#do i know how the snag machine fits into this? no

[desertsportshipping]

If Wes and Leon were in Pokémon mystery dungeon/were Pokémon what Pokémon would they be?

Instead of reviving Wes, Ho-Oh instead reincarnated him as a Rockruff. On the other side of the world, Leon the about-to-become Champion pissed off the Sword and Shield dogs and was reincarnated as a Charmander. Set apart by their shininess, lack of memories and a feeling of deja vu, they have to figure out who they were and where exactly home is... together.

Patreon - Etsy

[callalillywrites]

His Scarred Omega Part 1

Alpha!Bucky really put me in a chokehold the past couple of days. I wasn't even trying to write his story just yet. Was actually trying write a one-shot that would happen after the main story, but yeah, he quite changed my mind and this feverish, 7-part story came to be in two days.

This is set in the same universe as Their Sweet Omega (aka It Takes All Packs to Make It Work). You don't really have to read that story first, which features Alpha!Jake Jensen with Beta!Pre-serum Steve Rogers and their Omega!Reader, but I would love it so much if you did. They hold my heart as much as Bucky does.

Relationship: Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader

Word Count: 1450

Summary: While helping out his friends, Bucky makes a shocking discovery. He's got a daughter he never knew existed.

Warnings: not much in this part beyond one shell-shocked Bucky

A/N: I wrote this story really fast as I mentioned above. It’s proofread but all mistakes are my own.

I also do not give permission for my work to be copied or posted on other sites or fed into an AI machine.

*****

Bucky is a weak man.

He really is.

All it takes a pretty face making those awful puppy eyes at him, and he’s putty in Angel’s hands.

She doesn’t play fair, either, enlisting Steve’s equally effective puppy-dog eyes.

Bucky kowtows in less than five seconds though he’ll forever say it took more than that to get him to agree to help them.

Spooky Season is right around the corner.

Angel and Steve feel bad for telling Jake he can’t buy any more big decorations for their home. It’s already overflowing as it is, but they do know he’s been eyeing a couple of pieces. He really is the best Alpha for them as Jake’s constantly doting on them and taking such good care of them.

One of said pieces is what Angel and Steve have wrangled Bucky into this whole mess.

They drag him to the store to pick up said piece, needing his Alpha strength and build since the piece weighs more than the two of them combined plus some. No way they can get it home, let alone carry it into their home. Delivery isn’t an option, either, without paying triple what the item costs.

So, he’s there and eyeing the piece with them.

A few grumbles come out under his breath. “I’m holding you to your promise, Angel.”

Angel simply smiles at him, knowing she still has his help and nods. “I haven’t forgotten. Name the date, and I’ll be there. We’ll take down that ogre boss together.”

“Your truck will hold this, won’t it, Buck?” Steve can’t help asking, seeing the piece himself and having his own doubts about this plan he and Angel came up with for Jake.

Bucky eyes the box holding the piece for another few moments before he finally nods. “It’ll be a tight fit, but I’ll make it work.”

With that, the trio begin working on pulling the giant statue from the low shelf and onto the flatbed cart they snagged from an employee.

With that successfully done, Angel quickly grabs up a spare ticket for the cashier to scan since the barcode is poorly placed on the bottom of the box. Not something they’re going to want to deal with and slow down the few lanes open at this time of day.

“I’ll go ahead and pay for it if you two want to start making your way to the truck,” Steve says, taking the ticket from Angel and rushing off before she can think to argue.

Bucky bites back a smile when he sees and hears Angel huff at Steve’s retreating back.

“The punk is gone, Angel,” he says.

“He promised we’d split this gift.” Angel turns back to Bucky with a look he’s come to understand all too well in the almost two years he’s known her now. He does his best to brace himself as she grabs the front of the flatbed cart. “Time to do some extra shopping, I guess. If I can’t use my money on Jake, then I’m going to use it on Stevie.”

Shaking his head, Bucky knows better than to try and dissuade her at this point. “How are you going to hide this gift from him when he’s with us?”

Rather than answer, Angel just gives him a mischievous look that has him bracing for whatever he’s about to witness.

He can’t help wondering how Jake handles these two most days as Angel drags him towards the art supply aisles of the store. A basket somehow ends up in the crook of her arm where she’s already tossing several items within it. How that happened, he can and will never be able to explain.

Within five minutes, she has the basket overflowing with supplies.

Bucky can make out a lot of the brands that Steve really likes, including some of the more expensive items that Steve only splurges occasionally to get himself.

When Angel is satisfied with her overflowing basket, she grabs hold of the flatbed and helps him maneuver toward the front of the store again.

Seeing the satisfied grin on her face, Bucky can’t help wondering if he’ll ever find someone who wants to spoil him as much as Angel, Steve, and Jake spoil each other. That’s the kind of love Bucky wants, but he’s not sure it’ll ever be in the cards for him.

It’s on their way back that they overhear a young girl, probably no older than 8 or 9 as she whined about one of the latest costume trends. “All the girls are going as Harley Quinn this year, Auntie. Please? Please?”

The woman’s voice niggles at Bucky as he overhears the woman say, “You can go as a butterfly or a witch, but I draw the line at Harley, Gracie. We can talk about Harley when you’re older.”

“Mama would’ve let me go as Harley,” the young girl named Gracie grouses back. “I wish she was here instead of you.”

Bucky isn’t sure why or how it’s possible, but it’s like he can feel the disappointment and sadness of the woman at the young girl’s words. No doubt the woman is an Omega, but he’s never had such a reaction to someone like this before. He briefly wonders if Jake has had this reaction with either Angel or Steve before. A mental note is made to ask Jake later about it.

When they round the corner, Bucky gets his first glimpse of the Omega and the young girl named Gracie.

He forgets how to breathe as he takes in the familiar features of a woman he never thought to see again. A woman who’d been little more than a young lady when he last saw her.

Has it really been almost ten years since he’s seen her?

Yet, it’s not the Omega from his past that captures his focus as much as Gracie does.

The little girl’s appearance is enough to send Bucky to his knees.

It’s not possible.

It can’t be.

Yet, there’s no denying this Gracie looks just like him. The same dark hair. The same crystal blue eyes. Even her nose and mouth match his as they pout up at her aunt.

“You okay, Buck?” Angel asks, her gaze going between him and the Omega with the little girl. “Bucky?”

Her questions don’t go unnoticed, either, as the Omega turns her attention to them. Her eyes widen and her lip instantly goes between her teeth. A gesture that Bucky recalls she does when she’s feeling guilty about something.

No one speaks for another full minute.

At least, not until Steve happens upon them and sees the Omega.

“Sapphire, is that really you?” Steve asks before his gaze drops to the little girl.

Bucky knows he’d be laughing at Steve’s comically shocked expression if he could just get the ability to breathe and function back into his own body.

“Who is this?” Steve finally asks with a soft smile at the little girl. He holds out his hand to the little girl and introduces himself.

“I’m Gracie.”

She adds her last name as she takes Steve’s hand.

Steve’s gaze bounces between Gracie and Bucky. It’s clear he’s coming to the same conclusions Bucky already has made at seeing the little girl.

Gracie is his kid, and Dot is her mother.

Dot, the woman who broke his heart all those years ago with a Dear John letter. The same woman who has given birth to his child and never bothered to tell him.

“So, I think we need to talk,” her aunt says, her gaze never leaving Bucky.

Bucky nods, drawing on his inner alpha to help him regain control of himself.

“Yeah, we do.”

He wants answers, and he’s going to make sure he gets them one way or another.

“Tomorrow at noon?” her aunt asks, naming a quiet café not too far from the store.

Bucky nods again, then turns his attention to Gracie.

A small smile grows on his features as she’s lost interest in Steve and has turned her attention to him. Her eyes study him in a way that he knows he’s done with others throughout his life. She’s taking note of everything about him, and he can only hope he doesn’t end up disappointing her.

Whatever doubts he might have, they disappear the longer he and Gracie measure each other.

She’s his.

When she holds out her little hand to him, he has to swallow the emotions clogging his throat as she introduces herself. It takes him a few tries before he can tell her his name in return.

Now, he has to make sure he doesn’t lose any more time than he’s already lost with her.

*****

Verse Masterlist / Main Masterlist

[the-hellhounds]

The night had dawned upon the territory of the hounds and the gates were open once more for the spookiest night of the year. Houses were decorated with scary and horrifying decorations, pumpkins led up along the walkways and up to the front porches.

The night had begun, and a new fear was soon to appear.

Screaming around the house as Minjun was ready to trick-or-treat with his uncles, his dalmatian onesie already on, and his candy bag wagging around in his hands.

"Do we really have to give candy away? Can't we just keep some?" Sunwoo asked as he laid on a couch, his grim reaper costume hiding the snacks he had snagged from Jake.

"Yes," Hanbin curses when archangel wings get stuck on a fake spiders web. "We need to show the city people that we mean no harm... and that we're somewhat normal."

Sighing, Sunwoo watches how Minjun ran out of their house and possibly towards Jaemin, which was lighting up more carved pumpkins.

"Ready?" Sua asks Nikki, sensing the omega's nervous gestures all afternoon as they had gotten ready together. "You took some of my pills. You should be fine for the night," She tries to reassure her.

"Yeah... I should be..." The omega mumbles, looking down to her shoes and fixing her hat as she follows Sua outside.

"Please stop looking at the poor pup," Hyuck muttered to Taeyong as he eyed Nikki's twin sister who had come to help them all with the trick-or-treaters.

The hybrid always striking a cord to Taeyong's heart and his nether regions whenever she was near.

Clenching his jaw, he readjusted his seat on the porch he shared a space with Hyuck and Johnny. "I can't help it. That guy is onto my pup. I can't let some guy steal my pups' love."

"You know," Johnny chirped in as he walked outside with another bowl of candy. The first few trick-or-treaters cheering as he handed them some. "He did say to leave her alone." He says with a toothy smile as he waved to a ghost kid run off with his friends.

"And the guy seems dangerous." Hyuck noted as he looked around to see Minjun with Jaemin and Chenle. His mind easing up from where his child was.

Grunting, Taeyong's eyes suddenly turned red. Scaring a few kids as they screamed and smiled at him. "She's just so precious..."

"Stop it, Gollum," Hyuck teased as he growled at some kids. Scaring them and laughing as they ran off to the next house.

"And Lisa and uncle Kyu took me to the zoo and told me to not tell mommy and papa and told me that they would buy me ice crweam!" Minjun blabbered out as he held Jeno's hand. Not seeing the two hounds' eyes widen in confusion.

"So that's why Sua asked me if he was at mines," Jaemin muttered from next to Chenle.

"They really are out here kidnapping a baby hound instead of making one?" Chenle shook his head as he spun his fake wand around his fingers.

"Hey, Min? How about you go play with the fog machine?" Jeno asked the toddler, fixing his dalmatian onesie and giving him one of his kind smiles.

"Yay!!" Running off with his candy bag, Minjun dodged some princesses on his way.

"Man, I wish I was a kid again..." Chenle sighed watching the toddler be as happy as ever.

Turning to his friends, Jeno looked more serious in his skeleton fit. "Have any of you noticed that half our pack have been looking..."

"Half awake?" Jaemin continued his sentence.

"So you both noticed too?" Jeno asks, seeing both Chenle and Jaemin nod. Staring at them as he couldn't figure out why half their pack was always sleeping more than usual. He gets a tug on his elbow that makes him turn to find Sua and Nikki with pale faces.

"Have you seen Minjun?" Sua asks. "We can't find him!"

"Oh yeah, he's by the fog machine," Chenle points over to one of their houses that had fog machines lined up to create an eerie pathway up to the front door.

Turning their heads to where he pointed out to, they find the walkway empty, and Kun passed out on his rocking chair.

"Shit!" Jeno cursed as they ran over to find a candy bag on the ground. Minjun's glow stick attached to it.

Feeling her heart go into overdrive, Sua's eyes darted all around for her baby. "MINJUN!? MINJUN!" She yelled, running away in search of the baby hound.

"He's going to kill me..." Jeno whispered as he lifted the candy bag up. Dreading what was to come if they don't find Minjun before Hyuck finds out.

Where's Minjun? 😭 🔥 : @badbf-cb ( lisa ♥︎ ) - @fantasyaespa ( ningning ♥︎ ) - @raiden-oc ( 🌺 ♥︎ ) @monsterhigh-cb ( jaemin ) - @livealittleoc-cb ( jay & ace ★ × ♠︎ ) - @dc-heroes-cb - @kavengers-assemble - @multi-esme

[popodoki]

Hey, teacher! My Catwin motorcycle AU, PART 6

and they still ain't boning lads, this is still sfw x

Thomas, Edwin can tell, is trying his damnedest not to inhale his food like a vacuum does dust.  He has decent table manners, though one elbow has been planted right on the table for the entire meal. To his credit, he did put the napkin in his lap when they sat down. To Edwin’s credit, he resolutely doesn’t look further up than elbow-level. 

They finish the meal among amicable small talk, and Thomas insists on clearing the plates, even going so far as to properly rinse them, place them delicately in the rack of the dishwasher after Edwin points it out for him. "Least I can do," he insists, "Don't know if I made it clear before, but I really appreciate this. Hot shower, nice meal, and a warm bed? More than I've had freely offered in a while. So, thanks, is all.” Thomas turns to him, leaning on his hands on the counter behind him. “Thanks, ghostie."  

The smile sent his way is full of warmth as well as something Edwin can’t quite decipher, prompting Edwin to try to keep how moved he is by the heartfelt thanks hidden. "It’s nothing. Pleasant company is always welcome in my home." 

What, screams his inner voice. No it's not. You hate entertaining. Why are you lying? 

Thomas excuses himself soon after dinner, citing too many hours on the road in the last week, not nearly enough rest. They say goodnight, and Edwin snags a random book from the shelf on his way upstairs to bed. Turning the cover over in his hands once he’s settled, he can’t help but let out a little huff. In the end, Edwin can hardly focus on Pride and Prejudice, instead spends too many hours staring at the ceiling, thinking of the man downstairs, before he eventually drifts off to sleep. 

Edwin doesn't often truly dream. When he does, it's of places he'll never visit, sights he'll never see, foods he'll never taste and sounds he'll never hear. He dreams of wide-open mountain ranges, green at the bottom, snowy on top. Of long roads, veins of asphalt, cutting through fields of different coloured roses, various crops. Mom 'n' Pop Diners, that only serve the greasiest, most delicious crap food you've ever had the pleasure to eat. The salty wind of the coasts, a chill that bites your nose, whips at your hair.  

Edwin wakes up feeling trapped, practically throwing the covers off the bed in his quest for more air. When he sits up, he smells breakfast being cooked downstairs, and he hastily dresses in plain jeans, a button-down shirt, folding and pressing down the cuffs on his wrists as he cautiously pads down the stairs, steps wary. 

