Bidding has been open for 54 hours, which leaves 54 more until the bidding forms close at 8 PM Eastern, Saturday March 9th.
Behind the scenes your mods are marveling at the numbers.
You would think that with 33% more auctions than last year (which, remember, was already our largest year ever), the bids would be spread a little thinner than usual, right?
But that's not what's happening.
The percentage of auctions with one bid halfway through has actually gone up by 8%! That's right, with 33% more auctions, we have 50% more bids! And the percentage that have multiple bids has gone up by 10%.
You guys are ON IT.
Of course, if your auction doesn't have one yet, don't fret! While we can't guarantee every auction will get a bid, we know that a lot of people do wait until the last minute.
To help those people find unbid auctions, we'll be tagging golden needles this time tomorrow.
And as a quick reminder, the Craft Bazaar is open! New stalls were added through March 5, so if you looked before then, you might look again to browse the new crafts offered.
“Do not worry about your taijutsu lessons,” Lee assured him. “I bounce back quickly.”
“I wasn’t -” Gaara cut off abruptly as he opened his office door. He glared at the figure seated at the desk.
“Oh good, Lee’s here too.” Kankuro's boots rested on the ink blotter and the Kazekage’s hat sat lopsidedly over his hood. The Crow and the Black Ant sat in the chairs on the opposite side of the desk, teacups clasped in their wooden hands.
“What are you doing?” Gaara demanded.
“Sending you home early,” Kankuro replied. “It’s your day off, Gaara. Get the hell out of this office. I’ll handle things.”
“I have work to do.”
“I’ll do it.” Kankuro shrugged and held Gaara’s gaze, challenging.
“And what exactly am I supposed to do?” Gaara asked.
“Anything but work. Why don’t you and Lee get out of the village for a bit? A change of scenery and a day off should do you both some good.”
“Only because you’re acting like a complete child. If you won’t go to the dresser’s, then I’ll do it myself.”
“I don’t need a haircut John. My hair is perfectly fine.”
“Oh, you mean the mop on your head that’s about to jump off and scuttle away from being so close to your giant, egotistical head?”
Sherlock stared at John over the edge of his book, lounging in his chair after having hoped to get some work done.
“I may not be a master observer like you, but I know a decent haircut when I see one. Sit.”
John waved his scissors at Sherlock threateningly and pointed at the open bathroom door. Sherlock let out a loud, exasperated and whiny sigh and stood up.
John wrapped a towel over Sherlock’s shoulders, shoved him down on the bathroom stool and nearly tried to strangle him too but decided against it. In the dim light Sherlock took note of his appearance and agreed that okay maybe his hair is a little wild but it wasn’t indecent.
Delicate snipping began as John began trimming Sherlock’s unruly hair. From the stillness in his hands and he way he focused, Sherlock knew he wasn’t an idiot when it came to precise cutting and trimming. No war doctor ever was.
“Now tell me why you didn't go to the appointment I had booked for you,” John said. Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t move his head.
“Hairdressers and barbershops are boring. Too many chemical smells, and they’re never telling the truth when they try ‘chatting’ with you.”
“So what, you’ve just been trimming your hair yourself all these years?”
“No, don’t be ridiculous. Mrs. Hudson cuts my hair.”
John stopped. “Really?”
Sherlock shrugged.
“Your landlady cuts your hair?”
“Yes, why do you always act so surprised over everything, Watson? We had a very similar discussion to the one you and I are having now, and she insisted on cutting my hair if I refused to go anyplace for it.”
“Huh.”
“Don’t tell her you cut my hair. It’ll upset her.”
“Since when have you cared about upsetting anyone?” John scoffed, cutting again. “She’ll notice anyways. There, done.”
Sherlock inspected his hair as he leaned closer against the mirror. “Hm.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Hudson cuts it better.”
John groaned in exasperation and made a stabbing motion with his scissors at Sherlock in the mirror before exiting the bathroom.
Thank you all so much for your support so far! We’ve achieved half of the physical bundles needed to unlock the addition of our amazing enamel pin, which will be included in any bundle that contains physical goods at no additional charge!
The pin has been designed by @bigbigtruck, and is 1.75″ hard enamel in black nickel, with iridescent glitter as shown above in our animated gif. It also will come with that custom backing card featuring the art of @iruutciv.
Head over to yoieroszine.com to get your copy today! We’re running our sales period until January 2nd, so don’t miss out!
We’ll also be announcing a few special treats in the coming week, so keep an eye on this space. 💋
When lower-class children start going missing and their families turn up murdered at an alarming rate, Ciel Phantomhive goes undercover and enrols in the Copperfield Ragged School with Sebastian acting as his guardian. Ciel learns a few things about hunger.
Read on Ao3 here. Warning: medical horror, methodical violence
Disassembly wasn’t easy but it wasn’t hard. Pharma knew what he was doing; he was skilled. First, cap the lines, ensure that there wouldn’t be any serious fuel loss. He’d taught that to Ratchet, years ago; he’d been in a different graduating class from Ratchet, had been assigned to work with the students as part of his residency. Then unplugging cables, cutting them where necessary, careful not to crimp the lines where he held them. Removing plating, steady and careful, until he had Ratchet in pieces on the floor laid out for reassembly. He’d not done this in centuries. It was surprisingly meditative, but he didn’t really want to be meditative. He wanted to win.
Methodical. Patient, he needed that too. Everything had gone bad; he didn’t need to dwell on what had happened in the recent past when the distant one was so much more relevant and more useful. He had done his best, really, how had Ratchet not seen that? He was brilliant, his plan was brilliant, he had done his best, and Ratchet had spat in his face and left him for dead.
Reassembly went quickly. He understood Ratchet’s alt mode now; he could put it back how he had found it, more or less. He had left Ratchet’s body undamaged. More than Ratchet could say about him. But he wasn’t dwelling, he wasn’t doing anything but winning, of course. Proving a point.
Protoform slotted into place sans spark and spine; cables clicked in easily. Pumps and repositories and their piping were reconnected, plating seated comfortably back on top. He looked perfect and whole. Better than Pharma could say for himself. Heh.
No, no, he wasn’t thinking about the recent past. He wanted things to go back to how they were before that.
