#unsturdy

[w9bvchtphbrru]

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[ribbed-vault-heart]

rate my setup

[crimsonblackrose]

I had planned to spend most of the time my family is out of town looking for jobs but instead I’ve spent it packing. I’ve been looking at everything and deciding will I use this this year? No. Into a box it goes so that when I move it’ll be easier. But one of my coworkers responded to this with “Are you sure you’re okay with moving? Like emotionally?”

And I’ve just had to sit here like well damn.

[twogyuu]

an unfinished tale [one - teaser]

Pairing: Wonwoo x fem!reader

Synopsis: In an age absent of DMs and dating apps, a year you're not supposed to exist in, you defy all odds and manage to fall in love with the neighbor down the hall from your uncle's dorm. Part of you wishes he feels the same, part of you hopes he doesn't - for the sake of your heart and his.

Genre: Fluff, crack, smidgen of angst, first/last loves, time travel!au, 90s!au, college!au, uncle/roommate!chan, chan has a twin brother who is reader's dad LMAO, fairy godmother!seokmin; featuring friends!seungkwan, vernon, and jihoon too 💙

Warnings: profanity

WC: 573 (est total chapter WC ~5k)

A/N: This is a Wonwoo fic, I promise 😂💀 He's just not featured a whole lot in the first few chapters because we're setting up scene! Likely, full chapter to be released at the end of the month or early May :) Please look forward to it!

masterlist

His roommate sat up from his bottom bunk, one hand propping himself up, revealing the top of Chan’s emerald green and white tracksuit. Hair on the back of his head stuck up in all sorts of directions, some strands standing straight up due to the static.

He furrowed his brows, lips setting into a pout – both in confusion and curiosity. Chan asked slowly, “You brought . . . a girl . . . back to our dorm?” 

His eyes drifted from Vernon to the person in question, taking note of her saddened state, but most importantly, her rather bizarre fashion. Vernon understood because he had the same reaction – he just didn’t show it well. At first glance, she didn’t look weird: she wore a cropped bubble sweater with a drawstring around the hem that hit her at the waist, meeting right where her pair of black leggings started. A pair of Converse All Stars with thicker than usual white rubber soles donned her feet. It was all in the subtle detail that just felt off – the leggings made it feel like she was from the last decade, and hell, when did Converse get a height boost? (Where could he find some?). 

Chan’s gaze landed on her face again – she looked so . . . familiar. Did he know her from somewhere? Have they met before?

Chan opened his mouth to say something, only to shut them again, lips twisting tight, wagging his finger at her. The feelings are at the tip of his tongue, but he had no words to express them. 

Regardless of his confusion, the girl stood stiff under his scrutiny, hands pressed into the sides of her legs as she peered at Chan. She seemed too absorbed in her own thoughts to care for Chan’s obvious judgment. Her eyes wide and chin trembling, as if he held the world in his hands and he was the hero she was waiting for all this time to bring comfort to her misery. 

The adoration and relief that swam in her eyes was strange and nostalgic . . . almost as if he was her–

“Do I know–”

“Dad!”

She launched herself into Chan’s chest, tightly wrapping her hands around his waist and collapsing into a whole body-shaking sob. Vernon figured it had been a rough day for her already, but perhaps more than she led on and she was only finally giving into stress.

“Dad?” Chan repeated in an exacerbated, nebulous tone. He immediately looked from the girl then to Vernon. Chan pointed at her, shoulders raising to silently ask, where the fuck did you find her?

Vernon couldn’t help but smile a little, only offering Chan a small shrug in reply before nonchalantly, sauntering to his side of the dorm. He deposited his backpack underneath his old, unsturdy wooden desk that was on the verge of collapsing from all the books piled on it. Vernon settled into the spinning office chair, leaning back and propping up his feet. He had no plans of intervening at any time soon. He was a believer that people should feel their emotions. The girl seemed too fraught and crying seemed therapeutic for her as she clung onto Chan.  

On the contrary, Chan was distressed, unsure of if he should push her away or comfort her. The former felt wrong. . . genuinely, she seemed so sad and desolate. At the same time, he was incredibly uncomfortable.

Dad?

He was certain he did not look that old! So damn rude.

[54625]

Honestly I can safely say I understand Fit's vision for the Scrapyard now. It's a little janky, the house itself up on unsturdy stilts and built out of makeshift building materials; the place is full of random "junk", trinkets, trophies, art, plants; at night it's lit up by fireflies; and the bright fairy lights surround the intimidatingly high fences. It's a juxtaposition of shitty and cheap, cute and homely. It's the exact kind of place I see Fit and Ramón living, honestly.

When I de-minecraft it in my mind, the house is built out of corrugated metal and multicoloured clashing bricks, slightly overgrown, and the yard itself is full of tyres and random decorations, thrown out furniture, and metal scraps for Ramón to harvest for his engineering projects. I see the vision 100%

[celtic-crossbow]

Whumptober 2023

No. 24 Broken Alt Prompt

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Commonwealth (post series/no France era)

Warnings: Broken bones, suggestive/sexual themes

“Daryl!”

You made it to the piping that allowed you to climb down the side of the building. Your group had to scale up on the other side of the iron gate. There was no time to open it and the walkers were right on your heels. With only a narrow, unsturdy ledge to get you all across, you had to move swiftly and yet with care and precision. 

The structure started crumbling when half your group had made it but gave way beneath Daryl as he was above the gate. He clipped the gate but luckily fell onto the side clear of the undead. If you could really call anything that had just happened lucky. 

The archer was moving at least by the time you reached him, dragging himself away from the rotten fingers grasping at his clothes from through the bars. 

“Hey, hey. Don’t move too much. Let me take a look at you.” You dropped your bag as your knees hit the concrete, hands hovering over him frantically. “What hurts?”

“Be easier ta tell ya wha’ don’ hurt.” He carefully lowered himself onto his back, needing a moment to gather his bearings. “Leg.” He finally gritted out. You nodded and turned your body toward his lower extremities. The wound was easy to spot, a dark patch near the middle of his left shin. 

“Looks like you landed on something. Broke the skin. Let me see how bad it is and if we should pull it out.”

Daryl rose to his elbows, the rest of the group forming a protective circle around the two of you. When you cut a larger opening in his jeans to access the wound, your face paled. 

“Shit.” You whispered, wide eyes staring at the very obvious fracture that had broken through the skin. Daryl’s expression matched your own. 

“Please don’ pull tha’ out.” He joked with no real humor in his tone. 

“What’re we dealing with?” Aaron asked with a quick glance over his shoulder. Once he spotted your stricken expression, he turned fully and kneeled beside you. 

“Broken. Looks like tibia but fibula could be fractured as well.” You weren’t a doctor but living in the apocalypse meant that you had brushed up on your medical knowledge. Sometimes, field medicine was required and it was vital to know the name and importance of parts. 

“We jus’ gon’ sit here n’ stare at my leg or we gonna get me up n’ do wha’ we came here fer?” Daryl snapped. He never liked being the center of attention and, with all eyes on him, he was becoming increasingly antsy. 

“The only place you’re going is home. Tomi’s gotta set this.” You started to wrap the wound as tight as you could without sacrificing circulation, wincing when Daryl shot forward with a muttered curse. “Sorry.”

“We don’ need ta go back. I can—”

You stopped him with a gentle hand over his mouth, shocked that it actually worked, though his brows did draw inward. There was definitely a scowl behind your palm. “I know you can. That doesn’t mean you should.”

“She’s right, Daryl.” 

Knowing when to admit defeat when it came to you, the bowman let himself fall back to lie flat with a muttered “fine.” You smiled fondly and patted the thigh of his uninjured leg. 

“Think you can spare anyone to help us get back?” You asked Aaron, chewing your lip. There were so few of you on this mission as it was. 

“Don’t need no one else.” Daryl grumbled, twisting to get his good leg under him. “Gimme a hand, woman.”

“You’re gonna hurt yourself worse being a stubborn ass.” You scolded, but grabbed his outstretched hand anyway. With the help of you and his crossbow, he was able to get to his feet. Well… foot. You placed his arm over your shoulders and gave Aaron a shrug. “I guess it’s just us. Good luck. See you at home.” 

Daryl mumbled a goodbye and then you were on your way. 

“Hey, sleepyhead.” You smiled down at the archer, your fingers smoothing and brushing his long hair away from his face. The two day journey had been rough on his injury, signs of mild infection setting in before you were able to get him back to the Commonwealth. Tomi recommended sedation for setting the bone and cleaning up the wound. Daryl had voiced his displeasure but in the end— after some persuasion from you— he had relented. 

“Leg hurts like hell.” The archer grumbled, maneuvering himself a little further up on the pillows. He swatted at your hands when you tried to help him. His lower left leg was in a cast that descended past his ankle and onto his foot. You watched his already pinched expression morph into one of disgust. 

“Can’t move your ankle without affecting those bones.” You explained. 

“Can’ hunt with one foot.” 

“Oh, you’re not doing any hunting, mister.” Your expression softened when his shifted into something approaching mortification. “We’ve got other hunters, Daryl. Think of this as a vacation.” You turned to grab the water glass from the table. 

“Fer how long?” 

Offering him a drink, you mumbled an inaudible response. He didn’t need to say a word, the flared nostrils and arched brow were enough. “Three or four months.” You winced. 

“Ya gotta be shittin’ me!” He snapped, not at all interested in the water you were offering him. 

