#Credit Hire Vehicles

[womanofwords]

Silver Swan (Part 4)

Neglected!fem!reader x yandere!batfam

Your persona was coming together now. You had your getaway vehicle, your outfit, and your disguise. Now, you needed to scope out the details of the next event your family would ditch you for be attending.

This was one you had no qualms about gatecrashing. Seriously, who would go to a gala meant to raise money for the hotel franchise owner's son's defence fund, especially considering the crime was multiple counts of rape? How was this guy not in jail already? (Oh, right, he's rich.)

But nevertheless, the family was going. Great. This was going to be so much fun to ruin.

It was going to be held at Gotham Grand Hotel, where money would literally be put into a giant jar at the front of the stage for their nasty little son. That should be a pretty easy in and out sort of thing. Why should he have the money and not jail? Literally anybody else would be a better recipient.

Maybe you should decide who that person was.

"Father, if a night at Gotham Grand Hotel costs $650, why do they need a fundraiser for their son in the first place?" you ask. "Surely, they should be able to pay for his defence fund themselves."

"Most of their assets aren't in cash, Y/N," Bruce explained. "Their assets are tied up in stocks of their own company, which pays for everything they need."

"That still doesn't explain why they can't pay for their own son's defence fund."

"If they liquidate their stocks, the company's value goes down, meaning that banks trust them less, meaning they can't get loans," Tim explained. "This is to make sure their credit score remains as high as it always was."

"OK," you said. But your blood boiled. This kid didn't need this money. Anybody else would be a better candidate than this brat.

"I heard his mother's been hiring private investigators to follow the accusers," Damian said. "To see if they know each other."

"What does that have to do with anything?" you ask.

"They think they might be colluding to ruin his reputation," Dick explained. "The private investigators are there to collect proof of that."

"And in future, Y/N, please do not butt into conversations that you were not originally part of," Damian said, a cruel smile on his lips.

"OK," you said. Your blood boiled some more.

*_*_*_*_*_

"I did it," Irving said. He looked at you with fear, now, as would many people once they realised your potential. "Glue grenades, stink bombs, your hoverboard, it's all there."

"It better be, Redwood." You rifled through the box, your new weapons gleaming at you. Your pretties.

"Good job. So, how do they work?" you asked.

"They have a timer of ten seconds, which starts from the moment you pull the pin. Then, the glue or paint explodes onto the surrounding area. Try not to keep it in your hands for too long."

"I'll keep it in mind. Now, about the hoverboard. It's the thing I'm most interested in."

"Oh, right. It's right here." Irving led you over to a tablecloth, which he unfurled dramatically to reveal your hoverboard.

It was perfect. Literally perfect. Shiny silver with transparent straps to keep you from falling. "Oh, it's perfect. Just perfect."

"It has a weight capacity of 500lbs, so you can carry stuff and even another person, potentially. But due to its small size, I would recommend against it," Irving said, adjusting his glasses.

"Great. Thank you, Irving. I'll collect it bit by bit, can't be seen hauling all this stuff to my house. Until then, you'll house my . . . rush order."

"I can't do that!" Irving protested. You looked at him with a glare that could melt bricks. "I mean, I'll make space."

"Good to know I can rely on you, Irving!" you said, taking your hoverboard and wrapping it in the same sheet Irving had discarded.

"Why are you holding a wadded-up sheet?" Jason asked, as you walked up to your room.

"I'm replacing a bedsheet. The last one has permanent stains from a very heavy period," you lie.

Jason looked at you with utter disgust. "You didn't have to tell me that," he muttered, as he walked away.

Jackpot. Now, nobody would question you because Jason had cleared it, and Jason didn't want to know anything more about your period.

It's a good thing nobody in your family was a detective.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4 <- You are here

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Taglist: @tinybrie, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @simpingfor-wakasa, @kittzu, @simpingpandas, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @galaxypurplerose, @wisefuncherryblossom, @vanessa-boo, @deathbynarcisstick, @sirenetheblogger, @asillysimp, @toxicvoidsstuff.

[gojoidyll]

unknown ! yandere x reader

someone from the penacony cast is a yandere for you. the problem is...you don't even know who they are or that they are the one who is trying to keep you in penacony in the first place.

Imagine that during your long awaited vacation to Penacony is going well but your vacation takes a quick turn for the worse when your small space cruiser gets high jacked by some low grade thugs who take it for a joyride and end up crashing it.

Low-n-behold, you are now stranded on Penacony with no money (you left all your credits on your cruiser for safe keeping and those thugs stole it before making their getaway after crashing) and no way of getting home.

And what's worse, your insurance refuses to pay you for your crashed ship. In other words, you're stuck. Which was how you found yourself working three jobs in Penacony and barely getting any sleep as you rushed to have the funds to afford your new found rent problems and the funds to fix your cruiser. You would buy a new one, but many repairmen have told you that it would be cheaper to fix the damn thing instead of buying a VERY overpriced new one.

And they were right. You checked the markets and those new cruisers were way too expensive for you. Even the used ones were something you couldn't afford.

So, with all hope seem to be lost, your shifts are work getting tougher, and your eyebags getting darker - you truly thought you would never be able to go back home and put this nightmare vacation behind you. That is until you meet the members of the Astral Express.

They were very good people. People who you became quick friends with. The MC was kind to you (but seemed to have a weird obsession with trashcans), March was always hyper but fun to be around, and Dan Heng (though the quiet one of the group) was nice and even offered to help you in some of your jobs.

And then came along Himeko and Welt who graciously offered you a spot on the team as a Trailblazer. You could take a ride with them and go home, or join them on their journey wherever it may lead.

Suffice to say, you enjoyed your time in befriending the Astral Express crew that you couldn't help but to join them. Your worries for money and fixing your old cruiser were long gone as a new chapter in your life started.

However, when a certain someone heard of your new found escape, they couldn't help but to seethe with a quiet rage.

They hired those thugs to wreck your vehicle so that you be stranded in Penacony. They discretely made it to where prices were to high for you to fix your cruiser or buy a new one. They made sure that you would stay forever.

And yet some no-name outsiders were getting in the way.

"No matter," they said, the shadows covering them, "this place used to be a prison after all. I'll keep you here one way or another."

[oppropro]

Chapter 3

This is the conclusion to my fanfic. This was really fun and I hope all y'all enjoy it. Maybe I'll write some more stuff later on. Something shorter and more lighthearted.

Once again, All credit to @jttw-monkeybusiness for her AU story.

********

CHAPTER 3- Hired

            The only sound Sophie could focus on was that of her heavy footsteps drumming on the forest floor in tandem with her racing heart. Her mad sprint had tempered into a steady pace as she continued to run as straight as the terrain would allow her. Her legs ached and her chest felt like it was on fire. No matter how heavy she breathed, she never seemed to get enough air. Still, she had to keep running. At that moment, it did not matter to her where she was going; anywhere but there.

            She tripped over a tree root but did not lose her balance. What the fuck had just happened to her? How the hell did she wind up in a forest? That woman in the shop. Was this her fault? Was she a witch? A mare? More likely, she drugged that cup of tea, and this is all a hallucination, a bad trip. A nightmare.

            She should have fallen onto the wet pavement of her hometown. A street bustling with vehicles and foot traffic. The smell of concrete, rubber, unemptied garbage bins; all overpowered by the sweet perfume of flowering tree blossoms. Someone should have helped her up to her feet and brushed away the dirt from her scratched up face. A human; not a pig-man. And what was that thing she fell on? Some grotesque talking monkey monster? It looked like it wanted to tear her apart with its fangs. Jesus Christ! It talked. He talked. The monkey monster and the pig-man talked. None of this could be real.

            When she thought she had put enough space between her and her would-be assailant, and when she finally ran out of breath, Sophie stopped and leaned her back against the trunk of a mossy tree. The air was cool and humid, making her sweat stick to her body rather than evaporating. Now her legs hurt, her head throbbed, her chest burned, and she was shivering. With her eyes closed, Sophie managed to regain control of her breathing and rummaged through her pocket for her cell phone. She pulled it out of her sweater and opened her eyes so she could unlock it.

            Sophie dialed 112 and waited for the call to connect. Nothing. There was no signal. No data. No Wi-Fi. No matter how many times she tried, her calls were not going through.

            Unable to hold back whimpers anymore, Sophie held her phone in front of her with both hands wishing she had the strength to snap the useless piece of junk in half. All out of options, she cried out to the heavens.

            “Help! Somebody please help me!”

            To her dismay, the heavens answered.

            “Yeah, I can help you girly.”

            Sophie turned to her right to see the monkey monster standing no less than five meters away. Her heart sank.

********

            Was it fair to think that all humans were stupid, or was it this woman in particular? To be fair, Wukong acknowledged that he held a personal bias, what with this woman crashing onto him and then running off without so much as an apology for her insolence. Tracking her down was not hard, it was actually quite funny to watch her run herself to exhaustion. The distance was impressive, for a human, and he doubted that his master could do any better than her.

            Wukong observed the woman as he stalked her from the canopy above. She obviously posed no real threat. There was nothing demonic about her, though her foreign attire made her suspect. She could be a part of a demon plot; a patsy to be used as bait to lure him and his master. If she was smart, she would answer his questions and return with him to his master; then the monk will see that Sun Wukong, the great sage equal to heaven, is the fastest, smartest, fiercest, bravest, patient, loyal, and most merciful of all on heaven and earth.

            The woman below Wukong began crying for help. The chase had gone on long enough. It was time to get some answers.

            “Yeah, I can help you girly.”

            The woman looked up at him and froze. She was like a frail little deer staring down a tiger.

            “Of course, you’re gonna have to answer some questions of mine. First off, who are you and whose dumb ass idea was it for you to assault me and my master? I’m pretty sure you’re too stupid to sabotage the monk’s mission on your own, so start naming names and I promise I won’t hurt you.”

            She stood, still frozen in place, her lips quivering. Her eyes darting between him and a clearing in the forest floor, the remnants of some old animal trail. There was no way she would be stupid enough to run again.

            “Just answer my questions,” Wukong was no longer asking, he was ordering.

            The woman stared him down, regaining the slightest semblance of composure. Then, she ran off again into the forest.

            Why? WHY! Why was she making this harder than it needed to be? He was tired of playing cat and mouse. He barely had to walk briskly to catch sight of her again. This time he was going to make sure she stayed put. He extended his jingu bang out before her. He could have hit her with it, but he didn’t. She ran right into it on her own. Wukong grinned cheek to cheek as he watched the woman tumble over the staff and face plant into dirt. He laughed aloud as he made his way to her feet. His staff rested on her back in case she tried to run again.

