#old engines with glasses my beloved

[maxwellscorner]

🚂 Day 16 - Golden 👓

Golden details do make an engine more sophisticated

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Press One for Love, Two for Regret

Chapter 3

Summary: Proper confessions should never happen over the phone. Viktor knows that. So how did he get here?

Pairing: Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 5.3K

Warning: Mature (mentions of explicit content, explicit in last chapter)

Notes: Yup, this started from a silly lil 1K prompt, don't ask me what happened, I wouldn't be able to say either. This chapter is pretty heavy on feelings, self-reflection and angst, but I think y'all will find it enjoyable ❤️. There's one more chapter left (the SMUT yeehawww), but I've written chapter 3 in a way where you could technically stop reading the story here if you didn't want to read the smut, and it would still be a satisfying conclusion. I know most of you are in it for the smut too, so don't worry my beloveds, it will come 😛💕

(Chapter 1) (Chapter 2) (Chapter 4/End)

The humanities faculty room always smells horrible.

It's hard to tell where the pungent scent even comes from; it feels like it's in the air, in all the furniture, in the walls themselves. There's no window to even attempt to vent it out either; it’s in the oldest wing of the university, built at least sixty years prior to the construction of every other unit. Most teachers avoid it like the plague, preferring to work in any other available space on campus, so it's almost always empty.

But it isn't today.

“Melllll,” you moan, shoving your face into the leather couch’s pillows. The smell is somehow worse, imbued into the fabric. If you had to describe it, you would just call it old. Like rancid coffee forgotten on the kitchen counter for too long, or ancient damp books abandoned in an attic. Old. “Why do I always mess up everything I do?”

Mel looks up from the paper she's grading with a sigh, adjusting the small reading glasses on her nose.

“You don't mess up everything you do,” she argues softly. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, and you say what you think without feeling ashamed. That's not something for everyone, but it's not a flaw, either.”

You can only groan into the odorous leather as an answer.

Viktor had been your very first friend at work, but he had been a lot more. Without him, you would have never met Jayce, and without Jayce, you would have never met Mel. And you would have no one to cry your woes to on a Friday evening, a whole two weeks after the most disastrous phone call of your life.

“And I believe Viktor is equally at fault here. He knows better than to play hide and seek with you forever,” Mel hums pensively, crossing her legs. Her olive eyes narrow, her nose scrunching up slightly in thought.

“He's stalling, trying to figure a way out without confronting his feelings or yours. He's smart enough to know there isn't one, but he's stubborn,” she points out, tapping her manicured nails on the wooden table. Tic, tic. Like **the sound of seconds passing on the clock, never-ending and all-consuming.

At first, both Jayce Talis, mechanical engineering PhD and researcher, and Mel Medarda, political science PhD with five peer-reviewed books published under her name, had been two extremely imposing people to interact with. You already felt unworthy enough talking to Viktor, but after learning of the kind of people he usually hung out with, you felt like an absolute loser. Jayce and Mel are both unreasonably attractive and accomplished, and when Viktor joins them, there's no denying he belongs to their world, and not yours.

In those moments, the differences between the two of you seem much more glaring: the university professor with a collection of awards and a PhD in biomechanical engineering, who is dedicating his life to creating life-altering prosthetic limbs and transmitting his knowledge to a whole new generation of scientists… and you.

The guidance councillor who can't shut up.

It’s not that you're ashamed of your job; you love what you do. You love being able to help people figure themselves out, and orient them toward what will make them happiest.

But when you stand in the same space as Viktor, it's hard to see anything other than how much greater of a person he is than you will ever be. He's like a star in the sky, shining brighter and brighter every day, and you get the privilege of watching him through the lens of a telescope. That should already be enough for you to be satisfied.

But it isn’t, not anymore. It hasn't been for a long time. And you want to do so much more than look at him. You want to touch him. You want to kiss him. You want to be someone worthy of shining alongside him; but you never believed that would ever happen.

And for so long, it felt so much easier to just date people whose very existence didn't make you feel like you would never be enough to reach their ankle. People who just wanted something casual and meaningless, some sex, maybe the semblance of a romance. And that's how you ended up with a string of disastrous relationships with men you barely even liked.

You contort your body uncomfortably on the couch to face Mel; it squeaks awkwardly under you, like it's threatening to break.

“Did you know? Did everyone but me know?”

She rests her head on her hand, the hint of a smile on her lips, seemingly slightly amused by the question:

“Depends on who you mean by everyone. No one outside his circle of close friends, for sure. He's not the type to scream about his love life over the phone,” she adds with a teasing glim in her eyes. “No offence.”

You groan, shoving your face back into the roughed-up leather. God, it still smells.

“But Jayce did know,” she confirms, and you hear her straighten her chair to return to work. The comforting sound of her fountain pen starts up again, but you know she's still giving her conversation with your full attention. Mel is like that, able to carry on a hundred tasks at once without breaking a sweat; you wish you had an ounce of her composure.

“Viktor told him after he got drunk last year at the faculty cookout. I believe his exact words were…”

She pauses to do a dramatic imitation of Viktor's voice and tone, “‘Jayce, she is wearing that dress just to put me into an early grave’.”

Not only is it pretty accurate, but God, you know exactly what dress.

The skimpy little sunflower dress that you knew showed way too much chest for a work-related event. You had worn it in the hopes of eliciting any sort of reaction from Viktor; but he had barely spoken to you that afternoon, constantly vanishing every time you entered a room. You assumed you made him uncomfortable with something you said, like you always ended up doing with everyone else.

So you had left the party on the arm of some nameless T.A. from the law department, hoping it would help you forget Viktor, just for a while.

It hadn't.

“And I knew,” Mel continues smoothly in her regular voice, “because I know what it's like to want someone to notice you so badly. To want someone to love you back.”

You detect something very personal in the way she pronounces the word ‘love’, almost like it's painful to even say.

Mel rarely talks about herself, preferring to listen to the stories of everyone around her. Everything about her gives an air of mature confidence and independence, and if she ever has any issues in her personal life, she never shares them with you, or anyone that you know of.

She's not cold by any means, and she helps everyone with genuine care, that, you are absolutely certain of. But you can feel there's a side of her she desperately wants to keep to herself. She's only ever mentioned her mother once, in a drunken haze, muttering something under her breath about never being enough for her.

You wonder if that's the person who’s love she’s longing for.

When she speaks again, there is something akin to nostalgia lingering in her voice:

“You get that special look in your eyes. You both looked at each other just like that, but neither of you ever noticed.”

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes. Fucking ironic. You can never seem to stop talking, but now, the words you want to tell her just won't come.

Mel doesn't seem to mind, though, and the sound of pen scrapping paper picks up again. You force yourself out of your leather cavern, sitting up on the couch to look at her directly.

“…Why didn't you say anything?” you ultimately settle with, but it rings much more fragile and hurt than you wanted it to.

She gives a small shrug without looking away from her documents:

“Not my place to. Viktor needed to confront his feelings head-on, and you needed to realize you were never not enough or too much for him,” she states matter-of-factly, “It's that simple.”

Everything always seems so easy when it comes from Mel's lips. But in your mind, thoughts are jumbled, emotions are running wild, and everything you thought you knew about the last four years is falling apart.

Maybe, that time on New Year’s Eve when he told you there was no other place he'd rather be, he hadn't meant at the party. He had meant with you.

Maybe, when he had taken your hand, it wasn't just because you were excitedly counting down the last seconds until midnight. It was because he wanted to touch you just as much as you wanted to touch him.

Maybe, at the end of that night and in those early morning hours, when he had said you would make someone really happy one day…he was asking if it could be him.

“Maybe,” you **exhale bitterly, enunciating the world like a curse, “it would actually be simple if he just answered my texts, or my calls. Or anything I do to try and reach him.”

Yeah, you're to blame for being so blind for so long. For noticing the smallest things about everyone else, but missing all the signs when it came to him.

But so is he for refusing to talk about it now that you finally see it.

“At this point, I’m seriously starting to consider lock-picking their apartment,” you grumble, more in tiredness than anger; you can't even manage to stay mad at him for longer than a minute. “He’s the one who showed me how to do that, did I ever tell you that?”

She lets out a soft laugh at that; but when she glances over to you, there's a hint of something new in her eyes.

“I'm sure he would enjoy seeing you put your training to use, but there might be another way to see him. I think he's had more than enough time playing hide and seek.”

You know that glint in her forest-green stare; she knows something you don't, and she’s chosen to reveal it to you. You almost jump off the couch with your eyes wide, so quickly you almost lose your balance:

“Mel, what do I do?”

She snorts as she motions for you to sit back down with a calming wave of her hand, amusement clear on her face.

“Calm down. I wouldn't tell anyone about this normally,” she begins, lowering her voice in secrecy, as if you’re not the only two in the room, “and I want to make it very clear you did not receive this information from me.”

You nod eagerly in agreement, hanging on to her every word.

“Go to their apartment,” she declares with certainty. “If you keep going after their door and to the end of the corridor, there's a big potted plant on the window sill. An orchid.”

You frown in confusion.

You've only been to Viktor and Jayce's apartment a few times in the couple of years you've known them. Usually for relaxed group hangouts, or an occasional game night. You remember very little about it other than the all-consuming childish excitement of being in Viktor’s home, and the absolutely not innocent thought of his bedroom being barely a few feet away.

Why don't you ever remember the important things?

You try to muster every memory you have of the apartment complex itself instead; they live on the third floor, and their door is the second one on the right after the elevator. The hallway is a straight, narrow line, and you've noticed how dark it always is every time you’ve visited.

Dark, yes, that's right, because aside from a cheap light fixture, there’s only one window that lets any light into the hallway, at the very end of the corridor. One window, that is almost entirely blocked by the world's most decrepit potted plant.

“The… really ugly one?” you ask with uncertainty.

Mel snaps her fingers in confirmation, a hint of perfect pearly white teeth shining between her lips.

“I think you may find something of interest under it. Jayce told me about it for whenever I want to…” she hesitates on her next word, uncharacteristically a little bashful, “visit.”

Oh, you fucking knew it.

“I totally-” you start triumphantly.

“Yes, I know, you knew it for months,” she interrupts, waving her hand in dismissal. Her lower lip sticks out slightly, almost like she's pouting. You've never seen her this embarrassed. “It's incredible how you notice everything about everyone else, but when it's about you, you suddenly forget how to use your own eyes.”

Touché.

