#affordable yard art

[devynconstance]

Alterations on my peasant bodice hath been completed! Styled it with my jeans and the skirt I originally made it for. I think ive decided that I will add boning and a lining to it eventually but even just the few tweaks I've already done have made a huge difference.

Here's the original fit for reference

[hopecomesbacktolife]

oh Stansborough farm & weaving mill… if you are ever, ever hiring, please pls pls pls consider me xoxo

[gaykarstaagforever]

YouTube has this thing now called YouTube Playables (great name as usual, guys; it's not a children's snack pack), that are basically in-app "Flash games"-style things that are just enough game to keep you watching ads.

The ones of these that aren't direct ripoffs of owned IP (very specifically Zuma) are barebones exercises in that bog-standard FTP addictive mobile gaming loop we all know and hate but also LOVE, minus the in-app purchases (for the time being). Like, shallow systems that are fun for exactly 30 minutes, then get stupidly hard so you'll pay to win, though you can't do that yet, so...kind of pointless.

...I still spent FOUR HOURS playing these, because they tapped into my primitive lizard brain's desire to try and master an utterly meaningless task and then feel undooly smug about it.

I didn't get any ads, because I'm a stooge that pays real money to Google every month for this, because once you go adless, you CANNOT go back. Which kind of negates the whole point of these, as addictive time-wasters that keep you glued to the platform and its commercials? But I already pay for YouTube and STILL got caught in these, so I suppose everything is going according to YouTube's plan either way, and I need meaningful human relationships.

But THAT isn't going to happen any time soon! So let me waste another evening on these by reviewing some crap garbage games for idiots that no one cares about, on Tumblr dot com!

1. Totemia: Cursed Marbles

It's Zuma. That's it. With a couple minor tweaks that make it harder and more annoying.

Just license Zuma, YouTube. I think you can afford the, what, $25 that would cost atm?

2. Sword Play

An on-rails sword slashing game (you don't control the movement, just the slashing), and you kill plastic doll guys before they kill you.

At some point they get projectiles that move really fast, that you can only destroy via specific directional QTEs that don't register properly half the time, because this is all relative finger smearing across the screen.

It was fun before that. The guys fall apart specific to how you slash them. That's something.

3. Dessert DIY

This one sucks. You're just picking from very limited options, then doing specific motions to trigger animations that create desserts that don't even look much like the promo art. People request different things, but early game all they ask for is "whatever you want to make" and "do one out of poop with bugs on it to make someone I hate throw up."

And then there's an animation of someone accepting what is obviously poop with bugs on it from their sworn enemy, they eat it anyway, then vomit.

The only fun part about this is the shameless inclusion of NPCs that look like celebrities, specifically Billie Eilish, Kanye West, and Donald Trump.

If you want to make a poop ice cream cone with bugs on it and feed it to Trump until he vomits all over his desk, this is the game for you. Otherwise, this is meh even for one of these meh games.

4. Bowmasters

Dueling Angry Birds, but you have no control of the camera and it focuses on you so you have to trial-and-error the degree of angle and throwing force to figure out how to hit and kill your opponent before they hit and kill you.

There are many colorful pop culture-inspired combatants to unlock, with a huge variety of projectiles of different weights, sizes, and behaviors. This is the most "very nearly a real, good game" one of these.

...Except that the level progression forces you to do Bonus Rounds, and one of those is "knock fruit off the head of an opponent without hitting them, and you have to do this like 5 times in a row, and we move you further away from them another 30 yards every round, and you have to use a wildly different unique projectile every round, and you get 3 chances, and that includes if you miss entirely."

It is basically impossible to do this, because your ever-changing location makes calculating arcs and force, with the ever-changing projectiles, impossible, in this limited amount of attempts. It turns into grinding it out until RNG randomly makes you win.

Which is a shame, because otherwise, this is fun. But you WILL get stuck on a stupid fruit round and stop playing this.

5. Mob Control

You have a cannon that launches blue guys. The NPC opponent does red. You both are trying to bumrush the other's base, taking advantage of buttons and switches and bonus gates that speed you up or slow you down and multiply your number of guys. Guys annihilate each-other when they run into each-other, so you need to overwhelm Red before they overwhelm you.

It's fun until it gets so fast that it becomes a chore to manage where precisely to launch guys specifically to annihilate other guys.

6. Merge Master

This goddamn game. This was 3.5 hours of my 4 hour playtime.

You have a grid board, with you at the bottom and an opponent at the top. You both have an army of warriors and dinosaurs, and a team HP bar. You click go, the warriors fire projectiles and the dinosaurs melee the nearest enemy, and last man standing wins.

Before each round, you can arrange the placement of your army, and use money you won from the last rounds to buy more warriors and dinosaurs. But the kicker is, you can combine like warriors and dinosaurs to make more powerful units, which you keep at the end of every round. They don't gain XP or anything, but as you make more money, you can buy more 1st-level units (that's all you can buy), and gradually combine them and then combine the combinations, and on and on and on, making incredibly powerful new units. And you need a mix of low-level and high-level units to have enough melee dinosaurs and projectile-throwers to overwhelm high-level enemy units, or draw fire away from your own, against the ever-changing enemy army each round.

It's a process of slowly adding more units and combining them to make stronger and stronger units, and as many of them as you can get, accounting for the limited board space. Also the price of units rises exponentially each round, so you may have 1 trillion gold, but at this point a new 1st-level dinosaur costs 245 billion.

I couldn't stop with this. It just got me. I wanted to see new exciting high-level warriors and dinosaurs, and see how fast I could take the other army down. There's more than zero strategy at work here, and battles can vary substantially from round to round, depending on what mix of units the enemy brings to the board.

It's still a rudimentary Flash-esque game, and very much akin to those shitty mobile boss rush games that raid our shadow legends. But it's not PTW yet, and the graphics are a charming and distorted replica of early 2000s 3D games, like Age of Mythology or GTA 3. It felt like something, for awhile.

It isn't, and I wasted valuable battery charge on this stupid shit. But I was having fun. And sometimes, that's enough.

...And posting about it here. It's something to talk about that isn't the world eating itself.

And we all need that sometimes.

[amfstargirl]

Yandere batfam x neglected reader

Standing in the yard, dressed like a kid, the house is white and the lawn is dead ⋆·˚ ༘ *

You stood firm on the ground, eyes stern and unwavering. In front of you was a place all too familiar—the "shelter" where you grew up, the house that had been your home for five years of your childhood. As you stood there, memories flooded your mind, both the happy ones and the melancholy ones. Your eyes roamed around the place, taking in every detail before you finally decided to enter, lest anyone mistake you for some kind of lunatic loitering outside someone's house.

As your feet mindlessly carried you into the room, a heavy, shaky sigh escaped your quivering lips. It hadn't even been five seconds since you entered, yet you already felt the urge to cry. Oh well, that's what memories do to you. You gently caressed the dirty white wall adorned with your old, fading doodles. Most of them were pink—your favorite color then and even now as an adult. You smiled sadly as the memories of your time in the house flooded back, making you nostalgic. You scoffed sarcastically at the irony that you missed this place more than the manor where you'd spent a longer time.

Perhaps it was because the old you—the innocent, sweet, and pure one—was still within these thin walls that had sheltered them through all the bad times. You could feel their giggles and laughter lingering in the air. Tears streamed down your face as you stared at every sticker, doodle, and writing spread across the walls. Somehow, you cried out of joy, relishing the fact that the child you left behind in this house was still here in some way. Still innocent, still unaware of the harm the world could do.

In the manor, all the love you ever knew came from the man who introduced himself as the family butler but whom you soon came to know as your father. He was the love you craved and begged for at Bruce's feet. He fed you, took care of you, and taught you the things you needed to know. He attended family days, PTA meetings, and other events that your biological father should have been at. Under Alfred's shelter, you did everything you could to try to level with your siblings' talents—learning acrobatics, martial arts, drawing, baking, and more.

Yet it was Alfred who, in the dead of night, under the whispers of the cold wind whipping past your teary face, assured you that you would never need any of those skills to truly earn your family's love. All you needed was to be yourself. You allowed yourself to believe his words and lived them as your truth for a short time, but soon gave up on the idea, accepting that they wouldn't truly see you.

Now, dwelling on your lingering past and memories outside the manor, you remembered those you knew before coming to live with them. You reminisced on the thought of your mother. You remembered her.

You remembered how poverty ate your mother away and that she couldn't provide necessary needs for you but you, sweet, beautiful, angel you never complained.

You remembered how much you loved those barbie shows and movies but couldn't afford the dvds and even a proper functioning television so you sometimes watched it from your window across your neighbors, and while watching you saw a glimpse of their life. Their happy, perfect family life. How they cuddled their daughter and watched those silly barbie movies together. Your eyes softened as you thought "I wanted that" the little you hoped that maybe one day momma will get better and finally love me. Your tears poured from your eyes at the thought.

You remembered while you were doing your homework alone, you heard a whimper outside your window near the alley. As you peeked your tiny head outside, your hair flowing with the cold, harsh wind, your eyes searching for the source of noise. As you let your gaze travel through every corner of the alley, you saw a dirty, poor puppy whimpering, alone, calling out for its mother, its father, anyone. You ran hastily outside and collected its tiny and fragile form gently in your arms. "I'm here, I'm okay, you're safe," you whispered softly to the creature. And from. That very day you fed it and kept it sheltered secretly from your mother. You named her Amara. It suited her. You didn't have much play mates so you sometimes play with her by the yard where you and her would either run together or lay down. You never really got to say goodbye to her. From "that" moment on, you never got to go back to your house. You wondered how she was. Was she well fed? Did she think you abandoned her? Does she miss you? The guilt of living her ate you up the longer you dwelt on the past. You shook your head and sighed, trying to forget about all of it. You mourned every version of you. And this was your most treasured one. Thinking back on all the memories you had of the old you, of her. You thanked them for being so forgiving, for being so brave, for being so content with what she had, and for never trading anything for it.

They Were such a kind soul. And you're glad that they gets to stay where they were the happiest despite the nightmare they endured those days. You will always look up to them. They were and will always be a part of you. You took one last look at the house, the drawings, the dirty corners of the room, and released a breath as you closed your eyes. This was it. You'll finally get to say goodbye-

Whimper

You froze as you heard a familiar whimper. You turned around and slowly walked towards the opened door, and you saw her. Amara, your friend. You can't help but let the tears fall as her once brown fluffy appearance is now old and grey. You wondered how even in the light of old age she somehow still seems so youthful. She was still your baby. With a shaky voice, you tested the name. "Amara...?" she wags her tail in delight as a response to the familiar name she's been waiting to be called for so many years. You kneeled down and gently caressed her. "Oh, baby. You've been waiting for me, haven't you?" she whimpered as if answering you. You noticed her trying to catch her breath and her body growing weaker. You glance at her tail and see its wagging has become more frail and slow. You glance at your eyes, and you know. You smiled at her and whispered, "It's okay, baby. You can rest now." Her face weakly lit up, and she slowly closed her eyes, calm and loved, finally in your embrace.

After some time, you tenderly wrapped her body in a blanket. You carried her to the yard where you both used to play together as kids, a place where you ran freely without a care in the world. Borrowing a shovel from a tenant in the apartment, you buried her there, in the spot where you both were the happiest.

You whispered silent prayers for your companion and left with the memories. This was it. You've made your peace with the old you. Almost. There was one more thing you have to do.

You used believed that your mother could have been so much more. She was a beautiful woman. Smart, even if other would beg to disagree. But, you knew that she knew how to play her cards right to get what she desired for. She would have been so powerful if she used her sharp mind to something much more.. Productive. Yet she chose to sleep with men, abandon her child, and let herself be eaten by poverty and lust. Well, you didn't really mind if she abandoned you. You've always felt like you were the burden, the barrier to her way of succeeding and the chain locked onto her feet, keeping her from truly running away to what she has become. You've seen it in her eyes, the thought of running away and living a new life, but when she looks at you.. She saw a mistake she could never be freed of. A mistake. If only you weren't born, she would have been so happy.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink. "Ma'am?" the nurse asked. Suddenly, you were back to reality. You blinked again, processing her words. You glanced at her expectant expression and blurted out, "Y-yes, yes, uhm. Yeah. I'm ready." She smiled and said, "Great. Let's go this way, ma'am." You followed her hurriedly, not wanting to test her patience. As you walked, dissociating and thinking of all the possible outcomes, the nurse suddenly stopped in front of a room and said, "We're here. You can enter now." You nodded and thanked her silently.

Facing the door, you chanted in your mind, "You can do this," with a mix of determination and uncertainty. Taking a deep breath, you exhaled and opened the door. There she was—your mother, in all her glory. Bare-faced and vulnerable in her comfy hospital gown. You almost choked on your saliva, seeing her this... bare. You had always seen her so filtered, her face adorned with colors, her clothes tight and bright. Awkwardly, you shifted in your place and slowly sat beside her bed as her gaze followed your every move. You cleared your throat, preparing to speak, but she beat you to it.

“I know you.” you widen your eyes at her as she continues “you're my child.” you weren't shocked at the fact that she acknowledged you but the fact that she called you Her child, and the softness in her eyes. You were starting to think that maybe this isn't your mother, because she never looked at you like that. Never in years of living together has she even glance at you.

She chuckled at the sight of your confused and shocked state, bringing you out of your thoughts. "What? Shocked? Of course, I still remember you, Y/n," she weakly said, her voice small and quite different from the harsh tone she used to yell at you with. You inhaled sharply, trying to stop your tears from falling. What the heck? Were you about to cry again?

"I thought with how much resentment you harbor for me, you would have forgotten about me by now," you smiled sadly at her, watching her face drop slightly but still smiling weakly.

"Oh, Y/n," you almost crumbled right then and there. Oh, how much you had longed to be called so sweetly by your mother's voice. "I never hated you... that much," she said bitterly, and you stayed quiet, waiting for her to continue. "I just wasn't born to be a mother, no—at least not in this life. I'm a mess and I always will be. And I'm sorry I couldn't change for you because nothing can and nothing will change me anymore."

Your lips frowned at her words. "I always thought that maybe you could have been better without me," you said. You miss her, and you will always miss her. She was your whole world, but now seeing her and talking to her made you realize her world was clearly much different from yours. Her world was something one could not escape. You knew you couldn't live like that, and it seems that she cannot live any other way. They said that a mother and children exist as wretched mirrors of each other. You were all she could have been and she was all you might have been.

She closed the distance between you and embraced you for the first time. "You never were. It was me. I was the problem. You were just a child. In another life, I would've been able to care for you." You didn't question her on why she couldn't do it in this life because you knew. You knew she didn't have the capability to be a good mother and a morally good person now, and that was okay. You couldn't live with The fact that she will never truly care for you and will always hold secret animosity towards you if you force her to be a mother to you. You closed your eyes for a minute and silently took in the feeling of a mother's embrace for the first and last time.

"This is the last time you're ever gonna see me again," you said. Your mother chuckled bitterly and replied, "I know. Good for you, kid. Leave everything behind and start anew. You deserve it."

You soon moved out of her arms and held her hands tightly, looking into her eyes. With a deep exhale, you walked out of the hospital. This was it—you were finally free from your past. You had made your peace with it, and now it was time for you to move forward. You knew that if you didn't confront the horrors of your past, they would haunt you for the rest of your life. You had made a good choice.

As you stepped outside, the cool breeze greeted you, and you felt a sense of liberation wash over you. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. It was as if the universe itself was acknowledging your newfound freedom. You took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, savoring the feeling of lightness that now enveloped you. Walking down the street, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. The city seemed different somehow—brighter, more alive. You noticed the little things that you had overlooked before: the vibrant colors of the flowers in the park, the laughter of children playing, the distant hum of traffic. It was as if you were seeing the world with fresh eyes, unburdened by the weight of your past.

For the first time in a long time, you felt at peace. The past no longer held you captive. You were free to live your life, to pursue your passions, and to surround yourself with people who truly cared for you. It was the beginning of a new chapter. You get home to your apartment and sit at your couch grabbing some blankets and making hot cocoa. You thought to yourself that this is what you exactly needed. Watching barbie movies in your new cozy apartment without any burden past onto your shoulders, the little you would have been so proud, making you smile at the thought. This was it. Nothing was going to stop you now.

That's what you thought.

It has been 2 weeks since you've moved in your apartment and you're getting ready for your ballet rehearsal. You were especially excited about this as you were going to perform swan lake when you got to enact one of the most important and famous characters, how cool was that? As you were about to grab your pink bowed pointe shoes a sudden “ping!” notification was heard from your phone. You turned your head and went to grab it expecting a message from one of your close friends or even your ballet mates but all you were met with was a message from a person you least wanted a one from.

