#my water heater exploded

[jittersbitters]

Family and friends: You're life is always jumping from one disaster to another! It's like you want the trouble!

Me, a fic writer on ao3: I really don't...

[sudokuplayer]

earlier i had a disgusting panic attack. but so so so disgusting; loudly crying and choking and gasping for air. i really need to be put down

[highspeedinterconnect]

this week has been fucking awful I just wanna lay down somewhere quiet w my gf and cats. holy shit

[bee-a-ts]

this is such a niche, usa-based rant but I work at a credit union and I keep encountering people who have taken out a loan, have issues with what they purchased with that loan (in my case, usually solar panels), then decide they will not be paying the loan back because the product they purchased doesn't work. and it's like

I get it!! capitalism is hell and our financial landscape is broken!!! unfortunately you borrowing money from the bank has nothing to do with what you purchased not working and that does suck but you still have to pay your loan!!

i'm talking to these people who are six months past due not because they can't pay but bc they're mad at the solar company and i'm trying to explain if they don't make payments, the loan will have to be charged off and sent to collections and legal action will be taken at that time and they're like fine! take me to court! my product doesn't work! and I am on my knees begging to work with them because I know they have no legal standing and they are about to be ~very unhappy~ when they lose that court case because borrowing money has nothing to do with how you spent that money!!!!!

[pinkiboba]

the eldest daughter’s mommy issues to do everything by ourselves because everybody else will just mess it up by trying to help but wanting their help because doing it alone makes you feel like no one loves you

[slumbering-shadows]

DID YOU GUYS KNOW THERE ARE SO MANY DUMB THINGS YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT WATER HEATERS. DID YOU KNOW. im gonna explode I hate home ownership

[fandoms-in-law]

Mayfield's Trailer Repairs

Summary: Steve meets Wayne while trying to help repair something at Max's trailer and ends up getting lessons on how to repair things a lot after that.

Author's note: Imagine a happy ending post S4 for these guys, I can't think of one right now.

My Idea for this Fic: Steve should get to bond with Wayne. He finds himself meeting Wayne one day at Max's trailer when he's offered to try fixing something to attempt reaching Max. Wayne offered to as he knows they haven't lived in the trailer park for long.

/\/\

Steve wasn’t the handiest of people. He hadn’t had a father to show him how to fix things, or lived somewhere he’d have to learn to keep things working; but he did want to be.

He’d do everything he could to help his friend and for Max now, that included learning how to fix the things that broke around the trailer.

That was why he was hurrying over to Max’s after a quick stop at the library to ask for any books that might help him fix air con or a water heater. He couldn’t remember which she’d said had stalled. It was a sign of how limited his knowledge was that Steve was still thinking he hadn’t known things other than cars could stall.

“Finally. Steve, when I ask for help, I don’t mean 2 hours later.” Max was complaining before he’d gotten out of the car and was still leaning over to grab the books.

“Well if you don’t want something exploding I thought a book or 2 to check was reasonable.” He retorted. “Now show me the broken thing.”

She’d already turned to do so but span back around, “You don’t know how to!?”

“Uh no. Not exactly in the Harrington playbook. We’ll figure it out.” He huffed, opening the back door of his car to fetch the meagre tools he had found.

“You kids okay?” A man called from the trailer opposite. “Need any help?”

“Please.” Max managed to groan while calling. “Steve knows nothing.”

Steve shot her a look, narrowed eyes and suspicion in them. “Do you even know him? After everything we’ve been through you’re trusting strangers?” He hissed.

“It’s Wayne. He helped us get moved in.” She rolled her eyes as if his concern was stupid.

By this point Wayne was with them, toolkit in hand. “And I told you to ask for help if something broke. Who’s the rich kid?”

“Steve Harrington Sir, Just trying to help since Max called me.” He sighed, already expecting some judgement to be given.

“That explains the books. Better than your folks would’ve done. Want me to show you what to do instead?”

The offer shocked Steve enough to meet Wayne’s eyes, nodding automatically. “Please.”

/\

They formed a pattern after that evening spent fixing the air con unit. Steve would be called first and would try to repair it based on what he’d learnt so far and books he picked up, now knowing which manuals and machines were spoken about when Max called so he didn’t have to borrow so many each time.

If he thought he’d managed it, then he’d head home and Max would get Wayne to double check if she saw him around. She’d usually radio to relay and advice Wayne offered for the next time that fault happened and realising that many of the faults had a guaranteed next time really made Steve see how much just having his house changed how he experienced the world.

The days he couldn’t they’d usually just pop over to the trailer and ask Wayne to come and help if they could see his truck was in, but he did always point out that doing night shifts meant he slept a lot of the day and didn’t want waking to help them.

That came a month after Steve had started learning to repair things from Wayne and he wasn’t prepared to have narrowed eyes suspiciously looking him over. “Harrington? Why are you knocking on my door?”

Despite having images of the boy climbing on dining tables Steve couldn’t remember his name, and after a minute gave up trying to, “Is Wayne around or awake? The heater’s broken at Mayfield’s and I can’t figure it out.”

“He’s sleeping and you just gave me so many more questions to ask, King Steve." Munson asked. Steve decided since that was Wayne’s surname it had to be the boys too.

He nodded, wondering if he could just walk away and ignore those questions, “Right, could you tell him we need a hand when he wakes up, please?”

“The message shall be relayed, my liege, but tell me how dost thou know my uncle? What convinced thou to leave your fine castle and help we humble peasants?” The boy bowed low, teasing grin and curious eyes remaining trained on Steve.

He took a step back, uncertain how to respond and deciding to slowly walk backwards, “You haven’t met Max, have you? Humble is not how I’d describe her.” Thankfully Munson let him go without another reply, just laughing at the comment. Steve just hoped he actually would tell Wayne they needed help since looking through the books wasn’t getting him far.

