#that i have on there so far is from these reliable sources

[fideidefenswhore]

Whether or not this is a true composition, and the details do sound convincing, it is written from a position of strength. Anne was confident that she was soon to bear a son and that she was beyond the reach of any harm that Mary or her party might intend her. The letter distances Anne from self-interest in the matter, presenting the purest motives, urging Mrs Shelton to action out of her duty to the King. The tone is not consistent with Chapuys' contemporaneous report that Anne frequently wept in the period immediately following Catherine's death, in the realisation that a significant obstacle had been removed should Henry choose to set her aside.

Anne Boleyn: Adultery, Heresy, Desire (Licence, Amy)

[yuelun]

I know we're only just about to enter August, but I'm not ready for whatever they're going to do for Lantern Rite 2024.

[fatedefyd]

   me, reading the overviews on that historical fanfic, describing how pif had FIVE of swk’s sons--

[heliophaestus]

i know how much it sucked but i do sometimes wish i still felt anxiety about day to day interactions

[emo-batboy]

Battinson and the JL ft. His Eventual Identity Reveal

(If you’re just here for the cutesy bits, skip to Attempt #2. Otherwise, STRAP IN CUZ IT’S A LOT)

Bruce Wayne of Matt Reeves’ The Batman is not the founder type.

He wouldn’t voluntarily join a book club, much less join a league of super powered vigilantes whom he does not know personally.

So in this universe, you probably wouldn’t call him one of the three Founding members.

But he’s still integral to the formation of the Justice League

It starts out with a friendly visit :)

Bruce is patrolling on a random night in Gotham when he notices a weird thing in the sky. It’s floating just far enough behind him that a less vigilant person wouldn’t have noticed, but Bruce is always watching his own back, and he takes it as a threat.

He strays from his usual path and then heads to a warehouse roof before turning to face the threat.

It’s Superman. All smiley and dressed in primary colors. The strongest, most powerful being on Earth just floating over like he wasn’t stalking Batman a second ago. Bruce does not like that.

“What do you want with Gotham?” He asks. “I don’t,” Superman says. “I wanted to talk to The Batman.” So this is some kind of fight? An intervention? A warning? Then Superman frowns. “You…are The Batman, right?”

Bruce only nods as he considers his options, but he can’t really do that when Superman has super speed, super sight, super strength, super breath, super lots-of-things-that-Batman-probably-doesn’t-know-of.

Then Superman surprises him by landing on the roof and giving him this pitch about a superhero group.

Superman and a few other vigilantes have been bouncing around the idea of teaming up together so they can help one another protect their cities. And The Batman was a “perfect candidate.”

“I’m not joining your club.” “It’s not a club. It’s a league.” “What’s your mission statement, then?” “A what?” Bruce fights the urge to roll his eyes. He still doesn’t trust this guy. “Take your league idea back to the drawing board then we can talk.” He does not intend on talking.

But two months later, Superman is back. This time, he brings another super powered vigilante named Wonder Woman.

She smiles, politely approaches him, and says “Superman tells me you want to learn more about our league.” That is not what he said, but he doesn’t bite.

Bruce can’t decide which they remind him of more: college recruiters or cult leaders. But because Wonder Woman genuinely seems to care about seeing this project through, and the roster she has of current like-minded vigilantes is impressive, he lets her talk.

And to give her credit, she definitely thought out the logistics more. It almost makes up for the time they’re wasting.

Okay, fine. They’re still way behind on concept, and it’s pitiful. He actually feels bad.

They obviously care! They just have no idea how to run a business like he does. Is it a bit cynical to think of this league of Justice as a business? Yes, but that’s the only way he can even conceive this happening and working.

Bruce asks about their organization’s leadership structure, and that’s when Wonder Woman falters a bit. “We want to work with each other, not for.” Bruce bites his tongue on that subject.

He asks about their scope of work. “We want to help as many people as we can, but that can be ironed out later.” Bruce bites his tongue on that subject.

He asks “Who’s funding this?” She answers, “We have a few members willing to pitch in, but the majority will have to come from generous citizens.” And that’s when he just stops asking questions. Because what?

If he could cry the grease paint off, he would.

They can’t just think every super-powered vigilante is going to sing Kumbaya and braid each other’s hair. There needs to be checks and balances within the organization to avoid tyranny and corruption. They need a reliable source of donations (that doesn’t immediately out Bruce.) They need a proper chain of command. They need to map out their area of responsibility. They need to design a VERY strict vetting process. It’s not sunshine and rainbows. It’s hard work!

So he says he’ll think about it again and complains to Alfred about the weird super stalkers.

But for SOME reason, Alfred doesn’t see the problem

Alfred encourages him to join so he can “make some friends.” But how can he trust these people if they can’t even make a half-decent pitch? It’s like a bad episode of Shark Tank.

And “make friends?” They’re all masked

But after a week of gentle nudging (read: very firm lectures), Bruce agrees. ONLY to keep tabs on the rest of the vigilante world and possible threats to Gotham

(And without his help, they’ll probably butt-dial Lex Luthor the nuclear codes or something)

And he is damn well going to figure out who these people really are before he helps them make a Super Organization.

Alfred figures out about half of their secret identities purely as a brain exercise while Bruce is out fighting crime and collecting head injuries like Pokémon cards. They figure out the rest together.

They also develop contingency plans for every single member. Just in case.

And after months of Batman being visited by random vigilantes, whom he has several choice words for about personal space—“This is my city. Go away.”—he accepts. On several conditions.

Not all of them are appreciated.

Attempt #1: “Making Friends”

After several scheduling conflicts, a lot of prep work, and a really good hype session in front of the mirror, Bruce heads on over to the first official meeting.

Batman arrives with a long list of things they need to do before going public. The first thing on the list?

Write A Mission Statement

What the fuck are they actually trying to do? Bruce thinks this is a great starting point.

And you’d think (you’d think) this Justice League thing would be easier to tolerate than the drawn-out exec meetings he has to sit through with boring, old businessmen who keep delaying things so they can hash out every little detail.

To Bruce’s absolute horror, he BECOMES the boring businessman who’s delaying things so they can hash out every little detail. He misses the boring, old businessmen. At least they knew what they were doing.

Every turn, he is argued with.

“Why do we need a mission statement?” “‘Power Structure’ feels authoritarian. Can’t we just share leadership duties?” “Do we really need this much paperwork?”

Bruce has the audacity to say, “We need to develop some sort of protocol that helps us analyze any possible threat.” But no. “Why can’t I just jump in? I have eyes.” “Jumping in without studying an opponent’s behavior could cause more harm than good,” he insists. “So what? I’m going to watch an alien monster go on a rampage through my city instead of fighting it?” “Yes. You don’t know what it’s capable of.”

Bruce already regrets joining.

All he hears is the others gossiping. “Is this guy really telling us how to be heroes?” “He’s got a major stick up his ass.” “I knew we shouldn’t have let him join.” And if that doesn’t dissuade him, he doesn’t know what will.

“How was the first meeting?” Alfred asks. Bruce scowls. “I’m not making friends.”

Nonetheless, Bruce sticks it out for weeks until they have some semblance of an organization. And, to his shock and amazement, it…kind of works.

The Justice League makes its debut, and Wayne Enterprises generously donates some money “out of spite” after Lex Luthor publicly denounces the league. (Honestly, Bruce would too if he hadn’t personally duct-taped it together himself.)

But the league starts small, just like he told them, they respond to natural disasters and public safety threats first (as per the outreach initiative) and focus on protecting communities in need (as per the mission statement.)

Yes, they still think Batman has a stick up his ass because he’s a stickler for writing incident reports, but no one else reads them so he has the right to be pissed.

He’s almost kind of sort of content with how it’s going. Even his reputation as a vigilante is improving.

That’s when another glaring difference between him and the other members appears.

Despite looking the same age as the rest of the team, Bruce is actually much younger?? Even excluding the aliens, gods, etc.

Most of his teammates are in their late 30’s, early 40’s. Meanwhile, Bruce is at the ripe age of 29 and a half.

He is the youngest by ten years.

Everyone kind of just assumes he’s the same age, though, so they make references to 80’s kids stuff that he only vaguely understands through Alfred and his business partners. He just sits there in silence like a child who snuck over to the adult table and is waiting to get caught.

So on top of the rift he (accidentally) created when they started the organization, it’s even harder to connect through similar interests. Other than punching people together.

And Bruce Wayne has a bad case of imposter syndrome when it comes to their superpowers.

He’s always in the corner brooding, and everyone’s like ummm antisocial much?

But 50% of the time, it’s because he’s thinking “I’ll never amount to the incredible heroic feats everyone else has accomplished. How can I possibly make a difference to the world if I’m already struggling to save Gotham?” Like a little emo freak 🖤

(Meanwhile, you couldn’t pay those mf’s to step foot in Gotham. This Bat guy’s crazy and he’s human apparently?! No way. Nuh uh.)

The OTHER 50% of his “brooding” is Bruce standing to the side with a mixture of concern and judgment because his teammates’ competency in certain areas is…alarmingly low sometimes.

One week, he finds himself thinking, “How do these grown-ass adults not know their way around a digital map? They’re 40, not geriatric.”

Then like a week later, it’s “These fucking war fossils don’t even know Morse code. I gotta do everything around here.”

One of the final straws is when he says, “Did they just break another fucking Keurig? Who does that, Alfred? It’s the fifth one.”

Suffice it to say, he’s not very personable. But is it his fault? Well yeah, a little bit. Like……..65% his fault.

(The remaining 35% is their moaning and groaning whenever Batman calls a meeting.)

Bruce’s irritation is totally justified.

God, he just wants to go home.

Why is he doing this again?

Attempt #2: Actually Making Friends

The first JL member to break through his cold, black exterior is Wonder Woman. She needs help with search and rescue after a sinkhole opens up near an elementary school, but no one’s available until Batman responds to her call.

He’s on the scene in less than an hour and makes quick work in securing the area. Thankfully, she catches him once it’s over. (He always runs off without saying goodbye.)

“Thanks for helping. Everyone else was just so busy. I’m glad you could fly over.” Batman mumbles something that she can’t quite hear. “What was that?” she asks. “I was busy too,” he repeats. She gives him a weird look, and he freezes up for a second as he realizes that probably wasn’t appropriate to say. “I mean…this was more important. There were kids in danger so it didn’t…matter if I was busy.”

Wonder Woman considers how awkward The Batman looks for a moment then smiles. So he really is human. “Well, thank you. The help was very much appreciated.”

Since then, several small acts of kindness and solidarity earn Batman some respect from the rest of the team.

One day, Flash complains about how boring their meetings are so Batman brings a massive bin of fidget toys. After placing them in front of the Flash, he mumbles, “These are for ADHD. They’re useful.” Flash almost cries with relief. He is very touched.

Another day, Green Arrow is severely injured in battle. Without a word, Batman leaves the fight, takes him to a safe location, stops the bleeding, and does it all while repeatedly making sure he’s awake and asking permission to remove certain pieces of clothing.

In another fight, Plastic Man’s mask is thrown off, and Batman sees his face. In a second, Batman tosses a smoke bomb, picks up the mask, and hands it back before anyone else can look. It costs them time and the element of surprise, and Plastic Man knows it, but Batman did it anyway.

A JL member’s stomach grumbles during one too many meetings. Suddenly, their little break room becomes a fully stocked kitchen with shelf-stable meal items and all the basic necessities. There’s a nut-free section, a gluten-free section, everything. The only reason they know it’s him is because anyone else would have admitted to it.

(He renovated the whole fucking thing. In one night. By himself.)

And they all see how gentle he is with children. Countless times, The Batman is spotted prioritizing young civilians at any given moment.

He has lollipops in his belt. And Bluey bandaids too.

It’s the little things that make them feel closer to him :)

And okay maybe his goddamn Mission Statement lecture wasn’t so bad

So they stop moaning and groaning

Okay, now it’s bonding time WOOHOO!!

Attempt #3: Kinda? Friends??

One day, Superman says he isn’t too fond of billionaires (because of Lex, obviously) and goes on a rant about capitalism. Bruce doesn’t dare contribute because 1) he’s the richest man in the world and 2) every other billionaire he’s met is insufferable.

