#day 07

[dazaidoodle-daily]

𝙳𝚊𝚢 : 𝟶𝟽

𝘛𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘻𝘢𝘪 𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 @𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘴 !

[221beloved]

Attacked

It was a quiet late Saturday evening, Rosie was playing with her new blocks in the living room of 221B Bakerstreet and Sherlock had just disappeared into the kitchen to make some tea. John looked at his daughter, sitting on the floor and scolding the blocks not to fall down every time she let go of them. He smiled at her and rose to see if he could help Sherlock in the kitchen. It all happened because of a little mishap. As John entered the kitchen, Sherlock was taking a cup out of the cupboard, and while pulling it out, another moved with it and threatened to fall to the floor. “Sherlock,” John blurted out and threw himself forwards to catch the falling cup, but although he caught it, he heard china shatter on the kitchen floor. When he looked up he saw Sherlock, standing two steps away from his original position, the cup he aimed for shattered on the floor. Slowly he lifted his gaze and stared at John with wide eyes, his breath slightly elevated, his skin pale. John frowned, then he gasped in realization and took a step back himself. He felt something clench in his gut and chest and he felt sick. Sherlock thought John was going to hit him. He had stepped back reflexly when John moved towards him, expecting John to punch him, but he had not even raised a hand in defence. In fact, he had dropped his arms and turned his head to the side. As if he had simply surrendered to his fate. Now they were staring at each other. Johns hands began to tremble and he placed the rescued cup on the counter. Sherlock stretched out a hand towards him, but didn't move apart from that. “I'm, I'm sorry,” he whispered. John took another step back, shaking his head. Sherlock was afraid of him. He had backed away from John, expecting to be hit. But this wasn't enough. Even if John really intended to do it, to hurt Sherlock, he wouldn't even fight back. He would just... endure it, waiting for it to be over, waiting for John to get back the better of him? John shook his head in disbelief, his thoughts rioting in his head. “No,” he said, his voice shaky and wavering. “Don't!” Sherlock lowered his gaze to the floor and drew his hand back. No... no, no, no... He was making it even worse. “No, Sherlock... I mean,” he could feel tears welling up in his eyes. Not now, not now! “Don't apologize...” John managed to say. Slowly, Sherlock looked up again, as if uncertain, and the look on his face completely broke John.

He had done that. He was supposed to be Sherlocks best friend, but he had attacked Sherlock. He had punched him, when he returned from death, exhausted and looking forward to finally come home. And he had punched him when he was at his weakest, surrounded by others he had hit his best friend, and when he was lying on the ground, feeble and bleeding, he had continued to kick him.

He wanted to step closer to Sherlock, to try and comfort him, but he didn't dare to, afraid of Sherlocks reaction. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I'm so sorry, Sherlock.” He took another step back, then turned. He picked Rosie up from the floor and, leaving everything they brought with them today, went down the stairs.

Tell me abot your tag preferences

@angstober

@holmesianlove @missdeliadili @kettykika78 @topsyturvy-turtely @safedistancefrombeingsmart @blogstandbygo @7-percent @a-victorian-girl @lisbeth-kk @nathan-no @macgyvershe @whatsgoodmentalhealth

[hiddenunknownperson]

''It’s just so fun being with you''

💜💙Marxolor Week: Comfort&Merry

Author's note: they feel comfort and enjoyment with each other’s magic. What is the best way of showing it? Being merry with each other✨

I really appreciate this week 🥖🥚 hope this go on for many years and, even if I don’t use Tumblr that much, feel free to do some request or give ideas if you want to, I will try to check (or even draw) some of them.

[darkwingsnark]

Duckvember: Gaudy Duck

Every few months Bugs Bunny recieves what Daffy calls ‘rich people selfies’. You know, the kind with professional photographers? It’s the trashiest thing, and yet... he can’t seem to throw them away. Call Bugs a sentimental fool, but he’s happy for the guy.

Fowl Shipping lives forever, babeh~

[weilaverdui]

Angstober Day 7: Attack

The life of a swordsman is full of dangers.

