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[baldwin-leather-repair-mo]

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Good read about leather restoration.

[aldieb]

born to be some variety of car guy, forced to live in a reality where every time i drive a tiny bit of paint flecks off the moral bodywork of my soul

[leathertouchupdye-com]

Creating a Leather Finish with Deep Soaking Method 🛋️ #leatherrepair #le...

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[irndad]

hii dollface, would u write smtg abt hotch being jealous?

like he's trying to hide it from making the team notices when he saw some officer flirting with r?

no pressure in writing, lovey. change it however u want or ignore it if u dont feel like writing it (i completely understands u 🤍)

my love this has lived in my brain so relentlessly <3 i hope you love it!!!! thank you for requesting!! wc: 1.7k

It is incredibly easy to like her.

She’s charismatic in a way that’s almost universally appealing, and he’s memorized the shape of her wide grin. She smiles with her whole face, and Aaron hasn’t really spent too much time trying to make people smile. He’s had success in some ways, but when she smiles at him there’s something in his chest that burns in achingly lovely way. 

At first, he had assumed her kindness was a way to win him over. In her first week, she had noticed there was a rip in his tie (which he’s not sure how could even happen) and she’d whipped out a pocket sewing kit, repairing it. 

He tries not to think about the fact that she’s beautiful. She is, though, in spirit and in appearance. He’s an expert in controlled presentation, but to some extent she must know that’s he’s fond of her. 

When they’d first met (which he can still picture in his minds’ eye- her oversized sweater tucked into her tailored pants, the purple lipstick adorning her beautiful smile) he’d tried to keep his distance. It’s easy to romanticize her, and being her friend felt a little impossible when seeing her as more felt so inevitable.

This plan did not go well, and Aaron had officially tossed it when one day, the babysitter for Jack fell through when he was halfway around the world. She’d picked him up from school and tended to him, and Aaron had come home to a blanket fort on his kitchen floor, and a happy little boy who wanted her to come over every day. 

So it's a little hard to ignore how much he adores her. 

She doesn’t normally want to come out to the scene and they usually don’t require it, but they’re going out to a place she spent most of her twenties, and she knew people in the local PD, so Aaron had asked her to come. 

She’d done so without complaint, although he knows she doesn’t sleep well on the jet. No one knows where the nicer pillows and blankets came from, and Aaron would prefer it that way. 

Anyway. 

The bullpen of this department is chaotic and a certain caretaking is living at the edge of Aaron’s consciousness, a protective desire to keep her from the loudness and violence that she’s typically protected from. 

He’s still thinking this, when he hears her voice over the chaotic hum of the department. 

“Oh my god, Logan!”

Her voice is joyful, and when Aaron turns to see who she’s looking at, it’s an agent. He can tell that he’s not a police officer for many reasons- the fact that he’s got a long, shaggy haircut and a 5 o clock shadow and a leather jacket on his shoulders. The local police would be too strict, and he must be some kind of different authority to be allowed to be here.

He hears the stranger call her name back, and they hug. 

It’s a quick thing, but imbued with deep fondness. Aaron’s not sure he’s ever hugged her for more than a second- just a congratulations when his commendation came in. She’d smelled like roses. 

Now, she’s hugging Logan. 

“Hotch,” she says, a smile still in her voice, “This is Logan! We went to graduate school together. He’s brilliant, I can’t believe he’s down here.”

Her voice is seeped in admiration, and Aaron feels an ugly amount of what can only be described as jealousy. 

“Great to meet you. You’re the unit chief, yeah?”

“SSA Aaron Hotchner,” he offers the man a curt nod, “Have you met the team?”

He goes through the motions of introducing him to the team- he greets Reid with a warm smile and tells him that he’s read his papers. Logan compliments Emily’s shirt, and Morgan’s watch. 

He’s incredibly charismatic.

Is Aaron charismatic? He doesn’t think so. His team, who probably adore him as much as anyone could, still note that he can be harsh, prickly. He never smiles, he knows. He lacks expressiveness. Logan is all fluid movement and easy conversation, and when he takes the jacket off, Aaron sees a great deal of tattoos on his forearm, his sweater sleeves slid up. 

He’d smile for her. 

What should be a good thing, but hurts- Logan is an excellent consultant profiler. He’s thoughtful and helpful and she has an easy rapport with him. Aaron- he’s so bad at talking to women. 

She makes Aaron feel like he’s good at it though. When they drive together, the conversation is easy and feels nice. It’s like sunbathing, basking in the light of her attention and intention. 

With the help of the man that Aaron has decided he hates, the case is finished up quickly. 

He can’t shake the thought they’ve probably dated. It’s not his business- this crush, although this word feels inadequate for the intensity of the way she makes him feel. It’s a private thing he’s never going to act on- he’s older and her superior, and besides- 9 stab wounds and a lifetime worth of issues is a million times less appealing than someone like Logan. Young, exuberant probably not too afraid to ask for what he wants.

“Drink tonight?” Logan asks the team, and a chorus of yes’s and please’s echo through the emptying bullpen. 

“Raincheck,” she says to Logan, “I’ll see you next time I’m in town, yeah?” She beams at him, hugging him in a quick-but-too-long-for-Aaron’s-taste motion, and the string in Aaron’s chest that feels like it’s been pulled all week threatens to pull him under.

After everyone files out, she offers to help him fill out paperwork in his office. It’s just like her, so kind and sweet. Spending her free time filling out reports to make his workload go easier.

About a half hour of amenable silence passes, before Aaron chooses to speak.

“So, you and Logan.”

“He’s great, right?”

Regrettably, Aaron agrees.

“He seems very kind.”

“Yeah, he and his fiancee are really fun. They travel all over, kite-board and do tons of adventure stuff, he’s pretty awesome.”

A moment passes.

It’s like a balloon losing air, the feeling of relief taking the place of panic.

“I thought you two were romantically involved.” He doesn’t know how to verbalize things casually. If he lets it up, he might do something dangerous like tell her that he wants to be someone who romances her, wants to be the person who kisses her after dates and holds an umbrella over her head when she’s caught in the rain. He wants to be what she comes homes to, and it’s a confession living in the back of his throat, threatening to escape at every moment. 

She sucks in a harsh breath, and he wonders if it’s a misstep to have told her- it’s not a confession, really. It sounds like one though- why would he care? What makes it his business?

“Not that that’s relevant to me,” he stammers, “You’re free to engage with whoever you’d like-“

“I know, Hotch.” She doesn’t grace him with his first name, but her voice is fond and warm, her doe eyes meeting his. He likes it, he decides. 

“I’m not seeing him,” she continues, her body shifting to face him, “I think he’s a little…casual for me.”

He thinks of Logan’s leather jacket and unshaven face, rugged appearance and compares it to how he presents himself- clean cut and sharp lines, his suits tailed to fit him like a glove. 

“You prefer something a little more…dignified?” He hears himself say with more confidence then he feels- her implication is clear, but he wonders if he’s mishearing it. 

She tips her head back and he hears her lovely laugh ring through the air like something sacred, and he waits to hear her response. 

“I don’t know, I just know that I’ve been liking this guy for a while,” she muses, looking down at her fingernails, “But he hasn’t seemed to pick up on any of my hints.”

On one of his braver days, he’d told her that he liked that purple lipstick. He hasn’t seen her without it since. She’d always been so kind to everyone that it was hard to notice when her treatment towards him was special, but he thinks it might be. How quick she offers to help with Jack- gives away a Saturday evening to spend with him, even though she sees too much of his face at work.