“It was a bad break, Daryl.” 

“No shit.” His hands were over his face now, his muscles tense and breathing irregular. You hated to see him like this. Independence was important to Daryl but so was the need to carry his own weight around the community. He was losing both in one fell swoop. 

“It won’t be that bad, you know.” Your fingers wrapped around his wrists and he allowed you to lower his arms before he gave you the most pitiful pout you had ever seen. “You’ll see.”

You moved everything downstairs with the help of Carol and Aaron, turning your living room into a bedroom for the time being. Judith and RJ pitched in with cooking and cleaning, under your watchful eye, of course. 

Daryl was in a sour mood the day he was released to go home. The crutches were difficult to get used to, his leg ached, and he hated the looks people gave him as he hobbled by. He always felt inferior but those looks, to him, confirmed it. 

“Welcome home, Uncle Daryl!” The kids cheered as they threw open the door with Carol right behind them. The corner of his mouth twitched up the slightest bit and he nodded, begrudgingly accepting your help to step up over the threshold. You shared a look with Carol once he had headed through, her hand coming up to squeeze your shoulder. 

When Daryl saw the living room, he visibly deflated, shoulders slumping and head lowering. Carol hugged him from the side and tucked his hair behind his ear. 

“It’ll be okay.” She said quietly. “Okay, kids! Upstairs for homework! Then wash up for dinner!” Rubbing Daryl’s back for a moment longer, she smiled at you. “I’m going to finish up in the kitchen while you get him settled.” 

“Thank you.” You nodded. Daryl maneuvered around to the front of the couch, waiting while you followed so you take the crutches and help him sit down. You were quick to set the equipment aside in favor of helping him get his leg up and stretch out. You grabbed a pillow from the mattress on the floor and placed it against the couch arm so he could lie back. “Comfortable?” You crouched down and rubbed a hand up and down his sternum. 

“Mhm.” His expression was hardly convincing. You sighed and stood, bending to press a kiss to the crown of his head. “I’m gonna help Carol with dinner. Call for me if you need anything.” He nodded again, not meeting your eyes. You gave him one last glance before stepping out of the room. 

“He’ll be okay, Y/N.” 

“I know. I just hate seeing him like this.” You stared back toward the doorway, knowing Daryl was battling inwardly just beyond where you could see. You could only pray he’d settle and allow himself to rest and heal. 

A couple of days passed with you and Daryl settling into a routine. He did things around the house that he could. He rinsed and dried dishes you washed, leaning on one crutch or the countertop. He sat with the kids while they did homework and helped where he could. He made sure the kids got out the door on time for school and welcomed them home afterward. 

Honestly, anything that kept him out of bed or on the couch, he would try to do. You didn’t stand in his way unless he started showing signs of pain. After two days, it was getting a little better, easier to get by without pain medication around the clock. The constant throb had dulled to an ache. 

“You want something for lunch?” You asked, leaning over the back of the couch. Daryl’s eyes opened, his head tilting back to find you smiling down at him. 

“M’okay, thanks.” 

Your fingers busied themselves combing through his hair and scratching lightly over his scalp. You swore you could hear him start to purr. When his eyes closed, you hopped up to teeter on the back of the couch, pressing your lips to his. 

“You know, I can think of a few things you can do that don't require moving from that spot.”

Daryl opened his eyes and laughed as an exhale through his nose. “Oh yeah? S’that?” His smile remained as you comically wiggled back to get your feet onto the floor. 

Rounding to stand in front of him, you smiled with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. “It might even make you feel better.” You threw your leg over him and sat to straddle his hips. His hands came to rest on your sides, just below your ribs. 

“Think s’workin’ already.” Pressing the heel of his good foot into the cushions, he lifted his hips and ground up into you. 

You hummed approvingly. His hands were warm under yours while you guided him to the hem of your shirt. “I can’t seem to take this off by myself. Think you could help me out?”

“Don’ know, Sunshine. Seems like a helluva hassle.” You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled forth as he sat up, your shirt pushed up to your collarbone so he could press his mouth to the valley of your breasts. His fingers had just begun to tinker with the clasp of your bra when there came a knock at your door. 

You both glared in the direction of the entryway, Daryl growling in annoyance. 

“Ignore it.” He huffed, going back to what he was doing. 

“Wait, wait!” As much as you hated to put a damper on his good mood, “what if it’s about the kids?” The archer stilled and sat back. His shoulders dropped and he muttered a curse, jerking his chin toward the door. 

“G’on.” 

You adjusted your shirt and climbed off, shuffling quickly toward the door. When you opened it, you couldn’t stop the bewilderment in your expression. “Can I, um, help you?”

“Hi! I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Elizabeth.” The middle-aged woman shifted her weight from foot to foot, one hand fiddling with the covered baking pan in her arms. “I heard that Mr. Dixon got hurt. I’m real sorry.”

“It’s appreciated but he’s gonna be fine.” You smiled sincerely. “Just taking some time to heal up.”

“I heard.” Elizabeth nodded. “Anyway, back in the spring, when the hospital had the shortage, Mr. Dixon—”

“Please,” you interjected with a soft chuckle, “call him Daryl.”

Elizabeth looked a little uncertain but nodded regardless. “Daryl went out to find the antibiotics my son needed.”

“You’re Peter’s mom.” You remembered what she was talking about. Ezekiel had set up a council meeting to designate a group run. Daryl knew that the kid had been given a death sentence if antibiotics weren’t started within hours. He went out immediately, with only you having the knowledge that he had left. There were only a few places to raid that had previously been marked as too dangerous without a sizable group. He had returned, bloodied and bruised, but with enough antibiotics for several doses. “I hope he’s doing okay now.”

“He’s back to terrorizing his teacher and I. Thanks to Mr. D— I mean, Daryl.”

You felt tears threatening to gather and took a deep breath through you nose before smiling. “I’ll let him know how your kiddo is doing. He’ll be glad to hear it.”

“Oh! Well, I brought this. It’s not much and I had to compromise on some ingredients but it is good.” Elizabeth had no more than peeled back the edge of the towel and your mouth watered. 

“Lasagna. Wow! It's been a minute.” Putting out your hands to take the pan, you smiled brightly, excited to tell Daryl. “He’s going to be pretty damn happy.” You chuckled. 

“He’s the reason I still have my son. When I heard he was hurt, I just had to do something.” Your heart clenched and there were those damn tears again. “Anyway, please thank him for me and wish him a speedy recovery. Thank you, Mrs. Dixon.”

“Oh, I’m—”

“Have a good day!” 

“You…too.” You closed the door with a shrug, taking the pan to the kitchen. You couldn’t seem to dismiss the fluttering in your stomach induced by Elizabeth’s misconception. You placed the dish in the oven to warm later. It’d be a nice dinner for you, Daryl, Carol, and the kids. There wasn’t enough for you all to have much but sharing was something you had all perfected over the years. “Daryl, you’ll never guess who was—” 

He was already balanced in his elbow, waiting for you to finish your statement when you looked toward the entryway after another knock. 

“The hell could tha’ be?”

You shrugged and returned to the door, pulling it open only to find yet another person with an offering and story of appreciation for Daryl. You had no more than thanked them and put the cookies away when there came another knock. 

And another. 

And another. 

And another. 

You finally found time in between guests to explain things to Daryl. He had stared at you in disbelief, eyes shining, but before you could reassure him, there came another knock. You patted his cheek affectionately and continued your endless journeys between the door and the kitchen. 

The kids came home and started to help. Judith assisted RJ with putting away main courses and side dishes. Freezing things that could be and refrigerating what needed it. It was just around dusk when the last knock came. You heard the story and thanked them on Daryl’s behalf, smiling as you closed the door and leaned against it. 

When you returned to the kitchen this time, Daryl was in the doorway with his crutches, watching with an unreadable expression as the kids moved around to put the items away. 

“Ya were serious then?” He asked quietly. 

You snorted. “Not something I’d lie about, Dixon.”

He nodded, his brow creasing. “Don’ help people so they do stuff fer me when shit happens.”

“I know that. So do they.”

He nodded again, this time with a sniff. “Okay.” He positioned his crutches and left for the living room again. You didn’t let him know you had seen the tear fall. You just smiled toward where he had been standing and then continued to help the kids. 

After lasagna, you gave Daryl a break and sat with Judith and RJ for homework time, then sent them to bed with promises of a board game over the weekend. By the time you crawled onto the mattress by the fire, finding Daryl already there— you’d let it slide this time that you knew he needed help and probably made his leg hurt— and staring up at the ceiling. 

On your side to face him, you rubbed your hand over his bare bicep. “Penny for your thoughts.” His eyes slid to the corner to look at you and then back to the obviously more interesting ceiling. 

He cleared his throat. “Jus’, uh… jus’ wonderin’ why them folks went ta all tha’ trouble.”

Your smile was sad this time. “Because you’re important to this community. They care about you.”

“Y’mean they care ‘bout the things I do.”

“No. I don’t.” Sitting up, you turned to sit on your hip. “Why is it so hard to think that people genuinely care about you?”

“Y’know why.” He countered dryly. 

You nodded. “You’re right. I do. I just thought that after all these years, you’d gotten past that.” He sighed, lifting an arm to lay it across his eyes. “You’ve done so much for these people, Daryl. You’ve shown what a good man you are. You’ve earned your place here. You’ve become one of them. And they have grown to care about you; about all of us.”

