#hackney moves

[mayday505]

I hate nothing more than a bitch who pretends they’re a Londoner when they lived there when they were a baby like you don’t even remember that shit king how r u gonna pretend to know what Peckham is like.

[kabr0ztrousers]

Got a request! A rich male alien that adores and loves to spoil a fem reader who is his captive lover. She tried to escape and he gives her a choice in punishment. She chooses the least threatening one which is to be the refreshments for a party he's hosting. Whatever the heck “refreshments” mean. She'll know when her tits get bigger and start to leak a lot.

Kabr0z Writes Episode 26: Disciplinary action

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: Lactation; dubcon; noncon; intox; Interspecies; sextoy use; lack of liberty; sexual punishment; cunnilingus; some femdom; it's a fun time

A/N: This is the last request in the box 😱 If you have an idea you'd like me to write into being, have a kink you want me to indulge, or just want to tell me my writing's hackneyed and uninspiring, please please please click my profile and send an ask, a DM, it's all open. Do it now before the post-nut clarity hits!

And with that out of the way:

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It's been six months since humankind was bought in a land deal. Most of your race exists in vast facilities where they're milked like cattle, kept alive on a mixture of algae and drugs. Some still live in cities on Earth, playing pretend that the world hasn't ended for the benefit of tourists. The rest are like you: domestic housepets.

You touched the back of your skull, feeling the almond-sized implant your owner put there. Somewhere between an ID and a shock collar. You don't know what happens if it triggers, and hopefully you'll have it cut out before you find out. A chittering sound echoed over the ships tannoy. You listened intently. The Chitinid language may sound like a can of dry peas being dropped down stairs, but it's intelligible if you learn how. You catch the important parts.

You'll hit the jump gate in 20 rels, then be in witchspace for another 30. You know you're in Sol at the moment. 20 rels is about an hour old-Earth time. Plenty of time to get to an escape pod. If you time it just right, you'll jettison on the Solar side and the ship will be God knows where by the time they notice you missing.

Now's the time to make your move. You hurry down the azure-lit hallways of the starship. Your clothing isn't meant to be easy to move in, all wispy fabric and high heels. It's not doing anything to preserve your modesty, rather drawing the eye to your bare tits, ass, and pussy. The Chitinids don't even have compatible genitals to fuck a human with, but it still seems to be fashionable to dress their pets like they do.

Playing the idiot housepet has its perks. Chitinids don't expect you to understand them when they speak their language. Humans can't make those kinds of sounds, and they're capable of speaking Human languages, so English, Spanish, and Mandarin tend to be the common languages. Nobody challenges you as you pass them, they barely look at you.

At last, the escape pod door. Now just to open the hatch.

You realised your mistake as soon as you touched the controls. A heat radiated from the nodule at the base of your skull. Static radiated down your spine. Your arms went to sleep, then your legs. You collapsed into a heap, limbs twitching.

You don't know how long you stayed there. You felt the lurching sickness as the ship jumped to witchspace, then the reverse-headache of regaining normality. Only then did your owner appear.

He was as grotesque as the rest of his race. A huge beetle, stood on its spindly hindlegs, the stopping slouch of all Chitinids keeping him no more than about 4 or 5 feet tall. The two left forelimbs held a staff, some symbol of office. In his right he held your remote. He clicked a button and your arms came back. You dragged yourself to a sit, your legs still twitching and numb.

Your owner walked away, leaving you to drag yourself behind him using your arms. The bastard was leading you back to his cabin, you were sure of it, but he was taking the scenic route. He made sure to pass every damn member of the crew, the chittering laughs turning your face red with embarrassment and rage. At last you reached his quarters. Two armoured security guards stood to attention as he passed them.

"So. You are the rebellion. This to be punish." He still hasn't got the hang of English. "I am generous owner. Pet gets to choose punish.

You glared at him, silent hatred burning in your eyes

He didn't notice, or didn't care. "First option: Brig, I turn on your collar and you stay in brig for week or two" Staying in the brig without even the use of your limbs? Not particularly enticing. "Second: I get male Human from friend. You make me many more pets" You almost shuddered at that one. "Third: We travel to a business deal. Big party after. You give refreshments"

Ok. Two nightmare scenarios, or a shift working hospitality for some assholes? Fuck, you were a cocktail waitress before the world went to Hell, it'll almost be nostalgic. "Three" You spat the word at him, and he sat back.

"Good. Party in a day. Put on nice clothes. Best behaviour, or you get brig and I get more humans." You bit your lip, you knew better than to try and backtalk him when he got like this. Especially not now you know what the "collar" implanted in you does.

He switched your legs back on after you'd left the cabin. You could at least walk properly back to your room. You whiled away the time imagining yourself cracking open his carapace like an overgrown lobster, before dressing in some fresh silks and making your way to the docking umbilical. He was waiting for you there, chittering with another one you didn't recognise, also holding a staff.

You could see the other ones pet. A young man. You shivered to look at him. Angry welts criss-crossed his back. While your silks were revealing, they were comfortable. He was dressed in leather straps, over-tightened and decorated with spikes pressing into his skin. He was gagged tightly, a rubber ball stuck in his mouth and a strand of drool leaking down. His genitals were bound up in a shiny cage, indicator lights flashing on it occasionally. You noticed he would twitch and groan when they did, it was probably set up to electocute him periodically. You knew better than to ask, but this was probably your prospective mate if you misbehaved tonight.

"Are we early?" You asked as sweetly as you were able. Your customer service voice was a little rusty, but you had all night to practice.

The Chitinids laughed "Right on time" The new one spoke much better English than your owner. "But you're not fully dressed."

You felt a sharp pain in your ass. Your owner had stuck you with something. You shot him a glare, but they only laughed harder.

You stepped into the party, and the room looked at you. Most were uninterested, paying more attention to the beetles behind you as you let yourself be ushered to the centre of the room.

A rail shot up around you, and an azure containment field snared you. Your arms lifted above your head and hung there, pushing your tits out. You felt strange, a tingling feeling spreading across your body.

Your tits started to ache.

The man you saw in the umbilical stepped towards you, gazing up apologetically as he knelt down. He parted your legs.

You felt fingers press against your pussy, gently rubbing into you, making your body respond. You felt yourself getting wet around him and could hear the sound of his fingering as he played with your hole.

One of the guests stepped towards you, and loudly chittered at the crowd. Something about a story, a couple, drinking, milk? Wait. Milk. Fuck. The guest produced a flask from its exoskeleton and tipped your head back, pouring the contents down your throat. You gagged at the bitter taste and the stinging burning as it flowed down. Then you moaned as your pussy became dripping wet all at once. The man's fingers slid inside you and you came hard. Your body seized as you shook in the containment field. His fingers kept pumping up into you as he buried his face in your pussy. You writhed as you felt a tongue lapping at your clit, his gag must have come off.

Your chest felt heavy, you looked down and saw your tits were growing. They were already twice as big as they were before and weren't stopping, ballooning cartoonishly more and more with every moment. You gasped and cried as the man found your g-spot, another orgasm hitting you like a train and making you lift your legs as your body tried to double over, held upright by your wrists. You'd settle for wrapping that man's head in your thighs, keeping his tongue where it belongs.

The constant stimulation along with the drugs brought you to another orgasm, then another and another. Your tits had stopped swelling now, though they're still way past conventional bra sizes. You could still feel pressure building in them, growing with every passing moment.

A servant Chitinid approached with a pair of devices, clear plastic cups with valves on the stems and strange modules inside. It wasn't until he fixed them to you that you understood. They're the devices used in the farms. To regulate flow of milk from the cattle. The servant turned a tap, and you felt it start extracting milk from you. The feeling of being milked, on top of the fingering and riding the man's face was too much. Your head rolled back and you screamed put your orgasm to the cheers of all the Chitinids present. The servant filled a glass with your milk and fed it too you, warm, creamy and sweet. Then the rest came, each filling glasses and chittering to one another as you came over and over again, barley giving the man working your cunt enough time to breathe between squirting your orgasms into his face.

The party lasted for hours. By the time it was over the man had already passed out between your legs and was slumped on the floor, long since replaced by a curved vibrator. Your tits were still huge and set you off balance, tipping invitingly forwards as the spigots leaked the last of your milk.

The containment field snapped off. You fell onto the unconscious man, startling him awake. Your owner stood over you, alone but for the servants and you two humans.

"Male's owner, tired of him. Sold to me for two thousand credits. You both mine now. You two get along. Make me more humans."

He walked away. You struggled to your feet, still dripping from the spigots attached to you. You helped the man up, you told him your name, he told you his.

You'll have plenty of time to get acquainted

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A/N (again): Just taking the time to reiterate what I wrote at the top, if there's anything you want to see, anything at all, let me know. Ask soon and you might wind up prompting the next episode

[brokenxmachine]

I'm gonna leave my body (moving up to higher ground)

I'm gonna lose my mind (history keeps pulling me down)

FLORENCE AND THE MACHINE performing "Leave My Body" live at Hackney Empire, UK (2011) // source

[avocado-writing]

home

pairing: 14th doctor x reader & 10th doctor x reader

rating: E

notes: no gender or age given for reader, just that you last saw the doctor fifteen years ago. thank you to @mcganns for being my beta!!

This too shall pass.

It was a sentiment that you had to cling onto when he left, because fuck knows it was the most painful thing you’d ever felt. And you’d run away from actual explosions before. Big ones, in space! Supernovas which could eat entire planets while you hung onto the side of a little blue box. 

And yet none of it even begins to compare to when he fucking left you. 

He said it wouldn’t be forever. Well, he shouted it at you as you fell out of the TARDIS. There was a time explosion, and you got rocketed back to your little flat in the middle of Hackney, on Earth only a few days from when he’d picked you up — but in your reality months of adventure had passed. 

You’d not really settled back in, certain that he was going to come and rescue you. But then days turned into weeks into months and you finally accepted that the Doctor had abandoned you. 

So you went back to it all. Your mundane little existence before a mad, brilliant man had whisked you away. Your boss was a bit miffed that you’d gone AWOL but you were their best employee so they couldn’t afford to let you go, all you got was a slap on the wrist and a command not to let it happen again. The people you loved didn’t really seem to notice your absence that much, which stung; you couldn’t blame them though. You’d probably not miss you much either. 

The Doctor. He made you feel special in a way nobody had before. Like you were the centre of a whole, giant, fantastic universe, and he adored you for it. 

Still. 

No point mulling that over again, is there?

Fifteen years. Things did get better. You moved on eventually. But you still find your thoughts drifting back to him every once in a while, and that fragment of time you spent totally utterly in love with each other. When you think about the way he kissed you, without realising it you end up touching your lips.

No. No. Stop. 

The singing of the kettle snaps you back into reality, and you pour yourself a hot cuppa. Ah, tea. The antidote to everything. You go to turn the radio on for some company as you shift into your morning routine when you hear a knock at the door. 

