#I've got the clearance to post this now!

[wildpiercy-art]

LUGNODE BE UPON YE

[foxwyrm]

Hi friends!! I know I haven't been posting as much lately, and that's because I've been working on a project!! That project is finally completed now :}

Dragon scale jumper!!!! 🐉🌱⭐️

please me nice to me I do not know how to pose or style this yet 😔

It looks a little wonky up-close, but I'm very happy with the results!! This was a prototype done with an old grey jumper and a dragon-scale patterned pillow I got on clearance. Now that I sort of know what I'm doing, my goal is to make a green version that fits me better :}

I very much recommend this for all beasties with scales!! It's a really easy project even if you dont have a sewing machine, and it looks great even if you mess up a bit

Some wip shots when I remembered to take them below the cut!

🌱⭐️🐉

[weaselle]

Let's talk chef knives

somebody in the comments on a cooking post is talking to me about knives and i figure, why not make a whole post about it

I worked in restaurants for two decades, and that means i was mostly too poor to buy expensive knives.. but i did learn EXACTLY what i was looking for in a knife, and eventually i did spend about $150 on one.

Now, you can easily spend $500 or more on a chef knife if you are the kind of person who cares about having the chef knife equivilent of a porche or lamborghini and i don't think many of you are looking for that, so I'm going to tell you what i looked for in my really-good-but-not-too-expensive chef knife

First of all, you don't need that block set of knives you see in like every kitchen ever. You know, this thing

You don't need that. Listen, theoretically each of those knives has a specific thing it is used for, but in all the restaurants i worked at, 99.9% of the stuff i did was done with one of these

We didn't go looking for a specific kind of knife, we just used one of these -- often a bunch of those were all that was provided. I uh, i didn't work at a lot of high end restaurants. But even in the nicer ones, most of what we used was a chef's knife.

So. In my opinion, instead of spending $100-$200 on a bunch of kind of shitty knives, spend the same money on one really nice chef knife, and a wetstone or some other sharpener you feel you can use. But really, like, just look at a wetstone tutorial on youtube, it's not hard, and it will make your life better.

NOW let me tell you what i looked for in my knife

This is the knife i use. It's a six inch Zwilling Pro

if you shop around, you can probably find it for close to 100 bucks. It's not Fancy™, it's just Quite Good. You can, if you want, find a chef knife for a couple grand, and that plastic-handled one in the first pic will run you less than ten dollars, so, this is a pretty good price point, on the low side of middle, with a knife quality on the high side of middle. If you take care of this knife, it could last you your whole life

Now let's talk about specific features I was looking for. First, inb4, metal quality. Zwilling is a good company, so the quality of their actual metal is pretty decent, and that's all you really need to know -- if you're getting your knife from a known decent knife company it's probably good enough quality. In this case Zwilling uses forged high-carbon German steel, which are some good key words to look for. That's all i have to say about that.

Now there are four specific things i was looking for that led me to choose this specific knife

1

Depth. This refers to how far the heel of the blade juts out from the handle (the heel of the blade is the part of the blade closest to your hand). When you have the blade resting with the edge flush against the cutting board, you want there to be plenty of room for the hand gripping the handle without knocking your knuckles against the board. A classic pinch grip doesn't need much room, but that's not the only grip you'll ever use, so give yourself some decent knuckle clearance. But not TOO much. Too much and your blade will kind of feel like it wants to flop over on its side when the edge hits the board.

2

Length. As an edgy 20 year old in restaurant kitchens, i always went for the biggest knife i could find, but because you're going to be using your chef's knife for everything, you actually want it short enough to use as a paring knife or whatever. The shorter the blade, the more control over the tip you have. Me, i never really need anything longer than six inches. I was a little bit worried when i first got it, but i've never wound up wishing it was longer.

3

Weight. Even though it's just about as short as a chef's knife can be, my knife has a good amount of weight to it. A somewhat heavy blade helps with chopping, and provides a good balance for other knife skills. When you are chopping and slicing, a decent amount of weight helps a lot. It doesn't have to be heavy heavy, but when you pick it up, it should definitely feel like a chunk of steel, not like a pressed aluminum toy. Plus, some of the weight will come from thickness, and a thicker blade will stand up to more sharpening and last you longer too.

4

Bolster Shape

If you look at the Zwilling Pro's bolster, it has a bolster that is sort of beveled into the heel of the blade with a nice curve. Right right, what's a bolster, hold on, here's the anatomy of a knife

on this knife, you can see that where the bolster meets the blade it makes basically a right angle where it goes from thick to thin. This is distressingly common in chef knives

now look at the bolster on the Zwilling Pro

and here's a similar bolster shape from a different angle

First of all, the bolster is diagonal, which is the right shape for me to hold in a classic grip. Every chef has their own grip, but it's always a variation on pinching the blade just above the bolster, and a diagonal bevel works better for my grip.

And just as important to me, it might be hard to tell, but the metal curves from the thickness of the handle to the thinness of the blade instead of using a right angled edge to go from thick to thin. This curve sort of follows the movement your knife makes against the knuckle you use to guide the blade when you do this

I tend to use the deepest part of the heel a lot, and, depending on what i'm doing with the knife, my grip can often be nearly off the blade it's so far back, so i have a tendency to knock a straight bolster directly against my index knuckle. Just a little, but after a few dozen times in half a minute it starts to irritate my finger. A curved bolster like on the Zwilling Pro sort of glides to a stop against my guiding knuckle instead of banging into it, provides a comfortable pinch, and makes my life in the kitchen better.

That might not be true for everyone, it's just important to pay attention to how you use a knife, especially if you find yourself thinking something like "it would be better for me if this part of the knife was different in this way" or "this knife would be easier to grip if it was shaped like this instead" or "i wish the shape of this knife didn't mean this was always happening" or whatever. Could even be how your knife fits in your dishwasher, just pay attention to what works and doesn't work for you personally so you know What you're looking for. But you for sure want to look at the Depth, Weight, Length, and Shape.

So. There you have it. Some things to pay attention to when selecting a knife that may allow you to get a good knife for yourself without spending tooooo much money.

[heya-dollface]

What to look for when making Long Hair for Dolls - The Differences in 100% Acrylic Yarns

Hey lovely doll peeps, hope you're having a good day! So over in the Dollblr community here on Tumblr, some people had some questions regarding making doll hair out of acrylic yarn. So I took some time to grab some yarn from my stash and lay out what I know about working with it. It was helpful there, so now I'm copying the post over here so you all can enjoy it and use its knowledge for your own doll needs. That said, if you're interested in the Dollbllr community, go reach out to @plasma-packin-peep/@peepersponies to see about getting an invite. It's a really sweet group of people from what I've experienced so far. <3

Let me give you a quick summary of about five years worth of learning to work with this material.

Welcome to my desk! Before you are five different yarns from my stash. All of these are 100% acrylic. As you can see, acrylic yarn comes in a wide variety of sizes and softness, and while I can do the same things to all of them, they will behave slightly differently. My favorites of this bunch are the Yarn Bee True Colors and the Charisma. Yarn Bee is the native brand to Hobby Lobby, and Charisma I've found at Michaels. Loops & Threads and Hometown, which aren't pictured here, other brands I've enjoyed working with in their thicker fiber variants, also over at Michaels.

The common wisdom in the doll community is that you use 100% acrylic because it's a synthetic fiber that can handle heat. That means it can handle a flat iron or curling wand without melting, which is what makes it look similar to real human hair on this scale. I haven't tested a ton in the way of other fibers. But one of my dolls, Sass here, uses a combination of 100% acrylic yarn and a yarn that's part acrylic, part nylon, and I wanna say part spandex? It's been like 4 years since I made this guy, and that yarn's label is lost, but you can see that the nylon yarn sticks out a little. It doesn't flat iron nicely into a fluffy, realistic hair, it's more stringy. So useful to know if you want that look!

So here's what we're going to do. I've taken all of the yarns pictured and taken them apart to show you how much fiber I lose on an average yarn prep. I'm gonna show you what that looks like from left to right. My method is to cut my yarn, unravel each strand by hand, then take a wire pet brush to it to smooth it out. Instead of tying my yarn to a hanger or hoop, I hold it in my hand, brush through the yarn gently until I'm halfway through, then flip it and go after it from the other side. This is good for ensuring that my length is preserved. Whatever fiber gets stuck in the pet brush, I then take out, mush together, and brush through again so that I have more yarn hair to work with. After that, I will take a flat iron to it and then brush through one more time, but I'm not showing those last two steps here. That said, sometimes flat ironing does lead to losing more fiber, so that is something to consider.

Let's start with that big chonker. This is also a Yarn Bee yarn, and it's probably ideal for an easy time getting your hair unraveled. I have yet to use this one on a doll, truth be told I got it on clearance and haven't figured out who the color would suit. It's very easy to pull apart and work with, and as you can see, it retains a lot of its length.

Next is the True Colors. This stuff is so soft, which is why it's my preference, and while it can be easy to tear apart, you can still retain a lot of length if you're gentle. Like look at the far right, that's all the fiber I took out of the pet brush and mushed back together. It's still a pretty sizable amount of yarn fiber to work with!

The Charisma is a similar story. Something you've probably noticed is that not all yarns have the same amount of strands when pulled apart. I tend to see 2 to 4 on average when I'm prepping yarn. This is a two strander, and once again, it's soft and delightful. Highly recommend going to a physical store and touching your yarn before your buy it. The softer stuff is my preference given how much I'm holding and touching it.

This yarn from Mainstay I got on clearance at Walmart, and it's actually quite soft to the touch! As you can see, our strands are getting thinner here, which is harder to unravel with your fingers. I loose a lot of length when brushing through yarn like this, and it's hard to mush the fibers back together. Yarn like this is incredibly common, and I'll be honest, I don't love working with it. ^^''' But it may be perfect for your project needs! All depends on what you want in a yarn. If you're looking to give a doll a wavy/curled hair without having to curl it yourself, just unraveling and plugging a lot of these in might be for you!

I don't remember where this seafoam green yarn came from, but I think it might be yarn marketed for making baby clothes. It's very thin, and it knots a little at the ends when you unravel it, which is frustrating. I managed to preserve and reconstruct pretty well with this fiber, but the amount of hassle it takes to get through this for a full head of doll hair is very aaaahhh. Like I said, maybe this works for your project. I tend to save this kind of yarn for stuff like accents rather than the main hair color, just because it takes so long to work with.

