#craftsman outside lights

[clasesdeperiodismo]

Wood in Portland Maine Ideas for a mid-sized, white, two-story wood exterior home renovation

[demonwolfgoodies]

Craftsman Exterior in Birmingham

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Here's an impeccably maintained 1900 home for Craftsman lovers in Columbus, Indiana and it's $399,900. 3bds, 2ba- a bargain at that price.

Classic Craftsman porch. What a great place to chill and even entertain.

Large living room with a great brick fireplace (the iron insert looks original) and I love that it's painted pink.

The living room is so large, it fits a big ol' chunky piano and a heavy carved desk.

Isn't the dining room wonderful? Look at the doors and the ceiling. Original light over the table and a built-in glas cabinet. This home is not the typical Craftsman- it's big.

Check out the built-in sideboard and the typically high wainscoting with plate rails.

The kitchen is perfection. The light, the cabinetry, and even the tile on the walls.

Cute little eat-in nook, too.

Look at the double stairs.

And, it has a cozy sitting room with a beautiful ceiling.

This home is perfection. Look at this bath. Vintage pedestal sink, original medicine cabinet and tub, plus a reproduction high tank toilet.

At the top of the stairs.

This bedroom isn't being used. There are cabinets and a sink thru the doorway, that look just like a kitchen.

Look, it has an outside entrance.

This is now a laundry room and there's also a full bath.

The door to the left is the laundry room and it opens to this bedroom with a fireplace. It looks like a suite.

Then, next to the bedroom is this small room. I don't think it had a closet b/c it looks like they built this one.

Those blue stairs that we saw on the landing lead up to a finished attic. (Note the original vintage push-button light switch.)

In the basement, there's a workshop.

The floor is carpeted and the ceiling is wide-plank knotty pine. The original exposed brick walls were painted white.

Behind the house is a deck and a brick patio.

The side of the home. It's quite a large house for less than $400K and it's so well-preserved.

[alchemistc]

what the agony had been for | bucktommy 5/5

“We don’t have to stay long,” Tommy tells him, something wavering and strange about his voice as he taps his thumbs against the steering wheel. Buck’s seen Tommy nervous — the day he first brought up the future, that time he had to tell Buck winds had nearly taken him and his chopper down, the day he’d finally stopped stealing Buck’s things from the loft and finally asked him if he’d just move in, already. There’s the same disquiet on his face, the same tightness around his jaw, now, in front of the craftsman on a quiet cul de sac tucked away in the middle of the city. The house is clearly well loved, Buck can tell even from the outside — new coats of paint and a walkway leading to the front door absolutely covered in chalk drawings, xeriscaping that has eliminated any sign of what might have once been a too-green lawn, hedges and trees trimmed neatly. There’s a porch swing hung off to the side of the front door, and a few still-flowering hanging plants, and in the rose-gold dusk light, Buck can see strings of fairy lights hung along the garden fence around back. “As long as you want,” Buck tells him, because of the two of them, Tommy’s the one who has a social battery with the standing power of a two year old iPhone.

read chapter five or start from the beginning on ao3

[forestdeath1]

I loved you as Icarus loved the sun — too close, too much // or “poor James”

@prongsfoot-microfic

***

“Dance with me,” James feels Sirius's warm breath on his ear.

Amidst the Christmas dinner now turned dance, couples whirl around the Great Hall, their hair and robes catching enchanted snowflakes to the tune of lively music.

“What, did everyone turn you down?” James asks, not lifting his gaze from his pumpkin juice, spiked with firewhisky.

The heat in the hall seems to intensify, the candles burning brighter. Isn't anyone supposed to control the temperature here?

Sirius flops down beside James, propping his face in his hand, an air of casual elegance about him.

“Just thought it might liven up the place. Imagine the professors' faces,” he suggests with a nod towards the teachers' table.

“Actually, I was about to get some fresh air,” James replies, and it's true; he plans to, just after finishing his drink. “It's hot in here, isn't it?”

No, James isn't running away from Sirius's odd suggestions.

And really, there's nothing odd about them.

Boys dance with each other all the time. Well, at least in theory, it's not forbidden, right?

“Very hot,” Sirius remarks with a cheeky smile. He reaches for James's glass of pumpkin whisky and takes a sip, gazing intently at his friend.

James grabs his drink back, downs it in one go, then immediately gets up and heads towards the hall's exit, leaving Sirius chatting with Moony and an exasperated Marlene, lamenting the perils of dancing in heels.

The cold air outside is a relief, the crunch of snow underfoot a stark contrast to the warmth inside. He walks a bit away from the castle's exit, standing under a winter-bare birch, and leans back against the stone wall. He breathes heavily, trying to calm his heart so it wouldn't pound so loudly in his temples.

James closes his eyes, trying not to think about why Sirius's breath on his neck felt so charged and tense all of a sudden.

“You'll freeze here, fall ill, and die,” suddenly, James hears Sirius's voice. “And what would we do without you then?”

James opens his eyes. Sirius is standing right in front of him, illuminated by the moon's silver light. The night suits Sirius; he's woven from the night, and even that detestable Slytherin-coloured robe doesn't spoil him.

James feels like hitting him.

“Can you give me a moment's peace?” he says, voice tinged with annoyance.

“I gave you five,” Sirius smirks, stepping closer. “Actually, I've come to give you your present.”

The four friends had exchanged Christmas presents in the morning, but Sirius said he'd give James his later. Not that James was waiting, he'd nearly forgotten about it – one more present or one less didn't matter. What mattered was that they all had each other.

“A collector's set of Christmas dung bombs?” James tries to deflect with humor. “Could've given it in front of everyone. I'm sure Pete would've died of jealousy.”

Sirius merely shakes his head.

“Got a belt on you?”

“What?” James asks, bewildered.

“A belt. Take it off.”

James blinks.

“Are you out of your mind?”

With a sigh and an eye roll, Sirius retrieves a red box from his robe pocket and opens it to reveal a belt.

“Remember, you liked my belt?”

Indeed, James remembers one evening when Sirius, out of boredom, had devised a transfiguration spell to weave silver threads into his belt, creating an intricate design of a man with large wings soaring towards the sun.

“Beautiful,” James had said then, watching Sirius work over his shoulder.

“You like it?”

“Very much,” James had smiled, giving Sirius a friendly pat. “You're quite the craftsman.”

“Yes,” James answers.

“I made one for you. Even better. More detailed,” Sirius looks intently, raising an eyebrow questioningly. “May I?”

“What?”

“Unbutton your robe.”

James sighs heavily, but can't refuse Sirius, especially when Sirius has gone to the trouble of making him such a gift.

After all, it's just a gift. James will now remove his belt, put on Sirius's gift, and they'll head back to the Great Hall together. Calmly. As if nothing happened.

As James starts to unbutton his robe and reaches for his belt, Sirius's hand covers his, a gesture so deliberate that James finds himself yielding without protest.

“Allow me,” says Sirius.

Suddenly, he kneels before James, a move that steals James's breath. He feels Sirius unfastening his belt, and tries not to look down at him now at James's feet. The touch of Sirius's fingers seems accidental as they brush against James's waist, and his hand lightly grazes the center of his trousers while threading the belt. James suddenly realizes the heat has intensified. He hopes Sirius didn't notice.

James catches Sirius's glance — wicked and innocent at the same time — and he swiftly diverts his attention to the night sky, seeking distraction in the celestial bodies above, in an effort to clear his mind of the vivid image.

Sirius stands, his hand seemingly brushing unintentionally along James's body from the belt to the collar of his robe.

“Breathe, Jamie. Otherwise, you'll suffocate,” Sirius whispers into James's ear, fastening his robe. “Merry Christmas.”

James meets Sirius's gaze, taking a deep breath to calm the sharp and overwhelming tension that's gripping him.

“Hey, what are you two doing? Everyone's looking for you!” Marlene's voice cuts through, offering a moment of relief and drawing them away from the peculiar tension that had enveloped them. “We're about to start hide and seek. Come on!”

