pc-before-time

[defensive-tactics]

Is your pepper spray expired?

[redstrewn]

he hangs out with my pepper spray

[charmre]

I have a neighborhood app that I normally don't really check bc the website/app itself kinda scares me lol (not my neighbor really), but it sends me emails with previews of neighbor's comments

So I open my email and see one of these previews that mentioned someone playing PokemonGo (which I also still play, so I actually opened up the website on my laptop) and this woman talked about how she was walking around playing PokemonGo when a car like basically stalked her for several blocks and tried to like cut her off on the sidewalk even, and then it turns out the driver was like furiously masturbating in his car at her so she's understandably shaken and upset and doesn't want to contact police bc she's a black woman too

But man...time to invest in some pepper spray again...especially since I get out of classes pretty late at night for this semester

[madelynraemunson]

NEED…MORE…EX-HUSBAND!EDDIE…I AM FERAL AND FOAMING AT THE MOUTH PLEASE BLESS US MORE I’M BEGGING

IT’S ANGST O’CLOCK!!!

𝐢 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 (𝐬𝐨 𝐢 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠)

ex husband! eddie x fem!reader

“all that still matters is ‘love ever after’ — after the life we’ve been through” — life after you // daughtry

WC: ~950 words

3AM. The witching hour.

The air smells of twilight musk and marinating dew. It's pitch black all around you, the nearest gas station being an agonizing 1.3 miles away. You're also 10 miles from Hawkins, pulled over in nothing but platform heels, a black mini dress, and expired pepper spray in your purse. To make matters worse, the only friends up who seem to be up at this hour are hungry bears and obnoxious, chirping crickets. And skinwalkers if you're where you think you are.

A horrible ending to a girls night out. Just what you needed.

Alone and afraid, you decide to call the number one person on speed dial, whose gradual distaste towards you renders itself very evident from the moment he answers the phone.

"What?! I'm trying to sleep."

"Eds." you whimper into the phone. "I need you."

There's a long pause in response to your petrified sobs, followed by the clicking noise of a phone keyboard before you hear cursing and the frantic ruffling of sheets.

"I’ll be there."

"Well?"

You watch as Eddie crinkles his forehead in concentration, examining your car while his soot-tainted hands explore every crevice of your hood. Routine maintenance has never been as issue because you've always had a personal mechanic at your feet. But since the divorce, you've gotten pretty bad about it. Otherwise, the you and Eddie wouldn't be stuck in this situation. Obviously.

"Weeelp." Eddie sighs, stretching out every bit of the syllable. He slams the hood shut. "She's just about blown out. You're lucky that thing didn't overheat too much with you in it."

You've prided yourself in not needing a man to change your tires, wiper fluid, OR oil nowadays. But in the midst of your journey towards self love and independence, you somehow forgot that your car could also overheat.

"Oh..”

You try not to watch intently as Eddie cleans his hands off with his hanky, the one he keeps neatly tucked into the back pocket of his flattering dark, denim jeans. Your eyes then trail towards his leather jacket, which housed his broad shoulders and delicious waist so nicely, you would've thought it had been tailored just for him. And you could just about fall right into him when he angles his torso towards you, his sculpted jawline glistening in the moonlight — but nearly not as glistening as those gorgeous chocolate eyes, the ones he used to his advantage during your marriage to get you to forgive him for whatever mistake he seemed to make that week. Before you could fawn any further, Eddie snaps you back to reality.

"When was the last time you put some coolant in this thing?"

"Some what?"

"You keep Prestone at the house?" Eddie pesters. "Antifreeze? Peak?"

Cheeks reddening, you shake your head. "No.”

"You get this thing examined often?"

“Not unless you do it," is what you shamefully admit. “For the most part…”

Eddie's face scrunches out of frustration. He knew this would happen.

"God, I hate when you do shit like this," he snaps. "For all I know your engine light could've been on for weeks."

"But it wasn't." you mutter softly. You're already scared. This is the last thing you need.

"You know your car in particular needs to be serviced every half year?" Eddie mutters. "Oil changes, tire rotations. Your break pads have also seen better days. Which is concerning."

"Ok.”

"And how many times do I have to say you gotta pay attention to this fucking radiator?!" Eddie hisses, slapping at the hood again with his open palm. You shudder at the loud *THUNK* noise that echoes across the woods. "We wouldn't be out here in 3AM if you had just taken proactive measures.”

"Stop YELLING at me!" you whine, a piece of your inner child spewing outwards to combat Eddie's belligerent word vomit.

"I'm not yelling." Eddie firmly insists.

He turns his back to you and starts towards your car again.

"Yes, you are, you always do." you croak miserably, balling your fists up in frustration. “You always do Eddie, and I'm sick of it! You always want to be right, and you always kick me when I'm already down to-"

“Okay, okay, okay." Eddie hushes you. He runs a frantic hand through his hair. "Agh, fuck, okay — I’m sorry.”

He looks at you with guilty, glimmering eyes as you shift your body away from him. Guarded, tense. Closing up all access of you towards him because he lost those rights a long time ago. Muttering to himself now, Eddie scrapes at the pebbles beneath his feet, fiddling with the chain of his wallet before he dares to speak to you again.

"I just worry about you a lot."

You peer back over at him. "Deadass?"

He snorts. "Well yeah."

With your permission Eddie stalks closer to you.

"I don't want to wake up to a phone call talking about my wife's car bursting into flames — with her inside." He rolls his eyes. “All because she hasn't been maintaining her shit.”

"I have been," you fib just a bit, though most of it rings true. just forgot to iron out some little details."

Eddie relaxes his shoulders.

"I know," he surrenders. “I guess there's a part of me that secretly hopes you'll still need me somehow. Some way, or another."

"I'll always need your presence," you reassure him.

Your ex husband softens up. He always thought that during your separation you had found another Superman to save the day. Some other handsome devil to fix your car and maintain all the leaky faucets inside your once shared home. But as you've always insisted, nobody has your back like Eddie. Your very own George Reeves. At your disposal for you and you only.

He suddenly wraps his arms around you, and as you predicted you ease right into him, the comfort and familiarity of Eddie melting away any ounce of hostility you guys have ever harbored against each other. You both have your days, but the love you two have for each other has always remained the same. Just changed form, is all.

"I'm glad you're okay," is all he says.

'I'm glad you're here," you sniff. "Always playing hero, per usual..."

"Well for you, always."

He plants a gentle kiss on top of your forehead as you two sway around in unison. You hum to showcase your endearment.

And he'd do it again.

———

🏷️ tagging peeps who seemed interested in this lil universe 🫶🏼✨ thank you guys for reading :)

@highinmiamiii @potatobeans99 @mediocredreams @joshlmbrt @eddiesxangel @enam3l @mmunson86 @davidblowies-blog @thatissonnina @oskea93 @aurora-austen @lesservillain @madeofmunson @xxbimbobunnyxx @eddiesghxst @munsonssweets @nailbatanddungeon @swiss-mrs @winchester-angel @belokhvostikova @curlyjoequinn @strangereads @marrowfrog00 @shadyunknowncreation @tuolcaniacoc @catherinnn @prestinalove @pleuviors @cinemabean @calumfmu @littlexdeaths

[decentwritings]

Chapter 3

Summary: You’re unable to grasp the luck you have. You were raised to run from danger, to go the opposite direction of bad influences. So when you somehow find yourself right in the center of it, you discover that running wasn’t exactly what you were taught. It only took GhostFace and a pretty girl to remember that.

