#Rubber Air Hose

[thebluehose1]

Rubber Air Hoses: Durable, Flexible & Lightweight Solutions

Explore our Rubber Air Hoses, designed for durability, flexibility, and lightweight handling. These hoses are perfect for industrial and commercial use and deliver reliable performance under high pressure. Discover the best in air hose technology at TheBlueHose.

Visit Here: https://thebluehose.com/pages/blubird

[mrtruckpartsss]

Semi Truck Chrome Shop

Find the best selection at our chrome semi truck shop. which quality matches style Mr.Attraction We carry a wide variety of premium chrome accessories to enhance the look and performance of your truck. From bumpers to mirrors Our products are designed for durability and shine. Visit us today to upgrade the look of your truck! 

[blubird-industries-inc]

The Benefits of Brass Fittings for Air and Water Hoses

Good equipment is a way to simplify gardening. Rubber air hoses, which can be purchased separately or are already included with the hose pipe, are essential gardening equipment. They are the extra parts that the rubber air hoses need to function properly and link to sprinklers, heads, or faucets, whether they are at the end of the hose or run the length of it.

Brass pressure washer hose fittings are among the most often used and well-liked fittings for garden rubber air hoses due to their ease of use and durability. Although there are fittings made of plastic and rubber, they are not as adjustable as brass fittings. Use brass garden pressure washer hose fittings to simplify gardening. Brass fittings are easier to thread together since they are lighter than certain other metal fittings and have a high level of corrosion resistance.

Why is brass still a common material for garden hose fittings?

The dynamic properties of brass make it a popular material for hose fittings. Fixtures made of brass are not just durable and versatile. Since they are more corrosion-resistant than other metal options, they are a perfect choice for garden fuel recoil air hose connections. An excellent water container is made of brass.

Why is brass used for hose fittings? Strong and resistant to corrosion, brass is a metal. Brass is perfect for producing garden pressure washer hose fittings because it can be manipulated and machined.

The main arguments in favor of utilizing brass for garden hose fittings are as follows:

The antibacterial qualities of brass.

Brass is corrosion-resistant - In a variety of demanding circumstances, corrosion is a concern for brass. Brass has a very small amount of iron, hence neither rust nor iron oxide may form. Brass doesn't rust, but it can corrode over time.

Brass is a long-lasting material due to its strength and resilience. It corrodes and is occasionally referred to as tarnish. It is a chemical that is often used in both residential and commercial gardening. Brass remains in good shape for many years. If you want your garden gasoline recoil air hose fittings to endure a long time, use brass.

Brass is malleable - Compared to other metals like copper or zinc, brass is more malleable.

Brass can be cast, forged, CNC-machined, stamped, or die-cut, making it versatile. Brass performs well at higher temperatures and has good corrosion durability and resistance. Brass is another metal that resists sparks. No other substance possesses such a versatile combination of attributes.

What makes brass such a useful metal?

Brass's properties may change if the alloy's composition is changed. The desired characteristics are achieved by modifying the brass alloy. To add up to copper and zinc, the alloy may also contain tin, iron, lead, silicon, aluminum, and manganese. These extra metals produce adaptive properties. Are brass hose fittings more effective than plastic ones in terms of performance? Brass garden hose fittings last a lot longer than plastic ones do.

Unlike hose fittings made of plastic, brass hose fittings won't blow off. Although more expensive than plastic fittings, Hose fittings made of brass are stronger, can resist higher temperatures, and have a longer lifespan. Despite recent developments making them tougher and more robust, plastic hose fittings can break when put under strain. A brass fitting will rarely break or endure other sorts of damage. Garden hose fittings made of brass work better than those made of plastic.

[teaboot]

How many things that they got at the hardware store can you name

soda machine, gum, yard nicknacks, snacks at the counter, lighters, keychains, key blanks, air conditioners, aluminum sheeting, awls, dremmel heads, dremmel, sander, sandpaper, metal polish, shammies , hammer, screwdriver, leather wipes, car wax, wood polish, wood wax, wood, copper, pipes, linoleum, paint, primer, sealant, caulk, caulking gun, drywall, spackle, brushes, nuts, bolts, screws, washers, nails, staples, staple guns, carpet tacks, eye hooks, locks, knobs, doorknobs, hinges, baseboard, seeds, sheeting, shovel, spade, rake, gloves, goggles, coveralls, coats, reflective vests, headlights, butane, propane, nozzles, hoses, rubber tubing, shower heads, faucets, light switches, outlets, wire, lightbulbs, wire stripper, pliers, electrical tape, soldier, soldiering iron, weed whacker, paracord, rope, stakes, bags, bug spray, chip board, saw, knives, wall screws

[spooky-fubuki]

Naomi's Auto Clinic #1: The importance of inspecting your automobile. And spark plug and wire replacement.

Hello my friends this is going to be the first in a series of posts about DIY auto repair and maintenance. Today we have two topics! Why you should regularly inspect your vehicle and replacing spark plugs and wires.

So.... Why should you inspect your vehicle regularly?

well, so you dont end up like this:

Last weekend I was driving home from my parents house when my Miata stopped idling and died at a traffic signal, I started her again and she immediately wanted to die unless I had my foot on the throttle, I went and quickly pulled off onto a side road and opened my hood. I looked around the engine bay until I found the culprit.

The bundle of wires for the Mass Airflow Meter (MAF) had abraded through and caused a short, I spliced and wrapped it in electrical tape and she runs fine once again.

But while I was looking for the problem I found a different unrelated one, which we will get too later!

Alright so what should you inspect?

First you should pop open you hood, the hood release is usually on the underside of the dashboard on the drivers side in most cars.

Now that you have it open I would just do cursory glace over everything. Does anything seem super out of place?

Open the radiator cap and check the fluid level and color, in my case I can see the fluid and it looks nice and green as it supposed too. Word of caution only check this with the vehicle is cold and hasn't been ran for ~30 min or so.

Check your engine oil. Most cars have a pretty obvious dipstick. In my case it has a yellow handle with a loop on it. With a paper towel pull out the dipstick and wipe off the oil, then put it back in all the way and pull it out again. it should be somewhere between full and empty. Take note of the color, if it is very dark you should change your oil!

Check your brake fluid reservoir. As you brake fluid gets older and used it absorbs more water from the humidity in the air. The fluid gets darker as it gets more water content in it. This reservoir is usually in a translucent container near the firewall at the drivers side of the car. As you can see mine is bit dark, so I should replace it soon. I have a future part in this series planned for this already so we will go over it then.

Outside the engine bay take a quick look at your tires. How deep is the tread depth? is there any cracks.

Look for this DOT code, this tells you the month and year that the tire was manufactured, I personally would not drive on any tire older than 10 years old. So if they are I would replace them. The first two digits are the month, and the second two are the year. So my tires were manufactured in the 28th week of 2023.

Back to the engine bay! Take a quick look at your belts to see if you see any cracks or fraying.

Take a look at the wires and rubber hoses. Do you see any cracks if so they need to be replaced, and UH OH. look at what we have here. The spark plug wires are falling apart! lets replace them.

So, I've decide to replace the spark plugs at the same time, simply because I do not know how old they are. And here are the new parts! Along with the tools needed to install them!

First off remove the wires from the plugs, I leave the rear hooked up to the coils so I know where they go.

using the wrench and socket is loosen all the of the spark plugs all the way, then retrieve them using my magnet.

Here are the new plugs! These are pre-gapped so I don't have to set it myself.

I put some anti-seize on the threads to the plugs so they wont corrode into the engine. That would be a pain to extract if they were.

Then I lower the new plugs into the hole with the magnet making sure not to drop them hard.

I always like to start them in the threads by hand so I can make sure the threads are not cross threaded before snugging them the rest of the way down with the wrench.

Alright lets move onto the wires! I like to replace these one at a time to make sure I put the right wire in the coil, its easy to find out what plug each wire is for as they all have different lengths

And they are all in!

Finally take it for a test drive to make sure everything is working properly!

I came back and she ran great! :)

I hope I was able to relay some good information for y'all! I plan on making more of these as I come across more things to do on this Miata. Up next is the brakes or replacing the AC compressor as it is bad.

Stay safe my friends!

[im-a-wizard-who-dont-crime]

*the wizard found himself in a strange, rubber hose-esqe realm... with a strange presence in the air*

*scans the substance*

[butternuggets-blog]

Go-at Peacefully Into The New Year

A Discovery of Witches, Fluff/Humor

New Year's Eve, 1966

Gallowglass stepped into the room with an emphatically nonchalant air. He shut the door behind him as Marcus, Jack and Martin looked up from their card game.

'If anybody asks, I was with you all night.'

