#Manual Chuck

[asexuallucanisdellamorte]

the worst part of dragon age veilguard is whenever im having so much fun destroying enemies and everyone in the game is like oh no there is so many we can't win and meanwhile rook is throwing down meteors, poison swamps and explosions before any enemies can stand up

[ridiculousmachinetools]

Unlock the secrets of drill chuck arbors with Ridiculous Machine Tools' comprehensive guide. Explore the different types, functions, and applications of these essential components. Gain invaluable insights to maximize efficiency and productivity in your machining operations.

[kabr0ztrousers]

hey could you write about a pussy portal? with whatever monster you feel like! also could it be semi-public (public but hidden)? also knotting is appreciated!

Kabr0z Writes episode 53: Hornyposting

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: portal sex; knotting; public sex; cum in vagina; unknown male; freeuse; recieving cunnilingus; age gap; implied impregnation; interspecies; portal fucking

A/N: I do love writing portal fucking, though I'm not sure I understood the prompt properly on this one, so enjoy reading about fem!reader being fucked by a knotted cock while falling to avoid notice

Also, any requests etc, please drop an ask!

#######################################

When you bought something called a "telepresence glory hole" you weren't honestly expecting what you got. It arrived OK, and came with a phonebook of a disclaimer which you didn't bother reading. What was really interesting was, it actually seemed legit. In the box you got a pair of panties, and a handheld device that looked kinda like a fleshlight. Both had strange disks integrated to them made of some kind of metal. You spent the next hour going through the manual, registering them to a phone app and generating a friend code.

Testing went without a hitch, you plugged the friend code into the app, and the link established with a faint buzz. Next came the fun part. You broke the link, before taking to the internet. Would you believe there's a whole community centred around these things?

You got changed, a nice sundress to go out in, those panties underneath. A quick picture later and you posted your selfie and your code, out in the aether. You set off, walking to the cafe, locking the app as you left. For the next 4 hours, you're open for business.

The bell on the café door jingled as it opened. The local corporate chain, you weren't going to risk getting chucked out of a café you actually liked, but even if the coffee sucked here the wifi's free and there's plenty of people around. You joined the back of the line and inched towards the counter.

You felt a draft down below. A breath across your cunt. There were still a few people ahead of you. A shiver ran up your spine, it's starting already.

A wide tongue grazed your outer lips, starting slowly. You tensed your cunt a little to egg whoever this was on. You'd said in your post that you were up for any guy to give you a fuck, though maybe you hadn't mentioned what you'd be up to in the meantime... But that's very much what things like this were designed for, nobody's wearing these for a quiet night in.

The tongue came again, holding back a little less this time, coating the outside of your pussy in drool as it licked up and down your-

"Hi! What can I get for you?" The rictus grin of the cashier snapped you out of your thoughts

"C-cappuchino please. Large" you stammered out, speaking fast to try and avoid your voice giving you away.

You paid noiselessly, tapping your card on the machine which beeped compliantly before stepping over to the other counter with your receipt and the order number printed on it.

The tongue got more aggressive. Your knee buckled as it circled your clit. You squeezed your eyes shut a moment as it threatened to slip into your eager hole. You leaned on a low wall behind you, trying to look nonchalant as you checked your forum post.

WolfDaddy1969 had replied to you "Don't need to tell me twice" was this the person so diligently licking you out? He didn't have a profile picture. God, but whoever this was, they're good with their tongue. You rolled your head backwards in ecstasy, trying to disguise it by rubbing the back of your neck, but the quiet whimper you gave drew the eye of the suited woman beside you as she stepped forward to grab a tray of paper cups.

"Order 42, large cappuccino, regular milk"

Your legs threatened to betray you as you as you stepped up and took the almost litre cup of coffee with your order number stuck to it. You turned to try and find a table, almost stumbling as you did. The movement was shifting your pussy lips, moving them subtly against one another as the tongue pushed between them. You fell into a seat, legs spread. You could feel moisture leaking around the edges of the portal, the combination of drool and your pussy juice starting to slick your crotch.

The tongue had barely let up before you felt something else pressing against you. Hard and drooling, there was no mistaking it. You'd been with a lupine before, you knew how they start squirting precum almost as soon as you get them hard. You imagined it, if this wolf really was born in the late 60's then he'd have been in his thirties before you were even conceived... It turned you on knowing this cock was old enough to be your father.

He pushed in, or maybe down? Your pussy making up the business end of the toy he was fucking himself with. He slid in easily. Your toes curled in your shoes as you gripped the table in front of you, clenching your teeth as he started fucking you properly. He angled his toy, only slightly but enough that you could feel him thrust up into your g-spot before continuing into you. Despite your efforts, you could feel yourself making small, choked sounds with every thrust. His thumb hit your clit. You groaned as your legs started to shake, failing to hide your release as people started to take notice. A mix of worried and disgusted looks fixed upon you, some people clearly having an idea of what was happening.

The cock filled you up. The clenching of your aching cunt getting to the cock inside you. You felt the knit start to inflate. It was pulsing so deliciously, your mouth sagged open in a silent wail of delight and release.

The cashier from before was next to you "I think you should leave" his smile was gone, he just looked tired.

You nodded and got up, The movement of your legs rolling the swollen knot inside you, forcing you to walle away, your drink forgotten as you tried to ignore the mix of arousal and cum dripping down your legs.

The outside air was cold on your skin, the wetness covering your thighs stinging as it cooled in the brisk February air. At least you're within walking distance of home, though it's anyone's guess if you'd get back before the wolf was done with you.

He was still using you to jerk off, the knot thrusting up and down as you tried to walk, dictating the rhythm of your steps. You weren't hiding your noises any more either, there were fewer people on the suburban streets, but every one of them knew you had something going on down there. Some hurried on, some threw dirty looks, one or two gave wolf whistles and catcalls, only making you wetter.

You were halfway home when the knot started twisting in you, this way and that. You grabbed a lamppost as you moaned out, trying desperately to keep from falling as your knees gave way and your cunt gave another squirt of girlcum. He turned his cock again and again, feeling how you clenched and milked his knot, wringing every morsel of cum from him, before withdrawing with a pop.

That tongue came back. You slid down the pole, landing on your knees as the wolf licked deep inside you, tasting his cum as it mixed with your essence. You could swear it hit your cervix as you groaned and whined for all to see.

The tongue withdrew. The portal shut off and you were alone again, leaking onto the floor underneath you. You staggered to your feet, still clinging to the street furniture as you got your breath back. Legs still shaking, pussy still twitching, you got home.

The portal buzzed to life again. You checked your post. You'd been pinned to the front page, it looks like WolfDaddy left you a glowing review "10/10, tight pussy, would impregnate again"

You were going to have a lot of fun with this

#################################

There's a little narrative dissonance between where it started and where it went here, but I thought it shook out pretty well, and you're not here for tight editing.

As always, any requests, ideas, thoughts, questions or fanmail is appreciated! My DMs and asks remain open for use!

Also, see below for a surprise poll!

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #44

Three Teens, Three Crowns, and a Whole Lot of Nope

Imagine dis…

I was just shuffling around my playlist when I heard that song from the animated movie El Dorado and it made me thinking, so here it goes…

…

DANNY’S POV

The moment my best friends bit the ghostly dust, the universe decided to hand us a set of crowns we didn’t ask for. Because obviously, nothing says “Congratulations on your tragic deaths!” like a full-time job in the afterlife.

Tucker, in a plot twist no one saw coming (except maybe Clockwork, because that guy cheats), turned out to be the reincarnation of some ancient Pharaoh. Not just any Pharaoh—oh no—he got the VIP pass straight to the top of the Egyptian pantheon, answering only to me, the so-called King of the Infinite Realms. Because if there's one thing I’ve learned, it's that my best friend is destined to be the world's first tech-savvy, WiFi-dependent god-king of the afterlife.

Sam, on the other hand, had always been a little too into nature, and I guess the universe finally decided to roll with it. When she synced up perfectly with Undergrowth’s power, the big walking salad declared her his heir, making her the literal Queen of Nature. So now, Sam basically has dominion over every plant in existence, which means I can never make an offhand comment about preferring artificial Christmas trees without getting a death glare.

And me? Well, since I yeeted Pariah Dark back into the sarcophagus where he belonged, the Infinite Realms figured I should be the one running the place. So, lucky me—I got promoted to Ghost King, a position that comes with all the responsibility and none of the training manual.

Now, you’d think that’s enough responsibility for a trio of teenagers who just wanted to survive high school. But no, Clockwork took one look at us, decided we sucked at ruling, and thought, Hey, let’s make this fun! So instead of, I don’t know, giving us an actual lesson in leadership, he chucked us into a completely different dimension (because, sure, why not?) and told us to start cults.

Yep. You heard that right. Cults.

No warning, no instructions, just a “figure it out” and a push into the deep end. One minute we’re in the Ghost Zone, the next we’re scattered across this weird universe like a really weird cosmic prank.

So now I’m stuck in Gotham, which, by the way, might be more haunted than the Ghost Zone itself. I have no idea where Sam and Tucker ended up, but if I know them, Tucker’s probably convinced a bunch of tech bros to worship him as some cyber-god, and Sam’s singlehandedly turning a park into her new throne. Meanwhile, I have to somehow convince people to follow me without sounding like a lunatic.

This is going to be fun. (Spoiler: It won’t be.)

