#and they have loaners for the one that does

[thatmartiangirl]

I'm looking to pick up an activity for fall into winter, but I can't decide between the Sword-fighting Center and the Tool Library.

The Sword-fighting Center teaches HEMA and Kendo, is really close to my house and is easy to get to, and is something I've wanted to do for years, but costs $100 a month, which means I wouldn't really be able to do any other extra circulars. But if I do 10 classes a month, which is probably reasonable with their schedule and mine, it's $10 a class, which isn't really that bad.

On the other hand, the Tool Library is only $10 a month, and gives me complete access to all of their tools (which I can check out to bring home), and their workshop during their hours, but their hours cross with my work hours a lot, and I would be forced to drive through downtown during rush hour to access it on weeknights. They also have a lot of cool workshops that are discounted to members, I have a lot of home projects that it would help with, and the cost means I'd be able to do other things, like the swing dancing class I was eyeing for later in the fall

My brain says the Tool Library, but my heart says the Sword-fighting Center

[obeymeluv]

Enchanting a Fae - Malleus x Reader

A random Malleus x Reader

Malleus isn't sure why he comes to your dorm so often. His booted feet take him there automatically, he supposes. If Lilia were to ask him, he's just making the rounds on his usual haunts and looking for pieces of forgotten grotesques and gargoyles in need of cleaning. Ramshackle was a prime destination for all things forgotten and dusty, after all.

Perhaps it can also be a home to things muddy and sopping.

A small smile twists the edges of Malleus' lips as he blinks rain from his emerald eyes. It's ironic that he, future King of Briar Valley and fifth most powerful mage in the world, was caught unaware by the weather.

How very human. It's a beautiful experience, to drown in the quiet hush of rain.

He steps lightly but with purpose, long shadow breezing up the walkway to your door. It swells as lightning tap-dances behind him. Thunder rumbles, much like the sound he tries to swallow down as you crack the door open hesitantly, face melting into one of welcome.

Oh, child of man...Malleus feels the warm swirl in his chest tighten as you take his hand and pull him inside. He ducks his head, finally remembering to pull his horns down enough so they don't scrape the frame like they have in the past.. "Fae are supposed to be invited in," he reminds you. "And I told you, you always have a standing invitation." you say with a gentle dismissiveness that both humbles and endears him. You continue to show him that you care not for his title or his princely demands. You treat him like all the others. He does his best to stand on the welcome mat you thrifted, afraid the water will rot the ancient floor and leave you with something else to fix. You scurry back with towels and some spare clothes that smell like human. Not you, but human. Malleus can't stop the angry rumble in his throat as he realizes that smell is probably from your human friends at Heartslabyul. Clothes for other men? Disgusting. You always forget he has another set of vocal chords and he excuses the noise as 'clearing his throat'. "It's all I have," you murmur, unsure now if you should take the offer back. He can tell you're still debating that uncouth noise, the slip of the tongue.

"I accept your generosity." Malleus knows it won't be a perfect fit, but it would do better than your clothes. Not that he didn't like the idea of adorning himself in your scent. Turning away from you a little, Malleus removes the purple striped belt at his waist and undoes the many gold buttons on his curious coat. You can't tell what the black shirt is underneath but it sticks to him and you find yourself trying to tear your eyes away and commit him to memory all at once.

Not in the creepy way! Just in the 'I've never seen Malleus in just gloves, a shirt, pants, and boots before' kind of way. He's none the wiser, realizing he has a real problem on his hands. The gloves he chose are water resistant but they've somehow gone flush against his slick skin and feel more like a seal than a savior. His draconian nails cannot save him, blunted and useless in the leather. Should he use his teeth? What if he hooked them on the edge of a horn and just shimmied it off? You can practically read his mind and grab his hand before he can raise it near his head. "Don't do that! You'll ruin them!" you give a huffy laugh at his simple, boyish logic and it takes every ounce of control from all his decades of walking upright to keep his tail from smashing a hole in your floor.

He watches you drape the loaner clothes around your neck like some sort of scarf as you motion for his hand.

Your hands are almost cartoonishly small in his as they trace the stitching and try to feel for any buttons or ridges. Small, but so considerate and so warm. Dragons run warm from the fire and magic in their blood but he cannot explain why your touch is absolutely radiating and searing him in the most comforting way through the leather. He almost hopes you never figure out how to take them off so you can just fiddle with his hands forever. Malleus relaxes into your touch, basking in the care and attention.

His hopes are dashed when the glove separates slightly from his lax wrist and you free his hand. You pull off the other one. If he had no shame, he'd make a cool request for you to hold them and warm them. "Boots off, then change." you give him a small rag for his hands and point to his feet. Delighted and somewhat surprised to be your willing subject, Malleus obeys and starts to take off his boots.

He braces himself against your wall with one hand, mindful not to put himself through it like he almost did the mine tunnel at Beanfest. One boot off, he wrestles blindly with the other. Malleus is much more interested in how you tend to the pitiful fire in your fireplace. Your back is to him and whatever you're wearing leaves you shapeless but cozy. The embers crackle in the hearth, the light dancing across your face in a way that makes something baser claw at the pit of his stomach.

Shiny thing. Dragons like shiny things. You would be a most gorgeous shiny thing. Always ethereal, no matter what you're wearing or doing. If you would permit him, you would be his most valued treasure.

His heart sings at the thought, almost tying itself in a knot. That low, tingling feeling comes back to him and Malleus wants to croon his Dragon Song. It would fall on deaf ears, so to speak, as you have no dragon blood to appeal to. "Your eyes are doing that thing again." Malleus flinched a little, green fire sparking in his mouth as a warning puff of smoke dissipated between you. He didn't realize you'd come upon him again. The dragon relaxed, turning his head away as he exhaled the building smoke through his nose before it could send him into an undignified coughing fit.

Lilia had been consulting his grandmother on some behaviors as of late and both arrived to the same conclusion: he's experiencing draconian puberty. 'The thing' his eyes do are a sign of said puberty. It is the unfurling of all his emotions, the dilation of his eyes signaling his interest and trying to draw you ever deeper to him. In a way, it is a thrall, but it leaves him at your mercy as much as it should leave you in his.

Somehow, you don't take it as hard. If his world wasn't a sudden explosion of the scent of your skin and soap, the heat of your body, and the curious fondness with which you look at him, he would ponder this injustice further.

But he does not. Right now he can't even find the words for a simple lie, a diversion, as he breathes in the smell of you and tries not to melt. To have you touch him right now would be the worst thing but he's never wanted it more. He wants so badly to sink his fangs into your wrist, your neck, and let you wear the affectionate bruises like a family crest. His family crest.

"You're supposed to be getting changed," you admonish him.

"Mmm, but I can't," Malleus refrains from snuggling into the small towel you're blotting against his face. He closes his eyes and tries to sense the heat of your hand through the fabric as you move carefully around his lashes. "I'm being tended to and it would be rude to interrupt," he teases.

"No point in giving you dry clothes if you're going to get them wet putting them on." you laugh. He swallows thickly as you brush his throat dry. "Now go change," you swat him with the rag. Body towel and clothes in one hand, damp footprints follow Malleus to a spare room.

As he suspected, the clothes were ill-fit for his frame. Spade and Trappola were smaller than he was, being human and all. It was another thing entirely to get the shirt over his head without shredding it on his horns. He's afraid to move his arms too much and hopes he's not offending you by pulling the pants low enough to give his tail room. You've just finished laying his clothes out on dry towels before the fire and he's grateful.

It is a dying fire. You have a small supply of kindling and old papers to feed it but he doesn't think it will be enough. "I would like to repay your generosity with a gift. May I?" "You know you don't have to get me anything," you wave him off. He's not sure if it's a human trait or a you trait but you don't take easily to gifts.

"But it is practical and will serve us both," he knows he's caught your attention. He can see you trying to figure out what kind of gift that would be. Malleus approaches the fire, kneels down, and breathes it in. Dragons who can breathe fire, like himself, can convert outside sources of heat to their fire on rare occasions. You jump when he spits out a green flame and it roars to life, casting the walls in jeweled light and emitting a heat you didn't know you missed.

"Cozy!" you chirp. It was a gentle kind of heat that would be perfect for snuggling under a blanket. He sits on the other end of the sofa, a respectful cushion between you, and rests his head on a hand as he looks at you.

"And it will last much longer! You needn't fret about it getting out of control, either. It is my fire, and I can control it." he sees the beginning of sleep on you. Malleus grew up with Silver and was all too familiar with the slow descent into a nap. You make a valiant effort, he will give you that. You're in the middle of a soft argument about being rude to company and Malleus laughs despite himself.

He dropped in uninvited. Certainly that's more rude, yes?

The two of you lapse into a comfortable silence, the fae more amused than he has been in a long time as your eyes get heavier. You look stunning in the green glow and he can't help but think you'd look just as ravishing in black.

In a crown. On a throne. In his bed. All of these things have the Dragon Song welling up in him again. The buzzing in his chest closes off his ears; Malleus jumps to alertness as you tug gently on the ends of his dark hair. "You let your hair down. It'll get weird if it dries in a ponytail holder."

It takes some effort, but he untangles it from his hair. "What shall I do about you, Child of Man?" he muses. "I will be forever indebted to your attentiveness."

"Did you find anything cool on your walk? You always show me." your eyes twinkle with the vestiges of consciousness. This is your one final push before succumbing to sleep, he can tell. He did, in fact, find things to show you and had forgotten them until now. When you're drenched, everything just feels heavy and soaked through. Malleus fishes the random items from his coat pocket and settles back down on the couch.

You've seen all manner of things at this point--feathers, polished rocks, twisted roots that looked interesting, pieces of statues, actual gems--and it never gets old. He presents you with a rock carved into the shape of a bear, a chunk of what might have been an old cup, and a ring.

The ring doesn't catch your eye right away. You're too busy playing with the bear. He wiggles his hand so the firelight catches it and you still. Malleus takes the bear from you, flipping your hand over to slide it on your finger. "A gift, my dearest."

"Malleus, I--" you start to protest.

"We fae are no strangers to offerings, both giving and receiving. It would be a disservice to present you with anything less." he speaks over you, his words gentle but commanding. He kisses your hand.

You'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought of dating him. It just seemed a little silly--a random no-name person and the fae prince? What kind of cliche was this?

A handsome one that was staring you right in the face.

"If you'd like more, the best I can offer you is a kingdom." he teases, lounging back against the sofa. He said it so casually that it caught you off guard. You're face is almost unbearably hot and Malleus chuckles.

"A whole kingdom?" you finally recover. "I'll take it."

Oh, there it went. Malleus felt the trap snap shut on his heart. This was the lethal moment Lilia warned him. He was helplessly smitten and enchanted. Irreversibly so.

"Truly?" he's before you in a second, one hand around your waist and the other holding the one with the ring. "Now is not the time to jest, Child of Man. I offer you my heart in earnest and the reply must be just as true!" he's staring up at you through his bangs and you swear you see more scales on his forehead.

"W-Well, yeah," you stutter. "I wouldn't mind. Just kind of thought we would do more dates and stuff first," your face was heating up again.

"We shall, as many as you like!" he's scooped you up in one arm, cradling you to his chest. You threw your legs around him so you didn't fall backwards but he doesn't notice, pulling your other hand over his shoulder. "Every day, even! As soon as the weather clears, in fact!" "But it'll be dark out!" you protest. Malleus probably could change the weather if he wanted but that wouldn't stop the ground from squelching and things being nasty. He stopped excitedly rambling about walks and things to do.

