#Sugar Bush Glaze

[thecrochetcrowd]

Crochet Hug Poncho Pattern

Crochet Hug Poncho Pattern

Crochet Snug as a Hug Poncho Crochet Snug As A Hug Poncho This Crochet Snug As a Hug Poncho is sized starting at 4 years to 2 XL in women. These are two rectangular panels that are attached together to form the poncho. I’m guessing, but it appears to be the side saddle stitch used in this design. It’s so well done. This is using Glaze by Sugar Bush Yarns. Free Hug Poncho Pattern More Pattern…

[steviewashere]

And For Christmas I'll Just Miss You

(also on ao3)

CW: Grief/Morning, Loss of a Parent

wc: 1,751 Steddie, Steve Harrington & His Parents Tags: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort is Mild But There, Christmas, Grief around Holidays, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug and Gets One, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Pet Names, Forehead Kisses, Bittersweet Ending

-------- There’s always something new to discover within Steve’s fresh, untethered, loose stitched grief. It’s not something he’s talked about, not really. Hasn’t wanted to really mention any of it. Not to anybody. But it has to come out sooner or later, right? That’s what he suspects.

He should just say, in summarized terms with no beating around the bush, “My mom died this year and now I just feel…weird.” Because that’s the truth. He does. This happened. He’s not sure how to confront it.

It came as a surprise. Of course it did. His mom was young, will forever be young if he sits down to think about it. She had been mostly healthy. It was just out of the blue. Turn for the worst kind of situation. Well, if he had asked his dad, he’d know about her history with blood clots—maybe he should’ve. Maybe. But that felt too personal, even if she was his mom, that feels intimate enough. Maybe it’s just something he was never supposed to know. Some part to her mask, her facade that she had to keep up with.

But if only Steve had stopped to ask…

Who is he kidding? It wouldn’t have stopped anything. Nothing would’ve changed.

She still would’ve had a heart attack in her bedroom. His dad still would’ve found her when coming out of the bathroom—pajamas and no shoes and half of a mustache—and yelled out in panic and terror. And Steve would’ve come careening into the bedroom; a sight in which he never would’ve chosen to wander in on. He won’t give the gruesome details. But he’ll remember her hand on her chest and her glazed eyes and…his brain forces him to stop there.

It was June of this year, 1987, that she died. Her funeral happened. He attended. He embraced his dad. They made their way like family, but over the last few months came to each other’s aid as mere acquaintances. Sometimes they cry the same. Sometimes Steve busies himself. Sometimes his dad refuses to talk, (that one is especially weird. His dad is a businessman. He loves to hear himself talk. He loves interactions with people).

Steve finds himself holding a blanket she used once. Clutching it in his grip. Laying it out on the washing machine. And turning out of the room to find a different chore to do. He drinks a cup of coffee, but realizes the mug was his mom’s. Pours out the liquid. Scrubs at it fervently, but misses the stain where her lipstick is. He leaves the perfume-y portion of department stores, his nose able to single out the one his mom wore.

Grief finds him leaving. It finds him running. It finds him stilted and confused. It finds him incomplete.

And it tracks him down with heavy hands as Christmas comes creeping around the corner.

Christmas is his family’s favorite holiday. They usually wake up bright and early. Keep the lights dim. Light some firewood. Eat sugar soaked pancakes and drink hot coffee. Sit around the living room, pristinely wrapped gifts being handed out, and they watch one another open their presents. His dad goes first. Then, his mom. Steve is last, but always the most important. It’s one of the few times in a year he’s able to see his parents completely content and satiated. Is able to look his dad in the eyes and not be met with a furious glow or beet red skin or a disappointed pout to his lips. Can feel like a normal son with normal parents during a normal holiday.

This year, though, of course it’s going to be different. Has been different.

There aren’t any decorations up. His dad is out of town for some business conference, though he does call every night just to check-in. (Again, another odd thing. He never did that before, but if circumstances call for it, Steve’s willing to comply.) Steve has had no real energy to go shopping for gifts or make cookies or even write some simple cards.

He’s spent more time looking back at family photo albums and trying to remember his mom’s apple pie recipe than actually focusing on the upcoming holiday. And, apparently, he’s spent less time focusing on the people still alive and around him.

According to Robin, he’s been spacey at work. According to Dustin and the rest of the kids, he hasn’t been as urgent on answering the phone or remembering to pick them up and drop them off places. And according to Eddie, he’s been less touchy and more avoidant.

He sees them, sure. But now he just feels withdrawn. And it’s worse, now, with Christmas.

----

“So, obviously, I was thinking that you—Are you even listening to me?” Eddie asks him. They’re sitting near each other on the couch at the Munson’s. Some movie—It’s A Wonderful Life if Steve were to shrug off his shawl of grief and tune back in—playing. A million miles of space between them. And one mug of hot chocolate that’s rapidly cooled and is now sticking to the sides of the cup. Eddie’s long since gone.

Steve blinks. Coming back to himself. And finally remembers that he was supposed to be listening. But he can’t. The decorations in the room too distracting, too claustrophobic, too constricting. There’s a tree in the corner of the living room, decorated head to toe in bright colorful lights, filled with handmade and Hallmark ornaments, topped with a dainty little yellow star. A wreath above the television set. Stockings lining the wall behind the couch. He can’t focus. “Sorry,” he murmurs, “I—I totally spaced. I’m sorry.”

Eddie sighs. “What’s going on, babe? You’ve been like this for fucking weeks—no—months now. Are you not sleeping? Are you—Is it Vecna or something? Cause I can radio—“

“No!” Steve exclaims. He sighs himself. Whispers, “It’s nothing like that.” He falls into the back of the couch. Arms folded over his chest. Eyes glancing longingly at the tree, away from Eddie’s concerned gaze. He huffs. “I wish it was just that.”

He swallows. He knows he can admit right now what’s been going on. Knows that he could say the words, “My mom is dead. And this is the first Christmas without her,” and Eddie would immediately find a way to be comforting. But the words…God, the words just stick inside his throat like molasses and there’s no way to spring anything from his mouth. Wishes it was as simple as saying it. Wishes he didn’t feel so conflicted and complicated.

There’s a soft touch to his right shoulder. Eddie’s fingers tighten over the fabric of his sweater. He releases and just lets his hand linger. “Can’t you just tell me?” Eddie asks, voice tiny and careful. “I’m worried, baby.”

Steve shakes his head. Throat stinging. Eyes heavy and aching. He bites his lip and shakes his head, closes his eyes against the hazy glow of reds and greens and neon blues. And lets his head fall back to the curve of the couch, a small thump, hair ruffling underneath him. “It’s not that simple,” he chokes out. His voice is wet. And thick. And biting into his skin.

“Well, then help me understand. Help me help you.”

And Steve looks over. His own eyes half-lidded. To see Eddie’s earnest ones. So deep and enriching and mesmerizing. So willing to take a gander. To just sit and listen to him talk.

He takes a breath and then a few more.

If anybody is to understand Steve, it would be Eddie. All the stories he’s heard of Mrs. Munson. Of her dancing and her music and her cooking. Her eyes and her soft hands. Her singing voice and her goofy jokes. Her and just her and how she took Eddie’s soul between her hands and molded what he would end up being.

“My—“ Steve clears his throat around the lump of mucus buildup. “I’m—I’m not celebrating Christmas this year,” he admits quietly. Eddie grips to Steve’s shoulder just a little tighter, but he nods. “It just won’t make sense to. My—My mom died earlier this year,” he practically whispers. “It’s my family’s favorite holiday. And she’ll be gone from it. I just feel weird.”

Eddie’s eyes are probably Steve’s favorite part of his face. He doesn’t hide a single thing he feels. So empathetic, down to the core of his being, Steve can almost taste the emotion he’s radiating. Eyes going from earnest and asking to sad and disheartened. “Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” His other hand comes up into Steve’s field of view. “Can I—Is it okay to hug you?”

Without saying anything, Steve nods. Eddie pulls him in close and tight. Wrapping his arms over Steve’s shuttering back. Tucks his head into the crook of his shoulder. And lets Steve sob, choke, cough onto his skin. 

He runs fingers through Steve’s hair. Over his spine. Doesn’t say anything, yet. Doesn’t hush him. Doesn’t let him stray too far, though.

Against the shell of Steve’s ear, Eddie softly states, “I know, baby. I know how you feel. I’m so sorry.” Steve just nods against his shoulder. Tightening his own grip around Eddie’s lithe torso. Collapsing down into exhaustion faster than he’s been able to attempt in the last several months.

The last of the tears drip down from his chin. And he hiccups. He breathes with a rasp. He shakes still in Eddie’s hold. “This sucks,” he whispers. “And my hot chocolate is cold.” He huffs against the side of Eddie’s neck.

A hand is running soothingly up and down his back. “I’ll heat it back up, don’t worry.” Eddie pulls him out of his hiding. Holding his face between his hands. Runs his calloused thumbs over Steve’s red, splotchy cheeks. Kisses him on the forehead with the lightest of pecks. “What else can I do for you right now?”

“Can you—“ He looks out to the TV. To the blue screen. To the end of the tape. And though, maybe, it doesn’t feel like Christmas at all, he’ll let Eddie wrap the twinkling lights around his grief. And even if it doesn’t feel all that merry, and maybe the themes are too on the nose, It’s a Wonderful Life is calling his name. “Can you start the movie over and just—Just hold me?”

Eddie kisses his forehead again. “Always, Stevie. Always.”

-------- <3

[pedges]

to polish up a diamond - chapter i [4.3k]

joel miller x afab!reader

summary: “We can get an annulment,” Joel says, cutting you off. It’s almost as if he couldn’t wait to say it, and you’re not sure why that stings so much.

