#appreciate the fabric fold cell shading

[dadaintcub]

Haven’t posted in a while

[jubesy]

Ahh, the make me matchablossom fic was so good! Kind of love stories that play to the challenging nature of their relationship. It’s kind of similar, but I’d love to see you do 47.”Go on, I dare you” for them too. Thank you!!

Thank you so much, anon!! I’m sorry it took me a bit to get to your request (I had a few Matcha Blossom ideas that popped into my head and demanded to be written first) But, after watching episode 9.5, I know exactly what I want to write for this one~ I hope you like it!

Matcha Blossom #47 “Go on, I dare you.”

Also available on Ao3.

Link to my master list of Matcha Blossom drabbles

Joe fell to his knees in shock as the two girls he’d been chatting with walked away. All because Miya had somehow convinced them that he was his dad. No, that wasn’t it. Plenty of girls would fall for a young, single father. They’d walked away because Miya had told them something else.

The middle schooler in question had already grabbed Reki, Langa, and Shadow and taken refuge in the ocean waves before Joe had a chance to scold him. Smart kid. The mastermind, on the other hand, was still relaxing in the shade of his umbrella. And Joe was about to retaliate.

“You put him up to it, didn’t you?” Joe said as he towered over Cherry’s languid form.

Slowly, golden eyes blinked open, Cherry’s gaze lazily meeting Joe’s. “What are you going on about?” Cherry squinted up at him before slipping his eyes closed once more.

“Miya,” Joe clarified. “You told him to do that.” 

Cherry let out an annoyed little huff before looking up at Joe again. “Told him to do what?”

Oh, so that’s how it was going to be. Cherry was going to play dumb. “Bet you thought that was real cute, huh?” Joe sneered at him, arms folded over his chest. “What’s the matter, Kaoru?” He tilted his chin up. “Jealous?” 

Cherry furrowed his brow. “What nonsense are you spouting?” he asked and then reached for his glasses from the table beside his beach chair. Once they were on, he regarded Joe. “If you’re going to interrupt my nap, the least you could do is try to make sense.” He smirked. “Or has being out in direct sunlight for too long fried what remained of your brain cells?” 

Joe gaped at him. That pompous… First, he interrupted what was turning out to be a very pleasant conversation with those girls and now he was going to pretend like it hadn’t happened?

“What’s wrong?” Cherry asked, picking up his drink and taking a sip. “Was I right about the sun?” He chuckled.

Joe snapped out of it. “Listen, we could go back and forth all day--”

“I doubt it.” 

“Or you could just go ahead, save us all a little time, and admit that you were jealous?” Joe finished.

“Jealous?” Cherry raised his eyebrows. He looked around. “Jealous of what?” 

“Of those--!” Joe growled and ran a hand down his face. “Didn’t you send Miya over to scare off those girls because you were jealous?” 

Now, Joe had known Cherry for a long time. And he was pretty damn good at reading him, after all these years. But even with as much as they teased each other, Cherry would not keep it up for this long without gloating about his successful prank. So, Joe was beginning to think that Miya had acted alone with his little Mama and Papa routine.

However, it was too late. He’d already let Cherry know about it. And now he was going to tease Joe for a completely different reason. “Miya scared them off?” Cherry questioned, taking another sip of his drink before setting it back down. “What did he do?” 

Joe found himself suddenly very interested in the way the waves crashed against the sand. “You know, the water is perfect. You’re wasting our beach day sitting over here,” he pointed out.

“Changing the subject,” Cherry noted. “It must have been really embarrassing, then.” Joe turned back just in time to see Cherry grin wide. “What? Did he pull off your swim trunks and that was what sent them packing?” 

Joe narrowed his eyes. “He did not,” he answered. “And if he had, why would that send anyone ‘packing’?” he quoted.

“Aside from the whole indecent exposure issue,” Cherry began. “I’m sure the girls would be a bit...disappointed.” He smirked again and reached for his drink, but Joe caught Cherry’s arm, getting into his personal space.

“You’ve never been disappointed,” he said, voice low. He eased his grip to brush his thumb along the smooth skin of Cherry’s inner wrist. “You gonna deny it?” he asked, speaking directly into Cherry’s ear. “Go on, I dare you.”

Even in the shade of the umbrella, the blush that tinted Cherry’s cheeks was completely obvious. To Joe, at least. “You need to cool your head,” Cherry hissed at him before trying to pull his arm free.

Joe thought about that for a moment. Then he gave Cherry a wicked grin of his own. “You’re right, Kaoru,” he agreed and, before giving the other enough time to react, he hauled Cherry up and over his shoulder. “I think you should join me,” he said.

“Kojiro!” Cherry screeched, kicking his legs and waving his free arm. “Put me down this instant!”

Joe laughed. “Oh, I’m about to,” he sang, bringing them closer to the water. 

“If you drop me, I swear--” 

“Don’t worry, we’ll get deep enough so you won’t hit the sand,” Joe went on and then unceremoniously tossed a screaming Cherry into the ocean. It was beautiful, really.

Half a second later, Cherry reared back, his hair soaked and hanging in his face and his yukata clinging to his body like a second skin. If he wasn’t sputtering sea water and giving Joe the deadliest, most murderous glare he’d ever received, Joe might have taken a moment to appreciate the way the wet fabric accentuated every curve. 

But, as it was, Cherry was already on his feet and splashing his way back onto the shore. “I’m going to kill you,” he snarled.

And it was then that Joe realized he probably should have come up with what he planned to do after throwing Cherry into the water. Well, it had sort of been a heat of the moment thing, anyway. 

“Kids!” he called over his shoulder as he took off, relying on his speed to save him. “Let’s head to the hotel!”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Painted Windows 15

Warnings: dubcon/noncon sexual acts, ora, intercourse; violence; trauma; allusions to abuse and noncon, isolation, and torture; blood.

This is dark!Bucky and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You realise that everything had changed, yet it’s all the same.

Note: Just hope you guys like it. Don’t have much to say. I appreciate your support.

Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

Masterlist

You didn’t sleep. How could you? Your leg was throbbing and sticky with your own dried blood. Your neck ached from the leather which held you in place and your arms were twisted behind you painfully. You were trapped and when you closed your eyes, you were back in that cell. The one before.

The day passed outside the window. You watched the sun decline and the sky darken. There was no moon that night, you could tell. No silver slat peeking in, no pale light to chase away the shadows. Just you and the night.

You didn’t know how late he came. It might not have been very late at all but the seconds seem to drip by slowly. His shadow appeared in the door as the locked beeped. Broad, sinister. He left the lights off as he neared. You tried to roll away but you only choked yourself.

He came around the far side of the bed where you teetered on the edge and shifted you over. He sat and touched the belt. He tugged it and you coughed. You couldn’t see his eyes but you knew they were still dilated, still hungry. You could tell by his touch.

His fingers danced along the top of your dress and hooked beneath your collar. You yelped as he tore through the fabric with a yank. He wrenched your body as he shredded it. You gasp as it revealed your rosy bra and panties. His hand cupped your breast through the padding and he squeezed. He slipped further down along your stomach and bent to inhale the scent of your hair.

“Why did you do it?” He snarled. “Why did you lie?”

“I was… scared,” You croaked as your eyes watered. “Please, Bucky--”

“Don’t call me that,” He hissed. “I am not Bucky.” He pinched the tender flesh along your hip. “Not when you’re bad.”

“I didn’t mean to… Please, I’m good. Bu--” You stopped yourself as he clenched your panties. You trembled and watched his fingers through the shadows.

“I will show you how to be good,” He ripped the panties down your thighs, grazing the cuts painfully as he stood and pulled them past your ankles.

He came back around and snapped your bra open with another jostle. He could break you just as easily. You knew that. You pushed your legs together and winced. The tortured cuts reverberated in agony. He paced around the bed and he lifted his shirt over his head. It rustled to the floor. You shivered.

Then he worked at his fly and bent to push his jeans down. He took his time in undressing and all the while you felt his gaze. Felt his anger and more. A different sort of heat.

He climbed up and grabbed your ankles. You could see his erection bobbing before him as he pushed between your legs. As he bent them up until your knees were at your chest. So that you were bare to him, trapped by your restraints and the torn dress.

He bent and you wriggled. He kissed the cuts along your thigh. The flesh had opened again and he licked up a warm trickle of blood. He hummed at the taste and his hot breath continued along your thigh. His hands slipped to your knees as he held your legs up. His tongue flicked over your folds and you squeaked.

“What are--”

“Shut up,” He raised his head. “No more talking. A good girl takes her punishment. Silently.”

You whined and he pulled a hand back to slap where he had cut you. You clamped your lips together to keep from squeezed and he grabbed your leg again. You dropped your head down and he buried his between your legs. You gasped as he slid his tongue along your cunt.

He closed his lips around your clit and sucked. The pressure bubbled there and he swirled his tongue in turn. Your fear boiled with unwanted lust. You couldn’t help the delight which bloomed in your core. You mewled and his grip tightened again. A warning.

You measured your breaths and swallowed back the moans. He lapped hungrily and the ends of his hair tickled your thighs and pelvis. Your fingers knotted around your other hand and the belt tightened at your neck. You quivered uncontrollably as your orgasm began to build and he pushed your legs even higher. Your back ached but the pain was dulled by the rising ecstasy.

Then he stopped. He sat up and watched you squirm as he kept you bent in half. He smiled, you could feel it, his features hazy in the dark. His cock rubbed against your cunt and he wiggled his hips. He teased you and you let out a shaky whimper. He waited until you were were wriggling desperately and moved closer.

He curled your back so your ass was in the air and your knees were almost beside your head. Your weight was entirely on your shoulder as the leather choked you. He got to his feet and stood over you. He bent his knees as he lined himself up with your entrance. Your eyes rounded and you pulled against your binds helplessly.

“Bucky,” You pleaded. The room dissolved and you were in the dank cell. That smelly hell. He dipped inside you and you cried out.

“Good, good,” He hissed. “I want you to scream now.” He snarled. “Scream!”

You cried out as he pushed himself to his limit. As he stretched your walls around his thick cock. You gritted through your teeth. That fullness, that hopelessness, it was the same as before and yet it wasn’t. He rammed into you, hard, and you yelped. It hurt. A pleasant pain but pain nonetheless.

He was relentless. He didn’t wait for you to adjust. No one ever did and you never could. It never got easier. You let out another shout as he slammed into you again, again, again. He didn’t stop and you didn’t tell him to. That had never worked.

He leaned more of his weight over you, his hands beside your head as he held himself over you. Each thrust was harder than the last, hungrier. He leaned down and kissed your lips, ending with a harsh nibble of your lip. He kept it between his teeth as he pounded into you and bit until you tasted blood.

