#it happened irl and... y'all

[drieddpetals]

jesper: *lowkey panicking* "guys i seriously cannot find my airpods"

inej: "maybe you should say a prayer to saint anthony"

jesper: "OH YEAH! what's that rhyme that's like 'saint anthony, saint anthony please come down, something is lost and needs to be found?'"

inej: "yeah that's it"

jesper: *literally 5 seconds later* "OH MY GOD I FOUND THEM"

inej: "see? saint anthony never fails"

jesper: "for real"

kaz: "you seriously think saint anthony helped you find your airpods??"

jesper: "hey man, i'm not about to deny the saints"

[littlefankingdom]

I cannot explain how annoyed I am, as a survivor, at the Batfam fandom for how they treat child abuse. There is no issue calling out Bruce's canon abusive behavior, and that's great, but the moment it's another parent of the Batfam, everyone become an abuse apologist. It's clear that y'all don't see it as abuse unless it's extreme or if there's any love, but, fun fact, it is still abuse. Or worst, y'all call THE CHILD in the relationship the bad/abusive one for reacting to the abuse they have endured. Truly disgusting, imo.

I love my father very much. If anything happened to my father, I would be devastated. It is also clear to me that my father loves me very much and would not recover from anything happening to me. However, this does not erase that he has been abusive to me, that he has enabled my abusive mother, that he will continue to defend my mother's abusive behavior. I love my father and I am still in contact with him, I call him if I have an issue he could fix, but I also don't call him for most issues because he failed as a father. My psychiatrist also believes my mother does love me (not sure about this one) and my siblings, but it doesn't change that she is an abusive person to her core. And my siblings still love her even after everything she has done to all of us, and they will defend her. Love doesn't erase abuse.

Also, STOP with the "well, they were fed and had a roof, so it's not abuse". This is LITERALLY the same excuse abusers use toward their kids, that they fed them and gave them a bed so they cannot complain. THAT'S THE BARE MINIMUM AND GIVING THE BARE MINIMUM ISN'T ENOUGH.

YES, Jack and Janet Drake were abusive because they neglect Tim emotionally. It doesn't matter that they love him and he loves them, it doesn't matter that this was "normal at the time" (it is called out in the comics by Tim, Bruce and Jack himself, so not really. Also, even tho it was normal at the time for a father to hit his child if he disrespects him, Bruce hitting Dick after Jason's death is seen as abusive by the fandom, and Dick is a grown adult. Abuse was, and still is, very normalized), it doesn't matter the kid always had food and a warm bed, it doesn't matter he had adults looking after him when his parents were away, it is still neglect and neglect is abuse.

YES, Crystal Brown was abusive because she enabled Arthur's abuse, defended him and did not protect her daughter, prioritizing her addiction over Stephanie. Being an addict is hard, but that doesn't mean they are exempted from being responsible of their actions, especially if said actions is putting a child in danger. It doesn't matter that Stephanie loves Crystal, it doesn't matter that Crystal loves Stephanie, it doesn't matter that Crystal got better, she still has abused Stephanie. Stephanie sees herself as responsible of protecting and caring for her mother because her mother failed as a parent. Crystal failed to protect and care for Steph, leading to her daughter being abused. Enabling abuse is still abuse, being a bystander is still abuse. It doesn't matter Crystal wasn't hurting Steph like Arthur was, she stood by and didn't help, defending him, and that's abuse.

I need y'all to also realize that these situations are things people go through in real life, and how it would affect them to read y'all defending them being good parents.

"They still love their parents so that means they aren't bad/abusive" You are failing to defend children from abuse and to understand the complexity of child abuse. This complexity is that human children have no say in building an emotional connection with their parents/caretakers, so even when they are hurt deeply by them, they still love and care for them. Which is why, even after having been hurt or/and harmed and realizing it, a child is more likely to preserve a relationship with their parent than a partner with an abusive ex.

Some of y'all will go "Bruce is a bad father because he didn't kill the Joker for Jason or let Jason kill the Joker" and then be like "Janet was a good mom, even tho she barely talked to Tim and only saw him a couple of times in the year, because she loves him", and that's not acceptable.

[shitty-mh-aus]

Marble hornets but they are stormchasers and the storm they are chasing is called 'operator'

.

[idk-bruh-20]

Irondad fic ideas #154

CW: this one's pretty gruesome. read at your own risk 

Peter is a young child who's been kidnapped. His parents and/or his aunt and uncle were killed and he was taken. Along with a bunch of other little kids, he's been held captive and experimented on.

