#collared carpet shark

[fishenjoyer1]

Fish of the Day

Today's fish of the day is the collared carpet shark!

The collared carpet shark, also known by scientific name Parascyllium collar is the best known shark in genus Parascyllium.The name is derived from para an old greek word meaning dog shark or small shark, and collare, a latin word for iron band or neck chain. These sharks are in the carpet shark family, which are known for their often bottom dwelling ways, spiracles (a kind of respiratory opening) behind the eyes. The family of Parascylliidae, which genus Parascyllium makes up one half of, is defined by their small size and barbels (a whisker-like appendage) behind the chin.Collared carpet sharks in particular are found around the Southwestern Pacific, specifically focuses on the continental shelf of Eastern Australia. Found from a range of 26°S through 38°S, and 149°E to 154°E, these sharks live in temperate to subtropical zones. Their habitat is best known as reef like zones, which their bodies are adapted towards, but can comfortably spend time in sandy bottomed areas as well.

Collared carpet sharks are long and elongated, which helps them in the rocky crevices they live around. Along with fins and a tail that are proficient from balancing and navigating the uneven seabed. These fish are covered in spots, which blend them into both rocky and sandy areas. With a nocturnal lifestyle, the collared carpet shark is known for sneaking up on prey, and lunging at them. They have a diet made of fish and invertebrates, with specially shaped mouths and teeth that are made for hunting prey that hides in and around rocky fissures. 

These sharks are relatively unknown when it comes to reproduction and lifecycle, with an unknown life span and maturity age. Collared carpet sharks live solitary lives, and we know little to nothing about any mating season, preference, or time span. Similar to many other carpet sharks, the collared carpet shark is oviparous, meaning that the shark is fertilized and the egg is laid before hatching. These eggs are attached to seaweed, or other vegetation before being abandoned by the parents, leaving young to fend for themselves once they hatch. This is all currently known information about the shark, and they are threatened by fishing bycatch, water pollution, and coral bleaching caused by rising temperatures and stress.

That's the collared carpet shark everybody! I hope you enjoyed learning about them, and have a wonderful day!

[awdragon-awd]

this week the random fish generator finally gave me a shark! this is the collared carpet shark.

[shark-of-tha-day]

shark of the day: collared carpetshark, parascyllium collare

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

the collared carpetshark as a small species of carpetsharks named from the dark band around its gills that resembles a collar. they grow to be around 85 cm~(2.8 ft) in length. callared carpetsharks live in shallow rocky reefs off the eastern coast of australia. they primarily feed on bottom dwelling cructaceans and molluscs.

[sterifels-blog]

simon "ghost" riley

The first time Simon saw your boyfriend, he knew.

Oh, he knew. Not in that “you’re too good for him” way you half-expected your protective, burly best friend to behave. No, Simon hated him with a ferocity so immediate, so visceral, it made his blood hum a little sharper. He didn’t just hate him. He despised him. Abhorred him. Wanted to roll his sleeves up and grate him into the damn carpet with the sheer force of his forearms alone. And if that wasn’t enough, he wanted to spend the rest of his natural-born life proving to you (and to himself, if we’re being honest) that he was better.

Tighter shirts. The flex of his fists when your boyfriend spoke in that grating voice Simon privately referred to as "discount Casanova." The subtle, almost casual cracks of his knuckles whenever the man dared to open his mouth about you in any way that wasn’t pristine worship. Every time your boyfriend laughed at you instead of with you, Simon would let out a low, bone-chilling chuckle of his own— a rumbling thing, gravelly and sharp, because he wasn’t laughing at all.

And then there was that one night.

It wasn’t like Simon was trying to hover. He wasn’t. He didn’t need to be your babysitter. You were strong, capable, smarter than everyone Simon had ever met— except, apparently, when it came to that bloody waste of oxygen you called a boyfriend. But when he saw the way your smile dimmed just a little too much at something the guy said, the way your fingers tightened around your glass as if to crush it, something ancient and primal roared inside Simon’s chest.

He stayed behind when you went home. Watched the fool stagger out into the night like a walking bad decision. Simon followed him with the quiet, measured gait of a shadow given form—leather jacket snug over his frame, boots heavy, but silent as sin.

Simon wasn’t poetic about what happened next. He didn’t need to be. There was no artistry in the precise, methodical lesson he taught your boyfriend in a dim alleyway under a broken porch light. (Broken now, thanks to your boyfriend's skull, if Simon were feeling particularly cheeky about it.) He made sure the man knew exactly why he was being "affectionately" restructured. And when the lesson ended, Simon left without a single word but with a vivid reminder that would stick for weeks:

stay the hell away.

The next morning, your boyfriend broke up with you via text message. A single line of lukewarm cowardice you barely had time to process before Simon was at your door, arms laden with snacks, beer, and the sweater you always stole anyway.

You curled up next to him on the couch, face half-hidden in the collar of that massive gray hoodie, and let out an exhausted sigh. Your voice was soft when you mumbled- sniffling with a stuffy nose from your previous sobs, “I just don’t get it, Si. I thought he cared..”

Simon didn’t answer right away, gaze fixed on the screen as Finding Nemo played in the background—a film you’d insisted on because you needed something light and harmless. Of course, to Simon, it wasn’t harmless at all. He frowned as Marlin yelled at Dory, the tiny blue fish babbling nonsense with frantic, short-term determination.

“'Course he didn’t care. Idiot didn’t even notice he was playing chicken with a shark,” Simon finally muttered, his deadpan delivery laced with something so dry you almost didn’t catch it.

You looked up, confused. “Huh?”

“Forget your boyfriend,” Simon said, tone flat as a blade. “This is why I don’t swim. Can’t trust anything with gills. Bloody sharks, jellyfish, clownfish...all useless. Why d’you think they call it Finding Nemo? Should’ve named it Simon Was Right: Stay Out of the Water.”

You snorted, unable to help yourself, and Simon glanced down at you, lips quirking upward just enough to show the barest hint of satisfaction.

And there it was. That warmth. That comfort. Simon didn’t need to say it, didn’t need to spell it out for you in big, stupid letters. You could see it in the way his arm stayed firm around your shoulders, in the way he made sure your blanket covered your toes, in the way his ridiculous commentary on Finding Nemo somehow made you feel whole again.

Yeah. You'd find your own way to thank him later.

[bestanimal]

Round 3 - Chondrichthyes - Orectolobiformes

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

Orectolobiformes are an order of sharks sometimes known as “Carpet Sharks.” They include the families Brachaelurus (“blind sharks”), Ginglymostomatidae (“nurse sharks”), Hemiscylliidae (“bamboo sharks”), Orectolobidae (“wobbegongs”), Parascylliidae (“collared carpet sharks”), Rhincodontidae (“Whale Shark”), and Stegostomatidae (“Zebra Shark”).

Orectolobiformes have five gill slits, two spineless dorsal fins, and a small mouth that does not extend past the eyes. Many species have barbels: tactile whiskerlike sensory appendages near their mouths. Grooves known as nasoral grooves connect the nostrils to the mouth. A spiracle occurs beneath each eye which is used in respiration. Orectolobiformes are commonly called “carpet sharks” due to their flattened appearance and often ornate patterning, with many species spending most of their time resting on the ocean floor. However, this order also contains the Whale Shark (Rhincodon typus) (image 2), the largest chondrichthyan, whose record holder had a length of 18.8 m (61.7 ft). The smallest of the order, at up to about 30 cm (12 in) long, is the Barbelthroat Carpet Shark, (Cirrhoscyllium expolitum). Orectolobiformes are a diverse order of sharks with differing sizes, appearances, diets, and habits. Most are nocturnal. Most carpet sharks feed on the seabed in shallow to medium-depth waters, detecting and picking up molluscs, crustaceans, and other small creatures. Wobbegongs (image 1) are ambush predators, camouflaging on the seafloor and swallowing prey that swims too close. Whale Sharks are filter feeders.

Reproduction methods among carpet sharks also vary. Some species lay eggs directly into the water column or enclose them in horny egg cases. Some will push their egg cases into crevices for protection. Other species are ovoviviparous and give live birth. Pups are born relatively advanced and independent.

Orectolobiformes first appeared in the Early Jurassic. The oldest known orectolobiform genera are Folipistrix and Annea.

