#thumbtacks-and-can-openers

[twinklingchode]

happy national can opener day. iykyk.

[treevore]

i really love a good wrestling gif/gifset where you can watch it and actively see how shit is being sold and is in fact a fiction like that shit makes me MORE excited about wrestling because the performance of it all is part of the POINT and it's not a failure for you to see the illusion especially if they're selling shit SO GODDAMN WELL

[wlntrsldler]

poisoned mercury | damned if i do ya (damned if i don't)

a/n: oooohhhh i love them bad. the slow burn is slow burning a little bit. btw the song is daylight by 5sos!

series masterlist | previous | next

v. damned if i do ya (damned if i don't) by all time low

all the progress luke thought he was making with you was thrown out the window after the concert. at first, he was glad to have some distance between you guys. he was dealing with sorting out what he felt for you. it was stupid, really, how he realized that you reminded him a lot of his childhood nickelodeon crush, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it was more than that. 

sure, you were a fucking headache sometimes, but he liked it. he liked you. he liked how you always tore him a new one, made him feel normal, like he wasn’t luke castellan – lead singer of poisoned mercury, he was just luke when he was with you. you asked him about his music, his life, but knew when to stop right before the conversation got too heavy because you understood him. you knew how he felt even when he didn’t say it. 

maybe he’d just been around his bandmates too much, teenage boys with emotional iqs of a thumbtack, but you took one look at him and he knew that you understood what he was feeling. as great of a writer he was when it came to music, he was never good with expressing how he felt. 

but now, it’s been weeks since you last talked to him, like really talked to him. whenever he’d see you in your smoke spot, he’d try to start a conversation, but you’d stuff your vape in your pocket and walk away before he could even say hi. you stopped going to the gym in the morning, often coming into the cabin after your workout during random times of the day, no longer following a set schedule. you rarely hung out with the boys, opting to retire into your room earlier than usual. you still joined clarisse during her counselor duties, but she stopped letting the boys tag along when luke was available as much as she used to. she’d offer an apologetic smile to luke and slip out an excuse why he couldn’t join for music lessons. 

luke was tired of it. he didn’t know what went wrong, what he did wrong, to make you act so cold towards him. even when you didn’t know him yet, you were never like this. you always had a snide remark ready for him, but now, he was met with silence. 

on the bright side, he at least had inspiration to write new songs. 

he wandered into the cabin, thinking that it would be empty. clarisse was being held hostage at arts and crafts again. (she complained the whole morning about it until chris offered to join her so she wouldn’t be the only one covered in glitter this time.) the stolls were in the studio recording the instrumentals for the song luke showed them a few days ago. they’d asked him who the song was about, though he had a feeling they already knew. he wasn’t really trying to be secretive with the words. and you, luke could only wonder where you were. 

he stopped in his tracks at the sound of mr. d’s voice in your room. your bedroom door was wide open and luke feared that you’d see him so he hid around the corner, back pressed against the wall. 

“this is serious, kid,” mr. d yelled. “your teammate is pressing charges so i need the full story! i don’t care if you don’t want to talk about it. this can go on your record permanently.” 

“so let it!” you screamed back. luke heard you pacing around your room, heavy steps against the cabin floors. “i don’t care.” 

“i care! i’ve been pretty goddamn lenient when it comes to you, y/n, but this?” mr. d countered, veins on his neck bulging out as he raised his voice. luke had never seen him like this, “this is fucking serious. you need to tell me exactly what happened.” 

“she was talking about you, okay?” you sobbed. you sat on your bed, hands buried in your open palms. “she said something about your addiction. i don’t fucking know how she found out, but she said something and i just lost it, dad. she was talking out her ass and i just needed her to shut up because she didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about.” 

mr. d’s tongue poked the inside of his cheek. he gulped, not saying a word. your dad looked at the decorated wall of your bedroom, polaroids of you and your friends, your framed high school field hockey jersey, and the concert ticket from the first show he ever took you to. he looked down at the pink rug on your floor, unable to say anything. 

you looked up at him, eyes brimmed with tears, “there, i told you. happy now?” 

it wasn’t long before mr. d stormed out of the cabin. luke flinched as the door slammed shut behind him. he heard you sobbing in your bedroom and he contemplated approaching you. you were already mad at him, for a reason that he still didn’t know, so what the hell? 

with a deep breath, luke emerged from the corner and walked towards your door. his knuckles softly knocked on the open door. you looked up at the noise, rubbing your eyes with your forearm. you chewed on your bottom lip, “not in the mood to argue, castellan.” 

“not here to argue,” he stood under your door frame, leaning against the side. “i’m here to see if you’re okay.” 

you had this habit of running away from things when you knew it had the power to hurt you. it wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but your fight or flight response was triggered every time you started catching feelings for someone. it didn’t happen often, you developing actual feelings for people. you developed crushes, sure, but not feelings. 

you didn’t get googly-eyed and love-dumb with guys. you knew better– growing up with a dad who could quite literally transform people’s lives with a snap of his finger made you hyperaware of people’s intentions with you. but sometimes, you get blinded by the guy who sweeps you off your feet and you forget about it all. 

after the concert, you couldn’t stop thinking about luke. you already knew what kind of person he actually was, kind, caring, talented, all of the above, but there was still a nagging voice in your head telling you: “what if this is all an act?” “what if this is his move? pretending to be a different guy from the tabloids just to get you to fall for him then break your heart like everyone else did?” so you fled. you ran away from luke. 

clarisse caught onto you avoiding luke fairly quickly. she no longer saw you two walking into the cabin together in the early mornings when she was getting ready for the day. you started declining invitations to hang out at the activities center, stopped having time to help her with music lessons when the band was tagging along, and started hanging out with her in your room instead of the common space. 

she asked you about it after a week of the same thing. you told her you just weren’t in the mood, lacked energy. you said a million excuses but she could see right through you. you and the lead singer weren’t really subtle with your longing glances. 

you crossed your legs under you, pulling the blanket up to cover your legs. you moved over on your bed, tilting your head to let him inside. luke took his shoes off and closed the door behind him, sock-clad feet tapping against the wooden floors. he sat on the edge of your bed, playing with the stray thread on your blanket. 

“you ever feel like your parents wish they had a different kid?” you whispered, “maybe a kid that wasn’t so difficult?” 

“all the time,” luke replied, “every time my name is in the tabloids, i swear it takes years off my mom’s life.” 

you laughed, sniffling, “you need to take it easy on your mom. she’s too good for this world.” 

“that she is,” he leaned back on his elbows, resting his head on his shoulder. he tapped your leg under the blanket, “you know your dad loves you, right?”

“yeah,” you sighed, looking at luke. your makeup was smudged under your eyes and it took all his power not to lean over to wipe it away. you hunched your shoulders over when you spoke again, “just feels like sometimes i’m too much for him and i don’t know how to stop doing that.” 

“i don’t think you should.” 

it was the truth. you dealt in extremes. you were intense but it was only because you were passionate about things. he’d seen you practicing for hours, staying up late to help the younger kids with their projects even if it wasn’t your job, bossing people around to make sure that the camp activities were perfect. when you put your mind to something, luke knew there was no stopping you. 

“so i’m guessing you heard that whole thing with my dad?” 

“yeah,” luke rubbed the back of his neck. he looked at you, feeling caught that he’d been listening in on your private conversation. “i didn’t know anyone was in here when i walked in.” 

“it’s fine,” you shrugged, “pretty sure the whole camp heard my dad yelling anyways.” 

he laughed, “probably. i’d never seen him like that before. he’s usually so chill. it kinda caught me off guard.” 

“me too.” 

“it’s not as bad as when my mom yells at me though,” luke offered, trying to lighten the mood. he grinned when he saw your eyes brighten. you never did pass up the opportunity to have luke embarrass himself. if he could stop you from crying, he would lay out all his embarrassing stories in front of you for your listening pleasure. “the time she found out that me and trav got banned from wichita, like the whole city, she got so mad that the hotel we were staying at kicked us out because there were so many noise complaints. had to sleep on the bus. my back was killing me the entire time we were playing a show the next day.” 

“what the fuck did you guys do that warranted a ban from the whole city?” 

luke’s cheeks turned pink, “we mooned a cop car.” 

you bursted into uncontrollable laughter, falling back on your pillows. luke watched you, laughing along at your reaction. you were crying again, but it was a good cry this time. luke thought you looked pretty like this; cheeks red, eyes shut as you tried to regain your composure, and smiling, all teeth and lips. he hadn’t seen it in a while and he wanted to take a picture of you right now just so he could always remember how you looked at this moment. he wasn’t sure if he could survive another few weeks without seeing it again.

luke nudged you as your laughter died down, “if shit goes down with your teammate, there will be three of us with a permanent record in this cabin.”

you smiled at him, sadly, voice returning to the hushed tone you used earlier, “you think my dad could forgive me for this?” 

“don’t think anyone could hold a grudge against you even if they tried, five star,” luke placed a hand on your thigh covered by the blanket. he relished in the feeling of the hand you placed over his own. it felt intimate. “what does your mom think about all of this?” 

“i dunno,” you played with the rings on his hand, twisting the silver metals on his fingers, “i haven’t talked to her about it yet. been avoiding her calls.” 

“well, happy to know that i wasn’t the only one getting the silent treatment,” he teased, no bite to his voice. “shit, five star, even with your punishments, you still manage to not make me feel special.” 

you squeezed his hand, a giggle escaping your lips, “shut up.” 

luke looked at you, “you should probably talk to her soon.” 

“i will,” you nodded, meeting his gaze, “soon.” 

the two of you stayed there in silence, you playing with his rings and the bracelets on his arm. you were so enamored by the silver jewelry on his hand, twirling his rings to read each engraving, looking at each design, humming in appreciation. you looked at the camp half blood bracelet on his wrist, recognizing the beads on the string. 

“i can’t believe you got a camp bracelet before i did this summer,” you huffed, admiring the beads. “i’ve been here longer than you and nobody made me one yet.” 

“a little girl made it for me,” luke said, smiling at the memory. “i helped her with her with the production of the song for her summer project and she made it for me.” 

“i didn’t know you also produced music.” luke castellan continued to surprise you. 

“not well,” he replied. “just the basics, but i like to think i helped her out. annabeth— you know her? the kid with perfect pitch. fucking brilliant. smarter than i was at her age.”

“i love beth. i’m pretty sure she’s the smartest 12-year-old to ever exist,” your eyes twinkled, moving your index finger to his own, “what’s the story with this one?”

luke looked down at the ring you were touching. it was the silver ring he bought for himself using his first paycheck from their album sales. it cost him a pretty penny, but it was worth it. the font was tiny, but he memorized the words. 

“aγάπη χωρίς πείσματα δεν έχει νοστιμάδα,” luke said, no doubt butchering the pronunciation. “it’s greek. my mom used to read greek proverbs to me as a child. i think she hoped i’d become the next great philosopher, but instead i became a musician. this phrase stuck with me.”

“what does it mean?”

“love without a bit of stubbornness isn’t tasteful,” he whispered, “it’s a little reminder to myself that even though i can be difficult as shit sometimes, i’m worth it.”

luke cleared his throat, “had a tough time when we first got big. i’m sure you’ve heard of some stories. there was a time when me and my mom didn’t talk much. i thought i knew what was best and i pushed her away. i was so stubborn, five star.” 

“my dad left when i was a kid and for second, i thought i would lose my mom too,” he shook his head, the bitter taste of regret in his mouth as he recalled those memories. “im glad i didn’t. this ring reminds me that no matter how stubborn i am, i still deserve love, y’know? maybe it’s stupid, but sometimes i doubt it. mom always told me that love isn’t supposed to be easy, but it’s supposed to always be worth it– worth all the trouble, the stubbornness, the hurt, so this little phrase keeps me grounded in a weird way.”

“worth it to an extent,” you said. there was something hidden in your words like you were somehow asking him if you fell within the extent of it being worth it. it was in the look in your eye, doubt and worry that maybe you pushed it too far this time and you were no longer worth the fight. 

“extent is subjective. i know my mom thinks i’m worth it. i know that no matter how much me and the stolls get into fights, our friendship is worth it. i know that even though me and chris grew up to be different people, our bond is worth it,” luke leaned in closer as if he was going to tell you a secret, something that stays between you and him, only allowed to be spoken within the walls of your room. “and you, five star–” 

he couldn’t finish his sentence. his words got caught in his throat. he was afraid that if he kept talking, he wouldn’t be able to stop. he didn’t know if there was a universe out there where fighting for you wouldn’t be worth it. had you been thinking about him all this time you’d been apart? have your thoughts been plagued by the idea of him? all he could think of was you. all his songs were about you. it seemed like everything had been about you since he met you. 

is it too much too soon to even say things like that? luke didn’t know where you stood, if you even felt the same way about him as he did about you. how evil must the world be to have you exist in his orbit but not allow him to fight for you? 

the corner of your lips lifted a tiny bit and luke knew he didn’t need to say anything else. you understood. 

luke wanted to stop you when you removed your hand from his, but he didn’t want to test his luck. you dug through the drawer by your bed, pulling out the familiar vape, “i could really go for a smoke right now but this stupid thing died.” 

an idea popped into luke’s mind. he got up, motioning for you to do the same. you stayed seated on your bed, eyebrow raised in concern. 

“come on,” luke sighed, playfully rolling his eyes when you still refused to get up. he held out his hand, looking down at you. “you trust me?” 

you glanced at him then at his hand, deciding. it felt like a loaded question, like he was asking about something more than if you’d go with him to whatever adventure he had planned for the both of you. his heart hammered in his chest as he waited for your answer. you didn’t say anything to his question, unsure if you could rationalize your decision, but when you laced your fingers with his, luke didn’t let go of your hand until you were both out of the campgrounds.

[cyber-dump-171]

Prologue: Missing

Objection! Stand your ground! Marvelous! (Twisted Wonderland x Reader)

Masterlist | Chapter 1 →

Word count: 3.2 k.

WARNING: N/A

Note: thank you for stopping by and reading! Comments, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

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“Excuse me, coming through".

You walk down the dim corridor, the sound of telephones and mundane conversations muffled by the large window that separates the common office from the rest of the rooms. You take a quick glance inside and notice that it is emptier than usual, with only a couple of agents sitting at their desks filling out forms, watching the television broadcasting the evening news, or chatting with their cubicle neighbors.

You continue, carefully hugging the old box tighter as you slip past some of your father's co-workers, who greet you quietly before resuming their conversation, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and cigarette smoke clinging to their shirts wafting through the air. You're thankful it's not a stupidly strong cologne like the one James Blanc, one of the junior officers, wears. He puts on too much and it always makes you sneeze.

It reminds you of your male classmates who shower themselves in body spray after gym class, the smell making you dizzy as you sit inside the suffocating classroom.