'What did you do?' Martin frowned.

'Nothing. I was here with you all night.'

-weewoo-weewoo-weewoo-

A firetruck zipped by, lights flashing. Martin stared at the window after it, alarmed.

-weewoo-weewoo-weewoo-weewoo-

Three more fire engines raced by in quick succession.

'What did you do?!' Jack and Marcus chorused.

'The roof.' Martin threw his hand down and brushed past a protesting Gallowglass. 'Come on!'

****

The roof of the hotel gave a panoramic view of the park in the middle of the square. A towering inferno, some thirteen foot high, was blazing in the middle of it, firemen scrambling to unroll hoses and set up a corden to keep curious onlookers at a safe distance.

Martin gaped. He turned slowly to look at Gallowglass; his face was the same colour as his hair and he looked like he was trying to melt into the floor.

'..Eric-'

Gallowglass winced.

'-is that the goat?!'

'I didn't mean to!' Gallowglass protested, throwing his hands up defensively. 'I was just having a cigarette!'

Martin sighed. 'How?!'

Gallowglass looked sheepish. 'I..may have let the butt roll away from me.'

'You're supposed to stub out cigarettes,' Marcus commented helpfully. Jack was sketching the burning statue, capturing the essence of the moment in, ironically, charcoal.

'I did!' Gallowglass whined.

'Not successfully,' Martin glowered.

________________________________________________________________

'-and that's why we're here,' Gallowglass explained, glancing through his binoculars at the town stretched out before him. The square was still there, prettily decked-out in Christmas lights. The Gävle Goat stood tall and proud above the trees, icicles hanging from its horns.

'So we're going to burn down the goat,' Phoebe lowered her binoculars to stare at the side of Gallowglass' head. 'Commiting international arson, all to spite Baldwin who insists that this "tradition" be put to rest?'

'Exactly!' Martin army-crawled up beside them and pulled a map out of his lapel pocket. 'Right. Baldwin's hunkered down in the hotel with his usual command centre of walkie-talkies. Gallowglass?'

'I see them,' Gallowglass was scanning the square. 'Groups of three patrolling each corner of the park; four snipers on the rooftops and-'

He switched the binoculars to nightvision. '-one holding the fort on the manhole cover, east side.'

'Wow..' Phoebe's jaw dropped. 'You guys really take it that seriously?'

'Not always,' Martin was fishing a round, small stone out of his jacket pocket. 'But times changed and it just wasn't feasible to keep using flaming arrows and the like so we've both had to step up our game.'

'Time.' Gallowglass muttered, checking his watch.

Martin pulled a glove off and placed the stone in the palm of his hand. He squeezed it tight until the warmth from his skin leached into the stone, his other hand gripping his binoculars.

All three watched as the poor bastard holding fort at the manhole was suddenly yanked into it, Diana popping up from below.

'Contact!' Martin grinned.

Diana wove a knot and fog began to pour from the vent, rapidly obscuring the route around the park. As it hit each security team, they began swaying on their feet before delicately crumpling to the ground.

'Sleeping like babes' Gallowglass grinned.

Next, the wind picked up. The fog started to dissipate as Diana rose into the air. Without warning a barrage of gunfire hit her, engulfing her in a hail of bullets from four different directions at once.

Phoebe hissed in shock. Martin grabbed her hand.

'It's alright.. they're rubber bullets, remember?' he soothed. 'Baldwin wants her disarmed, not dead.'

'Besides-' Gallowglass was fiddling with a black controller covered in switches and knobs. '-Matthew would kill him if he actually hurt her.'

There was a gentle hum no human ears would be able to detect and a sleek, see-through drone rose from the opposite embankment. Gallowglass piloted it carefully through the snowy topography as Martin watched the monitor app on his phone, spouting directions.

'Through the grate..right...left...left again..okay, now straight up-'

The drone climbed stealthily up above the grate Diana had previously occupied. Taking advantage of the distraction the shielded witch was providing, Gallowglass kept the drone as low to the ground as possible until he had manoeuvred it behind one of the massive goat legs.

'Climb and fire! Climb and fire!'

The drone sped up the leg. Coming level with the goat's chest, it released a great gout of flame from the flamethrower attached to its undercarriage which caught quickly, eating through the statue's front in seconds.

Martin, Phoebe and Gallowglass cheered, whooping and laughing as the goat quickly became engulfed. Through her binoculars, Phoebe spotted a dejected-looking Baldwin holding his head in his hands as Diana alighted on the windowsill beside him. She couldn't hear what Diana said next, but Baldwin gave her a nasty glare and shoved the cackling witch off the ledge.

Bursts of colour suddenly filled the sky elsewhere in the city. Great whirls of blue, green, red and gold rocketed up, the pop of the fireworks mingling with the distant cheers and singing of the city's inhabitants.

Phoebe linked arms with Martin and Gallowglass. She smiled.

'Happy New Year!'

[abibliophobiaa]

hello lunieee

I would like to request some dad!Steve-

HAH

just kidding.

I would love some dad!Eddie in the summer playing with his tween kid - maybe running through the sprinkler or someone gets sprayed with the hose, maybe eating ice pops, but most important of all is Eddie being a nerdy, kinda lame adorkable dad that his kid both loves and cringes at. Bonus points if we are watching him and really feelin' a surge of attraction or affection based on his antics.

thank you love youuu 💕

Gone Fishing: Just Go With It…

warnings: r is pregnant, minor injury & barely edited — i needed something soft, sweet and fluffy today. (2.6k words)

dad!eddie munson x afab!mom!reader.

masterlist

——

It’s meant to be a joke.

A little Russian Roulette game, if you will. A precursor to the barbecue plans with your friends for the summer festivities to determine if the pitcher of sangria Robin put her heart and soul into will end up going to waste.

Once you’ve all taken your tests, Max and El have you all turn around and scramble the order. When ready, you all turn around to find the three tests face up on the countertop.

“Mine’s negative,” Robin says, dramatically wiping the back of her hand over her brow. “What a relief!”

But she’s met only with silence.

Until. “Holy shit,” Max breathes out, trying to not break out into incredulous laughter.

“That one is definitely positive,” El points out, hooking her chin over Nancy’s shoulder.

Two lines.

Two very dark lines.

So you…or Nancy.

Baby number four for her, or number three for you.

Shit.

Nancy bites her lip. Turns to you, smile a little hopeful despite the fact your nerves are buzzing to life at the prospect of another baby when you and Eddie hadn’t intended for another baby.

“Guess we have to take another,” she says, reaching for more test strips.

——

“Hey man, can you watch Quinnie?” Eddie asks, passing off the giggly two year old to her honorary uncle. “I’m just going to run to the bathroom.”

And they prove to be famous last words.

Words that change a lot.

Because as he’s washing his hands, humming a song that had been playing on the radio before he’d run inside, he spots the tests.

Multiple tests.

He’s seen a few since becoming a dad to know what two lines or a smiley face means.

He also knows that you, Nancy, Robin, El and Max had all gone to the bathroom at the same time to ‘take care of something.’

So despite it being his bathroom, in his home, he’s not sure if it’s your test.

But, he does know someone is pregnant.

Someone standing outside in his backyard just a few feet away.

The sudden realization hits him then. Either he’s becoming an uncle again to four, or a father of three.

Shit.

——

“And you’re sure?” Steve asks, carding his fingers through his hair. Eddie pulls the strips out of his pocket and Steve whisper-yells, “There’s pee on those!”

“Grow up, Harrington, they’ve got the caps on. We have bigger things to worry about.” Eddie holds the tests in the space between the two of them, bent low near the grill, far away from the rest of the guests.

In the distance he can see you and Nancy watching the youngest Harringtons and Munsons in the pool while the older “kids” watch on. James’ laughter echoes as Dustin and Lucas toss him up into the air and catch him, his little rubber ducky floaties keeping him from slipping too far beneath the water’s surface.

You’re glowing, Quinn bouncing on your hip, wearing the same brightly colored summer dress you’re wearing that flutters around your thighs in the cool summer breeze. And he wonders briefly whether or not you carry a little secret beneath your heart.

“So one of us is pregnant?” Steve exhales deeply as Eddie nods, running a palm down his face. “Look—I know I said I wanted six, but I’m overrun by girls at the moment, Ed. Do you know how terrifying throwing a fourth girl into the mix is?”

Steve’s gaze travels over to Nancy and his three little girls. One reaches out to grab at her little ‘cousin’ Quinn, while the other two try to quite literally become mermaids in the pool, little legs kicking behind them, spraying Mike Wheeler in the face until he’s redder than a damn tomato.

“What do you think we should do?” Eddie asks, flipping over the burgers on the grill, waving as you look over your shoulder and give him one of your wonderful smiles he loves so much.