Dick. Your supposed older brother is asking you to hang out with him. At this very moment. You dropped your phone and stared at nothing while breathing heavily. You feel your heartbeat rapidly breathing, the knot in your stomach growing more tighter and tighter each minute you let the thought sink into your brain. You almost tripped at your foot as a result of your vision disfigured, as if you were looking through a fish-eye lens. This wasn't right, this wasn't supposed to happen. When-how?-why?! Why was this happening now? You were only starting to feel like everything in your life was finally starting to go your way. Why did this have to happen? It was as if the universe was mocking you. You bit your lips until it bled but you couldn't care less. You were numb. You hadn't even realized that you were nowate for today's rehearsals. With trembling hands you reached for your phone and shakily pressed the button “block” as you silently prayed that he-they would never come in contact with you ever again.

Of Course that wouldn't happen though. The universe was never really on your side.

Dick? What's happening here?

A sudden deep voice spoke, bringing Dick out of his deep trance. He turned around and saw his father standing outside the door, looking suspiciously at him. He stared at his father and saw the look on his face—full of confusion and unfamiliarity, not towards him but the room he was in. "I-it's Y/n," he stuttered, the name tasting so sweet on his tongue. He wanted to roll around in the scent of you. Was that weird? No—he just missed you, that's all.

"What about them?" Bruce's voice carried a nonchalance that almost made Dick angry. How could he be so indifferent about his precious sibling? With a hard voice, Dick replied, "They're gone." Bruce's eyes widened slightly at the response. What did he mean you were gone? You were just here when... Wait, when? He worriedly glanced at Dick, and as if understanding, Dick answered, "I know."

Bruce inhaled sharply and stepped inside the room, your lingering scent greeting him. Your trophies adorned the walls. This was your room? No, it couldn't be. This was too little. This was just... not it. The difference between his other childrens bedrooms and yours was so noticeable. You didn't have any fancy chandelier decorating yours. You didn't have your own bathroom.

Bruce's eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail. The neatly arranged trophies, the faded posters on the walls, and the small bed that seemed too empty now. He walked over to the desk and picked up a framed photo of you, when was this? You look so.. Grown? How old were you? Were you old enough to live alone? How come he didn't know? Did you have a job-were you even allowed to have one? he clenches his fist as he stares at the sight of your image and sees your bright smile. His heart ached at the sight. How had he missed this? How had he not noticed the signs?

Dick watched his father, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He wanted to scream, to demand why Bruce hadn't paid more attention, why he hadn't been there for you. But he knew he wasn't any better than his adoptive father was. Besides, it wouldn't change anything. The damage was done.

Bruce set the photo back down and turned to Dick, his expression a mix of regret and determination. He saw the tiny diary and other papers scattered across the floor and picked them up, reading them one by one as he slowly spiraled into regret and guilt. Dick watched as he knew this was going to make him understand. Today made it all clear to him. Why there was a nagging feeling inside of him saying that there was something missing in the manor. It was why the sweet muffled music of the orchestra haunted the manor, the same kind of music haunting their bedroom. Like it was a reminder, a warning. That something special was lost. The soothing sound of humming, light footsteps around the manor now gone. The pink bows tied around the handles of the stairs, the love that the plants receive now nowhere to be found. It was because you took that love with you.

"We need to find them," Bruce spoke, his voice steady but filled with urgency. His knees bounce as his Jaws tighten anxiously.

Dick nodded, his resolve matching his father's. "We'll find them," he replied, his voice firm. "And we'll make things right."

As they left the room, Bruce carrying the framed image of you tightly, almost as if he was paranoid that something would take it from him, and dick gently running his thumb through the texture of your pink, bowed, bright diary, the weight of their mission settled on their shoulders. They knew it wouldn't be easy, but they were determined to bring you back. The silence of the manor was a stark reminder of what they had lost, and they were ready to do whatever it took to make amends.

Bruce was anxious. He didn't have a plan. Ironic, because Batman always had a plan. It was an unspoken rule—Batman was always prepared. But now, he found himself at a loss, his mind racing with uncertainty. Perhaps it was because he knew every single person in Gotham. As the guardian of Lady Gotham, he prided himself on understanding the intricate web of connections and motives that defined the city's inhabitants. He calculated every person's actions, paid attention to every detail, and watched from the heart of Gotham.

He paid extensive attention to everyone... except you.

It wasn't intentional. He had always been consumed by the weight of his responsibilities, the never-ending battle against crime, and the need to protect the city. But now, standing in your room, surrounded by the remnants of your presence, he realized his failure. The irony of it all struck him—Batman, the meticulous planner, had overlooked the most important person in his life.

Now he was desperate, he may not have a plan but he was desperate. He'll do anything to get you back. Any possible way to get back all the times he failed you, when he failed to be a father to you. He swore to protect you and never let you out of his sight ever again.

Dick wasn't any better. As he walked, his thoughts played tricks on him, but in a way he almost relished. His mind insisted that you must be so scared without him, without your older brother to protect you. He didn't even consider the possibility that you could be an independent, fully functioning individual on your own, or the fact that you had grown and most likely abandoned the thought of "bonding" with him. In this moment, his mind was consumed by the image of you and the curiosity of what more you had within yourself that he had neglected. His anxiousness grew, causing him to bite his nails and run his hands through his hair in frustration. His breathing became ragged, and his heart pounded in his chest. It was as if he had turned feral, his bloodshot blue eyes itching to be blessed with a vision of your face.

The more he thought about it, the more his mind played tricks on him. He imagined you scared and alone, wondering why your older brother wasn't there to protect you. He couldn't bear the thought of you suffering because of his neglect. His thoughts raced, each one more frantic than the last. What if you were hurt? What if you were in danger? What if you had given up on ever reconnecting with him?

The guilt gnawed at him, making it hard to focus on anything else. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed you, that he had missed so many opportunities to be there for you. His heart ached at the thought of all the moments you had spent alone, craving the attention and love that he hadn't given.

As he continued to walk, his thoughts became more erratic. He imagined you thriving without him, having found your own path and your own sense of independence. The possibility that you no longer needed him stung, but it also filled him with a strange sense of pride. You had grown, despite everything, and that was something to be admired.

Still, his mind couldn't rest. He needed to see you, to know that you were okay. The uncertainty was driving him to the brink of madness. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, determined to find you and make amends.

he wouldn't rest until he saw you again.

Both Bruce and Dick disregarded everything around them, unaware of the curious look Tim gave them. He followed quietly behind their backs, raising an eyebrow as he wondered why they hadn't noticed his presence yet. Normally, these two were incredibly guarded, so Tim was shocked by their lack of awareness. What could have made them so unfocused?

Bruce—the Batman—and Dick—the first Robin and now Nightwing—were both engrossed in a particular object. They seemed to be completely absorbed, their usual vigilance overshadowed by their intense fixation. Tim watched as Bruce's eyes remained glued to a framed photo on the desk, his expression a mix of regret and determination. Meanwhile, Dick's gaze was fixed on the pink notebook in his hands, his fingers gently tracing the glittery cover.

Tim couldn't help but wonder what was so important about these items that it made two of the most vigilant people he knew drop their guard. The framed photo of you, smiling brightly, seemed to hold Bruce in a trance, while the pink notebook, adorned with bows and glitters, seemed to capture all of Dick's attention. They were so consumed by these objects that they had let down the walls they had built through years of vigilantism.

It had to be something incredibly significant—something better yet, special.

“What are you two doing?” asked Tim, suddenly breaking the silence between the three of them as he watched the father and son duo flinch, obviously flabbergasted at his sudden interruption at their deep trance. He observed as their face turned from shock to going back to their frowning faces making him mirror the same expression. Dick clenches his jaw and exhales sharply preparing himself to speak when he is suddenly interrupted by a familiar voice he would always recognize.

"What is going on here?" a figure with deep forest-green eyes asked, standing tall in the shadows, his cold demeanor unwavering. Dick's eyes met his, and he said his name. "Damian. Wha—"

"You have deliberately abandoned your promise to train with me today. Why?" Damian's voice was sharp, full of accusation. Shoot. That was right. Dick had forgotten to train with his younger brother today. But it didn't matter now; his other sibling needed him, and it was about time they knew about them too. He glanced at Bruce's unfocused state, feral and restless.

"It's about Y/n," Dick said firmly.

Tim stood still for a moment, trying to figure out who "Y/n" was, while Damian immediately sneered at the mention of his "rival." He couldn't pinpoint why your presence angered him so much. Maybe it was because he had to share the title of being the Wayne heir with someone so... normal, someone so far below his level. You both were so different. Perhaps he was jealous of you for being so normal, for not having to worry about tainting your hands with blood and painting others black and blue. What did you even do? He didn't know, but he bet it was something a normal civilian would.

Meanwhile, his peripheral vision caught Tim standing still, deep in thought. Damian saw him processing quickly, his mind running fast as he tried to figure out who you were and why you were so relevant at the moment. Then suddenly—aha! Tim remembered now! You were the kid who had pestered him non-stop about some game.

Tim's eyes widened as he recalled the memory. The realization hit him like a wave. He had been so dismissive back then, but now he understood the significance. Guilt washed over him, mixing with curiosity and concern. What had happened to you? Why were you so important now?

Damian's sneer softened slightly, replaced with a look of contemplation. “What about them?” asked damian. While Tim wondered the same. Suddenly Bruce's cold and deep voice said “they're gone.” Damian raising an eyebrow of his response, and Tim answering “gone? Gone how?” switching his gaze from dick and Bruce's form awaiting for one of them to answer his question as the tension in the room thickens. “I mean that they're gone. All their things not found in their room, no trace of them not in the mansion, and not even a goodbye.” Tim and Damian frowned at the same time. Damian scoffed and thought you were probably just making a big scene so the attention would be on you. Bruce said “we need to find them. Now.” his voice left no choice for them to abide by his command.

Now alone in the CCTV room, Tim let his bored gaze wander over the footage from a long time ago, his palm supporting his head. Suddenly, something caught his attention. He watched as you sat, his fingers tapping the keyboard to increase the volume. You hummed lightly at the footage, a simple gesture but not to him. Your voice was so familiar to him. His eyes dilated as you continued humming, your voice sweet as honey, as light as a mother's touch trying to lull her baby to sleep.

He zoomed the footage closer and closer, almost as if he wanted to go through the screen just to hear your sweet, angelic, melancholic voice. Your voice was like a soft fur blanket to him. He didn't know if he was hallucinating from sleep deprivation, but he swore you were covered by a soft light, hugging your form and kissing your skin gently.

Tim sat in your "presence" for a bit, soaking in your voice. As he listened, memories flooded back. He recalled distant muffled sounds within the thin walls, lulling him to sleep, chasing away the demons that kept him awake at night. He had so desperately wanted to close his eyes and rest, and he remembered thinking maybe it was just a voice in his head, or maybe a real-life angel offering him salvation from suffering and the sweet pleasure of sleep. Now he knew, the angel was called "Y/n."

His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk as he leaned in closer, his breathing steadying as he watched the footage. The realization hit him hard. How had he missed this before? How had he not recognized that comforting voice? The gentle humming, the presence that had brought him solace on sleepless nights—it was all you.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he continued to watch, his heart aching with a mix of regret and longing. He remembered the nights he had spent tormented by nightmares, the countless times he had struggled to find peace. Your voice had been his lifeline, a beacon of hope in the darkness.

He couldn't shake the feeling of guilt. How had he been so blind? How had he not seen the importance of your presence in the manor? Tim's thoughts spiraled as he recalled the moments he had dismissed you, the times he had been too wrapped up in his own world to notice you reaching out. He needed to see you. To hear your voice, to take you back, to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness as his forehead kisses the cold, dirty floor, or to maybe steal you back without a word. He didn't know, he just had to see you.

The footage continued to play, your voice a soothing balm to his troubled mind. He sat there, never unwavering, always in awe of your voice and never taking his attention off you. He sat there,Unaware that he had been playing the same footage for hours and hours. His dilated eyes worshipping you as if you were a god.

He felt a deep sense of loss, realizing that you were gone, and he hadn't even had the chance to thank you for all the nights you had unknowingly saved him. Determined, he knew he had to find you. He had to make things right.

After some time, finally. Tim's resolve hardened as he stood up, his eyes never leaving the screen. He would find you, and he would make sure you knew how much you meant to him. With renewed purpose, he left the CCTV room, ready to join Bruce and Dick in their search. Together, they would bring you back and rebuild the bond that had been neglected for far too long.

With much focus on the object of his obsession attention, he failed to notice a tall figure in the shadows, watchin. Thinking after all these years they have finally come to their senses, realizing the greatest gift of all was right under their noses.

Damian was a dangerous person. To be fair, he was raised to be an assassin and an heir to the throne from the moment he was born. Not even a moment out of the womb did he catch a glimpse of the normal life he so desperately wanted. He trained day and night, month after month, year after year, to become the perfect product of the world's greatest detective and the daughter of the king of assassins. Imagine the inner turmoil within him when he didn't meet the expectations set upon his shoulders. All his life, all he knew was to fight. In any situation, his first instinct was to fight and guard himself for his life.

Sometimes, he wondered how they expected a child to lead thousands of assassins to create a bloodbath. Behind his pride and arrogance was a deep-seated anger towards those in charge of his fate. He was furious that his innocence had been stripped away, clawing its way back to him, but ultimately, they succeeded in giving him a future burdened with the weight of guilt for painting the young and innocent red.

Damian's upbringing left him with a constant battle within himself. The expectations placed upon him were immense, and he often felt like he was suffocating under the pressure. The relentless training, the unyielding discipline, and the need to prove himself consumed his every waking moment. The anger he felt was not just directed at those who shaped his fate but also at himself for not being able to escape it. Many didn't know of it but he found it hard to be Robin. The conflict between leaning to your instincts or “your- now- morals” was hard. To kill and to save was wrong and somehow to save and to forgive was right.

Despite his impressive skills and abilities, there was a part of him that longed for something more—something normal. He envied those who lived ordinary lives, free from the burden of bloodshed and violence. He wondered what it would have been like to have a childhood filled with laughter and innocence rather than combat and survival. As to why he wonders what more could you possibly want? He was so sure that you had so much wonderful time living such a luxurious life in the manor and never having to prove yourself to be worthy of something in being able to get the object of your desire. How could you run away from this life? From your life? You were so unfair, so selfish.

As he continued to grapple with these conflicting emotions, Damian's exterior remained cold and guarded. He rarely allowed anyone to see the vulnerable side of him, the side that yearned for a different life. But deep down, the scars of his past lingered, a constant reminder of the life he was forced into and the innocence that was stolen from him.

He shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and released a heavy sigh. What a bother. Making his way to every corner of the manor to "inspect" and see if you had left any trace of yourself there. As he walked down the path, letting his bored state guide him, he glanced at the thick walls and noticed some unfamiliar works of art. His gaze roamed around the room, settling on various paintings he had never noticed before. It was as if the paintings spoke for themselves, screaming out for anyone to notice and appreciate them. The different textures, colors, shapes, and stories behind the art captivated him.

Damian liked to think that he noticed everything and had the ability to be highly aware of his surroundings, whether he was familiar with them or not. But at this moment, he paused, questioning himself. If he was truly aware, how had he managed to overlook these breathtaking canvases filled with bright colors that made him... feel things? He took a step forward and saw a tiny signature on the left side of one of the canvases. He brought his hand up to softly caress the painting, gently and carefully, as if he were afraid that a mere touch could destroy it.

Engrossed in admiring the paintings, he failed to notice the tall figure beside him. It was only when the man spoke, "Master Damian," addressing him, that he flinched slightly.

"Ah, Alfred. My apologies, I was a bit distracted by the art adorning the walls, which seems to be... unfamiliar to me. Would you mind telling me where my father keeps buying these paintings? I must say I'm quite... impressed."

Alfred frowned and smiled sadly at the youngest Wayne. "Well, Master Damian, these paintings are actually not your father's doing. Rather, they are Master Y/n's work of art."

Damian's eyes widened in surprise. He turned back to the paintings and said "Y/n did these?" he asked, almost incredulous. The realization that you had created such beautiful and meaningful art struck him deeply. He didn't even know that you could draw much less create such.. Beautiful art. While he was thinking about it he realize that he had complimented you, you!

"Indeed, Master Damian," Alfred confirmed. "Y/n spent countless hours creating these pieces. Each one holds a story, a piece of their heart."

Damian felt a pang of emotion through his chest, he couldn't pinpoint what it was but it was somehow nagging him about something, or rather someone. His fingers traced the brushstrokes with a newfound reverence, as if trying to understand the emotions you had captured on canvas.

"I never knew..." Damian whispered, more to himself than to Alfred. The layers of vibrant colors, the delicate details, and the raw emotions conveyed through your art were all a testament to the depth of your soul. He felt a connection to you that he hadn't realized before, a sense of camaraderie and understanding. And he was totally not dissing you just minutes ago.

Alfred placed a comforting hand on Damian's shoulder. "Art has a way of speaking to us, Master Damian. It reveals truths that words often cannot. Y/n's art is a reflection of their experiences, their joys, and their sorrows. It is a part of them that they have shared with the world."