Probably the postie. He’s a bit early today, you think, but make no more of it as you undo the latch and open the door. 

Your heart stops. 

Because there he is, of course. 

Older. Weathered. Not the young man you once knew but a grownup version of him, as exhausted by life as you are. 

You drop your mug. Quick as a flash the Doctor grabs it out of midair. The tea sloshes onto the floor but at least nothing gets shattered. 

He goes to look up at you, but his attention is drawn back to his hand. 

“I bought you this mug years ago,” he says, utterly amazed. 

You shut the door in his face. 

Well, you try to, anyway. But he sticks a foot in between the door and the frame, with one of those stupid Converse he always wears.

“I know you’re angry, I know. But please let me come in.”

It’s such an absurd statement you find yourself laughing, a high and desperate noise. 

“Absolutely not!” Actually, no. That’s not enough. “How dare you. Why are you even here?!”

“Because I wanted— I needed to see you.”

You still want to slam the door on him, but there’s a desperation to his voice that gives you pause. And when he looks at you with those sad, puppy-dog eyes? Those eyes as lined with age as you are?

Fuck. You’re so weak. 

So that’s how you find the Doctor sitting at your kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of him. You lean against the counter, defences still up, eyeing him from over the top of your mug. He drums his fingers against the tablecloth. 

“I like your house. Your calendar is nice, I enjoy the kitten motif.”

“Don’t,” you spit, slamming the mug down and sloshing tea onto the floor, “don’t you dare. You don’t get to waltz back here and start telling me ‘oh, I enjoy your furnishings, haven’t you made a nice little life for yourself since I abandoned you!’ I let you in to speak your piece, though god knows why. Say it and be done.”

The Doctor looks deflated. His shoulders sag, mouth falls. You take a moment to properly look at him. He seems… tired. Tired in a way you never knew him to be when you went on your adventures. Part of you wants to offer comfort, but the other part of you wants to withhold it maliciously. Anything to make him feel the way you felt. 

“I looked for you,” is what he settles on, heavily. You didn’t expect that, and it knocks you. 

“What?”

“I did. After the explosion, I tried searching all over the galaxy for you. I didn’t know where - when - you’d ended up. I scanned and scanned but something stopped you from appearing on the TARDIS’s sensors. I think… the amount of artron energy emitted during the blast somehow cloaked you.”

You say nothing, your silence an invitation for him to continue his explanation. 

“It took years. Literal years, for me. Every spare moment I had, I dedicated to looking for you. Head buried in the circuitry of the TARDIS, trying to fix whatever was hiding you, gave myself a couple of nasty shocks too. And, when I finally tracked you down, I’d regenerated.”

You blink. Right. Yes. He’d explained that, but you’d never seen it with your own eyes. The same person, a different face. 

“I didn’t know if you’d want to see me if I didn’t look like me. But I had to try anyway, didn’t I? So I came here. To your house. I got myself all ready for it, knocked on your door… and found that you were married.”

Your fingers grip the counter. 

“Oh.”

“He seemed nice. Loved you a lot, as you deserved. And I couldn’t tell you I was back, could I? I saw you pottering around in the kitchen, making the tea - you were always the best at making tea - and you were happy. How could I ask you to leave that all, uproot the life you’d made for yourself, just to jump back in the TARDIS with me? How could I be so cruel? I couldn’t, could I. So I left again. Tried to move on. Like you did.”

You’re crying now. You can feel hot tears slide down your face and soak into your jumper. 

“Oh, Doctor,” you manage. You want to tell him so much. It feels like it might burst out of you. But instead you settle on:

“Why now?”

He smiles thinly. 

“Because somehow I got this face back, and I wanted to see you. I wanted to be selfish for once.”

You find yourself at the table, on the wonky chair opposite him, sliding your hand over to cover his. It’s rough and warm. Just like you remember. He says your name with reverence, but like it pains him. 

“I never stopped loving you. Ever. Through it all, every adventure, I knew it wasn’t complete because you weren’t there. It just wasn’t the same without wonderful, brilliant you,” he admits. He sounds defeated. It breaks your heart — or, actually, it might just put it back together again. 

A beat passes. His confession lingers in the air, heavy, thick and choking like smoke from an untameable fire. 

“His name was Simon. He was a baker. He was lovely, actually… and we got divorced two years ago.”

The Doctor’s brow furrows. 

“You… what… why?”

“Because he knew there was someone else I never really let go of. Someone else who, despite everything, I still loved.”

He looks you in the eyes, and you see something glimmer there that you long since gave up on. 

Hope. 

And then, suddenly, you’re kissing. 

It’s like nothing has changed. His lips are still rough and searching on yours, a hint of tongue giving away into more the deeper you entangle. He sits you up on the table and steps into the space left by your spread legs, and between each kiss he says your name. It’s full of adoration but lined with desperation, too. 

Like the kisses he gave you the first night you laid together, on a bed in his spaceship floating across the galaxy. When he buried himself inside you and you felt his two hearts beat in rhythm with your own. 

“Doctor…” you manage. 

Fuck. You need him. You didn’t realise how badly you needed him. You didn’t realise a piece of your soul has been missing this whole time, fucking torn out of you and leaving a jagged hole in its wake. And him, back, telling you he loves you and always has? You’re patched together like kintsugi. 

Your Doctor is the molten gold you need. 

“Please. I need to…” he’s so desperate he can barely get the words out, but you nod; he’s undoing the belt buckle of your jeans and pulling them off like they’re silk. When his thin waist meets yours you cross your ankles behind him and lock him into place, and his hands - a little fumbling, a little nervous to be mapping out the plain of you again - begin to trace your chest. You lean into his touch to let him know yes. This is okay. I want this. Make me whole again. 

His warm, rough palms slide under the hem of your shirt and lift it easily over your head, the only break in a while you take from your kiss. You let yourself grab his tie to bring him closer. He’s fully dressed still and you’re almost naked; you remember how he used to like that, enjoy feeling a bit more put together than you. Cheeky blighter. Still though, as his suit scratches your skin, you can’t say you don’t agree. 

However. In this instance he has far too many clothes. 

You tug at his jacket and he knows what you need, letting it fall to the floor with his tie and waistcoat following it. He ruts against you as he unbuttons his shirt a bit, not the whole way, but just enough for you to feel the warmth of his chest. He’s so skinny. You’ve always been a bit worried that, on one of your rougher days, you might snap him in half. You still are now, actually. 

Cupping his face in your hands you let your thumbs caress his cheekbones. Your Doctor. Older but the same. Just like you. 

You can feel him more than half-hard against your leg. No more time wasting. You need him. You need him, you need him, you need him. 

It doesn’t take long to undo his fly and have him in your hand. You’ll always be glad he chose this human anatomy. Though you’d love him no matter how he looks, there’s something wonderful about his cock as it is here. He lets his head fall forward onto your shoulder with a moan of your name. 

“Oh… you’re…”

“Mmm hmm,” you agree, a genuine smile passing your face for the first time in god knows how long. He’s just the right length and on the thick side, and you know what a delicious stretch he is when he pushes inside of you. You can’t wait to feel it again. A couple of pumps and he’s ready, dripping precome and a ruddy red. Another time you’d bend down and taste him, remind yourself what a Time Lord’s cock is like. But now today. Well, not now. 

You lay back, readjusting yourself so he can push your underwear to the side and find your entrance. A couple of fingers - those long, delicate, clever and cunning fingers - press inside you and test you out. You’re ready for him. He makes a choked noise in the back of his throat as he realises and you laugh, properly, throwing your head back. 

“Come on, Doctor. Show me that you’ve missed me.”

He used to never shut up. And now he’s stunned into a desperate silence, lining up with you and pushing in as he does his best to make you feel what he’s been feeling too. 

A loneliness is fixed. He slides home inside you and your hips meet, the both of you letting out a long and ragged breath. You sit there for a moment, locked in the most intimate embrace, and just feel each other. You fist your hands in his shirt. He’s here. He’s real. You feel him trace his palm up your back as if you assure himself of the same thing. 

Slowly he begins to move. It is a long and lovely drag, his cock hitting all the points you missed being touched, and when he feels you gasp he goes harder. The Doctor nuzzles into the skin of your neck, nestling to the warmth of you there, and you hear him repeat a mantra both of your name and “I love you”.

Over and over. As if the two phrases are inextricably linked. 

You’re so full. You’re so light. Everything feels perfect in this moment. And when he reaches between your bodies to touch your sex, push you to the edge, you know you’ll climax for him embarrassingly fast. 

When you come you see stars light up behind your eyes. The sky, the unfiltered and untamed sky takes you over. The Doctor says your name one final fine and releases inside you, his hips riding it out as if to savour every second in the sweet grip of you. 

He can’t look at your face when he asks you. He says it from the safety of your shoulder where his face is buried, because if you say no you know his heart will shatter. 

“Come with me, in the TARDIS again. I know I shouldn’t ask you to leave your home but… you complete me, you know. Always have.”

“Leave my home?! Doctor, don’t be daft. This is just a house in bloody Hackney. You’re my home.”

You pull back to meet his gaze. He’s tired, but bright. His eyes twinkle. And there’s the Doctor you know. 

“And of course,” you continue. And, as the smile engulfs his face and he lights up, “it’s not like I’m doing anything else, am I?”

This time, when you go AWOL from your job, you never come back. 

[maincharactermuse]

The one where there is a third date (and a morning after.) (8)

(Find my masterlist here)

The kitchen smelled incredible - rich, warm, something tomato-based simmering low on the stove. She sat perched on the edge of the marble counter, legs swinging slightly, a glass of red wine balanced in one hand.

Harry stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, focused on stirring the pot like his life depended on it.

She dipped the spoon into the sauce when he wasn’t looking, tasting a little mouthful with a mischievous grin.

“Oi,” he said, turning just in time to catch her in the act. “There’s gonna be nothing left by the time it hits the plate.”

She grinned, licking her lip. “If it’s that good, you should be flattered.”

“I am flattered,” he said, mock-defensive. “But also deeply stressed. You set the bar unfairly high last week.”

She rolled her eyes. “Stop. That tart you made for dessert was, like, Michelin star level. I almost proposed.”

He smirked and moved closer, still holding the spoon, resting it carefully on a dish beside the stove. “Dangerous words,” he said under his breath, voice low as he came to stand between her knees.

Her breath caught slightly as he gently nudged her legs open and stepped into the space, hands coming to rest softly on her thighs. She instinctively set the wine glass down beside her and leaned in just as he did, and their mouths met in a slow, easy kiss.

She sighed into it, arms wrapping loosely around his neck as his hands slid up her waist, the warmth of him so close it made her pulse skip.

The kiss deepened naturally, languid and warm, their bodies pulling closer without thought. His fingers curled slightly at her sides, thumbs tracing soft circles beneath the hem of her sweater.

