#this shop is still running on its own website and honestly

[2010sbunny]

♡ 2010sbunny’s Guide

To Mcbling

Brands♡

PT. 1/?

All the mcbling babes are known for their hot and fabulous fashion style. From flare yoga pants to a hot pink tracksuit, mcbling fashion is a big staple in fashion history. Of course you don’t have to have name brand clothes to be a mcbling babe, but if you have the money and want some name brand clothing, by all means buy it! Don’t forget you may also run across some of these brands while you thrift!

Juicy Couture-

Founded in 1997, Juicy Couture is a staple fashion brand in the mcbling scene. Tracksuits in all different colors, daydreamer bags, and several different slogan tees are what Juicy Couture is mostly known for. Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton were two icons who were known for their love for Juicy Couture 💋! Juicy has its own website but please keep in mind that their clothing style and bags have had a major change (they were modernized 🥲). You can also find their modern bags and clothing in stores like Ross and Burlington! If you want to find vintage Juicy, I recommend you look on online secondhand shops like Depop, eBay, Vinted, etc!! It’s kind of hard to stumble across Juicy in in-person thrift stores but it’s possible!! (I still hope to stumble across it someday 🙏)

PINK-

PINK by Victorias Secret is Victorias Secret’s clothing line. It’s mainly known for its beautiful fold over yoga pants. The designs on the yoga pants range from animal print to rhinestone galore 💋. They brought some fold over yoga pants back, but nothing beats the original designs. You can find the originals on online secondhand shops or in-person thrift stores. I personally have gotten mine from Plato’s Closet, but keep in mind that Plato’s Closet is lowkey expensive for it being a thrift store 😭! PINK also had very cute short sleeve and long sleeve shirts that many mcbling babes cut to make off the shoulder tops! If you’re a hoodie typa gal, I recommend you buy their hoodies as well because they definitely were and continue to be the bomb.com 💋. PINK’s sweatpants were also very cute and comfortable! If you would like to buy yoga pants from the designs Victorias Secret brought back, you can find them in store or on their website. Here’s the link dolls 💋🩷:

Baby Phat-

Baby Phat was made by Kimora Lee Simmons (a true fashion icon). Kimora’s fashion shows were very iconic, and will always be remembered. Her fashion line gives more of a 90s-2000s vibe, but her jeans can spice up your mcbling look 💋. Her bottoms are super cute, and always have the iconic cat logo. Her puffer jackets are also a staple piece, and you can especially wear them in the winter for an ice princess look! You can find her pieces on online secondhand shops and you may find them in the thrift if you look hard enough!! (I’m talking even in the cracks of the Jeans section). Her bags are very cute as well, but if you’re going more for a mcbling-style bag, I recommend juicy couture or any other mcbling bags. The Baby Phat online store is currently still a work in progress, but you may still receive emails and a reminder when it’s done!

Miss Me-

Following the mention of jeans, Miss Me jeans are a brand of jeans that were very popular then and honestly still are now. Their rhinestoned designs on the back pockets are TO DIEEEE FOR. They come in all different cuts, fits, and rises (low rise, mid rise, high rise). You can find many Miss Me jeans at Buckle (either in store or online), but be aware that they are highly expensive (over $100 for ONE pair). You may find a pair in an in-person thrift store but they are pretty hard to find. Don’t let that stop you though, as you may find a pair or more the next time you go thrifting. Many 2010s celebrities wore Miss Me jeans and many mcbling babes wore them as well. If you wanna shop for Miss Me jeans that are less expensive, you can look for them on eBay, Mercari, Depop, etc.! The 2nd pic of the Miss Me’s is by my jwoww @brattygalfriend 💋. If you would like to buy some from Buckle, here’s the link 💋:

Ed Hardy-

Ed Hardy is known mainly for its bags, hats, shirts, and jeans. Kim K rocked Ed Hardy A LOTTTTT during the mcbling era. Ed Hardy is still around and unlike a lot of other brands, has stayed true with their designs 💋. You can find Ed Hardy is places like Burlington, Ross, maybe even Marshalls! Ed Hardy has its own online store where it’s prices aren’t too pricey (honestly depends on your price range). If you would like you can of course buy Ed Hardy pieces from online secondhand shops (I KNOWWWW IVE MENTIONED THIS A LOT), or you can find them in in-person thrift stores. I honestly think the Ed Hardy brand will live on 4eva 💋.

End Notes-

Thank you so much for reading if you did 🩷. This was my first ever long blog so I hope you liked it 🤭. I decided to make this a series obvi because I <3 mcbling fashion and I would love to showcase a ton of different mcbling brands. If anyone has any suggestions on which brands I should feature next please lemme know dolls 🙏. Please make sure to stay hydrated, rested, and full ♡!

PS: Pls give credit if u use!!

Remember this is YOUR world

and we’re all just living in it,

XOXO, 2010sbunny 💋

[hexfeathers]

In Support of Spirit Matchmaking Services 👻

A year or two ago, I wrote up and published a pretty nasty, scathing post about my thoughts on spirit conjure shops. I think I outright called most of them scams, honestly. This came from a very biased, emotionally driven point of view. I had gone through a bad experience with a conjuror (who will remain unnamed) and wound up using that as a reason to find every single negative aspect about conjure shops and spirit matchmaking services.

Since then, I have grown further as a spirit worker, removed myself from a few social circles, and met several great spirits through the help of a conjuror who runs and curates their own business.

I think its important to be able to acknowledge when my opinions on something so broad come from a place of bias, so, I’m going to share my new thoughts here.

One of my biggest arguments against conjurors who sell spirits, was that it was unethical to put up a living entity for sale.

Where it stands, I still agree with this. If you have FORCE BOUND A SPIRIT to some ring, necklace, or whatever, and you are putting them up for sale without their input? Yeah. That is fucked and you should feel bad. However, after a few conversations, I’ve learned that this point is how you vet an ethical spirit conjuror, versus an unethical one.

A proper spirit conjuror makes a point that their potential clients understand one thing: the spirits that they conjuror have free will, are capable of exiting any relationship that they are not happy or comfortable in, and are not bound to a contract that they have not agreed with.

These conjurors are not selling the spirit; they are putting a dollar amount on their time spent conjuring, vetting, purchasing offerings for the spirit, maintaining a website, maintaining communication with the spirit’s potential human companion, and so on so forth.

The best comparison I could make to this, is paying for a dating app. When we sign up for a website like eHarmony, Bumble, OkCupid, etc., people are being paid in the background to maintain those websites, and in turn, some of us are paying for the premium membership to make it easier to find potential match ups.

That does not mean the people working for eHarmony and all of these other websites are selling living beings. They are being paid to facilitate that potential match.

As a conjuror myself, I know the amount of work it goes into seeking out a spirit, vetting them for safety, and bonding with them. That does not even factor in the money spent on offerings.

Now what happens when a conjuror wants to help facilitate a connection with someone who does not have the time, energy, or interest in perfecting this work? Do they not have the right to charge a fee for the time and energy spent to help make this connection?

A conjuror has every right to charge for their services, just as a tarot reader should ask to be paid for their readings, an energy work charging for their healing sessions, and so on so forth.

So what type of fee should someone expect to pay someone to conjure, vet and connect them with a spirit companion?

Honestly? It is up to you to decide what you’re willing to pay. But, take a few things into consideration:

Let’s say that you ask your conjuror to connect you with a dragon spirit. But not just any dragon spirit, you want this spirit to be light aligned, with knowledge on the healing arts, and you want this dragon to be female with a calm temperament.

Factor in the amount of time it may take for this conjuror to find this exact spirits. They may come across a dozen or so dragons, but, these dragons might not fit what you are asking for.

And when they finally come across a potential fit, a proper conjuror would give a run down on what they have learned of the spirit thus far, ask if you are interested in it, and THEN they proceed with weeks or months of vetting.

Now, let’s say that your conjuror vets for a minimum of three months, and they are working with your spirit for about an hour a day, four days a week.

That is 48 hours of work. If you were to pay the USA’s federal minimum wage of $7.25 at that rate, that is $348.

I rarely see spirit conjure shops charging anywhere NEAR that much.

Actually, I think the most I ever spent on a conjure was $120.

That means your conjuror is paying themselves less than minimum wage most of the time.

My point then?

I’ve learned to respect people who do this for a living, or even as a side job. It’s hard work, and I’ve seen several people who are helping WAY more than one person at a time with their matchmaking.

Does that mean that ALL conjure shops are legitimate, avoiding cultural appropriation, and ethical? Of course not, but that is another post for another day. (And frankly, the shops full of red flags are largely not on Tumblr.)

There ARE legitimate spirit matchmaking businesses out there though! And if you have the opportunity to give them a try, you might find yourself surprised by how great of an experience you have.

[alkcomics]

Hello, happy pride month if you celebrate! I was wondering if you would ever consider doing another run of the full spectrum therapy box-set? I adore your work and would love to own a physical copy. The box set was just particularly gorgeous as well. Thank you!

Aw thanks! I've gotten a few of these messages from folks and I'm very flattered there's still interest 🖤

I guess I'll talk about what's been going on behind the scenes with F-ST.

Since January of 2020, I've been querying agents to get it published. No bites. Sent it to a handful of editors at different comic publishers. No bites. As you can imagine, it's been frustrating. But that's how publishing goes.

After two years of rejections, I started querying it as an unfinished pitch: shorter, more condensed, a slightly different angle on the plot events, but recognizably the same book. I've gotten much better reception from that submission -- a few exciting 'revise and resubmit' requests, none of which I have heard back from since resubmitting. But still, no bites.

My pivot now is to start pitching other projects to agents instead. I'll always have F-ST (finished or newly outlined version) in my back pocket.

This is all to say, because I've been actively querying F-ST for publication since I finished it, I haven't wanted to keep stock and sell it myself. I've also had my shop closed and not gone to conventions because of the pandemic. As long as I still have the aim of traditional publication for the project, I likely* won't be selling it myself. My 'fuck it's point with that all may be soon, or never.

* If I end up doing some more conventions in 2023, I've considered doing a chunker of an omnibus printing. But honestly, it's expensive to get books made right now; even with the single volumes it was hard to find a price point to sell that covered cost, let alone made me some profit. Despite that, I want to say that I have no plans to take the comic off-line. If Tapas gets weird, I can host it on my own website (alkcomics.com). So it'll remain accessible in its unedited form (the book print varies slightly) as long as possible.

Again, I really thank y'all for your continued interest in the work. It means a lot. Happy Pride 🖤🌈✨✌️

---

Post script:

In case it sounds too much like I'm complaining about publishing Ls, I do have to say: even though nothing's worked out for F-ST, going through this process has helped me build relationships in the industry and has gotten a lot of other comics work. Creative careers are seldom linear. If you're also in this boat: don't give up, keep rowing, enjoy the sights along the way because the route to your destination may change with the winds and the currents.

[blazewatergem]

Did this in an hour, and I heavily thank my darling friend Pidge for helping kick this off :D

Everyone, meet…Aloisa Mailon!

Aloisa Mailon

Aloisa Mailon is a night time radio host in the Marvel universe and the main OC in my fanfic Good Night New York. The name itself is a reference to how her radio show works. It lasts from the time the sun goes down, to the time it goes up. Every single night. It’s mostly her just playing music, taking requests off of a private website she only advertises on the radio station - which can only be reached via a certain signal. The whole thing is hush hush, meant to be a sort of happy secret that way, since the only way to find it is by stumbling across it or a friend recommending it.

Some nights, she’ll discuss news or events, which she jokingly introduces as “what the dayfolk are up to”. During the “darkest hour” of the show - middle of its run time - she’ll answer questions anyone asks. (I kind of want to, in the fic, ask people to send questions in. I think it’d be a cool little fourth wall break, but I’m not sure since that’d require people…actually commenting 😅). The show itself heavily plays up the night theme aesthetic, Aloisa calling people her ‘little bats’ and even the name is called The Night March. She’s very into joking and has her own little lore on the station, portraying a sort of gothic but caring personality, but she’s never shared her name - asking people to call her Livewire instead. This might be due to how sometimes, she gets very passionate on her station, even outright calling others out on their shit - other news and heroes alike.

What’s funny is she isn’t really like this in real life. She’s rather antisocial, doing her best to avoid conflict and just not deal with others, but she does stay polite and kind when she has to. Due to her show, she’s constantly tired - often sleeping through the morning into the afternoon. She isn’t big on interaction with people live, and prefers the safety of her apartment, so she mostly just goes out to get food, go shopping for necessities, or head to a media store - new music is a must in her business.

Aloisa didn’t grow up in New York, rather she was raised by her mom and dad off the coast in a more rural town. Her best memories involve sneaking out at night, only to go to the beach and listen to music while watching the waves. Her parents were fine with this, but did ask - on the days where her night clothes seemed more wet and sandy than normal - if everything was ok. They’re a close knit trio, and both of them support her dreams of running a comforting nighttime show very strongly.