Damian nodded, taking a step back to fully appreciate the entirety of your work. Your art had opened a door to a deeper connection, and he was willing to walk through it. He didn't know why but in a way this was proof that you had always had some kind of connection to him.

As Damian and Alfred stood there, surrounded by the masterpieces you had created, a sense of resolve settled over Damian. He frowns and takes a look around all the work of your art. His style doesn't differ much from yours. the caress of brush ever so slightly seen, and the emotions behind the soul of your paintings, like his. What made you so similar to him? And that, he will not know until he finds you.

He knew that finding you and bringing you back was not just about making amends—it was about recognizing and celebrating the unique and irreplaceable person you were.

Y/n considered themselves a keen observer, attuned to the delicate nuances of the world around them. They noticed the gentle yet sometimes harsh swaying of the wind as it danced with the leaves, creating a symphony of nature's whispers. They noticed the lady sitting on the park bench, quietly absorbing the view of the home she once grew up in, her memories interwoven with the present. They noticed the ducks by the pond, gracefully gliding through the water alongside their mother, a portrait of serene tranquility.

Y/n noticed everything, yet no one noticed them. And it was fine. They had long accepted this reality, enduring the loneliness of being invisible in a world where they saw so much. The weight of being unnoticed had become a familiar companion, a constant presence that shaped their existence. In the silent spaces between moments, Y/n found solace in their observations, finding beauty in the overlooked and meaning in the mundane.

So why were they just noticing you just now? Why? When you have just started to accept and move on. Why must they bring the horrors of the past when your current life is filled with hope arraying a new journey, now destroyed.

Why couldn’t Dick just let you be, drifting away in the silence you’d crafted? Why couldn’t he leave you to fade quietly, just as you had promised yourself you would, a ghost of your former self, untouched and unbothered? Yet there he was, an ever-present weight, his hands—rough, calloused, scarred by years of untold burdens—forcing your face into the past, as if his touch could rewrite history. His fingers dug into your skin, twisted into the soft contours of your face, tearing through the years of numbness, of denial, dragging you back to a place you had sworn you’d never return.

And then, Tim. Oh, Tim. The boy who once didn’t even see you, who barely even remembered your name when it lingered in the air of the manor. Now, he’s relentless, his fingers tapping into your phone with the same quiet insistence that his presence once had in the dark halls of that place you used to call home. You want to scream, to rip the silence apart, to do anything but feel what you’re feeling now—this suffocating pull to return to them, to face them, even when you know you never should have to again.

The ache swells, the lump in your throat is a tangible thing now, a choking presence you can’t swallow down. It’s the same searing pain that’s lingered, festering, hidden beneath layers of what you pretended was healing. How cruel it is, to have spent so much time trying to break free, only to find that some things, some people, are never quite done with you.

The ghost of them lingers, burrows deeper, with every unanswered message. They still haunt you, even from afar. You hate them for it, for still holding the power to break you open, to make you bleed from places you thought had long scarred over. It feels like a thousand wounds opening up again—slow, deliberate, bleeding you dry in a way you don’t know how to stop.

You stared blankly into the emptiness, feeling numb, when suddenly a hand rested on your shoulder. You flinched instinctively and turned to see who it was. Your eyes widened as you recognized your ballet teacher standing behind you. "Miss Kavinsky! I-I... Hi! I’m—" you stammered, but she quickly cut you off with a smile.

"Y/N L/N-Wayne, I know," she said with a warm tone. "It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you."

You winced slightly, the sound barely audible, but Miss Kavinsky didn’t seem to notice. "Come on, let’s meet the other dancers. I’m sure they’re eager to meet you."

The surprise hit you hard, and you stuttered, "M-me?" You couldn’t help but feel like an idiot.

She grinned, a playful mix of amusement and mild disbelief on her face. "Yes, you. You're kind of a celebrity here, Wayne. Not surprised with a talent like yours."

Her words lingered in the air, but you went quiet, caught off guard by the compliment. You couldn’t fully process it, the idea of anyone looking up to you seemed so foreign, so distant. And somewhere in the haze, you barely registered the way she had called you "Wayne.”

As you and the other dancers gathered at the stage, a wave of anxiety washed over you. The weight of thoughts about Tim and Dick pressed heavily on your mind, and the pressure of the moment only made it worse. Just as your mind started to spiral, a voice cut through the chaos.

"Hey! You're Y/N, right? I'm Desiree, but you can just call me Des."

You forced a smile, barely hearing Miss Kavinsky as her voice faded into the background, announcing something about attendance. Your attention was now solely focused on Des, who had just broken the ice. You shook her hand and smiled more genuinely, the tension in your body loosening up a bit.

"Hi, Des. Yeah, you already know who I am. Nice to meet you."

You both exchanged a quiet laugh, and the chatter around you faded as you continued talking. For a moment, you felt like you could breathe again. You asked the usual questions: "How old are you?" "What's your favorite ballet?" The conversation flowed easily, but when your name was suddenly called for attendance, you were snapped back to reality.

"Here!" you called out, your voice getting lost in the sea of dancers.

But then Des said something that made you freeze.

"So, are you excited that both of you are here?" she asked with a playful giggle, her smile sweet and innocent.

You blinked, confused, but smiled through it. "Both of us...?" you repeated, trying to follow along.

Des chuckled softly at your puzzled expression. "You and your sister, silly! It must be so nice to perform together. My brother wouldn't even try to get into ballet, you know?"

Her words, lighthearted as they were, suddenly made your world feel like it was crashing down around you. You felt a cold panic begin to rise. Your fingers instinctively dug into your palms, almost drawing blood. Your smile wavered, barely holding on, while your eyes fluttered, teetering on the edge of tears. Des’s voice became distant, her words fading into a muffled blur as your thoughts spiraled out of control, bloodshot eyes starting to sting with unshed tears. Your heart raced, and the chaos inside you was too much to contain.

In that very moment, her name echoed through the air, sharp and clear. Without thinking, your gaze shifted, and you locked eyes with her. Her wide, unblinking stare pierced through the noise, anchoring you in place. For a fleeting second, you wondered if she had been watching you all along—since the instant your name was called, or perhaps even before. You couldn't be sure.

What you did know, however, was that the weight of her gaze felt like a force, pulling you into a quiet abyss. It made you feel small, fragile—as if you were prey beneath the steady, unyielding gaze of a predator. A shiver ran through you, and suddenly, all you wanted was to escape, to flee from the suffocating intensity of her eyes, which seemed to strip away every layer of protection you had left.

The fates were clearly playing with you now.

Cassandra was an exceptionally gifted individual, much like her siblings, each of whom possessed their own unique abilities. From the moment she first pursued ballet, her family showered her with unwavering love and support. She had access to training that most could only dream of—privileges afforded to her not because of her wealth, but because she was no ordinary person. She was Batgirl, the daughter of Batman by choice, a mantle she wore with pride. So, when an invitation arrived for her to join the prestigious Swan Lake performance alongside other top-tier dancers, it hardly came as a surprise. After all, excellence was something she had always embraced, both on the stage and off.

As she gets ready for her first rehearsal she can't help but notice that some of her siblings are missing. She shook it off and ate her food but also not abandoning the thought of asking about the absence of her siblings and father, to a familiar companion of their family:Alfred. As where Alfred only replies with them being busy about.. Something, yet said to her to fret not and just worry her mind about her ballet play, quickly chasing away her concerns for her family with a smile that made her feel lighthearted. With a chuckle she got up and made her way to the location of where the dancers were told to meet.

Cass had always believed she was the only one in her family who truly appreciated the delicate artistry of ballet. Her passion for the graceful movements, the precision of each step, and the beauty of the performances had always felt like a private world to her, a world she inhabited alone. She couldn’t recall a single moment where anyone in her family shared even the slightest interest in it. So, when she entered the crowded theater that evening, expecting to be surrounded only by fellow ballet enthusiasts, she was taken aback by something unexpected.

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, she spotted you. For a fleeting moment, her heart skipped a beat, not from the rush of seeing someone in the crowd, but from an overwhelming sense of familiarity that washed over her. There you were, standing like a ghost from a forgotten past, an unexplainable connection sparking between you both. Cass couldn’t place it, but it was as though she had known you forever, even though your paths had never crossed before.

Her mind wandered, replaying the memories that had been buried deep within her. A distant image flashed across her thoughts: she was standing in a room filled with soft, pastel-colored fabrics, the scent of leather and polish hanging in the air. Two pairs of pointe shoes rested beside one another on the floor—one was familiar, worn and well-loved, the other brand new, the laces still fresh and untangled. The second pair, the one that felt entirely foreign, immediately piqued her curiosity. She was certain it wasn’t hers, yet the connection to it lingered, something so subtle but undeniable.

The realization hit her like a wave. She didn’t know you, not consciously, but somehow she felt bound to you, as if fate had woven your lives together in some strange, invisible thread long before either of you had even been aware of it.

The entire day she watched and observed you. She paid extra attention to every detail of your expressions, body language, and posture. She didn't know why but you seemed to be very clear–in her case, in distress, like you were panicking over something. And she didn't know why she somehow hated seeing you that way. As the minutes passed, she found herself simply just staring at you. Not even for a fleeting moment had she taken her gaze of you. She watched and observed tensely at every person who looks at you, who talks to you, who breathes near you. Almost as if she was guarding you. As they were told to gather she followed silently after the crowd and placed herself purposely in front of the other side from you. She scoffs in amusement as you barely notice her, too focused on your own little world. As minutes continued to pass, suddenly a girl broke you out of her thoughts with her voice making you flinch. Her breath hitched as irritation started to crawl their way through her chest. Why couldn't the girl be more gentle with you? Can't she see that you were clearly stressed? She frowns slightly at the girl, surprising herself by the sudden change of mood. She holds her breath and watches you like a hawk would at its prey. Her vision was filled with your now loosen frame, giggling with the girl who approached you earlier. A new feeling started to claw its way through her chest, now bigger and stronger. The green monster eating her up when suddenly the call of her voice brought her out of her thoughts as she, for a moment took her eyes off of you to answer quietly to her name and as she bring back her gaze to you, quickly to not miss anything she might take the pleasure in seeing, suddenly your eyes are on her too. Her eyes couldn't leave the sight of your gaze who held such horror in them, as if seeing her was too much for you. As she was your living nightmare sitting right in front of you.

The remaining time the dancers practiced, you avoided her gaze and her presence. The more you avoided her, the more she itched to be in your presence alone, to be near you. The whole time at the practice she was, for the first time, distracted. Her thoughts are consumed by you. Her thoughts came up with every question she could ask about her and your current situation. What were you doing here? Why didn't she know? Were you at the manor? No, if you were she would've known.. Right? Okay if you weren't, then why weren't you? Those questions alone made her uneasy and frustrated. As it was time to go home, she watched as you hurriedly got out and quickly went home to wherever your home was. The nagging feeling screamed at her to follow you but decided against it and thought that going home and bringing the news to her family might help more. After all, they were stronger together.

She stormed into the manor, urgency in her every step, and sought out Alfred with a single, breathless demand: "Boys. Where?" Without hesitation, he led her to them. Her gaze fell upon them, intense and unyielding, her pupils trembling with an unspoken storm. She whispered a single name, a breathless, haunting utterance: "Y/N." The boys, in unison, responded, "We know."

A deep breath escaped her, the weight of their actions—venturing after you without so much as a word—forgotten for the moment. She snatched a laptop, her fingers flying over the keys in a frantic dance of their own. The screen flickered to life, revealing a video that stole the breath from the room. There you were, dancing—each movement a testament to grace, each step more captivating than the last.

The world had already fallen under your spell. The internet buzzed with adoration, praising the way your every turn, every leap, every pause held the audience in thrall. Under the stage lights, you seemed more than human—a celestial being, your form bathed in soft light, glowing like an ethereal angel, kissed by the very air around you. The boys stood frozen, their gaze fixed upon you, entranced.

Your presence was no illusion. You were a goddess of their own making, and in that moment, they knew: they were already devoted, bound by the silent understanding that they would worship you, body and soul.

As the video played, the room fell into a hushed reverence. The boys, once brimming with urgency and tension, now stood motionless, their eyes locked onto the screen, as if spellbound. Every fluid movement you made seemed to breathe life into the very air around them. They couldn’t look away; they didn’t want to. Your every step, every pirouette, was poetry in motion, a delicate balance of strength and grace that made their hearts race.

The way you arched your back mid-spin, the soft brush of your fingertips against your skin, the quiet breath you took before every leap—it all drew them in, slowly, methodically, as though they were witnessing something far beyond the ordinary. Each turn of your body mirrored the very rhythm of their own hearts, synchronized with the ethereal pulse of the music, and they couldn’t help but feel as if the entire world had narrowed down to this one sacred moment.

Your eyes, though focused on the stage, seemed to flicker with a spark of something far deeper, something they couldn't quite place but could almost taste. It was like watching a dream unfold, where every movement became a metaphor—each glide across the stage spoke to something eternal, something untouchable. They found themselves lost in the elegance of your form, the way your body seemed to move with a natural fluidity that defied the laws of physics.

The lights above you softened, caressing your silhouette, painting you in a divine glow. And in that moment, they felt small, insignificant even, as if you had been carved out of stardust itself, too perfect to comprehend, yet impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just the skill of your dance—it was your presence, your essence that held them captive.

They felt an almost primal pull, as though your every movement was speaking directly to their souls. The way your body spoke without words—your elegance and power blending seamlessly—rendered them speechless. They were entranced by the aura you carried, intoxicated by your beauty and the mystery you exuded, a beauty that wasn’t merely skin-deep but radiated from within, a force of nature.

For a fleeting moment, they could almost believe that you were more than human, that you were something higher, something divine. They stood there, wide-eyed and breathless, as if they had been granted a glimpse of something sacred—something that no one else could understand. And in that moment, they knew that they would follow you, worship you, in a devotion that transcended mere admiration. You weren’t just captivating; you were everything. They couldn't believe that someone like you had been overlooked by then.

Bruce now understands that with no plan in mind he would still follow you till the end of the earth. Oh his little baby. He would do anything to earn your love and affection for him. To see you and to bask under the ray of sunshine your smile brings. To feel your presence alone.

Dick now understands that he owes you more than a few dinners or dates as siblings. No. He owes you the world. As guilt eats his flesh up one by one, mourning all the versions of you that he could have witnessed right before his eyes are now long gone. But that's okay, he'll make it up to you.

Tim now understands that you were surely his angel. His savior. His form of salvation. He could watch you all day and never get bored. He could listen to you all day until his ears bled but never say a word.

Damian now understands that the disbelief he felt when looking at your paintings full of emotions overflowing with a sense of overwhelming feel, was now long gone because he knew that only such being like you, almost like a supernatural being, could be the only one who has the ability to capture such deep emotions in one painting, to be able to create such beautiful, breathtaking object.

Cassandra now understands why she felt like she somehow had a connection to you and that was because she was your sister. And as she was a daughter to batman by choice, that she will also be a sister by choice to you. She was an observer, someone who guards-and she will guard you with her life for all eternity.

As the overwhelming tension fills the room Alfred stands at the corner with a small smile. “apologies master y/n had I done this sooner, you would have not slipped through my grasp dear child. Do not fret for your family is coming to get you.”

Ah, Alfred, the mastermind. He knew this would happen. He just needed to intertwine a little. He did not worry because he knew. He knew that leaving your bedroom door open the moment he knew Dick was coming over to the manor while the others were busy, and knowing Dick's tendency to wander off in the vast expanse of Wayne Manor, the chances of him finding your room were high. He knew that rearranging your trophies inside your room (which you had told him to get rid of) would pique the interest of your family even more. He knew that decorating your hidden paintings around the minimalist and empty walls of the house would catch the attention of the youngest Wayne. He knew that playing those soft melodies of your voice through the small TV in the kitchen would enchant a certain sleep-deprived boy, making him miss the sweet sound of your voice.

Alfred knew that when Cassandra was called for the big ballet play, you would be at the same play too, as you had told him over the phone, giggling and excited with a high-pitched voice. He didn't bother to tell you about your sister's similar invitation, nor did he inform your sister about yours. He knew every single detail, every thread that needed to be woven together to create this intricate tapestry of reconnection.

Alfred's wisdom was like a silent symphony, orchestrating events with a delicate touch. He understood the nuances of each family member, their strengths, their weaknesses, and their desires. He knew that Dick's curiosity would lead him to your room, where the trophies would spark memories and questions. He knew that Damian's keen eye for detail would be drawn to the vibrant paintings, each brushstroke a testament to your hidden talents. He knew that Tim, in his sleep-deprived state, would be captivated by the melodies of your voice, a soothing balm to his restless mind.

Alfred's heart ached with the knowledge of your absence, but he also held hope. Hope that these carefully placed breadcrumbs would lead your family back to you, to the realization of what they had lost and the determination to make amends. He knew that the path to reconciliation was not an easy one, but it was a journey worth taking.