            “I guess you are a stupid as you look, but I am in a forgiving mood so answer my questions and I will make sure you don’t hurt yourself any more than you have already.”

            The woman on the ground grabbed a fist full of dirt and debris, then with impressive precision managed to throw the filth in Wukong’s face, hitting him in the eye with a rather sharp pebble. She squirmed under the weight of his staff but could not free herself.

            “GET AWAY FROM ME YOU DISGUSTING CREATURE!” Her voice conveyed all the fear and malice Wukong knew to expect from every god and mortal alike that crossed his path.

            This was the end of his patience. He was the one who was accosted. He was the one showing mercy. He was not the perpetrator in this attack. He did nothing wrong. And yet this insolent little mortal woman thinks she can attack and insult the great Sun Wukong? He was going to get the answers he wanted from the woman and then drag her ass back to his master. But first, he was going to teach her a lesson she would never forget.

            “You think I’m a disgusting creature? You think I’m a monster? You’re the one who attacked me. But that just makes what I’m about to do you all the more justified.”

            His fur stood up on end. the knuckles in his right hand cracked. The woman beneath him cowered as he readied his strike.

********

            Sophie braced for whatever blow that monster was about release unto her. Huddled on the damp forest floor trembling in a fetal position, her eye clenched shut; she prayed for this nightmare to end. But no strike came.

            She opened her eyes to see that her prayer was only halfway answered: she was still in this strange forest, but the monster that was attacking her was now seemingly incapacitated. He was doubled over on himself, clenching the golden band around his head. He looked to be in agony. Behind the monster was the pig-man and the human who were with her when she fell.

            Sophie hardly registered the man back then. Now, riding on a white horse, with elegant robes, he looked like a prince out of a far away fairy tale. He was in deep concentration; muttering words Sophie could hardly hear. Pig-man looked on at Sophie and the monster with a seeming sense of shock. A third man was with them. A large blue man, with a not-unfriendly appearance. Sophie couldn’t remember if he was there all along or not. It didn’t matter. They were here now, and whatever that meant, their presence kept the monster at bay.

            Blue-man walked to her side and helped her up slowly. “Please, little sister, accept this apology for the behaviour of my brother.” Sophie found his baritone voice to be assuring. “We do not mean you any harm. Our master, the monk Tripitaka, simply wants to know how it came to be that you have happened upon our company.”

            Sophie looked to the man on the horse, this Tripitaka monk, and then back to the monster still reeling in pain. If she had any chance of surviving, it was with the monk. Guided by blue-man’s gentle hand, she began to follow the strangers through the forest.

            Pig-man held her backpack in front of himself, “Little sister, you dropped this when you fell. I will carry it for you until we are back at our camp.” Sophie could tell he was trying to cheer her up, make her feel better. She simply nodded in silence and continued to stare blankly ahead, hoping the second half of her prayer would come true and she could leave this wretched place.

********

            Hours had passed and Sophie was warming herself by a fire prepared by pig-man. Bajie, she had come to learn, or Pigsy as his friends called him. She held in her hand a cup of tea prepared by Wujing, who told her to call him Sandy. The cup was warm in her hands and the tea was bitter and earthy. Sophie would take sips and let the tea sit in her mouth awhile before swallowing. To her it seemed it was the only part of her existence she had any control over. She had finally stopped crying, but every now and then tears would well up and pour down her cheeks.

            Once they had arrived at camp, Sophie had told Tripitaka all about the events of her day leading up to her being shoved out a store front door and onto the monkey monster, Sun Wukong. Wukong had more titles to his name, but Sophie didn’t care to learn them. Once Sophie and the monk had gone back and forth trying to puzzle out her story, he excused himself from her presence to sit in quiet contemplation.  Sophie sat alone staring into the flames of the campfire.

            Wukong sat at the outskirts of their camp. Sulking, arms crossed, and staring daggers at Sophie. She could sense him from the periphery of her vision but refused to make eye contact.

She didn’t know if she was more afraid of him than she was angry. She was angry at him and knew he was angry at her, which made her more afraid. When Pigsy assured her that Tripitaka had ways to make sure Wukong would behave himself, that seemed to make the monkey even angrier at her. No matter what, she could not allow herself to be alone with that monkey demon.

            The sounds of Pigsy and Sandy setting up camp and preparing a meal, melded with the sounds of the forest: distant birds, chirping insects, and wind through the tree leaves. All the sounds blended together into a silence Sophie was able to ignore. She was tired of thinking, tired of existing; she wished for no more than to slip into nothingness. The only thing that seemed to keep her tethered to the reality was the crackling of the fire and the cup in her hand.

            Finally, the silence was shattered by Tripitaka’s voice. “I have come to a decision.” The pilgrims halted whatever task they were performing to look at their master. Sophie slowly turned to meet his gaze as well.

            “It seems to me that it is the wish of Buddha, as well as the wish of the Bodhisattva, that Sophie accompanies this party on our holy mission. Therefore, she shall act as my servant and assist us on our journey.”

            The monk’s declaration was met with mixed reviews. Sandy accepted the news at face value, Pigsy seemed happy. Wukong was taken aback. Sophie shook her head in denial of the monk’s words.

            “No. I don’t want to do this. I can’t do this.”

            “Master, I beg you to reconsider,” Wukong interjected. “Our journey is hard enough already. If we take her on, she is just going to be another liability.”

            Despite the protests of Sophie and Wukong, Tripitaka stuck to his conviction. “Sophie was offered a job by Guanyin to act as my assistant. I had told Wukong that whatever challenges should befall us, we must face; and you just so happened to fall upon Wukong. I don’t think it could be any clearer that you have been brought here to help keep my disciple in line, though how you might achieve that is a mystery to me.”

            Sophie looked across at Wukong, who again stared back at her. If he was angry at her before, heaven knows what he was feeling now.

            “My disciples shall assist you in your chores, until you find your own footing in this world. And then, you shall be able to carry your own weight on this journey so that you are not a burden or a liability.” The monk stared down Wukong as he finished his sentence.

            “Tripitaka, please, I just want to go home,” Sophie pleaded to the monk.

            “If it was in my ability to send you home I would do so in a heartbeat dear Sophie. Alas, the only one I know of who could perform such a miracle is Buddha and he is not here. As it were, we are on our journey to reach Buddha ourselves, if you wish to ask him to send you home you are more than welcome to accompany us.”

            Tripitaka gave Sophie a sad smile. He was trying to make the best of her sorry situation. There was no denying the truth in his words, however. If she ever wanted to get back to her home, to her mother, she was going to have to accompany the monk on his journey to the west.

[pikonv5]

Happy belated tdov! my partner and I, a trans couple, need help. 😥

Me and my gf, Kat @translesbo have been mostly unemployed and trying to find work for almost a year now, are very much still struggling.

The things of most priority, is needing to replace our dying vehicle that we were never able to fully repair, replace Kat's beat up, slow to run 8 year old phone, money in order for Kat to meet with her therapist again, get myself new glasses for too worsened vision that's been postpone for a couple years and for myself to pay my phone bill.

And paying off our debts, from credit cards, to medical bills, to $1,000+ owed to others. I know Kat has pretty much maxed out her credit card, but I am currently almost $3,700 in debt from needed/emergency expenses, screenshots of my balance, that is getting closer to its line of credit to max out on.

It's been almost a year since we have been knocked off our feet from the apartment building fire that led us to losing our jobs, that also coincided with Kat's birthday, April 9th. We were really hoping things would get better financially by now, and I just want Kat to be able to at least get to enjoy her birthday a little this year.

We have struggled to find employment for almost a year now- and especially Kat, who has the extra trouble of consistently facing plenty transmisogyny during the hiring process and and during jobs, while also being a poc and gnc.

Cashapp: $dottybot

Venmo: $dottybot

Paypal: @huronk499

Any amount, if you are able to is very much appreciated ❤

[so-i-did-this-thing]

from a trans guy stuck in florida, do you have any advice on getting out of here? I saw that you moved to new england which is, coincidentally, the place I'm trying to go too. i feel like I either oversimplify or overcomplicate moving away until it's just not possible in my mind. how did you manage to do it?

I played a long game wrt my exit strategy. I left my toxic industry (advertising) of 20+ years behind in 2018 and built up experience over the next 4 years in a new field (civic tech) where remote work was the norm. Once I landed a fully remote job, I kicked off the moving plan.

Once I had a new, remote job secure, my partner and I started looking for homes and eventually were referred to a Realtor who specialized in remote sales. I had to trust her and the inspector to give us an honest assessment of a house I wouldn't see in person until the day we moved in. It was stressful, ngl.

I was very, very lucky in that I could move in with my mother in Orlando for several months, which let me sell my old place, first, and be flexible on move-in dates. The actual move was done via a few container services.

So, my advice for initial prep:

Start downsizing, both in terms of stuff and places where you may be overspending.

Get job prospects in sight

Save for a down payment / deposit

Get your credit to "excellent," if possible. (I learned my name change fucked up my score, so had to spend a lot of time fixing that)

Research multiple towns based on your needs

Find someone in that area to house hunt for you and figure out a budget

Downsize your stuff again. More. No, more than that.

Prep for moving costs

Start packing the stuff you won't need for a while. Keep packing until it's time to move.

Hire a container service that isn't PODS. (U-pack was good to me.)

Get your pet logistics in order (if you have any)

Get your vehicle in order

I had a lot of spreadsheets and checklists t9 get me through the sale of my old place and everything I needed to do to buy and move into a new one. Maybe similar is a good place to start, because there are little things (like downsizing) you can do, now. Good luck.

[emmg]

Aftertaste

Chapter 2: Rats in the Walls

She is a rat—an enchanting little beggar, draped in the rags of some tragic poetry only she can hear. And he, a fool of the highest order, fingers the cold edge of his credit card, wondering if the universe might accept a transaction in exchange for the ghost of her cheek against his skin.

Read below or on Ao3. Hehe.

Is it more appropriate to return a young woman’s car keys the following day, or to personally deliver her vehicle to her residence? Which option is least likely to suggest predatory intent, particularly when one is several decades her senior?

He hits enter, the steam from his coffee curling around his face like an ironic halo, and watches Google sputter out results about designated drivers and locksmiths. It strikes him, not for the first time, that the internet is woefully unprepared for nuanced questions of morality, especially when phrased by an idiot as gloriously long-winded as himself.

Google might as well have responded with a condescending sigh and a flashing banner that read: "Oh, sure, let’s solve your existential crises for you, Professor. Maybe try ‘Don’t be creepy’ and call it a day?" Or perhaps it would simply send him a link to a DIY guide on digging one’s own grave, captioned: "You’ll need this soon enough."

Finally, he resigns himself to the only logical option: going straight to the source. Rook.