She currently doesn’t have any human friends, but she has pets - three cats to be exact. Bip, a Russian Blue, and Bo, a Burmese. Mimsy, the only girl cat, is an American Shorthair. She is also missing a hind leg, which has resulted in ramps being placed everywhere in the apartment for her to navigate and climb up stuff, including the bed. It’s often Mimsy who wakes Aloisa up.

Aloisa does want to get more pets, probably because she is replacing human bonding with animals - but she also really, really does love animals. If she had a bigger apartment, she’d get more cats or even some guinea pigs. It’s been the one thing she’s had to really get used to in the big city, lack of animals everywhere.

Her general appearance is brown curly hair, often a hot mess, and a apple body shape(I’ve been trying to make more of my characters…like me. It’s comforting, honestly). I like to think she wears eye contacts that make her eyes different color, plus help with eye strain from looking at her monitors all night. She prefers comfortable clothing, and honestly in her apartment she just chills in a t-shirt and sweatpants. Fuzzy socks, always, no question.

Their radio show is well-liked amongst vigilantes, due to the late hours, and funny enough - she likes vigilantes more than regular heroes. She still likes heroes, but she isn’t scared to call them out too. Vigilantes get, honestly, special treatment from her - particularly ones that hide their real identities.

She understands that very well.

…And that’s all I’ve got for her so far! Like I said, she’ll be my MC for the Marvel Fanfic Good Night New York :D I colored the text about her to make it stand out a bit more lol, plus purple suits this nocturnal hostess.

I hope y’all like her, and I’m down for any questions about her - any ;D

[hide-away-wally]

You know, tumblr is still kind of good, actually. I suppose if you consider what became of twitter, the bar is quite low, but it's too bad that long form blogging started to be seen as "passé" at some point in the not too distant past.

I vaguely remember when the format was still quite relevant. I had one when I was in college. It was a WordPress site. It started as a free one, the sort that was hosted on the WP servers, but I eventually got all weird and entrepreneurial, what with trying to start up a literary magazine from scratch and so on, so I discovered how web hosting worked, and learned web design, and eventually had my own custom Wordpress installation hosted on a shared server.

I honestly kept that same host for two decades, which makes me feel sad and old. I've been running out of money, and possibly time, and I didn't renew the subscription this month. I just couldn't. My custom email address, the email address I'd been using for those same two decades, is dead now, but it occurred to me that I never got emails I was genuinely interested in anymore. It was just there for password retrieval, spam, and random notifications from various corporate entities. I don't mourn my websites and such, but it's obviously a problem to have the email down for too long. So I caved ... though I didn't renew the same host. I started paying them 8 bucks a month way back when, and I didn't even notice how it gradually became over 20. I shopped around, and found something that was 12 bucks for the YEAR. Now, that's only the first year, but I don't give a fuck, a deal's a deal. That's a huge saving. Anyway, the problem is that my domain names are hosted elsewhere, and I forgot the password ... and the email the domain registrar has on file to sent reset links and such is the DEAD email address. So fuck me, I guess. I've reached out to them and sent them my ID and all that garbage, so hopefully their "ownership" department can sort this little Catch-22 out eventually...Serves me right. But I digress. Nobody read the blog I used to publish back in college, of course. Same as this one. What in this case is largely by design, back then was a source of anxiety for me. Harper and I are both artists, or were. And I began to realize just how much our civilization despises artists fairly early on. It only tolerates us when we generate capital, specifically for the benefit of non-artists. So at the time, I was quite afraid of what obscurity and failure would do to me. Rightly so, of course. It did everything I was afraid of, and so much more. I remember coming down to the front desk to consult with an acquaintance who was working the night shift there, picking her brain about all the blog stuff, how to actually build an audience and so on. She gave me all sorts of advice, bless her, but I just couldn't properly understand or apply it. Something about tecnorati, and some other website that was kind of like reddit but not quite, and aggregators, and maybe actual reddit? I was asking her specifically because she had a semi "successful" blog at the time. I can't remember what it was about. Something to do with nature, maybe? Hiking? Fishing? I don't know.

Come to think of it, I can't remember what mine was about either ... Which is only striking me as a bit odd. It was probably garbage, to be fair. I am sure that's the reason. It couldn't have been much good if even its actual author can't recall. If I had to guess, it was basically just like this ... a lot of ramblings and digressions, except now there's at least a nominal "focus" ... kind of.

I probably haven't changed or grown all that much ... For much of your life, you look back on your younger self, and you often think "wow, I was one silly and goofy piece of jello back then, and I am so glad I grew out of that phase." At some point that seems to have changed for me. I begin to realize that the old me was never a terrible person by any stretch, even if I was a bit cringe and made mistakes and all that, but I felt like a terrible person, all the damn time, especially when I was depressed. And I still feel exactly the same way now, like a terrible person. Except I can tell the old me wasn't that. They were just naive and innocent and still had hope.

Depression is one hell of a killer, you know. Over the past few decades, people seem to have made it out to be the "acceptable" mental illness, or a "universal" one. Depression and anxiety are used as the butt of self deprecating jokes by people who don't actually understand what they are. PTSD is another one. People think that watching a scary movie or weird commercial qualifies as "childhood trauma." Oh, honey, that's sweet. That's precious. I've got OCD too ... people still think it means you're meticulous or like a clean room or some shit. The reality is so much worse. The constant intrusive thoughts. INTRUSIVE thoughts, not impulsive ones. It's not a compulsion to say or do something goofy for your friends to laugh at. It's vivid images of people you love being slowly tortured and cut open by indistinct perpetrators, so violent and horrid that you WINCE, at least once an hour, its detailed worst case scenarios, atomic bombs, home invasions, gruesome accidents, running through your head multiple times a day, so immersive that you have to shake and shake and shake till you can push it loose. I've got all the good "acceptable" ones. The so called "treatable" ones. The ones it's supposedly okay to talk about, except it really, really isn't. It really, really isn't. Harper had 'em too. Harper was the only friend I had who actually got it. The rest have gone away. I am left in the underworld all alone. Fuck em.

Depression is one hell of a killer. Real trauma is one hell of a killer. There is no healing. I know that now. No recovery. There are occasional remissions and relapses, and then there's death. Fuck, what was I talking about. Eh. Clearly, I am not well.

[aaryanmc]

Nina's Bakery

Nina’s Bakery is a new and upcoming cake shop in Gurgaon NCR. We specialize in vegan cakes, however we also bake regular cakes such as Chocolate, Dutch Truffle, Black Forest etc.

We also make special cakes for occasions like Anniversary and Birthdays.  We have a cake for every occasion. And hence our main tagline is “ A slice for every occasion”. We cater to every event there is. 

Now talking about how we decided to start our own Bakery.

Nina has had professional training from one of the best baking schools in France called “ Ecole de Cuisine La Varenne” in Paris. 

After working at a famous restaurant in Paris as a professional Patissier, Nina has worked with some of the most well known Patissiers in France and has had first hand experience by watching some of the best in the business. After working for about  three years in France , Nina was very happy with her job and workplace as she was doing what she loves and was also getting paid handsomely in Paris. However she felt she wasn't utilizing her abilities to the fullest potential. Nina thought she could add a lot more variety and range  of cakes to her menu. But she realized she would need to start her own business for this. So she flew back to India and started her own cake shop.

After getting back Nina realized the cake business in India, especially in Gurgaon, is very competitive and that she has  to implement something different and unique, which would make her cakes stand out.  Nina had an idea about Vegan cakes, after doing some research she realized that there is a huge demand for vegan cakes in the younger generation but not a lot of bakeries were offering quality vegan cakes in the city.  

That's when she decided that the main “USP” of her cake shop would be her Vegan cakes. However she does realize that even though there is a huge demand for Vegan cakes, it doesn't rule out  the majority of cake sales will still be regular cakes. And so we have a mixed variety of cakes in our Menu.  The cake shop is still in its early days, but we promise you that our quality is unmatched. We realize who our competitors are and we strive to give them a run for their money.  Right now as it stands we have eight options on our menu. And every cake varies by price depending on size and weight. You can order cakes right now on

Our website “https://aaryanmac19.wixsite.com/my-site-4”. Currently we only deliver in Gurgaon. However with your support and a bit of luck, we are sure to grow in the upcoming coming years. For us quality is the priority, no matter what, we promise to make the best quality cakes possible for your special occasion. 

Along with cakes we also sell Garnishes such as extra toppings , Macarons and cupcakes. In the near future we plan to start selling our very own Vegan cakes.  All our cakes are homemade, with fresh ingredients meant specifically for baking cakes. Our fondue machine has been imported from Germany to make the softest and smoothest cake cream you have ever tasted. The workers at “Nina’s Bakery” are handpicked by Nina herself and honestly we are not a team, we are a family, who work together to make the best Patisserie Art possible. Our staff comprises five people, with Nina as the head Patissier and four other patissiers who have studied baking in various different culinary schools in India. We strive to do the best we can and make the best cakes possible. If you like our cakes and want to join our team, contact us on the website mentioned above. Thank you

[live-the-fangirl-life]

Misplaced Mail - Part 1

Aelin Galathynius x Rowan Whitethorn - Mini-Series

Aelin accidently opens a package addressed for Rowan. Not a big issue. Except that he opened a package addressed to her. Issue.

Fic Masterlist | Read on Ao3 | Part 2

Warnings: Language

1131 words

*******

One of the simple joys in life, Aelin decided, was getting an alert that a package you ordered finally arrived.

She’d just sat back down at her desk, after having taken a very short lunch because ‘that article better be in my inbox by the end of the day, Ms. Galathynius’ and she had a decent amount of editing that still needed to be done.

When her phone buzzed with a new email notification, she was sure it was another spam email but was pleasantly surprised to see it was the delivery alert for one of the orders she’d made earlier that week.

If hard-pressed, she wouldn’t be able to say what exactly she’d ordered—according to Elide, Aelin had a teensy, tiny, online shopping addiction—but whatever it was would surely be a bright spot in the stressful day she was having.

Deciding to act on the small burst of energy the alert had given her, Aelin opened the article she was writing and powered through for the rest of the afternoon.

***

Stepping into the lobby of her apartment building, Aelin quickly picked up her mail—ad, ad, bill, ad, and her package!

She took the elevator up to the fourth floor and walked down the hall towards her door. She wasn’t familiar with a lot of her neighbors, people mostly kept to themselves, but she did know the resident of the apartment directly across from hers.

Rowan Whitethorn. They’d had more than a few conversations. It was mostly bickering, but she could always sense that he enjoyed their banter almost as much as she did. He was also insanely attractive, and she couldn’t help but occasionally watch from her peephole when he went for runs in his very tight workout gear, or when he returned in his very tight, very sweaty, workout gear.

Aelin collapsed on her couch before pulling her box closer. Forgoing a knife, she managed to lift the tape and rip off the adhesive sealing the cardboard together. She didn’t recognize the logo on the box inside, but it wasn’t like she knew the manufacturers of all the products she orders.

With a small smile on her face, Aelin tossed the cardboard aside and opened the actual box.

Her excitement immediately morphed into confusion as she looked at what was sitting in her lap. A thousand questions raced through her mind.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Why would I order this?”

“Did I drunk-buy again?”

“Seriously, what is this?”

Aelin stared at the strange object for another long moment before her brain clicked. It was a piece of some kind of weird exercise equipment.

Her eyes flew wide as she scrambled for the cardboard box it came in. She flipped it over, eyes scanning the label, and then she cringed.

It wasn’t addressed to her.

It was addressed to a Mr. Rowan Whitethorn.

Shit. Oops.

Brows furrowing, Aelin reached for her phone and found the email confirming the delivery of her package. Right there, the confirmation.

She winced. If she had Rowan’s package, that meant that he most likely had hers.

A knock on her door interrupted her thoughts and she rose from her perch on the couch to open the door.

Standing in her doorway was Rowan.

“Uh, I think I—I mean, I accidently—Uh, this is yours.” He thrust a box into her arms so quickly it was as if it burned him to hold it.

Aelin didn’t think she’d ever seen him look so flustered. His face was a bright red, he was stuttering over his words, and he wouldn’t meet her eye as she adjusted the box to get a better grip.

She just raised an eyebrow at him and slowly said, “Thank you. Yeah, there must have been a mix-up because I grabbed one of yours.”

Aelin placed the box in her hands on the counter as she walked to the couch to get Rowan’s package. When she turned back to him, she caught his eyes quickly dart away from her face. Weird. Normally he was cool and composed, but right now he looked like he wanted to bolt.

“I don’t even know what this is.” She gave him his rightful box and he mumbled a thanks before turning to leave.

She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms, and watching perplexed as Rowan fumbled for his key to unlock his door.

“Okay, Whitethorn, what’s got you so jumpy?” Maybe she was a little too amused by his obvious discomfort at whatever she’d ordered.

He whipped around, dropping his key to the floor, and cursed before reaching to pick it back up.

“Nothing. Hm? I’m good. Its nothing.”

She snorted. “It’s obviously something. Gods, I can’t even remember what I bought,” she turned to grab the box on her counter, Rowan still trying to unlock his door, and lifted the lid to see inside.