You've sensed it for at least a year now, the unspoken electricity between the two of them. How her arm sometimes lingers just a second too long on his shoulder, how his hands seem to always accidentally brush her waist. For as subtle as they were being, there was no mistaking the fire when they looked at each other.

Did Viktor ever look at you like that, too?

Why hadn't you ever noticed?

“Wait, wait,” you interrupt your own train of thought. “The orchid. Why is the orchid…”

You pause when the realization hits you like a bucket of cold water.

Oh.

Oh.

“Do… do they have a set of keys under the orchid?” you ask slowly.

“I didn't say that,” Mel says, bringing her two hands up in self-defence; but the smile lingering on her lips tells another story. “And if you say I did, I will deny it and throw you under the bus with every inch of my power as the advisor for the debate club. Are we clear?”

You could kiss her.

You settle with a tight hug, holding her with as much force as you can muster. The scent of her perfume, bitter and floral, masks the decrepit smell of the room for just a moment. Is there any problem Mel can’t solve?

“Mel, you're the best,” you grin against her ear.

“So I'm told,” she hums. She gently detaches herself from the hug, giving you an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Now go. I don't like seeing you mop around my teacher's lounge, and I can't stand when Viktor performs his little disappearing act instead of talking things out.”

She picks her pen back up, giving you one last genuine look of support, voice soft, sincere: “You two are really meant for each other. Give him hell.”

—

Viktor is much less attentive than people give him credit for.

That’s not to say he’s oblivious or careless. In fact, when it comes to his work, he could instantly notice a tenth of a millimeter discrepancy from a mile away. He could hear the slightest abnormal murmur in the heart of any machine, and pinpoint its exact origin within seconds. Throw a blindfold on top, and he'd still know exactly where to place each and every single component of his prosthetic models.

But when it comes to the world outside his lab, his attention to detail just plummets.

If a bomb went off right outside his apartment, he probably wouldn't even look up from his notes. Jayce usually has to call his name thrice to pull him out of the trance-like state he gets into when he's sketching up a new idea, and that's only because he's used to Jayce's voice; for someone else, he might not hear it at all.

Even walking home from campus, he pays no attention to his surroundings, lost in his thoughts of valves, hydraulic cylinders, and flexion plates. He mechanically follows the same path he's walked thousands of times, a habit so ingrained in him it allows him to fully disconnect and think of nothing but work.

He's glad he has such a strong grip on his own mind, because if he didn't, he would let his practical ideations slowly morph into thoughts of nothing but you. You, who he hasn't seen in two weeks, because he likes to pretend change can't happen if he simply refuses to acknowledge it. It's much better to focus on what he actually has control over, to lose himself entirely in the things that make sense to him. To forget the world burning around him.

And that's exactly why he doesn't realize you’re in his apartment, sitting on his couch about ten feet away from him, until you make a pointed cough to signal your presence.

“Ah,” is the only thing he manages to get out.

He wishes he'd be surprised, but then again, he knew you would find your way to him eventually. He could keep trying to bury himself in work and avoid you with every inch of his power, you would not stop until you got answers to your questions. You’re just as stubborn as he is. That's part of why he fell for you.

So, there's nothing he can do, but let out a defeated sigh.

“I would ask how you got in here,” he starts flatly, taking off his coat robotically to place it on the hanger, “but I have a feeling it doesn't really matter.”

You don't react to his distant, tired tone, your expressive face unusually devoid of emotion when you speak.

“I didn't use your lockpicking lessons, if you're wondering.”

He can't help but snort at that:

“Disappointing.”

You both stay silent as he slowly takes off his boots and removes his wool scarf. The atmosphere isn't exactly awkward, but it's not comfortable either. Like a cheap, stiff version of the warm intimacy you usually share.

You've always been so easy to read, and anything that didn't show on your face always came from your lips. He always knows how you feel: he's observed every single expression on your face, from the slightest pout to the biggest grin, and committed it to memory with the dedication he only ever puts into his projects.

From the day you literally crashed in his life four years ago, utterly drunk and analyzing him with astonishing accuracy, he's felt the need to analyze you, too. To decipher every part of you, understand each component, each reaction. He craved the idea of knowing you like a cartographer knows the maps of the world, like an astronomer knows the place of every star. To understand you as you had understood him, with a single glance.

Right now, he has no idea what you're thinking.

In typical fashion, you're the one who ultimately breaks the ice first:

“You could kick me out,” you declare, staring him down almost challengingly. “I'll leave if you really want me to.”

There's clear apprehension and hurt in your voice, a bitterness you're trying your best to hide, but failing. He despises being the one to make you feel that way. He's become no better than any of your exes.

“We both know I won't do that,” he exhales. He's still standing in the entryway, just a few steps away from the threshold of the living room. There's no hiding anymore, no backing out. You're here, and he has to face you. Even if it breaks him.

“In the kitchen, second drawer on the left,” he says, making his way inside resignedly. “There's a rather large bread knife inside it. It hasn't been sharpened in a while, but it should do.”

Your passive expression falls for a second and you stare at him in confusion.

“Do for what?” you ask, eyebrow raised.

“Killing me to spare us both the embarrassment of this conversation,” he answers unenthusiastically.

You're the one who snorts, this time. If he could forget why you're here, he could almost pretend this is just a regular talk between close friends. Almost.

You get off the couch without hurry, stretching your limbs lazily; he wonders if you've been waiting for him for a while. You're still in your usual work clothes, but your hair is dishevelled, and your makeup is a bit smudged. Had these been different circumstances, this would be the kind of look he would imagine you in when he's alone in bed, but that's exactly the kind of treacherous impulse that's led him to this situation in the first place.

There's a strange shimmer in your eyes when you look at him again:

“You got any booze in that kitchen ?”

He’s starting to realize no matter how many years you give him, he’ll probably never be able to completely figure out what's going on in that brain of yours.

“You want to drink. Right now,” he states in disbelief.

You shrug:

“Seems like you listened to me when I was drunk last time. Maybe that'll get your attention again.”

There's an undeniable bitterness under the light sarcasm. It's deserved, frankly. And maybe a drink would make what's inevitably coming less difficult.

“First cabinet to the right. You can take the clear unlabeled bottle,” he offers.

You hum in approval, making your way to the kitchen without looking back at him. He makes his way to the couch, sitting at the opposite end of where you had been.

You come back with the bottle in one hand, and two mismatched shot glasses in the other. One is his, a souvenir from an academic conference in Marseilles; the silver lettering simply states ‘Ainsi va la vie’, ‘such is life’. He has to wonder if you chose it on purpose, to taunt him.

Although, the other one is Jayce's, and it's shaped like the torso of a woman with huge breasts in a bikini top with the colours of his old college. So it's equally as likely you just grabbed the first ones you found.

He always overthinks when he's anxious.

You put the three items down on the rectangular table in front of him, before sinking into the couch next to him. Your bodies aren't touching, shoulders an adequate distance from each other, but the proximity is still unnerving. The smell of your perfume, usually so comforting, makes him feel slightly ill.

You pour the alcohol into the shot glasses unhurriedly, progressively filling them both to the brim.

“Did you know Mel and Jayce are together?” you ask, not looking up from your task.

“Unfortunately so,” he mutters sourly.

You pause at that, perplexed.

“No, that is not what I meant, I am very happy for them,” he clarifies quickly. “But their decision to keep it a secret has been rather… precarious for me.”

You slide a glass towards him and give him a smile; the first one of the day, the first one in two weeks.

“You walked in on them fucking, didn't you?”

He groans, and you laugh. God, he missed that sound.

“I have never been more embarrassed in my entire life,” he complains, wrapping his hand around the shot glass. He notices with gratitude it's the plain one and not its heavily endowed sibling. “Being able to run had never seemed more appealing.”

You grab your own glass, the smile on your lips genuine, but fragile. The words still left unsaid hang above you both, and he's forced to remember this is but a moment of respite before everything falls apart.

“Maybe a drink will help you forget,” you joke, holding up the glass in his direction.

How he wishes it would.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he simply answers, bringing his glass to yours until they hit with a light clink. “Cheers.”

Your gaze holds his captive as you speak, like you're reaching into the depths of his very being.

“Na zdravià.”

You throw your head back and down the shot before he has time to voice his surprise, so he does the same, not wanting to break the unspoken rules of the toast; his ancestors would roll in their graves.

The liquid burns his throat almost instantly, the familiar warmth of alcohol settling into his body. It’s strong, powerful, but there’s a recognizable hint of plum and almonds that's comforting to him.

He can’t help a discreet, fond smile as your face scrunches from the sharp taste.

“I-I don't think I've ever had that before,” you cough out, your eyes slightly watery. It's endearing that no matter how much you drink, you never seem to build a tolerance to the sting of strong spirits.

“Slivovice. Plum brandy. The homemade ones are noticeably sharper than what they sell in stores here. Although… perhaps not as legal.”

You let out an amused cough, wiping away any tears before they get the chance to fall, smudging your mascara even more. But you're still smiling at him, decided, bold, never letting yourself be defeated by anything. It's like he's falling for you all over again in that single moment, outside of time and space.

Even in his darkest moments, when all else crumbles, you remain the unwavering light he can always find in the sky.

“I am a little surprised you remembered how to say that,” he admits softly.

What he had meant as a compliment seems to come off as a reproach in your eyes, and the smile falls, ending the magic of the instant.

“It may not always look like it, but I listen to you, Viktor,” you mumble, hurt. “I'm not an idiot, either.”

“I did not mean to imply-” he protests, but the words die in his throat. He opens his mouth by reflex, before closing it again; the sentence lingers incomplete in the air.

“…Why did you hang up?”

Here it is.

“Ah, so we're jumping into the questioning already. Alright,” he sighs. He chooses to stare at the bottom of his empty glass to avoid seeing your reaction. It's pitiful, but it'll spare him some of the pain and embarrassment. “I did not want to listen to what you would say, this once. I was scared if I heard your answer, it would all be real. Unchangeable.”

Change. Viktor had never been scared of the concept before. Change means something new, passing from one state to another, an evolution. It means progress. Nothing could ever be as gratifying, as glorious, as making the changes you want to see in the world.

But he didn't want you to change. He wanted you to stay just as you are, always excitedly talkative and brilliantly observant. Always shinning. A star brighter than any other, that could never fade no matter how the world treated her.

Revealing his feelings for you would have put that in harm’s way. You might think he had never truly been interested in your conversations, in all those ideas and words you feel so self-conscious about, and lose the trust you had in him as a friend.

He couldn't take that risk.

“So… you avoided me for two weeks ?” you scoff in disbelief.

