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therabbitthatpostthings · 5 months ago

Text

(Masterpost)

Nervous fingers tapped along the edges of the wooden mask. As you left the mountain, the weather warmed up so there was no real reason to still wear it. Snowy white paths turn to half melted slush. Dormant flowers poked through the frost patiently waiting to bloom. It felt like years since you had felt the sun shine.

You pondered if the lack of sunlight had made you grow paler. Would your parents even recognize you? It’s ridiculous to think they wouldn’t. You wished you could have sent word of your safety sooner though. How many nights did your father blame himself for letting you go up there? How many nights did your mother go hungry because she couldn’t bear the thought of eating? Did they try to go back for you? Did Giyuu send them away?

Your heart fluttered at the thought of them meeting Giyuu. Would they accept him? Would they accept you living in the mansion? Come to think of it, it’s quite inappropriate for you two to live together unmarried.

Would Giyuu want to get married?

Would he marry you…

A deep burning started in your heart. You couldn’t deny that the life you two had was domestic. You took care of each other. And Giyuu had asked you to stay. He wanted you to stay. And you wanted to stay with him. You lov-

“Woah there girl!” The old man called out. Two crows swooped down in front of the horse. You held onto the side as it thrashed wildly at the squawking birds. Out from the tree line ran three men in strange outfits. The white-haired one with a flashy headband was the tallest. He quickly approached the horse to help the old man calm her down.

“Sorry about that sir.” He spoke.

The birds landed by the feet of the other two men. The shortest one turned to you and you noticed the white scarf around him was actually a large snake. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” You replied. You tried your best not to stare but it’s not everyday you meet a peculiar trio of people.

You shakily climbed down from the wagon and thanked the driver. “I’ll find a ride back sir.” You assured him.

“You sure? I’ll be back this way in five days?” He asked.

“I’m sure,” You smiled.

With a tilt of his hat, he continued down the path. You turned to face the three strange men, the tallest of which seemed to be studying you. Before he could speak, the last one spoke up, “Sorry for startling you.”

He was the most intimidating one of the group. He didn’t wait for you to respond, he started walking down the first path and the two birds followed him. The flashy one said another apology before following him as well.

What an odd bunch.

No time to worry about them. You were home. Everything suddenly felt so melancholic. It felt like a lifetime since you had been here. You would be remiss to say you hadn’t missed it. It was nothing like the other village. The houses were patched together and spaced out from each other. Many families had moved out over the years leaving empty shells of homes. Gradually some of them fell apart without proper maintenance. What few people one the street eyes you quizzically. Maybe they thought they were seeing a ghost. Maybe it was the fine clothes you wore. Perhaps you should have worn your old clothes instead of the kimono Giyuu gave you. If you were any stronger your fingers would burst through the wood of your mask. You resisted the urge to put it on. This village was your whole life a couple months ago and yet you felt like a stranger in a ghost town.

At the very end of the road, tucked away under overgrown trees was your house. It looked exactly the same as when you left. Everything you ever knew existed right beyond this door. There was no reason to be scared. The door was stuck like always, with a little force you slid it open. It was strange looking at your parents shoes by the door. Even stranger was your parents sitting just a few feet in front of you. Startled, they stared at you. On the table sat an array of food that looked foreign in this house.

“(Y/N)?” Your father said barely above a whisper. He lightly walked up to you and reached for your arm. Then your other arm. And then your face.

“I’m home.” You smiled. And it broke him.

He engulfed you in his embrace as he broke out into sobs. Teacups hit the floor in your mother’s pursuit to reach you. She examined your face closely. Her eyes focused on every small detail. “My child…”

“I’m home mom.” You smiled.

Your heart swelled in a rush of emotions. You three cried in each other's arms on the floor of your home. They were scared to move. Terrified you would disappear if they let go.

“I thought I lost you. I should have never let you go (Y/N).” Your father pleaded. “Please forgive me.”

“Papa. You only wanted to keep us safe, I could never be mad at you. It’s okay Papa, I’m home.”

“I’ll never make that mistake (Y/N). I’ll always protect you.”

“I know Papa, I know. That’s why I’m here! On the other side of the mountain is a village, we could live there!” You rambled on about Urokodaki and his offer, Makomo and the village.

“(Y/N), have you been living in this village all these months?” Your mother was shocked at the notion.

“Well…no…” The crushing nervousness came rushing back.

What if they hate him?

What if I can't go back?

No. I promised Giyuu.

“I’ve been in the mansion…with Giyuu. He’s the Beast.”

Your mother gasped and your father's face twisted in anger. “So it was keeping you captive.” He growled. “I knew it! I knew all this food was a way of keeping us silent!”

“It’s not like that! I asked him to deliver you food and clothes, I knew you wouldn’t have survived this winter!”

“You asked him-”

“Papa please! Giyuu is so kind. He’s shy, a little awkward and sometimes says things without thinking. He’s been stuck on the mountain for years. Alone. I promise you, he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Your father couldn’t believe it. The same creature that threatened him? Couldn’t be. After all this time he was to believe the beast was kind?! Your father stepped back from you two and sat down. You looked over to your mother for aid but she was focused on your father.

You knew this wouldn’t be easy but you felt, somehow, more determined. Sitting next to him you slid the fox mask into his hands. “What is this?”

“He made it for me. I wear it whenever I go down to the village. That’s how I met Makomo and her grandfather.” You smiled. “Makomo told me they are supposed to keep away evil spirits. When you carve one for someone it’s your way of saying, ‘I'm with you and I’ll keep the evil away.’ That’s the kind of person Giyuu is.”

He ran his thumb over the engraved wood. He looked at you, the fancy clothes, the mask and then your mother. She looked unsure and concerned. He finally looked back at you. And he finally saw you. This was not the child that left him months ago. You looked so sure of yourself. Eyes burning with determination. How did you manage to change over just a couple of months? A part of him was scared that even if he said no you’d go back up that mountain again.

You spoke, “Papa, you don’t have to trust Giyuu but trust me. There’s nothing here for us anymore.”

“Dear, they're right.” Your mother stated. “If it wasn’t for the Beast, we’d have starved.”

He couldn’t deny that. He just wished it was his sacrifice that brought this prosperity to your family. Wouldn’t he be damning you all to deny a chance to start over. Your father lamented. “(Y/N), I trust you.”

“I promise, you two will love it there!” You cheered.

“I’m just happy, you’ve found yourself.” He smiled.

While you rambled on about the village and the mansion a thought struck your mother. She gasped as she stepped back in shock.

“Love? What's wrong?” Your father rushed to her side.

“The hunters..”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ♡ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ♡ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The slurry-filled roads turned to white snow. The two crows soared overhead signaling the path to the mountain. Tension had not settled between the men. The closer they got the more Uzui could hear the sounds of branches rustling and the earth moving. As the sun was setting the forest was changing its shape. The noise became louder with each step they took before it settled all at once. Uzui grabbed onto both hunters arms to stop them. They stood in total silence as the sun dipped below the horizon.

The trees parted. Out stepped a large figure that towered above them. All the noise in the area stopped in its presence. The creature slumped forward with long strands of pitch black hair cascading over its body. Every step gave way to hooved feet. The head of the creature scanned the area around itself. Its large antlers knocked against tree tops as it examined. After a moment it stopped, turned and lurched back up the mountain path.

Before the men had time to breathe the rumbling of the forest started again.

“Come on!” Shinazugawa yelled “Now before it closes completely!”

#writing fanfics at 3am-#cringe-#giyu tomioka x reader #giyu x reader #giyuu tomioka x reader #giyuu x reader #giyuu x you #giyuu x y/n #giyuu tomioka #tomioka giyu x reader #tomioka x y/n #tomioka giyuu #tomioka giyū #Giyuu the Beast AU #no beta we die like men

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dayurno · 10 months ago

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recently reread ur de-aged kevin fic and in the end notes you said you were thinking of doing a sequel w neilandrew being de-aged and just wanted to throw my hat in the ring to say yes pls! you genuinely have such incredible writing and characterization and would LOVE to see your take on it!

wawawa i plan to write it!!!!! i did start a little bit after finishing de-aged kevin and had to scrap it off because i didn't like it, so it might take a little longer. nonetheless i feel like i have no reason not to share it so i'll attach under the cut the scrapped version of kevin with de-aged andreil for your enjoyment :=) if its a little wonky i ask that you bear with me theres a reason why i didnt keep this version

There is a little garden behind Fox Tower where you could fit a dead body without any real effort.

