#vacuum glazing

[theblogs2024]

How To Setup Glass Brick Windows And Employs

A lot of architectural aspects built of various resources have received level of popularity. Even though some of them offer fantastic aesthetic appeal, others are noted for featuring substantial performance levels. Glass bricks are among the All those aspects that provide the best blend of favor and features. This is the reason behind their rising use in installing glass shower enclosures and glass Home windows. Often known as glass blocks, they offer a range of advantages that the homeowners appreciate to get. Industry experts could be employed to put in glass blocks Home windows, although Lots of individuals prefer to get it done them selves. Contrary on the perception that setting up them can be a complicated work, the course of action is pretty uncomplicated and enjoyable. Here are a few sections giving more information about these factors.

Availability: There is not any limit towards the types where glass bricks are created all over the globe. Not Many individuals regarded that their use started as yearly as 1900s. Nowadays, the suppliers source them in a very selection of various designs, measurements and colors. These stunning blocks are also offered according to distinct obscurity ratings. With regards to the Place of installation and level of privacy, the homeowners can conveniently acquire them. Advantages: Blocks crafted from glass quickly depart the traditional clay blocks or bricks far at the rear of during the race. The incredibly very first benefit is the fact glass bricks are energy preserving. Thanks to their vacuum sealed designs, these bricks present better diploma of insulation. The next advantage is these blocks enable the entry of organic light. Common brick enclosures make the overall atmosphere uninteresting and dark. Bricks made of glass render an aesthetic attractiveness which makes the world lively. The homeowners can obtain preferred privateness with glass block windows, devoid of compromising Together with the all-natural light-weight. Yet another gain is these blocks is usually availed in numerous kinds providing resistance to harsh climatic conditions. They are also counted One of the most secure products for supplying resistance to fireplace and vandalism. Bullet resistant glass bricks are also produced in a variety of countries. Installation Guidelines: The main essential phase of putting in a glass block window is to possess the right measurements. This may help in getting these bricks in correct dimensions. The following phase is to get ready the picket body for set up and help it become immune to water resistant using moisture proof papers. This could be accompanied by mixing of glass block mortar in accordance with the company's Guidance and According to the necessity. Start off by making use of the mortar to the base, making certain that it is evenly distribute. Utilize mortar into the vertical facet of the main block and take care of it over the mortar distribute. Continue fixing the consecutive glass bricks by applying mortar over the vertical facet of every. The excess of mortar would be squeezed out and may be taken off thoroughly. The following stage would be to position and correct a reinforcing bar and an L-shaped metallic strap before beginning the second row of blocks. The blocks must be leveled, aligned and continuously spaced and This could be ensured for each row. Will not disturb the installation for the next forty eight hours, ahead of the glass brick window gets a wonderful Element of your home To know more details visit here: vacuum insulating glass

[zhongrin]

spending your weekend with...

© zhongrin | 2024 ✼  [✘] no repost・translations・plagiarism of any kind・ai data mining. [✓] rebloggers get a free cup of tea ♡

✼ characters ┈ zhongli, al haitham, wriothesley, jing yuan, blade

✼ tags ┈ fluff, established relationship, more fluff, your honor they’re all so whipped it’s cringe /silly

✼ a/n ┈ she lives!!! and oop, off she goes back into hermit mode after posting-

ᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴜʟʟ ᴍᴇɴᴜ (ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ)  ✼ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱʜɪᴘ (ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ)

... the husband of all husbands, zhongli ー your feet walking along the familiar path of nature's trails and having picnics between the green-yellow grass of liyue’s vast fields. pretend you don't see a familiar shade of seafoam-tinged feathers flying past into the dense leaves of the trees adjacent to the one you take refuge under. maybe one of these days, the yaksha will finally accept your invitation to have a family dinner in your abode.

delving into the harbor's market, buying groceries and getting sidetracked by knickknacks. too many times, you've let the mora in your pouches pass across the merchant's for yet another antique teapot or an accessory you can never seem to have enough of. perhaps a dragon's hoarding nature is contagious to its partner? either way, you never fail to finish up at night with tea served in delicate glazed earthenware, brewed by your husband's expert hands. and if those same hands decide to spoil you further as you both cuddle in your nest-bed, even better, no?

... your al haitham, who, on rare occasions, would have a junior akademiya scholar approach him while you were out, in hope to acquaint themselves with the former acting grand sage. he's always quick to shut them down, the bluntness of his words deterring the situation to progress further. you think you see him smirk when the poor lad scurries away, but as he returns towards your side, his hand finds home around yours and all is forgotten.

a café isn't exactly a place he would choose to frequent on a crowded weekend. but the coffee's good, and you seem content as you chatter across the table. while it's scientifically impossible and irrational, there's just something in your voice that seems to create a vacuum bubble that allows him to focus on your endearing rambles. he listens, and he thinks he should record you talking, just so he can play them in his soundproofing headphones whenever.

... the one and only duke in fontaine, wriothesley, who follows you around like a loyal guard dog. it's probably thanks to you that he's not growing shrooms on his fur jacket from all the time he spent down in the damp fortress underwater. you take him shopping, persuade him to try out coffee, sample some foods that isn’t wolsey’s cooking… and if you so happen to bump into your friends, you're both usually always more than happy to adjust your schedule ー a sudden tabletop game session with clorinde and forcing persuading neuvillette to perform dereliction of his duties for a moment to relax are a few examples.

but above all, his favorite has to be bringing some snacks to sit down under a tree with you, watching fontainian poodles frolic around the dog park. maybe one day you'll have a puppy of your own, but for now, your beloved is ‘content with just you’, he says with a cheeky grin.

... your dozing general-arbiter whose brain seems to only want sleep and cuddles whenever the week starts to wind down. waking up to jing yuan who’s akin to a very sleepy big cat draped over your body using you as a pillow is how you would always start your weekend, and it's only at these peaceful moments that the man turns into a heavy sleeper. had he been a real lion, you think he might be purring up a storm as he snoozes, pillowed shamelessly against your chest.

your lover prefers a slow, lazy day with you whenever he has the rare time to take himself out of his duties, and naturally his free weekends are included in this. maybe start with a morning cuddle (in bed), a nap (in bed), both of you cooking lunch (in the kitchen), another nap (maybe on the recliner sofa because why not), a leisure night walk around aurum alley, and a night cuddle (yes. again. in bed)? hmm. yes, that sounds perfect.

... blade, who doesn't exactly have 'weekends', per se. chances are, he doesn't even know what day today is. plus, there's no guarantee that you were with him if he's away on a mission, anyway. but when you were around? you have his full (nonverbal) permission to drag him wherever and to do whatever you want.

you want to travel to the nearest planet for a bottle of soulglad when everyone else is asleep? pick a ship, he'll steer. you want to have a spa day and pamper yourselves senseless, braid his hair while you both have an overpriced face masks on? a useless act for him, especially considering his circumstances, but he'll massage your head if you give him enough puppy eyes. you just want to rot in bed and contemplate your existence? as long as you let him lay his head on your chest so he can hear your heartbeat, he’s good. either this man does not realize how much you have him wrapped around your finger, or he just does not care. it’s probably the latter.

✼ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱʜɪᴘ (ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ) ┈

@abyssmal-skies ! @hamdehlesmis ! @sunnshineflxwer ! @queen-belial ! @silentmoths

@dustofthedailylife ! @marina-and-the-memes ! @mixed-kester ! @lordbugs ! @anonymousficreader

@irethepotato ! @sassy-cat-in-town ! @syrenkitsune ! @smokipoki ! @cakeboxie

@crystalflygeo ! @ciexuvia ! @illaasya ! @celestewritestoomuch ! @pams-comfortzone

@spidermanluvr444 ! @ourstrawberryclouds ! @ryuryuryuyurboat ! @hrts4hanniehae ! @fiannee

@frosts-intuition ! @florapocalypses ! @genshin-impacts-me ! @scarasmood ! @hellcatinnc

@beloved-brynn ! @malachitemischief101 ! @average-yandere-enjoyer ! @euniveve ! @centralballad

[nobrashfestivity]

R. Buckminster Fuller A Dymaxion Home, project Elevation, axonometric, and plan Architectural Drawing Drawing date: c. 1930 Project date: c. 1930

(model made later) Unbuilt Fuller's 1927-29 Dymaxion House project inspired his Wichita House, Wichita, Kansas, of 1945-46 (212.1978 and 213.1978). The Wichita House was the only Dymaxion-type house built. "R. Buckminster Fuller's Dymaxion House was inspired by a desire to create widely available low cost housing. Fuller believed that by adopting the efficient and cost-effective assembly-line production methods used for the automobile he could produce a home at the same price as a car. The unusual hexagonal-shaped house was clad with double-panel vacuum-glazed walls and was fully air-conditioned. Its central aluminum core housed all mechanical equipment and provided the support structure for the roof and floor. Fuller's goal, 'maximum gain of advantage from minimal energy input,' was never realized, but his concept introduced a radical new way of living to the general public. Despite numerous early orders, only one modified postwar version of the house was ever built." - Bevin Cline and Tina di Carlo in "The Changing of the Avant-Garde: Visionary Architectural Drawings from the Howard Gilman Collection" (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2002).

[kechiwrites]

decided to break it

toxic baby daddy!ghost x reader

part 4/?

synopsis: babies change everything, and neither you, nor simon handle change very well at all.

wc: 2.2k

cw: afab!reader, angst, hurt with no comfort, language, break up fic, abandonment issues, no gendered language, discussions and depictions of pregnancy. no use of y/n ever.

author’s note: im back <3, more tomorrow, or perhaps later tonight if i feel up to formatting on this hell site. for kitten, shia, nori, 👩🏿‍🍼 anon, and everyone else who cheered me up when i felt super down post-holidays

new to baby blue? start here.

"Fuck." You murmur, maybe for the fourth time since the 15 minute timer had gone off on your phone. The word doesn’t seem heavy enough to sum up how you’re feeling, but you give it a few more tries anyway, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The word 'pregnant', however, is the heaviest you’ve ever seen, latching onto your limbs and skin and dragging you to the floor beneath you. ‘Pregnant’ stares you in the face from the stick in your shaking hands, punctuated with a little smiley face you can barely see through tears. In the back of your mind you kind of wished you'd gotten the kind with the little ambiguous pink lines, just so you could pretend you didn't understand what two lines instead of one meant. Just for a little bit. Alas, the pharmacist recommended the slightly more expensive test, the kind that gives you a week estimate. The kind that tells you you've been fucked for 3-4 weeks now.

Every emotion you'd been feeling up until then cedes to white hot panic. It's hard to breathe in your little blue bathroom.

You wonder what he'll say. 

No. 

You dread what he’ll say. 