And there you have it! Those are my notes about brushing out doll hair! As a quick aside, you don't have to brush out yarn in order for it to be beautiful. Sometimes I like to only unravel it and use it that way, like with my recent fairy doll here. She uses a blend of two True Colors yarns and I wanna say a Charisma for the white. There's even a pink and white yarn in here that I didn't brush out, I just boiled and then froze it around a foam curler and threw it in for more texture, though it's a bit tough to spot in this photo.

At the end of the day, you can use just about any acrylic yarn for your project, the question is really what are you willing to put up with. I know myself, I know that I can put on a movie or chat with friends as I'm unraveling a thicker fiber yarn and then brush it out another time and have it be tolerable. That works for me. As you can see, a staple of my dolls is having really long, soft yarn hair, so it makes sense that this is what I gravitate towards. XD

But maybe you want something different out of your yarn experience. That's fine too! The best thing you can do is experiment to see what you like. Do what makes you happy! There is no wrong way to customize your dolls (so long as you're not putting yourself or others in danger). Go have fun, be kind to yourself, and be safe in handling your materials. And of course, if you have any questions, feel free to ask! I've been customizing since November of 2018, and I love chatting about this art form. To my beginners especially, there is no such thing as a stupid question, don't be afraid to ask for help if you're unsure of where to go.

Here's wishing you all a wonderful day, and happy customizing! <3

[scoonsalicious]

Unwanted: Chapter 3, Unbidden - Pt. 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, alcohol consumption, minor discussions of sex, drunk!Bucky, minor violence, FloRida's Low (that song slaps, okay?), minor anti-Winter Soldier sentiment, an unnecessary Ted Bundy reference just because. As always, let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: 4.1k

Previously On...: You and Bucky had a heart-to-heart after you came back from your mission with Steve, and Bucky asked a very interesting question about the nature of your relationship with the Star Spangled Man.

A/N: I just finished writing Chapter 9 ahead of schedule, so here is Chapter 3 a little bit earlier than I planned on posting it! Consider it in honor of Sergeant Barnes' 107th Birthday! This is my favorite chapter; I had so much fun writing it, this part in particular (even though it took me a million tries before I got it to where I wanted it). Sam is finally given some page time, and I adore him, so I hope I've captured his essence sufficiently. I sort of love writing drunk!Bucky. Part three is where things are going to take an interesting turn for Bucky and Pocket so I'm looking forward to posting that soon!

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917

Taglist: (Please let me know if you’d like to be added!)  @blackhawkfanatic @les-sel @marcswife21 @buckybarnessimpp @jmeelee @cazellen

Slapping your American Express Black Card onto the polished mahogany bar, you made sure the bartender was giving you his full attention. "Everything my group orders tonight goes on my tab, got it?" you told him. "If Tony Stark tries to pay for a single thing, tell him it's already covered and if he has a problem with it, he can take it up with me." The bartender nodded, taking your card and depositing it with the other open tabs behind the bar. It was going to be a very lucrative night for the bar.

You'd all come to Gino's, a downtown dive of place you all loved, to celebrate Bucky's clearance for missions. As a part of his presidential pardon for the Winter Soldier's crimes (completely unnecessary, in your opinion, because Bucky hadn’t been the one to commit them), he had been required to undertake 12 months of court-mandated therapy, and now that he had ten months under his belt, his therapist had signed her approval for Bucky to engage in real Avenger work, provided he was accompanied by another member of the team at all times for supervision. He'd be leaving tomorrow for a classified location with Steve and Sam; they'd be gone for about a week, so you'd wanted to commemorate the event and leave him with some positive memories before he left.

You rejoined your group in the far back, where you'd commandeered the largest corner booth and the surrounding tables. "Tonight's on me," you declared as you approached, "so drink up and eat well." Your friends cheered their thanks; Thor even banged his giant fist against the table in appreciation. You did a mock curtsey before coming to stand behind Bucky where he sat, draping your arms around his neck and shoulders and bringing your head down alongside his.

"Having a good time?" you asked him.

Bucky let out a soft chuckle, leaning back into your touch. "With you by my side? Always," he replied, his voice laced with affection. "But you didn't have to do this, doll. Pay for everything, I mean. We could have all gotten our own."

Letting go of his shoulders, you moved around to sit next to him. "Bullshit. My best friend is going on his first Avengers mission, this is the least I can do."

"Listen, man," said Sam Wilson, also known as The Falcon and, if you were being completely honest, one of your favorite teammates after Bucky, "I know things might have been different when you were younger, but in the 21st Century, when a lady offers to buy you drinks, the polite thing to do is just say 'thank you' and get hammered."

Bucky laughed and chugged down the beer he'd been previously nursing and took the bourbon you'd brought over for him from the bar. "Thank you, Pocket. Though, I don't think I'll be getting... hammered on anything here."

"You're most welcome, Buck," you said, patting his cheek, the stubble tickling at your palm. "But if you are looking to get hammered, I believe our resident God of Thunder has brought a little something extra you could sip on in between beers." You nodded your head toward Thor, who sat a few seats down, pouring a splash of Asgardian something from a flask into Steve's tumbler.

Bucky quirked an eyebrow. "Is that so? Maybe I'll take him up on that." The super soldier got up and, squeezing your hand, made his way over to Thor, who gladly poured a generous splash of spirits into Bucky's glass of bourbon.

You watched him for a moment as he sat and drank with Steve and Thor, a warm feeling building in your chest at the sight of him looking and doing so well. He'd made so much progress since he first arrived at the Tower and you were unbelievably proud of him.

"You've been good for him, Pocket," Sam offered with a raise of his glass. "But I gotta know, when are you two gonna stop tip-toeing around each other and make things official?"

You let out an agonized groan. "Not you, too, Sam. Why don't you and Natty get together and write some fanfic about it? That's about as close to reality as it'll get."

"What are Wilson and I collaborating to write smutty fanfiction about?" Natasha asked as she sat down in Bucky's vacated seat, passing you a shot glass.

"Za nashu druzhbu!" You toasted in unison before downing the sweet liquid. To our friendship!

"A Redheaded Slut shot? How very Natasha," you teased.

"Don't try to change the subject," Sam interjected. "Romanoff: (Y/L/N) and Barnes. They go together like Netflix and chill or what?"

Natasha's eyes lit up. "Absolutely! Oh my God; I'm so glad you see it, too. They're just screaming 'Let's fuck already,' right?!"

"I don't know that they haven't started already," Sam said, obviously pleased to finally have someone to talk about this with. "I've never seen Metalhead as content as when he's with Pocket. Figure she's gotta be doing something to keep a smile on his face, if you know what I mean." He waggled his eyebrows, setting Natasha off into a barking laugh.

"Jesus Christ, Sam!" you sputtered. "I'm sitting right fucking here!"

Sam gave you a sheepish smile. "Sorry, Baby Girl. 'M just calling it like I see it. And with you and Barnes, I see it."

"She's going to stick to the story that nothing's going on between them," Nat began.

"Because there is nothing going on between us," you interrupted.

"But I think we all know something is brewing between those two," she continued, as if you hadn't said a thing. "I mean, do you really think they're just sleeping in the same bed every night?"

"Hold up, hold up." Sam raised his hand to stop Nat. "You're telling me those two share a bed? How long has this been going on and why am I just hearing about it now?"

"Oh my god," you said, putting your head in your hands and wishing the floor would open up and suck you into a hell dimension. It had to be better than sitting here listening to the two of them talk as if weren't in the room.

"You didn't know?!" Nat's expression was incredulous. "Essentially since the moment Barnes moved into the Tower. They alternate whose bed they sleep in, but it's literally every. single. night."

"That's it," you murmured, though you were sure they weren't paying you any attention, "I am never telling you another thing, ever, Natalia." They weren't embarrassing you, per se. You felt no shame about your closeness with Bucky. It was more that you hated that they were making assumptions about him. You could take ones made about you; you'd been doing that your entire life, but Bucky was different. He was... fragile wasn't the right word, but it came close. You wanted to protect him from everything negative, including your friends gossiping about his alleged sex life.

"Guys, please," you said, loud enough to catch their attention. "I know that, whatever I say, it's not going to convince you that I'm telling you the truth, but I don't want Bucky to hear it, okay? You're just going to make him uncomfortable and he'll retreat into himself, close up. So, save it for when you're by yourselves, alright?"

The sincerity in your words caused Sam and Nat's gazes to soften as they looked at you. You hoped that, despite their ribbing, they understood that your concern for your shared friend was genuine, and that, of the three of you sitting at the table, you knew Bucky best.

"Alright," said Sam, "I'll drop it. For now. But know I've got my eye on you, Pocket." He gave you a shrewd look. "Don't think you can keep your secret from Ole Sammy forever."

You shook your head, annoyingly amused.

The evening moved on pleasantly: conversation and alcohol flowed, and you felt yourself loosening up as the shots you'd drank with Natasha worked their way through your system until you were sporting a pleasant buzz. Bucky eventually came back to join you at your table, eyes glassy and with a giant, dopey grin plastered across his face.

"How's that Asgardian liquor treating you, Buckaroo?" you asked him with a grin of your own, knowing full well he was sauced.

"'s real good, Pocket," he slurred, propping his head on his fist and gazing at you with a dreamy expression. "'s nice and tingly, like the sun is shining on my insides."

"I'm happy for you, Buck," you said with a laugh, shooting an amused glance over Bucky's head to Nat, who responded with a smirk of her own. "That's real good."

He put his arms around you and pulled you into him, almost tugging you off of your chair in the process. "No! You're real good. Sho good to me, all warm and fuzzy and pretty. Just wanna keep touchin' you, you know? 'Cause you make me think of happy things." He paused to nuzzle his face into your hair. "You're m'favorite person."

"You're my favorite person, too, Buck," you said, stifling a giggle, amused by this new soft, silly side of him.

"Me?" he squeaked--actually squeaked. You nodded and then let out a surprised squeal as he pulled you into his lap, holding you almost tight enough to be uncomfortable, his metal arm clinging you to his chest. But then he pulled his head back to look you in the eye, his face suddenly serious.

He slurred, leaning in closer. You could smell the sweet scent of the Asgardian liquor on his breath. "Don'tcha dare tell Stevie, though, doll" he hiccupped, "'cause he'd be real put out if he found out I was your fav'rite."

"Well, then we won't tell him," you assured him, casting a bewildered glance to Nat. She subtly shook her head, as if to say she was just as confused as you as to why Steve would care if Bucky was your favorite person.