Good morning, Rook. This is Emmrich. Where would you like me to deliver your car keys? Take care.

The message is sent, painfully polite, carefully worded. And then the waiting begins. Two hours of excruciating silence during which he oscillates between pacing the room and contemplating whether clawing at the wallpaper would be an effective use of his time. Surely, this is the moment she decides it’s all been a colossal mistake. She’ll call Bellara in disgust, declare this the most catastrophic setup of her life, and promptly vomit out a window at the mere memory of his existence.

Perhaps she’ll even hire a falconer to dispatch a well-trained hawk to retrieve the keys from his pocket—anything to avoid providing him with so much as a postal code.

But lo and behold, the miracle occurs: Rook responds.

y r u up so early?? drive it. thx xxxxxx

He stares at the trailing row of kisses, dissecting them as though they were a cryptic manuscript. Does she mean it? Could this possibly be intentional? Or is this just the accidental poetry of a girl who sat on her phone, and this is the unfortunate result of her backside pressing random keys? A mystery indeed.

****

He prides himself on his attention to detail. Or, more precisely, his attention to people—their little inconsistencies, their telltale cracks. Judging from her reply, he must have woken her up, so he detours to a café so quaint it practically curtsies when you enter. He orders a latte to go, then, seized by a bout of overthinking, adds a mocha and an Americano. Lactonic, bitter, or sweet—let her decode his intentions from that trifecta.

Into a dainty box go a pain au chocolat and a cinnamon-apple babka, the kind of gesture that tiptoes the line between charming thoughtfulness and embarrassing overcompensation.

When he arrives at her car, it is, of course, exactly as described: ugly, silver, scratched, a two-seater that looks like it’s been cursed by a vengeful valet. A library bag slumps on the passenger seat, an insult to the word “placed.” He hesitates, torn between decorum and the kind of nosy curiosity that makes the elderly peer through lace curtains. Then, naturally, he peeks. Just a little. There they are—books. Actual books. Proof that she possesses not just a mouth but a mind, however buried.

And then he notices the fuel gauge. It’s not just on empty—it’s somewhere below it, in the realm of last gasps and whispered prayers. The fact that the engine starts at all feels like an act of divine intervention.

He exhales, a martyr to his own compulsions, and pulls into a gas station. As he fills the tank to the brim, he pictures the car sighing too, smug and sanctimonious, its imaginary lashes batting in shameless gratitude. Oh, thank you, kind sir, it coos, she never feeds me, you know. Neglectful creature, isn’t she? Meanwhile, he calculates whether this—along with the coffee and pastries—might earn him so much as a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. Or perhaps, knowing Rook, an insincere "thx" text with a typo thrown in for good measure.

****

He’s seen buildings like this before. He’s lived in them; during his undergrad days and, embarrassingly, well into graduate school. The kind of place where the rent is cheap enough to attract students but still overpriced for what you get: walls so thin they might as well be spun from dreams or discarded cereal boxes, and windows that rattle ominously in the gentlest breeze.

It stirs a certain grim nostalgia in him, though he’s not entirely sure why. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that if he wandered two blocks south after dark, he’d almost certainly be mugged or shanked. But even that, somehow, feels quaint, a sentimental nod to his younger, poorer, stupider self.

He briefly wonders about Gustave, the unofficial fourth roommate from a similar apartment in his past. Gustave never made it onto the lease—being a rat who lived, quite literally, in the wall. His wall, precisely. Hopefully, Gustave moved on to bigger and better things. Perhaps a restaurant dumpster, or the seedy underbelly of pest control fame.

"Oh gods," says Rook when she finally opens the door to him. 

Her apartment is a sauna, the air thick and cloying, and there’s a line of sweat tracing her throat—a small, shimmering trail he, embarrassingly, cannot stop staring at. She’s wearing shorts so short they're practically theoretical, her sharp hipbone protruding like a cruel little accent mark. 

He stares, horrified at himself, and immediately envisions shoving the pain au chocolat and babka into her mouth, muffling whatever inevitable complaint she’d utter, and dragging her out to find the greasiest, most cholesterol-laden burger in the city. Anything, really, to erase the absurd eroticism of this sweltering, sticky scene and put some meat on those bones. 

"Good morning," he says, because the clock hasn’t quite betrayed him yet, and hands her the drink carrier and the absurdly elegant box of pastries—an offering so pristine it looks like it belongs in a museum, not in her battered doorway. 

"Are these for me?" 

No, Rook, they’re for Gustave. The pesky freeloader is your new tenant, congratulations. I thought I’d drop by to reminisce about our shared history. "Of course," he replies instead, his smile a polished shield of civility. "A small apology for disturbing you earlier. Your car is parked directly across the street; you should have no difficulty locating it." And, of course, the full tank of gas, a silent ode to his own sense of decency. "Allow me to retrieve your keys, and I shall leave you to enjoy the rest of your morning."

"You’re not coming in?" she asks, setting the coffees on the floor. She rifles through the pastry box, her finger stabbing into the babka, collapsing its tender surface in a sugary implosion. Sweet bread weeps, and she glances up at him, licking cinnamon from her fingertip. 

"Come on," she says, not bothering to wait for a response. 

She takes the pastries, leaving him crouched like a penitent to gather the drink carrier and push the door closed. Heaven forbid someone should slip in while it’s ajar to steal… what, precisely? The peeling wallpaper? The tragic humidity? The distinct aroma of youthful neglect? There’s nothing here worth the trouble of theft, save perhaps the raw comedy of its existence. 

"Did you sleep well?" Rook asks, lounging on an offensively green settee that seems to defy all principles of taste. She pats the cushion beside her like someone coaxing a dog onto furniture it has no business occupying. He raises an eyebrow, but the patting only grows more emphatic until, with the reluctant precision of a wooden soldier, he lowers himself beside her. His posture is unnervingly straight, as if the settee might collapse beneath anything less rigid. 

"I did," he answers. 

"Hm. Good," she says, already distracted, looking through the lineup of drinks he foolishly overthought. He feels his cheeks heat, a blush of shame at his own ridiculousness. How he—a man of supposed intellect—managed to embarrass himself with coffee is beyond comprehension. 

"You know," she continues, "I even got out the good instant coffee for you. Being a decent host and all that. But here you are, outdoing me, bringing breakfast."

"The good instant coffee?" he echoes.

"Mm-hm," she murmurs, not even glancing up. "The one without the clumps." 

For a moment, there is silence, broken only by the faint shuffle of her taking the mocha and handing him the latte. He glances around her apartment, and there, in the peeling paint and mismatched furniture, he sees a ghost of himself. A younger man, not yet grey, not yet creaking, back when staying up all night wasn’t just possible but a point of pride. When energy came in the form of a sharp, powdery line, questionable in origin, certain in effect, snorted off some equally questionable surface before stumbling into the university labs at sunrise. 

The sink catches his eye—cheap, dented, and familiar, as if resurrected from his second year of graduate school. He’s almost sure it’s the same model Johanna used to brew her kaleidoscopic, mind-altering concoctions. She’d turned their shared apartment into a mad chemist’s lair, dosing their friends with drinks that looked like party favors and hit like freight trains. He doubts Rook’s sink has witnessed quite the same level of chaos, but, then again, he wouldn’t bet on it. 

He wonders, idly, why he never married Johanna—or, more to the point, why Johanna never married him. And then, as if summoned by the memory, her voice returns, sharp and amused, calling him a "sentimental twat." Ah, yes. That. That might have had something to do with it. 

"How does a professor get rich?" 

He considers dragging a hand down his face, perhaps peeling it off entirely in the process, leaving behind nothing but gleaming bone and raw sinew—far easier than answering. 

He exhales slowly, as though summoning air from the depths of his being. "I beg your pardon?" 

"How did you get rich?" she repeats, her voice maddeningly even, infuriatingly direct. "I know what faculty earn. Well, Leliana knows, and she tells me. Nobody in academia is rich. So, how?" 

He sighs again, deeper and longer. "Happy circumstances," he says at last. "Commercializing research. Licensing patents to biotech and pharmaceutical companies. Dry, tedious work, I assure you. A footnote in the annals of capitalism." 

"I’d rather be bored and rich than intellectually stimulated and eating ramen every night." 

To his great horror, he barks out a laugh—loud, inelegant, entirely unplanned—because, damn it, she’s right. Whatever self-congratulatory narrative he might spin about his own brilliance, wealth is far more tolerable than the romance of poverty. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her set the now-empty pastry box aside and slide to her knees with the casual grace of someone entirely unaware—or perfectly aware—of the effect such movements can have. She sits before him, her hand resting lightly on his thigh, and he feels his spine stiffen in response—defensive, awkward, as if he were preparing to be knighted or executed. 

"You’re such a pretty, pretty man, Emmrich," she says, her tone a languid sigh. "Bellara was right. You do smell good. And look at you—here you are, sitting with me, when I’m sure there are far more important things demanding your attention." 

"There are not," he blurts, far too quickly, the words escaping before his dignity can intervene. The moment they’re spoken, he wishes for an immediate and painless death. Here he is indeed, reduced to this—a puddle of nerves and idiocy, heart thudding far too loudly, all because a young, pretty girl has deigned to offer him a handful of meaningless compliments. 

He can practically hear the tragic violin score accompanying his descent into lunacy. 

He should reward her graciousness. Maybe with a marriage proposal and a very shiny ring. A joint credit card, embossed with her name in gold. Champagne served every morning, the flute garnished with a delicate rim of his own pitiful tears—tears of rapture, of gratitude, of sheer disbelief at being noticed, indulged, condescended to by someone so exquisite, so radiant, so preposterously, infuriatingly young. 

"Do you want to see me again?" she asks, her hand on his thigh beginning a slow ascent. 

"Yes," he replies far too eagerly, watching helplessly as her uneven nails snag a thread from his trousers and tease it free. 

"I want to see you again too," she says cheerfully. There’s no vanilla clinging to her today, yet he smells it anyway, a phantom scent mocking his self-control. "What happened to the oysters?" 

"The oysters?" he repeats, blinking, as her hand reaches his belt, casually dismantling him one buckle at a time. 

"Yes, the oysters. I didn’t eat them. You didn’t eat them. What happened to them? Were they just… thrown away?" 

"Oh," he says, fumbling for coherence. "No, I—I do not eat meat. I assume they were discarded." 

Or, quite possibly, consumed by Xavier, who he distinctly recalls once eating salmon off the kitchen floor with an abandon that would render the oysters’ fate positively dignified by comparison. 

She tugs his belt loose and it’s only when her hand slips inside that he, embarrassingly late, understands exactly what she’s about to do. His body reacts with humiliating predictability—his cock twitches eagerly, his hips offering a mindless little jerk, as if they’ve made the decision for him. 