After a few minutes of walking down the dull, gray hallway, you finally reach your destination, stopping in front of a worn wooden door with a silver plaque that reads a familiar name in faded letters: "Det. Pembroke”. Behind the doorway, you can hear a male and female voice, the latter sounding distressed, though you can't discern what they're talking about. Balancing the cardboard box on one arm, you lift your free hand and rack your knuckles against the solid material.

"Come in, door's open", replies a gruff voice after a couple of seconds of silence. Grunting and mentally begging yourself not to drop the heavy package, your hand quickly finds the handle and turns it urgently, the old wood creaking loudly as the door swings open, giving way to a simple yet messy office.

Tall rectangular metal cabinets and bookcases line the dark green walls, with various certificates and diplomas filling the empty spaces. On the right side of the room is a large display cabinet with various comic book figurines, knick-knacks, trophies and photo frames, displaying some of your family's memorabilia and achievements. On the opposite side of the office, under a rectangular window, is a wooden table with small drawers containing a small coffee pot and water dispenser. 

Your eyes sweep around the room and settle on your father, who sits behind a metal desk, with piles of documents, dirty mugs, a cup full of pens and pencils, and an old laptop taking up space on the surface. Behind it is a large map detailing the geography of your city, Kotohira. You take notice of several colored thumbtacks mark certain areas, though you can't see exactly where they point to.

He lifts his head to acknowledge your presence and his slender finger points to a table hidden in the corner of the room. “Put it there, kid. Careful with that, it's important,” you nod quickly at your father's words and head for the cabinet, pushing aside the manila folders to make room for the box. 

You place the package down with a quiet sigh, using your now free hands to wipe the dust from your button-up shirt, your legs burning as a reminder that it's been hours since you've sat down, too busy running errands and fetching documents around the station. 

Your father's eyes focus again on the woman sitting across from him, and he clears his throat as he continues. “Mrs. Enma, please don't worry, my men are working full-time to solve this case,” he reassures the woman, who nods silently at his affirmation.

Your gaze is drawn to the figure, an old woman you recognize as your upstairs neighbor who lives in apartment 305, Saeki Enma. You have bumped into her and her husband several times, either in the building's elevator or the nearby supermarket. It's strange to see her like this, with her usual warm smile and cheerful laughter replaced by a chagrined expression and puffy red eyes.

However, her reaction is understandable, as her only grandson is now the ninth person to go missing in the last month in Kotohira.

Saeki shakily reaches for her small black leather purse sitting on her lap, her small hands pulling out a beautiful baby-blue silk handkerchief, dabbing the corner of her wrinkled eyes to wipe away the rest of her salty tears. Her lips quiver as she looks down.

"Thank you, Detective Pembroke. My little Yuuken means the world to me, he's a kind and responsible boy. Oh my God... he must be so scared," she breaks down after glancing at the file in front of her, the picture of her grandson quietly staring back at her.

Her hands cover her eyes as her body shakes, the sound of her sobs echoing off the walls of the quiet office. Your father immediately gets up from his swivel chair and places a comforting hand on the old woman's back, while you run to the water dispenser, fill a glass, and hand it to her with a comforting smile.

Saeki accepts it with a sniffle, her trembling hands wrapping around the transparent glass as she sips in silence, her crying ceasing. A few minutes later, she calms down and sighs, gently patting your father's hand as a sign of gratitude. And suddenly, her eyes widen as her attention turns to you. 

"Oh my, (Y/N)! It's good to see you, what are you doing here? I apologize that you have to see me in this state," she laughs weakly, and you can still hear a hint of sadness in her voice. You suspect she's trying to distract herself from the grief of losing her grandson.

In return, you offer a small smile and a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Please don't worry, Mrs. Enma. It's good to see you, too." Your father suddenly slaps a hand on your shoulder with a toothy smile, causing you to jump in surprise as you turn to look at him in confusion.

“Kiddo over here had no plans for the summer, so I dragged them to the station to help out” - bullshit, you did have plans! You were going to spend every day inside, locked in your room with the air conditioning on, sprawled on your bed, and enjoying your free time. Hell, you'd even bought so many books and comics to read during the break! Now they're just going to sit there, gathering dust.

As Saeki finishes her glass of water, she lifts her head to look at the clock, whose hands point to the current time, 8:43 p.m. “My God! I apologize for taking up so much of your time, Detective Pembroke. My husband will be worried, I should be getting home,” she gasps in surprise. As you help Mrs. Enma out of her chair and pick up her cane, your father heads down the hallway, shouting for a nearby officer to help escort Saeki home.

In a matter of seconds, you hear a pair of footsteps running toward the office, and suddenly a young blond policeman stands in the doorway, nervously greeting your father. You remember that his name is Renart, a French cop freshly graduated from the police academy near Chichibugahama beach. The officers at the station call him "Croissant Surfer.”

Renart escorts Mrs. Enma out of the office, but not before she thanks your father again and gives you a warm smile as she bids you farewell. Your father promptly closes the door, sighing as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Nine people... nine people just gone," he whispers.

As you walk to the desk, your eyes scan the missing person's report. Yuuken Enma, a second-year student of Hibari Municipal High School disappeared this afternoon after leaving the Ishimoto gymnasium at around 2:30 p.m. He was reported missing by his grandparents who explained that Yuuken failed to pick up his phone and had never arrived home at an agreed hour.

According to witness reports, he was last seen by his fellow kendo club member and first-year student, Koito Saya. The two of them were training for an upcoming kendo match which would take place after summer break ended. 

Koito explains that Yuuken left practice early because "he was feeling unwell and he had to help his grandmother prepare some things for the Tanabata Festival.” The first-year student stayed in the gym for another hour of training, and when he left the facility around 4:00 p.m., he found a keychain from an action figure that belonged to Yuuken on the floor. Minutes later, the Enma's called the police station.

Your fingers grab the corner of the paper and turn the page to read some additional details about the case. This Yuuken boy... the two of you stood together at the bus station, but you never really spoke. You went to different schools, and his appearance and aura communicated that he didn't want to be bothered, so you left him alone. Besides, you're not the most outgoing person, so you never really made a move to befriend him. You only knew of his personality from the comments of neighbors and even your parents; a "charismatic and determined young man.” 

Your eyes land on an evidence report detailing the footage from the gym's surveillance camera. Your eyes widened as you remembered the conversation you overheard in the records room about two days ago about the recent missing persons cases.

According to the officer, all of the nine disappearances have been caught on CCTV, but you can never see who is taking them or where they are going because the recording always glitches.

He described in detail the disappearance of Fígaro Koskela, the young heir to a Finnish jewelry empire, who was walking home from a party organized by his classmates. He's alone, it's the middle of the night, he's strolling down an alley near some residential houses, when all of a sudden his head whips around as he hears a strange noise, the policeman describes the sound as that of a loud roar followed by a cry similar to that of horses.

Figaro's expression morphed into one of shock and bewilderment, paralyzed on the spot as his blue eyes did not look away from where the sound came. At that moment, the camera stops and the footage goes black. Suspiciously, the camera reactivated itself hours later as police arrived on the scene and neighbors peered out their windows and doors to see what was going on.

The officer explained that all the victims disappeared in the same way: they were alone in Kotohira, they heard something, and the camera footage went black, adding that the people who were near where the victims disappeared never heard anything strange. But he also points out that none of the victims have anything in common. Age, appearance, socioeconomic status, even where they live, nothing.

You're jolted out of your trance as your father clears his throat and walks past you, taking a seat in his chair, before turning to face you, the lack of sleep and stress evident due to the dark circles under his eyes. "From the looks of things, I don't think I'll be leaving the office anytime soon. Do you think your mom can pick you up?"

Normally, you would walk home, since the police station is not that far from the apartment building. That, and the night air feels good on your skin, plus, it gives you some time alone to think and take some pictures of the sky and wildlife.

However, because of the recent disappearances, everyone in Kotohira is on edge, including you and especially your parents. This morning, you even received some messages from a few of your school friends who were outraged because their parents wouldn't let them go on their annual trip to the beach for fear that their children would be the next victims.

You nodded at your dad’s request before taking the seat that Mrs. Enma had previously occupied and wasted no time dialing your mother's phone number. Frankly, you were tired and hungry, having accidentally skipped lunch to help the Chief's secretary organize a mountain of paperwork that needed to be archived. Seriously, these guys are a mess.

After a few dials, you hear the sound of the phone picking up and your mother's cheery voice answering from the other end. "Hello, honey! How's my baby doing?" you see out of the corner of your eye as your father chuckles, having heard your mother's cooing over the loud volume of the phone. "I'm fine, Mom. How was your case?"

You can hear your mother gasp in surprise before she giddily recounts the details of the latest case she took on. "Oh, you bet your ass I won it! You should have seen the look on that idiot Howard's face when they declared my client innocent. That asshole always takes the side of dirty money," you laugh lightly at your mom’s colorful words; she has had a fierce rivalry with Vanguard Legal Services’ best attorney, Howard Waltz, ever since college. They even work at competing firms.

Your mother spends a few minutes telling you more details about the case before asking you why you called her. You tell her about Yuuken Enma's recent disappearance and that your father won't be able to take you home due to the heavy workload. 

"Yuuken has disappeared!? Oh, poor thing, I hope they find him soon. Don't worry, darling, I just left the office, I'll be there in about half an hour," after exchanging a few more words, you hang up the call.

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You hold your head in your hands, it feels like someone is violently sticking a sharp needle into the left side of your brain and your eyes won't stop throbbing. 'What the actual hell happened? I was doing fine a minute ago.’

Your father had left after the Chief knocked on the door and told him that they were going to have a brief meeting to organize a search party for Yuuken and share some updates on the case. Seconds after they departed and your dad bid you goodbye in case you were gone before he returned, your terrible headache suddenly appeared, and now you feel like you're going to throw up.

“O, thou who were guided by the dark mirror”.

"What was that!? Hello!?" you yell, the chair legs squeaking loudly against the floor as you quickly stand up, your eyes scanning the room trying to find the deep voice that just spoke. Your heart is beating fast, your breathing labored as your hands immediately find a fountain pen sitting on top of some papers, grab it, and point the tip outward to use it as a makeshift weapon. 

‘Are the rookies pulling a prank? Or am I hallucinating? Damn it! This fucking headache is driving me insane!’ You lower your head to look at the gap between the door and the floor, but you don’t see anyone standing outside or hear any movement from the hallway. Before you can continue to examine the room any further, your phone vibrates and the screen turns on, displaying a recent message from your mother alongside other notifications: "I'm outside." 

You waste no time getting your things, slinging the messenger bag over your shoulder, grabbing your sweater off the back of the chair, and throwing the pen away, landing behind your father’s chair. You're tired, you're hungry, you don’t want to deal with whatever prank somebody’s pulling on you, and you want to take care of this headache before it turns into an excruciating migraine. 

You make your way over the door, making sure you stomp your feet as hard as you can to warn whoever is hiding and pulling your hair, to start running before you catch them and kill them. You twist the doorknob and open the door quickly, only to find... the hallway completely desolated and eerily quiet.

This is strange... even if everyone was working, you would hear the noise coming from the offices, but, there is no sound at all. You can’t even hear the wind blowing outside or the droning songs from the cicadas. Your stomach twists into knots, a feeling in your gut screaming at you that something is wrong. You need to get out of there now.

“Let thy heart’s desire reflected in the mirror take thee by the hand”.

Yeah, no, this is no prank. Whatever's going on here is some paranormal shit. 

You don't waste a second as you bolt from your father's office, running down the hallway as fast as you can, never looking back for fear of something coming after you. You groan as your headache begins to worsen, your head now throbbing and your ears ringing loudly as you begin to hear a chorus of unintelligible voices inside your brain.

“In me. In them. In you.”

You pant as you run past the common office, your eyes widening as you find the entire room empty, all the equipment turned off and the chairs scattered around the room as if everyone had suddenly gotten up and gone home. The deep voice rings louder in your head again, its words feeling like mockery. ‘What the hell is going on? Where did everyone go? Dad, please be okay!’

“We all have very little time left.”

"AGH, JUST SHUT UP!" you shout, hoping the voices will go away, but they only get louder by the second. Thankfully, you reach the entrance of the police station, your eyes widening in relief as you find your mother's gray car parked right outside. Swinging the glass door open, you dash towards the vehicle, panic running through your veins.

"MOM! PLEASE! IT'S ME! OPEN THE DOOR!" you slam your right hand against the window as you yank hard at the handle of the locked car door. But as you duck your head to look inside the car, your breath is cut short and you feel your heart come to a screeching halt. The driver's side is empty, not a trace of your mother inside.

You slowly back away from the vehicle in utter disbelief, the voices having stopped, but you don't even notice, too preoccupied with the sudden disappearance of everyone around you. Your attention, however, is drawn to a hellish sound coming from your right. A loud roar, creaking wood, heavy wheels rolling on the pavement, and the whole cacophony accompanied by the cries of horses.

You feel frozen in place as your head turns to the side and your eyes widen at the sudden appearance of a funeral carriage drawn by two elegant horses coming at you at full speed. 

You want to run, to escape from this hellish scene as quickly as possible, to run into your parents' arms. ‘This has to be a nightmare. This isn’t real!’ Every single muscle and nerve in your body is screaming for you to move, and yet something is holding you back. You close your eyes in fear as the sound of hooves comes closer and closer.

You feel nothing as the carriage crashes into you.

“Welcome to Night Raven College, young soul”.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Tag list:

@rotknox

[adorkastock]

Im an artist trying to take my own pose references for some difficult art, any advice on how to do it right?

Oh gosh I've been meaning to do a big post about this and I will at some point but for now here's the basic basics:

decent lighting - doesn't even have to be 'good' just decent. I used to use light through a slider door, directional will help show the forms. If windows aren't an option some directional lamps could help.

I do form fitting lightly colored clothing because I find it easiest to see what I need. Biking shorts, sports bras, fitted tanks, yoga pants, etc.

Contrasting solid colored backdrop - in my oldest photos this was a blue sheet hung behind me with thumbtacks. Make sure it contrasts both your skin tone and the clothing so you don't wash out anything.

Timer for your camera - most people will use cell phones which are all pretty good enough these days for ref. I know Android cameras have an option to open you hand and close it to set off the remote timer so check what your phone can do. Worst case set the timer and run back if there's not a remote setting. I did this for YEARS. :')

if you want a 'straight on' look with no foreshortening or perspective then you want the camera probably about 6ft away from you and as vertical as possible. Get fancy with boxes and books to prop it up if you need to.

The lens should be around or just above belly button height to eliminate foreshortening. If you WANT foreshortening just mess with the angle and placement of the lens. If you have a wide angle lens that can do some really cool stuff with low and high perspective.

Don't forget your face. Getting the pose is a nice start but future you will appreciate it if you can get a little into character with your expression too.

