#and it was a metal wastebasket

[flavia-draws]

may i add mel collins used to braid toilet paper into his hair at parties

For anyone who is unable to view the post on Reddit, have this😊

Credit to my friend (who is tagged) who I asked to get this screenshot

[myminddcontrol]

This reminds me of the good ol days

[teaboot]

Hey! Bamboo toilet paper person here. Your response was very thoughtful-- I want to apologize for placing the onus of climate issues on individual action, haha. I work at a zoo that bills itself as being very heavy on conservation messaging, but as a non-partisan organization we're obviously not allowed to talk about the evils of capitalism. This means that in our programming, we MUST place the responsibility of stopping climate change on individual guests, encouraging them to make more environmentally conscientious decisions like buying reef safe sunscreen or reducing carbon emissions by driving less. The most "political" we're allowed to get is telling people to stay educated and vote in favor of laws that will have a positive impact on the environment. I think I've been drinking the Zoolaid a little TOO much recently, because you're totally right-- the vast, VAST majority of damage to the environment is caused by major corporations, not random people working around their own unique needs. It was also low key a little ableist of me to take issue with that ngl.

Obviously no obligation to respond to this publicly (though it's fine if you choose to do so), but I did want to thank you for your response and mention that it did get through the nonprofit mission-based-organization propaganda living rent free in my head haha. Cheers!

Hey, you work at a zoo? That is SO cool, aadsdggjjg@!!!

And hey, no worries, you totally had a good point about endless waste and trying to counter it where possible- Just from personal experience involved in the barest edge of the fashion industry, I really, really, REALLY hate the idea that, like... people can't access simple shit like plastic straws, even if they're the best, most practical, least-harmful option for them.... because a 12 year old made up some random number for a school project about plastic waste

Where, as a zoo person, I imagine you're already aware that the average sea turtle is WILDLY more likely to die from abandoned plastic fishing nets or ocean-dump grocery bags than accidentally get a straw inside it

So here we are, using paper straws!- which may be an improvement, or may not, I don't have that data, and construction emissions are their own thing- BUT WE STILL HAVE OCEANS FULL OF ABANDONED NETS

WHICH ARE OBJECTIVELY WORSE, but MUCH harder to get rid of, and as the average person doesn't USE fishing nets, it'd much harder to market as a "You, not me" sort of issue.

Cleaning up fishing nets isn't trendy. It isn't sexy. You can't troubleshoot a cute little trendy solution for it that you can market to upwardly-mobile tweens.

But a reusable water bottle? A cute canvas tote? A metal straw? That's a solution you can buy and feel good about.

Never mind that you need to use a single cotton reusable bag somewhere like a million times before the cost of its construction counterbalances the cost of a single grocery bag every time you shop- which, hey, some of us were reusing as trash liners for their wastebaskets, or bundle bags for donating clothes, or lining for our leaky winter boots!

If a better option is available, I'll take it. But as ZERO HARM is next to impossible at this time, I personally am gonna aim for MINIMAL HARM as long as I can.

...sorry, I didn't mean to ramble off again.

But hey, if your nonprofit is doing good things, feel free to shoot me a link! I can post it on my blog :D

(Link to original post for context lol)

[ghostface001]

Broken Bottles

March is falling for you, but he sees how you act around Olric and knows you'll never return his feelings. His solution is to bottle up his emotions and drop kick it as far away from him as possible. Somehow, he doesn't realize what happens to glass when you kick it.

March x Reader

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings: Angst (with a happy ending), assumed unrequited feelings, minor swearing, drinking as a coping mechanism, a slightly toxic confession scene

Note: This took a lot longer to write than I thought it would, but I love it, so that's okay. Please let me know if you like it! Tagging @atoltia because she asked so nicely

The bell ringing above the door of the blacksmith’s prompts March to turn from his spot at his desk to see who entered, greeted by your bright smile and sack of ore from your latest trip down to the mines. He ignores the clenching in his chest as you beeline to him, procuring a perfect piece of iron ore and holding it out to him. 

“Hey, I found this and thought of you.”

He hates it when you talk to him like you want to see him. It could be so easy for him to trick himself into thinking that’s the case. The increased visits to the shop when you don’t need any new tools, the gifts, the attention — when he’s feeling particularly delusional, he wonders if it truly is all for him. But the illusion breaks after he takes the ore and gives the only response he’s capable of under your expectant gaze, something lukewarm to disguise the warmth rushing to his cheeks, and you move on to who you’re actually here for. 

Olric. 

It’s annoying, hearing Olric tell the same stupid story about his most recent part-time shift around town for the third time in two days. It’s even more annoying when he has to hear you laugh at it, because now instead of focusing on his work, he’s distracted by coming up with ways to hear your laugh for the rest of his life. 

“I’m trying to concentrate. Don’t either of you have work to do?” His voice comes out harsher than he intends, but he can’t bring himself to amend it. His position at his desk is a convenient cover from your gaze as you pause. Do you see the white-knuckled grip on his pencil? Do you notice the redness in his cheeks?

He doesn’t have to look at you to know your expression. Raised brow, a wrinkle of confusion and annoyance. He hasn’t snapped at you like that in a while, hasn’t deemed you a nuisance. You thought you were past this with him.You purse your lips and side-eye Olric, who only gives you a guilty shrug. “Sorry, March. I’ll get out of your hair.” You shoulder your bag and say goodbye to Olric, pausing at the door. “I’ll see you both at the inn tonight?”

“Yeah, totally!” March gives a flat grunt following Olric’s enthusiastic answer, and continues scribbling out blueprints. 

The door closes behind you, leaving a tense silence as Olric decides whether or not to question him. Before he can, a gasp escapes him. “I have a shift at the general store!” He rushes out the door, and March turns in his chair to see him walk past the window with you smiling brightly at him. 

The rip of paper brings him out of his thoughts. March looks down at the blueprints to see a large tear where the pencil had ripped through the paper. With a frustrated sigh, March balls up the paper and tosses it into the wastebasket before pushing himself up from his desk, grabbing his hammer and heading out the door.

Get a grip. 

Why do you care who the stupid farmer talks to anyway? 

Why do you think they’d ever smile at you like that?

Each passing thought is channeled into March’s swing, punctuated by the loud banging of his hammer against metal. The shop needs a new sword on display after he gave you the last one in exchange for all the ore you’ve been handing over. He can’t let himself be in debt to you. Can’t let himself owe you anything. Because then you’d just give him that smile you have whenever you think you’ve made progress with him, the one that drives him insane. You drive him insane. Every laugh when he brags about his skill, every smile as you hand over a gift from the mines, every new scar from your journeys down there… he can’t tell if he admires you or is worried about you when you act like nothing happened after passing out in the mines. Seeing his sword strapped to your back as you run around town helped after the last time Valen had to heal you — it also made it worse. It made you keep talking to him; it made him keep responding. And now… now it just makes him confused. Frustrated. Annoyed.

Angry.

Angry when you smile at him as though he deserves it. Angry when he messes up and snaps at you. Angry when you just roll your eyes and give it back to him, making his stomach twist in guilt — both because you don’t deserve his attitude and because he likes it when you return his energy. You don’t coddle him like Olric does. You don’t defend him when he’s being a jerk. You don’t insist he’s secretly better than he is. You see him for who he is, and you like him for who he is. 

But you like Olric more. You like Olric in the way March wishes you would like him. Not that he blames you, though he can certainly pretend to. Olric is better than him. Maybe not at blacksmithing, but at everything else. Everything you deserve. And it pisses him off.

“Are you, uh… trying out a new technique, bro?”

March forces his glare away from Olric to the anvil. The sword he’d been taking his anger out on now sits in pieces, the metal ruined from sitting in the forge for too long before he started working on it. He sneers down at his failure. “No. I’m screwing up.”

“I’m sure it can be reused… somehow.” Olric reaches up and scratches the back of his neck as he attempts to be reassuring. 

“It can’t.” March swipes the metal into the scrap bucket that’s been steadily becoming more and more needed the longer you’ve been living in his head. Maybe it’s for the best that you like Olric. That way, he can finally force his feelings to the back of his mind and get back to his standards of perfection. Maybe it’ll actually work this time. 

Olric is saying something about not worrying about the waste of metal when him saying your name brings March’s attention back. “— and I are going down to the tide caverns of the mines tomorrow, if you want to join?”