“Yeah—yes,” you mutter, swallowing the softball lodged in your throat. You clear it in hopes of sounding more compelling when you speak again. “Of course. Duh.” 

or, the one where you wake up married to Joel Miller.

series notes: this is set in 2013, no virus; joel is 35, reader is 30. i wanted to make this as gender neutral as possible, but it will eventually become pertinent that reader is afab, and their gender expressions lean towards a more feminine side. if i eventually end up using pronouns, this note will be updated! also - this fic is being written with reader being a BIPOC in mind, in small ways, but it will be there in later chapters. (also joel is latino so, yeah.)

content for the series: 18+ themes (allusions to, and eventual smut, alcohol, swearing, etc), friends to lovers, accidental marriage, mutual pining

chapter warnings: allusions to drunken sex

chapter ii

a/n: this is unbeta'd (hoping to find one soon!), and i am terrified of posting this for some reason. just wanted to write a silly good time, and i hope i deliver! enjoy, my friends

You read about Paris syndrome in an article once, and laughed about it.

You laughed, because it seems a little silly to you to get your hopes up so high, that you go insane when reality doesn’t even graze the expectations. Paris exists on the same little drab Earth that you do. It’s just a place with buildings, and people, and croissants, and the Eiffel Tower. 

Not the only one either, because you’re standing at the base of it, head cocked to the side, face scrunched up, staring hard—as if you can get it to turn into something it’s not. Like, the real Eiffel Tower, for starters. Or maybe even the one in Paris, Texas, with the little cowboy hat on it. That’s when you get it, you think, because if it’s anything like this, you’d end up out of your goddamn mind by the end of any trip to Paris. Then again, it’s not really fair, is it? Paris is Paris—and you talk a big game now, but you know that if you were really there, you’d buckle at the knees. But right now, you’re standing here with an oversized frozen drink from Fat Tuesday’s, one where the sugar can’t drown out the taste of the tequila, someone is pissing in a bush nearby, and you can’t feel your teeth—so you’ve got only a modicum of room to talk. 

“Do—do you think the real thing is like this?” you ask into the night air, and even though you’re being quite harsh, you can’t deny how dazzling the lights are. Turning your head, you look at Joel, who’s standing there looking at you looking at the fake Eiffel Tower. His eyes are glazed over, yours probably are too, and he hiccups once. 

“Wouldn’t know,” he says, and then, “You’re awfully pretty right now.” 

Something flutters in your stomach. It’s not quite as graceful as butterflies—it leans towards something more violent, like bees. You think briefly of how bees are a little beautiful too, though. Either way, something ripples through you that you take a moment to relish in. 

Instead of replying, you extend your drink to Joel. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his lips around the plastic straw and sip until there’s nothing but a slurping sound resounding in the cup. You let out a giggle, and he emits something akin to one of his own. You can’t help but feel something blossom in your chest at how relaxed he looks. His eyes glisten with something that isn’t worry—worry about work, or getting Sarah to soccer practice tomorrow morning, or bailing Tommy out of jail. The Joel you know isn’t here, the one that carries the weight of the world on his shoulders—and to be honest, the jury is still out on the one that is. But as you smile at your friend, tingles coursing through your body, the last thing you truly remember is thinking about how he looks awfully pretty right now too.

—

Of all the things that could have woken you, it’s a knock on the door, and your first thought is why you didn’t have the foresight to put the Do Not Disturb hanger on the doorknob last night. Your second thought is about how fucking warm and cozy you are right now. Your third thought is your last, because it’s the only capacity your raging headache will allow. It’s about why you’re so warm and cozy, and that’s when you realize your cheek is pressed up against bare skin. In fact, you’re absolutely tangled with someone else—your leg hooked over theirs, their calloused hand on your naked torso, and you’re all but laying on top of them, clinging like your life depends on it.

In a way, it sort of does, because the more awareness that seeps into your brain, the more your head aches. The warmth radiating from the body that is rumbling with snores is the only thing that is making the act of waking up tolerable. At least for a moment. 

There’s another knock on the door, and when a meek voice says something about coming back later for housekeeping from the other side, you finally remember exactly where you are. 

You’re in Las Vegas. You’re sleeping in a hotel room. Joel is in the next room over. You saw Shania Twain’s residency last night, and the first half was fucking stellar. Calling everything after that a blur is an understatement, though. If you ended up bringing back some guy for a romp, you wouldn’t exactly blame yourself, but you wouldn’t be happy about it either. A Vegas one night stand where the guy is still in your bed the next morning would not be in your Top 100 Proudest Moments. 

It’s just that, as the conscious mechanisms in your brain slowly flicker to life more and more, you take more of it in. Suddenly, you recognize the smell—besides the left over stench of alcohol and scent of hotel linens—as a familiar one. A good one, one you catch yourself soaking in too often. Like cedar, and lemongrass, and what you imagine the burn of whiskey in your throat would smell like. It’s then and only then do you lift your head up slowly, despite the disorientation it drags upon you, to see exactly whose hand is now searing your side, awfully close to your naked breast. 

Pushing him out of the bed when you find out is merely an accident. A gut reflex, if you will. 

Your heart is beating fast and loud, doing nothing good for your headache, but it’s the only logical reaction to finding yourself naked in bed with an equally naked Joel Miller. He lands on the floor with a harsh thud, and the poor thing looks like he doesn’t know where he is. You’d probably feel bad for him if your mind wasn’t reeling with a thousand questions. 

“Jesus Christ, what the hell?” Joel is saying, groggy and tired, voice hoarse. Maybe pushing him out of bed was a bad idea, because now he’s on full display, so you pull the sheet over your head with a noise that’s somewhere between a gasp and a squeal. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask urgently. 

“What am I—this is my room,“ Joel says then. You lower the sheet just enough to see that yeah, his suitcase is here, his things are strewn around the room, and you’re the intruder in a foreign land. It doesn’t begin to explain things though—in fact, it just makes you feel sicker. “Wait—“ 

Joel says your name, strained and confused. You finally look at him. His eyes are squinted, brow furrowed intensely, but he’s looking right back at you with the realization you had just thirty seconds ago. 

“Oh god,” he mutters with that thick drawl of his, and yeah. You’re right there with him. “Don’t tell me—“ 

“I’m not,” you say quickly, “because we didn’t. Right?” 

You’d have to be one gigantic, calamitous fool to believe that. Not only because with enough inspection, you can see a litany of marks on Joel’s neck and chest, like his assailant went a little wild, and there’s a dull, pleasant ache between your thighs—but because the harder your brain works, the more first flashes of last night come at you full force. You and Joel, hands on each other, Joel between your legs, your hand on his— 

“Oh, god, we did.” 

You groan, burying your face in your hands as you suddenly go through the full range of human emotions in less than ten seconds. 

It’s not that it’s the worst thing that could’ve happened, it’s just—Joel is Joel, and you of all people know better. You do this thing, sometimes, when you meet someone new and you briefly imagine your life together, in all the possible iterations of it. You met Joel, and saw him there forever, like he’d seared himself into your life before you even learned his name. You’d rather die than risk anything else—regardless of whether or not you’ve wondered what it would be like to hold his hand, or kiss him, or fall asleep beside him. 

“Hey, hey—”  Suddenly, Joel is rising from the floor, a pillow that tumbled down with him pressed into his lap. You’re still not looking—in fact, you look like you’re about to die, which is why he is frantically searching for his briefs, or pajama bottoms, or whatever the hell he can put on. When he finds them, he does so quickly, and brings over the next best thing for you too. It ends up being his shirt, and neither one of you has the mind to think of how tender that is as you put it on. He kneels in front of you on the bed, like he’s about to put a bandaid on your wounds, which is so Joel of him. “It’s alright—it’s okay, shit happens, right?” 

Yeah, you think, holding back a bitter tasting laugh, catastrophic shit like this always happens.  

But you realize what he’s doing right away. Joel is watching you self-destruct, so he’s doing everything in his power to keep that from happening, even if he’s imploding himself. It somehow makes this a thousand times worse. Still, you finally look up to meet his eye. He looks tired, hungover, and a little confused. You’re one hundred percent sure you look exactly the same. 

You truly do want to argue. You want to tell him No, this isn’t just a shit happens moment. Deep down, you know you’ve just altered your entire friendship forever, and no matter how bad you want to keep from imagining the downfall of You and Joel, you just can’t help it. But then he’s grabbing one of your hands, like he can see the cogs in your brain start to grind and smoke, and it douses whatever shitstorm is going on in there. You think you’ll save your catastrophizing for another day, at least until— 

You look down at both your guys’ hands, just as your heart has begun to settle, before it shifts into high gear. 

“Joel,” you say, small and quiet. Your eyes have gone wide and your left hand is frozen in his. 

“What—“ Joel is saying as his gaze follows yours, and he sees exactly what you do. 

On his left ring finger is a silver band. On yours is one to match, a diamond glistening in the light pouring into the hotel room, and suddenly a drunken, lust filled night between you two was the best case scenario. 

Joel sighs. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.” 

—

You might’ve blacked out again. No alcohol needed this time—all you know is one moment you were sitting there, staring at the very obvious wedding rings on both yours and Joel’s fingers, and the next, you were in your actual hotel room alone. You probably asked for a moment, and he gave you ten. 

You at least had the mind to put some pants on, but when you finally return and knock on Joel’s hotel room door, you’re still wearing his shirt—and the ring. 

“You might wanna look at this,” he says when he opens the door, not even missing a beat, and lets you step inside. Your head is still pounding, and your stomach is still churning, but you’re at least wide awake now. You’d spent the time in your room convincing yourself that none of this was real, actually. You guys were wasted, probably found some pawn shop, got the rings as a joke. But then Joel is handing you a Polaroid photo and now you’ve got to shirk any notion that this isn’t real. “Found it on the nightstand—then called the chapel, and—yep.” 

If you weren’t in such a state of shock, you might cry. The photo is you, and Joel, obviously. Except it’s not just you and Joel, it's youandJoel—standing outside of a chapel called, well, Little White Chapel. He’s got his familiar hands on your face, and his lips on yours; you’re gripping his lapel so hard your hands might’ve been cramping, and you’re both fucking grinning into this sweet, tender, heart wrenching kiss. You can see the ring on his finger, clear as day. It’s a little sickening, how happy you both look, and even more so, how you two slot together perfectly. By the time you finish gawking at the photo, it becomes an indisputable fact. You got married—to Joel Miller of all people. 