It’s nothing you two have ever talked about, not in the cold blackness of night, when he’d sat in your arms with his face bare to you and murmured every gory detail of his upbringing to you and not a goddamn therapist. Not the following morning when you’d sobbed your terror of the future, and losing everything you had into his lap. And certainly not when you had mutually decided you were “getting serious”.

And now you have to. You have to tell Simon you’re pregnant.

There's a pit in your stomach when he comes by that night, mask off and eyes warm, considering like they always are. You get swept up in how it feels to be near him, to have him crowd into your space, soaking your senses in his scent, his warmth. He kisses you gently, so soft it makes you want to cry. He used to say he wasn't capable of being like that. Not with you. Not with anyone. 

Instead of sobbing into his chest like you’re desperate to, you chide him about wearing his boots in the house. You take the time he needs to unlace them to memorize what being with him feels like in this moment, the last time things will be easy. 

He levers up and nudges his boots over to yours, where they sit side by side. Tears choke your voice again, and you’re praying it’s just a pregnancy thing rather than a ‘you being an unstable wreck’ thing.

“Sit.” You turn to the kitchen, setting your kettle on the stove and turning the knob to high. He hunkers down on the worn cream leather of your couch. You linger in front of your stovetop as long as you can, fussing with the mug Simon uses almost always, an ugly misshapen pink thing you’d made at a beginner ceramics class four years ago. It’s chipped at the lip, rose coloured glaze cracked, exposing the beige clay underneath it. Your hand glances over boxes of tea, back and forth over colourful labels that may as well be written in gibberish for all the luck you're having reading them. 

It feels like there's no air in the room, like the secret under your t-shirt is taking it all, vacuum sealing your room until your chest burns and your head feels like it's going to pop. You tear open a brand new box of earl grey, stuffing it back onto your shelf when the tea bag is sat securely in the cup. 

"What's wrong?” He grouses from the couch, and it’s only then that you realize your shoulders are hunched up around your ears. 

“I..” your stomach rolls and sweat begins to bead on your forehead. You can hear him stir in his seat behind you, shifting forward so he can peer at you from your living room. Saliva gathers in your mouth, and oh god, maybe you actually will throw up, it’s too early for morning sickness right? Unless the stupid tests were wrong and now you’re going to cover your countertops in the stew you had for lun-

“Hey.” Simon is standing behind you now, his hands gripping your shoulders, shaking you lightly until you whip around to face him. The kettle is screaming now, filling your home with that shrill, high shriek of steam from the boiling water whistling through the appliance's tiny spout. 

Somehow it’s still quieter than your pulse pounding in your ear.

“I’m pregnant.” You choke out, if only to stop yourself from retching over Simon’s socked feet. God, it’s like time stops, then it splits and cracks in clean halves. Into before and after he knew. Before and after his concerned expression crumbled into disbelief, before and after he schooled that disbelief into placid nothingness. And it’s not like you’d entertained the delusion that he’d be happy about it. But the silent hang time before he reacts is this terrible, hollow, unknown that tears up your insides and relishes in the shiny, red viscera. 

A gruff, quiet "Are you sure?" is what you get from him, when he finally recovers, and you try so hard not to let it bother you. It's a shock. A surprise. A loud bang in the middle of a serene night, a cannon going off in your face, a gunshot into the sky when you thought the race was an hour from starting. 

You try to give him a bit of grace. Still, the pit in your stomach grows.

Now it's a bit of a sinkhole.

"Baby, I wouldn't be telling you if I wasn't sure." You move to snag your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, to tug him close so you can hold each other, support each other, but he take a small step backwards, letting his palms slip from your shoulders. 

The sinkhole is a cavern, yawning wide, open and empty. 

You toss your hope and love inside.

“I need…some time.” He mutters, slinking out of your space, out of the kitchen and back into your entryway. 

'Time to fucking what?' you think, but hold back. You know Simon. You love Simon. And you remember where he's come from. What he's come from. You realize a second too late you should be following him, and when you stumble over the kitchen threshold, he’s tying up his boots, his broad back facing you. You try to peer around him, try to get a look at his face, desperate to gauge where he’s at. But when you notice he’s knocked your shoes over in his scramble to get away, to be anywhere but here, you stop moving..

“Y-yeah. Okay. Just..uh, get back to me soon okay?” you stutter, and wrap your arms around yourself, like you know Simon won't. Not with the way his hands are shaking. 

He doesn’t even respond this time. 

The soldier just stands. He opens your front door. And walks out. Leaving you in your entryway. Water past its boiling point in the kettle.

You don’t see him again until you’re four, nearly five months along, the bump under your clothes now impossible to hide. When you stumble into your home, exhausted from working, he’s in your living room. Sitting there in his mask at your tiny dining room table. Like no time has passed at all. Like he should be there. You realize you never did get your spare house key back.

“Get out.” you spit, blood boiling under your skin. 

"I know you're upset-" He begins, like he’s about to deliver a practiced speech.

"Get the fuck out!" Your tone is caustic, and you hope it burns him, hope it strips off all the facade on the rotting structure he is underneath.

"I never meant to leave it so long. This." He won't even say it. Can't even refer to you, let alone your baby. He stands up and becomes this big, dark mass in the bright space of your living room, black mask, black shirt, black boots, just a huge black hole that sucks up every good feeling you’d had in his absence, every ray of light that’d shone through the dark gloom he’d left behind. Nothing escapes his pull. 

He peers at you from the gap in his mask. The stark white skull stretched over his face mocks you, maliciously whispers in your ear; ‘Did you think you knew him? That he was honest with you? Open to you?’

And you had. You did. You thought you were making progress, building some semblance of a future, falling in love.

It makes you sick to your stomach to think of it.

"You want to apologize, take the fucking mask off Simon." Your voice breaks, and part of you hopes he hears it for the plea it is. Hopes he understands what you’re asking of him. Hopes he feels how bad you missed him, under the hurt and pain and bitter, bitter loneliness. If he would just take it off, just pull the stupid fabric over his face and show you he was still yours under there, that he’d make a mistake and he’s ready now, then maybe the two of you could fix it. This.

Instead, his silence, his stillness cracks open your ribcage and pours black ink over your heart.

Humiliation and anger simmer on your tongue. What comes next is shockingly easy. "Oh you can't do it, huh? Can't be a fucking person with me, huh?" You shove at his chest, and he takes it, staring at you with pain in his eyes. Like this is hurting him.

"I shouldn't have waited so long, but I-" he steps towards you and it feels so good to rip away from his touch. To step back from his advance.

"No!” You shout, and your face is so hot, skin ablaze with righteous anger. “Shut up! Three months? Are you out of your fucking mind?"

And yes, one month of that was deployment, you’d known that, you’d talked about it, together. One month of no contact. One month of sand and heat and blood. But the other two months had been that white hot panic you'd felt on your own, in that tiny bathroom with the peeling blue wallpaper he'd promised he'd help you strip and replace. The other months had been missed calls, and ignored texts and you getting bigger under your sweaters because unlike him, you couldn't just take a break from the situation.

“Get the fuck out of my house!” You shove past him, deeper into your home, spinning around so he’s closer to your entryway than you are. “Don’t you ever show your face here again, do you hear me?” You’re screaming now, much to Ghost’s visible discomfort. Good. You hope your nosy ass neighbours call the cops. You hope they physically remove his pathetic ass. You hope they embarrass him. (It isn’t very likely, of course. But God, could you dream).

“You can't just keep it from me.” He steps closer and you lament that he has you on the backfoot. It’s your space, your home and yet it feels as though you’re the one who’s out of place, off kilter and uncomfortable. You glare at him. 

“It’s mine too.”

‘It’ he says, and that bothers you. Irks you. Him calling your baby an ‘it’. 

“Give me a fucking break, it wasn’t yours when you left me, you couldn’t wait to get your sorry ass out of here when I told you. Now you wanna play daddy? I don’t fucking think so.” You dig your fingernails into the meat of your palms, leaving aching crescents in their wake. 

“And you know what? Maybe it’s my fault for wanting to be with someone who is so fundamentally fucking broken that he couldn’t fucking bear to show me his goddamn face until I’d begged him. Maybe I’m the idiot for thinking you could ever be capable of love, of decency. I needed you. And you abandoned me, Simon. You are a fucking monster.” 

The word hangs in the air, hovering between the two of you where it can’t be taken back, and it sure as hell can’t be forgotten.

“You are good at distancing yourself, you are good at killing your feelings. Keep doing that. Stay the fuck away from me and my kid.” You’re panting when you finish, and everything hurts, one of your hands is bleeding, your eyelids prickle with the pain of unshed tears, your throat feels strained and tight. He nods once, jerky and quick, before he takes an unbalanced step back. Then another and another, his eyes never leaving yours, like he’s looking for something, anything other than hurt and hatred.

But there’s nothing else to find.

He turns, opening your front door and trudging out, heavy footfalls bracketing short moments of gut wrenching silence. It feels final. But it doesn’t feel good. Not like you thought it might.

He’s halfway into his SUV when you scramble out your front door, shouting over your porch railing to him in your driveway. “And get rid of my fucking keys!” He stares at you, standing stockstill, before he gets in the driver’s seat and pulls away.

whew, nice to post ghosty-poo again

series masterlist here

support city girls, reblog what u like

[vecnuthy]

obnoxious

@steddiemicrofic October prompt: suck | wc: 480 | G | no warnings |

Eddie and his friends poured over notes in the booth across from Steve and Robin, but had devolved into silence.

Well.

Almost silence.

Gareth tapped a straw against the table top, Jeff scrunched audibly on very crunchy house-made chips, and Freak wrapped his knuckles on the tabletop.

And then there was Eddie.

Bane of Steve's existence.

The light of Steve's life.

Steve leaned against his and Robin's table with a sickeningly fond gaze that he hurled in Eddie's direction as the guy made the most god-awful noise with his straw. It sounded like a vacuum cleaner trying to pull up a mound of kibble. Eddie struggled absentmindedly to pull every single last drop of his Dr. Pepper from the bottom of that glass, to catch every bit of the essence of those 23 flavors as they melted off of the ice and dripped down into the vortex of insanity, as Robin just called it.

"I'm about to smack that out of his hand," she said through clenched teeth.

"I know," Steve practically sighed out, eyes still glazed over as a little smile played at his mouth.

"Really? You look li-"

Eddie shook his glass around obnoxiously, then continued to suck.

Steve could practically feel Robin clench her fists and grit her teeth. "You look like he just saved a kitten from a tree," she spat out, clearly annoyed.

"Oh. No, I have literally never been more annoyed in my entire life," he said, still gazing adoringly at the personification of gravel in a blender.

But that was his personification of gravel in a blender.

