#there was a desk and a chair with wheels and lots of bookcases and a beanbag for my friends

[moinsbienquekaworu]

Ooh tonight we are Posting prepare for an in-depth discussion of the Sims 4

[daddysfangirls-anime]

The Chair

Pair: Aizawa x fem! reader

Summary:  reader is an instructor at UA, and in the USJ incident they got permanent damage to their nerves in their leg/s. They refuse help from others and continues to try and teach but Aizawa comforts them about his injury

Warning: language, angst, fluff

“I’m sorry the damage to your nerves is too great. The possibility of you ever walking again is close to none and if you do it will be on crutches. I’m so sorry I wish there was more I could do....I’m sorry”.

Those words had been running through her head for 6 weeks now. She had been in the hospital for 2 weeks then 4 weeks on bed rest. She was now returning to work after those 6 weeks and she was ready to get back in action as soon as possible but she was also kind of scared because well she was in a wheelchair now. She was scared they would treat her differently push her to the side or leaves her out for her disabilities.

And that’s why she was now sitting in the staff parking lot looking at the door. That and....there was no ramp.

“Hey”

“Oh, Hello” she turned to find Aizawa standing next to her, she wondered how long he had been standing there, “ Um there’s no ramp so...”

“I’ll help” he turned her around and pulls her up the stairs backward. “ I’ll talk to Cementoss get him to make a few ramps around the school.”

“ thank you” Aizawa continues to push her through the halls. She was indifferent to his assistance but happy the students had yet to arrive so they couldn’t see her like this. She didn’t want them to.

“(Y/N)” Mic shouted as soon as she was pushed through the door. He was the first to see her he quickly ran to her side but he didn’t hug her like she thought he would he put his hands as if she was the most fragile thing. “ How are you?” Midnight immediately elbowed him as if telling him he shouldn’t be asking that.

“ I’m good, happy to be back at work. I was getting tired of sitting at home alone. So tell me what I’ve missed.”

She missed a lot in her time away. She missed the sports festival ( she was supposed to be a commentator with Present Mic), the internship, apparently, Iida’s brother was in the hospital, Midoriya Todoroki and Iida were the real ones who took down the hero Killer Stain, and Midoriya finally got control of his quirk. She really missed a lot. Lessons and gossip wise she had to catch up Midnight and Present Mic promised to help.

-

It was about a week later when (y/n) real started to take notice of the changes of people and their behavior towards her both students and staff alike. Everyone was trying to help and wheel her to her destinations or pick something up for her or take something down or do something that involved height. Everyone was trying to help her. Everyone pitied her. She could see it in their eyes as she wheeled down the halls. She could hear it in their voices as they whispered behind her back.

Poor (y/n)

She’ll never walk again.

I could never live such a life.

How can she be a hero now?

How can she teach a hero class?

Poor girl, I could never.

She shouldn’t be here.

She’ll scare the others in the hero course.

Poor (Y/N).

She should quit.

She hated it. She hates, hate, hated it. She was not to be pitied. She was not weak. She was still strong. She still had her quirk she still had her strength. She did not need their pity she did not need their help. She could do it all herself and that’s exactly what she started doing.

(Y/n) start redirecting help stopped taking it to a point where she started pushing away the people who offered it which was just about everybody. In a very short time, she became a lonely person and everyone started to think she was bitter and it just didn’t help.

She was hurt and she was alone.

-

(Y/n) huffed and puffed as she pushed herself up off her chair with one arm and tried to put back the book with the other. She had a book and it was on a high self it was easy to get down, she used a ruler, but it seemed more difficult to put back but she was determined to do it herself. She got it down by herself she could put it up by herself.

Her other arm finally gave out for under her and she fell back into her chair. She was in the midst of her thinking of a new plan when someone takes the book from her lap and puts it up for her.

“You know when I was hurt I couldn’t even move my fingers let alone my hands. Others helped me and I took it.”  Aizawa said as he leaned on the bookcase looking down at her.

“Well unlike you my wounds aren’t temporary. I’ve got to learn to live like this for now on. ” she smiled sarcastically turning her chair around to her desk.

“Is that why you’ve been so bitter lately?”  (Y/n) Huffed as he took a seat next to her. Honestly, Aizawa was the only person who hadn’t been constantly offering help, looking at her with pity, or talking behind her back. In recent times he was the only one still treating her the same and taking care of her how she needed and wanted to be taken care of.

“You really want to know?”

“Yes, I’m interested. Is it because you’re stuck stiff in a chair?”

“I don’t mind the chair. I’m actually okay with being in this chair it is something to get used to but I knew what I signed up for when I became a hero. I knew the consequences and risks. What I don’t like and I’m bitter about is all the looks of pity I get from everyone like” poor me”  “oh my“ “ what a tragedy”, what I don’t like is everyone trying to help me like I can’t do the simplest of things, What I don’t like is everyone talking behind my back. People I thought were my friends talking shit about me talking about how weak I am and Students talking about How I shouldn’t be teaching the hero course or I should just retire. I’m strong I can still do this. I don’t need legs to do this job.” Aizawa could see the tears glistening in her eyes but she refused to let them fall.

“You’re right, you’re very strong. And you’re a hero. You saved those kids.” he places a hand on hers and squeezed it gently “You saved my kids and I will forever be grateful and in your debt.”

“ I just... I don’t want everyone pitying me. I know I’m different and there are things I can’t do now, hell I don’t think I can even have kids, but... I’m still me. Why can’t everyone see that.”

“I can see that. I can see you” Aizawa said before awkwardly clearing his throat and pulling away. He wasn’t a man good with emotions and it didn’t help that he actually had feelings for (y/n).

“Thank you, I-”

“Are you busy this weekend?” he asked suddenly but he wasn’t looking at her he was looking down at his desk.

“Um... I’m free on Saturday.”

“would you like to go out with me?”

“like a date?” he nods and looks at her sideways “ Well, as long as there is wheelchair access I’d love to.” Reaching forward she grabs his face and pulls him in for a kiss.

“You’d think after dating for a year you would stop getting nervous when asking me out on”

“I can’t help it you make my heart race.”

“Even in this chair?”

“Even in the chair”

[nalgenewhore]

With My Life - Chapter Three 

masterlist - ao3 - last chapter - next chapter 

warnings:  (all graphic) violence, gun violence, blood, smut, implied PTSD

an: it’s just....sad 😔

Elide woke up on the large couch in Lorcan’s living room. She’d been sleeping there for the past three days - Rowan told her to stay here. To take her time. 

She didn’t deserve it. 

Who was she to mourn a man she thought of as stress relief? Who was she to mourn a man she’d known for… not even a year? Just because she loved him- that didn’t mean anything. Didn’t give her the right to grieve for him. 

She couldn’t bear to sleep in his bed, the one they had shared for such a precious amount of time, so she opted for the plush couch, which, despite its luxury, was still uncomfortable. Elide wished she could, just to be wrapped up in his sheets, but her heart had cracked the moment she’d stepped foot in and Rowan had found her hours later, shaking on the threshold of his bedroom.

It took more energy than usual for Elide to get to her feet and shuffle into the kitchen, body and mind on autopilot as she made her daily tea. 

The burial today. Rowan and Vaughan had managed to find an Ozuye healer to conduct the rituals, per Lorcan’s people and heritage. 

There was no body. In the mugging gone wrong, he’d been brutalized so badly that… there wasn’t a body to bury. 

Her chest heaved at the thought of the man she loved being hurt that badly. That he had died alone and in pain without knowing she loved him. 

Everything tasted like ash in her mouth. Her tea, her porridge, the fresh fruit Darrow had sent her from his peach tree. She could only eat three bites before her stomach was full and she had to dump it all in the green bin, hugging her stomach and trying not to cry. 

The oven clock told her she had just under two hours till the service, which meant she had just enough time to have a shower and make herself look presentable. 

She opted to use the downstairs bathroom and after, she didn’t have enough strength to ignore Lorcan’s thick bathrobe and donned it, wrapping the belt twice around her waist before tying a neat knot. It smelled like his cedar shampoo and like the sweetgrass and white sage he smudged with. It almost felt like his arms around her and Elide found it in herself to smile softly, pulling the soft collar up to her face and burying her nose in the fluffy material, inhaling his scent. “I miss you,” she whispered, kissing the collar once. 

Elide padded back out into the living room, undoing her hair clip and letting her hair fall free just as someone knocked on the door. Panic seized her and she had to remind herself that Rowan and Connall had already told her, that Lorcan was already dead. 

Still, her heart remained in her throat as she walked over to the door and opened it, protecting herself by remaining half hidden by the door. 

It was Aelin, who stood there with a bag of clothes. “Ellie, hi.” 

“Hi, Ae.” She stood to the side and opened the door more fully, letting Aelin in. “What have you got?” She looked down the hallway and saw Nehemia bustling with a tray of coffees and a parchment pastry bag. 

“Oh,” the golden haired woman said, flipping her hand dismissively, “Ro told me you hadn’t been home and I figured you didn’t have any clothes here so I popped by your place.” Aelin hadn’t stopped moving after she put down the near bursting bag. She was flitting over everything, touching every surface and running her finger over the edge of the bookcase, frowning at the non existent dust. “There’s a nice dress - go put it on, sweetheart, ok? Nehemia will get your hair fixed for you.” 

The door shut and Elide turned to see Nehemia, whose eyes were filled with barely concealed grief. “Elide, honey. Did you eat today?” 

“Wasn’t hungry,” she said. She still wasn’t, but Elide knew better to say no to Nehemia as the dark skinned woman pressed a pain au chocolat and an iced latte in her hand. 

“I made sure it was iced,” Nehemia said, putting the coffee and other pastries down on the kitchen counter and then smoothing the skirt of her knee length sheath dress, its black sleeves going down to her wrists. The ends of her signature cornrows were twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck, no golden cuffs adorning them today. 

“Thank you,” Elide said, sipping from her coffee and taking a bite of her croissant. She took another and another when the two women gave her pointed looks. She looked down at her hands, “Really, I don’t deserve it. Me and him… we were never really anything serious, but I- I loved him. I love him.” 

They both smiled sadly and approached her, hugging her carefully to avoid upending her breakfast. Nehemia cupped the back of her head while Aelin’s arms wrapped around her waist. 

“We know,” whispered Aelin, resting her cheek on Elide’s shoulder. “Ohitekah, he… you know.” Per what Vaughan had told them, the deceased’s given name was never to be used again, for they feared his soul and being would never be able to cross over to the next plane. Vaughan had shared Lorcan’s second name with her first and Elide hadn’t been able to help her tears when he told her it meant brave and war-like. 

She cried, feeling the two of them take the coffee and the pastry from her hands and putting them elsewhere. “It’s ok, we’ve got you,” Nehemia said, kissing the top of Elide’s head. “We got you.” 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

It took a little convincing to let Aelin let her drive herself, but Elide managed it. She needed the calming effect of driving, just her, the car, and the road. 

She took his Aston Martin over her Jeep Wrangler, feeling him in the sleek leather interior, feeling the warmth of his hands when she gripped the steering wheel and pulled out of the parking garage just behind Aelin’s car. 

The rain pattered onto the windshield and Elide thought the weather was fitting today. 

The cemetery was fifteen minutes outside of the city and it only took five for a sinister voice in Elide’s mind to whisper vicious, hateful things. 

You never cared about him. You only loved him when he died. You’re selfish - going to his memorial service and disrupting his hurting family is selfish.  

Elide drove on, trying desperately to keep her tears at bay as she pulled into the parking lot, parking away from everyone else. Maybe she shouldn’t have taken his car, maybe one of the boys would like it… Fenrys. Maybe Fenrys would want it. She should ask him. 

After a few minutes of waiting, Elide opened the door and opened her umbrella, putting it over her head and walking over the gravel to the small, quaint and intimate graveyard. 

She unlatched the gate and looked up, realizing the service had already begun and she was late. Fuck, what was wrong with her? Why was she even here? Nobody asked her to, nobody invited her. 

Anneith above, this was so rude, but she couldn’t exactly go back, certainly not when Rowan spotted her and nodded his head once, then turned back to the priestess. Elide looked past the line of black clad mourners and saw a bundle - the ashes of some of his most prized possessions so he could have him wherever he went - dressed in beautiful fabric, the beadwork to die for. 

She thought about taking a step forward but stopped herself and stood beneath a tree. Elide watched, with misty eyes until the last requirements had been done and what remained of the man she knew had been buried. 

Slowly, slowly people started to walk away, huddled together underneath umbrellas. It looked like Aelin was tucked into Rowan’s side, but, really, the blonde woman was shoring her husband up. 

Nehemia had her hand tucked into Fenrys’ elbow and held onto Vaughan’s hand, squeezing it and smiling softly at the two of them. Connall brought up the rear, hands in pockets and head hanging low. 

Rowan spotted her first and offered a slight smile. “Elide,” he said, his voice low and rolling, his strong burr running over his words, “I’m glad you came.” 

“I- I’m sorry I did. I know I probably shouldn’t have, but–” 

Rowan hugged her tightly, waiting until Elide tentatively wrapped hers around his waist. “He wanted you to be here. You’re family, Elide.” He pulled away and gave her a slightly grief-strained, but supportive, smile. 

She was passed off to Aelin, who wiped her tears away and kissed her brow, “I won’t be there this afternoon ‘cause I have dress rehearsal, ok? But me and Nehemia will come over tonight, if you want.” Aelin was a concert pianist for the Wendlyn Opera Company and the spring show would be starting in a week. 

Elide looked at her in confusion, “What’s happening this afternoon?” Aelin gave her a quizzical glance and looked up at her husband, her question dying on her lips as Rowan subtly shook his head twice. Repeating herself, Elide stared directly into Rowan’s eyes, making it impossible for him to look away. “Rowan, what’s happening this afternoon?” 

Everyone else suddenly found other places to be as Rowan sighed and toyed with the cuff of his suit jacket. “They’re reading the will. Ohitekah… his lawyer called this morning to say that you needed to be there.” 

The ground was falling out from beneath her feet and Elide blinked slowly, not quite sure she’d heard him correctly. “Wh, why would I need to be there, Rowan?” 

“I don’t know, Ellie. All I know is that you’re named in his will so… you need to be at the reading.” 

Elide nodded dumbly, her mind reeling. “O… kay. Ok. Um, yeah, yeah, I’ll- uh, I’ll drive there - where, where is the office?” 

Rowan gently took the keys from her and passed them off to someone else, Elide wasn’t sure who. “I’ll drive. C’mon, we’re gonna be late.” 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

When they got to the office, Rowan offered Elide one of the chairs before the sleek, glass desk as they waited for Lorcan’s lawyer. The others sat on the couches placed around the large room. 

They sat in silence, all fiddling with something. Elide chewed on the inside of her cheek, knowing it would sting later when she ate anything and not caring enough to stop. The door opened and she didn’t turn as she heard the click of heels approach the desk. 

A beautiful woman with moon-white hair sat down on the opposite side and placed a slim envelope on the deak. “Hello, my name is Manon and I had the utter delight of being Mr. Salvaterre’s lawyer,” she said, her voice low and sultry. 

Manon looked to Elide and her burnished, golden eyes pinned Elide to her seat. “You must be Elide.” Her plush lips - painted a deep black - curled into a slight grin. 

“Yes, that’s me,” Elide said, tilting her chin up in semi-defiance and tracking her gaze over Manon’s face, catching the mild respect that flashed across her eyes. “I’m not sure why I’m supposed to be here.” 

“Ah, well,” Manon said, using a long, stiletto acrylic to slice open the top of the envelope, “I will tell you. Ohitekah’s affairs are all rather simple, I have to say. For a cold bastard like himself, I’d expect a bit of sadism, but alas.” Emotions flew across her breathtaking face and Elide was not shocked, though she wasn’t sure why, to see an echo of grief, a mirror of old familiarity. She could see why he chose Manon to be his lawyer and could see some sort of relationship beyond lawyer and client. “Are we all ready?” 

There were murmurs of assent and silently, Rowan reached over to squeeze Elide’s hand tightly. Elide didn’t look at him, but nodded slightly, assuring him she could handle it. “Yes.” 

“Alright then, let’s start.” 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

“Excuse me?” 

Manon looked up at Elide over the will, a manicured brow arched, “Yes?” 

Elide’s heart slammed against her chest and she floundered for words, opening and closing her mouth a comical amount of times. “I just- did you say I am…” 

“Mr. Salvaterre made it clear that he left his apartment, car and a portion of his estate to you.” 

“But I- we weren’t married.” 

“I am aware of that, as was my client. As it states, in no uncertain terms, this he left to you,” Manon said, passing over the paper and letting Elide read over it. 

Her eyes widened slightly as she read over the rather lengthy list of assets. It had all, save for a healthy portion that was hers, been split up between the boys. Nehemia and Aelin were also named individually and what was left had been dedicated to his tribe. “So I… I own his apartment. And his car. And this- this money is mine?” 

“Yes.” 

“Ok, um, I think,” Elide stood up, dropping the will back on the table, “I need a minute.” She walked backwards, startling as she bumped into the chair. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Rowan stood up as well and Elide threw her hand out, her chest rising and falling raggedly with her panicked breaths, “No, I need to be alone. I-I just need one moment.” 

She was not proud when she fled the office, her heels clacking loudly on the floors as she ran to the nearest stairwell. 

Elide slammed the doors open and dashed up the stairs, running up and up and up until she reached the roof. She slammed that door open too and slowed her running, the door clicking shut beside her as she leaned against the wall and slid down to the ground, her dress probably ruined by the rain and the dirty roof. 

Then, Elide sunk her head in her hands and cried.

+*+*+*+*+*+*

@mythicaitt @tinywolfofeyllwe @schmlip-scribble @the-regal-warrior @empire-of-wildfire @rhysands-highlady @ttakeitbacknoww @shyvioletcat @alifletcher2012 @tswaney17 @ourbooksuniverse @flora-and-fae @thesirenwashere @queenofxhearts @maastrash @mynewdreamwasyou @cursebreaker29 @empress-ofbloodshed @b00kworm @amren-courtofdreams @minaidss @superspiritfestival @lovemollywho @queen-of-glass @jlinez @sleeping-and-books @ireallyshouldsleeprn @verypaleninja @januarystears​

[blishwix]

❝ WE ARE ALL WEARING MASKS. THAT IS WHAT MAKES US INTERESTING ❞

huh, who’s LUKE MITCHELL? no, you’re mistaken, that’s actually JIMBO “WICK” BLISHWICK VI. he is a 35 year old PUREBLOOD wizard who is CEO OF A WIXEN TECH & MEDIA COMPANY. he is known for being CALCULATING, FRAUDULENT, HEDONISTIC, CONCEITED, and AMORAL but also CHARISMATIC, AMBITIOUS, INNOVATIVE, METICULOUS, and PERSONABLE, so that must be why he always reminds me of the song IT’S LONELY AT THE TOP BY BIG BAD VOODOO DADDY and STYLISHLY RIPPED JEANS AND SUEDE SHOES, PURELY AESTHETIC AND MISLEADING SOCIAL MEDIA FEED, NEATLY TRIMMED BEARD AND SANDALWOOD MUSK, HORN RIMMED GLASSES WITH SMUDGES ON THE LENS, MOLESKIN FULL OF ENDLESS CODE AND FUTURE TECH INNOVATIONS, EXTRAVAGANT PENTHOUSE OVERLOOKING THE CITY, WHISKEY STONES AND EMPTY DECANTERS, and CHARMING PERSONABLE SMILES WITH MALICIOUS INTENT HIDDEN UNDERNEATH THE SURFACE. i hear he is aligned with THE DEATH EATERS, so be sure to keep an eye on him.

