#hand grain mill

[bestpickme]

✅ Best Grain Mill for Corn and Fine Flour 2023 || TOP 5 PICKED💥

[technicolorxsn]

most of the way through hill house and im wondering how a standard horror show was made out of it?

[rileyslibrary]

Synopsis: A new lieutenant comes to your base—a hot one. Ghost isn’t happy.

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

Word Count: 1,334

Notes:

I haven’t thought of a title, so I’m replacing it with a picture of Ghost’s expression that perfectly captures the fic’s concept. Let me know if you think of one.

Platonic fluff, duh.

Warning: Lots of swearing ahead of you, British slang as well. Told you, he’s not happy.

UPDATE: there’s a Part 2 now. Things get messy.

Want more?

———————————————————————

The rumour mill went into overdrive as soon as the ‘new guy’ arrived at the military base that morning. A former special ops legend with impressive credentials; what’s not to love?

But it wasn’t just his military skills that had everyone talking; it was also his appearance. Rumours of his Adonis-like looks had spread throughout the base, and everyone was dying to catch a glimpse of him. Even the mess hall was dominated by talk of his stunning looks.

What did you think of him? Well, you prefer to take such things with a grain of salt and not put too much stock in them. After all, beauty is a matter of personal preference, and no single definition applies to everyone. So you wanted to evaluate things for yourself.

Okay, fine. Yes, the rumours were true—the guy is exactly as they described him.

The new lieutenant stands tall and proud in front of the line you’ve all formed, his wavy hair coiffed into a deep side part with a thick fringe swooping over one eye. His chiselled jawline is accentuated by a short, perfectly groomed beard, and he gives everyone a brilliant smile as if he’s auditioning for a toothpaste commercial. His voice is booming and almost comically enthusiastic as if he were trying to engage a class of children. He gives orders by pointing at soldiers with gun fingers and winking, causing some of you to stifle giggles.

“All right, soldiers, pay attention!” he says, clapping his hands like a cheerleader. “Today’s tasks are routine: cleaning, organizing, equipment repair, and inventory taking. And, hey, if we pull this off, I’ll buy everyone a round at the local pub! How does that sound?”

Some of the soldiers exchange skeptical glances, wondering if this guy is for real.

But Ghost? Oh. My. God.

Ghost’s agitation becomes too hard to hide as the new lieutenant speaks. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, moving frantically as if eager to be anywhere but here. His eyes keep rolling back as though they’re searching for some leftover patience in the depths of his skull. You keep staring at his crossed arms. They’re so stiff that his muscles must ache from the effort. It’s as if he’s trying to keep them in place, so he doesn’t unleash them and back-slap the hot lieutenant’s pretty face. That, or he’ll let out a primal scream any second now.

“Y/N,” he turns to face you, and you stand at attention, “you’re on border patrol with me today-”

“Y/N is staying with me at the office today,” Ghost opposes him. “There’s a lot of paperwork that needs to be done.”

“Can’t you get someone else to fill out the paperwork?” the man asks, shooting Ghost a wink and a grin.

“Can’t you get someone else to help you with border patrol?” Ghost winks back at him and turns to face you. “Y/N, on your feet, c’mon,” he says, walking towards the building.

You exchange glances with the new lieutenant and shrug. This is too awkward.

“WHENEVER YOU’RE READY, SOLDIER,” Ghost commands, and you dash towards him, brushing past the new lieutenant, who also happens to smell amazing. Of course, he does.

“What the fuck is wrong with you today, Lt.?” You whisper as you run behind him, “where’s the camaraderie we discussed during yesterday’s briefing?”

Ghost shoots you a glare over his shoulder. “Just trying to keep my paperwork safe,” he mutters.

“What’ll happen to the damn paperw-” you proceed to ask, but then evaluate his words; you’re the paperwork.

At the office…

He’s reticent as he sits on his desk—not like he’s a social butterfly any other day, but today, he seems angry. Almost hostile. His eyebrows are tied together, his restless leg syndrome is back, and he takes too many cigarette breaks compared to what you’re used to. He answers your questions with one-word statements when—and if—he acknowledges your presence. Yesses and nos are all you’ve been getting since you entered the office, with the occasional “tsk” he might utter while he looks at his papers.

“Pass me the stapler.” He commands.

“Magic word, Ghost.”

“Pass me the fucking stapler, please.”

You slide the stapler over to his desk. “You’re rude today, Mr Riley.” You comment, turning your focus back to the laptop’s screen.

He doesn’t reply in the form of words. Instead, his feelings manifest themselves by aggressively stapling the papers together.

“Perhaps you’d like me to ask for the stapler by winking at you?” He finally mutters under his breath.

“Like the guy that came in today?” You scoff.

Oh, you have his full, undivided attention now. He turns his chair towards you and leans his weight on his thighs as if you’re about to tell the most exciting story.

“What do you think of him?” He asks.

You flick your wrist dismissively. “I don’t know him well enough to form an opinion. I prefer to reserve judgment until I get to know someone.” You give him a pointed look, hoping to convey your message without having to spell it out for him.

“He’s a fucking bellend, I’ll tell you that much.” He mumbles in response. Guess the message got lost in transit.

“Come on, man!” You shout and punch your fist on the table, “it’s obvious that he’s got you rattled.”

“He’s not rattling me!” Ghost protests, but his defensive tone betrays him.

“Sure, he’s not,” you reply sarcastically, “that’s why you’ve been chain-smoking and stapling papers like you’re trying to murder them.”

Ghost lets out a deep sigh and rubs his temples.

“Is it his looks?” you ask.

“No, it’s not his looks,” Ghost rolls his eyes, “I’m much better looking than him, that’s for sure.”

“Are you...I don’t know, intimidated, maybe?” You shrug, “because you’re worried he might take your place as the top dog around here?”

He looks at you incredulously. “What are you talking about? I’m not worried about that.”

“Sure, you’re not,” you smirk. “That’s why you’ve been acting like a total jerk all day.”

He looks up and sighs. The poor man looks like he desperately needs an ego boost. Beneath Ghost’s tough facade there’s Simon, after all. And Simon is a human being with the same insecurities and worries as everyone else.

“In any case,” you say, trying to comfort him, “nobody takes such douchebags seriously in the army. And I get it; the guy’s trying to make a good impression and all, but, my God, he needs to chill with all the...” you start winking and pointing gun fingers left and right.

He’s so happy he lets out a sharp chuckle. “He’s a fucking nobhead, isn’t he?” He asks, “trying to take charge and acting like he knows everything.”

“Indeed,” you reassure him, “and that cologne, I almost fainted as I passed him; how could you stand beside him for so long?”

“Don’t ask.” He shakes his head.

You reach over and give his arm a squeeze. “Don’t worry about it, Ghost. You’re the most respected operator here,” you say, giving him a small smile, “just do me a favour and give the guy a chance; he has so much to learn from you.”

He nods. “I wanted to neck slap him so hard,” he mumbles, “knock his pretty white teeth out.”

“Which are fake, by the way.”

“Are they?” He asks, shocked.

“100%.” You reply with conviction as if you are the guy’s dentist.

“I knew it.” He yells, slaps his hand on his thigh, and turns his chair back to his desk.

You look at him from the corner of your eye. He seems much more relaxed now. Hopefully, he takes your advice to heart and proceeds with the same resilience and leadership he does on the battlefield. Or, maybe, you temporarily diffused a potential conflict, and the captain will have to get involved pretty soon. Who knows. At least he feels confident in himself now, and the guy’s teeth will live to see another day.

———————————————————————

Part 2 ->

[ataraxiaspainting]

Careless Whisper.

Yan Gojo x F Reader.

Synopsis: After a long game of playing hard to get, Satoru finally gets you to go on a date with him. But you didn’t expect him to choose a farmer’s market of all places for it to happen.

Warnings: Yandere themes, threats of kidnapping, manipulation, and stalking.

Continuation of There is an Uproar.

Word Count: 1.6k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

This Could Be Us by Rae Sremmurd

Get Up by NewJeans

Supermassive Black Hole by Muse

Bathroom by Montell Fish

Hotel by Montell Fish

Money Trees by Kendrick Lamar (feat. Jay Rock)

After Hours by The Weeknd

Government Hooker by Lady Gaga

Do I Wanna Know? by Arctic Monkeys

The Walls by Chase Atlantic

“You’re killing me; don’t you see that you’re the winner of the game?” – Benét, Killing Eve

*~*~*~*

You hold onto the basket like a lifeline. 

You grasp the handle so tightly it leaves a mark on your palm and the inner parts of your fingers, and you can practically feel splinters impaling them.

They say the devil takes on many forms, and if it were said that the devil could take the form of a white-haired man with sunglasses in whatever religious texts you were given in your childhood, you would believe that without question.

The identity of whoever or whatever forced you on this little outing is not human. You know this. He can’t be. If he is, your view of humanity will decrease tenfold from where it once was.

Should you pray to all the higher powers and heavens above that he is or is not?

“Come on, let’s get moving!” They say monsters speak in either honeyed, calm, and sweet voices or grimy and croaky ones; but this one is neither. “I kinda want to pet a chicken.”