You manage to sneak off when the group disperses, jogging to your dorm to grab your shower essentials. The shower is long and refreshing, and super soapy because you believe you couldn't get rid of the horrible smell.

Once showered, you get dressed in some of your most comfortable clothes and lay back on your bed. You hope to catch a few hours of sleep before anyone realizes you're gone.

You shut your eyes, and it only feels like a second before you open them again. The sun is still up, and you roll over to check the time, groaning at the one hour of sleep. You decide it isn't enough, because it's not, and you roll back over, attempting another round of sleep.

Again, you aren't sure how long it's been when you open your eyes, and the sun is still up, though you can see its need to end the day as it sets slowly. You wake up this time because of a noise somewhere in the room. You rub the sleep from your eyes, sitting up slowly, scanning the room.

If it's GhostFace, could he at least give you the courtesy of killing you in your sleep? The urge to lie back down is heavy, but you fight it, figuring the group should see your presence at least once more today.

You take your phone off its charger and open your drawer full of junk. Your sister gave you pepper spray before your first day at Blackmore—nearly seven months ago. It's expired. But you're not sure if it's illegal to use expired pepper spray, so you pocket it anyway. You also grab the utility knife you took from your brother's pack-out gear when you helped him with a job one day. He had like ten, so you were sure he wouldn't miss one.

The knife is still sharp and has a little shine to it. You clip it to your waistband, then shut the drawer. With a sigh, you mentally prepare yourself for the day and head out of your dorm.

The halls are eerily empty, but you figure it must be exam day for most of the students. You don't bother questioning it anymore, walking down the hall as you catch up on the notifications on your phone.

Three messages from your mom, informing you of her day and one asking about yours. The last message is to call her when you get free time. You have another message from your sister, who gives you instructions on how to give your nephews (her dogs) their medication. Then you check the messages Danny has left you, which are way more than he usually sends.

Where are you?

Sam said you left

Answer your phone

If you don't call in the next hour and you're not dead, I'll kill you myself

Your cousin says the nicest things. You roll your eyes and click the phone button to call him. The phone doesn't even ring, and you hear Danny's voice instantly.

"Where are you?" He shouts over the phone and you have to pull the phone away from your ear from how loud he is.

"Good morning to you, too, dear cousin," you respond with an eye roll, exiting the dormitory. You shield your eyes from the sun, preparing yourself for a long walk to your car.

"Morning? It's nearly six o'clock," Danny informs you, and you glance at the clock on your phone. You hum, surprised; he's right. "Where the hell have you been? I called you five times."

You run across the street, avoiding cars coming down the road. You ignore a honk from one of them, raising a peace sign at the driver before walking off.

"Dude, I didn't sleep last night," you say, reminding the man with a huff. "I don't sleep, I get cranky. And me cranky is basically GhostFace without a mask," you shake your head.

The line is silent for a long minute, you check to make sure he's still on the line.

"That's not funny," Danny says eventually.

You shrug. "I wasn't trying to be," you mutter, glancing at the strangers waiting for the light to change beside you.

The whole being suspicious of everyone is becoming second nature really quickly. You just hope it doesn't turn into paranoia.

"Look, I'm heading over to pick up my car and then going to your place," you inform him, finally able to cross the street. You pass by a bodega and are really tempted to go in and get yourself a sandwich. With self control, you don't and continue your walk. "Relax. Tell your girlfriend to calm her–"

"Don't finish that sentence," Danny interrupts, voice firm.

You raise your hands in surrender, passing an alley after peeking in it for anything lurking. It's broad daylight but you never know, right?

Danny orders you to stay on the phone with him until you're at your car. You ramble about random things, and you can tell he's not listening with the constant "mmm-hmms" he gives you. You don't mind, finding it endearing of his worry for you.

You gasp at the sight of your car, finally earning his full attention.

"What?" Danny shouts, worried.

You practically skip over to your car, unlocking it as you do. "My baby," you sniffle, close to tears. "She's okay," you whisper, relieved.

The line goes silent again.

"You're an idiot."

You shrug, hopping into the driver's seat. You check in the back for any GhostFaces. When it's empty, you turn back and turn your car on.

"Alright," you rub your hands together, excited. "I'm heading to your place. Do I need to pick up snacks or something?"

"No. It's not some party," Danny sighs, and you can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just go to Sam's, stay there. Don't leave. Understand?"

You nod, then pause. "Wait, I have a class at seven-thirty," you tell him and hear him sigh again. "Does that mean I won't be able to go?"

"Go to my apartment," he says, "Now." He demands, annoyed.

You raise your hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. Geez," you mutter. "Excuse me for worrying about my college education."

Danny tells you his shift ends in a couple of hours, to not embarrass yourself while with the Carpenters and their friends. You reassure him you will be nothing but a perfect guest. He doesn't comment on it and says his goodbye.

When you're at the red light, you catch a glimpse of someone in the corner of your eye. You recognize the boy as he heads down an alley, glancing at his surroundings. But this isn't the way you were; the way you were checking no one was following you. No. He was glancing around to make sure no one was watching him.

You forget for a moment you're driving, until you hear a honk behind you. You glare at the driver through your rearview mirror then look back, searching for Ethan. He's disappeared and you can't figure out how he vanished that quickly.

You shake it off, not wanting to jump to conclusions. Mindy offered a great possibility for the boy and you didn't believe it because...well, he is the shy and dorky roommate of Chad's. Which makes it the perfect cover.

Damn, Mindy's theories are contagious.

You find a great parking spot just a block over from your cousin's apartment building. You triple check to make sure your car is locked then head over to the building. The sun was beginning to set behind you and you begin to believe this day may end without any incidents.

After situating yourself at Danny's place, you go across the hall and knock on the Carpenter's door.

You see an eye through the peephole. You raise a brow. "If I were GhostFace, why would I knock?" You question, confused.

The door takes a while to open, you assume because of all the locks you hear needing to be unlocked.

Mindy appears behind the door a minute later. "Wow, you really have never seen a horror movie," she says, allowing you entry to the apartment. "A fake knock is horror movie 101."

You shake your head then shrug. "I don't see the appeal," you explain, greeting everyone briefly with a head nod. Tara offers you a smile and you can't control the smile that you return. "If I wanted to get scared, I'll just go to my sister's early in the morning. You wanna see horror? You should see her without makeup," you shiver at the thought.

Sam exits the kitchen, and you think; you think, you see her sigh in relief.

"Good, you're here," Sam says, and points a thumb over her shoulder. "We have pizza."

You nod, then pause when you hear noise occurring behind a closed door. You stare at the door then back at the group of friends. They don't seem at all fazed.

"So my knocking was concerning, but that isn't?" You question as you point at the closed door.

"Oh, that's Quinn," Chad explains, waving his hand dismissively. He enters the kitchen, leaving you with still no understanding.

Tara laughs at your expression, waving you over to join them. You notice Anika comfortable position on the couch, but don't question it. You follow Tara into the kitchen, taking a seat at the end of the table.

"She's...sex positive," Tara explains further. "She has a guy over almost every night."

You lean back to look at the closed door. The sounds practically echo throughout the apartment. You struggle to drown it out, but you try your best to as you return your attention to the table.

You do a double take, noticing a missing person. "Where's Ethan?"

"He's got a class," Chad answers, probably knowing his roommate's schedule.

You have to bite your tongue, wanting to tell them you do too but you decided not to go. Well, Danny basically told you not to go but you didn't plan on going anyway. You hated your Visual Literacy class with a passion.

"Eat," Tara slides the pizza box towards you.

