#stain the cracks in the drywall

[nectardaddy]

B.I.L.L.S , t. hanamaki

american hero. . . b.i.l.l.s. by towa bird

If I had a dollar then I wouldn't have to bother 'bout the bills. I'm so tired of paying rent.

pairing : hanamaki takahiro x f!reader

cw/notes : poverty/financial insecurity, conversation about/wishing for "what could be" (and a deep dive into the feeling of wanting), use of the pet name "sweetheart," humor as a coping mechanism, language, eating used as a metaphor, lots of metaphors in general, established long-term relationship, I am genuinely very proud of this fic so if you got tagged out of the blue that's why <3

word count : 2.6k

The apartment was dingy and run down, a muted tone of gray that submerged the entire cramped space into desolace. A desolace that bled into the other rooms, through the floorboards, through every nook and cranny of the compact unit - through the bones of the pair that inhabited it. Pictures and posters littered the drab walls. Old developed pictures and various music flyers stuck to drywall with bits and pieces of scotch tape - real frames were far too expensive - as they tried desperately to combat the dreary aura of the space. 

But it was difficult to fight against such longing; around every corner being yet another issue that would only ever be resolved with the one thing the pair didn’t have: funds. Air conditioning that went out every other month, as the landlord was too stingy to really fix it and complained with every call and maintenance request about the issue. Mold in the air vents, water pressure that was just short of a small stream, a lock on the door that barely bolted with a small chain lock that was used as a "replacement" that didn't really do anything. It reeked of dust and mildew, a musty smell that lingered no matter how many candles were lit and blown out. And trial and error to shut the, horribly painted, bedroom room; over the months they learned to turn the knob and slam rather than just slam. 

It was a constricted, at times uncomfortable; limited space meaning old cardboard boxes stayed within the living area or bedroom - mementos gathered dust that all but covered the unit entirely. Memories shoved in a box that would barely ever see the light of day, or simply, didn’t want to. Such a place didn’t deserve such warmth. A god forsaken space didn’t deserve the radiant coziness that came with trinkets and baubles, didn’t deserve the framed pictures - that would crash to the ground anyway, as the drywall often crumbled and fragmented - and surely didn’t deserve the mellow residents who resided in it. 

Both home from work, and both exhausted beyond belief, they sat together on an old, thrifted loveseat. A gaudy flower pattern that was stained and smelled of cigarettes from the latter owners, but a place to sit nonetheless. The man shuffled through a slew of mail, the woman, with her eyes closed and trying not to fall asleep right then and there, sat next to him. 

“I’m so fucking tired of paying this shit,” he grumbled before throwing the envelopes onto the rickety coffee table. A table that was discounted, dirt cheap, as one leg was cracked and wobbly. Oftentimes, it broke when too much weight was put on it, duct tape lined the connection between the leg and table itself. All it held was other envelopes - bills, an array of clipped coupons, and a long forgotten coffee cup, that’s rim was chipped and the handle cracked. 

“Then don’t,” the woman hummed in response, a cheeky reply to a serious notion. An exhaustion riddled in her voice that made him look over and sigh, heart strings pulled taut at seeing her weary form. “We can run away together and never have to see this shit hole again.” 

He stayed quiet for a moment, letting a pause settle between them. Allowed the sound of the fan in the far corner of the room to take over the silence he offered, the hum of it engulfed the room as it rotated to cool the entire apartment. “Maybe we should,” he sighed before a small smile pulled at his lips. “We can go off grid and everything, y’know they make shows about people that live like that, right? We could be famous.”

A breath of air passed through the woman’s nose as she chuckled, and she opened her eyes to look over at him. “You’re an idiot.” Even as she smiled at him, he couldn’t help but notice just how tired she looked. Her eyes were dark and hazy, unfocused even, as it seemed like all she wanted to do was close them again - to sleep. Her work uniform crumbled and wrinkled as she sat with her legs up on the small couch, too worn out to change upon coming, to what they reluctantly called, home. 

Home, to them, was coming back at odd hours. Never fully holding each other as the other had to whisk themselves away - to provide, to work. Times were fleeting, just as much as the money that came in. Gone within a second and drained from responsibilities. Every second together was taken with an ironclad grip, and sewn together with cups upon cups of coffee just to try and enjoy it all.

“Where would you want to go if we had the money to leave?” The off kilter question left his lips easily, without much thought put behind it. Because to him, that's all he ever thought about - leaving. He hoped one day he was able to scrape up enough funds, pack everything up, and leave the cramped unit all together with her by his side.

“Anywhere, honestly, this place sucks ass.” She groaned as she stretched her legs off the loveseat. A series of pops from overworked limbs hit his ears and made him frown - she didn't deserve to be this tired, not for this piece of shit apartment. Not for anything.

“I’m serious.” His normal, almost whimsical, tone went with the wind as he sat up a little straighter. He looked over to her with red tinged eyes, fatigued and strained, that swirled with an unforeseen worry.

“So am I.” A curt reply as she locked eyes with him. A realist, maybe a bit pessimistic to some, but the woman grounded herself in reality more than he. Didn't want to waste herself away with thoughts of what could be than what is. What could be was a sham, a figment of imagination she couldn't bear herself to think about often; as the thought of what is yanked her to the very pits of longing that she would later have to tear herself out of. 

“I know where I’d want to go.” A dream he hadn’t told her before, he wished he had the money to surprise her with it. But that day was far off in the distance, a mere glimmer of a memory, and he cracked under the pressure of wanting to share. At least this way, they could experience the dream together.

“Yeah? Where?” She closed her eyes again and let her head fall to his shoulder. 

“I’d want to go to Tokyo.”

She snorted at the thought, “spare me, Hiro, not this shit again.” A half hearted joke that landed a bit on edge, toed the line of snappy through drowsy laced words. A former wish she had heard before from him, a joke to only go to Tokyo to get piss drunk with friends. 

“No, not the bar hopping thing.” He assured and waved off the remark with a small chuckle. 

“Good, because you do that shit with Mattsun here anyway. You don’t need to drag me to Tokyo just for me to babysit you two idiots there.” Babysitting, truly, was an understatement to the woman. The thought made her cringe as she recalled past memories of his dear friend passed out in their bathroom, head in the toilet and completely out cold. 

“I want to take you to Ueno Park to see the cherry blossoms one day.” His voice was a twinge quieter than before, a bit breathless as he couldn’t believe himself for finally saying the dream aloud. Deep brown eyes shifted over to look at the woman, whose head still rested on his shoulder - completely silent.

The comment had her at a lack of words, letting another silence pass by them once more; but it lingered far too long. A silence that, as moments passed, began to have a weight to it and started to suffocate her. Every inhale became shallower than the last, and she couldn’t find it within herself to take a single breath more of the humid, musky air the apartment provided. She felt herself tumble into the gaping hole of wanting, needing, craving - pure, unbridled hunger for more than what is. A ravishing feeling that took her by the shoulders and shoved, falling head first into the empty, hollow feeling of what could be.

What could be was far from reality, what could be couldn’t happen.

She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked over at him, eyes a bit wider than before and lips parted through means to say something - nothing ever came. “You told me three years ago you wanted to do that.” Quiet words answered her unspoken question and she sucked in a breath. She remembered telling him that vividly, could recall the day to a tee as it held importance to her.

It rained that day, poured down onto the street as they ran back to their shared apartment - a better one than what they had now. Steps taken hastily, hand in hand, as he practically dragged her through the downpour with a laugh. Both forgot an umbrella, so they ran through the rain getting more and more soaked with every step. It wasn’t far from their unit, the pair only went down the street to a convenience store. But the storm they tried to outrun inevitability caught up with them, so the leisurely walk back home turned to a sprint.

Upon their return, they found themselves sprawled out on their bedroom floor. Their clothes drenched from rain and water puddled onto the hardwood underneath them. A silly action, to lay on the floor wet. But neither minded as they giggled and laughed with one another, enjoying the other’s company. 

Strawberry blonde hair stuck to his forehead and he raked a hand through it. A chuckle left his lips from an earlier conversation before he looked over at her once more, “if you could go anywhere in the world, where would you want to go?”

“What kind of question is that, Hiro?” A teasing tone laced within her cadence as she locked eyes with him. Bright and hopeful, full of love, and not an ounce of exhaustion swirling within them.

“One that I’m curious about, obviously, so indulge me.” The whimsy in his words was easily apparent, one of which she got used to quickly. And there was a sass in the timbre of his voice that muddled with care, a juxtaposition to his usual standalone brassiness. 

“What’s yours?”

“This isn’t about me, it’s about you.”

He watched the woman smile before she averted her eyes to the ceiling, scrunched her brows in thought a moment before she looked at him once more. “Probably Ueno Park, in April, to see the cherry blossoms.”

“Are you serious? Anywhere in the world, and you want Tokyo?” He never looked away from the woman throughout the conversation, and when she met his gaze once more he smiled. 

“Did you ask just to make fun of me, asshole?”

“No, god no.” He laughed, lips pulling into a silly smile before he took her hand in his own. “I’m just trying to figure out where I should ask you to marry me one day.”

The inescapable feeling of want consumed her, leaving nothing left behind as she was swallowed whole. A swirling sensation in her stomach that sickened her, made her ill to think about too long as all she could do was stare at him. “Takahiro.” Her words fell to a whisper as eyes flickered between his own, desperately trying to gauge the situation but to no avail. “You can’t be serious?”

“As a heart attack, sweetheart.” The smile he had started to falter, and the concern that saturated her eyes made his heart sink. But through that concern, the smallest, most miniscule, glimmer of need shone through. Even through tired, bloodshot eyes and a tinge of cynicism, she wanted the dream just as much as he, if not more.

“Hanamaki,” she breathed. “Be real for a second-” But she was cut off as he turned to face her, the old loveseat squeaking under the shift of weight, and he took her hands in his own

“I am being real, so put that name away.” Erring on defensive, put a care behind it that she couldn't ignore. A rare seriousness in his voice that made her swallow hard. “I’m taking you to see those damn cherry blossoms at some point, and when I do I'm asking you to marry me.” 

She opened her mouth to say something but promptly shut it, not knowing what to say to the man. But she felt as the ravenous feeling turned to a starved, almost primal, one. Felt her stomach twist into knots at the thought - she wanted to swallow the notion completely. Needed to feel the crunch and snap of it in her mouth, wanted her teeth caught in it, needed it to be consumed until nothing was left. She abstained from could be for too long and needed to devour the concept entirely. 

But could be wasn’t what is. What is left a bruise, tender and raw, that left a rotten taste in her mouth. She felt the urge to spit out the thought as it circled within her mind like a vulture, ready to dive within a split second. “But-”

“We will, I swear.” He cut off her protest and squeezed her hand. But to no avail, as she only looked at him with a sense of apprehension.

“But we're-” 

“I know, I know,” he sighed. Brown eyes slid over to the envelopes on the coffee table, bold red letters catching his attention that made him close his eyes. “Believe me, I know.” A disheartening belief that caused him to take a deep breath before opening his eyes again to look at her. He brought a hand to her cheek, pale fingers gently brushed over her skin with a warmth that was inviting, loving, and selfless. He gave her a small, out of sorts, smile, “but I want to do this. For you. For us. Hell, because we deserve to do something nice. I want us to have something to look forward to other than the same, shit ass, walls everyday.” 

She paused a moment, let his words sink in, before she bit down hard on the concept and refused to let go. “Ok,” she nodded carefully. “Alright, we’ll go to Ueno Park one day.” Could be tasted sweet and savory, mouth watering to think about. It eased a craving that deflected from what is - so just this once, she let herself free fall into it. “Do you even have a ring to ask me with?” 

His smile pulled into a grin at her question, and he chuckled. “Would you say yes to a ring pop?”

With a paltry laugh, she leaned into his hand that was still on his cheek. “As long as it's strawberry, then absolutely, you dumbass.”

“Strawberry it is, sweetheart.” 

However, he didn’t really need the sweet, confectionary ring. In one of the many old cardboard boxes within the living area and bedroom that collected dust - a particularly well kept, small box hidden in the back of their tiny, shared closet - was a ring he bought three years ago. Bought shortly after the conversation was had, when he still had the money to stretch. Stuffed between memories that would barely ever see the light of day, because a place like this didn't deserve such warmth.

But the warmth was willingly given anyway, whether the pair knew it or not.

series taglist (open, send an ASK) + a few moots bc I am genuinely very very very proud of this

@causenessus @softpia @renardiererin @kodzu-ken @phoenix-eclipses

@wyrcan @honeekyuu @wakashudou @wolffmaiden @eggyrocks

@dailyakira @cupidsblonde @mollyrolls @wolffmaiden @zumicho

@jadeoru @sandwhitches

[punkassfrance]

Sierra Nevada - Chapter X - Ellie/Abby

Chapter X: This Is Why I Don't Get Out Much (Work length ~3.4k) This work is rated M for canon-typical violence and gore. Please look here for a full list of warnings for the series, specific warnings will be provided at the start of each chapter. This chapter contains: canon-typical violence and gore. Previous Chapter - Full Series - Next Chapter

Ellie

Abby grits her teeth as she yanks at the doors, the rusted, decades-old metal finally giving way under force. An alarm squeaks above the doorway before dying with a pathetic wail, petering out before either of them have a chance to panic. Ellie grimaces as the building settles. It never gets easier. Every groan of the building could be nothing—just a dilapidated store that was old even by pre-outbreak standards. The drywall is rotted, the foundation cracks more each passing year, the stale air reeks of mold spores Ellie might worry about if there weren’t bigger problems at hand. God, how she wants to write off every sound as aches of the wood.

But the fear lingers.

Abby’s hand rests on the grip of her pistol as the two of them look around, hearts pounding as they wait for something. What, they’re not certain. When nothing happens, no runners come flying around the corner, they sigh in near unison.

“You sure this place has what we need…?” Abby glances around the abandoned grocery store, getting up on her toes to glance at the pharmacy in the back.

“No, but it’s our best bet.” Ellie tries not to sound too irritable when she responds. It’s not fair to get snappy with Abby, not right now, when they’re both burdened with the knowledge of Lev in his deathbed miles away. Ellie would ask stupid questions too.

Abby looks down, eyes wandering over the ancient flooring. It creaks as they walk over it, boards bending as she steps forward and puts her weight on them.

“Careful. This place is falling apart.” Ellie grimaces as she surveys the building, eyeing a dusty sign propped up beside the door. Closed from Oct 1st-21st for Renovations. Renovations that are now almost thirty years overdue.

“Clearly.”

