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justjams2003 · 11 months

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Fast Pace-2

Summary: You're a hard-working Chef in Paris and after a freak accident run-in with Carlos Sainz, your life makes a 180. Let's just say with a certain agreement, you get your bills paid and in return stand in as Carlos' girlfriend for the press. But will you be able to handle the pressure and ensure the lines don't blur?

Pairing: Sugar Daddy!Carlos Sainz x Sugar Baby!Reader

Warnings: I've aged up Carlos, he is 33 in this fic.Smoking, smut, sexual themes, age difference, manipulation, control, slight obsession, tell me if I missed any

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics and @s-silk

Taglist: @httpjeonlicious

Word count: 2,8k

Masterlist

Part 1~Part 3

"What? Am I hearing this right? The Carlos Sainz, famous Ferrari Formula One driver approached you, in an alleyway, during your smoke break and paid you three hundred euros to hide in a cramped bathroom with you.” One of your best friends from high school screams into your ear. You can’t help but cringe, hearing exactly just how famous he is. You blow the smoke from your cigarette and gaze out across your balcony.

You wish you could say the view is beautiful, with the Eiffel Tower in the background with music of the people in the background. It’s none of that though. The view is another apartment block, and you so wished the man on the balcony would close the curtains. You avoid the balcony in the fear of getting treated to a view of his wrinkled body. How you wish you didn’t have to deal with the gross apartment building.

“Um...Yes...?” You reply, not really sure what to say. “Not only that, Jasmine, but he then gave her his number and said he would make sure he would see her again!” Your other best friend, Ilsa, on the group call squeals out. You facepalm, knowing they can’t see you, but still, your embarrassment is uncontainable. “What are you going to say?” Jas asks, you can already hear her plotting.

Your silence says a thousand words. “You are going to text him, right?” Ilsa clarifies and they go quiet only to hear your sigh. “What would I say? Hi, mister million-dollar man, I really liked being cramped in a bathroom with you, and would love to do it again!” You scoff at the ridiculousness of it all and take another puff from your cig. “I mean...” Jas says but you quickly shoot the idea down.

“Okay, okay, how about this? Address the elephant in the room. Tell him you googled him and then ask him what exactly he wants with you.” Ilsa suggests and it actually doesn’t sound that bad. Your stomach rumbles and as you open the fridge door you can’t help but sigh. Some old cabbage, one egg and a pack of cheap tomato sauce. Another hungry night.

“Yeah, so that you can be prepared if he just wants a quick fuck!” Jas calls out and again you can’t help but cringe. “Jasmine!” You yell out, glad they can’t see you blush. Even that wouldn’t be so bad. It’s been weeks since someone touched you with any sort of kind intent. Much less how close you two were today.

You’d already given the full three hundred euros to your landlord. He just scowled asking where the rest of it is. Not to mention, the electricity is threatening to shut off. Along with the student loans, water bills, phone bills, and insurance, everything is piling up and you feel like you can’t pick up enough shifts to survive.

I hear her groan, “Come on, Y/N, this could be a really great opportunity for you.” This time it’s Ilsa encouraging you. She’s right, maybe a little distraction from life is just what you need. Not to mention you’d do anything to look at that handsome face of his one more time. The photos and videos online don’t even come close. He’s so much more even just being near him makes you want to beg him to hold you.

“Fine, but if he gave me a fake number, I’ll ignore you guys for a week.” It’s an empty threat as always. “Yes, of course, as expected.” Jas’ voice is dripping in sarcasm. “I’ve got to go, je vous aime les gars, au revoir.” Ilsa says goodbye, and with that, the call ends. Dinner, wouldn’t that be such a good idea? You open your banking up only to see but a meek two hundred left for the end of the month.

While you’re on your phone, you might as well text him...right?

Y/N: I assume you wanted me to google you when you gave me your real name?

Carlos Sainz 🌶️: And, do I live up to the pictures?

Y/N: No, you’re much shorter in real life

Carlos Sainz 🌶️: A dagger in my heart!

Y/N: 😝

Y/N: I’m glad you didn’t give me a fake number then. But I can’t help but ask what exactly it is you want with me?

Carlos Sainz 🌶️: How about this: I’ll explain it all to you on our first date

Y/N: You intrigue me...

Carlos Sainz 🌶️: When do you get off from work, tomorrow?

Y/N: I work the morning, until lunch tomorrow. So I’m free from 16:00

Carlos Sainz 🌶️: Send me your address, and I’ll pick you up at 18:00. Wear something nice.

What on earth am I thinking? He could kidnap me! And yet you find yourself in front of your closet picking the one nice dress you bought for your first interview. It’s a simple black, form-fitting on the top but flares at the bottom with frills on the sleeves. It looks so boring to wear on a date with someone like him, but it’s all you have.

Along with the only heels you have, once more plain black chunky pumps. Your hair lays right below your shoulders in your natural waves and curls.

You can’t help but groan at your situation and throw a pack of cigarettes into your handbag. It’s a bad habit, you know and everyone around you has told you so many times to stop. But it’s so hard to when living in France and not only that it’s the only thing that seems to help.

You finish it off with a red lip, hoping to add a slight bit of colour to the dull outfit. Not that you have much time to think of something else, at exactly six, there is a knock on the door. With your heart in your ears, you open the door to Carlos holding a bouquet of pink tulips.

Not only that but he looks ravishing in black dress pants and a dress shirt, but of course with the sleeves rolled up. You bite your lip, already wanting to jump his bones.

That tan skin of his has you imagining him, shirtless under the hot summer sun on a Mediterranean beach somewhere. Not only that but his hair seems to fall perfectly in place. So soft and silky and voluminous. Your hand twitches, wanting to rake through his inky black strands and then, of course, ask him about his hair-care routine.

“How did you know these are my favourites?” You ask, walking inside and placing them in the sink before returning to him. He shrugs, “I have my ways. But enough about that. Querida, you look enchanting.” He takes your hand and guides you to a spin, showing off all of you. Your dress flows and his touch is like fire lighting in your body.

“Really? I hope it’s fancy enough, it’s all I own, and I don’t really have the money to buy something right now.” You say with a blush coating your cheeks. Why would you tell him that? Now he’s going to think you want him to buy you a new dress. Or maybe you’re only going on the date because you know who he is.

“Of course, niña bonita, I’m honoured to have such a pretty lady on my arm.” He then takes your hand and helps you down the stairs. And his words cause a blush on the tips of your ears. He helps you all the way to his fire-red Ferrari. “Woah....” You can’t help but utter out, you’ve never been so close to such an expensive car and the fear of breaking it looms in the back of your mind.

“You like, niña bonita? Comes with the job, of course.” He winks and then opens the door for you, which of course opens upwards. You can’t help but let out a playful scoff, “Duh, of course!” He chuckles at your reaction. “You must tell me if I’m going too fast, no? I like speed of course.” His wink shoots electricity through your skin, not only that but that breath taking smile of his.

You don’t have a licence, you never needed one living in France all your life. Even in the smaller town where you grew up, you could walk everywhere. And yet the way he speeds down the freeway causes a thrill to tickle your toes.

Every time he switches the gears, his forearm muscles flex and you have to control yourself. Not to mention, he doesn’t even have road rage, every move, every turn, every gear shift is as smooth as can be.

If it wasn’t for your culinary degree you’re certain you wouldn’t have understood anything on the menu. Even so, you’d been eyeing this place for a while and some of them you’re still unsure how to pronounce. What shocks you the most is the prices, some things on the menu are half the price of your rent. “What do you think of getting?” He asks, leaning back in his seat. “Um...the breadsticks?” He looks over his menu and raises his brow.

“The breadsticks are free?” He clarifies, those luscious brows of his furrow in confusion and you nod with a smile. You try not to show him how nervous a fancy place like this makes you. And also how you yearn to be at home in a place like this. “Yes.” He sighs, “Niña terca, I am paying, pick what you want.” That actually makes you feel even worse.

“Oh, no, it’s alright you don’t have to. I brought my wallet.” You reply, clutching your purse as a reminder. “It is not up for discussion.” He replies, going back to the wine list he’s holding. The guilt shoots through you. You desperately need to accept the money but stil your mother’s manners creep up on you. “Then the...salad.” He rolls his eyes and takes your menu and closes it for you.

You go to protest, but he calls over the waiter before you can. “The lady will have the Salmon Meuniere and I shall have the steak. With the Chilled Pinot Noir.” Again, he chooses your favourite option. “How did you....” As if he knows exactly what you’re about to ask, he just shrugs, “We must have similar taste.”