“On our way!” Sirius cheerfully responds, tossing a wink at James before darting off towards Marlene. He swiftly reaches her, playfully scoops her up, and twirls her in the air, her laughter mingling with the night air.

Bloody Black.

[octuscle]

I'm working on furniture in my apartment and honestly my white collar job hasn't prepared me for this. Can you make me the best handyman around? Wouldn't mind repaying the favor.

You're sitting at breakfast. The white collar freshly starched. The tie knot perfectly tied. The New York Times in front of you on the table next to the smoothie bowl and green tea. The sun is shining outside, it could be another hot day. Good thing your day is fully air-conditioned from your home to your car ride to your office.

"Zmiana planu. Odbierz nas z motelu za pół godziny." What is this strange text message? And who the hell is Kacper? Before you drive off, you need to take a shit. You pick up the New York Post and go to the bathroom. Fuck, that stinks. Must have been yesterday's borscht. Another huge fart, a quick sip of coffee. Then you have to go. Kacper and the others are waiting.

"Tomczyk Craftsman Services of all kinds" is written on the battered pickup truck in your driveway. The air conditioning is broken. And you could also clear out the garbage. But there's no time for that now. Yes, you're the boss, but the idea of the tie was silly. You loosen the knot with your calloused hands and throw the tie into the passenger footwell. Sweat stains form under your armpits. And on your chest. Damn, it's going to be hot today.

Jakub, Kacper, Filip and Szymon are already waiting outside the cheap motel with tools and materials. You load everything up and off you go to the construction site. The boys stink. You roll down your window. The breeze feels good on your bare chest. The radio plays loud Polish hip-hop. The boys are roaring along. Filip in the passenger seat lights a cigarette. You take it out of his mouth. Damn, that was necessary.

You're proud of yourself and your crew. You are hard-working craftsmen. And damn good at your job. The fact that you can afford a house in the suburbs is your sign that you've made it. Yeah, it's a nasty neighborhood. But once you've finished renovating the house next door and the boys have moved in, things will get better. After work today, you'll set up your furniture together. And then you'll fire up the barbecue in your garden. You've even prepared a little firework display. A point of honor on 03 May!

Pic found @tradiem8s

[roosterforme]

Take Me to Neverland | Rooster x Reader

Summary: You and Bradley celebrate Halloween with the Dagger crew before sneaking off together.  

Warnings: Fluff, smut, swearing, intercourse, light roleplaying

Length: 3100 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? but it can be read on its own!

Check my masterlist.

"You want me to go to the Halloween party with you? At the Hard Deck?" you asked your boyfriend.

"Mmhmm," Bradley replied, kissing you outside your apartment door. "And the after party at the barracks."

You grinned as his lips found your neck. His offer on the Craftsman house you both loved had been accepted, and pretty soon he'd be moving out of the barracks altogether. "But Halloween is on a work night," you complained half heartedly as he sucked a little mark on the side of your neck, making you moan.

"Please?" he asked in that raspy voice that made you go absolutely crazy.

You threaded your fingers through his hair. "Okay, fine. I'll go. Are you dressing up?"

"Of course. We'll do a couples' costume, Baby Girl," he said with a grin, happy he finally got his way. "Whatever you want."

"Great," you smirked. "I'll pick it out and get it for us."

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

Bradley should have questioned the smirk you gave him when you agreed to the costume idea, but he was always so enamored with you, he could barely think. 

"Well? You like it?" you asked him as he looked at both costumes laid out on your bed. 

"It's a lot of green," he said, picking up the very large pair of tights. "And I'm not sure how to get these on."

"Oh, I'll help you!" you said, bouncing around and grinning. So you helped him into his ensemble, and he didn't complain one bit, even though the tights were itchy and a little restricting. He looked down at the cutoff green gym shorts and the green tee shirt with a rope belt and just shook his head. 

"Don't forget the little hat," you told him, reaching up to put it on his head and adjusting it over his thick, wavy hair. "Jesus, Bradley. You look so fucking adorable!" you said, bursting out into laughter. "You're an enormous, muscular Peter Pan with a mustache!" you said, gasping for air as Bradley bit his lip and flexed his biceps against the fabric of the shirt. 

He nodded toward your Tinker Bell costume. "You gonna get changed now too?" He couldn't wait to see you in that ridiculously short glittery, green dress. It looked like it was barely going to cover your ass. Even the little white-blonde wig and wings looked like they would be cute on you. 

You were looking at him like you knew exactly what he was thinking. "Yeah, I'll get changed and put on some makeup. Why don't you wait in the living room where Maria can see your costume?"

So Bradley made his way to the living room where your roommate was dressed as Dionne from Clueless and eating a bowl of ice cream. When she saw him she choked on her food and had a coughing fit. 

"What? You don't like it?" he asked, sticking his arms out and turning in a circle.

"Oh my God, you must really love Y/N," she said when she finally regained her composure. "Just because of this, you're welcome to get some of my ice cream from the freezer."

So when you finally made your way out to the living room, Bradley was scraping the last bits of his ice cream out of a bowl and watching cartoons with Maria. He turned to look at you, and his eyes bugged out. "I don't think a pixie is supposed to look that hot," he rasped, admiring just how much of your legs were visible below the skin tight dress. You had on the wings, the wig with a bun, green high heels, and you were even carrying a glittery silver wand. 

"Nah, you look cute!" Maria said. But Maria was wrong. You looked sexy as hell, and Bradley was dying to know what you were wearing under that tiny green dress.

"You ready to go?" you asked, and soon Bradley was driving you and Maria to the Hard Deck. He knew he needed to behave himself, but he still let his palm drift over to your thigh in the darkness. Then he inched it up higher and higher, before you clamped your hand down on his, halting his progress. He just really wanted to know what you had on under that outfit. 

"I can't believe you got me wearing tights, in public. In front of the other aviators," Bradley playfully grumbled as you walked inside the bar in front of him. The place was absolutely packed, and Maria turned toward the bar with a wave.

"You shouldn't have given me full control of the reins, Roo. Lesson learned, I guess," you said over your shoulder with a wink. But Bradley could not stop looking at your ass. He almost ran right into the back of you when you stopped short near the dart board.

"Holy shit, Rooster!" Phoenix called. She was dressed as a black cat, and her eyes were wide as she looked at Peter Pan and started laughing. "Wow, that leaves very little to the imagination." Bradley watched as you went in for a high five, and Phoenix reciprocated.

"What? I think I look pretty good," Bradley replied, shrugging and then fist bumping Coyote, who was wearing the most basic Ghostface mask pushed onto the top of his head with a black cloak. 

"Oh, Darth Vader! Very nice!" you crooned as Payback made his way over from the bar, mask in hand. 

"Thanks, Y/N," he replied just as a second, much more realistic looking Darth Vader came storming over. 

"His costume isn't nice!" said the second Darth Vader in the real Vader's voice. "Don't encourage him!" 

"Fanboy? Is that you? In a voice changing mask?!" you asked him, and Bradley started cracking up at the deep voice. 

"Of course it's me!" Fanboy Vader shouted. "He only picked Darth Vader to piss me off!" he said, pointing at Payback with his black gloved hand. "You knew I had this costume handmade, dude! Yours looks like shit!" They continued to argue on their way to play pool.

Bradley wrapped his arm around your shoulders as you giggled when you saw Bob.  

"Oh, Peter Pan is my favorite Disney Movie! I love Tinker Bell," said Bob, who was actually dressed as a gigantic baby. 

"Thanks Bob," you replied with a bright smile. "Are you just a big baby then?" you asked, seemingly as politely as you could.

Bradley, Phoenix, and Coyote all said in unison, "Baby on board." 

"Ohhh," you said, lacing your fingers with Bradley's. He smiled down at you and leaned in to kiss your cheek. 

"Want a beer, Tink?" 

You grinned and nodded your head as Bob in a giant diaper engaged you in conversation. 

Bradley made his way to the bar where he saw Maverick was helping Penny bartend. They were dressed as Danny and Sandy from Grease, and Bradley assumed that, just like you and he, Penny and Mav were finally making their relationship public. 

