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[daryltwdixon]

Joel Miller x Reader Just Coffee

fluffy Joel drabble to help clear my head. I was a barista for 8+ years and loved my regulars, so this is like a little slice of my life when I worked for a family owned coffee shop in the downtown of a city. Hope you enjoy! lmk if you want a ptII cause im thinking hot car sex w these two after their first date.

Inspired by that tlou (game) scene where Ellie asks if Joel used to go to coffee shops, and he admits, ‘All the time.’ And when she asks what he would order, he says, ‘Coffee, just coffee’ 

Vanilla latte, iced—extra pump of vanilla, three pumps of caramel, swirl, whipped cream. Chai latte, soy milk—hot, extra hot. Cold brew with sweet cream, shot of peppermint. London Fog—extra foamy, not too hot.

"Coffee. Just coffee."

You could’ve kissed him right then and there. And he was handsome enough that you wouldn’t even have to close your eyes. He must’ve caught the way your shoulders relaxed, how the sigh left your body like a weight lifted.

“Comin’ right up,” you smiled, ringing him up as he slid a few ones into your very, very empty tip jar.

‘Just Coffee’ guy settled at the small bar, joining the usual morning stragglers—people who took their time with their warm mugs, occasionally ordering a bagel or a scone to go with it. He sat next to your crossword regular, an older gentleman who always had a puzzle in front of him, filling in the blanks with unwavering confidence. Always pen, never pencil.

You left them to it, but your eyes drifted toward ‘Just Coffee’ now and then, making sure his mug wasn’t too low, wasn’t getting too cold.

The morning flew by in a blur of orders and chatter, the shop filling and emptying in waves. By the time you checked back on ‘Just Coffee’ guy, he was gone.

A pang of disappointment sat low in your stomach. You wished you would’ve gotten him talking—he had that air about him, the kind of presence that carried stories. The people who sat at your bar top, the ones who weren’t rushing in and out for their nine-to-five caffeine fix, were always the most interesting.

You were surprised to see him the next day. A smile lifted at his lips as he stepped up in line, cash at the ready in his large, dirt-greased hands. A man who worked manual labor, clearly.

"Coffee," he said, his twang deep and velvety. "Just coffee, miss."

"You got it," you said with a smile, handing him a warm mug of your house roast as he took his new usual seat at the bar.

"Dammit—" the man next to him muttered, scratching his chin with the tip of his pen. Steve, your crossword regular. Under his nose, the day’s puzzle sat partially filled in, his brow furrowed in frustration. “What in the hell is the ‘process of leveling or smoothing wet concrete’? Seven letters?" He called your name, exasperated. "You got any idea?”

"Steve, if I knew anything about construction, I’d be way further along on my home improvement projects," you called over the hiss of the milk frother.

"Screedin’ is the word you’re lookin’ for, I think."

‘Just Coffee’ spoke casually, like it was second nature, his voice rolling low behind the lip of his mug. Steve blinked at him, like he hadn’t even realized the man was there, his wide eyes darting between him and the crossword.

"I think that might just work! How do ya spell that now? S-C-R-E—"

"S-C-R-E-E-D-I-N-G," ‘Just Coffee’ said slowly, the drawl thick and steady as the letters tumbled off his tongue.

You smiled to yourself, glancing his way. Knew he had to be manual labor. But before you could turn and ask him about it, he was already stepping off the stool, giving a quick nod of thanks, and heading for the door.

A couple of ones landed next to his empty mug—more than the cost of his coffee.

He didn’t come the next day.

Or the day after that.

By the fourth morning, you caught yourself lingering by the bar, staring at the empty stool where he sat. The coffee shop was just as busy, orders coming in waves, regulars dropping their change into the tip jar, Steve grumbling over his crossword. But something was missing.

You’d gotten used to those hazel eyes meeting yours across the counter, the quiet weight of his presence. The way his dark, unruly hair framed his face, always a little windswept, a little messy, like he’d rolled straight out of bed and into a long shift. His hands—rough, calloused, dirt still lingering in the creases—wrapped steady around a warm coffee mug.

It had only been a handful of mornings, but somehow, he’d settled into your routine like he belonged there.

And now, the absence of him gnawed at you in a way that surprised you.

You should’ve asked him his damn name.

By the sixth day, you convinced yourself it didn’t matter. He was just another customer, just a passing figure who needed a caffeine fix before moving on. Maybe he found a different coffee spot. Maybe he’d never been the type to stick around anyway.

But on the seventh morning, as you wiped down the counter, movement by the door caught your eye.

You turned, heart kicking up against your ribs.

There he was.

Another worn flannel, same dirt-streaked hands, same heavy-lidded gaze scanning the shop like he hadn’t been gone for a week. And when those hazel eyes finally landed on you, a flicker of something warm and familiar crossed his face.