But after a moment, he broke the kiss with a small, reluctant groan, resting his forehead against hers.

“I could do this forever,” he murmured, breath fanning over her skin. “But I’m really trying to make a good meal here.”

She laughed, head tilting back a little. “Okay, okay. Duty calls.”

“Damn right,” he said, stealing one more peck before slipping out from between her legs and returning to the stove. “But just so we’re clear, I’m counting on dessert being a joint effort.”

She hopped down from the counter, brushing against his side as she moved. “That depends,” she said, her tone teasing, “on how well you do with the entrée.”

He glanced over his shoulder at her with a smirk. “Pressure’s on, then.”

And though she laughed, something about the way he looked at her - warm, soft, just a little wanting - told her he was reading the space between their words just as clearly as she was.

By the time they made it to the table, the kitchen was heavy with the scent of roasted garlic, simmered tomatoes, fresh basil, and just the right amount of char on the crusty bread Harry had insisted on warming up “the proper way.”

She settled into her chair, tucking one leg beneath her, still glowing from the kitchen kiss - and maybe from the wine, but mostly from how easy everything felt with him.

He came around with two plates, carefully setting one in front of her, then his own. “There,” he said, straightening up with a small satisfied grin. “A very humble attempt at recreating the masterpiece we had at that place in Hackney.”

She looked down at the bowl - the same type of hand-cut pappardelle, ribbons curled delicately in a slow-simmered tomato ragu, finished with a generous dusting of parmesan. A sprig of basil nestled on top.

“You remembered,” she said, smile growing as she reached for her fork.

“‘Course I remembered,” he said, sitting down opposite her. “You were basically glowing the whole time you were eating it. I knew I’d never hear the end of it if I didn’t try to match it.”

She forked up a bite and tasted it with a quiet, thoughtful hum.

“Well?” he asked, eyebrows lifted in anticipation.

Her lips twitched. “Might actually be better.”

He gave her a narrow-eyed look. “Now that is dangerous talk.”

“I mean it,” she said between bites. “You nailed the sauce. It’s got that… richness but without being too heavy. And the pasta’s got a bite- did you make it from scratch?”

“I did,” he said proudly. “Even used the fancy semolina flour.”

“Look at you,” she said, impressed. “Musician, actor, chef… anything you can’t do?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said smoothly, then immediately chuckled at his own cheesiness, holding a hand up. “Sorry. That was a terrible line. I take it back.”

She laughed, covering her mouth with her napkin. “No, no. Keep it. That one’s going in the quote vault.”

“Oh, brilliant. Now I’ll be haunted by it.”

Their plates steadily emptied between easy conversation, their voices dipping into that soft, familiar tone that always seemed to find them when it was just the two of them. They talked about food and work, travel dreams and odd habits - like how she secretly loved reorganizing bookshelves when no one was watching.

At one point, he reached across to wipe a smear of sauce off her cheek with his thumb, completely without thinking. She froze for a second - not out of discomfort, but from the intimacy of it. The casualness. It wasn’t the first time he’d touched her tonight, not even close, but something about the gentleness of that moment made her heart tighten.

She leaned her chin into her palm and watched him for a second as he refilled both their wine glasses.

“What?” he asked, catching her gaze.

“Nothing,” she said softly. “Just… I really like this.”

His expression softened. “Me too.”

They lingered at the table long after the plates had been cleared. At some point, she’d padded into the kitchen to help with dishes, and he’d wrapped his arms around her from behind, chin resting on her shoulder, hands fitting naturally over hers as she rinsed a bowl.

Now, with the lights low and music playing faintly from a speaker in the corner, they’d made their way to the couch, wine glasses back in hand.

She sat cross-legged, curled up beside him, her shoulder brushing his with every laugh. At one point, she laughed so hard she knocked into his side, and he took the opportunity to pull her closer, his arm draping around her with easy affection.

She leaned into it, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“You’re really comfortable,” she murmured.

He arched a brow. “Is that… a compliment?”

“It is,” she said with a small nod. “Third date, and I don’t feel like I have to pretend to be anything else. It’s nice.”

His smile dimmed to something more thoughtful - not serious, just weighted in the way he looked at her.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said quietly. “I like who you are.”

A silence fell between them then, not awkward, just dense with that familiar energy they’d been circling since the first time their hands had brushed.

She shifted slightly, lifting a hand to brush a lock of his hair behind his ear. “I feel like I’ve known you longer than I have.”

He turned toward her then, shifting just enough so that their knees knocked gently, so that he could fully see her face. His hand moved to her cheek, thumb brushing lightly along her jaw.

“You look really beautiful tonight,” he said, almost a whisper.

Her breath caught just slightly, and for a moment, she just looked at him, as if waiting for something to pass between them - confirmation, courage, certainty.

And then she leaned forward, closing the space.

The kiss started slow — soft and sure. But it deepened quickly, familiarity and newness folding together in the way her hands moved to his shoulders, the way his settled at her waist, anchoring her.

She shifted closer, until she was practically in his lap, and his hands slid up her back, one finding the base of her neck. Their mouths moved in sync, tongues tasting gently, reverently - heat curling low in her belly at how careful and intentional he was, never rushed, never assuming.

When they finally pulled apart, she was a little breathless, eyes half-lidded, a lazy smile spreading across her lips.

“I could kiss you all night,” she murmured.

“Funny,” he said, voice low and a little rasped, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

His thumb brushed along her jaw again, eyes locked on hers like she was the only thing in the room. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly, his voice lower now, more grounded. “You want to keep going?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’m so sure.”

Then, with a soft, amused tilt to her head, she glanced downward - the heat of her body nestled into his lap making the situation pretty undeniable. Her brows lifted slightly, lips curving with a teasing smile.

“I think you’re sure too.”

He groaned, half-embarrassed, half-laughing. “That’s… yeah. Okay. Embarrassing.”

She leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth. “It’s not. I’m not offended.” She shifted in his lap, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt at his back, skin meeting skin. Her voice dropped, quieter now, but steady. “I’d really like to go to your bedroom.”

His breath caught. That was all it took.

He stood slowly, guiding her up with him, hands gentle but sure. They didn’t rush - not yet. He took her hand and led her down the hallway, the two of them half-laughing at how her socked feet slipped on the wooden floor, how she clung to his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

———————————————————————————

His bedroom was quiet, warm. The kind of soft lighting that fell across walls like moonlight. As they stepped inside, there was a charged stillness - a shared breath.

Then he kissed her again. This time slower. Deeper. More like promise than invitation.

Clothes were discarded between soft laughter and quiet gasps, pieces falling like leaves behind them. He treated her like something sacred, fingertips memorizing, not claiming. Her hands in his hair, her knees pressed to the edge of the bed, his lips everywhere she needed them to be.

The rhythm of their bodies came naturally - no awkward stumbles, only pauses to look at each other like they were still surprised this was real. It wasn’t about perfection. It was about connection - warmth and want and vulnerability all wrapped into one moment where they chose each other again and again.

And when they finally stilled - breaths tangled, limbs loose and tangled, hearts beating in sync - there was silence for just a moment.

Then, both at once:

“Wow.”

They looked at each other, blinking, and broke into laughter, limbs shaking gently with it.

She tucked herself into the crook of his arm, letting the weight of the moment settle.

His fingers threaded through her hair, slow and absent, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “I really, really like you.”

She tilted her head up slightly. “You’re okay.”

He gasped, overly dramatic. “Wow. Geez. Just absolutely hitting me where it hurts.”

She giggled into his chest. “I’m joking.”

“Better be.”

She nudged her nose into his collarbone, voice softening. “I really like you too. I’m so happy you came into the café that first time.”

He smiled against her temple. “And I’m so happy you flirted with me.”

Her head popped up. “I did not flirt.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She groaned. “Why does everyone keep saying I flirted?”

“Because,” he said, lips curving again, “you totally did.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t stop smiling. And he just kept looking at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was really here.

Wrapped in each other, they drifted - not just into sleep, but into something more settled. The kind of quiet that only comes when things feel exactly right.

———————————————————————————

group chat: the coven 🔮

Y/N

currently hiding in his bathroom

…to say I may have just had the best sex of my entire life

that is all

send thoughts and electrolytes

Noor

OH MY GOD

how many stars??

scale of 1 to rebirth?

Grace

Bathroom texting = serious

Was it soft?? Was it hot?? Was there music playing??

WAS THERE AFTERCARE?? 👀

Y/N

all of the above

Noor

Hello?? That’s it

You are never allowed to ghost us like this again.

Grace

Y/N

You can’t end it there

Y/N!

Noor

She’s gone

live your dream, queen 💅

———————————————————————————

The morning light bled in through the bedroom blinds in pale strokes, catching dust in golden halos. The sheets were warm, tangled. Her cheek was smushed into the pillow, the scent of him still clinging to the fabric. She stirred slightly as something - someone - pressed a kiss to the top of her head, warm and gentle. But she was still somewhere between dreams and waking, and all she did was murmur something incoherent and bury her face deeper.

Harry paused there a moment longer, standing by the bed. The blanket had slipped down her back in the night, and the morning light kissed across the top of her bare shoulder, her collarbone, the elegant slope of her spine. His hoodie was draped over a chair nearby, discarded during some late-night laughter. He nearly grabbed it, but didn’t. Not yet.

She looked beautiful. Like… achingly so. Sleep-soft and peaceful. Her lips slightly parted, hair a mess, one hand curled into the pillow like she was still holding onto something.

He sighed, reluctant, but habit tugged at him. Mornings were his thing - movement, fresh air, head cleared. So he leaned down once more, another brush of lips to her forehead, this time softer, like a silent promise. Then he forced himself to go.

By the time her eyes blinked open, the sun was higher and the room had shifted from golden to warm white. She stretched slowly, turning onto her back and immediately noticed the bed was empty. Her brows drew together faintly. She reached out to the other side. Cold.

Frowning slightly, she sat up and scanned the room. No sound of the shower running. No footsteps from downstairs. Her heart didn’t exactly leap into panic, but… it did twist a little.

Was it too much? Did he wake up and think differently about everything?

She got up slowly, grabbing the first thing she saw: his hoodie. It swallowed her as she pulled it on, the hem brushing her bare thighs, sleeves covering her hands. She padded out to the hallway quietly, peeking into the living space. Still no sign of him.

She told herself not to overthink it. But her fingers nervously twisted the cuffs of his sleeves anyway.

That’s when the front door opened.

She startled slightly, backing up instinctively a step - and then there he was, stepping in, cheeks a little flushed from the cool morning, hair tucked under a beanie, holding a tray of coffee cups and a paper bag that smelled suspiciously like heaven.

“Hey,” he said, pausing when he saw her. She looked… soft. Rumpled and still half-asleep, his hoodie swamping her, legs bare. Her eyes were wide, uncertain.

“Everything okay?” he asked gently, stepping closer.

