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[hiddenlongingsfanfic]

Pushing Your Luck (Lucky Boys 4)

Danny slowly uncurled from the little corner that he had started to make his own. He had never had a home that was completely his before and it still felt too good to be true. He yawned and stretched his hands above his head and leaned back and back and back; doing a lazy little loop de loop in the air.

He cocked his head to one side as he stretched his hearing out to the rest of the building.

Nothing sounded out of place.

No footsteps or voices.

Just the low scratching of some industrious little rodent that was making its own nest in the walls a floor below him.

He raked a hand through his wild white hair and contemplated what he was going to do with his morning. He had managed to gather a small collection of plastic bottles that he had cleaned out and then filled in a public bathroom. The moldy comforter made a comfortable little nest that he could curl up in without having to worry about getting too warm.

The little basket next to the window…had not been there last night.

Still yawning, Danny floated over to the woven basket that someone had placed inside without disturbing him.

When he caught sight of the handwritten note that had been placed on top of his newest present he let out a little chirrup of glee. More presents from Hood. Once he managed to get himself a little bit more established Danny was going to have to figure out where the other man lived so that he could return the favor.

Sneaky presents were the best kind after all.

It meant that the other man had been thinking of him without wanting to bother him. The most recent note was just as sweet as the first had been.

THOUGHT YOU MIGHT NEED THESE. RH 

The note was attached to the top of a little pad of paper and included a ballpoint pen. Danny carefully sifted through the basket with something approaching awe.

Nobody had ever given him such thoughtful gifts before.

His parents had been prone to forgetting his birthday and Christmas.

Jazz had always remembered but cakes and the like were completely out of the question in their house when the eggs were prone to reanimation. So it had usually been some sort of pre-packaged cupcake or at best a new pair of sneakers to replace the ones that had been accidentally dipped in acid.

Danny purred quietly when he pulled out a fuzzy throw blanket in a deep green color that wouldn’t show stains.

A couple of different bottles of cleaner.

One for fabrics and one for tile or linoleum.

Some paper towels for easy cleanup and disposal.

Then finally with shaking fingers he pulled out an oversized hoodie that would be able to swing down to at least his knees; this one in a sturdy black woven material that would drape without clinging to him.

Danny buried his face in the thick material with a stifled gasp as he hugged it to his chest and finally let himself actually think about his sister.

She had always done what she thought was best for him.

No matter the cost.

One of the last sounds he had heard before falling through the rift in the sky was the sound of explosive ammunition being set off with extreme prejudice.

Ancients, he even thought that he might have seen Vlad of all people coming in with his friends trying to get his parents to see reason. It had sounded like the world was exploding around him and Jazz had only been given an instant to hug her little brother tightly to her chest, her lips brushing his forehead before she pushed him back and managed to shove some sort of small tech directly into an opening in his chest.

A gash that the scientists had left on him after they’re latest session and left a couple of his ribs exposed to the open air. 

She had screamed a phrase in a language that seemed to reorient Danny’s world as he fell up through the sky and then started falling straight down into an entirely new world.

He could barely see anything through the lights and explosive noises that had erupted around him but it hadn't looked survivable. He could see Jazz’s eyes red-rimmed and blackened with soot and bruises for a long moment before the portal had snapped shut. Gone so completely that he couldn’t even see a scar in the sky above him as he began to fall.

He had felt the finality of whatever Jazz had done.

There wasn’t going to be a way for him to go back home, even if he had wanted to.

He had the last piece of his world and family hidden behind his heart.

Still holding the new hoodie tightly in one arm Danny pulled it free gently; desperately trying not to damage whatever Jazz’s last gift could possibly be. He looked down at the little cube in the palm of his hand and he could see that Jazz, Sam, and Tucker had all written their initials on it. Danny ducked his head down a little bit so that he could look at the tech a little closer. It looked to just plug in to a normal USB. Jazz and his friends would have had months to plan their insane rescue mission. Hopefully wherever he had landed they had similar technology.

Although if he glanced at the little box out of the corner of his eyes he could see the low sheen of some sort of magic that they had coated it in. Knowing Tucker it was more than likely going to force itself to work with any sort of operating system he was able to find. 

Danny floated over to the corner that he had made his little nest in.

It was easier to pull ectoplasm from the floor when he only had a few layers of fabric separating him from it so he didn’t have to worry about needing to find or haul a bed frame into the little studio.

The moldy comforter was carefully folded; as neatly as he was able to manage and placed to one side.

He scrunched the rich green fabric of his new blanket into a nest that he would be able to curl up in comfortably as long as he continued to not have bones.

The cleaning supplies were left in the basket for the moment.

He still wanted to do a little more exploring before the sun fully rose and cleaning could wait until after he’d rested some more.

The motley little collection of plastic bottles was tucked in next to the cleaners.

It wasn’t a lot but Danny tweaked the bottles and looked over his few belongings with something like pride.

With a great deal of reluctance Danny twitched back into his human form only staying in it long enough to slip the hoodie over his bare torso before reverting back to his ghostly body as quickly he could manage. Danny let his fingers smooth down over his hazmat suit and even though he normally couldn’t even feel whatever clothing his alternate was wearing he could feel a hint of extra warmth on his body from the extra layer.

He floated back towards his window and let himself go invisible and intangible as he slipped through the rotten wooden boards that half covered the broken glass. The early morning sun was still hiding behind the tall buildings and left the streets of his new home murky and fog covered. 

The chill of the mist seemed to penetrate right to his core and Danny shivered with delight.

He let the droplets of moisture phase right through him and he could feel them wicking away the muck and blood of his capture and subsequent escape. The miasma of smog and water felt like a blessing after the close confines of the laboratory and Danny let himself spin and swirl through it. 

It was early enough that he could just make out a couple of windows with their lights on. 

3rd shifters coming home for the day or maybe a few of especially early birds that were preparing for the long day ahead of them. The sidewalks themselves were bare of any commuters and even the women who had been patrolling the area for customers had finally headed back to their homes.

The city wasn’t completely quiet though.

Danny could hear what sounded like pigeons cooing and beginning to stir from their nests and someone had a radio playing a softly sung ballad in Spanish.

The more Danny scouted around the more it felt like any sort of normal morning in a big city.

Well, what he had always imagined a big city would sound like.  

Whatever alternate earth he had ended up landing on seemed to be on a similar timeline at least.

There weren’t a lot of cars lining the streets but the ones that were there looked to be worn from long winters. The rocker panels rusted and were eaten away by the spray of slush from salt covered pavement.

The lines of the cars were different though, a little longer and sleeker than the vehicles he was accustomed to.

Still though; they were undeniably gas powered cars just like those he had grown up with.

As he got closer to the edges of the urban sprawl Danny started to hear the low susurration of swiftly running water.

He trailed the edges of the river, ducking under huge cranes and flying over large shipping containers.

The closer he got to the waters edge the more the smell of pollution and rotten fish began to overwhelm him.

The water looked near pitch black with an oily rainbow sheen coating the top of it.

Sam would have been having absolute fits about this place if she was here Danny thought wistfully.

He hadn’t seen a single designated green space at all in his exploration and the water smelled absolutely toxic even to him.

As he darted around his new haunt Danny was starting to get a vivid picture of exactly where he had ended up.

The entire place seemed to be the worst sort of urban sprawl, a broken down neighborhood trapped in the center of a river that was surrounded by an even larger city. With the cracked concrete, the empty warehouses and the prevalence of a less than legal nightlife as its main source of income the whole place had the feeling of a place that had been abandoned due to neglect and fear.

The unwanted bastard child of an aging royalty. 

It took him a couple of hours but Danny managed to circle the entire island, noting decrepit bridges as the only escape.

Winding his way through the blocks of housing Danny did start to notice some bright spots in the otherwise dingy atmosphere. 

A small diner whose warm lights shone out onto the pocked sidewalks. A woman, he presumed a waitress, between her clean white apron and the neat bun that her graying hair had been pulled back into, was wiping down the tables.

A few blocks down, now that the sun was finally starting to peek over the rooftops he could see a line forming for what looked like a local soup kitchen.

All of the tables and floors were worn but scrupulously clean. 

A couple of brave souls were already huddled over their pancakes or oatmeal with one of the employees waving a full coffee pot at them playfully.

Peering in through the window Danny smiled softly at the friendly group. Maybe once he managed to clean up his mortal body a little bit Danny would be welcomed here too and he could eat some freshly cooked food for the first time in longer than he wanted to think about.

When another early riser slipped obliviously through his body Danny startled and zipped up onto a nearby roof.

He hadn’t even felt the other man come up behind him.

He had used to be better at this, more aware of his surroundings.  

In Amity Park he had been able to feel the trails that the local human population had made through the ectoplasm that had filled the air.

He didn’t always know who it was, but Danny had always been able to determine without so much as a glance, whether there were any civilians in his trajectory.

There was just something about this place that left him feeling constantly on his back foot.

Tail?

Whatever.

Amity Park may have been coated in ectoplasm but he had still been able to feel the people moving through it.

Here it was like all of the people had been a part of this liminal space for so long that they were a part of the atmosphere, generations of people living and dying and being buried in it.

It was more akin to the Ghost Zone than the mortal plane that he was used to. 

Danny slunk back towards his apartment as the streets started to fill up with commuters.

T his time he was careful to float well above the scattering of people. 

It had always felt weird as hell whenever any sort of living thing passed straight through him and Danny had no interest in feeling that particular sensation again any time soon.

When he finally passed back through his window Danny sighed deeply as he let himself slip back into an at least semi-tangible form.

Alighting on the fuzzy softness of his new blanket Danny settled in for a late morning nap.

Once he got a little bit more rest he could start to clean up the worst of the water damage and mold.

The gift basket and the clippers had definitely come from Hood so he was going to work under the assumption that he was welcome in the other man’s haunt.

At least for now.

Snuggling into the deep folds of the fabric Danny could already see the ectoplasm start to seep back out of the floor as his eyes started to slip closed.

He hummed deeply at the unexpected comfort that he had found and let himself slip slowly back to sleep.

When Dick saw Jason the next afternoon he didn’t like the way that his younger brother's eyes were lined with dark bruising from a lack of sleep.

“Problem?”

Jason shook his head even as he took a deep draw from the energy drink he was clutching.

“3 out of my 4…employees.”

Lieutenants, Dick’s brain replaced the slowly enunciated word.

“Came to the meeting we had scheduled.”

“And the fourth?”

“No call. No show. I might have to get HR involved if this continues or maybe a welfare check if they don’t get in contact with me.”

Dick nodded thoughtfully.

HR would probably be the mousy little man that had been working on Jason’s books both legal and not for the past few years. T he man seemed to blend into furniture while also being comparable to Red Robin with his skill with computers. The welfare check was probably going to be an oversized boot to whichever door the missing lieutenant was known to hide behind.

Dick had never actually been to the warehouse that Jason had converted into an open plan office space for the people who worked under him but he had seen the blueprints and been impressed.

Jason had even begrudgingly brought some of his paperwork to Bruce when he had been in the process of legitimizing his business.

A quick glance through the documents had shown that Jason had been deadly serious about taking care of the people that worked for him. W-2’s, health insurance, the whole nine yards.

You could say a lot of things about Jason but he had never failed to commit.

As Red Hood he controlled the trafficking of drugs into the Narrows, made sure that the area children were kept well clear of it, cracked down on violent crime both day and night and ran a legitimate charity as Jason Todd-Wayne. 

The man needed to have employees that he could trust.

If only to make sure that he didn’t run himself completely ragged.

No matter what he or Tim might think, sleep was actually a required activity that both of them needed to partake in on a more regular basis. 

Dick clapped his hand on Jason’s shoulder in commiseration.

“Hopefully nothing too exciting comes from that. Maybe he just forgot.”

Jason nodded in feigned agreement as the pair turned to start walking towards the Bed, Bath, and Beyond that they had agreed to meet at.

Like hell had the man forgotten a meeting but Jason pushed that out of his mind for the moment.

H e was determined to make the strange man more comfortable as soon as possible.

Even if he was living in a murder house.

Dick had needed to physically remove over a dozen didn’t blankets from Jason’s grasp while they had wandered through the too bright lights aisles of Bed, Bath, and Beyond.

Every time he had seen another one Jason had fussed and compared the textures between the fluffy dark green throw and the next blanket that had landed in his line of sight.