Propaganda under the cut:

Nurse Sharks are nocturnal and largely solitary at night, but they spend the day resting in groups, often piled on top of each other for safety.

The largest confirmed individual Whale Shark (Rhincodon typus) had a length of 18.8 m (61.7 ft), though 14 m (46 ft) is a more likely upper limit. Their lifespans are estimated to be between 80 and 130 years. Along with the Basking Shark and Megamouth Shark, they are the only other filter-feeding shark.

Blind Sharks have fully functioning eyes, but were named so because they would close them when caught by anglers

The Zebra Shark (Stegostoma tigrinum) was named for the black and white stripes of juveniles. As adults, their zebra stripes fade and are exchanged for cheetah print. Early taxonomists thought that juvenile zebra sharks were a different species due to how different their patterning looked!

In Madagascar, Whale Sharks are called Marokintana in Malagasy, meaning "many stars", after the appearance of the markings on the shark's back.

The Epaulette Shark:

As an adaptation to living in tidal pools and shallow coral reefs, the Epaulette Shark (Hemiscyllium ocellatum) moves by seemingly walking, bending its body from side-to-side in a salamander-like gait, pushing off of the substrate with its paddle-shaped pectoral and pelvic fins. The shark is capable of swimming, but often prefers to walk along the sandy or coral bottom even when the water is deep enough to allow it to swim freely. This mode of locomotion even enables the shark to crawl out of the water to access isolated tidal pools as it hunts for worms, crustaceans, and small bony fish, and it can cope with oxygen depletion in these conditions for over three hours.

[jeypawlik]

Swim On 10

The pieces I did for the last Swim On zine, which you can still support! It was such a tough decision to stop Swim On after this but it's gotten so much bigger than I ever expected and I just don't have enough time anymore to put into it. I may come back to it at some point, but for now 10 volumes was a good place to say goodbye! [Image ID: Cover image of Swim On, Blue Planet. A whale shark swims through the ocean being followed by a school of fish. The text "A shark zine for charity edited by Jey Pawlik" at the bottom. Illustration of a necklace carpet shark seen from above, it's curled up in a circle sitting over a hoard of treasure like gems, coins, pearls, and a sword. Comic about Swell Sharks. Panel one, a sign that reads "Shark PCA" with two swell sharks next to it nuzzling each other. Narration reads "Looking for a new best friend? We have a great selection of Swell Sharks!" Panels three to five are all circular, in a row, and showing the Swell Shark glowing in the dark. Narration reads "They glow in the dark! Great for: Raves, Nightlights, The Abyssal Plane!" Panel six, narration reads "They inflate!" and we see the Swell shark sitting on top of the water all puffed up and smiling. Text reads "Have a pool party!" Panel seven, a Swell shark wearing a dog collar and barking. Text reads "Impress your friends with their ability to bark!" Panel eight, a Swell shark smiling against a retro styled background with 90s triangles around it. Narration reads "These sharks are swell!" /end ID]

[just-here-for-shark-stuff]

Daily Shark Fact - 4/15/2025

Today's shark is the whale shark!

The basics: the whale shark (Rhincodon typus) is the largest extant shark and the biggest fish alive today! They are one of the three filter-feeding sharks, and eat almost exclusively plankton and very small fishes. Most sharks have their mouths on the bottom of their heads, but whale sharks have mouths near the front of their heads instead to make this feeding style a bit easier. The pattern of spots and stripes on their backs are unique to every individual. These are massive sharks, but they're actually members of the carpet shark family, which consists of more typically small to mid-sized sharks like wobbegongs, nurse sharks, and collared carpet sharks. They're the only extant members of their genus, but their closest living relative is probably the zebra shark!

Conservation status: endangered. Whale sharks are threatened by fishing bycatch and pollution. It is difficult to estimate population numbers because these are migratory open-ocean sharks, but it's estimated that the global population has decreased by about 50%, and despite conservation efforts they are still illegally fished for their fins and liver oil.

Todays' fun fact: All sharks have skin made up of dermal denticles, rigid scales that are actually quite analoguous to teeth (including a pulp cavity and enamel-like coating and everything!), but whale sharks are unique among studied species in that they have dermal denticles on the surface of their eyes, too! Perhaps because they're so massive and their eyes are also bigger and more at risk of damage, these help protect their eyes from any hazards (probably the same reason whale sharks can also retract their eyes pretty deep into the sockets).

[saturnfishfriend]

Saturn's Intro page✧˖°

Hello every-puppy!!! Here's some things about me:

✿ You can call me Max/Maxwell/Mat/Saturn or Shark 🦈

✿ I use Any pronouns! She/They/Ver preference🪽

✿ Teen/Minor 🗞️

✿ Taken by @skibidi-freak-master413 🫀 [blush]

✿ Diagnosed ADHD🌈🦋

My fandoms change a lot, but my mains are:

✿ Mob Psycho 100

✿ Ensemble Stars

✿ Saiki k

✿ Azumanga

✿ Ouran High school Host Club

✿ Ranfren

✿ Serial Experiment lain

✿ Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventures (Getting into)

Nicknames I'm ok with:

✿ Sharky

✿ Any of the names listed in the top/My usernames

✿ Cute things are such a yesss!

✿ I love parental names if u feel comfortable with it! I like mum, mama (Madara Mikejima ref>??), but I also like masc nicknames!

Some of my favourite characters:

✿ Arashi Narukami - Enstars

✿ Shu Itsuki - Enstars

✿ Kanata Shinkai - Enstars

✿ Tamaki Suoh - OHSHC

✿ Haruhi Fujioka - OHSHC

✿ Kitty carpet - ranfren

✿ Kaidou Shun - Saiki K

✿ Custard cookie III (Don't flame me 💔) - CRK

✿ Werewolf cookie - CRK

Interests and hobbies:

✿ Art such as traditional drawing, sewing, music, mask-making, etc etc

✿ I love too sing and dance, don't do it much tho tbh

✿ Rhythm games! Kinda ah at them but still love to do them-

I am/I do:

✿ Kemonomimi/Nekomimi!! I own a fake ginger tail and so far no ears. I want to buy and make more cute gear in the future, also hopefully have a collar because they're rlly cute....

✿ I'm a qaudrobist and do it with my friend ^w^ don't do it much tho

✿ Proud Mother!

✿ I love Ouji fashion 🫧

DNI:

✿ Homophobes and Transphobes (+similar)

✿ Racists

✿ Genuine hate spreaders (Positive safe zone!)

✿ P3dos, z0os, people who like incest, and etc etc

✿ Trump supporters

✿ Bots (ESPECIALLY THOSE 18+ BOTS)

✿ Purely sexual blogs - I'm somewhat ok with gore but not stuff like that

Thnx 4 reading, have a nice day!!!

[fishenjoyer1]

Fish of the Day

Today's fish of the day is the elongate carpet shark!

The Elongate carpet shark, Parascyllium elongatum, is known for having the longest length to width in the genus Parascyllium. This species is nearly entirely unknown, with only one specimen found in 2008. Referred to as a holotype, since it is the only known specimen, we must base all our information here. Our holotype was a female shark found in the stomach of a common houndshark, also known as a school shark. At a depth of 50 meters, and around the Chatham Island of Western Australia, along the Indian ocean. We do not currently know anything about the elongated carpet shark's population, ecology, habitat, or threats.

This shark is characterized by the exceptional length of its body, with the holotype measuring in at 42cm, or 16.6 inches. With a narrow mouth, small head and small dorsal fins, the elongated carpetshark is easily identified from its closest relative in appearance, the necklace carpet shark. This species lacks the common "collar" markings found in the Parascyllium genus, instead displaying white spotting patterns, and large black spots on their fins. This species has no information about their populations, or reproduction. We do however know that carpet sharks reproduce through oviparous means, meaning that eggs are laid to hatch outside of the mother.

That's the elongated carpet shark, everybody! I hope you enjoyed learning about them!

Sources:

Elongate carpetshark, parascyllium elongatum. (2019, March 1). https://fish.gov.au/docs/SharkReport/2023_FRDC_Parascyllium_elongatum_final.pdf

Parascyllium Elongatum summary page. FishBase. (n.d.-b). https://www.fishbase.se/summary/Parascyllium-elongatum.html

Western dwarf catshark, parascyllium elongatum last & stevens 2008. Parascyllium elongatum. (n.d.). https://fishesofaustralia.net.au/home/species/2612

[askthelordofdespair]

Arachnophobia part two

Bad English my bad x2!