She choked on air.

Now she remembered what she ordered.

It was three nights ago when Lysandra and Elide came over for girl’s night. They all had a little too much wine and binged watched rom-coms all night. Aelin remembered pieces of a conversation about her so-called dry spell, honestly, Lysandra, three months isn’t that long.

At some point, the three of them found a particular website that specialized in devices to aid in those dry spells. And apparently Aelin had placed an order.

Gods, she needed to get better at hiding her credit card from herself when she knew she’d be drinking. Not like it would do much good, she thought, she’d had those numbers memorized for years.

The sound of Rowan door finally opening made her look up, and it was then she had the full realization:

Rowan, her neighbor, her extremely hot neighbor that she had a not-so-secret crush on, opened her very realistically-shaped, bright pink, vibrator.

If only the universe could open a hole at her feet so she could disappear.

The only reason she could keep her voice steady was because Rowan seemed far more embarrassed than she was. Besides, she was an adult woman, why shouldn’t she own a vibrator…or four.

“Ah, thanks, I uh, wouldn’t want to lose this.” She cringed, why did she have to make this so awkward. More awkward.

Rowan didn’t say anything, but she saw his face get even redder. The tops of his ear were now a bright pink.

In a split-second decision, Aelin decided to throw caution to the wind and say, ‘Fuck it’. She drew up all her bravado and smirked at him as he turned and caught her eye.

“You know,” she winked, “maybe you could help me out sometime and I wouldn’t need this.”

Grinning at his slack-jawed, wide-eyed, stunned face, she turned on her heel and shut her door.

****

Taglist:

@acourtofsnakes @allthebooksunderthemoon @astra-ad-mare @becarefuloflove @bisexual-genderfluid-loki @booklover41802 @charlizeed @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @danibutterr @doubt-less @emily-gsh @enormousbooklover @foughtconquered @fromthelibraryofemilyj @hakunamatatazz @i-have-but-one-brain-cell @in-love-with-caramel-macchiato @jorjy-jo @lemonade-coolattas @mariamuses @mayhemories @midsizewitch @miserablesmusings @morganofthewildfire @nehemikkele @rowaelinismyotp @rowansfirebringer @sayosdreams @sheharahu @sleeping-and-books @stardelia @story-scribbler @superspiritfestival @surielandiareendgame @swankii-art-teacher @tomtenadia @westofmoon @whimsicallyreading @ladygabrielli1997 @moodymelanist @realbookloverproblems @gracie-rosee @julemmaes @yesdreamblog

[qqueenofhades]

Hi. I’m curious. What did you mean by “women who read fiction might get Bad Ideas!!!” has just reached its latest and stupidest form via tumblr purity culture.? I haven’t seen any of this but I’m new to tumblr.

Oh man. You really want to get me into trouble on, like, my first day back, don’t you?

Pretty much all of this has been explained elsewhere by people much smarter than me, so this isn’t necessarily going to say anything new, but I’ll do my best to synthesize and summarize it. As ever, it comes with the caveat that it is my personal interpretation, and is not intended as the be-all, end-all. You’ll definitely run across it if you spend any time on Tumblr (or social media in general, including Twitter, and any other fandom-related spaces). This will get long.

In short: in the nineteenth century, when Gothic/romantic literature became popular and women were increasingly able to read these kinds of novels for fun, there was an attendant moral panic over whether they, with their weak female brains, would be able to distinguish fiction from reality, and that they might start making immoral or inappropriate choices in their real life as a result. Obviously, there was a huge sexist and misogynistic component to this, and it would be nice to write it off entirely as just hysterical Victorian pearl-clutching, but that feeds into the “lol people in the past were all much stupider than we are today” kind of historical fallacy that I often and vigorously shut down. (Honestly, I’m not sure how anyone can ever write the “omg medieval people believed such weird things about medicine!” nonsense again after what we’ve gone through with COVID, but that is a whole other rant.) The thinking ran that women shouldn’t read novels for fear of corrupting their impressionable brains, or if they had to read novels at all, they should only be the Right Ones: i.e., those that came with a side of heavy-handed and explicit moralizing so that they wouldn’t be tempted to transgress. Of course, books trying to hammer their readers over the head with their Moral Point aren’t often much fun to read, and that’s not the point of fiction anyway. Or at least, it shouldn’t be.

Fast-forward to today, and the entire generation of young, otherwise well-meaning people who have come to believe that being a moral person involves only consuming the “right” kind of fictional content, and being outrageously mean to strangers on the internet who do not agree with that choice. There are a lot of factors contributing to this. First, the advent of social media and being subject to the judgment of people across the world at all times has made it imperative that you demonstrate the “right” opinions to fit in with your peer-group, and on fandom websites, that often falls into a twisted, hyper-critical, so-called “progressivism” that diligently knows all the social justice buzzwords, but has trouble applying them in nuance, context, and complicated real life. To some extent, this obviously is not a bad thing. People need to be critical of the media they engage with, to know what narratives the creator(s) are promoting, the tropes they are using, the conclusions that they are supporting, and to be able to recognize and push back against genuinely harmful content when it is produced – and this distinction is critical – by professional mainstream creators. Amateur, individual fan content is another kettle of fish. There is a difference between critiquing a professional creator (though social media has also made it incredibly easy to atrociously abuse them) and attacking your fellow fan and peer, who is on the exact same footing as you as a consumer of that content.

Obviously, again, this doesn’t mean that you can’t call out people who are engaging in actually toxic or abusive behavior, fans or otherwise. But certain segments of Tumblr culture have drained both those words (along with “gaslighting”) of almost all critical meaning, until they’re applied indiscriminately to “any fictional content that I don’t like, don’t agree with, or which doesn’t seem to model healthy behavior in real life” and “anyone who likes or engages with this content.” Somewhere along the line, a reactionary mindset has been formed in which the only fictional narratives or relationships are those which would be “acceptable” in real life, to which I say…. what? If I only wanted real life, I would watch the news and only read non-fiction. Once again, the underlying fear, even if it’s framed in different terms, is that the people (often women) enjoying this content can’t be trusted to tell the difference between fiction and reality, and if they like “problematic” fictional content, they will proceed to seek it out in their real life and personal relationships. And this is just… not true.

As I said above, critical media studies and thoughtful consumption of entertainment are both great things! There have been some great metas written on, say, the Marvel Cinematic Universe and how it is increasingly relying on villains who have outwardly admirable motives (see: the Flag Smashers in The Falcon and the Winter Soldier) who are then stigmatized by their anti-social, violent behavior and attacks on innocent people, which is bad even as the heroes also rely on violence to achieve their ends. This is a clever way to acknowledge social anxieties – to say that people who identify with the Flag Smashers are right, to an extent, but then the instant they cross the line into violence, they’re upsetting the status quo and need to be put down by the heroes. I watched TFATWS and obviously enjoyed it. I have gone on a Marvel re-watching binge recently as well. I like the MCU! I like the characters and the madcap sci-fi adventures! But I can also recognize it as a flawed piece of media that I don’t have to accept whole-cloth, and to be able to criticize some of the ancillary messages that come with it. It doesn’t have to be black and white.

When it comes to shipping, moreover, the toxic culture of “my ship is better than your ship because it’s Better in Real Life” ™ is both well-known and in my opinion, exhausting and pointless. As also noted, the whole point of fiction is that it allows us to create and experience realities that we don’t always want in real life. I certainly enjoy plenty of things in fiction that I would definitely not want in reality: apocalyptic space operas, violent adventures, and yes, garbage men. A large number of my ships over the years have been labeled “unhealthy” for one reason or another, presumably because they don’t adhere to the stereotype of the coffee-shop AU where there’s no tension and nobody ever makes mistakes or is allowed to have serious flaws. And I’m not even bagging on coffee-shop AUs! Some people want to remove characters from a violent situation and give them that fluff and release from the nonstop trauma that TV writers merrily inflict on them without ever thinking about the consequences. Fanfiction often focuses on the psychology and healing of characters who have been through too much, and since that’s something we can all relate to right now, it’s a very powerful exercise. As a transformative and interpretive tool, fanfic is pretty awesome.

The problem, again, comes when people think that fic/fandom can only be used in this way, and that going the other direction, and exploring darker or complicated or messy dynamics and relationships, is morally bad. As has been said before: shipping is not activism. You don’t get brownie points for only having “healthy” ships (and just my personal opinion as a queer person, these often tend to be heterosexual white ships engaging in notably heteronormative behavior) and only supporting behavior in fiction that you think is acceptable in real life. As we’ve said, there is a systematic problem in identifying what that is. Ironically, for people worried about Women Getting Ideas by confusing fiction and reality, they’re doing the same thing, and treating fiction like reality. Fiction is fiction. Nobody actually dies. Nobody actually gets hurt. These people are not real. We need to normalize the idea of characters as figments of a creator’s imagination, not actual people with their own agency. They exist as they are written, and by the choice of people whose motives can be scrutinized and questioned, but they themselves are not real. Nor do characters reflect the author’s personal views. Period.

This feeds into the fact that the internet, and fandom culture, is not intended as a “safe space” in the sense that no questionable or triggering content can ever be posted. Archive of Our Own, with its reams of scrupulous tagging and requests for you to explicitly click and confirm that you are of age to see M or E-rated content, is a constant target of the purity cultists for hosting fictional material that they see as “immoral.” But it repeatedly, unmistakably, directly asks you for your consent to see this material, and if you then act unfairly victimized, well… that’s on you. You agreed to look at this, and there are very few cases where you didn’t know what it entailed. Fandom involves adults creating contents for adults, and while teenagers and younger people can and do participate, they need to understand this fact, rather than expecting everything to be a PG Disney movie.

When I do write my “dark” ships with garbage men, moreover, they always involve a lot of the man being an idiot, being bluntly called out for an idiot, and learning healthier patterns of behavior, which is one of the fundamental patterns of romance novels. But they also involve an element of the woman realizing that societal standards are, in fact, bullshit, and she can go feral every so often, as a treat. But even if I wrote them another way, that would still be okay! There are plenty of ships and dynamics that I don’t care for and don’t express in my fic and fandom writing, but that doesn’t mean I seek out the people who do like them and reprimand them for it. I know plenty of people who use fiction, including dark fiction, in a cathartic way to process real-life trauma, and that’s exactly the role – one of them, at least – that fiction needs to be able to fulfill. It would be terribly boring and limited if we were only ever allowed to write about Real Life and nothing else. It needs to be complicated, dark, escapist, unreal, twisted, and whatever else. This means absolutely zilch about what the consumers of this fiction believe, act, or do in their real lives.

Once more, I do note the misogyny underlying this. Nobody, after all, seems to care what kind of books or fictional narratives men read, and there’s no reflection on whether this is teaching them unhealthy patterns of behavior, or whether it predicts how they’ll act in real life. (There was some of that with the “do video games cause mass shootings?”, but it was a straw man to distract from the actual issues of toxic masculinity and gun culture.) Certain kinds of fiction, especially historical fiction, romance novels, and fanfic, are intensely gendered and viewed as being “women’s fiction” and therefore hyper-criticized, while nobody’s asking if all the macho-man potboiler military-intrigue tough-guy stereotypical “men’s fiction” is teaching them bad things. So the panic about whether your average woman on the internet is reading dark fanfic with an Unhealthy Ship (zomgz) is, in my opinion, misguided at best, and actively destructive at worst.

[nev3rfound]

one last look : b.b

it’s the night before your wedding, but you can’t help but long to see your future husband. (1.9k)

finally a fluffy fic! this was from my other blog but i’ve made considerable changes for our boy bucky barnes. (warnings: some swearing) also requests are open so feel free to send one in!

masterlist / permanent taglist 

- i also have an etsy shop, i just released wandavision themed tshirts if you’d like to check those out! -

(everything on my blog is my own writing. if it is shared on another page or website without being credited, it has not been approved to be shared by me. all rights reserved.)

Sitting in your room, you couldn’t stop yourself from checking your phone.

With your champagne glass in hand, you swirl the liquid around as the girls laugh loudly, causing you to zone back into the conversation. As you lift your head up, you notice them all focusing on you.

“You doing okay over there?” Wanda asks.

Nodding in response, you slide off the bed, leaving your phone behind you as you return to the conversation.

“Can you believe its come round so fast?” You turn to see the Pepper beaming, barely able to contain her excitement.

It’s true, the big day has crept up on you sooner than you had anticipated. After shy of fourteen months of planning, arguments with Tony and Steve about the decor and nearly calling it off twice you’ve made it. Tomorrow will be the day you become his wife.

“I still can’t believe I’m going to be someone’s wife.” You think aloud, a look of shock in your eyes as you gulp the last bit of champagne in your glass.

As you reach for the bottle sitting in the cooler, Natasha bats your hand away. “Not happening. I’ve been strictly instructed you’re not allowed more than two glasses tonight.”

Raising a brow to her, Natasha adamantly shakes her head. “Who told you that, Nat?” You question as you lean back against the bed, watching as the girls look to one another.