(Including Oliver Queen who Bruce refuses to look at while Green Arrow “defends his city’s billionaire.”)

(And while we’re on the topic of Green Arrow, Bruce cannot forget the disappointing almost-fling two summers ago. He still holds a grudge.)

Green Arrow: “You’re all fashion nightmares. Who wears a cape in the 21st century?” Batman: “At least my facial hair isn’t longer than my dick.” GA: “What was that, Batman?” B: “What?”

Also Bruce is very attracted to Superman.

(He likes older men.)

(Yes, I am referring to Henry Cavill’s Superman.)

(Sue me.)

(But don’t get your hopes up. He does literally nothing about it.)

(Coward.)

One of the JL members complains about how sore they are after a few missions so Bruce cashes in his Monthly Attempt to Socialize and says, “Try yoga. It helps me.” “…Batman, you do yoga?” “Yes. My son got me into it….It’s good for you.” “You have a son?!” He is never socializing again.

They also learn that Batman has the smallest frame on the team. (Like yeah, he’s tall, but he’s also lanky, and everyone else is either an alien or a human dorito.)

One night, they need to sneak through the vents of some building so Bruce offers to do it. Someone says, “It’s a tight squeeze. Are you sure you can fit?” Then he just takes his cape and pauldrons and shoulder pads off and is suddenly like a foot skinnier

“Wait…is this why you’re so good at hiding in the shadows?” Bruce just glares at the Flash for a second before climbing into the vents.

(The answer is yes.)

A betting pool is started over whether or not Batman is part Bat.

In fact, several betting pools begin because no one knows anything about the guy??

Aquaman and Plastic Man go to great lengths to figure out what his hair color is.

They lose their shit once Bruce tells them he’s vegetarian.

Green Lantern: “Every time he opens his mouth, we learn something new. Next, he’s going to tell me he speaks Swahili!” Batman: “I do.” GL: “Oh, come on!”

Superman: “We need someone on the inside for this international operation to work, but that’ll take at least three months undercover.” Batman: “Don’t worry. I have connections.” S: “…In Shanghai?” B: “Yes.”

The Flash adds SHANGHAI?? to his conspiracy board

Bruce needs to stop trying to socialize. It’s better for everyone’s cardiovascular health.

A year or two in, they’re all introduced to Captain Marvel. Bruce is the first and only person to learn his true identity (kid Billy Batson) because Bruce is the only one with a kid. That way, he understands the weird Gen-Alpha humor and references.

Millennia-old deities don’t use the term Flop Era.

And, of course, they play FMK at some point.

(I mean, come on. There are like TWO mature adults on this team, but Martian Manhunter doesn’t know what’s going on until it’s too late, and Wonder Woman is busy at her day job.)

During that particular round, the celebrities are Bruce Wayne, Lex Luthor, and Kylie Jenner. Bruce does, in fact, want to kill himself, but he chooses Fuck instead because of this exact conversation:

Green Lantern: Come on, Bats. It’s just a game! Choose already. Batman: No. I’m against killing. GL: Oh, go fuck yourself. This situation is completely hypothetical, and you know it. B: Fine! Fuck Bruce, Marry Kylie, Kill Lex. GL: See? That wasn’t so hard :) Bruce:

He tried

Attempt #4: Ah shit, FRIEND?

The identity reveal comes about three years after he joins. He’s 32, has three kids, he’s been on hundreds of missions with them, the team’s over twice its original size, and there are domestic terrorists overtaking Manhattan.

Superman, Wonder Woman, The Flash, Green Lantern, Martian Manhunter, and The Batman try to extract as many civilians as possible, but now they’re being hunted. After hiding in a warehouse and considering their options, MM finally suggests that they pose as civilians, which immediately creates uproar.

Bruce, however, realizes this is the only way out.

But it’s not dramatic or badass like that one JL episode. No, instead, he thinks about it, swallows the regret, and just—

Takes off his cowl.

And the whole room falls dead fucking quiet.

Then, “Oh fuck.”

(That was Green Lantern.)

Bruce just shrugs and mumbles, “Martian is right. It’s the only way.” And really fucking hopes the grease paint hides his red face because he is not having a good time right now.

He would rather die, actually, but they need to get somewhere safe and Fast.

The others look him up and down then nod slowly. “Uh yeah.” “Okay, sure.” “This is fine.” “We’ll do that.”

The others begin slowly taking off their suits and changing into something more casual. Bruce takes his off, revealing the skin-tight compression suit underneath, and stuffs his armor in the roll-up duffel bag that’s kept in his belt.

He changes into his drifter outfit, wipes his face clean, and suddenly, The Batman’s just a normal guy. (A very pretty normal guy, mind you. His teammates have eyes.)

“We can head to my place,” Bruce says. “It’s closer, and I know the train system pretty well.” And yes, he’s pretty soft-spoken outside of the suit, but now it feels even more obvious.

Meanwhile, the others are like—

Oh. My. God.

Oh my god, he’s fucking shy. Batman is acting shy in front of us. Dear fucking god. Batman is Bruce Wayne. And Bruce is shy so Batman is fucking shy?? Bruce is pretty too. Holy fuck. He is very pretty.

And he’s so young?? Oh my god, he’s a BABY wtf?! He’s like four inches shorter. Four inches tall! They’re all towering over him without his massive boots and armor, and he just hunches over with the big duffel bag like he wants to sink into the floor, and he’s so small.

Wonder Woman wants to put him in her pocket.

Sue her.

They end up taking the train back. Bruce has on the mask and cap that hides his face (poor Superman, he really likes his jawline) and they all follow Bruce as he gets off and on several trains at seemingly random stops. THEN when they’re finally in Gotham, they head into an abandoned-looking subway station that leads them into a…cave?? WTF

And in the middle of the cave is an elderly man with a cane and a three-piece suit just lounging on a recliner. (WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK—)

He looks up from his crossword puzzle and says, “Ah! You’ve finally made friends, I see?” Bruce rolls his eyes. “This is not a sleepover,” he gripes. “Shame. I was about to grab your footie pajamas for you.”

The man smiles at them. “A pleasure to meet Master Wayne’s work friends in person. Would you like some coffee? Tea? If you’re like him, this is going to be a long night.”

No one dares to question why this man recognizes them in their civvies

They also can’t tell if the footie pajamas line was a joke or not. After tonight, nothing is off the table.

(This is a minefield of information. Barry is having flashbacks to his conspiracy board. No one is going to fucking believe him.)

They all settle into one corner of the cave. Bruce leaves to change and comes back looking like this:

(Goddamnit, Clark is having a meltdown. His hair looks so good wet.)

At one point while they’re plotting, Wonder Woman glances over his shoulder to see Bruce checking some sort of security camera. A boy, maybe nine or ten, is sleeping in bed. “Is that your son?” Bruce clearly doesn’t want to answer, but Alfred gives him a look, and Bruce sighs. “One of them. Yes.”

Later, they have to analyze some explosive samples in the cave, and Barry, forensic scientist extraordinaire, has some choice words about the non-sterile environment.

Barry: This doesn’t look safe. Bruce: My lab is perfectly clean and functional. *bat screeches* Don’t worry about that.

For the rest of the night, they use the evidence they have to track down the organization while the rest of the JL suits up and saves NYC.

After a few hours, they’re safe to return to NYC for damage control. But Alfred refuses to let Bruce go with them. “Your sons are worried. Drive them to school, then you’re coming home and sleeping.”

Bruce clearly wants to argue, but the mention of his kids stops him. He sighs and turns to the others who are already changed. “Let me know if you need anything. I can be there in ten minutes.”

They all nod, knowing full well they will not be doing that. The guy clearly needs rest.

(Also, he is a single father of three and still goes out every night to punch robbers and crime bosses? Is he doing okay?)

Then they head back to NYC with so many questions.

But a lot of it makes sense too, actually. Maybe they just weren’t thinking about the man behind the mask enough to see it.

They learned a lot about their friend that night.

And they have a lot of bets to cash in.

FIN

Okay :D that was a lot! If you enjoyed it, please let me know. This has been simmering in the back of my head for months <3 Have a great day and drink some water :)

Hey bestie @bruciemilf

[trashfangirlsworld]

Hello! I've been inactive due to the current events in the mcyt community, but I've been keeping up with the qsmp admin situation and I thought I'd share some opinions because the amount of doomposting I've seen the last few weeks has been more than I've seen in any fandom in a while and I feel like it's reached the point where people really need to chill the fuck out because they're not thinking straight and actively not helping. Everything I'm gonna say is based on stuff I've seen on both tumblr and twitter.

they should not promote/release merch! : one of the things that baffles me the most tbh; how do you expect any employee to be payed then? Merch is so far the only big source of income for the server besides q's own cc salary or whatever income they get through the official qsmp channel on twitch and youtube (which I don't think is a lot). "I get that they said they have no funds, but still it doesn't feel right"... sorry but at this point I don't know what to tell you, do you expect them to pull money out of their asses? You can't demand that they stop making merch and then complain that they can't afford the twitter admins at the same time. If you don't feel comfortable buying anything from them it's fine obviously, but if your reason for it is that you're helping the admins then I have bad news for you. I have seen people propose that quackity sets up a patreon, and while I think it would be a good idea, I understand why he's not doing it, since with the merch he can at least give something back to the people that choose to support his project instead of people just giving him money for free, especially with what's happening now. Also with how much hate he's been receiving simply for the merch I can't imagine that a patreon would be recieved well.

we don't know if the money is going to the admins/ they should not use pomme's likeness! : the money is definitely going to go to the employees and admins because otherwise the server would not last. And as much as I understand people feeling protective over pomme's admin, quackity studios is very much allowed to sell merch of the character because it is not the likeness of the admin, it's a minecraft model made by the people that work there. Would you have rathered they skip her character entirely? Do you really think that would have been okay?. Also correct me if I'm wrong, but I've seen posts and tweets saying that pomme's admin has been confirmed to come back with the other eggs whenever it happens by pierre, who talked with her admin.

the admins of the update accounts got fired, it means they want to fire everyone, they aren't making things better! : it sucks that the updates accounts had to end and I feel bad for every twitter admin that clearly cared a lot about the project, but unfortunately it had to happen if there simply isn't enough money to pay them adequately like they deserved and ultimately the update accounts were not essential to keep the project going, so it makes sense that they were let go unfortunately. This is not gonna be the case for the egg admins because if they got fired (which they didn't), the server would basically end. Just because a cc does not know when they will be back does not mean it's not gonna happen. Just because tubbo randomly said that he's not sure if they will be back does not mean they were fired; tubbo is normally not a reliable source of information, even less so when he's been live nonstop for the past 20 days, which is prior to everything happening. If you genuinely didn't expect a reduction in non essential staff considering everything, then you have unreasonable expectations on how this stuff goes. As I write this, I'm seeing people saying that "they would understand this decision if q had set up a patreon to pay the admins", and once again I don't understand how people don't realize why quackity might not be keen on the idea of having his fans pay his own employees for his own project instead of, you know, doing it himself; and, again, do not fool yourself into thinking it would be recieved well. That being said, it's fair to criticize how everything was communicated to the admins, but I'll get to this in more detail later.

quackity should not have uninstalled social media, he's trying to avoid everything! : he's not avoiding anything, he's been off social media for a while now, which is why it took him that long to remove wilbur from the server. He has every right to not want to look at social media, as his focus should be on restructuring his server instead of doomscrolling on twitter because people think he needs to see how much people dislike him. The only people that he should talk to are those that have important information to tell him, like josè with the document. He explicitly said on stream where to contact him if you have helpful information and I'm sure that despite multiple well liked posts saying not to spam his email, people are definitely doing it anyway, which is probably gonna slow the whole thing down even more. I hope josè's document is able to be seen with pierre's help as well.

quackity studios is not communicating with their employees and leaving them in the dark and that's not okay : I agree with this. i think a huge chunk of doomposting lately has been due the lack of communication not with the audience, but with the admins, and they deserve to know what is happening behind the scenes more then us since this is about their current or future job.... that being said, I do kind of understand why they're being so secretive and shutting everyone out, and that's due to all the "leaks" that have been spread online. I understand the anger but I really wish some people would realize that discussing leaked bts lore stuff in ccs discord servers does not help the situation at all and instead makes it seem like they're only doing this to rile up the fandom against quackity studios by using the lore of people's fav characters.