"Oh, Rook, Rook, no, no, no," he stammers, his voice rising and falling like a badly tuned instrument. "You don’t—oh, oh—Rook, no, you do not—" The protests disintegrate entirely as her hand wraps around him. 

"You don’t like this?" she asks, and for the first time, her voice carries a note of something almost shy, almost hesitant. 

"Like is not the word," he whispers, a pathetic mixture of panic and pleasure. "I simply—oh, you do not have to—" 

"Yes," she agrees, withdrawing her hand and licking her palm in a motion so drawn-out it could belong to a cat grooming itself, smug and self-satisfied. He half expects her to stretch luxuriously and yawn. Then, with that same calm, she wraps her hand around him again, resuming her rhythm. "I don’t need to do anything. So glad we’re on the same page."

He lets his head loll back against the settee, his chest heaving as she strokes. Just as he dares to believe his heart might settle, her mouth closes over the head of his cock. She lingers, her tongue swirling just enough to drive him mad, before releasing with a slick, depraved little pop. The added saliva gleams as she smears it down his shaft, her little hand so very diligent in its efforts. His hips buck forward, thrusting into the tight heat of her fist like he’s already forgotten what dignity feels like. 

"I was very good at these," she remarks. "We called it hand of glory in camp. As a joke." Her own hand doesn’t falter, her rhythm infuriatingly consistent. "Not so much with the other part, though. I think I tried it once. Well, one and a half times. It sucked. No pun intended."

She hums thoughtfully, her mouth hovering close, warm and parted, without making contact. 

"I could try it with you, though," she says, her tone breezy, as if she’s offering him dessert. "If you'd like. You’re an educator, after all. Could... educate me through it."

And just like that, his approaching orgasm tips its hat, mutters a polite farewell, and strolls out the door, leaving him stranded in awkward lucidity. He catches her hand, presses it briefly to his lips, then releases her and begins restoring himself to decency with the haste of a man escaping a crime scene. When she moves to stop him, he almost bats her hand away, the rising tide of mortification making him clumsier than usual. 

"Well, fuck," Rook mutters in sardonic disbelief. "That’s one hell of a way to say no to getting your dick sucked. I’m not that bad, and I don’t exactly have anything else to offer you."

"You do not have to offer me anything," he whispers, appalled. 

He’s a sentimentalist. A romantic. The sort of man who still believes in flowers and candlelit dinners. Let him be old-fashioned. Let him take her out, hold her hand, meet her parents, and have her wave awkwardly over the graves of his long-gone ancestors—long before his cock ever finds its way into her mouth again.

This is who he is. A "sentimental twat." He holds doors open, writes to ensure someone got home safely, and even if he does wander down the dark alley of a casual fuck, he always provides coffee and a thoughtfully curated set of toiletries the next morning. 

"Let me take you out again," he pleads.

Rook rests her chin on his knee, her face tilted upward, her long hair brushing the floor. "I don’t have anything nice to wear." 

"Then we will find you something," he says, already constructing the image in his mind. Blue—of course, blue. The color would suit her eyes, her not-quite-blonde-not-quite-brown hair, the color of noble blood, though the nobility it evokes is long since impoverished, reduced to faded titles and empty accounts. Just like her. Perhaps he could wear purple beside her—a royal contrast to her threadbare charm, the two of them a mismatched tableau of aspiration and ruin. 

"I just said it to see what you’d say." 

"And I meant every word of my reply." 

"Oh. So if I see a pair of shoes to match whatever dress you’re buying me—you’ll get those too?" 

"Naturally. A proper ensemble demands completeness." 

She buries her face against his thigh, giggling into it. "You know what would really suit me, Emmrich? What would make me look, like, so good?" She pauses, forcing him to lean closer, her breath brushing his lips like the prelude to a secret. "My tuition being paid."

And with that she snorts, leaving him to wonder if she’s laughing at the joke or at the certainty that he just might say yes. 

[pretentiousfoxling]

I'd love to take a trip to the local bookshops today. I'm in desperate need of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde; and a few other classics as well. Additionally, I need to go grocery shopping. Lately, I have had to have my groceries delivered and it has been disappointing quality. My bananas, avocados, and potatoes have been rotted. It's a shame that my car's engine blew out last Spring. I have yet to save enough money for a replacement vehicle. Thankfully, I had an interview yesterday. So, hopefully, I hear back from the hiring manager so I can quickly save enough for my next vehicle.

All photograph credit go to the original creators. Found images from Pinterest.

[behindthesemasks]

20

Chapter 19

Gabe is on a mission...and he has one destination...

It seemed to take Gabe an hour to drive from the original hotel to the one that Mel and the others had now holed up in. After circling a few different blocks, he found a parking garage without surveillance to leave the SUV in and texted Mel that he was on the way up. That was when he turned his phone off and headed down to the street below, to walk the remaining way to the hotel. No doubt Ambrose would be making sure that the GPS trackers on the SUVs were being watched and trying to triangulate their locations by their phones.  While he would be able to find the SUV Gabe had driven, where he’d gone when he’d left the garage would be something that would take him longer to figure out.  The fact that all the others with Melania had also turned off their phones indicated that they too had thought of this.  

It was after 2 AM and there were no other people or vehicles in the area.  The area appeared deserted, although he could see lights behind curtains on the floors above street level.  Even if there were surveillance cameras in some of the shops and buildings he was passing, Gabe had turned up his collar to make it hard to see his face. One more step in making it harder for Ambrose to track them down.  There were only four blocks he had to navigate, but he was hoping to keep to the shadows and make the trek as quickly as possible.  He had been trusted not to give away their location.

Fifteen minutes after he’d stepped onto the street, he walked into the hotel lobby. It was bright and filled with old-world elegance. Marble floors, ornate furniture, and live flowers on every table; this was not your budget hotel. Bypassing the front desk, much to the interest of the desk clerk, Gabe headed straight for the elevators. He knew the room number and wanted to waste no time hanging out in areas where he could attract attention. Now he knew he had been on camera, but there was no way that the others could have made it up to the room without being recorded as well. Hopefully, there wasn’t a way to back door into the hotel’s security system.  He knew the type of men Ambrose hired, and if there was, they’d do it.

When he’d finally made it up to the room, he could hear laughing inside. Obviously, even if Mel had been tired, she hadn’t fallen asleep just yet. He knocked on the door and found himself yanked inside when the door cracked open. Facing him were Mel, Alexander, and Cade all sitting on the couch with bottles of wine, gin, whiskey, and scotch on the table in front of them. Judging from their demeanor, they had all enjoyed some while waiting for him.

“Feeling more relaxed?” Gabe asked with a bemused smirk as Dez headed back over to the chair he’d been sitting in.

Mel was on her feet and on the way over to him before he could finish asking the question. “I am now, you finally made it!” Her arms wrapped around him and her face was buried in his chest.

Instinctively his arms went around her and he held her in close. Only now did he notice the slight tremor in her body. His eyes looked questioningly at Alexander and Cade. What the hell was going on?

“She tried to sleep; needless to say some things cause horrible nightmares,” Alexander answered the silent question that hung in the air. “So, we decided to drown her in booze.” His hand gestured to all of the bottles on the table.

“Did you know she has five fake identities in her purse? They’re complete with driver’s licenses, passports, and credit cards. FIVE. Do you think the boss will let us keep her?” Dez had obviously had too much whiskey, but he did get a half-chuckle out of Gabe.

“She’s not a fucking pet asshole. And no, I doubt Ambrose would allow us to take her on missions. Although you would have been proud Gabe, the girl intimidated the ever-loving hell outta the front desk clerk that was here when we got in. I think he may have wet himself.” Alexander chuckled as he poured himself some more scotch. 

Cade moved over to one of the chairs, stretching his long legs out to rest atop the coffee table, as Mel and Gabe moved to sit on the couch. Mel was still all but trembling and Alexander put his arm around her shoulders when she sat down. He looked over at Gabe with an expression that said he was worried about her, but that it wasn’t the time or place to say anything. Gabe nodded, this wasn’t a great situation.

“If you guys want to go back to the other hotel, I’ll understand.” Mel’s voice was soft and quiet, hardly the woman any of them had seen earlier in the day at the hotel. 

“I don’t know about the other boys, but I was hired to keep your ass safe while you were here. I don’t see how I’d be doing that if I left you here. If Ambrose decides to take the money back…I’m not worried.” Cade was the first to answer. There was no hesitation or doubt in his voice as he looked over at her with a slight cocky smirk on his face, and then gave her a wink.

“I think my boy said it well enough. If I was doubting, I wouldn’t have shown up beautiful.” Gabe used two fingers under her chin to turn her face towards him, then kissed her forehead.

“I was never here just because of a job from Ambrose,” Alexander added, causing Mel to look over at him with affection. He really was like a big brother, and just as protective. 

“Fuck, if I wanted to go back, I wouldn’t have driven that damned SUV all the way out to the airport and had to take a cab back.” Dez laughed, winking over at her. 

“If your money is taken back, I’ll still pay you,” Mel said softly, even as she knew that didn’t seem to be a concern for any of them. When Cade started to object, since he was the one who had mentioned money, she added, “I’m worth more than Nic now that my parents are dead. And it means nothing to me.” Cade reached over and squeezed her fingers. Damn, the girl was stronger than she looked, both inside and outside.

“That reminds me, how the hell did you guys get here from the coffee shop? It’s quite a hike.” Gabe asked as his hand took Mel’s to keep hers from shaking. “And did you leave all the weapons out at the airport? Really?” He looked over at Dez.

“She has a Porsche SUV bro. A FUCKING PORSCHE.” Cade laughed. “And all the weapons are in the back safely in their cases. Well, except for the two cases that have the tracking devices in them. They’re at the airport along with the SUV, just no weapons in them.” He laughed. They had swept everything that they transferred between vehicles. There had been no tracing devices in any of it. All of them, knowing Nic and Ambrose, didn’t want to take any chances. 

Gabe nodded as he saw Mel’s head starting to nod. “I think it’s bedtime for you before you fall asleep on Alexander and me, then we’re pinned to the couch all night.” She laughed as he helped her up and to the bedroom on the right side of the small living room that had two beds in it. There was a bedroom on the other side that had two beds in it as well. He helped Mel off with her hiking boots and up onto the bed. Exhaustion, emotions, and the liquor were starting to have a strong effect on her. 

Alexander came in behind them, kicking off his shoes and flopping on the other bed in the room. “I’m taking this one, Dez snores when he’s drunk. You can have one of the beds in the room across the living room. Cade is going to take the first watch for the next few hours.” His words were slightly slurred as he was obviously drifting off to sleep.