“Steve.” She quietly announces, trying to remain composed, but it is short-lived as you all stifle a laugh. “I’m being serious!” She states through a chuckle as you fall into Wanda, feeling the champagne already going to your head.

“Oh, the irony I love it.” You giggle, letting out a soft sigh as your conversations continue but you let your mind wander, thinking about Bucky just a few doors down.

*

“So you’re stuck in here?” Tony questions, looking around the large room and nods to himself. “Nod bad, I mean for the average joe.” He adds and looks back to Bucky, seeing him lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling.

“You’re the one who booked the hotel, Tony.” Steve reminds him, and Tony simply shrugs his shoulders.

“I just want to see her.” Bucky releases a heavy breath, thinking of you and swearing he can hear your laughter through the walls. “Just one quick hug, tell her I love her and that’s it.” Bucky suggests, forcing himself to sit upright.

Yet, he’s greeted by Steve shaking his head. “Not happening. You made Nat and I promise to not let you see each other until the big day.” He reminds Bucky who rolls his eyes. “Traditions, Buck.”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky shrugs his shoulders. “I know, I know, but I also really miss her.” Bucky admits.

Despite it having only been three days since he last saw you, it’s hard to keep away from one another. Both of you are magnetic together, unable to be kept apart. It’s obvious when one misses the other as your mood changes instantly. Yet, once he’s back you’re more perky, even if it is a brief visit.

Even during missions when you're kept apart, you're always on his mind. The moment when he arrives back at the compound you're there to greet him with open arms and vice versa. You were his rock, and he was yours.

“You going to sulk all night then?” Sam questions, watching as Bucky runs his fingers through his hair. “Take that as a yes.” He mutters under his breath, noting the sadness radiating from Bucky.

After a few hours, everyone heads back to their own rooms leaving you and Bucky in your rooms alone. Knowing the coast is clear, you reach down for your phone and call him. You might not be able to see him but to hear his voice will be enough for now.

Seeing his phone light up, Bucky's instincts heighten as he grabs it, nearly crushing it in his grip as he answers. “Hey, doll.” He answers cheerfully and is greeted by a small chuckle down the line. Even the sound of your laughter is uplifting as he smiles to himself, wishing you could be in his arms.

Forcing yourself upright, you hug the pillow against your chest, wishing it could be him. “How’s your night going?” You ask him, unsure what else to say.

Bucky sighs heavily through the phone. “Rough. Steve’s been trying to keep me distracted all night.” He admits with a short laugh.

“Same with Nat, even for an assassin her distraction tactics aren’t up to scratch and Pepper just keeps going on about the finishing touches whilst Wanda nursed the champagne.” You joke, but Bucky remains quiet on the other end of the line.

Hanging his legs over the edge of the bed, Bucky notices his curtains remain ajar, illuminating the empty pool on the ground floor. “I miss you so much. And I know it’s just one more night, doll, but I just wanna give you a hug.” He tells you truthfully, and you wish he could see your bright smile that melts his cold heart.

“But traditions, Bucky,” You start, but Bucky cuts you off.

“Fuck traditions. If I want to see my future wife I doubt it’ll be the end of everything.” He states. Through the line you can hear him moving around his room, now standing in front of the window, seeing no one wandering the grounds of the hotel. “Meet me by the pool in ten, okay?”

You giggle like an excited child breaking the rules. “See you in ten.” You tell him before hanging up and rush around the room, not dissimilar to how you did before your first date all those years ago.

Natasha couldn't believe how much mess one person could make whilst getting ready, but you just wanted it to be perfect. "He's such a good guy, Nat. I don't wanna screw this one up." You tell her as you emerge from your bathroom in a simple sundress, looking up for her approval. "Well?"

Rising to her feet, Natasha reaches over for your shoes. "He'll love it, I mean he's already smitten." Natasha nudges you, hearing movement outside of your suite. "And clearly you are too."

"Shut up," You brush her comment off, but Natasha keeps her eyes on you. "okay fine." You sigh in defeat, turning on your heels as you reach across for your bag. "I like him, I mean what is there not to like? He's charming, a true gentleman and makes me laugh. Plus I mean look at him." You chuckle.

"Good enough for me." Natasha states, walking over to your door and opens it, revealing Bucky stood with wide eyes and a light blush across his cheeks. "Treat her well, Barnes." Natasha remarks as she exits your suite with a smirk on her face. 

Silently, you walk out of your room and close the door slowly behind you. Natasha is staying in the room beside yours and she promised to listen out and watch you like a hawk. Creeping down the corridor, you slip your keycard into your pocket as you reach the lift, unable to wipe the smile from your face as the doors close in front of you.

As you reach the pool, you can already see him standing there, waiting for you. “Hey, future husband.” You call out quietly, walking toward him.

Bucky turns around instantly upon hearing your voice and steps forward, wrapping his arms around you tightly, longing for the sense of comfort you always provide. “You have no idea how fucking happy I am to see you.” He mumbles into your hair as you remain in his arms, not wanting to be the one to let go first.

“Me too. I missed you.” You mutter back to him, feeling him pulling away just to see your face as he smiles at you. “Can you believe we’re getting married tomorrow?”

He raises an eyebrow, unable to stop his smile from growing at the thought. “I definitely can. Been waiting for this day since I proposed.” He thinks aloud, something you haven’t heard him say.

“Really?” You ask softly, feeling your heart-melting as he nods to you.

“Well of course,” He states as his hands slide down your arms and into your hands, intertwining your fingers with his. “I couldn’t wait for you to become my wife, for us to start this whole new journey. I just couldn’t wait until tomorrow to tell you that I love you, and always will.”

You can feel tears building in your eyes as Bucky shushes you. “I can’t help it,” You chuckle, taking one hand and wiping your eyes. “planning this has been so hard and I just want it to be perfect.” You admit, closing your eyes as a small whimper leaves your lips.

“And it will be.” Bucky reminds you, knowing how many sleepless nights you’ve had over the little details from the bridesmaids’ dresses to what cake topper you should have in between missions. Even when you were hospitalised after a mission went sideways, you had your laptop on hand to work on the invitations. “But as long as we’re together, it doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah,” You nod with a small smile. “as long as I have you, I’ll be happy.” Slowly you stand on your tiptoes, kissing him.

Your arms rise from your sides and wrap around his neck whilst his wander down to your waist, his cool metal arm sending goosebumps over your skin. As the kiss becomes more passionate both of you can’t help but crave what normally follows, but it’s one more night, you can wait.

Unbeknownst to the both of you, Natasha and Steve sit in his room. “Honestly, they’re hopeless.” Natasha sighs, looking up to see Natasha nodding in response.

“Hopelessly in love, Nat.” Steve states, causing Natasha to roll her eyes and feign vomiting. “And besides, you’re the one who set them up all those years ago.”

“How was I supposed to know they’d fall in love? I was just trying to help Y/n get over her ex.” Natasha reminds Steve. “You played a role in this too, Cap.”

Steve nods. “We did good, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Natasha chuckles, raising her glass to Steve. “we did good.”

Despite the sweetness of it all, and you both being unable to keep a tradition Natasha and Steve knew they should just let you get on with it. You have a lifetime together ahead, why stop you the day before it all begins?

Pulling away, you rest your forehead against his. Both of you are slightly breathless, eyes still closed. “There will definitely be more of that to come.” You giggle, quickly pecking his lips before starting to head back inside, Bucky hot on your tail.

As you stand in the lift together, your hand remains in his. “I guess, until tomorrow, Mr Barnes.” You tell him with a smile as you take out your keycard, watching the doors of the lift open.

Walking down the corridor, Bucky’s room is first and your hand slips out of his. “Wait,” He whispers to you and you turn around, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I just wanna look at you one last time before you’re my bride.” He says with a tooth aching smile.

Slowly, you twirl for him and hold back the laughter bubbling in your throat. “How’s that?” You whisper and he nods to you.

“Goodnight, Y/n.” He whispers back before slipping into his room, locking the door behind him as you wander back to your own room and lie on the bed, unable to wipe the smile from your face.

t a g l i s t (thank you for the support!) link in my bio and at the top of this piece to add yourself☺️(if your user isn’t tagged, it’s because nothing comes up sorry!)

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[cheeseanonioncrisps]

There are people who like Crowley. He finds it annoying, but there are.

The two old ladies a few flats below, for example. All he did was say "good morning" to them a few times on the stairs (he blames Aziraphale for getting him into bad habits) and use them as a dumping ground for disobedient pot plants (it's easier than killing them. He still doesn't know how something that technically doesn't have eyes is capable of looking at him like that) and suddenly he's "that nice Mr Crowley" and they keep trying to ply him with cups of tea and biscuits.

Often he takes them up on the offer, making the excuse that it's basically research by this point. Hell would be unstoppable when it came to tempting the unwary if they could just figure out how little old ladies always manage to get people to have a cup of tea.

Then there are the two men who live down the street who talked to him about his car one time. I mean, he probably should have tried to tempt them into envying it or something, but after spending most of his time with Aziraphale— who Does Not Understand about cars— it was easy to get sucked into a long conversation about old cars and how they don't make them like that any more and how good of a condition he's kept his in.

Now suddenly they're saying "hi" to him every time they pass and often he says it back automatically. Sometimes they'll ask him for his opinion on different models of car— it's a nightmare.

Even when he's on temptations, aside from the people he's actually trying to make like him— at least right up until the last moment, when they suddenly realise that they really don't like him all that much at all— if he's dealing with any sort of business, there are usually at least some people lower down who hate their bosses enough to appreciate this guy who is very obviously trying to make everything go as wrong as possible.

Crowley has been invited to parties. And drinks in the pub. And even, once, a coffee morning for some of the neighbourhood stay-at-home parents, complete with small children running around. And alright, some of these events were actually quite fun (the latter group keep nagging him to come back— it was the first time anybody managed to get the kids to stay quiet for the whole morning), but it's an embarassing thing to admit, even to yourself, and certainly he'd never tell anybody else about it.

By comparison, there are people who really dislike Aziraphale.

Customers mainly. Aziraphale can be fucking scary when it comes to customers. He's this weird, slightly intimidating old man who keeps insisting that you absolutely don't want to buy any of his precious books— and if you argue with him for too long, you'll soon find yourself back out on the street, the shop door bolted shut behind you, and with no memory of how you got there.

There are whole forums on rare book dealers' websites full of people hating on Crazy Old Mr Fell, who clearly has no respect for his collection (after all, if he did, he'd surely get that obvious mould infestation seen to, wouldn't he?) or any idea of the fact that at least half of it belongs in a fucking museum.

The local mob has its own, fairly obvious reasons, for hating Mr Fell— although considering what happened to the last few people they sent to try and 'do business' with him, they've decided that it's probably safer to hate him from a respectful distance.

There's also a subset of people who just find his old-fashioned language and failure to keep up with modern culture or technology very annoying. After all, if you don't know that Aziraphale actually did live through several previous centuries, his habit of calling bicycles "velocipedes" and all music that isn't classical "bebop" sounds utterly ridiculous. People assume that he's putting it on to sound quaint. (And, honestly, a good 40% of the time they're completely right.) Plus his insistence on spouting heavenly propaganda at every opportunity can make him come across as a tad too good to be true at times, which rubs some people up the wrong way.

(It really doesn't help that Aziraphale's ability to sense emotions means that he can tell when people take a dislike to him unfairly, and if he's feeling petty will frequently respond by upping the ante and deliberately coming up with more and more ludicrously old-fashioned phrases, while a certain demon— who has had this technique used against him often enough to recognise it on sight— struggles not to burst out laughing.)

Now, the interesting thing about this is that, since Aziraphale and Crowley live so close together, there are absolutely some places where these two populations (the people that like Crowley vs the people who hate Aziraphale) overlap.

Meaning that there are totally people who see the two of them eating at a local restaurant or driving somewhere together and wonder to themselves what on earth that nice Mr Crowley sees in that awful Mr Fell.

[axvoter]

Blatantly Partisan Party Review XVI (federal 2022): Jacqui Lambie Network

Running where: TAS for Senate and four of its five lower house seats (not Clark)

Prior reviews: federal 2016, federal 2019

What I said before: “I have misgivings about her, but her platform has improved, and although she is not a great option, there are far worse parties running.”

What I think this year: This year is the first time the Jacqui Lambie Network (JLN) has contested a federal election without Lambie herself on the ballot. JLN did contest the 2018 Tasmanian election without her as a candidate and ran fourth overall—but a distant fourth, not entitling it to any seats. At federal level, Jacqui improved her polling from 8.3% in 2016 to 8.9% in 2019, although because the former was a double dissolution, she got in with a quota in her own right in 2016 but needed preferences to get over the line in 2019.

This time around, she and her party have thrown their weight behind lead Senate candidate Tammy Tyrrell. JLN has appropriated the old stereotype about Tasmanians having two heads to frame it positively: the appeal to the voters is that “two heads are better than one”. JLN urges voters to consider what Lambie has achieved on her own and what more she could achieve with two votes in the Senate. It seems to me that Tyrrell needs to develop a bit more of her own voice, but it’s clear that JLN thinks the key to winning votes is to use Lambie’s reputation. JLN is also running candidates in four of Tasmania’s five seats in the House of Representatives, but not nearly as prominently, and judging by a “coming soon” slot on their website they intended to find a Clark candidate and didn’t.