*~*~*~*

“There’s my girlie!” 

You were not surprised in the slightest when Satoru pulled up to your door with a Rolls-Royce. At the sight and the called-out nickname, you even roll your eyes and cross your arms, much to the driver’s amusement. The car is adorned with lamb's wool carpets, embellished with stunning wood and milled aluminum accents, and encased in box grain leather. Only the highest quality materials for the all-high and mighty Satoru Gojo. It is the topmost privilege for a mere mortal like you to even see it. 

“You ready?” As you ever will be.

“Yeah.” Your response is quick and to the point. “You still haven’t even told me where we are going for this… date.”

The smirk that appears on his face instantly gives you the impulse to slap it off. But he is stronger, and will most likely not let you, because he is the one in control and not you. So, as he beckons you closer, you close the car door behind you and sit down on the leather seat. The drive to hit him still stands for as long as you anticipated. You just look out the window and hope it goes away.

It is nice outside. Though if Satoru’s foot was not on the peddle, you would have liked it more.

It’s spring now. The grass is bright green and tall, and you could swear that you can smell it. Tiny circles of flowers are there now and then. Dandelions and daffodils mostly. You could count them if Satoru was not driving so damn fast you think he is speeding.

He put your purse and phone in the back seat because, of course, he would want no distractions to stop you from paying attention to him.

He starts talking about how nice your dress looks and how happy he is to have you as his girlfriend.

You want to puke.

It would take at least two weeks for the smell to go away. He would have to clean it up because you would refuse to. Any damage done to his ego no matter how small is a win in your book.

You could picture it now. Satoru, long plastic gloves on his hands and wearing an apron, scrubbing the expensive carpet stained with bile and looking disgusted with you. Maybe he would give up on you then.

You almost laugh at the thought but decide against it when he starts talking with a smile that does not exactly reach his eyes.

*~*~*~*

He is tailing behind you like a grim reaper.

The black turtleneck he is wearing you suppose could count as a cloak. His face is white enough to be a skull, his hair helping you see it in your mind. All the expectations he has for you could be considered a guillotine’s blade that is ready to be let loose at any moment. Maybe a scythe. Don’t lose your head. That is what you keep telling yourself as you go down the aisles of sewn aprons and freshly baked bread and chickens wandering not too far off from the butcher’s cutting board. Don’t lose your head.

So, you keep walking to not be the victim of Satoru’s wrath.

“They’re so cute!” He exclaims, bending down to get a better look at the rabbits that are trapped within the confines of the barbed fence. “I just want to take one home! It would be like having another you around!”

His cooing makes you want to stab your eardrums out with the plastic fork you were given along with a free sample of chicken pot pie.

But you can’t ignore him either, he yearns for your responses like an addict.

“I’m not a rabbit.” You roll your eyes. Satoru responds by turning his head at you and then turning it again to make a visibly confused expression. “I’m a human. Not a pet. Not something to… lock up.” As his countenance turns somber and a hint of amusement lingers, the playful aura dissipates. Your breathing hastens, and your heart races. Perhaps voicing your thoughts was an ill-advised choice. Maybe an alternate utterance would have been wiser. Any alternative, for that expression, is one you wish to never witness again.

As you struggle to catch your breath, Satoru's steady grip on your shoulder brings a faint awareness to your hyperventilation. He calls out your name repeatedly, trying to reach through the haze of tears in your eyes. However, his words offer no solace or relief.

“Come on! Of course, you are.”

Maybe you will puke after all. But not on purpose like you originally intended.

His smile feels like a stab to the chest. Everything he does feels that way.

“...What do you mean?” What exactly does he have planned for you?

How far back do they go? Days, months, years, decades?

“You’ll see. You’ll like them, I know you will.” His hand clasps over your free one like a noose. “Either when you first know them or further down the line. I’ll be with you every step of the way no matter what you think. But just know I only have your best intentions at heart, okay? I can promise you that at least.”

“...Mmhmm. Let’s just… get moving.” Once again, you are off within a labyrinth of stalls.

You liked farmer’s markets during the warmer months, with your family and friends during school breaks and vacation times. Is that why he chose this place? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he also likes them. However, you cannot process the words Satoru and farmer’s market in the same sentence.

You pictured him bringing you to some nightclub and forcing you to dance under disco lights and loud music until you nearly faint from exhaustion. As much as you don’t want to admit it, maybe this is the better option.

You can’t imagine any other option. It could be worse. Those threats of his can easily become true, he could just lock you up in his penthouse and refuse to let you leave.

So, you don’t complain. You don’t want Satoru to get upset, even if you haven’t seen him that way.

“We’ll eventually move in together. Get married further down the line. Maybe have a kid or two, if we are really up to it, though I don’t mind if it is just the two of us.”

For once, you hope Satoru chooses his initial thought. You don’t want to bring any child into this hell.

“Romantic, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

His finger traces the bridge of your nose downward and the tip of it presses on its end.

“Boop!”

“Sigh…”

He does it again.

“So cute…”

“Let’s just continue.” You try so hard not to seethe. “I heard at this specific market they have good lentil soup. Focaccia too. Let’s go.”

He nods.

“Okay! We’re off!”

There is no escape, is there?

“It should be by the coffee stalls if I remember correctly.” You don’t get to finish because of course Satoru found a brand new interest to fixate on.

Aprons. Specifically, the pink lacy one that he is holding gently like a baby. “[First]! Look! You should wear it. It suits you!”

You shake your head immediately. To this, Satoru frowns. You’re hungry after being hauled around from stall to stall for the past hour or so. Can’t he understand that?

He holds the apron up closer to your face.

You turn away from it. Satoru only puts it closer. He really can be stubborn. That is what got you in this situation in the first place. As stubborn as you sometimes are, you can hardly compare to him. But that is with most things. 

Money, power, influence, he will always have more than you will, won’t he? Damn it. No escape. Not from him.

Not from him.

But you can try, can’t you? You can at least try. “Come on! It would look so cute on you.” You shake your head. His frown only deepens and he sighs.

Then he shoots you a look again. The look demanding of you to be good or else. The look that gets you to obey him every time he uses it. Every time he puts his foot down. 

Don’t lose your head.

Evade the blade.

“Good,” He says, handing you the apron with the smile you unsurprisingly prefer over the hellish expression he just showed you. “Go.”

You do.

Damn it. As long as Satoru keeps toying with you, you won’t ever be able to find peace. No escape. Damn it.

You slip the apron on as he watches, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

[room-surprise]

WHITE RICE IS YOUR FAVORITE FOOD, RIGHT? 

Rice has historically been the staple food of the Japanese people, and a fundamental part of most meals. Its importance is evident from the fact that the word for cooked rice, gohan or meshi, is synonymous with "meal" in Japanese, much like how the word “meal” in English comes from the milled grain (meal/flour) that used to be the foundation of every meal European people ate. 

Since Japan is an island nation, both spices and meat were rare commodities in the past. Rice, vegetables and fish with minimal seasoning are the main components of the traditional Japanese diet. 

This is why when Maizuru begins to prepare food for Toshiro, she immediately starts cooking rice, since it's the part of the meal that will take the longest to cook, and no matter what else they eat, rice will always be the foundation and the bulk of the food they consume. This is also why she's protective of the rice, and doesn't allow Izutsumi to help prepare it: no matter how good any other ingredient might be, if the rice isn’t good, it could ruin the rest of the meal, and IIzutsumi might ruin the rice by tainting it with her presence, or bad behavior.

(Or so Maizuru probably thinks.)

The ubiquity of white rice in Japanese cuisine is the basis for a subtle joke in Chapter 40, where Laios assumes white rice is Toshiro’s favorite food.

While on the one hand, this joke has racist overtones (European man thinks Asian man's favorite food is white rice), it's very likely also based on the fact that Laios has probably seen Toshiro try to eat white rice every time he possibly can, so he must really like it, right? The idea of eating white rice with every meal would be alien to Laios, so he'd never think that someone who eats it so frequently might not love it.

In actuality, Toshiro’s favorite food is soba… Which is funny because “soba” is the word Japanese people often use to refer to any kind of noodle, so while he doesn’t like cheese, Toshiro might be enjoying Mediterranean-style noodle dishes while he’s on Merini Island! They have so many foreign types of soba! How exciting!

(Excerpt from my Dungeon Meshi essay about cultural references.)

[ohsalome]

What Ukrainians ate to survive Holodomor

(translated excerpts from an Історична Правда article): + images source

The villagers would dig up the holes of the polecats to find at least a handful of grain hidden by these animals. They pounded it in a mortar, added a handful of oilcake (from hemp seed), beetroot, potato peelings, and baked something from this mixture.

Those who managed to hide at least a little grain would grind it in iron mills made from wheel axles and cook "zatyrukha" (a concoction made from a small amount of flour ground from ears of grain).

Acacia flowers were boiled and eaten raw, and green quinoa was mixed with crushed corn cobs. Those who could - and this was considered lucky - added a handful of bran. This food made their feet swell and their skin crack.