When the Avengers suddenly bust the kidnapping operation, the kidnappers try at the last second to destroy their research. They gas the small room where the kids are being held.

It's Iron Man who ends up blasting through. What he finds is horrifying. All but one of the children are dead.

The one who's left is just sitting among the bodies, crying, shocked, terrified. Iron Man carries him out of there, then once they're safe from the gas Tony steps out of the suit to comfort the kid while he's given oxygen.

Little 5-year-old Peter Parker imprints on his savior hard.

He just went through an unimaginable amount of trauma, then Iron Man burst through like an avenging angel. This is the first time he's ever felt protected in his memory. Tony holds the crying kid, and the kid can tolerate no one else near him.

This becomes a slight problem when they get back to base. But Tony can't find it in him to let SHIELD take the kid away, let them strip him of this one tiny bit of comfort. He keeps seeing all those other kids when he closes his eyes.

This one needs him right now. And if "right now" eventually becomes "this is my son," well. Who could've predicted that.

[disposal-blueeee]

no bg ver because i once AGAIN added too many details and thet got lost with everything else

[thesecretingredientislove]

Lately I've seen people complaining about how unrealistic it was that Michonne found Rick's belongings in TWD.

In TWD?

My buddy pal friend you mean in TWD?

The show where a comatose man wakes up in a zombie apocalypse?

And then is helped just in time by a survivor (by the way they meet again way later by accident) and then finds a group of survivors that somehow is the same group of survivors his family is with?

AND THEN when his son is shot by accident, the man that shot him is luckily living with a VETERINARIAN that can save Carl?

That TWD?

[pokemonranch]

Aight, I want to ask something to Rotomblr 'cause I'm actually curious.

How many of y'all had an actual, Prof-given starter, and how many just... got a random wild one?

[beanghostprincess]

Bakudeku getting extremely more popular and normalized bothers the shit out of me a little bit because I did not spend years of my life hiding that I like that ship out of fear of getting harassed for everyone to now shift so quickly over the last chapters. You like Bakudeku? MY Bakudeku? The one ship a lot of people had to pretend they didn't like in case they got attacked? For a fictional ship????? THAT Bakudeku???

[a-cat-in-toffee]

idk if you guys know this but I am like. not a person. I live my life almost entirely online. idk Ive been thinking recently about how other people have things going on outside of who they are online and how i Don't.

[bellshazes]

oh and i forgot to say because of the Everything but i dreamed etho was real and had enormous hands. i was trying to not even look in his direction out of respect for his privacy (in the dream my vision was a pseudocamera, but that element stopped mattering after a bit) but he stuck his hand out to shield hismelf and i accidentally saw him. and his big ass hand. bdubs and other hermits were there but bdubs didn't look like himself. he and etho didn't look anything like any real or imagined depictiosn of them they were like if some random real people were created based on like, hyperrealistic interpretations of gritty art. not fanart just artstyles. muted tones on the whole image of the dream, the pigpen (peanuts) business of their ordinary clothing textures but not in a way that denoted dirt, just... grit. they were real random dudes who'd been through a flipphone camera sharpness filter. nothing happened but it is a return to form for me (stress dreams about irl events (filming apartment tours to dissect later w my friend) manifesting as Stress Dream But Ethoslab Is There)

[dylchillvill]

Hot take, maybe not so hot take: I will never stan Mr. Sinister. I don't care how much of a "diva" he is. He's a NAZI who happens to make relevant pop culture references. Gabrielle Haller, (yes Haller as in David Haller, Legion's mother) a character still living mind you, was in the CONCENTRATION CAMP which he ran. He does not serve cunt! He should be serving a life sentence! He's a nazi eugenicist He's not serving cunt, he is a manipulative cunt

[snurtsnurt]

Siblings that love each other fiercely but show it in convoluted ways.

Siblings that are deathly loyal to each other but still inadvertently hurt each other in the worst ways.

Siblings that look out for each other in subtle ways but get into explosive fights when spending time together.

Siblings that can finish each other's sentences but can't understand the other's point of view on serious topics.

Siblings that would defend each other against any attack, verbal or physical, but continue to bully each other in private.

Siblings that haven't seen each other in a long while having to figure out how their lives intersect now that they're together again- going through the absurd experience of learning who they are as a person, even though you've known them your whole life.