/\

Wayne usually got slow afternoons when he woke up, relaxing with Eddie if it was the weekend or just reading in his recliner if he wasn’t. He didn’t usually have Eddie hovering around as he got coffee, going to speak and stopping multiple times.

“You going to say whatever’s got you watching me like I’m a stranger or should I guess?” He asked after starting to eat his breakfast.

Eddie opened and closed his mouth a few more times. “Harrington was asking for you. Said he can’t figure out something that broke at the Mayfield’s.” He blurted out eventually. “How the hell do you know the former king of Hawkins High?”

“Just do.” Wayne bluntly replied, speeding his eating a little, “And you didn’t offer to have a look? Eddie.” He knew he didn’t have to say more than use that tone, just watching his nephew shift in place.

“Don’t look at me like that! It’s weird he’s here at all.” He protested.

Wayne shook his head, “Help him next time.” He stood having finished enough of his breakfast that he could help and eat the rest later.

“Where are you going?” Eddie asked, a small whine in his voice presumably over not getting to ask more questions.

“To help.”

/\

The Mayfield trailer seemed chaotic when Max invited Wayne in; books scattered on every surface that wasn’t covered in tools Steve had brought.

“What was the banging noise like again? It could be this issue.” Steve was asking, clearly having missed the knock and his arrival, completely focused on the manual in his hands.

“Well now, I’d prefer to hear that for myself. A minutes run shouldn’t cause more damage.” Wayne answered easily, forgoing any greeting.

Steve brightened, looking up at him, “Wayne, thank god. I can’t figure it out and this is confusing me more.” He held the manual up.

“Well that’s all in mechanic speak so it would do. Let’s have a look.” Wayne shook his head. He knew how to understand manuals now, but was pretty sure Steve was a few years out from figuring that out.

/\

Eddie hadn’t expected Wayne to start occasionally mentioning Steve now. He’d accepted that Dustin, and occasionally Lucas and Mike, would sing Harrington’s praises but realising that his uncle was somehow taking on a teaching role to the other boy was difficult to comprehend.

Still, when there was a knock a few weeks after the first time he’d seen Harrington in the trailer park, he knew that he had to help this time, or Wayne would actually say more over his insistence on helping.

“Harrington, Wayne’s asleep.” He stated, not waiting for anything else to be said and instead turning to grab their toolkit.

Steve leant around the door to reply, “Oh, well can you – what?”

Eddie huffed out a breath to make it clear this wasn’t the most willing action he was making. “I’m leaving a note and coming to help. He’s taught me this stuff for as long as I could hold tools.”

“Thanks, are you okay if I watch and help or would you rather I head home?” Steve hesitated as Eddie walked over to the Mayfield’s trailer. Apparently he wasn’t as oblivious to the strangeness of his presence as Eddie had presumed.

“Please do. I want to know this man my uncle thinks needs a role model.” He snorted, knocking on the door and getting a dubious look from the red-headed girl who opened it.

She looked past him to call, “Now who’s trusting strangers for no reason.”

“He’s Wayne’s nephew. That’s enough reason to trust him for me.” Steve countered, before glancing at Eddie. “This is who you tried calling humble? She only gets worse if you know her better.”

It was a point definitely well made Eddie learnt, managing to argue with the kid as much as he answered Steve’s questions while repairing the air con.

/\

“He’s Wayne’s nephew. Let us help him.” Max stated, cutting through all of Dustin’s rambles trying to convince Steve to help Eddie based off his own knowledge.

Steve hadn’t actually been arguing with that though. He just wasn’t a fan of the videos getting knocked to the floor and the chances he and Robin could get fired for letting kids access the Family Video systems.

/\

It was meant to be a simple trip, they go to warzone, Steve pops into Melvalds and the chemist for extra first aid supplies and gather back at the stolen van, then someone helps check his injuries and bind them together before they all make plans.

He was not meant to run into Wayne while in Melvalds, and definitely wasn’t meant to have him call over as they both left just after each other. Steve, Eddie and Max all agreed that as much as Wayne would help, he’d also be the one everyone would try to follow for clues over where Eddie was. For his safety it was best to keep him out of everything while they could.

“Steve? You and Mayfield vanished from her trailer too. Are you two okay?”

He blinked at Wayne, wondering how quickly he’d moved to be directly in front of him now. “No.” He honestly replied, not wanting to lie except where he had to. “But we’re dealing with it. We’ll make sure Eddie is fine and his name gets cleared, Wayne. I promise. It’s just a challenge.

Wayne’s eyes tightened, and Steve realised he’d probably said more than he should have. That didn’t seem to matter as the pain from his bat bites made him sway slightly in place and got him looked over again. “You’re injured, aren’t you? Let me check the wounds while you tell me what’s going on.”

“No. You shouldn’t get involved. I wish Eddie wasn’t either but you can-”

“Both my boys are involved so I figure an adult can help too.” Wayne insisted, cutting off the refusals as Steve found himself guided to a truck and helped to sit in the passenger seat, while his shirt was pushed up. He wasn’t sure why that was where Wayne decided to check for injuries but it did get a whistle in reaction, “At the very least cause I got bandages rather than torn up clothes.”

Steve looked down at the remnants of Nancy’s skirt and thought there was definitely a point to be had there, just not in the car park of Melvalds. “Not here. People suck and with them already blaming Eddie treating my wounds could set them after you.” He gave in to the care being offered. It would be nice to have an adult involved again.

“Then give me directions to wherever is safe enough Eddie’s hidden there.” Wayne insisted, moving to the drivers seat and watching him buckle his seat belt.

This wasn’t what Steve wanted to happen, and he had to radio the group so they didn’t panic over him vanishing, but something told him Wayne was probably the best person at first aid any of them knew. Something about Eddie’s everything gave that impression.