Not that Kevin would know, of course. But he is sure that he has never seen anyone besides himself tend to the ground there — perhaps once in the past there was another athlete who enjoyed gardening, but such a character has not been around for at least a few years. It took Kevin almost an entire week to entirely weed out the square of dirt between Fox Tower’s backdoors and the fence where Palmetto State University property ends and Fox Perimeter starts.

Despite the loneliness of it, the ground is quite fertile; as patches of earth left alone by humankind often are. No one ever comes with Kevin when he gardens — Andrew finding it too soft a hobby and Neil, too pointless —, so there is no worry about someone else intervening with his flowers. Worlds apart from Evermore, Kevin quite enjoys the alone time tending to this garden provides, so he makes a habit out of it.

He’s not sure how well he is doing. His first attempt had been to plant daylilies, because the name had amused him and they were considered beginner plants, offending as the thought is. Daylilies, Kevin’s come to find, are low-maintenance, highly resistant and pest-free — three things Kevin cannot relate to, despite them sharing a surname. Those turned out fine, but one cannot go wrong with daylilies; they’re too easy. The only way Kevin could’ve killed them is if he was an absolute moron.

His second attempt — and the one he is currently keeping a close watch on — were tulips. They’re harder to care for than their predecessors, and take up more of Kevin’s time than he had previously imagined, though he doesn’t fault them for it. He’d gotten seeds from a shop a few blocks down to where Andrew usually buys his cigarettes in Columbia, and hadn’t bothered to ask for more information; Kevin’s first mistake, he realizes.

His tulips have… multiplied. Perhaps too much — hopeless, Kevin sits amidst the rows and rows of golden ladies, dainty-looking but quite surely outnumbering him, and wonders how many more of them could cause a natural imbalance in the area. For how they spread over the garden, Kevin is not sure he wants the answer. Their yellow bulbs seem to mock him.

Deciding this is now above him, Kevin wipes the dirt from his knees and springs up. He breaks the stem of a few tulips that have already bloomed, mindful that they must reserve their energy for a future reblooming, and checks for rotten bulbs before leaving. Surely, with time, his little garden will recover well enough so that it is not fully covered in tulips. Surely he’ll be able to plant something else, then.

If anything, Kevin is at least happy they don’t have thorns. Gathering the handful of flowers he’d cut off, he returns to his dorm, mindlessly wondering to himself if they have a vase wide enough to fit all of these tulips. When their whiny door pushes open under his weight, Kevin announces his arrival by calling out, “Do we still have that big vase from last year?”

No reply. Frowning, Kevin settles his flowers on the kitchen counter and glances over to where Andrew’s wallet and keys sit at their coffee table, even his half-finished pack of cigarettes left untouched. It is highly unlikely for Andrew to leave without at least one of those three items, creature of habit he is. How weird.

Grabbing for his phone, Kevin sees a flash of motion from the corner of his eye, and is just quick enough to sidestep a little body hiding behind the back of their sofa. The idea of something as small as this just hanging around their dorm is so baffling Kevin can hardly compute it, communication between his eyes and his brain coming to a screeching stop as he takes in the sight in front of him.

There’s a child. There’s a — there’s a child.

He is quite small. His hair, a gentle wheat-like thing, curls softly over his forehead, leading down to big, round brown eyes and a thin mouth. The child’s face is very tender, his cheeks flushed from exertion, but he does not meet Kevin’s stare with any such feeling — instead, his eyes widen slightly, and he stumbles back like he’s been hit.

For a moment, Kevin even worries he hasn’t sidestepped as well as he thought and indeed had hit this child on accident. Taking a few steps back himself, Kevin asks, “Who are you?”

It seems like the kind of question the child should ask him, instead of the opposite. The little boy tilts his head back to look at Kevin — and he does have to tilt it very far —, before steeling himself to answer, “I’m—I think I live here now?”

“That…” Kevin hesitates, “can’t be right.” The child’s eyes water slightly. Growing more and more panicked by the minute, Kevin immediately retracts it. “But I’m sure it is, if you’re saying it.”

The tears don’t fall, but they don’t quite recede either; the little boy's face is so fair it starts to look splotchy soon enough, red dusting his nose and cheeks. “Are you my new brother?” He asks, with all the certainty of someone who’s had many new brothers before. A nagging chill runs up Kevin’s spine.

“I don’t believe I am, since I don’t have any siblings,” Kevin limits himself to replying. He crouches down to meet the child’s stare, eyeing his tulips from above his head. Kevin really needs to get that vase soon; it’s not good for them to be out in the open like this. “Can you tell me your name? Why are you here? Where are your parents?”

The little boy eyes him suspiciously. He answers none of Kevin’s questions, but he informs, “There was another little boy too.”

“Right. Well,” Kevin stumbles a bit, unsure of what to say — and what to believe in, even. Children often see things that aren’t there for adults; he does not want to see any manner of spirit today. Or any other day. “Can you go get him for me? Then I can help you figure out what you’re doing here.”

“What else… can I be doing here?” The child asks, frowning lightly. “This is a new home. They—at the last one, they didn’t want me. And I have to be somewhere.”

Recognition shivers through Kevin. “I see,” he replies past the lump in his throat. “I think I might understand. The—the little boy that you mentioned, did he have blue eyes? And, and red hair?”

Andrew crinkles his little nose. “Was orange, not red.”

Oh. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. “I understand it now.” Kevin’s thighs tremble too much for him to hold his crouch, so he sits back on his heels, kneeling at Andrew’s height. “How old are you? If you don’t mind.”

Andrew blinks at him for a moment too long before showing Kevin his spread palm — it is unbearably small, chubby, and quite pale, too. “I’m five,” he says.

And he is. He is five years old. He is very five years old by the looks of it, which is not the age Andrew Minyard should be, because before Kevin left for his garden, he was pretty sure the Andrew he left behind was twenty-one.

“You’re five. Okay. That makes sense. Of course,” Kevin babbles, having gone half-stupid from shock. That this could be happening to him — that it could be happening to them again, after Kevin had spent a week of last month being six years old and with no recollection of it. What kind of rotten cosmic joke is this? “I see. Okay, well, let me just—” He rubs a hand across his face. “Hello, I’m Kevin. I am a collegiate athlete. That means I play Exy for a university. Have you heard of it?”

“Exy is on the TV all the time,” Andrew counters, but it seems to be all that he knows. He looks a little hesitant before he nods; tight and anxious. “Hi. I’m Andrew Doe.”

Without a surname makes one a John Doe. Kevin’s heart squeezes. “Hello, Andrew,” he greets, trying to work his face into something gentler. “I understand what you mean now. You called it a new home, correct? It’s not like that. I think what happened here is…”

“Do you work for my father?” A small voice cuts Kevin’s sentence short. He whips his head around to meet a boy a good few inches taller than Andrew leaning against the doorway of their bedroom, his hair a light ginger. When Kevin’s eyes meet his, Neil — Nathaniel? — hunches in on himself in self-reproach, placing little hands in front of his head. “Sorry. I spoke out of turn.”

Kevin blinks. “No,” he answers, softening his voice. This is—this is not the time to doubt whether gentleness is achievable or not; this is the time to force it until it breaks, or until it gives. “I don’t work for your father. I’ve never even met him before.”

Neil pales. Perhaps the idea that someone does not know his father seems outlandish when Neil has been raised under his dominion — Kevin is sure it feels that way, for Neil to look so stricken. Often when you are this small and your parents are the overlords of your world, it feels strange to learn that they are not the end-all-be-all of everyone else’s.

Like a little tour guide, Andrew steps forward to explain, “I think you might be here because your mom and dad went away and children have to live somewhere.”