His metal hand gripped the belt and the buckle pressed into the skin of your neck as he pulled it tight. You couldn’t breathe. The bed shook under you and his flesh loudly slapped against yours. Your voice punctured the even rhythm of his desecration, more and more of his weight sunk into you with each thrust.

Your head spun and your vision speckled.

“I can’t--” You gasped as his growls rumbled through you. “Can’t--”

Your eyes rolled back as your chest burned. You wheezed and the spots grew bigger, until they met and painted your entire vision. You were unconscious before you realised what was happening. Falling into an endless void. A bottomless pit where you felt nothing. Where, for once, you weren’t afraid.

Your throat was brittle, as if you’d swallowed glass. Your chest was heavy, a snake constricted you, slowly easing its hold. The room was a dull shade of gray as your eyes slowly opened. Dried tears salty on your cheeks, spittle along your lips, blood too. 

The leather was gone from your neck and your arms were free but heavy. Your muscles were tight and achy. You felt a coolness on your thigh, the rough cloth flaked away the blood. Another made the flesh sting and the smell of alcohol reached your nostrils. You glanced down, your head on the pillow, the rest of you naked and prone.

Bucky pulled back and reached beside him. He opened a bandage and applied it to your thigh to cover the cuts. He smoothed it down and you flinched. He looked up and his eyes met yours. There was no expression there, only recognition.

He didn’t say anything. He dipped the cloth into the basin on the night table and wiped around the bandage and then your cunt. He cleaned away the resin of his trespass and then traded it for a new cloth. He sidled up the mattress and wiped your face, he mopped away the icky feeling of dry sweat along your neck and chest.

You grabbed his hand and stopped him. You wrestled the cloth away and used his arm to pull yourself up. He watched you but his face remained placid. You knew that apathy. You feared it more than anger.

“How do you want it?” You asked as you dropped the cloth on the table. “Should I turn around? Bend over? They always preferred my mouth.”

He looked down at last. Your lip trembled.

“You’re just like them and I was stupid enough to think you weren’t.” You uttered. “I see it. You don’t even feel bad.”

Still, nothing.

“Why didn’t you just kill me?” You asked. 

He pushed his shoulders back and tilted his head. His jaw squared.

“Because you’re mine,” He stood and gathered up the basin. “I found you. I saved you. I clothed you. I fed you. I…” His voice was startling, the mutters of a thunderstorm before it turns the sky black. “I love you. They never loved you, Dora.” He lifted the basin and turned to you. “Because they don’t know what it’s like to be like us.”

“No, you don’t. You can’t love.”

“Sugar--”

“No.” You stood. “There is no difference. You, Bucky, the soldier; you’re the same.”

“No, no, no,” He shook his head. “No, we’re not.”

“You are. And I’m not Dora.” You said. “I’m just that animal they kept in that cage.”

“No!” He tossed the basin and the water splashed across your legs as the glass smashed. “No! Dora!” He grabbed your shoulders. “I am not the soldier!”

“Then why can’t you stop him?” You huffed. “Why did you let him do that?”

He was quiet again. His eyes searched you.

“Because it wasn’t him,” You said. “Because it was you.”

He swallowed. His nostrils flared and he shook his head. He back away as he grabbed his head and marched around the room. The muscles of his back tensed and his arms bulged as he repeated it over and over. “No, no, no.”

You weren’t afraid. You were numb. You looked at the window. The early morning dim. It would rain soon. The storm was coming.

“On your knees,” His voice was quiet.

You glanced at him and your lips fell open. He held your gazed and pushed the elastic of his briefs down. He was hard. His eyes were dark but you realised they had never been very bright. He stepped forward and you shakily got down to your knees, one leg at a time.

He stepped out of his underwear and stopped in front of you. Your eyes roved down the thick muscles of his torso, the sheer power corded in flesh. He grabbed his cock and pressed the tip along your lips.

“You want me to be like them,” He squeezed your chin with his other hand. “Then I will be.”

You opened your mouth as his grip threatened to crack your jaw. He pushed inside, deep enough for you to gag. You slapped against his thighs and he brought both hands around your head. He moved your mouth up and down his length. He fucked your face until spit poured out around him. Until you were choking and gasping; dizzy and disoriented. 

And when at last he pulled out, he let you go. You sprawled across the floor and felt the hot ribbons stream over you. His cum laced along your lips, chin, and chest as he finished himself. He scoffed and walked away. You listened to him gather up his clothes. You panted on the floor. 

“You won’t be seeing Steve again,” He said as the pin pad beeped and the door opened. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Clean yourself up.”

The door slammed behind him and the lock clicked into place. You sobbed and sat up slowly. You looked around at the messed bed, your ripped dress, the belt still tangled around the post, your tights twisted like a snake, glass and water strewn across the floor around you. 

You tasted the salt of your tears and his cum as you tried to wipe him away. You slid your nail along the edge of the bandage and lifted it. The adhesive tugged at your flesh. You revealed the star carved into your thigh and blinked through the steady flow.

You clumsily struggled to get up. You fell to your knees as you reached out for anything to latch onto. You crawled frantically past the bed and table. You vomited across the tile of the bathroom just as you broke the threshold. Your arms shook as you stared down at your bile.

After everything, you were stupid enough to think your body was truly yours. That you were anything more than a toy; a tool. You weren’t Dora, you weren’t Sugar, you were nothing. No one.

[bicount-de-lettenhove]

Escaping is Overrated - Part 2

Life on the Continent sucks balls if you're not a Mighty Witcher, and Jaskier learns the hard way just how inhospitable it can be when he finds himself on the run from Nilfgaard. ----- ~A continuation of Part 1~

okay so I'm a big fan of stories where there isn't necessarily a big bad antagonist, but where a character (say, a humble bard) instead ends up suffering because of shitty circumstances. If you are also a fan, please read on for a story which is essentially a list of shittier and shittier circumstances befalling our humble bard. There will eventually be a happy ending! CWs: canon-typical violence, non-graphic gore

Even to Jaskier’s exhausted mind the woods are beautiful. Deep, solid darkness settles under the trees to either side of the path and the air is still and quiet, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the dense foliage and the thick covering of pine needles on the floor. He shambles along the path, straining his hearing for any sounds of pursuit, but as the shade of the forest begins to deepen into dusk he realises with a thrill of excitement that no-one seems to be coming after him. He scans the woods around him, looking for an easy path into the relative safety of the dense trees, and spots a narrow line in which the foliage is flattened - an animal’s path, probably frequented by foxes or badgers. He follows the path, looking back often to take note of landmarks which would guide him back to the main trail, and internally congratulating himself on his foresight for doing that. Eventually he comes to a space in the dense trees, barely large enough to warrant being called a clearing, where a huge fallen fir has rendered the ground inhospitable to other trees. He drops his pack and rests his lute carefully against the trunk of the tree, before collapsing down against it himself with much less care. A wave of exhaustion washes over him and he suddenly realises how ravenously hungry heis. He reaches for his pack and pulls it towards him gingerly, unwilling to close his injured hands around the fabric, then fumbles with the button for several minutes, swearing colourfully. Finally he settles the horrible, mean little button between his index and middle finger, the pack between his knees, and pulls sharply. The button comes free and the pack drops to the floor.

‘Finally, you tiny bastard.’ He mutters, and reaches down between his knees to open the pouch of his pack. To his relief, it doesn’t look like his captors have touched his belongings, meagre as they are. He takes stock, using both useless hands to unpack his things onto the forest floor. He has a waterskin (half full), a hunk of bread (very stale), some strips of jerky (not worth eating at the best of times in Jaskier’s opinion), a tiny pot of jam (oh yes), a miniature bottle of vodka (oh yes), some bandages, a purse with a few coins, a spare shirt now stained with ink (dammit!), his songbook, the offending pot of ink and several bent quills. First, he cups the hunk of bread in his hand, taking greedy bites, and washing it down with gulps of water which ease the residual aching in his throat from the smoke. Opening the jam is a struggle but his determination wins out and soon he is knuckles-deep in the sticky goop and moaning obscenely as he sucks it off three fingers at once. Normally he wouldn’t eat the whole pot in one go, but dammit he deserves it right now.

He has carefully saved the vodka and now he reaches for that and the bandages. He sighs deeply, remembering all the times he had done this for Geralt. The pain clearly visible to Jaskier after years of practice reading the witcher’s minimal facial expressions; the slight clench of his jaw and flaring of his nostrils as he let out a carefully controlled breath; his unwillingness to be vulnerable, even around Jaskier, even after 20 years. Unbidden, pathetic tears cloud Jaskier’s vision. This is why he avoids thinking about Geralt. Over their time travelling together he has fallen utterly and pathetically in love with the witcher, and while he never dares to dream of his feelings being reciprocated, he always assumed that Geralt appreciated his help when he could give it. That he was more than just an irritation, even if his company was somewhat grating. But Geralt has made it all-too-clear that he isn’t in need of help, or company, or a bard.

Now wallowing in self-pity, Jaskier thinks back to that shitty day on the mountain. He’d turned away from Geralt and stumbled down the path, shocked by the witcher’s snarled words, fighting back humiliating tears. But by the time he’d retraced their steps to the clearing where Roach was waiting, he had steadied himself, regained control of his emotions. Geralt had been angry, crushed by what had happened with Yennefer, and the witcher had never been good at dealing with difficult emotions. He’d lashed out, and Jaskier had just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. So Jaskier had decided to wait for his friend. He’d waited the rest of the day, back against a tree and working on his latest composition. He’d waited the evening, fiddling nervously, starting to doubt himself. When it got dark he lit a fire for warmth, then he’d waited the night, huddled close to the flames but unwilling to move too far away from Roach in case Geralt returned and didn’t see him. Then dawn had broken and his eyes had been heavy, but he’d waited, shivering once the fire had died down and before the sun brought warmth to the mountains. But that day, as the sun had risen higher and higher into the sky, Jaskier’s heart had slowly sunk. Geralt wasn’t coming. He really had wanted to be rid of Jaskier. He really had meant what he said. Maybe he was watching right now - Jaskier had thought bitterly - concealed in the foliage and waiting for the idiot bard - the shit shoveling, irritating, useless bard who has hounded him for 20 years - to leave so that he could collect his horse and return to the path. With that realisation, Jaskier had got slowly to his feet, picked up his things, kicked apart the remains of his fire and turned, eyes once again full of unshed tears, to make his way down the mountain.