“Should we ask them?” Steve wonders, tossing some cheese on top, both men watching with increasing nervousness over their present (potential) situations.

“No—no, you absolutely cannot ask them if they’re pregnant.” Eddie shoves the bag of burger buns into his best friend’s chest. “Start laying the buns in that container right there. Yeah, that one. But as I was saying…asking a woman if she’s pregnant is enough to get you as number one on their to-kill list. Do you not fear death?”

Steve seems to consider this, swallowing thickly as he lays out the buns in the tin container so Eddie can begin loading burgers on top. “Nancy will murder me in my sleep.”

“Exactly.” Once the burgers are loaded up, he calls out into the open yard that dinner is ready and then claps Steve on the shoulder. “Best plan of action is to be supportive, remain calm, and act natural.”

——

“Are the guys being a little weird?” You ask, running your fingers through Quinn’s little curls, the two year old dozing against your chest.

“You two married the weirdest guys in Hawkins,” Robin says, sipping her cup of sangria. “I’d say this is within normal limits for them.”

“Steve knocked my drink out of my hand,” Nancy points out, pulling at a piece of cookie and popping it into her mouth.

“And Eddie kept demanding I eat more,” you add, laughing at the memory of your overly eager husband adding more macaroni salad to your plate as soon as you’d finished your first spoonful. “He also kept asking me if I should be holding Quinn.”

The men in question are presently standing in the yard bare chested in their swimsuits, with the sprinkler running. The kids rush through the stream all taking turns, still donning their little pool floaties, little shrieks of joy and peals of infectious laughter warming your heart.

Because you and Eddie finally saved up enough to buy this home, and are now sharing it with your friends who are more likely family now, and seeing the happiness on all their faces has made all the endless hours of work, hardships and obstacles so worth it.

So no, you can’t help the fear that wedges into your heart if you disrupt all of that.

——

“J! NO!”

Quinn whines from Eddie’s lap as James leans over and snatches a marshmallow from the bag his daughter is insistent upon keeping clutched in her tiny palms.

“Quinnie, give me!”

Quinn’s newest favorite word in the dictionary other than Momma and Dadda?

No.

She uses it so often, Eddie sometimes forgets she’s picked up others throughout the past few months.

“NO!”

This time, her little fingers curl in her brother’s hair and give a harsh tug. Hard enough he winces and scrambles onto Eddie’s lap, knocking the wind from him when his knobby knee jabs him in the stomach, to try and alleviate the stress on his hair.

Catching his bearings once more, Eddie grips his daughter’s hand and unfurls her angry little knuckles, finger by finger until she reluctantly releases James.

“Quinnie, let’s be nice to your brother,” Eddie coos, bouncing her on his thigh as you start to rise from your chair, conversation with Nancy and Robin pausing to see the commotion. Wanting to show you he can, in fact, handle three kids, he shakes his head, reassuring, “I’ve got this.”

“NO!”

Steve glances over from beside him, braiding both his little girl’s hair into braids at the backs of their heads. Eddie frowns, and Steve gives him a sympathetic smile as his own littlest one trips over the leg of his chair and takes a tumble onto the patio below, scraping her knee and bursting into ear piercing wails, crying out for Mama.

——

“Chloe, do you want vanilla or chocolate ice cream for being such a good girl?” You ask, leaning your back against the kitchen counter as Nancy finishes putting a pink bandaid on her youngest daughter’s knee.

Hazel eyes that resemble her father’s peer up at you, fingers pointing to the vanilla container held up in your hands. “‘Bow sprinkle, pease!”

“She wants rainbow sprinkles,” Nancy clarifies as you get to work on her daughter’s ice cream, shoulders slouching, tears burning on your lower lash line. “Hey. Hey. What’s going on? You’ve been quiet tonight.”

Forearm pressing to your sweat-slick forehead, you sigh. “Eddie and I never talked about having another baby. We’ve been trying to save up for the house, we got the house, and now we’re really only just settling into the house. And I don’t even know how this happened, or how he’s going to react, or if he even wants another baby. We always said two and I-I—”

“Momma cry,” Quinn huffs beside Chloe, lifting at the edge of her frilly little summer dress.

You let out a weak laugh at that, sniffling noisily. “Momma is crying, yes sweetie.”

Nancy tugs you close as you join her and the girls on the counter, handing each of the greediest little ones a tiny spoon to likely smear vanilla ice cream on their faces with.

“We planned for James and planned for Quinnie.” With a groan, you grab your own spoon and shovel a spoonful of rainbow sprinkles into your mouth, needing a little sweetness to quell the nervousness bubbling in your belly.

“Well, it seems like that little one had other plans. I know it’s not ideal. But if you take away the house, if you take away all the other things stressing you out right about now, what do you feel?”

And that’s the thing. If you think about it. If you really think about it, you love your husband. Have for so many years now. You married him for all of the reasons you’d said in your vows. Wanted to take on life together, build a family, build a home.

Now here you are, still as deeply in love with him as you were that day, in the house of your dreams you never thought you’d own, with your sweet little boy who has love in his heart and joy in his laugh, and your little girl with her father’s tenacity and your features, and this unexpected little one, faceless and nameless and yet loved.

So so loved already.

“I’m happy. Just…really happy.”

“Then you’ll figure everything else out as you go.”

——

Outside, Eddie’s sitting near the bonfire with his acoustic guitar on his lap, strumming along to a silly song meant for the children. Made up, naturally. A tale of beautiful princes and princesses who wield swords and fight impressive dragons, of harrowing tales and defeating evil.

James sits on his lap, beaming bright, with chocolate smeared across his cheeks, heading into what is surely to be a lovely night of sleep induced by a food coma. Steve’s got his two older daughters, Olivia and Violet, draped over each of his thighs, their heads swaying back and forth and feet kicking as Eddie slips in and out of singing and speaking his stories.

The older kids in “The Party” have started cleaning up, weaving in and out of the house as you and Nancy make your way back outside the sliding glass door with Chloe and Quinn on your hips.

And later, as Steve and Robin show the kids how to safely play with sparklers, tips of their little fireworks exploding into colorful light, Eddie pulls you into his side and presses a kiss to your temple, murmuring he loves you against your skin.

You reply the same, turning your head enough so you can peck him once. Then again, humming into his smile. “Our first party in our new home.”

“The Munson home,” he says, kissing you once more.

And as his arms loop around your waist and James calls out “Mommy and Daddy look!” his little face illuminated in the dark, excitement blooming across his features, and your little girl dancing with Max and El off in the grass, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

In this home, with your family, and these people.

——

Quinn is already down for the night when Eddie starts getting James ready for bed. The boy in question yawns and protests very little as his father lifts him once he’s done dressing for bed and lays him down in his bed shaped like a little race car that Steve had helped put together for him on his sixth birth.

“Can we read The Hobbit?” James asks, clambering over his father’s chest as he settles down beside him on the mattress.

“Yes, but only one chapter, okay?”

James nods his agreement and Eddie begins where they left off, using all the silly fake voices that James always laughs at. Those belly laughs that shake the boy, and warm Eddie from head to toe. Those same laughs that remind him he’s not his father. That reminds him that he’s been made for this; to be your husband, James’ dad and Quinn’s dad. He’s got his support system. His uncle who is more a father to him now than anything else and the strength of his friendships. All he needs, really.

As he finishes reading, and James’ eyes grow heavier, his head curling into Eddie’s neck, James whispers, “I love you, daddy.” Eddie replies the same. Lifts his head and finds you there in the doorway.

Sees the worry lining your brow, remembers the way Nancy had warned him you’d been a little upset as her, Steve and the kids had left, and he has an inkling why. But he doesn’t know for certain.

All he knows is no matter what, as long as you have each other, it’ll all be okay.

You’ll figure out the rest as you go.

——

“Hey, baby? Can you come here for a second?” Eddie calls, just as you finish brushing your teeth and pat your face dry.

Exhaling deeply, you slip out of the bathroom and find him already propped up against the mountain of pillows on your bed, bare chest on display. He’s added tattoos as time has gone by, meant to cover the tapestry of scars across his skin, the same ones that you’ve traced countless times over the years, forever thankful that he’s still here.

His hands reach out to curl around the fullest part of your hips as you lower yourself down onto his lap, a thigh bracketing each of his hips, your own hands resting against the heat of his chest.

He rubs gentle patterns there. Callus scarred fingers dance across your thighs, along the curve of your hips, over your ribcage, the smallest point of your back, the softness of your stomach. Eddie pauses there, dark eyes meeting your own, tongue dragging a slow line across his lips.

“Eddie…” you begin, but Eddie jumps in before you can say any more.