The fact of these two choices being so similar doesn’t make you suspicion. Instead, it makes you feel warm and at home almost. How similar are you two already, and how much more can fall into place? You eye him, raising your brow as he too studies you. “What is it, estimada. You want to say something.” He guides with his hand to open up the conversation.

“How do you know?” You ask, in awe of how much detail he sees. He chuckles and then leans forward and smooths out the area around your eyes by your temples. “You get this crinkle, when you are holding something back. I noticed it yesterday.” You can’t help but blush and cover your face.

“It’s my job, estimada. To notice the small things, in the car, in the track, in the ladies I like.” His words are smooth like butter and those dark eyes of his stare you down.

The waiter comes and pours your wine and places down your food. You take a sip from the cool beverage. “You owe me an explanation.” You shrug, the only response you give. Not trusting your throat. His jaw locks tight and he leans in a bit closer to you. He bites down on the juicy steak and the way his jaw muscle flexes causes obscene thoughts to fly through you.

“What I tell you next is not to be known by anyone besides you and me. Let’s put it like so, my managers believe that I should, how you say, casarse ya.” He switches to Spanish so easily. You have no idea what he said but merely nod along. All while savouring the taste of the perfectly cooked salmon and expensive wine that pairs so well.

“I turn 34 next year, one of the oldest on the grid. They believe that I should stop wasting my time and just settle down already. My publicist also believes it would get more sponsors and boost my public image. So, I am coming to you with an offer.” I raise my brow; I knew this would be too good to be true.

I should have known that someone like him wouldn’t bother getting close to someone like me. Clearly only there to entertain the people as always. Does he want pity points from his fans? Embracing a poor Frenchwoman from the slums. Doing some sort of charity work? I cross my arms and lean back; I can tell that he sees me retracting from the conversation entirely.

But still, I allow him to continue. “I will pay you, any amount you wish, shopping, jewels, vacations, even something more practical like the rent or student bills. In return, you pretend to be my long-term girlfriend. You come with me to the races, show up in the paddock, and tag along in interviews. The whole deal.” He bites those plump lips of his and now you wish he’d be more hideous.

For once he actually looks a bit nervous. You can’t help but scoff and roll your eyes at this. “So...like a sugar daddy situation...?” He senses your resentment towards the idea and is careful to reply. “I suppose so,” his eyes seem to panic and you can’t believe your ears.

You grab your purse, “I can’t believe you, Carlos! I thought I’d finally met a decent well-off guy, but no. Ces foutus garçons. Je ne peux jamais faire confiance aux hommes. Jamais!”

You can’t help but switch to your native language. The translator in your mind fails due to your anger and you can feel tears prick in the walls of your eyes. With your purse in hand, you push your seat back and in a rage go to leave. But suddenly you’re forced back down onto your chair by Carlos’ firm grasp on your wrist.

“¡Siéntate, niña testaruda, y escucha!” His translator too, is out the window. You pout and cross your arms, shocked at his audacity. “Listen here, and listen well, little girl, because I can clearly see you are in desperate need of some discipline. Mocoso.” He leans over you and the way he speaks with such a demanding voice makes your core ache. And yet you can’t help but want to defy him more.

He sits down again but is clearly ready to catch again if needed. He then grabs you by the chin and makes sure you look him into those swirling brown eyes. So dangerous and ready to attack if need be. “I can see it in your eyes, dollface. I can see it in the way you eye the Porche that passes, the Louis Vuitton handbag in the window and the most expensive item on the menu.”

Has your eye really been wandering so much? Or is his attention to detail so fine-tuned? If it weren’t for his hand clasping your chin, you’d long since would’ve looked away. “You have champagne taste and I’m giving you the whole vineyard. Don’t make another stupid choice and accept the offer. I won’t ask again.”

His voice is strong and commanding and the way he speaks makes you want to get down on your knees and open your mouth for him. He lets go of your jaw, allowing you to speak. “And if I want something more?” You ask and can’t help but dial up the charm fluttering your dark lashes. He smirks watching you go from bratty to begging.

“I can feel the chemistry too, estimada and I can see the need burning behind those eyes of yours. If this were to become something more, then so be it. And if you want this to be a quick fling and your intro into the limelight, then so be it. And if you want it to only be an exchange of money and appearance, so be it too.” He shrugs, watching your reaction to each option.

Then he turns serious again. “That all can be decided later. What must be decided now, is whether you’ll join me or not. I must apologize that I can’t give you much time to think about it, I have an early flight tomorrow. You’ll have to join me.” I furrow my brows, I thought he had the whole week? Anyways a choice must be made....

My taglist is open! If you wish to be tagged in this story alone, please comment or reblog with the words 'tag'. And if you wish to be tagged in all my posts please comment or reblog with the words 'tag all'.

#carlos sainz #carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x you #scuderia ferrari #sugar daddy!Carlos sainz #sugar daddy!carlos sainz x reader #sugar daddy!carlos sainz x sugar baby!reader #f1 #formula 1 #formula one #f1 x reader #carlos sainz smut

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angel-of-the-moons · 1 year

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Nothing Is Lost

Khonshu x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Burnout, exhaustion, overworked (aren't we all?) shit gets a wee bit too relatable

A/N: Did I spend too much time looking through how the gods were worshipped? Yes, yes I did. Do I finally have a way to vent the weird feelings I have about the angry bird man? Also yes.

🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑

Chapter 1:

Dust and Echoes

Day after day, night after night. The dreadful tedium of your life was not lost on you. The same job every night, the same work that left knots and tension in your back and muscles, your arms feeling like they were about to fall off and your feet feeling like you had holes drilled into the bottoms...

You couldn't work during the day, it was just simply not in your schedule. No matter how you tried, it was hard to stay awake during the day.

You had a severe case of insomnia, no doctor you went to (when you could afford them, which you barely could) could prescribe anything that would help you sleep. You even tried hypnosis. That was wild.

The dude said you flipped out and started talking in another language, and he was half tempted to call the church on you! That memory was always good for a laugh.

Could be worse, you supposed.

After all, your night job was cleaning a small office building (four floors, and your coworkers almost never helped) which meant mostly deserted floors and dozens of vacant cubicles.

It was kind of relaxing in a way, you could plug in your headphones, blast your favorite tunes and just go off into your own little world while you cleaned.

The world which you concocted was one many overworked and underpaid individuals such as yourself dreamt. A nice big house, food in the fridge, never having to worry about missing the next bill payment or not being able to afford insurance...

But you always had to wake up from that dream world.

You hated that part of your night.

While yes, you have always found the comfort and coolness of the night soothing, there were still dangers lurking out there in the dark.

You'd taken some half-assed self defense classes (you had to drop out because of your sleep schedule), but your skills were lackluster at best. So, you opted for your mace and taser as your trusty companions.

You'd been attacked and mugged five times in the last year and a half. You learned to stop carrying your money on you after the second time, only keeping your metro card on you.

You wondered why, why of all places, did you decide to move to New York? You were a country girl blinded by the dazzling lights, a stupid cliché trope you hated yourself for existing in.

And what did your naivete earn you? A shitty one room apartment that was barely the size of most motel rooms. The only reason you stayed was because at least your apartment had that small kitchen, compared to the rathole hostels you'd unfortunately been victim to before.

Your landlord was shrewd and strict, but at least the rent was affordable. That was the only blessing. Because your electric and other utilities were covered in your rent, you really only needed to worry about money for food. Which... you had been subjected to a rather unhealthy diet consisting mostly of tv dinners, dollar menu fast foods, and cheap Chinese takeout.

Half the time you felt like there was more to this, but logic always kicked in.

Then again, everyone felt like there was more to life when their life consisted of being a faceless, nameless, replaceable cog in the corporate machine.

But for you, even despite your logic, you just... you could feel there was more out there for you. Something meaningful.

You couldn't place your finger on it, but you just knew. It was like an itch under your skin, a tingling in your fingertips.

You were special. You just... you knew you were. Sometimes you could predict what somebody was going to say before they said it, sometimes you could fix things you'd never even looked at before, sometimes, you swore you could see things before they happened.

Oh, and then there were the dreams. Those dreams gave you the willies.

Usually in those dreams, you were floating in a black void, blinking until things came into focus. Looking down at your feet, it was like you were walking on perfectly smooth water, stars blinking to life one by one, reflected on the surface like an inky black mirror, your own reflection not able to be seen.

You would walk and walk and walk... but never reached a destination.

That's when you would feel something. Like the first winter chill creeping into the autumn breeze.

A voice. Deep, raspy... mournful.

You could never make out what the voice said, but whoever it was, they sounded lonely; almost in pain.