GENERAL

FULL NAME: Jimbo Dashiel Bartholomew Blishwick VI NICKNAME(S): Wick, Jim, Dash, Bart (yes he legit will go by any of these) AGE/DATE OF BIRTH: 35, 02/16/1994 OCCUPATION: Tech & Media Mogul GENDER: Cis Man PRONOUNS: He/Him/His HOMETOWN: Dallas, Texas CURRENT RESIDENCE: London, I guess ALMA MATTER: Ilvermorny, Horned Serpent BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

BIOGRAPHY

MEET JIMBO BLISHWICK: THE YOUNG AMERICAN CHANGING THE WIZARDING WORLD ONE STATUS UPDATE AT A TIME. 

I’m not sure exactly what to expect when the invitation comes in. It seems archaic to be communicating over owl. There was even a part of me that thought I should revert to the “email” form which my subject is so fond of. What if the wixen tech mogul’s fondness for typing meant he had poor penmanship? To my delight not only was Mr. Blishwick’s handwriting clear as day, but it came with a gleeful acceptance to be interviewed. So it was on that high note that I made my way to Blishwix HQ in London to meet with the illustrious CEO. What I had expected was some pristine corporate office with dark leather and wood accents, sterile and admittedly cold and disconnected from the world. What I was met with was surprising. Blishwix is anything but old school in its style. Much like the young hip branding that accompanies its many products and services, the corporate HQ of Blishwix is sleek, modern and very accessible. It’s a open space of mostly glass walls, the bull pen dotted with standing desks and stability balls replacing wheeling chairs. Towards the entrance to the main floor there is a food bar, one which changes weekly I’m told. This week it’s a cereal bar, last week it was a sushi bar, the next week it’s expected to be a pho bar. Employees are scattered around it with tablets and laptops, giddily conversing around mouthfuls of rainbow marshmallows and corn flakes. There’s also several corners tucked away with velvet cushions where some team members curl up with headphones and e-readers or handheld video game consoles. Designated comfort zones, the tour guide describes them as. It’s the Blishwix goal to make sure the employees are all comfortable, so whenever they get stressed out or overwhelmed, there’s always a little place they can escape to in order to calm their nerves. In truth, Blishwix looks less like a company and more like an urban hang out for pretty hipsters in crop tops and flannels. Surely the big man on top would have a more professional set up, right? 

Even the display in the bull pen did not prepare me for Jimbo Blishwick’s personal office. It’s one of a few closed off areas to the side of the floor, wide with tall glass walls over looking the bull pen, and predominately empty save for another bean sack, a slim desktop atop a standing desk, and a row of bookcases displaying dozens upon dozens of novels, all of which I can’t place and among the only print media to be found anywhere in Blishwix. “They’re muggle books,” says a voice from behind. When I turn and get a first glance at the figure leaning casually against the glass door to the office, my gut instinct is that this is just another one of those twenty something year olds squeezing stress balls on the work floor. He’s tall, wearing a handmade beanie in a burnt orange color -- One that is, frankly, not a good pair with his golden hair. His neatly trimmed beard and horned rimmed glasses speak of an elegance that doesn’t exactly match the acid wash tattered jeans or the faded t shirt worn under an oversized cream cardigan. The shirt is colorful and bears a phrase that doesn’t come easy to me. Woodstock. Perhaps this is another “muggle thing”. It isn’t until he draws close enough that I recognize the bare footed man. It’s Jimbo Blishwick himself. “Call me Wick,” he easily responds to my surprised expression, knowing full well he wasn’t what I expected. Instead of holding out a hand in a formal handshake and then pulling up a chair for the interview, he engulfs me in a hug and ushers me into the love sack. It’s awkward at first, but eventually I melt into it. It’s just as comfortable as it looks, and their use in the designated comfort zones make more sense to me now. Wick opts to sit crosslegged on the floor, a large coffee in one hand and a bowl of granola balanced on his thighs. He sips the coffee as my eyes wander the space, finding small and interesting little things to ask him about. 

The first thing that draws my attention is a set of crystals sitting on the top of his desk, and when I ask he lets out a howling laugh that echos throughout the office, surely drawing the attention of his hard playing -- and hardly working -- employees beyond the glass walls. “Oh, I had a bit of a headache,” he says with a somewhat amused grin. “My wife said they might help.” The wife in question isn’t some darling stay at home mom you might expect. In Wick’s own words: She’s the reason the “Boss Girl” phrase was invented. Selene Blishwick is as shrewd a business person as her husband is, and perhaps a bit more progressive. As I attempt to shift a bit in the cushion, Wick relays some confidential information about some of their upcoming branding collaborations. Each is more unconventional than the last, and they all have one vital thing in common: Selene Blishwick is the one that found them. I’d go into detail, but Wick swears it would become a marital problem if I spill the big secrets before they’re due to come out. Instead he offers a sly grin and taps a single finger to his lips. “Our little secret, then you can be the cool hip one among your friends who knew all about it before it came out.” An exciting proposition, though I realize that I do need something I can share with the public from this visit, and as Wick’s bowl of dry granola gets emptier I fear I’m running out of time. So I set out to do what I’d planned: a profile on the CEO of Wizarding London’s premiere tech company. 

When I ask Wick what was the event that kickstarted his long journey to bringing the wixen world into the 21st Century, he answers in one simple phrase: “A pen pal program.” I was surprised to say the least, but it all became more transparent as I urged him to elaborate. What ensues is a story about the overweight son of a MACUSA politician who was teased and bullied all his life and struggled to maintain platonic connections. “I had no friends,” he says, a sad truth but it comes out with a light and airy laugh. “But I didn’t make it quite easy for people to be my friend.” Despite his laid back and easy going charm, Wick reveals a disabling shyness and insecurity that kept him from engaging with the world. The only one privy to his thoughts and personality was the journal he carried with him wherever he went. “I always thought I sounded better on print than in person. I could be whoever I wanted to be on paper -- Handsome, smart, clever and fun. I just could never bring that outwards, you know?” I think we can all sympathize with the young Blishwick’s plight. It didn’t help that he had quite the shoes to fill. Sixth in his line, the Jimbos that came before the media mogul were all tied to American politics. They’re all charming and ambitious men, but Wick says he just didn’t have it in him to be a lawmaker. “Big Daddy” -- yes, that’s the moniker his father, Jimbo the fifth, goes by -- “He’s just built to be a Senator, I’m just the apple that fell a little too far from that tree.” Secluded and distant, educators began to worry that Wick’s development would be halted by the lack of socialization between him and his peers. So one Ilvermorny professor had suggested Wick be one of a handful of students elected to partake in a cross continental penpal program. “Fabricating friendship,” he called it. What they didn’t know is that the program would lead to a lot more. When I ask him who his first penpal is, if it’s someone he still has direct contact with, he lets another one of those amusing grins slip. “Oh yeah, very much so. I’m actually married to her.” 

A fifth year at Ilvermorny, Wick was matched with a Hogwarts student a handful of years younger than him by the name of Selene Rowle. According to Wick, their correspondence lasted throughout both of their schooling and beyond, until he had taken a chunk out of his trust fund in order to travel to the United Kingdom to meet in person. He says that’s the only time he used his family’s money to get where he is now -- literally using it to transport across the Atlantic. Leaving behind his family’s estate in Texas and the promising job at MACUSA his father had acquired for him, Wick came to London in order to meet his long distance friend for the first time. The only person “who really knew what he was about” he says. I ask if it was for romantic reasons. He thinks about it while he sips his drink. “I guess in hindsight it does seem a little romantic.” Whatever his reasons, Wick came and he never turned back. He said that one of the first times they interacted in person, he and his future bride had lamented on their past communication and the long waits between letters. “We felt like we’d left things off on cliff hangers so often, and you’d have to wait forever just to get some kind of answer to those burning questions the last letter gave you. It was one of the most frustrating things.” The pair wondered what it would have been like if there had been a more instantaneous way to talk with wizards across the globe. After all, Wick had concluded, the muggles did it just fine. During his teen years, the Texan said he had grown very interested in what nonmagical civilization was like. A “No-Maj Studies Class”, as they call the Muggle Studies program in the states, had a unit on the technological advances of the nonmagical community during much of the modern era. The professors tried to teach the students that this was all building towards a very dangerous threat to the magical community: exposure and the fast spreading of information over the internet. Wick saw something different. “As I thought about how I wished I had a better gateway to my penpal during my teen years, I just kept thinking about how muggles had that already figured out. They could instantly send letters to anyone anywhere in the world. No long wait times for traveling owls or anything like that. It was instantaneous.... And why shouldn’t we be like that?” 

It was this very thought that birthed the company the Blishwicks lead now. 

So how do you bring the magical world safely into the 21st Century as dictated by the nonmagical? That was no easy feat. For his part, Wick said he had to learn all about something that didn’t exist in their world, something that didn’t interact well with magic. And how do you study muggle tech without magic interfering? Simple: You “become a muggle”. That’s when I realized there was a book I recognized on his eclectic shelf of reading material. Daisy Hookum’s best seller My Life as a Muggle. It’s the first book on the shelf, in the most pristine condition. A first edition, and it’s even signed by the author herself, though Wick doesn’t remember the meeting. It has a simple message in it: I hope you enjoy the time you spend in the nonmagical world and make memories as fond as my own. “Oh yeah,” he laughs, “I did tell her I was also voluntarily giving up magic in order to help kickstart my company.” He says it with an air of unfamiliarity, like he only vaguely remembers the moment. Still, he presses on with the story. A controversial choice for the son of a self proclaimed “conservative-traditional” pureblood senator, Wick was shortly disowned by the American Blishwicks for his choice to give up his magic for two and a half years to live among the muggles. But it had purpose. “I may have lied my way into an internship with a tech company in Edingbrugh. I was trying to learn as much as I could about this muggle innovation. If I wanted to create something similar for our community, I needed to master their version.” He says it took more than the two years he gave himself to live among them, and he’s still studying it to this day, but after that amount of time he had the ground work he needed to then create his tech and media empire. The biggest obstacle wasn’t even in creating the highly secret magically encrypted network which allows smart phones to be used in the wizarding world. No, for Wick the biggest hurdle to pass over was the longstanding traditional values the community had. “I think there’s an innate fear in not just advancing the community, but in mirroring any sort of progress than the muggles have done. There’s nothing wrong with it, I mean we have adapted enough of their inventions into our own world already so why not take it a step further?” He refers to radio and electric hook ups that appeared in a lot of wixen homes in the past century. 

Blishwix started out small, creating and selling smart phones and desktops primarily with the idea in mind to change the way we communicate. Email was one of those first muggle digital contraptions that made its way into the wixen mainstream and has stayed, but within a short decade the company’s offerings expanded to mirror exactly what the digital world of the muggles looks like now. It’s becoming more and more rare to see wixen without a Loquix* in hand, or a Blishwix desktop at home. The Wixpix social media app, in which users post photos taken from the cameras on their cellular devices and add witty captions which can then be “liked” or “commented” on by users across the globe, continues to grow in popularity. And now the media and tech giant is rolling out a “streaming platform” -- a sort of home theater in the form of an app that catalogues film and television programs created by wixen for wixen. There’s Accio, an application that allows you to ask random questions and receive an answer instantly; Portky** which allows users to request forms of transportation when they desperately need it, including ministry-approved portkeys (or so it claims, we haven’t used it yet here at the Prophet). There’s even applications for those lonely wixen looking to find a love connection. Erised is one such app where user profiles are made with a handful of photos, a small ‘about me’ section, and a few small details that can be provided to prospective dates in order to help connect those with similar interests and hobbies. The married Wick does not have an Erised profile, but his assistant allows me to scroll through her’s and even swipe a few times on other profiles. I accidentally match her to someone she admits she can’t see herself interested in, but we all have a good laugh about it. These are only a few of many “experiences”, as Wick refers to them, offered by the company in order to branch the magical people from across the globe. “What is more beautiful than seeing people from different cultural backgrounds and walks of life coming together and sharing ideas and thoughts so quickly?” I realize as I’m sitting there in that bean cushion, scrolling through a prototype of the next Blishwix tablet that I know so little about the world beyond my little corner of it. I suddenly understand Wick’s enthusiasm about expanded communication. 

It’s all pretty exciting to see coming together, it’s almost impossible to understand what more could be done by Blishwix. So when I ask him what’s next, Wick gets a very eager look in his eyes. “There’s a lot of places we still don’t have our tech in that I think would be all the better for it,” he solemnly reveals, and I’m shocked to hear it. Since visiting Blishwix, I have seen their product seemingly in every corner of Wizarding London I explore daily. Who isn’t using connected to their expansive network at this point? “I would love to do a partnership with the Ministry. As the governing body, I feel like we can offer them so much that could continue to further develop the community and continue progressing us into the future. If we could get our desktops in every Ministry Department, we can further the sort of work that keeps our world moving. Just imagine how we could expand Law Enforcement, Education or Wellfare departments if we can make all the relevant information they need all the more accessible to their employees? Think about how much easier it would be for them to process information on our fast and reliable network.” 

On the topic of Education, Wick reveals his ambitions don’t stop with the Ministry. “I would love to see Blishwix in schools like Hogwarts,” he says, revealing what may be the biggest bombshell yet. “This whole dream started because of a chubby boy who had no friends in school and wanted a faster way to communicate with the one he made far away. I think a lot about that and how my life would have been different had I had this kind of technology available to me. If there are lonely kids like me who could have that, or even kids who are just struggling to get the information they need to be successful in school, and I could give them what they need to advance in life? Then I could say I’ve done what I initially set out to do. Until that day, I would say that Blishwix hasn’t been a success yet. Even teachers could benefit from the use of the internet and all the resources we have out there which we now have access to.” I begin to wonder if the technological genius is actually more of a philanthropist. “I don’t know, you tell me,” he quips when I muse out loud. Our interview comes to a halt by this point, and I’m left with so many more questions. What is Blishwix cooking up for the wizarding world next? What kind of innovations will define the company’s next decade? These, and so many more, questions are left unanswered as I walk out of Blishwix HQ, a takeaway bowl of fruity cereal in one hand and my previous generation Loquix in the other (scrolling through shopping apps in order to find that “love sack” I spent much of the afternoon lounging in).

The same day I begin writing this piece out, Blishwix has announced the Loquix VI, their most advance smartphone yet. They livestream details of their upgraded OS and hardware reveal on the company’s social media, an event I watch while typing this article up on my worn out typewriter. Halfway through and I’m out of ribbon, and I silently curse myself as I order a new set online. All the while the Blishbook Pro is being revealed on the stream, its sleek wireless keyboard and slim expandable monitor shimmering under the stage lights. I join in with the loud gasps from the shareholders crowding the conference room where the event is being held. The irony of this isn’t lost on me, and as I sit here writing out these last few paragraphs with a quill in my cramped hand I begin to realize exactly why I admire Jimbo Blishwick and his forward thinking. At least he’s not sitting here with ink blotches in obscene places, running to his editor’s office just barely before deadline with a mess of typed and handwritten article. I remember in that moment, drenched in the rain while rushing through the offices of the Prophet, the first line in his owl response to my inquiry for the interview: 

You should have just emailed. 

Touché, Blishwick, touché. 

*Portky app idea comes courtesy of Kim ( @strvngemagics​ ) **Loquix phone name comes courtesy of Vic ( @cfdiggorys​ / @moodyparis​ / @aarlingtons​ ) Both gave permission to use / mention these galaxy brained concepts in the intro and credit for their conception goes to them. Thank you guys so much!!

TL;DR: Wick is full of shit. What can I say? Here’s the ‘Murrican lad who claims to be some hip and cool CEO of a wizarding tech and media company. Okay he’s I guess apple meets zuckerberg. Idk I’m not galaxy brained enough for this afheiahfpea hence the very oddly written bio. Wick’s a pureblood from america who supposedly forsake his family’s purist ways and then decided to create a company modeled after muggle tech in order to “bring the wizarding world into the modern era”. In actuality? He’s a fucking bigot who created a network that he could use to spy on people who may be enemies of the cause. At least that’s how it’s being factored into the DEs. His theme song is “Somebody’s Watching Me” by Rockwell bc he’s always watching you. Gives off this very laid back and down to earth and charming persona just so he can gain your trust and meanwhile he’s leaking your information to the DE and helping them further their agenda. Some extra tidbits not seen above: 

He’s got some daddy issues which are leaking into his parenting. Aka he is not exactly excited to be a father but you wouldn’t know that from his Wixpix feed which feature so many “cute” dad photos with his baby boy. In order for him to become his best self, his dad had to make his life a living hell and he believes that’s how he’s gonna have to handle Zephyr as well. 

He is smart, yes, but he’s not some brilliant innovator like the world thinks he is. His empire is built on stolen material which he simply “adapted” to the magical world. He’s not original, but he is clever. 

He’s not a fighter, clumsy with a wand, had a severe stutter as a kid which made it very hard for him to cast spells etc, so he avoids battle often and instead offers up his company more for espionage for the DEs. He’s better suited to behind the scenes mayhem, and that’s kind of the way he likes it. 

He’s a coward. He’s hiding behind computer screens and tbh if things get really sticky he’s likely to try and sell out the DE in order to save his skin. Has an escape plan to the states if things get really sticky but the likelihood of him succeeding are slim to none. 

He acts very charitable and humble and kind but he’s conceited as hell and he’s a real shady bitch sometimes. Talks shit on everyone behind their backs

He’s had a few affairs here and there despite being married. Even with that, he is in love with his wife and feels a sort of fealty towards her. She’s a very important part to the company, she’s pretty much the brand of it and so he relies on her a lot to help manufacture their image even just as individuals to help the rouse. 