Her friend from grad school offered to get drinks, and she’s here, telling him what she looks for in a guy.

He tries to be logical about the whole thing, but it’s a bit hard- she’s funny and warm and Aaron loves being around her- loves her company enough to maybe ask for more of it. 

“If this ‘guy’ did like you,” he murmurs, intentionally not meeting her gaze, the precision of which is boring a hole into the side of his head, “How would he go about that?”

He’s not sure what the point of being coy is now, but he can’t seem to stop. He does look down to her and meet her eyes. 

“I think I’d probably corner him,” she says breathlessly. They’re quite close together, now. He wonders if she likes his aftershave. She tugs a hundred through her hair, a nervous but incredibly attractive gesture, “Y’know, if everyone we worked with went to get drinks, and it was just us. If he was amenable to that.”

“If he was amenable to that.”

A rush of emotion licks up his spine- it’s fun, flirting with her. The creep of warmth on her cheek, how her fingers are brushing hers. 

“I think he might be.”

Purple lipstick, rose perfume mixing with the scent of expensive aftershave- he thinks he might be able to kiss her, now. He’s never been good at knowing when to take the jump, but this is something he can do. He can let her know that he wants it. 

She reads him well enough, it turns out, and she kisses him. It’s a surprise and he is so rusty at this and yet- his hand stand on the small of her back, pulling her in and he can feel her lovely smile against him. She’s warm and joyful and she’d kissed him, and all he could do was lean in-

“I think he might be too.” She says, significantly less color on her lips, and more on his, he imagines.

She doesn’t have to wonder, though. When Aaron kisses her again, he decides- he will make her incredibly certain of his affections. 

[ckret2]

The second dimension has just been burned; Bill—who's definitely an innocent victim in this situation and totally didn't have anything to do with the fire—is inside the nightmare realm "dream realm" with a bunch of dying shapes from the neighboring dimensions that also caught fire; like a million gods are at the scene of the fire trying to figure out what happened; and the Axolotl's just been hit with a nonstop barrage of cosmic horror. But he's about to face an even greater horror: watching politicians and contractors try to get a single task done.

Here, have a fic. It's part three of a series about the Axolotl witnessing the aftermath of the Euclidean Massacre before anyone's even figured out what happened or whose fault it is. Here's part one and part two.

####

Outside what used to be the incinerated wall named Dimension 2 Delta, what seemed like half a city's worth of gods had assembled within just a few hours: agents from the Apocalyptic Threat Task Force, concerned local politicians, firefighters, cops, paramedics, reporters, rubberneckers, and volunteers. The scene was one of simmering panic being just barely suppressed by training and professionalism: everyone there had a job to do, everyone there was focused on doing it, and none of them knew whether it would be enough.

Behind what used to be the incinerated wall named Dimension 2 Delta, where there was supposed to be an empty void with the point-sized Dimension Zero, there was now a multicolored cosmic foam, frothing and roiling nauseatingly in a way reminiscent of waking from a fever dream to discover that you're actively in a state of delirium and behind the wheel on the freeway. Only the Axolotl knew that, inside that foam, there was a mad dance party of the enslaved dead and dying, overseen by the party host ghost who called himself the Magister Mentium.

Neighboring what used to be the incinerated wall named Dimension 2 Delta, five 1D and 2D dimensions had been burned down to nothingness. The ATTF had just confirmed that a sixth had joined them, two more were well on their way to full incineration, and there were unconfirmed reports trickling in that efforts to contain the fire had failed and two more 1D dimensions were burning up like fuses. The flat and linear living beings of thousands of worlds had been rescued; shapes huddled together uncomfortably on 3D worlds, evicted ghosts haunted ghost worlds, and gods who had once seen themselves as above all mortal concerns now found themselves sitting shellshocked in an "above" they'd never imagined—and they were the lucky ones. The ones who hadn't burned up in the pale blue fires or fallen down into the eternal dance party.

And amidst it all—all the fear, the fire, the death, the panic—the desperate attempts by gods that didn't know each other or didn't like each other to find a way to make this right—those who thought a crisis of such interdimensional magnitude called for kindness and compassion verbally wrestling with those who thought it called for punishment and control—a Time Giant in a hard hat, whistling a country song she'd heard on the radio that morning, completely ignored everyone else there, strolled right up to the sickly swirling border of Dimension Zero as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and started looking around for the wall named Dimension 2 Delta she'd been called out to inspect.

She was dressed in goggles, a flannel shirt, sensible overalls, and leather work gloves. There were several tools strapped to her belt: a time tape measure, a space hammer, and a utility repair kit with patches and sewing needles for making quick mends to the fabric of reality. She eyed Dimension Zero's undulating border, glanced down at her tiny repair kit, and frowned dubiously. It seemed that the problem she'd been called out for was too big to hand stitch back together. She shrugged in resignation.

The cop who looked like a crab with two mushrooms growing out of his hollowed-out eye sockets smacked one claw against the cop made of two interlocked burning rings. "Hey. Is she supposed to be here?"

VENDOR turned, took in the Time Giant's appearance, and shouted, "Hello! Excuse me? What are you doing?"

She gestured with a thumb at Dimension Zero. "I was called about a prematurely crunched dimension. Here to do an inspection."

Irritably, VENDOR said, "You're supposed to be inspecting Dimension 2 Delta, not—this thing!"

"Well, I don't see D-2Δ around here. Looks to me like it's gone," she said. "Some jackass has been blowing up my office phone all day trying to rush me out here. I had to cancel three other inspections, call another guy in on his day off, and come out myself to get this over with so we can shut this guy up. So I ain't here to stand around painting my fingernails. Unless you can point me to D-2Δ, I'm gonna inspect the dimension that is here."

VENDOR, the jackass in question, said, "I'm the one who called you and I'm saying you can't go in!"

"Uh huh." Behind her goggles, the Time Giant's expression was completely unreadable. "Anyway, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go do my job."

The flaming rings whirled between the Time Giant and Dimension Zero's border, hundred eyes narrowed threateningly. "This is an active crime against reality! It's still under investigation."

"Then what was the big rush to get me out here!"

The argument was clearly audible over the general din as the Axolotl and the storm cloud with the ATTF returned from inspecting one of the many out-of-control fires. "Cops," the storm rumbled. "Hate cops."

The Axolotl's frills fluttered in agreement. "Interesting from an apocalypse cop."

Static crackled irritably over the cloud. "I prefer 'apocalypse agent.'"

As they caught up, the Time Giant was saying, "I ain't got time for this." She pulled out a length of time tape without unlatching the measure from her belt. "So when won't this place be an active crime scene?"

"Hold on!" The cloud flicked VENDOR's metal side with a lightning bolt to catch THEIR attention. The crack of thunder startled the Time Giant and cops into looking its way as well. To VENDOR, it snapped, "This isn't your investigation, back off." To the cops, it said, "And this is not a crime scene." To the Time Giant, it said, "I put in the initial call. Dimension 2 Delta spontaneously combusted; we want to know why. He says"—it gestured toward the Axolotl with a fork of lightning—"whatever's left of it is in there, so that might as well be where you start your investigation."

"Thank you," the Time Giant sighed. She let the tape snap back into place. "ATTF, right?"

"Right."

"I prefer to get my info from whoever's actually in charge of a dimension. So, we got any gods that can tell me about 2Δ—property owner, in-house maintenance...?"