…

SAM’S POV

Gotham reeked of smoke, oil, and decay. Beneath its gothic beauty was a suffocating lifelessness, an unnatural cage of steel and concrete. The city was a graveyard where nature had been paved over and left to rot in the shadows of towering skyscrapers. It was unacceptable. It was offensive. And Sam was going to change it.

She wasted no time. The moment her feet hit Gotham’s cracked pavement, she started planting seeds—both literally and metaphorically. It began with whispers. A small movement. A group that promised something different. Gotham had no shortage of lost souls—criminals, outcasts, the downtrodden looking for something beyond the city's endless cycle of crime and punishment. But Sam wasn’t offering power or chaos like every other Gotham lunatic. No, she offered something much rarer: sustainability.

Food. Shelter. Community.

It started with fresh produce, rare and valuable in Gotham’s urban wasteland. No one questioned where it came from, only that it was fresh, free of toxins, and worth more than a stack of stolen cash. The deal was simple—manual labor in exchange for nourishment. Gotham’s criminals, many of whom spent their lives getting stabbed, shot, or beaten in some turf war, found the idea shockingly reasonable. Hospitals ate through their earnings. Gang life was profitable until you bled out in an alley. But a place that provided food, healing, and protection? That was something different. That was better.

The movement grew. What began as a handful of desperate people looking for a way out became something bigger. The streets whispered of a new force rising, one that didn’t deal in violence or corruption but in roots—roots that burrowed deep, that refused to be ignored.

At first, the Batfamily dismissed it as background noise. In a city filled with psychopaths dressed as clowns, what was a little nature cult? But when Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn vanished—not in a grand escape, not in a fiery explosion, but simply faded into the movement—their indifference turned to concern.

When Ivy resurfaced, she wasn’t the same. The wild unpredictability had been tempered into something focused. Controlled. She still worshipped nature, but now she had a leader, someone she called High Priestess. And that leader wasn’t some ancient force of the Green. It wasn’t a metahuman, a scientist, or a villain. It was a teenager.

A black-haired, violet-eyed girl who stood in front of kneeling followers, leading ceremonies beneath the growing canopy of Gotham’s first true forest in centuries.

Sam had never been one for blind worship. She despised mindless devotion. But this wasn’t about faith—it was about purpose. The people who followed her weren’t zealots; they were survivors. They had seen what Gotham’s endless cycle of crime and violence had to offer, and they wanted out. She gave them that. She gave them a cause. And if it meant being called a cult leader, then fine. Whatever. Labels didn’t matter. Results did.

And Gotham was changing.

The city fought back, of course. The corruption, the crime families, even the Bat himself—none of them liked an unpredictable element in their precious, miserable ecosystem. But Sam had never been one to back down. Gotham was sick, diseased, rotting. She wasn’t here to burn it down like some power-hungry villain. She was here to fix it.

And if the Bats wanted to stop her, well—

Let them try.

…

TUCKER’S POV

Metropolis was beautiful. It was clean, it was bright, and it was bursting with technology. Skyscrapers gleamed under the sun, state-of-the-art AI patrolled the streets, and futuristic inventions were integrated into everyday life like it was no big deal. This was a city that worshiped innovation, where science and technology weren’t just tools but pillars of society.

Tucker should have been in heaven.

But he had a mission to complete before he could sit back and enjoy the wonders of Metropolis. Clockwork’s orders. And if the old ghost had taught him anything, it was that ignoring his cryptic guidance usually led to bad things. So, no indulging in the city’s top-tier tech just yet. He had a kingdom to build.

At first, Superman didn’t even notice him. That was fine. Tucker wasn’t looking to pick a fight with the world’s strongest hero. He moved in the background, setting up encrypted networks, hijacking digital footprints, and planting just enough static in the city’s airwaves to keep any unwanted super-snooping off his back. The occasional glitch in Superman’s super-hearing? That was Tucker, laying the groundwork.

But the real disruption came when people started vanishing.

Not just any people—tech specialists, programmers, engineers. The kind of minds corporations fought over, the ones Luthor’s company owned through shady contracts and blackmail. One by one, they disappeared from Metropolis, slipping through the cracks like digital ghosts.

The city was no stranger to missing persons. Metropolis saw its fair share of people vanishing into the underbelly of crime, alien invasions, or one of Lex Luthor’s ever-growing list of sinister schemes. But this? This was too precise, too targeted. Luthor’s R&D departments were bleeding talent at an alarming rate, and the usual suspects weren’t responsible.

The only common thread? The Code of Ra.

It started as an urban myth—a secretive group offering sanctuary to tech minds who had seen too many of their peers exploited, coerced, or “recruited” by the so-called forces of good and evil. They were promised a place where their work was valued, where they were free to create without fear of it being stolen, weaponized, or locked behind corporate greed.

And at the center of it all? Him.

Tucker hadn’t just built a cult—he’d built a kingdom. One where technology wasn’t a tool for war, where engineers and programmers weren’t disposable assets, where knowledge was sacred. He offered an intellectual utopia, a society where the greatest minds could work without limits. And the best part? They wanted to be there. There was no brainwashing, no coercion. The world had burned them too many times, and Tucker had simply given them an alternative.

And, okay, maybe he leaned into the whole Pharaoh thing a little. He was a reincarnated ruler, after all—might as well own it. Gold-trimmed robes, sleek futuristic stylings with ancient Egyptian aesthetics, and a throne room that looked like a cyberpunk temple. He’d always thought he’d look good in royal attire, and damn, was he right.

But his people didn’t follow him because of the theatrics. They followed because he gave them something no one else had—freedom.

Superman, unaccustomed to dealing with cults, found himself in unfamiliar territory. He had fought tyrants, warlords, and intergalactic conquerors, but a movement built on voluntary devotion? That wasn’t as simple as punching a bad guy. Normally, this was the kind of mess Batman or Wonder Woman would handle. But Diana was off-world, and Gotham had its own cult problem. That left the burden squarely on Superman’s shoulders.

And Tucker? Tucker was more than ready to enjoy the show.

…

DANNY’S POV

The desert sucked.

Like, really sucked.

If he ever made it out of this, he was going to personally petition the Ghost Zone to just delete the concept of sand from existence. Sand was evil. It got everywhere, it was hot, and it made him feel like a melting popsicle under a blowtorch.

His ice core hated him. His human half hated him. The sun was having the time of its life roasting him alive. And then—nothing.

When he woke up, things got weirder.

For one, he wasn’t dead. Which, honestly, was a pleasant surprise considering the whole “heatstroke and possible dehydration” situation. For another, he wasn’t lying in the sand anymore. Nope. Instead, he was inside a coffin.

Not the first time he’d woken up in one, but still, rude.

He sat up, blinking blearily, and was immediately met with dozens of kneeling figures in dark robes. No one screamed. No one attacked. They just...stared.

Which, honestly? Way creepier than ghost attacks.

The air smelled like flowers, incense, and something ancient, like he’d been dropped in the middle of an old temple. Around him were offerings—literal offerings—of gold, silver, and silk. And the people? They were whispering. Murmuring things he barely understood, eyes shining with what he could only describe as religious awe.

Which was never a good sign.

Danny had questions. A lot of questions. But the big one?

What the actual heck was going on?

It took some time—aka him sneaking around, eavesdropping, and pretending he had any idea what he was doing—but eventually, he figured it out.

These people? Every single one of them had died before. Not in the casual, “oops, tripped and fell” way, but in the full-on, flatline, bright light at the end of the tunnel way. And somehow, they’d come back. Some were resurrected, others survived things they shouldn’t have, but they all had one thing in common: they felt drawn to him.

Apparently, he was some kind of cosmic beacon for people who’d taken a one-way trip to the afterlife but forgot to stay there. To them, he wasn’t just some random ghost kid—he was the King. The embodiment of balance, life and death, chaos and order. The guy who got to decide whether people stayed dead.

And that was so not on his resume.

But did that stop people from kneeling at his feet, swearing loyalty, and building a cult around him? Nope.

Did he ask for it? Also nope.

And somehow, it just kept getting bigger. At first, it was just the devoted ghost-adjacent weirdos. Then mercenaries. Then, a group of assassins and a guy named Ra. Even Slade freaking Wilson showed up one day, standing ominously at the back like the world’s most intense chaperone.

Danny didn’t do cults. He wasn’t qualified for cults. He was barely qualified for high school.

But Clockwork had said he needed to establish one, and, well...mission accomplished?

Now, all he had to do was find Sam and Tucker, reunite with his spouses, and figure out how to explain to them that, uh...he might have accidentally become a god-king of the undead.

Yeah. They were never gonna let him live this down.

…

 PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

PPS: I tried a new type of writing. How is it?

[dangerphd]

today is for cutting loose the checkerboard lettered band from the inkle loom and re-warping as alternating bars for less pickup manipulation. sigh. yay learning. 😬

(also thinking I might chuck the whole thing and start on a loom without heddles at all, and just manually throw every pick?)

[seat-safety-switch]

Once upon a time, everything came with an instruction manual. You'd open the box and immediately chuck that manual into the trash, because recycling wasn't popular back then, and you could still make a living cutting down trees to print more manuals with. Nowadays, the humble instruction manual is gone altogether, replaced with – at best – an interactive electronic instruction manual. I still don't read them, but now it's because I can't.

