dusty floors

anonymous asked:

What is your perfect version of a significant other?

A seething, nuclear chaos at the heart of eternity.

A dame with legs that go on forever, and ever, and ever - ankle-deep in primordial soup, her thighs brushing against Armageddon.

A girl with far too many eyes and a soft, breathy laugh like the skittering of thousands of spiders across a dusty floor.

A nameless thing that lives between walls and watches from behind mirrors, smiling, always smiling, though it does not possess a mouth.

A sentient teratoma with a great sense of humor and a love of tap dancing and barbershop quartets.

Xena: Warrior Princess.

A string of computer code that has learned how to fear ghosts.

I’m not picky.

I imagine them laying on the dusty floor of their living room, surrounded by half-full boxes and bits and pieces that still need to be put away. It’s been a few hours since they have started packing all their stuff and it still feels a bit weird. Like. They’re actually moving out. They’re doing it. It’s about damn time, they think, given that the place is literally falling apart. But, wow. It feels weird.
They’re taking a small break now and they’re quietly staring into each other’s eyes. The silence is full of unspoken words but it’s not uncomfortable. They both know what the other is thinking. “We’re taking a big step. We’re committing to (hopefully) several years of living together”. But it doesn’t sound that scary, does it? After all these years. Yeah, well, it is. It’s a hell of a step they’re about to take. They’re not in their early twenties anymore. It’s not a game anymore. It’s a real commitment. Nothing is going to change and, at the same time, everything will be different. New place, new neighbours, new furniture. Well, it does sound a bit exciting.
They both sigh making each other smile. They get up and start packing again, as if they had never stopped.
Living in this apartment has been a hell of a ride, but, looking around, they both think it was worth it. The place is full of them. In every room, on every wall, there’s a piece of them. A photo. A CD. The long lost sock under the bed. There are things everywhere. Things they have collected along this crazy five-year journey. Things that were given to them, things they’ve bought each other for the five Christmases they have spent in this house. Whilst packing they realise how many years they’ve been together. There is some hella old stuff in there and the fact that they’ve kept every cinema ticket, bracelet and post-it is so cheesy.
They pack everything, picture after picture, book after book, mug after mug.
They shed nostalgic tears every once in a while. They laugh at some weird object they didn’t even remember owning. They hug a lot, it makes things easier to bear or so it seems.
At the end of what it had seemed like a never-ending process, the place looks quite scary. It’s deserted. It almost hurts seeing it like this, without paintings on the wall or DVDs and books on the shelves.
And it’s in that moment that they get it: home isn’t a place.
Think about it: if you empty your home from all the things you own it’s not your home anymore. It’s a shell. Home is what fills the place. No, wait. Home is
who fills the place. Because a place with no Dan is not home to Phil as much as a place with no Phil is not a home to Dan. It’s just how it is.
And with that in mind, they close the front door behind them.

Cinderella - Jughead Jones

Request: Hi honey ! <3 I love all your imagines, you are such a good writer ! I was wondering, if you could write Juggy imagine, something like Cinderella story, where the reader is shy and clumsy girl, who doesn’t go out much often because of her stepmother and her daughters, but one night, with Veronica and Betty help (two fairygodmathers haha) she go to a school party, where she met Jughead, but when she was leaving in hurry, she left something, and Juggy is determined to find her ?

This was like, the cutest prompt I’ve ever read and I just had to do it! Let me know if you want a part 2 :)

Jughead x Reader + Beronica because I’m trash

Warnings: - Swearing / abusive step-family :c - if you deal with these kind of issues, please tell someone. Anyone. You deserve so much more <3 

Words: - 4,849

Cinderella, that was pretty much you in a nutshell.

You walked along the side of the hallway, lurking. You managed to pass through to the high school exit, unnoticed by anyone. Not that you were ever noticed. You could turn into a flying monkey and still no attention would be paid to you.

Not that you cared. You were a selfless girl, kind and virtuous. To everyone else you were the shy girl without friends, too perfect and studious to need anyone. Inside, you were longing for someone to talk too, because nothing and nobody in Riverdale is ever perfect. There’s always a layer of cracked stone hidden beneath the perfectly painted exterior.

The reason you didn’t have many friends was because you never really got out much, besides school. You weren’t used to much social interaction and all your spare time was spent in the library, doing your homework. You couldn’t do it at home, because you had to take care of your stepmother who would often come home high or drunk. Your stepsisters would blame you, and you would have to clean up all of the mess and damage that they left behind or your step-mother would beat you.

That was always another reason why you never let anyone know. You were too selfless and paranoid to make a fuss, you didn’t want people worrying over you or thinking that you were just seeking their attention. You had the bruises and the scars to prove your claims, but in your mind speaking out would just make everything worse.

Still, through all that you had bared, you wore a smile on your face and tried to stay positive. It was all for your Mother’s sake. She had died in a car accident when you were 9 and it had left you traumatised. Sadly you didn’t have much time to recover as your Father followed just 4 years later thanks to cancer. Your Mum always used to tell you to look on the bright side of life, to be kind and show love. All you wanted was to make her proud.

As you walked out into the parking lot to fetch your bike, you saw a group of people crowded around the racks engaged in conversation. You walked up to them gingerly, your body spiked with nerves. This was, as dubbed by Cheryl Blossom, the Sad Breakfast Club. You’d always admired them from afar. 

Archie Andrews was talented, in both music and sports. Betty Cooper was the typical girl next door, good grades and a strong mind. Kevin Keller was too fabulous for words, and you adored his confidence. Veronica Lodge was a powerful feminist, who stood up for herself, as well as standing up for her friends and fellow females. Then, there was Jughead Jones. You’d partnered up with him once in English class. He had a way with words, and you couldn’t help but ask him about his novel. His eyes had lit up with passion, a passion that didn’t die for the whole time the two of you conversed. His friends had been surprised at how talkative he was to you, how excited he was that you seemed to understand and respect his novel.

It felt great to finally have someone to talk to, about normal things. However, after that encounter you hadn’t really spoken to him, although he would sometimes acknowledge you with a small smile and a nod when you passed him in the hallway. You didn’t have the courage to interact with him more than you already did. Besides, you saw the look in his eyes. It was indescribable. The same look that clouded over your eyes daily, a look that nobody except those who possessed it would be able to see. The look of helplessness, that behind whatever perfect or basic exterior you had built up, was layered with secrets and scandal. You didn’t want to present yourself as another burden in his life when, without even talking to him properly, you could just tell he wasn’t going through the best of times.

You could hear that they were talking about Cheryl Blossom’s upcoming party. The party of the century. A masked party. Considering your status, you hadn’t received an invite so you weren’t going. The idea of taking on a whole new identity, the ability to let yourself loose without having to worry about how people saw you. It was thrilling, and sent anticipation and excitement coursing through your veins. How you would love to confidently dance at a party, socialise, do things that (Y/N) (Y/L/N) just wouldn’t do… couldn’t do. For once, after all the things you gave to the world, maybe taking something in return and having your fifteen minutes of fame was all you needed. 

Your daydreaming meant that you hadn’t been paying precise attention to where you were walking, and found yourself stumbling over a collection of bikes which had been carelessly placed in the middle of the pavement as there was no more space on the bike racks. Your felt your cheeks tint red with embarrassment as you collected the spilled contents of your bag, which you had forgotten to close. It was cliche and awkward, and what made it worse was that the SBC was right in front of you watching. They got down to help you pick stuff up and you muttered your thanks to each of them, keeping your head down. You felt someone touch your arm, and naturally you immediately leapt onto your feet away from the contact, jerking the touch away from you. Your eyes were wide and your heart was thumping. You were so skittish thanks to past trauma, and you felt your cheeks get redder as you realised it had only been a reassuring gesture from Jughead.

He was staring at you, bewildered, as he slowly walked closer and gave you your pencil case, one of the items that had fallen from your bag.

“Are you okay? -” He paused, as if trying to remember your name, not that you’d ever told him. He probably expected you to just give it to him there and then but you wanted to escape the awkward confrontation as quickly as possible. You weren’t sure why because to be honest, you would always prefer to be anywhere in the world that wasn’t home. However, if you got home late, you would just be making it worse for yourself.

“Yes, thank you. All of you,” You put on that charming smile of yours, before pulling out your vintage bike, which you had salvaged from a local junkyard. You’d manage to acquire mint green spray paint and the materials to make a small woven basket for the front, and the result wasn’t half bad. It wasn’t exactly the flashy modern bikes that lit up when they move, but you wouldn’t want it any other way. Finding the time to work for yourself was rewarding in its own sense.

You knew eyes were on you, something that you weren’t exactly used to, so you tried to get out of sight, as you rode down the street, as quickly as possible. You didn’t realise the curious spark mixed in with the helplessness in Jughead’s eyes, and you didn’t realise the suspicious glances that were exchanged between Betty and Veronica.

Home sweet home.

Home is where you feel safe, most wanted and most loved.

Your home was anything but sweet, and you felt like you were living in fear, that the hate your ‘family’ had for you was all you had going for your life.

You walked your bike up to the shed at the side of your house. It was infested with spiders and mice, and if your step-mother was in a particularly awful mood, the thickly coated, dusty floors would be your bed for the night. Lucifer, your step mother’s cat was perched on the door step. His name seemed appropriate considering his demonic demeanour and frequent attempts to claw your limbs out. His gaze followed you as you entered the house. 