"You're ridiculous. And hopeless." And she was at her limit, so she balled up their receipt and chucked it at Eddie's face, but it landed short and on top of his notebook, making him give one last startled suck as the whole table jumped from the intrusion.

Eddie snapped his head over and gave Robin a scowl that matched her own, as he hissed, "What?!" But his face softened into something gooey when he saw Steve's. "Hey," he grinned out.

Steve gave a little wave.

"Would you stop?" she hissed.

"Stop what?"

"Your drink-based chainsaw impersonation!"

Eddie narrowed his eyes at her, then whisper-shouted, "I'm thirsty."

"Get a refill," she whispered forcefully at the same time Steve held out his glass and said, "Have mine."

Eddie smiled brightly at Steve, got up, and took the glass from him with the most ridiculous levels of eye contact between the two of them, then sucked the drink through Steve's straw.

Eddie's face fell.

"Is this diet?"

Steve chortled softly as Eddie looked a little betrayed but still accepted it and sat back down.

"So. As I was saying, there's a bakery with a couple positions listed, and they're willing to see us on Thursd- are you kidding me?!" she quietly shrieked as Eddie's second glass rattled ridiculously again.

[tragedy-of-commons]

Congrats on 200 followers!!! You deserve everything with how much you’ve made me giggle with your stories!🎉

For your 200 followers event? May I request; Dan Heng + “Let’s meet again, in our next life…” + romantic + angst (I’m not sure if you accept the genre)

I think I’m gonna go crazy with how much angst and fluff I consume in a day

"Let's meet again, in our next life..."

It's a nice sentiment. It really is.

It also just so happened to be the best thing you could come up with, considering you're too focused on the stuttering breaths and tremors wracking Dan Heng's form. He must find it insulting, really, that you'd bring up his disposition like this, but you don't know if he can even hear you at all right now.

The storm normally brewing behind his eyes is replaced by a glazed sheen that you desperately want to remedy. You can barely find it in yourself to speak, words slurring together and becoming lost in the whiplash of the tears and shock. But you keep going. That's about all you can do.

"You--you always said I'd make a good professional nuisance. Well, that one time, anyway - I laughed so hard you didn't talk to me for two days," you ramble, threading your fingers through his matted hair. Your fingernails are caked in red, and it probably doesn't feel good in the slightest, but he doesn't even tense.

Dan Heng is still.

You sniffle, words garbled. "M-Maybe I'll peddle something door-to-door... like vacuum cleaners. Shitty ones that don't even come with a handheld and break right after the warranty expires. You'll o-open your door one day, and sparks will fly all over again."

This hypothetical scene you'd normally be pitching to him over a hearty breakfast or under the twinkling stars doesn't make either of you laugh. Instead you feel bile crawl up the length of your esophagus, threatening to spew with the rest of your guts if you persist with this poor charade.

"Or maybe you'll slam the door in my face. I don't know what could happen," you admit, because of course you don't. You don't know anything else but Dan Heng's nauseatingly cold skin and clammy hands.

There's a small number of people in this universe that will accept you. There's an even smaller number of people who will love you, that will let you inside their heart, no matter how much of a professional nuisance you may be. Finally, there's an infinitesimal amount of people - really just one - who will let you love them in return, despite it all.

And he has just slipped right through the gaps of your fingers.

"Even if you do," you hiccup violently, biting your tongue until you taste iron, "I'll stand out there all night until you recognize me."

There's no response except the buzzing of cicadas, tapping on the soft spot right between your eyes in a dull ache that hurts so bad you can't breathe.

If that's a good or bad thing, it doesn't matter; Dan Heng is not here to soothe the pain with mild-mannered but gentle platitudes. Dan Heng is not here to squeeze your hand back as you try in vain to keep up the one-sided effort.

You are alone, even as you sweep away his bloodied knot of bangs, leaning forward to press your quivering lips against his forehead tenderly.

"You k-know I would," you plead, whispering against his eyebrows and mangled nose, a tiny part of you still holding out for a sign that he's still with you - that he understands how much you love him, even if you didn't say it as much as you should've. "Dan Heng..."

Those three little words are on the tip of your tongue, foreign. It feels like an insult, knowing he won't be able to hear them. Even so, you choke the syllables out, actualizing years of subtle acts of service and inside jokes and wonderful chemistry that you'll never get to share with him again. Cradling your best friend and only treasure, you weep.

When you're torn from his side by first responders, clawing and gasping in abject hysteria, you struggle further, begging anyone who will listen not to take him away. You know he's already gone, you see it in the stiffness of his shoulders as you're dragged away, but you need him. You need Dan Heng, and you need him in not just the next life, but in this one too.

Time passes by in an unpleasant blur, reminiscent of a slideshow. Between clicks, whole days bleed into one another. You feel like you're slathered with monochrome and grayscale while stood against a background teeming with color, terribly out of place and clashing with your surroundings.

Click, you're standing in one place, and then you're not.

Click, you're lying down, only somewhat aware that if you turn over on your side, you'll be met with the barren right side of the bed. Click, you're mulling over flower arrangements and funerary rites without a hint of life in your voice.

Time has never been on Dan Heng's side, you know that for certain. He'd confided in you a few times - in whispers over poorly brewed coffee and in the middle of chaste kisses - that he may never be truly free from the shackles of his past.

Even so, you love him. You'll love him for the rest of your life, and hopefully, all throughout your next one as well. If not, you hope, with all of your shared memories at your back, that Dan Heng will find peace in his next incarnation.

You, however, won't be finding peace until you show up soliciting on his doorstep, peddling those shitty vacuum cleaners.

Until then, you suppose, choking on your tears of yearning.

🏷️: @akutasoda, @aviiarie, @lowkeyren, @synqiri

a/n: did i cry a few times while writing this one? yes. are you evil for forcing me to do this? yes. did i absolutely love every second of it? yes. by the same token, i'm glad i've made you giggle, anon! <3 loved this prompt.

event post here

[five-hxrgreeves]

Two Positives Equal a Negative (Or Something Like That)

PAIRING: adam warlock & fem! quill’s sister!reader

WC: 2.8k (again, a long one. I just can’t seem to write anything short!) 

SUMMARY: you’ve always had trouble sleeping thanks your numerous (unfortunate) life experiences. While he hasn’t lived as long as you have, Adam has a similar problem. Fortunately, a Terran phrase that your brother taught you might have the solution that you seek.

WARNINGS: slight gotg three spoilers, fluff, angst if you squint.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: okay, so I accidentally lied and I realized that my last one-shot wasn’t my first official one; I wrote a Natasha x reader several years ago. I just don’t post on here that often so I forgot about it, lol. Anyway, Adam Warlock currently has a chokehold on me so here’s another one-shot for him- the sequel that I mentioned on the last one. I’m tempted to write a Gally one/two-shot, but I’m not familiar with the TMR universe so I’m worried that I’d mess it up.

Also, I know that the phrase is actually ‘two negatives equal a positive,’ but I was drawing on the fact that non-Terrans wouldn’t really remember/understand Peter’s references, and since ‘you’ had only been to Earth during Endgame, you it mixed up.

Part 0 , Part 1

You’d always had trouble sleeping, especially on your father’s planet. There had just been a sense of. . . wrongness that you didn’t need Mantis’ empath powers to feel. It had made you on edge most of the time, alert for the unseen danger that you felt. While this might’ve just been your role as Ego’s protector speaking, you knew that your sister felt similarly. Mantis had once offered to put you to sleep using her powers, which you’d agreed to. Although it had worked, you hadn’t liked the feeling of your emotions being messed with, or the vulnerability that came with sleep. Even though you trusted that your sister wouldn’t hurt you, Ego was a different story entirely.

So, that meant that you were up most of the time with only catnaps and snatches of sleep when absolutely necessary. (Luckily your enhanced stamina helped in this case so it wasn’t terribly detrimental to your wellbeing.) It was hard to hide your unusual sleep patterns on the Milano with your new friends since there wasn’t space to walk around like there had been on Ego’s planet. But the Guardians all had various traumas of their own, so they understood the difficulty of getting peaceful rest. Some nights had even been better than others as Peter would teach you how to play Terran card games, which would then include the rest of the Guardians once you’d learned.

You also liked to sit in the pilot’s chair late at night and watch the darkness of space light up around you. It was funny, really; everyone expected space to be a dark, black vacuum of nothing when it was actually just the opposite. Sure, there was no physical form of life, but space was alive in its own way. As the Milano sailed aimlessly through the stars, you’d pass the orange-red clouds of dust and gas— nebulas. Or the brilliant white-blue of a dying star, or the different hues of blue-black that surrounded you. Space was truly beautiful, which was something that you never tried to take for granted.

But now you were stuck on Knowhere. There were no brilliant colors of space to distract you or friends to play card games with. Mantis was gone— your only source of comfort on those long nights when you’d served your father. You were alone, with nothing but a Zune to distract you as you sat, bored, in the kitchen late into the night. You’d decided on some calmer tunes and were currently listening to the Frank Sinatra playlist you’d curated. A warm mug of tea— which Peter had also introduced you to— sat between your hands as your eyes glazed over, getting lost in your music.

--

As it turned out, Adam wasn’t that great of a sleeper, either. It always felt like there was too much energy running through him to be properly restful— not to mention that, whenever he closed his eyes, he saw his mother waiting for him as he flew desperately towards her. And then the explosion would come, jolting him out of sleep as a reminder of his failure.

With a sigh, he pushed back his covers and stood. Since he was already dressed (his mother had always told him to be ready for anything), he made his way to the kitchen where he’d baked cookies with you. It hadn’t been that long ago, but he already missed the comfortable, homey feeling he’d gotten as he formed the batter into spheres with you standing at his side. You had yet to talk to Rocket about how his comments made you feel, but he knew it was because you respected your teammate and didn’t like making a big deal out of things. Thinking about you now, he sort of hoped that he would see you in the kitchen when he got there— but that was a crazy thought; it was the middle of the night! Any normal person would be in a deep sleep by now.

So, it was definitely a pleasant surprise when he came upon you, sitting at the head of the table. Your earbuds were in your ears, as usual, and you seemed to be deep in thought as you absentmindedly traced the rim of your mug with your finger. He was comfortable enough with you to approach you without hesitation, so he took the chair next to yours and nudged you gently to get your attention.

You jumped, startled by the unexpected presence of someone else in the room. At first you had a wild thought that it might be Peter, who came to keep you company as he often had. You were only mildly disappointed to see that it was Adam instead (and this was just because you missed your brother; you were actually quite happy to see the golden boy.) You took out your earbuds and paused your music. “You’re up late. Or early.”

His golden eyes met yours— something you noticed that he did often; it seemed that eye contact was his way of showing that he was listening to you, which always made your stomach flutter pleasantly. “So are you,” he replied. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nah,” you said with a shrug. “You?”