The peasants dried the husked ears of corn and millet husks, pounded them, ground them with weeds, and cooked soups and baked pancakes. Such dishes were impossible to chew, the body could not digest them, so people had stomach aches. Pancakes, the so-called "matorzhenyky", were made from oilcake and nettle or plantain.

It went so far that peasants would crumble straw into small chips and pound it in a mortar together with millet and buckwheat chaff, and tree bark. All this was mixed with potato peelings, which were very poisonous, and this mixture was used to bake "bread", the consumption of which caused severe stomach diseases.

There were cases when village activists took away and broke millstones, mortars, poured water on the heat in their ovens. After all, anything found or saved from the food had to be cooked on fire, and matches could only be purchased by bartering for their own belongings or by buying them in the city, which was impossible from villagers that were on "black lists".

Chestnuts, aspen and birch bark, buds, reed roots, hawthorn and rose hips, which were the most delicious, were used as food substitutes; various berries, even poisonous ones, were picked; grass seeds were ground into flour; "honey" from sugar beets was cooked, and water brewed with cherry branches was drunk. They also ate the kernels of sunflower seeds.

Newborns had the worst of it, because their mothers had no breast milk. According to testimonies, a mother would let her child suck the drink from the top of the poppy head, and the child would fall asleep for three days.

In early spring, the villagers began to dig up old potato fields. They would bake dumplings from frozen potatoes, grind rotten potatoes in a mash and make pancakes, greasing the frying pan with wheel grease. They also baked "blyuvaly" (transl. "vomities") from such potatoes and oatmeal mixed with water, which was so called because they were very smelly.

They ate mice, rats, frogs, hedgehogs, snakes, beetles, ants, worms, i.e. things that weren't a part of food bans and had never been eaten by people before. The horror of the famine is also evidenced by the consumption of spiders, which are forbidden to kill in Ukrainian society for ritual reasons.

In some areas, slugs were boiled into a soup, and the cartilaginous meat was chopped and mixed with leaves. This prevented swelling of the body and contributed to survival. People caught tadpoles, frogs, lizards, turtles, and mollusks. They boiled them, adding a little salt if there was salt. The starving people caught cranes, storks, and herons, which have been protected in Ukraine for centuries, and their nests were never destroyed. According to folk beliefs, eating stork meat was equated with cannibalism.

The consumption of horse meat began in 1931, before the mass famine. People used to take dead horsemeat from the cemeteries at night, make jelly out of it and salt it for future use.

Dead horses were poured with carbolic acid to prevent people from taking their meat, but it hardly stopped anybody. Dead collective farm pigs were also doused with kerosene to prevent people from dismantling them for food, but this did not help either.

After long periods of starvatiom, the process of digestion is very costing for the human body, and many people who would eat anything would drop dead immediately out of exhaustion.

If a family had a cow hidden somewhere in the forest, they had a chance to survive. People living near forests could hunt/seek out berries and mushrooms, but during winter this wouldn't save them. People living near rivers could fish in secret, but it was banned and punishable by imprisonment/death.

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Love Sucks II. The Interrogation

Vampire!Steve Harrington x fem!reader He’s just a gloomy, little guy.

The Masterlist 🩸

You scolded Eddie and Dustin immediately. 

But Steve didn’t seem to mind, shrugging in that tired way that he did as he wandered off into the corner of the Wheeler’s kitchen with them. They’d set up an awful interpretation of what you deemed to be an interview room, the dining table pushed into the darker space where the light from the window didn’t reach, Nancy’s old desk lamp plugged in beside the microwave, the bulb shining harshly at the empty seat Steve was told to sit in. 

He blinked as he did, tired eyes aggravated by the brightness but he just squinted and slumped in the chair, looking over at you with that longing way he did. You held up a coffee cup at him in question, smiling. He nodded, pleased. 

“I assume you know why you’re here,” Eddie began as the rest of the party milled around aimlessly. 

Some were listening, others were bickering about what to watch on TV. Nancy was making popcorn and Robin was already asleep in the armchair beside Max. 

Steve nodded, knowing it was only a matter of time before he got the big brotherly talk from Eddie about you. He readied himself for the questions about his interest in you, his intentions, how he planned to keep you safe from— 

“Can you turn into a bat?” Dustin asked instead. 

Steve frowned, confused. 

“Dustin!” You scolded the younger boy from across the kitchen, teaspoon clattering into the mug, coffee grains spilling on Mrs Wheeler’s countertop. “What the hell?”

“What?” Dustin yelled back, arms held out in question. “It’s a serious question!”

Eddie was grinning, wide and a little manic, looking from Steve to you and back again. “Well?” He asked the boy. 

“This is so rude. You cannot be for real, Eddie.” You went ignored, eye roll and all. 

“Um, no?” Steve answered, squinting at the two through the light they were intent on keeping aimed at him.  

“You sound unsure,” Eddie countered, dubious. He wasn’t allowed to smoke in the Wheeler’s house so he was chewing on the end of a bubblegum pink straw instead. He waved it at your boyfriend, suspicious. “Is that because you haven’t tried or aren’t allowed to say?”

Steve looked at you for help. “Why wouldn’t I be allowed to say?” He replied weakly, visibly concerned and confused. 

Dustin shrugged before leaning across the table, bright eyed and grinning toothily. “Vampire overlord, maybe?”

Steve shifted uncomfortably. You were still making coffee, too far out of reach for him to hold your hand. Steve loved holding your hand, you were so much softer and warmer than him and sometimes you painted your fingernails a really pretty colour— someone cleared their throat. “Uh, I don’t think I’ve met him yet…”

Eddie and Dustin reacted immediately to this answer, heads bent and producing a notebook from seemingly nowhere, scribbling down notes in chicken scratch handwriting about their ‘findings.’ 

“… does he live around here?” Steve tried once more. “Is he my boss? Am I going to get in trouble?”

You soothed him with a hand over his hair, appearing at his back to place down his coffee in front of him, black and unsweetened in a mug as big as a soup bowl.. “Sorry, baby,” you offered, shaking your head at your two friends. 

Steve loved it when you called him baby. 

It went on like that for a while, Ghostbusters playing in the living room while Eddie and Dustin kept Steve at the table under the spotlight, drilling him about things you could only shake your head at. 

“Can you fly?”

“No.” 

More notes written, a worrying sentence jotting down about taking Steve somewhere high for experimentation. 

“Can you run fast?”

“Uh, I have asthma…”

“What about jumping? Can you jump onto the roof?”

“I haven’t like, you know,, tried. Heights are scary.”

Sighs, heavy and disappointed, came from the kitchen. Steve was pouting, arms crossed. 

“Can you read minds?”

“No.”

A brief pause, and then Dustin whispered to Eddie,  eyes narrowed and still on Steve: “he’s lying.”

“I’m not!”

“Can you turn invisible?” 

“No.”

“Do you sleep in a coffin?”

“What? No?”

Eddie paused, studying Steve. “Unconvinced,” he concluded. “Further investigation required.”

“How come you can come out in the daylight?”

“I don’t know, but that lamp is super bright, guys..”

Stumped, Dustin and Eddie finally relented. Ghostbusters was just finishing, the rest of the kids tired from too much sugar and arguing about who the best team member was. 

“So you’re just a really shitty vampire, huh?” Eddie asked, his nose scrunched and sounding unaffected.

“Kinda boring, actually,” Dustin agreed. 

They were both staring at Steve with a little disappointment, like two kids who’d finally found out Santa Claus wasn’t real. They sighed again and got up, raiding the Wheeler’s pantry for snacks while they left behind a sad and insecure vampire. 

You scowled at the boys as you passed, punching Eddie on the arm a little harder than what would be considered good natured. You nudged your way between Steve and the table, folding yourself onto his lap and into his arms. He wound himself around you immediately, grumbling softly into the crook of your neck about bats and powers and being a poor excuse for a cryptid. 

Later, over dinner, you stole Eddie’s last slice of pizza and scolded him for giving your boyfriend a vampire complex. 

[10-dutchies-12-bicycles]

HOW TO MILL GRAIN WITHOUT MILL????? USE MORTAR AND PESTLE!?!?!?!?!

im going insane i need to make tofu

[apas-95]

What's your opinion on the class position of creatives like authors, artists, etc? On the one hand, most of them don't really work for a wage, and it would be difficult to describe something like royalties as "wage labor"; on the other hand, I also find it difficult to conceive of something like a book manuscript as being a means of production when the media industry requires things like printing presses to mass manufacture.

The vast majority of 'creative' workers are wage-workers in studios, under bosses, etc, and are straightforwardly proletarian.

Self-employed artisans are rarer, and make up a section of the middle classes - either by selling the produce of their labour, in the same way a farmer sells grains; or by selling their labour itself, in the same way a tradesman contracts out his plumbing skills. The farmer's grains need milling to make bread, and the plumber needs tools to work, but in either case they, while being workers, do not subsist by selling their labour-power for a wage, and are therefore not proletarian.

The notion that this type of self-employment is the norm is, while widespread in the type of internet circles that use the term 'creatives', not representative of reality, and speaks more to petty-bourgeois aspirations than anything else.