You wonder why he decided to show you the photo when it would have been just as easy to tear it to shreds and throw it away. You kind of wish he did, but part of you understands why, even if you can’t explain it to yourself right away. Still, you set it down and sit on the edge of the bed as you try not to think about what happened there just the night before. 

“I can’t believe this,” you finally say, because you can’t. You truly believe you’re going to wake up any moment now, but the way your brain is threatening to crack your skull right now tells you that’s not going to happen. 

“Guess you’re not the worst person this coulda happened with.” Leave it to Joel to joke at a time like this—and leave it to you to fall for it. You have to laugh, because the only other alternative is crying, so you do. It’s small, and weak, but it’s a laugh nonetheless; it’s enough to make Joel smile, like he’s a little proud it worked. 

“Does this make the Vegas trip worse or better?” you attempt to joke back, though the ring on your finger is scorching your skin. 

“Hm,” Joel hums. “Jury’s still out, I think.” 

Another laugh escapes you, and tapers off into the air. Joel sits next to you on the bed. You can’t help but look down at the ring that adorns your finger. There’s a small, tiny, microscopic part of you that thinks it looks like it was meant to be there. You kill it immediately. 

“So I guess—” 

“We can get an annulment,” Joel says, cutting you off. It’s almost as if he couldn’t wait to say it, and you’re not sure why that stings so much. Still, you have to agree, because you’d be insane not to. You’re not the first people to get drunk and marry someone in Vegas, you’re certain, and you absolutely will not be the last. Though you’ve got a knack for feeling like you’re the only person in the world to feel a certain way at a certain time, you know at least this time that isn’t true. Because Joel is sitting right next to you, stewing in this all the same—it makes you feel less alone. 

“Yeah—yes,” you mutter, swallowing the softball lodged in your throat. You clear it in hopes of sounding more compelling when you speak again. “Of course. Duh.” 

“Truly don’t think this is as big of a deal as we think it is,” Joel says then. You wonder if he’s trying to convince you, or convince himself. You settle on both, just because it makes you feel better. But the thing is, it is kind of a big deal, at least to you. 

Legally, an annulment would make it seem like this truly never happened. On paper, you and Joel would never have gotten married, and your lives would be as normal as they were yesterday. But the law has never mixed well with emotions, you think. Or the fact that you’re slowly regaining glimpses of the night before, and maybe remembering the way his lips felt on your lips, his hands on your body. Annulment of the heart sounds like a stupid phrase, but you’ve never wanted something so bad in your life. 

“I suppose not,” you tell Joel, but you don’t sound so convincing. You’re not sure if he can tell, but if he can, he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he reaches over for your hand and gives it the most reassuring squeeze he can muster. You wish his touch burned you, so you had a reason to pull away. It doesn’t, so you don’t. 

“Lighten up, darlin’,” he says. “What’s that they say about what happens in Vegas?” 

You roll your eyes—and though it’s a struggle, you smile anyway. 

—

As it turns out, the plane home could crash, and it would still be less eventful than the rest of your trip—in fact, it might make things a lot easier. But the whole flight is turbulence free, and the wheels of the plane touch down in Austin like a butterfly landing on a flower. It seems a little cruel. 

And as much as you and Joel want to pretend like this whole ordeal is so easily fixed, like you can make it disappear by filing some paperwork, there is something so obviously lingering in the air. It’s a funk, and it’s thick, and uncomfortable, and mean. You wish you could say you perfected the art of small talk with him on the way home. You wish you could say that as time trekked on, he got less and less terse with you. But Joel went from cracking jokes about it, to being the least interesting man on Earth, and you’re starting to think neither of you are really believing the whole it’ll be okay thing. 

“Y’all actually came back in one piece!” 

Tommy is picking you up from the airport. He’s standing at his truck, parked in an area that clearly says No Parking, but Tommy Miller has never been one to care, and you really want to go home. He grins at you guys, takes your bags from you as soon as you approach him with them, but neither you nor Joel really laugh at his jokes. 

Joel grumbles something like a greeting, and you offer a quick hello, but you climb into the backseat as fast as you can. 

“Well, fuck me, I guess,” Tommy says sarcastically with a click of his tongue, rounding the truck to get back into the driver’s seat because a security guard has finally spotted him.

“Sorry, Tommy,” you tell him. Guilt seeps into you—just because your life imploded in Vegas, doesn’t mean you have to take it out on someone who is kind enough to pick you up from the airport, which is arguably the most generous thing a human being can do. The least you can do is apologize, and lie, so you do, with a quick, “Just tired. Flight was awful.” 

“Where’s Sarah?” Joel genuinely speaks, not in the muttery, mumbly way he’d been for the past twenty four hours. You try to think back to when his mood shifted, and place it somewhere between you giving him your ring (when you both found out they were bought with his credit card), or giving back his shirt. It makes something scratch at your brain in the most unpleasant way. 

“Adlers,” Tommy informs him. “She’s makin’ y’all cookies. Told her you guys were only gone for four days, but she insisted. But—” Tommy says your name, “—she’s makin’ your favorite. Sorry, brother.” 

A genuine, though small, smile twitches upon your lips. Of course Sarah is being such a doll—you know exactly where she gets it from. The thought brings a bit of an ache to your chest. 

“That’s sweet of her,” you say, still wearing that meek voice. 

A few beats of silence fill the car when Joel doesn’t make any comment, just lets out a small grunt. 

“Sooo,” Tommy trails off when it becomes obvious he can’t stand it. “What did y’all get up to—how was the show? Still think I deserved to see Shania more, but whatever, I guess. Get into trouble? Feel like y’all the type to get married by Elvis or somethin’.” 

You nearly choke. Tommy is laughing a little wildly, because he obviously doesn’t know, and to him, making a joke about two good friends getting shacked up is the funniest thing in the world. Mostly because he expects you both to be snarky about it, like you’ll go Eww, and Joel would say something like, In your dreams, darlin’. But instead, you feel like all the color is draining from your face and you can see Joel’s hand fist until his knuckles turn white. 

“Concert was good,” you say quickly. There’s no levity in your voice, no insinuation that you found his joke funny. You couldn’t force it even if you tried. 

Tommy doesn’t catch on though, at least you think he doesn’t. He just huffs, and pouts. “Tough crowd, gotdamn.”

Thankfully, Tommy quits while he’s ahead. He turns up the radio and accepts that you and Joel might be truly tired. In a way, you are, just not physically—though the weight of your emotions might be starting to get to you. As you lean your head on the window and watch your city fly by on the way home, you start to think about how you’re going to get home, Google How to annul a Vegas wedding, and pray for some sense of normalcy to return. Or at least that Joel will look you in the eye again. 

The truck rolls up outside your house just as the sun has begun to set. You get out, fully prepared to do so alone, but as you’re grabbing your bags from the truck bed, you hear the passenger door slam shut. A moment later, Joel is taking one of your bags from your hands. 

“Be right back, Tommy,” he calls to his brother, and gets two honks in response. He looks at you then, for the first time in what feels like eons, and nods his head towards your house before taking the trek up your walkway. 

Tremors fill your chest, and that softball has made its way back to your throat. You feel like you’ve swallowed wasps, and that they’re going to come out in the form of word vomit if you don’t reign in the trillions of thoughts in your head right now. You step up to your front door, keys in your trembling hand, and let the two of you inside. 

“Joel, I—“

“Listen—“ 

You both start and stop speaking at the same time. You bite at your chance to let him do the talking, gesturing for him to continue. He takes a deep breath before he does. 

“Listen—I started thinkin’—” 

“Uh oh.” 

Your joke doesn’t quite land how you want it to, like it normally would, but you can see the tension in his shoulders deflate a little at the hint of mirth in your voice. You look down at the ground, kicking at it like a child getting in trouble and allow him to go on. 

“I was thinkin’, and I just wanted to say sorry,” Joel finally says. “I’ve been actin’…weird. Didn’t mean to start icin’ you out, I just—I know I said this whole thing wasn’t a big deal, but I think we both know—”  

“But it’s not,” you interrupt without really even thinking about it. Deep down, you know you don’t believe yourself. “I know it probably is. For other people, I mean. But what did you say? Guess you’re not the worst person, or whatever.” Your attempt at mocking his deep, gruff voice slices through the tension, at least a little, and you’re grateful for that. And even though he lets out a breathy laugh, Joel looks a little taken aback, like he didn’t entirely expect this reaction from you—and to be quite fucking honest, neither did you. Turns out those wasps you swallowed were reasonable ones. 

“Right,” Joel says, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets. He rocks on his heels once. “Right. I just thought maybe—because you seemed a little torn up at first—I mean—damn, I’m really not good at this.”

You can’t help but giggle, because he’s not, but you can’t fault him. You truly can’t believe the one eighty you’ve both made, but you’re still not entirely sure the way you’re handling this now is true to how you actually feel. Regardless, something compels you to step forward, and lean up to press the most tender kiss to Joel’s cheek.

“I’m just glad you don’t hate me,” you say gently when you pull back. There’s something swimming in Joel’s eyes as you meet them—you can’t quite make it out. You stop trying when he offers you a quiet smile. 

“Hate you? Could never hate you—you do too much for me. It’d be bad for business.” He’s teasing, you know he is, and you might actually start weeping because this is such a far cry from the Joel that you sat next to on a plane for three hours. Instead of weeping though, you laugh once more.

The truth is, you decide, that this entire situation is still gnawing at your bones, replacing the marrow with fear and uncertainty. But, though you’ve had to remind yourself a thousand times over, you’re not alone in this. It literally takes two people to get married, even if it was a black out drunk, late night, alcohol fueled Vegas wedding. The people in that photo, the photo you have in your suitcase right now, made that decision together despite whatever inhibiting factors—they both woke up the next morning confused, and unsure of the future. And even though Joel’s initial reaction was to comfort and soothe you, you knew sooner or later he’d start to rip at the seams. Sooner just came quicker than you thought. 

With your own deep breath, you reach out your left hand to Joel. A silent offer that if he’s willing to work this out, you are too. 

“It’s going to be okay,” you say. “Friends?” 

