#the ground looks really shiny in that one pic because its wet and i have my mirror out which creates a small light source

[danko420]

So I've been playing this game called Wildmender where you wake up in a desert and have to build an oasis (and unblock or cleanse other springs, plant vegetation and help regrow the desert- all while being attacked by wraiths and trying to purge evil from Gods shrines so they can lend you their powers- and lots of other stuff, its great)

(pictured above: Wraith- sometimes they just spy on you and don't attack and lemme tell you i've jumped out of my skin more times than I can remember from turning around to spot one, just silent and still, staring at me from the other end of the garden. Much scarier than being chased by like 10 of them hurling fireballs)

But mostly it's just an incredibly beautiful game

Highly recommended, check it out if you're interested in this type of game!!

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS HARRY WITH DOGS

okay but picture this: habenaro with a puppy!!

YALL ARE LUCKY I HAD THIS IN MY DRAFTS FROM MONTHS AGO

Just imagine having a dog with harry.

I don’t want to be cliche but a golden retriever bc Harry loves his hair.

“How does he get it so shiny though?”

And giving the dog baths together. It’s a huge mess because the bugger doesn’t like it and one of you has to get in the tub with him and hold him down while the other shampoos his hair.

It’s Harry’s turn to hold him down and he’s sitting in the tub with his arms wrapped around the dog’s torso (let’s call the dog Diggle).

He’s in an old Nickleback t-shirt and running shorts and he has his hair held back with a bandana and he’s all wet, shirt ticking to his chest and covered in golden hair from how much the puppy’s shedding.

“Diggle, stop it. Mommy just wants to wash you so you don’t stink up the whole bloody house.”

Harry’s holding Diggle down and the dog’s grumbling and shifting around the tub all restless while you lather the oatmeal shampoo into his hair and of course it’s oatmeal because, “It’s good for his hair! I asked the vet…and my hairdresser…and DoggyDayCare.com…”

And since Harry’s so damn extra he went and got a custom made shampoo for the dog, where he stood in front of the lab and picked out the ingredients, leaning on one leg more than the other so that his body’s tilted as he has his an arm across his chest so he can rest the elbow of the other on top of it. He pinched the rosy skin of his bottom lip between his thumb and index finger, deep in thought as he picked out coconut, oatmeal, and lavender oil to mix into it. It has the dog’s name printed on it along a pic of him under the gold cursive and Harry’s very pleased with himself, to say the least.

He grabs the dog’s face gently, turning him so that they’re face-to-face and he growls back all mockingly, scrunching up his nose and baring his teeth. And the dog starts wagging its tail because even he knows Harry’s a sweetheart who couldn’t hurt a damn fly. He licks across Harry’s nose and cheeks and Harry just splutters and crinkles his whole face in disgust. “We’re gonna have to brush his teeth, too. Killer breath, Dig.”

Diggle takes this moment where Harry and you are sharing a fond smile to weasel out of Harry’s arms and jump over the brim of the tub, taking off out of the bathroom door, leaving you and Harry shell-shocked.

“Fuck, I just washed the carpet yesterday!”

Harry’s struggling to get up, gripping the rim of the tub with sudsy hands and his feet are slipping and sliding across the ground, long legs tangling and he’s muttering curses under his breath as he tries to exit the godforsaken lavender-scented sink hole.

You help him out, wrapping your arms around his sopping torso as he throws his own around your shoulders, getting you all drenched and soapy and apologizing softly. “Sorry, pet. But if it’s any condolence, wet dog smells amazing on you.”

And then your both running around the apartment, arms flaying as you try and steer Diggle into a place where the other can catch him. The dog’s got you running circles around the coffee table in the living room, as well as slipping and sliding across the wooden floor of the kitchen as you try and corner him.

Harry falls a couple of times, once on his ass really hard and he rolls over, groaning and gripping his behind and, “Fuck, I think I broke it. Can I break my ass? I broke my ass.”

You’re a laughing mess because his hair is standing up everywhere and he has suds on his forehead and cheeks and Diggle comes over to sniff his butt, curious to why Harry’s fondling it and Harry practically hisses. “Oi! This is your fault!”

You take this chance to launch yourself at the menace, missing him by a hair, ending up on the ground next to Harry.

He slowly sits up, wincing and “This is not what I meant earlier when I said we should shower together.”

He helps you up, pressing his hand to his knees and standing there for a second, face squished in pain. “Jus’…give me a minute, yeah? My bum’s on fire.”

Harry tries to sneak up on Diggle by crawling across the ground quietly, but doesn’t succeed. Luckily, he ends up getting a new idea.

He limps over and grabs Diggle’s favorite toy– a plushy of the bird from the movie Up– and waves it in the air, squeezing it so that it squeaks.