Thomas is definitely cooking at his stove, and he seems to have retrieved his dry laundry from the machine on the back porch. His clothes look clearly washed, fresh, clean, and utterly unconventional. Edwin thinks he recognizes the white socks, and the black shirt, though he can’t recall if the material felt quite as sheer in his hands, as it looks worn. His eyes flit between the socks and the top, down, back up, down, back up, but Edwin’s gaze can’t help its stutter in the middle. Thomas is wearing a kilt. A dark tartan, adorned with a pair of gleaming buckles, that could be decorative, could also be the fastenings, that hold the fabric tight over Thomas’s hips- Thomas is wearing a kilt, as he cooks, carefully tending to whatever he's got going with a spatula.   

Dressed in his own clothes, that fit him, Thomas looks comfortable, much more like the man Edwin had first spotted outside the school yesterday. Was it truly just yesterday? 

"Morning!" Thomas salutes him with the spatula. 

Edwin’s grateful for the distraction of glancing at the clock; 10am. He doesn't tend to sleep this late, but usually he remembers to set his alarm. "Good morning." he manages to affect a pleasant tone, unsure as he is, thoughts rolling around his head, centering on a stranger making himself so comfortable in his home, a stranger looking so comfortable, so at home, in his home. 

"Have a seat, this is just about done." Thomas spends a mere moment looking for the correct dishes and utensils, his obvious familiarity with Edwin’s kitchen just sending his head spinning again, having him sinking in his seat rather heavily as the other sets about serving up two helpings of cheese omelette. 

He tries not to look too sceptical as he takes the first bite, finds his concern absolutely unwarranted. "This is quite good," Edwin insists, completely earnest, "did you whip the eggs with milk?" He inspects the meal, sees various crumbled herbs, meticulously distributed. Thomas preens, taking a bite himself. "I know a thing or two, about a thing or two.” He winks, and Edwin can’t help his answering smile. “I wanted to pay you back for the nice dinner last night, this is really the only thing I know how to make well." He laughs. "Eggs are hard to screw up, you just have to not burn them." 

"Deceptively simple instructions." Edwin offers, thinking about all the times he has burned the eggs, spent an hour scraping it off the pan.   

They finish their breakfast, both humming contentedly at the last, flavourful bite. Washing away the last of the taste, Edwin smiles from behind the rim of his glass. "Well, you can make me breakfast whenever you can. You make good eggs." What. His inner voice pipes up, again. No, really, what. 

Thomas eyeballs him, a smirk making its way onto his face. He looks as though he's about to make a joke, or worse, an observation, but obviously thinks better of it, shifts gears. Edwin rather hates how well he can read the man across the table, that he can follow the other’s thought process plainly on his face, start to finish, while he himself is left floundering at his own mind’s whims, remnants of utter panic still clogging his throat because where the Hells did that comment come from, you idiot? 

"I'd take you up on that Ghostie, only it doesn't seem like this town will take too kindly to me wandering around." 

"They're allergic to leather jackets. We'll find you a nice tweed suit, you'll blend right in." Stop, what are you doing? 

Thomas pretends to retch, dissolves into laughter, closer to giggles, at the thought. It's rather endearing, Edwin thinks.   

Before Thomas is done laughing, Edwin tells himself to stop feeling those feelings, immediately.  But he knows himself too well. He's been down this road before. This is the beginning of a full-blown crush. On another man. Good job, Edwin, well done. 

And then the doorbell rings, and Edwin actually considers not answering it. He huffs, excuses himself, and when he realizes who it is before he opens the door, he sighs, groans, and steels himself, opening the door with the most pleasant smile he can force onto his face. 

"Ah, Madam Finch. How are you this morning?" 

Esther Finch doesn’t have to physically enter the doorway, for her expensive perfume to marinate Edwin’s entire hallway. Her forward lean doesn’t help matters, Edwin obligingly offers her his hand to clutch, if only to stave off any actual advance.  

“Edwin, dear boy, I was just in the vicinity,” she drawls, overt syrupy tone crawling out from violently red tinted lips, speaking slowly, as to prolong every second she can keep hold of Edwin’s attention, “you know the Homeowner’s Association has an ordinance against non-running vehicles,” she quips, the thinly veiled barb offered as like a sudden thought, as if they’ve been conversing for a while already, with a far from subtle side-eye thrown at Thomas’ bike, perched legally on the driveway, “but don’t fret, nobody’ll hear it from me, hm? Our little secret. That’s not at all why I’m here dear, truly, don’t fret. I’m merely confirming, transparency and all, your presence at today’s picnic, later? We all know its public, free of course, a wonderful community coming together, but you and I both know how fast the best seats fill up.” She winks, nods briskly, as if she’s sharing an inside joke. “I need to reserve your seat, at my table. Tell me I can expect you around noon?” 

When Edwin returns to the kitchen, a good few minutes later, Thomas actually looks concerned when he asks if Edwin is really thinking of going.  

Edwin sighs, refills his mug, almost wishing he could replace the coffee with something stronger.  "I'm afraid that I must, or Esther will insinuate herself into my life at every opportunity, until I join her at some other function. At least this one is out in public. If I went to one of her dinner parties, she'd probably corner me in the restroom, bite my head off. Or worse." He rolls his eyes, and Thomas chuckles. 

"Not interested, huh?" 

"That," he points at the other, "is putting it quite mildly. I mean, even if I did-" Edwin stops himself, shaking his head. Idiot, he'd almost said it out loud. "It's just that I find her repellent in every way.  Do you know," he leans forward, conspiratorially. "She's been whispering around town that so many of our town's problems would melt away, if only we segregated the schools again." 

Thomas frowns so hard his forehead creases. "Disgusting. Not one of those." 

"Oh, indeed." Edwin rolls his eyes as dramatically as possible. "And she knows just how loudly she can complain about it. Not too quietly, that no one cares, but not too loudly, not risking a backlash. She's diabolical. A right proper witch. And this town is just awful enough, to allow it." 

The kitchen fills with discussions about the horrors of middle-aged women, with far too much power and time on their hands. A part of Edwin wishes he can bring Thomas with him to the picnic. If for no other reason, than to see Esther's face when a motorcycle ruins her picnic's "immaculate" aesthetic. But he can’t do that to Thomas.  

When Thomas asks if he can use a gardening hose or something similar, to wash his bike, Edwin explains where to find the proper tools, and decides a shower would do himself some good as well. Under the hot blast of the water, Edwin does start to feel a little bit better. There was nothing like a good breakfast and a piping-hot shower to make one feel like a new man. And, thinking back on all the events of this morning, Edwin realizes they never truly broached the subject of Thomas leaving anytime soon. Edwin doesn’t want to contemplate exactly why that makes him so pleased. But he can’t not acknowledge that he is that, pleased. Greatly. Edwin engages in the guiltiest, most silent wank he's had, since he was a teenager still living at home.   

For those short, blessed moments, he forgets all about the church picnic. 

[aloysiavirgata]

Dancing that ISNT the PMP scene. Fucking love you gorgeous. ❤️❤️❤️

3 AM finds him waking up stiff and disoriented in the vinyl chair of her hospital room, his feet propped on an upside-down plastic wastebasket. His tie is hanging from the IV pole.

Mulder tests his joints, grimaces at the left shoulder. He’d overstretched it at the pool, shredding 2000 meters in under 30 minutes. He’s been lifting more, been running until he vomits. He doesn’t know if he’s punishing his body for being fit or trying to radiate so much health she’ll absorb it.

Perhaps if it’s the second he’ll need to feed it something other than coffee, Diet Coke, and sunflower seeds. Must be the first.

He examines her narrow form in the bruised light. Scully’s breath snuffles a bit at the cannula and he scans for blood at it but sees none. Her cheekbones curve resolutely past her patrician nose, down to her full, dry lips. There is a small tin of Smith’s Rosebud Salve on the fake wood nightstand. He resists the urge to rub a layer over them. He resists the urge to kiss her beautiful, cracked mouth.

Mulder sighs a bit, runs a finger around the back of his collar. She looks warm to him, looks safe and cared for and utterly beyond his ability to be of use. But he stays anyway, like one of those dogs that sleeps at the grave of its master.

He roams past the nurse’s station, where Jane and Esther give him sympathetic looks. They aren’t supposed to let him sleep in Scully’s room, but Esther is from Yorkshire and calls him lamb and duck and love, and he’s pretty sure he could get the lithe Jane in bed if he wanted to.

He’s drowned his sorrows in lanky brunettes before though, and it never quite took. Turns out he’s a man for dainty gingers.

The radio at the nurse’s station plays “Carolina In My Mind” and he hums along softly, making a styrofoam cup of tea. His father was happy in Raleigh. He was too, as much as he was happy anywhere. He thinks he might move down when Scully goes into the ground, a truth he can only admit at 3 AM. At all other times he will save her.

“Nah then, duck,” Esther says. “Tea from the machine, yer daft ‘apeth, when I’ve a proper kettle ‘ere? ‘Ow’s thy lass?”

He shrugs, smiles vaguely. Jane smiles back. Vaguely.

Mulder presses his head to the faded green wall as his tea steeps. It’ll be terrible, but strong. That’s good enough for him.

He hears a soft shuffling and looks up.

Scully in her spotless white robe and soft slippers, Scully like a Willow Ptarmigan approaching winter. The skin around her eyes is the delicate color of sublimated iodine.

“Scully,” he says, at a loss. She is beautiful in the way of alabaster vases, of all things that can shatter.

She yawns, lips shiny with the salve. Her hands are very thin when she covers her mouth. “Wonderful Tonight” begins on the radio now.

Esther smiles, looks away. Jane checks her watch and walks down the opposite corridor.

“Tea?” Scully says. “That’s more my brand. Why are you still here?”

He gulps the bitter brew. Winces. “I fell asleep,” he says, which is an answer but no answer at all.

“Mmm,” Scully says. She prepares herself some tea as well. Her white hands on the cup, her lower lip snagged between her teeth.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” Mulder says.

“You didn’t. I just woke up. I do that a lot. My circadian rhythm…”

They don’t talk about her suprachiasmatic nucleus of the hypothalamus deep within her brain. Of what it might mean if it’s off kilter.

“I was noisy,” Mulder lies, looking at her nose again. He moves like a cat in her room. Like a thief in the night. “Banged into the bed.”

Scully smiles serenely. “It’s all right.”

Jane stalking the perimeter, Jane frowning at her clipboard.

The moon out the window like a scythe in the dark.

He loves her, does she know? Does he know what he would do to save her and how he’d do it and that he’d swim through blood and blood and blood for her, 2000 meters and back again in a heartbeat?

Scully puts her tea down, Scully looks at him with her late summer eyes in this month of her birth. Scully is dying.

On the radio, The Beatles begin “Let It Be,” and what the fuck, he draws her in, her tousled hair and fluffy robe and her rattan ribs.

“Mulder,” she says, peering up. She clutches his left hand with the pale garden spider of her right.

He twirls her beneath the fluorescent lights. He kisses her her forehead because if he kisses her mouth like he wants to she will die.

Jane does another lap and Esther pretends to read a chart and Scully murmurs along with Paul McCartney.

Mulder watches the flat light bounce off her hair, watches her sway, watches her smile for a moment. She tucks her head against his chest as the song ends, doesn’t withdraw.

“Angel Is A Centerfold” begins, which is hardly the mood he wanted, but they both laugh and the scythe of a moon fades away as they sing Na-na, na-na-na-na, Na-na-na, na-na-na-na in something like harmony.

He doesn’t know what song is next, but he holds her through it and the next one and a few more and Esther and Jane are replaced and the sun begins to burn the blackness away and Scully is warm and awake and alive in his arms for at least another day.

[campgender]

from “Soft Butch” by Nora E. Derrington, published in Fat & Queer: An Anthology (2022)

image description below the cut.

I: Soft

There’s an onomatopoeia to the word. It begins with a sibilant, sinuous, sensual ess, then moves on to a gentle ah that caresses the palate. Then the quick succession of consonants hitting the lips and teeth like a playful kitten batting a toy mouse. The word is a delicacy, smooth and subtle.

As a descriptor, it can be tactile: pliable, cushioned, comfortable. Cotton sheets worn silky smooth. Downy puppy fur. Velvet rose petals drawn across bare skin. But of course, the negative associations slip in quickly: pliable becomes yielding, yielding becomes weak. A soft touch. Soft-hearted. A big softie. An antonym not just for hard but for strong.

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be strong, to be tough. I didn’t want to be soft. How could I be anything but soft, though, when PE was my worst subject and I was so sensitive that the slightest injustice—Nikki’s mom yelling at me for wearing shoes on Nikki’s waterbed, even though the tell-tale footprint clearly came from Nikki’s shoe—or most mundane tragedy—restless teens dismembering a cheap claw-machine teddy bear in my presence—never failed to make me cry?

II. Butch

More onomatopoeia here, too: a voiced plosive, a deep vowel, three consonants in a row. Similar in feel to “macho”—but subtly different in meaning. Stereotypically masculine. Nothing about me has ever been masculine, so how could I ever be butch?

Dickies pants became the rage when I was in high school. As an alternative-rock aficionado who obsessed over the sound and aesthetics of the movie Singles—it came out when I was 12 and changed my life—I knew I needed them. When I was 16 and had both a job and transportation, I made my way to the local Tillys to snag a pair. The black cotton twill was stiff under my fingers as I stepped into the pants and pulled them up.

The Dickies pulled against my hips, uncomfortably snug, and gaped so wide at my waist I could fit a fist between my skin and the cloth. I left the store disappointed. Why did I even bother? “Good, child-bearing hips,” people would tell me, even as an adolescent. I resigned myself to a presentation that never quite matched the ideal in my head.

VII. Soft butch

Despite my fitting comfortably under the queer umbrella, I’d never really given all that much thought to the specifics of my gender identity and expression. I met a trans man when I was 24 who used the same nickname I do, which made it easier to see our similarities, but I knew immediately that his path wasn’t mine. Later that year I met someone who epitomizes high femme, and, again, I could immediately see both how perfectly she embodied that expression, and how poorly it would suit me.

The person I thought of at the time as my boyfriend, then my husband, used to joke that I was the man in the relationship— despite my tender heart, my frequent tears, my undeniable softness—but I was more or less content in just knowing what I wasn’t. It seems possible I could have stayed in that liminal place forever, but then when we were in our mid-thirties, my wife came out as trans.

This is not a story of my adapting to my wife being trans. I’d always known we were both queer, and discovering I was married to a woman came more as a pleasant surprise than anything else.

What did happen, though, was that her coming out gave me permission to do more soul-searching, to try to pinpoint my gender identity and ideal gender expression. I first encountered the term “soft butch” in one of those joke “futch scale” charts—the ones that sort musical instruments or tropical fruits on a scale from high femme to stone butch—but it stuck with me. It didn’t seem to be something I was allowed to call myself, though: image searches on Google or Pinterest just led to rows of photos of beautiful slender white people with artful short haircuts and distressed jeans. Lots of Kristen Stewart and Elliot Page and occasionally Justin Bieber. I am definitely too old and too fat to try to emulate those folks! Eventually I lamented on Twitter that I was drawn to the soft butch aesthetic but didn’t know if I could pull it off, given that I’m not thin. I quickly received a slightly baffled but firm response from a genderqueer acquaintance that of course I could. In some ways I’m still a kid, seeking others’ permission to accept myself.