Okay I think that's all the very basics and I hope this helps! Obv if you have a friend, sibling, parent, roommate, s/o, whatever around they can help you get any very specific angle the way you need it. I hope you make great refs!!! Happy posing, happy drawing! 🕺🏻📸

[lordsukunas]

more daycare worker! nanami (finally)

"nanami-sensei!"

kento pauses, fingers holding his sandwich close to his mouth, and with a quiet, reluctant sigh, he sets it back down onto its wrapper. "yes?"

a little girl with big, blue eyes beams up at him, and the sliver of annoyance he felt at his meal being interrupted melts away. "look at what i drew!"

she's holding a sheet of paper in her small hands as she walks over to his side. pushing herself up on her tip-toes, she practically shoves the drawing in his face, forcing kento to lean back so that he can actually see it.

truthfully, he doesn't know what it is at first.

it's a stick person with blonde hair and looks extremely serious, almost overly so. is it a relative? a character from a tv show?

"ah..." kento's brows draw together slowly. no, that can't be it. neither of her parents have blonde hair, and it has a tie that looks an awful lot like one he owns.

then it dawns on him, and he's a little embarrassed it took him a while to get it.

"is that me?"

the girl nods, pigtails bouncing, and a massive grin spreads across her face. "do you like it?"

with the confirmation of the kindergartner, the resemblance between him and stick-kento becomes more obvious to him. both have the 7:3 part, both are wearing a patterned tie, and both appear way more serious than they actually are.

it's adorable, and kento's lips curve up into a small smile. it's a little funny, too. is that how they see him? the super serious teacher? does he not smile enough?

who knows? the minds of children are still a mystery to him.

"i love it. thank you, sato-san." he gently takes the paper from her, digs out a thumbtack from a container stored safely in his desk drawer, and puts it up on the corkboard behind him. it's a little crowded, but it fits, surrounded by the other drawings and doodles.

"you're welcome!" and with that, the girl skips back to her friends, off to talk about whatever the topic is for about five minutes before it changes again.

he stares at the corkboard for a moment longer, then turns around and opens a new tab on his laptop, sandwich now forgotten as his fingers fly across the keyboard. how large can corkboards get, he wonders. big enough to have space for some more drawings, surely.

first things first, TYYY to @dalalita for the idea!!! a literal genius, tbh. nanami is such a sweetheart and softie for kids it actually hurts my heart :(( ik this is short but i hope y'all liked it anyway (if u didn't, sorry!)

[aplaceforyourhearttorest]

You Make Loving Fun ✍︎ Cliff Burton

for @metallicaislife ♡ for whom (the bell tolls) i love endlessly

Worn out cotton tickles the tip of your nose as you twist your body to hug the pillow beneath you, the furrow between your eyebrows concaving into a deep and temporary divot as you blindly shove your face into the pillowcase and groan out a halfhearted protest. The sun beams down on and in through the aged and crooked blinds, and you grimace as you feel the slight tinge of sweat culminate on the skin of your left arm and shoulder blade.

You exhale out a sigh of relief as you untangle a limb and use it to toss the embroidered and heavy blanket off of your upper half, and a smile twitches itself onto your yawning lips, as the faint and barely-there scent of your boyfriend's herbs and stale cigarette smoke wafts and dances its way up to you from the movement of the fabric.

You sluggishly sit up and immediately make eye contact with the most recent picture that was taken of Cliff and sent your way, via mail, and a deep sense of yearning and excited anxiety fills you to the brim as you take in the sight. In the photo you kept in safe keeping, your boyfriend can be seen grinning down at a letter you wrote only a few days prior, the delicate skin around his eyes stretching and wrinkling with glee as he takes in your adoration-filled words. Your fingers grip onto the fabric of his shirt surrounding you as you embrace the flutter that creates dormancy in your chest. You blink back the sting that starts behind your eyelids as you think of your partner, before turning your attention elsewhere, suddenly needing a distraction from the onslaught of emotions trying to overwhelm you so early in the morning.

The smile that once teased your lips comes back to, you unable to fight back the amusement you feel as soon as the sticker on the postcard to your left comes into view, as you turn your head away from the polaroid thumbtacked on the wall opposite of the bed.

'Metallica up your ass!' stares back up at you in an overused and obnoxious font, the beginning and ending of the band's logo's letters turning into plungers and bleeding their way down the paper in front of you in a muddy and russet brown color.

The heart beating inside of your chest pauses, and then sporadically beats as your partially numb fingertips run their way over the smudged and messy ink on the bottom of the postcard, your arms feeling like lead as they slowly wake themselves up.

Soon, is the only word scrawled on the dilapidated piece of paper, and you caress your bottom lip with the tip of your tongue as you take in a deep and unsteady breath. Biting back a wince as your uncovered and bare feet make contact with the chilled hardwood floor underneath you as you begin to stand up, your amused smile relaxes itself into a small grin as you make your way down into another room of the shared living space. Old group posters absorb themselves into the chipped, yellow paint of the hallway's walls and vinyl's haphazardly rest on uneven and homemade shelves, the sight greeting you warmly as you tiredly stumble through the small living room area and into the dimly lit kitchen.

You temporarily flutter your eyes shut as the coffee machine buzzes and vibrates to life against the scratched marble counter you lean against with your cocked hip, the sound comforting and grounding as you slowly begin to come to full consciousness. The tips of your nails tap against the hardened material of your favorite mug with a familiar beat, and your chest heaves in a silent laugh as you acknowledge the original source.

"Two hours, two hours." You murmur out into the chilled air, your eyes finally opening back up and making their way upward to stare up at the clock above the refrigerator. Your palm reddens as you press it against your now filled and warmed up coffee mug and you hum in contentment, before pushing yourself off of the countertop with your free elbow and making your way back toward the bedroom once again.

Reaching out to entangle your fingers in the multitude of band and long sleeve t-shirts Cliff left behind as you make your way past your guys' closet, you swallow a large gulp of the caffeinated drink and glance at the outfit you already have placed out and folded on top of a chair, on the outskirts of the bedroom. Anticipation enraptures you as you pitter over to the dress, and you mirthfully grin to yourself and against the heat emanating from your coffee as you picture his reaction to the ensemble. You already know what your reaction to seeing him again will be like, somewhat already familiarized with the sense of longing that comes with the partially long-distance relationship the two of you were in. But you hope the letter you wrote last night and the effort you put in to surprising him will show him how much you truly care for him, love him. And you also, maybe, want to floor him on his ass just a little bit. Lovingly, of course.

✉

Fleetwood Mac harmonizes out of the record player and into the frenzied air of the dining room as you run your way around the small apartment, the mirth and confidence you felt earlier being shoved back and away and replaced with exerted exhaustion. You let out a puff of air and bite back a giggle as it sways the hair resting against the crown of your head and your temples. You lean back and rest against the wall connecting the two nearest rooms and wipe the sudsy water off of the palms of your hands, the caffeine in your system now completely gone after the last hour and a half of cooking and getting yourself ready. You freeze in place at an unexpected and too-early sound coming from the front door only a few feet away from you; the grip you have on the apron you're trying to remove slipping as you suddenly hear a key slide into the deadbolt.

"Oh shit." You whisper, before hurriedly yanking the stained protectant off and tossing it over and onto the sofa, the doorknob now being twisted and pushed on with impatient haste.

You place your hands behind your back and wrap them around the opposite wrist, your stomach sucking in densely with a heavy inhalation as you ready yourself for the sight of your boyfriend. The heart in your chest begins to thunder and catapult as he shoves his way in, his arms weighed down by multiple duffle bags and heavy carry on's. Cliff visibly deflates as soon as you come into view, the annoyed expression on his facial features crumbling and his eyes widening with anew light. Before either one of you could utter out a single word, your feet begin to move on their own accord, and your arms encircle themselves around his broad shoulders as you guide him down into an abrupt embrace. Cliff lets out a surprised grunt as you make harsh contact with him, and he carefully allows his bags to thud against the welcoming rug as soon as he's sure your feet are in the clear and a safe distance away. Cliff gently guides you backwards and further into the warmth of the lived in space, his right and booted foot blindly kicking the door behind him closed as he wholly and intentionally focuses in on you.

"Hi, sweetheart." He coos out, his eyebrows raising in muted amusement as he feels you shake against him with poorly hidden tremors. His hand dips down to your lower back to rub soothing and placating circles in the intimate and sensitive skin, causing you to take in a deep breath of his scent and sigh out, feeling immense exasperated relief as he temporarily brings his body closer to yours.

"Where's the funeral?" Cliff muses, gently unwrapping your arms from around him and shuffling you until you're at an arm's length of distance. Large and warm calloused hands cup your cheeks as tears stream down from your eyes, and you let out a sound of embarrassment as soon as you look up at him and make bashful eye contact.

"I had the whole day planned out, and I swore to myself I wouldn't cry." You admit, an unfightable smile breaking through and ending the waterwork of tears as your boyfriend's warm and soft laughter fills the room around you two. "If a reunion between us doesn't start with you crying as soon as you see me, then you didn't miss me all that much." You raise an arm to playfully collide it with his arm but pause as you get lost in the way he looks down at you. Warmth spreads through you as Cliff caresses your cheeks and bends down to meet you halfway, his lips feeling more homelike than the apartment the two or you share.

The music playing from a room away bleeds into a cacophony of static and gentle white noise as he delicately breathes out against you and his stubble brushes against your cupid's bow. The hand you have paused and already raised goes to wrap around his wrist instead, and you let out a sigh of fulfillment as you feel his steady and thrumming heartbeat underneath your slightly trembling fingertips. The hand you aren't holding on to slides down and grips onto the back of your neck and onto your nape, the firm grasp making you melt into the embrace and fully relax. The never-ending worrying of his health and safety and if he'll make it home all in one piece finally stops and you nearly slump in overwhelming consolation, before letting out a whine as he pulls away and disconnects his lips from yours.

Cliff smiles widely, his eyes doing that endearing squint that you love so much as he takes in your appearance, inch by inch. Heat bleeds from the apples of your cheeks down to your chest, and you're close to shying away before he speaks up and begins his praise. "And look at you, my love, all dressed up for me." You let out a gentle bout of laughter as his hand glides to yours and raises to spin you in a dramatic and slow circle.

"And only for you," you reassure him in a quiet tone, your blush becoming a bright red hue as his eyes slightly darken at your affirmation. "Who takes care of me, no matter how far away he may be," Cliff quickly clears his throat and looks away as he starts to flush, only glancing over at you to playfully glare as you let out a sound of amused enjoyment. "Go and take your jacket and your shoes off for me, big boy. I made us dinner."

You watch as your boyfriend seems to physically shake his head to get out of his own stupor, and you bite onto the tip of your thumb as a wide grin sores your cheeks. You quickly turn around and slide the envelope underneath his tablecloth before he could see it and make your way over to your chair. You look up amid filling up both of your plates as you hear a throat clear itself and a zipper shudder to a close, and your lips gape open in surprise as you're greeted with your partner holding out a bouquet of flowers to you. Pink roses are hugged up against tulips and blooming sunflowers, and surrounding all of it, a ribbon tied in a perfect knot with all of your favorite colors.

"Cliff," you start and then stop, your eyes threatening to water as you take in his sheepish grin. His socked feet shuffle in barely contained nervousness, causing the bell bottoms of his flared jeans to rub against each other and irritate his ankle's skin. "I knew I was going to come home, and you'd be looking as gorgeous as you usually do, with a mountain full of food out on the table and our songs already playing. It really isn't that big of a deal, baby. Just wanted to let you know that I was thinking about you on the way over here and wanted to gift you a little token of appreciation." Cliff feels his heart flutter in his chest as he takes in your wide eyes and unsteady hands, fighting back the urge to discard the flowers and give you comfort instead.

"Everything you do for me is a big deal, because it comes from you," you swallow thickly and force yourself to take in a deep breath before continuing. "The man who's taught me what healthy love is and what a relationship is supposed to be and feel like. You're everything, especially to me, so every little thing you do for me will always be insurmountable." Cliff lets out a disbelieving laugh as his eyes begin to tear up, and he quickly makes his way over to the table to sit next to you, as close as physically possible without bringing you onto his lap. You both wince at the sound of his chair squeaking out in protest against the tiles underneath it and let out shy laughs at the closeness once you two meet in the middle. No matter how many years the two of you have been together and have met up after a long leg of a tour, it all still felt so brand new and refreshing. And as you thumb a thick strand of hair behind your ear and glance over to see the content smile on your partner's face, you silently wish for the butterflies and the excitement to never end. And as he turns to look at you, he silently does the same, his hands reaching over to entangle themselves in yours to hold you close.

✉

A whoosh flies out of you as you twist your body to face Cliff halfway, your now protruding tummy protesting the movement as you fight to keep the atrocious amount of food you ate down. Your boyfriend looks no better off, the overeating seeming like a good idea at first, but soon becoming a sullen regret as he slumps back in his dining room chair and brings your feet up to rest against the jean material hugging his slender thighs. Your eyes flit over to the dessert you made early last night resting on the stove, and Cliff lets out a deep groan as he follows your line of sight.

"Absolutely fucking not." He refuses, squinting up at you from his lowered position, his face set in a mild grimace and his fingertips drawing firm figure 8's in your bare calves.

"You'll regret saying that when the crust hardens in the morning and the cherry filling dries up." You retort, letting out a chortle as he sarcastically rolls his eyes at your rebuttal. "As long as the pie's the only thing drying up around here, I don't mind."

You smack his shoulder, causing him to beam wide and let out a cackle as he takes in your incredulous expression. "Clifford Lee Burton, you are nothing less of a pervert!" You yell, before sharing a grin as you both acknowledge the hypocrisy in your playful outburst. You were almost always the first one to initiate intimacy between the two of you, shocking the musician who was already known for not being too shy himself once he feels comfortable and in tune with everyone around him. He couldn't help it, turning into a softened mess whenever you were around, his hesitancy only proving his utmost respect for you and only going after whatever you were ready for at any given moment.

"C'mere real quick, I've got something else for you." He murmurs after taking in a few deep breaths, a hand on your leg stopping all movement and removing itself to reach behind his back and grab onto an item from one of his pockets. You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, before looking over at the incredible bouquet lying against the edge of the table. He had already done more than enough; he was here, and he was present, and that was all you could possibly want and ask for.

You relay the same sentiment out loud and get a small smile in response, and an almond-colored envelope waved in your direction. Your eyes widen in surprise at the rarity of him writing you a letter, his thing more of a late-night phone call after an exhilarating performance and him falling asleep to the sound of your voice. "I figured I'd write you one back after the dozens you wrote me over the past few months that have helped keep me sane, with all of the traveling and roadies we've got running all around. Might not be as good as one of yours, but." Cliff shrugs nonchalantly, but the glassiness of his eyes present a wide array of nervousness and timidness. You hide an enamored grin behind the gift as you feel his leg begin to bounce underneath your own.