They gingerly cross the floor, exchanging nervous glances at each sound echoing through the building. The shelves around them have fallen apart, broken bottles scattered across the ground. Abby follows in Ellie’s footsteps, nervous to venture too far in the unknown building.

The pharmacy is empty- Ellie can’t see anything concerning from where she stands, not yet anyway. There’s no bodies on the ground, no spores, no infected lumbering about. Most of the medications are just sitting dusty on the shelves, no locks or barriers to break down. Ellie hops over the counter and starts digging in the pocket of her jeans.

“Okay—I copied that list, keep an eye out for these, but grab whatever looks useful.”

Abby nods, taking the note offered to her. Ellie grimaces as the floor creaks again, seconds before she eyes a rat in the corner of the room. Or rather, the remains of a rat, crushed and sprawled out on the blood-stained wood.

“…we should hurry.”

-

Abby

Ellie huffs and mumbles to herself as she sorts through pill bottles. She seems to do that a lot, the more Abby watches her. Ellie never answered her question, after all—how long have you been alone out here?

There’s not much. Ellie pulls bottles off the shelves and grimaces before collecting them anyway. Abby’s not having much luck either. They haven’t found anything they needed, none of the starred medications on Ellie’s list that would give Lev the best shot. Fever reducers are useful, of course, painkillers more so—but without antibiotics, none of it will matter.

Ellie reaches the end of the shelf she’s sorting through, sneering at the last bottle she picks up and turning to chuck it across the room. “Fucking hell—you finding anything?”

Abby swallows hard and shrugs, peering into her open bag on the ground beside her. “Some good stuff, but…no antibiotics.” Her heart has been gradually sinking in her chest for the last ten minutes, the grasp of dread tightening around her.

Ellie crosses the room to take a bottle off the shelf Abby’s scouring, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, I don’t think any of us are gonna need…Sildenafil.” She sets it back on the shelf and sets a hand on her hip, rubbing her face. “There’s probably a storage room somewhere. No fucking way a pharmacy doesn’t have any antibiotics.”

“Maybe someone got here before us?” Abby muses aloud as she closes up her bag and pulls it back onto her shoulder, glancing around before she spots the door in the back corner of the room.

“And left everything else? Doubt it.”

Ellie tries the door handle—locked. She only has a second to step back and size up the door before Abby touches her arm, stepping forward. “Think I can get this one.”

Ellie rolls her eyes and steps back, crossing her arms. Abby wasn’t trying to say Ellie couldn’t do it—she’s not weak by any means. But if Abby had to guess, she probably has a lot more experience kicking in doors, not to mention a good thirty pounds of muscle on Ellie.

“Alright, wolf. Show me what you got.”

Abby narrows her eyes, squaring up against the door. “I told you, I’m not a fucking wolf anymore.”

“Fine, whatever, show me what you got, puppy.”

Abby flushes with anger and rears back, landing a hard kick right above the doorknob. She hears a crack, but the door doesn’t give quite yet. The second time she drives her heel into the door, the wood splinters around the lock. For a moment, it looks like the door is going to fly open—but it shuts again. They glance at each other before looking back to the door, perplexed. Abby gets her bearings and tries to push the door open, throwing her shoulder into it. The lock is broken, but it keeps falling shut.

Exhaling, Abby looks down, hand resting on the door. “It’s barricaded.”

Eyes roaming over the wall, Ellie tilts her head before reaching back to pull a crowbar from one of the loops on the side of her backpack.

“What are you—”

“Nobody reinforces their walls.” She buries one end of the crowbar behind an empty shelf on the wall and pries it off the wall, throwing it aside. She doesn’t hesitate to start hacking away at the now bare drywall, ripping chunks off the studs until there’s a path through the wall to the other room. It’s just barely big enough for them to squeeze through, but it’ll have to do.

Abby raises her eyebrows and steps back until Ellie’s finished. She’s right- walls aren’t nearly as secure as people think. “I guess that works.”

They squeeze through, covered in drywall dust as they emerge on the other side. Furniture is piled up against the door, easily too much for either of them to move as a whole. Ellie reaches back to grab her pistol from her holster, looking around the room as she clicks off the safety. Abby lets a hand rest on her own weapon, listening for anything suspicious. Someone had to barricade the room. Most likely the crusted, motionless body slumped up against the wall.

“Hear anything?” Abby whispers after a few long seconds, glancing around. Ellie doesn’t respond at first, staring intently at the wall like a cat that’s heard something suspicious. Eventually, she shakes her head.

“…no.”

Abby watches her for a moment before nodding, taking her hand off her gun. Truth be told, there’s a good chance neither of them can be trusted to reliably hear danger coming. Years of gunfire and the occasional explosion will take a toll on your hearing.

Still, they hesitantly relax and start scanning the room for supplies. There’s not much- a desk, a few office supplies scattered on the floor, a calendar on the wall, forever stuck on September 2013. A long-dead body, unresponsive even as Abby nudges it with her boot. In the corner of the room, where the wood dips, a locked cabinet sits on the rotted floor. Behind the dusty glass, a few pill bottles are scattered among the shelves. Ellie darts forward to get a look at it, trying the handle before she huffs. “Course it’s not that easy.” She leans in and tries to get a look at the labels on the bottles, most of them turned away or impossible to read correctly through the filthy glass. After a moment, Ellie makes a sound and reaches out to get Abby’s attention.

“Oxy. We’re gonna want that—try to find a key.”

Abby nods and glances over to the wooden desk along the wall, crossing the room to open the drawers. There’s nothing in most of them, just papers and office supplies they don’t need.

“…woah.”

Abby turns around to see Ellie holding an unfamiliar backpack, peering into the open pocket. She hands the backpack to Abby and takes out a note, squinting at the writing.

“…April fourth, 2041. Eddie, I tried to get back to you, but we crossed a horde and got separated. I don’t know where Kate went. I hope she found you. I’m bleeding out. There’s infected clawing at the door, they won’t go away. I can’t get to you to say goodbye. I’m so sorry, I love you forever. Ezra.” Ellie’s voice gets quieter as she reads, pressing her lips together and folding the letter back up. She halfheartedly gestures to the body, tucking the letter into her pocket. “Sorry, Ezra.”

Abby looks down into the bag, eyes widening. “Is that-”

Ellie steps forward and glances inside. “Holy shit.” She pulls out the mason jar of joints at the top of the bag, turning it over in her hands before she cracks the seal and inhales.

“Is that weed?”

As if on queue, Ellie scrunches her nose and pulls back, sealing the jar once more. “Sure is. Still smells good.”

They both stare at the jar for a moment before exchanging looks.

“I mean…it’s a resource.” Ellie starts, eyes flicking from Abby to the jar. “Would be a shame to waste it.”

Abby raises her eyebrows and tilts her head just a bit, nodding slowly. “…it would be stupid to leave a resource behind.”

“So…the smart thing to do is take it with us.”

“Yeah, duh. It’s the responsible thing to do.”

“We’re so fucking responsible.” Ellie nods decisively and tucks the jar into her backpack, leaving Abby to hold the bag. She digs around as Ellie adjusts her things, pausing before she pulls something from the bottom.

“Well, no key, so I guess we’re breaking in.” Ellie sighs, taking her crowbar into her hands before she pulls her bag on. Abby quickly tucks the small case in with her belongings, looking up to meet Ellie’s curious eye.

“…present for Lev.”

Ellie shrugs and swings the crowbar into the glass, wincing at the crash as it cracks and falls apart. The building groans yet again, Abby’s heart beating faster as Ellie swipes the glass off the edges of the metal frame. As badly as she wants to get out of this building, retreat back to the safety of their controlled cabin, she’s not willing to give up until they find what they need.

Ellie smirks as she reaches in and holds one of the bottles up. “Bingo. Whole bottle of Oxy.”

“Anything else good?” Abby steps forward to the cabinet, taking one of the other few bottles lining the shelves.

They only have a moment to look before the building groans in protest, the floor beneath them caving in.

-

Ellie

Abby manages to fall back before the floor breaks. She hits the ground as Ellie shrieks and grapples at the edge of the broken planks, the cabinet falling into the freezing basement beneath. Ellie clamps her mouth shut as she hears a retch somewhere beneath her, then clicking.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” Ellie whispers as she tries to pull herself back up, adrenaline fueling her as her breaths quicken. Even if she can just get her forearms on solid ground, she has just enough strength to—

Abby grabs her wrist. Her eyes are wide and panicked as she tries to pull Ellie up, her face falling as she hears the clicking.

“Come on, come on, almost got you, I got you—”

Her stomach twists as the hole in the floor widens, crumbling under Ellie’s grip. She tries so hard to stay quiet as they both fall and hit the basement floor, but when she feels a sharp crack in her torso, she can’t help but squeak in pain. Abby’s up before she is, pulling Ellie to her feet and ushering them into a hiding spot. It’s a larger basement than she’d expected, spreading beneath the entire store. They’ve taken shelter behind what looks like a counter, partially destroyed and covered with a sheet. Broken furniture and boxes lie in disarray around the floor, covered in dust.

Seconds later, there it is. A clicker rounds a pillar of boxes, stepping into the open with its arms bent at its sides. It stumbles as quickly as it can to the hole in the ceiling, shrieking into the air when it doesn’t hear the prey it’s after. Abby carefully guides her flashlight up to catch a glimpse of the thing—Ellie immediately wishes she hadn’t. She grimaces at the sight of the thing’s split-open face, mycelium ripping through the skin, the rat blood dripping down the chipped shards of teeth that remain. She gasps quietly as she tries to recoil, one hand coming up to hover over her ribcage. Abby looks over, glancing down at Ellie’s side before looking back to the clicker.

“Broken?” She mouths, but Ellie can only shrug and shake her head. There’s no time to worry about it. The creature before them spins around as it clicks into the empty air, struggling to find whatever was making all that noise. Abby pulls out her pistol, leaning out further from their cover and carefully taking aim as Ellie watches with bated breath. Her eyes flick to the side as they hear another screech from the other side of the basement, out of sight.

Before Abby can fire, something grabs at Ellie’s clothing and yanks her back. She screams, from shock or pain she isn’t sure, but the clicker wheels around and roars before charging. Abby fires a deafening shot, at least slowing it down before it knocks the gun out of her hand, but not by much. Whatever grabbed Ellie tries to sink its teeth into her neck only for a moment before she wrenches around to fight it off, pain tearing through her right side as she shoves it away. A fucking stalker. Easily her least favorite kind of infected. She pulls her pistol from the holster on her hip and fires as it retreats, just seconds too late before it slips behind another pile of boxes, back into the maze it came from. Ellie swears under her breath and turns back to Abby—she doesn’t have the time to chase it.

She looks back just in time to see the brutal end of the fight. Abby’s grabbed a pipe off the ground, pulled back, and swung it at the clicker with everything she has. It’s a devastating backhand that connects right at the jawline, sending it against the wall. It slumps to the side, gurgling as it tries to trill one last time. Abby doesn’t let it. She swings her pipe back down, bashing the poor thing’s head in. Ellie’s almost impressed—she’s covered in blood and rotting brain matter, the clicker motionless and splattered across the wall behind it. Even if its body was falling apart, it takes a lot of strength to destroy a once-human head.

For the first time, she’s glad Abby is here.

Still, they’re not out of the woods. There’s at least two more, but god knows how many stalkers are hiding among the mess.

Abby is still hovering over the corpse, staring down as she tries to breathe steadily. She looks up after a moment, eyes wide, pale cheeks flecked with red. Ellie winces with every panicked inhale, still holding a protective hand over her ribcage. If they make it out of this, Ellie’s going to thank god they found painkillers. Something growls in the back of the basement, behind fuck knows how many walls of crates—but it sounds like it knows they’re here.

Abby glances towards the sound but looks back in an instant. Ellie doesn’t even realize what’s happening when the pipe swings over her head. She hears a sickening crack, something inhuman shrieking behind her. Ellie turns as quickly as she can, watching the stalker try to crawl away before she grabs its ankle. She screams at the stabbing pain in her side as it scrambles to escape, forcing her to stretch to keep her grip. She pulls a knife from her pocket and flicks the blade out, yanking the thing back towards her and gritting her teeth as she groans through the pain. Pulling back just barely enough, she buries the blade into its neck and watches it choke.

“Fuck—” Ellie wheezes, propping herself up on the ground with a whimper. She’s about to collapse when something clatters on the ground, powerful arms wrapping around her and lifting her into the air. It’s hard to say what hurts worse—the lift, the position she’s in, or the way she jostles as Abby carries her around a corner and sets her back on the ground. Seconds later, she hears something break, then the roar of a bloater just feet away from where they’d been. Abby glances around before pulling the shotgun from the side of her bag, cocking it as she stands from their hiding place.

“Hey!” She barks, circling the edge of the room as she pulls the bloater’s attention away from Ellie. She fires, blasting a crater into its torso. It almost charges at her when she cycles another round into the chamber and fires at its head.

Ellie tries to drag herself up, glancing around frantically for her bag when she sees light along the back wall. It’s a cellar door at the top of a short staircase, early morning light just starting to peek through.

She hears another clicker emerge from the back of the room, shrieking into the air. A third shot fires behind her. Abby’s going to need a chance to reload soon.

One hand clutching her side, she makes a fist and pounds on the wooden door. It doesn’t budge, chains jostling on the outside. She swears under her breath and turns just in time to meet Abby’s eye. There’s no time to exchange words— the bloater catches her off guard, pinning Abby up against the concrete wall as she flails.

Before she knows what’s happening, before instinct can kick in, Ellie panics. Abby’s fighting it off, but she can’t keep it up forever, and if Abby dies—

The gun is still in her hand. She doesn’t remember how many bullets are left in the cylinder, but if she can find the shot and trust her aim, she just needs one.

Raising the gun, she closes her left eye, tilts her head towards her shoulder, hesitates, and fires.

It’s not dead, far from it, but it roars furiously and backs away from the wall. She sees blood, and for a moment, she doesn’t know where it’s coming from. Bloaters don’t bleed, it doesn’t have any blood left, what did she hit, what has she done—

Before she can get eyes on Abby, the bloater turns and charges right for Ellie. She pales as it comes at her, arm wrapping around her side as she tries to get out of the way in time. She manages to get out of its path, but it doesn’t matter as it grabs her arm, crashing through the cellar door and taking her with it.

She screams as she hits the ground, pain ripping through her side as she’s tossed across the snow. She struggles to inhale for a moment, bleary eyes just barely cracked open. It doesn’t seem like such a bad place to die. The early morning sunlight is warm on her face, even with the freeze of the snow beneath her seeping into her clothing. If she focuses, she can hear birds, just loud enough to make themselves heard over the monster before her. If she tries, uses her final seconds to focus her eyes, she can probably see the sky one last time. She just barely sees the thing rise from the ground a few yards away, a dark splotch shambling up to her and raising its fist.