He lets out a short, bitter laugh:

“I would have attempted longer if you did not break into my apartment.”

The poor attempt at a joke doesn't seem to land very well with either of you. The atmosphere feels still and heavy, the strange tension palpable.

“Ok,” you exhale, leaning your head back against the back of the couch. “You can ask me a question now.”

He glances at you in surprise:

“A question? Why?”

“So it's equal. I ask you one, you ask me one,” you explain simply, like it's the most basic rule of conversation in the world. “I haven't been attentive to what you were trying to tell me, for a long time. I need to change that.”

He hesitates for a second. There's a lot he wants to ask you. Had things been different, would you ever have considered him as someone you could fall for? If he could change the timing, the place, the words, would anything have made it so you could have loved him?

“You read people so easily,” he almost whispers. “I always assumed you knew how felt for you, but were too nice to tell me off. That you did not want to break what we had.”

It’s time. It's time for change. There is no other choice than to move forward. He continues:

“I am… sorry that I fell in love with you.”

Ah…

The weight seems slightly lighter on his chest. It's not a good feeling, exactly, but there's a certain peace that comes with finally having said it.

The expression on your face is yet again one he doesn't recognize.

“I'm not. I’m not sorry, Viktor,” you breathe out, hardly any louder than his respiration.

Your hand touches his, just barely, and he flinches, pulling away. But you refuse to back off. You reach for him again, your fingers timidly touching his own.

“Maybe I did know, in a way,” you reflect, a single digit moving across his knuckles, the ghost of a caress, “but I wouldn't let myself believe it. I didn't want to lose the only person I’ve ever felt wanted to listen to me. So… I stopped listening to my instincts, I guess.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

“I talk all the goddamn time and I don't even listen to myself.”

He turns his hand around, letting your index trace the lines of his palm instead.

“A fortune teller who can't read her own cards,” he teases gently. “Ironic.”

You scoff with a smile; your fingers intertwine, tentative.

“You're one to talk, asshole,” you huff playfully, “the big smart professor who can't figure out when someone is in love with him.”

His heart stops beating in his chest.

“Ah. You... you lo-” he stops himself before finishing his sentence, scared of pronouncing the word. He takes a shaky breath before he attempts again: “You feel the same way I…?”

He leaves the question open. He's still hesitant to make it real. Of saying the words that'll shift things. Because damn it, yes, Viktor is scared of change when it comes to you.

“I’m in love with you, Viktor,” you smile, like it's the most natural thing in the world. “Did the part where I broke into your apartment just to talk to you not give that away?”

What a strange feeling. He's dreamed of hearing those words from your mouth for so long, never believing they would, and yet it feels so right. As if you had told him a thousand times before this moment.

Maybe you had, in your own way.

He squeezes your hand, the sensation of your skin against his making it all feel impossibly real.

“I suppose we're both idiots,” he sighs gently, eyes locking into yours. “The blind oracle, and the clueless teacher. What a dynamic duo we make.”

Your forehead meets his, your nose just barely tickling his.

“I'd say we make a good duo. You and me,” you grin. You're so close he can feel the warmth of your breath on his lips. He smiles.

“I'd say so as well.”

Taglist Darlings ❤️ : @soniiyi , @mischievous-piltovan , @just1cefor4ll , @luv-urself-first, @girlidkthinkofsmth , @starflesh-moth , @raynoway, @vyshnevaka , @ash-84321 , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx

[sayruq]

Hello , I hope you’re doing well 🫶🏻

Me and my family need your help to survive from genocide in gaza,here our goFundMe link just read our story and help us if you can or just share it, we appreciated everything you would do.

https://gofund.me/38cab03b

Hello, I'm Khader Abu Sha'ban, and I'm 20 years old, I have a twin brother his name is Ragheb, and we are from Gaza City, We started the second year of our degree (designing and programming mobile applications). We live with a family of 9 members, they are all educated and have university degrees in the fields of engineering, programming, information security, administration, and law, We are the youngest in the family and we are the only ones who are still learning and we didn't end our degree yet.

Don't forget our beautiful cat - Kelwa – whom we consider a family member and we adopted him during the war when he was homeless in the street, however, he filled our lives with joy.

Before October 7th, Our life was full of goals, ambitions, and hope. and because we are identical twins I and my brother share everything in life and we have the same hobbies, actually we have the same life So we practice sports such as football, table tennis, and basketball and we are professionals in video games. we spend our time learning English next to our university education in the field where we found our passion which is Programming, and we have a small online store (Candles Store) to sell candles that we manually made. We have a goal to finish our university life as fast as we can to join the labor market of IT and open our startup company for techniques and applications with the great passion that we already have. this dream is growing day by day, but because of the war and the current circumstances, the dream started to fade, during the war educational institutions and Universities were destroyed in Gaza and the study was arrested. during the previous 8 months we have been unable to complete our education and estimates indicate that restoration of university status in Gaza will take time and may exceed years. The war came and destroyed our lives, our dreams, and our souls, My family did not decide to displacement to the south, despite all the suffering we had passed during this period and we decided to stay at home and not leave the beautiful memories, the idea of displacement to south and go to an unknown place that we don't have any relatives there was the most difficult for us to leave everything and not return back, so the decision was steadfast, non-displacement and patience on the suffering, but the war has been partially damaged our house because of targeting the house next to us, and damaged our beautiful memories and become ineffective to live, but thank God no one of my family has been hurt. The house went and we lost a lot of our beloveds (14 members of my cousins) and witnessed a lot of suffering in Gaza we were forced to internally-displacement east and west more than 5 times and it was very difficult to escape under the shelling at night and under The voices of aircraft and bombing and moving from a non-safe place to another non-safe place and don't forget the starvation that we still live in northern Gaza and dumping bombs, rockets and insecure until life became black for us. We won't forget the night of December 18th, when we lived the most terrifying night in our lives when we woke up at night to the voices of bombs and shells of nearby tanks and the glass and shrapnel on us, and I do not forget the voices of crying and the sounds of the SOS and we are unable to move even unable to breathe because of the hole of the smoke bombs that have thrown on us, I swear the horror of this night will accompany me to the last day My life. The horror of this night is repeated daily and there is no end and life has already black for us, after all this suffering we have reached a plan to rebuild the rest of our lives again elsewhere after we lost our house and members of my family as well as we lost the source income of my family this led us to seek help through this campaign, the raised funds will cover travel expenses for 9 people outside Gaza (where the travel coordination costing $ 5,000 per person) and $ 5,000 for addition costs for initial stability Abroad and $ 5000 initial amount to complete the study abroad for me and my brother. If the situation improves in Gaza we will use funds to restore our house and complete our education in Gaza or abroad, according to appropriate conditions.

These brothers have been raising funds since May and they've only received €678 so far. Please share and donate. Help save lives !!!!!!!

[lovelytsunoda]

uptown girl // mickey "fanboy" garcia

soft kisses shared in the bar light after a game of pool

she would do anything for her nerd boy. except maybe meet his friends in a crowded bar with a pool table where she can make a fool of herself in front of all of her boyfriend's friends. it's a good thing that mickey is a good teacher.

pairing: mickey "fanboy" garcia x female! reader

author's note: he had like four lines and i was prepared to go to war for this man.

the hard deck hummed with activity as she parked her car, flicking off the manual headlights before glancing at her phone, which was pinned to it's magnetic holder on the dashboard.

it wasn't too late to text mickey and tell him something had come up, was it?

as she was thinking it, as if mickey could hear her, her phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a text message from her beloved.

mickey: hey sweet girl, are you almost here? everyone is so excited to meet you!

she sighed, switching the music off and cutting the engine, sitting in the dark car and waiting for the heated seat to lose its warmth. her relationship with mickey garcia was still very new.

they had only been together for a few months, having met at an eighties rock-and-glow dance night. she was standing by the stage, dressed in skinny jeans and a white t-shirt that glowed fluorescent in the blacklight, an old-timey glass sprite bottle in her hands as she sang bonnie tyler at the top of her lungs. he was the best dancer there, with a goofy personality that captivated her from the moment he grabbed her hand and pulled her into a slow dance to 'heaven in your eyes'.

deciding to rip the band-aid off, she grabbed her tote bag from the passenger seat and slipped out of the car, sea breeze cutting deep and sending a chill down her spine as she walked up the weathered steps to fightertown's navy bar.

her sweet boy was impossible to miss, his smile lighting up the whole bar as he stood next to the pool table, his short-sleeved button shirt untucked from his crisp blue jeans.

as nervous as she was, it was hard not to smile when she saw him, watching as he leaned over the table to delicately knock a striped ball into one of the pockets in the corner of the table. after the shot, he looked up, and infectious grin breaking out over his face when he saw her.

"hey, pretty girl." he beamed, passing his pool cue to a woman in a black turtleneck and jeans before he sidestepped the table and pulled his lover into an embrace. "i'm glad you came."

"hi, mickey." she smiled, kissing him softly. "i've missed you."

"are you ready to meet everyone? or do you want something to eat first? i can order you a plate of onion rings-"

she laughed softly, taking his hand in hers. she loved how attentive and sweet he was, always trying to dote on her whenever he could. when they were together, he hated letting her pay for things, even if it meant dipping into his not-enormous navy salary "mickey, it's okay. i have time to meet your friends before i order."

with a soft kiss to the side of her head, mickey looped his arm around her shoulders and they headed towards the pool table. "guys, this is y/n. my girlfriend."

she underestimated how much her heart would swell at hearing mickey say those words. hearing someone declare to the world that they had chosen her.

"y/n, this is natasha, jake, robert, bradley, hallie and javy."

"hello!" she squeaked, waving at the group. "nice to finally meet you guys, mickey has told me so much about you guys."

robert laughed, reaching out to shake her hand. "and mickey has told us even more about you. fanboy loves to talk."

she never though she'd meet someone who talked as much as she did until she met mickey. they could talk for hours, about anything and everything. when they were together, she suspected it would drive the people around them insane. except she didn't know how his friends would react, what they would think of her.

they made small talk for a little, while some of the guys and natasha all took their turns at the pool table. it was team game, although the teams seemed to be a little unbalanced in terms of skill level. mickey had pulled her into his lap, gently rubbing circles on the skin underneath her peasant top.

jake leaned over the table, his pool cue hitting the white ball, white harmlessly dusted the side of the ball he was aiming for, plunking down in the basket.