But then all at once you would be swallowed up into a light, almost like you were falling back to the very Earth itself, waking with a jolt, your clothes soaked with sweat, your hair dripping with it.

Yeah. Those dreams were the worst. You never felt rested when you had them...

🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑🌑

Today was one of the rare days you forced yourself out of bed and ventured out into the light of day. After all, humans need sunlight. And you were starting to look dreadfully pale.

You were confident you looked like some sort of ghoul, the way people gave you such sideways glances...

You shrugged your bag over your shoulders, looking into the storefronts curiously. You weren't looking for anything specific. You were aimlessly wandering at this point, really. You had two days off (only because your boss flat out told you you've hit overtime twice this month, and even he was concerned for your health) and figured, hey... may as well get some vitamin D while you're at it.

You shoved your hands in your pockets, your pinky poking through the hole on the inside of the pocket on the left side. God, you thought, I should make a trip to the thrift store today, get some decently-used jeans. Need some with less mileage on em.

The smell of incense burned your nostrils, crappy "spiritual" flute music croaking over a speaker well past its prime, wind chimes toning lazily in the breeze.

You lift your gaze and spot the shop, some kind of "witchy aesthetic" kinda thing. Pentacles, Celtic symbols, as well as some Norse-Pagan paraphernalia littered the front window. As well as the gauche lettering depicting palm readings and fortunes, and of course "magic".

Pah. Stupid.

You were about to walk by when two young women clad in black walked by, happily chirping to one another about offerings, smudgings, or... whatever it was. It wasn't your business.

As you watched them go, you turned to continue on your path, but a hand gripped your wrist.

The owner of the appendage was a woman. Her brown hair streaked with gray, her olive-green eyes seeming like they were focusing on something far away rather than at you.

"Uh..." You said, slightly uncomfortable.

"Oh! Forgive me, dear..." She laughed, taking your hand in hers and patting the back of your palm with her free hand; the thick leather bracer on her forearm was an odd fashion choice, you mused.

"Would you like to come in? I have something for everyone!" She winked.

"Er, well, I'm not really into... this whole thing." You chuckle nervously.

"Oh you don't have to be, sweetheart. No harm in looking, is there?"

"....Alright." You concede. She had a good point.

Your noticed as she let your hand go, your "funny feeling" was starting to tingle your fingertips.

And as you walked past the threshold of the front door? Your whole body felt like it was tingling.

Wall to wall, the small shop was filled with things that dazzled the senses, both visually and you were certain in other ways.

The woman hummed as she led you deeper into her shop, gesturing for you to walk into a dark room that was bordered with a beaded curtain in the door.

Yeah. That was how dumb people in horror movies got murdered. No, thank you.

"Look, I can just... uh." You try to find an excuse to turn down the woman who treated you with such polite words and demeanor.

But something about her had you so, so curious. Your "feeling" could not anticipate this woman, anything she said or did seemed a mystery to you.

"You seem tired, dear." She smiled sweetly, her hands clasped in front of her.

"I... well. I'm..."

"Overworked. I assume this is your first day off in days? Weeks, maybe?" She sighed, a sympathetic look on her face.

"How did you--"

"You are very pale, dear. Here, come. Come. Sit with me, hm?" She giggles, reaching out to bring you past the beaded curtain and into the dark room.

Her name, she told you, was Jezebel.

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Goddamn you and your curiosity. The things this woman were telling you were compelling you. It was insane, the things she knew about you. She was right on the nose.

Even about the muggings.

That was when she brought up the subject of protection. When you brought up your self defense and "weapons", she chuckled and waved it off, simply saying that she didn't mean "that" kind of protection.

When you asked what she meant by that, she walked into another room connected to the dark room you were in, the table draped in a velvet cloth with tarot cards laid meticulously set.

She came back with something wrapped in a black silk cloth.

"Here, child. Try this." She hands you whatever it is, and encourages you to unwrap it.

Wrapped inside was a small, old-looking (Ancient, if you were honest) statuette of some sort. You could tell, even with your uneducated eye, that this was done in some kind of style reminiscent of the statues of ancient Egypt that you'd only glimpsed in documentaries. At first you thought it might be Horus, but the head was all wrong...

"Pray to Khonshu, and he will protect you during your travels in the night." She said sweetly.

"I..." You can't tear your gaze away from the statue.

"I can give you prayers, incense, an altar cloth, and basic offerings to get you started, sweetheart. Wait right here."

Before you can reject her offer, she vanishes elsewhere in the store...

And before you know it, she hands you a burlap bag, putting the statue, plus the other items in the bag for you.

"I... I can't pay for this, I..." You stammer.

"Trust me, my dear. This is on the house. You need this." She winks, patting the back of your hand again.

"Now, go. Set up the altar when you get home, get some rest, and say a prayer. Do this every time you leave during the night, and Khonshu and his Fists will protect you."

Somehow, you felt compelled yet again to accept her word, leaving her shop, your brain in a fog.

As you walked, you felt something.

Like a soft voice whispering on a desert wind.

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Jezebel watched you leave, a satisfied and happy smirk playing on her lips.

Above, she heard the croaking of a crow.

She made a soft whistle and held out her arm, the one wearing the leather bracer.

And in a blur, a crow, white as snow and eyes as red as blood, landed on her arm, making very happy noises, almost singing at her, in his own way.

"Yes, I know, Zephyr." She smiled wider as she walked inside, Zephyr waddling up her arm to sit on her shoulder.

"I could sense it, too. Perhaps He will answer that girl..."

She then pulled the leather bracer off her arm, and looked at the mark on her inner wrist.

When she looked at the scales, Jezebel smiled.

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Chapter 2: Link

#moon knight #Khonshu #khonshu x you #khonshu x reader #khonshu #khonshu moon knight #my writing #khonsu

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gatheringbones · 2 years

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[“Many landlords were part-timers: machinists or preachers or police officers who came to own property almost by accident (through inheritance, say) and saw real estate as a side gig. But the last forty years had witnessed the professionalization of property management. Since 1970, the number of people primarily employed as property managers had more than quadrupled. As more landlords began buying more property and thinking of themselves primarily as landlords (instead of people who happened to own the unit downstairs), professional associations proliferated, and with them support services, accreditations, training materials, and financial instruments. According to the Library of Congress, only three books offering apartment-management advice were published between 1951 and 1975. Between 1976 and 2014, the number rose to 215. Even if most landlords in a given city did not consider themselves “professionals,” housing had become a business.

The evening’s speaker was Ken Shields, from the Self Storage Brokers of America. After selling his insurance company, Shields had begun looking for a way to get into real estate. He started out with rooming houses, which meant he started out renting mainly to poor single men. “Very nice cash flow. But I no longer have them.” The room chuckled. “I made some good money, and I mean, I love to get money, but I’m still just as happy not running around and dealing with some of these dregs of society who live in rooming houses.”Sherrena, who owned a couple of rooming houses, laughed along with the room. Then Shields found self-storage. “It’s got the residual incomes of an apartment building, but,” he lowered his voice, squinted, “you don’t have the people. You just got their stuff!…This is the sweetest spot in the whole American economy. A receptacle for an enormous cascade of money.”

The landlords loved Ken Shields, even if he did live in Illinois. When he finished his speech, the room broke into applause. The RING president, a mustached man with a full pouch for a stomach, stood up clapping. When there wasn’t a speaker, he often organized round robins. One such evening, a woman from Lead and Asbestos Information Center, Inc., had started off by announcing, “There is money to be made on lead,” to a room of landlords who more often lost money trying to abate it. One landlord asked whether he would have to report the presence of asbestos to the city or the tenants if he tested for it. “No, you don’t,” the woman had said.

The conversation moved on and someone else had asked about garnishing wages. A lawyer informed the room that a landlord was allowed to garnish a tenant’s bank account and up to 20 percent of his or her income, but the last $1,000 was exempt. And welfare recipients were off-limits.

“How about intercepting their tax refund?” Sherrena had asked.

The lawyer looked a bit stunned. “Noooo, only the government can do that.”

Sherrena already knew that. She had looked into it before. Her question wasn’t a question; it was a message to Eric, Mark, Kathy, and everyone else in the room that she would do almost anything to get the rent. Many white landlords knew money could be made in the inner city, where property was cheap, but the thought of collecting payments on the North Side, let alone passing out eviction notices, made them nervous. Sherrena wanted them to know that she could help.”]

matthew desmond, from evicted: poverty and profit in the american city, 2016

#matthew desmond #history stuff #currently reading

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allthelittlecreepycrawlies · 4 months

Note

SangYao week: ghost/gothic

Something something Modern day Meng Yao takes the very suspiciously cheap ancient apartment in a very old building, known for the mysterious disappearance of the previous renters.