A shot echoes across the knoll.

Hi everyone! Wow, much to discuss! I didn't realize it had been a whole two months already- this is the longest chapter yet, at 3.4k!

We're officially at chapter 10, pushing this work over 21k words! This is officially the longest fanfiction I've ever written, and I plan to stick with it to the end, even if it takes me a while. Sorry to end you on a cliffhanger again, the next chapter shouldn't be nearly this delayed. I hate writing action scenes.

Thank you all so much for the ongoing support, I can't say how much it means to me!!

Thank you to @plum98 for the forest divider! Feel free to say hi or drop your thoughts in my askbox, check out my AO3 or my about me if you're interested!

Series Taglist: @a-little-bit-of-everybody

[swifty-fox]

@bcolfanfic number 1 enabler so heres some Curt/Ken tenderness for the late night crew

Sequel to Bcol's

and immediate sequel to my drabble here:

Curt can tell when Gale has fallen asleep because the entire house seems to take a breath. He lays in the guest bedroom still in his clothes from the airport. From the gym. Hadn’t even stopped at his shoe-box apartment to change out of the loose black joggers and shirt with his nametag. His windbreaker wasn’t nearly enough for the Wyoming winter.

“John had a gun.”

Janie’s got a gun Janie's got a gun her whole world’s come undone from lookin’ straight at the sun.

Curt taps the tune out on his chest and glances over at the blinking alarm clock. Only Buck and Bucky would still have an honest-to-god analog clock in their home. But it’s comforting in a way, reminds him of childhood where things like suicide didn’t yet exist. Three-thirty AM. The witching hour his mamo would say and blow a kiss to the Brigid's Cross over the door frame. It’s late, painfully so and Curt’s eyes are so tired they feel covered in sand. But his body is wired, wide awake; fingers stained from drywall and fresh paint flecks. 

The hole was patched.

The aftermath was going to take a lot longer to fix.

Now that Janie's got a gun, she ain't never gonna be the same.

His phone chimes suddenly and he tugs it from his pocket. He knew he was hot shit but a Grindr notification this far out in the middle of nowhere was a surprise. He swipes past it without even looking. Ken’s name is at the top of his list, several unread texts from hours ago left unanswered after Buck’s assurances. 

New York was two hours ahead of Wyoming. The sun would be rising there. 

He tries to tell himself he doesn’t need to talk to Ken. It just felt right to update him on their friends. It wasn’t about Curt and whatever comfort he needed from the younger man. You didn’t seek comfort from things that meant nothing. So it was nothing. So he shouldn’t reach out.

Besides, he shouldn’t text Ken so early when the other man was probably deep asleep, shouldn’t text him and make him feel guilty for missing any updates on Bucky. He flicks his thumb up and down, hovering over the cracked-barely-beyond-use phone screen.

“Fuck it,” he mumbles, exhaustion and dialect blurring the words together into a mumbled ‘fuggit’.

He flicks out of imessage and opens Discord. Ken’s icon was lit up, the scrolling text below it taking Curt a moment of squinting to decipher. He wasn’t old, he was tired thank you.

KennyLemon playing Among Us.

Sweet boy, Curt thinks and then pulls a face at himself. His stomach untwists the smallest amount. 

The discord call rings for all of half a second before Ken’s voice comes over the phone.

“Curt?”

His stomach untwists just that much more. “Heya Kenny. You should be asleep.” 

“I couldn’t.” 

That's what Curt loved. Liked. Hated. About Ken. He was so sincere it was sickening, cracked his damn molars with it. How he’d made it through everything without bruising that tender center of his beyond repair was a wonder to Curt. Like a peach, one Curt was more than used to sinking his teeth into. 

You got one juicy ass Lemmons.

“Curt.”

“Yeah Ken?” He liked it when the kid said his name. Made something in his chest go all soft and gooey like chocolate. 

“I said, how’s Bucky and everything else?” 

Curt blows out through his lips, tries to exhale every bit of breath in his body until he could sink into the mattress and hide from this whole damn day.

“Brains all where they should be.” 

Sometimes it was good to be vicious. It kept him from feeling too much, feeling too tender. He was a New Yorker, take away his meanness and he’d be a hermit crab without its shell.

“Jesus, Curt.”

“I dunno what t’ tell ya Kenny. He’s halfway across the state where we can’t talk to him. Buck’s half dead from exhaustion or shock or both. I spent half the night patching a bullet hole in a wall my best friend tried to put in his head.” To his shock, his vague horror he feels his throat closing up, his eyes growing hot with burning tears. “Fuck.” He sits up, wipes his eyes violently and tries to yank his jogger leg up to get the straps of his prosthetic. The soft fabric catches on the plastic, on the velcro, on anything it can find. “Fuck,” he spits again just because he can.

“You okay B?” Ken’s voice was so soft and tender Curt wants to bare his teeth at it; just to protect himself. He does, only cause the other man couldn't see and so it wouldn’t hurt his feelings. 

“Can’t get m’damn leg off.” He mumbles, feeling hot shame mingle with the frustration. It was all grief anyways, hidden cleverly behind the mask called complex emotions.

“Wish I was there. I could help you.” 

Curt closes his eyes. Sweet boy. Wish you were here too Kenny.

He didn’t catch feelings. Was renowned for it, prided himself on it. He kept things casual because it was better that way, could see the way Ken was skittish as a stray kitten at the idea of anything real. He wasn’t about to go wading around in someone else's shame, but it did hurt in a special sort of way knowing the fear Ken battled with.

“It’s pretty tense here right now anyways. Probably for the best youse not.”

Kenny’s silent for a long time and Curt tries to swallow his regret, finally winning the battle with his leg and dropping it to the floor with a pointed thump. Take that you bastard. “Yeah you’re probably right.” 

Aw Hell. “It’s not that I don’t want you here Kenny.” He says haltingly, rubs a hand through his hair he still liked to keep short, “I just- I want you here a lot. First thing I wanted to do when Gale finally went to bed was call you.”

“Oh.” Kens voice was a little shaky.

Gentle gentle, be gentle with him Curt. His ma’s voice; always lecturing. You’re too rough Curt, Slow down Curt. Don’t push good things away just cause you’re scared Curt.

“Just so you don’t forget.” He finishes awkwardly “I like havin’ you around.” 

Curt thumps AC/DC against the hollows of his ribs.

Little lover, I can't get you off my mind, no, Little lover, I've been trying hard to find.

“You’ve got a real way with words Curt.” Ken teases.

They laugh, Curt pitching his low so as not to carry through the too-empty house “If y’wanted a poet you wouldn’t be with me.” He teases. A question hidden in a statement, the first time he’d dared acknowledge there might be something.

Because fuck he wanted Ken here. Couldn’t lie to himself now that he was hearing the younger man's voice over the phone. Wanted to tuck him against his side and bury his nose into those curls; sweet smelling and warm. Wanted to press him into the mattress and remind himself that they were alive and things were okay. Ken was sweet and sugar, sometimes Curt swore he licked it off the man’s skin. Whispered it into the shell of his ear as he ground his hips into Ken’s ass until there wasn’t a single ounce of space between them.

“You taste like dessert Lemmons.”

Curt grunts and adjusts himself. He couldn’t help his brain, his drive. But it felt beyond wrong to start anything right then and now.

“Yeah,” Ken smiles. Curt can tell. Ken smiled with his words and his body, just just his sweet mouth. “You’re right.” 

Too sweet, too sincere. It made him violent, made him want to bruise and mark and tease. He rolls onto his stomach with a groan, pressing his face into the mattress and counting backwards from twenty. 

“I wanna fuck you Kenny.” His words are muffled into the duvet but still legible. 

Ken sucks in a quiet breath, Curt can practically hear the other man blush. 

“You’re just sad and scared B.”

Curt squeezes his eyes shut so hard dots spring up behind his eyelids, his throat burns hot and it takes him several breaths to stave off the tears. 

“Yeah.” he mumbles “But I still wanna fuck ya.” 

Tug his curls, lick his stomach that wasn’t quite flat despite his fit state (Curt liked it that way). Kiss him til his lips were swollen and red. Red as his pretty curved cock when Curt took it to the root and slipped two fingers inside. Ken liked his fingers, he said. Liked how thick they were, the way the callouses caught and dragged inside him. The strength of them, liked to wrap his lips around middle and index and drag his tongue between them until Curt lost hold of his already thin control.

“You don’t gotta fuck away all your feelings sweetheart.”

It’s not bitter or reproachful, Ken’s statement. It’s gentle and kind. A reminder out of love, a lever opening the floodgates on the things Curt tried to keep in control. 

He gasps. The bed sheets are wet with tears, his nose running with snot. Fucking gross. 

“I dunno how t’ fix this one Kenny.” he whispers “The goddamn bullets still in the wall, rattling around in there like a fuckin ghost. I asked Gale if we should try to get it out and the look on his face-” 

“You can’t fix it for them.” 

“Whatdy-”

“You can’t,” Ken insists. “You can hold ‘em up and support ‘em and do all the things Gale can’t manage right now but the only one who can fix Bucky is Bucky and the only ones who can fix Buck and Bucky are themselves. You can’t put that burden on yourself or you’ll crack and all youse will end up resenting each other.”

“When’d you get so smart huh kid?” 

“I’ve always been smart, and don't get weird on me.” 

Curt sniffles loudly and grossly that Ken remarks on it, making them both laugh. 

It’s Buck and Bucky he owes his life to, who he would lay down his own for. But right now he doesn’t know what he’d do without Ken Lemmons.

It’s a sobering thought, a terrifying thought; one he can sit with for only a few moments before he’s drawn into that reactionary headspace of fuck, bite, take this tender thing and force it inside your ribcage before it hurts you. 

Kinda fucks you up when you’re raised that drinking a guys blood is the ultimate act of devotion.

“I miss you.” he says and fuck him he means it.

“Take care of our boys and come home soon B.” 

[dearestaeneas]

Pappappappappap.

Turn left. Up three slats. Forward for a bit. Hang a right.

Ancient drywall dust speckled the ground at his paws, the wood old and dry and at risk for splintering. It was an absolute playground.

The rat did not know this, but the house had been abandoned for years. On the other side of the wall sat dusty furniture and heavily graffitied wallpaper, empty glass bottles, and general litter. The town had debated knocking it over, putting up a parking lot, but decided against it.

There wasn’t even a shopping mall. What would we need the lot for?

So there the house remained. Abandoned and unloved by humans. The teens who hid in the leaf-filled kitchen to smoke after school did not love the house, with its 3 floors and creaky stairs. The college students who appeared each Thanksgiving night to drink and reminisce, pretending they were anything other than babies in the world did not love the house’s study, home to an elderly desk that no one cared enough to look in. The rats and birds and insects and squirrels did not see the need for the money, or the books, or the gold watch that still, despite it all, ticked.

Pappappappappap.

His little feet pounded ever forward, his little round body squeezing effortlessly upwards between wooden planks.

The little rat, with his round body and busy feet, loved the house. He did not care about the once-expensive looking rugs, or the elegant, but stained, crown molding, and he did not care about the ornate door knobs. The little rat, in no particular order, loved these things about the house:

He loved the still-somewhat-silver silverware that sat in a kitchen drawer for the noise it made when he scurried over them (knives make for a particularly pleasant noise, with their flat edges that slide off of one another).

He loved the bookshelves that lined the walls of most of the rooms, because they made for excellent perches to sit on to survey the floor (not to mention that if one of the books could be knocked over, a page could be taken for a nest with incredible ease).

He loved the plushies left behind in one of the smaller upstairs rooms. There was one that looked like him! Although this was not his favorite (that honor belonged to a little brown bear, who lay on his back, leaving his stomach open for the most wonderful of naps), it pleased him. A mirror had been knocked off the bathroom cabinet and shattered, its shards sparkling on the floor. The little rat tended to avoid that room, knowing simply that the little silver points were bad news, and not needing more information than that. However, he had not come to this conclusion without first exploring the room, for the initial shattering had mimicked the pleasant sounds of the silverware, but times a thousand. He was intrigued by the other little round-bodied rat who looked back at him from one of the shards. He hoped he was not lonely in there.

But the little rat did not love the house for what it contained. Its contents were beneficial and made life interesting and wonderful, but he would have loved the house if it were vacant and cold and bare and boring. The little rat loved the house because it was his home, and because his home loved him.

His home protected him from the rain and the snow and the cold and the heat, his home kept him entertained and safe and happy. He needed nothing and wanted for less.

Pappappappappappap.

He wanted to do something nice for his home. But what did he have to offer? He couldn’t fix the leaky roof, or replace a cracked tile, couldn’t put a chair back upright or even change a lightbulb.

Ultimately, he decided the best way he could show his love would simply be to live in his home. His home would understand his limitations, while still seeing that the little rat stayed because he wanted to, and because staying was important to him.

He climbed higher and higher, ascending more and more wooden slats and boards, scurrying from opening to opening, until finally: a break in the wall.

Drywall parted, and the little rat felt himself becoming giddy. He inched forward, his little nose twitching furiously, his little black eyes boggling.

He panted slightly, having climbed all the way up to the second floor. A journey that would take a human seconds had taken him several minutes. He looked out from his little hole in the drywall to see the ancient chandelier at eye level. If he wanted, he could climb all the way to the very top, and look down onto the chandelier. He’d done this several times, and would, inevitably, do it again.

But there was something magical to being eye level with the sparkly glass. He would say nature played a cruel joke on him, leading him to his home and cursing him with his blurred vision, stopping him from admiring the intricate details of the crystal before him, but the simple problem with this is that he didn’t know any better, didn’t know there was a world outside of the outlines and colors he saw. He loved his home for its outlines and colors, for the way that the chandelier caught the light at certain hours of the day. He loved the sparkle of the rainbow that was cast about the entryway.

Nature was not cruel, nature did not punish him or play jokes. It loved him. It loved him the way he loved his home, it protected him and marveled at him and delighted in his joy.

He sat there, squeaking with great contentment as the sun went down and its rays caught the glass, bathing him and the home he loved in color.

[casusvallis]

╰┈➤ ❝ [Northistle Neighbourhood] ❞

A quieter and cheaper neighbourhood, Northistle is more known for the nature surrounding it than the families themselves. With many of its homes residing deep in the forested and mountainous areas, not many people venture through unless they want to explore the park or fish in the Central Pond.