[lordadmiralfarsight]

Tarrifs, shmariffs, what do ?

Grrrrreeeting my dear Tumblr users, it is I, random economy oriented Tumblr User that was onces convinced his blog was gonna be about ships (and not those on water).

I come to you bringing explanations on tarriffs, what they do, what they bring and what their consequences are, since they are kind of a big topic right now, what with Trump and all. "But Mr. Rando, I already know!" you say, and I believe you, and I am proud of you, but much like in my irl class, not everyone has the same knowledge base, so even if it's a bit tedious for you, we have to cover the topic so everyone is on the same page. Alright ? Swell.

So, what is a tarriff ? A tarriff is a tax levied on importations. AKA, you buy something from out-of-country and get it into the country, you pay the tarriff. Many of you will have seen the memes and viral posts, and will triumphantly point at the part where I say the importer pay the tarriffs. And you are right to do that, it's kind of very important. It's the main point, even.

Why is it the main point ? Easy : if outside stuff cost more, inside stuff better choice. Or, in non-caveman speach : the increase in cost on foreign products and resources will either increase the competitivity of domestic products and resources, or level the playing field. At least that's the idea.

"So", I hear you ask, "are you going to be the Nth user here to tell us that tarriffs are going to fuck the average US citizen over? Because we already know that."

Well, yes, but also know. Also, I'm not sure you have the nuance on the topic, and I do love me some tasty, tasty nuance. And custard. But alas, custard is not the topic of today. Economic nuance is. Now, onto the topic :

The main question to ask here is "what is getting hit by the tarriffs ?" Because the impact will vary a lot depending on what gets hit. To give a simplified framework, there's 3 types of economic goods : raw resources, transformed goods and finished products.

Raw resources are ... raw. Iron ore, lumber, clay, wheat grain, lithium ore, water, dirt, raw oil, you get the idea. Those resources tend to have razor thin profitability margins, because so much is produced.

So, what would be the goal of tarriffs on raw resources ? Well, that would be protecting or developping in-country extraction/production facilities, whether those be mines, farms, fishing fleet or lumber mills.

And that's where a tiny little factor comes into play : economic viability, AKA whether a given activity in a specific region is economically interesting.

Like I said, raw resources tend to have razor thin profitability margins, this means that overwhelmingly, raw resources are extracted in regions that allow lower costs.

Some of those costs can be reduced in costlier economies, like environmental or safety costs, with some good ol' deregulation ... up to a point. Even the notoriously protest-averse USA would face some degree of protests if all safety regulations disappeared and industrial accidents jumped 5000%. Poorer countries tend to be more lax on those regulations, and/or not really enforce them, or both.

On the other hand, there are costs that can't be reduced all that much in a given economy, like the cost of manpower. Due to the cost of living, there's a limit to how low you can go with your offered wages. For instance, offering $12 a day in the USA will yield fuck all in terms of recruitment, but $6 a day in the poorer parts of Africa will cause a flash mob of eager-to-work candidates.

And these are the two big factors of the equation : can the reducible costs be lowered enough that the irreducible costs aren't that much of an issue anymore ? And when the answer is inevitably no, can the tarriffs bridge the gap ? Well, uh ... that's gonna depend a lot. But overall, I would lean more on "no". African iron will be cheaper than US iron every day for the foreseeable future, unless you impose a fucking ungodly amount of tarriffs.

Some resources that cost more will see better results from tarriffs, but far from all. Like, tarriffs on iron, copper, tin, etc ? Bad idea. Tarriffs on helium, lithium or other rarer and costlier resources ? Could protect or help the national production indutry.

In the cases where, even with tarriffs, outside product remain more competitive, there's just going to be an increase in cost down the line, and wealth is just going to exist the country more. In the cases where the inside product becomes more-or-as competitive, then perhaps wealth can remain in the country and help the economy. But, well, we'll get to it later.

Raw resources, done. Two more to go.

Transformed goods (henceforth TG for simplicity) ! They are everywhere and they make up the bulk of international trade. Phone parts ? TGs. Flour ? TG, mostly. Tires ? Eyup, TGs. Radars ? TG. Ink? Oh you bet it's a TG.

So, what would be the aim of tarriffs on TGs? Protecting national industry, giving it room to develop or maybe even forcing multinationals to relocate/create the industry inside the country.

So, TGs are where globalization starts clashing really, really bad with tarriffs. Because you see, with globalization, there's been a global dispatching of production facilities. So you'll have part A that's produced in Italy with resources from Greece, part B that's made in Australia with Indonesian resources, part C that's made in Brazil with stuff from Zambia, etc.

the funky stuff happens when you need to combine parts A and C in a US plant, but then have to send the result over to Mexico to weld part B on top. And then you have to get it back into the US. Double tarrifs, you say? Yepperino, my dear student, double tarrifs. On this incredibly simplified exemple. Imagine what that looks like when there's 3 or 4 more parts involved.

At that point the question is : is it cheaper to pay the tarriff conga line or to just send the US parts of the production line overseas ?

"That sounds like the opposite of the stated goal" you say, with the blazé impassivity of someone that saw it coming a hundred miles away. Yes, yes it does. That's why tarriffs have to be manipulated very, very carefully, especially on transformed goods and intermediate steps of the production process, because it can stack up real fast, real bad.

Sometimes though, paying the tarriff conga line IS the better option, especially for sensitive processes that require a well-trained workforce with in-depth theoretical knowledge of very specific fields and access to training for cutting-edge machines, which is only found in the United Staaaaa ... what do you mean, Europe ?

So yeah, very sensitive, tarriff with care. And in either case, expect cost increases, which WILL be recouped with increased sale prices, leading to a domino effect.

And now, the finished products. The end of the line. The consumer targeted stuff. What you buy online and in shops.

What's the aim of tarriffs here ? Same as before, protect native industry, give it room to develop and force multinationals to relocate the production plant into the country.

At this level, you'll see similar considerations as with the TGs, with one tiny added funky detail : the costs of the two previous steps pile up here. Indeed, the tarriffs on TGs and raw ressources are liable to eat up the profit margins of the finished products, and since profit margins are sacred and must be preserved at all costs, well the simple solution is to simply increase the price of the end product in proportion to the other cost increases. And that means shit costs more for people.

"Well, that's awful" you say, and you are right. But we're getting started. It's time for another trip through early 2000s deviantart, say it with me : INFLATION !!! Except instead of your favourite character being turned into a balloon, we're talking about the content of your wallet losing value. And it's going to hit every industry that has to suffer those tarriffs. At which point the entirety of society faces a dillemma : do we increase salaries accross the board (with the associated widespread price increases) or are we chill with a global reduction in the amount of shit people can buy ?

And that's where it starts getting funky (derogatory, fear inducing), because if enough industries are hit with tarriffs, either choice is bad.

Increase salaries ? You speed up inflation and reduce confidence in your money, making exports admitedly more interesting but imports far less so, and when you are a globalized economy where there are imports everywhere at various levels, it gets spiky really fast.

Going the "tough luck fucko" route ? Well first off, rude, second off : congratulations, you are reducing the overall economic activity in your country, creating unemployment and poverty, reducing confidence in your economy and, if things go really, really poorly, starting a recession (WHOOOOO!!! Who wants to sleep under a bridge ?).

Now, is this a doomer prophecy ? No. No it's not. We have to keep in mind that systems, including economic systems, can adjust their course after starting in a new direction. It's rather unlikely that everything will consistently go bad in the worst way possible. But.

A lot of that is dependant on precision political decision-making, and the person soon-to-be in charge of these decisions in the USA has made it clear that he does not intend to listen to outside opinions or do precision. And considering his last go at it, I believe him. So I'm not optimistic. I don't think the US economy will collapse, that would be absurd, but I don't see the US having a good time either.

It's going to be very, very complicated, and it will depend a LOT on what fields are actually affected, in what proportions, etc.

And keep in mind, I haven't even talked about retaliatory tarriffs (from the people whose products you put tarriffs on). Or political tensions inside the US, that's something I don't feel qualified to talk about. Or the non-economic effects on geopolitics. Or the effects on the global economy.

If I had to make a prediction, I would guess that quite a few production lines will be reorganized to either have long stretches inside the USA or to be entirely divorced from them for as long as possible. Some products may become economically non-viable when it comes to the USA. Some US companies may find themselves no longer economically viable due to reliance on tarriff-affected outside goods and resources. It's hard to guess how large the impact will be, but there WILL be an impact, and most of it will likely be felt by the USA. Because tarriffs aren't paid on expedition, they're paid on reception.

So, as a French, all I can say is : bonne chance.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Beautiful converted 1900 historic mill in Quakertown, Pennsylvania has the original mill stone on the lawn, that was used to crush and grind the wheat and grains for bread. 4bds, 3ba, $885K.

I do like the entrance hall- beautiful leaded glass door.

Through the door is a vast main living space with a long stone fireplace and what looks like another millstone for a coffee table.

One step up is a very large dining room area off the kitchen.

The large eat-in modern country kitchen.

Cute half bath with a barrel sink.