The offer makes March roll his eyes. He’s never been a miner. After the earthquake, sometimes he’ll go a few levels down in the upper mines for copper if he’s really desperate, but otherwise, he relies on Olric and Balor for supply. Not to mention, he’d rather look for worms after it rains than be a third wheel to you and Olric in the mines, working together, protecting each other with his sword on your back—

“March?”

He grits his teeth and tears off his gloves. “I’ll pass.” He storms past Olric into the shop, slamming the door behind him. 

~~~

As soon as you walk into the inn, March feels the room brighten, and he watches you make your rounds. You first visit the Dragon Guard, who are conspiring on their next hit — March overheard them ‘whispering’ about Juniper earlier, the kids aren’t subtle. Next, you check in on the latest session of Dragons & Drama that Celine is running, and after that, you stop for a round of cards. March observes you sitting next to Olric, consulting each other about your hands to the annoyance of everyone else playing. And when you win instead of Olric, he cheerfully congratulates you, his arm around your shoulders causing March to grip his glass tighter.

You finally sit next to him at the bar, and the sinking feeling in his gut disappears with your smile. Hemlock slides a drink to you over the bar, and you thank him before turning to March, your voice low. “You seemed a little off this morning, are you feeling better?”

“Now that you’re here,” He drawls with a smile, propping his head up with his hand, his elbow resting on the bar.

You bite back a smile, and March suddenly has the strong urge to cup your cheeks in his hands as your face takes on a warmer hue and you laugh softly, hiding behind a sip of your drink. “Did Olric ask you about the mines tomorrow? I wanted to ask you myself, but thought you might still be… moody.”

He frowns — if he’s being honest, it’s more of a pout. “‘S’not fair.”

Your brow furrows. “Sorry, I just didn’t want to bother you.”

“You are bothering me.”

Your face twists in confusion and offense. “I can leave—”

“Noooo.” It begins to occur to March that drinking does not make him magically better at expressing himself. He reaches forward as you start to get up, but you’re closer than he’s prepared for, so he holds your wrists when he means to take your hands in his. “I mean… ‘s’not fair that you hang out with Olric all the time. ‘S’like you like him or something.”

“I do like him.”

You say something else, but the blood is already rushing in his ears. “You… you do?”

Your confusion doesn’t let up. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

No. There isn’t. Because Olric is everything March isn’t. He’s nice, and humble, and respectful. His compliments aren’t backhanded, and his praise doesn’t have to be earned. Olric doesn’t have to hide behind alcohol to express how he feels. He doesn’t have to drink to be happy. 

You like Olric. March already knew, but to hear it from your lips makes the sting burn. The warmth of your skin under his hands turns to ice, and he pulls back quickly. Too quickly, as his elbow hits his glass and sends it crashing to the ground. 

Everyone turns at the sound of glass shattering, and March’s face burns under their gazes as he pushes himself to stand. You reach out to steady him as he stumbles, avoiding stepping on broken glass. “I’ll pay for it,” He manages as Josephine approaches, ready with a broom and dustpan. 

 “There’s no need. You didn’t get nicked or anything, right?” Josephine waves him off with a smile that he can only read as pity.

“I’m fine.” He backs away, keeping his head down, and shoves his hands in his pockets before leaving. The cool night air does little to help the burning in his cheeks as he stalks over the bridge to get home. 

On the way, a hand is on his shoulder. And he turns to see you, your concerned gaze under the moonlight doing nothing to help his inner turmoil. “March? What happened?”

“I said I’m fine!” He wrenches himself away, glaring at you. “Just go be with your boyfriend!”

You hold your hands up to placate him, only angering him more. “What are you talking about?”

“Olric!” He steps forward, closing in the space between you. “You said you like him, so how about you go do something about it instead of being a useless coward?”

Your face falls for a moment before hardening, and you straighten. “Get some sleep, March,” You say coolly. “It seems like you need it.”

You head back to the inn, and March glares over the side of the bridge, debating the merits of a night swim when Olric finds him and brings him home. 

~~~

March is occupying himself witht he inventory books the next morning when the bell above the door rings. He looks up to see you enter, dressed for the mines, with his sword strapped to your back. Despite the pain relieving tonic from Valen, his head throbs. “Olric left already,” He bites out, forcing himself to look down at the book.

“I told him I’d meet him there.” You set a paper cup on the sales desk and push it towards him. “Fresh from Darcy. She said she hasn’t seen you today.”

There was no chance in hell he was going to the market today. Everyone would just ask him how he was, and what was wrong, and he might just throw himself over the bridge for sure. His headache forces him to take the cup, despite never wanting to accept anything from you ever again. It’s a mocha. At least he can pretend it’s from Darcy knowing his order instead of you. You watch him expectantly as he takes a drink, an edge in your gaze. You’re expecting him to lash out at you again. He just might. “You should go. Wouldn’t want you to be late for your date.”

Your eyes narrow, and he pointedly returns to the inventory lists. “It’s not a date,” You reply. 

“But you want it to be.”

“No, I don’t.” You reach forward and close the book, bringing it over to your side of the desk. March glares at you, but you don’t waver. “So, let’s talk about it.”

It’s times like these when March wishes you would treat him like everyone else. Give him a wide berth when he’s upset, only bother him when necessary, and treat him like a ticking bomb just waiting to go off. Stop being so… you. Maybe then he wouldn’t like you as much, and you wouldn’t be forcing this conversation on him in the first place. “If you want to talk so bad, then talk to Olric,” He grits out.

“You are such a child!” You round the desk, removing the barrier between you. “I’m not dating Olric, I don’t want to date him—”

“You said you like him—”

“I thought you meant as a friend!” You throw your hands out in exasperation. “And you know what? Even if I did like him romantically, why do you care? Why is it any of your business?”

He balls his fists, his nails digging into his palms. “It isn’t.”

“No.” You step forward again, closing the distance between you. “It’s not rhetorical. Why do you care so much about who I like, March? Because I have a feeling, but I’m not gonna make it easy for you after you’ve been treating me like shit for no good reason. So how about you do something about it instead of being a useless coward?”

For the first time in a long time, he does something about it. The kiss he pulls you in for is bruising and awkward, but that doesn’t stop you from returning the intensity with equal fervor. His drink sits forgotten on the table as he holds the back of your neck, his other hand gripping your hip. You clutch the front of his shirt tightly, arching your body closer into him. His lips part, and you capture more of him, causing him to gasp against your mouth.

When you finally part, neither of you let go of the other, both breathing heavily. “Why… why did you think I liked Olric?” You ask softly, still catching your breath. 

He knows his face is red, but he’s close enough to see that your cheeks are a deeper hue as well. “You always come by to see him.”

“I always come by to see you.” Your palms flatten against his chest and you laugh. “Do you seriously need me to tell you how disgustingly obvious it is that I like you? Because I will. And it will be disgusting. And slightly stalker-y. And you’ll feel really stupid that you got it wrong.”

He purses his lips to hide the smile threatening to surface. “So, what, you’re so smart that you’ve known I liked you all along and did nothing about it?”

“I had no idea until you freaked out on me last night.” Your hand trails up to his cheek. “So I guess we’re both a little stupid.”

“Can I kiss you again?” He asks, dipping his head down. “I didn’t do it right the first time.”

“It felt alright to me.” Your gaze falls to his lips. You can still feel where your teeth had knocked together, and your lips sting. 

“‘Alright’ isn’t good enough.”

“You’re such a perfectionist,” You laugh, leaning in so your lips graze against his. “But I’ll allow it.”

He closes the distance, and vows to perfect his technique as long as you’ll let him.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

How about something for a verse we havent had in a while (if you want to of course, otherwise something for Erik?) Uhhhh maybe something for secret!reader jason verse?? Or whatever you have inspiration for :)

This is what I can see in my head so... here we go.

You knew the dance. The steps were simple. They move forward and you move back. If you toe the line and keep your head down, no one looks at you. If you can keep from being perceived, you're safe.

But you see everything.

As soon as you touch an object, you can know what has happened to it or will happen to it. Gloves help. Sleeves help.

But... it's a crime family. They use you to touch things. To know if the glass will break. If a gun will misfire. If a guy will rat them out to the cops.

Keeping your arms around yourself is safest. Rubbing the patches on your denim jacket. The ones you stole laughing with your friends, the sun shining on your face as you ran up the sidewalk. It's not real, the pictures- and as long as you don't look forward; to know what else happens it's okay.