"We've walked in the dark before?" he doesn't understand why you don't want to go out this particular time. "And I have seen you to your door, safe and sound every time."

"But we're already here. Together. Inside." you explain slowly. "Maybe we could...cuddle...a little."

Oh yes. Splendid idea! Malleus all but dives for the couch at the suggestion. It is a paltry nest but it's yours. You're still recovering from the recoil, glad he fell back first and didn't squish you.

Did you just hear something rip? You hope he didn't break the couch. You don't get much time to think about it as he pulls you close and tucks you under his chin like he's been rehearsing it with a pillow. He's just the right combination of soft and muscle, of guard and gentle as he figures out where to put his hands. He settles for one supporting his head and the other cradling yours.

It's very awkward because he's mostly off the couch but he can't be bothered. You're slowly drifting to sleep in his arms and he's never felt more joy. He watches with deep interested, practically holding his breath as you sleep. Faes don't need as much sleep as humans but he doesn't think he could sleep if he tried because you've been courted by him!

Malleus is roused by his phone sometime later. The couch is small and cumbersome to him but it's held up. He begrudgingly untangled himself from you to answer it, long arm just reaching it on the table.

"Yes?"

It's Lilia. "Where are you, young man? We've been trying to reach you!"

He had fifteen missed calls from Sebek, eight from Lilia, and some text messages from Silver.

"Ensnared, I fear." Malleus smiles into the crown of your head. "I'm doomed to languish in absolute bliss. It's a very powerful enchantment, you see."

"Taken the leap, have you, Malleus?" he could hear the smile in Lilia's voice.

"I have, and I've landed in something quite wonderful."

"We fae are supposed to trick and trap, not the other way around! But...at least you're safe. Make it known that I will not tolerate--"

"Any eggs before marriage." Malleus rolled his eyes. He'd only heard that a million times recently.

"If you're not back at Diasomnia in two hours, I'll break that enchantment myself. Understood?"

"And if I object?" Malleus challenged, patting your head as you began to move.

There was a moment of silence. "I shall tell your grandmother."

Malleus hung up.

That might do the trick, he thought, brows raised. His grandmother was from an older generation of fae who were still entrenched in anti-human beliefs. Would she love you because he did? Could you enchant her, too? One look at your sleeping face, so at peace and pressed up against him, had him convinced.

Yes, he was pretty sure you could enchant any fae. It certainly worked on him.

[pineapple-downside-up-cake]

TF!141 but they don't go to the bar together; not on purpose.

They're wound too tight, have seen the bad end of one too many bar brawls, to let loose with booze in public.

Instead there's one of those cozy coffee shop/bar type places not too far from HQ. It's not open all night, but it's open as long as you need it.

Mismatched furniture, plush but ugly, the lighting low and disarming - run by the vet behind the counter. She only plays soft acoustic tracks; nothing with a hard bass.

The team usually goes their separate ways, but they tend to end up there, trickling in throughout the night when the days are rough.

When the nightmares keep them from sleeping, or being alone with their thoughts is too much.

There aren't rules, necessarily - but it's unspoken that this is not fucking therapy. They don't talk about why they're not in bed, asleep. Everyone's got reasons.

Instead, they abuse the furniture, shut down in a place where they won't be alone.

Soap tangled sideways in his chair with a coffee - don't look at him, he wasn't getting shut-eye anyway - listening to podcasts in one ear, sketching idly on a napkin.

There's a collection scattered across the wall, his and others', and the owner let's 'em hang.

Gaz with a blanket on his lap, feet on an ottoman and an earl grey nearby that he never drinks, but orders anyway. He spends most of the time on the phone, but he holds the cup in his hands until every last vestige of warmth seeps into his skin.

The barista will refull his mug until the teabag brews clear. No questions asked.

Price sits in an armchair with the lone vintage telly on mute, watching football reruns and fishing championships. He drinks whiskey and a damned good thing someone does. They mostly stock it for him.

He thinks it helps him sleep, and some nights it does - sometimes he falls asleep in the stupid purple chair and wakes up with a blanket over him at closing.

Ghost sits on the floor. He's most comfortable there, with his back against the sofa, and the carpet is plush enough for someone like him. He drinks herbal tea, usually mint, let's the smell clear his head while he reads.

He reads the same two books on the loaner shelf until the spines break and pages start to fall from the binding, and one day they're replaced with the full series.

He realizes he actually likes reading, doesn't have to pretend just for something to do with his hands, and starts bringing in his cast-offs to swapout and take home.

They don't always make it there at the same time, or even on the same nights. Sometimes weeks go by without any of them showing up, when things are good or when they've been gone...

But they know they are always welcome to seek solace at The Treehouse.

[theyhavetakenovermylife]

Random Headcanons (18+)

IDW!Michelangelo x reader

A/N: I was supposed to write this last night, but then I fell asleep instead, ups😂 So I’m starting the morning out with it instead. Here ya go🧡

All characters are aged up.

Warning: Mentioning of public sex, mentioning of roleplays.

As energetic, thrill seeking and fun Mikey could be - often finding himself in rather outrageous situations, that anybody would have a hard time believing to be true - he could have a tendency to be rather oblivious to you and your physical needs from time to time. It’s not that he didn’t care about your physical needs - on the contrary, he very much did - it’s just that he can be a little slow at times, not noticing the look in your eyes, or how your touches tended to linger on him much longer. However as soon as you directly tell him what it is that you’re wanting, he would drop everything in his hands for you.

If there’s one thing Mikey really loves in the bedroom, then it’s the exact opposite - sex outside the bedroom. Though Mikey is very aware that it isn’t always possible, he does really have a thing for the two of you getting down, at places where the two of you shouldn’t really be getting down. It isn’t really because he wants to be caught. Actually, he would much rather not get caught, as that would mean the two of you would have cut your session short. It’s more the experience, and your ability to remind each other of the time you had sex against a tree in Central Park.

But on the days where you and Mikey had to keep the sex in the bedroom, it wasn’t uncommon for Mikey to put music on. Was this to get in the mood, or maybe drown out the sound of you and him going to pound town? Maybe. But if you ask Mikey, he might tell you how that was actually a pretty smart idea, but no, that was not his intention. He just really liked music and to get groovy, and he really likes you. Pleasure match made in heaven!

Another thing Mikey is really into, is roleplay. Teacher, student. Doctor, nurse. Nurse, patient. Cop, criminal. Hell, you have even tried librarian and book loaner with the goal of staying as quiet as possible, while being in the most deep pounding positions.

But in line with Mikey’s love for sex at places where you shouldn’t have sex, he also has a thing for you and him touching each other under the table, while other people are around. He once took it one step further, and ate you out under the dining table, while his brothers sat on the couch nearby, fully invested in the movie that was playing on the screen.

[richincolor]

December Releases

As we prepare for our hiatus, we are gathering the releases for December all in one place for readers. Next week, we'll start posting our favorites from 2024 and then we will have a bit of a break and see you again in 2025. Here are the books we're watching for in December.

December 3

Encanto: Nightmares and Sueños by Alex Segura Disney Press

Return to Casita where we find seventeen-year-old Bruno from Disney’s hit animated film Encanto, where readers will finally learn what happened to make people never want to talk about him.

Fans will love this dark and mysterious young adult novel by Alex Segura, a NYT bestselling author who also wrote Poe Dameron: Free Fall and Araña and Spider-Man 2099: Dark Tomorrow.

Seventeen-year-old Bruno has never really fit in with his family—why can’t he be as outgoing as his sister Pepa, or as friendly as his sister Julieta? Does he like being the awkward loaner who never seems to find where he can fit in? But it’s hard to be popular when you have the power to tell the future and people don’t always like what you are telling them. So Bruno devises an act, and begins to model the behavior he feels the town wants to see in a hero.

But is being dishonest to himself and others the right path to walk down in order to make friends, or is Bruno just kidding himself as he hides from his own destiny that threatens to destroy all he holds dear?

My Fairy God Somebody by Charlene Allen HarperCollins

The way Clae’s mom tells it, her dad took off when Clae was a baby, end of story. Ever since, it’s just been the two of them, living in the coastal city of Gloucester, where Clae is one of the only few Black girls. But when Clae discovers clues about a mysterious person she calls her fairy god somebody, she’s determined to know more.

Her chance comes when she’s accepted into a summer journalism program in New York City, where her parents lived before she was born. With a couple of leads and a steel resolve, Clae leaves home for the first time to find out about her history.

New York is as full of magic as it is mystery, not to mention romance. From Brooklyn to Broadway, Clae and her new friends, Nze and Joelle, explore neighborhood haunts and hustles, discovering a family trail that someone’s tried hard to bury. So who is the fairy god somebody? And can Clae use her sleuthing skills to find out the truth?

Set against one unforgettable NYC summer, this is the story of lies that run deep and patterns that are meant to be broken. Clae, Nze, and Joelle will stick with you and remind you that every girl deserves to write her own story.

The Last One by Rachel Howzell Hall Entangled Publishing, LLC (Red Tower Books)

Thrown into a desolate land of sickness and unnatural beasts, Kai wakes in the woods with no idea who she is or how she got there. All she knows is that if she cannot reach the Sea of Devour, even this hellscape will get worse. But when she sees the village blacksmith fight invaders with unspeakable skill, she decides to accept his offer of help.

Too bad he’s as skilled at annoying her as he is at fighting.

As she searches for answers, Kai only finds more questions, especially regarding the blacksmith who can ignite her body like a flame, then douse it with ice in the next breath.

And no one is what—or who—they appear to be in the kingdom of Vinevridth, including the man whose secrets might be as deadly as the land itself.

When the Mapou Sings by Nadine Pinede Candlewick Press

Infused with magical realism, this story blends first love and political intrigue with a quest for justice and self-determination in 1930s Haiti.

Sixteen-year-old Lucille hopes to one day open a school alongside her best friend where girls just like them can learn what it means to be Haitian: to learn from the mountains and the forests around them, to carve, to sew, to draw, and to sing the songs of the Mapou, the sacred trees that dot the island nation. But when her friend vanishes without a trace, a dream—a gift from the Mapou—tells Lucille to go to her village’s section chief, the local face of law, order, and corruption, which puts her life and her family’s at risk.

Forced to flee her home, Lucille takes a servant post with a wealthy Haitian woman from society’s elite in Port-au-Prince. Despite a warning to avoid him, she falls in love with her employer’s son. But when their relationship is found out, she must leave again—this time banished to another city to work for a visiting American writer and academic conducting fieldwork in Haiti. While Lucille’s new employer studies vodou and works on the novel that will become Their Eyes Were Watching God, Lucille risks losing everything she cares about—and any chance of seeing her best friend again—as she fights to save their lives and secure her future in this novel in verse with the racing heart of a thriller.

December 17

Spell of the Sinister (A Fairy Godmother #2) by Danielle Paige Bloomsbury

Two magical sisters. One more chance at revenge. . . .

Ever since Cinderella disappeared with Prince Mather the queendoms have been in disarray. Now with her magical power completely unchecked, Galatea intends to exact revenge on humans for using the Entente. Her plan? Send Bari off to find a new prince and take over one queendom at a time. But Bari’s mission is complicated when South joins her and sparks begin to fly . . .

Meanwhile, Farrow is on her own journey to reunite with Cinderella and Prince Mather in the first Queendom. Amid brewing conflict, Farrow grapples with her feelings for Mather, her friendship with Cinderella, and her loyalty to the Entente’s original purpose–to influence with helpful magic, never take total control.