Empty or smashed beer bottles clogged up the hallway, and you practically went en pointe to try and avoid the thick shards of glass that coated your path. You couldn’t hear the blaring noise of the TV, or the throwing of items coming from upstairs. This meant, it was one of those days where your stepmom went out the night before, drove to the next town over, got drunk and high and then proceeded to have a one night stand with some poor man. She wouldn’t be home until very late the following evening, and you couldn’t help but breathe out a soft sight of relief.

You had just gotten out of the shower, preparing to start on clearing up the glass when you heard the front door slam, followed by two whingey voices. Your step-sisters, Drew and Anna. Whereas your stepmom had physical abuse covered, your step-sisters preferred to hurt you verbally, to mock you and tease you, belittle you and reduce you to nothing but their own personal slave.

“(Y/N)!” You heard a screech from below your feet and you cringed inwardly, as you pulled on your comfort clothes. You knew you should have cleaned up first, but you just felt so stressed and uncomfortable from your fall earlier. Not that your own concerns were the priority in this household.

“(Y/N)!” Two simultaneous yells this time, sounding frustrated. The longer it took, the worse it would get, the more material they had to hurt you with. You hurriedly raced downstairs to their aid.

“Drew, Anna, how was your day?” You put on the nicest smile and sweetest voice you could muster. Anyone else would have snapped back at these sisters by this point, but you were an empathetic person and knew that deep down, these girls were suffering from their broken family just as much as you were. They just coped with it differently.

“Took you long enough, anyways, Cheryl invited us to her party and we need you to do our makeup like the… good sister that you are,” Anna gave a sickly sweet smirk. Your stepsisters had been sucking up to Cheryl for weeks in order to be invited to this party, and knew that you wouldn’t be going.

“She’s picking us up in her limo in about 2 hours, so hurry up. And don’t make further plans, you’re going to have to clean everything up before Mum gets home afterwards or she’ll kill you,” Drew snickered and Anna scoffed.

“Please Drew, we’re not that lucky.” The two sisters pushed past you, before walking up the stairs to their room. You felt your sensitivity levels topple over slightly, that remark was just a bit too far.

Somehow, you managed to slightly bond with your sisters over the makeup process. You tried things out on Drew, Anna would occasionally compliment how nice she looked and ask if you could do the same thing when it came to her. You almost felt like normal sisters. Until you were done. It could never last long could it? You just weren’t good enough.

Drew and Anna were wearing flamboyant dresses, with masks to matched. Their heels were higher than you thought was actually possible. As the two made their own final preparations, you were busy doing your own makeup and had laid out a pastel pink dress to wear. The dress was your mother’s, and you had managed to find it at the back of your closet from when you used to try and dress up in her clothes when you were younger. You wanted to go to this party. Why not? After all, you did everything for everyone else. For the first time, you deserved a little something back. Besides, you were sure Anna and Drew wouldn’t care, after all you had gotten on so well when you were doing their makeup. Well, better than usual at least. That had to mean something.

Cheryl wanted the party to be huge, so you were sure she wouldn’t mind if you tagged along with your sisters. It wasn’t as if you actually had any issues or rivalry with Cheryl, you just didn’t talk to her. You wouldn’t be surprised if your sisters had actually told people that they didn’t have any more siblings, and that you were just a loner only child.

You grabbed your ragged clutch, and made your way downstairs, after changing into the dress. You looked okay, but your mind was on the mask. You decided you were going to pick one up at the local costume shop on the way there, as you would travel on your bike rather than opting for the awkward journey in Cheryl’s limousine. 

You raced outside before Anna suddenly rushed up to you, shoving her iPhone into your hands.

“Ah! (Y/N) perfect, take a pic of me and Drew!” She exclaimed, before rushing back to Drew and posing, attempting to stick her chest out. You awkwardly tilted the camera to fit the both of them in it, before Anna raced back and snatched it off of you, flicking through the pictures you took. “Ugh this one’s blurry,” She muttered, as she paced back and forth.

“What are you wearing?” Drew bitterly scoffed as she circled you mockingly, like you were surrounded in shark infested waters. You suddenly felt intimidated as Anna’s attention snapped to you and she began to laugh and jeer at you.

“Goodness (Y/N), is that ugly piece of shit the best you could do?” She giggled uncontrollably and you felt tears crawl into your eyes.

“It was my mother’s” You whispered, not looking either of them in the eye.

“You keep dead people’s clothes? That’s weird, creepy, just like that Jughead kid,” Drew sighed, pulling on a loose lock of your hair. You jumped back from her and she rolled her eyes and scoffed at you.

“Wait… don’t tell me… that you thought you were coming to the party?” Anna stopped pacing, getting up close in your face and raising an eyebrow. You wanted the ground to swallow you whole right now.

“Well… I thought… m-maybe you would let me come with you? I just thought it was my turn to d-do something… for myself,” You stumbled clumsily, eyes trained to the ground. An awkward pause of silence skipped over you, before your stepsisters bursted into scathing hysterics. Pointing at you, taunting you. The tears freely flowed now. How could you be so stupid and naive to think somebody actually cared about you.

“You thought wrong you little bitch,” Anna’s voice sent chills down your spine as her tone turned menacing. She walked up to you, grabbed the frills of your dress and ripped them in two. You let out a strangled cry as Anna stepped back to admire her handy work. You fell to the ground, picking up the pieces that had come off of the dress and holding them close to your heart. You felt like Anna and Drew were destroying your whole world, taking it down brick by brick. When they learnt a weakness or a potential threat, they would eliminate it immediately.

You heard the clanging of metal, and turned your head to the left to see your bike which was being vandalised by Drew, who was madly hitting it with a large metal hammer. You crawled towards her, screaming at her to stop but Drew wouldn’t comply, not until the bike was damaged beyond repair.

One of the only things you’d ever been proud of, your spare time flushed down the drain in a matter of seconds. You stood up and bravely faced your two stepsisters in the eye, who were observing the surrounding chaos with satisfied looks on their faces. A black limo pulled up on your driveway, and the two walked off, only stopping when they heard you yell.

“Why me? Please! What did I ever do to you? All I’ve ever done is be nice to you, why do you hate me?!” Your voice was raw from the crying. The stepsisters looked back at each other, trying to come up with a response.

“Because you ruined our lives,” Anna spat at you, before grabbing Drew’s hand and pulling her away, leaving you to stand there and sob. Your knees collapsed beneath you with grief.

You sat in your bedroom, trying to collect yourself. Your mothers dress was placed under your sewing machine which you would have to fix later. You had managed to clean up the rest of the house which had helped in taking your mind off of the party momentarily. However, you now sat on the edge of your bed, reflecting on what could have been.

Maybe you should have reached out to someone, anyone who would listen. Like Jughead…

You just wished you had your own fairy godmother right now.

Suddenly, you heard a knock at your front door. This was strange, as nobody ever came to this house except the milkman and the postman. Your sisters were too embarrassed to share their address or invite anyone round, as you would likely be there. If it was your stepmom, she wouldn’t knock. She would barge in the door, yelling and shouting. 

Cautiously, you opened the front door, peeking out into the night. You were surprised to see two girls, two girls you recognised. Veronica Lodge and Betty  Cooper, who were both wearing matching black and white dresses, with perfect makeup and sympathetic smiles on their gorgeous faces. 

“We saw the bike, saw your sisters and put two and two together,” Veronica sighed. You bit your lip, not sure what to say, but Veronica had practically invited herself in and enveloped you in a hug, followed by Betty. 

“You don’t have to tell us anything, but we won’t sit here and let them get away with ruining your night,” Betty smiled, brandishing a box. Inside the box was a makeup bag, a pair of white embellished platform shoes, a black and white halter neck dress with black lace on the top, and the best parts, the accessories. A split down the middle, black and white mask. The white side was embezzled in sequins and feathers, whereas the black side was decorated with white swirls and fake flowers. Intricate floral patterns danced around the edges of both sides of the mask. On top of this all was the most beautiful necklace you had ever seen. A silver chain attached to what looked like a jewel encrusted ring, lined with a gold rim. More tears appeared in your eyes.

“Sorry if none of it’s really you, it’s all we had,” Veronica laughed nervously but you jumped on the two girls with another hug, except tighter.

“You didn’t have to do this, it’s all so beautiful….” You felt yourself choke on your words. 

“Honestly it’s-” Veronica began,

“Nothing” Betty finished, linking her arm with Veronica affectionately as they giggled at one another. 

“Don’t let these people ruin your fun, you gotta go out there and get your man!” Veronica beamed, resting her head on Betty’s shoulder as Betty nodded encouragingly. 

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion and Betty and Veronica simultaneously rolled their eyes with a ‘tut tut’, exchanging glances.

“Jughead silly!” Betty spelt it out for you and you felt your face turn red all over again. “Yes! I knew it!” Betty exclaimed excitedly.

“I ship it!” Veronica and Betty squealed in a sing-song voice. You buried your face in your hands, but tried to laugh it off.

“I don’t even know if I can pull this stuff off guys. Honestly, it’s all so beautiful but it would probably look nicer on yo-” You began but the girls help up a finger in unison.

“Don’t even start with that crap. You are such a pretty, strong woman! You’ve been through all of this by yourself and you never even had to! You are going to own this party whether Cheryl Blossom gives a fuck or not,” Veronica retorted, and you grinned excitedly. 

The girls helped you redo your makeup, as you confided with them about your situation. It felt so good to get everything off your chest. They were so much more relatable than you expected and you honestly hoped that this wouldn’t be a one-off friendship. 