Because what happens later- that... well. If you look too far forward you're dead.

___________________

Pages turned to ash in the flames curling like rose petals. And you fed more pages into the grate one by one, ignoring the brooding man behind you and the smell of cigar smoke.

"You good, kid?"

"Just cleaning house," you answer, not turning. Ignoring the feel of the flames as you picked up the notebooks to tear them apart. Behind you, you could hear him take a seat and rolled your eyes.

"Gettin' late-"

"Figured if I did this earlier Jubilee and Kitty would be down here tryin' to make s'mores on it," you snort. "Didn't really want to have to explain THAT."

"Fair enough," Logan said.

You could feel him sizing you up. And you knew he had... questions. How a professor that was in the same class as Scott and Jean know how to pick locks and hotwire cars? Why's Charles seem to defer to you when it came to things that were 'criminal' in nature? And how the living hell did you become a teacher with a rap sheet? But you don't know if you have the patience to answer right now.

Writing was supposed to be theraputic. To give you a place to get it all out. Storm told you to just write it all out but... it felt too much like having a written confession. Like it was just all laid out for the cops and waiting.

So you fed the last of the pages to the flames and watched them catch. And that was... Somehow more satisfying.

"Love notes?" Logan scoffed, teasing.

"Sure," you shrug, carefully scooping up scraps of paper from the spirals and the metal that wouldn't burn into the wastebasket.

"It's either that or bad poetry-"

"Not really a poem kind of girl, Logan," you tell him, getting to your feet. "Tequilla is good or it isn't- why do I need to 60 words to say it?"

Logan took a drag on his cigar and regarded you, smirking, "Sometimes it's really fucking good tequila."

[y3ager]

[12:20] “will there ever be a time you let me be there for you?”

“i’m not sure what you’re trying to insinuate.”

“you can’t play stupid with me, kento.” you gently dab at your split brow with the gauze provided to you by shoko, who just walked out to retrieve more supplies. you wince and pull the tissue away, watching as blood quickly seeps through it. holding it back up to the wound, you look over at nanami. he wasn’t necessarily beat within an inch of his life, but it’s obvious he took on more of the damage from the curse. there’s a tear in the shoulder of his suit, and a few cuts running angrily across his exposed legs. his normally perfectly coiffed golden hair is disheveled, strands going this way and that. a bruise is beginning to form on his cheek, ugly and yellow-ish green against his pale skin. “i could’ve handled that curse just fine, i could’ve helped you.”

“as your superior-” here comes this speech.

“whoa, by three months,” you interject bitterly. “i was in your class.” the gauze has stemmed the bleeding for now. you toss the soiled material into a metal wastebasket with a loud thunk that cuts through the sterility of the room.

“i still have an obligation to protect you,” nanami insists firmly. he shifts a little on the table to properly look at you, and you notice the wince that runs through his body. the hiss that slides through his teeth. he hurts. “it’s not a matter of your ability or your strength, but it’s something i must do as a man. i won’t lose anyone else. i-” there’s a clenched fist, a tight inhale. “i can’t.”

a heavy silence falls over the sterile room, somehow making it even colder. the same thought, the same face runs through your minds.

“i don’t want to lose you either.”

there’s no official label as to what you two are. it’s something deeper than colleagues, friends, former classmates. that’s made obvious by the longing glances, the hours spent together that feel like mere minutes. unspoken acts of devotion, love, because him calling you his and you calling him your own would seal a fate you two can’t bear to suffer, as is the trend in jujutsu society.

“so,” you continue, your eyes fixing onto his. “next time, i will step in. i’m not letting you shoulder another burden yourself again.”

a small smile tugs at nanami’s lips, and his brown eyes soften. it looks years of tenseness, stress slowly, gently, just barely attempt to melt away from his features. “it’s funny, when you try to look serious.”

“i mean it!” you cry. “i’m being so serious, kento, really. come on. if you have no one, you have me.” suddenly you grasp his hand, the one not marred by scratches and nicks. “i promise.”

he looks down at your hands, how his envelopes yours, how your skin looks against his. his eyes stare into yours.

“thank you.”

*smth cute n quick 4 da girlz gn 😴

[yandere-toons]

Yandere Death the Kid (Platonic Scenario - "Death and Dignity")

Warnings: Use of Firearms, Death, Violence, Toxic Mindsets.

Word Count: 4881.

Hour after hour, from the time the sun climbed up the stars to the time it sank below the horizon, with every fanciful stroke of a tired pen, Kid poured onto paper the thoughts that would not leave him.

These thoughts gnawed at his mind like termites at rotten wood, consuming it bit by bit until what once was stable now teetered on the precipice of collapse. This flight of passion was a waking nightmare that haunted his every movement.

His right hand, which clutched the pen as though glued to it, exploded into a fit of shakes after forcing itself to remain stiff for a final sentence. The words that lay before him disgusted him more than the most fetid odour, and with an anguished cry, Kid tore the page free of the notebook.

“It's not good enough!” His yell was dripping with frustration, frustration with himself, the look of the letter and its intended recipient. The noise carried on the silent air of the mansion and shattered the peace of many a slumber.

It rounded corners and slipped underneath closed doors, ushering two pairs of haggard footsteps from a plush bed. Kid was deaf to this series of thumps, for what filled his ears was a combination of mumbles and rustles.

A few strips of paper had been severed from the rest and stuck to the spine while Kid pounded the majority into a ball and hurled it into the metal wastebasket beside the desk. As the wastebasket rattled, Kid slammed his elbows into the flat top of the desk, hunched over in his seat, and cradled his face in his palms.

“Kid?” Liz called, surprise and concern intertwined. “You okay?” She hesitated to ask, fearful of what had dragged such pain from him in the dead of night.

Bare feet brushed stone as Liz took another step towards him, and this one brought her to the foot of the desk. She looked down at the back of Kid's head and leaned forward to get a better view of him.

Kid did not meet her gaze. Perhaps, he had deemed himself unworthy of it, or perhaps, he had not the strength. “If I don't get it right, they'll think I'm garbage.” The misery in his voice told the story of someone who had given up on proving anyone wrong.

Liz saw how many pages were missing from the notebook and how packed the wastebasket was becoming, and she understood how steep the cliff was from which Kid dangled. “No, they won't. Just go with whatever you have left.”

On any of the nights that came before, he went to sleep at the same rigid bedtime. On this night, Liz observed, he quested for something that eluded him.

His eyes were glazed with manic confusion and open wide despite the dark circles surrounding them. His fingers danced across the desk as if it was hot to the touch, finding solace in digging each nail into the wooden surface.

Kid finally blinked after a full minute of staring at the next blank page in the notebook. In a shaky breath that teased the arrival of tears, he whispered, “I can't stop, Liz.”

It was not a declaration of determination or some great desire, but rather, it was a desperate recitation of the fact that he was, at that moment, as he had been at countless others, a slave to his obsessive thoughts.

They looped in his mind without end, threatening devastation if they were ignored and withholding his ability to relax until he wrote a particular string of words exactly as he had imagined them in his head.

Dozens of failed attempts sat in a stack inside the wastebasket.

Patty squatted in front of it with a curious laugh, collected a few balls of paper off the top, and began crafting an origami giraffe. She hummed a merry tune as she smoothed the trash and then folded it into a work of art, which earned a slight smile from her big sister.

Kid, however, was dead to everything but the blank page and the pen in his hand. He moved to quell the thoughts that suffocated him, and Liz grabbed his hand and guided it away from the page.

She frowned at the coldness of his skin and narrowed her eyes at his shallow breaths. “Have you had anything to eat today?”

He looked at her as though it was his first time hearing the word “eat” and was puzzled by its lack of apparent relevancy to his task. As the fact that a world existed outside of writing the letter washed over Kid in a slow wave, he turned his head back to the notebook and mumbled, “No. There was no time for that.”

Patty jumped up and spread herself across the desk, lying on her stomach and kicking the air. She stretched her arms towards Kid and shoved an origami giraffe in his face. “Give them this! Everybody loves giraffes!”

If she had taken a pack of crayons to it, one could have mistaken it for a real baby giraffe.

Kid eyed the origami giraffe and instinctively judged whether slicing it in half would produce equal pieces. A vertical slice would, he deduced, and he accepted it with both hands.