He woke up in some basement, tied to a chair. He struggled, but it was no use. His arms and legs were bound not by ropes, but by bindings, like on an electric chair. He looked around: the setting was like a horror movie. A scratched, old table with some chemical equipment on it, shelves with a lot of tubes and vials, a floor piled with books and papers. And on top of the cabinet was a bird's nest. In it sat a black bird, staring at the unwilling guest with an evil look. Jeff didn't know much about birds, but he assumed it was a raven. Suddenly the bird cawed and circled a little, sat down on the arm of the chair, twirled its head, reached for the collar of his shirt and tore off a piece of cloth. The satisfied crow immediately flew away, taking its prey to its nest.

"What?!" - shouted an exasperated Jeff.

Whether it was the residue of alcohol or not, or whether he didn't realize the danger of the situation he was in, he wasn't afraid. Suddenly there were hurried footsteps. Someone was coming downstairs to the lab.

Ah, awake already. Well, happy awakening," the black figure said snidely.

Jeff could see the stranger closer now, his tattered black robe hanging just below his knees, his hands clad in dark blue fingerless gloves, his tall, pointed hat adding to the menace. But the creepiest thing of all were the eyes. Large and red, they burned from beneath a white canvas mask. Oh, shit. It was the Scarecrow.

Many things had been heard about the Scarecrow, but no one could say anything with certainty. Except for a few things. Supervillain. Possessed by fear and extremely dangerous. Name, Jonathan Crane. Past history, unknown. If you recognize him on the street, don't panic or let him see you. If he's interested in you and kidnaps you, pray to God, but rely on Batman. God won't help you. Why has Jeff never had any luck? Why Scarecrow? Why not any of Gotham's other supervillains? He would have settled for the Ventriloquist. Shape Shifter. Maybe even the White Shark. All but the Joker and the Scarecrow. But it was a monotonous voice that brought him out of his musings on the unfairness of life:

"What's your name?"

"Jeff Carter." Easy, Jeff, easy. Don't show fear. But don't be cocky. Answer all his questions. Hold out until Batman gets here. He's probably already looking for you. Sarah was supposed to file a missing persons report.

"Great. What are you afraid of?"

"I don't know."

"That's a shame. Okay, well, then I'll take a wild guess. Insectophobia?"

"W-what?"

"Ah, yes. Insectophobia is a fear of insects. Are you afraid of insects, Jeff?"

"How do you know?"

"Did I guess?"

"Let's say you did."

That's good. What's good, asshole? What's good about it? Oh, God, I wish I had help in time.

The madman went to the racks, ran his fingers over the vials, looking at them lovingly, and finally pulled one out. He hummed a tune. He began to draw the liquid into the syringe. Halfway through, he stopped and approached Jeff.

"Stay away from me, you freak! Stay away!"

The syringe jammed into his arm. The poison started to enter the bloodstream. Jeff started to twitch as hard as he could, but the chair held him tightly in its grasp. Suddenly he saw an insect on his lap. Slowly it crawled over him. A second one appeared. A third. A fourth. Soon there was already a horde of insects crawling upward, toward Jeff's face. They covered him in a moving carpet. He covered his mouth, hoping they wouldn't get inside. But in vain. They penetrated through his ears. Their rustling echoed. You could feel them crawling up the ear canal to the brain. They got to the insides. They started gnawing on them. Devouring his lungs, his heart, his spleen, they laid eggs in the ruins of his body. Soon his stomach was bloated and moving with insects. They were breeding and hatching every second. Enjoyed his torment. Made him their sanctuary. Jeff screamed like he'd never screamed in his life. The dark figure unbuckled him, dragged him across the floor, and tossed his body into the metal cage. They would have plenty of time together.

Jeff lost track of time. How long had he been here? A day? Two? A month? A year? If he could still think straight, he'd realize it hadn't been that long. After all, he hadn't died of hunger and thirst. But all that was left of his body was a shell, unable to think. Unable to fear. Soon the Scarecrow dragged him outside for the umpteenth time. But he did not tie the body to the chair as before, but left it lying on the floor. He said slowly and measuredly:

"It seems our paths are parting. I am grateful to you, Jeff Carter, for your invaluable contribution to science. However, your body's resources are exhausted."

He walked to a corner of the basement, reached down and picked up the scythe that had been standing in the darkness before. Raised it high above the head of the man who had once been Jeff Carter. Carter stared blankly into the void. He seemed even glad of this turn of events.

"It's time for us to say goodbye."

Swing. Whistle. Crunch. Darkness.

[offense-is-the-best-defence]

Caera examined the entrance; it didn’t seem particularly dangerous or ominous, no bones or skulls decorated the entrance & nor was there any blood on the ground, fresh or otherwise. Yet the towns people had told them that anyone venturing into the cave never came back. 

‘Why are we doing this?’ asked Armeth. 

‘To stop whatever is killing these people.’ 

‘Do you know any of these people?’ 

‘No.’ Caera sighed. ‘But the reward is good & I need a soft bed & a warm bath.’ 

‘That’s what we’re risking our lives for??’ Armeth laughed at her friend’s reddening face. ‘I forget that you humans are so delicate.’ 

Caera glared at her friend as she sparked a torch. 

‘Are you coming or not?’ 

‘Fine.’ sighed the dragon. ‘Let me change.’ 

The adventurer had grown used to her friend’s Change but what she hadn’t gotten used to was the sound. The dragon’s bones cracked & grinded as they rearranged themselves to fit a smaller form, the noise made Caera wince in sympathy. 

‘Right, let’s get this over with.’ said the dragon. 

The caves passages were narrow, damp & covered with moss which soaked up the water running down the wall, it almost made it seem as if the walls were breathing. 

The constant dripping water began to get on Caera’s nerves & she quickened her pace, much to her relief the passage grew wider & led them to a large cavern. 

Several yellow crystals lined the walls & gave off a sickly light, illuminating several broken statues. It took a few moments for Caera’s eyes to adjust to the dim light & as she surveyed the room, she realised the room had been a temple & not a very popular one.  

The statues were either burnt or broken & the altar at the back of the cavern had been smashed. 

‘This is not a good place.’ said Armeth. 

Caera drew her sword & walked cautiously across the floor, she paused as her foot crunched against the floor. She looked down & saw piles upon piles of bones strewn about the floor like a carpet 

Armeth suddenly flung out her arm. 

‘Is that... a pile of gold?’ 

Caera blinked & looked harder at what she had assumed was a pile of rubble, there did seem to be a slight golden glint to it. 

‘This is why those people came down here.’ 

‘And never left.’ remarked Armeth. ‘But what killed them?’ 

The pile of gold moved, it was subtle at first, as if someone had disturbed it. The coins rolled & slid across the floor, cutting through the carpet of bones like a shark. It’s speed was not fast but it’s goal was obvious. 

‘I think we just found the answer.’ said Caera. She leapt, bringing her sword down & split the mound in two. The adventurer grinned, looking back at Armeth. 

The dragon’s eyes widened as the gold reformed & resumed it’s inexorable march, she grabbed Caera by the collar & pulled her back. 

‘Now what do we do?’ 

‘Why are you asking me? You’re the adventurer, I have no experience with this!’ 

‘But it’s a pile of gold & your... a dragon.’ 

‘Really, Caera? That’s racist!’ snapped Armeth. ‘As I have told you before, dragons have no interest in gold.’ 

‘Sorry.’ she said, taking another stab at the pile. 

‘Stop that. Your toothpick isn’t going to damage it. 

‘Toothpick??’ 

Armeth opened her hand & a gout of fire shot into the gold, giving it pause. After a moment the pile shifted & the coins seemed to rotate in a circular movement as if trying to protect itself. The dragon frowned & threw out her other hand, she poured all her fire & energy into the carnivorous pile. After a few moments her onslaught began to bear fruit, the coins slowly melted into a wide gold puddle. 

Armeth staggered, drained by the effort, she felt an arm around her waist & felt glad of the support. 

‘Nicely done. Let’s get out of here.’ said Caera. 

Once outside Armeth aimed a fireball at the entrance. The rock shuddered & collapsed, sealing the entrance. 