Immediately, you hear bounding steps coming towards the living room. The one thing about Diggle’s bird plushy is that he doesn’t like anyone else touching it. Ever. And right now, Harry’s made himself a prime target.

The large dog skids into the room, big brown eyes locking on his toy as it is held high in Harry’s hand. The next scene seems to unroll in slow motion.

Diggle takes off at full speed towards Harry, tongue out and flapping in excitement. Harry’s eyes widen and he holds his arms out, the toy still in his hand, realizing his mistake too late. “Diggle, no–!”

He ends up getting his words shoved back into his mouth as the golden retriever slams into his chest, toppling him into the ground and grabbing the toy in his mouth, tugging it from Harry’s fingers. He proceeds to stay on top of Harry as if celebrating his win, his hair drooping down and dripping water all across Harry. He’s wagging his tail and shifting his paws against Harry’s chest and your boyfriend really doesn’t look amused at all.

“Dig, please! Off now, c'mon! Your getting hair in my mouth!” Harry’s trying to push him off but the dog simply dodges his flying hands, dropping the toy right on Harry’s face.

He let’s out a muffled grunt as the plastic makes contact with his nose, flinging it across the room and croaking, “Fetch!”

Diggle takes off towards his prize and Harry sits up, looking like he just went three rounds with Chewbacca and lost. He’s covered in matted dog fur and his shirt is all wrinkled up and he looks really pissy, which makes you start snickering.

“S'funny, is it now?” He slowly pushes himself to his feet, slugging it towards you. “Real hilarious?”

“Yeah,” you nod, watching as a cluster of bubbles slides down the side of his face. “It really is.”

“Yeah? How about now!” He lunges forward and grabs you by the waist, tackling you to the floor and tickling at your sides.

You try to wrestle him off you but he simply straddles your hips, pinning your hands above your head and biting at your neck playfully, giggling up a storm on your account.

“Gonna have to help me wash off all this hair.” Harry smiles down at you, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and kissing your nose, his hair flopping across his forehead.

“Yeah?”

“Mmhm. And I’ll gladly help you wash some other places, too.”

[the-fandom-assembles]

The great epic has begun. They say history is recorded by the victors. Well history, then, has yet to be written. Heroes have fallen and the world is a ruin of chaos and self-destruction. The time of the apocalypse has come. Who, then, will stand and face the Devil?

Thanos left an indelible mark. What was undone was far from erased and the world is the poorer for the losses he brought to bear. But he is not the only being of power looking to claim Earth as its throne. The enemy from the heavens was defeated. But it is the enemy from the darkest and deepest places who may prove to be the final death knell for the universe.

And yet... hope comes...

Like the ringing strike of a hammer against iron...

Chapter 1

It was a pretty great view. He'd been meaning to check it out; sometime. Those weeks spent in his (new) room; dishes of food going cold at his elbow while he'd sat at his computer and clicked through five years of history that he hadn't lived. Most of the news stories had been about the failing economy; the declaration of martial law around the country, the breakdown of infrastructure. His current roosting spot was exactly the same as it had been the day he'd... dusted. Skyline Tower had been scheduled for completion in 2020. Three years later and, like so many other construction projects, it was an abandoned property with naked I-beams stabbing towards the clouds. It would probably never be finished. Not the way things were, now.

It was bad. So bad. So, so, so bad!

Panic had been clawing at Peter for the better part of three days, now. He hadn't spoken to MJ, or Ned. He was being a coward, he knew, but he'd screwed everything up so much and didn't want them stuck in his mess worse than they already were.

Nothing had been right since Titan.

He hadn't gone back to the apartment. The new apartment.

May was worried but he'd assured her he was fine. Everything was okay; he just needed... he had to think. And he wasn't doing her any favors staying at the apartment, the new apartment, with reporters crawling everywhere. He had begged her to stay with Happy (and he didn't want to analyze that too closely). The media may know who he was but he bet they didn't know about Happy or where to find him. May would be safe. Peter...well, he knew how to hide.

What would Tony...?

No. Nope. He couldn't think about that. He couldn't; no, not no, not now!

Peter crushed the heels of his palms against his eyes until bright colors flared. He gulped and gulped and rocked against his perch until the heat started to leech away from his cheeks once more. He sniffed and lifted his head; noting how the lights below had a halo from his compromised vision. He scrubbed the wet from his lashes and blinked until everything cleared.

Leaning back against a thick beam he let his attention drift – picking out the far off shape of one, particular, building; unique among its neighbors. From this distance he could almost pretend...

A somewhat closer sound pulled his eyes back to his immediate surroundings. Raised voices – then a sharp report from a gun. Peter snatched his mask from the place where he'd tossed it. Dragging the dark fabric over his eyes, he squinted down towards the direction of the shouts. He missed the greeting that used to come with the motion. He hadn't activated Karen since that day... he just couldn't...