* * *

Kid's house was a castle pulled from a gothic storybook, its walls adorned with tentacled skulls and red spikes, and its grass home to a garden of guillotines. Being in it was like stepping into a different universe, one where each room mirrored itself on opposite sides.

Every red-carpeted staircase footed the traffic of dozens of guests, and all the linen-draped tables threw their candlelit shadows upon the stone floor. The floor had been scrubbed and buffed until no scratch was in sight, as you noticed your reflection on the monochromatic rock.

Peering through one of the arched windows of the aptly named Gallows Mansion yielded the moon-tipped glint of a cast-iron fence, its spear-like bars pointing at the purple sky and spreading from a locked gate.

The music of the student body enjoying a break rang loud over the jazzy piano emitting from a gramophone. Its needle traced the grooves in an old disc, tucked into the corner of the walls bordering the right side of the central staircase.

Doing so much as lifting a piece of food from the lines of prearranged plates seemed a disservice, as if you were sullying a priceless creation meant to be looked at, not touched. The air smelt of salads, turkey legs and mashed potatoes with peas, leaving a zesty bunch of crumbs on everyone's tongue but your own.

Kid bopped himself on the forehead with the heel of his hand: “Idiot!” He hissed the word through clenched teeth and pushed his eyes to the floor, his breathing rattled and his once-steady hands curling into fists.

“Of course, they don't like it!” The bite of self-disgust in his voice was potent, but when Kid snuck a glance your way to catch you scanning the other partygoers with boredom, his heart punched his ribcage. “They're not having a good time,” he muttered, “I need to fix this.”

After patting imaginary dust from the clothes he had ironed twice before the party started, Kid took a deep breath through his nose and straightened his posture to the point of stiffness. A stony composure washed over his face and unwound the wrinkles clinging to it.

Kid departed from his group of friends, who were humouring the blue-haired Black☆Star as he stood atop a table and dramatised the events of his latest victory, and only one of them noticed.

The squeak of dress shoes pivoting on the stone floor alerted you to the sight of Kid sliding into the space beside you. He had aligned himself with you, facing the same direction as you and standing at the same distance from the nearest table as you were.

He wore black suspenders over a dark tie and a cedar brown dress shirt, like a classy gent out for a stroll, giving him a muted appearance that would have been easy to overlook in the crowd if not for his half-striped hair.

“I couldn't help but notice that the catering is not to your liking.” Kid recited the line that he had been refining in his head and repeating under his breath on the way over. “Rest assured, the menu will have greatly improved by the next party.”

As he turned to you, his arms came round from behind his back. “In the meantime, please accept this as a token of my apology.”

Kid presented an origami giraffe with the spirit of a chef peeling off the lid of a silver platter. He had closed his eyes, but when his anxieties about somehow grabbing the wrong item sprouted, he reopened them to study the gift in his hands.

“Patty wanted me to give it to you.” He stumbled on the name, as if he had intended to say a different one, but faltered just as the sound came out.

You tucked the giraffe underneath your arm, nodded at him, and offered a smile that Kid had yet to see you bear for any other person. “Tell her it's the finest gift I've ever received.”

Something bloomed on your face, an untroubled excitement that quieted the worries swirling round his mind about whether the dimensions of the paper giraffe were still symmetrical. “I heard about your last assignment!”

It was at that moment that Kid lost himself, his mask of calm slipping to betray unabashed interest. The hunt for maleficent souls had not occurred to him once that night. These villains were as much fair game as a wild hog, yet here he was, fretting about matters that he now wondered if his father would deem trivial.

Your eyes flitted to your pocket, which your free hand dipped inside with a purpose. “It sounds like dangerous work, so I made you this.”

A ringlike shadow flew over Kid, and then a necklace found its place on him. It was symmetrical, just as he would like it to be. It was also homemade, a truth that dawned on him like the first ray of sunshine after a storm.

“It's a good luck charm!” was how you described it, but he was too far gone into a spiral of hopeful theories to register this.

Kid cradled the necklace in the palm of his hand, and he saw the effort you had poured into making it. In that instant, it was a promise, a wish fulfilled, a dream realised.

When he gazed at you again, time had frozen for him. The surrounding chatter about upcoming exams and who had collected how many souls from voices of varying pitches and tones shifted to a similar, insignificant buzz, as did everything else but the rapid beats of his pulse.

His arms began to outstretch towards your face with the awe of someone daring to reach out to something godly. Kid took the sides of your head in his hands, applying a firm yet careful pressure that suggested both the need to admire and the fear of causing ruin.

In a half-breathless whisper, he said, “Of all the souls I've seen, yours possesses symmetry unparalleled.”

It was the type of compliment one might expect to hear while dancing under glittering chandeliers on the marble floor of a ballroom, intimate yet formal. From the mouth of a god who personally folded the tips of every roll of toilet paper in his mansion into triangles and abandoned missions to centre the painting in his living room, it was the type of compliment that had you walking with your head held high.

A wine glass full of apple cider hit the floor and shattered against the stone.

Kid recoiled as if he had been slugged in the gut, a twitch invading his eye while his face warped into a look of pure horror. The shattering of the glass was a high-pitched explosion that clawed his brain, which overflowed with images of the apple cider tainting his spotless floor.

When Kid thrust his head towards the source of the disaster, his gaze met that of Liz, who was standing in front of a nearby table with Patty.

He stormed to her table and arched his back, careful not to step in the orangish puddle of drink and broken glass. “Liz! How could you? Do you have any idea how long it takes to make this floor sparkle?” The words gushed out of his mouth like a waterfall, not stopping to breathe or allow for another's response.

As his agitated rant about needing to scrub the room again rolled over her ears, Liz raised her arm and rubbed the back of her head with a forced chuckle. “Whoops! Guess I'm a little clumsy tonight.”

Patty skipped after her big sister, only to pause and set her mouth agape when she took a peek at you. “Huh?” She tilted her head and leaned towards you with her hands sticking outwards.

“Hey!” shouted Patty, drawing the short word into a lengthy stretch of surprise that pulled joy at her lips. “You're who Kid's always talking about!”

Kid caught his breath mid-sentence, and he veered towards her as panic etched itself across his face. “Patty!” His sheepish outcry reverberated through the atrium and gathered the attention of various partygoers, who disregarded their previous conversations and proceeded to rubberneck.

She turned to him and cocked her head with an innocent hum. “What is it, Kid?”

He dashed behind her and began pushing her back to the table where Black☆Star was devouring his third dish. Patty did not resist, merely staring over her shoulder at him.

As soon as you were out of his sight, the repetitive thoughts returned to swarm his mind like flies flocking to the smell of carrion.

* * *

From the moment that it was flung over his head to the moment that he walked the streets of Death City on this overcast twilight, Kid had not removed the necklace for any reason for even a second.

He kept it near his heart, circling his spearpoint collar and framing his skull brooch of pure metal as if his heart would cease to beat without it.

Liz had glimpsed him cleaning it and polishing it when he thought he was alone, and on three separate occasions, she had questioned him about his preoccupation. “I don't know what you're talking about,” Kid always replied, eyes half-closed with disinterest and tone one of steely resolve. “I'm simply caring for a friend's gift.”

He was chasing a fantasy, and it seemed that everyone except him knew that. Every few minutes, he reached for the necklace and touched it, holding it for a bit to confirm that it had not disappeared since the last time he checked.

Shimmers of a napping sun poked through the cloud bank and dappled the cobblestone road ahead. The rhythm of his footsteps, a deliberate pattern of Kid counting the number of brown and grey stones, was broken by a scream.

It was the scream of glass as it shattered into a downpour of shards jumping on the street, and it dotted the cobblestones where Kid would have rested his feet if not for the hulking man blocking his path.

His mask was akin to the head of a devil, with bicorn ears and a drill-like nose. It glared down at Kid from under the rows and rows of fluorescent lights spewing out of adjacent buildings.

He had donned the red spandex and yellow cape of a superhero from the comic books of yore, but the sack he lugged over his shoulder was brimming with gold bars.

The surprise that had opened Kid's eyes and mouth wide died away with a surge of opportunistic confidence. “You evaded me once, Lupin. I can assure you it will not happen again.” He extended one arm to Patty and the other to Liz, prompting them to exchange brief nods.

The sisters vanished into beams of pinkish-white light, and there in his hands materialised a pair of silver Beretta M9s. Kid held them upside down and crossed his outstretched arms into an X-shape, with his pinkies hooked on the triggers.