Armeth leaned heavily against Caera as she took deep breaths, trying to dispel the dizziness she felt. 

‘We need to have a serious talk with these villagers of yours.’ 

[violetsandfluff]

Laundry Day

yessss here you go, babesssss xx i actually really love this tysm for the concept!

cw: fluff. fluff. fluff. only loosely proofread.

wc: 1014

“Y/N, can you go get the other laundry basket?” Harry inquired, his voice echoing through the bleak, hollow laundry room.

“The big one or the little one?” she called back as she padded into their carpeted bedroom. Whenever Harry returned from tour, there were always loads upon loads of laundry that needed doing. On top of that, she had chosen that specific day to wash sheets, towels, and her own clothes.

“There are still more?” Harry asked disdainfully, sinking back against the wall with his legs straight out in front of him. “We’ve been doing laundry all day.”

“I know,” Y/N sighed as she appeared in the doorway, an overflowing laundry basket balanced on her hip. “But think how nice the clean sheets will feel.”

“My back hurts,” Harry complained, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m all sore, Y/N.”

“We’re almost done,” she assured him. “Only two or three more loads.”

Harry let his head fall backward, hitting the wall with an unintentionally jarring thud. He winced in pain, but Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle at his alleged misery. There was no doubt in her mind that he was playing it up slightly to get out of housework.

“Up you go, Haz,” she encouraged him playfully as she knelt in front of the washing machine and began transferring its contents to the dryer. “The laundry isn’t going to flip itself.”

“I think I got a concussion,” he murmured faintly, placing his hand on his forehead for dramatic effect.

“Surely you don’t intend for me to tackle this chore alone?”

No response arose from the injured man on her floor.

Whether it was on purpose or not, Harry wasn’t sure. All he knew was that a pair of cold, soggy socks was flung at his head followed by an equally wet pair of boxers. Wordlessly, he peeled them off and tossed them into the dryer, quickly reassuming his injured persona.

Y/N turned around to inspect the accessories she had bestowed upon Harry, her eyebrows raising in surprise when she spotted them already in the dryer.

“Cheeky little bastard,” Harry tutted with a begrudging shake of his head.

Y/N laughed before turning to the washer once more, her pleasant mood quickly dissipating as she struggled to free one of Harry’s heaviest sweatshirts from the agitator despite bracing her feet against the side of the machine and clenching her jaw. She gave the garment one final tug before stepping back and throwing up her hands in surrender.

“Let me help, darling.” Harry rose to his feet, leaning into the machine with his longer body as his fingers worked to the root of the problem. The sweatshirt was loosened and released in no time, but the same couldn’t be said about him.

“Are you getting it, Haz?” Y/N inquired as she watched his body twist to liberate itself from the machine.

“I got it,” he managed, grunting as he strained to break free from whatever had caught on the collar of his t-shirt.

Just as she was about to ask another question, an aggravated fragment arose from the machine.

“I’m stuck.”

Y/N clamped a hand to her mouth to keep from giggling, but her efforts were in vain. Laughter spilled out of her like a waterfall.

Harry’s face reddened with a mix of embarrassment and strain. “Go ahead and laugh, love,” he deadpanned monotonously. “I’d laugh if I were watching you get eaten by sharks.”

“I can see the headlines already,” she cried, drawing in a shaky breath before erupting into another fit of laughter. “Harry Styles left concussed and swallowed by a washing machine in his LA home. How pathetic would that be?”

“All in the name of love.” He shook his head, his voice cracking with desperation. “My death will be remembered as slow, painful, and tragic, and really obscure.”

“Harry Styles: A Life. From headlining world tours to a fateful encounter with a washing machine. All you need to know about One Direction’s late heartthrob.”

Even Harry had to chuckle at that, momentarily forgetting his predicament.

“I don’t even want to think about the tabloids.”

“I do. Knowing them, they’d depict me as a hero.”

“You think so?”

“Sure. Make up a story of me being kidnapped by the Hobama conspiracists or something,” he shrugged, his shoulder bumping painfully against the side of the washing machine. “Care to help me escape?”

“What’s stuck? Your sleeve, your arm, your dick?”

“My collar.”

“What is it stuck on?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be stuck,” he reasoned.

Y/N slipped her hand into the back of his shirt, maneuvering it around the collar until she found the snag.

“Jesus, your fingers are cold!” he whined, his entire body tensing.

His collar was caught on a deep scratch in the agitator, presumably put there by coins and pens that had been carelessly forgotten about. Once she got a good angle, it didn’t take long for her to free Harry from his short-lived captivity.

He rose to his feet slowly, grimacing as he leaned from side to side to stretch. “All the blood is draining from my brain,” he said dizzily, leaning against the wall for support as his head cleared itself.

“Not even a thank you?” Y/N pouted, feigning hurt.

“Thank you,” Harry said politely.

“You forgot something.” She reached pointedly back into the infamous machine to withdraw Harry’s damp sweatshirt, whirling around and smacking it lightly against his chest.

“Ow,” he whined. “Soon my cause of death will be murder, not a washing machine!”

“Oh, Harry.” She lowered the towel. “This is ridiculous. We can fool around after we finish the laundry.”

Harry leaned forward slowly, giving her a hard peck on the cheek and swiping the sweatshirt from her hand. He swung it at her playfully a few times, letting out a triumphant whoop.

“Harry Styles dubs Y/N Y/LN his personal hero, claiming that she delivered him from sure death.”

“Easy there, Haz. Do you mind reloading the washer for me?” Y/N beckoned to the overflowing laundry basket that remained untouched in the doorway.

“Promise me this,” Harry pleaded as he ran a hand through his hair, disheveled from a day’s hard work. “If something else gets stuck, we’ll call the fire department.”

“Or the paparazzi.”

“Deal.”

Taglist: @madybeth21 @groovychaosavenue @fishingirl12 @sortingharryshairclip @mrspeacem1nusone @tenaciousperfectionunknown @cayleyhannha-blog @whitemancumslut @xxrosebunny @hsdaydreaminghaze

[comfy-whumpee]

News Cycle

CN: abuse, victim blaming, implied noncon.

@bloodybrambles, @wildfaewhump, @lektric-whump, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @burtlederp, @rosesareviolentlyread, @eatyourdamnpears

@ashintheairlikesnow is responsible for Savvie and her crimes.

-

The television has been off all day. Jax hasn’t looked at a single screen, in fact. He doesn’t care for browsing the internet at the best of times, unless it’s to find music, but right now he has sworn off all possible exposure. He won’t even look at the newspaper headlines when he’s outside.

 He doesn’t really even know what’s going on. All he knows is some girl has accused a famous guy of some nasty shit, and worse, everyone seems to have an opinion about it.

 He spends the early afternoon sitting in the living room trying his hand at reading an actual fucking book. It goes about as well as it ever has. He’s using it as a sleep mask in about twenty minutes. He’s trying not to think about the outside world. The book is about teenagers doing dumb shit and he took it off Izzy’s shelf because he doesn’t have his own books and Kieran’s are way too dry.

 One of the teenagers in the book acts like she’s jumping to attention whenever the main guy gets close to her and Jax wonders if the author didn’t know what she was writing or if he’s not meant to have figured it out yet.

 This is why he doesn’t fucking watch TV. Can’t escape that shit.

 A whole fuckton of people are arguing that girl was faking it. Jax doesn’t even know who she is, barely remembers the name of the male celebrity. He doesn’t get how anyone can have already come to their verdict when court cases like those take fucking weeks. For some people it’s simple as. He does charity work or some shit, therefore he can’t be a creep.

 He is pacing now, back and forth on the living room carpet, his feet moving quickly and his legs quickly starting to ache.

 He felt like telling them, when he overheard them on the bus, that abusers can be charming, talented philanthropists. He felt like describing how someone like that can utterly separate people it is and is not acceptable to torture and feel zero shame or guilt over it. He wanted to make them see that, to people like that, nobody else is real. Everyone is just a reflection of them.

 But he didn’t say anything. He sat there arguing in his head and clenching his fists around his knees so he didn’t gouge chunks out of his palms again, and by the time he got off the bus he wanted to scream, and then he saw that fucking headline about her bikini pictures.

 Nobody has said it to him since court, but he knows people are saying it now. Why didn’t she just leave? Why didn’t she run? She could have disappeared. She could have just gone.