Joel looks like he hesitates—for the briefest moment—if you had blinked, you would have missed it. You try not to take it to heart. But he finally puts his left hand in yours, and gives it a firm shake. 

“Friends,” he replies. “Always.”

-

-

-

-

-

[mealmindset]

All about honey 🍯

Since fall is starting, the weather is getting cold, and we find ourselves reaching for a warm cup of tea with a little bit of honey. Honey provides the perfect touch of natural sweetness to many of our foods. But honey is more than that, honey has been valued for centuries, not only for its natural sweetness but also for its medicinal properties, so let's talk about the types of honey, their benefits, and how to incorporate honey into our meals.

Before we get into the main topic, let's make one thing clear. HOW IS HONEY MADE? First, bees collect nectar from flowers and store it in a specific part of their stomach (honey sacs). They carry it back to their hives and mix the nectar with an enzyme called invertase, the enzyme breaks down into simpler sugars, like glucose. This bee continues to process the nectar with more enzymes, further breaking down the sugars, until it is deposited into a honeycomb cell. The nectar is still too watery at this stage to be honey. So, bees fan their wings over the honeycomb, evaporating the moisture until it is about 18%, making honey a sole food that never expires. Now that we know where the honey came from, let's dive into the kinds of honey we will be talking about.

1. Manuka honey Manuka honey is produced in New Zealand, from the Manuka bush. This honey is thicker, darker, and creamier, with a bit of a nutty aroma compared to regular honey. It's known for its antibacterial and anti-inflammatory properties and contains high levels of methylglyoxal, which makes it effective for wound healing, soothing sore throats, and boosting your immune system. In my opinion, Manuka honey is the best for tea and is the perfect natural candy.

2. Acacia honey Acacia honey is sourced from blossoms of the Black Locust in North America and Europe. This honey has a light color and has a floral flavour. It's known for its low sucrose level, meaning a lower glycemic index, which is suitable for people with diabetes. In addition, supports liver cleansing, possesses anti-inflammatory and antioxidant properties, benefiting gut health. It acts as the perfect sweetener in yogurt or drizzled-over fruit.

3. Sourwood honey Sourwood honey comes from the sourwood trees in the Appalachian Mountains, spanning from Southern Pennsylvania to Northern Georgia. The honey has a light amber color and offers a rich, buttery, and caramel-like taste. Sourwood Honey possesses antibacterial properties. Additionally, it provides relief from allergies and is a good natural energy source. You could use it for marination and baking, its caramel taste works perfectly in fall desserts like apple pie, and it also tastes wonderful drizzled over cheese.

4. Linden honey Linden honey comes from Linden trees, which can be found worldwide. It has a pale yellow color, and it tastes delicate and extremely fresh, due to the minty and citrus flavor profile. Apart from the antioxidants, it offers calming properties, and a natural remedy for stress, anxiety, and insomnia. Making it the perfect late-night tea sweetener, especially for chamomile and green tea. The tangy and floral taste also adds depth to savory dishes.

5. Posion oak honey Poison oak honey is one of the lesser-known and unique honey and is sourced from the nectar of the poison oak plant, which grows in the western USA and parts of Mexico. The honey is very dark in color, almost black. It's incredibly thick and can taste like molasses or barbecue sauce. The honey is known to effectively treat allergies but could be deadly to people who have a poison oak allergy. It is often used for barbecues to glaze meat to add sweetness, Caution is advised, most people are allergic to poison oak.

Apart from the types of honey mentioned, people have been adventuring with infused honey. Infused honey is made by adding herbs and spices to honey and letting it sit and marinate until the flavour is pungent. Some common types are ginger honey, perfect for ginger tea, and hot honey, perfect for adding some sweet and spicy flavour to a savory dish. Overall, honey is widely used in our lives, from enhancing meals to boosting our health. You could incorporate honey in so many different ways, whether it's your kitchen pantry or your wellness routine.

[the0ldmann]

"Welcome home Sunshine," a chipper voice greeted them from the kitchen. Work had gone by surprisingly fast and now that they were back in their cozy little apartment they couldn't wait to spend the rest of the evening with their ever-sunny partner.

They'd never been much a fan of Valentine's day. Corporate guilt tripping to sell as much candy and flowers as possible to the unsuspecting masses under the guise of 'showing your loved ones you cared' never quite sat right with them- even as a child. But when their blue-haired sweet-as-pie lover insisted on the two of them doing something after work, how could they possibly refuse?

As they hung their coat and bag on a hook by the door, they noticed the light seemed a little dimmer than normal. Looking to the man of the hour, they saw why quickly.

He was standing by the small kitchen table, lit up by candles placed in the center. Dinner was plated beautifully and both seats were pulled out and waiting to be taken. The pride in his smile made one spread across theirs.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Jack!" They gave him a quick kiss on his cheek before they sat down, and he snuck in a quick forehead kiss before taking his.

"Happy Valentine's Day to you too, Sunspot. I hope this was a pleasant surprise to come home to."

"Oh absolutely, it smells so wonderful! What all did you make, if you don't mind my asking? Hearing you talk does help me unwind." As they took the first bite he launched into an explination about the cooking process.

His words were barely accurate for describing just how good the food was that lay before them. Love certainly was a secret ingredient that made everything better. The roasted sweet potatoes were were crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, and lightly coated with a simple yet delectible brown sugar and butter glaze. Nestled next to the sweet potatoes was a little bush of broccoli florets that had been sautéed with a little bit of garlic, and onion, along with a handful of aromatic italian seasonings that tickled one's sense of smell. Beside the broccoli was the main star of the plate- golden juicy grilled chicken that had been marinating for just a couple hours in a blend of olive oil, lemon juice, lemon zest, garlic, rosemary, thyme, salt and pepper. Of course this was served with their favourite chardonnay that they'd forgotten about in their cupboards, and their plates and glasses did not last long. Dessert was a slice of homemade mint chocolate chip cheesecake with a chocolate graham cracker crust that had been prepared so carefully it almost felt shameful to ruin its smooth surface with a fork.

Every bite of the meal was heaven sent, and they couldn't help but feel a little sad once they were done with their food. That was quickly replaced with confusion and excitement as Jack insisted they leave the dishes for the morning, picking up the candle holder and leading them further into the apartment.

When they reached the bedroom and Jack set the candles back down, they were greeted with a boquet he'd quickly whisked up as he turned around. The bed was set up a little differently too.

"Sunshine, I hope this isn't too presumptious, but you've been looking awfully tense after work." He shrugged off his own jacket and then began to help them undress. "How about you let me treat you to a little... full body massage? I've been putting my time at home to good use, and I can't wait to help you relax a little more..."

They weren't sure if there was really going to be that much relaxation happening, but they weren't about to argue.

[petejj]

Picture & pastries by author - PJJ

Perfect Pete’s Pastry Providence

Sweet Pastries dirty habits reviewed (Language Warning)

Apple Crumbled because Banana Split whipped up Chantilly into Buttercreams Croquembouche. Custard Tart taunted Sugar Syrup to boiling point.

Lemon Meringue Pie Sponges off Fairy Floss, daily. Petits Fours and Ginger Snaps are caramelized by Devil’s Chocolate Cake’s delicious artificial flavors.’ Meanwhile, Melting Moments Creamed Cookies Loaf.

Fairy Floss fainted; we don’t know why. Caramel Fudge told Poky-Pies to Puff Pastries that Brandy Snaps are baking Ginger Crisp’s demise. Jellied Doughnuts jammed Ginger Nuts Pavlova over and over again.

Vanilla Iced, Minced Pies into lathers of lacerations sprigging around Rolling Pins Plumbs, popping Vanilla Pods Cherry of Essence all over Raspberry Swirl Cheesecake.

Candied Orange Rinds coated Sachertorte’s Sponge Muffin. Royal Icing was having none of it! Stock Syrup, Spun Fancy Lady Fingers into Panna Cottas Palace.

Cornish Pastries Couverture of Neapolitan Peach whipped Waffle’s Cinnamon dusting flavors sifting, salting Caramel Fudge from Sugar Candy’s sweetness.

Parisian Torte Pecan Pie Cocoa Butters compounds. Lolly Popped an email to Perfect Pete requesting he investigate Fairy Floss’s flops. Charlotte’s Crème Anglaise filled French Horns cone. Mill-Feuille blanched Almond’s Chestnuts.

Golden Syrup treacled all over Wholemeal Soda’s Breadbasket. Red Velvet Cake moistened Frozen Sorbet glucoses levels off the charts.

Rainbow Gâteaux glazed into Oxford St Sydney, searching for Pink Coconut Ice. Neither were spotted again.

“But wait, we’ve just heard from Holiday English Spotted-DickS’ – They’re fairy-flossed with Croquem-Bushes Praline private parade last night.”

Christmas Cookies curdled Hot Cross Buns Fondant.

Pralines Palmiers Sticky Dated Fairy Floss into battered Biscuits beaters.

Now we know why Fairy Floss fainted, finally

“Magic is everywhere for 2 or 3”

Picture - Copilot GPT-3 imagine creator ↑

[redemptioninterlude]

bread. lettuce. tomato. pickle. of course there's meat ( lean turkey breast, she expected no less out of mckay ), but that's all like, the extra whatever effect of this. which is... PRETTY OKAY, surprisingly. talking with jeremy's always this like, relaxing thing... there's no need to be performative, or on guard. which, honestly, rue pretty much is most of the time with guys ; you never really knew the angle or the things that they wanted, but there was always a transparent, underlying threat to it all that she could feel, like friction beneath the skin, that simply wasn't there whenever she talked with him. he wasn't aggressive, or mean, or rude, or trying to finesse his way into her pants. he was just. fucking chill.

why couldn't more people just be like that? the sandwich is held out, and she gets this whole, like, wave of nostalgia. fez would do this for her sometimes... and she misses him. misses like, everything about that time in her life, glazed over in halcyon nostalgia that she CLUNG TO still. it's not like the year ends, and everything goes back to normal. no. there's a lot of weight with the trial and the fact that like, ashtray's dead, gone down in this whole fucking tribute to scarface that he must have thought was pretty cool. until it wasn't. until the world ends and he's gone and everything else is just an exercise of coping with that shit.

she'll take a bite, appreciative, because at least it soaks up some of the mess of alcohol churning in her stomach. rue's like, NOT REALLY SOBER. but she figures whatever. she's doing something at least. her best. well not really. she's trying and that's what needs to count. "i feel like, you really kinda... see people for what they are in that. you know? like, give them a prize and attention and people will show you... like... like who they really are on the inside. because they're selfish. and maybe people'd be happier being honest about that, but most of the time people don't wanna admit that. shit like love island is like. candy. it's like sugar. like fucking nothing and everything. because that shit is the truth, if you think about it."

which, rue clearly has. or at least has in the middle of some fucking freefall of a depressive episode. "oh fuck. i like. have this whole thing where like... i don't drink and bike because..." well. bushes. roads. she'll pass out anywhere, the mess that she was. unable and impossible to please. "WHATEVER DUDE, we'll figure it out, let's blow the fuck outta here and like. sorry about your food or whatever." they're almost out the door, and, she thinks that'll work well enough, tongue left to click at the roof of her mouth. "sick ride."