You see, "having a working computer" is a lifestyle that is simply incompatible with my existence. Despite the fact that our civilization has produced approximately 171.3 computers per person, I somehow have no ability to make them work. So I'm at the public library, where they get really mad if you take a transmission apart over their keyboard. Look, people, the keyboard catches the spring clips when they go flying out. Would you rather have this or me crawling around on the carpet?

When I'm on the side of the road because my futuristic garbage exploded, I can't always use my dumpster-dove flip phone to look up the manual, either. That would require me to buy cellular service, instead of just calling 911 and asking the firefighters to transfer my call every time (don't ask the cops to do it.) The only way forward is to assume there was no manual at all. Doing so also prevents me from receiving additional frustration, when I jump through all these hoops to find out that the fancy online manual does not have a chapter for "this product is now 37 years old and has corroded its entire wiring harness, here's your diagram on where 'purple' goes." Why even bother writing one, assholes?

Sometimes I call up the Haynes service manual people, and yell at them, telling them to make a print manual again. Then I tell them what I had to go through because of the eternal obsolescence cycle of all things electronic. Then they make me a job offer, which I refuse because it would mess with my unemployment payments. I'm holding out for an offer from Chilton. If it was good enough for Frank Herbert, it's good enough for me.

[princessbrunette]

♡₊˚ 🦢🩰・₊ ♪ ₊˚⊹♡

thinking bout older brothers best friend jj, a friend he has outside of the usual pogues who he’s known since they were younger — but never got to be around his best friends pretty little sister until recently.

“you know you don’t have to hang out with us. i’m not a babysitter.” your brother lightheartedly chucks an empty beer can your way making you pout from your curled position on the futon, the two boys sprawled on the couch taking up space with their long legs.

“damn, be nice to your sister dude. she’s not hurtin’ anyone.” jj shoves his shoulder lazily, directing his attention towards you with a lopsided smile. “you’re stayin’. today you’re gonna learn about sports whether you like it or not, ‘kay?” he jokes and you nod eagerly, earrings jangling. you’d do anything jj said.

your brother finally leaves the room after an hour or so of watching the game— moreso you asking questions and your brother telling you to shut up whilst jj cracked jokes and mansplained things in a way that made your toes curl pleasurably in your socks. you take the time to strike, standing up in your mini skirt that was already testing the blonde and walking over to the tv.

“jj, do you mind if i turn the volume up? can’t hear what the ref’s saying.” you pout, fiddling with the hem of your skirt to purposely draw his eyes there. he blinks away his urges after his eyes skim down twice, lips parting like he’d forgotten how to speak.

“uh, w— yeah, knock yourself out.”

his tongue finds home between his lips as soon as you turn around, tilting his head with the movement of your ass as you bend over to the side of the tv, manually turning the volume down with the button on the side of the screen. you take your time, really bending down to give him a view of the white dainty lace beneath your skirt.

you turn your head around, smiling all sweet and sultry so he knows you did it on purpose— staying in that bent over pose just for his viewing pleasure.

“well this feels like a set up.” he deadpans, pulling a cushion subtly over his lap.

“hm?” you hum as you stand up straight. he hears your brothers footsteps approaching the room, and licks his lips with a wordless shake of the head.

“you’re trouble, ‘know that right?” he speaks right before the door opens again, forcing the two of you to leave it at that.

♡₊˚ 🦢🩰・₊ ♪ ₊˚⊹♡

[rainrot4me]

*pushes my nerd glasses up* you wrote LJ saying the word fanfiction, does he. does he read fanfiction.

Also what kind of books do the rest of the creeps read :3 HOPING TO SEE SLENDER <3333

✦ . jeff the killer

Genre: Dark thrillers, true crime, and weirdly intense romance novels (but he’ll die before admitting it).

He reads Fight Club and American Psycho like they’re autobiographies.

You catch him with a dog-eared copy of a raunchy dark romance once, and he just shrugs and goes,

“It’s got knives in it. I can relate.”

He likes manga. Especially violent seinen series like Berserk or Tokyo Ghoul.

✦ . ticci toby

Genre: Graphic novels, horror comics, psychological thrillers.

His brain doesn’t love big blocks of text, so he gravitates toward visual storytelling.

Junji Ito is his god.

Reads horror manga and creepy short story anthologies under the covers like a middle schooler with a flashlight.

Secret soft spot for children’s books from when he was little. Sometimes rereads Coraline or The Graveyard Book when no one’s around.

✦ . eyeless jack

Genre: Medical textbooks, classic literature, Gothic horror.

Reads Frankenstein and Dracula like they’re comforting bedtime stories.

Has a shelf full of pathology and anatomy books with pages marked and notes in the margins.

Also quietly enjoys poetry—especially the bleak kind.

“The heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing.” He pauses, “…Did Pascal say that or did I just make that up?”

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Genre: Crime fiction, survival manuals, and conspiracy theory paperbacks.

Think The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Stephen King, and weird militia zines.

Writes notes in every margin like he’s preparing for a field test.

Not above reading dense political thrillers that feel like work. But secretly… he really likes John Green novels.

“They’re depressing and feel like dying. It’s perfect.”

✦ . hoody (brian thomas)

Genre: Philosophy, history, and… frat memoirs (from the “old days”).

Reads like he’s trying to become a tragic antihero. Thinks The Stranger by Camus is “comforting.”

Smokes while reading The Art of War.

Also has an insane shelf of old Greek tragedies and Nietzsche.

“Suffering is art. So are keg stands.”

✦ . kate the chaser

Genre: Military thrillers, dystopian fiction, survival handbooks.

The Hunger Games, but she roots for the Career tributes.

Has read The Road five times and didn’t cry once.

Keeps The Art of War (borrowed from Hoody) and Women Who Run With the Wolves next to each other on her nightstand.

Occasionally reads romance… but only if someone dies at the climax.

✦ . ben drowned

Genre: Cyberpunk, game-based novels, and spicy fanfic.

Ready Player One is his Bible, but he hates the ending.

Has read Homestuck. Won’t elaborate.

Spends hours on AO3 reading Link/Reader fics and then roasts them.

“God, this is awful—keep going. I want to see if they make me the top again.”

✦ . clockwork

Genre: Mystery thrillers, feminist horror, and true crime.

Loves Gillian Flynn (Gone Girl is her personality).

Eats up revenge stories with ruthless female leads.

Also digs supernatural horror like The Silent Patient or The Haunting of Hill House.

Has a soft spot for Sylvia Plath and writes angsty poetry in the margins.

✦ . laughing jack

Genre: Fanfiction, horror satire, and circus-themed horror.

Favorite book is Something Wicked This Way Comes.

Obsessively reads fanfiction and smut. He’ll quote it at you.

“And then the clown used the merri-go-round as a torture machine… I mean, come on! Brilliant stuff.”

Enjoys weird bizarro fiction like House of Leaves or anything by Chuck Palahniuk.

✦ . slenderman

Genre: Ancient philosophy, high fantasy, and eldritch horror (like reading a mirror).

Reads The Divine Comedy in Latin for fun.

LOVES The Silmarillion and will absolutely compare himself to Melkor.

His bookshelf is filled with tomes that hurt your eyes to look at too long. Sometimes reads old spellbooks just to remember “the good old days.”

“Cicero was a bore. Plato had potential.”

꩜ .ᐟ

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Chapter 34

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Postpartum depression; allusions to child abuse; perceived child abuse - read with care

A/N: I am so sorry it has taken me this long! The move has really done a number on my mental health and I've been struggling to write anything substantial. I've taken some serious liberties with Georgia weather. If you noticed, no you didn't. Lol I don't hate Rick. His mindset isn't the greatest at this point. We know that. Just making sure everyone is aware that I love our deputy. Post partum depression is a real thing and it sucks. This chapter has some really angsty, dark tones, and should be read with care, especially toward the end (beginning at “Oh,hey.” She greeted, patting the ground next to her). I did lots of research and sadly, what transpires is a real thing that people do for reasons that aren't necessary. Please try to give Carol and reader some grace given the circumstances. But if you're sensitive to anything dealing with making a child uncomfortable, you might want to skip this. It gets a little heavy. I would be happy to give you a summary of what is happening if you would rather skip the last few paragraphs (see above where to stop reading). Just message me.

I love you all! Thank you for your patience with me.

You weren’t sure when it happened, when the switch flipped or the dial turned. All you knew is that every single time your daughter cried, you wanted to break down and sob with her. When you held her to your breast, you couldn’t look at her. You left her with Lori or Carol more and more, the looks they gave you annoyingly understanding. When you would hand her off to Daryl and walk away, you couldn’t bear to see that expression of befuddled dismalness. 

“Postpartum depression.” Carol finally said one bitterly cold morning. She was changing Birdie with swift movements, eager to shield her from the drafty atmosphere of the warehouse. 

You had your back to her—your face in your hands—while you silently cried, two small bottles of breast milk sitting at your feet, still attached to the manual pumps. Sniffling, you glanced over your shoulder just as she placed the shifting blanketed bundle against her shoulder. “I hate my baby, Carol.” You whimpered. “That’s more than depression.”

The silver-haired lady shook her head. “Honey, I promise you don’t hate her.” 

“I don’t want anything to do with her.” You bit back with more vexation than you had intended. “I can’t stand it when she cries. I just want Daryl to keep her away from me.” When she tilted her lips with that gentle smile, it took all you had not to chuck one of the bottles at her. What was wrong with you? Could she be right? Were you depressed?