Once as close as sisters, Bari and Farrow now find themselves on opposing sides. Will malice win out, or will the next generation of Entente chart a new path to “happily ever after” for their magical coven of fairy godmothers?

December 24

Heavenly Tyrant (Iron Widow #2) by Xiran Jay Zhao Tundra Books

After suffering devastating loss and making drastic decisions, Zetian finds herself at the seat of power in Huaxia. But she has also learned that her world is not as it seems, and revelations about an enemy more daunting than Zetian imagined forces her to share power with a dangerous man she cannot simply depose. Despite having vastly different ideas about how they must deconstruct the corrupt and misogynist system that plagues their country, Zetian must join this man in a dance of truth and lies and perform their roles to perfection in order to take down their common enemy, who seeks to control them as puppets while dangling one of Zetian’s loved ones as a hostage.

With political unrest and perilous forces aiming to undermine Zetian at every turn, can she enact positive changes as a fair and just ruler? Or will she be forced to rely on fear and violence and succumb to her darker instincts in her quest for vengeance?

December 31

Ex Marks the Spot by Gloria Chao Viking Books for Young Readers

For Gemma’s whole life, it has always been her and her mom against the world. As far as she knew, all her grandparents—and thus her ties to Taiwanese culture—were dead. Until one day when a mysterious man shows up at her door with two shocking the news that her grandfather has just recently passed, and the first clue to a treasure hunt that Gemma hopes will lead to her inheritance.

There’s just one major to complete the hunt, she has to go to her grandfather’s home in Taiwan. And the only way she can get there is by asking her ex and biggest high-school rival, Xander, for help. But after swallowing her pride, Gemma finds herself halfway across the world, ready to unearth her life-changing prize. Soon Gemma discovers that the treasure hunt is about much more than money—it’s about finally learning about her family, her cultural roots, and maybe even finding true love.

Filled with ingenious puzzles, a vibrant Taipei setting, and a delicious romance, Ex Marks the Spot is an exciting adventure by award-winning writer Gloria Chao, perfect for fans of Loveboat Taipei, The Inheritance Games, and Thirteen Little Blue Envelopes.

[earhartsease]

animism ponderpost (this got bloody long):

we're in a situation we didn't expect to be in, and it's changed our view on something

so back in june this year we finally received our new, fully powered wheelchair Saoirse II (an active manual wheelchair with powered wheels fitted to her, different from a standard power chair, because our mutant tallness meant none of those under £15k would fit us)

and at the same time as we collected Saoirse II we took in our old wheelchair Saoirse I for a service, and to get one of her power-assisted wheels repaired (which had suddenly failed a week beforehand)

we said to other people at the time that Saoirse wasn't the wheelchair, she was somehow the consciousnness that resided in that chair, and when we changed over to Saoirse II we ceremonially transferred the seat cushion, saying with some tongue in our cheek that it was the seat of her consciousness, and that Saoirse II was Saoirse now

seven weeks later, our new wheelchair ran up hard against a piece of street paving that was raised 27mm above the rest, and one of the front caster arms buckled - we took her in to be looked at for repair, and it was determined that a whole new frame was needed (under warranty thank goodness, it absolutely shouldn't buckle like that), so we switched back to Saoirse I, using some loaner power assisted wheels while we waited for either our new chair to be fixed or our old power assisted wheels to be fixed, whichever happened first

thanks to brexit and some other bullshit involving parts having to be sent over from germany, it took four months for us to get our old power assisted wheels back and fitted to Saoirse I, so we got them back after having to use Saoirse I again for ten weeks with the loaner wheels (which were nowhere near as good as our own old ones and were more exhausting to use)

and thanks to the same nonsense involving germany, it took three months to get Saoirse II back with a new frame - we collected her yesterday

anyway (bloody hell preamble from hell) so let's get to the animism part at last

the thing is, since yesterday, for the first time we have two wheelchairs in our bedroom, sat side by side - although Saoirse I is folded down as much as she does, and with wheels off to take up as little space as possible, so she's sort of in sleep mode

and here we are sharing this room with both of them and it's suddenly clear to us that there isn't just one Saoirse who's transferred from the old to the new wheelchair - there are two distinct personalities sat side by side in our room, and we're aware of both of them as unique beings - and that's chastening (we were wrong about them), fascinating, and delightful all at once

an extra layer of interesting from a wheelchair of theseus point of view is: when we were using Saoirse I again but with the loaner wheels on, she was very much the same person? the fact that she was wearing different wheels was no different from us wearing different shoes - we were both really happy when she got her old wheels back on though - serviced and with new bearings all round, she runs so much more smoothly and without friction than we ever remember her before - but she was always just her, either way

this is a long ponder, sorry, but it's about emotional awareness and we wanted to write about the whole thing in case it helps anyone else out there make sense of experiences they might have (well you never know, but in any case it's helping us, articulating all this) - our plan before had been just to sell on Saoirse I as soon as we got Saoirse II (if that plan hadn't got scotched by one of the wheels failing)

and yet here we are with two wheelchairs together in our bedroom - and even before that happened, when we realised how long it was taking to get Saoirse II repaired, we'd decided to sell on the power assisted old wheels but to keep Saoirse I's frame, against the possibility of needing her if our new chair needed repair again, this seemed just practical

but now we're lying here with both of them, it feels a huge relief not to let Saoirse I go, because she's just as much a person as Saoirse II is (it ain't the cushion), and we've been through a lot In five years together, and we're so grateful and she's family and sort of big sister to Saoirse II, who's really only been with us for seven weeks as yet and we're still getting to know each other

we feel also that we shouldn't be calling them Saoirse I and II any more - we think maybe the new one is officially Saoirse Ní Saoirse (Ní in irish means "daughter of"), but we can call both of them Saoirse in informal settings unless we needs to specify (also they're different brands, so we can always refer to them by pedigree!)

that's it - if you've made it this far then we hope you at least found it interesting? it's very self indulgent and in some ways overthought, but we really are finding this experience fascinating emotionally - you can call yourself anything, and sometimes we wonder about our animism, but then we directly experience our animism in this way (it may help that we're also a system anyway) and having to re-examine our experience of the two Saoirses together is just, invigorating and in some way euphoric like when you're with friends and you suddenly realise they really are your friends

and yes, we too find this weird at the same time as it seeming perfectly normal

we'd love to hear from anyone out there who experiences things in similar ways, if you feel like talking about it?

okay stop now! *snort* - Hêtre out☀️🌿

[petermorwood]

This popped up on my YouTube the other day and not to brag, but...

Oh, why the hell not? It's a small brag, but satisfying. :->

I posted about refilling the Pilot Vpen (IRL-UK) / Varsity (US) - and adding how-to links - about 4 years and then again a year ago.

Here are the how-to links; I'm glad to see they're still active.

This one, like the video, calls for pliers and suggests removing the nib:

This one doesn't use pliers or separate the nib from the feed.

*****

Bragging aside, I'm pleased to see Brian Goulet of Goulet Pens giving this hack a higher profile (and Kudos for it, too - as a retailer it's more in his interest to sell them than refill them!)

His reason is very sound: those cheap little pens (usually about 3-to-4 local currency units whether €, $ or £) are ideal for FP-curious newbies or as no-loss-worries when travelling or no-damage-worries loaners.

They also have much better nibs than the price would suggest. Indeed that seems common to all the inexpensive Pilot pens I've tried, which includes every nib size of MR / Metropolitan.

In addition, IMO the notion of "disposable" fountain pens goes completely against the principal FP virtue, where once you've bought the pen, all you USE is the ink.

*****

I should mention, for completeness, that some "starter" fountain pens have prices not much more than these disposables and, refilled by "proper" ink cartridges / bottle-refill converters, don't involve anything like this trouble.

Just saying...

*****

It just so happens that one of my two Vpens was about due for a refill, so here are some pics of the process.

I scrubbed the markings off the barrels a long time ago so I could see what was inside, since refills mean the ink in the pen often has nothing to do with its colour-indicator cap.

First, disassembled and washed in changes of warm water until the water stays clear.

Here's the nib and feed: they've always come out of both Vpens as a single unit, with no need for pliers. Since the nibs show no desire to come off I've no desire to force the issue and maybe break something; those little ink-guide fins are delicate.

The filler is a small syringe begged from our local vet. I also use it to refill cartridges with custom ink colours (yup, I sometimes roll my own...)

Its "needle" is plastic tubing (an empty Pilot gel-pen cartridge, appropriately enough) which fits the syringe perfectly, and a pointy end made by stretching the tube over a candle-flame then snipping to length. If it gets too stained - this is nearly there - just chuck it in the recycle bin and make a new one.

The ink could have been any of the 30-odd I have at the minute, or something mixed specially, but I chose this one - a nice dark green - for the same reason @dduane had me buy it.

It's a very cute bottle... :->

*****

And here's the "disposable" pen refilled, reassembled and re-writing.

It really does have a better nib than you'd expect from a supposedly single-use pen...

*****

It sometimes takes a while for the ink to work its way by capillary action down from barrel to nib, especially if everything has been left to dry after washing. Put the cap on the pen and be patient.

Or speed things up by taking the cap off and running a thin stream of hot water over the barrel for 30 seconds or so. This increases internal pressure, forcing the ink along the section fins.

NB, this step is only for a refilled Vpen / Varsity. Don't try it with anything else, and in case it's not obvious, do this at a washbasin or sink, because You Never Know.

Now use a bit of kitchen paper or loo roll to blot the water which has got on the nib. This has a mild "suction" effect, and when you see ink on the paper (you might need to wet the nib again) your refilled pen is ready for use.

This wet-and-blot nib step can be used to encourage any stubborn fountain pen to get back in action, but the hot water trick, once again, is Vpen only.

Anyway, done.

[kerryweaverlesbian]

do a director's commentary on an overcrowded empty room [gun emoji]

Also known as The sampreg abortion fic! Obviously this commentary will be talking about abortion, pregnancy horror and unwanted pregancy just as the fic does, so, just a little warning.

I'll start with the title! It's "an overcrowded empty room" in Sam's head because he has so many guys in there (his soul, soulless!sam, cage memories sam who is locked away, meg in the past, and potentially the foetus eventually, if it's anything like Jack) but he's got those missing memories, hence, empty. Plus, it signifies Meg's (and the pregnancy's) oversize presence in the physical space of the room they are in. Okay, now into the fic:

The room is cold. Freezing, even. Sam’s breath is misting even without the ghost being present. He rubs his sleeve over the misted window and peers out, catching the double flash of Dean’s light from the opposite building and sending his own signal back. Some time over the next two hours the restless spirit of Providence Carter is going to manifest in one of these buildings and try to reach down one of their throats to stop one of their hearts with her brittle, icy fingers. Revenge for being locked out in the snow 200 years ago, or at least that’s the theory.

Turning from the window, Sam surveys the small room. Thin plaster walls painted with a faded pale sun over the door frame. Exposed wood floor with visible splinters striking up from the planks. One table, one chair, one well-made bed, and one demon-turned-situational-ally. No places to hide.

This is going to sound like I'm lying but this opening was genuinely the hardest thing to write lmao. I kept changing my mind about the setting, even after discussing with @autisticandroids when to place it in the season (thank you for that, by the way!!). I was stuck between a stake-out and them getting locked in adjacent cells during the episode Unforgiven. Here's some excerpts from that original beginning:

Sam watched the sheriff walk away from his cell and clenched his jaw. How was he supposed to make up for whatever his body did here when he's locked up? Hell, how is he supposed to make up for it when he doesn't know what he did? He cuffs the bars lightly to let off some frustration. It doesn't help. It just makes his knuckles cold. "Aw, keep pawing at them, kitty cat, I'm sure you'll get through eventually."