Bucky nodded solemnly. "Good. Don't want 'im feelin' bad, but 'm not sorry. 'S not my fault, either. He had ages and he didn't do nuthin'. That's on 'im. Not on me, not on you. On 'im." He began petting your hair in long strokes, seemingly distracted by the feel of it and losing his original train of thought. "Mmmm, you're so pretty. M'pretty little Pocket."

"Why, thank you, my handsome soldier," you replied, tapping him playfully on the nose while wondering what the hell he had been going on about concerning Steve. You hoped he wasn't so drunk that he didn't remember this conversation in the morning, because you were going to press the shit out of him for details.

Oh, but then... the next song from the jukebox caught your attention, and you looked up as the opening bars of Flo Rida's Low filled the air.

"Oh no," moaned Nat with a trace of laughter. "You're gonna dance, aren't you?"

A broad grin broke across your face. You loved dancing to anything, but this song was your kryptonite. "I can't help it," you told her, "it calls me, I come. Let's go!" You stood up, taking Bucky's hand and trying to pull him along with you, but the super soldier just shook his head and refused to move. Apparently he wasn't that drunk. "Fine. Sam, Nat, dance with me."

"I'm coming, Baby Girl," Sam said, taking Nat's hand and dragging her to meet you.

As soon as you had the space, you began to move, the music pulsing through your veins, syncing perfectly with your heartbeat. You swayed your hips in time with the infectious rhythm, your body moving effortlessly to the beat.

You felt Sam come up behind you, placing his hands on your hips as he began to dance with you, bass thumping in your chests. You and Sam had danced together countless times before; he was one of the only ones in the Tower who enjoyed dancing as much as you did, so the two of you had had plenty of practice moving together. Your movements may have been completely innocent, but they gave the appearance of something much more intimate-- it was just the nature of the dance. You could feel the heat of Sam's body pressed against your back, the way his hands gripped your hips protectively. It was all in good fun, a playful dance between friends, until you felt Sam's hands fly from your waist as you were about to get low.

You spun around, finding Bucky standing where Sam had been just a few seconds before, Sam now several feet away, anger wearing heavy on his face.

"What the hell, man?" Sam barked at Bucky. "What'd you shove me for?"

Bucky, his face flushed and eyes narrowed with a combination of intoxication and something dark, took a step towards Sam. "Didn't shove ya, Wilson," he slurred, his words blending together. "Ya just...got in the way."

"Got in the way? Man, we were just dancing. How was I in your way?"

Bucky's jaw clenched, his metal arm flexing by his side. The atmosphere shifted, thick with tension, as if the air in the room had suddenly turned molasses-slow.

"Okay, boys." You stepped between them, hands down and palms open, trying to create as much distance between the two as possible. The last thing you wanted was a drunken argument devolving into some kind of brawl. "It's getting late, and we've all had a good amount to drink." You gave Sam a pointed glance. "Bucky, will you take me home to the Tower? I'm pretty tired and I think I'm ready to call it a night."

Sam nodded in understanding-- it would be a hell of a lot easier to get Bucky home in his current state if he thought he was escorting you, instead of the other way around.

"Yeah, 'course, Pocket," Bucky said, his eyes softening as he looked at you. You were able to call out your goodnights to the rest of the team and, leaving instructions with Nat to close out your tab at the end of the night, began making your way to the door. Bucky stumbled a bit, his balance compromised by the alcohol in his system. You wrapped an arm around him, steadying him as you both made your way outside.

Outside the bar, the cool night air was a welcome relief from the noisy atmosphere inside. Bucky leaned heavily against you, his arm draped around your shoulders for support.

"Fuck, Barnes. You're heavy," you groaned under his weight.

"Fuck me, Pocket," he slurred, head tilting to the side. There was that look in his eyes again. The same one you'd seen the day he'd gotten his new arm. You couldn't identify it, but it made the hair on your arms stand up straight.

"Yeah, that's exactly what I said." You could feel his warmth seeping through your clothes, his presence comforting even in his intoxicated state.

"You good to stand on your own for a second, soldier?" you asked him. "I need to hail us a cab."

Bucky nodded and you carefully eased yourself out from under his arm, scanning the street for a taxi. The bustling city night was alive with lights and sounds, creating a tapestry of urban energy that seemed to match the frequency of the electricity that ran through your brain.

God, did you love this city.

As you raised your hand to flag down a cab, you couldn't help but steal glances at Bucky, his hair in disarray, falling into his eyes and his lips slightly parted as he breathed in the cool night air. Even drunk and disheveled, he still looked so handsome. There was a softness to him in the moment that made him look younger, and for a second, you could imagine that beautiful, carefree young man who had been drafted to cross the sea to fight someone else's war, and had paid for it with even more than his life.

A taxi screeched to a stop in front of you, interrupting your reverie. You hurriedly opened the door and helped Bucky inside, sliding in beside him. The cab driver gave you both a curious glance before pulling away from the curb. Once you gave him the address to Avengers Tower, that look got more and more frequent as he kept checking his rear view mirror.

"Hey, eyes on the road, buddy," you snapped at him, probably putting more aggression into your voice than you had intended, but the way the cab driver was looking at the two of you made you uneasy.

The ride back to the Tower was quiet, the low hum of the taxi's engine serving as a backdrop to the thoughts swirling in your mind. Bucky slumped against you, his head resting on your shoulder as he dozed off. You gently ran your fingers through his hair, feeling the softness of it against your skin. The city lights blurred past outside the window, casting a hazy glow over both of you.

"Listen," the cabbie eventually began in his thick New Jersey accent, "sweetheart, ya seem like a nice girl, but I don't think ya know what you're dealin' with, here. That man right there's the Winter Soldier. He's a murderer, a nasty one. The kind that likes to take a sweet thing like you and do horrible things."

You rolled your eyes. If they were going to keep telling stories about the Winter Soldier, the least they could do was get the details right instead of making him sound like Ted Fucking Bundy.

"This nasty murderer is my best friend," you said, each word clipped and infused with the anger you felt on Bucky's behalf. "So, maybe you should stick with getting us to our destination instead of trying to lecture me on something you know absolutely nothing about."

The cabbie fell silent, his eyes darting nervously between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. You could tell that he was regretting his decision to say anything, realizing that he had struck a nerve. Or, you thought with an amused chuckle, afraid that you were just as nasty as the Winter Soldier. But you couldn't blame him entirely. The reputation of the Winter Soldier was notorious, and it was only natural for people to be cautious. You just wished they knew the name Bucky Barnes, and the actual man, himself, just as well.

You sighed and shifted your gaze to Bucky, still unconscious against your shoulder. It wasn't fair, you thought, how people judged him solely based on his past. Yes, there were dark chapters in his history, but he had fought tooth and nail to regain control over his life. He had redeemed himself in countless ways even before he had officially joined the Avengers.

As the taxi approached Avengers Tower, you leaned over and gently shook Bucky awake. His eyes fluttered open, confusion etched in his features for a brief moment before recognition set in.

"We're home, Buck," you whispered softly, trying to soothe away any lingering unease from your brief conversation with the cab driver. "Let's get you upstairs." You threw a handful of bills in the cabbie's direction, not even bothering to wait for him to give you your change; you just wanted out of his cab and away from his prejudice.

Bucky nodded, rubbing sleep from his eyes. With your help, he stumbled out of the taxi and leaned on you for support as you made your way into the building.

"'m sorry 'bout that, doll," he drawled as you passed the security desk, sending a quick wave to the night guard.

"Sorry for what, Buck?" you asked him. He was silent as you made your way to the elevator bay, waiting until you had pressed the button to summon the elevator car.

"'bout the cabbie." He avoided looking at you while you waited, and it was like a punch to your gut-- he'd heard everything that ignorant man had said. The elevator doors dinged open and you helped usher him inside.

You took a deep breath as you pressed the button for your floor, the retinal scanner making quick work to prove your identity and verify your security clearance. "Buck," you exhaled, "you have nothing to apologize for. That man was an asshole and an idiot."

Bucky leaned back against the elevator wall, his head thumping against the cool metal. "But he was right. I am a nasty murderer."

You could scream. You could strangle that cabbie with your bare hands. Bucky had been doing so well, had been having such a good night, and one person's careless remark had ruined all of it.

"Barnes," you said, turning to face him. "Look at me. Do you think I'm stupid?"

His eyes grew wide at the insinuation, even in his drunk state, he was with it enough to be taken aback by your question. "'bsolutely not, doll. You're the smartest person I know. Smarter than Stark, even, 'cause you can admit when your wrong." The compliment left you trying to hide a smile.

"Okay. Do you trust my judgment?"

"With my life," he breathed. The elevator opened to your floor, and you helped Bucky out into the hall and down the corridor toward his room. The soft glow of the hallway lights illuminated his features, casting a warm, intimate aura around the two of you.

"So, if I'm not stupid and you trust my judgment, trust me when I tell you are not what that man says you are. You are a good man who had too many horrible things happen to him. And despite all those horrible things, you are still the kindest, funniest, most gentle man that I know."

As you reached his door, Bucky turned to face you, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and vulnerability. "Thank you, Pocket. Thank you for taking care of me, and for being my friend," he murmured, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and emotion.

A small smile played on your lips. "Always, Buck," you replied softly. "Now let's get you inside."

With a gentle push, you opened the door to his room and guided him over to his bed. Bucky collapsed onto the mattress with a heavy sigh, his body sinking into the softness beneath him. Once you'd pulled off his boots, you knelt down beside him, tucking the blanket around his shoulders.

As you straightened up, Bucky reached out and grabbed your hand, his grip surprisingly strong despite his intoxicated state. His gaze locked with yours, a mix of vulnerability and longing flickering in his eyes.

"I don't want you to leave," he whispered, his voice laced with a hint of desperation.

"I'm just going to hop over to my room to change into pajamas," you assured him. "I'll be right back. Promise." You smoothed his hair, trying to tame it from where it stood up in all directions.

"'kay," he said through a yawn, "but don't take too long. I got somethin' I need to tell ya. 's important."

"Okay," you told him, planting a kiss on his head. "I'll be just a minute." You hurried across the hall to your own room, changing into your pajamas and brushing your teeth in record time.

Re-entering Bucky's room, you were extremely curious as to what he'd wanted to say to you. "Alright, Buckaroo, I'm back. What did you--"

You smiled to yourself. Bucky was fast asleep, light snores emanating from him as he lay sprawled across the bed. You couldn't help but find him adorable in his slumber, especially with his hair sticking up in all directions.