 She wasn’t a captive.

 There were times she took the collar off, were there not, Mr Gallagher?

 It was only the preparation of his lawyer that had stopped him hitting something, up there on the stand watching her rubber-faced lawyer with his shark eyes trying to trip him up. He remembers wanting to punch the man right in his nose and scream, you’re not even going to prove her innocent, why are you making us all go through this? You know she did it as well as I do.

 His lawyer had tried to explain that the trial was to find out how much could be proven, because that was exactly how much she could be sentenced for. Jax had told them that he didn’t care as long as she never got out. His opinion didn’t matter on the topic. And so he’d had to sit there trying to convince a jury of her peers (because they sure as fuck weren’t his peers) that even though she took the collar off, he couldn’t just leave.

 His feet take him five steps to the window, turn, and five steps back to the doorway. Four and a half if he lengthens his stride any more, leaving him with an awkward smaller step before he hits the point he has to turn. He almost wants to run it, until he’s hot and out of breath and has been unable to think of anything else as long as he’s been on the move.

 He wanted to scream at those women on the bus that they don’t understand, they’ll never understand. Then, after he’d gotten off and calmed down and clenched shaking hands around the back of his neck, twisting fingers into his hair until he could breathe, he thought he wouldn’t scream. He would go up to them, just before the bus came to his stop, and he would be very calm and precise. He would tell them that this girl is real, and talking about her like a story is what the piece of shit would want them to do.

 You need to let go of this delusion, they told him. That fake therapist she found when he didn’t moan loud enough on command. You have convinced yourself that you’re the victim here.

 He’d wanted to punch her, too. But he hadn’t. He sat there and listened to it, and forced everything down down down inside until it rotted. Even though he didn’t believe it, he still had to listen, and sometimes his thoughts would play back those words.

 Maybe she is faking. Maybe she’s lying for money or attention or whatever the fuck. Maybe she miscalculated her little prank and now people are trying to find out her address and telling her to kill herself.

 Maybe it was all a big fucking delusion and he could have just left at any time, but he didn’t because some part of him wanted to stay.

 He feels disgusting just thinking it. He’s pacing faster now, feet hitting the carpet hard. Spinning on his heel is starting to make him feel dizzy. He knows he didn’t want to stay, he had to, there were children, but he also knows that he stopped trying. He’d accepted the heavy, dull, painful life he’d been forced into. He’d looked out at the greying sky of a late summer night and figured, there was nowhere else he’d be able to go. Might as well die there.

 Savvie went on fucking Oprah. She played concerts in at least ten different countries. She had fucking albums, she was in magazines. Jax has never once searched for his own name online but he’s been on the fucking front page enough times that he can’t avoid seeing himself sometimes. He wonders, if he goes back far enough, will he find people writing thinkpieces and conspiracy theories about how he was full of shit and doing it for attention? How the details were too sordid to be true, his scars too lurid, or worse, that he didn’t quite look sad enough, didn’t cry enough, held himself weirdly, forgot tiny details because she shocked his memory to pieces and the story didn’t fit together perfectly?

 Some of those people probably still think he made it all up, like Isaac says. That he was being dramatic and acting entitled and he had no right to walk away from her, let alone turn on her.

 Some people still take her side, and normally that doesn’t bother him, but today it makes him feel sick to his stomach.

 He puts his hand to his neck. Rough, puckered scars ring his throat and he can feel the weight that was once there, for years. Maybe not every day, but enough of them.

 He doesn’t care that some people think he was lying. It doesn’t fucking matter. She’s locked up, and he’s free.

 But he cares that he knows, without the shadow of a doubt, that she has googled his name. And hers. Probably multiple times. He knows she has read every single comment and commentary she can find, and the ones that criticise him, or take her side, or imply Izzy was coached have gone into a gallery in her head that she can browse whenever she likes and it makes her feel right.

 But he’s just a fucking story to those people. He’s a headline, an article, a photo he didn’t fucking want them to take. He’s a whatever happened to that guy? And he’s a do you remember that story about…?

 He’d have been a shitty TV movie if his lawyer hadn’t killed that thing at the roots.

 Four years later and he still has to pay a fucking lawyer just to be able to live his life.

 It’s never over, he’ll say to his therapist on Thursday. There’s always something she can do, or that someone else can do. I still wonder if I’m being stalked. If she’s got pictures of me or the kids. If she knows where we’re living, what school they go to, if she has the address. If I’m going to open the door and find a parcel from her. If some journalist is going to try for an interview. If one of Izzy’s friends’ mums is going to recognise me and tell the rest. If some kid will ask about my scars.

 She’ll stop him before he goes too deep. Make him pause and breathe. His feet come to a stop on the carpet as he thinks it.

 He’s not sure what he’ll say, but it’ll be something like, It will never be over in that sense. But think about what has changed.

 The doors are locked. Curtains are closed. Kids at school, dad at work, nobody hurt. The weight on his neck isn’t real. She’s in jail, and no matter what she does, or says, or thinks, she’s not getting out. No matter what anyone says, she’s gone, and so is Isaac, and Brayden, and there’s a few more years before the other cousins get out. That part of his life is over.

 He can’t talk to his therapist. But maybe… He does have someone who’ll understand.

 He looks around, and finds his phone on the kitchen counter. His hand shakes as he types with his finger.

 Can I vent to you? Want to talk to someone who gets it.

 Hi! Of course. By calling or texting?

 He hits the phone button to dial. She picks up. For a moment, there is silence.

 They say hello at the same time, and her laugh - so like Savvie’s, and yet a million miles from it - makes him finally feel like he’s alone in the flat. She would never laugh like that when someone was around, soft and awkward.

 “I saw the news,” he explains.

 “Well there’s your first mistake,” she teases kindly. She already knows what he’s talking about. “Those stories are - bullshit.”

 He sighs. He finds it in him to laugh again, breathlessly. Hearing her say it, hesitation before swearing and all, makes it truer than it is in his head. Makes it obvious. Makes it hurt less. “Yeah, I know.” He lets out another huge breath. He doesn’t know where all the air came from. Has he been holding it inside him all this time?

Hannah understands.

“Yeah. Thanks, sis.”

[ventrue-in-control]

~show drabble~

The show itself was held in a big open hall of the Hampton court. But the areas around it were decorated much the same. Glass-stained windows, deer heads and old tapestry artwork pieces. This was contrasted with the modern lights up in ceiling shining upon the guests. The red carpet outside was filled with people trying to showcase their own outfit for the paparazzi. The flashlights may as well have been none stop.

To Jackie though, that was of no importance now. He had people walking the catering and he would be certain he would get to have a chat with everyone after the show. He had folk who would help his friends who had never been to this kind of shows even had some to specifically escort Henry so he could avoid the millions of cameras. It didn’t seem like something he would enjoy no. Jackie hoped he would enjoy the rest though. And lord knew he prayed that henny wouldn’t sniff him out like the shark she was. Evil witch. none of that was something he could do something about now though. Show was about to start and he had to walk past all the models to make sure all was exactly as it had to be. Thank fuck for taran being around he knew he understood the importance of all this and since Jackie hired new and less experienced models it was good to have an old bag to keep everyone in line. He made a mental note to make taran a little plushie as a thank you for being a huge help.

When the lights and music started to dim though Jackie had to stop fretting over every little stitch. Not as if things weren’t perfect. He was genuinely proud of this collection. Maybe more so than other times. This collection was straight from the heart. Specifically made for henry… a goodbye, a love letters a welcome? Jackie wasn’t quite sure the concept had been many things gone through many stages and even more changes. Not knowing exactly what things were was fitting however so it didn’t really matter. Sometimes words just couldn’t translate what art meant.

Once all the lights were shut off the ones above the runway started to light up one by one while a slight fog of smoke was created. The music started to play the songs Jackie had picked. A combination of tradional Welsh folk mixed with the more modern runway ambience and beats. An odd mix that when he was looking for artists to create it most declined. But where there is a will there is a way.

The first couple of outfits were certainly odd. Following a modern take on what a knight aesthetic may look like. Rough and sturdy looking hoodies recreating the general shape of various pieces of armour. Bulky shoulders and interesting hoods that could function as fabric versions of helmets. Bags in the shape of shields. Belts with wooden swords as accessories. Mail chain chest pieces. Rings that recreated the finger pieces of armoured gloves. Jackie had to outsource a lot for the more metal bits and pieces. It was not his forte. Sewing the hoodies alone had been an awful experience. But the gays were gonna love it so it was worth it.