... "Meg?" When he turned, he saw the demon stretch against the bars of the cell next to his, showing off her stolen body and giving a teasing wiggle of her fingers. "What the hell are you doing here? "Oh, you know, living my life, running from Crowley. Hiding out in the last place he'd look for any self-respecting demon. I'd feel better with my knife back, by the way. Thought we'd worked out that it was a loaner." "Your knife - Ruby's knife?" Sam's mind raced. He must have seen Meg some time when his soul was missing. He doesn't know what happened, but he does know when to call a bluff: "I think we worked out that it's mine."

I was getting too much in the weeds of the facts of the episode, and I knew it would hold me back if I couldn't have them touch other than through the bars, and it didn't really make sense for Meg to hide out from Crowley's remaining loyal demons in a prison cell.

Through talking it through with my bff, I settled on doing the old "this ghost is going through something similar to their conflict". As Meg verbalises later, Sam is worried about being upstaged by a baby if he tells Dean about the pregnancy as well as being "locked out" of the decision on whether or not he is allowed his memories (which suggests he would similarly be locked out of a decision on keeping the baby).

“I’m thinking of making an offer,” Meg says, leaning her elbow on the table and airily gesturing around the room, “It’s really got that home-y feel.”

Sam rolls his eyes without replying and leans back against the window, keeping an eye on the street. He doesn’t want to miss it if Providence tries for someone else, if they’re wrong about her range of power.

While part of this fic is exploring how Meg and Sam are similar, Meg and Dean are also very similar, so Sam is very good at brushing off her attempts at being annoying, lol

“Thank you, you’ve been a great audience,” Meg quips. “You know Sam, when you want someone to do you a favour, it’s polite to talk back to them.”

“You’re not doing me a favour, you’re here for the knife. Which you’ll never get if you let me die.”

As you can see, I retained Meg's motivation of wanting to get the knife from the alternative setting, so it wasn't a complete waste of time!

“Pity. Say, why do you think Dean took the angel? Do you think he was jealous? He was in a pretty big hurry to get him out of my sight.”

“Sure, Meg, all of our decisions revolve around you.”

Sam actually isn’t sure why Dean was in such a rush to claim Cas in their ‘split-up-and-look-for-clues’ meeting, but he has his suspicions. Dean’s been twitchy lately, getting Sam to repeat plans back to him multiple times, warning him not to ‘get carried away’, whatever that meant. Whatever the other Sam had done, it’d made Dean lose trust in both of them. Which isn’t fair, but when has life ever been fair?

Neither of them are completely right about Dean's decision here: Dean DOES want to stop Cas and Meg being alone together (because of the kiss. If they kiss again he'd want to be present for it lol); but his actual motivation is that Cas has been acting weird lately and even though Dean is doing his best to trust him, he is taking the opportunity to ask Cas if he's okay, without the risk of scratching Sam's wall by bringing up memories of the times they've seen Cas recently; but also, he doesn't fully trust Sam still, so 🤷‍♂️. Absolutely none of this is in-text this is just what I was thinking with these lines lol. Sam is being so insular right now that he couldn't figure out an explanation that isn't centered on him.

He wishes Dean would just tell him everything that happened, but he’s always hit by Dean’s fear of “The Wall”. Don’t scratch it, Death had said, but how can he not? He wakes from hazy dreams with his hands strangling the air, his aim is sharper and he’s started getting nauseous at the sight of blood, but fine, sure, he’s not allowed to know. There’s a kicking under his stomach sometimes, and a tiny whimpering cry in his ears in the early mornings, but he’s not allowed to know.

“So, what are you going to do with it?”

This is the first line I thought of when I first saw the prompt :3 I knew immediately it should be Sam and Meg talking through his options. Meg actually didn't seem to know Sam was missing a soul in Caged Heat, just that he was acting weird, so I had a cut line of her getting her information from higher sources, aka Balthazaar. I just think they'd be a fun pair.

Sam’s gaze snaps to Meg, and she nods casually at where his hand had come up to his stomach. He slices it away quickly, having not even realised he’d moved it.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, but the words catch on the way out, unconvincing. Meg’s flat look is both unimpressed and amused.

Sam in canon isn't often scared while talking to demons, he is very good at putting up a brave face. Here, though, he's a raw edge after Hell and it's the first time he's talking about this to anyone.

“Uh huh. How far along are you? Five weeks? Six? When do you think it’s going to start growing fingernails?”

I hope everyone read the mpreg tag before getting this far because this would be baffling to just stumble into lmao.

The blood starts rushing in Sam’s ears, and he swallows hard against the burst of saliva in his mouth. He stares hard at a whorl on the floor, trying to count the rings, trying to block out Meg’s mocking confirmation of what he’s been afraid of ever since he came back to his body.

“I think it might try to scratch its way through your guts, if it gets big enough. Like a DIY C-section, only the surgeon’s an idiot. Do you think you’d choke on your own blood first, or would you feel it busting out, for every excruciating second?”

“Shut up. Shut up. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Pregnancy horrorrrrr! Do you think this is something Meg has experienced in Hell. Morbid thought.

Meg laughs, rough, and it’s like a chainsaw through the neck, like an industrial sander forced into your face, like- like nothing.

Nothing.

He can’t remember what he’d just been thinking about. This has been happening to him since he got back. The blank flashes. He knows that a memory of the Cage is there, that the memory is happening to him, but not the content of it. It’s different from memories of the other him. It’s like memories of being soulless are hidden in a folder somewhere in his mind, but the memories of the cage are being manually deleted every time they pop up.

Where does memory live, he wonders, in the body or in the soul? Are those his memories, or are they someone else’s? Can he really call himself the real Sam if he’s missing the last year of his life, on Earth as it was in Hell?

Now we're getting into it!!! Thesis questions of the fic! Who IS Sam in season 7? My interpretation is actually that ensoulled!sam isn't fully "the real sam" either, since he needs to re-intergrate Soulless and Cage Memories Sam in a later episode. If Soulles Sam is all Id, then Ensoulled Sam is unchecked Superego, which is why he is consumed with worry about what is true and what is moral and what is socially acceptable which prevents him from being able to take the necessary survival action of abortion without being given an ethical "out" by Meg.

I don't think that interpretation fully checks out with how ensoulled sam acts for his part of the season but that's what I've done for this fic!

“Guess it doesn’t matter,” Meg muses, cutting into Sam’s rising panic, “it’s not going to get that far.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know what you’re going to do. You’re going to get rid of it.”

This was the second half of the first line I thought of for the fic. Meg knows that Sam is going to get rid of it. A demon should be used to voice what people don't want to know about themselves, and Sam right now does not want to accept that he'd already made a decision that could be considered selfish when he is trying to prove himself moral. Abortion is not selfish, of course, but it can be perceived as such by others, and frankly likely would be by Dean. Dean is not anti-choice in general but he is pro-Dean's-choice-of-what-happens-to-their-family. I think if Dean did find out about the pregnancy and that it'd kill Sam he would be team abortion but he'd view it as a "necessary evil" of "killing a baby". He'd be saying things like "how many chances are we gonna have to be fathers" and "you were marked by the devil and you still turned out alright" in an ironic reversal of how he felt about Jack.

She scratches a fingernail over the surface of the table, a thin, rude sound in the silence that follows her pronouncement. Sam listens to it, though he doesn’t want to.

"Why do you- why do you think that?” He hates that he stumbles halfway through. If his dad was here he’d - well. If his dad was here he’d have a whole host of other problems.

This was a small flashback in an early draft:

Sam flinches. He doesn't mean to. It was the first thing Dad had trained out of him, banging surfaces at random and firing his gun by Sam's face and barking Sam to attention when he was engrossed in his studying. "Don't give it away," Dad had always said, "Only thing you've got against these things is your gun and your wits, and half the time you aint got your gun. Don't give them a free look inside your head. You have to stay in control." Control. Sure. Like that's not a pipe dream built on a pipe dream. He hugs further into the window.

But I already have interruptions of Hell memories, and I wanted to keep the fic within this room otherwise. If Sam could 'escape' to his other memories, and we had voices other than Meg and Sam's in the main fic, it would feel less like he's trapped in here and being forced to confront uncomfortable truthes.

“Hm. Could be I’m psychic,” Meg bounces her eyebrows playfully, “That was a fun year, right? You ever miss it? Being star of the show?”

(I actually disagree with the idea that Sam was "the main character" at the start of the show. There are two main characters and they have always shared screentime and balanced their -centric episodes)

“Meg, if you know something, I swear to god I’ll-”

“You’ll what? I can smoke out of this body before you can even blink, baby-boy, and then you’ll be choked out by the undead Puritan all by your lonesome, so, please, tell me what you think you’re going to do to me. And make sure to say it real slow for me, handsome, I think it could really get my motor running.”

Sam squeezes his hands into fists, then lets them drop. There’s no point rising to these little mind games. He looks out of the window again, watching a snowflake dissolve against the pane. A hot poker sizzling against flayed flesh. Nothing. Nothing. He sighs, and turns back towards Meg.

I made the room they're in cold as a counterpoint to Hell and the feotus which are increasingly very hot.

“What’s it like?”

“Honey, if you don’t know what getting turned on feels like, I’m sure we can-”

“Not that,” Sam cuts her off quickly, from years of experience with Dean’s stupid jokes, “Smoking out. Diving into someone else’s body. How do you know what’s you and what’s them? How do you keep track?”

“Aw, are you feeling all shook up? Poor baby. Well - I guess you won’t be the baby much longer, after you start showing.”

“Too scared to give me a real answer, huh?”

Haha, get her Sammy!

That gets her, her hand clawing on the table and her shoulders tensing. Sam’s not going to pretend it isn’t satisfying to see her on the back foot. Meg might raise her chin and sit back in her chair, but her eyes flick over black, which always happens when demons are feeling threatened.

Demons in my fics only try to look demon-y when they're feeling insecure 😈 and it's always cute to me! Very tsundere. Sam learned this demon factoid from observing Ruby, despite her treachery. I have a lot of thoughts about the day-to-day of samruby which will eventually come up in my megrubyava fic if I ever get these middle chapters done!

“Fine. Since you asked so nicely. I don’t bother with all that shit.” Sam’s brow furrows, and Meg laughs at him again, meanly. “Not what you wanted to hear, huh? Well it’s the truth. Every jump I’m a new Meg. You’ve seen me: I’m a gas. I fill my containers. If there’s something in there that gets mixed in, then it gets mixed in. I take them with me. Ms Masters gave me her name. This one gave me her sparkling personality.”

This concept is from Meg saying, in born under a bad sign, that she IS Sam now while she was possessing him. Classic episode for possession enjoyers, so much barely covered on the subject of personhood.

Meg winks, and runs her tongue over her bottom lip, to which Sam rolls his eyes again. How do demons not get bored of the sexual harassment routine?

Lampshading her sexual harassment and having Sam not feel any fear from it is key to making his interactions with her not intensely horrible. I use the same technique in A Light Above Descending: to make Dean's violence against Sam not appear as Factual Domestic Violence I had Sam not act afraid of him and laugh when Dean suggests he would be. Meg needs to do and say awful things, but I need this fic not to be derailed into a different story.

“And me?”

“Dull as a pile of rocks, but what can you do?”