At the end of the day, I think people just aren't used to dealing with a situation that does not have a clear cut solution and someone to clearly hate, so the result is this doomposting and the over aggressiveness toward anything related to the project. Personally, I haven't witnessed anything that made me lose faith in the qsmp like some people have been saying, as every change that we've seen so far coincides with what quackity said on stream a while ago. I only wish things were communicated properly to the admins clearly, as they're the ones most affected, so I hope that's resolved soon. Ultimately quackity is singlehandedly restructuring the server from basically zero, has had to fire people that were misusing money and power and, depending on what josè's document said, is probably gonna have to fire some more. This is not an easy process, nor a quick one, you're not gonna hear about sunshine and rainbows for a while and doomposting about everything you hear because you expected quick change is useless. Think before you speak, have a clear head and most importantly have empathy.

[nathaslosthershit]

Celebration Baby, Literally! (CL16) [Blind Items AU]

(Part 6 in the Blind Items AU [can be read separately])

Summary: 8 months after Charles Monaco win, the fans get to see just how hard he celebrated

“Ohhhhhhh mate, you have been outed!” Pierre laughes as he shoves his phone into Charles’ face.

“Pierre, I cannot read when you put the screen in my eyes like that, back up” Charles responds as he shoves his longtime friend. Like many of the other victims of the ‘F1 Blind Items’ account, Charles’ face drains of color as he sees what they are saying. While there is some truth to the rumor, it still is far from correct. “Ah! Merde, they got so much wrong, mate!”

“What's wrong, honey?” Charles’ girlfriend calls from the other room where she is sitting with Pierre’s girlfriend. The couple decided to join the Gasly house for a nice dinner, although reading the post surely made Charles lose his appetite. 

Charles and Pierre look at each other as they realize she heard them. The one thing the post got right was that his girlfriend was very pregnant with what is most likely a post-win conceived baby. There was no reason to stress her out when she was so offline it would take a while for her to learn about the rumor, giving Charles enough time to convince her to go public and try to make this into the smallest problem possible. 

“Nothing, baby. I love you” He responded as he made a ‘stay silent’ motion at Pierre.

“Um okay, love you too?” was all she replied, not believing in the slightest that this was nothing. 

It didn’t help that for the rest of the night, Charles was off in his own world, thinking of how he was going to execute his terribly thought out plan. But she wasn’t going to interrogate him on it, at least not again, she had already asked him multiple times if he was okay and if he wanted to talk but he would always answer with a “I am fine, beautiful. How can I not be when the woman I love most is pregnant with our child.” While it was charming, she still wasn’t convinced he was okay after all. 

After hours of deliberation, as he sat outside the bathtub while his girlfriend relaxed in it, he finally spoke his mind.

“We should tell people” is the best he came up with after hours of thinking.

“Tell people what?”

“About the baby”

“We told people about the baby”

“I mean like everyone, we should go public.”

She turned her neck to fully face him at that. 

“Where is this coming from? Why now?” She asked.

“No reason”

“You are a shit liar, Leclerc, tell me why.”

“People know”

“What people know?” She asked. God, he was awful at explaining things.

“Everyone.”

“Then why would we need to tell them?”

Right when he was about to reply, he closed his mouth. Why would he need to tell people? While the Blind Items account had become a reliable source as they had yet to be wrong, there wasn’t any reason to actually address the issue, at least not till the baby was born, which would happen during winter break.

“...I guess we don’t need to. It's just- there is this account that posts rumors about the drivers that so far have always been true, but one came out about us and it isn’t really that correct, I just thought we should squash it.”

“What did they say that wasn’t correct?” She questioned.

“They implied we only got together because of the baby, and that we weren’t dating before I uh, knocked you up.” The ‘very public breakup’ the post referred to, was an actual breakup that happened a year prior to the world knowing. It was another very private relationship, as Charles became more famous and ‘sought after’ he liked to keep relationships from the limelight till they got serious in order to protect his girlfriends. But when his ex had found out just how serious things were with his current girlfriend, she wanted to bring it to light in order to get her 15 minutes of fame, which ended up being more like 2 minutes. As terrible as it was, once the public knew she had no connection to Charles anymore, they lost interest in her. 

After requesting he pull up the post, Charles handed his phone to his girlfriend so she could read.

“Is this what you are worried about? The part about me getting a ring for a ‘push present’? Don’t want me getting any ideas?” She joked. They had been together long enough and were about to have a baby, so the idea of getting engaged took up about 65% of the monégasque’s thoughts, the rest being about her and the baby, maybe 5% in total was devoted to F1.

“Ah no, my love, you know that is not it. Although an engagement ring would already happen even without our baby, so I will get you something else as well as a present” He said as he kissed her shoulder, then her neck, then her cheek, finally landing on her lips.

“We don’t need to say anything, let us enjoy the privacy for a while longer. Wouldn’t it be better to go into the upcoming season with a baby and a financée?” She asked.

She was right, why not make an even bigger entrance by saying nothing and letting the rumor die down, in order to enjoy the bliss of privacy for a little while longer.

“That sounds wonderful, mon amour. Absolutely perfect.”

[perikrone]

The depth of the global textile supply chain that you get into as you get into increasingly obscure fiber arts is so wild.

You can start with knitting, or crochet, and there are *so* many choices for yarn and materials. Indie dyers with unique colorways, weird fibers from heritage breeds, and patterns for hundreds of lifetimes worth of hobby. You can even dive into spinning! Buy weird fiber from hobbyists and conservationists around the world, and spin things that you can't easily get otherwise.. Just those skills are enough to take a lifetime to hone.

But if you go far enough down the rabbit-hole, you're suddenly googling for how to compare thread weights between crochet thread numbers and weaving numbers, and is flax graded differently than cotton? Oh, I can get 20/2 and 60/2 silk all day long, but suddenly if I need 30/2 silk there are just a handful of results and wow I'll never be able to buy this again, is this a random mill in Turkey just selling cone ends??? And before you know it you have a note file with 10,000 Etsy links and Google translated half functioning corporate websites and you're trying to figure out if it's worth it to just see if you can import from this tiny store in Germany that seems to have a reliable source of *close enough* fiber for what you're going for, and why are you even so into *tablet weaving* of all things, why can't we just be knitting endless socks or something like that???

Love it, wouldn't trade it for the world.

[fatehbaz]

Travel back [...] a few hundred years to before the industrial revolution, and the wildlife of Britain and Ireland looks very different indeed. 

Take orcas: while there are now less than ten left in Britain’s only permanent (and non-breeding) resident population, around 250 years ago the English [...] naturalist John Wallis gave this extraordinary account of a mass stranding of orcas on the north Northumberland coast [...]. If this record is reliable, then more orcas were stranded on this beach south of the Farne Islands on one day in 1734 than are probably ever present in British and Irish waters today. [...]

Other careful naturalists from this period observed orcas around the coasts of Cornwall, Norfolk and Suffolk. I have spent the last five years tracking down more than 10,000 records of wildlife recorded between 1529 and 1772 by naturalists, travellers, historians and antiquarians throughout Britain and Ireland, in order to reevaluate the prevalence and habits of more than 150 species [...].

In the early modern period, wolves, beavers and probably some lynxes still survived in regions of Scotland and Ireland. By this point, wolves in particular seem to have become re-imagined as monsters [...].

Elsewhere in Scotland, the now globally extinct great auk could still be found on islands in the Outer Hebrides. Looking a bit like a penguin but most closely related to the razorbill, the great auk’s vulnerability is highlighted by writer Martin Martin while mapping St Kilda in 1697 [...].

[A]nd pine martens and “Scottish” wildcats were also found in England and Wales. Fishers caught burbot and sturgeon in both rivers and at sea, [...] as well as now-scarce fishes such as the angelshark, halibut and common skate. Threatened molluscs like the freshwater pearl mussel and oyster were also far more widespread. [...]

Predators such as wolves that interfered with human happiness were ruthlessly hunted. Authors such as Robert Sibbald, in his natural history of Scotland (1684), are aware and indeed pleased that several species of wolf have gone extinct:

There must be a divine kindness directed towards our homeland, because most of our animals have a use for human life. We also lack those wild and savage ones of other regions. Wolves were common once upon a time, and even bears are spoken of among the Scottish, but time extinguished the genera and they are extirpated from the island.

The wolf was of no use for food and medicine and did no service for humans, so its extinction could be celebrated as an achievement towards the creation of a more civilised world. Around 30 natural history sources written between the 16th and 18th centuries remark on the absence of the wolf from England, Wales and much of Scotland. [...]

In Pococke’s 1760 Tour of Scotland, he describes being told about a wild species of cat – which seems, incredibly, to be a lynx – still living in the old county of Kirkcudbrightshire in the south-west of Scotland. Much of Pococke’s description of this cat is tied up with its persecution, apparently including an extra cost that the fox-hunter charges for killing lynxes:

They have also a wild cat three times as big as the common cat. [...] It is said they will attack a man who would attempt to take their young one [...]. The country pays about £20 a year to a person who is obliged to come and destroy the foxes when they send to him. [...]

The capercaillie is another example of a species whose decline was correctly recognised by early modern writers. Today, this large turkey-like bird [...] is found only rarely in the north of Scotland, but 250–500 years ago it was recorded in the west of Ireland as well as a swathe of Scotland north of the central belt. [...] Charles Smith, the prolific Dublin-based author who had theorised about the decline of herring on the coast of County Down, also recorded the capercaillie in County Cork in the south of Ireland, but noted: This bird is not found in England and now rarely in Ireland, since our woods have been destroyed. [...] Despite being protected by law in Scotland from 1621 and in Ireland 90 years later, the capercaillie went extinct in both countries in the 18th century [...].

---

Images, captions, and text by: Lee Raye. “Wildlife wonders of Britain and Ireland before the industrial revolution – my research reveals all the biodiversity we’ve lost.” The Conversation. 17 July 2023. [Map by Lee Raye. Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[queenimmadolla]

𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬

(Tattoo Artist!Eddie Munson x Apprentice!Reader)

Summary: . . . After deciding you were meant for more than what life had in store for you, you gave into the siren call of the city─well a city. But when city life finally eats away at your bank account and your main source of income isn't reliable, you take on an apprenticeship at a tattoo shop where your boss is the six-foot something, tattoo covered Eddie Munson who quickly and unwisely becomes intrigued by you. Nothing romantic can come from it, lest you risk it being torn apart by your past, his lover and yourself.

Entire Work Warnings: 18+ (smut will take place in later chapters), swearing, financial problems, mentions of loss, escorts/call girls, age gap (Eddie is 36, reader is 25), financial shaming, slut shaming, implied sexual harassment, bimbo!reader (she may not be book smart but she knows the score) angst, self-sabotage.

a/n: based on my initial post and elements of Breakfast at Tiffany's. next chapters will be significantly juicer, this was just something to get us going. this is dedicated to @munsonology, happy birthday and I hope this year was a good one! and a very gratitude filled thank you to my dear friend, @kitmon, for continuing to be an an amazing beta! hope you guys like it so far ♡ (attempting the keep reading feature, fingers crossed)

word count: 5k

“They don’t bite.” “Hmn?” Came your absent-minded reply, eyes cutting from the harpy, evil in her eyes and blood soaking her talons, to the man flipping through the red binder you’d been carrying around you in the Indianapolis heat. 

  Sweat evaporated off your skin, giving away to goosebumps in the air conditioned shop, a much welcome relief to the borderline unbearable heatwave settling over the city streets, something that can be found in every nook and cranny. You’d been navigating your way throughout the city since before dawn broke, eager to get your fill of it while the streets were quiet and a decent temperature. It had been almost chilly this morning, your thick strapped tank top and daisy dukes—that you normally wouldn’t allow yourself to be caught dead in—leaving most of your skin exposed, with no direct sunlight to warm it. Now that the sun was out, you were on fire out there.