The dragon hunt was almost a year ago now, and since then the whole continent has gone - in Jaskier's opinion - absolutely tits-up. The Nilfgaardian army swarmed up from the South, spreading terror and destruction. At times it had felt to Jaskier as though everyone on the continent was heading North, trying desperately to escape the unstoppable wave of Nilfgaardian violence. Every inn was full of refugees and Jaskier had seen countless vagabond children wandering the streets, disfigured by grotesque scars. Villages were running out of food and ale and turning displaced families away. Disease was sweeping through towns and famine through the countryside. Rumours spread that Cintra had fallen. Jaskier had been travelling North too, helping people with food and medicine when he could afford it, playing songs and telling stories to entertain the children when he couldn’t.

About a week ago, he had been in a nameless village, standing on a rickety table as a makeshift stage and leading a packed tavern in a relentlessly fast, drunken version of fishmonger’s daughter. The tavern had been hot and damp and thick with the smell of sodden, unwashed woolen clothes. The skinny children whirled each other in breathless circles and the adults - who had long since moved from ale onto moonshine and other spirits - sang and stomped with a kind of frantic desperation, clinging to the shred of familiarity that his songs provided. Jaskier had bowed and accepted a few meagre offerings of coin, turned down others. Sometimes kind people were prepared to pay more than they could afford, and he had learned how to recognise those people from his years travelling with Geralt. There had been no room at the tavern for him, each single bedroom occupied by a full family, so Jaskier had left by the back door, intending to set up camp just beyond the village boundaries and very much not thinking of how nice it would be to sleep inside for once. As he had stepped out of the back door he’d been stopped by a thick hand on his upper arm which pulled him out of the wedge of light cast by the open door, and then a thick forearm had been pressed against his neck, pinning him against the tavern wall. He had spluttered at the pressure, hands coming up to try and ease the weight against his throat, eyes darting, panicked, between his attacker and the two men standing in the shadows behind him.

‘Please,’ he’d croaked out. ‘Here, just take my coin.’ He’d tried to offer them his pack, slung over his shoulder, but his attacker had just slammed Jaskier's head back against the wall hard enough that his vision had swum.

‘We’ll take exactly what we want, bard.’ He’d spat the word bard like it was poison. His breath had been hot and stinking in Jaskier’s face. He’d smiled, showing blackened, rotting teeth, and tightened the pressure on his neck, watching with obscene pleasure as the bard’s eyes had widened in panic and his fingers had scrabbled uselessly against the hairy flesh of his arm. Thankfully, after a few moments he’d let up, Jaskier coughing and retching as he tried to regain his breath.

‘What do you -’ his voice had been quiet and rasping, cut off by a cry of pain and a groan as his attacker had driven his knee into Jaskier’s groin and he’d folded forward to kneel, bent, in the mud. Then the man had hit him again, knee connecting with his face and Jaskier had felt hot blood spray from his nose. The man had stepped back and one of the others stalked forward, holding a broad, flat club in one beefy hand, and Jaskier just had time to open his mouth in a surprised ‘wait’ before he’d swung it down and everything had gone black. When he’d woken, in that cell, he’d found out exactly what they wanted. His kidnappers were thugs that had been bought out by Nilfgaard to do their dirty work. In this case, finding the location of one silver-haired witcher and one very important child-surprise. Of course Jaskier hadn’t told them. He wasn’t lying when he insisted - between screams - that he didn’t know where Geralt was. And he would never tell them what he did know - about Kaer Morhen, about the safehouses and healers Geralt favoured, about his travelling habits and his companions and confidants around the continent. Not just for Geralt, but also for Cirilla, because by the Gods that girl deserved none of this. And so, for once in his life, Jaskier had kept his mouth shut.

-------

oh it only gets worse I am being very mean and very enjoying it

Thanks so much for reading! 🧡🧡 Chapter 3 is on the way, but sometimes doing a phd gets in the way (how dare), so fingers crossed it won't be too long!

Also another note: I haven't written the ending of this fic yet, apart from Geralt Helps And Is Sorry TM. If anyone has any suggestions of favourite Geralt-saves-Jaskier tropes please drop me a reply because I have been stuck at the same point for far too long now 🧡

[into-crazy]

More to the Madness Pt. 9

Ledger!Joker x Female Reader series

Summary: You see J's bare face for the first time before helping him carry out his attack on the Mayor.

Warnings- Cursing, mentions of violence & murder, incorporated elements from TDK, a dash of J being self-conscious about his scars

I'll admit, that last warning was a bit of a challenge. I might've ruined everything with this & got it all wrong, although I sure hope not. Also, I'd like to add(because I freaking CAN) that I personally adore his scars💜 I find them beautiful, attractive, and sexy as hell

You can find the other parts RIGHT HERE and through the “More to the Madness” tag lovelies💞💞

7:01 am

You read the time on the wall clock in the empty apartment that belonged to some man named Melvin White. The late commissioner Loeb's memorial service will start soon. Mayor Garcia is scheduled to speak in precisely 2 hours, on the street right outside this very building. Everything's falling into place. Joker and his henchmen had successfully kidnapped the Ceremonial police. Stripped the officers of their guns and uniforms in order to infiltrate the ceremony. This is really happening. Joker's going to assassinate the Mayor.

Your eyes shift to watch J, standing over by the officers- bound and gagged to a sturdy structure inside the residence. Terrified, the men are drenched in sweat, shaking in their restraints. Neither try to mumble or attempt to free the binds in fear of getting themselves killed. Little do they know that's not on the agenda. Still, their frightened state entertains J. That is obvious.

The only one's in full attire in the room are you and J. His men were previously instructed to ditch the clown masks. The area is on a high watch alert, no use in having some amateur blow the job if they're easily spotted. Even though it wasn't negotiable, you're the only exception. Given your stealth skills and the couple lookouts perched down the hall.

The henchmen gather together in their disguises while J is now peering through a telescope onto the street. Angling the scope in a spot to his liking as he mumbles quietly to himself. You slip close beside him, leaning on the frame, glancing down in search of what he's looking for. Which is difficult considering the blind is lowered halfway. Without interrupting his train of thought, you patiently wait. There's no denying that the way he works fascinates you. Given his nature, he can be very precise when it comes to certain things. Since this is a situation which requires precision, he delivers impressively well.

Finally, he gives a soft hum, "annnd.. right there." Still peeking through the lens, he removes his hand from the scope, waving it in a gimmie motion towards whoever's presence he felt next to him. "Timer." You grab the small timepiece put off to the side, placing it in his hand. "Thanks a bunch doll." He gave with a appreciative tug of his lip upwards.

You didn't respond. Instead you caught the gazes of the henchmen looking in your direction. Couple relatively new faces, observing how close in proximity you stood by the Joker. Clearly the sight was unusual to them, like they'd never seen anyone comfortable enough to be within a 6 foot reach by J. Let alone a woman, currently perched the mere inches you were beside him. Intrigued as you are. They didn't have to say what they were thinking, you knew from the judgment flickering of their eyes- what the hell is wrong with her?

That doesn't bother you. Why should it? Why would you care what they think of you? The cowards. You're also not going to let them belittle you. If you let that happen, they're going to think it's okay. That you're too weak to do anything about it. Too weak to stand up for yourself.

Raising your chin, you stare down back at them. Daring them to say what they're too scared to admit directly to your face. You don't need J to stand in and protect you. You can do that on your own, no problem.

Come on. Come over here and say it to my face you fucking cowards.

As expected, they don't. Your message was received. They get right on with the job without throwing another glance your way. Serves them right.

Bringing your focus back to J, you ask, "what were you looking for?"

He turns the knob on the tiny clock, setting a time. His blackened gaze flashes up to meet yours, "where the duck'll be sittin' at." J places his contraption before collecting an officer's uniform and a duffle bag. "Tick-tock doll," he motions for you to follow him, "we're on the clock."

Exiting the apartment, he leads the way to another apartment down the hall. Barging through the front door, it appears this residence is just as deserted as the previous one.

Handing you the large bag, J works on removing his plum trench. Slinging the heavy fabric atop a counter in the vacant living space, it crashes hard against the surface with metallic clinks of the various objects he hordes in that coat. You watch as he continues to strip himself of the remaining articles- blazer, gloves, tie, vest, and suspenders. All in that exact order. The many layers that help complete his look. That join together to make him Joker.

He begins undoing the buttons at the top of his dress shirt, catching the dumbfounded expression on your face while you observe him. "Enjoying the show, aren't we? Getting a ah- good look." A tilt in his head promoting his mocking tone.

"I- uh what- um," You blink a couple times trying to refocus, "sorry, I don't mean to stare." You admit, now remembering you're supposed to place his items in the bag. "You make it a little hard to concentrate sometimes." Cheeks glowing a shade of red, turning your attention towards the pile on the counter, hoping you didn't offend him in any way.

"Never ah, said I didn't like it," he claims, shedding the shirt from his broadly sculpted torso. Displaying a vast of scars adorning his body. J wasn't the largest man in the world with huge, bulging muscles. He's actually rather lean, fit. With the perfect amount of muscle to compliment his arms, chest, and back. Oh, but his legs- those strong, thick thighs of his. Now those are whole other impressive matter on their own.

To keep your mind from straying deeper into building up excitement, you get to work. Get ahold of yourself, keep your head in the game. Tossing the duffle on the floor, you grab his trench. Huffing at how heavy it is, you comment, "Damn J, this coat weighs about fifty pounds! What the hell have you got in here?" Attempting to fold the thick fabric before shoving it in the bag.

"Just the usual knives and grenades," he shrugs nonchalantly.

"Woah, woah, hold up-" startled, you back slightly away from the bag, "you mean to tell me that there are explosives in that coat!?"

"Yeah."

"So you've been walking around with a bunch of hand grenades in your pockets? This entire time!" You continue.

"Uh, most of the time. Yeah." He repeats as if it's something you should've already known. It bewilders you that this is something so casual- so common- for him to keep dangerous explosives, ready to use, on his person like it's nothing. Regular people carry their wallets and cell phones. Better prepared citizens also carry a concealed weapon for precaution, be it a pocket knife or small handgun. Meanwhile, Joker's norms are knives and grenades- and he's never shy when it comes to flaunting his custom modified, fully automatic Glock 17.

"Well, you must carry a lot for it to weigh this much then." You let out a breathy laugh, bagging the other articles.

J was on the verge of removing his pants, when he opted not to. Instead, he collected the police uniform, thumbing towards the door behind him. "Gonna ah, finish in the other room." He promptly tells you, "wouldn't want ya getting too distracted."

"Okay," you manage, a roll of your eyes which he didn't see but very well heard. He went into the room and shut the door.

You finished packing everything, minus his pinstriped slacks and shoes. So you left the bag open for those. J wasn't enclosed in there long, however it felt like he was. This is a little unusual, for him. The eerie silence only prolonging the suspense. What could possibly be taking him so long?