BODY IMAGE TW/EATING DISORDER TW. Wick has some body image issues due to his past tbh. He got bullied a lot as a kid for being overweight and quiet, his solace was in food and he was a binge eater. As he got a bit older, he made some desperate choices in order to lose weight to gain a slimmer figure. It wasn’t healthy, it landed him in hospital a few times, and eventually he had to meet with nutrition specialists and therapists in order to work out a more healthy mindset on food. He’s still harbors body imagine issues, but he’s learned to be better about it. Still, he maintains a very strict diet and work out regime because he feels his image is one of the most important things about him. He did meet Selene when he was slim and athletic and therefore thinks it’s best he maintain the figure even just out of fear she wouldn’t find him attractive otherwise. 

is any of the stuff he said in this interview true? Idk, idk

Idk, I hate this man and this bio afheuiahfpea I’ll end up rewriting it eventually. 

MISC

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Bisexual ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Biromantic LANGUAGES: English FAMILY: Jimbo Dashiel Bartholomew Blishwick V (but they call him “Big Daddy”; father), Cricket Blishwick née Berkeley (mother), Beaufort Harland Blishwick (younger brother), Cora-Lou Blishwick (younger sister), Selene Blishwick née Rowle (wife), Zephyr Blishwick (infant son), and by extension all the fucking Rowles I guess PETS: TBD FACE CLAIM: Luke Mitchell ASTROLOGICAL SIGN: Aquarius MBTI: hm PINTEREST: (coming soon)

WANTED CONNECTIONS

interns - a couple new grunts at the blishwix HQ. they can be any affiliation, but if they are DE affiliated then they’ll know a little bit more about what is going on behind closed doors at the company. could be fun for future plotting purposes. 

co conspirators - other DEs who similarly to wick lead a double life in the public eye. philanthropists, media stars, all sorts of “do gooders” who are banning together in order to break “harmful stigmas and stereotypes and join the wixen community globally”. blishwix mission statement aims to create a platform for wixen of all types across the world to interact free of prejudice and judgement and to bring the magical community into a modern era free of harmful ideologies. of course that’s a fucking lie, so if you play a baddy bad who’s pretending to be goody good then this could be a fun collaboration. 

partnerships - alternatively, let’s see some honest to good people and groups get schemed by these fuckers. this would involve some potential screwing over but no worries, at the end of the day blishwix will tank and then your character can get their sweet revenge on this man and his corrupt business. 

idk hmu with ideas. 

[werezmastarbucks]

Whitmore Guy: Damon finally has it

Whitmore Guy masterlist

word count: 1508

music: i really wish i hated you by blink-182

Damon stood at her desk pressing his palms hard into the wood. She was so nervous she couldn’t stop scratching the surface of it. She felt like she was being torn apart.

“Prick”, Damon spat out, for the third time in thirty seconds. Stefan sucked the air in through his teeth.

“Something’s up”, he said, the voice of reason. Damon finally let go of her, looking away. Y/N felt like she was being tested. Of course, she was. Of course, the oldest Salvatore was suspicious. She was, too. It was not the time for guessing anymore. It was very clear Mal was not who he pretended to be.

“I told you he smelt like freakin’ trouble from a mile away”, Damon hissed, ignoring his brother. Elena opened her mouth and then closed it.

“What?” Y/N snapped, “that’s bullshit. Absolute lie, Damon. You were the one who said he was plain, you thought I was just obsessing over him because he was cute!”

“Hard truth is, all of us felt like there was something about him, but we were busy with other stuff”, Caroline contributed.

“We do have more serious issue on our hands”, Stefan tried to steer the conversation into the right direction again. Everybody looked at him. Ric sighed and dived deeper into his chair with wheels. It moaned miserably under his weight.

“What is it?” Bonnie asked. They were all gathered in a circle, as usual; each on a random place that they favored the most, like birds. Y/N sat at her desk, and Damon stood in front of it, like a sore in the eye; Stefan stood afar, guarding the door and listening to what’s going on outside. Elena was prepped against a bookcase, the very bookcase that was ruined because of Damon. Caroline sat in the armchair with her legs crossed, and Bonnie paced around the place, as if spreading some rationality and witchy powder.

“The FBI guys left couple of days ago with no explanation, but today we saw their car again”, Damon said, still bitter about something.

“Don’t you think it’s strange?”

“That people move around? What a horrifying picture”.

“I think they believe Damon’s been killing all those people”, Elena said and looked at the darkened Salvatores’ faces. “First, it’s the bodies in our yard. Then, they all attack him and Stefan at the bar. Now, the neighbors when Damon’s in the house next door”.

“You could as well tie them all down with Y/N”, Ric said, “the vampire refused to feed on her like she was… compelled”.

“Only an original can compel other vampires”.

“It can be a matter of siring”, someone noted.

Her face was burning. There was a broken puzzle in her head. The pieces just didn’t fit. Every time she felt like she was almost there, Matt came to her mind, and the chain was ruined. There was one vital thing she was missing, and she couldn’t reach it. Her head was messed up, and she knew who was to blame.

“What have you done, Damon?” she asked. It came out much harsher than she intended; Damon even leaned in a little, surprised.

“What? What’s that?!”

“What have you done to me in Georgia?”

Caroline saw Stefan shift a little with the corner of her eye, and she couldn’t ignore it, no matter how much she wanted to.

An uneasy shiver washed over all of them, at once. A weird thing happened: the company slowly looked at each other, observed each and every one, and fell silent.

“Do you feel weird about Georgia, too?” Elena asked, and looked at Stefan for help. She searched for support. Stefan was her safe haven. Stefan looked back and his face was bleak. They all knew then, at that moment, that something had happened.

The look of being lost has stuck in the room forever. It was there even many years later.

“Ever since Matt died”, Caroline said, rubbing her left knee, “I’ve been feeling like… like we gave up on his murderer. I mean, did we ever find out who did it?”

Damon was looking through them. He was wandering somewhere outside, Y/N could tell. His eyes went pale aquamarine, and she could swear he knew something. But then again, she had the same feeling about Mal.

At the thought of how he kissed her, she almost went paralytic. He was wrong, he was bad, he was dangerous. He definitely had something on his mind, and then, when they kissed, when she let him hold her, the world shrunk to the size of the little room. It was dense, and clear, like little cosmos. It was lukewarm, the thick air, and there was a mystery about it. She knew it was her place, but it felt so alien. It’s like he was from another dimension. Tearing violently from the layers of universal paper, jumping where he wasn’t supposed to be. He felt like… the end.

She tilted her head and felt her neck tense up. She rubbed it hard, listening to them discuss Matt’s death quietly. Fuck it, she’s thought about it hundreds of times, it leads nowhere. She voiced that.

“What do you mean?” Elena asked. Ric was watching her.

“There’s a gap, okay? Something happened between the time we found Matt’s body and the moment we left Georgia. I don’t know where you were on the eleventh of November”.

“What do you mean?” Stefan asked. Damon pierced her with his eyes like she was a prey.

“Fucking hell!”

His yell was like a cry of a dying bear. It was so abrupt that everybody jumped. Even the vampires. Salvatore was fuming. He was going out of his skin. As he left the office, bashing the door on the wall, startling the people in the corridor, he nearly bit through his own damn tongue. The parasite! The plague, he will never get rid of it. No matter what he does… he doesn’t even remember the bastard, but he still feels so tired. So exhausted like he’s been fighting him all his life...

Stefan followed him, catching up with his brother effortlessly, and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“It’s time to tell, Damon”, the younger Salvatore uttered bravely, knowing perfectly well that touching Damon when he’s that furious is way too dangerous. Damon didn’t shrug his arm off, surprisingly. Instead, he looked deep into his brother’s eyes. His jaw moved. They both looked out into the dark parking lot space, and the moon.

Stefan waited.

“Mal”, Damon said slowly, and it came out like poison was behind his cheek, “is short for Malachai”.

Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He wondered how he could be so dumb while so old. And man, did he feel old. Stefan blinked, his grey jaguar eyes flickering in the twilight of the street lights.

“I don’t know what that means, Damon”.

Damon let the air out through his nose.

“You’re one of the lucky ones. Let’s go, we gotta move. I’ll show you the letter”.

_________________________________________________

Back in her office, she was looking at her distraught friends feeling like she was betraying them. Because, while she knew she couldn’t be with him, she couldn’t stop thinking about Mal. She couldn’t stop herself back when Martha was alive, and when she died, and all this time while she suspected him, a part of her was determined to find out the truth, while craving him. He was the first person to understand her, actually, in a long time. She was thinking that maybe if she just… takes him away, away from Mystic Falls, whatever’s on his mind won’t be a threat to her friends at least. Mal didn’t go together with Mystic Falls, he was different. He was like a virus. They had to be separated. These people were in danger while he was around, and not even Bonnie knew that, because that was a gut feeling of completely different origin.

She looked at them, the faces she knew as well as her own, people she loved for almost all her life, and felt guilty for loving him so much it made her brain glitch. It made her want to elope. It made her think he’s got all the answers. She felt that, not knowing, that it wasn’t the first time.

She went home that night and dived straight to bed. She hasn’t seen Mal for several days and was too proud and too uncertain to call. She didn’t think it was because of the kiss – he seemed too eager about her at all times. It must have been more sinister. She almost called him from bed, laying on her side, but terminated the call at the last second. She decided to just message him instead, just to know he’s somewhere out there, existing. Whatever he’s doing, she wanted him to know she will not rest.

“Where are you?”

That’s pretty nice, she decided, a cry in the night. Not too specific, not too needy. She looked as the screen of her phone faded to black, and the room went dark, with only the pale white light from the street lamp highlighting the things in the world. The old oak, the window sill, the dark mount of the forest far away.

She got her answer pretty quickly when she heard his phone ding with notification.

[quillsareswords]

Crooked Grin

Damian Wayne

Your smile shouldn't look like that.

[Reader lives with John Constantine, and is similarly a demonologist and magic user. About 16-18.]

Prompt List // Masterlist (in bio)

"Are you ready to go?"

You turn away from the book on the table, and face him. "Sorry?"

"Are you ready to leave?" he repeats. He leans against the doorjam, arms crossed, clad in black, much like yourself. He doesn't look impatient, but he does look a little anxious.

You cock an eyebrow and shoot him a lopsided grin. "Nervous, Birdy?"

He rolls his eyes as you snap a leather bound journal shut. "Please, I've assisted you before."

You set the book on your dresser. You shoulder a messenger bag on your way to meet him at the door. "Sure, but you already know what I'm up against this time."

"I didn't see it," he argues.

"But you felt it."

He doesn't answer you. Turns away before you can get a proper reaction.

You shut the door behind you, and enter the Wayne Manor. If anyone were to open the door again, it would be an empty closet.

Ah, how you loved your little door trick.

It was fairly simple magic, something you learned quickly. You could simply replace doors—switch one with another, if you will. With a rune and a mumbled phrase, you can make any door lead to any room that has a door you've marked with the same rune.

"Tim's the one who saw it on CCTV."

You stopped in front if the bookcase in Bruce's office, allowing Damian the grand honor of pulling the right book and pulling the hidden door open. "Video footage isn't exactly trustworthy when it comes to paranormal—haven't I told you this before?"

"Probably," he answers, throwing you comical wink.

Now you're the one rolling your eyes. "One if these days, you're gonna wish you listened," you sing, beginning your decent down the metal grate stairs.

He starts down after you. "No I won't." He slows his pace when he's next to you, "Because you'll be there to remind me." Then off he goes, taunting you to chase him clear down to the cave, through the secret hideout, and clear over to the vehicle bay.

You've never liked riding on Damian's bike. Or Robin's bike, rather. You much preferred his Lincoln, all leather seats and metal walls. Though he insisted it would be faster tonight, so you relented. The bike felt less secure, gave you less of a chance if anything were to happen.

Don't misunderstand; Damian is a fantastic driver. You'd rather him behind the wheel than yourself any day. It's more the people in the city he calls home you don't trust.

You've always had a love-hate relationship with Gotham City. You love the dreary atmosphere, the rainy days. You adore the old buildings and even older libraries. You live for the underground, more-than-human clubs and shops peppered throughout the streets.

You hate the crazed clowns, killer plants, and murderous penguins. You despise the snobby people and jacked up prices. You detest the crumbling ruins left to decay alone. Most of all, you abhor the other side of the coin.

Gotham has no shortage of darkness. In its people, under its streets, below the waters, above the rooftops. Though it sends a shockwave of thrill through you, the danger only you seem to be aware of is forever just around the corner. From ghouls to vampires to demons to dark witches, Gotham is crawling with things darker than its skies.

You, if course, stay in your lane unless absolutely necessary. Demons, ghosts, angels. That's your specialty, after all.

You're who the Bat Gang calls when things get a little too weird. Your father figure isn't one to drop and run at anybody's beck and call (except, perhaps, yours), so you're the one who gets the call first. You don't conplain—you enjoy the practice.

Damian slows and steers the bike off the backstreet, into the tiny parking lot of a little abandoned church. Little, meaning most likely one big room, and maybe a backroom and a bathroom at the end of the building.

He twists the key and silences the engine, one foot anchored on the asphalt, then removes his helmet.

You unwind your arms from his torso, lifting off your helmet as you slide off the machine behind him. You stare up at the stark white building and the wide brown mounted to the front of it. "How long has it been empty?" you inquire.

He dismounts the motorcycle and pockets his keys. His eyes find the same spot yours have: the busted glass of the front door. "Three weeks."

You turn to him, incredious. "Three weeks? Really?" You face the building again, studying the sprawling vines and waist-high grass by the playground, the chipping paint and the grimy windows.

In the light if dusk, it wasn't a place you'd want to find yourself on any Sunday morning.

"Three weeks," you breathe. You steal another minute or so to run through your mental database. What causes such decay so quickly? What was powerful enough to take residency in a church?

You head up to the doors, treading over busted asphalt and shattered glass and dry leaves on your way. Damian follows you closely, peering around at the surrounding buildings and streets.

The streetlights flicker on behind you, but you're too busy trying to get a good look at the inside before opening the doors to notice.

You try the handles first. It doesn't budge. You don't want to risk irritating whatever is inside before you're ready, so you duck down and carefully slip through the bottom pane of the left door, which had been shattered. Outwardly, you note. Whatever broke the glass came from inside, leaving the shards of glass scattered on the sidewalk.

Damian hesitates before he follows you. His muscles tighten the moment he crosses the threshold.

Beyond a short hallway consisting of three flimsy doors, you find the sanctuary. It's laden with over turned or broken pews, stained red carpet, and papers and pamphlets scattered all around.

Damian joins you in the middle of the isle a moment after your entrance, footsteps muffled by the thick red carpet. "The two doors on the end of the hall are bathrooms. I didn't see much there, besides some blood splatter in one of the sinks."

You nod, gaze shifting around the alter. "What about the far end? Have you been in that one yet?"

"No," he answers, "but if the other two were bathroom, it's most likely an office or a kitchenette."

You point to the far end of the sanctuary, at a door looming in the corner. "That's the office, I bet." You turn to face the entrance doors. "Let's check the door in the hall first, that one over there's giving me a bad vibe."

He follows you to hall, but you make him wait by the sanctuary doors.

When you nudge open the ajar door with the toe of your boot, Damian's suspicions are confirmed. A slim white refrigerator, four feet of vinal counter top, and a shallow sink. The only thing out-of-the-ordinary is the rancid stench and the cock-eyed chair by the window.

You dig out a maglight from your messenger bag and click it on. Light floods the dim room as you wave it around, gliding over counter tops and in open cubords. "Nothing in here," you report absently, fingers hooking around the refrigerator handle. You yank it open, just as a precaution.

You gasp suddenly, more out of shock than fright. You puff out your cheeks with the excess air, staring down the red and white mess caught in your flashlight beam with high eyebrows. "Found what's making that smell."

"What?" Damian stalks into the room, posture tense and guarded.

You press the door closed to save him the scaring image of three dead, mutilated chickens and a severed cat head. "Some sacrifices, apparently. Looks like they've been in here for a few days, maybe. A week, at the most."

He tries to look again, but you slam the door too quick and push him out of the room.

You know he's seen far worse, and frankly so have you, but one less thing to pop up in nightmares could make all the difference.

The pair of you make your way back through the hall and down the sanctuary aisle, to the flimsy wooden door at the very back, behind the podium and the alter.

However, your gait hitches a few feet yards away. You stick out your arm to stop Damian.

He looks to you for an explanation, but you don't hear his question.

You're too busy skimming the room with your eyes. The air seems to cool around you, raising the hairs on the back of your neck. You mentally recite the hand motions and spell for a barrier rune, just in case.

The streetlight outside flickers six times exactly, before it goes out completely.

The room is considerably darker now, leaving shadows to dance upon every wall, to whisper in your ears, to nip at your ankles.

Your growing paranoia gets the better of you, and you jump closer to Damian as your light darts in the direction of quiet crunch, eyes narrowed.

A gray cat scurries out of the way of your light, skinny and panicky.

You exhaled slowly, light beam passing through the room one more time before you turned back around.

Damian knows better to comment on it. Not that he would have—he just thanks his lucky stars you jumped, too.

You hook your index finger with his before you move forward, beam still highlighting all areas within close proximity to the door.

Shielding rune and defensive spells fresh in your mind, you waste no time in opening the door. You bypass the formality of the knob this time, and decide instead to kick it wide open.

The handle crashes against the wall, thundering echo bouncing trough both rooms. You search the ceiling thuroughly before entering, sure to hit every inch of the textured surface with the beam of your light.

When you are confident there's nothing hiding there, you move past the threshold cautiously. As you tightly swing your light around the room, a story unfolds.

This room, that appears to an office with cheap bookshelves of holy literature and a desk right out of an Ikea magazine, more closely resembled a warzone. Books strung throughout the room, some flipped over, some split open, some with pages in taters, and some with their covers ripped clean off.

The windows on the north and west side are so thick with spiderwebbing fractures, neither of you are able to see through them properly. The carpeting is shredded in random places, as if wild cats had been set loose to ruin it. You look back to the windows, at the curtains, and wonder if that could possibly exactly what's happened here. But with a spotlight on the paintings and pictures on the wall, you decide that cats have nothing to do with it.

You approach one of the paintings slowly, light focused on the face of what you guess is Mother Mary. Your mental check has you listening to Damian's boots crunching on discarded pages as you observe the hollow place where her face should be.

"Look at this."

You turn away from the image at Damian's call. You find him in you beam, crouched in the middle of the room, hunched over an open book, his micro light poised between his thumb and his index finger.

"What is it?" you inquire, crossing the room to lean over his shoulder.

"There are words written in this one." He points to the red, black, and blue circles highlighting specific words.

"It was very swift?" You squint at the page. "Why would you use three different pens for that?"

He shakes his head. "We're investigating a possible demon and you're questioning why somebody would use different pens in a book?"

You roll your eyes once again. "Firstly, you should always assume poltergeist before demon, and secondly, who do you know that would make any kind of mark on a book in a church?"

"Point taken." He stands, waving his light around by the wall you'd come in by. "Closet."