He moved his arm again, resting it on his chest. “Ya really think so, don’tcha?”

“I know so.” You stated matter-of-factly. He hummed, seeming to mull over your words. When he didn’t say anything else, you crawled over, successfully closing the gap between you. “I think you have some things you were supposed to do for me, Mr. Dixon.”

The corner of his mouth raised into a half-smile. “Ya gonna make me lasagna after I do stuff fer ya?”

“Depends on how well you do it.” You had already bent down to press your lips to the side of his neck while your palms caressed his chest and abdomen. 

“That sounds almos’ like a challenge, Mrs. Dixon.”

There was a smile against his skin. “Heard that part, huh?”

“Maybe.” His large hands grabbed your hips to guide you onto his lap. “I think I liked the sound of it.”

“Are you asking me to marry you?” Your head was tilted while your finger traced shapes over his sternum. He chuckled. 

“Not yet. Ain’t no fun if’n ya know it’s comin’.” He reached to brush his knuckles down your jaw. You let your eyes flutter closed and leaned into the touch. “Would ya say ‘yes’?”

You hummed, leaning down to capture his lips, gently working your mouth over his for but a moment. “Ain’t no fun if’n ya know what I’d say.” You had lowered your voice and tried to rasp each word. 

“Guess we’ll jus’ hafta be surprised then, huh?” He pushed up your shirt, urging you to remove it. You quickly obliged and tossed it somewhere outside the light of the fire. You unhooked the clasp of your bra and allowed it to join your shirt. 

“Guess so.” His hands immediately found your breasts, rolling your hardened nipples between thumb and forefinger. “Now, let me show you how I say thank you.”

He full on laughed, a sound you didn’t hear often enough but cherished just the same; hearty and warm. “Yes, ma’am.”

[pennaraptor]

still wildly undecided on what cage to buy winston, i will probably still choose independently but just for fun (please see information below)

option 1 pros: horizontal bars* for easier climbing, metal (presumably sturdier?) tray, all bars have 1/2 inch spacing.

option 1 cons: horizontal bars that are a thin guage so could be flimsy for perches, kind of weird flat bars on some pieces? idk how to describe it but ive seen pictures and it looks hard to clean and unsturdy. currently not available in the color i want.

option 2 pros: all vertical bars, less moving parts to break, currently available and cheaper.

option 2 cons: plastic tray, larger "decorative gaps" in some places that make it unsafe for a smaller bird.

the horizontal bars were a major pro for me on the first one until i realized installing heavier perches on them makes them flop down somewhat and now im unsure. however it would be good for winston whos not that agile. also i do nottt want it in black and its out of stock in platinum rn

[magicxc]

Hills and Valleys

Synopsis: Legend has it that Halloween is strictly for the scares. With ghouls and goblins, vampires and werewolves, witches and broomsticks, who could disagree?

However, all this friend group wanted was a little trick or treat. Sprinkle in a few party favors, loud music and a cabin in the woods, the myth was bound to come true.

Lurking around the corner is danger like never before, eager to bring this night to a bloody finish.

So join these friends as they fight to make it through a Hallween they’ll never forget.

Word Count: 3506

Warnings: murdaaaa, tha big reveal

Chapter 6 - Jasons POV

A/N: this is legit like my 5th attempt at uploading this damn fic. From the warnings to the word count to the moodboard to the story all the way down to the fucking tagsssss 😩 I am TIRED. Almost turned my phone into jello over Dumblr. So please, enjoy; cause tears def went into this.

Series Masterlist

“What’s with the scrutiny all of a sudden?” Emery challenged. “You know I could say the same for you Jason, the same for all of us really; cause where was anyone when our friends were fighting for their lives?” she sniffled. “All we have to do is sit here til sunrise and we can’t even do that.”

As annoying as I find Emery, she made a decent point. Where was I? Where was anyone and how did this manage to happen unheard? Do I actually believe Lorenzo did it? Not really. He’s lost arguably the two closest people in his friend group, cradling Stephanie in his arms for God knows how long. For a second I almost believed he’d break through the window if it meant he could reach out and hold Julianna much the same; his behaviour eerily composed, reminding me of the calm before the storm - and what a shit storm it’s turned out to be.

Serving in the military, I was taught to survive in extreme atmospheric conditions; training to fight in places as scorching as the desert and as icy as the snow. Our exercises also saw us in unsturdy places such as the choppy currents of the water, arms linked together as we floated on the surface for hours. The sky was no exception either, learning to parachute from altitudes so high the air was all but limited. It wasn’t my dream to fight for this country but, life happens. And while it did come with its perks, I wouldn’t recommend any sane person to join. I’ve scraped so many bodies off the battlefield and sent so many others to meet their maker, I’ve become somewhat desensitized to death - learning to keep calm during the most chaotic and life threatening moments because it’s only then that I was able to live to tell the tale. And that’s what I’ve been attempting since we all found ourselves locked in this place - surviving, lending out my experience to the team who quite frankly doesn't deserve it at this point. All I can do is stay calm long enough to see this night through.

“I think we should waterboard the fucker.”

And here the fuck we go. I’ve never pegged Lynn for such a firecracker but I get it. After all, this night is drawing all sorts of emotions from people: showing our true colors when the universe dangles something so priceless before us.

It's been said that about 1800 people have jumped from the golden gate bridge, yet only 35 have survived the fall. And each person that’s survived has explicitly stated that they regretted jumping halfway through the fall, realising, in the face of imminent danger, just how solvable all their problems seemed. Much like tonight, in what happened to be a party gone horribly wrong, recovering bodies littered around the house like candies during an easter egg hunt, only then do you realise how desperately you want to live. Many people are familiar with the term fight or flight, but what goes most overlooked is a secret third thing - fear. Fear so intense it freezes you to one spot like a deer in headlights, too afraid to move from the oncoming beams of tragedy. But another emotion fear pulls from us is survival, an emotion so fierce that you’d find yourself doing just about anything to have it; even going as far as to commit interrogation tactics of torture.

“Exactly which fucker are you referring to?” Emery questioned.

“Whoever the fucker is responsible for this mess.”

“Go ahead and point them out for us since you know every damn thing.”

They’re on their own with this one. I can't deal with the bickering. I'm used to organized and thought provoking responses in such situations; my irritation rising the more it sinks in just how wet they are behind the ears.

“Lorenzo, you’re one more insult away from me socking you in the face.”

“Whatever Lynn, what you should hit is the books you dumbass,” he retorts.

Throwing her shoe at him, it just barely misses his face; Emery stepping in to call them both childish.

“So help me God if you don’t get your shit together, I’m gonna whoop you like your parents should have.”

“Fuck you Lenny, at least my parents were active enough in my life not to let me get raised by the help.”

“Parent,” Lorenzo enunciated. “Had your dad been able to afford the help, maybe your mom would’ve stuck around you motherless bitch.”

Well shit.

“Jason, do something!”

“Right, uhhh all shoes in the middle of the floor,” I instructed.

“Asshole.”

I don’t know why Emery insists on calling me out. Everyone, despite tonight’s circumstances, in this room is responsible for their own actions. Yet she expects me to jump in the middle of their bullshit every time. I don't know what kind of savior complex they have going on, but I won’t be a part of it. I barely want to be with sugar at this point.

“Lenny you motherfucker, two parents plus the help and yet no one taught you what it means to have common decency; no wonder women can’t wait to get rid of you.”

“Well if it isn’t the whore of Babylon here to teach us a lesson about keeping partners. Tell you what, you teach me how to keep a woman and I’ll teach you how to get rid of the clap.”

“Sex shaming is not cool,” Emery criticized.

“And neither is half the things that's been flapping past Lynn's lying ass lips,” Lorenzo retorted. “If you’re gonna be biased, do so from the corner of the room, cause you’re at about arms length right now and that’s not good for you.

“Would you seriously hit me?” she ridiculed.

I would.

“Are you surprised Em, this is the same piece of shit who yanked Julez arm so hard, it left bruises.”

“You dramatic whore, no the fuck I did not.”

“And that was in front of an entire crowd, who knows what you’re capable of behind closed doors huh? Drowning? Slicing?”

“Sounds like you’re in the mood to find out.”

“Tell me their last words to you as you watched them fight for their lives you piece of shit.”

“YOU GUYS PLEASE.”

Oh my God.

“Shut your mouth Lynn.”

“Tell me every horrifying detail about what fucked you up so bad that you’d turn on your own friends in such a way.”

“I won't ask you again.”

“Steph probably begged you to finish her off didn’t she? Eager to get the hell away from you and your perverted advances.”

For a big guy, Lorenzo’s pretty damn swift. Maybe it’s because all those drinks are still sloshing around in my bloodstream but my cat like senses wasn’t quick enough to catch him.

Angrily lunging toward Lynn his hands are tightly wrapped around her throat, arms trembling from the forceful hold. Beads of sweat drip down his forehead, while spittled foam gathers at the corners of his mouth. Blinking away tears, thick veins line the surface of his neck, incoherent mumbling tumbling past his lips.

Sugar desperately beats at his arms, struggling for air he refuses to give her and my anger shoots through the roof, their foolishness pissing me off for the final time. It takes both me and Emery to tear Lorenzo away from sugar, his grip firm and unrelenting. For a second I feared that he actually intended to kill her. Once we finally manage to drag him away, it takes me putting my full weight on this man, using one of my hand to hand combat moves to lock him into place.