It gave you a brief moment to ponder. All he has left to do is get dressed and remove the greasepai- Ohh.. Right.

The greasepaint.

That must be what's holding him, then. You'd imagine it takes a lot of effort to scrub off the many layers he had previously applied. Especially since his disguise is going to require a bare face. Funny how that works.

As if on cue, the door to the room swings open and he emerges. Your head swings up to find him, walking out the room with his head held down, green dyed curls covering his face. His hair is draping his features, yet through the gaps could you see that he is indeed, without the makeup. Purposely avoiding your gaze, you catch on, he's doing it intentionally. He doesn't want you to see his face. The reason, being one or many, you are unsure of.

He reels past you to the bag, nearly bumping into you, he shoves the remainder articles inside. You go to help him zip the overloaded pack, but he pulls it from you, twisting farther away.

You frown, "J, would you let me? I could do that for you." No answer. You try again, "the pants are going to get wrinkled if you put them in there like that. Here-" you carefully go to reach for the strap, lightly brushing your fingertips over his gloveless digits, which are tightly clamped around the band. "Let me fold them for you." His whole demeanor is tense, you're hoping your gentle touch coaxes him to ease. It helps, least a little bit. He allows you to slide it towards you, but his face remains turned.

You're not fond of this behavior. It doesn't seem like him. Could it be a reason similar to yours from before? Hiding his facial features to protect his identity. No, that can't be it if he's willingly revealing them to his goons and the public. So with that being the case, why not simply show you?

For one, you sure hope it isn't because he's self conscious about his looks- about his scars. You can't have that, no. You will not have that. He has nothing to be ashamed for when it comes to you and what you think of him. You didn't find him repulsive at all before. Why would now be any different?

He stands, "where- where's the ah, cap. I need the cap." Frantically searching the room, barely able to see past his own hair.

You don't utter a word as you neatly place his pants and shoes into the bag, sealing it with a loud ZIP! You want him to look at you, but you don't want to push it. Wanting him to feel comfortable with showing you rather than pry at it harshly. Standing fully, you go to the counter where the police cap sat. There sparks an idea. "I got it," you pluck the hat, waving it in his view. He extends an arm for you to hand it to him. "No," you shake your head, "come over here so I can put it on you."

Irritated, he huffs, "just give it- give it to me. I've got no time for this." Beckoning his arm impatiently.

"Yes you do," you return, "will you please just come here?" Nothing. He rakes his hands through his locks, choosing to grumble to himself. Alright, now you're starting to grow frustrated.

"Joker," you almost demand, the full use of his name gets him to freeze. Still staring in the other direction. "Look at me, please." Your tone is firm, yet underlined with a sense of plead.

Ultimately, he decides to look at you. As he does, you have to be careful refraining an admirable gasp in fear that he'll take it the wrong way. Don't make a big deal about it. You mentally apprise yourself as you see his face- bare- for the first time. Easier said than done. If you thought he was breathtaking before, you'd go back in time just to slap that lady across the face, and tell her she hasn't seen his beauty in all its form yet. With those handsome features adorning his face. The same features you already noticed, ridden of the greasepaint. Out on proper display. There have been occasions where you thought about what he'd look like underneath. He's even more gorgeous than you could've imagined. The area around his eyes hold black shades, skin stained from the greasepaint.

J's stoical eyes stare at your face. Searching for a trace of resentment, horror, hate, disgust. He doesn't find either of those, yet he's not sure what he finds, he can't tell.

Your eyes meet his in a deep stare, and your breath hitches in your throat as you fight to hold back what you desperately want to tell him. Baby steps. Giving a soft smile, you inform him, "you still got a bit of white and black by your eye." Pointing to a spot under your own to show him where. He gives a breathy laugh in return. May it be of relief or genuine amusement, he wouldn't tell you, you're unsure at this point. But it's something.

You jump to sit atop the counter, putting you almost eye level with him. "Can I put it on you?" You retry with the hat. He thinks for a fleeting moment, then nods. You quickly remove your gloves as he goes to stand between your parted legs, placing his hands to rest on your hips, keeping a mindful distance. It's respective.

Carefully, do you bring both your hands to his head. Combing your fingers through his locks, pushing upwards, so that you could easily tuck the green strands under the article. Though he's allowing you, if he were to swat your hands away, it actually wouldn't be a surprise. You keep that in mind. He draws in a slow, steady inhale at your delicate touch. His eyes are on you the entire time, taking in the calmness in yours. And wait- is that.. is that adoration he sees? Nevertheless, he remains there, an emotionless look on his face.

"Don't do that." J speaks abruptly. Pulling you from your dream-like trance.

"Do what?" You ask innocently, "I can't sit for a moment and admire you?"

With an exaggerated sigh and a roll of his eyes does he react. "You can stop trying to convince me with the uh, false flattery, doll. I already know I'm not the most ah, prettiest sight to look at."

"It's not false," you frown. "I'm being serious." It hurts that he doesn't believe you. You speak with truth, why won't he at least try to accept the fact that you really do find him drop-dead gorgeous, incredibly handsome, utterly attractive?

"Ha ha," he mocks a laugh that lacks humor in favor of distaste, "Now that was a bad joke." Instead of going on, he chooses to remain quiet. Taking in the feeling of your nails lightly scratching through his scalp. You're being so gentle with him, like anything harsher could ever hurt him. He smiles at the amusing thought.

Once his hair's pushed up enough, you place the police cap atop his head. Completing the disguise. Tucking stray strands that fallen, under the hat. "There.." you draw back to take a final gander. He looks so different, almost unrecognizable. But his blackened eyes, his nose, his chiseled jawline, and the uneven scars protruding the flesh in his cheeks, distinctive features that remind you of how much he is still, him.

Still J.

And damn you. Damn you for allowing it to tug at your heartstrings seeing him this way. You're not supposed to start feeling like this. You're not supposed to start caring. What started out as physical and psychological attraction, is progressing into something more, in-depth. And fuck, are you diving in deep. You know this probably isn't a path to go down. It'd be risky. Although you haven't even scratched the surface of knowing him, you know yourself. Going down that path would result in you growing attached- catching feelings. Which could leave you wandering down a one way road, alone.

Much as you hate to admit, you crave a connection, a real one. And Joker isn't the man for that. He's far too busy carrying out his destructive schemes, he doesn't have the time nor mind for you. Perhaps you should pull out, before everything eventually comes crashing down onto you. Leaving you in a heaving pile of regret. Or in a pool of your own blood once he grows bored of you, realizes he doesn't want you around anymore.

However, once your eyes lock with his in a deep gaze, your rampant thoughts are put on hold. Then you are reminded of how far you've come, and you are not backing down. Let's just keep this going. We're getting too touchy feel-y. Too sentimental. Let's just focus on what's happening right now, and right now, he's gorgeous. You don't mind his scars. You actually think his scars are rather beautiful. Much like a precious work of Japanese kintsugi art. The once severely torn flesh healed together in a way that enhances the tear that used to be there. Visible repairs on his cheeks that give more meaning and strength. Whoops- your sentiment is still showing.

You know what? I don't fucking care anymore. Look at him!

"Well hello officer," you purr flirtatiously. Trailing your hands up the properly done jacket, stopping to rest on his shoulders. "I usually don't take kindly to police officers, but I'd let you frisk, cuff, and arrest me any day."

The suggestive joke brings a sly smirk to his face. Grabbing ahold of your wrists, he sets your hands down on your thighs. "Distractions, bunny." His jeering articulation of the word distractions let's you know that he's back. "Ya sure are good at 'em. Now, we can play officer later. You ah, remember your instructions?" He asks, checking over himself to make sure everything's in order.

"Yeah, I got them down," you return.

"Remember where to wait?" He presses.

"Yeah, yeah.."

" 'Yeah' me like that one more time, an I'll slice that pretty tongue right outta your mouth. Got it?" He warns with a bite of snarkiness.

You can't help but stifle a snicker at his false threat. Um actually, you'd hope that it's false. "Yes sir."

~~

Your part is relatively easy. All you had to do was rid yourself of your outfit- including the makeup- and take J's stuff to the getaway car. Being your car. Oh boy. He gave you a set location to park and wait with his belongings. He mentioned that if everything went in the direction he's striving for, then he'd make it to your car soon after the crowd breaks into a panicking frenzy. If not, then you'll just have to meet him back at the warehouse. Which if course means more improvisation on his part.

You sat in your car, not too far, and not too close in proximity to where Mayor Garcia currently spoke on behalf of Loeb. It wasn't long until you heard the first round of shots ringing through the buildings, then the next, recognizing it to be the 21-gun salute. You braced yourself for the third round of shots, since this would undoubtedly be Joker's point of attack. The moment he and his henchmen turn their guns and fire at be Mayor.

Soon as the third rounds are fired, they are followed by even more shots and loud shouts. That's your cue. Quickly starting the engine, you glance in the rearview mirror, you could see the chaotic riot of people behind you. Rushing and screaming in different directions to get away from the area, escape the immediate danger. Seconds later, there were many running past your car. Citizens and cops alike. Citizens desperately searching for cover and the cops trying to get control of the situation. Madness. It was pure madness. Far from anything you're used to.

The sound of harsh knocking on tbe driver's window startled you. Looking directly at the source of the noise, you instantly recognized it to be J. Clicking the button to unlock the back door, he swiftly moves to get into the car. Shutting the door and motioning for you to go. You didn't have to wait for him to tell you that, as you promptly slammed on the gas before he even shut the door.

Putting as much distance between you both and the scene as possible, while Joker's catching his breath in the backseat. Checking him through the mirror, you see that he's not looking back. Didn't even bother to take a final glance at his work as you drove away. You wondered why, but you didn't ask.

"We missed." J hissed behind you.

"What?"

"We missed the shot." He clarified. "Ole Gordon decided to play hero and jumped in the line of fire." Snickering as he recalls.

"Bummer," you pout while he searches for the bag, "your items are down there." You point to the floor behind the passenger's seat.

He instantly reached inside and pulled out three tins of face paint. Wasting no time in popping open all the containers, dipping his fingers in, and slathering the paint accordingly in his face. Doing it with such a pace as if he couldn't wait to have done it any sooner.

"Please try not to get paint on my seats," you turn your head slightly to smile at him. You expected him to throw a sarcastic remark back, so you weren't prepared when he suddenly reached around, and placed his hand- fingers wet with fresh paint- snug around your throat. Making a showing effort to rub the remains onto your silky skin.

He leans close to where you feel his warm breath on your ear and neck. You find delight in his touch. He relishes the smirk that pulls across your lips, leaning closer to whisper huskily in your ear. "No promises, bunny."