…Of course, being five years old, his understanding of the situation is about as good as Kevin had expected. Andrew’s explanation of the foster system is fairly good, all things considered, but too realistic for a child his age. He should, at least, still believe that they mean to find him a family instead of sending him from home to home because there is nowhere else for him to be.

Neil pales even further. “Is that true?”

“Is true. Is what happened to me.”

“Alright, alright,” Kevin intervenes at last, and two pairs of eyes turn to him; both hesitant in their own way. He coughs into his fist, deciding that honesty is the easiest route. “To be frank with both of you, I’m not sure why you’re here, either. But… thank you, Andrew, for trying to explain it.”

The little Andrew’s face does something unguarded and surprised before he looks away, blushing lightly.

Kevin keeps his eyes trained to his tulips. “I don’t know what happened for you to get here, but you’re welcome to stay until we can figure this out.”

He is eyed with suspicion from both sides. “I,” Neil shakily starts, the beginning of a meltdown creeping into his voice, “I want my mama. Where is she?”

“I’m sorry,” Kevin replies, and finds that he means it, “I don’t know. If I knew, I’d take you to her.”

He would do no such thing, but it is important to say it, anyway.

Springing upwards before Neil can bring out the waterworks, Kevin takes a few steps next to where he’d put aside his tulips and returns with one in each hand. “Here,” he says, kneeling to their height again. “Want a flower? I just got them from the garden.”

Andrew’s hand reaches for it, but does not bridge the distance, hesitant. Neil doesn’t even try to get it. “Flowers are for girls,” he tells Kevin.

“Hm. Do I look like a girl to you?”

“Yes.”

Kevin supposes that was a mistake on his part. It’s always the hair with children. “Well, I’m not,” he argues — argues! — with five-year-old Neil. “It’s very rude to not accept a gift.”

Neil eyes him, squinting quietly. He takes a few steps closer, looking more relaxed now that he’s figured Kevin is not working for his father. Coaxingly, Kevin offers one of the tulips in his direction — the bigger one, standing proud and yellow and delicate. It took a great effort for them to look this healthy. “These are called golden ladies. They’re perennials — that means they grow no matter the season. I plant them myself.”

A little hand curls around the stem of the smallest of Kevin’s tulips, catching it with all the clumsy delicacy of children who have yet to learn a finer touch. Letting Andrew take it, Kevin's mouth twitches. “Don’t worry about thorns, there’s none.”

He doesn’t mention the eco-system smasher Kevin had accidentally become in the process. Hopefully, no one notices the terrifying increase of tulips in Palmetto for the upcoming springs.

Andrew doesn’t answer him, eyes trained to the tulip. The yellow of the inner petals matches the pale of his hair; makes him look more flower than child. Sweet, sweet boy.

Kevin turns back to Neil. “Won’t you take it even if you don’t like them? I don’t have a vase yet. I’m afraid they’ll just rot if you don’t take them.” This is a lie — but it’s a fair one. Children shouldn’t be so restrained.

The idea of imminent destruction seems to convince Neil to walk the distance between himself and Kevin to take the flower in his little hand. He says nothing. Kevin can’t tell if he likes it at all — he’s so put-upon.

A little hand flutters in the general direction of Kevin’s head. “Why is your hair…” Andrew asks.

“What? Long?” The child nods. “What’s wrong about it?”

“It shouldn’t be like this.”

Well, that’s rude. Kevin huffs softly under his breath, absent-mindedly combing his fingers through his hair. “When I was a little over your age, I had a friend — a brother — who liked my hair like this. I think I just grew used to it.”

It’s not the full story, of course. He can’t tell them about Riko, and how much of his preferences Kevin had taken as law out of admiration, at first, then fear, later on. He can’t explain, either, that his hair staying this way is his own way of mourning — a childhood left unfinished, a little boy abused into the insanity of Riko’s final years, brotherhood yet to be tainted by blood and jealousy. Children this young can’t tell Kevin carries all the marks of the grieving.

“Oh,” Andrew replies. He looks like he wants to ask some more, but he doesn’t.

“I can teach you how to braid it later, if you want,” Kevin offers. He has not even a sliver of a clue about what children should do in their free time. In his time, his mother took him all around the world during her trips, which didn’t usually leave Kevin much time for playing; then, after she died, Exy consumed most of his time between little league and Tetsuji’s endurance bootcamp. “It’s a useful skill. You can impress your future wife with it.”

He knows well enough that Andrew is never, ever going to get a wife; still, Kevin knows no other way to frame the importance — or, rather, mask the lack thereof — of this to him.

Andrew nods politely. He, for one, is taking this much better than Neil seems to be — for good reason, Kevin imagines. Already registered in the foster system, Andrew must be used to adapting to new homes, new siblings, new adults with an eccentric knack for gardening and haircare. He’s indulging Kevin. A five-year-old!

“Well,” Kevin clears his throat, suddenly a little embarrassed. “Are you hungry? It should be almost lunchtime.”

No answer. It’s almost like dealing with the adults Andrew and Neil again.

Lunch is bland and unimaginative; Kevin follows the recipe obsessively, unwilling to make children choke down trash. It’s one thing for their adult selves to indulge Kevin in his lack of culinary talent, but children don’t yet have the taste buds for experimental food, nor the desire to put up with their caretakers’ inability to cook. More than once he resists the urge to add more spice — or even more salt.

While he cooks, Kevin allows Andrew and Neil to get acquainted with each other. They talk quietly, eyeing the other with no less suspicion they eyed Kevin with, and seem happy to do their own thing. Skittish, for sure: but can they be blamed for it? Kevin doesn’t expect them to hit it off immediately, especially with Neil’s under-socialization. In the week or so Kevin should have them, it is likely they’ll progress on that front.

Polite like a trained dog, Andrew waits by the kitchen doorway to help Kevin with setting the table. He’s far too small for such a task — he’ll drop any glassware Kevin gives him. Still, unwilling to let the child feel useless, Kevin asks him to set some napkins and cutlery out. Yes, that should be enough.

“Thank you, Andrew,” he says when he is done finishing up on their plates. Looking at the portions, Kevin is inclined to think they are far too much for someone of their size, but he doubts either have had access to an unrestricted meal in quite a while. At their age, Kevin knows he hadn’t. “It is very kind of you to help with the table.”

Andrew tilts his head towards his food without comment. He is almost unnervingly polite. It’s not the Andrew Kevin knows, and the contrast feels scathing.

Despite the children’s best efforts, their meal is not quiet. Kevin is not good with children, but he likes to think he is good with Andrew and Neil — as good as one can be, anyway. He prompts them into conversation by asking questions about their interests, their lives, their routines; half of it is trying to figure out how to care for these two, and the other half is emulating a chewed-out memory of how Kayleigh used to talk to him.

She was never the kind of parent who baby-talked to Kevin. As soon as he was able to, she tried to engage him in conversation — however loose that concept can be for a five-year-old. Kayleigh, from what he remembers of her, had the ability to make anyone feel listened to; Kevin doesn’t remember ever doubting she cared for his childish babbling about toys and daycare, even if nostalgia had colored the memory a soft mouth-pink. He only wishes he would’ve gotten at least half of her social adeptness. From Kayleigh, all Kevin got was green eyes, a gaping hunger for success and an inescapable attraction to troubled men.

“I play Exy and I like books,” Kevin offers in trade for information. It’s — well, he doesn’t have many hobbies. The gardening and the cooking are a late product of much of Dr. Betsy Dobson’s insistence that Kevin must make something out of himself that isn’t Exy-related. “I like cooking but I’m not good at it. And I like gardening but it takes a lot of work so I don’t do it all the time.”

“It’s not that bad,” Andrew tells him, motioning to his food with small movements. He finished his plate in record time, inhaling Kevin’s poor attempt at a caesar salad like it’s a five stars meal. On the other hand, Neil is halfway through with his and looks done already. “Your food.”

“Not that bad?” Kevin tilts his head slightly, amused. He’ll take it, he supposes. “Thank you, Andrew.”