As the days passed, Alfred watched with a knowing smile as the pieces began to fall into place. He saw the flicker of recognition in Dick's eyes, the softening of Damian's demeanor, and the spark of determination in Tim's gaze. He knew that the seeds he had planted were beginning to grow, and soon, the family would be whole again.

Alfred was getting old and he couldn't bare the vision of his children Bruce and you, drifting away from each other, and you from him. Maybe it was his own selfish reason but he couldn't help it. He raised you from the moment you got to the manor. Teached you everything he knew and gave you all the love he could. He watched you grew up and maybe it was a moment of rush that he allowed himself to be selfish and turn the tables around.

In the quiet moments, Alfred allowed himself a moment of reflection. He thought of you, the child who had brought so much light into his life. He knew that you deserved to be seen, to be cherished, and to be loved. And he would do everything in his power to ensure that you found your way back to the family that needed you just as much as you needed them.

Authors note: I'm sorry I took so long in writing this! I hope yall enjoy the 10k+ words I wrote. One tip tho is to read and observe the details very carefully! Dw I'm gonna explain it soon tho. Hope yall enjoy this cuz imma take a break after this.

[papyrusgayfont]

SPOILERS FOR THE GREAT ACE ATTORNEY 2 AND ACE ATTORNEY INVESTIGATIONS later on in this post

gonna cornplate here but this was something that I realized awhile ago but I haven’t actually talked about before

ok so the 20th anniversary art. It has characters from the main games on one side (+ Kay and Eustace) and characters from TGAA on the other. for the MAIN main characters, most of them have a parallel on either side (like how Gant parallels Stronghart, Kristoph parallels Seishiro, etc)

but for Gumshoe, his parallel is Gina

you’d THINK that his parallel would be Gregson, but really, they don’t have THAT much in common aside from being officers who wear the same shade of green, like Gumshoe is lower than dirt poor, he can barely afford cup noodles, a lot of times he can be a bit empty-headed, he isn’t the MOST professional, and he’s isn’t really respected among the other officers

meanwhile, Gregson is seemingly well off, he doesn’t seem to be struggling, he CAN afford to eat since he has an infinite supply of fish and chips that he’s eating 24/7, he’s a lot more professional than Gumshoe is, and he pays a lot more attention to things that (pre-AAI games) Gumshoe wouldn’t, and he was one of the most respected officers at Scotland Yard, probably THE most respected (and y’know also he’s dead and Gumshoe isn’t. so,)

but the character Gumshoe DOES have more in similarity with is Gina

they’re both poor, their clothes are old and don’t really suit them (like Gina’s clothes are too big for her, and Gumshoe’s coat is really dirty, at least I’m pretty that’s what they said), they’re both the main person who takes care of the police dog, they aren’t really respected as officers, they’re usually the most lenient and nicest towards the defense, and they’ve both had mentors that were on the force that they looked up to, only for it to be revealed that they were a part of a group of people who committed crimes because they thought the law was too limiting (Badd with the Yatagarasu, and Gregson with the Reaper of the Bailey)

I don’t know if it was Kazuya Nuri’s intention intention for them to parallel each other in the art, like I’m almost definitely looking too far into this, but hey, I thought that it was interesting lol, so

[agoodflyting]

Why Aziraphale's White Satin Pumps Are Ridiculous (And I love them)

So this is a continuation of the lengthy rant I posted here about Aziraphale's outfit in the Bastille scene of GO and all the ways it would have pissed people in Revolutionary Paris off. I got to the shoes and realized they needed their own post.

Aziraphale's Blessed Little White Satin Pumps

To recap: in 1793, Paris is in control of The People, who are making up for decades of oppression and poverty by beheading the fuck out of everyone remotely nobility-adjacent. And into this mess strolls one Angel in white satin heels.

Some facts about this style of shoe:

The buckle means they're specifically court shoes as opposed to streetwear. Buckles were out of fashion unless you were hanging out with royalty and needed to look fancy. Everyday shoes had laces by this point.

This heel style for men is specifically called Louis Heels because they were popularized by Louis XVI. Y'know... the king Paris just beheaded in 1793. Here's a pair in a similar style from the late 18th century:

One big difference you may notice in Aziraphale's shoes and the ones above is that the ones above are normal, practical leather whereas Aziraphale is wearing white satin shoes. This is because Aziraphale is ridiculous.

The Allure of White Satin Shoes

In this modern world of laundry machines and affordable shoes I feel that people do not fully understand how absolutely over-the-top ridiculous a pair of white satin shoes would be to people in 1793.

First off lets address the fact that they're white:

If you have ever known anyone who was super into sneakers, you know that keeping white shoes white is a full-time job. It was even more so in the 18th century. The fact that Aziraphale is wearing perfectly clean white shoes says one thing: "I am rich enough to be able to pay someone to clean these, and to replace them when they invariably get stained."

And they would get stained. Oh would they get stained.

Because he is not wearing them for their intended function - lazing around indoors. No, he is wearing them on the streets of 18th Century Paris. And 18th Century Paris was fucking disgusting.

Kind of like how London had its famed London Smog, Paris had its own brand of filth. A unique Parisian muck made up of mixtures of mud, offal from the slaughterhouses, animal waste, human waste, household garbage, and rotting dead animals, all mashed down into what a British visitor called, "A thick, black, unctuous oil, that where it sticks no art can wash it off."

Voltaire said: "We blush with shame to see the public markets, set up in narrow streets, displaying their filth, spreading infection, and causing continual disorders…" and called Paris a city, "Partly of gold and partly of muck."

This is a city with over a million people, with no central plumbing, and no public sanitation laws. Households threw their waste in the streets. Businesses like tanneries and slaughterhouses threw their waste right out into the streets. Horses were the main mode of transportation and nobody was cleaning up after them. It was apparently a thriving hustle that Parisian beggars would hang out in the worst areas with big pieces of wood, and charge wealthy people money to walk on the board over the worst puddles of filth.

That's where Aziraphale is wearing his pristine little white satin shoes. In a city so gross it has its own world-renowned stinking black mud.

And on the subject of those shoes, lets look at the satin part... By the 18th Century, France was no longer dependent on Asia for its silk and satin. There was domestic production, but it was still expensive. A book about the cost of living published in London in 1770 lists the price for a single yard of satin at just over 18 shillings. For comparison, here are some other things you could get for 18 shillings in London at the time:

two box seats at Covent Garden

six barrels of oysters

a really nice wig

a week's wages for a skilled tradesman

15 steak dinners

3 secondhand coats So the outer fabric alone on Aziraphale's shoes cost what it would take a skilled worker about a week to make. Again, that's just for the fabric. Since the shoes themselves were high quality, would be handmade, and required skilled labor, the shoes themselves would be expensive even without the satin. In 1788 a pair of leather gentleman's court shoes cost about 6 livres in France. By comparison, a pound of bread, which was considered a day's food for a peasant, cost roughly 10 sous. So we'll roughly estimate that Aziraphale's shoes without the satin cost the equivalent of 12 days worth of food for an average person.

And, I cannot stress this enough, he is wearing these white shoes, which could easily feed an entire family for weeks, in a city that is abso-fucking-lutely filthy with stinking, staining, sticky mud.

Aziraphale's shoes, probably:

I mean - imagine you're a normal everyday French peasant during the Revolution. You spend decades struggling to feed your family, and some dingbat walks up to you in white court shoes styled after the king you just executed. Shoes that cost more than you make in a month, which he is wearing around your notoriously filthy city with apparently 0 fucks given for the fact that they will be absolutely ruined and will have to be thrown away. (Obviously Aziraphale could just miracle them clean but you're a revolutionary peasant, you don't know that.)

And then this walking audacity asks you for cake.

Aziraphale, hon, you are so lucky they decided to try to execute you and not just like. jump your dumb ass in an alley and steal your pretty little white satin shoes.

[oneforthemunny]

blue christmas |older!dilf!eddie munson x reader|

prompt: a look at two very different christmases in eddie's life.

apart of munny's merriest masterlist which you can read here!

contains: sad!eddie. parent guilt. divorce. gina. mainly just very lonely christmas angst but some fluff at then end.

Fourteen Years Before

“Hey, have a good one, Munson!” Phil waved a gloved hand, locking the body shop for the night. “Have a Merry Christmas!” Even Christmas Eve held its fair share of wrecks, cars breaking down in the snow, plenty of business even on the holiday. 

“Yeah, you too!” Eddie waved back, hands shoved deep in his utility jacket, heavy and warm for the colder months. His hands fiddled around with the cigarette carton in his coat pocket, pulling out his keys with the cigarette, letting it hang from his lips as he slid into the truck. 

The roads were empty, cleared of any traffic on his way to his apartment. The twinkling lights in the yards, strung merrily and proudly for all to see mocked him, a dull reminder of what wasn’t waiting for him at home. 

Home. He used that term loosely. 

The apartments were cheap for a two bedroom, close to Brielle’s school and Eddie’s work. Gina had got the house in the divorce. Eddie didn’t want it, couldn’t afford it on his own after she’d cleared out what little he had. His thumb rubbed over his ring finger out of habit, meeting the calloused skin there instead of the gold band he wore for eight years. 

Eight years. Eight Christmases spent with Gina, with Brielle. They were far from perfect. He and Gina usually fought from Thanksgiving to New Years Eve, but at least he had a tree. At least it was decorated, and there were presents under the tree. 

At least he wasn’t alone. 

Eddie’s heart ached, a jabbing pain that spread through his chest, leaving his throat stinging with an uncomfortable burn. He knew the divorce was the right thing to do, when your seven year old asks Santa for her parents to stop fighting, it’s time. Still, he didn’t think it would hurt so badly, that it’d be this lonely.

That he’d miss it this badly. 

Maybe he should have toughed it out, should have ignored Gina so he wouldn’t be sitting here, in a pitifully empty apartment, in a deafening silence, nursing a beer on Christmas Eve. 

Eddie had put up a ‘tree’, a lighted spiral cone shape he found at a second hand store, after Brielle commented on his lack of decor. “You don’t like Christmas anymore?” 

She’d made him an ornament in art class, which he couldn’t hang on the spiraled lights of the tree, so he taped it on. She was happy with it regardless, grinning and telling him about how her art teacher let her make two. “Since you and mom are divorced.” Eddie’s stomach turned. There was something so sickening about hearing his little girl say those words in such a cheery tone. Made him feel like a complete sack of shit. 

Eddie looked at the clock on the stove, flashing bright, green numbers back at him. He worked later than expected, it was nearly eight, but knowing Brielle she was far from ready for bed- Santa's coming tonight. Eddie’s chest tightened at the thought- he was missing that. 

He grabbed the phone, punching in the numbers carefully, he knew them by heart. The phone rang, and rang. 

“Hello?” Gina’s huffy voice came over the other line. 

“Hey, Gina.” Eddie said awkwardly. “I, uh, I just got home. I was gonna talk to Brielle if she’s still up.” 

“Yeah, she’s still up.” Gina huffed, and he could practically see her eye roll, snarled lips. “You were supposed to call at seven.” 

“I know, I know. I just- I got busy at work. Had to stay overtime.” Eddie ran a hand down his face, knee bouncing. 

“Great. She’s gonna be even more wild now. She’s already losing her damn mind- Brielle, get out of your stocking or I’m throwing it away!” Gina pulled the phone away, shrilling. Eddie’s lips curled, hearing the cackle in the background, she was his daughter. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-” Eddie started. 

“-Just, whatever. Don’t get her fucking wild, Eddie, I swear to God.” Gina snapped. The phone rustled. “Here.” Gina’s voice was muffled, before the phone settled. 

“Hello?” The little chirp on the other end had Eddie’s heart swelling. 

“Hi, Munchkin.” Eddie grinned softly, voice lilting higher. “Merry Christmas.” 

“It’s Daddy!” Brielle shrilled. “Hi, Daddy. Merry Christmas.” 

“Are you still up?” Eddie sighed softly. “You’re supposed to be asleep. Santa’s coming soon, Brie.” 

“I’ll sleep in a little bit.” Brielle huffed lightly, she sounded like her mother. “When are you comin’ home? I saved you one of the Snowman cookies before Santa eats them, and I have reindeer food to put on the roof. It has glitter in it this time so they can see better.” 

Eddie paused, words choked around the lump in his throat, heart sinking low into the pit of his stomach. 

“Daddy?” Brielle asked, pulling the phone back. “I think it got undone-” 

“-No, no, I’m here, Brielle.” Eddie’s voice was tight, hand pressed into his eyes. “Um, I-I’m not coming home tonight, remember?” A ragged breath shook out of his chest, and he hoped she didn’t hear it. “I’m coming to get you tomorrow afternoon, and we’re going to Grandpa’s.” 

“Oh,” Brielle’s tiny voice was filled with disappointment, it tore Eddie’s heart right out of his chest. “Even on Christmas?” 

“Yeah, baby. Even on Christmas. Remember me and mom told you, you’d get two Christmases. One with each of us.” Eddie tried to keep his voice steady. 

“But not together?” Brielle muttered, a complete turn around from her previous excited tone. 

“No, not together. I’m sorry, Brie.” Eddie pulled the phone away, taking a deep breath in to keep his emotions in. 

“That’s ok.” Her tone told him otherwise. 

“But I’ll see you tomorrow, ok? And you can tell me all about what Santa brought you, and then we’ll go to Grandpa’s and you’ll have even more gifts to open.” Eddie hoped his tone was convincing. 

“Ok.” Brielle muttered sadly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Daddy.” 

“Yeah, you will, I promise.” Eddie swallowed the lump in his throat, nose burning with tears. “Good night, Brie. Dream of those sugar plums, alright? Love you.” 

“G'night. Love you.” Brielle repeated solemnly. 

The phone rattled for a moment, Eddie clearing his throat lightly. The line settled for a moment and he waited for Gina’s voice. A harsh dial tone came instead. 

Eddie tried to ignore the hurt that pounded in his chest. He felt grimy, gross, and disappointed in himself. He felt alone, most of all. 

Shaky fingers punched the buttons on the phone, knee bouncing as he lit a cigarette, pulling the ashtray closer to him on the kitchen table. “Hello?” Steve Harrington’s accommodating tone came through the line, a loud screech of children’s laughter in the background. 

“Hey, Steve.” Eddie cringed at the shake in his tone, swallowing. “Sorry to bother you, I, uh, I just wanted to-” 

“-Daddy! One present, please?” 

“Yeah! Just one! One!”

“Hang on,” Steve huffed. “No, ok? Mom said no, and you know she’s the boss. You better stop, alright? It’s not too late to get on Santa’s bad list. I’ll call him right now and tell him to skip the Harrington residence-” 

“No!” A chorus of cries in the background made Eddie smile, his chest aching even more with an unfamiliar feeling. 

Tiny stampedes of feet cleared in the background. “Sorry, it’s a zoo over here, Ed.” Steve snorted lightly. 

“Yeah, no, I get it.” Eddie laughed lightly, stopping himself gently. “Well, actually, I don’t. That’s, uh, that’s actually why I was calling.” Eddie exhaled deeply, rubbing his forehead. “I, uh, I just called Brielle, and she’s-” 

“-Steven! I need help in here!” Nancy’s voice pierced through the phone, sharp even in the background. 

“Fuck. Hey, Ed, can I call you back? We’re trying to make cookies, and they’re decorating the baby.” Steve sighed. “I’m telling you, these kids are insane. I’m about to rip my hair out, and I still gotta make a fuckin’ dollhouse.” Steve’s voice dropped to a low whisper. 

“Yeah, no, I get it. Don’t worry about it, man.” Eddie felt his waterline flood. “Go be with your family.” 

“Alright, I gotta go. Merry Christmas, Munson.” Steve hummed over the line. 

“Merry Christmas.” Eddie muttered, the dial tone cutting him off again. 

He leaned back in the dining room chair, cigarette burning between his fingers. Alone.

Present

“Eddie!” You called, wrangling the squirming one year old in your arms, Delilah was determined to get to the shiny presents, squealing and cackling. She was just crawling, thankfully, toddling but not as sure, but she was fast. 

“Ed, get the phone!” You yelled, the trill of the landline Eddie still had around filled the house. Brielle in front of you, in pajamas that matched her little sisters, phone dangling from her grasps. 

“She’s gonna open a present tonight.” Brielle giggled, recording her sister happily. 

“Yeah, or tear the tree down.” You grumbled, rolling your eyes. “I told you a candy cane was too much.” You glared at Eddie playfully. He’d snuck her tastes of a candy cane earlier at your parent’s house, laughing at how her eyes lit up. 

Eddie grinned, snagging the phone off the hook. “Hello?” 

There was a silence, the tiniest hitch of a breath on the other line. Eddie frowned, looking down at the caller id. “Hello?” 

“Is Brielle there?” The huffy, snide of a tone that he’d know anywhere. Gina. Why she was calling him on Christmas Eve, he wasn’t exactly sure, but he had an idea that it was due to Brielle’s silent treatment towards her after Gina’s rage filled rant about Lilah’s birth.