“You think I'll just stand here and take it?” was all Lupin bothered to say before his free hand scooped a wooden handle out of his boot.

No sooner than Kid saw the glint of a dagger did he yank the pistols towards his face and form a protective barrier of steel and tailored sleeves.

The blade was so swift and the cut so clean that he was scarcely aware of where it had struck. His ignorance persevered until the glimmer of something caught his eye as it was split in twain and ripped from its home about his neck, and the answer drove a graver pain into him than the sharpest spear.

The necklace, a sliver of yourself that you had so graciously bestowed on Kid, lay battered at his feet.

The shock lasted only for as long as it took him to stumble backwards and regain his footing. He had enjoyed the gift so much that it became indestructible in his mind, and to see it reduced to what a passer-by would call garbage was the most dastardly of transgressions.

It was then that the pang of sorrow, which paralysed him like a snake's venom, bled into a frenzy that shook his heart and twisted his innards into knots. A lonely kind of fear crept up his spine, the kind that saw isolation in crowds and focused on every detail of imperfection.

The slice had been at an angle, dooming one piece to be longer than the other. That cretin, Kid thought, had not the decency to damage it symmetrically. By robbing the necklace of its symmetry, he spat on your hard work and perverted his connection to you.

Thuds of boots on stone approached him in a flurry, and Kid spun his head towards the noise to see Lupin rearing his dagger in preparation for another swing. Kid drew his twin pistols before Lupin could do him any more harm and, at point-blank range, planted two shots in his chest.

“You wretched pig!” Kid bellowed vitriol with the ferocity of a vindictive god, and during that momentary surrender to his darker impulses, that was what he had become.

He pulled the triggers again and again as quickly as they reset. The flashes of light were brilliant and tinged with pink, an oblique hail of his very soul.

To Lupin, who it blew to the ground, and the dagger knocked free of his grasp, it was inescapable like the claws of fate reaching down to take a swipe at him.

The barrage of shots had mangled the body beyond recognition, yet Kid fired at it still. He unloaded his virtually infinite magazine until the bones turned to powder and the cobblestone was chock-full of holes.

His hold on the pistols' grips was ironclad enough to crush a windpipe, a fact that unnerved Liz into shouting through the din, “Kid! You can stop now!”

The shadow of Kid stretched far as he loomed over the dead Lupin. His teeth, clenched until aching, glistened with spit while sweat traced the sides of his head. The incessant twitch in the corners of his lips complemented the wrathful look in his eye, the look of vengeance outpouring.

When the flood of bangs ended, the air, so thick with tension, begged for an encore. Kid swung his arms downward in a manner both snappy and rigid. Trails of smoke wafted from the barrels of the pistols, hissing and crackling.

The chipper, excitable voice of Patty rang out in the coming silence. “Woah! He's got spooky eyes!” Like a child to whom death was a game, she laughed.

As Kid turned back to the necklace and softened his scowl, the rage that had consumed him faded into hollow depths. In its place, a sense of shame swept over him like wind over dunes.

Kid dropped his weapons at once and fell to his knees. The sound of the pistols clattering to either side of his feet, as well as the immediate protests from Liz, went unheard.

For a while, all he could do was stare at the ruined necklace as if at the burial of a dear friend. Terror squeezed his stomach and seized all warmth from him, the anguish about what you might think of his failure to protect your gift, about a mistake that you may believe was intentional or evocative of his shortcomings.

When Kid retrieved the necklace, it was a heap of pieces that would never be whole again. His lips began to quiver, and he became misty-eyed.

He kept pushing the broken ends together, whimpering like a kicked dog when nothing stopped him from pulling them apart as effortlessly as he breathed.

Tears dripped from his eyes and plopped on the skin of his hands in streaks that rolled down the base of his thumbs. Some dangled there on the edges of his fingers, while others plummeted to the cobblestone and stained it with dark spots.

A shudder had begun to invade his body as if a cold wind was blowing through the room that only touched him. His hands closed around the remains of the necklace until his fists could be no tighter, and then Kid slumped in defeat.

“They entrusted me with this.” His voice rose from a desolate whisper to a high-pitched lament that threatened to crack under the tears straining his throat. “And I failed them.”

Even with the towering shape of the DWMA on the horizon, you had never seemed farther away from him than you did now.

Liz looked on, arms akimbo and eyes crinkled in suspense, and debated whether to console him or chastise him.

Patty raised one finger to her chin and observed his woe with a wide-eyed, curious gaze. She had parted her lips slightly, and a howl of laughter was bubbling on them.

“I don't deserve to live anymore,” cried Kid. He pressed his fists against his temples as if his brain was throbbing and wept into the dimly lit expanse of the deserted street.

Liz sighed through her nose and turned to Patty, who bent forward from cackling and slapping her knee. “Come on, Patty.”

The instant she said this, the two sisters knelt at Kid's side. Patty slammed her palm into his back time after time as if she were performing some crude version of the Heimlich maneuver on him. “You gave them a giraffe, so there's no way they can hate you now!”

Liz set her wary eye upon the scattered remains of Lupin, upon that display of a life ended in seconds with barely any trail to prove that it had existed. “Kid, we should tell your dad.”

His head snapped up, and the outflow of tears paused. “Yes,” he mumbled, “yes, you're right.” Kid stuffed each piece of the necklace into his pocket and then rushed away from the skeleton, lifting both hands to his collar and straightening it.

He banished all distress from his countenance and shut his eyes. When they opened, the back of his hands lay sideways against his lapels. He twisted his wrists and curled his fingers before extending his arms frontwards, tucking his middle and ring fingers into his palms while splaying his thumbs, index fingers and pinkies.

Orbs of violet light expanded at his fingertips and enveloped his hands in a sizzling, sparking glow that shot forth onto the cobblestone. It exploded in a ball of purple fire like a comet's tail and, with searing heat whipping the hem of Kid's uniform, branded the face of Death into the ground.

The brilliance of the flames shone across every speck of wall and window in the street. Disembodied souls of the dead emerged from Kid as strips of darkness silhouetted against this light, their ghostly shapes bobbing and pulling away from him with expressions of permanent terror.

The trio of holes that acted as Death's eyes and nose touched the reddish sky in blazing cylinders of light, and an angular figure cloaked in black appeared in the upward wind that followed.

Death, God to many and Dad to few, looked back at Kid through the same white mask that had rendered him unreadable in the days of early childhood. Even with eyes that judged the souls of all living beings, Kid could only guess his father's emotions until he talked.

“Hiya, Kiddo! Learn anything new?” He spoke with the goofy voice and exaggerated mannerisms of a cartoon character from the black-and-white era of television.

As he maintained heavy eye contact with his father, Kid resembled a statue carved out of stone so that it may never shed a tear. He stood erect, his dry tone betraying a hint of disdain. “You can scratch one name off your list.”

From her spot just beyond a car's length behind him, Liz stood beside her sister and squinted at Kid. Patty was still finding amusement in how funny Lupin's skull looked with no jaw bone and only half a cranium, while Liz struggled to parse the venom that laced Kid's words.

Death leaned towards Kid to the point where his mask was all that was visible, turning his head so that one eyehole was nearer to Kid than the other. “Oh? And which one would that be?”

Kid was conscious of his red-rimmed eyes, but he forced his lips into a straight line and smothered the urge to contort his face and resume crying. Instead, a hateful coldness flowed into his pronunciation of the name that he spat from his tongue as if it were a piece of rotten food.

“Lupin.”

“Ah, can't say I'm sad to see him go!” chuckled Death, shrugging and retreating to his former position. “He must've gotten lazy after last time!” He bounced as he said this and stuck out his arms with palms upturned.

On his hands were oversize gloves, the bulky and puffy variety that devoted sports fans jiggled in support of their favourite teams. No part of Death's natural form was exposed, all of it concealed under cloth and mask.

Kid allowed his eyes to narrow and his brows to furrow. He delayed blinking, fearing that the movement would encourage another tear to fall. “Yes, I'd rather not be reminded of my past failures.”

* * *

Death settled down enough to take a closer look at his son and indulged in what he considered to be harmless curiosity, but his next question struck Kid like a lightning bolt.

“Say, Kiddo. Where's that necklace you've been wearing?”

Long after the corridors of the DWMA had darkened with nightfall, life stayed under the flickers of sconces to prepare the school for tomorrow.