- @jeremydied

and jeremy might tell rue who he was waiting for depending on the girl's feelings towards vicki if she had any thoughts on her at all . vicki wasn't popular by any means, often butting heads with the girls in rue's group. but vicki , to jeremy , was the love of his life . the girl who made him feel alive once his parents died , and his sister began ignoring him even further . vicki listened when nobody else did , and loved him even if it was in secret . since her disappearance , he's grown desperate for connection again . from someone , anyone .

jeremy didn't really care about the details of mckay's home , or his life , rather - but he continues making his sandwich with ease as jeremy listened to rue speak. a nod to his head to signal that he was listening . it made sense, being surrounded by people she knew made her feel stablized , made her feel grounded . jeremy could say the same about his sister and her friends , cheerleaders who go to every football game and plan every event the school has going on. even when they're bothering him, they still bring comfort when they're around . maybe he should apologize for screaming at them earlier in the night for hovering .

he takes a bite and offers some to rue . " oh , i'm definitely a love island person . i also find comfort in shows like the ultimatum and the circle . " he says without missing a beat . "also , the classics of reality survivor shows like wipeout and naked and afraid . " a cheesy smile playing on his lips as they walk out of the house together . he had his bike , holding onto the sandwich with one hand and the handlebar with the other as he stands there .

" please tell me you got your bike , because if not you're going to have to hold onto my shit as you ride my handlebars." he deadpanned , expression still lively as he was thanking the universe for having at least someone escape this party with him .

" not that i'm against you on the handlebars , i'm just hoping for my foods' safety . "

@redemptioninterlude

[scintillasofbeomgyu]

➷ sugar | h.rj

pairing: huang renjun x reader

genre: fluff, best friend!renjun

word count: 665

warning(s): mentions of food; lowercase intended; not proofread.

while making blueberry jam with your best friend, you discover something far sweeter

an: i honestly have no idea what this is

“you’re doing it all wrong,” renjun clicked his tongue, attempting to move you away from the stove with his hip. but you weren’t having any of it. you kept your feet planted firmly to the ground and stared him down before shoving him right back. why he had insisted on coming over when all he was going to do was insist you weren’t following the recipe correctly, you hadn’t a clue.

the jam mixture began to bubble in the pot and your eyes sparkled with wonder, “won’t be long now! it’s darkened in colour and the consistency is a little thicker too!”

renjun sighed as he watched you stir the contents excitedly, a smile tugging at his lips. it was summer tradition for the two of you to harvest the blueberries from the bushes at the back of his house for as long as he could remember. while others spent their summers at parties or beach houses, he opted to stay in with you and make a mess of his mother’s kitchen every year.

“i think it’s done!” you squealed, turning off the stove before lifting the ladle from the pot.

he gave you a pointed look, “are you sure? have you added everything?”

“it’s jam, renjun,” you tsked, sticking your tongue out at him, “you’re just upset that i did perfectly without your help.”

it was true that he did feel a little disappointed you didn’t get to make it together. each year you’d use the blueberries to make different confectionaries, and whether they were successes or absolute failures, you always did it together. it was bad enough that you only had one class together, compared to all the time you spent together in highschool, and now you were doing your thing without him.

“i wonder if jaemin likes blueberry jam.”

renjun jolted out of his thoughts and frowned, “who the heck is jaemin?”

“oh, this cute guy in my anthropology class,” you shrugged, squinting into the pot and wondering whether it had cooled down enough.

renjun scoffed. jaemin. what kind of name was jaemin anyway. nothing sounded remotely interesting or intriguing about jaemin from anthropology. what about renjun? what about renjun who has been your best friend since forever? what about renjun who knows you find mayo revolting but would down a chicken and mayo sandwich in one go? why does jaemin get your first attempt at blueberry jam and renjun doesn’t?

“well, i for one— what are you doing!” the wooden ladel fell to the floor, little bits of jam and blueberry splattering all over the tiles and cupboards. your jaw slacked as you desperately attempted to channel air into your mouth, eyes watering from the burning sensation. renjun grabbed your face in his hands and glared, “you’re supposed to leave it in the refrigerator to cool down, silly! i thought you knew what you’re doing!”

you swallowed and glared right back at him, “i just wanted to try it, okay!”

renjun’s expression softened and he chuckled as he watched you pout before rolling your tongue and sucking in air. he reached up and ruffled your hair, “you’re too cute for your own good, y/l/n.”

the action made you tense up and you slowly turned to look at him. finding his warm smile and his eyes glazed over with absolute affection was something you weren’t prepared for, so you gulped. his face fell. seeing you look at him the way you were, like he was brightest star in the universe, made his heart race dangerously.

“hey, (y/n),” he whispered, eyes flitting to your lips, stepping closer until you were backed up into a corner, “you really have to be more careful”

he lifted you onto the counter and brushed the hair from your face. his hand pushed the nape of your neck until your lips were but inches away from his.

“um,” you tried to calm your breathing, “i don’t think i added enough sugar.”

“i think i can help with that.”

taglist: @oifelixcmerebrou (trying this general taglist thing, send an ask if you'd like to be on it!)

[thecrochetcrowd]

Crochet Snug As A Hug Poncho for Kids to Adult Sizes

Crochet Snug As A Hug Poncho for Kids to Adult Sizes

Crochet Snug as a Hug Poncho Crochet Snug As A Hug Poncho

This Crochet Snug As a Hug Poncho is sized starting at 4 years to 2 XL in womens. This is two rectangular panels that are attached together to form the poncho. I’m guessing, but it appears to be the side saddle stitch used in this design. It’s so well done.

This is using Glaze by Sugar Bush Yarns.

This design is by Michelle Moore of Sentry…

[limi-pie]

Like a butterfly (teaser)

A/N: Hello, I’ve been working on this Yuta fanfiction for some time now, so I figured I would post a lil’ teaser. Being Yuta biased sure has its joy, hmm let’s just say Yuta the Sticker era🤭 and this video clip is what gave me the inspiration for this upcoming fanfiction.🦋👀

Pairing: Nakamoto Yuta x Female! Reader

Contains: Non-idol! AU, Nakamoto Yuta, Librarian! Reader, Romance, Cursing, Drama, Friends to lovers, mentions of tattoos, self-harm.

Wordcount: 763

“Do you know the meaning behind a butterfly tattoo?” The question was stuck in your head as you stood in front of bushes, your eyes focused on a blue butterfly flapping its wings.

Elegant brown, red, orange, and yellow leaves started dancing with the subtle autumn wind. These beautiful colors began to paint the city a graceful contrast of warmth it was the beginning of autumn. Most restaurants have their seasonal autumn menus, blue crabs served in spicy sauce or mouthwatering pine mushrooms grilled over lightly fire or even made into a warm comforting soup, roasted chestnuts. Not only that, but Starbucks is back with their popular autumn specials, the Pumpkin Spice Latte, and The Black Glazed Latte, a sugary but intense black sugar brewed in rich black coffee.  

You were so lost in your thoughts, your mind completely occupied by the colorful leaves outside the library. You blinked a few times and had almost forgotten to arrange the books on the shelf. You walked on the city sidewalk, passing by some bushes when you noticed a light blue butterfly stuck in a spiderweb. It was flapping its wings helplessly when the spider began crawling towards it slowly.

“Oh no, let me get you out of there,” You said, grabbing a small piece of the branch to remove the silk from its wings. You managed to free the butterfly from the web as it flew away.

“You’re thinking of getting more tattoos, Chaeyoung?” You said, lifting your mug of chocolate to your lips. “Uh-huh, the quarter rest on my left arm is just the beginning, Unnie,” Chaeyoung nodded eagerly, showing off her arm as she was sketching some nude women in her notebook. “But I do plan on getting a few more now that I’ve saved enough money,” She giggled as you shook your head slightly, “you’re a brave one, Chaeng. I would get anxious about what others might think about me.” You confessed, looking down.

“Y/N, you need to stop worrying about what others might think of you! Besides, the people aren’t the ones getting the tattoo. I am and it’s my body, anyways,” she said fiercely. You always admired your best friend’s courage.

“You know getting a tattoo isn’t just for show off, there are so many meanings and untold stories behind them too.”

Chaeyoung showed you a sketched drawing of a bird cage with the door open, “was thinking of this tattoo design,” she smiled, handing you the book.

“What does the bird cage symbolize?” You asked in curiosity. “The birdcage has a lot of different meanings, I believe it symbolizes the longing for something or not being able to be true to oneself.” Chaeyoung expressed and added a few details to her drawings.

It began to rain heavily as you watched the first episode of the Korean drama, ‘Nevertheless’. “Chaeng, you really make the best brownies,” you said happily, taking a bite of the corner piece. “Thanks, Unnie, I’m glad you love them,” Chaeyoung giggled.

