no for real i'm terrified

[stares into the middle distance] 

I have made a huge mistake.

who wouldn’t want to drink there

anonymous asked:

Imagine if instead of Makkachin being a poodle, he was the vacuum cleaner thing from the Teltetubbies Or like a miniature zamboni or something

Okay, I’m not going to lie - there are not a lot of things in life that make me terrified, but, this is my list: 

  1. Spiders
  2. Someone living in my ceiling
  3. The vacuum cleaner from the Teletubbies.

But I could go for miniature zamboni. Fits Victor better. 😂 He already kind of is, I think, because he probably cleans the floor of any food scraps in an instant and leaves behind a trail of slobber.🥘 🐕 

there are some muns who have super amazing headcannons   write their muses so beautifully   in character but then there’s those muns where someone asks how your character works and they just “i dunno i wish thEY’D TELL ME” because they don’t write their character,  their muse is 100% alive to them in a way it’s a partnership,  a dual act,  a way of not expressing a well-constructed thought but relaying the feelings,  ideas,  &  emotions of an actual person you empathize with so much they’re actually there  &  man i meant for this to be a shit post but honestly?  there are two kinds of muns.

You know, I think the biggest difference between RoboMay and Melinda is really just the talking

Melinda doesn’t push, she doesn’t pry. (Maybe sometimes, when it’s for a mission or something). Other people give her information, or she figures things out in her head without asking. She almost always keeps her thoughts/questions to herself. 

Which, by the way, I think is another great yin-yang aspect she has with Phil. Phil is constantly asking questions out loud. It’s how he thinks (i.e., the Tai Chi scene). He also pokes and prods and pushes people until they give him an answer. Phil and Melinda balance each other out that way. I’m not sure Melinda would have ever told Phil about seeing him when she died, except that he kept dogging her about it. RoboMay, on the other hand, DOES ask questions frequently and pushes for answers. About missions and information (especially about the Darkhold, of course), but also when it comes to Phil (which makes sense, because whether she knows it or not, she IS on a mission, so she naturally pushes). 

I think the biggest distinction between them is not that Melinda doesn’t think/feel the same way as RoboMay, but that with Melinda, there’s always something holding her back from actually saying it. That’s why I’ve always headcanoned that Phil would have to be the one to cross the boundary in their relationship, because Melinda won’t do it–unless maybe she KNOWS he feels the same way. I don’t think Melinda would have told Phil to “start taking chances” the way RoboMay did, nor do I think she would have told him about going to Ireland together (at least not so obviously)–and not because she doesn’t want to say it, not because she doesn’t feel the same, but because she would stop herself from saying it. 

RoboMay’s programming, on the other hand, lets her overcome Melinda’s apprehension/fear/whatever it is that holds her back. It removes that barrier that Melinda created in order to stay distanced from Phil just enough that they didn’t cross that line between friends/partners and lovers. That’s why things have been progressing so quickly between RoboMay and Phil, whereas he and Melinda have been moving at a slower pace since the beginning of the show, and most notably this season. That’s my theory, anyway.

anonymous asked:

Could you please make a continuation to the flower shop/tattoo shop au?

‘Are flowers too much?’ Matt wondered. Flowers were a constant in his life. Matthew could tell people the meanings of different flowers, he knew each colours significants by heart. The subtle differences between shades and arrangements, the way a bouquet could tell a story and create a map of intentions of feelings. The infinite details when it came to arrangements were a language most didn’t speak, but to Matt it was like a song he knew the words to without consciously memorizing the lyrics and melody. They were a source of calm in his unexpectedly stressful and sudden romantic life.

He’d (foolishly) thought his stress would end when he’d marched over to the tattoo parlour across the street with a self created head of steam meant to deafen the screaming panicked doubts in his head and asked Stephanie out. He’d thought his fears would settle after she smiled that earth shattering smile of hers and said yes, she’d like that very much. He’d thought with a time (that night) and place (she’d given him her address and he’d suggested going to see some new release), life would relax and he’d be able to experience peace for the first time since Stephanie had moved her business to across the street.

His stress did not end.

If anything, it doubled.

The particular brand of horror Matthew experienced upon opening his closet and realizing he didn’t own a single thing that wasn’t 1. Something you’d see a farmer wearing, or 2. Something you’d see a dad at a barbecue wearing, was nearly enough to send him spiralling in despair towards the phone in order to cancel the date. But he stopped and thought of how disappointed she’d be and how he really didn’t want to spent another night alone with the cat and a bottle of Diet Coke. So he pulled himself up by his bootstraps (metaphorical of course, rainboots were not the best for dates), and managed to pull together some dad jeans and a plaid button down that didn’t look too much like something out of Brokeback Mountain.