You turn again to find where his light is pointed. "Awesome," you heave, stalking toward the feeble sliding door. You motion Damian away from its direct path, positioning yourself on the opposite side.

In one swift motion, you jerk it open.

"Shit!" You jump away as a man falls out, his head hitting the floor with an awful thud.

"I really hate closets," you hiss, pulling the high neck of your shirt up over your mouth and nose, the stench tumbling out with him.

With his shirt fitting the way it does, Damian is left only with a sneer and his hand.

You narrow your eyes and refocus your beam on the mystery man. With your boot, you roll him over.

Black button down, white collar, brass belt.

"Preacher," you announce. You take a closer look at his face. Bald head, strangely proportioned features. "A weird one, though. Looks more like he belongs in a trenchcoat at a playground."

Damian nods, fearing that if he opened his mouth, he'd have to taste the smell of rotting skin.

"What exactly were you doing here, buddy?" you ask aloud, half expecting an answer. When none comes, you look to Damian again. "I would say it was just straight up murder—maybe a robbery-gone-wrong—but this guy doesn't have any marks.

A look passes over your face, as if you've just reminded yourself of something. "Get me a pencil off the desk."

Damian creeps the short distance back through books and scattered paper in the now pitch black room, relying heavily on his tiny (yet impressively bright) flashlight to keep him from tripping on anything.

At the desk, he reaches across it for a pencil from a plain white cup, but stops short when his gaze snags on a book spread open there.

Thick black lines scrawling across thick, yellowing paper that alarmingly resembled dried skin, thin and black red letters in a language he only vaguely recognized. He could only guess a few words; that one could be blood, this one might be chicken, over there could be human. He knows better than to touch the book at all.

He returns to you quickly, though you're already looking at him. He holds a sharpened No. 2 pencil out to you. "When you're finished with him, there's something you should look at."

You accept the pencil, flipping it in your hand so you were using the eraser for whatever you were planning to do with it. "What is it?"

He watches you gently press the eraser to the preacher's eyelid. His brows furrow, but he doesn't ask. "It's a book. The pages don't look like paper, and I don't recognize the language. It's partly Latin." He grimances as you carefully push one eyelid open. There is no eye, only a round black, coal-like stone. "And some runes, or something alike."

You turned to look over your shoulder at him. "Really?" You look back down at was once an eyeball. You're quiet during your examination, poking your way all around the poor man's face.

Damian stands at the preacher's opposite shoulder, watching from above. He doesn't ask what you're looking for. As whip smart as he is and as quickly as he learns, he gets lost in the centuries-old homemade terms and lack of scientific logic.

Finally, you stand. "He's been possessed," you concur. "The skin's gone cold, so it's been a least a week. And the rot in his mouth is pretty progressed, so it's probably been a little over that." You meet his eyes in the dark, as if you're expecting something.

"I don't have any intent to ask, beloved."

You bob your head with a little smile. "Fair enough. Desk, then?"

"Desk."

You follow him back across the room again. You lean over the surface, pointing the wide beam down on the old book. You kept attentive to how close you were to the edge of the desk, as well as how far your many necklaces and bracelets hung above the miscellaneous items and papers strung about the flat wood.

"This is an old language, one of the original ones the first demonologists and occult studiers used to record everything and communicate with each other—"

"Why did they need a separate language?"

You kept your gaze focused on the open page. "Most serious demonology—outside of Bible stuff—and focused paranormal study started around the same time people were called witches for curing sicknesses, Dame."

"Ah."

"Anyway, I'll stop boring you with the history lesson. It's basically a mashup of Latin, Greek, and little freestyling."

"Can you read it?"

"Yeah, I read stuff like this in the House Of Magic's library pretty often. It's similar to what is used in modern day demonology."

You squint down at the page, scrutinizing the dull lettered lines. Damian noted that you weren't blinking.

"It's . . . It's labeled as an invocation, but it's a summoning." Your eyebrows gather above your nose. "Which is pretty obvious, considering–"

"(Y/N), as much as I adore hearing you talk about the things that interest you, what exactly does it summon?"

You fall silent, eyes darting further down the page, to the two intricate symbols scribed there. Finally, you announce, "Crossroads demon—for making deals. But it doesn't make sense, because crossroads demons don't need this much, uh, drama."

"What does that mean?" A creak echos from the sanctuary. He moves quickly and quietly, back to the door to see what's caused it.

You speak a little louder to be sure he can hear you. "Well, a crossroads ritual is so much simpler than this, and you don't need any kind of rune, symbol, or anything, really. As basically as I can put it, you put a box in the dirt and beg for it to work." You grab your longest necklace in your hand and pull it away from the desk, allowing you to lean closer to the book without the programed stone touching the desk. "And this right here would mean–"

You eyebrows unfurrow immediately. That would mean I summon thee to take my soul. Your eyes dart wildly across the page, rereading and rechecking every letter of the old text.

That isn't the right center for a crossroads demon.

You mentally run through everything but of information you'd compiled since last night, when Tim had shown you the footage.

You bounded down the stairs, Damian on your heels, as you chattered on about Constantine's rotten habits and The House's typical invasions of privacy.

"Speak of the devil." Tim throws you a cocky, yet oh-so-tired grin.

You jump the last three grate steps, landing with a hard thump on the cement. "Close, but not quite," you laughed, sauntering over to join him at the massive blue screen. "What can I do for ya, Trombone?"

His eyebrows slant together in annoyance at the aged nickname. You try to play a trombone one time—one time. "Found this yesterday," he grits. His pinky tags the tab button, just as Damian joins you.

The black and white CCTV clip is taken from a security camera, focused on the building across the street. Nothing seems to be happening.

You lean closer to the screen. Maybe you're missing something? You doubt it's a prank, considering the last time they tried to jumpscare you. Your gaze bounces around to all the windows and the doors, the dark corners and the shadowed strips.

Then, out of the blue, the three streetlights bordering the parking lot and accompanying sidestreet flicker off. Then on again, then off.

You blink. Squint. "Rewind it."

The footage speeds backward a few seconds, then takes proper motion again. You focus on the windows. A shadow moves just inside the door. "Right there," you point at the glass entry doors. "Go back and watch the edge of the left door."

The accelerated decay of the property.

The dead animals in the kitchen.

The intact cross.

The flickering streetlight.

Possessed priest.

This is for something far stronger.

You pull away from the table and shoot forward, nearly tripping over an outstretched arm. "Damian!" you bellow, stumbling out into the sanctuary.

He's halfway down the isle, flashlight swinging to face you in surprise. "What?"

You run through the room to close the gap between you, beam of light cutting through pitch black empty space, peeling back inky air from the ruined room. Paranoia swells in your chest, knowing something was looming in the shadows so close to him.

He subconsciously reaches out and grasps your arm. "What's wrong?"

You're still steadily searching the room with your light. "It isn't a crossroads demon, it's worse, it's bigger, it's meaner. We should go back to The House, regroup, get some tougher stuff."

"What do you mean?" Now he's skimming the room with his light. "What is it?"

You shake your head. "That's the bad part, it wasn't specific, so I don't know for sure."

"For sure. What do you guess it is?"

"Educated guess?" You flick your light behind you. "Fourth ring—bad news."

"Aren't all demons bad news?"

"Not the ones you can reason with."

You both spin on your heels to face the crashing commotion by the entrance. Your light caught it just in time to see pages settle on the ground around a newly over turned pew.

"We're leaving," you state firmly, pushing against Damian, a silent order to move your ass.

His light must have hit every edge of the room as he creeps forward, step by step, toward the entrance of the sanctuary. You walk backward behind him, keeping your eyes from settling on one thing for too long.

When the pannel doors slam shut with enough force to knock the remaining photographs and painting off the wall, you feel the pressure of Damian not only stopping, but jerking back a step against your back.

Your beam settles on the office doors. "The doors shut?"

"Yes."

"Did you hear the lock?"

"Watched it."

"Fuck."

"Shit."

You move your beam to the podium. Then the fractured statue of Jesus nailed to a cross on the furthest wall. The head and arms had been broken off, laying sadly at his sides.

"Damian?"

"Yes?"

"We're going back to the office."

"Obviously." He spins around to stand at your side. "I'm far more comfortable with the remains of the living than the presence of the dead."

"Not really the dead, but I know what you mean."

You lead the way down the main isle, light skimming and skipping through the room as you went. You listen intently, for any sound that might tip you off to intentions or locations. Demons lower (or higher, depending on how you looked at it) than a Sixth Circle require a body to walk the living plane. If you're right, there must be a form of some kind around here some place. A physical body.

You reach out absently, hooking your index finger around his pinky. You've had people and things snatched away in silence before, and you weren't about to let it happen to Damian.

He doesn't say anything. No typical snide remarks or well thought jabs. The first few times he'd accompanied you to an exorcism or a hunt, he'd been just as cocky and arrogant as the day you met him. He'd laughed when you whipped out a canister of table salt.

The third time, though, he'd been pinned to a wall by something he couldn't see or feel. He couldn't fight it, couldn't intimidate it, couldn't distract it.

He never mocked a thing about your practice after that.

Another crash echoes from the left side of the room, drawing both of your attention. Your light finds the broken crucifix, now toppled over and laying across the podium it knocked over on it's way down. Your light lingers.

"Go ahead into the room," you poke a thumb in the direction of the open door. "Set Carl back up in the closet, if you don't mind."

"Carl?" Damian edges his way back to the open door, using your favorite tactic of keeping an eye on him. If he was still talking to you, odds are, he's just fine.

"Yeah, I named the poor guy. Didn't want to offend him with that dead dude on the floor." You creep closer to the crucifix.

"And you chose Carl because. . ?" he pushes the door the rest of the way open, the creak bouncing off the walls, throwing the sound in every direction.

You kick a shredded Bible out of the way. "Just what came off the top of my head," you answered honestly. You shift your gaze from the broken religious symbol to the surrounding area, just to make sure.

"What about Davis?" He sets his little flashlight between his teeth to free his hands. He hesitates, but hooks his hands under the dead man's shoulders, grips his shirt, and lifts him back to a near-standing position.

"No way, look at the stubble of his chin. No Davis would let it get that bad."

He stuffs the body back into the closet with as much grace and pride as he can manage. He shoves the door shut double checks the latch to make sure it doesn't swing open with the added weight. "Mark?"

"No way." You nudge the wooden cross with the toe if your boot. It must weight at least seventy pounds, and it from the six inch industrial screws on the back of it, it was bolted to the wall. "Not with hair that thin."

He shakes his head. What to talk about now? "Find anything out there?"

"Not yet." You crouch, running a hand over the carved robe.

He sweeps the room with his light again. But this time, it catches on the farthest corner from the door.

His heart leaps. His spine stiffens, his blood runs cold.

It's staring right at him.

His mind reels, grappling for something—anything—you've mentioned about dealing with a demon face to face.

He's panicking. Why is he panicking? He works well under pressure, one might even say best. Why now? He feels terror grip his heart, and his breath is coming and going in short, silent bursts. Terror floods his mind—but why?

Why, why, why?

He was raised for this sort of thing, groomed for it even. He's never reacted this way before–

It's a demon, he reminds himself, through muddied thoughts of escape plans and defensive manuevers.

It's got to be messing with him. He remembers you mentioning things like this, both in idle conversation and over sparring.

He does his best to push it away, keep the blood rushing in his ears at a manageable level.

What does he do?

Does he yell for you? Will that startle it, or push it to action? Should he make a break for it? Is there even a chance he could get to you before it gets to him?

What if he takes you from the equation entirely? What can he do? Can he hit it? He can see it now, mostly, at least. What about shielding himself?

"Damian?" Your voice sounds like church bells ringing on a dark and foggy morning.

There's his out, if all else fails. You'll be coming to check on him in a few seconds if he doesn't answer, and he's finding speaking more difficult than usual anyway.

He tears his eyes from the piercing red and orange globes hanging in font of a foggy face. An old, dogeared bible lays on the floor. Surely that would do something.

"Hey, Dame. Everything good?" He doesn't hear anymore movement from you. You sound more focused. "Damian?"

He holds his breath. Counts to five. Releases. Counts to five. Another breath.

"Damian, I swear if you're just too focused to listen to me. . ." Your warning trails off as you draw closer. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you moving around the corner, coming through the doorway, and then you stop.

He doesn't look away from the thing in the corner. He knows you're looking at it. He knows, because you haven't called his name again.

He nearly jumps and your voice, cold and level. "You nasty bastard."

The thing's glittering orange irises slide slowly to you. The rest if it doesn't move.

He takes the diverted attention to get a better look at it.

It looks like a man—all the pieces are there, the arms, the legs, the hands, the feet—but it just looks wrong. Like. Poorly designed animated character that was meant to resemble a real person, but was just off enough to be nearly unrecognizable.

And the face. It was distorted in an indescribable way. He could almost pick out the details—a nose, a mouth, even eyebrows—but it was like they were just out of sight. Like looking through a foggy mirror, but the air was perfectly clear.

"What brought you to Gotham, then?" you question.

Damian tries to sneak a step backward. You're only a few feet away, and if he can get to you, you'll be able to tell him what to do. Give him something to hit with.

Unfortunately, the discarded papers and books scattered along the floor expel any and every chance of stealth he thought he had.

Orange irises flicker yellow and snap back his way, and he finds himself unable to look away. Panic is starting to rise again when you take two daring steps sideways.

"Hey, what the hell, man? We were having a conversation, you know. It's rude to look away when someone's talking to you." You're only a foot away from blocking him entirely.

It's eyes are back on yours now.

"As I was saying, what brought you 'round this side of town?" Damian sees your hand sliding into your back pocket. "Thought you'd be up in the skyscrapers, ya know, with the big dogs in fat ties with fatter checks." You slide on a pair of knuckles.

Damian shifts his weight. You're about to charge it, he can read it from your body language. As loudly as his instincts are screaming, he knows he'll only be in the way if he stays where he is. His best bet is to at least get out to the sanctuary, so you can get your job done without worrying about where he is.

You're both silent for exactly two seconds. Muscles curled tight, like wild animals waiting for the right time to strike.

Then, in barley a blink, you're leaping forward, words of a dead language flying off your tongue, bring orange shapes he doesn't register encasing your hands. He's swerving behind you, slipping on papers in his rush for the door.

He speeds around the first row of pews, and takes the farthest left right isle. He makes it to the double doors at the back of the room, before discovering that the doors are still very firmly locked. Thankfully, the doors were cheap and easily gave way to Damian's forceful convention.

He shoves one side the rest of the way open, and discovers exactly why such a task was so difficult in the first place.

The dining table from the kitchen had been lodged in the doorjam.

He blows out a breath when the leg catches on the wall of the hallway. It's not going to open without shattering that table leg, which he doesn't have time for.

You let out an angry shout, shoving forward the spinning, glowing sigil you're using to shield yourself from the demon's razor-like fingertips.

You thrust it through the doorway of the office, quickly pinning it down on an upright pew.

Damian swears under his breath and ducks past the doors, opting instead for a more stable place to hold his ground, should things get as bad as they were looking.

The room is nearly pitch black, both his and your flashlights abandoned in the office, providing the smallest amount of light to the most obvious parts of the room. The only other sources of light are your magic and your eyes, both a mesmerizing shade of dark orange, glowing fiercely in contrast to the stale dark air surrounding you.

There were times when those glowing irises were a calming, steadying presence; something to lean against to keep himself grounded.

This is not one of those times.

At the moment, he's hunkered down behind a church pew, waiting for you to tell him to do something, watching sparks of magic fly around the room as you battle against a demon you weren't entirely prepared for. The great room is filled with encantations in a language he doesn't care to understand and ungodly shrills and growls.

Then, he hears a pained shriek so deafening and strangely pitched, his hands involentarily fly up to cover his ears.

The room goes quiet and still, papers settling back on the cheap red carpet, dust finding it's way back down to the wooden surfaces.

He peers over the edge of the church pew once more, eyes flicking through the whole room in a near desperate search for that orange glow. It couldn't have been you that made that noise, could it?

Finally, he finds two tiny, bright orange circles flickering around the room as well. The palms of your hands still have a soft glow to them, in the fuzzy outlines of your veins.

"Damian, where'd you go?" Your voice is level—you aren't worried. You know he didn't go far enough that you couldn't be heard.

It always left him just a bit tender in the chest when you reminded him just how well you knew him. "Right here," he beckons, straightening out and picking his way back across the room to the doors, where the dim beams of the streetlights out side have away his outline.

You start up the isle immediately, eyes still piercing the darkness. "Do you want to go get your light?"

He doesn't answer you right away. "My–? No, I have more at home. What happened to the demon?"

"Killed it," you answer dryly. "Or mostly did, anyway. Either way, we better go before we find out."

He's about to follow you back up the rest of the way to the doors, but stops halfway. "Wait, I do need something from that office."

You turn to ask what is, but he's already running back down the main isle. Your grip tightens on the strap of your messenger bag, the same strap that had been sliced in two at some point during your little skirmish. Eyes dart around the great room. You raise your maglight again, and click it back on. You'd gotten yours from the office, but Damian's was too small for you to waste much time looking for it. You point it after him, and when he vanishes into the mostly dark room, you direct it to the darkest edges of the room. When you're satisfied, you pinch the light between your jaw and your shoulder, drop your bag, and set your hands to work with moving that blasted table out of the way.

You've just about got it completely clear when the sound of the office door reaches you. You turn halfway, just to check. And then, your heart drops along with your flashlight. It feels like the floor's given out from under you when your light catches him.

You start to shout, but the words get caught in your throat. Your hands twitch and suddenly the world seems like it's slipped into slow motion.

Then, your knees are bending and the rubber soles of your boots claw against the carpet. Your rushing toward him, but it doesn't feel fast enough.

Faster, faster, faster.

Your heart is palpitating and your mind is reeling already, and all you can hear is the premonition his screams.

You come to a near-screeching halt in the tiny space between your lover and the charging black mass, fully intending to push him clean to the exit, eyes hardly focused before it happens—

Something hits you, hard, fast, and cold. Your eyes roll back and ice shoots through your veins, you can feel it, and the pain is overwhelming as you stumble backwards with the world spinning around you and—

Damian feels it in his chest before he sees it. Heavy and tight. He spins around, though it takes a measure of courage and willpower, because he has a feeling he knows what's happened, but he doesn't want to see it.

You're a few feet away, crumpled, hunched in on yourself as you sit on your knees, between two intact pews. Your back heaves with every strangled breath. Your hands are out of view, pressed firmly against the rough red in front of you to anchor yourself.

"(Y/N)?" He braves a step or two forward. "What happened?"

You don't answer.

Chills rush over him in waves. The temperature in the air hadn't been in any way warm to begin with, but his breath billows out into the stream of light from the flashlight he'd managed to pick up on his way out of the office. He tries your name again, and this time, you side to your feet.