With a soft sigh, you walked over to the side of the bed and gently sat down, watching Bucky's peaceful face. It was moments like these that reminded you of how much he had been through, how much pain and loss he had experienced. Despite his tough exterior, there was a vulnerability about him that tugged at your heartstrings.

You leaned in closer, unable to resist the urge to brush a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. Your fingers lingered on his skin for a moment longer than necessary, feeling the warmth radiating from him. The desire to protect and comfort him overwhelmed you, making your heart ache with affection, and something else that you couldn't quite identify.

Pulling down the covers, you climbed into bed next to him, snuggling up to his body for warmth. He grunted and wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer to him. It wasn't long before you drifted off into a slumber of your own.

<- Previous Chapter / Next Part ->

[yuri-is-online]

Ok but what if yutu finds a box full of letters and poems in yuus closet?

Their partner was out, so it was a perfect opportunity. In a week their 1 year marriage anniversary will happen, so they needed to act quick and be sneaky. They go to the closet and unbury a box full of all the letters and poems their partner has wrote throughout their years together, some even have no name onto them as they were intended to be from a secret admirer, but yuu noticed the similar handwriting.

They were going to take the box and turn into into a book, like an album of memories.

They hear the front door open. Oh no their partner is back way sooner than they expected. They hide the box into their clothes, as they're too far from the closet.

A man they've never seen before walks in. Before they can get a word out, they're blasted with two spells back to back.

One muddles their mind, the other opening a portal behind them. The shock from the blast, and them being not far off of their due date causes them to lose balance and tumble into the portal.

When their spouse returns home all they find is a rummaged closet and messy bedroom. Although they want to deny it, the evidence suggests that yuu took any funds they(yuu) were hiding and ran away.

Yes I'm also the grim overblot anon 😁 my brain is full of angsty worms and your au is just too perfect for me not to take them out on 💕

This could be read as something for any of the boys but I feel that it fits rook the most😶‍🌫️

Hello newest friend o/ I'm surprised at how many brainworms I've managed to give people, but it is very nice chatting with all of you about this. I really like this ayuu c:

I like this concept and agree that it fits Rook the best out of all of them. So much so I think I am going to steal it for his Yutu hc post. In general though I think that if Yutu found something like that it would add to the mystery of who his father is for him. Lilia! Yutu sees it as further confirmation that he was the product of an affair, Malleus! Yutu takes it as further proof that magic is real. Jade, Deuce, and Riddle's Yutus would probably be even more confused; if his dad loved Yuu this much then why isn't he here with them? While Cater, Ace, and Yutres of the the Trey Triplets would just find the letters very romantic and not think too much on it beyond that. I can't really see Leona writing letters, Idia I could see writing a digital diary of sorts but no physical letters. It's a really cute idea ;-; the correct mix of angst for this ayuu I think.

Now as for Rook thinking that Yuu left him...

The evidence suggests that yuu took any funds they were hiding and ran away. That's what whoever created this scene wants him to think. But there's no way Yuu would have been able to leave the house without him knowing unless they had a very specific sort of help. The Hunt estate has some of the highest level of security clearances in Twisted Wonderland, whoever took his spouse is someone with connections indeed. But not to worry, he got Vil back from the Isle of Woe did he not? He'll find Yuu and their child soon enough. Rook writes a detailed diary about his search, about the beauty he observes that he missed telling Yuu about.

But he doesn't find them. He doesn't find them and the real world begins to crumble around him alongside his personal one.

[xxavengingangelxx]

I am very curious about your version of Graves, I want to hear a detailed run down from you on how he’d be like in a romantic situation, would he commit? would he get married? would he “fall in love���, would he want a trophy wife to show off? I am just very curious and would love to hear you speak about this. I want to know what he’d be like if he actually did commit to a long term relationship or marriage, and what kind of woman would make him commit if so? I personally feel like he’d get married to a woman who works alongside him in shadow company, it just makes sense for him to get with somebody who is on the same level of psychopathy as him and understands his actions and behaviour, more so, he’d love being around a woman like that in my opinion. somebody who is as intelligent and knows how PMC’s work and can help him manage it too.

This is a good question! Sorry it took a while work has been absolutely insane. Like 60+ work weeks and now I have Hurricane Beryl headed my way! I use she/her pronouns just because that’s what I wrote my fic about but I think it certainly applies the other way around, too! 😉 I also found out after copy-pasting I've exceeding the character limit so this is part 1! Triggers for mentions of domestic violence and dubcon.

ALSO: This is my version of Graves based on what I know and based on the limited information we have. Another anon post said I had Graves wrong, a different opinion. Totally okay! We all have our own versions of him.

Graves in a romantic situation. This is a difficult one. I think it would be very difficult for Graves to differentiate between romance/love and possessiveness. In a fic I wrote, Graves decides OC is his immediately upon meeting her. I think he would be similarly inclined in the civilian world. I’m not sure if he could a civilian could handle Graves, to be honest ☹But he would be similarly possessive. When this type of man (narcissistic with a touch of psychopathy/sociopathy, and if I’m honest, just a little sadism) is deeply interested in a woman, he gets her one way or another.

My version of Graves likely wouldn’t give his chosen partner a choice. In the military, he’d use his clearances (and his Shadows!) to keep track of her. He’d treat a civilian the same way. He’d follow her and then act like: “Hey! Weird running into you here!” when in his head he’s thinking, “I better not see you talking with any other men.”

I think he would commit/not cheat but not for the reasons normal people would. He would commit because he’s obsessed. He would commit because stalking someone and making sure they don’t escape you once you have a hold of them is like two full-time jobs even with his Shadows. And if we’re talking about a female I can see Graves being worried about said female trying to seduce a Shadow to let her go. If she’s on the smaller side, there’s the risk of her slipping out somewhere. His mobile job would help in the sense that his wife would be clueless as to where she was most of the time. She would never go anywhere alone. He’s got a PMC to run. And when he has down time, he’s tired.

He would love showing off his wife. In a fic I wrote he does just that. He would marry to legally tie his wife to him. And in COD, to make it a legal barrier for her to testify against him. She wouldn’t have a choice. I can totally see him pregnancy trapping his wife to further trap her with him. He’d say there was no way she’d leave and take his children and she’s not going to leave her children behind so she stays. I can’t say him mentioning his kids too much as he realizes they would be a bigger target for his enemies. Even Graves has a bit of a heart when it comes to kids.

I see Graves having more of a traditionalist especially since he’s a conservative type from Texas. I'm a Texan living in Texas y'all: Graves is typical down here (but most of them aren't as good looking!) I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the type to think: the man works, the wife stays home, raises kids, and spends all her time with her husband when he’s home. However, I can also see him wanting to keep said wife busy so her mind isn’t on escape. After kiddos start entering scene, I see him putting her on intel or something like that. Work from home, ma'am.

Graves would absolutely be attracted to intelligence because Graves is smart. Generally, if there is a big mismatch between intelligence (IQ) between parties, they struggle with not only communication but common interests. I think he would want any children he has to inherit that intelligence and continue his company.

An upside (I guess?): Graves is rich as fuck. His wife would have everything and anything she wants (except freedom, ha).

-OC wants an SUV to transport the kids on base? "Sure, darlin’ I already ordered a top-model Audi/Porche." (By the way, when traveling off base, she and the kids are in a military, armored vehicle with no windows. Graves knows his enemies will try to target them.)

-OC wants to be in a home-like environment on base to give the kids somewhat of a normal life? "Of course, sweetheart. Custom built. Whaddaya want?" (No way they would ever live in a normal neighborhood, too risky.)

-OC asks about schooling since they’re constantly moving around. “Don’t worry about it, love. Paid private school, one-on-one attention online and one-on-one in-person attention in the US. I’m not putting them in the shitty public school system. I want them in military universities.” (Plus, they’d start their military education young.)

I think that Graves, like most full-blood psychopaths/sociopaths as well as those who have a touch of it like Graves, he would equate giving his wife whatever she wanted (except freedom!), any material thing she wanted as well as his kids the best of everything with love. He’d equate sex, even dubcon sex, as love.

Now, more about kids. He’d want the best for his kids but there’s no damn way the kids would get whatever they wanted. He’s got some psychopath in him (see Graves Defragged posts as to why, based on the info we have, he does not score high enough on the psychopathy scale) so he’d literally shape his kids’ (and his wife’s tbh) behavior with positive reinforcement because that is what he responds to. Being a narcissist, he believes everyone thinks like him and that everyone responds to positive reinforcement (but in reality there are other ways of shaping behavior like negative reinforcement, negative punishment, and positive punishment). He literally cannot empathize or put himself in someone else’s shoes (again, see Graves Defragged posts). It’s not that he feels guilt/empathize and chooses to ignore it. This man’s brain is physically wired differently and cannot, cannot, CANNOT feel it. So of course he’d think positive reinforcement is the only way to shape behavior.

Now, Graves’s version of discipline. Yikes. Do I see Graves hitting his partner? Absolutely. Graves is in general not impulsive, especially when it comes to important, long-term decisions. For my Criminal Minds fans, he'd be an organized serial killer, not a disorganized one if that helps. His brain structure is different so his limbic system (the more animalistic part of our brains) can be overwhelming to him and I can see this overtaking his prefrontal lobes (PFC) when emotions are involved. What happens? He will lash out with violence, like, with little warning. (I can write another post as to how most homicides are actually crimes of passion, between people who know each other and not planned out/between strangers like the media/TV shows make it out to be.) He will hit his wife, hard, if she gets (what he deems to be) “out of line.” I can’t really see him doing it all the time. But I can definitely see that if his partner pisses him off enough, that partner can easily spend a few nights in a hospital. Yes, Graves sees his wife as somewhat below him: someone needing guidance, direction, and discipline.

For the kids: He’s the disciplinarian, no doubt and the kids go to mom for comfort. Mom gets in the way? He’ll shove her at the least. I can’t really see him seriously hurting his kids. His kids are half him and he’s narcissistic, remember?

There’s emotion involved and based on what I’ve been trained in, men like Graves can only feel two emotions strongly: joy…and rage. We’ve all gotten angry and done/said something we regretted. Imagine that tenfold with an overactive limbic system and some glitches in the frontal lobes.