“No, what did you find in me, when you possessed me? What makes me?”

Sam expects other people to have a better read on him and his actions than he does himself. He knows, as shown later, that he is good at convincing himself he is doing the right thing and then it has dire consequences (as with the demon blood) as a result of being made constantly guilty and wrong, shown in the Amy Pond episode flashbacks of being harassed on the phone by John to research faster or people will die and it's on you if they do. At first he copes with this by rebelling and leaving, but by now he has taken hunting as the right thing to do even as his conscience struggles with it. Dean appears to instinctively "know" right from wrong and who to trust and Sam feels that he needs him as a moral guide.

Meg shakes her head. “I’m disappointed in you, Sam. Thought you were supposed to be a good listener. Let’s say it again for the people at the back: I don’t know. I don’t care what’s me and what isn’t. I’m never going to know, so why waste my time worrying about it?”

“So, what, you don’t try to figure it out because you’re too lazy?”

“Pretty much,” Meg stretches her arms out and slouches artfully, “I’m kind of a free spirit.”

Sam folds his arms. "That's bullshit."

“Is it?” The sarcasm is acerbic. “I’d love to know how you got to that one.”

“Because it is! I’ve seen how you think, Meg. I might not remember myself very well right now, but I remember you. Possession is a two-way street, you know? Where did my compassion go, if we got so linked? Where was my love for my family? You put it on lock-down. Because you were afraid. You were afraid of being more than a body, you were afraid of caring about anything other than yourself, and I think you still are. What are you even doing here, Meg? Bargaining for a knife so you can kill more of your own kind? Are you going to keep hiding for the rest of your miserable little life? You might tell yourself otherwise to make yourself feel better, but I know, deep down, you’re a coward.”

Meg being confronted with her fear of connection as a lead in to getting closer to Cas in s7 🥳 everything is about herrrr. It may be a bit clunky for Sam to say outright that she's more than a body but whatever sometimes you gotta just say it. As per Caged Heat, Meg is thoroughly objectified and locked into her body, a deeply horny episode about fluids and sex and what it means to be "blood".

There would have been silence after this outburst, if not for the fact that Sam is panting from the force of it. Then, the sound of Meg’s chair scraping back across the floor. The plastic-y swish of her faux-leather jacket as she stalks across the room, then the click of Sam’s jawbone when she grips his face painfully one hand and pulls his face down to glare at him directly in the eye. An invisible demonic weight keeps his feet heavy on the floor and his hands to the wall, but he glares back with feeling.

Meg has a plastic faux leather jacket because she is wrapping herself in the façade of unaffectedness, she is not inviting any other flesh onto hers because she IS a little scared of what it means for her personhood to swap bodies. This is why she hangs onto them until they are broken beyond repair. Other demons like Ruby, Lilith, the one on the plane, hop around unless they have reason to stay but Meg literally came back to the 2.0 body after it had been stabbed through the hand with the demon blade. Crowley, I think, hangs on to his body because he's transgender and he likes the feeling of it, he has a body that, as a man, commands respect and is not expected to be objectified in ways that Meg's young women and Sam bodies don't.

“You know what’s worse than being a coward, Sam?” An unseen force pressing suddenly on his throat keeps him from responding. “Being a dead coward. Being so weighed down with feelings that you can’t move. That you can’t breathe. That you can’t go through with what you have to do to survive. You want to know how I know you’re going to get rid of it?”

Meg digs at Sam’s stomach with harsh fingers, and a thrashing starts up under his skin, the needy cry whining its way into his hearing. He shuts his eyes for a moment, but he can’t dispel it.

“I know, because that’s what you have to do. Even if it doesn’t kill you on exit, it’s going to take your spot, right? What’s Dean going to care about coddling you if there’s a baby on the scene? He’s already avoiding you. Poor little Sammy is going to be left out in the cold again.”

Dean loves babies sorry Sam. It's that tough point of being the babiest sibling (like me :3). You want to be respected and impressive and independent...but also it's nice to be the babiest one...it's nice to be looked after and being able to go 🥺 to people who love you and have them be nice to you. It's a selfish, childish point of view, but it can still surface.

Struggling against Meg’s hold is pointless, but Sam does it anyway. The force on his throat presses harder, and floating spots start to flash in his vision. Meg’s expression changes to a dark glee, and she digs towards the kicking again.

“How about I do you a real favour, huh? How about I reach in there and drag the thing out by the hair right now? One time offer, devil baby gone. Before it starts stealing from you too. How much more space do you even have in that head of yours? Maybe it'll cook your brain out before it even manages to kill you. And when there's no one there to snack on it, shame really.”

Head smashed open against a cold wall, steaming ropes of brain hanging down, trailing into the mouth of. Nothing. Of the devil. Nothing. Hands pressing onto his stomach. Into his stomach. Nothing. Nothing.

Lucifer just put the baby in there because frankly I didn't want to write a graphic rape scene. The violation is what matters more than the mechanics.

“Please,” Sam gasps as soon as she releases his throat, his voice rasping and painful, “Please, Meg.”

He could say he was trying to ask her to let him go. To save the baby, and his life. She lied to him. She tricked him. He had to do it. It was the only way out. He had always been good at justifying himself, after the fact.

Not to get personal but this is born of my own worries that in disagreements with friends I am just better at articulating an argument and less likely to apologise to end an argument rather than actually being right with what I'm saying and a fair friend. Maybe my justifications to myself for inaction on certain things are excuses. I don't know. It's a quandary.

Meg's hand plunges, burning hot, through his stomach and grips something close to his soul. She pulls slowly, and it feels like watching his own arm being ripped off, but he bites back his scream, not wanting to give her the satisfaction. A sickly, dim light comes out with her hand, and it dissipates in under a second, with a single, pathetic whimper. Meg flexes her hand, which is now covered in small needle-point pricks of blood.

Sam is gooooood at pain tolerance and keeping a straight face which I loooove. It's a bit of wish fulfilment that a (soul) pregancy can be so easily terminated without further physical detriment. The feotus is kind of an idea: the fear of looking too closely at his memories, and once it is pulled out into the light and examined, while it hurts at the time it is ultimately dissolved. Sam needs to confront what he's been through, he needs to re-unite with his other, hidden selves.

“Hungry little bastard,” Meg comments, dropping her hold on Sam and letting him crumple to the ground.

A little nod to demon blood sam, I did have a vague idea initially of Meg donating some of her blood so that Sam could use his psychic powers to abort it himself but it seemed kinda convoluted so I did Sam psychically does that in the accompanying poem instead

There's a cold emptiness inside him, but as he keeps breathing, it lessens. Filling my container, he thinks, woozily, tightening his arms around himself.

“Thanks,” he chokes out, to which Meg tuts and rolls her eyes.

“I hope you don't think I did that for you. I just didn't want the Antichrist 2.0 running around. It's hard enough dealing with normal demons out for my guts.”

Justifying herself. Avoiding an uncomfortable truth. Caring, despite herself. Sam laughs, and then he can't stop laughing, even as Meg asks him what his goddamn problem is.

“That's what you got from me,” is all he can say, until the hysterical relief takes him back to laughter, all the way until Cas and Dean show up, having fought off Providence while Meg and Sam, in Dean's words, had a nice little playdate.

Sam can have a little giggle!! As a treat!!!! He has recognised the self through the other, he is on the right track to actualization! Yippee!

“What's ticklin’ you, Elmo?” Dean demands, as Sam's laugh bubbles to a close.

“Don't worry about it,” Sam says, flashing a grin to Meg, who frowns in disgust, “just remembered something funny.”

Hehehe. Here I will talk about how I arrived at the direction of the fic:

Seeing the prompt of sam coming out of the cage pregnant + it being acceptable to end in any direction, I thought about how Sam making the CHOICE to end the pregnancy in a season where his capacity is questioned would be healing for him. Some other non meg ideas for who he could speak to about this were Gadreel (for some delicious dramatic irony) or Balthazaar (as their only non-Cas angel contact who has access to heavenly weapons) as Soulless!Sam. But I felt that a) the meat of the fic should be how Sam feels about this, and Soulless!Sam wouldn't be concerned b) it's weird to do a fic about prgnancy horror without a woman character even present and c) I love Meg and one of the other prompts was about sammeg as dark mirrors of each other.

Pregnancy brings up a lot of thoughts and fears about personhood. Your brain chemistry changes, your body changes, people treat you as a living incubator and put their hands on you without permission, and when you are percieved as a mother you are again treated as an extention of your children, even outside the perilous role of Mother in Supernatural. Having fairly recently read NIGHTBITCH, the idea of the monsterous pregnancy/motherhood was fresh in my mind.

Especially given the (horrific) Jack mind control angle of season 12, if this pregnancy doesn't kill Sam, it might kill Sam, if this antichrist has the same power level.

Do I have any other thoughts on this one.......it was easier than I was anticipating to write Sam now that I feel I understand him better. Shout out to season 11 for making me into a samgirl :) and I deliberately reigned in my Meggirlism to try and portray her as more of a villain but still ride the line of Spike-style frenemy. I think that's it! Thank you for the commentary request ☺️

[dreamwatch]

Four Chords And A Dream

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest

Day #2 - Prompt: In The Beginning | Word Count: 999 | Rating: T | CW: Language | POV: Eddie | Tags: Good Uncle Wayne, Eddie's other guitar origin story | AO3

****

The audition does not go well.

Firstly, and most importantly, who the fuck do these dweeby band kids think they are? They’re babies who think they’re special because they can play the violin and the cello and oh, they read music? Well la-de-fucking-da.

Secondly, so what if he only has an acoustic guitar? He can play! He was better than their guitarist, stuck-up little shit.

Thirdly, he’s so pissed off with Shawn. They were starting a band together, and now he’s joining these two assholes? It’s not his fault he doesn’t have an electric guitar, excuse him for not having any money.

He storms into the trailer, slamming the door behind him, which makes him flinch because he knows any second he’s going to hear—

“What have I told you about that door?”

And like, whatever. He’s sick of living in this stupid trailer, sick of not having any money, sick of being looked at like he’s shit just because his dad is— just because of his dad. So his uncle can stick it up his ass as far as he’s concerned.

He throws his bag into the corner of the room and throws himself onto his bed. Homework can wait. If he does it at all.

Uncle Wayne knocks on his door, something he will never get used to. Dad never knocked. Eddie tells him to come in, though his head is stuffed under a pillow. Maybe he won’t hear him and he’ll go away.

“Take it the audition didn’t go well then,” Wayne says, pointing out the fucking obvious. 

He starts to speak, still under the pillow, but Wayne pulls it off his head. He’s so annoying sometimes.

“They didn’t like me. Looked at me like I was shit. And Shawn’s a fucking traitor.”

He feels the clap on the back of his head. “Language!”

“Well, it’s true.” He picks at his nails. He doesn’t know how to say the next bit without making Wayne feel bad. Because even though he’s annoying sometimes, he’s a good uncle and he gives him everything he can. 

“They said I couldn’t play if I didn’t have an electric guitar. They’re stuck-up snobs.”

Wayne’s silence says everything. And then there’s that big hand on the back of his head again, softly this time, and against his better judgement, because this won’t last and one day he might have to go back to his dad, he leans into it. He can feel the sting in his eyes and bites down hard on his lip. He doesn’t want Wayne to notice.

“Well, sounds like you’re better off without ‘em.” Wayne stands, knees popping and back cracking. He’s not old, not really, but sometimes he looks it. Wayne works long hours, longer since Eddie came to stay. He feels guilty, but one day he’ll make it up to him.