The main benefit to both living over the flower shop and owning said shop was the free flowers, narrowly beating out being able to open at 9 and not a damn minute earlier. Matthew had been eyeing a particularly lovely half dozen blue violets all day (violets meant love, while blue was symbolic of hope and inspiration), and had been halfway out the door with them when he stopped mid whistle. ‘Are flowers too much?’ He thought suddenly; on other dates, he hadn’t thought twice. Flowers were a staple of romance in his book. 'But would it look dumb if I brought flowers? Is that like me bringing my work on a date? Will I look boring? Steph’s heard me talk about flowers, what if love and hope is too direct? Fuck what flowers do I bring?’

Logically, Matt knew he was being stupid. Emotionally, he was prepared to completely trash his store to find the perfect flowers. “Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck….” He whispered frantically. The pale lilies? Too funeral home. What about the pink mums? Mother’s Day called. Red roses? On a first date? The fear was making his hands itch around the violets, Matthew was vaguely aware he was sweating heavily and starting to panic. And then, something caught his eye.

'I don’t know why, I just love white roses. They’re so pretty, I actually have a tattoo of one blooming on my back. Matthew, what do white roses mean?’ Stephanie’s voice somehow came through, a carefully catalogued memory pulling itself out and catching Matthew’s attention as he looked at the three dozen white roses tucked neatly beside the red and pink and yellow ones. “I’m a dumbass.” Matt sighed.

Carefully, he placed the violets back and pulled out 12 white roses. It was almost like a memory how perfectly he wrapped them, it was almost like fate how right they looked delicately peeking out of the pale green paper he remembered Stephanie mentioning was pretty. For a second, the panic faded and he could imagine that smile she’s give him when he handed her the flowers. Vaguely Matt remembered reading somewhere that white roses were traditional wedding flowers and had stood for love before being replaced by red roses, he remembered how Steph had smiled when he told her that. 'Its exactly what Stephanie would love.’ Matthew thought. 'It’s perfect.’

i had new teacher orientation last week and the first day for all teachers was tuesday so i’ve been in the school building for a few days now but tomorrow is the first day for students which all of a sudden makes everything VERY VERY REAL and i am teaching a lot of classes and i am very nervous but also so excited and i am technically totally prepared but at the same time i am not READY ya know?!?!?

I feel awful ‘ - ‘ 

~12x02 codas keep making me cry, so I’m offering up a happy one lmao here goes~

“What are you doing?”

“Ordering dinner.” Mary looks up from the takeout menu with bright eyes. “You can do that over the phone, can’t you?”

Dean knocks his hip against the counter and squints at his mom. “Yeah. You planning on picking it up yourself?”

“Why is it that I feel like I’m the child here and you’re my mom?” She playfully raises her eyebrows at him to punctuate the question.

Dean smiles down at the floor. “Uh, overprotective I guess. I’d, uh, love it if you went and got us some grub. Let me just get the keys and–”

“I’ll need 10 dollars. I wasn’t resurrected with any cash.”

Dean doesn’t hold back his laugh as he pulls a wad of cash out of his back pocket. “You’ll need more than that, Mom. Wait ‘til you see gas prices.”

She frowns down at the bills in her hands, but she doesn’t say anything else. As she makes her way toward the garage, she pats his cheek.

When she’s almost out of the room, he calls after her and reminds her that she hasn’t placed the order yet. She laughs and hits her forehead. He shows her how to use an iPhone. She calls it ridiculous and asks why they even say it’s a phone when in reality its other uses far outweigh its ability to make calls. He blinks at her.

Some stress drops from Dean’s shoulders once his mom is out of the bunker. He grabs a beer out of the fridge and downs half of it before joining Sam and Cas in the war room. Sam is staring intently at his laptop while Cas reads an old Men of Letters journal to see if there’s anything about the British chapter.

As Dean walks around Cas’ chair, Cas reaches his hand up without taking his eyes away from the book. Dean hands over his beer, Cas takes a drink, hands it back, and Dean pulls a chair out and sits close enough to Cas that their legs are knocking under the table.

Dean sighs heavily and leans back in his chair, reaching his arm toward Cas so he can give him a neck massage. Cas very briefly closes his eyes before resuming his research.

“How you doing, Sammy?”

From the opposite end of the table, Sam offers a tightlipped smile and trains his eyes back to the screen. “Still think I’m hallucinating, but at least it’s pleasant for the time being.”

“Did you try–”

Sam lifts his hands and presses his thumb to the old scar in his palm.

Dean smiles and drinks his beer.

“You trusted your mother to take the car?”

“You eavesdropped?”

“It’s easier than actively blocking you out,” Cas deadpans.

Dean stops rubbing his neck but keeps resting his hand on the back of his chair. “Should I have stopped her? I mean, she’s getting us dinner when she’s a guest in our home. Doesn’t that make us bad hosts?”

Cas just barely rolls his eyes as he closes the journal. “When I was sick, you let me watch Netflix and eat all of your Lucky Charms. I think you’re a fine host.”