You thank her, grabbing a slice. As you chew, you hear Chad scoot his chair closer to you.

"So, Y/N, right?" You nod, mouth still full. He smile then glances at Tara briefly. You aren't sure what that was about but don't question. "Tell us about yourself. For starters, why English?"

You swallow the food in your mouth. "Umm," you see the others staring at you, awaiting your response. "Well, I just need a degree. It's looking like you can't get a decent, well-paying job without a bachelor's so..." you shrug.

Chad hums. "Valid point," he comments. "Any hobbies? Do you play any sports? Do you even like sports? Ooh, do you like videos games?" He asks excitedly.

After swallowing again, you nod. "Yes, yes, yes and yes," you answer, unsure if he expected more than just the one word. And when he blinks, waiting for you to continue, you assume he does. "My current hobby is just fixing up my dad's old Toyota Chaser, still debating whether to sell it when I'm done or not."

"You're fixing a car?" Mindy leans over to ask, eyes squinting in confusion.

You chuckle and nod. "Yeah. My dad was a mechanic, so he taught me how to fix the basics," you shrug, taking another bite of your pizza. "Then I got tired of the basics, so we ended up learning how to add mods to cars. I just sold my old Subaru WRX—the most mods I've ever done on a car. She came out—" you let out a wolf whistle.

"Then why did you sell it?" Tara asks, the question clearly on everyone's mind.

You suddenly lose your appetite and set the rest of your pizza down on a napkin. Clearing your throat, you shrug. "Needed the cash. Where's your bathroom?" you ask, standing up to avoid more questions.

Sam furrows her brows. "Second door on your right," she answers gently.

You give two thumbs up and head in that direction. Once you're out of earshot, Chad looks at the group.

"Nice job, Tara," he says, shaking his head with a scoff. "You scared your crush."

Tara narrows her eyes at him. "It's not a crush."

"She'd have to actually interact with them for it to be anything," Mindy huffs, only to get a kick under the table. She winces and rubs her leg with a frown. "I'm just saying, you practically begged Anika to invite them to the party and you didn't even give them the time of day."

"At least we know you two have the same type," Chad quips, pointing between Mindy and Tara as he grabs another slice. Mindy giggles at his remark, the sisters' reactions more amusing than expected.

Tara hides her face in her hands, feeling heat rise to her cheeks.

Meanwhile, in the bathroom, you're struggling to recompose yourself. Lately, you haven't had time to process what happened almost a month ago. The past couple of hours have been a rush of emotions, full of firsts and new friendships. You splash cold water on your face, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Tara's question about your car stirred up feelings you've tried to suppress, forcing you to confront something you've been avoiding. Your sister has been handling it better–sort of, taking her anniversary vacation a month early, while your brother picked up a huge job building a mansion for some millionaire in California. All of you have escaped your hometown—except your mother, who stayed behind, clinging to some connection to your father.

You take a deep breath, trying to push the thoughts away before anyone notices how long you've been in the bathroom.

You feel your phone vibrate in your pocket and pull it out to see a message from Danny. He's letting you know he's leaving work and expects to arrive in about twenty minutes. He mentions wanting to grab something to eat before heading home. You reply, reassuring him that you're with the Carpenters and to be careful, before slipping the phone back into your pocket and exiting the bathroom.

Anika waves at you from the couch, but her smile falters when she sees your expression. "You alright?" she asks, patting the spot next to her.

You sit down beside her with a sigh, your eyes flicking toward the muted TV. The news is on, and it strikes you that this is the first time in years you've actually paid attention to a newscaster. "It's been a crazy couple of hours," you say with a shrug. "I also think this is the longest I've been outside the dorm in a while. Feels weird. Is New York always this packed?" you ask, adding a hint of playfulness to steer her away from worrying.

Anika shoots you a knowing look but doesn't push. You can tell she plans to ask later—and you know you'll have to face it then.

Your attention is suddenly drawn to Quinn's room. Her screams grow louder, more intense than before. You share a glance with Anika, and without exchanging words, you both know what the other is thinking. But neither of you says anything, turning your attention back to the TV, both silently choosing to stay quiet for now.

The TV is muted, but you find yourself reading the captions to keep your mind busy. Then, your phone vibrates again. This time, Danny's calling. You excuse yourself and stand to answer.

Before you can say anything, he shouts, "Get out, quick!" You pull the phone away from your ear, startled by his volume. "He's in the apartment! Tell Sam—"

A sudden, heavy thump against the apartment door makes you freeze. Instinctively, you turn toward the sound as the others rush out to join you. Another thud shakes the door, rattling the locks and hinges with each blow.

The door rattles violently, each strike louder than the last. You freeze for a second, unsure of where to move first, before Sam takes charge. You want to hide, run but you're frozen where you stand.

"Everyone get back!" she commands, pulling you behind her. Her eyes dart to the nearest weapons—a lamp, a chair—anything within reach. Tara's fingers curl around your arm, tugging you back toward the windows.

The door splinters as the locks give way, and a large figure forces his way into the apartment. Your heart pounds in your chest as Sam rushes forward, grabbing the nearest heavy object—a bat leaning against the wall—and swings without hesitation. Your hand itches to reach for the knife on your waist but you think its just a pin compared to the knife GhostFace has.

You're suddenly aware of the grip on your arm, and its Tara's, who's staring at her sister in worry. It was obvious to you that Sam took the big sister role seriously, but to see how serious she takes it makes you summon that bravado from hours ago. You thought it was all used up but apparently its still there.

You grab your knife and flick it open, rushing forward to help Sam. The adrenaline surges through your veins, pushing you forward. Sam swings the bat again, but the intruder anticipates it this time, blocking it with his forearm before shoving her back.

Sam shoves you hard, her voice full of urgency. "Run!"

Your instinct is to stay and fight, but Tara's grip on your arm tightens as she yanks you backward. Before you can argue or even think, Chad's hand locks around Tara's wrist, dragging both of you toward the hallway.

The echo of Anika's scream cuts through the chaos, freezing your blood. You whip around, heart pounding in your chest. They aren't behind you.

Without thinking, you come to a dead stop, yanking your arm free from Tara's grip.

"Y/N, wait!" Tara's voice is frantic, but you're already sprinting back up the stairs, adrenaline pumping through your veins, faster than you thought possible. Your legs burn, but you don't stop.

You hear Tara calling your name, but it's drowned out by the roar in your ears. Reaching the apartment again, you jump over the broken door, breathing hard, and your eyes dart around. The first room you burst into freezes you in your tracks.

Quinn is there. She lies motionless, her body lifeless, and the sight makes your stomach churn. Your mind screams at you to stop, but it only pushes you forward. You force your gaze away, barreling through the hallway.

You spot GhostFace pushing against a bedroom door. Sam and the others have to be on the other side.

Instinct kicks in.

Your eyes land on a chair near the wall, and without hesitation, you grab it. Charging forward, you swing with everything you have. The impact sends GhostFace stumbling back, crashing to the ground. His knife skitters across the floor, spinning out of reach.

GhostFace stumbles, trying to regain his footing, and you seize the chance. You dive for his knife, fingers just brushing the handle when he yanks at your ankle, pulling you down hard. You crash to the floor in front of him, and as he swings his fist, you barely manage to block it with your arm.

"Shy and dorky, my ass," you mutter through gritted teeth, seeing the surprise in his eyes through the mask.

He freezes for a moment, just enough for you to shove him off and scramble to your feet. Your body aches from the fall, but adrenaline pushes you on. Your eyes dart toward the window, and you see Danny rushing Sam and an injured Mindy into his apartment. His gaze locks with yours, filled with a plea—run.

