#and maybe look into upgrading storage

[marinecorvid]

sorry venting

the joy of having fun little knickknacks and thingamajigs related to what you love VS. the desire to not become overwhelmed by material items + the agony overwhelming that comes with being keenly surrounded by stuff: FIGHT

[glacierruler]

Okay, I know how I'm gonna start posting the comic when it comes out.

First it'll go up for kofi members 1 month early as a blog post that way I have more room to give an image ID. Then it'll go up on my neocities website, and that'll be a dedicated space for the comic. Then it'll go up on tumblr and bsky 1 week after it's gone up on the website. (The website is completely free to navigate. I just don't think I'd have the spoons to put it here until 1 week later)

[eyeballcommander]

It's funny how me trying to do a good thing for once is what riles everyone up...

[gentaroukisaragi]

last reblog i was going to say no i physically cant because my phone (i guess old phone at this point) has such limited storage that i never update things unless the apps hold me at gunpoint but now ive lost my phone in a way that i probably wont get back so now i'll be forced to download the latest version of tumblr when i get my new phone...disgusting.

[syoddeye]

big game

ghost x f! reader | ~5k words cw: simon lies, mean simon, red flags? what red flags, hunting, animal death (discussed), predator/prey, knives, bad restraints, bad suspension, rough (arguably bad) sex, clothed man & naked woman, blood, murder, italic abuse. please tell me if you need something tagged. a/n: a cross between this post and this post. banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

Simon lets slip that he owns a cabin nearly a year into the relationship. It’s the kind of thing where you could and maybe should be upset, but you play it off as no big deal. You have to. This is Simon. The man didn’t show his entire face until the sixth or seventh date.

(He joked about it, too, that first time—Breathe a word about this mug, and I’ll have to kill ya. You laughed, delirious as he split you in two. He didn’t.)

It’s a few hours away from the city, on the far edge of the boonies. It’s long beyond the truck stops and hog refineries that dot this part of the country. Far from delivery and traffic lights. Deep in an unincorporated village, in an unincorporated area. Its remoteness would make one wonder how a foreign ex-soldier found such a location, but again. This is Simon. Ages ago, you learned questions earn neither his favor nor answer.

The property is impressive for its locale. Two bedrooms. A decent kitchen. Heating and cooling. A garage and a shed. Renovated within the last decade and upgraded piecemeal when Simon has time. It sits on a lake shared by only two other cabins, both residing around a reedy bend and well out of sight.

Upon arrival, Simon doesn’t offer a tour, telling you to poke around as he unpacks the car. Well, a jerk of his head and a gruff, “Go on in.” Since you started seeing each other officially, he doesn’t often let you burden yourself with chores. No lifting a finger if he’s available.

The place is sparse. Occupied but not lived in. While stocking a cupboard, Simon explains the previous owner, an older gentleman with cheap taste, left behind what decoration remains. A few tacky fishing signs hang on the walls, intermixed with sun-bleached squares on the wood paneling. A curio box collection of novelty keychains in the hall to the bedrooms, full of states and a couple of names. The lumpy pillows on the sofa pouf tobacco-scented dust when you test its cushions.

Tiptoeing into the main bedroom, you imagine how you might spruce up the austere space. Considering he moved into your apartment after three months, you assume it’s a matter of time until this becomes your cabin, too. 

(It was incredibly romantic—the move. Near sunset, Simon appeared like a specter in the pouring rain, with his few worldly belongings in tow. Kissed you hard and fast, told you he couldn’t stay at his place anymore. That he needed you. You. All your effort paid off.)

The memory brings a smile to your face.

You’ll turn the cabin into a cozy love nest like your apartment. Blankets, candles, a rug or two. Though he’ll never admit it, Simon must desire comfort like anyone else. The first night he burrowed into your duvet, luxuriating in the cotton and silk, he fell asleep like an old hound freshly sprung from a shelter. He tossed most of his stuff the next day—said you had everything he needed.

Looking around, you realize you have your work cut out for you. The austere room more a cave than a refuge. The man's bed doesn't even have a frame. Just a neatly made mattress with tucked sheets and two flat pillows. A secondhand dresser and a stack of plastic drawers for extra storage. On the bright side, the adjacent bathroom is spotlessly clean, with a caddy holding melamine sponges, bleach, and other supplies on a shelf. He's always been tidy, likely a military thing.

From the living room, you're greeted with a scenic view of the lake and the adjoining deck through the glass door. A pair of wooden chairs sit side-by-side in front of a fire pit, one of Simon's old welding projects. Down the gentle slope to the shore, a small dinghy rests in the water, tied off at the aluminum dock. A smattering of yellow and white water lily pads hug the bank.

Peaceful. Picturesque. Private. 

But your eyes hitch on a strange beam.

Bolted between two mature trees, a hefty piece of timber sits within plain sight of the deck. A series of evenly spaced, fixed eyelet hooks and two pulleys catch the light when the breeze shifts the canopy of the bur oak overhead.

Simon joins you on the deck, the planks creaking beneath his bulk. A cracked beer dwarfed in his hand.

“Did the former owner have kids?” You ask as he sips.

“Kids?”

You point at the curious installation. “Isn’t that for a tire swing? Seems like the perfect spot.”

Simon stares, narrowing his eyes slightly with a chuckle. The tone of it prickles—the same snide laugh he makes at his own awful jokes. When he’s in on the punchline, and you’re not. One of the few things that sour his image.

“Kids? Fuck no,” He shakes his head. “That’s where I ‘ang deer and the like out to bleed.”

You bristle and duck the arm he means to drape around your shoulders, ignoring how he huffs baby and c’mon, don’t be like that between snickers. 

He finds you in the bedroom, sorting the clothes you packed with punchy aggression, fuming and embarrassed by his teasing. Stupid and naive, that’s how you feel, for all your care and commitment. You’re just so silly, such a townie, for not recognizing a piece of lumber as a barbaric vehicle for slaughter.

Two wide mitts glide over your sides as you try your best to ignore the behemoth behind you. You are by no means small, but Simon. Fuck, Simon, you whisper, half-exasperated when he nuzzles into the crook of your neck—he’s—fuck, he is big.

It’s an hour before your clothes are finally put away, and you’re already down a pair of underwear for the weekend. Simon leaves you sated and dozing, a tactile apology accepted, and retrieves you to fix supper when he’s hungry. Later, parked in the chairs in the yard, watching the end of the sun’s march to the horizon, you broach the topic again.

“Will you take it down?”

“Sweetheart, what do ya think I do on the weekends you work?”

You shiver. Ten seconds ago, you’d’ve said read or weld or fish. It’s ridiculous how your mind cannot wrap around the idea of Simon out in the woods, stalking through the trees and underbrush, hunting. Decked out in blaze orange and realtree, rifle cradled in his hands. You know his history and what he’s capable of. What he’s done.

But this is different from his military career. Simon said he didn’t want to do any of that. Enlisting was how he escaped a lousy home life; he didn’t plan to get stuck in it for as long as he did. He confessed once, after a silly tiff over your job, that the day he was discharged was the best day of his life, second only to the day you met. That’s where the disconnect lies. Hunting and killing for sport, that’s not the Simon you know.

You tell him as much.

“That so?” His smirk matches the rising moon. A waxing crescent.

You insist.

Simon cracks his neck. “Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal,” he starts, fingers flexing around the neck of the beer bottle. “I’ll quit, if I can bag one last trophy.”

The thought of burning the beam distracts you from the flicker in his eyes. The ugly thing is the only hiccup keeping the cabin from textbook perfection. You don’t want to think of Bambi’s poor mother dangling like some macabre ornament whenever you look outside.

“Fine. What’s the trophy?”

Simon grins.

~~

“I better win a fucking award for this. It’s freezing.” You’d said, tugging on your sneakers.

He laughed wickedly. The sound burned right up your spine.

“You’ll get a fucking award, alright.”

Simon sent you off a half hour ago if the time on his watch’s dull, glowing face is correct. He buckled it around your wrist before you darted into the woods, tightening it as far as it would go. It spins loose around the bone anyway. He warned you to watch your footing, pressed bear mace into your palm, and then gave you five minutes to make yourself scarce. Inwardly, you preen. To go undiscovered for this long—you’ve surpassed your own expectations.

However, squatting with your back to a distressingly damp tree trunk, regret eclipses pride and buzzes under your skin. Hopefully, it's not a parasite from one of the puddles you stomped through. It's out of devotion, you tell yourself, itching under a wet sock, that you agreed to this game. Out of love. There isn't much you wouldn't do for Simon. From the moment you met him, it's been magnetic. Poetic.

And that first date? Cinematic. You went out with one man and returned home with another. Your date caught Simon staring from across the joint, a mean set of eyes in a ski mask eating you alive. What kind of man lets another steal his ‘bird’? That’s what he called you—birdie. Need some company, birdie? Complete disregard for the flop-haired man across the table. Cupped a hand to your date’s ear, said a few words, and Mike or Matt or whatever his name was vacated his seat, leaving the big Brit to take his place.

Bringing him home was a foregone conclusion, the decision finalized as you watched him, absolutely rapt, stab the meat of your entree and claim it as his own. Rolled up his balaclava just enough to take a bite with a row of crooked teeth. Breath hitching at the scars, the pale white lines stretching over his chin. You didn’t even know his name when you blurted out the question. And it’s with fondness you recall the flash of surprise in his eyes at your resolute zeal. Didn't make him work for it, offered yourself up on a silver platter.

('Course, afterward, you had to convince him not to fuck you in the parking lot, promising breakfast in the morning if he slept over. He did. For two days. He kept turning up after that.)

You may be hiding in the woods, but he's the animal. Yes. A neglected stray you dedicated the better part of a year into domesticating. Lured him with food, a warm bed, and sex. Assiduously filing down his sharp teeth and rough edges with your body. Introducing him to creature comforts, to living versus mere survival.

Which, again, prompts the question—why hunting? Didn’t you take care of him? If he needed more, all he had to do was ask. Take. Prying a burr off of a sleeve, you wonder if it's like the old saying goes: you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Maybe he needs to chase or track, and you’re another soft-handed city slicker keeping a working dog cooped up in an apartment.

If you still saw your therapist, she’d probably suggest you dissect that. But you don’t, and you’re not inclined to schedule a session. Besides, Simon said all shrinks are—

A twig snaps. It shocks you how quickly you push to your feet.

Twenty feet or so dead ahead, a hulking mass moves through a thin shaft of moonlight.

You run.

Huffing and puffing, you charge clumsily through the trees, miraculously avoiding clusters of roots and shielding your face with your hands. Feels unnatural to run from him. The blood rush in your ears drowns out the heavy thuds on the ground behind you, Simon pursuing, shirking stealth for speed.

Inevitably, he overtakes you. An iron grip latches onto your shirt, and a kick sweeps your legs. The bear mace flies from your hand into the brush, clanging off a tree. You dangle for a spine-tingling second, suspended, heart lurching into your throat. He leverages your tumbling momentum to swing you to the ground at his feet through strength alone. Landing on the cold floor of the woods expels a gasp, a second following as a boot presses between your shoulders. No force behind it; its presence alone enough to keep you down. Despite the dirt and twigs surely sticking to your front and the borderline painful thunder of your heart, you smile in relief. It’s over. His last hunt. The boot lifts.

“Nice work, big guy,” You cough, breathing hard. “Can we—Simon?”

Before you can move, Simon nudges the toe of a boot into your ribs, compelling you to roll over. You startle at the sight looming above, a strangled, incoherent string of mouth noises trickling out of shock. A pair of brown eyes peer through the orbits of a skull attached to a mask. They trail from your face to your stomach, where he takes advantage of your stupefied babbling, binding your hands with cord. You meet his gaze, heat creeping up your neck, and his eyes crinkle.

About a dozen questions surface on the return march to the cabin. None survive the swirling vortex of your head, unwilling to risk appearing perfidious. 

Simon flexes his grip over your bound hands. “Gonna have some fun.”

Your faith does not lapse, though fear simmers low in your belly when he doesn’t lead you to the cabin but toward the beam. A fluorescent nylon rope now feeds through the hooks and pulleys, and an oxidized steel, wide-based triangle sways freely. Beckoning. A humiliating whimper escapes as he positions you on a circle of dead grass, hands of a hangman on your hips.

“Said you wanted a fucking award.”

A fucking award. A fucking award.

Simon reclaims his watch and then methodically changes your bindings. A hand to each vertice, he fastens you to the gambrel and kisses away a rogue tear. He tugs and tests the rope. It shouldn’t induce a flood, and yet.

“Is it—Can it hold me?”

“Birdie, this is built for stags and boars. It can hold me.” He strokes your cheek, tapping the bone with a knuckle, then breaks away. “Stay put.”

As if you have a choice.

Leaving you with the frogs and crickets, you watch Simon retreat indoors. A breeze carries a cool rush of air from the lake, your thin top a poor barrier to the slight chill. You take deep, rattling breaths to slow your heartbeat, still racing from the pursuit.

A distant click breaks the quiet, followed by a low, electrical buzz and the sudden, blinding intensity of light. It sears your vision before you can screw your eyes shut, blinking away the phosphenes with a noise of displeasure. The sensation’s almost enough to knock you off your feet. You squint, sight adjusting, and track the source to a previously unseen flood lamp affixed to the oak tree some distance away.

Simon returns shortly after you regain your bearings, his imposing silhouette accentuating his mass. Closer, he’s stripped down to a fraying and stained white t-shirt, but your eyes hone in on the rig fastened around a thick thigh. The cut of the strap guides your eye to the straining denim, and the image of his dick flashes in your mind, scorching like the flood lamp.

He extracts a knife from the sheath, steel reflecting light like a mirror. You squirm, a cross between impatient and uncomfortable. Is he cutting you down already? What was the point—

He pulls the front of your shirt, setting the knife edge to the hem.

“Simon,” your voice jumps high in your throat. “Don’t you dare.”

A steady upward glide answers the warning, cleaving the material in two open drapes. The breeze hits your sweat, the band of your bra suddenly chilled and sticking, though that doesn’t last long as he slices through it, too.

“Someone could see!” you stammer, nipples tightening in the night air.

“You’re frettin’ over nothin’, sweetheart. Nobody’s out here. Open.” Simon demands, pressing the hilt to your lips. “Good girl.” he praises when you relent to bite the compressed leather between your teeth, catching a whiff of polish. He rips off the remnants of your top and bra, dropping them to the ground in scraps. A big hand fondles and weighs a tit in its palm as if he hasn’t played with it before. There’s a deep inhale from behind the mask as he swipes a thumb beneath its mass, then a chuckle. “Work up a sweat?”