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: before the nightingale sings

---------

for my batdad blood blossom au, the one where Vlad poisoned Danny with blood blossom extract and Danny ran away from him and ended up tumbling into the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman :). A quick oneshot telling the tale of the tragic deaths of the Fentons

TW: Major Character Death Warning

-------

Not all deaths are created equal.

That is a valuable lesson in life to learn. One that Danny learns when he is eleven years old, standing in the pit of his parents’ creation; the culmination of their life’s work. The portal to the other side, the realm of the dead. To the infinite. 

He learns that when he’s eleven years old, in a hazmat suit that sags on him, and boots that clunk when he walks because the only ones that fit are his mom’s, and even those are too big. In gloves that he has to clench his fists in because otherwise they fall off. In goggles that slide down his nose even when he’s tightened them the farthest they can go. 

He learns that when he’s eleven years old, choking on giggles that harmonize with the laughter of his friends’ who stand at the mouth of the tunnel. Sam’s holding a polaroid in her hand. They’re just being kids. 

They’re not laughing when Danny’s hand hits the safety lock — the one with faulty wiring, the only one in the tunnel. The only one he could possibly hit. They’re not laughing when the portal buzzes to life, and the lights inside switch on row by row as the generator begins to rumble and hum. 

They’re not laughing when Danny dies. They’re screaming. They’re not screaming when he comes back.

Not all deaths are created equal.  

Some are poetic, beautiful. The satisfying close of a book as it comes to an end, of the hardback thumping soft against the pages like the sound of a door closing. A train run its course.

Some are violent; unsatisfying; unfair. The unexpected shattering of an egg as it rolls off the countertop when nobody is looking, the unmistakable crack as it falls to the floor. It is abrupt and messy. 

But most are just… unremarkable. Unintentional. Clumsy. 

Danny’s family dies one night in late January. He is thirteen years old, barely a month away from fourteen. It is unforeseen. It is preventable. It happens. 

It happens like this: 

Their water heater breaks one Monday in January. It’s old, sitting in the garage, and has dealt with nearly sixteen years of Fenton-grade chaos and shenanigans. Of parents tossing scraps and junk into the garage as brief storage to come back to later. Of illegal tune-ups on their vehicles that result in something exploding. Of little children running around and knocking things over, playing with poles and sticks they find on the ground, on the shelves. Of being lived and used.  

Something had to give. 

Jack Fenton notices it immediately when he comes upstairs that very afternoon — his children at school, his wife downstairs — to grab something from the garage. The very same scrap and used material they store like squirrels to use later. 

He stops what he’s doing to fix it.  

It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. 

Despite what many believe, Jack Fenton is not the idiot people make him out to be. He knows what he’s good at, he knows what he’s not. He knows he can be passionate and obsessive and single-minded about things. He knows that he is a scientist, an inventor; an engineer. 

He knows that he is not a plumber. That fixing water heaters is not something he knows how to do, not safely. And he loves his family. What he does is only meant to be temporary — a fix meant to only last a few days until they can call someone in who can fix it for them. 

So Jack Fenton futzes with the water heater, gives it a temporary stitch to last a short while, and reminds himself to call a plumber later that day to come in and fix it. He turns and leaves the garage with the part he came for —  a sheet of metal for his wife to melt down — and disappears back downstairs. 

He does not make that call; it slips from his mind. 

It is not his fault. 

One day passes, then two, then suddenly it is Thursday. The water heater has still not been fixed, the water heater has been forgotten. It is nobody’s fault.  

Danny asks his parents at breakfast if he can stay over at Tucker’s house for the night. Just one night. They’re going to study for their math test and then play video games until midnight, but he only tells his parents that first half. 

He’s been doing well in school. Really well — better than he has in a while. There’s been a delightful lull in ghost appearances for the last few weeks. The living don’t know why, but Danny does. The Winter Truce always calms the dead down for a while, something about how the Zone cleanses itself twice a mortal year and that fresh wave of ecto clears out the old and brings in the new. 

This year Danny got to participate. He’s feeling the effects of it too, and he’s been sleeping consistently well for the first time since the accident. 

It’ll never happen again. 

His parents agree under the condition that he doesn’t stay up late, and Danny harmlessly lies through his teeth and agrees. He goes and throws overnight clothes into his school backpack, and when he leaves for school with Jazz his parents are already departed into the lab. 

The last conversation he has with his sister is in her car on the drive to school. Inane, mindless conversation to fill the air and pass the time. Jazz comments on how relaxed he’s been lately; Danny tells her about the Winter Truce. She listens in rapt attention. 

She tells him that she’s glad to see him so well-rested. She thinks her little brother’s been growing up too fast these days. She thinks he’s been too tense. Too caught up with the spinning of the world around him that he forgets about himself sometimes. 

When they reach school, before Danny can get out of the car, Jazz looks to her little brother and says; “I love you.” 

Her little brother’s cheeks turn an embarrassed shade of red. He makes a scrunched up, grossed-out face, but can’t hide the smile pulling across it. “Don’t be a sap, Jazz. I’ll see you later.” He tells her, yanking his hood up over his head. She hears the bashful, ‘love you too’ before he walks away. 

That is the last conversation she ever has with her brother. 

Thursday is unremarkable, passing by in its normality as it always does. There’s one, maybe two ghost sightings; shades lurking around in curious infancy that are easily spooked away by the presence of a greater being. Danny doesn’t even have to go ghost. 

Thursday evening is even less so. Danny goes to Tucker’s house — Sam has a prior arrangement with her slam poetry club — and the two of them study for an hour before they toss their textbooks aside and reach for the game console. 

Danny sleeps in Tucker’s room with one of the extra blankets on his bed, curled across the room in one of the bean bag chairs. It shouldn’t be comfortable, but to Danny it is. He sleeps throughout the night, the portal shut down by his parents before they’d gone to bed. 