Now: In one of my darker fics, Graves writes (and then burns) a letter to OC where he starts to feel some kind of guilt. But, xxavengingangelxx, you said he couldn’t feel that! I know 😉 But we all love somewhat happy endings, right? We all love seeing Graves with somewhat of a human side. That’s why I added that little tidbit even though in real life, he wouldn’t be able to feel that. In my fic he’d continue to blame OC for what she went through because “she should’ve talked when we first got her.”

Wow, ok. Two pages of this. I need to shut up. I went to school for this, I trained in this, I see this every day, and I read on average a book a week on this topic. I’m obsessed fascinated!

Anon, I hope I answered both your questions 😊 Any other questions, let me know!

[fandomshatefatpeople]

Hey so I get that this mainly a blog about media but I have no one fat-positive in my life and I need help. I’ve been fat all my life and now I’m on a mood stabilizer that makes me consistently gain weight and like I’m at the point where even plus size stores don’t carry clothes that fit me. Everyone keeps wanting me off the pills but I need them right now.

I worry I’m doomed to never like how I look again because I won’t be able to wear the clothes I want. And with how many health problems run in my family I just don’t have time for the world to get more accommodating.

I don’t know what to do to or how to be happy

*hugs*

I'm so sorry you're having people fat shaming you in your life. I've personally gained like 100 pounds from different psychotropics over the last 22 years. Some of it was really fast (like when I got put on lithium and gained 50 pounds in 4 months). I've done my fair amount of yoyo dieting as a result and let me tell you please start curating your online presence to feature fat positivity. A lot of the fat positivity of the last decade or so is just... it would make teenage me feel a whole lot better honestly. There's tons of resources like @fatphobiabusters and the tag #fatshion if you want to see other fat people who are wearing whatever they want.

I personally gained a lot of weight with my knee injury 2 years ago and its been very comforting to see so much more in the way of options now.

I'll give you a few tips for shopping. 1) only shop sales and clearance on popular retail sites like torrid or lanebryant. (I've gotten so much cute stuff from Lane Bryant that I don't see in their stores and like everything in their stores is for rich people I swear). 2) Shop with different occassions in mind. Pick one fancy dress for things like weddings and parties or clubbing. Lots of chic cocktail dresses can be dressed up or dressed down depending on your accessories. Get some work outfit staples (black pants or skirts are a must have for everyone but as long as you don't shop impulsively and recklessly at the last minute you should find a few things on sale now that will wow people when you finally debut them) 3) I know its hard to shop online but it can get easier if you do a few things. First of all is know your measurements. Get a measuring tape and measure your chest/bust your hips and your tummy where you want your pants to be. (this totally depends on whether you're looking for like high waisted pants or jeans btw).

Ok that's all I can think of right now but I might do a post that highlights my recent shopping sprees.

mod laina

[rubystatic]

Asking For Trouble

I wasn't sure what to write for my first post here. I haven't written for Hazbin Hotel before, but I figured what better introduction to the fandom than a literal introduction between Alastor and the reader? I've had this scene rattling around in my head for a few weeks, so I hope you enjoy it.

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Contents: demonic summoning, Alastor being an eldritch horror, hints of gore, blood, minor self-injury (not sh)

The red paint glistens like fresh blood in the light of the candles. A dozen or more of them, scattered around your living room, resting atop the coffee table, the TV stand, melted onto the top of the bookcase and the windowsill. Thick, black candles you bought from the Halloween clearance sale at the local big box store. You don’t think colour matters, but it felt right for the occasion. If you’re going to do this, you might as well do it right. 

A clear space dominates the centre of the room—all the furniture has been pushed aside, crowding up against the walls to make room. You’ve rolled up the living room rug and propped it against the stairs. 

When you first moved into your basement apartment, you were dismayed to discover that it had a poured concrete floor, and that the landlord hadn’t bothered to put in carpet or laminate or even cheap lino. However, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and the rent price was such a steal, you didn’t dare question him on it in case he decided he wanted a less whiny tenant. 

You have reason to be grateful for it now, though. A red pentagram painted on a wooden floor or carpet would be a quick way to make sure you never got back your security deposit. A bit of turpentine and it’ll be like this never happened. 

Assuming that you’re still alive. If this even works.

The thing that started it all, a simple black notebook—some Moleskine rip-off—sits open at the edge of your circle, along with a whole mess of measuring implements. A simple protractor wasn’t good enough for something like this. You’d had to buy some stuff off the internet, and now your Amazon recommendations looked like a geometry professor’s wet dream. 

And there I was, thinking 10th grade math would never get me anywhere in the real world. 

You pick up the notebook, glancing between the scrawled diagrams and measurements and your own summoning circle. It looks right. It had better be, since you spent all afternoon hunched over, painting it with dollar store acrylic paints. Oh, and your life depends on it. Can’t forget that much. 

The notebook is a journal of sorts. You found it behind the bookcase when you first moved in, wedged there and forgotten. The pages are covered in the feverish scrawl of a previous resident. At first you felt a little weird about reading it, but curiosity overcame any moral quandary you had in the end. 

The journal outlines the three month period it took for a young writer to seemingly descend into madness as his work was rejected, over and over. As his girlfriend left him, his father died, and his life fell to pieces. He became more and more desperate, his writing growing erratic. His writing research had already led him down some occult paths, but it seemed he’d decided to pursue them even further.

Which was you’ve come to be kneeling on your living room floor, trying to summon a demon.

Taking a deep breath, you flip to the last page, where the invocation is written, the pen almost tearing through the paper in some places. It’s the last entry. 

You reach out, and use your fingertips to push a plate of venison over the boundary line, into the centre of the pentagram. The meat is a dark, pinkish red, practically pulsing with blood and vitality, as the journal instructs. 

Getting it necessitated a trip outside city limits to a questionable butcher in the countryside who specialised in game meat. The journal is very clear—it has to be fresh. Supermarket meat won’t cut it.

Everything is in place. There’s nothing left to do but begin.

You take a deep breath, your hands trembling slightly as you lift the journal, holding it open. You have a strange feeling of duality, that you’re both at once powerful and ridiculous. Someone tearing open the veil between worlds to seek higher (or lower) power, and someone playing pretend. 

You force yourself to ignore the latter, pushing it aside and holding onto the image that what you’re doing is going to work. Faith is important, even if it isn’t invested wisely. 

“Let—”

Oh, shit, you’ve forgotten a step. 

Dropping the journal in your haste, you reach for the small pen knife lying at the edge of the circle. Gritting your teeth, you tighten your grip on the wooden handle, and make a small cut on the side of your thumb. Holding your fist out over the circle, you let a few beads of blood, looking almost black in the candle light, splatter the venison. 

You open a bandaid and slap it over the cut, pleased you haven’t completely sliced your palm open like they do in movies. Don’t they know how long that takes to heal? 

Anyway, back to the demon summoning. 

“Let this offering of flesh and blood open the veil between the earthly realm and the depths of Hell,” you read aloud, your voice becoming stronger with every word.

No wonder that writer guy couldn’t get his shit published if this is how he wrote everything. Despite the stilted prose, you keep reciting it aloud, just glad it’s not in Latin, or worse, rhyming. 

“I summon you, o’ Deal Maker, Keeper of Bargains, Purchaser of Souls—” 

Seriously? Writer of Bullshit, more like. 

“I summon you, Alastor!” 

You hold your breath as the last echoes of your voice fade from the walls, waiting for something to happen. The candles continue to flicker gently, and you can hear the muted hubbub of voices from your neighbour’s TV upstairs. Your knees are starting to hurt from sitting on the floor. 

Sighing, you let the journal drop to the floor. It hasn’t worked. Of course.

Why did you think this was going to work? Summoning a demon of all things—

The candles ripple as if stirred by a breath, then their flames spike upwards, rigid. The light throws shadows across the walls, but the shadows don’t move in the right way. They sway back and forth, almost in a trance, as if the room is tilting side to side. 

The candle flames stretch up and up, thinning out into streamers. The golden glow dims, before blooming a bright, venal red. Your ears fill with the sound of static as the painted lines of the summoning circle begin to glow crimson. Smoke boils up from the centre into a plume of pulsing fog, backlit by the red light and twitching shadows. 

Something very old, buried and half-forgotten in your DNA screams at you to run, but you’re frozen to the spot, gaping as a figure takes form within the smoke. A tall, thin silhouette, long limbs distorted. Ice seeps into your gut.

The smoke clears, leaving an apparition, a demon, in your living room. It is not the monster you expected. No red skin, no black pits for eyes, no fire and brimstone… But whatever he is, he’s definitely not human. 

Stretching from floor to ceiling, he must be seven feet tall or more, with a thin, attenuated form and an inhumanly narrow waist. The demon is a vision in red, from his hair to his suit to his eyes, red on red, his pupils black slits in a sea of glowing crimson. 

It’s his smile that truly terrifies you, though. 

His teeth gleaming, the colour of aged ivory. Two rows of sharp, dagger-like points, ready to sink into flesh, designed to rend and tear. Whatever this creature is, death sustains him. 

Red hair, tipped in black, frames his face in a short bob, and tufts up at the top in what you think might be ears. Two small, black antlers jut from the top of his head. 

The static in  your ears crescendos like a wave crashing over your head, and the demon’s smile widens. He hums to himself, his voice a crackle, and looks around your meagre apartment. Finally, his gaze comes to rest back on you, the most interesting thing here.

“My, my,” he says, a strange, Transatlantic twang to his voice, “it’s been a while since someone summoned me. You really know how to set the mood, don’t you? Summoning circle, candles, and what’s this?” 

He leans down to pick up the plate of venison. Your blood has seeped into the meat by now, indistinguishable from the dead deer’s blood. The demon uses his gloved hand to pick up a morsel of the meat, his red eyes widening in pleasure, before popping it into his mouth like an hors d'oeuvre. 

“Delicious,” he praises. “Not a bit of fat on it, either. How did you know venison is my favourite?”

Before you can answer, his gaze lights upon the abandoned journal. He lets out a chuckle that’s half radio static. 

“Oh, that old thing. I should have known!” He slaps his knee in an over-the-top display of amusement. “You’re all so eager to throw yourselves into the Abyss! Humans, lemmings, what’s the difference?!”

The demon pretended to wipe a tear of mirth from his eye, before finally paying attention to you again. His grin cranked up a notch, practically splitting his face in half, and his hooded red eyes gleamed at you. 

“I haven’t introduced myself. How remiss of me. The name’s Alastor. A pleasure to meet you, my dear.”

The static in his voice fuzzed out, leaving behind a raspy baritone.