“Me either,” he agreed.

You sat in a comfortable silence together, one so long that you were almost tempted to  put your earbuds back in. Maybe this was a one-off thing; you’d never seen him before on your sleepless nights. Maybe he wasn’t used to being up at this hour and just wasn’t as talkative as he normally was with you. But you were also curious; what could a supposedly perfect being be troubled with at night? So, you sighed, and against your better judgement (as you hated to talk about your feelings), you asked, “wanna talk about it?”

But Adam also knew how you were, and he shook his head. “No, it’s okay. I don’t mind just sitting here.” He got to enjoy your company, after all, so he considered tonight to be better than most.

You let out another sigh. As much as you hated getting touchy-feely, the night was already very boring; sitting and not talking would only make it worse. “I don’t mind, actually. I’m used to being around other people when I’m up like this. Talking would make the time pass faster.” You studied his expression for a moment, which was unusually unreadable; it always seemed like he had a kind smile or glance to send your way. “We can start off easy, if you want. Are you up like this every night?”

His expression softened at your willingness to go outside your comfort zone, so he answered honestly. (He had nothing that he wanted to hide from you, anyway.) “Most nights, yeah. What about you?”

“Same,” you agreed. You played with the rubber protective tip on your earbud. “Can’t get to sleep or bad dreams?”

“Both,” Adam admitted. “Although it’s usually the first one.”

You nodded. “Same, again, but for me it’s mostly the latter. You remember when I said that you weren’t the first person to try and kill me?” At his confirmation (because how could he have forgotten that?), you continued, “yeah. It’s mostly that. My father was a great parent,” you finished sarcastically.

When you’d first become friends, you’d shared stories about the Guardians’ adventures— even the ones that had happened before you’d joined the team— although they’d mostly been lighthearted in tone. You’d acted like they hadn’t really affected you and had laughed at the fact that your father’s planet had tried to swallow you whole. Adam sort of wished that your father was still alive so he could fight him for you. While his mother had had her moments of parenting issues, he’d never doubted that she did love him; it was clear that this wasn’t the case with your father.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not really sure what else he could say. Despite everything that had happened to you, you were still a good person; you hadn’t fought the Guardians on your first meeting like he had, which already made you better than him. He wished that there was something he could do (such as getting revenge for you) to help ease whatever burden you were feeling as you often had for him, but there didn’t seem like there was anything that he could do.

“Don’t worry about it,” you replied in a blasé tone, already moving on from your heavy things. “Want to talk about your stuff?”

He shifted in his seat, a little uncomfortable to admit his failure to you. He wanted to prove that he was just as capable as you were, and this was one of his worst moments. “I. . . keep thinking about my mother.” His gaze dropped to where his hands were folded on the table, unable to watch your reaction in case you thought worse of him. “How I. . . wasn’t able to save her. I was so close, too. If only I’d been faster—”

You reached out a hand to put it on top of both of his, cutting him off. Yours was much smaller in comparison, barely covering even one of his hands. He looked up at you with surprise, feeling his face heat up at the contact. Your usually jovial expression was uncharacteristically serious as you chided him gently, “stop. Thinking like that never helps, you know. You’ll drive yourself mad if you keep wondering ‘what if.’ I should know.”

While he was relieved that his fears about your reaction were unfounded, he frowned at your last words. “What do you mean?”

You pretended not to notice that your hands were still holding his as you answered, “remember what I told you about the Snap?” At his nod, you continued, “Peter and I were the only ones who weren’t trying to subdue Thanos. My powers are mostly defensive, so they would only anger him, which was the opposite of what we were trying to do. Peter got— understandably— distraught at the news of Gamora’s death and he was practically solely responsible for the Snap.” You sighed heavily, dropping your gaze from him. “As the only other person not doing anything on that planet, I could’ve stopped him, but he was my brother; I couldn’t hurt him. But if I had. . . everything could’ve been so much different. In a way, I was responsible for the Snap, too.”

While he understood your reasoning, he didn’t completely agree with it. You’d filled him in with great detail about the Infinity War, which you’d only learned the missing parts after you’d been brought back. So, he insisted quietly, “Thor could’ve also gone for Thanos’ head, but he didn’t.”

“But Thanos wouldn’t have even gotten to the Terran planet if we’d stopped him on Titan. You see what I mean? These what-ifs really messed with my head— still do. You eventually just have to accept the fact that the situation can’t be changed and learn from your mistakes.” In a lighter tone you added, “I promised myself that the next time I needed to sock it to Peter, I wouldn’t hesitate. Maybe a good hit to the head would knock some common sense back into him.”

Adam chuckled at this, his serious expression lifting. Sensing that you didn’t want to talk about such emotional topics anymore, he changed the subject slightly. “So you’re up every night because of these thoughts? Don’t you need sleep?”

“Yeah, but I’ve got enhanced stamina, so not as much as a regular person,” you said, relieved that he picked up on your hint. “What about you? You’re practically a god yourself.”

He felt his face flush with (pleased) embarrassment at your indirect compliment, even if it was truthful. “That’s part of the problem, I think,” he explained. “All this power. . . it gives me too much energy and. . . I can’t sleep.”

You frowned thoughtfully at your similar predicaments, an idea (admittedly, a stupid enough one that Peter could’ve come up with it) forming in your mind. “Y’know,” you began slowly, “Peter taught me a Terran phrase awhile back. I can’t exactly remember how it goes— it’s like two positives equal a negative, or something like that— and it means that when there’s two good things, it cancels out the bad one. We could try and apply it here.”

He gave you a curious look. “Really? How?”

“Well, since we both can’t sleep— that’s the negative— maybe. . . maybe if we slept. . .” You felt your face burning at your suggestion. “If we slept. . . tog— well, not together-together, I mean— with each— does that sound worse? I—” you struggled to find the right wording that wouldn’t come off as suggestive. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you added hastily, misunderstanding his bemused expression.

“Little Quill,” he teased you lightly, “you haven’t even gotten the question out.”

Oh. You only felt even more embarrassed. “Do you want to sleep in my room?” you finally managed to blurt out, burying your face in your hands, unable to look at the boy across from you.

Instead of taking offense or making fun of you as you’d expected, Adam seemed to actually consider your offer. “Do you think it would work?”

At his question, you dropped your hands to your lap and shrugged, though your face was still very red. He seemed remarkably unflustered, not that you could tell if he was (damn his beautiful golden skin— wait, what?) “I don’t know,” you mumbled, still refusing to look at him. “I can only sleep if I feel safe, and there’s only one person I ever felt that way with— Mantis. But. . . now I think that includes you, too.”

Adam couldn’t help the bright smile that formed on his face at your words, the thought that you felt safe with him (especially after everything that he’d done to you and your friends) meant more than he could say. The thought that you would willingly be vulnerable in his presence made his stomach feel enjoyably— and inexplicably— nauseous. “I feel safe around you too,” he replied without hesitation. “And. . . I wouldn’t mind trying it.”

--

Not long after, the two of you returned to the room you were renting in the dorm-style building. Since neither you nor Adam had family to speak of (and were also short on funds), you’d both found rooms in a tenant building that had lots of other people, many of whom had lost their homes during the Guardians’ most recent adventures. Luckily you’d gotten a room to yourself, though you had to share basic facilities with everyone else.

“You can sleep in the bed since this was my idea,” you offered. You were still in what you considered your pajamas, so you just had to gather some spare blankets and pillows.

Adam shook his head, against the thought of you making accommodations for him. “I can sleep on the floor. You shouldn’t have to give up your bed.”

“It’s not like I use it much anyway,” you joke, pulling the covers back. “But if you’re seriously against me sleeping on the floor, I guess we could. . . share?”

He seemed not to mind your proposal as he agreed readily, and after taking off his shoes, he made to get in when you spoke again with a confused look on your face. “You. . . sleep in your clothes? No wonder why you can’t get comfortable!”

Adam seemed to not understand your comment. “You sleep in your clothes.”

You laughed a little at his observation. “These are sleep clothes, not everyday clothes. At least take off your jacket,” you reasoned.

But as he did so, you realized why he hadn’t gotten more comfortable: there was nothing except chiseled chest under his clothes. You blushed and tried (but failed) not to stare as he got into bed next to you, admiring the way his muscles flexed with his movement. Luckily he seemed to not notice your attention as he settled next to you. There was a sizeable gap between you two despite the bed not being very big, one that you wished you had the guts to close. (Wait— again, what?)

You wondered how you’d ever get to sleep with all that muscle right behind you (okay, this one you could admit freely), but somehow, in the quiet stillness of your dark room, the safe, peaceful feeling lulled you into the first restful slumber that you’d had since your siblings had left months ago.

--

And if you woke up the next morning, curled up against Adam’s chest with his arm wrapped around you protectively, neither of you bothered to say anything about it.

[genghisthebrain]

Wednesday Addams and Enid Sinclair - House Rules (as imagined by me)

WELCOME TO THE ADDAMS-SINCLAIR MANOR (APARTMENT 3B.) PLEASE READ.

1) Our doorbell does not work. If you want to enter, you have to yell “HOMOSEXUALS” very loudly and we will admit you at our leisure.

2) No fires. Or perhaps we should reword that and say no more fires, due to the multiple infringements that rule already has. Looking at you, Yoko.

3) If you’re not a Nevermore friend, a family member - NOT Enid’s, please - or someone we’ve paid to bring us food, please leave us alone. Write a note, send a text. We don't need to talk in person.

4) If anyone complains about Enid’s housewide playlist, they will be removed. In other words: Enid Sinclair is a musical genius and you should trust everything she says ever.

5) The following list of people are banned until they meet the outlined terms:

Esther Sinclair and Murray Sinclair = Forever, we simply don’t like you. We make the rules. Sue us.

Tyler Galpin = until he returns my eyeliner. Stop stealing it, you dick.

Yoko Tanaka = until she hands over any incendiaries or potential fire hazards of any kind on her person. No more, Yoko.

6) The same applies for anyone who thinks chocolate milk comes from brown cows, that the earth is flat or that Lady Gaga is not a goddess incarnate. You’re all idiots and we simply don’t have the time for idiots.

7) If you’re a door to door salesman, we don’t want it. Stop selling things. Take your vacuum cleaners and double glazed windows somewhere else. Like Xavier’s house. If you yell ‘XAVIER’S ADDRESS’ at the door, we will give you directions. And no, it’s not secure, but neither are we, so to hell with it all.

8) The one exception to this door to door salesman rule is if you are selling piano music. Enid is teaching Wednesday how to play, and Wednesday refuses to learn anything but music sold by, and I quote, ‘shady salesmen who are potentially also criminals.’ So it's the lucky day for you criminal salesmen. Bring your shit.