"god damn it, hangman!" javy groaned

natasha laughed, high-fiving bradley. "sucks to suck, bagman!"

mickey shifted in his chair, hands running up her sides. "our turn, pretty girl. do you want to try?"

she turned back to him, a small glint of panic in her eyes as she took his hand in hers. "i'm not very good."

bradley snorted, taking a sip of his budweiser. "we're miles ahead of hangman, you could break the table and we'd still be ahead of them."

"go on." mickey encouraged, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder blade. "i'll guide you."

she stood up, still clutching his hand in hers as she moved towards the pool table. hallie passed her a pool cue, and she stood nervously by the table until mickey came up behind her. his hands were warm through her jeans, his back against hers as he guided her into the correct position.

"you got this, sweet girl." he said quietly, kissing the side of her head gently, his hands over hers on the cue. "it's a straight shot into the basket."

mickey stepped back, his hands still on her waist as she took the shot, hitting with just enough force for the white ball to send the orange solid ball into the basket.

one fell swoop.

mickey's side of the pool table started to cheer, and her cheeks flushed pink as she turned around to wrap her arms around mickey, hiding her face from the crowd.

"great job, my darling girl." mickey laughed, kissing her softly. "are you sure you haven't played pool before."

"my grandfather had a table in his basement." she said sheepishly, leaning the cue against the table to she could slip her hands into mickey's back pockets. "but i haven't played a proper game since I was twelve. he sold the table when they sold the house."

"maybe you'll have to play more often." mickey said, leaning in to kiss her softly. "i love you."

"i love you too."

@magnummagnussen @libraryofloveletters @thatsdemko @lorarri @sidcrosbyspuck @cartierre @httpiastri

[sashaisready]

This Must Be The Place: Chapter 15 - Hit me on the head

Biker!Bucky x Femme Reader

Back at your beloved late grandmother's home to pack up her house, you have a run-in with the town's biker gang 'The Howling Commandos' and find yourself entangled with the metal armed President.

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Nothing I don't think? Some angst!

Hi again! Sorry a bit of a shorter chapter as the next one is quite long and I'm still fiddling around with the dialogue. Also...sorry for making Peter Q the bad guy...I don't know why that happens often in my fics hehe.

You sat in the car considering your options. Too far to walk home, especially at night by yourself. Too far to walk back to Peter’s – not that you’d want to, anyway. God, no.

You caught yourself replaying the events of what had happened with him and screwed your eyes shut. Not now. Leave that in a box for the time being, concentrate on getting home first.

You tried to pull up a mental map of the area in your mind, but you didn’t really know it well enough beyond the way back to Granny’s place and the fuzzy outline of everything else. You were pretty sure there was a gas station not too far from here that would surely let you call a tow or Wanda, but you weren’t sure of the exact direction it was in, and you didn’t want to set off the wrong way in the dark by yourself.

You got out of the car and popped the hood, trying to use the dim light of the nearby streetlamp to illuminate the inside. You attempted to fiddle with a few things, but the poor visibility and your limited knowledge of engines meant you didn’t get far. Everything ‘looked’ as it should…in the dark at least...so you sighed heavily as you admitted defeat and slumped back inside.

After running through every possibility, including hitchhiking (too murdery) and trying to push Sally a little to see if that nudged the engine (too superheroy), you got out of the car briefly and wandered down the road in both directions to see if you could find any signs of life – but there was only the occasional car in the distance, too far away to notice you, and the sounds of the interstate nearby.

Sally’s digital radio said it was 11pm and you accepted the best option you had was to camp out here for the night, then regroup when the sun came up. You would set off to find the gas station, maybe try flag a passing car to use their phone. It wasn’t ideal, but it was all you had.

Fortunately, you had a blanket and old hoody stashed in the trunk, so you splayed across the backseat and attempted to get yourself as comfortable as you could. You kicked off your heels and wrapped yourself up. You laid in the dark, stifling a derisive chuckle as you thought about how ridiculous this all was. Your body already pulsed from the discomfort of your position and the dinner from earlier felt heavy and acidic in your stomach. But you did your best to ignore it all, closing your eyes and hoping to catch at least a few hours of sleep.

*

You must’ve somehow drifted off as sometime later you were awoken by something. Your eyes blearily focused as your initial confusion cleared and you grimly remembered where you were. You couldn’t see the car’s clock from this angle, clueless as to what time it was.

You heard a noise, a loud hum that seemed to be getting closer. That must’ve been what woke you.

You sat up, groaning at the stiffness of your limbs as you wiped the condensation from the back passenger window and peered outside – finding nothing but darkness. It was still nighttime, you leaned over the seat and saw on the radio it was a little after midnight.

The humming noise was getting louder and louder, it sounded like a lawn mower…or a chainsaw. You couldn’t make sense of it. It felt familiar but you couldn’t place it in your sleepy haze. Groggily, you pressed your face to the glass as your brain caught up.

You saw it then, the bright light that illuminated the road and Sally as the noise became deafening, and you suddenly understood.

A headlight.

A motorcycle.

The bike came to a sudden stop in front of the car and the noise ceased, causing you to sit up sharply and check the doors were locked. You unsteadily shrank back under the blanket as a figure approached the car. Was that…?

“Sugar?” called the voice as the figure moved around the car, muffled through the window glass but still unmistakeable. “Is that you?”

“B-Bucky?” you croaked in surprise as he came into view, squinting as he shined his phone torch through the windows at you.

Relief flooded you as you saw him lean over and squint as he looked in, his face concerned and confused.

Thank God for that!

But your feeling of respite soured as embarrassment surged. As grateful as you were…why did it have to be him of all people? Even another member of the MC would’ve been fine, although you knew beggars couldn’t be choosers. You were still furious with him, still wounded by his earlier betrayal, and now here you were – intensely vulnerable and desperate for his help. You hated that he would now have this over you, that you had no choice but to lean on him.

But you did have a choice, even if it wasn’t the right one.

He knocked on the window, “Sugar? I was just passing saw Sally parked up. What’s going on? Are you alright? Did you break down?”

You turned away, mortified.

“Sug? Open up. I can help”.

“No…” you said quietly.

“What?”

“No!” you snapped, loud enough for him to hear. “Leave me alone, Bucky. I don’t want your help…”

“Sug…”

“No!” you shouted again, unable to stop the tears from falling. “I said no! I’d rather take my chances by myself”, your voice was shaky.

You knew you were being wholly unreasonable. But you couldn’t help it. After the night you’d had, how tired you were, you simply didn’t have the bandwidth to add him to the mix and ‘owe’ him this favour.

“You’re being ridiculous…this is stubborn even for you,” he chastised, “C’mon. You’re sleeping in your car on the side of a road miles from home, for fuck’s sake. Just open up. And what’s happened to your face…?” He paused, softening as he watched you through the glass, “Look…it’s not safe out here, let me help you”.

You frowned at his admonishment despite knowing he was right. You could go home! Help was right there! You were being a stubborn baby! You were drowning at sea, and someone had thrown you a life preserver!

But why did it have to be that person who found you, of all the 7.9 billion human beings on the planet?

Even in your worked up state you knew full well you were acting insanely, logic was not winning out.

“No! I’m still mad at you, and I’m always gonna be mad at you…” you scoffed childishly.

He exhaled in frustration, pressing his hand against the glass as he looked at you defeatedly. “Sug…”

You turned away from him fully, burying yourself under the blanket and trying to stifle your sobs.

“Okay…” he sighed, “Have it your way”.

You laid perfectly still, keeping your eyes shut and hoping to somehow skip all of this and get straight to morning. After a few minutes you peeked out, but Bucky was gone. You weren’t sure why you felt a faint glimmer of disappointment, as he’d done exactly what you asked him to, but today wasn’t a day of rational emotions. Thankfully, tomorrow would bring a new day. Maybe you’d be a little more sane by then.

Your eyelids weighed heavily as you settled back across the seats, and rest finally came.

[drivinmeinsane]

Stranded : 12 Days of Goosemas

Day Two ❆ Driver / Reader

{12 Days of Goosemas 2024 Masterlist} ※ {Regular Masterlist} ※ {ao3}

❆ Summary: A little car trouble gives you and Driver a moment alone before you visit your family for the holidays. ❆ Rating: No mature content. ❆ Content/Tags: domesticity, holiday travel, fluff, no use of Y/N ❆ Word Count: 1551 ❆ Author's Note: Pulling so much overtime at work kicked my ass in December and is still kicking it with no end of these 70+ hour weeks in sight, but I'm sure we can muster up a little seasonal coziness in January for some overdue Goosemas prompt fills. 🤞

Your eyes are like starlig-

“Nope,” you mutter under your breath and twist at the knob to change the station—abruptly cutting off yet another Christmas song crooning over the old speakers.

Much to your chagrin, the Malibu is too old for a CD player by about a decade, leaving you at the mercy of whatever radio stations Driver’s beloved ‘73 can pick up through its warped antenna. In a bid for sanity, you have made a game out of dodging all the holiday tunes that have floated across the airwaves. Working a shitty job during December is enough to make almost anyone want to leap out of a moving vehicle at the first jingle of bells.

Your dramatic reactions and desperate lunges at the dial have coaxed a few lopsided smiles out of Driver as he takes you up north for your annual family gathering for the season. The mechanic’s presence behind the wheel is a welcome comfort. Even more welcome is the hand resting on your thigh. Each movement of his thumb back and forth over your clothed skin softens the tense lines of your back until you’re tucked into your seat like it’s a comfortable armchair.

The peace is shattered when the car starts jerking—stuttering like an old woman in her death throes. Driver pulls his previously relaxed hand off your thigh and drops it onto the stick. You don’t have time to do more than let out a startled gasp at the sudden jostling. He ignores your surprise as he shifts down in gear, struggling to keep the wheel steady. The Chevy bucks against his efforts, fighting him with every rotation of her tires.

Driver takes to the shoulder. The action forces the vehicle’s momentum to slow as the wheels catch on the snow that has been pushed to the side of the road by the snowplows that have been working since before the rise of the sun to make the miles upon miles of pavement traversable.

You barely hear him let out a frustrated exhale of air while the car idles roughly in park before he kills the engine. The resulting silence is loud without the crackle of the old radio and the persistent hum of the engine. Driver leans down and fiddles with the loose wires hanging down underneath the steering column. He’s talked about getting a lower dash panel, but still hasn’t found one that will properly fit.

Eventually, the sound of the hood popping free from its latch reaches your ears through the solid body and glass of the car.

Without a word, Driver pushes the keys to the Malibu into your hand for safekeeping. The rabbit’s foot is soft in your palm. He’s giving you his luck.