Early Friday morning, before the sun has even risen yet, before it’s even so much as a concept to grace the horizon, the water heater breaks again. It was supposed to be fixed. 

Carbon monoxide is a silent killer. Odorless and scentless, it kills within minutes. It fills the house like a shadow casting over the ground, creeping into the rooms. 

Danny’s family die in their sleep; painless and unaware. 

It’s not Jack Fenton’s fault. He didn’t mean to.  

Nobody wakes up with their alarms. 

Danny wakes up to Tucker Foley’s alarm on Friday morning, and he turns his head intangible and shoves it into the beanbag chair like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand. Tucker gets up before him, and throws a pillow at him as he reaches for the alarm. 

There’s laughter, messing around. The both of them get dressed, and Danny has breakfast with the Foleys that morning. He takes the bus to school with Tucker, and they meet Sam by their lockers. 

To him, everything is as normal as it should be. There are no ghosts for him to fight right now, school is as school does, and he’s on top of all his schoolwork. 

He does not see Jazz at all that morning, he doesn’t notice. Their schedules are so different, their routes on different paths, that it’s not uncommon for Danny to not see Jazz until he gets home some days. That’s if there’s no ghost attacks. 

At lunch, he gets approached by her friends. Worried creases between their brows, they ask him if he’s seen Jazz. She hasn’t shown up to any of her classes. She’s not answering their texts. It’s unprecedented of her; unheard of. 

Danny doesn’t admit to the concern that swells in his gut when they tell him this. He shrugs at them, and says he hasn’t seen her either. But it was probably nothing to worry about; she might just be sick and sleeping it off. 

He offers to text her and let them know if he gets a response, and that seems to ease her friends enough that they shuffle away in uncertainty. He keeps his word, and does exactly that. He pulls out his phone and opens her contact, and shoots her a message.

‘Where are you?’ 

He doesn’t get a response back, Danny is left on sent. He puts his phone in his pocket, and with a sense of unease creeping in the back of his mind, goes on with his day. He gets no response by the time the final bell rings; and he tries not to be worried. 

The house is quiet when he opens the door. Unusually quiet. He drops his backpack to the floor, it lands with a hearty thunk, and begins to take off his jacket. “Mom! Dad!” He yells. He hangs it up, and slips his shoes from his feet. “Jazz skipped school today!”

A laughable untruth that would get his sister all riled up normally; she should be able to hear him from the front door if she was in her room. The house just stays dead silent. 

He can’t even hear the usual banging and crashing from the lab. His unease returns. He reaches for the intercom that leads directly down to the basement, and presses the button to turn it on. A burst of static, and then he speaks;

“Mom? Dad?” 

Danny lets go, and waits for a response. He gets none back. That never happens, not when the house is this quiet. Not when he knows they should’ve heard him. 

Something sickly and fearful borns in the pit of his stomach, and begins to snake upward. He heads for the lab. The cool metal of the door is familiar in the grooves of his hand, and he doesn’t even need to think about the code as he punches it in;  he simply lets muscle memory guide him. It’s been the same since he was little. 

The door hisses as the pressure is released, and he swings the door open. He takes the stairs down two at a time. Something is wrong. His parents aren’t answering him. His feet pound against the metal. 

“Mom? Dad?” He calls again, more worried, more frantic. More scared. His voice echoes down the stairwell, and he reaches the bottom before it’s fully faded. The lab is empty. The portal is still shut down. 

It was four in the afternoon, they should still be down here. 

Danny races back upstairs, fear-raised nausea coiling in his throat. “This isn’t funny you guys!” He yells when he reaches the top, shoving open the door with more force than necessary. His head swims, his voice cracked. 

He checks the garage, the car is still there. 

“Mom!? Dad!” His voice bellows out throughout the first floor, loud enough that it bounces back at him and rings against his ears. He’s never raised his voice this much — mom would scold him if she heard him. But she doesn’t show up. “Jazmine!” 

Finally, he goes upstairs, and he can’t tell if what he’s feeling is anger or terror. Something is very, very wrong. 

He swings the door of his parents’ rooms open first, and there they are, with the lights still off and the curtains still drawn. As if they hadn’t left their bed all day. Some of Danny’s fear lifts from his shoulders just by the sight of them, but he’s still trembling. Something is still wrong — the room smells… off. Not good, not bad. Just… off. 

He swallows dryly, his throat still thick, and steps into the room. “Mom, dad?” They do not stir. “Didn’t you guys hear me yelling?” 

There is only room static. Danny’s heart shrivels in his chest with a tenfold return of terror, he feels ill. He remembers, just now, that they’re not heavy sleepers, and his dad should be snoring like a freight house. 

Danny reaches their bedside in seconds, hand outstretching for the covers, “Momma? Dad?”

Not all deaths are created equal. 

But many of them are accidental. Unmeditated. Shocking.

Danny Fenton finds his family dead in his childhood home. He runs to his neighbors in hysterics, inconsolable, in tears. Nine-one-one is called, but there is nothing that can be done. They were dead for hours by the time Daniel Fenton returned home. 

He sits on the front steps of the neighbor’s house beside FentonWorks, his jeans slowly becoming wet from the snow that was unable to be scraped off, and watches the paramedics cart out his family beneath white sheets. There are police cars blocking off the street, yellow tape blocking off his house, red-blue lights lighting up the block, an ambulance on the scene. He is wrapped in a shock blanket, and he is missing his jacket and his shoes. His tears are freezing onto his face, he can’t feel the chill. 

Not all deaths are created equal

But all of them are unforgettable. 

[ernmark]

So my roommate informed me this morning that the hot water suddenly cut out in the shower.

Which left me in a predicament, because it's the Friday before Christmas, and the chances of getting the general contractors to my place to figure out what's wrong with my water heater seems like an incredibly ill-timed (and incredibly expensive) venture.