You were ready and dressed, hair done in a lace braid, necklace secured, feet comfy. All you needed now was to put your mask on. As you slipped it over your head, you felt a surge of confidence and power. This was finally your night, and you were going to earn it. 

“Look at what we’ve created Ronnie,” Betty danced around your room with Veronica excitedly. Your sisters had left to help set up the party earlier, so it’s not like you guys were even late yet, and the others were very excited. Suddenly, you felt the nerves rush back. What if they couldn’t get you in? If Anna and Drew knew you were there they would personally skin you alive. Veronica noticed you tense and she crouched beside you, resting her chin on your shoulder and sighing.

“In this mirror, I see a beautiful, young, independent woman who is currently discovering herself. You deserve this night (Y/N), it’s not enough just to dream these kind of things, you gotta finally step out of your comfort zone and live it up!” She shook you playfully and you laughed. This was your chance.

The ride had been fun, Ronnie had her own limo which she had managed to secure for the evening and you had picked up Kevin Keller on the way there, who played a huge part in settling your nerves with his gay humour. 

Veronica, being an influential person had also managed to get you into the party and you hadn’t even seen Anna and Drew so far.

Turns out that being anti-social for so long wasn’t a good trait to have in massive social events like parties where everyone knew each other and had plans for the evening. You felt out of place, and everything you dreamt of had faded. It was intimidating, all these masks practically trying to outshine each other. You lost your new friends in the sea of people and hadn’t found them since. You had managed to gain a lot of attention during the night though, which you were not used to. 

You currently stood pressed against the wall, drinking the non-spiked punch and avoiding the dance floor. Suddenly, you made eye contact with someone else pressed agains the wall. Probably someone that you would recognise in a festival crowd. No matter where you were you could pick him out. His crystal blue eyes and distinctive grey beanie which would not go off for any event. His raven haired curly locks which stood up at the back of his neck.

Your night (Y/N)

Feeling a surge of confidence, you kicked off of the wall and stood by him instead.

“Do I know you?” He asked almost instantly. Obviously everyone knew it was him from the beanie, and nobody would voluntarily come stand by him, it just wasn’t a thing people did.

“Not yet,” You let out a small chuckle, surprised at yourself. Your voice was deeper, perhaps even seductive. You sounded powerful but your stomach was whirling with butterflies as the boy gave a moment of silence to take you in.

“How mysterious,” He smirked back. Jughead’s mask covered a very thin surface area around his eyes, and was simply pitch black and made out of card.  He clearly tried very hard. “Student at Riverdale?”

“Are we playing a guessing game now?” 

“I guess,” You couldn’t really tell from the flashing strobe lights and intense atmosphere but you swore you could have saw him blushing.

“Yes, I am a student at Riverdale,” your heart thumped. There were obviously tons of students at Riverdale but you couldn’t help but get this overwhelming feeling that he knew it was you. Maybe Jughead felt the same way? You bit your lip, thinking about how you just wanted to be at a comfortable home with this boy right now. Like his house, because your house was simply hell.

This boy practically was your home, he made you feel safe and wanted. Although he didn’t even know this was you right now, you were just there for entertainment as he had nobody to speak to. If he knew who you really were, he would have left a long time ago. 

No (Y/N), your night! Have some faith in yourself!

“Have we talked before?” Jughead asked again, you paused deciding how you wanted to word this so that it was truthful but not too obvious.

“I expect so,” You played it off and you heard him grunt, causing you to let out another hearty chuckle.

God he loved that chuckle. It reminded him of (Y/N)

Hmm.. (Y/N)

Jughead looked up at the mysterious, elegant beauty behind the mask. He thought of (Y/N) and how suddenly an idea popped into his head. But she was so shy… it was just his biased mind because he had a cr- no, it was worth the ask.

Suddenly a slow song played over the speaker, and people paired off onto the dance floor. The two of you stayed against the wall until you were the only two left. You’d love to dance, but there wasn’t much space left and you wanted to dance freely with flowing motions. Jughead practically read your mind, as he bravely took your hand and lead you out onto a balcony, before placing his hands on your waist as you wrapped yours around the back of his neck, leaning into him and taking in his gentle scent. 

You slowly moved side to side, resting against him, only properly moving when he would twirl you around gracefully. 

“Do we have classes together?” Jughead murmured. You nodded your head dazily and he chuckled at your sudden tired mood, spinning you again. He let out a hmm in mock thought, causing you to weakly giggle. “Have we been project partners before?” His voice got quieter and more gentle. You paused, the swaying slowing. “Yes” you whispered against his jacket, clutching it tightly in your hands.

From inside, you could hear the song coming to an end but undisturbed, the two of you continued to dance. A comfortable silence swept over you as he twirled you one last time before stopping, his mouth coming closer to your ear and you felt Jughead’s hot breath on your neck. 

“Do you like English class?” He whispered gently into your ear and you felt yourself tense. Suddenly the loud chiming of a clock from above you caused you to break apart with a jump. He didn’t make it obvious that he knew, but it was the skittishness that made it clear who his mystery girl was. Your heavy breathing, turned into breathy laughing with Jughead before suddenly your whole body went rigid and your face paled.

“What’s the time?” You whispered, your face struck with horror. 

“Midnight, that’s what the chimes are for,” Jughead moved closer, his hand reached up to cup your cheek but you stumbled back, your hand flying to clasp over your mouth. You were trying to hold back sobs of fright.

Your stepmom would be home. She would kill you if you weren’t there and you didn’t exactly mean figuratively. She would beat you until you’re bloody, skin you alive and then eat your flesh in front of your own rotting carcass. 

You muttered hurried apologies before racing towards the balcony door. You had to sneak back home somehow, you had to get away. This should have never have happened. People like you don’t deserve these special nights, these special people. Your heart was thumping out of your chest as the adrenalin pumped through your veins

You let out a yelp of pain as you realised your necklace was stuck in your hair. You ripped it out, not caring that it fell to the floor. You didn’t even bother to pick it up, kicking off you heels and chucking them at Veronica as you ran away from the dance floor, from the party, from the mansion… from Jughead.

“Got it,” Drew smirked nastily, as she hit the stop button on the recording of you. She’d filmed the last minute or so of your dance with Jughead and your sudden departure.

“Mom would totally believe she stole all of that crap, including the necklace. I mean she must have. There’s no way that street urchin can afford that shit,” Anna sighed, “Did she honestly think that someone like her would fit in here? We’ll show her,” She clicked her tongue in satisfaction, before dragging her sister with her out the door.

Little did they know that they weren’t the only ones snooping on conversations. 

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Jughead clasped the necklace in his right hand, Veronica and Betty standing angrily behind him. 

It’s 2am I’m so dead. This was kind of rushed, I’m so sorry <3

Let me know if you want part 2!
ALSSSOOO: thank you to @mrs-jughead-jones for being there whilst I wrote this and getting annoyed at Apple autocorrect with me.

@satanwithstardust helped approve the ideeaaa because she’s bae. 

Riverdale TAG LIST: @theselfishllama

Picasso said he’d paint with his own wet tongue
on the dusty floor of a jail cell if he had to.

We have to create.
It is the only thing louder than destruction.
It’s the only chance the bard are gonna break,
our hands full of color
reaching towards the sky,
a brush stroke in the dark.

It is not too late.
That starry night
is not yet dry.

—  Andrea Gibson, The Madness Vase

Summary: Jughead Jones, facing the reality of having nowhere to stay anymore when the Drive-In gets shut down, finds temporary shelter at the Blue & Gold office. But what happens when an upset Betty Cooper catches him on the act?

Read on AO3

(Sooooo, I’m watching Riverdale and my feels about Bughead are over the moon!! And now that we learnt some bits and pieces about his life and that he doesn’t have a house anymore (my heart is broken, I just love Jughead) I had no other choice but to write this, hope you all like guys!!!)

Jughead knew the routine by now. Scrunched down and trying to make his trademark combat boots as soundless as possible, the raven haired boy cautiously popped his head from the corner he was hiding, icy blue eyes scanning the empty corridor in from of him. A quarter to nine, the great clock over the entrance of Riverdale High informed him and he slightly frowned, biting anxiously on his down lip and drumming his slender fingers on the tiled wall next to him in anticipation. Radio commercials along with the icky sound of track soles stepping on wet floor could be heard faintly inside the now lifeless school building, a tell-tale sign that his misery for the day will soon be over and Jughead could be nothing but relieved about it. He was tired and even more so mentally tired, with all the small town drama and its joke of residents as well as his spiraling thoughts about his novel and the newfound reality he had to adjust to, that being his current situation of well, yeah, being homeless, plus the here and there thoughts about a certain girl next door, a girl he knew all his life and a girl he always knew belonged to his best friend, that lately seemed to invade his mind an awful more lot. Yeah, Jughead needed a place to lie down, even if that was the dusty floor of the Blue & Gold.

Keep reading

Creepypasta #1095: The Room At The Bottom Of The Stairs

Length: Super long

This is the story of what happened to my family when I was 14. It was the strangest series of experiences I’ve ever had. 

My dad was an abuser. He never really touched me - he mostly ignored me, like I was beneath his notice - but he was terribly cruel to my mother. He never raised his voice or hit her when we were watching, but he would just quietly criticise her in an almost unbroken stream of soft, matter-of-fact verbal abuse. Also, while he may not have done it in front of us, I know he definitely hit her. My mother was - and still is today - a graceful woman. The stories about her tripping on the stairs or slipping on the wet bathroom floor never rang true, and yet we all saw the bruises, the arm in a sling, the band-aids over grazes.

