Wait why would you need to say sorry to Noisette?
Pep: "..."
Pep: "Reh ot deil I... I..."
(Flashback Begins)
Noisette: "Is someone out here? We are open!"
Noisette: "Omigosh, hi there!!! Come in, come in! There's no need to be shy!"
Noisette: "You're just in time for some fresh pie! Not that it was gonna go anywhere, since no one's come in today... But still! If that growl was you, you must be starving!!!"
Noisette: "Now you just sit right here! Don't move an inch! I'll be right back!"
Noisette: "Tada!!! I hope you like cherries! It's on the house!"
Pep: "...?"
Noisette: "Are you asking if it's for you? Of course, it is, silly! D'you see anyone else in here? Now, eat up! There's plenty more where that came from!"
Pep: *happy Pep noises*
Noisette: "Oh, I'm so glad you like it!"
Noisette: "Now, if you don't mind me asking, where did you come from? I haven't seen you around here!"
Pep: "..."
Pep: *uncomfortable gurgling*
Noisette: "Oh, do you not speak...?"
Noisette: "Well, that's okay! Do you know any sign? I'm pretty good at it!"
Pep: "...?"
Noisette: "Oh! I can show you some!"
Noisette: "I-I mean, if you'd like! If you wanna just have the pie and go, that's okay too, of course! Hah."
Pep: "..."
Pep: "...!"
Noisette: *happy squealing*
(Flashback End)
Pep: "Deneppah. Tsuj ti dna dekcinap I, eil ot naem t'ndid I..."
Pep: "Em. Gnieb yb gnihtyna niur ot tnaw t'ndid I, yppah dna dnik os tsuj saw ehs tub, reh llet ot gniog saw I..."
Pep: "'Lamron' eb ot retteb eb d'ti thguoht I."
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| Rosekiller microfic (songfic? idk) | Word count: 641 |
A/N: For better reading experience, I recommend listening to “Brividi” by Mahmood and Blanco, considering that this was based off the chorus of that song
Barty laid next to Evan, goosebumps raised on his skin, head turned so he could better examine the other’s boy’s features.
Evan was sound asleep in Barty’s bed. His lips were parted slightly, and his head rested on the spare pillow that had found its way there sometime after the thousandth occurrence of this happening.
Evan’s eyelashes were long and fluttered slightly as he breathed in and out, naked chest rising and falling evenly as he slept. Something about the way he looked when he was sleeping, soft and unguarded and so painfully lovely, reminded Barty of what he had realized not even three days before.
Barty was in love.
He was in love with someone who understood him, who enjoyed his company, who was beautiful inside and out.
And he wished he could tell Evan, but every time he tried, something in him stopped the words before they ever made it past his lips.
Evan was amazing. He the best thing to ever happen to Barty, and sometimes Barty thought that if he were given the chance, he could love Evan more than any human had ever dared to love another.
But Barty knew that he messed up, over and over and over again, and that he would only hurt Evan if they tried for anything more. The strength of his love threatened to be all-consuming, to chew them both up and spit them back out again. He just didn’t know how to love someone without hurting them.
Barty would sacrifice the world for Evan—he’d known that for a long time. But he had never been certain that he wouldn’t accidentally set the world on fire before handing it to Evan, burning him in the process.
And Barty didn’t want to burn Evan. He didn’t want anyone to hurt Evan, much less for him to be the one to do it.
But as he lay there, he had the sneaking suspicion that he already had.
When he had first kissed Evan, he hadn’t done it because he loved him, he had done it simply because he wanted someone to kiss. And Evan had kissed him back without any hesitation, eager and hungry as they fell into bed together. Barty had thought they wanted the same thing—someone to get off with, something easy and uncomplicated.
But afterwards, when Barty had said as much, he had seen something shatter in Evan’s eyes. Evan had mumbled a quick, “Right”, then made up some excuse to leave.
Barty had blinked, and Evan was picking up his clothes from beside the bed. He had blinked again, and Evan was gone.
But it had happened again. And then again. And it had kept on happening, until Evan wasn’t leaving immediately afterwards, and Barty had realized that he didn’t want Evan to leave at all.
That’s where it had gotten so incredibly complicated, full of messy emotions and misunderstandings. Full of cracked hearts and longing glances, words thought but never spoken.
Sometimes, Barty thought that if he were offered a magic ticket that could take him far away from all of it, take him away from the perilous cliff edge he was dangling off of, he didn’t think that he could refuse. Even if it cost more than money, Barty thought he would be willing to pay the price.
Because the price of the ticket for the other route, the one toward Evan instead of away, was something vital in Evan that Barty knew neither of them could afford.
Barty messed up, and he messed up bad. And he might dream of that destination, the one marked simply “Evan”, but he couldn’t let himself board that train. Evan’s loveliness wasn’t worth it.