“Now, what can I do for you, darling?”

[captainsophiestark]

Jurisdiction

Jack Thompson x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for Fictober, and for my personal fic writing challenge for 2024, Sophie's Year of Fic! Featuring a new fic being posted every Friday, all year long :)

Requested by Anon!

Fandom: Marvel

Day Seventeen Prompt: "Strangest thing I ever heard."

Summary: Jack's meeting one of his SO's oldest friends, who just so happens to work for the FBI. Unfortunately for all of them, sometimes the job has to take priority.

Word Count: 1,115

Category: Fluff

A/N: Okay, officially *this* is the closest I've come to missing a Friday lol

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

"You're never gonna believe the case I just solved."

I grinned, humoring my long-time friend as he leaned across the table and closer to me.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. So we were trying to track down this group-"

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything."

My friend, Robert, and I both turned at the sound of someone behind us. I smiled immediately. Chief Jack Thompson of the New York SSR had finally arrived.

Jack and I had worked together for a long time, and now we'd been dating for the better part of a year. We'd been trying to set up times for meeting each other's important friends and family, but it had been incredibly complicated trying to work around our schedules at the SSR, especially since we weren't really supposed to tell anybody about our jobs.

Robert was one of the last people in my circle that Jack hadn't met. We'd grown up together, and while I'd found my way to the SSR, Robert had built up a career with the FBI. He had no idea what I did for a living, but I knew plenty about what he did.

"Glad you could make it," I said, fixing Jack with a smile as he took a seat on the other side of me. He planted a kiss on my temple, then reached out and offered a handshake to Robert.

"Jack Thompson. Nice to finally meet you."

"Likewise," said Robert, taking his hand with a grin. "You're just in time to hear about the case my boys and I just finished up. It was a doozy."

"Yeah, I heard you were with the FBI. That's real impressive," said Jack, his voice dripping with sarcasm that only I caught. I gave him a subtle elbow to the side, but he ignored me.

"Thank you," said Robert, nodding solemnly. "Like I was saying, we were trying to track down this group we thought was smuggling weapons into the country through a port in Maine. And we found the guys we were looking for, found their operation just like we'd been expecting. But they weren't smuggling weapons."

Jack and I both raised an eyebrow, leaning forward as Robert did. He lowered his voice for dramatic effect.

"They were smuggling technology."

I raised an eyebrow, and beside me, Jack leaned even further forward.

"It was all kinds of crazy stuff," Robert continued. "I can't tell you guys most of it, since neither of you has clearance, but... it's the kind of thing that would knock your socks off. I'm talking minature engines that can just hover about a foot in the air, some crazy glowing stuff that none of us have been able to identify yet... and that's just the tip of the iceberg."

"Wow," I said, playing it up a little bit out of politeness. Robert grinned and nodded.

"I know, right? I mean, can you even believe it?"

"Strangest thing I ever heard," Jack agreed, sounding anything but floored. At the SSR, we saw stranger things than that almost every week. "You said stuff that glows? What kind of stuff? What kind of glow?"

"I really shouldn't be telling you guys this, but so far, it seems like some kind of chemical mix just sitting in a little ball, waiting for who knows what to activate. It's been a few days since we caught all this stuff, and the glow hasn't gone down even a little bit."

Jack hummed next to me, leaning even farther forward and dropping his arm from around my shoulders. I could tell he wanted to drill down on exactly what Robert had found, and I didn't blame him. But before he got the chance to ask followup questions, the waiter came over to take our orders.

By the time we'd put in our requests, Robert was apparently ready to move on from his work stories. Jack fidgeted next to me, but still, he let it go. The three of us talked about life, told (non-work) stories, and laughed over lunch and drinks. By the time things were winding down, Robert had a massive smile on his face, and he shook Jack's hand again as we got up to leave.

"It was a real pleasure meeting you, Jack. I'm glad to know my friend found someone so wonderful to spend time with."

"It was great meeting you, too," Jack said. I noticed his smile was a little more forced, but Robert apparently didn't clock it as he turned to give me a hug.

"Good to see you. I know we're both pretty busy, but let's not go this long without seeing each other again, okay?"

"I completely agree."

We shared a smile, then Robert gave Jack and I one last little wave before hustling off down the street. I turned back to Jack with a sigh and a smile.

"Well, that was fun! And I think Robert really likes you."

"Yeah, but I don't know for how much longer." Jack ran a hand through his hair, and I raised an eyebrow at him.

"What do you mean?"

"How do you think Robert would feel if I claimed jurisdiction on his case?"

I gasped, and then grimaced. What Jack was saying made perfect sense—everything Robert had told us sounded right up the alley of the things we dealt with for work.

"Now I know what that face you kept pulling was about," I said. Jack scoffed, and I put my hands on my hips. "I don't think Robert would take it very well, honestly. But... we did say we wanted to see each other more often. And taking over his case would certainly accomplish that."

That got Jack to fully laugh. He put an arm around my shoulders, and the two of us started the stroll back to our office.

"So does that mean you're on board with me talking to the FBI about the SSR getting jurisdiction over all that stuff they found?"

"I mean, yeah. Robert and I will work it out, and it'll be nice to have a reason to tell him what I really do for work. Besides, he's great, but... even in the few minutes we were chatting, it was pretty clear the FBI aren't equipped to handle this."

"No, they're not. Glad we can agree."

"Who knows, maybe this'll even work out in our favor? Robert will see us working so well as a team solving his case that he'll be even happier than when we finished lunch."

Jack laughed again, and after a moment, I couldn't help joining him. Robert was in for quite a shock the next time he saw Jack and I. I might actually have to recruit Peggy or Daniel to take a picture for posterity.

****************

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989 @space-helen @misshale21

Marvel Taglist: @valkyriepirate @infinetlyforgotten @sagesmelts @gaychaosgremlin

[gingergofastboatsmojito]

RECYCLING /REPURPOSING

I've been sitting for days on the recycling concept of these 2 mirroring scenes this fucking SOB Storer planted there in plain sight for us.

I hated the Carmy scene soooooo much that I was blocked. So I postponed analyzing it all together. Till today.

I couldn't believe Storer fucked up soooooooo much.

CARMY'S VERSION:

Carmy sounds completely OC, who wrote this?!?!?!

He's talking nonsense. As if the entire S2 never existed, as if his realization during the panic attack never happened, and as if all the things we all know he feels for Syd were never there, as if Braciole never happened either, is a complete OVERWRITTING OF THE CHARACTER! He sounded as if a whole new team of rookie writers came in and wrote this P.O.S. scene on their first day on the job and then Storer signed off on it and shot it, with the money I pay HULUUUUUUUUUUUUU every month!

I figured: "It has to be on purpose! This can't be THIS BAD, it has to be good like deep deep down, and I'm fucking missing it."

Well... turns out I was missing the PURPOSE. Or the re-purposing, I should say.

Carmy, with the help of the other 2 clowns that were absolutely unnecessary but had a point bc let's face it, he shoulda sent a SO SORRY text as soon as he got out of the walk-in and he didn't do it not only bc he's an avoidant asshole and didn't get Syd's clearance that put his priorities in order, which he took as the perfect excuse to AVOID taking responsibility, was trying to re-purpose Claire, but here's the catch→ HE FAILED. He gave up on her.

Eventually, we saw all of that giving up on her altogether attitude in a more apparent way, yet still quite symbolical, too symbolical if you ask me, in the freezer in 03x09, he took his time, he doubted, and to me, that was a huge statement so I dedicated that moment alone several posts already:

Syd's version:

Syd, on the other hand, all by herself, like the independent G woman she is, is in the dumpster:

Also recycling the fucking cardboard boxes that those 2 clowns SHOULD HAVE TAKEN CARE OF as if she had any fucking free time to on top of EVERYTHING SHE ALREADY DOES AT THE RESTAURANT and had to also recycle because the fucking Faks fucked up and failed to do their fucking job! Completely different energy than the "boys talk" the 3 other idiots had in the dumpster while calling the MPDG "peace"/piece of ass.

So she is in the middle of trying and failing (that’s why she didn’t sign the agreement that day either even though Nat urged her to) to recycle her whole purpose of being there, working at The Bear, because it's obviously not turning out to be what she expected or wanted, she's masking the disappointment she really feels with anger and frustration because the partner she trusted last season in, to make sure this didn't blow up in her face like last time, should be RECYCLED ASAP:

So Syd is in the process of losing and having to recycle her purpose to stick around, which is obviously what the Jocker's offer triggered in her but was simmering under the surface since even way before he tried to poach her.

She's in the middle of a purpose crisis too, but totally different than Carmy's.

Parallels:

His crisis has to do with his feelings for a girl he can't make himself love and has decided to leave behind, knowing where that may take him down the line → UNSTUCK FROM HER MUD WITH ALL THE IMPLICATIONS THAT HAS IN REGARDS TO OTHER FEELINGS HE DOESNT WANNA FEEL, which I went over HERE.

Syd's repurposing crisis has to do with: CARMY and whether or not she's gonna keep on giving him more chances, whether or not she should stick by his side, because this, as it is, is just not working for her. But that doesn't mean she thinks Shapiro will work. It means she wishes her disappointment didn't exist, not that she wants to continue taking chances on chefs and risking getting burned AGAIN. That's her crisis. That's why she's losing purpose now, this is her current DUMPSTER CRISIS. The only piece of ass she's thinking about is Carmy’s and she has to re-purpose their entire relationship, which the Joker/trickster Shapiro brought up to the forefront of her mind in that ep. The same ep where we learned about Legerdemain

It's all about:

Or more like... lack thereof.

Remember to follow my tag #Gingerpovs 💋

[spockandawe]

I forgot to post the last few paintings! I have also been experimenting with watercolors, because I've never been a person to git gud at a single craft when I could be mediocre at ten million 😂 (stay tuned for my impending adventures in straw marquetry and lampshade covering) (neither of those are jokes).