You don't stand, mind you, so much as levitate gently until your feet are beneath you. You turn very slowly, with jagged and barely controlled movements.

You grin widely at him, but it's crooked and too sharp at the ends. It reaches tour eyes, sure, but really wishes it didn't.

Part 2; but I can't link it because Tumblr is still being a bitch with links. I am so sorry. If you go to profile, it should be the first post until further notice. 🙄

because Tumblr apparently has a limit of 250 text blocks per post

[daddysfangirls-marvel]

This chair

Request 

Warning: language, angst, fluff

Summary: Okay so I have a BNHA/MHA ask: Aizawa x reader - Could you write one where the reader is also an instructor at UA, and in the USJ incident they got permanent damage to their nerves in their leg/s. They refuse help from others and continue to try and teach but Aizawa comforts them about his injury then (maybe) eventually ends up with a kiss. you can do what you want with it. Thank you for spending your time on me, and I hope I didn't waste it. Sorry for the long request

“I’m sorry the damage to your nerves is too great. The possibility of you ever walking again is close to none and if you do it will be on crutches. I’m so sorry I wish there was more I could do....I’m sorry”.

Those words had been running through her head for 6 weeks now. She had been in the hospital for 2 weeks then 4 weeks on bed rest. She was now returning to work after those 6 weeks and she was ready to get back in action as soon as possible but she was also kind of scared because well she was in a wheelchair now. She was scared they would treat her differently push her to the side or leaves her out for her disabilities.

And that’s why she was now sitting in the staff parking lot looking at the door. That and....there was no ramp.

“Hey”

“Oh, Hello” she turned to find Aizawa standing next to her, she wondered how long he had been standing there, “ Um there’s no ramp so...”

“I’ll help” he turned her around and pulls her up the stairs backward. “ I’ll talk to Cementoss get him to make a few ramps around the school.”

“ thank you” Aizawa continues to push her through the halls. She was indifferent to his assistance but happy the students had yet to arrive so they couldn’t see her like this. She didn’t want them to.

“(Y/N)” Mic shouted as soon as she was pushed through the door. He was the first to see her he quickly ran to her side but he didn’t hug her like she thought he would he put his hands as if she was the most fragile thing. “ How are you?” Midnight immediately elbowed him as if telling him he shouldn’t be asking that.

“ I’m good, happy to be back at work. I was getting tired of sitting at home alone. So tell me what I’ve missed.”

She missed a lot in her time away. She missed the sports festival ( she was supposed to be a commentator with Present Mic), the internship, apparently, Iida’s brother was in the hospital, Midoriya Todoroki and Iida were the real ones who took down the hero Killer Stain, and Midoriya finally got control of his quirk. She really missed a lot. Lessons and gossip wise she had to catch up Midnight and Present Mic promised to help.

-

It was about a week later when (y/n) real started to take notice of the changes of people and their behavior towards her both students and staff alike. Everyone was trying to help and wheel her to her destinations or pick something up for her or take something down or do something that involved height. Everyone was trying to help her. Everyone pitied her. She could see it in their eyes as she wheeled down the halls. She could hear it in their voices as they whispered behind her back.

Poor (y/n)

She’ll never walk again.

I could never live such a life.

How can she be a hero now?

How can she teach a hero class?

Poor girl, I could never.

She shouldn’t be here.

She’ll scare the others in the hero course.

Poor (Y/N).

She should quit.

She hated it. She hates, hate, hated it. She was not to be pitied. She was not weak. She was still strong. She still had her quirk she still had her strength. She did not need their pity she did not need their help. She could do it all herself and that’s exactly what she started doing.

(Y/n) start redirecting help stopped taking it to a point where she started pushing away the people who offered it which was just about everybody. In a very short time, she became a lonely person and everyone started to think she was bitter and it just didn’t help. 

She was hurt and she was alone.

-

(Y/n) huffed and puffed as she pushed herself up off her chair with one arm and tried to put back the book with the other. She had a book and it was on a high self it was easy to get down, she used a ruler, but it seemed more difficult to put back but she was determined to do it herself. She got it down by herself she could put it up by herself.

Her other arm finally gave out for under her and she fell back into her chair. She was in the midst of her thinking of a new plan when someone takes the book from her lap and puts it up for her.

“You know when I was hurt I couldn’t even move my fingers let alone my hands. Others helped me and I took it.”  Aizawa said as he leaned on the bookcase looking down at her.

“Well unlike you my wounds aren’t temporary. I’ve got to learn to live like this for now on. ” she smiled sarcastically turning her chair around to her desk.

“Is that why you’ve been so bitter lately?”  (Y/n) Huffed as he took a seat next to her. Honestly, Aizawa was the only person who hadn’t been constantly offering help, looking at her with pity, or talking behind her back. In recent times he was the only one still treating her the same and taking care of her how she needed and wanted to be taken care of.

“You really want to know?”

“Yes, I’m interested. Is it because you’re stuck stiff in a chair?”

“I don’t mind the chair. I’m actually okay with being in this chair it is something to get used to but I knew what I signed up for when I became a hero. I knew the consequences and risks. What I don’t like and I’m bitter about is all the looks of pity I get from everyone like” poor me”  “oh my“ “ what a tragedy”, what I don’t like is everyone trying to help me like I can’t do the simplest of things, What I don’t like is everyone talking behind my back. People I thought were my friends talking shit about me talking about how weak I am and Students talking about How I shouldn’t be teaching the hero course or I should just retire. I’m strong I can still do this. I don’t need legs to do this job.” Aizawa could see the tears glistening in her eyes but she refused to let them fall.

“You’re right, you’re very strong. And you’re a hero. You saved those kids.” he places a hand on hers and squeezed it gently “You saved my kids and I will forever be grateful and in your debt.”

“ I just... I don’t want everyone pitying me. I know I’m different and there are things I can’t do now, hell I don’t think I can even have kids, but... I’m still me. Why can’t everyone see that.”

“I can see that. I can see you” Aizawa said before awkwardly clearing his throat and pulling away. He wasn’t a man good with emotions and it didn’t help that he actually had feelings for (y/n).

“Thank you, I-”

“Are you busy this weekend?” he asked suddenly but he wasn’t looking at her he was looking down at his desk.

“Um... I’m free on Saturday.”

“would you like to go out with me?”

“like a date?” he nods and looks at her sideways “ Well, as long as there is wheelchair access I’d love to.” Reaching forward she grabs his face and pulls him in for a kiss.

“You’d think after dating for a year you would stop getting nervous when asking me out on”

“I can’t help it you make my heart race.”

“Even in this chair?”

“Even in the chair”

Request tags

permanent tags

@lovely-lollipops-blog @totallyweirdsam @sexysamsungl @lilylovelyxo @iamwarrenspeace @geeksareunique @that-random-emu @supreme-leader-jazlo-ren @stone2576 @lil-dino-trash @metal-armed-dino @dylanobrienmoviekid @theshortegg @dontevenblink-badwolf-tardis @mandylove1000  @isnotashtonstan @broitsmydick @onceaballeralwaysaballer1213 @mypage-myfandoms @jordynhartley2001 @midnightdream83 @cookies186 @i-am-marvel-trash-forever @marvels-queen-bee @aebeessun @gabriels-gumdrop @the-best-alchemist @smile-my-bean @valeriae2903 @cassiopeia-barrow @uberduber-loulou @spideyboiiiiiii @lookinsidemyhead

[pollylynn]

Title: Lacuna WC: 1400

He feels restless and strangely out of sorts after he finishes taking care of the casualties of his lack of athletic prowess. Alexis had been over-the-top apologetic, as if she’d been the one responsible for the errant throw. As if something precious had been lost, rather than a few tchotchkes he hardly remembers having.

He’d hugged her tight and assured her it was nothing. He’d shooed her upstairs to do her homework, saying he’d take care of his own mess. For once, she’d joked, but there’d been something off about it that had made him pull her back for one more kiss on the top of her head, one more whispered thank you for the gesture. She’d smiled gamely and trotted up the stairs with only the briefest look back, but still . . . something about it has left him restless.

He throws himself into one of the leather chairs with no clear plan for the immediate future. The glove with the offending ball nestled in the pocket sits within reach. He slips his hand into it, wriggling his fingers until they’re comfortably seated, and entertains a brief Steve-McQueen-in-The-Great-Escape fantasy.

He pictures himself tossing the ball against the brick exterior wall of the office and effortlessly catching it on the carom, all the while writing in his head. That picture gives way to a much more realistic scenario where the ball goes crashing through the glass and clonks some passerby on Broome, five stories down, and Beckett arrests him for manslaughter and general stupidity.

Beckett.

He sets the glove aside and pulls out his phone. He sets that aside, too almost before he’s even entertained the strange idea of calling her just for the hell of it. Almost a year into their annoyer–annoyee relationship, they don’t call each other just for the hell of it. Or, rather, she doesn’t call him for the hell of it, and if he calls, he always pretends he has an urgent literary issue that requires her expertise.

Would you say, Detective, that fighting crime in a skirt is viable?

How does one decide, day to day, on where to clip their badge? Follow-up question: Don’t you think Esposito looks like he’s escaped from a Day Camp for juvenile offenders when he wears his around his neck?

Then they talk for the hell of it. Sometimes, anyway. A lot of the time. He thinks through his last few Writer–to-Muse hotline calls and decides that a lot of the time, she’s game to talk just for the hell of it. He’s not sure what that means for this particular moment in time, though. He stares at his cell phone, half hidden by the baseball glove, and doesn’t know what it means for his restlessness.

He plants his palms on the chair’s arms and hauls to his feet. He paces a little, more because it feels like it’s the thing to do when one is feeling restless than from any real desire to pace. He turns just shy of the doorway and makes another lap past the desk. The gravitational pull is too much. He swipes the house phone from its cradle and speed dials.

“Too busy for literary emergencies, Castle.” She answers on the second ring with no Hello.

“And yet you picked up.” He hopes she can’t hear how wide his smile is all the way down the line. It’s not that her voice settles him exactly. He’s still restless, still out of sorts. But talking to her has the potential  to settle him down. “As ever, I can only aspire to capturing the wheels within wheels—”

“Hanging up,” she says.  

“It’s not a literary crisis,” he rushes to say. “It’s domestic.” He looks at the glove sitting on the table with the ball waiting to be thrown. He thinks about the broken pieces of tchotchkes he won’t miss, and of the brief glimpse his brave, stoic daughter cast over her shoulder as she trotted up the stairs. “It’s personal.”

The pause that ensues is oddly dramatic. He hears the clatter of dishes and the sound swishing water growing faint. He pictures her at the sink, drying her hands, with the phone braced between ear and shoulder. He pictures her chewing the corner of her lip as she turns her back on the kitchen. He pictures her weighing the options.

“What’s up?” she asks.

It’s not grudging, not at all, but it’s hesitant, and he suddenly feels silly. He realizes that hasn’t the least idea how to put any of this into words. It’s a raw, vulnerable feeling on multiple fronts, and he’s not at all a fan.

Nothing. Never mind. Sorry to bother . . .  That’s what’s on the tip of his tongue. His thumb glides over the face of the phone to find the End Call button, but the right hand doesn’t know what the left is doing, apparently. He reaches for the leather glove and the ball dribbles out. It bounds across the room, making a break for the glass wall. It comes to rest at the foot of the low bookcases there.

“Alexis got me a baseball glove,” he finds himself saying. “And one for herself. And a ball.”

“That’s . . . sweet?” He can hear the furrow forming on her brow.

“It is.” He inhales the scent of leather and the oil Alexis must have rubbed into pocket. “It’s kind of sad, too, isn’t it?” He hates the clumsiness of the way things are emerging straight into the world. “Trying to give me a normal childhood.”

“Normal?” Her voice is distant, then close, as if she’s settling in somewhere. “You and normal. I don’t know if it’s sad, Castle. Just kind of hopeless.” 


“Mean, Beckett!” It is mean. It’s just the right amount of mean to make him laugh out loud. “I call you in crisis and you’re mean.”

“You’re not in crisis,” she says, and he knows she’s rolling her eyes. She’s quiet for a moment. They’re both quiet, then she sidesteps into the silence. “Maybe it’s not about your childhood. Maybe it’s about hers.”

“Hers? You mean because I didn’t . . . ” He stops in is tracks, staring down at the glove he’s been carrying with him the whole time. “Because she didn’t get enough dad things?”

He’s horrified by the prospect. He thinks about dance classes and gymnastics and all the things he shouldered his way into, the only dad in the room, most of the time. He mentally reviews her latter-day hobbies and clubs and interests and it suddenly seems like his kid’s life is nothing but gaps.

“I tried,” he begins miserably.

“Castle.” She’s laughing. Beckett’s laughing. “She fences. She could probably go pro at laser tag. She gets plenty of dad things.”

“Then what . . .?” He looks helplessly out through the glass to Broome, five stories down.

“She got dad things and mom things,” she says. “You did that. Maybe she wants to do the same thing for you.”

“Like . . . son things?” His gaze falls on a framed picture of the two of them. It’s post-paintball and their both filthy and smiling wide. “You think she thinks I wanted a son?”

“No.” She sounds more than a little testy. He opens his mouth to apologize, but she goes on. “I think—“ He can hear the way she changes gears mid-sentence. “My grandmother died when I was six. My mom’s mom.” There’s the slightest hitch in her voice before she goes on. “I remember my mom crying, and I didn’t really understand why.” Another hitch. “And my mom said it was because we’d all miss Nonna.” She laughs again, but it’s a quiet thing. “I told her that I wouldn’t ever miss anyone, because I had her.”

“Oh!” he exclaims sharply. “Oh.” He has nothing—nothing—to add, because Oh . . .      

“Yeah.�� She says through a sad little smile he can picture perfectly. “‘Oh’ about covers it.” Something brushes across the speaker. Her hair, her skin, a gesture that’s not particularly comfortable. “Maybe Alexis is letting you know she’s . . . that she has you, so she’s never missed anyone.”

“Maybe,” he says, wanting and not wanting to believe it. He sets the glove down and stoops to collect the ball at the foot of the low book case. He tosses it softly and catches it in his bare hand. “Maybe that’s it.”

A/N: Oof. This had to end somewhere. Hmmm.

images via homeofthenutty

[thelazyeye]

hi em !! could you write something with potter eddie? like clay and stuff

YES I SURE AS FUCK CAN. I took a pottery class in high school and I fell absolutely in love with the art. Anon you reached into my chest and stole my whole ass heart. This wasn’t meant to be long but I saw an idea and I ran with it and I really, really hope you like it! Enjoy, anon!

There’s Clay Underneath My Fingernails, Earth Underneath My Skin

When Eddie first enrolled in ceramics in high school he thought he would hate every second of it. His curriculum demanded that he take an art class every year and, naturally, on the day of registration Sonia had kept him home because he looked ‘feverish’ despite having literally no fucking temperature. And, as luck would have it, no other art classes had openings that fit with what he needed to graduate. So, ceramics one it was.

He dreaded it. It was messy, useless, and a waste of his time. All art classes would be a waste, honestly. He wasn’t Bill. He didn’t understand how to draw and paint lines that somehow came together to look semi-decent. Or, dare he say, beautiful. He wasn’t artistic. He understood math and money and mechanics. He knew how to put stuff together, not create stuff.

He had no idea how good the clay would feel in his hands. He didn’t know how satisfying it would be to build something up from nothing. And surprisingly, he had no idea how good he was going to be at it.

So, Eddie spent the last semester of his senior year wrist deep in clay, building and molding and sculpting until he had filled an entire bookcase with stuff he made by hand. He learned how to make mugs, whistles, bowls, chalices, containers, jars, everything imaginable. He even made a box that he designed to look like a book. The top cover came off on a hinge that swiveled back and forth. He got an A on every assignment. Who knew something Sonia did could have paid off so well.

These days, Eddie finds himself at the local studio at least a few times a month. It’s enough time to sculpt something, bisque fire it, glaze it, and throw it in the kiln for its final fire. He churns out one piece a month, two if he’s dedicated or has extra spare time. His apartment is full of handmade mugs and vases. He gives a lot of his pieces away, never really bothering to sell them. Maintaining a store is too much effort and he isn’t in it for the money. Pottery is something he loves, not something he’s trying to build his life around.

The clay is cold to the touch, firm and slick as he moves his fingers around the first mounts of a new pen holder he’s been thinking of making for his desk. He has a design in mind so he works. He divides the clay up and rolls it between his hands and the wooden tabletop. When he’s done he wraps them around each other, coiling the clay until he has a base and the wrapping up the sides. He adds swirls and notches and bumps for texture. He doesn’t notice as other people file in and out of the studio. He just rolls, wraps, and molds his design, watching as what he’s pictured in his mind comes to life before him.

“It’s unique,” comes from behind, a gentle voice that startles him out of his concentration. He knows who it is without looking.

“Thank you,” he answers, soft and distant. Too wrapped up in the way he smooths out the inside of his sculpture for support. Too focused on the bend of his coils, the wrap of his spirals.

“Are you planning on finishing it tonight? I can throw it in for the first fire before I leave and you can come back and finish it tomorrow,” the voice says back, all easy charm. The same way it’s always been. “The shop opens at 10. Maybe we can grab breakfast and then head on over?”

Eddie stops at that and turns. His heart practically leaps into his throat as the studio owner leans over him. He’s got thick glasses resting on his nose and thick, black hair curling out of the bun on top of his head. It was infuriating. No hair that unkempt should look that fucking good. “Tempting, Richie. But I’m gonna have to pass.”

“Oh, come on Eds!” Richie cries, throwing his head back and draping his arm over his eyes. It’s for dramatic flair and it makes Eddie crack a soft smile. He turns back, though, quick not to let Richie see it.

“Not my name,” comes out quick. The venom that used to be there has long since died, though. It melted with the snow and left something blooming inside of him. It settled in his chest, taking root in his organs and binding itself to his nerves.

Eddie has been coming to this studio for the better part of 2 years now. He found it shortly after he moved to Monroeville. It was the perfect place to step away, to unwind after a stressful week. He met Richie the first time he came in. Richie was trying to set up him in the studio and get him everything he would need to become a regular member. The interaction was so bad that Eddie had almost abandoned the idea altogether. Richie was crude, he didn’t seem to take anything Eddie said seriously, and he pried too much for Eddie’s comfort. Serious boundary issues. He was everything Eddie had spent most of his life distanced from and Eddie was more than prepared to walk out of the studio forever just so he’d never have to see Richie again. He did walk out that day, a scoff on the end of his lips and his jacket hastily thrown over his shoulders.