9) Finally, please sign the piece of paper. We’ve started a petition to persuade Bianca to ask Yoko out on a date. We need signatures. Please, join the cause. 

10) If you have any issues with these rules, please feel free to give any queries or criticism to the complaints team (your nearest bonfire.)

Thank you for your time.

[archangeldyke-all]

it's hard to fluster sevika, unless you manage to catch her off guard...

something short and sweet for u from me :)

love, angel

men and minors dni

the first time you fluster sevika was on your second date.

the two of you were making out on her couch.

she was trying to be good, to resist the urge to flip you over and fuck you through the couch. she kept her hands above your waist, kept the two of you vertical.

she wanted to treat you like a lady, you were the first person sevika ever felt the need to actually woo.

and while you were charmed by the flowers and the goodnight kisses on the cheeks and the sweet way sevika was clinging to your waist to keep her hands from wandering, you were desperate to get in her pants.

so you pulled away from the heated kiss to whisper in her ear. "don't know if you're interested in this, but i thought i should let you know i'm not wearing any panties right now."

when you pulled back, you were greeted by the lovely sight of a flustered sevika.

her eyes were wide and glazed over, her mouth open in shock. her dark skin disguised most of the blush in her face, but not all of it. the tips of her ears and the apples of her cheeks were flushed with a lovely rouge.

in that moment, you made it your life mission to see that look on her face as much as you possibly could. (and in the next moment, you were being body slammed onto her couch by a ravenous sevika.)

your next few attempts at getting sevika flustered were failures. lingerie was met with a salacious smirk. kissing her in public led to the two of you making out against the front window at a convenience store. when you gave her a lapdance, she simply leaned back in her chair and enjoyed the show.

the second time you managed to fluster sevika was a complete accident.

she had been having a really shitty week, and at that point, half a year into dating, you'd been given the spare key to her apartment.

you let yourself in while she was at work to clean up the clutter that had gathered over the week.

you did the dishes that had piled up, washed the laundry, put fresh sheets on her bed, dusted vacuumed and took out the trash, and arranged a bouquet of flowers in a vase on her bedside table.

you weren't expecting to run into her that day, she was meant to be working all night. but just as you were shoving your shoes on to leave, the door clicked open.

sevika looked exhausted. at the sight of you on her couch, her expression quickly shifted to joy.

she quickly stepped inside her apartment, only to pause as she took in her surroundings.

for several long moments, she was quiet. her eyes were darting back and forth, taking in the clean kitchen, the empty laundry hamper, the dinner on the stove.

you began to fidget, nervous that her silence was an indication of anger or discomfort.

when her eyes finally met yours again, they were filled with a look of shock and affection and... was that a blush?

with understanding dawning on you, a smile crept up your face. sevika's blush grew at your knowing grin.

"you did this for..." sevika trailed off.

"for you babe. just wanted to make your week a bit better." you said with a nod.

you tried your best to soak in the sweet ruffled expression on her face, but all too quickly you were being tugged into her chest for a bone crushing hug.

you expected her to be flustered when you walked in on her masturbating. she wasn't. instead, it was you stuttering apologies and tripping over your feet to get to the bed when she invited you to join her.

when she caught you, though, it was a completely different story. she froze in place, blinking rapidly, gulping loud enough for you to hear from across the room. when you spread your legs wider to make room for her she let out an adorably giddy laugh before she scrambled over to you.

sevika wasn't flustered on your wedding day, but that night? she was basically melting into the sheets as you rode her in your white bridal lingerie. you watched in adoration and fascination as her blush intensified each time you call her your 'wife.'

when silco decided to put sevika on night patrol for a month, you managed to go about two weeks before you marched down to his office to give him a piece of your mind. he simply hummed and raised an eyebrow at all your protective angry rambling, and you thought that was the end of it until you turned to march yourself back home and ran straight into a lovestruck and flustered sevika.

you pressed a quick kiss to her blushing cheek and fled silco's office, silco's voice trailing behind you. "i'm glad you have her."

sevika's content little hum in response made you smile the whole way home.

[immeasurablesaladagere]

Hi salad! Can i please request an impure regression fic about little!Wilson going nonverbal 🙏🙏

Here you are! I'm almost to the bottom of my request stack, yay! It's late when I'm posting so sorry if I've glazed over any mistakes, I'm sure I'll catch them tomorrow and facepalm lol

-----

Word Count: 1003

Summery: Wilson has been quiet since they got home. House goes to find out what's up and finds him regressed in his room.

-----

If he was being honest, House hadn’t noticed the absence of Wilson’s usual milling around the apartment until his stomach started growling. Ever the motivated housewife, Wilson was always meal-prepping and tidying, and if they had a kid, he would be hovering over them and permanently messing with their sense of independence as all good mothers. He was also usually the one who started dinner after they got home, but now it was nearing eight-thirty and the only thing he’d heard from Wilson was quiet footsteps to the bathroom and back over an hour ago. How very un-Wilson of him.

He grunted as he pushed himself off of the couch and hobbled down the hall to Wilson’s room. 

“You better not be jerking off in here, because I’m coming in!” He announced, before unceremoniously opening the door and walking in. It wasn’t like he cared all too much about privacy, but he wasn’t exactly looking to be flashed on a Friday night; at least, not by Wilson.

There was nothing scandalous going on in Wilson’s room; nor was he sleeping, which was his second guess. Instead, he found Wilson curled up on his side, on top of the covers in a baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants, gripping his teddy bear against his chin. He looked up at House with round, tired eyes, but didn’t say anything.

He fished his bottle of Vicodin out of his pocket and popped a couple of pills. So he was regressed, then. He could probably deal with that.

He still wasn’t entirely used to the whole “caregiving” thing, but he had yet to catastrophically fail and traumatize Wilson’s three-year-old self, so he was tentatively confident as he sat down on the bed by his feet. 

“So… What’s going on here?” He motioned to Wilson’s generally sad, floppy-ness. Now that he was closer it was obvious that he had been crying at some point, his eyes were bloodshot and it looked like someone had vacuumed the soul out of him.

Wilson didn’t respond, which seemed to be a trend with him. Of the few times he had been regressed around House, he had only spoken more than a few words consistently once. Wilson had explained to him that while he technically could speak, it took too much energy and he usually decided not to. He wished adults worked like that, he would go home every day with so many less migraines.

“O-kay… Do you need me to do anything, or are you good to just… be sad?” Wilson seemed to have himself handled, but he figured he should do his due-diligence, just in case.

Wilson looked around the room for a second, thinking, before slowly raising a hand and doing what House recognized as the baby-sign for ‘food’.

“Hungry? Me too. I guess you want me to make you something?” He asked, and Wilson looked away and scrunched up more. “Relax, it was an offer. I’ll see what I can scavenge from the cupboard.” He got up and made his way to the kitchen, and after a minute he heard Wilson climb out of bed and follow him.

Wilson dropped into one of the dining room chairs and watched him intently as he rummaged through the cabinets for something quick and kid-friendly. He pulled out a box of Kraft Mac n’ Cheese. Kids liked this stuff, right? 

“Will you eat this?” He asked, and Wilson nodded mutely. “Perfect.”

He dumped the pasta into a pot of water and began to heat it over the stove, watching as the water turned a murky, starch-filled beige. He remembered seeing these boxes in the store when he shopped with his mother as a kid. She always refused to buy them because “those are just chemicals”, and she was probably right, but he still smirked to himself at the idea of getting to stick it to her after all these years.

Once the pasta had cooked, he strained it and dumped in the neon-orange cheese powder, a spoonful of butter, and some milk. After a quick stir, he had a pot of edible-looking yellow macaroni. It didn’t smell like chemicals. He poured some into two bowls and gave one to Wilson before joining him at the table. Maybe it was the kind that killed you slowly. He could live with that.

Wilson ate his portion far too quickly for the quality of the product, but he supposed he was mentally a toddler. It was okay, all things considered. They sat in silence as House picked away at the pasta and Wilson fiddled with the paws of his bear absently. He was staring off at nothing, and House could see that whatever had upset him earlier was still bothering him.

Eventually he decided to bite the bullet. “Do you want to talk about it? Or— sign or something?”

Wilson firmly shook his head no.

He shrugged. “Okay.” He took both of their dishes to the sink and left them at the bottom for Wilson to clean up tomorrow. “I think it’s time for bed now, hm?”

There was no resistance on Wilson’s part, which wasn’t surprising. He looked so exhausted it was almost unsettling, and easily allowed himself to be led back to bed.

“And this time, we get under the covers. It’s a great invention, I know.” He pulled the covers up over Wilson’s shoulders, and once he looked settled, turned to go back to the living room.

But the second he pulled his hand away, Wilson let out the most pathetic kicked-puppy sound he could possibly muster. With a sigh House sat down on the edge of the bed and put his hand back, and immediately the fussing stopped. He chuckled, “Oh you are needy.” 

With nothing better to do, he began gently rubbing up and down Wilson’s back until his breaths evened out and he was asleep, snuggling his bear. House couldn’t help but smile slightly. He really did look like a little kid. 

“Goodnight, Jimmy.”

[suzukiblu]

ooo this is a fun wip wednesday! I'd say Core Four and Kon's objectification kink is Closer by Nine Inch Nails

Kon’s not actually breathing, Cassie realizes, which would be concerning coming from anyone who couldn’t survive the vacuum of space without oxygen. Coming from Kon, with him still not having tapped out, well . . . 

Toys don’t breathe either, now do they. 

“Show me its face,” she says just a little bit more roughly than she means to, and Bart sighs but drags Kon’s head up by the hair. Kon doesn’t resist it; doesn’t move with it either. He just lets Bart put him where he wants him while Cassie and Tim both use him. 

“What for?” Bart asks like Kon isn’t the most gorgeous mess he’s ever been, all messed-up and well-fucked with his face all flushed and filthy and his eyes glazed. He looks like they’ve been at him all night. 

Fuck, Cassie thinks past the heady rush of heat in her gut.

[ghoultrifle]

what are some of the most notable things ant would stick his dick in?

oh my dear jesus the list is so long it wouldn't even fit in tumblr's 4 million character limit jhaskjldf have some highlights !!

doughnut (obviously) (he thought the glaze was cum so when he had an unglazed one he tried to fix it himself)

vacuum cleaner (classic)

mountain's garden (watched saltburn and got ideas)

peanut butter jar (inspired by @everybodyshusband affectionately telling me it's a good thing i don't have a dick because it would end up getting stuck in peanut butter jars on the daily)

the weird hole in the back of the sofa (it was already wet ???)

cannelloni (he's got a skinny dick, okay ?)

everyone else's fleshlights (he refuses to buy his own)

one of cumulus' scrunchies (it smelled of her)

wrapping paper tube (this one was a fail, he's not that skinny)

aether.