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Yeah. I just… woke up and you weren’t here, and-” She trailed off, clearly unsure if she was allowed to say what she was really feeling. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I didn’t know where you were.”

His face softened as he crossed the room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry.” He held up the coffee tray. “Went for a jog. Stopped by the café. Ryan and Lucia said this one’s your favourite.”

He offered the bag toward her. She took it slowly, fingers brushing his. She didn’t say anything for a second - just looked at him with a slightly shy, sleepy expression that made his chest feel warm.

His hand found her waist, the fabric of the hoodie bunching slightly under his touch. “You sure you’re okay?”

She looked up at him, eyes a little clearer now. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

He dipped down to kiss her softly - slow, a little lingering, as if to reassure her all over again.

They moved to the couch with their pastries and coffee, legs brushing under the blanket she pulled over them. Her body slowly eased, the nerves falling away as the warmth settled in again.

“So,” he said after a few quiet bites, “we’ve officially passed the third date milestone.”

“Oh?” she said, raising a brow, sipping from her coffee. “And what does that mean?”

“It means,” he said seriously, “I’m now contractually obligated to always bring you baked goods when I disappear in the morning.”

She smirked. “Mmm. Noted.”

“Also,” he added, “you looked beautiful sleeping.”

She blushed, ducking her head. “Don’t say that. I probably had, like, pillow lines and drool-”

“Nope,” he said, grinning. “Just perfect.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, and her foot nudged his under the blanket.

The morning unfolded softly from there. No pressure. No rush. Just two people easing into something real, something that felt more and more like home.

———————————————————————————

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked softly, crouching in front of her with one hand braced on the armrest. His curls were damp from the shower he’d taken post-run, a few tendrils clinging to his forehead, and she noticed how he still hadn’t caught his breath completely.

“I’m fine,” she nodded, then grinned, tilting her head slightly. “Though, it’s kind of a shame you weren’t there when I woke up.”

Harry blinked, caught a little off guard. “What do you mean?”

She bit her lip, eyes dancing. “Oh, nothing. Just thought maybe… you might’ve preferred a different form of cardio this morning.”

He stared at her for a beat, lips parting just slightly. Then his eyebrows shot up, and he let out a sharp laugh. “Miss L/N,” he said, exaggerating his poshest tone. “The profanity at this hour.”

She sipped from the coffee he’d brought her, feigning innocence. “What? I’m just saying, that pasta last night wasn’t the only thing that blew my mind.”

He choked on his own coffee and narrowed his eyes at her, grinning despite himself. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“Mmm,” she hummed, dragging a bite from the pastry. “You’re just slow.”

Harry stood back up and leaned over the back of the couch, planting a kiss on the top of her head. “Slow, but sweet,” he said into her hair, his voice lower now, tender. “Wouldn’t want to rush a good thing.”

They sat like that for a moment - him hovering over her, her leaning back just slightly into his warmth - before she reached out, fingers catching the hem of his shirt, tugging him toward the bathroom.

“Shower?” she asked casually, like it wasn’t anything new, even though both their stomachs fluttered with the newness of it all.

He didn’t say anything, just smiled, and let her lead.

———————————————————————————

The bathroom filled with steam as the shower hummed to life. She leaned against the sink, still in his hoodie, fingers absently tracing the edge of the porcelain while Harry adjusted the temperature behind the curtain of fog.

He turned, lifting an eyebrow at her. “You planning on standing there all morning looking that smug, or…?”

She grinned and stepped forward, peeling the hoodie over her head in one slow motion. His gaze dropped, just briefly, and then returned to her face - reverent, not ravenous. Like he was still surprised she was real.

“You’re staring,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” he replied, no apology in it.

They stepped in together - careful, close, steam curling around their shoulders. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t about lust. Not anymore. It was him reaching for her shampoo without asking. Her tipping her head back, trusting him to rinse the soap from her hair. Quiet laughs when water ran into her eyes. The curve of her back pressed to his chest as his arms wrapped around her waist from behind.

And when she turned to face him, her fingers tracing the water dripping from his jaw, he kissed her like he had all the time in the world.

Later, wrapped in towels and warm skin, they padded back into the bedroom. Her wet hair left little crescent moons of damp on his T-shirt, now draped over her shoulders. He tossed his beanie at the laundry basket and missed by about two metres.

She raised a brow. “Athlete of the year.”

He flopped onto the bed, arms behind his head. “You’re just jealous of my form.”

She climbed in beside him, curling one leg over his and resting her chin on his chest. “So what’s next?”

His fingers found the small of her back. “Next?”

“Yeah,” she said, eyes curious. “Is there, like… a post-third-date itinerary I should know about? Fourth date protocol? Do we go apple picking now or get matching tattoos or something?”

Harry laughed. “God, you’re chaotic in the morning.”

She smiled, then softened. “But really. What happens now?”

He looked at her for a long moment - not in a heavy way, but with a kind of stillness. His hand slid up, fingers brushing her damp hair back behind her ear. “We keep going,” he said simply. “If you want to.”

She searched his face for any flicker of doubt, and found none.

“I do,” she said, voice quiet.

His thumb brushed her cheek. “Good. Because I’m not ready for this to be a one-off.”

She leaned forward and kissed him - soft and sure.

When they finally rolled out of bed again, hair half-dried and faces glowing with that slightly smug look of two people who’d had a very good night, she found her phone buzzing on the nightstand. Two missed messages.

———————————————————————————

group chat: the coven 🔮

Grace

Are you alive or did you actually dissolve into a puddle of orgasm and steam???

Noor

Blink twice if you’re being held hostage in a man’s hoodie.

(We approve either way.)

Y/N

still alive

hydrated

recently shampooed

will report back in full detail later

xo

Grace

Ffs I have work and you’re out here living my dream.

Noor

I’d be mad but also

🕯️ blessings to your loins 🕯️

———————————————————————————

Nana

Hi baby

Just checking in.

Is that boy still being good to you?

Y/N

Hi Nana 💛

He brought me coffee this morning.

And a cinnamon pastry.

Still good.

Nana

Good man!

Don’t let him get lazy

They all get lazy if you let them.

Y/N

😂 I won’t.

Promise!

Nana

Okay - im glad he’s treating you well.

Text me if he gets lazy. I’ll sort him out.

[fiamat12]

I think N's comment - per usual - has plausible deniability. It's an emoji of a man w/ a mustache. Even seeing him a few weeks ago he likely would have had it for filming. And the WIFLFAG cast is just playing w/ him saying he's already moved on so that could actually mean he's w/ N... (he's not, she's w/ L 😉).

Update: @jmuz09 asked Sunny his thoughts and here's what we got:

I think we need clearer verbiage like around Christmas time when it was clearly "have fun w/out me at my place in Hackney" (I'm paraphrasing) and you could see JD & friends congregated at N's flat. And then JD & DB having dinner in Nottingham sans N. Ofc, that could have been a misdirection in itself but N wasn't hiding being seen w/ JD atp - and then we got L & N returning from the holidays w/ matching tans. ☀️🤭

[barrenclan]

What kind of characters or dynamics would you like to see more often in WC fanworks/OCs? Your characters are pretty unique in their backstories and dynamics with others, so I'd like to hear your thoughts.

Well thank you! I suppose I'd like to see more people willing to push the boundaries of the series, rather than relying on the tropes, plotlines, and character types that come directly from the book. I think Warriors fancomics are at their most effective when they use the book only as a framework to move within, and it also helps avoid picking up the worst traits of the book (hackneyed plots, sexism, racism, nonsensical motivations, etc., take your pick).

I think, perhaps, some fans of Warrior Cats need to read books other than Warrior Cats and similar YA xenofiction, and that will help them develop a better literary diet and write more unique characters, if you like the ones I create.

Doe of Deadwood is a phenomenal comic, and one of the direct inspirations for me making comics at all. Highly recommend!

[irish-agender-moss]

Riordanverse race/nationality headcanons (Main characters and background characters alike)

This may be a very long post, and I’m throwing in little tidbits about appearances, so with no regard to any particular order, strap in:

(Seriously, this is a huge post)

Edit: Changed Luke from just Korean American to mixed Argentinian/Korean American, inspired by @tagthescullion

The Seven (Including Nico and Reyna):

Percy Jackson: Biracial White/Latino, Cuban American (Sally was born in Havana, she had Percy shortly after moving to the US)

Annabeth Chase: Biracial Black/White, Irish/African American (with Swedish, Ghanaian and Polish descent)

Jason (And Thalia, by extension) Grace: White German American (Beryl moved from Germany to the US)

Piper McLean: Native American, Cherokee

Leo Valdez: Latino, Mexican, Born in Texas

Hazel Levesque: Black, African American, New Orleans (1940's French Creole)

Frank Zhang: Chinese Canadian, Vancouver

Nico Di Angelo: White, Italian with Russian descent, 1920’s Venice

Reyna Avila Ramirez Arellano: Latina, Puerto Rican

Camp Half Blood:

Will Solace: Biracial White/Bangladeshi American, Texas

Luke Castellan: Mixed Argentinian/Korean American (Born in the US, May (or Mi-Hee) grew up in a Argentine Korean community in Buenos Aires before she moved to the US and met Hermes)

Malcolm Pace: White with albinism, Scottish, Glasgow

Travis and Connor Stoll: Mixed Scottish and Laotian, Edinburgh (Source: @freddie-77-ao3)(I think in the TV show, they cast two Asian boys as the Stolls, so I've made them Asian)

Alice Miyazawa: Japanese American, Los Angeles

Julia Feingold: White Luxembourger, Luxembourg City

Cecil Markowitz: White Austrian/Northern Irish (Born in Graz, grew up in Belfast since he was two, has dual citizenship)

Katie Gardener: White Scottish, Aberfoyle

Castor and Pollux Vintner: Black, Irish (Pollux is Albino, Castor wasn’t), Donegal

Michael Yew: Mixed Irish and Chinese, Limerick (Granny moved from China)

Lee Fletcher: White Irish, Donegal

Clarisse La Rue: Mixed French/Pakistani American, Arizona (Mother moved from France)

Chris Rodriguez: Afro-Latino, Nicaraguan (Moved to the states when he was seven, lived in the same neighbourhood as Clarisse)

Silena Beauregard: Blasian, African American and Filipino, Mississippi (French descent)

Charles Beckendorf: Black, African American

Jake Mason: White American, Wyoming

Harley Smythe-Davidson: Biracial White/Aboriginal Australian (Source: @freddie-77-ao3)

Nyssa Barrera: Latina, Panamanian, Panama City

Shane O’Doherty: White Irish, Laois

Christopher Chalkevas: White Greek/English (Born in Larissa, moved with his mother to Hackney, London at age five, has dual citizenship)

Clovis Karlsen: Wasian, Welsh (Welsh/Norwegian grandad, Indonesian granny, Source: @ashthenerdtheythem)

Chiara Benvenuti: White Italian, Florence

Alabaster C. Torrington: British Indian, English, Westminster

Lou Ellen Blackstone: Black with vitiligo, British Ghanaian, Birmingham

Drew Tanaka: Japanese American, New York City

Valentina Diaz: Latina, Colombia

Mitchell Singh-Donovan: Mixed Indian and Irish, Cork

Lacy Alfsen: White Danish, Copenhagen

Ethan Nakamura: Japanese, Tokyo

Damien White: White Irish, Northside Dublin

Miranda Gardiner: Vietnamese American, Massachusetts (Distant Irish ancestry)

Billie Ng: Wasian, Irish/Thai Canadian, Toronto (She grew up in Longford till she was seven, then she and her mortal dad moved to Canada)

Sherman Yang: Chinese American, Alaska

Marcus (Mark) Dooley-Wallace: White Irish American, Georgia

Ellis Wakefield: Black, Algerian

Holly and Laurel Victor: Sri Lankan American, Seattle

Meg McCaffery: Wasian, Irish/Vietnamese American

Camp Jupiter:

Dakota Cheshire: Black, Bermudian

Gwendolyn Nunez: Hispanic, Spanish American

Bobby Herrera: Latin American, New Mexico

Lavinia Asimov: White Russian, born in San Francisco

Larry Schumacher: White American, North Carolina

Leila Grunfeld: White American, Colorado

This has been a very exhausting post to make lmao. I gave some of the characters who don’t have canonical surnames my own Hcs for their surnames. Also, I am yet to read through trials of Apollo, so maybe I’ll come later back to add more Roman names to the list.