So I employ my (2) millennial skills.

I find the fuse in the fuse box that I think goes to the water heater, I turn it off, and I turn it back on again (actually I turn off all the fuses to that part of the house and kind of hope that the water heater is among them)

I crawl up to where there's a bunch of instructions on the side of the heater and I try to make sense of them. And I find a term that I only actually know from one place.

See, there's an episode of Rugrats back when I was a kid that begins with Stu Pickles taking a shower and suddenly shrieking to his wife that "the pilot light's gone out!" because the water suddenly went cold.

Hey, it's worth a try.

So, based on the insight gained from a TV show I watched as a child, I read the fucking instructions, and I follow them to the letter.

With a water heater as old as mine, it seems unlikely that I can do anything that either wasn't about to happen already or that the contractors can't fix (or can't pry out of the cinderblock) after I fuck it up. (That hearkens back to Millennial Skill 2.5: the ability to keep calm and take nihilistic comfort in the fact that if I die in a freak water heater explosion, then I am absolved of all debt and may finally rest in an afterlife beyond the confines of this capitalistic hellscape.)

I look in the little window in the heater (did you know they have a little window in them???) and see a little blue flame, so I'm guessing that did it.

By the end of which, nothing exploded and I have hot water again.

[thomas-mvller]

Oh... so I'm going to die for real

Guys, i think i'm going to die

[seat-safety-switch]

I have a filthy confession to make. I still love Volkswagens. No, not the current ones, with their humming-coughdrop efficiency and Teutonic stereos made entirely of hovering touchscreens that you can't get rid of even when you go to sleep at night. No, I mean the real shit: water-cooled cars from the 80s and 90s.

Yeah, I hear you air-cooled folks in the background screaming at me about how spending ten thousand dollars for approximately 36 horsepower is a way more fun way to exist. To you, I have no polite reply. You have gone so far down the rabbit hole (get it?) that there is simply nothing that can be done to rehabilitate you into regular society. For the rest of us, I think we can all acknowledge that the Mk3 GTI is underrated.

Sure, when they were new, and even when they were a little bit old, nobody liked the Mk3. You've got the Mk2, which is fun and zingy, and the Mk4, which is luxurious and fast. The Mk3 is... neither of those things. So everyone threw them in the bin as soon as they could, and went to go buy Audi Allroads instead. Joke's on you, suckers. You accidentally made those shitboxes into rare collectibles and I hope the exploding-heater-core coolant burns to your face and genitals heal quickly.

Thing is, there's just something about these terrible cars. Maybe it's because they're boxy. Possibly it's because I have a compulsive hoarding behaviour that makes me want to rescue unloved vehicles from oblivion. Most likely, though, it's because I still harbour a delusional fantasy that it's possible to buy a car – any car – for under one thousand fucking dollars, and surely these hated shitbaskets must be somewhere near the bottom of Kelley Blue Book value.

For me, the disease is so bad that I'll sometimes drive past farmer's fields in the most racist part of the outskirts of my city. I hope that they have an old Mk3 GTI just sitting there, up on blocks. That there's some kind of combination of honeyed words, fast-cash-flashes, and freshly-deceased owners that will let me escape with a five hundred dollar one. And then, I will finally be able to live my fantasy of owning and operating a car I didn't want twenty years ago.

I'm sure you feel the same way about the Mk3 GTI, too. If you don't, maybe you should go take a look at one. Then tell me which farmer's field it's in and if his widow is willing to accept cash, or if she would strongly prefer Venmo.

[moonlight-prose]

wip wednesday!

i don't think anyone tagged me in this last week (but if you did then thank you). i also just really like dropping little snippets here each wednesday so here's a big one for the one, the only, eddie alden fic.

this fic has consumed me entirely and well i've got a surprise that goes with it but that's for a different time.

hopelessly devoted to you

Trailing to the kitchen with you hot on his heels, he rummaged in the take out drawer full of old menus that needed replacements eventually. Pages were stained, ripped, and crumpled from years of use. You snatched the only pizza place one out of his grasp, eyes flicking through the selections with a grin. Predictable. He could have ordered blindly for you if he'd have known your tastes were the same.

"Lemme guess–"

"Pepperoni–" you began.

"With sausage and jalapenos," he finished.

"Fuck off Eddie."

He smiled, confident enough to have your mind falter on anything except the man before you. How did he do that? Render you a bumbling fool who could barely put the correct words in order to form a complete sentence. One day you might have to ask if that was just his Eddie charm, or if it only worked on you in particular.

"I would. But it's my place kitten." Dialing the number he knew by heart, he left you to wander spots in the apartment that hadn't been on his grand tour.

A corner table held a photo of Eddie's mother, his father nowhere to be seen in the background. You didn't blame him for avoiding the man entirely. After what occurred you were surprised that Eddie hadn't killed him; although he once came close at nineteen.

The night his mother spilled the truth over one too many glasses of sherry; the night Eddie figured out the man he once looked up to had a different family in an entirely different state.

If you trailed your fingers down the back of his neck you'd find the spot his father had slammed him into the banister of their front staircase. The fight bordered on brutal. A viscous act that left what relationship remained tattered and torn to shreds on the floor around them. Both men landed hits with no true aim, teeth bared and seeking blood through the red haze of their anger.

Eddie wanted revenge. His father wanted submission.

They'd always stood on thin ice ready to crack beneath the weight of their baggage. A horrendous cycle of push and pull—each one aware of how to tear the other down with ease. Their bond was built on torment. And to watch the tension explode, drowning them both beneath the glacial waters, left you stuck in a dark chasm of helplessness.

Stupidly you got a scar to match when you threw yourself in front of a near unconscious Eddie, attempting to stop the man from landing a final punch to his son's face. He hit you instead. The scar on your shoulder was small, barely there, but you could still feel Eddie's lips on it when he cleaned the wound. Apologies spilling from his lips until he fell asleep in your bed.