She left him when I was 14 and we were all relieved. I felt no love for him and I had become more and more convinced over the last couple of years that one day he would kill her, and maybe us too. Seriously, he was a frightening man - seemingly soft-spoken, but cold and intense. When stories crop up on the news about fathers snapping and murdering their families, I always imagine my dad could easily have been one of them.

So we left, and I was glad. There were three of us: me, mum, and my big brother Joseph who was a 16 at the time, only a few months off 17. Technically, he was old enough that he could have left home already, but like me he lived in fear of what dad might do without a tall, muscular 17 year old in the house. Joey was a rugby player, a hundred kilos of solid muscle, but the opposite of our father: gentle, sweet, generous. I think it was his growing resentment of our father that pushed mum to leave. She told me years later that she had nightmares about Joey losing it and beating dad to a pulp, ending up in prison.

Mum did her homework as thoroughly as she could. She got the court order in place so dad would be barred from entering the property or coming anywhere near it, and the very next day she had the moving truck and the self-storage unit booked. A soon-to-be homeless unemployed single mother has limited resources, so we had to do all the moving ourselves. That was a long, exhausting day, but it was good, too. Liberating. We knew we were leaving that bastard behind.

Most of our stuff was stored away and we lived for a couple of months with mum’s sister Bella and her husband Steve. Their apartment was small for just the two of them, so with five of us there it was insanely cramped. Mum’s plan was simple enough - get a job, any job, and then find a place to rent - but the job market wasn’t great for a fortysomething single mum who hadn’t worked in almost 20 years.

Thankfully, the government came through with some emergency payments. Between that and Joey’s income from his weekend job, we had enough money coming in that we could maybe think about moving into somewhere very cheap. It wasn’t just the cramped apartment, either. Mum didn’t talk about it much, but she knew that dad knew her sister’s address. A few times the phone would ring in the middle of the night and the caller would hang up without saying anything, so mum was starting to get spooked.

Our stroke of luck came in a matched pair. Mum got a job interview for an office admin position, and it went very well (the interviewer was a sympathetic older woman and mum was very honest about why she was looking for work after such a long break). On the way home on the bus, she saw a “for lease” sign. My mum has always been very spiritual but she was feeling very optimistic and decided the sign was, well, “a sign”. She jumped off at the next bus stop and ran back to check it out.

It was an actual house, not a unit or apartment. Most people in my mother’s position would have walked on, assuming it was out of their price range, but my mother was very observant. The road it was on ran along a kind of ridge between two hilltops, and the house was on the uphill side of the road, nestled in against a fairly steep slope. As such, the back yard was considerably higher up than the street, and the back door was on the same level as the upper storey out the front.

My mother noticed that the exterior of the house - stucco over brick, painted a creamy white - was looking pretty shabby. It was all surface dirt, the kind that would come off easily with a hose and a broom. The fact that nobody had bothered made mum feel certain the house wasn’t getting a lot of love. She took a closer look at the “for lease” sign, swinging from a wooden post in the front yard. Sure enough it was looking very weathered too. She jotted down the phone number and - she confessed to me later - almost skipped back to the bus stop.

Her instincts were good: an unusually frank agent admitted that it had been sitting empty for months and the owners were eager to get a tenant in. The rent they were asking was shockingly low and well within our budget. Mum got the rental approval and a new job on the same day, and we all felt like our troubles were over.

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Noble Reign

Ch.1 Mytic Messenger Middle Ages AU

|Ch. 2|

Author’s Note: It finally happened. I’m so sorry it took me such a long time to finish it, but I’m so proud to present you the Mystic Messenger Middle Ages AU! ^^ I have absolutely no idea if anyone will read this but I had so much fun writing it and I will definitely continue updating it. Keep in mind that English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance for any grammar mistakes. Nevertheless, I hope y’all enjoy it. Please feel free to leave any sort of comments or message me; I would love to write some headcanons for this AU and I like to integrate your ideas as well.

I also want to give special thanks to @promiscuous-jalapeno for giving me advice and encouraging me in my writing. If you should ever read this, I hope you’ll enjoy it as well. <3

Wordcount: 3,247

“A long time ago, there existed a great kingdom that was ruled by two brothers. Their names were Jaehyun and Jaekwang.

The brothers were loved by their people and everyone lived together in harmony. But one day, Jaekwang desired the sole control over the kingdom and rebelled against his brother.

With soldiers at his command, he imprisoned his brother and spread misery across the kingdom. For a long time the kingdom was ruled by bitterness and people were living in fear.

But then, when all hope had died and the hour of doom seemed at hand, a girl appeared as if from nowhere. With fire burning in her soul and magic running through her veins, she defeated Jaekwang and freed his brother.

In anger, she divided the kingdom in half by forcing water and earth between the villages. A grand river and high mountains were now separating Jaekwang and Jaehyun.

Pleased with her work, the girl vanished and was never seen again. Over time, the two brothers created different kingdoms, one ruled by fear and one ruled by strength.

Generations passed and so did the girl’s tale. The kingdoms became enemies and the tale became legend. They say that someday, the girl will come back to reunite the kingdoms in peace and harmony again but until then the kingdoms remain in discord.”

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Voyager, Chapter 24 - A. Malcolm, Printer 

Part 2 

It was only a faint; his eyelids were beginning to flutter by the time I knelt beside him and loosened the stock at his throat […] His normal healthy colour was returning. I sat cross-legged on the floor and hoisted his head onto my thigh. His hair felt thick and soft in my hand. His eyes opened.

“That bad, is it?“ I said, smiling down at him with the same words he had used to me on the day of our wedding, holding my head in his lap, twenty-odd years before.  

“That bad, and worse, Sassenach,” he answered, mouth twitching with something almost a smile. He sat up abruptly, staring at me. “God in heaven, you are real!“ 

“So are you.” I lifted my chin to look at him. “I th-thought you were dead.” I had meant to speak lightly, but my voice betrayed me. The tears spilled down my cheeks, only to soak into the rough cloth of his shirt as he pulled me hard against him. 

I shook so it was some time before I realised that he was shaking, too, and for the same reason. I don’t know how long we sat there on the dusty floor, crying in each other’s arms with the longing of twenty years spilling down our faces. 


Thank you 😊 everyone for an amazing first year of the DollFrasers! 

I could really never have anticipated the response in my wildest craziest dreams, so thank you, thank you, thank you for all the support, encouragement, gifts, and overwhelming love ❤️ It’s been a blast! 


outlanderedandoverhere xxx

Deceiving Looks

Soulless!Sam x Reader

Summary: Although Sam looks exactly the same after returning from the pit, there’s something that’s not quite right. (Set in around Season 6).

Warnings: Angst, mentions of fighting/blood, brief cursing. 

A/N: Well, the votes are in, and Soulless!Sam won by a long shot. Thanks to everyone who gave their opinion :) Enjoy some Sammy angst! (P.S. Let me know if there should be a part 2 focusing on Sam’s feelings after getting his soul back!)

Originally posted by elisedelaserre96

Looks can be deceiving.

He had Sam’s mussy, long locks, his hazel eyes, and his over six foot stature, but he wasn’t your Sam.

Of course, you thoroughly enjoyed Sam’s toner body, but dreadfully, something was missing. He wouldn’t look you in the eyes, he wouldn’t wrap his body protectively around yours, and hell, he wouldn’t even kiss you anymore.

And when you started to reject his rough, unloving touches, you could only watch helplessly as he drifted away from you to countless other willing women. Years of friendship and intimate love flooded down the drain.

Nevertheless, you continued to hunt with Samuel and the others. You didn’t have the heart to reach out to Dean, who was living his cherry pie life elsewhere. Lucky bastard, you think bitterly to yourself.

A loud shriek brings you back to the present. You grip your machete tighter as your booted feet move along the dusty warehouse floor. It’s not long until your group finds the three young brothers who disappeared a week ago. Tied and gagged, the kids, only eight or nine, lay behind bars. 

“Cover me”, you command, sheathing your weapon. You go to the oldest brother first and remove his gag. “We’re going to get you out of here”, you promise, cutting the ropes tying his hands together. 

The second son is freed when you hear the door break down. You hear Samuel mutter a curse before him and most of the group go to attack the vamps flooding in the door. Gwen takes the two boys and runs to safety, while you try to help the youngest escape. 

The ropes won’t seem to cut this time. The loud sound of bloody screams and heads thumping to the ground fills your ears, slightly distracting you. When the ropes finally cut, you realize he’s wounded. His wrist and ankles are bent at sickening angles, the bruises already forming.

“We have to go. Leave him.” Sam’s cold voice sends a shiver down your spine.

You gape in disbelief before reassuring the terrified child. “Sam, no. I’m not leaving him behind.”

He glances over at the feud that your group is obviously losing. Sam shrugs, his angry gaze piercing through you. “Have it your way.”

He and several other hunters flee, leaving you in the dust. You can hear your fast heartbeat through your ears as you decide what to do. 

“Here, get on my back.” You help the boy crawl on your back weakly as you take off into a sprint. You take out a few vamps along the way, but you don’t see the leader in the corner of your eye. He knocks you to the side, the boy crying out in pain as he hits the ground. 