" You’re positive?”

“Yes.”

“You really think he’ll like this blanket?”

“I think he’ll like any of these very nice blankets but if you get him more than one or two he’s going to be overwhelmed by choice.”

Jason’s eyes flicked over the remaining options in front of him.

He snagged another blanket that was a dark gray that wouldn’t show dirt too easily.

“Two then. One for now and one for when I switch out the green to wash it. So he doesn’t think I took it away.”

Since he was laser focused on the texture in front of him Jason couldn’t have seen Dick tilt his head slightly back, his eyes squeezed shut for just a moment while he silently asked for patience.

“Sounds good.”

“Don’t patronize me, Dick. ”

Dick bit back a smile while he watched his brother, hulking and bulky with muscle, slowly pet against the grain of a throw blanket covered in mushrooms.

“I’m not. From what we’ve been able to piece together about this guy he deserves every bit of our consideration. But buying the wrong...” Dick flicked his hands up to create quotation marks in the air “blanket is not going to be the reason this guy tips over the edge.”

Rubbing his thumb and forefingers together this time on a blue and white check fabric Jason continued to avoid eye contact.

“I scared him. I’m always talking about giving people a chance. Making sure that they’re not judged for their pasts. But I didn’t even give him a second to try and explain himself, just treated him like a threat from the get go.”

"Yeah.” Dick’s voice was soft. “Just because we’re all trying to move past our own personal histories doesn’t mean that we weren’t shaped by them. He scared you too.”

“He didn’t mean to though.”

“The hell he didn’t. We’ve all seen that recording. The only reason that man didn’t suplex you into the ground was because of that muzzle.”

Dick’s eyes flicked around them, triple-checking that nobody was within earshot of their conversation. 

“He used those electrical snips you left him. He’s staying in that shitty little efficiency in your territory. Trust goes both ways and it seems to me that you're both working on it.”

“What other fucking choice does he have?”

Jason growled in frustration and swiped his hands through his hair leaving it curling wildly and swept up off of his face.

“Whoever he is, that man can fly, turn invisible and slip through solid objects. He’s got a whole lot of options even if he doesn’t want to be a hero or a rogue.”

Dick clapped his hand up on the taller man's shoulder and started to drag him out of the aisle that they had been occupying.

“Now, let’s go look at the cleaning products. I’m thinking we go for unscented and dye free. Let’s try to not induce any unexpected allergic reactions in your guest.”

The employees of the thrift store had given him a wide berth but Jason was sure that they had still heard him as he muttered murderously. 

He picked through the selection of cheap baskets that had all probably come from some sort of department store.

“...cheap. Made in China. Cheap and made in China. Whatever happened to craftsmanship I ask you…”

Jason would have had to be a lot more oblivious than he had ever been to not notice the mechanical sound of a phone snapping a picture of him.

The Narrows had accepted Jason Todd’s return from the dead with open arms but Gotham as a whole had been less than impressed. 

He was 100% sure that picture was going to be sold to the local paper with some sort of ridiculous headline.

Riches to Rags: Gothams (Least?) Favorite Son Forced to Shop Second Hand.

As though choosing to shop at a local thrift store was something to be ashamed of.

He had his own fucking money.

Hell he could steal one of Bruce’s credit cards and the man wouldn’t say a single word.

It was the principle of the thing.

He could have purchased blankets made from the furry asses of rabbits mixed with clouds.

Jason may have not had the best start in life, even compared to some of his brothers, but he remembered that sickening feeling of being given things that he felt he hadn’t earned.

Money was basically Bruce’s love language.

The man could be an emotional brick wall.

He hadn't been able to verbalize his feelings in a supportive or even normal way. It had taken a lot of fighting and hard work on both their parts, but Jason knew deep in his bones that Bruce loved him.

Shockingly, the man who dressed up as a giant bat to fight crime didn’t have the most healthy of coping mechanisms.

When Jason had first come to live with Bruce he had felt those debts piling up like boulders in his chest.

He didn’t want to do the same thing to his stranger.

Jason had thought about purchasing a phone for the man but that had also felt like a step too far.

The pen and notepad had felt like a good compromise.

The guy already knew that Jason was sneaking into the apartment he had selected and hadn’t seemed too upset or paranoid of the clippers that he had left.  

If Jason had been raised by absolutely any other family he would have been wringing his hands while he watched the young man gently sort through the gift basket that he had finally selected.

To be fair if he had been raised by absolutely any other family he wouldn’t have been spying on a maybe alien on a rooftop across the street with a pair of Batnoculars. (Jason and Bruce blamed that particular nomenclature on a pre-teen Dick).

He fumbled them hard though when the white-haired stranger disappeared in a flash of light and he saw the bare skin of what looked like a human man's back, black hair brushed his shoulders and scars criss-crossed his back. The skin quickly disappeared underneath the oversized hoodie that Jason had snagged from the same thrift store that he had purchased the basket from. '

Another flash of light and the man was back to white hair and the hazmat suit before he disappeared into absolutely thin air.

Jason slipped away as quickly as he could manage.

It was one thing for the man to know that Jason was leaving him creepy little presents.

If he got caught staring through a pair of over-powered binoculars Jason wouldn’t be surprised if the man drop kicked him across the length of the city.

No need to push his luck at this point. 

[stupidr3dpanda]

I'm thinking of... BAKER!SIMON RILEY WITH A SMALL BAKERY/COFFEE SHOP!!

Who lives upstairs of the shop because it's more convenient and better than having to drive to the shop. Who wakes up every day at 5am to start the day with a warm cup of his favorite tea and heads downstairs to start preparing the ingredients, warming up the ovens and prepping doughs for that day.

From measuring ingredients, preparing his work station and organizing the tables and chairs in the shop to decorating cookies and small cakes! After 4 long hours of preparing everythig he gets ready to open the shop around 9am!

It's never too busy and never too slow, just enough for him to keep himself occupied, hes always good at memorizing his regulars orders after the first two times they come in.

Like the sweet old lady that always comes in every day at 11am sharp for a cup of earl grey and two Eclairs, always sits to enjoy the morning sun outside the shop and admire the overgrown climbing roses bushes that are starting to take over the right wall of the shop and half of the display window on the same side, she always recommends him a gardener that could help trim it down enough to make the shop look prettier at a good price, but he always forgets to call.

Or the always tired looking mom that comes in all Fridays around 2pm with her two little kids, always orders a double expresso for her and one strawberry smoothie with a banana muffin for each of the two boys, boys that normally would make a scene on every shop they go, except for Simons shop. She doesnt have to know that the reason they behave during their visit to the shop is because of a little conversation that simon had with the two kids when she wanted to use the bathroom ok their first visit. He's not having two little rascals ruin the quiet and peaceful atmosphere of his shop! Nope! Not on his watch!

And then, there's you, the quiet girl that comes in every business day at 5pm an hour before closing time, when the shop is always empty, always orders a simple latte and a slice of strawberry shortcake with a low and timid voice, who always avoids eye contact at all cost, and who always sits in the farder corner of the shop to eat quietly with a note book open on the table and a pen in hand.

He wonders what is it that you write so much about, is it the taste of the latte? The taste of the cake? Is the frosting too sweet today? Is the latte too bitter? Too sweet? Are you one of those girls that monitor everything they eat throughout the day? He's always trying to convince himself that he doesn't care! He shouldn't care! Who cares what you think! He doesn't what do you mean? He couldn't care a flying pig about you!!...

He does care, he wants to go up to you and ask what you think of the cake, did you enjoy your latte? Do you come here after work? What are you writing about? He feels like a teenager, a pathetic teenager with a stupid crush, he's dying to talk to you but. You're always turning down every attempt he makes of conversation, always keeping your answers short and simple. He supposes it's because you are timid or probably because you already have a boyfriend and are just trying to turn off any ideas he might have in his head. So he's just happy to admire you from afar, just a mere spectator to your life.

At 5:45pm he watches as you stand up from your table and starts walking to the exit, his heart sinking knowing the shop would be closed the next two days and he won't be able to see you. But he suppose he can wait.

At 6pm the "OPEN" sign on the front door of the shop is turned to "CLOSED" and the doors get locked up, he cleans the tables and chairs, heads to the kitchen to start cleaning and putting away equipment and any left over pastries and ingredients.

After everything is back under control at around 9pm with a tired sigh he heads back upstairs to start prepping dinner for himself, with a filled stomach and what's left of a beer in hand he sits on the couch while a crappy TV show is playing.

Once exhaustion starts taking over his body he turns off the TV and pets Riley's head on his way to the bathroom for a quick shower, after he's done he heads to his bedroom and changes into some comfortable pajamas, goes to the kitchen and grabs a glass of water to take his vitamins and finally heads back to his bedroom to lay in bed making sure his glasses are beside him on the little nightstand at the other side of his bed, turning off the light in the same nightstand he pulls the covers over his body and slowly drifts to a deep sleep with the image of you lulling him to sleep.

You give thanks to whoever God it may correspond for remembering to change his vitamins for sleeping pills, cause if not he would have been immediately woken up by the weird sound that comes out of your mouth after hitting your head on the window while trying to get in. You know you should be an expert at this point but that stupid window seems to have some kind of bef with you since day one!

As you make yourself inside the all familiar living room you crunch down to pat Riley on the head and give the dog one of those sweet dog treats from inside your bag. Hearing her make what you assume is a content sound while eating the treat you stand up and lay down on his couch and hug one of the decorative pillows on your side, his couch is comfy, but his bed is so much more comfortable.

You stay there for a few moments before standing up and walking down the hall to his bedroom, as you slowly open the door you see him gently snoring on his bed, so deep in slumber that he doesn't feel nor hears the noises your shoes make when you head towards his bathroom that's located in the same room, you look for his laundry basket and a small smile is painted on your face when you see it in the same spot behind the closet of the bathroom, you take out the hoodie he was wearing that same day and bring it to your nose taking a deep inhale of his essence, the sweat and cologne mixing itself in the said hoodie leave a sweet smell that makes your cunt clench round nothing, it's so intoxicating you can't help but bring your fingers down to the inside of your panties and make small circles around your poor clit.

Thinking what it would feel like if it were his fingers going in and out of your wet cunt, you think of what he would do if he were to catch you right now. Yell at you for being a creep? Call the police? Be disgusted you are satisfying yourself with his dirty clothes? Or perhaps, he would like. Tell you how dirty and pathetic you are, bend you over his knees with your ass and cunt exposed to the cold air of his room while he spanks the living hell out of you. Maybe finger you while he's at it? Always bringing you to the edge and never letting you cum, dirty sluts don't deserve to cum. Or maybe he would be understanding, oh you poor girl, if you wanted him to fuck you you could have just asked him to! No need to hide away and get off his dirty laundry and your little fingers when he's right here to give you the real thing!

Just that thought brings you to your sweet and needed release. You take your fingers out of you and for a moment you think of just washing your hands but another thought stops you and brings a smile to your face.

Once his hoodie is back in the basket you make your way to his bed, where he's sleeping like a newborn, innocently and unaware of the crime that just happened in his bathroom with his hoodie being the poor victim.

There's enough space in the bed for you to lay day beside him and the pills are strong enough to not have him wake up when your weight sinks in the mattress. His pillowcases smell like sweat and the pine spice of his shampoo, probably because he always goes to bed with his hair wet, his covers smell like old laundry and sweat too, they're already in need of a wash, last time he washed his bed linen was a month ago.

You scoop over until you're face to face with him and your eyes trace his all too familiar face, you bring your fingers to his lips and gently stroke his lower lip, remembering how soft his lips feel when you gently place your lips yo his. Your hand moves and the back of your fingers start to move slow circles on his right cheek, after that you just stay still watching him sleep peacefully until you yourself start to get tired that's always your cue to leave, not without giving him a last pick on his lips and standing up to leave.

As you make your way out you give one more treat to Riley and gentle pat on the head before looking around making sure everything is in its place like it was before and you leave through the same window you came in making sure not to hit your head again and to close it like it was.

In the afternoon of the next day when Simon is half way of doing chores around the house and while he's doing his laundry he finds his hoodie with some strange looking stains that weren't there the day before when he took his shower. Maybe he accidentally stained it while making dinner, perhaps when he was working decorating the cakes with the frosting? Yeah that's probably it, given that the strange looking stains smell a little strange almost sweetly. He just shrugs and throws it in the washer, he still has chores to finish and he's not about to play detective for a simple frosting stain.