∘₊✧──────────────────✧₊∘

╰┈➤[1] Dae Residence

Home of the Dae family, composed of Medjine Calixte-Dae, and her daughter Dawn Dae. Her son, Duskin Dae, used to live in the home, but moved out to live in Centretown and get a more 'authentic college experience'. Before the disappearance of Medjine's husband, Gi Dae, the home was much more lively and positive, but now finds itself in shambles. The grass is overgrown, the drywall is stained, and the wood floors are cracked, but Dusk always sends back money to try and keep things stable.

╰┈➤[2] Northistle Suburb

A small cluster of homes residing beside the park, all seen better days. The neighbourhood is known for its cheap and poorly managed houses, but they are a close-knit and connected community. All neighbours support one another, making it one of the more wholesome areas in Casus, even ahead of the Welcome Wagon (WW) suburb.

╰┈➤[3] Northistle Forest

A thick coniferous forest moving up the mountain, with some cottages along the way. Mostly quiet, people don't tend to traverse this area. The residents within the forest are still technically part of the Northistle Suburb, and sometimes come down to participate in community projects. Often, they are on their own, mostly living off the land. One of the cottages is an AirBNB, and often attracts the wrong crowds. We all know how bad AirBNB can be...

╰┈➤[4] Northistle Park

A large open field, often where kids are running around and throwing frisbees or balls. The park used to be larger, separated into Northistle and Southistle, but the Valmous family purchased the Southistle property and the park became much smaller.

╰┈➤[5] Central Pond

A freshwater pond with native fish and plant life, shared with the Valmous properties. Most people fish in the pond, while kids dip their feet in.

[themurphyzone]

Son of Darkwing AU: Just Like You Epilogue

As promised, here’s the epilogue. 

Warning for mentions of alcoholism, implied substance abuse, small amount of profanity. Rating of this fic has been bumped to a T. 

AO3 Link

Trash littered the floor of his old apartment, flies buzzing around moldy pizza crusts and slimy, rotten apple cores. The stench of rot reeked through the air. 

The pungent smell had long driven out all the other renters in the complex, except for that stubborn, ancient geezer of a mutt on the second floor who always watched that irritating Pelican’s Island farce of a show with the sound turned all the way up. He claimed to be hard of hearing. 

But that old fart just enjoyed tormenting him through the paper-thin walls.  

Perhaps he oughta visit tomorrow. Have a little friendly chat about being a good neighbor and pour him a cold one, just like old times. 

He’ll even slip a razor blade into the can. Why not? He was in a giving mood. The mutt deserved a special treat. 

A cockroach scuttled by his foot, and he crushed it with his heel. Its guts spilled out of its disgusting little body, its legs and antennae detaching as he wiped his heel along the stained carpet. 

His landlord would’ve put that infamous tightwad Scrooge McSuck to shame with his cheapness. Never bothered paying for pest control service. 

Now, how should he repay the landlord for renting such wonderful accommodations to the poor, down-on-their-luck beggars and hobos of society? 

He wasn’t going to repeat his plan for the mutt. That sort of revenge was boring. Devoid of any creativity whatsoever. 

No, the punishment should fit the crime. Hit ‘em right where it hurts most. 

The landlord couldn’t bear to part with his money, now could he? Kept it all locked away in a safe beside his desk and refused to entrust it to a bank. Even had the combination password written on a sticky note for convenience and never bothered to memorize it. 

Would be a crying shame if someone were to steal all that precious loot. 

Hell, he’d let the landlord watch too. Let him be the audience to his first crime after his grand comeback. 

And to convey his eternal gratitude, he’d give him the honor of being the first victim of his chainsaw. 

The hum of rusty metal slicing into every obstacle in its path was music to his ears. 

He obliterated the old, battered couch. Stuffing and fabric scattered everywhere as he thrust the deadly, whirring blade deep into the frame. The enormous cut was jagged and messy, just the way he liked it. 

Then he turned to the coffee table. He picked up the remote and hurled it into the TV. The glass splintered with a loud crack, a gorgeous spiderweb forming on the screen. 

He cleaved the coffee table in half, hacking away at the furniture until it was nothing more than useless scraps of firewood. 

His chainsaw wreaked destruction upon everything it touched. It didn’t matter what he tore through. Wood, paper, glass, the foundation of the apartment itself. 

Nothing mattered except for beautiful, destructive chaos.

To hell with the world. It didn’t give a damn about him, didn’t give him the adoration and accolades and admiration he deserved while he was in his prime. The shelf he’d reserved for his trophies was barren and filled with nothing but dust and cobwebs. 

Though the memories were hazy, he remembered owning several golden, shining trophies at some point in his life. 

They were gone now, most likely stolen by some thief looking to make a quick buck. 

He sold the trophies himself. Cashed them in at a sketchy pawn shop in one of the roughest neighborhoods of St. Canard. Probably got less than their actual worth, but alcohol was alcohol. 

He swung his chainsaw at the empty shelf, taking out the plaster and drywall behind it as well. Half of the shelf flew into a wilted, dying potted plant, knocking it down and spilling topsoil and leaves everywhere. 

Despite this, a single leaf remained green, clinging stubbornly to life.

A useless effort. 

The chainsaw sliced the leaf to an insignificant green pulp. 

He laughed at its demise. Why bother trying to live if the rest of the plant was rotting away? 

Why should he give a crap about anything when all the world had ever done was turn their back on him? He’d wasted so much of his life trying to entertain a fickle audience who would never give him what he wanted. 

He’d pushed his body to its limits by performing all his stunts, broke his bones and bruised himself a million times over to make it look authentic, and for what? 

To be forgotten as soon as the executives found a new cash cow show to mass produce toys for?  

To never land any other major role in a TV show or movie, not even as a typecast, because they thought he’d ruin the show before it ever took off? 

Then there was the greatest offense of all, to never be invited to reprise his role in what would’ve been the greatest comeback in the entire entertainment industry, snubbed by his fans who claimed to worship the ground he tread upon and that prissy wannabe director who had no respect for the franchise. 

And there was the worst of the lot…an ungrateful, selfish duck he’d raised from an egg and once called son. 

He’d grown into a mockery of Darkwing Duck’s legacy, a pale imitator of the original. A cunning thief who’d stolen his identity, his life, and his fans. 

He bellowed in rage, ripping the phone and answering machine from its wires and hurling them out the broken window. The phone broke through the fragile glass and tumbled three stories to the ground. But the answering machine laid in shambles, a shrill beep and distorted, mechanized voice emitting from its speakers. 

“You have ninety-one missed messages. If you’d like to hear these messages-”

He slammed his fist against the machine. But instead of shutting off, a voice, one so insultingly timid and meek, filtered through. 

“Hi, Dad. I know you probably don’t want to talk to me right now, and again, I’m really sorry I couldn’t convince Boorswan to at least give you a cameo appearance…but I was kinda hoping we could catch up? It’s been a while since we did something togeth-” 

His chainsaw cut through the machine, silencing it forever. The whirring blade lodged into the floor beneath the destroyed nuts and bolts. He yanked on the handle, but the chainsaw wouldn’t budge. 

Cursing, he shut the chainsaw off and kicked it in frustration. 

All that buzzing had given him a headache. 

He needed a damn drink. The brand didn’t matter. It just needed to be strong, bitter, and kill the migraine that pounded away at his skull. 

A sharp pain traveled up his spine as he stumbled to the kitchen. He was forced to rely on the wall to keep his balance, and he loathed it with every fiber of his being. 

Dirty dishes filled the sink and spilled onto the counter. He’d never gotten around to tying up the trash bags and taking them to the dumpster either. While the odor might’ve been off-putting to anyone else, it failed to compare to the Duckburg sewer he’d escaped through. 

He rummaged through the refrigerator until he found a can of beer that had gotten wedged in the back. His sleeve was covered in old food stains as he pulled his arm out, but he didn’t care. 

There was a voice somewhere in the back of his mind, some quack doctor straight out of med school warning him not to drink while on his painkiller prescription, listing out all the horrible side effects, and how that could affect him in the long run. 

That doc could kick rocks for all he cared. 

He popped a handful of painkillers into his mouth and guzzled down the beer. He’d survived things that would’ve killed other ducks a million times over. He wasn’t about to drop dead from this. 

If he wanted to go out, he’d do it in a blaze of glory. He refused to die as some nameless nobody. 

He crushed the empty can and tossed it aside. 

It was the last one he had. Nothing else except the painkillers had any value attached to them. He shoved the bottle into his pocket, figuring it was best to keep it for his personal use. 

The only other items he found that would be remotely useful were several kitchen knives, scattered haphazardly through several drawers. Small enough to conceal within his clothing, and lethal enough when he was ready to slash and stab and hack away at anybody who dared cross him. 

He slipped the smaller knives into the inside pockets of his jacket. Then he tested out the largest blade in his hands. 

It had a long, serrated edge, and its jagged shape would increase the risk of his enemies hurting themselves if they tried to knock it out of his hand. 

If he wanted to be flashy and draw everyone’s attention to himself, then his chainsaw was the perfect tool to induce terror and create mass chaos. 

But the daggers were more personal, a method to convey his hatred and deliver vengeance to everyone who wronged him. Yet a simple stab wound wouldn’t even make them feel a fraction of the pain they’d put him through. 

He’d have to build up a weapon collection, but for now, this would do. 

He dragged the knife along the table, the counter, the wall, and across any solid object in reach as he left the kitchen, leaving behind a horrid, shrill screech and thin white scars along every obstacle in his path. 

There was only one place left to visit before he burned down this dump for good. 

He had some cash stuffed somewhere in his bedroom. It wasn’t McSuck’s Money Bin, nor did he plan to pay for his fix at the next mom and pop convenience store he passed, but having a little greenery was better than nothing. 

He plunged his dagger into the underside of his mattress, lifting it into the air. There was a small collection of torn, crumpled bills and dull pennies. In this economy, the paltry amount wouldn’t cover the cost of a single stick of gum. 

But it would be a useful lure. Money was a powerful motivator for any poor, desperate sap. 

He snatched up the cash and shoved it into his pocket, letting the mattress slam against the frame. But the dagger remained wedged inside, forcing him to brace his foot against the side of the bed as he yanked the stubborn blade out. 

Finally, the knife yielded to his demands and came out of the mattress. He cursed and lost his balance, tumbling onto his back. His elbow smacked against the leg of his bedside table.  

The booze and painkillers hadn’t kicked in yet, so it still felt like some asshole set his arm ablaze. 

A picture frame that was perched precariously on the edge wobbled before falling onto his kneecap, as if he hadn’t dealt with enough insults to his injuries. He snatched up the frame with the intent of hurling it out the window, but a splash of color caught his eye before he could follow through. 

Within the cracked glass, there was an old drawing of-

The frame slipped out of his hands and fell to the ground. A wave of dizziness overtook him, one that he couldn’t quite chalk up to the alcohol in his system. 

He was hunched over the drawing, his hands and knees on the floor like a pathetic beggar, the heroic gaze of a duck clad in purple boring through him. 

A forgotten memory resurfaced from a decade long past. He’d been at the peak of his career then, the brightest star in the night sky, one that was impossible to miss. 

He saw a small, timid duckling with an awkward bill that was too large for his face. Who looked up to him with adoring, shining eyes, like he’d created the entire world from scratch. 

A voice, tiny yet filled with powerful determination, proclaiming his life’s dream.   

“When I’m bigger, I’m gonna be a hero just like you!”

The duckling became an adult. Young, bright-eyed, and hopelessly naive to the true nature of his chosen career path.  

“We’ve had our arguments. I…I know I said things I regret. But I just want you to know, you were my inspiration growing up, Dad. That’s why I’m playing Darkwing now. I’m gonna show this new generation who Darkwing Duck really is, a beacon of hope in the darkness! If a kid falls on hard times, they can look to Darkwing Duck to help them stand up and keep fighting! So come work on the movie with me! Let’s inspire everyone, together!”    

His son was nothing more than a filthy traitor, an awful impostor, a cunning thief who stole his entire life, identity, and legacy.  

If that backstabber wanted to become a superhero so badly, so be it. But he would have to lose those ridiculous ideals and morals about inspiring people and helping them stand on their own. 

Rage boiled in the pit of his stomach, his fingers tightening around the knife’s hilt. 

If his son wanted to be a bleeding heart and help people so badly, then why couldn’t he have started with his own father? 

His knife ripped through Darkwing Duck, destroying his image forever.

End AN: This AU is still a tragedy for the relationship between Jim Starling and Drake Mallard. But while Drake eventually becomes a hero and adds LP and Gosalyn to his family, Jim can’t see past the end of his own beak and still becomes Negaduck in the end. 

Drake had a fallout with Jim in his late high school/college years because Jim wasn’t taking care of himself and couldn’t let go of his glory years as Darkwing Duck. Jim started drinking to cope and shut out any attempts to help from Drake and his old coworkers. Jim also developed health issues later on, partially because of his unhealthy lifestyle and because of the injuries he accumulated during the original run of DWD. That said, Drake still loves his dad and wants to reconcile with him, but Jim keeps ignoring him. 

As much as I love The Duck Knight Returns, one nitpick I have with the episode is that the main characters don’t find out about the movie until the day the episode takes place, and Boorswan states that the production is almost finished. I can believe that Darkwing First Darkness most likely ran on extremely tight budget constraints and didn’t have a lot in the way of promotional materials and advertising due to Scrooge McDuck being the head executive. But with Launchpad being the DWD superfan, I believe that if there were any news at all of Darkwing getting its own reboot movie, he’d be following all updates on the movie religiously and talking everyone’s ears off about it. 

I can excuse Jim Starling for not finding out about the movie straight away. In this AU, Drake tried to tell him about being scouted and his plans to audition for DWD, but Starling wouldn’t listen and later accused Drake of hiding all this info from him. Throughout the movie’s production, Drake tried to contact Starling and update him about happenings on the set, advice on his stunts, and sometimes just wanting to know how he’s doing, but Starling never picked up the phone and didn’t speak to Drake until LP brought him to the studio to watch the filming of the climax. 

[memobread]

ALRIGHT FOLKS HERE IT IS

Jonathan Davis x transmasc! reader

TW: mentions of transphobia, mommy issues, etc. Contains heavy gore and r*pe using an electrode. Please proceed with caution

CONTAINS: Tons of fluff, smutty smut, and it takes place in the movie Goregasm

CONTEXT FOR PPL WHO HAVENT WATCHED GOREGASM:

the C.L.A.M. is a group of radical feminist bitches who go around killing men for no reason and Cockface is literally a guy who beats people to death with a giant dildo.