For watercolor, like with acrylics, I dove in pretty big, with the aim of having things for my parents' new house by mother's day. So I was very much aiming for foolproof projects! I had two very tall, very skinny frames (12x36) that i got from the clearance section, thinking I would buy 36 inch watercolor paper, only to learn that no such thing was in the stores near me. So for that, i went abstract and layered, using spacers from the papercrafts i never followed through on to give it some dimensionality that doesn't photograph well. And then i looked up tutorial videos for loose watercolor flowers. Very much a learning process, and I was painting right up until noon of mother's day, but I had fun and mom was delighted! Now it's time to back down and do real studies and learn the fundamentals, haha

[elvenfaur]

hey idk if youve been asked this already but do you mind giving any advice or notes on where to find a plush base similar to your vash one? I've been getting into sewing and plushy making and hes aDORABLE and id like to try to make one of my own that is similar if you dont mind sharing c:

Of course! I searched up “blank plushie base” and found a ton online! I ended up finding one on clearance at Walmart (I will need to hunt down the link bc I cannot for the life of me remember what email it got ordered under…), but had to do a LOT of modifications to it to be “teru shaped”. Calembou is a brand that looks really close to what I got, but is a slightly better base I think? I did find some great patterns on Etsy (as well as people selling handmade bases) which I’ll probably do from now on to support small artists! I’ll be sure to Rb this post with anything I find! Sorry for the long-winded reply hahaha!

[bekkathyst]

Hello everyone! It's been a while. I want to talk about some things and give some updates.

All tracking numbers from the clearance sale will be sent out tomorrow, so you can keep an eye out for the email. I will also be getting back to all messages tomorrow!

The clearance sale is here and the custom wire wrap post is here. These are the only two sales I have running right now.

I was so ready to hit the ground running at the beginning of the year, but this month has just been nonstop ridiculousness. This past week we had a family emergency/situation that was scary and slightly traumatic to navigate, but everyone's safe now and it got figured out. It did mentally affect me, which is why I've been so quiet; I just needed some time. I've also been dealing with being injured since I fell down my stairs on the 3rd, but hopefully, after tomorrow, I'll finally have a treatment plan. I'm definitely ready to feel better lol. Anyway, I am very much looking forward to implementing all the changes to my shop that I wanted to, and I still believe we can make this year great.

Please let me know if anything needs to be clarified, I am always happy to answer questions :)

[hisui555]

Okay. I've had it.

Folks, I think I need a bit of help here.

It appears I have been shadowbanned by Tumblr since now 3 days, reported it to Tumblr 2 days ago and they sent me a ticket in the following hours.

I've already sent a formula detailing the problem but I can repeat it here - it affects my two blogs entirely, as they don't show up in any tags at all no matter what I write as tags (and all those tags are SFW content).

My main one is hisui555 (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hisui555), which I use for posting my art (#hisuionyx art), reposting things I deem interesting, and reblogging kickstarters and donation fundraisers for people in need (currently Palestine, it was Ukraine before), under the appropriate tags (#donations #fundraiser #help gaza #help palestine #free palestine, etc).

My secondary one is TPOH-VF (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/tpoh-vf) which I use for posting the French translation of a British webcomic called The Property of Hate, with full consent of the author, and among the classic popular tags (#the property of hate, #tpoh) it has unique tags (#la nature de la haine #lndh #lndh rgb #lndh héros #lndh sokett # lndh clic #lndh mélodie #lndh julienne, etc) that usually show up in wide-pages posts when researched, yet for some reasons don't exist anymore when I go visit them by clicking on said tags (while up to Wednesday 23/10 they worked just fine) and whatever post I make under the popular tags cited previously doesn't show up in the tag search pages at all, recent or not. 

Both blogs have been running since at least July 2024 (TPOH-VF, the other is more than 10 years old), so not recent, their visibility settings toggled on the right way, and no post has been set to private either. All filters are correct and in order. 

Both blogs being currently invisible to outside people diminishes visibility for the ones I reblog fundraisers for, being in dire need of it and the author I wish to support by expanding their fandom through translating their work. (Also I would like people to give feedback on my art and get that beautiful interactions and fun comments serotonin, dangit ><)

What could have gone wrong : 

The algorithm might have taken me for a spam-bot, as I reblogged a lot of fundraisers in a short amount of time, and usually I post 19 pages of translated content on the sideblog (1 chapter a week) all at once, modifying them to include links as I go. 

I just also got the recent surprise of finding out one of my drawings was classified as "explicit sexual content" when actually it was an 8 years-old fanart depicting a fight (Alex Mercer from Prototype VS a Deathclaw from Fallout New Vegas, if you're curious). That one got solved in two hours as I made my case and obtained clearance, the pic is now unblocked. This might have wrongly tipped the algorithm into thinking my content counts as risky, when it's not. 

(Like, THIS is the pic.)

(Wonder how weird you have to be to think a fully clothed man fighting a beast are getting it on. It's mild gore at best, and the black&white tones it down. Plus anyone knowing about Fallout and Prototype knows both game have worse content, like, say, a man literally absorbing people in a gory mess to replenish fleshmass, and as for Fallout (New Vegas) I just need to say the words "Sierra Madre" and "Beyond the Beef" - anyone finding this too disturbing for them shouldn't have been interacting with those games in the first place.)

Or, simply enough, it's a glitch. 

Tumblr's guidelines have been, er, meh at best for help, so if you have any advice, shoot, because right now this is driving me up the wall.

It's not just a specific tag problem, it's affecting my whole account : the sole 2 blogs I have became invisible for people that aren't mutuals, any new post I make doesn't appear in the research no matter what I tag (I reblogged and posted as tests) since Thursday 24/10, and while I can interact through asks and messages with not-mutuals, it docks visibility from those I reblog, and those that would like to know my content.

Thanks for your help in advance

-HisuiOnyx

[pfffsfic]

Post-Fall Falls False Starts- Chapter 5: The Foundation

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

1987- FIRST DAY ON THE JOB

Somewhere in the desert, a lonely exit branched from the interstate into a landscape of shifting sand, saguaros, and open skies. It trailed on for miles past barbed-wire fences and manned security gates and 'NO TRESPASSING' signs and 'NO, REALLY, THIS MEANS YOU' signs. Most people would not make it past the first checkpoint, but the driver of the white van was ushered through one, and then the next, and then the next, flashing his shiny new ID card to the sometimes-skeptical guards, feeling rather important. He was important! He now worked for the SPF- the Supernatural Protection Foundation, unrelated to sunscreen, though his parents had assumed he was traveling to work for some skincare company in the desert when he let them know about it. He had neither the heart nor the clearance to tell them the truth.

The sun reached its peak in the sky and cast the plate metal roof of the sprawling compound in front of him ablaze for a moment. A trick of the light. Pulling into the parking lot, he saw two men in hazmat suits wrangling what looked like a giant, bellowing spider-crab made of black ooze and eyeballs towards a hangar door. It gave him pause about doing this job, but what had he expected? To work at a world-renowned top-secret anomaly containment agency and never see any anomalies? Besides, it looked like the guys had that thing under control-

A jet of orange sludge spat from one of the thing's pupils, burning a deep gash into the parking lot.

He covered his head and ran into the lobby, smacking his ID card against the reader like a marathon runner getting a high five mid-sprint. There was air conditioning, and more importantly, there was no spider-thing spitting acid and shrieking in the language of the dammed, so he took a deep breath and slumped down on one of the couches to regain his bearings. There were no lifestyle magazines on the coffee table. Instead, there were dossiers on anomalous phenomena. This place didn't exactly have the lock-and-key atmosphere he had imagined.

The receptionist, a manilla folder woman holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a romance novel in the other, stepped out of an employee break room and sat down at the front desk. He approached her.

"You the new janitor?" She asked, flipping to the next page of her book.

He handed over his ID with a nod.

"Head to the boss's office. He's gonna wanna see you, sonny."

She gestured dismissively at a map of the compound that stood in the lobby. He nodded again and made his way over to look at it, then started down the third hallway to the left towards the executive wing. This place was like a maze, but it was at least a cool maze, both in temperature and in architectural style.

He arrived in front of a flimsy door beyond which he could hear an argument between two loud and frustrated men.

"Tell them they work for me!" yelled the higher of the two.

"They say no can do-" came a quieter, deeper voice.

"Tell them they'll never get paid for anything ever again if they can't get their sorry selves out here to pick me up! I've got a vacation in Tijuana on the line!"

"I- I'll tell them, sir."

"Yeah, I thought so!"

There were a few beeps from some sort of unfamiliar communications device.

"Sir, they've responded to the message."

"Already? What's it say?"

"It s-says, uh, it says, 'No.'..."

"GET OUT OF MY OFFICE! I'll chew them out about this myself."

The door swung open and sharply nailed the man waiting outside in the head. He groaned and crumpled to the floor as the one to whom the higher voice belonged- an angry toon-shaded unicorn in a suit- pushed the one to whom the lower voice belonged- a frowny purple man of indeterminate species- down the hallway.

"And don't come back unless it's to say the jet folks are on their way!" called the unicorn- the boss?- before turning to the man in a heap on the floor. "Who are you and why were you in the way of my door?"

"I'm- urk, that stings! I'm the new janitor."

The anger never left the boss's eyes, but his mouth smiled unconvincingly.

"Go and clean up the office, then. I'm heading to lunch. Pleasure to have you here with the SPF."

He didn't have any cleaning supplies. He didn't have any instructions. He didn't have the willpower to argue. He trudged into the office and found papers all over the floor, thrown haphazardly from a stack on the table during the fight. At least that was the extent of the damage.

When the boss returned, the brand new janitor stood outside the door and opened it like a butler. He received a more genuine smile this time.

"Finally, somebody who doesn't think he can walk all over me! You'll do just fine here, I think. Oh! Now go clean the containment center- they had a real bad spill, so you'd better get moving if you don't wanna lose your job, capiche?"

The boss took a look at the spotless room and raised his eyebrows in satisfaction, but ultimately didn't say anything before the door was slammed and the janitor was trudging back to the map.

It turned out that the containment center had a separate entrance from the administrative building, so he needed to leave his chilly refuge for the sweltering heat of the surrounding desert. Did the containment center also have air-con? He hoped it did, he desperately hoped it did. Before he left, he took a moment to listen through the door for any unearthly bellowing or acid sizzling. Nothing. The coast was clear, assuming that the thing had no silent mode. He peeked out. Many more gashes lined the lot, some of them deeper than others, one of them cutting right across-

His van! Half of his van was gone! It had melted into a boiling puddle of ooze, a perfect cross-section that laid bare his boxes of personal stuff in the back and a smoking half-engine in the front.

Well, he was supposed to be a live-in janitor, anyway...