“I went through this, sweetheart. It will pass.” When she offered you little Birdie, you reeled. “You can’t keep avoiding her.” She was right and you hated it. With a huffing breath, you accepted your daughter, distributing her small weight across your arm for her head to rest in the crook of your elbow. “I have an idea.”

You heaved a sigh, not really interested in whatever it was that Carol was going to suggest. You had to stop taking your frustrations out on the woman. And Lori. And Daryl. And especially little Birdie. She was perfect and you knew in your heart of hearts that you could never truly harbor anything other than unrelenting love for her. Yes. Carol was right. You were definitely depressed. 

“What?” You finally queried. 

“What’re you two doin’ in here?” You heard Daryl’s boots crossing the concrete floor until they stopped just behind you. His lips pressed gently against the crown of your head. “Hey.” You said nothing. So much for not taking things out on your fiancé. 

“Daryl, right on time.” Carol beamed. 

“For what?” The confusion was evident in his tone.

“Y/N pumped some milk for the baby. It won’t keep unless we get more snow and can store it in the drifts.” She informed. “Why don’t you feed the baby?”

“Feed ‘er? Like with a bottle?”

“Unless you’re miraculously lactating, yes. With a bottle.” There was a hint of jocularity in her tone. You could almost feel his glare without turning. 

“I mean—yeah, okay.” Annoyance momentarily forgotten, you focused on the uncertainty in your partner’s voice. You didn’t miss the tremble. Neither did Carol. 

“You’re gonna be fine, Daryl.” She said encouragingly. 

“Ain’t me m’worried ‘bout.” The archer mumbled as he circled around you. He was hesitant in reaching for Birdie, but took her into his arms immediately when you sat up straighter and shifted her. The movement must have upset your daughter, her little limbs flailing as Daryl positioned her in the bend of his arm. “Ain’t no need for all that fussin’, lil Bird. You’re gonna get fed.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “By somebody. May not be me after I screw this up.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re better with her than you give yourself credit for.” It came out flat and harsh, your default setting as of late. Still, one look at the expression that decorated Daryl’s features, you found yourself ashamed. “You’re a great father.” You added, softer and with sincerity. 

Daryl held your gaze and, for a moment,—for the first time in a long time—it was uncomfortable. When he nodded and turned to Carol, you were able to exhale, though your stomach remained in knots. 

“Gimme the thing, I guess.” He held out a hand and looked down at his daughter, her little face reddening. Her mouth opened with the slightest squeak. She was two seconds from shrieking. “Keep your diaper on, lil’ girl. It’s comin’.” Daryl gingerly bounced his arm, Birdie’s features smoothing out for a moment, just long enough for Carol to hand over the bottle. 

You found yourself leaning forward, biting your lip as if ready to spring into applause when he accomplished the “impossible” task. When you caught his gaze, both of you looking up at the same time, you sat back and cleared your throat. When had things become so awkward between the two of you? It was almost unbearable. 

“Tilt her up just a little.” Carol instructed. “Touch the nipple to her lip, she’ll—there you go.”

You heard the soft snort of Daryl’s laugh and let your eyes travel from Birdie—now happily suckling away at the bottle—to your fiance. His eyes were soft but excited, sparkling in a way you’d never before seen. His lips were tilted upward, only the slightest fraction. Smiling suited him. You wished he’d do it more often. 

“Told ya that ya wasn’t gonna starve. Slow down. Ain’t no one gonna take it away.” He babbled, scrunching his nose with that smile still adorned. Was he even aware that he was lowering himself to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of you? You didn’t think so. At that moment, no one else existed to him; just a father and his little bird. 

You only felt the smile on your own face when you looked over to find Carol watching not Daryl and Birdie but you. With a soft, knowing expression, she mouthed see? And see, you did. You nodded, tears stinging behind your eyes. The room was silent aside from Birdie’s gulps and breaths and squeaks, and for moment, you thought:

Everything’s gonna be just fine.

If only you knew just how wrong you were.

“We can’t have her crying like this!” Rick was swiping a hand roughly over his tired face, looking haggard. Things between him and Lori were not improving. They seemed to only be worsening. Even Daryl had called out the deputy’s behavior once or twice in the last two weeks. The archer was currently glaring daggers while he rubbed a fingerless-gloved hand over Birdie’s back through the sling that held her to your chest. 

The loss of the warehouse had been tough on everyone, but you and your baby were affected the most. Your mood swings were only growing worse, though less and less toward the little one in your arms and more toward the adults that were only trying to help you. In turn, Birdie remained in a constant state of inconsolable. Hershel had thrown around words like colic and had Daryl dosing out gas drops to the little one but nothing seemed to soothe her.

The cars had run out of gas, as well as Daryl’s bike. The archer had pushed the motorcycle along for a time before he declared that he couldn’t protect Birdie if he was too busy hauling a damn bike. He had hidden it under some brush, easy to be tracked back to later. It was Merle’s bike and you knew what it meant to him. However, Birdie meant more. Much, much more and he would crawl into hell and back for the little girl strapped to your front.

“She’s a baby, man. How else she s’posed to let us know she’s needin’ something?” Daryl snapped, his voice intentionally higher to be heard over your daughter’s cries. 

“Daryl, you know this isn’t safe! She’s gonna bring every walker for miles down on us!” Rick threw out an arm, gesturing broadly. “Or—or the living! You saw what they would do!”

“Ain’t much we can do! She ain’t hungry! She ain’t needin’ changed! She’s just pissed off an’ I ain’t far away from bein’ right there with ‘er!”

“Boys.” Lori admonished, squeezing your shoulder. When had you started to tremble? “All this negative energy isn’t helping.”

“She’s right.” Hershel agreed, adjusting his gloves. “Babies are incredibly intuitive.”

“We just need to find fuel—cars.” Rick sniffed, hands on his hips. “We’re sitting ducks like this.” His eyes met Daryl’s in a heated challenge.

After an intense staredown, it was surprisingly Daryl who backed down first but not without a menacing growl. Turning to place his body between you and Rick, he brushed his bare fingertips over Birdie’s hooded head and then across your jaw. “Y’want me to take ‘er for a bit?”

You shook your head even as the temptation beckoned you to acquiesce. “I don’t think jostling her would help right now.” A single tear trailed down your cheek. As much as it pained you to admit, Rick was right, but how could you coax your baby to stop her noises of discomfort when you had no idea what was ailing her? Daryl used his thumb to swipe away the moisture, his expression equal parts distress and sadness. He clearly felt as helpless as you did.

“S’take a break.” He said suddenly, ushering you to a nearby log. Lori was immediately lowering herself beside you with a great deal of difficulty given her round belly. You could sympathize with her struggle, having been there not so long ago yourself. Her hand came to rest on the back of your head with loving strokes meant to soothe your nerves.

“I think that’s a great idea.” She agreed, offering you a gentle smile when you searched out her gaze. After a moment, you nodded and began to remove Birdie from her sling. Carol appeared with an extra blanket to cover you and shield the baby from the cold as you tried to nurse her. Daryl was hovering, shifting from foot to foot with his fingers digging into the strap of his crossbow. As much as you loved the man, his nervous energy wasn’t helping things in the slightest. 

“Why don’t you go hunting?” You suggested, reveling in the relief when Birdie quickly latched and her wailing ceased. Her little hiccups around enthusiastic gulps remained heartbreaking. The past few days had seen you begin to settle though the fraying of your nerves lingered. At least you were now aware of how much you loved your daughter and that you wouldn’t change a single moment that brought her barreling into your life. 

Daryl quickly shook his head in refusal, his already white-knuckled grip on that strap growing impossibly tighter. “Can’t leave ya here like this.”

You bit back the urge to yell at him, make the demand that he go. He meant well. “Please?” He wrestled with indecision, his expression damn near crumbling before he skillfully schooled it with a sigh.

“Fine.” He huffed at the same time that he took a single step toward you. He seemed to think better of it and turned on a heel while stripping his weapon from his back. “Be back in a hour an’ we can move on.” You knew as well as he did that there was little to no game to satisfy the group’s hunger. He was only trying to placate you. The two of you needed time alone, needed to talk and work through the tension between you. 

With an inward sigh, you watched him disappear into the trees and shushed Birdie when she released your nipple and began to squirm and fuss. 

“So,” Lori began, “am I looking at the future Mrs. Dixon?” Her question caught you off guard, your eyes shooting wide even as you stared straight ahead. Only when she tapped the back of her hand against your arm did you acknowledge her and her request to take Birdie. Passing the baby off, you adjust your clothing and draped the extra blanket over your daughter.

“How did you—”

“He asked my advice.” Lori carefully arranged Birdie against the front of her shoulder, alternating between patting and rubbing the little one’s back. Tiny grunts and squeaks sounded from beneath the blanket, an audible passing of gas following close behind. The experienced mother turned toward where Hershel had sat to rest as well. “Maybe a touch of colic?” There was that word again. 

The older man hummed. “Could be. I’ll fetch the drops.” You felt bad watching him struggle to his feet from the forest floor, but couldn’t be persuaded to do so yourself. You were just too damn tired.

“What is colic?” You asked, your brow drawing inward. It was obviously not a danger to your baby, given Hershel’s lack of serious concern, but if something was hurting her, it was hurting you. The very thought of her pain had tears springing to your eyes.