But you can't. Not now. Not when everything you've suspected has just been confirmed.

GhostFace, however, isn't done. While you were distracted, he regains his knife, standing with that signature menacing tilt of his head, glaring down at you.

You throw your hands up in frustration. "What? I don't know what follows!" you shout, exasperated.

He doesn't respond—not verbally, at least. Instead, he lunges, slashing at you with his knife. You dodge one strike, but the second is too quick. The blade slices through your abdomen, sending a wave of pain shooting through you.

You let out a sharp breath, staggering back and clutching your wound, teeth clenched as blood seeps between your fingers. The pain is intense, but you force yourself to stay upright, glaring back at him with defiance despite the throbbing ache.

You hate to admit it, but you're glad your brother got you into anime.

"Come on, Ethan," you taunt, shifting your weight cautiously to the left as he mirrors your movements to the right. "End this now. Take the mask off."

Either he's stubborn or you're wrong, because instead of revealing himself, he lunges again, knife sparkling in the dim light. You try to evade the slashes, but your patience runs thin, and it makes you sloppy. As you attempt to block the knife from reaching your chest, it lodges into the palm of your hand instead. A scream rips from your throat, raw and uncontrollable, as pain radiates through your body.

He twists the blade, and you whimper, barely keeping your feet. The world around you blurs as adrenaline and pain mix, but then you hear it—a shout from down the hall.

"Police!"

You want to call out to the officer, to warn him, but your voice fails you. Instead, summoning every ounce of strength left in you, you push him away. He stumbles back, momentarily off balance, and when he regains his composure, you catch a glimpse of what you think is a glare beneath the mask.

In a surprising move, he dashes past you, and just as the realization hits, you feel your legs buckle. Darkness creeps in, and your vision fades as you collapse, everything going quiet.

[scribbiesan]

Day 1: Your Apocalypse Survivor.

@imagine-darksiders

Click for better quality

I’ve never really done an Inktober before, but what the hell, imma try this year!

This is Marissa. She’s a college student who was on her way from classes when shit hit the fan. Her equipment consists of: a wallet containing 4 dollars, 2 expired coupons, her drivers license, and a gift card, a duffel bag with a cracked laptop, 2 schoolbooks, several pens and pencils, and 3 notebooks, an old flip phone, and some pepper spray. She survives by being wily enough to skitter outta tight situations.

Anywho, thank you Ellie for the prompts list!! I’m gonna try to work on the next one after I’m done babysitting tomorrow.

Toodles!~

[dev1lm4n]

offering

pairings: jackson-era!joel miller x f!reader

summary: angsty; joel thinks more of your accidental visit, you think he still views you as one of his whores.

pt. 2 to winter coat

word count: 2.1k

warnings: explicit (18+), mentions of sexual actions, sorta manipulative n emotionally unavailable joel, but nothin' too dark, age gap if you squint.

notes: i'm sorry for taking ages! i got accepted in college so things r easier now. pls let me know if u want a smutty pt.3 lol

In the beginning, Joel Miller thought that it was pity.

Morbid curiosity was a close second. It’s like being stuck in a Monday morning traffic jam on the highway and as you creep along at a snail’s pace, a terrible collision happens. Although there’s nothing in particular that’s knotting you and the accident, you feel the sickening curiosity to observe the damage. To stare, to take a good look at the misfortune. For him it’s more than peeping, it’s sticking his nose in the messy pie. Swirling the jam with his dirty, bare fingers. 

He liked to watch you crawl out of the grimy one-bedroom flat you like to call your home. A pretty smile snug on your lips, smelling like the 2003 Bath & Body Works vanilla body spray you got from him. He enjoyed you making pathetic attempts in being friendly with him. You always made sure to pursue, pursue, and pursue, even when the thin line under his unruly mustache was an obvious no. Always made sure you brought him a can of old soda, a half-empty tin of mints, or unlabelled cassette tapes whenever you’d return from wherever it is you go to scavenge. The things you’re offering him sometimes still baffle him.

With a twinkle of admirable optimism, you’d try to bribe your way into Joel’s collection of things. A winter coat first. Then, gloves and expired Christmas cookies. It was a small collection per say, but it’s much better than the left over items you find on your so-called ‘runs’ around Boston. Things are always already picked out everywhere in the city and you could never seem to build up the courage to leave the gates. You’re too weak and foolish to route your way out in the wild. A kiss with death wasn’t exactly your thing. It was Joel’s thing.

He relished in the fact that you and him both knew that deep down; you’re tethered to him. 

Joel Miller pitied you with every inch of his aching body and perhaps that’s why he’s constantly finding himself waiting for you. Legs spread on his half-sunken couch, vodka in hand as he expected you to knock on his door. Three was the number you’d always knock. Thursdays and Sundays were your favorite days since you’re usually free of duties. Ten was the amount of steps you took. Sweet was your scent and darlin’ was your name.

You’re his favorite pastime show. That’s why he's bothered when you stopped coming on schedule, stopped following the sacred routine. Joel’s first instinct was of a petulant child. At first, it was reaping new helpless damsels to pamper. Then comes the unnecessary aggression. Quarrels that had him littered in royal blue bruises and everyone that crossed him dead in a ditch. But you never came. Never knocked on his door again.

Until now.

You’re gone before he knows it. Cookies were your offering this time, decent ones that don't taste like sandpaper. Does this mean you’d need him again? He swore he tried to wait it out. Tried to sit still in the qualms of his home, hoping for you to be the one to relapse into his tousled salt-and-pepper and sharp pine scent. But you didn’t. You hadn’t come over to knock three times on his door on a Thursday afternoon and took ten steps to get wrapped up in his fingers. 

He’s now actively seeking for you. Asking around as subtle as he could to figure out what exactly you do these days. Tommy said a seamstress, others said preschool teacher, then a few said stablehand as well. Every time he barged his way into a shop, calmly asking for your whereabouts, he’d always be met with a head shake. You’re a ghost it seems. The more he searched for you, the more you delve deep into nonexistence. That or you’ve deliberately played cat and mouse to avoid him. Afraid that he’d be dragging you back to the trenches of Boston, of who you and him were.

It’s not hard to catch a whiff of Joel Miller when he’s coming your way. He’s tall and brooding. A cloud of grump, stomping his way through town. People will talk. Anytime someone mentions his trudging footsteps, you’d be out of that facility in a second. Your role in the commune was to help out in a multitude of jobs, which means endless hiding spots from the thunder that’s tailing you around. You knew that scurrying away from him means avoiding him for just a limited period of time. You knew that he’d end up figuring out your pretty little tactics like he’s always had, but it’s better than the alternative: confrontation.

An odd rush of dread coursed through your veins at the mere sight of him. 

Everything came back to you in an instant. The thing is, there used to be a locked chest on the back of your head. A place where you managed to compress the terrible things you’ve witnessed and comprehended throughout all these years of surviving. All the death, vile gore, the things that teared away every inch of your humanity. It’s all jumbled up with the scarce romance and twisted affection you received in between. Your Pandora's box has grown dusty from the years you’ve spent in Jackson, draped by a blanket of comfort and pushed even further into where no one could reach. Sure, it’s unresolved, but at least you don’t have to look at that ugly part of you ever again. 

Those steely eyes of his was the key and even without having him say anything, he’s unleashed the flipside of what you are. Alarms blared in your head. The red and blue lights flashing brightly in the gathering gloom of winter evening. He was trouble and you knew it.