There was suddenly a large wall of steel and glass in between the storm cloud and the Time Giant as VENDOR physically shoved THEIR way back into the conversation. "2Δ is in Lady Morgenstern's district, but she's still on vacation—(and apparently decided this incident wasn't worth coming back into the office for)—but, I am on the urban planning committee. If there's anything you need to know, you can talk to me. I can request any municipal records we have on 2Δ's construction and maintenance."

The Time Giant screwed up her mouth. "How long will that take?"

"A few hours, most likely."

The Time Giant's scowl deepened.

She wouldn't get anything useful from a career politician from a different district who knew bupkis about Dimension 2 Delta. The Axolotl said, "If you need somebody who personally knows 2Δ, I... might know someone. A mortal from the wall."

"Uh-huh." The Time Giant didn't look much less dubious about this offering. "It better be a mortal that's at least a quantum physicist. Preferably one with experience in dimensional maintenance."

"I... don't know." The Axolotl nearly added I don't think so—but he was growing less certain he knew what that triangle was capable of, and he didn't like his suspicions. "But—he is an eyewitness to Dimension 2 Delta's destruction from the inside."

The Time Giant chewed on that; then sighed, pointed at VENDOR, and said, "Okay, you request whatever files you can get," and pointed at the Axolotl and said, "In the meantime, I'll talk to your guy. Where is he?"

"Turn around, jumbo."

The group flinched in surprise. They turned toward the missing wall and the grotesquely bloated singularity behind it.

From the zeroth dimension's impossible border, the shining yellow triangle, hardly larger than a fleck of dust, blinked blearily out into the third dimension. He was holding a red plastic cup and wearing a party hat. He looked very much like a hungover homeowner trying to sign for a package at 7 in the morning.

They stared at him.

VENDOR demanded, "What in the world are you?"

"I'm a triangle," said the triangle. 

"You're not supposed to be in there. Get out."

"Hmm! Let me think! No!" He floated up to camera level with VENDOR, apparently not noticing he'd started tilting at an angle. "Why don't you make me?"

"How dare—! Do you know who you're talking to, mortal?"

"Nope. I only know the people worth knowing."

The Axolotl had to choke back a laugh as VENDOR's lights buzzed brighter with irritation.

The cloud quietly asked, "Your friend from 2Δ?"

The Axolotl nodded. "This is the Magister Mentium. He's the only survivor of Dimension 2 Delta. That I know of, anyway." He looked to the triangle, hoping he'd tell him that he was wrong—that the triangle's dancers really were his people from his own dimension.

But the triangle neither confirmed nor denied the claim. He just shot the Axolotl a dirty look. The Axolotl's heart sank.

"Are you sure he 'survived'?" VENDOR asked. "He doesn't appear to have a body. I don't think he's alive."

"What's with everyone's obsession with how alive I am today," the triangle griped. "Hey, worlds-for-guts! Come over here and I'll show you how 'lively' I can be."

"I beg your pardon?!"

"Beg harder."

The crab cop snapped his claws. "You think you can threaten a god? Better watch your mouth, mortal."

"Oh, now I'm mortal again!" The triangle laughed. "Hey, make up your minds! Am I dead or not?"

"I warned you—!"

The Axolotl quietly inserted himself between the two, muttering to the crab, "I'm sure I don't need to remind you that 2Δ isn't one of the dimensions hubris is illegal in?" From the corner of an eye, he could see the triangle pinching his fingers in mocking imitation of the cop's claw snaps. He blocked the triangle from the cop's view.

"It is up here—"

"He isn't up here. He's down there." The Axolotl stared at the crab until he backed off.

Throughout all this, the Time Giant was surveying the triangle dubiously, jaw set in an unimpressed line. Finally, she asked him, "Is uh—is your god home...?" (Even as tense as he was, the Axolotl had to fight back a chuckle. You could always tell when someone wasn't used to talking to mortals.)

"There's no gods here," the triangle retorted. "I'm the magister of this dream realm. So who're you and whaddaya want?"

No gods came up to smite the triangle for denying their existence, so the Time Giant shrugged and continued to address him: "Civil engineering inspector, cosmic structure maintenance. I'm here to figure out why D-2Δ collapsed, look over the place you're in now, see whether it's is up to code."

"Ugh, it's about time," the triangle groaned, as if he'd had any involvement in the Time Giant's appearance or any reason to expect her to be here. "According to these jokers, we got given a flimsy universe! Bad wiring or something!" (Had the triangle been eavesdropping on them the whole time?) "It'd explain a lot! The place wasn't very robust!" His irritated gaze circled the group of "jokers" in question—Axolotl, storm cloud, vending machine, the cops—then did a double take at the cop made of two flaming wheels. "Whoa, and I thought frills here was the freak. How many eyes do you have?" He squinted and started trying to count them. The rings rotated irritably and the triangle flinched. "You can shapeshift 'em. Wowww, optometrists must hate you."

The Time Giant waved a hand between the triangle and the rings to get his attention back. "So you are in charge of whatever's left of D-2Δ in there?"

"Of course he's not," VENDOR said. 

"Yep, that's me," the triangle said.

"Fantastic," said the Time Giant, loudly ignoring VENDOR. She pulled out a miniature clipboard strapped to the back of her toolbelt. "Then you get first priority in deciding what happens to the place, as long as it don't violate cosmic construction code. What's your ideal outcome here? Gut this dimension, clean out the rubble from D-2Δ, and rebuild somewhere else?"

"Don't even think about it," the triangle said. "Stabilize our dream realm."

VENDOR cut in again, "You can't expect to stay in there! A void at the center of the multiverse is no place for three million squatters—"

"You're way behind, Jack," the triangle said gleefully. "We're up to ten million now!"

THEY gasped in horror. "Ten million?!" THEY started cycling through THEIR stock of moons for one better sized for the population.

The request to stabilize the dimension gave the Time Giant pause, but before VENDOR could try to jump in again, she said, "Sure, got it." She made a note on her clipboard. "I'll look around, figure out if it can be repaired, make sure it isn't about to collapse around your ears—or whatever you have. Corners?"

"Great! I keep hearing this awful grinding noise! And the electromagnetism keeps flickering on and off! Can you do something about that?"

"I'm here to try," the Time Giant said. "Can I come in?"

The triangle hesitated. He looked to the Axolotl. "Hey, frills. Do you vouch for this freak?"

His gills fluffed in surprise at the question. Him? "Yes—she's a professional." The Apocalyptic Threat Task Force wouldn't have her on call if she wasn't dependable.

"All right," the triangle said. "Both of you come in. Welcome to the dream realm."

The Axolotl and Time Giant exchanged a look. She shrugged, scooped him into her arms like an oversized house cat, and headed into Dimension Zero.

####

"Wow. I've never seen nothing like this before." That was the fourth time the Time Giant had said that so far. (Two of them had been spent on the eternal dance party. She'd made eye contact with a square who was coughing an endless plume of black smoke out from around his dry and cracking eye, and the Axolotl—still being cradled in one arm—had felt her shudder before she deliberately turned away. If she was horrified, she was doing a better job of locking it away than the Axolotl had.) "Just moved in?" 

"Pretty recently," the triangle said. "I can't tell you exactly when! I abolished time."

"Probably for the best. This place is a real fixer-upper—I don't know if it could handle time." She had started poking and prodding as soon as she entered Dimension Zero—feeling the quality of the fabric of reality, flipping open invisible breaker boxes to inspect the fundamental forces. She paused as she peered into one box. "Where's the gravity?"