He, of course, has researched the place thoroughly before even making an offer to rent.

He probably knows more about the history of the building than the current landlord.

The murders.

The suicides.

The disappearances.

That history is why the apartment is perfectly suited for his purposes, actually.

He waves off with a smile the landlord's attempts to sway him into taking another, less... controversial place of lodging. The man's arguments are half-hearted anyway. If he wants to risk his own neck and has the money to pay for the priviledge, he's not going to be turned away.

He is charged extra, of course.

Insurance purposes, he understands.

He finds himself wondering how much 'insurance' money from previous renters had gone to cleanup. Some of them had left quite a mess.

His first night in the apartment, sleeping on a bare bed because he hasn't yet unpacked the bedding, is surprisingly quiet.

The second night, when the apartment's other inhabitant realizes he intends to stay, is another story.

Fortunately, none of those cups and dishes had been expensive.

He cuts his hand as he's cleaning up all the pieces and shards, and suddenly a sharp cold spears up his arm, as if to freeze and shatter the bones in it.

"There's no need for that," he chides gently, as if coaxing an angry and frightened bird.

The pain increases, making him hunch over and hiss through clenched teeth as his eyes water. He clutches his wrist with his other hand, giving him a different pain to focus on long enough to raise his head, and he can now see his own shadow shaped unnaturally against the kitchen wall.

There are no eyes, but he can feel its hateful glare nonetheless.

And yet he is relieved.

Inhaling feels like breathing finely-crushed glass. Even with his jaw as tight as it is, his teeth are almost chattering.

"A-Sang."

He coughs the name out, and the oppressive cold of the room vanishes as quickly as it had arrived.

The shadow slowly separates from him, and then from the wall, becoming an ink-washed and lined figure whose face he knows as intimately as the one he himself once wore. More ink bleeds down the figure's clothing in dark splatters, marking the places where the knife of an assassin had ended a life and their marriage.

An assassin paid by the man he couldn't escape even in the cycle of reincarnation, who was even now seeking to ruin a son he didn't remember, but remembered him all too well.

He pushes himself to sit up on his knees, some pain lingering enough that it takes real effort, then smiles. "Found you."

And he would not let them be separated again.

#mdzs #sangyao #sangyao week #nie huaisang #jin guangyao #fanfic

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bigskydreaming · 11 months

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Bit of a vent post, bit of a housekeeping post, bit of a 'so that's what's been happening in Kalen-land' post:

So I have officially done everything that can be done to prepare for our relocation to a different site while they do construction on this one for the next year, which should be....any day now. Since it was originally supposed to happen on October 2nd, lol. Oh, bureaucracy.

If I wrote a memoir of the last two years specifically, 'Oh, Bureaucracy' would be the title, actually. So obviously its no secret that Moukie & I have been struggling for a long time, even after my surgery back in December 2021. But pretty much all of that has to do with our struggles to hack through bureaucracy to secure some actual stability and longterm living situation, since....oh, January 2022. We've finally secured a five year lease to stay in this place (with the exception of the next year, at a different site during construction, as I mentioned), but like....we only JUST got that agreement officially in writing, signed & notarized & all that...last week.

After being told it was basically a done deal but they couldn't finalize anything or put anything in writing until the building sold and the property changed hands and one city service took over oversight of this particular property from another one....pretty much every month since November of last year. They changed dates and timelines on us so many times it was like every three week we'd have a completely new timeline we were looking at for when we could expect to have everything finalized or for the relocation to happen, etc. Most recently, we were told with complete certainty that everyone HAD to be out October 2nd, that construction would be starting immediately after that, nobody would be allowed to stay in the building.

October 31st, and we're still here, lol.

So that's been a fun non-stop rollercoaster ride of stress, lol. The problem, of course, is that before my surgery (12/2021), I'd quite literally been homeless for at least the five years prior to that. Fortunately I never quite made it to the point of having to sleep outside, though there were plenty of times it got close, and spent most of that time living out of cheap motels & extended stay housing while working towards getting enough money together for my surgery, but as far as any landlord or potential renter is concerned, I was for all intents & purposes homeless during that time, and that's....not great when trying to secure housing in the middle of a pandemic right after basically starting your life over from scratch after the surgery to fix the problem that basically derailed your entire life, lol. Not to mention my credit score was practically nonexistent, all my credit cards were maxed out to pay for the surgery & insurance, my driver's license had been expired for years due to not being even able to drive while I had my issues w/my jaw & everything related to that, and getting it back was easier said than done because I'd had like, two unpaid parking tickets at the time of my medical issues beginning & they kinda completely dropped out of sight, out of mind, only to multiply w/fees that were fucking ridiculous to contemplate & going down to the DMV or traffic court to try and argue them down, while my medical issues were still ongoing, was a nonstarter due to how little travel I was capable of in that state....

LOL. Not a great starting point when rebooting for Kalen 2.0 - and of course I'm not going to get into why we had to use my ID & everything for renting & all that, instead of Moukie's, just trust that there were Reasons.

And of course there are programs to help people out with these kinds of circumstances, which is basically what we've been doing since January 2022....navigating that labyrinth of red tape, because actually ACCESSING those programs, proving eligibility, meeting all requirements, keeping consistent with all requirements throughout the months of waiting on a verdict from higher-ups your file's been passed up the chain to....MUCH easier said than done. The hoops are just. The stuff of legends. Especially when you're still having trouble consistently staying stocked on the meds you need to be productive & functional, or even just keeping your phone active. Oof. All of that was very Not Fun.

Which segues into a bit of that venting I was talking about, because over & over the past couple years we've had well-meaning (and not so well-meaning & largely just obnoxious) people asking us in response to our donation posts like, well why don't we just move to a cheaper city? LOL. I just. I wish people would stop to think that maybe if there's such an obvious solution that someone hasn't availed themselves to yet, there's probably a REASON for that.

We actually had several. For starters, there's the fact that I still have stuff related to my jaw to deal with....I still have no teeth, lol, and haven't really been able to even START getting the bone grafts I need to be able to get implants at some point, so I'm not stuck with dentures for the next fifty years....and it took me literal years to find dentists familiar with my situation, willing to work with me on payment plans & longterm strategizing, etc.....not that easy to just start over with all of that in another, smaller city. Not to mention if I do have any problems with my prosthetic, LA's one of the only places that has ANY surgeons that deal with this specific kind of jaw replacement surgery, so I'd always have to come back here for any further medical related stuff.

But then there's additionally the fact that all those programs meant to help people like us who are literally trying to restart their lives after medical issues, homelessness, etc.....they're pretty much all specific to their own city. They're all contingent on each individual city's resources, services, populations and a million other details.....so moving to a different city basically means having to start all over again with applying to THAT city's housing aid programs & navigating THAT city's bureaucracy from its beginning & forfeiting however much time or progress you've put in already in the city you're currently in. And frankly, most cities don't HAVE as good of aid programs as LA does....its just...it takes fucking forever to actually make full USE of such programs, as evident from the fact that after almost two years, we're only FINALLY to the point where one of those programs has been able to actionably help us secure longterm housing.

(And also there's the fact that when we don't even have enough money for groceries, how cheap do people thinking picking up and moving to another city actually IS? Like. You need starter money to even GET there & get on your feet or you wind up in an even worse situation than we were in).

But honestly, we didn't have it so bad, we have been able to stay housed & working various odd jobs for the past two years....its just been long, and stressful, never actually knowing when or even IF we'd get to the point where we stopped worrying about being kicked out at any given moment, and there were times that looking for housing or trying to deal with bureaucratic red tape was the equivalent of a full time job, in terms of hours required.

All of which is to say....be aware when assuming the worst of various donation posts & their posters, that except in the case of actual scammers, no matter what you may think of how a particular donation request was worded or described their situation, its almost always VASTLY more complicated than can be summed up in a couple of easy to read paragraphs that might actually get people to help. I promise you, if super obvious solutions seem evident to you, they've occurred to the people living with that situation 24/7, and there's a reason that they haven't tried that solution or maybe they even did & for whatever reason it didn't actually work out.

And that said, all of this is also to say just....thank you again for everyone who's helped us out over the years. I know it often seems unending or like we're never getting our acts together, lol, but trust me, it feels that way to us too, times a million, and like....we're working on it. Its just. Much easier said than done. For every hurdle cleared, there's usually another one waiting to pop up like a fucking whack-a-mole game from Hell. Since January 2022 we've been consistently working towards a longterm, stable housing situation and this is it, this is what we were working towards.....we've been fully approved for relocation to the other site for the next year & then returning to this one after construction/renovation, w/a lease agreement for the next five years.....and that's the dream, honestly.