But you supposed that was Eddie. A protector above all else.

The man who would throw himself into the heat of battle before considering the consequences that came with a choice that reckless.

"They'll be here in twenty minutes." He crept up behind you, glancing at the photo of him on his Mom's birthday. "Thinking about that night?"

You jumped, glancing at him over your shoulder. "Yeah."

He nodded. "Hard not to."

"Has he ever..."

"No." The darkened shadow across his face gave you enough of a response. It was time to move onto a different subject.

"So..." You settled on his couch with a heavy sigh. "Your work."

Dragging the throw blanket his mother sewed him over your legs, he clambered onto the empty space beside you. The heater was slowly sputtering to life—radiator giving it all it had to keep the both of you warm. But beside him you felt the heat practically emanate off his body in waves.

What you wouldn't give to curl into his lap and seek it from the source.

"The drama has been exquisite," he stated, draping his arm on the top of the couch behind your head. "You remember me tellin' you about Jane?"

"Goodall?"

"The very one." He settled further into the cushions, legs spread beneath the blanket until he nudged yours. "She and Ray broke up. It's been hell in the office dealing with their confused tension."

"Wait, isn't this the guy who cheated with her?"

He nodded. "Now I'm not saying he's horrible. But you gotta at least break up with the girl before you go with another."

"Ahh you're taking my teachings to heart," you smiled, leaning your head against his arm.

"I have to Kit. Every time I don't I feel like you're gonna pop out and whack me–" Landing a weak hit to his side, he clamped his hand around your wrist, tugging you close with a laugh. "Like that!"

Attempting to free yourself was futile when he outmatched you in strength and speed. Yet you found that you enjoyed being this close to him. Laughing as you once did in the years of your youth. When all that mattered was which movie you were seeing that Friday and what school the team was playing.

Somehow—in the blink of an eye—you were two adults stuck in your own travesties. Forced to forgo the blithe energy of your childhood. You'd jump at the chance to go back; if only to get more time with Eddie. To spend a few more hours in his bedroom watching horror movies that left you both shell shocked and restless.

To cheer him on at every game with the promise of burgers and shakes at the local drive in afterwards. To watch him grow up and move to New York. Only this time...you'd follow him the second he asked.

His eyes softened as your smile slipped from your lips, fingers curling around his fist. Hazel had never been your favorite color until Eddie left. You rarely thought of it when he was home, but as his absence became a reality you could no longer suffer through you began to see the color everywhere. In the trees, in the color of your old blanket you stole off his childhood bed, in the flannel that once belonged to his grandfather.

You found traces of Eddie Alden in every little aspect of your life, except him.

"Kitten," he murmured, a fraction closer than he'd been a minute ago. His eyes dropped to the curve of your lips, how they parted so sweetly at the sound of your pet name.

"Eddie..."

All that remained was the space between your heads—your body practically leaning into him the longer you talked. He could lean in and kiss you. He could finally learn what you tasted like, figure out how you'd sound if his tongue licked along yours. Fuck he'd never wanted something more.

 The dazed glint in your eyes made his heart twist, his tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip. Your gaze fixed on the movement immediately and Eddie felt his cock twitch in interest. One day he'd explain to you how fucking beautiful you were; how his mind went haywire at the sight of your smile. How he'd destroy himself to get you to look at him like he hung the moon and stars.

One day he'd spill his deepest darkest secrets to you.

Starting with three little words that kept him up at night tossing and turning.

He swallowed thickly. "I..."

The door buzzed loud enough to scare the shit out of you. Leaping back, you felt the breath catch in your throat painfully and like an idiot you began to cough. Eddie's eyes went wide, his hand tapping your back as you waved him off to get the pizza. Leaving you to sit there on his couch and choke...on air.

Dumbass.

"Thanks man," Eddie muttered, handing off what cash he had left in his wallet. "Keep the change."

He rushed back to the couch, pizza in one hand and a glass of water in the other. "Kit, you okay? Here drink this before you die on my fuckin' couch."

"Shut up Eddie," you snipped, eyes burning with a glare. Though the smile on your lips told him something else. "Hand over the pizza before it's you dying."

"Yes ma'am," he muttered, flipping open the box and swiping the remote off the coffee table. Taking his spot by your side back with a grin.

tagging whoever wants to do it!

[katyawriteswhump]

Eddie and Steve: Monster Hunters (steddiemicrofic/steddielovemonth)

For @steddiemicrofic Feb prompt, ‘edge,’ and @steddielovemonth day 23, Love is giving him your sweater even if it makes you cold. (@stevesbipanic) Thank you <3

Rating: T. WC: 509. CW: None. Tags: established steddie, angst, slight au, slightly fluffy, slightly soft Eddie, slightly silly!

…

Eddie wasn’t sure how he’d gotten separated from Steve. However, there he was—alone, the demo-goat caught between him and the quarry, his Molotov cocktail primed.

“Eat dirt, you evil, bleating little sh—iiiiiiit!”

Suddenly, Steve was there, hot on the goat’s hooves, brandishing a home-made flame-thrower.

Too late. Eddie’s missile already flew. A flash blinded him, echoed by a crackling boom, and a thunderclap in his chest. He rushed, choking, through the smoke. DID I JUST EXPLODE MY BOYFRIEND?

“Steve?”

“Heeeeere!”

Eddie swayed on the quarry precipice, from which Steve dangled, clinging with both hands. And then with one hand. Already on his knees, Eddie grabbed Steve’s wrist.

“You trying to kill me?” Black goop smeared Steve’s pale face.

“Didn’t see you, Stevie.”

“I’d got this… Jesus! My shoulder… your rings… Hurts. Oh shit, oh shit, I’m gonna die!”