Hesitant, like perhaps he fears Kevin will be angry at him for it, Neil picks up the conversation where he left off to say, “I like… horses. But, um, like toys.”

“Horses, I see,” Kevin repeats, a bit hopeless. Children’s interests are so loose. “And what else?”

Neil flicks him a suspicious glare. “What else?”

“I gave you four of my interests. A conversation has to be equal.”

Looking as if Kevin had sprouted a second head right in front of him, Neil does not do as he is asked so much as he stares at Kevin, mouth open in a little o. Has no one asked this child what he likes before? It feels out of character for the Butcher of Baltimore, sure, but Neil’s mother had seemed to care for him, at least from what little Kevin had heard about her.

“No?” Kevin tries after a few moments of silence. “I’m just trying to be friends.”

“Why would you be my friend?” Neil asks, putting down his fork with surprising care; as if to ensure it makes no noise. Even his voice is small and unobtrusive, despite the words. “Adults and children aren’t friends. Adults want children to be quiet.”

Kevin hides a wince. He hadn’t imagined the Butcher of Baltimore, in all his serial killer glory, would have indulged his child in conversation — and by the way Neil acts, he could’ve guessed for himself that most of Neil’s childhood had been trying to stay out of his father’s way. But no one ever wants to assume the worst out of a loved one’s suffering; Kevin had held out hope there’d be at least a silver lining in Neil’s horror stories.

It is not unlike how Kevin and Riko were raised in the Nest, anyway. Their private tutors were stern, and despite much of their trying, there was no place for childhood in Evermore: they were told to keep quiet or else. The Master would often say that they were not to act like children — it hadn’t occurred to him up until now how cruel it is to forbid a child from being childish.

“Well, if I’m asking you, don’t you think I want to know?” Kevin argues. “Not all adults think the same thing. Do you think the same thing as every other child?”

A pause. Neil shakes his head, looking somewhat green, as if he had just realized what he said. From Kevin’s other side, Andrew stares anxiously.

Rubbing a hand through his face, Kevin slowly puts out, trying to enunciate his words as gentle as he can make them, “I am not angry that you spoke your mind. It makes sense, what you said.” He shakes his head a little. Only a few minutes in, and he’s already ruining it — Kevin’s no good for anything that doesn’t involve a racquet. “But I would not have asked if I didn’t want to know. Do you understand?”

A small, careful nod. Kevin will take whatever he can get.

“Good.” Kevin starts to gather the empty plates — his and Andrew’s —, and motions towards Neil’s half-finished one. “Do you not like it? I can make you something else, if you want.”

The sudden shift in conversation visibly vexes Neil, but, politely, he replies, “...Not hungry.”

From beside Kevin, Andrew flinches. Hurrying to dispel it, Kevin says, “It’ll be in the fridge in case you want it later.” Piling the plates into one of his hands, Kevin offers the other one to Andrew. “Come on, you didn’t get to tell me what you like during lunch.”

The child watches Kevin’s hand — the right one, smooth and unscarred if a little crooked from the years of gripping racquets — warily before accepting it, threading his little fingers through Kevin’s. His hand feels unimaginably small; so fragile it is a wonder it even exists. Kevin is reminded of the first time he saw a baby bird, back in Dublin: he’d told his mom he couldn’t tell if it was super ugly or super cute. She’d laughed for what felt like an eternity after.

Still sitting politely at the table, Neil watches their joined hands, frowning. Kevin can’t tell what he’s thinking — wouldn’t be able to even with an adult Neil —, but the face he makes claws at his heart. “N—” not his name, “ah, do you want to come with?”

Thus invited, Neil follows them into the kitchen. Kevin washes the dishes and listens as Andrew tells him, a little shyly, that he likes Sesame Street, street cats (“Really?” Kevin asks. “Aren’t their claws a little scary?” to which Andrew seems to lose some respect for him on the spot), chocolate and amusement parks, when he is allowed to go. It's a fairly common list — Kevin didn’t know what he expected a five-year-old version of Andrew to like. Something a little more unorthodox, perhaps.

But children are the same everywhere, at any point. Andrew soaks up the attention Kevin gives him, happy to answer all questions, if a little insecure on why Kevin would be asking them. Knowing where Andrew was at this age, he doesn’t doubt it’s been a while an adult has actually spoken to him with some level of care for what he has to say: when was the last time Andrew has actually felt companionship? Someone who hears what he says and asks questions about it?

It feels sacrilegious to stop now. Already out of dishes to clean, Kevin scrubs and re-scrubs their plates until his hands ache as he asks Andrew questions, not unaware of Neil’s watching eyes.

“And how is it? California?” Kevin asks. The next thing he says is a bold-faced lie, because he’s visited Jean before, but he still says it. “I’ve never been. I heard it’s beautiful.”

He’s heard no such thing. Jean seems to think California is where meaningful art goes to die, but he can’t tell Andrew that.

“Is okay,” Andrew tells him, propped up on a stool next to Kevin. His little legs swing mindlessly. “The traffic — there’s traffic. And Disneyland.”

“You’ve been?” He asks again.

“Oh, um, no.”

It’s expected. “I have not either,” Kevin relates, making it sound like a bigger woe than it really is. His hands are rubbed raw at this point, and the soap pricks at the skin of his palms — soon, he’ll have to stop. Just a little more. “I don’t think I’d like it, either way.”

Andrew watches him curiously. “Why?”

“I don’t like crowds.” It’s not as easy as that, but Kevin leaves it as it is. The prickling sensation of the soap starts to crawl up his wrist, and he decides it is time to stop. Drying his hands off on a nearby cloth, Kevin prompts, “How about some dessert?”

It is the first time he’s ever said those words, and they horrify him, but the quickly-hidden flash of interest in Andrew’s face is worth breaking his streak for. From the stool beside Andrew, Neil frowns lightly. This child is too serious — Kevin tries to remember if he was like this back in little league, but his memory is not the best after so many hits to the head.

He rummages through their freezer. Andrew’s adult self is fond of indulging — there are a few half-eaten ice cream cartons tucked beneath frozen peas and other such vegetables, though most of them are flavored a cherry liqueur Kevin will most certainly not feed to children. Scavenging further he is able to retain a sealed chocolate carton, the frost covering it making his fingertips tingle.

This has to be too frozen to eat. Helpless, Kevin turns to look at the two five-year-olds as if they have a better idea. It’s weird, now, to be the person Andrew and Neil look to for answers — Kevin is used to it being the other way around. He is caught thinking that he’ll probably struggle in the coming days, without his two little shadows making life easier for him.

“I think if I microwave it a little bit, nothing’s going to happen,” Kevin mumbles to himself, aware that he is not inspiring much respect as an authority figure. He’s no Andrew, after all: Kevin’s still himself, despite all his best efforts to be someone else.

The ice cream loses some of its original texture in the microwave, but, if anything, Andrew seems to enjoy it as Kevin passes him a bowl. Neil does not accept one himself, politely saying he doesn't like sweets, and the lack of attitude from him is disturbing. Kevin is used to Neil being a force of nature — seeing him this quiet, this contained, is not easy. It makes him think of the iron-shaped scar on his adult self’s chest. All that dead skin.

Unwilling to let him be left out, Kevin cuts some slices of apple for him, which Neil takes with some degree of gratefulness. The little boys settle in front of the TV while Kevin manages to find a children’s channel, looking small on their ratty dorm carpet. Kevin isn’t sure children should be this small in the first place — he’s not sure if they are little because of genetics, or neglect. How much can you hurt a child until they disappear?

Kevin sits himself with them, cross-legged. He is too old to see the appeal of children’s television, so most of it is watching them from the corner of his eye and finding out what to say to Aaron to get him to come and help.

You 14:36

Hello. I think whatever happened to me last month just happened to Andrew and Neil.

As in, they have turned into five-year-olds. If you’ve forgotten.

When there is no immediate response, Kevin huffs to himself and snatches a picture of their two little heads pending towards each other, deep in conversation about the show they are watching. Kevin is, at least, relieved to see them interacting at all: Andrew might have been to kindergarten already, but Neil has always been undersocialized, all tutors and nannies. If Kevin can’t be his friend, then at least Andrew can.