“Hello, Gina. Merry Christmas to you.” Eddie clipped, eyes rolling. “Yeah, she’s here.” 

Gina paused, and Eddie could picture her even now, nails tapping against the table furiously, anxiously. “Well, can you- can I talk to her?” 

Eddie’s head turned, his gaze meeting Brielle’s. She shook her head, brows raised nearly in offense at the suggestion. “Uh, Gina, she-she’s kinda busy right now-” 

“-Right.” Gina scoffed, tone harsh but Eddie could hear it, the traces of hurt lingering in the defensiveness. “Guess she likes the child bride more than her actual mother-” 

“-Alright, Gina.” Eddie huffed. “You have a good one. Merry Christmas.” 

“Wait!” The shrill in her tone, desperate and alarming. 

Eddie waited, holding the phone back to his ear. Gina huffed, taking in a deep breath. “Can you… Can you talk to her?” Her voice was small, quiet. “Just-Just tell her I want to see her, and I have gifts for her, and-and,” There was a pause, a shaky breath. “Tell her I miss her and I love her?” 

Eddie’s chest ached for her sympathetically. He knew she deserved it, that Brielle was probably in the right with her cruelty. Still, Eddie sympathized with her. The bitter loneliness of being alone during the holidays. 

“Yeah, Gina. I can do that.” Eddie nodded slowly, his voice dropping. “I’ll, uh, I’ll tell her.” 

“Thanks.” The word was clipped, drowned in disdain and followed with a sniffle. 

“Have a Merry Christmas, Gina.” Eddie sighed softly, hanging up the phone with a final click. 

He turned back to the living room. You and Brielle were still desperately trying to distract Lilah from the shining ornaments with her toys, rattling and shaking them in front of her so she squealed, only to turn back to the tree. 

Eddie smiled, scooping up the baby, tossing her in the air gently so she screeched in laughter. “She’s never going to sleep.” You grinned warmly, starry eyed watching Eddie cuddle your baby. 

“Nah, she’ll sleep in a little bit.” Eddie shrugged, snuggling her close to his chest. Delilah turned into his touch, face pressing into his chest, rubbing her face sleepily into the soft cotton of his Christmas pajama shirt that matched with his girls. 

His brows shot up, grinning triumphantly. You snorted, rolling your eyes lightly. “Alright, Santa. What kind of cookies do you want?” 

“Whatever kind you wanna make me, bunny. ‘M not picky.” Eddie hummed, rocking Delilah against his chest gently. 

“I bought the Snowman sugar cookie ones.” Brielle smiled brightly. “I can make them.” 

Eddie’s chest filled with warmth, looking down at the tiny girl in his arms, heavy lids pulling shut with sleep, knuckling at them. The lights on the tree seemed brighter and brighter as the years passed. A real tree this time, filled with ornaments and memories hanging on the branches, room for more as the years went on.  

[monstersdownthepath]

Homebrew Horror: Unwanted Amalgam

(Art source, and probably one of the better fanart pieces of this critter I've seen!)

Remember to eat your veggies, don't just scoot them around on your plate.

Malevolent boogeymen known by many names in many different cultures across the Inner Sea, Unwanted Amalgams are twisted aberrations formed from wasted and (as their name suggests) unwanted foods. Believed to be spirits embodying wasteful gluttony, Amalgams don't just rise out of plates of uneaten broccoli at a child's table or leftovers which go sour after they're forgotten, but instead arise from truly egregious displays of carelessness; whole banquets squandered when a noble grows full after a single dish and orders the rest disposed of, countless "ugly" pieces of produce thrown away by farmers and citizens alike for no reason but appearance, or truly impressive amounts of food being hoarded away from hungry mouths and left to rot.

Amalgams weave their bodies from this unwanted food, knitting countless pieces of edibles together into humanoid shapes whose general appearance depends on the most common form of food within them: an Amalgam constructed mostly of wasted meat may resemble a towering troll or ogre, while a primarily produce or grain-based one may look more like an especially tall and willowy elf. The one displayed above is one of the rarest types, constructed of wasted sweets and confections, and ambulates more like an insect than a human, with limb proportions to match. Regardless of their general shape, the ways they move and carry the weight of their amorphous bodies prevents anyone from mistaking them for a human in all but complete darkness.

Because they arise from food waste, Amalgams are a more recent boogeyman, ones that have begun to haunt the modernizing world as food production begins to exceed its demand, stalking through urban areas where people can afford to waste food as, in their minds, more will always be available. Due to their recent appearance, they are poorly studied and poorly understood, and have little desire to talk specifics about their motivations, origins, or desires beyond the immediately obvious... though they ARE quite talkative. To the point many wish they would stop.

The Amalgams possess a twisted sense of justice which the vast majority of them are incredibly vocal about, launching into soliloquy at the slightest prompting or provocation. Though they are all born from an incident of incredible magnitude, they are motivated to punish any act of wastefulness or gluttony they observe, no matter how small. Everything from a restaurant throwing away hundreds of pounds of perfectly edible food down to a child refusing to eat their vegetables may incite the wrath of an observing Amalgam, who will confront these unfortunates and command them to perform some task for it to spare them a terrible fate. These tasks are set by the whims of the Amalgam and run the gamut from the mercifully ordinary (finish your meal) to the nonsensical (gather 100 red objects and place them in a circle in one's front yard) to the impossible (slay a monster with an inadequate weapon), but failure to complete them within an arbitrary time limit sees the victim pummeled into helplessness by the horror and, in a cruel reversal of fate, consumed by it.

Attempting to fight for one's life against an Amalgam is no easy task. Their aberrant physiology renders them impervious to many reliable tricks, and whatever strange forces animate their bodies also knits them back together with frightening speed (to the point of returning them from death), though the ever-reliable fire and acid damage can destroy them beyond their ability to regenerate. Magic which affects only plantlife also affects Amalgams, even if they aren't entirely made of plant matter, and of course all Amalgams subconsciously desire to be eaten, rendering them extremely vulnerable to any hungry beast that attempts to take a bite out of them.

Unwanted Amalgam CR 6

Neutral Evil Large Aberration Init: +3; Senses: Darkvision 60ft; Perception +13 Aura: Frightful Presence (30ft, DC 15, 2d6 rounds)

------ Defense ------

AC 18, touch 12, flat-footed 15 (+3 Dex, +6 natural armor, -1 size) HP 48 (8d8+14), Regeneration 3 (Acid, Fire, bite attacks) Fort +6 Ref +5 Will +8 Defensive abilities Pull Together; DR 4/--; Immune critical hits, precision damage Weaknesses Vulnerable to Putrefaction, Yearn for Purpose

------ Offense ------

Speed 40ft, climb 40ft Melee Bite +10 (1d8+5 plus Grab), 2 slams +8 (1d6+3 plus Grab) Space 10ft; Reach 10ft Special Attacks Many-Armed Grapple, Swallow Whole (1d10 bludgeoning, AC 13, HP 5) Spell-like Abilities (CL 8; Concentration +9)

Constant--Spider Climb At-will--Dancing Lights, Ghost Sound, Prestidigitation 1/day--Dimension Door

------ Statistics ------

Str 20 Dex 16 Con 17 Int 14 Wis 15 Cha 13 Base Atk: +6; CMB +11; CMD 25

Feats Combat Reflexes, Great Fortitude, Intimidating Prowess, Multiattack

Skills Acrobatics +18, Climb +22, Intimidate +21, Knowledge (Local) +11, Perception +13, Stealth +11, Survival +13 Racial modifiers: +8 to Acrobatics, +4 to Intimidate

Languages Aklo, Common, any one local language

SQ Compression

------ Ecology ------

Environment any urban Organization solitary Treasure standard (rations, pilfered items)

------

Combat: Before battle, Unwanted Amalgams will clamber out of reach and repeatedly intimidate creatures to weaken them before leaping in. It will also use its surprise round to intimidate the enemy it wishes to punish most, if possible. Amalgams are simple creatures in a fight: They attack with their slams and attempt to grapple as many creatures as possible, swallowing the smallest among them while beating the rest to unconsciousness or death.

Morale: Amalgams are fierce fighters which pursue their prey relentlessly; they always fight to the death, though their supernatural resilience prevents some deaths from being the end of them.

------ Special Abilities ------

Many-Armed Grapple (Ex): Amalgams can produce upwards to six additional limbs as a free action to maintain grapples against an equal number of Medium or smaller creatures, allowing them to grapple multiple creatures at once while still being able to make two slam attacks. When not grappling a creature, these excess limbs are instantly re-absorbed.

Pull Together (Ex): An Amalgam's severed portions remain animate when they're severed, crawling back towards the whole at a rate of 10ft a round at the end of the Amalgam's turn. Each round the Amalgam ends adjacent to a severed piece of itself, it absorbs the piece (regenerating the severed portion instantly) and regains 1 HP. A severed piece can be destroyed with at least 1 point of Fire or Acid damage, or damage done by a bite attack. In addition, an Amalgam that is slain will return to life 1d4 hours later at 0 HP unless its remains are burned, doused in acid, or consumed by one or more other creatures.

Swallow Whole (Ex): An Amalgam can swallow Small or smaller creatures grappled by its claws without needing to transfer them to its mouth first; if it succeeds the check to pin the creature, it simply raises the creature over its head and drops them into its waiting maw. When a creature cuts its way out, the hole instantly closes behind that creature.

Vulnerable to Putrefaction (Ex): Regardless of their composition, Amalgams are treated as both Aberrations and Plants for the purposes of harmful spells (such as Blight) and abilities (such as Favored Enemy). A Putrefy Food and Drink spell cast on an Amalgam deals 2d8 Acid damage to it, and if that spell is cast on its remains, its body is destroyed utterly and it cannot return to life (see Pull Together, above). Inversely, a Purify Food and Drink cast on an Amalgam restores 2d8 HP to it and grants it the benefits of Haste for 1 round.

Yearn for Purpose (Ex): All Amalgams subconsciously desire the destiny of all food: to be eaten. Bite attacks made against them resolve as touch attacks, and damage from bites both bypasses their Damage Reduction and suppresses their regeneration for 1 round.

[three--rings]

Most people don't have any understanding of what has been lost in Lahaina Town. Not just lives and property, but an entire town.

Most people hear "a city/town in Hawaii" and they picture probably resorts. And there are plenty of resorts nearby. But those are all fine.

Lahaina was an old whaling town dating back to the original colonization by white settlers. Before white people arrived, it was the capital of the island, where the high chief ruled, including Kamehameha the Great. The buildings are old, wooden, and crowded together. Obviously that was a problem in the face of the insanely fast wildfire.

But these weren't mansions, Mc or otherwise. It was a tourist town, a destination for cute, spendy shopping and dining, full of art galleries. (OMG THE GALLERIES. There was so much ART lost. There was original Dr. Seuss art in one gallery when I was there in January. That's gone now. Etc.)

But the people who lived and worked in Lahaina were mostly working class, working retail and restaurant jobs, living in old apartments and small houses. Lots of elderly, lots of non-white in a wide range of ethnicities, old hippies who have been there since the 60s and 70s. Yeah they were probably a little better off than people who drive in from other places to work in West Maui, at least because their property was high value, if they owned. But they lived without A/C, hung their laundry on lines, biked to work, called in sick to go surfing when the waves were up. There was a Chinese cultural center and a Buddhist temple, two different structures, if that tells you anything. Multiple museums housing historic items and cultural centers.

And the town will be rebuilt, in some form, I imagine. Or re-developed, more likely. People who are now homeless, who can't afford to rebuild or pay for two residences while the recovery happens will be bought out by deep pocketed developers. If they rebuild Lahaina Town I'm afraid it will be Lahaina Town tm by Disney.

Another fake paradise for tourists with lava rock from the Big Island. Another bit of Hawaii swallowed by capitalism and climate change.

I'm not painting everything about Lahaina as it was as perfect. Front Street was an often gaudy display of brand names and hucksters out to shovel in the tourist dollars. And of course the politics of Hawaii are incredibly complex and fraught in so many ways. I'm just a mainlander haole. I will never live on the islands, despite my family there constantly asking me to move. But I've spent more time there than anywhere I haven't lived, almost all of that time in West Maui.

My mom works in a building that is not there anymore. She just described that job to me as "the last job she'll ever have" as she's 79 and very happy with working two days a week selling t-shirts to cruise ship people. My brother has worked in a gallery on front street for the last ten years.

I don't know. A city of almost 15,000 permanent residents is just gone. 50 or so are confirmed dead, in some horrific circumstances from what I hear.

My mom says people are just walking around with thousand-yard-stares, aimless, clutching cell phones trying to get signal (there isn't any, but you can get lucky and get a call through. Some texts are going in but not out.)

So I don't know folks. Keep those people in your thoughts. If you can donate, I think this may be a good place because it's going to lots of local orgs on the ground: https://www.hawaiicommunityfoundation.org/maui-strong

I keep thinking of new sad things.

Anyway I'm going to leave you with a picture I took while strolling down Front Street one evening.

[dallasgallant]

Time period post: Car culture 2 - Hot rods and racing

Not going to lie, this one was hard for me as I don’t have that much existing background knowledge on the topic. I had to do a lot more digging than usual so they’ll be some more links at the end of this. But I figure it’s an important thing to learn especially when thinking about the Curtis gang, as they are “car” Greasers, if you want to subcategorize them. Pony does mention supped up cars and it’s established several of the guys race or like to watch them— at the very least they all speed and enjoy it. While they might not be full on Hot rodders themselves it could simply be useful to flesh out the world/understanding of the corner of car culture.

Also please if you do know more about cars and car history please do add on! These are intended to be informative and helpful so all help is appreciated lol.

Hot rodding-

It started by necessity, post war lack of cars being made or perhaps not affording a brand new car you go around to shops and yards and you get parts and modify till you have a nicer working machine. Then it starts being picked up in racing and the youth and a hobby within itself.

At its core all a “Hot rod” is, is a souped up car. Modified usually for the sake of performance- primarily speed. Parts are taken out or added, the fronts lowered, the engine is bigger and so on. The culture started in the 20s-30s and a lot of the real examples of these kinds of cars are older, it’d be done with modern cars (40s-60s) but hardcore fans stuck with classics. Also mind you a lot of these unique modifications were not street legal or just barely skirting the line.

These modifications are to show off. Not just in performance but also looks. Really a lot of the time it’s hanging around showing off your work to each other and putting it to the test, major mods are still in car shows today. Mainly show than racing— as far as I’m aware. Things things need constant attention and tweaking too, not just as a way to improve the next time you race but because it’s not a standard car. All these little things add up.

The hobby of making and racing these cars really ramped up in the 40s-50s but by the mid 60s there was a craze. It was featured in a lot of media, there were industries catering now and magazines! Car craft, hot rod, etc.

Drag racing-

Now here it gets alrighty complicated as there is a split off into drag racing becoming somewhat of a legitimate sport — which let’s be real the kind any of the guys on the East side were engaging in was not “official” or completely legal. Also not to be confused with street racing fast and furious baby driver type— though it could be on a street/public street that’s not the same thing necessarily. Too many turns and hindrance and a totally other type of reckless. Really frustrating to look up as you get more of the regulated sport than the actual thing.

Their type of drag race is a street race, set out on a short, straight stretch of road side by side. Usually on the edge of town or a start of a highway or route- a long straight stretch out of the way. In movies at least there’s always a dramatic local name for it too like “Thunder road” or “dead man’s curve” something like that. It gives you a notable location besides “uh you know that one place out uh by uh.” Lol “Burn out” / “burn rubber” is essentially burning off a part of the wheel onto the road at the start- it helps with traction. Don’t ask me how. Straight forward, first to cross the finish line wins (in this case probably a land-marker or a set point than literal)

Why race? Largest sited -> Community, excitement, bets 

You do not need a hot rod to race, it’s not a requirement mind you but it’d certainly help. Added to, not all cars were extremely tricked out deconstructed art pieces, you could’ve had a lot of not visible work done on the car etc.

A good character to look to in regard to Hot rodding and racing is John Milner in American Graffiti (1973).

Club car v hot rod-

A club car is basically the main car of a Social club, as say many members don’t have a car or just it fits the most members to go riding around with. (Remember, bench seats you could fit so many more people in a car). It could be a hot rod, more likely it’s just a car.

Social club v gang-

A social club is a pretty broad term that’s just a group of people brought together by a common interest. By definition a book club is a social club, technically. Now, there were a lot of Juvenile delinquent aligned social club types- based around cars or just the general lifestyle. Sometimes there was little difference at all and it just gave a gang more legitimacy/threw police off as it made them seem more reputable.

So really the big difference between a Greaser gang and a Greaser social club is police and public scrutiny. Clubs had a - I wouldn’t say easier time but slightly more trust? However, this also isn’t to say that all social clubs are fronts for a gang as it can just be tough looking kids but chill and mostly law abiding.