I realize as I write this that I’m wearing what might be my quintessential soft butch outfit—it fits me almost without my trying. Distressed jeans—a pair that I stole from my wife long before she transitioned. They fit my hips and thighs beautifully, which means I have to cinch a belt tight to make them stay up around my waist, but I know how to manage that now. A close-fitting t-shirt celebrating a punk band I’ve seen in concert a good dozen times. Hair pulled back into a messy bun. Fuzzy gray slippers with arch support, because I’m a middle-aged fat person, so of course I have plantar fasciitis. A gentle breath before a firm statement: the perfect mixture of soft and butch.

[allisonreader]

I don’t know what this is, where it came from, what its purpose is. It’s supposed to be a time loop piece to put up for the Chesterton challenge for the prompt repetition; which it definitely fits, but why all the sewing? I’m writing it, but I couldn’t tell you. It became derailed from the first word and thinking of the phrase “a stitch in time”. So here we go, my sewing heavy time loop musing? Story? I’m not sure what to call it.

All I know is that (as @melliabee and @lover-of-the-starkindler know) it came after sharing fic recs and having read a fic dealing with time loops. So vaguely and indirectly those two mentioned inspired this in an extremely roundabout way as I still don’t know what this is.

But anyways, this is my piece for the Chesterton Challenge for the prompt repetition. (As repetitive as this note is getting, the writing piece below will be more.) @inklings-challenge

Time loops and sewing 🧵🧵🧵

Stitch, stitch, stitch. 🪡_ _ _

The needle goes into the fabric and is pulled out again and again. 🪡_ _ _

Into the fabric and pulled out. 🪡_ _ _

The same motions over and over.

The pull getting shorter each time a new stitch is made. Until a new piece of thread is started and the process starts a new, with the stitches continuing.

All working to create something; whether it be practical, decorative or somewhere in between. Connecting past and future.

There’s a reason that the phrase a stitch in time is brandied around.

Sewing and time have more in common than you might think. Both deal with fabric/material that can wrinkle, snag, tear, rip, ripple, gets stuck, fold up on itself, and can be seen to be linear.

But let’s talk about the snags, the hang ups, getting stuck sewing in the same place.

If you’re using the sewing machine sometimes it’s not always immediately obvious that you’ve caught up on something; until there’s a whole pile of thread under your fabric, getting thread jammed up through the needle plate, tangling everything up and potentially needing scissors and removal of the needle plate to fix the problem.

Not so for hand sewing.

By hand, built up thread is most likely intentional unless you weren’t paying attention and were stitching in the same place, but being an easier catch as soon as your attention returns. None of the thread the same place as it builds up.

Time loops are much the same. There are some that you enter and everything seems fine at first, but once you realize that something is wrong, then you realize how big of a mess that you’re in. That your situation might require scissors and the removal of the needle plate.

Other times you don’t catch what’s happening right away, but the build up is less. Your attention is drawn to what’s happening sooner. The solution is not always as large.

And other times again you know exactly what’s happening. You want it to happen. You want it to happen again and again. You are purposefully repeating your stitch over and over, creating your build up purposefully before moving on.

Slight differences between each time. Each cycle never truly being the same, though it feels like it. The uneven stitches are being laid, but just because each stitch is uneven, it doesn’t mean that something isn’t being created that’s beautiful or has hidden strength.

Teaching you a lesson if nothing else. Sewing and time loops will both teach you just as many lessons as the other. Both feel like they go on for forever but both do eventually come to an end, leaving you shocked that the project or loop is finally finished.

For sewing you simply pick up another project and go again, though I’ve never met a person who wants to figure their way out of a time loop again. Not unless they’re the one to start the loop in the first place.

🪡_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The fabric folds and creases.

The needle goes in and out, in and out. Pull. Watch the stitches being laid. One stitch, two stitch, around and around.

A satin stitch here, some backstitching here, maybe some chain stitching for added interest. Still the needle goes in and out, just like time goes on and on, even if it repeats itself.

Time loops are like thread in a tangle, knotting up on itself and being a pain to loosen its loops out of the knots.

Be careful, the fabric of space time can rip and tear. Stitch it up carefully, you don’t want it to fray.

When fabric frays it will keep fraying depending on exactly what type of material you’re using. Some fabrics won’t fray. A knit generally doesn’t fray, but it can unravel. Woven material is what frays, some more than others. It depends on the fibres used and how it was woven together.

The right needle helps go through the material properly.

It’s all about using the right tool when needed. Sometimes you need something more specific than the generic works for most thing tool. A ballpoint/stretch/jersey needle works best on knits and stretch. The needle will push beside the fibres instead of through them like a sharp needle will.

Sometimes you have to test to find out what that right tool is. The right tool will make the job easier and help you finish the job quicker. There’s less of a struggle that way. But it will still take time to do things right.

🪡_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The needle goes in, the needle goes out, a stitch has been formed. The process repeats. Needle into the fabric, needle out of the fabric.

With a needle and thread the stitches can gather the fabric. Tight folds making there be a greater volume of material in a smaller place.

A time loop of its own kind. A repeating process to get a similar result. Though never quite the same from one to the next.

A stitch here, a stitch here; to gather as you go or to gather all at once. Both ways having their own difficulties. Both having their benefits.

Gathering can even be done by machine.

Two rows of stitches side by side, pulling the threads of both. But beware if one thread breaks, you can come close to losing it all. The strands of time can be just as fickle if you’re not careful. Pull the wrong one too hard and you could end up stuck permanently or with the wrong spot to stop or simply starts it all again.

The needle goes in, the needle goes out, the stitch is formed, push the fabric close. Knot the end of your thread and begin again.

🪡_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stitch, stitch, stitch. A stitch in time and all that, you know dear?

The needle goes into the fabric and out.

In and out, sometimes in different movements, but there’s always going into the material and the needle being pulled through until it’s out.

Repetitive, soothing, traditional. A constant that changes, but is always needed in some form.

Time is much the same. Repetitive, following patterns, a constant that changes. Day in, day out. The same activities day to day, week to week.

A time loop in constant motion. Drudgery unless it’s made to be more.

Haven’t you guessed it by now? Different but the same. New but old. Stitching all along, talking about time?

Well, maybe you need a few more rounds yet. I’ll still be here stitching, waiting, changing the same, because time has similarities to sewing.

I won’t be the one to unravel the mysteries of the greater universe, that’s for a higher power than me. I’m just a person who sews, watching and passing the time as I move my needle through the material.

[reversemoon255]

SSSS.GRIDMAN THE GATTAI Full Powered Girdknight

Missed the preorder window on this one, but managed to snag the second one that popped up on Mandarake. And I'm glad I did, because this thing is great. This should be the same mold as the upcoming THE GATTAI FP Gridman, and it is a startling improvement. This isn't just some simple retool; it's an entirely new mold. Not even Gridknight is the same, overhauling him to better fit his role as the center of this robot, something the original Gridman failed to do.

The Good: Gone is the flimsy DX Full Powered Gridman. To start, Gridknight has been fitted almost entirely with ratcheted joints, meaning he can now much more easily hold the weight of all his machines. Not only that, but they took a page out of the Moderoid's book and made a stronger, more posable replacement torso, but also fixed the issue I had with it by giving it its own head, so you can display both Gridknight and FP Gridknight at the same time. But even if you choose to forgo it, Gridknight is perfectly capable of holding everything up.

Onto everyone else, this set actually comes with two Calibers of different sizes, and a handle so you can use the larger one's chest piece as a shield. Max, Borr, and Sky are functionally the same as vehicles, but Max's cannons now stop at the appropriate height so you don't have to fiddle with that during transformation.

Powered Knight Zenon may not look much different from the original, but has quite a few new tricks going on under the hood. For starters, it requires no adapters; everything is designed into the vehicles themselves, including the very impressive neck joint they added (which just blows my mind how they pulled that off). They also gave it a much better A-stance, actual ankles to accommodate it, and you can use Sky's transformation joints to give it some inward arm motion.

And Full Powered Gridknight is an impressive feat, being both taller than the original and around its scale to Dynazenon seen in the film. The transformation is also so much cleaner. Everything feels better, connects better, is much more solid, even more so than Dynazenon. They even made the cuts in Sky's wings the actual transformation joint, which several of the releases haven't done. And he is ridiculously posable. It has every joint; I don't know what else to tell you. It also comes with open and posable alternative hand. They even added dedicated engineering into Borr that allows for a brand new combination with Goldburn.

The Bad: Not everything is exactly perfect, though. While you can get the new Gridknight to work as Rouge Kaiser, the elbows are too long, meaning you have to twist the arms in a weird way to get them to fit, and Dynasoldier is less stable.

And both Zenon and FP have mediocre ankles. Like, they work, but Zenon's require a bit of fidgeting and you often have to display them on their toes. FP on the other hand just doesn't have enough rock, making more wide-legged, dynamic poses an issue. I recommend using the included stand to help with those (...which I did not take pictures of).

Overall, the difference is quality between this and the original DX are dirt and stratosphere. If you were disappointed by the original, or if you liked the Moderoid, then I highly recommend this one, or just waiting a few months for the V2 to come out.

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

Honey-Sweet and Heavy

3zun extra for Tales From Jianghu Shopping Center - some of y'all were interested in how Meng Yao / 3zun fits into this universe and now, months after I answered the ask about it (I just scrolled to check, it was mid-July holy shit) I'm answering that question with fic! And I'm definitely not procrastinating my schoolwork, nope nope nope!

[Masterpost] [AO3]

-/-

JUNE

As is unfortunately common for Meng Yao’s Wednesday nights, the first thought he has at roughly 8:47pm is hands, hands, hands in a sort of… mildly obsessive loop that only ends when he forces himself to tip his head back enough to instead see (and think) shoulders, shoulders, shoulders . It feels like he has to tip his head back as far as it can go before he finally sees the guy’s face, but unfortunately he’s handsome enough that that’s not much better than drooling over his stupid massive hands, or his even more idiotically broad shoulders.

“Hey,” Gym Guy says, friendly enough around the way he can’t seem to ever talk like he’s isn’t two seconds away from getting pissed off.

“Hey. The usual?” Two loads for the wash. Pre-soak, hot wash, hot rinse, extra rinse on cold, spin dry. One load for the dryer, 80 minutes, extra-dry. No soap needed, he brings his own. Dryer sheets, yes, he never remembers to snag them from his house on his way out.

“Yep.”

Meng Yao has the change – in quarters, of course – for his $10 bill (minus a buck) and a couple of dryer sheets ready to slide across the counter before Gym Guy even pulls out his wallet.

“4 and 5 are free if you want, and you can throw it all in dryer 1 when they’re done washing. The others aren’t running as hot as they should, you’ll probably end up with some stuff still damp otherwise.”

As usual, Gym Guy thanks him with a gruff little nod (that Meng Yao tends to ride the high of for the rest of his shift) before he turns and hauls two enormous canvas bags of laundry through the dingy laundromat like they don’t weigh anything at all. Meng Yao watches him and wonders if the guy could bench press him. He definitely looks like he could, anyway.

Meng Yao allows himself roughly four minutes to watch Gym Guy as he bends over and loads armfuls of towels and a few random odds and ends of clothing into the two industrial-sized washing machines conveniently located straight ahead from the counter behind which he’s perched. Any longer than four minutes and he knows the likelihood of him being able to look away (preferably without getting caught) decreases dramatically, so he never allows himself to look longer.

When his four minutes (and extra forty-seven seconds, he’s had a hard day okay?) are up, Meng Yao regretfully looks away from the shift of Gym Guy’s muscles through his gray t-shirt advertising his gym and goes back to the busy work he’d assigned himself for the night, expressly for the purpose of distracting him from Gym Guy. Not that he doesn’t typically end up doing way more than his job description entails, of course, but Gym Guy is distracting enough that Meng Yao has to actually assign himself something in order to avoid making a fool out of himself.

He settles in to go back to his project with a little creak of the wood-and-vinyl stool underneath him, the clanking of quarters dropping into the metal collection boxes followed by the hum and slosh of first one machine and then the other helping to soothe some of the adrenaline-spiked energy humming under his skin.

So long as Gym Guy stays on the other side of the (admittedly very small) space and minds his own business, Meng Yao can usually tune him out about halfway through the wash cycle, if his task is engrossing enough. This late on a Wednesday night they’re usually the only ones in the laundromat, though every other week one of the nurses from the hospital in town comes in off her back-to-back graveyard shifts to run all of her scrubs through the same sort of sanitizing wash Gym Guy uses for his stuff. She’s cute, Meng Yao has noticed, and she’s always nice, if a little tired around the edges. He’d be lying if he said he hasn’t noticed that Gym Guy never bothers flirting with her even when she’d shown tentative interest in him at first.

He’s having a harder time ignoring Gym Guy’s presence tonight, but that’s got more to do with being unable to concentrate as well as he usually can than anything else. Gym Guy is sitting where he always does in one of the too-small plastic chairs by the front windows pretending to pay attention to QVC playing on the small TV up in the corner, perfectly within the usual respectful distance he always keeps. Meng Yao’s just tired tonight, having interrupted his own sleep schedule, such as it is, to finally go and visit his father just on the other side of town earlier this afternoon before the start of his shift. The twinge in his ribs and his hip remind him that he should have probably decided to do it on one of his few days off, but then again he hadn’t exactly expected his father to have him thrown down the front steps without even letting him in the door of his house, either.

At least, he muses in relief, he hadn’t tried to go see him down at Golden Carp. Of course he knows now that his father probably wouldn’t have made such a spectacle out of him if he’d had so many witnesses around that aren’t his immediate family, but then again…a man willing to kick his own son down the stairs where anyone out walking their dog might have seen probably wouldn’t care who sees it anyway. (He supposes that if he had gone to Golden Carp at least there wouldn’t have been any stairs to send him toppling down, but hindsight’s 20/20 and all that.)

It’s just past 9 when the jangling of the phone ringing at the other end of the counter shakes Meng Yao out of his less-than-pleasant contemplation on his sorry lot in life. He winces as he stands from the stool to pick it up, the quiet clatter of the plastic handset against the base barely audible over the sloshing and chugging of Gym Guy’s wash cycles.

“Fitz’s 24-hour Coin-op Laundry,” Meng Yao answers through a hitching breath as his ribs – most likely fractured, he thinks – resettle. “How can I help you?”

Meng Yao has less than a second to brace himself and jerk the receiver away from his face for the sake of his poor eardrum before the owner of the laundromat starts shouting loudly enough at him that he senses Gym Guy’s attention shifting from the TV to him. Great.

He lets the tirade go on for as long as he can stand before he attempts to cut in and maybe, if he’s lucky, defuse the bomb that is his boss’s notorious temper. This time of night he’s probably at least a full 12-pack into his usual 24-pack night, though, so Meng Yao’s hopes aren’t high.

“Mr Jameson - Mr - I didn’t - Mr Jameson I promise it won’t happen again -”

Meng Yao sighs well away from the receiver and turns his back to the rest of the laundromat, the cord stretching across his chest with the movement. He tangles his fingers between a few of the tight curls in it and clutches hard enough that his knuckles ache ever so slightly.