Pinned beneath me, I scream to Emery to grab anything strong enough to tie his arms together. She brings me back one of the kitchen towels and I roll us sideways so that she can wrap it around his hands.

“I - I can't do it, he won’t stop thrashing his arms.”

“For fucksake Emery TRY, there’s only so much I can do right now.

With lots of wiggling and flailing, Emery manages a decent enough knot for me to turn him over and reinforce it. Sugar finally catches her breath before storming into the kitchen.

We sit Lorenzo in a chair while Emery tries to coax him into comfort. Standing up, he head butts me in the face, my nose immediately leaking blood from the impact. My fist returns the favor, knocking him back into the chair. Emery harshly tugs on my elbow, begging me to stop, and it takes everything in me to do just that because this fight was about to turn real unfair, real quick.

Dragging my arm across my face, I look about the room for anything to tie down his legs to the chair, coming up with some loose cloth, which undoubtedly was a part of someone’s costume.

“Fuck all of you,” Lorenzo screams.

“No Lenny, fuck you,” sugar screeched, thumping back to the room; a pitcher full of water cradled between her hands.

“Woah, woah, woah LYNNLEY. Are you fucking serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“This is Lenny, the same Lenny we’ve known since middle school.”

“People change Em and I'm about to show you just how much.”

“Sugar, maybe we should-“

“Shut up, all of you.”

“I know there’s been a lot said tonight, some things in particular we can never take back,” Lorenzo sighed. “And I know tensions are high right now, but are they so high that you’d all sit there and watch me die.”

“Lorenzo, no one’s gonna kill anyone man.”

“It’s WATERBOARDING, you of all people should know that it can very well get fatal.”

“Enough of this.”

Grabbing a fistful of his hair, she pulls his head back, pouring enough water on him to drench his clothes, before being snatched away by Emery.

It's not nearly enough to kill him, but it does make for some discomfort, much like accidentally snorting a noseful of water once you dive inside a swimming pool. It burns but that's about it.

Coughing through his discomfort, I listen as sugar and Emery go back and forth over the severity of it all; and I briefly contemplate killing myself if it means that I won't have to deal with their nonsense. I honestly don't know if I can make it to sunrise like this and by the looks of it, neither will they.

Their bickering finally subsides, them agreeing only to question the man and nothing more. Of course Lorenzo detests it, that for no other reason than a hunch he’s guilty and lowkey he’s right. But then again, I'm not inserting myself into their madness. They’ve made it this far in this fucked up friend circle, they can make it the rest of the night.

“So lemme get this straight, you went upstairs to find cell signal and somehow found yourself next to a knife stricken Steph?”

“Lynn, ask your damn question.”

“How did you end up there and why?”

“My phone fell out of the window and I was looking for someone elses to use. It just so happened that Steph was the first person I found.”

“I think we should stop asking who may have done it, but why?” Emery proposed. “I feel like if we can figure out who had motive, we can narrow it down.”

“Well this is a pretty fucked up way to narrow things down. I'm literally tied to a chair.”

“That's because you choked me.”

“And I’ll do it again, you’ve been out of pocket since this whole thing started. How do we know you’re not the killer huh?

“Because I’m holding back from killing you now,” she shrieks.

Spitting, the thick glob lands directly on her chest, sugar all but emptying the contents of the pitcher onto his face; angrily clomping back into the kitchen to no doubt fill it again, but not before slapping him across the cheek.

Wet and stinging, that's quite the combination. I fear this has gone on long enough and it's only escalating. As much as I wanted to stay out of it, I think I better intervene.

Following sugar into the kitchen, I try to talk her out of this crazed state, her dazed pupils letting me know that she’s too far gone for reason. Pushing past me, she heads back into the living room where we see Emery struggling to untie the knots off Lorenzo, his violent coughing trying to dislodge the water that seeped into his lungs.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

“The hell does it look like I'm doing Lynn, this is mad and it needs to stop now.”

“Not until I get some answers.”

“People who talk, talk after their first contact with water,” I bargained. “And he’s not talking.”

“All that means is we have to get him talking then.”

“OR, it means he didn’t do it. You pour a bucket of water over someone’s nose and they’ll tell you whatever you want to hear if it means you’ll stop.”

“And yet you did it anyway,” she glared.

“There was a time where I would’ve died for all of you. I found a family in you guys and it filled a void I didn’t even know I had. And in one night, one measly fucking night I lose it all,” Lorenzo whimpered. “My best friend gets murdered without us ever properly mending things between us. I had to watch the love of my life die in my arms. And now, my other friend is actively trying to kill me, disregarding our decade long friendship all in the name of anger.

“Lorenzo, you did this to yourself!”

“LYNN, how fucking cruel can you be?”

“It’s alright Em, I’ve been known to be a bit of an asshole, though I’d like to think I meant well,” he bitterly chuckled, snot trickling down his nose. “Do me a favor and survive this fucked up night, cause God only knows who Lynn will turn on next. Not to mention that fucker over there,” he says, head nodding toward me. “Ain't it a little odd how all of this starts happening the moment he shows up? Yet I'm the one you helped him strap down to a chair. They ask what would you do for a klondike bar, but you better start asking what would Lynn do for a piece of dick, cause apparently it’s kill for it.”

“Lorenzo, I'm actually on your side. The only reason you’re even tied to that chair is because you attacked two people in this room,” I defended.

“And what's the reason I'm being waterboarded huh? Who weaseled that thought in her mind? You say you fight for your country? Motherfucker you can't even fight for the people in this room, but you like what’s happening huh?

“Not at all man.”

“We get it, I'm a dumb hoe, but you’re about to be a dead one if you don’t fess up.”

“And then what? You’ll let me go free?”

“Jason, please help me untie him,” Emery pleaded.

“Em don’t you fucking dare.”

Lunging toward her, hands get tangled into hair and nails get scratched into skin before I can get between them. It takes more strength than I care to give to hold Emery back, both she and sugar throwing around insults.

“Lynn I swear, you’re more trouble than you’re worth,” Lorenzo taunted. “YOU ARE THE CUM SHOT YOUR MOTHER SHOULDVE SWALLOWED. It would’ve saved your dad a lifetime of headaches and your mother the embarassm-“

Lorenzo’s words get cut off by the splashing of water, his gurgling noises buried under the guzzling of the pitcher. Emery goes wild, hitting my chest repeatedly and I toss her to the ground, jetting over to the scene behind me. Slapping the pitcher from Lynn’s hands, it's on the verge of empty, nothing but a trickle left inside as it splatters to the floor.

Lorenzo’s body furiously thrashes around, his chest caved in and head hung over with water spluttering from his mouth in an attempt to rid it from his body.

“Shit, Lynnley what the fuck did you do,” I screamed.

Emery is struggling to undo the knots, but all she’s doing is pulling them tighter together. I race over and lean the chair forward, hoping for gravity to expel some of the water from his airway, his body jerking about minorly.

“Why are you just standing there, find something to cut him loose.”

Scrambling into the kitchen, I hear dishes clinking and slamming together before Lynn comes running out with a knife, slicing through the cloth as best she can. The kitchen towel, since it was the thickest, took the longest and by the time we got him out the chair and on the floor, his fits has ceased.

Getting into position, I lock my hands together and press down on his chest, 30 times just like we did in training.

“Emery, once I count to 30 I need you to tip his head back and blow two big breaths into his mouth okay.”

“And what do I do?”

“Stay the fuck over there, I doubt he’d want your help at this point,” Emery yelled.

We do five sets of 30 compressions. The CPR forces out some of the water but Lorenzo is still unconscious.

“Why isn’t it working?” Emery wails.

“Em-“

“Why are you stopping, keep going.”

“Stop.”

Pushing against my chest, Emery restarts CPR.

“The lungs are about 9 inches in height, that's a little under a foot.”

“Nobody cares, just fucking help me.”

“The pitcher that Lynn poured over his face looked to be about 64 ounces and she did it twice. That was enough water to fill his lungs three times over.”

“We can do it, I know we can,” she croaked.

“There's no amount of CPR that can expel that much water. And his lungs are so heavy they’re actively swelling as we speak.”

“We won’t know unless we try Jason, you get the mouth and I’ll get the chest.”

“Blowing air into his already expanding lungs won't help Emery.”

“Am I supposed to just watch him die then?” she chided. “Isn’t there a way to drain it?”

“I'm no doctor and neither do we have the tools or the sterile space to do that.”

“Fuck a sterile space!”

“Not only would you infect him but stabbing anything in his chest to ‘drain it’ will only make him bleed out. We would need a very specific and precise needle.”

“No, we can do it,” she answered, starting the compressions again.

The splattering of liquids on the floor lets me know that Lynn has just emptied the contents of her stomach, but I'm in no mood to comfort.

“The body works in 3’s. Three days without water, three weeks without food, and three minutes without air. It’s been about seven now.”

“Shut up.”

“Lorenzo’s lungs are so heavy they’ve probably detached from his windpipe. That, coupled with no oxygen to his brain…at least he was unconscious before it happened.

“Jason either you help me or you leave,” Emery threatened, fat teardrops rolling down her face in droves.

There’s five stages of grief and they’re at the first one. Back against the furniture, I hold my head in my hands, listening to sugars light whimpers and Emery's ragged breathing.