Dean smirks at him and squeezes his shoulder. “That’s when you started sleeping in my bed, too. I think I went above and beyond as a host.”

“I don’t think that would be appropriate with your mother.”

“OK, the hallucination is once again a nightmare,” Sam says seriously. He closes his laptop and heads toward the kitchen.

Dean scoots his chair closer to Cas so he can nose at his jaw.

“You don’t seem too concerned about the British Men of Letters.” Cas’ neck betrays his words by tilting to the side and angling toward Dean’s mouth.

“Too hungry to care right now.”

“You could’ve offered to cook. That probably would’ve taken less time than Mary picking something up.”

Dean stops kissing Cas’ neck. “Honestly, I thought she might offer to cook. I was about to ask her what she wanted to do for dinner when I found her hovering over a menu.”

“Did you even check to see what she ordered?”

Before Dean can answer, Mary walks in empty-handed. She stops in the middle of the room and plants her hands on her hips.

“They were backed up. Said it would take an hour to fill our order! I’m starving.”

After a pause, Cas says, “I see where Dean gets his impatience.”

“And my appetite apparently,” Dean adds as he stands. “Don’t worry, Mom, we have steaks in the freezer. I got it.”

They’ve got some onions and peppers and a freaking eggplant in the fridge, so Dean quickly throws together an orzo salad with macaroni noodles since they don’t have orzo. Once the steaks are thawed (in the microwave, but nobody needs to know that), he throws them on the grill, heads back inside and tells Cas to keep an eye on them. He definitely doesn’t waste five minutes passionately explaining to Cas how to make sure all the steaks turn out perfectly medium rare.

While he’s roasting some broccoli, carrots and zucchini, Mary comes up behind him and asks what he’s doing.

“Uh, just roasting some vegetables. We went to the farmer’s market right before…well, a few days ago. Everything’s still good. You good?”

“You’re roasting the vegetables?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“And they taste good that way?”

“You kidding me? They’re amazing. I didn’t know I liked broccoli until I tried roasting it.”

“Huh.”

Dean mixes the not-orzo salad and lets the silence sit between them for a second.

“Oh! I gotta ask you. Um. That meatloaf you used to make when I was a kid. You still know the recipe?”

Mary laughs and takes a seat at the kitchen table. “Piggly Wiggly, sweetheart.”

“What?”

“I hated cooking. Why do you think I gave you PB&J for lunch every day?”

Dean huffs a laugh and scratches the back of his neck. “That’s, uh–I gotta be honest, one of the main things I’ve thought about you over the past three decades is that you’re a good cook.”

She immediately gets up and walks over to him. “Well, we’re getting to know each other now.” She pats his back a few times. “So, show me how you roast these vegetables.”

By the time Cas comes in with the steaks, Mary is cutting up some feta and laughing as Dean goes through the list of all the different kinds of mac and cheese he made for Sam when they were kids.

“He’s gonna be pissed when he sees the macaroni noodles in the salad,” Dean says with a wink to Cas and a nod toward the table.

Cas sets the plate of steaks down and stands with his hands by his sides, waiting.

“Macaroni and feta,” Mary says.

“Babe, go get Sammy, would you?”

Once Cas leaves, the conversation dies.

Dean and Mary laugh some more as they navigate around each other to set the table. When Sam comes in and asks what’s funny, they shrug him off.

Dean takes his usual seat next to Cas and squeezes his hand before they start eating. It’s his way of saying grace, which Cas finds sacrilegious. And hilarious.

Mary immediately stuffs her face and sings Dean’s praises with her mouth full. Sam looks at her, slack-jawed, but doesn’t say anything.

Dean loves cooking. He’s good at it. Not because he was trying to imitate his mom or take care of his little brother–even though those things are true–but because he just loves cooking. And that’s something he can share with his mom, show his mom, because they don’t have it in common.

After dinner, they all sit around the table and talk for a long time. Dean rubs Cas between the shoulder blades like he always does and then he scoots himself closer to Cas like he always does and then he wraps his arm tightly around Cas like he always does and then Cas leans up against his chest practically in his chair like he always does.

It’s not until Cas lazily turns and presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek that Dean registers something.

“Uh, Mom?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“You know Cas and I are–we’re–we have a, uh–I should’ve said–mentioned–”

Mary downs the rest of her beer. “You had a crush on John Travolta when you were 4, Dean.” She winks at Cas. “If you want my approval, you’ve got it.”

kids are so wild, today one told me that there’s a huge block of ice in space that means the earth can’t move or it’ll crash like the titanic and when i questioned his reasoning his response was “idk maybe i’m just getting my dreams mixed up with real life again”

I’m gonna mute discord for awhile. This fire’s got me all kinds of scared and worried, and i’ll only talk to a select few people, not everyone.

for those that don’t know what’s going on, look up eagle creek fire, in oregon. this is my home. and i’m. 

not handling it well.