Ughf! This thing has been invading my mind and I had to share the thought! I love pathetic and obsessed reader 👉👈

Let me know what you think! I hope you're having a good day/night and please remember to take care of yourself!!

[elryuse]

May I request Yandere Neighbour Song Hayoung x Male reader? Hayoung is really obsess with the male reader to the point that she stalks you everyday.

Hello Neighbor.

YANDERE HAYOUNG X MALE READER

Hayoung pressed her forehead against the cool glass, the expensive telescope amplifying the image across the street into a disturbingly intimate scene. Y/n, his dark hair backlit by the warm glow of his apartment light, sat across from a girl with cascading, dark curls. Hayoung's stomach churned, a cocktail of possessiveness and primal jealousy bubbling up inside her.

It had all started with such innocent curiosity. The first time Hayoung saw Y/n, he was unpacking boxes on his porch, a shy smile gracing his lips as he met her gaze. Over the past few weeks, Hayoung had become his silent shadow. Nights were spent crouched under the bushes outside his window, a camera her constant companion. A sleeping Y/n, a discarded coffee mug, anything that held a trace of him – these were her trophies. She even left him anonymous love notes, filled with saccharine poems and pressed wildflowers, signed simply "Your Secret Admirer."

But tonight, the sight of him laughing with another woman filled Hayoung with a murderous rage that sent chills down her own spine. "Who is she?" Hayoung hissed, the words barely audible above the frantic rasp of her breath. She zoomed in on the girl, her features hardening with each detail. Long, dark hair, a bright smile – everything Hayoung wasn't. A low growl escaped Hayoung's throat, a sound more animal than human.

The girl leaned in, whispering something in Y/n's ear, making him laugh again. Hayoung's vision blurred with a mix of fury and a horrifying sense of longing. He should be laughing with her, Hayoung. She was the one who knew his coffee order, who left him those notes expressing her undying love. Determined, Hayoung grabbed her laptop, the familiar hum a soothing counterpoint to the storm raging inside her.

Days blurred into nights as Hayoung scoured social media, her obsession morphing into a terrifying fixation. The girl's name was Mina, a bubbly aspiring photographer with a penchant for capturing sunsets and stray cats. Hayoung learned her favorite band, the cafe she frequented after work, even the name of her childhood teddy bear – Mr. Snuggles. Information was power, and power was what Hayoung craved.

The apartment transformed into a shrine of warped devotion. Walls were plastered with newspaper clippings detailing Mina's life, maps with routes highlighted in red pen, and a crowbar glinting ominously in the corner. The stench of bleach and desperation hung heavy in the air. The night Hayoung put her plan into action, the moon cast a sickly glow on the deserted street. Mina, humming a cheerful tune, walked home alone after her late shift at the cafe. Hayoung emerged from the alleyway, a dark wraith materializing from the shadows.

The scream, sharp and sudden, echoed through the night before being abruptly cut short. Hayoung stood over Mina's crumpled form, a sickening sense of triumph warring with a coldness that seeped into her bones. Her hands shook as she dragged the body away, the metallic tang of blood heavy in the air.

Back in her apartment, showered and clad in fresh clothes, Hayoung collapsed onto the floor. Tears mingled with the faint traces of blood staining her clothes. A horrifying realization washed over her. The thrill of the kill was a fleeting ember, quickly replaced by a hollow emptiness. She had eliminated the competition, but at what cost?

Silence blanketed the street now, broken only by the rasp of her ragged breaths. In the distance, a police siren wailed, a sound that sent a fresh jolt of fear through her. But Hayoung barely flinched. Her gaze drifted towards the window, drawn to the familiar glow emanating from Y/n's apartment.

He was alone. Relief and a twisted form of satisfaction washed over her. Hayoung grabbed her telescope, a chilling smile playing on her lips. He was hers now. And she, his devoted, if eternally creepy, neighbor, would be watching, always watching. She imagined his relief at finding Mina gone, a relief that would soon curdle into suspicion as he received anonymous notes signed with a single word: "Alone."

The next few days became a maddening game of cat and mouse. Y/n started leaving his lights on all night, his curtains permanently drawn. Hayoung left cryptic messages on his doorstep – a single red rose, a shard of broken glass. She even started playing haunting melodies on a rusty music box at precisely 3 am, mimicking the lullaby she saw Mina play on her guitar once. Sleep became a luxury Hayoung could no longer afford, replaced by a constant vigil.

One afternoon, while peering through her telescope, Hayoung noticed a change in Y/n. His smile was gone, replaced by deep shadows under his eyes. A sense of morbid satisfaction bloomed within her, a twisted sense of victory. But as she continued to watch, a new horror dawned on her. Y/n wasn't alone. He sat across from a woman, but not Mina. This woman was older, her face etched with worry lines. Her voice, low and strained, carried on the wind.

"Y/n, honey, you need to tell the police! This can't go on!"

His voice, hoarse and barely audible, drifted across the street. "But who would believe me, Mom? The police already dismissed it as a runaway case. What proof do I have?"

Hayoung's blood ran cold. This woman was Y/n's mother. The realization hit her like a physical blow. In her twisted obsession, she hadn't considered the collateral damage. The pain she inflicted on him wasn't just his loss of Mina, but the gnawing fear for her disappearance.

A fresh wave of paranoia washed over Hayoung. If Y/n confided in his mother, the police might get involved. They might find the crowbar, the bloodstained clothes Hayoung had shoved deep into a hidden compartment in her closet. Panic clawed at her throat. She had to stop him.

The following night, under the cloak of darkness, Hayoung found herself lurking outside Y/n's apartment building again. This time, however, she wasn't there for Mina. She was there for his mother.

Hayoung slipped a note under the door, her carefully disguised handwriting scrawled across the page: "Don't believe him. He's dangerous. Stay away."

A twisted sense of satisfaction filled her. This would plant a seed of doubt, keeping Y/n further isolated. He wouldn't dare tell his mother about the strange notes, fearing she'd think him delusional.

The next day, Hayoung watched from across the street, a sickening thrill coursing through her veins as Y/n's mother left his apartment in a flurry, fear etched on her face. Y/n stood at the window, his silhouette a stark contrast to the bright sunlight streaming in. He looked defeated, a flicker of recognition crossing his features as his gaze swept across the empty street.

The game continued, a macabre dance of manipulation and fear. Hayoung left cryptic messages for Y/n too, playing on his growing paranoia. A single red rose with a single thorn pricked through the center left on his doorstep. A dead sparrow, its neck snapped, tucked into his mailbox.

One particularly stormy night, Hayoung upped the ante. Power flickered across the neighborhood, plunging the street into an inky blackness. As the first flicker of lightning illuminated Y/n's apartment, Hayoung pressed her face against the window, a wicked grin plastered across her face.

There, hanging from the ceiling fan, was a grotesque marionette, its porcelain face a crude mockery of Mina's smile. Its vacant eyes seemed to stare directly at Y/n, a silent accusation.

A bloodcurdling scream pierced the night, a sound that sent shivers down Hayoung's spine despite the twisted pleasure that bubbled up inside her. She had finally broken him.

But as the days turned into weeks, a chilling realization dawned on Hayoung. The thrill of the chase was gone, replaced by a suffocating sense of emptiness. Y/n remained a prisoner, yes, but so was she – a prisoner of her own twisted obsession. His constant fear, his vacant eyes staring out the window – it mirrored the hollowness that had consumed her.

One morning, Hayoung woke to a deafening silence. No flickering lights from Y/n's apartment, no sign of him leaving for work. Panic seized her. Had he finally confessed? Had the police arrived?

Unable to bear the suspense any longer, Hayoung raced across the street, her heart hammering against her ribs. She pounded on his door, the silence stretching into an eternity. Finally, a weak voice rasped from inside.

"Go… away."

Hayoung's world tilted on its axis. The fear, the isolation – it had broken him. He no longer cared, no longer lived. Her twisted victory tasted like ashes on her tongue.

Tears blurring her vision, Hayoung stumbled back, her gaze falling on the single red rose she'd left on his doorstep days ago. It lay wilted and forgotten, a stark symbol of her own decaying love.

Hayoung turned and walked away, leaving behind the scene of her twisted obsession. She knew there was no escape from the horrors she'd inflicted, but maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for redemption on the other side of her journey, a journey far, far away from the man she'd loved and destroyed in equal measure

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unsolicited 26

Warnings: bad self-thought/talk, bullying, insults, low self-esteem, money problems, oral/noncon, coercion, cum, some untagged sexual and dark elements.

Wouldn’t mind some feedback! Lloyd was driving me nuts so I had to do it. Thank you in advance 💜

Masterlist

There is no normal with Lloyd. Never expectations. But you resume the former delicate balance. Distance is the only comfort you have and he makes that fleeting. His interruptions are blunt, demanding, over just as soon as they begin. As if he’s messing with you.

Well, he’s always messing with you.

Several days blend together and blow over the dramatic episode of his drunken return. No more arguments, only terse conversation between stretches of suffocating silence.

His anger persists, though you assume it’s as much at himself as you. The way you find him rubbing his upper lip with a frown is next to comical. How could a man be so attached to a hideous patch of fur?

You scroll on your phone in a rare moment of latency. Your determination to find a way out has not yet magically conjured an escape. Job postings that pay less than your last gig, apartments that cost more than your mortgage, and cars with a questionable state. All the pieces are there but unobtainable.

There is another way. One that makes you content with staying. You’ve spent enough of your pride. You’re not ready for that

You drop your phone, exhausted from searching for gold in a mountain of sand. You take the tall glass off your nightstand and go to the door. You listen through the wood. You’ve made sure to avoid Lloyd when you can, never an easy endeavour as he sneaks up on you often.

Your steps are deliberately light as you descend the stairs. You know you heard him earlier but it was all muffled by the jet of shower water buzzing from the faucet. You go into the kitchen and push the glass against the lever, filling it with filtered water from the fridge. The subtle drone adds to the static of the large house until suddenly it erupts.

A door opens above and a female voice squeals. Impatient steps, a pair stomping and unstoppable, the other stumbling and slipping.

“Get out,” Lloyd snarls, “you ever shut the fuck up?”

“What the hell, dude?”

“I told you,” he barks as she cries out and his heavy steps bluster down the stairs, “I don’t wanna hear it. How hard is it to shut your damn mouth and play with my dick?”

You take your glass of water and follow the argument as it lands at the foot of the staircase. Lloyd drops the girl on her feet and tosses a pair of heels at her as she stumbles. Oh, you had no idea about that. Her.

“You’re gross dude.”

“And you’re not the only slut in the world, go.”

“Wow, really?”

He growls and crosses his arms, his bare back racking above his dark pants, slack and hanging askew from his hips. The woman, bleach blond, a passing resemblance to someone else, rolls her eyes as she bends and shoves her feet into her heels.

“You can at least pay for my uber.”

“Pay for what? You can’t even get me hard.”

“Ha, like that’s my problem–”

He grabs her by the throat and marches her backwards across the foyer. He stops, ripping her coat from the closet with his free hand before swinging open the door. He flings her through and throws the coat out after her.

“Fuck off!”

He slams the door and you shy back, barely able to see him as he paces angrily. He snarls and a sudden crash echoes off the high ceilings, the smash of glass and scattering of smaller items. You hold your breath and wait as he huffs in fury.

The house grows silent again, only the noise of his irritated mutters rising and falling. He goes into the den and you weigh your chance to flee. No, not enough time. You hear the clink of glass and his feet slap against the floor and to the stairs.

You emerge only when you’re certain he’s gone. You enter the foyer and look around. The console table is overturned, a vase shattered in a messy mosaic, and several silver pens littered around it as the slender drawer has been dislodged from the larger frame.

You put your glass on the little round table in the corner and cross the room. If you don’t clean this up, it’ll be waiting in the morning. Besides, you don’t feel like walking into this minefield then. You lift the table up and slide it back against the wall. The leg is bent, it won’t stand. You turn it on its side and lean it perilously before tucking the drawer against the foot.

You carefully toe around the glass, focused on not catching a stray shard as you fetch the broom. You bring a box and pick out the large pieces and gather up the pens before you start sweeping. You try not to think of the woman.

Did he sneak her in? Or had you just missed his attempt to flaunt her?