“The artwork.” He glanced at the framed harpy drawing along the wall, the one you’d been staring at, one of many framed depictions of gruesome and mythical looking creatures. “I don’t blame you though, that one isn’t particularly my favorite. Pretty badass, though. Heh.” “Oh,” You shook your head, the oversized shades adorning your face sliding down the bridge of your nose, “No, I’m not afraid of it. I like it. It must have taken forever though.”

  You turned your attention to her again, admiring how realistic her feathers appeared. Painstakingly detailed and whoever was walking around the city with her on their body surely endured a generous amount of pain to get her. 

  And a large hole in their wallet.

  “It took a ton of sessions, for sure. My boy did it a couple years ago.” The man, Argyle, as he’d introduced himself when you’d first walked into the shop, flipped his long black hair over his shoulder before he flipped to the next page of your portfolio. He let out a sound of appreciation as he leaned his weight on his elbow, hand resting over his mouth.

  “This is good! This is really good!”

You lifted your chin to peer at the drawing he was fascinated with. Ah.

It was a drawing of the skeletal Grim Reaper, cloaked in a black robe and scythe clutched in one hand while his boney middle fingers stretched his eye socket holes down in an obvious taunt. A tongue, black and tendril like, lulled out of his mouth.

You thought it was pretty good, too. The idea for it had struck you at a party, you’d been hiding from an annoying suitor and ducked into an office room, doodling to your heart's content once you grew past your boredom.

You grinned, a feeling of giddiness beginning to bubble inside you.

“Listen, the DM’s out right now, running some errands. He should be back soon, can I hold onto this?” Argyle asked, gripping the sides of the binder and raising it as if you didn’t already know he was referring to your portfolio, “I think he’ll be pretty impressed with your stuff.” You fidgeted with your fingers, giddiness giving away to nerves once more. “Really? You think so?” Hope was something you hadn’t felt in a while; you’d been through exactly fourteen tattoo shops throughout the city, most of which you’d been rebuffed from before they so much as flipped open your portfolio, having already decided your particular aesthetic didn’t fit their image. They hadn’t verbalized as much, but you knew. You glanced down at your pink boots, already such a stark contrast to the black beams beneath your feet.

It wouldn’t be a big deal if you hadn’t made a wager with yourself, you could only go home once you’d accomplished your task of getting one of the shop owners to actually look at your work. While Argyle had made it clear he wasn’t the head honcho, he’d be passing it along.

“Yeah, man! This is some pretty legit stuff! I’ve been tatting, myself, for a couple years now, and I’m good–don’t wanna flex or nothing but I’m really good. Only it took a couple of years for me to actually get this good, you know? And I’m not even talking about on skin. You haven’t tattooed anyone before, right?” You thought back to when you had mentioned your art skill to a brief...something, he’d been intoxicated enough on expensive wine and your sangria kisses to encourage you to use the tattoo kit one of your friends had re-gifted you after her interest in the subject waned. You’d never particularly imagined yourself etching into people’s skin before, not even when she’d given you the supplies because she’d seen some of your doodles.

Thanks to her, a suit and tie you no longer spoke to, who made more money than you’ll ever see, was walking around with a secret under his briefs: a pair of shiny cherries on his left ass cheek.

  It was no loss to you. Sure, he made money. Just not nearly enough for you to tolerate how aggressive he’d been with his affections as soon as he was sloshed. You’d given him the tattoo with his drunk pals cheering him on, went out to a very high standard club, then promptly ditched him the moment you were out of his sight. You hadn’t answered the door when he came pounding on it the next morning and the morning after that.

  You’d originally had no intentions of using the tattoo equipment, until that encounter. It had planted a seed, an idea that may get you out of what you had to do to survive. Tattooing hadn’t been a passion, and it still wasn’t quite one but you needed money and you had talent.

“No,” You lied with a shake of your head, “I haven’t.”

“That’ll change soon,” he laughed, closing your binder as he leaned further over the glass counter. Your gaze briefly flickered to the jewelry it housed.

  “You got a number we can reach you at?”

  You’d scrawled the number of your landline down on the back of one of their business cards before Argyle could rethink his decision to pass your work along. 

  “Hopefully, we’ll see you soon!” He called out as you retreated towards the door.

  God, I hope so.

  The thought of a somewhat stable job that could help the pitiful state of your checking and savings account was the only thing powering you through your long walk home. You couldn’t risk a cab, that would mean you’d have no fare money for tonight, and who knows if you’d have to make a speedy exit?

  You’d learned. Eventually.

  Forty-five minutes later, you entered your apartment, sagging back against the door as you dropped your bag and kicked your shoes off, unconcerned as to where exactly they’d landed. 

  Sweat glistened over your skin, and unlike in that last tattoo shop, there was no air conditioning to cool you. You and Sid saved that for special occasions.

  Instead, you opened the large window to the fire escape, obnoxious sounds of the city you called home filling the apartment.

  It wasn’t much, but it was better. Next came the matter of your clothes, stuck in the most uncomfortable of ways to your flesh. Your tank top was peeled off and thrown over the couch, daisy dukes abandoned near the entryway of the small kitchen on your way to the bathroom.

  A quick glance was spared behind you, taking in the state of your shared home. It was a mess and not even remotely surprising. The place was barely furnished with the essentials, all of which were secondhand: a couch, a coffee table with a sheet over it to hide the stains, one shelving unit, a rug and tapestries hung artfully on the walls for deception. They made the place look more put together than it was, but you’d love it even if it were still barren. A roof over your head in the city meant you didn’t have to return to the past you’d clawed your way out of..

  The only thing worth much was the framed photo on the kitchen counter, and that was only in sentimental value. You and Sid, arms around each other’s shoulders as you sat in a booth at a shitty diner you’d tried upon first moving to the city. They’d taken your photo for being the 600th customer and tacked it to the wall.

  You’d stolen it and had no regrets because you got to keep your memory and ended up getting food poisoning.

  With a shrug, you entered the bathroom for a much needed scrub down and some disassociating. Your mess could wait.

  ─

  Eddie was not in a great mood when he walked into the shop.

  His jacket was clutched in a sweaty palm, rings twisting around the flesh of his fingers and his bangs were beginning to stick to his forehead, all the result of the walk from his fucking car to the shop door. 

  “Grumpy?” Argyle asked, amused with the clear annoyance on his face.

  Eddie sneered, standing under the vent for a minute to cool down, “Triple digits. Triple fucking digits out there, man. You could shove a thermometer up the devil’s asshole and it’d be cooler than that.”

  Once he’d solidified, he stalked past the front desk, threw his jacket onto the counter and picked up a stack of mail.

  “Did I miss anything?” Eddie asked as he flipped through the envelopes, mostly junk.

  “A couple of walk-ins. Nothing too major there, handled them myself. Simple stuff, one wanted a goldfish. Not like a detailed one, like how you’d try and draw a goldfish cracker. We did have a few who wanted a couple of advance pieces, got ‘em booked for consultations with Johnny boy and Rob.”

  “Nice,” Eddie chuckled under his breath at the mental image of the goldfish tattoo, most likely an act of affection. Tattooing people who wanted to permanently carry reminders of their children was one of Eddie’s favorites to do, partially because of the sentiment but mostly because the drawings were amusing.

  He’d just finished tossing out the junk mail when he reached for his jacket to hang it up properly and discovered it had been concealing something. 

  “What’s this?” Eddie asked as he lifted the slim red binder. Looked relatively new.

  “Huh?” Argyle glanced up from the sketch he was working on, recognition flashing across his face, “Oh, yeah! We got a prospective new hire, someone dropped off their portfolio.”

  Eddie rolled his eyes and heaved out a heavy sigh as his jacket was tossed aside yet again. He had nothing against other tattoo artists, but the last one he’d hired that hadn’t come from his friend group ended up nearly destroying the group. 

  Henry had been charming, good at his job and charismatic. Turns out, he’d also been a master manipulator and had a particularly abhorrent temper. Tensions had been high, heads were butting and fights had occurred—with a permanent reminder in the wall near the front entrance where a large hole had been punched through. Henry had to go.

  Eddie wasn’t looking to repeat the situation.

  “I think we’re good on artists around here–and put a reminder on the calendar for me to patch that damn crater up.”  

  “Well, it’s a good thing the artist isn’t a tattoo artist. Yet. I’d look at that portfolio first before making any decisions, if I were you. I think you’re gonna see the beginnings of something goooooood, and dude, you’ll be killing our fun if you fix it. Do you know how many glory hole jokes we tell?” Eddie ignored the latter half of Argyle’s statement, reluctantly flipping the portfolio open to the first page and annoyance began to associate itself with him once more. 

  A body, in a state of decomposition greeted him. But it wasn’t maggots or rotting flesh involved. Flowers grew out of the crevices, with moss and mushrooms over her skin. A lot of fine line work.

  The next page was home to a bird-like creature with the body of a lion, a Griffin. Done in American Traditional.

  A skinny, demonic looking goat with horns and legs long enough to belong to a horse, clouded eyes and wyvern wings was on the page after that. The Jersey Devil. Someone knew their Cryptids.

  The portfolio contained a vast amount of drawings from horror depictions to more aesthetically pleasing visions; the hydra, skeletons, dragons, goddesses, respectable attempts at the modern Renaissance pieces, and even a couple of Barbie references, ranging in a variety of tattoo styles. 

  Eddie closed the portfolio and drummed his fingertips across the countertop, scowling. 

  That long haired doofus was right. This was beyond good work. But if they weren’t a tattoo artist, there wasn’t much Eddie could do with them. Drawing on paper is a much more different experience than skin. Mistakes can be erased on paper, the sketch done over again. Can’t do the same on flesh. 

  It’s intimidating. 

  They’d have to start off slow, like he had. Trained under a watchful eye, an expert who’d guide them with experienced hands. He was sure Jonathan and Robin would be eager to have an apprentice.

  But before Eddie would even begin to entertain the idea of an apprentice in his shop, he’d have to see exactly what it was he was working with.

  “Leave a number?” He asked without looking at Argyle because he knew he’d see nothing but a smug expression.

  “Yup.”

  “See if you can get him back in the shop tomorrow.”

  “Why not today?”

  “Because I have a session for the rest of the day, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah! I forgot.” Argyle’s grin was sheepish as he read off the calendar. “Stacy Peterson called. Car troubles. Unable to make it to appointment with Eddie. Rescheduled. Heh. So…you also missed that.”

  “I’ll strangle you later, just get him in here then.”

  Argyle opened his mouth, then closed it as an expression that said I know something you don’t crossed his strong features. “Righty-O, boss. I’ll give him a call.”

  You’d been lounging in the bathtub, hair up and out of the way, eyeing the grooves of the shower tile. They were a permanent taunt, stained dark no matter how hard you and Sid scrubbed and you hated the sight of them. 

  People with money didn't have to stare at them, able to afford to have them professionally cleaned or the shower wall—the entire bathroom renovated.

  Someday, that would be you. 

  You sunk further into the water, toeing at the faucet when the shrill sound of the landline filled your more than humble home. The thought of simply letting it ring played in your head until you remembered the tattoo shop you’d visited last. 

  Hastily rising from the tub, water was splashed along the floor while you did a terrible job of drying off and ran naked the rest of the way to the living room, almost slipping as you did.

  The receiver was yanked off its post, “Hello?”

  “What’s up, Dudette? Argyle calling, dunno if you remember me from earlier…”

  “Yeah! From the tattoo shop, right?”

  “Right-O! Listen, The Dungeon Master is in and he wants to see if you can get down here to show him what you got. Possible?”

  “Yeah, it’ll be no problem!” You’d have to run most of the way but street traffic around this time wasn’t that bad so you wouldn’t have to fight your way through bodies.

  “Cool, cool, cool. And between you and me, this is pretty much the interview process. Good luck, dudette, and may the force be with your tattie skills. I’ll see you when you get here!”

  As soon as you’d hung up, you ran to your room to get dressed. You didn’t have much of a wardrobe, but it wasn’t high on your list of priorities considering you and Sid practically shared one. Another tank top was selected—to mitigate sweating on your way to your interview—along with a gifted pink thong and matching bra. You’d snagged your Daisy Dukes from the floor on your way out, shimmied them on, grabbed your small bag and keys and headed out.