Gabe looked down at Mel who was starting to drift off. He leaned over to place a kiss on her forehead. How could Klaus have been such an idiot as to not listen and just hang up on her? Furthermore, how was Erik an even bigger idiot for what he’d done? She was a woman who proved she wasn’t afraid and could be just as fierce as they could. Shaking his head, he began to back up.

Gorgeous blue eyes cracked open and looked up at him. “Don’t go yet, just sit here till I fall asleep? Please?” The look in her tired eyes tore at him. Damn it if he wasn’t a sucker for a damsel in distress. He saw Alexander chuckle as he rolled over, giving him a thumbs up as he did. Sitting down on the bed next to where she was lying, he took her hand in his and leaned back against the headboard. He prayed the next day wouldn’t be nearly as long or as sideways as the previous 24 hours had been. 

Soon Gabe felt his head starting to drop. He started to move off of the bed but looked down at his fingers intertwined with hers and changed his mind. Instead, he slipped down to lay flat on his back next to her. A soft smile formed on his lips as he felt her move closer to him and he drifted off to sleep. Fuck what any of the rest of them thought, Klaus may have promised to keep her safe but he was actually going to do it.

Just over three hours later, the soft click of the lock on the door to the suite signaled that someone was coming in. A lone figure slipped through the barely cracked door, carefully closing it behind him. The feel of a gun barrel at his temple told him instantly that his entry had not gone undetected. As he waited to find out who it was that had gotten guard duty, a slow smirk crossed his lips.

“You’d better have one damn good excuse for being in here asshole, because if you don’t you’re going to wish you had never opened that door.” The end of the barrel pressed more firmly into his skull as he heard Cade’s voice low and growling.

“Seeing as my grandfather is paying your fucking ass, I think I have a good enough excuse to come in if I want. Although how the fuck you all got here is something I’ve got to hear.” Nic’s quiet voice held amusement. It had taken him what seemed like forever to even find a clue where any of them had gone.

“Shit bro, you’re lucky I asked questions first. How the fuck did you find us?” Cade holstered his weapon and moved closer to Nic so that they’re voices wouldn’t wake the other four up.

“Gabe parked his SUV four blocks away. When he stopped answering his phone, I went hunting.” Nic shook his head. “Y’all were fucking hard as hell to find. One female with three bodyguards does make an impression on a desk clerk though.” He chuckled. “Two rooms? Who’s where?”

“Dez is over there. The door is closed because his snoring was about to drive me insane. Alexander, Mel, and Gabe are all over there.” Cade gestured as he talked. He had sobered up an hour or so before and was now annoyingly clear-headed and awake, albeit with a massive headache.

“You know how she got out? And how did you end up here with your SUV at the airport?” Nic looked over at Cade as he leaned his back against the wall.

“Window in your grandfather’s office in the suite, along the ledge to the fire escape that was one room over, then down to the alleyway. Then she just walked until she got to a coffee shop. From there she rented the car and got ahold of Gabe. Gabe texted us. We met up with her at the coffee shop. When she got tired, Dez took the SUV to the airport and got a cab back here with the cash she gave him. We had already transferred all the weapons into the back of her SUV, so it was safe for him to leave it. Then she drove us here. She was the lead the whole time bro, organized the whole damn thing. Did you know she has five false identities?” Cade almost laughed as he talked.

“More than five, and yes I did. Although apparently, grandfather’s men have made some new ones because I couldn’t find a trace of the old ones. I only got the key up here because I scared the desk clerk more than the rest of you did.” Nic answered, pausing for a moment. “I wasn’t here. Understand? Tell none of them. She’s safe, you’re all alive. That’s all I cared about. I’ll keep grandfather off your asses, but you’re going to have to show up eventually. Let me know when you are and I’ll buffer the reception.”

Cade looked over at Nic with a newfound respect. He had expected to get dressed down for going off grid and helping Mel, not that he cared, but he hadn’t expected Nic to cover for their asses. Not that he was going to turn it down. “Never saw ya bro. I gotta ask though….how insane have Ambrose and Klaus gone?” 

“Grandfather is convinced one or more of you are with Mel. This Oglesby though, he’s a major player and violent and vicious. He’d kill Mel if it gave him a tactical advantage with grandfather and Alexander, so I wouldn’t say he’s exactly calm.” Nic looked over in the dim light of the room, the expression on his face clear to Cade. Nic was worried. Ambrose was worried. The main thing was not to let this asshole know that Alexander and Mel were in the same place.

“Klaus is a mess. I don’t know if Gabe told you but he damn near shattered Erik’s jaw. Grandfather had to fly in a medic to at least set it enough for the moment so that he wasn’t in so much pain he couldn’t think. He also broke his cheekbone and gave him a concussion. The doc thinks Erik may have a couple of broken ribs too. That was from less than a half-dozen punches. I think that Erik’s lucky that the blow to the throat didn’t crush his windpipe. Erik is having to use the laptop to type out his answers to questions at the moment. Although threats of letting Klaus back in the room are more effective than anything in getting his cooperation.” He saw Cade’s eyes go wide in the gloom and nodded. “So I think that tells you how he’s doing. He’s no less upset now than he was when he about knocked me and grandfather over to get to Erik. We’ve had to keep Klaus separated from grandfather, they do nothing but butt heads because Klaus is being kept in the hotel and not out looking for Mel. They’re going to end up shooting one another if they’re left alone too long.” Nic sighed. “ That she hasn’t called or contacted him is driving him out of his mind. He’s like a caged lion. So yeah.” Nic shook his head lightly. He felt for the other man, truly he did. There was just nothing that could be done at the moment to make the situation better without pissing off his cousin. Klaus had made his own bed when he hung up on her, he’d just have to lie in it a bit longer.

“Sounds like you’ve got your hands full bro. But hey, you think in the future we could get the short chick to come with us on missions?” Cade tried to lighten the mood. “She’s good; I mean she’s damn good. She put the fear of God in Andreas, she slipped out of a locked room and had you chasing your tail, and she can pull off a cover identity as well as any of us. We could use her.” 

“I take it you want to have Ambrose committed to the lunatic asylum. He would go all kinds of batshit crazy.” Nic laughed. He had to admit, she might have picked up too much over the years from being around him and their grandfather. “Now, before any of them wake up, or I’m out of contact for too long and they start checking up on me…I’m getting my ass out of here. You need anything…ANYTHING…you call ME, no one else.”

“Got it, bro. Be careful, if there could be a target on Mel’s back from this Oglesby, there could be one on yours too. We’ll keep her safe, don’t worry.” Cade nodded once toward Nic. They were friends, more like brothers, and as much as he would guard Mel’s ass, he’d guard Nic’s back as well.

With that Nic slipped out of the room as almost silently as he slipped in. Now he knew that his cousin was safe, it was time to hunt Oglesby.

banner from @cafekitsune

[ask-postcrash-curly]

I was only making an educated guess! I'm as in the dark about your crew as you, sadly. All of us can only really speculate on what's going on with your crew, but knowing that the tilt of the Tuplar caused Daisuke's wounds to reopen…he's probably not allowed to walk. As for Swansea… I don't know how bad his infection is and if he did start going into sepsis, then he'll have a very long road to recovery. He's strong, despite everything that's happened to him. I wish I could promise you that he'll be okay, but I feel like he'll make it. Regardless, he's not fit to walk around at this time to see you. Same with Daisuke.

As for my workplace, uhhh— we have a ton of robots here, but you know…it's a lot cheaper to hire and fire humans than build a machine. My rate is better than what most machines can do, which is why they keep me around. One of my co-workers likes to call me, "T-1000." I never really watched Terminator 2: Judgement Day, but I'll take his word on it. My workplace is doing a ton of maintenance upstairs this week, so we're all underground this week. (I'll miss looking up at the stars. I would love to leave early, but I'm out of paid hours/vacation hours, so I'm stuck here. In hell.)

Working underground reminds me of the humble burrowing owl! Burrowing owls live in underground burrows. Just like most other owl species, they tend to just take over burrows from other animals. They live in grasslands, deserts, and other open habitats, where they hunt mainly insects and rodents. Their numbers have declined sharply with human alteration of their habitat and the decline of prairie dogs and ground squirrels… Unlike most owls in which the female is larger than the male, the sexes of the burrowing owl are the same size. Burrowing owls often stow extra food to ensure an adequate supply during incubation and brooding. When food is plentiful, the birds' underground larders can reach prodigious sizes. The biggest recorded cache had over 200 rodents!

I don't understand why people keep getting weirded out by your eye. We both have similar eye colors. Grayish-blue is not that terrifying. If anything, we should get you some cheap sunglasses for the terrible lighting in your room. [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XDkOu0b-2kk]

On another note: I wouldn't even bother listening to the pricks that keep filling your head with doubts about Robin. It's clear to me that she loves you as any mother would her son. I like to believe that a mother would do anything for her child, no matter what. You're loved whether you see it or not, but it's there. Clear as crystal, Curly. But…don't take my word for it, you can always ask her yourself, if you truly doubt it. I know she'll keep drilling it into your thick skull till you finally see it. (If Kez talks to you again, tell him that I'm sorry if he heard me yelling. I just wanted to know if he had Cookie Run on his phone and what his favorite cookie was if he does have it.)

I won't be able to talk to you for a bit, trying to beg HR to give me hours again. Hopefully I don't get another fucking asshole who decides at the last moment to MERGE INTO MY BLIND SPOT TO GET ON THE FUCKING OFF-RAMP AND NEARLY HIT MY VEHICLE. I STILL HAVE TO PAY 14000+ CREDITS (roughly 14k USD$) ON THIS THING, PLEASE!!! 🦉💢💢

I'm fine!! I'm sorry you heard that, uh… I love you, Curly. Talk to you soon, yeah?

-🦉🌙 "Luna"

okay. right. i’m sorry.

but he could walk before… he helped anya bring big swans to the airlock… if i count the nights it’s been at least a few days and there was a while where they weren’t turning them off so it’s probably been a week? surely they’re allowed up by now, yeah? i’m not asking for a lengthy visit! i just want to know they’re alive! just a brief check-in from someone, doesn’t even have to be one of them, just anyone to tell me that my crew is okay! please! hypothesizing isn’t enough, i need to know, i need to know! there was so much blood when they brought daisuke in, and swansea, i’ll never forget how quiet he was in those last days. i’ve never seen him like that. not ever. i really thought he was— and i still don’t know if he isn’t. it terrifies me. i haven’t seen any of them since they left the medbay. i miss them and i understand if they don’t feel the same but i just want to know they’re alive.

…mhm. good for you then. that’s… yeah, that’s impressive. im sorry the work’s been so rough…

wow. thank you as always for the owl fact, luna. thank you for always taking time out of your hectic schedule for me. you don’t have to.

mhm. fuck the lights.