The vamp pins you down, baring his ugly teeth with a waft of stale breath. Your machete is out of reach, and your arms can’t hold him away for longer.

Suddenly, the vamp’s head comes off with a sickening thump, his body slumping on top of you. Your savior, a new hunter in the group named John (ironically), helps you and the boy up. “Hurry, I’ll hold them off.”

You silently thank him, taking off towards the exit again. You sigh in relief when you smell the night air, the scent of freshly fallen rain in the air.

Samuel and the other hunters lead you to the vans parked nearby, where you leave the hell warehouse with the sound of squealing tires.

You and Gwen take the three boys to the hospital, explaining that you had found them in someone’s basement.

All the boys, but especially the youngest, look at you with admiration. That, you decide, is what makes your job worth it.

Your elated feeling dissipates the minute you return to base. The second you get out of the van, a strong arm throws you into the mud. You grunt as you hit the ground, your eyes wide in fear when your see Sam’s once loving eyes turn emotionless. 

“You slow us down”, is all he says before brandishing a small pistol and aiming it at your head. You try to focus on his eyes, hoping it’ll bring some comfort. Although the color is exactly the same, they’re missing the life that’s always blooming in them. Instead, you close your eyes and wait for the nothingness, but it never comes. Samuel had luckily been fast enough to knock the gun out of Sam’s hand.

“Enough. Cool off, Sam”, he orders, pushing him away.

Your heart’s still thumping, even after you stand up and walk away, the mud sticking to your body.

Ah, yes. Looks can be deceiving. 

Part 2?

I not only tagged the people on the Sam tag list, but also those who voted for the Sam fic. Let me know if any of you want to  be permanently added to the Sam tag list (or any tag list…).

Sam Tag List~ @prob8850 @skybinx-blog @its-my-perky-nipples @trinityjadec @poemwriter98 @assbutt-jones-at-law @kalifosterxx @jensensjaredsandmishaslover @deanscherrypie @deandoesthingstome @kittenofdoomage @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog @supernatural-jackles@donnaintx @aprofoundbondwithdean @umaakomton @msgrungie @mogaruke@kickasscas67 @sandlee44 @wildfirekhaleesi @fairytalesexistxx @imnotalosechester@geminalupus @bananakid42  @tom-is-in-my-tardis @27bmm 

Those not yet permanently on, but voted.
@megawinchester7 @leenasleena-blog @winsmut @brianaistre @queenindecisive  @samualmortgrim

Beautiful Goodbye

Author’s Note: So I’ve heard from a few people on Twitter who wished the goodbye scene was longer/explained more about why Abby chose to take off the necklace with Jake’s ring. Since I agreed, I decided to write a short (well okay, close to 4,000-word) thing about it from Marcus’ perspective. So basically, this is my interpretation of how the goodbye scene could have gone down if the writers hadn’t chosen to cut away after the kiss.

Rating: M-ish? I’m TRASH and hyped up on The Scene, so of course there’s sexytimes.

It was dark in the tower, save for the flickering of a few candles aligned at the sides of the hallways: hardly enough to fend off the blackness of night. Striding through the empty corridors, Marcus mused on the iciness of the streets below. The danger that lurked in every shadow, the hatred hidden in glares and deciphered through threats. His chest ached, remembering the ambassador’s hatred of Skaikru, his refusal to choose diplomacy over violence. A stab of pain so intense that it might have been he, not the Ice King, who’d been shot.

How deftly Marcus had tried.

How decisively he’d failed.

There has to be another way, he’d thought, urging Roan to delay his battle in favor of negotiations. And he’d been so sure he could do it – so confident they would see his side, cherish life over bloodshed – that the ambassador’s refusal had knocked the breath from his lungs like a punch to the gut. Diplomacy, he knew, was far from an exact science. There were no guarantees. But to have failed now, at such a crucial time…he could hardly offer himself forgiveness when regret was the only emotion available.

Octavia had barely looked at him after that; instead of remaining with him, she’d chosen to seek out Indra. Since midday, he hadn’t so much as glimpsed her. Marcus thought he’d seen something pitying in her gaze – something that spoke more than her words ever could, something that implied she blamed grounder politics and not him for his shortcomings – and as small a gesture as it was, he appreciated it. If nothing else, at least she’d been willing to give peace a chance.

A soft breeze blew through an open door, and Marcus breathed out a soft sigh as the coolness of the night wind washed over him. As loath as he was to admit it, there was nothing more to be done. He would have to accept whatever came in the morning, swallow the bitterness of self-loathing that had burbled again inside him when the boy mentioned what the chip had forced him to do. Focusing on what came next was easy when hope was abundant, but in its absence his mind turned back to territory it had explored a thousand times before, terrain he and his people had mapped out so well.

It was a land of remorse.

Dwelling on the past did him little good, but in times like these it became harder to construct a dam strong enough to hold back their tide. A few more seconds, and he could have taken Bellamy’s life. Had ALIE’s hold over him not been broken in time, had his hands not relaxed and his composure returned, his story might have been an echo of the young grounder’s. Their hatred for Skaikru might have been pronounced, but the boy had no inclination of how alike they really were. The shame they shared.

If he’d told him what he’d been forced to do, a member of Skaikru equally torn by his actions under the influence, would it have helped? Could it have saved whatever fractured bond they might have with the grounders? More importantly, could he even trust his own voice to recite so sensitive a memory?

He could still feel it; the sickening agony of looking down and seeing the eldest Blake sibling on the dusty throne room floor, gasping for air, his face bruised and bloody. The look in Bellamy’s eyes shone forgiveness mixed with fatigue while his own blurred with tears, appalled with himself for what he’d been forced to do. What his hands and legs and arms had done without his consent, all because of a woman in a red dress and a computer chip.

He remembered something else then, drifting back to him through the listless fog of misery. A gun pointed to Abby’s head. She’s still here, he reminded himself. Bellamy’s still here, Clarke’s still here, Octavia’s still here. There is still hope.

And hope, as he’d come to know from the woman who held his heart in her hands, her smile, her sigh, was everything.

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womanhood // s. mardon

last year i wanted to write about girlhood but nothing came out right. this year i wanna write about womanhood, about this ache lodged inside my throat that i don’t think will ever leave. at work today i served a mother and her daughter; mother’s eyes were tight with exhaustion, daughter’s were wide and solemn. the daughter is cute, talking to me in the confusing language of toddler, telling me how she always steps in the puddles in her garden in her peppa pig gumboots. i ask, “do you make a splash?” and she nods, the first hint of a grin sliding onto her face and god, you know when kids smile and it’s like the sun comes out?

later, her mother quips how it’s so frustrating to be raising her daughter alone. i tell her, “my mother raised me alone in the first few years of my life.” i tell her, “i have so much respect for her.”

she looks at me, sitting on the dusty floor of our shop, halfway through putting on her daughter’s shoe, and i see it. that look. and i know. it’s like this thing ingrained in me, this knowledge i learnt in my girlhood that’s travelled with me till today, this thing i still don’t have a name for.

the way this mother looks at me - it’s fatigued, fed-up, ready to fucking throw in the towel, all this hurt carried inside her that she can never properly let out. “how did she cope?” she asks me. that, i don’t have an answer for.

i try not to cry. it’s hard for me not to get teary eyed when i think about my own mother, what she’s done. the lengths she went through to get me safe. how she escaped from my father only for him to follow her halfway across the globe, to settle in and make it clear that he was never going to leave. but she kept going. she kept fighting. that kind of strength dumbfounds me.

i say something simple, personal, how my dad fucked my mum over too but in a different way, and it’s like this mum just cracks right open and she’s talking, telling me how her daughter’s father fled when she got pregnant, how she had to give up her entire life, her career, everything, to look after her child. 

this is one of the things i know of womanhood. this ache carried around in women’s hearts, this awareness of sacrifice that this mum had to make, that my mum made, that millions of mothers have made. and it’s not just motherhood, but something broader, less definable. a fight, maybe, but a slow one. one you see out of the corner of your eye but can never really focus on.

it’s a culmination of things. it’s being scared to walk alone at night. it’s those close calls you had when you were a kid and things could have gone so much worse. it’s being hurt by men. it’s men’s ignorance, men’s aggression. it’s figuring out how to keep yourself together while caring for the other women and girls around you. it’s struggling, thinking you’re barely keeping your head above the surface but really, anyone else can see your feet are flat against the water.

sacrifice. i come back to this word. for all my life, i’ve seen mothers and daughters and aunts and grandmothers going without to try to keep other women safe. maybe that’s womanhood. maybe not.

the kid in the store is proving that she can walk in the new shoes by running to the door and back three times and cackling with laughter. i’m still crouched down, knees burning because my joints are bad, and her mum’s still sitting on the floor, looking like she could sleep for a year and still wake up tired.

“she’s worth it, though,” i say to her, because what else is there to say? it’s the truth. this little girl was me, once. not too long ago. when the mum looks at her daughter, her face softens, becomes open, vulnerable, loving. it breaks my heart and mends within a second, like my heart doesn’t know what to feel.

“she is.”

cosleia  asked:

Ahahaha that crack lancelot wedding was fantastic and yes of COURSE I WANT THE DARK VERSION

You all asked for it…

[Original prompt, go here if you want fluffy Lancelot crack] Stay if you want a very dark response to the prompt “lancelot wedding”

General trigger warning. Please read with caution.

           “Will you marry me?”