So he merely laid there, silently staring at the boy he loved, and tried not to shiver as the goosebumps spread further across his skin.
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Have an itty bitty tiny piece of stasis in darkness, just so you all have an idea of where the story is going after the godly reveal. and also have proof that i am, in fact, still toiling away at this (as well as hawkins halfway house.)
A week and a half later, Steve entered a town he’d never seen before. He wore simple traveling clothes and carried no weapons aside from a couple of carefully hidden knives. He’d left his armor and shield behind. His satchel held only the essentials one needed for travel and a single stone as large as his fist. The stone was wrapped in layers of cloth to keep it safe during the journey.
I need you to find someone.
He felt very bare but he hadn’t been given much of a choice. Speed was of the essence for his quest, and little no-name towns tended to be wary of strangers in plain clothes, even more so around strangers decked out for battle. Steve wasn’t sure this place could be called a town. It was so small it hadn’t been on any official map. It didn’t even have an inn. Hopefully, Steve wouldn’t be needing an inn once he found who he was looking for.
He’s too far from me to reach.
He asked around, laying on the charm generously. He explained he had been a friend of a friend and had been trusted to deliver something. Eventually, he was told where to go. The house he found far beyond the village’s boundary was small. It looked like it had once been well cared for but it was old and had fallen to disrepair. Steve took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
A sallow old man opened the door. He was bald but had some scruff on his face still. His shoulders, stooped from age, trembled. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked so tired.
He’s my very last worshiper in all the world.
“Wayne Munson?” Steve asked.
“Who wants to know?” The man’s voice was phlegmy and rough. He coughed into the crook of his elbow almost before he could finish speaking.
“I’m Steve. Ser Steve Harrington, pledged to the Lord of Night.”
Wayne’s eyes widened. His grip on the open door weakened and slipped. Steve caught the door before it could hit Wayne.
“He sent me to you,” Steve explained. “May I come in?”
yep, that's it for now. i told you it was small. i'm not even gonna bother with a read-more here.
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face it, tiger.
(or, a spider-robin story - a spin on the "upside down" ronancetober prompt)
“No, I mean who are you. Under the mask.”
Robin perches on the ledge of the balcony of Nancy’s apartment, putting a good distance between them. “That’s for me to know, and for you to never find out.”
Nancy’s frown deepens into a scowl. Sirens sound in the distance—perfect timing.
“Well,” Robin stands. “That’s my cue. See ya around, princess.” It rolls off her tongue with ease now, and she figures that she might as well double down. She gives Nancy a two fingered salute, before swinging from the balcony and towards the sirens.
“This isn’t over!” yells Nancy.
Robin smiles to herself. This is going to be fun.
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every single thing said about kaz is just like, patently false to the point of irony. dirtyhands about a man whose hands are literally spotless because they're never uncovered. without morals or conscience, would do anything for money when it is repeatedly implied he's passed over business opportunities if they involved slavery or indentures. doesn't say goodbye, just lets go about a man who has made it a point to never let anything go. doesn't need a reason when he is proven to never act without a reason, and in all actuality usually has at least two. and this is without mentioning bastard of the barrel about probably one of the only barrel kids to have at least started out with a "normal", happy nuclear family...
and it just makes me think: kaz is deliberately written not to be better than people say he is, but just bad in different ways. he is not good or virtuous or compassionate; the point of having people say things that are not true about him isn't to make a point of his completely different nature.
so the point of it can only be to emphasize how nobody really knows him. to draw attention to his absolute isolation. and maybe to give more credit to how much his 'armour', which is supposed to protect him by keeping everyone away, really only serves to keep him away from everyone else.
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From the 2020 Ted Lasso Emmy FYC campaign, or, the only thing that can make season 1 Roy stop insulting Trent:
"'It's because of pricks like you,' he explained to me after Richmond's last-gasp win against Watford on Saturday, reprising his prior description of yours truly -- to my face -- as a colossal prick."
"When I asked him hypothetically, what he would think of not featuring in the first team, Kent replied, 'Hypothetically, if I punched both of your eyes out and stuffed them up your arse, and then told you to walk on your hands, hypothetically, what would you think of that?'"
and actually answer a question is the chance to talk shit about Jamie:
”He doesn’t understand the word ’team’,” said Kent after the match. “For him it’s a dirty word. Whearas dirty words for me are ‘Jamie Tartt’.”
"[...] star striker Jamie Tartt -- who Kent also characterized as 'a f*&$ing prick, even worse than you'."
"[...] if you want to work your way into my 'eart you take, you take Jamie Tartt off the pitch before 'alf time."
"People say fans are there for Tartt, which I find a very depressing thing to hear."
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