****

School is shit, as usual. He comes home, drops his bag in his room, as usual. And then he notices the guitar on his bed. 

An electric guitar.

“It’s a loaner,” Wayne says walking up behind him. “Gary from work. He ain’t using it, says it needs new strings but it works. Like I said, a loaner, but he ain’t in a hurry for it back. No amp though, they got one at school?”

It takes a second to find his voice. “Yeah,” is all he manages. 

“Alright then.” Wayne claps him on the shoulder and leaves him alone with an actual, real life, godamn electric guitar in his room.

Wayne is the best.

****

He can see the surprised looks on their faces when he turns up with a new guitar. 

Jeff, the other guitar player, looks him up and down. “Can you play Love Gun?” 

“In my sleep.”

 “Fine,” Jeff huffs at him, and then he turns away to get plugged in. The snotty bass player just sneers at him. Honestly, he doesn’t even want to be in a band with these pricks anymore, he just wants to show them what they’re missing out on.

It’s spotty, to start with. He and Shawn are used to playing together, and Shawn isn’t used to playing with a bassist so the timing is going in and out. But they level off and it actually sounds good. Really good. And then, because he’s a cocky shit, he plays the solo. It’s actually not even that hard, but it sounds impressive, and if the way the other two are looking at each other is anything to go by, they thought so too.

They play Paranoid next, and they’re even better this time, totally locked in. He kind of wanted to do his thing, flip ’em the bird and tell them to stick their kiddy band where the sun don’t shine. But now he’s excited. Now he really wants this. 

When they’re done, a little sweaty, (Eddie’s throat sore because he has to show off that his voice is pretty much broken now) the two dweebs take themselves off into a corner. “We need to discuss,” says Jeff. 

“What’s to discuss?” he complains to Shawn. “I was fucking amazing.”

“Jesus, calm down, Tony Iommi.” 

Eddie flips him off. He’s still pissed about him being a traitor, even if it did work out.

The other two look nervous as shit when they come back, cutting each other furtive glances.

“Uh, so, we’d really like you to join the band,” says Jeff. “You know, if you want to.” 

Eddie starts packing up the old guitar, tucking it back into it’s case. It’s not his, after all. “Uh, I don’t know. Not sure it’s my thing, afterall.”

“What?!”

He turns round, grin slapped on his face. “Kidding. I would be honoured to grace your band with my exceptional talents.”

****

Uncle Wayne is gone when he gets home, but there’s a note on the counter top for him.

Ed,

Worked something out with Gary. Guitars yours. Hope it went well. Dinner staying warm in the oven, EAT IT!

Love, 

Wayne

[bomberqueen17]

WWII museum

So, New Orleans-ing proceeds apace. Tried to go to the Southern Food museum, the website said it was open, the door said it was closed. This was a rather crushing blow as I'd walked about as far as I could walk to get there, and then had to turn around and come back. Don't think I'll be able to try again.

My sciatic nerve has had it with me, and I'm able to get around during the days but it's just hurting so badly at night I sleep in five-minute increments, then have to wake and roll over, and if I'm lucky I can fall back asleep before it hurts too much for me to sleep through it, and if I'm unlucky I lie there until i can't stand it and get up and stretch and try a new position. So that's not great. Stretching stops it from hurting while I am actively stretching, but does not particularly help if i assume literally any other position. No, I cannot sleep in the stretching position. I've tried. I can't even sit in that position, so it's not a very useful method of relief.

Ibuprofen doesn't touch it and neither does Aleve. Those are the only options I have with me, so.

Anyway. I'm getting around fine but really not getting a lot of rest.

Last night we went to a show at Preservation Hall, and they charge literally double for your ticket if you want to sit on the hard wooden benches, and I weighed the odds and the bench was likely to give me sciatica anyway, so I stood and saved myself $25, but it was agony and I paid the price. So today we went to the National WWII Museum, and I asked at the admission desk if they had loaner wheelchairs, and they do.

I have learned that nobody cares why you're in the wheelchair. They have many, you are not snatching it away from someone who needs it more.

It is its own punishment, however. The pathways are marked at the stairs; if you go find the elevator, you then have to wander around trying to find where you're meant to go next. People don't get out of your way and you spend a lot of time staring at the asses of people who don't care that you're there and can't get through and can't see anything. One woman, we asked politely if we could get through, and she made no attempt to move, so we squeezed by, and clipped her foot with our wheel, and she got very angry with us. There was no one close to her, she easily could have shifted her foot, she could both see and hear us. We could not have gone any other route, she just didn't think we had a right to pass.

And some sections of the museum have artfully-designed floors that are rough, with chunks of fake-broken concrete. These are really punishing to try and roll over, and are wildly uncomfortable to bounce along over. Especially in a crowd of people. I understand the aesthetic choice but with the number of visitors with mobility impairments for whom that provides a tripping hazard, I super super wonder what the fuck they were thinking. I saw several elderly folks with rollators and I don't know how they got through those rooms. It was several of them.

One whole section, we could not get to unless we went back through the crowded exhibit to the halfway point to find the elevator again.

As far as the content.... I studied that era extensively in my youth, Dad was obsessed with military history and had a lot of books in the house, and I read several of them cover to cover and back and forwards. One in particular-- my sixth grade social studies teacher was obsessed with the Pacific war in specific, and during the year I was there, he was engaged in hand-painting a huge mural of the Pacific battles on a map on the classroom wall. I was allowed to help stencil on some of the letters. So I found that I knew most of the general conduct of that war, and the book I had obsessed over in specific was a compilation of primary sources, news articles, contemporary firsthand accounts, of many of the major actions of that war. I was astonished at how much I remembered. I also had read a very detailed account of D-Day, similarly, so I was able to rattle off an overview of the thing to Dude while we were staring at a line of people's asses who wouldn't let us through.

As we went through the Pacific wing, in the background there was this weird repeating bit of ambient music that I actually recognized as Brian Eno's An Ending (Ascent), and I was like fuck, I bet I know what that is, and I was horrifyingly correct: that's the room where there's a huge wall-sized enlargement of the devastation at ground zero of Nagasaki, a couple of little things along one wall explaining what happened, and nothing else, it's just this big huge space and the music.

I guess it's tasteful, I guess going into more detail wouldn't help, I guess that's not the place for it; leaving it a big bleak horror serves the purpose and tone. The museum was generally pretty good-- very, very American-centric, but acknowledging various issues of racism and misconduct and propaganda and such in sort of minimal but very present ways. There were repeated mentions of the segregated US armed forces, repeated discussions of what the Black soldiers still managed to achieve, and it especially hit because the group that was the most polite and considerate of my wheelchair was a school group of almost entirely Black high school kids from, clearly, a local-ish school, who were impeccably-behaved despite being kids and horsing around and such-- I timidly said "excuse me" to one and she leapt out of my way and tapped her friend's shoulder, who instantly stopped horsing around and said "oh excuse me!" and also got out of my way and told her friend and the children just all melted out of my path and reformed after me, unbothered, resuming their horseplay, poking at the interactive exhibits, paying surprisingly good attention and also roasting one another, as young teens do. And I thought, as I went on to read about Executive Order 8802, of these kids reading that placard, looking at that exhibit, thinking about what has changed and what, horribly, has not.

(Link is to the museum's website. There are a lot of resources there. There was meant to be a cool feature where you follow a specific veteran's story, but i was assigned Bob Hope and don't care about him so I didn't use that feature. Dude got Robert Capa, though, and I immediately was like "i know all about him" and from across the room was like "that photo on that wall is from your dude" and he was like "what" LOL. I know photographers ok.)

We lasted about five hours. We did not see as much of the museum as I would have on foot. But I also know even just the line to get in would have utterly destroyed me on foot. So we made it through to V-E day and then to V-J day and I sat in that room with the Brian Eno loop and was like You know what, I'm good. I'm good. I can't do any more.

So we went and got frozen margaritas at a fast food joint down the street and now I am recuperating. My sciatic nerve is not great, it won't let me nap either, but I will be able to walk and get dinner, which I wouldn't be if I'd done that museum on foot.

I highly recommend, even if you're mostly in good shape, if you have trouble making it through a museum and get footsore, just borrow a wheelchair, and then switch who's pushing halfway thru the museum. If it's that or cut the visit short.... We did not switch pushers, but Dude found a great deal of relief by leaning on the back of it, and I was able to carry the water bottles without much trouble.

Most museums don't have decoratively-uneven concrete floors.

I did realize, despite my obsessive reading on the topic as a kid, while I know the names of most of the German high command, i could not tell you the names of really any of the Japanese officers of similar rank. I recognized a few, from the placards, but generally I don't have the same level of knowledge there. On the one hand, I feel i should read more Japanese history of the war. On the other hand.... I think my days of being able to absorb that sort of thing might be over. Fourteen-year-old me would have loved this museum and read every placard, and would have been on foot to do it. Forty-whatever I am year old me was interested but horrified, even though I generally knew most of it already. But hearing about the estimated 100,000 Filipino civilians massacred in Manila during the battle for that city meant one thing when I was 14, and now means... well, rather a lot more, I have more context and I can really understand, now, what that means. It wasn't that i didn't understand as a kid. But I had no context.

Well, we'll see if I manage to scrape together enough brainpower to look into it any further. At any rate, the museum is worth a visit but is A Lot. Very American-Centric, but not as Patriotic as I was worrying. Not as obsessed with Big Machine Phallic Symbol as I was worried, either; it's not that there's none of that but it's largely in the context of discussing how US industrial capacity rapidly switched over to manufacturing war materiel. (Frank admissions in several cases that our stuff was inferior quality/design to both German and Japanese items, but was infinitely more numerous and in several cases it was simply that intelligent users worked out ways to use the items' defects to advantage, or to minimize their disadvantages anyway.)

And the website, linked to above, is pretty informative, with a wealth of images and citations. So there's that.

IDK, I have no like overarching message here, the bit of my sciatic nerve just inside my knee is fucking killing me and i can't think clearly about anything else for a bit, so. There's that, lol.

[hermesserpent-stuff]

bird half of remy's siren form!!

heres a summary of splish splash au:

lots of ideas jointly created with @honey-minded-hivemind

splish splash au

Remy is a siren: this means he can transition between being half bird and half human to being half fish and half human. His colors would be loosely based on those of a cardinal both for his feathers and his scales.

Sirens can sing to lure in prey of all sorts but powers can be overcome by strong will of beeswax in the ears. They don't tend to live together only gathering in larger groups for migration and those times are like huge parties where everyone checks on each other. Since they tend to be at the top of the water to go in and out of forms, they follow the warmer weather and get super sleepy when hit with very cold weather. 

This is Remys second year living and hunting alone. His brother Henri checks in on him a lot but does not live with him. Remy is really good at opening clams and chests and anything that is locked. He also can blow things up because I think him having his mutant powers is funny. He's also an empathy but doesn't 

Right before migration time he gets into a scuffle with a selki who bites through his tail fin. It'll heal but it makes it too hard to travel south for the winter. So he ends up staying in a rock crevice and doing his best.

Creed is a deep water mer and as the season shifts to colder he expands his hunter grounds to shallower water 

Deepwater mers tend to live in packs with families sleeping in piles. Creed doesn't have a pack/pod, especially after a blow-up fight with Logan 20 years ago. He still will occasionally fight with his brother (another deep sea mer) 

Creed goes for a hunt and finds a tiny pup(Remy) trying to hunt. The pup fights him and actually manages a few really good hits!! Creed is in love and when he pins the pup he decides this is now his child, and he will be caring for it thanks. 