           Lance didn’t even bother to lift his head, his eyes stirring the dusty prison floor as they fluttered open. He had finally been drifting off to sleep too. His shoulders ached, his arms pulled upwards at an awkward angle to where he was handcuffed to a ring on the wall. His legs were drawn up against his chest, and the cold hard of the floor pressed into him. He didn’t move a muscle, still facing the wall, but he knew Lotor wouldn’t leave until he gave an answer.

           “No,” he said, his voice hoarse with disuse. He heard a defeated sigh and retreated footsteps, and his eyes slid thankfully closed again. Lotor must not be in a persuasive mood today. He shuffled his legs slightly closer, trying to preserve some bit of warmth. If only they would just let him sleep.


           The first offer had come about a week after his capture. The demands for information had suddenly stopped, they’d ushered him into a shower, and given him clothes, real clothes, not just the ragged purple Galra prisoner garb. Once he was dressed they’d ushered him into a suspiciously nice room, where the first real meal he’d seen since his capture was laid out on the table in decadent glory. A Galra with a circlet around his long white hair greeted him and let him to a seat, introducing himself as Prince Lotor. Lance wanted to be suspicious of the food but his watering mouth and aching empty stomach were too much imperative to ignore. And as he ate, Prince Lotor talked.

           He told Lance he’d heard of the many impressive feats of Voltron. He’d told Lance he’d heard of the bravery of the Blue Paladin but never of his beauty. He’d told Lance that when he’d seen the interrogations, Lance’s refusal to crack no matter what they did to him, no matter how they tortured him, he had swept in and demanded to talk with him. He shifted his chair closer to Lance and started to whisper plans, plans to pull Lance out of prison, out of interrogation, to make him his partner, plans to make the entire universe recognize Lance’s talents, plans to take over the empire from Zarkon and rule it with Lance at his side. That last one made Lance pause, set his fork down, swallow his food, and turn to Lotor.

           “So, this is a bad cop/good cop routine, or what?” he asked. Lotor launched into an eloquent speech about the purity of his intentions with Lance, praising Lance’s beauty, talking about how Voltron didn’t appreciate his skills, his talents. Lance more or less tuned him out, picking his fork back up and eating as much as he could, while he could. He was paying so little attention that it was until Lotor grabbed his hand, pulling the fork out of it and suddenly knelt down next to him that he looked up again, chewing a mouthful of bread. Lotor waited patiently until he had swallowed, and then came the question for the first time.

           “Will you marry me?”

           Lance had laughed, the first time. It was such an absurd idea that he hadn’t known what other reaction to give.

           He didn’t laugh anymore.


           Lance lost count of how many strategies they used. There were days when Lotor pulled Lance out of his cell, dressed him up like a doll, and showered him with food and gifts, lounging next to him on luxuriously lined sofas and running his fingers through Lance’s hair. He had learned to keep Lotor talking, make those days last as long as possible. He didn’t eat as much of the food as he had the first time because they always made him throw it back up when he continued to refuse. Those days weren’t very frequent anyway.

           “Will you marry me?”

           There were days when they dragged him back to interrogation and torture. Sometimes they still wanted information, but more often these days it seemed they did it for fun. Either way, Lotor would pop up, promising to make the pain stop. Lance stayed as silent as possible on those days.

           “Will you marry me?”

           But most days, they just left him alone, breaking him slowly by letting him rot away in a prison cell. Sometimes there were days without food, days when Lance didn’t move from his spot curled on the floor. Yet once a day, without fail, Lotor would come and ask his question.

           “Will you marry me?”

           Lance didn’t even know why Lotor wanted him.


           He was dragged unwilling back to consciousness by the sound of his name. He kept his eyes closed, waiting for the question. As soon as he could say no, Lotor would leave, and maybe he could sleep again. He just wanted to sleep.

           But for once, the question didn’t come. Lotor just kept repeating his name until Lance finally pulled his legs forward until he got himself into a siting position and shuffled so that he was facing Lotor. As he turned, he came more awake than he had been in days.

           Pidge was trapped under Lotor’s arm, tears streaking down ash on her face, a sword cutting a thin red line into her throat. Her bayard was missing and her armor dented and marked with combat. Her eyes met Lance’s and fresh tears spilled over.

           “She can go free right here, right now, or she can join you in that cell,” Lotor said, smiling. He always smiled. He had what Lance thought someone else might describe as a pleasant smile, but Lance could see only his sharp teeth. “So, Lance. Will you marry me?”

           There was only one answer to give.


[I am no longer accepting prompts, just completing the ones in my inbox]


Write-A-Thon: Day 1 (AU Day)

Pairing: John Laurens x Alexander Hamilton

[ 80s bookstore AU // John is an art hoe who thinks the shop is good inspiration and Alexander is the cashier who won’t let anyone in if they don’t buy a book ]

Warnings: swearing

Words: 1772

A/N: I’m gay for this,, its not got much in the way of an actual plot line but its cute and they’re awkward and i loved writing it, also my computer autocorrected flames to lams at one point so basically i hate myself

Perhaps sitting behind the counter of a run down bookstore wasn’t how one would typically find love. Alexander Hamilton certainly never presumed that it would be the case for him. He’d grown content with the idea of hiding safely within the walls of the store, allowing the world to pass him by, a flurry of excitement just out of reach.

Alexander worked at the bookstore, the one tucked away on the corner of the lane. Everyone in town knew the one. Small: one room, and cluttered from wall to wall with shelves upon shelves of aged books.

And the smell: old candles, cigarette smoke, and a century old family dinner. It was unmistakable, the rotting floorboards and the yellowing walls. But despite the run down appearance, the shop gave off a distinct aura of homeliness.

It was the sort of place which seemed to draw out a smile from almost anyone, even Alexander. The store brought out the best in him, as much as he denied it.

Bells jingling, the heavy wooden door swung open, causing clouds of dust to form in the air before dissipating right before Alexander’s eyes. With it, came the curly haired boy, fatigue evident in his darkened eyes, a sketchbook clutched tightly in his left hand.

The smirk melted off of Alexander’s face as he found himself face to face with the boy. “If you don’t plan on buying anything,” he snarled, narrowing his eyes menacingly, “you can fuck right off.”

Smile worn across his lips, the boy simply shrugged off Alexander’s words. “And what makes you think I’m not buying anything?” he challenged, pulling himself away from the door, moving with a new life, as if his spirit had ignited a fire inside his chest: ever burning and forever ardent flames.

“You think I don’t recognize you?” Alexander remained firm and insistent, arms crossed over his chest, even as the boy picked a book up off the shelf. “I’m not stupid.”

“Really?” Eyebrows raised, a smirk dancing across his face, the boy seemed to be mocking Alexander.

“You’re that artist,” Alexander continued, spurring up the softest laughter, as though the idea of this boy being an artist was ridiculous. “You’re always here, and you never buy anything. So you can get out.”

“What does it matter to you if I’m here?” He pressed on with such insistence, yet with only the slightest bit of confidence to back that up.

“What does it matter to you?” Alexander replied quickly, repeating the boy’s words as so to spare him the energy of thinking up a witty comeback. “All you do is draw,” he continued. “You don’t even read anything.”

The boy gave way to a shrug, daring to hold Alexander’s gaze for a few moments more as the air seemed to decay around them, leaving them as nothing but mere statues in the dust where there had once been a bookstore and two boys whose worlds had just begun to fold into each other’s.

“I’m John Laurens,” the boy offered up, looking up at Alexander expectantly: the Laurens family was well known for being the most wealthy in their pathetic little town. John clearly seemed to think that because of his last name, he was entitled to whatever he wanted.

“I see what you’re doing.” Alexander narrowed his eyes, glaring pointedly at John. “You think you can just hide behind that name and I’ll give you what you want.”

John’s cheeks flushed red and he drew his gaze to the dusty floor. He nervously brushed a hand back through his hair, pushing billowing chestnut curls away from his face.

“It won’t work,” Alexander continued. “See, I only care about your money if you’re using it to buy a book, which you’re very obviously not. So give me a reason to let you stay before I kick you out.”

“It’s good inspiration- the store,” he explained, gesturing at the walls around them. “It’s so full of history, so colorful-”

Alexander let his gaze sweep throughout the store. “I can’t see any color besides brown, so unless there’s something I’m missing, you’re full of shit.”

On the surface, it seemed as though Alexander was right. Dusty brown floorboards, walls, even the book covers seemed to be tinted brown in the flickering lighting.

“Not the visible colors.” John continued, voice dripping with the utmost assurance that Alexander wasn’t stupid: from the almost bored tone in his voice, he reckoned that this was a conversation he’d had many times. “Like… there’s this… this aura.” He searched helplessly for some sort of understanding in Alexander’s eyes, but was met with no reassurance whatsoever. “The sound of the fan-” he waved his hand towards the fan that sat in the distant corner of the shop- “the sound it makes, that’s green, a deep forest green. And the smell of the shop, that’s this soft yellow shade, like a sunflower. And the walls-”

“I get it.” Alexander cut John off, despite not understanding what he meant in the slightest, but he didn’t have any interest in listening to him ramble on indefinitely. “But seriously, this is a book store. Not an art studio.”

Drawing out a sigh, John held a book up for Alexander to see. Ironweed by William Kennedy. “And if I buy a book, will you let me stay here?”

“Ironweed?” Alexander struggled to hide a smile. He fell back against the back of his swivel chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I suppose I’d let you stay, but Ironweed isn’t the place to start, in my opinion.”