You pushed off the counter before you could stop yourself.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” you said, trying to sound casual, but you knew he could hear the lilt of amusement in your voice.

“How are ya, miss?” he drawled, stepping up to the counter, cash already in hand. “Been busy.”

You nodded, trying not to stare too long at the way his fingers curled around the worn bills. “Let me guess—coffee, just coffee?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You got it.”

As you poured, you finally asked the question that had been itching at you since the first day he walked in.

“You got a name, or am I just supposed to keep callin’ you ‘Just Coffee’ forever?”

He smirked, tilting his head slightly as he watched you.

“Joel,” he said.

You smiled, setting his mug down in front of him. “Well, Joel—hope you don’t disappear on me again.”

His fingers brushed the warm ceramic as he settled onto his usual stool. “Jobs come and go, just depends on the day, hunny.”

Hunny. It was damn near like honey dripping from his tongue in that slow drawl, thick and warm. The way it rolled off his lips curled low in your belly, heating your cheeks as you turned to the next customer, hoping to God he didn’t notice.

The middle of the week was always slow, which worked in your favor today. By the time the morning rush faded, you found yourself wiping down the counters, clearing dishes near the bar, and finally getting the chance to ask Joel about his life.

You rinsed out a mug, letting the warm water run over your fingers as you glanced toward him. He was nursing his coffee slow, one hand wrapped around the mug, the other resting loose on the bar. His posture was easy, relaxed, but you could tell there was something there, something deep in his bones that he carried.

"So, what kinda jobs come and go?" you asked, keeping your tone light.

Joel glanced up from his mug, considering you for a moment. “Construction, mostly," he said, rolling his shoulders like the very word made them ache. "Been a contractor for years—fixin' up places, layin’ concrete, buildin’ what needs buildin'.”

Figures. Those arms—strong, steady—the kind that looked like they knew the weight of real work. His hands were large, rough and calloused, the kind you’d feel long after they touched you. But, Joel was a customer. You weren’t thinking that, of course not.

"Guess that explains why you knew the crossword answer last week," you teased, tossing the rag over your shoulder. "Steve still talks about it like you pulled magic outta thin air."

Joel huffed, shaking his head. "Man’s usin’ a pen for a crossword, and I’m the one impressin’ him?"

You grinned, leaning against the bar. "Hey, knowledge is power around here, Joel."

He let out a quiet hmm and took another sip of his coffee.

Before you could press further, the bell above the door jingled, and you got up hastily to take the newcomer’s order.

“Don’t worry about him,” Joel called over, sitting up straighter, setting down his coffee mug as his gaze flicked toward the man.

He stepped inside, his dark hair long, face clean-shaven, dimples deepening as he took in the scene. Something unspoken passed between the two of them—something that made it hard to tell if they were coworkers, friends, or something else entirely.

Then the man clapped Joel on the shoulder, grinning wide, “So this is what you’ve been ditchin’ the mornin’ crew for, huh, big brother?”

Your brows lifted. Brother.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, eyes narrowing with obvious irritation, but his posture remained loose—like he was used to this, used to him.

“What ya got for me, Tommy?” he asked.

You barely had a second to process before Tommy’s attention shifted to you. His gaze swept over you, warm and playful, before he leaned a little too comfortably against the bar, ignoring his brother.

“Well now,” he drawled, flashing you a grin that could probably talk its way out of a speeding ticket, “if I knew this was the kinda place Joel was sneakin’ off to, I would’ve tagged along a whole lot sooner.”

Joel muttered something under his breath and rubbed his forehead.

You crossed your arms, biting back a smile. “And here I thought he just liked my coffee.”

Tommy let out a low chuckle, tilting his head. “Can’t say I blame him, darlin’.”

Joel let out a long, long sigh, already done with whatever this was turning into. He stood, tugging his jacket over his broad shoulders before clapping a firm hand on Tommy’s back—firm like a warning.

“C’mon,” Joel muttered, steering him toward the door.

Tommy let himself be dragged, but not without a final wink in your direction. “I’ll be seein’ you around, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped past your lips as Joel shoved him out the door with far more force than necessary, the bell jingling wildly as they disappeared outside.

Joel glanced back once, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the last two minutes of his life before heading off into the distance.

You just smiled, shrugging as you wiped down the counter.

But things changed after that morning.

Tommy only needed to step through the damn door before Joel was tensing at the bar, a muscle twitching in his jaw, his coffee suddenly the least interesting thing in the room. He continued to show up every morning, still ordered just coffee, still sat in his usual spot—but now, his eyes lingered on you more.

And now, he stayed just a little longer.

Not by much, not enough for anyone else to notice, but you did.

You noticed how his gaze flicked toward you between sips, how his fingers tapped idly against his mug whenever you laughed at something a customer said.