“I want you to know I saw the pregnancy tests in the bathroom. I don’t know if they’re yours, but I wouldn’t be upset if they are. We have this home, we have each other. I got that promotion to manager at the shop, we’ve been saving. We might not have planned for another one, but I think we did a pretty damn good job with the first two, and I would love this baby so much and I—”

“It was my test. Both of them. I’m pregnant.”

His fingers spread further across your stomach, before reaching up to grip at both your cheeks and pull you close for a lingering kiss that has your toes curling. Before you can say anything else, he’s rolling you over onto your back and shoving at the flimsy sleep shirt you’re wearing, pressing kiss after kiss to your midsection.

“I’ll take it that you’re happy?” you giggle, threading your fingers in the soft curls at the back of his head.

Another kiss, this time to your belly button. “So happy,” he says, a grin growing against your skin. “Hi Maisie, it’s your daddy. I already love you so, so much.”

“Maisie, huh?”

“We always liked the name, and I have a gut feeling.”

Several months later, Eddie’s right.

Maisie Munson enters the world.

Seven pounds, six ounces, and pure love.

——

——

[wromwood]

You know, while I enjoyed the new Doctor Who episode "Lux," there are couple of plot-related things that continue to niggle at me, one of which is this:

Was the Mr. Ring-a-Ding cartoon real in-universe, or did god-related shenanigans create it?

I feel like the answer is supposed to be the former - yes, it exists in some unaltered form in the Doctor Who universe - but there are a lot of reasons that make me doubt this nonetheless.

First, here are the reasons that Mr. Ring-a-Ding could have already been real:

The film reel already existed in the movie theater, and we watched as the moonlight entered its projection for (apparently) the first time.

At the end of the episode, the young man who works at the diner says (paraphrasing) "Is that Mr. Ring-a-Ding?" in a confused tone upon seeing Lux expand in the sunlight. This implies that he knows Mr. Ring-a-Ding as a cartoon character and has seen him before. Why would Lux create a cartoon character for people to safely watch and enjoy before he was able to corrupt the character?

An official Doctor Who website from the BBC states this: "The star of 1935 cartoon ‘Mr Ring-a-Ding Goes to Town’, Mr Ring-a-Ding is an all-singing, all-dancing entertainer – until the light of his film’s projection is hit by an unusual bout of moonlight."

This seems pretty straightforward. Until you remember...

There's no other evidence of Mr. Ring-a-Ding's existence. No other shorts, no merchandise, nothing except for what we see in the episode. Mr. Ring-a-Ding COULD have been invented just for Lux's purposes, and it wouldn't affect the rest of the world of Doctor Who at all.

Neither Belinda nor the Doctor know who Mr. Ring-a-Ding is. The Doctor asks, "Who are you?" and fixates on the fact that Mr. Ring-a-Ding is a living cartoon character in general. Belinda is even more obviously clueless, asking, "What are you a cartoon of?" and even questioning little things like his pig-nose design and blue color. I could understand Belinda not knowing this specific character, as sadly, not all 21st-century people know many 1930's-era rubber hose cartoon characters (however, it's curious that she recognizes him so little that she can't even fathom his appearance, negating the possibility of her having seen images of Mr. Ring-a-Ding in passing). But the Doctor's relative silence is more interesting. He's been around Earth for longer, and he's not typically portrayed as totally out-of-the-loop on media (and the few times that the Doctor hasn't known about certain media, it's usually for a humorous bit and was therefore justified). I expected the Doctor to say that he'd seen some of Mr. Ring-a-Ding's cartoons before, or that Mr. Ring-a-Ding was from such-and-such animation studio, or otherwise establish more world-building for Mr. Ring-a-Ding as a part of Earth media. The absence of this world-building is rather blatant.

Mr. Ring-a-Ding's existence is a little too closely tied to Lux and his purposes. His catchphrase ("Don't make me laugh!") feels purposefully made just for the arpeggio laugh reveal. Lux also embodies Mr. Ring-a-Ding so closely that he cares about continuing his little song number, even as the Doctor and Belinda run off. If this was just a random existing cartoon character, would Lux have done the same? If he'd possessed Popeye, would Lux have sung the whole "Popeye, the Sailor Man" song? Or is Mr. Ring-a-Ding more personal to Lux? Of course, the Doylist explanation for this is that Russell T. Davies just wanted to write a clever reveal and a silly joke. But if there's any Watsonian explanation, it may be that Lux himself created the Mr. Ring-a-Ding cartoon, either doing this in advance or creating a past for the cartoon instantaneously.

It wouldn't be too far-fetched for Lux to do something like create a cartoon out of thin air. Lux is a god, after all. He was able to create the meta trap with the three fake Doctor Who fans, and he could read the Doctor's past accurately enough to create reference-laden merch and episode titles. Lux also created a fake Rock Hudson movie just for a "Harbinger" reveal (although it's debatable whether this movie also exists in-universe). This is in line with what the gods of the Pantheon can, and will, do. Last season, the Maestro created an entire human son for their own "H. Arbinger" reveal, one who was able to sign up for music lessons with few questions asked, only for him to be dismissed once his purpose was served. While Lux is apparently confined to the movie theater, his power, to some extents, knows nearly no bounds.

Soooo yeah, those are my thoughts! Let me know if this occurred to you too, or if you agree/disagree.

[knownashaunt]

The desolate halls, eternal in their namesake now, shudder only with the deep heaves of Icecrown’s winds at uncertain intervals. The languishing groans echo within patina-worn cobalt corridors, their barren walls desperate to ward off encroaching spindles of creeping icicles, of whose cadence is a soft, crystalline thrum. Whimpers of smaller alcoves are swept away with soft rattles of railing-strung and pike-lofted bones. The mounds that protrude from the shadows of sharp-tip buttresses had long ago frozen over, reaching high arches lost to darkness, competitive with the ridges of ice and swathes of snow that now blanket the numberless tawny knobs and sallow heaps in their eternal rest.

No grave is more mass than this.

Though the frigid waste’s air diminishes the stench, the corpulent piles of remnants permeate beyond sight into other senses; a ruthless invader set to make raw any sensation of foulness the mind could concoct, sparing no mercy especially to the olfactory system. This was a nightmare that knew not how to be gentle in its manifestation. Light does not dare itself here. Held at bay by a clime of miasma, its roils stirring dense pools contained only by cathedral vaults to listlessly caress against the strokes of brushes made by violence—strokes that prove the mounds were earned. It never got cold enough to stop the dripping. Not at this level. The red rust of metal planks and strutted catwalks could not truly cease to gnaw away at crude edges and black chains under so many droplets of warriors long-gone. It drums an endless beat, a wet layer added to the dirge of the forgotten forge’s arteries.

“Ooph!” The bones only rattle to the breath of their tyrant’s maw, not Haunt’s cry; but some, long errant from their settled corpse mounds, skid across a blade-scarred platform in a hollow clamor under the scuffle of leather boots and leather bindings.

“ＹᴏＵ ᴋＩᴄＫ ʜＡᴜＮᴛ? You kick Haunt like the football?” Haunt screeches with a warble only known by elbow-knockers, shrill and: “Jail! Eternal jail for your foul-flung foot!” A knee rises then drives its metal heel down on fabric-wrapped flesh just as recycled air hisses from the half-cocked, now rent diffuser. The metal facet securing the hose into the mask spills plumes of bilious green mist. Desolate wails slice through the gaseous fumes with an insouciance that similarly forces chilled air directly into the leaking fissure, freezing Haunt’s air supply. They wail alike, thrown into a flailing fit unsuited for someone permitted to carry loaded guns. Again a kick filled with rage swipes at bondage, sending their captured quarry rolling over slush and crumpling into an amused, pained, and blessedly muffled cackle in a split-second of hubris—or maybe hopelessness.

Heaving like a beast bit open at the throat, Haunt twists, half-bent, dancing with sharp contorts between peals of anguish (and more adamantly, questions of victim-hood) and sprays of flash-freezing chemicals until the unsatisfactory sound of ripping rubber hosing from broken metal slams the mechanically stiff whips and nae-naes to a halt. The bound bag of a body writhes, invigorated, its bindings mercilessly denying sight—and obscuring from others seeing. The sounds of desperation keep Haunt aware of the attempt to escape, despite focusing on the crisis of broken equipment.

“Gah! It’s always the last ten—mmph—twenty meters! Always so close, steps away from ▇▇▇!” Frantic clatters punctuate the shed of a worthless respirator, only to fade away, lost in teeming darkness. The prominent light source, Haunt’s rebreather and its tubing, sputters a few final rivulets of green-tinted chemicals as its hose joins the cadence of those far-off droplets, slipping from a despondent grasp to join the now-abandoned breathing tank and hooded filtration mask on the ground. Rid of refitted leather, the once-bright fluorescent glow of green lenses now stare with the pallor of dark glass-tinted eyes, generously pinpointing for no one in particular exactly where the ghastly captor lingers in the bleak haze as they stalk towards their bounty.