Genuine stability, not having to worry about whether we'll have to move at any given moment, actual housing security....allowing us to FINALLY focus on building our lives back up, instead of constantly grinding just to keep a roof over our head & make sure nobody's about to kick us out....and having the room to breathe & for the first time in literal years (in my case, almost seven at this point) actually prioritize something OTHER than figuring out where we stand on paperwork, filing, tracking down various liaisons to bug them yet again about an accurate timeline for when we'd be notified of whether or not we'd been approved for this program or that one, when we'd actually be relocating, when we had to make x payment by to ensure we didn't lose our qualified status, etc.

And I, for one, definitely can not WAIT to give more of a shit about the absolute stupidest shit imaginable instead of like....warily checking the hall to see if new eviction notices popped up overnight. LMAO.

Anyway. Like I said, we finally have our agreement in writing, we know where we're relocating to, and as soon as that actually happens - which they keep insisting should be any day now, sigh - we'll finally be in a much better place. As part of the relocation program we landed in, our rent at the other site is covered during the year this site is under construction, so already just from that alone we'll be much better off financially.

Moukie's been sending around a donation post this month, and we'll probably keep it circulating up until the day the movers arrive and they finally pull the trigger on us leaving this site, because for the last three months they've been insisting that October 2nd was absolutely going to be our last day here, and we planned around that timetable....meaning that since October 2nd came and went with us still here, our only jobs at the moment are whatever freelance ones we can scrounge up, since the new place is far enough away a commute to & from a workplace around HERE wouldn't be viable, so I can't even go look for a new one to replace the last one until we're actually in the area we'll be spending next year in, lol. So in the meanwhile we've basically been surviving off donations since freelance work is painfully dry at the moment, and as it is, the company Moukie does editing work for still hasn't paid them for their last job yet, which was back in September, I believe? Its ridiculous, but it is what it is.

So yeah, we'll keep that post circulating a bit longer til we're out of here for good, basically just for food money until we're settled in the new place & can grab a new 9-5 and I would say something about that damn patreon I'm always claiming I'll make except I am a Proven Liar Not To Be Trusted On That Subject at this point, but hey, once we're in the new place, maybe that will finally change.

That's basically everything I set out to ramble about, I think, so....I'm done. Wait. Lemme check - yeah, no, that's it, I'm good. I've said it before but it'll never stop being true: we would not have survived if it weren't for the kindness of strangers & the help of mutuals & followers & we really are so much more appreciative of it than I can ever adequately express. I know that can come across as lip service, but genuinely, people here have done more for us and to help us and to see us succeed than our families ever did and we've been reduced to ugly-crying more than once as a result. Its gotten bad, guys. Like. When I go all out, it's not a pretty sight. I've got that pale Irish skin that gets all splotchy when I'm emotional, my nose gets all stopped up, I make scrunchy faces like a baby that KNOWS its not as pretty as its parents keep trying to pretend and is out to prove it....its a whole mess.

And on that note - and imagery - I'm officially done here. Thanks for reading!

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tomhardysurinal · 11 months

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Renters Reform Bill sounds kinda shit tbh?!

So in tenant's favour:

no more section 21 evictions

landlord has to "reasonably consider" (🙄🙄) requests to have a pet on the property. They can also add the caveat that the tenant must have insurance to make sure the pet doesn't damage the property (🙄🙄)

Can't be refused for being a benefit claimant

In landlord's favour:

Can only evict if they intend to sell, move a family member in, if the tenant "willfully refuses" to pay their rent, or if the tenant is "antisocial" (come onnnn 😂 see below)

No measures to tackle rent hikes

Greater ability to evict "antisocial" tenants. A parallel tory framework for "tackling antisocial behaviour" btw is defining antisocial behaviour by "any behaviour capable of causing nuisance or annoyance" 😂 unreal

Reduce notice periods to evict tenants who breach their tenancy or cause damage

So... you're saying instead of the two-month notice period they now have to give under section 21, your landlord can just say their adult kid just wants to chill in it which will presumably never be verified, they could just as easily hike your rent and force you out, they could try to find cause to call you antisocial and evict you, or you could cause damage to the property (hmm I wonder if that includes shit like damp and mould that they're too cheap to protect against themselves 🤔) and they could still evict you. And I'm not seeing what this new proposed eviction notice for those things would even be? That's just section 21 with reasons as defined by your landlord. At least they can take your dole though!!! And make up a cat allergy to not let you have one!! 😃

For something that was being posited as a big game changer where you'll now be able to raise maintenance concerns with your landlord without worrying about revenge evictions this sounds like it'll not do anything to stop that if the landlord just puts in 0.1% more effort than now. Which they're still loathe to do because they're THAT fucking lazy

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cleverthylacine · 6 months

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That good old interest-based advertising. Also, Headmasters. And my brother.

I have a confession to make and that is that I actually do allow interest-based advertising because:

I don't have much to hide

If they don't take my interests into account, the things they try to sell me because I'm a lady (albeit an NB one) over the age of 50 make me so fucking depressed I could scream but I don't have the energy. I would rather they know way too much about my Hot Topic purchases and robot and doll collections than get ads for ... what advertisers think old people stuff is. By all means display your incredibly unsettling knowledge of my id and sell me robots and things that look like robot dicks and fashion dolls and fancy clothes...instead of trying to sell me adult diapers and cheap insurance that actually isn't. And homeopathic remedies for problems that I may or may not actually have, but I also know that homeopathy is BULL$HIT.

Anyhow this is brought to you today by;

"Yes, shopping app, I would absolutely love to have that self-transforming remote control Grimlock, he is hella cool and very cute and I really do want him but....first you're going to have to find me the $1700 plus taxes and shipping that I will need to acquire before I can hit that button."

G-d help me if they ever do Soundwave with a little Ravage that comes out of his chest and also transforms.

In other news, Headmasters is still fucking stupid and I still fucking love it.

IDW did all this binary bonding with aliens stuff. I actually do find "Fortress Maximus can turn into a giant head and make his spaceship sapient" much easier to understand.

It's just the plots of this show that are dumb.

Giant Venus Flytrap in a San Francisco office building

Let's blow up Mars

Let's make a big important detailed plan and not tell Scourge and Cyclonus about it, because it's not like they're guaranteed to fuck everything up if we don't.

Kiss Players had a better plot than Headmasters, when they actually like, were doing the plot and not panty jokes.

Also I still after 20-odd years want to scream at Carly and Arcee in this show. I know it's a product of 1980s japan but like, if the grown men/male mecha are unable to do a job, it's frustrating to watch Carly send Daniel or Arcee send Wheelie to do it, because those are children and Arcee and Carly are not.

As a non-Chromedome-liker, I am also amused at how dumb he is in this show.

My brother has developed a new and annoying way of asking for money that I've already told him I don't have. He calls my mom and tells her that I won't help him, so then I have to tell her, too, that yes I just got paid, but they raised the price for the medicine I need to brain from $5 to $40 because they don't like the dosage my doctor prescribes, and the landlord has my rent cheque in hand and is presumably going to cash it, and I also need to eat.

She understands this, at least. I just feel bad for her.

I feel bad for him too, but nobody told him that he needed to rent a U-Haul and move the second he got his new lease without asking either of us if we could afford to help pay for it (we can't.)

#state of the thylacine #headmasters #transformers headmasters #my g-d headmasters is dumb but fun #my brother no longer has cancer but still needs my money #unfortunately so do I

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brostateexam · 1 year

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“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Every child that you have — purchase a house for them,” Wayne Turner, a broker in New Orleans, says as a camera pans through a charmless, beige three-bedroom in Wasilla, Alaska. And again at a new construction in Davenport, Florida, staged in shades of cobalt. And inside a San Diego bungalow. Turner’s advice, which I like to call the baby-landlord thesis, is a popular remix on TikTok: Parents are told to purchase a property and install tenants until their child turns 18, at which point the kid could either sell the home to pay for school or use that equity to buy a new place nearthe university of their choice. After spending four years pursuing a degree and collecting rent from their roommates, the college house could be sold, a cycle through which, Turner says, a child’s real-estate holdings “pay for living expenses and just build wealth.”