Tagging my moots that I like to see their opinions for this (as well as the ones I tagged within the list as well):

@aki-bara @ravingcoffeeaddict @ebony-reine-vibes @squiggle3worm @sleep-needer

[thevictorianmidwife]

Welcome, Trouble

It was one of those still nights in March where the fog wrapped around chimney pots and gas lamps like old lace, muffling the world to a hush. Nellie Marsh stepped out of the hackney, boots striking the cobbles with certainty, Ellen Abernathy beside her, tall and straight-backed in her sensible coat, a fresh satchel swinging at her hip.

“Parlour light’s on,” Ellen noted.

“She’s waiting,” Nellie replied.

Inside, the little terraced house smelled of linseed oil and lavender, a faint undercurrent of boiled linen and woodsmoke. The labouring woman, Joan Weaver, lay curled on her side by the hearth, her skirts rucked up around her thighs, one hand pressed firm to her belly. She was forty-one, unmarried, and one of the finest birth attendants in Camberwell.

Her breath came quick and shallow. “Took your time,” she muttered.

“You’re not dying,” Ellen said briskly, slipping off her gloves. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Not yet, I’m not.”

Nellie crouched beside her, brushing damp curls from Joan’s brow. “We’ll see to that.”

The house was quiet—no husband, no mother, no sisters bustling to make tea. Just the three of them, women bound by blood not of kinship but of calling. The kind of knowing that came from years kneeling in the thick of it: blood, water, life.

Joan’s pains were deep and wide apart. Not slow, exactly, but not hasty. “He’s back to back,” she murmured. “Can feel it in my spine.”

Ellen nodded, already unpacking. “Let’s get you up and moving.”

They helped her to her feet, bare toes curling on the rug. Joan groaned low and deep as another contraction rose, bending forward to brace herself on the table.

“Remember to sway,” Nellie coached gently. “You taught me that once, do you recall? In a fishmonger’s attic, when the mother wouldn’t lie down for love nor money.”

“I remember,” Joan gritted out. “She bit me.”

Ellen chuckled. “And you called her a ‘tenacious mare.’”

The memory cracked something open in the room—levity, shared ground. They worked together as if they’d always done it: Ellen massaging Joan’s lower back, Nellie guiding her from stool to floor to knees. Joan laboured like a woman used to the effort—no drama, just determination. But even the experienced can falter, and when the hours dragged past midnight, she began to shake.

“Something’s wrong,” she whispered, eyes glassy. “He won’t come.”

“He will,” Nellie said, folding a warm cloth and pressing it to Joan’s perineum. “But he’s got his head cocked like a cockerel. Ellen, come feel.”

Ellen slid two fingers in, her brow furrowed in concentration. “You’re right. His chin’s not tucked.”

“Let’s try the stairs,” Nellie said. “Sideways, one foot up, one down. Shift his little stubborn neck.”

Joan grumbled but obeyed. The three of them moved like a shadow up and down that narrow flight, over and again until Joan cursed every man who had ever lived.

Then, without warning, her whole body jolted. She dropped to her knees, gasping, and her waters broke in a warm gush across the stairs.

“Oh,” she panted. “Oh, that was different.”

“He’s coming now,” Nellie said, calm as dusk. “Quick, let’s get her back down.”

They barely made it to the hearthrug. Joan was on all fours, growling low in her throat, and Ellen was already stripping off her coat sleeves, kneeling behind her, hands steady.

“You ready?” Nellie asked her.

“I’m steady,” Ellen replied.

Joan bore down with a cry that made the windowpanes rattle.

“There’s the crown,” Ellen said. “Come on, Joan, again—good girl—”

“Don’t you call me a girl, you puffed-up lamb,” Joan gasped.

Ellen smiled. “Then come on, you stubborn, brilliant woman.”

With a groan, Joan pushed again, and the baby slid free into Ellen’s waiting hands—wet, pink, perfect.

“It’s a boy,” Ellen breathed, holding him up. “He’s… he’s beautiful.”

The child gave a lusty, indignant cry, flailing against the cold air. Nellie moved to cut the cord, tying it off with quick efficiency.

Joan collapsed onto her side, chest heaving, eyes wide with the stretch of it all. “Let me see him.”

Ellen passed the baby forward, and Joan cradled him to her breast, letting her forehead rest against his soft hair. “Well,” she whispered. “That was… something.”

“You did it,” Nellie said, smoothing the blankets over both mother and child.

“We all did,” Ellen murmured, sitting back on her heels.

For a long while, they said nothing. Just breathed. Watched. Let the quiet wrap around them.

Three midwives. One child. A night thick with fog and firelight and something older than both.

And when the boy whimpered again, Joan smiled and kissed the top of his head. “Welcome, trouble,” she said.

And the others—Nellie, Ellen—smiled too.

[drdemonprince]

pls tell me your opinion/review on cw network television show crazy ex-girlfriend!

The early seasons were incredible at eviscerating shitty romantic norms, shoddy mental health discourse, and contemporary cultural phenomena in equal measure with addictively hook-y songs and cute set pieces. As it went on, the plots eventually got a bit hackneyed and the songs less inspired (the classic "second album curse" kinda struck), and I don't love the show's stances on anti-depressants, diagnosis, or therapy. But I think on balance the show had a kernel of mad pride too it, even if it didn't really understand the political implications of what it initially was and then could have been doing.

I LOVE Paula's arc as a deconstruction as the "fat wacky supportive best friend" trope that actually allowed for her to have both emotional depth and real human FLAWS. Her ambivalence about her children and marriage and how that resolves was so moving to me. The show depicted the many shades of emotional manipulation (between mother and daughter, within romantic partnerships, and even amongst codependent friends) beautifully and with humor. Almost every character has the chance to be more than the stock cliques they are initially positioned to represent, and some of the turns their stories take are genuinely surprising and satisfying (Valencia!! Greg!!), though this did peter out a bit by the final season.

I still cannot believe that after writing JAP Battle Rap that Rachel Bloom is a fucking Zionist!!! The line "We're liberals, duh, progressive as hell/ though of course I support Israel" wasn't ironic???? What the fcukk??

[nat-20s]

I haven’t gone too into my feelings about the dw finale, (and keep in mind I’m also heavily biased towards donna noble) but I feel like…there was good reason to bring Donna back and give her a happy ending? We still don’t know why Rose is there, if it’s something with Bad Wolf or what, but like, girl already had her ending (twice kind of???) and already *did* come back in an anniversary special in a huge role. Like it feels like a lot of times they bring her back it’s as a ‘look at how this person was The Most Important Companion Ever’ and plus the dw finale vs the 60th anniversary specials are just so different in general it’s tough to compare them yknow? Anyway sorry for the ramble i love your blog!!

NEVER APOLOGIZE FOR A RAMBLE HERE AT NAT-20S.EDU THE YAPPING GRIND IS FOREVER.

but also yeah!!! I mean take all this with a grain of salt bc I haven't actually seen the latest season yet however:

I completely agree. I think it's kind of annoying when people act like Donna's return was JUST nostalgia bait bc ok. Bringing David Tennant back I think was more nostalgic but I'll allow it because I think David and Catherine should be in stuff together forever and ever amen.

Donna however ..Donna felt unresolved to me. I know I had been actively gunning for a Donna return since like. 2018 so I'm not objective here but she left off in a way that it felt like there should've been more to the story. It was just a tragic ending it felt! Incomplete! Because like yes she got her memories wiped and that should be that but her memories were also a ticking time bomb. And it felt like at some point we should know if that bomb is ever gonna go off! Because they weren't even properly wiped, they were more sublimated and abled to be triggered somewhat easily!!! I'm glad we finally got some fuckin. Follow up! And that's without accounting that The Doctor was carrying her with them and being haunted by her perpetually.

Also. I think the placement of David and Catherine's return works better narratively. It was a transitionary point, just three episodes, both to celebrate the show and get the narrative of doctor who from the older era into the new. To allow Ncuti Gatwa's doctor to thrive and have fun without carrying /quite/ so much baggage as had been backed up through 13. (How well that actually got executed is a different discussion) It was both a passing of the torch and a real conclusion for Donna, so, like. Yeah. I think it Worked TM overall.

And honestly as much as I'd enjoy hearing like. Some 14donna audios (because again. I want Catherine and David to do everything together forever). I don't feel like I need to see them again. I am happy with their arc I am happy with their ending I don't. NEED to see them again.

And I feel the same about like. Rose. Clara. Amy and Rory. It'd be fun to get some EU stuff about them, or maybe a little cameo, and I do think anniversary specials are kind of free reign to bring back whoever tf you want!!

And this casting is so. Annoying. And NOT because I don't love Billie Piper but there's a difference 2 me about tying up loose ends/celebrating some of the past during celebratory episodes and being firmly STUCK in the past instead of moving forward and doing something interesting. And Billie's (stunt) casting feels like the later to me.

Also also. If you were gonna bring back an actress to give her a new, better ending. Freema was right there. All this bringing back of characters and we didn't even get to see Martha interact with 15 (or get an apology) 😔😔😔😔

Tldr Donna's return felt earned while Billie Piper (through no fault of her as an actress!!) feels hackneyed. Love and light.

[ladylaviniya]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 5 || Masterlist || Chapter 7

Chapter Summary: A carriage ride to Groveland parks leaves you and Sherlock in a snippy mood.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, domestic abuse, No sex, (mentions of past events) .