“If you did not want to contribute to the betterment of the world,” Haunt circles, a vulture wreathed at the throat with pride and pomp. Six feet and then some of wrapped fabric, strapped leather, and a few additional half-frayed ropes, twists like a worm, bereft of appendages in these confinements and made to be pecked at by Haunt’s heightened words and pitch. “You should have learned to kill your shadows!” The circling ends at feet, where the lank of Haunt’s frame looms, dripping still, just out of cadence with the rest.

“Pity, yes? You didn’t. You didn’t learn from the mistakes of those that still take breath. You have been shown the path before, and yet— Now you serve a better purpose—You should see—you should really look, but, those bright green eyes of yours, Haunt finds them unsettling; you will have to imagine, instead. Here, where you were a bitch, is a holy chamber of innovation, made especially for your type: the weak. The ones made to fill the pits, with your big shoulders and your strong arms and very powerful legs, what the fuck.”

In the darkness all is clear. The way that body churns in every effort to be free under the monotony of Haunt’s hundredth soliloquy of the trip, and how Haunt failed to see the liberated leg that came out of nowhere earlier until attempting to gather up straps by both hands once again. The kicking resumes, but frustration fuels focus, protecting what remains of personal protective equipment and guarding a face now only concealed by sable cloth wrapped like bandages. “Haunt was perfectly fine not having to smell this place again, you know. It’s not the worst now, it will be worse later, but even this—”

In the darkness, the cloth gag sounds less effective, and among recapture, kicks grow fervent until both ankles are seized as a hen is captured by its irate farmer and hung to think about its decisions before the blood rush comes. It leaves Haunt awkwardly long in the body, an unholy might coursing through appendages to keep six damn feet and then some off the ground and unable to do much more than thrash. Over the shoulder and shuffling towards the hall’s end, it is a quick motion that puts legs backwards against a back well strengthened by carrying a breathing tank.

“Listen, hm? Yes?" There's enough pause for a fly's heart to beat. "Okay. 𝐹𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔—” In vain, both, they collide in struggle again, each step far exaggerated by the need to counterbalance a body in riot. Jerks and tugs adjust and adapt, and despite it all, shadows continue the need to be heard. “Flailing is not going to help! It just makes this hard—breaks Haunt’s things—fills you with unearned rage. Sure, rage is good, but too much? It will be wasted. Haunt needs what’s at the core, not the surface. Try to find your center. Deep breaths, think vengeful but calming thoughts. Fire, perhaps? Haunt assumes that is a rational go-to. Big, large, vast bonfires? Wildfires without boundaries.”

To any victim, the true torment is the stream of consciousness, the platitudes, the confessions and knotted philosophies. It always hints, implies, fills just enough space to create more in the end. In the darkness, it is everything, and it has been darkness for hours, this time, for this singular soul. Some targets are worth more effort but afforded far, far less respect, a blatant hypocrisy to the values often honored by Haunt’s typical prey subjects. Even as the winds wane and the gangrenous heaps are lost beyond icy pillars and then taller walls, there are the words. “… Most of these places have been long pillaged by the combined forces of you breathers. Few remain in such splendor—capable of creating, capable of modifying. It is transfiguration that is hardest to achieve in the wake of catastrophic errors. Sure, at first there was the direct conduit to the blueprints, the schematics! Oh, the schematics…” The chill permeates worse, where wind is stifled by humid air and walls still sweat from their last exposure to profane experimentation. It digs through fabric and bindings, and heralds an end Haunt has done nothing but sing of.

“Now, with none of that, we start from scratch. The scratch is you, by the way. Well, your being. There is no greater fuel in this world, than what has been pressed from within your heart under the torment experiences of your…really quite long life. You’ll do well in your new purpose.” Praise as there is, the body is still dropped like a wet bag of trash.

A different crescendo of sounds blares after minutes of silence, away from words and metal, left only with the moisture. Then, the worst of freedom comes with the rifling grip of metal and leather-clad fingers prying away a blindfold held by a belt strap. The faint ebb of waning green glow rims the wicked edges of machinery made beyond the minds of the living. It blinds, despite its dimness, though as minutes carry on and Haunt abandons being helpful in favor of ushering more carnal groans from profane equipment as it whirs into function.

Turning back to eyes now adapted to the undulating pulses pallid ichor amid glassy pipework, arms of black outstretch in reception and white-glowing eyes flicker their vigor of ill intent.

“Welcome, dear soul, to the end of your fleshly constraints!” Standing silent, awkward, and finally issuing a squeak of confusion, a hush little voice mutters: “Confetti—forgot the confetti—” then perks to the highs of self-appointed glory again. “Don’t take it too poorly, your mechanical internment will at least put you between a woman’s legs. You will rumble with a power that could only be imagined in your current state. You will burn, through fuel, through muck, through chaff. You will deliver to her enemies the Sun's very wrath. You'll have a chassis! Wee!" Elation crashes into a solemn sea of silence but not for long, there is an attention deficit to contend with, here.

“Welcome, to the Severing of Your Soul!” There is no applause, but shoulders do sink as if abruptly freed from the burden of announcing. “…ʷᵒʳᵏⁱⁿᵍ ᵗⁱᵗˡᵉ. It should have splendor, but what is splendor for, in the last moments of your current state? You will find no absolution here, and maybe that is the misconception, that which should be avoided here.” Boots drag heavy over sludge, sticky and loud in their ominous approach. “Maybe, instead, Haunt informs you that your ancestors will watch the macerating of your finite existence into something useful. That is all they will be able to do.” The weight of a fist drives into open eyes, ending consciousness in a succinct blow. The room heaves, steady in the motions of purpose, and Haunt rises upright again, shaking out knuckles like a wimpy kid—kaldorei skulls are strong and they aren't big on punching things (guns work pretty great on night elves, however).

This is a place of holy innovation, boasts a thing of unmitigated desolation that cannot possibly reach such lofty claims. But the mounds started here can only grow in height, number, and girth. So they will, until Haunt can reach those heights. One unfortunate resource at a time.

[ @high-justiciar ]

[iboatedhere]

Heya! If you are still taking prompts then FirstPrince sailboat AU please? 😁⛵

Or garden hose if that's already been suggested! 🌞

If you so fancy ❤️

A little F1 AU?

---

Henry leans against the railing on the lower deck. He looks down at the dark water and watches the lights dance across it. 

It’s past midnight, but Port Hercule is wide awake. Yachts packed in like sardines in a tin, music blasting, beats and lyrics mixing together and creating a jumbled mess of noise. People are talking and singing in French, English, German, and Italian, and there’s a splash as something or someone hits the water, followed by raucous laughter. The smell of burnt rubber, high-octane fuel, and grease still lingers in the air, mixing with the heavy scent of cigar smoke and gunpowder from celebratory post-race fireworks.

Henry would rather be anywhere else, like behind a door that locks. Without people knocking for autographs or photos. Without women offering things he’s never been interested in. 

He wants to go home to his little cottage on the outskirts of London, where there’s plenty of room for David to run and no cameras, reporters, or team principals. 

He just needs a moment of peace, and the little bubble he’s created here will have to do.  

“Henry…”

Henry closes his eyes as the bubble bursts, and Alex’s footsteps echo down the stairs.  

“Someone said you went this way,” Alex says as he steps onto the deck, an entire bottle of champagne in his hand. 

He’s in a suit, jacket on but shirt unbuttoned nearly halfway down his chest. Henry’s seen him in this fit more than in his fireproofs. 

The suit is high-end, of course, and every designer is clamoring to dress him. He’s been on the cover of more fashion magazines than Henry can count. They’ve been popping up in his caravan, and he has a sneaking suspicion that Bea is to blame. 

“Remind me to have that person fired,” Henry says dryly. 

“You can’t fire Cash,” Alex says. “I’d be sad.” 

“God forbid.”

Alex laughs, loose and easy, drunk and happy. 

That’s the whole point, that Alex is happy. 

Alex is everything Mercedes wanted Henry to be. Alex fills in the gaps where Henry fell short. 

Henry wants to race; that’s all he’s ever wanted, but Alex is here to perform. 

Alex is vibrant and outgoing. He’s good on camera and in interviews. He is intelligent and funny, with zero reservations about letting everyone know it. He brings attention and new viewers to the sport, dating this hot, young starlet or that rising pop star. 