Clothing too, before the internet identity was built and shown in person. How you dressed, worn literally on your sleeve. Not like the remnants of today but fully living and showing yourself and your affiliations through appearance. Having a group look, or group jackets- the conformity in a way was individuality. It’s a bit paradoxical. But club jackets, the hair, the jeans etc are a great example of this.

(Really funny aside but looking up social clubs and it’s Rockstar telling me how to join a gang in GTA)

Junkyards-

Still very much in existence but a great place to scavenge for just about anything but especially car parts. Same goes for salvage yards, wrecking yards, second hand parts shops etc. Greasers, and other car culture staples would be overflowing in shop classes and mechanic shops (stereotypically anyway) so there’s the knowledge and the access there already. Sometimes a part or two might go missing… who knows.

Really I’ve started thinking about yards like this more as I visit the country more and someone’s yards filled with rusted cars and a bunch of parts and stuff like this. Like part of it might just be someone leaving it to rot but another part is— yeah they’re pretty valuable communitively. Not just to car loving teenagers! Hell the Curtis’s have a few dead cars in their yard (and a bunch of boards ??? And supplies for some reason???) and the lot appears to have at some point been a dumping ground.

[cellophaine]

Chapter III: RALLY

Masterlist

Pairing: Art Donaldson x F!Reader

Warnings: More flirting if you can believe it.

Author's Note: I did not run this through Grammarly so hopefully it's still digestible.

GIF Source: @/roranicuspond

The music, the chatter, the shouts of excitement reverberated throughout the big house and became a concentrated fusion of noise in your ears. You took another sip of the spiked fruit punch and grimaced at the taste. It burned all the way down, but the buzz it provided was pleasant. You watched all these strangers mingling about, chatting and dancing and playing games you weren’t privy to, no one paid attention to you. After several failed attempts at striking and maintaining a conversation, you retreated to the corner of the kitchen after escaping the common area. The array of food and drinks was within reach, and from here, you could people watch.

Midterms came with the guarantee of long hours into the nights, and went with the promise of celebration. Ashley, your roommate, was more than eager to deliver on that promise, and also the reason why you came to the party. Your other roommate, Grace, went out with her book club, leaving you the only chaperone, and confidence boost Ashley needed to talk to her crush. It took an egregious amount of convincing from Ashley for you to finally agreed. You needed to get out more, Ashley said on the way to the party, you worked so hard for midterms and it showed in the results. Your wandering mind thought of Art, a minor diversion in your study these days. You hadn’t seen him since the day he treated you to lunch, and never approached him for the few times you saw him on campus. Most of the time, he had a bag of racquet on his shoulder. You wondered if he noticed you, and if he also contemplated whether to say hi to you. You were grateful either way, since you had no doubt he would become a great distraction that you couldn’t afford.

More people poured into the kitchen, so you took that opportunity to fill your cup with a ladle of the same fruit punch, and slipped outside through the back door. The yard was big, with high wooden fence wrapped around the property. There was a pool to your left, and an open grass field with a bonfire blazing. Most people hung around the pool, so you made a beeline for the fire. You shivered as a cold breeze brushed over the skin on your exposed arms. You chose the small wooden bench after asking the few people who were already there if you could take a seat. The flame, alongside the alcohol, warmed you up from the inside out. You grimaced at a small sip, the taste of the punch somehow became more foul than the last. Bracing yourself, you took another, hoping the pleasant buzz would amp up, and wishing the time would past even quicker.

“If this isn’t the girl I’ve been looking for.”

You thought your hearing was mistaken, but it was him. You turned your head, and there Art was, standing two feet away, looking at you with a bottle of Sprite in his hand. He was wearing a Stanford hoodie and shorts, the golden waves of his hair were tousled softly in the gentle wind. You couldn’t help the complacency in your voice.

“You’ve been looking for me?”

“All the time. Ever since when I last saw you.”

You rolled your eyes.

“You’re such a stalker.”

“No. Just an admirer.”

You took another moment to appreciate the sight of him in front of you, before scooting to the other side of the bench as much as you could. You patted the empty space you’d just left, and Art immediately accepted your invitation. His knee knocking against yours as he sat down. Your thighs grazed when he settled, and you felt your cheeks warm at the contact.

“How are you?”

“So what brought you–?”

You talked at the same time, and then broke into a nervous chuckle together. Art jerked his chin at you.

“You go first.”

“Okay. Well, my roommate brought me here.”

“Where is she now?”

“She’s with her crush. I’m here because she didn’t want to go alone. You?”

“Robbie invited me. He’s my hitting partner this semester. He knows some guy who lives here.”

You hummed noncommittally. You cleared your throat after a mouthful of your drink when Art asked.

“How did your midterm go?”

“It went … very well. You?”

“Uhh, maybe less well than you.”

“If you study as much as you train then I have no doubt that you did great.”

You said it without much thought. Art looked at you with a new interest.

“How did you know that?”

Your brows knitted in confusion.

“Know what?”

“That I train. Quite often.”

You stumbled over your words as you thought of an answer.

“Well, it was … I just … I’ve seen you on campus a few times, and you always have a racquet bag with you. In the few times that I saw you. In case that wasn’t clear.”

Art leaned back as if to take you in fully. The way he cocked an eyebrow coupled with the playful smile on his lips screamed mischief.

“So you’ve been stalking me.”

“Absolutely not.”

Your denial was immediate. You diverted your gaze to the fire and took a long sip from your cup to hide the embarrassment tinged in your features.

“You know, if you want to hang out more with me …”

Art leaned in, and you couldn’t resist the pull from his gaze. A light citrus scent stirred at your sense of smell, and it was soothing.

“ … all you have to do is to give me your phone number. You know, to make it easier for both of us.”

You pretended to think about his proposition, sucking air through your teeth.

“I don’t know. You haven’t proved yourself to be anything but a distraction.”

“Me? A distraction?”

“Yup. As a straight A student like myself, I can’t afford distraction.”

Perhaps it was the alcohol, or the fact that it was your clumsy attempt at flirting wth Art, but you felt bolder, your lips more loose. He moved in even closer, invading your space, and you could see the flutter of his long lashes that framed his widened eyes. Everything about him made you feel like you were in a big trouble.

“Oh my god. You’re obsessed with me.”

“No, I’m so not.”

“Yes, you are. You must think about me all the time.”

Your cheeks burned and you were certain it wasn’t due to the alcohol. You felt like you were caught with a crime you were guilty of committing. Art had been more than just a passing thought. He was a frequent recurrence in your mind. You stammered for a defensive stance.

“What about you? If anything, you’re the one who’s obsessed. You’ve been asking me for my number every time we see each other.”

“Right. You can deny it all you want, but I can see it clear as day.”

“I’m not denying anything. I’m just … telling you that I don’t … think about you.”

His brows raised as if he didn’t believe you.

“Not that … often, anyway.”

He grinned, satisfied with your answer. You put a hand over your eyes.

“Can we … move past this, please?”

Art chuckled and leaned away with his hands held up, satisfied like a purring cat after a big meal. He watched as you took a swig of your empty drink.

“Do you want a refill?”

“Yeah. Not the same thing though. I’ve had enough of gasoline juice.”

His chuckle was light, rising above everything else around you even though you weren’t alone.

“I can find something decent for you.”

You moved to go with him, but Art held out a hand.

“You stay here. I’ll get it for you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

You watched as he disappeared into the crowded house. You caught the smile that crept onto your face, and for once, you allowed yourself to enjoy the moment. The waning crescent was an imposing presence amongst the stars in the clear sky. The fire was warm, and so was the feeling you harboured inside. You were glad that you stuck around and saw Art again, the one person who had occupied your mind more often than you’d like to admit. The easy banter and flirtatious remarks were only bonuses to what he was to you. A person who seemed to like you for who you were, and not for what you could do for him. He had been nothing but nice to you, reducing your well-constructed wall to a feeble fence that parted in half whenever he came around.

Goosebumps spread all over your skin as a gust of wind swooped by. You rubbed your arms to alleviate the cold and drew into yourself. And then you heard it, his name in a cheerful voice. Your head turned to the source as if the call was for you. Art had already walked to her with a drink and a paper bag in hands. You watched as they conversed. She was gorgeous, her light golden brown skin glowed even in the low light. She was slim and tall, almost matched Art’s height. From this distance, you couldn’t hear them, but you could see the way they laughed at something she said, their heads bowed towards each other in the movement. You felt like you were an intruder in their conversation, even though you were only watching. She touched his arm and left, leaving Art looking after her as she disappeared into the house. Something stirred in the back of your mind, but you quickly dismissed it before it even took form. You whipped your head back to the fire, pretending that you’d been looking at it as Art turned around and made his way over to you. Art held out the cup and you accepted it with a word of appreciation. He settled in next to you for the second time that night, and your heart couldn’t help but skip a beat.

“Did you miss me while I was gone?”

“You wish.”

He chuckled, and looked at the way you held yourself.

“Are you cold?”

“A little bit. But it’s fine. The fire is keeping me warm.”

An involuntary shiver broke through your body.

“You’re not a very good liar, you know that?”

Art stood up and took off his hoodie. The movement tugged the white t shirt he wore underneath upward, and you could catch a glimpse of his leaned lower torso, the faint V line leading into the band of his underwear. You quickly averted your eyes to meet his own under the messy blond locks, your cheeks burned at the quick glance.

“No, Art, it’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

He held out the hoodie.

“Just take it.”

It looked like he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so you took it and put it on. The sleeves covered your hands and more, the body fabric pooled around your midsection. His warmth settled over you like an embrace, igniting the excitement that brewed underneath your skin. You relaxed into the scent and the comfort of him, and sighed softly.

“All better?”

He put his arms around you, making rapid up and down motions to create friction and warming you up. Your heart jumped at the contact even though there was a layer between his hands and your skin.

“This is really nice. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He let you go and held up the brown paper bag he left at his feet.

“Do you want some s’mores?”

/

“Wow. I’ve never seen someone who’s this bad at making s’mores.”

Art commented after your third burned marshmallow while you frantically blew on it to put out the fire. The charred remain sagged sadly on the stick. You frowned.

“It’s still … edible.”

“Edible? It looks like a lump of coal.”

You bowed your head, defeated.

“Here.”

Art put a perfectly toasted marshmallow on a graham cracker for you.

“Take it. And please, it’s just a s’more.”

You accepted the treat, and bit into it. The gooey sweetness enveloped your tongue, and you hummed in approval. You watched as Art discarded your burned sweet into the fire.

“How are you so bad at this?”

“Well, my parents aren’t exactly the outdoor type.”

“Lucky for you, you have a master at work here.”

He taught you to put the marshmallow near the ember, not directly in the flame. Eventually, you made one without burning it to crisp. Art cheered as you showed in your stellar achievement in between the graham crackers. Your heart hammered as he leaned in and took a bite from out of your hand. He closed his eyes, a moan sounded deep in his throat.

“The sweet victory of my teaching.”

A marshmallow string dripped over his bottom lip. Your eyes glued to his movement as he swiped it off, brought the thumb to his mouth and licked it. But there was still some left on the curve of his lip. Out of instinct, your hand reached for the spot he missed and wiped it off with careful tenderness. Art held still, and his breathing seemed to follow. He gazed at you with an impossible softness in his eyes, and you felt a new fervour of heat warming your face. Neither of you said anything, nor dared to breathe too loudly. Your hand lingered on his face, and you felt an urge to run it over his jawline, to pull him close, eager to taste the sweetness of the treat from his lips.

A loud whoop shrilled in your ears, followed by the sound of water being splashed. Pulled away from the moment, you drew your hand back and cleared your throat.

“I think I’ve mastered it now.”

/

The night ended with Art walking you home. Before you left party, you found Ashley and made sure she was okay. She beamed ear to ear and told you she’d spend some more time here. You asked her to be careful and to text you if she needed anything. You parted ways, finding Art waiting for you outside on the green lawn. The walk to your apartment building was long, but the two of you filled the distance with things like classes and what you’d been up to since you last saw each other. Art told you about his upcoming match and what he’d done to prepare for it. You expressed interest in seeing him play, and Art perked up at that like a little puppy.

“I’ll let you know when the date is announced.”

Before you knew it, you were standing in front of the gate to your building.

“This is me.”

“Are you sure it’s not for another block?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. You observed him for moment, tracing the soft edge of his eyes, the way his lips flattened against themselves, shaping into a faint, endearing smile. You held out your hand.

“Give me your phone.”

“For what?”

You arched an eye brow. It took him three seconds to arrive at the same thought you had. He scrambled to take his phone out, almost dropping it to the ground. You put your number in along with your name and saved it.

“Here you go. You can move on to something else now.”

“Never.”

Art returned his phone to his pants’ pocket. A need struck you, something you’d wanted to do since he sat down next to you earlier in the night. The urge was overwhelming, your heart hammered in your chest, your skin itched to make it happen. But you didn’t want to overthink anymore. Brushing asides all cautions, you stepped closer so that you could grasp his shoulder and rose on your tiptoes. Your lips softly brushed his cheek, lingering there for a moment before pulling away. You watched as a blush quickly spread all over his neck and ears, tinting his cheeks a faint pink.

“Good night, Art.”

You entered through the waist high iron gate, and walked the distance before hearing Art saying good night. You turned around and waved at him. He held up a hand and reciprocated. Once you made it to your room, you fell onto your bed and sighed. You felt light and happy, already recounting everything that happened tonight in your head. You put a hand on your hammering heart, and only then, you realized that you were still in his hoodie. You pulled the collar up to your nose and inhaled the comforting scent of him. You smiled. It would be yours for now.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

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[kkukverse]

his dandelion

pair: Taehyung x athlete!reader (fem.reader)

genre: high school au, childhood friends au

warnings & ratings: mentions of injuries | fluff, angst

word count: 4k

author's note: happy birthday, winter bear.

You were both thirteen when Taehyung wanted to be your friend.

He sat next to you in art class, only with his dark charcoal pencil as his utensil. He drew peculiar lines and shapes and sometimes portraits. Your teacher loves them but you cannot understand it. 

Your teacher once said that he would’ve made an astounding art prodigy if his arts were to be seen by the world. She said his talent is hidden in this crappy little island. But Taehyung doesn’t really mind it, he once whispered to you, “I like it here, I don’t think my art is that big of a deal anyway. It’s not like I’m Van Gogh or something”

You laughed along because at thirteen years old, you never knew nor cared about a guy named Van Gogh. Taehyung used to tell you about that guy. Not wanting to look ignorant, you used all of your extra pocket money to get into Mr. Lee’s cyber cafe. Using the internet to find out more about the man Taehyung always talks about. 

You were confused, for someone who painted in vibrant color, Van Gogh is actually a sad guy. 

Unlike him. Taehyung was a vibrant kid and you noticed he only used dark colors in his paintings. You always paint everything in red and yellow. Those are your favorite, probably because of your field and track jersey. Since you keep seeing those colors, you tend to use them the most.

One day, on your practice day, Taehyung sat spreading his legs on the bench. Quite close to you but you still squint your eyes. Unsure if it’s actually him or just some other boy who wore the exact baggy beige pants that you always see on him, why is he here? Maybe he’s waiting for a friend. 

You just finished a total of five set a hundred meter runs before you realized that he is actually looking at you. From almost a yard away from him, you waved your hand “Taehyung?”

“Yea,” one arm on his knee, the other one waving back at you.

“Waiting for someone?” you yelled, hoping that he can hear you.

“No one, just watching you,” Taehyung answered.

You jog closer to him, because you think you misheard that he was here watching you, not waiting for someone. Wait? 

“What?” You pant while wiping sweat on your forehead. 

“I said, I was watching you running,” he beamed, looking up at you. He was holding back a laugh seeing your face twitch in confusion.

“There isn’t any particular reason. I was just nearby when I saw your team having a practice.” 

“And somehow you decided to stay?” You asked.

“I am curious. I really wanted to see you in the field. I saw you in your jersey all the time after our class. I never gets to see you in action, so yea, I decided to stay and watch you,”

“Well, that’s…”

“Too weird?” Taehyung scooted to provide you some space on the bench. His big hand lightly taps on the free spot, luring you to sit next to him.

“No, not really. We just don’t really talk in class and I was just..shocked?” You’re making sure there’s a gap in between your thighs and his because you’re conscious of your sweaty smelly self. 

He chuckled and you stared at his boxy smiles. There it is, the infamous smile that swooned everyone in this little island.

“Silly, I thought we’re already friends? At least I considered us friends the moment you let me borrow your yellow paint.” He turns his whole upper body, fully facing you now. 

The yellow paint was a cheap one. It was not even that bright. In fact, all colours in the paint set are dull and pale. It was affordable and your mom did her best to buy it. Bless her heart. Taehyung uses your yellow paint for the dandelion he drew. What you didn’t know was, he may purposely draw the dandelions so he can talk to you. 