The wind that darts into the car after he opens the door is cold enough to bite at you through your layers. Despite her state of constant repair and modification, the vehicle does have a good heater and you already miss it. You tug your coat tighter around yourself.

You wince in sympathy while you watch the mechanic round the front of his car. He always runs cold, layering up even in the heat of the West Coast. You’re surprised that you can’t see him shivering in his jackets through the rapidly fogging windshield.

While he works, you pull out your phone out of your pocket and flip it open with a satisfying click of the hinges. No bars. The signal doesn’t improve upon extending the antenna.

“Shit,” you groan, putting the phone away.

A faint sense of worry starts worming its way into your mind. If Driver can’t fix whatever problem has the old car acting up, it’s going to be a long wait until either someone else comes along or your family sends out the cavalry hours after the two of you were due to arrive.

In the effort to dispel your growing concern, you pop open the glove compartment and poke through the items. The space is mostly empty. There is the insurance information, an unopened air freshener, and a chipped screwdriver. Some takeout menus… a map and a pen. There is nothing of note to be found, nothing that screams personal value or sentimentality.

Would it kill this man to allow himself a little clutter?

Movement catches your eye and you startle into shutting the compartment as you see a flicker of your partner dropping to his knees in the snow in front of the vehicle. He falls completely out of sight. You unbuckle your seat belt and open the door with a creak that makes your jaw clench with the sheer volume of the sound in the snow-muffled quietness.

“How’s it going?”

Driver has worked himself underneath the front of the car, you realize as you move to stand by one of the headlights. You pass concerned eyes over him from the thighs down. Snow and asphalt salt are doing their best to soak into his clothes.

“Complicated.”

Dropping into a squat beside him, you wobble slightly on the uneven surface and steady yourself by grabbing his knee. He doesn’t startle at the unexpected touch. The two of you are long past any wariness.

“Want any help?”

“Toolbag, please,” comes the reply. You have to strain to hear him over the wind.

Easy enough, you decide and stand up to inch your way around the car. You lean against the cold metal to keep from slipping and making Driver drag you back up the embankment should you slide right off the road’s shoulder.

You twist the key in the lock of the trunk and pull out the heavy bag once the lid opens. It feels as though he has crammed the entire contents of a mechanic’s shop inside the confines of the bulging leather.

The bag lands with a thud when you complete the slightly perilous journey back to Driver’s side. It nudges against his leg. Before you can ask what he needs from it, his hand shoots out and he fishes out a tool by touch alone before withdrawing the appendage back out of sight. Clanking noises and the scraping of metal against metal ensue for just a moment.

He emerges from underneath the Malibu, holding onto a metal cylinder. His hair is mussed and your eyes drift and latch onto the band of his bare stomach from where his jackets have rucked up. The skin turns a pretty pink in the cold, triggering him to shove the thick material down with chilled hands. He rolls onto his knees and picks up the tool bag as he rises to his feet with a crunch of salt and snow.

“Go sit. Just need to clean this out,” he says, slightly raising the object he’s holding. It looks like something pulled out of a pile of scrap in junkyard,

“What’s that?,” you ask. You’re already opening the passenger side door, not needing to be told twice to get out of the air so frigid that your breath steams with every release of your lungs.

“Fuel cylinder.”

“Cool.” What he said means absolutely nothing to you. As you smile at the mechanic, you make a mental note to ask him for details. It’ll be worth it to see him get that soft sparkle in those blue eyes and actually talk.

The leather has cooled slightly in your brief absence. Settling into the seat is a process of suppressed hisses at the temperature and the relief of being out of the wind. It’s not long before Driver is throwing himself back behind the wheel and tossing a clean rag onto the dashboard followed by a less grimy looking part. It’s streaked with moisture from where it was hastily scrubbed with snow and wiped off.

‘’s cold,” he says, close to complaining as he ever gets. “How ‘bout your family moves somewhere warmer?”

You laugh. “They like it up here, besides, if they did, I would have less opportunities to do this…”

His questioning look turns into the widened eyes of mild outrage as you lean over the gear shift and put one cold hand under the hems of his layered clothing to press it against the warm expanse of his stomach. He exhales, sharp, catching your wrist in one large hand. He makes no effort to actually end the contact. His fingers are even icier than yours.

“Might as well get the other one over here,” he says, dry.

You take him up on his suggestion and proceed to work your left hand higher up on his body than your captured right. The winter sunlight is strong enough through the windows that the fine trail of hair on his abdomen lights up gold.

“You should probably warm yours up too,” you remark, leaning over even further.

Driver meets you in the middle with an eager kiss. His free hand skates over your coat, fingers seeking the edge of the garment to find your heat of your bare flesh. You hum appreciatively into his mouth at his efforts. You won’t be able to touch him as much as you’d like around your family without raising some eyebrows and being that couple. It would be a shame to not make the most out of your time while you wait for the cylinder to dry.

<- previous day // next day ->

[mercurygray]

Trying NOT to be obvious and ask for something with Diana (beloved) again, so how about a new girl - Freda, with "Cloying sweetness on the back of your tongue" from the Sensory Prompts, please?

And she thought she was supposed to be the welcome wagon.

"Miss Fred, Miss Fred!" Two small boys came running up to meet her jeep, waiting at a respectful and safe distance until she'd turned the engine off and gotten her box out of the back. She was on the lunch run today, and the turkey and cheese sandwiches weren't going to keep if she left them out in the sun too long.

"Well, hey there, Adam. George. What's doing?"

"Have you got any extra doughnuts today, Miss Fred?"

Fred shrugged theatrically, setting the heavy box-tray down at her feet. "'Fraid I don't, fellas. But I do have these cookies - er, biscuits - the mess hall just finished making. I was bringing them for Ken and the crew but I might have a couple extra. How do you feel about chocolate chips?"

You could have knocked the boys over with a feather. "Chocolate CHIPS?? You make biscuits with chips in 'em, Miss Fred?"

"How do you get the chips to taste like chocolate? I think my mum needs that."

Fred cycled through a a moment of brief confusion until she realized the mistake. Chips…crisps…fries…oh.

"What, you fellas ain't ever had chocolate chips before?" Ken asked, coming out from underneath the engine with a grin on his face. "You're missing out. Are those all for me, Miss Fred?"

Freda passed over the container to Ken, who made a big show of opening it and investigating what was inside while the two boys looked on, still absolutely sold on the idea of cookies that somehow managed to have fried potato inside.

"Maybe if you're real nice to Mr Lemmons he'll share," Fred suggested, holding in a smile.

"Naw, I don't think so," Ken said, hamming along for the sake of the joke. "I think me and Wink and the boys are gonna eat 'em all ourselves."

"Yep," Wink said, nodding very seriously. "Takes a lot of cookies to keep one of these things flying, you know."

Ken made a noise and suddenly drew his hand out of the box like he'd been burned. "Oh, darn. Would you look at that. This one's broken. Definitely can't eat that now, Wink, it's spoiled."

Up went the waiting hands, the two boys practically bouncing in place. "We want it! We want it!"

"Are you sure?" Lemmons looked the both of them over with a skeptical look. "Eating broken cookies can be dangerous."

"We love danger!" George said, loud enough for the both of them.

"Well, all right," Ken said, like he thought he might regret this, carefully picking up the broken cookie like he was handling broken glass and gently depositing it into Adam's outstretched hands. "Looks like this one's broke, too, George. 'Fraid you're gonna need to take both."

Both boys bit down hard, chewing carefully to investigate. Adam frowned. "Why, this is just bits of chocolate."

"Well, that's what Miss Fred said, isn't it?" Lemmons replied, clearly enjoying himself. "Chocolate chips?"

"Ohhhhhh." The light finally went on, and the boys giggled, still eating their cookies with glee.

"Chalk one up for American English," Fred said, watching the two boys run off through the tall grass.

"I don't care what anyone says, those are still fries where I'm from," Wink declared, pulling another half a cookie out of the box in Lemmons' hands and chowing down. "Thanks for the grub, Fred!"

"You're really good with 'em," Fred said to Lemmons, sitting down on the tarmac in the shade of the wing and watching as the rest of the crew ambled over for the sandwiches and apples, pulling handkerchiefs out of pockets to wipe off oily hands. "The kids, I mean. Some guys wouldn't take the time." How many 19 year olds would stop and play with their kid brother of ten?

"Helps, you know? Keeping it all in perspective. And I figure, if you make 'em listen here, if you really need to keep 'em out of trouble they'll listen later, too. Might even learn something." Lemmons nodded, mostly to himself. Ken Lemmons, you're a wise man and a scholar. "You eaten yet?"

She smiled and shook her head, taking the cookie he offered and biting down slowly, the chocolate cloying and sweet on the back of her tongue, still just the tiniest bit warm and gooey. Shortage of sweet things in this world at the moment. I'm glad human kindness isn't one.

--

Freda is one of my many OCs - if you liked her here, you can read more about her at her tag on my blog! More of my writing, and more OCs, are found at the mercurygraypresents tag.

[dirty-bosmer]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by my very kind and talented friends @skyrim-forever @elavoria @kookaburra1701 @ladytanithia @lucien-lachance @mareenavee @thequeenofthewinter

Tagging: @atypicalacademic @justafoxhound @paraparadigm @gilgamish @rainpebble3 @throughtrialbyfire @orfeoarte @sylvienerevarine @wispstalk @nuwanders @miraakulous-cloud-district @sheirukitriesfandom (tagging you for the new week heh) @flymmcargo

From Chapter 3 of Slither and Writhe. Sorry this one ended up being kinda long, but I really wanted to get to the necromancy bit cause necromancy 😈 I have thoughts (thots) on it

The sigh that left Fathis was as weathered as a cliff face and mantled in as much dust as the specimen jars lining his shelves. It was the only sign of his true age beneath all that sorcery and elven blood, for truly no creature’s sigh could carry as much weight as that of a tired old man’s.

“So,” he said, a brow arched expectantly as he settled back into the chair. The leather squeaked as he shifted, and he lifted his glass to his lips, drinking down the sujamma with as much ease as spring water. Sylawen resisted the urge to wince. “Care to explain what you were doing outside my tower looking like a scamp dragged you in by the heels?”

“Not if it can be avoided.”

“Does your mother know that you’re here?”

“Well…” She attempted an innocent grin. Somehow, they always failed her.

 “Sylawen.”

“What? Why must she know? Perhaps I only wanted to stop by and say hello. I have two legs and a modest sense of direction, and really you should be happy anyone comes by these days. Place is an absolute dump.” 