[ruvviks]

// wip day.

i'm working on a new project that is (for once) not connected to any of my bigger original universes, so i thought i'd share some of the writing i have for it! taglist down below, feel free to take this opportunity to share your own wips (in a separate post of course) if you have any!! the first part is a sort of introduction to the story, from the perspective of main character marshall! the second part is a snippet from a scene much further into the story, to kind of paint a picture (for both you and myself lol) of what the setting and the tone of the story is gonna be like. it's a bit different writing than what you're used to from me so please take a moment to read the warnings first!! warnings >> blood, cult, death, implied cannibalism, gore, religion, violence

God won't speak to me.

He spoke to my sister when we were eleven, her howls echoing through the backyard of our childhood home as the venom of a wasp spread quickly through her veins.

He spoke to my mother the day we buried her oldest son, the hem of her alcohol-stained dress torn where it had caught on the thorns of a blackberry bush she had blankly passed through.

He spoke to my father the day he put the barrel of a .44 in his mouth, reenacting what he had classified a sin for all the wrong reasons, his trembling finger on the trigger strong enough to rip apart the last tendon holding our family together yet not to finish the job.

I was eighteen, when I was found on the river bank near Overture, Louisiana, the sharp end of a jagged knife plunged deep within my side and my bloodied hands clutching the cross necklace of my brother, my breathing akin to the ice cold shallow water grazing at my ankles as I stared up at the star-spotted sky with glazed over eyes, blue chapped lips shaped in the final hum of a prayer.

A black abyss stared back, a strained vacuum without comfort, leaving me with a plea unheard and the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.

And God did not answer.

'Gotta dig… Just gotta dig. Gotta get 'em out of there… Gotta take 'em home…'

The physical distance between Marshall and the grave did not muffle the continuous mumbling, the shaky voice of the young priest clear as day like a whisper directly in his ear as the eerie silence looming over the church's cemetery left him with not much else to focus on. He knew he should turn around and leave, at that hour of the night— get back in his car and return to Posey in the motel, get some sleep while he still could— yet curiosity held him tight within its grasp, and each step he took pushed him closer into the wrong direction.

'Just the bones… Just the bones…'

The man was hunched over, back turned towards Marshall and partially obscured by the few last rows of gravestones stood between the two of them. His neck twitched— a sudden and unexpected movement at an angle Marshall did not hold for possible, yet it had happened entirely too fast for him to clearly see.

'Hey, is everything alright?' he called out; well against his better judgment, hairs on his forearms standing up straight as his feet carried him another few inches closer to the priest.

And the closer he got, the more he wished he had listened to himself.

If he had just turned away, he wouldn't have had to notice the unusual and unplaceable noises bubbling up from the priest's direction. He wouldn't have had to realize the priest was sat next to a coffin, yet to be lowered into an undug grave. (A curious practice, but Marshall was not one to judge— Overture'd had to endure a rather tiresome series of curiosities as of late, and an unburied corpse in the middle of bumfuck Louisiana in the midst of a yet to be explained power cut would be the least of its problems.)

'Just the bones…. Gotta dig… Gotta bring 'em home.'

'Do you need help?' Marshall persistently asked, his voice muffled by the thrumming of his own heart in his eardrums while his eyes trailed over the coffin— splintered and shattered at the lid, the glimmer of the distant church lights barely enough to reveal the outline of an axe resting on the dirt at the priest's ankles.

'Have to do it, there's no other way. Gotta dig, gotta dig, gotta dig—'

'Hey!'

Marshall should have never stayed in town.

He realized that now, as the priest's obsessive muttering came to a sudden stop forcing Marshall to hold still too— yet he had already approached too closely, and realized that no dirt had been dug in at all, and realized that the priest's hands were instead stuck inside the coffin repeatedly plunging deeper and deeper into the rotting remains of the corpse inside, once white vestment covered in blood and gore and he stared up at Marshall with a faint glow in two milky white eyes and with a wide grin exposing bloodied and shattered teeth, much akin to a predator looking at its next prey.

'Just the bones,' he repeated, the nodding of his head nearly belittling— as if to convince Marshall this was how it was supposed to be, as if to convince him the Word of God was not to be neglected and his fate as a sinner was a gift to the Divine Light and as if to convince him as long as he would not struggle it would all be over soon.

'Gotta dig.'

Marshall could not move, lamb to the slaughter as the priest rose to his feet with the axe in his hand.

'Just the bones! Gotta take 'em home.'

taglist (opt in/out)

@velocitic, @deadrlngers, @euryalex, @ordinarymaine, @gurathins;

@mojaves, @shellibisshe, @dickytwister, @mnwlk, @rindemption;

@ncytiri, @calenhads, @noirapocalypto, @florbelles, @radioactiveshitstorm;

@strafethesesinners, @fashionablyfyrdraaca, @aemondtargeryen, @radioactive-synth, @katsigian;

@estevnys, @elgaravel

[thatwasntverycashmoneyofme]

best friend loner!Choso who doesn’t care at all if people found out that he bends you over any flat surface when you’re alone for a couple of minutes, or that you give him that extraa sloppy, black hole vacuum sealed, take-you-to-heaven deepthroat, that ‘lick on my gooch if you love me’ type head. Especially if he’s making you squirt on his tongue, big brown thighs shaking as they clamp around chosos head like they were his earmuffs, your head slung back, a streak of drool down the corner of your mouth and your glaze around the bottom half of Choso’s face, he’s pretty sure you can’t even remember your own name.

Yeaa Choso doesn’t care cuz you’ll always go to him. Even after he had to hold himself back from touching you to respect you in your relationship (cuz fuck that nigga you with) when you had that no-good boyfriend who cheated on you because he thought you and Choso was fuckin under his nose… and you were, just not when he was courting you and your relationship became official with the douche. And Choso cares about your tears he does but he couldn’t be more happier that you were pushed back into his arms.

Choso doesn’t care if people find out even though he fucks you ten feet away from your other friends at a little gathering you begged him to go to cuz “They’re not as close to me as you are Cho~” and his heart pumps with pride and lingering anger with a dash of jealousy sprinkled in as he jests “They better not be as close as us sweetface or I’d have to steal you all for myself” He loves the way you giggle, looking off to the side fidgeting, he knows you’re nervous and flustered and turned on and…scared and he’s aware it’s not cuz of him, or your friends, or being seen with him, it’s cuz of your history with other males that lead you to think Choso won’t stay that long or he’ll leave like the rest.

So you resort to calling him best friend and do everything that couples normally do and Choso cannot for the life of him understand, how you don’t understand, that he’s completely obsessed with you, that he wouldn’t leave like those other pussies when the going gets tough… But he’ll respect your underlying insecurities and try to continue things as they were until you gather yourself, and Choso couldn’t care a fuck less as long as he’s the only one by your side.

𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗌, 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌. 𝖣𝖮𝖭𝖳 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅, 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾. ©𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗅

[simp-thingz]

He was never home.

Today was no different of course, he wished you a good day before you were even awake and now here you are. Sitting in his favorite restaurant, in his favorite dress, dressed to the nines all for him and he didn’t show up. Your texts have gone unanswered and your calls sent to voicemail as you wait for your husband to hopefully show up.

He never did.

So you brushed off the sympathetic glances and left in the rain, and when you finally made it home, the wound left by being stood up only stung more as you had forgotten about the rose petals you had scattered that were meant to be a surprise upon the end of your date. A date the two of you had planned for months. A date he said he wouldn’t forget. But here you sat, forgotten as easily as anything else outside of his work despite his promises that it wouldn’t happen. You sighed knowing you were gonna have to clean this up before he got back but you just couldn’t find the strength to do so as you dragged yourself to your shared bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, your heart heavy and eyes glazed with tears. You had waited hours only to be forgotten and you knew it would only happen again causing you to cry and sob into the bed until your eyes grew heavy and your breathing even. 

Only hours later did your husband return, his blonde hair disheveled from his work day and confusion crossing his face as he walked in to see you vacuuming up the rose petals no longer dressed up and your face stained with tears. “What’s wrong love?” He asked concerned as you stepped away from him “you forgot Kento, again” you hissed as he looked at you confused for a moment before it finally slapped him in the face; he forgot your guys’ date. 

“Love, I’m sorry work ran long and-” he started only to stop knowing excuses wouldn’t make this better, not anymore. “I’m sorry I forgot” he whispered, pulling you to him gently unsure if you would even let him hold you. But you did, you let him pull you in apologetically “I’m so tired of being forgotten” you sniffled knowing if you spoke to much on the matter you’d only cry more and you weren’t sure you had enough tears for that “I waited in the rain for you ya’ know?” you told him as he only held you tighter “It won’t happen again love I swear it” he whispered as you shook your head “it’ll happen again, it always does” and he couldn’t deny it, not when you seemed so sure of the fact and you were right it happened again and again, but somehow he always made up for it and somehow he always would.

[tassodelmiele]

The Magic Whatever

I needed to put this chaos into concrete writing-something.

I know this would ended as a mess in my mind, with no possibilities to born.

So I write it.

And now I'll feel bad if I won't keep on with the story.

Hope you're having a nice day filled with chocolate-

Disclaimer: titles make no sense.

Have a nice day

....

Soap didn't die on that mission; not 'cause there was no gunshot.

Bullet just disappeared.

And he found who made the trick, bringing the whole team with him in a rabbit hole filled with dangerous stuff sprinkled in lusterdust and smelling blood-scent, crumbled in caramelized sugar and glazed madeleines.

'Cause Marigold just did what she does best: following her instinct. And that day she just stole the bullet flying toward Soap's head.

1- Only thing you can trust in the morning is to have your pajama still on

«You have to trust me»

You have to.

Sure.

As if there were other possibilities. 

Anything could have done the work on that shitty morning, everything good enough to make the clock worth listening to: coffee's scent; pancake pan-fry's fizzle; a baseball bat in the middle of the forehead.

Anything but a geared man with a loaded gun rushing in the bedroom, making her remember that the whole load of fucks happened yesterday where just the cherry on top of a brown cake that didn't smell of chocolate.

Rushing upstairs became a stumble on every step; at the umpteenth shot hands ran on the ears and knees crumbled down, crouching the whole body on the floor.

I don't wanna die I don't wanna die I don't wanna-

A rough pat on the back awakened padded synapsis. There was a sudden yell: 

«Run!»

Legs did the work better than brain, jerking up, stomping on the stairs using no breath at all, with lungs empty of air and full of ashes and gun-powder scent.

Sudden cracks and blows followed the run to the second floor, heartbeats stuffed ears and throat, climbing on the gut's walls with the acidic adrenaline's aftertaste. Eyes were watering from fear and dirt, legs were moving by heart to the most open space in the house: the balcony; the goddamn 1x1 meter balcony with a lovely Thai grocery shop's sight. 