[sparklev0id]

holy frick i got an email for an interview

[skylarkblue]

i feel like a huge asshole for feeling this way (and there are several people in my life who would agree i am a huge asshole for feeling this way) but this month dumped a bunch of unexpected stuff on me that means my april is not going to go ahead how i planned it. and that's okay. that's fine. but it doesn't stop me from feeling upset about it. i get that it can't be helped, i get that it's outside of my control, i get that it's what needs to happen right now. but i don't like it. and i just needed to complain a little.

[lesbianwyllravengard]

Me picking a four letter name for myself: there's no way someone could possibly mispronounce such a simple name

Literally everyone I meet who reads my name: Lehto?

[ifyougochasingrabbits]

TW: Drug mention, alcohol, brief violence. Feat. Meloran Dowell

White slowly slipped between the currents of folks that filled the desert city, going to and from parties like she had before she came to a stop on the upper level of the Gold Court, several fulms away from sparrow. Her dress he sewed, she held its floor-length skirt bunch up in her hand while the other's hooked finger her heels she had taken off at some point during the party. She was drunk. The rich booze mixed with her sweets-eaten breath, easily smelled by her cheerfully greeting as she practically bounced over, "Hello! Hello~" She let go of her skirt, dropping an elbow down onto the railing where she propped her head up in her palm, giving him a grin. "I thought. I'd find you. Here. And I did! Have." The last of her words tumbled out between a giggle.

Meloran had been watching the festivities below. Rather, what remained of the sordid crowd that lingered well past the respectable bedtimes of working folk. He was perched upon the railing, chin in hand. Dour as always, this time of year. Practically scowling at the familiar voice that accosted his ears.

Dead, golden eyes slide their way lazily in her direction, a little more lost than usual. High, most likely. Much more, more often. His first thought was that she looked pretty, his second demeaned him for it. Of course she looked good, she was wearing the dress he'd made her. And, after another full glance of her figure, he'd already spotted areas he was keen to get at with a needle. Ways to make her look even lovelier. He eyed the shoes in her hand, sniffled idly, and knew at once that she was drunk. Another party. No doubt. He hated her then, abrupt and without warning. The bounce, the cheer; he was so tempted to simply trip her and watch her fall flat on her pretty little face--- giggles and all. "Yeah? Came looking for me after you've had your fun, did you?"

White was always pretty. But now she was a different kind. Something more sophisticated that’d trick anyone who didn’t know her into thinking she was by look alone, until she opened her mouth. The hair helped. It twisted in on itself all fancy-like, freeing the back of her neck and that slope of her shoulder for all to see. Lucky him. She silently watched him for a moment, just a little one. It might have been the lag from the booze. Or maybe she just wanted to stare at him a bit longer. “It’s. Not hard to spot you. Spar-row~” she played with his nickname between her grin, giving her head a little wiggle at each syllable. “You should. Be at a party. Headin’ back from. One.”

Meloran rolled his eyes at the nickname, uncertain if he was willing to put up with her shenanigans tonight. Alas, the fact that she'd been drinking and was likely headed home gave him pause. "Don't really feel like partying," he mutters coolly, frowning. "'Sides I'm better company by myself some days." He looks at her again, then back down to the court. "S'dumb of you to be walking around shitfaced as you are. Lookin' like y've got money."

White spoke up, "I do!" Wrong. "Did. Have. Money." Her mind circled back around at his first comment. "You keep. Sayin' that." Pushing off the railing she stood, swaying half a step back then forward again. "You. Walk around. With powder. In your nose." She reminded him, giving him a curious look at said nose before her eyes lifted to his. "Is that. Better? Smarter. Or worse?"

Meloran opened his mouth to speak, but paused. He actually considered her counterpoint for a moment. His brows knit, eyes casting off to the side with an open mouth. ". ..I can still fight a motherfucker if'n someone tries to start something, " he says, pointing to himself. Then, to her, "You, on the other hand. I could push you right over and take your shit." Wait, what? Do, did, have?

White swung her arms out to either side. "What— oh what. Would that be? Sparrow. My shoes? Are. You goin' to. Take my dress? Off." That was a thought, one that slowly pulled her lips into a smirk. Her arms dropped to her sides, her head giving a little tilt to one side. "I. Need a drink." Water, she meant water. Her mouth was dry, her throat was too. There was so much cheering at the party. She spun! And started heading off, boldly assuming he'd follow.

And follow her he did. "I wouldn't," he mutters sullenly, scoffing at the suggestion. Who knows, though. In his mind, there were loads of folks that would do far more ill than he'd anticipated. He found little use in trying to explain that to her. If anything, it'd be tossed back into his face now, wouldn't it? "What did you mean you 'did' have money?"