The hand with the knife carefully discards the mask, revealing smears of eyeblack, and he pops his thumb into his mouth to suck it clean. A gasp slips out when he steps closer, hand engulfing the tissue again, pushing it up to glide his nose along the underside, tongue trailing. He nips, soothing after you yelp.

You mourn your expensive leggings when he shreds them next, reducing them to ribbons—another deep breath and a throaty laugh, selfish and all too pleased.

“Knew I smelled ya in the woods.”

“You ruined–you tore them–”

“Thought you’d get lucky tonight?” Scarred knuckles drag from your ribs to your thigh, squeezing, his thumb rubbing sweet circles over old stretch marks. Your wires cross, his blatant rewrite of the afternoon makes your lips purse, but his hand, Christ, your toes curl in your sneakers. “A quick screw in the woods?” He sheathes his knife to trace a finger along the crease of your thigh.

Air whistles through your teeth in a sharp inhale. He skims, dipping to gather some of your wetness, licking his fingers clean again. He hums appreciatively. “Get off on being chased? Fuckin’ dripping, birdie.”

Your hole twitches at his teasing, and you know he must see it with the sneer he gives you alongside the abrupt plunge of two fingers. The hand on your thigh migrates to your ass, pulling you snug to the webbing. 

“Simon!” A curse hisses out as he burrows his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, curling—not for your pleasure, no, but to keep you there, a crude hook. The rope strains as you squirm, impaled, and stretched too tight on his hand, clenching uncontrollably as if your cunt can’t make up its mind. A flurry of sensations meets head-on with reason, and logic’s never been your strong suit. Reduced to need and want in equal measure, a single twist of his fingers confirms you’re as desperate as the night you met him.

You don’t notice his other hand abandoning your backside for the rope. What squeaks first, you or the pulleys? It’s sudden, the way you slide off his fingers with a lewd pop, feet leaving the ground. He hoists you up and up, the movement practiced, tying you off like the boat secured around a cleat hook. 

Some feet off the ground, naked and shivering in the dark, exposed—you should feel fear, but the other shoe, instinct or intuition, doesn’t drop. All the vulnerability does instead is send a white-hot pulse to your clit. A plea leaves your mouth before your brain considers anything else. Pelvis tilting. He awards your eagerness with a grind of a zipper and a gratified grunt. Simon tugs his jeans and boxers down, then bends slightly to hitch your legs.

Your legs settle around him, and though he huffs when you squeeze, trying to ease the pressure off your wrists, you think he likes it. The ropes above slack little, raised higher than he’s tied you. With a massive hand back on your hip, he uses the other to feed his cock into you, bringing the line taut once more as he pulls you down.

The steady shove and fullness push a low whine from your mouth, which Simon smothers with a toothy kiss. It stings some—you’re not nearly wet enough, only quieting with the faith he’ll make it better. However, the fact that he doesn’t give you time to adjust isn’t promising.

He ruts. Barges in. Takes what he needs in full strokes. Builds a pace that rattles the hardware and your insides. The pain steadily stressing your wrists and lower back is secondary. Third, probably, to pleasure and heat, though the former isn’t building as fast as the latter. Sweat beads in your hairline and neck, collecting under your breasts and in the creases of your belly. Makes your calves slick where they press into his sides, the cotton of his shirt sticking to his and your muscles.

“Simon, I can’t–” The words eke out, abdomen and thighs burning, friction in the wrong places.

His arms flex, boots shuffling over dirt and grass to further beneath you, cock dragging along your walls at a drastic angle, head jabbing into your cervix. More support, less comfort. A bitter trade-off, exchanging one hurt for another. The pinch of his brow makes the bursting stars at the edges of your vision worth it.

Each thrust shakes you in the rope, pulleys whining in solidarity. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes across the cabin’s yard, coupling with your gasps and Simon’s ragged breaths. After a particularly harsh snap of his hips, laughter, deep and gular, trickles out of his mouth. "You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?" he drawls, voice oozing sangfroid. “Y’like your award?”

That has you shuddering. His hands settle on your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh in a way that’s sure to leave marks. “Look at you, strung up so prettily. Pretty fucking ornament.”

Bambi’s poor mother.

Simon's voice and the image of a dangling deer carcass collide, punctuated with a thrust like a battering ram. It forces another string of needy sounds. Discomfort and desire coil in your stomach, twisting into a warm mass with a life of its own. You feel every inch as he withdraws and shoves in. The heat of him, the hardness. Nylon chafes your skin, each buck a reminder of your helplessness. Restraints are nothing new, but this is—

The air leaves your lungs in one big whoosh as Simon hits a sweet spot.

You slump a bit, legs close to jelly from bracing. 

Finally, an adjustment. Simon slows to meld himself further into you, and it’s then, sucking in deep breaths, you marvel at how perfectly level you are to be fucked like this. He bands a single thick arm beneath your ass in a casual display of strength, the other snaking between you. Chin to chest, he spits, the glob hitting your clit like a bullseye. You’d cringe if his thumb didn’t chase after it, spreading his saliva. The sudden break, coupled with his attention, makes you quiver. Anticipation gaining on torment. His thumb’s rhythm quickens, alleviating the aches. You’ll be sore as hell come morning, but as you have before, you’ll forgive again.

With a new, albeit haphazard, focus on your clit, he rolls his hips at a more languid pace. The shift is a knife’s edge between torture and bliss. 

“Still want me to take it down? Don’t know if I will, birdie, like the idea of keepin’ you up ‘ere, ‘anging for the takin’ whenever I want ya.” A chuckle vaporizes into a hiss. ��Shit, you like the sound of that?

If you could manage speech, you’d say yes. Simon’s rewired your synapses in a matter of seconds with the rough pad of a finger. He’s backlit from this angle. Haloed. Suits him, you think. What you’re feeling is rapturous, however ruthless it may be. Animalistic, really. If you let him leave the beam—this is what you’ll remember. Not some fresh-killed doe staring into nothing. But you, Simon, and the orgasm he harvests. 

It creeps up on you. You howl, jerking in the ropes, muscles spasming and weeping. Revived with a burst of adrenaline, your legs try to close automatically, only to press uselessly into his sides. There’s no stopping him and nowhere to go until he’s done. Your body sags in its ties like a puppet.

Simon snarls something, and his palms return to your ass, abandoning all pretense. A haze rolls, thick as molasses, over you as he uses you to his end. He goes silent the few seconds before he comes, breathing harshly through his nose. One last snap of his hips, a deep grunt, and his cock floods your pussy. His chest heaves. Breaths heavy and stunted. Burrowing into your chest, he digs his nose into your sternum and rasps his teeth over your frantic heartbeat.

Your eyes droop along with the rest of your person. Everything disappears under a tenebrous wave.

Movement. The grind of the pulleys. The sawing of a knife. A sliver of lucidity buoys you, a headrush from popping to the surface after drowning. Your head throbs, the world spins, and by the time you make sense of it, you hear the familiar creak of the cabin steps. 

Simon lays you out on the lumpy mattress, brushing his fingers over your hair and skin. He disappears, and you float in and out of consciousness. Thoroughly fucked.

You briefly wake when he tucks you in. The crux of your legs is damp, and a faint medicinal smell emanates under the blanket. Layers of gauze over aloe wrap your wrists where they lay beside your head on a flat pillow, and you wiggle your fingers experimentally.

“Sleep.” He says, poking your forehead.

Your throat hurts. “Stay.”

The bed dips when he obliges. He molds to your back, smushing your chest with an arm and cupping a tit. His breath fans over the shell over your ear, and when you’re on the edge of sleep, he murmurs something, but the words run together.

Somehow, he falls asleep before you. Sated. Ran out. You take care of him, and he takes.

~~

An emaciated tick floats with its legs curled in on itself in a glass on the floor next to the bed. You stare at it for too long, then roll over.

Simon’s awake, though his eyes remain closed and body still. You wince, thighs rubbing together and interlacing your limbs over his. His lip twitches, but he doesn’t shove you off.

You trace a scar jutting across the meat of a shoulder and stare at his chest, pock-marked like besieged castle walls. Months ago, you asked about the stories behind the wounds. The question went unanswered, and it earned you a week of getting fucked face-down. So you simply drop a kiss to a crater on his pec and then his chin.

“You broken?” He mutters.

“No.”

“Then fix us some breakfast.” 

It’s Herculean with how your flanks and thighs protest, but you hum through the kitchen and diligently rustle up the meal. Visions of a life dance through your head. An ivory lace curtain will suit the window over the sink. The smoke-damaged, yellowing cabinets need scrubbing. There’s hair stuck in the hoarfrost of the freezer, which makes you gag. Leftovers from one of Simon’s hunts.

No sooner than you plate the bacon does Simon emerge. No need to call. He’s trained. 

~~

The cell reception is terrible, one of the features that sold him on the property. Calls drop sporadically, and texts scrape by at the shed. His phone vibrates when he sets foot over the threshold—messages from his pet, all sent within a few hours. Poor thing’s bored at work. He wouldn’t know the feeling. His morning’s been productive. Enjoyable.

Simon’s lip curls, and he leans the fishing rod against the shed door. Sliding his phone into a pocket, he turns back to fetch the tackle box. He lumbers past the wriggling cunt strung up on the newly installed gambrel, the plastic crinkling underfoot. The steady drip of blood is barely audible over their whiny throes. Probably hurts. Hooks through the Achilles tendons will do that, but they’ll go quiet soon enough. If he times it right, they’ll be done when he returns for supper.

He nearly pricks his thumb, spearing the worm onto the hook. Watches it writhe. He huffs a laugh and spares a glance back at the cabin. The two trees that once held the beam. It’s a loss to no longer watch game struggle from the comfort of the deck. He surprised himself with how he complied with his girl’s request. She earned it, he supposed. Cried and begged and bled for it. Usually, that sort of response draws his knife, not his interest. But she’s an odd one. Different. A rare beast.

He casts the line.

“Do you want to fuck me?” She’d asked all those months ago, less than a minute after he threatened to hang her date by the balls. Blunt and to the point. Refreshing. He was unaccustomed to finding them so willing, but she fucking imprinted on him like a wobbly-kneed fawn. Nosed his open, reaching hand like a stray, hungry pup. She saw him for what he was—the bigger, meaner predator. Top of the food chain. Thinks some part of her knew she was better off bowing her head and licking his cock than running. She stuck her neck out, took him home, and gave him her pussy without a fuss.

It’s cute, the way she thinks she’s made him agreeable. How she works on him and his hygiene and manners. Doesn’t get that if it were up to him, he’d sleep on the floor, in the dirt, used to a lifetime of bunking down in shitholes. The cabin’s simply suitable for his hobbies. The fact it’s a decent vivarium for the sweet girl is a bonus, a place to keep her nice and soft so long as she’s good. ‘Course, the sight of her hanging by her hands made the idea of introducing her insides to the outside cross his mind, but he won’t cut her down just yet. Not when he’s got her leashed.

Hours later, the cooler packed with largemouth bass and walleye, he unpacks the dinghy and trudges toward the shed. It’s silent, save for the insects and the birds.

The nosy prick from the bait shop sways, unmoving. Coated with his own fluids and dripping. He chuckles. He should call her.

[nomazee]

open up

sebastian (sdv) x reader

word count: 3.5k

content: silly love again, mutual pining, not actually unrequited love, some goofs and giggles and misunderstandings, the teeniest tiniest inkling of angst but it’s covered up with silliness, the word hussy is used which is the funniest word ever and i’m so glad i discovered it it’s so old-timey-small-town word

notes: this is a part three to my little mini series w sebastian! you can find part one here,   and part two here! 

oh hey guys this is probably completely indecipherable but i’ve been rewriting this over and over again this past week and decided that this is my most proudest version of this work and maybe there will be more but this... is IT (i’m lying and will be writing more companion pieces to this okay much love love all of u mwah) 

<><><><><>

Hiding from your problems does not fix everything. In fact, it doesn’t fix anything. 

It’s a lesson you should’ve figured out the first time you did it. You remember being back in grade school, forgetting to study for a test one year and faking a rash in the nurse’s office to get out of it. The rash in question was a collection of the healing, scabbed-over cat scratches on your forearm. You’d drawn over it harshly with dark red pen and marker to create some kind of rash-like illusion. In the end all you got was a disappointed look from the nurse, an ugly smear of red and burgundy on your arm, and a D-minus on your world history test. 

So, yes. Hiding has dreadful consequences. And even just during your time in Stardew Valley, you should’ve known to keep this lesson close to your heart. This is the second time you’ve run away from Sebastian already, and the first time didn't last long anyways. Stupid, silly you. 

In your defense, it wasn’t really Sebastian you were running away from. It was his mom. For three days following your stupid kissing shenanigans, Robin terrorized your dreams, and your daydreams, and the reflections of yourself that you saw in the tiny pond on your farm… 

So, yes it’s safe to say that running away was not doing you any good. But what other choice did you have? 

You’re an adult. You could totally scrape apart what’s left of your dignity and act like it—maybe take the walk up to the mountains and apologize to Robin and Sebastian, too. Tell them that it was wrong of you to be so promiscuous on their front porch (promiscuous, of course, equating to one single kiss on the lips that lasted no more than ten seconds), and that you’d never do it again and never even look Sebastian in the eyes, if that’s what they wanted.

While you’re at it, maybe you’d be able to ask Robin for the coop upgrade that you’ve needed for weeks now. All you have to do is… be an adult and face your problems. Your one massive roadblock of a problem. 

It’s not even a problem, per se. But you’ve embarrassed yourself far too much in front of the people in this town and you’re a little tired of taking blow after devastating blow to your reputation. You’d rather wilt and rot here, on the soil of your farm, with your duck walking her webbed feet across your chest and leaving damp marks all over your shirt. 

This is peace. This is where you could die, decomposing in your leftover humiliation from the week before. But of course—all good things come to an end, and the end comes to you in the form of a distinct lack of wheat seeds in your storage containers. 

Dreadful. This is a sign from some higher power that it’s finally time for you to get your ass up and go into town. Face the world like an adult. Get your wheat seeds so that you and your animals don’t starve to death and rot away on this already-rotting farm. Ugh. 

Your duck pads up your chest and leans her face into yours. Her beady little eyes stare right into your soul. She’s begging you. Begging you to get wheat so her plump little body doesn’t start to deteriorate. What a manipulator. 

A heavy, bone-rattling sigh escapes you as you gently push her off of you and sit up. This is it. You have to face everyone, again, after embarrassing yourself in front of the stupid boy you like and his mother, of all people. Fortunately for you, they live up in the mountains, so a little trip to PIerre’s in town wouldn’t be so much of a risk. You’d be fine. You could still be a functioning adult, so long as you didn't wander up north where the mines were. 

…

Okay, well. You lied to yourself. 