"Beats the heck outta me! I gave up looking for it. Think I like it better without gravity." The triangle had been weaving around her during her whole inspection. He was still clearly under the influence—but now, the Axolotl was less certain what influence he was under. The more the Axolotl saw him separated from his eternal dance, the less he looked like a partied-out drunk, and more like he was distracted to the point of dissociation. His voice fluctuated randomly between "loud" and "too loud." He tilted and zigzagged when he moved, drifted when he tried to hold still. He simultaneously flickered around the dimension like an indecisive quantum particle that couldn't figure out where it existed and maintained a steady, unblinking, spotlight-like stare at the Time Giant and what she was doing. "But the gravity's nothing. A while ago, the weak atomic force went out for like a whole week; you can imagine what a pain that was to get working again!"

She whistled under her breath. "Is this your first reno project? Should've started with something simpler, like a 2D universe, and worked your way up to 3D. 1D's beginner-friendly too; but honestly, with all the restrictions it's not worth it unless you're really creative with portals. 2D's a reasonably accessible middle ground."

"We came from a 2D universe," the triangle said. "After all the work we put into getting to the third dimension, I'm not about to go back!"

"Fair enough." She shifted the Axolotl from where she'd been carrying him in her arm to set him up on her shoulder so she could free her hands. He draped over her shoulder with his tail hanging down her back to watch as she shined a flashlight into the breaker box. There were five switches labeled in marker on tape, "ELECTROMAGNETISM," "STRONG WEAK ATOMIC FORCE" "WEAK  STRONG  WEAK  STRONG!!! ATOMIC FORCE," "????," and "???????? (DON'T TOUCH!!)" The weak atomic force switch was being held in the "on" position by a bundle of black rubber bands that, upon closer inspection, appeared to be made out of the triangle's own arms. The ???? switch had been replaced by a wormhole.

She prodded the wormhole with the butt of a pen. The triangle yelped and flinched. "Hey, whoa! If you're gonna get handsy, at least buy me dinner first!"

She stared at him, slowly shook her head, and muttered, "Never seen nothing like that before." She shut the breaker box. "Well, this place is no Goldilocks zone, but it's honestly kinda impressive it hasn't imploded yet."

"I'm taking that as a compliment!"

She put away her flashlight, pulled out her clipboard, and said, "So you mentioned a grinding sound. What's this grinding?"

"Right, that!" Now that she wasn't doing anything interesting worth watching, the triangle zoomed in front of her to make direct eye contact. "Every time I try to move, all of existence starts creaking and groaning."

"You're moving now and I don't hear anything."

The triangle rolled his eye. "I don't mean moving in here, I mean moving!"

She frowned.

The Axolotl suggested, "I think he's—at the center of the dimension. When he moves, we move... through the dimension. Perhaps he means when the dimension's literally moving with him?"

"Uh." The triangle squinted uncertainly. "Yyyes?"

"Huh. Dimensions shouldn't be moving." She unhooked her time tape from her belt, held it up in front of her, and said, "Can you move about... twenty lightminutes away?"

The triangle sighed heavily. "Yeah, sure." He zoomed off to the side. Existence seemed to zoom with him. The whole time he was moving, the Time Giant stretched out more of her time tape.

The Axolotl felt something very far away rumble.

"Is that all you needed, or are you gonna ask me to roll over and bark, too?"

"Haw haw," she said flatly. "Yeah, that's it." She glanced at the Axolotl. "How long did it feel to you like it took him to move?"

The Axolotl tried to think through the momentary vertigo. "Thirty, forty seconds?"

"Uh-huh. For him to move twenty lightminutes in thirty seconds, he'd be moving forty times the speed of light."

"Oh."

"Is that good?" the triangle called.

The Time Giant grimaced. "Well..."

"I can do it faster!"

"D—don't do it faster." She held up the time tape for the Axolotl to inspect. "Look at this."

Every measure mark on the tape was labeled 0 sec - 0 sec - 0 sec - 0 sec.

The Axolotl gave it a baffled look. "He did say he abolished time."

"Sure, but there's relative time, and then there's absolute time." Which was probably a statement that made sense to Time Giants, but all the Axolotl could guess was that she meant the time tape was not supposed to say zero seconds.

She let the tape retract and stroked her chin with a gloved hand. After a moment of thought, she said, "Lemme check something out."

####

(Thanks for reading!! If the art lured you in and this is the first chapter you read, this is part 3 of a probably-7-part fic about the Axolotl in the immediate aftermath of the Euclidean Massacre. Here's part one and part two if you missed it. I'm posting one chapter a week, Fridays 5pm CST, so stick around if you wanna watch the Axolotl slowly discover just how much of a monster that silly triangle he likes really is.

It's ALSO chapter 63 of an ongoing post-canon post-TBOB very-reluctantly-human Bill fic. I'm gonna fix the chapter numbering once I know how many chapters this plot is. If you're not sold on the idea of a human Bill fic, I've also got a oneshot about normal triangle Bill escaping the Theraprism if you wanna read that.

If this is NOT your first time here and you already knew all of the above: okay, I lied that last week was the least horrifying chapter, but it's only because this chapter ran so long I decided to cut it in half. The horror comes next week. Enjoy this brief lull while everyone acts like this is a totally normal property inspection.

Anyway, lemme know what y'all think, and next week we're right back on the cosmic horror!)

[cuddlytogas]

So I accidentally almost got into an argument on Twitter, and now I'm thinking about bad historical costuming tropes. Specifically, Action Hero Leather Pants.

See, I was light-heartedly pointing out the inaccuracies of the costumes in Black Sails, and someone came out of the woodwork to defend the show. The misunderstanding was that they thought I was dismissing the show just for its costumes, which I wasn't - I was simply pointing out that it can't entirely care about material history (meaning specifically physical objects/culture) if it treats its clothes like that.

But this person was slightly offended on behalf of their show - especially, quote, "And from a fan of OFMD, no less!" Which got me thinking - it's true! I can abide a lot more historical costuming inaccuracy from Our Flag than I can Black Sails or Vikings. And I don't think it's just because one has my blorbos in it. But really, when it comes down to it...

What is the difference between this and this?

Here's the thing. Leather pants in period dramas isn't new. You've got your Vikings, Tudors, Outlander, Pirates of the Caribbean, Once Upon a Time, Will, The Musketeers, even Shakespeare in Love - they love to shove people in leather and call it a day. But where does this come from?

Obviously we have the modern connotations. Modern leather clothes developed in a few subcultures: cowboys drew on Native American clothing. (Allegedly. This is a little beyond my purview, I haven't seen any solid evidence, and it sounds like the kind of fact that people repeat a lot but is based on an assumption. I wouldn't know, though.) Leather was used in some WWI and II uniforms.

But the big boom came in the mid-C20th in motorcycle, punk/goth, and gay subcultures, all intertwined with each other and the above. Motorcyclists wear leather as practical protective gear, and it gets picked up by rock and punk artists as a symbol of counterculture, and transferred to movie designs. It gets wrapped up in gay and kink communities, with even more countercultural and taboo meanings. By the late C20th, leather has entered mainstream fashion, but it still carries those references to goths, punks, BDSM, and motorbike gangs, to James Dean, Marlon Brando, and Mick Jagger. This is whence we get our Spikes and Dave Listers in 1980s/90s media, bad boys and working-class punks.

And some of the above "historical" design choices clearly build on these meanings. William Shakespeare is dressed in a black leather doublet to evoke the swaggering bad boy artist heartthrob, probably down on his luck. So is Kit Marlowe.