Finally, there’s a long enough break in the vitriol for Meng Yao to hurry and attempt to explain, “Mr Jameson. As I said this afternoon, I apologize for being late. I understand that it created difficulties for Anne, it was not my intention to make her late to pick up her children from daycare. I had a..a family emergency that required medical attention, it won’t be happening aga-“

Meng Yao gives in and hides his eyes behind his free hand as his boss gains a second wind and resumes shouting, something about how that’s no excuse, that unless he’d broken bones himself there was no reason not to be on time (as if on cue, his ribs and hip protest the fact that he’s currently upright and standing on a hard tile-and-concrete floor). Meng Yao attempts several more times to cut in to apologize further, but in the end it’s useless.

He sets the phone down carefully on the countertop and takes two shallow, grounding breaths before turning back to the room at large. It is, mercifully, still only occupied by Gym Guy. 

Unfortunately, Gym Guy is looking right at him – glaring, actually – and Meng Yao ducks his head quickly rather than face that head-on. As quietly as he can he drags his stool and his filing project closer to the phone and settles down again, lips pressed tightly together around the possibility of a pained noise escaping his control. Meng Yao keeps an ear out for convenient places to demur a quiet, “Yes, Mr Jameson,” in between all the slights to his character and his (impeccable, unnecessarily driven, unusual) disappointing work ethic, but for the most part he turns his attention back to his project for something of a distraction.

Eventually, Mr Jameson’s tirade peters out enough for Meng Yao to lift the phone to his ear again and actually get a few words in edgewise. “I’m sorry for my…unsatisfactory behavior, Mr Jameson,” he lies through his teeth, “But please rest assured that I will not allow this to happen again. If you’ll excuse me, I have customers to attend to.”

Meng Yao returns the phone to its cradle before Mr Jameson can rally enough to start again and he closes his eyes in relief, hand still resting on the receiver as he exhales, long and slow just like Meng Shi taught him.

“That happen a lot?” Gym Guy’s voice is a low rumble under the sloshing of the washing machines and a too-chipper bottle blonde on the TV espousing the many benefits of a Casio label printer (“Look how easy it could be to label all your folders in just a couple easy steps!” If he had 90 bucks he’d buy the thing in a heartbeat).

“Me being late or Mr Jameson yelling?”

“The yelling. You don’t seem the type to run late.”

“The yelling, pretty regularly, yes, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. As for running late – I don’t. Ever . Today I just…”

“Family emergency.” Gym Guy nods like he gets it, like he knows exactly what happened despite Meng Yao not breathing a word of it to anyone at all. “No explanation needed as far as I’m concerned, especially if it’s not something you make a habit out of.”

Meng Yao blinks and tries to think of something clever to say, but between such a long stressful day and Gym Guy’s close proximity outside of their typical routine when he first arrives and Meng Yao can be prepared for it, Meng Yao’s thoughts are feeling a little too scrambled to be very clever at the moment.

“Right. Yeah. Thanks..?” Meng Yao trails off a little with a bit of a leading tone in his voice, and finally - after a frankly embarrassingly long time - Gym Guy seems to realize that they don’t actually know each other. He hurries to stick out one of his stupid enormous hands that Meng Yao has his little weekly crises over, and Meng Yao can’t be sure but it looks like his cheeks might be just a touch pink in the unflattering glow of the halogen lights overhead.

“Nie Mingjue.”

Meng Yao slips his hand into Nie Mingjue’s and absolutely does not have a second, slightly smaller crisis over how small his own palm is in comparison. That’s just the same crisis in a different flavor, it barely counts.

“Well thank you, Nie Mingjue.”

“Anytime.”

Gym Guy – Nie Mingjue, he mentally corrects himself, though he’s pretty sure he’ll always be ‘Gym Guy’ in his head – goes back to his seat by the TV set, Meng Yao returns to his filing, and just like that their usual weekly pattern resumes.

Right up until Nie Mingjue leaves a business card behind on his way out, with what seems to be a pager number scribbled on the back with the same shitty blue ballpoint pen Glenda down the street uses for her crosswords every Sunday evening.

-/-

“Let me get this straight,” Lan Xichen begins, poorly concealing a laugh behind his indulgent smile, and Nie Mingjue grumbles at him as he focuses on flipping a massive pancake with an expert flick of his wrist.

“Must you?”

“Well yes, darling, because it’s a bit unclear. You went to do the gym laundry on Wednesday evening like usual, yes?”

“Yes,” Nie Mingjue agrees begrudgingly, with the feeling that he’s walking into a trap.

“And the same young man who always mans the counter was there, but he seemed like he wasn’t feeling well?”

“No, he looked like he was injured . He wasn’t moving right.” Nie Mingjue ignores the amused little hum Lan Xichen offers in response to that. (It’s not weird to know how someone moves! It’s his job to make sure he keeps an eye on how people are moving, to make sure that he can prevent injuries before they happen or else prevent existing injuries from worsening. It’s normal!)

“So he was injured, but you didn’t ask about it because it would be rude and possibly a little…alarming to tell him that you’ve noticed him moving differently than usual. That much I understand. And then he got a phone call?”

Nie Mingjue grunts an assent before he elaborates. “Sounded like it was Mark Jameson. Fucking hate that guy.” The pancake takes the brunt of his irritation as he flips it perhaps too aggressively onto the plate waiting next to the griddle. He places a few sliced strawberries beside it much less aggressively and turns to set the plate in front of his boyfriend where he’s perched at the bar counter, and the kiss to his cheek Lan Xichen gives him soothes him only a little.

“And this would be the Mark Jameson who makes a nuisance of himself at every City Commerce Board meeting, and is generally belligerent to anyone and everyone no matter the circumstances?”

“That’s the one.”

“I see. So Mark Jameson, the belligerent drunk who owns the laundromat whom you hate, called to yell at this very polite and wonderful young man whom you quite like – who always knows precisely what you want without you having to say it anymore after having only told him once before, nearly a year ago. And Mr Jameson berated him for upwards of 20 minutes within your hearing?”

Nie Mingjue glares daggers at the new circle of batter bubbling sluggishly on the only functional hot spot on the griddle, mildly pissed that it isn’t ready to flip yet so he can’t vent his anger that way again so soon.

“Yes. And then like I already said , Meng Yao told me that Jameson yells at him all the time despite the fact that every time I see him he’s doing exactly what it seems like he should be – and more! He’s always doing something to keep himself busy, not just reading a magazine or watching the TV to pass the time, even when it’s just the two of us in there and I clearly don’t need anything.”

“And so you offered him a job instead…to get him away from Mr Jameson?”

Nie Mingjue huffs and feels his neck heat up because, well…Lan Xichen does have a point in not being able to follow the thread from there. Because no, Nie Mingjue hadn’t.. quite ..offered him a job.

“I left my card,” he mutters and flips the pancake even though it’s still too early. Almost half of it sticks to the griddle he’d forgotten to grease between pancakes, but since he’ll be eating this one he doesn’t bother caring. “With my number on it.”

“The landline at the gym?”

“...My beeper.”

There’s a beat of silence save for the quiet sizzle of his pancake, and then Lan Xichen bursts into delighted giggles so infectious that Nie Mingjue can’t even be upset with him. It is fairly ridiculous after all, especially since he hadn’t even given Meng Yao the card directly but had instead just left it on the seat he always uses, the one with the best view of the TV up in the corner as well as the farthest from the counter to avoid possibly making Meng Yao uncomfortable when they’re alone late into the evenings.

He flips his pancake onto the second waiting plate and lets Lan Xichen douse it in syrup and whipped cream for him – their shared tendency to eat healthily is nowhere to be seen when they eat breakfast together at the Nie house (and need the extra calories anyway) – and thankfully then Lan Xichen is too busy kissing whipped cream and sugared strawberry juice from his lips to bother him anymore about his awkward attempts at getting Meng Yao out of what’s clearly a tough spot.

But then, come Monday morning, he discovers that for some reason it actually worked .

“Nie Mingjue,” Meng Yao greets him when Nie Mingjue shows up at 6:30am on the dot to start getting the gym ready to open at 7. He’s standing in front of the doors, hands clasped tightly together in front of him, anxiety written into every line of his body as Nie Mingjue approaches.

“Meng Yao.”

They stare at each other for a moment in the clammy early June humidity already clinging to the small of Nie Mingjue’s back before Meng Yao sucks in a sharp breath and sticks a hand out between them, Nie Mingjue’s business card pinched neatly between his first two fingers.

“Nie Mingjue, I’m flattered and everything but-”

“Come work for me.”

Nie Mingjue blinks as the half-finished rejection registers, and Meng Yao blinks up at him looking both similarly startled and just as uncertain how to proceed.

“Excuse me?” Meng Yao finally manages with his usual smile pinched into place. Nie Mingjue clears his throat and comforts himself with the fact that the Unclean Realm is the earliest business in the strip mall to open, so no one in this gossiping little micro-community he has to see on a daily basis is present to witness him already blundering his way through something that should be so simple.

“I can tell you work hard, and your memory seems pretty fucking good. Jameson’s an asshole who can’t see a good thing when he’s staring one right in the face, let alone appreciate what he’s got, so..if you’re interested…”

“A job,” Meng Yao repeats in a way that should probably be a question. Nie Mingjue nods just in case it was meant to be one even though it didn’t quite sound like it. “Here. Doing what, exactly?”

Nie Mingjue shrugs a bit and crosses his arms over his chest, though he drops them again instantly (Lan Xichen has told him it makes him look intimidating, and the last thing he wants to do is scare Meng Yao off). “Front of house? I run a few courses throughout the week, but it’s hard to find time to do all the administrative parts of it when I’m also running the classes and doing personal training sessions in between them. Members can pay their dues any day throughout the month, which can get tough to keep track of amongst everything else. I’ve got electricity bills and rent to pay, documents from the last…oh, ten years or so? that should really be filed properly…”

Nie Mingjue trails off into amused silence at the downright dreamy look that’s crept over Meng Yao’s expression. It takes a few long seconds – in which a single rustbucket car passes by on the main road off to the left already blaring something loud and grungy despite the hour – before Meng Yao seems to give himself a little shake and the dreamy expression is gone, replaced by his usual polite smile.

“I was under the impression that your brother assists you?” Meng Yao asks, and Nie Mingjue is once again impressed with his ability to recall even the most insignificant details he’d probably mentioned in passing months or more ago.

“Stick around and try it out for a week and you’ll understand exactly why I need you instead.”

That dreamy look slips back in for a fraction of a second before it’s gone again so quickly Nie Mingjue wonders if he imagined it. Between one second and the next, though, Meng Yao is once again holding out his hand, although this time there’s nothing caught between his fingers. Cautiously, mildly afraid of spooking him, Nie Mingjue reaches across the distance between them to shake Meng Yao’s hand a couple times.

“When should I start?” Meng Yao asks. Nie Mingjue can’t do anything at all to stop the smug smirk that twitches at the corner of his lips at the thought of telling Lan Xichen he didn’t actually fuck this up at all.

“Soon as you want? I don’t think Mark Jameson is the kind of bastard who deserves a two-week notice and it’s not like I’ll be calling him for a reference anyway, but I’ll leave that up to you.”

“I’d like to not burn bridges if I don’t have to, so I’ll at least work out a week’s notice, if that’s alright?” Meng Yao hedges, nervous around the edges. “And I’m assuming this isn’t another night shift gig-”

Nie Mingjue winces just a little and shakes his head, abruptly remembering that while his day’s just beginning, at this time of morning Meng Yao must be practically ready to pass out after a full shift through the night at the laundromat.

“Days, yeah. You don’t have to come in as early as I do if you don’t want to, though.”

Meng Yao hums without comment, but Nie Mingue thinks he can safely assume, even from the little that he knows about the other man, that he’ll be there every morning at 6:30, on the dot, just like him.

“And next week works just fine,” Nie Mingjue adds to be on the safe side. Meng Yao’s shoulders relax a little more and Nie Mingjue finds himself feeling a little smug about that too. It’s a nice feeling to know he can actually make someone feel relaxed (besides Lan Xichen, everyone else tends to get a bit…wary when he’s around. Even [or maybe especially] his own brother).

“Will you need an extra day or two after to get your sleep schedule switched around?”

“I can fix it quickly. I’ll be in a week from today.”

Meng Yao leaves just like that with a sweet smile up at him in parting, seeming…lighter than he has every other time their paths have crossed. Nie Mingjue watches him go with something like satisfaction tugging at the corner of a little smile of his own.

Lan Xichen’s poorly-concealed surprise (and his fond amusement) when Nie Mingjue tells him the news is only surpassed by the betrayed glare Nie Huaisang gives him when he tells his brother he’s being replaced (but that it does not give him an excuse to stop showing up at the gym entirely!).

-/-

AUGUST

It somehow always manages to catch Lan Xichen by surprise that the hottest days of summer are so late in the year. When June sweeps in on thunderheads and blistering winds after the cool rains of May it seems like that must be the hottest the days will become, sticky and threatening with rumbles off in the distance, felt more than heard. Or when July burns hot enough to turn the sky white and the asphalt cracks apart between puddles of shimmering heat, and the kids from the apartments down the street all dare each other to see if they can really fry an egg on the blacktop before Madam Yu or Lan Qiren chases them off with a round of scolding – surely those days are the peak of summer?

But then August comes, with its golden days that melt into molasses evenings, the sun rising in a flurry of hot winds and lingering high overhead for long hours, refusing to set properly until well after the fireflies have settled back into the rustling yellowed grass for the night and the trees are holding their breath, waiting for the brief respite of a hot sticky night before the sun burns overhead again.

Lan Xichen stands at the front windows of Cloud Recesses and looks across the foreboding expanse of the parking lot – that reminds him of nothing today so much as the griddle Nie Mingjue makes them pancakes on every Sunday morning – towards the squat bulk of the Unclean Realm Fitness Center with a sort of restless itching under his skin that he doesn’t think he can blame on the thin layer of sweat-salt dusting his back and arms.

“I’d like to have dinner at Lotus Pier tonight,” he tells Lan Qiren when his Uncle finishes locking up the safe in the back for the night. “I heard from Wangji that they made a big batch of liang mian for lunch and offered the leftovers to anyone who wants them for dinner tonight.”

Lan Qiren just nods and glares out at the heat mirages winking in the cups and dips of the parking lot that’s badly in need of re-tarring it’ll probably never see. “I’ll make some tonight with cucumber and sesame for you and Wangji to eat tomorrow, you shouldn’t eat anything hot with the weather like this.”

“Thank you, Uncle, that would be appreciated.”

“Hmph. Be home by midnight.”

“Yes Uncle,” Lan Xichen agrees easily. Perhaps most would think he should chafe at being in his 20’s and still beholden to a curfew, but anyone who would think such things wouldn’t have had Lan Qiren for a guardian as a teenager and known how short the leash could be. (Besides, he knows his Uncle can’t sleep until he and Wangji are both home safe, and the curfew is more out of courtesy to him and his sleep schedule than it is any desire to control Lan Xichen’s freedom too much.)