"I'd accept and take anything you give me without complaint, and you know that." You almost whisper, the pads of your thumbs indenting themselves into the envelope that's nestled in your palms, as you smile down at the messy scrawling of the nickname that he's been calling you since high school.

Sunshine.

You tear open the sealed backing of the letter with excited haste and ignore the sound of your boyfriend's amused laughter, his hands encircling their way around your calves once again as you unfold the contents inside. Your heart stops in time as you grasp onto a mini polaroid picture of the two of you on your first date. October 12th, 1979, is written on the bottom of the image, and you let out a tear-filled laugh as you run a fingertip over the crooked heart drawn near your connected hands. You quickly unfold the letter and begin to read it with rapt and undeterred attention.

To my sunshine, who I met back in 1979. August 31st, to be exact. I can almost remember it like it was yesterday. You floated into homeroom like you owned the place, although you expression screamed that you wanted to be anywhere else at that moment. Your undeniable beauty is what caught my attention at first, but your personality is what caused me to stick around. You enrapture me, with your kindness and your openness, the way you welcome all kinds of people in and give them emotional shelter. I've never met someone like you before, and I don't think I ever will. I've known you for 2,372 days, and I think I've been in love with you for every single one of them. I cannot picture myself without you, and when I do, I feel nothing but alone and starving. Even when I'm on tour and I'm surrounded by the smell of the other guys and enough weed to power a greenhouse, I still feel your presence around me. You are my everything, and everything else, all at once. And you complete me. Thank you for always sticking by my side, and for believing in the band when we had absolutely nothing. You cheered us on while we were ripping out foam from the walls to make beds in a one room apartment, and you continue to cheer us on in front of hundreds of thousands of people today. Your love is universal, and I hope to be the main person you show it to until we're old and withered, but still young together and at heart. I cannot wait to be able to come home and to have you and hold you in my arms, I've been dreaming about it and yearning for it for months. Hold on, because I'm coming home to you. Love yours, your bellbottom wearing, hippie asshole.

"Six years in counting, and sixty-six more to go." You nearly weep out, your body instinctively reaching out for Cliff as you drop the letter and photo in your lap. Cliff instantly lifts and brings you into and onto his own, gently guiding your head to rest on his chest as he runs his large palms up and down your wracking and trembling back.

"Everything is alright, sweet thing. Just breathe for me." Your partner reassures, the cadence in his voice and his natural comforting aura causing you to calm down much faster than you normally would if he wasn't around.

"Doing so well for me, always so good." Cliff smiles down at you with a soft look as you blearily look up into his bright, green eyes. "When was the last time I told you how much I love you?" You ask him once you trust your voice enough not to crack or break, and an unsteady smile makes its way on to your lips as your boyfriend bends down to place a warm kiss on the center of your forehead.

"Yesterday morning. And then yesterday afternoon, and then last night, again." Cliff drones out, the faux tone of annoyance in his voice making you shake your head in mirth and rest it against his chest once again. You place a kiss there and beam to yourself as he shivers from the notion, before leaning back and sliding your hand underneath his tablecloth to get your own letter this time. "How about I remind you again?"

Cliff lets out a warm spell of laughter as you hand him over a matching-colored envelope, almost the same in size and all. "I bet you won't one up me at all," he jokes to you, before pausing midway while opening it. "Read it to me? Missed the sound of your actual voice. Sweden's phone reception is actual shit, and you sound much better in person." You squint your eyes at his obvious ass kissing but turn around to rest against his front and to lean your head against his clothed shoulder. "Alright, brat."

You lift your hand for the envelope and let out a huff as he playfully tugs it away from you, going to fully open it himself and then placing it in your awaiting hand. You momentarily close your eyes at the sensation of his stubble making contact with your exposed collarbone, before opening them once again to start reading your letter out loud.

"To my hippie rockstar, I miss you even though we already spoke over the phone tonight. The excitement in your voice when you told me about how filled and interactive the crowd was made me want to cry. It reminds me of the times we used to sit in your parent's living room and watch the tapes your parents filmed of you, Scott and Connie. You banging on empty and already-eaten spaghetti cans and your older siblings playing their actual instruments, but you still kept up with them with your insane enthusiasm. I know Connie is proud of you, she told me the other night when I called her home. But I know Scott would be losing his shit right now. He'd be the first person in line at every single venue, and the last person standing out there, cheering you on while everyone else headed on home. I know he isn't with us anymore, but he's still your older brother no matter how you look at it, and I just know he's exuberant and standing on the tips of his toes looking down at you. We all are, because you are our star. I knew it the first moment I saw you, in that overworn jean jacket you still somehow fit into today, and that bellbottom jean style you still hold on to, that we all secretly love. When I first saw you and spoke to you outside of class, I knew you were different. The shy smiles you'd send my way and the little notes we'd pass to each other when the teacher wasn't looking. The first time you held my hand on our first date and refused to let go until I promised you that I'd allow you to take me out on another one. You are tenacious and hardworking and everyone around you is so proud, including me. I cannot wait to see you and our best friends on tour in person once again, and I can't wait to see how we end up in the future. Together, I know that. Hopefully in a home much larger and filled with our children and future nieces and nephews, and with that specific type of breed of dog you've always wanted. But even if in fifteen years down the road and we're still in this old apartment, with the same crooked blinds and the same scratched marble countertops, I would still be content. Because as long as I have you by my side and still feel you even if you're not here with me physically, I'll still have you in my heart and you'll always be here. You are my other half, my overindulgent, loving and caring, hippie rockstar. And I wouldn't have you any other way. Until I see you again, your Sunshine. Six years in counting, and sixty-six more to go."

You sniffle once you finish, the tip of your nose being tickled and irritated by a teardrop refusing to fall down. The music is the only sound emanating throughout the apartment, but you know that your boyfriend held on to every single word and syllable, if his shaking shoulders were any indication and proof of that. You let out a coo as you feel his arms encircle their way around your middle from behind, and you twist your head to the side to place a kiss on his now damp and tear-stained jawline.

"We're all so proud of you. You know that, right?" You ask him quietly, not wanting to fright him or break the delicate scene the two letters of yours made. You feel him nod against you and you let go of your letter to wrap your hands around his. "You do so well for everyone, and if I have to remind you myself every day, then I will."

"I love you so much." Cliff declares, the tremble in his voice causing you to press yourself against him even more, wanting to give him as much comfort as physically possible. "And I love you." You answer, simply and softly. Because it was the truth, and you always will. You made that promise to him five years ago on your first anniversary, and you intend to keep it until that right is taken away from you.

Cliff kisses the tears away of his that landed on your shoulders during your reading, and carefully scoots his chair back until it lightly raps itself against the yellow-colored wall. Before you could even ask what he was doing, you're spontaneously picked up with little to no effort, and then placed unsteadily on your bare feet. "Let's dance." He says, before dramatically holding a hand out to you and bowing his head. You let out a confused laugh but decide to go with the flow anyway, reaching your hand up to grasp onto his.

A squeal exits your lips as you're playfully tugged around the dining room table, and on to the crossroads of the living room and the kitchen. You instinctually wrap your arms around his shoulders as soon as he lifts you once again to place your feet on top of his. "I don't want the first day of me being back to be nothing but tears and stomachaches. Granted, the food was amazing, and your letter means the world to me, but I finally have you back in my arms after so long, and I want to take full advantage of it."

Your eyes soften as you look up into his and nod mutely, his hands caressing your lower waist bringing warmth back into you as your combined feet chill from the minor draft breezing itself inside from the front door.

You place a gentle kiss on his chin before resting your forehead against his chest and closing your eyes, the sound of the song that you two danced to on your first date crooning around the two of you like a comforting serenade as you both sway back and forth.

'Sweet, wonderful you. You make me happy with the things you do. Oh, can it be so? This feeling follows me wherever I go.'

"One day," Cliff starts, causing you to hum against him for him to continue. "One day, I'm going to make enough money and I'll propose, and we'll get married, and we can go and look for that perfect home you're always talking about. The white picket fence and the two floors, the walk-in closet, with a garage that's big enough to fit the both of our car's in."

"As long as you're here with me, I don't mind where we go or where we'll end up. That's just fairytales, you and I are the present, so let's focus on that instead," you lean back to look up in his eyes, that already seemed to be looking down at you. "You are my home, and we've got all of the time in the world. So, let's just focus on what we've got now, because that's all that I truly need."

Cliff nods back at you and slightly raises you off of the tops of his feet to bring you into a warm hug and embrace. You wrap your legs around his waist like it's second nature, and you feel complete and at ease as he rests his head in the space between your neck and your shoulder.

"But I'll accept that marriage proposal right away, if you were serious about that one." Your boyfriend lets out a laugh against your flushed skin and you grin widely to yourself as his vibration tickles your skin.

Cliff momentarily glances over at his jean jacket and the little red box that peeks out of its breast pocket, before resting his head against you once again and tightening his grip around you.

For once is his life, or in the past six years of the best part of his life he's spent with you, he's finally got one up on you. And he cannot wait to see your reaction. And he also, maybe, wants to floor you on your ass just a little bit. Lovingly, of course.

'You, you make loving fun. It's all I want to do.'

[dairy-farmer]

I once read a fic but now can’t find it where Sasuke time traveled into his child self and seduced Itachi and they ended up having sex and Itachi felt so guilty he killed himself. The bad ending sucks let’s change that.

I could totally see Tim doing that with one of his brothers but please a happy ending!

ohmy god ohmygod that fic sounds incredible!!!! and also something seems so oddly fitting for an emotionally and mentally traumatized person like sasuke to do. and for tim? it fits perfectly.

tim suffers a lot of loss as a result of becoming robin and he never quite stops losing things. even when he gets back bruce. steph, kon, and bart. their relationships are never the same. tim can never fully bring himself to forgive steph and eventually she grows resentful of his lack of trust. bruce drifts further not just from tim but all of them. kon and him just never have a chance to bounce back and same with bart. it hurt to know they outgrow each other. tim takes more hits and more losses.

he feels desperatly alone.

the distance between him and dick is the worst. tim wasn't angry anymore, didn't hurt anymore over the things they both said and did after they thought bruce died. but he's still never able to bridge that gap with dick. dick who had always been there who had been the steady prescense and older brother that took his side when bruce would get on his ass about something.

the loss of dick hurts the worst. even when he tries dick never sheds the bit of awkwardness around tim like he doesn't know how to act with him.

tim has nothing. has no one. so when he's fighting some villain that booster gold and flash had given a strict warning about, maybe he's not being as careful as he could be.

but it doesn't matter. because what was tim trying so hard for anyway. it's not like anyone would be waiting for him when he awoke in the medbay.

only tim doesn't wake up in the medbay, there's no heart monitor beeping in his ear, no triple filtered air or the scent of sanitizer in the nose.

when tim wakes up he's disoriented, blinking brings a wave of vertigo and turning on his side in case he has to vomit makes it worse. tim clenches the sheets under him in a white knuckle grip as the room spins, powering through the dizziness for what feels like hours until it stops.

tim is small. his voice is squeaky, it hasn't even dropped. his hands are soft and his body is a little pudgy from his love of vending machine snacks. he's in his dorm room. his old dorm room from when his parents would still ship him off to boarding school, before he'd spent weeks begging them to let him attend the local public school in gotham so he could begin his training as robin.

tim's uniform is hanging over his desk chair. his desk is littered with candy and snack wrappers and half finished homework. textbooks are lazily spread around the room and tim's old posters of punk and edgy celeberties he desperatly wanted to be were being held up by thumbtacks.

tim is certain it's a hallucination. a very good one. but as his socked feet sink into the pukey colored carpet and he follows the sound of the other boys on his floor banging on doors and then running away laughing when it's pulled open, he becomes less sure.

tim is trained to spot false realities b4ought on by illusion, drugs, or magic. tim didn't want to brag but he was the best at it. he held the unofficial record among the bats as being the fastest to break out of the effects of fear toxin.

tim was just good at knowing his own mind. and tim knew...there was no way his mind conjured this up. the detail, the realism. things tim had completely forgotten about come rushing back as his eyes landed on them.

fuck.

tim lets himself feel the horror, the devastation, the pain, and hopelessness of the situation he's found himself in for a minute. just a minute.

and then he gets to work.

tim was not like the other leaguers, the other heroes, the other people that had fucked around in time, blind to the consequences.

tim was different. he'd weighed the risks. he'd had a week where he'd been in a bad spot mentally and gone through...everything. it helped that he'd had use of an 'odds' calculator that weighed probability in a time line and had used it...just to see if what he suspected was true. it was. it hurt his feelings but it gave him the answers he'd needed to hear. tim hadn't kept that device around. he'd dismantled it and then dumped every piece in a different city around the country.

so tim knows what to do. even knowing what it will cost him he does it because...it was what was right. tim would never be able to forgive himself if he allowed his selfishness to get in the way of what was right.

bruce had never healed from losing jason. it had broken him in a way that he'd never healed from despite tim's best efforts and jason returning....angry and hateful had made it worse.

the charity sheila haywood worked for was easy to contact. tim used the computers in the lounge of his dormitory to gather the financial documents to submit an anonymous claim about her embezzling. prison would do her good. maybe she'd even clean up her act but tim doubted it.

odds that jason todd would never have died as robin had he not gone to ethiopia?? 78.9334%

tim wasn't sure how the math worked out but the fact that jason had been killed outside of gotham never sat right with him. jason had the home field advantage in gotham. no one knew that city like he did. there was no way the joker or anyone would have ever gotten the drop on him if he'd been in gotham.

and so tim saves jason's life and bruce's sanity with the click of a button.

the next thing tim does is submit crystal brown's resume to a number of nurse manager positions in new york. she's qualified and capable with the right experience as a trauma nurse. tim doesn't even have to lie or embellish anything but his years of working closely with the hiring managers at WE certainly help her stand out. crystal caught a lot of flack from stephanie. and tim understood why. her drug addiction, her determination to stick by arthur, stephanie's career criminal father, and the fact that she'd never really protected stephanie from the worst the world had to offer. stephanie had made no secret about her resentment toward sher father. but tim didn't think she even registered the bitterness she held toward her mother.

gotham was poison. and some people never built a resistance to it. gotham weighed crystal down. it made drugs too easy to get so she could never break the habit, it made every probation or release arthur got impossible to hide from because the gotham system tracked family down for convicts so they wouldn't be on the street or clogging up the shelters. the stress of her estranged husband's release stuck her in an ugly cycle of drug use. but she'd never stolen them from her job and that's why tim makes the right moves for her.

new york was unfamiliar but similar to gotham. she'd be cut off from her usual suppliers and out of state so the gotham correctional facility and arthur wouldn't be able to reach her. she'd get better, get sober, heal, do a better job of being a mother to her daughter. steph would never become spoiler. she'd probably never forgive him but if things went right they'd never cross paths.

no spoiler meant no war games, black mask would never beat her to death, darla would never die, babs would never lose her clocktower, the civilians caught in the cross fire would never fall to gang violence.