But the associations get a little fuzzier after that. Hook, with his eyeliner and jewellery, sure. King Henry, yeah, I see it. It's hideously ahistorical, but sure. But what about Jamie and Will and Ragnar, in their browns and shabby, battle-ready chic? Well, here we get the other strain of Bad Period Drama Leather.

See, designers like to point to history, but it's just not true. Leather armour, especially in the western/European world, is very, very rare, and not just because it decays faster than metal. (Yes, even in ancient Greece/Rome, despite many articles claiming that as the start of the leather armour trend!) It simply wasn't used a lot, because it's frankly useless at defending the body compared to metal. Leather was used as a backing for some splint armour pieces, and for belts, sheathes, and buckles, but it simply wasn't worn like the costumes above. It's heavy, uncomfortable, and hard to repair - it's simply not practical for a garment when you have perfectly comfortable, insulating, and widely available linen, wool, and cotton!

As far as I can see, the real influence on leather in period dramas is fantasy. Fantasy media has proliferated the idea of leather armour as the lightweight choice for rangers, elves, and rogues, a natural, quiet, flexible material, less flashy or restrictive than metal. And it is cheaper for a costume department to make, and easier for an actor to wear on set. It's in Dungeons and Dragons and Lord of the Rings, King Arthur, Runescape, and World of Warcraft.

And I think this is how we get to characters like Ragnar and Vane. This idea of leather as practical gear and light armour, it's fantasy, but it has this lineage, behind which sits cowboy chaps and bomber/flight jackets. It's usually brown compared to the punk bad boy's black, less shiny, and more often piecemeal or decorated. In fact, there's a great distinction between the two Period Leather Modes within the same piece of media: Robin Hood (2006)! Compare the brooding, fascist-coded villain Guy of Gisborne with the shabby, bow-wielding, forest-dwelling Robin:

So, back to the original question: What's the difference between Charles Vane in Black Sails, and Edward Teach in Our Flag Means Death?

Simply put, it's intention. There is nothing intentional about Vane's leather in Black Sails. It's not the only leather in the show, and it only says what all shabby period leather says, relying on the same tropes as fantasy armour: he's a bad boy and a fighter in workaday leather, poor, flexible, and practical. None of these connotations are based in reality or history, and they've been done countless times before. It's boring design, neither historically accurate nor particularly creative, but much the same as all the other shabby chic fighters on our screens. He has a broad lineage in Lord of the Rings and Pirates of the Caribbean and such, but that's it.

In Our Flag, however, the lineage is much, much more intentional. Ed is a direct homage to Mad Max, the costuming in which is both practical (Max is an ex-cop and road warrior), and draws on punk and kink designs to evoke a counterculture gone mad to the point of social breakdown, exploiting the thrill of the taboo to frighten and titillate the audience.

In particular, Ed is styled after Max in the second movie, having lost his family, been badly injured, and watched the world turn into an apocalypse. He's a broken man, withdrawn, violent, and deliberately cutting himself off from others to avoid getting hurt again. The plot of Mad Max 2 is him learning to open up and help others, making himself vulnerable to more loss, but more human in the process.

This ties directly into the themes of Our Flag - it's a deliberate intertext. Ed's emotional journey is also one from isolation and pain to vulnerability, community, and love. Mad Max (intentionally and unintentionally) explores themes of masculinity, violence, and power, while Max has become simplified in the popular imagination as a stoic, badass action hero rather than the more complex character he is, struggling with loss and humanity. Similarly, Our Flag explores masculinity, both textually (Stede is trying to build a less abusive pirate culture) and metatextually (the show champions complex, banal, and tender masculinities, especially when we're used to only seeing pirates in either gritty action movies or childish comedies).

Our Flag also draws on the specific countercultures of motorcycles, rockers, and gay/BDSM culture in its design and themes. Naturally, in such a queer show, one can't help but make the connection between leather pirates and leather daddies, and the design certainly nods at this, with its vests and studs. I always think about this guy, with his flat cap so reminiscient of gay leather fashions.

More overtly, though, Blackbeard and his crew are styled as both violent gangsters and countercultural rockstars. They rove the seas like a bikie gang, free and violent, and are seen as icons, bad boys and celebrities. Other pirates revere Blackbeard and wish they could be on his crew, while civilians are awed by his reputation, desperate for juicy, gory details.

This isn't all of why I like the costuming in Our Flag Means Death (especially season 1). Stede's outfits are by no means accurate, but they're a lot more accurate than most pirate media, and they're bright and colourful, with accurate and delightful silks, lace, velvets, and brocades, and lovely, puffy skirts on his jackets. Many of the Revenge crew wear recognisable sailor's trousers, and practical but bright, varied gear that easily conveys personality and flair. There is a surprising dedication to little details, like changing Ed's trousers to fall-fronts for a historical feel, Izzy's puffy sleeves, the handmade fringe on Lucius's red jacket, or the increasing absurdity of navy uniform cuffs between Nigel and Chauncey.

A really big one is the fact that they don't shy away from historical footwear! In almost every example above, we see the period drama's obsession with putting men in skinny jeans and bucket-top boots, but not only does Stede wear his little red-heeled shoes with stockings, but most of his crew, and the ordinary people of Barbados, wear low boots or pumps, and even rough, masculine characters like Pete wear knee breeches and bright colours. It's inaccurate, but at least it's a new kind of inaccuracy, that builds much more on actual historical fashions, and eschews the shortcuts of other, grittier period dramas in favour of colour and personality.

But also. At least it fucking says something with its leather.

[ausefulblogforputtingthingsin]

I do think which form of fake leather something is should be specified. I want to know how soon I can expect it to start peeling. Calling it plastic is mainly to stick it to people who call it "vegan leather" as if it's better and more sustainable. (The problems with leather tanning are a whole other can of worms, but it does last for ages once it's made). It's just as bad to call it faux leather. It should be called vinyl or PU or whatever else it is, not just plastic and not just faux leather. I'm in favor of accuracy (same thing with food ingredients)

I know I said this before but the same logic that insists all faux leather should just be called “plastic” would force us to call both wool and real leather “protein”. We can’t even specify they’re both keratin, because we have just been forbidden to distinguish polyurethane leather from vinyl, we can only call them plastic.

How about you go off and sharpen a handax? The behaviorally modern humans are talking.

[mythicalninjas]

@thedl2912 It's been years ago (literally) since you sent this prompt. I hope you're still interested to read what I've written and it is an ask of apologises 🥲 MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Rate/Warnings: SFW, holidays with family, celebration, boys with their crushes

Let's be honest: they’d cobble together a “tree” out of random sewer junk, decorate it with makeshift ornaments, and exchange gifts they made themselves. Splinter told them stories of Japanese winter traditions.

They embraced Christmas movies and made it a tradition to have a pizza feast while exchanging small but thoughtful gifts. As adults, the brothers celebrate with a mix of their old traditions and new ones involving friends.

The lair is decked out with real decorations (thanks to April!), and they exchange gifts in a Secret Santa style to make it fair for everyone. No one is left from their family celebration!

