. Which, why must things that do the cleaning need to be cleaned? He scrubs the grime from the shower and wipes the spit from the sink, vacuums the rugs and wipes down the windows, organizes their pantry and cleans out the fridge. 

By the time he’s done his fingers ache. His back smarts from where he spent too long hunched over their tub, and still he misses Steve. 

Who is coming back tomorrow. Late in the evening, sure, but realistically Eddie only needs to survive another 30 hours. 

Which is far too long. 

He considers baking something. Like those those blueberry muffins Steve likes so much, but Eddie just knows by the end he’d have shitty muffins and a dirty kitchen.

So he tries to read. Tries to play guitar and write some songs, tries watching TV and listening to music, even tries going on a walk to pick up some dinner he knows he won’t eat, finally taking Steve’s advice on fresh air to heart. But as the clock ticks on, the itch under his skin only gets worse.

Not even their nightly phone call helps. 

He can tell Steve knows something’s up, keeps reminding him he’ll be back tomorrow, that it’s just one more night, because despite Eddie’s best attempt at deflection Steve knows him far too well.

“Tomorrow.” Steve reminds him, again, at the end of their call.

“Tomorrow.” Eddie repeats. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too, baby.”

Eddie misses his boyfriend. 

He tries to sleep. Can’t, of course. He tosses and turns in his bed and then tosses and turns on the couch with the TV humming staticky with whatever late-night garbage he has it on. 

And he just—has to do something. Keep occupied until the sun comes up and he can go to work and lose himself in whatever car some idiot brought in because he didn’t change the oil. Keep his hands busy enough to keep his mind busy, too.

He sits bolt upright. Remembers, suddenly, the bleach and hair dye he’s almost positive Robin left here. 

It doesn’t take him long to find. He’d organized them, without even realizing, nestled them between all of Steve’s bottles and jars and potions. 

Never one for instructions, Eddie remembers Steve mixing the bleach with something else before he smeared it over Robin’s hair. 

It was white. He remembers that much. Thick and gloopy. Like… conditioner?

He mixes the two together in an old Tupperware with a toothbrush, the smell sort of making his eyes water. 

He can’t see much of the back of his head, but he’s just getting the ends, anyways. 

Eventually the toothbrush becomes cumbersome, and he massages the last of it in with his fingers. 

He’s pretty glad that part goes quick because after a minute he can feel his cuticles begin to burn. 

He remembers Steve wrapping Robin’s hair in a plastic bag, and he finds one, eventually, has to fish out a crumpled receipt but sticks that over his head. And waits.

He forgot about the waiting part. That he’d have to sit here while the bleach did its thing and then again when he puts on the red. 

He sits on the toilet with the lid down, picking at his firey cuticles. The clock in the hallway reads nearly 5 a.m., which means Eddie has at least four more hours to kill. 

He goes through their drawers again, wondering if Steve maybe has a different color hiding around. He thinks green would be cool. Maybe pink.

But Eddie doesn’t find another color. He finds, instead, his sewing kit. And he thinks of all the goofy tattoos his has. The goofy tattoos he gave himself. His dice. His Tree of Gondor. His triceratops. And, really, how it’s a shame he hasn’t gotten one for Steve. 

He knows what he’s doing and where before he even has all the supplies, snapping a ballpoint into a small dish and sterilizing the needle with his lighter. He shaves his inner thigh and washes out the bleach from his hair, which is a little underwhelming, honestly, having done little to lighten his dark locks. 

He puts the red in regardless, puts his plastic bag hat back on and gets to work on his thigh. 

And that’s how Jeff finds him. Appearing, in Eddie’s bathroom doorway, two coffee cups in hand. He takes in the plastic bag, smeared with red, on his head, Eddie’s bald and inky leg.

Eddie has no idea what time it is.

He looks down at himself. “I think Steve is… 86% of my impulse control.” 

Jeff doesn’t say anything. Just rests the coffees on the sink and crouches to look at Eddie’s fresh ink. 

“Is that… hairspray?”

“Three puffs!” Eddie answers, a little deliriously, and dips the needle back into the ink to start the third said puff. “How’d you get in here?” He asks, not taking his eyes off the needle. 

“How do you always forget you gave me a key?” Jeff snorts, and then, a little softer, adds, “Steve asked me to swing by before your shift today, you know. Bring you some food.”

Eddie’s gaze flicks to the coffee as he dips his needle in again. “I only see caffeine, here, Williams.”

Jeff’s quiet for a moment before, “how about you finish that up, wash that dye from your hair, and then I’ll give you the food?” Jeff’s voice is still all gentle and obnoxious, and Eddie resists the urge of poking him with the needle.