It was all a big lie. A big lie you told yourself to feel some kind of security about leaving your stupid, lonely farm and going into town and getting the stupid seeds that you needed. You’re a liar, a fraud, and a chronic-problem-avoider, and none of those problems would ever get fixed during your probably-very-short-lifespan. Short, of course, because you were going to die in the middle of Pierre’s shop, right here and right now in the produce aisle. 

Because of course, as luck would have it, Sebastian is right there too. Staring at you. Holding two unshucked ears of corn, in his hands. You would laugh at how silly he looked if this wasn’t so humiliating. 

“Um.” He’s the first to say anything. Hearing his voice after a week startles you enough to make you stiffen even more and your shaky hands threaten to drop the seed packets to the floor. His eyes are wide and there’s a flush to his cheeks that might be from the leftover chill of the outdoors. Despite everything, you hope maybe it’s because of you instead. 

You can’t form words. Your mouth flutters open and closed like a trapdoor until you decide to keep them tightly shut. Devastating. Humiliating. Mortifying. There are so many words that you’ve used so often over the last two weeks that you could continue to use here. Your vocabulary is not very expansive in the slightest, but it’s not your fault you’ve been put in the same types of scenarios so often. 

“Hello,” you choke out. Surprisingly, your voice is steady for the most part. The rest of you is not. The seeds rattle in your hands and you can feel your legs locked up. Anxiety floods through you like ice water and freezes in your bone marrow. You’re stuck. You might throw up. Again, this is a very common theme in every interaction you have with Sebastian. Very unfortunate. 

Even more unfortunate is the fact that, despite all the embarrassment and chagrin and overall-horrifying matter of events, you still want to kiss him. You’re reliving the ten-second kiss from the last time you saw him and it’s making you enter some parallel universe in your head—one where his mom didn't catch you kissing, and where he liked you back and maybe let you sleep over his house like he said he would, and where you could kiss him even more. You’re getting whiplash from everything running through your head. God.

“I, um…” he clearly feels just as awkward, which does nothing to reassure you. “Haven’t seen you in a while. We thought you’d… show up to the saloon, or.” Sebastian cuts himself off early. He must realize by your completely unmoving form that you’re not planning on loosening up at all during the course of this conversation. 

“Right, um,” you scramble for some kind of excuse but you know that regardless of what you say, he’s gonna know. He’s not gonna believe a single thing you say, because he knows. He was there. He was the one that you kissed. 

There’s no way he’s not completely aware at this time. Totally and utterly aware that you’re indescribably in love with him, more than infatuated. He must know that you like him so much it makes your chest hurt and your head ache with the untamable need to kiss him stupid every time you see his face. He must know. You’d risked it all, laid it open on the table for him last week when you kissed him and he didn't do much with it, really, which was fine but—he must know. After all of this. 

A thought rushes through your head and it immediately heats up the ice in your bones. You’re moving, now, this time at a pace that can only be achieved by spontaneous ferocity and a phobia of the mother of the boy you like. You’re quick to act, lunging forward and grabbing his arm to pull his entire form behind the shelf. 

“Is your mom here?!” you whisper harshly at him. You didn't even think of it until now, the fact that he might be here with his mother and that would mean you’d have to face her not on your own terms. A confrontation would start up in the middle of this quiet, quaint little grocery store, and you’d have to yield and nod at an angry ginger woman as she called you a hussy, or something. Or— no, Robin wouldn’t call you a hussy. She was too nice for that. Pam would call you a hussy, probably. Well. 

The distress in your voice must come out clearly enough for him because he frantically shakes his head and whispers back a definite no! It’s too late to reel you back in, though, and your mind is already going a million miles a minute. If you’re going to do anything, you have to do it now, because otherwise you will never speak a single word to this family ever again. 

“You— Please tell your mom that I’m sorry, like so very very sorry, and I will give her so many of my crops and hardwood and stone to make up for everything. And—” you shush him when he tries to interrupt, talking over him rapidly to stop him from trying it again, “—I didn't mean to— or, I did mean— um, point is. Tell your mom. I’m so sorry. And that I really need a coop upgrade and I’ll pay her double what it normally is to make up for everything.” You pause. “Please.” 

Sebastian is. Speechless. It’s not often that you see him like this—in fact, you don’t think you’ve actually ever seen him like this. His mouth flutters open and closed. Trapdoor, just like you, earlier. The shared traits between both of you make you want to throw up and scream. It’s too endearing and you want to rip your heart out before another situation happens just like last time, this time with Pierre as your witness. 

“What…” he begins, “are you talking about?” The furrow in his brow is one of genuine confusion, and so is the high-pitched lilt of his questioning voice. It only serves to make you more confused. And more agitated because this is really really embarrassing and the heat of it is starting to settle on your face and neck. 

“What. Do you think. I’m talking about.”

He obviously does not get the hint. He stays quiet, expression frustratingly unmoving as he blinks once, twice, three times at you. Holy shit. 

“I’m not going to say it,” you tell him. Any kind of confidence you had going into this conversation has dissipated and melted into a gooey kind of embarrassment. Suddenly, you’re back in the grade school nurse’s office, flinching at the disappointed look she gives you as she writes you a pass back to class—back to your impending doom and the D-minus that awaits you. This is that. This is worse than that by ten— no, a thousand times. 

“Are you five years old? What are you talking about, just say—!” 

“You are so embarrassing.” You hiss at him, but there’s really no weight in your lackluster insult. It’s more of a half hearted attempt to get him to stop talking about everything and anything, at least until you get out of this goddamn store and maybe even this goddamn town where everyone likes to gossip. 

You nearly tear the stupid ears of corn out of his stupid hands in your rush to get out of this store. “Are you— Is this the only thing you’re buying?” At his nod, you grab three more packets of miscellaneous seeds and start your rushed walk to the counter to check out. 

“What are you doing?!” His voice is a frantic whisper, matching your tone, but it’s less aggravated and more just genuinely confused. Sebastian seems dazed, threaded into the spinning loom of your contagious anxiety. You feel bad about it, really, but you’re threaded right next to him in an aggravating bright yellow string, and it’s hard to untangle yourself. 

“Please shut up,” you mumble, and then you’re at the counter and ignoring Pierre’s worried look as you pull crinkled dollar bills from your pockets. The transaction is fast, thankfully, and the cost of Sebastian’s items doesn’t set you back too much. Before you know it, you’re gripping part of his hoodie sleeve and dragging him out the door behind you. 

The chill of fall hits you when you step outside. A foggy breath escapes you as you gain the courage to turn back at him. “You. Need to take these to your mom,” you thrust the stupid corn back into his arms and he catches them, thankfully, “and tell her I’m sorry. And pretend everything never happened. Tell her I’m. Really super very sorry.” 

“I don’t think you— I’m. Not sure I understand,” he counters you, hesitant but determined in the way he keeps going, “she’s not mad at you. Why are you apologizing? I haven’t seen you for a week and now…?” 

Aw. Maybe you should find it sweet that he seems at least a little bit upset about not seeing you, almost like he missed you. That delusional thought is muffled by the stress of everything you’re talking about, though. 

“Hussy.” 

“What?” 

“Um.” There is no coming back from this. “Does she— Do people say that here? Does she. Think I’m a hussy.”

This is a ridiculous conversation. Every single interaction you’ve had with Sebastian, ever, has been ridiculous, and this is doing nothing to disprove that. You’ve actually going to puke. You know, it’s been just a joking threat these past few weeks, but this time you’re really going to vomit all over his stupid skater sneakers. 

He’s dead silent, startled into submission by your words and you can’t even blame him. Who says the word hussy?! Why did you think anyone would call you a hussy?!?! 

“I kissed her son in the dead of night right in front of her house,” you speak slowly and clearly, forcing yourself past the utter mortification that freezes your fingers and makes bile stir in your stomach, “and you’re saying that she doesn’t, um. That she’s… not mad.”

There is no coming back from this. Again. You’re grasping for either reassurance Sebastian’s mouth does that trapdoor thing again. You contemplate dropping all your seeds and running. Maybe the birds will like them. 

“No. You just left me on my porch.” And he’s upset. At least a little bit. It shows in the incredulous tone of his voice and the way his lips stay parted in disbelief. You did, unfortunately, leave him on that porch that night. He’s not… wrong about that. “And then avoided me for a week. You didn't even come into town at all. Abigail and Sam told me they never saw you. Did you never leave your farm just so you wouldn’t see me?” Hurt. He’s hurt, not just upset.

Now you just feel stupid. You didn't even consider the implications of kissing someone and then running away and never seeing them again. In your defense, it wasn’t because of him, more because of his mom and the very likely (read: completely inaccurate) prediction that Robin would beat you up on sight. 

“No!” You’re frantic to clear things up, but judging by his doubtful expression you’re going to have to do a lot to reach that goal. “That’s. It wasn’t on purpose. It was embarrassing.” It’s probably still the wrong choice of words. His face flinches and he glances to the side in discomfort. You’re losing him. You’re so, so bad at this. No kidding. That’s why you kissed a guy in front of his mom and almost threw up on his shoes, like, twice. Three times. 

Maybe if you put it into perspective. “How would you feel if you kissed someone in their front lawn and then their mom came out and caught you guys kissing and on top of that, what if you were the new person in town and everyone still kind of maybe doesn’t like you completely, and you just ruined your reputation by kissing somebody in front of their parent?” Okay. Effective. 

It’s quiet. He’s blinking at you. You get that response a lot whenever you speak to him, really. Maybe that’s a testament to your eloquence. (It’s really not.) 

“And,” you keep going, because of course you do, “you never visited me, never sent a letter, nothing. Nobody came to see me. And. I kissed you and then you said nothing and. What was I supposed to do?!” 

It’s what you’ve held back for a week now. Really, you weren’t expecting him to show up at your house and confess his undying love for you. A kiss is just a kiss. But if he was going to bring up the whole never-seeing-him-again thing, then you could do that too. 

“You.” Trapdoor. He stutters and falters and lets out a sigh that deflates all the tension in his body. “My mom. Wants you to come over for dinner.”

Okay. Well. What the fuck does that mean. 

“I want you to come over for dinner,” he clarifies. The furrow in his brow is one of certainty instead of confusion. His eyes meet yours, and stay locked for as long as his inner anxieties allow before he’s looking to the side and avoiding your wide-eyed stare. 

Oh. Okay. That’s what. He means. 

“Well,” you say out loud, because you’re an idiot and can’t ever control the words that spill out of your mouth. “Then. I would really love having dinner with you.” It’s supposed to come out determined, assured, maybe even a little flirty. Instead, it comes out awkwardly and stilted and you think you might be making a weird face at him on accident. The message clearly gets across, though, because the subtle tension in his face dissipates and he’s starting to smile at you. His stupid, awkward, tucked-in smile. You will yourself to not kiss him in the middle of the town square. 

He mumbles a hazy “yeah,” and for a moment you think he sounds almost… dreamy. Lovestruck, maybe. Of course he’s not, because he’s Sebastian and you’re the farmer (th farmer that kissed him, and he kissed back, and now he’s inviting to his house for dinner, but. Well. That’s besides the point). It’s wishful thinking, but you still can’t help the way your eyes trail across his face and down and along the seam of his lips and. There’s the craving to kiss him, reignited, stirring deep in your chest and stomach and in the twitch of your fingertips. 

“I guess that means we have to make plans for it,” and there’s some odd deeper meaning in his words, and his eyes are flitting to the side before coming back to you again. His lips twitch in something close to mischief, but not quite. “I guess that I should come over. To talk about plans.” 

You’re smiling. You try to resist it, scared you’ll look stupid with how wide you’re grinning but you can’t help it and now you’re smiling with teeth and pressing a giggle back down your throat before you start shrieking in joy. “I think you should. I think I should walk you to my house and talk about. Dinner plans. Totally dinner plans.” Sebastian’s eyes flit to your lips for a moment, a devastating, knee-weakening palm-dampening bone-rattling moment. You’re very certain that you didn't imagine it in some infatuated haze. The corners of his lips tuck into that smile you love so much, too much, and he lets out a breathy sort of laugh. “Dinner plans.” 

You walk him home—to your home, this time. There’s seeds in your right hand and the two ears of corn in his left, and your proximity as you walk makes it so that your hands brush together slightly with every step you take. His hands are dry from the cold. You don’t tell him that. 

And you two don’t hold hands on the way home, because that would be silly. Because you’re just walking him to your house, to talk about dinner plans. There’s a bubble of unspoken things around the both of you, but there’s something between the looks you share with each other that makes you stop caring so much about saying things. You’re not very good at that, anyways. 

You show him your favorite duck in your coop, the one you want Robin to upgrade, and then your cool cheese press machine that accounts for half the money you earn from your farm. He’s finally introduced to Kitty, who yowls at him once before padding up to him and biting his calf. You tell him it’s her love language. 

And you talk about dinner plans. Or. Well. Who are you kidding. You kiss him silly. Silly and stupid in your kitchen, tugging on the sleeves and cuffs of his hoodie and then the hairs at the nape of his neck and then his fingers, trailing your own against his palm in circles and spirals and heart shapes that you’re almost embarrassed to be making. Almost. But not really. 

You don’t really have the time or mind to be embarrassed, really. Not when you’re dizzy and warm and giggling into the lips of the pretty boy you’re in love with. And, not when you’re busy making dinner plans, of course. 

[incorrectbatfam]

Duke and damian headcanons

Please?

Dick: Hey, Duke, sorry to spring this up last minute, but Wally really needs me in Keystone City. Could you look after Damian for the day?

Duke: Yeah, sure, no problem.

Dick: Sweet, thanks. He's still trying to get a hang of being a normal kid, so maybe you could do some stuff together to show him how.

Duke: Normal kid stuff.

Dick: Exactly. Thanks, I owe you one.

[later that evening]

Bruce: So what did everyone do today?

Cass: Arson.

Jason: Murder.

Tim: Blackmail.

Stephanie: Blackmail but better.

Dick: Chasing Weather Wizard across Kansas.

Bruce: Duke, Damian, how about you? You guys had the day off.

Dick: Oh yeah. Dami, did Duke take you to do some fun kid stuff?

Duke, laughing nervously: I guess you can say that—

Damian: We bought an ATV off Facebook Marketplace and went mud riding.

Bruce: Well, that's not so—

Damian: Then we went to the planetarium and used Father's credit card to rent out the theater for an hour-long stargazing show.

Damian: After that, we made spaghetti tacos for lunch and ate them while swinging around in our civilian attire.

Damian: Then I met Thomas's friends and they introduced me to live-action roleplaying—

Duke: It's just called LARPing.