…i like the song. thank you.

i know she loves me. that’s not the question. it’s whether she should. for herself. i don’t… i don’t want to hurt her. and i know it hurts her to… hear me like this. she’s going to reassure me again after that last thing, and i’ll believe it, and then it’ll fall apart again and again and again, another and then another, until she stops trying to convince me and realizes i’m right, they’re right, i’m only going to cause her pain. and she’ll feel awful and it’s my fault for making her love me— sorry. sorry, i know that’s shit reasoning. i’m just… my head is bad. don’t think too hard about it. thank you.

good luck. …jeez. glad you’re okay.

you don’t need to apologize for that. you weren’t loud about it. i’m sure you wanted to be. thank you for… i’m sorry i can’t handle mental screaming. it’s annoying. to me, i mean. not just for you. love you. talk soon. if you want.

[tixdixl]

Sorry to vent on main but I feel like folks deserve honesty and to know where I'm at rn. And I ask that folks be patient with me while I try and hold it together.

I'm drowning and I can't see the light at the end of the tunnel.

On top of my deteriorating mental health, I got news today that my company has given us the ultimatum of either relocating across the country or find a new job. After working my ASS off to get this job- of which I haven't even worked a full year, I have 90 days to tell them whether I'm leaving or moving.

Because of my personal situation, this translates as: Unemployment or Homelessness.

Those are my options. And I have 90 days to figure out which shitshow I want to work with.

To paint a better picture for you all, I have been in an ongoing fight with the US Credit Bureaus for the past 3 years. I legally changed my name, but the bureaus won't recognize it as legitimate. This means I can't rent or own property, vehicles, start accumulating credit, or do anything involving credit. And I have been fighting this fight by all means necessary. This means if I do move and relocate with the company, I will have nowhere to live- yes, even with the resources that the company is offering me.

There are no jobs where I live either. The fact I even got the job I have was kind of extreme luck on my part. And I had to get the job through a temp agency. For a position that was NEVER supposed to be full time, snd I had to convince the company I was worth hiring on.

I'm aware there are options. I'm aware it's not all hopeless. But g-d damnit I'm on the verge of losing it. I'm so tired. I'm so tired of fighting. I'm so tired of constantly living in instability. I'm tired of everything. Every time something good happens, it falls through my fucking fingers like sand.

Why can't good things last?

[seat-safety-switch]

Geese fly south for the winter, which is something that seems reasonable to do. Why would you want to stick around, freezing your nuts off, struggling to find food, when you could just go somewhere warm for a few months and come back later? Those waterfowl don't have a second mortgage, or even a first one. They just hang out in a public park all day, poop on the grass, and occasionally get chased by a dog. What a life.

There is one thing the geese lack, though: access to humanity's greatest achievement, the shitty old car. New cars, maybe, if their credit is good. No goose or duck or even swan can afford to keep a 1991 Beretta GTZ on the road, mostly because doing so is beyond their abilities. They can't hold a wrench: I thought that would be obvious to you, but sometimes I have to be explicit about this stuff. And hiring a mechanic is right out, because geese do not believe in paying money for services.

Why don't I just take my shitty old car and head south for the winter, too? Surely, it would last even longer if it wasn't exposed to vicious amounts of road salt and a freeze-thaw cycle that even the mountains themselves cannot survive. It's a reasonable question, and the only valid answer is that I can only drive one shitbox at a time. Even flat-towing another car behind me will only give me one extra chance, should the lead vehicle throw a rod on the way there. That's simply not good enough, especially since I have to return home after, and high-mileage hoopties cost too much in places where they don't disintegrate when exposed to free air.

This winter, I'll be sitting on my porch, watching the swans fly south without a hint of envy. And I hope you will too, because that will give us a chance to see each others' faces before we lock ourselves into our suburban tombs for the next six months, swearing at how cold the floor has gotten and wondering if we still have any working car batteries left.

[weepingchoir]

As an adult fan of pro wrestling, you will from time to time be peppered with questions like: you know wrestling is fake, right? To which you have to be the adult and answer, no, Mae Young gave real birth to a malformed hand, live on Monday Night RAW.

When the kids leave the room, you can have a grown-up discussion of the ways in which pro wrestling is really real (sorry, Lacan). The tables are tricked out, but you try a twelve foot swanton bomb onto karate mats, if you’re so goddamn tough.

Pro wrestlers have one advantage, though: their faces get on TV. Stunt performers, the for-once sung heroes of The Fall Guy, don’t even get that. This is the opening thesis Colt (Ryan Gosling, but also stuntmen Logan Holladay, Justin Eaton, Ben Jenkin and Troy Brown) voice-overs in an intro where he also presents us with his love, director Jody (Emily Blunt).

It’s clumsy, but it’s effective. For the next two hours you cannot forget that there is a real body on the bad end of every swanton bomb. The star of Jodie’s upcoming Dune: Fury Road has gone missing, and Colt is hired to find him. Naturally this invokes very little serious detective work and a maximalist superabundance of fire, fights, firefights, sword fights, car fights, car rolls (a world record eight and half at the hands of Holladay), explosions and running into traffic without looking.

All these 150-foot falls conspired to make me do something movies rarely do, but wrestling often does: wince. Cinema hyperreality is not good at transmitting sheer pain. Narrative contextualizes surviving a drop through penthouse glass as badass, hilarious or tragic, but not painful. Real pain has a way of zapping you out of the story. So The Fall Guy is a little self-defeating as movies go. It’s unimmersive, a cardinal sin. But the story is just a vehicle for a loftier ambition: giving stunt performers the credit they deserve.

In this regard, The Fall Guy might just be a roaring success. Look, I’m listing the stunt performers alongside the actors. The Atlantic is running a scandalously titled piece on stunt credits.

Unfair to judge a movie on its ethical accomplishments? Not if we consider the failure of just about every production to uphold what The Fall Guy exposes as basic standard. In an era where most of the crew on a megaproduction can’t afford rent, this seems like the only good play from David Leitch, whose directorial efforts began at John Wick and only got more budgetful. For his next trick, I would like to see him produce a full-length on $1M. Just to see what happens.

[redstuffs-ig]

Assorted Krayt's Claw headcanons because I guess that's gonna be my niche now

How they formed:

Krayt's Claw was formed shortly after Boba Fett and Bossk broke out of the Republic Judiciary Detention Center. Feeling bitter about being left behind by Aurra Sing on Florrum and believing in strength in numbers, Boba pitched the idea to Bossk, who agreed to see what he could do with his contacts in the underworld. They first tried to sell the idea to fellow escapee Cad Bane, but he wasn't interested.

The first official member was Latts Razzi, who had fallen under hard times and needed some credits to afford her lavish lifestyle. At first she only considered signing on for a few jobs, but eventually decided to become a full-timer after warming up to the team.

Dengar joined shortly after. Already a successful bounty hunter during the Clone Wars, he saw something in the young Fett that convinced him this enterprise may be worth his while. He and Bossk knew each other from before, and kept a friendly rivalry of sorts going on. Dengar was only a part-timer however, as he was also an aspiring swoop racing champion.

C-21 Highsinger was the last to join the original ensemble. A prototype, one-of-a-kind Hunter-Killer, he went rogue and struck out on his own for motives unknown. One day Boba walked into their base with the towering droid in tow and introduced it as "Highsinger". No one knew how he had convinced that monster that sticking around would be worth its while, but they knew better than to ask questions.

Embo had been in talks to join the team for a while after being approached by Latts, but he only became an official member after Boba Fett vanquished Cad Bane during the last months of the war. He got along surprisingly well, and added a nice bit of street cred to the group.

Oked was only a hired goon brought in for the Quarxite job. He was not mourned nor missed.

Random shit I came up with:

Marrok, Embo's pet anooba, is the unofficial team mascot. Everyone finds themselves doting on the fluffy space dog, and even the impassible Highsinger allows it to rub against his leg. That being said, it has a habit of growling at Dengar whenever he says something stupid, which happens quite frequently.

Bossk's ship, the Hound's Tooth, was their only vehicle for some time. The first few rides were full of nothing but complaining about the smell and unfriendly atmosphere while the lizard silently seethed. It took a lot of convincing for Boba to finally agree to let them use the recently-reclaimed Slave I as their vehicle. Embo never flies with the group, instead using his personal transport, the Guillotine, for every mission. Just about everyone resents him for that fact.

Latts and Dengar are the fashionistas of the group, and tend to suggest outfit changes to the other hunters, a proposition that is rarely accepted. They occasionally rate their co-workers' choice in clothing; Embo has the best look by far, Boba's placing went up by a significant margin after he began sporting his father's Mandalorian armor, and Bossk has been the worst-dressed Trandoshan in Tatooine for a few consecutive years now.

Only Latts can wield her grappling boa scarf effectively, and at many points everyone has tried to employ it in some capacity at least once. None succeeded. How she does it is a mystery.

Dengar once introduced Manaroo, while the two were early into their relationship, to the rest of the team. The fact the poor Aruzan survived three hours of being intimidated by some of the galaxy's meanest-looking bounty hunters confirmed to Dengar that she was the one. They've been married happily since. I don't care what the sequels say.

During a mission to Coruscant, Highsinger inexplicably disappeared with no one knowing where he went. While the rest of the team wanted to leave him behind and get going, Boba demanded they at least try to look for him. He was eventually found at the Droid Spa, enjoying a relaxing oil bath as two beautiful androids scrubbed his joints clean of any grime. To say they were all pissed would be the understatement of the millennium.

After Boba regained his armor and bested Cad Bane in a duel, the following group dinner was filled with everyone taking turns to talk about how much they didn't like the blue cowboy. Whether they were trying to warm up to the new boss or maybe let loose some steam, no one knows.

Krayt's Claw eventually disbanded after Boba came of age and began taking solo jobs, though he remained in contact with most of the team and kept tabs on what they were up to. Nothing was known of Latts' whereabouts after she started her syndicate, however.

[fizzycherrycola]

Malaysia/Singapore, 1921

On a dark, rainy night, Singapore finds himself in desperate need of a warm meal and a bright smile. Luckily, he has someone who cares for him very much.

Originally intended to be part of a Hetalia fan anthology, however I missed the deadline long ago. You can find it at @hwsrazzledazzle . This is my first time writing Malaysia and Singapore, so I hope I've done them justice. Please enjoy! If anyone notices inconsistencies or cultural mistakes, please let me know and I'll fix them right away.

December Rain 

Singapore; 16 December 1921 

“Governor, is there really no other way? We are in peacetime, so surely-”

“Unfortunately, this is the way it must be. Perhaps if relations between London and Tokyo improve, then these restrictions may be lifted. But from what I understand, it is unlikely that either of us will witness such a thing happen in the near future.” 