[hummingbird-of-light]

June of Doom 2024 Day 7 (@juneofdoom)

7. “What happened?”                           

| Nightmare | Isolation | Stumbling |

~

"Ugh, what happened?" Only slowly did Nyota Uhura manage to open her eyes, but she quickly squinted them again, blinded by the light that was filling the  room. Her head was already aching enough.

Carefully, the communication officer got to her feet, holding on to the wall she could feel next to her, and when she opened her eyes once again, she was smart enough to shield them with her hand.

It took some time for her eyes to adjust to the light, but once they did, Uhura was able to see where she was. Her blood froze.

It looked ... like a cell. There were white walls. No furniture. Not even a window or a door!

Where the hell was she? She had never seen this place before in her life. How had she ended up in this room? She couldn't remember a thing.

Uhura tried to take a step forward, but quickly stopped herself. She was feeling dizzy as hell. Maybe it was the brightness of her surroundings or the terrible headache.

So, instead of moving, she chose to sit back down on the ground. She needed a moment to sort her mind.

What was the last thing she remembered? She closed her eyes once again to think of images.

Right ...

Uhura was walking through a building, phaser in her hand. There ... were other people with her. Dr. McCoy. And Sulu. Officers Smith and Blake from security.

They had been on an away mission together. But what had happened then? Where were the others? Were they also locked up in a cell somewhere?

The second time she opened her eyes, it wasn't nearly as bad as the first time. Uhura let her gaze wander and was able to make out small slits in the ceiling. The air she was breathing had to be coming from there. After all, the cell itself was windowless.

Those slits were a good thing. They meant she wouldn't suffocate. But then again, they could also be used to fill the room with any sort of gas.

Uhura thought about the headache. Had her captors knocked her out with something? It was very likely.

If only she could remember what the mission had been about. She tried to think of Jim's voice giving them their orders. What had he said?

Something about ... making first contact. And about helping the people.

The communication officer's eyes widened as she started to remember everything.

They had been sent down to the planet to get to know the inhabitants! To learn more about them and to help them after another species had attacked them!

That other species ... had still been there, hidden underground. They had attacked several landing parties, including the one Uhura was assigned to. They must have taken members of the crew. Like her.

Anger filled the woman as she remembered the poor, terrified beings down on the planet. So many of them had been injured or killed by the enemy.

She got back to her feet and started to move around, inspecting the walls. She'd find a way. She would fight these beings with everything she got.

"Let me out of here! You hear me? Let me out!" she croaked as loud as she could, throat dry. She couldn't remember for how long she had been unconcious. For how long she hadn't talked.

Nobody listened to her.

They kept her locked up in the cell. For hours. Days. Weeks?

And slowly but surely Uhura was losing her mind. The emptiness of her surroundings, the silence, the lack of social contacts. It was driving her insane.

They gave her everything her body needed through the slits in the ceiling.

Air. Protein pills. Small sticks filled with water.

There was no way that she would suffocate or die of hunger or thirst. Her captors made sure of that.

Yet still, they took the most important thing from her. The thing she needed to most to survive.

Social contacts.

In her life, Uhura had learned so many languages. She had talked to Vulcans, Andorians, even Klingons and Romulans! She had learned so much. And now, locked up in a cell for forever, she wasn't able to use her skills.

It didn't matter how often she tried to talk to her captors. They didn't respond. They left Uhura alone with her fears and feelings and thoughts.

So, she talked to herself. The only interlocutor she had. The only one who could answer her.

When Jim and the others eventually saved her, Uhura didn't believe it. Those people had to be hallucinations caused by a gas. They couldn't be real. It was impossible.

After all, Nyota Uhura only had herself. And there was nothing else in her world except for food, water, air and white walls.

[sophia--studies]

100 days of code - day 7

Today I studied about structs in Rust, with structs you can group data and functions in a new type.

To implement methods (functions) for this structure, you need to create an impl block for the Rectangle structure

And now after declaring a new instance, I can retrieve the data and call a method using the dot notation.

Today I tried pomodoros for time management and I think it worked well. I will continue to use, because I really feel a difference, but I still can't focus for the entire 25 min, let's see if I can improve this.