John arched his eyebrows in response.

“It’s part of a series, see.” Alexander pushed himself up off his chair and wove his way through the maze of bookshelves. “The Albany Cycle.”

Finally finding what he was looking for, Alexander plucked the book off the dusty shelf and held it out to John. “This is the one you’re looking for.”

“Legs?” He read off the cover, a note of disbelief in his voice. “What the fuck kind of name for a book is that?”

Alexander cracked a smile, staring down at him through dark eyes. “It’s the name of a character,” he explained. “Which you would know,” he added, “if you’d bother to read the back of the book.”

Eyes narrowed in defiance, John flipped the blood red book over in his hands and began to read aloud. “‘Legs, the inaugural book in William Kennedy’s acclaimed Albany cycle of novels, brilliantly evokes the flamboyant career of gangster Jack ‘Legs’ Diamond.”

Alexander clapped his hands in mock pride. “You can read!” he exclaimed. “And here I thought you’d never picked up a book in your life.”

He continued to scan the back of the book. “It takes place in the 20s?” He sounded shocked, perhaps even the slightest bit disgusted by the notion.

“And the 30s,” Alexander supplied, almost mechanically, continuing to stare John down from behind gold rimmed glasses.

“It’s 1983,” he pointed out, causing him to receive an overly dramatic eye roll from Alexander in response.

“So?” Alexander challenged, growing defensive despite having never read the book. “The 20s were much better than now, in my opinion.”

“Well, your opinion doesn’t matter much, as you’re not the one buying the book.”

Alexander gave way to the softest laugh. “I don’t think you’re buying the book either.”

He slammed the book on the counter with quite a bit more force than Alexander reckoned was necessary. “How much?”

“3.99,” Alexander supplied without having to think. The prices were almost ingrained in his head after over a year of working at the store.

John dug a crumpled dollar out of his pocket and tossed it onto the counter beside the book. He held Alexander’s gaze for a few moments, seemingly daring him to accept the partial payment.

“Fuck, fine.” John folded his arms over his chest, somewhat disheartened.

“You’re rich.” Alexander didn’t bother trying to hide the incredulous tone in his voice. “What does 3.99 matter?”

John dug around in his pockets for the rest of the money. “Shit,” he mumbled as a handful of coins slipped from his fingers and rolled in every direction across the floor. He set his sketchbook on the counter and knelt to the floor, chasing the dozens of coins.

Alexander took advantage of the opportunity to flip through the pages of John’s sketchbook. He couldn’t deny that the art was incredible: graceful lines merging with perfectly selected colors, but even so, he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Turtles?” he asked incredulously, flipping through the pages. That was the last thing Alexander had been expecting to find in the notebook, and there were hundreds of them. Every page contained a new turtle, some with even two or three.

John emerged from the other side of the counter, cheeks burning red. “I like them,” he admitted defensively, setting the remainder of the money in front of Alexander.

Giving way to a light chuckle, Alexander stuffed the money into the cash register and slid the book across the counter to John. “They’re quite nice, actually.” Alexander gestured down to John’s sketchbook. “I wish I could draw like that.”

“It’s just a matter of practice.” The corners of John’s lips crept into a genuine smile.

“Yeah, well…” Alexander trailed off, unsure of what he was supposed to say. “I used to want to be an artist. Then I realized I was pretty shit at it.”

John raised his eyebrows as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “You? An artist? I wouldn’t have guessed… you don’t seem the type.”

Alexander shrugged, letting a small storm of silence overtake them. It crept in from the darkest corners of the room, slowly blanketing the whole shop in a world of quiet. “Well, look at you here, buying a book. I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type for that either.” He smiled as though that cleared everything up. “I suppose we’re all full of surprises, aren’t we?”

John’s cheeks flushed an obnoxious shade of pink. “You know I’ve got no intention of reading it.”

“I know,” Alexander assured him, slipping the book into a brown paper bag and handing it over to John. “But maybe you’ll surprise yourself as well as me.”

John smiled. “Maybe I will.”

He took the bag and tucked it inside his coat, making a mental note to try and get through at least a few pages in the book. If not for himself, then for the hopeful cashier who had laid the world out for John in a language that he didn’t quite comprehend, but at the very least, he would try to learn.

How Would You Like It?

A short Snowbaz fic [that strted off being] based on the song by How Would You Like It, By Lauren Aquilina

Song here
Dodie Clark cover here

Words: 2.4K

Pairings: Baz Pitch/ Simon Snow

Angst (not really but kind of)/ Fluff


            I trudged back to my room, defeated. Snow went off, again, and I looked like a complete fool, again. It started as harmless teasing, he sat next to me in potions, but not at the same table, so we weren’t partners, and he couldn’t get the potion right. Of course, it was my job as his ‘nemesis’ to make a joke out of his failure, because that’s what third-year Baz would’ve done, been relentless and careless. It was all normal, Snow’s face grew red, and his hand was by his waist—ready to hold his sword—it was just like every other petty argument we had. By this point, the entire class had their eyes on us, ready to see every little detail, so they could have the best gossip, the only thing that was different than usual was the absolute anger in Snow’s eyes, he was pissed, and it wasn’t just because of me.

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so near to home and yet so far

for @actualsvenshirogane - some Altean!Lance fic for you, buddy my bud

If he’s gonna be honest, Lance is in a state of pseudo-shock, right now.

Everything in the past hour has just happened…so quickly, and now he’s standing outside his once-home, too scared to go inside.

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anonymous asked:

Can we get more Collision Course?

More than happy to oblige. 

- Mod Lenny

Collision Course - Part Seven

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six

The morning they were supposed to leave, Claire emerged from the cave to wait for Frank and help Murtagh and Jamie ready the horses. Frank had been quieter the last few days and despite her meager efforts to get Jamie alone again, she hadn’t succeeded and wouldn’t have known what more to say to him if she had; she just… wasn’t ready to say goodbye––didn’t know how to say goodbye.

Murtagh was busy loading the horse that he would ride with the necessary provisions for the few days it would take them to reach Craigh na Dun. Claire’s medical kit was already strapped into place on her horse.

“It occurred to me,” Murtagh said, not turning his head from his task as she quietly approached, “I ought to have asked if yer man would be able to handle the reins wi’ his arms and hands bundled as they are.”

“Oh…” Claire frowned in thought. “You’re right… He’ll be able to hold them but not tightly––not enough to direct the horse very effectively, I’m afraid. And he’s not a very strong horseman to start,” she added in a lower tone on the off chance Frank had succeeded in readying himself for their journey. Jamie had sacrificed his coat and a spare shirt to help Frank appear less obviously out of place––though there was little that could be done about his trousers; Frank had no interest in donning a kilt even if there had been one to spare and seeing Frank in a Fraser or MacKenzie tartan had been more than either Jamie or Murtagh was willing to suggest.

“Ye’ll need to have him ride wi’ you then,” Murtagh declared with a nod. “We’ll no need the third horse then. I’ll leave him hobbled wi’ a note for Jamie to find when he comes back later.”

Claire’s head jerked up. “He’s not coming back before we go?”

“Nah. The lad needs to get his head right before he goes down to the house. Ye ken what he faces there, no?”

The home and remaining family he hadn’t seen in four years; it had been one of the things he’d talked about most in the brief time between their wedding and this mess. There had been pain when he talked about it with her and told her what Lallybroch was like. He had been proud when he told her she was officially Lady Broch Tuarach and that he would do whatever it took to clear his name so they could live there without threat or shame.

Now he would be taking that step alone… and with the threat looming over his head more darkly than ever. How long would it be before Captain Randall had his way and the English soldiers descended on Lallybroch again to search for him?

“He… he can’t stay long,” she murmured. “It won’t be safe for him here; it’s––”

“He’ll only stay till I get back to let him know ye’ve made it safe,” Murtagh assured her with an uncharacteristic gentleness. For a moment she thought he might reach out to comfort her in a more tangible fashion but instead his face reddened and he turned back to the ropes that would keep their bedding on his horse. “It’ll be a danger to go back to Leoch after that, too. Might be able to convince him to head to France again––or maybe to his grandsire at Beauly though that’s no likely.”

“I feel absurd,” Frank declared as he emerged from the cave.

The stress of the two weeks since he had inadvertently traveled through the stones had taken a heavy toll on Frank. He hadn’t been able to bathe properly and lying on a dank and dusty cave floor hadn’t done him any favors; a layer of grime helped balance out the pallor left behind by the fever that still rose and fell irregularly. It had affected his appetite so that his already thin face appeared drawn and gaunt, the natural lines about his mouth and across his forehead emphasized in a ghastly way thanks to the shadow of the uneven growth of beard on his chin and cheeks.  Jamie’s coat and shirt were too big and too long even with the remnants of his own clothes beneath. His trousers––previously gray––had become the same muddy brown as the ground he’d been sleeping upon and would continue to sleep upon until he made it back through the stones.

“Ye look absurd,” Murtagh agreed with Frank, frowning as he glanced the man over. “D’ye need a hand to get up or can ye manage?”

Frank rolled his eyes as he strode over to the third horse.

“Not that one,” Claire explained. “Your hands; it could be dangerous for you to try the reins. I’ll ride in front and you’ll just need to keep your seat. Murtagh has most of the supplies so he should bear our combined weight without incident.”