There’s more than one way to make a child landlord: There are the Willlow Tufanos and Tyson Georges of the world — teenagers who throw money earned by reselling junk on eBay at other distressed assets, buying properties and taking advantage of bottomed-out markets to flip houses for cheap. (“I was inspired and driven by … how it was so easy to make money,” George said.) For oligarchs and war criminals, deeding a mansion to a young next of kin is a popular way to evade seizure — even if that relative is still in elementary school. But Turner’s brand of child wealth-generation feels more distinctly a product of the American middle and upper classes fueled by house flippers and investment blogs with names like Financial Samurai and Semi-Retired MD. It isn’t quite the old-money practice of a trust or buying adult children their first homes when they graduate college or get hitched. Instead, the one-house-per-kid theory, among the merely wealthy or strivers, is a path to a de facto college fund (or an insurance policy in case the child, in the words of one blogger, “can’t launch”) and a way to impart the wisdom of the self-made before a child can even walk. Like reading Rich Dad Poor Dad to the kids before bed.

#long reads

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priestessofspiders · 1 year

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My Son's Reflection Is Wrong

I have always been afraid of mirrors, ever since I was a young child. I knew it was irrational of course. I never was afraid when I would see my reflection in a puddle or on the darkened window of a shop as I walked down the street. It was specifically mirrors which made me uncomfortable. I always feared that I would see something other than myself looking back at me.

This explains why I was less than thrilled to find the large, antique silver mirror in the bedroom of the house I was renting. Were it my own place I would have thrown it out then and there, leaving it on the curb and relying solely upon the mirror in the modern and well-kept bathroom for all necessary reflective purposes. Alas, I didn't think my landlord would think too highly of his tenant tossing out expensive antique furniture, so I contented myself to simply move it into a spare room.

I had moved to the house for the simple reason that it was fairly cheap and I didn't have much other choice. My husband passed away earlier that year due to a heart condition, leaving me simultaneously a widow and solely responsible for the care of my son, Chester. Fortunately, my husband's life insurance policy turned out to be reasonably generous, but I still needed to downgrade our living situation if I was to take care of Chester without another source of income. Beyond the obvious fact that I have now been left to raise a child without the assistance of a spouse, there is another reason why I cannot supplement my funds by taking on a job; Chester is autistic.

I want to make it very clear, I'm not an "Autism Mom". I loathe the self-absorbed whiners who spend every spare second complaining about the immense burden of raising an autistic child, who bellyache endlessly about how difficult their lives are. I hate all the videos of exasperated parents recording their child's meltdown on camera, to show to all the world how difficult it is for them. I am disgusted whenever I see some selfish moron recommend ABA "therapy" to keep unruly autistic children's more unconventional behaviors in check. My son is not a cross to bear, not a weight on my shoulders. He is my child, and I love him.

I won't deny it can be difficult sometimes, but I can only imagine how hard it is for him. I find the terms "high functioning" and "low functioning" are relatively useless descriptors. Like most things in life, it is a tad more complicated than that. Chester is, generally speaking, nonverbal, and I've never known him to say more than 20 words in a single day. In addition, he tends to get overstimulated quite quickly from loud noises, and often flaps his hands as a form of stimming, especially when he is having some difficulty expressing what he wants. The only behavior of his which ever actually frustrates me is his elopement, which in the context of autism means that he has a tendency to wander off or run away whenever he feels stressed. We work around these traits, and I think generally I've been able to make life quite comfortable for him.

Chester has always shown quite an aptitude for reading and writing, despite his relatively young age of only 9 years old at the time we moved. When he needed something that cannot be articulated through gestures or single words, he would write it down on a whiteboard I've given him for this purpose. To help with his sensory issues regarding loud noises, I purchased a set of ear plugs for him, the same sort that one would wear at a gun range to prevent hearing loss. These generally aren't necessary within the confines of the house, but on those occasions when we do go out in public, I genuinely think they help him quite a bit.

Given his condition, combined with the relative isolation of our new rural home, it has been necessary to homeschool Chester, though that hasn't really been any sort of a problem. Before I got married I spent a few years teaching elementary school, so I already have the required skills. I've always believed in a somewhat more active approach to learning than some of my peers, and since our new home is located directly next to a forest, this was fairly easy to accomplish.

The house itself was rather old, built in the 1920s if my landlord was to be believed. While recently renovated to a more modern standard at some point in the preceding decades, it still has an air of oldness to it, something in the angles and general structure of the place. The main feature that seemed significantly out of place was the wrought iron fence that surrounded the house, a far cry from the traditional wooden fence I was used to from a life in the suburbs. There was no formal gate that led out to the forest behind the house, just a gap in the fencing with a small pile of rusting iron posts nearby. I never asked the landlord about it, but judging by a stump outside the boundaries of the backyard, I assumed a tree must have fallen down and damaged it.

Children don't want to sit still and be lectured, they want to be outside, to run around and be active. I'd always try to teach Chester his lessons in a way that connected to the forest. I'd lift up logs and show him all the squirming creatures underneath so I could teach him all the differences between them. I'd have him count the rings of a fallen tree and teach him about the things that happened in the tree's long and storied life. I know that sometimes he would get bored, while I do believe kids love learning, I'm not an idiot. I know that sometimes children just want to run and play, but I genuinely do believe he got more out of our lessons in the woods than he would have gotten from a traditional school environment.

Even outside of the context of Chester's lessons, we spent a lot of time in those woods, slipping out through the gap in the fence into the forest beyond. There was something so peaceful about that place, it felt remarkably untouched by the civilization that bordered it. I'm not sure exactly how far the forest extended, but it always seemed to go on forever, like if you just kept walking you could go the whole rest of your life surrounded by trees. I always kept a fairly close eye on Chester when we were out there. As much as I loved the place, I did often worry that he would simply run off, but there was never anything stressful enough in the woods to make him do so. The only real concern was to make sure he took of his shoes once he got back to the house, as otherwise he would track dirt inside, making quite the mess.

Things went on the way I described them for about a year after my husband's passing. In between my caring for Chester and all the mundane errands of modern life, I attended therapy and worked to move on from the loss. I began to make peace with the fact that he was gone. Chester and I celebrated his 10th birthday out in the woods, moving to the backyard once night fell so we could finish off the evening roasting hot dogs over the firepit while I read him some relatively tame ghost stories. Chester didn't like scary movies or violent video games, but gently spooky stories, the sort that send a pleasant chill down your spine, made him quite happy. I believe I was reading out The Mezzotint to him when we heard the music.

It was a soft, strange sound, a faint piping emanating out from the forest beyond, gentle yet eerie somehow. The faint notes reminded me of the sound of panpipes, but not quite. If I listened very closely, I could almost discern a faint drumming as well. Chester looked out into the darkness beyond the fire, flapping his hands gently. He didn't seem upset or scared, just faintly awestruck. "Fairies", I heard him whisper.

I felt somewhat uncomfortable as we both looked out into the blackness of the forest. The sound of crickets had died utterly as soon as the piping began, and we sat in silence, listening to that peculiar and otherworldly performance. It felt like something out of a dream, and I don't think it would be possible for me to recall the melody in any real detail. It was ephemeral somehow, slipping through the cracks of my memory like water through a sieve even as I listened.

At some point the music ceased, and the crickets returned to their chirping. I led Chester back inside and tucked him gently into bed. I've never been especially afraid of intruders, given how far away we were from any major population center, but that night I double checked that all the doors and windows in the house were firmly locked.

- - -

I didn't sleep well that night. I'll admit I'd still not gotten used to sleeping alone, and often had difficulty falling asleep, but this felt different somehow. It seemed that whenever I was close to finally falling unconscious, I'd see a shadow pass across the wall, or hear something just on the very edge of my perception, something that reminded me faintly of music. Whenever I'd jolt up in bed, looking or listening for what I thought had disturbed me, there was nothing there. At some point I must have finally fallen asleep, because found myself blinking out the daylight from my uncovered window, groggy and irritable. My skull throbbed with a terrible headache. My alarm clock hadn't gone off, it seemed to have become unplugged in the night. Possibly in my tossing and turning the cord had somehow come out of the socket.

It was in the late morning, far later than I usually woke up, and Chester was frustrated because he hadn't had breakfast yet. He didn't say anything, but he seemed glum and looked at me with justifiable annoyance and hunger. I did my best to prepare him some scrambled eggs and bacon, but in my pain and fatigue I managed to burn the bacon and cook the eggs to an unpleasant, rubbery consistency. I deeply regret what happened next.

I swore about the bacon, the eggs, the pan, the stove, the landlord, my dead husband, anyone and anything that could conceivably be even somewhat to blame for the ruined breakfast. I know it was wrong to react like that in front of my son, I know it was immature, but I was tired, in pain, and just wished desperately I could go back to bed.