"A beer for you and one for Tinker Bell?" Mav asked with a smile.

Bradley chuckled. "You know it, old man."

Mav passed him two bottles and said, "On the house."

"Don't let Penny hear you saying that! She'll fire your ass!"

"That's what I'm counting on, this is really hard," Maverick said with a grin and a shrug. 

Bradley was smiling on his way back to you, amidst all of the whistles and catcalls he was receiving about his tights, some from complete strangers. "Thank you, thank you," he muttered as he went.

"Damn, that is one seriously pussy whipped man in tights," drawled Hangman as Bradley handed your beer to you.

"I'm sorry, Bagman, but are you dressed as a Ken doll?" he asked. Hangman was wearing a light blue suit, complete with an ascot and loafers. 

"Of course. It's a classic look," Hangman confirmed, flashing his most charming smile.

"Where's your Barbie?" you asked him after taking a sip of your beer.

"Still accepting applications, Angel. You interested after all? Change your mind about Rooster?" he asked, sidling up to you.

Bradley rolled his eyes and drank his beer. "I don't think the Ken doll type is really her thing."

But he watched as you slipped your arm through Jake's and said, "Hmmm, let me think about it." Then you bonked him on the forehead with your wand, covering him in silver glitter and said, "Nah, I like Roosters in tights."

Phoenix laughed and shook her head. "Good luck getting that glitter to come off. Like ever."

After a few more rounds of drinks, someone had stolen your wand, everyone was covered in silver glitter, and you were making out with Bradley back by the piano. His hands were rubbing your ass, pressing your body against his. 

"This little dress is killing me," Bradley managed to say as you released his lips in favor of kissing his scarred neck. "I'm serious. I might cease to exist if you don't tell me what you're wearing under it."

You leaned back and looked up at him with the most innocent, wide eyes, and he just knew he was going to love what you had to say. "Nothing. I'm wearing nothing under this dress."

He tipped his head back and groaned, almost losing his hat in the process. "We should probably leave now, yeah? C'mon Tinker Bell, I'll take you back to my extra long twin bed, and you can take me to Neverland."

Your laughter filled his heart and made him smile. "You promised me an after party, Peter Pan. We can fly to Neverland after that."

Then Bradley spotted both glittery Darth Vaders making their way through the crowd. "After Party," Baby Bob shouted toward the two of you as he followed the Vaders. You took Bradley by the hand and made your way through the front door and out to the parking lot.

Bradley scooped you into his arms, careful to keep your dress from riding up, so you didn't have to cross the gravel in your heels after a few beers. "Are you okay to drive?" you asked. 

"Yeah, I stopped two rounds ago, Sweetheart. And Maria told me she didn't need a ride home yet, and she's going to get an Uber later." 

You threw your arms around Bradley's neck. "You are the sweetest," you whispered against his cheek, and he was definitely going to try to change your mind about going to the after party. 

"I'm only sweet for you," he replied. And it was the truth. He'd never felt like this before. Never wanted to be so sweet for anyone else. 

"You make me feel special," you whispered. Bradley knew you were a little tipsy, but you would have probably told him that even if you weren't. 

"You are special." He gently kissed your cheek as he buckled you into the Bronco. "Now, Tinker Bell is going to have to tell me if she wants it sweet later or a little rough. I'm not exactly sure what fairies like." 

You bit your lip before you burst into laughter. The sight of you with the now crooked wig and slightly smashed wings had him grinning as he walked around the back of the Bronco. 

God, he couldn't wait to get out of these tights. He was a little hard from carrying you, and it was ridiculously uncomfortable inside his green shorts. 

He pulled out into traffic and headed for the barracks as you adjusted the radio dial and leaned over the console to kiss him at a red light. "I love you, Roo," you whispered, and when the light turned green, the car behind the Bronco had to honk, because you both got a little carried away. 

Bradley chuckled and said, "You sure you don't want to skip this after party?" 

"Maybe let's just make a quick cameo?" you suggested, a little breathless as Bradley parked the Bronco once more. 

"Okay," he agreed, and it took you a bit to make it into the barracks lounge, because you started making out in the parking lot. 

There were two kegs and tons of people, and Bradley let go of your hand when you said you wanted to dance with Phoenix. He watched you and his best friend laugh and slow dance together to the house music while he grabbed some beers. 

Then when a young Lieutenant asked you to dance, Bradley reveled in hearing you say, "I'm here with my boyfriend," while you shook your head. 

After an hour or so, Coyote was wearing your pixie wings, Hangman was wiping silver glitter onto your arms, and Bob was wearing your wig. Bradley was pretty sure that everyone actually liked you better than they liked him, and he was fine with that. 

"Come with me, Tinker Bell," he called over the music, and this time you obliged. Your makeup was smudged and your hair was messy and glittery, as you walked backwards away from the party. Bradley would have followed you anywhere. He wrapped his arm around your waist letting his hand rest on your hip, guiding you toward his tiny room. 

"I've given it some thought, and fairies like it a little sweet and a little rough," you said, kind of loudly in the hallway as Bradley unlocked his door. He glanced around and smirked, unsure if anyone else had heard what you said. You were a little tipsy by this point.

He chuckled as you pulled him inside and locked the door behind you. His desk lamp was on and it cast a warm glow over you. 

"I like the way fairies think," he muttered, and then you were in his arms. You snaked your hand up his chest and neck and into his hair, tossing aside his hat. 

He let you take the lead, and you tossed his rope belt to the floor and removed his shirt. You placed sloppy kisses to his chest and your hands drifted to the front of his shorts. "Nobody should look this good in tights," you groaned. 

"An old lady at the Hard Deck asked me if I was a stripper."

You laughed loudly, head tipped back, and Bradley scooped you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and your dress rode up. Bradley grasped you by your bare thighs and ass, grunting as your wet core rubbed his abs. 

"Oh fuck, Baby Girl. Just get these tights off me and let me feel you."

You kissed his jaw and chin and told him to lay down on the bed. He settled onto his back on the perfectly made bed, and you straddled his legs. You clumsily removed his green shorts, tights, and his boxer briefs, and the entire time you did so, Bradley could see your perfect ass peeking out of the bottom of your dress. 

Before he could say anything, you had settled between his legs and pulled his cock into your mouth. He grunted as you sucked on him hard for a minute before releasing him with a soft pop. "You want me to give you a blowjob, Peter Pan? Or do you want me to ride you?"

Oh, Bradley loved the dirty talk. Your face looked too fucking sweet for the things that came out of your mouth. He pulled himself up a bit, grabbed your hips and hiked your dress up to your belly button. He propped himself on his left elbow and nodded. 

"That's better, been wanting to see this all night," he said, stroking your pussy with two fingers. He watched you pull your arms through the straps of your dress and shimmy the top down below your tits. 

He licked his lips and lost all concentration as you played with your nipples. He slipped both fingers inside you and you whined, leaning toward him and balancing your hands on his chest. He pulled one nipple between his lips and teased you with his tongue. You whined louder as you rode his fingers, but he really wanted you on his cock.

"Now ride me, Tink," he told you with a grin as he helped you position your knees on either side of his waist. He withdrew his fingers and slipped his length inside, and you took him all the way. Then you sat still and pulled his fingers to your mouth. You took your time, kitten licking and sucking yourself off of both digits, grinning down at him as you did so. Bradley could feel himself throbbing inside you, and he could feel your pussy squeezing him, but you didn't move until his fingers were clean. 

Then you rode him slowly, and he guided your ass with his right hand, still propped up on his other arm. He teased your tits with his tongue and buried his nose between them. You rocked up and down, from the tip of his dick until you were almost sitting down on your high heels. Bradley moved his hand to your thigh, pushing your legs further apart before teasing your clit. 

"Fairies are fucking hot," he groaned, rubbing his thumb agsint your swollen, sensitive bud and grinning up at you. You smiled and squeezed your tits together, and Bradley moaned. 