The next set that came up was more casual. Certainly, where a lot of the inspiration from the ready to wear came from. Dark sweaters with even darker coats and jackets. Long dark pants tucked into sturdy leather boots with the iron tips. Some of the sweaters were knitted with holes that were filled with thread showing the Kevlar jackets underneath them. Some of the models wore bucket hats that would cloak most of their face in the shades. There were people walking with padded leather pants and motorcycle gloves. Big sturdy bags hanging from one shoulder with patches that were seemingly falling off and more pockets one could dream of. Models walked with watches that were modified into compasses and rosaries.

The last set was the most futuristic. Heavily leaning into techwear. Lots of belts and chest pieces some even carrying fake wooden weapons in them. High collars and vizors to protect them. Scarfs with pins made of bones. Headscarf in beautiful deep blood red and black. Some had canes that drew into swords. Fake shotguns carried on their back. There were even some battle dresses as Jackie had decided to call them. At the end of it all. The lights went off and the music turned into softer ambiance as Jackie walked upon the stage holding a piece of paper right into the spotlight.

Walking past all the familiar faces… his friends and enemies. But mainly he was looking for henry. As soon as he managed to lock eyes his smile softened ever so slightly into something genuine. Quickly looking away again as he could not afford to cry on sta- wait why was Nero sitting behind him. that motherfu-

But there was no time to get upset. He had a speech to give. A small one. He had promised to himself to not have any long ass speeches no more. “I want to thank you all for coming to the SALMON 23 unisex couture spring collection! This collection was made with a good friend of mine in mind. To showcase my appreciation for him and to showcase that he is seen. That he would never be forgotten and that he has always been a muse even if he may not realize it. I hope for anyone who may choose to wear anything from the collection that they may feel empowered and safe. That they may feel like these clothes would last for forever. That they can count on these garments as much as I can count on my friend. That is all. And once more. Thank you all for everything.” and with he turned away. walking past henry once more as he smiled and worded something lost into the darkness. he would meet up with him later. first off he needed to shake off the nerves as he felt like he was gonna scream if he didnt real fast got to sit down.

[katsublast]

It’s Just Polyester: A Kiribaku Fic

Kirishima stared dejected at the now torn-up punching bag in his dorm room. He hadn’t realized that he had activated his quirk during his frenzied, emotional punching session. Kirishima thought if he hit the bag hard enough, maybe he’d feel better. Maybe all his problems could just be punched away. Of course, he knew that wasn’t how life worked.

Kirishima wiped the few traitorous tears that managed to leak through his eyes as he slumped down to the floor. He was so stupid. He knew he shouldn’t get his hopes up. Of course Bakugou would be attracted to someone with a flashy quirk. Not him. He was nobody.

Kirishima couldn’t help but think back to all the times he had mistakenly believed that Bakugou had feelings for him, that he could ever hope to be more than his best friend. Because that’s all he was to him: just a friend. Kirishima knew he should be fine with that. He knew it was his fault for catching feelings, but why did it have to hurt so much?

“Damn it! The old hag knows I don’t like this fucking sweater!” Bakugou yelled as he opened a package his mother had sent him in the mail. “It’s way too fucking itchy.”

Kirishima inspected the sweater in question. “I think it looks cool, Bakubro,” he said with his signature shark-toothed grin. “I like the shark on it! It’s super manly.”

Bakugou huffed, tossing the offending sweater in Kirishima’s direction. “If you like the damn thing so much, you can wear it. It’d probably look better on your stupid ass anyway.”

Kirishima quickly pulled the sweater over his t-shirt. “How does it look?” 

Bakugou glanced quickly at Kirishima before turning away with a scoff. “Told you it looks better on you with your shitty hair. Just make sure you give it back before the old hag comes to visit. She’d be fucking pissed if she thought I threw out her shitty sweater.”

Kirishima tugged at the collar of his t-shirt, trying to remember how Bakugou’s sweater felt on his skin. If only he wasn’t such a coward, then maybe Bakugou would be looking at him like he held all the stars in his eyes. Maybe then Bakugou would be kissing him.

Kirishima still remembers the pain that clutched his heart when he walked into the locker room that day. Bakugou was getting changed into his hero costume for a class exercise, and then Midoriya walked in. And Kirishima watched Bakugou’s eyes as he walked by, watched his eyes do a quick, subtle scan of Midoriya’s body before he turned away. 

That wasn���t the only time that had happened. Every time that Midoriya happened to be near Bakugou, Kirishima saw the way Bakugou looked at him. Midoriya seemingly had Bakugou mesmerized. The realization made Kirishima’s chest so tight that it felt like he was dying.

He had gone to his dorm early that night, the night he realized that Bakugou had feelings for Midoriya, not him. He cried silently so that Bakugou wouldn’t be able to hear him through the paper-thin walls. Why would Bakugou ever choose him, kiss him, love him? Midoriya and Bakugou were childhood friends. Midoriya had a flashy, powerful quirk. Kirishima can’t possibly hope to compare to Midoriya.

But nothing could compare to what he saw that morning in the common room. Midoriya was chatting with Shinso by the coffee maker, wearing Bakugou’s shark sweater. The same sweater that Bakugou had let him wear on that cold day in December. 

Kirishima felt his heart break all over again.

He shouldn’t care so much about some stupid sweater Bakugou had let him wear once. It wasn’t even a special sweater. Bakugou didn’t even like the damn thing! But the sweater and the very Bakugou-style compliment that came with it, well, it meant something to Kirishima. It shouldn’t have. It was just polyester. But it was like a final punch in the gut, confirmation that Bakugou liked Midoriya, the guy he hated for the majority of their first year at UA, better than him.

Damn, Kirishima wished he was Midoriya sometimes.

Kirishima remembered what had triggered him to run to his room and break his punching bag. Bakugou and Midoriya were sitting on a bench in the woods by the dorm. Bakugou was staring at Midoriya, holding both of his hands with his own. They were talking about something but Kirishima was too far away to hear. Midoriya said something, a small smile on his freckled face. Bakugou wrapped an arm around his shoulder and Midoriya relaxed into it. Kirishima felt his heart drop as suddenly the springtime wind felt so much colder. He wrapped his arms around himself as he dashed to his dorm as fast as he could.

He knew he shouldn’t hate Midoriya for having caught Bakugou’s attention. Hating someone, especially an angel like Midoriya, is super unmanly. But he couldn’t help the frustration that rose in his chest as he slashed at the punching bag. He irrationally wished that Midoriya was the punching bag and that thought terrified him.

“I’m such a horrible person,” he whispered to himself as tears fell down his cheeks. He stared at the pieces of fabric that once made up his punching bag. “How could I hate Midoriya? It’s not even his fault.”

How could he call himself a hero if he thought about hurting his classmate, his friend, because his crush liked Midoriya? It was just a stupid intrusive thought, but Kirishima knew that good people didn’t have thoughts about hurting others. Therefore, Kirishima was a bad person.

“That’s a shitty jump in logic,” Bakugou said from the doorway. Fuck, he hadn’t even heard the door open. He must have forgotten to lock it in his frenzied dash to his dorm. He was such an idiot.

“I guess I haven’t been around much lately,” Bakugou sat down next to him on the floor, his back resting against his bed frame. “Why did you fucking destroy your punching bag?”

Kirishima shrugged.

“Something’s fucking wrong. Tell me.”

“It’s nothing,” Kirishima couldn’t look at him without breaking down. He kept his gaze fixed on the carpet.

“Is it about how I’ve been skipping out on a stupid ‘bro nights’ or whatever the fuck you call them?” Kirishima could feel Bakugou’s eyes on him, boring holes into his skin.

“It’s fine. I understand.” He picked at a piece of carpet sticking out from the floor. “I know you’re dating Midoriya now.”

Bakugou let out a loud laugh. “You seriously think I’m dating that fucking nerd?” 

Kirishima bit his lip. “Aren’t you?”