You bend to gather up the mess in the pan and as you stand, a cold stream splashes down your shoulders and soaks the back of your loose nightshirt. You gasp and nearly drop the broom and pan. You turn back as Lloyd holds the glass upside down with a grin.

“You hear all that, sweet cheeks?” He taunts as you shiver, water dripping down the back of your thighs.

“What the fuck–”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re jealous,” he winks.

“What are you talking about?” You look down at yourself, a puddle of water at your feet.

“I know you were listening,” he accuses.

You stare at him and shake your head. You sidle around him and march to the kitchen, pushing your foot down on the pedal to pop open the bin and dump the pan. You clip it against the broom handle before pushing it into the closet. You take out the mop as he looms in the archway.

As you near him again, he stretches his arm across the door, blocking your path. He holds up the glass and releases it. It hits the floor and smashes against the tiles. You recoil as it breaks and sends another scatter around your toes.

“Look at me, making all these messes,” he intones.

“Accidents happen,” you shrug defiantly.

“And didn’t I make a mess of that slut,” he snickers, “pretty blond thing like her, really knows how to work that neck–”

“You think I care?”

You turn and go back to the closet. You just want to lay down, get away from him. You know he’s playing with you but why? Why does he think you care if he’s fucking around? It saves you trouble.

“Ah, I mean, all your men keep chasing after blond bimbos, it’s a bit of a pattern, isn’t it?”

You ignore him as you push the glass into a pile. You understand now. She did kinda look like Ali, same round cheeks, same big eyes.

“You’re not mine, are you?” You squat down to collect the jagged pieces in the pan, “so not really.”

He scoffs and steps closer. You stop and face him. The frustration roils off of him as he glares down at you. You wince as he reaches for the pan and plucks up a sharp triangle and holds it up. He turns it between his fingers and sucks his teeth with deep consideration.

He swipes the pan out of your grasp and grabs your chin, urging you back blindly until you hit the counter. You gasp as he angles the point against your throat. You blink up at him as you cling to the lip of the marble countertop.

“You talk a lot of shit for someone in your position,” he sneers.

You gulp and don’t say anything. He drags the edge along your skin but not hard enough to break the skin. A shuddery breath escapes him and fans over you.

“Stubborn. Little. Bitch.”

He stops and pokes until a prick makes you whimper. He slices slowly up your throat, too shallow to do more than split the flesh but deep enough for the blood to trickle out. You hold you breath as you lean away from him.

“You think you’re special,” he growls as he carves down to your collarbone, “you think I wouldn’t slit your pretty throat right here. Watch you choke on your own blood like a dying fish–”

“Lloyd,” you quiver, startled by his dilated pupils.

How little you know of this man. You live in his house and know little more than his name. But you know he’s dangerous. The clues have been there. Somehow, you never expect it to turn in your direction. You tremble as you fight to keep still.

He pulls the glass away and throws it. His hand is bloody too, gashed along the inside of his knuckles. His other falls to the front of your shirt and clutches it as he jerks you away from the counter. He puts his bloody fingers against your cheek and smears his blood down your face as you grimace.

“Lloyd, please–”

“You think I can’t get fucking hard? No, you didn’t fucking break me,” he spits, “feel for yourself, peaches. I’m hard and I need that cunt on me. Now.”

You search his face, a sinister shadow defining the angles of his nose and cheekbones, a grit in his jaw that makes you weak. You tear your hands from the marble and gently touch his forearm.

“Yes, daddy, I know,” you move his hand cautiously away from your face, the metallic scent of blood curdles in your nose, “how do you want it?”

“I want you–” he brings both hands to the collar of your shirt and rents the fabric, “I want—” he gruffly pushes the cotton back on your shoulders and shoves it down your arms, “here.”

The shirt falls under its soaked weight and piles at your heels. He reaches past you and slaps the counter. You nod and glance back. He surprises you as he he reaches around you and lifts you onto the marble. Just as quickly, he has his arms hooked under your knees as your head hits the cupboard.

You can't stop him. You can't do anything as his rage consumes you. You've always been powerless but not like this.

[extinctionstories]

On September 7th, 1936, a thylacine died at Beaumaris Zoo, in Hobart, Tasmania. She had been there for three years, walking in circles in a concrete-and-wire pen with a ceiling so low that she could have touched it if she'd jumped.

Though still relatively young, the thylacine was thin and worn beyond her age. Over the course of the previous few years, an economic depression in the country had led the zoo to replace its keepers with unqualified hired hands, as a cost-saving measure. Animals were left unfed and uncared for. The night she died, Beaumaris' only thylacine had been left locked outside in the cold. Two months earlier, a law had finally been put into place to protect her species.

The following season, a reward to trappers was offered by the zoo, eager to find a new 'tiger' to fill their empty cage. It was a reward that would never be claimed. Years would pass before the world would realize that the animal who died that night in Hobart had been the very last thylacine in the world.

This piece, part of my thylacine series, is titled 'Irreplaceable'. The medium is traditional watercolor and laser toner, on cotton paper.

[lonestarflight]

Cancelled Missions: Testing Shuttle Manipulator Arms During Earth-Orbital Apollo Missions (1971-1972)

In this drawing by NASA engineer Caldwell Johnson, twin human-like Space Shuttle robot arms with human-like hands deploy from the Apollo Command and Service Module (CSM) Scientific Instrument Module (SIM) Bay to grip the derelict Skylab space station.

"Caldwell Johnson, co-holder with Maxime Faget of the Mercury space capsule patent, was chief of the Spacecraft Design Division at the NASA Manned Spacecraft Center (MSC) in Houston, Texas, when he proposed that astronauts test prototype Space Shuttle manipulator arms and end effectors during Apollo Command and Service Module (CSM) missions in Earth orbit. In a February 1971 memorandum to Faget, NASA MSC's director of Engineering and Development, Johnson described the manipulator test mission as a worthwhile alternative to the Earth survey, space rescue, and joint U.S./Soviet CSM missions then under study.

At the time Johnson proposed the Shuttle manipulator arm test, three of the original 10 planned Apollo lunar landing missions had been cancelled, the second Skylab space station (Skylab B) appeared increasingly unlikely to reach orbit, and the Space Shuttle had not yet been formally approved. NASA managers foresaw that the Apollo and Skylab mission cancellations would leave them with surplus Apollo spacecraft and Saturn rockets after the last mission to Skylab A. They sought low-cost Earth-orbital missions that would put the surplus hardware to good use and fill the multi-year gap in U.S. piloted missions expected to occur in the mid-to-late 1970s.

Johnson envisioned Shuttle manipulators capable of bending and gripping much as do human arms and hands, thus enabling them to hold onto virtually anything. He suggested that a pair of prototype arms be mounted in a CSM Scientific Instrument Module (SIM) Bay, and that the CSM "pretend to be a Shuttle" during rendezvous operations with the derelict Skylab space station.

The CSM's three-man crew could, he told Faget, use the manipulators to grip and move Skylab. They might also use them to demonstrate a space rescue, capture an 'errant satellite,' or remove film from SIM Bay cameras and pass it to the astronauts through a special airlock installed in place of the docking unit in the CSM's nose.

Faget enthusiastically received Johnson's proposal (he penned 'Yes! This is great' on his copy of the February 1971 memo). The proposal generated less enthusiasm elsewhere, however.

Undaunted, Johnson proposed in May 1972 that Shuttle manipulator hardware replace Earth resources instruments that had been dropped for lack of funds from the planned U.S.-Soviet Apollo-Soyuz Test Project (ASTP) mission. President Richard Nixon had called on NASA to develop the Space Shuttle just four months before (January 1972). Johnson asked Faget for permission to perform 'a brief technical and programmatic feasibility study' of the concept, and Faget gave him permission to prepare a presentation for Aaron Cohen, manager of the newly created Space Shuttle Program Office at MSC.

In his June 1972 presentation to Cohen, Johnson declared that '[c]argo handling by manipulators is a key element of the Shuttle concept.' He noted that CSM-111, the spacecraft tagged for the ASTP mission, would have no SIM Bay in its drum-shaped Service Module (SM), and suggested that a single 28-foot-long Shuttle manipulator arm could be mounted near the Service Propulsion System (SPS) main engine in place of the lunar Apollo S-band high-gain antenna, which would not be required during Earth-orbital missions.

During ascent to orbit, the manipulator would ride folded beneath the CSM near the ASTP Docking Module (DM) within the streamlined Spacecraft Launch Adapter. During SPS burns, the astronauts would stabilize the manipulator so that acceleration would not damage it by commanding it to grip a handle installed on the SM near the base of the CSM's conical Command Module (CM).

Johnson had by this time mostly dropped the concept of an all-purpose human hand-like 'end effector' for the manipulator; he informed Cohen that the end effector design was 'undetermined.' The Shuttle manipulator demonstration would take place after CSM-111 had undocked from the Soviet Soyuz spacecraft and moved away to perform independent maneuvers and experiments.

The astronauts in the CSM would first use a TV camera mounted on the arm's wrist to inspect the CSM and DM, then would use the end effector to manipulate 'some device' on the DM. They would then command the end effector to grip a handle on the DM, undock the DM from the CSM, and use the manipulator to redock the DM to the CSM. Finally, they would undock the DM and repeatedly capture it with the manipulator.

Caldwell Johnson's depiction of a prototype Shuttle manipulator arm with a hand-like end effector. The manipulator grasps the Docking Module meant to link U.S. Apollo and Soviet Soyuz spacecraft in Earth orbit during the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project (ASTP) mission.

Johnson estimated that new hardware for the ASTP Shuttle manipulator demonstration would add 168 pounds (76.2 kilograms) to the CM and 553 pounds (250.8 kilograms) to the SM. He expected that concept studies and pre-design would be completed in January 1973. Detail design would commence in October 1972 and be completed by 1 July 1973, at which time CSM-111 would undergo modification for the manipulator demonstration.

Johnson envisioned that MSC would build two manipulators in house. The first, for testing and training, would be completed in January 1974. The flight unit would be completed in May 1974, tested and checked out by August 1974, and launched into orbit attached to CSM-111 in July 1975. Johnson optimistically placed the cost of the manipulator arm demonstration at just $25 million.

CSM-111, the last Apollo spacecraft to fly, reached Earth orbit on schedule on 15 July 1975. By then, Caldwell Johnson had retired from NASA. CSM-111 carried no manipulator arm; the tests Johnson had proposed had been judged to be unnecessary.

That same month, the U.S. space agency, short on funds, invited Canada to develop and build the Shuttle manipulator arm. The Remote Manipulator System — also called the Canadarm — first reached orbit on board the Space Shuttle Columbia during STS-2, the second flight of the Shuttle program, on 12 November 1981."

source

[stephensmithuk]

The Hound of the Baskervilles: Sir Henry Baskerville

@myemuisemo and @thefisherqueen have already provided their own useful historical context posts, which I've reblogged and will add some more of my own.

Tweed had been handwoven in the Outer Hebrides by crofters (small-scale farmers) from the 18th century and was introduced by Lady Dunmore to the British aristocracy in the 1840s. The warm waterproof fabric became rapidly popular for outdoor activities, like walking, climbing, golf and carriage driving. It eventually sped to the middle classes.

The Times has been around since 1785, originally as The Daily Universal Register before changing name in 1788. It is considered a centre-right paper editorially and very much the paper of the British Establishment, although its founder John Walter actually spent time in prison for criminal libel against the then Duke of York. That's the traditional title for a monarch's second son, currently held by Prince Andrew of particular infamy.

Free trade vs. protective tariffs were a big political issue at the time.

Holmes is using the the-polite term for an African-American and the French version of the now considered derogatory one for the Inuit - it is generally believed to mean "eaters of raw meat" or similar in the Algonquian languages family i.e. languages used by First Nation and Native American tribes. Basically, Europeans adopted a racial slur from a people they applied racial slurs to.

You can identify whether a person is of European, Asian or African descent, broadly speaking, by their skull shape, but in not much further detail below that level.

Gums tend to come from tree resins, paste from wheat flour.

Fountain pens were being mass-produced by 1889, but remained expensive until the 1950s and 1960s, so dip-pens were wildly used as @myemuisemo discusses; the hotel could worry less about them being stolen.

School desks would have indentations specifically to hold an ink-well and some kid would end up having to fill them each morning.