His brother joined him more too. You noticed the way he cut Tommy off real quick anytime his brother got a little too comfortable leaning against the counter, that exasperated “Tommy” carrying a warning underneath it.

And you noticed how his tips got just a little bigger after that morning, a couple extra bills tucked under his mug like an unspoken thank you.

So when a week passed—no sign of Tommy this time, no interruptions, just Joel sitting at your bar—you wondered if today might be different.

And it was.

Because today, as you cleared a dish from the counter, Joel cleared his throat. Not the casual kind, not the I’m just readjusting in my seat kind.

The nervous kind.

You glanced up, brows lifting. “What’s eatin’ ya, Joel?”

Joel exhaled sharply, shifting in his seat. “Yeah. Just—uh.” He scratched at the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes. “You, uh… ever eat anywhere that ain’t this place?”

Your lips twitched. “You askin’ if I leave my own coffee shop, Joel?”

His jaw tightened, clearly close to regretting whatever he was doing, but he powered through.

“I’m askin’ if you’d wanna get somethin’ to eat. When your shift is done.” He finally met your gaze, voice a little gruffer than usual, but there was something hesitant in his expression—like he was braced for you to shut him down, “With me.”

You leaned back against the counter, arms crossing as you took your time, letting him sit in it for a second. Watching the way his fingers curled around his coffee mug, how he resisted the urge to shift under your gaze.

Then you smiled. “Are you asking me out?”

His eyes flicked away, like he really hated how direct you were, but you could see the tips of his ears turning pink.

“Yeah,” he muttered. Then, after a pause—“That…a problem?”

You bit your lip, shaking your head. “Not at all.”

Joel’s fingers flexed against his mug. “Good.”

You grabbed a napkin and a pen, scribbling something before sliding it across the counter. “Then you’re gonna need my number.”

He eyed it, then you, something unreadable in his gaze before he finally, finally reached for it. His fingers brushed yours as he folded the napkin, tucking it into his pocket without another word.But you swore—swore—you saw the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he took another slow sip of his coffee.

Part II is here :)

[diamonddaze01]

business 101

pairing: csc x f!reader | wc: 1.3k genre/au: rival ceos, fluff, humor | warnings: none | rating: pg a/n: prequel to the contractual obligations universe // based on an ask for my 101 drabble prompt game!

The lecture hall buzzed with the usual pre-class chatter. The faint hum of laptops, the rustle of notebooks, and the occasional murmur of stress about looming midterms filled the air. You sank into your chair, flipping open your laptop to the blank document titled Business 101 Project.

“Group assignments will be randomized,” the professor announced from the podium, his voice loud enough to silence most of the murmuring. “Your task: create a comprehensive business plan for a hypothetical company. It’s due at the end of the semester. Creativity is welcome, but analysis and execution will determine your grade. Teams will be four people each, and I expect professionalism.”

When the names appeared on the screen, your heart sank.

Group 8: Choi Seungcheol, Jeonghan Yoon, Joshua Hong, Y/N L/N

You glanced around, spotting Jeonghan waving lazily at you with an amused smirk, while Joshua offered a polite nod. Then your eyes landed on Seungcheol. His lips quirked into a lopsided grin, the kind that spoke volumes—mostly about how annoying he planned to be.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath, earning a chuckle from Jeonghan, who had slid into the seat next to you. Jeonghan and Joshua—reliable, at least. But Choi Seungcheol? He caught your gaze and offered a cocky smirk.

Fantastic.

By the end of the first meeting, it was clear how things were going to go.

“We need a solid foundation,” Joshua said, tapping his pen thoughtfully against the table. “Let’s start with a service idea and build from there.”

“Something scalable,” you agreed. “Like a subscription model—low entry cost, high potential for growth.”

“That’s boring,” Seungcheol cut in, his voice casual but gratingly dismissive. “Why not focus on a bold product launch? Something with impact.”

“Impact doesn’t pay the bills,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes. “We need a strategy that’s actually sustainable.”

“Sustainable,” he repeated, leaning back and folding his arms. “Sure. Let’s just settle for mediocre so we don’t have to take any risks.”

“And crash and burn if it flops?” you shot back, unable to hide your irritation. “That’s reckless.”

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a smirk. “No risk, no reward.”

“No risk, no grade either,” you retorted, your voice sharper than intended.

Jeonghan cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “I see this is going to be... fun.” He exchanged a glance with Joshua, who already looked like he regretted his life choices.

By the third meeting, the rivalry had reached critical mass. 

“Who made you the CEO of this group?” Seungcheol snapped after you vetoed one of his flashier ideas.

“I’m not the CEO,” you retorted, jabbing a finger at the project outline. “I’m just the one who doesn’t want us to fail.”