That's it, I don't think there is nothing more to say, structs aren't too complex.

[tourettesdog]

My Ectoberhaunt 2022 submission for days 5 and 7 (using the prompts Banshee, Purify, and Infect).

Words: 14,836 Warnings: injury, blood, eye injury, needles, emetophobia Summary:

After Jack and Maddie find Danny drinking ectoplasm in the lab, Danny loses everything but the people he loves most.

[areyouokaypanda]

@angstober Day 7: Attacked

[strawberryclementine]

Short character study about Lunge and Tenma post-series! for Prompt 7 of @flufftober: Porch Swing

[feltpool]

SW calendar Day 07

[annaofthenorthernlights]

Highspeed home

a little Frozen, kristanna modern au 100 word drabble (rated G)

for @flufftober 2023 - day 07 prompt "porch swing for @slumberpartybingo prompt "would you rather workout at the gym or relax at home" for @30+ fanfic discord server monthly 24h drabble: "turning point"

TW: pregnancy test

___

At the traffic lights, Kristoff catches an incoming photo post from Anna. He gapes at the small device with "+" (and little heart), and as the light turns green, he turns the car around, drives home at high speed and hastily sends a message to Sven. "Sorry can't come to the gym!" At home, he rushes into the house and through the open patio door. Anna is sitting lazily on the porch swing, humming happily, and beaming at him. "Oh honey, did you see?" All he can do is crawl to her side and hug her belly with kisses. "I did."

[friendly-neighborhood-imbecille]

Day 07. Purify & Infect

Maddie tries to rid her son of his ghostly possession.

Warnings: blood, vomiting, seizures, and major character death

Maddie knew there was something wrong. Since last September her son had been acting weird. He'd been sneaking out, skipping school, lying, and strangest of all, he’d been afraid.

He used to love spending time with his family. Going fishing with Jack, having little spa days with her, but recently, they’d have to practically force him into any sort of family activity. 

Most would brush this off as him just growing up. It was completely normal to be embarrassed by your parents to the point of avoidance at this age, but it wasn’t embarrassment. He flinched whenever Jack talked in that loud booming voice of his, whenever she put her hand on his shoulder. He was skittish whenever he was alone in a room with either of them. Sometimes he even hid from them.

Up until now she had thought it was the portal accident. Maybe he blamed them for it, maybe he was scared that their inventions would hurt him, but then she started to notice other things

His feet would slip through the floor, his hands would disappear, his eyes would glow, and she could swear he had fangs sometimes. 

Her son was possessed.

“Hi honey, how was school today?”

He jumped and whipped his head towards her, like he didn’t expect her to be there. “It was good I guess, what’re you doing?”

She started digging through the cupboards, she could have sworn she put them here just last night. “I’m just grabbing some tea bags. Thought I’d make us each a cup.” There. She grabbed two tea bags, filled up a kettle, and put it on the stove.

He set his bag down on the ground and took a seat at the table. “Oh nice, can I have the dead nettle? It’s in that ziplock up on the-”

“I actually bought a new flavour for us to try. Something that tastes a little less like dirt.” Danny would always get defensive when someone insulted his favourite foods. Just maybe…

“It tastes like good dirt okay? Like, childhood dirt. I honestly don’t understand why you guys don’t love it.”

He was still in there somewhere. The ghost may have access to his memories, or maybe he had some control. Either way, he still had a chance.

She stood next to the kettle and waited. He looked slightly uncomfortable. He was avoiding eye contact, glancing around the room, playing with the fraying fabric at the holes in his jeans. She needed to break the silence, make him less wary.

“How have Sam and Tucker been?”

He jumped before processing the question. “Oh, pretty good.” He shrugged and went back to looking around the room.

“That’s good.”

The silence returned, but was quickly broken by the tea kettle screaming. She turned off the stove, grabbed two mugs from a drawer, put the teabags in, and filled them with water.

“No honey?”

“The tea itself is pretty sweet tasting. Honey isn’t needed.”

She brought the mugs over to the table where he was sitting and placed one in front of him before taking a sip of her tea. He picked up the mug, blew on it a couple times, and took a large gulp before choking on it. 