“Do you know the meaning behind a butterfly tattoo?” You asked her, “butterfly tattoos, hmm?” she hummed, sketching the outline of a pair of wings. “They hold many different meanings, maybe it symbolizes some sort of freedom or a form of protection,” Chaeyoung confessed. “Freedom or protection? How so?” You asked, looking at the screen when the male lead’s neck tattoo was showing a butterfly. “How you helped that butterfly get free from the spiderweb, but I’ve heard that butterfly tattoos are a reminder of those who have self-harmed.” Your eyes widened at the words self-harmed but you listened to her closely.

“You don’t want to hurt the butterfly, so having a tattoo might be a reminder to not hurt yourself,” Chaeyoung said, finishing her glass of milk.

You walked past the bushes on your way to work, you stopped and saw that the spider was gone from its web. You shrugged walking away when you suddenly the Squirtle keychain from your pocket dropped. You turned around to see a man crouch down to pick it up.

“Excuse Miss, you dropped this,” he said, handing you the keychain as your eyes met. “Ah, thank you, Sir,” you bowed and smiled. “No problem,” He said with a charming smile as he walked away. You watched his figure slowly fade as you continued that path, you stood still and reached for your hand.

You felt your heart beat drastically and hoped he would walk back to you.

It was autumn 2021 when you met him, Nakamoto Yuta. Looking into his eyes, you felt a familiar feeling.

A/N: This was short and sweet, but I’m currently working on part 1 as I’m writing this, hehe.🤭

🦋 Next part >

[somediyprojects]

Floss for skintones post by create.bake.read.

Details under the cut.

As a follow up to my previous post about #stitchingskintones 👋🏾👋🏿👋🏽👋🏼👋🏻 Here’s @dmc_embroidery floss which I have: do note: 

1) my collection not full, I only have around 115 out of 500 threads 

2) I like to mix strands to create my own variegated colours - 1 strand of a colour and 1 or 2 strands of another colour. 

3) I’m just adding to my floss slowly budgetwise, I’m not a professional for-profit stitcher so I welcome hearing about other brands or DMC colours not mentioned. 

DMC ⬇️: Ecru, 09, 105, 422, 433, 434, 435, 437, 632, 738, 739, 746, 754, 801, 842, 869, 898,938, 948, 951, 3861, 3862, 3863, 4140 

Other brands to check out ⬇️ @classiccolorworks from local needle stores or search online) ~ many hand dyed options eg. Brown Sugar, Nutmeggie, German Chocolate, Used Brick, Whately Woodland, Almost Auburn, Autumn Spice, Bramble Bush, Brandied Pears, Calico Kitty, Cappuccino, Caramel, Chai, Cinnamon Toast, Cocoa Bean, Cobbled Peach, Copper Penny, Country Lane, Creamy Peach, Gingerbread, Glazed Carrots, Macaroni and Cheese, Old Marigold, Onion skin, Peanut Brittle, Roasted Chestnut, Rosy Glow, Ripple, Sunkissed, Tea and Biscuits + many more. 

Thank you @stitches_of_heritage for the suggestion, - check out @almond_mnms for this beautiful thoughtful created hand dyed floss called Skin collection - “Each number that is listed below is a key date in History…” Check out the Website and IG account for more details ⬇️ https://almondmnmsstudio.com/products/skin-collection

[the-stray-storyteller]

The Lost Mansion

Several apartment buildings surrounded a garden, there were a couple of overpasses over those gardens. Those made some sort of tunnels. I wasn’t sure if it was a memory or a dream but whatever happened it wasn’t real.

It can't possibly be real, can it?

I remember walking through one of those tunnels, instead of seeing the gardens, my little self was met with a mansion of sorts. Huge glass windows with white panes. Red bricks and white cement, pretty red rose bushes on the side. I still remember the glass windows reflecting the few clouds in the clear blue sky. I also remember my barefoot on the grass as I headed towards it.

I can’t remember entering the house but I was on the second floor of it. The floor of the house was a chessboard, a simple, elegant coffee table with two chairs stood in front of the windows. A teapot and a cup filled with the steaming brown drink and glazed puff pastry with powdered sugar and jams. I picked up the puff pastry and held it against my nose to smell it. I backed away at the strange smell of rotten plants coming from it.

I ran in search of my friend. I dragged her back demanding that she must see the place I found. She told me that the place didn’t exist and when I reached the place it wasn’t there. Guess it doesn’t exist.

[kylejsugarman]

wow i wasn't expecting so much kind feedback from that post :’) below the cut is the fic, “love will not break your heart”. PLEASE remember this was written five years ago and i wasn't expecting to fall back into moral orel but here tf we are ❤️ 

i. idolatry

"Who does that cloud look like?"

"Umm…" The brunette tilted her head pensively, tracing the arbitrary peaks and valleys of the cloud in question with a critical eye. Her expression of solemn concentration buckled under a luminescent smile as she finally identified the cloud's likeness. "It's Joshua! See the beard?"

"Oh, wow, you're right!" He pointed to an adjacent puff of condensation on the verge of dissipating under the snowy glare of winter sun. "And there's the city of Jericho!"

She giggled in agreement and rolled onto her side; verdant streaks of earth branded her baptism-white cheek. A strand of sandy hair had escaped her new red headband (he had nervously presented it to her and promptly melted at the sight of her grateful beam) and now unfurled down the length of her pearly face. He brushed it back into place, then blushed.

"Uh, sorry."

"It's okay, Orel," she said with an adoring laugh. His timid eyes--coppery pools into which one's best qualities were inevitably reflected--found her own, then flicked downwards in humility. Though she appreciated his respect for her, the reverence with which he treated her was slightly disquieting. There was something to worship in both of them, something she felt she failed to adequately express. "Orel?"

The eyes, lit dreamily by a refulgent sky. "Yes, Christina?"

She touched a hesitant hand to his face and waited for the momentary tension of his form to abate as he recognized the tenderness of the gesture. There was the inexorable flutter of panic in her gut, as if her father were crouched behind one of Inspiration Peak's many bushes waiting to snatch her and drag her back into the study, but she quashed it readily. Her love for Orel was stronger than her fear of her father and with its pristine power she could have demolished that study with a single fiery glance.

But Christina had always favored creation over destruction, so she leaned over and pressed a soft, pink kiss to Orel's mouth. She tried to whisper "Happy Valentine's Day" to establish her motive, but was immediately silenced as he braced himself up on an elbow and shyly reciprocated the kiss. He tasted like candy heart chalk and mint.

"I love you," he said after he had bashfully withdrawn his head.

The world was shiny and new, the clouds morphing cheerfully behind him into benevolent figures who would shelter the tender bloom of their love. And Christina Posabule reached up to frame Orel's face in her gentle hands and said "I love you too" for the first time.

.

.

ii. respect

"Ugh. I never did understand the appeal of French toast."

Dottie scrutinized the buffet offerings, her angelically-proportioned visage contorted into a rictus of disgust. Her plate was sparsely garnished with a serving of greens and a mimosa, which she had already taken a drag from. As she eyed the decadent bricks of syrup-drenched toast, Florence calmly forked an omelet onto her own plate and waited for Dottie to make a decision. The Valentine's Day brunch was rarely an extravagant affair, but there were certainly enough dishes to satisfy even Dottie's impossibly high culinary standards.

"I think French toast is wonderful," Florence said. She expected this remark to be met with a haughty sniff or snide comment, but Dottie abstained. She even summoned a mordant grin.

"Well. I suppose the French are the superior culture for a reason." The blonde delicately pronged a lone slice of French toast onto her plate, taking care to select the most lightly-sugared piece on display. "Alright, I'm done. Quick, before I change my mind."

Florence led Dottie back to their booth, which had been denoted by the placement of their respective pocketbooks on the table (Florence's sturdy handbag looking markedly haggard next to Dottie's designer clutch). The two women supped here together after church, a tradition that had been inaugurated shortly after the Reverend's Easter sermon. Dottie had apologized to Florence in a rare fit of humility and promised to stop berating her roommate for her figure; Florence, ever the victim, dutifully accepted her apology. However, Dottie had surprised her by making a noticeable effort to curb her cruel commentary and even started contributing to the community by taking on sewing projects. Her lovely dresses soon filled the closets of every woman in Moralton--including Florence's. The rather flattering candy-pink wrap dress that Florence was wearing now was Dottie's handiwork, a fact the blonde managed to work into every conservation.

"Darling, that dress is absolutely divine on you," Dottie said, lighting a cigarette.

"Yes, thank you." Florence smoothed down the collar and smiled at the sight of her freckled hands. A modest diamonded band adorned her ring finger.

Dottie noticed her admiring of the piece of jewelry; she pursed her polished lips expectantly. "I really think you should've sprung for something bigger."

"Oh, I think this is just lovely the way it is," Florence insisted. She elevated her hand in order to demonstrate the diamond's iridescence. A slant of noon light caught the mineral and fissured apart into chromatic prisms; diamonded specks twinkled across the laminated tabletop. It was a rather appropriate expression of Florence's own appearance, something the ring's buyer had obviously taken into consideration. "Aren't you happy with your ring?"

"Me? Why I'd rather die than have this ring taken off my finger." Dottie inspected the arrangement of jewels gracing her own finger, which were independently lustrous and set into an ingot of platinum. The colors matched the sheen of her blonde curls perfectly.

An inexorable smile pressed dimples into either of Florence's cheeks. "You really like it?"

Dottie flicked her cigarette ash into the table's decorative vase with an insouciant tap of her manicured finger. Her expression was characteristically enigmatic ("you can't let them think you're interested," she had lectured Florence as she practiced looking jaded in the mirror), but the favor with which she regarded the ring was unmistakable. Finally, she said "I love it" in an emphatically decisive voice tempered with genuine affection. An affection that Florence reciprocated with an echoing of the sentiment before cutting into her omelet and watching Dottie slice willingly into a piece of French toast.

.

.

iii. requited

"Um, anything else, Steph?"

The tattooed, pierced, and freshly dyed vision of beauty glanced up from her book, eyes lightly glazed from an hour of reading. She had salvaged a rather intriguing volume of essays about evolution from a seedy bookshop in Sinville and was determined to complete the tome before it could be snatched and tossed on the literary pyre. Forghetty's wasn't exactly the ideal location for intellectual pursuits, but Stephanie had abandoned the shop at the mere notion of Karl and Kim Latchkey requesting some disgustingly romantic apparel for the holiday and decided that she deserved  some discounted Valentine's vodka for soldiering through the week unscathed.