"Dime novel" was an American term for cheap popular literature at the time in a variety of forms and indeed costs, sometimes used perjoratively as they were seen as sensational and low quality. Insert your own jokes about modern fiction here.

"Why in thunder" was one of the many "minced oaths" used then and today to allude to a stronger curse without actually saying it. Sir Henry is hardly going to drop an F-bomb and Watson wouldn't be able to print it if he did.

In September 1888, six dollars would have been roughly £1 4s, or about £130 in today's money. Some fairly expensive boots then, but you can get similar stuff at that price today:

Shoe shiners would have been widespread in London, typically children sent out to earn money for their families.

2pm would have been a reasonable time for a Victorian lunch - it would have typically been a light meal, supper being the main one. Afternoon tea became a thing as supper could be very late indeed:

Victorian cabs had their number on the rear clearly visible:

Bond Street (actually split into Old Bond Street and New Bond Street) has a number of art galleries even today, including Sotheby's (also known as an auction house), which moved there in 1917. Others are nearby, like the Royal Academy of Arts on Piccadilly, right next door to Albany of Raffles fame. The art even extends into the new Elizabeth line part of Bond Street station.

[goldenstorm0]

Okay I am gonna talk about my first fountain pen, and my current grail pen that I'm always on the hunt but can never afford.

Both are the Parker 25

If you are new to vintage pens, you almost definitely heard of Parker, either the 51 or the duo fold. Both are excellent pens, I think. I have never used them before, but a lot of people love them. They are on my list of pens I want to get eventually, but they're kinda low. I'm looking for a different type of Parker.

When my grandparents were officially moved out of their house, my family started the long process of going through their stuff. We needed to sell the house so we could take care of them, and eventually pay for funerals. They were hoarders, and there was a lot to sort. A ton of bowling balls, a metric shit ton of yarn, even more trash. And hidden in all of this was a forgotten pen that I eventually found.

I think it was a gift from a bank that my grandma worked at for 20 years, and it was a shitty gift for that amount of work. The 25 was made to be a cheaper pen, made for young adults who may not of had enough money for one of the nicer models, but needed a reliable pen for work. I wouldn't be surprised if it was never used, but I had thrown away the box pretty much immediately and didn't care.

I've seen people describe this pen as robust or space-aged, but I always thought of it as more brutalist. Bare metal, black nib unit, steel nib. It's not a very inviting pen. The nib unit is hard to remove, or at least mine was, and you can't easily switch nibs. Not that you ever need to. It's a workhorse of a pen. Made to be used anywhere and everywhere. It was and still is Not my aesthetic. But I loved it.

It was my only fountain pen for years. I spent a lot of time first figuring out how to write with it, and then fiddling with it to make it write even better. I looked up tutorials on how to hold it, how to take care of it, figuring out how to fix a dry nib or a bent nib, how to take it apart, clean it, and put it back together. I found out the history behind the model, then the brand, and then I started looking into fountain pens in general. It started a new obsession, one that continues to this day.

And then I fucking broke it of course.

I had it in my pocket and it fell nib first. The nib itself was bent, but that was something I could fix. But unit itself snapped off from the threads that screwed the pen together. I couldn't fix that, and I'm pretty sure no one could fix that. I didn't bother looking though. I was 20, no job, living off of my parents and school grants while I went to community college. I couldn't afford to send it to anyone to fix it. If I couldn't do anything, then nothing would be done, because that cost money.

So I saved up and started looking around for a new part. Prices weren't great, something that's crazy annoying for what was originally intended to be a cheap ass pens. Eventually I found a set within my pittance of a budget, it even came with a roller ball (never touched). It was a complete pen, but I took it apart, pried the feed from nib unit, and put in the original still-bent nib in, and put it in the original scratched up body. They looked almost identical, but I wanted My Pen, not a new one.

It doesn't write the same. I don't think I have had a pen that wrote a beautifully as it original did, but that might be nostalgia talking. The nib is still bent. I got my first job soon after (yes I did spend grant money on a pen repair), and I started to buy more pens. Learned the basics of vintage pen repair, fixed up a few lever-fills, fucked up some vintage gold nibs when trying to practice grinding a tuning (never got really good at that). Instead of working on perfecting the one pen, I bought new ones that worked well enough.

But now I have a bit of a holy grail that I am looking for. Because, while the 25 is a cheap ass pen for broke college students, there is a particularly rare color. Same metal body, steel nib, but instead of black, it's bright orange. If the original black was outside my aesthetic, this is on the other side of the planet. I usually am not a fan of orange, and I super hate this specific shade. And I want it. Like, really really badly. I've seen several on sale, and currently don't see any on sale, and I am barred by my old nemesis, money.

And before I get that pen, I want to send my old 25 to a nibmeister. The nib is slightly bent and I don't think I can fix it, and it bothers me like nothing else. I need to do a bit of research first to make sure someone is willing to work on the nib, its pretty nonstandard.

credits:

moreengineering - They have a lot of info on the Parker 25 on their site, plus it's fun to just look around. Used for general information and this ridiculous photo

fuck you I want that how the FUCk

parkerpens - My go-to for everything Parker. You can fit so much info into this site. Used for general information

Pen Collect - They've got a really nice page for id-ing your parker 25. Mine is a mark II

Orange Parker 25 collage - YES I KNOW IT GOES TO A 404. There aren't a lot of good photos of the orange Parker. Its painfully rare

2nd orange Parker picture - Only other photo I could find that I liked. The has already sold and it just redirects you to lighters and pens. And if you try to search for it on their site, you just get wine. I am in... so much pain trying to find this goddamn pen. I hate it but I want it

[magicalrocketships]

8, 56 or 69 for the over 30's ask meme! (Or all three if you have the spoons/time/inclination) <3

(And yes, two of these are shameless way of trying to potentially find a new favourite cleaning product or low-effort meal haha)

oh hello! love everything that makes things easier tbh.

8. What cleaning product do you swear by?

Two answers to this - the first one is low cost: pink stuff miracle paste. It is multi purpose and SO useful. When I moved in here a couple of years ago, I found a use for the drawers I had as a kid which had been stored in a family member's garage - they had stickers on and were grimy and I looked at them and didn't think they'd clean up, but pink stuff took it all off, sticker residue and everything. You can use it for cleaning anything and everything.

The second one is a robot hoover. Mine is called Maxy-Max and he arrived in my life earlier this year and in terms of spoons he has revolutionised my life. I ran most days last year on the equivalent of about 3-5% battery life and as such I have pretty much zero spare energy for cleaning, but now Maxy-Max will do things like find a Christmas bauble under a table and brush it to my feet or a pen under a seat and I will think yes: I love this robot and this robot loves me (and my cleaning).

56. Favorite low-effort meal that you make?

Godddd we are very, very gently starting to occasionally cook things again after 18 months of not being well enough to, but I have two recipes - one of which is an actual fave and the other one I've made and then adapted, but it's SO nice to have flavour again in what I eat (so many ready meals and easy eat stuff that made up my last 18 months are just bland, ughhhhhh so mediocre all of the time).

The first one is an extremely easy, vaguely a version of carbonara if you squint very hard (sorry Italians) and you can use literally any variation of pre-prepared ingredient dependent on need/ease/what you have and add frozen ingredients directly to the frying pan, but:

a) cook pasta. spaghetti is preferable but whatever brings you comfort and joy

b) while pasta is cooking, fry chopped onion and garlic and bits of smoked bacon. add salt and pepper.

c) when pasta is nearly done cooking add frozen peas to the bacon mix, leave to cook while you finish with the pasta and drain it

d) stir in cream cheese/philadelphia to bacon mix, according to taste (usually 1/3 to 1/2 a tub but I don't know how big tubs are elsewhere, just however much you like, you can add more but you can't take it out)

e) stir in the drained pasta to the bacon/cheese mix. add more pepper if you like pepper (I like pepper)

f) eat and feel joy. the leftovers are even more delicious.

The second was the first thing I made from a recipe book in forever. It's a gorgeous cookbook called Ramen by Makiko Sano. It's got so much to say and teach about how to build a layered ramen dish and I'm excited to have the energy to make any of that, BUT, nestled at the back is this recipe for microwave ramen:

I loved the ramen/kimchi/tofu/spring onion mix, the cheese and sort of egg scramble was nice but I wouldn't need it every time - but it was SO nice to try something new and relatively easy for lunch that didn't make me too tired to actually eat it.

69. What are you looking forward to next week?

I had a friend to stay this weekend and it was lovely but I am now v tired (beyond normal fatigue, but in a good way) and I JUST remembered that I have a long weekend booked off work this week with nothing to fill it up yet but dreams.

ask me questions!

[dont-f-with-moogles]

Hi! I am a sucker for hc where Levi is illiterate when he first joined the scouts, tried to hide it from everyone but eventually Hange notices..LEVIHAN FLUFF ❤️✋💀

This was an awesome ask! Thank you so much for sending it to me. I love writing canonverse, especially when I get the chance to work in a hc amongst the source material. I added some of my hcs for Hange too. Hope you like it - let me know what you think! A World Without Words Characters: Levi x Hange Word Count: 1632 words Canon universe

A hush had settled over the Mess Hall, broken only by the occasional clinking of cutlery and low hum of voices. A pair of fresh recruits were heatedly debating a topic in low, urgent tones. The newly-appointed leader of Second Squad sat staring into an empty tankard. On the far side of the room Hange had taken a lone seat at one of the long, wooden tables. Their hands were clasped upon the tabletop; in front of them a plaid tea towel had been draped over two dishes. Eyes alight, they spied Levi as he entered through the main doors. Slyly, and without turning their head, Hange mapped his progress as he crossed the hall towards them.  

“Evening, Levi!” they began animatedly before he had even reached for the backrest of the closest chair. “Now, I know this dinner is seriously overdue, given how long it’s been since your first expedition…”

Levi scraped his chair against the flagstones noisily, causing several heads to whip around in their direction. 

“...I’m sorry that I couldn’t afford anywhere more fancy! My measly wages just don’t stretch that far,” Hange laughed. “But luckily, I was able to save us -” Theatrically, they flung back the plaid cloth to reveal two floral-patterned plates bearing thick slices of flaky pastry, each deep-filled with cold offcuts. 

“The last two pieces of pie!” 

“You needn’t have gone to any trouble,” Levi said in a low voice. “I’m not hungry.”

Hange’s hand dropped to the table in defeat. “So much for that then. I guess I could always give the other slice to Moblit…”

Levi took a seat beside Hange, one arm leaning on the table’s edge. “You brought those papers, right?” 

“Right! The purchase order forms.”

Hange reached down to retrieve several crumpled sheets, a pen nib and a small well of ink from their bag. They pushed the plates aside and laid the materials out between the two of them.

“I’ve been curious since you mentioned it, Levi… what exactly do you need these for?”

Levi leaned back so that his elbow rested on the back of his chair. “Well… since I’ve been made Captain, it means I’ve gotta sign formal papers, right? Let’s just say someone suggested I take a look at a few examples.” 

“Ah, then say no more!” Hange brought the top sheet closer, tracing the lines of cramped, untidy scrawl with their finger. “The item you’re ordering goes in this column, reference or serial number if needed in the second column, and then the cost goes here.” Their finger travelled to the bottom of the paper. “Then you need to sign and date it before it goes to Erwin for approval.”

Hange sat back as Levi pored over the contents of the page. “Do you use the same form for everything? Food, equipment - things like that?”

“The same type of form, sure, but you would order food provisions separately to, say, housekeeping supplies or weaponry.” Hange pushed their glasses further up their nose. Levi’s brow was furrowed in concentration as he read, his mouth silently shaping the letters. Hange felt compelled to offer an apologetic shrug.

“This one is for specialist equipment,” they tried meekly. “The top row says ‘microscope.’ It’s not easy to read thanks to my bad handwriting!”

Without reply, Levi shuffled the papers so that a bank sheet was placed beside Hange’s order form. His expression, if anything, grew more intense as he dipped the pen into the inkwell. Hange glanced around the sparse hall, listening to the scratching of Levi’s writing amidst the murmur of voices. It was only as he drew to a sudden halt that Hange looked down at the page. They were astonished to see it empty.

At first, Hange wondered whether the pen nib had finally broken. It was one they had long meant to throw out. But - no - Levi had only managed to produce a few disjointed letters before the pen had come to a rest, point-down on the page. His arm was trembling as he pressed the nib down hard. The metal buckled, threatening to snap. 