Chest crushed on the railing so suddenly, fresh spring breeze hit her with a kick in the lungs.

I'm out

The consciousness got foggy at that moment of paradise, and a tight grasp on the pajama brang it back down to the shitty ground: someone tugged her far from the metal grip of the railing, sucking her entrails backwards to throw her on the ground.

She slides all the short way to the wall; the head burned in a sudden bang on the fucking drainpipe.

Someone collected her body by pulling the shirt again, and lifted her whole weight. Terrible dry and smelly scent of old and powder hit her nostrils, one millimeter away from the not so ensuring face of a stranger in some sort of full-military asset. 

He smiled so kindly while spitting:

«Goodbye, dorogoy»

And pushed her out of the balcony.

Whatever came next, is void: body and soul get vacuumed in the eternal nothingness of a fall from the fourth floor; eyes squeezed, adrenaline rushed to the brain, screaming: you're gonna die; but there was nothing to grasp, nothing to grab, nothing to save her.

My breakfast's still in the microwave; a stupid last thought.

Just, it wasn't the last.

A firm hand catched her ankle, burning soft skin under rough gloves. She dangled, hanging still so dangerously close to the railing that the head banged again, but that was the smallest of her problems. Voices came from above, heard hazy and fuzzy in her scattered brain, yells and metal exchanging places as if someone was trying to drive a nail with a gun.

Then, a more nitid, strangely pronounced: «Let bounty fall»

And a clear loaded gun.

Her fried brain took advantage of that moment to make a to-do-list: the missing will, in case of premature death (almost certainly at that point); the promise to eat grandma's piadina at her home; a pistachio-macchiato she owned Johnny since he brought her home during a storm; oh, and…

…and air swallowed her up with the force of muscles she certainly didn't have.

The same, tight grip that was avoiding her a spine-crusher-jump, suddenly lifted her from the ankle, with a pull so strong that she was sure wings had grown on her back, letting her fulfill the dream to be a fairy. But as soon as the body flipped over the balcony, the gloved hand made her change trajectory with a fast move.

Air gave her stomach a kick and her guts a stir, while whoever was moving her threw every inch of Winnie the Pooh pajama, yellow air and morning sickness on the "dorogoy" one, as if she was a goddamn club.

She was smashed on the man, facepalming her nose on his gear, and he was tossed KO on the ground.

Floor's caress hit her too, still held by ankles and, maybe, with a kneecap a little bit out of its place.

«Ye'r alright?»

The known voice reached her ears, and that was the first good news since one hour.

He's still here

Then she kinda blacked out, not dazed enough to faint, but at least to replace sounds with heartbeats and sight with foggy, swirling floor tiles. 

Moment of silence.

Johnny pointed at who they were supposed to protect.

«What in the bloody hell-»

«There wasn't time» was the rushed up answer. Ghost let the naked ankle go, patting his oddly slimy gloves on the tights. 

«Why 're women so creamy?»

«Beauty purposes»

«'S horrible»

«Didn't think you were so picky»

«I don't like touching maggot's texture, if that's what you mean by "being picky"»

Soap knelt next to her, who faltered something inaudible as soon as being touched. He stuck his finger around her joints, checking for potential damages.

She whined as he turned her face up to him: there was a big, yellowy spot next to the left side eye.

«That was already there» Ghost's specified.

«Aye, I know»

Fingers pressed on her knees.

«She truly is a strong one» Lt. muttered.

«Told ya»

«Difficult to believe»

«Ye've literally throwed her like a goddamn baseball bat»

Ghost silently looked at the girl, splattered on the ground.

«It worked»

He crunched down, collecting her body on his back as a potato bag.

«'S better get the hell outta here»

«What 'bout wake her up first?»

«Are ya proposing to explain her the whole shit bag now?»

Soap hesitated for two seconds; that sounded as a negative answer for the Lt.

◌◌◌◌◌

One hour later, morning coffee hit Price with strong aroma, cigar aftertaste and a plethora of questions condemned to be unresolved.

He sipped, holding the mug a little longer in front of his face just to look at her without making it too obvious how bad he had no idea of what the fuck was the matter with that random yellow-haired lady sit in his office, surrounded by Johnny and his pathetical attempt to be comforting.

«Is» he pointed at her «she the target?»

Gaz nodded. «Soap said so»

«Mh». He sipped again, pondering about it. 

«A bloody child»

«Apparently she's twentythree»

«What's the point?»

«Bakery worker, living in a suburb's flat, three roommates-»

«The point in her being a target» Price specified.

Gaz lowered the voice, trying to capture some crumble of whatever Soap was saying to the girl who was, luckily, giving 'em her back. He carefully opened a pack of crackers. «We've had a speech 'bout it. You already forgot?» 

The captain pierced Gaz's breakfast in a cold glare.

«You're as helpful as a mosquito net in a submarine»

A sudden fear of downgrading hit the sergeant. The cracker came back in the pack.

«…sorry cap. She's the» he cleared his throat, feeling a little stupid saying: «someone with a magic whatever», as Soap had described her the first time.

Memory about the oddest Task Force's meeting of all time gave Price a facepalm. 

He swallowed half the cup of coffee at once.

«What in the bloody hell are we doing»

«…an unbearable, complete fucking disaster»

Patting her head was an option Soap was evaluating for half an hour, but maybe it wasn't the most clever move. He ended up looking at her very firmly.

«That's the bloody hell you've saved me from»

No signs of life from the other side. He munched a few swears, knowing so well what he was trying was as confusing as telling a chicken that it could fly like eagles with its shitty wings.

«Look» he started again, third time in a row «'m not kidding, 'k? I know it's you who 'm looking for, 'm just asking a little help to understand how in the fuck a goddamn bullet disappeared one inch from ma head»

She wasn't trembling, crying, fainting; maybe she wasn't even breathing, sitting still in front of his face while Soap had a complete visual of her pissed face, and the lovely sight of Gaz eating crackers and Price silently hating everyone while standing in the corridor.

«Two years»

The story began again in a low sigh. Soap raised two fingers at his temple.

«It was two years ago. I was 'bout to be bloody dead meat, with a shoot here, a russian bullet in ma brain»

He decided it was time for the secret weapon: a piece of newspaper came out from his pocket, shown as if it was the Saint Grall in all its oldness and perfection.

«'Ve found this». Soap pointed at the paper: a photo, five written lines. «It's you. Hospitalized 'cause of a bullet nearly pierced your temple»

The sheet got closer to her face.

«Except for you being alone. In your home. And I know ye'r no suicidal» 

Silence. Again.

Soap managed to pat her shoulder, a middle way between raising his voice to be the bad policeman, and pinching her cheeks to be the friendly one.

«...'m sorry for the shitty tons of lies 've told ye. At the bakery, I mean». It was so stupid to make apologies, but he did it anyway. «Duty purposes, laddie»

He gave her another pat.

«Fact is that who tried to kill me knows you». He chose to get straight to the point. «'Cause ye've got…dunno. Something. And that something saved me, somehow. And look, gorgeous, I don't believe in "abrakadabra", and whole Harry Potter's universe's a shitty filmography for ma taste. I just know I'm still breathing 'cause of you, and I'm used to return favors»

«There's no point in explain myself if you don't believe in magic»

Voice cut her throat sharply yet loud, destroying every Soap's attempt of being nice. Her still swollen eyes pointed at him. 

«Is not something I can explain»

«Try» 

It was so surreal as a situation that if a llama with a hat appeared, no one would have been surprised. 

«I'll listen, at least»

◌◌◌◌◌

Snake bites hurt the most when the weather wasn't stable. Like an old good war scar, hidden under shiny gold dots that she constantly tortured in search of a crumble of quiet.

«Lost in yer thoughts?»

Marigold's hair waved like a dandelion's shade in the gloomy morning. A big cup of pistachio-macchiato was presented in all of its greatness to the usual early-morning customer.

«Kinda funny weather, isn't it?» 

«That's London, laddie»

She chuckled kindly, repeating a motion used with every visitor that became authentic just with Johnny.

«I'd rather be surrounded by coriander field»

«That's what ye planted 'round the house?»

«My parents' choice. I don't like them, smell becomes odd on rainy days. Better than London's morning, though»

«Aye. I bet sun suits ye better»

Another chuckle, and she went KO with a throaty laugh that exploded hidden in her hands. Johnny raised his cup.

«Cheers»

Two months before he showed up out of nowhere, stating "the smell of good coffee" had brought him to the Merry Marguerite.

Marigold had seen all sort of human being in her bakery-waitress experience: who pretended to look at ease in suit, leather bag and badly knotted tie; who was hiding from his life, drowning every brain cell in sugar; happy ones and silent ones; lost ones and usual ones; strong espresso ones, and milky-chocolaty-heavy cream latte ones.

Johnny was none of them.

Johnny was a usual stranger, a known foreigner, a recalled wayfarer; a usual guest who showed up every ten years, but you know him since you've been born. 

«Merry Marguerite. 'S yer name?». That was the question in front of the first pistachio-macchiato the girl had ever been asked for.

«Nope. That's my boss previous cat»

«Cool. So 'm not gonna call you Margie or somethin'»

What a funny way to ask a name. She smiled at first, kindly, disappearing in the back to grab some fresh pain au chocolat. 

Marigold didn't expect him to wait for an actual answer. 

He came and clinged on the counter, with those huge biceps relaxed and a silly smile, a little cocky but never disrespectful. He asked for his macchiato, made a joke about the bakery's name and waited for her to give him something back.

After three days she giggled him a quick: «Mary, Or Goldie. Doll, if you want, some friends of mine used to call me Doll»

«'Cause ye'r cute?»

«'Cause as a child I used to cut every inch of my doll's hair and make them join the "punk club"»

And tortured doll's stories were what made them friends. 

«You're gonna have green tongue at this rate»

«Can't help it. That's the best pistachio-macchiato in town»

«Of course. That's why there's a secret recipe»

Johnny raised his eyes from the cup. He was dressed up almost the same every day: jeans and t-shirt, mohawk and bright-curious eyes as blue as the sky London decided not to show to his citizens.

«Spit it out»

Answer was a long breath of her, blown on the fresh madeleines.

«A secret's a secret, Johnny»

«Ye made me curious, though»

«That what secrets are about: make people eager to know what's underneath»

«Aye. I can tell ye're good at that»

Her fingers stopped working on the correct rearrangement of the custard croissants. 

«Yeah? Am I that good at not blabbing our secret recipes?» she laughed. «I'll add the skill to my curriculum, then»

The waiting for an answer became a little too long, making her raise her sight.

Johnny wasn't really laughing: his smile was telling something that could go from "I know what kinda porn you're into" to "the yellow in your hair is brightening my day up".