odds of stephanie brown never becoming spoiler if she left gotham? 89.0005%

with his parents it was harder. if jason lived tim would never be robin...but that didn't mean tim would be able to stop himself from being something else. he was a vigilante through and through. but being one was what had made his father a target. it was his fault he had died.

odds of janet and jack drake dying if their son is a vigilante? 93.3333%

there was no way around it. being near him was a death sentence. and tim couldn't do that to them. but he couldn't just leave. people would ask questions. his parents would be pained if he disappeared and he'd already caused them enough hurt. it's not hard to track down the...thing that lives in the Andes mountains. the thing he and young justice had found a long time ago and left alone because it hadn't hurt anyone who hadn't asked for it. the thing tim had never made a report on because there some things he didn't trust bruce with and bruce had been...unstable back then.

tim has enough money squirreled away for the plane ticket. it's an easy process. the thing doesn't want money, has no use for it. all tim feels is a pinch as his life strands to his parents are severed. tim's baby photos in the family album, his first tooth, his basssinett growing mold in the attic, his parents memory of him being born. it fizzles to nothing like a tablet of alka seltzer dissolved in a glass of water. tim figures he had a few weeks before the school realized an extra student was in the dorms which was why tim had moved his things and an extra bedmat to a storage closet in the school attic before leaving.

when tim returns its only a few days before he finds out his parents have returned to gotham to file for divorce. he'd always figured they'd only stayed together because of him. once they started going through assets they'd probably find out about phil marrin stealing from the company while they're overseas.

while the other students are at class tim uses the computers to finish up his final act. he roughly knew damian's movements at this time due to past conversations. all it takes is some waiting and letting the league tech division believe they've successfully knocked out the cameras of a target's mansion. he zooms in on stills of damian's uncovered face alongside talia and other league members and leaves them in an 'automated' file for the police. he tips off a crooked cop who sells the images to big newspapers and the 'assasins caught breaking into ex-dictator's home!' catches like wildfire.

bruce will be intrigued about the league slipping up and will see the image of damian who looks so much like he did as a child.

odds of damian wayne being accepted by the wider hero community if he'd been taken out of the league earlier? 62.9855%

odds of damian wayne leading a normal life if he'd been taken from the league earlier? 78.5488%

odds of damian wayne being happy if he'd been taken away from the league earlier? 99.9999%

in the end tim does it for the right reasons. he'd like to believe that if his brothers were in his shoes they'd have done the same for him as well.

cassie, bart, and kon would still have each other. cass would find barbara again. helena would find a way to make it in gotham with or without the bats.

they'd be fine. they'd be fine without tim there.

but tim still needed to figure out what to do.

he essentially didn't exist. he had no family. no friends. he was alone.

it's on the announcement of bruce wayne having a child he didn't know about that tim finally breaks down.

he's won. but he's lost. he's lost. he's lost so much and nobody knew. he was a stranger. nobody. he was alone. alone. alone.

tim's not sure how but he ends up in bludhaven. his whole world is packed in a small backpack as he rides the bus to an address he's memorized several times over.

dick doesn't know him, won't recognize him, may even get angry at this child he doesn't know clinging to him.

tim doesn't care.

dick arrives home, after nearly a month away in space, to the realization that someone's been squatting in his apartment.

it could be any number of things that set off his finely tuned senses but the clues were a few specific things.

all of dick's shoes being lined up neatly by the entrance rather than a haphazard pile. one of the lined-up shoes includes a pair of light-up sketchers.

the fact that his dishes were washed and put away but a single mug was on the drying rack still dripping water.

the recently vacuumed carpet that still had lines from where the mouth of the vacuum had passed over it.

the extra toothbrush in a little cup by his sink along with the newly opened bar of soap sitting on the rim of his bathtub that had been scrubbed so well alfred would be proud.

but the thing that really drives it all home is the kid he finds sleeping on his bed.

he's a tiny thing, curled around one of dick's pillows and wearing one of his police academy t-shirts as pajamas. one of the kid's socks has been kicked off in his sleep and he's drooling when dick drops his bag and clear his throat.

turns out the kid had been living in dick's apartment for a little over a week after he left.

the whole thing makes dick feel like the rug has been pulled out from under him. normally dick would be nicer, kinder, gentler about the whole situation because a kid squatting in a stranger's apartment didn't exactly spell good things about his home life.

but dick was tired and stressed and pissed the fuck off because bruce apparently had another kid this one bloodrelated and he hadn't even bothered to tell dick about it. just like with jason he was treating dick like he was some sort of leper.

so maybe dick raises his voice a little.

but the kid doesn't flinch.

he wants to negotiate, he's willing to pay if dick lets him stay. he's already proven he can clean, he can cook too, will dick let him stay? tim can sleep on the couch, do the laundry, buy groceries, he can be useful. just will dick please let him stay?

it makes dick feel bad. the way this kid is borderline begging not to be thrown on the streets.

he can't keep the kid. in no world is that the right move. because dick wasn't equipped to take care of a kid and his life was already enough of a wreck as it was.

so dick lies. tells the kid he agrees to let him stay.

in the morning dick will call a social worker about the whole thing.

dick wakes up to the scent of pancakes and scrambled eggs prepared by little hands. dick has a moment of panic over the whole 'unsupervised kid + stove' before remembering the kid had been cooking in dick's apartment for over a month without burning it down.

dick tries getting some answers out of the kid but getting him to open up is like pulling teeth.

all dick manages to learn is his name.

tim, no last name.

and his age.

10. though dick is pretty sure he's lying about it given the slight twitch of his finger as he says it. impressively the kid has no other tells which means he's either used to people taking his words at face value or he lies A LOT.

dick tries six times to call a social worker but keeps getting interrupted by one thing or another.

somehow rather than calling about the child in his apartment he ends up at a grocery store with tim picking up a new gallon of milk to replace the expired one in his fridge.

tim walks with an odd sort of confidence he isn't used to seeing in children. he holds coupons clipped from dick's newspaper in one hand and sternly holds up loaves of bread, observing them for dents or imperfections, in the other.

his voice is soft and babyish but he speaks with a 'you should take me seriously' tone. it's odd to see coupled with his cherubic face that's wearing a red l.l bean jacket and light-up superman sketchers.

dick carries the small basket of groceries for tim and wonders how he ended up in this situation. he resolves to leave a message to the office of social work in the morning.

he does not.

days pass with dick trying but his attempts keep getting cut off, if he didn't know any better he'd think tim was sabotaging him by running interference.

after awhile dick starts getting used to his tiny roommate.

it's hard to think of tim as a kid, sometimes dick completely forgets he is. if he didn't keep bumping into tim because he forgets to look down to see him it would completely slip his mind.

but tim's company is...nice. he's easy to get along with. he's not put off by dick's bouts of anger which always manages to make him feel ashamed afterward because tim not flinching at someone throwing things and yelling does not say good things about what he's experienced in his short life.

tim is quiet and collected but with a surprising wit that manages to catch dick off guard when they watch some reality TV shows that dick pretends to his friends and family that he doesn't love.

when dick gets ready to go out as nightwing he always checks on tim who is curled asleep on the couch, breathing soft and even.

things are normal, easy.

until dick gets clipped by a gun and stumbles into his bedroom bleeding. he barely manages to reach the bed before the pain knocks him out. he comes in and out of consciousness, eyes blinking at the haze as he feels soft hands strip him and gently feel around his wound.

in the morning dick wakes up on the couch. his side is wrapped tightly and packed with bandages. there's an emptied syringe of lidocaine and an emptied bottle of sterile woundwash. dick's forehead is sweaty but not with fever. his suit is gone and he's in a fresh pair of cotton boxers. he spots tim out of the corner of his eye staring at him. his hands are covered in comically big yellow cleaning gloves and his hair is tied back with one of dick's bandanas. the gray mop bucket holding red stained rags are visible inside the soapy water.

tim's eyes are too big for his face and filled with an almost childlike look that disappears everytime dick blinks.

"your mattress is ruined"

that's all tim says about the situation. despite the fact that he most likely stripped dick of his nightwing suit and patched him up, pretty well by dick's standards, and there again came that throbbing ache at tim's unknown upbringing.

tim knows he's nightwing and somehow it doesn't change anything at all.

if bruce knew a random civilian knew his identity he'd be lecturing dick's ear off. which is why he doesn't tell him about tim.

tim is steadily becoming a permanent addition to dick's side. once he knows about nightwing dick starts talking more about that part of himself. his friends, allies, the stress, the burden, the loneliness. and tim looks at him like he understands and...it feels...it feels like he's a kindred spirit.

dick is talking to tim like he's an equal, another lost and dumb as fuck twenty-year-old and that's a mistake.

the winter hits bludhaven and it's a brutal one. the cold seeps in through the windows and floorboards. dick finds tim shivering on the couch and all but drags him to his bed where he's plugged in the heated camping blanket roy had gotten him for christmas one year.

dick returns to his apartment exhausted and cold and curling up beside a nice warm timmy that's like a hot water bottle brings a sigh of relief to his mouth. the comfort and weight of another person beside him soothes some desperatly lonely part of him screaming for attention.

in the morning tim helps him fix his gear. a manual in one hand that he seems to breezing through while muttering about everything wrong with his gear and wouldn't it be be better if it did this instead of this. dick just pats his soft head and slides him his mug of orange juice while sipping at a warm cup of coffee tim had put out for him

dick grows comfortable with tim, lots his guard down in ways he never does with other people. tim understands him. tim gets him.

tim is 10 years old and dick has to remind himself of that when his eyes linger on the soft expanse of tim's thighs peeking out from dick's shirt.

the realization that his eyes had been lingering slam dick with a discomfort so thick he almost wants to throw up.

tim is a kid. a kid, no matter how much he might act older, no matter how much dick feels like he understands him.

he and tim have been living together for a few months. there's a routine to them. and so dick knows that something has changed.

tim's hands reach for him more, they linger, he presses closer to dick in bed and when they stand next to each other in the kitchen. he sits pressed up beside him on the couch when they watch TV, watch him with big eyes when he comes out of the shower in just a towel.

dick knows a crush when he sees one. he knows he should be putting space between them, not letting tim press his soft mouth to the side of his throat when they sleep. he knows he shouldn't let tim do those things. but he doesn't stop them.

he likes the attention, the affection. he needs it, is so starved for it and tim is the only one willing to give it to him.

dick knows it's wrong, knows he shouldn't.

but dick is so lonely. and he and tim whisper together in his bed at night sometimes. and one night they're pressed close, eye to eye, mouth to mouth and dick tells tim that he's happy he's here with dick. and tim inches forward closing that one millimeter distance between them and presses their lips together. and dick doesn't stop him.

tim's little palm cups his cheek, small fingers stroking the skin as dick starts kissing back. tim's hand works between them, warm and small and drifting into dick's pants. it doesn't take much for dick to get aroused and hard as tim pumps his cock like he's done it before. tim is only in dick's shirt and some underwear.

they slide deeper under the warm covers. tim's shirt dress comes off and so does dick's. his pants are pressed down enough to expose his cock as tim wiggles out of little cotton panties.

dick is guiding their actions, experience making him take the lead as he gently presses a finger into tim's little cunt.

tim makes soft noises, whines, little moans as dick grunts and presses the fat head of his cock in, littering tim's chin and neck with reassuring kisses.

dick slides in with some resistance. the cunt around him twitches, hips under his palms writhe, tim whines in his ear.

dick is gentle, careful fucking tim. he works more and more of his cock in until he can slide all the way into tim in a single thrust.

he and tim fuck under the covers for what feel like hours. tim cums a few times around him. voice weakly gasping out his name while his cunt clenches around him. riding out his orgasm. dick cums too after awhile, the build up slow and satisfying as he lets out an 'mmn mnn' sound against tim's little tits.

dick cums deep inside, cum flooding into a little womb as his entire body clenches and tenses up.

the arousal and brain melting feeling lasts about two minutes before realizes what he's done to the small bodied child underneath him.

dick barely makes it to the bathroom before throwing up.

he's crying- sobbing actually, into the toilet when a soft hand touches his shoulder and dick half leaps out of his own skin.

he tries telling tim to get away from him for his own good but the words come out slurred and rough.

tim doesn't listen and comes closer, gentle hands touching dick's limbs and saying it was okay, that tim wanted it, that he liked it, he wasn't afraid of dick.

tim helps dick brush his teeth and guides him back to bed and dick, aching for someone to comfort him and tim doing just that follows him.

in the morning dick is miserable, self hating, and sick.

he fucked a kid. god he fucked tim.

the kid who'd been living with him, who trusted him, who had a misguided crush on him and dick had taken advantage of that.

he was a monster. he was worse than the people out on the streets who tugged kids into alleyways, at least they didn't mess with a kids mind and think they wanted it like he did tim.

tim who thought he needed to earn his place at dick's apartment. god what if the sex had been tim's idea of thanking dick for housing him?

dick could recall how tim had worked his hips back against dick, fucking down on the cock that pressed into him- that kind of move only happened with experience.

god. the thought that he hadn't been the first person to do this to tim made him sick. he'd found tim squatting in his apartment afterall, how many times had tim done that before meeting dick and how many times had people made him paying that way.

dick feels the bile climbing up his throat again as tim comes to sit beside him.

dick doesn't know what to say, what to do. he knows tim can't stay with him any longer. not after what he's done.

tim protests.

"do you think people not there won't do worse to me? I want to stay with you, i trust you."

"i raped you." dick replies quietly, weakly.

tim purses his lips.

"i wanted it."

suddenly dick feels anger and grief in equal measure come racing forward.

"you're ten years old! you can't want this! i'm the grown creep that took advantage of you! i didn't push you away even though I knew what you were doing!"

tim stares at him.

"you're still a good person dick."

a cry bursts out of dick.

"good people don't fuck children."

and there's no way around that. no changing or justifying it. that's what dick did.

"i haven't been a kid in a long time. i'm different, im...something else. but i'm not a kid."

and the thing is that dick believes him. nothing about tim screams child. he's just...tim.

tim is staring at him with those bug blue eyes. his pretty pink mouth parted. dick's shirt is hanging off his shoulder.

he's staring at tim like his eyes have the answers to the universe as he asks, "do you want me?".

the 'yes' in dick's mind is certain. he wants tim, he wants tim with him, sleeping beside him, he wants to bump into tim in the halls and wakeup to his cooking, come home from the police academy to his dinner.

but dick's body, his mind is telling him no. he can't have tim, not like this. it's wrong. it's not right. it's disgusting. he's disgusting-

but tim's palm is warm and reassuring. and tim looks so certain and sure it's like he can't see anything wrong with dick giving in.

tim always knows what he's doing. what to say. it's like he's so perfectly at peace and knows he can change anything unfavorable at the drop of a hat.

it makes dick feel...safe. safe in the way that dick used to feel when he saw batman as an untouchable man that the world couldn't reach.

so when tim asks dick to let him take care of everything, that it will be okay, that no one but them has to know about this.

tim's hands are as soft as his voice and dick leans in closer for comfort. and with his head pressed to a child's chest and little palms stroking his hair- dick agrees.