  The selection of attire was a good one, the heat was still stupidly unbearable and heavy. You’d need to wash off again tonight. You’d managed to make it to the shop in under twenty-five minutes, having ignored all the looks you’d received as you hurried along the streets and the feeling of the air conditioner on your skin was a welcome one when you made your way back into the shop.

  Argyle greeted you with a bright grin from his place behind the counter, throwing up his hands, “You made it! One sec.”

  Then he turned his upper body to call into an area you couldn’t quite see into, “Oh, Eddie boy! Your prospect has arrived.”

  You hadn’t cared to entertain ideas on what your potential boss could look like, all you were concerned about was the position and getting your foot in the door. Even if you had tried to imagine him, nothing could have prepared you for the actual sight of him when he emerged.

  He was big, tall and cloaked in black, despite the heat of the city. He wore what you figured had once been a black t-shirt but was now lacking sleeves and a proper neck hem to be considered a makeshift tank. His pants were shiny leather and also tight, hugging the muscles of his thighs, and he sported a dark pair of pointed boots.

  He wasn’t particularly muscular enough to be the body builder type, but it looked like he could probably pick another grown man up with ease. His skin had a light tan to it, barely anything really, just like everyone else, he obviously couldn’t escape the sun. It was littered with intricate tattoos, weaving up his arms—a few you could tell disappeared under his shirt—and his neck.

  The word freak was permanently etched in black ink along his temple and over his eyebrow. Two silver balls decorated his other eyebrow.

  Leaning up against the back wall like that, arms crossed to make the muscles of his arms bulge slightly and oozing confidence, he looked like the personification of some really good sex.

  But he wasn’t what you were seeking out and you didn’t like to mix business with pleasure.

  Eddie was caught completely off guard, trying to school his shock and keep his composure.

  When he’d seen that portfolio, he was expecting someone with jagged edges, piercings galore and more than just a couple of tattoos to be behind it and standing in the entryway of his shop.

  Someone who looked like their art.

  You…didn’t. With your little pink cowboy boots, tank top that accentuated your figure and shorts so small, they should’ve been considered a form of underwear, you didn’t look at all similar to what Eddie was expecting. Not even if he closed his eyes.

  You didn’t waste time, quickly introducing yourself as you stepped up to the front desk and Eddie pulled himself from his stupor, closing the distance to shake your palm. Smaller than his (though most were) and slightly sweaty, no doubt due to that god forsaken heat outside.

  Eddie could see bits of your hair sticking to your skin, little beads of sweat prickling over your exposed collarbone and trailing down, down between your─

  “Thank you for taking the time to even look at my portfolio! I really appreciate it.”

  Eddie blinked hard, clearing his throat before smirking to pretend he hadn’t been drawn in by your chest.

  What the fuck was wrong with him all of a sudden? 

  He’d had plenty of beautiful clients, he’d tattooed nice asses, tits, pubic regions, thighs, all the beautiful areas. Now all of a sudden he was acting like he’d never seen a pair of tits before. 

  Hell, Eddie had been thoroughly busy with a pair, held them in his hands before he came into the shop.

  Professionalism, he reminded himself.

  “Not a problem, what I see—saw was pretty impressive,” Nice save, Eddie, you dick. He cursed himself, “You adapt well to different styles.”

  “Thanks!” You chirped, excitement filling you at the praise. It was so nice to hear positive feedback about your work instead of being sent out of a shop before they so much as opened your binder. “I like to experiment with different styles, see what it is that people like so much about them and honestly, it’s mostly because I haven’t quite found my art style just yet.”

  Hence your range, you were constantly expanding with your art because you hadn’t found one style you wanted to make yours yet. Or maybe you had and just didn’t know it yet. Whatever.

  Eddie and Argyle exchanged a look before he stepped back and nodded in the direction he came, “Why don’t you follow me? Show me what you can do?”

  You didn’t hesitate, stepping past the front desk.

  There was more artwork lining the short hall he took you down until you arrived at another room, obviously one meant for actual tattooing as there was a tattoo chair in the middle of the room. 

  On one of the counters, was an area already prepped for you. A tattoo gun, some ink, and some obviously fake skin that rested on top of a disposable sheet cloth, along with some gloves.

  “Argyle tells me you haven’t worked on skin before.”

  Sure you haven’t.

  “Not a whole lot of people lining up to get tattooed by someone with no experience,” you shrugged, following him over to the counter he was leaning up against.

  “You’re hanging around the wrong crowd then.” He joked and you let out a small laugh.

  He had no idea how right he was.

  “The first tattoos I ever got were from inexperienced people. This one,” he gestured to a Wyvern on the back of his arm, “I got my junior year of high school from a waitress at a bar I always snuck into.”

  “And this one,” he yanked the tattered collar of his shirt down to expose more ink, but the one he was referring to was a spider, “I got my first senior year from someone I did…business with.”

  First senior year? Eddie was proving to be an interesting character.

  “But enough about me,” Eddie released his shirt, allowing it to hide the artwork depicted on his chest, “let’s get down to business.”

  Before he could even explain what everything was, you dropped your purse onto the counter nearby, pulling a small box of unopened gloves from it.

  “You mind?” You asked, fingers poised to rip it open.

  “Go for it,” He shrugged. Gloves were gloves, so long as they were uncontaminated he didn’t mind.

  You tore into them and Eddie was still somehow surprised to see they were pink. Clearly his black ones weren’t your style.

  “Can I ask you a question?” You asked as you pulled the gloves on. Eddie watched you, intrigued as you finished assembling the tattoo gun without his help and opened the ink pack. 

  “Sure,” He mused, eyeing you skeptically. Hadn’t tattooed anyone but you were clearly familiar with it. Interesting.

  “Did your tattoos hurt?”

  Eddie waited until after you’d started the tattoo gun and got into working on the fake flesh. Apparently you already had an idea in mind.

  “A bit of an amateur question, you don’t have one?”

  “Nope.” You confirmed, paying him no mind as you leaned forward, gaze focused solely on your task, “I kind of want one but I’m not in any particular rush, you know?”

  Eddie made a sound of agreement, at a brief loss of words as you arched your back, ass sticking out and he became painfully aware you were wearing a hot pink thong, the tails of it peaking out past the top of your denim shorts. He should’ve offered you a seat but you didn’t seem all that bothered with standing.

  No, that was apparently his foil, because he was incredibly bothered by you standing, especially with your ass out like that; when it made his pants tighten considerably in his crotch region.

  He was getting hard. 

  Eddie was mortified, stiffening (go figure) as he attempted to calm himself, eyes darting away from your ass to stare at one of the cabinets. Of course this had to happen to him on the day he chose to wear a pair of pants that left little to the imagination should the boy downstairs start acting up.

  Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

  “Hurts, depending on the area, which I’m sure you already know. The tattoos on my back and my thighs hurt pretty bad. Forearms were a bitch, but nothing I couldn’t handle. The ones on my wrists and hands were the worst, pain wise, in my opinion. Obviously it didn't stop me, but those tend to be areas with a lot of bones, veins and very little muscle, so it’s expected.”

  You hummed in response and his gaze briefly flittered over to you before his cock pulsed and he tore it away again, grateful your attention wasn’t on him.

  The remainder of the ‘session’ was spent in relative silence with the music playing through the speakers installed throughout the shop, keeping it from being awkward. Eddie had just managed to will his erection away when you finished, setting down the gun before you pulled your gloves off.

  “What do you think?” You asked, still admiring your work and Eddie peered around you to assess it.

  A wyvern, similar to the one on his arm but done in a fine line style.

  He chuckled, amused with your reference and you fought valiantly with yourself not to grin. You were trying to impress him, sticking with a subject he liked enough to make it a part of him permanently, but you hadn’t imitated the style of it to keep from downright copying and to showcase your ability to adapt.

  “That’s pretty good,” And it was, not a whole lot of people could get lines that perfect or seem as confident in their abilities on their first try. Still, Eddie could tell you’d have some ways to go before you were ready to be on your own, “but you can do better.”

  You tried not to frown, “Oh.”

  Eddie smirked and you finally turned to face him, apprehension on your face.

  “Don’t look so down. After some time around here, watching us work, you’ll be ready. The apprenticeship will fly by in no time.”

  “Wait—you mean—you want me?!”

  “I’d be stupid not to.”

  You let out a squeal and threw yourself at him, giving him a quick squeeze before your brain caught up to your body and you pulled away.

  “Sorry, sorry! I’m just so excited.”

  Eddie cleared his throat, shifting his body away from you and rasped out, “Argyle will have the paperwork for you to fill out.”

  “Got it,” You grabbed your bag and was just about to head out of the room when Eddie called your name, “Huh?”

  “Be back at the same time tomorrow. You’ll be practicing on real skin.” 

  “But I thought you said—” 

  “Me.”

  Something in you bubbled with excitement and nerves.

  You nodded once and then left the room to see Argyle for your paperwork.

  “So?????” Argyle asked once you’d approached him, a sullen look on your face. 

  You couldn’t keep the act up, beaming as you practically bounced, “I’ll be seeing you around more often now!” 

  He whooped, extending an arm out for a high-five which you reciprocated.

  “You are gonna love it here, Dudette. Just wait until you meet everyone! First, we gotta start on your employment.” 

  Your brows furrowed as you watched him go through a filing cabinet.

  “Wait—this is paid?”

  “Yeah! We’re not big on slave labor here.”

  Score for you! You had a feeling you wouldn’t be clocking a ton of hours but every single penny counted, especially considering how hard of a time you had actually building a savings account.

  Argyle had walked you through the paperwork, where to sign, what things meant and since the shop was getting ready to close up you’d simply just bring the completed paperwork back with you tomorrow.

  The door chimed behind you and you turned to see who could be coming in at the last minute, eyes widening at the voluptuous woman before you. Her hair was long and jet black, skin pale (apparently one person in this city was capable of defying the sun) and make-up done so elegantly it reminded you of actresses from the silver screen era. Her dress was simple, black and hugged her curves exceptionally well. You could tell it was worth more than everything in your apartment combined and you’d feel bad about it if you also couldn’t tell she was older than you. 

  You’d have time to get there.

  “Hey, Deidre.”

  “Hello, Argyle.” She gave the both of you a dazzling smile as she removed her sunglasses and walked right past Argyle, down the hall you’d come from.

  He didn’t even look surprised and paid her no real attention.

  “We’ll see you soon?”

  “Damn straight.”

  Argyle let out another cheer as you walked out the door with high spirits. Not even the nasty, hot air could get you down.

  You’d climbed up the stone steps until you reached the sidewalk and glanced behind you at the neon sign depicting the name of the tattoo shop you’d now be working at.

  “Welcome to The Dungeon,” You mumbled to yourself with a smile. 

  You turned back to the sidewalk, staring down at the pathway you’d have to take before you thought better of it, sticking your fingers into your mouth to give a sharp whistle.

  It caught the attention of a cab driver down the street, and you gave him your address when he’d pulled up and you’d hopped in, ready to prepare for tonight's plans. You deserved a little break, after all, you were one step closer to securing the future of your dreams.

  Eddie sagged against the counter once you’d left the room, scowling down at the bulge that had reappeared in his pants when you’d hugged him.

  Why his body was suddenly acting like he was a horny teenager again, he had no idea.

  He wasn’t about to do anything about it, though. Not when you’d be hanging around the shop for the foreseeable future. Eddie didn’t get involved with his employees. He’d worked in a couple of shops where he’d witnessed that occur and it always ended in a mess. Not a good kind.

  He busied himself with cleaning up, tossing away the supplies you’d used and storing your first piece of work. It’d be nice for you to look back at once your apprenticeship was over. When Eddie had nothing else to clean, he sighed and rubbed at his eyelids. 

  Platonic. Professional. God, if he couldn’t keep his dick in check, he’d be in a world of trouble. You’d be trouble.

  “Need a hand?”

  Eddie snapped around, relieved to see it was just Deidre. Explaining why he had a boner to anyone else wasn’t something he was keen on doing. In fact, he probably wouldn’t be telling her exactly why, either.

  Taking her up on her offer, however, was something he would eagerly do.

  “Are you offering yours?”