She tires herself out with compressions, fists flying to his chest, pleading for him to wake up. Hands clutched over her ears, sugar rocks back and forth, mumbling out apologies, expletives, and frustrations; guilt no doubt eating her alive.

Hands dropping to my pocket, I rummage around for anything I can chew on, ready to get out of here and never see these people again. Fingers slipping free with the peppermint goodness, I unwrap it and pop it in my mouth.

Some minutes pass by, how many I don't know and the night grows quiet. As tragic as it’s been for everyone, this minute's peace brings about a small sense of tranquility. There’s the occasional sniffle and I watch as the sky transitions from pitch black to a pale pink, the telltale sign of the sun about to rise.

“At least his parents will be home soon right?” sugar questions.

“Yep, right in time enough to see their only son sprawled out on the floor and his friends scattered across the property. So much for the new owners, their home just turned into a crime scene.”

“Do you have any more gum?” Emery asked, voice sore from crying.

Tossing it in her direction, she catches it, face upturned once she removes the wrapper.

“Eww, Jason what the fuck, who the hell buys brown gum? What kind of flavor even is this?”

“It's peppermint,” I answered, popping a bubble.

“Still weird, I haven’t seen this shit since-“

The words die on her tongue. She looks up to me, revelation fresh on her features, which slowly etches into panic, as a sinister grin makes its way onto mine.

[marta-bee]

I'm feeling a very real and pressing need to read a Discworld novel lately. Everything I've read about them is just lovely and seems like the kind of thing tailor-made to excite my rather unique sense of humor. On the flip side, there's just so many of them and I am such a dreadfully slow reader; the whole prospect seems thoroughly overwhelming.

This is not a new problem. The sheer number of books I would enjoy if I ever got around to them is enough to crush a not-unsturdy animal.

[eclipsewarrior101]

Inbox {hi, so i got excited as you know, and you're cooking with this nightmare scanario, so i'm just here to drop a little something before it consumes my brain :) }

This was something me and @starpiratee were talking about for macnacross ship au idea cause there isn’t enough of this. An idea where they get to have a happily ever after together.

Written by nova /@starpirateee. Please check them out they do starkid fic requests and more.

Title: Reunion in the Black & White Part 1

“ Wilbur…?”

The name hurt, like a knife strike taken straight to the throat. The thing that once bore that name twisted away from the sound of it, somewhere between repulsed and violently disturbed. That wasn't who he was anymore, They had taken it away from him, stripped bare his identity and everything that made him the man Wilbur Cross.

What remained— the thing that called himself Wiley in an attempt to seem more human than he was— had learned to recognise that name as something other, as something detached from himself. It hurt less that way.

Still, it rang through the inside of his brain, rebounding off the echo chamber the Lords had left so purposefully empty, and sunk in deep. Though, no matter how hard he tried to say something, no words escaped. He wanted to protest, to claim that they knew he wasn't Wilbur, but something stopped him in his tracks.

That voice wasn't one of theirs.

That voice, reluctant as he was to admit it, belonged to one John McNamara. And he would know it anywhere.

Once upon a time, that would've been a good thing. John's fresh-coffee-and-ink voice was always a reminder of the present; maybe of the work they had to do, or something he'd gotten excited about, or the small hours of the late night that the two of them would spend locked in conversations about the respective theories of physics and mechanics. John himself was a comforting presence once, too. There was a deep affection there, and that was something not often shared between the people of their industry.

Now? Now John's voice was nothing more than a reminder of the things he could never have. That tone— that oh so familiar, welcoming tone— had been used against him one too many times. Now it came with an automatic response. Now, Wilbur became aware that he needed to get rid of whatever was causing the vision or the projected image of the man he used to love... Before it ended up getting worse.

They'd pulled this trick before. They'd used John's name, his image, his voice against him in so many ways that Wiley was no longer able to discern which of his memories were real and which were tarnished replications from the multiple occasions his affections had played a significant role in the Lords' entertainment.

Flashes fanced through his head. He wasn't even sure if his eyes were open. Something burned. John was injured again. This wasn't real... It wasn't real, but he wouldn't go away with a blink. The injuries didn't change, and they didn't shift. This was worse than the rest of them. John wasn't moving, but his eyes were still blue. He was wounded, trying to hold himself up, but it looked for a second like he didn't know how. Like he wasn't used to the vast nothingness and the unsturdy, ever-moving blackness.

Their gazes met from a distance both feet and inches away. John's eyes were blue. They hadn't been blue since before all this. Since before the portal, and the dark, and the endless torment...

They were getting better at their games.

"Wilbur..." The John-shaped thing muttered again, as if he couldn't believe it. For him, he had been running in a place with no direction, trying to find an escape he wasn't even sure he was going to reach. And while he hadn't found an escape, he had found something— someone— that he couldn't decide was a worse or a better fate.

Was it all a dream? A violently realistic hallucination caused by his slow, steady departure from the plains of existence?

Wiley stood, rose to his full height. He was taller than John remembered, somehow, even though there was a part of him that believed that was impossible. Wilbur had been the same height as long as he'd known him, nothing ever changed in that regard. And yet it seemed so unmistakably true that now, against all odds, he was taller than he was the last time he stepped foot in PEIP hq.

"Shut up." His voice was harsh— stained with the phantom pain of screaming into an endless void— and as cold as the air that hung between them. John faltered, his brow furrowing.

"Huh?"

"Shut. The fuck. Up. You ain't foolin' me this time," he hissed, though he wasn't entirely sure whether he was scared or mad beyond comprehension.

"Wilbur, what're you talking about?"

"STOP! I don't care if ya can't think of nothin' better, and this is the best you got, but you. do not. get to call me _that._"

His breath came out heavy. He was staring desperately at John, trying to make sense of why there was nothing wrong with him, and why this was the most accurate they'd ever gotten to a vision of John, and why this one seemed so hellbent on trying to destroy him from the inside out. Playing with his mind was one thing, but making him hold onto the past— making him see the last person who would ever hurt him— it was getting more and more painful with each iteration.

He took a lengthy step towards the John-shaped thing. John didn't hesitate, nor did he try and advance. He did, however, seem to be unsturdy on his feet, like the injury was really holding up. Like this wasn't an act.

That was impossible. John wasn't here. He'd warned him not to open the portal again. He'd been too afraid of finding out what the Lords would do to him— to anyone— to even consider the possibility that John would, one day, open the gateway again.

Wiley kept advancing. John became less and less certain about his ability to keep himself upright, and stumbled back a half pace. The moment he registered the movement, Wiley pulled a knife, done with the lies and done with seeing them mess with John like this.

"You don't know him." He pointed the edge of the blade threateningly close to John's throat, starting to circle him like a predator. "Ya never have. Ain't too clever from up close. Soon's I drive this thing into his heart, you ain't got another way t'mess with him."

John's eyes went wide. He vaguely recalled the events that transpired the day Wilbur returned from the excursion on the other side of the portal, and the mad bastard he'd become through some means unknown to everyone at PEIP... This was that, wasn't it? Something in this expanse had left him broken, and that was what was going on now...

Instinct told him to edge away from the knife, but Wiley stopped his pacing the moment John so much as shifted. He glared at him with an animalistic hunger, seemingly waiting on him to say something, or to make a move.

"Wil, I-" the blade touched the edge of his throat. "Wil, please! I don't know what you're seeing but I don't know what you're talking about!" He tried to keep his voice as level as possible, but it was hard with the panic surging through him and the glint fron the knife up against his neck.

Wiley faltered. He hadn't heard that nickname in over a decade. Only one man had ever called him that, and it had been ingrained that far into his mind that the Lords had never found it, no matter how much of him they scraped out and replaced.

"... John?"

John nodded, and slowly reached under the collar of his shirt. He pulled out a chain, similar— so Wiley noticed— to the one he was wearing himself. On the end were a pair of tags, and the topmost one bore a name that made him drop the knife completely.

Cross, Wilbur D.

As the relief flooded him like a monsoon, he lifted his hand to the ones around his own neck, the ones bearing John's name, and a shaky smile started to flicker on his face.

"John!"

[26aspen-edits]

"I'm a red man through and through."

Oh, are you now?

hi guys, sorry theres been no art posts lately, I was off last week cause of good omens 2 and now that ive seen season 2 it put me in a angsty mood so heres a sad lance from voltron chronicles

context that is gonna break your heart: larmina died when the team was randomly sent by the galaxy alliance to fix the old bell tower near the school, this ended up being a set up by wade to kill one of the paladins since he knew how unsturdy the tower is but it ended up killing larmina by making her fall to her death and lance then willingly gave up his position as red as to not traumatize/"blame" allura for taking the position

original pic below

[marloart]

Kindergarten Boyfriend for @heathersthemusicalzine (back in 2019)

Partially inspired by those weird double exposure portraits that were so common in the 80′s. I also wanted to make a clear distinction between her daydream and the harsh asphalt below the highway overpass. Especially that the barrier between fantasy and reality was by clinging to the thin wire of that unsturdy fence. 