Fathis hummed out a little chuckle, wagging his finger at her all the while. “Don’t think it’s not abundantly clear to me you’ve run off again. This must be, what, the fourth time this year? I thought the long summer of travelling was meant to dull that wanderlust.”

“Ugh, you and my mother both act like it’s an affliction. As if I’m some stupid dog hellbent on running headlong into a carriage.” Sylawen snorted, and Fathis tipped his head toward her, gave her one of those looks that made her feel as if she were bound by vellum instead of her own skin. “Well, I didn’t realize returning home meant I’d agreed to wear a leash.” 

“You slipped the collar on yourself, my dear.”

Sylawen’s stomach knotted. She tried to laugh it off, but there was too much scorn still lingering in her voice, and its echo scorched red at her ears. She could feel her smile beginning to quiver and swirled her sujamma in another circle. The whirlpool within looked suddenly inviting. 

“Another accident, was it?”

“Don’t say ‘accident,’ Fathis. I knew perfectly well what I was doing.”

“That’s what every young mage says before they blow the roof of their house.”

“Please,” Sylawen sneered. “That’s so rich coming from you. You and my mother and that blasted disciplinary board at the University, all wanting to act as if their entire beloved campus isn’t powered by necromancy. Every glittering little ring on their fingers, every augmented sword at their side. The marvelous feat of Dwemer engineering cooling the very room we sit in! Why, every one of the soul-gems that breathed magic into these enchantments is fueled by the life force of another being, and here you are scolding me about—”

“B’vhek, I wasn’t scolding you, Sylawen,” Fathis said very gently, a bit patronizingly even, but Fathis had an air about him that always made her feel as if she’d rightfully earned the reproach. Rude bastard. She looked away, cheeks aflame. “You forget where I’m from. The disciplinary board would shit their robes if they knew what I did behind Telvanni doors when I was merely a boy. Now enough whining. Come on. Finish your drink and let’s get you cleaned up. Seriously, I’m impressed. Just what hole did you crawl out of? I’ve seen cleaner Kwama in my days.” 

Sylawen slouched. “I wasn’t whining.”

“Up! Out! To the bath with you, and don’t forget to use soap!”

“Dibella’s grace, I’m not a barbarian. Of course. I’ll use soap.”

“And I really should let your mother know that you’re safe. I’m sure she’s absolutely frantic.”

Sylawen rolled her eyes. The note of paternal severity that he’d suddenly adopted never quite fit him, and she wondered what he was like when Savos was young, if he kept his grip on the leash as loose as her time with Savos had led her to believe. Of course, Savos never had to deal with his parents breathing down his neck. Then again, having heard the rumors of what was going on in Winterhold, perhaps somebody somewhere should be.

[salami-dono]

Meme time!! I replaced most of the images from the original. Dr. Jester comes from a strange mix of Archie, Sonic X and game canon. There are so many characters he hasn't met.

I think some of these relationships need more context.

Sonic - His loathsome nephew, potentially. (Prerequisite: Chuckster marriage. 😹) As for curiosity, he knew about Sonic and his extraordinary feats before facing him in battle. This curiosity came with a twinge of fear. He feared the kind of power it was said Sonic could tap into. He simply had to witness it firsthand! And he did.

Unbeknownst to him, he almost killed Sonic in their real first meeting by tossing him and Neon into a lake. Ah, almost.

Tails - Respects his skills as an engineer and his ability to outwit Eggman. Dr. Jester captured him the first time they met. He's Sonic's brother, so technically he should see him as family too. Loathsome nephew #2.

Shadow - Yes, Dr. Jester knew Shadow. Hypothetically, if Shadow came to Dr. Jester claiming to be Eggman's android, Dr. Jester would then respond by giving him a nice gash across the abdomen. Androids don't bleed. But Shadow died so that will never happen. (He doesn't know he's still alive.)

Rouge - Friendly rivalry. They met before the events of SA2. I very much wanted to mark Rouge as a friend but neither can trust the other. Dr. Jester expects betrayal. He still likes her. She has style. And guess what? They both love pretty rocks!

Charmy - A bee that looks like Kandy! And he's alive?! How curious!

Eggman - He feels every emotion for Eggman.

Sir Charles/Uncle Chuck - No notes, just Chuckster!

Dmitri - This relationship is intense but not romantic. I just really like the red circle. It's eye-catching. They're physically affectionate, which might sound odd considering Dmitri is only a cyborg head encased in a glass orb. He does have bionic tendrils though! I call this ship Jestri.

Metal Sonic - Never met. I'm very sad to admit that. Dr. Jester would tease Eggman about Metal Sonic looking like him. "He looks more like me so he must be my son."

Jules - Never met. Again, Chuckster (their relationship) would have to be serious before Chuck even considers introducing Dr. Jester to his beloved family.

E-123 Omega - Dr. Jester doesn't mind his quest for revenge, as long as Omega will allow him to step aside before he starts blasting Eggman's robots.

Chaos - In my own version of Sonic Adventure, Dr. Jester's Chaos (the one from his world) and the canon Chaos became one. A Chaos-Chaos. My Chaos had control of the body first and lost control by Chaos 4. One Chaos was driven by hatred, the other by fear. Dr. Jester wanted nothing to do with them. He skipped the final showdown.

Thank you for reading!

🦔💎🏳️‍🌈

I thought a little more about dear old Uncle Chuck...

In the Archie comics, there were these retcon events that introduced new continuities. In the Post-Super Genesis Wave timeline, Charles is no longer related to Sonic due to SEGA mandates--but he wasn't completely discarded.

I imagine Uncle Chuck would have no memory of Dr. Jester in the new continuity. There would be no Jules, or Dmitri. Dr. Jester would remember what was lost. I could torment myself and my OCs with this sadness. Call it the New Game+!

Nah, I won't do that. It's easier to play along with canon and rewrite some memories.

Dr. Jester cannot lose Charles. Do you understand?

[jambiscuits27]

Hello , I hope you’re doing well 🫶🏻

Me and my family need your help to survive from genocide in gaza,here our goFundMe link just read our story and help us if you can or just share it, we appreciated everything you would do.

https://gofund.me/38cab03b

To anyone who can see this, please donate to Khader’s and Ragheb’s gofundme to help their family !!! Reblog/share if you can’t !!! Every € or share is appreciated !! As of writing this only €723 has been raised out of their €55,000 goal !!!!

Description under cut:

English:

“Hello,

I'm Khader Abu Sha'ban, and I'm 20 years old, I have a twin brother his name is Ragheb, and we are from Gaza City, We started the second year of our degree (designing and programming mobile applications).

We live with a family of 9 members, they are all educated and have university degrees in the fields of engineering, programming, information security, administration, and law, We are the youngest in the family and we are the only ones who are still learning and we didn't end our degree yet.

Don't forget our beautiful cat - Kelwa – whom we consider a family member and we adopted him during the war when he was homeless in the street, however, he filled our lives with joy.

Before October 7th, Our life was full of goals, ambitions, and hope. and because we are identical twins I and my brother share everything in life and we have the same hobbies, actually we have the same life

So we practice sports such as football, table tennis, and basketball and we are professionals in video games. we spend our time learning English next to our university education in the field where we found our passion which is Programming, and we have a small online store (Candles Store) to sell candles that we manually made.

We have a goal to finish our university life as fast as we can to join the labor market of IT and open our startup company for techniques and applications with the great passion that we already have. this dream is growing day by day, but because of the war and the current circumstances, the dream started to fade, during the war educational institutions and Universities were destroyed in Gaza and the study was arrested. during the previous 8 months we have been unable to complete our education and estimates indicate that restoration of university status in Gaza will take time and may exceed years.

The war came and destroyed our lives, our dreams, and our souls, My family did not decide to displacement to the south, despite all the suffering we had passed during this period and we decided to stay at home and not leave the beautiful memories, the idea of displacement to south and go to an unknown place that we don't have any relatives there was the most difficult for us to leave everything and not return back, so the decision was steadfast, non-displacement and patience on the suffering, but the war has been partially damaged our house because of targeting the house next to us, and damaged our beautiful memories and become ineffective to live, but thank God no one of my family has been hurt. The house went and we lost a lot of our beloveds (14 members of my cousins) and witnessed a lot of suffering in Gaza we were forced to internally-displacement east and west more than 5 times and it was very difficult to escape under the shelling at night and under The voices of aircraft and bombing and moving from a non-safe place to another non-safe place and don't forget the starvation that we still live in northern Gaza and dumping bombs, rockets and insecure until life became black for us.

We won't forget the night of December 18th, when we lived the most terrifying night in our lives when we woke up at night to the voices of bombs and shells of nearby tanks and the glass and shrapnel on us, and I do not forget the voices of crying and the sounds of the SOS and we are unable to move even unable to breathe because of the hole of the smoke bombs that have thrown on us, I swear the horror of this night will accompany me to the last day My life.

The horror of this night is repeated daily and there is no end and life has already black for us, after all this suffering we have reached a plan to rebuild the rest of our lives again elsewhere after we lost our house and members of my family as well as we lost the source income of my family this led us to seek help through this campaign, the raised funds will cover travel expenses for 9 people outside Gaza (where the travel coordination costing $ 5,000 per person) and $ 5,000 for addition costs for initial stability Abroad and $ 5000 initial amount to complete the study abroad for me and my brother.

If the situation improves in Gaza we will use funds to restore our house and complete our education in Gaza or abroad, according to appropriate conditions.”

Arabic:

مرحبًا,

أنا خضر أبو شعبان ولدي أخ توأم اسمه راغب، نحن من مدينة غزة وعمرنا 20 عام، كلانا في السنة الثانية من نفس التخصص وهو (تصميم وبرمجة تطبيقات الهواتف الذكية) في الكلية الجامعية للعلوم التطبيقية الواقعة في غزة.

نعيش مع عائلة مكونة من 9 أفراد – أب وأم و 4 أخوة وأختان وزوجة أخ - كلهم متعلمون وحاصلون على شهادات جامعية في مجالات الهندسة والبرمجة وأمن المعلومات و الادارة والقانون, ولا أنسى قطنا الجميل – كيلوا - الذي نعتبره فردًا من أفراد العائلة والذي تم تبنيه خلال الحرب حيث كان بلا مأوى في الشارع والذي أملأ حياتنا بالبهجة.

نحن الأصغر في العائلة ونحن الوحيدان ما زلنا نتعلم ولم ننهي درستنا بعد.