“Fail?” he repeated with a mock laugh. “Right, because your ideas are so revolutionary. Let’s hear it for our subscription box for socks or whatever you’re pitching.”

You glared. “Socks sell.”

“Not as much as actual creativity,” he shot back.

Jeonghan sighed dramatically. “I’m this close to quitting college,” he muttered to Joshua, who nodded solemnly.

 This was now less a project, and more a battlefield. You and Seungcheol clashed over every detail—budget projections, marketing angles, even the font choices for the presentation slides. Jeonghan coined the term “Wednesday Night War” after one particularly heated Zoom meeting, where the two of you had yelled over each other for a full ten minutes before Joshua muted you both.

Despite the arguments—or maybe because of them—the project came together. By some miracle, your calculated planning and Seungcheol’s riskier ideas balanced each other out. When the group received an A, Joshua and Jeonghan looked ready to celebrate.

You and Seungcheol, however, couldn’t even agree on that.

“I carried this project,” he said, smirking at you as the grades were handed back.

“Excuse me?” you said, turning to him. “If you carried it, then I was the one steering so you didn’t walk us off a cliff.”

“You’re welcome for my bold ideas,” he replied.

“And you’re welcome for my common sense,” you shot back, storming out of the classroom before you could strangle him.

A celebration was inevitable. After weeks of late nights and endless bickering, Jeonghan declared a house party to blow off steam. You weren’t in the mood for it, but Joshua’s pleading eyes and the promise of free drinks eventually won you over. The house was packed, the bass from the speakers thrumming through your chest. You spotted Jeonghan and Joshua near the makeshift bar, both nursing drinks and chatting with friends. 

Jeonghan greeted you with a sly grin. “And here I thought you were too good for us,” he teased, handing you a drink.

“I’m here for Joshua,” you replied, taking a sip. “Not you or him.”

“You mean Seungcheol?” Jeonghan asked innocently, his grin widening when you glared at him.

Across the room, Seungcheol leaned against the counter, laughing at something someone had said. His dark shirt clung to his shoulders in a way that annoyed you—it was unfair how effortlessly attractive he looked, especially when you could practically feel him waiting to pick another fight.

When his eyes met yours, he smirked.

You should’ve walked away, but instead, you marched straight up to him.

“Are you stalking me now?” you asked, crossing your arms.

“Stalking?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You’re in my space.”

“Your space?” you scoffed. “Pretty sure this is Jeonghan’s house.”

“Semantics.”

The two of you fell into your usual rhythm of bickering, the tension between you thick enough to draw the attention of Jeonghan and Joshua.

“They’re at it again,” Joshua remarked, taking a sip of his drink.

Jeonghan sighed dramatically. “Why don’t they just kiss already?”

Joshua smirked, nodding toward where you and Seungcheol stood toe-to-toe. “Wait for it.”

Back near the bar, the argument had reached new heights.

“You think you’re so much better because you play it safe?” Seungcheol taunted, his voice low but heated.

“And you think being reckless makes you a visionary?” you fired back, stepping closer. 

“You wouldn’t know a bold move if it slapped you in the face,” he shot back, his tone biting.

“Do you ever shut up?” you snapped, stepping closer.

“Do you?” he fired back, his smirk daring you to do something about it.

The crowd around you began to thin as people sensed the escalating tension. Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, his eyes locked on yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you crackling.

Then he grabbed your wrist.

“We’re settling this,” he growled, his voice quiet enough that only you could hear.

“Excuse me?” you sputtered, but he was already pulling you through the crowd, his grip firm but not rough.

From across the room, Jeonghan raised his glass to Joshua with a knowing smile. “Told you.”

“Bet you a round they don’t come back for hours,” Joshua added, and Jeonghan laughed, clinking his glass.

Seungcheol dragged you into an empty room, the noise of the party muffled by the closed door. He let go of your wrist, turning to face you with a look you couldn’t quite decipher.

“You can’t just—” you began, but the words died in your throat as he stepped closer.

“Can’t just what?” he challenged, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

Your breath hitched as the tension that had simmered for weeks finally reached its boiling point. “What do you want from me, Seungcheol?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he cupped your face in his hands and kissed you. It wasn’t gentle or tentative—it was hungry, desperate, like he’d been holding himself back for far too long.

You froze for half a second before kissing him back just as fiercely, your hands tangling in his hair as the weeks of frustration and tension melted away into something electric.

The rest of the world disappeared. All that existed was the way his hands gripped your waist, the press of his body against yours, the taste of beer on his lips.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathing hard, your foreheads resting against each other.

“This doesn’t mean I like you,” you whispered, your voice shaky but defiant.

Seungcheol smirked, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Yeah? Keep telling yourself that.”

[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

[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

[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.

[muhamedcart]

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