Interesting how they put a wall over the stairs.

The primary bedroom is huge and look at the fireplace and stone wall. The ceiling also looks original.

One of the other bedrooms. Smaller, but a good size.

The full baths are disappointingly plain.

The home is listed as a single family but there's another big living/dining room and a kitchen up here.

These are the original hand hewn and joined beams.

There are so many large rooms, I'm wondering how much it costs for heat in the cold Pennsylvania winters.

There are rooms of work areas. The home is huge.

The water trough that drove the mill is still here.

The stucco top coat on the house is wearing off and exposing the stone. Looks like a picture.

The garden is lovely.

The mill stream flows past the large redwood deck. There's a total of 4.51 acres of land.

[acowardinmordor]

Rumor Has It

Found this in my drafts and don't really remember writing it. I know it was prompted by a post I saw, but I can't find it . The only other thing I know is true in this AU is that Steve is not aware he isn't straight.

-

Eddie didn't trust the rumors that plagued Hawkins. He heard them just like everyone else, sometimes he'd chase down more details if it interested him, but he didn't trust them at first contact the way that most of the denizens of the town seemed to. The ones that faded away in a few days were obviously fake. The ones that lasted weeks probably had some grain of truth. But this one, now six months old, but still only whispered about, should have been counted as truth. If it lasted that long, it had to be true. Eddie still didn't trust this one.

Not when it was a rumor that was, quite literally, the stuff of his dreams.

Steve Harrington was gay.

According to rumor.

The story started sometime after he got dumped by Wheeler and got his shit rocked by Hargrove. Eddie didn't know where it came from, but he heard it said for the first time a few weeks later. Hargrove never said that it was why Harrington got beat to hell, but he gave a nasty grin if the topic came up that implied a hell of a lot about Harrington on the rebound.

And Eddie didn't trust that. He didn't trust it when Tommy H started telling tales from their freshman year. Or when some of the guy's attempted-hookups started talking.

Eddie didn't trust it because it spread fast, stuck around, had plenty of sources, but it also never got said to Harrington's face. And if there was one thing that Eddie was sure of, it was that no one in that damn town had a problem throwing out slurs if it was even possible someone was different.

According to the rumor mill, that was because Harrington's dad had a connection with the mayor and enough money to bring the police down on anyone that started something. So it remained a rumor, remained in the background, and Eddie remained unconvinced.

Until Eddie went to the mall.

Embarrassing uniforms to earn minimum wage was not evidence. Though it was eye candy.

A different facet of the rumor said that Harrington Sr made Steve get the job as a punishment for the facade of heterosexuality slipping. So, no, the ridiculous, awful, wonderful, slutty little sailor suit didn't count as evidence of the guy's sexual or romantic preferences.

The lip gloss, on the other hand...

And maybe some eyeliner and mascara, but Eddie hadn't gotten close enough to be sure that wasn't his imagination.

And even then! That wasn't proof. A straight guy could use makeup. They didn't, they flipped out at the very concept, but in theory, it was possible.

Eddie wanted to know. Nay, he needed to know. His dreams, and his junior-year-crush demanded answers. Eventually, the temptation of fruit of knowledge grew to be too much.

Slipping into line behind a trio of girls, Eddie watched as Steve deployed the charming smile that had melted the hearts of half the school. Plus Eddie's. He watched it fail to work, catastrophically, and after six months of hearing this rumor and resisting the lure of believing it, he figured: fuck it, go for broke.

If it was bullshit, he'd get to be the one who broke the news to the guy, which might finally be enough to kill that stupid crush of his when Steve flipped out at the insult of the implication.

On the other hand, if it was true....

"Hi, welcome to Scoops Ahoy!"

"Well, hi there, sailor boy," Eddie flirted.

-

This is a hot potato fic. Continue it, steal it, whatever you please.

[futurefamousdeadmusician]

You Have a Deal

Author's note; Hey all, this is my first run at publishing my writing, hope someone likes it and let me know what you think! I have done some mild PB plot alterations to fit my story better.

Summary; When the Shelby family is under attack from the Changrettas the youngest sibling, Lillian, makes a deal with a distant business partner to ensure the safety of her loved ones.

Content warnings; mild spoilers.

The air of the afternoon was cold this day. Impenetrable grey covered the sky above Birmingham and pressed an awful feeling into Lillian. Her gaze down at the cobblestone, she made her way through the lively Calver Lane until she reached her destination, Solomon’s Mill. She looked up at the building and thought once again of her reasons for coming. No one had known she was here, and she liked it that way. With her family under siege and fair reasoning long gone from the Shelby family, she decided that it was her who needed to devise a plan. A way out. A way through. She moved through the final steps until she reached the door of the old brick building. Built sometime in the 1820’s she could tell Solomon’s Mill was a long standing business on the outskirts of the city. A staple of Birmingham that lasted through the most disheartening economic conditions. Owned and founded by the Solomon’s family after they immigrated to England. Nothing shook this old place; not guns, not violence, not the bloody communists. Always there and always of interest to the Peaky Blinders. They were cordial, if not cooperative at times. Now, Lillian relied on that mutual respect to hold steady when she pushed open the large barn-style doors. 

The air sweeping from the factory carried the sent of the fresh grain being processed through the large, rusted machinery. The shadows of the quick moving men bustling around danced at her feet as she walked through the threshold and made her way to a small room attached to right wood slat wall. Rapping three times on the fragile wooden frame a younger man looked up from his desk and cocked an eyebrow to Lillian. 

“Ye’,” he said quickly, barely parting his lips to speak. 

Slowly, calmly, with the utmost care to appear collected in her appearance, she spoke, “ I’m here to see Mister Solomons.” 

Eyeing her up and down, the nameless man gradually stood from his seat and addressed her more directly than before. He stood not much taller than the young Shelby. Short curls held close to his head and a tattered apron hung off his thin frame. 

“And what’s yer’ order of business?” he questioned. 

“I believe that to be a private matter.” 

He walked around his desk and Lillian did her best not to release the stern eye contact she held on him since her arrival. A lesson from Tommy she knew well, for when you look into the eyes of another man it is much harder to lie; and much harder to kill. 

“Open the purse.” He spoke flatly, unblinking. 

She dropped the small purse defiantly onto the wood-back chair in front of her. She flipped open the small titanium latch and took a small step back to allow the gaunt man his inspection uninterrupted. He drew a pencil from behind his ear and flicked through her things, like they were dirty. Like they were not worthy to be touched by the human hand. Without a word, he looked once again into the dark eyes of the woman before him and peaked over he shoulder into the doorway leading back to the vast factory floor. 

“Come with me,” he ordered in the same flat tone. 

Picking up her bag, Lillian followed him as he walked quickly out into the large room and maneuvered through the men and machines working in impeccable rhythm. She willed herself to keep pace with the small man, heels echoing through the loud space and causing men to turn their heads both in amusement and strict curiosity. Once her escort reached the back most offices of the mill he cracked open the door and spoke softly in a language Lillian did not recognize. After a few exchanges the man stepped to the motioned for Ms. Shelby to enter the small, dark closet. 

There, Mr. Solomons sat at an old oak desk, leaned far back in his seat with the amusement of a child lingering on his bearded face. 

“Ahhh Lillian,” he spoke loudly, “to what do I owe this enormous pleasure.”

“Mr. Solomons.” A brief pause as Lillian sat herself slowly on the chair paced strangely close to the overbearing desk. “There are a few matters I wish to discuss with you and I preferred them to be in person.” 

“Ah sweetheart, and what might that be. Did the new sweets parlor open up just past Harding, is that it?” He bellowed with laughter and Lillians eyes remained engrained in his skull. She always thought back to the words of her older brother in moments of this gravity. 

“Don’t look away from them - the men who wish to kill you - it only gives them time to make that decision.” 

Once the fitful bits of laughs subsided and the ringing from the old slat walls hushed away, Lillian spoke in the same calm tone she had mastered years earlier. 

“I believe I have something you want.” 

Another astonished chucked escaped the burly man. 

“And what would that be?” 

A cold breeze moved through the room. It never occurred to Lillian why men of such power chose to have a room so small to reside in. When her family had the means, they awarded themselves luxury. But Alfie, he hid away in this small closet. Maybe it made himself feel bigger in some way. 

“Brooklyn.” 

“The fuck you mean ‘Brooklyn’,” 

“Brooklyn. New York. Chicago. Shit maybe Boston by the time we are done.” 

The boss moved up farther in his seat. He readjusted his head to the side, believing that he may have heard the young girl wrong. 

“Love, what the fuck are you on about? Did you brother send you.” 

Almost too quickly she responded, “I came on my own accord.” She didn’t like always falling under the wing of her family; Tommy in particular. While the Shelby name came with certain privileges bestowed upon her at birth, she valued her identity. So long she had relied on Thomas to protect the family. Now, with the looming threat of the Italian’s hanging over like a dark cloud, she was on her final idea to pull her family through to safety. 

“Shelby company limited has taken a special interest in the American liquor market. We feel that it would be in your interest, as well as ours, if we cooperated on this matter. Together, we both have much to gain,” she continued, finally regaining her full composer. 