The door to the infirmary creaked open, and a stream of moonlight gloated over the pair of black shoes that trudged across the tile floor.

It startled you from where you had been changing the sheets on a bloodstained bed. “Kid? What are you still doing here?”

Kid emptied his pocketful of broken pieces onto the end of the bed. He turned his gaze sideways and clenched his jaw, refusing to look you in the eye. “A Grim Reaper worth respecting wouldn't make such a grievous error.”

You nearly failed to recognise what the pieces once were, but when the realisation loosened your grip on the sheets until they clumped near the pillow, you slunk towards him.

Kid collapsed into a sitting position, with his knees folded on opposite sides of him and his toes pointing at the walls. “You have every right to wish ill on me.”

He bowed his head so that his hair obscured his eyes, which had lost much of their natural glow in favour of a tearful sheen. He condensed the emotion that had been running rampant in his voice moments earlier into a whisper. “But my life would be worthless if you cut me from yours.”

You crouched to his eye level and brought your hands onto his shoulders with a tentative slowness. “We're friends, aren't we?” Hesitation littered the “aren't we” part of the statement as if you were deep in foreign territory and searching for validation. “One broken necklace won't change that.”

The crescent moon jiggled with a resonant laugh, and as Kid sat there wondering what sort of angel you must have been to forgive him, his shoulders rose with a newfound lightness.

You almost took your hands back when he gripped one in each of his own, holding them up at equal heights like a knight pledging himself to his new liege. “I will never let you down again.” His stare became unwavering on the word “never” as though it were the most certain thing in the universe.

Kid sprung from the ground at such an impressive speed that he dragged you with him and went airborne for a split second. His next footstep was brisk, no more than a lurch, and brought him far closer to you than was necessary to make his words heard.

“This I swear on my life.”

[missiletoe]

first fill for bonus round 4 of yuri shipping olympics!

Word Count: 891 Prompt: time traveler/impressionist painter

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yuri’s painting in the garden one day when it lands. It being a metal monstrosity that’s unlike anything she’s seen before, hissing smoke and spitting fire.

“Dragon,” she breathes, clutching her canvas close to her chest. She tucks her paintbrush behind one ear and picks up as many paint cans as she dares before running back towards the house.

A loud yell stops in her tracks and her feet bumble into each other as she goes crashing to the ground. The paintbrush skidders across the floor and the cans roll and bump into one another.

The canvas, thankfully, lands face-up. Yuri breathes a sigh of relief. But the voice, the yell–it had almost sounded human. Is that what monsters are supposed to sound like?

Yuri turns around and comes face-to-face with another girl, albeit a very strangely-dressed one. She’s more metal than human, a bizarre jacket with the sleeves torn off and patches adorned to it hanging around her shoulders.

There are syllables pouring out of her mouth, loud and jarring noises that Yuri doesn’t understand. But the kindness written across her face is clear and her outstretched hand is a universal gesture.

The girl makes a note of surprise at her confusion and fiddles with something attached to her ear.

“There!” she shouts clearly and Yuri blinks. What was that–magic? “Can you understand me now?”

Yuri nods mutely and the girl hauls her to her feet.

“I’m Kitty,” she laughs, tucking her hair behind her ear. She keeps it cropped short, hanging just above her shoulders and there’s a bizarre pair of glasses affixed to her head. “And you are?”

“Yuri,” she replies and immediately dives for the canvas in lieu of a proper greeting, inspecting it for damage.

The paint is wet but she’d been careful to keep it a couple inches from her chest to avoid smearing. It’s unharmed except for a slight bend in the corner.

“Beautiful,” Kitty gasps at the sight, reaching out to touch the tail.

“Fresh painting,” she snaps, pulling it out of reach. “Don’t touch it, it’s still wet!”

“Right,” Kitty laughs sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck. “I forgot.” It’s such a welcome change from her buyers that pretend they know the meaning behind every stroke and splash even before she’s unveiled her work that Yuri decides to forgive her.

“I really am sorry about your workshop,” Kitty says, teetering on her feet. She’s not quite making eye contact, gaze fixed to a point right above Yuri’s shoulder and she feels reminiscent of one of Yuri’s younger cousins after they’ve been caught pilfering half the desserts. “And I hate to impose any further on you but would you happen to have any trash?”

“Trash?” Yuri echoes, sounding out the unfamiliar word.

“Garbage, scraps, stuff that you don’t really need,” Kitty babbles on, rolling her wrist. “Anything that’s flammable will do–stuff that burns?”

Yuri inclines her head towards the little basket she keeps in the corner of the room for broken paintbrushes and other assorted scraps she doesn’t want.

Kitty shrieks with delight at the sight. It hurts her ears with the volume but it also makes Yuri snicker. She’s like a child on Christmas morning.

“Yes, this’ll work!” she laughs, carrying it over to the back of the beast. She pops the skin open to reveal a giant tube and she puts one foot on the scales to get a better position to dump the contents in.

Her shoes look like they’re made of rubber as they squeak against the metal and they come up to her mid-thigh. It’s unheard of–well, everything about her is unheard of.

“What are you?” Yuri asks, swallowing past the fear lodged in her chest. Kitty turns to look at her, setting the wastebasket back on the ground.

“I think a more appropriate question would be ‘Who am I?’” she corrects. “Kitty Song Covey, time traveler and seeker of knowledge, at your service.”

Kitty finishes the sentence with a bow, lifting up the empty can to her. Yuri takes it with a full-bellied laugh.

“Now I’d love to stay and chat but I really must go,” Kitty says, pushing the flaps in her beast’s skin shut. “Wars to stop, sights to see, that sort of thing. But keep painting, Yuri, I’ve seen a lot of art in my lifetime and it’s clear that you’ve got talent!”

“Do you try to flatter every girl you meet?” Yuri asks, bemused.

Kitty gives her a wink as she climbs back into her dragon.

“Only the pretty ones!” she yells as she presses a button and the whole thing sputters to life.

Yuri shakes her head even as she feels her cheeks warm.

“Paint me like one of your French girls!” Kitty hollers, reaching for the metal hood. Yuri blinks at her in confusion.

“I’m not French!” Kitty tosses her head back and laughs, the wind ruffling what remains of her short hair.

“I guess they wouldn’t say that here,” Kitty yells over the roar of her beast. “Just paint something in honor of me!”

She slams the top down and the beast jets off onto the street.

Yuri nods, searing her face into her memory but even as she watches the metal blink out of existence on the horizon, she knows that no portrait can do Kitty’s face justice.

[ethereousdelirious]

Goooood morning, V.ax anon!

This is a little shorter than I wanted, but it's done! I sincerely hope you like it!!!

For the rest of y'all: cw for emeto

Fate— the nature of it…. Ultimate fate, all of them dead. Everyone Vax cared about, one at a time, and he—

He could do nothing but watch.

With last rites still ringing in his ears, Vax jerked awake. Darkness met him, and cold sweats, and— where was Keyleth? He shouldn't be so cold, not if she was there. He sat up, reached out for her, hands shaking… Yes, there.

Her body heat warmed his palm, but it wasn't as reassuring as it should have been. A wave of nausea and dread washed over Vax and his stomach clenched involuntarily.

“Vax?” The sound of Keyleth shifting against the covers filtered through the ringing in his ears. “Are you okay? You're kinda hurting me.”

“Sorry, Kiki,” he breathed, and clenched his eyes shut against another wave of dizziness. He couldn't… Couldn't catch his breath, couldn't— It was like that first moment after getting stabbed, that little moment between the adrenaline and the pain. This horrible, sickening dizziness that slowly gave way to the narcotic of blood loss. But this wasn't going away. With every passing second, the room still spun, his heart still pounded, and his nausea got steadily worse.

No…

That was going to cause problems in its own right.

“Vax?” Keyleth was holding him now. When had that happened? Then gentle weight of her, usually so calming, was nothing but unbearable pressure on his back, compressing his lungs. He couldn't bear to shake her off so he breathed deeper, faster. “Vax, what's wrong?”

“I, I, ah.” He didn't have the breath to explain himself. “Nightmare.” Another wave of nausea doubled him over.

She stroked his hair, gently, gently. She was always so delicate with him, so light. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Gods, it was… He couldn't stop shaking. “C-can't.”

“What do you mean you can't?” Her hands stilled for a moment and Vax keened at the loss of contact. “I'm going to make a light, okay?”