“Levi!” Hange grabbed the tea towel to mop up the ink which had spurted onto the paper. “Stop - you’ll tear a hole in it!”

But Levi was still glaring, the pen clutched in his whitened fist. All of a sudden, Hange felt like a fool. They removed the towel, twisting it upon their lap as they sought for a tactful way to address the obvious, but unanticipated, obstacle which lay before them. 

“Sorry. Perhaps one of Miche’s reports would have been easier - clearer -  to follow.”

Hange swallowed uncomfortably, the heat rising in their cheeks. 

“No.” Levi’s voice was calm, at odds with his squared shoulders and stiffened arm. “It’s not the handwriting.”

“Then… I’m sorry that I didn’t make the connection.” Despite their desire to avoid any further embarrassment for him, Hange could not help but scrutinise Levi’s writing. “I’m sure things in the Underground were very different when it came to education…”

Levi met their enquiring gaze, his eyes narrowed.

“I can read and write. I know the words I need,” Levi dropped the pen upon the table. “But when it comes to certain technical words like these…” He gestured at the paper. “...they never mattered as much. In that place, you didn’t need to know how to spell to go on living.”

“That makes sense.” Hange’s own shoulders relaxed a little. “Perhaps you never had a formal education, Levi, but you have combat skills and street smarts. You’re good at reading people.” 

Levi scoffed bitterly.

“Believe me when I say that Erwin doesn’t hire leaders based on their literacy levels.” Hange regarded him warmly over their clasped hands. “Not when they have so much more to offer.” 

Levi held their look for a moment before he glanced away uncomfortably. 

“And in the meantime, I can help!” Hange took a fresh sheet of paper from their bag and passed it to Levi for him to etch out a copy of the three columns.

“For instance when you write ‘grapple hook,’ ‘grapple’ has the ‘l’ and the ‘e’ the other way round.” Hange watched as Levi carefully transcribed the correct spelling onto the sheet.

“Underneath you wrote ‘gas’ before you stopped. Is that for a new batch of gas cylinders?”

Painstakingly, Levi copied each letter as Hange spelled the second word. They continued in this way until Levi had populated the columns. 

“I bet you picked all this up from books, huh Four Eyes?” Levi lifted his hand to check his penmanship. The letters were a little uneven and spaced out. Like a child’s writing, the dark ink glistened from the exertion of pressing the pen nib a little too hard against the paper. “Tell me you weren’t huddled under the covers each night, reading until morning?”

A wistful smile appeared on Hange’s face. Then the light dimmed in their eyes.

“I wish…” When they laughed this time, it was a hollow sound. “... but we didn’t have books at home.”

Levi placed the pen down. Hange lowered their hands to grip their knees, their gaze averted to the tabletop.

“I managed to get a couple of books from a trader in town. They were black market goods. I thought I’d hidden them well enough but my parents found them and burned them.”

Levi raised his eyebrows.

“Wallists,” Hange explained in answer to his surprise. “They were simple farming folk. Small town people with small minds. They were wary of outside influences and with good reason too. Each week came reports of disappearances, killings… the inescapable fates which awaited those who asked too many questions.”

They gave a small sigh.

“My school, like the others, banned all books other than those which were government-approved. We weren’t allowed to read for ourselves, think for ourselves or question what we were being told. It was all so -” They brought their fist down upon the table, sending the long-forgotten plates of pie clattering. “- infuriating!”

Levi’s mouth hung slightly open.

“We never really had books in the house either,” he admitted. “I remember there was one that Iz-” He stopped himself. Hange said nothing, for Levi had not so much as uttered the names of his two closest friends since their first disastrous expedition almost one year ago. 

Levi drew a breath and continued.

“We didn’t have much… what we did have was either traded or sold.” He rubbed an eye with the heel of his hand. “I can’t even remember what it was called now. I think it had a horse on the cover? Guess it’s just another lost thing.” A faraway look had come into his eyes.

Before Hange could offer comment, Levi seemed to shake himself out of his thoughts. He took up a fresh sheet and, laying it by the side of the first, began to copy out his lines neatly. Hange watched in quiet amazement.

“But look at this improvement already! I’ve never seen such progress before!” They gripped Levi’s shoulder.

“Careful, idiot! You’ll jog me.”

Hange released him and continued their proud observation as Levi dipped the pen in the inkwell. “Your writing is so neat, Levi. In a few more tries it’ll look as professional as newspaper print!”

Levi completed his final line slowly.

Above, approved. Levi.

“No thanks to this mess of a report.” Levi glowered at Hange’s original document. “...but I do owe you for the spelling lesson, at least. Thanks Hange.”

“Hmm.” Hange tapped a finger against their chin. “How about this then? You treat us to dinner next time. Call it payment for my tuition?”

Levi managed a husky laugh as he stood and gathered the papers into a pile.

“Let me think about that, Four Eyes. For now, I’d better go hand these in.”

[fangirling-throughlife]

The ableism that some type 1s suffer is astonishing. Here are some things I had to endure in the last months:

- I tweeted a picture of my carry-on for a 2-week trip (which cost 25€ per flight) filled only with my diabetes essentials, and tagged the so-called "low-cost" airlines, saying that for some of us, "traveling light" is impossible (I said, and I quote "am I supposed to leave my pancreas home?"), and that we have to spend more money because we have an illness. They replied that they had different luggage options for different needs (which, WTF? that's not even an answer).

- A friend of mine from the States replied to my complaints that I couldn't find a PhD position in any of my desired countries (all of them with universal healthcare) by saying "well, they'd kill for someone like you in the US!". Yes, and I'd die because only my CGM is 60€ for 2 weeks, I use more than 80€ in insulin a month, and these are European prices. I know from various sources that you either hit the jackpot of health insurances, or you can't manage your diabetes properly in the US. And I doubt universities offer those. So, hard pass.

- During a trip to my brother's girlfriend's town, my CGM didn't work on the first day, and then my insulin pump stopped working on the second day and I went into ketoacidosis (bad enough that I couldn't eat, and I drank a lot, but not bad enough that I went into shock or anything). When I said I needed to return to the house urgently, the stupid-ass kid acted as if I was doing it on purpose to ruin her day. Then her dad would try and make me eat stuff, and when I said I couldn't eat because I'd just had a ketonic incident and I didn't feel well, they went "oh, diabetes sounds just awful, I couldn't live like that". Like, yeah, that's REALLY helpful

- That one idiot from airport security who mimicked a heroin injection when I said I had insulin pens in my carry-on bag

- The times I've had to endure comments about my "phone dependency", even though I've explained that it's the device I use to monitor my glucose levels

- Some people who've commented my eating habits (first proteins, then carbs), which were recommended by a nurse when I was 2 because fast-working insulin wasn't a thing yet and that way they could administer insulin and let me start eating before the carbs started doing their thing, and it's really fucking hard breaking a habit you've had for 23 years, even more if your doctor says it's a logical way of handling things, saying "oh, cute, my toddler nephew/daughter/grand-daughter also eats like that!"

- And, to me, the one that stings a little, but all the time, the incessant comments "I couldn't do that" or "you're so brave for enduring that" or "see, how's that making your life easier?" (when one of the devices malfunctions for a moment or something). Like, I get that some of these might sound encouraging, or that you think you sound supportive, but I spend most of the time trying to figure out what the fuck is causing a high or a low, or counting carbs, or calculating the times before I go jogging so I can work out but not have a hypo in the middle of it. I've had to quit swimming, a sport I genuinely love, every time I've restarted because no matter how many professionals have tried, there is no way of avoiding the hypo that inevitably comes a few hours after that. Those comments saying I'm brave and shit are not encouraging, because I have no other choice than to do this, and I would literally do anything to be able to stop doing this. This illness is exhausting, physically and mentally. There's no second of the day when you can take a break from it, so people saying that they couldn't do that or that I'm brave just sound like condescending pricks, if you ask me.

And that's it. My little rant. I hate diabetes.

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Somehow, Through the Storm

Summary:

Living in the slums of the Warehouse District, Kaz and Inej are struggling to cling on to life through a seemingly unending winter. Wrapped up in a stranger's overcomplicated marriage contract that he is convinced is key to solving the merciless weather, Kaz remains busy and distracted for days on end, putting everything else at risk. So when a storm ravages the city and sweeps Inej into danger, the offer of safety, food, and a place to stay is an overwhelming one - no matter the cost. Terrified of mounting threats, Inej signs a contract - not knowing she would land herself trapped at the Menagerie. Kaz signs a contract that states if he can walk all the way through the city and back to the Warehouse District with Inej behind him, never looking back at her, they will both go free. But this is the Barrel, the darkest part of the city where the rules of physics can change with the stroke of a pen; the journey back will not be the same as journey there…

This is a Hadestown-inspired reimagining of the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, casting Kaz and Inej as our main characters and heavily featuring our beloved Crows, set in an alternate version of the Grishaverse with a different magic system based entirely on contracts.

Tags: @lunarthecorvus @marielaure @multi-fandom-bi @igotthisaccountunderduress @thelibraryofalexandriastillburns @devoted-people-hater @spraypaintstainonawhitewall

If anyone else would like to be added to the tag list let me know <3

Warnings for this chapter: child abuse, ptsd, panic attacks, abuse, manipulation, implied potentially forced marriage, mistreatment of mental health issues, grief, referenced child death/child fake death/believed loss of child

AO3 link:

Chapter 11 - Wylan

“You know how those muses are: sometimes they abandon you. And this poor boy, he wore his heart out on his sleeve. You might say he was naive to the ways of the world,”

- Any Way the Wind Blows, Hadestown

Wylan really wasn’t sure that this was a good idea. He was standing outside a tall, slender building, with a brightly lit cafe pouring out from the ground floor and into the small, gated courtyard ahead of it. The low white fence that surrounded it must have been recently repainted, because it was brighter and cleaner than anything else on the street, and he found his anxious mind wandering to the metal compounds that would have been used to develop the paint; titanium dioxide, maybe, or zinc oxide. Wylan knew less of the exact process than he would have liked to, but he knew that underground mining of zinc yielded zinc sulphide - but maybe surface mining was different? He wished he knew. Did his father’s mines bring up zinc? Maybe it didn’t matter; maybe you could use Materialniks for that sort of thing. Wylan wished he knew that too. He seemed to know an awful lot less than he wanted to about everything. 

The cafe was busy, tables full inside and out - apparently the coffee here was good enough to brave the weather - and the chatter of the different groups filled the crisp morning air. A girl huddled in the folds of a heavy coat sat with her feet tucked up onto the little metal chair she was cosying on, the mug in front of her steaming into the air, a slightly worn paperback clutched between her fingers. The book must have been good, because she hadn’t touched her drink since she’d sat down several minutes ago. 

It was only on that thought that Wylan realised he’d been standing here, clutching his bag close against him and not moving, for several minutes. He knew that he should probably go inside, not least because if he stayed still in this weather without a proper coat for much longer he would probably find frost growing on his skin, but his feet didn’t seem to be answering his call. This really didn’t feel like a good idea. But it also felt significantly like he was running out of other options. 

Well, Wylan had thought with a sigh as he studied Kaz Brekker from across the table yesterday, I’ve spent worse mornings. For the first few moments neither of them had said anything; Kaz closed the door behind him and Wylan awkwardly gestured to the chairs that sat either side of his rickety little table. The room he was staying in was small, but he appreciated the privacy; few of the hostels had single rooms, less that cost little enough for him to stay. It was a squat building, three floors but wider than it was tall, with windows that came loose in their frames to let in the wind and rain, damp festering in the walls and what might have been - or definitely was, if Wylan wasn’t trying to be overly optimistic about it - mould growing along the ceilings. The single blessing, up until recently, had been that nobody knew he was here. Still, it was affordable on the pittance that Wylan was dragging in since managing to secure a job stirring vats of dye at a tannery farther North in the Warehouse District. The hours were long, the pay was horrendous, and the lack of protective clothing for spending hours leaning over dizzying chemicals probably meant he would die of poisoning long before he had to fret over the mould, or even the next lot of rent. Wylan was less concerned about that than he maybe should have been. He was already dead, after all. 