“Ye’ and why would I want business in America? What’s the fuckin’ catch?” Solomons pressed. 

“The Changretta family has made advances against my family. We are now using this opportunity to move into the American market while they are occupied here. This is a quite unique chance to collaborate with our American acquaintance without the influence of the Italians. With your power, as well as ours, I think that we could quite a fitting sum.” For the first time, Lillian broke her gaze away, reaching into her purse to exhume a cigarette before flashing her eyes back to Alfie. He leaned back in his chair, the creak of the old wood breaking the frigid silence. He gaze slowly moved back and forth over the ceiling while his hands rested behind his head. 

“Power,” he began. “Your power and my power,” almost as if he was explaining the concept to a child. “Where is your brother at, Lillian?” 

“He is attending to other business in Bristol.” Lillian, as a principle, didn’t like lying. But, as a Shelby, it came as naturally as breathing. 

“Where is Arthur?”

“Overseeing the tracks.” A puff of smoke escaped from her lips following her statement. 

“Then who in the fuck sent you?” His anger showed. Frustration. Questioning. He was half expecting one of Tommy’s men to appear from behind the doorframe and put a bullet between his eyes, finally revealing this to be an elaborate set up orchestrated by the young woman before him and her devilish relatives. But the bullet never flew and Lillian sat motionless in his chair waiting to respond. 

“I come as a representative of the Shelby Company Limited with a legitimate proposal for enterprise cooperation.” 

“And why should I trust the lot of you? Bunch of gypsy crooks.”

She sat once again, silent, patient, and held his gaze for just a moment to long. Leaning forward, she put the stiff out in a small crystal bowl on the corner of Mr. Solomon’s desk. She retrieved her handbag from her feet and pulled out a small, white envelope. After tossing it lightly on the desk in front of the bearded man she returned to her natural position in the chair, arms crossed, the Shelby, deadpan expression returning to her features. Alfie pulled his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose from the chair laced around his neck. He collected the envelope and carefully took out the ivory card within. A black handprint stained the cover. Mr. Solomons didn’t need to examine the paper any further and flicked up his eyes to meet Lillian’s once again. 

“Every one of us got one.” 

“I see.”

“If the Shelby family dies, your possibilities of every entering the American market get buried with us. Or burned rather…” she trailed on, looking off to the side, examining the bookshelf behind him. “You know, Gypsy things.” 

Alfie released a deeply held sigh and placed the card down back onto the desk with more care than the original owner did. Somewhere, deep down, he held grace for the young woman before him. He recognized that she was a result of her surroundings. Born into the small, violent hole that is Small Heath as a Shelby and since her birth has survived through the forces of her family and her gritty resilience. He new she wanted out. She loved her family, that was her weakness, but she longed to see the hills of the Netherlands and the cathedrals of Austria and the new bustling cities of America. To do this though, she must survive.

“I would need a more formal manner of proposal, numbers and such,” he explained still keeping that condescending tone. But Lillian already began to sit up straighter in anticipation carful not to let this emotion overtake her. “But tentatively, I believe we can work something out.”

A small smirk graced across her lips as she extended her hand. “Very well, Mr. Solomons, I’ll have my associates reach out to your tomorrow.” With that, she was on her feet, quickly remembering to pick up the dreadful letter she had pulled out moments ago. Carful in her movements she walked slowly out of office and shut the door behind her, leaving Alfie sitting in silence, wondering what he had just agreed to. He held much respect for Thomas and therefor placed some onto his younger counterpart. 

Lillian exited the factory and began down the darkening street until she was able to hail an oncoming cab. 

“Watery Lane, please,” she said quietly to the driver who nodded at her instructions. She was eager to meet with Aunt Polly and tell her of her plan of action knowing the elder Shelby would be much more receptive to this idea. Her only fear was Thomas, but that would have to wait. She just hoped that she had done the right thing. 

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Undersea Marauder.

There are so many rules in this world. So many shackles to keep him down.

Let nothing obstruct his errant path.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

A fish is bound to the water his entire life.

It’s not a life for him.

Floyd is on his back, set adrift in the face of the Coral Sea. His hands cradle the back of his head, and he finds himself staring up. A flock of birds form an arrow, slicing through the sky. He wonders where they're going, what they'll do there.

Some merpeople dreamed of trading scales for skin, but Floyd thinks about giving up his fins for feathers. A pair of wings with which to witness all manner of strange things…

He chuckles soft.

Wouldn't that be so freeing?

“Eheheh. I wanna try it, too! Wait up for me, birds. Here I come…!”

Floyd rights himself and dives unto the frigid waters. His powerful tail undulates like a teal ribbon, propelling him after and faster. He steadily gains, chasing the shadows of the birds that skim the surface of his home turf.

Floyd approaches, lifting himself toward the shimmering boundary between sea and sky. A second later, he breaks through with a mighty splash.

His body elegantly arcs in the leap. He’s a skipping dolphin, a flying fish.

Free.

Floyd launches higher and higher, zipping past the flock. He collides with some birds, screeching with laughter as they spin like cars out of control.

Here come the clouds now—he easily bursts through them. They’re made of cool and fine-grained beads of water, refreshing him as he flies.

And higher still he goes, the sky dimming, a gradient of light to dark.

Floyd is among the stars, each twinkling like diamonds in greeting. The planets, like massive globes of sugar orbiting him.

The eel is weightless, effortlessly floating through space. With his arms, he paddles--and though there should be no gravity, the space warps and gives like water, letting him sail as smoothly as a ship after a storm.

He reaches out and plucks a star out of the cosmos, giving it a curious lick. The taste is like sweetened milk, and so he pops the entire thing into his mouth.

Then begins his descent.

At the peak of his jump, surrounded by the stars, he bends downward and plunges.

But there are no longer any waters waiting for him.

He crashes through a canopy of leaves. They scatter like papers, raining down verdant, brown, scarlet, tangerine, and gold. Sunlight pierces them, giving each a magical glow.

Roots come, skittering by him like a snake might slink. Thin tendrils extend from them, brushing his face.

Maybe there is some other name for them? Hyph-something, myce-whatever. Floyd does not care to remember his twin's excitable rambling.

Alarmingly, he spies an ugly bulbous cap poking out from a root. His nose crinkles with disgust.

Shiitake mushroom.

Floyd paddles through the fungi and plants, the scent of dirt and chlorophyll filling his nostrils. It's fresh and green mixed with damp and earthy, nothing like the salty smell of the sea.

Jade would like this, he thinks.

Daisies push through, their petals tickling his skin. He takes a shaky breath, holds, shakes again, and...

Sneezes!!

A great gale is unleashed, clearing his surroundings in an instant. Floyd is sent flying up, up, and away--

He shoots out of the dunes. Sand scatters from the force he emerges with, throwing particle clouds up into the air. Floyd flails, trying to balance his body. No use--he flops uselessly under the pull of gravity.

A scream rips from his throat. Not of terror, but of joy.

The landscape unfolds into a sandy expanse. In the distance, he sees an oasis guarded by palm trees. And below, a great city crowning the desert.

There are bright tents and stalls pitched, merchants hawking their wares. Vases and lamps with unique patterns, ripe fruits, adornments in a variety of designs.

Families and friends mill about in the packed marketplace, satisfied with their mundane lives, the schedules they keep. So content, so peaceful.

Floyd grins.

And he lets himself plummet straight into a stall.

The weight of him collapses it with a loud THUD. The merchant looks on, horrified, and his circle of customers gasp, putting distance between themselves and Floyd. Sticky with fruit juices, he removes the strand of black hair that clings to his cheek.

"Eh, guess it could be worse," Floyd shrugs, tossing off a chunk of watermelon sitting like a hat on his head. A line of juice dribbles down his forehead.

He notices the crowd staring and wiggles his tail in a casual pseudo-wave. One person immediately faints--but luckily, they're caught by a concerned onlooker.

"Riffraff!" the merchant shouts, waving a fist. "Scoundrel!! I demand compensation for what you've wrecked!"

Floyd rolls his eyes. He sounds like Azul.

The eel hauls himself off the pile of fruit--and peels right past the feet of the customers. The merchant's face heats.

"Guards! GUARDS!! Come quickly, HELP!! There's a sea monster on the loose!!"

Floyd rapidly drags himself across the market, digging his talons into the ground, his tail pushing him forward. He gleefully writhes as people scream and flee, clearing a path for him. His laugh, cackling.

He's at the waterways that thread the city when heavy footsteps spill into the street.

"He went that way!!"

Floyd doesn't look back before he dives back into his natural element.

The water welcomes him, its streams washing off the sand that paints his skin, loosening the hair that clumped from fruit juices. A tender kiss, a kind hand.

He has returned to the sea.

The channel goes deeper than Floyd thinks. It widens, becoming an entire ocean bathed in sunlight. A coral reef teeming with life stretched out below him, and when he runs his hand along it, tiny seahorses escape and trail bubbles.

He turns his head this way--a school of rainbow tropical fish race by. The other way, a band is in full swing. A carp on the harp, the plaice on the bass, bass on brass.