Look, by this point you probably know what Jacqui stands for: “battlers”, veterans welfare, protectionist manufacturing policies, a federal ICAC, and a strong aversion to China. So, JLN's website has powerful language about greater transparency in political donations and an overdue ICAC “with teeth”, but there is also Sinophobic language about a “wrecking ball” coming for Australia.

You probably also know that Lambie has a sense of humour and a cult following, the two embodied together in the party merch shop’s offerings, which include prints of her in a bikini strangling Jabba the Hutt with Clive Palmer’s head. She speaks for a distinctive constituency, a traditionally working-class one that is often either belittled as bogans or actively claims to be bogan.

Lambie started out clearly on the right of politics with exclusionary and nationalistic rhetoric, but to her credit she has clearly matured in her time in parliament and her views have modified. I would now place Lambie fairly well in the centre of politics, at least the centre of Senate politics at present. The website is full of populist rhetoric and very little on policy. It’s just platitudes.

Honestly, I disagree with Lambie regularly, but she does seem genuinely responsive to community concerns, personal testimonies, and informed advice—and she also seems mightily pissed off with some leading figures of the Morrison government. You get a sense of Lambie’s centrism with her recommended preferences: in Bass (marginal Lib) and Franklin (safe Labor), she recommends a better preference for the Liberal candidate over Labor, but in Braddon (marginal Liberal) and (marginal Labor), she recommends a better preference for Labor's candidate, and in the Senate she places Labor above Liberal—and, in all cases, both above Green. Curiously, despite her antipathy to Clive as so vividly suggested by the merch link above, she still recommends her supporters send a preference to the UAP. Her Senate suggestion is JLN, Shooters (ugh), Labor, Liberal, UAP, Green. What an odd jumble of parties to choose out of the 14 on the Tasmanian ticket.

The Sinophobia is off-putting, some serious dog-whistles there, but there is much worse than JLN in the Australian political landscape—not least the Liberals.

My recommendation: Give the Jacqui Lambie Network a middling preference above the Liberals

Website: https://lambienetwork.com.au/

[nxrthmizu]

#28 with Daminette, please! Also I love your works!

Prompt: ‘Pretending to be a couple and this is a huge mistake AU’ 

Pairing: Daminette

Words: 2904 words 

Note: I kind of changed up the idea a little, hope you don’t mind... 

[Thank you so much for the request hun, I’m so sorry it took be so long...

Enjoy! 💖💖💖]

- Cady

---

Damian had always thought that turning eighteen was a privilege. Boy, was he wrong. It was, in fact, a nuisance.

“Mr. Wayne! Do you have a special someone yet?”

“Mr. Wayne, my daughter is 18 and single, would you like to-”

"Mr. Wayne-"

Galas became a swarming mass of reporters and fathers seeking marriage for their daughters. He could constantly feel chills along his back as women stared at him shamelessly as if he were a prize, their predatorial gaze piercing through his soul. Annoyance tainted every aspect of his features at galas, his siblings constantly reminding him to not scowl so much. But honestly, could you blame him? He couldn’t go anywhere without being pestered by twenty reporters about his love life.

Heck, if he wanted to get a cup of coffee by himself, he had to dress up like a criminal avoiding attention. Lucky for him, there was one special cafe that was out of the way and always offered a little quiet for him- As quiet as it could get, anyway.

The Lucky Bug Cafe.

It was quiet and tucked behind a little street, often filled with just one or two students studying quietly and an old couple casually relaxing by the corner. The Lucky Bug Cafe was run by a single, dark-haired woman who looked at him and thought: ‘Ah, he needs somewhere to lay low for a while’ instead of ‘It’s the heir of the Wayne Enterprises, the Damian Wayne’.

It was another casual morning, and Damian needed his fix of coffee before heading to the office, where he would oversee his father’s (And soon to be his) employees while self-studying his business course. A long day lay in wait ahead of him, and Damian would appreciate and nice, aromatic cup of brewed coffee before he had to survive on the machine-made coffee for the rest of the day.

“Good morning.” The dark-haired woman greeted him with a warm smile, her bluebell eyes twinkling under the glow of the yellow lightbulbs. “The usual?”

“The usual.” Damian nodded, hoodie covering his face.

Leaning against the counter, he watched as she bustled around the area, turning on the machine, humming a song to herself as she headed over to the fridge for fresh milk. He glanced at the glass display case under the counter, eyes flitting over the batches of pastries that she had made for the day.

“Could I get five mint-flavoured macarons, please?” He asked as she set his coffee on the collection counter.

“Oh, of course.” She smiled brightly, already grabbing a paper bag. “They’re my new recipe! Do tell me what you think of them tomorrow.”

Damian smiled, his features softening at the woman’s words. “Sure. Oh, and how’s your website holding up?”

Perhaps one of the reasons they clicked so well together was because they were both... Well, famous. Except that he was the future boss of the Wayne Enterprises and she was the anonymous designer of Nette’s Design and Clothing. Articles concerning the identity of the anonymous designer popped up occasionally on Gotham’s magazines, not to mention that the celebrities that wore her work often ended up on the front page of fashion magazines.

“Good. It’s getting a little flooded these days, but I think I’ll manage.” She said with a giggle, winking at him. To anyone else, it would seem like they were talking about a small, by-the-side online clothing commission business, but both of them knew the true value of their conversation. “Need me to make you a new suit for the gala?”

It was then the idea struck him.

He processed it, and a fierce blush erupted on his cheeks, the said man nearly dropping his paper bag of macarons in the process as he fully understood his idea.

“Are- Are you okay?” She asked instantly, worry clouding her features.

“Yea-Yeah. I’m fine. I’ll... Get back to you on that.” He stammered, knowing that if he stayed a second longer, he was going to blurt out his crazy, stupid idea, and everything was going to be over.

Except that he couldn’t get the idea out of his head as he stared at the ceiling, sleep refusing to overtake him. The idea wouldn’t even leave him alone as he leapt across the streets of Gotham, keeping an eye out for crime.

If he brought Marinette to the gala with him, all the reporters would get off his back.

But then again, Marinette would never have peace again, and he couldn’t do that to her... Right...?

“Morning.” Damian greeted her the next day, dressed in a dark green hoodie. To anyone else, it would seem like a normal hoodie, but in reality, it was his favourite hoodie. ‘NDC’ was stitched in with golden thread on the inside of the sweater- The work of his favourite coffee shop owner. She had gave it to him after two months of their discreet friendship, and it was one of his most valued possessions.

"Morning," She replied with a gentle smile, her eyes morphing into little crescents as she did so. "The usual?" Her fingers never stopped moving, constantly wiping the counter clean or preparing a cup of warm milk. It was just one of the things he found adorable admirable.

"Yeah."

Before he could think, his mouth acted on its own. “Do you think you could be my date for the gala?” He blurted out suddenly, freezing when her movements came to an abrupt stop. Bluebell eyes slowly flicked up to his emerald ones, his heart jumping out of his ribs when those soft orbs stared into his. “You don’t have to say yes, I was just wondering-”

“Okay.”

He could feel his heart fluttering happily as she smiled, her eyes twinkling in bluebell crescents and her lips a soft curve.

“If you don’t mind, could I maybe go as... You know.” She asked shyly, brushing one of her hair strands behind her ears. “I know you want a date because... Well.” She laughed. “The attention, but I was hoping I could go as... Nette instead of... Well, plain ol’ Mari.”

“You’re not plain.” He responded instantly like a reflex action, tone cutting but soft at the same time. “But if you want to go as... It’s your choice. And... Thank you. For understanding.”

The smile she returned him was worth more than a thousand dollars, he thought.

---

Slicking his hair into a neat, presentable style, Damian checked his appearance in the mirror for the last time. The day of the gala had arrived, and they had already discussed all the details of the night over text. They would pretend to be a couple so that the reporters would finally get off Damian’s back, and ‘Nette’ would get her first appearance in public- They had both agreed that Marinette would wear a mask in order to preserve her identity, so that she could stay in a quiet world for just a little longer before she planned her official debut to the world.

The suit felt soft to the touch, a silk moisture across the shiny surface of the dark fabric. Gold threads wrapped around the jade green that Marinette had chosen as the accent of the suit. A jade tie with the same golden embroidery accompanied the suit and the dark-moss green dress-shirt that he had on underneath. ‘NDC’ was stitched carefully in the same cursive lettering that it was on the corner of the suit, the trademark of the designer’s handiwork.

Not wanting to answer his family’s pestering questions, Damian slipped out of the house, acknowledging and thanking whatever deity out there for the wonderful man named Alfred Pennyworth.

Alfred gave Damian a knowing smile, handing him the keys to his new car. “Thank you.” The youngest Wayne thanked the butler, the keys jingling in his hands.

“Treat her like the lady she is.” Alfred advised him, stepping forward to adjust the emerald-eyed man’s tie. There was a quiet, lingering thought inside the older man’s head, but after one more glance at the nervous young adult with a cold outer shell, he decided against the remark.

The car engine rumbled to life with a purr, pulling out of the garage. Alfred watched as the tail lights disappeared into the evening, the thought still clear in his mind.

He’s in love and he doesn’t even realise it.

---

“Hey.”

She opened the door with a smile- God, she never stopped smiling, did she? A little twirl showed off her dress, made in the same palette as his suit. Jade green and moss green strips of thick fabric made the dress blossom into a flower shape around her ankles. The top half of the dress hugged her curves in all the right ways, a braided rope going over her neck to hold the dress up. The sleeveless-ness of the dress showed off the smooth skin of the designer, not to mention her striking, sharp collarbones that were on full display.

“You look beautiful.” He managed, knowing full well it was a lie that he had just uttered. She wasn’t beautiful, god, no. She was absolutely stunning and gorgeous, and he would give anything to keep that smile on her lips. He had to mutter up all of his resistance and self-control to prevent himself from reaching out to stroke her soft, dark hair.

“Thank you.” The smile would’ve made him melt into a Damian-shaped puddle, except he had a date and he would have to wait until the night was over to melt into a puddle. “Shall we?”

He offered her his arm, like the gentleman his dad butler had taught and raised him to be. The feeling of her soft skin in his hands made roses flower over his cheeks, his heart beat a little louder, and the affectionate feeling in his chest double in size.

The drive to the gala was the most interesting car ride he ever had. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel as he listened to her sing to the songs on the radio, occasionally joining in shyly, both their voices dancing in an intricate dance of harmony. Her laugh tinkled like wind chimes; her smile glowed like the moon on a clear night; her voice soothed his soul like a warm bowl of soup. There was absolutely nothing on his mind but her and her only.

“Are you ready?” He asked, pulling up in front of the gala’s entrance. Reaching for the mask on her lap, he placed in on her gently, careful not to tug on her hair as he adjusted it.

“For our fake date?” She giggled. “As I’ll ever be.”

A smile danced on his lips as he pushed the car door open, for once, not annoyed by the bright flashes of the cameras. He wanted the world to know how amazing Marinette Dupain-Cheng was, and he wanted her to rise to top of the fashion world and beyond. There was nothing that would make him feel more honoured than the fact that he would be the one that introduced her to the world, watching as she took over the rest of the fashion kingdom like the queen she was.

“M’lady.” He whispered, pulling her car door open as he offered his hand for her, bowing slightly. Whispers clouded the air, quickly replaced by gasps as Marinette took it gracefully, stepping out with the aura of a goddess. He planted a light kiss on her palm, emerald eyes bright and soft in the dying light of the evening.

“Thank you. Shall we?” She smiled in return, never removing her hand from his grasp.

He nodded to her, gesturing for the valet to take his car away, tossing the man the keys. He normally wouldn’t trust anyone else with his car, but at the moment, escorting to beautiful bluenette was the only priority in his mind.

Because she was the only thing that mattered, after all.

---

Funnily enough, he didn’t feel triumphant at all.

Damian had thought that if he got a woman to pretend to be his girlfriend, well, he would enjoy the disappointed looks on the fathers’ faces and the burning anger in the girls’ eyes. Well, it wasn’t the case at all.

He was absolutely mesmerised with the designer next to him, who was talking gracefully to the CEO of one of Gotham’s fashion magazines. She was the definition of grace, beauty, and poise. Everything about her said goddess. She practically radiated power into the room, even when she didn’t realise it. There was a calm to her that made her seem like a cool-headed queen, and boy he would be willing to be her knight any day.

“I’m going to go get some wine.” He whispered to her, arm looping around her waist naturally. They truly did give off the ‘dating’ vibe, but he was too absorbed in her to notice.

“Okay.” She smiled, only this time it made him feel something else. No, not just a little flutter of his stomach, or a resounding thump of his heart. In fact, the first thought going through his head was that he wished, hoped, prayed that he could wake up to that smile for the rest of his life. He could picture it in his mind- Her, curled in his arms, her dark hair spreading into an intricate net behind her, eyes closed softly.