But Eddie’s almost done with the last puff, anyways, and… breakfast does sound nice. 

“‘M almost done.” He mumbles. 

Jeff sits on the bathroom floor, sipping his coffee and watching Eddie finishes. Then he helps him untangle the plastic bag from his hair. Then makes sure whatever soap they have is unscented, makes sure whatever Eddie’s about to slather all over his thigh won’t turn it septic. 

Damn paramedics. 

In the shower, though, Eddie’s exhaustion starts to creep up on him. Four days with little sleep makes his eyelids droop in the warmth. Makes his shoulders sag as he washes the dye out of his hair. Makes his limbs heavy as he cleans his new tattoo, which, looks pretty damn good, if he does say so himself.

A can of hairspray. Three puffs. 

Eddie towels off, only a little disappointed that the dye didn’t do much. He can see it, a little, but only if the light hits it just right.

Jeff’s waiting for him with a greasy breakfast sandwich and coffee, and Eddie bites into it before he’s even seated, moaning at the taste. 

“Jesus.” Jeff mutters, “let’s wait until Steve gets back for that, okay?”

Eddie doesn’t have the energy to bite back, just takes another bite before he swallows the first. “Fank ‘oo,” Eddie grunts, word garbled around egg and sausage and cheese. He swallows. Looks down at his hands. “For.” The skin of his inner thigh is pink. “Everything.” He takes another bite. 

Jeff smiles. “And miss whatever disaster just happened in your bathroom? Not a chance, Munson.” He puts down his coffee cup. “I did call you in sick from work today, though. Just so you know.”

Eddie drops his sandwich. “Jeff!” Egg flies across the table. “What the fuck!”

Jeff raises his eyebrows and dusts Eddie’s food from his shirt. “You can barely keep your eyes open. I’m protecting you from dropping a car on yourself during a tire rotation.”

Eddie swallows, hands already twitching, “dude. I’m gonna go insane here by myself.”

Jeff raises his other eyebrow.

“More insane.” Eddie corrects. His leg starts to bounce.

“Good thing I’m gonna be keeping you company, then.” Jeff leans back in his chair, picking up his coffee and tilting the styrofoam at Eddie. “Movie marathon?”

Between he and Steve they only have about three decent movies, but Eddie finishes his sandwich on the couch as Jeff fiddles with the VCR. 

The movie begins, and that wave of exhaustion returns. Floods him. It’s hard to keep his eyes open. He leans into Jeff’s side. Who isn’t Steve, but who smells nice. Like linen.

Jeff rests his cheek on Eddie’s head. “Sleep, man.” He mumbles.

So Eddie does.

He doesn’t know how long he was asleep. But he wakes to a hand in his hair. To fingers massaging his scalp, and he knows before he even asks. “‘Teve?”

“Hi, baby.” Steve whispers, his hand stills, and he pulls Eddie closer. 

Steve feels so good. Warm and strong and here and here. 

Eddie opens his eyes only to bury himself in Steve’s chest, his boyfriend falling back onto the couch to accommodate, his arms winding around Eddie’s middle. 

“I missed you.” Eddie murmurs, and breathes Steve in, presses his nose into his sweatshirt and curls closer, fists his hands into Steve’s clothes and holds on tight.

“I missed you, too.” Steve sighs. He sounds tired. “Let’s… not do that again.”

Eddie shakes his head. “Never again.” He agrees. 

Steve shifts, opens his legs so Eddie falls between them. “I played hooky on the all-hands luncheon today.” Steve admits, quiet. “Didn’t feel like sitting around with them all day when I could be here with you.” Steve’s hand returns to his hair, twirling the strands between his fingers. “Did you… dye your hair?”

“N’ got a tattoo.” Eddie hums.

Steve giggles, and kisses the top of Eddie’s head. “I like it.” Steve’s fingers dance across his scalp, and Eddie never wants to go another night without this. 

“I like you.” Eddie volleys back, and he feels Steve laugh, feels it rumble through his chest because Steve is here and he’s laughing and then there’s another kiss placed on Eddie’s head before Steve murmurs, “I like you too, baby.”