Floyd twirls as he passes, happily humming along to the tune. The music wraps around him, giving a warm embrace. He almost misses his name being called, almost forgets himself.

"... od....... loyd... Floyd! There you are."

A face that matches his appears beside him. He is followed by a boy with lilac skin, a series of squirming tentacles at his beck and call.

“Where did you vanish off to?” Jade asks. “Azul and I were starting to get worried about your whereabouts. Weren’t we, Azul?”

“I’m more concerned for the places he visits rather than Floyd himself. Who knows how much collateral damage he could cause unsupervised,” the octopus merman grumbles.

“Oya, Azul… Could it be that you lack faith in Floyd? Even though he has unquestionably served you since middle school?"

"You're saying strange things again. I recall him losing interest and changing his mind last minute more often than 'unquestionably serving'." Azul raises a brow. "So? Where were you all this time?"

Floyd flings himself at the duo, slinging his arms around their shoulders and pulling them close.

"F-Floyd?! What is the meaning of this?" Azul sputters, struggling against his binds.

"I was everything and everywhere all at once," he responds with a laugh. "I was as free as a bird! I'll tell you guys about it~"

"Fufu, it sounds as though you've been away on quite an adventure. We would, of course, be more than happy to hear of your escapades."

[nexahexagon]

hiii can you tell me more about your redstone & skulk royalty au? i love love the idea and would love to hear anytjing you have to say about it! /nf

:DD OFC!!! This is gonna be a bit of a ramble as I dump all my thoughts here!! I’ll try organizing them somehow!!

I don’t have much on the world of it, I mainly made it bc I wanted to dress them up for some fancy ball and it was the first excuse my mind ran to (I still haven’t even drawn that)

BUT!! I have some character analysis? I’m not really educated in royalty, kingdom affairs, or medieval ideology so take everything with a grain of salt!! And lmk if something just doesn’t work generally!!

I know that if there are many heirs to the throne, the younger siblings usually become commanders or have some high ranking authority in the kingdom. I imagine Tanguish, very much hating the idea of seeing blood in of itself, took on some advisory role for Tango, kinda like a part of his personal council. He was very, very content on being Tango’s shadow, not having to bear a ton of responsibilities!! He (and Tango) also thought that he wasn’t much of a target for ransoms, so he never had any personal protection.

Tango, on the other hand, was the heir, the crowned prince! The king and/or queen are not in the picture at the moment (I can’t figure out who to put there), so Tango is running the kingdom, and therefore has a personal guard, Welsknight!! I like to imagine that Wels and Tanguish’s one-sided beef started with Tanguish being caught looking very, very guilty at an attempted assassination on the crown (poisoned food/drink?? Poor little guy was at the wrong place at the wrong time) and Wels is completely convinced Tanguish tried to take the crown for himself(poor little guy was stuttering up a storm!!). Tango is having none of it, ofc, so there’s a ton of animosity when Wels sees Tanguish, but he can’t do anything.

Tanguish sneaks out of the castle!! He enjoys dressing down (still far too clean for the common folk, and he’s aware but he doesn’t want to be caught in dirty common clothes or it’ll out him completely!!) He sneaks most of the way through the castle, then climbs up and down some of the walls to avoid patrols (he has them roughly memorized). He enjoys running across the rooftops and watching the people mill about below him! He’s too far up for people to recognize, especially with his change of clothes and loss of royal attire. No one looks at him like he’s worth more than he feels, and no one expects anything of him then!! It’s a freeing feeling for him, even if he only sneaks late at night and doesn’t see the busy streets of the afternoon!

And Tango knows about him sneaking out. It’s not every night, but it’s frequent enough. And he noticed Tanguish’s small collection of trinkets he’d “liberated” from the common people, that Tango knew could only have come from the town. He’s not bothered by it, Tanguish is just having fun! And he still shows up on time when Tango needs him, so what’s the big deal? Wels doesn’t agree at ALL, and thinks it’s another confession of guilt (he finds out much later than Tango) but still the knight can do nothing! (Yet?)

Tango joins Tanguish once, and ends up badly hurt. He just wanted to run away from his duties for a day! But it didn’t work out well :[. Tanguish, in a rush of panic, tried finding anyone to help (he tried avoiding guards a little, but knew he’d probably need to go to them. He didn’t want to run in with Wels, though). Enter Helsknight!!

Helsknight isn’t from the kingdom. He’s more of a freelance knight looking for work in my head! My brain kinda separated kingdoms by churches? So Tango’s kingdom is under the Church of Remembrance, and Helsknight comes from a kingdom that followed the Saint of Blood and Steel!! I don’t know if that’s how it works, but my brain thought that as very very logical and I haven’t questioned it yet.

Anyways. Tanguish finds Helsknight (through some insane luck) and Helsknight helps Tango. He was a bit reluctant at first (would you follow some harrowed, shaking guy with blood on his hands to some dark corner of the town?). He at first tells Tanguish to deal with his own mess, but follows eventually out of curiosity and because he felt uncomfortable with the amount of begging Tanguish was willing to do. After helping Tango, he then finds out that they’re the princes of the kingdom (he’s the mc of a Webtoon now lmao, living that y/n life).

Tango thinks he’s scary at first. With Wels in his ear telling him how suspicious it is that Helsknight just “happened to be sat there, waiting for them”(he became very paranoid since he wasn’t there to protect his prince). Wels also quickly connected Helsknight to Tanguish, and thought it was another assassination attempt (Tanguish has got to stop looking so guilty!!). At Tanguish’s constant insistence that Helsknight isn’t evil and he trusts(?) him, Tango allows him to be Tanguish’s guard, as a kind of test maybe? Wels is NOT a fan.

Helsknight was a bit peeved, not really wanting to be in such a huge position. He was looking for something smaller than protecting a prince. He and Tanguish were not friends for a while. And the story is getting a little fuzzy now!!

The first time they really sat down comfortably in each other’s presence was Tanguish sneaking out to escape the pressure and hostility he felt within the castle walls! And Helsknight followed. They have a nice heart-to-heart during this time, I’d like to think!

And Helsknight and Wels conflict! That hate each other! Helsknight thinks Wels is too cocky, that his position gave him a big head. Wels thinks Helsknight is evil, point-blank. Large gap in my brain here story-wise cuz I can’t think of anything good!!

As antagonists, I think Wels is more of a threat within the castle, a place Tanguish was meant to feel safe. And the Demon is a threat outside the castle! Someone Helsknight knew, but was greedy. And thought the price of a Prince’s head was worth it. And, Tanguish would come to find out, he’d apparently stolen from the Demon before, and the Demon recognized him. The Demon was just going to kill him or chop his hands off as a thief, until he realized he was a prince!

Word kinda relayed a bit to the castle, more a nuance than a “real problem”. I kinda see it as “blasphemy! Our prince would never do such a thing!” And people shrug it off. Wels doesn’t. One rough fight later and Tanguish is fleeing the castle the next night. He had Helsknight pack things up and meet him on the other side of the city, with no explanation as to why. Tango, who knows Tanguish’s route, stops him. Questions him about leaving the kingdom and abandoning him, which Tanguish fervently refuses! He’ll be back, he just needs time! Tango lets him go and that’s that!

Helsknight and Tanguish travel a little! They stay within the Kingdoms borders, but Tanguish is learning more about, everything!! To his dismay, that includes fighting. Helsknight can’t fight off every bandit that stops them (he can, but he won’t always be there). They also meet more of Helsknight’s friends! (Colosseum Crew guys!!! I’m not sure what to put them as though, just yet!!) Tanguish learns to be a person rather than a shadow! Yippee!!

I wrote a TON more than I expected lol. If you’d like to use the idea, feel free to bend anything the way you’d like!! I don’t mind if you take snippets of my ideas or use this loose idea for anything!

[soongyeopsal]

What Goes Up...

Summary: Chan is interested in a new kink and you do your job: support him. 

▸ Pairing: Chan/Dino x F!reader

▸ Rating / Genre / AU:18+ / pwp, smut / established relationship If you are a minor AND/OR if your account has no age in the bio, you will be blocked upon interacting (liking/reblogging) with this post.

▸ Warnings: exhibitionism

▸ Word Count: 1,956

▸ A/N: Had fun doing this for K-Vanity’s Wanderlust Festival! Prompts used: log ride, established relationship, protagonist is a suspect. Fat thank you to @shuadotcom for beta and juicy kithes for @wonwussy, @wooahaeproductions, and @onlymingyus for the endless encouragement while I worked on this. @bitchlessdino and @idyllic-ghost come get ya’ll juice!

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

“I think I wanna try exhibitionism?” Chan knows you love him, knows he can trust you with anything. 

“Ooh!” you gasp, lips quirking upward with intrigue as you study him on the other end of the couch. “Ok babe, let’s try it sometime.”

For all of his trust, Chan looks surprisingly relieved. “Really?”

“Of course! Just gotta figure out the ‘where’ and the ‘when’.” It’s the beginning of a bad idea.