Sweat beaded Steve’s brow, fingers quivering for grip as he slipped farther. Eddie squeezed tight words from gritted teeth:  “Gimme your other hand.”

It didn’t go like in movies. Steve’s efforts wrenched at Eddie’s faltering hold. Their gazes locked, pulses going apeshit in union.

“Steve, I—"

Steve plummeted into the cool twilight. Eddie’s heart dropped through his boots, falling with his boyfriend, as far as the distant splash.

Eddie stumbled blindly to the shingle shore. He saw only his final image of Steve—Steve’s horror mirroring Eddie’s own, Steve’s too-pretty mouth forming a perfect ‘o’.  Almost like when we kissed, and those times we… The sex no longer mattered. It’d been casual between them till now, when the idea of a future without Steve shredded Eddie’s soul. Worse, poor Steve! Way too young to…

Eddie whipped out a flashlight, legs numb, stomach knotted. Something crawled out of the water. Hopefully, not the demo-goat. Seconds later, he hovered over Steve, who flopped onto his back, arms flung wide.

“Holy shit.” Eddie tugged his hair, hesitating to touch Steve—fearing he’d shattered some illusion.

Steve panted hard, catching his breath. Wet, bedraggled, and incongruously adorable, his flat hair made his eyes seem huge. Then he scowled, attempted to sit. Eddie finally tumbled forward, flung his arms around him.

“You scared the shit outta me.”

“You angling for an apology?” Steve’s voice was trembly as the rest of him. “Diving that far stings like a b-bitch! Did I say I wanted a swim, Munson?”

“Sorry.” He rubbed Steve’s back

“Thought I was a g-gonner. Makes you realize… about… st-stuff.”

Eddie sniffed then pulled off his sweater, shivering himself as he wrapped it around Steve. Steve raised a weary brow. “B-body heat st-still required, Dipshit.”

Eddie enfolded him tight again, then might have sobbed as he helped Steve up. Steve proved too tired to speak, Eddie too choked, till they reached the car. Eddie dialled the heater up, touched Steve’s thigh: “Stevie, there’s something I… uh…”

“I love you, man.” Steve rested his head back, eyes fluttering closed. “Try not to nearly kill me again this week, ’kay?”

“Love you too.” Eddie tenderly stroked dripping hair from Steve’s brow, then scrambled over the gear-lever to get cosy.

[girlactionfigure]

When the missile hit Haifa the extent of the damage was shocking.

The Templer building from the 1860s used as a synagogue, was smashed. The building next to it as well. Shrapnel slammed through the roof of another building, cars, water heaters, gas tanks, igniting fire, creating extensive damage inside and outside - including my pock marking the road.

The blast exploded windows in a 100 meter radius.

Shocking damage - that is also a miracle.

Prayers ended before the missile hit, giving the people who had been in the building a short time before, time to be safely home when the siren went off. The missile hit the empty building and not the adjacent apartments, full of people.

Although the blast caused extensive damage to everything surrounding the impact site, the walls of the synagogue did not collapse. While it looked like the building erupted, flinging peices everywhere, the Aron Kodesh, where the Torah scrolls are kept, was unscathed. The decorative sign that was on top of it was flung through the roof and could be seen hanging upside down above one of the windows - but the Aron Kodesh did not move.

Specialists were called to analyze how the scrolls could be safely removed from the building before it rained. After the people of the neighborhood were taken care of, the Torah scrolls were rescued.

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me."

The evil is very real but so are the miracles.

Forest Rain Marcia is in Haifa, Israel.

[daawwn]

geordi n cutie (moreso geordi) cuddling headcanons

(because i'm sick of only having angst on my feed)

so lets start off with the basics

geordi is the BIGGEST cuddler like

ever

when hes next to cutie on the couch or the bed

IMMEDIATELY wrapped up beside them

and its the cutest thing on earth

like hes got blankets pulled up and asking cutie if they want snacks

do they need water

literally whatever

hes the whole package

he is going to make sure they are both comfortable when they cuddle

checking in w/ them constantly

making sure they’re not too hot or cold

giving them kisses

like

SO many kisses

forehead

the cheek

neck

anywhere he can reach he’ll kiss

UGHH hes so sweet i hate him/j

those weren’t really basic (they were) but anyway

was kinda arguing with myself bc i couldn’t really figure out if geordi would be a big spoon or little spoon

and honestly

he dgaf 💀

he couldn’t care less

literally as long as they are within close proximity

there won’t be a single complaint

if cutie wants to be big spoon: 🫶

if cutie wants to be little spoon: 🫶

he absolutely adores being wrapped up with them

especially in winter

AND ITS SNOWING??

holy shit he just blew up

like he just exploded

cutie being an empowered mf and being able to produce fire (and

whatever else)

their body can and will be used as a heater

all i can think about is them laying down on the couch

hot cocoa (or your preferred drink in the winter) on the coffee table,

still steaming

a heavy ass blanket on top of both of them

cutie laying on their back with their arms thrown around geordi’s neck, occasionally kissing the top of his head

or one hand in his hair (also big hc of mine: geordi has curly hair), playing with it and softly pulling out small knots

as geordi is literally in heaven with his personal oven, body on top of cutie’s with his arms circled around cutie’s back

his head on on their chest, listening to their heartbeat as they watch home alone for the 46th time

EWW theyre so gross i wanna eat them

moving on from that

i also feel like geordi is super playful

he bites

affectionately

he cannot contain his love

his absolute infatuation

to just bite them

AND ITS SO RANDOM

like its not like he’d be kissing cutie n then it would turn into bites

its just out of nowhere 😭

nd if cutie isn’t reading his mind

omg i forgot about cutie actually being able to read minds bye

ill get onto that later

BUT

when cutie isn’t in geordi’s mind

they literally jump

its not like he was trying to bite a chunk out of them

but still 💀

also if cutie decides to get up during any of their cuddling sessions

he will drag them back

he’ll have a war in his mind about being clingy or too much

but he’ll still drag them back

especially when they just got comfortable??

like where tf are u going?? 🤨

i love my silly little overthinker

OH

and back to when cutie’s in his mind

its mental warfare

specifically early into the relationship

imagine the first time they’re cuddling

jesus

he’s actually panicking so bad

like they barely get situated

and he’s just

“oh my god”

“oh my god” 

“what am i doing?”