You were quick to shut the door close again, but he was even faster in lodging his arms between the door and the frame. He didn’t push forcefully like he’s interested in breaking in. He’s just stopping you from closing the door, effectively creating a gap. Carrying heavy logs of wood and slabs of meat might’ve increased your strength by a bit, but Joel was no match for you. It’s impossible to beat him in the one thing he’s good at.

You gave up.

From your warm lungs came white clouds as you heaved in front of him, knuckles grown equally white against the edge of the birch wood. You looked up at him. He’s looking down at you and now you two are engaged in some fucked up version of a staring contest. Three apparent lines of horizontal wrinkles appeared on his forehead, then a couple in between his knitted brows. You could watch his rounded brown eyes droop, a gleam of hope flourished. He’s silently begging you to undo your resolve.

You gave in.

Your front door creaked open. The dense brick wall you’ve built for five consecutive years was torn away at his arrival. Brick by brick, little by little. Your bodies’ slight tilt to the side was your idea of a warm welcome into the heavenly space you’ve considered home. It’s infinitely better than the flat you owned in Boston. It’s a lot more personal; cluttered with old photographs, borrowed books, and lukewarm herbal tea. Most of it was just ways to fill the empty shell you’ve become. He took a step forward, then politely toed his muddy work boots off near your neatly arranged shoe rack. Wordlessly at that.

“Joel.”

The older looked back at your imposing figure, heart pounding against his ribcage at the trivial mention of his name.

“What are you doing here?”

You sounded distant, unlike the cheery version that came up to his doorstep the previous day. Yet your tone still reeked of the same old youth and innocence.

He swallowed thin air, hoping that it’d relieve the bitter taste on the back of his tongue.

“Your cookies.”

He uttered like it held some sort of relevance. When he’s met with a cute quirk of your eyebrow, he tounged the insides of his cheek. Nervous.

“It’s an offering, isn’t it?”

He questioned. Joel was unsure, you knew that much from the way he’s searching behind your expressive eyes. 

An offering was a phrase you haven’t heard since you’ve last met him. Flashes of memories replayed like old film shot on an analog camera on the back of your head, blurry and vague. You remembered the heat of the summer, the busy chirps of cicadas. He joked about how you’d always bring him an offering every time you needed something. How it reminded him of a fat tabby cat who’d always bring him dead rats in exchange for tuna treats back in the day. You remembered how you sulked, all pouty, because he’d just compared your small gifts to a dead rat. He’d then comfort you and peppered heated kisses. Scruff against the smooth of your skin.

Why are you remembering all this?

“No, Joel. It wasn’t– I don’t.. I don’t do that anymore.”

Your gaze grew pensive, wondering if he thought you're still the same girl you were. The same girl who’d suck his cock for a stupid periwinkle winter coat. There wasn’t anything wrong with prostitution, especially when it’s the only thing keeping you alive and well. It’s just that you’ve grown so much from that place. Your hair stopped shedding from the terrible diet you used to survive on, a bite of a dehydrated protein bar and tap water. Your cheeks were fuller, even when it’s still flushed with the exact same hues. You weren’t constantly freezing and jittering. Jackson shaped a new person out of a broken mold.

“I wasn’t.. implying on that. I was just– Well, I thought..”

He took a sharp breath.

“I thought you needed me.”

He confessed. Joel took another risky step forward, wooden boards creaking an ugly tone beneath his feet. You felt raw at his confession. The scabs were picked and yanked apart at every edge. There was nothing to hide your throbbing pain away with. No blankets of kind words. It bled quietly under his longing gaze. You knew where he's heading and no matter the name of the town it's nowhere good. 

“I’m not the same girl, Joel.”

“I know, it’s just–”

“I don’t need you to protect me from anything. Do you think all my problems get solved when a big strong man shows up? Well, guess what–”

“No, I–”

“No. You listen to me.”

“I need you.”

You scoffed at what he said. A look of disbelief curved your eyebrows upwards and left your jaw slacked, as if you just heard the world’s stupidest joke coming from the world’s largest asshole. Did he really think sweet dolled-up words would help him get you right back in his lap? Ready for him to use whenever and wherever he pleases. Ready to get discarded once again as if you’re some sort of one-use paper cup in a shabby office. He took another step forward. This time, the light from the fireplace hit him in a way that made him look the same way he did five years ago. The glint of hope, the unspoken words, the twisted sense of belonging.

“Don’t say you need me when you leave and you leave again.”

You swore you could feel the agony making its way to the lilt of your voice. It’s bitter against the back of your throat. It didn’t matter that you were the one who physically left him when you disappeared out of Boston. He’s never even there to begin with. Not one inch of his heart was ever present when you were splayed out naked on his mattress, or when his fingers curled around your plush insides, or when your legs hooked around him, or when you told him how much he meant to you despite only being a quick fuck for him. 

Silence fell over the both of you. You felt his frown and the way his warm ragged breath penetrated the cold air. You heard the ticking of your clock as you counted every second passing and the heavy, doubtful steps he took. You saw him curling a large hand against your skin to cup your cheek, testing the currents and seeing whether he’d managed to crack your resolve like he’d always have.

Everything felt so right. So familiar. Even when it’s wrong.

You’re crumpling, slotting right into the safe net he’s providing. A tear rolled down your cheek. The crowbar swung in slow motion, even when you’re doing everything to stop it. Joel Miller rendered you helpless. He made you feel like the girl you were. Then, like a poorly edited movie, there is no impact or sound of breaking glass, only a raining down of fragments sharp enough to pierce your firmness. 

You sobbed. He cradled you in his arms, gently, like you actually mattered for once.

[pagesupinflames]

baabe nd angel arent defenseless. baabe has a gun safe and angel carries expired pepper spray on their bedazzled keychain. try them

[recoiloperated]

What do you mean by "apply directly to the forehead" on that picture of a gun?

Yeah, that might have been a little nebulous.

So- you live in a world that has dangers. Natural and man made. Some of them are incidental, car crashes, allergic reactions, sickness, natural disasters. They just happen.

Some are intentional, road rage, an animal attacking you/snakebite, assault, rape, murder.

And whenever it really comes down to it, You only have one choice about all this: are you going to take an active part in ensuring your safety? Or are you going to rely on the Goodwill of others?

You're going to encounter a lot more incidental threats in your life than intentional threats, So you need to put a little bit of preparation in for those. Have some spare food, have a way of cooking that food if you have no electricity. Have a way to filter water, ideally, store a couple flats of canned water- specifically canned. Bottled water goes bad faster.

And for the love of All things good and holy- take some first aid courses and build out a decent first aid kit.

But also, some problems are intentional- And you can't always run. In that case, your choice is either do violence, or have violence done against you. And while you have a predator brain that says to use as little energy as possible in the hunt- in those situations you are not the predator, you are the prey. And you should fight like it. So you don't mess around with toys, You don't use your kitty cat keychain knuckles, the little $25 Pink camouflage stun gun your daddy bought you from the army surplus when You were 17, or a keychain can of pepper spray that probably expired 12 years ago.

You pull out your gun, and you Punch holes in the threat until the threat isn't.

All of those other things do have their uses. They are warning colors for the predators. But you need to have the ability to apply overwhelming violence to that which is threatening you. You need to remind the predator that the most dangerous animal in Africa eats grass.