White let out a short chuckle, holding her tongue. She wasn't that drunk. "I mean. What I said. I did." Would it be easier to tell him she spent almost every single coin on a house? Yes. It would. But why do that when she could show him? Her wobbly pace showed the hidden commitment as she headed in the direction of it, away from her apartment. "It. Was a big party. A huge one. It was. Like there were. Three. Shoved into one." she started rambling on their way there.

It really hadn't occurred to him they were going the wrong way until he noted the lack of the usual landmarks on the way to White's apartment. He was also only half listening to her describe the party, and the rest of her idle chattering. To make any indication at all that he was listening was more or less a grunt in response, or perhaps one or two disinterested words. Were he in a better mood, perhaps he'd have listened a little harder, taken a keener interest in such a grand party. Maybe if this time of year or him wasn't such a downer, he could partake some Heavensturn. Really go wild with it. His face knitted, confused, as they began to grow closer and closer to their destination, his ears turning to her chattering now for any indication in regards to where they were.

White walked her drunken arse up to a pair of doors, grabbing one of the handles. "—and then. I told her. She could wash out. Her eyes. In the punch. She'd be able to. See better!" Fiddling on the inside of her sleeve she pulled out a key aimed for the lock. "She. Wasn't too happy. About. It." It took her a few times to get it in, no wonder men struggled, but she did it! And gave it a turn, letting her in first. She spun around, walking backward to see his face. She had to, the thought of missing whatever look he'd make almost hurt. Almost.

Meloran followed her in with nary a word said in regards to whether he could or not. He was simply lead by curiosity, wondering why the hells she was entering a house of all places. Ran looked at her, mouth agape, questioning. The way his brows knitted always had him looking angry, however. In the end, he stared at her with disbelief, confusion plainly writ on his face. He waited for a while, before gesturing to. .. everything. ". ..You gonna explain?"

White looked around, her entire body swaying each way. She could hardly believe it herself. Everything here was hers. Every wall, tile, floorboard— even the dust was hers.

Only hers.

She brought her attention back around to Ran, half smiling. "I bought it. I saved. And. I bought it." A short snirky chuckle shook her. "I bet. You didn't think. I could do. That." To the stairs she up, right on up to the kitchen. She did say she needed a drink.

Meloran made a noise in the back of his throat, half impressed and half horrified. "That's what you meant when you 'did' have money?" He questions, knowing full well it was a dumb question that'd already been answered by their conversation. His eyes took in the size of the house, observing it with some measure of awe. "It's. .. big." He mumbles, wondering if it felt that way simply because it was empty. "You aint got any stuff to put in here, or what?" He frowned, shrugging. "Don't really need to pay for much, do you? Got people that'll do that for you. 'Course you'd save a lot." Kind of a mean way to compliment someone. Undermining her achievement, actually.

White had turned on the sink, cupping her hand under the flowing water. That's right, running water. It wasn't just big. While he spoke she drank, listening to his not-compliment. If he only knew. It was blood money. Her blood. She looked at her palm, the scar. She took another drink, shaking off whatever drops clung to her sink as she looked back at him, smiling. "I. Haven't moved anythin'. Bought anythin'. Yet." Walking past him she headed through a doorway that led to a short set of stairs, a landing, then a much longer set. Down, down, down she went after gathering up her skirt, leaving her heels behind on the kitchen counter. "My. Apartment. It will be. My. Office." she joked. There were two doors. She passed the first one, opening the second that showed off her empty bedroom. It didn't even have a bed.

Meloran clicked his tongue. "So you spent all your gil on this place--- do you have enough to even put stuff in it?" He questions, watching her. The behavior was odd, and yet not, considering the fact that she was drunk. Maybe it was the mixture or pride, or something else he speculated. He wasn't entirely sure, never with her. He followed after her, making sure to have a hawks eye on the way she descended the steps. What a right shame it'd be for her to trip and fall down them. "What's this room then?" He asks, sounding curious.

White looked at him first, smirking a small smirk. Her body followed and she faced him again. Holding him in her gaze. Ignoring his first question she answered his second, telling it was, "A. Bedroom."

Meloran looks around the room curiously, wondering how she might set it up. Decorate it. It lead his thoughts down a figurative rabbit hole, like questioning if she'd also decorated her apartment back in Ul'dah. ". ..What about that room?" He points over to his left.

White followed his pointing. "Another. Bedroom." To the point, between a smile that lowered a little. Just a tiny bit.