End of part 9. I hope this part wasn't too rushed😭 There's still more to come. So the part in here where I made the comparison of his scars to Japanese kintsugi art, it's something that came to me but I do recall seeing something similar(on the first account that I had before this one) but I don't remember where. I appreciated the reference. If anyone knows where, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know. I'd like to give credit!

[the-wiresmarvelau]

T.H.E. W.I.R.E.S.

Chapter 1 Chapter 6

Chapter 7: settling in

When he awoke the second time, he was alone, or at least that's what he thought.  

The excessively soft fabric that was so fluffy before, now clung to his skin with sweat.  

Everything still ached, but he could feel it healing; at least the fog in his head had lifted a little.  

He rolled onto his side, savouring the last few seconds of rest he would get, knowing he would start to grow restless soon; staying down had never ended well for him.  

Even as he lay there, his thoughts raced.

He knew he was on Midgard. He knew that he had been broken out by his mother, and that the boy in red spandex had been there when he first woke up; though what they had talked about hadn't really registered.

The more he lay there, the more nervous energy pent up inside him.

Soon enough he couldn't bear to keep his eyes closed anymore.

They opened to honey-coloured walls and dark green sheets. The air was comfortably cool and filled with a low humming sound.

Still tired, but familiar enough with his healing process to know that he couldn't go back to sleep, he raised himself up onto his elbows.

As he shifted to a sitting position, he couldn't help the gnawing feeling in the back of his head that tried to remind him of something, and he didn't have to wait long to find out what it was.  

The moment he had leaned back enough to rest his back on the wall, a voice spoke up.

“Good evening, sir. Welcome to the land of the living.” it said from above, soft and in a low volume, as if not to spook him.

The Jotun remembered hazily that the boy had spoken about some form of incorporeal being or ‘intelligence’ as he had put it.  

“Greetings.” the god managed to press out.  

His lips still stung whenever they moved, but they were healing thanks to his mother's spell.  

“You have slept for several hours. The one you may know as Spider-man is out on patrol, but he should be back soon enough. In the meantime, I may answer any questions you could have; but before that, I should inform you that everything in this room is at your disposal. The same goes for the bathroom.  

“For the time being, you should stay away from the stairs, though. For safety purposes, this room is not registered as part of the compound, meaning that no protocol forces me to reveal that you are inside. In the rest of the compound, however, I may have to report your presence to Dr. Stark, better known as Ironman.  

“Any use of Internet in this room goes through me; to be to show up in the protocols as if I had looked the things up; further veiling your presence.”

In response the Jotun just nodded and tried to stand up.  

His legs felt shaky underneath him, but they could support his weight just fine, luckily.  

He really wanted to take a shower, then he could further survey his room.  

Passingly he registered that this room was nothing like the cell he would have imagined he would be put in, but he was still too tired and exhausted to properly grasp that.  

The bathroom was weird. It had multiple showers and multiple toilet stalls, as if designed to cater to several people and not just one. But he ignored that, just like the basket of bloody towels next to the door.  

When he stepped under the spray, he half expected it to be boiling hot, like all the baths at Odin's place had been, or to be ice-cold, no use bothering to heat up the water for a cell.  

But to his surprise, it was no extreme. Tepid and a little more to the warm side, but still pretty comfortable for a human.  

After all this time in the scalding heat of his father's dungeons. He appreciated being able to turn the water a little bit cooler, relishing the smooth feeling on his skin.  

Finally, the rest of the fog still residing in his mind cleared away.  

While rinsing himself down, he looked around.  

This sure was a weird bathroom, but he wouldn't complain, for it was still far more luxurious than he had thought it would be.  

Then his eyes caught on the basket of bloody towels, which the spider boy must have used to clean his injured body.

Dark red and brown contaminating the pristine white of the clearly new towels.  

He found himself a fresh one and dried down before slinging it around his hips and starting to work on cleaning the bloody ones.  

It was the least he could do. He had to repay the other and he knew how to get blood out of cloth just fine.  

With magic he could have been done in seconds, but as it were his powers hadn’t yet regenerated enough for that.

At least the repetitive work gave him more time to think, which he was glad for.  

While he stood there, clad in just the towel, his mind wandered to the clothes he had woken up in.  

It was a relief when he realised he had still been wearing the ripped trousers from Odin. It would be weird otherwise.  

The Asgardian took them up. Even though he didn't particularly care about them.  

On the other hand, the hoody had been one of the most comfortable things he had ever worn.  

At home they mostly cared for practicality and not for comfort; at least for boys’ clothes and he had no interest in making himself more of a target by wearing dresses while somebody could recognize him.

“You alright in there, sir?” the voice spoke from the other room  

Right...

He wasn’t alone.

“I am fine,” he called out, while folding the clothes, before resuming his task at the sink.

Once he had finished getting all the blood he could out of the towels, he hung them over the partitions between the shower stalls, to let them dry. Then he went back to the main room, folded clothes in hand.

“There are fresh clothes in the closet to your right.” The voice – what was their name again? – announced.

“Right,” the Asgardian answered, just to say something. It felt weird responding nonverbally to someone who couldn’t do the same.

Rifling through the different fabrics, his eyes caught on a skirt. Hanging between a few button ups.  

For a moment he was tempted to wear it.

The voice had said everything in this room was for him to use; but the risk was too great.

Under no circumstances was he to fall out of his host’s favour.

Judging by the bathroom and the fact that he could spot no less than three beds suggested that this room was meant to also host other people, some of whom might be women.

There was no telling how a Midgardian might react to finding out he was outside of society’s gender binary.

So, he opted for a pair of black sweatpants and a loose, grey shirt, whose arms were just a little short, but if pushed up a few inches, looked stylish.

A bit awkward, he also picked out a pair of boxershorts.

Clothes draped over one shoulder, he went back into the bathroom to change

When he was done, he took a closer look around.

The room had a patchwork kind of feel to it; with the closet and the shelf on the far wall being the only pieces of furniture in the same colour.

Both were a dark, orange-leaning amber, while the other shelf was of a brownish hue but so bright, it almost seemed white.

Still, nothing seemed out of place. Because everything did.

While the bunk beds were what you would expect to find in a child’s room, the giant mattress let into the wall belonged in the dreamhouse of a very stylish, young adult.

All the different earthy-wood shades of the walls, shelves, desk, closet and kitchen counter covered such a wide spectrum, that it looked like they had been picked by throwing darts at a brown hue pallet.

The god was so on board with this kind of chaos.

Especially since everything that wasn’t made of wood was either green fabric or charcoal grey . Totally his colour scheme.  

Deciding he could deal with serving the rest of his sentence in here, so long as he could get his hands on more books than just the few dozen which currently didn’t even cover a fifth of the shelf on the wall. He snatched one of them at random and let himself fall onto the couch.

Before he could start reading though, the voice spoke up again.

“Sorry to interrupt,” they didn’t sound sorry at all. “But I thought it might be of interest to you that your mother has left a little something here with you. It materialized a letter along with some vials while you slept. You can find it on the nightstand behind your bed.”

Huh. He should have known. His mother always thought about everything.

When he looked over, he noticed what the voice meant and smiled.

The vials were familiar enough that he could recognize them from where he sat; they would be a great help in regaining his magic and healing everything up.

Curious about the letter, the Jotun made his way over and took the desired piece of parchment.

True to his expectations, his mother really had thought about everything.

In the letter she informed him that, against his expectations he was allowed to use magic as much as he liked, though he was always monitored by the guardian of this realm.

She also apologized for what she recognized as a grave oversight on her part, but Loki had already forgiven her. He had intentionally hidden the matter, after all.

Still... it was nice to be told.

After reading the letter a few times, he tucked it away neatly beneath the weird, mushroom-shaped lamp on the desk and used up two of the vials; drinking one and applying the other to his lips and the cuts he could reach.

Settling back on the couch, he picked up the book again and began to read.

While swinging home Peter was energized equally from excitement and nerves.  

He had met THE Bruce Banner, meaning his room hadn't been constructed for nothing.  

And he didn't even make himself that much of a fool.  

On the other hand, he would come to the compound; Tony probably too, to keep the other scientist company.  

It would mean Loki would have to stay inside his room to stay off the engineer’s radar.

So many things could go wrong… he didn't even want to think about it.  

He just had to hope that the god of Mischief would understand and not try to show himself to the other two.  

That shouldn't be a problem though. The other was smart enough to know that it would have much heavier repercussions for him than it would for Peter.  

Still; ‘Accidents are inevitable.’ The quote from Tony ghosts through his mind.  

But first things first.  

Tomorrow afternoon was enough time to give the God a tour around the compound before he'd have to stay in that room of his; since FRIDAY wouldn't be installed until then.  

Or should he not show him?  

It would probably be a little cruel to show him everywhere he couldn't go.  

Then again, the other could watch the security footage to get a feel of what was going on around the compound.  

From what he'd heard from Tony it could be pretty entertaining once all the Avengers messed around together.  

And for that, it would probably be helpful if Loki had an understanding of where which rooms are.

With his mind made up, he landed on the roof of the compound.  

There weren't many trees immediately around, but he had made sure that there would be posts arranged in a pattern that would allow him to swing to the compound directly.  

That way he wouldn't have to run across the field every time.  

First, he got down into his room to get dressed.  

While his suit was pretty amazing; It wasn't that comfortable to wear for long periods of time.

And he needed to take a shower.  

He made sure to be quick and afterwards got dressed in a baby-blue, sleeveless sweater with a red turtleneck underneath and red sweatpants.  

Ever since he had gotten that outfit a few weeks earlier, he had wanted to wear it; Never sure when it would fit the occasion, though now it seemed appropriate to keep to his suit’s colour scheme.  

Quickly he checked that Manuel had taken control of his watch again. He got green light. Literally

It was only minutes later that he stood at the top of the stairs to the ex-bunker, where the Asgardian resided in.  

Peter was glad for Shuri and MJ to have enforced that much security on the room for a case of emergency. All of that came in handy now.

In case the god was still sleeping he crept down the stairs as silently as possible, to not wake him.  

But he wasn't. Instead, he was sitting on the couch, a book beside him and already looking in his direction.

That's right, he had asked Manuel to inform the other of when he arrived.  

He let a bright grin take over his face. “You're awake, that's good. You feeling any better?” he asked, not knowing how else to start a conversation.  

The other seemed a bit hesitant to answer. Probably expecting him to be tired after patrol, Peter thought. The god nodded. “Thanks, I am better”.

He enunciated clearly and shortly, so different from when he had spoken all the other times that Peter had seen on the security footage.  

“That’s good to hear,” the teen answered, sliding down the handrail of the stairs to get down quicker.