Kaz had placed the letter on the table and it lay ominously in between them, like a dead animal that had not yet been skinned and gutted for supper. The seal was still intact, the red laurel glinting up at them, a thousand times brighter than it should’ve been in Wylan’s eyes. For a moment he was comforted to think it impossible for anyone to have seen the contents of the envelope, if the seal and paper were still unbroken, but then he noticed the irregularity along the closest edge of the wax. It was subtle, but Wylan had spent too long staring at that thing not to recognise changes to the shape: the seal had been removed. Steam, maybe? Or a heated blade slid beneath it? That seemed the most likely. Clever, he thought, even in and amongst the panicked jumble swimming about inside his head. 

“You read it,” he said, glumly, not looking up at Kaz. 

“You didn’t,” 

“No,” Wylan replied, before releasing a light sigh and leaning back slightly in his chair. He still didn’t reach for the letter, nor did he ask Kaz what it had said, but one distracted hand floated to lay his fingers over the scars around his neck, “What business?”

And now he was standing outside a cafe, a contract and… other things sitting heavy in his satchel. Why had he agreed to this? I’m here for her, he promised himself, as he tightened his grip on the strap of his bag. I’m here for her. 

There was a young family sitting at one of the tables near the fence; a baby in a sling against its mother’s chest and two small boys laughing as they chased each other round the table. Wylan had already heard the mother telling them to slow down before someone hurt themselves, and now one of them, by the looks of him the younger of the pair, tripped on his shoelace and planted headfirst into the grass. He was maybe four years old and immediately began to cry as he tried to stumble back onto his feet; his brother, who was maybe six or seven, Wylan guessed, grabbed his arm to pull him up before their father bent down and scooped the younger boy up into his arms. The mother was on her feet, one hand clutched close to the sling to keep the baby still as she took hold of the six year old’s hand and led him back to the table, shooting a brief, exasperated look at her husband that made Wylan’s stomach clench. But then she was smiling, brushing hair out of her son’s eyes as he settled on his chair and pushing a small plate of cookies first to the sniffling middle child, and then the eldest. Wylan couldn’t hear what any of them were saying at first, but as he finally forced himself to step forwards and through the door the elder boy had settled back into his seat and the younger was sitting on his father’s lap as he said to them both calmly: 

“Let’s think of a game we can play sitting down, yes?”

The easy simplicity of it hit him like a blow to the stomach but then he was inside and the door had swung shut behind him, striking their voices clean dead in the air. 

There was a small queue at the counter and Wylan hovered at the back of it nervously for a moment before he convinced himself to walk straight to the back of the room, where Kaz had told him to go. He felt like he was doing something wrong as he slipped through the door - also freshly repainted but this time a pinkish colour; how did they make that? Iron oxide pigments mixed with white, maybe? It sounded expensive - and began to traverse the narrow staircase tucked around a corner behind it. As though someone would burst in at any moment and start yelling, demanding to know what he was doing there. 

“I have some questions I was hoping you could answer,” Kaz had said, after Wylan asked him. 

“Well, ask them,” he replied, “But I’m not promising you any answers,”

Kaz had given a sort of half shrug of agreement, and then said: 

“Why death? Of all options, it seems the hardest to undo,”

Wylan frowned. 

“Excuse me?”

“Why did they do it? You had been hidden from the public eye for years after the plague outbreaks. Why bother faking your death when that was already working?” 

“I don’t- I mean…”

“I see where they might have been coming from,” Kaz continued, “Someone was looking for you, maybe, so your parents claimed you were already gone to keep you safe. Someone who wanted to use you to threaten your father; it’s hardly inconceivable. But why dead, why not missing? It’s a lot easier to stage the dramatic, unexpected return of an abductee than it is a resurrection. And why-?”

“What do you mean?” Wylan finally interrupted, “Death?”

Kaz frowned. 

“Your parents told the world you were dead,”

Wylan felt as though the air had been pulled straight out of his lungs. 

“People know?” he whispered. 

“People believe,” said Kaz, watching him with heightened suspicion, “that an accident befell you at your family home six years ago, and that it resulted in your untimely death. People being people, they know nothing,”

Something uncomfortable, something that wasn’t quite pain but that Wylan lacked the words to describe accurately otherwise, prickled through the marks around his neck. He raised a hand as though to quiet them, pressing his cold fingers against the ropey scar tissue. 

Wylan considered what had happened when was twelve to be a kind of death. His tiny snippet of the world had ended, and it was easier to be a ghost in the remains than it was a survivor. And besides, they called them Wraiths for a reason, didn’t they? But when Kaz had said that, a horrible, squirming coldness had wormed its way through Wylan’s stomach; the thought that people knew the truth, that the threat his father had held over him for years on end come to life. 

But Kaz meant actually dead. The world thought Wylan was long buried. 

“But…”

“What did they tell you?” asked Kaz, frowning. 

“Nothing. I mean, he said - I don’t know, I thought…” Wylan’s words curdled in his mouth. 

He wasn’t sure that Kaz had even noticed that he’d spoken. 

“What’s brought you here now, then? Idealist? Revolutionary? Just foolish, maybe. Done with the walls of your gilded cage?”

“I don’t-”

“And I assume all this business with your mother has a similar motive. Was it that way from the start? She’s barely been seen in public since her recovery, and that contract-”

“Her recovery?” Wylan has been very busy studying his shirt cuffs, but now his gaze hot up, “What do you mean, recovery?”

“All that illness she had after the accident,” Kaz’s eyes slipped to Wylan’s scars as he added: “Near death experience? Your parents capitalised on it?” but Wylan wasn’t listening anymore. 

“What illness?”

Kaz stopped and looked at Wylan properly, maybe for the first time. 

“When was the last time you saw your parents?”

“I… I saw my father a few months ago,” he swallowed, “But I haven’t… I thought… He told me…” 

Wylan couldn’t breathe. Oh fuck, he really couldn’t breathe. 

“You have their marriage contract with you,” Kaz’s voice was low, “Have you read it?”

Wylan didn’t even have capacity left to wonder who the hell Kaz knew about the contract, he just shook his head. He didn’t even know what it was; he’d grabbed it from a stack of papers almost at random, because he knew it was supposed to only be family documents in that cabinet and he recognised the mark of a Grisha-draft contract etched across it, but he hadn’t so much as dared to look at the thing since he’d reached the Warehouse District. But their marriage contract? That couldn’t be right, surely? Kaz must have misunderstood, or - or - 

“Wylan?”

No, it couldn’t be right. His mother would not have signed that. His father wouldn’t have made her. Would he? That wouldn’t make sense. The marriage contract would have come before - 

“Wylan,”

Wylan blinked so tightly it was almost painful for his skin as he flinched upright, digging his fingers into his palms. 

“I said-”

“What illness?” Wylan blurted, because he didn’t care anything at all about whatever else Kaz might have to say. 

Kaz leaned back in his chair slightly, surveying him as though presenting a challenge and feeling intrigued by what his reaction might be when he said: 

“I wouldn’t know. The rumour was she lost her mind; that when you died the grief drove her mad,”

Please, let me see her, just once, pl-

She does not want to see you. 

“The grief?” Wylan whispered, trying not to choke on the word.

She does not want to see you. 

“I assumed when I learned you were alive,” said Kaz, slowly, a new kind of caution creeping into the edges of his voice that Wylan could already feel himself growing defensive beneath the shadow of, “That the rumours were ill-founded, and that she had been struck by some other sickness, but…” 

“She thinks I’m dead?” his voice barely existed, “That’s what you’re telling me? My mother thinks I’m dead,”

She does not want to see you. 

She does not want you. 

She does not want you. 

“I need you to leave,” Wylan managed, abruptly, hardly believing the words had made their way out of his chest and into existence, “Please.” 

Only a moment passed before Kaz stood up.

“I undo people’s contracts for them,” he said, after a moment, “For the right price. Come to the cafe on Bloemstraat tomorrow, where we met before, and meet me in the upper rooms. Bring the contract. You sign on to the demo work I asked for, and I’ll see if there’s anything I can do for your mother,”

Wylan looked up at him, slowly, trying to suppress the shaking of his hands even as he kept that hidden underneath the table.

“Do you… do you think she’s…?” he breathed, “That she’s…?”

He couldn’t finish the thought but it didn’t matter; no-one in Ketterdam wouldn’t have known what he meant with those words. 

“Bring me the contract tomorrow,” came Kaz’s words, somehow crisp even through the grating rasp of his voice, “And I suppose we’ll find out,”

And then he was gone. The door closed and within moments Wylan, barely even aware that he was doing it, had slid off his chair and cocooned himself in his own arms, knees pressed tightly to his chest, hiding beneath the table like a lonely child. 

She does not want you. 

She does not want you. 

[chloeleau]

Nobody asked me but these are my favorite Procreate brushes and ones that I use pretty much daily when I’m making art 🩷

1. Peppermint- comes default on procreate. I like it for sketching because it feels very much like a real pencil and it’s good for making very fine marks as well as big, broad strokes without having to change the size. I also have an irrational tendency to prefer brushes with cute names.

2. Micro Nib- my FAVORITE inking brush. I like nasty, gritty, messy lineart because I don’t particularly like to render and this way it gives my art a lot of texture and personality without having to do all that. I downloaded it from a pack called the Rusty Nib that ordinarily costs a lot of money but my friend sent me her file. I love the way it looks and how easy it is to control. 10/10 amazing. If you like textured lineart but don’t want to download brushes, I used to use ink bleed, which is a default.

3. Studio Pen- comes default on Procreate. I use this brush to fill in colors. I don’t like using the select tool cause it takes forever and I am so bad at accidentally clicking out of it. This is a nice, clean brush that I can outline areas to fill in with the paint bucket. I also like to use it to make word balloons in my comics.

4. Savage- I downloaded this from a free pack called Rough and Raw a really long time ago. This is my go to brush for shading. It works great as a blender brush and I turn the opacity down really low. It blends beautifully and it’s great for shading that looks good without having to spend ages on it. I hate shading and lighting cause I’m not great at it but this makes it easy.

5. Freycinet- comes default on procreate. My newest addition to the collection but I’m quickly becoming obsessed with it. This brush is great for backgrounds and adding some more texture.

6. Oberon- comes default on procreate. I also use this brush for backgrounds. It has a really nice, textured, acrylic paint feeling that I love.

7. Fat Nozzle- comes default on procreate. My FAVORITE brush for backgrounds. It’s a secret weapon. You can create a gradient effect that looks super dope and textured and interesting with zero effort. I feel like the spray paint brushes on procreate are my own little secret.

8. Clouds- comes default on Procreate. My other secret weapon. If you want to create a dope background with zero effort, make a gradient with fat nozzle and throw some clouds on there with a really low opacity. The piece looks dope and that took 3 minutes. You’re welcome.

Once again nobody asked but it’s taken three years to find a process that worked for me in digital art and I’m very pleased with it! Feel free to take this advice or recommend stuff to me

[gladstones-corner]

I'm not going to put a title on this one, I just have to share this with you guys. It's totally off topic, but sort of on topic too?

Anyway, I put up a post a while back about my lukewarm opinion regarding magical notebooks. I still stand by it.

But I lucked into this notebook the other day called Rocketbook. The version I have is called the Wave, their prototype.

I'll cut to the chase. This thing is the USDA Choice of notebooks. So long as you're using a Pilot Frixion pen or highlighter, you can erase the entire notebook with a quick spin in the microwave. You can do this up to 5 times with the Wave. Their newer one--the Core--can be reused up to 100 times.

What's so useful about that? On it's own, not much besides being a redemption for shameless people like me who shred through notebooks like a cat does wet food. But its the app that really makes the notebook kick ass.

I know, I know. Roll your eyes as much as you want. I did when I first heard they had an app. But get this. Each page comes with a QR code in the corner that helps the app's camera position the page. Then it automatically converts your page into a PDF and uploads it to the cloud service of your choice.

It goes further than this. You can actually configure the notebook to send specific pages to specific folders or even specific cloud services by using the category marker at the bottom of the page. The app can also auto-title your scans based on your handwriting.

Okay, cool. So I've talked up this notebook without a sponsorship, so what?

I'll tell you so what.

I have a folder on my OneDrive with sub-folders based on subject. For example, I keep a daily ritual log. Once I've filled the notebook, I'll go back through and scan every page in the Rocketbook that contains that log. Then the app will upload it as one single PDF to my ritual log folder in OneDrive.