“It just means that she’s uncomfortable. It might be the lack of protein in your diet. It could be gas. There’s no real explanation. She’s just—not feeling well. It’s nothing to worry about except she won’t be easily soothed for a while.” Her lips thinned into a sad smile. “It’s nothing and a lot all at once.”

“I’ll take her.” Carol offered whilst petting your hair as Lori had just a few moments prior. Extricating Birdie from Lori’s arms, she bounced the infant tenderly against her chest. “Y/N, will you come find me once you’ve finished up here?” Sporting a questioning look, you still nodded and watched her walk away after returning the gesture.

“He asked your advice?” You stared toward the empty space of Carol’s retreat for a moment longer before turning your attention to Lori. This time, her smile was genuine if not cheeky. 

“He did.”

“Hey—Hey, uh, can I ask ya somethin’?” 

She hadn’t really noticed Daryl approaching but that wasn’t surprising. He was a hunter and stealth was something in which he excelled. Lori paused in her stirring and tapped the spoon on the side of the kettle. The beans had yet to even begin to heat over the small fire inside the house, so she had a few minutes to spare.

“Of course.”

Daryl had changed so much over the course of the months he had been with the group, and she had you to thank for such a large part of that. And now, she had little Birdie to thank as well. The man was going to make an excellent father, despite his lack of confidence.Though she knew so little, she was aware he wrestled with unnamed demons, but you were there to help see him through it. He would be just fine. All three of you would.

“I, uh—well—” The archer rubbed at the back of his neck, something she noticed he did when he was uncomfortable. “Ain’t good at any’a this shit, so m’just gonna say it.” Lori raised her eyebrows when he paused to chew intently on the side of his thumb. “Wanna ask Y/N to, y’know—to marry me.” Her first instinct was to cheer, to celebrate his commitment, but thoughts of Rick—of Shane—trampled any immediate joy and ushered in skepticism. “You’re sure?”

Daryl scoffed. “Course m’sure! Lookit what she went through—what she just did for me. Why wouldn’t I wanna make ‘er my wife?” The confusion—the utter exasperation—on his face gave her pause but she continued.

“But do you love her?” She asked. Daryl wiped a hand down his face, ending with running the length of his index finger across his bottom lip. “It’s not a hard question, Daryl. Do you love her?” She didn’t realize—or maybe she did—how difficult it was for the man to admit something that deep to anyone but you. She wasn’t aware that he had said it before, had said it in the van, in the presence of the Greene’s and Carol, but whether or not they had heard was not something he had bothered to care about during that pivotal moment. 

Finally, Daryl sighed, his voice quiet. “I love ‘er. Yeah.”

Lori felt something in her chest release, a strong sense of relief and—if she were being honest—jealousy overwhelming her senses, making it impossible to speak for a moment. Gathering her bearings, she nodded and turned back to the pot, picking up the spoon to begin stirring. “Then you just ask her.” She sniffed, tilting her head just so in order to hide her tears from him. She was happy for you, compellingly so, but there was no denying the sadness that weighed on her own heart. Still, this wasn’t about her. This was about you—her friend. “Don’t rehearse lines or try to make it perfect. You just ask her. On the spot and from the heart.”

She heard the quiet hum from the side. It was the most straightforward form of acceptance toward her answer that she was bound to get from him. As his bootfalls receded into whispers on far away hardwood, she smiled.

Try or not, he was going to make it something that would mean the world to you.

You wiped away a tear and sniffled, consumed with a fresh wave of guilt for how you had been treating him as of late. He was handling your mood swings with grace, never lashing out, even if you did see him bite his tongue on more than one occasion. He had every right. Hormones or not, he deserved better than what you had been giving him.

“Thanks.” You whispered.

“So?”

You sniffled a second time, wiping at both of your eyes. “So what?”

Lori chuckled, her hands on either side of her belly. “Did you say yes?” 

You smiled and shook your head, recalling the moment to the forefront of your mind—hearing his tone, summoning the myriad of emotions you had experienced. It really was a Daryl Dixon proposal and it couldn’t have been more perfect. “I said yes.” You gave an indignant oomf as you were pulled against Lori, her arms squeezing as tightly as they could manage. “Wait, wait, wait.” You laughed, patting her back in an effort to coerce her into releasing her hold. When she let go, you sat back, expression light. “We’re keeping it quiet for now, making it official later.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. “A lot can happen in a short amount of time. He could change his mind.” Especially with these fucking mood changes. 

“You’re right.” She agreed. You shot her a look, almost as if you had been expecting her to disagree with you. “ A lot can change. We don’t know what’s going to happen even in the next few minutes.” She paused. “Who we might lose.” Leaning forward, she cupped your face and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Think about it.” You studied her for a moment, the sadness and apprehension radiating from your friend and forming a veil over you that was almost smothering. You nodded. “Good. Now go see what Carol wants. I think I need a nap.” She gave you an encouraging smile and didn’t move as you stood, looking over your shoulder at her before you disappeared to find the other woman and your daughter.

It wasn’t hard to do. Not at all. You just followed the loud exclamations of a disgruntled infant. As you approached, you could tell your daughter had just been given a fresh diaper and was in the process of being swaddled. The cold, flat ground beneath her couldn’t have been helping things. The weather was warming but at a slow rate Regardless, you had no idea what was coming next: what Carol would share with you and the disaster that would follow.

“Oh, hey.” She greeted, patting the ground next to her. The lack of her usual gentle tone and welcoming smile were your first clues that something was amiss. She sighed heavily, not meeting your eyes once you were cross-legged at her side. Her hand was splayed over the top of the blanket, gently rubbing circles over Birdie’s belly. “There’s something I want to tell you—advice, if I can even call it that.” She said solemnly. You weren’t sure where her thoughts were at that moment but it was somewhere dark, somewhere in a place she had deserted since the deaths of Ed and Sophia.

“What is it?” You needlessly adjusted the knit hat on Birdie’s head; pulled the hood of the tiny jumpsuit more snug around her little round face.

“Babies cry, Y/N. It’s how they tell us when they need something. It’s the only way they can tell us.” Why was she schooling you on something you had already learned? And in such a monotonous fashion? “I don’t want Rick to be right but there are dangers and few options if a herd follows the noise.” She sighed heavily, her shoulders held slumped under an invisible weight. “I don’t like it but it’s fact.”

“I know that, Carol.” 

“It’s just—” When you looked away from the baby, your gaze was immediately drawn to the lone tear straying from her closed eyes. “When Sophia was born, she was—she was such a quiet baby.” Her words came so softly, so full of melancholic nostalgia that you felt your own heart clench. Then, when her eyes opened, they were hard, her expression stern and twisted. “He gave me a break. Ed.” She didn’t even need to say his name. You knew. “A couple of weeks before the—old habits came back. The bruises, the screaming.” She was trembling, her hand leaving Birdie to curl into a fist on top of her knee.

“Carol, we don’t have to—”

“Sophia felt it.” She nodded, staring off to nowhere in particular. “That energy—she began to cry, she was so unsettled. Ed didn’t like it. Shut her up or I will, he would say.” She bent forward, her face crumbling as her hand slid up to twist into the front of her jacket. “I didn’t want to do it, but I didn’t know how else to keep her safe.”

You waited her out, terrified of what she was about to tell you. When you said nothing, she inhaled deeply and released her hold on the coat, stroking the back of a knuckle over Birdie’s cheek.

“Y/N, I am going to show you something. I only ask that you please try not to think less of me.” Your mouth was moving but no sound emerging, your wide eyes watching her lean over your daughter, shushing the discontented cries. “I would never hurt your daughter, just as I would have never hurt my own.” Before you could speak, she was pinching Birdie’s little nose with one hand and covering her mouth with the other. The crying ceased but the flailing did not, her little limbs jerking.

“Carol!” You threw yourself forward and snatched her wrists, pulling them away from your daughter, throwing the other woman off balance and onto her hip. Carol caught herself, her palm shoving toward you in a desperate gesture for you to calm down. “What the fu—”

“Look!” She pleaded, her head jerking toward the now silent baby.

Birdie was still, her tiny blue eyes open and searching, stunned. She wasn’t crying, not at that moment. Your jaw was agape, your mind warring between anger and bewilderment; between betrayal and understanding.

“You only do it for a moment, not long enough to cause any harm.” Carol sat up, tears flowing down her cheeks, unchecked. “I couldn’t let Sophia cry. I did what I had to do.” She shook her head adamantly, her eyes closed tightly as if she were trying to jar the unpleasant memories loose and out of her mind. “I don’t regret it. I don’t. She was safe from him.”

“I don’t—Carol, I can’t do that.” You were crying openly now, picturing yourself denying your daughter precious breath. Even just one attempt would break you, split you open from the inside out.

“I’m not telling you that you have to, but Y/N,” she paused, gathering herself back up onto her knees at your side. She intentionally kept space between the two of you. “Rick—he’s trying to keep us safe. You saw what those monsters were going to do to her. You’ve seen what walkers can and will do. Just until we find a car. Until—”

Your face was in your hands now, Birdie’s crying having picked back up. “What if I—”

“Only a moment, Y/N. She will catch her breath. Eventually, it—it trains her.” Carol hesitantly touched your shoulder, and you broke, bowing over your little one with open sobs. Your body trembled from the force of your crying, any sound muffled by the blanket pressing into your face. “I’m so sorry. I just want her to be safe. I want her to have a chance.”