“I'm pretty sure you have made acquaintance with Manuel by now,” he said, vaguely gesturing to the ceiling where all the cameras and loud speakers were, even though that was not really the place where the AI itself resided:

Loki just nodded, relieved to know the voice’s name without having to ask for it.  

“Nice! I'm pretty sure he will have already told you, but just in case I give you the run down again,” the boy started before taking a deep breath and beginning to go down his mental list, with things to tell the god.  

“This room is yours. It was originally planned as a bunker for emergencies, which is why it is completely hidden from anyone inside or outside the compound. That means that as long as you stay in here, nobody but Manuel, some friends of mine and I will know about your existence.  

“Anything in here is for you. I tried to make it as homely as possible since you will probably have to stay here most if not all of the time. Since it wasn't originally planned, I've had to improvise on furniture, which is why everything looks a little out of place. But I hope it's all right.  

“Now to the matter with the clothes: I didn't know your size, so I just took what I thought would fit you. But I will soon give you a StarkPad with which you can order yourself new stuff. I just have to reprogram one to work with Manual properly.  

“Otherwise, FRIDAY might be able to track you, so it could take a while. Until then, it seems like I've found at least some clothes that fit you,” he paused and gave the god a once-over , before shaking his head and continuing.  

“Anyway, as you can see, you have a kitchen in here. I've tried to stock it up with things that most people like. If you want something specific or run out of something, just tell Manuel and we will put it on the shopping list.  

“It may take a few days until you get it though, since we only get shipping’s once a week, but don’t hesitate to ask for something. My metabolism is pretty high, and Mr. Stark noticed this. Plus Dr. Banner will be moving in tomorrow; And once all the others get here, your orders won't be nearly enough to arouse suspicions… probably.” The last word he mumbled to himself.  

“Now! That was it about this room… I think. Next, I'm going to show you around the compound. It will probably be the only time though, since tomorrow FRIDAY, Mr. Stark's AI will be installed. And if she sees you, she will definitely tell Mr. Stark, and we can't have that.” Peter said, before leading the way up the stairs.

The god dutifully following behind him, uncertain what to make of it all.  

Why was the boy so nice to him? He had literally tried to enslave him and his whole realm just a few years ago.  

But he wasn't in a position to question him. So, he followed the boy up the stairs into a small storage looking room.  

“Now… This hallway is hidden. It is part of what I call THE WIRES.” The boy started up again.  

“This is still part of Manuel’s ‘territory’ so to speak, meaning FRIDAY won't detect you in here. But if anyone asks her if somebody is in these hallways, which are hidden and secret by the way. Did I mention that?”  

He chatted enthusiastically, while gesturing to everything and nothing in particular. “Never mind. So, if FRIDAY was asked if somebody is in THE WIRES, then Manuel is forced by protocol to answer that truthfully.  

“That counts for everywhere but your room, which is why you should stay there most of the time, though I guess you could stray through THE WIRES - which I will tell you where they go and end as we go along - but only if the others are asleep or not in the compound for otherwise, they might ask about this.  

“…Well, only Tony might ask about it,” he mused, “But that's beside the point. Just be careful and always communicate with Manuel. If he can't answer a question, he will ask me. I will always have him with me through this watch.”

The teenager indicated said item.  

It went on like that for the whole tour, with Peter mindlessly rambling about everything and anything he could think of about the rooms and hallways that they came across.  

He also showed him most of the entrances and exits of THE WIRES and the vents, telling the God everything about the three different networks of pathways; with the ones easier to find and the harder ones, interlocking at places, so that you could access the secondary layer of THE WIRES by finding secret entrances within some of the more obvious passages.'  

The super-powered teenager seemed decidedly too excited about this whole idea, the god decided; but somehow, it didn’t bother him.

Chapter 1 Chapter 6

[onehandedbooks]

Folie à Deux- part three: the potentially thrilling conclusion! 

Chef!Hannibal gets his “revenge” on FoodCritic!Will for his scathing review of Hannibal’s new restaurant, folie. 

Will parked around the corner from folie at five of eight on Friday night. He got out of the car, tugging at the collar of the tux Bev had shoved him into. His face was shaved within an inch of its life, skin still singing with the scrape of the razor, and he fought the urge to scrub his palms across his cheeks to make it stop.

He started towards the restaurant, checked his watch, then turned around to circle the block because who did Lecter think he was, honestly? 8 p.m. sharp. When he finally came around to the front of the restaurant at 8:15, it was quiet. The dark green fabric shades were drawn over the big plate glass dining room windows. The double doors were shut. There were no lights, no music, no people.

Will frowned and pulled Lecter’s notecard from the inside pocket of his tux jacket. It still read “I would appreciate the pleasure of your company for dinner at folie this Friday night. 8 p.m. sharp.” He put the card back in his pocket and was just about to reach for his cell phone when the doors to folie swung open.

“Mr. Graham,” Hannibal said. “Thank you so much for coming.”

Hannibal smiled then and caught Will’s eye and Will blushed down to his collar. He’d never actually met Lecter, only seen him at a distance at restaurant openings or in print in the society pages. He was even more compelling in person than he’d been on last week’s episode of Conjurer’s Kitchen, which Will definitely didn’t have saved to his phone, where he’d held forth, smiling and arrogant (and handsome),  on the supremacy of French buttercream.

Hannibal held the door open for him and stepped to the side. “Please. Come in.”

Will looked past Hannibal into the empty restaurant, face drawing tight with suspicious confusion.  “Where’s everyone else?

“I cancelled the gala,” Hannibal said casually. As if it were obvious. As if it meant nothing.  “The culinary adventure will be yours and mine tonight.”

“You’ll murder your restaurant with that kind of scandal,” Will muttered, a little stunned.

“Oh, I think you may have already struck it a fatal blow,” Hannibal said, with more cheer than he had any right to. “I thought you might enjoy it if I cooked for you, given your disastrous last supper here, and I didn’t want any distractions.”

Hannibal led Will past rows of empty green chairs and tables and into the kitchen. The overhead lights were dim and every steel surface was set with flickering candles that made the metal gleam. The burning sizzle of the candles and the smooth sweet smell of good wax reminded Will strongly of church.

In the midst of all the cool chrome was a long butcher block table, with one place setting and two chairs, set at an angle to one another at the closest end. 

The table itself held a vast glittering repast. Hannibal’s gala menu writ small, Will assumed. It was giving off the most delicious savory-sweet aroma. Will’s mouth watered and he closed his eyes briefly and inhaled, letting the wonderful scent fill him up.

Hannibal watched him for a moment, for the pure enjoyment of it, then pulled out one of the chairs and gestured for Will to take it.

“Your reviews show a true and deep understanding of the things you’re eating,” Hannibal started. “Not yet a completely sophisticated palate, perhaps, but getting there.”

Will gave him an offended little look at that and Hannibal decided to cut his carefully curated remarks short before Will’s irritation could bloom. He really was a remarkably prickly man.

“Well,” he continued, putting a hand on the back of Will’s chair to push it in. “I look forward to your assessment of the menu.”

Will glanced across the table. There were some clearly identifiable dishes- a miniature pastry of some kind; tiny pink cubes, probably watermelon, topped with origami prosciutto; bite-sized medallions of some kind of meat swirled with red- but others were entirely unfamiliar. Was that …jello? With a whole school whitebait embedded in it?

“I’m definitely… intrigued,” Will offered finally.

Hannibal smiled slightly. He took the dark red napkin from beside Will’s plate and shook it out. Instead of handing it to him, however, or draping it over his lap like some over-eager maître d’, he began folding it. First in half, diagonally, and then over on itself until it became something of a long tapered ribbon.

“I wonder if you would indulge me, Mr. Graham,” Hannibal began. “I find that removing sight can enhance the experience of the food. Would you allow me to cover your eyes?”

“How will I see to eat?” Will asked, flat-footed. Certain there were more important questions he should be asking.

“I will feed you, if you’ll allow it.”

“You’re not eating?”

“As I said, I’d like to do whatever I can to make up for your horrible experience with my former underchef, Mr. Gideon, and I don’t want any distractions.”

Will looked up at Hannibal, at his sharp little smile and the lean, predatory line of his body. At the folded fabric stretched loosely between his hands, ominous and exciting. 

There was absolutely no legitimate reason for Hannibal to propose this and no possible reason that Will should agree. And yet, he knew he was going to.

“Where is Mr. Gideon now?” Will whispered, closing his eyes and tilting his head back a little so that Hannibal could wrap the crimson cloth over his eyes.

“Departed,” Hannibal said, his voice suddenly hard and cold as the steel that surrounded them. Then, off Will’s anxious expression, a softer and more teasing response. “Departed these meager environs for greener pastures where his mediocrity might be tolerated. A short-order kitchen along the highway somewhere, perhaps.”

Hannibal knotted the folded napkin firmly, then took his seat at Will’s right.

Will flinched when Hannibal moved the chair in closer to the table; the scrape of the wooden legs across the tile floor was enormous. 

Then there was the clink of steel on china and a sudden punch of brine.

“This the first thing,” Hannibal started simply, holding out a little silver spoon with a single glistening black pearl cradled in the center.

Will raised his hand automatically, reaching blindly in the direction of Hannibal’s voice to take whatever it was Hannibal was offering. Hannibal caught Will’s wrist and drew it back down, pressing his hand against his thigh again.

“No,” he said. “Let me.”

Will shivered at that, twisted his fingers in the fabric of his trousers to keep his hands still. He opened his mouth a little and Hannibal delicately spooned the small cool orb onto his tongue.  

Will pressed the gelid sphere against the roof of his mouth where it popped, releasing a puff of hickory salmon smoke then a wash of savory salt. He hummed with pleasure and licked his lips, chasing the fleeting flavor.

“Caviar gel and Nova smoke,” Hannibal said. It had been terribly tricky to work out how to do it and he couldn’t begin to disguise his pride in the achievement. 

There was a sort of busy hush after that and Will opened his eyes in the red haze behind the blindfold. He couldn’t see anything, but he knew Hannibal had gone somewhere. Could feel his absence all along his side like a draft. He heard the gurgle of liquid in a glass just off to his right and turned towards it. Startled a little when the thin rim of a wineglass touched his mouth.

“Drink,” Hannibal encouraged, tilting the glass.

Crisp white wine, thick with cold, bathed his tongue and Will swallowed. Mineral peach and honey lemon. Dry and delicate and smooth.

“Good?” Hannibal inquired.

Will made a small pleased sound and nodded.

“Shall we continue?”

“Yes,” Will answered immediately.

An expectant little pause, as though Hannibal were waiting for something.