"Why two bedrooms?" Meloran asks, quirking a brow. "Plannin' on having guests stay over?" He looked over to her face, blinking slow.

White stepped up to him. "If. I'm invitin'. Guests. Over. They can stay. In my bed." Looking up at the ceiling as if she was looking through it she added, "Or. On the seatin'. It's. Soft." She had already fallen asleep on it once.

"...So, why the second bedroom, then? You could turn that into something like... I 'unno. A closet. Storage."

White felt. Something. Her lifted brows tumbled into a puzzled look, the corners of her lips twitched as she parted them. "No. It's not. Storage." Was that disgust? Turning in her stomach. "It's. A bedroom!" she chuckled.

Meloran rolled his eyes, feeling them all the way in the back of his head. "Fine!" He gave in, huffing. His hands lifted and off to the sides. "It's a fucking bedroom. A useless bedroom. Aint gonna collect nothin' but dust if your guests are staying in the same bed, but fuck it--- ain't my house. It's your big, stupid house you spent all your gil on--- What'd you even get a house for anyway?"

White stared at him, whispering, her words catching in her dry throat, "It's. Not useless." It was the drink. That's why her stomach was upset. She had a lot of them. That many would make anyone's feel sour. Chrun. She smiled. Always smiling at him. His silly words. They were just silly, unlike the woman who used her's like a knife poking between his skin and scabs. "What. Do you have. Sparrow?" She took a step, hitting her stocking-covered toes against the tips of his sandals. "Tell. Me. Go on! What. Oh— what. Do you. Have?"

Meloran stepped right into her space as well, crowding in. He wasn't gonna let her try to intimidate him, or anything of the sort. "Nothing," he spat, nose scrunching, mouth curling. "N'that's the way I'll be keepin' it. I aint need nothing that's useless to me like a second bedroom. Or'a big house when I already got someplace to live." Maybe he's jealous. Mean, green beast of envy crawling into his ribcage and making a home of him. Her doing this instilled an odd feeling within him. Like, in some sense, she'd up and left him behind without a word. Or maybe he was just unhappy with his own misery he typically nursed this time of year, and was simply inflicting it upon her.

For whatever reason, her words stung, and he sought to hurt her back--- but that was the frustrating part. He never could. There was very little in the way of an emotional Achilles heel for her, and it was another thorn in his side. He was reminded suddenly then, of the way he'd felt like she was mocking him about Pearl. About the way she constantly invaded his space, made a fool of him for sport--- but, that wasn't the worst of it. He allowed it. Despite his protest, he still allowed her to do it... and for what reason? Why invite himself into her stupid, big house, only to give her the chance to turn around and mock him for having nothing? "...I can't fucking stand you," he muttered, feeling dark. Moody. Storm cloud.

White didn't move. She wasn’t going to. Her feet stayed planted right where she stood as she held her chin up high, staring right in his angry gaze. She wondered if he could burn folks with it. They looked like the sun. His eyes. Her own were a bit too wide, fighting against the threat of furrowed brows pushing them down into something narrowed. Angry? Her stomach was angry. She didn’t get angry. "And yet.” She began to remind him, repeating year old words that sharpened the twisting knife. “You're. Here." In her home. She didn’t believe him— he kept coming back, and he could too over, and over, and over again. If she wanted to she could twist the knife some more. Ask him why he didn’t want more space. Didn’t he? For his sewing at the very least. Or was all his coin spent on powdering his nose? It wasn’t for fun. She knew that. It wasn’t hard to see in his eyes. She kept staring back, holding the questions in her throat. He could break the silence.

Meloran rolled his eyes so hard, he may as well try to look into the back of his own head. His head turned, and with it his sharpened, burning gaze. A large breath filled his chest and left it with a big, rough huff. It had been a simple question, or so he thought, and the fact that she chose to play games with him never failed to rile him up. Not that he was aware that this likely wasn't a game. "Right," he murmured, feeling reality kick him in the teeth. Why was he here? Why follow her at all? Or humor her when she approached him? She was nothing but a thorn in his side. An annoyance. Stress he didn't understand, or need. It occurred to him how pathetic it must have seemed to follow her home. Never mind the fact that he felt he was doing it to protect her--- even that he felt seemed to get thrown back in his face.