F1 sponsors want to pay him, men and women want to be with him, and Henry…Henry just wants him. 

“Why aren’t you celebrating?” Alex asks.

“I don’t know exactly what there is for me to celebrate.” 

“Umm, hello,” Alex says, gesturing to himself with his free hand. 

Above all else, Alex is good at racing, having come in first or at least on pole in the last five out of seven races. 

“Congratulations to you on your win,” Henry says as Alex takes a long swig from the bottle, tipping his head back as it spills down his chin and neck. 

Henry’s knuckles go white on the railing. “But you’ll have to forgive me for not wanting to celebrate my own performance.”

“Okay, first of all,” Alex says, pressing the bottle into Henry’s hand and gesturing for him to drink. “We’re a team, so my win is your win—don’t fucking roll your eyes at me—and P6 is nothing to get upset about. You’re in points. That matters.”

“You should tell my brother that.”

“I will. Is he here?”

Henry snorts. “This isn’t exactly my brother’s type of party. It’s not really my type of party, either.”

“Do you mean a fun one?”

“I’m fun,” Henry says as he playfully shoves at Alex’s shoulder. “I am, but this isn’t me.”

“It’s not me either,” Alex says, and Henry laughs. “Why is that funny?”

“Because it’s such a lie. You’re made for this.” 

“No, I’m just good at acting like I am. This isn’t me. This isn’t how I was raised–yachts, champagne, and women hanging off of me constantly, only using me for a photo op.” 

Henry wants to argue that that’s not him either, especially that last bit, but his father’s legacy looms too large, and Henry knows his privilege. 

“Well, I must say you’ve caught on very quickly. And I wasn’t raised on a yacht. It was a thirty-foot schooner.”

Alex laughs. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

Henry’s fingers tap against the bottle as he pulls up fond memories of off-seasons spent out on the sailboat with his family. “My father taught me to sail when I was very young.”

“Was that before or after he taught you how to drive? Or was that just in your genes?”

“He taught me,” Henry says softly, pushing those memories back. 

Alex nods and doesn’t push. “Do you still have the boat?”

“Yes,” Henry says. “Docked at St. Katherine.”

“You should take me out sometime,” Alex says, soft and eyes locked on Henry, and Henry nearly drops the champagne bottle.

“If you’d like,” he says, voice barely a whisper, but the way Alex’s gaze drops to his lip lets Henry know he’s heard.

[rainwaterapothecary]

"Unsettled" pt. 9

Serennedy Golden Compass AU [Lore][Pt. 1][Pt. 2][Pt.3][Pt.4][Pt.5][Pt.6][Pt.7][Pt.8]

("Speaking aloud" - "Speaking telepathically between human-daemon or daemon-daemon")

Arctic Islands Research Compound, 1947.

Garbed in tactical gear lifted from the guardhouse beneath their thick furs, two shadows entered the Facility’s main building.

A rat skittered silently down the taller shade’s arm and melted into a corner. Outside, a white wolf blended into the snow, golden eyes alert and on guard.

Panza’s teeth made quick work of the rubber hosing that attached the heaters to their source as Luis’ penknife made its way into door latches and hidden places.

Fingers burned by papers and weighted with the deaths of his fellow freedom fighters knew these motions, these goals. He had no way of knowing if the nightmarish research had external copies, but he could sure as hell lift papers they wouldn’t miss along with a whole lot of things they would.

Feet made light from specops and grip made strong by agony stalked the corridors he vaguely remembered being dragged down. He moved like a whisper, turning off lights where they wouldn’t be missed, waiting for the moment when he could cut the wires that very much would.

”Trouble.” Fiorire’s smooth voice alerted Leon’s Bond, perking his ears and slowing his breathing.

”What kind, bellu?”

”A man with a German Shepherd and a beret.”

Fuck.

”Keep eyes on him, love. I copy.” He felt her decisive nod through the Bond.

--

In the basement, a thick cobra stretched itself upwards, slithering over pipes and weighing them down at the delicate joints. Panza bounced his girth a few times in spite, just to be sure.

A few feet away, a pen knife lodged itself into an important lock and twisted.

”Mask on.” Alerted the canary daemon before it slipped back into its scales. Luis tugged his mask up over his mouth and nose before lowering his goggles and returning to his lock picking.

-

“Ah, smell that fresh air!” Major Krauser grinned, baring all of his teeth. The daemon at his knee scanned the snow with her Bonded’s matching scarred-over eye. Plush-furred, brown canine ears flicked forward at the same time Fiorire swore into her own Bond.

“Sergeant’s caught the smell of the gas.” Leon swore mentally, matching her earlier sentiment.

A snow-white hare ghosted across the snow without a sound, nestling into Fiorire’s ribs.

”What’ve we missed?” Panza whispered into the wolf's mind.

”One of the greatest tracking daemons alive just touched down and can smell our plot.”

Panza added his own mental blue streak to the collage.

--

A/N Surely you didn't think I'd just throw away the option for a Krauser fight. :3c

Also! The Panza Species List is alive and well! It was slow going the last two installments but this time he's back at it!

Bellu - 'Beautiful' in Sicilian

[Pt.10]

[cryptid-stimming]

Four (Battle for Dream Island) Stimboard (with chaotic stims) for Anon

x x x / x x / x x x

[Image description: a 9 gif stimboard; from left to right.

First line: A gif of small toy rubber ducks rotating and being pulled one by one into a whirlpool. A gif of someone playing a lego electronic whack 'a' mole game while a electronic screen keeps tally of their score. And a gif of someone running in an inflatable ball over a swimming pool while water splashes about them.

Second line: A gif of a pepsi vending machine being thrown from a height onto a strong trampoline and spinning in the air in front of a blue cloudy sky. A still image of the character Four from bfdi. And a gif of someone throwing a huge oversized paper airplane from the top of a grassy hill.

Third line: A gif panning over a stretchy shark anthromorphic toy laying in the grass as water from a hose expands it's torso, making the beads inside swirl about. A gif of a science experiment called 'elephant's toothpaste' which is where rapid decomposition of hydrogen peroxide creates a huge expanding tube of foam-like substance that rises up and then falls over. And a gif of a scrub daddy sponge frozen with liquid nitrogen and being crushed with a wooden mallet, frozen mist seeps around it.

End of image description.]

[staceymcgillicuddy]

For the meme: 42. The answer to everything.

Yay, thank you! This one inspired a 5+1 for me, I have no idea why, but here you go! So, like, five times that Eddie was amazed at Chrissy's privileged upbringing + one time she turned the tables.

1. 

“What’s that for?” Chrissy asks as they pull into a gas station and up to the air hose. 

“What’s what for?” Eddie asks as he cuts the engine and makes to hop out and fill his tires, which are pretty much dry rot and worn rubber at this point, but that doesn’t mean he can’t take care of them until they inevitably send him spiraling across the highway one day. 

“The vacuum.” 

“It’s not a vacuum. It’s for putting air in the tires.” 

“You have to put air in tires?” 

“Jesus, Cunningham. How have you survived this long by yourself? Yes, you have to put air in the tires.” 

Chrissy fixes him with a pout, but he doesn’t think she’s actually offended. “I don’t know! I don’t have a car!”

“Yeah, well. Pro-tip. Air in the tires when you do.” 

“Thanks, Eddie. You’re a pal.” 

2. 

“No, you have to, like… inhale twice,” Eddie says, holding the burning joint between his fingers as Chrissy makes a face. 

“But it tastes gross.” 

“Yeah, I know. That’s not the point.” 

Chrissy sighs. Leans in. Wraps that perfect pucker of hers around the end of the joint and inhales. 

Two minutes later, when she’s finally recovered from her coughing fit, Eddie’s just about stopped laughing. 

“You’re so mean to me,” she sighs. 

“Yeah, well, I still can’t figure out how you survived this long by yourself, dude.” 

3. 

“There’s something outside!” 

Chrissy’s whisper cuts through the darkness of Eddie’s bedroom like a needle, jabbing him directly in the brain and rousing him from an extremely pleasant dream that also involved Chrissy talking. Only, in his dream, it was less a panicked whisper and more a soothing reassurance that, yeah, his dick really was too big for her. 

“Huh?” He blinks just as something crashes outside the trailer. “Oh.” 

“Eddie! Someone’s breaking in!”

“Uh, no. That’s a raccoon.” 

“A raccoon?” She sits up like he told her aliens had landed on the lawn. “Outside?!”

“No, on the moon. Yes, it’s outside.” 

“Can it get in?” 

“… do you know how big raccoons are?” 

“You’re the one with the bathroom window that won’t close.” 

“Sweetheart. The garbage monster can’t get you. Can we please go back to sleep?” 