The picture gets him a quicker answer.

Aaron 14:45

what the fuck what the fuck what the ufck

why doe sthis keep fucking happening to you

Like it’s his fault!

You 14:45

This is not the kind of thing I can control.

They are good children. Polite. Easier to deal with than I was, I wager. But I need you to come and help.

Aaron 14:47

why should i

what makes you think i could help you

You 14:49

Because he is your brother.

Before Kevin can read Aaron’s answer, something hooks on his hair. Looking down, he finds Andrew’s hand hanging a few inches away from it, alarmed and wide-eyed at being caught. Behind him, Neil looks just as queasy, as if this had been their joint effort.

“Can I help you?” Kevin asks, raising his eyebrow a little. When he gets no response, he concedes, "You can touch. Don’t tug or pull. And keep it away from your mouth.”

No response. Kevin doubles down, “It’s really fine. Here.” He pulls his hair out of its low ponytail, letting it curtain down his shoulders and back. It’s not often he lets his hair down like this — it can be too much of a hassle. Kevin ought to cut it one day, but the thought still makes him a little sick to think of. “As long as you’re careful.”

An hesitant little hand inches closer and closer, still warily watching out for Kevin’s reaction. When Andrew finds no resistance, he combs little fingers down the length of Kevin’s hair, faint and amazed. He’s not very gentle — children are too clumsy for it, still, and there is some tugging. It doesn’t hurt, though. Kevin allows it.

Resigning himself to being played with, Kevin gives them his back, leaning his elbow against the couch. Another pair of little hands clutches at a chunk of hair, and he knows Andrew has convinced Neil to get in on their impromptu hairdresser salon. At least they’re playing, Kevin consoles himself as he feels a pull on his scalp. At least they’re getting along.

“I have hair ribbons on my desk,” he offers, knowing what he is setting himself up to and still going through with it. “Colorful ones. Satin. Would you like to see them?”

A pause on the tugging. “Really?” That was Neil.

“Yes. But I’ll have to get up to get them.”

“I can do it,” Andrew tells him, the ever-helpful little waiter. He’s so polite — Kevin wonders if they taught him there is a higher chance of getting adopted if you treat the foster parents with subservience. Probably. “Where is it?”

“Andrew, it’s fine—”

“I’ll do it. He’s still playing, so I’ll do it.”

So kind, giving Neil time to play by himself. Kevin, helplessly charmed, would allow him anything. “Okay. Thank you.” Motioning vaguely in the direction of their desks, he says, “It’s the one with the shelves on top of it. Yes, that one, with the books. Be careful not to hit your head!” Watching Andrew narrowly duck under a shelf gives Kevin half an aneurysm, but the child seems no less interested in his quest. “First drawer. There. Did you find it?”

“Yes,” Andrew replies, shoving a chubby fist into the drawer and pulling out a handful of hair ribbons, all different colors and sizes. There was an organization system to it, and his careless pulling has clearly ruined it. A little disheartened, Kevin doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “This?”

“Yes. Please keep the drawer closed.”

The drawer snaps shut, and Andrew makes his way back to them, freshly acquired ribbons falling over his fingers and wrist in colorful flops. Kevin doesn’t see him sit back down, but he feels Andrew’s hand on his hair again. “Why do you have shelves?” Neil asks after a few moments of silence, their hands working ribbons in his hair via extremely clumsy braiding. “Um, just you, I mean. The others are empty.”

That he’s asking anything seems like a blessing, when the child is so quiet. “My—” Kevin hesitates. How to even describe it? “My… friend built them for me. The shelves. He got annoyed at me for leaving my books everywhere.”

It’s true. Just as Kevin loathes Andrew’s habit of leaving his cigarettes anywhere, so does Andrew loathe Kevin’s astray book piles across the living room, left half-read or unfinished in his haste to get to class or practice. The shelves had been less of a compromise and more of a surprise: one day, they were simply sitting above his desk like they’ve always been there. Kevin never asked Andrew if he built them, but he figured the wood splinters on his fingers were reason enough. It took a lot of arguing for Andrew to take them out the right way, instead of just letting the splinters break on their own.

“Oh,” Andrew says, entirely unaware of the story being about his older self and focused on tying a bow on Kevin’s hair. “Where is he?”

“There’s two of them, actually. They’re away for work.” Kevin leans his head closer when the tugging starts to get a little painful. “What are you doing back there, anyway?”

“It’s pretty,” Neil murmurs, defending his work. Kevin doubts it is, but he’s happy to even have the little Neil’s attention at all.

“You know how to braid?” He asks, trying to steal a look and getting his head gently moved back by Andrew. “By the way, what’s your name? You haven’t said.”

Neil hesitates, hands freezing. Kevin keeps talking, “Whatever you want to be called.”

“Um,” Neil thinks on it for a moment. He seems to be rolling Kevin’s hair nervously around his fingers now; a nervous fidget. “My—my dad calls me Junior, but my mom calls me Nat—Nathaniel.”

He doesn’t say it like he enjoys being called either.

“Hello, Nathaniel,” Kevin tilts his head in acknowledgement, because he wasn’t raised in a barn. “I’m Kevin. It’s nice to meet you.”

Shy little thing he is, Nathaniel doesn’t answer.

The children play with Kevin’s hair for a few more minutes before losing interest, leaving him a mess of ribbons and tangles he decides not to deal with for now. He imagines they should be put to sleep soon — children this small sleep in the afternoon, do they not? At their age, Kevin is sure he had to be made to nap one way or another, what with his mother’s hectic schedule. It’s a bit of a parenting cop-out, he is aware, but… Kevin could use a nap himself. Sure the children do, too.

He makes a show out of yawning behind his palm. Two pairs of eyes turn to him, neither particularly moved by his display. Tough crowd.

“Maybe we can all take a nap,” Kevin suggests. Nothing.

#asks #kandreil #my writing #thisis very scuffed i did some minor editing but its seriously not good. dont perceive me

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linksconverge · 2 months ago

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GAME: The Minish Cap DIRECTORY: Height ref, #character tag

A hero whose desire to save his best friend happened to include saving his world. The youngest member of the party, he's bold and curious to a fault. This can make him endearingly friendly to some — tactlessly pushy to others. As the Hero of the Minish, he places the magic of little kindnesses above all else and generally strives to echo the care he was shown on his journey as much as he can. This sometimes clashes with his fondness for mischief.

WEAPONS: Four Sword and Decorated Shield. Admittedly not the best swordsman of the party, but he has skills learnt from his grandpa and the Blade Brothers, and such experience with fighting against all odds that it would be ill-advised to underestimate him.

GEAR: Hero must-haves. With a family lineage of metalworking that he's very proud of behind him, he always carries around a set of tools that he deems necessary for the job. Ultimately arbitrary, but useful when on-field equipment maintenance is required! Beyond that and the items he's picked up over his hero's journey, his possessions clearly reflect his sentimentalities: his Pegasus Boots and Roc's Cape are well-loved, his Kinstone Bag has been patched up over and over, and he is never without Ezlo's hat.

SKILL: Magic user. Though he has a natural well of it, the Minish were his first real introduction to magic, so he doesn't have a very concrete idea of what to do with it. He can instinctively use catalysts like the Cane of Pacci without too much instruction required, but the only spell he knows how to cast is the one that will turn him into a Minish (literally).

SKILL: Smithing. While he still has things to learn from his grandpa, he is versed enough as a smithy apprentice that he can be trusted to evaluate, fix, or create quite a few things the party needs in the way of weapons, gear, and forged utilities. He's also vaguely familiar with Minish smithing and constructs, which he's found some Zonai devices strangely reminiscent of.

LANGUAGES & COMMUNICATION: Hearing. He only understands Hylian (Old Syllabary) while untransformed. In his Minish form — with the Jabber Nut's effects — he seems to understand all spoken language, including Minish, "animal-speak", and the more modern evolutions of Hylian. Non-speaking with limited literacy due to dyslexia, he primarily uses his era's Hylian Sign Language to communicate.