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This took a while. I'll be posting chapter 7 very soon.

Inspiring Song: "Achillies" by Gang of Youth

7:01am Wednesday 7th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England

Early day on the street of London was a thick blanket of fog and horse cabs awaiting their clients. People in uniforms marched the streets, servants and servicemen that did not have lodgings with their employers.

Sherlock and you avoided the mud and horseshit on the cobblestones, stepping carefully. His hand was strong, cupping yours as you lifted your skirts above the stench. The floor path was filthy and the boy who usually scrapped the dung of the road was not to be seen so early in the day.

You shivered slightly at the cold breeze. Your jacket was not as warm as you had believed. You felt a pity for the sight of maids passing you both without even a shawl to protect them, their faces were flushed and pink, they cupped their bare hands and blew hot breath into them. You were grateful for your gloves.

You wondered if anyone down here in the street could’ve heard your shrieking up in the 221B apartment. You weren’t particularly quiet not holding back your screams. Your warm flesh was a fresh reminder that your detective husband walking so nobly and leading you was in fact a sexual deviant.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and was careful not to plant his walking cane into any muck.

As you stepped closer to a hansom cabriolet, Sherlock pinched your elbow and walked you both closer to a hackney coach behind the latter.

“Jarv! I dare say! Jarvey!” Sherlock called up to the driver sitting on top. The man fixed his uniform cap and peered down at you both from the height.

“Where are you off to sir?” the driver called down.

Your husband smiled and opened his coat, his fingers slid into his pocket as he stated, “To Groveland Park, Southgate.”

Your eyes widened, from baker street it was a feet of travel one normally wouldn’t take. You were sure your own husband had to have been mistaken.

“Sherlock,” you softly informed while gently touching his arm “that’s over an hour away.”

He ignored you. His thumb skated across your back softly.

“Of course sir,” the driver nodded, “that should cost you one crown and a tanner.”

Your lips tightened, it was such a large expense. Now you really started to regret using your dowry to pay of Sherlock’s selfish debts. Why the hell was he taking you both across country side!?

The detective saw your disapproval and smiled, patting your hand he exclaimed, “Fret not wife, the expense is reimbursed by Scotland Yard.”

He gave the driver half the require costs from his pocketbook before he opened the door of the carriage for you. As you climbed inside, you jumped with a noise feeling his hand squeeze your backside.

You hissed as you sat on the leather seat. You tried to maneuverer your body to sit mostly on your hip. As he climbed in and sat across from you after shutting the carriage door, you pinned him down coldly with your gaze.

He returned an expression beaming in smirtle and tapped the roof with his cane, “Drive on Jarvey!”

You felt the carriage move with a jolt and sighed as the horse carried you through London’s different roads and pathways. You looked out the window and sighed as the carriage circled down the Regent Park and past the Zoo. You had never been to a zoo in your life, your grandmother stated it was too filthy and uncouth to stroll in pens merely to gaze at queer animals from different countries.

You tried not to stick your head out the window as you kept your eyes on the entrance gates you passed. Now that you lived so close and were a married woman with free time...you pondered if Sherlock would permit you a visit.

He was watching you the entire time. A soft smile came to his face. He took a glance out the window with you.

“I presume you’ve never been?”

Your eyes flickered between him at the steel zoo fencing and you timidly nodded, “I have always wondered what a lion looks like to the real gaze, my father promised to take me when I was a girl but-” you drifted off into silence and looked away from the window.

But he abandoned you for a cold woman in a opportunistic marriage...you hadn’t seen him for years.

“My grandparents would never approve,” You stuttered.

He nodded slowly with his silent thoughts and did not question you further.

You sighed, if you had known the journey would be to Groveland Park, you would’ve brought a novel with you to read. You cupped your hands and leant your head back.

As the cobblestones turned to soft mud and dewy grasslands you heard Sherlock finally clear his throat.

“Dear wife,” he said leaning back, racing his eyes all over your body, “What do you actually know of the Pennicott case? What details have come to light for you?” He spoke with balance.

You pursed your lips and blowed slowly. You didn’t want this to be another test of Sherlock in which he might insult you. You pinched your gloved finger and stated factually, “I recall hearing the Baron went missing a week or two ago. He took a ride on a horse in the middle of the night from his home and then sighted on a ship in Limehouse headed supposedly to France. That’s what the papers say. Then the information you shared with me this morning. You said he made a profit in his company?”

Sherlock nodded and shut the carriage windows. The light darkened the pair of you. Now your eyes adjusted to watch his face as he retold in secrecy, “Yesterday, while at the New Scotland Yard office building I decided to investigate his warehouse expenses. He was making a profit, he was destined to achieve a beating record.”

Lord Pennicott owned the largest suppliers of metal works and machinery parts, ranging from trains, to ships to food cans, to weapons.

“He partakes business often with the Vanderbilt family, very new money in the past thirty years, yes?” you noted aloud. American royalty.

There was talk of Vanderbilts heirs coming to marry English society members, Pennicott was a frequent mention in business.

Sherlock nodded and huffed, “His consultants were blithering idiots however who had barely any insight to his personal life. He was quoted being a private man...what they knew of him was that he was about to have his sixth child. I believe it is time his wife to be questioned. She has given a small testimony to the police already, but I have been offered to consult in this case by Scotland yard...and it is you that officially provoked my interest.”

Your eyes narrowed, “Me?” you exclaimed with disbelief.

He had been so hot headed the last time the topic was even mentioned. You hadn’t dared ask about it again.

“Yes,” he rubbed his hands together, “you.”

You looked at him with apparent annoyance, “Shall you elaborate how it is I that provoked you?”

He chuckled sheepishly, “because you made a an inquiry and berated me when I told you to pay attention on other matters...” His eyes glanced to the floor of the carriage before meeting yours, “I may have...reflected...and deemed it the necessary duty to follow up on the imbeciles of England’s detective division. You are perhaps not as dim as I took you for originally...”

You felt a strange buzz at the bottom of your spine with a tiny seed of smugness blooming upward.

A flutter of pride filled you from his praise until he snorted, “You’re still rather stupid, but with a value of insight.”

Your spark of light blew out. You tried to not roll your eyes.

With most of your diverse self, you desired to throttle him and argue. Instead you took your turn at observing what you could in the dim carriage.

Sherlock was not like the average gentleman. In fact, he was very abnormal to what you had gotten to know... He was incredibly unorthodox. He didn’t adhere to social norms and behaved in contradictions. Therefore you took a moment to hear his words and accept them as a hidden message. A riddle.

You smugly smiled.

“Was that an attempt to...apologise, Mr Holmes?” you finally mused.

Sherlock smirked, “That would require me to be have a sense of regret my dear wife, and I do not account such a folly.”

You smirked back and said sassily, “The words you seek, are ‘Sorry’ and ‘please forgive me.’”

Your toe nudged his ankle playfully.

He glared reliving the warm humiliation you inflicted to him this morning over Mrs Hudson. His grim look was contagious.

He shot back, “And pray tell, how does your backside feel Mrs Holmes?” he chewed his bottom lip. His brows lifted, "Mayhaps you've forgotten and in need of a firm reminder?"

When your smile fell and his grew. He had won this small battle of wits. You looked away from him, your face felt incredibly warm like your bottom.

“Come now,” he purred and lean forward to pat your knees, “Don’t be so bashful. Deep down, I know you just want to be run through...” Your eyes narrowed as he continued confidently stating, “You put on this coy little show last night.” Your lips parted, your teeth bared, yet he kept running his mouth further, “I have intuition like no other man my dear and you...you are scared I will find out all those lustful secrets inside your mind-“

You didn’t let him finish his words before you ripped off your glove and delivered a sharp ringing blow to his cheek. It was a foul sting that ricocheted into your own delicate palm. You huffed angrily.

“What I did last night was not a show,” you spat, uncontrollably hot tears touched the back of your eyes, “What you did was wrong and cruel. You threatened our marriage unless I debased myself. I did what I had to,” you jabbed his chest with your finger, “and I will continue to as long as you remain faithful...”

‘or I will kill you Sherlock Holmes.’

Your words echoed both in his and your memory. He didn’t really believe you were capable of murder, and yet he also knew not to press his thumb against the sharpened knife.

His rubbed his hand on the pink print you left on his pale cheek. He plucked his cane leaning on the seat beside him and hooked it into your collar, tugging you unceremoniously forward into his lap. You were forced to sit directly over his right thigh from the awkwardness of the carriage size. He curled his walking stick behind you and trapped you on top of him.

You could feel the heat between his legs. Oh how Sherlock really was just a animal.

“I find you may come to regret those words...” he panted and licked the spot under your ear, “You think me cruel now? Just you bloody wait until you feel the thrash of my cane.”

You fluttered your eyes shut, squeezing the tears away as you regained your breath and whispered icily back into his seeking mouth, “I look forward to it.”

He pulled back to gaze at your entire face. His eyes were full of confusion. He looked like he was lost on a foreign road with know knowledge on where to go. His lips twitched, unsure to smile or frown.

“I see,” he swallowed, “You can play martyr all you want then, my future masochist...and then we will see whether you truly are a slut...or a saint...but I doubt you’ll like either result...”

You would never describe yourself as a masochist. You didn’t particularly like pain...but after a period of time when he struck your bare bottom this morning you felt warm and floating. Your belly buzzed like last night. It was wrong and you knew it was. A spanking was a punishment not a entrance for pleasure.

Sherlock set aside his cane and cupped your waist. His thumbs ran up and down your torso. He pressed his nose to yours.

“Definitely stupid,” he whispered over your lips hotly before he gently pushed you back until you sat on your side of the carriage.

You felt a slight dizziness. You couldn’t understand Sherlock no matter how much you tried. You slumped in your seat and rubbed your forehead. You pulled back the curtains and watched as the many houses turned into more trees.

Sherlock in the meantime pulled out his pipe and began stuffing it with tobacco for his pocket tin.

The bright luminous shine of the match flame filled the dark carriage as he lit his pipe and puffed. He stared you down as his gums sucked and smacked the thin mouthpiece. A swirl of grey and white smoke tails snaked from his lips and nose. His eyes held no colour, only darkness. You wondered what urged him so drastically to hate and disrespect you.

His cheek was a huge darker in this lighting.

You shut your eyes and controlled your breathing. You tried to stare at your glove that you’d dropped on the carriage flooring.

You sat both in silence for the rest of the lengthy roads to your destination. You pinched the curtains and opened them.

    8:23am Wednesday 7th May 1890, Grovelands House, The Bourne, London, England. 

The forestry and gardens of Groveland Park were magnificent. Giant trees replaced tall buildings. Bird chirp washed out the gossip and clatter of people.

You sighed as you breathed the clear air hunted with the earthy dew scent on the wind.

Your husband finished his pipe and tucked it back into his pocket.