Leonardo

As the oldest, Leo took it upon himself to make Christmas feel special for everyone, even when resources were scarce. He’d create small paper ornaments for their "tree" (usually a pile of junk) and try to teach his brothers Christmas songs. His wish list was practical even as a kid—books, training equipment, or a sturdy toy sword;

He tried to uphold family traditions while dealing with his teenage angst. He secretly saved up to give meaningful gifts to his brothers, such as repairing Donnie’s gadgets or crafting a new weapon for Raph. His wish list expanded to include things like martial arts manuals, music that helped him focus, or items that symbolized his leadership (like a notebook or a decorative katana stand);

Leo organizes the festivities, ensuring everyone gets time to celebrate together. With his crush (you), in the mix, he’s more mindful of personal touches in gifts. He’d give you a thoughtful book, or and a beautiful handcrafted ornament. BUT of course, after the family celebration, he would take you to the Empire State Building to watch the sunrise;

For him, the most beautiful view is you;

His wish lis? The leader would likely include items related to meditation, strategy games, or maybe a simple but heartfelt gift from someone special;

Raphael

Oh, boy. His grumpy face wouldn't help;

"Why is Raph mad?" Casey asked to Mikey, both eating a plate of pizza slice and turkey on the other side of the main space while watching the red-clad turtle;

"Mad? That's his every-day face." Mikey answered naturally;

Baby Raph had a love-hate relationship with Christmas as a kid. He’d grumble about the lack of gifts but secretly made handmade "weapons" for his brothers out of scrap materials. His wish list was all about action—nunchucks, toy weapons, or something adventurous like a kite (even if it wouldn’t fly in the sewers).

As he grows up, our Raph leaned into the "too cool for Christmas" vibe but secretly loved the holiday. He’d participate in his brothers’ antics, like decorating or gift exchanges, while acting indifferent. His gifts were usually practical or funny—he might’ve given Donnie extra screws for his inventions or Mikey a gag gift. Wish list at older age? Leaned toward punching bags, workout gear, or rock band merch.

As an adult, he is still rough around the edges but shows more appreciation for the holiday. He’s likely to make something personal for his friends, like a DIY repair kit for Casey’s gear or a leather bracelet for his crush. Fitness-related items, cool motorcycle accessories, or something handmade by his loved ones.

You here? PERFECT. He might have an angry face, but it doesn't make you step away. And that blush on his big cheeks when you give him simples touches (HEHEHEHEHSJWISNSKSNSJDK) YOU LOVE THAT. Big teddy bear on ACTION;

Michelangelo

Everybody knows that Mikey is the most excited about Christmas, treating it as an excuse to have fun and spread cheer. He made lopsided decorations out of junk and insisted on singing carols, no matter how off-key.

He doesn't care about his age. Give this boy toys, comic books, art supplies, new flying skateboards, an update for his knuchakos (have no idea how to write his japanese weapon correctly) but, mainly among all of it, PIZZAS. BOXES OF PIZZAS. Anything what can make him feel GREAT! MIKEY happy, family happy!

Ngl Mikey was the one who turned Christmas into a party, convincing his brothers to play games, watch movies, and eat pizza. The family celebration wasn't that exciting before his happiness change everthing. He gave hilarious, heartfelt gifts like drawing portraits of his family or prank items for Raph. He ensures Christmas is a joyful celebration for everyone. He bakes cookies, organizes games, and makes handmade gifts like a scrapbook for April or a painted helmet for Casey. For his crush, he might craft a whimsical piece of art (of himself or of his crush. Maybe both together ;3). He is THE own Michelangelo reencarned!

Want a nice celebration? Call Mikey, the party maker! The only who can bring happiness to reallity!

"All I want for Christmas iiisss... youuuu" He sings, pointing at you.

You chuckled.

*The song beat starts*

The orange-clad turtle kept on: "I don't want a lot for Christmas. There ir one just thing I need-And Iiiiiiii"

"Don't care about the presents underneath Christmas tree. I don't need to hang my stocking there upon the fireplace (ah)"

You two dance a lot, soon Leo, April, Donnie, Casey and Vernon join.

"Why don't you join them, my son?" Master Splinter asks softly, looking up at Raphael.

He crossed his arms over his big chest. "Don' know. No mood."

Splinter only lifts an eyebrow

Raph sighs. "Okay. But ya will join too."

Splinter smiles.

Donatello

Your beloved nerd would have been fascinated by the lights and mechanics of Christmas. He spent most of his time trying to engineer blinking lights or tiny motors for ornaments (by Mikey's ideas). He would search for information about this special celebration date and tell every single of them to you.

Of course you are interested!

His wish list, since we was a boy, was full of tech: batteries, screwdrivers, or wires to tinker with. Tech guy, tech stuff! Oh, boy... He does love it!

As a teen, Donnie improved his skills becaming the family’s Christmas tech guru, rigging up makeshift string lights and mini projects to wow everyone. He loved gifting his brothers functional gadgets or tech-enhanced weapons. His wish list was predictable—parts for his inventions, rare tech manuals, or a new soldering iron.

He still brings the tech magic to Christmas. He might build a personalized gadget for April, a hockey puck tracker for Casey, or a thoughtful, techy gift for his crush. His wish list is the nerdiest of them all: microchips, rare circuit boards, or a subscription to a science magazine.

"Did you know that the red suit Santa Claus wears today has its origins in the work of several artists, including: Thomas Nast, Haddon Sundblom-"

You grinned "Clement Clarke Moore and Saint Nicholas Myra. But there are a few others, right?"

"Yeah! Like Norman Rockwell and J.C. Leyendecker. Also, did you know that before Coca-Cola's advertisements, Santa was depicted in a variety of ways, including as a gnome or in different colored suits?"

[marionluth]

Feel free to reblog so that more people can vote ❤️✨

Little context: Thistle & Thorn is Hermione's magical tea-shop's name. Lemon trees hold some symbolism within the fic, while 'babbling potion' is the prompt used for this story.

Unofficial summary: Auror Draco works undercover and seeks Hermione's help for a case. While briefing her he accidentally ingests a tea spiked with a babbling potion (brewed to spike his suspect's drink). Truths are revealed and things escalate.

✨👇Excerpt 👇✨

The bronze bell above the door jingled, breaking her rhythm. Hermione straightened instinctively, the song dying in her throat. She looked up to see Malfoy stepping inside, the door shutting behind him. He stood there for a moment, taking her in with an incredulous look.

“Are you seriously washing dishes by hand?”

She bit back a groan, her shoulders stiffening all over again. Of course, that was the first thing out of his mouth. Instead of rising to it, she reached for her mug and took a long sip of her black tea. She’d need every ounce of it to get through the evening.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him saunter further inside, still clad in that blasted leather jacket, now glistening with raindrops that gleamed under the candlelight.

“You do know there’s a spell for that, right?”

Hermione slammed the mug down and continued her washing, shooting him a dry look. “You do know there’s a spell for not getting wet in the rain, right?”

His lips twitched into a half-smile. “I like feeling the rain,” he said with a shrug, raising a hand to comb the damp, blond strands back from his forehead.

One rebellious strand sprang back immediately, curling across his left eyebrow. She hated how her gaze tracked the movement, catching on the faint sheen of water clinging to his hair, his jawline, his collarbone peeking out from the open zip of that stupid jacket. Stupid leather jackets, she thought, her scowl deepening. And stupid wet hair and stupid way he kept combing it like that.

And what kind of person liked feeling the rain? That was her thing. He had no business liking something she liked. Her scowl hardened as she tore her gaze away from him and returned to scrubbing the teapot with far more vigor than necessary. This is going to be a very, very long night.

“And I like cleaning my teapots on my own,” she retorted dryly.“These are Yunling Porcelain, crafted from Lunar Clay, fired with dragonflame, and painted with phoenix feather brushes. They resonate with magic, self-repair under moonlight, and enhance the properties of tea brewed in them.” She paused, leveling him with a withering look. “And no, you can’t clean them magically without dulling the enchantments. Satisfied?”