You picked up the pace, bouncing up and down on him, and he stretched out fully underneath you, enjoying the view. After a few more minutes of him working his thumb for you, you whispered, "Fuck, I'm about to come." 

He knew exactly how to get you off, so he switched to a softer touch that had you moaning and almost screaming as you came. "Oh shit, now I'm gonna come," he told you, grasping both of your hips and pumping up into you. 

You slumped down against him, chest to chest and licked his ear lobe as he grunted and shot his cum inside you. "Welcome to Neverland," you whispered, still moaning and a little out of breath. 

Bradley finished to the sound of your giggles and your lips and teeth on the side of his neck. "That was so hot," he said with a laugh of his own. "Please wear this dress for me again."

"I will," you promised as you curled up on him. "If you wear the tights."

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

The next day when Bradley was on the tarmac, he laughed every time the strong San Diego sun hit the other aviators. They all looked exhausted from the late night party, and silver glitter shimmered off of all of them. 

"I took two showers," Hangman complained, trying to wipe it out of his hair.

"I told you it would never come off," Phoenix told him. Then she turned to Bradley with a smirk. "I don't even want to imagine all the places Rooster has glitter on him."

He just chuckled and headed for his F/A-18. 

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

If you liked this, you can thank @mak-32. If you didn't like it, you can blame her.

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[not-5-rats]

Knock knock, your (close to) daily list of bug questions/scenarios! (Mostly angsty Chez stuff tbh-)

1) Your bug wakes up one day to find themself in the past, they're stood just hidden by a tree near the edge of a forest. They could see a rather large house, one singular light shining through a window

Next thing they know somebody resembling Chester opened the door and began to walk outside, only it wasn't Chez...it was Milo preparing to go exploring, this was the night he went missing. Chester follows him out the door and hugs him tightly, it's clear he doesn't want Milo to go but had given up

As Milo walks towards the forest where your bug was stood, what would your bug do?

(For context, after Milo ventured through the forest into the swamps he was killed by one of the 'monsters' (it wasn't but that's lore for another day))

2) Acting AU

How does your bug deal with paparazzi?

3) Still Acting AU

It had been a long day of filming, the bugs are tired and just kinda wanna go home but as soon as they leave the building a small child comes running up to them a picture of their most famous role in their hands

There's a sparkle in their eyes as they gaze up at your bug, then holding up the picture and a pen the young child yells

"Hi!!! You're so so so so cool!! Can I please get your autograph!"

4) Pirate AU

Does your bug stay in contact with their family/friends after becoming a pirate?

Yes: How?

No: Why not?

5) The bugs were chilling in the living room of the hut when they heard childish giggling coming from outside, Chez then enters, a very young child in his arms and another, slightly older, child walking beside him holding onto his leg timidly

As he entered he nodded to those in the room

"This is Daisy and Fran, they're my sisters...they have to get out the house for a couple of weeks, you think they could stay here with us?"

Fran ducked behind his leg trying to hide from all the strangers in the room whilst Daisy was practically trying to jump out of his arms to play with the other bugs

Your bugs reaction?

6) What's your bugs craftsman skills like? (This includes things such as; sewing, woodwork, patching up clothes, etc)

Tags -

@rozeliyawashereyall @willowve01 @asmrbrainrot @kaiamtt @iistxrmyskyii @insignificant-anarchy @stxph-artist @aspenm00n @keyaartz @fangsshadow @rustycopper4use @piffany666 @dreamyshape @idontevenknow7878 @lunaritychuwolf @littlesiren79 @castbracelet240 @strayharmony943 @proxdragon @tiefling-chaos @astralbulldragon13 @threeweekinsomnia @recated @wilderrorcard @diamondzoey @fennaboysenberry @lunnats @lightdragon789 @pinkcocopuff-aqualoid @itsargyle @puffin-smoke

[telleroftime]

As someone who adores some good steampunk, I had a Bowser x Reader idea. Well, moreso worldbuilding surrounding it.

Reader is from a steampunk kingdom. To keep with the naming style of the games, let's call it the Steam Kingdom. The kingdom prospers with it's distinct lack of magic, having replaced it with machinery made from random bolts and mismatched screws.

Most of the resident species aren't biological in nature. Imagine steampunk animals that are made with nothing more than layered metal. Better yet, humanoids that cover their machinery with industrial England type of clothes with the only give away of their mechanic nature being the clocks they have for their heads. Or beings like Cogsworth from Beauty and the Beast.

Those that are biological tend to be humans or rodents of some sort. They have to wear some form of gasmask to deal with the steam and smoke of the kingdom's factories, very similar to how in Arcane, Pilltovians wear masks when they enter the Undercity since they can't deal with the smog.

Some have mechanical prosthetics, others do not. Some are scientists, others 'forage' metal scraps, some are artists.

And in terms of the colour pallete of the kingdom, imagine those old Leonardo da Vinci scientific studies. Muted yellows and oranges and browns. Maybe with possible pops of colour seen through stained glass.

Now, here's where I have some ideas surrounding Bowser and Reader.

Number one:

Reader is a forager. They wear their mask knowing the dangerous of inhaling all the pollution of the city, and they are highly skilled at maneuvering through the maze of side streets and cannals their home has to offer. One day, when they are somewhere on the outskirts - digging through a scrapyard in order to find a good catch - they run into someone foreign. A large turtle. He seems to be also looking for things, but there's magic in the air surrounding him and the blue-robed companion he's with.

Queue Reader forming some kind of mutual competition with him and seeing who can get the best junk. Or them trying to bitterly force the two to wear a mask unless they "want to pass out". Or them feeling uncomfortable by the sight of magic and possibly following an enemies to lovers route.

Number two:

Reader is an artist. They make art from the junk in their kingdom, giving it new light outside its predisposed purpose. Be it using stained glass to paint colour in their monotonous city, or making toys and trinkets for the children running around the streets.

Their skills are what attract Bowser who has been searching for a craftsman to bring more detail to his castle. After all, "how come the Boos get to he all fancy." And metalwork would fit well with with, well, metal style.

Maybe. I'm not too sure. The motivations could always change.

[the-hermit-at-midnight]

Honoring Lugh: A Daily Dance with the Many-Skilled God

Lugh, the radiant Celtic god, pulsates with the energy of mastery in countless domains. From the fiery forge of the smith to the battlefield's clashing steel, from the whispered secrets of bards to the cunning of a trickster, Lugh embodies excellence in its most vibrant forms. If you feel called to connect with this multifaceted deity, you can weave his essence into the tapestry of your daily life, and establish a dedicated space for him on your altar.

1. The Forge of Skill

Lugh is the patron of crafts, his hands shaping both exquisite jewelry and formidable weapons. Dedicate time to honing a skill, be it wielding a paintbrush, coaxing melodies from an instrument, or nurturing a flourishing garden. Approach your practice with intention, for each step towards mastery is an offering to Lugh. Research techniques used by historical artisans, or experiment with new approaches, mirroring Lugh's own innovative spirit. 2. The Thrill of Competition

Lugh, the champion of warriors and athletes, thrives in the crucible of competition. Challenge yourself, be it through physical exertion in a sport or mental focus with a strategic game. Perhaps you train for a race, push yourself for that extra set of reps, or engage in a friendly board game night with loved ones. As you strive to outdo yourself or a worthy opponent, channel Lugh's competitive spirit, honoring his love of the contest. 3. The Mantle of Kingship: 

 Lugh, a sovereign god, embodies the qualities of a just and righteous ruler. Integrate these values into your daily interactions. Advocate for fairness, stand up for those who cannot defend themselves, and lead with integrity. Is there a cause you feel passionate about? Do you mentor someone less experienced? These are all ways to embody Lugh's kingly nature in your own sphere of influence. 4. The Spark of Innovation: 

 Faced with challenges, Lugh is renowned for his ingenious solutions. When confronted with a problem, don't be afraid to think outside the box. Research unconventional approaches, brainstorm with others, and trust your intuition. Perhaps Lugh will guide you towards a creative solution that surprises even yourself. 5. A Tapestry of Nature:  

Lugh is intricately linked to the summer months, the vibrant life force that bursts forth during this season. Savor the warmth of the sun on your skin, spend time tending a garden, or simply revel in the beauty of a blooming flower. As you connect with the natural world, acknowledge Lugh's presence in the cycle of growth, harvest, and renewal.