[werdlewrites]

masterlist - ao3 - twitter @ djomamma

Share support through likes, comments, and reblogs! Find my kofi here for further support and early chapter access.

summary: “I’m sure I can handle it. And you? You’re not going t’say a word, got it? Not t’anyone.” It’s a warning—a threat—as his finger points like a gun, holding him hostage until he surrenders. Steve can only accept his fate—one worse than Hopper’s anger—as he pictures her face contorted in rage. His arms raised to rest behind his head, fingers locked with a gaze far off beyond the parted blinds at the other's back. “Lying t’a superhuman. Great. I’ll get my will ready. Seeing as, y’know, she’ll definitely kill me.” warnings: Steve is an angel, emotional avoidance, secrecy, some Jopper wc: 3,750

The night is long—nearly never-ending. It was far past any normal dinner time, but their situation wasn’t exactly deemed normal. Together, the pair sit in the living room with paper plates of warmed food. They bicker over who gets the unsturdy sofa, knowing it’ll buckle with their weight added together. She uses the excuse that he’s worked all day and needs to rest. He argues against her, willing to sacrifice his comfort for a girl in distress. But she falls to the now-cleaned floor across from the couch, ignoring his words as a fork cuts away at the lasagna. Briefly, he fumes. He was nearly red in the face at just how stubborn she was, but ultimately chose to sit on the floor as well, disregarding the ache in his back. They talk about little things—from how his day went at work to what her favorite classes were to how she managed to find her way back out of the woods on her own. He’s impressed by her bravery, yet he's still frustrated at her inability to listen. It’s how kids are; he knows that.

Through a mouthful of noodles, she asks about her home. If that level of destruction was truly at the hands of one man, paired with her own curse, Hopper seems reluctant to give clarity, thinking over his words carefully before choking down his mouthful, wincing at the lump as it slithers down. “It’s a cover-up,” he mumbles, preparing another bite to pile onto his fork. There’s a pause between them both, chewing behind her hand before asking, “For what?” He waits, his eyes fluttering elsewhere as he continues on this false path. “Don’t know yet. I just know that he’s not a good man.” What comes in reply isn’t what he anticipates. A hearty snort to echo in this small space shared. “Yeah, no shit.” They fall silent just after—a look of wonder and worry in his stare, watching as she so casually pulls apart her meal. Unaware of the torment to twist and tear at her mind, she was unable to escape the sight of the grayed woman and the girl she connected with in that space. A girl who seemed very much alive and aware. Somehow pulling Autumn’s mind into her own, where there was only fear, blood, and the man to invade her home. It’s an unsolved mystery—no simple man could give an understanding of the storm she fought through. Yet still, she speaks. “He’s not the only one I saw.” Her voice is soft, like a gentle summer breeze. Warm, and barely heard beneath the crickets from just beyond the front door. He questions who, and the passionate pace she held for a hot meal slows to a standstill, shrugging in response. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like... I’m just seeing someone else’s story. Their life, y’know? And he’s right there. I don’t get it.” There’s a beat, and then the atmosphere around her seems to shift. Nightmares are lifted, or rather forced back into the closet, to live in ignorance as she stands from her place to discard her plate. Her hand extends down toward him, waiting for his own, and he can’t help but offer a nod in thanks, though the smile he wears is fake. As they turn from one another, he allows the weakness to creep in, his grin falling flat as a stare burns holes through the floor. Words rush forward before being swallowed back down, shards of glass to rip at his insides, and his pain goes unheard as she scrubs at the utensils. He wants to give her the space she needs to move at her own pace, but the secrets are a slow and unseen torture within him. Slowly, he lets them trickle out for some sort of relief from the pressure. “He knows your father,” he states with a cracking voice, picturing the way her eyes shoot daggers toward his back as if he misspoke. “Works with him, I think.” She doesn’t budge from her place in the kitchen, turning at the handles until the water eases its flow. He’s not even entirely sure if she heard him. But she asks, “Doing what?” She already knows. At least she knows enough to where the idea is less surprising. He wonders what she’s seen—what he’s told her, if anything at all. “I’m not sure,” A lie. Too fearful to look her way in anticipation of a glare, plucking out the weeds of an ugly truth. He’s hesitant, ready to cast away his gaze should tearful eyes find him, but she remains facing the sink, fingers gripping the edge.

In a breath, she turns with arms crossed over her chest, seeming more irritated than disturbed by the idea of the girl's father working with a man on a mission to steal her away. Then, the denial comes in like a burst of wind to blow away the heavy fog. Eyes lit with new energy and purpose. “Well,” she says, cutting through the silence. “You better figure some shit out. I can’t imagine how much schoolwork I’ve missed. I’m probably failing right now, Hop. Failing.” His mouth is hung agape, with a slight twist at the corner of his lip in pure disbelief. He’s seen this behavior before, staring right back at him in the mirror. The switch you flip, leaving the room dark and a mind ignorant of reality, so that you may live. “You were almost abducted, and you’re worried about school?” She makes a face, shoulders shrugged with palms out to the sky, as if to say, “Duh,” and he’s baffled. “CPS will come knockin’, and then what?"

He knows the girl is right. He knows her empty home echoes with numerous phone calls from the school, searching for the missing girl. He’s not ready to let her walk through those doors and out of his sight. Not without a plan. So, Wednesday morning comes, and he’s back in the office, plotting and making secretive phone calls to the only other person who’s familiar with the situation, Steve Harrington. The boy was eager to help in any way that he could, though cut short the moment he attempted to mention her name over the line. Hours pass, and the sound of sneakers scuffing along the tile brings his full attention toward the shut door, listening to the sounds of complaining as the door is forced open. It’s well after hours of school coming to an end, and the boy's face is still holding remnants of sweat with flushed cheeks. “Sorry,” he mumbled, kicking the door shut behind him as he flipped a thick stack of paperwork with a single hand. “Had practice after class. It must’ve slipped my mind. Life’s been so crazy,” he finishes with an uncomfortable laugh. Hopper is left unimpressed or amused by the boy. Arms folded over the table to support his weight, as his stare burns through freckled skin, a smile quickly falters. “Y’know…because of?” He waits in silence, studying the other man's expression carefully, yet all he offers is an extended hand, waiting with great impatience. “Yep, anyway,” he states quickly, slipping the collection into Hopper’s grip. Now satisfied, the officer sits back in his chair to sift through the work. Specific things he’s requested.

Autumn’s homework.

Steve watches as the man's face twists up in familiar annoyance, saying a silent prayer that the girl would never ask for his help with precalculus. “Good job,” he sighs, letting the stack fall to his desk with a “whap,” before leaning further back in his chair, hands running along his tired face. “All she can think about are her grades,” Hopper snorts. The humor isn’t lost on Steve, his lips turning up in a smile as he settles into the chair just across from the chief. “That doesn’t surprise me.” The man casts a glance in the boy’s direction, a subtle frown developing the more comfortable he gets. Like he belonged in a place like this—a secret agent working undercover for Hopper and a wanted girl. His thumbs twiddle, and his focus shifts around the shared space, taking it all in with his lips parting before closing again. He wants to speak but feels small under Hopper’s stern stare, swallowing his words. The police chief can hardly handle the growing tension, snapping, “What?" Earning a wide-eyed look from Steve in surprise. “What?” he repeats back with an innocent tone, his ignorance not once fooling Hopper. “You’ve clearly got something on your mind. Spit it out.” He’s uncertain, lips pursed with an avoidant focus as scrambled thoughts collect. His hesitance is visible in the way his Adam’s apple bobs, fidgeting hands now frozen though his knee bounces. “I just, uh,” he pauses, now chewing at his still-healing lip. "How—how is she?” A heavy intake of air fills the man's chest, exhaling, “She’s fine,” he said, his eyes now locked on the quiet phone at his desk, waiting for a ring of interruption. What he gets in return, however, is a hard snort just across the way. “Yeah, I’m sure. She seemed real fine before I left.” Steve leans with his back against the chair, arms folded over his chest, and a look of light amusement in his expression. “Can’t imagine being in the best mental state after finding o-” “She doesn’t know,” he cuts in, watching how it all shifts into something of disbelief. Like all he had known was ripped out beneath his feet, now unbalanced and incapable of processing this new reality. “What?”

The teen waits in silence. He was hoping for a shift in the atmosphere or a twist of a smile to suggest he was only joking. But he’s stoic and empty. “Are you kidding me? You haven’t-? How can you explain-?” “It’s complicated, kid,” the man mumbles behind the hand to scrub away his frown lines. A glare soon lands on the boy as he scoffs, following with, “Yeah, no shit, it’s complicated.” Steve seems ignorant of his tone or the lack of respect shown to not just a peer but also an officer. He sees them as companions, a duo linked together through unsettling times. A friend in the darkness, when no one else could understand. "But it’s going t’get about one hundred times worse if you don’t tell her.” He feigns a smile, replying, “I’m sure I can handle it. And you? You’re not going t’say a word, got it? Not t’anyone.” It’s a warning—a threat—as his finger points like a gun, holding him hostage until he surrenders. Steve can only accept his fate—one worse than Hopper’s anger—as he pictures her face contorted in rage. His arms raised to rest behind his head, fingers locked with a gaze far off beyond the parted blinds at the other's back. “Lying t’a superhuman. Great. I’ll get my will ready. Seeing as, y’know, she’ll definitely kill me.” With a roll of his eyes, Hopper stands with the paperwork in hand, making his way towards a discarded duffle bag, plunging them into its depths where few other secrets remain hidden. The last thing he needed was for someone to stumble into his unoccupied office, his mind filling with a thousand questions after finding homework scattered across his desk.