[sobersight]

which gilmore girls characters would own guns?

lorelai: has a tiny pink camo pistol she has never bought ammo for — she thinks if she just pulls it out during a confrontation, it will scare off her attacker. really, she thinks of it as more of a cute accessory she can keep in her purse instead of a weapon

rory: is pro-gun control so she doesn’t own any firearms. however, she does have a baby blue pepper spray instead (it’s expired)

luke: has a couple firearms he all keeps very responsibly in a safe hidden in his closet. one he bought for self defense purposes, but the others were passed down from his father and he doesn’t have the heart to sell them

christopher: used to own one or two pistols, but he got rid of them when gigi was born

emily: has one antique rifle kept in her panic room that she thinks will defend her in the case of a burglar (it won’t)

richard: has a gun safe in his office containing a pistol and a sophisticated looking rifle, but he hasn’t told emily that they’re there

trix: believes that it’s a man’s job to handle the self defense of the home. however, she still keeps the old firearms that her late husband owned in case of “dire emergencies”

dean: goes hunting with his family regularly and therefore owns several firearms and knows how to use them

jess: has illegal firearms, one of which is a fully automatic that he takes out into the woods occasionally to shoot with his buddies

logan: has several high-tech, custom built handguns and rifles that he and his friends show off to each other. rory vehemently disapproves

lane: prefers knives, or perhaps a baton

mrs kim: she once shot an american soldier during the korean war, traumatizing her and being the inciting event for her conversion to seventh day adventism

paris: expert at self defense. she has a tricked out glock with tons of attachments, as well as excelling in several forms of hand to hand combat

sookie: was there when lorelai bought her pistol, so she also has a matching one. hers is lime green camo and it hasn’t seen the light of day for about five years

jackson: afraid of guns, but owns one gun (that he never touches) to keep up appearances of being tough and masculine

michel: european (doesn’t like guns)

taylor: acts scandalized by the idea of townspeople owning guns and tries to pass a motion banning them from the town, but really he has a large collection of historical muskets and rifles in his home for which he made “special exceptions”

kirk: bought a handgun once, but he shot himself in the foot and the town petitioned at a town meeting to confiscate it as a matter of public safety (it passed unanimously, with even kirk voting to confiscate)

liz: not really interested in firearms. she knows she’s too clumsy to use them — instead, she owns several swords, none of which are really practical

tj: bought a handgun once he and liz bought their house, but he still doesn’t know how to use it

patty: when asked, she says dramatically that she once “shot a man in reno.” she will not elaborate

[thatonemarvelchick]

Peter - Six

Peter watched as the man holding Apricity to the wall turned. He watched the guy's brain try to kick in, watched as he realized who was standing in front of him. He watched as the fear bloomed in the man's eyes. 

“Hey man, this ain’t got nothing to do with you. My girl and I’s just talkin' things out.” He said, but Peter noticed the way his grip on her forearm loosened ever so slightly. 

“Your girl?” Apricity spat, shoving against him again. This time the man stumbled away, his alcohol-soaked brain and slow muscles unable to process what was happening. Peter walked a bit closer, the red glint of his suit reflecting in the snow that was already sticking to the ground. 

“Why don’t you go sober up buddy? Maybe find a girl who actually wants to be your girl.” He suggested, watching as the man stumbled back with every step the Spider-Man took towards him. 

“I don’t want any problems.” He mumbled, holding his hands up now. Peter could smell the whiskey from here, he could imagine how it must’ve smelled to Apricity, making her drown in that stench.

That made him more upset than it usually should have. He felt bad for his victims, of course. There was always a certain level of empathy he had for everyone he saved, there had to be, otherwise he wouldn’t be doing it in the first place. And he was upset at the injustice he saw, of course. But this made him irrationally angry. The thought of some drunk guy touching her, hurting her. 

“Get the hell outta here.” He said lowly, something unlike him. There were no quips this time, no funny one-liners before he sent the bad guy running or to jail. You could hear it in his voice, he was angry. He was something to be feared. He didn’t necessarily like it, but he also couldn’t necessarily control it. 

The man turned and stumbled off as quickly as he could in his drunken state, the slick sidewalk and falling snow not helping his case. Peter turned to Apricity, examining her through the eyes of his suit.

At one point, he knew he would’ve been running a biometric scan on her right now. Getting her temperature, her heart rate, trying to see how panicked she was based on what her body told him. But he didn’t have the Stark suit anymore, he didn’t have any of his old tech. He had to rely on his own eyes and what he knew of her. 

She had her arms wrapped around herself. Of course she did, she was only wearing a light sweater in the middle of a snowstorm. Her eyes were flitting around the street, never landing on one thing, as if she was looking for the next threat, something Peter often found himself doing too. Her golden hair brushed her middle back, the ponytail it had once been in long since falling out.

He remembered seeing her that morning, listening for her familiar heartbeat and looking up when he heard it walk in. He remembered the way she looked at him, something hidden in those hazel eyes. He remembered how quick he was to look away. 

He was supposed to be staying away from her. Not just for his own feelings, but for her safety. And yet, he’d been following her since the moment she left the library. 

“Thank you.” She cleared her throat, snapping him out of his revere and forcing him to be present. “I um, I usually carry pepper spray but…”

But it had expired last week. Peter knew this because he had a new bottle sitting in his backpack that he’d forgotten to give to her. Idiot. 

“It’s no problem, nothing special. Kind of my job.” He had to remember that right now, he was not Peter Parker. He was not the boy who’d fallen asleep on this girl's couch last night. He was Spider-Man, the web-slinging hero, who was supposed to save people in distress. This situation was not unlike any other, this was a normal Tuesday for Spider-Man. He would save her, and now he would be on his way. 

“Do you need me to walk you the rest of the way? It’s pretty sketchy out here.” He found himself saying, and wished he could slap himself. This was not what Spider-Man did, Spider-Man didn’t let Peter Parker’s feelings get intertwined with his actions. He was supposed to be indifferent.

“Yes, please.” He heard her breathe, and watched the steam of her breath rise in the air. She sounded relieved, and in that moment Peter would’ve walked her anywhere. She turned, starting to make her way down the street again and glancing back to see if he was following. 

He was, of course. He stood two feet away, keeping as much distance as possible. He wondered idly if she was afraid of him, if she believed in everything the Daily Bugle spewed out, and if the only reason she was letting him walk her was because she was afraid to say no.

“Thank you, by the way.” Apricity looked over at him with those huge eyes. “For that and for walking me. I know it’s stupid, I just wanted something to snack on before I went home and thought it would be a short trip.”

Peter looked over at her, swallowing. “You’re a student, right? Why aren’t you on your way home for Christmas?” He couldn’t stop himself. Peter Parker couldn’t know more about her, couldn’t get involved. But Spider-Man was just asking an innocent question, right?

Apricity shook her head, staring down at her scuffed-up and likely soaking-wet shoes. “No, I stay here during the holidays.” She didn’t offer any more information, and Peter realized that she didn’t only withhold information from him, but from everyone. 

He looked up as the glowing yellow sign of the gas station came into view. He didn’t want this trip to be over. He wanted to be around her, to talk to her and ask her why she stayed on campus during Christmas, why she wasn’t wearing a jacket, why she tugged at her earlobes when she was nervous. 

But anyone could see her with Spider-Man. In a way, she was more in danger with him than she was with Peter Parker. She needed to be simply another person who was saved by the hero, not a potential friend, or more. Being with her even this long was putting her in harm's way and he knew it. 

She turned to look up at him before he had a chance to say that he was leaving. Those big, hazel eyes shining, little snowflakes caught in her impossibly long eyelashes. She was wearing mascara today, he realized. It wasn’t something she did often, and he wondered why she’d put any on today. 