Aaaaanyway...ENJOY!!

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"I don't care what you'll do to the body I created, you're still my daughter."

You slumped over your mother's dining table, gripping the back of a chair in a fit of silent rage. You hated that word, "daughter" with all your being. You wished coming out as transmasculine didn't trigger your family as needlessly as it did.

"What happened to loving me unconditionally?" You spat, twenty-three years old with a mother who still picked fights with him.

"This isn't you. This isn't the 'way you are,'…you're just a tomboy."

Your mind seethed at the word. Your mother had angered you to the point where you were trembling, trying to hold yourself back. Attempting to control yourself, you decided to get up and get a beer from the fridge.

"Y/N, please take off your binder. It makes me uncomfortable."

It took a few moments to process the absolute bullshit spewing from your mother's mouth. She would talk to you like that all the time, but this time, you had enough of it.

"…the fuck did you just say?..."

"Don't swear at me, young lady!"

You violently slammed the fridge door shut, tears blurring your vision and streaming down your face. Your mother always made you feel stupid when you were upset, so the only way you could process anger was by holding it in until you cried. You felt so powerless with your mother; like you had no agency over your adult life. Even though you moved out, you felt like she still controlled you.

"…I needa go to work…" You choked out through tears.

"With a beer in your hand? Let's face it, Y/DN, you're pathetic. You insult ME by doing all this harm to the body I created, and now you're an alcoholic?"

You lost any means of control you had before.

"Oh, poor you! You make FUCKING EVERYTHING about yourself! When I tried FUCKING KILLING myself, you blamed me and said I 'hurt the body you created'! You didn't even ask if I was okay, let alone question why I did what I did!"

In an uncontrollable rage, you launched a powerful, adrenaline-filled punch at the drywall, your tough fist cracking through the hard material and leaving a crumbling crater in the infrastructure.

"…And now you're making yourself the victim AGAIN! Have you ever considered HOW I FUCKING FELT?! HAVE YOU EVEN FUCKING THOUGHT ABOUT WHO THAT 'BODY YOU CREATED' BELONGS TO, HUH?! AM I JUST A FUCKING BODY TO YOU?! WHY DOES IT MATTER WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE?!"

Your mother was in complete shock. You never spoke to her like that before until then. You finally let her know who she was.

…a cunt…

Sparing yourself the pain of listening to your mother retaliate, you grabbed your backpack and rushed out the door, slamming it behind you. Still crying, you ran to your car and hurriedly shut yourself inside, starting it up and leaving your mother's house for good.

"FUCK!"

You slammed your fist against the dashboard, tears sliding from your jaw down your neck and staining the hem of your X-large t-shirt. Various negative thoughts swarmed your head, nearly impairing your ability to drive.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, I need to go back…

Should I apologize?

No! She doesn't deserve an apology!

You talk to your mother like that, you piece of shit?

Your mother completely ignored your feelings and brushed them off as natural reactions, never apologized, cheated on your dad, and made sure he rarely got to see you, let your stepdad treat you like shit, and had no reaction when she saw you cutting yourself.

…the list goes on forever and ever…

Once you arrived at Filthy Frank's Fuck Flicks and Fake Dicks, you wiped your face with your sleeve and left the car, slamming the door behind you.

…pamela anderson, here I come…

You stepped inside, looking down to avoid any suspicion of you crying. Unfortunately, your coworker Mark caught sight of you.

"Hey, Y/N!"

You looked up and waved, trying to still yourself as much as possible.

"Hey, Mark. How's it goin'?"

You slid behind the counter after clocking in.

"I, uh…I'm good, you doin' alright?" Mark asked, concerned.

…fuck…

You broke down sobbing, Mark instantly coming to hug you.

"Dude, whaddid that fuckin' hag do now?" He asked, already knowing who made you cry.

You chuckled to yourself at how Mark already knew why you were crying.

"She said some stupid shit to me again and I just-…I fuckin' lost it, dude. I punched a hole in her wall and everything…"

Mark rubbed your back and pursed his lips.

"It was only a matter of time before one of that floppy-pussied fishy slut's kids stood up to her bullshit…" Mark snickered.

You laughed, slipping away to tend to a horny customer.

"The bitch got like, fuckin'-… seven kids, for chrissake!"

You chuckled while scanning a vcr of Jenna Jameson having sex with a goat and handing it to its rightful customer. He had a long, dark goatee and a shirt with a pentagram on it.

"I *sniff*…I like your shirt…" You sniffled.

"Thanks, man. Your slut mom gave it to me."

You, Mark, and the guy cracked up.

"Hey, uh…is the gloryhole open?"

You glanced over to the eerie curtain across the room.

"Uh…yeah! Have fun!"

You swear you could hear a guy crying and whimpering from behind the hole barrier, but you were too busy to investigate.

I'll check it out later…

You went through your shift as usual, selling obscenity, helping horny customers, and getting help kicking out the ones that were too horny. When your shift was almost over, you heard the bell at the door ring again, but it was different; it came with a comforting presence that you loved so much. Sure enough, it was your cute little love interest, Jonathan Davis.

           “Hey, Y/N!” He called in his cute voice.

You waved to him, completely intoxicated. His loose t-shirt sleeves hung loosely just above his toned, pale forearms, his burnt umber dreadlocks draping over different planes of his lean shoulders and back. Your eyes lazily swung in every direction he went, secretly raving over his toothy smile below a tiny two-piece mustache. Even his long, model-worthy legs caught your eye. Of course, you did not only value his looks. You cared about him so much and would do anything to protect him. He was so kind to you, more so than almost anyone else. But you were conflicted about how he would feel if he knew you liked men.

"'Scuse me?"

You snapped awake from your state of deep thought, meeting the face of another customer with frizzy hair and a chinstrap.

"Oh, sorry. What can I help you with?" You asked in your best porn-marketing tone.

"Yeah, hi. Uh…I'm just checking these out."

You took the tapes he gave you. They had weird age play shit in them. You made a mental note to steer clear of him.

"Take care, uh…enjoy the diaper sluts."

"Oh, I will…" The man smirked, taking the tapes and leaving.

Once the man left, you could clearly see Jon, who eyed the bondage section. You avoided contact with his sparkling inky eyes so he wouldn't notice you staring at him. He fished out his final tape and approached you. With all the composure you could muster up, you said,

"Hey, Jon, how you been?"

           “Oh, uh…I’m okay…You good?”

Jon had noticed your red, glossy eyes.

           “Oh yeah, it’s uh… just family stuff.”

Remembering who your mother was, Jon laughed.

           “Oh god, what’d that bitch do this time?”

You chuckled weakly, scanning the erotic tapes on the shelf behind you.

            “She said I ruined her life or some shit like that, so I got really mad and kinda lashed out at her.”

Jon nodded, familiar with this type of abuse.

"She does stuff, and gets mad at the consequences, so she blames them on me and tries to make herself seem like she's in the right."

You turned back to him with a few delivery tapes and a box.

"All and all, she's a cunt."

"Yeah, seems like it," Jon said, pursing his lips.

You and Jon chatted for a bit during the last moments of your shift. After the final customer left, Jon asked,

"Wanna go get a beer with me and Mark?"

You felt your heart race and your chest pound as soon as those words left Jon's mouth.

"Uh…yeah, sure!"

The three of you left the store after clocking out and locking up, heading towards the gas station next door. As you walked in, you heard a slight rustling in the bushes.

…shit…

It could have been either of the two killers on the loose: the Cockface Killer or the C.L.A.M., and you weren't going to stand by and let your best friend and your love interest get killed.

"Um…hey Jon?"

You spoke quietly, afraid of being heard.

"Hm?" Jon turned around.

You awkwardly stood on your toes to reach his ear as he bent down.

"Um…I think I heard someone in the bushes outside. I'm not sayin' it's the C.L.A.M or Cockface, but um…the three of us should just go back to…to my…or your or Mark's place and lock the doors and windows while we hang out…"

Jon's expression suddenly changed from content to frightened once he realized what was happening.

"We need to leave. Now."

Before you could say anything, the front door slammed open, a gust of fishy wind flooding the tiny store.

"There you are, fucker!"

When you wheeled around to look, you saw Mil Dread, a tall, bearded brunette lady wearing a white leather V-neck crop top and booty shorts, donning another white leather captain cap. Next to her were her little hench-bitches wearing black fishnets and smeared makeup.

 …the C.L.A.M…

 Before you could get the guys and run, the blonde girl made a beeline for Jon, to which you responded by jumping in front of him and tackling her before she could reach him. In a fit of rage, you ripped violent blows to the blonde's stupid face, leaving not a second for her to breathe, let alone blink. While you beat her screaming face in, Jon grabbed the other girl and slammed her face into the wall repeatedly before throwing her on the ground and jumping elbow-first onto her stomach. Retching and shouting filled the room as Mark ran from Mil, throwing glass bottles of vinegar at her to slow her down.

“You little shit-munching whores…”

The blonde tried to throw you off, but you yanked her up by her hair and slammed her bloody face into the wall.

"YOU FUCKING CUNT!" You screamed, slamming her again twice as hard.

She cried out, trying to wrench out of your strong grip, but you slammed her down WWE-style onto a pile of broken glass, lacerating her bloody face tissue. You jerked her head up and rammed your fingers down her throat, holding a piece of glass between them.

"VOMIT, PIG!!" You barked, smacking her bruised face.

She sobbed loudly on your fingers and squirmed, trying to break free again, but you slammed her down harder, tightening your grip as you jerked your fingers in and out, blood oozing from the back of her raspy throat. She heaved up a thick pile of red vomit onto the dirty floor.

“YEAH, THAT’S FUCKING RIGHT, BITCH!”

You couldn’t help but feel maniacal pleasure like everything horrible that ever happened to you shot right out of your fingers and out the girl’s throat.

“L-*cough* Let me go!!” The blonde cried, limply hitting you with flimsy fists.

You grabbed her wrists with one hand and snapped out your switchblade.

“Not until you stop working for that fucking hag.”

As soon as she opened her mouth, you drew your blade and swooped down upon her throat, slicing her white skin and bones like butter. You felt a wave of relief when her voice died down, and all you could hear from her was gasping and choking. You reveled in her blood, unaware of the tall bearded lady leering behind you.  

“She was my favorite…”

You swiveled around to meet the eyes of fury itself. Wide, furious, twitching eyeballs shoved between smoky flaps; thin, trembling red lips holding back all sorts of profanities. Even Mil’s breasts were flushed with anger, down to her bulging leg muscles, to her veiny feet tucked into white platform heels. While she was in shock, you tried to run away but she flung bulging arms around you and slammed you to the ground, ass up, face squished into the concrete.

“You will pay for this…”

“No!” Jon screamed, gripping the nearly-dead hooker by her bloody throat.

 You tried scrambling away, but she flung her legs over you to clamp your hand down, the hard material of her heels nearly breaking every bone in your hands. Before you could try to escape again, she undid your belt and yanked down your pants, bearing the phallic electrode strapped to her crotch. This was what she did to every man she could catch; pin them down and rape them with her stupid fucking electrode, then kill them in the most painful way she can think of, all for no real reason except their gender identity.

“Y…you fucking nazi…” you managed to choke out against the floor.

Mil ignored you, too busy studying your boxers.

“You must have a tiny dick, eh?”

She yanked down your boxers, and her eyes slightly widened.

“You…you don’t-…you’re not a man?…”

Annoyed, you spat,

“Yeah, I am. Ever heard of being trans, you fucking bimbo?”

She grabbed your hair and slammed your face to the ground, your skull bursting with stinging pain.

“You betrayed the female race…”

She slammed into you, shooting excruciatingly painful jolts of electricity throughout your nether regions and up to your stomach, a rough scream belting from your bloody lips. Your hip bones stung the muscle clinging to them, sparking and trembling rapidly as a huge bolt blew straight through your bladder, shooting up every single nerve, and reaching your lungs.

“This is what you fucking get, traitor!”

Your vision clouded and your throat closed. You were gasping for air, blood peeking from your bottom eyelids and between your lips. In a white flash, you saw your life playing back and forth in intervals of seconds. You could faintly hear several more girls laughing maniacally while Mark and Jon struggled against their restraints. You were breaking out into a cold sweat and you were spitting up your lunch. Before you knew it, your body went limp, all you could hear was ringing and blurry screams, your vision blurred to the point of severe disorientation.

 …this is it…

Before you could accept your impending death, you heard a loud, guttural grunt and a blunt object knocking Mil off of you. Your thoughts incoherent, you lay motionless on the filthy aluminum floor, remnants of stinging vibrations jabbing your insides.

“Cockface?!”

With all the strength you could muster, you heaved your weight into your elbows to get a better look at the two infamous serial killers. Mil lassoed her whip around Cockface’s giant dildo and yanked it down, sending him face-first onto the floor. Before she could follow up, he slid in between her legs and tried to jab the dildo up her saggy ass, but he severed her butt cheek instead, causing her to scream as the ugly piece of flesh splattered down to the floor. Cockface tackled Mil to the floor while her guard was down and flung dildo blows at her bitchy face, clipping her cheekbone and slicing it like salami.  

 …that thing must have some sort of acid on it…

Mil cracked her flogger hard on Cockface’s chest, drawing huge beads of deep red and making him cry out in pain. She then straddled him, clasping her hands around his thick neck and wringing hard.

“So long, scum…”

Suddenly, Cockface launched a brutal heave of his dildo up between her tits, completely lacerating the tissue, snapping her sternum, and impaling through her. Her grip on his neck instantly went limp, and saliva started dripping from her mouth onto Cockface’s dildo mask. Suddenly, you heard clapping coming from the front door.

“Goddamn, that was hot…”

You looked towards the source of the clapping, and there you found a short, stubby man with a short beard, receding hairline, and a detective badge hanging loosely from his belt.

“Detective Douglass Depschette, FPD, here to investigate whatever the fuck this is.”

Beside him stood a taller brunette woman donning a pair of round glasses and a typical office worker outfit. She looked like she would rather get a sulfuric acid enema than work with Depschette, understandably.

“You see, Depschette? The fetish killer and Cockface are the same!” She exclaimed, indicating the bloody scene with her arms.

Depschette groaned in frustration.

“Here we go again…”

He approached Mil’s mutilated corpse.

“You see…”

Your vagus nerve sparing you the ramble, you blacked out. Blurs and whisps of Jonathan appeared before you in your dream, and you could hear occasional bits of his pretty voice as he and Mark eventually hauled you out of the store, carrying you to your car.