The two of you stayed that way for an uncertain amount of time, long enough for your sobs to drain away into hiccups and whimpers. Sitting up, you roughly wiped at your face, red and puffy eyes frozen on your screaming baby. How could you do what she was suggesting? How? What would Daryl think? “I need to talk to Daryl.”

Carol nodded, but her expression screamed uncertainty. “Maybe you should show him.” She suggested. “He can see that it’s not hurting her.”

“The man wouldn’t even wipe her ass because he was afraid of hurting her, Carol.”

“You’re right. Maybe this was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have—I’m so sorry.”

She felt ashamed. You could see it all over her; her face, the way she began to curl in on herself. She was ashamed of something she was forced to do to keep her baby girl safe. And then she had lost Sophia. It was clear that Carol wasn’t proud of the way she had to ensure her child’s safety. It wasn’t a hack you go around bragging about at neighborhood get-togethers. It was survival.

“Show me what to do.”

Expression grim, Carol moved closer and instructed. The actions were so simple. It was the very idea itself that was so impossibly difficult. Pinching Birdie’s little nose, the baby gasped wetly through her mouth just as your hand was coming down to cover it. Your heart was seizing, vibrating painfully in your chest. Just as your fingertips touched her cheek—

“What the fuck are you doin’?!”

Daryl.

[snowstopia]

i hate to admit | sylus qin

summary | in which, she finally caves in, feeling helpless, drowning in melancholy sylus comes to protect, shelter & care shield her from the downpour of her suffocating emotions, providing a soothing balm on her scarred heart.

pairings | sylus x afab oc, non-hunter, neuro-divergent oc. [probably forgot something..]

author's notes | mentions of: anxiety, depression. academic burnout, oc is a wheelchair user, so please be mindful! I am writing it off my own experience being such a user. this is my first piece of official writing since 2020 so I may be rusty! not proof read fully, possible spelling, punctuation & grammar mistakes! enjoy!

wc: 636

────────────────────

The rain. for most people it brought peace and tranquillity calming the nerves, it brought sustenance and growth to saplings and plants. But for Yehua, it was the complete opposite: it was noisy, and hellish.

The constant thumping of the raindrops drove her mad, especially when she was trying to concentrate on her law essay; it was like a sledgehammer pummelling against her skull. Yehua had tried every possible, white noise, earplugs, moving to a different room, nothing worked.

Yehua flopped on her bed like a flimsy pool noodle flailing on water, everything was useless, pointless. Drowning in expectations — the feeble cries for help were misunderstood and neglected. Until help came from the most unexpected place.

Sylus: Hey, sweetie. Is everything okay? You weren't in class today. I was thinking about you..

She blinked looking at the screen, her eyes mulling over the text over and over again. No way, Sylus Qin was messaging her of all people. Not like they haven't met before — they had been paired for projects and other things before; gotten along amicably. Long story short, he was kinda like the big shot on campus. He was a genius. Girls flocked to him, left right and center.

But, not girls like Yehua who were often pushed to the side, not that she blames them, I mean she wasn't the most interesting book on the shelf, so why bother at all?

Her phone buzzed again, snapping her out of her reverie, as she focused on the task at hand before getting distracted again.

Sylus: Dear. Please open the door. I'm waiting for you outside and it's raining, please let me in before I catch a cold.

Yehua almost choked on her saliva. Sylus at her door, she shot a glance at the clock on her bedside table, which read: 12:35 AM. Great…how embarrassing. Lethargically, she tossed herself into her upstairs manual wheelchair to the stairs so she could use her seated lift, before she forgot again she shot him a quick text.

Yehua: I'm on my way down.

Guilt churned in her stomach. He was worried about her. And now he was standing in the rain because of her. Carefully, she wobbled to the front door reaching as high as she possibly could, to open the door. Curse, having a 4’7 body.

Finally, the door clicked open, a broad, towering silhouette resembling a wet racoon stood in front of her in the drizzling rain. Sylus. Seeing her dazed expression on her face, as fresh as a coat of paint, he snickered teasingly.

“What's the matter, dove?” He perused, his lips failing to suppress the very palpable smirk plastered on his face. “You weren't expecting your oh-so-handsome knight in shining armour to come running to his damsel in distress?” Yehua guffawed. Pompous as always, “Yeaaah I'm in soooooo much trouble! Save me!” she mocked, rolling her eyes at him letting him in before he drowned in the buckets of water, being chucked from the sky.

The boy took off his drenched sneakers, placing them on the mat, before she sat back on the lift looking at him as she went up. “So…what brings you here? Besides, how did you know where I live?” It suddenly dawned on her that this was the first impression of her house.

“I was worried about you.” He was candid in his speech and posture - his behaviour became completely paradoxical as soon as he was posed with such a question. She puffed her cheeks in annoyance. What did he think she was? A five year old? Yeah, right! There's no way someone like him would bat an eyelid at her, let alone visit her at this supposed ‘scandalous hour’ under the veil of darkness.

This was going to be a long night...

───────────────────

anyone want a part two?

[littlebabyyd0ll]

thinking about being felix’s incompetent little girlfriend 😩 tw: bruises and mentions of throwing up. r has long hair.

“‘ve got another bruise.” you mumble heedlessly, barely even thinking about the words that come out of your mouth as you apply lotion (which is probably enough to cover a months rent in a two-bed flat) to your calves. felix, hunched over his textbook with a blue ballpoint pen between his lips, turns swiftly towards you, following the sound of your sweet, airy voice.

he sighs at the pretty image of you, body covered by one of his old t-shirts, practically eating you whole, hair falling over your shoulders and delicately manicured fingers massaging into your supple skin. he’s sure that his eyes go soft, practically heart-shaped, watching you in your own little world. he can see the constellation of bruises that you’ve already accumulated, seemingly from nowhere. pulling the pen from between his lips, he chucks it down onto his desk and rises from his swivel chair.

it’s then that you look up at him, not a thought behind your pretty eyes. his heart flutters at the way your pupils double in size, the way your lips tilt upwards at the mere presence of him. he fills your space without hesitation, so big and full of life, so warm, so handsome. your smile widens as he sits down next to you, the depth of the shift of his mattress. bright brown eyes linger upon your legs, taking in the dark purple discolouration. felix hums, looking back at you.

“does it hurt?” he asks, reaching out towards you. his skin is warm and soft, hands of little manual labour but so much comfort and love.

you know this game, have played it a thousand times. a dramatic sigh falls from your glossed lips, pretty pout settling mere seconds afterwards. “terribly.”

“need to be more careful.” he says lowly, fingertips tracing the anklet with his initials on, a present you received during your 18th birthday in paris. the gold shimmers as he moves, raising your leg with a light yet dominant touch. felix leans down, dark strands of hair falling over his eyebrow piercing, and his lips kiss a trail upwards. he kisses you in a manner so achingly sweet, a way so felix, until he reaches the afflicted area. the kiss that he leaves there is bigger. “my little airhead, hm?”

or when you’re all drunk and sloppy :( he’s just watching you so carefully, so effortlessly your knight in shining armour. felix doesn’t stop you from downing your jägers, doesn’t stop you from sipping his stella, but his hand doesn’t leave your side the whole night, doesn’t let you out of his sight, even when you’re hunched over a group of bushes, chundering your guts up on the walk back to your accommodation.

those loving hands rub soothingly up and down your back, shushing your heaves. “that’s it. good girl, get it all out.” he doesn’t care for the violent smell, or the way that it splashes against his trainers. just cares about helping you, getting you tip-top again. his other hand gathers your hair, holding it up and away from your face.

“she’s so fucked.” arabella, one of your friends from back at your all-girls private school slurs on her words, bumping into felix’s side. he resists the urge to roll his eyes — as if she wasn’t the one shoving shots down your throat. “just give her some fucking water or something. i want to get back.”

“no one’s stopping you.” he says, motioning with his head, pointing to the way back to college towards farleigh, subliminally trying to tell him to take the others and leave the two of you to yourselves. you, of course, miss this interaction, too busy with your tear streaked cheeks and spit coated lips. your little hand reaches back blindly for him, grasping onto his green polo. his hand resumes its gentle strokes.

farleigh groans behind the butt of his cigarette, dragging your friend away and motioning for the rest of your posse to come along.

“felix.” you sob pathetically, feeling far more than sorry for yourself. his poor baby, he thinks, doing so little to take care of yourself. your heaving stops for a moment and you fall to your knees. felix is quick to react, scooping you up from underneath your armpits and pulling you away from the pile of your own sick.

“i’m here, bambi. you’re alright.” he murmurs as you shove your head into his shoulder, undoubtedly staining his top. his hands still never once leave you, even as he gives you time to regulate your breathing and choked cries, pushes your hair back time and time again.

even then, nostrils stinging with the sour smell and shoulder dead from your limp limbs, he can’t help but smile. he smiles at the knowledge that only he gets you like this, all reliant and incompetent, so desperate for him and his, in your eyes, omnipotence.

“‘m never drinking again.”

“that’s not true.”

you whine, pushing your face further into his neck. “it’s not true.”

yeah, he thinks, he’s pretty lucky with his sweet, incompetent girl.