“...I see.”

“I know this is all rather irregular, but even so, I trust you will follow these new regulations once they come into effect. Won’t you, Singapore?”

“Yes, Governor Guillemard, of course.”

“Good. Very good! I had the sense when we first met that we would get along well. That you were an honourable, hard-working young man – or colony, I should say – and that you would cause no trouble. I’m delighted to see that is still the case.”

—

A torrent of water falls from the heavens in rippling sheets. People dart about, some on bicycle and some on foot. They splash through the wide puddles of the civic district, anxious to be home before the dark night sets in. The lucky ones squeeze onboard the bustling electric tram with their elbows and umbrellas poking through the open windows. Unfortunately, Singapore was not one of those lucky ones today. 

Clasping his cold hands together, Singapore rubs his knuckles. He huddles in the seat of his hired rickshaw, grimacing at his situation. The spats covering his shoes are terribly soggy and the rain has soaked his grey trousers up to the thigh. He leans back in his seat, sheltering beneath the rickshaw’s canopy, hopelessly trying to stay as dry as possible. Normally it wouldn't be an issue, but tonight... Malaya is visiting for dinner. It’s the first date they’ve had in months.  

There is a tightness behind his ribs and Singapore takes a steadying breath. He needs to dispel the stress of the business day and the terrible news he was given.

None of that matters at the moment. Even though his disheartening meeting with the Governor went on for much longer than expected, he should still make it home before Malaya arrives, because that silly oyen is often late himself. And to the rickshaw puller’s credit, they are speeding down the muddy streets. 

Eventually, Singapore’s abode reveals itself wedged amongst a long row of shophouses. The vehicle’s rickety wheels slow to a halt and the rickshaw man glances back expectantly. Quickly, Singapore tosses a few coins his way. Then, he hops out of his seat, over the gate, and dashes through the five-foot way. 

He pushes open the wooden door to his house and pauses, holding his breath. The darkened front hall is quiet and none of the oil lamps appear lit. Thank goodness. Tension floods from his shoulders and he releases a sigh. 

He slips off his shoes and carries them inside, hoping to wipe the leather dry and preserve his valuable Oxfords. His bare feet tap terracotta tiles as he pads through the front office, then the smell of firewood hits him, mingled with the aroma of red chili and garlic. Peeking into the hallway, he sees dim light and steam emanating from the kitchen in the back. 

His hairs stand on end and a second later he’s bursting into the warm room. 

“Why are you here so early?!” Singapore demands. 

Malaya flinches and glances up from the stove. “Oh, you’re here!” A bright smile blooms across his face, putting his crooked fang tooth on full display. “Welcome back!” 

“You’re never early! How did…?”

“Ah? I thought I was late. You said we would meet in the afternoon.”

“No, we said it would be in the evening.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” Malaya chuckles. “I thought it was strange when I walked in and nobody was home.” 

“Wait, what are you doing?” 

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m making dinner!” 

“But I was going to....” Singapore’s words fail him as he gawks at his kitchen. The mortar is smudged with trace remains of crimson spices and his stove is lit with the smoky haze of burning charcoal. Malaya tosses peppers into the wok and effortlessly works the sizzling heat like he was born for it. Singapore sighs. “Never mind. Let me take over from here.” 

Malaya laughs incredulously. “But I’m almost finished!”  

“It doesn’t matter. This is your first time in my new home! You’re my guest.” 

Malaya quirks an eyebrow and gestures to Singapore with the backend of his chuan. “Singa, you’re dripping wet. You’ll get rainwater in our food.” 

Baulking, Singapore looks himself over. His suit is darkened and heavy, leaking droplets onto the floor. 

Grimacing, he deflates. “...I’m sorry.”  

“Ah? You don’t need to apologise.” 

“No, I should have arrived earlier. I had plans for our dinner together; I wanted it to be special.” 

Smiling wider, Malaya seems to melt on the spot. “Sayang….”

“I can take over after I’ve changed.”

“No. This is my cooking now.”

“But–” 

“It’s fine. You work too hard!” Malaya steps away from the wok and nudges Singapore out of the room. “Quick! Go change out of those clothes before the food is ready.” 

Reluctantly, Singapore trudges upstairs to his bedroom, glancing back at the kitchen as he goes. 

Once upstairs, he takes a moment to tend to his Oxfords, the higher priority, before his own comfort. When he’s satisfied that the leather is dry enough, he peels off his wet business attire, shivering despite the humidity, and then towels his damp skin. Throwing on something clean, he pauses in front of a small mirror to tame his dark hair before returning downstairs.  

The dining area is bathed in warmth and an array of dishes decorate the table. Dinner is set out before him: tomato rice with ayam masak merah, a mix of chicken and dried chilies sambal. The saucy red soup glistens in the lamplight and Singapore’s belly rumbles. Malaya snickers, placing the finishing touches on the table and telling him to dig in. 

With a flush rising to his cheeks, Singapore thanks his companion and relents. He takes a bite of the chicken, and a burst of rich, creamy, spice hits his tongue. It’s so delicious that he sighs, the flavour bringing back memories of other rainy Decembers, long past. When it was just the two of them, huddled beneath a small, thatched roof.

“Abang, it’s so good,” Singapore says. “Thank you.”

“Anytime!” A wide grin graces Malaya’s face as he produces a gorgeous bottle of tapai rice wine and pours both of them a healthy glass. Then he sits as well, going for his tomato rice, and talking unabashedly between massive mouthfuls of food. “You know, I think your last house was better.” 

Singapore pouts. “Don’t say that, lah. I was hoping you would like it here.” 

“Well, ah… it’s not what I was expecting.”

“I was able to get this because my markets have been paying well. Would you prefer it if I returned to a timber attap house? Go back to my old kampong?”

Malaya sheepishly raises his hands in mock surrender. “No! It’s just very… different?”

“It’s closer to the city centre. And it’s modern.”

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry.” Malaya leans in and gives Singapore a quick kiss on the cheek – an apology. He leaves behind a few sticky grains of rice, and Singapore rolls his eyes before brushing them off. “You worked very hard for this, so I’ll admit, for a city house, it is really spacious and fancy.”

Singapore swallows a few more bites of food while considering his companion’s sentiment.

Indeed, the new dwelling takes some getting used to. Bought last July, Singapore’s abode stands three stories tall and has an elaborate, ornamental façade. Decorated with colourful tiles and plasterwork, it is more stylish than his previous place. If only the floors were worn in, and the rooms smelled of the forest, perhaps then this mass-produced building would feel more like a home. 

It’s no matter, though. He will adjust. As if reading his mind, Malaya pokes his elbow and gestures to the open courtyard. “Plant a garden in the spring; that will help.”

Singapore glances at the bare space and imagines it filled with kang kong, lemongrass, and chili plants. It warms his heart.

“That would be nice.”

Malaya polishes off his rice and sets the bowl down. “So, you meet with Guillemard today?”

“Ah… that’s right.”

“Mm! I’m meeting with him in a few days, too. What did he say?” 

Singapore ducks, suddenly very interested in the wood grain of his table. “I’ll tell you after dinner.”

“Come on, tell me. Is it good news?”

Weight settles on Singapore’s shoulders and bears down on his neck. “No, it’s bad.”

“Now I have to know!”

Singapore sighs. The locks in the back of his mind slowly release, allowing a bitter slurry of unease and gloom to trickle forth. He’s been holding onto this all day and he was never good at hiding things from his dearest.

“You’re not going to like it.”

Malaya downs a swig of rice wine. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Singapore follows his lead, taking a sip from his own cup and allowing the burn to roll down his throat. He swallows, and means to slam the cup down, but it settles with a skittering series of taps. Is he nervous, or just upset?

“Guillemard said… beginning next week, we cannot have any contact with Taiwan, Korea, or any other kingdoms under Japan’s control.” 

The statement falls wet out of his heart to splatter ruin onto his new, tile floor. Malaya blinks, silent for a while, his eyes going wide.

“No, that can’t be right.” 

“Personal contact lah,” Singapore clarifies. “We can’t send them letters, telegrams, or schedule any visits.”

“Not even letters?”

“None.”

Malaya gapes. “Why would he say that? Did he have a reason?” 

“I couldn’t get all the details.” The morning and afternoon were like a whirlwind. Questions flew around the rooms of the Governor’s estate, from not just himself, but even the groundskeepers who he caught whispering in the halls. “I heard there was a conference,” Singapore continues, “and a treaty was signed. Somehow, this new treaty ended the alliance between England and Japan, but it was more than that. Apparently, there has been tension between them for a long time, maybe years. So, it is possible… perhaps a combination of different things ....” 

“Wait, wait!” Malaya cries, jolting Singapore out of his recollection. “Tahun Baru Cina!”

It takes Singapore a moment to understand. “What about it?”

“Taiwan invited us to celebrate with her. You remember; we were meant to visit her in that city... what are we calling it these days?” 

“Taihoku?” 

“That’s it!” 

“I’m guessing that will be cancelled.” 

Malaya releases a puff of air. “They can’t just cancel the New Year!” He slumps, staring forlornly at his empty rice bowl. He looks like a cat, longing for more food, as though that would be enough to fix all the problems of the world.

“Someone else might host,” Singapore suggests. 

“This is terrible,” Malaya mutters.

Singapore frowns at his wine, cloudy and glistening in the lamplight. He imagines it reflecting a sea of red lanterns as they ripple in the night air, a dream of years past. If he concentrates, he can recall the clamour of jubilant voices, the thrum of drums, and the crackle of firecrackers.

Gathering under one roof to welcome the New Year was a tradition they shared. Who started it and when, Singapore does not know, but every house he visited would be brilliantly decorated in a rainbow of colours, and every table would be packed to the edge with food. Different people would host and attend each year; a variety of familiar faces that came and went. Philippines, Vietnam, Siam, Manchuria, Korea, of course China, and more. Sometimes there were so many of them, there were not enough seats to go around! 

Occasionally, the turnout was smaller due to war, famine, or sickness, but it was always a pity when it happened. It’s still a pity now. Singapore sighs, again. “I’m sorry for ruining the evening with depressing news. This date was meant to be special.” 

Malaya blinks, returning to life, and shushes him. “You know, if you keep stressing out, your hair will turn white.” 

Something in Singapore's face must be betraying his feelings, because Malaya’s smile falls almost as quickly as it appears. He shuffles closer and secures a steady arm around his lover’s shoulders.

“Abang….”

Rain pitter-patters on the courtyard stone. The distant sounds of city life grow quieter as night falls. Is it raining in Taihoku as well? Is there a little girl on the other side of the sea mulling over the same sad news? Poor Taiwan. She’s still just a child; she won’t understand.