“Is it supposed to be spicy?” He managed to ask in between painful sounding coughs

She continued sipping at her tea. “Yes.”

He started clawing at his throat “It’s really hot, burning my throat.”

“It needed to be brought to a complete boil instead of just heated.”

He was shaking, his eyes were bugging out. “Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong, drink your tea.”

He was gasping for air, he fell from his seat, onto the floor. “I can’t-”

“Drink the tea or get out of my son.”

He looked up at her, pure fear unlike anything she’d seen before painted across his face. “What?”

She set down her tea, stood up from her seat, and walked to stand right in front of him. “I know what you are, you’ve been hurting him long enough. Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I wouldn’t notice the difference between a ghost and my own son?”

“Mom, I-”

“I am not your mother!”

Tears streamed down his face, he started another coughing fit, shaking as if he was being electrocuted, vomiting up acidic green ectoplasm, gasping for breath, then he went completely still.

[sasa-chan]

On Her Majesty's Secret Service (1969)

Starring:

George Lazenby, Diana Rigg, Telly Savalas, Bernard Lee, Gabriele Ferzetti, Ilse Steppat

Directed By:

Peter R. Hunt

Genre:

Action/Romance

Rating:

PG

Run Time:

2 Hours 20 Minutes

Release Date:

18 December 1969 (London, premiere)

19 December 1969 (United States)

Synopsis:

Agent 007 (George Lazenby) and the adventurous Tracy Di Vicenzo (Diana Rigg) join forces to battle the evil SPECTRE organization in the treacherous Swiss Alps. But the group's powerful leader, Ernst Stavro Blofeld (Telly Savalas), is launching his most calamitous scheme yet: a germ warfare plot that could kill millions!

[sylvanfreckles]

Chapter Seven: Sick

“Did you even see the photos?” Lila nearly shouted, her voice pulling Adrien out of his spiral. There were theatrical tears in her eyes, her voice trembling with false emotion. “Do you even care what his father did to him, Marinette?”

[wardenred]

Flufftober 7: Porch Swing

One of those random freewriting things, except now it's giving me more ideas. Maybe I'll write more about these two sisters reconecting, or maybe I'll use those ideas to rework an old WIP that kind of fell apart... 🤔💭

The porch swing creaks on and on while I cook. I choose to perceive the sound as soothing rather than annoying. In truth, I kind of envy my sister’s energy. I would’ve been dizzy thirty minutes ago, but she just keeps swinging. Sometimes, she slows down, and I start wondering if she’s going to stop after all. Quickly enough, she picks up the pace again.

The kitchen around me is exactly the way Grandma left it, except cleaner. I spent most of the morning getting rid of the dust and old grease spots. The surfaces are clean enough to operate on; if they don’t look like that, it’s only because their age is showing. It would make sense to get rid of some of the useless knick-knacks taking up space: framed embroideries on the walls, chipped vases and candle holders lurking in the cabinets. I don’t have the heart for it. Not yet.

I find myself wondering how much effort it will take to keep the place just as pristine in the long run. Camilla and I haven’t really been under the same roof for a decade, but I remember her uncanny talent for creating messes whenever she went, like a hurricane of misplaced objects and stray sandwich wrappings. People change, of course. Maybe she has, too.

I stomp down the sudden urge to go up to her room and assess its state  in the name of testing this theory. This entire thing will only work if we respect each other’s boundaries.

My hopes for that are slim, but there.

I fill two bowls with hot soup, grip two spoons tight in my fist, and nudge the door with my shoulder. The backyard greets me with a gust of cold breeze. I should have grabbed a hoodie. Oh well.

“Hey,” I call from the worn wooden stairs. There’s moss growing in the cracks, and at least one tiny, weird red-capped mushroom. A line of aunts marches around my sandal. “I’m not going to make you come inside, but you might have worked up an appetite. So.” I hold up one of the bowls, suddenly self-conscious. “Want some?”

Camilla digs her hills hard into the gravel and dust, bringing the swing to a halt. She blinks owlishly at me, and I’m once again caught off guard by the sight of her without her glasses. I got the same feeling every time I pulled up her Instagram account in moments of nostalgia. In person, it’s even stranger.