For some reason, though, he found himself back the next week. The second Richie had seen him he bounded over, hands out in defense when Eddie moved to leave a second time. He apologized for his behavior and offered Eddie a discounted rate. Richie’d spent several months walking on eggshells. He was still infuriating but it was more tolerable. His one liners and crude comments were on the downlow and Eddie could swear he caught Richie smiling at him in ways he didn’t smile at the other members.

Shit didn’t really start to shift, though, until The Vase Incident. Eddie had this bright idea to make a Vase for his coworkers’ birthday. She’d caught eye of one of his pieces in their shared office and gushed over it. So, he decided hey, why not make her something nice?

Well, something nice turned into absolute hell. He couldn’t get it right no matter how hard he tried. He spent hours at the potter’s wheel, throwing his clay and spinning. He didn’t spin frequently but he wanted it to be nice for Bev. He wanted it to be perfect but he couldn’t get it right. Either the clay was off center or he spun his slope too thin or it collapsed at the base. He swears he nearly had a stroke over the damn thing.

He had been so wrapped up over it one January weekend that he hadn’t noticed the other potters left and that he was the only one in the studio, aside from Richie. Richie was on the opposite side of the studio, carving patterns into a tile that Eddie thought might turn out to be mosaic.

“Let me help you,” he offered after watching Eddie destroy the collapsed base of yet another vase. “If you keep this up we’ll be here all night.”

The clock on the wall read 11:23pm and Eddie all but kicked the chair out from under himself as he stood. His frustration was clear in the tension of his shoulders. If Richie could help him, fine. He would have taken anything he could get at that point.

Richie took his place, throwing a hunk of wet clay on the wheel and pressing the pedal down gently. He used his fingers to center it, pushing the edges until the met as an even ridge and then cupping his hands around the lump. He brought it high, pressed it low, and then dipped two fingers into the middle to create the opening. Eddie watched as Richie pinched the top and brought it outwide, eventually pressing his entire hand down to hollow the base and then guiding the clay up and redistributing the mass.

After ten minutes, Richie had constructed a simple, yet elegant, vase. It wasn’t very big, maybe big enough for one or two flowers, but it was standing and structurally sound. More than Eddie could say for his own work.

“How did you do that?” He asked, voice scratchy and hands covered in drying clay.

“Practice, Eds. I own all these wheels. It’d be a damn shame if I didn’t know how to use them,” Richie winked. He failed at covering a yawn before stepping away to grab a line of string. He gently cut the vase from the wheel and lifted it off. Eddie watched as Richie carved a crooked E.K. into the bottom before placing it in the kiln room. “I’m gonna fire a round tomorrow. I’ll throw this in then. Why don’t you go home and get some rest?”

“Sure. You, too, you know. It’s well past closing time,” Eddie said back, a small smile on his face.

“Yeah, I know. I just couldn’t bring myself to interrupt you. You’re cute when you’re concentrating.” Richie didn’t hide his flirting, this time. He let himself smile at Eddie from across the studio. It was like the defenses they’d both been wearing for so long had dropped from the exhaustion. “You know, if you took my last name you could carve E.T. into the bottom of your pieces,” he chuckled, “You know, like E.T. phone home?”

Richie eyed him, gauging his reaction with a toothy grin and a very clear wink. If he was waiting for Eddie to take the bait, he didn’t. Eddie simply smiled back and wished Richie a goodnight, effectively destroying most of the boundaries they had established after that first day.

Today, he’s not making a vase and as per their new usual Richie isn’t tiptoeing around him anymore. Eddie flips his piece over, minding the coils on the top and wetting his fingers to smooth out the bottom for structural support. When he’s done, he carves E.K. into the bottom and stands.

“Come on!” Richie chirps as he follows Eddie across the studio, “We both know you’re going to be back here tomorrow to glaze this beauty up!”

“I will,” Eddie answers, placing his piece on the cart and moving to wash his hands, “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to get breakfast with you.”

“Lunch then? We can go after you finish,” Richie says. His voice borders on something other than teasing. Its new, almost insistent. It catches Eddie off guard. “It’s supposed to be nice tomorrow.”

Eddie watches him out of the corner of his eye, slipping his jacket over his shoulders and grabbing his stuff. “We’ll see.”

He doesn’t miss the way Richie pumps his arms in the air as he leaves the studio. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either, and he thinks they both know the meaning behind his indecision.

He can feel something twist in his chest as he drives home. It lingers through dinner and into the night. A date with Richie Tozier isn’t unattainable, it never has been, but Eddie has always stayed far, far away from the idea. He found every excuse to keep him far, far, away. He was too crude, too loud, too messy. He was too kind, he was too beautiful, his hands were too perfect. Richie Tozier was too much for him.

It wasn’t sustainable. Eddie knew it. Richie was just some person filling the void in his chest. He didn’t even know him. How could he have any real feelings? It was just a childish infatuation that would destroy everything if he pursued it. He’d lose the pottery studio and he’d lose Richie, too.

Not that there was anything real to lose there. But whatever.

“Spaghetti! Right on time,” Richie shouts as Eddie walks in the next day. The clock blinks 10:20 am on wall but Eddie pretends he doesn’t notice Richie greeting or the fact that he’s right on time. Instead, he places his jacket on the hook and moves to his regular workstation. Richie disappears into the back room and returns with his piece. “It really is unique. What color are you going to choose?”

They talk glazes for a few moments and Eddie watches as Richie ties his hair back at his own work station. He’s got a small pot in front of him. Its stubby and wide and very Richie. Richie flicks on the radio and they settle into silence. It’s too early for others to be in the shop on a Sunday, so they work in peace. Eddie paints with a green, speckled sort of glaze. The brush works over the indents and ridges of the coils. In the time it takes him to work three coats over the piece Richie isn’t even halfway finished with his own greenware.

He watches Richie work, deep concentration written on his face. He’s got his glasses pushed up and a detail brush painting small designs into the underside of the lip. The sunlight comes in through the window and hits him in a way that makes him glow. That feeling from the night before returns and, fuck it, whatever. Who fucking cares. This is ridiculous. This is insane. This is absolutely fucking silly. One hundred percent bonkers. Hands down the worst fucking decision he’s ever made was finding this god damn studio.

He places his piece back on the firing cart for its final run through the kiln and slips out of the front door. Richie is so deep in his work that he doesn’t even see Eddie go.

Eddie doesn’t go back to the studio for a few weeks. He tells himself he’s busy with work, life, whatever excuse he can shove into the situation. It’s not like he has anyone to defend himself to but he can’t bring himself to admit why he’s avoiding the shop. It drives him insane but it’s an insanity of his own creation.

It isn’t until he loses his favorite pen twice in the same day that he breaks. That dumb little coiled container was supposed to be for his desk. It was supposed to help keep his life organized. It was supposed to be a gift to himself. A gift to his fucking desk and pens and home.

God dammit.

Richie doesn’t work on Tuesdays, so Eddie finds himself in the studio before work. He’s dressed head to toe in scrubs and a light jacket to combat the Spring chill. He fully intends to be in and out without incident but naturally the universe has other plans for him.

“Eddie, fuck man it’s good to see you!” the assistant manager calls out from the front. He bounds over and Eddie doesn’t even have time to reply before Bill is in front of him, smiling and talking. “Richie’s been worried about you! Says he hasn’t seen your cute face in a few weeks. Everything okay?”

Eddie coughs quietly before answering. Richie was worried about him. God dammit. “Yeah, Bill. Everything’s good. Just been super busy with work and stuff.” He gestures to his clothes before placing his piece in a bag and angling toward the door. Bill just nods empathetically and waves him goodbye.

He shouts a quick see you soon, hopefully! before the door shuts.

For no reason at all his interaction with Bill burrows into his skin. Eddie is fifty percent emotionally driven impulse and he was more than ready to withdraw his membership from the studio on principle alone. He can’t date the owner. He can’t have a silly schoolyard crush on that man. There’s no reason for something so disruptive. And then Bill just had to tell him he that Richie was worried and that he hopes to see Eddie soon. Why that mattered so fucking much, Eddie had no idea. But it lives inside of him now. Eating at him until he breaks in the other direction.

He finds himself back in the studio again next Tuesday. Bill greets him gently before he takes his seat, grabbing some clay and rolling out two slabs to create about a quarter inch thickness. He cuts the first one, rolls it, and binds the seams. It’s a technique he’s used hundreds of times before and it comes easy to him. He cuts a circle for the base from the second slab and carves in a single word before binding it to the tube he’s created. He rolls a coil, twists it along the side, and boom. Its bisque fired that night and Eddie returns on Thursday to glaze it before work. He paints a simple design around the outside of it and then places it on the cart.

He meets up with Bill over the weekend outside of the shop to pick it up. Inside, he can see Richie teaching a young girl how to make a whistle. He can see the slope of the chamber and what looks like six appendages extending out. Even from here, Eddie knows it’s going to be a Richie Tozier original. Something ridiculous, unique, yet still beautiful in its own way.

He doesn’t return for another two weeks. The anxiety of his plan weighs down on him. It was an impulse that could go horribly, horribly wrong but he also knows that no one knows what he’s planning. He could abandon it entirely and no one would know. He could call the studio, end his membership, and be on with his life. He’d never have to see Richie again. Sure, he might have to give up sculpting for a few years, maybe the rest of his life, but damn if it isn’t a possibility.

Still, though, Eddie finds himself outside of the studio on a Saturday afternoon. As always, he can see Richie inside working on something. He steels himself and pushes through the doors, immediately heading over to the Keurig to make a cup of coffee. He grabs a handful of creamers and sugars and heads right for Richie’s workbench.

“You look like you could use a cup,” he says, trying and miserably failing to come across as natural. If Richie notices he doesn’t say anything about it. Thank god for small graces.

“Kaspbrak! You’re back!” Richie shouts loud enough for several people to turn their heads. Eddie can feel his face heating up as he places the mug on the table. Richie doesn’t fall for his casual motion, hand falling on Eddie’s wrist immediately. “Whoa! What’s this?”

Eddie does some sort of half shrug as he sits down across from Richie. Richie picks up the mug and admires it. It’s got an orange glaze on it with red and yellow accents. It’s really nothing special but Richie seems enamored with it. “You make this, Eds?”

“Not my name, Richie,” he quips, then adds “but yeah.”

Richie traces the designs on the outside and admires the binding and structure of it before sending Eddie a smile that makes him melt from the inside out. Man, he really is fucked, isn’t he?

They talk for a little while as Richie works. Eddie watches those slim fingers as they construct masterpieces from the Earth. Its captivating. Richie asks him questions and Eddie dances around complete truths. He doesn’t want Richie to know where he’s been or why he’s been avoiding the studio.

As Richie drinks his coffee Eddie can feel anxiety bubbling up into his throat. He gets closer and closer to the bottom and eventually he picks the mug up for a final time, gulping down the rest after making a comment about cold coffee being a sin against mankind.

Eddie’s worried Richie doesn’t see it at first. He watches as Richie lowers the mug, eyes trained on Eddie over the rim. Time slows for a moment as the mug starts moving down toward the table and Eddie watches Richie’s eyes shift from his own to the inside of the piece.

There’s literally no going back now.

A small smile creeps over Richie’s face as he sits across from Eddie. Silence passes between the two and Eddie can feel his heart hammering out of his chest. This isn’t the reaction he’d expected. He’d thought Richie would make some snide comment, say something funny, jump up and down in the air. Fuck. Maybe he’d been reading the signals wrong. Maybe Richie flirts with everyone. Maybe he’s destroyed his entire hobby by being a huge fucking idiot. He’s going to have to end his membership and give up pottery forever. No local studio will take him once they hear how intrusive and disruptive he is. He’s going to have to move across the country, change his name, reimagine his entire life. There’s no way he’s going to live down the embarrassment.

“Yes,” Richie whispers. It’s so quiet that Eddie almost can’t hear him over his internal beratement.

“What?” Eddie says back automatically. He’d heard Richie, but just barely. Maybe he’d missed something. Maybe Richie had said something he didn’t hear. Maybe Richie was fucking with him.

“I said yes, Eddie. How about tonight? I can close up a few hours early or maybe Bill can come in to close. Does seven work for you?”

Oh. Fuck. It actually worked.

“Yeah!” Eddie replies, too loud and too excited but somehow it Richie doesn’t startle. He looks at Eddie with an equal amount of excitement, just barely contained behind his own eyes.

“Okay, yeah, cool. Perfect. Meet me back here at 6:45, yeah?” Richie says fast. His hands fly around the table before he grabs a hunk of clay and starts pressing his fingers into it. It’s a nervous tick, Eddie thinks, but somehow it’s cute as hell.

“Yes. Perfect. Okay. Yeah. I’ll see you then,” Eddie says and then pushes up. He shrugs his jacket on and makes for the door. When he glances over his shoulder he sees Richie holding the mug he made, smile so wide it looks like it could tear his face into two. He’s staring into the mug where Eddie had carved out one simple word.

Dinner?

Tag List: 

@tinyarmedtrex @richardtoz @aizeninlefox @thestralskies @chocolatemangoose @jem-carstairs-is-perfection @studpuffin @oldguybones @its-stranger-than-you-think @honeybeehanlon @recycle-byn

[douxreviews]

The Shining versus The Shining

[This review discusses Stephen King's novel The Shining and the film adaptation by Stanley Kubrick.]

"This inhuman place makes human monsters."

The first time I saw the 1980 film The Shining, I felt cheated. A brilliant, world famous director took one of my favorite books, cast one of my favorite actors in the lead, and then... he completely screwed it up. For years, I felt that Stanley Kubrick had ruined one of my favorite books. I was incensed. How could he?

My opinion has recently changed. Now I think Kubrick's The Shining may be a cinematic masterpiece. But it is not really a horror movie, and it's not really an adaptation of King's novel. It is its own self. If you see it as a separate entity, it's kind of fascinating.

The book

The Shining may very well be Stephen King's best novel, and that's saying a lot for a man who is probably the most famous writer in the world. In it, an alcoholic writer named Jack Torrance takes a last chance job as winter caretaker at a luxury hotel deep in the Colorado Rockies. As he, his wife Wendy, and their psychic five-year-old son Danny are cut off from the world by the weather, Jack slowly loses his mind and becomes a danger to his family. Were the malevolent ghosts of the people who died in the Overlook Hotel manipulating Jack, or was it all in Jack's head? Or was everything that happened caused by Danny's psychic gift?

The book succeeds on pretty much every level. The story is tightly written and almost impossible to put down. The Overlook itself captures the imagination -- its beauty and isolation, its gory history, the ghosts of past tragedies. I cared a lot about Jack, Wendy and Danny, and I so wanted everything to turn out for them, even while I was aware that it almost certainly would not. (Never get too attached to the characters in King's books.) I was especially into Danny. Psychic characters are not easy to make real and believable, especially kids, but Danny is captivating. I also loved Dick Hallorann, who shines, pun intended, in the opening chapters. The first time I read The Shining, I was blown away. I was young and impressionable, and I never forgot how this book affected me.

There are arguments to be made that King's works are too internal to translate well to the screen, but I don't think that's true. What about Stand By Me, The Shawshank Redemption, The Green Mile? (And possibly more?) I wonder if some producers tend to see the scary in King's works, and just don't look beneath the surface for what makes it work?

I initially intended to just review the movie, but I just couldn't help talking about the book first. So… on to

The movie

After my initial serious disappointment, I had never intended to watch the movie again. And then I saw a documentary called Room 237 about some of its more devoted fans. It made me want to give the movie another shot. I'm glad I did.

While the book centers on what the characters are thinking and feeling, the movie is almost completely external. The Overlook itself is the main character, and what a character it is. Nearly every shot inside the Overlook is framed in a way that reminded me of how lines are drawn to create perspective in art, with the focal point way off in the distance. We keep seeing the ceiling and light fixtures (mostly chandeliers) above, and the very strange carpets on the floor. Showing the ceilings and floors is not something filmmakers tend to do. It has the effect of making the characters look small and strange, as if they don't belong. Or as if the Hotel is swallowing them.

As fans of the movie explain in Room 237, the hotel is oddly shaped and its geography makes no sense. The long, confusing hallways are echoed by the maze, which is so immense that it seems impossible that anyone could have created it. The kitchen is also maze-like, and everything is too big; the size of the industrial cans and bottles makes Wendy look smaller. There are sets of French doors all over the small caretaker's apartment, and every book in every bookcase is tilted at an angle. There are empty chairs in nearly every shot. Jack's typewriter changes color, from white to dark gray to blue. In one scene, the pattern in the carpet actually changes. Although these are things the casual viewer might not consciously notice (and I might not have if I hadn't been primed by the documentary), we're aware of it subconsciously, and it gets our lizard brain buzzing.

One of my favorite things in this movie is Danny riding his Big Wheel through the long, strange hallways of the Overlook. It's just what a kid would probably do, but it increases the feeling that they're in this immense, bizarre place that is outside of reality.

My biggest problem with the movie is that the characters have all of the humanity and complexity of chess pieces. I suppose it was intentional. But what an unholy waste of Jack Nicholson, who is arguably one of the best actors in the world, although I'm more of a fan of his early work (Chinatown, Five Easy Pieces, The Last Detail) before he started playing a caricature of himself. He did a good job with what he was given, but there is really no opportunity to get to know Jack Torrance, or what motivates him. Why he does what he does is almost inexplicable.

And Jack and Wendy never feel like a couple. Was Shelley Duvall miscast? Did the actors just have zero chemistry? Or was this dissonance between them what Kubrick intended, a way of showing the unresolvable tension in their marriage? Danny Lloyd as Danny made me think of Jake Lloyd as Anakin in Episode 3. Interesting coincidence with the surnames. I don't like criticizing child actors, so I'll stop there.

Dick Hallorann is a favorite character of mine in the book, and even though Scatman Crothers did a good job, I hated how Dick was treated in the movie. But I did love the strange female nudes with the huge afros that decorated his bedroom in Florida.

A few more random comments about the movie that contributed to the mood it creates:

-- In one scene, Wendy and Danny are watching television, and there is no electrical cord visible. In another, Jack, seated, is reflected in a mirror and it looks as if he has two sets of legs. (Because, of course, Jack is becoming another person.)

-- In yet another, Jack is sleeping at his desk, but he is balanced on the edge of his chair in such a way that if he had actually been sleeping, he would have fallen off.

-- We never actually see Jack do any caretaking. There is one scene with Wendy in the boiler room. The boiler room is a big deal in the book, almost nonexistent in the movie. Sigh.

-- We never see much out of the windows except for glare, which makes it seem even more that the outside world doesn't exist.

-- There is no music during many scenes. When there is sound, it is disconcerting whines and screeching, or eerie wavering vocals like the score of Kubrick's 2001, A Space Odyssey. In fact, a lot of this movie makes me think of 2001. Which I believe is a better movie. (I should probably get around to reviewing it someday, but it's intimidating, I'll admit it.)