“Can you go and check?” 

Eddie sighs. Rolls onto his side and buries his face in the pillow. “You check if you’re so concerned.” 

“Please, Eddie?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles like he’s not already reaching for his boxers and boots. “Seriously, Cunningham. How have you survived this long?” 

4. 

“You’ve never had a Twinkie?” 

“No.” 

“Shit, Chrissy. How have you survived this long without eating a Twinkie?” 

5. 

“I don’t want to do it.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I can’t see the bottom.” 

“There’s nothing on the bottom! It’s a lake.” 

“It looks dirty.” 

Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose. “Chrissy…” 

“What if there’s an alligator?” 

“We’re in Indiana.” 

“So?” 

“So, there aren’t alligators in Indiana.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes, I’m sure.” 

“What about sharks?” 

“What… lake sharks?” 

Eddie almost believes her until he sees the corners of her mouth twitch, and she starts to giggle. 

“Fuck off, Cunningham,” he says, grabbing her around the waist and lifting her off Rick’s dock, fully intending to deposit her in the water. “How you survived this long thinking there are lake sharks…” 

“Eddie, don’t!”

Eddie does. 

+1 

Eddie blinks. “You what?” 

“I love you.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Am I sure? Yes, I’m sure!”

“Oh.” 

“Seriously, oh?” Chrissy feigns offense, pushing her sneaker-clad toes into his thigh and reaching for the joint he’s holding. “Thanks a lot.” 

“No, uh. I mean. Obviously, I love you, too. Just… I never said that to anyone before.” 

Chrissy smiles and takes a long drag, waving the smoke away before speaking. “I know. I’ve honestly been wondering how you survived this long by yourself.” 

Other prompts from this meme!

[hummingbird24220]

Chapter Forty Eight: Bath Bonds and Boobie Crimes

You were not having a good fur day.

You were still sticky from Luffy’s attempted grooming, your tail had bent in three weird directions during dinner, and after the Sanji Nip Incident™, Nami had declared—firmly, loudly, and with zero room for negotiation:

“You are not allowed to bathe yourself anymore.”

You had been weaponizing your own dirtiness. You had been causing chaos via wet fur and feral charm. And worst of all, you were not even slightly sorry about it.

So here you were.

Dragged back into the bath like a dirty toddler, arms crossed and ears flat, while Nami rolled up her sleeves and filled the tub with fragrant bubbles and mild judgment.

"You’ve been feral lately," she said, pouring some fancy floral soap into the water.

“I’m cute,” you offered.

“You’re a menace.”

You slid dramatically into the tub, sighing loudly like a dying starlet. “Tell that to all my fans.”

Nami knelt beside the tub and began scrubbing behind your ears with expert, ruthless precision. "Your fans are traumatized. Zoro's twitching. Sanji might actually combust. And Luffy thinks this is some kind of bonding ritual."

"It is,” you said proudly. “In my culture."

She dunked your head.

You came up spluttering.

“You are emotionally unstable,” she said sweetly.

“You’re jealous of my power,” you grinned, water dripping down your fur.

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You’re like a really cute, really gross emotional support animal.”

You preened.

And then, as she moved to scrub your arms, you paused.

Looked up at her.

“…Nami?”

She blinked. “Yeah?”

Your voice was softer now. Honest. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

She looked surprised for just a second. Then her face softened. “Of course, dummy. That’s what crewmates do.”

You leaned into her hand when she rinsed your cheek. “I know I’m a lot.”

“You are. A lot of ‘a lot.’ But you’re ours.”

You grinned.

Tail wiggled.

“…Can I grope you in return?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Then you grabbed her boobies anyway.

“HEY—”

You cackled, tail whipping out of the tub like a triumphant flag.

“It’s part of my grooming ritual!”

“IT IS NOT!”

She shoved your head underwater and held it there with a hand over your face as you flailed and giggled like a gremlin drowning in your own victory.

“You are THE WORST.”

You surfaced with a gasp and an evil sparkle in your eye.

“But the cleanest.”

Later, she helped towel you dry while muttering threats about “next time I’ll use the hose,” but she was smiling.

You leaned into her chest, warm and fresh and obnoxiously fluffy.

“...Love you, boobies.”

“I swear to god.”

--

The day started normally.

Which, for the Sunny, meant chaos, yelling, and at least one airborne snack.

You were dozing peacefully on the deck, tail curled around your legs, soaking in the sun like a cat-powered solar panel.

Nearby, Luffy and Usopp were having an extremely high-stakes battle involving a rubber band, a slingshot, and a mysterious bouncy fruit neither of them could identify.

Zoro had already moved to the other side of the ship with a “Nope.”

Chopper had asked twice if it was medically safe.

Robin placed a bet on someone losing an eye.

You, however, had simply curled up in your favorite patch of sunshine and mumbled, “Just don’t hit me.”

And then—they hit you.

The bouncy fruit, rubber-launched by Luffy and ricocheted by Usopp, smacked you squarely in the forehead with a loud, comedic “DOINK!”**

You blinked.

Swayed.

And then collapsed like a sack of flour.

Cue panic.

“OH NO OH NO OH NO—” “GET CHOPPER—” “WHY IS SHE TWITCHING—” “I TOLD YOU THE FRUIT WAS WEIRD—” “YOU SAID IT WAS A SNACK—”

You groaned. Sat up slowly. Blinked around at the crew who had now fully circled you, faces tense and wide-eyed.

Your ears twitched.

“…Who are you?”

The air dropped.

Chopper gasped.

Nami’s jaw fell open.

Sanji dropped his cigarette.

Zoro just said, “Oh no.”

You tilted your head. Tail flicking lazily.

Then you sniffed.

“Where am I? Why do you all smell like food and aggression?”

Robin stepped forward slowly. “...Do you know your name?”

You licked your paw and said, “Don’t care.”

Feral Mode: Activated.

Within the hour, it was painfully clear:

You didn’t remember any of them.

You didn’t even remember being part of the crew. No loyalty. No affection. Just suspicion and twitchy energy.

You were skittish. Clingy to corners. Crawling along the rafters. You stole six things within the first hour—including Nami’s shoe, Sanji’s apron, Zoro’s sword (again), and Luffy’s entire lunch.

When Sanji tried to get you to sit down for a meal, you hissed, perched on the countertop like a feral demon raccoon.

“Back off, noodle boy!”

“...Noodle—what?”

Luffy was devastated.

“She doesn’t know me,” he whispered to Chopper, clutching a straw hat like it was a lifeline.

Zoro was mostly annoyed. “She’s somehow more wild now.”

Chopper confirmed you were physically fine. “But... her memories? They’re just not connecting. It's like she's reverted to who she was before she joined us.”

Robin nodded thoughtfully. “We’re seeing the version of her that survived. Not the one that got soft with love.”

You, meanwhile, were on the mast, building a small hoard of shiny objects, scraps of jerky, and a spoon you’d started calling “Greg.”

Nami sighed, watching you skitter across the ceiling beams.

“…She’s really lost.”

Sanji looked up at you. At the way you flinched when they got too close. The way your ears twitched at every sound.

“She’s not gone,” he said quietly. “We just have to bring her back.”

Zoro folded his arms. “The hard part’s gonna be stopping her from biting us in the meantime.”

Luffy stood tall.

“I’ll let her bite me every day if that’s what it takes.”

And so began Operation: Re-Domesticate the Gremlin.

By day two of The Bonk Incident™, it had become apparent that your memories had not returned. But something had shifted.

You were still feral—but less "bite someone’s finger off" and more “suspicious sewer gremlin.”

Progress.

Unfortunately, along with your suspicious calm came a new horror:

You had decided that clothes were optional. Very optional.

You walked out onto the deck wearing nothing but your own fur, a single belt (???), and Sanji’s scarf tied around your waist like a ceremonial sash.

The crew paused.

Sanji nearly fainted. Zoro turned around so fast he cricked his neck. Chopper covered his eyes. Nami screamed. Usopp screamed louder. Robin sipped her tea. “Bold.”

“WEARING CLOTHES IS NORMAL,” Nami shouted, chasing you with a shirt.

You dodged like a gremlin, tail flicking, eyes narrowed in primal judgment.

“I don’t trust your fabric cages,” you muttered, perching on the railing like a judgmental forest cryptid.

Robin wrote that down.

Luffy, bright and unbothered, clapped his hands.

“Okay! New plan!”

Usopp groaned. “Please tell me this one doesn’t involve another projectile.”

“No,” Luffy beamed. “It involves ACTING.”

Zoro squinted. “...Acting?”

Luffy threw his arms in the air. “Reenactments! If we do stuff she remembers, maybe her brain will reboot!”