6. Sharpening the Mind's Edge: 

Lugh is a god of wisdom and eloquence. Engage in activities that stimulate your intellect. Devour captivating books, delve into philosophical discussions, or learn a new language. Challenge yourself with puzzles and riddles, keeping your mind sharp and ever-curious. By honing your intellect, you honor Lugh's keen mind and gift of gab. 7. Duality's Dance: 

Lugh is a god of both light and darkness, summer's warmth and winter's chill. Recognize the duality present in your own life. Embrace both your strengths and weaknesses, acknowledging the shadows alongside the light. During times of hardship, remember that Lugh navigates both darkness and light, and that even challenges hold the potential for growth. 8. A Life Ignited by Passion: 

Lugh approaches everything with unbridled enthusiasm. Infuse your own life with that same vibrant energy. Pursue your passions with dedication, celebrate your victories big and small, and find joy in the journey itself. Let your spirit soar with the same fervor that Lugh brings to every aspect of his existence.

Weaving Lugh into Your Altar Practice

Your altar can serve as a focal point for connecting with Lugh. Here are some ways to incorporate him: Symbols: 

Include items that represent Lugh's domains. A spear or sword honors his warrior nature, crafting tools reflect his skill as a craftsman, and a quill or book acknowledges his wisdom.

Colors: 

Gold and red resonate with Lugh's solar associations, while green reflects his connection to nature.

Offerings: 

During meditations or rituals dedicated to Lugh, consider offerings that reflect his diverse nature. Freshly baked bread or crafted objects honor his skill, while fruits and flowers connect him to the harvest.

Mantras or Chants: 

If you feel drawn to them, incorporate chants or mantras that praise Lugh's attributes or recount his myths.

By integrating these practices into your daily routine, you establish a connection with Lugh, the multifaceted Celtic god. Remember, this is a personal exploration. Discover what resonates most deeply with you, and weave Lugh's influence into the fabric of your life. As you do, you'll find yourself not just honoring him, but also cultivating the very skills and qualities that he embodies.

[traineecryptid]

DMBJ Web Films Project Plan

Synopsis of the web films in the works as posted by the official Jiezi Ghost City Weibo account.

Masterlist shared on tumblr by @pangzi in this post Synopsis for the web film "Reality Control Unit", presumably sequel to "Jiezi Ghost City" here Translated by @traineecryptid Edited by @thelaithlyworm

10/10/23 南洋异闻录 Record of Strange News in Nanyang (source)

Jiezi Ghost City Movie (+Follow) 23-10-10 Posted from Zhejiang From HUAWEI Mate 30 Daomu Biji Supertopic I specially present the synopsis for “Record of Strange News in Nanyang.” I hope you’ll like it! As for casting actors, I hope everyone could generously impart your knowledge. Every opinion is nourishment for our creativity! [face with heart emoji]

The Serial Cases of Strange Deaths in Malacca Record of Strange News in Nanyang Youngsters Zhang Hailou and Zhang Haixia arrive in Nanyang. Just as they are about to show their skills and establish themself locally, they are dragged into a case of boneless corpses. In order to rid themselves of suspicion, both of them have to investigate the truth while avoiding being caught. In the process, they trespass on an abandoned ship and find a secret text that they had seen in the old book of their adoptive mother, Zhang Haiqi, back in Xiamen. The overseas plans of the ancient family are set in motion as driven by fate. Could the young Zhang descendants figure out the inner workings of all these? Could they make a name for themselves in Malacca…? [word in circular stamp] Secret Web Films Project Plan

11/10/23 七指神匠 Seven-Fingered Mystical Craftsman (source)

Jiezi Ghost City Movie (+Follow) 23-10-11 Posted from Zhejiang From HUAWEI Mate 30 Daomu Biji Supertopic You’ve finally viewed my post! Here comes the synopsis for “Seven-Fingered Mystical Craftsman.” I’m inviting all my friends to have a look. [big smiling emoji] #Jiezi Ghost City Movie#

Genius Architect Vigorously Renovates Secret Imperial Tomb Seven-Fingered Mystical Craftsman Xie Yuchen finds some information about the descendants of the Qi family on an antique piece. He and Wu Xie arrive at a mysterious imperial tomb that had only existed in myths. There aren’t any signs of it being broken into from the outside. After they enter the tomb, to their surprise, they find that the tomb’s mechanisms have been modified into modern mechanisms. In the process of disarming these mechanisms, they realize that these mechanisms do not have the ability to kill or maim. Instead, they were filled with a sense of mockery. Also, they aren’t the only people alive in this tomb… [word in circular stamp] Secret Web Films Project Plan

12/10/23 鱼戾之宴 Banquet of the Evil Fish (source)

Jiezi Ghost City Movie (+Follow) 23-10-12 Posted from Zhejiang From HUAWEI Mate 30 Daomu Biji Supertopic The secret synopsis for “Banquet of the Evil Fish” is revealed! So the curse from hundreds of years ago has never been broken? [shocked emoji] #Jiezi Ghost City Movie#

A Fertility Temple's Method of Eating People in Exchange for Children Banquet of the Evil Fish  Legend has it that a few hundred years ago Wuzai Town was cursed to never have any descendants because they offended a Godly Child. After that a priest in the village found a mysterious ritual and built a temple for the Godly Child, worshiping and begging the Godly Child for forgiveness. Since then, the curse on Wuzai Town was broken.  Liang Yanyan and A’Tou are looking for somewhere to rest after getting in a car accident. Without meaning to, they arrive at the Temple of the Godly Child. There’s light flickering inside and a strange, bloody scent permeating the air. They check out the place quietly and find a family of four cooking human meat… [word in circular stamp] Secret Web Films Project Plan

13/10/23 南水怪谭 Strange Tales of the Southern Waters (source)

Jiezi Ghost City Movie (+Follow) 23-10-13 Posted from Zhejiang From HUAWEI Mate 30 Daomu Biji Supertopic Here comes “Strange Tales of the Southern Waters”~ Come see where Wu Laogou and Xie Jiu-ye went to? #Jiezi Ghost City Movie#

The Mystery of Exchanging Souls with the Water Ghost from An Underground River with No Source Strange Tales of the Southern Waters There is an underground river in the Southern Village that was deemed a forbidden ground by the villagers. Legend has it, a woman drowned herself in the river, turning into a water ghost who seeks the life of anyone who approaches the river. Incidentally, Wu Laogou and Xie Jiu-ye enter this village by mistake while investigating a shocking cold case in Changsha. They discover that the so-called water ghost killings are actually being done by the living. There is a group of strange looking fish people that seem to be living in an underwater temple… [word in circular stamp] Secret Web Films Project Plan

Google document with the translated masterlist and all the synopsis

Note: I've translated the text to match the source as closely as possible instead of doing it in a more localised way. Feel free to ask what certain terms mean, I will edit this post to include the explanation and add an explanation section to the gdocs for the answers.

[axratsffxivwrite]

FFXIV Write Day 5 - Stamp (The Sharpest Gifts)

Tink. Tink. Tink. 

It had taken no small amount of effort for the clan to carve out a piece of Rabanastre for themselves, yet still, in this small section of the ruins, some semblance of life had returned. People were resilient, even in the face of utter destruction. 

The Lyros’ forge, settled in the midst of the cobbled mess of reconstruction, was both home and shop, the furnace burning hot outside as Miriam toiled away. Her father had retired for the evening, his orders done. Most of the locals had retreated to their own dwellings, either deep underground or in the few rebuilt structures scattered around. It was far from their once bustling city, but it was home, and not everyone was so ready to run off to Valnain and start new lives. 

With each strike of her hammer, steel began to take shape. The metal was folded and drawn out until she was satisfied, then painstakingly shaped blow by blow, molded into something resembling a Doman shortblade. She was no master craftsman like her father, but she was good enough. 