[lucillesremains]

my absurd supernatural headcanons that have no explanations ✩

Sam once spent hours building a lego set only to realize his instruction manual was wrong

Dean knows exactly how many licks it takes to get to the centre of a tootsie pop

Cas likes collecting pretty rocks and sticks

Jack has a very bad spice tolerance

either Metatron or Chuck has committed tax evasion at least once.

Crowley got swarmed by a group of 7 geese once

Garth watches HGTV and tried to get Kevin into it.

Gabriel only ever drinks flavoured water/drinks, specifically fruity stuff, cause he’s fruity.

Charlie likes eating popcorn with a fork.

ducks hate John, ducks always attack John.

[ridiculousmachinetools]

Experience unrivaled accuracy with our top-grade Morse taper drill chucks and industrial tools. Engineered for maximum concentricity and gripping force, our drill chucks deliver ridiculous productivity. Invest in quality tools that outperform and outlast.

[feveredvisions]

Doubt

(Tommy Riordan Conlon x Reader)

Here's my Masterlist if you want some more filth or some fluff. I'm open for requests too. Just drop by an ask xxx

Summary: No one can hate a job faster than you can. Just three weeks in, everything wrong was unveiled. A toxic scheming cheapo boss, overworked and underpaid managers and other employees, being a newbie who trains the tenured managers on a new software you googled the manual for, disorganised system that makes you strangle yourself every shift. Your boyfriend, Tommy Conlon, catches you in the middle of strangling yourself. You spiral and he lets you until you drop another break up bomb to which he takes his time to unwind you and remind you who you are and what you're capable of. And that breaking up is never an option to solve a problem that can easily be chucked down to hell. Author's Note: I dedicate this imagine to anyone who hates working and only does it for the paycheque and to settle their debts and build their savings. Fuck this job and fuck y'all, *I mutter my mantra as I log in on the dot.* It's been a rough ass week y'all. Needed me some Tommy for comfort. I'm dropping an emo Harry Da Souza x Jan Da Souza blurb next xxx Also tysm @saradika-graphics for the cutesy dividerss Pls forgive any grammatical errors. Your author is deprived of sleep and freedom from the corporate shackles and intense hormonal imbalances. But fuck it;s finally the end of the week. My suffering ends. It makes me happy that I get to share my writing with y'all. I hope you enjoy this one. Would love to hear your thoughts and everything in between.

Three weeks into her new job (actually three days in, she's already had a bad feeling,) and she already feels like she’s swallowed something rotten. The shine of working at her new job had rusted, souring her stomach.

At first, it was oh-so perfect. She gets to work at home, not having to wake up hours earlier to prepare for the commute, and no office politics to deal with everyday. Or so she thought.

The delivery day of her shiny brand new equipment was like Christmas day. Her boyfriend, Tommy helped her haul everything inside the house and turn the spare room used for storing unused seasonable clothes into a cosy li’l office. Unboxing and peeling off the protective plastic seal from the fresh equipments felt like opening gifts on a Christmas morning.

“Look at you,” Tommy teased you with a cheeky grin as he ruffled your hair. “Fancy corporate shit.” You swatted him away, laughing

Now, the same room felt…disgusting. As if she were a corporate war veteran stepping into the familiar landmines of corporate bullshit, mixed with the ghostly stench of coffee breath and the musky damp air conditioned smell of the room that’s as cold and empty as a corpse’s. She tried to change it a bit and make it better in her own home which she shares with Tommy. Opened the windows to let fresh air in. Letting the sunlight in where like a cat, she liked being under. Even brought in a little succulent desk plant that came in robust and fat, but was now already dying because she kept forgetting to water it. She thought it was self-sufficient like the seller said and didn't need to be watered too often as it could drown.

Apparently, no, the rot was deeper. She'd probably sucked the life out of it.

Seven months of unemployment had felt like an eternity. Her five years at her last corporate gig which filed for bankruptcy? Gone in a blink. Now here she was, back in the trenches, except this time, the battlefield was in her own damn home.

And her new boss? A fucking small business war criminal in a stupid polo shirt.

Tommy noticed the changes before she could say anything. He always did.

At first, it was little things—her griping about the eight-hour workday so passionately she could be in a BBC live interview, the way she’d passionately flip off at her monitor with both fingers almost every five minutes. Then come the muttered cuss under her breath (“yeah go fuck yaself, buddy”).

Today, after his rigorous training, Tommy caught his girl mid-performance. Fresh off a call and faux-strangling herself with both her hands wrapped around her neck, eyes rolled back and her tongue stuck out grotesquely as she let out a guttural whine, "Guh— just fucking diiiiieeeeee."

Tommy wasn't sure whether to laugh or be actually concerned. He walked to the doorframe leading to your office and leaned beside it with a curious frown on his face. A white towel wrapped around his neck, his shorts hanging low on his hips. His hair and body were drenched and glistening in sweat. White sando soaked and stuck to his skin. "The hell was that?"

She froze, hands still locked around her throat. Slowly, she peeled them away like she’d been caught mid-crime. Tommy had seen her do far worse shit than this even in her sleep. Nothing could embarrass her in front of this Adonis sculpted by the gods. "...Stress relief?"

Tommy’s mouth twitched. "Looks like a bad porno gag."

She groaned, slumping back in her chair and rubbing her temples. “Forget you saw anything, babe."

But Tommy didn’t move. He just studied her—the way her fingers drummed too fast on the desk, the way her knee bounced like she was revving for a fight. He wasn't letting this shit go anymore. "You’ve been like this for days," he said. “What’s goin’ on?"

“Nothing. Just work shit." She waved a hand, forcing a laugh. "The usual."

“Uh-huh." He pushed off the doorframe and walked inside until he was standing before her.

She could feel his radiating body heat on her face and his delicious post-workout masculine sweaty musk mixed with a hint of Irish spring filling her nostrils. God, she adored how good he smelled after fighting the heavy bag for an hour. It was the smell of heaven on earth which worked better than any calming sniffing stuff.

"Try again." He challenged. His tone was a low, steady I’m not fucking around tone—made her chest tighten. And like a dam breaking, it all pours out.

“My boss—” Her voice cracked. “He’s trying to fire this woman he introduced to me as ‘Bitch,’ told me to watch her on Zoom and document if she cusses so he can ‘build a case.’ So I called her instead. Know what she said? Poor woman has had four heart attacks, Tommy. Four. Last one landed her in the hospital with a bill she couldn’t pay because payroll held her check.” She dug her nails into her palms. “And that’s just the warm-up. He’s canning the entire senior staff to outsource cheaper labor, had me train managers on software I Googled and watched on YouTube yesterday, and now he wants my five-year plan because I’m ‘ambitious’ which just means he’ll work me to death for half what I’m worth.”

Tommy's jaw twitched. "Jesus."

"And get this,” she grins emptily. “Exactly a day after he laid out his grand plans of butchering up his company, his wife miscarried their baby.” She clapped her hands together like a magician. “Talk about karma biting him right in his anus. Who would want to have a father like him who exploits people for CHEAP, anyway?!" She choked on the guilt, hands flying up to cover her face. “I fucking celebrated his tragedy, Tommy. I'm a fucking monster!”

“Nah. Makes you human, babe.” Tommy gently peels her hands away from her face and puts them flat on his chest as he squatted down to her level.

She barrels on, voice cracking. “It’s a disaster, Tommy! The managers I ‘trained’ are supposed to train me now, except it’s been delayed for a week because they’re too busy doing payroll, HR shit, dispatch, and setting up hardwares for his three other failing businesses. There is nothing in between to fit me in for training. I'm fucked. And I actually have no faith left that it's ever gonna get better. This is a newly bought company, and he's handling everything so poorly. Expecting people to work on what's lacking and outsourcing manpower when he can't even pay proper professionals to get work done.”

Tommy stared. “That’s not a company. That’s a pyramid scheme.”

“I know!” She nearly screamed it. “But I can’t quit. Seven months of rejections. Seven. Now I’m here, and I wanna vomit every time I log in, but walking away means admitting defeat to every smug asshole who said I was too picky.”

Tommy continued to listen. He lets his girl spiral, lets her rant, lets her self-destruct in front of him like a building collapsing in slow motion.

"Maybe I should just snort ashwagandha up my ass, you know?”

Tommy's brows furrowed, “The fuck?”

“Numb myself to submission just until the year ends and I've settled my financial goals for this year. Suck it up and take it in the ass. For a fucking year. Just a year.” She ends up mumbling to herself as if she was brainwashing herself.

Her heart was pounding in her chest wildly. Thoughts completely scattered. Running like a Tasmanian devil without a sense of direction. Vomiting her words. “And I'm thinking that, maybe if this doesn't work out, then maybe I should be on my own and really focus on figuring things out myself, you know? Without inconveniencing others. Just me. Maybe that's what I need.”

Tommy stared at her like she’d just spat in his face. The rest of her rant he can take but bringing up another breakup over a stupid job that pisses her off? Hell fucking no.

"You done?" His sharp tone cut clean through her rant like a blade. “You really think you’re a burden to me?”

She opened her mouth, then shut it. Her jaw clenches to keep herself from crying like a kid.

“You don’t get to bail on us over some fuckin’ sleazebag CEO with a power complex. You’re smarter than that. Stronger than that.” His hand curled gently but firmly around the side of her neck, not squeezing, just holding. Steady. Keeping her head straight. “You’ve kept me alive, remember that? You held my drunk ass together after Iraq. You dragged me outta bed when I couldn't fuckin' move. So don't you dare act like this ain't worth my time.”