“Fascinated, even,” Malfoy sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. “Leave it to you to kit out a tea shop with china that not only refuses to clean itself, but actually requires manual labour.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, her grip tightening on the teapot in her hands. “Not all of us are entitled pricks who’ve gone through life without lifting a single finger to work, Malfoy.”

He arched a pale brow and started a leisurely stroll across the room. “Entitled? Prick? Granger, you wound me,” he drawled, coming to a stop near the bar. He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, his gaze steady on her. “But, if you must know, I’ve moved plenty of fingers." His lips twitched. "Just not, you know, for scrubbing teapots.”

Hermione froze mid-scrub, the words hanging in the air and her mind betraying her almost immediately. Heat crept up her neck as her thoughts took a detour she absolutely did not approve of—she refused to go there, of all places, where Malfoy’s fingers were concerned. Turning her focus back to the pot in her hands, she stared at its intricate bejeweled design, willing herself to concentrate on the delicate constellations and phases of the moon depicted in glimmering detail.

“What’s the matter? Lost for words?” he asked, his voice laced with mock sweetness and Hermione ground her teeth and scrubbed harder.

"We all have our strengths, Granger. Yours, apparently, is martyrdom. Mine," he added, pausing to reach over the bar and take one of the drying teapots from the rack and examining it, "is looking devilishly handsome while avoiding unnecessary labor."

Hermione snatched the pot from his hand with a roll of her eyes. “Yes, truly inspiring. Perhaps you’ll be the first to receive an Order of Merlin for vanity and sloth. A trailblazer, really.”

[baldwin-leather-repair-mo]

Go check this out it's pretty exciting.

[leathertouchupdye-com]

Repair Faded Leather Chair the Easy Way ! using our leather dye repair kit.

[toasecretsanta]

[1 of 2] From @sketchygainedyoursoul for @aj-artjunkyard using the prompt Apollo missed his sun horses!

Apollo, newly reascended, was avoiding something. Something very important. It wasn’t his fault, really— he was so busy doing paperwork! (Ignoring the fact he had sent all of the paperwork into the sun, of course.)

But he needed to do this very important something, because it wasn’t just him that suffered from avoiding it. The thing itself did, too. Or, maybe Apollo shouldn’t use the word things, because that was very disrespectful to his Sun Horses.

Those horses being Aethon, Aeos, Phlegon, and Pyrois, the four great steeds Apollo had inherited along side the sun chariot once Helios faded away. Each horse had beautiful warm coloured coats with autumn coloured manes that faded and flickered into fire at the ends. As beautiful their coats were, underneath was the visible muscle of a powerful equine. Muscle that was well used to racing the sun chariot across the sky, and would be used to make their displeasure at Apollo’s disappearance known. So no, despite his admiration for his horses, Apollo wasn’t really excited to get assaulted by four very strong and very angry sun horses.

He just hoped that Zeus had the foresight to hire someone capable to take care of them. Or, more likely, that one of his assistants had taken pity on the poor horses and hired someone themself, because the words “Zeus” and “Foresight” rarely go hand in hand. But with the way his luck was, and the unfortunate tendency of people to forgo taking care of immortal beings because “they’ll live,” Apollo was not confident he would escape his horses without any injuries.

Suffice it to say, Apollo needed to check on his sun horses. So, after much too long, Apollo appeared just outside of the stables.

He had chosen to wear high rubber boots and stylish yet practical overalls and chaps, with a plain white t-shirt underneath and hefty leather gloves, a decision that was proven to be wise when he opened the stable doors and a rush of grimy water escaped into the air. “Dear me,” Apollo muttered, avoiding eye contact with four very angry horses.

The stable was in worse a shape than Apollo hoped, as it seems someone was hired to take care of the horses, but whoever it was seemed to know nothing about horses at all. The most glaring issue is that the water had been left on for who knows how long, flooding the drainage and leaving his precious steeds stuck in up to nearly a foot of water.

Ignoring the horses for now, Apollo got to work clearing out the stables. Normally, and if he were still mortal, the stables likely would have been ruined beyond repair, but as a god once more Apollo repaired rotting wood with a snap of his fingers, while leaving the more delicate process of checking the pipes and foundation for a more thorough inspection.

For now though, the stable was stable enough for him to leave the inspection to later, focusing all his available energy on his horses. “Hello, dears,” he chuckled, cowing under the firey glare his horses gave him. “I’m sorry for abandoning you, I truly am, but unfortunately—”

With a snap of his fingers the gates unlocked, and suddenly Apollo found himself on the still damp ground, sharp hooves pressed in uncomfortable places as his horses whinnied in displeasure.

“Ow, ow, ow, please—” Apollo wheezed underneath his horses, and as four horses practically bullied him, he realized maybe he should have done this one at a time.

Once his horses had decided that Apollo’s delicate body had served enough punishment for being left alone, he somehow managed to corral them back into their proper stalls.

Summoning a horse care kit, Apollo made his way over to Pyrois’ stall, as the hot headed horse has made it abundantly clear that he needs his spa day. He also takes care to split his essence once again, this time into four, so that he can take care of each of his horses at the same time, not wanting to decline any treatment. They hate when he plays favourites, no matter how many times Apollo has insisted that they are all his favourite.

First, Apollo checks for any damage caused by the unknown amount of time spent alone, stagnant water or otherwise. Although he is the god of medicine, he isn’t necessarily the god of vetrinary medicine, so he takes his time to ensure that Pyrois hasn’t suffered any damage. He notes with some disdain that Pyrois is malnourished, but it seems that someone had at least been feeding him something, even if that something was not his usual feed.

Once he’s given Pyrois’ general health the all clear, Apollo grabs the front left hoof and places it firmly in between both his legs, assuming an awkward squat to keep the hoof in place. Gently, as it’s very easy to fuck up a horse foot (even if that horse foot is immortal), Apollo takes the buffer and positions it just between the clench and the hoof wall before tapping the buffer with a mallet, straightening out the hooked nail end. He then pincers the head of the nail and works it out of the shoe, repeating this step until the horse shoe is properly removed. After this, Apollo takes the nippers and begins to hack away at the overgrown hoof, trimming it down to size.

Pyrois huffs in Apollo’s ear and he thinks he probably should have sedated the horses, but it’s too late now, so he goes ahead with cleaning up Pyrois’ hoof. Luckily it’s still in relatively good condition, and no extreme trimming will be needed. Once he’s done, Apollo carefully replaces the horseshoe with one of his backups, noting in the back of his mind to ask Hephaestus for some replacements. Repeating this process for Pyrois’ other hooves, the horse gives Apollo an affectionate nuzzle in thanks.

Apollo then turns to Pyrois’ coat, summoning his pair of horse clippers. Pyrois whinnies, not a fan of anyone touching his coat, but Apollo sooths him with an apple (summoned by yours truly) as he trims down Pyrois’ winter coat before brushing it. He then checks Pyrois’ mane and tail which, tapering into fire at the end, tend not to need any pulling, so he still takes his time to brush out any dirt or matts.

Once the hair has been trimmed and checked, it’s time to bathe Pyrois. While normal water works as hydration—and likely could work (with difficulty) to bathe the horses despite their internal temperature being that of, well, the sun—Apollo prefers to get the best of the best, so he’s had Hephaestus hook his stable pipes up to the Phlegethon itself.

Far away from Tartarus and The Underworld, the liquid fire of the Phlegethon isn’t as damaging to Apollo as it would be if he were to encounter it at its source. It still burns, as fire is wont to do, so he tends to put on an outfit more useful for horse power washing than horse bathing. But the sacrifice in style is more than worth it for the comfort of his horses, who deserve only the best for regularly spending their time pulling the sun.