He could see her eyes fluttering open, see her yawn and stretch before nestling back into his embrace, only this time her eyes were open and there was a loving smile on her lips, and she was speaking.

“Morning, love.”

It took him a moment to realise that he had been stupidly standing there after stating that he was going to get them some drinks. Both the CEO and Marinette stared at him expectantly, wondering why he had suddenly got into a daze.

He found a waiter, easily plucking two wine glasses from the man’s tray before making his way through the crowd, who parted for him like the red sea parted for Moses. It was infuriating; He couldn’t get the picture out of his head. Her, nestled into his arms... No, they were on a fake date, and it was only for one sole purpose... It wasn’t as if he liked her... Right?

Wrong.

---

He made a mistake.

It wasn’t until after the night ended that he begin to feel the pain. His heart ached when she left, thanking him for the night. For the next few days, photos of Damian Wayne and the mysterious, masked Nette clouded the cover pages of magazines, reminding him over and over of that one night that he got to live.

His family hadn’t stopped pestering him about what in the world happened, Damian, and after Tim had found out Nette’s identity through the batcomputer’s wide database, it didn’t take long for the rest of the family to piece ‘Damian-might’ve-fell-in-love-with-a-cafe-shop-owner-who-happens-to-be-a-world-wide-famous-designer’ together. 

“You should ask her on a real date sometime soon, Master Wayne.” Alfred told him offhandedly as Damian strolled into the kitchen. The butler was busy polishing wine glasses, placing them neatly back onto the shelf when he was done.

“It’s kind of too late.” He muttered quietly, sinking onto the chair, the soft fabric of the dark green sweater comforting him.

Alfred sighed, placing down the glass with a sonorous clink. “It’s never too late for anything, Master Wayne. Not if you take the chance and make a move.” Damian met the older man’s eyes for a second, realising what he needed to do. It was as if someone had took a lighter and relit the candle in his heart.

“I’m going out, Alfred.” He said abruptly, never pausing to see the proud smile on the older man’s face. “I don’t think I’ll be home for dinner.”

“Noted, Master Wayne. Your car keys are on the counter in the living room.”

---

He didn’t bother to pull on his hoodie, barging through the back door of the Lucky Cat Cafe before turning back on second thought, closing the door gently, muttering a sorry to the poor door that just got kicked open in the heat of the moment.

“Why are you apologising to a door?” Her laugh sounded behind her, the woman giving him an amused look.

“I... Kicked it open.” He admitted, before remembering what he had come to do. “Marinette.”

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Yeah?”

“I know the gala was a fake date, and we did it because it benefitted the both of us, but-!” He caught himself, realising that for once he was doing something without a plan. “But I don’t want that.”

She stared at him blankly. “Um... That’s fine. We didn’t tell the media we were dating, it could’ve been a one-time thing...”

“No!” He burst out, his heart nearly overflowing with emotions. “It took me a long time, but I-! I want to date you. For real. And take you out. And do the sappy things that Grayson does with his girlfriend. And take care of you. I want to date you for real.”

Her mouth was open in an ‘o’, and he wondered briefly if he broke her. Then a smile slipped across her lips, and he could see it again- Both of them, sharing a home, sharing a life, and then a child with dark blue hair and emerald eyes-

“Okay.”

---

sjskjsks I was so worried about the plot!!! Was it choppy? And in the words of my ninth grade english teacher, did it lack fLoW??? I’m so sorry if it didn’t live up to expectations, I lost where I was going with this- 

On another note I have this headcannon that the two students and old couple always knew that he was Damian Wayne, they were just ‘oh he’s totally in love with Mari, this is really sweet and we’re going to stick around and watch’ and when he asked her out for the gala he was actually being really loud and they were all just legit eavesdropping and the two students going ‘jskjskjkjkjs he finally asked her out oh my god the ship is sailing’ and the old couple going ‘aww how sweet’ and ‘my boy finally got his courage together, so proud of him even tho im not his dad but still’. 

Anyways I was thinking of another way to get around the MDC nickname for Mari as a designer and I thought Nette would be a cool name for her, and DC stands for Design and Clothing. 

Once again thanks for sending in the request, sorry that it took so long bby <3 

Requests are open, just head over to my blog, check out the rules and specifications, then shoot your request right into my inbox, I’ll be waiting. 

Also I’m watching Haikyu and I am IN LOVE with those babies, gonna start writing fics and opening up requests for the Haikyu fandom once I get a better grip on the characters’ personality. 

Okay, I’ve been talking too much. Bye and thanks for sticking around to the very end, lol. I can be quite talkative when I’m typing anddd I’m just going to stop now before I write another paragraph 

- Cady

[eroticcannibal]

Hey would you mind sharing some of your home ed resources/groups? My dad needs some help. (We're in the US not the UK but I figure there has to be at least a little crossover?)

Admittedly most the groups im in is UK centric both in advice and services however! Otherwise I can still help!

Now in terms of resources I know a few good ones. Some of these are intended for the UK and follow the national curriculum, but im sure it can still work with a but of jiggling. I've used a few US things.

Twinkl - follows the UK NC, free resources plus subscription services, reasonably priced. Subscriptions are based off time rather the amount that you use so, pro tip, download everything you could possibly want and then cancel the subscription. Provides worksheets, activities, presentations, lesson plans and classroom resources and is used in many schools in the UK. For early years to 18. Also includes tools to make your own resources, I have never used that though. Also the now have a remote learning section? I have no idea whats going on in that bit but its there.

IXL - Follows the UK NC. Paid, not too bad a price. Price is by per child and service. My favourite maths and English resource because it tracks shit for you! And identifies what skills need more work! But the child doesn't like it so I suffer. From reception to year 13.

Rose maths - free resources and subscriptions. I've only used it when the child wanted maths tests but I've heard other people love it. I dont know much about this one but the maths tests were perfectly good.

Oak national academy - free online resource set up by the government i believe during covid, follows UK NC. The child didn't vibe with it so I don't know much about it but everyone else fucking loves it.

Khan academy - its free, its got all kinds of stuff relating to maths, science, computing, language skills, a few other things. It is a US resource and has some resources aimed at specific grades. Also currently advertising daily schedules for students aged 2-18 and other remote learning resources

Brilliant - STEM courses with interactive learning, some free stuff, if you want to subscribe go watch some nerdy YouTube content until you find a current discount code, there's always one somewhere.

YouTube - seriously you could probably just use YouTube! There's a video for everything! There are so fucking many educational channels like. Theres something for everyone.

Life of Fred - a very American book series, but my absolute favourite books ever. Teaches maths, all kinds of levels. Its all a story and its really engaging and surprisingly funny. Much easier to buy cheaply in the US. They do seem to be exclusively sold by Christian book shops running websites that look like they haven't changed since the early 90s. Its an experience.

Local groups - seriously the best way to get help is from people who know whats near to you and have experience. There are so many different learning styles to try, and I do think getting bogged down in online and book resources isn't the best way to go. You want yo get outdoors, see people, chat about things, go to the library, watch a movie. Learning is everywhere. And locals will know what real life experiences are available.

LIBRARIES. LIBRARIES ARE A BLESSING.

This is not exhaustive but its a start. But honestly, the resources is like, 10% of it. If everyone is having fun, the learning will follow. Also I find its easier to find better resources once you've got a good idea of how everyone involved learns best and what they want to learn.

Also! I hear some states have some Rules, which is all the more reason to get in touch with local groups. I do not know if these resources or my advice about get out and have fun will be what is needed to meet the criteria where you are.

I think reading up about different education approaches is also useful. Doesnt have to be following workbooks. The child is quite partial to unschooling, I prefer semi structured but alas this is their education not mine. Some kids thrive with the structure of a school like environment. Seen a lot of people into that montessori stuff but I got no idea what that is

[dorki-c]

Metanoia

Characters: Dabi and reader

Relationship: Dabi X Pro-hero! Reader

Quote: “Metanoia”

Gift for: @glitterfreezed (Aka photoshop goddess) THANK YOU for being one of my very first moots on this crazy platform! I really hope you enjoy this one shot (as I spent way too much time on it XD) and for anybody reading this: GO CHECK OUT GLITTERS PLAYLISTS!! They are honestly amazing!

Tw: Kidnapping, Use of Guns, Slight nudity

Going on patrol lately has been boring.

Sure, (y/n) wouldn’t pass it up for helping little old ladies get across the road or helping itty bitty children find their parents within a crowd.

But besides that, there was little to nothing to do- no paperwork, no criminals terrorising the streets, or vigilantes on loose- the streets were cleared and scrubbed down from any crime lately.

It was strange.

Nothing has been the same ever since Kamino ward as well.

The moment you found out your lover was a villain; you took great lengths to create distance from him. Not sparing him a second glance or another phone call- let’s not forget you blocked his number- although doing these things made you seem like an asshole; you are a hero.

Heroes do not date Villains.

Its absolutely forbidden.

Though should you have stayed with him, something could’ve happened- he could’ve used you for blackmail, ransom, and maybe trafficking- as terrifying as it sounds, at least your far from your old apartment.

At least your away from that freak. That sadistic freakshow, with his stupid smirk and (beautiful) weird ass scars.

Luckily, the clock had ticked to the hour that announced your release from countless wasted minutes of scrolling through your phone as two feet laid disrespectfully on the hero agencies desk where nobody pointed out the blatant rudeness she was showing.

Even if she wanted to stay here, the female should get home soon. Even if there was no problem during the day, that doesn’t reassure that there will be trouble when walking through the evening.

Where you had the inkling of protection that is provided to you by your muscle memory, nobody should rely on themselves to do a simple task like walking home when there is such a thing as societies creepy-crawly insects withering across the nooks and crannies of cities and flooding the deepest rabbit holes with their sickening ideals.

Just thinking about them brings revolting nausea into the churning acid within the insides of your body as it screams out to stay aware of the footsteps you take, of the glances you throw out, and of your hands gripping the cheap handbag- that you bought on a whim from that one charity shop around the corner of the apartment building- when a hand of yours dipped inside the bag to grip the weapon that laid unaware of whose blood it could spill today.

The three walled mirror room moved down from whatever floor it was on and when opening the doors, a small (and annoying) ping was heard through the (also) small lobby area.

When approaching your apartment door with your guard up and one of your hands swiftly opening the rusted door handle allowing a small gust of air to run into the vacant apartment, the eyes of a human watchdog sporadically darted from one place to another.

Making sure she can securely (slam) open the door, the pro hero steps in one footstep at a time like one of the cliché spy movies before throwing her bag down and yanking the heavy weapon out of her bag.

Its matte black exterior elongated to show the vertical and horizontal bits and pieces of the weapon as (Y/n) rested one of her fingers on the trigger whilst fiddling with the safety lock to make it unlock.

Once unlocking the safety lock of the gun, she leaned it towards the ground, turned around for a brief second to retrieve the key from her apartment door, then kicked said door shut with the heel of her foot.

Even when she investigates her almost empty apartment three times without a peaceful resolve at the end, the female is already sitting on her couch scrolling through another apartment renting website for herself.

It’s pathetic.

She’s on the run from her ex-boyfriend because she knows that if she gets caught by him, there will be a low chance of her escaping from his grasp again. It was quite evident from his group’s little broadcast that if anyone “tries to catch us, you’re going to be caught first.”

What if that applies to people wanting to escape from them?

.

.

.

Stripping herself of the day’s tiredness, the female wore the loosest clothing within her wardrobe and ventured out to the shit-tip of her kitchen- the sink only had a few dishes in it, but, otherwise the trash looked like it got taken out once a year and there were so many letters scattered in piles over the counters.

Sighing at the sight, letting a hand of hers travel up her shirt to soothe an itch on her back, (y/n) shook her head at her own mess and still continued to go towards the fridge to dig through it in order to find the cheap- most definitely shitty- microwavable food she bought from the store only three days ago because to be completely honest, she’s saving up for buying a ticket out of this shit country and living in another one.

Ripping the film cover off of the food’s plastic container, she shoved her shitty food in the microwave and let the annoying beep sound through the apartment while (y/n) went into the small living room, grabbed some shorts that were sunbathing under the flickering yellow bulb and put them on in order to take out the trash.

When entering back into the apartment however, a flash of darkness alerted her body to go limp.

What was this feeling of restraint around her arms and legs? Moving one of her wrists- in an attempt to pull them out of the bindings- a harsh rub of a frictional material bit across the sensitive layer of the underside of your wrist, where it elicited a hiss to very subtly slip from your lips.

That seemingly helped beg a question in your curious mind. “Are my eyes covered?” Although when opening your eyes, a flurry of white blinded you causing a multitude of red freckles to dance across the pale illumination.

Whoever thought not putting a blindfold on you was a smart idea, it seems clear to me that they didn’t watch enough spy movies.

Okay, time to take a look of your surroundings.