“Gah, shit…”

“C’mon, lift his legs…”

When the two men finally crammed you in, Jon sat in the back with you, laying your head on his lap. When Mark hit a speed bump, your body jolted to the side, your face meeting Jon’s crotch. His eyes widened, and he blushed, squeezing his legs together. Mark snickered.

“You two queers doin’ alright back there?”

Jon let out an awkward chuckle.

“Shut up, man…”

When the three of you finally arrived at your trailer, you were carried inside and laid on your comfy mattress. Jon laid your head on his lap again, making sure you were in an elevated position.

"Oh shit, I gotta go," Mark said, scrambling to his feet.

"Lemme know how he's doing, okay?"

Jon nodded, smiling as he waved him goodbye. Just as he left, you started to wake up. Jon inadvertently ran his fingers through your soft, fluffy hair. When he heard you grunt, he snatched his fingers away and grabbed his water bottle.

"Shhh, shhh…it's okay, Y/N…Cockface killed Mil and you're back home."

You were confused, your head was pounding, and you were breaking out into a cold sweat. You were dizzy while trying to scramble to your feet and recognize your surroundings. Jon instantly went to calm you down, putting your head back on his lap and stroking your hair.

"Just take some deep breaths with me…deep breaths…"

Trembling and confused, you followed his slow, deep breaths nonetheless.

"Th….Thanks for taking care of me, Jon…"

He smiled his pretty smile and said,

"Sure, no biggie."

The realization that you were lying in your crush's lap was starting to show up, which gave you butterflies in your nauseous tummy.

"I-…Are you okay? Are you hurt?" You asked, pushing yourself up on your elbows.

Jon nodded, settling you back down to his lap with his soft hands.

"Don't worry, I'm fine. I was able to knock out the bitch who attacked me."

Jon laughed a little awkwardly, stroking your hair.

"Th-Those fucking whores killed my friend Max…All because he was a guy…"

Jon's breath became shaky, and his grip on your hair tightened.

"You…You're the only person I can tell because now I know you're trans…"

Your eyes widened.

…he saw…

He saw your reaction and immediately started backpedaling.

"Listen, Y/N, I'm sorry…I dunno why I said that or why I'm bringing up random shit in the first place…"

You were quick to comfort him.

"Oh no, no, no you're fine. I just…I'm glad you don't hate me because I'm trans."

Jon chuckled halfheartedly.

"I actually had no idea you were born female…You pass so well, with flying colors…"

He ran his pointer finger along your upper lip.

"That's a nice 'stache you got there too…"

You chuckled.

"You too, man."

His two-piece mustache curled with his lips into another pretty smile. Soon, you two delved into another deep conversation. It was so easy to talk to him like you could chat with him about mothballs for ten years and never get bored. The conversation gradually went deeper, turning into Jon's sexual identity crisis.

"Yeah, I think I might like men a little…but I can't publicly say it…I can only talk about this to you."

You and Jon talked more, then the topic transitioned to your gender identity.

"Yeah, I've been feeling like I'm not masculine enough, like I'm just never gonna really be a guy, and it's fucked me up big time."

Your head hung down as you pursed your lips and sighed.

"My mom keeps guilt tripping me for this shit and I don't wanna believe it, but she tells me it so much that-…

You were suddenly overcome with violent guilt and tears started to prick at your eyes. Jon noticed and immediately came to comfort you.

"Hey, hey, c'mere…"

Jon wrapped you in a warm bear hug, massaging your scalp and rubbing your back.

…his hugs feel like heaven…

Jon hugged you as if you were the most precious thing to him. He was warm and soft, fitting your body into his perfectly, like a therapeutic body pillow. You relaxed into his embrace, hugging him back tightly. He reached behind you with one arm and grabbed your fluffy blanket, wrapping it around the both of you as if you weren't relaxed enough already. The security and saturated warmth of the blanket and Jon nearly made you drift off to sleep like a baby. You took your time to enjoy the overwhelmingly comforting feeling, both of you staying in that position for a few minutes before Jon dragged one arm away and left the other draping over your shoulder.

"Yeah, I've been feeling the same way. Societal norms and shit…"

"Those rules are fucking stupid, but I can't help but to try to fit them."

You blushed when Jon put his arm around you.

"Listen, anyone who doesn't see you or me as men is a fucking idiot. You and I are both men, and we know it, that's all that matters." He said, looking into your glossy eyes.

"Shit, you even passed as a guy to Mil." Jon followed up, squeezing your shoulder.

You chuckled and smiled, your heartwarming with reassurance. As the conversation progressed, Jon became more comfortable, considering you two had known each other for a few years and were good friends. But you and Jon wanted something more.

"Hey Y/N…can I ask you something?"

"Sure, go ahead."

Jon cleared his throat.

"When you attacked that blonde girl when she attacked me…All that rage you let out on her…where did that come from?"

You froze. He was giving an obvious hint that he suspected you liked him.

"I…uh…."

Jon stared, waiting for a response.

"I just…"

You couldn't lie to him. You knew Jon possibly had feelings for you, and he knew you did too, and you couldn't deny it any longer.

"It’s because I love you."

He froze, completely taken aback by how direct you were. You started to panic, regretting everything you said to him. The possibility he might not like you hit you that moment, plaguing your mind with horrible predictions.

"I….I'm sorry….I'll leave…"

You offered to leave even though it was your trailer, but Jon pulled you right back.

"I….I love you too…so much…"

This was your breaking point. All the awkward interactions and conversations that were more cringe-worthy than what happens in an episode of The Office didn't matter anymore.

"I just…I-…I-"

You had enough of the awkward stammering, and you took his face in both your hands. You looked deeply into his pretty eyes before connecting your lips to his, kissing him sweetly. He took the hint and let go of his stress, holding you around your upper torso and kissing you back. It didn't take long for the kiss to escalate. Jon straddling your lap and caressing your face, you wrapped your arms tightly around his skinny waist.

"I want this so bad, Y/N…"

Things were escalating quickly since you both acknowledged the constant romantic and sexual tension throughout your friendship, and this was the moment it would all be let go.

"I love you, Jon…"

Both of you were in disbelief, thinking what was happening was too good to be true, all while making out sweetly on your dirty mattress. Jon's kisses were soft and loving as if he was kissing your wounds better. His lips and hands were gentle as they touched you ever so gently. You felt all over his body, your hands sliding gracefully across the dips and mounds of his ethereal figure. The painfully awkward moments you had earlier melted away as your hands settled on Jon's slender waist, holding it and caressing it sweetly, feeling his warmth. It didn't take long for the kiss to escalate; Jon gripped your face tighter and began to eat at your lips, reveling in how you fell apart for him. It didn't take long for Jon to topple over on top of you, trapping you between his arms on the bed. You wrapped your legs around his waist to bring him closer, and he pressed down onto you harder, grunting into your mouth. Your hands raked up and down all over his body, making him moan at the mercy of your fingernails. You kissed him hard, pushing yourself up into him as much as possible as if to fuse your bodies. You could feel his erection pressed against your crotch, desperate for any friction. Biting Jon's bottom lip, you ground your crotch into his cock, a small whimper escaping your lips, and Jon gasping with a loud moan followed by his signature chuckle.

"Oh yeah?"

He slammed himself down between your legs, gasping and whining pathetically at the well-earned friction. Ducking his head under your jaw to plaster sloppy kisses and harsh bites all over your neck, he stayed between your legs and started to rock back and forth on your throbbing heat.

"Oh fuck, that feels so good…" Jon growled into your neck.

When his teeth bared into you, you bit your lip and arched your back, keening desperately for him. Your noises sent him into a horny frenzy, causing him to rip off his jeans, along with yours, and press against you again. With the most ruthless of intentions, you grabbed his dick, making him freeze.

"Ahhh…"

Once you started squeezing a bit on his tip, rubbing slightly up and down, he leaned his head back and let out a breathy moan.

…he's so sensitive…

The friction of the fabric rutting so deliciously against Jon's needy tip made his eyes roll back and caused tremors to wrack throughout his entire beautiful body, leaving you room to bite at his neck a bit.

"Oh my god, Y/N….Jesus Christ….you-oh fuck!!"

Before he could finish his sentence, you slid your hand under his boxers, gripping his cock firmly. His pleasure face gazing down into your soul flashed a hint of a smirk before he slid his hand under your boxers.

"…oh god….jon…."

Jon started cupping your heat and rubbing it gently while you jerked him harder. His long, soft fingers caressing you down there sent tiny waves of pleasure racking your lower body as slick arousal coated his fingers. Breathing heavily and trying not to buck your hips up, you spat on your hand, squeezing it tighter around his girthy cock, stroking the shaft with your fingers as you rubbed him up to the tip at a medium pace, the new lubrication making his eyes roll back in his head and shaky whimpers fall from his lips. You used your other hand to reach down and cup his nuts, fondling them sweetly while his fingers made their way to your little nub, rubbing it in moderate circles with your slick on his fingers. Your bottom lip was trapped between your teeth as you picked up your pace, you and Jon whimpering to each other. Your two hands were making sweet love to Jon's member, one rubbing up and down and squeezing on the wet shaft, and the other smothering the tip with wet caresses and jerks. Jon's face was buried in your neck, moaning pathetically into your ear while rubbing your clit a little faster, your legs opening up, and your moans getting louder at the feeling.

"G-oh…God, Y/N you feel so good on my fingers…" Jon groaned, his voice two octaves lower than usual.

The sight of Jon's hand under your boxers drove you insane with arousal; Seeing his fingers work your sweet little nub so well and hearing your slick sliding his fingers around on it made you wetter than ever before. You rubbed and caressed him faster, reaching a swift pace as he trembled above you, crying and whimpering while you pumped away.

"Oh fuuuuuck, please, please Y/N-oh god, that feels so-oh god…." Jon babbled into your ear, his hand trembling as it started to flick across your clit, sliding down to tease your hole too.

Your back arched when he sped up, breathy moans escaping you as you felt a knot start to form in your stomach. Jon attempted to stifle his moans with your neck as you squeezed your thighs around his, whimpering pleads that could make even the purest of individuals cum in their pants. Jon's cock was red and pulsating in your hands, the feeling of you jerking him so good making his legs shake. Eventually, he couldn't handle it anymore.

"That's it. I need you. Now."

Jon pulled his hand out and yanked down his boxers, revealing a red, throbbing cock ready to cum. He effortlessly flipped you over and yanked up your ass to meet his hips. All you could do was bury your face in your pillows and brace yourself.

"You ready, baby?" Jon breathed, flicking his red tip up and down your slit.

You turned your head around and said,

"Yes…please…let's fuck…"

Jon pulled off his shirt and threw it to the side, revealing his soft, yet strong features and beautiful natural body. He was now completely naked for you and only you. You yanked off your shirt just to feel his skin better, leaving your binder on. With that, Jon positioned his tip at your entrance, pushing it a bit before being sucked into you, both of you awing at the feeling. His tip stretching your tight hole made your eyes roll back into your head as you begged him to go deeper.

"Ah…Already?...You're so needy…I love it…"

He pushed himself deeper into you, your slippery, gunny walls clenching so hard around him, trying so hard to stretch to his size. He could barely slide further because of your tightness, but he pushed himself even deeper. Clenching onto your love handles and choking out hot breathy moans, he started thrusting in and out of you, leaning forward to get a better angle.

"Oh Jesus Ch…Christ, Y/N…You're so f…fucking tight…"

You arched your back further, pushing back into him, the sudden contact with your g-spot making you cry out into the pillow. You could hear Jon chuckle through a heaved breath as he started fucking into you at a medium pace, moaning desperately as he did so. It was like his cock had been sucked up into a black hole, never to escape.

"Y-oh fuck…You okay, baby?"

You nodded, lightly grinding against him, making him grab you tighter and go deeper.

"Oh god, yes…so fucking big…" You keened, your eyes glossy from the pleasure.

The line of praise got you trapped in Jon's arms; He had toppled onto you and gripped the sheets on either side of your head.

"Oh ho ho ho, I'll show you big…"

He rammed into you, catching you off guard and causing you both to cry out in pleasure. His hips were like a piston pummeling into you faster as he moaned various praises in your ear. The repeated blows to your g-spot had you whimpering like a slut for him, begging him to use you however he wanted.

"Oh yeah?"

He went even faster, your eyes rolling back into your brain as your buttcheeks clapped violently against his pelvis, his nuts slapping against your clit.

"Oh fuc-oh yeah…! Take it! Take it like a dirty slut…!"

Jon snarled endless dirty talk in your ear as you both came close to your orgasms in a matter of minutes.

"I'm gonna fucking cum inside you so hard…"

Jon buried his face in your neck from behind, biting down on your pulse and gripping your hips with the strength to keep them still, using you however he wanted. With each thrust, the knot in your stomach came closer to unraveling while Jon cried out and held you still. He could already tell you were about to cum by your tightening, trembling walls and your cries becoming more desperate. Jon violently slammed in and out at the speed of light, nearing his orgasm by the tiniest bit. You were so close to releasing all over his cock,

"SHHHHIIITT!!!"

"Oh my god, fuck!!!"

Seeing stars, your eyes rolled back into your head, and your insides twitched rapidly as you came undone, Jon's hot, milky sperm shooting deep inside you while he cried out incoherent praises and loud moans. With each spurt of cum he would thrust hard into you, draining himself in your body. Eventually, he quickly pulled out and collapsed on top of you, his hairy chest moving up and down against your back. Once he completely calmed down, he started feathering kisses along the back of your neck, drawing a cute smile from you while you held his hands.

"You alright?" Jon asked, kissing your shoulder.

You turned yourself around to face him, pulling him up with you to sit on your bed face-to-face.

"I've never been better…"

Jon gave a little toothy smile and pecked your lips, caressing the little marks on your hips.

"Sorry if the dirty talk got a little outta hand…I'm a horny bastard as you well know."

You chuckled and squeezed his hands.

"Oh no, it's fine. I liked it."

Jon smiled and pulled you under your covers, turning off your lamp.

"Let's just lay here the rest of the night…I'm so fuckin' tired."

"Me too…"

Jon pulled you into a big naked bear hug, holding you close to his chest while you caressed his back, pulling him into you.

"I love you, Jon."

"I love you too, Y/N…"

[timeofjuly]

on my way home

Summary: Quinn gets a late-night text to pick the reader up from a friend's apartment. Set shortly after they moved out together.

Tags: Drug use, angst, blood mention. Nobody is having a good time here.

Read it on AO3 or read it below :)

Quinn drives to the apartment without the radio on. The roads are empty, the streetlights lit up in a long line of sickly-yellow spotlights just for her. It makes sense; it’s four thirty-six in the morning on a Wednesday. Everyone else is tucked away in bed.