[exeggcute]

in a similar vein to the stuff I was talking about recently with google (unknowingly?) selling invalid ad placements, here's an interesting post I saw on linkedin the other day about advertisers who think they're buying ad space on one domain but are really buying ad space on another:

so, for context: the woman behind this post was one of the creators of the sleeping giants campaign, which was a (pretty successful!) attempt to choke out right-wing "news" websites and other peddlers of misinformation by drying up their advertising revenue. she went on to found the check my ads institute, which does a lot of the same stuff and more; one of the recurring themes of check my ads' messaging is that advertisers often aren't aware that they're running ads on unsavory websites (and are therefore inadvertently funding those websites via their ad budgets, even though they genuinely want to avoid doing so)... in part because advertisers frequently aren't aware of where their ads are running, period.

in this post specifically, she's not talking about individual advertisers but about one of the companies that exists to connect advertisers (brands who want to buy ad space) and publishers (websites who sell ad space)—in this case, an ad platform called unruly, although they recently got absorbed into a bigger company called nexxen.

nexxen is an all-in-one ad platform that's both a DSP (demand-side platform, which helps advertisers buy ad placements) and an SSP (supply-side platform, which helps websites sell ad placements). they make money by taking a cut of each transaction.

what's happening here is that unruly/nexxen worked with a publisher called yorogon.com who was selling inventory (i.e., ad space) through nexxen's platform. so if you're an advertiser who wants to run ads somewhere, you can go to nexxen and buy inventory from their available sellers; in other words, ad space offered by yorogon.com is one of the "products" for sale on nexxen's markplace. (most of these transactions happen in split-second auctions, though... it's not like shopping on ebay.)

the problem is that this seller who nexxen authorized as "yorogon" wasn't actually running ads on yogoron.com or any of yorogon's nonexistent clients' websites... they were running those ads on fucking breitbart lol. basically the equivalent of a supermarket agreeing to sell some new cereal on behalf of the manufacturer, but the boxes are actually full of thumbtacks.

we can pretty safely assume that breitbart did this on purpose because they know that a lot of the big advertisers with fat wallets shy away from publishers like them—for a number of reasons—which means that they have to sell their inventory to smaller, shittier advertisers with less money to spend. otoh there's no reason to believe that nexxen was deliberately taking part in the charade; for one, the information that led to this discovery is public, so anyone who gave half a shit could've figured it out (including nexxen or any of their advertisers lol). not exactly some vast conspiracy when your extremely public records give away the mismatch. and for two, the whole "promising to run an ad in a certain location but actually running it in a different location" is a massive fucking no-no even if the "different location" isn't andew breitbart's personal wank cave. from that last link I just shared, scroll down a bit and you can find this:

note that the warning code isn't "you're buying ads on a shitty website that sucks," the warning is "you're buying ads on a website that isn't what it says it is." but there is a dedicated warning code! because back to the cereal metaphor from earlier, this is like—okay, even if the cereal box is full of actual cereal instead of thumbtacks, it's still a problem if you thought you were getting honey nut cheerios and then opened the box and it was full of apple jacks instead. (and god knows I would never willingly buy apple jacks.)

whatever you're selling, it has to be accurate: if you offer ad space on golflovers.com but you actually run the ad on golfenthusiasts.com, that's still a major issue and the advertisers you work with will rightfully jump on your ass about it... assuming they ever find out, lol.

what's really interesting to me, though, isn't so much that an ad platform was selling misrepresented ad inventory—because as far as I can tell, that happens all the time—but more that we only know about this particular instance because it involves breitbart. check my ads is specifically hellbent on throttling breitbart's ad revenue, which is why someone was even poking around in these seller lists in the first place. anyone else could have; the advertisers who unknowingly bought ad space on breitbart theoretically could have, and nexxen certainly should have.

but for all the ad quality and transparency standards in place, any parties involved in the advertising supply chain still have to take action and check their records to make sure they're following said standards. if they get complacent, bad actors absolutely can and will try to slip through their defenses. and what's especially embarrassing in this case is how many safety partners unruly/nexxen was working with who claim to mitigate this exact scenario... although one of them was doubleverify and they kinda suck lol

[honeybeedrabble]

what it is hoe, best writer ever, can i please request an abbacchio x reader but christmas themed?? like mistletoe and santa hats and passionate smut pls pls pls 🎄🎅

This is gonna make a great gift… for christmas…

CW: piv (unprotected so be safe), cream pie (don’t do thaaaat…), very soft honestly, lots of fluff, breast play, mistletoe 🤭🤭, lmk if i missed anything.

Team Bucciarati was coming over for the annual Christmas dinner party you and your boyfriend hosted at your house. The food was ready and the table was set, however, there was a crucial element that was missing at this festive feasting.

“Oh c’mon, Leone. What ever happened to your Christmas cheer?” you giggled, setting a floppy santa hat on your boyfriends head.

He sat on the loveseat, arms crossed as the red and white hat adorned his grumpy face so perfectly.

“What are you talking about?” he huffed, adjusting the hat as the small white puffball swung from side to side.

“Look around, isn’t the place missing something?” you asked. Abbachio looked around, an eyebrow cocked.

“No… the stockings are hung, the trees been decorated for weeks, there are about a hundred lights in this room alone, and I genuinely believe we wouldn’t be able to fit a single poinsettia anywhere else in this house.”

You softly pouted, leaning in the doorway from the living room to the dining room, tilting your head to the side and looking up at the bare ceiling.

“Are you sure we aren’t missing something?” Just then something clicked inside of him. The mistletoe. He tried to hide his blush, but you knew this look all too well and felt your lips tug into a smirk.

“Last year Mista wouldn’t let up until we kissed under that god forsaken ceiling bush…” you couldn’t help but blush yourself as you reminisced.

“Come on, it was cute.”

“It was indecent…” he said, a slight hint of humor in his voice. “I don’t see why you feel the need to try to impress them so much with all your decorations.”

“Because it means we get to spend time together making this place a home… our home.” You added softly, walking over to the nearby coffee table and grabbing the mistletoe.

Abbachio stood up from his seated position on the loveseat, walking over to you where he would gently take the plant from your hands and hang it right above you on the ceiling with a nearby thumbtack.

“Well when you put it like that…” he smirked, towering over you as he positioned the decorative plant just right.

“So you’ve come around after all?”

“Well I’m no Scrooge, and if doing this means I get to see you happy then I don’t care what they’ll ask of us tonight.” Abbachio looked almost proud of his decorative skills, admiring the perfectly symmetrical placement.

You looked up at him and smiled, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face into his chest. He looked down at you with a curious face, interested in your sudden display of affection.

“Looks like it’s just us under this thing.”

“It seems so, and what of it, hmm?” he asked, his large hand caressing the back of your head and smoothing your hair down from its ruffled place against the santa hat.

“And it means we have to kiss now.”

“Oh really? I wasn’t aware,” he teased, something that was rare from him and heavily welcomed by you.

“Well then now you are, and you need to fulfill your duties and kiss me,” you smiled, an arm unwrapping around his waist as your hand snaked up his abdomen and lay against the warm skin of his chest.

He bent down to your height, gently cupping your face in his hands and placed his lips against yours in a soft kiss. You always loved this, the way he held you so gently, the way he seemed to calm even the slightest of nerves in you with his kiss alone. It was moments like these you considered him a godsend.

He gently caressed your cheek bone with his thumb, then broke the kiss as gently as he started it. You opened your eyes to see him and felt your heart ache at the look he gave you. His eyes were blown wide, lilac hair softly drooping towards his face. You smiled as you collected his hair and tucked it behind his ear. That stupid santa hat on his head knocking the lock of hair back in his face. You two giggled, then looked back in eachothers eyes.

You hadn’t realized how anxious you really were for this party until you felt how relaxed you were now. It’s as if all that time you spent running around for gifts and wrapping them, mixed with the troublesome time of decorating the house and preparing the food hadn’t happened to you at all. You knew in a way that was true. Who was there to tell you Bucciarati’s jacket size when you didn’t know? Who was there to help you with the food when you still needed to go grocery shopping? And who was there to help put the star on the tree because you couldn’t reach? It was all Abacchio. In your heart you always knew you loved him, but now you were finally presented with the knowledge of your devotion for him. As if it was something that kept the world going.

“Have you opened the wine? You have that heavy lidded look to you,” Abbachio asked, thumb still caressing your soft skin.

“No no, it’s not that.” You smiled, eyes shutting as you tilted your head into his hand, placing your own on his wrist.

“Well then, beautiful, what is it?” He spoke so softly, something he regularly did to you out of respect.

“It’s you, Leone. It’s all you.” You opened your eyes, watching how his cheeks warmed up at your sentiments. “You know I love you. I couldn’t ask for a better gift than you, in fact you might’ve just ruined all presents anyone may have gotten me tonight.”

“I hope that’s not true, I have something special planned.” He smiled. “But regardless, I was thinking the same thing.”

He kissed you again, more hunger this time. His arms wrapped around your waist as yours interlocked around his neck, your jaw going slack as he licked along your lower lip. A sigh escaped your mouth, one of your hands tangled in his long, silky hair. You could feel his smirk against your lips, his teeth running along your lower lip to tease you as you threw your head back.

“It’s shocking to me how easily you can switch on the flip of a dime for me,” he softly cooed, bending down further to lick a stripe up your neck.

You shuddered as he latched into your jaw, sucking a small hickey just underneath it that would be impossible to hide. Your hands continued to tangle in the back of his head, legs threatening to give under his massive presence if it weren’t for your arms holding on tight.

“I love it when you get like this,” he whispered sensually in your ear, his grip on your waist becoming more firm as he kissed you again, swaying side to side with you.

He gradually led you over to the loveseat he was sat in previously, moving gracefully almost as if he were dancing with you there. He sat down on the loveseat and pulled you into his lap, stroking your neck as you looked deep into his eyes that twinkled in the soft light of the christmas tree.

His hands were now on your hips, guiding you closer til you could feel the heartbeat pounding in his chest, along with the growing erection hitching in his pants as you slid further into him. You shuddered at the feeling, your skin growing hotter and the exchange becoming steamier.

There was an small yet audible groan rumbling in his throat when you shifted your hips just right, his jaw falling slack, urging you to explore eachothers mouths more on the velvety couch. His large hands slid up your back, sending chills up your spine until they settled at your upper back, pushing you further into his chest.

You ran your hands up his chest, landing on his neck, you lightly moaned as you felt goosebumps rise on his skin as you two continued making out in the living room. You could feel every subtle moment, the smooth curves of his muscular neck, the was his tongue caressed your lips before diving back in your mouth, the way his muscles tensed when you ground against him just right, the texture of his long hair as you pushed it back for more leverage. By now he was sure that all he wanted was you, he was also sure he’d be replaying this moment over and over again throughout the evening if he found himself alone.

“Abbachio…” you whimpered his name softly, legs shivering in excitement, the movements only arousing his hunger for you.

Abbachios hold on you became tighter, he wasn’t even aware of it in the heat of the passion. His hands left your back and moved up to the front of your blouse, unbuttoning it and feeling up your soft skin that was just underneath it.

As your blouse opened up so did the rest of you, with a sigh your head fell to the side, exposing yourself even further. Abbachio was pleased as he unclasped your bra, his tongue caressing your cleavage before your breasts spilled out of their confines.

Quickly you reached for his pants and undid the button and zipper, signaling you wanted them off. You got up on your knees which was enough for him to slide off, a strange hardness hitting you inner thigh as he slid them off. You ignored it, preferring the hardness hitting your stomach right now.

“You know we’re going to have to make this quick, if I’m not mistaken I think everyone’s about to be on their way soon.” Abbachio turned his head to the large grandfather clock next to the roaring fireplace.

“Trust me, we can get this done pretty quick.”

You pulled your panties to the side, your red skirt making his access easier. Delighted, his hand lifted it up caressing your folds with his thumb. You shivered, grasping his shaft and replacing his fingers for his tip, running it up and down, spreading his warm precum along your clit. You bit your lip when he smiled devilishly at you, wanting to grab you by your waist and plunge himself deep into your cunt, but stopped himself when he realized it would be at his pace instead of yours. It was something he did to let you warm up the way you saw fit.

Lucky for him you sunk down onto his length soon enough and you could feel his muscles tense up when you took him until he bottomed out. You put your hands on the headrest of the couch and kissed him on his forehead.

“Mmmm…” he hummed, face turning a pale pink when you put a twist in your hips. “Enjoying yourself up there?”

“Y-yeah,” you grunted, pushing yourself up only to slide back down into his lap with a breathy moan.

He placed a hand on one of your tits, his index and thumb rolling a nipple after he spat on it. You stiffened up, then arched your back, feeling him throb inside of you.

“Seems like y-you are too,” you let out, feeling juices run down your thighs.

“You read me like a book,” his other hand was now firm on the underside of your thigh, guiding you up and down his length as he deliciously stretched you out.

You let him take control for you, his slippery cock penetrating you over and over again, pushing against spots inside of you he was well acquainted with. He smiled when he watched your face contort, eyes watering with pleasure.

He moaned your name, gently nibbling your earlobe as he held you up and lifted his hips into you, his pubic bone grinding against your clit making you see stars. His pace began to become more and more rough, your cunt squeezing his girth tightly as his smooth tip explored your insides.

Abbachio became flustered as he watched you writhe in his lap, unable to help himself he turned you both over and grabbed the outer sides of your thighs. He realigned himself with you enterance and you both let out matching moans when he thrusted inside. You both got louder when you realized how much deeper he could be inside of you. In and out, over and over, the mix of noises between your gutteral groans and the squelching of your cunt only made him pound you harder.

You watched as his hat threatened to fall off and when it almost did you grabbed his face and brought it closer to yours, making out now as he fucked you senseless. You moaned in his mouth while you wrapped your legs around his torso, holding on for dear life.

“It’s good?” He asked, voice husky now as he felt you flutter around him.

“S-so good! Ngh- love… i love you!” you cried out, diving back in for another kiss.

You felt yourself shake, your stomach churn, and body burn hot as you came hard. You thought he looked so pretty with his hat on as he sunk his teeth into his lip, grunting while he rearranged your organs with his cock.

Soon enough he couldn’t help himself as he spilled his cum deep in your walls, you felt the way he shuddered and knew it was over before he did. He almost whimpered as he drained himself inside of you, your kisses became sloppy through both your orgasms. When he finally pulled out he noticed how late it was and was anxious to gain his composure.

“Shit… Theyll be here any minute now! I’m sorry my love, I’ll make this up to you later tonight- I promise!” He panted as his chest rose and fell, leaning over to kiss you one more time before rushing over to your linen closet to find a towel.