"Another vodka would be great."

Dolly smiled warmly. "Coming right up."

As the blonde scooped ice into a tumbler, Stephanie became suddenly and acutely aware of the candy-pink heart branding the small of Dolly's neck. Despite having stitched ink into countless arms and sides, she was shocked by the heart's symmetry. It was absolutely flawless.

"One vodka," Dolly said, sliding the glass across the condensation-varnished bar. Her fingers were impossibly long, slender--piano fingers. Stephanie could not fathom why these trivial details fascinated her so, but she was suddenly pressed to learn more about the daisy-pretty bartender who had dutifully refreshed her tumbler for the past hour. Starting with that immaculate tattoo.

"Thanks. Uh, Dolly? Where'd you get that ink on your neck?"

"Ink on my--?" She palpated her neck in befuddlement before remembering the previous night and giggling wanly. "Oh, it-it's just pen. My friends thought it would be funny if I actually got a tattoo, so they had the guy draw it on, but I… I chickened out, I guess."

"Oh."

"It's not that I don't want a tattoo," Dolly quickly amended, tipping Stephanie's colorful arms an appreciative nod. "I'm just kinda chicken about needles."

Stephanie quirked an amused eyebrow. "So you would get a tattoo?"

"Well." She sheepishly wrung a damp cloth out over the bar top and made a concentrated effort to appear occupied by the menial task. "Maybe."

"That heart's pretty cute. I think it would look nice back there."

Roses bloomed in Dolly's porcelain cheeks. Though her friends had never abstained from making passively nasty comments about Stephanie's unusual appearance and proud deviance from Moralton's constrictive status quo, Dolly had always fostered a secret respect for her. There was something alluring about Stephanie, something that begged back story: Dolly longed to read the text that accompanied the illustrations trellising her arms like ivy. "You think so?"

"Definitely. And if you're scared of needles, I've got an assistant who could probably distract you," Stephanie added with a playful smirk. Orel had curbed several customers' needle anxiety with breathless sermons about the incredibleness of Jesus and anecdotes about his occasionally distressing adventures ("and then I died! Three times! It was neat!")

"Would you really give me a tattoo?" Dolly asked, equally hopeful and horrified.

"If you're up for it."

Dolly twisted the cloth in her hands for a moment. The yearning to know Stephanie--to know every corner, every fold--was blossoming urgently in her chest. She wanted more than a tattoo. She wanted to familiarize herself with the inky mysticism enshrouding Stephanie Putty and if that meant romance, if that meant public scorn and disappointment and disgusted looks, so be it. She wanted Stephanie. She wanted all of her.

"Doll?"

"Y-Yes," Dolly sputtered, visibly flustered. Then she grinned cautiously and set down her hands on the bar top, allowing Stephanie to admire their delicate whorls and pearly nails at a closer proximity. "I'd love that."

.

.

iv. infatuation

"I know you think I'm stupid, Marionetta."

They had cloistered themselves away in a small clearing that provided some margin of protection from their schoolmates' scorn. A mild sky opened above them, achingly empty, painfully wide. As he stared into its doleful depths--oppressing himself not to betray the shame making dewy his eyes--he recalled the passages he had studied about the atmosphere. His old teachers had refused to teach the subject, citing the lack of a Heaven in the textbook's diagram of the Earth's atmosphere. He imagined it was sandwiched between the mesosphere and thermosphere, an impossible realm illuminated by auroras and burning space debris. But in the absence of substantial evidence that such a place existed, he was content to call the clearing Heaven, as long as Marionetta was there.

The girl smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of her dotted skirt. Even

[alex-ruins-everything]

The Witch Lives Across the Street

Inspired by this post of mine that lived in my head rent free so I wrote it.

Pairings: Prinxiety

Words: 1421

Virgil was used to knocking on his door all the time. He hated it, but he supposed it was what happened when you lived next to a witch but fit the gothic aesthetic much better than the actual witch. The house across the street was white with red shutters and a red door. There was no sign or anything saying that a witch lived in the house, nothing odd at all about the house. There was even a garden. Virgil’s house on the other hand was very different. Black with purple shutters and no garden in sight. Even the bushes the house had come with were wilted and brown along the walkway to the front door and the iron gate was rusting. The constantly drawn curtains added to the mystery that apparently made everyone think he was the witch of the area.

So he’d get knocks on the door, begrudgingly answer it and tell the person, “No, the witch lives across the street.” He had seen the witch in question a few times, always wearing some combination of white, red, and gold. Virgil had never bothered to meet his neighbor up close, though. A few weeks ago another car had shown up in the driveway next to the red one that usually resided there. Green, it made Virgil think of Christmas when it was put next to all of the red. He started noticing someone else lurking around the witch’s house, this new neighbor spent a lot of time outside in the garden and suddenly when people knocked on his door they asked about witches instead of one witch.

Virgil was currently in his kitchen feeding his cat when the knock hit the door. Another one of the witches’ clients he guessed, considering no one really came to visit him, it wasn’t too far fetched of a guess. He moved to the door, grumbling a little as he opened it.

“The witches live across the street,” he said, blinking at the person on the other side as gay panic hit his mind for a moment.

This man was easily the most beautiful person Virgil had ever seen. Tall and broad shouldered with swoopy brown hair and the most gorgeous brown eyes. He was wearing a white shirt with the top three buttons undone and a red sash tied around his waist. Layers of gold jewelry matched the gold eyeliner that sat atop deep red eyeshadow.

“Actually, the witch is indeed here this time,” the man said, flashing a dazzling smile.

“Uhm-” Virgil said, trying to get his brain started again.

“I figured it was about time I came and introduced myself. Three years of you deferring my customers, I should have done it sooner. I’m Roman,” the man - Roman - said, holding his hand out. “Virgil, right?”

“How did you-?” Virgil asked, shaking the witch’s hand.

“Not magic this time,” Roman said with a small laugh that sounded like bells. “I get your mail by accident sometimes, I always just stick it in your mailbox. Seems nobody can get our houses right.”

“Right...thank you.”

“Actually, my brother and I were just about to have some tea. I was wondering if you wanted to join us?”

“Your brother?”

“He’s been staying with me, seems two witches are much more popular than one,” Roman answered, smiling at Virgil again. “So. Tea?”

“Uhm...yeah. I can do tea,” Virgil nodded.

Roman gave another one of his dazzling smiles, taking Virgil by the hand and leading him across the street. The other man - the one Virgil had noticed more recently - was outside digging in the garden. He was covered in dirt, wearing a tanktop that showed off various symbols tattooed onto his arms.

“This is Virgil!” Roman introduced. “He’s joining us for tea. Virgil, this is Remus. My twin brother.”

“Virgil?” Remus asked, looking Virgil up and down.

Virgil squirmed a little, feeling like he was under a microscope, but upon his own inspection, he could see the similarities between the brothers. If you looked past the mustache, the streak of white hair, and the dark gaudy eyeshadow, Remus and Roman were identical.

“Virgil, are you a witch?” Remus asked, tilting his head a little bit.

“No, the witch lives across the street,” Virgil replied, same as he always did.

“Get cleaned up, Remus. I won’t guarantee that we’ll save you any cakes,” Roman said, pulling Virgil inside.

The inside of the house matched Roman, all red and gold with hints of white. It smelled like cinnamon and cloves and-

“You have a lot of plants…” Virgil observed.

“Oh, yes. Remus tends to like them. I wouldn’t touch, though. I never really know what he’s growing,” Roman chuckled, pulling out a teapot and a few different jars of herbs.

Virgil watched as he added the herbs to the pot, seeming to know what he was doing. He poured in cold water and with a wave of his hand, the pot was steaming like it had been boiling all along.

“Magic,” Roman winked. “Come, you can sit in the living room. I’ll bring the cakes, you simply have to try them, they’re delicious.”

Virgil couldn’t do much more than nod. Roman directed him to the living room where two couches sat on either side of a coffee table, obviously where Roman took his clients. Remus came in, mostly dirt free and holding a plant clipping in a small jar that he set by the window.

“Are you sure you aren’t a witch?” he asked Virgil, plopping down on the couch across from him. “You have a very bright aura.”

“First of all, I don’t have a bright anything,” Virgil replied. “And secondly, I think I would know if I was a witch.”

“Not necessarily,” Roman said, setting a tray on the table that held the teapot as well as some sugar and cream. “Lots of natural born witches go their whole lives without knowing.” “Yeah, but that isn’t me,” Virgil said, watching as Roman left and came back with a small plate tower of cakes and tiny tea sandwiches.

“You have to try the lavender cake with the lemon glaze,” Roman said, distributing small plates and starting to pour tea into teacups. “Anything in yours?”

Virgil shook his head, content to drink whatever tea it was plain. It smelled good, much better than any tea he had had before. He waited until his hosts had their cups and had sipped some before trying it.

“Oh...this is really good…” he said, having another sip.

“Thank you, thank you,” Roman said. “It’s a special blend of herbs and a little spellwork.”

“You sound creepy when you try and give random guys magic drinks,” Remus rolled his eyes.

“Virgil isn’t a random guy! He’s been my neighbor for three years!”

“And yet you only first spoke to him today because somebody was intimidated by the cute boy who lives across the street. It took you losing a bet to get the balls to go talk to hi- mmph!” Remus couldn’t finish his statement as Roman slapped a hand over his mouth.

“You were intimidated by me?” Virgil asked, shocked. “You’re literally a witch. I just saw you boil water with a wave of your hand. If you told me you studied at Hogwarts I wouldn't be shocked.”

Roman seemed to blush a little bit at the compliments, shaking his head. “No Hogwarts,” he said. “But of course I was slightly intimidated. You’re very mysterious, you know.”

“Me?”

“Yes! You live all alone in that big dark house and you hardly come outside which makes it very hard to snoop on the cute boy across the street.”

Now it was Virgil’s turn to blush a little bit. “You’re literally a witch,” he reminded.