Not her, though. Even before getting the four twenty-two text, she’d been awake, folded up on the couch watching late-night infomercials. Her phone had been held loosely in her hand and when it’d buzzed, she’d almost dropped it in her haste to see if it was an ‘on my way home’ message from you.

She pulls up outside of James’ apartment building, her beaten-up sedan looking right at home in front of it. The air is cool and the world outside is almost as silent as her car had been. This far into the city, there are no birds, no buzzing cicadas, no ponds to be populated with the growls and croaks of frogs, to echo through the night like the fading din of a church bell. She is so very far away from home. Not home, actually, not anymore, and that’s a good thing.

Quinn’s buzzed into the building and then takes the stairs two at a time, one hand on the rail to keep herself steady and the other keeping her cardigan wrapped securely around herself. Once outside of apartment 303, she knocks and waits.

The door open and light spills out onto her, bright like the first rays of dawn cracking over the skyline.

“Come in, Quinnie,” James says, ushering her in. His pupils are huge, black pools swallowing blue. His jaw ticks. “Sorry for texting you so late. You weren’t asleep, were you?”

“It’s okay,” she says. “I was up anyway.”

Her nose wrinkles as she tip-toes into his apartment. The place smells like old alcohol and older smoke, the kind that gets embedded in the carpets and stains the drywall yellow. He’s got incense burning on his coffee table, which just adds to the whole unpleasant affair, rather than covering anything up.

She doesn’t like James; hadn’t in high school, even when you’d done your best to make everyone get along. She likes him even less now. She’s not sure if you’re the bad influence on him or if it’s the other way around, or if you’re both just as bad as each other.

She doesn’t like the other people in his apartment, either. Ollie is splashed like watered-down paint over the couch, her eyelids closed. Her fingers twitch as Quinn passes by, but she doesn’t otherwise react.

“Hey, it’s carrot top,” says Buck, the other occupant of the room, his beady eyes trained on the television. “Thank the stars. Clean up in aisle seven, otherwise known as James’ bathroom.”

Mortification burns in her belly, and she wraps her cardigan around herself tighter.

“Shut up,” James says, flipping Buck the bird. He turns back to Quinn and does his best impression of an apologetic look. “But he’s kinda right. Your girl’s a bit of a mess.”

James takes her to the bathroom. The door is open, ceiling light pale yellow and fan humming. You’re kneeling on the grimy tile, between the wall and the toilet. You look barely awake.

“Quinn,” you say. Your voice is thick, like your nose is blocked. Which it is, Quinn guesses, going by the blood on the lower half of your face. Your nose – it doesn’t look broken, she thinks, but what does she know?

“Had a bit of a run-in with the edge of the table, didn’t we?” says James. He looks at her again, still apologetic. His handsome face looks wan beneath the stark bathroom light. “She, ah, went a little too hard and then added alcohol to the mix.”

“’M fine,” you slur, then promptly lean back over the toilet to wretch. Nothing comes out, which bodes poorly for you.

She kneels down next to you, the floor cold through the thin fabric of her pyjama pants. She brushes your sweaty hair away from your forehead and strokes your back with long, gentle brushes, until the gagging subsides. Your whole body shakes and she can feel the individual nodes of your spine through your skin.

“Should I take her to -.”

“No hospitals,” you say. You look at her with glazed, teary eyes. “No hospitals.”

“Okay,” she says.

You sigh and then close your eyes, leaning against her. Your skin burns. She gathers a wad of toilet paper and presses it under your nose, holding it there.

“You gonna be right to get her home?” James asks. He sniffs and rubs at his nose.

“I’ll be fine,” she says. What else can she say? There is no other option.

“Listen, babe…” James sighs. He steps out of the bathroom and beckons her to join him. She’s loath to leave you alone – she hates to think how long it’s been already, how long you’ve been by yourself, so sick, so lost to yourself – but she follows him all the same.

James shuts the door. “I don’t think – Look. This is awkward, but she can’t come around here anymore, okay? We’ve all talked about it. It’s nothing personal, but no one likes to see her like this. Kinda puts a damper on the whole evening, you know?”

She stares at him. Something fizzles in her chest, a cold, numbing ache. It makes her fingertips tingle. “You’ve known each other for years. She’s your friend.”

“Yeah, of course she is! We’ve always had fun together. It’s just. Well.” He clears his throat.

“She’s not fun anymore.” Her voice rings in her ears.

“Exactly,” James says, satisfied. “You get it. No hard feelings, right?”

You have known James forever. Known all of them for years. You would die for these people.

“Right.” Quinn swallows the chill down. It feels like swallowing nails, or a tooth. Sharp. Like it’ll bore through her insides and cut her open.

“Great. I’ll help you get her into the car.”

Getting you downstairs is a process. It’s a two-person job, so James comes down to the car with her, making sure that you don’t tumble down the stairs. Once you’re at the car he passes you over to Quinn and you collapse into her, hugging her tightly, your face buried into the crook of her shoulder. Your blood is sticky on her neck.

“Sorry,” you say, the point of your nose cold against her skin. “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” she soothes, running a hand over your hair. She needs to unpick her fingers from the tangles.

You mumble something into her neck. For a moment, she thinks you’re going to vomit again and wonders if she should redirect you to the gutter, but then you sigh, thin and high. “Are you mad at me?” you ask, voice like a kicked dog.

“No. No, of course not. C’mon, get in the car, I’ll get you home and into bed, and we’ll have a look at your nose.”

You tumble into the car and it takes you a few tries to get your seatbelt to click.

“One more thing, Quinnie,” says James. He stares at you, curled up in the passenger seat. “Has she told you about Jesse?”

“I think so?” She hates that it sounds like a question. Hates that she knows so little about your comings-and-goings that she can’t keep track of all of your friends now. “Um, you all met him at Rendezvous a few months back, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” James rubs at the back of his neck, then looks around, almost covertly. For an absurd moment, Quinn feels like she’s part of some cheesy spy movie, alone in an empty street save the streetlights. “Look, you didn’t hear it from me, but the dude’s bad news. He’s into some shady shit and he really likes your girl.”

“She wouldn’t cheat on me,” Quinn snaps, the words whip-quick and firm with her resolve.

James screws up his face. “That’s not what I mean. ‘M just saying that – I don’t know if he just deals or something else, but he’s not a nice guy. I saw him –.” He cuts himself off and then sighs again. “It doesn’t matter. Just try and keep him away from her, yeah? Just some friendly advice.”

“Okay, thanks,” she says, feeling queasy. She’s met Jesse, only once, and he hadn’t made much of an impression. Just another one of your friends who circle like sharks around you, all wandering hands and hungry eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

James leaves and then it’s just you and her, the way it should be.

Quinn gets in and starts the car. The sound of the engine rouses you from whatever stupor you’d been in – you blink blearily at her, wiping a flake of dried blood away from your nose.

“Hey,” you say, voice still thick.

“Hey,” she replies. Her tone is flat, even to her own ears. She starts the car, ignoring the way her hands shake as she changes gears.

“I’m sorry,” you say again after a few minutes of driving. You’ve opened your window and have been staring into the inky night with almost preternatural stillness.

“I know.”

There’s a moment of quiet. Quinn wonders if she should put some music on, if having something to focus on will make you feel less sick.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask. The wind from the open window makes your voice sound like it’s coming through a poorly tuned radio.

“I’m thinking that you could’ve died tonight,” she says, and it’s not what she’d been thinking at all, but now that she’s spoken the words aloud the thought consumes her. You could’ve died tonight. So easily. Blow to the head, an overdose, drowning in your own vomit.

And you didn’t, but you could very well die tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, the day after that. So on, so forth. How many more texts is she going to wait up for? How many more times will you come home to her?

“I’m okay. I’m alive, see?” You grab her hand with your clammy one, ripping it from the steering wheel, and bring it up to your throat. Your pulse jumps against her feeble grip.

You’re right; you feel so very alive and there is so little keeping your blood where it should be, just a thin layer of skin.

She tears her hand away and places it back on the steering wheel. The road ahead is dark and she needs to focus.  

From the corner of her eye, she watches you wipe at your crimson face with the palm of your hand and for the first time in her life, she doesn’t look at you and find you beautiful. She can’t metamorphose the gore and the sadness and the shadows under your eyes into something enthralling. There’s nothing poetic about this. There is only blood.

[purpwrites]

loneliness is not a feeling.

feelings are things that come from within.

loneliness is a plague,

a fifty pound weight that settles in the arch of your back,

nestling and scraping,

till it reaches the white ivory inside,

rattling on your spine as you tear your stomach open,

boney fingers digging it out from the crevices.

i stare at my walls,

their cracks and paint drips,

stains and pen marks.

replace me with drywall,

maybe then you can paint over my mistakes.

[mauvelilywilliams]

Writerblr Garden Advent Calendar Event: Found Family

I used today's prompt to write out a scene that would happen if Die and the others got stuck inside due to a snowstorm. And Die gets reminded that it's not just him against the world.

(Scene under the cut)

Die stormed around the littered loft, his footsteps echoing in the bleak, dirt-stained room with its cracking drywall. Only muffled by the sound of the heavy falling snow and the howling wind outside the broken window. A smell of cold, yellow must, and smoke filled the air. Die grabbed a fairly good sized piece of charcoal that had rolled out of the dying fire in the center of the room and threw it out the broken window at the sky. “Damn it!” Clause and Deirdre stood in the doorway to the loft. The darkness behind them partially hid the stairwell that was slowing gaining a thin sheet of ice in spots as the mist they had moments ago froze. Clause watched on in concern and Deirdre curled her lip in frustration at Die's actions. The angry man’s jet-black hair was wild from being tugged at and his brown eyes seemed darker than usual from his mood. Both siblings knew to tread carefully when he was like this. After a moment of standing awkwardly, trying to read the situation, Deirdre finally reached up and shoved her brother into the room. Clause stumbled his way into the loft and almost tripped over a broken woven basket. Die didn’t look over, but his brief pause gave away that he at least noticed he wasn’t alone. Clause tried to make eye contact, but Die wasn’t having any of it. So, Clause busied himself with looking for something in the room. Deirdre walked in behind Clause and made her way toward the fire that was practically nothing more than a coal sitting on sheet metal and bricks. The bits of smoke that it managed to kick out curled up toward the ceiling and a hole that had been broken out, exposing an old air duct. No one had any idea where the smoke was going from there but at least it wasn't gathering in the room. Die glanced over and glared at her, still trying to not look at Clause. “I don't want to hear anything about how this isn't helpful.” He huffed and angrily sat down next to the pitiful fire that was threatening to go out. Clause settled on grabbing a blanket and pulled it out from under a pile of clothes and a collection of acorn tops. He tossed it over the back of his shoulders and sat down next to Die. Which garnished a glare from Die before he looked away, trying to keep from looking Clause in the eyes. “Neither one of you have to stay with me,” Die grumbled. Clause took the blanket and tossed it over Die's shoulders too just before scooching a little closer to Die. “I'd like to stay with you, if that's okay.” Deirdre sat down next to the fire and tossed a few more pieces of wood on. Which started smoking horribly. The mist probably got them a bit wet on the outside. “Yeah, if we left, you'd probably do something stupid.” Die looked at Deirdre expecting her to be glaring at him or about to give some sort of lecture. But instead, she busied herself by checking the multiple hair ties in her ponytail, making sure her signature look of poofy black baubles went down her back correctly. Then he felt a bump on his shoulder. Die turned to see that Clause was smiling at him, brown eyes still worried but trying to be positive, and his shoulder against Die’s. “We're here with you, you know.” He pulled the blanket a bit tighter around Die and himself. Die felt the tension in his shoulders release. He couldn't even bother letting out a groan this time at their kindness. He glanced back at the fire and leaned in a little against Clause. “Stupid. The both of you.” Deirdre smirked, “Says the man who almost let the fire go out.”

[briardoll]

Here’s some poetry I wrote when I was rly depressed a while ago hope you like it

This room

Talking to the walls was never more easy, and out the window is the sun.

I see the monsters in the night fight my curtains, when I look at your pictures I’m a heavy, loaded gun.

When I’m mad I shoot off at the mouth and there to catch it is the drywall I hold so dear.

as I seethe the ceiling fan cools my blood to tears. It’s all so clear.

I hit the ground running from the fact of the matter, the fact is I’ll never change.

I cling to the people that want me, until they no longer want to stay.

I watch the door knob turn, my sister asks me if I’m talking to myself, I say “who else?” Who else?

When you held my hand I never knew the meaning of hurt, and now my tears hit the tiles on my floor

And the weeds and flowers grew up out of the cracks, I imagine the face you’ll have when you see me again, hope you see me again.

I tear away the posters and the paint til my fingernails bleed, the best advice has led me towards the notion that I should paint over everything, to forget about what we could have been.

This room holds all my secrets, all the lies and all the truths, and the biggest truth is that I’ll never stop missing you.

If I could change our circumstances would that’ve changed your mind? It doesn’t matter now because I’m ready to move on. This room holds me when there’s no one else, it never listens just to respond, It brings me to my senses when everything else is gone, I know it’s not right to isolate but who else would understand my point of view?

This room is my closure and my comfort in the night, when I sing it applauds, and when I cry it’s the shoulder where my tear stains lie. I don’t need anything else but this.