Gods, she hoped she was good enough. 

She dug deep into the back of her mind, focused intently on her studies in the Doman Enclave. Her time amongst the refugees there had not been long enough to attain any level of true mastery, but she refused to be dissuaded. This was important to her, and it was even more important to get it right.

As the sun fell low in the sky and the last of the daylight faded, she resigned herself to a break. The next evening she returned, working for as long as the light held out. 

Her first blade, she melted down after realizing she had overworked the metal. The second soon followed it in a fit of frustration over the shape of the point. Day after day, she spent every moment of her free time fussing over the forge. Blade after blade failed to suffice. 

On the fourth day, her father offered his assistance, but she refused. This project was hers and hers alone. 

On the sixth, she finally had a blade she was satisfied with. Her stomach tied itself into knots as she painstakingly marked out a shallow pattern in the blade, a series of scales and swirls meant to decorate but not deteriorate the performance of the blade. 

That one, too, she melted down after she cut too deep and ruined her work. 

On the seventh, she tried again. She forged a new blade, then heat-treated it before she etched it carefully with aether instead of tools. 

On the eighth day, now with a process that worked for her, she made the blade a twin. 

On the ninth day, she painstakingly carved the mold for her maker’s mark. For this, she did accept her father’s help, and side by side they designed and shaped the symbol by which her work would be known. No more just simply as an apprentice, but a craftswoman all her own. After hours of iterating and designing, she settled on an array of stylized chocobo feathers, arranged like the petals of a lily. 

Once the design was set and they had shaped the master die, they crafted the mold with which to cast her stamp. By the time the sun had fallen, she held in her hands her own metal seal with which to mark her work. 

It didn’t quite feel real. 

Upon the tang of each blade, she carefully stamped her maker’s mark into the patterned steel. 

On the tenth day, she sharpened the blades, shaped bronze into a proper habaki, then carved a simple wooden handle for each of them. She stained the handles with seed oil, leaving them a light brown while still accenting the wood grain. She carefully riveted each into place and paused for a moment to look over the fruits of her labor. Her heart swelled with joy, so relieved to finally have a finished piece she could have cried. 

The end result made every failed attempt so very worth it. 

Out of the same wood, she carved simple sheathes with thin profiles and stained them with the same oil. She took her time, refining them until she had a perfect fit for each of the blades. 

On the eleventh day, she measured and trimmed strips of leather to form the straps that would hold the sheathes in place upon their wielder. She carefully chose thin but sturdy, rounded buckles for the straps, redesigning them several times before she was satisfied the straps would lay as flat as possible. 

On the twelfth day, she placed both sheathed blades into a box and took her leave from the forge. She made her way through the winding, ruined streets of Rabanastre, her head kept on a swivel. A few ruffians and folks down on their luck eyed her with wariness and temptation, but the clan crest on her scarf held them at bay. 

Even those who turned to crime to survive rarely bit the hand that freely feeds. 

Miriam made her way to the settled ruin of an old storefront. The walls that yet stood were mostly settled, though the back wall was little more than a pile of rock and dust. The roof had caved in long ago, replaced instead with temporary canvas coverings that draped down over the rubble itself. A crimson cloth hung over the entryway in lieu of a door, the embroidered chocobo-feather fan crest of Clan Delima serving as both a deterrence for trouble and a promise of aid, if needed. 

She brushed aside the curtain without so much as knocking and stepped inside. There wasn’t a lot of usable area, what with half the space taken up by the pile of rubble. The near side of the room served as a chocobo nest, with clean straw and blankets so carefully arranged. Atop the nest sat a familiar plum-colored chocobo, his head raised to investigate the new intruder. Recognition in the warbird’s eyes, he let out a soft kweh in greeting. 

“Hello to you, too, Exodus.” 

The other side of the room was more lived-in, though not by much. A cot served to keep the bedroll off the floor, and a lantern – currently dimmed – sat to offer light once evening came. A footlocker sat against the edge of the rubble, an adventurer’s overflowing pack resting haphazardly atop it. 

“...hm, is Kin not here?” She asked Exodus. 

“Kweh!” He replied, helpful as a bird could be. 

“Well, I’ll wait, then.” 

She made herself comfortable and sat atop his cot, holding the wooden box in her lap. She passed the time by making smalltalk with Exodus – or, at least, she tried to. He offered the occasional chirp or call to acknowledge that she was speaking, but she doubted he had any real comprehension of her words. 

Though sometimes, he did make her wonder. 

As the day’s light began to dim to an amber glow, the curtain finally swept aside and that familiar, handsome young Viera she adored so much finally made an appearance. 

Kin’s dark hair had only grown shaggier as time went on, though he now adorned it with feathers and made something of an effort to style it in layers. He wore a loose linen shirt and vest and a tied-off shawl over his shoulders, with strips of red cloth tied around his belt. Black pants tucked neatly into his leather traveling boots, while a pair of matching leather bracers kept his sleeves from catching on the rubble. That familiar red bandana remained tied around his neck, right where it belonged. 

His eyes lit up as he saw her. He cast aside his bag unceremoniously and rushed over to her. 

“Miri! I’m sorry, were you waiting long? I was helping Marsil at the pub, I didn’t mean to…”

She stood and placed a hand on his chest, silencing him immediately. 

“It’s okay,” she replied, “I don’t mind. I wanted to surprise you, anyway.” 

With her other hand, she offered out the box to him. Her heartbeat began to quicken and her breath caught in her throat. What if he didn’t like them? What if she had sized the grips wrong? Made the blades too short? She had prioritized concealability over length, but had she gone too short? 

He blinked and took the box, his ears drooping to the side as he tilted his head. 

“What’s this?” He asked. 

“A gift.” She replied. “I, ah… I heard you were leaving again, so I wanted to make sure you had a little something from me.” 

He stepped aside and crouched beside the footlocker, setting the box down on what little empty space there was atop it. He carefully lifted away the lid and paused, his ears abruptly pivoting to the front as he focused his attention on the blades. He lifted one of the shortblades out and unsheathed it, his eyes widening as he took in the details on the etchings. 

After a moment, he ventured “...did you…?” 

“Make them? Yes. I even put my mark upon the tang. A little something of me to carry with you when you go.” She replied, wringing her hands. “It took a few tries to get it right, but I… I know you have a hard time hiding your blades sometimes, and I tried to make these as thin of a profile as I could without compromising their structure or making the grips uncomfortable to hold. They should be easier to conceal while still being effective, and when they're sheathed they're not immediately recognizable as daggers anyway.” 

Kin sheathed the blade and placed it back in the box. He placed the lid back atop the box and stood once more. Miriam swallowed back her nerves as he turned to face her. In lieu of a thanks he hooked a clawed finger under her chin and drew her close for a slow, tender kiss. 

All her fears faded into nothingness as she melted into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed. She snaked her arms up over his chest and around his shoulders, while he held her waist and pulled her close. She surrendered himself to his lead, twining her fingers into his hair as he deepened the kiss. She could still taste the vague remnants of stew on his lips, smell the faint scent of hearth smoke that yet clung to him. 

When he finally, reluctantly, pulled away, she let out a contented sigh. You say you’re incapable of proper love, but you kiss me like that? I have my doubts, mister. 

Kin leaned his forehead against hers, breathing deep as he held her close. She leaned into him, content to take every moment she could before he left her once more. 

He murmured, “when are you expected home by?” 

“Dark, I imagine.” She replied. 

He offered an uncertain hum in response. “And here I had hoped to thank you properly…” 

“It wouldn’t be the first time I was held up at the pub…” 

“Well, in that case…” he slowly pulled away, raising a hand to gently caress her jaw. “...why don’t we go find somewhere a little less well-traveled?” 

“I think that sounds wonderful.” 

[batmannotes]

The Dark Knight Trilogy - 1/6th scale The Joker Figure

Coming soon from Hot Toys

Heath Ledger’s version of the Joker in The Dark Knight is a remarkable performance that still gets recognized today as one of the best depiction of the character outside of the DC comic book. Despite on his limited screen time, the Joker steals the show by his menacing presence over the movie. He’s the agent of chaos, the unstoppable force to Batman’s immovable object.