Silently dropping down the side of the building, avoiding the use of his webs, Peter dropped to the pavement and crouched – keeping to the shadows. The gunshot had chased off most of the group involved in the fight. There were still three people left behind, however. One of them was on the ground holding his leg. There was another guy beside him on a phone; probably calling for help. The third person looked like a bystander. She was also on her phone. Basically it looked like they had things covered. Sighing, Peter jumped and caught the wall with his fingers; slipping out of sight and feeling the last of his concern leave him at the sound of an ambulance approaching.

He worked his way back through Queens; only using his webs twice when he didn't have any other options. Nobody saw him. He'd promised May he'd stay with her at Happy's apartment for the rest of the week. It just... it felt weird. He was still trying to wrap his head around it. Well... not just that.

His destination was just across the street. Late enough that the building he braced his shoulders against was dark, he gave the sidewalk a quick back and forth before darting towards the back of the shop. Closed for the night but he had an in with the owner. A double rap on the back door and he waited; still keeping eyes and ears open. But the only sounds were from the traffic. The door opened, and Mr. Delmar gave him a look. That same look.

“How you holding up, kid? You look too skinny these days.”

Peter shrugged, accepting the fragrant bag held out to him. “I'm okay. Thanks for the sandwich. Here, I...” He dug into one of the pockets lining the suit but Mr. Delmar shook his head – hand flat towards him.

“Hey; on the house, right? I told you before, kid, your money's no good here. Just... take care of yourself, alright?”

Peter swallowed but pushed the bills back into his pocket; nodding. “I will. I promise.” He knelt to scratch Murph on the head as the fluffy cat coiled around his owner's legs. “You look after this old guy, okay?” A purring mew in response and Peter gave a final pat before straightening. “Thanks... for the sandwich and... everything...”

The older man nodded. “Anytime you need anything, kid...”

Peter pushed a smile across his lips. “I will. Thanks.” He didn't look back as he slunk away.

He didn't open the bag until he was back on his chosen perch; watching the last of the evening turn purple on the horizon as he dug out the first of two sandwiches and a can of strawberry soda. He wolfed down the food – noting, only then, the burn that hunger had left behind. Stuffing the trash back into the bag, he crushed it into a ball before dragging his heels to the open cavity that was meant to one day hold an elevator. A dead dream with a hole left behind.

Leaning forward, he hooked fingers on the straps of his backpack – spraying the webbing with release fluid and slinging the bag across his shoulders.

The trip to Happy's place took around twenty minutes by web. Employing somewhat more conservative travel, Peter reached the rooftop in about an hour. He changed clothes before creeping his way down to the window outside of the spare room. It was unlocked. It was always unlocked. He spread one hand over the pane and slid it up easily. Out of habit he crawled along the ceiling; lowering himself without a sound and listening at the crack of the door. The television was on but there was no talking. It smelled like pasta and his stomach rumbled; as though he hadn't eaten two #5's a little over an hour ago. His phone vibrated. Crossing back to close the window, he checked the screen. So MJ and Ned had been texting him all evening. The last appeared to be a joint effort including a close up pic of their lips making an exaggerated frown. He laughed; he couldn't help it, and sent off a long-ish reply and a gif of a dancing pickle.

“Peter?”

He turned as May rapped on the door frame. She looked... really beautiful. Tired and worried but...

“Hey.” He dropped his phone to the polished end table alongside the bed (no scratches, no ink stains, no wall mounted lamp with the chipped metal shade). “Sorry I... I was...” He fiddled with the hem of his tee. He didn't know how to finish that so he just shrugged.

May approached until her arms could go around him. She didn't say anything; just hugged him and he closed his eyes and breathed in her hair. He didn't know the shampoo she'd used – it wasn't like the kind she usually bought. He finally breathed out and stepped back. “You guys cook?”

May brushed two fingers through his bangs. “Happy made chicken primavera. You hungry? I saved you some in case...”

Peter nodded and followed his aunt from the room. The television was turned down but he pretended that it wasn't because Happy was listening from the other room. The kitchen was still a bizarre space, to him. Open and with lots of counter space and shiny appliances and various pieces of equipment he wasn't totally certain what they did. He hadn't even known Happy liked to cook until the first time May and he had been invited over for dinner. Happy had made grilled salmon.

The leftover pasta was in a pyrex container that Peter could heat in the microwave. He grabbed one of the fancy bottles of sparkling cider from the fridge – trying to beat down the uneasiness of eating someone else's food no matter how often Happy had told him he could have whatever he wanted.

He ate while leaning against the counter and cleaned up afterwards; putting his used dishes in the washer. He took his cider with him to the large living room where May and Happy were sitting on the couch and watching some sorta old musical or something. Peter shifted his feet and had the urgent rush to scurry back to his borrowed bedroom. Happy smiled at him and pointed towards the nearby overstuffed chair. “Wanna join? Your aunt picked this out. She swears it's good.”