“Please?” Will guessed, a flash of warmth blossoming unexpectedly in his belly. He could almost feel Hannibal’s proud answering smile, like sun on his cheek.

Hannibal held out a small warm pastry giving off a fabulously rich and buttery steam.

“Vol au vent,” he offered. “Duxelle and oyster mushrooms sautéed in garlic and brown butter. Picked myself.”

Will opened his mouth eagerly and then closed it again with a sudden snap, frowning. Hickory-smoked salmon and caviar.  A long-cellared Pouilly-Fuissé Tête de Cru.  He’d had something just like that at Loche Fyne when it had opened. Had gushed over the meal in his review, in fact. But that was what, five years ago? And the duxelle and oyster mushroom vol au vent. He’d eaten a little pie like that at the Fig & Oak at least two years ago, right? Rated it very favorably too.

He shifted uneasily in his chair, deeply unnerved. “What is this?” he joked. “Will Graham’s greatest hits?”

Hannibal smiled again, broadly pleased. Clever boy. “Taste is not only biochemical, it is also psychological.”

“Angling to obliterate ‘My Dinner with Abel’ by elevating your competitors’ signature dishes to art?”

Hannibal paused, startled by the sharp teasing insight. “Yes,” he agreed shortly.

He set the remains of the tiny vol au vent down on the table. It seemed he’d crushed it in his fingers at some point. He wiped his hands briskly then looked down at Will, waiting there for him. Eyes bound and lips slightly parted. His cheeks flushed petalpink beneath the red slash of the blindfold. He picked up another fragile mushroom puff, grateful Will couldn’t see the traitorous little tremble in his hand.

“Shall we pick up where we left off, Mr. Graham?”

Will cocked his head to the side as though he could sense Hannibal’s uncertainty. “I think I ought to be Will to you now, don’t you?”

“Will then,” Hannibal said softly, his voice like a caress. “Shall we go on?”

Will grinned, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Yes. Please.”

*             *             *

After the rich earthy crackle of the wild mushroom pastry, there was a forkful of perfectly flaky salt-baked red snapper. A sour cleansing shot of firecold Calvados followed by rich, savory bite of what Hannibal said was pork loin in a sauce of red berries, but tasted strangely unlike any pork Will had ever eaten.

The rough edge of a fabric napkin pressed just below the curve of his lower lip, scraping over sensitive, newly smooth skin.

The sound of steel against bone and the cracking of a shell. The fresh flare of saltwater. Unctuous bloodwarm uni slithering dryly over the tips of a pair of smooth sleek chopsticks and across his eager tongue.

A toothsome little nikuman followed, plump with soursweet filling. Will’s canines pierced its resilient pasta flesh and a bit of sauce spilled from the corner of his mouth. He felt the rough pad of Hannibal’s thumb against his lips, wiping it away, and he flicked his tongue over it deliberately, sucking at the salt-tang of Hannibal’s skin. Hannibal gasped, a sharp spike of indrawn breath.

Will drifted in swoony seductive ease as he ate what Hannibal offered. Chewed and swallowed and opened his mouth for Hannibal again and again. Sighing with deep pleasure after every bite. Feeling cared for and carefree. His eyes closed and his hands lax in his lap as Hannibal fed him. Filled him.

The vast chrome kitchen closed in comfortably around them until there was nothing in the world beyond the spill of candlelight that encircled their table. Hannibal’s knee pressed warmly against the outside of Will’s thigh every time he leaned forward to present some new delicacy, the tips of his fingers brushing ever more intimately over Will’s cheek, his mouth. Trailing delicately down the long pale line of his throat as he swallowed.

The jagged feel of something ice cold against his lips startled Will from his dozy-warm cocoon. His eyes flew open beneath the blindfold and he jerked away in surprise. Hannibal cupped his cheek and turned his head back gently, cooing encouragement.

“Only palate cleanser before dessert,” he murmured reassuringly. “Taste.”

Sharp icy flakes of frozen champagne burned tartly on Will’s tongue and melted away. He sighed with delight and relaxed against the back of the chair, one hand settling on his full belly. He was flushed with good wine and strong brandy and absolutely stuffed.

“Good?” Hannibal asked, a little smug.

“Good?” Will murmured, languid and teasing. “No.”

He sighed again and stretched, his back crackling in a very satisfying fashion. “Delicious. Everything was delicious. You’ve spoiled me completely for any other chef.”

“Have I?” Hannibal asked with shamefully unsuppressed interest.

“Maybe,” Will teased. “I’m pretty sure no other chef would hand feed me all my favorites to make up for a bad review.”

“A terrible review, Will. Shattering. Eviscerating.”

Will tilted his head and grinned in Hannibal’s general direction. “No chef I know would have had the audacity to pull what you pulled tonight, eviscerating review or not.”

And that was definitely the right thing to say; he could almost feel Hannibal preening.

“Dessert,” Hannibal said, when he’d recovered.

“I can’t,” Will groaned. “I can’t eat even one more thing.”

“You’ll have one bite,” Hannibal coaxed sweetly, his voice low. “For me.”

There was another unexpected flutter in Will’s chest. A coil of heat at the base of his spine. “One bite,” he agreed slowly. “For you.”

“Open,” Hannibal murmured and placed a single, shiny red square on Will’s tongue.

The sour candy shell cracked in Will’s teeth revealing a layer of smooth dark chocolate over a chocolate mousse filling. In the very middle was a tiny spherical cage of cherry spun sugar that dissolved immediately against the tip of his tongue.

Will moaned shamelessly, eyes fluttering closed behind the blindfold. “Oh that’s good. I’ve never had anything like it.”

“No you wouldn’t have. Dessert is entirely my design.”

“An original finale to a meal of imitation?”

“A meal of elevation,” Hannibal retorted. “And it’s not quite the finale. I have one more thing for you. But this, you will need your eyes for.”

“You promised there wasn’t anything else,” Will complained, a little surprised at the pouting petulance in his own voice.

“Just wait,” Hannibal chuckled.

He removed the provisional blindfold with a flourish and set it aside. Then he presented Will with a large fragile bowl made from a shallow white shell.

Balanced on its rounded back in the middle of the bowl was half an avocado- dark green pebbled skin wrapped around soft bright green flesh. The smooth round pit like a perfect pebble nestled in the middle. And carved in the flesh all around the pit were the most elaborate whorls and curls and arches. It would have required a steady hand and impeccable exacting effort.

It was a lot of effort to go to for a joke.

“Ostentatious avocado,” Will whispered, smiling.

Hannibal nodded and leaned in to press his lips to the curve of Will’s ear.

“Ostentatious avocado,” he agreed.

[dubaiinteriorsblog]

Buy Best Blinds in Dubai

Many customers use the ones phrases interchangeably to seek advice from many styles of window coverings. However, they’re brilliant classes that divide your window interiors in dubai protecting alternatives in half of.

At the maximum primary stage, purchase blinds in dubai are hard window coverings made with horizontal slats, and solar sun shades are window coverings made from one or extra quantities of fabric. In feature, they each obtain the aim of masking your window, but these options range appreciably in operation, fee, style and one of a kind capabilities.

 While choosing among blinds or sunglasses, there can be one fundamental query you want to invite yourself:

Privateness + light manage

Blinds and shades satisfy those needs in a single-of-a-kind approaches. Curtains in dubai have slats, which can be tilted for adjustable light control. Shades are made with a stable piece of fabric, just so they quality have alternatives – open or closed. However, if you pick out out a mild filtering material, you'll be able to permit in herbal mild on the equal time as maintaining your window interiors dubai protected for whole privacy.

Durability due to the fact blinds are made from hard materials like wooden, % like in % folding doorways and aluminum, they hold as an lousy lot as put on and tear better than sun shades.

Style simple white office blinds dubai come widely recognized in most new houses. You couldn’t pass wrong with this conventional look, however some may additionally moreover find them uninteresting.

Every blinds and sunglasses can offer you with a high stop appearance. If you’re decorating a proper residing or dining room, attempt stained wood blinds or roman sun shades in a cloth.

In case you want your windows to make an statement in preference to aggregate into the heritage – go along with a roman blinds dubai in a colourful print. There are 100s of fabric to be had, so that you can discover a sample to suit any vicinity.

 Insulation maximum office blinds in dubai are available in patterns which might be extra relaxed for youngsters. How ever, in case you select a cordless or motorized increase for cell solar sun shades or roller solar sun shades – no cords might be exposed.

 Price a number of the overarching classes of blinds and sun shades, it couldn’t be stated that one is more than the alternative. However, while we check greater unique styles, expenses can variety.

Sun shades can be less costly and lots greater steeply-priced than blinds. Essential roller blinds dubai can be little in charge consistent with window, even as a roman color with an immoderate first-rate fabric and motorized lift can be a bit extra. Sun shades are to be with many greater custom alternatives, so that they have the capability to be extra steeply highly-priced than blinds at the excessive forestall.

 Because of the reality to buy blinds in dubai we've got fewer custom alternatives, you could get an immoderate give up look for a lot much less. Inspire of all of the available bells and whistles, a blind can be much less highly-priced than it's far maximum of the first-rate color equal.

Call now (00971)fifty six-600-9626, 04-2959449 or electronic mail: info@dubaiinteriors.Ae. Contact us at http://dubaiinteriors.Ae/

 “we serve our customers across uae in dubai, abudhabi, sharjah, al ain, ajman, al fujairah and umm al quwain”. Our google maps vicinity is at https://goo.Gl/maps/s76k71mtmwm2

[vsshoes1b-blog]

Luggage - From Economical to Large Conclusion, and Almost everything In-Between!