My permanent tag list 💗: @hotluncheddie @hitlikehammers @hbyrde36 @littlewildflowerkitten @chaotic-waffle

@westifer-dead @perseus-notjackson @finntheehumaneater @theheadlessphilosopher @spectrum-spectre

@itsall-taken @marvel-ous-m @bookworm0690 @acasualcrossfade

(Sorry taglist that you’re getting tagged late I’m still getting used to tumblrs new STUPID TAGGING SYSTEM)

[openphrase123]

filed under "this is just me talking and having a fun time in my brain" but it would be really funny if the island memory disappearance event happened like 5 years prior to canon instead of 10 because then siffrin would have been an adult when it all went away. and i'm laughing at the idea of siffrin traveling with the party for the whole time and then getting a memory blast out of dormont like "hey guys. i could be misremembering but i think i have a toddler 👍" cue screaming

how this happens could range anywhere from "wishcraft baby" to "siffrin got attached to another bonnie-aged kid in their early 20s adoptive parent style" to my favorite option, "siffrin's secret divorce"

[intothedysphoria]

Steve didn’t understand why people kept trying to push him towards Billy Hargrove.

It was like they didn’t think two gay guys could co exist in the same space without fucking, it was archaic. Besides, they hung out in completely different circles, bar being on the same basketball team.

Steve wouldn’t be interesting enough for Billy. Or smart enough. It was just Carol’s obsession with meddling so Steve ignored it.

He was watching the Lion King to revel in nostalgia when Dustin demanded to know how long he and Billy had been dating. When Steve looked blank, Dustin sighed and told him to check Instagram.

Tommy, the eternal troll had made a long post about his “favourite couple” which would seem sincere to anyone who hadn’t been friends with Tommy since the first grade. So now Steve had to do damage control.

Ignoring his mom’s texts about the “lovely new boy”, Steve decided to go on a quest to Billy’s apartment.

The Billy Hargrove Steve came across when he knocked was glowing with anger. The only positive was that the anger was directed at Tommy, not Steve.

He’d also evidently been cooking, judging by the smells coming from the kitchen. Steve sat himself under a shrine to Metallica and accepted a bowl of soup, poorly masking his confusion.

“How the fuck do we clear this up?”

Well that was the question.

Vehemently denying it would make them look guilty, ignoring it would make everyone just think of it as fact………..there was only really one option.

They played into it. Just a little bit.

A couple of flirty Instagram posts, some footsie under the table, everyone would realise how ridiculously not a couple they were.

At least that was the plan.

What actually ended up happening was Steve getting handsy with Billy in a club because he’d just realised a year long crush. Billy was presumably just super fucking horny.

Tommy was annoyed that they’d taken the joke back from him, which was really the aim, (Steve loved Tommy but god he was insufferable sometimes), but Robin didn’t seem so sure.

“Just check that you’re both on the same page with this Steve. You tend to get attached quite quick.”

Ugh.

With a deep feeling of reluctance, Steve sent Billy a voicemail, then hid his phone under his bed.

If he didn’t look at the phone, the problem didn’t exist.

It had become the Harrington way.

Over the next week, it had gotten so excruciatingly awkward that even Tommy apologised. And everyone was telling him to talk to Billy.

Even Heather who found listening to anyone’s love life a tedious activity said he NEEDED to see Billy.

It was the word need that got Steve to go over. Also the fact that it sounded like Billy had been crying.

Steve was not a fan of any type of scary conversations but the one with Billy was mercifully brief. And it didn’t end up including a lot of talking.

Having his next Instagram post as them kissing on the beach may have been corny but it was worth it.

[luminique]

how do u think lighter and the rest of SoC would act if his partner got their period? im talking like . really bad cramps that basically render them immobile and, of course, mood swings. i would love to see ur take on that…

i’m answering this now cuz i am literally going through period cramps like aughhhgdjsgskshajbs

i am so sure that lighter is PREPARED with these things. look no further than the Sons of Calydon, four girls. so when it comes to that time of the month, lighter is normally the one who’d have to go out to buy pads, tampons, painkillers, sweets and more.

the girls had all noticed that you weren’t outside, hanging out with them. they turned to lighter to ask him where you were and at first, he tried not to show that he was worried, brushing it off and saying that it’s probably nothing too bad. something in his head was telling him to go check up on you, maybe it was a gut feeling. either way, he slipped right past the girls (pretty obviously and they knew where he was going).

he knocked on your door, always waiting for a response. he could hear your shifting around in your bed and then your voice, weakly calling him in. you were all bundled up under the sheets but you clearly seemed uncomfortable. only with you, his body moves so naturally, taking a seat at the edge of the bed.

“hey, everything alright?” his voice filled with worry, trying to not let it show though. his hand tries to reach for your arm but he pulls back, keeping it close to him.

“cramps,” your frustrated voice comes through the blanket. as if on command, he immediately stood up and ran out of the room, but came back in no time with a box full of essentials. he placed it on the ground, digging out the painkillers and a bottle of water.