The carriage rocked and creaked to a stop. You felt the driver climb down and opened the door. Sherlock climbed out first, he cleared his throat and hugged his walking stick to his side. He held out his hand for you.

“Come along Mrs Holmes.”

As you reached for him, the both of you matched eyes. Your hand was trembling.

You stepped down to the gravelled path and Sherlock released your hand to pay the remaining wage of the journey to the driver.

You quickly ducked back through its little door to retrieve your lost glove. And when you grasped it you felt a warmth behind you.

Sherlock’s hands with his cane cupped your waist and pulled you back against him slowly. There was something cruel and intimate about it... He stole your glove from your covered hand and slid your naked palm through the material but not before pressing his lips against the inside of your wrist.

Your eyes flickered and your heart thrashed. What the hell was he doing? The driver saw it all and smirked. He climbed back to the top of the carriage and clicked his tongue, fleeing slowly away. Sherlocks eyes were full of obsession.

You crossed your brows and tore yourself from his arms.

“No,” you whispered. You didn’t truly know what you were saying ‘no’ towards. It wasnt right of your husband to play a angered beast to rise fear in you only to transform into an adoring dove.

His false softness reverted back to his smirking wickedness.

His eyes glance back over your shoulder and he chuckled.

“Good morning Inspector Lestrade,” he purred.

You turned around to take in the sight of a short gentleman who was the owner of a thick black friendly mutton chops.

He wore a happy and surprised expression.

He was also carrying on his forearm a walking stick. He nodded his head and tipped his top hat to the both of you. He wore no gloves and to the private eye you could see the darkened yellowing skin of his knuckles and back of his palm.

“Good morning Detective and-“ he paused glancing you up and down.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock cleared his throat, and turned to wave a hand in regards to your presence, “Meet my wife, Y/N.”

The officers whiskers twitched. He bowed his head briefly, acknowledging, “Mrs Holmes.”

You granted a small polite curtsy, repeating back with a soft tone, “Inspector.”

You graced him with a small smile and he flashed you a nervous grin.

He scratched the back of his head and said with a strain in his voice to your husband, “Sir, this is a matter of professional business, your wife present I fear might be deemed....” he grimaced, “irresponsible?” he shook his head at the thoughts, “I must insist she returns to home,” he waved out his arm to direct you to a buggy and horse besides the entrance gates, his vehicle no doubt, he smiled, “Madam.”

Inspector Lestrade was a clear average man with common decency and a good sense of propriety. Sherlock was bring you into his space of work fit for men, you had no place here...nonetheless you willingly came along...he didn’t need to spank that out of you at least.

But before he could take grasp of your delicate hand, Sherlock reached forward and lowered your reaching wrist with an annoyed sigh, “I invited her. She has valued skills I need. It’s the least you can do after yesterday.”

Sherlock lightly tapped to the dark spot growing along his own jawline.

“Mrs Holmes,” The inspector flushed and nervously smiled, “I apologise greatly for the deformation of your husbands face.”

You looked between the two men. From Sherlock’s jaw to the Inspectors knuckles. The dots connected within seconds.. A light noise mixed with amusement, shock and horror slipped out of your tongue as you exclaimed, “You struck my husband?”

“In my defence Mrs Holmes,” Lestrade leaned against his walking stick and glanced to the gravel unable to meet your eyes, “One might argue he deserved it. And he returned a brightful force himself...”

Sherlock deserving a punch? Noooo surely not! After all the pair of you had experienced these two or three days, you understood entirely. For you wished to do nothing more than the same as Inspector Lestrade.

Sherlock snickered, and you released a bubbling giggle, “That does not surprise me. I’m curious what drove you to such lengths as to strike him.”

It wouldn’t take a lot you suspected, Sherlock already proved his habit on making more than one person uncomfortable and offended.

But instead of a confident man of the law, he was still sheepishly pushing the gravel around with his walking cane.

“Oh yes, Lestrade,” Sherlock barked in amusement, “Regale to my wife what I did to provoke your fist...”

Sherlock slapped his cane against Lestrades forcing the inspector to lose his balance and fall on one knee.

“Blast!” the inspector cried as he wobbled to stand back up.

You smacked a hand against Sherlock’s chest and shook your head at him and for that he discreetly tapped your backside with the head of his cane. You bit back the gasp and clenched your fingers on his coat. You didn’t like witnessing your husband behave so openly as a bully. It was very unsightly.

“Your husband, Mrs Holmes,” Lestrade winced and dusted dirt off his knee, “decided to elude to that which I am incompetent in my work therefore in other things.”

You accusingly turned your attention back to Sherlock, “Other things?”

“I think the inspector has trouble,” he smirked, “getting it up.”

‘Getting it up? What up?...oh!’ your eyes flashed wide

“Sherlock you didn’t!”

Your husband cackled meanly and rubbed soft circles into your back with his thumb.

“I’d rather say he started it,” Sherlock claimed fluttering his eyes at you before he snarled in the inspectors direction, “Go on Lestrade...now, you tell her what you said to me before I insulted your virility?”

You turned your attention back to the officer.

The mutton chop cop sputtered embarrassingly. His hands straightened his jacket and lifted his hat to smooth back his hair.

He licked his dry lips and hastily muttered, “I dare not repeat the words I so indecisively chose especially in front of such a fine and polite lady.”

Sherlocks mouth was close to your ear as he whispered, “I think he’s rather scared.”

“Of what?” you snipped back still crossed with Sherlock’s behaviour.

“What you’ll do to him...after what he called you.”

‘After what he called me? What was said? When was it said?...’

You softly hummed, “Did he insult me?”

“Detective Holmes,” the inspectors face turned a darker shade as he tensely pressed, “This really isn’t professional.”

Your husband moved his hand and lightly guided you to stand behind him as if to be a protective wall between you and the inspector. He stood a full foot above the inspector.

He glared down and sneered, “Then why bother saying it yesterday when you can’t even say it today in front of the woman herself?”

You saw how his hand squeezed his cane furiously. It was that action alone that sent an icy stream of fear down your spine. You weren’t sure of it, but you couldn’t put it passed Sherlock to start a brawl, particularly since the two men had clearly tussled fearsomely yesterday.

You sighed obnoxiously loud and very unladylike. You clapped your hands to snap both their attentions your way.

“Listening to a pair of men bicker is tiresome and leaves my learning brain in wanting,” you rolled your eyes and walked ahead of them both, calling over your shoulder, “Let us put aside what frivolous nonsense occurred yesterday and perform our duty instilled by the righteousness of God and the Queen herself, yes?”

You were stepping towards the main large house where you were confident was the Pennicott Estate. The gravel crunched beneath your striding walk.

Sherlock and Lestrade appeared gobsmacked by the sight of your leading March.

“Very well,” the inspector relented and walked ahead.

Sherlock caught up with both of you and squeezed your elbow, he gestured forward with his cane, “Lead the way Lestrade.”

And as the gentleman walked ahead of you, Sherlock sucked his head back to your ear with a smug tone, “Nicely done, dear wife.”

You rolled your eyes and shook him off, as if he wasn’t the reason you performed such a song and dance if tell them to return to their work over his foul demonstrating behaviour.

    HELPLINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[fiamat12]

Just a couple of questions do we know when Luke sold his property & was seen in the area where Nic lives?

We don't know that he sold it at all. Pure hearsay. And I'd assume any real estate transactions of his rn are "secret dealings" 😉

I think the idea is for it not to be clear. The narrative is that L lives on the West side, and N lives in Hackney on the East side. JVN did a nice little video when he was in town to make people think N still lives there - w/ her oversized headshot in the background and her dress hanging on the door, lol.

Even when Lukolas suspected L & N were living together over the summer, they thought L had moved into N's place in Hackney, esp. after there was a rumored pic of L sneaking over to her place w/ a duffel bag (no one ever saw it 🤷🏼‍♂️). Then, of course, the Oct. pap pics of N & JD supported the idea she was living in the area.

Since then, L's pap pics were in Kensington, L & A's pap pics were pretty close to Scala where the Yungblud concert was, and N's pic w/ a fan was at Joe & The Juice*** - all on the West side.

Personally, Idc on what side they reside.... only that they & baby Newts are happy & healthy. 🙌

*** Two "Joe & The Juice" stores in close proximity - one closer to Kensington, one closer to Notting Hill ⤵️

[inkwolvesandcoffee]

First Times (Poly Relationship w/ John & Ghost Headcanons)

I spent the morning exploring Hackney, which is rich in breweries. While wandering about, I got to thinking, what if…

John starts working at a brewery when he retires from the army?

OR!

He starts a micro brewery/pub with Simon, who retires around the same time.

🍺 The two men set to work immediately to acquire the proper licenses and a premise. Fortunately for the both of them, they’re quite handy and so know how to create a lovely, albeit very manly, space without too much interference from contractors. After all, why hire others for work you can do yourself?

🍺 Honestly, the business is a dream come true for John. Owning a micro brewery was his Plan B should things not work out with the army. However, it’s because of his former employment, he’s become a better business owner. It’s through the development of his leadership and risk-assessment skills he managed to secure the rank of captain.

🍺 For Simon, the brewery is an unexpected ambition, a new dream to follow. While he lets John do most of the marketing (because Simon can’t be arsed with social media… being social in general), he’s mostly pre-occupied with the creation of new and improvement of the already existing craft beers.

🍺 The business steadily grows as word gets about town. Soon, it’s not only the local Hackney residents who pop by, but also people from other boroughs.

🍺 Including you.

🍺 Come from Inner London, the people of the area find you somewhat of a posh puppy, a bit of a toff. It’s this view of you which makes them wonder what on Earth you’re doing in East London, this artsy and not as affluent part of the city.

🍺 Nevertheless, you’re a sight for sore eyes if you ask Simon, who’s your old neighbour back from the few years you lived in Manchester after moving there with your parents.

🍺 Though gruff and distant in the beginning, Simon gradually warmed up to you. Despite never opening up emotionally, you two did develop a strong amiable bond. Maybe because you were the only one to greet him on the street, to ask about his career after catching a glimpse of the dog tag around his neck, to welcome him back each time he was deployed.

🍺 To show sincere interest in him.

🍺 Your parents weren’t a fan of you socializing with the giant in the skull balaclava, but they never told you off for it since you two always seemed to have a good time. Moreover, they rarely saw you smile unless you were with him. So they let it slide, prioritizing your happiness over their prejudice.

🍺 It was only in the spring before you moved without telling him where to and he was deployed yet again, Simon realized he had feelings for you. Nonetheless, he put them aside or, rather, suppressed them until they numbed. He had nothing to offer, fifteen years your elder and terribly haunted.

🍺 So imagine his surprise and absolute delight when you stand in front of him, prettier than he can remember. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

🍺 “Y/N,” it’s the only thing he can say, finally out loud after years of uttering it in silence.

🍺 “Who’s this fair lady?” John slides up next to Simon, arms crossed as he takes you in. His sea blue eyes darken when they meet yours. “How can we help, miss?”