Sanji paled. “We’re gonna theater her back to normal?!”

“Yes!” Luffy cried. “I’ll go first!”

Reenactment #1: “The First Fish” Luffy jumped in front of you with a fishing rod, reenacting the time he’d lowered you into the water like bait.

You watched, unimpressed.

He screamed “FISHY FRIENDS!” and launched the hook dramatically.

It hit Usopp in the back of the head.

You hissed.

Reenactment #2: “The Gold Heist” Nami dressed in stolen merchant clothes. Usopp pretended to be a bank vault. Chopper tried to be a horse.

Sanji offered you a paper crown.

You bit it.

Reenactment #3: “The Great Grooming Debacle” Sanji approached with a towel and a comb, trembling.

You stared at him, then slowly held out your tail.

The crew gasped.

Sanji gently started brushing.

You purred.

Progress was made.

And then you licked his cheek and nipped his jaw.

He dropped the brush and fled.

Zoro’s attempt was simple: he walked up, offered you his sake, and said, “You used to drink this.”

You sniffed it.

Drank it.

Spat it back into the cup.

Then hissed.

“…Fair,” he muttered.

By sundown, you were curled on the figurehead, tail wrapped around your body, watching them with narrowed but slightly less feral eyes.

“...They’re dumb,” you muttered to no one.

Robin walked by and paused beside you. “But you’re still watching them.”

You flicked your ear.

“...Maybe.”

-

By day three, it was official:

You were back to your roots. Feral. Unbothered. Unclothed (mostly). And very, very sticky-fingered.

If the crew had thought you were chaotic before your memory loss, they were now getting a front-row seat to the raw, undiluted gremlin prototype that had existed before you ever met them.

And this version?

This version had no sense of teamwork. No shame. And no moral compass.

Just a tail, claws, and a gleam in your eye.

You started early.

Sanji woke up and couldn’t find his left shoe.

Robin found her entire chair missing from the library.

Zoro discovered you’d somehow stolen one of his swords in your sleep. It was under your arm like a teddy bear.

Usopp’s goggles were missing. So was Chopper’s stethoscope. So was Franky’s wrench. And Luffy’s hat—wait.

“SHE STOLE MY HAT?!” Luffy screamed, running across the deck barefoot.

You stood on top of the mast, hat on your head, eating jerky, and staring at him like a cryptid raccoon princess.

“I look better in it,” you called down.

Zoro barked, “Give it back, gremlin!”

You ducked into the crow’s nest.

By lunch, your hoard was growing.

One sword (Zoro’s)

Three spoons (Sanji’s)

A pile of snacks (mostly Luffy’s)

Two gold rings (Nami’s—big mistake)

A candle (Robin’s, now bent)

A pair of goggles (Usopp’s, now worn around your neck)

One sock (???)

You hissed when anyone got close.

You bit when Chopper tried to check your vitals.

You spoke in riddles and sarcasm. Climbed across beams. Left paw prints on the ceiling. Wore Luffy’s hat sideways.

“I don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified,” Sanji muttered, watching you curl protectively around your pile of stolen goods like a gremlin dragon.

“She’s regressed to her pre-civilized form,” Robin said, flipping a page.

“She didn’t even steal useful stuff!” Usopp yelled. “She took a sock! One sock! From a pair of two!”

“That’s a dominance play,” Nami deadpanned, arms crossed.

Zoro just grunted. “She’s mocking us.”

And you were. Oh, you were.

You didn’t remember the bonds. Didn’t remember the warmth. Didn’t remember their love.

But some strange instinct kept you close.

Still on the ship. Still orbiting them.

Like a cat who doesn’t know it’s home, but keeps returning to the porch anyway.

That night, the crew sat around the table with one collective sigh.

Outside, you perched in the rigging like a gargoyle with a glint in your eye and crumbs on your face.

“...Do we let her keep the sword?” Sanji asked.

“No,” Zoro growled.

“She’s using it as a body pillow,” Robin added.

“I will end her,” Zoro muttered, rubbing his temple.

But even now, somewhere deep down…

You caught yourself glancing at them sometimes. Ears twitching when you heard them laugh. Tail curling when Luffy shouted your name, even if you didn’t answer.

Something inside you remembered how it felt.

Not the moments. But the warmth.

[dialpforpomni]

Case 1: Mildenhall Murder

Part 1- Taking The Case

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°Next》

The smell of nicotine and cheap coffee hung heavy in my office, a comfort in the buzzing heart of New DigiYork. 1996.

The air itself crackled with the promise of innovation and the stench of Abstraction, and I, Pomni, was right in the thick of it. I stood at the window, nursing a cigarette, the neon glow painting my face in shifting hues of electric blue and sickly green.

Private investigator. That's what the chipped brass plate on my door proclaimed, and that's what I was, though sometimes I felt more like a glorified babysitter for this city's messed-up secrets.

Knock, knock, knock. Rapid, frantic. It was Ragatha.

Ragatha, bless her stitched heart, was a spectacle. A ragdoll brought to life, a vibrant explosion of red yarn hair cascading around a face usually set with a bright smile. Tonight, her worry was amplified tenfold.

Her lacy black dress, usually a symbol of her theatrical flair, was now a crumpled mess.

"Pomni! Thank the stars," she gasped, her button eyes wide with panic. "Mr. Mildenhall… he's… he's dead!"

Mr. Mildenhall. Owner of the Grand Digital Theater, Ragatha's stomping ground. A  man with a penchant for gaudy suits and a generous hand when it came to paying his performers. Dead. In his office.

"Run it down, Ragatha," I said, stubbing out my cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. "Weapon, prints?

She nodded, her yarn hair practically vibrating with anxiety. "Nothing! The police… they're just poking around, asking questions. It'll get lost in the shuffle, Pomni. It needs to be… investigated."

Of course it did. The police, with their bureaucratic red tape and their rubber hoses, wouldn't give a damn about a theater owner gone cold in his office. Not unless there was a scandal attached.

But why Ragatha? Why not Mrs. Mildenhall, the wife? Something smelled fishier than week-old digital sushi.

"Alright, doll," I sighed, resigned. "I'll take the case. But you better level with me, Ragatha. Anything you're not telling me?"

She wrung her hands, but her gaze remained steady. "Everything I know, Pomni. I swear."

I didn't believe her completely, but it was enough to get me started. I grabbed my trench coat, the one that had seen more late nights and back alleys than I cared to remember, and headed for the door.

A cigarette clenched between my teeth, I strolled into the New DigiYork Police Precinct like I owned the place. The air reeked of stale donuts and desperation. I flashed my badge – Pomni XDDCC, Private Investigator – at the front desk, a bored-looking mannequin who barely glanced up from his crossword puzzle.

Sheriff Gummigoo, a gruff, gummy alligator who looked like he’d swallowed a bad batch of code, wasn't thrilled to see me.

"Pomni," he groaned, leaning back in his squeaky chair. "What the hell do you want? I'm busy."

"The Mildenhall murder," I said, my voice low and gravelly. "I want the files."

He scoffed. "And who authorized this, exactly?"

That's when I casually extinguished my cigarette on his immaculate desk, the burning end leaving a black scorch mark on the polished wood. I flicked the butt onto the floor with a flick of my wrist.

"I authorized it, Gummigoo," I said, my eyes narrowed. "Your boys wouldn't know a crime scene if it bit them in their gummy butts. You want another murder in this town, you keep playing patty-cake. You want it solved, hand over the damn files."

He glared at me, his gummy jowls trembling. After a long, tense silence, he caved. "Fine," he grumbled.

"But if you're going to stick your nose where it doesn't belong, you're going to have one of my officers accompany you."

"I work alone, Gummigoo," I snarled.

"Tough," he snapped back. "That's the price." He gave me a pointed look.

I raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Fine. But if your shadow messes this up, it's on your head."

He barked a laugh, then bellowed, "Gangle! Get your ribbon-covered ass in here!"

The door creaked open, and a figure so slight it almost vanished emerged. It was Officer Gangle, a humanoid form almost entirely obscured by layers of colorful, tangled ribbons.

A mask, a simple white oval, covered their face, rendering them utterly expressionless. They looked like a walking, talking craft project gone horribly wrong. And terrified.

"You're sending… this?" I asked, incredulous.

Gummigoo just shrugged. "She's the best I got. Now get out of my office, Pomni. And try not to get yourselves killed."

Files in hand, I led Gangle out of the precinct, the officer trailing behind me like a lost kite. This was going to be interesting.

Back in my office, I dumped the files on my desk, the weight of them pressing down on my already frayed nerves.

A masked, ribbon-clad officer. What the hell had I gotten myself into? This case was already smelling weirder than a digital dumpster fire.