He suddenly smirked: «Feeling under pressure, Doll?», ending the question in the last macchiato sip. 

«Should I?». She clinged on the counter, a little cheeky «Am I under interrogation?»

«Ah» The empty cup ended up on the side, allowing him to have a full vision of her hair brightness. «It would be no good for ye»

«How come?»

«C-u-r-i-o-s-i-t-y» He spelled. «I'll end up digging too deep on ye to find what's underneath. It's not pleasant havin' a stranger stomping on yer garden»

«And what if you lose yourself while finding a way out of me?»

«Ye'll guide me. 'M sure ye've got signs in whatever wood has grown inside of you»

And Marigold became silent, softly smiling a sad sight, unexpected through the funny mood Johnny thought to have been built.

«And…» A warm, sugary smelling madeleine was offered to him as a pay in advance. «If you find the way out, would you tell me too, please, which way I ought to go from there?»

He chuckled, suddenly kinda softened by her tone, catching the quote so well he wasted no time to replay:

«It depends a good deal on where you want to get to»

«I don't much care where»

«Then it doesn't much matter which way you go»

Whole bakery filled with the loss of words that baked the room in glazed and caramelized smell, crunchy as a chocolate cookie fresh from the oven. Silence got stuffed with coffee sipped under breath, time got replaced with madeleine's crumbs rolled under the fingertips.

The first bite on the pastry broke the spell. Johnny ate it whole, chewing slowly.

«Seems like, even if ye're lost in yer wonderland, ye'v found a way to me»

And then, she knew.

She knew he had read her somehow, even if he hadn't understood a single word.

It was two years ago that the dream went away: a man alone, dark and chaos of voices, blood smell and an odd, painful hold on the guts; words shouted fast and aggressively, a clock ticking, the well known feeling of something that was about to happen.

A shot. 

And the sudden awakening in a sweat lake, breath lost in the dream and the pressure against her lungs screaming that there wasn't time left.

Marigold didn't know why she had chosen to go to bed that early, as much as she didn't know why she was running out of bed, stomping on the fallen sheets to reach the bathroom curled on her reversed stomach, with guts mixing inside as if she was dish-washing her organs.

Lungs were closed, breath fought to come in and out and heart started racing faster, pounding so much blood to her head. Fingers grasped the hair, dug the scalp, searched for a way to the brain like something was desperately trying to get out, or get in, she didn't know, it was just so painful, so hopeless, so furious, and clock ticked faster, louder, stuffing head and eardrums while voices become clearer, surrounding her in a battlefield that certainly wasn't her bathroom anymore.

Everything came to a peak of adrenaline piercing her brain. She grabbed something from somewhere, tearing it away from a reality that wasn't her, that shouldn't have been her, in which she didn't belong. Her fingers grasped the bullet, pulling it away from him, whoever him was.

And she just took it with her, in the bathroom, stepping out of the trajectory fast enough to let it just scratch her head.

◌◌◌◌◌

«Why?»

Her shoulders scrolled, stiff from the tension.

«I've asked myself so many times. Maybe because I know you were dying. Whoever you were. Whatever you were doing»  

«When we met the first time, did ye recognize me?»

«No. Dream wasn't that clear»

«Did you speak 'bout it with family? Friends, or-»

«Is not that easy to explain, I've told you»

«Have ye done it before?»

She havered on the chair, eyebrows frowned and lower lips bitten to hold the trembling.

«Dunno». Voice raised to hide the fear, replacing it with slow boiled anger. «Maybe»

«Ye don't know?»

«No» She shouted. «I can't know, I've not got a secret diary about headaches and nightmares, sorry»

«Ye'r tellin' me ye've got some sorta "telekinetic" power-»

«'M telling you nothing. Just how it went that night»

«Aye, that's what 'm saying: you're describing me, if not a magic trick, at least a psychic ability»

«I don't know what it is» Words became sharp pebbles thrown randomly out of her guts. «And if you wanted to thank me 'cause you're still alive, I accept your gratitude, even if you've brought me home a goddamn bunch of armed people»

She hit the right spot to make him straighten his back on the chair, while still trying to upload information about the whole "dream" matter.

Soap knew his face got a little crinkle around the eyes and the stiff teeth.

«We've brought none to you, Doll. They would have been there to kill you anyway»

«I don't have any Russian friends. Nor enemies»

He mumbled: «Aye», as if he already knew what kind of people she was acquainted with, as if he'd already dug her whole life. And she faltered, squeezing fists on her pajamas, shaking in a motion of frustration that got her to the guts. 

«What? Have you already scanned me? You've done what the fuck you wanted with my free day just for what?»

Johnny fell from an apple tree.

«We went to save you-»

«Sure, after spending whole months telling me bullshits. ‘Cause everything was bullshit. Correct? Our chats at the bakery, you working as a PC technician, your terrible coffee tastes…»

Words died on her tongue in a sudden spin of her head. She grabbed her temples, rilling fingertips around the pale skin, and hissed as the digits touched the livid bruise around the eye.

Liquorice aroma filled her nostrils in a strong caress; Soap was offering her a candy pack.

«Ye've not eaten this mornin'» He muttered, recalling the time at the bakery when she almost fainted 'cause of skipped breakfast and lower pressure. 

She took a bunch of bitter-sweet treats, stuffing her mouth.

Johnny's sight made a fly to his feet, collecting time before blowing: «Wasn't all bullshits. Sorry, anyway»

«Why that much effort? What for?»

«Get to know ye. I need to be sure 'bout you»

«Pretty sure I'm as clear as an empty fish tank to you, by now»

«Wrong»

She frowned, irritated from the tip toes to the dry hair's double edges. Liquorice candy cracked under her teeth.

«Whaddya mean? That I can't even know how the fuck I play ma goddamn, stupid society-role?»

«Calm down laddie, 's nothin' this pretentious, was just giving ma take on you»

»…mh» another candy ended up chewed under her tongue. «So I'mma childish whoever to you and your mates?»

Soap gazed at her, chuckling, pondering about how seriously he needed to take her bratty chat. 

«…was life what made you that difficult to handle?»

«Dunno, you tell me, 's you who filled me in shit to "get to know me"»

At this point a strong, harsh incipit of voice pierced through the corridor, shouting: «The goddamn bloody Jesus of Laswell has finally brought me that stupid-…»

Ghost's steps slowed down as he faced two idiots stuck in front of the office door: one holding a half-pack of crackers, the other was drinking from an empty mug.

Deciding how to react brought him to the right conclusion to pretend nothing was happening. He passed a blue folder to Price, who was badly hiding shame behind a I-wasn't-eavesdropping kinda look.

«Intel 'bout that russian» Ghost explained.

Captain coughed a: «Did he speak?»

«I was very persuasive. Dunno why Laswell needed to write down what he'd already spit with his teeth»

«Bureaucracy can't be avoided. Verdict?»

«Clear as a nuclearized swamp in the middle of nowhere» 

«'S what he told you?»

«He told me» skull mask turned darker to match its owner's attitude, lowering on Price's coffee scent breath. «They were there to rob. I made him tell…»

He turned, almost instinctively, as he heard two voices muttering from the office, recognizing Soap's one in the being-as-nice-as-possible mood. 

And he saw those horrible yellow bob hair again, the oddest pajama with little Winnie the Pooh stamps, and bruises marked on the arm that Ghost was quite sure was the one he made collide with the Russian soldier.

«Why is that child still there?»

«Security»

«That's why I'm asking you. Shouldn't be held, like, somewhere safer?»

«Nothin's safer than my office»

Ghost blown, nodding ironically.

«Plus» The folder came back to the Lt. «Soap wasted no time trapping her in that sorta interrogatory». Price gazed at them, knowing well Johnny was aware they had listened to everything. «Don't think he's cleared his mind 'bout you-know-what, though»

«Better he does, since we've rushed all of this shit 'cause of that» 

Price sighed, Gaz chuckled 'cause it was funny seeing Ghost complaining like an old man, and the Lieutenant just growled again: «An enormous ton of shit»

«Following that lady wasn't time wasted, at least. There is something stinky hidden underneath». The last cracker was being chewed in a mess of crumbles on the shirt. Gaz muttered a swear before adding: «She was being chased by those men. Fully armed, you said»

«Affirmative. Three, ready to kill»

«What were you sayin' 'bout it?»

«That russian» Ghost instantly reconnected his synapsis with the previous speech, recalling his fists on the man's face with a hidden smirk. «said they were sent by some sorta monk»

The statement made the audience caught by suspense. Frowned eyebrows and tilted foreheads spoke for themselves.

Gaz tried to break the silence with a cautious: «Some sorta wha-»

But Price felt the urge to make a fast recall:

«Four months ago, Soap found that girl with the "magic whatever" that he stated saved him from Makarov. Two days ago» he counted on his fingers «Soap spotted a man following her home. He also did the day after. That made Sergeant suspicious and you two eventually get involved in that sorta "saving" operation»

«Soap was right, at least. Someone was keeping a close watch on her»

«Yeah, but» Captain's hand flew in the air, holding his line of discussion. «Am I the only one noticing there's a bloody nothin' logic 'bout this? Are we really getting involved in somethin' raised by a "someone saved me with magic, and I'm gonna find him"?»

Ghost gazed at him, eyes half-hidden by the mask.

«You trusted Soap»

«Undoubtedly» Was shouted so clearly that nothing was left to be clarified.

It wasn't Soap himself the wrong variable in the equation.

It was that Soap was right. 

And it was not logical. So illogical it was actually happening, and Price couldn't just register an impossible chance that was occurring in front of his goddamn eyes.

«What if» Gaz suggested, licking cracker crumbles out of his lips «We just ask her?»

«Ya heard: she doesn't know»

«Yeah, well, maybe she doesn't know if it's safe to spit out the truth in front of three strangers and an almost ex-friend» He nodded toward Soap. «'S not like he's playin' his cards well»

«What do you suggest, sergeant?»

«We could just-»

And the chair that was hosting Marigold's butt suddenly got thrown on the floor by her sudden standing. Three pairs of eyes caught her taking on Soap in all her pajamas and yellowness, without a single world left as she grabbed the sergeant's shirt with both hands, roaring with a voice thought impossible for one her size:

«Just let me at least pretend I did something good!!»

She turned her still naked feet, ready to run home somehow, killing spree in her clenched fists and rage in her bruised throat.

Steps died immediately at the trio's sight.

The otter-puppy eyed with a hat; the good twin of Chris from "The day before" ; the Dia de los muertos cosplayer in the wrong season.

Classification ended with a kick in the head from her own brain, which told her to have a good look at that scary-skeleton mask.

She blew her cheeks, finger pointed at Ghost as she shouted almost with a growl:

«Youfuckin'sonofa-!»

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