He waits in silence, hands hung on his hips, while he watches as the boy lives out what he believes to be his very short future and torturous end. His stare glazed over with anxiety and unavoidable doom. “I need another favor,” Hopper speaks up, immediately regretting his lack of control once he sees the curl of a smile. “I seem t’be doing a lot of those lately.” He doesn’t allow enough room for the response to evoke annoyance, pushing through with a clear mission ahead. “I need you t’watch her.” “Watch her?” he questions, tone dripping with uncertainty and confusion. “I don’t know where those people are. They could be out there,” he gestures towards the space out just beyond the closed door, where people filed in to provide complaints against their neighbors. Hell, it could have been Florence, for all he knew—keeping tabs on a man who threatened the secrecy of their operation. “I can’t be there all of the time. I’ve got t’keep up some sort of illusion here. Just-just watch her at school for me.” “Oh, she’ll love that. Being spied on.” Hopper pulls from the wall, fingers curled into fists as they press against the desk that separates them. It’s then that the boy feels as though he is being buried alive, with Hopper holding the shovel as he looms over the grave. It’s intimidating, and he feels himself shrink away, looking for a quick escape. Preparing to scale the walls of his demise. “You got a better idea?” He’s unable to find his voice at first, his lips parting to speak and nothing coming forward until he clears his throat, carving a shaken path. “Jonathan? She actually likes him,” he finishes with a heavy-hearted sigh, a look of sadness in his eyes as his arms fall to rest lazily over his torso. The officer isn't exactly the most knowledgeable when it comes to teenagers or their strange behaviors. But he isn’t blind to the clear disappointment and longing, and he uses that to his advantage, taking a softer approach to tug at his strings. “She asked about you,” he offers in a light tone, pushing himself back to give the boy the space he needed. “She asked if you were okay. Seemed worried t’me.” The boy doesn’t respond just yet, taking it all in with great caution, weary of this sudden shift after all of her verbal lashings.

But it was different now, right? Autumn had opened the door for him and given him a place of rest when he felt lost. He had pulled her from the fire at the risk of his life. Should he dare be hopeful that maybe she found a familiar security in him? Even at minimal, a tolerance. “I strongly recommend leaving your bullshit behind, kid. Get over whatever happened between you two. We’ve got bigger problems than some... ’Lovers quarrel,’” he adds with fingers raised in a quotation. He doesn’t miss the way freckled skin flushes with embarrassment, nearly shooting out of his seat to argue. “Not lovers! We never-” “Save it, kid. Are you going t’help me or what?” A steadying breath fills Steve’s chest, his foot nearly kicking at the carpeted floor as he thinks it all over. The two had barely scratched the surface of friendship—he wouldn’t even call it that just yet. The ties of their connection are still blowing in the wind, torn in two. Could he force himself into her space for her safety, but at the risk of her pushing back? He sees the face of every teacher in that school, posing as an educator but keeping a close eye on the girl as she lets her guard down behind a book. He thinks of them isolating her just as she tries to leave the class—another sedative to keep her from screaming—before carting her off without detection. Some things are worse than her anger—her annoyance and lack of understanding as he lingers at her back, so he nods. “I’ll keep her safe.”

By the time the end of Hopper’s shift comes, he’s found some form of relief. The crushing weight on his chest is lifted, but only just. Knowing she would be looked after in places he could not go gave him comfort. No, he didn’t expect Steve to rush in head-first and fend off monsters disguised as humans. A sinister gleam in their eyes and eager hands ready to snatch. But he hopes, with his presence by the girl's side, that any plans of disruption will be discouraged long enough until she’s under his watchful eye once more. But the iron that lays out across him, threatening to concave, has names for all the things he has yet to solve. Her father and the medication he forced upon his daughter. The girl named Jane, and what role did she play in all of this? What role did Autumn play? The sheriff needs more than just the camaraderie between himself and Steve, a mere boy who stumbled into this chaos by chance. Hopper seeks solace in someone familiar with the turmoil. The struggle of having their life flipped on its head. So when the sun sets just over the horizon, leaving a glow to spread through the evening, he finds himself standing at the Byers’ front door, taking in the calm as all seems to stand still behind the door. Joyce had pulled the newspaper from the windows, now pulling the curtains shut to hide from anyone too nosey to get a look at the undead boy. He would have thought it empty if it weren’t for the glow of a lamp and a sudden clattering followed by, “Shit.” A smirk graces his features, knuckles tapping against the wood, and he imagines the look of surprise on Joyce’s face. “One second!” She calls back.

The ruckus inside continues as she sets things down in a hurry; the click of an undone lock is heard just before she peers out through the crack. Light shines on his face, a low "Hi" drifting through the cold air. “Hopper,” she calls in surprise, now pulling the door back to welcome him inside. “I’m so happy t’see you,” she states with a shuddering voice, shoulders hunched as she fights the breeze that slips through before the door can close. “Things just... it all just got crazy, and..." she pauses, arms crossed over her torso for further warmth. She seems almost embarrassed, avoiding his gaze. Teetering back and forth until the words finally come through. “I’m sorry I didn’t call.” The man makes a face of confusion at her apology, amused by her seemingly scattered priorities. “You just got your boy back, and you’re worried about a phone call?” Of course, she was. He could see the guilt in doe eyes as they looked up at him. Together, they had marched through the devil's door and made it out alive. She thought of him daily. Where he had gone and if he was okay. Her days were long and dragging, filled with exhaustion as Will cried in the night, seeking comfort from his nightmares. Her body was too tired to reach for the phone, but she took the sight of his SUV in town as something positive. “It’s fine, Joyce,” he reassures with a smile—one that she returns in full.

Hopper gives himself a moment to drink in the changes in her home. The hole was still boarded, and clutter had been cleaned up from the floor after the monster's attack. One thing he noticed above all else was a lack of multi-colored lights that once hung in his face. Instead, they lay dim inside a box, ready to be stored away. “Not leaving those up for Christmas?” he teases. “I don’t want to see those lights for the rest of my life.” They find happiness together, laughing in unison as if the horrors they experienced didn’t loom over their backs. “You got any suggestions for that?” She turns to gesture towards the still-painted wall—letters once serving a purpose, now an ugly memory as they stain the paper. He wants to make another joke to keep the air light, but a new presence creeps in, dressed in pajamas with damp hair clung to his forehead. Will stands in the doorway, eyes wide with surprise and the slightest hint of a smile, though faltering. An innocent and tormented mind thinks of only bad news—nothing good to come from the hero who stands in his home. “Hiya, kid,” the man states with a softened grin, noting the apprehension. “Just wanted t’come check on you and your mom. See if you guys need anything.” Hazel eyes shift towards his mother, finding comfort in her brilliant smile. “He’s going to help me put up new wallpaper.” Hopper laughs in return, a deep chuckle echoing through the small home to lift low spirits, though their weight is too much to carry. “I did not say that.” Will remains distant with a hesitant grin, not yet full, as he's forever haunted by the shadows he ran from. Not confident enough to face the man who pulled him from death's grip, gratitude was left unheard on his tongue as he slipped back down the hallway. Hopper waits before he speaks, hearing the click of his bedroom door before asking in a hushed voice, "How is he?" Joyce takes a breath, letting a hard sigh fall through, no matter the reassurance in her expression. Not wanting to worry anyone with her stress or troubles as they adjust back into normal life. "Oh, he's, y'know, as good as he can be. He's still really shaken up. Not-not really himself yet."

With a gaze still locked on the now empty doorway, he hums in acknowledgment. “It’ll take some time,” he speaks in a gentle, reassuring tone, watching as her fingers curl up around the fabric over her chest with anxiousness. “Yeah, I know.” His focus is shifting, mind slowly tearing itself in two as he debates himself over the reason for coming here. To bury his burden and drag his feet through the mud, or to risk the need for some relief by unleashing that weight for someone else to carry. Joyce was in her own world—her own mess. It’s selfish to ask for her ear and her support. Fingers press into closed eyes as if the arguing voices shattered every nerve, leaving him distressed. He’ll bid his “Goodbye’s” and apologize for interrupting her evening by slipping out that front door and into the dark. But she holds on—a gentle touch to his arm with sweet words to ask, “What’s wrong?” The walls come crumbling down—Joyce breaking through with little effort, ready to pull him from the prison he keeps himself in. “We need t’talk,” he says, just low enough for only her to hear. Together, the pair slip out the front door with a freshly lit cigarette between their fingers, Joyce watching as the officer paces across her porch, spilling his guts and theories over the wooden planks. Both are unaware of the boy creeping out from the shadows, leaving his ear pressed to the door to take in their secrets.

[kierancampire]

The new cat stuff!

So the first tower is really nice, it's quite large, quite tall, very sturdy, it's great! Gives the girls perfect placement to lay in the sun and watch out the windows! I also hope Ember will enjoy the hammock! As for the second one that had the dodgier reviews. Eh. So I was really impressed with it initially and had none of the issues other reviews had, but my two complaints with it is everything is small, it's moreso a kitten tree as opposed to a cat tree, the hammock is small, the perches are tiny (the top one is barely bigger than my hand and I have small hands), it's really little to the point it is barely higher than the window ledge, but then the reason I replaced the bedroom one is it's unsturdy, which yes, this new one is also slightly unsturdy, it isn't as bad and I hope it won't fall but it does wobble

Then finally is the new scratch post to replace a heavily frayed one, and I thought I'd treat them to a fun one with extra things to bat at, and the leaves! At the moment I am leaving their old, broken cat tree elsewhere in the living room but I dunno if I'll keep it, then eventually I may throw away the unsturdy one. Hoping the cats enjoy their new cat stuff!