“come here,” he called out to you gently, tugging on the blanket just a little. you begrudgingly sit up after a little bit of time, clearly grumpy and in pain. you take the medication from him, swallowing it up with the water. you weren’t in the best of moods, cranky and not wanting to do too much in this state and he understood that without saying much.

he grabs something small wrapped in plastic, rips it open and heats it up in his hands. he’s trying to signal to you with his eyes if he has permission to get under the covers with you, lifting up the blanket just a little. how could you say no? so you scoot over just a little, giving him enough space. once he was close to you, he placed the small packet near your abdomen, over your shirt. it was a heating pad, not too hot but not too cold.

you were slowly leaning back into the bed, the warmth of the heating pad and the painkillers beginning to work its magic. you could hear the sounds of metal clinging as lighter began to remove his jacket and gloves.

“it’ll help you feel better,” he murmured quietly as he got closer to you. partly true as that gave you warmth but it was more because he wanted to be close to you. not before long, you were able to sleep comfortably in his arms as you both cuddled the period pains away.

[lady-swanbell]

The Nanny 4.08 An Affair to Dismember / Frasier 7.16 Something about Dr. Mary

[buffonias]

[unma]

Trash Disposal

You should have been more cautious. More scared.

Everyone spoke of the sweepers as an inevitability. Only the strongest—or the luckiest—could face the waves and survive. Those who didn't were returned to nothingness; they were nought but the whispers on the street for the next night, before yet another wave would arrive and take with it even the idea of you.

And here you were, as the rumbling made itself painfully apparent. They said it was too late by the time the little pebbles by your feet started to shake. If you could hear them? Well, one would pray you could pray—the sweepers didn't allow even that.

The first thought on your mind was that they certainly lived up to the hype.

It felt less like an army and more like a wave. They were a force of nature, a blur of colors that tore through the streets. A mass of noise arose from them, their unintelligible speech melding into a cacophony of vaguely pleasant sound. One could almost call it music, if not for the fear that would overtake one at such a sight.

Your colleague—the one who held the title of your office's leader and had insisted on pushing through with this mission despite the risks—was the first to be devoured. You weren't even sure what happened; the wave simply overtook him and his screams were gone before you even registered he was screaming.

You snapped out of it barely fast enough to block the incoming sickles with your spear. The shock of the weapons against yours seemed to be enough to get the gears in your head moving, as well as the gears of your remaining colleagues, as the streets immediately erupted into battle.

You were surrounded on all sides. The sweepers, those that weren't interested in the small fries that were your group, parted around the battle, forming an inescapable wave that would surely carry and erase anyone who sought to part the sea as a means of escape. It was fight or die. There was no winning, only surviving.

And you did decently too. You weren't sure if it was luck or pure experience, but the sweepers were proving to be equally matched to you. You took a nick here, a gash there, but you'd managed to put three down yourself before you heard it.

Another scream, followed by the squelch of flesh under a blade, over and over again. Before you knew it, whoever it had been was mush.

A quick glance around and you know who it was that perished. Another dear colleague, a name soon to be forgotten. Yet you couldn't even utter it before yet another sweeper demanded your urgent attention.

That single death seemed to break the floodgates, however, as one by one the others followed. They'd barely been holding out, you'd noticed from your previous glances, but now one by one they were dropped, turned into fuel for the endless wave. You didn't dare look, focusing on keeping yourself. Putting the sweepers down one after the other was the only way out.

You didn't need to look. A head came rolling your way as you put a spear through a sweeper's chest.

The sounds of blade clashing had since died down. You were the last of them, it seemed. It was only you left.

You couldn't let it get to you. Faltering for even the slightest moment would get you killed.

But you could feel the pressure building up as they all focused on you. A hit here and there was no longer all, you were being assailed by the full might of just a few sweepers, and you couldn't keep up at all.

Surely you could hold out. Surely if you just pushed through, if you just killed one more, it would be over.

Your spear ripped through a sweeper's heart as you swung with renewed vengeance. You would make it out of this, even if it cost you an arm and a leg. Even if you were battered and bruised, and barely alive. Even if it cost you every—

You were on the floor before you could even process what was happening. A sweeper, the one with your spear through its chest.

It raised its sickle.

The last thing you felt was the ripping of its blades through flesh as it tore through you over and over and over. It felt like an eternity of pain, utter hopelessness enveloping you as you watched yourself get torn to shreds.

Then it was over, all too fast, as if all it had taken was a few seconds, a few swings, to extinguish the little flame that was your life.

Mere minutes later and there was nothing left of you, not even the memory of a fool who didn't listen to his own cautions. Yet another nameless fixer, another existence lost to the wave.

[acepodcastweek]

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