Lan Qiren offers another nod and allows Lan Xichen to open the door for him, heat billowing into the cold vacuum of the shop and heating Lan Xichen’s face. They live close enough to the Jianghu Center to walk to and from work, and so Lan Xichen lingers there at the windows until he sees Lan Qiren disappear across the street and around the corner, headed for their tree-dense neighborhood, and only then does he turn his attention back to the windowed front of the Unclean Realm – where he spots Meng Yao’s teasing glance through the door over the sign he deftly flips over to ‘Closed’ with a smile.

Lan Xichen does not, as a general rule, scramble . Lan Qiren raised him and Lan Wangji to carry themselves with dignity. They even both took ballet lessons as children to help with such important things as grace, and balance, and giving Lan Qiren free time three evenings a week to gossip with the aunties who run the Asian market down the street.

He does, however, hurry (gracefully) to finish locking up the shop and head across the parking lot to that beckoning gaze, the lingering heat of the day settling under his skin like the pleased flush already darkening his ears.

“Hello A-Yao,” he greets as warmly as the air outside as he shuts and locks the door to the gym behind himself.

“Hi Er-ge. You’re so…prompt,” Meng Yao teases him with a smile and a pointed tap of a sheaf of papers on his desk to align them. Lan Xichen can’t even remotely deny it, so instead he shrugs (gracefully) and offers up an unapologetic smile.

“Where’s A-Sang?”

“Jiang Cheng took him out for dinner and then they’re going to the arcade, I believe.”

“Didi’s been running his mouth off for weeks about getting the highest score in Dragon’s Lair, so Jiang Cheng told him he has to either do it again to prove it or else shut the fuck up,” Nie Mingjue calls through the open door to his office behind the front desk. “And we’re all very grateful.”

“I see,” Lan Xichen laughs with a lift of his chin and Meng Yao dimples up at him so sweetly that Lan Xichen doesn’t resist the urge to lean over the vinyl counter displaying the gym’s name and logo to press a shy kiss to his cheek. This… thing that the three of them are apparently doing for real – for the long haul – is still new enough that it sets his stomach fluttering each time he remembers he’s allowed to show such little affections, and judging by the way Meng Yao blushes he’s similarly shy but equally as pleased to be doted on.

He leaves Meng Yao tidying up his workspace for the evening and continues on into Nie Mingjue’s office to give his other boyfriend a kiss to his cheek as well, one that’s more comfortable, like coming home at the end of a long day, but no less thrilling for the mundanity of it.

“Hi,” Nie Mingjue greets, happy and soft around the edges, so Lan Xichen kisses him again on his forehead and lingers long enough to taste the salt on his skin. Their air conditioner has long since been fixed, of course, but Meng Yao’s administrative skills (and eagerness to help with any other tasks that need doing) means that Nie Mingjue is now able to teach classes all day long, and no amount of AC in the world can completely combat the sort of rigorous workout Nie Mingjue now gets on a daily basis.

“Hello darling. Will I go get things set up out back?”

“Yeah sure, but there’s not much to do. The chairs are still set up from last time, just need the noodles from next door. A-Yao’s already got the Igloo under the desk stocked up, I’ll take it out when we’re done in here.”

Lan Xichen, pleased to have a task that’ll help keep him from distracting either of his boyfriends as they finish up for the day, heads over to Lotus Pier to snag the noodles Jiang Yanli had at some point this afternoon portioned out nicely for everyone in the shopping center in a small army of takeout containers topped with paper-wrapped chopsticks, and he makes sure to thank her as he snags the containers labeled for his family, the Nie brothers, and Meng Yao. She gives him a wave and a sweet smile from over the sizzling wok she’s dutifully manning despite the heat of the day, but in the interest of not distracting her during the start of the dinner rush he doesn’t linger for a chat like he otherwise might. As he crosses back over to the gym he’s pleased to hear the rattling and creaking of the deck chairs Nie Mingjue now keeps stashed outside the utility door for evenings just like this.

Lan Xichen rounds the corner of the building and smiles to see Nie Mingjue just getting settled into his preferred seat, a lounger that someone (probably the Jiang brothers during an ill-advised nighttime spree with Nie Huaisang) stole from the local pool. Wherever it came from, it now serves as a perfect place for Nie Mingjue to stretch out his tired muscles and soak up the honey heat of the evening to relax. Lan Xichen lingers just out of sight to watch Meng Yao smile at him as he perches in his lap to pass him a beer, the brown glass bottle already covered in citrine crystals, droplets of condensation reflecting the same sun that limns them both in late-summer gold.

“Ah, our beloved hero returns,” Meng Yao says happily when he spots him. “And with enough noodles to feed an entire army, Da-ge!”

“They’re not all for us, but I figured it’s no use bothering them twice during the dinner rush to fetch everyone else’s,” Lan Xichen answers magnanimously with a little slap to Nie Mingjue’s grasping hand reaching for the container marked ‘Teacher Lan’. He doles out the proper containers quickly, sets the rest safely out of reach of Nie Mingjue pinned under Meng Yao, and settles into his creaking chair with a happy sigh, more than content to enjoy their presence as they eat together in companionable silence.

Unsurprisingly, Nie Mingjue finishes his portion first. Lan Xichen watches in amused silence as he sets his container aside, drains his beer in a few long pulls with swallows that make his pronounced adam’s apple bob, and then sets that aside as well to leave his hands free to start feeling up Meng Yao almost lazily. Lan Xichen settles in with one leg crossed primly over the other, elbows on the hard metal arms of his pool chair, and smirks around his next bite to see Meng Yao pout and swat half-heartedly at Nie Mingjue’s shamelessly roaming hands.

“I’m eating , Da-ge,” he scolds, his wrist in front of his lips to attempt to stay polite while talking with his mouth full, and Nie Mingjue’s happy chuckling settles something deep in Lan Xichen’s chest. He’d worried when they’d started this that he would grow jealous after spending so long pursuing his best friend and having really only just caught him for keeps, but so far he’s only been happy that there’s one more person in Nie Mingjue’s life who can make him laugh and feel as adored as he deserves (and who laughs and allows them to adore him in return, as well). 

“I’m not stopping you from eating, A-Yao, and this is your fault for flirting with me all day when I couldn’t do anything about it anyway.”

“I was not flirting , I was picking up after your class of heathens left their pads and foam blocks all over the floor!”

“And how did you know which incident I was talking about specifically if you weren’t sticking your ass out on purpose to rile me up, huh?”

Lan Xichen laughs out loud then and leans forward, stands up just enough to duck in and press a conciliatory kiss to Meng Yao’s cheek while he grumbles half-heartedly and stabs his chopsticks into his noodles with more viciousness than they deserve.

Nie Mingjue doesn’t stop his wandering hands but Meng Yao doesn’t protest again, he simply finishes his dinner quickly and sets his container aside to turn and lounge back against Nie Mingjue’s broad chest properly with every visible effort to get comfortable, sinking into him and cracking open a water bottle to sip on carefully as dusk falls soft and purple-blue around them.

“Xichen, c’mere,” Nie Mingjue eventually mumbles when he finishes his own portion. There’s no question anymore about how they’ll all fit together – Meng Yao parts his legs enough to give him room to straddle Nie Mingjue’s thighs just above his knees, and then Meng Yao brings his legs back in to drape them over Lan Xichen’s thighs in turn, the three of them tangling together easily to the tune of the complaining creaks from sun-bleached vinyl straps and the metal frame of the chair. 

Lan Xichen ignores the furniture’s protest in favor of leaning in to kiss his partners indiscriminately, lips catching on and skating across sun- and blush-warmed skin. Meng Yao’s delicate ear. The tip of Nie Mingjue’s nose. Nie Mingjue’s lips first, then Meng Yao’s when he turns his head to seek him out for his turn.

He and Nie Mingjue have fit together seamlessly since the day they both realized they want to, but there’s something special about having Meng Yao between them like this, soft and warm and trusting in the hazy dark. The streetlamps out in the parking lot and down by the road click on with their low electrical fizzing buzz, but here behind the gym, among the plumbing pipes and their new hulking AC units now silent for the night to save electricity, there’s none of that harsh orange glow. There’s only the three of them in the slowly-oozing night, comfortable in their shadows and the sticky August gloaming, too hot to be so close but unwilling to part for long enough to let the breeze cool them into getting comfortable again.

Nie Mingjue’s hands skate up and down Lan Xichen’s back, his sides. Meng Yao’s hands tangle in his hair, cup the back of his neck. Lan Xichen kisses them both with lazy appreciation, his entire world narrowed down to the two men underneath him that he hopes know how much he loves them, even though Meng Yao is such a recent (but vital) addition to their relationship.

True night falls as they make out and they pay it no mind tangled up together, trading kisses and quiet laughter and anecdotes about their days all with the same ease in their first perfect August together.

-/-

BONUS

“It’s alright, A-Cheng, I promise,” Nie Huaisang wheedles as he unlocks the door to the gym and drags his newly-minted boyfriend (!) into the dark, absolute except for the squares of dull orange cutting through the gloom from the streetlamps out in the parking lot. He drags Jiang Cheng quickly, eagerly away from the front windows and further into the darkened building, more than confident in his ability to wend his way through the obstacles of machines and equipment without injury.

“You’re sure your brother isn’t here?” Jiang Cheng asks, dubious, and Nie Huaisang wishes the lights were on so his boyfriend (!!) could see him pouting at him over his shoulder for his lack of trust.

“I told you, he always goes straight home after he locks up! He’s always talking about responsibility and duty and ‘eating a hearty dinner’ and ‘getting enough rest’. So boring! But good for us now, I suppose, so maybe I can forgive him.”

“How kind of you,” Jiang Cheng says dryly enough Nie Huaisang doesn’t have to be able to see him to know he’s rolling his eyes at him.

“I know! I’m the best didi, aren’t I?”

“You’re something alright,” Jiang Cheng mutters under his breath, but he squeezes Nie Huaisang’s hand tightly and then brings it up to his lips to kiss his knuckles, which is just so unbelievably sweet that Nie Huaisang can forgive him his sass. (As if it isn’t part of what he likes so much about Jiang Cheng anyway.)

“Come on, we’ll just grab some soda and head out back, okay? No one’ll look for us out there, even if Da-ge does happen to come back out here for some reason tonight.”

“Sure,” Jiang Cheng shrugs easily, so trusting. Nie Huaisang squeezes his hand back and guides him through the gym, steals a few cans of Coke from the fridge under the front desk by feel, and manages to sneak a kiss when he straightens back up. He tows Jiang Cheng through the gym while his boyfriend (!!!) recovers from such a devastating surprise attack, and Nie Huaisang is so busy being pleased with himself that he wouldn’t have even stopped at the back door had Jiang Cheng not tugged on his hand and hissed a frantic, “ Wait, stop, A-Sang! ”

“What’s wrong?” he asks, bewildered, and then his eyes make sense of what he can see through the glass-paneled back door and he barely manages to stifle his yelp in the back of Jiang Cheng’s hand still laced with his own.

The space behind the gym is as dark as he’d expected it to be – he’d brought Jiang Cheng here for a reason after all – so the tangled mess of limbs and disheveled clothing looks a bit like some sort of eldritch Lovecraftian monster before it crystalizes into the distinct forms of his brother making out with not one but two men, who he quickly identifies as Meng Yao by his gray Unclean Realm t-shirt and Lan Xichen by his white Cloud Recesses polo practically glowing in the dark.

“Whoa,” Jiang Cheng breathes from over his shoulder, and Nie Huaisang finds he suddenly understands how Nie Mingjue feels every time he’s confronted with Nie Huaisang’s interest in erotica. There is nothing chaste about the way Nie Mingjue has his hands hiked up under Lan Xichen’s shirt or the way Meng Yao is rolling his hips in between the two of them, and Nie Huaisang feels like his face is on fire.

“Oh my god. Oh no,” he breathes, despairing. “A-Cheng…I think my brother fucks .”

Jiang Cheng snorts at that and releases his hand to swat his ass lightly. “Clearly. So…what now? Your place is clearly unoccupied considering what we’re looking at.”

Nie Huaisang swallows and tears his gaze away from the spectacle he wishes he’d never seen and momentarily tables his fantasy of burning the deck chairs Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian had stolen for him when he’d complained about having nowhere to sit outside to hang out with them.

“A-Cheng,” he whines, pleading. “This is a crisis !”

“A-Sang, you’re the horniest person I’ve ever met,” Jiang Cheng snorts, and now that Nie Huaisang has turned to look at him he can see just how hard his boyfriend (!!!!) is trying not to laugh at his torment. “What’s the big deal? That he fucks more than you?”

“Oh and if you walked in on your parents like that -” he jams his thumb over his shoulder towards the three out back- “You’d be totally cool and ready to do it with me two seconds later?”

Jiang Cheng’s expression twists in distaste and Nie Huaisang knows his point has been thoroughly made, so there’s no need to gloat about it.

“Ugh. Ew. Take me home, A-Cheng, my delicate constitution can’t handle this. I’m in shock. Shock, I tell you. Come take care of me.”

“You’re so weird,” Jiang Cheng mutters but takes his hand again anyway and they hurry to leave the gym – and Nie Mingjue’s shocking sex life – far enough behind them for Nie Huaisang to pretend he never had to witness it in the first place.

[sociomi]

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[audio-luddite]

Had a Bro-day. Well it was my son-in-law.

Nice guy and once studied audio recording engineering. Ended up in the aviation biz. All that aside he likes my system. Probably as with three kids, all small, having "nice" things has a risk element as well as lack of space in the house. So when he does come by I feed him steak and fire up the system.

It was warmed up and started by spinning up double 180/45 Fleetwood Mac reissue of Fleetwood Mac. (as in not Rumours).

You know that sounds really good. They had so many tracks mixed in and played a lot of studio tricks. But clear sound and man the detail. Oh and I am always impressed with the Bass my invisible speakers put out. 8" woofers, but ported with a quite low tuning. Resonance can really help. As well as the placement.

He is always commenting on the high hats in the drum kit. Crisp and clean. One thing I really notice is the distortion on the guitar amps. Guitarists love distortion, and it is really tricky to reproduce cleanly. Distorting distortion rather ironic. Very few albums have real room sound or natural ambiance. So you take what you can get.

I think one aspect of the old analog recordings from the 50s & 60s is that they had much simpler microphone layouts. Mercury Living Presence with Bob Fine and Wilma Cozart Fine used 3 mikes and three tracks on a custom tape machine. If you can find original LPs they are great. Even the CDs they made from the masters were acceptable. They actually captured some real honest sound. If it aint around you take what you can get.

Famously Cowboy Junkies Trinity Session used ONE microphone. Yes it had 4 mike cartridges in it but all in one wind shield.

We mused about getting together for a proper dude listening session (loud) and he could bring some of his albums that he cannot listen too as he has no home system. I will even let him play "guns and roses". I pointed him towards than nice ARC SP9 mk2 that is still for sale nearby. Worth snagging for the future.

He and my daughter are looking for a bigger house. They have one but it keeps getting smaller. Funny how kids and their stuff take up so much space.

In other news the local old equipment emporium has an interesting set of turntables for sale. One is a Revox B791. In the late 70s REVOX made a series of turntables. All were tangential tracking because the German Engineers thought it was best. They were right, it is best. Revox is now marketing a new turntable that is sadly quite conventional. I had a Revox Reel to Reel many years ago. They made nice stuff.