Damian: —Yes, whatever. Except their costumes and weapons felt lackluster, so we brought them to the Batcave for a much-needed upgrade. After all, why duel with cardboard battle axes when the real thing is so much better? Plus, Thomas found a use for the yellow kryptonite in the storage.

Bruce: Duke, is this true—

Damian: Oh, and we mustn't forget the mountain goat. It got tired so it's resting in Father's bed.

Dick: Sounds... interesting.

Damian: I didn't even get to Mount Crime Alley.

Bruce:

Dick:

Duke: ...Excuse me, please.

Duke: *sprints upstairs and locks himself in his room*

Alfred: Looks like he will fit right in.

[ms-demeanor]

Hey! I appreciate your perspective on computer-based things. I think I need to get a laptop and would love your opinion on decent brands. If you don't have an opinion or want to answer please disregard the q.

Context: I'm often on the move and really want something small, light, and that will last a long time. I'm bad about buying new things or taking things to be fixed so ideally it's not something that dies quickly or needs frequent repairs. For a while I used an iPad for this but I need more of a keyboard than tablets have and the shelf life of an iPad is shorter than it should be for the cost. Mine is 7 years old and only works while plugged in... I liked my Macbook Pro I got for college but it's almost 15 years old and given I haven't needed a new one since I don't think spending all that on a Mac makes sense either. I use a gaming PC mostly but I'm going to need to travel a lot more in the upcoming year. I'm ok to spend up a bit since I want it to last.

I think you're going to have to adjust your expectations about the average functional lifespan of electronics. Seven years is a lot to get out of any tablet and fifteen years is way way way above average for a computer.

At work we estimate that the functional lifespan of a laptop will be around five years and the functional life of a desktop will be around seven years; we include upgrades in that lifespan, like adding RAM and storage.

It is not *unusual* to get more than five years out of a laptop or seven years out of a desktop, but if you are a heavy user of anything other than a browser and a word processor, that's about the time when you'll find that the computer feels slow enough to be frustrating. This isn't a hard limit, and it's not something that everyone experiences because people use computers differently, but if you're an artist and you use a drawing program that program will start to feel slow after a while because as updates and patches and drivers have been tweaked for newer devices they've slowly left your device in the dust.

This isn't planned obsolescence, by the way. Computer manufacturers try to "future proof" their devices to a certain extent, but you just can't anticipate certain kinds of changes. Maybe your laptop was manufactured before there were consumer SSDs available so its operating system doesn't take the advantages and limitations of SSDs into account. Maybe your desktop was built for DDR3 RAM and we're now on DDR5 and people aren't writing programs to the standard of the old technology, they're taking advantage of the standards of the new technology.

Since you were able to use your devices comfortably for such a long time, it sounds like you're not a very heavy user and don't need to worry too much about beefing up your specs. However it does sound like you want to keep your computer and use it as long as possible while paying a reasonable price for it (which is good! I think we should all try to extend the lives of our electronic devices as much as possible!).

I actually think you sound like a good match for a Framework laptop.

Framework is a company that makes laptops that are a lot more modular than what's on the market these days. They're mean to be easy to open up for upgrades and sturdy for heavy use. Most of the parts of the laptop are easily replaceable - including the screen - so you can use them for a long time and easily make upgrades that will help the computer feel fresher.

They're a bit more expensive than comparable PCs but much easier to repair if you aren't comfortable opening up your own computer (framework is intentionally built to be easy for people who are non-technical to work on their computers), and they are a LOT less expensive than comparable macs.

I still think you're probably looking at around 7 years of regular use out of a Framework and it won't *break* at that point, it will just. Probably be a bit slow and frustrating. You might not be able to get parts for it after a certain point. You eventually won't be able to upgrade the OS. But that's true of all computers.

I've still got my 2005 macbook. It still turns on, I can still use garage band on it. But it doesn't connect to the internet and uses such an old USB standard that it is extremely slow to transfer data on or off of and it cries and freezes if i try to use photoshop. It's not broken, it's just no longer useful as a daily computer.

What I'm defining as functional here is "Is able to run multiple programs (including at least one browser with 50+ tabs open and two office suites) at the same time for 8-10 hours a day without crashing, freezing, or losing data and restarting is not a major inconvenience."

In those terms, it does sound like you're probably in need of an upgrade (I can't imagine that your current machine is particularly quick) and I think that a framework laptop would suit your needs well.

If you're looking for something somewhat less expensive, you can generally find a decent thinkbook with a 12th or 13th gen i5 processor, 16GB RAM, and a 500GB SSD for around $700-ish, which is the low end of what I think you're going to pay for a decent laptop. I'm reccing lenovo here because I personally like them and have found them to be very easy to crack open for repairs and upgrades. Stick to the thinkbook over the thinkpad because that's the business line and is a bit sturdier and they are designed to be easier to upgrade over time.

Actually, here's a thinkbook with a 12th gen i5, 40GB RAM, and a 1tb SSD for under $700. That's a shockingly good price for that laptop; the reseller OEMGenuine is one I've purchased from many times before for work and I've found them to be reliable, though the reason those specs are so good is because they've added aftermarket parts, so your RAM and SSD won't be under warranty from Lenovo.

For Framework you're looking at at least $1000, but it's easy to plug and play with upgrades so you can start out with lower specs (except processor, don't cheap out on the processor) and upgrade later. The framework is a bit smaller and easier to travel with, but I have a laptop quite similar to the lenovo and it's not a huge pain to move around - it's very light but the 15" screen might be bigger than you're looking for.

If you're willing to spend a little bit more and you're very uninterested in doing your own upgrades and would prefer the most computer you can get for your money right out of the gate, this is a 12th gen i7 thinkpad with 40GB RAM and a 2TB SSD for $1150. (I've not ordered from this reseller before, so maybe check over their terms if you're considering purchasing from them.)

[yanderes-galore]

yandere zane ninjago x nindroid darling who also has (unspecified) elemental powers if you can ofc!!!

I'll see what I can come up with, sure! Pardon me if I get Zane lore wrong, I never finished the show so this is a 'what if' Scenario :(

Yandere! Zane with Nindroid! Darling

Pairing: Platonic/Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Manipulation, Slight jealousy, Isolation, Dubious companionship/relationship.

The one idea that comes to mind would be you and Zane being built together.

You and Zane were meant to be a pair.

It was like you were supposed to be companions to each other.

Unfortunately, somehow you two were separated.

You're both old model Nindroids but Zane barely has any memory of you.

You were probably deactivated and put into storage...

Only to be found later in a newer era.

That's the general idea I have when it comes to how Zane and you knew each other.

You were meant to be a way to keep Zane from being lonely.

Whether as a sibling or a partner is completely up to you.

You were quite literally built alongside him and for him.

This may also explain why you're capable of elemental power.

Since you and Zane are very similar.

Imagine if the ninja kept finding blueprints of another Nindroid but you were nowhere in sight.

Zane vaguely thinks the pictures are familiar, yet can't pin point anything.

It isn't until you're found and reactivated safely that anything really develops.

Zane suddenly feels a connection to you when you activate.

You're familiar and by looking at your blueprints and memories...

You two used to be close.

Zane feels bad his memories didn't click until now.

You were his first companion and he hasn't remembered you until now.

Despite that... He also feels like he's known you forever.

This scenario gives Zane a reason to obsess over a Nindroid other than just meeting you and developing a fascination.

Zane would feel even more of a connection as you're capable of elements too.

You didn't specify one so you can either choose one or be able to swap them out through some technological means.

Zane would probably try to have you upgraded like him.

After all, by the time they find you, your tech may be outdated.

Zane would feel protective since you're technically the closest person to him.

He'd be curious to know more about you just to properly fill his memory bank.

There's just a certain connection with you that no one else has.

Which makes sense as you two were built with a bond.

Meant to be bonded.

That built in connection would cause his obsession, perhaps after being corrupted.

How was it corrupted?

Maybe when he was helping upgrade you, some code went where it wasn't supposed to...

Which tosses you both into trouble.

Or maybe the reason you were separated was because he was always like this towards you.

Zane would try to justify his obsession.

He watches over you, carefully watches and analyzes how you interact with the other ninja, all with this oddly fond yet unnerving stare...

When others bring it up, or even you, Zane simply doesn't think it's creepy.

This should be normal between you!

Don't you trust him?

You can't know anyone else like he does with you!

It's simply improbable due to the connection you two have.

I imagine this would make it hard to leave him.

Zane, due to your bond, is under the impression you two are meant to be.

Doesn't matter how.

He just feels you can't leave one another.

He'd be desperate to convince you or keep that connection.

To the point he comes off as protective or even possessive at times.

Zane is unintentionally isolating.

He's so focused on the idea of you two being meant to be that he often doesn't consider how you feel at times.

You may want to interact with the other ninja, yet Zane is suffocating.

He doesn't comprehend the idea of you being or wanting to be away from him.

After all, don't you feel it too?

You're two halves of one whole.

Which draws him to you.

Zane isn't really violent, in fact he's oblivious to how wrong his obsession is.

He always wants to be around, always wants to spend time with you...

Zane wants to be as important to you as you are to him.

It wouldn't make sense if you went to any other.

While he doesn't kill out of jealousy, he may be violent if you were threatened or someone suggested something was wrong.

He doesn't understand, nothing's wrong?

Him wanting to be around you all the time can't be wrong.

Why would it be?

Isolation? That's not what this is!

The others just don't understand... and you're just confused.

What he's doing isn't wrong...

You two are meant to be... literally built for one another.

Is wanting to be by your side forever, inseparable, all that bad if you're meant to be?

[afloofwithmultipleinterests]

🔆 Opposite Day! ☽

A Security Breach tickle fic, featuring the Daycare Attendant(s) Sun, and Moon! (Both boys get equal amounts of Wrecking or your money back-)

As a result of a crappy visit to parts and services, Sun finds Moon has a new sunny accessory around his faceplate and the daytime counterpart is far from satisfactory. However, when Moon goes to do repairs, those new ray sensors decide to make themselves known, and not in the way that was expected.

Thank you @coy-lee and @laughterfixs for helping me edit this fic! 😁 I appreciated the help, and as much as I would deny, the high pitched screeching that came out of our editing method 🤣

Anyone that comes across this fic should like, totally check out their shit. They make some MMMMMMMMMM!!! GOOD SHIIT!! Anyway, with that said enjoy!☺️

Sun's rays were gone. No joke, the now bald animatronic looked like a McDonald's egg patty. The other day, the Daycare Attendant(s) took a trip to parts and service for a tiny upgrade to their sensory system, and a little adjustment to their mobility settings. Everything seemed spick and span coming back from parts and services the day before- so, how come he isn't now? Oh how he and Moon HATED to go to parts and services... They seemed to do more damage than help.

Sun huffed, hooking the lunar-wire to his back to pull themselves up to their room. Typical matentience staff. He entered the room inward from the balcony, a close up view of trash cluttering the floor, and children's drawings painting the walls. They were going to have to solve this problem on their own, like always. Crawling into the dark depths of Moon's room. The daytime bot shifted control to the naptime animatronic. Moon had fixed them before using other bots, so maybe he could find a way to reactivate his-

Oh. ...

There they were.

His vision froze on the mirror in his half of the storage room, possibly more confused than Sun in the moment. Moon tried moving the rays, much to his shock that he could move each individually, or all together if he wanted to. This was to his brother's annoyance, as the security bot began to play with them by making himself look like a cat, or axolotl, even a pokemon by stretching the top two rays out as far as they could go!

"Well that is... peculiar..." he stated in a nonchalant fashion.

Peculiar? Those were HIS RAYS! This was more than just peculiar, this was DISTURBING!

"Oh don't be so dramatic Sunny... it's not THAT bad~ I think I like this new look."

Moon posed like a geek in the mirror, flaunting his new rays in various positions like a model. He looked absolutely ridiculous! Sun's rays didn't even match him.

Moon chuckled at Sun's party-pooper mindset, deciding to give one last pose in the mirror by imitating Sun's side of their statue.

'Haha... really funny Moon.'

"Hehehah... I'm glad you think so! I think it's hilarious~"

After his obnoxious laughter stopped, Moon decided to focus on the task at hand:

Fixing this.

Moon jingled his way over to a lone, deactivated security bot to pry it open and steal away some lone wires, connectors, sensory chips, even a couple of servos. Taking the new repair supplies with him, Moon kicked open a loose plank among the closet floor to reveal stolen parts and service equipment.

Sun really doesn't like knowing this stolen staff equipment was here, but... this was really their only resolution. Moon has since cut off their hidden security camera from seeing the surplus of tools, otherwise they would have probably visited the shock conditioning chamber again.

"Don't be nervous," the lunar bot soothed, "I'm not going to hurt us. This is a minor fix. First I need to examine how exactly this happened."

Moon's fingers lightly excavated the rays. Even though he could move them, he for some reason couldn't feel them... how odd. Involuntary movement arose from the tiny triangles as he lightly measured the edges of them from bottom to top inbetween his index finger and thumb.

Sun gasped inside of his head at the foreign sensation, doing all he could to try and retract his rays, but they wouldn't budge.

"Is something wrong Sunny? It doesn't hurt, does it?"

Moon wanted to be extra careful with his opposites rays. They were the equivalent to hair with nerve-endings, or a less gross example being the inside of a human ear.

'N-no! It doesn't... just- be-Ee Carefuhul…'

His brother's thumb had feathered over the center of his sunrays... It was terribly ticklish- but, he had to stay quiet. Moon didn't know he was sensitive in THAT way on this area... If he did, he wouldn't hear the end of it.

Moon warily accepted the warbled answer, his finger now venturing to the back of their faceplate. Everything felt in order back there... Dangit! If only he had a mirror.

'Actually-'

Moon froze at the sound of Sun's thoughts overlapping his own.

Surely if Sun had a physical body, he would be fidgeting with his fingers.

'I have a mirror. It's just… hidden.'

Moon cocked his head with confusion at the response.

"Where?"

The two then played a little game of 'hot-cold' until Moon came across a tiny, dirty carpet.

'hot HOT! BURNING!!! AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!'

Moon burst into giggly hiccups, raspy and Disney villain sounding. Their antics truly made his smile grow wider, even on the cloudiest of days. The lunar animatronic lifted the carpet to find a rather gruesome looking hole, wood splintered all around it in the shape of a foot.

'There was a... happy little accident that happened a while back when I was dancing. So much so, I kiiiinda decided to use it to keep things in like you do with that plank!'

Sun, the rule follower, the rule stickler, the anxious little Golden retriever that stuck to his programming... he STOLE things??

... Moon was so proud!

Sun was finally growing a backbone to scavenge!

What mainly decorated the hidden section were supplies intended for childcare purposes... also a purse.