[petitmonde]

“Don’t test me” for brinty pls

"Don't test me," Minty's words were unnecessarily harsh, and the fire in her eyes told their own story. She was gripping her arm with her full strength, digging her nails into her skin.

"I don't know what you mean," Brigiding said quietly. Playing coy usually didn't end well for her. Or it did, if you counted being dragged to the nasty bathroom in the club to be taken against the unsturdy door in the stall furtherst from the door.

Brigiding liked playing with that risk.

Around them, everyone was too drunk to notice what they had going on. All they'd see were two drag queens having a heated talk about something that didn't concern them. Brigiding's friends were nowhere in sight, something Minty must have planned when she cornered her.

"Don't play stupid. I bet you loved the crowd screaming at you to kiss Viñas," Minty hissed. She was practically green with the way her eyes squinted at her. "Are you spreading your legs for her too, is that it?"

"That's insane." Brigiding shook her head. Sure, kissing Viñas on stage hadn't been her finest moment, but Minty was way overreacting to it. "I would never."

"She sure seems to love retelling the story of when you tried getting into her pants."

"Damn it Viñas," Brigiding cursed her friend for being such a chatterbox, running her mouth when it wasn't warranted. "I only have eyes for you."

With a quick glance to make sure no one was watching, Brigiding leaped to give Minty a quick peck on her lips. Anything more, and they'd gather a crowd. Explaining her thing with Minty while everyone was intoxicated in some way wasn't part of a good Saturday night.

"I'm yours, okay. No one else compares. Now let's get out of here," Brigiding reassured her.

Satisfied, Minty let go of her wrist. They'd each find an excuse to leave individually, only to meet back up at the hotel. And there, Minty intended to fully show Brigiding who she belonged to.

And it wasn't fucking Viñas, that was for sure.

[littletail]

Fairy tail regression scenario..

Little! Juvia Lockser getting hurt after a worried Caregiver! Gray Fullbuster told her to get down from a rather large and hazardous looking tree but Little! Juvia didn't exactly listen because she wanted to show her Papa how high she is in the tree..it was instinct karma when Little! Juvia Lockser (Juvia was 3 years old today) got hurt when the fragile looking branch snapped when she stood on it and Little! Juvia Lockser fell maybe..5 feet and landed rather hard on the wooden ground..she understandably started crying..Little! Juvia broke her arm and she was covered in bruises and grazes.

How it came to this..was that Caregiver! Gray Fullbuster took Little! Juvia Lockser out in the sunshine to a park that Little! Juvia Lockser will enjoy and generally because it was too nice to be indoors in the guild..and Little! Juvia was enjoying the playground well enough until Little! Juvia thought it would be alright to climb the tree that her papa told her to never climb up on or go near..Caregiver! Gray Fullbuster realised that his little was suspiciously quiet for some reason and it was obvious when Little! Juvia Lockser called out for her papa and she was halfway up the tree that Gray forbid her from going near..(too many people got hurt climbing up that dangerous tree, mainly littles)..Caregiver! Gray Fullbuster wasted no time in making his little come down from that tree that looked dangerous..but Little! Juvia Lockser didn't exactly listen to Papa because she wanted to show him how talented she is and she suffered an instinct karma of falling five feet from the tree when she stood on a weak looking branch before Gray could help her down and Little! Juvia Lockser fell hard on the wooden ground and the impact broke her right arm and she suffered bruises and grazes as well..of course Little! Juvia started wailing because it hurts..obviously the nasty fall broke her arm and gave her other injuries to boot and as much as Caregiver! Gray Fullbuster wanted to give her a scolding for not listening to him about not climbing up that dangerous looking tree that she got hurt on..treating her injuries and making sure that she was alright was his top priority..*cue a worried Caregiver! Lucy Heartfilla running towards the scene because she saw what had happened..Lucy had been running an errand to the supermarket while her Little! Wendy was taking a nap in the Fairy tail guild under the watchful eye of Mirajane and Lucy saw what had happened*

Caregiver! Gray Fullbuster taught Little! Juvia Lockser a good lesson about dangerous looking trees and listening to Papa about them and not climbing on them from now on. Gray didn't shout..he wasn't cruel and regarding Juvia's headspace of that Juvia Lockser was regressed to age three years old..he doesn't want to be the one responsible for making her cry as well..(it was after Little! Juvia Lockser had her injuries treated and her broken arm set in a cast at the local Mongolia hospital for littles was when Caregiver! Gray Fullbuster taught Little! Juvia Lockser a good lesson about it)

Tree Climbing

“Papa! Papa, look!”

Juvia’s voice certainly didn’t come from anywhere it normally should’ve. It came from somewhere above Gray.

His heart almost stopped when he spotted her.

Juvia was climbing up a very tall, very unsafe looking tree. The height alone made Gray sick to his stomach.

“Juvia Lockser, you come down from there this instant!” Gray called up to her. Her face fell when he used her full name instead of their usual ‘Raindrop’ but Gray had no time to worry about feeling guilty over that now.

“But.. Papa.. Look!” she climbed up onto another branch. One that looked awfully unsturdy.

“Juvia, no-!” Gray’s strangled sounding cry was cut short when the branch snapped and sent the Little plummeting.

“JUVIA!” he ran, trying to lunge for her. 

With a far more sickening snapping sound, Juvia hit the ground. Gray was too late to catch her.

Once the shock wore off, Juvia started wailing. Gray immediately cradled the Little in his arms, her clothes were ripped up and she had scratched from the branches, and he felt his stomach drop when he saw her arm bent at a strange angle. He hovered his hand over it, trying to use his ice magic to numb the pain a little bit, “You’re okay.. You’re okay, Raindrop.. Let’s get you to Wendy.”

Hopefully the girl was big enough to help her…

“Hur’s… Hur’s, Papa…”

“I know it does, Raindrop, but I promise, it’ll all be fixed up real soon.”

“Papa…” she whined. “Shh..” he kissed her forehead, “It’s okay, Raindrop..”

She sniffled, lifting her good arm and wiping her eyes, “Is Papa mad..?”

“Disappointed at most.. I warned you not to go up that tree..”

“Oh my God!”

Gray looked up as Lucy ran over, “I saw what happened! Is she okay?”

“A broken arm, and mostly shaken, but.. she should be alright. Do you have Wendy with you?”

“She’s taking a nap back at the Guildhall. Mirajane offered to watch her for me so I could run a few errands.”

“I hate to ask, but…” Gray trailed off.

“We’ll see once we get back,” Lucy said. “If she’s too small, then we might need to take Juvia to Porlyusica instead.”

Gray really didn’t want to have to deal with that. The older woman was a pain to deal with on a good day, and he really didn’t need her upsetting Juvia.

“We really need to have a talk with the mayor about that tree. Far too many Littles are getting hurt falling out of it,” Gray said.

“I know. My heart stopped when I watched Wendy fall out of it,” Lucy said. “She ended up being fine, but it still wasn’t a fun thing to watch.”

“Well, hopefully this one knows better now,” Gray gently rocked Juvia. Her crying had settled somewhat. She was no longer wailing, but she still had tears dripping down her face.

“Wendy will help you feel all better, Raindrop,” Gray said. “But can I trust you to stay out of that tree from now on?”

“Yes, Papa…”

Alas, Wendy wasn’t the best bet to get Juvia all fixed up, as the girl was sleepy and small herself. Fortunately, he was able to get her to the hospital in record time. They quickly got her arm set and wrapped up in its cast, then gave her some painkillers. While it was nothing compared to Wendy’s magic, she calmed down tremendously once they kicked in.

Gray had Juvia sleep for most of her time there. She had a rough day and was under a lot of medications to manage the pain, so he could only imagine how tired she was.

Once she was awake, however…

“You scared me half to death,” Gray stated, refusing to shout. He didn’t want to upset or scare Juvia, but still needed his point to be heard. “What were you thinking?”

“Juvi wanted to impress Papa..” she said meekly. “A-and Juvi wanted to be like all the others who did it..”

“Including the part where they all fell out?”

Juvia made an uncomfortable noise.

Gray sighed, “You don’t need to do reckless things to impress me, Raindrop,” he gently ruffled her hair. “We all warn our Littles to stay out of that tree for a reason. And now you’ve learned why,” he explained.

“Jelly said he didn’t fall!”

Jellal of all Littles climbed that damn tree?

Gray supposed it shouldn’t surprise him that much. It was like a magnet for Littles. He knew Wendy climbed it once, but he wasn’t too concerned about her. As a Dragon Slayer, she was far more durable than the average person, and she can use her wind magic to slow her fall.

He also knew that Freed, Levy, and now Jellal climbed it, which left him a lot more concerned. Jellal could probably save himself with his magic, but the other two would’ve been out of luck.

“Jelly probably lied about that part,” Gray said. “Every Little in Magnolia who's climbed that tree has fallen out of it.”

“Sorry, Papa..” she murmured.

“It’s okay, Raindrop. But you can guarantee you’ll be grounded from the park for a while,” he said. Juvia whimpered.

“Don’t give me that. You knew you weren’t supposed to climb that tree and still did it anyway,” Gray stated sternly. He hated being stern with his Little, but how else was she supposed to learn? He hated watching her get hurt more.

“I just want you to play safely. Promise me you can do that?”

“Juvi promises.”

“Good girl.”