Makes an effort to stomp or clap to catch attention, but will sometimes fall back to initiating physical contact when he's tired and/or frustrated.

Will draw through any means available if his conversation partner doesn't understand HSL.

TRANSFORMATION: Without the presence of Minish Portals or Ezlo, shrinking down to Minish size comes with the side effect of turning Cori into a Minish himself. His aptitude for this spell is nowhere near refined enough to compensate for the lack of magical stability that would otherwise be offered.

PERSONAL TIMELINE: Went through the events of The Minish Cap when he was nine-years-old. It's been nearly a year since.

NICKNAME ORIGIN: Self-proposed from the word "Picori". Usually fingerspelled (syllabically, "Co-ri").

#linksconverge #links meet au #the legend of zelda #the minish cap #zelda au #lc cori #content / meta #'ray isn't his vector just from the height chart' yeah. shhh shh #feels unfinished...killing perfectionism is hard. but is good to try anyway. send post #overall layout very much inspired by the adven.turer's bible for dunm.eshi <3 #queue tag.

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titus-androgynous-87 · 10 months ago

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For winter driving: keep a couple jugs of cat litter in your trunk or backseat, or the bed of your truck (and maybe some cinder blocks for the truck). The weight helps with stabilizing you in slick conditions, especially if your car is front-wheel drive as the front end is much heavier than the rear. and then you can use the grit to help you out of a ditch or off of an icy patch. Also a good idea to keep a trench shovel or garden trowel in your car to help dog out of drifts

If you’re driving on a slick road and feel your car start to slip, DO NOT HIT THE BRAKES. Instead: LET OFF THE GAS AND STEER DEFENSIVELY. Jamming on the brake locks your wheels and makes it impossible to control where you drift. Letting off the gas immediately slows your acceleration, which means more traction. Steer defensively (in the opposite direction of your slide), but be careful not to over-correct. Eventually you’ll slow to a crawl, which will give you enough traction to straighten out. THEN AND ONLY THEN will you tell-apply the gas to continue driving.

Keep a heat reflective blanket (you can get one for just a few bucks at any outdoorsy store or online), a first aid kit, and a hat and extra pair of gloves within easy reach in case you hit a ditch and can’t get out/help will take a while to arrive. If your battery is good and have enough fuel, keep your car running. Just make sure your exhaust pipe is clear of ice and snow so you don’t accidentally kill yourself with carbon monoxide backing up into the cabin of your vehicle. If you have low fuel: run your car periodically for about 20 minutes to keep the cabin of your car at acceptable temperatures. WEAR THE REFLECTIVE BLANKET AND EXTRA HAT AND GLOVES WHILE THE CAR IS RUNNING AS WELL AS OFF TO REDUCE RISK OF HYPOTHERMIA

Invest in a portable jump starter. I highly recommend the one by DeWalt as it also works as a portable tire inflator, battery charger/conditioner, and power station for charging mobile devices. Also invest in a AAA membership if you’re in the US. It’s a yearly fee but so worth it. You can choose your membership tier to cover versions roadside emergencies you think you’ll encounter, including: free towing up to 50 miles, tire replacement, battery jumping/charging, and even bringing you a gallon of gas if you run out

Also keep a fire extinguisher in your glovebox, along with an easy to read tire gauge. Make sure the fire extinguisher is rated for oil/petroleum fires as well as electrical, as these are the two main causes of fires in vehicles. A tire gauge will help you with regular maintenance by knowing the exact PSI your tires are at. Check the wall of your tire for maximum PSI limits

And regularly wash the road salt off of the undercarriage and side panels of your vehicle. Salt accelerates oxidation, and season after season of driving on treated asphalt wreaks havoc on exhaust pipes, catalytic converters, paint, and body panels

I am BEGGING younger drivers. drive carefully. give yourself room. for fuck's sake use your turn signals and don't fucking weave thru traffic. this is not a video game, this is real life and if you get into an accident, you could get killed or kill someone else VERY easily

#winter driving tips

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texasproauto · 2 months ago

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How to Maintain Your PPF: Tips for Longevity and Appearance

Protecting Your Vehicle: Easy Ways to Maintain Your PPF in Excellent ConditionFor many car owners, keeping their vehicle looking new and well-maintained is essential. Utilizing Paint Protection Film (PPF) is an excellent method for achieving this. Once the PPF is applied to your car, how can you ensure it remains in top condition? Let’s explore some straightforward tips for preserving your PPF, ensuring its durability and appearance.

Understanding PPF: What Exactly Is It?

PPF acts as a protective barrier for your car’s paint. It’s a transparent film that is applied to your vehicle, shielding it from dirt, scratches, and fading. Consider it as sunscreen for your car, safeguarding it from harmful UV rays and everyday wear and tear. Just as you care for your skin, your PPF also requires proper maintenance.

Regular Cleaning: The Key to Maintaining Its Shine

Similar to how your body needs regular cleaning, your car also requires frequent washing. Regularly washing your car helps eliminate dirt and grime that could diminish the film’s luster. When it comes to washing, here are some basic steps to follow:

1.Use Gentle Soap: Opt for a mild car soap instead of household cleaners, as harsh chemicals can damage the PPF.

2.Use Soft Materials Only: Utilize microfiber cloths or gentle sponges, as rough materials could scratch the surface.

3.Rinse Thoroughly: Prior to scrubbing, rinse your car with water to remove any loose dirt.

Regular washing helps preserve the clarity and vibrancy of your PPF, much like a good skincare routine helps keep your skin radiant.

Sun Protection Measures

Just as you wouldn’t expose your skin to the sun without protection, it’s important to be mindful of your car’s exposure to sunlight. Prolonged exposure to direct sunlight can cause the PPF to yellow over time. Here are some simple ways to care for it:

1.Park in Shaded Areas: Whenever possible, park your car under trees or in a garage to shield it from the sun’s rays.

2.Use a Car Cover: If shade isn’t available, a breathable car cover can safeguard your car from UV rays and dust.

Shielding your car from the sun is akin to wearing a hat on a hot summer day — it prevents damage and helps maintain a cool environment.

Swift Remedies for Scratches and Scuffs

Accidents happen, and it’s possible that your car may experience minor scratches. Thankfully, small scratches on your PPF can often heal on their own. Here’s how:

Apply Heat: A bit of warmth can help. Use a heat gun or a hairdryer on low to gently warm the scratched area, as the PPF tends to self-heal as it warms up.

Seek Professional Assistance: For larger scratches, it’s best to enlist the help of a professional. They can patch or replace sections of the film seamlessly.

Think of these scratches as minor scrapes on your skin — with proper care, they can heal swiftly!

Avoiding Harsh Chemicals

Just as strong chemicals can harm your skin, they can also damage PPF. Refrain from using products that contain:

Solvents: These can break down the film.

Alcohol-based Cleaners: They might leave streaks or dull the surface.

Always opt for products specifically designed for car care, as using the right products truly makes a difference!

Conclusion: Give Your Car the Care It Deserves

Your car is more than just a mode of transportation; it embodies your style and pride. Maintaining your PPF ensures that your car remains well-protected and looking great for years to come. Regular washes, shaded parking, prompt repairs, and the use of appropriate products will keep your paint film in top-notch condition. Treat your car with the care it deserves, and it will reward you with a stunning shine!

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tarzantips · 2 months ago

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What is the Secret of Japanese White Skin?

The stunning beauty of Japanese white skin has attracted people for generations, leaving many wondering the true secret to its glowing complexion.

For a long time, people have admired Japanese women for their perfect complexion, and they are curious to know what customs, habits, and cosmetic products they use to achieve this level.

Let's explore the dietary, skincare, and cultural practices that have influenced the unique looks of Japanese skin.

What is the Secret of Japanese White Skin?

Historical Context - The Cultural Significance of Pale Skin in Japan

Japanese people have always preferred to have fair complexion, a tradition that stretches back to the Heian period (794–1185 AD) and has deep cultural importance.

Pale skin was seen at this period by the upper class as a sign of beauty, purity, and high social standing.