The ‘where’ is the Amped Up Autumn event at the theme park a few highway exits away. An event that you are “absolutely banned” from, as delivered by ride attendant and fellow high school alumni Boo Seungkwan.

You’re not worried, though, and Chan isn’t either – he has no idea about your storied history of getting into trouble in some way or another at this event for the last several years. He also has no idea why you’ve got both a baseball cap and sunglasses on when it’s overcast, but “fashion” is an acceptable enough answer given that you’re not being suspicious otherwise.

Well, not suspicious at first. The two of you wait to enter the park and pick up maps (he can’t know you’re very familiar with it) without incident. It’s when you get to the petting zoo that he starts questioning things. 

You start small, pressing against Chan’s side as he feeds a pony. He welcomes your warmth as always, beaming at you before turning back to the activity. When you both reach the smaller barnyard animals, you make it a point to bend at the waist to pet a sheep, ass kissing his crotch. Chan subtly moves back and though you don’t turn around to watch, you’re sure that he’s sure it was just an accident. 

Amped Up Autumn is also home to peacocks, spoiled by and socialized with the endless droves of visitors to the park. When Chan nudges you excitedly as a muster of birds approaches, you make sure that there’s no misconstruing your actions.

“Shoot, I’m out of feed. Do you have any left?” You don’t wait for an answer, helping yourself to Chan’s supply. The paper feed bags are relatively shallow, but you make a show of digging in, forcing your hand roughly so he almost drops it. Chan catches it in time, right when you’ve pushed it near his groin. Your fingers spread and continue searching even though they’re so obviously at the bottom, rubbing greedily at his cock through his joggers. 

Chan stiffens at the sensation and you watch, delighted as his expression morphs from surprise to confusion to cautious understanding, lips parting and closing again as his eyebrows pinch together. When you’re sure he’s received the message, you retreat with a fistful of mixed grains, making a show of feeding the peacocks. To passerby, you’re just an overenthusiastic attendee, but to Chan, you’re a flashing neon light that says ‘trouble’.

It’s almost comically convenient that Chan’s never been on Sawyer’s Mill, the park’s log flume ride. Even if he had, you would have insisted that you board it today. Thankfully, it takes next to no convincing to get him to join you in line; the thought of just sitting down for a few minutes is appealing enough on its own. You waste no time cozying up to Chan again, pushing your chest into his almost wantonly when you pull him in for a hug while you wait. 

He knows you’re teasing by now, but lacks the willpower to stop it. You’re cute and you smell nice and it’s not like he can deny that your tits don’t feel good smushed up against him. The best he can manage is to nervously peek at the other attendees as you slowly snake through the line. You and Chan are one of many touchy couples here, so nobody seems to notice or, if they do, care. 

Chan thanks the universe that that’s the case when you stand just ahead of him, hand at your side perfectly level with the seat of his pants. Your pinky keeps rubbing at him through the fabric, coaxing a chub that he can only hide by moving closer to you so your form can shield him from prying eyes. 

Is this the longest line at the park or is Chan in purgatory? He’s not sure, but the way you keep prodding is making him desperate to get out of sight so he can just cum already and get back to what was supposed to be a very normal date. Clearly, that’s what you want too since you won’t leave him alone. 

“Excuse me, what are you doing?” 

You’re almost to the front of the line now and there’s a staffer on guard to make sure that nobody cuts at the last minute. His nametag reads “Seungkwan”. Seungkwan seems laser-focused on you and Chan so the question must be for you, but you just push up your glasses and turn around to scan the lane behind you. “Huh? Who?” 

Chan follows your gaze, but is met with park-goers just as confused as you seem to be. 

“You!” Seungkwan says, starting to point at you before quickly retracting his finger when his customer service training kicks in fully. He settles for vaguely gesturing at the two of you. “Would you mind taking off your glasses, please?” he asks curtly. 

“Next two!” 

Another attendant calls your party forward and you grab Chan’s hand to dart away and get into the car (...log?) that awaits you. Just as you leave Seungkwan’s line of sight, Chan spies him muttering something into a walkie talkie. 

The ride attendant at the cars is much less interested in you – which is good (?) Chan guesses. “Bags on the floor, hands in at all times, jiggle the safety for me,” they sigh, rehearsed and apathetic as they lower the safety bar onto your laps. You rattle the bar excitedly before squeezing Chan’s knee and the attendant finds this sufficient enough, sending you off with a flat, “Enjoy.” Just as the car jolts into motion, they add, “Oh yeah, hats off. Enjoy.”

For the first time all day, you remove your cap and toss it to the floor of the car, exhaling with relief. The car begins its slow, steep ascent and Chan has a lot of questions now. “Babe, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“What do you mean?” You place your hand back on his knee and start rubbing, batting your eyelashes behind your dark lenses. “Are you not having fun?”

Chan tries to shift in his seat, but the safety bar cements him in place. It’s chilly here, between the fall air and shallow water sloshing around you, but he’s a bit warm now. “No, I’m having fun! Just–” your hand creeps up further, skipping over the bar to land limply on his dick. He lets out a shaky breath. “Seems like you had a…plan? For today?”

“Hmm, maybe, maybe not.” Your shit-eating grin clarifies further (as if it’s even necessary at this point). 

“Are you sure about this?” 

You rest your palm on his crotch, flat and firm. “I am. Are you?”

“I-I’m not sure.”

“Tell me to stop.” It’s not a threat or an order, just a reminder of what you’ve agreed to in conversations past. Experimentation is on the table until somebody calls it off. 

Chan does nothing of the sort, instead whimpering and looking away as you continue to toy with him over his pants. You can’t hear him over the noise of the ride, but his refusal to look at you anymore provides plenty of satisfaction and confirmation that you should keep going. 

You finally reach the top of the mountain, creeping into a cave that serves as a pit stop before the big fall. The darkride section of Sawyer’s Mill has seen better days, but the animatronic mountain lion that slides from the corner and roars through the speakers is sudden enough to give most newcomers a scare. Chan would have dove to certain doom if not for the bar and your now blatant grip on his cock. It jumps, just a little, in your hand and you’re certain that it’s not from the fear. 

Chan slumps in his seat, rattled and frustrated. You don’t need to hear him to know; his cock is full and straining against the fabric. You lean over, breath ghosting the shell of his ear. “Is this enough exposure for you? Can you get off like this?”

He doesn’t answer, just throws his head back in defeat as you slide past the waistband of his joggers and grasp his dick through the slit of his boxers. 

“We’ve only got a minute or two, so I sure hope you can,” you singsong, pumping his cock hard and erratic, the way you know he likes it when he just wants to cross the finish line. Watching Chan like this, struggling against the safety bar to hump and screwing his eyes shut in an attempt to forget he’s coming undone publicly, has you soaked through your panties. If you thought you could get away with it, you’d find a way to sneak back in here after hours so Chan could fuck you next to the mountain lion. But alas, this is an occasion to just enjoy the delectable view and the warm precum that’s lubing up your hand as you yank Chan closer to the edge. 

Chan is so close; you can tell by the conspicuously audible groan he lets out and the way his heartbeat pounds through him and directly into your palm. He opens his mouth and his eyes roll back and he’s right there– 

And then you freeze. Chan whines and refocuses, only to immediately squint as the glaring yellow circle of a flashlight assaults his eyes. He tries to shield himself, arm extending over his face as the light finally moves. Then, he sees it. Another attendee, nametagged “Minghao”, is pointing the light on his tented pants and shaking his head vigorously as he frowns. He doesn’t say anything – he just continues to glower disapprovingly – and that only makes it worse as the beam follows the two of you shamefully through the last ten or so feet of the cave. 

Mortifyingly, you don’t flinch at being discovered. Instead, you get back to work and wave at Minghao with your free hand as if this were a routine predicament. Chan moans your name plaintively, but you just lean in again, this time making sure that your lips brush his ear when you speak. “What’s the matter, Chan? Gonna cum?”

You glide your palm down his shaft one last time and tug on the way back up, thumb pressing into the sensitive head. And that’s all it takes. The car sputters as it accelerates and you begin your rapid descent down the slide, water crashing into the car with a force only rivaled by his climax. Chan sees white and feels his stomach rise up to his chest, though he’s honestly not sure if that’s from the ride or your ministrations. 

It’s not until you jostle him that he even realizes you’ve reached the bottom and the ride is over. He stumbles from the car, dazed and silent. You’re both soaked through and Chan really hates the sensation of wet clothes on his skin, but the endorphins of afterglow overtake anything else he should be feeling right now. 

“Good thing we’re all wet or else someone might notice you had a really good time!” you joke as you lead him through the ride’s exit lane, waltzing along as if you hadn’t just jerked his soul straight from his dick only moments ago. 

Despite your nonchalance, Chan spies how quickly you put your cap back on and pull down the brim when you pass the exit gate and the attendee guarding it. As you pass by, Chan notices in his peripheral that it’s Seungkwan again. He doesn’t say a word, but Chan can feel the man’s eyeballs burning a hole in your retreating backs. Among the ambient park noise of Amped Up Autumn, he hears a voice through Seungkwan’s walkie talkie.

“...so gross!”