When I'd finished with my profanity-laced rant, I heard the back door closing and looked out the window to see Chester fleeing out into the forest, visibly distressed.

"Shit," I muttered to myself, and ran out the door after him, calling for him to come back. I tripped on one of the fallen iron fence posts and fell to the ground, knocking the air from my lungs. When I recovered enough to stand up, Chester was long gone, vanished among the trees.

I looked through those woods for hours. As I've described earlier, I don't know how large the forest behind my house is, but it still feels odd that in all that time I never saw him. Chester's only 10 years old, he isn't some sort of Olympic sprinter, and the foliage isn't so thick that I could have lost him that easily. I kept wandering among the trees, shouting out Chester's name with increasing panic. Sometimes I thought I'd hear a branch snapping or a child's giggle, and I would turn about, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of the sound's source, but there would be nothing there. It was fairly far along in the afternoon when I finally decided to head back and call the police.

Despite how long I'd spent in the forest, it was a remarkably quick walk back to the house. It felt almost as if the walk into the woods was somehow further than the walk out. I opened the door and started moving to the bedroom to get my phone, when I suddenly saw Chester sitting on the couch, reading a book.

I nearly wept with relief and rushed to hug him, apologizing over and over for scaring him and asking if he was okay. I was so happy to see my son again I wasn't even angry with him for running off.

"I'm alright mom. I'm really sorry for running off, I was just scared. I won't do that again, please don't be angry" said Chester, tears welling up in his eyes.

I froze.

Chester rarely spoke more than a single word at a time. His longest sentences I could remember before this were maybe 3 or 4 words long at most. This was utterly unprecedented, and I had no idea how to react whatsoever.

"Mom? Are you okay?" he asked, looking at me with a confused look on his face.

- - -

The next week went by very strangely. To be very clear, autism isn't something that just goes away. It's not a disease, it's not something that can be "cured". And yet, Chester no longer showed any signs of his previous behavior whatsoever.

His personality seemed intact. The sort of things he now spoke aloud seemed relatively in keeping with the sentences he would have previously written on the whiteboard. He still had the same love of reading, the same interest in ghost stories, he still played with the same toys. In all respects he was the exact same boy as before, simply now he was neurotypical.

He didn't have to wear earplugs out in public anymore, and true to his word he never ran off when under stress. He didn't even flap his hands, he just kept them calmly at his sides. It was totally surreal.

One day I was teaching him his lessons out in the woods, and he told me "Mom? I think I want to go to regular school. I want to be with the other kids." I was completely taken aback. Chester had never showed even the slightest interest in going to a public school before this, and on the few occasions he'd had to interact with other children, he'd been far too shy to play with them. Of course I told him I'd be happy to send him to school, what else was I supposed to say? That night I sent off emails to the nearest schools in the area, asking about late enrollment.

It was the second week after Chester's sudden and unprecedented transformation that I began to notice something else that was strange. Despite the fact that we were spending a decent amount of time outside in the woods, Chester never left any dirty footprints in the house anymore. It wasn't that he had suddenly become more careful about taking his shoes off, he was still running inside with his sneakers on the same as he always had, but there was never any dirt or mud. I just assumed at the time he must have been wiping his shoes off while I wasn't looking, and in all honesty I didn't pay it much mind. It's only in retrospect, knowing what I do now, that this sticks out in my mind.

He also didn't eat very much anymore. He didn't snack at all, and whenever I prepared him his meals, he only ate very small portions. He never showed any signs of weakness or that he was losing weight, so I didn't bother him about it, there would be no point in forcing him to eat more than he wanted to, but it did strike me as very odd.

It wasn't until the incident with the mirror that I realized that it wasn't my son.

I was looking for some books I'd packed away in cardboard boxes in the spare room. There wasn't a lot of space on the bookshelf in the living room, so I tended to switch out the books on a semi-regular basis for ones kept in the spare room, aside from a handful of mainstays. It was while I was doing so that Chester walked over to the doorway and asked me where I had put his toy robot. I looked up from what I was doing to answer him, when I caught something out of the corner of my eye, something deeply wrong. It was the old silver mirror, pointed towards the doorway. It wasn't reflecting my son.

I turned to look closer, my words dying on my lips as I gazed at the figure in the mirror, the old terror I'd always felt looking into such things resurfacing suddenly and violently.

The thing was dressed in Chester's clothes, but that was about the only real resemblance the thing bore to him. It was a crude marionette, carved from untreated and unpainted wood, clumps of bark still clinging to it in places. The mouth had a jaw like that of a ventriloquist dummy, albeit with crooked teeth made from sharp flints jammed into the wood. I saw bits of old food stuck to the teeth and mouth, remnants of meals I had cooked earlier in the day. The eyes were simple holes with bits of colored glass, like marbles, held within. It was suspended above the ground by an inch or two by thick brown twine, like the sort one would use to close a package in days before packing tape.

I stared in stunned silence at the mirror before turning around, only to find Chester standing there, head cocked slightly in confusion. "Are you okay mom?" he asked, with concern in his voice. I turned once again to the mirror, seeing the horrible puppet thing once again. I wanted to vomit as I watched its jaw work up and down mockingly. "I'm sorry, I'll find it myself, I didn't mean to bother you" it said, before jerkily "walking" down the hallway to Chester's bedroom.

- - -

That night I watched "Chester" carefully in the bathroom mirror when he brushed his teeth, but there didn't seem to be anything strange about him at all. He moved like a person, not a puppet, and when I gently squeezed his shoulder I felt flesh and bone underneath the fabric of his clothes, not hard wood and bark.

I didn't sleep. Creepy as it may sound, I just sat in Chester's room and watched that thing lay in bed, snoring. It seemed to be asleep. I stayed there all night, just watching, until it woke up the next morning, asking me what I was doing. I didn't respond, and left without making breakfast. It's not like it would have needed it.

I wasn't even sure where I was going at first, I was just driving to clear my head. I eventually realized I was en route to an antique store the next town over. I'd visited the store a few times before, looking for bits of furniture and the like immediately after moving. I didn't know why I was headed there now, but it felt almost as if I were being drawn there somehow. I pulled into the parking lot and left my car, pushing through the shop's door with the tinkling of a bell.

I wasn't sure what I was looking for, I just wandered the store in a daze, looking around all the various bits of junk and knick knacks with disinterest. The whole store reeked of musty books and wood polish, the smell lulling me into a sort of trance as I meandered among the shelves stacked with discarded history. Eventually though, I found something that struck my eye. It was a small old hand mirror with the telltale tarnishing of real silver. It seemed to call to me somehow, and in my numbed state I didn't even fear the blank-eyed reflection that looked back at me. I picked it up and looked at the price tag. 50 dollars. More than it was worth, but not too unreasonable. I picked it up and brought it to the counter, paying in cash.

The store's proprietor, a thin old woman with graying hair and enormous spectacles, chuckled at me as she rang me up. "Planning on making a vampire hunting kit ma'am?" she asked.

"What?" I replied, the completely bizarre question startling me out of my stupor.

"Just a little joke. Halloween's coming up, and once a few years back I had a gentleman come in here and buy up all sorts of strange stuff. I asked him what he needed it for, and he told me he was going to dress up as Abraham van Helsing for the occasion. He said he was making a vampire hunting kit. One of the items he bought was an old hand mirror, rather like this one. He asked me if it was real silver, and I told him yes, but asked why that mattered, I figured silver was always the sort of thing one would use for werewolves, not vampires. He told me that the reason why vampires didn't show their reflections in mirrors was that in the old days they were made of silver, and that silver was a symbol of purity. He said that if vampires were real and walking about nowadays, they'd be reflected back just fine, since nearly all modern mirrors are made with aluminum. Doesn't tarnish I suppose."

My mind flashed to "Chester" brushing his teeth in the bathroom mirror, face as normal as could be reflecting back at me, before recalling the terrifying thing I'd seen in the old silver mirror. The old woman must have noticed me go pale, she asked me if I was alright. I nodded and left with the mirror, driving back home.

I got back at around lunchtime, and the thing that pretended to be my son asked me if I was okay, and if we would be having lunch soon. I angled the mirror so I could see its face, and saw that crude puppet mouth wagging in vague time with its speech. I told it to wait at the dinner table, and that I would be with it in a few minutes. It did as I said, sitting down and pretending to read a book with its glass eyes.

I reached into the kitchen drawer and pulled out a pair of butcher's scissors. With the scissors in one hand and the hand mirror in the other, I walked up behind the puppet thing, carefully angling the mirror so I could see where the strings connected to its wooden body. I looked to see where the strings led, to see if I could get a glance at the puppeteer, but it just seemed to extend impossibly into the ceiling, passing through the plaster like a fishing line through water.