I did something similar yesterday with I Ching. I transferred my notes from my working journal to my Rocketbook, then uploaded the three pages together as a single PDF to my divination folder.

The benefit is two-fold. I now have a digital copy of my handwritten notes, which I've always wanted a method for. I also now have an easy way to sort those handwritten notes for further expansion and digitization.

It's honestly changed my entire world and I highly encourage you guys to at least check out their pocket notebooks for a low-cost trial run. I happened to get mine as a promo item through work, so I couldn't tell you personally whether it's worth the price for you; but in my experience once I destroy this one with notes I'm going to purchase a 100-reuse one. And then I'm going to destroy that one also.

[copiousloverofcopia]

Hi, I'm back on my bullshit again:

Alessandra looked up at the clock hanging above her office door. Might as well call it a day, she thought, tapping the pen against her glasses frames. She straightened the pile of notes in front of her from the meeting earlier that morning as her team had begun planning the summer's events. Her team of siblings were trying to piece together another benefit and a few more charity ideas for Copia, needing to pick up the pace as Alé would be off on another maternity leave again in a few months. And Terzo had taken it upon himself to fight her each step of the way, insisting her team was more than competent enough to pick up the slack. He promised if she wanted to take her leave three months early and just remain naked in bed with him until their third child was born, he'd be more than happy to cancel all his plans and meetings as well to support her. Alessandra was eager enough to fight him back insisting this was good for her to bury herself in projects and feel like she was accomplishing something for their community and the Ghost Project, instead of just being barefoot and pregnant. To which Terzo had commented saying it wouldn't be a bad look on her, leading him to a night sleeping on the couch alone in his office per Alé's insistence. 

Alé rolled her chair back from her desk and pitifully groaned as she leaned down to grab her shoes. She had taken them off to give her feet a breather, but now found herself regretting taking them off in the start. With the low heels back on her feet after some awkward finagling, she gave her bump an apologetic rub, feeling her unborn child fluttering away after the gentle squishing they received. With one sturdy hand braced on her desk, she hoisted herself up right. She placed her palms on her lower back, stretching out the discomfort, asking herself why she didn't stop Terzo’s advances after having Mena. She exited her office, dropping her keys into the pocket of her habit, and headed off to go collect their children from daycare. 

She arrived at the doors of the daycare and pushed inside. Dante was standing beside another small child in front of a well-stocked play kitchen, screeching away, pretending to flip a pan (mimicking the times Terzo would put on a show for his kids as he made breakfast). Alé walked up behind her son and tousled his mop of black hair.

“Hi, Mama!” Dante cheered, lifting his arms up. Alessandra felt her heart explode seeing his big smile, so much like his father’s, she swung him up to her hip and peppered him with kisses.

“Where is your sister?” she asked, swaying from side to side, smiling brightly at her son.

“Papa Terzo came by earlier and picked her up already, Prime Mover,” one of the daycare attendants chimed in.

“Oh?” Alé furrowed her brow, slowly lowering Dante to the ground and took his hand, “Well let’s go find your sister then.”

Alessandra and Dante waved farewell to the group of siblings and children and took off to Terzo’s office. Dante, taking after Mena, was almost uncontrollable now that he was mobile, bumping into siblings bustling along the hallway and greeting everyone. The two ran into Secondo on their quest, the three exchanged pleasantries as Secondo slipped his nephew a small wrapped chocolate square. The man still wasn’t sure about holding Terzo’s constantly sticky children, but he would protect them at all costs (and help fuel their sugar highs to punish Terzo).

After Secondo took his leave, the two finally reached Terzo’s office. Dante had begun to fuss, so Alé swooped down again and lifted the tired child back into her arms. With her free hand, she rapped her fingernails on the old wooden door and turned the doorknob. She was greeted by the view of Terzo knelt on the floor beside his desk, pen in hand, filling out some documents. Mena was seated in his chair, hunched over the desk, crayons scattered all over as she helped her father decorate the papers. Terzo’s ceremonial mitre donned on Mena’s head, she had one tiny hand holding the headdress up from covering her eyes and another hand furiously coloring away at a black cat she had drawn on the official ministry papers. In the background, Terzo’s self-proclaimed fifth greatest life accomplishment, Meliora, blasting from the turntable. 

"Uh hello?" Alessandra cleared her throat as she stepped into the room. 

"Amore!" Terzo beamed from the floor, more than eager for a distraction from the constant stream of busy work that was shuffled his way. Mena lept from her throne, the mitre flung to the ground, and practically threw herself into her mother. Alé leaned over the best she could with Dante in one arm and her growing bump in the way to rub her daughter's back. 

"So, your Papa sprung you from school early today, huh?" Alé questioned their oldest, needing to straighten herself back upright before her back gave in. Alé licked her thumb and rubbed at a small blotch of marker Mena had on her cheek.

"Euuugh!" Mena screeched and wriggled away from her mother, dramatically wiping at her cheek with her sleeve. 

"Because you apparently forgot you have two children, Terzo," Alessandra continued, chiding her partner, giving him a stern glance. Terzo's eyes rolled up to the ceiling. 

"This isn't playing favorites, we're in training!" Terzo insisted, sitting back on his heels, giving his wife an exasperated sigh. Mena returned to the desk, collecting the mitre and placing it back on her head on the way, and moved the papers Terzo had been working on in front of her. She collected a few crayons and began doodling on the pages again. Terzo beamed at his daughter, then looked back at Alessandra, nodding his head towards their daughter, “She’s an absolute natural! She will be a phenomenal Papess!”

"She's five, Terz. They're not putting her in charge of the church anytime soon," Alé raised her eyebrows at him, shifting her weight as she moved Dante to her other hip, rousing the child. 

Terzo stood and approached his wife to take his son from her. Terzo perched Dante on his hip and gave him a toothy smile, "You will have your time, too, mio figlio. We just need to figure out the diaper situation first… Can't have a Papa shitting himself all the time. Nihil excluded." 

"Lucifer below, Terzo," Alé glared at him over the bridge of her glasses. 

Terzo smirked, nuzzling his head against Dante’s as the youngest Emeritus child’s eyelids grew heavier. Dante sighed as he tucked his head under his father’s chin, giving into sleep. Terzo moved his free hand to pat at the swell of her stomach, "Come stai, Mama?" 

"Fine, “Alessandra sighed, beginning to regret putting her shoes back on, “Exhausted. Busy. Sore. Tired.”

“You know.. The offer would still stand if you wanted to take time…” Terzo began before quietly trailing off, dropping eye contact, clueing in that now wasn’t the right time based on Alessandra’s facial expression. He felt their child pressing against his flattened palm, he raised his gaze back to his wife’s, “Scusa. Non volevo.”

Alé dropped her hand over Terzo’s, she shook her head, “You’re impossible.”

“Sì, I am aware,” he winked his Satan-given eye at her, giving her belly one more pat before he sauntered back over to Mena. He peered over his daughter’s shoulder, as she viciously colored in the red eyes of what Terzo presumed was a crudely drawn Baphomet. He spread out the papers as he looked at all the pentagrams and alchemical symbols doodled all over the travel documents Terzo had been given to look over. Terzo rested his free hand on his daughter’s shoulder, “Your Zio Copia is going to adore all your artwork once he gets these documents back, stellina.”

“Grazie mille!” Mena’s eyes glinted as she grinned at her father. Alessandra felt a warm glow in her chest looking on at her loving husband and the two beautiful children they created. 

“Alright, tesoro, let’s call it a day, eh?” Terzo proposed, “I’ve had enough being cornered off in the office. It almost looks nice outside still, maybe a walk through Zio’s gardens?”

“Again?” Mena stopped her coloring to look up at her father. Terzo quickly held a finger to his lip and quietly hushed her.

“I’ll take Dante, Terz,” Alé interrupted, not sure what the two were going on about, “He needs to go down for a nap and I could honestly use one, too…”

“Perfetto, okey dokey, Mena, you and I will go on a stroll and we can continue our conversation about the seven tenets. Let’s see if we can quiz Primo; keep him on his toes!” Terzo held out a hand for her.

Mena nodded as she removed the mitre and placed it on Terzo’s desk. She clasped her father’s hand as he helped her up from the chair. Mena walked over to the couch as she began to button up her dark pea coat. Alessandra walked to meet her partner as they easily traded off the sleeping toddler. 

Once she had settled Dante back into her arms, Terzo wrapped his arm around her waist and leaned in as he spoke in barely a whsiper, “Has anyone told you how beautiful you look today, sorella?”

Alé blushed and averted her gaze, but she couldn’t stop the smile creeping from her lips, Terzo gently lifted her chin back to meet his gaze, “Thank you, Papa.”

“Rest up, dolce. You and the bambino.”

“Bambina,” Alé insisted, teasingly wagging her finger in his face.

“You're so sure, huh?”

“Pretty sure,” Alé teased as Terzo’s hand slid down to grab a handful of her ass, out of view of their daughter. Alessandra gasped and gave Terzo a gentle shove, not to rouse their son sleeping in her arms. Terzo grinned as he pulled her closer into his side and gently pressed his lips to hers. Alé rested her free hand over his heart as she politely returned the G-rated kiss, “Get out of here, go annoy your brother.”

Terzo lifted her hand from his chest and briefly brushed his lips against her knuckles, “Sì, sì, andiamo!”

Mena was already out the doors and eagerly waiting for her father so they could go admire the plants beginning to regrow after the cold winter months. The three followed behind her, Terzo closing the doors and locking up after them.

“Don’t you need to tell your assistant you’re leaving early?” Alessandra questioned Terzo. Mena leaned into her mother’s side and wrapped her arms as well as she could around Alé’s abdomen, hugging herself around the swell of her unborn sibling.

“Eh. If they really need to get ahold of me, they’ll find me,” Terzo gave her a cheeky grin before he leaned in and kissed her one more time, “We will see you a little later. Sleep well, amore. I’ll be up a little later to see if you’re up.. If you know what I mean...”

“Don’t stay outside too long. It’s still cold,” Alé urged, completely ignoring her husband, while giving Mena’s arm a gentle squeeze.

Mena scoffed against her mother’s stomach, the Emeritus attitude already so pronounced in her, “I don’t get cold, Mama.”

“Come along, tesoro,” Terzo turned on his heel and started off down the hallway towards where they suspected Primo might be haunting. Mena gave her mother one more hug before speeding off after her father, already speaking to him at a rapid fire pace, excited to be off on another adventure. 

‘Damned extroverts,’ Alessandra thought as she shook her head, heading towards the hidden elevator to take them up to their Papal suite. She couldn’t wait to get out of her slightly constricting habit and kick off those damned shoes again, the dull ache coming from the soles of her feet was starting to become more prominent. She entered the lift, closing the gate behind her, and prayed they wouldn’t run into anyone else; she hadn’t realized just how drained she was or just how much she was looking forward to collapsing into their massive bed. Alé pressed her cheek against Dante’s forehead, closing her eyes for just a second. The bell chimed and she continued down the hall to their rooms. 

As she opened the door, she was greeted by an almost fresh-cut clove smell. There on one of the tables in the entryway was a medium-sized bouquet of haphazardly broken branches with round clusters of dainty, small white and pink flowers. A note with Terzo’s official letterhead was planted next to the bouquet. A violet crayon was used to choppily spell out ‘Te voglio bene, Mama’. Alessandra blew air out, feeling the warm tears pricking at her eyes as she willed herself not to cry. Not now, hormones. One of these days Primo was going to retaliate against those two for using his gardens as their own personal floral shop. She laughed to herself, wiping away an unshed tear and shaking her head. She continued on to lay Dante down to finish the last part of his nap before heading off to her own waiting bed to revel in the last bit of unbothered, short-lived silence. 

Translations:

Mio figlio -- My son

Come stai, Mama? -- How are you, Mama? 

Scusa. Non volevo. -- Sorry. I didn't mean that.

Zio -- Uncle

Stellina - Little star

Grazie mille -- A thousand thanks

Tesoro -- Treasure

Perfetto -- Perfect

Sorella -- Sister

Andiamo -- Let’s go

Te voglio bene -- I love you

I am screaming!!!!

Seriously this sounds perfect like I could have written it myself about them 😭😭😭

Who are you anon I need to know... I won't tell anybody else, unless you want me to, I swear!

I need to know!!!!!