“I just—” she started.

He moved his hand from her neck to squeeze her cheeks lightly. Little puffy rabbit throwing a tantrum, he thought to himself. Resisting the urge to laugh and squeeze your cheeks some more and play with it.

“You just got your head so far up this job's ass you forgot who the fuck you are. My girl doesn't break up with me 'cause some fuckwit can't run his company."

She averts her eyes away from him, lightly pouting as she listens to what she already knows but somehow always manages to go over her head.

“Look, babe. You want money? We've got our savings. And I'm winning that damn fight and laying you down on our winnings. You want purpose? I’ll help you find it. But you don’t get to act like I picked the wrong girl. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And I’ll be damned if I let you forget who the fuck you are.”

She looks up at him, her brows furrowed, eyes thickly glazed with tears about to pour down her face and her mouth quivering until a tear spills. The fuck was she thinking she'd be better off without him?

Tommy thumbs them away. His girl slightly leaning into his calloused touch against her warm soft face. “C’mon,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “You think I don’t know what it’s like? To hate yourself for needin’ help?”

She shakes her head, but he doesn’t let her look away.

“After Paddy died,” he says, “I drank ‘til I couldn’t stand. You remember?”

It still stings her heart as she remembers. The nights she’d find Tommy slumped against the bathroom door, the way he’d snarl at her to ‘leave him the fuck alone’ right before he’d collapse into her arms.

“You stayed,” he says simply. “Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

Her throat burns. “That’s different.”

“Bullshit.” His grip tightens on her face just enough to make her focus. “You think I give a damn about your paycheck? I slept in my car for two years before us. We’ll survive.”

Her heart warms.

Then he chuckles as one of his many favourite memory of theirs surfaced his head. “You remember how we met?”

She blinks. “Yeah. The office parking lot. You in your rusted-out Charger and me always parking my Honda near yours just to take the chance at you finally robbing me, then slashing me to death before I make it inside the building.”

-----

Flashback:

It was an ungodly hour past midnight and it was cold as hell and lightly snowing. Her fingers are numb. She rushed to her car which was the only one remaining at the parking lot along with the other banged up Charger that lives on the same spot. She turns her in the ignition which only gave her—ticktickticktick—but the engine won’t catch.

She banged her forehead against the steering wheel out of frustration—“Fuck! Fuck! Fuuuuck!”—just hard enough to feel the poking sting in her already pounding head, but not hard enough to deploy the airbags. A knock on her window nearly launched her into orbit.

The hobo, the one who lived in the rusted-out Charger two spaces over, was crouched beside her door, his scowl visible through the glass. Up close, he was younger than she’d thought. And bigger.

Jesus Christ, those shoulders...

She rolled the window down a millimetre. “If this is a robbery, I’ve got $12 and a granola bar.”

He blinked. “Your battery’s dead.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Fuck my fucking life.”

“Pop the hood.”

She hesitated. “...Are you gonna harvest my organs?”

“Lady,” he deadpanned, “if I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t see me comin’.”

Fair point. He sounded smart and experienced enough for it, so there's always a chance then...

Ten minutes later, after expertly jury-rigging her battery cables, her car roared to life. She stared at him over the hood, snowflakes catching in his dark hair. “Thanks,” she muttered.

He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Get a new battery.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” she simply said, and drove off before she could say something stupid.

The next morning, she woke up extra early to prepare and pack breakfast for two with a thermos of coffee. She drove to work and parked across his car. Wordlessly handing him through the driver's window her offering and token of appreciation in the form of a bag filled with packaged homecooked meals for the day on his windshield the next morning. He drinks and eats them all and doesn’t say a word but that evening.

Her wipers are cleared of snow when she left the office building late at night.

-------------------end of flashback-------------------

His thumb traces her jaw. “Then you started leavin’ cooked meals in my car. ‘Accidentally’ buying two coffees. Naggin’ me to get my shit together like a pissed-off fairy godmother.”

She snorts. “You hated me.”

“Yeah and you didn’t give up.” His grip tightens. “So why the hell would I?”

She opens her mouth to argue, but he cuts her off with a kiss. Hard and tenderly scalding. Her heart grew tender as she kissed Tommy back. Too tender that it ached. She questioned if it was possible to love someone too much.

Indeed, it was.

“Quit the job. Or not, but always keep the fight.” He pulled away, his forehead pressed against hers. “Just stay, okay? Don’t act like I’m doin’ you some favor by toleratin’ your ass. You’re it for me, baby.”

For a moment, she settles. Slumping towards him, letting out the heaviest sigh she's ever let out in a while. It felt good to lean onto Tommy's unit of a body and have him hold her. Warm and strong. All hers. "God what the hell was I thinking saying all that shit. I'm sorry, baby”

Tommy exhales through his nose, the fight draining out of him as she slumps against his chest. His fingers thread through her hair, blunt nails scraping lightly against her scalp in that way he knows settles her. Her eyes rolling back from the hypnotic sensation.

“You weren’t thinkin’,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”

She lets out a muffled weak laugh. "Oh really? I must’ve made all of my meltdowns up for fun then."

“Nah. Just somehow always forgettin' who the fuck’s in your corner.”

"I hate that you're right."

"I know."

------original end but here's an extended cutie pie version--------

She tilts her head back to look at him. Admiring her past, her present, and her future. “These thoughts got mean hands sometimes. Or I might be two days away from my period. God, I haven't even checked my calendar.”

Tommy’s mouth quirks. “I'd give it an early jumpstart if you want.”

She snorts, swatting his shoulder. “You’re disgusting and a freak.” Then she leans in to plant a brief kiss on his mouth. “And I'm the luckiest girl to have you.”

Tommy doesn't let the kiss end. He deepens it, biting her lower lip just hard enough to make her gasp, then sweeping his tongue against hers like he's chasing the taste of her guilt and turning it into something sweeter. When he pulls back, her lips are swollen, her eyes glazed with sweetness. It made Tommy's heart ache too in the most pleasant way. All that he sees and holds right now-- all his. Forever his.

"Shower," he orders, already hauling her up by the thighs.

She yelps as he tosses her over his shoulder, her office chair spinning away behind them.

"No!" She kicks halfheartedly. "Put me down, you sweaty caveman! I didn't even get to properly sniff you!”

Tommy barks a laugh, swatting her ass as he carries her toward the bathroom. "The fuck's wrong with you?"

“You smell good," she grumbles, nose pressed against his damp shoulder blade. "Like... salt and violence and man."

"Yeah?" He kicks the bathroom door open. "Tell me that when I'm elbow-deep in your pussy. Fuckin' weirdo.”

“Oohh now we're talking.”

—FIN—

A/N: OOOHHHH DAAAAMN CAN I HAVE THIS SHIT TOO PLS T_T sooo anyway I've got a smutty alternative of this bc Tommy after training is charged to the heavens and he's got a lot to give especially to his girl. Lots of discipline and lots of load. I'll publish it a bit later for the freaks xx Just gotta sleep first.

Thanks so much for reading my stuff <33

[1americanconservative]

I saw this on another platform

Saw this On Facebook. I locked my car. As I walked away I heard my car door unlock. I went back and locked my car again three times. Each time, as soon as I started to walk away, I would hear it unlock again!! Naturally alarmed, I looked around and there were two guys sitting in a car in the fire lane next to the store. They were obviously watching me intently, and there was no doubt they were somehow involved in this very weird situation . I quickly chucked the errand I was on, jumped in my car and sped away. I went straight to the police station, told them what had happened, and found out I was part of a new, and very successful, scheme being used to gain entry into cars. Two weeks later, my friend's son had a similar happening.... While traveling, my friend's son stopped at a roadside rest to use the bathroom. When he came out to his car less than 4-5 minutes later, someone had gotten into his car and stolen his cell phone, laptop computer, GPS navigator, briefcase.....you name it. He called the police and since there were no signs of his car being broken into, the police told him he had been a victim of the latest robbery tactic -- there is a device that robbers are using now to clone your security code when you lock your doors on your car using your key-chain locking device.. They sit a distance away and watch for their next victim. They know you are going inside of the store, restaurant, or bathroom and that they now have a few minutes to steal and run. The police officer said to manually lock your car door-by hitting the lock button inside the car -- that way if there is someone sitting in a parking lot watching for their next victim, it will not be you. When you hit the lock button on your car upon exiting, it does not send the security code, but if you walk away and use the door lock on your key chain, it sends the code through the airwaves where it can be instantly stolen Be wisely aware of what you just read and please pass this note on. Look how many times we all lock our doors with our remote just to be sure we remembered to lock them -- and bingo, someone has our code...and whatever was in our car. Snopes Approved --Please share with everyone you know…from fb..just a heads up Just Aheads Up New ways to Steal Stuff & Cars!!! Pleas Be Aware u Could Be Next!!!

[together-we-got-it]

Costume change manual for October 1985. This manual was sent to locations as a guide on how to dress up the characters in their costumes. Unfortunately, these costumes were not mandatory, which means that there are no known photos of them actually being used.

There was no Halloween themed showtape made for October 1985. The showtape that would be used during the Halloween 1985 season was Salute To Kids.

Although it has been rumored that there was unique Halloween themed audio that was recorded by Scott Wilson for the Chuck E Phone game but that is unconfirmed.