"Seems you're more of a thief than I am!" Moon chuckled, rummaging through the compartment, placing his hands on the handheld mirror inside.

'I wouldn't go that far.. I merely like to have supplies management refuses to give us.'

"Oh, you mean like some parent's purse you stole? They still have their wallet in here!"

'.... I'm done talking now.'

"PFFFT-"

Moon snickered over his friend's grumpy nature, covering the hole back up with the rug and skittering back to the mirror in his room.

He held the mirror behind his faceplate before flipping one specific nerve ending switch ontop of their head.

"There. Our faceplate and your sun rays have the pain receptors turned off... Let's see..."

Moon took the back hatch off of their faceplate to see where the error was.

Aha, the orange and blue wires.

The orange wires intended for sun's rays were plugged into the activation port for his hat hatch... speaking of which- he realized he wasn't WEARING his hat at all... did that mean Sun-?

Nope. Sun didn't have his hat today... He guessed that maybe maintenance didn't properly plug the hat turning system after the upgrades, nor pushed in the stability settings for transitioning. While reaching for the plug, the long ribbon around Moon's wrist SLOWLY feathered across three of Sun's rays. It took him by surprise, so he couldn't stop his reaction.

'OHOHOMY GOODNEHESS-'

The animatronic stopped in his tracks, a bewildered look replacing the neutral one from before. Now that was straaaaange..

'N-No it wasn't! You just need to get back to the task at HaahahnnhnnhnhnnNHNND!? EEEEK!!'

Moon's hands had since traveled from the back of their faceplate to feel over two of Sun's rays.

"Such a peculiar reaction Sunny... I'm certain something may be wrong with your rays... Seems I might need to Investigate further."

Investigate? Uh oh...

'You really don't need to do this, it's probAHAHABLY NYAHAHA!!'

Moon drew a continuous spiral on one of them, while scratching at the other like a lottery card.

"You seem very happy brother~ Whatever could be soooooo funny, hm?" The lunar animatronic teased as the rays attempted to cha-cha away from his fluttering digits.

'OHOHO- NoOhohothing! NOHoTHing at ahall!!"

Moons fingers stopped for a moment to trace the edges of each ray starting from the bottom.

"Oh? It doesn't sound like nothing little star... my my my... you couldn't be-"

Moon got to the top two rays, and began to skitter his fingers quickly behind them.

"Tickle-tickle, tiiiicklish here? Could you?"

'SQUEAAAAHH!! Yohou MEheahHeaANIE! yohuhuu jeherrkyJEHERKjeEeherk!!'

"JerkyJerkjerk? Oh goodness, Sunny. I'm Offended. Maybe I should teach you a lesson... hehe..."

Moon smirked in the mirror as he began to spin Sun's rays in a circle.

'Wh... whahat are you doing!?'

The animatronic wiggled his fingers, continuously staring in the mirror so sun could see his demise. The moving digits moved closer until-

🎶"The rays on the sun went round' and round'~" 🎶

He began to sing the tune to wheels on the bus while tickling the life out of Sun's ultra sensitive rays.

'MYAHAHAYAAAA!! QUHIHIT IT!!'

🎶"Round' and round', "🎶

Ontop of his rays.. Skitter skitter, itch itch, wiggle wiggle~

🎶"Round' and round'!"🎶

'AHAHAAHA IHIHIT TIHICKLES TOO MUHUCH!!'

🎶"The Rays on the Sun went round and round'~"🎶

Behind his rays.. Skitter, scritch, skitter skitter, wiggle-

'EHEHEEEEHAHAHAAAA!! YOUHO BUTT!!' 

"🎶All through the day~!🎶 Ooh- more name calling? That means another verse is in order!"

'NohHOuuHuHUhu!!! MOHOHOONIE NOHO!!'

The lunar attendant changed things up a bit by making the rays retract, and eject while spinning.

🎶 "the rays on the sun went in and out~" 🎶

Moon used all of his fingers, targeting specific rays that had retracted, waiting for them to pop out in order to tickle them again.

Pop! Wiggle-wiggle wiggle~

Pop! Skitter-skitter skit~

Pop! Tickle-tickle  tickle~ 

'AHAHAHAAAA!! IHIM WAHARNING YOUOHO!! Yohou BEHETTER STAHAP!!'

Moon could sense that Sun was actually having a lot of fun through their thin, invisible mental wall, so he decided to crank it up a little.

 "🎶In and out~ in and out!~🎶 or what, give me a headache? You can't touch me~!"

Gitchygitchygitchy, itchy itchy, tingly tickles spread everywhere after Sun's threat, and the teasy song didn't help

' MWAHAHAAAA!! WEHE'LL SEEEHEHEEE!! EhAhahAaa!!'

🎶"The rays on the sun went in and out~ all through the day!"🎶

It was instantaneous when the power seemingly went out in Moon's arms. Great, another problem that he now physically couldn't fix.. maybe he would have to go down to-

As soon as Moon looked down, he immediately noticed a change in his arms...

"Yellow?" He asked aloud, extremely confused… that is until he realized.

They weren't HIS arms anymore...they were-

Sun's.

The yellow hands cracked their fingers and knuckles as a huffing, wheezing Sun voice inside of Moon's head starting to laugh without mirth.

'Heheheaha... ihi... I warned you~'

It turned out Sun's theory was correct earlier about the light sensors being breachable due to plug inactivity.. now to get some MUCH needed revenge.

The yellow limbs began to lightly trace over Moon's torso, making him squeak and sputter.

"Wahait!! I- We can tahalk about this Sunny!"

'Talk? You mean like how you tickled me to speechlessness? Sure, we can do that!~'

Moon let out a squeal as the digits dusted over his ribs, fluttered under his arms into his wires, feathered over his neck, traced over the edge of the moon crescent of his fa-

"SQUEAA!!" Moon screeched as Sun traced over the lower section of the crescent that would be considered his 'jaw'. Sun stilled at the reaction, baffled at the energy that erupted from seemingly nowhere. Moon felt Sun's sinister intentions bubble inside of their processor. The previous attacker grew nervous at the silence and the lack of movement from Sun's arms

"I-I uh-" Before Moon could say anything, Sun attacked. One hand flew to Moon's sensitive little tummy as the other danced over his jawline, drawing spirals in the moon crescent's craters like Moon did on Sun's rays earlier.

"SQUEAAAAAHEAHEAAAA!! EHEHEHEHE! -HIC-! ahahAhahahahAHAH!!" The sensation was overbearing!

Sun was used to tickling. Sun got to play with the kids all the time... however, since Moon was naptime duty on main, he hasn't built up quite the sensor tolerance Sun has, nor the fan speed.

Sun's left hand rapidly scrunched against the middle of Moon's tummy, barely touching his dent... OH how ticklish it felt- he never thought his tummy could feel so tingly.

"IHIHIT- EHEHEHEEEE! SUHUHUNNY- PLEHEHAhahaAh!!"

'Please? You're gonna have to specify! Did you mean please go faster? Do these tickles make you happy moon? Do they? Do they? Awww of coooourse they do!~ Why else would you be so giddy?'

With that, Sun sped the tickling up on the poor little tummy and ticklish little craters.

"OHOHOHO NOHOHO!! NAUGHAHAUGHYTY THIHING!! NauAHAHAUAHTY- NAUGAHATYHEHE! NYAHAHAAHAAA!!"

'Gitchygitchygitch! Oho tickle tickle little Moonshine~'

Sun's voice echoed in sickeningly sweet baby talk.

'Is the tiny, little astronaut that ticklish to you? Hm?? Them walking allll over your tummy, and face? Over your cute little craters?'

The left yellow hand began to mimic walking motions, wiggling each 'foot' into his moon plate with each step, circling and tickling in each tiny crater he could find.

"EHEHAKAKA!!" The lightswitch- he NEEDED to get to the light switch.

Sun inwardly gasped, beginning to tickle more skillfully instead of playful skitters as Moon's plan echoed through their mind. Not only did the solar animatronic have a lot of tolerance, but he also had a lot of experience giving tickles out, especially to adults as per his playful and teasy nature.

The nighttime animatronic sputtered and spat chortle to cackle as the hands began to travel. His ribs, his hips, even seeing the sensitivity of the little buttons on his chest, his neck.

And. It. Tickled. HORRIBLY.

Moon could barely keep himself up in these circumstances. His legs felt like jello, yet somehow, some way, Moon managed to make it over to the lightswitch.

'Ah ah ah! Not so fast~'

Moon was forced downward, sun's arms somehow pulling the rest of his body away from the lightswitch and to his ankles. Upon this the devilish yellow fingers inched around his ankles, and heels, tracing eights and infinity signs all over to throw him off. Moon screeched as his 'Achilles heel-s' were discovered. The animatronic couldn't move an inch from this terribly ticklish situation as both hands held his ankles captive. It was when the hands forced his foot up did he lose balance. The naptime attendant fell on his butt, his shoed feet at the very mercy of his brother.

'Let's seee~ what's behind curtain number one?!'

The first shoe came off, revealing the foot underneath. Moon's feet were much like his hands, accept it had sensory cushioning on the bottoms to prevent finger crushing. The yellow digits lightly traced the sensory pad, and under moon's toes before coming back to the top of his foot.

"KEEEEHEHEHAHAHA- NAHAT THE FEET SUHUHUN- NOHO-"

'Not the feet? Not the feet? Is it possible they're terrrribly sensitive to kitchies? Hmmmm?'

KITCHIES!?

Sun lightly scrunched over the top of the revealed foot before pulling the other slipper off.

Moon wiggled his toes as his brother traced lines all around the tops of his feet, paying attention to the tippy top of the little beans.

Snorting, Moon quickly tried to think of a plan through his laughter and Sun's teasing... AHA!

He wouldn't think what the plan was but he was going to do it.

'Do it if you dare~ I'll get at the bottoms of your feet if you try anything funny moon…'

Funny? Why would he try anything funny? He was the least funny person he kn-

Suddenly, Moon's hat projectile launched from the top of ther faceplate and upward at the lightswitch, leaving Sun to gasp internally.

‘You sneaky little rules twister- that's it!’

Just as Sun began to mercilessly skitter everywhere on the bottom of Moon's feet, the light switch had been flipped, turning the lights on.

His arms are now on the outside of Sun's body...

Oh... this was going to be fun~

"I uh-"

Before Sun could even come up with something to say, Moon's fingers flicked and fluttered vigorously around Sun's Tummy and ribs, even under his arms at one point.

"OHOHO MY STAAAHAHAHAAARS!! NYAHAHAAHAAA- MOOOHOHOOOON!"

'Paybaaaack~'

"Paybahahack!? YOUHOU'RE THEHE ONE WHOHO STAHAHRTED-"

bam the wires.

"AAAAAHAHAHAA- OHOHOKAY! OKAHAHAY! MEHEHERCY!! I PLEHEHEAD THE FIHIHITH!!"

As soon as the words left Sun's mouth, Moon stopped.

The conjoined animatronic twins turned on their internal fans, cooling their shared system as they lay on the floor.

Sun airily laughed the rest of his giggles out, eventually calming down.

"Hehe..aha.."

'Did you have fun?' Moon asked as their system returned back to its normal heating stats.

"... Maybe."

'Hehehe~ thought so!'

After a moment, Sun wobbled to his feet regaining his balance to step to the lightswitch again. Moon gave his brother the ability to swap their limbs again, so when they turned the lights off again, he would be able to fix them.

The lights turned off with a swift flick, changing Moon back into himself again, as bald and shiny headed as king Neptune without his crown. His hat was laying on the floor, but he'd pick that up later.

Without hesitation, he traversed back to the mirror again to fix the wires.

… were they that tangled before?

Perhaps Moon and Sun's ticklish scuffle tangled the wires up more than they were… their back faceplate cover was off during it.

"... well this will be difficult."

'HEY- uh… actually… what if we just… didn't fix it?'

Moon smirked at that, his attention fully on his brother now, that of which Sun felt. A bit nervous, he continued.

'I mean- if I'm able to swap your limbs out for mine… w-we can just… I don't know… keep that feature?'

That sounded like a fun little quirk… especially if they wanted to do something like this again.

"You know… that's not a bad idea. Who would really notice anyway?"

And from then on… nobody really did. Well- not except for when laughter could be heard coming from the fazbear theatre.. but Sun and Moon publically chocked it up to daycare antics rather than any insinuated malfunction if an employee were to ask.

Yet another secret well hidden by the mystery(ies) that was(ere) the Daycare Attendant(s).

[sirfrogsworth]

Wishlist Haul

All I asked for were pants, and those are coming Saturday. But you all came through in a big way with my wishlist and helped me solve some problems that have really been bugging me lately.

One of my biggest current issues is my decision to use my M1 MacBook Air as my main computer until I can move my PC upstairs at some distant time in the future. Which means I need to ask a lot more of it. And it is capable, as these Apple Silicon devices are amazing and very zippy, but I only got 256 GB of storage because I thought this would just be a secondary computer while I was taking care of my dad.

So I need storage. And if you do photography and use Lightroom, you know you need *fast* storage. In the days of spinny disc drives, going back and forth between images was maddeningly slow. I already hate the process of culling photos and picking the best ones. And sometimes you'd need to find 5 winners out of a few hundred. And when it took 3 seconds to switch between every photo, I wanted to die. And honestly, it could still be better.

But one of the best solutions is a super fast SSD. Which I had. I bought it right before my parents got especially ill and was planning to install it in my PC. But my priorities changed and I just never found the energy.

The problem is that was an internal NVME SSD. I needed it to be external.

Which is where this little thingie comes in.

This is an NVME enclosure, and if you are looking for cheap, fast external storage, this is so much better than those external SSDs they overcharge for. For $200 they give you a 2TB drive that can read about 2000 MB per second. Or you can get a 2TB NVME and this enclosure for the same price and get 3000 MB per second. Not only that, but it is upgradeable. In a year when 4TB is $100, you can plop that in. And the Mac's Thunderbolt 4 has a max speed of around 5000 MB/s, so there is room to improve there as well. Though sometimes advertised speeds are not reality speeds.

The only thing you need to be aware of is these drives run hot. You're going to think there is something wrong with them. Like, they top out at 90C. Which is nearly 200 degrees in freedom units.

I wanted a convenient way to mount my drive, but I didn't want 200 degrees on the back of my screen, so... MAGNETS!

And I can stack a few more if that section starts feeling too hot.

So, I have that problem solved. I can now use this as my main computer and work on my photography.

Next up... fashion!

I'm going out more and I want to look a little more presentable. I thought these two tone shirts looked a little more fashionable. And they are very comfortable too. I have a red one that I think I'm going to wear on my trip. I know you can't see the two tone well in the picture, so here is the product photo of the red one.

Next problem?