Remy is sleepy tired and hungry and doesn't expect to wake up again after getting knocked out by Creed's fight which had turned into a playfight for Creed. He is shocked when Creed brings him fish and shark meat and he is hesitant to eat it. Creed forces him to eat the first few times and nips at his tail when he tries to leave. Remy soon attaches his empathy to him and they have a sort of link that lets them feel each other's emotions. Remy doesnt realize it and thinks hes just getting better at reading creed. 

Remy has something like that with Henri but with thousands of miles between them it's very very faint and neither really notice it, thinking the emotions are their own.

Creed teaches Remy how to hunt and doesnt realize that remy is a siren and thus more naturally a loaner. Creed doesnt even know remy can fly. Remy doesnt really go to the surface to do so till later (maybe) 

Durning this time Henri realizes that his baby brother did not migrate and goes on a one man odyssey to get back to the now freezing cold waters to track down his brother. There is monsters, humans, and trials and tribulations.,

He arrives and creed adopts him to for the lols. 

Then remy goes out to find a patch of sunlight to sleep in and a sudden visicious storm scoops up his silly butt Aaannndd he is dropped in logans territory. Remy is sleepy and afraid. Logan takes him in and drops him in the pile of pups he had taken in. 

This will lead to a massive fight with creed logan and henri.

Also addition:

Eventually creed and logan join podsish with their mishmash of mer/siren/selkie and other species. They get a small island that is hard to sail too with a lovely cove and a cave system that stretches beneath the island. 

Charles and mangus are harpies and mistake remy’s bird form for a harpy that is just a weird species that they had not met before. Charles has a base of robin colors and mangus is some sort of falcon base

Life is interesting. 

[mybrainismelted]

ok, so this is my first publish gallavich fic - please go easy on me! A.U.gust Day 9 - College @gallavichthings

Ian is pretty sure he's never been this nervous in his life. The first day of College shouldn't be THAT big of a deal, right? But he's got butterflies he can't shake, and he thinks he might sweat right through his shirt before his first class is done.

"Breathe" he reminds himself as he searches for just the right seat - not too close to the front, not in the middle, and not too far back so he can't hear. Choosing a seat is serious business to the redhead.

Finally finding his perfect spot, he gets settled in and pulls out a notebook and pen. Finally taking some time to look around he feels his heart sink at the realization that everyone else seems to have fancy new laptops out and open. Shit.

"Ok, if I can have everyone's attention please?" he hears from the front of the room. "My name is Professor Micheals, but you can call me Brian. This is Mickey, my assistant. He will be available to answer any questions you may have."

Looking at where Brian is pointing, Ian feels his heart stop and then start racing at the sight of one of the most gorgeous men he has ever seen. Inky black hair, one eyebrow arched perfectly, and just a hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth as he waves to the assembled class.

As the class moves on, Ian struggles to stay focused on scribbling notes as fast as he can, while his eyes keep wandering to see what Mickey is doing. Usually sitting and apparently paying attention to what Brian is saying, but occasionally Ian has to quickly avert his gaze when Mickey turns to scan over the students.

When the class finally ends, he scrambles to get out of the room, not wanting to risk giving himself away and causing problems for himself on the first day of class. This continues for the next few weeks, Ian unable to keep his eyes off Mickey in class, and spending his nights scolding himself for his ridiculous schoolboy crush. Unfortunately, there comes a day when Ian realizes he is going to have to talk to the man - they have a paper due, and he's pretty sure it has to be emailed. He's just not sure how to make that happen given his lack of access to any kind of computer.

After the next class he takes a deep breath, steels himself, and approaches the ever-so-delicious looking object of his nightly fantasies.

"Ummm, hi Mickey?" he mutters, not 100% sure he actually said it out loud. Mickey turns around and quirks that perfect eyebrow. "Yeah, hey Red, what can I do for you?"

Ian explains his dilemma, and that he needs some help figuring out how to get his assignment in on time. "Ok, yeah, I had that problem my first year too." Mickey explains "There's a laptop loan program through the library, but you have to sign up pretty early. Let's walk over there now and I'll show you how it all works, see if there is one available."

"Uh, yeah, ummm… sure" Is all Ian is able to stumble out as the shorter man packs up his stuff and turns to lead the way out of the room.

Mickey does his best to engage Ian in some small talk as they walk, obviously sensing that he is uncomfortable about something. As they talk, they are both surprised to realize that they are both from the South Side of Chicago - and probably knew a lot of the same people growing up. "Sure explains the no laptop thing" Mickey says as they approach the doors to the library "Not many from our neighbourhood can afford that kinda stuff when they first get here"

Unfortunately for Ian, as Mickey had suspected, there are no loaner laptops available for the next 2 weeks, which means Ian definitely can't get one in time to turn his paper in this Friday. "shit, shit, shit" he mutters, wracking his brain to see if there is a way he can scrape together the money to buy a used junker from someone and hope it works.

Mickey looks at him for a minute, scratching his eyebrow with his thumb, and finally blurts out "look, I don't normally do this, but if you wanna come by my place on Friday you can use my laptop to type it up and send it."

"Yeah?" Ian whispers, completely overwhelmed by the offer. "are you sure? I can bring beer and pizza, I'll find a way to pay you back for this, I promise!" At that, he thinks he sees a flicker of something in Mickey's eyes, right before he winks and replies "Oh I'm sure you'll think of something, man"

Ian feels himself flushing, and can't help but think as he takes down Mickey's address and phone number that maybe, just maybe, College isn't so scary after all.

[greatwesternway]

So this has been on my mind. But Thomas's origin in the books. Is it true? that he just one day came the sodor During a time of war? If so, then does he even remember life before sodor? Or does he just propress the memories?

I'll be honest in that I don't really devote much thought to Thomas. He's kinda got that AMC Series Syndrome to me, where he's arguably the main character and therefore the most developed and so the least interesting.

But the yakety sax nature of the more notable Sodor acquisition stories seems to passively support the narrative of Thomas' arrival on the island. I think it was less that Thomas, of his own accord, wandered onto Sodor but was loaned (along with his crew as it goes in RWS) to help build the railway. When the time came to return him to his actual owners, though... well, lots of things get lost in war. An entire engine seems like a lot to mislay, but it honestly sounds like it could have been a clerical error. The mainland is removing lost materiel from its inventory accounting, Thomas gets mistakenly stricken from roster (either because his status as a loaner was vague or maybe they confused him with another engine who was lost in the war (à la Don Draper, to bring us back around on the AMC metaphor). Then when Sir Topham Hatt tried to arrange his return, they shrugged their shoulders and said they never met the guy. But he's a perfectly Useful engine and if he's nowhere to return to, he may as well stay here.

One does not look a gift engine in the mouth (because it's hot in there).

[theyareweird]

Frankie Stein's Home Ick by Ms. Kindergrubber Survival Guide

Flyleaf

Frankie's comment (blue pen):

Hey everybody! If you haven't taken this class yet, I'm going to give you everything you need to know to survive Home Ick with Ms. Kindergrubber. If you follow my advice, you'll never fall apart in class.

Class Overview

Home Ick introduces students to an amazing world of practical skills and concepts that will continue to haunt them for the rest of their unlives. This class will cover but is not limited to the following subjects:

Basic potions, concoctions and mixtures

Proper use and care of cauldrons and ovens

Practical stitching and sewing techniques —Fave!

Issues and careers in Home Ick and the mad food sciences

Monster biology and food choices

Many monsters that haven't taken Home Ick believe that it is an easy class. That could not be further from the truth! Ms. Kindergrubber loves, loves, loves this subject, and she'll expect you to love it as much as she does. If you think you can just drive-through and order up an "A," you'll be in trouble, and that's why I'm here to help.

Lecture

The instructor will explain the techniques necessary to completing the student's weekly assignments.

Basically Ms. K. shows us how to do something and we're expected to do it the same way… the exact same way.

Tests

Both written and practical exams will be used as a measuring tool to assess a student's comprehension of the presented information.

Ms. K. likes to use her recipes as tests to make sure you take good notes when she gives out the recipe during lecture cause she makes you taste test everything! Spectra added too much frog hair to a recipe we were being tested on and it made her smell like burnt popcorn wrapped in spoiled cabbage.

Yuck.

Supplies

Notebook and pen

Apron —If you don't bring your own apron Ms. K. has box of loaners and they are totally nasty.

Hairnet —(There is no way to look fashionable in a hair net… I'm sorry it just cannot be done.)

Fireproof oven mitts

Thimble

Other Things You Need To Know

–On the day you make dragon butter, make sure you don't eat before you come to class. Just trust me on this.

–Prepare for broken nails, head-to-toe soot, and a week of lectures on oven safety. Oh, and don't ever ask Ms. K. to check if your oven is hot enough. Totally freaks her out for some reason.

–If you think this is just a class for the ghouls, you'd be dead wrong. Deuce was in my class, and he was a total rock star when it came to the cooking part of the class. His recipes were the only ones that Ms. K. would actually try herself. She made the rest of us try them out on each other. Deuce tried to say he just got lucky, but I don't believe it. Besides that, there are usually four times as many ghouls as guys… just saying.

–You'll get to spend a week in the creepateria helping to prepare and serve food. It's a shockingly difficult job, especially when you think about having to come up with meals that appeal to as many different monsters as possible. That's the reason all the choices are either gravy brown or slightly gray. They have a little bit of everything thrown in them, so there'll be at least one taste that's familiar to every monster. On the last day you work in the creepateria, the lurch ladies make their specialties just for the class, and they can really cook! Plus after having to ladle a mile in their hairnets makes you a lot less likely to complain about the food in the creepateria.

–Do not use Draculaura as an example of a monster that doesn't eat what they're "supposed" to. It makes Ms. K. cranky, and I think she keeps a dirty cauldron set aside just for monsters that bring this up.

–Every monster has to do a class project for the Home Ick open cottage. That's when parents and other students get to come in and check out all our mad skills. You won't be shocked to know that I chose a sewing project. I even know some knots that Ms. K. doesn't, and I got extra credit for demonstrating them to the class. You probably don't want to choose the life-size gingerbread house as your project, though, because, for some reason, Ms. K. is really, really picky about how it needs to be done.

Hope this info charges you up for the class.

Love, Frankie

Sewing 101

Dress pattern

Back Front

1. Cut out 2 in any fabric of your choice. Lay flat sew 3/8" in from edge up back seam inside out.

2. Cut out 1 in any fabric of your choice. Sew onto back piece 3/8" from edge inside out. Turn right inside out. Add snap.

Faculty

Ms. Kindergrubber began her career in the Home Ick sciences when it was just a cottage industry. Eventually though, so many students found themselves on the path to her sweet little place in the country that she found herself pushed into teaching. She has authored several cookbooks and her Black Forest cake is simply to die for. —YUMMM!!!!

You should know that Ms. K. does not see very well but she hears everything and her nose is better than Clawdeen's on a full moon.