Murtagh gave Claire a leg up once Frank was comfortably seated. She felt him wince as she jostled him, settling herself in and taking up the reins, but a moment later his arms had slipped around her waist to help with his balance. His thighs pressed against hers through the layers of her skirt and there was the unshakable awareness of something at her back but it made her want to lean forward and shy away, untrusting.

“We’d best go lass,” Murtagh said, leading the way down a path that was shallower than the way they’d come. “We’re taking the long way round and staying as clear of the main road as we can get wi’out losing our way.”

“You’re sure he knows where he’s going?” Frank inquired quietly in Claire’s ear.

She snapped the reins and their horse started forward after Murtagh.

“Yes. And I trust him with both our lives. Be sure to let me know if you need to rest; it won’t be easy terrain and it’s more tiring to just sit there than you realize,” she advised him.

Murtagh had consulted Jamie on the best route to take through the Lallybroch lands, where to cross back into MacKenzie territory, and how to skirt the field at Culloden Moor to get round to Craigh na Dun without exposing themselves too obviously.

Jamie saw the horses carefully picking their way up and out of the valley from his own perch on a rock outcropping similar to the one that concealed the cave and knew that whatever danger he’d been in of breaking down and begging Claire to stay had passed. But there was no relief in the knowledge, only the continued sinking in the pit of his stomach. Surely, whatever it was inside him that was falling would hit the bottom sometime soon; he would be able to begin crawling up and out of this misery at some point, wouldn’t he?

He waited until they had long disappeared before tracing his way back to the cave and the remnants of their camp. Murtagh had left plenty for him to finish clearing up for which he was thankful; it gave him something mindless to do while he waited to stumble across some semblance of meaning. It took longer to clear away the evidence of their fire limited to one hand as he was. Claire had given him instructions for caring for the injury to his hand; he was on his own as concerned his less visible wounds.

Jamie hadn’t expected the horse to still be there waiting but Murtagh had left his note prominently pinned to the horse’s mane with one of Claire’s hair pins.

Frank cannot ride alone so only need two horses. Will not be able to go fast so four days to the hill. Leaving Dòchas for you. I shall meet you at Lallybroch in one week’s time if I don’t see you sooner. M

Jamie crumpled the note in his good hand and clenched his teeth, silently cursing his godfather for tempting him like this. Dòchas was easily the fastest of the three horses and with just Jamie to carry––despite his considerable size––it would not take long to catch them up and Murtagh also had laid out exactly how long he had to change his mind.

“I said what I needed to say to her,” Jamie told Dòchas in an effort to convince himself. “It’s no my decision and she’s made hers and that’s that.” He brushed his hand down the horse’s neck then reached for the bridle to guide her down the slope toward Lallybroch. Seeing Jenny again and learning all that she’d suffered in his absence wouldn’t hurt nearly as much as it would have before losing Claire had left him so numb––there was that to be thankful for, at least.

With every step toward Lallybroch, he tried not to calculate how far they would have gotten, how long it would take to reach them if he left just then.

“Jamie!” He heard Jenny’s familiar voice calling and it startled him out of his reverie. He couldn’t see her but he’d distinctly heard her calling him so she must have seen him.

“Jamie, ye rascal,” she scolded––she must be on the other side of the gate putting something away. “Where have ye been and just what have ye been gettin’ into? Dinna look at me like that.” A child’s giggle stopped Jamie in his tracks. “Ye’re in for a hidin’ if ye dinna get inside to Mrs. Crook for a right washin’ ‘fore supper. Go on, now.”

She hadn’t seen him and hadn’t been talking to him at all. Confusion and a place to put his anger pushed him to finally step through the gate and into the yard, his jaw clenched as he saw a small boy with dark hair vanish into the door leaving Jenny behind wiping her hands on her apron while a basket of dirty laundry sat on the ground beside her.

She looked up and smiled, overcome for a moment, before his dour expression sank in and her own brow knitted in confusion.

“Jamie? Is… What are ye doin’ here? We had word from Murtagh that ye’d made it safe to Leoch but nothin’ about you coming home… Not that ye’re no welcome,” she added hastily, her relief at seeing him alive again overpowering her cautious edge.

“And just who might this ‘we’ be?” Jamie asked, his own edge sharp and at the ready. “Ye thought Dougal wouldna tell me about yer wee bastard there? Hmm? At least he had the decency no to tell me that ye’d named the lad for me.”

Jenny’s good humor faded fast. “Dougal MacKenzie?” She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “And just what would he ken about it? He’s no set foot here since Father passed and good riddance. Or are ye truly prepared to take the word of our dear uncle over that of yer own sister?” she challenged. “My wee Jamie isna a bastard and that’s the last I want to hear on the matter or ye can turn yer sorry arse around and leave again, James Fraser. We’ve managed wi’out ye for four years and this is the note ye care to return on?”

“Jamie?” Ian called from across the yard.

Jamie’s face went momentarily slack as he saw his friend throw down the piece of horse tack he’d been carrying in order to hurry over faster.

“Yer brother-in-law,” Jenny informed him with smug satisfaction before Jamie met Ian halfway and wrapped his friend in a hug.

“We werena expecting to see ye anytime soon,” Ian commented. “Was it you who was stayin’ out in the woods up near that old hunting cave? I told Jenny I thought I saw smoke out that way but she… Are ye all right, Jamie?”

“Aye,” Jamie croaked and nodded, looking down in an attempt to blink the tears back. “I’m fine. And aye, it was me out at the cave. Something… something happened and I had to find a safe place for a few days––didna want to put anyone here in danger if it could be helped,” he rambled as he turned his back on both his friend and his sister to Dòchas leading her toward the stable around the other side of the house.

“So whatever danger it was it’s passed now?” Ian squinted at Jamie.

“For now. English soldiers might be by in a few weeks lookin’ for me but Murtagh will be back and we’ll be gone again by then,” he told them, for Jenny had followed the men as Ian bent and picked the dropped equipment up again.

Why will there be English soldiers lookin’ for ye this time?” she asked none-too-gently.

“I dinna want to talk about it,” Jamie responded with enough force––and obvious pain––to put the matter to rest for a while. “I just… I need to wait for Murtagh.”

He lead Dòchas into a stall passing between Jenny and Ian on his way. Ian shook his head at Jenny and she clenched her jaw but nodded; her brother appeared to be even more altered than what Ian had told her he’d witnessed in France after the death of their father and she would get to the bottom of it sooner or later.

anonymous asked:

This is really random but what do you think Richonne's first petty argument as a couple was about??? I can't even imagine Michonne getting mad at Rick over some dumb shit like him leavin them dusty jeans on the floor lol

Lmao. Yeah, I can’t really imagine them arguing over something like that. I feel like Michonne just has a certain standard, and Rick makes sure he meets it, whether subconsciously or deliberately. So he’s not leaving his drawers on the floor all day. Unless hers are down there, too. 😄He keeps the toilet seat down and the kitchen clean. He takes out the garbage without her having to ask. (Where? I don’t know, but he takes it, dammit, lol.) He’s an equal partner in their relationship and in their lives, so I think it’d be rare for her to have anything to complain about.

If anything, it’d probably involve Rick being jealous of someone flirting with Michonne. And not mad at her of course, but I can see him doing that murder twitch and Michonne thinking it’s silly for him to be jealous (although on a deeper level, she kinda likes it). So it’s not a serious argument, but maybe it takes up a drive home. Or maybe they argue over Rick shaving. 🤔 Though I like to believe Michonne has come to her senses and enjoys his face losing that war at this point. So maybe the tables have turned and he wants shave, but she doesn’t want him to. Or… I could see them having a difference of opinion on how to ground Carl for something. (For sneaking to the Sanctuary, for example.) Like Michonne thinks Rick is too soft on him. Or vice versa.

Whatever it is, I wish we could see it? Even though that’s not the show we’re watching, I’m dying for more of Grimes family life – the domestic moments; the parenthood; the little nothing fights. But I guess that’s what fanfiction is for. 🤗

Scribble-Doodle: Shh, Better Not Tell

Parabatai feelings ahoy! Set after the S2A finale!

“You do realize I know all your hideouts, right?” Alec comments dryly as he climbs into the bell tower and lets the wooden trapdoor fall shut with a dull thump.

Jace, who’s sitting on the dusty floor, leaning against the stone wall with his arms resting on his bent knees, sighs and rolls his eyes. But he’s not really annoyed. If he didn’t want Alec to find him, he would’ve left the Institute.

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You can find my Masterlist HERE!

Prompt: Hey, could you do an imagine where the reader is a savior and used to be a model before the apocalypse and while on a supply run a few of the saviors find a magazine with one of her sexy photoshoots (or something) and show Negan (something like that) – Via @sheehan33

Ships: Negan x Reader
Words: 1,223
Warnings: Curses, mentions of smut, mentions of sexy costume (???)
Category: Fluff


You were sat on your lumpy and uncomfortable bed, binding your leg from where you had snagged it earlier that morning when on a supply run. You were bathed in moonlight as you worked. There was a discarded pile of bandages beside you, crimson stained and beginning to smell. You bound your leg tightly with the bandages and a few minutes later you dubbed your leg presentable and you stood up with a small grunt of pain. The wound was still rather tender.

You moved to pick up the dirty bandages from off your dusty floor when you heard a knock from your door. You stood up straight and stared at the door quizzically, thinking to yourself who would be calling at this hour.

You crossed the room, picking up your pistol as you went as you could never be too safe in these dangerous times.  You cocked the gun and held it aloft as you cautiously opened the door.

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