May patted Happy on the knee. "It is good when you actually pay attention.”

Snorting, Happy slouched down. “I would if they'd stop singing...”

Dropping into the chair, Peter tried not to sink too far into the comfortable softness. “Isn't that the whole point of a musical?”

Happy pointed at him though Peter wasn't entirely certain what the gesture was supposed to mean. He just smiled in response and earned a smirk back. Belly, for once, a bit over full, Peter set his mostly finished bottle of cider on a magazine (Happy wasn't a big coaster guy) and finally let himself go limp in the way too comfortable chair.

It was some black time, later, when May was rubbing her fingers against his scalp.

“Hey, sweetie... how about you head to bed, okay?” Peter snuffled – wincing as he wrestled to unwind himself from the awkward slump draped over the arm of the chair. It had been a hard lesson, learning that super healing didn't mean he couldn't get a kink in his neck from sleeping like a pretzel.

It was a weaving wander back to the spare room. He rubbed at his eyes and yawned hard enough to crack the tendons in his jaw. “Ow.”

May's hand was a warm span against his back as he slid his feet through the door and towards the queen sized bed. Part of him sorta hated that it was so much more comfortable than the twin back at the old... at the other apartment. But most of him was just glad to flop onto the thick mattress and spread out.

May started to leave but Peter's fingers had caught at her hem. He felt a little silly and small but...

He didn't say anything as she sat back down. He watched her as her fingers found his scalp and rubbed at the small hairs near his temple.

“I've missed you. I know you want to handle this your own way but... you know, there are people who can help you. And we can take care of ourselves, too, you know? But what you're doing; staying away night after night...”

Peter turned his head; eyes landing on the framed poster of the New York skyline taking up much of the far wall. May didn't chastise him further; though he was pretty sure he'd earned more. His fingers dug and pulled at the edge of the comforter that she'd pulled over his shoulders. Heat and cold rushed across his scalp in a familiar tension and he squeezed his eyes; battling the tight clench that worked through his throat and into his belly. He knew hope was lost when his breaths stuttered and his eyes got hot behind his lids.

May didn't ask him what was wrong; not when he turned towards his pillow in a hopeless attempt to stop up the sounds he couldn't prevent. She just brushed at his hair and stayed by his side.

And eventually... eventually... he fell asleep.

҉

May's hand continued to move – her fingers gliding through curls that were desperately in need of a trim. She sat there, every day. Same spot; often enough that she was surprised the mattress hadn't shaped itself to fit her frame.

The figure that stood alongside her was silent; also watching the boy.

“He always hated his curls; at least when he was younger. The first time he ever let his hair grow out was when he was eleven. Glory Grant had moved into the apartment across from ours. Glory Grant was sixteen, wore silk flowers in her braids, and loved curly hair. Of course he was smitten.” She grinned; her fingers coming to rest on Peter's scalp. “Now, of course, he likes to slick it back with product. One guess as to where he got that idea.”

Her companion finally crouched as well; sitting on the opposite side of the bed and letting his hand rest on Peter's shoulder. “What can I say? Kid's got good taste.” Tony couldn't manage a smile, though, his face appearing sallow in the blue lights of the monitor.

May pulled her glasses from her nose and let them dangle from two fingers while the heel of her hand pushed against her left eye. Another headache. Been having them, on and off, ever since she'd come back; standing over a cold stove with a moldy pan of pasta before her. It was only later that she'd thanked every entity in the book that she'd turned the oven off prior to the Snap. She'd heard some stories...

“Will you be here? Tomorrow?” If... always if... The un-worded hope. That maybe it would help. Maybe it would make a difference... if...

“Yeah. Wouldn't miss it.” Tony squeezed the small shoulder under his fingers. And then he stood; tipping his chin towards May. “You coming over, Saturday? Happy's cooking. Some sorta large... meat... thing.”

May smiled and shrugged. “Can I let you know? After tomorrow?” If...

Tony nodded. “Yeah, you bet. Just so you know, you're taking home half of the leftovers, either way.”

He stopped, on his way back out – one hand coming down in a gentle touch on her shoulder. “Hey... we'll get this figured out.”

May looked up – into darkened brown eyes – red-rimmed and showing every hour, every day, that he hadn't slept in the past three months. She knew, far too well, what that felt like. And whatever the whispers tried to say, in the back of her mind, she smiled at him. This room was only for hope. “I know.” Her attention turned back to Peter – fingers tracing along his hairline – rubbing at his temples where the fine hairs curled against his scalp. “Come home, Peter.”

She didn't watch Tony leave. She would stay there, with Peter, as she had every night in the three months since they'd woken back to life, only to find her nephew hadn't quite made it back. He'd been in that room ever since.

“Come home, baby. We're all waiting for you.”