Commemorating the 15th anniversary of The Dark Knight movie and Heath Ledger’s critically acclaimed performance, Hot Toys is bringing a more delicate and storytelling figure of Heath Ledger’s Joker to demonstrate our top-of-class crafting techniques. Presenting Hot Toys’ Artisan Edition of The Joker in 1/6th scale collectible figure from DX Series. This is an Exclusive release available with limited quantity of 4,000 pieces only in selected markets.

This time we have worked closely with Derek Kwok (Hong Kong Film Director), a Christopher Nolan fanatic himself, who spent over a decade to refine his passionate The Dark Knight Joker’s costume in 1/6th scale, as a hobby. Hot Toys is honored to create a custom-tailored costume based on The Joker’s signature purple coat outfit in Nolan’s The Dark Knight with Director Kwok’s involvement. From the choice of material to the cuts and layer arrangements, Derek showed his professionalism and expressed great passion, combining Hot Toys’ workmanship to give the real fabric costume the highest level of screen accuracy.

Our brand new Joker figure is faithfully crafted based on Heath Ledger’s stunning portrayal of The Joker in The Dark Knight. Features a newly developed head sculpt with separate eyeball rolling system, and its pupil diameter only up to 4.5mm produced by numerous layers of painting. His phenomenal make-up accented by the red grin, and two styles of mouth piece including a gesturing tongue for different expressions.

Hot Toys has expanded its leading-edge expertise, introducing a superior level of craftsman work goes into the wool hair implants which recreated Joker’s green coiffed hairstyle with added volume and curls at the strands to reflect his maniacal nature.

The Joker’s real fabric costume including his purple topcoat, blazer, vest, dress shirt, pants, socks, are all recreated with fine texture and accurate patterns. Most importantly, we have introduced a form fitting body unique to this figure, reflecting his actual physique yet giving great articulations under a layered costume.

His chaotic look completed with detailed weapons and accessories such as guns, grenades, knives, playing cards, bank note and a LED lighted diorama base with the famous bat symbol. It’s a base with two lighting modes for alternate display.

[messengersfolly]

There is no means to an end.

(a self-para for Malachi Howahkan. TW blood, gore, murder)

It's the endless drone of old fluorescent lights and the maniacal beeping of the fire alarm, low-battery. Everything ends, but it doesn't mean you know when.

And the annoyance will continue, and continue, and melt your mind away, until you put a stop to it.

It's with this thinking that Malachi Howahkan murders his wife with an axe in the back of their small Prairie-style Craftsman in mid-January.

His life has not been his own.

It has been Alice's, turned to dinner parties and board game nights. Stockings hung with care, two tiny tots, soccer practice, and the backyard grill. The ole ball and chain. "Can't live with him, can't live without him!" The baby showers, the anniversaries. A mini-van and a house with a foyer.

He works as an insurance agent. 9-5, casual Fridays, water cooler chatter and group synergy. "Workin' hard or hardly workin'?"

One day it's easy to just take the axe and swing it.

Easier than the time it takes to type in his client's yearly salary and figure out the percentage still owed.

Easier than picking up Bobby from violin.

Prison is not easy. It's threats and shouting and shoving. Too much time alone to think about every aspect of his wife's dead body, the blood coming from the chunks he cut out of her. Officers with too much power, men with too much anger. And boredom.

When he gets a letter, he assumes it's one of his kids. But it reads of a man infatuated. Questions about his life and how it fell apart, and more importantly, how he can piece it back together for Malachi.

This meager connection is a life raft in a tsunami. Mal holds to it like a man possessed. Until his fingers go raw and bloodied, he'll cling to every letter sent.

Polaroids on sun-bleached film, chopped brown hair tied with an old rubber band. Tales from the outside.

It's back and forth for years.

One day, the folded letter Malachi sends has a piece of twine tied into a little loop perfect for a finger enclosed inside. He asks him to marry him, and promises a better ring when he's out.

It's years later that Malachi Howahkan walks out of the New York State Penitentiary in the dirty clothes he walked in with over 20 years ago. Released early on good behavior. Cash that Mik had sent for snacks from the commissary buys a bus ticket straight to his husband's apartment.

Once he's there, he never leaves.

[tathrin]

I’ve been working on that LotR Zombie AU that I talked about a while ago, and it’s been fun! I’m actually several chapters in, and still enjoying it mightily, so I’ll hopefully start actually posting it soon but.

I keep going back-and-forth on whether or not I want to include this chapter or not. It’s pure exposition scene-setting, and while I enjoyed writing it and it was very helpful initially when I was figuring out the background for it all, it’s mostly exposition that gets covered better in other places now.

And I just can’t find a good place to insert it. I keep moving it around in between other chapters, and every time I’m like “yes, there, it fits there”...until I change my mind and move it again. So I think it might be time to just admit that it doesn’t fit anywhere, and cut it completely.

But before I do that, I figure I might as well share it with all of you:

It started, at least in Mirkwood, when the king came home. He was dead, of course; had been dead for three thousand years at that point. The world had changed so much in the years since his death that he would have barely recognized it—had he been conscious enough to see the lands he walked through. But he wasn't; he was dead.

He was Dead, and the Dead followed after.

Oropher, and Gilthawen, and Rhosslas, and Teithion, and Hebinastor, and all the others who had died with their king in the land of Mordor where the shadows lie. It started when the dead came home.

Their bodies should have rotted away to nothing long ago, nothing but the ghosts of dead faces staring up unseeing forever out of the fetid waters. They should have; but the Necromancer who had ruled that dark land, who had clawed his way out of his own grave more than once before, had left a mark on Mordor too deep to be erased even by his own destruction.

He had been a craftsman, after all, that maia once called Sauron and once called Mairon and even, once, named Annatar. He had been a craftsman, and his favorite medium was souls.

Perhaps someone should have worried more about those bodies in the Dead Marshes outside the land of Mordor. Perhaps someone should have worried sooner about the way their faces did not fade from the foul waters, even when their flesh was centuries gone.

Perhaps someone should have remembered that “Necromancer” had been one of the names by which he had been known, too. Perhaps someone should have remembered why.

The bodies in the Dead Marshes had drained to dust and rot centuries ago, leaving nothing but dead echoes rippling in the water. But that water lay outside a Necromancer's lair, in lands that had been long poisoned by his arts. Dead and gone they were, those Men and Dwarves and Elves and Orcs who had died fighting there so long ago; dead and gone and rotting…

But even dead, the echoes of their souls endured. Trapped, corrupted, their spirits rotting from within, they endured. And, eventually, they Rose.

The Risen Dead were no army to be commanded by the Wraiths who held dominion over the ruin of Mordor now. Their unliving corpses were driven only by hunger for life, for flesh.

Many of the Dead eventually followed the smell and sound and flickering lights of a great city to Minas Tirith, and there they fell on the white walls of Gondor's great capital first in a trickle and then as a tide. By the time the city knew to shut its gates, death was already inside the walls. An army of the dead stands there now—frothing and snapping, moaning with mindless hunger—outside the walls they cannot breach, while the few who slipped inside before the gates were shut lurch and spread through the winding tiers of the city so that Minas Tirith rots from within.

Others scattered, wandering off in whatever direction their lifeless eyes turned to in pursuit of any whisper of life that caught their senseless attention enough to draw them onwards. The Dead are everywhere now, found far beyond the reach of the rotting legs of those first corpses, for their infection spreads even faster than they do: it passes silently through air and water, undetected, not strong enough to kill…but inescapable, too. Now those dead who die in Middle-earth by other means Rise as well, and they spread the infection ever onwards in a growing wave of corpses and moans.

But Oropher…Oropher came back to Mirkwood.

Some said it was Dol Guldur looming like a lodestone, drawing the Dead. Others said it was because even in death, the forest still called her old king home.

Whatever the reason, he came, and Death followed with him.