“Oh yeah.” You agreed along.

Crap. I’m so sweaty like a pig right now, you thought. 

“Let’s make it more clear, can we be friends?” Taehyung smiles at you.

“Sure,” was your only answer. 

Dammit you can feel the sweat running down the valley of your prepubescent beasts and you wanted this to end before Taehyung can see it through your thin jersey. 

Since that day, Taehyung never missed a day of your practice. Just sitting all by himself on the bench until it’s over, and after that you walked home together. 

At seventeen, he wiped the tears and kissed the pain away.

If Taehyung was told to rate three of his hardest moments in his life, number three would be sending you off on the ferry to town. 

You have become a successful athlete, number one track runner in your hometown representing your school. You were always away for running events.

Once a month, you’re cruising on the ferry, off to the big city. It pains Taehyung to watch you go out of the island where he is still stuck there. But he insisted on sending you and picking you up. Because that way he can soothe his heart by sending you safely and knowing you will always come back home.

Just like any other month. Taehyung is waiting by the station on his bike. Ready to pick you up.

He is imagining your silly face with a gold medal on your neck. “Taetae I won! Again!” Like any other month. Taehyung can’t help it. He has grown to care about you a lot. He has become your number one supporter, always there at the finished line.

Taehyung knows by heart the schedule of the ferry. The ferry leaves at seven every morning and the last trip from the town is always at before five in the evening. He knows the schedule like the back of his hand. It’s a small island. Nothing really goes wrong. Except if there is a storm or if the sea is unpleasant. Which was rare. 

He knows that the journey took two hours. It’s always two hours back and forth to the big city. Somehow right now his watch is pointing at seven. Later than usual. He kept himself calm by picturing you running to him. 

His eyes lit up the moment he saw the ferry. He patiently waits until every single one of the passengers is out of that ferry. Just like any other month, he predicted your loud scream can be heard by now.

 Except, this time it was silent.

The ferry was here but he couldn’t hear your giggles, his heart was beating fast. Something is not right.

Standing up straight, he runs to the ferry. Calling for you. 

His frantic eyes caught a few people still coming out but he couldn’t find you. What happened? Times like this makes him more anxious because he couldn’t call you. At seventeen, having a phone in this little island is a luxury. Promising himself to get a phone soon with the money he collected from part time jobs.

One hand on his hip and the other is rubbing his face, he broke into a cold sweat. His mind is moving too fast with questions. Were you left behind? Did something happen to you? Are you alone?

Just before he almost turned around and grabbed his bike to look for your coach or your mom, he saw a solemn figure at the back side of the ferry. 

His second hard moments in his life is watching you injured.

His heart beats like a drum when he sees you in crutches, one leg is wrapped and head down looking at the floor. He walks with a heavy heart to you, whispering your name as if calling you out loud would break your already fragile state.

“Hey, look at me,” Taehyung says softly as he holds your chin. Prompting you to look up to him. He gasped after his eyes set on your face. Your lower lip is busted and red with dried blood, your eyes are swollen, which he assumes from crying. He hates that he was right.

His greatest fear, your tears.

“Taetae,” the break in your voice is stabbing Taehyung all over the place.

“Shh, It’s okay, you’re okay.” He cupped your face with his hands. As gentle as he can. Eyes frowning seeing you in pain. Taehyung wishes there are things such as transferring pain because right now he wants to take yours.

“I lost,” you sob, letting tears and snot rolling down your face. The sting on your lip is the least pain you can feel.

“Oh dear, it’s just one lost. I’m sure you did your best.” Taehyung cooed as he wiped your tears and snot.

“No, it’s not gonna be one lost from now on. I tripped and fell so hard. It’s gonna take months to heal,” you hiccups and Taehyung swears this is the sound that breaks his heart the most and he vows to keep you away from it.

“I’m gonna miss the nationals, Tae what am I gonna do?” you wail. Breathing becomes hard. With hiccups and sobbing and a blurry view because of the tears, you’re breaking down in his arms.  

“Shh shh, take a deep breath for me. Come on baby, don’t scare me. Please, please breathe.” he puts his forehead on yours. Hoping to ground you back to him. Thumbs rubbing softly on your cheeks.

The term of endearment didn’t go unnoticed by you. Baby.

“Taetae,”. You were still sobbing as you leaned on him.

Taehyung is terrified, he never saw you cry this hard. He doesn’t know how to calm you and it kills him to not be able to do anything to lessen your pain. So he kissed you, softly. On your forehead, on your cheeks, on your eyelids, on your nose. 

The traces of his kisses feel like a feathery touch. And your sense is following his trails. Closing your eyes you’re no longer sobbing. Only soft whimpers fill the space.

“There we go. No more tears, baby.” Taehyung is relieved now that he can feel you breathing at a steady pace again. “Let’s go home,” he hesitated when his eyes landed on your lips. Swollen red from the biting. 

You noticed the lingering stare and with a beat of the heart you crashed your lips on his. Seeking comfort and warmth, Taehyung is soaring high. The kiss was like a warm wave. Languid and soft. Taehyung is so gentle. He peppers soft kisses around your busted lips. 

“Don't wanna hurt you,” he breathed. Pulling himself from the kiss, he rubs a soft circle on your cheek. “Let’s go home,” he added. 

He piggybacks you home first and comes back again later to pick up his bike and your crutches. From that day onward, you both knew that you aren’t just friends anymore.

You have been itching to get your feet back on track and once the cast is off, you swear you’re gonna spend every evening running. It wasn’t ideal since the injury was bad and you were advised to stay put until it completely healed. 

But you were so determined to get back on track because your only goal is getting into nationals. You have planned it out. Since you don’t perform well academically, running is your only golden ticket out of the island. You got to join the national teams. You must.

The evening after you took off your cast accompanied by Taehyung, you asked him to drop you off at the track field.

“What are we gonna do in the field? You’re not planning on running aren’t you?” Taehyung speaks with scrunched eyebrows. 

“Taetae, please. I really missed the track.” You pouted and he’s a goner.

“No running!” He pointed his finger at you. You smirk before pretending to bite it. 

“I’m serious. No running,” he gently flicked your forehead. “We’re just gonna take a walk, okay?” he hums, turning around to make sure you’re securely safe on the back of his bike.

“I promise.” You squeezed his waist, an answer yes I’m alright back here Taetae.

You have no idea how much you missed the track until Taehyung helped you down from the bike. The sudden gush of air fills your lungs like you’ve come up from drowning. Taehyung can sense that you’re become quite overwhelmed. His hand enveloping yours as he kissed your temple.

“Come on,” he whispered.

Rahhhh!! Rahhh!!! 

The chant of the crowd broke a smile on your face. You missed it, you missed smelling the old burgundy track, feeling the burn from the sun, the sweat and the satisfying burn in your lungs when you reached the finish line. 

You missed a certain someone waiting there. With his ridiculous boxy grin, and his booming cheers, muting other sounds and you can hear nothing but his voice. 

It is so hard to be the one sitting in the audience instead of being on the track.

Taehyung left you for a minute to buy some lemonade and you desperately need him to ground you. Otherwise you’d be a crying mess. Yearning to be on the track but your almost healing leg is holding you back.

It is an annual event, something like sports day for the people in your island. It wasn’t even a big event, unlike the ones you used to compete in. But your heart hummed in a painful tone. You’re jealous of those who can run freely on the track you held dear to your heart.

A soft tap on your shoulder broke you from wallowing in self-pity. Taehyung sat next to you, hands holding two cups of lemonade. He knows coming here is not a good idea but you woke up so early and dressed up to be here. He doesn’t have the heart to say no.

Seeing your frowning face, Taehyung started to think maybe he should’ve said no or maybe brought you somewhere else but here.

“Hey, did I tell you that Miss Choi is helping me submit my art to the National Art School?” Taehyung winced at his futile attempt to distract you. No, Taehyung, this isn’t about you. He bit the inner cheek. Handing you a cup of lemonade before he could think of anything to turn back the time.

“No way,” you gasped. He knows you’d be excited for him. But he didn’t expect how your face would just glow in excitement like this. He was glad. 

“Taetae! Why did you just tell me now? How could you!” you punched his shoulder. It doesn’t hurt a bit. Taehyung is still lost in your happy smile. 

“Ah, I'm so happy. Finally, Let the city people look at your art. They're gonna praise you Taetae!” You smile adoringly and Taehyung hated that he had one thought you wouldn’t be happy for him.

“Yea, but I’m not sure yet what piece I should submit. I’m not that good and nope before you can scream at me let me finish,” he raised his finger on your lips. Just managed to stop you from gasping out loud. 

What an outrageous statement! Kim Taehyung’s arts are the most magnificent arts. Though you have no clue how to appreciate art, you would break hell if people couldn’t appreciate his art.

“It’s a tough competition, even if my piece were received and reviewed, the chances of me getting in there are slim. There are so many talented artists out there, baby. Let’s not have high hopes. Not to mention I haven’t had a decent piece to submit yet.” he sighed. Shoulders slumped and he emptied the lemonade in one go.

He is nervous.

Looking at him, you squished his cheeks with your hands. “Look at me,” you demanded.

“Your art is the most breathtaking art I have ever seen, Kim Taehyung. And it’s a lot coming from me, who is practically blind when it comes to looking at paintings. I have zero knowledge about art but I know for sure, yours are gonna blow some minds. There’s people out there who studied arts, they will look at yours and be amazed by them.” You said.

“And you will always have good arts, they’re not just decent. You always said when the inspiration comes, it comes. Don’t pressure yourself,” you whispered as if it’s the only secret between you and him. And you’re selfish, not wanting to share the moment with the rest of the crowds.

Taehyung didn’t know how a heart could break until that night he received a call from your mother.

“Taehyung, she fell. Again.” 

The static noise filled his ears as he ran to the jetty. It was midnight and there’s no ferry to take him to you.

Stupid, stupid girl!

He cried while banging his chest. He could’ve prevented you from going. You told him you wanted to participate in a tournament. It was not even a month after you recovered. Teahyung did think you were so stubborn to go because apparently it was for a scholarship. You were hellbent on going because you knew, the moment Taehyung got accepted to art school, you will be left alone. 

You wanted to be in the city with him. You were so sure Taehyung would get accepted and the only way to be with him is to get the sports scholarship and join him in the city.

Taehyung was unsure at first. You just got better. He was scared that one slip could jeopardize your whole dream. Again, he hated that he was right.

Your mom was sobbing when she called him. “She can never run again Tae, her muscle was torn and there’s no way we can afford a surgery. She hasn’t woken up yet, she was under a high dose painkiller. I don’t know what to tell her Tae.”

Taehyung wished he could calm your mom but he couldn’t. Not when he was crying too.

You always tell him the same dream of yours. Joining the national team, go to the Olympics. Becoming the fastest runner of the country. Run until you can never feel your legs anymore. With him always telling you he’d be on the finish line. Cheering you on and on. And now the dreams will stay as dreams.

He couldn’t control his anger and thinking about your pain, he collapses on the ground. Letting the tears touch the ground. It wasn’t until he was collected enough to ride the earliest ferry to town. To come to you.

Taehyung stays by your side nights and days. Helping your mom as you don't have any male figure in your life. His parents understand it and he is thankful for that. They know how much you meant to him and they were so proud to see their son has been such a reliable shoulder especially in this trivial time for your family.

He was the one who meets up with the doctor with your mom. Discussing the recovery plan, and just being there to be your pillar. You were so quiet on the first day he arrived. The dark circles under your eyes and the hollow stare is tearing his heart apart. 

Not saying much he helped feed you, and carried you to the bathroom. You were still quiet, though Taehyung tried to engage you in small talks. He makes silly jokes, the repeated jokes you always laughed at only to be received an empty response from you now. 

“Tae, I wouldn’t know what to do if you weren't here. Thank you so much, son.” Your mom cries to him. Taehyung was so heartbroken to see your mom keep crying as he himself couldn’t do much to ease the pain. 

“She’ll get better, she is strong.” He said. It has become a mantra every time Taehyung sat alone, thinking about you.

One day, when the doctor allowed you to go home, you reached for him. Mumbling, “Taetae, will I be okay?” your voice was strained, rough and broken. Eyes still staring into the void but your hands held onto him so tight. Like you’re so afraid if he lets go.

“Yes, you will. You’re a strong girl, you’re my strong girl,” Taehyung replied without hesitation, kissing your forehead in hopes of banishing the negative thoughts from swallowing your mind. 

“But I can’t run anymore. What’s the point? I am no longer a runner.” 

“Maybe there’s another opportunity for you. Maybe we can try other things, I’ll help you,”

You scoffed, he sounded silly and unrealistic. “I am nothing without running. It’s my only purpose, Kim Taehyung.” 

He winced at his full name used by you. “I get it but you shouldn’t lose all hope. There are other possibilities for you out there, we just have to push harder to look for them. I believe in you.” Taehyung pleads.

“You don’t get it. All my life, one thing I am sure about is the track. I beat the time every time I’m on the track and now I am defeated with a broken leg and a stupid brain. Forget academics, you and I, we both know how terrible I am at learning. I’m not you! You’re a prodigy in everything. You have people who want to buy your art. I only have the track to stay valid so no, no one gets it. Not even you!” you were seething through your teeth. 

All of the pent up anger and frustration were let out to the one person you cared about. It’s too late to regret, now that his face shows nothing but hurt.

Taehyung feels like being punched in his gut with your words. How could you, when he himself couldn’t sleep a wink from the day he heard about your injury. When worried about you every time you were at a tournament. When he can barely sit still watching you running on the track.

He couldn’t say anything after that. He knows whatever comes out from his mouth will only make it worse. You were devastated, he got to understand that. You need time and space, and you will be okay again. 

Ever since you arrived home, you refused to meet anyone. Not even Taehyung. You were angry and most of all you were just sad. You wanted to be mad at something, something to blame but you couldn’t find it. 

Maybe it was yourself, maybe if you weren’t so stubborn, maybe if you waited a little longer. 

Taehyung did not give up. You were pushing him away and he didn’t move a flinch. He realizes he is being a pushover but you need someone. You were stubborn, through and through. You don’t have to come out of your room to talk to him nor him entering your room like he always does, but you know he’s around, he is home. 

He even followed you and your mom to your routine physiotherapy. But you ignore him. A part of you feels selfish and guilty for treating him this way. Another part is, you think you’re dragging him down on this stupid island. You tried to distance yourself from him, but Taehyung didn’t care. He stays stuck next to you. 

Even though you went to school all by yourself, Taehyung always follows behind you quietly. You didn’t talk to anyone and yet he still comes to your locker to help you carry your book. 

You forgot about his art submission, until one day he came up to your room. Knocking softly. He didn’t speak but who else would be in your house other than your mom. You opened up to see him holding a big white canvas under his arm.

He turns it to you, showing you a painting of a girl in her yellow and red jersey. The girl is running in a field of dandelions.   

“I want to submit this but I need you to see it first. You are my muse, you are my girl. It kills me to see you in this state and I want nothing but the very best of you. I used to cheer for you on the finish line but this time let me run by your side. Let me help you. If I get accepted, I will make a lot of money and I will make the best life for you, so you can stop worrying so much. We’ll learn together, just let me in.”

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This morning I came across a UK realty listing for a derelict former Baron's house that actually said, "There are no affordable homes." So, in my quest to find some, I came across 2 conversions. The first is this former 1960s gas station in Carrizozo, NM. It says 0bds, 1ba, but it's $289K. It's supposedly located in a lively arts district, too. So, let's see what we've got here.

The small former office is a cozy living room.

They should've put 0 kitchen, too, b/c this kitchenette doesn't cut it for me. Not even a cooktop.

But, it's not a deal breaker, b/c look at all the room back here. The current owner has a studio set up w/a gallery.

This could be a large studio living space or walls could even be put up. It's kind of industrial loft.

Down the hall he has an office. Nope. This is the new kitchen. It already has cabinets.

I don't see that this bath has a tub or shower. So, this would have to redone.

And, down here is an empty room. There's the bedroom.

Utility closet.

It's on an island, like stations usually are, for easy access.

They put stones on the unpaved areas. Maybe that could be a covered patio?

Potential for a nice yard back here. .41 acre lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/508-Central-Ave-Carrizozo-NM-88301/305137298_zpid/

[motomam1]

MOTOMAMI | driver's profile

― THE BASICS

name: valeria sofía ortiz date of birth: 8th of march, 2001 place of birth: east la, california nationality: mexican-american age: 22 (as of 2023) height: 167cm / 5'5'' zodiac sign: pisces sexuality: bisexual

― VALERIA'S FORMULA CAREER

✘ FORMULA THREE (2019) team: carlin buzz racing racing number: 29 teammates: felipe drugovich, logan sargeant driver standing: 5th first win: belgium

✘ FORMULA THREE (2020) team: hitech grand prix racing number: 4 teammates: liam lawson, dennis hauger driver standing: 2nd first win: hungary

✘ FORMULA TWO (2021) team: prema racing racing number: 1 teammate: oscar piastri driver standing: 2nd first win: azerbaijan

✘ FORMULA TWO (2022) team: prema racing racing number: 2 teammate: dennis hauger driver standing: 1st first win: jeddah

✘ FORMULA ONE (2023) team: mercedes-amg petronas f1 racing number: 8 teammate: lewis hamilton driver standing: 5th (as of october) first win: --

― THE SHORT HISTORY OF VALERIA

Growing up in East LA, Valeria Sofía Ortiz hasn’t always had it easy.