Throughout the Edo era and onward, women of the court would apply white powder made from rice flour to achieve a ghostly pallor.

This cultural ideal has persisted into the present, with pale skin still seen as a standard of beauty in Japan.

Diet and Nutrition - How Japanese Cuisine Contributes to Skin Health

Antioxidants, vitamins, and minerals are abundance in the Japanese diet, which is essential for keeping skin healthy and glowing.

Not only are staple foods like vegetables, seafood, and seaweed nourishing, but they also help the skin. Fish, particularly those high in omega-3 fatty acids, help to maintain hydrated skin and prevent inflammation.

Vitamins A, C, and E found in seaweed support smoothness of the skin and fight aging.

Also, drinking green tea, which is well-known for its strong antioxidants, promotes a healthy complexion and shields the skin from environmental damage.

Traditional Skincare Rituals - The Art of Japanese Beauty Regimens

For generations, Japanese ladies have maintained their perfect complexions with demanding skincare routines using natural products and standard procedures.

In addition to treating the skin, a traditional Japanese skincare routine also nourishes and protects it.

An important first step is cleansing, which is typically done with mild, oil-based cleansers that remove pollutants without depleting the skin of its natural oils.

Adzuki beans or rice bran can be used as an exfoliant to maintain bright, smooth skin.

Another important factor is hydration, which is achieved by layering lotions and essences to keep the skin looking dewy and plump.

These generations-old customs highlight an entire skincare routine that puts long-term health ahead of temporary cures.

Sun Protection - The Role of Avoiding Sun Exposure in Skin Whitening

The careful application of sun protection to avoid UV damage is one of the main causes of the pale complexion of Japanese skin.

Japanese ladies are renowned for their dedication to protecting their skin from the sun; they frequently carry parasols, wear hats with large filled, and use sunscreen with a high SPF.

Reducing sun exposure lowers the chance of hyperpigmentation, dark patches, and premature aging in addition to preventing sunburn.

Over time, the cultural practice of avoiding the sun has contributed to the maintenance of a pale complexion among many Japanese women.

more >>>

#health & fitness #home remedies #tarzantips

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nithiyanantha · 3 months ago

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How to Incorporate Vintage Accessories into Your Modern Outfit

The addition of vintage accessories to a modern outfit brings forth that added edge in character and sophistication. Such accessories can make a modern outfit stand out and look unique, since it speaks to both personal flair and historical elegance. Putting vintage accessories together in your wardrobe is not only a nod to classic fashion but also an opportunity to express individuality. Whether it's adding that vintage brooch, a statement necklace, or classic sunglasses, the key lies in effortlessly incorporating such timeless items with modern garments.

1. Understanding the Allure of Vintage Accessories

Vintage accessories are something more than just old-fashioned items; they are remnants of history with distinct charm and craftsmanship. They can be anything from intricate jewelry to classic scarves and hats; each tells a different story. That is the beauty of vintage accessories: they can make a statement while being able to complement today's fashion.

Contrast might be how vintage could work with a modern outfit: Think of a vintage brooch with a modern blazer, or a vintage belt that adds retro sophistication to a well-tailored pair of pants.

2. Pairing Vintage Accessories with Modern Clothing

Mixing and matching goes hand in glove-vintage accessories with modern outfits require a delicate balance. Here are some tips for seamlessly working these classic elements into your look:

- Start Small: Begin incorporating smaller pieces of vintage accessories, such as a dainty vintage ring or a classic pair of earrings. These little touches can elevate a modern outfit without overwhelming it.

- Statement Pieces: These are great focal points of the look. Imagine a powerful vintage necklace being the center of attention on an outfit, like a plain white shirt and jeans.

- Mix and Match: Match vintage accessories with contemporary garments to come up with a balanced stylish ensemble. For example, a vintage scarf can add color on a modern dress or blouse.

Personalizing Modern with a Twist: Any modern outfitting gets that personal touch with personalized accessories. For example, instead of a simple best customized T-shirt in Tirupur, you can add a unique vintage pin or patch.

3. Inclusion of Vintage Accessories to Everyday Attire

Vintages have easily been fit into our everyday attire to add a pinch of variety to wear them effortlessly. Here is the multifarious way you can do this in your everyday attire:

The vintage brooch can be pinned on a modern blazer or coat for an air of sophistication. Brooches can be worn on hats, scarves, and even handbags.

Classic sunglasses: Vintage sunglasses add that retro touch to everything from dresses to casual wear for a timeless look.

Vintage Belts: A classic belt could form an extremely good addition to high-waist trousers or skirts. When cinched around a modern dress, it creates structure and adds style.

Personalized T-Shirts: Add a vintage patch or accessory to incorporate the best customization in the vintage accessories of Tirupur T-shirts. This will incorporate freshness from modern-day customization with that of the best evergreen touch of the fashion world.

When selecting vintage accessories, consider the following:

- Authenticity: Ensure that the details of the vintage pieces you are going to select are authentic and in good condition. Patronize highly regarded sellers or shops with a concentration on quality.

- Condition: Observe the condition of your target vintage accessory. You can choose those items that are in good condition so that you will easily be able to integrate them into your wardrobe.

Personal Style: Choose accessories from vintage, keeping in mind your personal style and modern attire. In this way, it will combine to make complete sense in style and fashion.

5. Care for Vintage Accessories

Care involves the qualities and appearance in terms of maintenance of the accessories:

Cleaning: Clean the various materials with given specific cleaning instructions. For example, vintage jewelry needs appropriate cleaners while being kept away from strong chemicals.

- Storage: Vintage accessories should be stored in cool, dry places and, while not in use, should be kept in protective casing or pouches to prevent scratching or tarnishing.

- Repairs: Immediately conduct minor repairs that one notices in the vintage piece to maintain it in a very good state. Professional repair services can help restore and preserve valuable accessories.

Conclusion

Adding vintage accessories to modern outfitting opens up your style to a distinctive look that celebrates the past and present of fashion. By combining classic elements with contemporary pieces, you will add flair to your wardrobe with a unique style blended with historical charm. Whether it be the pairing of vintage jewelry with a modern blazer or customizing the best customized T-shirts in Tirupur with vintage accessories, it all boils down to how well you pull the combination off with a harmonious and fashionable balance. Add a touch of class with vintage accessories and make them the focal point of your modern outfit.

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dukies333 · 3 months ago

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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Pottery Barn Teen HARRY POTTER House Patch Slytherin Pillow Cover - 16" square.

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masterroofers · 4 months ago

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Easy Roof Care for Brooklyn and Queens Homes: Keeping It Simple and Safe

Hey Brooklyn and Queens! Your roof is your home's first line of defense against the weather, but it doesn't have to be a headache to keep it in shape. Let's break down some straightforward tips for maintaining your roof and when to call in the pros for a little extra help.

Why Care About Your Roof?

Just like wearing a hat on a sunny day protects your head, taking care of your roof protects your entire home. Here's why you should keep your roof in good health:

Avoid Water Damage: Little leaks can become big problems fast, leading to costly repairs inside your home.

Save on Bills: A roof in good condition helps keep your home's temperature steady, cutting down on heating and cooling costs.

Boost Your Home’s Worth: Whether selling soon or in the future, a well-maintained roof adds curb appeal and value to your home.

Keep Everyone Safe: A damaged roof can be a hazard. Regular care helps keep everyone under your roof safe and sound.

Simple Steps to Maintain Your Roof

Taking care of your roof doesn’t have to be complicated. Here are some easy ways to help keep your roof in great shape:

Regular Checks: Take a walk around your house now and then, especially after big storms. Look up at your roof and check for missing shingles or other visible damage.

Clean Those Gutters: Full gutters can cause water to pool and damage your roof. Cleaning them out in the spring and fall can help keep things flowing smoothly.

Trim Overhanging Branches: Branches that hang over your roof can scrape against it and drop leaves that build up. Keeping trees trimmed back can prevent damage and reduce debris.

Keep an Eye on Moss: Moss might look quaint, but it can hold moisture against the roof, damaging materials over time. If you spot moss, it might be time for a closer look or a clean-up.