Oropher came home, and the Rising began.

[ashtronomyys]

Our Future Days

Chapter 1 - *Pt2*

SoapGhost TheLastofUsAu OFD Masterpost (Includes further Tag Warnings) Chpt1 Masterpost

~1.7k Words

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"NOO-!"

Simon's body jolts forward in the bed. He thrashes around in his sheets, his body fighting back against an unknown force until his mind begins to clear up. His cries of terror begin to die down as his bloodshot eyes start to register his surroundings. They take in the cracked, floral wallpaper peeling off the walls of the room, the tattered, linen bedsheets obscuring the moonlight outside, and the chipped, hardwood flooring of the bedroom.

Simon grinds his palms against his temple, falling back into the mattress and trying to rub away the throbbing pulsing in his head. His body is coated in a layer of sweat, and short blond tufts cling to his forehead. His throat feels rubbed raw from the screaming he did in his sleep, and it takes him a considerable amount of time to calm the labored heaving his chest keeps up.

Fucking hell. It’s gonna be another one of those days for him then, isn’t it?

There’s no sense in trying to fall back asleep now. Simon knows from experience that he'll be unable to close his eyes long enough to get any more rest. Not on a rough night like this. Not with the images of his friends and family falling victim to the surrounding horrors playing on a loop.

It's the cruelest form of torment, his head making him relive every bit of trauma, his mind making him think he's still stuck on that damn bridge, fighting day by day just to scrape by in the QZ, or worse still, those years living out in the open country. The worst of it is when visions of Tommy jump to the forefront, memories of hanging on by a thread until everything went up in flames causing him to feel a nauseating pang of guilt.

It’s like his mind fucking relishes on the mental abuse it puts him through, almost like it makes a game of it. He could see it now, set up like one of those old-time game shows, big flashing letters spelling out, "How much further can we push Simon Riley before he breaks today?”, his next form of torment coming from a big spinning wheel with all of his worst memories, crowd cheering with each bout of pain it can unearth. 

Huh, it’s actually almost a little more humorous imagining it playing out that way…

Rather than going back to sleep, Simon spends the remainder of the night staring at the ceiling. His eyes rake over every bump and groove in the paint until he can see the soft rays of morning light seep through the curtains. Eventually, the faint sound of a rooster crowing far-off in the distance signals the start of another day.

It’s about time for Simon to finally sit up and shamble into the bathroom, letting the water heat up to a near scalding temperature before hopping in. A long shower helps wash away some of the tenseness in his body, but does nothing to help lighten his mood. He dons on his usual dark sweatshirt and jeans before he steps out into the street ahead, taking in a deep breath of the crisp morning air as he begins his trek into town.

The walk to the inner city takes him along the winding suburbs and houses with long-neglected lawns. Nature reclaims most of the area, with the tall summer grass overtaking pavements and roads. Vibrant flora blooms in large patches throughout the landscape, and rotted, derelict cars lay abandoned in driveways.

He leisurely strolls past the dozens of cul-de-sacs that rise and fall along the hills they are nestled onto. Slim, craftsman bungalows ranging from neutral whites and tans, to vibrant blues and yellows, the buildings themselves used to house hundreds of families in the area.

In the eerie quiet on mornings like this, Simon can almost picture the way things used to be; cars pulling out of the driveways and running their owners to work, children piling into the school buses in the morning, a dog or two barking at all the commotion. He can almost imagine what it must’ve been like, white picket fences, neatly trimmed gardens and all, the quaint, bunched together houses still teeming with some semblance of life.

Twenty years later, and it'd be a miracle if even a third of those same people are still among the living.

A strong breeze of brisk, cool air finds its way up Simon’s shirt, sending a chill up his spine. He sighs, shoving his hands into his jacket pocket in irritation, the thought of turning around and crawling back under the covers definitely crossing his mind.

He really ought to, he knows, especially after the rough night he’s had. Price, too, has been on his ass lately about going out when he’s not at his best, giving Simon his hundredth lecture about getting himself or somebody else killed on the job.

But fuck it, he’s managed just fine through plenty worse conditions before. And he’d much rather have something to occupy his day that doesn’t include rotting away in his little hovel.

Yeah, a bit of fresh air ought to do him a whole world of good better than that.

Besides, it’s not like his aim has gone to complete shit. He’s still the same man he was yesterday, only difference is he may have to put in the extra effort to not bite anyone's head off today. So not much change at all really.

Simon rounds another corner and comes up to the outer wall. The wall, a domineering presence that stands in stark contrast to the broken-down houses, consists of bolted sheets of metal, piled-up cars, shipping containers, and all kinds of scrap all rusted together. It runs along the remaining exterior walls of some of the structures nearby, and forms a barrier that rises nearly ten feet in the air.

Simon takes a detour into one of the houses on the right, passing through an open hole that exposes the kitchen to the elements outside. He brushes some of the bramble aside and pulls a steel ladder out from the growing ivy. Simon props it up against the wall, the ladder reaching just below the edge of a semi-truck nestled into the structure, and drops it onto the other side once he’s over, but not before taking a moment to watch the sun rise higher into the sky.

From here, beyond another mile or so of the district, he can see the fields of farmland spreading throughout the encampment. Fields of grains and produce sit atop what used to be parks, golf courses, and a few torn down shopping centers. Decaying buildings were stripped down for more material, and the grounds burned and uprooted to make the land fertile enough for crops to grow.

Further beyond that, the townhouses and bungalows start to become broken up by wider main streets; retail stores, supermarkets, corner stores, and condominiums dotting the landscape.

Simon spies the first other signs of life along these streets as lights start to flicker on in shops and residents make their way out towards the fields. He watches various groups start their rotations on the farm, some with the company of their little ones, who follow in their parents’ footsteps around the farm. One of them dons on a pair of oversized rain boots and a sun hat that threatens to fall off his head every two seconds. He’s taught how to hand out feed to the chickens under his mom's guidance, his beaten up overalls acquiring another layer of dirt to them.

Simon lets out a slow huff of air as he overlooks the growing community of survivors he's somehow found himself a part of.

A lot of people would say what they’ve been doing here is nothing short of a miracle, somehow creating some sort of semblance of the peace and normality of the old world.

To Simon, it’s been his own form of repentance, his own way of giving back to the world to make up for all the shit he’s done wrong. Maybe through that, doing his part to help even out the playing field for the people still left, he can in some way make amends with the universe.

He hopes, at least.

Either way, it does feel good to contribute towards something positive for a change. And it’s the least he could do to give back to the place that’s given him a little bit of solace. 

Simon pulls the hood over his head and makes the descent onto the other side, just in time to see the cattle and sheep released from enclosures. A lamb hobbles its way over to the end of the fence, bellowing at the tall British bloke passing by the wooden barrier. Simon snorts at the petite little being shadowing him, the lamb bounding on uncoordinated legs behind him, trying to follow him all the way to his next destination if it can.

He turns in time to see a boy, the same one feeding the chickens earlier, corral the mischievous young sheep back to the rest of its herd. Simon’s steps falter for a moment, watching the child stomp around the field and raise his arms above his head, yelling and blowing raspberries at the animals. The hat hangs loosely off of his head, revealing a messy mop of mousy brown hair, about the same shade of muted color his mother and brother were graced with. And his boots, tattered bits of plastic at this point, the frog decal along the top trim still visible underneath all the mud.

Simon chuckles to himself. Seems no matter how much he tries to do better, the universe still has its way of reminding him that there is no making amends with this life for men like him.

He tugs the hoodie tighter over his scalp, eyes trailing back to the several stretches of roads he still has to walk past. Along the way, he passes by the remnants of a city limit sign, the faded and missing text adding a somber feeling to the once cheerful, welcoming message the sign used to convey.

“N-w Entering th- Bright Side -f the Bay!

Oakland, Calif-rn--

Pop-lation:" The rest is a scratched out mess of chipped wood, save for a 7 and a 3.

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"MacTavish, wake uuup! Last warning before I dunk a bucket of water on you again..."

***To be continued in Pt.3***