He didn't care. Gods, he didn't care. Just needed it to stop.

A gentle glow painted his eyelids red and Keyleth made a sad noise at the sight of him. “Oh, Vax.”

“I can't—” he started, and choked on a dry retch.

“Are you— hang on, I'll get a, a bin or something.”

No.

He wasn't going to get sick. He'd ride this out to the bitter end, because he just wasn’t… He couldn't.

“Keyleth,” he choked, but that was all he could manage before another dry retch forced him to clamp his teeth together. Why wouldn't it stop?

“Do you want me to stay?” she asked, touching his arm. He nodded and she wrapped her arms around him, gentle as always. “Oh, Vax, you're shaking. Was it really bad?”

He nodded again. All the fear, all the dread, it had gone right to his stomach, and it seemed his body wouldn't be content until he expelled it. His stomach turned over and his abdomen clenched and Keyleth whispered his name, her fingers in his hair.

“Vax, I think you're going to be sick.”

“No,” he murmured into her neck, a plea for mercy.

“But you—”

He pulled back and looked at her, and a few cold tears ran down his cheeks. “I can’t.”

She cupped his face, wiping the tears away with her thumb.”It’s okay! It’ll just be really awful for a second, and then you’ll feel better. Probably.” Her smile faltered for a moment and she pulled away. “I'm gonna get a bin, okay? I'll be right here.”

Vax’s stomach lurched again, and this time, hot bile teased the back of his throat. “Kiki…” Not a plea, but a warning. “Hurry.”

Denial was clearly getting him nowhere. Vax swallowed convulsively and curled in on himself. Useless tears burned in his eyes. Keyleth thrust something cold and metallic into his hands and he clutched at it, some needlessly ornate wastebasket. The metal detailing stabbed into his palms and tears pooled in the bottom of it.

“I can't,” Vax said, his voice breaking, “I really can't.” His stomach churned in direct contradiction and he choked down a gag.

Keyleth’s fingers spread over his back and she rubbed the length of his spine, neck to waist. “You'll feel better after,” she said softly. “I'll be right here.”

Not forever. Not forever. The Raven Queen had promised, he’d see them all— he’d see all his friends to their graves.

That thought alone was enough to make him gag, and this time, there was no swallowing down the rush of hot bile.

Vax closed his eyes and heaved, coughing on the remnants of his dinner and the sobs clawing their way up his throat between the vomiting. Gods, the way it burned in his chest— the heat of it.

All dead.

Through it all, Keyleth’s clever fingers danced in his hair, drawing soft lines across his temples and scalp, pulling his hair back. “It’s okay, Vax,” she murmured to him, her breath cool on his burning cheek.

He spat and gave a great, shuddering sigh. “Is it over?”

“How do you feel?”

“Not good,” Vax said. But not… not as bad. “Better,” he amended.

Keyleth wrapped her arm around him, pulled him as close as she could without jostling him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Vax took a deep breath, anything to center himself, and the vestiges of bitter bile seared on his tongue. “Could we maybe get some water?”

“Both of us?” Keyleth asked.

Vax nodded. “I don't… don’t to leave you. Don’t want you to leave me.”

Keyleth settled her chin on his shoulder. “Okay,” she said, and kissed his cheek. “We’ll go together “

[mascula-sappho]

does anyone, ever, like want to make a heavy metal song raging about a wastebasket taxon??

[all-eyes-lead-to-the-truth]

All Eyes Lead to the Truth | Home (4x02)

He hangs up the phone, a weary sigh rattling his bones. It’s practically ingrained, this comfort he’s nursed for decades, this habitual safety he’s become so accustomed to. As the contents of Paster’s phone call linger in his ears, he can feel it: that security slipping through his grasp like silt through soil.

“You’re not gonna believe this one, Sheriff.”

The deputy had been the only one on duty when the report of the dead infant came in, a chilling call from the panicked mother of one of the local boys. “Just out there playin’ ball,'' she'd said, “without a care in the world.” The way it’s supposed to be.

The way it should have stayed.

Sheriff Andy Taylor slides open his desk drawer and appraises its contents: a single, metal box he’s never had to open. Not like this. He hasn’t seen it in years, but he knows exactly what lies within: an old revolver, the one his father gave him back before he retired. A six-shooter, he used to call it; fit for an old Western.

For protection, his father had said, as he pressed the unfamiliar cold metal into Taylor’s warm hand. To keep your family safe.

To keep your home safe.

He shuts the drawer. He isn’t ready for this reality, not now. Not yet.

Later, after he’s watched the excavation, Agents Mulder and Scully arrive from Washington. Taylor explains he’s recruited them for their particular expertise on the matter, but the truth is, he just doesn’t want to face any of this: doesn’t want to scrutinize what it means for his town. Doesn’t want to look it straight in the eyes.

Doing so would mean the death of his home. 

After the agents’ examination, he places the tiny victim back into the refrigerator himself, this foul transgression, this abhorrent sin. Just sitting there next to the pickles and Spam. A memory stirs of his father: he used to eat Spam. He can still remember countless hot summer days when, as a child, he’d run down to the station to catch him on his lunch break. Dad and his Spam. Guess it runs in the family.

“Sheriff, I’m going to have to order DNA typing from the Bureau lab,” Agent Scully says as she removes her rubber gloves, surreptitiously looking around, presumably for some proper disposal bin, some protocol to follow. But there is no protocol for this. She settles on the office wastebasket.

“If you think it’s necessary,” he replies. Of course, it’s necessary. But he just wants all of this to be done and over with.

“I do,” she says firmly. “As much as you’d like to write this off as a simple burial, I’m afraid that isn’t the case.”

“That so?” he asks gently. 

“The evidence suggests the child was alive when it was buried. This will be ruled a homicide.”

Sheriff Taylor can feel his heart drop into his stomach, every word vertiginous. All of it only further demonstrates his worst fear: that everything around here will have to change.

Agent Mulder says nothing, merely stares at the closed door of the fridge as if it were Pandora’s Box; when opened, there would be no limit to the evil it let out into the world. 

“I know you’re not going to want to hear this, but I think the next step should be to question the Peacocks,” Agent Scully continues. He can see in her eyes that she is convinced they are involved; she’s seen it all before, he surmises. She’s seen things he doesn’t even want to imagine.

Taylor takes a deep breath and nods. What’s right is right. He’s been looking at this case with emotion, not pragmatism. Dad would have said the same, if he’d ever had to deal with something like this.

“I can take you out there,” Barney pipes up. He, perhaps unconsciously, places his hand on his weapon. The action reeks of raw truth: everyone is, on some level, wary of the Peacocks, but particularly the young kids like Barney. They'd grown up fearful of the unknown, kept in the dark about the true nature of that family. Like modern-day Boo Radleys.

“That won’t be necessary,” Agent Scully says.

Agent Mulder still says nothing, his face drawn into a pensive, mournful expression, locked onto the fridge. 

“And you’re sure this isn’t some outsider?” Taylor has to try one more time. “A vagrant, maybe someone passing through?”

“No, I’m not sure, but we can’t know until we get some more information, Sheriff.” Agent Scully forces a smile. She’s indulging his willful ignorance, treating him with kid gloves. Part of him hates it, but his own behavior certainly hasn’t done anything to dispel the notion that he’s simply not cut out for this.

“Well all right,” he concedes. “You know where to find me.” The agents depart, taking with them the last vestige of innocence.

Later that evening, before bed, Sheriff Taylor sits on his porch, in the quiet calm of his abode, watching the stars. The light flips on and Barbara pokes her head out.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Taking one good last look around before it all changes,” he says. He hopes she can’t hear the hitch in his throat.

“Come to bed honey,” she says. “It will still be here in the morning.” Her gentle voice feels safe. It feels like home. 

They go back inside, the faint songs of crickets subsiding but still audible through the open windows of the house. As his wife begins to ascend the stairs, he glances towards his study, towards the desk, towards the place where he knows that gun lives.

For protection. To keep your family safe.

His family is safe. They will be. They have to be. 

All of us, he thinks, as Barbara’s hand moves protectively across her stomach.

He doesn’t get the gun. 

Read the rest of All Eyes Lead to the Truth on Archive of Our Own!