  She laughed, setting her purse down on the counter where your bag had been just a few minutes ago, and walked right up to Eddie, her body pressed against his and grinding onto him as the older woman slid her arms around his shoulders.

  “Mmm, not just my hand.”

  All Eddie knew next was the taste of her red lipstick. 

[night-raven-tattler]

What's your ideal type?

A/N: This is a series where I write what I think is the ideal type for all the boys of the main cast. Enjoy!

Characters: Heartslabyul dorm (Riddle, Ace, Deuce, Trey, Cater) ×GN!Reader (separate, romantic)

Other parts of the series: Savanaclaw, Octavinelle, Scarabia, Pomefiore, Ignihyde, Diasomnia

Warnings: food (Trey's first bullet point)

By opening the document, you agree to Mx Tattly's terms of source confidentiality.

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Riddle's ideal type would be...

Someone who can gain his respect. A way into Riddle's heart is to catch his attention, either through your extensive knowledge about your favorite topic or a very solid sense of self. He likes people who can hold their head high so their crown won't fall off.

Someone who can understand his need to stick to the rules. His journey of self improvement made him understand he can't always force people to stick to all rules. But he still has a long way to go until he can break out of his bad habits, and if you wait for him to catch up, he'll appreciate it.

Someone who allows him to feel his emotions. Always forced to listen and never argue, Riddle has a lot of pent up emotions that spill out through anger at every inconvenience, but no one really taught him how to sit down with himself and understand what bottled up emotion is making him react. He needs someone who can at least nudge him towards trying to understand what and why he's feeling.

Someone who takes him out of his comfort zone. The rigid routine he has been stuck in over the years left its mark on Riddle, making him fear trying out new things. He fears the consequences of failure. But it's natural to be bad before you are good at something, and if you can push Riddle towards trying new things you get to see him at his most vulnerable: someone who simply loves to learn about the wonders of the world around him.

『••✎••』

Ace's ideal type would be...

Someone he can get a reaction out of. Ace is a major tease and a bit of a jerk, but that's part of his charm. From annoyance to fluster, if he can get himself to stay into your mind longer than expected, he'll gladly extend his stay there for as long as possible.

Someone who is not afraid to call him out and keep him in line. Ace doesn't just nod and agree: he likes to make a statement, to be honest and call people out, but his thoughts don't always go through any filters before leaving his lips. He appreciates when you can be honest in return and tell him that he is going too far.

Someone who doesn't get offended from every honest thing he says. Like I mentioned above, Ace doesn't really use his mental filter, and things just come out of his mouth sometimes. He doesn't always mean harm, he just wants to get his point across and be as straightforward as possible. He likes when you're willing to take his feedback before commenting on his lack of filter.

Someone who pays attention to him. It's a surefire way to gain Ace's affection. Rewarding him in just the right ways will have Ace following you like a puppy, if he's not doing that already. Save him a seat in the cafeteria. Get him those cherry flavored candies. Cheer for him during a basketball match. Soon enough he'll reciprocate the gestures.

『••✎••』

Deuce's ideal type would be...

Someone who is comfortable with change. Deuce is always working on ways to become a better person, a better student, a better son, even a better boyfriend. If you can understand why he always needs to seek ways to change, you'll be a welcome presence in his life.

Someone responsible. Deuce is not the most reliable student out there. He's trying, but not always succeeding. So, if he has someone to look up to, it will motivate him and won't let him dwell on his shortcomings for too long.

Someone he can make mistakes with. He deeply regrets his past as a delinquent, so he holds himself to a standard that always seems to be out of his reach, and kicks himself up when he doesn't reach it. If you can teach him that baby steps are more important than huge change, you'll earn a place in Deuce's heart.

Someone who finds family important. This might sound weird, but you won't always be Deuce's top priority. His mom, Dillah, is the only person who was in his corner no matter what while he was growing up. He wants to do everything he can to repay her for everything she did. Someone who understands the importance of family in Deuce's life reassures him that not only you'll fit in his family, but you'll be on a similar page when he decides it's time to bring up you two making your own.

『••✎••』

Trey's ideal type would be...

Someone who appreciates baking. You don't have to be good at it. You don't even need to know too much about it! Trey likes the attention you give him whenever he bakes, especially since he does it very often.

Someone who doesn't push him to be more than what he is. Trey has a very solid sense of self, and knows exactly what he wants to do to live a comfortable and satisfying life. Just trust him and let him know you are confident he knows what he's doing, and don't bring up any "wasted potential" talk.

Someone who calls him out when he jumps to conclusions. Trey is observant, kind and compassionate; however he also tends to underestimate the people around him, in the way that he thinks everyone who has his sympathy needs his support. Don't hesitate to remind him how that backfired for him, and he'll appreciate it.

Someone who can enjoy a small prank war with him. At the end of the day, Trey likes teasing people and a good, harmless practical joke has him smirking at you for days. You can always try to put salt in his coffee or misplace his notes, but you also need to be prepared for the consequences.

『••✎••』

Cater's ideal type would be...

Someone who doesn't wear their heart to their sleeve. They say a bit of mystery makes someone more attractive, and Cater totally agrees. He does find the honest types adorable, but to catch and keep his attention on you, you have to leave some cards close to your chest. It will leave him curious and eager to unravel you, piece by piece.

Someone who enjoys aesthetic things. Cater often takes out his phone to snap pics of various things he finds cool or interesting to post to his Magicam. Don't be afraid to send him pictures you've taken as well! Just don't send too many pink things.

Someone who gives him space when he needs it. It's no secret Cater is pretty closed off emotionally and doesn't really like to make close relationships. While it's good to bring him out of his shell in the emotional department, overdoing it will overwhelm him and push him away. You have to do it bit by bit, leaving him enough space to decide when it's okay to seek you out himself.

Someone who is willing to be more emotionally open first. Creating a safe space is key. You will have to make the first step if you want you two to develop a deeper connection. If you extend your hand first, he'll at least consider taking it.

『••✎••』

[fatliberation]

I totally understand and can empathize with fat activists when it comes to medical fatphobia. But I do think its important to provide nuance to this topic.

A lot of doctors mention weight loss, particularly for elective surgeries, because it makes the recovery process easier (Particularly with keeping sutures in place) and anesthetic safer.

I feel like its still important to mention those things when advocating for fat folks. Safety is important.

What you're talking about is actually a different topic altogether - the previous ask was not about preparing for surgery, it was about dieting being the only treatment option for anon's chronic pain, which was exacerbating their ed symptoms. Diets have been proven over and over again to be unsustainable (and are the leading predictor of eating disorders). So yeah, I felt that it was an inappropriate prescription informed more by bias than actual data.

(And side note: This study on chronic pain and obesity concluded that weight change was not associated with changes of pain intensity.)

If you want to discuss the risk factor for surgery, sure, I think that's an important thing to know - however, most fat people already know this and are informed by their doctors and surgeons of what the risks are beforehand, so I'm not really concerned about people being uninformed about it.

I'm a fat liberation activist, and what I'm concerned about is bias. I'm concerned that there are so many BMI cutoffs in essential surgeries for fat patients, when weight loss is hardly feasible, that creates a barrier to care that disproportionately affects marginalized people with intersecting identities.

It's also important to know that we have very little data around the outcomes of surgery for fat folks that isn't bariatric weight loss surgery.

A new systematic review by researchers in Sydney, Australia, published in the journal Clinical Obesity, suggests that weight loss diets before elective surgery are ineffective in reducing postoperative complications.

CADTH Health Technology Review Body Mass Index as a Measure of Obesity and Cut-Off for Surgical Eligibility made a similar conclusion:

Most studies either found discrepancies between BMI and other measurements or concluded that there was insufficient evidence to support BMI cut-offs for surgical eligibility. The sources explicitly reporting ethical issues related to the use of BMI as a measure of obesity or cut-off for surgical eligibility described concerns around stigma, bias (particularly for racialized peoples), and the potential to create or exacerbate disparities in health care access.

Nicholas Giori MD, PhD Professor of Orthopedic Surgery at Stanford University, a respected leader in TKA and THA shared his thoughts in Elective Surgery in Adult Patients with Excess Weight: Can Preoperative Dietary Interventions Improve Surgical Outcomes? A Systematic Review:

“Obesity is not reversible for most patients. Outpatient weight reduction programs average only 8% body weight loss [1, 10, 29]. Eight percent of patients denied surgery for high BMI eventually reach the BMI cutoff and have total joint arthroplasty [28]. Without a reliable pathway for weight loss, we shouldn’t categorically withhold an operation that improves pain and function for patients in all BMI classes [3, 14, 16] to avoid a risk that is comparable to other risks we routinely accept.

It is not clear that weight reduction prior to surgery reduces risk. Most studies on this topic involve dramatic weight loss from bariatric surgery and have had mixed results [13, 19, 21, 22, 24, 27]. Moderate non-surgical weight loss has thus-far not been shown to affect risk [12]. Though hard BMI cutoffs are well-intended, currently-used BMI cutoffs nearly have the effect of arbitrarily rationing care without medical justification. This is because BMI does not strongly predict complications. It is troubling that the effects are actually not arbitrary, but disproportionately affect minorities, women and patients in low socioeconomic classes. I believe that the decision to proceed with surgery should be based on traditional shared-decision making between the patient and surgeon. Different patients and different surgeons have different tolerances to risk and reward. Giving patients and surgeons freedom to determine the balance that is right for them is, in my opinion, the right way to proceed.”

I agree with Dr. Giori on this. And I absolutely do not judge anyone who chooses to lose weight prior to a surgery. It's upsetting that it is the only option right now for things like safe anesthesia. Unfortunately, patients with a history of disordered eating (which is a significant percentage of fat people!) are left out of the conversation. There is certainly risk involved in either option and it sucks. I am always open to nuanced discussion, and the one thing I remain firm in is that weight loss is not the answer long-term. We should be looking for other solutions in treating fat patients and studying how to make surgery safer. A lot of this could be solved with more comprehensive training and new medical developments instead of continuously trying to make fat people less fat.

[coruscatingcorvid]

ANNABEL LEE AND LENORE FLASHBACKS TIME PERIOD

Hello my dearest friends. Though the time is never specifically stated, through some extremely scientific sleuthing I have determined the likely time period the flashbacks between Annabel and Lenore are taking place.

First off, from the very general vibe of their clothing, we can put them in the late victorian to early edwardian era (roughly 1880s to 1900s). Since we rarely see either of them in bustle dresses, I would assume at least 1890s. While we don't see very many of the iconic 1890s giant puffy sleeves, Annabel's dresses in particular that we see are reminiscent of late 1890s evening wear. For example:

Annabel's dress in episode 67:

Evening dress from 1898-1900:

[1]

ADDITIONALLY, in episode 90, we see Annabel's wedding dress. While not exact, it is distinctly reminiscent of lace insertion dresses which grew popular during the edwardian period. Though it is not a part of the dress itself, Annabel's necklace is similar to dress collars at this time.

Annabel's wedding dress:

Wedding dress from 1902:

[2]

Lace insertion dress 1908:

[3]

We also see other dresses from this time period on other characters through episodes 65 and 66.

(Dress from 1898, [4])

(Shirtwaist ca. 1900, [5])

(Shirwaist 1900-1910, image copyrighted: https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/86042 [6])

This (above) is particularly interesting case because it reflects an earlier time period than much of the other clothing. The character who wears this is Annabel's maid, Nessa. However, this could easily be reflective of the historical precedent for wearing clothes after they were fashionable, since clothing is expensive. The dress she wears here is very similar to dresses from the 1880s.

(Dress, 1885-88, [7])

Brief hair interlude:

Nessa has exactly Gibson Girl hair, which was popular from the 1910s to about WWI [8].

[9]

Annabel, meanwhile, uses rag curls, a type of heatless wet set.

(Unfortunately I haven't been able to find historical images of rag curls with reliable sources, though this was one of the more consistent ones, and is purportedly from 1870. Additionally, I could not find any copyright free photos of what setting it looks like, but Annabel's hair in the first image is how you set rag curls, so feel free to look into it yourself!)

Unfortunately, I can't really speak on the menswear, as I don't know enough about it currently to be able to note details that have been translated into art.