2 WEEKS ON THE JOB

The containment center was a lot larger than its exterior gave it credit for. Staring down at a map guide list of the 200 departments that included such colorful names as 'Department of Haunted Carnival Rides' and 'Department of Mental Disorder-Inducing Household Appliances', he wondered if he'd keel over and die before getting the chance to see all of them. So far it had mostly been a few routine spills from the infinite (and infinitely unstable) coffee cup in the Department of Objects With Volumes Larger Than Their Exteriors Would Suggest, a strange concept considering that the entire center was already one of those. He had also cleaned up after several more heated debates in his boss's office.

Today he noticed that there were two work orders in the DOOWVLTTEWS instead of just the usual daily one, and, after clearing the floor of coffee and setting the cup back upright to slowly start filling again, he trundled further into the annals of the department to visit the chamber where his second mess was. The scene in front of him could pass for the world's most depressing car show. In the middle of a grungy cell, lit only by a flickering spotlight that swung from the roof by three wires- only one connected- was a beat-up old red van with a puddle of oil slowly forming under the engine. Anomalous items were almost never name-brand- he considered that if one were to start a business selling them it would probably come off as a bootlegging operation- and this van was no exception, though it bore an uncanny resemblance to the very van he was still mourning.

He cleaned up the oil and moved on.

The next day, he had two work orders again in the exact same two rooms.

2.5 WEEKS ON THE JOB

"A gasket? What on earth could you possibly want a gasket for?"

"I looked under the hood of that van that keeps leaking, and the thing has rusted to heaven and back. If I could replace it-"

"We aren't paying you 500 bucks an hour to look under the hood."

"You aren't paying me 500 bucks an hour at all! I'm barely making above minimum wage!"

The boss tapped his chin with one candy-colored hoof and leaned back in his chair.

"Fine," he said condescendingly, "We'll dock your pay to minimum wage since you'll have less work to do and use the extra dough to buy that gasket."

He couldn't complain. Not to his boss's face, at least.

3 WEEKS ON THE JOB

"Can you believe it? He must have forgotten- that's the only explanation. You think a place like this can't ship in a gasket on command?"

There was no response from the van, but in his head, he felt like it agreed with him about the indignity of the whole situation.

"Yesterday I had to clean the cell of the spider-crab, and it turns out it isn't just their vomit that's acidic. Those hazmat suits are a lot dirtier than they look..."

3.5 WEEKS ON THE JOB

"There you go," he said, slamming the hood closed. "All better."

The van wasn't sentient, or at least it didn't have a face (who knew where the line between sentience and inanimate-ness was, really?), but it had come to be a shoulder he could lean on, even though it didn't have any shoulders either. It was just about his only friend. The boss disliked him, the boss's assistant always moped away before he could get a word in edgewise, the secretary at the front desk wouldn't give him the time of day, and his other coworkers (there weren't many) were always busy. It was his job to enter rooms after they left, not to work alongside them. The van, though, was becoming a passion project for him, and he had it looking quite a bit less decrepit now.

He had always pictured agencies like the SPF as infallible, grandiose companies capable of throwing money and influence around to solve even their most minor problems, but if the condition of quality of life at the base was any indication, that had been a misconception. The food in the cafeteria was cheap. A few containment cell windows were cracked ("We don't pay you to worry about glass that's not on the floor," his boss had said). Half of the lights in any given department were always out. The faucets in the barracks were leaky. Where was all the money going? He wasn't worried, not really, just curious. But he wasn't getting paid to be curious either, so he let the feeling slip away.

4 WEEKS ON THE JOB

That morning, the Persistent Blob in the Department of Annoying But Not Very Intelligent Monsters had broken containment again and was now being held back by several wooden planks where its (shattered) glass was the previous day. The janitor had taken care to do an extra good job of vacuuming up the ooze and disposing of the shards, but that also meant he was about an hour late for lunch, and when he walked in, rather than the usual crowd (no one), he saw a considerable crowd (one person). The crowd was his boss's assistant who he had mentally assigned the moniker, 'purple sad guy'. This could be a chance to figure out what was going on! Sure, he had snuck peeks at documents in the office when he was sent in to clean up, but all of that legalese went over his head.

"Hi, you," he said, trying to make it sound like an affectionate nickname instead of a substitute for calling him Purple Sad Guy to his face.

"Oh, hello there... you."

Purple Sad Guy apparently didn't know his name, either. That was good.

"Ever noticed how the portions are getting smaller lately?"

"They've been small," PSG sighed, "s-since the incident."

The janitor hadn't even probed and he already had an intriguing piece of information to work with!

"Incident? Elaborate."

"I don't think the b-boss wants me talking about it."

The janitor slipped him five bucks.

"We call it the Elmore case," said PSG. "Five months ago, our operatives brought in a haunted mirror from there that showed people's hearts instead of their bodies. Y'know, a good person would see a heart of gold, a b-bad person would see a heart of coal, uh, that kind of thing."

"Department of Morality Detection and Measurement Devices, I presume?"

"Right."

"And there was an incident with this thing?"

"He sued us."

"Who sued us?"

PSG groaned and looked away.

"The mirror."

"You mean you took in a sentient mirror?"

"All mirrors are sentient! Some of them just don't know it yet! But this one, he knew already, and he m-made a big fuss about it, and he sued us for everything we had 'cause we'd falsely detained him, and he got a bunch of other anomalies in on it too. And he won the case. And that's why this company's falling apart."

"Doesn't this place have government funding?"

"That's the other part of this. The court demanded guidelines be put in place about what's an anomaly and what's not for us to get our funding back."

"Yeah?"

"We a-argue about them every other day, but we haven't made any progress. We're running off of saved money. Sooner or later, if we don't come up with the surefire difference between something weird- like a haunted floppy disk- and something normal- like a unicorn in a suit- we're gonna go bankrupt and this whole place will turn into a ghost town."

"What about all the dangerous stuff we got here? What, are we just letting the Persistent Blobs of the world ooze across the desert and destroy civilization?"

"The b-boss has some ideas, but that stuff's classified."

The janitor reached for another five dollars, but he had no other cash on him, so he tried to take back the money he had slipped over minutes earlier so he could 'give' it to PSG again. It didn't work, probably because he was attempting it in plain sight. He cleared his throat, pulled his hands back, and tried to pretend he hadn't done anything- either way, PSG got up and headed for the door without so much as a goodbye.

5 WEEKS ON THE JOB

The office had cracks on the walls, now, and a hole suspiciously shaped like a horn, and after the last few meetings there had been coffee on the floor. The janitor had been able to get the infinite mug to stay upright by propping it up with some putty and the old gasket from the red van, but now he had a new source of spillage to clean up after on an every-other-day basis. He had just finished cleaning up the worst meeting yet when his boss strode in wearing that same old angry look.

"You're fired!" he said in equal parts glee and exasperation. "Show's over! Everybody's fired! This whole place is fired!"

The janitor feigned surprise. He wasn't supposed to know about their financial situation- not that the condition of the place didn't make it obvious. Something came to mind, though.

"How am I s'posed to get home? My van got busted on the first day."

"Huh? What? Oh," the boss made a shooing gesture. "Just take one of the SPFcopters."

The SPFcopters were the Foundation's personal fleet of helicopters. 'Hmm, that sounds fun', thought the janitor, followed shortly by 'Oh wait, I don't know how to fly a helicopter'.

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

"Oh. Just thinking. Specifically, I was thinking, hmm, that sounds fun, and then I was thinking, oh, wait, I don't know how to fly a helicopter."

"Hah! Of course you don't. Of course."

"Do you?"

The boss didn't answer. He focused hard, face turning from a shade of creamy pink to a bright red in exertion, and his horn made a party popper noise as he vanished in a puff of confetti that the janitor quickly went to clean up. Lunchtime had come and gone, but having been released from his responsibilities, he made his way back to the cafeteria and found it in a veritable frenzy. There were a whole seven people there, and five of them were talking at once! He could make out a few words. 'Fired', was one. That made sense. 'Fire'- just another tense. 'Burn'. Burn? Was that a new synonym for letting someone go that he didn't know about?

"I guess you heard about it," said PSG with a smile on his face. The nickname didn't really fit anymore.

"Everybody's fired, eh?"

"Well, that and they're burning the building down at the end of the week," said PSG, walking off with a spring in his step as he was wont to do after delivering an important revelation.

The janitor stood there, mind racing, thinking of the van that he had become so close to. And then the coffee cup he had cleaned up after so many times. And then the Persistent Blob, and then the toaster that could print out pictures of your most cherished memories, and then the clock with human hands instead of clock hands, and then the fridge for emotions, and then the talking ventriloquist dummy, and then the sarcophagus that glowed in the presence of evil. And then every single other anomalous item he had so much glanced at for a second during these five terrible, wonderful weeks. He pictured them all going up in flames.

Six nights later, everyone but the fire crew left. They had set explosives up all around the perimeters of each floor.

It wasn't an issue, though. The janitor's job was to come in after everybody had left and clean up after them. He cleaned the whole place, and he made sure each cell was perfectly spotless and also perfectly empty. He saw each of the 200 departments for himself. That night, when midnight struck, an explosion rattled the desert and fire illuminated the sand for miles around. Nobody saw a little red van- a little red van that was much bigger on the inside, mind you- leaving, and as far as the Supernatural Protection Foundation was concerned, every single piece of anomalous miscellany in the center went up in flames. They never even considered that some of the items might have been burn resistant, and they never would consider that due to the clean ashen landscape that was left behind after the demo crew did their work.

The Foundation's name was quickly forgotten.

FIRST DAY ON THE (NEW) JOB

Elmore was an oddly temperate town for one so close to the desert. The red van pulled up to a shady motel and its driver stepped into the front office.

"I want a room for the night."

"35 bucks," said the proprietor, and the shadowy visitor pulled out a gold bar instead and handed it over.

"Sorry, could you trade this in for cash-"

Just as the proprietor finished his statement, he dropped the gold bar to the floor.

"My whole life," he sniffled, "I've been consumed by greed. I can't believe I never saw it before! Touching that thing touched my heart, my very soul! Tell me, good sir, how can I repay you?"

The shadow man shrugged.

"Gimme a room... and 35 bucks," he said, pushing his luck. The proprietor fiddled with the register and gave him the money, which would have made him feel guilty if he didn't also feel so good. He took the keys to his room. For the last time, he leaned on the hood of the van and spoke to it.

"You and I," he said, "We're business partners now."

The van didn't respond, but it seemed appreciative- something about the way the moonlight reflected in its windshield, probably. That was okay. Maybe it would be able to talk to him someday, but if it didn't, that was alright too. He had a lot of work to do. For now, though, he needed some sleep.