"I'm gone, then," he says casually with a shrug of his shoulders and a turn of his heel. He didn't need to know the answers to all of his burning questions. After all, it's none of his business. There's nothing about knowing about this house that'd serve him in anyway, aside from only making him angrier. What, then? Did he believe she simply didn't deserve it? And why was that? Because she was annoying? Because, in some facet deep in the back of his mind, he felt life came too easy for her? If he stopped to truly think about it, he'd understand she'd likely worked hard to get what she needed--- wanted. Just as he does--- and, yet... Yes. Certainly some part of envy was at play here, jealousy. If she were down on her luck, suffering in some way or another; would he feel the opposite way? That was something to consider.

He stepped away from her slowly, an idea coming to mind. A pause. He drew close to the door the second bedroom the next moment, fingers wrapping around the handle of the door. Gone, but not before he'd take a look inside the useless bedroom, anyways.

White watched him. His face. How his expression evolved as he worked through whatever thoughts he thunk inside his pretty head. Her gaze lifted with the roll of his, dropping down when he turned his head, to his profile, giving him a soft, amused smirk. He could huff all he liked— she was right. Even with all his tongue flapping about wanting her gone, that she could keep walking instead of stopping, or any other combination of words he'd spit at her, there he was again. Standing where he didn't need to be. He chose it. She liked it.

If she could hear this thought she'd let him know she did work hard— using her body and mind to get those shiny coins. The dull ones too. She knew he worked too, but where did all his coin go? She could take a guess or two, no more than three. It went to feeling numb, was one. Buying the powder that filled his nose. How much did it work? He was always so angry. Anger wasn't numbness.

Her face twitched her smirk into something lower as she spotted his hand reach for the handle. Half a stagger into steps, from all the drink she had or the confinement of the dress, she wedged herself between him and the door! Bumping her side into his arm. A palm pressed firm against his shirt-covered chest as her gaze snapped up to his. Into his. "This. Doesn't look. Like you're. Gone." She stared. The corner of her smirk fought against an unseen weight, pushing her cheeks up into said stare.

Funny, that she thought she could come between him and the door--- That she even tried was funnier. "No, it doesn't," he remarked coolly. Callous, almost. He bent forward, pressing hard against the hand that tried to keep him away. He wanted to crowd her tight against the back of the door, pin her there so she'd have no other place to squirm away to. He stared down at her, gaze dead and hollow as always. The anger was present. Muted, however, beneath a thick veil of contempt and resignment. Gave way to apathy. Something about this door bothered her... unless this was another game to play. His hand at the door handle twisted in one sharp motion, snapping open the door. His other hand quickly found purchase on her shoulder, roughly shoving her back. He let the door swing open, watched and waited for her to inevitably go tumbling backwards. He stood there a beat longer, taking in the room before stepping back from the door frame.

"Now I am," he murmurs, trying to seem disinterested, unperturbed. But it was obvious he was still trying to stifle bubbling rage and irritation. Again he was turning on his heel, going finally. Making up the steps, not intent on stopping if he heard any noises from her. He, however, expected only laughter, and nothing else. And there was no reason to stay behind if all she was going to do was continue laughing at him.

The closer he got, the higher White tilted her face, getting awfully close to his— a reminder of how little he intimidated her. Which was to say, he didn’t. Not one bit. Her gaze flicked down from his eyes to somewhere else, quickly meeting them again. It was almost as if she didn’t look away. Until she did, his hand caught her attention before the door opening did. Shite.

The scene played out much how he expected—his shove made her tumble back, legs wrapped up in the dress that didn’t cushion her crash. It pulled a startled sound from her throat and the small rip of a seam. Her arm took most of the brunt of the fall. Her hip too. Even her horn got a hard tap. She was going to feel all that tomorrow, if not sooner. It'd probably be sooner. The dull ache radiated where she could feel bruises bloom, peeking out from under her scales.

She didn't break anything. He didn't. Would that anger him more, she would wonder if she could think. She couldn't think. Her head hurt. Stop lying there.

Her fingers draaaaagged across the cool tile, moving underneath her curled, fallen self before her floor-pressed palm slowly pushed her up, hunching. Her head lifted, weary gaze staring into the dim room. It was empty. Except for her.

That laughter he expected didn't come. Her fallen lips twitched into a line, then forced into a small curl, just a tiny one, halfway through her gaze, swinging over her shoulder as she sat there. Watching him leave.

Followed by the slam of the front door. Silence quickly claimed the inside, like it'd owned the place. That's when she knew he was gone, off to simmer somewhere. Maybe in the baths back at the brothel— he was angry enough that he wouldn’t have to warm it up.

For an unknown number of ticks she sat there, staring at the stairs that dipped behind the wall. Then she eased herself up, off the ground, gathered her skirt, and stepped out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her.