It didn't notice what I was doing until I'd already cut the first string, one connected to its left arm. It screeched in what sounded like pain, a horrible distorted cry that was a mix of mad piping and a child's scream. It swiped at me with the right arm, but I was too fast for it. After all, it was only wood and strings, and I was alive. I cut the other arm free, and both now fell limp at its sides. Next I went for the legs, snipping the strings both in quick succession. Glancing up from the mirror, I saw what looked like my son floating in the air slightly, mouth wide open as it screamed. I cut the strings connected its jaw and head, and the thing collapsed to the floor in a silent heap. The illusion had been broken, and all that lay before me was a broken puppet. Far away in the distance, I could hear the sound of pipes playing faintly in the woods, a haunting melody which I cannot quite recall.

- - -

I knew I couldn't go to the police with any of this. Who would believe a woman who claimed that her son had been replaced by a puppet? I'd be institutionalized at best, arrested for child abuse at worst, and that's assuming they ever managed to find the real Chester. I spent the rest of the day frantically researching on the internet, typing inane phrases like "child replaced puppet music pipes" or "puppet mirror child double" into the search engine, getting almost nothing useful in response, until eventually I came across some old website detailing European folklore. Specifically, the page on changelings.

I read about medieval peasants convinced their children had been replaced with those of fairies, how their real children had been taken to the woods to be raised by the monsters which stole them. I read of the ways one could protect oneself from the so-called "fair folk", of their hatred of iron. I remembered the wrought iron fence that surrounded the house, the conspicuous gap where a tree must have broken through as it fell.

I've written this in case I don't come back. I've written this so that if I'm never found, they don't think I just performed a murder-suicide in the woods out of grief. I love my son dearly, and I am going to save him from the monsters that took him from me. I can hear the hideous music of their eldritch pipes drifting through the trees, mocking me. I'm taking one of the broken iron posts with me. The tip is sharp as a spear.

#horror fiction #horror #horror story #mirrors #fairies #changelings

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anotherdayforchaosfay · 1 year

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Soooooo the previous homeowner was a landlord and rented our place out. This house had been a rental for decades, and we're discovering sooooo much fuckery. Not quite @thebibliosphere house cuthullu built...yet.

The house used to use a septic tank, but it was recently switched to city sewage. Except it was done illegally. The entire system is fucked up. Instead of a proper plumbing cleanout, it has a storm cleanout because the landlord set it up with that. Storm cleanouts move excess water into the storm drain stuff. Then he put a slotted cap thing on, and something called an exposed belly. All of this is illegal. It has resulted in waste coming up in the yard. If a cap is put on the cleanout, all the waste will back up into the house.

It will cost nearly $12k to repair and replace.

There's likely human waste in the ground, which is why there's a long ditch going from the house to the fence. It's causing the ground to sink.

Our real estate agent, who is also one of Bubby's D&D players, is gonna go through all the paperwork to see if this was even disclosed. Depending on what he finds, we're gonna take the previous owner to court. They'll be forced to pay for this, as well as pay any fines the city throws at him.

I wanna wring the guy's neck. This is one of the reasons I haaaaaate landlords. They're fucking cheap! Weekend warrior DIY crap. One house we lived in was twisting on it's foundation, resulting in plumbing fuckery. The basement walls were bending in as well. He used expanding foam to fill the cracks caused by all this. The house used gas for heating and cooking, and when he refused to make proper plumbing repairs (resulting in thr basement becoming a septic tank), I called the city inspector. Gas was shut off, the house was condemned, and we had to move out in the span if three days.

The first placed we lived in when we lived to Oregon? Not up to code anywhere. Corrugated metal roofing for the shower walls, tub set into the floor with no caulking or sealing which then resulted in ants and other bugs crawling up into the bathroom. The gas burning fireplace was removed, as well as the metal sheeting behind and under it. The sheeting was replaced with wood panel, the fireplace replaced with a heater meant for a houseboat, and the chimney wasn't properly seal. The whole thing less than two inches from the wall. Carpenter ants ate their way through several walls, a sign of dry rot, and the landlord put expanding foam in the walls while telling us to get ant traps. Carpenter ants don't eat that stuff. The house caught on fire. Shocker! Our insurance agent came through with the fire chief and both were checking off a lot list of shit not up to code. The landlord's insurance agent? All I heard was "what the fuck" over and over again.

We had a few more like that. Charge top dollar for crap quality, then complain when the tenant points out the shit-tastic illegal fixes.

We plan on doing massive remodeling, but first...massive repairing. The house was valued at $300k when we bought it. By the time we finish, it may be 3x that. Possibly more.

I fucking hate landlords. If any of you are landlords, un-fucking-follow me.

#chaosfay talks

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notwhelmedyet · 2 years

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Home Heating Oil Spills 101

Before there’s a spill, please consider the following steps to make an eventual spill suck less / less likely to cause an environmental mess

Know where the shut-off valve is on your tank

Keep oil absorbents (most professional: pads/booms, most available: non-clumping kitty litter), a bucket & a shovel close by

If you live somewhere that could flood, make sure your tank is securely anchored to a solid base. If it floats and the pipes rupture everything is so awful please trust me on this

Consider preventative spill containment. This could be a oil catchment pan, a berm around your tank, a solid impermeable surface under it, sealing all basement floor cracks nearby etc.

Please check if your homeowner’s insurance covers oil tank leaks. Most do not! You do not want to learn this after the fact.

Check for water in the tank routinely and keep an eye out for rust!

Prevent oil from flowing over a large area. That is your #1 goal. If you can keep the release contained you can keep the clean-up cheap. (if you cannot do this skip to step 2 and call emergency services)

If the leak is coming from piping or a boiler, use your shut-off valve If you can see a drip or leak put a container under it

If oil is flowing over land, grab a shovel. Your grass is already a lost cause (rip) so use your shovel to make a berm to contain the flow

If the spill is in a basement: cover all drains. Turn off your sump pump if it’s nearby.

Use your oil absorbent (kitty litter or otherwise) on the spilled oil. After it absorbs you’ll need to shovel it up, bag it and have it disposed of according to local regs.

If the leak is coming from your tank call your heating oil supplier to have the tank emptied. The tank can’t leak once it’s empty.

There’s somebody nearby that you’re going to need to notify of this release.

If the oil is impacting other properties or there’s enough oil spilled that there’s dangerous fumes or a fire hazard in your house call emergency services.

Call your state or local environmental agency to report the release. This is likely required in your area. Ask them about local rules for disposing of used absorbents, what kind of clean-up is required etc.

If applicable: call your landlord, roommate, your mom, the neighbor in the duplex before they smell oil and call 911 etc.

If you haven’t already, call your heating oil supplier to have the tank emptied

Your homeowner’s insurance (at least in the US) probably doesn’t cover heating oil releases. Call them anyway and report the incident

Regretfully, even if you were quick and resourceful this is still going to be an epic pain in the ass.

If the oil has impacted groundwater, surface water, storm drains or more soil than you can personally shovel: google for local environmental cleanup contractors. Call several to get quotes on cleaning up the release

If your tank was underground that’s going to cost a lot of money bc it’ll involve excavating the tank and surrounding soil – check if there are any local/state grant programs that can help you out.

If a leak got under your foundation, they may need to break up part of your basement floor or jack up the foundation and excavate underneath. This also sucks.

If groundwater could be impacted, have your well water tested before drinking it. Notify any neighbors on wells. Don’t fuck around with contaminated groundwater. This is going to be expensive, I’m so sorry.

Your state likely requires soil (+ water, as applicable) sampling after the release. Even if it isn’t required, it’s a good idea. Ask when you call them!

Do not believe anyone who claims they have magic chemicals that can turn the spilled oil into water. (don’t ask)

Your tank may need to be replaced/closed. Consider at this time whether you’d rather have a form of heating that doesn’t have potential five-figure cleanup costs.

P.S. I’m not a lawyer, this guide is not comprehensive & sections may not be applicable in your state/township/country/planet. I’m willing to answer asks on this topic but my expertise is limited.

#Long post #sorry not sorry every day i talk to people who keep 200+ gallons of hazardous substances on their property and never even consider this #if your tank is underground + over 20 years old it's probably leaking sorry #if they property you want to buy has ever had a tank it probably leaked sorry #people don't even know they have to call us #or that steel tanks rust from the inside out #or that they need to ANCHOR THEIR TANKS so they don't float down the river #and for their ignorance I will probably be blazing this fucking post sometime #this was me being concise tbh I could have gone on twice as long #mine #Shared

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