I do want to add the caveat that I am not an expert in historical fashion, just a nerd, and while I do have a good amount of background knowledge, there could very well be inaccuracies in this. Additionally, none of this is meant to try and nitpick any historical inaccuracies--the art in the webcomic is gorgeous and I am 100% here for artistic license/artistic interpretation/vibes.

SECONDLY, the most concrete evidence we have for the time period comes from the conversation between Lenore and Annabel's father in episode 67. He says to sail to England on the ship Oceanic on the White Star Line. The RMS Oceanic made her maiden voyage on September 6, 1899 from Liverpool to New York [10]. Upon its launch, it was the largest passenger ship of its time [11]. On September 8, 1914, the ship ran aground [10]. Which is a pretty big time period. BUT, Annabel's father says that she is "The largest and finest ocean liner in the world," which she was, until 1901, when she was surpassed by the RMS Celtic on July 25, when she made her maiden voyage [11, 12].

Thus, the flashbacks (as far as we have seen in episode 105) between Lenore and Annabel Lee must take place before July 25, 1901, and begin after or around 1899!

Sources:

https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/83980

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Mina_Schwabacher_Eckstein_in_wedding_dress,San_Francisco,_1902(MOHAI_2332).jpg

https://digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/510d47e0-eedd-a3d9-e040-e00a18064a99

https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/159409

https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/86051

https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/86042

https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/84314

https://www.loc.gov/exhibits/gibson-girls-america/overview.html

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Gibson_Girls_seaside_-cropped-_by_Charles_Dana_Gibson.jpg

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/RMS_Oceanic_(1899)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timeline_of_largest_passenger_ships

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/RMS_Celtic_(1901)

[strlingsav]

I’m simply in love with your portrayal of Simon/Ghost. This fandom has so many incredibly talented writers, I am glad I stumbled upon your work! Your interpretation of his character is among my favourites 🥰 if it interests you, I would like to request a comfort fic w a femme reader who is perhaps not active on the field herself, but more on the intelligence/IT side of the operations (you can totally change this if you want, it’s up for your interpretation!) who is capable but suffers from insecurity and imposters sydrome (yep I am totally projecting🤫🤐) and during a mental breakdown bc of the stress from work, Ghost of all people, who she previously has only seen during a few briefings and never has approached bc of his intimidating reputation, finds her. Cue to the stoic scary big man who has previously only stared her down turning out to be actually very supportive and appreciative of her work because he always has noticed her. It’s up to you if want to keep it sfw or not! But a dash of softdom/service top sprinkled w some praise kink wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world🥴 I would love to see your take on this if this idea interests you, and it’s totally fine if it doesn’t 🥰 it’s always a pleasure to read your work regardless! Have a good one! ✌🏻💕

Thank you very much!! I appreciate that very much 🥹🫶🏻 I can definitely do this!

Support

– Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

— Ghost stumbles upon you, after-hours, during a breakdown.

Explicit sexual content under the cut. Read at your own risk.

It was approaching two in the morning. You were running solely on caffeine and nicotine- neither of which were helping your dry eyes or headache. The light of your monitors was the only source in the room, completely enshrouded by darkness as you stared blankly at the screens. You'd hoped it would help you focus, think more clearly, but so far it had only isolated you further, brought nothing but pressure and stress.

It wasn't supposed to be difficult, it was supposed to be easy. It was supposed to be easy for you. You'd studied computer technology and engineering for years- built and coded programs for organizations all over the world. You'd worked within the military for nearly a decade, providing the most proficient and reliable support among your similarly-rated peers. You were quite literally an expert, but you didn't feel like it. Not with the unfinished assignment sitting before you.

Laswell, Price, the entirety of 141- they relied on you. They relied heavily on your abilities to guide them through their fieldwork, to do the digging they couldn't reach while on location. Though, as you leaned back in your chair, your lip red and raw with irritation, your back aching, you didn't feel reliable. You felt the familiar sting of failure, of total disappointment.

It bubbled up in your throat, escaping in a series of curses, shoving yourself away from the desk before you wound up damaging thousands of dollars of equipment. You paced, stared, and paced. Your mind swimming with questions, re-thinking every sequence, every key, every exhaustive search you could possibly pull- and still hadn't decrypted the data.

Your hand slammed down on the desk, scattering the pens and piles of paperwork you'd accumulated over the many hours you'd spent stewing in front of the code screen. The cursor blinked at you- waiting, taunting you, filling you with dread.

"Y'alright in here?"

A gruff voice pulled you from your anxious stupor, and you yanked your hand from the desk, gasping sharply. You looked up, finding Ghost at the doorway.

In the dark, you could hardly make out his silhouette, but the outline of his mask was a stark contrast against the pitch-black room.

"Didn't mean t'scare you," He said, taking a few steps forward. "Heard somethin' in here."

You let out a sigh, your heartbeat relaxing back into its regular rhythm.

You'd heard his voice before, usually over the comms, and seen him during briefings, but you'd never spoken in person. You knew he had a reputation for being tough and commanding; it put you on edge watching his looming figure in the darkness. He was undeniably intimidating, especially as he stalked toward you.

You stepped back, letting him around the desk to see your monitors.

"You're up late," He said, examining the screen.

"Trying to decode this shit," You huffed, forgetting about his domineering presence once you refocused on your failure. "It's taking me longer than it should."

"Looks complicated," He replied, his eyes meeting yours briefly.

"It is. It shouldn't be, but it is," You sighed again, sitting down as he looked over your shoulder.

"How long you been at this?"

You ignored his question, leaning in to further examine the code screen.

"It's late. You should sleep, get back to it in the mornin'."

You furrowed your brows, looking over your shoulder to find him closer than expected.

"I don't need sleep," You shook your head. "I need to figure this out. I'm close."

An epiphany sparked in your head- a brute force attack you hadn't yet tried. You quickly typed in the keys, waiting with baited breath as the screen paused.

A flickering script reading 'denied' came across your screen, typed out in front of you for confirmation. Validation that you'd failed, again.

"Fuck!" You shouted, cradling your head in your hands. "I-I can't figure this shit out, I can't do it." Your voice broke, hoarse with strain.

You looked up at him, your eyes now watery with frustration and anger.

"'Ey," He said, leaning forward. "Relax. I dunno much about this shite, but seems you're doin' alright."

You tilted your head. "Laswell needs these documents for Shepherd tomorrow, and I've got nothing to show for it. It'll be my ass getting dismissed. It's not alright."

"Shepherd can wait," He said. "You've saved our arses more than a few times."

"It's not enough."

"It's more than enough. Relax, you're givin' me a bloody headache."

"I can't relax," You looked up at him with blood-shot eyes.

"If anyone can do it, 't's you. Seen you handle worse than this." He gestured to the screen, a flippant motion.

You sucked in a deep breath, nodding slowly. You were more than shocked to hear the comforting words from Ghost. A man revered for his deadly hands, ferocity. The irony made you giggle, short and quiet, though he heard it.

"What's funny?" He asked, moving to lean against the desk.

"Just didn't expect you to be so supportive. Appreciative."

"I see what you do," His gaze was unwavering as he stared you down. "Couldn't do it m'self. Owe you my life, if not more."

"Not quite," You quirked up a brow.

"Yeah- quite. Raid in Las Almas, no other escape routes, Price called you in and we were on the way out in minutes."

You bit your cheek, nodding slowly, your eyes shutting as you digested his words. He was right- you'd done your fair share of evac and location support, never losing a soldier. Regardless of how horribly the assignment was going, you couldn't deny only you had the capacity to complete it.

"Thanks," You nodded, looking up at him. "I'm just in my head, stressed out."

He cleared his throat, sitting up a bit straighter.

You leaned back, grabbing a cigarette from the nearly-empty pack on the desk, and lighting it up.

"You want one?" You asked, offering him the package.

He took one, offering a quiet, "Cheers."

He lifted the cover of his mask up above his nose- it took every ounce of strength not to immediately watch his lips as he stuck the cigarette between them. Even then, your eyes glanced at the newly-discovered flesh, diverting your gaze when he locked eyes with you.

You inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine coat your lungs, before exhaling into the monitors before you.

"Should get some sleep," He said, standing up.

"Yeah," You nodded, shifting to lean forward. "Yeah, I will. Just a bit longer."

He sighed, bringing his gloved hand down on the keyboard.

"I'll break it in half if I need to," He said, his voice low and threatening.

You swallowed, raising your brows at the unexpected reaction.

"Alright," You huffed.

You stood to your feet, putting your cigarette out on the ashtray beside your mouse. He did the same, arms folding over his chest as he waited for you to leave your station.

His adamant opposition to letting you continue was admirable. Attractive, even. You hadn't anticipated feeling grateful, or happy to have had him find you.

You'd kept your distance from him, though you'd always find your eyes gravitating toward his. He'd already be staring, watching you from across the briefing room. At first, you'd been terrified, wondering if you'd done something to piss him off, but nothing ever came of it. Instead, he'd lift his head to find you, check over his shoulder to look at you.

He found you intriguing, attractive. A brilliant woman; smart, educated, someone he was glad to have on his team. He'd seen the countless hours you put in, the calm tone of your voice every time there was a stress signal from one of the men. You held it together for them- the least he could do was the same for you.

He liked the way your eyes studied the screen, the way you'd chew your lip raw. Though it wasn't in your best interest, he found it alluring. His mind wandered when he'd see you, nothing appropriate at all- only to satisfy the heat that curled itself inside his intestines when he laid his eyes on you.

He remembered seeing you for the first time, wondering who you were: laptop on the desk, pen in hand, bright-eyed and eager to please. Immediately, he'd fabricated images of you in his mind- images that he'd play through during the lonely hours of the night.

"Why are you up?" You asked suddenly.

"Couldn't sleep. Don't sleep much."

You shook your head, "And yet, you're lecturing me." A small smile lifted your lips.

"For your own good," He answered.

"That's interesting," You mumbled.

"Why's that?"

You breathed in, "You've only ever stared me down, don't think we've had a conversation before."

"Y'can say a lot without talkin'," He retorted.

"I wasn't sure whether you wanted to fuck me or kill me," You grinned.

"What's the consensus?"

"Still not sure," You held back a grin.

"Would've killed you by now."

You laughed, "That's not very comforting."

"Should be. Only leaves the former."

He moved closer, standing up straight as he unhooked his legs.

You were pleasantly surprised, though your nerves had been roused from their short slumber. Heat washed over your cheeks, climbing up your spine before returning to the crest of your thighs.

"Think y'could use some stress relief," He said. "Y'seem pent-up."

You pulled your lip between your teeth, your eyes shifting between his. It was tempting, more than your mortal being could possibly resist.

"Maybe," You uttered, your hands twitching with anxiety as he neared you.

He cocked his head, "Maybe ain't an answer."

"Yes," You blurted. "I could. But not if you're taking pity on me."

He chuckled, a sound you'd never heard before from him, though it was somewhat deformed. Amusement and disbelief rather than enjoyment.

"Sweetheart," He cooed, his chest nearly pressed against yours. "It ain't pity. Y'should know better."

"We'll, you're not exactly approachable," You said, tilting your head to meet his gaze. "Haven't had the pleasure of speaking with you before."

He nodded, "S'alright," He said. "Had enough o' watchin' from afar, though."

You breathed out, long and cathartic as it passed your lips. Releasing every worry and anxiety, relieved to be able to focus solely on him- on Ghost.

His hand reached your waist, softly pulling you into him, finally connecting your bodies. You let out a quiet grunt, your hands raised at your sides as you took in the feeling of his body against yours.

"Y'can touch me," He grinned. "I won't bite 'less you ask."

As if you weren't already aroused, soaking your panties, he only made it worse. The heat of his hands on your waist had drawn out any thoughts in your head, his voice so close- so clear in front of you was mesmerizing.

You apprehensively moved your hands to rest on his shoulders, your palms gliding against the taught muscles, another extended sigh as you tried to ignore the burning in your gut. He liked the contact, your small hands searing a brand into his skin.

He stared at you for a few moments, his eyes raking over your face, the face he'd seen in his dreams more than anywhere else. He must've made a pact with the devil, something sacrificed to have you in his hands- finally.