“Thank you for walking me. I think I’ll be ok to make it home, I’m going to take the bus.” She said, rubbing her arms. They were standing just outside the doors, she was probably freezing. 

“Right, of course.” He cleared his throat, nodding. “Be safe.” He turned, leaping up and swinging away. Boston didn’t have as many tall buildings as New York did, so he found himself on rooftops more than flying through the air. He glanced back at Apricity, seeing that she was still standing there, watching him. She was always watching him.

Of course she was, but it wasn’t for the reason he would’ve wanted it to be.

Next Chapter

[defensive-tactics]

Check your pepper spray's expiration date...

[rumbelleshowdown]

Author: onelastedit

Prompts: Stroking hair to soothe. “Take me with you.” Baking.

Group: B

-

On the Other Side of the Door

Was it too much to ask for a simple, relaxing holiday? Thanksgiving wasn’t a tradition Belle participated in - being Australian it hadn’t ever appealed to her - so she took the opportunity to use her vacation days from her job at the Library to rent a room at a new boutique hotel just outside of Storybrooke. The Autumn weather had already succumbed to the Winter and she wanted to indulge in a long weekend with wine, books, and a crackling fireplace. 

Instead, she got a room with a broken fireplace, and a furnace stuck at a temperature that would make the Devil sweat. She’d only packed her warm clothes so she could either slowly get heat stroke wearing her flannel pajamas or walk around in only her knickers. The latter option, while it sounded sexy, was in reality disgusting when your room is trying to bake you like a pumpkin pie. The resulting smell was NOT of cinnamon and nutmeg. 

Grudgingly, she put on the hotel’s complimentary robe and decided there was nothing for it but to trudge down to the front desk. She’d been assured the heat would be fixed within the hour -  two hours ago. Gathering as much dignity as she could wearing nothing but a bathrobe with sweat actively dripping down her body, she made to open her door but the handle was…stuck. She jiggled it furiously but it was like the handle was actively working against her pushing against her grip on it. Belle released the handle and watched as it moved of its own accord rapidly rattling up and down. Her stomach dropped as she realized someone was trying to get into her room. Thoughts raced through her mind — she should back away and call the front desk, hide in her bathroom until someone comes for help. Did she still have pepper spray in her purse? She hadn’t ever used it. Does pepper spray expire? The lamp on her bedside table looks potentially lethal, but she has terrible coordination.  

As Belle’s mind began to meltdown from the stress and heat, a voice on the other side of the door caught her attention. Muffled words made their way to her ears, “damned room keys… absolute shite…” She knew that voice! It was the voice of the man who played the starring role in her daydreams. That voice was deep and a little rough, and it’s Scottish accent made her toes curl in her stilettos.  Belle watched for him every day, peering out the window from her perch at the Library’s circulation desk, hoping for just a glimpse of him as he opened his antique shop across the street. 

Mr. Gold. 

But wait, this was absurd. There was no way Mr. Gold just happened to be on the other side of her hotel room door, apparently trying to break in. It must be heat stroke mixed with insanity - she’d finally taken her pathetic crush too far. Then she heard the voice again, “never should’ve invested in this place. Where is the blasted bell boy?” 

Tip toeing to the door, Belle peaked into the viewer and gasped as she saw a the top portion of a man’s head - a man with shoulder length brown hair, a few streaks of grey running through it, and it looked like it was silky soft. It’s Mr. Gold!, her mind screamed. Suddenly she had way more problems than a malicious intruder. The man of her dreams was inches away from her, and he didn’t even know it. She pushed her hands through her hair, trying to tame the frizzy, sweaty curls gently massaging her scalp to calm herself down, and pulled the mass back into what she hoped looked like an attractive ‘I don’t care what I look like, but I still look great’ kind of way. When she saw a pause in Mr. Gold’s attempts to open the door she quickly turned the handle and flung the door open with much more strength than she realized. 

As the door banged back into the wall, Belle’s bright blue eyes stared into very startled brown ones. She hoped she didn’t look like a maniac. She could feel the huge smile on her face as she said, “Mr. Gold! What a surprise!” For several long seconds Gold didn’t respond, just stood there staring at her and then looking around himself like he was a little kid lost in a department store. 

“…..I…Miss French. I’m so sorry. I must have the wrong room.”

“Yes, I thought so. What a coincidence that we’re both in the same hotel for the holiday.”

“….Yes….I am a silent investor and sometimes come to check in on it.”

This wasn’t quite the romantic meet-cute Belle had been hoping for. He looked completely uncomfortable. She was sure he would run away if he could. She didn’t blame him. She looked terrible and it’s not as if he ever gave her the time of day when she wasn’t a sweaty mess. At that moment a bell boy came along with Mr. Gold’s bags and informed them - what they already knew - he had the wrong room. 

The boy turned to Belle, “Miss is the room’s heat still an issue?” In her assenting nod, he replied, “I’m so sorry. If you go to the front desk they can book you for another weekend. Unfortunately there aren’t any other rooms available.”

Upon seeing her look of disappointment, Gold said, “The heat isn’t working?”

“No,” said Belle, “that’s why I look like a horrid sweaty mess. It’s stuck at a thousand degrees.”

“You look beautiful as always” he blurted out. Her wide eyes met his equally wide eyes, “I’m so sorry Miss French that was inappropriate. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“No. No you didn’t” she grinned like a fool at him.

“As an investor I wish there was a way I could make it up to you but it seems there aren’t any other solutions.”

Feeling very bold, Belle said, “You could take me with you.” Her sly smile hoped it undercut her forwardness.

“I beg your pardon?” He spluttered.

“You could share your room with me….if that’s not too much to ask.”

He cut in, “No. No it’s not.”

“Well then it seems you have provided a solution Mr. Gold.”

“Alexander. My name is Alexander.” His smile beamed back at her and when he offered her his hand she didn’t even care that her palms were sweaty.    

-

[thelambliesdown1974]

Guess what it smells like when expired pepper spray leaks in the bottom of your bag

[weirdocartoongirl]

Differences and Punishments in "AFA's Andersons and Wattersons Ultimate Punishment Day"

⚠️⚠️TW: This post contains some content that can easily disturbing for some people to see. Do not see this post when you got triggered by it⚠️⚠️

Here's the differences and punishments for my Wattpad story. Abiuth Flores Animations' Andersons and Wattersons' Ultimate Punishment Day. Inspired by HiroKun's movie named "AFA Caillou, Gumball and Darwin's Parents Gets Arrested and Executed" except it has differences between these.

Differences

Rosie and Anais instead were sentence to Juvenile Hall and later Twin Towers Correctional Facility (when they turn 18) for the rest of their lives here since putting them for ultimate punishment day along with their parents counts as child abuse.

Abiuth will have the life sentence in California State Prison since k!ll!ng videos/posts out of users are cyberbullying.

Has 2 new punishments and 2 replacement punishment.

Takes place in Los Angeles instead of Tokyo, Japan. However this will take place in the same timeline as Hirokun's movie.

Instead of having Fred Jones, Fuyuki Hinata and Burt Curtis here for the second punishment. It's up for the 5 Butcher Boys to do that to them.

since chainsaws doesn't make sense for a brutal punishment like this. I manage to put wooden clubs (even though it was similar to spike bats) here.

Hirokun himself will not appear due to his controversies. His oc girlfriend and his oc son will be not show up also.

And here the punishments so far

Pepper spraying their eyes from Aoi Aimasuku and Raiden Kumomoto.

100 concussions from the 5 Butcher Boys.