With her mother leaving her at a young age, Valeria and her father had to fend for themselves early on. Her father, Alvaro Hernández Ortiz, only wanted the best life he could afford for his little angel, so he said goodbye to the gang life and opened up a mechanics shop.

Valeria developed an interest in the art of cars while helping out in her father’s shop and quickly found herself drawn to everything surrounding it. Noticing his daughter’s curiosity, Alvaro decided  to bring her out on the karting track for fun. However, he was surprised to find Valeria driving around the track in top speed and condition.

After that, he gave it his all to ensure his daughter’s return and started scavenging the scrap yards for kart parts while Valeria went around doing mini jobs, like lawn-mowing, to earn extra money to afford karting.

Facing a lot of issues as she climbed up the karting ladder, Valeria never backed down from a fight and oftentimes got into trouble because of it. But that didn’t stop her from dominating the track, gaining lots of attention from the media and the motorsport.

That’s when Toto Wolff noticed the girl, travelling to LA to check out the young racer and realising what potential she held. Becoming part of the Mercedes Junior Team, more and more opportunities opened up for Valeria as she entered the Formula world.

As she drove her way through Formula 3 and 2, she eventually got offered a seat at the Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 team alongside 7x world champion, Lewis Hamilton.

Navigating her life as one of the top 20 drivers of the world, Valeria is met with new challenges and obstacles being thrown at her…

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[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

Hiii, do you have any tips for drafting out embroidery patterns? I've got one in mind, but drafting it out and color picking is so nerve-wracking!!

[Hi!!!! this got kinda really long so I'm gonna crop it under a read more. And I honestly don't have any real training/instruction in fiber arts so this is just how I do things, and probably others do them very differently!]

Haha so my fandom embroideries are VERY different from my non-fandom personal pieces in this respect. For non-fandom things i just kind of throw myself in like WAHOO FREEFORM LETS GO and go for a kind of messy colorful approach that ends up as things like this:

Versus my fandom stuff is way more structured and designed to fill space, be very precise, etc. So for those I do go in with a digital mock up of the design I make in photoshop, that I then color in, and then as my last step translate to thread colors.

For my Dragon Age series. this has been because I'm specifically trying to mimic the stained-glass style of art you see in parts of the game like the dialogue wheels, some icons, windows, etc. The icons in particular were really easy to copy into embroidery because they already come in handy circles:

This is mostly because I have desperately wanted to pick up stained glass work as a hobby for like 6 years now. As in once every 3-6 months I put everything I'd need to start doing it into an online shopping cart and look at the price total and then sadly close the window because I just don't actually have any space I could do it in (I live in a 2bed apartment so i have no garage or yard or anywhere it wouldn't make everything else a mess or be a hazard). The day after one of those events I impulse bought and completed a floral embroidery kit from the craft store and kinda was like... ok, well, I did this once how hard can it be to use this medium to mimic the hobby I wish I could be doing? Plus, it's only like 60 cents per color! I can afford that! So I took the first design I wanted to do, the romance icon, and basically redrew it sloppily in photoshop, then freehand-copied the design onto fabric and stitched it the next day:

I learned a lot from this piece and changed my approach a little. Here you can see I tried shading in the parallel direction to my thread, which looked messy and added texture, so now I shade horizontally to my thread direction instead.

But it gave me a basic approach for turning the Tarot cards or DA Keep tiles (or any other art!) into embroidery patterns, which I couldn't copy as directly into this really smooth stained-glass style. There's a basic process I follow when doing these conversions that generally follows the same order, which I'll go through below.

STEP 1: SHAPES

The first thing I do is pick the shape of my display frame which is usually a circle, but could be an oval or rectangle too, since I hang the finished pieces on my wall to have nice way to show them off. I like to fill the whole space so knowing the size and shape of what I want the finished project to look like is a good goal for me. Since I am doing fandom pieces I want to be recognizable, I do stick pretty close to the "original" character design/art, but you can absolutely change as much as you want and freehand draw your own interpretation instead. If you're doing original art just substitute the below composition notes with "sketch out roughly what you want it to look like". I personally do my pattern drafting digitally as I find it easier, but you can do this part by hand too.

First, I keep the reference image I'm working off of open next to me while I work, and draw in the shape of my frame (here, a circle). If I'm adding in the little border to be fancy, I add a second inner circle. I keep these as their own top layer so I always know I'm working within the final "frame" and don't spend time designing any section that will fall outside it. Then I will take copies of the reference image and knock the layers down to 25-50% opacity, and start moving them around underneath the 'frame' layer until I like the way their positioning looks as a composition. Sometimes elements of a card I want to include don't all fit in, so I'll chop the section out and add an additional layer to throw in (like the background circle things in the Hermit design below). Or I'll just freehand things like adding much bigger diamonds behind Solas in my Hierophant design because I did NOT want to do 1000 tiny ones. Then once I'm satisfied with the general composition, I'll use the plain ol circular brush tool to trace out the major shapes of each element. I try to keep in mind that I can't go too small, and curvy lines are more difficult to fill in than straight ones. I usually do a rough messy version first, make it mostly transparent, and then a cleaner and more precise one over that.

(you can see parts of the rough one on the left and the fully 'cleaned up' on the right for the Hierophant design)

Now: depending on what you are doing next with the pattern, this might be where you stop and start coloring. If you are planning to freehand your design or just trace it onto fabric (or even print it onto fabric here), there's no need to do more than this kind of lineart! However, if you are working digitally and want to create a scalable vector so you can print it at different sizes, you can use the pen tool in photoshop to trace your design and make a "work path" of the lineart. However, another note: THIS PART IS VERY FRUSTRATING AND TEDIOUS BECAUSE THE PEN TOOL WAS CREATED BY THE DEVIL TO TORMENT US. It is so so so easy to accidentally delete a line or even the whole path and not notice later on. Ask me how I know 😭 Anyway I'm not going to include a pen tool tutorial because I don't even know how to use it well and have to google or watch videos every other time I try to use it. But if you can muddle through it gets you some really clean lines that eventually look like this:

With the work path selected, you can select the brush tool/size/color and use the "stroke path" option to create lineart of the vector. Then you can save this as a transparent png file for use at different sizes and for printing and it looks so nice and clean! one of the big benefits to this is that you get really fine lines that are easier to be precise with stitching on. This is extra perfect if you are printing the design directly onto your fabric (which you can do with an at-home inkjet printer for designs under 8inches wide, as long as you stick a piece of stabilizer on the back of your fabric and cut it down to printer sheet size--this is what I do and can make another post about that process if people want haha), or if you are printing onto transfer paper like you can buy at craft stores.

This is where I end the lineart for my designs. After I have this, I move on to the next phase, which is...

STEP 2: COLOR

For interpreting my designs into thread, I start by thinking of it as flat colors first. You can't "shade" as easily with threads as you can with things like paint or brushes in digital art (though you can A Little, which I will get into), so to start color planning I pick the "main" color each section will be in the piece.

For the existing icons this was simple--I kept the same sections as the original designs, so for each I just color picked or eyeballed the color in photoshop and colored it in (but you could do this on paper with pencils, markers, whatever as well--they don't need to match your threads exactly and usually won't, it's just to give you an easy reference to follow as you go). For the tarot cards which were more complicated in coloration, I just did my best and went with what looked good next to each other, even if it was a little off the original art. It will be off more later anyway when you have to pick threads so don't stress it too much honestly. I will often make layers with different color options and turn them on/off for direct comparison to try to determine what I think looks best as well, like below where I was debating between more blue/desaturated for the background or brighter colors.

I do wanna note I have regrets about the color selection, shapes, or shading in EVERY SINGLE ONE of my finished pieces. But no one else ever comments or probably even notices! One aspect of this hobby is just learning to be satisfied with what you've made and using what you learned to get closer to your preferences next time. I'm only going back and redoing some of my designs' colors because I want to make it easier for others to choose on the patterns I sell, more than I care for just for myself. Also since I'm doing this lineart/stained glass looking approach where I go over the distinct shapes with black thread at the end, it means I get these clear delineations between sections you might not necessarily have in your own pieces, and that's ok.

Ok right. Now while shading/coloring in detail is hard with thread, you CAN make whats essentially dithered gradients. "Dithering" in the concept of art means using 2 (or more) colors to give the impression of a third color, or to gently scale between the existing binary rather than a hard line. Think of it like blocky pixel art or gameboy game images. If you're doing needlepainting, you use really small stitches close together to get this effect, which translates to "smaller pixes"--if you look at the jellyfish in my first photos that's a very messy casual version of that. If you want a better example, I recommend looking at @ammocharis 's pieces like these in her pinned post, which are truly amazing! I simply do not have the patience myself 😂 For my stained glass style, I work only in very long straight stitches, so I can only shade in one direction and have to be a little more precise with it.

So for shading, I think about in each section which direction my threads might go. Then perpendicular to that direction I pick which side will be the light one and which the darker one. Sometimes I color this in on my pattern mockup, but sometimes I don't! Or I'll only do it for certain sections to make sure I don't forget. Like for my Tower design I only colored it as flats, and waited until I selected threads to decide how the shading would go. I am currently working on a smaller, simplified version of my Hierophant design and I did add shading digitally for that one just for fun. But it's not as important as having the flat color version you can use to quick-reference how you want your design to go while you're stitching. You might also notice I don't actually color my gold--I just throw in a stock image of gold foil for that layer so I can't confuse it with any of my yellow thread sections.

Here's a close up where you can kind of see what I mean by the "dithered" effect between colors--some are more obvious (like the red on the far left or middle orange) and others pretty subtle (dark grey to dark red on the wolf face):

Now, while I use single layers of satin stitches for this, and just alternate thread colors increasing/decreasing as I go, you can accomplish the same thing with short overlapping stitches like with needlepainting, or with clusters of french knots, or whatever else. But in GENERAL you are going to be able to trick people into seeing gradients out of dithering best when you are using the same type of stitch for that whole area. So if I was using multiple stitch types like having french knots, daisy chains, ladder stitching or whatever else for some sections, I would keep those to contrasting areas/colors. A fantastic example of using different layered types of stitching to create more intricate color/texture in an embroidery would be these incredible tarot card depictions by @hattedhedgehog, which I like even better than my own embroideries. Here's his take on the Tower card as well for comparison to mine (I'm so in love with it!!!).

But anyway, at this phase, your design is actually still digital--the above is just to explain how it translates later in the process. The next step is...

STEP 3: THREAD SELECTION

I will admit here I am not great at this part. I am constantly second guessing my thread colors, and can spend over an entire hour in the thread aisle at the craft store agonizing over choices. Really, I think this is just one of those things that takes practice and you get better at it over time. What I have had the best luck with is actually printing out a reference photo of my design/the original artwork and taking it with me. If you already have threads you can do this part at home too, but DMC alone has over 500 colors and I definitely don't even own half that so I like to torture myself by looking at them all together on the thread racks. Plus Anchor and Artiste and whatever other brands there are out there. One approach is to just sit there and pick out what you want for each section and line it all up together on top of your printout. Or in the case of my Tower I laid a bunch of options out on top of my template in the hoop to guess how they'd look in the frame.

For me since I am also doing this dither shading thing, I also need 2-3 colors per sections depending on its size. Sometimes it's easy and the threads have a color just a little darker or lighter right next to them in the numerical lineup! Other times, there is no good match, or it looks too far away to shade nicely, or I want one to be a warmer or cooler tone than the other... which means a lot of standing and fretting to myself over it. I actually take a lot of photos at this stage because it can be easier to see how they will look in the end from a photo than in person to me? Idk why. Plus then after they get scrambled in my bag I remember wtf order I meant for them to go in later. But as long as you're not preventing other customers from shopping themselves, you can spend as long as you want staring at thread in the embroidery aisle and they won't kick you out unless it's closing time, so take your time.

Now, IN THEORY, you can sort of combine steps 2 and 3 by color-selecting from your threads and using that to color in the design. However I have tried this and it led to mixed success because the photoshop eyedropper brush simply isn't actually that exact (in my experience, it desaturates compared to what we actually see). And because then you have to have the threads on hand while you're coloring... which means you might buy ones you don't end up using if you don't like them. So I prefer to just use this as a refinement step where I pick threads based on the design colors, then will re-color the design a second time to match those threads more closely to be sure I like the effect.

I've even used this as a tool when I needed to adjust my color choices mid-project, by digitally coloring over over my WIP:

Or here's a design (but I haven't posted the finished piece yet bc it's a gift so shhh) I made with certain color tones initially, but after buying thread I re-did the color mockup to be more vibrant, because I liked those threads better in the store:

Once you have your thread, you can make yourself a little reference chart with the colors you intend noted on the sections you want them, like below:

(note: i didn't end up sticking to these colors because I ended up dying my own thread for several sections. And then forgot I made this entirely and picked new ones because I put the project down for a year between design and stitching. Sigh).

Or for my Solas pattern I did this in a really detailed way, which i am sorry but i have redacted because... i have it for sale now and don't wanna just give that away haha. But if you buy the pattern from my shop this is one of the files you'd get with it, for ease of reference. I do also include a text-only list of them as well.

Now I don't go to this much trouble for all my designs, just the ones I put up for sale (or plan to). You can also just make a text list of your color plans if you want. Though for fun I also have been using my scrap thread to make these little "color palette" keyrings for my finished pieces, so if I ever remake them or update their patterns I will know what the original colors were, plus I can compare what i used to other threads if I wanna change part of the design up. This step is absolutely not necessary and I'm just doing it because I'm selling the patterns now, but they are kinda fun to look at.

And don't forget.. if you start a section in a certain color and decide you don't like it, you can just cut the threads and pull them out! I did that with my original hierophant piece actually. I had an entirely different color for one row of diamonds i thought just clashed way too much with the others, so I used photoshop to paint over it with some alternate options until I found one I liked better. Then I cut away all the old threads and put in the new color. It can be a little harder to fill a piece the second time since the fabric will have stretched out a little, but as long as you're using a good stabilizer it usually doesn't move too much.

You can also just make test swatches on spare fabric to test before you add them to your real piece. I wish I'd done this for some color transitions that didn't end up looking the way I wanted, but I am simply too lazy most of the time. My exception is usually for metallic, satin, or sparkly threads, because I want to know how they feel while embroidering. But if you're really worried about a certain color or shade it's a good thing to remember you can just do.

SO yep, that's my general process for drafting patterns. I start with the shapes/design, then do my flat color version, then I pick my threads. Makes it sound easy and short when phrased like that :) But I can honestly spend 8-10 hours just on making the lineart and coloring it in. If I was better at art, probably this would be less, but I'm working with what I've got (not much) 😂 I think all aspects of this are also something that gets easier over time, but it will probably never look as bad as you worry when you start out. I think all my pieces look awkward and rough right up until I do the finishing steps and move them to the display frame sometimes.

I hope this was helpful and answered your questions!! Feel free to post/share your WIPs to ask for feedback or advice ever too :) I've only ever had people in the embroidery community on tumblr be encouraging and helpful to me, and I'm happy to answer any questions myself when I can or if parts of this were confusing

[solarpunkani]

I think one interesting thing I’m grappling with in my quest to solarpunkify my life is how little control I have over what I can do in the stage of life I’m in now.

Like my ideal self would have a big, booming garden with dozens of food plants and bench seats and swings and a bunch of pollinator gardens in the front and backyard with a pond for wildlife. I can grow tons of food for neighbors and community initiatives, and host get togethers (bonus points if I have a fantastic colored-panel greenhouse like I’ve fantasized about before). I’d have solar panels wherever they’d fit, all kinds of lovely decorations, and live as green as possible. I’d eagerly give out seeds for pollinator friendly plants in one of those front yard seed boxes I’ve seen, maybe have a community fridge nearby as well. I’d be able to guerrilla garden and help with community initiatives, but still have free time to spend on myself, my art, my crafts. And a cat.

There’s plenty that gets in the way of that though. I don’t have a job, so I can’t have the big booming garden of my dreams. I live with my parents, and they don’t want the kind of lifestyle and decorations and such that I would. My mom doesn’t even like cats, or half the neighbors in the cul de sac. I can encourage and poke and prod my parents all I want, but at the end of the day its their house and what they want/can afford goes, and its not really what I want. Not to even mention that I’m shy, overall not very corageous, and more or less have no idea what I’m doing or how to navigate this world.

It’s definitely an interesting position to be in. And frustrating.