“why am i doing?”

“where do i put my hands?”

“is this an awkward angle?”

“i can’t”

“why is this so difficult??”

“they’re so warm”

“and they smell good”

“ew now you sound like creep”

“but they’re my partner?”

“don’t care, still weird”

“i’ve done this before, why can’t i just”

“..just what?”

“just, i just want to just”

something like that

but his thoughts probably go silent when cutie cover both of them in a warm blanket n snuggle up close to him

his mind literally goes blank

hes so smitten its crazy

but later down the road he’s gotten more accustomed to cuddling and doesn’t question his life after a single hug

he gives cutie small praises in his mind

especially after they’ve had a long ass day at work

he’s willing to help them relax

drinks, something to eat, words of affirmation, kisses, massage, bath

anything for cutie to be at ease

all in all hes perfect and i want him

if somebody out there is exactly like geordi hmu 🤭

i think thats it, that was such a brain dump

i need myself a geordi within the next 2 minutes or else im gonna implode/srs

i have so much in my brain its insane

probably gonna post more since im on break 🤷🏾‍♀️

[cimness]

On the one hand, curses aren't real; but on the other, the yarn is obviously cursed

Once upon a time I made a sweater for my BIL and had so many accidents and fuckups that each stitch of the sweater was knitted at least two times, some of them three. As a result, I referred to this sweater afterwards as the Cursed Sweater.

But I didn't know what I was talking about.

The purple yarn that is the subject of this post is the TRUE cursed yarn/sweater(s).

A brief summary of the mishaps that have occurred with this cursed yarn:

Shortly after I started Sweater 1 (Fickle Heart by Justyna Lorkowska, a very well-written pattern), summer 2019: my MIL died while the house we were buying with her was half renovated, and then a pipe exploded, flooding our basement and destroying our hot water heater, and then the septic tank under the garage overflowed, flooding the garage with sewage. In the confusion, the knitting got lost.

Spring 2020: I found the knitting and finished most of the body before I discovred I'd made a small error near the center of the back lace panel which could not be fixed without unraveling about 50% of the body and reknitting.

Spring 2020: I ordered a zipper for the project and it got lost in the mail. I ordered a replacement zipper, which arrived.

Fall 2020: Put the knitting aside when MIL's estate cleared probate and we had to try to finish renovating and moving to a short deadline. We ended up moving all our stuff from one half of the duplex to the other in about two days and in the process lost my favorite sweater, a bunch of MIL's kitchen stuff, the living room door (don't ask) and the (SECOND) zipper for this project.

Fall 2021: I gave up on ever finding the zipper and ordered a THIRD zipper. I blocked the sweater and discovered a moth had eaten a tiny hole in the center of the back lace panel while it was in a drawer waiting for the zipper and it started unraveling right away, meaning it would have had to be at least 70% redone to fix. I tried it on and it was also too tight, while the holes in the lace were too big and let in a bunch of cold air.

Fall 2021: @waxjism frogged the sweater for me (unraveled it) and I chose a different hoodie pattern without any lace (Zingiber by Susanna Winter, also a great pattern) and started Sweater 2. I knitted about half, then succumbed to Pandemic Anxiety/Depression.

November 2022: I redesigned the hood about five times before finding out that I didn't have enough yarn to finish unless I wanted to use the yarn from the pockets and have a sweater without pockets. Frogged the hood.

I tried it on to place the zipper and discovered the zipper wouldn't work anyway because the fit was too tight over the hips. Ordered toggle buttons instead. Used the yarn from the hood to finish the front edge.

Wore it for a few weeks before giving up. The toggles didn't work right, the fit still wasn't right over the hips, and my neck finishing looked dumb.

April 2023: Bought a third patttern (Lenu by Ankestrick), a saddle-shoulder pullover (less yarn than a hoodie, and I had lost some to moths. Also every time you frog a sweater you lose a bit of the yarn). Started Sweater 3. I only knitted a few inches of it before having doubts and weighing the yarn to estimate how much I had left and discovering there wasn't enough to finish it.

November 2024: Weighed the yarn to estimate yardage again and determined there wasn't enough for a sweater with sleeves, so I picked a sweater vest pattern that I liked (Beneath Waves by Johanna Kunin). I was pretty excited because I'd never knitted bobbles before. I finished the sweater last night and wove in all the loose ends BEFORE holding it up and noticing for the FIRST TIME that the back of the armholes looked funny, almost like a racerback. I examined it and realized I had accidentally left out one whole horizontal repeat of the lace pattern on the back. There are four on the front and three on the back. And I had knitted the ENTIRE VEST without noticing!!

As @waxjism said, it will be safer to get the entire sweater out of the house. (Burning would be ideal but wool doesn't burn easily and it probably wouldn't burn up in our woodstove.) Wool does compost, though, so we might do that.

Although I protested that curses are not real, I eventually agreed that even if the curse is actually my subconscious mind sabotaging me it still has devastating effects, and it would be better not to risk it destroying another sweater.

In fact, I have two balls of it leftover, but I'm not sure I dare use them in a stashbusting project in case they ruin it.

The yarn (Svarta Fåret Ulrika in Lila Melange) was purchased originally for its exact color match to a cheap cotton pullover hoodie from H&M (2008ish?) that I loved passionately and wore to pieces, and I really still have my heart set on it being a hoodie anyway. I'll start over with new yarn.

"RIP to a real one (was it real?)" - @waxjism