You reclasped your bra and buttoned your shirt, finally tossing off that santa hat. You bent down to pick up his pants so he could put them on easier when a small red box fell out of his pocket. It had a silver bow on the top and you smiled at how cute it was. Absentmindedly you opened it and froze when you saw a small ring sitting in the middle.

“Lay back and I’ll take care of the mess, okay?” Abbachio asked entering the room again. He also froze when he saw you holding his ring. “So you found it…” He sighed before letting out a small laugh.

“I was planning on proposing after presents and… at the very least while I was wearing pants, but I guess these things can’t be helped.” He walked over to you and sat down next to you.

“Marry me?” He asked, taking one of your hands and placing it on his chest, heart beating a million miles a minute.

You threw your arms around him, crying happily as you kissed his face all over, muttering soft “yes”’s over and over again. He placed the ring on your finger and grabbed your face gently in his hands. He looked up for a moment and you did too, seeing a mistletoe you must’ve forgotten hanging right above you. You two laughed softly until there was a knock at the door. You jumped and ushered Abbachio out of the room to change as you quickly cleaned yourself and fixed your hair.

Soon enough you opened the door and we’re greeted by all your friends, each one holding their own gifts for eachother. It didn’t take long for them to notice your ring and when Abbachio came out they all congratulated you profusely. Dinner went well, the whole party did. There wasn’t a moment you weren’t grateful for your fiancé, and as the night went on you realized that he wasn’t lying about making it up to you.

AN: happy holidays everyone !! i’m very grateful to have such amazing people interacting with my stuff and i hope everyone had a great holiday season !!

[set-phasers-to-whump]

not alone (anymore)

prompt: "who said you could rest?"

whumpee: river cartwright

fandom: slow horses, slough house

hi everyone here is another sh fic. it's show and book canon compliant but river does not have a car yet which is i believe a detail from the books. i hope you like it, i had fun with it!!! (title adapted from i don't want to be alone by billy joel which fun fact is my favorite song!)

River vaguely hears the telltale sound of Lamb entering Slough House, a slammed door and stomping footsteps, but can’t be bothered to lift his head from where he’s pillowed it atop folded arms on his desk. 

This proves to be a mistake. 

He hears Lamb’s elephantine footfalls stop in the doorway of his room, and then Lamb himself barks, “Cartwright! Who said you could rest? Christ, you’re not exhausted after a long morning of doing fuck-all, are you?”

River reluctantly raises his head, which spins, and wiggles his mouse. He doesn’t say anything, but Lamb, evidently satisfied by this suggestion of work to be done, leaves. 

River immediately puts his head back down. He feels bad. He’d woken up this morning with nothing but a sore throat, and now it’s not even midday and he feels like absolute dogshit. His head is pounding and he’s freezing and his throat hurts terribly and his nose won’t stop running and every so often harsh and painful coughs will tear their way out of his lungs. 

He’d leave, but he doesn’t have the energy to walk to the bus stop, to wait, to ride, perhaps standing, the considerable distance back to his flat. 

He rests for a while longer, and then hears the sound he’s been dreading all morning. A distinctive thump from directly above his head. 

He is not going up to Lamb’s office. The thought of going up the stairs is enough to make him want to cry, not to mention the suffocating feeling of the room, the unpleasant stench, the general vibe of despair. He’s got enough despair all on his own at the moment, thank you very much. 

He presses his head harder into his arms and wills everything to just go away. 

As if the universe would be that kind. 

Another loud thump resounds, and Lamb yells, “Cartwright! Are you deaf, or what?”

River groans, which grates on his throat. Fuck, he feels awful. 

Lamb continues thumping, and the noise is making his head absolutely throb. He can hear disgruntled muttering coming from the room beside him, and resigns himself to tackling the stairs. 

He stands very slowly. His head spins terribly anyway, and he has to brace himself against his desk for several seconds until the world more or less resumes its equilibrium. 

He trudges to the stairs and struggles upwards, gripping the dilapidated railing like a lifeline. 

When he at last arrives in Lamb’s office, the man in question is leaning back in his desk chair, scratching his chest. He definitely looks like he’d had good reason to call River up here. 

River doesn’t have the energy to say anything besides, “what,” his voice flat and scratchy and rather quiet. 

Lamb looks up at him as though he’s surprised to find him there. 

“Took your sweet time, didn’t you?”

River says nothing. 

“How’s…whatever the hell your latest task is going?”

It’s another pointless task in a long list of pointless tasks, sorting through late rent payments in Brighton, and River hasn’t started. 

“It’s fine.”

“What’d you gargle with this morning, thumbtacks?”

River would scowl, but he doesn’t have it in him. 

“You really don’t look so good,” Lamb says, with an air of disinterest. “The job finally getting to you?” He sounds vaguely hopeful at the prospect. 

River shakes his head, which proves to be a terrible idea. His vision goes all blurry and his ears start to ring. He grabs blindly for the back of the chair in front of him and shuts his eyes against the dizziness. 

When he opens them again, Lamb is standing right beside him. River flinches. The man can be incredibly stealthy when he wants to be. 

Suddenly, Lamb’s palm is pressing against his forehead, and it’s weirdly textured but also very warm, and River is so cold. He leans into the warmth without thinking and nearly falls forwards when the hand is taken away. 

“Fuckin’ hell, kid, you’re burning up.”

River hums in vague acknowledgement, feeling ashamed, somehow, of having been found out. 

“Why the fuck are you here?”

He shrugs. Doesn’t feel like explaining that he’d felt fine, mostly, in the morning. Doesn’t want a deeper truth to be dragged out of him—that all he wants, in the whole world, is to go home, but there’s no one there anymore. 

He wants, and god, there’s part of him that’s ashamed of it, the comforts of the sick days of his childhood. He wants his Nan to comb her fingers through his sweaty hair, let him lie with his head on her lap, sneak him sweets when Grandad’s not looking. And he wants his Grandad to tell him stories, bring him tea with milk and honey, sit beside him with his reassuring steadiness. 

Of course, this is all long gone. River’s a grown adult, his Nan’s been gone for years, and his Grandad’s a shell of himself existing in a care home which feels about as far from an actual home as Lamb feels from an upstanding citizen. What he wants is deeply impossible in more ways than one, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting it anyway. 

He’s entirely zoned out, and it’s only when Lamb barks, “Cartwright!” that he returns to himself. He blinks rapidly, clearing away tears he hadn’t realized were forming. Everything feels so bad. 

“What?” he manages to ask. His voice doesn’t sound like his own. 

“I said, go home. Before you get everyone else sick. Not that I wouldn’t love a few days of blessed silence in this place.”

Having learned his lesson about rapid head movements, River makes an “mm” noise to indicate his acquiescence. There’s nothing else he can do. He feels the shadow of tears return as the thought of the bus ride once again manifests itself, followed by the image of his sad, empty flat. 

“Go on, then,” Lamb says. “Get out.” His voice doesn’t exactly match his words, strangely quiet and neutral. River doesn’t dwell on it. He just drags his achy, freezing body back down the stairs. 

He doesn’t make it to the front door. Louisa steps into the hallway and intercepts him. There’s nowhere for him to run, and he really doesn’t want to talk. Now that he’s resigned himself to going home, he just wants to get there. 

“I heard you’re sick,” she says, and River stops in his tracks. He doesn’t bother wondering why she knows this—Slough House is like that, everyone finding out everyone else’s business entirely too quickly. 

He shrugs. 

“I’m driving you home.”

There’s no question there, only assertion, so River doesn’t feel too bad for agreeing immediately. “Thanks,” he says quietly, and Louisa winces. 

“God, that sounds rough.”

He shrugs again. He’s not sure if he can handle sympathy right now. He feels far too fragile, even though he’s only sick, and it’s hardly anything actually terrible. 

They settle into Louisa’s car, and she cranks the heat. He’d thank her, but he really doesn’t want to have to talk again if he can avoid it. 

The drive to his apartment is quiet, save for the few coughs he’s unable to hold back and the sniffing he can’t avoid every few minutes. He hopes Louisa doesn’t get sick from him. That’d be awful. 

When they arrive, he climbs out of the car as slowly as he can, but his head starts spinning when he stands up fully all the same. Louisa is there immediately, tucking herself beside him and wrapping a supportive arm around his back. 

River leans against her gratefully, and she doesn’t move from his side even when he feels steady enough to walk. 

Inside his flat, he sinks down onto the couch immediately and lets his eyes close. He’s expecting Louisa to leave and is slightly startled when he feels her hands tugging at his shoes, which he hadn’t even bothered attempting to remove. 

He opens his eyes and looks at her curiously. “Why—?” he begins, but a sharp cough cuts him off, and he forgets what it is he’d been about to ask. 

“I’m hardly leaving you here on your own with your shoes on and all,” Louisa says, and River remembers his question. “I can feel your fever from here. Speaking of, have you got a thermometer?”

“Bathroom cabinet.”

Louisa disappears in search of the thermometer. River wills himself, once again, not to cry. He’d expected loneliness and an empty flat, the same as always. And now she’s here, and he still feels awful, but he’s not alone. 

It’s nice. It’s really nice. 

Louisa comes back, thermometer in one hand and bottle of paracetamol in the other. She sets the bottle onto the table and uncaps the thermometer, hands it over. 

River sticks it into his mouth and they both wait for it to beep. Louisa takes it from him before he can read the number himself. 

“39.2,” she reads out. “Shit.”

That’s not good, River thinks. How can his temperature be so high when he feels so cold?

“Hold on a sec, I’ll be back,” Louisa promises. River watches idly as she goes into the kitchen, listens as she searches his cabinets and then fills something with water. 

When Louisa returns, she has a glass of water in one hand and a damp towel in the other. River doesn’t like the look of it. 

She hands him the water first, opens the paracetamol, and hands him two tablets. He swallows them, and even with the water they make his throat sting. He winces and sets the glass down heavily. 

“Lie back,” Louisa instructs. River eyes the towel in her hand warily, but does as he’s told. 

Sure enough, Louisa drapes the thing over his forehead. He flinches back, but there’s nowhere to go. He reaches a clumsy hand up to remove it, but Louisa stops him. 

“I know it’s cold, but we need to get your fever down, alright? I’ll get you a blanket instead.”

She disappears and returns with the blanket that typically sits on the end of his bed. She tucks it around him, and it doesn’t exactly make the towel on his head feel less cold, but it does help. 

For a few seconds after this, Louisa just stands there, and River tries very hard not to fall asleep. 

“Is there anything else I can do?” Louisa asks, eventually. “I’m not that good at this sort of thing, actually.”

River doesn’t know. He’s not exactly good at it either. “S’okay,” he decides. “Thanks.”

He would like one other thing, which is for Louisa to stay a while longer, to just be there so that he’s not entirely alone, but he can hardly ask. She’s done enough as is, and he’s very grateful. 

Only she’s not leaving. “Are you sure? I mean, I could cook something, or, I dunno, search around and find some cough drops, or…look, I just don’t want to leave you here all alone, alright?”

God, he loves her. Which is perhaps a strange thing to be thinking at this particular moment, but he does. She gets him, in the same way that he gets her, and he’s really not sure how it happened that the two of them came to care about each other this much. 

But this is a tangent that he does not need to be going down. Louisa, he senses, is expecting a response. 

“Stay?” is all he can come up with. It proves to be enough.

“‘Course, yeah. Shove over a bit.”

He makes room for her on the couch, and she settles down comfortably beside him. 

River falls asleep almost immediately, feeling, for the first time since his childhood, that he is not completely alone in his illness. 

thanks for reading! i do not understand celsius temperatures so i did my best there lol. i hope you enjoyed!!!

[forlorn-crows]

𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒅𝒂𝒚 5: 𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒔

words: 911 pairing(s): mountain + hank the raccoon/juniper the cat catch up on the hank lore [here] and [here] and [here]

✿

A thumbtack. An acorn. A loose ribbon. A big lilypad snatched from the lake. Pebbles, flowers, and petrified chips. Even a lost earring without its twin, the worn gold star glinting from where it’s buried in the pile of random trash and trinkets.

Mountain stares. The only reason he noticed it at all was because he had to scoot out the storage cabinet to get to the stone planters. He sets down the tower of pots he was shuffling from one end of the greenhouse to the other and wipes his hands on his apron. Curiosity reels him in; he squats down to inspect the squirreled-away pile of things at closer proximity. 

The little stash is actually quite unique. Hardly any duplicate objects besides the pebbles—even the dried blooms differ from each other. Mountain pokes around some of the objects with his finger, rummaging for the more buried items. A broken plastic bubble wand. A scrunchie. Part of a grucifix. A cork. Even a guitar pick. And . . . are those . . ?

“My glasses?!” Mountain frees them from the pile and stares at everything open-mouthed. He’s been looking for them for weeks; swore he left them in here, just on the bench, but when he had come back the next day they were gone. He had come to terms with having to get a new pair (though he quite liked these ones)—and yet, here they are.

There’s a rustling behind him, and when a round little body toddles up to him, the puzzle pieces click into place.

“Hank,” the earth ghoul accuses. He dangles the pair of readers in front of the raccoon’s twitching nose. “Why’d you steal my glasses, dude?”

Hank chitters and whips his fluffy tail back and forth, ears pinning back to his head. 

Mountain sighs and offers him a scritch under the chin. Too cute to stay mad. “I’ve been blindly potting flowers for many days, little one,” he scolds, albeit with a kinder tone. 

The animal squawks and pushes past Mountain’s legs to his trinket stash. He whines when he sees the state of it, all scattered about and disorganized.

“Well you can’t blame me for wanting to look,” the earth ghoul defends himself. “You’re not stealing from other people, are you?”

Hank screeches at the accusation.

“Sorry, sorry. Just me then, hm?” He gets screeched at again and bapped in the shin with Hank’s tail. 

Lucifer give him strength, he’s arguing with a raccoon. “Okay, let’s just say you found them, then.”

Hank is pleased with this answer. He chirps and begins to re-arrange his items. 

“Why do you have all this anyway? I mean, I’m a lover of a good trinket myself, but you aren’t exactly the collecting type of species . . . also I’m not sure that all of these things count as trinkets.”

The animal gives him the best side-eye a raccoon can muster.

“Hank, there’s a dead bumblebee in here.”

If a raccoon could roll its eyes and lift its chin indignantly, Hank would do that. Instead, he chitters what can only be a string of small mammalian passive aggressive statements. 

“There’s no need for such language.”

Hiss. Chirp chirp. 

Mountain rubs at the bridge of his nose. “I’m not saying you can’t—listen. Little one. My darling. Little. Creature.” He emphasizes each word with a sigh, chopping his pressed-together palms down as punctuation. Hank stops fussing with his objects and looks at the earth ghoul with those black little orbs. “Could we, perhaps, just find a better place for them? Put them somewhere I’m not going to accidentally crush them with an old armoire, yeah?” 