I wonder how strange she finds me now.

“Um, yeah. Thanks,Nat,” she says after a small delay. Her breathing is heavy, like she’s holding back tears. Probably just exhaustion. “Can I ask you to bring it down here though? I think if I get up, the world will tilt.”

“Sure.” I briefly debate putting my own bowl somewhere while I do that, but there are too many insects in the air. A lizard crawls down the porch railing. A frog croaks from somewhere uncomfortably close, and I swear the chuffing sounds in the tall grass come from a pair of hedgehogs. How is everything here so brimming with wildlife? Grandma’s house stands in the middle of a regular street in a regular small town, not even on the outskirts. Cars are driving past our fence this very instant.

Camilla gingerly takes a bowl from me and balances it between her knees. Good thing I waited until it was steaming hot, not scalding. She frowns at the contents. “Is that chicken soup?”

I shrug. “I didn’t know what to make. This seemed fitting.” Grandma always insisted on making us soup whenever she thought we were sick or upset. The latter definitely applies.

On the back porch, there are two mismatched chairs. I pick the smaller one for a seat and the taller one for a makeshift table, but only after a thorough inspections for any cobwebs, insects, or snails. My arms are covered in goosebumps, even though the wind is settling down. Definitely should have put on a hoodie. How did I even let the weather fool me into wearing a sundress? Have I forgotten how quickly it changes here in autumn once the clock ticks past noon?

“It’s good!” Camilla announces from the swing, and I roll my eyes lightly at the surprise in her voice. She studies her spoon like it has all the answers to the most complicated problems of the universe. “Grandma always used to overcook the noodles.”

“I like to think I’ve improved on her recipe.”

She smiles. “You definitely have.”

Wow. For our first conversation in almost ten years, we’re unironically doing great.

For a while, we both eat in silence. I survey the overgrown flower beds nestled against the fence—more like weed beds at this point. The last time I tried gardening I was still in high school, and I can’t call it a rousing success. I wonder if we can get someone to help us turn this place into something less decrepit. Perhaps some of the neighbors have kids looking for weekend jobs. Not that I’m looking forward to mingling with the locals, but it’s not like I’ll be able to avoid that. Today has already been full of interactions, between the grocery store and the home supplies one and random people approaching me in the street with out-of-the-blue greetings.

“So,” Camilla says eventually. “A year here, before we can sell the property. Seems...” She scrunches up her nose, looking around the yard, as well. “I don’t even know. What was Grandma thinking?”

“Something about family and legacy and embracing the secrets of life, according to her letter,” I reply. A twinge of uncertainty pulls at my mind. “You got one, too, right?”

It’s a relief to see her nod. “Probably a copy of the same one you got.” She drops her spoon and tugs at the single green strand in her otherwise pastel-pink hair. “Well. This is going to be an adjustment.” She hesitates before adding, “I’ll probably want to invite friends over now and then. I’ll start climbing walls otherwise.”

Camilla having friends over never meant anything good for me when we were kids. But people change. I’ve changed. She clearly has, too.

“It’s fine,” I say. “Just as long as you warn me beforehand so I can stay out of the way or whatever.” And as long as you don’t make too bad of a mess, I don’t say. I really have to give her the benefit of a doubt. “Hey, speaking of ‘out of the way,’ do you have any plans for the basement? I was thinking of setting up a studio there.”

“I don’t mind,” she says with a shrug. “Though don’t artists usually need plenty of natural light?”

I laugh. “Yeah, well, with all the trees growing right by the windows, I think I’m better off investing in a bunch of lamps.”

“Makes sense.” 

She gives me a long look I can’t quite decipher, then twists down and around to place her bowl by the swing post. The next thing I know, she’s tugging off her studded suede jacket.

“Here.” She tosses it my way. It lands in a heap over the railing, right on top of a fiendishly big bug that buzzes in indignation. “I’m getting cold just looking at you.”

I could tell her I was going to head inside and find my own clothes anyway.

Sticking around feels like a better idea.