He leaned in, soft lips touching yours. It was fleeting, the softness, before he backed you against the desk with no regard for the equipment on it. Still, his lips held your attention, his tongue gliding between your lips to clash against yours. It was open-mouthed, messy, especially as he lifted you to the desk and bullied himself between your thighs.

You moaned faintly when his hand slid down your side, taking a handful of your ass and squeezing harshly. His other hand worked your shirt off your torso, parting only for a moment when the fabric passed your neck. His hands on your bare skin created a feeling of tightness in your gut- especially as he squeezed and grabbed at you, truly appreciating the curves of your body against him.

To your chagrin, he was still fully clothed, in his fatigues, like he lived in them. Even at two A.M., the man never quit. You weren't complaining; you rather liked the sight of his fitted uniform, especially as it squeezed his forearms and thighs, showing the bulk of muscle and veins beneath tattooed skin.

You were antsy, however, to feel him. All of him, against you.

"Take it off," You whispered against his lips, tugging at his jacket with clenched fists.

"Bossy woman you are," He teased, pulling away as he unbuttoned the shirt.

"I know what I want," You shot back, your eyes now narrowed in on him.

He hummed, satisfied with your answer. "That so?"

You nodded, smug and prideful, a sense of power- you had complete control. Your hands supported your weight behind you, leaning back, watching the show as he stripped from the shirt. It fell off his torso, revealing the toned muscles beneath, and he yanked the other sleeve off with impatience.

Your jaw was slack, looking over him as he neared again. This time, his hand slid up your throat, gripping the delicate area with a firm hold. He forced your eyes to meet his, a noticeable grin on his lips.

"You listen to me, sweetheart," He said, in your face. "And I'll take care o'you. Spread your legs."

You shivered, an audible gasp leaving your lips. The things you'd have done to hear filthy words leave his mouth- the voice that rung in your ears at night, made your pussy flutter. Now, he'd offered his services to you, rather enthusiastically, too, admitting he'd wanted it for a long time. If nothing else made you feel better about your shit progress, he surely could.

He kept eye contact while his hand worked open your pants, pulling them and your panties down your legs with speed and precision. He wasted no time pressing your thighs to your chest, tucking you into an uncomfortable position before kneeling in front of you.

"No thinkin'," He warned. "'Less it's about cummin' on my face."

Your head fell back, groaning softly, lifting back up again only when he pressed his lips to your pussy. Then, you watched with anticipation building in your gut, trembling in your limbs and a heavy ache settling in your womb.

He slid a warm tongue between your folds, a gentle touch you hadn't expected from the brute of a man. He watched you the entire time, took in the sight of your lips parting, sucking in a long breath, shutting your eyes as you basked in the pleasure. He couldn't help but form a grin, his lips engulfing your pussy in an open-mouthed kiss.

His attention moved to your clit, faint licks crossing the sensitive area that coaxed quick jolts from your body. He settled into a rhythm, and your body adjusted accordingly, leaning into the new and overwhelming feeling.

"Yeah, right there," You said, a hushed tone, like you were speaking to yourself.

He grunted in response, another warning.

"Sorry," You said again. "Feels so good." It was a quiet whine.

You wanted to run your fingers through his hair, grab at something, anything that would connect you to him, so you settled for his forearms. Your palm gripped the flesh of his arm, squeezing, just as he did to your thighs.

His tongue expertly traced your clit, circles and delicate licks that made your back arch, opening yourself up for him to taste.

"That's it," He uttered, muffled by your pussy. Even speaking against you made you clench, stare down at him with lust on your face. "There's a good girl."

You exhaled, nodding in agreement, submission to his mouth as he returned to his rhythm, falling in tandem with the heavy breathing leaving your chest. His eyes hadn't left you, watching and studying your expression for every hint of pleasure. He was intent on learning exactly what you like, though it was difficult to discern through the flurry of expressions on your face.

Your brows drawn together, jaw open as you choked down a gasp, breathing heavily into the dark room. He could make out your face, but your silhouette was blackened against the light of the monitors. He could see the swell of your breasts, your thighs, the curve of your waist against the backlight. He could even see your eyes, when you'd drop your head to watch him devour you.

You began to shake, tensing against his mouth when he continued at a consistent pace. He was thorough in every aspect of life- this was no exception. He didn't let up, even when your pussy drooled with cum, instead, he licked it up with his tongue, moaning softly against you at your taste.

He stood to his feet, unbuckling his belt as he stared at you. Your chest heaved, toes curled, leaning back as you watched him. The light danced on his abdomen, highlighting every hill and dip on his torso, the scars that scattered the skin. It was a sight that had your brain resetting, recovering as though you hadn't been covered in a layer of sweat and left breathless from your orgasm.

His cock stood erect when he yanked his trousers down, and he didn't stall any longer. He stalked forward, leaning into you, his hand on the desk behind you as he pushed his cock through the tight barrier of your hymen. He was absorbed, swallowed by soft inner-muscles and velvety walls, slick with your cum and arousal.

He pressed his lips to yours again, not allowing for much deliberation or accommodation- he was far too aroused to wait. You planted your heels against the desk as he thrusted his entire length into you, quickly meeting your cervix with a gentle graze. It made you suck in a sharp breath, and move away from his lips.

You saw his eyes, the look of possession and pure lust in them. You merely stared at each other, a nauseating intimacy while he thrusted inside you, further disturbing your lower stomach with a tightness.

"Oh God," You choked, your hands reaching around his shoulders, clinging to him. "Don't stop- don't fucking stop."

His hand reached around you, holding you against him, the other gripping your thigh with a bruising constraint.

"Fuckin' Christ, you're tight, sweetheart," He breathed in your ear. "You all wet for me?"

You nodded, breathing an enthusiastic yes into his ear, clenching at his back with your fingers. Your nails dug into the slick flesh, feeling his muscles move as his hips tilted back and forth into you.

All you could smell, hear was him. The scent of his heavy body soap, like pine, mixed with the cigarette you'd offered him earlier. His breathing in your ear, heavy pants as he relished in the tightness of you- the slippery walls encroaching on his cock.

"Such a good fuckin' girl," He mumbled against your neck, his lips dragging against your skin. "Say you're a good girl," His voice rumbled through his chest. "Fuck me- all for me."

It was haze-inducing, incoherent mumbles, quiet gasps and sobs as you clung to him. It worsened when his fingers played your clit, sliding between your bodies to rub over the sensitive spot.

"I'm a good girl," You gasped. "I'm your good girl."

"'At's right, sweetheart- takin' me nice and deep."

It didn't take long to clench around his cock, another wave of nauseating pleasure that rendered you absolutely useless as he drove into you.

"Fuckin' hell," He stuttered.

You'd constricted his cock, pulsating around him with every contraction, nearly sobbing into his shoulder when he continued with his thrusts.

He finally pulled out, tugging on his cock as he released his cum over your stomach. He exhaled sharply, before gathering his composure.

You grimaced as you stood to your feet, trying to clean yourself off as best you could.

You watched him shrug his jacket back on.

"Get some rest," He nodded once, gesturing to the doorway. "I'll check on you tomorrow."

"Is 'check on me' an innuendo? Should I wear my good underwear?" You grinned, pulling your pants back over your backside.

"I'd shag you if y'had on a bin bag, sweetheart."

"You're sweeter than you let on," You teased, laughing.

"Not for most," He cocked his head. "Guess you're lucky."

"Well, thank you," You smiled.

It was genuine. A distraction, however unexpected and unusual, that did make you almost forget about the assignment.

"I'll be around," He paused. "If you're feelin' like takin' your frustrations out."

"Goodnight, Lieutenant."

He walked off with a short nod. You paused for a moment; the temptation to curl yourself up at your desk and continue your assignment was gnawing at you. You clenched your jaw, took a deep breath in when you recalled Ghost's words, and finally decided to turn off the monitors.

[drdemonprince]

‘the written word has to go too’ i’m so curious what you mean by this

ayesha khan has this great piece that i'm struggling to find about how writers communicate in a way that no human speaking to another human being would ever, ever communicate. there's an element of isolation of thought and social connection and a neuroticism that is required in order to author individual written works of any length, and it's far from the most accessible or efficient mode of communication. nor is it the most fair. it's an assertion of dominance on the voice of the author at the exclusion of any other perspective or updated facts or even clarifying questions.

writing is the mode of communication considered the most intellectually rigorous and serious despite all of this, and that serves to put the isolated 'author' atop a social and political pedestal above other people, which becomes the most dangerous once you pair it with powerful bureaucratic institutions that prioritize the persuasive, well-written, properly formatted written word over kinship and community ties or oral history.

the example i love to point to is the fact that in the eyes of the state it does not matter that you have lived in a neighborhood with a grandparent for a decade, have strong ties to the community, have only ever known yourself as living there, are well known socially as having lived there-- if your documentation says you are from a different neighborhood (one a parent lives in, say) you can't go to school there. and if you lack any documentation at all you can't even stay in the country.

i dont literally mean like, full illiteracy now everybody burn their books. i love books and i wish people read more of them. but i think ayesha is onto something when she points out that a fixation and prioritization of written language as the most authoritative, rich, and reliable source of information is a reflection of colonialism and the separation of the self as author from an interdependent community where knowledge is shared, evaluated, revised, and evolved freely. ayesha even literally says that in more closely tied communities, no one is worried about being eloquent. and she means that as a good thing.

[nothingelsematterswrites]

why logan isn't getting replaced at imola, a breakdown

(aka a breakdown so my fellow logan girlies (gn) don't break down)

I've seen this getting around, with a little traction and some people panicking a bit so let's discuss.

Joe Saward has not been a reliable source of transfer news for some time. Let's be real. A lot of this is gaining traction because Saward is "a 35 year accredited F1 journalist". And this is true, he has long experience in F1 and is accredited in the paddock. But it has been many, many years since he was accurate about driver market predictions.

You have to be eighteen to get a superlicence (thanks, Max!). Antonelli does not turn 18 until August. For him to be granted a superlicence in time for Imola, the FIA would have to issue an exemption. If Antonelli was carving up F2 it'd be one thing. But he's been far from convincing so far, and it hasn't just all been Prema. He is an F2 rookie - and he looks like it.

James Vowles has already said that Antonelli to Williams next year is not a given, because Williams has its own juniors - of which Logan is one. Now I know James has been in the bad books with plenty of us since the whole chassis debacle in Melbourne but I do believe him on this. He is quite keen to establish that Williams is not a feeder team for Mercedes and that has been the board's position for some time too (remember their angry denunciation when the rumour was that Oscar was going to replace Latifi at Silverstone?).

James Vowles still believes in Logan. Now I know some of you will be claiming this is doubtful, but I do believe it to be true. In the Japan Vowles Verdict he was warm in his praise for Logan's race pace and early stint - to the point his voice literally changed tone while answering the question. He was absolutely effusive in his praise for Logan after the Melbourne debacle. I do genuinely think that James wants to keep him.

Bringing in a driver change mid-season is incredibly disruptive - you don't do it unless you are certain you're getting a better deal out of it. Last year Alpha Tauri brought in Daniel halfway through the year. The main reason for this was because he was a fairly immediate upgrade to de Vries. But even if you're scornful of Daniel's pace, the other reason they wanted him was for his feedback and car development ability, which AT were pretty vocal that they found invaluable. Bringing in an extremely green, unprepared rookie who has barely worked with the team would be a recipe for instability, morale issues, and more broken bits, which is the absolute last thing Williams needs.

Toto Wolff can't offer James Vowles a big enough incentive to take his junior. Let's cut to the chase on this: to insinuate that James would take Antonelli just because Wolff asked is a pretty big insult to James. He's not Wolff's lapdog. They clearly respect one another and have a personal relationship outside of the sport, but that doesn't mean he'll just do whatever Toto wants - he didn't get to be team principal that way. So Toto would need to offer James an incentive. But what can he offer that James actually needs? Williams aren't broke any more, so money isn't going to cut it. And Williams already run the Mercedes engine, so Toto can't convince him with that. What Williams actually needs - the cultural and procedural overhaul that James has begun - Toto cannot help with.

tl;dr keep cool and keep the faith, logan fans. there's still plenty of time left in our ride.