First of all, Y/n glanced down to see if she had any major injuries- nope, the only thing missing from her body was her clothes and if that didn’t count as being kinky, then (y/n) doesn’t know what it counts as- along with her feet barely touching the carpeted floor, her ankles were tied to what she assumes to be a wooden chair.

Looking off to the side after shifting her gaze from her feet to her forearm her eyes picked out the surroundings behind her and the type of seat she was sitting in. Wow, whoever kidnapped you, really knows how to do it inefficiently.

Though, if they’ve used cheap ass rope and tied you up to a wooden chair- out of all the chairs in the world, they choose a wooden chair- along with forgetting to put a blindfold on you, they probably didn’t take any precaution when kidnapping you because the criminals probably have back up on hold.

Meaning there was more than one culprit involved and that they don’t expect you to get out of this area due to being outnumbered.

Moving your head upwards once more, the outlines of what seems to be a closet and a drawer were all that you could observe before some sort of jiggling sound was emitted through the silent room.

It wasn’t till the door opened that it revealed somebody that (y/n) didn’t expect. A hitch lodged itself like a six-foot down corpse where only grave looters would be able to find it. Was she seeing a ghost? Perhaps. Did she care? Maybe, however she was trained to not overreact in a situation like this.

“Well, look what we have here…” The metal contraptions that held the person’s tough layer of skin nudged a little in the direction of the muscle’s movement. “…A squirming itty-bitty hero.” The venomous hiss of their voice slipped real close to her ear as the lamp pointing obnoxiously into her right eye was turned off.

“So, this was your doing?” Snapped the hero as the villain sat down on her lap and gently grasped her chin- just like the old days- where his fucked up (handsome) grin shone brighter than the hero on her first debut. Dodging the question, the male let his weight lean onto the female’s thighs as she harshly craned her jutted out facial bone away from his hold.

“Oh, and it looks like your still as feisty as ever.”

“Yeah, I am. Got a problem with it, villain?” The hiss made the patchwork villain only recoil an inch backwards before narrowing his pupils at the nickname and gripping the very first thing his eyes land on, your neck, where the surface of his skin was smouldering to the touch.

“I wouldn’t say that if I was in your position.” He proclaimed as the slimming of her lips straightened out to a thin line, “Now, I’m here to offer you a position and…” From somewhere on his body, he pulled a gun- one of the many similar pistols that you hoarded in your apartment for safe keeping- then pointed it straight at your thinly protected heart where the brush of stainless chilled metal tingled the very fabric of your body.

“…it would be wise of you to listen.” Sure, a gun was pointed literally at her chest- lets not forget that she’s being forced into this position of unwillingness- but hopefully, some otherworldly deity will let (y/n) live one more second.

“Okay, good girl?” You’ve never committed to metanoia before, but at this point, you might as well.

[kara-does-fandom]

Why MC doesnt get her working phone back (part 1. Leo, Jean, Arthur, Sebastian)

At least, not til Comte finally caves and gets phones or laptops for the residents. 

Listen, you werent sure why you still had service and access to the modern internet all the way back in the past. You were glad you could still check in on things and listen to that one song on youtube you liked... but maybe you, Sebastian, and Comte should have figured out what would happen after you found yourself explaining your little pocket computer to the boys. Comte is a blessing of a vampire and manages to track your laptop down during his tech shopping trip. 

So here are reasons you dont see your phone as often as you’d like

Leonardo

As an inventor, he is fascinated by the phone. As an inventor, he is also fascinated by youtube’s DIY community and spends hours watching how people build things, the explanations on inventions, and likely the art restoration videos and other stuff dealing with old art. Likely spends a bit of time with discussions and videos talking about the pros and cons of different art materials and makes extensive notes on what toxic pigments exist and tbh Comte will have a shopping list on his desk and notes on what Vincent isnt allowed to have even when it comes into fashion. Maybe it wont effect them as much due to being vampires but.. nah. Best keep everyone safe. Leo also spends a good deal of time with cat videos, because of course he does. You see your phone occasionally, mostly when it is recharging. The library is even worse, as is his room during the first week of the DIY and invention youtube as there are scattered notes and ideas everywhere. 

Comte compares notes with you on what Leo uses the most and gets a laptop for him. You arent too surprised when a tablet shows up later. Be it an art tablet like or something like an ipad, Leo scribbles his ideas on anything and you had wondered what he’d do when he discovered layers and a good erase tool. 

Jean

Ok so you see your phone a lot more often when it comes to Jean, but you also sit down with him one evening in the library after offering to help him with his learning math and reading. You go over what the future technology can offer, and you eventually settle in next to him and find some good basic learning to read and math videos, websites, and other stuff. Sure, you may have personally subjected yourself to duolingo as you prepared for your trip to Paris, but maybe you will offer that later. The shy boy doesnt really ask for much else when it comes to what your phone can do, and honestly its charming to see him leaning over your phone’s screen as he stumbles through his lessons. You are reminded of those tumblr posts of actors in historical or fantasy garb using everyday tech. 

Jean is quite happy to use your phone for the small things, so while Comte might not get him a device of his own, you end up with a set of bookmarks on your laptop ad maybe Jean gets his own Youtube or a playlist full of videos to help him, nestled quietly amid your own. 

Arthur.

Oh god, Arthur. After ensuring he knows how to avoid his own famous creation on the endless internet, you... kinda dont see your phone ever again. He loves tumblr and all its drama, phrases, and the odds and ends of random info you can get as they float across your dash. You know for a fact he will likely get his own account the moment Comte returns with a laptop for him. He spends hours researching various medical stuff. Being the mansion’s doctor gives him a responsibility and he, like Leo, spends a good deal of time making notes on what advancements sound good at first but end up very damaging in the long run. Sebastian finds himself buying at lest two new notebooks for Arthur which quickly get filled with things he feels is important for the health of not only the other vampires, but you and Sebastian, who are the only humans. Other search history includes sex tips, as how could he not want to know if the future holds any new knowledge on pleasing his partner, and maybe a few movie clips or writing stuff. He half resigns himself to stumbling over Sherlock stuff. Your grimace of a smile when he asked how popular it was told him all he needed to know.

Comte of course gets him a laptop. Comte looks into solar power or some other extra electricity generating technology. Comte quietly starts making his own list on what inevitable purchases he will make as he listens to you and his boys as they confer over the phone screen and decides Santa Comte will have a very full bag of goodies that winter. 

Sebastian

He initially confiscated your phone the moment he figured out it worked with the predictable noises about messing with the flow of time and the future cannot influence the past and other things. You got it back, of course, especially after he resigned himself to the knowledge that the damage had already been done. Now he uses your phone to look up recipes, play some background music during chores, and look up anything else a good butler might need to know. He falls back into old habits from when he lived in your time, using the internet to augment his research as a historian. 

It takes him a while to decide between a phone or laptop. You arent sure what he got, as he keeps it as secretive as his little notebook he uses to keep tabs on the residents, but you can easily figure out he uses it for much the same reason. 

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - I Was Given Four Rules to Follow ... I Broke Every One: Chapter 3/3 (Rated PG13)

Summary: When Warlock Dowling is summoned to the old South Downs cottage of Aziraphale and Crowley to help clean out their attic, presumably after their deaths, he is given four rules to follow.

... He breaks every single one.

Read on AO3.

January 15th –

He opened his eyes!

He opened his eyes and looked at me!

After hours of waiting in the dark and in the cold, despairing every second and wishing I was dead myself, he opened his eyes.

But it came close to being all for naught because I almost died myself right then and there.

It was good to see him with his eyes wide open, but the golden eyes I loved so much are gone. 

These new eyes are white on white, the pupils infinitely dark, the irises torn. They stare without blinking. They look into me, into my soul, it seems. They connect to the love that runs deep within me, to every touch he has ever left on my skin, to every promise we both made. 

But they do not recognize me. 

Am I, at all, familiar to him?

I don’t want to reject him, whether he knows me or not. But those eyes unnerve me.

There’s so much about them that’s innocent and frightened.

So much about them that’s desolate and dead.

We literally spent the morning just looking at one another.

I would give anything to know what’s going on in his mind. 

What does he see when he looks at me? 

I want to reach out and touch him, but I’m afraid. I know it won’t be the same. He won’t be warm, won't be comforting. What could be worse than a dead copy of a once alive and loving creature? I don’t know. 

But whatever this is, it might be. 

He won’t smell like Crowley. He won’t have his cheek, won't have his soothing voice. It’s almost as if I adopted some wild animal and decided to make it my husband.

What have I done?

***

January 16th –

All day long, he tried to move, grunting with the effort of struggling to stand up and get out of bed. He didn’t speak words; he just groaned. I wanted to help him. I wanted to pretend that he was simply convalescing after a horrible illness. I wanted to bathe him and dress him. I wanted to sit him down in front of the television, prop up his feet, and feed him brandy and ice-cream. I wanted to put this chapter behind us and get on with our lives.

I wanted to make believe him dying had never happened.

But I’m not that good an actor.

He behaves exactly the way the old woman warned me he would. He reminds me of a child.

I never wanted children.

This is the ‘in sickness and in health’ part of the marriage package, which I agreed to without hesitation.

Never mind the ‘till death do us part’ portion.

This comes with my vows, and I will honor them.

My love will help him. I know it will.

…

Can I really do this, or am I fooling myself?

***

January 17th –

I’m trying my best to take the bad with the good.

I managed to get him to the living room sofa. His legs were stiff, and he couldn’t seem to bend his knees.

He had been declared dead-on-arrival because of the injury to his neck. But I wonder if anything else is broken. I wasn’t really paying attention to the doctor when he went over the extent of Crowley’s injuries. After I heard the word dead, I tuned out.

I should get a copy of Crowley’s hospital records.

But if his legs are broken, how will I deal with that? Will the potion magically fix everything? It brought him back to life. Could fixing broken legs be more difficult than reanimating a corpse? What is the extent of the potion's effects? Do I need a secondary potion of some kind to repair internal injuries?

Maybe I should call the shopkeeper back and ask.

We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

He stumbled numerous times and fell on me. I did my best not to cringe at his touch or accidentally drop him. But those eyes, so close to mine, were like looking into a nightmare. I could see through them to the veins and arteries behind, the blood inside them black and unhealthy.

The fourth time he stumbled, though, I got the feeling that maybe he was falling on purpose so that I would be forced to catch him.

I even thought I saw the shadow of a smile cross his lips.

I watched him as he sat in front of the TV and renewed his passion for The Golden Girls. That show had been one of his favorites since he was a small boy.

He sat so still. 

He didn’t swallow. 

He didn’t appear to breathe.

The only time he moved was when he looked over to where I sat, I think, to make sure I was still there.

He sat for hours and watched TV. 

There was nothing else for him to do.

I fed him salad for dinner, let him stay in front of the television instead of making him go to the dining room table. I didn’t see any reason to move him. He leaned down and sniffed the cold lettuce leaves, but he did not eat.

Neither did I.

***

January 19th –

After a full day of limping him around the house, Crowley is surprisingly steady on his feet. He can make it from the bedroom to the living room sofa by himself. It takes him a while, but he can do it.

His body is still in rigor, but he seems to be getting more comfortable with it.

I should be jumping for joy at his progress. The more mobile he becomes, the less dependent he will be on me. Every day that he improves, even a little, he is closer to becoming the man he was.

But I don’t know how comfortable I am with that anymore.

***

January 21st -

He doesn’t sleep. And now that he doesn’t rely on me to get around the house, neither do I. I know he sees me as a parent-figure, so he won’t hurt me. But he’s such an alien creature. Not like the old Crowley at all.

It’s strange having this version of him around the house.

When Crowley was

Before the accident, Crowley was so independent. He didn’t need me, didn’t need my help with anything.

But now, he needs to be near me all the time.

I understood there would be a change in our dynamic, but it’s such a striking change that it’s difficult to get used to.

I took a shower for the first time in days. I left him in the living room watching TV, but when I finished and opened the curtain, there he was, standing there … staring.

I fell asleep for about an hour afterward, and when I woke up, he was kneeling beside me, again staring at me.

He’s always staring.

What does he think about doing when he stares at me?

***

January 22nd –

I finally broke down and gave Crowley a shower. He didn’t stink, but there was something about him, something that smelled … well, I can't seem to find the words to describe it. 

I just wanted it gone.

I’ve seen the injuries to his chest numerous times, but I haven't paid much attention to his back.

When I saw them, I almost threw up.

And he noticed. 

He heard me gag. 

I gasped, held in my urge to be sick.

He turned to face me, and for the first time, he had an expression on his face different from his blank one … but also different from that smile I thought I saw when I was helping him walk around the house.

He looked hurt.

***

January 27th -

Each day that he improves, I debate telling our friends that he's here. I know they miss us terribly. But in the end, it would be too cruel. He’s not himself anymore. He never will be. Most days, I curse myself for doing this to him. My motives were selfish. I wasn’t thinking of anyone but myself when I made the decision to bring him back. 

I wasn’t even thinking of him.