When to Call the Professionals

Sometimes, you need to bring in the experts. Here’s when to call a professional roofing contractor:

Significant Damage: If you see multiple areas of damage or large patches of missing shingles, it’s time for a pro.

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whumpacabra · 5 months ago

Text

Chapter 5. Clipped

Intentional self harm, knife wound, hand trauma, implied painful shapeshifting, whump of a minor [11], internalized fantasy racism, past abuse, past trauma

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Finn…Finn was okay. He was living in a constant state of confusion, just trying to get from one minute to the next now that he wasn’t safe in the captain’s quarters. (The trust was shaky at best, constant doubt poisoning every soft smile and gentle hand. Was it a joke? A trick? Bait to lure him to make a mistake?)

He at least expected the ship to make sense, to be predictable the way this captain wasn’t. It was, to an extent. Words and shouts and rigging he recognized and could understand. Chores and menial labor that felt safer than anything else this ship carried.

(Save for that pelt, in the cargo hold, so close - )

“Your hands start bothering you, we can find Misha. But I’m not getting down on my hands and knees to scrub the deck under the stairs - glad we have a shrimp like you around for this.”

This one was called Kell. Dark skinned with long, goldthreaded braids. Finn was proud of himself for remembering so many names and faces. The uniforms on the Lieutenant’s ship made everyone blur together, but the crew here all dressed distinctly.

Friar wore a whale leather apron. Sweet Marie her tricorn hat. The captain, his red coat. And so on. Kell wore a purple scarf, wrapped around their head. There were letters on it, embroidered in shiny green thread, but Finn couldn’t look at it long enough to read it.

This - Finn almost felt good doing this. A damp rag in hand, soft wood grain stained green with algae slowly returning to its natural brown hue. It was odd, uncomfortable not having a list hanging over his head, a time limit to finish his chores before the sun set. But, this past week or two was starting to feel…safe. Good.

He was rotating among the crew, working through different aspects of the ship in a circuit. The kitchen with Friar, the bunks with Ainim and Ishvael, the deck maintenance with Kell. He was told he would be at the helm with Marie next - reading the wind maps and current charts.

He never got to do something like that on the Lieutenant’s ship - which was…scary, but, like the sea rocking his hammock at night, didn’t feel as scary as it should have felt.

There was a rhythm as he worked, the pitch and yaw of the ship as it charged over the waves was as steady as his own hands, rinsing the rag in a bucket of clean sea water and returning to work at a particularly bad patch of -

His hands burned.

It wasn’t the burn of fire, or salted flesh - it was the burn that preceded those dreadful sensations. The skin stretching and bones shifting and -

Finn pitched forward, a sharp hiss strangled before it could leave his lips. He dropped the rag, drawing his hands to his chest to furtively look between them and where Kell stood a ways off, chatting with Marie.

His hands, tanned from his recent days in the sun, were now splotched with white, the blotches creeping up his wrists - as deep as his hands had sunk into that bucket of sea water. (How could he have forgotten - ?) If it was discoloration alone, maybe no one would notice - save for Misha, who might check them despite having removed the last of the bandages days ago -

But his hands were changed, even from just a short submergence.

Webbing had crept up from between his fingers, stretching as he flexed his hand and hanging loose between the digits as he curled his hands smaller. His nails too had changed, thick and dark and no longer bitten back to the nailbeds. It hurt - but it would hurt a lot more once someone noticed, when someone told the captain -

He needed to take care of this. Quickly.

Otherwise the captain would cut him - just as the Lieutenant always had - but maybe, just maybe if he did it himself, it wouldn’t hurt so badly. (He couldn’t stomach the thought of Captain Flint, the first soft hands he had known in so long, turning a blade on him. Finding out he was a monster - )

(“Do you really think anyone could love something like you?”)

Finn, for all his newfound confidence, hadn’t lost his skills forged on the Lieutenant’s ship. Kell didn’t even realize he had left, seal skin boots soft and his slight frame easily dipping between the sun glare and shadows to slip below deck. There it was even easier - almost no one was here during the day - and at that thought he paused, eyes drawn to the cargo hold’s door.

(He could almost still smell it, still feel it under his fingers - no. Not yet. He couldn’t get caught stealing. Not without a way to escape - and the sea was not an escape he could risk. Not here, in the open ocean.)

The kitchen was empty, last night’s stew kept at a low simmer over dying coals. The kitchen wouldn’t be empty forever; it was almost time for Friar to make his rounds with water and a midday snack of dried fruit and meat for the crew. Finn had to work quickly.

He pulled a knife from the work table, stumbling back as the ship pitched beneath his feet, but reeling forward to splay a webbed hand on the table. He suddenly realized he was panting, adrenaline rushing into his shaking hands, tears welling in his eyes. No matter how many times the Lieutenant carved away the webbing, it always came back. It always hurt. And it always would. He needed to learn to do this himself, to take care of himself. And that meant making sure no one found out what he really was.

(What was he?)

He could do this.

The first cut, run along his left index finger, bled more than he remembered. The webbing too seemed thicker, more resistant. Or maybe he was just starting to shake, nauseous and lightheaded from pain. He moved the knife to the opposite side of the webbing, along his middle finger. Black spots started to float across his vision, a strangled whine in his throat as tears fell freely. One section was almost done - he just needed to cut the base, the meeting spot between those fingers…

His world flashed white as he finally cut away the last sinews of flesh, the pain exhausting and the thought of cutting another section of webbing away was almost impossible to fathom. But he had to - he had to or else someone would see, someone else would cut him -

And he couldn’t fathom anyone on this ship hurting him the way the Lieutenant hurt him, not without shattering this fragile dream of safety.

As long as he was the one to do this, no one else had to.

He started on the opposite side of his left middle finger, vision blurry with tears and fading gray. Just - just a few more and then he could…find Misha. Tell Misha that he had been clumsy. Careless. Blisters or something. Something - a good excuse -

He was stalling. Finn pressed the blade down and bit his tongue until he tasted blood, but a sob still wracked through him as he continued to cut.

He had almost finished his left hand when footsteps clattered down the ladder, boots against the boards as someone stalked the lower deck.

Already? Friar shouldn’t have come back so soon - he thought he had more time -

“Finn? Finn are you - fucking Blackblood kid, you scared me. Thought you…” Kell’s voice trailed off, and Finn felt his hands go (blessedly) numb, even as he continued to grip the knife. “Finn. Finn, put down the knife. Now.”

He was - he was so close he just - he just needed to finish and - and somehow - somehow cut his right hand and everything would go back to the way it had been. Finn brought the knife down quickly, a flush of nausea heating his cheeks as the last chunk of webbing was severed from between his pink and ring finger. He was shaking too hard, the knife thankfully wedged into the table under his hand - he would have dropped it otherwise.

(“You got a da around?” Friar’s voice from the other day seemed to echo mockingly in his every hollow sob.)

Kell was yelling at him, walking up behind him - surely about to hit him or - or finish the other hand -

(It would be easier if someone helped with his other hand.)

Finn shuddered, knees giving out as the ship crested another wave. The table was slick with blood - his blood, and the adrenaline was still keeping his hands clumsy and numb. Finn sobbed, keeping his cut hand flat on the table and reaching his other up to splay beside it.

He didn’t care if they made it hurt more, or salted, or burned the cuts - he just needed Kell to finish it so he could - so he could stop thinking about how much his hands hurt.

The shock of Kell dropping to their knees and wrapping him in a hug, muttering panicked and desperate comforts, made even that pain far away.

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Taglist: @bloodredfountainpen

#whump #self harm #knife wound #hand trauma #painful shapeshifting #nonhuman #whump of a minor #minor whump #fantasy racism #past abuse #past trauma #finning sharks #*looks at my rough outline written well before I realized I was trans* hey. rude.#i am doing a lot of travelling the next few weeks + won't have internet access july 5-15th so idk when the next chapter will get out #so enjoy some quality finn whump :]#note to self to edit next links to permalinks. when I can leave the recliner and actually use a computer without passing out from pain.

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