[barreloftears]

𝖇𝖆𝖗𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖙 𝖔𝖑𝖎𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖘

barrett olivares is based on barrel from the nightmare before christmas. he is a 25 year old cursed human, moonlight casino employee, and uses he/him pronouns. he has the power of temporary reanimation.

penned by HARPER

reflection

face claim: diego tinoco sexuality: bisexual height: 5'9" eye color: dark brown hair color: black piercings: ear lobes tattoos: snake on his forearm , mother & sister's death date in roman numerals on right collarbone.

attitude

positive traits: disciplined, resourceful, playful, private, industrious, bold negative traits: compulsive, devious, impatient, mischievous, paranoid, subservent likes: really loud music, horror movies, violence, cracking jokes at inappropriate times, the color black, pranks, meaningless sex, rooting for sports he knows nothing about, the smell of permanent markers dislikes: belts, the ocean, the sound of a door slamming, creaky floorboards, bright colors, talking about the past, the l-word, nightmares, when it's way too hot out, political figures phobias: thalassophobia - fear of the ocean or large bodies of water hobbies: breaking the law, loitering in the casino, trying to learn how to gamble but not being able to make sense of it, spending way too much time with temporary suitors and booze, sketching, trying to bring road kill back to life, trying desperately to forget the past but never being able to let go of it simultaneously, latching onto shona & luis. aesthetic: the sound of fist meeting drywall, the crack of a leather belt, wanting to understand love but not knowing where to start, an empty graveyard clouded by thick mist, black converse with blood-stained canvas, worn leather clubs, the sharpening of a knife against a piece of loose asphalt, manic laughter that echos down a dark alley, the sound of a dripping sink that won't stop fucking dripping

relations

mother:  daniela oliveras ( deceased ) father: matías oliveras ( deceased ) sibling(s): luciana oliveras ( deceased )

headcanons

barrett still hasn’t been able to fully process the trauma he had endured as a child, not yet seeing it as trauma but seeing it as his experience of NORMAL. he didn’t feel the need to tell other people about it, but hearing about the childhoods of other’s did lead to him questioning his own.

the man can often been seen engaging with violence simply to try and make sense of it. what was violence FOR ?? what purpose did it serve ?? did it represent love or a lack of it ?? 

he is beyond easy to manipulate, and a lot of that stems from the fact that he learned that not showing discipline results in consequence. that isn’t to say he isn’t notorious for breaking a law or two, but that is heavily because he operates doing what others tell him to… even if it isn’t legal. if they tell him to jump, he’ll say how high or… off what elevated surface. 

when the temptation to disobey orders passes through him, he is met with violent flashbacks of punishment he was faced with when he was younger, and so he prefers to simply take instructions and not question them. not out loud, at least. 

barrett doesn’t see love as something that should be desired, or sought out for, opting instead to question it when it’s presented and not trust it when it’s mentioned. he doesn’t understand it. if what his parents shared was love, why did his father do what he did ?? 

barrett can often be found binging horror movies in his free time, engaging with violence in a passive way to try and see if it’s the violence that bothers him or who inflicts it. nothing makes his skin pebble with goosebumps quite like the memories of his father… and he has yet to find a horror movie that truly spooks him.

luis and shona, though often the ones bossing him around, are two individuals that barrett would do anything for. cut off a finger? sure. rob a bank? okay. go to the ends of the earth? in record time. he has already lost one family, even if it was a broken one… he would be damned if it were to happen to him again.

barrett does not wear belts, and even the innocent removal of one is enough to send a crippling anxiety he couldn’t seem to shake pulsing through him. he opted to knot shoelaces around his waist to keep his pants up if absolutely necessary, often leaving him without ties for his shoes.

the man will happily busy himself with sex and booze and laughter in order to distract himself from the impending doom a moment of self-reflection would bring him, opting to cozy into the comfort of oblivion instead of focusing on the damage his memories always seemed to bring him.

barrett is terrified of large bodies of water — he will not walk within viewing distance of a lake or even a stream, the babbling of the smallest creek enough to make him lash out in terror. even a picture of one is enough to have him crawling into his shell. 

his reanimation talent is one he practices often, but he keeps it primarily to himself… unless he’s pulling a prank on someone to get some sort of distracting amusement out of them. outside of luis and shona, no one knows about the talents he possesses. or…. anything about him at all, for that matter.

[flow-drywall]

Drywall, also known as gypsum board or plasterboard, is a fundamental element in interior construction. Over time, it can be subject to damage from various sources like accidental impacts, holes from nails or screws, moisture, or settling. Learning effective patching and repair techniques is essential for maintaining walls' aesthetics and structural integrity.

Flow Drywall : Importance of Drywall Repairs

Structural Integrity Properly repaired drywall ensures the structural stability of walls and ceilings, preventing further damage and maintaining their strength.

Aesthetic Restoration Repairing holes, cracks, or blemishes restores the visual appeal of walls, creating a seamless and polished finish.

Property Value Well-maintained walls contribute to the overall value and marketability of a property, making timely repairs essential for homeowners and property managers.

Types of Drywall Damage Small Holes and Dents Commonly caused by nails, screws, or accidental impacts, small holes and dents can be easily patched and smoothed out.

Large Holes and Punctures Larger holes resulting from doorknob impacts, furniture, or more significant damage require more intricate repair methods.

Cracks and Water Damage Cracks can form due to settling, temperature fluctuations, or moisture issues. Water damage can cause swelling, bubbling, or staining, requiring thorough repair and sometimes mold remediation.

Tools and Materials Required Patching Compound Patching compound, available in various forms such as spackling or joint compound, is used to fill holes and cracks. Lightweight compounds are ideal for smaller repairs.

Drywall Patch Kits Patch kits contain self-adhesive mesh or patches designed to cover larger holes, providing a stable base for applying compound.

Drywall Tape For reinforcing seams and preventing cracks, paper or fiberglass mesh tape is used with joint compound.

Sandpaper and Sanding Blocks Used for smoothing the patched areas and achieving a flush finish.

Putty Knife and Drywall Trowel Essential tools for applying patching compounds and spreading them evenly.

Primer and Paint To finish the repair, primer helps the patched area blend with the surrounding wall, and paint provides a uniform appearance.

Steps for Drywall Patching and Repairs Small Hole and Dent Repairs Preparation: Clean the damaged area, removing loose debris or chipped edges. Ensure the surface is dry and free from dust.

Application of Patching Compound: Using a putty knife, fill the hole or dent with patching compound. Feather the edges to blend with the surrounding wall. Let it dry as per manufacturer instructions.

Sanding: Once dry, sand the patched area gently to smoothen the surface. Wipe away dust with a damp cloth.

Priming and Painting: Apply primer to the patched area, allowing it to dry completely. Then, paint the repaired area to match the existing wall.

Large Hole Repairs using Drywall Patch Kits Prepare the Hole: Cut away any damaged or uneven edges around the hole to create a clean, rectangular shape.

Apply Patch: Affix the self-adhesive mesh or patch from the kit over the hole, ensuring it covers the entire area. Press firmly to secure it in place.

Layering Compound: Using a putty knife or trowel, apply multiple thin layers of joint compound over the patch, feathering each layer for a smooth transition. Allow drying between coats as recommended.

Sanding and Finishing: Once dry, sand the patched area gently to achieve a flush surface with the wall. Clean the dust, apply primer, and paint to match the wall color.

Repairing Cracks and Water Damage Assess the Damage: Identify the extent of the crack or water damage. For minor cracks, use joint compound directly. For larger or structural cracks, consider professional assessment.

Fill and Seal Cracks: Apply joint compound or spackling into the crack, using a putty knife or trowel. For better reinforcement, embed drywall tape in the compound for larger cracks.

Dry and Sand: Allow the compound to dry thoroughly, then sand the area to create a smooth surface. Clean the dust before applying primer and paint.

Tips for Successful Drywall Repairs Patience is Key: Allow sufficient drying time between compound layers for better adhesion and smoother finishes.

Feathering Technique: Blend the compound outward from the repair area to seamlessly merge it with the surrounding wall.

Proper Sanding: Use fine-grit sandpaper for a smoother finish. Sand lightly to avoid over-smoothing or creating uneven surfaces.

Quality Materials: Use high-quality patching compounds and tools for better results and durability.

Color Matching: Ensure primer and paint match the existing wall color to achieve a cohesive look.

Drywall repairs are essential for maintaining the integrity and aesthetics of interior spaces. Understanding the types of damage, necessary tools, and step-by-step repair processes empowers homeowners and DIY enthusiasts to effectively restore damaged drywall, achieving seamless and professional-looking results.

By following these techniques and tips, individuals can confidently address various types of drywall damage, ensuring a flawless finish that blends seamlessly with the surrounding walls.

[emo-emu64]

Poems I Slip Under The Door To The Girl That Is Curled Up Inside Of Me

I Am Lived In

My house feels lived in, lived in like a home. When you ask where the red stain on the ceiling is from, I will tell you the story of my mother tripping with a plate of my father's pasta in her hands, the homemade sauce flying in every direction. I will show you the stenciled marker in the shape of a dinosaur on the wall behind my vanity. The words "roar" written under it in small letters. A gift from my sister, who loved that room long before me. I show you the picture frames that have been glued back together, cracks in the wood from when they were knocked off the walls of the hallway. There is a hole in the drywall above the couch from when a toy that should not have been played with inside was fired regardless.

I hope that one day people will see my freckles and my birthmarks. My stretchmarks and my scars, and I hope they will know that I have lived. That there are memories buried under my skin, much like an old house. I hope they hear my shoulders crack and let me tell them about my swimming career. I hope they notice the scar on my arm, and listen to how I scraped it going down the slide when I was a child. I hope they see me, and know that I have made and lost friends. I hope they see me and know that I have found great success, and made terrible mistakes. I hope they see me and know that I Am Lived In.

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How to Identify Mold Problems in Your Home

Mold is a common household problem that thrives in damp and poorly ventilated environments. While some mold is visible, much of it grows in hidden areas, making it difficult to detect. Understanding the signs of mold is essential for maintaining a healthy home.

1. Recurring Musty Smells

One of the earliest indicators of mold is a musty or earthy smell that doesn’t go away, no matter how much you clean. This odor is particularly strong in basements, attics, or rooms with poor airflow.

2. Visible Spots and Discoloration

Mold growth often appears as black, green, or white spots on surfaces like walls, ceilings, and furniture. While small patches might seem harmless, they can signify a larger problem beneath the surface.

3. Water Damage and Stains

Water stains, discoloration, or bubbling paint are telltale signs of mold-prone areas. These issues usually point to leaks or long-term exposure to moisture.

4. Unexplained Health Issues

Mold can significantly impact your health, causing:

Chronic sinus infections

Headaches

Difficulty breathing

Irritated skin If these symptoms worsen at home, mold may be the underlying cause.

5. Increased Sensitivity in Allergies

If allergy symptoms intensify indoors but improve outdoors, mold spores might be present in the air. These spores can trigger sneezing, runny noses, and itchy skin.

6. Leaks and Flooding History

Homes with a history of leaks or flooding are more likely to have mold. Even when cleaned up, moisture can linger in drywall, carpets, and other materials, creating an environment for mold to grow.

7. Condensation Buildup

Frequent condensation on windows, pipes, or other surfaces is a sign of excessive moisture. This can lead to mold in corners, crevices, and less-visible areas.

8. Structural Damage

Warped walls, sagging ceilings, or rotting wood are indicators of severe moisture issues, often accompanied by mold growth. Inspect these areas closely for discoloration or dampness.

9. Persistent Humidity

If your home feels perpetually damp, it’s crucial to monitor humidity levels. High humidity not only fosters mold but can also damage furniture, flooring, and electronics.

How to Confirm and Address Mold Issues

Inspect High-Risk Areas: Focus on bathrooms, kitchens, and basements.

Use Mold Test Kits: DIY kits can help confirm the presence of mold.

Fix Moisture Problems: Repair leaks, seal cracks, and improve ventilation.

Hire Experts: Professional mold remediation ensures thorough removal.

Why Addressing Mold Early Matters

Ignoring mold can lead to health risks and costly structural damage. Early intervention not only saves money but also ensures a safer living environment for you and your family.

Conclusion

Mold can hide in plain sight or lurk in unseen corners of your home. By recognizing the signs early and taking action, you can protect your property and health from its harmful effects.

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How Drywall Repair Enhances Your Home's Value

When it comes to improving the value of your home, some renovations can be quite costly, while others may seem like minor details. However, something as simple as drywall repair can actually have a significant impact on your home's appeal and overall value. Drywall is an essential part of your home’s structure, and keeping it in good condition can enhance both the aesthetic and functional aspects of your property.

1. First Impressions Matter: Aesthetic Appeal

When potential buyers walk into your home, the first thing they notice is the appearance of the walls and ceilings. Cracks, holes, or stains can make a home feel neglected and decrease its curb appeal. Even minor imperfections in the drywall can give the impression that the home requires more extensive repairs, which may make buyers hesitant. By investing in drywall repair, you can ensure that your home presents a clean, polished appearance. Freshly repaired drywall creates smooth, flawless surfaces that can be painted to match any interior design, allowing for a cohesive and attractive space.

2. Preventing Further Damage

Drywall damage, if left unaddressed, can lead to bigger issues over time. Small cracks or holes might seem insignificant at first, but they can quickly grow larger, especially if moisture seeps in or structural shifts occur. Over time, this damage can compromise the integrity of your home, causing issues like mold growth or even structural problems. By repairing drywall promptly, you prevent further damage, which could end up being costly to fix in the long run. Preventing these types of problems helps maintain the safety and stability of your home, which adds value to it.

3. Creating a Clean Slate for Updates

If you plan on making other renovations, such as repainting, updating the lighting, or changing the decor, drywall repair is an essential first step. Repairing damaged drywall ensures that the surface is smooth and even, making it easier to apply fresh coats of paint or install new fixtures. Potential buyers will also appreciate the attention to detail and the fact that they won't need to invest in fixing up the walls before starting their own improvements. Clean and well-maintained walls serve as a great foundation for whatever updates or changes are made in the future.

4. Improved Energy Efficiency

Believe it or not, drywall repair can even impact your home’s energy efficiency. Cracks or gaps in the drywall can lead to air leaks, allowing conditioned air to escape and causing your HVAC system to work harder to maintain the desired temperature. By repairing drywall properly, you help improve the insulation of your home, reducing the energy needed to heat or cool it. This not only makes your home more comfortable but also provides long-term savings on utility bills. Buyers are often attracted to homes that offer energy efficiency, so drywall repair can make your property more appealing to eco-conscious buyers.

5. Increased Market Value

Ultimately, any home improvement project that enhances the functionality and appearance of your home can boost its market value. While large renovations like kitchen remodels or room additions often take the spotlight, small updates like drywall repair are just as important in giving your home a refreshed look. Buyers appreciate well-maintained properties that don't require immediate repairs. If you're looking to sell, a clean and well-repaired interior could mean the difference between a quick sale and a property sitting on the market for months.

Why Choose Century Restoration and Maintenance for Your Drywall Repair Needs?

If you're looking for the best drywall repair service in Marietta, GA, look no further than Century Restoration and Maintenance. Their team of skilled professionals can tackle any drywall issue, from minor cracks to more extensive repairs, ensuring that your home looks pristine. They specialize in repairing drywall efficiently and effectively, with attention to detail that ensures long-lasting results.

Choosing a reliable and experienced drywall repair service like Century Restoration and Maintenance can give you peace of mind that the job will be done right. Whether you're preparing your home for sale, renovating a room, or simply maintaining your home's condition, their expertise will help you make a great impression on potential buyers and enhance the overall value of your home.

In conclusion, don’t underestimate the power of drywall repair when it comes to boosting your home’s value. It’s a simple yet impactful way to improve both the look and functionality of your home, making it more appealing to buyers and helping you maintain a comfortable living space.