[thefisherqueen]

I fell a bit behind on Letters from Watson, time to read Shoscombe old place today! :)

Sherlock Holmes had been bending for a long time over a low-power microscope. Now he straightened himself up and looked round at me in triumph. 'Holmes is not human' confirmed, but only in the sense that it is inhuman to be bend over for a long time without developing extreme back pain

“Is it one of your cases?” “No; my friend, Merivale, of the Yard, asked me to look into the case. I don't know if it just my terrible memory for names, but Merivale does not sound familiar. Which is a bit odd, a 'friend' of Holmes we don't yet know. Also strange that Watson is referring to this case as 'your case'. As a result, this case feels rather old? Like it happened long ago, when Holmes and Watson were much less intimate

Actually, more things point in that direction. Like Watson receiving a wound persion

Norberton nearly came within your province once.” “How was that?” “It was when he horsewhipped Sam Brewer, the well-known Curzon Street money-lender, on Newmarket Heath. He nearly killed the man.” “Ah, he sounds interesting! Deranged reaction from Holmes here. I love it. Also, being almost beat to death with a horsewhip sounds extremely painful. Definitely a sadist at work here. Probably only got away with this torturous attack because the dude's rich

And here, I expect, is the man who can tell us.” The door had opened and the page had shown in a tall, clean-shaven man with the firm, austere expression which is only seen upon those who have to control horses or boys. Very amused by the implication that boys behave just like horses. Also slightly bewildered by the sudden appearance of a page. Whom makes up the domestic staff of this household? We've seen occasional references to a page, maid and cook, but they pop up so irregulary that it seems like mrs. Hudson employs them to only almost immediately sack them

He bowed with cold self-possession Watson what does that mean??

“First of all, Mr. Holmes, I think that my employer, Sir Robert, has gone mad.” Holmes raised his eyebrows. “This is Baker Street, not Harley Street,” said he. From wikipedia: "Since the 19th century, the number of doctors, hospitals, and medical organisations in and around Harley Street has greatly increased. Records show that there were around 20 doctors in 1860, 80 by 1900, and almost 200 by 1914."

He thinks of nothing but the horse and the race. His whole life is on it. He's holding off the Jews till then. If the Prince fails him he is done. Always charming, jewish people being referred one to one as money loaners. I guess that makes the Robert's attack on Sam Brewer antisemitistic in nature

And she takes it to heart. She is brooding and sulky and drinking, Mr. Holmes—drinking like a fish. A large part of why I love reading older books and books not written in my native language. Expressions are sometimes so suprising and delightful - drinking like a fish is so vivid

It's all changed, Mr. Holmes, and there is something damned rotten about it. But then, again, what is master doing down at the old church crypt at night? And who is the man that meets him there?” Holmes rubbed his hands. “Go on, Mr. Mason. You get more and more interesting.” Excited autistic hand rubbing time again! :)

So, in summary, so far we've got a man who's violent, mistreats his sister, creeps around at night on some secret business, is severely in debt and utterly reliant on one outcome of a gamble to solve his financial problems. Sounds like a good cocktail for a major interferrence plot to secure the gambling outcome. Torture, murder and abduction not excluded from the possiblities

It was on that second night. Sir Robert turned and passed us—me and Stephens, quaking in the bushes like two bunny-rabbits, for there was a bit of moon that night. This makes such a good image

“There is her maid, Carrie Evans. She has been with her this five years.” “And is, no doubt, devoted?” Mr. Mason shuffled uncomfortably. “She's devoted enough,” he answered at last. “But I won't say to whom.” “Ah!” said Holmes. “I can't tell tales out of school.” I will forever be amazed by the amount of vagueness one can employ and yet for it still be understood as saying 'my master is fucking the maid'. Such creativity

We can't fit that into our plot.” “No, sir, and there is something more that I can't fit in. Why should Sir Robert want to dig up a dead body?” Holmes sat up abruptly. Way to drop a plot twist, my man

“What is the name of that inn you spoke of?” “The Green Dragon.” “Is there good fishing in that part of Berkshire?” The honest trainer showed very clearly upon his face that he was convinced that yet another lunatic had come into his harassed life. Lol. That poor man. I'm getting my hopes up for another cozy inn scene, it feels like a while ago we were treated to some good, intimate Holmes/Watson room sharing

Thus it was that on a bright May evening Holmes and I found ourselves alone in a first-class carriage So I read this fic on AO3 where Holmes and Watson also were alone in a first class carriage and they - ok, nevermind, my AO3 history is between me and my browser only

“Let us consider our data. The brother no longer visits the beloved invalid sister. He gives away her favourite dog. Her dog, Watson! Does that suggest nothing to you?” “Nothing but the brother's spite.” “Well, it might be so. Or—well, there is an alternative. Hm, let me do a poor attempt at considering the data. My best guess is that the brother - sir Robert - wants the dog out of the way for something. What do dogs do? They dig things up and like bones, which might be inconvient if you're digging up dead bodies? They bark when strangers enter the grounds at night? Considering that a stranger did enter the grounds, it might be just that Robert was concerned about the dog raising alarm on that

“But the crypt?” “Ah, yes, the crypt! Let us suppose, Watson—it is merely a scandalous supposition, a hypothesis put forward for argument's sake—that Sir Robert has done away with his sister.” Ok that does make more sense as to why the dog had to go! Of course, a dog would not be fooled by an impersonator. Nor would a horse

My dear Holmes :) :) :)

So the stranger who Mr. Mason saw was the one who's now impersonating the sister, I gather. Gods, the 'man in dress for means of evil deception' trope is old

“How far is this crypt from the house?” asked Holmes.“A good quarter of a mile.” “Then I think we can disregard him altogether.” “I can't afford to do that, Mr. Holmes. The moment he arrives he will want to see me to get the last news of Shoscombe Prince.” “I see! In that case we must work without you, Mr. Mason. You can show us the crypt and then leave us.” Always love Watson and Holmes sneaking around at night

“But why in the world would anyone want to burn the bones of a man who has been dead a thousand years?” asked John Mason. “That is what we are here to find out,” said Holmes. “It may mean a long search, and we need not detain you. I fancy that we shall get our solution before morning.” Are they actually going to open up coffins? That is some gothic shit and I'm here for it

Then, as Holmes returned no answer, he took a couple of steps forward and raised a heavy stick which he carried. “Do you hear me?” he cried. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” His cudgel quivered in the air. But instead of shrinking Holmes advanced to meet him. “I also have a question to ask you, Sir Robert,” he said in his sternest tone. “Who is this? And what is it doing here?” First: oops. Second: Holmes, for your own and Watson's sake, please avoid becoming the next corpse in that crypt

“How came you to know of this?” he cried. And then, with some return of his truculent manner: “What business is it of yours?” “My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said my companion. “Possibly it is familiar to you. In any case, my business is that of every other good citizen—to uphold the law. It seems to me that you have much to answer for.” Holmes' confrontations just are the best. Imagine being this large man with a fearsome reputation, pulling a weapon upon a stranger you find in your own crypt at night, and he just calmly confronts you with what filth he has dug about you. Scary levels of confidence there. I would be taken aback too

“‘Fore God, Mr. Holmes, it's all right,” said he. “Appearances are against me, I'll admit, but I could act no otherwise.” Wondering what excuse this violent villain will come up with

“Well, Sir Robert,” said Holmes, rising, “this matter must, of course, be referred to the police. It was my duty to bring the facts to light, and there I must leave it. Glad that Holmes will not hush up this case. That man may not have murdered his sister, but everything else he did was still out of all bounds, and only done for purely selfish reasons

It is generally known now that this singular episode ended upon a happier note than Sir Robert's actions deserved. (...) Both police and coroner took a lenient view of the transaction, and beyond a mild censure for the delay in registering the lady's decease, the lucky owner got away scatheless from this strange incident in a career which has now outlived its shadows and promises to end in an honoured old age. A rather dissapointing ending to this story, in my opinion. I guess that 'debts should not bring about personal ruin' is a rad point, just as 'don't believe all scandalous gossip', but all the rest just reads like the result of class privilege. Looking for actual work instead of just gambling to gain his own income was of course not even considered. His near deadly attack on Sam Brewer was not adressed, nor are his violent ways. Possibly Doyle considered this a realistic outcome in his time? I love, however, that both Holmes and Watson still made their contempt for this man clear

[theradicalscrivener]

I am a really big fan of how you write shrinking stories (specifically when it comes to cock shrinking, but I also like when it involves the entire body).

And I was thinking about Wash from Canis Drainem.

The thing is, I cannot stop thinking about two possible scenarios.

1) Wash stopped shrinking when he was the exact same size as his cock was when he was full size. I think there is something very hot about being the same size as your cock, but even more so when you were proud about how big it was. And it's now your height. You can be a human cock, in a way, if you wanted to. It's a very hot idea to me, at least. And I wonder if you have ever written something like that? Or if Wash would have enjoyed his existence as a cock sized man.

2) Instead of shrinking and shrinking, Wash stops at what is small, but not out of the ordinary for humans. That is, he goes from 7 feet tall to something like 4'11. Undoubtedly small, but he would still be able to be independent. It also effectively changes the dynamics Wash has with the world, as he is shorter than most adults. And it would be interesting to me how his life would have been like if he stopped shrinking at that height.

I know it's a long ask to answer. And I contemplated asking two different asks, but since both are derived from the same story... I thought it was best to include both scenarios here.

But you are free to just write what you think about one of them, or none. No pressure.

Anyway. Thank you. And have a nice day. Hopefully your new ears have been working properly and comfortably.

Those are both very fun ideas, but they'd be fundamentally different stories.

That would have put Wash at about the 10 inch range. Which would have put him a bit bigger than Harvey's cock. Would have been interesting to see him having a bit of pride at being bigger than Harvey's cock despite being less than a foot tall. I feel like I'd have to have done something in the past in that size range because it's so much fun. I know that Devon is very close to his old cock size. (He was 8" hung and now he's a smidge over 7" tall). It's a fun scenario. Especially if the tiny guy is a bit cocky and or dominant in such a way that he likes to like manhandle the cocks that are nearly as large as he is. In wash's scenario, he'd probably really get into being that size. The biggest issues would be that he would be so large that he's easily visible and would not be easy to keep his new size a secret. So the main story would probably focus around them trying to decide if they wanted to try and keep his existence a secret or if Wash wanted to go public with being a ten inch stud. I remember there was a scene in that story when Wash got to be about the same size as Harvey's cock where Harvey pinned him to the floor beneath his dick and was basically grinding his cock against the guy. This was about the part where Wash really started to realize that he was enjoying being tiny so him getting stuck at that size would probably be a lot of him going back and forth since he's enjoying being small but doesn't want to admit it, and also, he's still large enough that he can almost interact with his old life if he chose to. Like, he can't play ball anymore, but he could try to reach out to his old teammates, but that most likely wouldn't go well for him.

There's a lot of fun to be had at that size as well, but it would be a very different story. It would more be like the shrinking was the prologue, and him learning to adjust to being kid-sized would be the major plot arc. Like, he couldn't wear any of his old clothes, and when he has to shop for more, he has to get like some loaners at first. He's used to being massive, and so having to borrow clothes from a little guy that he used to bully only to realize that these clothes are far too huge for him to wear, and then when he does find clothes that fit him, he realizes he has to shop in the kid's section. It's just a series of blows to his ego. Then he tries to go about his life. He's still beefy, but he's almost half his old height. He's like eye-level with his bro's belly buttons. Imagine him getting to the locker room and getting ready to gear up for practice, but all his former subordinates are now looming over him and teasing him like he had once teased them. Although... Wash is so hung, proportionally, that his cock would still be well over 6 inches. I'd imagine he'd still have some ammo he could use with that.

And yeah, the ears are working well for the most part. I've been slowly working out the bugs. Although, I have some kinda flu this week (not the rona fortunately) so my ear's are like sore and itchy and inflamed, so the little implants hurt a lot. orz