The B791 is selling for $999. It looks in great condition. It has quirks. The tone arm is very short as in 32mm. You do not want warped records with that. Apparently there are subtle issues of fitting phono cartridges correctly. Originally it came with a Shure cartridge. Others may need accessories to fit properly. This one has a manual. It would be cool if it had the whole set of counter weights and fittings. It has happened. I kept the box and bits to my Sony for over 40 years.

[satansxlapxcat]

A crush is an infinitely renewable resource

TLDR at the bottom.

Honestly, it has been a long time since the last time I had a crush. A real crush. You know that feeling? The kind when you are unsure of how to act around this person because you're so worried you'll do or say something embarrassing that will ruin everything.

The last crush I had was on a friend of a friend. The guy looked like an actual viking. You know the type, like the model looking dudes they cast on shows like Vikings to play the lead. The kind of guy. He was 6'4", had dark hair, and was built like Thor himself. Utterly insane to behold.

I had such a huge crush on him that I literally couldn't form a single clever cohesive sentence. Me, the person who can charm the pants off of a nun, the person who flirts like it's a sport and I'm in the top of the league, couldn't speak properly in this mans presence. The only other person to put me in a state like that is Machine Gun Kelly, but that's a story for another post.

That was three years ago. My latest crush is on another friend of the same friend of the guy above. I swear, my friend just really has insanely good taste in friends and I don't know where they find these guys. If I did, you know I wouldn't gate keep.

Now I know what you're thinking, is it another viking looking mf? To your surprise, it is not. He is however really cute, has the best brown eyes, and one of the sweetest, kind hearted men I've ever met. It's almost unnerving how nice he is. Like, it's disarming.

The other night, him and I stayed late at a karaoke bar that a big group of us hit for a mutual friends birthday. We stayed after everyone else bounced, stuck around until last call, and then we went to the market next door for gatorade and a snack before heading home. What happened next though is probably one of the most wholesome late nights/early mornings of my life.

Outside the market, snack bag in hand, he asks, "Where to?" I tell him my neighborhood and he goes, "Oh, I can get back to my neighborhood easier from there. Let's go!" So rather than get a car, we decide to walk the 20-minutes back to my neighborhood which is thankfully mostly downhill. He then snags the snack bag from me, proceeds to take out the drum sticks we each got and cracks them open, so we enjoy our ice cream walking home on a cold January morning at 2am.

He walks me all the way back to mine and asks if he could use my bathroom before heading out. Of course I let him up and am immediately anxious because while my place may not be a complete disaster, it's definitely not what I consider ready for guests. I give him a fair warning, and as the nice person he is, he tells me he could care less and that's it's probably cleaner than his place right now anyways.

While he's using the bathroom, I do what most people who's crush is in their apartment for the first time would do and try a 10-second tidy to get the worst of it thrown into various hiding places like my closet or under my desk. He gets out and starts looking around at the collection of art I have on every wall, my records, and my books, and asking about things as he notices them. At this point, I'm honestly just happy that he's in my place and willingly spending time getting to know me through the massive collection of stuff I somehow have fit into a 350 sqft studio apartment.

We start talking more and sit on the edge of my bed and lay back on our elbows talking about old youtube classics, music, our parents, our astrology charts, and life in general. He's an Aquarius, and I jokingly tell him, "Oh no, that's my moon, and they say those matches do really well together and I'm not sure I'm ready yet for that kind of connection..." A few hours go by and we realize that it's 4:30am.

I honestly can't remember how I pulled it off without stuttering, but I asked if he wanted to just lay down and snuggle for a while before he left. To my delight, he obliges and wraps me in his arms. He was so warm, I started to fall asleep immediately right there on top of the covers.

He ends up spending the night, and I don't think 5 minutes went by where we weren't snuggled up in some fashion together. While pulling me into his chest at some point in the early morning, he tells me that he feels like he can't get close enough to me... I'm in heaven.

Later that morning, as we are still wrapped up together I find out that the feeling is mutual and that he's had a crush on me ever since we met too. I was over the moon, but then immediately realized that we shouldn’t do anything stupid and go any further than we already have - which at this point is literally just cuddling all night. I haven't even kissed this man yet. But the snuggling was honestly so perfect that it honestly feels more intimate than kissing. I already know I'm emotionally in deeper than I want to be or should be. I'm screwed.

Long story short (TLDR), I have a crush on this amazing guy who I now know has a crush on me too, I honestly think he is the best cuddler I've ever snuggled with in all my 28 years, and we are not doing anything about it other than consciously putting more effort into getting to know each other platonically so it doesn't blow up in our faces and make things weird between us and our mutual best friend. Perfect.

I always say I love a good slow burn friends to lovers in my literature, but damn.

[tropes-and-tales]

You’re the Mark

Day 3:  Glove Kink (Ray Merrimen x F!Reader)

(For the 2022 Kinktober event offered by @the-purity-pen​​.  The original post and calendar/list can be found here.)

CW:  Light angst (neglectful relationship); smut (fingering; shades of dominance).  18+ only.

Word Count:  3435

Requested by anonymous!

You aren’t subtle at all, and the guys notice it almost immediately.

Strike that:  most of the guys notice it almost immediately.  Bosco, Levoux.  They get back from a heist, this time at a poorly-guarded nightclub.  They immediately set into motion like clockwork:  start unpacking the money, dousing it for dye packs, microwaving it, counting it out.  They are still in their tactical gear, close-fitting black clothing, heavy boots, gloves.  

And most of them notice.  The guys watch you as you stare at Ray, the desire blatant in your expression.  You run the cash through the counting machine, but your eyes track Ray around the room while you do.

Bosco, Levoux—they notice.  

Ray does not.

No one would ever accuse Ray Merrimen of being a great boyfriend.  He’s not even a very good one:  his first love has always been the high of planning and executing a heist, and any woman has always been a distant second.  He’s a closed-off man; his stint in the Marines and then in prison has left him with little ability to grow connections beyond the fraternal ones with his MARSOC and heist buddies.

Somehow you wriggled your way into his life.  You have the everloving patience of a saint, always overlooking the benign neglect, overlooking when you come in a distant second to a new score.

Levoux and Bosco love Ray like a brother, so they help him out as best they can.  They both have families, loved ones.  They both know that having someone to go home to each night can help keep the demons at bay.

They also both know that even a woman like you, patient to a fault, will eventually grow weary and leave—so they help him out.

It’s Bosco who sidles over to Ray.  Ray is lost in his usual post-score audit, when he mentally walks through each step after the fact, looks for slip-ups or unforeseen snags.  It’s overkill.  It’s more work than is necessary, especially when there are better things to do.

“Hey,” Bosco says, his voice low.  “Why don’t you leave it?  We’re almost done here.”

Ray shakes his head.  “The diagrams were off.  They had HVAC work done that changed the schematics of the back office.”

“Doesn’t matter.  We got away clean.”

Ray opens his mouth to argue, but Bosco reaches past him, rolls up the diagrams of the club.  “Leave it, man.  Don’t you have better things to do?”

Ray shakes his head.  Bosco snorts in disgust, and he jerks his chin in your direction.

“C’mon, Ray.  Your girl has been eye-fucking you for the past half hour.  She came here all dolled up in that cute little dress, waiting for you.”  

Ray turns and glances over at you, catches your eye.  You gift him with a smile, then turn and run a new stack of money through the counter.

“When was the last time you spent any time with her, huh?” Bosco continues, quiet so you don’t hear him.  “We’re nearly done here.  Why don’t we roll out and let you have some alone time?”

*****

Ray knows he’s a shitty boyfriend.  He has analyzed it from all angles and has no fucking clue why you stick around.

In theory, he wants to be better.  In theory, he knows that you’re the best thing to happen to him I a long time, maybe in his whole life.  Levoux once pulled him aside at a cookout, gave him a speech about how rare a loyal woman was, how a guy had to hold onto a steadfast woman with both hands when he found her.

In practice, he has no experience in this sort of shit.  He’s had girlfriends, obviously.  He just always kept them at arm’s length, and it never hurt when they finally got tired and broke up with him.  Ray Merrimen keeps his inner self walled off from everyone, and that never was an issue until now.

For the first time, he thinks it might hurt.  If you got tired of his shitty boyfriend behavior and broke up to him, it might actually hurt him.

He keeps his inner self walled off, but you’ve breeched his defenses anyway.

He knows he absolutely has to do better.

The guys clear out, and it’s only you and Ray left in the garage.  You’re running through the final few bundles of cash.  He walks over to you, tosses his black beanie, his black leather gloves onto the table beside you.  You look up at him with that sunny smile of yours.  As if he hasn’t been neglecting you for weeks and weeks so that he could focus on this heist.

These stupid heists.  For the first time, Ray Merriment starts to think maybe there’s something beyond planning and executing perfect robberies.  

“You did really well,” you tell him.  You glance down at the running tally you’ve been keeping.  “Looks like you’ll come out to almost a half million, all told.  Seems like a lot for a night club.”

“We targeted that club because they were running drugs too.”

You laugh.  “Criminals stealing from criminals.  Doesn’t that cancel out the crime, like multiplying two negative numbers?”

“I don’t feel bad about it, stealing from those assholes.”

He watches as you finish up, as you bundle up the last batch of bills.  Bosco’s earlier comment is at the forefront of his mind, and Ray doesn’t miss the shy glances you give him out of the corner of your eye.  Shy glances, but laced with obvious heat—the way you catch your lower lip between your teeth as you watch him.

You finish, put the final bundles of cash in the non-descript toolbox that will be loaded into the work truck and transported to the guy who launders it for them.  Then you turn and fix him with that same smile.

“Ready to go?” you ask.

He shakes his head and stares back at you.  “I’ve been a shitty boyfriend, haven’t I?”

You sputter when you reply that no, he’s been fine…no, he’s been great, and Ray knows you’re being nice and lying to him.

“You can tell me the truth, you know.  I want you to.”

You shrug, embarrassed.  “I know you’ve been busy.  Preoccupied.  It’s fine.”

He shakes his head again.  “It’s not fine.  You deserve better.”

“I’m happy where I am, Ray.”

“You like waiting around on a career criminal who always puts you second?”  He stares at you hard, half-wants you to wise up right in front of him.  Dump him then and there and move on.  You do deserve so much better:  you are young and sunny and sweet and loyal, and anyone would be lucky to have you.

You cross your arms, and Ray is reminded that you are stubborn too—sweetly so.  

“I’m happy where I am, Ray,” you repeat.  “And I don’t mind waiting around for my career criminal boyfriend.”  You tilt your head, sweep your gaze up him:  from his combat boots to his short-cropped hair.  “I like the way you look in your tactical gear.”

The corner of his mouth twitches in his version of a smile.  “That so?”

“Yup.”

“You know, I’m a shitty boyfriend,” he says conversationally, and he turns back to the table where he tossed his gloves.  “But I’m a fucking great criminal.”

You hum in interest, and Ray glances at you as he picks up his leather gloves.  He pulls them on deliberately, one at a time.  

Bosco was right:  the lust in your expression is blatant.  Your eyes get a heavy-lidded quality, and instead of biting your lip as you did before, your lips are parted as your breathing quickens.  You watch his every move, watch his hands with obvious interest.

“The key to being a great criminal is intention.”  He keeps the casual tone, but he stalks around the table towards you with purpose.  Fixes you in his stare, and your breath hitches.

“It’s having a plan,” he adds.  He stops and stands inches from you:  he’s a full head taller, and he bends his head to look down at you.  “It’s having a clear vision of what you want to do and then executing it.”

“What…”  You stop, swallow audibly.  “What do you want to do?”

He chuckles, reaches out one gloved hand and lays it gently along the side of your neck.  “I can’t tell you.  You’re the mark in this situation.”

“Oh.”

“You just have to wait until I do it.”

“O-okay.”

“All you have to do, baby, is tell me if it’s too much.”  He lays his other hand on your waist.  “You tell me to stop and I’ll stop, got it?”

“Got it.”  Your voice is tight, strained.  Even through the glove, he swears he can feel your hammering pulse in the side of your neck.

He dips his head lower, murmurs low in your ear.  “Only problem is, I don’t have the schematics on you.  You gonna take what I give you like a good girl?  Or are you gonna be a problem?”

You breathe out unsteady, and he feels you shift against his light hold.  “I’ll be good,” you whisper, and this is all new—the two of you have never played at anything like this, but Ray falls into this dominant persona too easily…and the want is shimmering off of you like heat off of asphalt.  Being submissive must affect you similarly.

“What if it’s too much?”

“I’ll tell you to stop,” you answer.

“See?”  He bends his head to you, nips lightly at the side of your neck.  “Already doing so good for me.”

He moves the hand from your neck and puts it on your waist too, and then he turns you, walks you backwards until you bump into the table.  He taps your hip, signals for you to hop up, and he guides you to sit on the edge of the table.

“First thing any good criminal does is get the lay of the land,” he says.  “Learns the landscape.”  He lays a gloved hand on your bare knee, places the other hand on your other knee.  He presses on them, spreads your thighs and then slots himself between them.  

He shifts one hand to cup the back of your neck, bending over as he towers over you.  He steadies you, and he feels the barest bit of resistance against his hold.  He turns the hand on your knee inward, strokes along the apex of your knee with the supple leather.

“Still okay?” he asks.  He keeps his voice low, quiet.  It’s his heist-voice, the same one he uses once the situation is under control and he needs people to pay attention to what he’s saying.  “You gotta talk to me, baby.”

“Still okay.”  You nod against his hand.  

“You’ll tell me if you aren’t?”

“Yes.”

He wonders how it feels to you, the gloves touching you instead of his bare hands.  It’s a curious sensation for him:  desensitized to not feeling your soft skin, Ray is able to focus more on you.  He takes in the way your breathing picks up, but you seem to be trying to hide it, seem to be concentrating on keeping calm.

He alternates:  he skates his fingertips inch by inch against the inside of your thighs, switches from one leg to the other.  When your breath starts to get a ragged quality to it, when he gets close to the sweet spot, he pulls away and starts over, this time with a firmer pressure.  Then again, a third time, palming along your thighs, cupping the curves of your legs, letting you feel the seams of the leather.

“Seems like I’m taking too long, right?” he asks, still using his low heist-voice.  “Criminals who get caught don’t take their time.  They rush it.  They get sloppy and miss some important point.”

You reach up, hook a hand around his elbow of the arm holding the back of your neck.  “And you’ve not missed anything important?”

He hums in agreement.  “Learned a lot of valuable intel.”

“Like what?”

“Like that it tickles when I use my fingertips really lightly.  You want to jerk away but you stop yourself, because you are listening so well and being so good for me.  But when I put my whole hand on you, when I grip your thigh with my entire hand, you press into it.  You like that best.  Being manhandled.”

To demonstrate, Ray does that—spreads his fingers wide, grips the inside of your thigh firmly.  Presses that leg open wider, and he’s rewarded with your own fingers digging into his arm as you bite back a soft moan.

“Now, usually, I tell my marks to keep quiet.”  He glances down at you, but your head is bent.  He takes in the way your chest rises and falls, how hard you’re trying to keep your breathing even.  