Well, it's maybe not a problem so much as something cool I wanted. A black light!

My mom had all of this uranium glass and I had no idea my salt shaker was marginally radioactive all these years. I really wanted to take a proper photo of some of the glass before it all gets sold at auction. So this should be a fun experiment.

I will say, if you don't have uranium glass, don't get a black light. You will want to burn your house down. It does not matter how clean you think you got something... you didn't clean it enough. And I have all of this dry flaky skin on my feet. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't bother me. You can't even really see it unless you look really close. But when I shined the light on my feet they looked like they had some undocumented disease. I will not be sharing a photo of that.

But the depression glass, that's super neat.

Some proper photos coming soon I hope. Maybe after my trip.

Next problem!

My key fob. This thing is a piece of shit.

Even if it looks cool under a black light, it is THE WORST.

It's cheap plastic, it takes a stupid watch battery, the symbols on the buttons all wore off. And all of that I could handle, but for some reason this fob has an effective range of about 2 feet. I literally have to be standing next to the door before it will work.

I had a black fob that worked much better, only the plastic casing was falling apart. But I taped it up as best I could and hoped it would not fall apart. Then I went to get my tires changed and they needed the fob to do some special reset of the pressure sensors and the battery died before they could. I went home to try and change the battery, and the entire thing basically disintegrated on me.

The inside looks like this.

The battery retention contact is held on by a tiny dab of solder. And if you pull the battery up even a little, it snaps off. And that's what happened. And to make matters worse, the rubber buttons were falling apart and the unlock button just... fell off.

So I was either stuck with the 2 foot range green one or I needed a new fob. Thankfully, they are only 20 bucks for 2 on Amazon. Unfortunately you need a dealer or an auto locksmith to program them. The lowest quote was $100 for about 5 minutes of work. The dealer actually wanted to sell me the fob as well, which they quoted as $150 for ONE. Same cheap plastic piece of shit and everything.

So, I got all of the parts from the broken fob and I hot glued that battery contact back into place and I transplanted that into a shiny new casing.

Works just like new. The buttons feel much better, I can actually see the symbols, and it has a range of at least 100 feet. And that hot glue isn't going anywhere. Changing the battery might be an issue, but these lasted several years.

Next problem!

An intervalometer is a fancy shutter button for a camera that allows very long exposures. It is detached from the camera so you don't shake anything and it needs a backlit screen because if you are using it, you are most likely in the dark.

My intervalometer is about 12 years old and uses another dreaded watch battery. And the backlight on the screen seems to be dead. So it is pretty much useless.

But look at this!

The light even works in the... well, light! And it takes normal batteries. Seriously, watch batteries need to stay in watches.

I don't know if I will get to take a long exposure in Florida, but I want to have this with me in case I do.

Next problem!

This one I actually solved on my own. But I found these stainless iron (yes, iron!) shims and I covered them with black tape and now all of my most used kitchen items never take up counter space.

Yes, I use magnets and hot glue to solve most of my problems.

Next problem!

My garage door is not very smart. And the remote control for it is huge and does not fit in my man purse.

So I downsized the remote.

But I wanted to fix the non-smart thing as well. A while back my brother got into my garage without me knowing. He must have taken a remote of his own. And I really don't feel like figuring out how to change the frequency, so I now have a sensor that lets me know when the door is open with a phone notification. Beyond that, I can open or close the door from my smartphone from anywhere. And I can give access to anyone with a smartphone in case of an emergency.

I will say, this company is really paranoid about people being crushed by garage doors. The instructions tell you to put up this sign in your garage...

And if you use the app to close the door, you get a light show with annoying beeping...

And I know that these accidents happen in real life. But whenever I think about how that could actually happen, all I can imagine is that scene in Austin Powers...

In any case, I am really glad I have this now. And I also like that if I forget to close the garage door, I can check the app and not have to get up to do it.

OH! I almost forgot. If I want, I can have Amazon place packages inside my garage.

Next problem!

What in the heck do I need galvanized steel plates for?

In product photography you need a diffusion panel called a scrim. If you try to buy one of these already made, they are hundreds of dollars. They are mostly made for movie productions, and those items always have inflated costs.

So most product photographers make their own out of tracing paper or a special plastic called Translum. It's $80 per roll, but lasts forever. I used to hang my scrims from the ceiling. But you can't really angle or move them, so you have to move the object you are photographing instead. Which is just a backwards way to work. So I invented my own scrims with two strips of very thin wood, metal chip clips, these little plastic feet that held up plexiglass barriers during COVID. And to weigh everything down... steel plates.

This is version 1.0 where I glued the plastic rather than affixing it with the chip clips.

The clips work much better and allow me to put different weights of plastic on, or even double plastic, for more or less diffusion. And I ended up not needing that board at the bottom which allows me to curve it as well.

And these scrims let me take this photo...

It's called graduated lighting and it makes things look neat.

I also got a backpack for my trip and shorts, but I am going to forego an explanation of those.

To all that helped, thank you so much. I hope you can see I am putting everything to good use.

[transmutationisms]

maybe it’s because I’m a newish follower but I haven’t seen your posts on zotero…. say more pls… how do u make use of it… what are your methods/systems to maintaining it or coming back to it? I’ve only heard of it mentioned once by a professor I admire (I asked how do u keep track of all the articles and texts lol) but then completely forgot to actually look into it.

>:) zotero is a free* and open-source citation manager, meaning it's designed to help you keep track of books, articles, podcasts, archival material, &c &c that you may be wading through for whatever reason. the basic structure is just a library of metadata: authors, publication info, and so forth. you can organise this into however many folders and subfolders as you might want, and (assuming you make sure the metadata are accurate) zotero also allows you to generate a bibliography from any of these folders with 1 click. also, it gives you a convenient notes function so that your notes are all attached to the material they correspond to (& are text-searchable), and when you use it as an app downloaded onto your computer (which you should), it automatically syncs with the web library, meaning your work is basically cloud-backed or whatever. you should also download the zotero web connector extension onto your browser; then, when you're looking at an article, book, or webpage online, you just click the extension and it'll let you put all of the metadata into your zotero library. i have no idea how people do large amounts of reading on any topic without a citation manager tbh. zotero.org to change your life forever

*u get a limited amount of storage for free, but the paid storage plans are at p reasonable rates (comes to 10 USD/month for unlimited, and if you upgrade in the middle of a yearly pay cycle they pro-rate it)

[britt-kageryuu]

Donnie was in the middle of playing a Game Shop owner simulator game. Their model is dressed in an purple polo shirt, a gold colored apron with the shop name 'Softshell Cards' on it, along with a gold trimmed purple visor over his bandana.

The shop was pretty expanded, the layout and stock were already optimized, not to mention aesthetically pleasing and Donnie was looking over the numbers the determine what to do next.

"So, we have the choice of buying a new product, but so many have dropped in market price that it doesn't look like a good option." Donnie says while bringing up a spreadsheet of the market price fluctuations.

They look over at the NPCs roaming about with their slightly wonky pathing, the employees restocking, and running the register.

"If it were not for the fact that I haven't fully unlocked every possible SKU, and shop expansion, you would think there was nothing left to do. Bored Sigh." Donnie leans back in their chair, still going over the data that was collected.

Donnie slightly minimizes the game, and brings up a video of Leo playing the same game, though he seems to be loosing his mind over the NPCs not buying things.

[Leo: I know I can't actually talk these guys into buying anything, but why do they keep saying these are to expensive?!

He goes to look at the price tag.

Leo with a confused look: When did the price plummet so far? It was like $5-7 higher two days ago!]

Donnie sits watching their twin play the game very differently to they are.

"Inquisitive Hum. Maybe I should change up my strategy. Make a new file, and have Shelldon decide how I go about it." They then do just that.

Exiting to the main menu, making a new save file, and bringing Shelldon into play.

Shelldon leads Donnie to play a bit more chaotically, buying items Donnie wouldn't, selling items that Shelldon though were cool and not caring about pricing.

"Whoa Dude. We can get that shop upgrade! Storage Room acquired!" Shelldon celebrates while having Donnie move back stock racks into their new 'Storage Room', and order more items.

"Don't forget the rent Dude! Then get the license for that new figure!"

Donnie enjoys this even if it's not quite how They wanted to play.

The audience enjoy watching the Father and AI Son gaming together.

---------------------

Masterpost

This is short because I keep getting conflicted on how to write out playing this game, because different people I watched played so differently.

Was going to compare Leo and Donnies ways of playing, but I couldn't really get it into my mind what they would do.

And I kept being like 'well if I played this I'd play like this!'

Yeah the game is TCG Card Shop Simulator

[star-vessel1237]

Hollow (Armor!Yuu)

Summary: What if Yuu was a hollow suit of armor?

(A/N: This is probably one of the last AUs I write before I go back to writing for my Digimon x Twst AU. I don’t know why but the idea just came to my head after watching “Night at the Museum”. Anyway, here we go.)

Armor!Yuu is a sentient armor that made their home in a museum where they would wander around at night

Armor!Yuu of course can’t talk, but that doesn’t really matter to them as they didn’t see the need to

As for how they got to Twisted Wonderland, unlike how it usually goes with getting hit by a carriage they ended up messing around in one of the storage rooms

Armor!Yuu stumbled on a peculiar looking mirror before it suddenly glowed a bright light that absorbed them, leaving the storage empty

To say Crowley and Grim were confused when Armor!Yuu was wearing a full suit of armor was an understatement

Crowley also tried to insist on them "taking off" the armor but to no avil

In fact, it wasn't until Grim started setting things on fire that Armor!Yuu's true nature was revealed

What basically happened was that Armor!Yuu grabbed Grim and stuffed him inside themselves

Riddle yelled at them for getting in the way when they’ve needlessly put themselves in danger while Azul is just questioning why they just stuffed Grim inside their armor

Grim jumped out of Armor!Yuu, knocking off their helmet and revealing that they had no body underneath

Needless to say, that was probably the most rememberable entrance ceremony in all of NRC history

After which, Armor!Yuu finds out they can’t go home, they’re given a pen and notebook to communicate, and are allowed to stay at Ramschakle and work as their janitor

Of course things didn’t exactly go well on their first day

Ace: It’s fricking hillarious, your an empty suit of magicless armor that still got summoned by the mirror and you, a monster, weren’t called but still tresspassed.

Ace: Man, it took everything I had to not- Ow! What the hell did you throw at me? *Opens paper airplane*

Paper: Maybe if you weren’t such a stuck up jerk you would have friends you can actually have fun with. But no, you decided to boost your ego at the less fortunate, and you call us the losers when you're literally wasting time here instead of an education to help you in life. Go off and waste your time with someone else.

Ace: The hell. You seriously wrote this?

Armor!Yuu: . . . >:(

Ace: Don’t stare at me like that. Besides, your still just an empty bucket-head and a cat.

Grim: I’m not a cat!

Armor!Yuu then watched Grim and Ace duke out, only getting involved to block the fire that would’ve scorched the statue of the Queen of Hearts

Armor!Yuu needless to say is done with Ace’s (and others) sh!t in this AU, they’ve dealt with teenagers just like them in the museum, like hell their dealing with another one when they couldn’t do anything about it back home

They’re a gentle giant, but they won’t hesitate to tear you a new one if you disrespect them or their new friends

Now for some miscellaneous details:

Armor!Yuu took off their own “head” after Riddle used his unique magic on Ace, Deuce, and Grim just to mess with him

They wear a cape in the school’s colors along with a matching plume as to make up for not wearing the proper uniform

They try to avoid rain as to make sure they don’t rust

They’re very good with swords and often train with Silver

After Chapter 6 they got a “little” broken up, but Idia helped by upgrading their armor to a more advanced one that kinda resembles the Charon robots(?) [Gonna be honest, still confused if they're robots or people in high tech armor, or both]

That’s all for now, hope you enjoyed!

[scribbling-dragon]

Watcher’s Nest Café

Chapter 1

summary:

“I want you to know that I hate everything about this.”

Scott hums into his drink, sipping at it before throwing the whole thing back like it’s a shot. The bitter taste is enough to wake him up at least a little more. “You're here on time, at least.”

Jimmy’s staring at him when he looks up, apron held in his hands as he squints. Scott stares back at him. “How much espresso was in that?” He asks. Scott doesn't actually know, he measured it more with his heart than his eyes.

*

Or: I’ve finally cracked and written a coffee shop au.

(ao3 link)

(masterpost)

(3,262 words)

+ reblogs are super duper appreciated ;)

Jimmy is late. Again.

Scott has to remind himself that Jimmy being late is not the end of the world, as much as he currently feels like it is. The man is near consistently late, and he should really be factoring that into his mornings and the schedules at this point, when it’s such an inevitability. Whether it be because his alarm failed to go off even though he checked it five times the night before (and on one memorable occasion even sent a screenshot of the alarm to their groupchat, though he had still been late the next day), or because his bus was late and/or cancelled entirely. Or maybe some other disaster has sprung up and halted Jimmy before he can make it to work this morning.

So, Scott is on his own. He is on his own and facing down a long queue of caffeine-addicted customers that are beginning to grumble at the slowness of the line and its progress. Seriously, though, who has the energy to be up this early in the morning? Admittedly, most of his current customers are overtired uni students that probably wouldn't be able to tell caffeinated coffee from decaffeinated coffee at the moment.

He scowls down at the card machine, punching the numbers into the keypad a little more forcefully than necessary (seriously, would it kill his boss to upgrade their system so the card machines are actually, you know, connected to the tills) before thrusting said machine out towards the next student. They stare at it for several long moments, card gripped in their hand.

They look up, blinking tiredly. “Do you do a student discount?”

“No.” He smiles as pleasantly as he can, mustering the last of his patience and resisting the urge to point at the sign that explicitly states that they do not, in fact, do student discounts. “Sorry about that.” He’s not sorry, not at all, but it seems to appease the student enough because they give in and tap their card to the machine, holding it there until it gives a happy little beep and spits a receipt out.

“Thank you, your drink will be ready in a few minutes.” He smiles at the student until their back is turned, allowing it to drop as soon as they're no longer looking at him, glued to their phone screen instead. He turns to the next customer with a barely restrained sigh, smiling and opening his mouth to begin the spiel that he’s forced to give out to each customer that graces this counter.

“I'm here!” The door to the storage room that also doubles as their break room slams open, bouncing off of the wall behind it and almost slamming straight back into Jimmy’s face. It startles several of the people in the queue out of their half-dozing states, and they blink at him curiously. He watches the canary as well as he struggles to tie his apron properly, hands fumbling over the knots in his speed. “I'm here,” Jimmy repeats, as though they hadn't heard him the first time. “You are not going to believe what happened this morning.”