A knot has lodged itself in Singapore’s throat. Times like these serve as a potent reminder: it is the spiderwebs of alliances that shape their uncertain destinies. Of course, he is not a revolutionist. Order, harmony, and life are too precious to him. All he must do is keep his head down, work hard, and if he does that, he can get by. But sometimes… sometimes….

Without prompting, Malaya whispers, “I know,” and hugs him, lean muscle cradling Singapore’s thin frame. And Singapore doesn’t realise he is clenching his jaw until Malaya strokes his cheek and it slackens. Heat radiates through his ribs like an antidote. A rattling breath escapes his chest and his eyes fall shut. Their bodies slope together. 

They stay that way for long minutes. The weariness of the day begins to levy its toll on Singapore’s consciousness and his head droops. Safe in his companion’s arms, sleep tempts him. He almost doesn’t hear when Malaya whispers: “When do these rules start?”

“Next week,” Singapore murmurs.

Malaya’s lips press gently to his temple. “Then we will send Taiwan and the others some letters. We will wish them an early Happy New Year, before these awful new rules take effect.”

Shifting, Singapore meets his brilliant golden eyes. Dark umber bangs brush the tips of his eyelashes and a firecracker lights in his heart. His oyen is so handsome. They kiss and Malaya’s inviting mouth tastes faintly of chilies.

“Can I stay with you for more than a few days?” Malaya whispers.

“Of course,” Singapore says. “But is that okay? Won’t you get in trouble with the sultans?”

With a wave of his hand, Malaya dismisses the notion. “I’ll just keep begging my bosses until I manage to annoy them into letting me stay. Besides, my sayang is worth it.” A smile dawns on Singapore’s features and they entwine their fingers. Malaya nuzzles his hair. “And after I go, I'll come back in the spring to help you build your garden. We can plant some red hibiscus together.”

“...That would be nice.”

Suddenly, Malaya squeezes him tight and peppers his face with kisses until he’s laughing. And the spark in his heart becomes a booming firework display, so bright and colourful that it threatens to burst from his soul. 

Eventually, Singapore has to push him away, before things get heated and they make a mess of both their clothes and the dining table. He suspects there are red chili smears decorating his face. Malaya relents only after leaving a suggestive bite to his neck, practically purring with delight.

They gather up the dishes from the table, and as Singapore follows his companion back to the kitchen, he finds he is able to stand straighter. Malaya has a kind of resilience, a living strength that courses along the lines of his shoulders and blooms in the curve of his toothy smile. And Singapore has always found it captivating. Despite their misfortune and the struggle of navigating life, his oyen thrives and endures. How lucky he is to share delicious dinners and squander time with this special person. 

Singapore’s thoughts drift to the feathery bed that beckons them both and suppresses a shiver of excitement. Hurriedly, he plunges a bowl into the water basin and scrubs it clean, eager to indulge in the rest of their evening and the precious days ahead.

As long as he has Malaya, everything will be okay.

End / Fin

~~~

Author’s Notes 

Laurence Guillemard was the British-appointed “Governor of the Straits Settlements” and “High Commissioner for the Federated Malay States” from 1920 – 1927. 

“Abang” and “sayang” are Malay terms of endearment. 

Malaya/Malaysia’s national animal is a tiger, which is why Singapore calls him “oyen,” meaning: orange cat.

The first Singaporean shophouses were built starting in the 1840s, under the original ordinances laid down by Sir Stamford Raffles. Over the years, architecture styles changed but the houses remained popular until the 1960s. They are now considered important heritage pieces and are valued as historic examples of architecture.

An attap house is a traditional dwelling made with attap palms, which provide wattle for the walls and leaves for their thatched roofs. They are often found in kampongs (traditional villages) throughout South East Asia.

The Anglo-Japanese Alliance was a pact between the British and Japanese that was signed in 1902. Both parties benefited in various ways, including defensive strategies, trade, and cultural exchanges. However, over the following decades, the relationship would slowly deteriorate. It was viewed as an obstacle at the Paris Peace Conference following WW1, and then battered further by the 1921 Imperial Conference. It finally dissolved on 13 December 1921, when the Four-Power Treaty was signed in Washington DC.

Lunar New Year! In Malaysia, the holiday’s official name is “Tahun Baru Cina”. 

Taihoku was the name given to Taipei while it was under Japanese rule.

“...your hair will turn white.” It’s my personal headcanon that Singapore got his trademark streak of white hair from overworking himself in the 20th century.

[sonic-oc-showdown]

ROUND 1 BRACKET A

Petri belongs to @starfall-isle Skye belongs to @hornet-protector

Find out more about them below!

PETRI:

Petri is a excitable and prideful Secretary under the tedious Eggman empire, hoping to one day climb the latter and prove her worth as a scientist and chemist! Although the doctor doesn’t seem to know she even exists.. Work pals with Orbot and Cubot, Petri takes whatever opportunities she can get to talk herself up. After tagging along during one of Eggman’s particularly explosive battles with the blue blur himself, Petri is fired after Eggman takes his sore loss out on her. Now with a newfound grudge towards Sonic, she’s set herself on a charge to get her job back, with the help of three detectives for hire. Catch is, she’ll need to help out around the office as an intern for the Chaotix if she wants to keep their trust

SKYE: (image credit @/antiRePurp)

Skye is a nautical cartographer from the Sol Dimension! They travel around the Southern Archipelago, mapping the islands, the currents, and the variety of weird underwater stuff they find along the way. I made her as a sort of dimensional counterpart to Sonic (curious, free-spirited drifter), to round out Blaze (serious, dedicated guardian like Knuckles) and Marine (kid sidekick who's good with vehicles like Tails) as a trio. She can control air, which comes in handy both for sailing and for creating underwater bubbles to breathe from. Also, they and Blaze are kinda-sorta-dating.

[leohtttbriar]

i really just can't take any bidenomics reflection about how certain initiatives failed to influence voters seriously if the reflection fails to acknowledge the information crisis and the relative stupidity of the average swing voter--and i give less credence to any political analysis that refuses to frame "democratic failure" as even a little bit the result of republican opposition/electoral wins--

but this article's brief "to be fair" section about the accomplishments of the biden administration's major legislative victories was a neat summation and also sort of shows how rolling back parts of the IRA may not be easy or all that motivating for an already fractious and narrow-majority republican house:

Still, the market-making bills that did pass were momentous. To give credit where due: Biden’s green industrial policy was a technocratic tour de force. Learning from Obama’s fiscal timidity, his staffers understood that lightly nudging markets would not suffice to meet the climate crisis. This is because of what economists call a market failure. Developing foundational technologies is often initially prohibitively expensive, because of low immediate consumer demand or lack of economies of scale. Private investment is unlikely to take the risk—and needs a helping shove (and often some security) from the state.  Bidenomics was that shove. The clean energy strategists Lachlan Carey and Jun Ukita Shepard have described the relationship between its three bills in anatomical terms. The CHIPS Act is the “‘brains’ of the operation,” underwriting billions to foundational research in energy biofuels, advanced battery technology, and quantum computing. The Infrastructure Act is the backbone, supporting not only traditional roads, ports, and water infrastructure but also clean hydrogen, low and zero-emission transit buses, and EPA Superfund projects to clean up contaminated sites. The IRA is the financial heart of the machine, subsidizing both the production and consumption of green technology. The lions’ share of federal spending has been directed at foundational research and development and the initial scaling up of markets—the stage, as Carey and Shepard put it, “where private markets are less likely to invest in research, development, demonstration, and early commercialization.” 

Bidenomics also aims to onshore entire supply chains. For instance, the Section 45X Advanced Manufacturing Tax Credit supports the domestic production of components for wind and solar energy, battery development, and electric vehicles. Take solar panels: the credit offers $3 per kilogram for manufacturing polysilicon, which transforms sunlight into electricity. Companies turning that element into components for solar cells receive $12 per square meter. The next links up the chain receive credits—ranging from $40 to $70 per kilowatt—based on how much electricity their cells and panels produce. Along with a range of other subsidies for aluminum and other core components, these credits are projected to reduce the costs to producers of domestic solar by more than 40 percent, according to Advanced Energy United, a consortium of green energy businesses. They have been effective: the Bureau of Labor Statistics estimates that wind turbine service technicians and solar photovoltaic installers will be the fastest-growing occupations through 2033. As far as energy and component production goes, the IRA was responsible for some 646 energy projects (either announced or underway) that have produced 334,565 jobs as of August 2024. The Swiss firm Meyer Burger used 45X to complete building facilities in Goodyear, Arizona. The US manufacturer First Solar made a $450 million investment in a new R&D center in Perrysburg, Ohio, which they commissioned in 2024; hiring is underway for an estimated three hundred new positions to be filled this year. Perhaps most impressive, the South Korean corporation Qcells invested more than $2.5 billion on a solar-cell and module production facility in Dalton, Georgia—which anchors a region devastated by the decline of the textile industry. That campus employs two thousand full-time workers who produce 5.1 gigawatts worth of solar panels each year, the most of any site in the country. 

Clean energy manufacturing requires semiconductors, which are the building blocks of solar cells as well as the digital components of wind turbines, electric vehicles, and advanced energy storage. Every electric vehicle contains between two to three thousand chips. As the pandemic shortage made clear, US industries relied overwhelmingly on foreign production. This is where the CHIPS Act came in. The legislation granted $50 billion to the Department of Commerce: $11 billion for semiconductor research and development and $39 billion for chip manufacturing and workforce training. The resulting surge of private investment has been impressive. According to the Financial Times, by April 2024 some thirty-one projects worth at least $1 billion had been founded since the act was passed, compared to just four in 2019. By that point the government had spent just over half of the act’s incentives. Since the election the Biden administration has been working to get the rest of the subsidies to businesses. Leading recipients include Intel, Taiwan Semiconductor Manufacturing Co. (TSMC), Samsung, and Micron. In December the commerce department announced that Texas Instruments could receive as much as $1.61 billion in direct CHIPS funding for projects in Texas and Utah. The department now predicts that by 2030 domestic markets could produce a fifth of the world’s chips; until very recently, the US produced none.

[...] The Trump administration could theoretically shut down many of Biden’s green initiatives. But the electoral benefits to Republicans would be unclear: most of the IRA’s recent projects are based in congressional districts with Republican representatives. It’s more likely that they will redirect subsidies to their districts and preferred businesses—including in the extractive sector—and brag about job growth. They are already at it. In 2023, when Kamala Harris appeared at the Qcells plant in Dalton, Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene accused her of “trying to take credit for jobs that President Trump and Governor Kemp created in Georgia back in 2019.”