قبل السابع من أكتوبر كانت لدينا حياة مستقرة نسبيًا مليئة بالأهداف و الطموحات و الأمل ولأننا توأم متطابق فأنا و أخي نتشارك كل شيء في الحياة ولنا نفس الميول و الهوايات، فنمارس الرياضات كلعب كرة القدم و تنس الطاولة وكرة السلة ومحترفون بألعاب الفيديو ونشغل وقتنا بتعلم اللغة الإنجليزية بجانب تعليمنا الجامعي في المجال الذي وجدنا شغفنا فيه وهو البرمجة ولدينا متجر لبيع الشموع اونلاين و اسمه (كانديل ستور) لبيع الشموع التي نصنعها يدويًا.

لدينا هدف في هذه الحياة وهو أن ننهي حياتنا الجامعية بأقصر مدة زمنية لنتفرغ لسوق العمل ونفتتح شركتنا الخاصة بالبرمجيات والتقنيات والتطبيقات بالشغف الكبير الذي نكنه لهذا المجال حيث من الصغر ونحن نهوى كتابة الأكواد ونبرمج المواقع ونكتب أكوادًا لتصبح تطبيقات وهذا الحلم يزداد يوماً بعد يوم و لكن بسبب الحرب والظروف الراهنة فهنا بدأ الحلم يتلاشى شيء فشيء حتى أصبح صعب التحقق, حيث خلال فترة الحرب تم تدمير المؤسسات التعليمية في غزة وتم توقيف الدراسة وخلال ال8 أشهر السابقة ونحن معطلون دراسيًا وغير قادرين على استكمال تعليمنا والتقديرات تشير إلى أن استعادة وضع الجامعات في غزة سيأخذ وقت وقد يتجاوز السنوات.

وجاءت الحرب و حطمت كل شيء: حياتنا, أحلامنا, وأرواحنا ، ومع ذلك لم تقرر عائلتي النزوح إلى الجنوب رغم كل المعاناة التى مررنا بها خلال هذه الفترة وفضلنا البقاء في البيت وأن لا نترك الذكريات الجميلة، ففكرة النزوح جنوبًا والذهاب إلى مكان مجهول لا نعرفه ولا اقارب لنا فيه كانت أصعب علينا من ترك كل شيء والرحيل وعدم العودة، فكان القرار الصمود وعدم النزوح والصبر على المشاقة, لكن طالت أمد الحرب وقد تضرر بيتنا المليء بالذكريات الجميلة بسبب استهداف بيت الجيران المجاور لنا وتضرر جزئيًا وأصبح غير قابل للسكن ولكن بحمد الله لم يصاب أحد من عائلتي المصغرة بأي أذى.

ذهب البيت وراحت الذكريات معه وفقدنا الكثير من أحبتنا (14 عزيز من أبناء عمومتي) ورغم ذلك تجاوزنا الكثير من المعاناة كالنزوح داخل مدينة غزة شرقًا وغربًا اكثر من 5 مرات وكان الأمر صعبًا جدًا الهروب تحت القصف في الليل وبالظلام وتحت أصوات الطائرات والقصف والانتقال من مكان غير أمن الى مكان غير امن اخر ولا ننسى المجاعة التي حالت علينا في شمال غزة وإلقاء القنابل والصواريخ و عدم الامان حتى أصبحت الحياة سوداء بالنسبة لنا.

لا ننسى ليلة 18 من ديسمبر حيث عشنا أكثر ليلة مرعبة في حياتنا حيث استيقظنا ليلًا على أصوات القنابل والقذائف من الدبابات القريبة منا وانهار الزجاج والشظايا علينا ونحن نائمون وتم القاء قذائف علينا وعلى الحي الذي نسكن فيه بأكمله حيث لم يبقى بيت واحد في الحي لم ينل نصيبه من القذائف ولا أنسى صوت البكاء وأصوات الاستغاثة ونحن محاصرين عاجزين عن الحركة وحتى عن التنفس من هول القنابل الدخانية التي انهالت علينا اكاد اجزم أن رعب هذه الليلة سيرافقني لأخر يوم في حياتي.

ورعب هذه الليلة يتكرر يوميًا وليس هنالك نهاية وأصبحت الحياة سوداء بالفعل وبعد كل هذه المعاناة توصلنا الى خطة لإعادة بناء ما تبقى من حياتنا من جديد في مكان اخر بعد أن فقدنا منزلنا وأفراد من عائلتي وكذلك فقدنا مصدر دخل عائلتي وهذا دفعنا إلى طلب المساعدة من خلال هذه الحملة حيث ستغطي الأموال التي سيتم تجميعها نفقات السفر ل 9 أفراد خارج غزة - حيث تكلفة تنسيق الخروج من غزة باهظة الثمن وتقدر ب5000$ للفرد الواحد - وبالإضافة الي 5000$ تكاليف أخرى للاستقرار المبدئي بالخارج و 5000$ مبلغ مبدئي لاستكمال الدراسة بالخارج لي ولأخي.

وإذا تحسن الوضع في غزة فسنستخدم الأموال لإعادة ترميم بيتنا واستكمال تعليمنا في الداخل أو بالخارج حسب الظروف المناسبة.

[teeth-and-tea]

Vash!Plant Engineer HdCns Because My Day Job Is ACTUAL Tech Installations

Sup I'm just the local GNC gay tech installer and when someone was like "Vash as a plant engineer!!!" I loved it because this is something I can ACTUALLY contribute to. Engineers and installers/mechanics are different careers and do different things but the image I see is closer to my job than people think lmao

He started wearing black because he kept forgetting sharpies and pens in his pockets when tossing his clothes in the washer. They all started out in white T-shirts and alas, they never stay that way

He knows EXACTLY how long his index finger is and the length of the middle part of his finger (trying to get to a tape measure when it's on the otherside of the site and you forgot it? Improv time but you still want to be mostly accurate) (my middle bit of the index finger is 1 1/4 inches long)

Box and wire cutters are part of the FIT you don't UNDERSTAND

No he doesn't need to collect those extra screws and bolts but WHAT IF ANOTHER SITE NEEDS THEM??? Doesn't matter that he already has a gallon container of those exact screws YOU NEVER KNOW. (His pockets are ALWAYS full of nuts and bolts and screws, even though if he squats sometimes they stab his leg)

Has one (1) pair of good work boots and always forgets to wear them because converse and high tops are so COMFY

You look through his suitcase and there will be more pairs of socks than literally any other combo of clothing (going commando is less of a hassle and less disgusting than wearing the same pair of sweaty icky gross crusty socks 2 days in a row)

"My safety glasses is just squinting" - An OSHA regulator's ghost comes back just to smack him

Will eat food with the nastiest dirtiest hands alive and forget about it

Speaking of: his hands are ROUGH. Dry as a goddamn BONE. He has a singular travel sized hand lotion bottle in his pack out and he always forgets about it. Can always open a jar of pickles tho.

No one believes this IS the guy they called because "youre so young" "you just don't look like a-" "is this your first time" etc etc etc and he carries around a special laminated card on a string just to prove who he is

His packout is composed of whole SETS of tools in their appropriate cases but never actually organized in there, so they rattle around like the Devil's Baby Toy. Also holds 2 spare sets of the most tangled, atrocious headphones you've ever seen in your LIFE

His most precious tool is a 12-in-one screwdriver that he can just exchange out the heads for to get what he needs immediately. No you cannot use his. Yes it has paint on it to signify its his. Yes he loses it all the time, but no it also never leaves his pockets. It has legs of its own and he KNOWS its trying to run away he just KNOWS.

Always smells like oil and burning metal and sawdust (maybe?)

The little click a wire makes when connected is SO satisfying

WILL curse the ghosts of people who over-engineered A Thing so bad it'll break if you so much as sneeze at it

Talks to himself or his Big Sisters to figure out a problem

Gets really excited about matching tool sets and WILL talk about them for a WHILE with other tool heads (becomes a beloved Hononary Grandson and Nephew to SO MANY old guys)

HATES IT WHEN SOMEONE BUILDS SMTH AND MIXES METRIC AND IMPERIAL MEASUREMENTS IN THEIR BUILD LIKE WHAT KIND OF ANIMAL LIKE THATS DOUBLE THE WEIGHT IN TOOLS DO YOU FUCKIN-

His back is SHIT but his thighs are AMAZING

Anyways, hope this helps!

[the-evil-pizza]

9 Fandom Peeps to Get to Know Better:

tagged by @drowseyqueen thank you!!

3 Ships You Like: BinQui - KingRam (f my engineer 2 maybe in another life) - and, maybe it's cheating but.... My WOL\Zenos... I just love thinking about them biting each other 😔

First Ship Ever Heard: When a was a tiny little dough, not yet baked, the very first i heard about from others and got invested into was MichiruHaruka sailor moon

Last Song I listened to: Oh i was listening to my go to playlist while making this so i'm listening to this song RIGHT NOW

Favorite Childhood book: Le cronache del mondo emerso

Currently Reading: Peerless\Wushuang

Currently watching: Cherry Magic (thai) - Sukiyanen kedo do yaro ka - Perfect Promise - 1000 years old - Kamen rider gotchard ( Kingoh just ended so i don't think i can list that but i was keeping up with that, will do it with boonboomger too)

Currently consuming: A big ass cold glass of water, beloved

Currently craving: Something with caramel

As usual the idea of tagging people makes me brea intocold sweat so <3

[thicctails]

👀 Tell me about an up and coming wip please!

💞 Who's your comfort character?

🤯 What's a genre you struggle with as a writer (ex. romance, action, etc.)?

for the ask game? Hi!

👀 I've got two fics currently; De spatio and ghost stars. Here's a lil snippet of both

Ghost stars:

A mix of gravel and mud stuck to Bumblebee's tires as he rolled slowly along the back road that led to Pleasant Meadow Cemetery, the thick liquid settling into the grooves of his tires. The Autobot's engine whirred softly, a ripple of discontentment going through him. Pleasant. What a joke. There was nothing pleasant about this place. It was just a grassy field with carved stones. There was no colourful glass murals or written life stories, no carefully crafted songs being sung by friends or loved ones to commemorate the lives of those passed. Indeed, there was nothing around that would indicate that the savior of Earth had been laid to rest here.

“This place… ain’t all that.” he sifted through various channels on the radio, trying to get his point across. “My boy… deserves better, baby!”

His passenger, Mikaela, gently rubbed his steering wheel with her thumb, trying to comfort the Camero. One of Sam’s old stuffed toys was tucked under her arm, Sam’s carrier having requested that the young lady deliver the toy to his grave. This wasn’t the first time they’d visited together, and it certainly wasn’t the first time he’d voiced his opinion. “This is one of the nicest cemeteries around, Bee, you know that. Most of the world doesn’t know what Sam did, so it makes sense not to have something super extravagant.”