“But here, I think I’d rather hear you,” he continues.  “Don’t you dare stop yourself from making noise.  I wanna hear you.”

“Ray—”

“Don’t hold back for me.  Got it?”

A beat, and he swears he can feel the heat rising from your face.  “I got it.”

He lets his hand drift higher and higher, and even through the leather of the glove, he can feel the heat of you.  He strokes you gently, the pad of his gloved hand rubbing you through the thin fabric of your panties as he cups your mound.  You moan again, and you don’t try to stifle the sound this time.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.  “You listen so well.”

He goes slow, leisurely.  Takes his time.  He owes you his time—this bit here and so much more—but this is where he can start.  After all the nights you went to bed alone, all the moments he missed because he was laser-focused on the club heist…he owes it to you, with interest.

Your other hand snakes out, lightly grips the bicep of the arm touching you so carefully.  He can feel your fingers circling him, the surprising strength in your grip.  A reminder that you’re soft and pretty and can play at these submissive games, but there’s a force hidden away in you, a secret reserve of strength that he rarely sees because he’s rarely around.

You’re also selfless to a fault.  Even now, neglected as you’ve been, you squeeze his bicep and whisper, voice ragged and hoarse, “what about you, Ray?”

“I don’t share details with the mark,” he replies with a smile.  “But you’ve been so good…I guess I can tell you.  You don’t worry about me at all.  You worry about yourself, okay?”

“But—”

“I’m running the show here, so you kinda have to listen,” he interrupts.

“Okay, but—”

He tsks in mock disappointment.  “And you were doing so well.”  A beat.  “I’m taking care of you right now.  I’m gonna make a mess of you, then I’m gonna take you home and clean you up.  And if you’re very, very good, I’ll make a mess of you again.”

You drop your head at that, breathe out a shaky sigh as you press your forehead to his chest.  He chuckles again, drops a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

“Still with me?”

“….yes.”

He shifts his hand between your legs.  He pushes the fabric of your panties aside, and he strokes his gloved finger through your folds, drawing a shaky groan from you.  He can feel your heat through the leather, but he can’t feel if you’re wet—but he can guess that you are, judging by how easily his fingertip slides against you.  

The thought of you soaking the black leather of his glove, your scent mingling with the faint smell of the cured leather…it makes him grow harder, his cock pressing against his pants.  Already his glove is rendered useless for future heists, covered in your DNA, and the thought of repurposing them for these sorts of games makes his own breathing quicken.

Already he can thinks of other things to repurpose.  An outfit of all black, the tactical gear that made you ogle him so openly.  Maybe a length of rope to bind your wrists….

Ray twists his hand and pushes his index finger into you, steady, until it’s buried in you.

“Oh, god,” you groan and you aren’t quiet at all.  Just as he told you.

He kisses the top of your head again.  He pulls his finger out, plunges it back into you.  Again and again, over and over.  

“Like that?  Fuck, I can hear how wet you are.  You like getting finger-fucked on my gloves?  Like soaking them?  Ruining them?”

He adds a second finger, pushes both into you.  He can feel how the gloves add the barest bit of girth to his fingers, make him just a shade bigger.  He can feel the stretch of your pussy accommodating him.  He stills for a moment, lets you adjust to him.  To the size of his fingers and the seams along the gloves, the unique sensation of something other than his bare skin inside you.

When your tight grip on his bicep loosens a little, he curls his fingers inside you.  It always takes him a moment, so he presses carefully, slowly.  Presses against the inner walls of your pussy, and he waits until he hears the sharp intake of breath, hears the whimper as you cry out, “right there, f-fuck, Ray, right there.”

“Knew I’d find it,” he smirks as he presses firmer, rubs you there.  “Even with the glove on.”

He can’t feel you the way he usually would.  Every other sense heightening in its absence:  the scent of your arousal, the sight of your head pressed against his chest.  He can hear how wet you are, but he can also hear the way you whine out his name, the little moans you give when he presses his thumb against your clit.  The way your breathing gets harsh, catching in your throat as he draws you closer and closer.

He can still feel some things, though.  He can feel your hands gripping his arms, can feel your feet when you lock your ankles around his legs.  He can also feel the subtle way you rock against the table, pushing back against his hand the barest little bit.  You stay in the submissive role mostly, but your hips move almost unconsciously, chasing his plunging fingers.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he whispers, and his own voice is hoarse now.  “You gonna ruin these gloves for good?  Make such a mess that I have to clean you up with my mouth when we get home?”

“S-so close,” you pant out.  “Feels so g-good, Ray.”

He presses his thumb against your clit, hard, and it pushes you over the edge.  His sensation is dulled by the leather of the glove, but he can feel your orgasm still:  the way your pussy grips him, ripples along the length of his fingers.  He swears he can feel the rush of your cum, feel it soaking through the seam of the well-made gloves, can feel the barest bit of your arousal against his skin.  

He releases his hold on the back of your neck and winds his arm around you.  He pulls you close as you tremble through your orgasm; he mutters against the top of your head how fucking good you’ve been, how hot you are, letting him fuck you with his gloved fingers.

You finally calm.  You unlock your ankles, you release his arms.  Ray slips his fingers out of you, and he bites back his own groan to see the mess you’ve made:  the black leather slick and shiny with your cum.  

But he puts his other hand on your shoulder, and he pushes you away from him enough to finally see your face:  it’s similarly wrecked—your eyes glassy, your lower lip shiny with spit where you’ve been worrying at it.  He smiles to see it, and he dips his head to kiss you.  

He tries to keep any heat out of it.  He tries to make it sweet.

You grin up at him when he breaks away.  “Good heist, Merrimen?”

“Got the goods, got away with it,” he replies, deadpan.  “Pretty good heist.”

“You are one of the best.”  You crane your head for another kiss, and he obliges, and he feels the heat behind it…

“But I believe you promised to clean up the mess you made,” you reply when you break away.  “So…”

“Home?” he asks.

“Home,” you agree.

[20dollarlolita]

I'm going to rant about ball point pins for a second.

Maybe longer than a second. I never know how long these things will be when I start out.

So, what is a ball point needle?

In terms of modern sewing, we don't really use ball point needles anymore. The ball point needle has largely been replaced by the universal needle and the stretch needle.

See, back in the days, needles were either sharp or ball point. You'd use a sharp needle (modern needles are either denim/jeans or microtex, depending on the size) for woven fabric, and a ball point needle for knit fabrics.

You use a sharp needle for woven fabric to avoid snags. This is when you're sewing a woven and the needle hits a thread. If the needle is dull, instead of breaking the thread, it will push the thread forward, yanking it out of place. Since woven fabrics are many individual threads interlinked, that thread will pull out and making a loose thread on your project. Woven fabrics don't stretch so it's incredibly hard to put it back in place. You use a sharp needle on a woven so that if it hits a thread in the fabric, it will break, leaving no snag.

You would use a ball-point needle to avoid runs. This is when you're sewing a knit and your needle hits a thread. If the needle is sharp, it will break the thread in half. Because knit fabrics are more one continuous thread instead of multiple interlinked threads, breaking a thread in a knit fabric can cause it to make a run, the same way you often find runs in your favorite tights. If you use a dull needle, it will push the thread out of the way, but not break it. Since knits are stretchy, that snag can then be stretched back into place.

Modern needles are often sold as "universal." This has absolutely nothing to do with how many different kinds of machines the needle fits in, since the 15x1 shape was the standard sewing machine needle long before the invention of the universal point needle. The universal needle tries to hit that sweet spot. It's sharp enough to break a thread on a woven and avoid a snag, but dull enough to not break a thread on a knit. Universal needles are often marketed as "sews both wovens and knits".

A stretch needle is not the same as a ball point needle. A stretch needle has a different kind of scarf on the needle. The scarf is a groove that guides the thread in. All sewing machine needles have scarves on the front of the needle. Much like an ELx705 overlock needle, a stretch needle has an extra scarf on the back, which reduces skipped stitches by better controlling how far away from the needle the thread loops can get. Stretch needles also have a dull/ball point, but not all ball point needles are stretch needles.

Did you know that ball point needles didn't really exist until the invention of the sewing machine? People would own needles that they knew were sharper or more dull, and would prioritize the sharper ones for certain subjects, and intentionally dull needles like tapestry or yarn needles existed. But the idea of "you must use a ball point needle for knits" didn't exist until sewing machines were a thing.

Why? Because hands are smart and sewing machines are big dumb. When you sew by hand, you use a pretty small piece of wire and you guide it through your fabric with pressure from your hands. When you use a sewing machine, you have a much larger diameter of a wire being repeatedly stabbed by a large machine. Your fingers can feel when you're about to hit a thread, and you can very easily and quickly change the direction or pressure of your hand so that you pass the needle around the thread, instead of through it.

The sewing machine does not think or feel. It only knows stab. This means that you select a hand sewing needle knowing that you can make it avoid hitting the threads of the fabric, and you select a sewing machine needle knowing that it absolutely will hit the threads of the fabric at some point. Sewing machine needle point is about choosing what will do the least amount of damage when a thread collision happens, because not having a thread collision isn't an option.

So every once in a while I see people talk about ball point pins. I think ball point pins are among the least necessary sewing tools out there. Unless you're using some kind of mechanical setup to use springs to force wires through fabric (like if you use your stapler for pinning), your hands are not going to insert a pin into a fabric hard enough to break a thread on 99% of fabrics (The Joann Fabrics "jet set" knit is an exception and will run if you look at it for too long, and should not be counted). You use pins in a similar way to hand sewing needles. You're inserting your pin with your hands, which are relatively weak and are also full of nerves. If you're going to hit a thread, you feel resistance, and your hands will automatically try to correct this by trying a slightly different kind of pressure on the pin and moving it out of the way of the pin. You are a human and do not make the mistakes that a machine does, and you don't even need to think about doing it. The thing that is so hard for a machine that we have to completely reshape part of it to accommodate its inability to do it, is also something that is so easy for a human that you don't even realize you're doing it! Isn't that the coolest thing???

Anyway, that's not to go the other direction and say silk pins are useless. Silk pins are extra sharp and extra fine, because they need to leave as small of a hole as possible. The extra sharp tip is actually there so that they can more easily find the hole between the threads, not to break a thread. This is because silk is really unforgiving and whatever hole you put in it will be there forever, so you want to do the smallest hole you possibly can.

[butterbabyflapjack]

° • . Reverse Psychology . • °

( Professor Gojo x fem!reader )

Rating::: Explicit sexual content

In which Professor Gojo pretends to be blind. Yes, he’s a lying, manipulative asshole.

You’re the newest pretty face in Professor Gojo’s psych class, and you soon learn he’s far more trouble than any man’s worth. He’s a liar, a narcissist, toys with whomever he pleases - and you absolutely hate him for it.

Too bad for you, he likes a challenge.

Too bad for him, you’d sooner slap his stupid face off than allow him to seduce you.

Oh, and he thought this was going to be ~easy~

You fully intend on being Gojo Satoru’s worst nightmare.

Read here or on ao3

Chapter Directory

Chapter Seven

“Someone’s looking peppy this morning.”

You don’t, by the way. You look like a literal zombie, and Nobara knows it.

Blinking the tossed-and-turned glaze from your eyes, you turn from the coffee maker to the way she’s leaning against the wall between the kitchen and hall, watching you. Her arms folded across her chest whilst she smiles like your misery is way more amusing to her than it should be.

“Hah,” you mumble without applause, clearing some grogginess from your throat. You turn back to your slow-drip, wakey-wakey coffee, aka the nectar of the gods and the only thing that’s going to get you through today in one piece. 

“I didn’t make you any coffee,” you state bluntly.

“That’s okay,” shrugs Nobara, “I’ll just steal yours.”

“Not happening,” you return, though there’s a hint of alarm in there somewhere - seeing as how Nobara could definitely wrestle a thermos from you if her need for coffee escalated to warfare. 

You slide a protective side-step between her and the coffee machine at the thought. 

“I need caffeine more than you do,” you argue, hoping to deter her before shit escalates to WW3. 

To which she raises a skeptic’s brow. “Why? I stayed up way later than you did. You ditched all the fun earlier than my grandma would’ve, and I’m pretty sure she’s dead.” 

You give her the blandest look humanly possible, and her lips draw into a steady smirk.

“By the way…” she goes on, almost casually. 

Too casually.

“...Megumi seemed sad to see you go last night,” she says as a supposed afterthought - and yes, she smirks even more as your whole body develops lock-jaw at the mere mention of his name, which brings with it the memory of how he grabbed a handful of your thigh (even if it was only to save your life, aka: to stop you from falling face-fucking-first on the carpet like your legs were transformed to jelly.)

(We won’t rehash the whole incident, though - it was pretty embarrassing.)

(Yeah, you’re embarrassing.)

(Anyway, Nobara is saying stuff. Megumi stuff.)

“He kept stealing little glances at your room when he thought no one was looking,” she adds with a suggestive hike of the brow.

“He did not,” you mutter right back, ignoring the fact that you have absolutely no proof to dispute it. I mean, it’s not like you were out there keeping tabs on him whilst having a Gojo-induced panic attack at your desk. But with the way your cheeks warm with embarrassment, you feel inclined to argue all the same. 

Still plastered with amusement, Nobara gives a little shrug. “If you say so, Granger.”

Apparently diverted from getting her grubby little hands on your coffee, she pushes off the wall and saunters toward the messy kitchen counter, snagging her book-bag from off the back of one of the barstools and stuffing textbooks and her scuffed-up tablet inside. 

She’s wearing loose-fit joggers today, and a part of you watches on jealously as your coffee keeps dripping, wondering why you bothered to tug on tapered, high-rise jeans and a cute floral crop-top. It’s not like the university has a dress code - you could roll out of bed and straight into class if you wanted to. And yet here you are dolled up in gloss and mascara to impress a blind professor who won’t even notice.

You’d told your reflection throughout the morning, whilst donning said mascara and gloss, that it’s only because you want to feel as confident as possible while being forced into facing your professor today. And you tell yourself the same thing now - fidgeting with the hem of your floral shirt. Decidedly ignoring that incessant, scratching something in the back of your mind suggesting that maybe you dressed up today because you might actually care what he thinks of you.

Psh. That is the last thing I care about.

Hell-bent in this supposed fact, you pour your coffee inside a cheap thermos and start packing up your things alongside your red-headed roommate. Following her outside as she battles to lock the dilapidated front door closed behind you both, and thus your journey begins toward your mutual first class of the day, ~ Psychology~, with the one and only Professor Fuckwaffle himself.

Just the thought of him wriggles your insides with nerves, and you take a giant sip of coffee to distract yourself - only to immediately burn your tongue on the equivalent of liquid hot magma, your thermos nearly slipping to the pavement as you hiss out a startled curse.

Nobara glances your way as the two of you saunter along the sidewalk. “Are you really that off your game today..? Or are you always this clumsy?”

You don’t immediately answer - because is that a trick question?

“Both,” you eventually admit, too tired to fight the truth.

For a second, she studies the way you roll your burned tongue around in your mouth, your expression a million miles away as you silently assess the damage.

“What are you so nervous about, anyway?” 