“Fuck no!” Bakugou stopped laughing when he saw the look of hurt and confusion flash across Kirishima’s face. “Look, I can’t tell you everything that’s going on without breaking Deku’s fucking privacy or whatever, but I’m certainly not dating the damn nerd, I can tell you that much. He’s just going through some shit right now, so I’m trying to be a good fucking friend or whatever.”

“Oh,” Kirishima glanced up at his best friend for the first time since he walked in. “But you kept looking at him, and you gave him your sweater…”

“I’d fucking tell you if I liked someone or some shit like that, Shitty Hair,” Bakugou said, a soft smile on his face. “You’re my fucking best friend. Don’t let it get to your fuckin head, though.”

Kirishima felt a pang in his chest. Yeah, best friend. That’s all he would ever be. It shouldn’t be such a big deal. He should be fine just being best friends. He still got to see a side to Bakugou no one else ever saw. 

“Why would you ever kiss me?” Kirishima muttered under his breath, his eyes widening once he realized he said that out loud.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” Bakugou’s cheeks were tinted red as he glanced down at Kirishima’s lips before quickly looking away.

“I...only if...no, it’s stupid,” Kirishima stuttered. “I don’t want to mess anything up! Just forget I said any--”

Bakugou’s lips crashed into his own, interrupting his whole spiel about not wanting to ruin their friendship. When Bakugou pulled away, he smirked. “What if I want to mess things up, Shitty Hair? I fucking like you, dumbass.”

Kirishima smiled, his stupid shark-toothed grin that made Bakugou’s heart beat outside his chest. “I like you too, Bakubro.”

Midoriya watched the exchange from the doorway, a satisfied smile on his face. Kacchan finally found someone that could make him happy. He took over the sweater and slid it through the cracked open door. Now if only he could get the courage to confess to his own crush.

[gendercraft]

Outlast: Revisited [Chapter One: Miles]

Synopsis: I’m rewriting Outlast where the first game and Whistleblower are combined, Miles and Waylon are more connected, and also they kiss

Mount Massive Asylum was a silhouette ahead of the setting sun. Against the red and orange and white in the sky, Mount Massive was all dark brick and covered windows. Half of the building had flickering light peeking out from slats and cracked curtains, and the rest was pitch black. 

    Miles opened the car door and planted one boot on the dirt, brows furrowed. He came with only his camcorder, a few spare batteries, a notebook, and the email he was sent: 

     You don’t know me. Have to make this quick. They might be monitoring. 

     I did 2 weeks of software consult at MURKOFF Psychiatric Systems’ facilities in Mount Massive. All sorts of NDA’s I am very much breaking right now but seriously, fuck those guys. 

     Certainly enough to grab Miles’ attention. When most people heard he was an investigative reporter, they treated him with what they thought was respect. All talking in circles and stepping over eggshells. This person emailing him—they had something to say and they were going to make sure Miles was listening. 

     Terrible things happening there. Don’t understand it. Don’t believe half the things I saw. Doctors talking about dream therapy going too deep, finding something that had been waiting for them in the mountains. People are being hurt and Murkoff is making money. 

     It needs to be exposed. 

     A fall breeze brushed by, making Miles shiver under his brown jacket. He flipped the collar up. 

    He was prepared for a facility up and running, for patients and orderlies to interview. This place looked abandoned. 

    Miles poked around the empty building where someone should be there to open the gate from, but the computer was frozen and there was nothing. 

    The gate—for humans, not cars—creaked as it opened. Securing his notebook and the hard copy of his email in the inside pocket of his jacket, he raised his camera and headed inside. Mount Massive loomed over him as he stalked towards the front entrance. Military trucks lined the walkway. 

    What the fuck happened here? 

    He pulled out his notebook and scribbled a stream of consciousness: 

     I start feeling sick just looking at this place. Mount Massive Asylum, shut down amid scandal and government secrecy in 1971, reopened by Murkoff Psychiatric Systems in 2009 under the guise of a charitable organization. Cell phone reception cut off abruptly a mile out, more like a jammer than a lost signal. The Murkoff Corporation has a long track record of disguising profit as charity. But never on American soil. Whatever they thought they could get out of this place has to be big. Might finally be the story that breaks the bastards. 

     The front entrance was locked. He blew out a frustrated breath and looked around to find another spot in the fence, allowing him into a tiny courtyard with a fence and scaffolding up along the walls. He looked through his camera and zoomed in—there was an open window. He grimaced. 

    He didn’t want to go back to when he was a teenager, sneaking into empty buildings through crumbling walls and broken windows, but he didn’t see much of a choice. He had to get inside. 

    He got the same thrill he always had when he was younger to climb and leap over the scaffolding until he reached the window. The second his feet hit the ground, the light exploded. He gasped and covered his head as glass rained on the carpet. 

    Raising the camcorder, he flicked on the nightvision, then winced. 

    What the fuck happened here? 

    The room was empty, the furniture all turned over and piled up. Miles strained his ears, but the asylum was silent. He crept his way over to the door and peeked inside the hallway. Both sides were barricaded, giving way only to the room across the hall. This room was a bit more normal, lit up by the light streaming through the hall and the thin curtains. He looked around for any clue of what happened here, but nothing. There was a second door letting him into the hall past the barricade. 

    He was about to squeeze through a gap between the next barricade, when he faltered. 

    Is that fucking blood? 

    He pulled up his camcorder and zoomed in. Sure enough, blood splattered the wall and stained the carpet. There was no sign of a body. He swallowed and pushed forward. I have to find out what happened here. 

    In one of the rooms, he found a status report for a patient named Billy. Most of the words Miles didn’t understand most of the words, but he could connect it to the email; ‘lucid dream states,’ ‘the blood dreams of Doctor Trager,’ and something called a ‘MORPHOGENIC ENGINE.’ 

    Something Miles found interesting, part of an interview with the patient: 

        Billy asked about the status of his mother’s lawsuit against Murkoff and the asylum...catastrophic breach in security...all orderlies and security personnel must be questioned and video security improved…

        Signed ‘MURKOFF PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS PROJECT WALRIDER

    MOUNT MASSIVE CO’ 

     The first sign of life Miles was given was a bathroom door shutting as he approached. He hesitated, then rapped on the wood. 

    “Hello? My name is Miles Upshur, I’m an investigative reporter. May I ask you some questions, please?” 

    No answer. He shifted uncomfortably. “Uh… okay then. I’ll be around if you change your mind.” 

    The next door was locked, but across the hall there was a small kitchen. He did a quick once-over, then stopped at the counter by the fridge—is that a fucking— is that an organ— is that a fucking organ on a tray? Right next to a fucking soda can. Miles’ stomach lurched. It was long and thin, flesh coloured, veins of blood smearing onto the silver tray. 

    I have to find out what’s going on here. I have to expose it. 

    The only way was up, into a ventilation shaft. As soon as he got inside, someone burst into the room, looked around frantically, and ran out. Miles barely caught them with his camera. His heart was ready to beat right out of his chest. 

    “Fuck,” he whispered, panting. “Fuck this.” 

    He got to the end of the shaft and paused. It dropped too far for him to get back up if he decided he had to leave. With the blood, the fucking soda organ, was it worth it? Was this worth risking his life? 

    What if he didn’t have enough evidence? What if he couldn’t convince the police to come? What if the public thought it was a joke? 

    Closing his eyes, he jumped down. 

    Creeping along to the first door, he threw it open and a body hung from the ceiling. He stumbled back with a gasp. It was bloodied and pale, and Miles watched, horrified, as it smacked to the floor. He covered his mouth and forced himself into the library, eyes burning. 

    Keep your camera raised. No matter what you do, keep your camera raised. 

    The library was a maze of pushed over bookcases, the righted ones holding decapitated heads. Their mouths were gaped open, eyes blank and bloodshot. He crept forward. In the light of a window, a body sat impaled on a pole, still slowing sliding down. Blood caked the metal. It smelled of rust and decaying meat, and Miles was quickly losing his resolve. He stepped forward and the body, the man, gasped and reached out, choking on his own blood. 

    “They killed us,” he gasped. “They got out. The… Variants.” 

    Miles watched with wide eyes. A few tears ran down his face, but he kept recording. 

    “You can’t… fight them. You have to hide… can unlock the main doors… from Security Control.” He desperately tried to crawl himself up the pipe. “You have to get the fuck out of this terrible place. Stay away from the north, it’s… it’s chaos.” 