Once all of his horses are properly cared for and bathed (the healing water of the phlegethon curing any superficial injuries better than he could), Apollo gives each horse their own special feed, making sure to set reminder to feed them again later, as to rehabilitate them from their unfortunate malnourishment.

“Tomorrow, we’ll pull the sun again,” he promises, and lets them out from the stables into the pasture beyond. When his horses swarm him this time, instead of hooves, he receives an obscene amount of affectionate head bumps and nuzzles, and ends up arriving at Meg’s for her piano lesson 30 minutes late and covered in horse slobber.

[shiraishi--kanade]

KWKO BACKBACKS ‼️‼️

You asked and I shall deliver...

Maki has one of those funny backpacks in bright colors, a ton of pockets and a couple transparent windows to put fandom stuff into. Which she does! She always has some fandom/manga/cartoon merch showing off in there, as well as as many keychains as possible. Unfortunately at some point people at Miyaji got annoyed with her colourful backpack and told her to "clean it up", so no more merch at school. Boo. She still has it and puts it back on after school for her commute, but it's more lame this way.

She also has a "surprisingly normal" phone case & no stickers, but puts a morbid amount of those on her violin case. You'd expect Karin to protest that but she actually doesn't really care. "A case is just a case, as long as you don't put those on the actual instrument."

Karin herself has one of these leather satchel bags that look very fancy but don't really hold much, like this:

It's dark blue in color and is in the same condition it was on buying. Karin never customises anything because that would ruin her Serious Image, you see. As well as having just a default phone background. The only thing she even bothered customising is adding a profile picture on Nightcord & most group chats, because everyone deserves to see her pretty face.

Kairi has something similar except his shoulder bag is a little bigger and less pretentious, big enough to fit his laptop. He also never customises stuff, but more out of having nothing to say than dislike of doing so. His laptop has a ton of stickers on it, though; mostly just aesthetic photos or paintings. You know that one girl whose laptop is covered in Van Gogh stickers? Kairi's the one. He also is the only one of the group to not carry an instrument case, so whenever they're traveling as a group, his nice bag helps him create an illusion of Hey I'm Doing Something (he only carries his music). His phone background? Kitty. Default profile picture everywhere. He's not even here.

Suzuka probably has one of the brand, 16' or more backpacks, because she's an overpacker and needs to have Everything with her. It almost looks like her backpack is bigger than she is. If you look close enough, you can notice she has a couple supposedly matching keychains on there (nobody from the group matches though?), but nothing outright eye-catching. Just like, normal stuff. It's what's inside that matters, because aside from textbooks she has a fully stuffed first aid kit, weekly amount of snacks, unfinished crochet project & spare clothes. Why is she like this. She will literally never use those. And how is she strong enough to carry that thing. She also never lets anyone see her phone picture. Look Away please!!

Akari has one of those black "urban backpacks" with a roll-top that looks like It's Seen Stuff, and it has indeed seen stuff. It's covered in scratches, cat fur, tears and washed out spots. Akari doesn't care much because it does its role well enough & she things it's cute, but Reishi tries to convince her to get a new one on weekly. Hasn't changed her profile picture since middle school anywhere. Her phone background is a picture of her and Megumi, thought you'd not be able to tell right off the bat (blurry!)

Reishi himself has a normal, minimalist canvas backpack, something neutral in color. It has a couple key chains, like a treble clef on a chain, but nothing else of note. Just completely neutral stuff that doesn't stand out. It looks neat and tidy but is also noticeably not new; there are some repairs here and there if you look close enough. He has a flute case that is lovingly nicknamed The Noodle by Maki, because like, look at this thing.

Why is it so long. Deeply unserious behaviour as far as Maki's concerned. His phone background is a photo of a sunset he took himself, but he has no profile picture anywhere.

[thesummerstorms]

No one asked for this from the Rook Codex Prompts, but I had a specific idea for it:

19. Inventory of personal belongings Rook left behind when they left their faction

Found in the warded letter case of Andarateia Cantori, written in a different but familiar hand.

Inventory (cont.)

-A disorganized sewing kit with various needles and spools of thread

-Woven basket with sewing projects that need mending, including:

A worn and partially repaired linen chemise with a frayed seam. Discard.

A crumpled black formal gown. Slash in the bodice at the ribs slightly discolored from the removal of blood stains. Discard. Give to the seamstress for repair, as not to cause rumors amongst the fledglings. Talk to Eligio later about spying on Talons.

-A small collection of various travelogues, historical novels, and crime serials. Return to Sig. Sansone’s subscription library.

-A spherical magical device with a single circling ring. Gives off slight electrical shocks when tampered with. Has she really kept it since-

-A lute and various collections of sheet music. Dust before storing.

-A partially emptied alchemist’s chest with a missing travel case. Return to personal laboratory.

-Discarded Crow leathers and cape, with traces of blood and soot. Clean before storing.

-One clay bowl filled with miscellaneous pins, copper coins minted in various cities in the Free Marches, a silver earring without its match, and a broken buckle. Pins returned to sewing kit.

-A mostly empty jewel case. Within the case:

Three silver openwork pomanders to be worn on a necklace chain, one containing embrium petals, the second several poisons in separated compartments, and the third perfume ingredients. Clean and return to House de Riva’s vault.

One silver chain to be worn about the neck. Return to House de Riva’s vault.

One pendant in the shape of a crow with outstretched wings and open beak, enchanted. Lock in personal vault.

One silver- (the rest of the line is illegible as the ink has run. There is a puncture hole in the parchment where the words trail off)

(in a different, lighter hand) One silver and niello cloak-pin fashioned after a serpent and embrium flower. Scratched but with a recently replaced pin. Store in private office safe in the Diamond and return to Vi when he’s calmed down.

The second write goes on to inventory clothing left behind in the wardrobe and other mundane items.

Couple of small head canons at play here:

--Arsinoë's ADHD is modelled after my ADHD and her tendency to leave bits and bobs lying around/ stop seeing or noticing them if she isn't actively thinking about them drives Viago insane.

-Most of those adjectives were entirely unnecessary in an inventory especially for a man who would love excel and accounting but Viago's anger made him petty so he had to record snide comments about what a mess some of Arsinoë's things were in.

--Eligio de Riva is the nephew of Viago's steward and one of the few people who might be something approaching a friend to Arsinoë, though they were never as close as they might have been. He was hoping to salvage a memento or two from her apartment for her, not realizing Viago was already there. When he saw his Talon angrily discarding Arsinoë's things, specifically her clothing, into a rubbish pile, he immediately assumed the worst, which Viago clocked from his expression.

--The cloak pin / broach immediately set Viago off because it's the first gift he ever gave Arsinoë as a child. He brought it with him from his life before without ever really understanding why. It sat in a box for years before Viago gave it to Arsinoë, literally marking her as under his protection. (Though of course he never explained that. Mainly, he lectured her on looking too bedraggled to represent de Riva.)

--She's kept the brooch and repaired it and worn it prominently for two decades, despite its plainness and the fact that eventually she could afford fancier jewelry. Seeing it left behind felt like both a funeral bell and a "fuck you" to Viago, while Arsinoë meant it to show she accepted her consequences, that he had exiled her from his inner circle/ his protection. And also a little bit as a fuck you.

--The resulting meltdown forced Teia to intervene and not only finish clearing out Arsinoë's apartment, but hide the brooch so Viago wouldn't do something rash because he was angry/grieving.