Our lives are unrecognizable. We’ll never travel the world like we'd planned. Who knows if I’ll make it back to my bookshop? Should probably shut it down and have my books transported here. The way things look, the rest of our days will be spent in this cottage. 

I have to be okay with that.

But what about Crowley?

If you asked rational me if I think he wants to live this half-life, with no potential to be anything other than a human puppet, who only barely resembles the man that was Anthony J Crowley, I would have to say no. Absolutely not.

But I can’t turn back now.

What am I expected to do? Poison his tea? Smother him in his sleep?

Would attempting to kill him even work?

And what about his soul? 

If there is a Heaven, I surely pulled him out of it with my cock-eyed plan. What if there is no going back for him? 

I can only hope that my love for him is enough to keep him from hating me when he’s able to comprehend what I’ve done to him.

***

February 1st –

I’ve finally gotten him to eat – bits and pieces mostly, bites of vegetables and corners of bread. It doesn’t seem like he likes it, but he eats it, and that’s good. He eats because I tell him to. It shows that he trusts me.

He’s more self-sufficient now. 

He showers and brushes his teeth on his own. He picks out his pajamas and dresses himself. Sometimes he tries his hand at making the bed. He is attempting to be more vocal, but he has yet to say a single thing that isn’t a grunt or a moan.

I’ve been looking up the subject of speech delay on the Internet, trying to find ways to help him learn. I came across one website in particular with fun, creative ideas. I started making flashcards of consonant blends and one-syllable words. I felt so accomplished, so hopeful, like I was actually doing something positive toward the goal of moving us forward. I felt confident that after a little work with them, everything would be all right. I was so excited to show them to him, but then I realized …

… I have no idea if he can read.

***

February 3rd –

I tried calling the old woman at the antique shop in Soho to ask about the effects of the potion, but the phone has been disconnected.

I guess they went out of business after all.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing appears to be broken. Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t feel pain.

I was teaching him how to cook, hoping it would bring a bit of the old Crowley back. We used to cook together all the time. Honestly, we weren't all that good at it, but that didn't stop us from trying. We had just gotten the hang of a decent souffle before ...

Anyway ...

I started him small. 

I had him grating cheese. 

Seemed simple enough. The grater stands on its own, so not much to juggle. But he pressed too hard, ran the grater over the backs of his fingers, scraped off skin. He didn’t so much as flinch. I think it bothered me more than it bothered him. I bandaged it up and, without thinking, I kissed the wound. I looked at him in utter shock …

… and he smiled.

My heart leapt.

It’s so nice to see him smile again. 

I never thought I would.

***

February 4th –

I took off Crowley’s bandage, and his wound from the cheese grater is gone! There’s not a trace of it left!

I guess that answers that question.

I should be relieved, but it bothers me, and I don’t know why.

***

February 21st –

Today was the most unexpectedly intense, depressing, and wonderful day all at once.

It started when Crowley woke this morning. He got up before me and tried to make me crepes. I had no idea why. He hadn't tried to cook by himself before, didn't even show an interest in cooking without me. He burned them, himself, and the stove all in one go. The fire alarm woke me, blaring in my ears. I managed to get to the extinguisher in time, but poor Crowley looked heartbroken over his ruined pan of blackened food.

Then, before lunch, he wanted to go outside. I think he was trying to sneak out, but I caught him jiggling the front doorknob (he has yet to master the bolt - thank God). When I caught him, he slammed his hand on the door in frustration and sprinted for the back one. I followed him, knowing it was locked and that he wouldn’t be able to open it. When I reached him, he was trying to wedge his way out of the old cat flap. (Note to self - board up the cat flaps! I don’t know why we kept them. We’ve never owned a cat.) 

I patted him gently on the shoulder and asked him what he needed. He stood up and groaned, moving his mouth and wiggling his tongue, making nonsensical sounds. When he couldn’t say what he needed to, he pointed out the window to the garden. I assumed he wanted to check on his dahlias. I’m a disaster with flowers, and, unfortunately, I haven’t been able to keep them up the way he could. 

Of course, it's one degree outside. The poor things are frozen solid. They're not even flowers any longer, I don't think, but the frigid remains of what they once were.

But he’d had yet to show any interest in them, either, before today. 

I shrugged, repeated that I didn’t understand. He pointed more forcefully, jabbing at the window with his index finger.

“I don’t know what you're trying to tell me, my dear,” I said. “Do you want to go for a walk?” 

I've taken him walking around Soho a few times. I've been trying to tie up loose ends, decide if selling the bookshop is the road to take. I wrapped him up in a full-length coat and scarf with just his eyes peeking out. I guess he enjoyed it, but he’d never asked to go outside. He shook his head and pointed again, this time at the dying rose bushes that I hadn’t had time to deadhead. I didn’t get it. I shook my head, and he stormed off to the bedroom.

I followed him there, but he blocked the door.

I could hear him inside, moaning. It was horrible. It sounded like pain and embarrassment and frustration, all rolled together. And I couldn’t help him.

He wouldn’t let me.

I tried to lure him out several times, but he didn’t come out till dinner time.

And when he did, he was dressed in a black Bergdorf suit.

Crowley has dozens of expensive black suits, and he looks stunning in all of them.

But this suit.

This suit in particular.

This suit had been hanging front and center in his closet.

Because it was the suit I had planned on burying him in.

It threw me for a loop, dragging me kicking and screaming back to that day I found out he had died, before I’d decided to try bringing him back, before I knew that I could. I took out the suit to air it. I guess I hadn’t put it back with the others because there it was, standing before me with the living corpse of my husband inside.

The sight took all the air out of my lungs.

“Take it off,” I said quietly, trying not to alarm him, but how was I supposed to explain to my somewhat dead husband that I didn’t want to see him dressed in the suit I had planned on putting him in the ground in?

He looked confused and shook his head, opening his mouth and groaning.

“Please, Crowley,” I begged, hoping he would hear my anguish and understand, “take it off.”

He stomped his foot and shook his head, the way a petulant child would. It should have been cute, but I couldn’t handle it. I've had issues getting used to his looks lo these many weeks, but for the first time since he came back to me, he looked dead.

“Take it off!” I screamed. I ran at him, grabbed the lapels, trying to tear it off his body. He held me, pinned my arms, and I could feel his renewed strength. I hadn’t really let him touch me before, but now I knew that if he wanted to, he could probably hurt me.

I stared up at him, realizing that he was hovering above me, and I was lying on my back on the floor. My heart stopped. He had never looked menacing before. Even in death, he seemed so innocent. But now, he looked like a monster. He had a piece of paper balled in his grasp, and he tried to make me look at it, but I couldn’t take my eyes away from his face – pale and cold and lifeless, regardless of the fact that he was my Crowley.

He stared at me, trying to speak.

It hit me like a pile of bricks.

Speak.

That’s exactly what he was doing. 

His lips were moving in exaggerated, grotesque ways that shouldn’t be able to turn sound into words, but they were.

“A … Az … Azi …”

Crowley blinked and shook his head.

“Azir …”

“Aziraphale?” I asked in awe that he was trying to say my name.

Crowley laughed. It was a glorious, hollow, frankly frightening sound, but I couldn’t help smiling when I heard it. He put his fingers to my lips. 

I guess he didn’t want me to steal his thunder.

“Azzzir-uh-phale,” he said, smacking his lips. “I … lo … I lov …” Crowley swallowed again, closing his eyes, trying to make the words in his head match the movement of his lips. “I … love … you … Azzzir-uh-phale.”

Crowley tapped again at the paper on the floor. This time I did what he wanted and looked. He had torn off the current page from the calendar and was poking at a box circled shakily in red. I peered down at it.

I could have cried.

“Our ... our anniversary?” I asked, looking into his broken eyes. He sighed, nodding.

It was our anniversary.

He’d wanted to make me breakfast in bed … for our anniversary.

He’d wanted to get me roses … for our anniversary.

My husband had wanted to do something nice for me … for our anniversary.

My husband had spent all day teaching himself how to say, “I love you, Aziraphale,” because there was nothing else he could do for me.

My husband remembered our anniversary ...

... even when I had not.

***

June 4th -

Five months-ish later…

I can’t believe it! 

I cannot believe it!

Five months later and we’ve made it! Despite the odds. Despite the difficulties and the heartaches. Despite every time I thought about giving up, here we are.

Happy.

Together.

We spend our days wrapped in each other’s arms. We watch TV. I read books out loud - he sits and listens. Crowley is re-learning how to drive, and I’m on the hunt for a new Bentley. Our lives might not be what they were before, but they’re perfect for us.

We’ve managed to go to the city more, spent a few glorious nights at our flat in Mayfair. We've even interacted with one or two of our old friends. It's a wonder what some foundation and blusher can accomplish! I told them it was a medical miracle, and they believed me.

Because that's what Crowley is.

A miracle!

Okay, maybe I am tempting fate. But maybe fate needs to be tempted from time to time! 

His vocabulary has expanded immensely, and a hint of his old suave confidence has come back, along with the muddy accent I so often teased him about.

I am finally at a point where I am optimistic about the future.

Because I’m beginning to think that there might actually be one for us.

***

August 13th –

I woke this morning to a strange squealing noise. At first, I thought it might be the smoke alarm again - odd since we got the cooking situation sorted, I thought. The longer I listened to it, the more I realized it wasn’t the smoke alarm. It didn’t sound familiar at all, so I didn’t worry too much about it. As long as an errant sheep didn’t get hit by a car, there was really no reason to jump out of bed and investigate. After a few minutes of listening to the goings-on outside, I determined that wasn’t the case, so I considered going back to sleep.

But then I noticed that Crowley wasn’t laying beside me in bed.

That isn’t too unusual. He’s normally the first one up on any given day. I just curl back into a ball holding his pillow to my chest until he returns.

He always returns.

The squealing wasn’t really that weird. I’ve thought for the last few months that we might have rats. Or squirrels. Or possums. I’ve heard that same squealing a few times before. But seeing as I can’t find any evidence of rodent-caused destruction anywhere in the house, I haven’t been too aggressive about hunting it down.

My stomach began to growl. I guessed I had been asleep for longer than I thought. Instead of returning to bed, I decided to make some waffles for breakfast. So I got up and went out into the kitchen.

That’s where I found Crowley.

He was crouching on the floor …

… covered in blood …

… biting into the spine of what used to be a raggedy old Maine coon …

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

He grinned his old, sly grin, licked his bloody lips, and said, "Hello, Aziraphale. Can I get you a cuppa tea? I know just how you like it."

He winked at me, and my heart stuttered.

…

I may have a problem.

***

Those are the last words on the page.

A page where the ink is smeared from tears, and the edges crusted in blood.

I haven’t seen Aziraphale or Crowley in decades. They used to send the occasional letter, but those stopped a while ago, and they never call. But something tells me neither of them ever left this house alive.

I’m afraid my time, too, has run out. I came to this house alone. But huddled in the darkest corner of the attic, I hear footsteps coming closer, a sour voice on the wind calling my name …

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

KA-THUNK!!

***

“Warlock Dowling!” Crowley calls, barging into the attic, footsteps heavy on the worn floorboards. “Are you recording another one of those Clip-Clop thingies again?”

“It’s TikTok, Nanny,” Warlock replies, rolling his eyes, “and no. I’m reading a story for my YouTube channel.”

“Well … you done getting a costume together or wot?” Crowley asks, changing the subject, saving face that he actually understands anything Warlock just said. “Adam and his hooligans are gonna be here in a minute. Aziraphale is gonna have kittens if you’re not ready to go Tricks or Treats!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Warlock says, gathering up his camera. He loves Halloween with a passion, but he’d been eyeing this one journal in Aziraphale’s bookshop for some time now. This video he’s been putting together promises to be epic - the crowning achievement of his burgeoning story channel. Most horror story channels get their material from the Creepypasta Reddit, but he has a unique source of original material … when he can get out to Soho, that is. “I’m coming.” He pulls the lapels of the leather jacket he’s borrowing for the evening together in front to tighten it up. 

It’s slim fit as it used to be Crowley’s from back in the day, but thirteen-year-old Warlock still swims in it. 

Warlock marches to the door under Crowley’s watchful eye. Before he can make his way through, Crowley stops him, slipping a hand underneath the jacket and rescuing an extraneous prop - an antique journal.

“Have you been snoopin’ through Angel’s old manuscripts again?” Crowley asks, wiping the cover clean. “You know how he feels bout that.”

“I know,” Warlock admits sheepishly, “but my audience loves them! I get thousands of hits off his stories! Besides, I put my own twist on them, freshen them up a bit.”

“Do you now?” Crowley asks with an unamused eyebrow notched.

“Why didn't he get them published?” Warlock shifts gears before the lecturing can start. “He’s an amazing writer!”

“He had his reasons,” Crowley mumbles, flipping through the pages. After skimming a passage or two, he puts it down on a pile of similar journals, a shiver sliding down his snakey spine. “Oof! Those things’ll give you nightmares.”

“They should terrify you. He’s murdered you in every single one!”

“Ah, but he does it with love.” Crowley grins wide enough to swallow his whole face. “It’s an honor.”