Belt-beating from my versions of Luanne, Silly Simon, Gabriel Upbike and Megumi Hayashibara.

Drinking expired milks.

Beaten up with wooden clubs.

Crushed by the oven.

Listening to "WordGirl" theme song in loud volume.

Getting electrocuted by Elaine's parents and Melly's mother.

Watching their sons buying things from Walmart.

Bee strung and embarrassed & humiliated on social media. (Replacement for the normal embarrassing and humiliating on social media, this becomes a double punishment).

Have their social media accounts deleted.

1000 degree cold shower.

Their 2 homes got destroyed by LAPD officers.

Shave their hairs off.

Getting ripped apart by the blender at The Larry and Steve's Blender Game show as a execution (Final Punishment).

Getting zapped by the Devil and Jasmine The Demon Queen with their powers (BONUS PUNISHMENT)

[ausetkmt]

Activists are posting their hauls on TikTok to raise public awareness.

Liz Wilson, 37, a mother of two in Pennsylvania, diving head first into a dumpster outside a store. She posts her finds on TikTok, where she is known by her 1.2 million followers as Salty Stella.Credit...Cory Foote for The New York Times

Nov. 21, 2022Updated 5:11 p.m. ET

At the third Duane Reade of the night, Anna Sacks, 31, a dumpster diver who goes by @trashwalker on TikTok, hit the jackpot. Half a dozen clear trash bags sat along Second Avenue not far from her home on Manhattan’s Upper East Side.

Kneeling on the ground, Ms. Sacks untied the bags with a gloved hand and, using her iPhone flashlight, pulled out her haul: Tresemmé hair spray. Rimmel London Stay Glossy lip gloss. Two bags of Ghirardelli sea salt caramels. Six bags of Cretors popcorn mix. Wet mop refills. A Febreze air freshener. Toe warmers. A bottle of Motrin. All of it unopened, in the packaging and far from the expiration date.

“Oh my God,” said Ms. Sacks, digging out a 6-pack with one can missing. “My mom loves Diet Dr Pepper.”

The total value was perhaps $75, but money wasn’t the point. Ms. Sacks, a former investment bank analyst, films her “trash walks,” as she calls them, and posts the videos to expose what she sees as the wastefulness of retailers who toss out returned, damaged or otherwise unwanted items instead of repurposing them.

Fed up with the profligate practice, dumpster divers like Ms. Sacks have started posting videos of their haul on TikTok in recent years as a way of shaming corporations and raising awareness of the wasteful behavior.

A search of #dumpsterdiving on TikTok brings up tens of thousands of videos that collectively have billions of views. They include a video by Tiffany Butler, known as Dumpster Diving Mama, who found several handbags in the trash last year outside a Coach store in Dallas, all of them apparently slashed by employees. Ms. Sacks bought the bags and made a TikTok calling out the fashion brand. After the video went viral and sparked outrage (and was picked up by Diet Prada), Coach said it would stop “destroying in-store returns of damaged, defective, worn and otherwise unsalable goods,” and instead try to reuse them.

Most of the dumpster activists target mass retailers like CVS, TJ Maxx, HomeGoods and Party City. Luxury fashion brands tend to keep a tighter control over their excess inventory and sometimes pay to have unsold items burned.

A video posted this month by Liz Wilson, 37, a mother of two in Bucks County, Pa., who goes by Salty Stella, shows a dumpster at a nearby HomeGoods store filled with Halloween-themed mugs, plates, dog bowls and holiday decorations. “This is absolutely horrendous,” Ms. Wilson told her 1.2 million TikTok followers. “The only reason these things were thrown away is because Halloween is over.”

Ella Rose, who goes byGlamourDDive, posted a video two months ago showing a dumpster outside a TJ Maxx store, filled with Zara dresses,grooming products by Fekkai and clothing from Victoria’s Secret.

At a time when corporations tout their commitment to the environment, the sight of $500 handbags or even $6 Ghirardelli chocolates discarded in a dumpster can be a bad look.

“Corporations don’t want people to see the overproduction, the wastefulness, the lack of donation,” said Ms. Sacks, who has 400,000 followers and has received significant media coverage. “To change behavior, it’s important to expose the wastefulness.”

Michael O’Heaney, executive director of The Story of Stuff Project, an environmental group in Berkeley, Calif., that raises awareness about waste through storytelling, called Ms. Sacks and other eco-minded dumpster divers “metal detectors for flaws in the system.” “What they’re finding in the trash are a fascinating lens into our waste economy,” said Mr. O’Heaney, whose organization recently filmed a trash walk with Ms. Sacks.

Some do more than just raise awareness. Ms. Wilson puts together “Stella’s Kits” — which contain feminine hygiene supplies like pads, tampons and flushable wipes assembled from dumpster dives — and distributes them at homeless shelters and other places where women experience what is known as period poverty.

While Ms. Wilson also posts to YouTube and Instagram, she said that her videos get the most reactions on TikTok. “People are just shocked and saddened,” she said. “Every day, I get the same reaction: ‘Oh, my god. Why do stores do this?’”

Mark Cohen, the director of retail studies at Columbia Business School, said that the practice is based on the cold calculation that “the simplest and most expediate way for a retailer to dispose of something, typically of low value, is to mark it out of its stock and dump it.”

Merchandise that was returned cannot always be resold because of regulations meant to protect consumer’s health — including food, some over-the-counter drugs and health and beauty aids, Mr. Cohen said. Items that have been damaged or worn, or are out of season like holiday decorations, may have lost too much value, even for third-party buyers.

“As egregious as it is to see seemingly perfect product put into a landfill,” Mr. Cohen said, “it’s the shortest and least expensive path.”

Activists like Ms. Wilson and Ms. Sacks would prefer to see retailers donate items to charitable organizations and others in need. “We should be incentivizing corporations ideally to produce less in general,” Ms. Sacks said, but if that’s not possible, they should “donate or sell it through, or store it for the next year, rather than destroy it.”

Many retailers say that they do, in fact, donate unsold goods, but some merchandise still needs to be sent to landfills. “The thought that everything leftover can be donated is a nice thought to hold,” but unrealistic, Mr. Cohen said.

CVS, for example, said it diverted 50 percent of its unsold merchandise last year to recycling or reuse, and donated about $140 million worth of goods to charities including Feeding America. CVS works “with nonprofit organizations to arrange for damaged or near-expired goods from our stores to be donated to communities in need,” said Ethan Slavin, a spokesman.

Andrew Mastrangelo, a spokesman for TJX, the parent company of TJ Maxx and HomeGoods, said that “only a very small percentage of merchandise from our stores goes unsold,” and that most of the unsold merchandise is bought by third parties or donated to charities.

Walgreens, which owns Duane Reade, said it donated 10 million pounds of goods in 2021. “Walgreens works diligently to divert from landfill unsold or discontinued products such as food, toiletries and household items,” said Candace Johnson, a spokeswoman.

Even so, some items cannot be donated, including perishable products within one month of expiration. “Products that do not meet applicable standards for donation or liquidation,” Ms. Johnson added, “may be discarded in the trash.”

Discarded merchandise is perhaps most abundant around the holiday season. Last Halloween, Ms. Wilson said she found more than 120 Halloween-themed dish towels outside two HomeGoods stores near her home, all in perfect condition.

Ms. Wilson has a circuit of dozens of retailers around southeastern Pennsylvania that she visits every week. She never comes up empty. “I could go to a dumpster today and get a bunch of stuff,” Ms. Wilson said, “and go back to the same dumpster 24 hours later and find new stuff in it.”