    Miles dropped the camera and leapt forward to help pull him off, but the moment he pushed up, the man lurched, screamed, and fell dead. Miles stumbled back with shaking hands, his palms red and sticky. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. 

    He pulled out his notebook. 

     I’m inside. Bodies everywhere. Blood. Burn marks. Heads lined up like bottles behind a bar, Dead Murkoff scientists hung from the ceiling; their badges say “Murkoff Advanced Research Systems.” Murkoff’s longtime M.O. has been to profit off the exploitation of supposed charity. Fuck the third world and bankroll another billion. 

     How did Murkoff think they would make money off a building full of the mentally ill? 

     There’s some kind of tactical cop pinned like a pig on a spit. Tells me to get the fuck out then dies. Would have been a good thing to hear when I could still leave the way I came. 

     He lowered the notebook. His chest was tight, tight, too tight, he couldn’t breathe. He sucked in a deep breath. He hadn’t had panic attacks since he was a teenager, but he couldn’t blame himself, not this time. 

    He slid his notebook in his pocket and picked up his camera. 

    He left the library. The second floor of the Administration Block was an atrium, one floor wrapped around the carved out middle where reception was below. He got to the ground. He was not safe here. He couldn’t be seen. He switched out his battery and recorded himself moving forward. Another barricade blocked the hall, but there was a gap he could squeeze through if he could just… 

    “Little pig!” 

    A thick hand grabbed the back of his neck like someone picking up the scruff of a kitten. Burning pain ripped through his skin as a hulking figure yanked him out of the gap. Miles barely got a glimpse, but at first, he did not register it as human. His nose was smashed in, and there was a giant chunk ripped out of his forehead. He bared his teeth, a huge row of shark fangs, then threw Miles through the glass atrium. He smacked against the reception floor, and blacked out. 

    xxx 

    “And who are you, then?” 

    He blinked his eyes open, his head pounding, his entire body throbbing. A bald man in vestments stared at him, a flashlight blinding him. His face was full of wrinkles, with full cupid lips and wide set eyes. Miles groaned and dropped his head back to the ground. 

    “I… I see.” The man held Miles’ camera. “Merciful God, you have sent me an apostle. Guard your life, son, you have a calling.” 

    xxx 

    When he woke up again, the man was gone. 

    He tried hard to remember what happened between his blackout, but it was hard, like a dream he couldn’t quite get a hold of. He gripped his throbbing head. All he knew was he had to get to Security Control. 

    There was more carnage in the reception area. A handful of dead bodies absolutely eviscerated, their guts painting the ground. The smell was something worse than Miles had ever witnessed in his life. Some cops had told him you’d never smell anything worse than a dead body, or anything close to it. Miles knew now that was right. 

    It wasn’t until he had explored a little bit that he noticed the big letters written at the base of the atrium, over Miles’ head—Proclaim the Gospel. He hoped it was red chalk. At the receptionist’s desk, he found a document: 

     You are hereby required to grant M.H.S full access to all facilities and surrender complete authority to its agents. By acceptance of this document you (and any surviving relatives) surrender all claims of litigation against the Murkoff Corp. or its subsidiaries for the actions of M.H.S. or the circumstances which required their actions, regardless of responsibility. 

     A status report in one of the storage rooms, about a patient named Chris Walker, observed by Dr. Rudolph Wenicke. It mentioned more of the rumoured Morphogenic Engine. From the interview notes: 

     Walker was interviewed in restraints, following his self-inflicted mutilations. Restraint have had to be altered to accommodate his enourmous size...he claims the skin ripped from his forehead allows for a truer way of seeing...his predominant fixation, amplified by therapy, is a manic exaggeration of military security protocol. 

     It took Miles a minute to realize that was the big fucker who threw him through the window—Chris Walker, an abused patient. The rage in his stomach muted. Did he even know what he was doing? Miles shook his head. It didn’t matter. 

    Coming into the hallway, he stopped. A Variant sat in a wheelchair, staring at the floor. Miles cleared his throat and hesitated, before stepping forward. 

    “H-Hello? My name is Miles Upshur, I’m an investigative reporter. May I ask you some questions, please?” 

    The Variant’s chest rose and fell rapidly as he panted. Miles’ brows furrowed as he came closer. Like Chris Walker, this patient looked horribly unhealthy, and deformed. How many patients came into Mount Massive this way? Could this be a coincidence? 

    The man didn’t respond, so Miles moved forward. He came into a room with three Variants, all bald men, staring with dead eyes at a static television screen splattered with blood. Miles introduced himself again, and nobody answered. He pulled out his notebook. 

     A crowd of broken men watching a dead channel. They look like patients. They survived whatever happened here but nobody’s home. 

     He carried through the room and cautiously explored the Administration Block until he found the keycard for Security Control. He passed the Variant in the wheelchair, only to find his back smacking to the floor, reawakening the pain in his spine, the Variant screaming, “GET THEM OUT! PLEASE! THE DOCTOR IS DEAD! RIP THEM CLEAN! YOU HAVE TO HELP ME!” 

    Miles gasped and shoved at the fucker’s chest, until he finally flew off and hit the ground. The man curled into a fetal position and sobbed into his arms. Miles panted, the anger in his stomach slowly subsiding. 

    “It’ll be okay.” He swallowed. “I’m here to help. Which doctor are you talking about? Rip what clean? How can I help you?”

    Miles raised his camera. The man refused to respond. Miles stepped back, covered in sweat. He hesitantly left as the man crawled away. 

    He made it to the hallway with Security Control, and as he stood at the edge, a Variant at the end of the hall ran forward and pounded into a door until it opened, then slammed it behind him. Miles sucked in panicked breaths. He thought of approaching, of seeing if he could get some information, but shook his head. Maybe it was better to leave the Variants alone, when he could. 

    He couldn’t help himself—he explored what rooms he could. He found several dead bodies, blood splattered almost excessively, and managed to scrounge up some batteries. In the bathroom, a clothed man sat on the toilet, dead and hunched over, with the word ‘WITNESS’ written in blood above him. His abdomen burning with anger, Miles hands trembled over his notebook. 

     I’m already beat all to hell, picking broken glass out of my scalp, coupole cracked ribs. Nearly killed by a deformed giant, looks like somebody tried to fuck-start his head with a cheese grater. He throws me through a wall, knocks me unconscious. 

        I wake up and some doughy old man with a face like an alcoholic kiddy fiddler in a homemade priest outfit calls me his Apostle. Not a job I asked for. 

        There are words scrawled in blood everywhere. I’m getting an ugly feeling in my gut that the priest is writing them, and for my benefit. 

     He kept exploring, looking for anything that could bring this place down, and grinned as he read through a document. 

     The profit potential of PROJECT WALRIDER remains staggeringly high...four fatalities...PROJECT WALRIDER remains a dangerous initiative...certainly be further casualties...family and government interest in the patients is so low as to make any chance of legal actions vanishingly unlikely. Violence among patients is increasing as the Morphogenic Engine Therapy gets closer to producing working models…

     He pocketed the document and headed for Security Control. This is enough. I’m going to bring down Murkoff Corporation. 

    The reader beeped as Miles scanned the keycard and headed for the control panel. A security guard laid crumpled, dead in the corner. He ignored it the best he could and got on the keyboard, only for the priest to appear on screen. Miles watched with wide eyes, his heart racing in his fingertips, as the father yanked down a lever and the lights went out. 

    Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. 

    The screens had said basement. If he could get down there and restart the generator, he could get out. 

    He stood and headed for the door. His hand on the handle, he froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. 

    A familiar voice. “We have to contain it.” 

    Miles whipped around and looked in any place he could possibly hide in the tiny room. His heart raced, his breath short, his eyes landed on the locker. He sprinted over and crammed himself inside, slamming the door closed just in time for the room’s door to burst open. 

    Bringing his camcorder up, Miles pressed his free hand to his mouth to hide his breathing. Chris Walker’s own breathing filled the air, short and rabid, as he mumbled to himself. Walker looked around for around, checking the desk, circling the room, mumbling. “You were here, little pig, weren’t you…?” 

    The locker beside Miles creaked open. He bit back a whimper. 

    What do I do? What the fuck do I do? 

    Miles placed his hand on the cold metal, and prepared himself to run.

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