“The same thing that happens every time you have a morning shift?” He steps back and lets Jimmy slip in front of him and take over the till. Scott sends a small prayer up to whatever deity was watching over him at that moment, feeling his shoulders slump as he gets the opportunity to turn away from the customers and towards the backlog of drinks he hasn't managed to make yet.

“Uhm, no, actually,” Jimmy’s head is turned slightly towards him, but not enough that Scott can actually see his face. “My door - thank you very much, here’s your receipt - locked on me.” Scott allows those words to percolate through his brain, wondering at the same time how Jimmy can seemingly interact with people so effortlessly- go figure, the omen of misfortune is the preferred member of staff at this café.

The milk screams at him as he steams it and he has to try not to flinch back from the sound. The coffee machine rumbles threateningly beside him, letting out a grating wheeze- Scott prays that this moment is not when its last legs collapse beneath it, because that’s really the last thing they need right now.

“Your door locked on you.” He repeats. “Isn't that what it’s supposed to do?”

“Not when I'm trying to get out.” Jimmy squawks, turning away from the customer to look at him. Scott frowns at him until he turns back around, muttering something beneath his breath.

“Did you try using a key?” He asks, helpfully. “I've heard those are rather good at unlocking doors.” He laughs to himself at Jimmy’s grumble of frustration, keeping his back turned as he leans over to grab a few take-away cups.

“Did you try using a key,” Jimmy mimics, in what is possibly one of the worst impressions of a Scottish accent he’s heard so far this month. “Of course I tried using a key- it didn't work!” The card machine buzzes as it spits out another receipt, and Jimmy wordlessly hands the order over to him.

“And yet you're here.” He sets the group of drinks on the counter, calling out for the customer. They perk up, head swivelling around as though someone else might dart forward and take drinks under the exact same name. Only when they realise that he’s actually calling them do they begin to meander their way over. They take the drinks without even a single thanks, the bell above the door ringing as they leave.

“Uh, yeah,” Jimmy turns to face him, leaning back against the counter- and Scott’s surprised to see the lack of a queue, people either sitting down at tables or perching on stools as they wait for their drinks. “Course I'm here. Not about to abandon you to the morning rush, am I?” Jimmy’s face goes a little pink, and his wings ruffle behind him. Scott grins at that, stepping back towards the coffee machine.

“How did you get out of your apartment, Jimmy?” He nudges an elbow against Jimmy’s side as he passes, watches as he gets even pinker with embarrassment. Jimmy avoids his eyes, muttering something beneath his breath.

“What was that?” He asks, cupping a hand behind a fin, leaning slightly closer. Jimmy looks almost as embarrassed as he did after the Sheriff Incident. “I couldn't quite hear you.”

“I said,” Jimmy grits out. “That I had to climb out of the window.”

“You live on the fifth floor.”

“I know that Scott, thank you for pointing it out.” Jimmy turns back around, realises there are still no customers to serve, and turns back again, crossing his arms. “Like I said, not about to abandon you for a morning shift.”

“You're too sweet,” he nudges his hip against Jimmy’s as he passes, two more drinks securely held in his hands. He ignores the small twinge in his leg as he does so, calling out for both customers. Only one of them thanks him as he slides the drinks across the counter and towards them. “Especially as you left your keys behind.”

“I- what? I didn't leave my keys behind.”

“Well they're not in your pockets.”

“I- Scott!” He grins to himself at Jimmy’s protests, “You need to stop doing that, you're going to get in trouble one day for stealing from the wrong person.”

“Haven't been caught since I was nine, Jimmy dear.” He wipes the steam wand down quickly, cleaning the last traces of milk froth from it before turning back to face Jimmy. The last few students that had invaded the café have vanished, taking their drinks with them. “And it’s hardly harming anyone.”

“I think the people you pickpocket might have something to say about that.” Jimmy says.

“Only if you snitch on me, and you're far too nice to do that.”

“Nice enough that you’ll switch me and Pearl for tomorrow morning?”

“Nope!” He grins at Jimmy, ignores the dramatic groan the canary lets out, slumping back onto the counter. He’s going to get feathers in the till again. “I'm not doing a stock check with Pearl.”

Jimmy continues groaning. “Worth a shot.”

“Not really.”

                                                           *

“I want you to know that I hate everything about this.”

Scott hums into his drink, sipping at it before throwing the whole thing back like it’s a shot. The bitter taste is enough to wake him up at least a little more. “You're here on time, at least.”

Jimmy’s staring at him when he looks up, apron held in his hands as he squints. Scott stares back at him. “How much espresso was in that?” He asks. Scott doesn't actually know, he measured it more with his heart than his eyes.

“I don't need to provide an answer to that.”

“This- Scott, I'm not interrogating you. I'm checking I don't have to call an ambulance in the next five minutes for whatever heart attack you've probably given yourself.”

“On the floor.” He points, “I'm going to read something out and you're going to tell me if we have it.”

“I hate this.” Jimmy peers under the counter anyway, staring into the small space as though it’s going to bite him. Scott nudges at him with his foot, pushing him a little further in.

“Get on with hating it then, do we have any earl grey?”

“Three boxes.” There’s the sound of some shuffling, and then a muffled thump. Jimmy groans as he marks the earl grey off the list.

“Mint?”

“One box.”

“Hm,” he marks it off. “Mint’s been quite popular these past few weeks.”

“Then order some more.” Jimmy sits back on his heels, head just reaching the counter. His hair is covered in dust and Scott has to bite his lip to not laugh. “I don't see why we need to store all the teas here, why can't we store it with everything else?”

“Because I like watching you suffer. Green tea?”

Jimmy grumbles, but ducks back under the counter again, shuffling about. The bell rings as someone enters the shop, and he glances up for a moment, sees who it is, and looks back down at his list.

“Four boxes.” He marks it off. “Is Pix here?”

“Yes,” Pixl leans over the counter, something that no other customers would actually get away with, but they're technically not open yet so Scott doesn't shove him back yet. “Having fun down there Jim?”

“You know it.” Pixl grins at Jimmy’s deadpan response, sliding back across the counter. There’s another muffled thump, and Jimmy swears this time, shuffling backwards until he’s clear of the counter, straightening up. “Good morning.”

“Morning, you look like you've walked out of one of the dig sites.”

“Why-” Jimmy runs his hand through his hair. “Scott! You told me you dusted under there!” He rubs his hands through his hair a little more vigorously, both Scott and Pixl watching him with a grin. “Why didn't you tell me!”

“It’s much more funny to watch you find out yourself.” Scott replies, “Besides, you're not five anymore, you can do things yourself now.”

“Well aren't you hilarious.” Jimmy grumbles, running his hand through his hair again. He’s still rather dusty, but he hasn't noticed it yet and Scott isn't about to tell him. He holds a finger to his lips, swearing Pixl to silence as well. “I'm not doing another stock check with you ever again Scott Smajor, you can fire me, I don't care.”

“Scott Smajor,” Pixl parrots, still grinning. “Someone’s in trouble.”

“That’s not even my name,” he scoffs.

“Uh-huh, and where’s the birth certificate to prove it?” Jimmy asks. “Pics or it didn't happen.”

“You're ridiculous.”

“Your hair is ridiculous.”

Scott pauses, halfway through prepping the coffee machine. “I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.” He says, listening to the silence that follows afterwards. “Usual?”

“Yes, thank you.” He can hear Pixl shuffling behind him. The sound of something heavy being dumped on the bar counter reaches his ears. No doubt Pix’s setting up his stall for the day- next thing he knows it Cleo is going to show up as well and then he won't get a single moment of peace.

                                                          *

Cleo shows up about twenty minutes into the lunch rush.

He ignores her in favour of making sure he doesn't burn his hands on the small oven or the hot food that his boss insists they serve, despite it being the most inconvenient thing to ever happen to Scott. The beeper is annoying and it doesn't shut up until he manages to grab a moment to turn it off- which is never because it’s the lunch rush and they're constantly busy.

Jimmy is banned from touching the oven. The last time he did so he managed to get several third degree burns and Scott had to take him to A&E after shutting the café for the afternoon. Him and Tango managed to have a rather pleasant conversation in the waiting room, at least.

“You look like you're having fun.”

“Thanks, Cleo.” He cleans the steam wands off quickly, readjusting them before he turns and snatches the milk jugs off the counter, before Jimmy can even think about trying to steam the milk. The milk screams at him, though he does his best to grit his teeth and bear the sound until the milk is finished. “Just a few more minutes and the worst should be over.”

“No murder victims yet?”

“Not yet,” he hands the coffee over to a customer with a smile, ignoring the worried look they shoot him at Cleo’s words. “Though you're beginning to look like a rather tempting target.”

“Oh, please. I welcome your attempts. How do you kill something that’s already dead?”

“Spite.”

Pixl laughs. “He’s got you there.”

The next few customers blur together, with Jimmy handing him tickets almost every few seconds. His leg aches something awful and he is seriously looking forward to his break, even if Cleo’s going to make him drink something other than coffee now that she’s here. And she doesn't even do it in a nice way, just invites herself round the counter and pours his coffee down the sink.

He leans against the counter when they have a small lull, resisting the urge to bash his head against said counter until everything goes nice and quiet and dark.

“Has Pearl been by already today?” Cleo asks.

“Yeah, she dropped off a few tubs of brownies and a cheesecake.” He gestures towards where he knows the cake display is, where Cleo is no doubt already looking. “Fancy anything?”

“Not really, just wondered if she was working today.”

“Not today. She had something on last night, just said she wouldn't be in today.”

Cleo hums. “Full moon last night.”

“Yup.” He glances up at the clock, wondering if he can go on break early. He then remembers that he is the manager and can do whatever he wants.

“Strange coincidence.”

“Please stop speculating about Pearl while she’s not here.” He drags himself around the counter, sitting down beside Pixl, careful to not lean on any of his notes or knock any of his pens from the counter. “You’ll summon her.”

“She’s not a demon, Scott.” Jimmy joins in, leaning over the counter to peer at him. “She won't appear if you say her name three times.”

“Don't you have some tables you should be cleaning?” He says, in lieu of a response. His leg continues to ache, even though he’s sat down.

“You're the least fun person I've ever met.” Jimmy complains.

“Good. Get on with it.”

                                                          *

Jimmy had an afternoon lecture, something which one of his classmates - fWhip - reminded him about twenty minutes before it was due to begin.

Scott isn't actually sure how Jimmy has survived this long- wouldn't believe that he had managed to exist before now if he hadn't met him in college. One of the many mysteries of the world is Jimmy’s continued survival. Scientists would study him if they had the chance.

Jimmy’s absence means that Scott is being forced to finish the stock check beneath the counter, ignoring Cleo’s comments about the music currently playing- he doesn't exactly get to choose the music. Jimmy does all of that, and the poor man really needs someone to introduce him to a band that still has all of its members alive.

He winces at a particularly bad note, almost bad enough to cover the chiming of the bell. He sticks his head back above the counter, narrowly missing bumping his head on the underneath of it.

It’s someone he’s never seen before, not one of their regulars, peering about the place with curiosity clear on his face.

He hauls himself to his feet, ignoring the protesting of his leg and knee as he does so. The customer is…annoyingly handsome, in a rather charming way. His eyes glitter with mirth as he approaches, hair flopping over his face despite the headband he wears presumably to avoid exactly that.

“You have a little something in your hair, buddy.” And as with all men, Scott is disappointed as soon as he opens his mouth. Cleo turns away, covering their mouth as they attempt to smother a laugh. He resists the urge to glare at her.

“Thanks.” He brushes a hand through his hair, careful not to pull it from where it’s coiled at the back of his head. “What can I get you?”

“I don't know,” the man leans against the counter, “any recommendations?”

“Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee,” the man pulls a face. “Not a big tea fan.”

“No one ever is.” Pixl mutters, pulling his mug of tea closer to himself. Pixl is the only man Scott respects right now.

“Our latte’s the most popular coffee, do you want that?”

“Sounds lovely,” the man’s eyes meet his own. “Say, you have some rather unique eyes, don't you?”

“You could say that, why, want a closer look?” He leans a little further over the counter, smiling slightly as he watches the man’s eyes widen, no doubt not expecting him to respond- really, if he wants things to go his way he needs to get better at flirting. “Your eyes are rather nice too.” He says, “if I was able to see them.”

The man rests his arms on the counter, wallet clutched loosely in one hand. It’s already open, card halfway pulled free. He looks back up, continuing to smile at the man.

“Shall I make you that latte?” He pulls back, watching as the man takes a moment to regather himself, blinking rapidly.

“Oh, yes please. Thank you.” The man pays, almost appearing to be in a trance with the way he’s blinking, looking around as though he’s not sure of where he is. Scott turns, smirking to himself as he makes the coffee, handing it over in a take-away cup a few moments later.

“Thanks.” The man takes the coffee absently, turning around and walking from the shop, bell ringing merrily in his wake.

“Scott,” Pixl says.

“Pixl,” he mocks. “C’mon, who flirts with a barista?”

“That guy, apparently.” Cleo says, still watching him walk away. “He looked like you blindfolded him and spun him a hundred times before setting him loose again.”

“If he wanted to keep his wallet safe, he shouldn't have gotten distracted by my eyes.” He sticks the five-pound note into the tip jar. “Besides, it’s not like he’ll be back.”

[bratshaws]

through the hourglass 323. brb x oc

a/n: happy crysler ;) (comments and reblogs are super welcome and encouraged!)

pairing: plus size!oc x rooster

warnings: none uwu

goodness gracious (pls read this one to know more what this fic is about!!)

chapter

1/

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-

He checked the calendar on his phone and his deployment time was coming to an end. Sure, that with the whole thing now he might have to stay a bit longer, but he was almost home.

Fuck he missed Beatrice so much.

Maybe it was the stress of…everything,because if she was close by he could easily place his head on her lap and let her know what was bothering him in person, not on a phone. Rooster huffs, thumbing through his gallery to check every picture he had of her and the kids, he does not regret buying extra storage to keep all of these. 

In the quiet solitude of his temporary quarters, Rooster couldn't help but smile at the images of Beatrice and the kids. Their faces, frozen in laughter, joy, and the everyday moments of family life, offered a respite from the complexities of his mission.

 The distance only intensified the love and longing he felt for them.

A knock on his door interrupted his contemplation. Rooster looked up to find McAllister standing at attention. "Sir, Vice-Admiral Simpson requested your presence in the briefing room. It's about the latest findings in the investigation."

Rooster sighed, the bittersweet moment with the pictures fading as duty called. "I'll be there in a minute, McAllister."

As McAllister left, Rooster took a final glance at the pictures before locking his phone. The countdown to his return was tangible, and the prospect of being reunited with Beatrice and the kids only fueled his determination to bring the investigation to a resolution.