🍺 The way he practically purrs the words sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. Yet, you conceal the effect he has on you behind a steady voice. “I saw the notice on the window, about the open position. Has it been filled in the meanwhile or can I still apply?”

🍺 “She’s a good one, John. Hardworking, trustworthy, kind. Fast learner too,” Simon says pensively.

🍺 “Got experience in the field?” John asks.

🍺 “Studied psychology, during which I mostly focused on the effect of marketing on the human psyche. Also run a food blog and Instagram”

🍺 “Thank Simon properly before you leave. I trust his judgment and seeing he knows you best, I’ll take his word for it.” He slaps his business partner on the shoulder. “Drop by tomorrow and we’ll discuss your contract. I’m looking forward to working with you…”

🍺 “Y/N.”

🍺 “Y/N...” John repeats thoughtfully. Then he hums and heads off.

🍺 Thus begins a series of firsts and connections as you settle down in Hackney.

🍺 Over the course of a few weeks, the locals come to see you as one of their own as you show them you simply aren’t some girl with rich parents, a spoiled princess, but a young woman trying to make a life for herself with her own hard-earned money via helping at the counter and striking up conversations.

🍺 John and you grow closer too. He admires and respects your eye for detail and aesthetics, though sometimes he feels a little awkward when you’re trying to direct him for the occasional TikTok. Nevertheless, it’s your creativity that keeps drawing him in, igniting the need to keep getting closer to you. What also helps is you bringing him coffee or reminding him to take breaks (both with a kiss on the cheek later down the line).

🍺 Loves to review the content you create together, especially when you’re in his lap while doing so.

🍺 On your mutual days off, John drags you all over London to visit bakeries and cafés. Never had you thought him a foodie, though it’s a pleasant discovery since there’s always something new to experience on the food scene. Moreover, he loves helping you out with your own blog, not just the one you created for the brewery.

🍺 These days, you’re teaching him photography and are taking baking classes together. Although, you might as well go on your own to the latter because he’s a terrible baker (unlike Simon, who’s self-taught and surprisingly good, like, sale-appropriate why-doesn’t-he-have-at-least-a-micro-bakery good).

🍺 Your bond with Simon mostly rekindles via being his guinea pig. He knows how brutally honest you can be in your feedback, which he thoroughly appreciates. Outside work, the two of you frequent bookshops, have picnics in the major parks in London, and visit the city’s oldest cemeteries. The latter is a bit of a morbid idea of a nice outing, but you appreciate the silence and romantic sense of decay in the air.

🍺 It isn’t long before you take up residence in the apartment the two men share, which leaves the other residents of the building wondering about your relationships to one another. Although, they can guess at the nature of it seeing the “noise” at night. As I said, lots of first including a relationship with two men older than you.

🍺 But aside from the plethora of sensual moments, there are also plenty of tender (and domestic) firsts. For example, Simon accompanies you to your first tattoo appointment. When, the next day, you’re struck by tattoo flu, he takes care of you. Of course John doesn’t force you to come to work nor Simon for that matter, who you clearly need at the moment (despite claiming otherwise). Henceforth, you’re both granted PTO until you’re back on your feet.

🍺 Speaking of the former-captain, John is your very first kiss. You and him went out for pizza (Simon preferring to stay home and read). On the way to Hackney Wick, beneath a bridge heavily decorated with graffiti and sheltering a few barges, he put his hands on your cheeks and crashed his lips into yours. He tasted of tobacco and white wine, laced with the sweetness of tomatoes and basil. That night, he made love to you.

🍺 Another first.

🍺 Simon prepared breakfast the next morning, serving food to ensure John and you wouldn’t succumb to exhaustion later in the day. Nor him, for that matter, because while he doesn’t get jealous and loves sharing you with his best friend, he sometimes wishes you wouldn’t go at it till early in the morning when the next day is an ordinary work day.

🍺 You’re there for them when either of them suffers from night terrors or combat stress. Simon is more prone to the former, whereas John is to the latter.

🍺 You accompany Simon to therapy too after he’s been diagnosed with PTSD. At first he didn’t want to go, refused it even, until he finally relented after another episode of flashbacks and coming to his senses while shaking in your arms.

🍺 Life with John and Simon isn’t always easy nor romantic.

🍺 But bloody hell, do they make it better.

[craigslisthorses]

i looked at your instagram, and you just seemed like a good person to ask about it. but why do show horses park out? i thought standing square was the best way to see confirmation? or is it for a different reason?

idk it just looks like theyre gonna piss to me which i find kinda funny

It just depends on the breed! Square is the best way to show conformation. In breeds like the TWH we judge based on movement, disposition, and ability to stand parked out patiently without moving. Most parked out horses I think are wayyyy too stretched out in pictures I see. I like a light stretch personally. Other breeds park out like Morgan's, saddlebreds, spotted saddle horses, and hackneys as well. It was originally designed to lower a horses back for mounting but has since been a way people stance them for halter classes. I just so happen to be very good at teaching them to park out, so I make extra money training them hehe

[idkwhyyouaskingm3-blog]

Before the next episode I thought I'd stick all the information I found on Error on here. It's all a bit messy but I spend an embarrassing amount of time doing this over the past few months so might as well share it (I'm so normal about this podcast):

Timeline

(If the monster in episode 1 is Error then it is at the Magnus Institute Manchester on 12/05/22)

09/03/24 - Magnus Institute Manchester - Appears to be trapped under a trap door until Sam drops a key and it manages to escape

20/03/24 - Milton Court Open Space - Violet Abigail Parker is found dead. Statement taken presumably the pervious night in an Ally way.

22/03/24 - Ally outside of Gladstone Arms, Lant Street - Alice finds a victim of Errors full of water and narrating how she drowned. Tape found next to body.

12/04/24 - Old Warehouse address not given - Error 'saves' Gwen from Ink5ouls by claiming her as its own. (Error may have taken a statement from Ink5ouls as well). Leaves Tape Recorder with Ink5ouls and it bites them.

14/04/24 - Park within walking distance of 17 Gransden Avenue, Hackney - Error takes Mr Jarrod's statement. Having him run around the park in circles. Mr Jarrod is found by Alexander who seems to snap him out the compulsion. Error states it's an archivist, records Mr Jarrods final words then leaves without the recorder.

13/05/24 - Outside OIAR Royal Mint Court - Takes Sam's statement. Appears to be looking for information about the Magnus Institute and stops when Sam thinks about Hilltop Road. Leaves Sam alive but laying in the rain with tape recorder

13/05/24 - Paddington Station - On a train that's on it's way to Oxford

Known locations on a map

Tape Recorder

Starting off with something obvious. Tape recorders are present every time Error is. We don't know if Error has multiple or not. They also seem to be alive. We see them moving on multiple occasions and Error leaves without the Tape Recorder whenever we've seen it take a statement. We don't know what happens to the Tape Recorder once the statement is taken. Other people can hold the tape recorder but they do bite. Ink5ouls hasn't been seen since they touched the Tape Recorder. (Notes below)

Error Description

Error is on 'screen' in a number of episodes. It calls itself an archivist which makes sense given it came out of a trapped door in the archive.

It has laboured breathing and speaks in short sentences in a raspy female voice.

Characters don't see it coming as it emerges and recedes from shadows even when it's sunny. It's been described as being cloaked in shadows and pained whispers. To me it sounds like it's surrounded by pervious statements.

It's also described as having too many eyes and as a watching figure. Even when it's eyes can't be seen you can still feel it watching you. (Notes below)

Episode 1 has a 'monster' that sounds similar to Error but it should be still trapped under the trapped door and it uses modern tech when Error uses Tapes. They both are watches, stalkers, and associated with eyes.

Statements

This is more of a feeling than a fact but the cases taken from victims seem to fit more with the original fears than the other cases.

The drowned woman Alice finds statement fits well with the buried. Her description of drowning is very similar to how Daisy describes being in the coffin just water instead of dirt. What's interesting is the water is salt water but the closest water source is a river. Salt representing the body in alchemy

Violets seems to hit on a lot of the stereotypical Lonely statements (fog, no one will find me, locked doors, literally ends with "I'm alone") Mentions of yellow which could link to alchemy. Daffodils are probably another reference to William Woodsworth.

Mr Jarrod's running and being chased which feels a lot like a hunt statement.

Gwens statement is about a fox full of maggots so feels a lot like a corruption statement

Sam's seems a lot like a flesh statement. More so as the statement goes on.

Ink5ouls I struggle to place and feels a lot more like a standard TMAGP statement.

Victims

Victims seem to get stuck in their worst nightmare. While they're still seen in the real world they seem to have physical reactions to the nightmare. Drown victim drowns, Violet ends up miles from her home, Mr Jarrod runs until he's caught.

Victims seem to come back to the real world when they interact with other people. Mr Jarrod briefly see's Alex, drown victim dropping in and out of the water could be when she bumps into people, Ink5ouls continues to interact with Gwen basically the whole time she's giving the statement so never fully goes to the nightmare. Should be noted that Gwen, Sam (and Ink5ouls) don't die in the nightmare and as a result don't die in real life. Other victims do.

My theory is that Error is using the victims statements and the tapes filled with them to stay in this dimension and not get kicked back out. It lives off of the fear and this universe isn't the fears. That's why it doesn't walk in and walk out. It appears and recedes. That's why Sam "recedes" into the statement.

Magnus Institute Manchester Ruins (Burned down in 1999)

Error first shows up under a trapped door under the Archive in the Magnus Institute Manchester. It's in a similar place to the one in the TMA Archives.

In episode 1 we get a description of the institute in 2022. It's described as being badly burned but the flooring being in a good state. Alternatively, just 2 years later, the floor is badly rotten to the point where Alice and Sam fall through it multiple times. It appears that there's more water damage done to the institute between 2022 and 2024 than between 1999 and 2022. This could be due to RedCanary maybe waking something up or letting something out?

RedCanary didn't find any paper while Alice and Sam find a lot. This could be because RedCanary never entered the Archives. (Making it even less likely that RedCanary didn't have a link with Error but maybe something else).

In both 2022 and 2024 symbols are found around the institute. RedCanary describing them as graffiti while Alice describes them as looking more like a worm eating the wood on the floor.

Notes below:

Air / Breathing & Water

Similar to Error itself a lot of the victims have trouble breathing due to the statement. It seems to be breathing in the Statements and surrounded by the 'pained whispers.' Error also only seems to turn up when water is present. Some of the examples are more of a stretch than others but I don't think it's a coincidence that it turns up when it's raining or in areas near the water. Notes below

This could be a link to alchemy. Water and Air being 2 of the 4 classical elements.

Not an expert on Alchemy (this is off of wikipedia) but the important part is that air linked with the start of life while water is linked with the end. Could Error be trying to preform some kind of rebirth into this universe. It's living in the water but it's trying to get into the air.