The animal screes happily, bouncing over to the earth ghoul and standing up with his little hands outstretched. Mountain snorts and picks him up, rising back up to his feet and flipping him over to rub his belly. 

“Why do you have to be so cute?” he asks, playfully pinching under Hank’s chin. The raccoon only kicks up a scratchy purr in response, swatting at Mountain’s wrists weakly. Mountain bounces him like a baby for a few moments before setting him down again, glancing around for something to use for his friend’s treasures. 

“Hm. I think there’s an old basket or . . . something around here,” he mumbles. He taps his hands on his apron as he scans the rows of tables and shelves. No . . . no . . . no. Suddenly, Mountain stops. Scrunches his face up and turns back towards Hank fully confused.

“Why are you hoarding things anyway?”

As if to answer his question, Juniper squeezes her way through the back door. Mountain had put a kitty door in it for her and Hank—though, Hank still prefers to force himself through the gap in the opposite corner of the green house where the windows have bowed out throughout the years. 

The white cat offers a mrrow in greeting, striding up to the both of them with an unbothered, graceful aire. Hank chitters excitedly and bounds over to his pile of trinkets, quickly selecting a mystery bauble between his thin little paws. He shoves it in his mouth and runs over to her side, chirping in greeting and dropping the object at her feet.

A close-to-fresh dandelion. Juniper mrrp’s at the gift and leans down to inspect it, the buttercup yellow petals tickling her nose. She seems pleased with the gift and rubs her cheek affectionately against Hank's with a purr. Two little unlikely lovebirds.

“Ah. Should have guessed that’s who those were for . . .”

𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈 ✿

[cringevalue]

he needs to relax

written for @steddiemicrofic’s prompt: ‘pin’ | wc: 388 | rated: G | cw: brief mention of blood | tags: moving in together, comfort

——

You said I could hang my posters up over here, right?” Eddie asks while Steve hangs a tapestry over their new bed.

“You can hang them up anywhere, babe,” Steve says, his voice coming out strained as he struggles with the tapestry. He mutters a small ‘shit’ when he drops a thumbtack on the bed.

Eddie just stares at the wall, trying to figure out the best way to arrange his posters. Figuring it would just be easier to hang one up and work around it, he walks over to the nightstand and grabs a handful of thumbtacks, not even flinching when one pierces his skin. He gives Steve a quick peck on the cheek before going back to his spot and hanging up a Led Zeppelin ‘Houses of the Holy’ poster.

“I love you, Stevie,” he says as he pins up the first corner, ignoring the blood rolling down the palm of his hand.

“Huh?” Steve turns around, dropping the whole tapestry and sending thumbtacks flying. “Fuck!”

“You okay?” Eddie is already right beside him. “What happened? Did you get hurt?”

“No, but I can’t get this stupid thing up!” Steve growls.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Eddie coos, cupping Steve’s face in his hands. “Hey, let’s take a break, yeah? Why don’t you go get some juice while I hang this up?”

Steve nods and reluctantly walks out of the room. He leans over the counter in the kitchen, pressing his head into a cupboard door. He eventually pulls himself away and opens the fridge, seeing only two things inside: his gallon of grape juice and a block of cheese; they don’t have anything yet. Walking back to the bedroom with his glass of juice, he sees the tapestry hung perfectly and Eddie working on his posters again.

“The birds helped me,” Eddie says when he sees Steve’s surprised expression, which then seems to shift into confusion. “You know, like… Cinderella?”

Steve laughs, pulling Eddie into his arms. “I fucking love you.” He pulls away and looks at Eddie’s palm, seeing more cuts and scrapes from the thumbtacks. “Let me clean this up for you.”

Eddie nods and lets Steve do what he wants, what he needs. He’d let Steve nurse every bump and bruise if it means seeing him relax. God knows Steve just needs to relax.

[universitysunflowers]

Ok I've had some time to process heres my detailed thoughts (TBB spoilers)

First I want to get my biggest issue with the finale out of the way - Tech and CX-2. I have been delusional about him but not to the point that I wouldn't accept his death or other clones as CX-2, and I was staying open. But then they went and did exactly what I hoped they wouldn't: they gave us no confirmation of his identity at all and left him thumbtacked to a wall with no face reveal. Not only is this exactly what they did in Ahsoka, but I also feel like it left a huge gap in the finale storyline. They put so much emphasis on him throughout season 3, including the last episode, and we got nothing out of it. I also felt like this made Tech's death kind of meaningless?? Which I absolutely hate saying because of what he sacrificed in season 2, but why kill him when the rest of the batch gets to live happily on Pabu and grow old with Omega? Maybe the writers had a good reason and I just didn't pick up on it?

I also felt like we were gaslit into thinking it was Tech, only for the ending to imply he's been gone the whole time. Domicile? Phee? CX-2's fight with Crosshair and the waterfall? the way he got the most screen time out of a group that was so clearly meant to be an imperial reflection of the original squad? Idk guys I feel like we got cheated there.

I also wish we got some idea of what happened to Wolffe and Cody, but maybe that is an opening for another show? perhaps?

Ok now that that is out of the way I can talk about how much I absolutely loved the rest of the finale.

Emerie's character development was amazing I've been routing for her since the season 2 finale and you know those Jango Fett genes are coming in strong she will take such good care of those kids for as long as they need. I also think it would be cool to see her again in future productions, her character definitely has potential.

Echo survived!! All the parallels between him and CW season 6 Fives had me terrified that he was about to die but that arc trooper experience paid off. His reaction to Omega freeing the zillo is by far one of my favorite parts of the episode he was so proud of her and I was glad to see him work so well with Emerie. I am also fully ready to enjoy Echo and Rex leading a clone rebellion whenever they deem us deserving of it (looking at you Filoni). I know we don't have proof of anything but there are still to many unanswered questions surrounding the clones, I hope they finish those storylines.

The last Domino is still standing, they would be so proud of him (and his dad jokes).

Hemlock finally got what he deserved and oh I was so happy that Hunter was the one who did it, especially after all the batch went through because of him. And what came after that? Even better. We finally got a Crosshair and Omega hug (plus Hunter) and they all made it off Tantiss alive I mean what more could we ask for?

I have so many feelings on the ending and the epilogue and I'm not really sure how to put them into words but my first instinct when I finished the episode was to spend 40 minutes c r y i n g

they got a happy ending? they have peace and happiness on Pabu and got to see Omega grow up? Omega is going to fly with the rebellion and fight back against the empire?

and Tech will be with her the whole time???

I am unwell. This has left me emotionally unstable. Not only is that the best ending I could have hoped for given the past seasons but it is also such an amazing last look at their family. No matter how you think of them you have to admit Hunter was right, she is their kid and that will never change. That line alone will be living in my head rent free from here on out. Her last talk with Hunter was so well done and is one of the best moments in the whole show, but honestly Tech's goggles on her ship's dash is what broke me; he would be so proud of her I need at least 3-5 business days to process this.

Yes I have my issues with the unfinished storylines but wow that finale was something I don't think I will ever recover from. It may be one of the best endings we have ever seen in star wars. Like I said, I have a lot feelings and if I tried to put them all in a post it would have to be a multi-volume novel.

If you made it this far thank you! Feel free to add your own thoughts I like hearing what other people have to say. I'm just going to go burrow straight into the ground now and pretend I don't have finals next week because honestly who can be productive after something like that?

Oddly enough this is making me want to go back and watch the Clone Wars again, maybe Rebels too? Definitely making me nostalgic.

[edwardpinestar]

Fairy Cult of the Lamb AU where instead of Narinder being chained he's pinned to a corkboard with thumbtacks in a glass case because his siblings lured him to get caught by a collecter or something. And the Lamb has to go around the study avoiding the collecter to find and steal the case key so they can crack it open and get Narinder out

[ani-coolgirl]

What You're Looking For

Written for @wincestwednesdays prompt 1: lost

Read here on AO3

When DJ gets home, the house is a wreck.

Not again, he thinks with a sigh, dropping his bag by the door. He checks the wards on the doorframe (unbroken) and makes sure the door slams when he closes it.

“Dad?” he calls, keeping his hands up as he edges further inside. No surprises, no sudden movements. He learned that sneaking back in the house after midnight once when he was a teenager. Swears he can still feel the bruise sometimes. He teased his dad about it exactly once; the utter mortification that crossed his face sort of killed the fun. “You home?”

Of course he is. He doesn’t really get out these days. The doctors say it’s for the best.

Suddenly, Dad blows by him, a whirlwind of anxiety and agitation. “—find them—” DJ catches before his dad disappears into the kitchen. Oh, he hasn’t gotten into the knives yet, at least. That’s good.

DJ catches up with his father just as he yanks open the knick knack drawer. Objects are pulled out and discarded at random—thumbtacks, rubber bands, bottle openers, and scraps of tinfoil pile up on the countertop and spill onto the floor.

“Woah, woah, Dad, slow down—” DJ makes sure he’s in Dad’s line of sight when he lays a hand on the man’s shoulder. He’s only shrugged off, which DJ takes as a win. “What are you looking for?”

Dad steps around him and yanks open the cutlery drawer. Luckily, he takes out the drawer organizer and gives it a shake instead of pulling spoons out one at a time. “I can’t find them.”

“Find what?”

Strangely, his father wrenches the freezer open and peers inside. “The... My...” He snaps his fingers impatiently; the words are gone. The freezer door bangs shut as he pats himself down; then makes a fist under his chin, jerking downward before crossing the room to dig around in the cupboard. A light bulb goes off in DJ’s head.

“They’re in the safe, Dad,” DJ reminds him gently.

Dad spins around, brow furrowed, can of cream corn in one hand. He opens his mouth but then pauses, hesitating. He sets the corn down. “Junior?” he asks tentatively.

DJ nods. “Junior,” not “Dean.” Another good sign. “Yeah.”

Dad pats himself down again but stops himself mid-motion as if scolding himself. DJ waits in silence. His father takes a slow breath and looks him in the eye. “What safe?”

“C’mon.” DJ doesn’t lead him—Dad hates to be led—and also doesn’t check if he’s being followed. If Dad comes, he comes. If not, well, he’ll calm down eventually. He usually does.

Dad follows. DJ goes to the master suite, wincing at the chaos within (Dad started here, obviously), and surreptitiously kicks the piles of clothes littering the floor aside as he heads to the closet. He clicks on the overhead light and motions his dad inside. He can see how Dad missed the safe if he forgot it was there. Unlike the gun safe in the corner (open, but emptied out months ago, thank god; DJ tries not to think about any weapons hidden around the house he might’ve missed), this one is built into the wall with a false panel keeping it hidden. It’s also covered devil’s traps and protection charms, both visible and invisible, some with rather nasty side effects. DJ sets the panel aside, enters the combination (01-24-79), and pulls the door open.

There are a handful of objects in the safe: a few photos, a baseball, a deck of cards. All sorts of odds and ends, all appearing mundane but every one of them containing extraordinary stories (only a few of which DJ’s heard). But the photos and the baseball and the cards are bypassed. He knows exactly what he’s looking for.

His dad looks ready to weep when DJ drops the objects into his hands—a leather necklace with a brass, horned figure and a car key. Stumbling to the bed, his father brings both to his mouth as he drops as if kissing them, eyes sliding shut. A single tear escapes the corner of his eye. “I thought I lost them. I-I- thought I’d—”

DJ sits beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Not an easy task—his dad’s a big guy. “We put them in the safe so you wouldn’t lose them, remember?” he explains, giving a gentle shake. Dad nods but DJ’s fairly certain he’s lying. That’s okay. It’ll come back to him, probably. Softly, he adds, “Do you wanna sit in the car?”

Not the mid-sized electric sitting in the driveway. The other one. The one parked eternally in the garage and covered with a tarp. The one DJ wasn’t even allowed to breathe on until he was almost sixteen. The car.

To his surprise, Dad shakes his head. “No. No, I’ll just—” he sniffs and looks up, eyes clear. He glances around. “The... damn, the house. The house is a mess, I need to—”

He tries to rise. DJ lays a hand on his chest. “Dad, no, it’s okay. I’ll take care of it.”

“No, no, I need to clean up—”

“Dad, I’m telling you, I’ve got it. You should rest, you—”

“No!”

DJ jumps. That’s the drill sergeant voice. The voice he used when he taught DJ how to shoot and made him memorize exorcisms before moving into his dorm. It makes the man sound ten years younger. Dad always gets upset after he realizes he used that voice. Always said it made him think of DJ’s grandpa.

He automatically sits a little a little taller, but Dad’s already softening. “Sorry. I’m sorry,” Dad apologizes. “Just, it’s my mess. I can at least help pick it up. I can do that much. Please.”

As if anyone can say no to that face. DJ nods and Dad’s face cracks into a weak smile. “I think broke a vase,” Dad admits as they stand.

DJ rolls his eyes. “That fake Ming thing? Good. I always thought it was ugly.”

“That was a gift from your mother.”

“That’s probably why she gave it to you, to see if you’d say anything. I’m telling you, she’s laughing at you every time she sees it on the mantle.”

Dad’s laugh is genuine. “That sounds like your mother,” he agrees.

DJ gestures towards the closet. “Want to put them back?”

His dad wavers for a moment but shakes his head no. “Later,” he says. “Go grab the broom. I’ll be there in a minute.”

DJ steps out. But he hangs around for a moment right outside the doorway. Just in case.

For a long moment, there is nothing. But then: “I miss you.”

There’s no question who his father’s talking about. There’s never any other person on his mind when he gets like this. Actually, DJ’s pretty sure that’s who’s always on his mind, and these are the only times he can’t hide it.

Then, so softly DJ almost can’t hear it: “I love you, Dean.”

Love. Not loved. Not past tense. Never past tense. DJ’s not sure if that’s a good sign or not. His dad has always talked about Uncle Dean like that—as if he’s just around the corner, ready to crack open a cold one. That impossible expectation is why his dad and mom never got married, he thinks. When DJ was feeling sort of petty and resentful for not having normal parents (at least you can explain divorce; he never had any idea what to say to other kids on the playground when asked) he figured his dad was a liar. That Uncle Dean was really just Dean because nobody talks about their sibling like that, alive or dead (and DJ’s known people with both). No one but the most devoted widowers mourn like this; as if the world is inalterably changed and it’s everyone else who’s is strange for not seeing it.

But then DJ always remembers the look on his dad’s face the one and only time he asked why he didn’t have a little brother or sister; the haunted look in his eyes when he said, “I want you to live for you, okay?” As a kid, DJ didn’t know what his father meant. Now, knows three things: he had an uncle named Dean; his father will always be wrapped in grief; and he understands. As much as he can, anyway.

DJ gets the broom. A few minutes later, his father appears and together they laugh over the shards of the knock-off vase. As they put the house together, not for the first time this year, DJ thinks it won’t be long before his father finds what he’s really looking for.