He wastes no time then and leaves his quarters. The briefing room was a controlled chaos of officers, maps, and data projections. Rooster took his seat at the table,placing his hands on the surface while Vice-Admiral Simpson stood at the front, ready to address the assembled officers.

"At ease, everyone," Vice-Admiral Simpson began, his gaze sweeping across the room. "We've gathered here to discuss the latest developments in the ongoing investigation brought to our attention by Lt.Bradshaw.”

"Our investigation has revealed that Lieutenant Mark was involved in clandestine activities that go beyond the scope of his official duties," Vice-Admiral Simpson stated, his tone measured. "The modifications to his jet were not just an upgrade in communication systems. There's evidence of advanced tracking capabilities, undisclosed software patches, and deviations from assigned flight routes."

The gravity of the situation hung in the air, and Rooster exchanged glances with McAllister, both understanding the implications.

Fuck

Cyclone  continued, "These actions raise concerns about the potential compromise of mission security and the unauthorized gathering of sensitive information. Lt. Bradshaw, please provide us with a concise summary of your findings so far."

Rooster stood, projecting the key details of the investigation on the screen. He outlined Mark's deviations during missions, the modifications to the avionics suite, and the discovery of key contacts linked to Mark's activities.

"As of now, we have identified connections that suggest Lieutenant Mark was involved in off-the-books operations, possibly gathering intel or engaging in activities outside the purview of the Navy," Rooster explained, his voice steady. "The advanced tracking capabilities indicate a deliberate effort to avoid detection, which raises questions about the nature of these operations."

Vice-Admiral Simpson nodded, acknowledging the gravity of the situation. "This has the potential to impact the squadron's reputation and national security. We need to act swiftly and decisively.  I’ve already…did my own part such as speaking with the Lt.’s relative, who, tried terribly to play as if Mark did nothing wrong."

“But,as you know,the Navy takes breaches of this nature seriously, and we will cooperate fully to get to the bottom of this. Lieutenant Bradshaw, Mark is probably aware…so Lt.I’d like for you to join me when I talk to him.”

Rooster nodded in acknowledgment of the order. "Understood, sir."

Vice-Admiral Simpson dismissed the officers after the briefing, instructing Rooster to meet him later for the discussion with Lieutenant Mark. Rooster took a moment to gather his thoughts before leaving the briefing room. The weight of responsibility pressed on him, and he had to inhale to calm himself down.

As Rooster headed to his temporary quarters to prepare for the upcoming conversation, he thought about the impact this could have on the squadron and the Navy as a whole. The reputation of the squadron was at stake, and the potential compromise of mission security raised alarms at the highest levels of command.

He paused at the door of his quarters, taking a deep breath before entering. The pictures of Beatrice and the kids greeted him when he unlocked his phone, a comforting reminder of what awaited him upon his return.

The investigation had entered a critical phase, and Rooster knew he had to tread carefully. 

He was nervous.

He couldn’t lie.

His mind raced through the key points he needed to address with Lieutenant Mark. The challenge was not only in extracting information but in understanding the motives behind Mark's actions. 

Once ready, Rooster made his way to meet Vice-Admiral Simpson. The atmosphere in the naval base was charged with so much tension, it crackled. The investigation had become a focal point, and rumors circulated among the officers.

No one had ever dealt with something like that, no one from his age forward because the older officers appeared - while upset- not at all surprised. He huffs through his nose, then rolled his neck as he walks forward.

Upon reaching the vice-admiral's office, Rooster was ushered in, finding Lieutenant Mark already present. The atmosphere in the room was strained, and Mark's expression revealed nothing for now.

Brave yet stupid, if Vice-Admiral Simpson’s expression was anything to go by. "Gentlemen, we find ourselves in a situation that demands clarity. Lieutenant Mark, you are aware of the nature of this meeting. I expect your full cooperation and transparency."

Mark shifted uncomfortably in his seat but nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll answer any questions you have."

He turned to Rooster. "Lieutenant Bradshaw, please sit down.”

Rooster took a seat, his gaze focused on Mark. The air in the room felt charged with tension, the impending confrontation palpable and Vice-Admiral Simpson wasted no time and delved into the heart of the matter.

"Lieutenant Mark, the evidence gathered during Lieutenant Bradshaw's investigation suggests unauthorized modifications to your jet and deviations from assigned mission routes. We need an explanation for these actions, and we need it now."

Mark hesitated, glancing between Rooster and Vice-Admiral Simpson. His eyes betrayed a mixture of unease and defiance. "Sir, I can explain. The modifications were necessary for a classified mission I was undertaking. I couldn't disclose the details due to the sensitive nature of the operation."

Vice-Admiral Simpson raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident in his expression. "Classified mission? Lieutenant, you are required to follow protocol and obtain proper authorization. These off-the-books modifications not only violate Navy regulations but also raise concerns about the compromise of mission security. And you already started wrong by lying to me. No mission,secret or not, goes without my say so.”

Rooster's gaze remained fixed on Mark, a quiet intensity in his eyes. He said nothing, only kept watching.

Mark swallowed, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. "Sir, I understand the protocol, but this mission was different. It involved sensitive information that couldn't be shared even within the chain of command. I had to take matters into my own hands to ensure its success."

Vice-Admiral Simpson leaned back in his chair, his expression stern. "Lieutenant Mark, the Navy does not operate on individual whims. You had a responsibility to communicate the nature of your mission to the superiors who could evaluate its necessity and provide the required clearances. By bypassing this protocol, you've compromised not only the mission but the integrity of the entire squadron." he frowns “And Lt.Bradshaw is one of your superiors in this mission, did you hear anything about it,Rooster?”

“No,sir.”

Vice-Admiral Simpson nodded, his stern expression deepening. "Lieutenant, your actions have not only jeopardized the mission but the trust and cohesion within this squadron. These are serious offenses, and you will be held accountable. Now, I want the truth. What was the actual nature of this so-called classified mission?"

Mark shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes darting between Rooster and Cyclone . The weight of the situation hung heavy in the room.

"I...I well," Mark stammered. "It's a matter of uh,security.”

Cyclone’s patience wore thin,and his blue eyes narrowed. "The consequences of your actions extend beyond personal discretion." he pauses, “...whatever your reason was, lying and obscuring it was does not help your situation.’

Rooster maintained his composed silence, observing Mark's feeble attempts to navigate through the web of lies he had spun. 

Vice-Admiral Simpson leaned forward, his voice cutting through the tension. "Lieutenant Halton, the Navy values trust and transparency. Your actions not only undermine the core principles of our organization but also endanger the lives of those around you. It's time for the truth. No more evasions."

Mark swallowed hard, the beads of sweat on his forehead multiplying. His eyes flickered to Rooster, a hint of desperation in the gaze that met Rooster's unwavering stare. Rooster felt a surge of frustration,but he remained quiet.

Cyclone continued, "I won't jump to conclusions, Lieutenant, but your actions demand accountability. Now, you have a choice. You can come clean, provide an honest account of your actions, and face the consequences within the framework of military justice. Or, you can continue down this path of deception, and the repercussions will be severe."

Mark hesitated, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The room seemed to close in around him as the weight of his transgressions pressed down.

"Sir, I... I can't..." Mark's voice wavered, the façade crumbling. "I can't disclose the details. It's classified, and I can't risk—"

Vice-Admiral Simpson cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Enough, Lieutenant. Your refusal to cooperate and your attempts at secrecy have already painted a damning picture. If you choose not to provide a full and honest account, we'll proceed with a formal inquiry, and you will be held accountable for your actions."

“You CAN’T DO THIS!” Mark shouted “Do you NOT KNOW WHO MY AUNT IS??”

Silence.

That outburst wasn’t planned and…well, it slammed the nail on the coffin easily.

The room fell into a heavy silence after Mark's outburst. The mention of his aunt added a layer to the situation, but Vice-Admiral Simpson's expression remained unmoved. Rooster, though surprised by the revelation, tried his best to remain quiet himself.

Vice-Admiral Simpson spoke with a measured tone, his gaze unwavering. "Oh I am quite aware. Your aunt already tried to pull your ass off the fire."

Mark's face turned pale as he realized that his attempt to leverage his family connection had backfired. “What does he have that I don’t?” Mark snarled “His father was a pilot too! And yet–” the mention of Goose made Rooster’s jaw clench and he almost moved up to Mark to face him down but Cyclone held his hand up, “And Maverick! Maverick is his uncle! This is unfair treatment!”

Jesus Mark was a spoiled child.

The tension in the room escalated as Mark's outburst hung in the air. Cyclone, maintaining his calm demeanor, addressed Mark's accusations. "Lieutenant Halton, personal connections and family history do not exempt anyone from the rules and principles that govern the Navy. Your attempt to use your family's influence will not change the fact that you violated protocol and jeopardized the mission."

Mark's face contorted with anger, and he shot a venomous glance at Rooster. "You think you're so special, Rooster…you think no one knows? Without Maverick you’d be nothing. He protected you so much before,right?"

"Lieutenant Halton," Cyclone warns, “That is enough.”

Mark seethed with anger “You are just…less than me.” he growls, “My aunt is a vice-admiral and yet I’m still a lieutenant! Why?! How is that fair?!”

"Lieutenant Halton, your personal grievances and accusations are not relevant to the situation at hand," Vice-Admiral Simpson stated firmly. "We are here to address the breach of protocol and the potential threat to the mission–"

Mark's face contorted with a mix of anger and frustration. "This is unjust! How did he get this far without his uncle’s help?”

The realization weighs enough for him to stop talking.

Cyclone’s eyes narrow, “...what did you say?”

The room's tension was palpable as Mark's last words hung in the air. Cyclone's piercing gaze bore into Mark, a subtle warning in his eyes. 

Mark swallowed hard, realizing the gravity of his words. “I–”

Cyclone's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Lieutenant Halton,are you saying your aunt helped you move through the ranks and your promotions are without merit?"

Mark shifted uncomfortably under Cyclone's gaze. His mind raced, searching for the right words that could possibly salvage his deteriorating situation.

"I didn't mean that," Mark stammered, attempting to backtrack. "I just meant that, well, people have connections, and it helps sometimes. I didn't mean to imply–"

Rooster turned to face him, finally speaking up  "Your aunt helped you move up." he says firmly, “That’s what you are saying.”

Rooster's words hung in the air, and Mark's attempt to backtrack faltered as the weight of the truth settled around him. He cast a furtive glance at Rooster, realizing that his own words had inadvertently exposed a well-guarded secret.

Cyclone's stern expression deepened, and the room seemed to shrink with the gravity of the revelation. The Vice-Admiral's gaze shifted between Mark and Rooster, assessing the situation before he spoke, his voice measured. "Lieutenant Halton,if your promotions were influenced by factors other than your merit and dedication, it undermines the integrity of our entire institution. Is it true?"

Mark, cornered and exposed, found himself at a crossroads. He was quiet.

Cyclone's gaze remained fixed on Mark. "Answer the question, Lieutenant."

Mark hesitated, the internal struggle evident on his face. Finally, he spoke in a subdued tone, "Yes, my aunt has helped me. She has connections, and she used them to ensure my career progressed smoothly."

The room fell into a heavy silence. Rooster's expression hardened, mouth falling open in surprise. Cyclone's face remained impassive, but there was a flicker of disappointment in his eyes.

"I see." Cyclone mutters, “...that explains a lot.”

Cyclone's gaze remained fixed on Mark, his disappointment evident. "Lieutenant Halton, the Navy values integrity and merit. Using personal connections to advance one's career goes against the principles we stand for."

Mark, realizing the gravity of his admission, attempted to salvage the situation. "But sir, my aunt j-just believed in my potential. She wanted to ensure I had opportunities—"

Cyclone cut him off with a stern look. "Belief in potential is one thing, Lieutenant. Undermining the fair and competitive nature of our organization is another. " he sighs “And this goes beyond the breach of protocol during the mission. We now have to reassess your role within the Navy, Lieutenant Halton. There will be an inquiry into the extent of the influence exerted on your career."

Rooster took the time that Mark was quiet to speak, “...did Miranda know?”

“What?”

His eye twitched,”Did Miranda,your wife, know about this?” he grinds his teeth, “Is that why she was saying shit to my wife?”

Mark's face turned a shade of pale that matched the tension in the room. The mention of Miranda,caught him off guard, and he fumbled for words. "Miranda didn't know the specifics," he admitted hesitantly. "I-I mean, not everyth–”

Rooster's expression hardened. "So, she did know, right?"

“W-Well–”

“And she was bothering Beatrice, my Bea, because she was also jealous of her? Or was she just helping your little scheme?”

Mark shifted uncomfortably in his seat, beads of sweat forming on his forehead as Rooster's questions pierced through the already tense atmosphere. "Miranda knew that my aunt was in a high-ranking position," Mark confessed, avoiding direct eye contact with either Rooster or Cyclone. "But I swear, I never asked Miranda to harass your wife. That wasn't part of the plan."

Rooster's jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tight with frustration. "Plan? You had a plan for this? To use your family connections to climb the ranks and then drag my wife into your mess?"

Mark stammered, his attempt at salvaging the situation crumbling. "I didn't mean to drag anyone into this. Miranda took it upon herself to –"

"To what? Make Bea's life miserable?" Rooster's voice rose, anger bubbling to the surface. "You can't just wash your hands of this, Mark. You initiated this chain of events, and now you have to face the consequences." he snarls, “...none messes with my girl,Mark. No one.”

The room seemed to tighten with every passing moment. Mark shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes darting around the room, searching for a way out.Rooster's eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, his hands clenched into fists. 

Mark's attempts at an explanation faltered as Rooster continued, his anger escalating with each word. "You used your aunt's influence, and God knows what else. But my wife? She had nothing to do with your ambitions, and yet you let your plan spill into her life. You should’ve focused on me. I don’t give a shit if Miranda thought about this on her own, she.overstepped.the.line."

Cyclone interjected, his voice firm. "Lieutenant Halton,personal relationships have been affected, and that will also be considered in the inquiry." he blinks, “Now,anything else you want to add before,” he gestures to Rooster, “Lt.Bradshaw loses his temper even more?”

Mark's face turned from pale to flushed, caught in the crossfire of Rooster's wrath and Cyclone's stern reprimand. He swallowed hard, his attempt at composure faltering as he glanced between the two officers. "I... n-no sir I-"

“Wonderful. Rooster, please wait outside my office,yes?”

Rooster shot one final stern look at Mark before standing up and nodding at Cyclone. Without uttering a word, he left the room, the heavy door closing behind him with a resounding thud. 

He rubbed his eyes, then inhaled deeply. It was finally over, he hoped.

Jesus.