The very first group is the reasonably priced Conference Tote. Because they are aptly named, they can be supplied out at Conventions, Trade-shows, and Conferences. They are really usually made of Non Woven or Poly Denier supplies and therefore are intended for holding the papers, "goodies" and catalogs gathered at these reveals. These are usually sized at somewhere around 15" x 15" that has a gusset ranging from 1" which happens to be suitable for meetings where by they have got to carry papers and data files to 4" for that other venues based upon whatever they are meant to hold. They may be "budget friendly" as well as limitless designs provided range from "Basic Black" to colours with extraordinary types that will improve any emblem or business graphic. The second grouping is the Eco Pleasant - Recyclable Tote. The latest pattern is usually to "Go Green" and consider treatment of our earth. These bags are not only made from recyclable resources, but are fully recyclable also. They can be the acknowledged Grocery Totes. That will help with this particular bring about men and women are generally selecting to bring their own personal Grocery Totes into the grocery store in lieu of using the paper or plastic bags furnished via the outlets. Inside this grouping there are numerous measurements you could decide on from within a rainbow of colours, all inexpensively priced! With regards to the amount ordered, you could commonly get these luggage for underneath $1 that has a a person shade imprint! Essential Totes will be the Third grouping. They are the totes we use in day-to-day living, whether it's for any day journey, weekend getaway, getting the children to the park or making the most of a picnic. You identify it, they can be made use of three hundred and sixty five days a calendar year! They can range from that contains a simple huge compartment, to entrance pockets, separate inner compartments and side mesh pockets designed to hold cell phones, drinking water bottles and in many cases folding umbrellas! There is basically an countless assortment to pick from according to the situation and budget. It can be an exciting activity checking them out! Potentially one of the most pleasing grouping is definitely the Seaside Tote. They're normally fabricated from lightweight to mid-weight cotton canvas fabric with matching colored straps and base, entrance pockets along with a massive most important compartment to hold towels and all equipment. One more well-liked substance could be the craze again to Jute/Burlap material - pretty "Beachy" in its texture and appear. However nothing at all screams "BEACH" additional compared to Blue and White broad stripe structure. It places 1 in a very wonderful laid back again mood just thinking about it, anticipating the nice situations which have been going to occur! The ultimate grouping is definitely the Substantial End Tote. Provided in this particular team could be the traditional Boat Tote made of good quality heavyweight canvas normally mcm online with leather straps and accents with stylish components. They could also be all leather-based or recognizable model names like Cutter & Buck. While over the expensive aspect, sometimes you will want to pamper your clients and/or employees and show them how much you appreciate them by using a tote that is not simply practical but fashionable also. Believe me there is certainly quite a collection out there! As it is possible to see, selecting the perfect tote is not an easy endeavor with all of the choices available and can actually become overwhelming and stressful as well. To avoid that, just mcm backpacks cheap keep two things in mind before starting your search. The primary would be to pick one of the categories mentioned that fit juicy couture outlet the ultimate goal you are trying to attain. The opposite would be to pick a REALISTIC price selection that suits your marketing spending budget. You can narrow down the field significantly and selecting the perfect tote now becomes a fun and exciting adventure. Happy Hunting!

[starttechgq-blog]

Squeezed: How a DIY novice constructed a sun based iPhone charger in 3 hours Or, on the other hand, "How I increased my nerd cred one morning for $90 in parts and a little moxie."

As a "creator" n00b, I can't express that it is so great to manufacture a natively constructed sun based fueled iPhone charger. The little 2W sun based board as of now sits in the window of my west-bound home office (more on that later). Presently, every evening, as the sun begins blasting onto my work area, I drench up a little power.

I know likely hundreds (or perhaps thousands) of individuals have fabricated comparable chargers some time recently. All things considered, 20,000 individuals went to the principal San Francisco Maker Faire in 2006, and it's just developed since. Across the nation, there are tens or a huge number of producers out there. In any case, there are most likely bounty more would-be DIYers who are interested however haven't yet dove in. I'm here to tell those individuals that for only $90 in parts and three hours of time, you also can keep your iPhone going, wherever you go. Truly.

1% motivation: Getting started

I realize what you're considering. Without a doubt, I could simply get an official Apple charger for $30. Possibly there's an outsider choice for less. What's more, yes, I could toss down $80 for a Mophie Juicepack to meet my outside battery wants. In any case, where's the fun or fulfillment in any of that?Until a week ago, I was one of those individuals who appreciated the craftsmanship required in numerous DIY ventures, however believed that they were a bit excessively included for me. I've generally felt that wordsmithing—as opposed to electrosmithing—is my best ability. That is to say, beyond any doubt, I've swapped some RAM all alone PC some time recently, yet nothing that included a warmth weapon and dissolving metal! However, you truly needn't bother with any foundation to begin. It just takes a thought.

I'd been holding mine for a spell. A couple of years prior, I met Drake Martinet (now of NowThisNews) for lunch in Oakland. The zone frequently gets called the "sunny side" of the San Francisco Bay, and Martinet came wearing a pack with an adaptable sun powered board cut into the top fold. He said he utilized it to charge his telephone while all over the place.

I adored the thought. He keeps his telephone charged and doesn't need to consider it. My telephone always runs low. I practically need to convey a charger with me when I'm on the run. In the event that I get truly control cognizant, I go into no-Internet/no-GPS mode. In case I'm truly urgent—here comes Airplane Mode, turning it off again just to rapidly send/get instant messages.

As far back as I saw Martinet's, I couldn't shake the idea. How cool would it be to have a comparative setup?

Enrolling help and collecting the pieces

Prior this mid year, I specified this thought to my companion Malcolm Knapp, an electrical architect here in Berkeley. Malcolm didn't think it would be unpleasantly troublesome. A couple Google seeks demonstrated him adjust. Was it not troublesome, as well as in 2009, somebody as of now set up together a pleasant Instructables page laying out each progression. To boot, it has a cutesy name: the MightyMintyBoost. Vitally, the page incorporates a shopping list (critically, on the grounds that, I didn't discover the directions Martinet gave me until well subsequent to finishing this venture).

Obviously, Instructables or a proficient companion aren't the main spots to begin. Sites like HackADay and magazines like Make offer awesome assets, as well. So why did I in the long run keep Malcolm included? For the most part, I needed his ability for two reasons: to begin with, to ensure I didn't do any genuine harm to myself or the hardware. What's more, second, well, I don't claim a welding iron. As the partner coordinator of MakeSF, Malcolm couldn't have been a superior educator. Furthermore, when we looked for gear help through the people at Tech Liminal (an Oakland cooperating space), we had an incredible place to do it.Soldering 101

Subsequent to sitting tight for every one of the parts to appear at my entryway (and for Malcolm to get over from his wedding trip), we at last sat down a week ago to do this together. This is what we began with (expenses and delivering included, and we likewise needed to give up a Micro USB link that was kicking around.With every one of the parts accumulated, the time had come to amass the MintyBoost. This little green circuit board, first outlined path in 2006, is intended to take in power from batteries or sunlight based boards and "lift" energy to the 5V that the iPhone is made to take. When it landed via the post office, it was only a cluster of free wires (I took in those were resistors and diodes), a female USB connector, and some cushioning. In this way, step one was to patch the resistors to the board.

"I generally say that fastening is a three-hand work," Malcolm first let me know, as he created an abnormal small holding gadget. "Furthermore, this, is known as a 'third hand.'"

Before us was a little remain with clasps that I could secure my MintyBoost to as I chipped away at it. Malcolm demonstrated to me best practices to twist the resistor legs down and string them through the board. At that point, deliberately, I'd touch the fastening iron to the fibers and, voilà, smooth tin would stream onto the little cushions on the board.

It got less demanding as I took a shot at it—and I immediately realized what happens when you mis-patch something (indicate: you have to evacuate it). A spool of copper strips was created, and through a mix of squeezing warmth to the other side, the bind would hop to the copper.The MintyBoost is alive

Once we'd wrapped up the MintyBoost—taking after basically a similar binding strides for the four resistors, one diode, and two capacitors—the time had come to wire it up to the LiPoly load up.

"Presently we need to do the 'smoke test,'" Malcolm let me know. "That fundamentally implies, in the event that you see smoke, unplug everything—you've accomplished something incorrectly."

No smoke, no fire, and we were well on our way. It took likely not as much as a moment to turn the electrical wires and interface every one of the three components of this setup to each other. Authoritatively, this mix was the MintyBoost associated with the LiPoly, which thus likewise associated with the officially charged battery. The snapshot of truth arrived and—it worked! Eureka! In under two hours we had effectively made a working set of three.

In any case, I'd neglected to get an Altoids tin. Alright, it didn't need to be an Altoids tin. Be that as it may, I required some kind of holder to put the three electronic gadgets (the battery, the LiPoly converter, and the MintyBoost itself) into. So I ran a piece down to the closest alcohol store to get an Altoids tin. Once I'd conveyed the mints among the colleagues and had washed out the tin compartment, we expected to settle the link sustaining power out of the sun based cell. Malcolm demonstrated to me best practices to take that Micro USB link and join it onto the link leaving the sun based board, so we could get control from the board into the LiPoly charger, which would then sustain energy to the iPhone and to the battery.

What's more, with that, it worked, sun based board what not. Malcolm put the froth cushions onto the two sheets so they wouldn't short in the Altoids tin, made a couple of set patterns for each port, and we were done.And for my next trap...

All that is left now is for me to follow the sheets and the battery to the Altoids tin; then I could without much of a stretch keep the entire thing in my pack when I'm all over the place. I likewise need to deal with how best to cling it to my knapsack in the event that I need to copy Martinet precisely; however perhaps velcro strips or fastens or the like will work fine.

Up until this point, I haven't had an opportunity to satisfactorily test my MightyMintyBoost and perceive how long I have to abandon it connected to completely charge my telephone. Truth be told, after the initial couple of days of attempting to utilize the charger around my work area, it didn't appear as though it was completely getting sufficient power. Every now and again I'd get an "Accusing is not bolstered of this adornment" mistake message on the telephone, or it would substitute amongst charging and not.

So I rang up Jerome Kelty, a Colorado-based diamond setter by profession and the creator of that unique Instructable. Kelty revealed to me that I ought to utilize it principally outside."Small boards that way, they practically must be in immediate, open air daylight," he said. "In the event that I have it in my kitchen window, it doesn't work so well."

He clarified that being inside just doesn't draw enough power, and that anything hindering the light—windows, trees, shade—lessens the current. The iPhone is additionally very finicky about how much power it draws all alone.

Kelty said that this Instructable keeps on getting a great deal of consideration, individuals still as often as possible abandon him remarks. He addresses each and every one. Evidently I'm similar to a ton of DIY beginners out there.

"The MintyBoost is an incredible prologue to fastening," he included. "This is an augmentation of that. Fundamentally all you're including is a circuit, yet it's a better than average beginning stage."

Since I've finished my first venture, I feel positive about my capacities to do fundamental patching and take after related directions. Despite everything I am not 100 percent clear on what every one of the components do, yet Malcolm has been extremely tolerant with my occasionally silly inquiries. ("Things being what they are, a capacitor is not the same as a resistor, right?")

I figure I'm prepared to step into the DIY world. I may not possess a patching iron yet, but rather I realize that the closest one is only a 10 minute bicycle ride away. Kelty proposed that for my next venture, as a cyclist, I may attempt to handle his "Definitive Night Vision Headlamp"— it's a shoddy, lightweight, and insane splendid light. This includes patching, as well as sticking LEDs to an old CPU warm sink. (Incidentally, I haven't been this amped up for sticking since grade school!)

So observe, Oakland. On the off chance that you see somebody wearing a silly blue light on two wheels, you've been cautioned. There's another, exceptionally junior individual from the producer development in the area.