@admiralty-xfd

[virtie333]

WIP Wednesday

I know this is late, but as tends to happen in the evening when I'm super tired, I'm getting down on myself, so I thought I would share a bit of what I wrote last night. It's nothing really, but it's the end of a very dramatic chapter, so there's that. I'm not going to expect any feedback, I just needed to post something I made to make me feel better.

He nodded and took a deep breath of his own. Suddenly he turned back into the main room. Layla followed, watching as he headed for the kitchen. He opened a drawer and pulled out a long butane lighter. He glanced at her, walked over to the metal wastebasket by the door, then promptly set the papers on fire, dropping them in the basket. Layla wrapped her arms around herself as she watched the papers burn along with the handful of tissues that had already been in the basket.

Marc also watched it, his face expressionless, but once the flame began to die, he turned to look at her, one eyebrow arched.

“Any more questions?”

Giving him a wry smile, Layla shook her head.

He smirked. “Good.” He walked over to her, grasped her shoulders firmly, and kissed her. Soft and sweet, but with an underlying passion that Layla felt him working hard to control. He stepped back and let her go. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

Layla watched, fascinated as his face transformed without changing at all.

Steven focused on her, then glanced at the wastebasket, where smoke was still drifting up from the remains of the papers. He looked back at Layla. “Everything okay, love?”

“Everything’s perfect.”

I got a good start on the next chapter tonight. It's time for Layla to get to know Jake a little better.

[noisytenant]

If you've moved out (of family house, dorms, etc.) and live alone or with a roommate...

I like to have a sturdy wastebasket, but I've noticed there's a lot of variety within people I've known.

I'm also curious about your age, how long you've lived in your room, how your current wastebasket habits relate to your upbringing, etc.

[ribesrubrum]

⚠️ can and will eat an entire [family-sized] bag of chips in one sitting

[DENY]

[DENY]

[...]

[CONFIRM]

[video: what appears to be a FEW family sized bags of chips in the wastebasket of carmine's room. they have been emptied of all contents, including crumbs.]

-Zzzrt! Carmine can deny it all she wants, but the evidence is right here!-

[as soon as the rotomphone looks up from the trash, however, it seems cardigan the lilligant is standing in front of it! huh, that's odd, when did she...?]

-BZZZRT! Cardi! I didn't see you there at all!-

🌿: Lilli, lilli li li gant?

-Bzz! No, not recording at all, what'd give you that idea...?!-

[as if on hilarious cue, cardigan goes for the steel chair metal broom, letting out a cute but furious little trill as the camera cuts off, roto's wails of "I DIDN'T MEAN IT PROMISE" cut off as well.]

[heystovepipeboys]

I sent a few of these, so I cannot remember if I sent you an ask for the fic writer WIP/Published meme. Here's one anyway: 🎁 and ❓:)

Thank you for the second ask!! I don't mind getting doubles at all, haha. My wife @batmanschmatman wrote me a very lovely fluffy New Jersey married winnix fic called sick day for the Holiday Exchange in December and it's so cute I wanna roll around in it forever. Everyone should read it! I really loved all of it but here is a section I particularly loved:

Nix drops by around noon, meeting over, not bothering to knock before letting himself into Dick’s office. Dick looks up, head propped on his hand, wastebasket full of tissues, and he knows he’s sunk. “Alright,” Nix says, clapping his hands, the way he does sometimes when he’s decided they’re heading out for dinner, or going into the city for the weekend. “C’mon, get up. I’m taking you home.” “Lewis-” Dick says, stubborn, looking back down at the stack of paper on his desk. Hadn’t he once said he didn’t want to see another piece of paper? And now here he is, swimming in it. “Don’t start,” Nix warns, still in that same breezy way that dismissed any arguments as he comes over to the desk, seemingly prepared to physically drag Dick out of his chair if he has to. It’d been funny, meeting Doris Nixon, seeing her politely but firmly insisting on things ‘my way or the highway’ and realizing how Lew must have learned this from his mother. “The old man’s on his way back to the city, so my schedule’s wide open, and Mary’s been listening to you hack up a lung all morning. You’re going to get the whole office sounding like a TB ward.” There’s a pulse of guilt at that – Mary’s a nice girl, hard working and more or less tolerant of Dick’s slight standoffishness – and Nix uses it to his advantage, rolling Dick’s chair back with him still in it and coming around to offer him a hand up. “Besides, I’m your boss. Can’t order me around anymore, Major.” Dick gives him a Look and Nix just chuckles, fond and patient and unyielding, so Dick takes his hand and allows Nix to pull him out of his chair.

And for dealer's choice have some more of Black Widow Babe which is my beloved WIP I desperately need to finish... (Nix is the Winter Soldier, in case you're wondering 😉)

Babe and a handful of the other Widow field agents have been getting one-on-one training with the Winter Soldier in advanced hand to hand techniques to deal with enhanced enemies. It's not that he means to say anything about it to the Soldier himself, not really. Except he's curious. Extremely, itchingly curious. He tries not to be, but he is and there's no use denying it. His next training session, he’s distracted, trying to reconcile what he read on those museum panels with the blank weapon of a man in front of him, and of course the Soldier clocks it. Of course, he uses it to his advantage. Unrelenting, he goes in for the kill—or the ‘slam Babe into the walls repeatedly until his brain rattles’ anyway.  The Soldier doesn’t let up when Babe slaps at the training room floor for mercy. He squirms in the tight chokehold, the solid weight of the man’s muscle and metal crushing him to the floor. If it was a real fight, Babe’s pretty sure he would have had his neck snapped by now. The metal arm crushes hard against his windpipe. Blackness starts to wash over his vision, dark starbursts. His muscles burn and tingle, icy cold creeping through his fingers and toes, his cheeks— “You were American,” Babe gasps, and the air feels rough and painful as he grates the words out. It’s the only thing that comes to mind. He can't help it. It’s not quite a question, but even half-choked the inflection is there. American, like he had wanted so badly to be during those years in Philadelphia with Anna and their "parents". Secretly, of course. He's not supposed to think about that anymore. He was never supposed to think like that. The Soldier drops Babe like he’s been burned. Babe drags in a huge, painful gulp of air and tries not to pass out.  “Weapons don’t have nationalities, Heraskoff.” The Soldier’s voice is flat, unemotional, as he corrects him. He sounds the same as he ever does. He must have backed away while Babe was on the floor, because he’s out of arm’s length. Farther than he needs to be. His vibranium arm makes tiny metallic whirs and clinks as he stands tall and straightens until his spine pops. The movement looks restless, somehow, despite the blank line of his mouth. Wincing and shaking out his jarred wrists and rubbing at his throat, Babe scrapes himself off the floor and — because he’s never known when to quit —  asks, "What if you weren't always a weapon?"  The Soldier’s expression is still blank, but he shifts his weight. His muscles are tight.  "I was." Still that same unemotional tone, but did the response come a little faster, a touch sharper? Babe isn't sure if he's imagining that or not.  Babe hesitates, but again, he can't resist. Maybe he can break through the Soldier's shell. The next words come out lower, and Babe steps a little closer to let the question out. "A weapon's still got to be manufactured somewhere, doesn't it?  The Soldier doesn't hesitate to answer this question either, but his dark eyebrows twitch together, low over his eyes. "By HYDRA. In Russia."

Ask me about my WIPs and published fics over here!

[moretinyideas]

BENNI BRIQUETTE and DRAGON RAMEN

DRAGON RAMEN is a band that encompasses the word chaotic. With an eclectic and genre-hopping sound from soft jazz and alt synthpop to progressive metal and hard rock DRAGON RAMEN has it all, tied together with the striking and soulful voice of frontman Benni Briquette.

Fans are kept on their toes by DRAGON RAMEN's seemingly random song titles –most of which have no relation to their respective lyrics– and intriguing music videos that stitch together to create a whole story makes this band one of the more unique bands out there!

But with an established history with SOFT VIOLENCE's Seven Lawless and a new rivalry with UNDERGROUND WASTEBASKET, this band is one to watch which begs just two questions. Just what about this band attracts all this new attention? And are they worth the dramatics and hype?

some of my favourite song titles that you might not have caught/i might not have used:

Don't Eat Ants Off The Sidewalk

Enter Becky

The Night Waltz

Third Place Finisher

Seven Of Hearts

one of my many oc's for @infamous-if <3333

( temp/late/s | lydia night&mia goth as benni briquette )

( 'insta' fanart by @natedhernandez )

( sex metal barbie by in this moment )