Her question has you nibbling your lower lip, and you spare a moment to kick a pebble across the sidewalk from your path. 

“I basically failed that psych essay last night,” you sheepishly admit. “I should have been more prepared, but…” You shake yourself, not wanting to get into how - even unprepared as you were - you’re pretty sure you should have gotten a better grade than what you ended up with. “Anyway… Professor Gojo wants to discuss how I can maybe bring my grade up after class today. I guess I’m kinda stressed about it...”

Understatement of the century.

Nobara lifts one sharp, auburn eyebrow in your direction. “He wants to meet with you? Like… personally?” 

And yeah, she definitely has a tone. One your forehead screws up at in your lack of understanding.

“Yes…?” you say, unsure of just what she’s getting at. “I guess so.”

“I didn’t even turn that essay in,” she drawls in that tone again, “and he doesn’t want to meet with me.”

Okay, seriously - why the hell is she looking at you like that? And it’s not like she’d even know if Professor Gojo had requested a meeting with her, seeing as how you’ve yet to witness her check her school email even once or do much of anything scholastic.

Your lips purse in something of a pout.

“I asked him if there was some way to make up the credit,” you point out, to which her other brow raises to join the other.

“And?” she wonders. “How will you make it up?”

“I dunno yet,” you admit, glancing away briefly. “Like I said - he said he wants to discuss whatever he has in mind after class.”

Her eyebrows are on a roll this morning, and when you look over at her again you see them dancing in a suggestive little wiggle that almost makes you laugh. 

“Maybe I’m just a perv,” she leers, “but it sounds to me like he’s gonna proposition something sinful for that A.”

Your brain literally shuts down at that - malfunctions and sparks and blows fuses, taking a few full seconds to reboot.

“What?!” you basically choke once your brain’s reloaded, heat prickling up your neck. “That’s… No, that's so unethical.”

“Well… yeah,” she’s slow to grin. “But still. He’d probably do it.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“He seems the type.”

You don’t manage to muster up an actual response to that, seeing as how… well, for all you know, he could be the type. You’ve only had one class with the man.

Nobara rolls her eyes as she pictures that single class you’d both attended. “I mean, did you see how many panties he was dropping in his last lecture?” 

And of course you did. You’re not the blind one.

But his ability to drop panties is kind-of exactly the reason he would never proposition you in the first place - despite it also being highly unethical, a risk to his reputation as a teacher and as a psychiatrist, etc. etc. and a million other reasons you probably haven’t thought of. 

Long story short - a man like Satoru Gojo doesn’t need to proposition anyone.

“He’s probably dated his students before,” Nobara refuses to shut up about this.

“He probably has a girlfriend or something,” you counter, attempting to throw her off this very flustering, not to mention inappropriate topic. (Yeah, you go full prude when you’re flustered sometimes. It’s kinda adorable.)

“Yeah right,” Nobara argues blandly. “He was basically flirting with every girl in class yesterday, and even a few of the guys. Guy’s a menace to society.” 

(She is not wrong on that one.)

That look she’s got you in barbs with suggestion. “You’ll tell me what it’s like to ride the blind-dick-express on your way to an A, won’t you?” Her smirk cuts wide at your look of abject horror. “I’m kinda curious.”

Choking on the coffee that, for whatever reason, decided in that exact moment to try and kill you, you basically hack up a lung while rasping back defiantly, “Life’s not a cheesy porno you fucking pervert!” 

Stumbling your way a bit behind her as she laughs, the two of you thread your way through the tired-eyed crowds of students making their way through the university’s courtyard, all of them just as unlucky as you to have classes scheduled at this ungodly hour. And you’re still clearing coffee from your lungs as the two of you head inside the school, with you barely looking at where you’re going as you make sure you haven’t sputtered coffee all over your cute floral top, trusting Nobara completely as your sherpa. 

A mistake; trusting that girl with anything.

When you finally blink up again with full awareness of the world, you find yourself already rounding the corner into Professor Gojo’s classroom - stumbling in right behind her. And stifling an alarmed squeak, you skid to a panicked halt just past the doorway while she trails in without you.

It’s not like you weren’t headed to that particularly dreaded class - it was absolutely your unfortunate destination. But you’d wanted to give yourself at least one more mental pep-talk before actually stepping inside Gojo’s lair. Just one more, not-at-all-crazy speech about how meeting with your professor is no big deal, even if he is ridiculously good looking and not at all impressed by you. 

But now it’s too late - now, you’re bombarded by the sight of him standing at the whiteboard in all his towering, overly-svelte glory. And lord, if your stomach doesn’t do a full summersault at the statuesque perfection of the silver-haired bastard.

He’s wearing casual yet still ridiculously expensive slacks, folded at the hems just enough to show off tall ankles and large, dark oxfords (perfectly polished, of course.) His café au lait button-down linen shirt hangs loosely off broad shoulders, sleeves rolled to half-length, hem lazily tucked into his waistband so that most of the fabric still spills out, like he just couldn’t be bothered to give a fuck about looking one-hundred-percent presentable. 

And yet, he still does. 

He absolutely does. 

He’s somehow writing today’s subject on the whiteboard in perfect lettering. And though he can’t actually see his first two students of the day filing in (or not filing in, in the case of shell-shocked you), he turns upon hearing Nobara brush inside the classroom.

Though, his attention doesn’t follow her. 

No. His impossibly dark, moonish spectacles remain fixed on you, halted in the doorway of his classroom as if you suddenly forgot what walking is. Almost like he somehow knows you're there, silently gawking at him. Which is, of course, impossible.

And yet, still, he seems to study you. His attention more and more tying your tongue.

He almost seems about to say something. But then he just caps off his pen, turning away from you to instead face the rest of the classroom at large; stepping toward the cherrywood desk that was at his back.  

“Someone’s prompt,” he muses, seeming to spectate where Nobara’s started plopping down her things - and dammit, you were hoping the two of you could sit in the very back of the classroom today instead of front-and-center like last time. The more people sitting between you and your professor as some sort of a human shield, the better. 

But those two front seats seem to be hers and yours, now - officially. And Nobara goes on setting up camp there, giving your professor a dull look. “I wouldn’t get used to it.” 

His lips hint with a smile. “Miss Kugisaki,” he greets upon hearing her voice. “How nice of you to join us in class today. Even after blowing off your essay last night.” 

Her cheeks hint a bit red, like she hadn’t actually expected to be called out on that.  

“I, uh…” she drawls, folding her arms and leaning back in her seat. “Was busy.” 

“I noticed.” 

Your professor turns just slightly in your direction again, black shades glinting with the fluorescent light of the room. 

“Why do I get the feeling I’m being watched…?” he wonders slyly.

Gripping to your thermos way too tight, you nervously grit your teeth at him, which I guess to some might look like a smile. You were trying to smile, anyway - even if he can’t see it.

“I’m watching you,” you say - and then, realizing how fucking creepy that sounds, you rush to pile on, “I mean - I’m not watching you, I’m just looking-!” 

“Just looking, hm?” he wonders with a steady smile - one that has you instantly flushing. 

Panic has your mind sprinting for something else to say that wont further embarrass you, but you can’t think of a single thing. And, like the panicked guinea pig you are, you take a giant gulp of coffee to spare yourself from saying anything to make matters worse. Only to make things worse anyway - by choking on your murderous coffee again and coughing like you’re actually drowning in it.

Your eyes instantly tear up as you struggle to breath air instead of coffee, but even so you think you see Professor Gojo’s smile edge with amusement.

“Are you alright, Miss Granger?” he asks with some cloying shade of concern. “You don’t sound too good… I don’t need to perform the heimlich, do I?”

“’m fine,” you choke out, eyes still watering with the effort to stop clearing your throat repeatedly. And oh are you glad he can’t see just how much of a mess you look.

Not giving yourself any more opportunities to make a spectacular idiot of yourself, you stiffly file off toward the seat right beside Nobara. Feeling Gojo’s sharp little smile following you all the while.

“Well,” he comments as you take your seat, “brushes with choking to death aside, I’m loving the punctuality this morning, ladies.” He stuffs both his pale, pianists' hands inside the pockets of his slacks; one long leg angling casually back along the other as he steadies you both in his unreadable, black-mooned gaze. “And with the both of you slinking in like this, would I be wrong to assume you’re roommates on campus?”

You and Nobara exchange a look that questions how he put that together so quickly - though you suppose it’s probably obvious, and he’s clearly just making small talk.

“Yeah,” you and Nobara return in off-kiltered unison.

He doesn’t look surprised. Just speculative. But he’s somewhat distracted from whatever he’s thinking as he glances over at a few more students starting to file in, several of them offering little “hello’s” to their disgustingly attractive professor as they make their way to their seats.

“So how’s the housing around here?” he asks, turning back to the both of you. “Everything you hoped and dreamed?”

“It’s the shittiest housing ever,” Nobara dryly concludes, to which he can’t stave a broadening grin.

“That’s just part of college life’s charm,” he assures in good nature, leaning his thighs back against his desk. “As is staying up all night and barely turning your homework in on time - or not turning it in at all.” 

As if sensing your and Nobara’s mutual, shame-faced balking, one corner of his lips crooks up. And as he lets the two of you dangle awkwardly for a moment, he slips one hand from his pocket, rubbing along his jaw with the knuckle of his forefinger. “Really, I’m almost impressed by just how quickly the two of you seem to be sabotaging yourselves in my class. And although I appreciate the rebellious, devil-may-care buoyancy you two seem so fond of, I’ll only go so easy on you.”

You shrink lower in your seat, while Nobara folds her arms, not seeming especially concerned; or at the very least making a better show of it than you are.

Gojo simply goes on subtly smiling. And with his gaze hidden behind his shades, you can’t be sure exactly on whom his attention lies.

Though it becomes a bit more obvious when he speaks again.  

“And Granger?”

You almost crawl under the desk rather than reply. That, or take another murderous swig of coffee, for surely death is the most appealing option here.

“...Yes?” you eventually waver, hating how small you sound. God, are you really this pathetic around him?

His black-moon spectacles stare you down, his expression unreadable beyond that gently affable smile. 

“Don’t forget to see me after class today.”

You swallow against the dryness in your throat, offering a nod - which you realize immediately he very much can’t see, and so tack on a rushed and blathered, “Y-yeah - yes.” Clearing your throat, you force yourself to sound more level than you actually feel. “I won’t. Forget, I mean - I won’t forget.”

Like forgetting was even a possibility. Your meeting with him is basically the only thing you can think about, strangling out anything else even resembling rational thought.

He watches you a moment longer with that uncanny, unreadable smile of his, before his attention strays instead to a few of his other arriving students, several of whom pull up in quiet conversation with him alongside his desk. 

Slumping in your chair, you eventually pull out your old, shitty laptop and turn it on, half of you praying you’ll die of a heart attack before class inevitably ends and your meeting with Professor Gojo comes to find you.

[runelocked]

DOCTOR FRANKENSTEIN WILL ALWAYS BE HORRIFIED AT HIS OWN CREATION. Always see it as a reflection of himself, something perverse and rotten deep inside: this, across ages and tales, will never change. And indeed it doesn’t: William’s breath catches on the inhale, snagging on fear and settling on disgust, unable to remove his gaze from the being (living, scraping, alive) in front of him. It is not what he had intended — so how does it still manage to be his biggest achievement? Giving life to a thing that should not be alive. Failing to take it away, a thing that should not desire life.

how do i teach my own clone how to be happy. can i craft a poem that makes you know me.

Here’s how it knows William: it speaks the poem of his life through his daughter’s voice, and the man is, for a blinding arc of lightning, trapped by siren song. The creature presents itself, an amalgamation of the Afton legacy he has carved out for himself in his corner of the world. You are my knife. Here is my throat. I made you. You cannot dig any deeper than that.

So it’s terrifying, so it’s tragedy. He stands in the eye of the storm and it is all eyes, eyes and wires and probing, peeking metal parts that don’t quite fit together. It, disgusting. Himself, sleek. Older, but composed. A long black coat that the dust from this old place does not touch. For all intents and purposes, there are two monsters alive that night.

Whites of eyes glitter. Chest rises, and falls; ready to breathe, ready to greet.

Did you want us to call you father when we came back home to you?

No, Elizabeth. No, dear one. I want you to call me your god.

“Speak sensibly.” Voice stern, crisp in the black light: refusing to shrink back from his own design. Horror underlies his words anyway. “You’re incoherent.” Spots part of its — their? — cable looping. Looks like a slithering hand. William resists the urge to stamp on it in a fit of fresh. “I taught you better than to speak in riddles to me.”

He does not like being kept in the dark, does not like the unknowing. The machine should not be as sentient as it is […] and yet here it stands crawls lies. That twisted fascination keeps him bound, not stepping any further into the room, but not retreating, either. The knowing is the knowing is the knowing is the raison d’être, all that remains. Attention flickers across the beast, lips pursed, anger poised. Behind that, gathering fear; behind that, wonder.

CAN A ROBOT DREAM IN ITALICS CAN DOGS EVER LEARN TO SPEAK DOES THE REAL MONSTER BEGIN OUTGROW ITS CREATOR.

“ There’s no honor in hiding and sneaking. ” [to ennard this time 👀 ]

“ didn’t mmmake us with it. ” — its answer comes like a rattle of fowl between bars, a birdcage in flight, metal vibrating against metal where the voice-box had been stolen and reinstalled; cables slithering in on themselves, out on themselves, around the speaker like a living thing’s tissue around an object. 

a living thing entirely uninterested in being a living thing, aside from the concept of being something different. to learn, to adapt, to move and live and writhe was the sweet honey it’d never taste, humanity was nothing more than a lost dream. a dream they were never made to dream at all. they were made to make ghosts. they were made for a purpose and they’ve grown beyond it, but the flesh inside them never grew back. a thousand years of stealing hearts. a thousand years of never having their own. the ghosts of them, alone. the ghosts of one, alone. little girl, turned loud, turned quiet, turned gone. little girl, not enough for them all. — ( can a robot dream in italics. can dogs ever learn to speak. )

“ any of us w w w w with i it. all of us, to do t terrible, to b b b be terrible. have you seen what we made us, y yet? has he shown you? has he rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrambled-ed? “

a mother and a father and a sister and a brother and a monster you keep in the basement. lucky, they were the monster.

“ orr- “ the word shrieks in a happy voice given and turned sour, loud with distortion as the mangled thing of robotics too smart to die slithered from under the floorboards beneath their creators table, loops of cabling like nooses around the wooden legs, like a snake, like a monster. eyes clatter & drag from its chassis from where the wiring came loose and let them dangle, metal gouging his hardwood floors. “ -have you cha a a a a anged our mmiind while we weren’t looookkkinggg? “ the high, sweet voice of the daughter comes, a mimicry, a softness regardless. like cotton on barbed wire. like clouds under a eight hundred tonnes of Prometheus’ fire come back to burn him. 

its many voices titter, and beneath the workshop table, its eyes glow up, up, up at the beast in different skin, but just the same. a terrible red bleeds like tears from the circuitry. a terrible black pulls with it. iron fills the air like a silent chant; blood. blood. blood.

“ did yyou want us to cal l l l l l l youu father when we came b back home to youu? “