-- In the opening interview scene, Ullman (Barry Nelson) does some very strange things with his hands. It's like they don't belong on his body.

-- In the car, the Torrances talk about the Donner Party. Jack seems to think cannibalism is acceptable in order to survive.

-- The Torrances bring more luggage than would actually fit in the trunk of their tiny VW bug.

-- The walls of the maze are thirteen feet high. Who would do that?

-- The word "overlook" has a double meaning, of course.

-- The hotel decorations have a Native American motif, leading fans of the movie to think that Kubrick was commenting on the genocide of the American Indian.

-- In many rooms, especially the notorious Room 237 which may have been the ugliest hotel room I've ever seen in my life, colors and patterns clash. (Although maybe that was just the seventies.)

-- In the final scenes, Wendy is wearing what may be the ugliest outfit I have ever seen on a leading lady in a mainstream movie.

To conclude, I can look at the movie now and appreciate its brilliance, but it doesn't generate emotion, and I don't find it the least bit scary. For me, it's like looking at a beautiful object at a distance. The book is more of an intimate experience. But then again, books usually are.

Opinions? Comments? I've tried to avoid spoilers in this review, but feel free to talk about anything -- spoilers are permitted in the comments. (And if you haven't seen the movie or read the book, beware!)

Billie Doux loves good television and spends way too much time writing about it.

[silenceindetroit]

The Meaning of Silence - Part 8

“I’m getting too damn old for this.”

The reflection that stared back at him in the mirror made Hank pause. He had been well-familiar with the wrinkles that lined his face for years now; they were almost old friends at this point. But the wear and tear on his body was growing a little less bearable every day, from the hours sitting hunched over at his work desk, to the sleep that insomnia stole from him every night before 3am. And it was starting to show in the way he carried himself.

Maybe Connor had a point to his concerns for Hank’s health.

Connor. His reflection grimaced. The android hadn’t been his usual self for a few weeks. His regular, excited ramblings had slowed to a hault and given way to spans of silence Hank had never experienced with him before. He did his best to keep Connor company on the nights he came home late from work to find him staring out the window with unfocused eyes, or watching the way Beatrice’s fur slid through his fingers repeatedly. Telling him about anything he had heard throughout the day that he thought the android might be interested in. Even if Connor didn’t participate much, he seemed to listen well enough.

And to be fair, the conversations were slowly coming back, though nowhere near their usual level of exuberance. Hank only hoped the kid knew he could talk to him. That he didn’t have to keep whatever this was bottled up inside.

“Connor, you ready?” he called out from the bathroom’s doorway. He wasn’t surprised when there was no answer. His reflection’s brow furrowed at him. “Way too old,” he sighed.

The sight he came out to in the living room nearly made him bite back a bark of laughter. Connor was wearing one of Hank’s sweatshirts, the zipper halfway down, sitting on the couch with an open book in his hands. Peeking her head out from inside, just above where the zipper stopped was Beatrice, her eyes alert as if she were reading along with him.

Hank cleared his throat until Connor looked up at him, blinking. “As much as I hate to break up the fun you two are having, we should head out before we hit traffic. What’s she doing in there?”

“She likes it.”

“I can see that. I’m sure you make a great heater for her, but I don’t think Carl would appreciate us showing up with her.”

Connor pulled down the zipper, watching as Beatrice crawled her way out onto his lap.

The drives had been longer than usual without Connor’s constant stream of thought to buffer the quiet. Today was no different. Hank stole a few glances in his direction, but the android’s eyes were glued to the passenger window.

“You know,” Hank tried to start, “they say spring’s coming early this year.” Connor gave no indication he had heard. “How’s Markus?” he tried again.

Something flickered over the android’s face. “Hes’ fine. He has a public speech next week.”

“Yeah? What about?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t asked.”

Hank grimaced. “Listen, kid.” He tapped a finger against the steering wheel, trying to navigate what he wanted to say. “I know something’s been bothering you lately.” Connor’s chin move an inch in his direction. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I get it. But just don’t get it in your head that whatever it is is some kind of burden you have to carry by yourself.” He closed his eyes for a quick moment and exhaled through his nose. “You don’t have to be strong all the time if you don’t want to. I don’t mind being strong for both of us.” His fingers flexed. “If you want to be sad, be sad,” he quoted. “We’ll ride it out with you. And when you get finished, we’ll be there.”

He smacked himself upside the head in his mind. God, all of that had sounded so stupid.

But he dared a glance from the corner of his eye. Connor’s jaw clenched and unclenched a few times as he processed what he’d just been told. His lips parted. “Thank you, Hank,” he murmured. Hank could have sworn he saw a hint of a smile dance at the corner of his mouth.

The car grew quiet again for the rest of the ride, but this time a hint more comfortable. It wasn’t until they were pulling up into Carl’s driveway that it broke again. “You know we can always leave early,” Hank said. The gear shifted into park, and he killed the engine. “If you don’t feel up for a long visit today.”

Connor nodded. “Thanks. I think I’ll be alright.”

They made their way up to the porch together. Hank’s hand reached to ring the bell, but there was no need; Markus was already there, opening the door for them. “I saw your car pull up,” he explained when Hank’s brows raised in surprise. “Carl’s in the living room, Hank.”

“How’s that for a quick entrance?” Hank asked, turning to Connor, but the android’s eyes were locked on Markus. A look along the lines of relief softened the features of his face.

“I’ll leave you two to it, then,” Hank said, stepping through the door and navigating around Markus. He stole a glance over his shoulder when he was halfway down the hallway, raising an eyebrow to himself when he caught a glimpse of Markus reaching for Connor’s hand as the door closed.

“I was starting to wonder where you were,” Carl said to him when he had made it into the living room. The older man was positioned near the window in his wheelchair, hands folded in his lap.

“We had a little trouble getting out of the house,” Hank apologized. He pulled out a chair from the table and dragged it over to sit beside him. “How’s that piece you showed me last week coming?”

“Not at the pace I’d like,” Carl admitted. “But steady. I have to take more breaks now than I’d like to admit. My hands have started shaking more.” He sighed dismissively. “But what can you do, eh? All part of getting old.”

“Tell me about it.” Hank couldn’t help but let out a groan as he leaned back. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep up this kind of work—feels like it’s getting more demanding every day. The world isn’t cut out for old guys like us. Just wears you down until it’s time to replace you.”

Carl nodded. “Nothing new. You thinking of retiring, Anderson?”

Hank sighed and let himself sink a little further back in the chair.“I don’t know what I’m thinking,” he said. “But I wouldn’t mind a few more vacation days, that’s for damn sure.”

“Hah. Anything to drink?”

He let out a chuckle. “Is it too early for that scotch of yours?”

“It’s my own house,” Carl replied with a wrinkled smile. “If I say it’s not too early, it’s not too early.” A grimace followed. “Although I probably shouldn’t. My doctor’s been cracking down on me since the hospitalization.”

“Then maybe some of that tea you’re always going on about.” Hank braced for a moment against the arms of the chair before pushing himself up.

“Let me have Joseph get that—”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Bah. I may be getting old, but I can still make a ten foot walk. Just have to prep myself mentally beforehand.” Carl laughed at that.

The water kettle sat on its own table near a bookcase, mugs and a box of tea bags to the side. He took out two of each. “What’s on your mind, Hank?” Carl asked while he worked. “You seem preoccupied today.”

Hank was slow to answer. He grimaced at the kettle as he lifted it from its electric burner and poured. “It’s Connor. He hasn’t been himself for a few weeks. Not that he isn’t starting to get back to normal. Just wish I knew what it was on his mind.” He took a mug in each hand and made his way back over.

Carl reached for his.“You mean since the funeral?” he asked.

Hank’s brow furrowed. “Funeral?”

“Markus told me their group had some sort of memorial service for the androids that died at their previous base.”

“Shit.” No wonder Connor hadn’t had his typical energy lately. “He never even told me.” It added up. From what he knew, it would be Connor’s first real run-in with anything resembling grief. It made sense he would’ve been having trouble navigating it. Damn kid, you really don’t open up, do you? Hank ran his tongue over the backs of his teeth, watching the steam swirl up from his mug. “Does Markus talk to you about a lot of things?”

“Ah… more than you might think.” Carl’s eyebrows lifted, almost knowingly.

Hank leaned back again. “In what way?”

“Well.” Carl shrugged, but a crooked smile spread over his face. “Have you happened to notice the way he and Connor steal glances?”

Hank’s mind flashed to the glimse of their hands he had caught while walking to the living room. Not the first moment he’d observed. He raised an eyebrow. “You could say that. I’ve had my suspicions since they went to that club.”

“I’ve had them as well,” Carl said. He pulled at the string of his tea bag a few times and took a cautious sip. “I think Markus has been trying to be subtle. But I’ve seen the way his face lights up when I mention Connor.” He chuckled, then paused when it turned into a cough. “There’s nothing subtle about it then.”

“Huh.” An amused smile toyed at Hank’s mouth as he thought about it. “You know, if you had told me six months ago that I would be discussing the relationships of an android I’m fighting the previously fastest-rising corporation in the country for custody over, I would have said you were out of your mind.”

“How’s that going, anyway? The legal action.”

Hank blew a breath through his nostrils. “Just as horrible as you might think. They’re budging, but they’re dragging their feet. Trying to find hidden loopholes to throw at us to the point that even Kamski’s having trouble with it. If it was just me?” He shook his head. “I never would have gotten this far.”

“Elijah’s helping you with these matters?”

Hank’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You know him?”

“I more than know him. He’s the one who gave me Markus.”

“No shit?”

Carl rubbed his thumb over his chin in thought. “Maybe I’ll give him a call this evening,” he murmured to himself. His eyes closed as he took another sip. “Connor’s lucky to have you, Hank. No one better to have fighting in his corner.”

“Nah.” Hank gave a small shake of his head, eyes softening as he looked down into his tea. “I’m just a worn down cop who’s lived out too much of life. If anything, I’m the one who’s lucky.” He pointed a finger. “Don’t ever tell him I said that, though.”

Carl gave a chuckle. “Of course not—can’t have him thinking his old man has gone soft,” he agreed jokingly.

Hank raised his mug to his lips, trying to hide the emotion that welled up without warning at the words his old man. “You really think he and Markus…?” he asked, trying to change the subject back.

A shrug. “I don’t know. Could very well be. Either way, they seem happy.”

Hank’s eyes drew to the window, watching the sun filter between the bare branches of the trees that had just begun to show signs of budding. “Yeah. They do.”

——-

“Are you going to tell me what it is?”

Connor watched Markus’ profile for an answer; he hadn’t wasted time, after Hank had left them to meet Carl in the living room, reaching for Connor’s hand. “There’s something I want you to see,” he’d murmured, leading him with a gentle tug towards the stairs. Now they were making their way down the second story’s hallway, and Connor still wasn’t sure what for.

Markus turned to him. “That wouldn’t make it a surprise anymore, now would it?” he replied.

“Well.” Connor pulled at the other android’s hand until they came to a halt. His thumb reached up and swiped against Markus’ cheek, wiping a smudge of dirt. “Considering the evidence I would say it has something to do with bontany. Perhaps up in the garden.”

“Thank you, Detective,” Markus replied, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. He sighed in defeat. “Humor me, please? I’ve been working on this for almost a week.”

“Sorry. Should I rub it back on?”

He rolled his eyes, despite the reluctant smile that tugged at his mouth. “Come on, you.”

They climbed the final flight of stairs to the rooftop doors, pushing through the threshold into the sunlight. Connor blinked a handful of times as his eyes adjusted first to the brightness, then the sight before him.

The garden beds that had once stood empty on either side of the wide path were now home to several different ground cover plants, succulents, herbs, and lavender bushes, each bed holding something different than the others, but mirroring the one on the opposite side. That much he had expected to see some degree of.

The rest, however, he wasn’t prepared for.

New benches were arranged under the wood canopy that took up the far end of the garden. Where it had been neglected before, the overhead beams were now lit with string lights that matched the ones zig-zagging across the rest of the rooftop. Pots of trailing plants hung from hooks between the new lights, spilling their vines and leaves down, like a collection of green chandeliers over the sitting area. Panes of glass stretched between each wooden beam to make three walls, as well as a sloping roof. It was big enough for several people to reside comfortably under.

“What do you think?” Markus asked.

Connor walked the wide path to the threshold of the canopy, slowing to a hault in the middle of its floor. His head tilted back to look up at the plant that hovered a handful of  feet above him. Grape ivy. “You did all this?” he asked when Markus had caught up to him.

“Most of it. I had some help here and there. Most of it with revamping this.” He reached an arm up to curl his hand against a beam, leaning his weight against it.

Connor turned in a slow circle as he stepped towards him. “This is incredible, Markus. What… what even possessed you to want to fix all of this up?”

The other android’s head tilted to the side. “No one’s used it for years now. After we danced up here, I figured it was time to breathe some new life into it.” He gave an almost nervous smile. They were face-to-face now. “I thought it would be nice for us to have a place we could look forward to being in. I can do my painting here, and you can do your writing. Plus,” he looked to the side, sheepish, “the flooring seemed like a waste not to use, considering how wide it is.” Connor’s internal fans whirred.

The definition of Markus’ cheek grew more prominent as he sucked it between his teeth. “I didn’t know if you would like any of it or not,” he added.

Connor’s brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t I like it?”

He received a drawn-out shrug in reply. “We’ve only danced here one time. I didn’t know if I was going out on too much of a limb or not. With any of it.”

Something in Connor’s chest spasmed and clenched. It almost hurt.

He dared to reach his hand up and brought it to the side of Markus’ neck, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “I more than like it,” he said quietly. His eyes flitted downward. “And I think I’d like it if we always had a place we could dance.”

Markus’ eyes softened. He dipped his chin to nudge at Connor’s hand and planted a kiss against the base of his palm.

A pulse of electricity surged through Connor’s hardwiring at the contact. He cleared his vocal box. “You missed.”

“What do you mean, I missed?”

He tilted Markus’ chin with his thumb and closed the space between them, meeting the other android’s lips gently with his own. The surge of electricity returned.

It wasn’t until they pulled away a few minutes later that a small speaker Connor hadn’t noticed turned on without warning, spitting out a chorus of brass section instruments beside one of the benches.

Markus took a step back to offer up his palm. “Care to test it out?”

Connor’s internal fans whirred as he let the question hang in the air. He couldn’t help but take the other android in for a moment. The shyness on his face despite the light in his eyes.

He looked so beautiful.

Their hands slid together as the song sprung into the first verse. “Frank Sinatra, huh?” Connor said, raising a eyebrow as he pretended to copy Markus’ tone of voice. He rested his other hand against the android’s waist. “Didn’t know you were such a fan of the classics.”

Markus smiled as he led their bodies into a turn. “It’s a song many have danced to over the decades,” he replied.

[ooptech321]

A Small Workplace for Small Area Rugs

A small office is a busy room. A desk, an office chair, and possibly a visitor chair will be provided. Bookcases, filing cabinets, a credenza, and some floor space for stacks of books and files are all possibilities. If your floor is made of wood, the constant movement of your chair will damage it. Add personality to your small space while also protecting your floor with a thin rug.

Small Area Rugs are best placed under the desk and in the area where you sit in a small office. Get a large rug to prevent the chair wheels from becoming stuck when you try to get back on. Choose a rug that will last a long time and will be able to withstand a lot of foot traffic. In a small office, small area rugs can also be used to cover a larger portion of the floor. Small Area Rugs allow you to sit comfortably on the floor and work, as some people do when going over paperwork or planning projects.

Rugs with a Purpose for a Productive Office

While you want your office to be welcoming and attractive, the most important thing is to create a work environment. Any decorating you do for your home office should reflect this necessity. Small Area Rugs are a perfect example of this. A rug should enhance your office's style and decor by complementing it.

A desk is often the center of attention in your office and at work. A rolling chair, for example, should be able to move around easily on top of your rug. Low-pile rugs allow for easy furniture movement, or you can opt for a lovely hand-knotted rug with superior durability to withstand constant chair movement.

Rug Placement in the Home Office

Small Area Rugs in the Home Office Rug placement not only unifies design aesthetics into a unified theme, but it can also make your home office feel more organized and orderly. Consider what areas of the room are their own distinct spaces when deciding where to place your home office rug, and emphasize these distinctions with rug placement. Consider highlighting that separate part of the room with its own runner if you have a table set apart from your workspace where you typically fill up on coffee.

[lukerhill]

Rattan or wicker basket pendant lights {DIY or buy}

Adding some warmth and texture to my office with a rattan basket light over the desk. (And how to make your own!)

I LOVE the look of basket lights and have tried (unsuccessfully) a couple times to add them around our house. 

One was in our small blue and white wallpapered hallway and another was in a little vestibule off of our foyer. (ALSO wallpapered. 😂)

Both times I determined that the basket I was using just wasn't the right size. I've also learned the basket needs to have good structure so it hangs evenly. 

I still want to add a DIY version somewhere in our home, so it will happen at some point. (Stay tuned to the end of this post for a bunch of do-it-yourself basket lights.)

I love the natural, non-fussy look and the warmth they bring to a room. I've had my eye out for an affordable rattan pendant for over my desk in the office -- I knew it would look so good with the wood floors and green bookcase wall!

I replaced the cheap flush mount light in here soon after we moved in with this fabric drum shade pendant light:

This post may contain affiliate links for your convenience. 

See my policies and disclosure page for more information.  

It was a welcome gift from a company I worked with and I loved the round shape and the wide width. 

I soon realized I wanted something I could hang closer to the desk for more light. And I knew a more natural design would look really good in here! My husband has requested this one in his basement office so it will move down there.

Problem is, the wider rattan/basket lights (with more than one bulb) I found online are NOT cheap, even in the simplest designs. 

Since I'm getting my regular end-of-summer/heading-into-fall mojo back, I decided it was about time to make this happen!  

I was a little surprised to find a lovely rattan drum shade option at Lowe's of all places:

AND it was in stock at our local store! 

Can you believe I hadn't been to a hardware store in three months? My butt has been in that office chair all summer because I've been working on back end blog stuff. 

I grabbed one of the two they had left and when I walked out to the parking lot, a woman stopped me to ask about it. She did a literal happy dance when I told her there was one left. Ha! She made my day. 

It was pretty straight forward to install -- I will say if you get this particular light you'll want to hold it up and check for wonkiness before installing. 

I had to bend parts a few places because the drum shape was a little off. I also had to hook the smaller shade a little lower on one side because it wasn't hanging perfectly straight: 

But oh man, I love it!! It was just what I envisioned for over my desk: 

I adore the warm tones of this one -- I don't think a lighter rattan would have worked as well. The added texture is so lovely! 😍

Overall I'm very pleased with it, and the price isn't bad for the size! 

Sources for items in this room

If you've been on the lookout for one of these basket pendant lights, they aren't too difficult to make on your own. 