Bumblebee growled in disagreement, digging his tires further into the moist road as his armor subtly shifted in anger. The world should know about Sam! The young human deserved recognition at the very least! He stood his ground against Megatron, something that most Autobots would never be brave enough to do. Not only that, but he’d killed the Decepticon leader! He’d been so, so afraid, and he’d had the opportunity to take the easy way out and listen to Optimus’s command, yet he’d chosen to thrust the AllSpark into Megatron’s spark.

‘And this is what it got him.’ he thought sadly, pulling into the empty parking lot. It was early in the morning, the sky just starting to turn a rosy pink, ‘Put in a hole in the ground and left to rot, unknown by almost all the people he saved.’

----------------------------------------------------------

-----------------------------------------------------

De spatio inter astra:

Starscream hadn’t truly appreciated recharge until he’d arrived on Earth. The taxing demands of scouting and patrolling an entirely alien planet with strange weather phenomenon and air currents usually left him exhausted. This latest mission had proved no different, sapping his energy and leaving his wings close to trembling with how difficult it was to keep them from drooping.

He’d been so exhausted, in fact, that he’d started to hallucinate. He thought he’d seen a Sparkling, of all things, nestled in Knock Out’s arms and letting out little chirps.

 Maybe he should go see the medic, make sure his Carrier coding hadn’t somehow been activated…

He blinked slowly as he came out of recharge, colour and sight returning to him as his optics came back online. Feeling well rested, Starscream stretched and made to sit up.

As he did so, a weight on his chassis shifted, a quiet ’mrrmph’ coming from somewhere on his abdomen. The Seeker stiffened, unsure of what the best course of action was. Slowly, he sat up, propping himself up on his elbows.

There was a small form curled up on his chassis, a dull pink ball of barely segmented armor. Wings, much different from his own, hid much of the thing’s body. It shifted again, a tiny tail twitching in irritation at the disturbance. A weak EM field brushed against his own iron-clad one, sending a sharp shock of surprise down the Decepticon’s backstruts.

💞 Charlie Watson my beloved ❤️❤️❤️

🤯 Mystery I feel like. I can't keep my damn mouth shut I just wanna go go go!

[brewyork]

The Internet Beer Bar Archive

Sometimes, a reminder of yesteryear can give you pangs of nostalgia. In a rabbit hole I went down last week, it gave me pangs of drinking East Coast IPAs and American Barleywines at New York City beer bars. I dug into the Internet Archive Wayback Machine to look at the websites of our city’s beer bars past and present, finding a treasure trove of “remember whens” on their menus from days gone by.

Barcade, August 14, 2006

This is truly a step back in time to simpler times at Barcade, when they had just one location in Williamsburg. The beer list was very New Jersey-heavy at the time, with Climax, Cricket Hill, and Heavyweight on the menu (the last of which would close two years later). A cask engine was pouring Captain Lawrence’s Imperial IPA, back in the days when Scott Vaccaro was brewing his beer in Pleasantville. Sixpoint had the only New York City-brewed offerings on the beer menu, had their Black Soul on Nitro and their flagship Sweet Action on draft. Long Island’s Southampton, then beloved among the city’s beer geeks, served their Secret Ale, a Dusseldorf Altbier. This was the height of beer drinkers’ obsession with Vermont’s Magic Hat, and their #9 and Hocus Pocus Summer Ale were both offered. And plenty of small players that grew into big regional outfits are on the list, including Allagash, Dogfish Head, Harpoon, and Victory.

But the one thing about this site that makes it unmistakably 2006: links to Barcade’s MySpace and Friendster pages. What a time to be alive.

The Pony Bar, June 11, 2010

I can hear the bell ringing and the crowd shouting “new beer” at The Pony Bar’s original location in Hell’s Kitchen back in 2010, when it appears they still had the leftovers from an Atwater tap takeover, nearly a decade before the Detroit-based brewery was acquired by Molson Coors. I think I drank my weight in Ithaca Flower Power at The Pony Bar over the years. The abundance of big beers on this list is back from the era when “bigger is better” was a mantra among a lot of craft beer drinkers. That 10.9% Atwater VoodooVator Dopplebock, 11.1% Smuttynose Barley Wine, and 9.7% Lagunitas Undercover Investigation Shut-Down Ale — which commemorates a raid still celebrated on Lagunitas’ website — seemed downright irresponsible, even if they were served in 8-ounce glasses for $5 at the time. Worth noting the two cask engines at The Pony at the time, representative of a time when nearly every good New York City beer bar had one. This one was pouring Chelsea Summer Solstice, an old standby from a brewpub that existed on Chelsea Piers until 2014.

By the way, I was able to confirm that I had become a “Pony All-American” by that time — a title given to patrons who had consumed 100 different beers on their menu. I was number 173 on the list:

d.b.a. Manhattan, July 1, 2012

Not even a year after d.b.a. owner Ray Deter tragically passed away, the torch he lit was still burning strong at their Manhattan location, where his appreciation for European beer still stood out on the beer list, with O’Hara’s, Jever, Mahrs and Chimay all on draft at the time, and a cask engine that was pouring ten to eleven months of the year. This is back when New York City’s brewing industry was just on the cusp of blowing up, but you won’t find anything truly local on draft at this time. We’ve reached the era of $7 pints at this time ($6 at happy hour), and there’s some oddball beers on here, like Full Sail back in the age of their nationwide expansion and stubby bottles, Red Hook when they were just partially-owned by Anheuser-Busch (they’re now owned by Tilray), and Ben’s Brew, a tiny tenant brewing operation that was run by a New Yorker out of Butternuts Brewing, the Upstate outfit best known for their Pork Slap Ale.

Alewife Queens, February 22, 2014

Before Alewife Brewing, there was Alewife the bar, a high-ceilinged space in Long Island City that closed in 2020. It’s no wonder what was happening here when this tap list was captured in 2014 — Bell’s Brewery launched in New York City in February of that year, and Alewife had a massive list of beers to celebrate. I still remember loving that Smitten Golden Rye, a beer that it appears the brewery still makes in small batches at their Eccentric Cafe. I might need to finally journey out to Kalamazoo and visit just for that. The tide was finally turning for local beer in 2014, and options from The Bronx Brewery, Empire (their Cream Ale was brewed in Brooklyn at the time), Port Jeff, Captain Lawrence, and Barrier were all on the list. Most noticeably, this was around the peak of Black IPA, a style that never really took off, but never really died — Captain Lawrence’s Black IPA was on tap and Barrier’s Oil City Black IPA was on cask.

Bar Great Harry, May 8, 2016

What a difference two years and a dozen new breweries in New York City makes. It really shows how in a very short time just how much more our beer bars were focusing on local beer — often stuff made just blocks away from Bar Great Harry, like Threes Vliet and Other Half Forever Ever. Finback and Gun Hill were also still relative newcomers to the scene, and Grimm was still contract brewing in Northern Virginia at the time. This is the first list in this feature without a brewery that has closed down. Bar Great Harry really knows how to pick ‘em. One notable point not pictured here: it’s hard to believe that as recently as eight years ago, canned beer hadn’t really hit the mainstream. The early adopters of cans — Anderson Valley and Westbrook — were on the menu, but we had not reached the age of mass acceptance of hazy IPAs in 16-ounce cans.

[thelingering]

Let me tell you all a little story.

My little brother was young, I was young (I don't recall what precise age, but somewhere around 5 for him and 9 for me), and our household at the time was pretty lively most of the time people were home. For reference, our living room, kitchen, dining area, and stairwell were all openly connected, with the only wall residing between the kitchen and then living room.

Our dining area was the access to the garden via sliding glass door, so it was always well-lit during the day, and the furniture consisted of a large wooden table, chairs, and a shelf with a 20 gallon fish tank on it.

WELL ONE DAY business is going about as usual, everyone's mulling about the gaff, when this massive crash comes from the dining room. My mother heard it first, rushing to the scene to deter anyone from approaching the affected area.

I come bolting down the stairs with all the pent-up energy of a 9 year-old boy who heard a catastrophic sound, and when I reach the scene of the crime, I see the following:

My mother, standing towards the edge of the dining room in complete disbelief and/or (let's be honest, it's both) horror, revving her maternal engines to deal with this as well as she can;

My brother, standing next to the fish tank, with a smile that seemed like he had just drank a quart of his beloved chocolate milk (which is another story);

And about 10 gALLONS OF WATER AND THE OCCASIONALLY SPACED DANIO FISH LOITERING CASUALLY ON THE FLOOR, WHO HAD ASSUMABLY JUST COME FROM THEIR 12 TO 12 IN THE FISH TANK THROUGH THE NEWLY INSTALLED ENTRANCE OF A MASSIVE 6 INCH HOLE

Now you must understand, outside of the glass doors leading to the garden sat a concrete patio to stand on (or sit or dance or do whatever you're into I suppose), and flanking that patio on either side is a rock patch full up on well over fist-sized rocks.

See, what had happened, as evidenced by the new resident of the fish tank (a rock the size of my little brother's head), was that my little brother had taken a massive rock into the house, and thought to his little self, 'hm, what can one do with a rock', and then proceeded to SMASH the ROCK into the FISH TANK. WITHOUT HESITATION.

So overall, my brother nearly replaced the 'two birds, one stone' metaphor with 'screw it, rocks'll take out anything'.

Disclaimer for the fellow animal-lovers here, my mother saved every last fish that day

[yhwhrulz]

Days of Heaven on Earth Devotional: July 6th

“I am my beloved’s” (Song of Solomon 7:10)

If you want power you must compress. It is the shutting in of the steam that moves the engine. The amount of powder on a flat surface that sends a ball to its destination when shut up in a gun only makes a flash. If you want to carry the electric current you must be insulated. Stand a man on a glass platform and turn a battery on him and he will be filled with electricity. Let him step off the glass, and the moment he touches earth he loses power.

We must be inclosed by His everlasting Covenant. That holds us and keeps us from falling. He will be a wall of fire round about us. He comes Himself and envelops us round about with the old Shekinah glory, and will be the glory in the midst. He wants us inclosed—by a distinct act of consecration dedicated wholly to Him. Are you inclosed by His fences, His commandments, His promises, His covenant? Is your heart really and only for the Lord?

If not, come to Him now and let Him separate you from all the things that take your life, and let Him separate you unto Himself, the Life Giver.

Copyright Statement This material is considered in the public domain.