“Oh my god you two are super hopeless,” Remus rolled his eyes. “Roman, just ask him out already.”

“Shut up,” Roman said, throwing a bite of cake at his brother before smiling at Virgil. “But I would like to get to know you better. Perhaps we can go to dinner some time, I can make up for all those times you had to answer the door for me.”

Virgil would have to be a complete idiot to say no. A gorgeous man in red and gold wanted to go on a date with him? And dinner didn’t sound too bad either.

“Okay…” he nodded. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

“Tomorrow night perhaps?”

“Tomorrow night works,” Virgil said. “You do know where to find me.”

“Of course. The cute boy lives across the street.”

[mallowstep]

(diner)

"And in national news, known fugitive Tigerstar, son of Pinestar, has been brought into police custody. His trial date has yet to be set, but after months of evasion, police say they're eager to get closure for the victims."

Pineheart disguises his surprise by taking a sip of coffee, but the waitress still shakes her finger on him.

"You changed your name on me."

"There're mountains of Pines, Yewstone. You can't go assuming..."

"Nope," she chirps. "There's a picture of you and everything."

He sighs, looking back at the television.

"I won't tell anyone," she says. "But you owe me an explanation."

* * *

When her shift is over, they sit on the back of his truck. She passes him a cigarette, and he takes it gratefully. "So," she says, "before or after your darling son became a criminal."

Pineheart takes a drag. "Before."

Yewstone nods, like she was expecting that answer.

Tigerstar, son of Pinestar. He's surprised Tigerstar didn't change it -- hell, he's surprised Leopardfoot didn't change it. Pineheart hasn't followed his son after he left, but he looked him up while he was waiting for Yewstone's shift to finish.

"Didn't you have questions?"

"I'm thinking." She crosses her legs underneath her. "Did you know, then?"

"Not until now." There's been a flurry of reporting in the past few hours, summary coverage and speculation and surveys of Tigerstar's life, Pineheart included.

The press seem oddly fixated on him.

"You're not giving very good answers."

"You're not asking very good questions."

* * *

His neighbour is watering his rose bushes when he gets home.

"Say, Pineheart," Sprucedapple starts, "did you see--"

"Lookalike," Pineheart says. "Yewstone was asking the same questions."

Sprucedapple doesn't look like he believes him, but Pineheart goes inside before there are any more questions.

* * *

"Why'd you leave?"

"I couldn't do it any longer.

* * *

"An insider source has revealed that Pinestar, thought dead, is still alive. We have--"

Yewstone shuts off the television.

* * *

She brings him a box of donuts.

"Sorry to wake you up so early, but there are reporters at the diner."

Pineheart sighs. "Aren't you supposed to be there?"

"Personal day. Riceleaf let me."

"Come in, then."

Yewstone sits at his table, and takes a glazed donut out of the box. "They wanted to know what time you came by. I told them they had the wrong place. They didn't believe me, but I don't think any of them saw me leave."

"Did you walk here?"

Yewstone nods. Pineheart rubs his temple.

"Can you make some coffee?"

"You could've brought some," he says, but he starts the pot.

"Pineheart, are you happy here?"

He shrugs. "I'm happier here than I was."

"They found you. They're not going to let it go." She takes a bite of the donut, watching him carefully. Yewstone is barely an adult, and it shows sometimes. "Are you going to leave again?"

"I might."

The coffee finishes, and he pours her a cup. "How do you take it?"

"Milk and sugar." She takes another bite. "I want your number."

"What?"

"If you leave, I want your phone number. I still have questions."

[thejudgingtrash]

(unedited and I’m not a native speaker so please point out if you see something odd!)

One day (1,4k)

A quiet day. The air was warm and dry. The wind chimes sang the melody of the clouds and the invisible currents. The paint of the old house was brittle. It would take days to repaint it, if a professional painter would take the job it would tear through savings. But the money was tight, and Percy knew that he had to put his efforts into elsewhere. The hand he was holding reminded him of that. The green on the wood that was decades old could be blown away to reveal the natural layer underneath it. The old Colonial stood in front of them, proud and almighty, but it was nothing more than a lie that has been fed through generations.

The lawn looked nearly identical to the last time Percy had visited. Wild. Unkept. A fight of nature taken back what was rightfully its. And it was he that had mown it to keep it in somewhat of a shape. The old swing had been removed as it was broken beyond repair. It laid in the basement, waiting for a small child to beg for its usage once again.

Attempts to make her move into something smaller and easier have failed. In some cases, it triggered her, and she began to scream and cry. The hands that were thrown weren’t of violence. They were of despair and the deepest pain. That was the sign when Percy knew he had overstepped his welcome. But the misunderstood clouds of sorrow and deep hatred passed and revealed her other side. The motherly side. The sunny side that loved to live and love.

Percy Jackson had returned. It was his semiannual visit to Westport, Connecticut. The youth had vanished from his face, although not entirely. It was a weird state where old and young stood in front of each other. The youth wanted to remain, but the adulthood came to claim its place. A not so young man who had both legs fully integrated in life rang the bell that gave a soft jingle and knocked on the turquoise door.

It swung open after a while. “Oh, hello Percy!” May smiled. She recognized him. Relief. There were times when she did not. “Is it time again?”

“Hello May,” Percy greeted her and entered. Little steps followed him.

The house had been decluttered. May had a knack for keeping everything she deemed interesting and never threw it out. Percy would come with the big blue bags and make her decide what items were necessary and which she wanted to keep. It upset her. But she understood it. At least Percy hoped she did.

“I have made cookies. I might have burnt them a little bit. Oopsie.” Her gaze shifted to the right into another twinkling pair of eyes.

May got on one knee. Her morning dress was clean this time and not burned and pungent like the many times before. “Luke!” she cried with big eyes. “You’re back!”

Her hands grabbed the soft cheeks. “But you are so small,” she whispered. It broke Percy’s heart. “Weren’t you taller?” May Castellan tilted her head and the silver hair fell down her shoulder. She had aged. It had been more than a decade ago, closer to two.

“It’s me, grandma May. It’s me, Theo,” the young boy said.

“My son, May. Do you remember?” Percy asked her.

A wondrous expression rested on her face. “You have become a big brother,” she remembered slowly. “A little girl!”

Theo began to grin and proudly showed his two missing front teeth. “Yes, I’m a big brother now! Ari is so pretty!”

“When will I see your little sister?” May asked and clapped her hands in excitement.

The fact that Annabeth was against a visit with young Ariadne as a safety measurement was something that Percy just couldn’t voice. He knew his wife was right. And still his consciousness made him do these visits. The aged demigod couldn’t save her son, but he refused to fail May Castellan. So, he visited her. Only for certain amounts of times, of course. He never blamed Annabeth and Thalia for staying away. He never blamed Nico for bringing him to this place for the first time. It was destined and running away from the Moirai was never the best option. That was something that had been etched into his mind since he had been a young boy of twelve years in his first year at Camp Half-Blood.

“You will see her soon once she’s grown a little bit more,” he deflected.

“I bet she is a pretty baby. Just like Luke was.”

“Yes. Yes, she is,” Percy said. Was the air getting stuffier? Or why did he feel the tears coming? His chest was heavy and filled with regrets. He blinked the pesky wetness away.

Fatherhood made him come to realize more. It made him understand more. Patience. Love. Forgiveness. It made him understand the complete and utter injustice that was the broken shell of May Castellan. The living contradiction. More dead than alive, a broken record. A mother that was yearning for her son. A mother that was screaming for her son. A son that would never return home again. A mother that couldn’t see that her son would never return home again. Yet the broken fragments of her mind would never let her rest. It would never make it easy for her until she would have her last breath. And what lied beyond that was something that Percy could not imagine.

The wicked ways of the ancient forces. The same gods that had blessed her, had thrown her into despair. They had turned their backs. Even her former lover. A tunnel of sadness where only in certain times and particular angles an illusion of light shone through. That was May Castellan.

The three moved into the kitchen where Percy let his son only eat two cookies and for once little Theo listened to his father. May Castellan didn’t lie, she really had burnt the cookies. But the younger Jackson was too polite to not eat some and thanked May as she wanted to give him more.

“Shall we clean the yard, May?” Percy proposed like he always did.

“Oh yes!” agreed May with glowing eyes like she always did.

He would mow the lawn and trim the bushes and May would take care after the roses. She loved the roses. The roses, the tulips and the sweet lavender that the bumblebees loved to dance around. All reminders of a better and safer time. Times that had passed as flowers would wither in mere moments. Especially those that were unkempt.

Theo played with Rhodius, the son of Blackjack, another young and wild pegasus that let the young boy sit on his back. The Jacksons had used him as a means of transportation. Percy eyed them closely as he did a little bit of yard work. Rest assured; the Pegasus was an excellent babysitter.

After an hour and a half of work, the adults sat down on the porch. Percy brushed the sweat off his forehead. May rushed into the house and brought out glasses of orange juice. Percy tried to not pull a face as he came to realization that she had confused the salt and sugar containers once again. “Luke, my boy,” May said. A dreamy expression rested on her face as she watched young Theo play and chase after the trained legs of the magical creature.

“Percy, when will Luke come back? When will I see my boy?” May asked and turned around to him. Her eyes. They were glazed. The cerulean eyes were so full of life yet mirrored death. Were it the tears or were it the wretched prophecy and the following illusions of the future that haunted her ever since? He would never know. How could he ever know?

“When will my Luke come back?” she cried.

Stomping through the grass. Theo stood in front of his father and saw the heartbroken Mrs. Castellan.

Theo looked up to his father. Even the small boy knew that May Castellan was sick. Slowly dying of a broken heart that could never be mended. Slowly dying of the visions that haunted her and had driven her into her unsafe state.

Percy had subconsciously pressed Theo’s hand as the child sat down on his father’s lap. Percy looked apologizing into the sea green eyes that mirrored his. Only the gray ring and the gray dots that looked like they have been splashed with a paint brush reminded Percy of his mother. His wife. His dear Annabeth.

His heart was heavy and the frown on his face aged the demigod even more. The white in his hair had come back. The streaks had been thicker even.

“One day, May. One day,” he said. One day, he promised.