You'll need a metal (for a more industrial look) basket or a woven version. I gathered a bunch of wicker options that would work beautifully! 

I didn't make my own this time because I need more light over my desk than one bulb can give, and most I found only have the one. 

You can easily hang pendant lights from a recessed light two ways. Check out that post to see how it's as easy as screwing in a light bulb or how to easily convert a canned light so it can be wired for a light fixture. 

If you don't have electrical in your ceiling, swag cords work great. You plug them in on the wall and then use ceiling hooks to swag them where you want your light to hang. 

This rope swag kit is so cool and gives you a more custom look than a regular cord: 

They also have this gold cord swag kit as well. 

I gathered a bunch of pretty basket lights under $200 (most well under $100) that can be wired or hung with one of the adaptors I mentioned above: 

Wouldn't they look amazing over a kitchen island? Love. 

Here are links for each one: 

 IKEA Misterhult 

Teardrop basket pendant 

14" globe pendant

IKEA Sinnerlig 

Tall World Market basket 

Bleached rattan dome pendant

Warm basket light

Large globe/round pendant

Double layer basket light 

I found some beautiful DIY basket pendant tutorials to share with you as well! This really is a simple project. 

Jen's gorgeous basket light over her desk is one of my favorites: 

City Farmhouse

I love Sarah's wide basket light -- the size is perfect: 

Lemon and Bloom

The CUTE trim Carmel used on her basket pendant has my wheels turning: 

Our Fifth House

My friend Angela did a trio of three basket lights on her deck: 

Unexpected Elegance

Toni made a really cute metal basket pendant: 

Girl, Just DIY

And Heather did a smaller version to cover a basic flush mount fixture: 

Heathered Nest

See more of our home here. 

To shop items in our home, click here! 

Never miss a post by signing up to get posts via email. 

This content is property of Thrifty Decor Chick LLC. If you are reading this on any other site other than https://ift.tt/1kRxOJ2 or one of her social media platforms, please contact her immediately (thriftydecorchick at gmail dot com). Any other use of this content is strictly forbidden.

[marylovettpostgradblog]

5: VOCAL RECORDING AND ERGONOMICS IN THE HOME STUDIO

I have been thinking a lot about my own studio set up and have been trying to refine how it works.  I started out in an insulated summerhouse, where, in winter I would awkwardly stoop over my laptop freezing for hours. A few years ago, I graduated into an upstairs bedroom. This is a dedicated studio space with two decent sized screen monitors and monitor speakers at the right height for the optimum tweeter to ear ratio. It is comparative luxury inside in the warm, I am so fortunate to have this space.  That said there are still many adjustments and tweaks to make. I have spent the last few weeks thinking and moving things around to make the most ergonomic acoustically pleasing, non-back ache inducing place to work. Ergonomics seem to be an easier issue to address than treating the acoustics.  I have researched home studio set ups and looked at seating. Chris Corfield states the case for proper seating in a Music Radar article. He says it is essential to invest in a proper chair for the sake of your health and posture. (Corfield, C. 2020) Once I had got used to the idea of the cost of a decent task chair, I decided that it was worth investing in. Once purchased it immediately revolutionised being at my desk and I realised how uncomfortable I had been previously. With the addition of wrist rests for mouse and keyboard to avoid RSI, and the purchase of height adjustable legs for my desk, I am able store my 88 key weighted keyboards that I use as a midi trigger beneath the desk on a stand with wheels.  This has finally made it possible to slide out from beneath the desk when in use, neatly sliding back when I don’t need it.  I am very pleased with this solution, at the fraction of the cost of any studio furniture currently on the market.  Focussing on work flow and ergonomics is I am sure a result of my age and experience with previous set ups that have caused problems. I am a person with ADHD, one of the traits is having a propensity to hyper focus on things that are interesting to me. When I am working, I can easily lose track of the hours that I have been on a task.  I am a freelancer so there are no occupational health people popping in to the studio to make sure that your chair and desk is set up properly. Or colleagues to remind me to take breaks and remember to eat, so I have a watch with haptic reminders to stand up and walk around periodically throughout the day. The other issue with my home studio is acoustic treatment and lack of vocal booth. This is the biggest thing that currently holds me back.  When I want to record vocals, I feel inhibited if I know I can be heard, either by those inside the house or by neighbours. I share my house with a lodger who is currently working from home and I have noticed I am less inclined to sing. This may seem at odds with my previous work leading choirs and confidently using my voice every day. Since lockdown in March 2020, my working life changed drastically and I have not been singing as much and the choirs are dormant. I’ve noticed that the vocals I have recorded since and for my course work are definitely held back. The song writing process is deeply personal, and something that I am used to doing privately. Paula Wolfe writes about women needing solitude and privacy and says that having a space to create, learn and experiment in a domestic setting, offers women creative control and career potential. (Wolfe P 2012) Of course this need is not exclusive to women, but as I am one, I can confirm this has definitely been my experience. Apart from the psychological barriers, I struggle to find the best vocal sound.  Having tested three mics, two condensers (AKG P200, AT3035), and one dynamic (SM58) in the room. I used a reflection filter with the condenser Mics but still didn’t manage to find the sweet spot. I came to the conclusion that the SM58 is the best mic to use for this as yet untreated space, because it is picks up less reflections from the room. I have experimented with a DIY vocal set up with Duvets in order to be able use my condenser mic for vocals. This was much more successful having followed Paul Whites advice on this in his Producer's Manual. Although I have a reflection filter, I had not considered the room reflections on the wall behind the microphone. The reflections were deadened by a mattress and duvets clipped onto the bookcase and another over a clothes horse.

fig 1: DIY Home Studio Vocal recording set up

Reading articles on recording vocals in Sound on Sound and listening to the SOS podcasts on vocal production have been helpful in the quest for a better vocal sound. As usual I have mixed success and typically as a learner my over-use of parallel processing techniques have resulted so far in an over processed sound, but it is progress.

I will persevere with the act of confidently singing in this space, despite the lockdown and proximity of neighbours and lodgers. Conquering this will help in capturing the best recorded sound. Sylvia Massey talks about the psychological problems that singers have in her book Recording Unhinged. She says that the one person that typically gets in the way of a great vocal performance is the singer themself. Massey, S. (2016) She has observed over years of working with singers that many can be self-conscious about their voice not working properly and focussing on that can derail a vocal session. Her strategy is to give the singers so many other things to do that they are forced to concentrate on the physical tasks she asks them to do that they are forced out of their self-critical mid set. These include: 

Standing on one foot while singing, pretend you are driving a car while singing or breaking away from the melody and ad-libbing on the spot.  I can see how these techniques would be effective although quite challenging to trick yourself out of your own head as the singer on your own productions. However, it is still useful to read and bear in mind, perhaps there is a way to get the best out of yourself. What I have also found useful are her unorthodox tips on vocal recording such as singing into a snare drum or a fan. She makes a good point about using what you have to hand, ‘who says you need an acoustically treated room with high end condenser mics to record in?’ Massey, S. (2016) 

This is music to my ears as it is easy to fall into the trap of thinking that I need new equipment to get the best sound. To some extent it might be true, but new gear doesn’t necessarily make your musical ideas better. Experimenting, practicing and understanding recording and production techniques with what I already have is far better than wasting valuable creative time succumbing to the endless advertising of plugs ins and gear that allude to the shimmering promise of better audio quality and improved workflow.  Improved workflow is becoming a phrase I am starting to get sick of reading. But that’s another story…. 

References: https://www.musicradar.com/news/best-studio-chairs Wolfe P (2012)’A Studio of one’s own: Music Production, Technology and Gender.’ Journal on the Art of Record Production. [online]07 (11) Available at: https://www.arpjournal.com/asarpwp/a-studio-of-one%E2%80%99s-own-music-production-technology-and-gender/[Accessed: November 13th 2020]

Massy, S and Johnson, C. (2016) Milwaukee. Recording Unhinged: Creative and unconventional recording. Hal Leonard Books 2016

White, P. (2020) Cumbria. The Producers Manual. Jake Island Ltd. 2020

Images

Fig 1: Photograph taken by Mary Lovett of the vocal recording with duvet experiment.

[bdestatesales1]

3 MORE ESTATE SALES STARTING FRIDAY! 

=============================================================Brentwood Sale

Home of the Late Great Joe Diffie

Nov. 20, 21, 2020

9am to 4pm

9435 Weatherly Dr, 37027

Home of the Late, Great Joe Diffie          +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++          George Jones's brand new dog bed, Joe Diffie special          leather recliner, Guitar fabric covered side chairs made especially          for Diffie, Sofa, Red leather sofa, Dining room table and 6 chairs,          China Cabinet, Sofa Tables, End Tables, Bar, Bar height table and two          chairs, Brookstone Iceless Wine Cooler, Xmas Pillows, Pillows, Wicker          Rockers, Wicker Tables, Beautiful Pots, Kitchen small appliances,          frames, candles, toaster, cookbooks, Hamilton Beach Panini Press,          Krups Beer Tender, Glasses, iron skillets, Pyrex, Coffee tables,          Wrought iron bench with cushion, Jewelry, Brighton Jewelry, Ladies          clothing size medium, Shoes Size 9, Costumes Childrens size small to          medium, American Girl Dolls, all accessories furniture, beds, motor          home, clothing, wardrobe, stoves, sinks, Build a Bear and clothing,          Queen size bed and mattress, night stands, dresser,linens, king size          quilt sets, prints, lamps, rugs, round outside table and chairs,          Charmglow Grille, Wingo remote control plane, Childrens chests,          trunk, Prelit Christmas tree, New Jeep seat covers for 2010 Jeep          Wrangler, Trampoline, Tuff Stuff Complete Workout Equipment, Remote          control Dinosaur, Bar Stools, Clocks, Huffy three wheel scooter,          Folding canvas chairs, Wooden Shelving, Joe Diffie home brew, 5 shelf          glass display, chair glider with stool, baby bed rail guard, hope          chest, my pillow pet, Children's clothes size 8, Glass top table,          Outside wicker sofa and chairs, Outside Christmas Deco and much more

 Click for Pics            

 ============================================================

BRENTWOOD ESTATE SALE

November 20, 21, 2020

9am to 4pm

631 Beech Creek Rd. S., 37027

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

Arts and crafts antique dining room suite made by          LifeTime furniture of Grand rapids, includes buffet, side table,          China hutch table with six chairs. Griswold, Wagner and other cast          iron cookware, vintage utensils, melamine plastic dish set. Vintage          tools and camping gear; four crosscut saws, JC Higgins lantern and          cook stove, Coleman stoves, Kennedy mechanics tool box, Craftsman          tools, woodworking tools. Exercise equipment; bicycle, treadmill,          NordicTrack and bicycle. Antique tools; molding planers by the dozens          blacksmiths anvil and hammers. Crocks,  Hoosier cabinet, pie          safe and vintage sleds. Many popular novels and DVD sets. Heirloom          family pieces of furniture; four dressers and raised cannonball bed.          Carved Asian screen. Dozens of collectible dolls still in boxes          including Barbies. Hundreds of Britain's metal toy soldiers, lone          ranger on horse and other 50s figurines, lots of pressed metal          collectible trucks and cars and Street scenes. Collectible stereo          equipment; pioneer stereo receiver sx78, Dual turntable with wood          grain base, tiac reel to reel. HO train layout and foosball table.          Barn and shed out back with old tools, equipment and lots of barn          wood planks for sale.                    **Parking Directions: You          may line up for the sale on the north side of Manley Lane, gate to          the sale will open at 8:15 a.m. and you will be parking in the yard**

 Click for Pics            

 ==========================================================

Franklin Estate Sale

November 20, 21, 2020

9am to 4pm

2354 N. Berry's Chapel Rd., 37069

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

1953 Evinrude Motor & Gas Tank 15 Horsepower, MId Century Sofa, French Provincial Curio Cabinet, End Tables, Small Octagon Side Tables, Upholstered Living Room Chairs, Magnavox Stereo/Radio Cabinet, Cloisonne/Brass Floor Lamp, Table lamps, Crystal & Silver Glassware/Trays, Round Oak Dining Table & Chairs, Kenmore Washer and Dryer, King Bed w/Mattress/Box Springs,  Woman’s Clothing (S-M), Shoes (6.5-7), Jewelry Cabinet, Mid Century Costume Jewelry and Purses, 1953 General Electric Refrigerator,  Hat/Coat Rack, Linens, 1902 Sears Catalog, Shantung Cowboy Hat,  Vintage Snoopy Phone, Handicap Walker, Vacuum Cleaner, Ironing  Board/Iron, and More!!

Click for Pics            

 =========================================================

and dont forget....

BRENTWOOD ESTATE SALE

November 19-21, 2020

9am to 4pm

5033 HIGH VALLEY DR., 37027

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

Marble Top Silverware Chest, Marble Top Console Table,          Dining Room Suite (Table, Eight Chairs, China Cabinet), Beautiful          Flame Mahogany Sideboard w/Claw Feet, Yamaha Upright Piano,Olhausen          Billiards Table, 2 Sofas, Pair of French Style Chairs, Pair of          Architectural Prints,  Assorted Mirrors, Nichols &          Stone Dining Table/6 Chairs, Pair of Rush Seat Arm Chairs, Rustic          Entertainment Center, 2 Oversized Arm Chairs, Assorted lamps, 3 Oil          Paintings, Pair of Weathered Chairs/Table, Glass Top Patio Table w/6          Chairs, Painted cabinet, King Size Bed, Chair and Ottoman, Folding          Screen, White Bookcase/Desk/Nightstand, Queen Bed, Desk, Nightstand,          Floral Chair, Decorative Pillows, Linens, Barstools, Tavern table          & Chairs, Side tables, Oriental Rug, 2 Leather and Fabric Club          Chairs, Coffee Table, Golf Clubs, Cherry Corner          Cabinet,  Howard Miller Grandfather Clock, Bakers Rack,          Precor Treadmill, Men's Custom Suits/Belts/Shoes (Large), Women's          Clothing/Dresses/Shoes (Small), Octane Fitness Machine, Fitness Gear          Weight Bench, Floor Rugs, Xmas decorations, Firescreen, Home          Decor,  Large Collection of Electronics, Large Artificial          Plants, 2 Lawn Mowers, Leaf Blower, and More! 

 Click for Pics            

  If purchasing furniture, it is the          buyers responsibility          to make          arrangements to move the item,          so please          bring help and proper car

[jodybouchard9]

Bored at Home? Then You Really Need This Upgrade for Fall

Liam Norris / Getty Images

With the coronavirus still going strong, this fall season is likely to unfold quite differently from the past. With many offices still closed—and schools open intermittently or not at all—you may be wondering: What will you and your family do with all your time stuck at home?

The solution may be a simple and fun home upgrade you can all enjoy: a crafting area.

Rather than just tossing your kids’ paints and pipe cleaners on the dining table whenever they get antsy, it’s far smarter to firmly establish a permanent crafting table, desk, or corner where it’s safe to get those creative juices flowing.

“Having a designated crafting spot or even a whole room allows you to enjoy a creative space. Plus, it helps to wrangle all the supplies and keep them organized,” says Jeanine Boiko, the artsy DIY blogger at Okio B Designs.

And crafting isn’t just for kids—plenty of adults also like to get creative, whether to relax and blow off steam, or to save money by making gifts and home decor.

Even some A-list celebs have a hidden crafty side: Taylor Swift makes her own snowglobes, Pierce Brosnan paints, and David Beckham sews doll clothes for his daughter (who knew?).

Seasoned crafters know that smart organization is a critical component of successful crafting. Here are some tips from Boiko and crafts pro Cynthia O’Connor O’Hara, aka The Harried Housewife, plus key items to pick up to bring your crafts area to life.

A pegboard with supplies

A pegboard can keep your supplies easily accessible.

The Container Store

A pegboard is a crafting must-have, since it helps keep your crafting tools within easy reach. And it can be outfitted with hooks in various places, as well as small shelves and containers so you can customize it to your needs.

This pegboard ($57, The Container Store) even comes with all the hooks and shelves shown, but not the supplies.

Clear crafts storage bins

Clear bins help you see your crafting supplies.

The Container Store

You can’t glue what you can’t see, so make your life easier by storing supplies in wire baskets or clear plastic bins like these ones ($3 to $6, The Container Store).

A crafting table of adjustable height and size

Unfold the side flaps for more workspace.

Amazon

It’s fine to donate an old table to your crafts area, but if you don’t have an extra one, consider a lightweight, foldable option, like this pretty number ($166, Amazon). You can adjust the height to suit both big and little crafters, and the slide-out mesh baskets and lower level make organizing easy.

To protect your workspace and make cleanup a breeze, O’Hara suggests putting down old newspaper or a shower curtain from the dollar store, before starting your projects.

Comfortable seating

An ergonomic chair is important for crafting.

Amazon

Don’t skimp on a good chair when you start crafting!

“Invest in something comfortable, because you or your kids may be working for hours, and the last thing you want is pain in your neck,” says Boiko.

This well-priced wheeled wonder ($45, Amazon) comes in various colors, including black, and slides easily on wood floors and carpet. You’ll love swiveling around or pivoting gently for decoupage or beading. In addition, the lumbar support cradles the lower back.

A rolling art cabinet

This selection can house both art supplies and holiday wrapping paper.

Wayfair

We love this rolling option ($220, Wayfair), which is like a file cabinet and bookcase in one. With lots of interior slots, a drawer, and shelving, this smart-looking crafts box is a compact choice for small homes. It’s made from birch and plywood, with sturdy casters and steel hardware so that it can move smoothly across the floor.

Gooseneck lamp

This green shade lights the way on your crafts table.

Wayfair

“I rely on an adjustable task lamp to see the intricate details of the arts and crafts projects I’m working on,” says O’Hara.

This pretty lamp ($36, Wayfair) has a head that adjusts easily and a small base that won’t take up too much of your crafting space.

An over-the-door shoe bag for extra storage

Clear pouches mean you’ll never lose track of your eraser.

Amazon

Need more storage, but lack the shelf space? Purchase a see-through shoe bag ($10, Amazon) that you can drape over the door.

“This helps to free up space, and holds a variety of items,” O’Hara says.

More crafting area organization tips

The beauty of creating a crafting area is that many of the items you need are things you may already have around the house. Here are others to consider:

Shoeboxes: Plain ol’ cardboard boxes can corral small bottles of resin, Mod Podge, and glue.

String a line: Go old school with some twine, and run it the length of your space—and then pin up your finished projects, says Boiko.

Cutlery trays: Paintbrushes and rulers nestle nicely where your forks used to live. And don’t forget about muffin tins for buttons, beads, and vials of glitter, says O’Hara.

  The post Bored at Home? Then You Really Need This Upgrade for Fall appeared first on Real Estate News & Insights | realtor.com®.